storynattie's spanking blog

Crying, Weeping, Wailing

2010-04-07T22:32:00.001-04:00

It’s been a bit of an obsession, lately. I don’t really understand it, but all the spanking scenes I’ve been writing have ended with my heroine bawling her eyes out. It’s so prevalent, it seems to be a thing.

Crying is sometimes seen as the holy grail of a spanking, at least for those who crave the discipline side of things. In real life, crying does not happen as often as it does in my stories, that’s for sure.

What does this latest craving of mine mean? Am I craving the release of emotion? The letting go of control?

What is it for you? Do you crave crying as much as you crave spanking?

You Know, I Feel Freaking Weird Today

2009-03-12T16:53:00.001-04:00

I was discussing cursing and someone said, “It’s a good thing no one walks behind me with a bar of soap.”

I laughed and agreed and then I couldn’t stop coming up with scenario after scenario. Pretty soon, I was wishing with all my heart that someone would trail after me with a bar of soap.

Of course I found the whole thing erotic.

Have I written a wash-your-mouth-out-with-soap scene? I can’t remember.

Now I want to write one.

I did the whole Ohmigawd-Am-I-Crazy thing in my twenties, but lately it’s been cropping up again. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s a thing that must be done once a decade?

I just remembered: also in my twenties, I was once so curious to know what it felt like to have one’s mouth washed out with soap, that I did it to myself.

I just feel really weird today. I like being different, but somedays… it just feels weird.

It’s not easy, being spanko.

Oopsy, A Review, and A Question

2009-01-19T11:16:00.005-05:00

I just realized my blog was offline! Sorry about that. I was fiddling with the layout and took it off so people wouldn't see it all messed up.

I've had another review! This one for the first in the Land of Khys series, which are the stories I'm most proud of. Right now, they can only be accessed if you're a member of Bethany's Woodshed, but the membership is worth it. Lots of good spanking authors there, and Bethany was the first spanking author that made me fall in love with the genre.

You can read the first chapter of Book 1 here, and Books 2 and 3 are in the woodshed, along with most of Book 4, which will be finished in two or three weeks.

Here's Korey's review:

At first, I wasn't going to read this story. I normally don't read stories about dragons, you see--I look over at the fantasy section when I'm at Borders, and decide quite openly that I wont step near it. Fantasy has the potential to get really strange, really dramatic, and really complicated, really fast.

And I'm not too far off-base--Nattie Jones' story here does the same thing--it starts of strange, gets really dramatic very quickly--but I guess it works, because this story was pretty damn good.

I digress--I was skeptical at first of the whole layout of Khys--I didn't know if I liked the wise-woman set up and the choosing block at all. Definately, Khys is a strange-ass place--here, women have no privacy, can be used, and are thought mainly of as property. Someone growing up in such an environment, I wouldn't think could be at all interesting.

But I was obviously wrong. Sierra's a pretty neat chick--oh yeah, she's subserviant. How can you not be when you grow up at Khys? When you grow up in North Khys, by 20, you've probably had over 4,000 spankings. That's a lot. I, personally, would have given up the fight. But not Sierra--this character has nothing to lose, and better yet, she knows it. And when you have nothing to lose, and you get spanked about once a day, anyway, why not throw hot coffee on the master? Why not savor every bit of kindness you get, and resent everything else? Why not fall in love with the dragon master? As a woman, you're going to serve someone while you're at Khys--why not someone you like? At least it will then be service with a smile.

Truthfully, I nearly cringed when I saw that she was falling in love with him. The dragon master was a little unreadable for me, making the story pretty unpredictable. Up until the last chapter, I wasn't sure how it was going to end--I got into thinking a servant could never be a Dragon Master's wife--yes, yes, I too got caught up in the main character's thought-process until I could no longer predict the people around her any more than she could--and I was actually suprised to see an ending I was happy with. The story should have been predictable, only it really wasn't. Nattie's world created a wonderful dynamic (where you can oust your wife, for starters) where you, as the reader, had to just let go and let the world reveal itself to you.

To sum up here, I just want to say that although I avoid fantasy like the plague, I really enjoyed myself by this magical story. So, if you didn't read this story because the title and subject matter scared you off; grow a pair, read the story, and thank me later. :) Good job, Nattie Jones.

Totally blushing, here! It's great to get encouragement. Writing's a lonely business, sometimes.

And finally, I wanted to ask: what should I blog about? With Mister Sir away on business most of the time, we're practically living a long-distance relationship, which means no spanking. So I have no idea what to talk about. Any suggestions?

