There was a time when saying the word "spank" would make me tremble all over. My voice would shake, my face would turn red, and I would feel extremely uncomfortable and embarrassed. The unfortunate part was that I even reacted that way with my husband. I couldn't talk to him about the subject that intrigued us both so much. As a result, there were often misunderstandings due to his misinterpretation of my agitation. And talking about spanking, or any other intimate activity, was something Ron would never have dreamed of doing.
Since I discovered the world of spanking blogs, and began reading and then writing about spanking, my reluctance gradually faded away. At first it was still hard to speak of the subject, but there was so much I wanted to tell Ron. I needed to share the things I read and the feelings I had. And so, little by little, I opened up. Even more gradually, Ron did too.
How different we both are today. Scarcely a day goes by without one of us mentioning TTWD, usually in some humorous way. Every time Ron says that someone is being "a pain in the ass" it's always a reason for knowing looks and laughter, He will then clarify what he meant, or didn't mean, which prompts more laughter.
If we hear a spanking innuendo on television, we exchange knowing looks and smiles. Where once it would have been an elephant in the room, causing embarrassment and discomfort, it's now a chance to feel closer to each other. Ron often says -- as casually as talking about the weather -- that certain TV personalities need a good spanking. How far he has come! How far we both have.
This blog is another creature that has morphed from an elephant into a playful creature, comfortable to be around and accepted as part of the family. Where once I would have carried out my blogging preparations and plans privately, I now often tell Ron about my pictures, the items I have lined up for Guess the Implement, and my ideas. He isn't really interested in this blog, but understands how important it is to me. He accepts it, and is proud of my efforts.
Here's an example of how spanking enters even the most innocent conversation. Ron and I were watching two women walk by our house for the second time in a few hours. They seem to have no occupation other than walking, and it's not uncommon for them to pass by several times a day. I remarked that they seemed like old friends because we see them so often, and that we should invite them in for a cup of tea.
"We should invite them in for a spanking," Ron countered seriously. What? I couldn't believe what I thought had heard, and asked him to repeat it. After assuring me that he was only joking, we laughed together at the thought. Now I can't watch them go by without smiling and remembering.
Last but not least, we talk during a spanking. Not a lot, but enough to stay connected. It's a chance to be silly and not treat it quite so seriously as we have in the past, and it's made an enjoyable activity twice as nice. Chatting increases the feeling of intimacy and closeness, and it's just so darned much fun!
How far we have come. And we like where we are.
Another excerpt from Maid's Night In, an anonymously written novel about the erotic awakening of a Victorian girl. If you missed the first one, you'll find it here.
Beatrice and her sister have gone to live with their aunt and uncle, who have certain proclivities to corporal punishment. The scene is a formal evening reception. The girls are watching, and Beatrice narrates.
There was quiet again. The music ceased....The Lady Arabella was announced.
"Let her enter and be brought here," I heard my uncle say. There was a sound as if of a heavy table moving...I saw the woman enter. Her coiffure was exquisite. A diamond choker, a swan neck. Her curves were elegant beneath a swathing white gown of satin flecked with red. The collar of her gown was raised slightly, as one sees in portraits of the Elizabethans. She wore a look of coldness and distance. Her lips were full, her nose long and straight. Her eyelids were shadowed in initiation of the early Egyptians.
She made to step back as my uncle reached her. Behind her entered a man of military look, impeccable in a black jacket and white trousers, as waa the evening fashion then. I judged the years between them. She was the younger.
"Not here. It is unseemly," she said.
"No," the woman said in answer to some muttered remark.
"Not here," the woman said again... The chandeliers danced their crystal diamonds. The Lady Arabella was moving forward. As if through water she moved. An older woman moved beside her, a hand cupping her elbow. The older woman wore a purple dress. Her vulgarity was obvious.
"Arabella, my sweet, you will come to dinner tomorrow night? The Sandhursts are coming," her voice cooed.
"I do not know. Perhaps, yes. I must look at my diary, of course."
Arabella' s look was constrained, her lips set. Behind her, the man who had escorted her in was nudging her bottom. It was of an ample size, though not too large by comparison with her stately curves. Her face turned to her escort as if pleading. He shook his head. I saw the table then. It had indeed been pushed forward. Upon its nearest edge was a large velvet cushion. Her long legs appeared to stiffen as she approached it. Her footsteps dragged. Her shoes were silver as I saw from the occasional peeping of her toes beneath the hem of her gown.
There were murmurings, whispers, protestations, retreats. The doors to the morning room opened an closed, re-opened and closed again.
"It is private," I heard my aunt say to others. The room was stiller. I heard a cry from Arabella.
"Lift her gown fully," a voice said. "Hold her arms."
"Not here..." She seemed unable to say anything else. Not here, not here, not here, not here. A rustling sound. Slight creak of wood. A gasp. Plaintive.
"Remove her drawers."
"She was unseemly. Is she not betrothed to him?" It was my aunt's voice. She spoke to the escort. His voice was dry and thin.
