"Butt Demon"

The restrictions I have imposed on SugarAnne’s smoking are beginning to tighten and cut off her air supply – so to speak. Over the past few days we have come down to absolutely no, none, nada, not a single cigarette in the evening hours. The first night this rule kicked in she was doing pretty darned good – at first. But as the night wore on she began to get a little kooky pacing back and forth with that, that look on her face.

I knew she needed encouragement so I got “the shredder”. It is the agreed upon implement of punishment for smoking infractions and with good reason. She is deathly afraid of the frickin’ thing. I wasn’t intending to use it – just a show of force. I just wanted her to be strengthened by the sight of it. I slowly slipped my wrist into the string loop on the end and wrapped my hand firmly around the handle.


As is my evening routine, I took my usual place reclining on the sofa in the den. This is where I nod off to sleep in front of the TV each night while SugarAnne fumbles around on the computer. Even though I’m a light sleeper throughout the night, in the first hour or two, I sleep like Rip van Winkle on steroids. I don’t know how long I was “under” when she jostled me awake. She stepped back and looked at me lying there. She then began pacing the floor like a caged lioness with raw meat just out of reach. She growled, “Wake up. If I can’t sleep you’re not going to sleep either”. It’s after midnight and I’m thinking: what the fuck?! This woman is obviously possessed - AGAIN! I sit up and watch her. The nicotine demon has her fit to be tied. She sits down. She fidgets. She wrings her hands. She fidgets. She stands up. She paces. She sits down. She wants to bolt. I know she does. She is freaking out! She would probably light up four at the same – two in each hand – if given the chance. I envisioned her alternately pumping her arms to her mouth with the rhythm of a drum major with two batons – long deep comforting drags and speedy syncopated satisfying exhales. The huge plumes of smoke a marching band in her wake.

A look comes over her. A look of dread, and fear, and fright, and horror. Then she says (get this!): “Get it over with”. Well, I’m confused. Did she sneak out while I was asleep? No. Was she saying that she was gonna go out anyway? No. “I need help”, she says, “And I don’t wanna get that “shredder” so just spank me now”. She stands and takes the “shredder” away and trades it for the “weapon of ass destruction” . What could I say but, “I’m here to help”. I mean, the poor dear was really suffering.

She steps out of her jeans fast. Like she was trying to fool herself into believing she never had them on. Fast enough, maybe, to fool herself into believing that she wasn't really asking to be spanked. Without command she places herself across my lap. I whisper words of encouragement and begin by mercifully warming her cheeks with gentle pats and squeezes. Before long I peel back her regulation bikini panties and roll them down to mid thigh. Her perfectly spankable ass is exposed.

After a long, thorough tear filled spanking SugarAnne straddled my lap. She rested her head on my shoulder. She wept. While evidence of a raging tiger had "risen" in me, the caged lioness had been restored to a gentle kitten.

In her weakness she is strengthened for the next time she has to kick the butt demon’s butt.

"Fuckyou"

Yep…that’s exactly what she said. SugarAnne did. And it’s only because things are going very well in our relationship. Where our home used to be in “keep them at the door” condition, although not immaculate (there is no need for that), it is well beyond “would you like to come in for a sec” for unexpected visitors. We’re getting along famously. Our lovemaking is off the charts in both passion and frequency. We are genuinely enjoying our lives together - immensely. We’re enjoying the “if we’d only known this before” feeling that bubbles up every now and then. And we’re enjoying the feelings of reminiscence that sweep over us as we live the “good ole days” right here in the present. We are indeed flourishing in "this thing we do".

And that’s exactly why she said, “Fuckyou” to me. ME! If it wasn’t 4:30 in the morning in Condo Heaven, I would’ve doubled her over, broken out the “Weapon of Ass Destruction” and… Let’s just say it would’ve sounded like:

“Fuck ME?!! THWACK! No…FuckYou! THWACK!”
“Fuck ME?!! THWACK! No…FuckYou! THWACK!” again and again.


Things are going so well that we’re getting down to some truly serious stuff; quality of life stuff; life-saving stuff: Cigarettes – and nicotine withdrawal. I wonder if anyone out there has had any success with this issue through "ttwd"?

As we head into the New Year I have been instituting “guidelines” that are designed to help SugarAnne to progressively quit smoking. I haven’t seen her sucking on a cigarette in probably 6 years. She doesn’t smoke in the house and she doesn’t smoke when I’m around. She steps outside onto the beach to smoke. I admit this is a challenge that I was at first reluctant to undertake. Because smoking is such a tough habit to break and I felt my Domdentity had not yet developed sufficiently to undertake and stick to the task. She doesn’t do a lot of it – a half a pack on her worst days - but she’s been doing it since she was a teen - well beyond 25 years. While she’s free to lose her battles during the day while I’m away at work, at night, by rule, she’s down to one cigarette between 5:00 and 10:00 p.m. and none thereafter. The nicotine fits are driving her absolutely batty! She generally sleeps harder than times in 1929. But recently she was wide awake at 4:30 in the morning and the throes of nicotine withdrawal had her spinning like rotisserie chicken.

“You’re not going outside SugarAnne”. I shake my head sternly.
“Why not?” The unfolding of regulation panties indicates the beginning phase of her planned escape.
“Not until daybreak at least”, the hint of a serious consequences in my tone.
That’s when she said it: “Fuckyou”. It wasn’t like, “Fuck" (space) "you", I’m gonna do this anyway”. She was already re-folding the panties. It was a crisp hard "F": “Fuckyou” with a soft voice. Like when your kid gives you that classic line “Ihateyou!” and it all runs together. Like I said, if it wasn’t 4:30 in the morning in Condo Heaven…

I may have to walk on a few eggshells here and there. That kind of sensitivity is necessary under the circumstances. I understand it's difficult to quit. I quit a few years back. I had her take a nicotine lozenge and held her close until she fell asleep. But I feel the issue is better dealt with now, or later on we will be dealing with lung cancer; coronary heart disease; chronic obstructive pulmonary disease; cancer of the mouth, throat, larynx, esophagus, stomach, kidney, bladder, pancreas, liver or an early death.

