Musing about Mosquitoes

How come there are so many mosquitoes around when we have had so little rain this month?

How come Ron thinks there are so many in the house, when I never hear them buzzing?

How come they like me best?

How come Ron is always swatting them when they land on me, even before I know they're there?

How come they always land on my bottom?

How come it takes six swats to kill one tiny mosquito?

How come I never see the squashed remains on his hand?

How come I never see the squashed remains on my white shorts?

How come we seem to have mosquitoes in the house until well past Thanksgiving?

Inquiring minds want to know.


Here's Ron's contribution on the subject:

You appeared from nowhere and shamelessly, without any reservations, you lay on my naked body...you sensed my indifference, so you applied your hungry mouth to me without any guilt or humiliation, and you drove me near crazy while you drained me.

Finally, I drifted off to sleep.

Today when I awoke, you were gone, I searched for you but to no avail, only the sheets bore witness to last night's events. My body still bears faint marks of your enthusiastic ravishing, making it all the more difficult to forget you.

Tonight, I will remain awake, waiting for you........






F###ing mosquito!!!!!

Beat it

Last night we enjoyed some homemade pickled beets with dinner. Between us we managed to finish the jar, leaving only some pieces of onion floating in the tangy red liquid.

As we cleared the table, Ron grabbed the jar and announced that he would dump the contents down the drain. He knew this would annoy me because I am a fervent composter.

"No, it goes into the green bin." I carefully strained out the solid vegetable matter, then bent over the compost bucket and coaxed the pieces out of the jar.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

Ron decided to administer an impromptu paddling while I was in the appropriate position.

"Beats, beets. Get it?" he chortled, as his hand warmed my bottom.

"Yes, I - ouch! - get it. Very funny."

You've gotta love a man who enjoys his homonyms. But I think that tomorrow we'll have bread and butter pickles with dinner.

A Spanking for Dessert

 

Yesterday evening we were in the process of preparing dinner, and the dogs were being quite rowdy, so they found themselves incarcerated in their crates in another room. The resulting peace and quiet was very nice, and we were able to sit down and enjoy a leisurely dinner of lasagna and red wine.

When we had finished, I made a move to leave the table and set the dogs free.

"Stay where you are," Ron commanded. "They can wait for a little." And so we sat, sipped our wine, and chatted a while. The stolen minutes made our conversation sweeter and more intimate, and there were no interruptions from the canines, who were probably napping peacefully.

When at length we rose from the table, Ron gave my bottom a tentative pat as he headed toward the fridge. I bent over the table as I stacked the plates, and felt a firmer pat.

"Go ahead," I said. "The dogs won't hear you." This was something of an exaggeration. Those pointed ears can detect the crinkle of a potato chip bag from anywhere in the house. However, they were not likely to be upset by the noise at a distance.

Ron resumed his efforts with his open hand, and I felt several substantial swats on my bottom as I held my position while keeping my bosom out of the tomato sauce on the plates.

"That's your dessert," Ron announced triumphantly when he had finished.

I was too full from the delicious meal to want anything more to eat, but there's always room for a spanking.

A Treat for Ron

Ron's birthday is coming up soon. If I gift wrap myself like this, do you think he'll forget about the wide screen TV that he was hoping I'd buy him?

A what on my where?

What does Speedy Gonzales - the fastest mouse in all Mexico - have to do with spanking? Read on.

Ron and I were engaged in our favourite activity last weekend. Due to unforseen circumstances, we had had to postpone my bottom-warmings a couple of times. Now Ron was making up for the neglect, and I was struggling to remember why it was that I liked spankings. This one really hurt. My poor bottom had become soft and tender with the absence of regular attention, and now an ordinary spanking felt like a real humdinger!

Ron could clearly see that I wasn't up to the usual menu of swats that he normally delivers.

"You've got a blood blister." He patted me and motioned for me to get up. But I didn't want it to end so soon, in spite of the discomfort. I stayed put and hoped things would soon become more enjoyable.

After a couple of half-hearted swats, Ron put down the paddle. "You've had enough." Then, as he saw me reach around behind, "can you feel it"?

"Yes. Did you do that? With that paddle?" There was definitely a large raised area on my right cheek.

"Yep. I did it with the Big Bopper" Ron is a fifties music fan, and had renamed our most-used leather implement to suit his taste in music.

I giggled, then tried again. "I mean, was it there before you started?" I was hoping Ron wouldn't decide that I was no longer up to taking the kind of spanking I had always enjoyed up till now.

"No."

I pulled on panties and shorts, and rubbed my bottom thoughtfully. Maybe I needed some aloe vera. Maybe I can't handle this any more. Maybe I'm too ol.......

