A Return to Form

The first cane stroke after a month away from corporal punishment play was swift and stinging, strangely painful even through the soft black cotton of my leggings. Perhaps it was because I was so unprepared, having only come home for a short lunch break from work, expecting some kisses, some cuddling, and some reheated stroganoff from last night. Sure enough, there were kisses and there was cuddling, and before I left there was even the strogranoff and some French bread, but in between those things were seven canestrokes, three or four tears, and a return to normalcy.

After the first stroke, I held up my right index finger to indicate I wasn't ready for another yet, even as I knelt on the bed with my face pressed into one of Mr. Williams' pillows. I heard him stifly both a laugh and a scolding, but he gave me the moment I needed. I struggled to convince myself to return to position, back arched and bottom out, but I managed it, and the second stroke fell, venomously biting my backside and sending an uncommon wave of nausea through my body.

All my fears from the past month raced to the front of my mind. A series of in-law visits, illnesses, and random life distractions have kept me unspanked since the night we filmed the tawsing. As time passed and I failed even to write about spanking, to view anyone else's spanking, or to read anyone else's writing on the subject, I had begun to wonder if I had lost interest. Even knowing that this has been a passion of mine since the age of four, I couldn't help but wonder if I was on a hiatus from my own fetish, as has happened before, though never after becoming the character I have become in the spanking community. The nausea I was experiencing terrified me. What if I wasn't just briefly disinterested? What if it was something I no longer wanted at the heart of me?

Sometimes my spankings are playful punishments, sometimes erotic segues, sometimes a means of proving to Mr. Williams and the world what I am capable of taking. Today, despite the brevity of the scene, it had come so suddenly out of the safety of a warm embrace on a cold rainy day that I had nothing to connect it to, and so, rather than prove to Mr. Williams that I could take what he was giving, I sought to prove to myself that it was what I wanted. I fought it the whole way through. I couldn't hold position, I wasn't making the sounds I normally make. In fact, I was half silent, half strangely distressed. And then it was over, stray tears only falling with the last stroke.

It wasn't until I'd crawled to the edge of the bed, collapsing my head against Mr. Williams' chest, allowing his arms to hold me tightly that I remembered what it is that I love so much about the experience: I love when it's over. I felt all small and loved and beautiful as he touched my throat and my chin, tilting my face up to his kiss. It may sound trite or overly romantic, but I think I actually melted a bit as his lips pressed to mine. The queasiness was replaced by a knot of passion in the depth of my belly, a heat incurred no way other than this, and there I was, myself again, wrapped in the elated headiness that even a short spanking can bring. I may not have held my position well during the experience, but the caning brought a return to form, a return, if you will, to Abby.

(I do hope this means I return to writing and filming as well, not to mention reading everyone out there! Mr. Williams is actually much better about blog reading and has been keeping me up to date on everyone while I've not been completely myself these past few weeks. Dave--congrats on the new site! Tim--what's up with yours? And to the beautiful wonderful amazing ladies of spanking, models, writers, and writing models alike, I miss you and love you and look forward to writing again with you all soon.)

Even Imaginary Solutions Leave Marks

I ran out of time this weekend, so instead of a little montage of the sillier bits of the film I made on Thursday, here is the Ubu logo. Montage still to come!

In my quest to avoid doing actual work on Fridays, I found myself reading up on "pataphysics" after a conversation with Mr. Williams about the Sit Ubu Sit dog featured in the production stamp at the end of many 1980's American sitcoms. It turns out that the dog was named after the anti-hero of pre-absurdist writer Alfred Jarry. His concept of pataphysics determined all things to have meaning seemingly based on the fact that they have meaning. One of the definitions is that "'Pataphysics is the science of the particular, of laws governing exceptions." All things are thought to have a unique set of exceptions, each event in the particular therefore completely meaningful, therefore completely meaningless. Each scientific theory is thought of as an attempt to pin down one viewpoint as real, and to live life governed by that reality, although it may not be reality for anyone else.

