The Weight of the World, Part Two

In one of my earliest posts, I wrote about spanking being a transformative experience, allowing me to regress into a little girl for a while, letting go of all my worries, and then regaining my womanhood and "the weight of the world." Well, the weight of the world became a little too heavy for a while, hence the hiatus. I disconnected from my body; I was all mind, all worries, all the time.

In my quest to free myself from troubles, my thoughts became preoccupied with punishment and how it could release me. Sex didn't just take a backseat, it got out of the car. I was surprised every time a kiss led to love-making and not a lashing. So I decided to take a break from writing about spanking, from, honestly, obsessing about it. Then it became a break from everything: reading, sleeping, focusing...

Something changed this weekend. Some piece of me returned. I was gone from myself long enough, I suppose. In celebration of my return to myself, I even changed my hair color back to its natural shade. I've spent so long escaping myself that I had forgotten how good it feels to just come home.

Fortunately for all of us, a favorite part of my home is the spankings my husband gives me. But whether I'm using them to escape a bad day or my grown-up self, I realized that to him, I am always a woman. His woman. And the spankings are to say I love you, I love this thing we do, I love that you love it, too.

My favorite fetish is still the punishment of the schoolgirl by the headmaster. My fantasies will probably always return to that. But I'm going to try something new. The next time I'm bottom-up for one of my beloved beatings, I'm going to try to take it like a woman. A strong, tender, intelligent, bruising, brave, bright-red bottomed woman.

Just Push Play

I have a new obsession. Unlike my summer obsessions, which primarily consisted of spanking implements, spanking models, spanking blogs, and getting spanked myself, my new fall obsession is more introspective, more worldly, more.. alright, let's face it. Still about spanking.

But I tried really hard to make it about more than that! You see, my new obsession is the new Blogger Play. I first clicked on the link Friday night and found myself watching the random imagery of newly uploaded photos for half an hour. When my husband came home, I made him watch it too. We sat together in front of the computer for an hour, watching smiling babies, M&M ads, Grand Canyon family shots, pet pics, manga imagery, and a bizarre amount of photos of the Taiwanese boy-band Fahrenheit flash by. Every now and again we'd click on a photo to link to the blog where the photo was being posted--and yes, someone is really, really obsessessed with Fahrenheit somewhere in Indonesia. We kept saying, "I just know something really good is going to come along any second." When we were rewarded with this questionable Harry Potter film capture, we were finally able to leave the computer.

We talked about what made it so fascinating. "It makes me feel less alone," I explained. "These are all things that people care about, their worlds, their lives, the minutiae that make their lives meaningful. It's comforting." You see? Introspective. Worldly. The scroller has a filter that keeps the naughtier photos from popping up, though they do, of course, from time to time. Mostly, though, it's babies and landscapes and pets. So, last night, when this Australian schoolgirl popped up, I have to admit I was on her blog immediately.

She's just an ordinary schoolgirl, thankfully eighteen, doing ordinary schoolgirl things--acting in plays, taking photos of her friends and family, stopping to smell the flowers (there are pictures). Quite a few photos of her and her friends in school uniform, as well. The problem is--well, the problem is people like me who see this photo and their first thought is, "Ooh, she looks naughty!" It's why I'm not actually linking to her blog. The last thing a teenage girl needs is to be ogled by we perverted folks, even if we're miles and miles and miles away. So, back to introspective. Ah, the Internet. Pointing out uncomfortable things, indeed.

Then again, I also linked to a number of amazing blogs last night, most of which I cannot read. Why no one blogs in Latin, I just don't understand. This fantastic photo led me to the Portuguese-language Clarisset Anobanheiro. So, obsession adjective checklist. Introspective? Check. Worldly? Check. Dirty, naughty, and perverse as always? Check. Check. Check.

In Control of Not Being In Control

When a television show does something so unbelievable that viewers can no longer suspend their disbelief, it's called jumping the shark. As absurd things happen in television constantly, the term "jumping the shark" is reserved for when the absurdity is in conflict with the realm the show has created. In the same vein, a grown woman receiving a strapping for an imagined crime is commonplace in the realm we've created for ourselves. But what do we call it when something goes awry? What do we call it when a spanking scene jumps the shark?