Merry Christmas!

2008-12-25T12:53:00.001-05:00

I hope you all have a merry, happy, healthy holiday season.

Anyone getting anything special for Christmas?

I got a spanking in my stocking! Will tell!

This Thing We Yearn For

2008-12-02T14:34:00.001-05:00

Over the years, I've seen many women come on these lists we all frequent, yearning for our lifestyle. And they hunger so much for it, they finally confess to their husbands, hoping to make this secret part of themselves a reality.

Some of them, sadly, don't get their dreams fulfilled. And some of them end up saying goodbye to all their friends on the list, saying that this desire of theirs is so intense, so hard to live with, that they need to leave. They need to put all thoughts of the lifestyle out of their head and pray to God they can find happiness without it. They hope, fervently, that they can forget this lifestyle forever.

Many of those women come back, eventually. Because it's not just a thing you can forget.

I've tried forgetting this lifestyle, too. For the past couple years, Mister Sir has been working on a ship in the ocean for much of the year. He's so far away, I hardly get to see him.

You do what you have to do.

This time, when he returned, he's had a ton of dental torture to undergo, so let's just say it's been almost a year since anything.

I confess there are times I've just lost it, saying I wish I'd never heard of spanking, that I wish I never had to write another spanking story again, and that I wish I could just cut this part out of myself.

The desire is so fierce, and when it is unfulfilled, it's just pure torture.

I don't know how to describe this lifestyle to people. I don't know how to explain that even one spank from a man I love can set my whole world to rights, can relax me completely, make me feel grounded and settled and safe.

How can I make someone understand that while I'm a vehement supporter of woman's rights, it thrills me to the core to obey the one I love?

Not getting this part of my life fulfilled is miserable.

Writing stories about it is strange. While they are my comfort and my only experience of it during this dry spell, they also inflame the need and make me even more lonely.

I'd venture to say this lifestyle is a bit like being gay. It's just a part of me, has been since first grade, before I had any clue what sex was. No matter what I do, it's part of my makeup. I don't believe it's a part of every woman or that there are any "shoulds" in humanity or the lifestyle, but I do believe it's not something I can cut out of myself.

I feel like I can connect, just a little, with a gay friend who once told me, "Dear God, I tried everything I could to be normal. I would have given my left arm to be normal. If I had been given the choice, I would have chosen to be normal."

I'm not sure I would go so far as to choose to be normal. I love this lifestyle with all my heart. Living without it--both before I met Mister Sir and while he's been gone or otherwise occupied--is probably the hardest and loneliest thing I've ever done.

And because it's a lifestyle normally led in secret, the loneliness must be borne alone, a private ache that no one I know understands. Not even Mister Sir.

Is it worse for the spankee, the bottom, the submissive? It seems to be, in general, but who knows.

Thoughts? What does this lifestyle mean to you? How big is it in your life? In your mind and thoughts? In your heart?

Fictional Spankings?

2008-09-02T11:56:00.001-04:00

I haven't known what to talk about here. My Mister Sir is off working for months at a time. One of those things you just have to do, sometimes.

Without him here, spanking me, I feel like I'm hardly living the lifestyle.

I remember once reading that in spanking fiction, spankings need to be "more than real life" in order to get the same effect. For me, when Mister Sir is home and spanking me, my fictional spankings are soooooo much shorter and gentler.

When he is gone and the memory that spankings actually hurt fades (as it always does, lol), my fictional spankings become longer and harder.

When I read others' spanking fiction, it can never be too harsh. The more I can feel like I'm getting a spanking vicariously, the better. And the longer a scene, the more chance I have of imagining myself into a vicarious experience.

I miss real spankings. He'll be home soon.

What about you? How do you like your fictional spankings? The same as real life? Different?

Okay. Let's Play Stereotype.

2008-09-01T17:04:00.001-04:00

I used to love Social Studies, and wish they had social studies for grown-ups. They would stereotype, (Germans are punctual, Italian men love their mothers, etc.) but you could take away a bit more understanding than a strictly factual history of a country.

I know, I know, it was only a few blog posts ago when I practically went off my rocker because someone dared suggest that submissives have low self-esteem.

So let's pretend this is a Social Studies class and we're studying submissives.

What I find funny is that so many submissives I know are pretty anti-establishment. Quite a few have "authority issues" in their "public" life. Some of them reject any religion that hints of patriarchy, or even any religion that has a male God. (A significant number are precisely the opposite, though.)

And as we reject the "normal" life and the "establishment," we're very independent.

