Tuesday, August 31, 2010

"Progressive Evolutionists"

She said, “Yes Sir”. She didn't click her heels together. There was no stiff bodied posture of military “attention”. No crisp salute to the forehead. There was no mockery whatsoever in the tone of her voice. She was not bending under the threat of a spanking or some other unseen pressure for that matter.  "Yes Sir”. It just rose like a bubble from somewhere deep inside to the surface of her being and popped right out of her mouth:

"Yes Sir" (bah-loo-p!). There it was. Simple. Sincere. Sweet.

It wasn’t an accident. And yet, it wasn’t intentional either. At least it did not appear to be. And even though there were several people around, two of whom were in the actual conversation, she displayed no noticeable shame or embarrassment.

The “Yes Sir” bubble hovered in the air resting on" bah-loo…" for an instant’s instant. Everything stopped - or at least it seemed to stop. Just froze. And then it burst (-p!) and the fragrant mist of SugarAnne’s submission rained down upon me. Apparently that was the signal for everything to begin moving at normal speed again. Because that’s exactly what happened. Everything started moving as if nothing had happened. But something had happened. Something different, and yet, something quite natural. My only acknowledgement of it was a courteous, “Thank you”, as she moved with immediacy to honor my request. I didn’t think there was any need for me to make a big deal out of it. She didn't. It just was.

“Yes Sir” (bah-loo-p!).

I guess I’m trying to say that I did not create this “Yes Sir” moment. I did not make a demand in the morning to be called “Sir”. Being called “Sir” is neither a need nor a request of mine. It is not a staple of my dominance. It is not a criterion of her submission either. Although I recall one time – just once, a single occurrence – I made her say “Yes Sir” by heat of paddle, through force of will, under the auspices of “Submission Day”. And even then she needed a skin graft (I jest) and I needed rotator cuff surgery (not true, but you get my drift) before she involuntarily voluntarily hiccupped those two measly words.

She has struggled with this "Yes Sir" thing. Her comment to Serenity on this very topic:

I could never bring myself to do it. Even though I know that BabyMan deserves all the respect and reverence I can muster, it just won't come out of my mouth. I have, on occasion, referred to him as "Sir" during and instant message when he made it clear that I had crossed the line in some way. But to his face, I could never bring the word to my lips. 

Perhaps it would easier for her to say “Yes Sir” if she were made to bend to my will with percussive encouragement. Except, when it comes to “this thing we do”, I am not a creationist. I am more of an evolutionist – and a progressive one at that. If bending to my will, listen, if bending to my will does not mean she's rising to her self, then I find very little satisfaction or benefit in it.

Later in the day I caught myself studying SugarAnne. Just looking. Looking that look that a lover looks when you're wondering and thinking a thousand unexpressibly deep things about the one you love.

Deeply affectionate things like:
I’m glad we’ve found each other.
I have a lot of respect for you.
Life is good with you.

And deeply shallow things like:
Wow…nice booty!
Great tits!
I should just take you and have my way with you right now!

Deep or shallow - I didn’t say them. I just wondered them to myself. These thoughts began to warm me through from the inside out. And before I knew it – bah-loo-p! – out came the one sentence that captured all I was thinking.

“I like what you have become”, I said. She turned and gave me a soft inside smile.
And do you know what she said to me? Guess. She said, “I like what you have become too”.

How about that?! I guess in “this thing we do” we’re both progressive evolutionists.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

"Just Sittin' Here Thinking"

An overwhelming sense of need has washed over me. It is my need that's demanding satisfaction today.

Today I will go home and I will spank my wife.
Not because she’s done anything wrong.
She hasn’t (that I know of).
Not because she's aksed for it. She didn't.
No signals, no clues, no non-verbal inferences.

Not because she needs it. She may very well not.

But I will “lay hands” on my wife today.
Not as a “holy” man would. Although I am a lover of her soul 
(And they’ll be healing nonetheless).
But as a hungry man would. As a lover of her body.

I will “handle” her. Not roughly mind you. But in a strong, sturdy way.
I will guide her. Steer her. Control her even.
I will command the whens, the wheres and the hows.
I will move her into position. And she, she will respond.

