"Every Angel Needs A Halo"

I have to give my girl credit. Lately SugarAnne has been quite the angel. As promised, she has truly made up for last week’s…hmm…should I say…uhhh…theatrics? (for lack of a more accurate and immediately available term). Since last weeks emotional "rescue” she’s been in a pretty good mood. She’s been joyful as a little girl running through confetti, and charmingly, disarmingly sassy too. And because she’s been all “girled up” all week, well, let’s just say we’ve “burned a few sheets”.

There’s one girly thing she been doing since we started “this thing we do”: dry brushing her body. It really does wonders for her skin. I usually try not to look. Or, I should say, I usually try not to look for too long or too hard. But I just can’t seem help it. It’s quite mesmerizing. It’s a wide open look at what one would only expect to see through one eye with a keyhole field of vision. I’m sure she did this before TTWD, probably. But now, my 25 pounds lighter, non-smoking (read about that challenge here), more comfortable with herself confident wife, walks around the house as pretty as you please and naked as a jaybird – just a brushing away.

Her strokes are smooth, as if spreading an even layer of whipped cream all over her body. The body brush gently surveys the terrain from her shoulder, across her chest and down through the valley between her “upper hills”. My gaze tends to lock onto that brush like a tracking beam from the Starship Enterprise.

“You know what you’re doing don’t cha”. It’s more an accusation than it is a question. I follow the brush, gawking, as it eases down her side and then retraces its steps back to her shoulder.

“Wha-, wha-?” she says with the innocence of an angel with a bent halo. Yet convincing enough to be believed. Does she really have absolutely no idea of what she’s doing to me?

Her eyes bug, she squints. And through hairy eyeballs she says, “Why are you staring at me like that?” A flick of the wrist abbreviates a stroke as she attempts to knock my gaze away.

But my eyes, like dander, are sucked back in by the static electricity of primal urgings stirring within me. They follow the bath brush as it moves around to her back out of sight and then down. I crank myself up into a high tip toe and look past her into the mirror on her dresser. I’m trying to reap a glimpse of this tender sweeping of her “lower hills” to compensate for the sudden “gawkus interruptus”. I have no shame. I love those “lower hills”. The short handle bath brush hyper-charges this exercise with a hint of masturbatory sensuality. The act oozes girly girlyness so thick I could spoon it up and roll it around my tongue until it melts.

Ahhhh, the body brush! That body brush is my little angel’s little friend. Yes it is...uh-huh. The way she handles that thing when she's dry body brushing you'd never know that...

...with one good turn…

...that very same short handle body brush becomes “the Heatstroke”: MY little friend.  SugarAnne despises “the Heatstroke”. Unfortunately last week I had to turn her loving body brush around and lovingly “tenderize that brisket” wit'it. Funny thing though, ever since then:

She walks like an angel;
She talks like an angel.

It's good to have "the Heatstroke". After all, every angel needs a halo.

"Disease, Defiance, Decisions and Bad Grades"

“You left me!!” “I needed you!!” “You ignored me!!”
She’s crying that angry cry. The tracks of her tears may leave a salt stain, but bitterness is flowing at the moment. I stand dumbfounded. And even though she’s just about screaming, “Go! Just go on. Go on to work!” I am stunned to immobility. I eventually did leave for work. That was this morning.

I had watched the funk slowly descend upon SugarAnne over the past couple of days. Even though it doesn’t rain like it used to, I know the dark clouds of depression when I see them: a lack of effervescence with gloom behind the eyes; a general sluggishness with a lack of “presentation”. I know I’m dealing with disease here: Depression. But since we began our D/s relationship it has been either scarce or, when it attempted to rear its ugly head, I had been able to “go in there” and pull her out.

When she woke up in a bad spot yesterday, I went “in there” and gave her a “steak peppering” stress reliever. It was seasoned with sincere platitudes of love and high value. It would be the second paddling since I broke my “fast” last weekend. As I left for work, I was hopeful. Hopeful that she was convinced of her worth; hopeful that she would make it to the gym; hopeful that she would “girl up” for my homecoming as she was instructed during the proceedings.