But then when it comes to the people we respect and/or care about? We can go internally nuts worrying about their opinion of us. We're almost too sensitive, too influencable.

Maybe that brings us around to why we reject so much authority. If we didn't reject it, we'd be a mess trying to please everyone.

For me, life is easier with only my Mister Sir to please. He looks out for me, I look out for him. It works, I guess, balances out my people-pleasing tendencies.

I really don't know, just musing on a lazy afternoon, LOL. Usually with stereotypes there are more exceptions than rule. Any thoughts? What do you think? Do you see any trends? Any different trends?

Unknown Friends

2008-07-02T00:54:00.001-04:00

Sometimes, when I'm feeling a little lonely and blue, I like to read blogs of fellow spankees and submissives. I think we're a more vulnerable sort.

No, I don't think we're weaker than non-submissives.

I just think we share the deepest parts of ourselves more freely. All those vulnerable fears and hopes and dreams and insecurities everyone has, we share.

Sometimes, it does my soul good to realize there are so many people out who have the same feelings I do. Even if I don't know the blogger that well, or even if they don't know me at all, it feels good to know someone else is having the same feelings as me.

Thank the goddess for those blogs.

What do you think?

What Would You Like To See Next?

2008-06-11T20:25:00.001-04:00

Thanks to everyone who sent me a kind note about the newest Sanders Center. You guys keep me writing. :-)

I'm about to work on a new story for Discipline and Desire. What are you interested in reading? (I want to keep my Amish and Land of Khys series in one place at Bethany's Woodshed.)

Please vote in the poll below. And, if you have any other ideas, you can add them to the poll! (It might take a little while for it to show up, but it'll be there.)

~ flexiPoll: free online web poll ~

Low Self-Esteem & The Lifestyle

2008-03-02T17:47:00.002-05:00

I accidentally participated in a theoretical conversation on the lifestyle. See, people don't go around trying to define marriage, right? I mean, one person would say it's where the man takes out the garbage and the women cooks. While another would say it's where the woman pays the bills and the man cooks.

The lifestyle encompasses so many of our own unique variations, that defining it can make a war zone out of a Yahoo Group, as I'm sure we've all seen.

But let's play today.

An erotica author, who wrote kink (but did not clarify whether she just wrote it or if she participated in the lifestyle or not--which is fine, that's a discussion for another day) mentioned that the reality of the lifestyle is that many submissives have low self-esteem and "they tend to get into relationships with men who are of the attitude that THEY are in charge and the sub does as she is told."

I don't want to play with the quote today, I want to think about her impression.

I don't think submissives have low self-esteem, at least not in any greater proportion than females in society as a whole.

I do worry that the general public assume that submissives have low self-esteem. But when someone in the know says it, too, I have to consider it.

The most intoxicating part of the lifestyle to me is the intimacy, the deep, strong bond that comes from power play.

To give up power, is to put oneself in a vulnerable position. To put oneself in a submissive position, whether it's sexually, physically, or mentally, is to be more vulnerable.

So I wonder if this "low self-esteem" is really just vulnerability.

Personally, I think being vulnerable is a beautiful thing, not a sign of low self-esteem. It's true, if you take a relationship to the deep level of the lifestyle, then you can be really hurt if that relationship is ended. I mean, deeply hurt.

But I'm still not convinced that's a sign of low self-esteem.

Since we're talking theoretically, submissives are more open and more vulnerable than their vanilla counterparts. We have to be more honest and more brave to truly experience .

A Master could, conceivably, act an entire scene and say the right things and do the right things without ever being emotionally vulnerable. I'm not convinced a submissive can enjoy the depths of the lifestyle without giving up all holds on control, without opening herself up.

That's just my take, though. Everyone experiences the lifestyle differently. What is your take? Do you think the majority of us have low self-esteem? Or do you think our vulnerability and openness is a strength?

I've never spanked a girl, and I haven't ever experimented with playing with another girl, and I haven't even experimented with switching to the Top. But when I try to imagine my stories, I always find the mental image of a woman on her knees, tears running down her face, as one of the most special, beautiful things in the world. To me, it's the image of trust and love.

What do you think? Do you think submissives typically have low self-esteem?

The Who To Tell Question

2008-01-14T10:45:00.000-05:00

I’m wishing everyone had a great holiday season. I’m way behind in my online life, so I’m sorry to anywhere I haven’t visited or any MySpace email I haven’t answered yet.