“Pull your panties down girl.” Her reluctance will be willing.
“Bend over woman. Hands on the sofa.” Her willingness, reluctant.
“Present your behind to me.” Embarrassed. Yet so turned on.
“Legs open. Pigeon toe. Now tippy-toe. Hmm...Good girl." 
Thin threads of fear, braided through strands of excitement, roped in anticipation.

I’ll absorb her curves from every angle. And appreciate the beauty of my wife.
I’ll approach my mission with the “Hmms…” of a doctor on the cusp of surgery.
The “air” of her excitement will swell my "man-ness".
The sight of the utterly private will too.
I’ll place my hand firmly on the small of her back.
I will inhale deeply her wafting “woman-ness”.
And her ass I will spank.

And I will spank. Lightly at first.
And I will spank. With loving intensity.
And I will spank. Until her arousal glistens.
And I will spank. Until my “Hmms...” turns to “Ahhhhs…”
And I will spank. Until her “Ows!” turn to “Ooohs!” turn to satisfied “Mmmms”.
And then at the height of our percolating lust
I, like a good man, will take her like an animal.
And she, like an animal, will surrender like a good woman.
There will be an explosion. Exhaustion. Relaxation.

I know full well what it’s like to spank for HER needs:
To exterminate and eradicate demons.
I know full well what it’s like to spank for OUR needs:
To drive away lingering resentment and guilt.

But today there are no demons. Today I ain’t mad. And today she's not guilty.
Thanks to “this thing we do” there’s just not enough of that to go around anymore.
Now there’s just this pressing need. This need to “hit rock bottom”.

It is my need that demands satisfaction today.
An overwhelming sense of need has washed over me.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

"This is a Test; This is Only a Test"

"This thing we do” can sometimes be like a good TV show interrupted by a test:

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury have you reached a verdict?”
“Yes we have your honor. In the matter of the State v. the Defendant we find the defendant – “

Then, BAM! an innocuous test pattern is thrust into your face; a long, sustained beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! knifes you in the ear; and those fate-less words of fate are uttered for the entire broadcasting area to hear:

“This is a test. This is only a test”!

When everything is going along just right: the lines of communication are open; the affection is natural, tender and sincere; and the sex is from awesome to the border of debaucherous; you had better look out. Cuz that’s when – beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! There’s gonna be a test. It's "this thing we do".

I’m learning that if I “look out” for the tests and also “look in” – as in look inside my self, I can learn to rightly rightly discern some of the test patterns of “this thing we do”.

A frequent pattern of testing for us is when I test myself: I put my own Domdentity through the ringer. We had a “Submission Day” this past weekend. I conceived a vision of what I wanted to achieve. It required that I stretch myself; test myself; and wade into previously un-chartered waters of aspiring Domdentity. I wanted to test my ability to guide and lead SugarAnne to a new edge in her submission. Perhaps it should’ve been called “’Dom’ Mission Day” instead.

If I had failed to produce the desired results (fail, I did not), I should be upset at me, not her. Because she was not the one testing me. I was testing myself. By the way, she still earned 29 booty flamin’ strokes with the feared bath brush I call “Heatstroke”. (An’ ah meeen fuh-lamin’!).

Sometimes a situation will test me – especially “hormonal discombobulation” situations. A lot of that’s going around the “neighborhood” lately. Janet (“Finding Our Way”); RW (“The Renewed Wife”); and MaryAnn (“Thinking About it Differently”) have all recently posted about the madness that accompanies this unfortunate condition. When MaryAnn said in her "Come Here" post, “I did not mean to test him, really I didn't”, you can hear the helplessness bleed through. I tell ya, even the medicinal qualities of the cocoa bean can’t even begin to soothe the savage beasts that this kooky affliction creates.

With SugarAnne, when I’m tested like that, first I carefully place a partially unwrapped (I wanna make it as easy as possible) bit of chocolate in her general area. And then I go and watch quietly from "over there behind that thing" (much like a layman watching a pyrotechnician work with explosives). If after eating it, she’s still pacing the floor with that, that, that look on her face (yeah, that look), I know what I have here is a hormonal discombobulation situation. And I know it’s gonna test me. If the situation causes her to "pluck my strings enough", I just may have to step up, and “bang her drums” - for her sake mostly, but for mine too. Whatever the situation calls for, if I don’t respond with the proper wisdom and guidance, I shouldn’t be upset with her, I should be upset with myself (and I usually am). Because she’s not the one testing me, the situation is.

