Friday, September 14, 2007

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.


  1. Wonderful post as always, and the last sentence summed it up perfectly: in control of not being in control.


  2. Found your blog by way of Natty's. Just wanted to say that I really appreciate it--your writing is gorgeous, and so many of your posts really resonate with me. So thanks!


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