I just stumbled across an article on the Who To Tell question by Eve Howard of Shadowlane. She has a great catch-all phrase for those who just won’t understand:

I do have an excellent catch all phrase that I came up with to explain the allure of spanking to the erotically challenged and it really seems to work. I say, "You know, it’s just cute." This sentence seems to work like magic. The sun comes out over their heads and the confusion clears from their minds. Distantly and vaguely, even youthful persons have now and then glimpsed a "cute" spanking, in an old TV show or old movie, an illustration or comic book. Cute is a great frame of reference for spanking because it’s the opposite of scary old B&D. Everyone understands cuteness. It’s not the Marquis de Sade, it’s "just cute!"

That both cracked me up and made me sigh. It cracked me up because she’s so right, and it would work perfectly. And it made me sigh because I wish there were a catch-all phrase to explain the intimacy and intensity of it, so people would understand.

Why do humans yearn to be understood?

A Strange Bird.

2007-12-02T21:23:00.000-05:00

Am I such a strange bird?

It feels so silly that one passing spank from Mister Sir can make my day so much better and make me feel so much better, calmer, happier.

Why in the world is that?

I got reviewed!

2007-11-23T21:25:00.000-05:00

I can’t believe it! My very first review! Spanking Storybook reviewed one of my free stories, Little Miss Testing Tease.

I feel all giggly and embarrassed, lol.

Enough of me. This is the first time I’ve stumbled across Spanking Storybook. Gosh, I am SO behind the times! They not only have some great free spanking stories, but they review free spanking stories (more free spanking stories to read!).

And in between the stories and the reviews, they have some fascinating discussions like Erotic Fiction and Spanking Fiction: Are They the Same?

That’s a great question. I’d love to hear more people weigh in on the topic!

Spanking Mags?

2007-10-08T17:04:00.000-04:00

Whatever happened to those spanking magazines? You know ... Stand Corrected, um ... gosh, I'm forgetting their names. I remember once in awhile getting ahold of one, and I'd treasure it for YEARS.

Did they fall by the wayside with the internet? I'm just curious ...

Are you anonymous?

2007-10-02T14:26:00.000-04:00

(By the way, the final installment of The Contract is below!)

Are you anonymous? Your spanking desires, I mean? Your online spanking handle?

I don’t tell anyone (except a few, accidentally, because I’m terrible at keeping a secret). There’s the day job that one must look out for, but then there’s also a privacy factor. In my stories, I share my kink.

People ask me what name I write under, and I feel like saying, "Sure, I’ll share it with you if you’ll share with me the intimate details of your sex life."

And then there’s the fact that our lifestyle is so easily misconstrued by people who don’t understand it. I just don’t feel like explaining or defending myself.

Even beyond that, I don’t want people to think I don’t support all the strides women have made in equality. I choose this lifestyle, we all choose this lifestyle. That makes all the difference. I would fight tooth and nail for that choice, because it should be a choice, our choice.

You all, in the lifestyle, know that when I say "sharing my kink" it’s no small thing. Sure, I can laugh about it, pretend it’s just a fun sex game, but it’s not. It’s more like making love with your heart, opening up the most vulnerable spot inside you.

I love that vulnerable spot. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

So strangers, acquaintances, they ask me what I write, what name I write under, and I just can’t share. My readers understand and I want to share my heart with them, because you guys understand.

But people not in the lifestyle? I just can’t share that vulnerable part of me with them.

The double life is tiring, though. Keeping a secret, that’s tiring too, especially when it’s such a big part of your daily thoughts, such a big part of who you are.

I do believe we should fully accept ourselves as we are. There is no wrong or right about our lifestyle, as I used to worry about.

But by remaining anonymous, am I sending a message to my friends and acquaintances that I’m ashamed of my lifestyle?

It’s all confusing. Maybe our desires are not as unusual as we think. I wonder what percentage of women miss the spanking scenes in the romances of the eighties?

Do you think we should be anonymous? Are you?

I hate keeping secrets.

The Contract, Final Installment

2007-10-02T14:20:00.000-04:00

The Contract, Part VI By Nattie Jones

Read more of my stories at Discipline and Desire and Bethany’s Woodshed. Enjoy!

Part I ~|~ Part II ~|~ Part III ~|~ Part IV ~|~ Part V

“Chris,” I begged, even though I knew it was futile. “It’s going to hurt!”

He responded with a good thud of the hairbrush that most definitely did hurt. I hadn’t been expecting it so I practically leaped a foot forward on the couch.

“Get back here, naughty one.”

It sounds silly, but I love it when he calls me ‘naughty one.’ I love it so much that I climbed quite eagerly over his lap again, ready to accept anything he chose to dole out. That’s when the spanking began for real.

