"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