I came to realize that this blog is a study in pataphysics. It is my quest to determine my reality, at least my spankoverse reality, and to approach the subject of spanking based on my set of perceptions. Hence my constant battle with the word "masochism," which, in this "philosophy," would have as much and as little meaning as anything else, as all words are equally valuable and valueless. My quest to define these pieces of my reality are an absurdity within an absurdity, as I watch myself search for definitions and realize that in the end, the words I put to them are nothing compared to my experiences, which are individually unique and miraculous events (or so it would seem, if I follow wikipedia's translation of Jarry's theory).

That said (or garbled), I encountered a concept I have come to love over the past few hours, and will here use to describe my random foray into self-spanking and on-camera masturbation. (You see? Follow my rambling and it's bound to get good again eventually.) Jarry quasi-explained, "'Pataphysics is the science of imaginary solutions." An imaginary solution is the arbitary choice made by science and/or the universe when faced with any given problem. "Imaginary" refers to the imagination of science itself, as if it created, out of nowhere, a result. I'm comprehending it as parallel to chaos theory, only the outcome is not random so much as it is miraculous.

At the beginning of the clip site piece I filmed Thursday night, "I Miss You, Mr. Williams," I state that I'm going to play with myself because I am missing my man, but am probably not going to spank myself, and I laugh, because I'm just talking to the camera and the idea is amusing. It's definitely not what I'd set out to do. I was intending to stroke myself with some of my leather toys and, if it was going well, bring myself to orgasm. This, in the pataphysical context, is the "problem," the circumstance. Moments later, as I stroke myself with my little red leather paddle, I whack my thigh. It hurts! And then I do it again. It's a fascinating feeling, not something I normally do, and so, caught up in the experience, I keep going.

Next it's the crop and I quite literally hurt myself with the first tap on the thigh. I cringe and giggle; I'd hit myself much harder than I'd intended. I play with tapping and slapping my breasts with it, something Mr. Williams and I don't normally do, all the while talking to the camera as if it's him. Then, the imaginary solution: I turn around and spank myself for the camera! What an absurdity, and not at all the outcome I'd intended when I hit record. Self-spanking was the arbitrary choice made by myself or the universe in response to the problem of missing Mr. Williams. This was my imaginary solution to missing him, missing spanking, missing opening that secret chamber to myself.

Although the redness of my bottom by the time the vibrator is withdrawn from the toy case is nothing compared to the marks from true punishments, I do have actual light bruises on my thighs, and my backside did turn a lovely dark pink shade, albeit briefly. Most importantly, though, I have an explanation for how a professed disbeliever in the art of self spanking found herself doing so: it was an absurd miracle! At least it turned into a hot absurd miracle, replete with the occasional comic commentary, just like here on my blog. I actually think it's adorable, because I'm so completely myself in a way that's very different from the spanking movies I've made with Mr. Williams. In a sense, it's blog on film. Initially meant for my husband, turned into a sexy romp, turned into tongue-in-cheek but playful commentary, turned into turning myself on so much that I have no choice but to come. And then come write about it. I guess that's the perceived reality of my reality. Absurdist Abby. That could be a whole other website...

I Miss You, Mr. Williams

Some of the implements escaped their case after all.

The case beckons to me even from the distance of rooms. Play with us, whisper the implements that lie within the repurposed instrument case, nestled together in a bed of golden plush. We miss you, they murmur. Your backside, your thighs, the spaces between. I pretend they do not call to me. And still, inbetween the tapping of keys and the Sia album on the MP3 player, I hear the crop insisting, I want to bite you. The leather paddles try to coax me into letting them tease me, warm me, prepare me. The one short cane that fits in the case sternly demands, Let me out, young lady. Or else.

But sadly, these past few weeks there has been no "or else" to be had. I have been exhausted with work, sleeping earlier and earlier in the evening. Mr. Williams has been working later hours. By the time he comes through the front door, even the cats are too sleepy and cuddled into me to greet him. We all open our lazy eyes and blink at him. He gives us each kisses and lets us go back to sleep. On those nights when we do have the luxury of one another's time, playtime has been last on the list of priorities, favoring instead the guilty pleasures of being man and wife--chiefly, snuggly movie nights and reading in bed.