And, the tears began for real. That hairbrush thudded across my bottom in a dead weight painful sort of way. It thwacked in sharp bursts of pain on each cheek, and I tried as hard as I could not to clench.

“No clenching, young lady.”

Which, of course, led to me relaxing, then immediately clenching when my better sense realized that relaxing would lead to another smack. Why had I signed up for this DD thing? Why had I ever thought I wanted to submit to spankings and discipline and hairbrushes?

“Young lady,” he warned.

I tried. Tried as hard as I could, but my muscles refused to obey.

A finger traced down the sensitive skin on the inner thigh. “It would hurt quite a bit right here, wouldn’t it?”

I whimpered.

Common sense won out, and I relaxed my bottom.

“That’s a good girl,” he said, then the pain started again, and I focused on not clenching. Once you get the hang of it, it’s not as hard as one might think. Mostly, I focus on how sorry I am and how I love my husband more than anything in the world.

The whole crying thing comes quicker when I don’t clench, too. I give up to the pain faster, accept my due, if you will. It used to be that once I got to this point, the spanking would end.

But now that he gets me to this point so quickly with the no-clenching rule, Chris felt that the spanking needed to go on quite a bit longer-as long as they used to be when it took me hours-okay, maybe not hours-to get to the no-clenching point.

And so it took awhile before he (thank goodness!) stopped and said, “You know, I think I’d like to take a look at the inside of your thighs, after all.”

Then there was an expectant silence. Well, silent except for my crying and panting to bear the pain. “Oh, really, please, you don’t need to look at those! I’ll never swear again!”

He seemed to consider it, but I don’t think he did, really. He just paused to get my hopes up. “No, I don’t want to let you down again with discipline that isn’t effective.” He patted the back of my leg. “You wouldn’t want me to do that, now, would you?”

So what could I answer? My sobs were fading, but I knew they were about to be reignited, so to speak. “No, Chris, but I think you’ve been quite effective. I’ve learned my lesson!”

“That’s what you said last time I spanked you for swearing.”

Without further pause, the hairbrush smacked all over my thighs, smearing pain as if it were a chili pepper poultice all over the back of legs. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not tell you that submissively accepting my punishment was definitely a thing of history. I mean, who can stay still for that sort of pain?

He alternated between one leg and the other while my hands clenched the fabric of his sweat pants like a life preserver. Thankfully, it did end, though there were moments I was sure life would forever be a sea of searing pain in my bottom.

He helped me up. “To the kitchen,” he ordered. “It’s time to finish our contract.”

“Would you please let me put on my pants first? This is getting ridiculous, walking around like a two year old who’s managed to escape her diapers.”

“Maybe I like you like that.”

“Maybe you like to get a home-cooked dinner every night, too,” I threatened. It didn’t work; he just laughed.

“Maybe you’d like to get your bottom warmed every night when I come home to an empty table.”

“Well …” I paused, trying to come up with a good retort. In the end, I settled with “maybe you’re just a big brute and bully.”

“And maybe you’re a brat who needs to feel my hand on her bottom again.”

By that time we were in the kitchen, and he had forced me to sit bare-bottomed and sore on a wooden chair. The wood was cool at first, comforting even. Then, as it warmed up, it felt more and more uncomfortable.

And so I typed, as quickly as I could, a scaled down version of our wedding vows with a little DD mixed in.

Chris and Jen promise to each other, on 5/3/03, the following:

Chris promises to protect and cherish, lead and guide, and correct and comfort his precious wife.

Jen promises to honor and respect, obey and follow, and submit to correction from her beloved husband.

Signed, Chris and Jen

“Not exactly grammatically correct, huh?” I frowned.

“But, it says it all.”

We pondered at the screen for awhile in silence.

“That’s it?” I asked, a bit disappointed.

“Well, what else is there?”

I shrugged. “Shouldn’t there be something about how safe I feel when you take me in hand?” I almost choked on the “take me in hand” bit, but I meant the words. “What about how I love how happy our home is, how secure I feel?”

He answered with a question of his own. “Or, how I love how vulnerable and lovely your bottom looks when it’s trembling over my lap, just waiting to be reddened? Or, how I think the trust you give me is the best gift in the whole world?”

We smiled at each other.

“Maybe, we should sign it with my hand print and your bottom print,” he joked.

I smiled, but it wasn’t really that funny. Besides, being bare-bottomed for over an hour is bound to get me feeling a little desire for my husband.