We’re enjoying life entirely too much for me to just allow that to happen. So you might hear about this endeavor here and there. You also, if you listen closely, might hear the sound of eggshells being smashed underfoot:

“Fuck ME?!! THWACK! No…FuckYou! THWACK!” again and again.

"Woman-Child"

SugarAnne has taken more than a few spankings in the past week. Various kinds. There's been erotic spankings, and maintenance spankings, and punishment spankings. I have broken in (not broken up!) a new paddle – I call it "Weapon of Ass Destruction", and I have another (“the Shredder”) waiting in the wings. There have been more spankings this week than any other week since we began "this thing we do". (Have we gone crazy or what?!) The erotic spankings, of course, are the most fun. They are wild and fulfilling; passionate and intimate. It seems that SugarAnne can actually take a longer and more intense erotic spanking than she can the others. It seems. The maintenance spankings seem not quite sufficient for my needs – I tend to be left feeling there is something lacking. However, they are a very effective reminder for SugarAnne. The punishment spankings seem not quite sufficient for her needs – although she won’t admit that outright – but are a very effective reminder that I am still growing into my role.

It has been a week of discovery. I’m discovering SugarAnne has got kind of a cast iron behind. She’s taking more than I can give right now. And I’m discovering that my will could be a little stronger. She knows it. And I know it. She is more sub than my Dom has grown into to at this point. I am thoroughly surprised by that. We both know that it’s to her “benefit” right now. Just as we both know that it won't be long before her cast iron booty melts under the heat of my hand – and any other implement I choose to use.

Before we ventured into this life I would have characterized SugarAnne as having a child-like fragility: easily broken; characteristically trying to hide her brittleness in peek-a-boo fashion; and thinking it's concealed simply because her eyes are covered. It’s one of the charming qualities that draws me to her. It’s a quality that taps into the “savior complex” part of my mental makeup. But she's not so brittle. That same “savior complex” dupes me into letting her walk away from a spanking smiling too much rather than crying sufficiently. It also leaves me walking away feeling like I could’ve (and should’ve) given just a bit more.

And the reality is: I’m okay with that. I’m okay with it because I can see what’s growing out of me as I step further along the path of my Domdentity. This pace allows the woman in her to hold onto the man in me for love and protection, while the man in me holds on and loves and protects the child in her. As we hold this delicate balance, the woman in her remains captive to the freedom she's always enjoyed; and the child in her lives free to enjoy her new found captivity.

"She takes just like a woman, yes, she does

She makes love just like a woman, yes, she does

And she aches just like a woman

But she breaks just like a little girl".
Bob Dylan, Just Like A Woman

photo credit: Lovelei

"'You Have A Sticky'"

She’s not home when I discover the violation but she'll be stressed when she finds out. And in light of the previous weekend’s lesson’s learned, it causes me great stress too. Because I know I have to follow through. This is punishment. This is punishment to be administered seriously and painfully, quickly and completely. This IS what domestic discipline is all about.

“You have a sticky”, I say. Those words are not music to her ears.
“Why-eeeeeee?!” is her immediate singsong-like response as she rushes to where I hang the small leather paddle on the wall in our bedroom. Sure enough there it is – a sticky. A sticky upon which is written the nature of the infraction. I can’t see her when she reads it. But I imagine the streak of fear that runs through her being. “Shit!” The disappointment that she has in herself races down the hall to my ears. She wants to be perfect. She strives to be perfect. And, so far, SHE'S been damn near perfect. But she fucked up this time. We have visited this infraction before. Did she brat? She says not. But I don't know. A subconscious brat? Perhaps. Likely just a temporary lapse in wisdom. "Damn!", I'm thinking. "We have plans for the evening". It's a week night. But I can’t put if off a day. A part of me wants to but we’re busy the next night too. It’ll have to be done when we get back. It’ll be late.

It’s a 30 minute drive home. The conversation is light and airy as we discuss the evening’s activities. As we draw closer to home her furrowed brow reveals her increasing anxiety. It reveals her awareness of her destiny. Other than a series of sighs, we roll the last 10 minutes in complete silence.

I need the silence too. Silence to engage the mixed feelings I have about what lies ahead. Silence to wrestle with the idea that I am going to spank, likely to tears, the woman – the person – I love more than anything in this entire world; the woman – the person – for whom I am responsible, to the best of my abilities, to bring happiness to; the woman – the person – to whom I am charged by God through holy matrimony, and by man through civil law with the protection of her well-being.

We pull into the parking space. It's our last moment of complete privacy until we enter our home. I turned toward the passenger seat and look into her worried eyes and say with a firm and steady voice,

“When you get inside I want you to remove all of your clothes.
“All of them. Do not leave a stitch of clothing on.
“ Take the paddle off of the wall, remove the sticky and meet me in the den”.
I remove only my coat but otherwise stay completely dressed.

“I wasn’t bratting. I want you to know that”, she offers solemnly.
“Do you know why you’re being spanked?” I ask while gesturing her into position over my knee.
She nods, settling in.
“Say the words", I say firmly. "Let me hear you”.
She speaks the offense. It would become a recurring refrain as we proceed.
“Push that ass up!” I command.
She pooks her roundness up into the air. I gently caress and knead her bottom trying to work out the chill of the night that has settled into her flesh.