Later, as I sat uncomfortably on the couch beside Ron, trying to watch whatever was on TV, but actually attempting to find a non-painful position, my husband turned to me and, in his best Speedy Gonzales accent, said, "How's the bleester on your keister?"

As we laughed together, I knew that he wasn't at all put off by my slight injury, and would do his best to toughen up my bottom again.



My keister will soon be back in shape for a good old-fashioned spanking. And who knows? Ron may start a new career as a stand-up comedian.

Pyramid of Spanking

We often play Guess the Implement here on my blog, and recently Ron and I played it too, but our version was quite different.

It all started when I wondered whether I could tell the difference between two similar leather paddles. Ron suggested we try guessing the implements, and I reminded him of his suggestion a couple of weeks later, right before a date for spanking. He took it from there.

Ron laid five different implements on the bed and let me memorize which ones they were: leather paddle, riding crop, red slapper, wooden shoehorn and bamboo spatula. Then I bent over the end of the bed with my head turned away so I couldn't see which implement Ron chose, and the game began. The only problem was, I wasn't sure what the rules were, except that I was going to be spanked with five different weapons.

"The red slapper," I called out after the third swat from the first selection."

"You guessed too soon," Ron admonished me. "Once you guess, it's over for that implement." He did give me several more quick swats to forgive me my beginner's error, then announced, " You have reached level one of the pyramid of spanking."

I recognized the second implement right away, but kept my opinion to myself while it made an impression on my bottom.

"How long do I wait?" I asked, between gasps and squeaks.

"As long as you like," the referee said.

"Shoehorn."

"Correct."

As Ron began the third level of the pyramid, I asked, "Shouldn't there be a set length of time--ow!-- for you to let me sample the--ow! How about a minute? Ow, ow! Like that show we watched with the couple--ow!--riding crop."

"Correct.

The bamboo spatula was next, and I guessed that as well. Even though I figured Ron was making up the game as we went along, I had never had such a variety at one time and let me tell you, it keeps the pain fresh and interesting.

Then it was time for the last level. I knew what was left, and didn't want the spanking to end, so I stayed silent until Ron asked, "Don't you understand the rules?"

"What rules?" I giggled.

"You have to guess."

"Hairbrush."

"What hairbrush? There's no hairbrush here."

Another pause for paddling. "Bathbrush."

"No bathbrush either."

Whack. Whack. "Ping pong paddle."

"We don't have a ping pong paddle."

"We should get one."

WHACK. "Okay, leather paddle."

"Good." Ron put down the paddle and helped me up. I rubbed my sore bottom and asked him sweetly, "What's my prize?"

"You've had it."

Back to Normal

Our older dog, Fang, has serious health issues that are well-controlled with medication. But one morning last week, he was under the weather, and refused not only his breakfast, but also the tasty morsels in which I had hidden his pills. Ron immediately thought the worst was about to happen. I'm more pragmatic about these things, and diagnosed a digestive upset, based on generous evidence on the carpet.

After a morning of rest and two doses of tummy medicine, Fang was starting to come around. By lunchtime he accepted treats, and I knew he had bounced back after he scarfed up his afternoon meal and looked around for more. Ron was still concerned, though, and watched Fang carefully for the rest of the day.

Later, I had just given both dogs their evening biscuits and was walking past Ron when I felt a hard swat on my bottom.

"Ow!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that."

"I'm sure you didn't. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Yeah. It was there."

I was glad to see that Ron had bounced back too.

One Giant Step

Ron and I engage in spanking strictly for enjoyment. For us, it's both fun and erotic, but never for discipline. Ron isn't interested in turning our favourite aerobic activity into punishment, and as he always tells me, I enjoy it so much it could never be punishment for me. But still, sometimes I wish he would pretend, and use the disciplinary words that press my buttons.

One evening, we were in the kitchen together, jointly preparing dinner, when Fluffy scratched at the back door. I let him out.

"Don't give him a treat when he comes in," Ron told me. "I'm mad at him. He was a nuisance today."

I heard, and agreed, but five minutes later, when Fluffy came back in, I automatically reached into the treat jar and popped a tiny doggy goodie into his open mouth.

Let me explain. The habit of giving a treat is one of long standing. The theory is that it encourages our dogs to go out in inclement weather to do their duty instead of using the carpet. It also provides an incentive to come in when they are called, even though there are so many interesting things to eat, roll in and bark at outdoors. So Ron's request was simply overruled by years of habit. It wasn't intentional.

But Ron noticed.

"You disobeyed me," he remarked.

"Um, yes."

"You disobeyed my order and gave Fluffy a treat," he continued in a very authoritarian manner. My heart leapt!

"Yes, Sir." I tried to sound contrite while wondering where this was going.

"Go upstairs and get the paddle out right now," Ron commanded.