A few nights ago, I came home from work to find myself suddenly pulled over my husband's knee, pants down to my ankles, receiving a hand-spanking for an unnamed infraction. If I had to guess, it was for pouting the night before when I didn't get punished for having forgotten to take out the trash. After the hand came the hairbrush, a Mason Pearson with a curved back and therefore a terrible sting, and then somehow found myself facedown and squirming on the bed, my favorite leather slapper being used in new and wicked ways against my backside. I was terribly wiggly for some reason, every blow stinging and making me squeal. By the time I was let up, thinking I was going to get dressed to go out but instead bent back over to take a strapping, I was completely disheveled and nervously agitated. I wasn't sure I could take any more.

Now, none of this is out of the ordinary. I was dripping wet, anxious for the ordeal to end but disappointed every time we paused and I thought it might be over. But as the strapping progressed, though it was nothing vicious except for it being with the heaviest of the straps, an antique barber strop we found on our honeymoon, I became increasingly panicked. At one point I asked if I still had skin on my bottom. When he told me I didn't, I laughed. We were having fun. But I started to freak out a bit, at one point actually turning around and sitting my sore bottom down on the edge of the bed to protect it. I also kept putting my hands in the way, which I'm usually a bit better about. When the strap caught the back of my left hand, it was my own fault. Unfortunately, an unbidden and vocal part of me didn't see it that way.

I yelled at him. It lasted a sentence or two, but it wasn't in my getting-a-spanking voice, or any voice I even recognized. I expected to be punished for acting out, but no more strokes came. I apologized, begging forgiveness for having yelled and cursed, but it did no good. The scene was over.

We sat. I cried. I didn't think of the phrase at the time, but I had jumped the shark. I had acted completely out of character, both my spanking self and my real self. I don't yell at my husband. We don't even fight. By breaking character to such an unexpected degree, I had made continuing the scene unbelievable for us both. I kept apologizing. "I didn't mean anything by it. I just freaked out," I repeated. We talked and he comforted me by telling me that we had the rest of our lives to get it right. I think we came out of the situation better for it having happened, because it gave us the opportunity to talk about it.

Still, I'm a little unsettled with myself. I try to be self-possessed during my spankings, aware and focused, in control of not being in control. This time, it was like I was possessed by my self instead. Even if a safeword was something we used, it wouldn't have helped. The reaction came unbidden and instantaneously. I trust him implicitly, but I trusted myself a little less after the incident.

Later that night, after we took each other shopping, we came home with plans to eat our takeout and play our new video game (Tetris for PS2!) in bed. I took off everything but my panties and a white oxford blouse. Next thing I knew, I was in our library, hands on my ankles, cane swishing in the air behind me. It was the thinnest and whippiest one, and I squealed and squirmed at every stroke. I don't remember his exact words, but after a dozen, he demanded I gain control of myself. I took the next twelve so well! I un-jumped the shark. Order had been returned to our universe. Our scene ended happily, I kicked his butt at Tetris, and I fell asleep smiling, in control of not being in control once again.

Take Me to the Chorus

Galavanting around town, indeed! My beautiful man, in his secret anonymous disguise, has finally commented on my blog. I suppose now I really must finish that story, though I wouldn't mind some "or else" right now! I really wasn't galavanting, though. Along with almost every other twenty-something girl in Portland, I was at the futuresex/loveshow. It sounds kinky if you don't listen to pop music. If you do, you'll know I went to see Justin Timberlake.
The show was surprisingly mature, as was the audience. Maybe local parents had heard there would be a burlesque segment and just too much sexiness. JT has shed the boy-band persona completely. The fashion was Jazz Age, the dancing was slick and sexy, and the musicians were as much as part of the show as Timberlake and the dancers. Spending much time on the piano as well as taking turns with a guitar and keyboard, Timberlake himself proved to be quite the showman. I expected to be entertained. I left the show not only entertained, but also respectful and impressed.
More importantly, however, is how Justin Timberlake fits into a blog about spanking. Let me set the scene for you. An arena packed full of girls, most of whom are of age, though there are of course quite a few teens as well. Everyone is dressed up, though some are not especially dressed. Fashion ran the full gamut from short-shorts and tiny tops to slinky satin dresses to tight jeans and cute tees. Everyone is singing and dancing along, wiggling their bottoms and shaking their hips. Justin himself slaps a few dancers' backsides during various numbers, the hottest of which was during "Sexy Ladies," which incorporated three girls in classic burlesque costumes (i.e. a little fringe and little else). The girls brought out stools for some Fosse-inspired chair-dancing. JT took a seat on one as a brunette went over his lap--no, not like that. Face up, unfortunately. But after she did her little lap dance, he smacked the back of her thigh, and it looked so natural, like he might not have even thought about it, like it was instinct. Makes a girl wonder about a boy.
So we've got our arena of girls, we have some flesh-smacking on stage, and we get to the last number of the show, the one we've all been waiting for, "SexyBack." Thousands of girls sing along. If you don't know the song, you don't know how hot this is. Thousands of girls sing along with the chorus and this line:

I'll let you whip me if I misbehave.
After seeing the show, I can't help but wonder if Timberlake planned ahead for the concert tour, knowing full well that at every show, he'd have a room full of girls singing that line to him. And now I better get back to work on that story, lest I be whipped for misbehaving. Hm. On second thought, maybe I should do something else.

A Writing Spasm

After coming home from vacation to find the longest, most ridiculous spam ever as a comment on my last post, I found myself wondering, "Now, why can't I sit down and write these days? Crazy people can do it. Why not me?"

I've always considered myself a writer. These past few years, however, I've begun to refer to myself in my internal dialogues as "the writer who does not write." After writing 70+ pages on fairy tales for my college thesis, I thought it would be easy to rewrite some of my favorite tales. After all, the thesis was on how the primary characters of the maiden, the prince, the mother, and the father have changed in retellings of five specific fairy tales over the centuries. How simple, I thought, to take the darker elements and create modern retellings that are true to those dark roots? I write a page, two pages, and then... nothing. It's not even writer's block. I just stop trying.

When I started blogging and the words were flowing faster than my fingers could type them, I decided I would try to add my favorite past-time to the stories. After all, who doesn't want to imagine vapid Snow White getting birched by the hunter when he takes her into the woods? Or find out just how wicked Cinderella's wicked stepmother was? I had a few great ideas. I started writing them, beginnings, bits and pieces. I got ten pages into one--ten pages! too long, but I haven't written that much in years--and had finally reached the spanking scene when, once again, I just stopped.

Am I afraid of writing a spanking scene? I never have. I've described my own in short form here, but I've never realy written a scene. I feel like I'd do it justice. I simply haven't tried. I can see the scene in my head, down to the eyelet details of the main character's cotton pantaloons. It's set in the West Indies. She's sweating, the fabric clinging to her bottom, the backs of her thighs. She's never been spanked before. The man she loves beckons her forward. "Madame Marie told me you deserve to be punished, little girl," he tells her, patting his lap, "but she didn't tell me why. We'll just have to start slow and keep going until you seem contrite." She shakes her head. This isn't what Marie asked her to do the night before. When he entered her room, she had thought she would finally be in his arms. Punished? By him? Her new legs tremble. "Come here," he demands more forcefully. She steps towards him. He smiles, his teeth gleaming like pearls from the blue of his beard. She steps again.

When she reaches him, he pulls her to his right side, pressing his hand against the small of her back to bend her forward over his lap. Her white camisole rides up. The small of her back glistens. She is so pale, so delicate. He wonders whether Marie was not being cruel in asking him to punish so fragile a girl, but once she is postitioned fully over his lap, her bottom surprisingly full and straining against her cotton pants, he silently thanks the madame for this unexpected gift. He cups one cheek, then the other, testing her bottom's resiliency. She wiggles. When he slaps her once, firmly, she freezes then looks back at him slowly, shaking her hair from her eyes. He sees shock there, and confusion, but at the core of her gaze is a hunger unlike any he's seen from any woman, nevermind a pale and silent girl. In the humid evening, he shivers. "Eyes on the floor, young lady," he demands, catching the tremble in his throat. "You know what you've done." Even if I don't, he thinks to himself before raising his hand over her. The spanking begins.

Hm. Well, that wasn't planned. There's more of a scene there, more description to come. Maybe I'm going to have to write the whole story on here, if it takes an audience to get me going. Maybe I'll even post the back-story (though perhaps not all ten pages of it). Even that little bit wore me out, though, and we still didn't get to the good part. To be continued, I suppose...