"Yumm! Bacon!"

Old habits die hard. Even though it’s become less necessary, just like I did in our B.S. days (before spanking that is), when I get home I still raise up my mental antenna searching for what mood SugarAnne might be in. Searching for how her day may have gone.

On most days (of late) she is bright and airy. Daylight is pouring into the house through unshaded windows and Sugar’s mood is wistful and effervescent. Before my foot falls on the comfort side of the threshold I usually hear her say, “Bby-Maaan!”, in her syncopated “Baby”, hard on the “M” rising to its exclamation point inimitable way. It is a quite “proper” greeting (I think) for a loving husband who toils for the comfort of his wonderful wife. I love these days. The signal is “as clear as a full moon in a cloudless sky.”

On occasion (rare in these “new” days in which she and I live) I might come home and the signal I pick up is dreary and downcast. The shades may not have had the joy of being lifted. The lights may have never been engaged to do battle with the rapidly approaching night. There will be no “proper” greeting on days like these. Tthe air is filled with the suffocating thickness of depression. There is no “Bby-Maaaaan!” candy for my itching ears. And unless she is in view when I walk in, I am compelled to search the house for my sweet bride. I might find her on the sofa in the living room pondering the complexities of life and seasonal affective disorder. Or perhaps in the bedroom curled up fetal, under the covers, fighting one of her historic battles with depression. This is a bad signal. It’s a sign that she is going through a bad hour. And with SugarAnne a bad hour could last for days. Even though these days are few and far between for us now the signal I pick up is as crisp as bacon cooked right.

But some days I have trouble picking up a signal. I have to go into mental oscillating satellite dish mode before I get one. I am just beginning to learn to tune my dial to it. I’m just beginning to learn to decipher it with proficiency. This signal wasn’t there in our B.S. days. But it has pierced the relational airwaves every now and then over the past few months. It’s an interesting signal. One that braids together the effervescent SugarAnne with the contemplating the complexities of life SugarAnne, and then goes out over the relational airwaves in a weird transmission of paradoxical confusion.

I haven’t quite nailed the signal on threshold footfall yet. But as I go through my arrival routine – sorting mail, changing clothes, etc. – the signal becomes stronger and clearer.

“How did you do on your tasks today?” I ask as I scan the area mentally executing a check of the physical checklist I left in the morning.

“Um...uh….er”, she stammers unable to hold eye contact. “Time kinda, um, sorta, uh, just got away from me. And, er, before I knew it, it was, um, too late. So, uh” (pause) “I just 'girled up', she adds sullenly.

I get it now.  I can see the moon now, so to speak. SugarAnne did not complete all of her tasks for the day. There’s no confusion on my part. Not anymore. And there’s no illusion on her part. The situation creates a peculiar, loveable, cute little hybrid of a SugarAnne. This adorable little SugarAnne is the “I know I’m gonna get my ass spanked something fierce” SugarAnne.

When I see THAT SugarAnne, I go get my paddle. Cuz I know it's time to fry that bacon.

"A Desperate Struggle"

There is a desperate struggle going on. She thinks I don’t see it. But I do. Most of the time it doesn’t manifest clearly. But every now and then it bubbles up to the surface: the “butt demon” . The “butt demon" is yet ever present, passage of time notwithstanding. He may not be as frequently obvious as he was in the beginning with the physical demands of withdrawal. He may not have the constant intensity with the combativeness that characterized his earlier onslaughts. But he is still there. Working on Sugar's mind. Ready to pounce upon her at any given moment. He stands ready to pounce at any opportunity of unfulfilled legitimate need – whether emotional, physical or spiritual. He stands ready to substitute his illegitimate solution and fill any void with the fleet of foot satisfaction he offers.



Isn’t that always the case with whatever “demon” we’re dealing with? He works on your mind. You don’t have a romantic relationship? He works on your mind to fill the legitimate void with an illegitimate need: promiscuous sex. You need comfort and soothing because you’re going through some traumatic life event? He works on your mind to fill the legitimate void with an illegitimate need: alcohol and drugs. You feeling ungrounded spiritually? He works on your mind to fill the legitimate void with an illegitimate need: the first cult that bends your ear and makes you feel good. You don’t have solid platonic companionships? He works on your mind to fill the legitimate void with an illegitimate need: food - lots and lots of food.


He’s working on her mind. I can see it. I can hear it. She’s beginning to say things like, “When I fall” or “When I crack”. These are not words that are pleasant to my ears. They are not pleasant to my soul. And they are not good indicators. Last week she went out and did a relatively aggressive (undisclosed) thing in an attempt to get a cigarette. Luckily she was not successful. But she did linger dangerously close to the edge. Dangerously close to that first drip of water that may quench her parched and delinquent tongue in the moment, but over time, turns into a deluge of disappointment. And feelings of failure will have her thirsting again for the self esteem she’s (we’ve) captured in this young year.