This will be the hardest punishment yet. It’s intended to be. It has to be.
I tell her how many swats she’ll be getting. The first half over the knee; the second half standing, bent over the exercise bench, legs spread, on tippy toes and ass out. In this way she can begin with the end in mind. The inherent hope in the knowledge of the proceedings is designed to give her the strength to endure the pain. A pattern – scolds, the refrain of the offense and a chorus of sobs and tears – develop as I discharge my responsibility.

Her well-being is sure. Her happiness secure. My love? No question, pure.
Forsaking sex - she sleeps. She doesn’t have a sticky anymore.

"Lesson's Learned"

We WERE in a place. After I hit the after burners (ha-ha, no pun intended) last week and I took “ownership” of our advances in this new life, we were in a place somewhere high above the overlapping stresses and strains of stark personality differences; high above the bouts of depression and ensuing aggravation; high above the reverberating resentment that have characterized our nine year marriage down here below. We were, um, “floating in a most peculiar way” (Bowie 3:16), as we enjoyed perhaps the most fantastic weekend of our marriage. We WERE in a place.

Most of my posts have originated from “up there” somewhere. But this particular report comes from down here on the ground. Why you ask? Because I stopped steering the ship; I turned off the ignition and crashed to the ground. Don’t worry, the damage isn’t permanent – at least it doesn’t appear to be. Repairs are in certainly in order and currently underway. The lesson I learned I had read a million different times on a thousand different blogs by a hundred different authors: “Do not promise a spanking and not follow through!!!”

Did I do that? Da-da-DUMMM….Yes, and with an added twist. I scheduled a “maintenance” spanking for SugarAnne for Sunday evening. She was NOT looking forward to this evening session. As a matter of fact she requested the spanking right then and there, before the lunch and movie we were headed out to see. “So I don’t have to think about it all day”, she said. But I wanted her to think about it all day.

But when she said that, I got to thinking about the day ahead – we were gonna have lunch; then go to a movie; then, when I got home, I was gonna “down a couple” while watching the football game. I’m thinking, “Shit! By the time it is time for her spanking I will be exhausted.” Yes, I had a case of advance laziness, if you will. I did not wait to not follow through on my spanking promise. I retracted said spanking right then and there. Even while I was saying the words – “I changed my mind” – I KNEW that it went against every developing Domdentity grain of my being. Promising and retracting is worse than not following through: I giveth, AND THEN, I taketh away?!

Well, that just took the wind right out of SugarAnne's sails. Everything went from colorful and radiant to drab and colorless. I mean the whole situation was just bad. It seemed like our old life was trying to squeeze it's way back in. Now, I know SugarAnne don’t like no pain. Who does? (Don’t answer that!). She has a bubonical-like avoidance of punishment spankings. But, she says, a spanking session – although painful – means that we will be spending time together. It means that intimacy and love and tenderness and – of course – passionate, if not wild, sex would follow. And she looks for ward to all of that.

As we talked about it on our way to a lunch we would lose our appetite for and a movie we’d choose not to see, she said she felt rejected. And she was upset to the point of tears afraid that it all (“this thing we do”) was over. I was upset with myself too. I do not want to even visit our old life. I had also put is in a challenging position. If I follow through now, she appears to be “topping from the bottom”. But if I don’t follow through, the integrity of my Domdentity is suspect. (I'll let you know what my corrective measures were but first I’d be interested in what others would suggest as a correction to this self-inflicted chink in the Domdentity armor).

The lesson learned is much broader than never doing this again. Because the lesson learned is: to always keep your promises; to always stay true to your word (a lesson that can and should be applied to every area of life); and to always, always follow through on a spanking! The lesson's learned and burned indelibly on my mind.

Dan Fogelberg said:
Lessons learned are like bridges burned
You only need to cross them but once

And then asks:
Is the knowledge gained worth the price of the pain?
Are the spoils worth the cost of the hunt?

The knowledge is worth the pain - though I’d never venture to do that again. And the rewards of “this thing we do” are definitely worth hunting out exactly who we are as we continue on in this experience.

"We're In A Place!"

SugarAnne has been absolutely radiant over the past few weeks. And this is remarkable because this is exactly this time of year that ever-increasing waves of depression tend to wash over our relationship. It is quite clear that her own developing “subdentity” is rising up to the surface. I am honored that she feels that she can trust me with this very vulnerable part of herself. She has developed a need for some form of spanking in our relationship. But she wants to avoid the very hard punishment spanking that my own rising Domdentity desires (on some level) to effectively administer. This lifestyle – it does something for her. That’s easy for both of us to see. And it does something for me as well. We are thriving. This has been probably the greatest season in our nine year marriage.

It’s possible that we won’t go much further into the domestic discipline part of this thing. The point we’re at right now – I assign her tasks, she completes them or receives a punishment spanking - we are both comfortable with. I am not unreasonable and she doesn’t feel like she's being suffocated. Some tasks are beneficial for making our home hospitable. Others are beneficial for her personal development. She likes that, and agrees that she needs the structure. I’m here to help. And help could mean a spanking. I have decided we will not be retreating from this approach in the foreseeable future.

I thought it would be fitting to make an official declaration of this fact. I wanted her to know that not only are we back in the saddle – after the past week – but also at a point of no return. And, of course, such an important declaration cannot be without “ceremony”.

