"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.