“Or, maybe we should just shake hands on it, so to speak.” I blushed, “you know, your hand to my bottom.” I tried to give him my best seductive look, but I’m more of the cute variety rather than the sex goddess type.

He pulled me to him so that I was standing between his knees. “Maybe the contract isn’t something we need in writing. It was just an idea, after all.” He added, “We’re DD, not really D/s,” as if he were the first one to mention it.

I giggled. “But, those D/s’ers have some great ideas.”

“Oh really? Like what?”

“Rituals,” I whispered.

He pushed me over his knee for a spanking I knew I’d like, even on a sore bottom. “Well, maybe we’ll have to explore that next Sunday.”

And that, dear reader, is a story for a different sort of Sunday.

The End

Read more of my stories, and the stories of many other wonderful authors at Discipline and Desire and Bethany’s Woodshed

Dry Spells

2007-09-14T23:02:00.000-04:00

Mister Sir and I are in one of those dry spells that all of us in the lifestyle hate.

Ugh.

You know how it feels, I’m sure.

Some days, it’s not the spanking I miss as much as the obedience. There’s just something about the way he can go all alpha that just makes me drool.

That makes me feel safe, protected, loved, cared for, treasured.

And I miss that.

You know?

The Contract, Part V

2007-09-14T00:44:00.000-04:00

The Contract, Part V By Nattie Jones

Read the rest now at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Enjoy!

Part I ~|~ Part II ~|~ Part III ~|~ Part IV

That dirty little word “creative” was why I was standing—on that Sunday different from all other Sundays—in the corner with a mouthful of fresh minced pepper and garlic. My mouth burned like it had never burned before, and I knew it was only a matter of time before my bottom burned at least as much.

It’s not as if I hadn’t felt the fire of peppers on my tongue before. I’ve eaten raw garlic when I want to ward off a cold (or just show off). I’ve spent countless summer days chomping on fresh peppers in the garden, daring my best friend to keep the pepper in her mouth as long as I could keep it in mine.

But as much as I’d like people to believe, I did not, by any means, have a mouth of steel. To make matters worse, Chris had left me standing in the corner with my bottom bared. I hate that.

No, really. I hate that.

Because all I can think about is what if someone peers in the window, peeking through the small slits the vertical blinds make, and sees me standing there like a naughty little girl? And let me tell you, standing bare-bottomed in the corner is one sure way to realize how much one’s bottom has begun to sag with age!

It’s not only all that. If I could take the rest of my clothes off, I could embrace my nakedness and imagine myself glowing like a sex goddess—or maybe a slightly sexy, slightly frumpy earth goddess. I could pretend I had a thing for nudity, even imagine that we could go to a nudist colony on vacation. I could tell myself that wearing one’s birthday suit is the most natural thing in the world.

But there is nothing, and I mean nothing, natural about having one’s shoes on while one’s bottom is bare. It carried the indecency of having the same dress code as a visit to the bathroom. Maybe that’s why it felt so embarrassing to be put on display in the corner like a toddler whose mother hadn’t gotten around to changing the diaper yet.

The nose is another thing. Why is it “put your nose in the corner”? Why not your face? Why not your body? Is there something particularly humiliating about having one’s nose ground into the corner? It does fit snuggly in the corner like a hand in a glove, but if your nose is going to be snug in the corner then your bottom is going to stick out.

Tears started running down my face, and I knew I had done all the philosophizing I could do about my predicament. Those peppers were beyond hot. I squealed and squirmed, and my husband finally came and put a hand on my shoulder.

“Your mouth feel like it’s on fire?”

I nodded vehemently.

“Do you enjoy that feeling?”

I shook my head as hard as I could.

“Would you like to feel that again?”

No, no, no! I wanted to scream, but with the peppers burning under, over, and around my tongue, all I could do was shake my head.

“Do you think that this punishment will stick, once I add a nice bottom warming?”

I nodded as if correct nods and shakes could get me out of the rest of the punishment.

“Was it creative enough?”

More nods.

“Okay, go spit.”

Chris sent me off with a loud smack to my bottom.

“Meet me in the office.”

I made the mistake of trying to rinse the burning peppers away with water before I remembered that milk was far more effective.

When I finally could feel my tongue again, I went to his office with a game plan. I entered as demurely as I could, eyes downcast towards my feet. I added a little tremble to my hands and voice.

“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” I asked in my most frightened little-girl voice.

“Don’t you take that tone with me, young lady.” His voice always sounded wolfish when he was being Mister Head of the House. “The wide-eyed, frightened little girl act is not going to get your bottom out of hot water this time, or any time.”