Since it was a FridayWednesday, when I got home I asked her to make me a margarita. Also, to find some candles and to “girl up a notch”. She knows what that means. As I sip my drink she scurried off to choose a sexy silk black babydoll top I bought some time ago. It was a little more than a smidgen too small and her ample breasts threatened to escape. I was delighted. She placed the candles on the black granite countertop that separates the kitchen from the living area and lit them. I led her to the sofa in the den – our primary spanking venue – where she compliedand took a position of submission over my knee. It is only fitting that any declaration and ceremony would begin right here.

I began with gentle squeezes and loving caresses over rose colored bikini panties. Regulation. I lovingly told her how much I approved of the woman that she’d been revealing to me lately. She squirmed in agreement and pushed her roundness up in search of my gentle hand.

“Thatta girl”, I say as I lowered her panties. “Don’t be afraid to be a woman sweetie. I love seeing the woman in you”.

THWACK!

A low-level “mmmmmm” escaped her lips as she began to lose herself in the warm feelings rising from below. A long drawn out warm-up followed then the spanks flowed with ever-increasing intensity. They weren't so hard that she didn't want more, yet hard enough to reach the desired “sting” level. She could've taken more. But I stopped.

“We’re in this life sweetie”, I say, And “we’re not turning back. I love too much seeing the radiantly feminine and submissive woman in you. And as an official act and ceremony”, I declared firmly, “I’m going to “toast” your ass AND fuck you in every room of our home”. Her response, a surprised and joyful “mmmmmmmm”, filled the air. I commanded her to her knees on the den’s sofa. And as she leaned over the back of it with her ass pushed out toward me as demanded, I undid my pants and let them drop to my ankles. I took her – my hands on her hips, her panties stretched around her thighs - and I fucked her. Fucked her well, I say, like a man should fuck his woman. I fucked her and seized ownership of our advances in “this thing we do”.

The process began again and again as we moved from room to room: standing and bent at the waist over the living room sofa (while I looked out at the waves gently waxing the nighttime shoreline). Gentle squeezes and tender caresses to re-warm her tender globes, spanks long and drawn out that graduated into THWACKS - both hand and paddle – which built a fire on her ass and warm cream on her the walls of her sex. All the while I spoke to her about how she flourishes in this life - in submission; about how radiant she is when she allows her femininity to bubble up and overflow. “This is what it’s like to be a woman sweetie" I say to her, "to feel like a woman, to be loved like a woman, and made love to like a woman.” Followed then by the fuck of ownership, and a willful surrender that testified, “I’m yours. Please take me”.

The final stop on our ceremonial tour was the bedroom. There I placed her on her knees over a stack of pillows. With the lights on I could see the moistness of her arousal, the moistness of the tease she has endured so far. I sniff her like a predator, kiss like a lover, lick her like a tomcat at a fresh bowl of milk. And I then proceed to warm those buns up yet again, with ever-increasing intensity, until she can stand to be paddled.

It was there – in the bedroom - I took her again. But this time we made love. We made wild and lustful, passionate and tender love as we concluded the ceremonial declaration of “this thing we do”.

Her deepest feminine tendencies and my wildest masculine desires are yet to be fully discovered and tapped. But “were in a place!” right now - her words. “A damned good place!” My words.

"Pack It Up For Now?"

Well, he’s finally arrived. “Clyde”, that is. Showed up yesterday morning. With his intrusions: his big purse; his bad cramps; the burdened face; and those damn granny panties. His messenger however – PMS – pretty much disappeared for 2 days after I kicked his ass. Is that normal? A cure for PMS?! How can this be?! Or is it just part of this glorious honeymoon we’re on?

This is our first go around with this character in the house. I was wondering: how do you feel about giving spankings and/or receiving spankings during this dreaded intruder’s visit? Or do you prefer to just pack it up/be packed away until he leaves?



Photo Credit: katoeycrazy

"I Suspect 'Clyde' Is Coming Home"

If the slog was on schedule like he’s supposed to be, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. But sometimes he catches us by surprise. But even then it’s not so bad. Even then the worst part are the cramps. I used to chart his arrival but he’s just been too erratic over the past couple years. Rather than every 28 days, the bum shows up whenever he wants to. Most times he sends a messenger: depression, anxiety and – oh my God! – easy irritation and emotional hyper-sensitivity. “Clyde” himself is not so bad. But his messenger? I wanna kick his messenger’s ass. We have a sneaky suspicion that “Clyde”, her monthly “visitor” – that bum - is coming home. I’ve been trying to deal with this tramp’s intrusions for ten years. And for the most part he’s been flipping me off double time.

I imagine it COULD be the seasonal depression I mentioned in my previous post. Maybe I spoke too soon. Yesterday she woke up in a funk. She seems like she’s headed for the cliff. She’s doing everything she can to avoid the drop. She’s plugged in that huge sun lamp she bought last year. Light therapy they call it. The thing shines like a fucking nebula. Just the glow from under the bedroom door will have you absentmindedly pulling down shades and reaching for light switches all over the frickin house. I mean seriously! A little heavenly music and you’d think dear little baby Jesus – the LIGHT of the whole world – was in there with her. But it helps. I don’t think its depression though. I KNOW those storm clouds when I see them. I suspect “Clyde” is coming home.

I’ve been anticipating this challenge since we started exploring TTWD. I’ve wondered how I would approach it. I’m not asking a bunch of questions so I can locate the “problem” and announce it to her. When you tell a woman she’s PMSing it NEVER seems to help. No matter how right you are. Amen? Amen. I just want to let her know that she is loved – in spite of this nefarious visitor.