I stood and stared, eyes wide with disbelief. These were the words I had been waiting for, even though I knew he didn't mean a word of it. We had just finished a vigorous spanking session half an hour earlier, so I suppose Ron was basking in a dominant afterglow. He had no intention of administering a second dose, but was still in spanko mode.

I hugged Ron and laughed as I told him, "You've finally got the dialogue down. You said exactly the right words. Thank you."

We've taken another giant step forward on our spanko journey together.

And no, I didn't get another spanking for disobedience.

I haven't told you about the one I got just before this happened, have I?

I must do that soon.

All You Really Need

Last weekend was quite busy for us, so spanking had to take a back seat until things quieted down. Once the busyness and its associated stress were over, I tried reminding Ron that I was in need of a spanking that was now, in my mind, overdue. But he had other ideas and seemed unenthusiastic.

"Not tonight."

"But the stress is over."

"But I'm still stressed and tired."

"Fine. Tomorrow?"

"No, I have to mow the lawn. That's stressful too, and I'll be too tired after that."

He would. It's a big lawn. But wasn't I more important than having short grass? I made my disappointment silently apparent and Ron eventually gave in.

"Wednesday for sure."

Sigh. It would have to do.

The next morning I was up first, and when I looked out the window I saw a winter wonderland. Huge snowflakes slowly drifted down to earth to join their companions already covering the green grass. There would be no cutting of grass today! In that case, there was no reason to postpone the spanking any longer, and I said so when Ron joined me for breakfast.

"So, no mowing today."

"It might dry out."

"Nice try, but I don't think so. You'll have plenty of energy to give me a spanking tonight."

It was Ron's turn to sigh. He knew when he was beaten, and I spent the day in a happy mixture of anticipation and dread.

Sometimes snow is something you really need!




And the spanking? I'll tell you all about it soon.

The View from Here - Just Spanking

Ron and I have been thinking outside the box lately, and he suggested that we experiment with spanking without benefits. That is, we enjoy a spanking, then move on without exploring the erotic followup. As I told you here, we have discussed this approach before.

I'm all for variety, and eagerly agreed. I admit I was a little nervous at first, because I wasn't sure what to do. What about clothing? Were we supposed to undress if we weren't going to do it? Ron led the way. When I arrived in the bedroom, he was still dressed, so I only removed my clothing from the waist down, for convenience. As events unfolded, I had nothing to be nervous about. It really worked out well, and here's why.


We have so much fun! Spankings have become more lighthearted. We usually have some chat about which implement to use. I'll frequently find something funny about Ron's technique and comment on it. Ron has typically treated spanking me as a very serious business so the first time I heard a muffled snort when he tried not to laugh, it was a truly special moment. Now he joins in the fun and we have a jolly time. We usually hug and laugh when it's all over too.

More bang for my buck. When spankings culminate in sex, the decision to end the first phase and move on to the second is based on whether I was physiologically ready. But our new strategy excludes any sexual touching. As a result, Ron didn't know when to stop. He asked me to tell him when. Yeah, right. No way would I call a halt to a spanking! It isn't going to happen.

The thought of my hour-long dream coming true was the first thing I thought of. But I wouldn't be able to say "stop" for two reasons. The first is that I love it and can't get enough of it. I have never yet been in a position where I wanted it to end. and doubt that it will ever happen. And the second is that I submit to my husband. It would be so wrong to tell him what to do at the very moment I am most submissive.

So it is still up to Ron to decide, and yes, he does eventually stop! When he thinks I have had enough (and that's well past our usual finishing point) he will put the implement down and say "Your bottom has blisters (or calluses, or warts) on it" or "Your bum is turning purple" and I laugh, knowing that he's done. It's a fun way to end a very intense experience.

What about sex? I honestly don't mind not finishing in the usual way. The longer, harder spanking is so intense, and my mind is so completely focused on it, that it takes me to new, uncharted territory. I am usually quite exhausted when it is over, and feel quite content to leave things as they are at that point. I know we will get around to it at some later time.

You Said What?

Last week Ron had lunch with a good friend. That evening he brought me up to date on the latest news about Greg, his married son and his unmarried daughter. I listened with interest, but noticed that he hadn't mentioned Greg's wife. Finally, with a frown, Ron said, "So I asked Greg about Penny."

"And?"

Ron looked concerned. "He said she didn't want to be spanked."

"Oh! What? You asked him about--? You told him--?" I saw the corners of his mouth twitch. "No you didn't!" Ron laughed, delighted that he had fooled me.

I giggled and asked, "What about him? Maybe he would like to be spanked. Some men do, you know."

Ron agreed. "Okay, next time I'll ask him. 'Greg, do you want to be spanked?'"

"Not like that," I laughed. "He'll think you're offering to spank him." I got a swat on the bottom for saying that.

I wonder what those two had for lunch.