"Improper," he replied. The word fell like the closing of a book. "Take them right off. Do not let her kick," he said.
"No! Not the birch!" A wail from Arabella. The modulation of my aunt's voice and the military gentleman's amused me. They were tonally flat--courteous. Would he have her bound, my aunt asked. It was not necessary, he said, but her wrists should be held.
She was bent over the table, the globes of her bottom gleaming. Her garters were white satin, flecked with red. The deep of her grooves--the inrolling. Her breathing came to me, filtering its small waiting sobs. The dry rustling sound of a birch. I had never yet tasted the twigs. It was said that they should be softened first.
"Not bound," My aunt said. Her voice sounded slmost regretful. "Hilda, you will hold her wrists tight. Stretch her arms out."
"Nooooooo!"
The long, sweet aristocratic cry came as the first swishing came. It sounded not as violently as I thought.
"No! Nooooo!" A further cry. Her sobbing rose like violins. A creaking of table. Beneath her raised gown, her underskirt, her chemise, the velvet cushion pressed against her belly. There was comfort. I comforted myself with the comfort.
The sounds went on. The birch swished gently but firmly as it seemed to me. First across one cheek then the other. The bouncy hemispheres reddened and squirmed. Streaks of heat. Was it like the strap?
"Ask her now," the man said. There was whispering, a quavering cry. A negative. Refusal. "Three more," he said. "Her drawers were down when I caught them together."
My aunt tutted. The small dots of her tutting impinged across the sobs, the swishings. They flew like small birds across the room.
"Whaaah! Nooooooo! Wha-aaaaaa!" Arabella sobbed... There was quiet. Her tears shone upon the polished wood of the table.
"Ask her again." The same voice, impassive, quiet. The sobs were unending.
"Have you before?" my aunt asked. It was her garden voice, clear and enquiring. The lilt of a question mark that could not fail to invite.
"Twice, but she resists. What does she say?" he asked.
"I cannot hear. Arabella, you must speak, my dear, or take the birch again." The woman who held her wrists spoke.
"I c...c...cannot. No--yes--oh!"
Silence. "Have her dress," my aunt said at last. "Hilda, see to her hair, bathe her face, she has been good."
The doors to the morning room were re-opened. A flooding of people, a flurry of voices. Enquiries. My aunt would not answer. The deeper voice of my uncle said occasionally, "I do not know,"
...As we reached the bottom of the stairs she began to descend. Accompanying her was the older woman in purple. Their eyes passed across us unseeing.
"And there will be a garden party--for the church, you know," the woman in purple said.
Arabella's eyes were clear, her voice soft and beautifully modulated.
"Of course, I should love to come," she replied. They entered the drawing room together.
This was found printed on the wall of a love motel in Korea.
Shocking grammar, but it does touch me on an emotional level, in view of my "preferences".
Read what others had to say about it.
Quite possibly. At the very least, she deserves a good spanking for going out in public like that. The very idea!
But why is the fellow behind her looking elsewhere?
When my husband Ron gets into spanko mode, it takes a while for him to resume normal non-spanking activities. Take last week, for example. He had given my bottom some very generous attention, and I was still feeling the after effects several hours later. Ron surprised me by bestowing a very sound swat on my left cheek as he passed me on his way out the back door to check on the barbecue. That same side received a similar slap as he came back in.
"Ow! That side is getting too much attention. I'm starting to feel lopsided."
"Which one?" Whack. "That one?" Ron asked innocently.
"Ow. Yes, you're giving that side too many whacks," I complained.
"Too bad."
Five minutes later, as I was setting the table, Ron passed me on the way to the fridge for more barbecue sauce. My back was turned and I didn't see the attack coming.
Whack! Whack! Whack! Three solid swats landed on the neglected right side.
"There. Is that better? Do they feel even?" Ron inquired, full of fake concern.
"Ow, yeah, that's fine," I agreed, and backed away.
But Ron wasn't quite through. After a struggle with the sauce bottle top, he turned to the sink and rinsed his hands, then proceeded to rub them vigorously on my cotton-clad rear to dry them off. He couldn't help throwing in a few pats to remove any lingering water drops.
"Mmmm. You make a good towel," he muttered.
"Glad to be of use to you," I replied.
And that still wasn't all. Later, the long barbecue tongs were applied to my seat before they were used on the chicken. (Note to self: spanked with metal! Blog about this.)
It's funny how much additional attention my bottom gets in the hours after a spanking. I'm not complaining, but I sure wish that attention could be spread out a little over the week. Maybe a bit less when I'm tender, and a lot more as time heals the soreness and I'm starting to eagerly anticipate the next round of bottom-warming. The day before one would be the best time for a good preview of the hard swats soon to follow.
But I won't be asking Ron to stop those unexpected but ill-timed flurries of attention to my bottom any time soon. I appreciate his enthusiasm.
What could these two young beauties of yesteryear be reading? Something naughty? Do you suppose they are waiting for a spanking, and have removed their skirts in preparation? What could they possibly have done wrong, to earn a punishment that they are so obbiously looking forward to.
What's your version of the story?
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