So I gave her a little boost physically – pressing my naked frame down upon her comforter-covered body. I jumpstarted her emotionally – singing a poor parody (and I mean poor) of “The Shadow of Your Smile”, i.e. “the shadow of my ass…” (because of that bright ass light casting a shadow on the curtains) “…is in the window”. It helped, if only a little bit. But I did notice a gleam in her eyes (in spite of the supernova over there) when just before I leaving for work I said, “Maybe I’ll rub your booty when I get home. That might make you feel better”. She looked up at me with a soft smile and a ray of hope and nodded, “Mm hm”.

When I got home she was still a bit bummed out. And “Clyde’s” not home – yet. Cool. She’s wearing regulation panties when I walk in the door. This is rare. But she promptly puts on her jeans. I figure she doesn’t want her wired spanko husband to get the wrong idea. The last thing she needs is a “good girl” spanking gone bad.

We have had two very difficult – for her and for me – punishment spankings last week. But last night I gave SugarAnne a lovingly firm, paddle peppered, over the knee “good girl” spanking of therapeutic proportions. Pushing her behind up on command she willingly took all that was given. And when I was done she willingly gave all that I could take. And she felt much, much better.

I still suspect “Clyde” is coming home. And he'll always intrude. But for right now, I’ve kicked his messenger’s ass!

A 21 Day Salute

It’s been 21 days since we seriously began exploring “this thing we do”. I’m still assessing my developing Domdentity. And SugarAnne her Subdentity, I suppose. We both must be wondering how far we may want this experiment to pervade our relationship. I’m personally wondering if this exploration will confirm us spankos, or perhaps, show us the swinging gate when the domestic discipline joy ride is over. And to that end I have to ask: Has this been good for us? Not just a good experience, but good – for our relationship.

Before we began this of TTWD our life was in serious – I mean serious – turmoil. We were barely speaking nearly 3 weeks running. We had “issues” but I couldn’t bring them up. SugarAnne suffers with depression – most notably as summer fades to fall. A bout of depression could be triggered at any moment. I had grown reluctant to address our issues for fear of triggering an episode. She “disappears” when she’s depressed. So I bottled up a lot of the things that concerned me. Consequently, I was lugging around a truckload of resentment and aggravation. Add to that our sex life. Nature, it seems, found great joy in dealing us the Joker. Some kind of cruel joke had been played on our sex life. What I desired – and needed – irritated her. And what she desired - and needed - she wouldn’t communicate. So I shut down – not strategically but as an unavoidable consequence.

We were in dire straights, living like two roommates who wanted to but couldn’t reach each other. Our marriage had always been built on three things: commitment to God; commitment to marriage; commitment to love. I began to check the structure of our marriage. The foundation was there: a commitment to God – still strong. But the pillars – commitment to marriage and commitment to love – were screaming for a sealant. Cracks were evident. I don’t like the idea of divorce – who does? But thoughts were beginning to sneak in to my consciousness. Then we had this talk.

Over the past 21 days exploring TTWD has been a spark to communication. As we seriously consider this lifestyle we have been inspired to share our feelings about it – both likes and dislikes. We have had open and honest communication on other things as well. We have had genuine love and affection. And we have made wild and passionate love.

If it were up to her they’d all be “good girl” erotic spankings. She “hates” the punishment spankings – I've had to give her two so far and another that seemed like a punishment – but she can’t deny the benefit: We’re in stupid love (tongue in cheek on the stupid).

I admit TTWD has been like a defibulator that has revived our relationship. A relationship neither of us wanna lose. Here’s a salute to 21 days of hope.

"Post Traumatic Spanking Disorder"

A simple task, that’s all it was: Call the doctor. Ask him about quitting smoking aids. Why couldn’t she just complete the assigned task? Then we wouldn’t be in this position. It was something that she said SHE wanted to do. It was something that she said she was GOING to do ANYWAY – even BEFORE it was an assigned task. I mean, how easy is that?! Just dial the number! There were other assigned tasks that were quite a bit more laborious than dialing a telephone. Dirty work I would classify them. They were all completed – and famously. But not a simple telephone call to the doctor.

I knew something was wrong the moment I walked in the door. But it didn’t crossed my mind that she hadn’t completed all of her tasks. I have been careful not too overburden her, careful to ease her into becoming more organized – more submissive to me. And careful to ease myself into becoming more direct – and Dominant for her. And also careful that I would not have to administer the dreaded “punishment spanking” before I was capable of administering the dreaded “punishment spanking”.

Well, the first official punishment spanking went badly last night. At least I’m consistent. There is actually evidence of PTSD (post traumatic spanking disorder). Simply little words are triggering it. Words like “lap” and “submit” and “puddle” (paddle) and “skank” (spank). Everyday images are triggering it: a football’s player congratulatory pat on a teammates bottom. Or it just rises out of nowhere, quite spontaneously, to the surface of consciousness from somewhere deep within. After a while the shallow breathing; the anxiety; the dry mouth; the pursed-lipped disdain; the head shaking disgust resides. But it returns. Hopefully with time it will fade away forever. But for now? PTSD: because another spanking has gone badly. Very, very badly.

Maybe I just wanted to get it done in a hurry. Bible study was starting soon and I didn’t want her to be asleep when all the guys left. Maybe I was just looking for tears. I like tears. Tears are good. But I’m supposed to know her threshold by now, aren’t I? I’m supposed to have the hang of this by now – at least you would think so.

When I asked her what was wrong she tried to hide behind the proverbial, “Nothing”. It couldn’t shield her. It was a “something ‘nothing’” – if you know what I mean. I pressed, but ended up letting it go for a bit. Allowing her to fulfill the need to hide in plain sight.