In our relationship – in many marital relationships – spiritual and emotional needs coincide sometimes in the physical expressions of love. The other day she teased me, “I’m in the prime of my sex life”, said she. She said it like I couldn’t keep up with her. And that became abundantly clear when she followed up with, “You went through your prime when you were nineteen” (a stereotypical statement – not meant to harm). The idea that women are in their sexual prime in their 40’s and men in their early 20’s is something that I’ve heard all my life. When I was in my early 20’s and it was to my advantage – I bought it. Now that I’m on “this” side of things, I can’t say I’m sold on this idea (theory? Crap?) like I was sold on it when I had the “tomcatting” energies of a younger man. Nevertheless, I do have to agree that it appears – particularly since we’ve begun TTWD – that SugarAnne IS in the prime of her sex life (YaY!!). Since October of last year – right up until we got sick at New Year’s – she has been quite the firecracker. And things have picked up again now that we’re feeling normal again. We ARE intimate. And we are intimate often. Very often. After coming out of a bout with “Clyde” last week, I recognized her need (and the “butt demon’s” work) and (quite sacrificially – hee hee) I offered myself up for service. Hey, just fulfilling my responsibility (soft smile). And yet, legitimate voids can still be overlooked sometimes. But I don't think there is a problem in that category.


I’ve been trying to help best I can. Trying to make sure that I’m everything I’m supposed to be in this relationship (understanding that no one can be EVERYTHING to someone). I’m keeping my eyes open for opportunities to help. Opportunities to offset the mental machinations of the “butt demon”. Opportunities to comfort, encourage, inspire and instill confidence.

I am rooting for her frantically and praying for her feverishly. I know she can do this!

"Let Her 'B'"?

Right after that genuinely teary morning confession I let SugarAnne know that we would discuss the matter "as soon as I got home" from work. Among the short list of tasks I gave her to do for the day was this threefold directive: 1) be prepared when I get home; 2) girl up girly completely; and 3) wear a nice pair of bikini panties. I had a pretty good idea as to what was in order for this situation. In spite of this situation, I still don’t think of SugarAnne as a deceptive person. That’s just not her character. My main concern was that I didn’t want this pattern of behavior - deception and delayed confession - to become a tool effective to avoid punishment in the future. I spent the day organizing my thoughts and occasionally wrestling with the idea of granting her a full and complete pardon. By the time I got home that evening SugarAnne, having thought about it all day, was wound up tighter than the E-string of a violin tuned two-fifths above standard pitch. And even though I had called her during the day she wasn't sure what her fate would be. Frankly, it was a tough situation for me too. I wanted to do what was best, but I wanted what was best to be easy. And the easiest thing would be to let her be. I was completely honest with her as we talked about it over dinner. I suppose I talked mostly. But I let her know how much I appreciated her genuine confession. I let her know I wrestled with granting a full pardon and letting her be. I told her that her voluntary confession did warrant some mercy. And, I honestly felt that mercy was in order. The discussion was quite sobering, It was reminiscent, somewhat, of our “earlier” talks when we first started “this thing we do”. As a matter of fact through this situation we were able to dichotomize “this thing we do” (which is what had actually happened the night before and led to wild, passionate and intimate lovemaking), from “domestic discipline” (which historically, to this point, has had little to do with any immediate sex at all).

The easiest thing would've been to let her be. But I knew that that wouldn't be the most beneficial thing. By the time we were done with dinner she knew I could not completely let her be. But when I told her that I would mercifully forsake “the shredder” - the agreed upon implement for this infraction - a smile that betrayed her joy came to her precious lips. Instead I told her that I would completely “Letter B” (see previous post). The last swallow of the last bite of food brought the first instruction, a gentle, “Go pull the shades down in the den and wait there for me”. I sat still at the table for a few minutes wrapping my head around the task at hand. She waited gripped in nervous anticipation. I pushed myself away from the table, shifted my pants, took a deep breath and headed for the “weapon of ass destruction”. To my satisfaction, the bow that would play this wound up E-string had already been retrieved by SugarAnne, waiting in thin striped, every color of the rainbow bikini panties. I could not conceal my excitement. Bent over the back of the sofa she neither had position or capacity to notice.

Wrapped inside of a scorching scolding was a spanking that had SugarAnne’s booty wiggling and wrangling with demands to desist. She squirmed uncontrollably and strained unsuccessfully to hold back the tears. There was, quite literally, “weeping and gnashing of teeth”. It turned out to be a pretty tough spanking for SugarAnne. She says it was probably the worst one yet. I left her in position to glare lustfully at the beauty of her behind. History proved consistent. That would be the last, save a brief check for welts, that I’d see of it that night.