But an afternoon phone call revealed that my paddle panacea was not a panacea at all. She had not gotten out of bed. She had not gone to the gym. She had not “girled up”. As a matter of fact save a shower, “NOT” was all that she had done to that point in the day – NOT NUT’N! I did everything I could, within the parameters of a phone call, to get her up and to get her out.  She needed to get out into the bright sunshine of a gorgeous day. This disease is a mutha. So I “tasked” her on going to the gym.

When I give her a task I confess, I sometimes struggle with the idea of having to execute punishment if it is not completed. As HoH I know it’s necessary; there’s always a bit of “excitement” to it; and I love the effect that it has on our relationship. But punishment is not a quick and easy second nature sorta thing for me. I have been effective but, there’s usually some anxiety that comes along with it. “Tasking” her would get her up and out for sure. Better she go nowhere fast up on a treadmill, than to go down fast to nowhere on a bed vacant of endorphins.

Coming home saw my hope pick pocketed by the dark days of old. She had quite successfully gone down fast to nowhere. She was still in bed. I wasn’t alarmed (maybe I should’ve been). I was more worried than disappointed.

“Did you make it to the gym today?” I gently probe not exactly sure.
“I just couldn’t make it”, she says, to answer seemed like a workout for her.
“Hmm…that’s not good”, I reached out and touched her thigh.
“Is there something I can do for you?” I offer.
“No”, she says glumly.

She had earned a spanking that’s for sure. And knowing Sugar, if it where humanly possible, she would’ve done everything she could to avoid another “bang on the bongos” in the same day. “Is it defiance when disease just won’t let her do it?”

Like a deer in headlights, I was caught trying to make a decision between disease and defiance; between compassion and control. I stepped back onto the sidewalk. Disease and compassion won out. I lost: my bad HoH instincts left her there – or should I say “in there” – hoping that the disease would ease it’s grip before the evening was done. It did not. And there she stayed until morning. That's why my day started with a heart piercing, “You left me!!” “I needed you!!” “You ignored me!!”

Bad instincts makes for a bad HoH who will make bad decisions.
Bad grade: F(uck!)

"Slap and Tickle"

I’m not one to be slow in pulling my paddle out of its proverbial holster - at least where frequency is concerned. SugarAnne is prone (pun intended) to be paddled just about every 2 ½ days or so. My “quick draw”, fast paddle, however, has slipped into an uncharacteristic no draw, “paddle fast”. I mean, where I used to be quick to reach for my paddle, I’ve noticed that in the past week, I haven’t reached for my paddle at all. A bunch of circumstances have probably contributed to this paddle fast – non of which I’ve pinned down at the moment. Frankly, I’m not really trying to pin them down. I’m neither worried nor concerned. I’m just observing the situation. The situation just is.

A paddle fast doesn’t mean that SugarAnne doesn’t get the “hot tottie” that she needs. Would yours truly let such an important responsibility fall by the wayside? Of course not. That would, no doubt, be negligence. Would yours truly allow such an essential need to go unfulfilled? Absolutely not! That would border on emotional abuse. And Lord knows (regardless of what the vanilla world may unwittingly assume) I don’t wanna abuse the girl. Actually SugarAnne, not being a true-blood spanko, is getting exactly what she needs (for right now).

She calls it “Slap and Tickle”. It’s the kind of spanking that inspired our TTWD life; the kind that keeps it going; and apparently, the kind that gets her going too! IF you know what I mean (winkie wink). It’s less a “roasting of that rump” and more of a bare handed “icing of the cake”. It amounts to spanking foreplay.

A stern command ("Get over here") and she’s over my lap; then a reluctant peeling down of the panties – to just about mid thigh. Yes, I make her do it herself usually. A barehanded “slap” followed by a predatory grope, rounded out by those gentle pats and caresses that inspire a tingly “tickle” down below. Over and over and again and again. And after a bit, she’s all warm and fuzzy and squirmy and so ready, that it would just be some kind of criminal cruelty not to follow through and fill the burning need. And I don't wanna be no criminal!