I sighed and stared at the hairbrush in his hand. It laid in his hand as if it were merely another finger used to point at me and accuse me of my wrongdoings. The brush was made of oak, with a curvy handle and a round brush that was not long enough to be called oval, and yet not round enough to be called circular.

I stared forlornly at the old couch. The fabric was rough and scratchy against bare skin, and even though my bottom would be over his legs, I knew my thighs and face would be buried into the harsh fabric, begging for its coarse comfort.

“But,” he said, as if contradicting me even though I had said nothing, “I think you’d better take those pants clear off.”

I blushed and obeyed, not bothering to debate the issue.

“I’d like to see you take your spanking submissively, no clenching, and I’d prefer if you keep your legs spread. Pants binding your ankles may keep your legs from kicking too violently, but they don’t inspire true submission.”

“Prefer” and “I’d like” was the way my husband gave orders. I didn’t say a thing. We were way past bargaining, and there was no going back. I was going to get spanked.

“I do like the way you react to being clothed everywhere except your bottom, though. Would you please put your socks and shoes back on?”

And so I laced and tied my shoes on, feeling ridiculous. I mean, it feels weird enough to put on shoes and socks with only a bathing suit on. Putting shoes on with no panties feels downright … vulnerable.

Which led me to anguish, “Is my bottom really sagging?”

He tried not to laugh, I could tell.

“That’s really not the issue here, young lady.” He licked his lips. “But no, your bottom does not sag.”

“You’re just saying that,” I accused.

“And, I’m the one holding a hairbrush, so you’d better smile and say thank you.”

I didn’t smile and say thank you, but I did obediently lie across his lap.

That’s when it hit me. The fear in the gut that makes ‘bent over for a spanking’ a perfect position. The certainty that I was going to feel pain and that it wasn’t going to end when I wanted it to, and that it would most likely feel like it was never going to end ever.

Chris isn’t into warm-ups. He doesn’t use his hand except for ‘love spankings,’ as he calls them. His hand hurts a lot, even as much as a paddle, but he thinks I’m just saying that to get a lesser spanking. Not true!

So I waited, gnawing my lip.

“You know the routine, Jennifer.”

I held my breath.

“Part those legs, and I’d like your bottom to look a little more eager to receive my attentions.”

Eager? I tried, pulling myself forward so that my butt would stick up a little more. Since I had brought up the whole DD idea, Chris had been rather adamant that I submit to all spankings in such a manner that he would not feel like a domineering, manipulative wife-abuser.

That meant no clenching, no wriggling away, no nothing. He doesn’t mind if I cry, though. After all, when you can’t wiggle the sting away, all that’s left is a good cry about it.

Read the rest of this story, more of my stories, and the stories of many other wonderful authors at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Or both!!

The Contract, Part IV

2007-09-03T23:25:00.000-04:00

The Contract, Part IV
By Nattie Jones

Read the rest now at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Enjoy!

Part I ~|~ Part II ~|~ Part III

And so, on this Sunday different from all other Sundays, I remembered that day when my husband had first spanked me.

“I think you know what to do, Jen.” Chris stood poised in front of the massive oak desk

Since it was our first spanking, of course I didn’t know what to do. But with my mouth dry, I couldn’t ask. I looked at Chris, at the heavy desk, at the ruler sitting on the polished surface, and I knew that there weren’t a lot of options. My feet were rooted to the floor, and my face was hotter than when I’d had a hundred and three temperature after I got chicken pox as an adult.

I don’t know what he’d done in those three hours, but he must have done some sort of research, because he just looked at me expectantly with complete confidence that I would do whatever I was supposed to ‘know what to do.’

And so, I timidly walked towards him, my eyes already filling with tears. I looked at him with my most pitiful look and managed only to whisper, “Are you really going to do this?”

“What do you think?” he asked.

What else could I do, but pull my pants down—even my panties? I couldn’t look him in the eye, so he took my arm above my elbow and guided me over the desk. Can you imagine how my insides were? I mean, I was drooling at the word ‘no’ a few weeks ago, and now he was guiding me over a desk to correct my behavior!

Torn between embarrassment and arousal, I was relieved when the first smack hit my bottom. Even more relieved when that first one didn’t hurt all that much. But a few smacks later, it began to sting, and a few smacks after that, I began to yelp. “Come on,” I whined, “that hurts!”

To his credit, he didn’t cliché and tell me that “it’s supposed to hurt,’ or worse, “it hasn’t even begun to hurt.” No, he just simply put a hand on the small of my back and kept at it. When I put a hand back to shield my burning bottom, he merely tucked it under his hand on the small of my back.