I shuffled through my normal get home routine and, as I encountered them, mentally noted that the day’s assigned tasks were completed. But when I asked SugarAnne whether she called the doctor the “Nothing” was unveiled to reveal the something. And I knew we were at a monumental moment in “this thing we do”. This is where everything began to seriously unravel.

She hemmed and hawed – quite reasonably I must say. I could tell she was feeling like she would be able to get out of it. It had to be done. It had to be done now. I’ve played out the scenario in my mind time after time. I know what punishment looks like and I know what punishment looks like for SugarAnne. I KNOW IT! I know it! Really I do! I also know the rewards – for her, for me, for us! So why couldn’t I pull the trigger?

Yes, she did receive a spanking. And yes, her anxieties and her frustrations and her disappointment in herself were removed. She even says she received what she needed from the proceedings. But we both know there is more to be had. They are few and far between, these punishment spankings – and I’m thankful for that. I guess I'll have to nail the landing on the next punishment go ‘round.

Score:
Technical Merit: 2 (more erotic than punishment in application)
Spanking Accuracy: 10 (good judgment, right time, right situation)
Artistic Expression: 5 (not enough anticipation, scolding, variety)

For now I’ll just have to deal with the shallow breathing; the anxiety; the dry mouth; the pursed-lipped personal disdain and the head shaking self-disgust. UGH! Don’t you just hate “post traumatic spanking disorder”?! I know I do.

I’m a bit steamed I blew an opportunity like this.

"A Developing 'Domdentity'"

I have noticed that sometimes my developing "Domdentity" – if I can coin a phrase (Google came up blank) is compelled and developed by external motivations. For example: Along with laying down rules numbers 1 and 2 last weekend, there was also rule number 3 (not that I’m numbering rules – it just happens to be the third one). On Saturday I explained to SugarAnne (by way of an “information spanking” – another post, for another time) that I had set a calendar notice on her phone to sound off 2 times a day, every day. This would begin on Tuesday. One of the notices, set for 9:00 a.m., is: “The buck (100%) starts here”. This is to be to her a reminder that any task that I may have asked of her that morning is to be given 100% effort as well as completed by end of the day. And I told her that if the task were not completed she would receive a spanking. By mistake I set the notice to go off on Monday rather than Tuesday. And to my surprise, SugarAnne blasted a text message in to me at 9:30 a.m. asking, “What do you want me to give 100% to today?” Since this was a new experience, I had no files on my mental hard drive for her submissive initiative. It was easy to answer the question but initially I caught myself thinking: Huh? Uhh (swallow), hmm let me see? I was not expecting this initiative. Frankly, even on Tuesday I would not have expected SugarAnne to text or telephone or email with said submissive query. I quickly got a hold of myself and texted a response to her. I mentally clicked on “save” and stored the experience in my Domdentity folder to be used at a later date. I named the file: “When SugarAnne has submissive initiatives”. My Domdentity was being developed and compelled externally by her submissiveness.

Other times, I’ve noticed, my Domdentity is developed and compelled by internal motivations. For example: Before SugarAnne and me became a couple nearly 15 years ago, we each had a long and storied history of extensive drug use. We haven’t used, either of us, since we’ve been a couple but she has led on every now and then that she’s kinda hankering to smoke a little weed. And the other night she when she asked for permission to smoke a little, I pulled up my “When SugarAnne has submissive initiatives” file, thinking that that’s what this situation called for. We talked and I agreed with her that she might find it satisfying. I agreed with her that perhaps it would be immediately beneficial for some ailments and conditions that she wrestles with. Here’s where I differed: I personally feel certain that it would eventually be detrimental to her and to our relationship as well. She didn’t necessarily agree. She didn’t disagree. No matter. I let her know that if she smoked she would receive a spanking and be well spanked. My Domdentity was being developed and compelled by something internal this time. Namely, my responsibility to love and protect her. That "file" had already been created. This convergence of external and internal motivations was monumental for me and makes at least one thing abundantly clear: a large – HUGE – part of my developing Domdentity and purpose in this relationship is to make sure that I am careful to look for, to see, to know and to put forth that which is best for SugarAnne. I pray that "file" continues to be the largest file on my mental hard drive as we grow in “this thing we do”.

I am always looking to see if I might be able discern my developing Domdentity. I’m trying to find out where, in terms of mental makeup, I land on the spectrum as a dominant in “this thing we do”. Am I a cold and harsh dominant; or am I a kind and gentle dominant? Am I a firm and consistent dominant; or am I a soft and erratic dominant? Or somewhere in between? Does thinking about all of this indicate over-thoughtfulness? And does thoughtfulness indicate an approximate location on the spectrum?

"No More Breakthroughs!"

No more breakthroughs! That’s rule number 1. Rule number 1 is the very first, clear-cut, unequivocal, categorical rule, official rule that if broken, could result in SugarAnne’s first, clear-cut, unequivocal, categorical, official punishment spanking. She's deathly afraid of those. You see, we’ve been dilly-dallying around with “this thing we do” experiment. Talking an awful lot (can you talk too much about it?) and experimenting a little – but not too little. For the most part we’ve been enjoying the connection, the tenderness and the intimacy that has blossomed through this week's spank proceedings. This past week has resulted in real joy. It has magnified the love in our hearts. In short, it has injected electricity into a relationship that was headed toward an nearly irreparable destination. Yes, the spankings have been painful, I realize that. But except for the “fiasco” spanking has only amounted to foreplay in a week of lots and lots of lovemaking. Throw in the “fiasco” and it’s really just been foreplay for a life of “this thing we do”. And all of that is not a bad thing by any means. But I realized I needed to cut the edge: to stretch, to slice the borders - if just a little bit - for SugarAnne’s benefit and growth. And for mine too.