When it was all over she leaned her sobbing existence against me and rested her head on my shoulder. There I kissed her and whispered words of wisdom: “don’t beat yourself up over this”; “this is all behind us now”. Letter B.

"Question"

I had intended a post called “Back in the Saddle Again” for today (I had even picked out the photo weeks ago) but I had to hit the brakes on that post to submit a question to you dear readers.

As you know we’ve been going through this nonsmoking exercise since before the beginning of the year. And thankfully (a blessing within a curse) SugarAnne was sick with the flu for the first week or so. This helped her resist smoking in the initial stages of very strong nicotine withdrawal. I have been careful to firmly warn, lovingly encourage and lavishly praise her for her success over the past couple of weeks. So now as we are head into the third week of the year and SugarAnne is back on her feet, she’s feeling better and momentum is moving her on to being the nonsmoker she desires to be. And this is all good.

But if ever one has rolled the dice, on this day SugarAnne surely has. As it turns out she HAS stopped smoking – BUT – she didn’t actually stop until the 7th day of the year – not the 1st as I had been continuously led to believe. She confessed with genuine teary-eyed contrition this morning that she had fallen prey to the “butt demon” a couple times that first week. She assures me – and I believe her – that she has not smoked in the past week.

There are a couple of things I’m taking into consideration in light of her confession and contrition. After all (“quiet as it’s kept”, as my grandfather use to say), I would’ve never known without her commendable confession and genuine contrition.

I’ve decided to multiple choice my question. What do you think in light of the above? Should I

(A) Administer the agreed upon life transforming, booty flaming punishment with the dreaded and genuine feared “shredder”?

(B) Administer a lesser plea bargained type punishment with the more booty palatable - yet painful when applied properly - “weapon of ass destruction?

(C) Along with total forgiveness (which she already has) issue an executive pardon and forsake the agreed upon punishment?

(D) Be totally selfish and punish her by making her do some of the “nasty slutty things” that gross her out but bring me great satisfaction?

(E) Combination of the above?

(F) Perhaps a different suggestion

I’d appreciate your comments and look forward to responding/reporting in detail what proceeding actually transpired. Her fate is not – I repeat – NOT in your hands. I’m fielding information from more experienced couples so that I might move in a way that is beneficial for our continuing DD experience.

"Sick And Tired...Very Tired"

We’ve been sick. The flu. Both of us. At the same time. This is the first time that’s ever happened because I don’t get sick that often. After spending the New Year’s holiday and long weekend holed up inside, in bed, in misery, I hit the floor running on Monday morning.
I put in a full day at work and guided a Bible study at night. Tuesday carbon copied Monday with an evening sermon in place of the Bible study. Finally I was back home. Tired - productively tired. But feeling okay.

Even though it was late SugarAnne was still awake when I got home. She’d had a pretty productive day too. Despite skirmishing with a lingering cough (partly from not smoking), and some sluggishness, she managed to make it to the gym as well as complete some other outside tasks. After being inside for nearly 5 days her outside production had her feeling pretty good too. We chatted a bit, she leaning on the kitchen county, me standing beside her. It was clear that we had missed each other in our “misery loves company” misery.

I abort a sweeping glimpse of the room as I’m captured by our reflection in the window. We are superimposed onto the dimly lit beach outside. The crests of small waves rolling toward the shore offer inspiration as I watched me gently roll Sugar’s shorts down to just below the roundness of her beauty. Waves gently collapsing against the shore provide the rhythm of a few NOT so gentle “pat pats” on her booty.

She mentioned the possibility of people on the beach watching us. I found this funny. Not funny haha – but an odd peculiar kind of funny. Because when Sugar is running around the house naked and I’m genuinely concerned about people outside seeing her, she says, “Ain’t nobody out there”. Which by the way, I consider a complete disregard for the fact that there are just two of us in HERE, and, six BILLION people out THERE!

“Ain’t nobody out there”, I say as the next wave crashing against the shore lifts her up onto her toes. “Ow-WAH!”, she squeals. In that moment we are both reminded of what we’ve been missing for the past miserable week: the closeness; the passion; the sex; and – the spanking of that fine ass ass! I muster up a mock complaint or two (too tired to mention the "legitimate" ones) in an attempt to add bit of spark to my spank. But I end up petering out. Not tonight. I thought the whole flu thing was over and done with. It’s not.

We crash with the thought that tomorrow is the day we’ll both feel well enough to resume a normal life.