The Sound of Wings

My dear husband likes routines, and thinks long and hard before altering any of the usual patterns in his day to day life. Change doesn't come easily for him. I know this and am quite comfortable with it, and try not to surprise him too often with spontaneous suggestions.

That's why I couldn't believe my ears when Ron told me one Friday evening recently that he had decided to switch our regular date from Sunday to Saturday. (I don't recall seeing any pigs fluttering past our window.) Sunday had been our special time, reserved for intimacy of some sort, for more years than I can remember. What had prompted this change?

I asked him, and he reminded me that Sundays didn't seem to be working out too well lately. That was true. What with special activities related to the holiday season, our seasonal colds and flu, and too much snow shoveling, we had often had to reschedule or even cancel our regular play. Then of course there's Sunday football, and I had always wondered why Ron was so willing to interrupt his enjoyment of the game for a totally different but equally (I hope) enjoyable activity.

So there you have it. Saturday it is, and so far it seems to be working out quite well. For some reason we both aren't as tired on that day as we usually are by Sunday afternoon, so we have plenty of energy for spanking and whatever else Ron has in mind. He can enjoy football the next day without watching the clock, and I have a comfortable, peaceful feeling that a spanking always produces, that lasts through the remainder of the weekend. As much as I enjoy being spanked, there is always a certain amount of apprehension and anxiety that occurs as the time draws closer, and with that feeling out of the way sooner, I can enjoy the afterglow (or afterburn) the following day, while I'm doing pleasant things at home, instead of forgetting the pleasure in the busyness of a new week at work.

This was definitely a change for the better. Now if you will excuse me, I have to go get ready.

Whacked!

This is one of the presents Ron gave me for Christmas. He chose it because of the word "wacky" and says that reminded him of how much I like to be whacked. I hope he thinks the other two adjectives are also appropriate. (how could they not be?)

This is now hanging in a prominent place, so we can both enjoy the reminder, and no vanillites will suspect a thing.

Ending with a Bang

For the holidays I have been concocting some interesting beverages in the traditional colours of the season. I'll admit that the intriguing shape of the bottles had something to do with my choice of flavours, but the green sour apple and red cranberry are both delicious. A little of either poured into a glass filled with seltzer or diet tonic water, ice and a dash of bitters, makes a zesty, low-calorie, non-alcoholic drink that's tasty but not sweet.

Diet tonic water is very hard to come by in small quantities, so when I buy a big two-litre bottle, I decant it into two smaller bottles that will fit into the tiny fridge in the family room. Last night I was doing just that. Did you know that tonic water at room temperature behaves much like champagne when the top is removed? I was doing my best to be careful, but some spillage was inevitable. I topped up the smaller bottles, capped them and put them away, and then Ron arrived.

"You spilled," he observed.

"Yes, just a little."

"Clean it up," he ordered sternly. It was only a little liquid, but I got a paper towel and swiped it over the bar. When I was finished Ron picked up the empty plastic bottle and held it by the top, brandishing it at me. I turned around, bent over and put my hands on my knees. Whack! Whack! I got a half-dozen swats on my bottom with the bottle. I felt the sting through my clothing.

"That makes a pretty good whacker," Ron commented. (He rates implements according to how much noise they make.) He kept the bottle in his hand and took it upstairs - whether he was taking it to the kitchen recycler or the bedroom toy box, I couldn't tell.

I'll find out soon, since it seems we are still celebrating the twelve days of Christmas.

A Grand Ole Spanking

Music was playing in the kitchen one evening as we worked side by side preparing dinner. I noticed that the songs - by one of our favourite Canadian folksingers - were ones I'd heard only the night before; Ron hadn't changed the CDs in the player for quite a while. I remarked to him that we were hearing the same songs for the third time.

Big mistake! He wasn't in the mood for any sort of criticism and took my innocent remark to heart. After a sharp retort, he disappeared and returned a few minutes later with a fresh batch of music. Once the CDs was loaded and the first one began to play, I bitterly regretted having complained about the previous repetition. I am not a big fan of country music, and on knows it. But he had unearthed the works of some very old country stars, and we were listening to it.

"Who is that? It sounds like someone from the Grand Old Opry."

"You're right," Ron replied. "Hank Williams was one of the inventers of modern country music. That'll serve you right for complaining about my choice of music."

"So you're punishing me?"

"Sure am."

"Why don't you spank me if you want to punish me?"

"Oh, no, you'd enjoy that. Spanking's a reward for you."

True. I couldn't help but listen to the music, because I still had to take care of dinner. After a while, I started to hum along with Hank; he was singing something old but familiar. Ron surprised me when he said, "This music isn't so bad after all.

It's turning out to be a pretty ineffective punishment for you."

"That's right. You should have spanked me instead."

Some men never learn.