For example take rule number 2: “Girl up a notch”. It’s designed to cut the edge in this spanking experiment. SugarAnne is now under instructions to “girl up a notch” when she is commanded to prepare for her spanking. She may have been walking around in the nervous excitement of anticipation all day. But at the moment she is instructed to prepare for a spanking, she is to “girl up a notch”. Meaning: If she just rolled out of bed, for example, perhaps she’ll put on a pair of white, pink, yellow or light blue “regulation” bikini panties; or do something as simple as running a fresh comb through her hair for her spanking. If she is dressed in jeans and a T-shirt perhaps “girling up a notch” could mean putting on a pair of earrings or applying lipstick for her spanking. If the command to prepare comes and she is already all dolled up for ballroom dancing, perhaps “girling up a notch” is to add an anklet, necklace or a just hint of cologne for her spanking. SugarAnne is to add or do something noticeably “girly” (“girly shit”) to her appearance as part of preparing for her spanking. I think it's important for her to participate, anticipate and wrestle with the nervous excitement of being on the cusp of a global warming. If I have to follow through with a harder than anticipated spanking for non-compliance, well, that's a growth point for me.

But back to rule number 1. There’s nothing I hate more than reaching back to wipe and my finger punctures the toilet paper like a hanging chad and lodges itself up my shitty asshole for an instant. I’m serious people! That is not my vote! An instant in that situation is too long! I’ve been keeping us stocked in Charmin for over a year. The other stuff is okay for her bathroom. I don’t care about that. I haven’t been in there for several months. But sometimes when SugarAnne buys toilet paper, um, sometimes, it ain’t Charmin. How can this be?! The last batch she bought wasn’t Charmin and for the past few weeks there’s been an occasional, um, breakthrough. I was reminded of the difference when we got down to my new stash of Charmin the other day. There was genuine sense of “Ahhhhhhh! This is gooooood shit!” going on when I wiped. I ran into the den and propped myself down on SugarAnne's prone form and queried excitedly, nodding feverishly, "Good toilet paper huh? eh? right? huh? eh? Good stuff right?! huh?!" That's when I set down rule number 1.

Listen, we are mindful to recycle. But I don’t make my “green” sacrifices at the expense of the brown. Okay, I admit rule number 1 is a very shitty rule. But I don't care. I'm breaking through by setting down Rule Number 1: “No more breakthroughs!”

photo credit: toilet paper dress, joel cote-cright

"An Inspired "A" Game

I witnessed a car accident on the way home from work about a week ago. I caught the offending vehicle out of the corner of my eye as it passed me on the left. From the moment I saw it, it seemed that time warped and everything slowed down. The impact on the hindquarters of the offended car, and the resulting offended vehicle’s head-on slam into a light pole, I absorbed with uncharacteristic high definition clarity.

I’ve always admired – and perhaps a been a bit intimidated by – men who are able to step up to sudden challenges in stressful situations. Men who are “steady” – as they say. Invariably, so it seems, these are men who are also confident, intelligent, witty and wise. They are the kind of men who are able to spit in the face of danger when an unannounced threat or an uninvited emergency makes its sudden appearance.

I am by no means the so-called “alpha” dog. The stark reality is that there are far to many moments, I think, when I manufacture steadiness, when I borrow intelligence and when wisdom is perceived but not really there. That’s not a totally bad thing - certain situations call for self-controlled persons (manufactured or spontaneous) who are able to execute for the benefit of every one around them. Among some of my circle of friends, acquaintances and co-workers I may be perceived to be just that kind of guy: a steady kind of guy. (That’s no pat on the back so don’t worry about the strain on my rotator cuff).

But I have to admit over the past week or so; I’ve been feeling sincerely steady lately. Operative term: “sincerely”. Nothing fake or fabricated just living out what’s been welling up from inside. Yes, I’ve been quick witted in social situations, pointedly decisive when necessary, and calm, cool and confident in the face of stress (ow…okay, a little strain on the rotator cuff right there).

I first began to notice it – this steadiness – the day SugarAnne and I talked about our “hypothetical destination”. That was the day I saw the car accident. It seems “this thing we do” is a caldron of hope bubbling up from way down deep in the recesses my soul. It seems the caldron is cooking up my “A” game: The best me from way down deep.

As the slow motion situation was unfolding I was reaching simultaneously for my phone and my car door. I was dialing 911 and looking both ways to cross at the same time. I was assessing the well-being of a driver 33 feet away and formulating in my mind the fewest amount of words to convey the situation to the operator. AND, I was seeing myself do these things.

Mind you, I usually carry my “A” game around with me. And frankly, it’s quite a burden. Albeit, sometimes necessary. But since this world of “this thing we do” has opened up and allowed me and SugarAnne to peek in, my “A” game is carrying Me around. And let me tell you, there’s a world of difference between the weight of a WILLED “A” game and the weight of an INSPIRED “A” game.

"I Like Your Mind"

Sometimes when SugarAnne wakes up she peeks into the den. It's 4:30 a.m. I'm a light sleeper, an early bird. So I’m up. Sug’Anne’s the exact opposite. She sleeps hard – and late. Every now and then, on the way to the bathroom or to the kitchen for water, she'll peep into the den and toss in a “Hi BabyMan!” This morning I’m able to slice through the groan/chirp paradox. I mentally separate the groan from the chirp and allow only her chipper-ness to fill my ears. For some reason I’m not always able to perform this delicate surgery.