Now, just getting home on a Thursday evening with Mr. Williams working late, I find myself all too atuned to the voices in the implement case. The strange thing is, I don't miss the vicious creatures that cry for me. I don't miss the pain they cause, or the transcendence that pain has been known to help me achieve. I don't miss the marks they leave, though when I do bear marks I wear them with secret pride. I don't even miss the freedom that comes with giving up control. The world has been spinning so chaotically lately that I lack control most days these days anyway. No, the thing I miss is something so much simpler than all that. In a word, I miss anticipation.

Until recently, almost every day was filled with the expectation that I would come home and be spanked. Likewise, Mr. Williams' days were filled with expecting to spank me soon after I walked through the front door. The phantom tingling of my backside got me through the day. I looked forward to being molded into whatever form he wanted me to become. He could make me his naughty young lady or his tawdry womanly vixen. He could make me cry like a little girl or scream like a feral cat in heat. Most importantly, we were together, doing this thing that has made us a better couple and made me a better writer. I could go so far as to say it has made me whole. Perhaps that's the core of it--I miss knowing that I will have the freedom to completely be myself.

I can do that writing, of course, or doing the dishes, or taking a walk. I don't mean to say that I am not myself unless I am in the process of being spanked. I think most of you will understand what I mean when I say that spanking opens up an inner chamber, the one that holds every version of one's self, and lets them all out at once. The experience guides which will take hold, be it the girl or the woman or some other secret self, but they are all available. There is nothing limiting that release besides ourselves. In those moments, decorum be damned; there is nothing decorous about flailing with one's bottom in the air. I could even go so far as to say that in these moments I am truly human, and there is nothing decorous about being human, either. We are madcap packages of flesh and emotion, intricate thought and base instinct. When I am being spanked, I don't have to worry about how to balance those disparate parts of myself, because they balance on their own. A new credo: I am spanked, therefore I am. I miss the anticipation to be.

The only trouble with all this revelation is that it's no good on my own. I can write about it up and down the block, but the parallels between carpel tunnel and cane stripes are few and far between. To continue thieving classic literature and bending it to fit my spanko whims, I may sing the body electric, but it sure would be nicer if the song was a duet. In other words, I miss you, Mr. Williams. Thank goodness it's almost tomorrow. The weekend is only a day away.

I got really silly with the camera after writing this post. This still is from the end of it all. Note the mischievous glint in my eye. I'll tell you all about it soon. Or if you're really curious, it's posted on (defunct link) already.

Circus Gluteus Maximus

Three paragraphs into writing a new story set in a carnival, I insisted Mr. Williams read what I'd written and tell me if it was worth continuing. He pointed out that Bonnie had just recently posted a short play set at a carnival, featuring a spanking booth. My story is quite different--and he did say it was worth continuing, so perhaps I'll have some fiction to post soon--but it did get me wondering about whether this is a more common fantasy than I realized. In a world now inundated with schoolroom and office spankings, housewife and naughty daughter spankings, is carnival and circus spanking the new deep dark fantasy of the spanko mind?

After a few minutes of research, I found quite a few spanking booth photos on both Google and Yahoo Images, which surprised me to say the least. None were especially titillating, but they did confirm the idea that public faire spanking is something more than a handful of us have considered. It's easy to make the jump from fundraiser to three-ring affair, and apparently even easier for some than others.

For example, I discovered a troupe called Circus Contraption that actually featured a Spank the Audience act in one of their shows. I could not find any pictures of this act on their site, but as they are based out of Seattle, Washington, I will certainly have to attend their next area performance. I also discovered an odd short story about a little girl birched by circus animals. (Really.)

I've only just started thinking about this subject, so I may have more to say on it in the future. I've been a bit all over the board lately and haven't been able to focus enough to write anything worth posting here. I did want to post something though, just to say I'm still out here, still thinking about spanking, just doing it quietly for a few days. I couldn't find a good photo to accompany this, so if you have one, please share!