At other times, she might personally tests me. Sometimes she needs to test me to find boundaries. These are innocent investigatory testings, i.e.: “I wonder what BabyMan will say if I have two drinks at dinner instead of just one? I don’t need to be asked every detail of her life before she does something. I’m not a micro manager. Although it may produce a warning – if necessary.

And then there’s the “brat attack” test: “Bratting out” just to receive a spanking. Uh…if you know SugarAnne you know that I don't have a brat taken in hand. Her Royal Sweetness does not like pain - AT ALL! The closest she may come to bratting out is maybe sticking her head in the sand about some issue that concerns me. But lemme ask you. Where does that leave her behind? Um, exposed.

Since I'm swift to the paddle, and make no bones about "peeling the skin off that potato", SugarAnne doesn’t even need to brat out. So I haven't really experienced the brat attack test. But if I did, I wouldn't spank. Well, I should say I wouldn't spank until I needed to get my own personal spank on. And then look out! Not only will I peel that potato, I’ll be making French fries too!

These days I'm learning to treat my paddle like a microphone (“Testing 1-2-3”) and ask myself what kind of test is this? Am I testing myself? Is the situation testing me? Or is SugarAnne testing me? When I’m able to discern the pattern of the test, I can then decide how it should be handled (the test, that is, not the paddle).

It could mean that I need to be lovingly gentle. It might mean that I need to be lovingly firm. And it may mean I need to be lovingly dismissive. But one thing it will always mean: It will always mean that the root of my response will be love.

After all, isn't that what "this thing we do" is? “'This...' is a test. This is only a test” - of how I show my love for her.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

"Tempted By the Fruit of Her Royal Sweetness"

Most often I’m the sexual aggressor in this relationship. I prefer it that way. But SugarAnne “offered up” a “bribe” of sorts this morning. It was subtle and I admit I love the fact that she would offer me sex; that she would attempt this bribe, however unintentional and/or subtle, to get out of a punishment.

Although I had not yet addressed the issue, we both knew that she became a victim of “chat distract” yesterday. We both knew that if she hadn’t been on that darn computer (that “craptop” as I think of it sometimes), she would not have left an assigned task in a half finished state – a definite indication of distraction.

It could be that she thought that sex would soften me up somehow; make me nice about the whole thing. Or even cause me to forget. Perhaps it was an attempt to diminish my courage; thwart my ability to execute my disciplinarian responsibilities; leave me drained of motivation and resolve to strongly encourage the necessary corrections. Or, maybe she just feels like having sex when she’s in trouble. I don’t know. I’m not even sure that her “bribe” was conscious scheme.

I admit that I love the fact that she would offer me sex. I love that she would attempt this bribery – if indeed that’s what it was. I don’t fault her for it. I love her for it. After all, “she’s the one who’s gonna get spanked. So one would expect her to use (and she has every right to use) every tool of manipulation at her disposal” (I thank Sara for that eye-opening nugget).

Her attempt lets me know that she knows that her sweet plum has value to me. I was tempted, I confess. “Clyde” (her monthly) had been hanging around. And it’d been more than a few days since a brother had had his needs met. But my passing on this "opportunity" also lets her know that SHE – her total being – has much more value to me than a mere subset: her pussy (I say it that way because for all practical purposes, in my mind, that’s exactly what was being offered – her pussy. Oh, yeah, and I also love word). Was I interested? Does pacman like to chew up on those little blue dudes? Hell yes I was interested! But I’m more interested in the whole Sugar – not just in dipping my cane. If I had given in and not punished her I could possibly lose her respect.  If I had given in and punished her anyway, she might carry resentment.

In the moment of the offer I was convinced that there would be a certain amount of security for her in my passing on it. Not only security that I am self-controlled when I’m out and about in a world that offers sex, in one form or fashion, at every turn. But also secure that she won’t be able to control the situation with the fruit of Her Royal Sweetness (as delicious as it is!) My response, I think, let her know that I am still in control of me AND this situation; that the walls of the city can not be so easily broken down; that I am still in charge; and that I am the HoH she needs. The stark reality is - the stark reality HAS to be: she doesn’t want me to be that weak. She really doesn’t want me to be a pussy for pussy.