I can’t see her. She’s in the shadows of the dark hallway. In my mind’s eye she’s peeking around the door jamb. Nevertheless I strain my eyes in a futile attempt to get a glimpse of her body. I know she’s nude. I also know from experience that unless she steps into the glow of the computer screen she might as well be a ghost. Sometimes I won’t even know she’s gone until I hear the hinges squeak on the bedroom door.

I respond: “Hellooh”, the “o” rises long enough to say “welcome” but not so long as to be artificial. She knows that morning is my quiet time. My time to pray. To think. To study. To surf the ‘net.

"Whatcha dooin'?" A semi-singsong tone matches my rising “oh”.
"I'm just looking at some spanking blogs". I’m open. Honest. Revealing. Intentionally searching.

Sometimes she’ll relocate to the sofa in the den. It happens seldom enough to be called a rare occurrence. This is one of those rare occurrences. She wanders in out of the darkness. I try to catch as much of her body as I can in the weak computer light. My eyes are her escort until she slips in under the comforter. Perhaps the idea of spanking has drawn her in. Maybe all is not lost after Sunday night’s fiasco. She settles in on the sofa. The very same sofa that is the scene of most of our few spanking sessions. Most always over the knee.

I continue to surf in silence turning every now and then to glance at Sug’Anne. She could fall asleep in an instant. But she’s still awake. Looking at me.

"Anything good?" She says, eyes searching mine. Wide.

“I haven’t settled on anything yet. Just bouncing around right now”. I turn back to the screen. I am immediately taken in by an article. I read silently. To myself.

An involuntary, “Hmm” squeaks out.
“What?” she asks. ”Something interesting? Read to me.”

And I read to her. For 20 minutes this article and that one too. Especially the ones I’ve submitted comments to. She offers a thought here and there. We’re sharing, communicating on this spanking thing. I crown our time by reading my own most recent posts.

“You write beautifully", she says.
“Yeah thanks. Now you know what it’s like to be in my mind”, I snicker.
“I like your mind.” She whispers wistfully.

Hm. All is not lost.

Watch Out for Falling Rocks!

Even though my SugarAnne inspired our foray into this “spanking thing” (I have not yet decided which of the many terms resonates with me), I have probably spent more time thinking about it over the past few days (year?) than she has. I have spent the weekend voraciously consuming “How to Give a Spanking”, by Vivian (Variant Books). I found the book to be very informative, incredibly easy to understand and equally stimulating. By last night I was pretty pumped about our new life and the loving benefits it would bring.

When I bid my SugarAnne to take a position over my knee (quite spontaneously as it is “that time of the month”) I was inspired with technicolor fantasies, filled with newfound knowledge, and zealous to fulfill her needs. As Samuel L. Jackson’s “Shaft” would say: “It’s my duty to please that booty!” But I probably messed it all up last night. I should’ve waited until the “right time of the month”. But what’s a man supposed to do? She was running around in those delightfully delectable panties with the little hole on the lower right cheek. She knows I love her in panties. She WAS teasing me, wasn't she?

The spanking was too hard. At least that’s what she said this morning. I think she means it. She said I hit her threshold. But she has two safe words: “YELLOW” for “Uhhhhh, take it easy pal!” She had forgotten all about “yellow”. And she has “RED” for “Whoa, stop right now buddy!” She didn’t use her safe words though. What’s up with that?! We had established them a couple of years ago when we first waded into the erotic waters this “spanking thing”. And furthermore they came up generically on Saturday.

There was the seemingly playful resistance of a pillow attack in the middle of the proceedings. It wasn’t really the middle. It was actually the end. It was over. I was moving to put a period on that paragraph. But that sudden pillow attack created a comma. The present moment seem to call for a double portion – and that’s what she got. In retrospect, what I got was confusion. Oy.

If you hang around this blog for any length of time (read: a veiled promise to post consistently), it will become abundantly clear that I may be able to dance (a little) but I’m all thumbs (to mix metaphors) when it comes to this spanking thing. And I say that as a caveat for anyone who would care (dare?) to follow in my footsteps based on what’s written on these pages.

If you’re following me up this spanking mountain you best look out below. I’m compelled to pass on to you what Mick passed on to me: “Watch out for the rocks!”

A Hypothetical Destination

I wasn’t too surprised this morning when SugarAnne granted her “hypothetical” consent to a “hypothetical” domestic discipline style relationship (with a focus spanking). Even though a thick thread of submissiveness has been apparent over the 9 years we’ve been married, Sug’Anne is characterized by what I would call freedom of spirit. Not prone to “wildness” mind you – but to moving about life un-tethered by the “traditional” relational obligations of a telephone call during the day and a report about the day's happenings at night. So I have no idea how such a relationship will shape up over time. But the idea of folding her lovely shape over my knee time after time for "corrrection" is both intriguing, exhilarating and, well, exciting – for both of us.

The heavy – and heady – “hypothetical” responsibility does not escape me either. Of all the key considerations I’ve pondered (and I have pondered much), three very important elements of this "hypothetical" domestic disciplind relationship seem to rise to the top: 1) the need for clear and honest communication is critical; 2) the importance of being trusted is indispensible; and 3) continual growth of mutual respect for each other is invaluable. Those three noble, but fragile, ideals are constantly strived for in most relationships but, it seems, are never fully arrived at. Like playing golf, bowling and ballroom dancing – you rarely feel at the top of your game in these three. And you are always, always in need of improvement.

I wonder: Can I be the Dominant I desire to be? Can I be the "Top" that is screaming to break out? Can I be the Dominant that she would need me to be? Can I be the "Top" that she is silently screaming for? And, most importantly: Can I show sufficient appreciation for such a wonderful gift?

photo: "Submissive Wolf"; Carolyn Wright; cwrightphoto.com