I am not a strictly "slap and tickle" sorta fella so I don’t know how long this unpremeditated paddle fast will last. But for now the motor on “Slap and Tickle” is powerful enough, and the boost it gives us is strong enough to keep both TTWD and our life moving foward in the right direction.

"You Gotta Love this New Math!"

"I dream of those kinds of days. And from what I read he is the ideal husband. I can’t wait for the day my marriage is like that.”

Now, that’s quite a compliment!

Those words, a direct quote, are a part of a wonderful comment that SugarAnne received from one of her readers on her “Submission Day” post. The reader had read both of our blogs, and from the contents thereof, had surmised that things are wonderful and good and right in our marriage. She had further surmised that I, yours truly (ahem – yes me), was the “ideal husband”; and further-freakin’-more, that our marriage is one to be emulated and strived for.

Sooooo…puffed up with macho pride (insert nose thumbing macho sniff), I basked in the glow of my “ideal-ness” for a short time. Basked, that is, until an email alert notified me that there was another comment to SugarAnne’s post. Ah, it was Her Royal Sweetness, SugarAnne herself, responding. And what was her highness' response you ask?

Perhaps she thanked the dear reader for her astute observation and heaped laurels of appreciation and accolades upon her “ideal husband”? Nope. Bad guess. That wasn’t it. Maybe she encouraged the reader that “this thing we do” is different for every couple and that surely said reader and her husband will find their own place of love and comfort and joy in this lifestyle? Nooooooooo (shaking head), uh-uhhhhh (pursed lipped smirk).

Here’s what Her Royal Sweetness had to say as her reply:
“hmmm... BabyMan the ideal husband?” was her ponderous beginning, “Not yet…” she wrote answering her own rhetoric.

At this point I’m thinking:
What?! A question about my ‘ideal’ness?! Not just a question but an immediate answer too?! And that was just the beginning.

She then followed up with:
“…but I am molding him into shape as we speak. He'll be ideal in another couple of weeks by my calculations.” That’s right folks, not a typo – “molding him” said she. No little “winkie wink sign” and no little smiley face. Oh yeah, intellectually, I knew they were there. But nevertheless, the puffiness escaped my ego and sent it sputtering throughout the air of my office like a balloon with a fatal leak. It landed, my head included, with a loud thud into my folded arms on top of my desk.

"MOLDING?!…he’ll BE ideal?!…calculations?!”? I don’t know what kind of math SHE was using. I quelled the urge to respond immediately: “Calcu-frickin’-lations?! Calcu-frickin’-lations?! Somebody’s gonna be taught some of that new math when I get home! And then we’ll see how things adds up!”

Instead, I read her response again. And again; and once more. It began to add up beautifully. SugarAnne is by no means a brat. So she wasn’t bratting out. And she ain’t stupid. You know that. I know that. So this wasn’t no slip of the tongue. You see, you’d have to really know SugarAnne for this to add up just right. You’d have to know her to sense and feel and see the very broad smiley face and, more importantly, the absentee winkie wink toward my direction that is inherent in her response. This is the type of wittiness and charm and playfulness that ocassionally pierced the dark clouds of depression, insecurity and low self-esteem that characterized our B.S. (before spanking) days. And I'll tell ya, frankly, it warms my ever-loving heart to not only see so much more of it these days, but to be “instrumental” in bringing out this tasteful flavor in her personality. That’s exactly what “Submission Day” was all about. It was about fun together, for a fun-loving couple, who are enjoying themselves incredibly, as they grow within themselves individually and into this new lifestyle together. The life, for us, isn’t about beating anybody down, but all about building everybody up (btw: Turiya’s excellent post touches on the building up thing).

So with just as much fun and with just as much love, that very evening I “allowed” Her Royal Sweetness to continue "MOLDING" me. Hey, I’m a fast track sorta guy. And I don’t wanna be waiting two whole weeks to become an “ideal husband”. I wanna be the “ideal husband” for her right now. I mean, I know what a royal pain in the ass "molding" someone can be. And that’s exactly what the evening turned out to be for SugarAnne: a royal pain in the ass. According to MY calculations, just like on  “Submission Day”, it all added up to passion, love multiplied and no long division.

You gotta love this new math!