Listen, there’s a greater pleasure that is beyond the immediacy of sex, even with the one you love. The greater pleasure is to make a deposit in her growth – and our growth together. That’s what “this thing we do” is all about for us: growth as individuals and the growth of our relationship.

Sunday, August 8, 2010


Although I have a green streak of envy, I do not consider myself – nor do I try to position myself – to be “THE guy” in any situation. In this TV ad “the most interesting man in the world”, although an extreme caricature, is “THE guy”: the type of guy that sometimes knocks me off of my square. He’s the stud; he’s the man among men among men. He’s the “alpha male”. Check him out.

I’ve got the “man” part down pat. I am that. But would an alpha be peeking into his shorts right now to make sure? (“There’s the li’l fella, good!”). No definitely not. An alpha wouldn’t “peek”. He’d just LOOK! (“There’s the li’l fella, good!”).

Like “the most interesting man in the world”, “I don’t always drink beer” either (maybe there’s hope for me huh?). “’But when I do I drink’ a half of shot of Corona in my margaritas” (okay, it’s hopeless). Margaritas so un-alpha (Morgan straight; gin and tonic maybe; martini – “shaken, not stirred” perhaps – but, heaven forbid! not margaritas!). And the would-be slogan, “I don’t always drink beer but when I do I prefer to drink a half of shot of Corona in my margaritas” just doesn’t work. Go on, ask any ad exec!

I am self-conscious. I probably care more about what people think of me than “the most interesting man in the world” does. He’s clearly not self-conscious at all. To my credit I consider wisdom a noble pursuit. This guy is prone to impetuous daring do, death defying feats or life threatening adventures. But guess what? I dig that about him!

If for some reason you were under the impression that I am some sort of an “alpha male” (admittedly an impression I would love for you to have), I’m here to confess that I am not. Through SugarAnne’s most recent post on attentive reunions I am exposed as perhaps a bit needier than any alpha would ever confess to be.

Affectionate "departures" from and attentive "reunions" with SugarAnne are important to me. They are equally important for different reasons. More than important – they are actually a need. An affectionate departure is an emotional covering for my day at work and my encounters with the world at large. And an attentive reunion is a soft pillow that eases the tension of the day and sets the tone for our evening.

That may be a little too tender for some. Call me beta man, omega man, or whatever the hell you want. I don’t care. I’m just telling you what’s best for our relationship. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep an open flow of love and affection and to achieve what is best for this relationship. And if that’s a little to strong for some, you can put it all together and just call me TenderStrong.

If you see me nipping (like a love struck puppy) at the heels of Her Royal Sweetness on Submission Day (aww, how tender!), it’s just to save her from getting a royal tan on her royal behind for absent minded unannounced wandering (strong).

I dig chick flicks and I like to cuddle after we make love (tender).
You got something to say about that?! (strong).

Perhaps I’m saved into alpha by the fact that I wouldn’t know a pair of Pradas from a pair of Payless AND I am not willing to learn (strong). But if they look girly, I’ll compliment my woman almost every time (tender).

I’ve heard, “You’re like a brother to me” (I’m tender like that) probably ten times as much as I’ve seen a sly wink that said “Get over here and fuck me”. But that doesn’t make me feel weak. I strive to make sure MY woman knows she’s her own woman. I’m strong like that.

I have a bad habit of speaking softly to be intentionally unintimidating (tender). And I’m laid back until I’m pushed. But when I’m pushed, I push back hard (strong).

I confess that Melissa Manchester’s “Through the Eyes of Love” has caught me off guard a couple of times this year as I look at our relationship through the lens of “this thing we do”. (What th-?! What is this foreign substance coming out of my eyes?!) I’m tender like that.

But if I have authority by virtue of rank, position or permission, I might let you take enough rope, over enough time (tender) to hang yourself like Haman. But eventually I’ll execute that authority with direction, purposefulness and intensity. Go on, ask Sugar if I won’t glaze those cupcakes when it’s necessary (strong).

But here’s the thing: I’m tender enough to look into the shine of SugarAnne’s well spanked behind and use the reflection to shave away the ugly stubble of my own shortcomings (strong).

I’ve never been questioned by the police because I’m so interesting.
And I don't got no beard - not like his anyway.

And unlike “the world’s most interesting man”, when my heart bleeds it hurts like hell and it don’t smell like no cologne. It stinks.

But I'm okay with that. That's because I’m “TenderStrong”.