And kept at it, of course. Smack after smack, until I was dancing on my toes and wondering how I’d had this insane fantasy for years. Then, he picked up the ruler, and I held my breath.

I didn’t hold it for long, because I squealed immediately after the first smack. Chris just held me there and continued smacking, until my squeals turned into tears, which eventually became audible cries.

He wanted to jump me; I could see it in his eyes. Chris looked like a hungry wolf, but he kept me at arm’s length. “This isn’t just about a fantasy, young lady. You talk back to me like that again, and you’re going to get that, and more.”

Which made me, in turn, drool all the more, even though I was starting to wonder what sort of crazy I was. I mean, my bottom was hurting with a capital H, and I was feeling genuinely punished and disciplined.

“It’s disrespectful,” he continued, “and it does nothing to promote household harmony and a loving relationship.”

I don’t think I’d ever felt so sorry for anything in my entire life as I felt for talking back to him that day. Not that I regretted him spanking me, or that I felt sorry because my bottom hurt. I felt sorry that I had disrespected my husband enough that he had call to correct my behavior.

Mind you, it was me that initiated all this spanking stuff. All those feelings mixing around within were my first clue as to what a complicated business all this spanking stuff was.

Which is why, on this Sunday different from all other Sundays, I was reluctant to mess with the lifestyle we’d finally managed to settle into. I stared at the words I’d typed on Chris’s laptop:

Chris and Jen promise to each other, on 5/3/03, the following:

“What’s going to change?” I asked him.

He looked like a reckless youth when he shrugged gleefully. “I don’t know.” Then he added, “Anything we want, nothing. Whatever we want.”

We don’t need to fix what ain’t broke, I wanted to say, just like my father. Instead, I just sighed and said, “Well, hell.”

“Language, missy,” he warned in a low growl.

I looked up from the screen. “Should that be in our contract? Rules?”

He tapped a finger to his nose thoughtfully. He looks a bit like a California surfer playing Santa when he does this, and it annoys me to no end. He’s completely unaware that he does it, even though I’ve brought it to his attention a couple times.

“I don’t think so. Well, not little rules.”

“Little?” I asked in a shrill voice. “You made me stand in the corner for thirty minutes with a mouth full of soap the last time I swore, and you call that a little rule?”

He grinned, which was not the reaction I had wanted. “I’m getting pretty good at creative discipline, aren’t I?”

Okay, I’m a bit embarrassed to tell you what I said next. It’s definitely not the smartest thing I’ve ever said, and is probably one of the stupidest. In my defense, I was feeling a bit contrary. I think I mentioned before that I don’t deal well with change.

“If you’re so good at it, then how come I just swore again?”

Chris looked a bit surprised and said nothing for a second. I took advantage of the silence to try and change the subject before I got into trouble. “So do you want to just put our marriage vows here, and then elaborate into the lifestyle, or what?”

Silence.

“You have a point.”

I felt a nervous tingle in my bottom alerting me that he was responding to my first question, rather than my second, but I rushed on in the hopes that he had forgotten the first. Or, at the very least, could be distracted from it.

“So, I’ll go get our scrapbook, and we can copy our vows from it, right?” I asked, a bit too eager to sound nonchalant.

That’s when his eyes focused—and narrowed, I should add—on me.

“Not too good at creative discipline, am I?”

Uh-oh. I squirmed at his words, sensing that I had managed to not just challenge my husband, but to challenge his male ego—a far worse predicament. I back-pedaled as quickly as I could, but somehow I knew that it would make no difference.

“I was just feeling contrary—your creative discipline is quite effective.”

“Contrary,” he mulled, as if trying to decide whether he was going to punish me for behaving contrarily or if he was going to stick to the original offense. “Language,” he decided. “You’re absolutely right. If it had been effective, you wouldn’t have sworn just now, right?”

There is no way out of this; can you see that? I know what will happen next: my husband will ask me a bunch of questions, and I will strive to give the perfect answer that will allow me to escape my fate. But no matter how well I answer, I will, inevitably, end up being punished.

Of course, I always try, despite the futility of it.

“You know, maybe you don’t need to be creative. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe if you just stick to regular old spanking, the lessons will stick better.” Chris’s face is turning slightly red, and I clear my throat. “I mean, I’m just saying that maybe the tried and true are best after all.”

Chris has this silent look. Deep, brooding and thoughtful. It always makes me nervous. “My grandmother snipped a piece of my tongue off with her big sewing scissors when I swore the summer I was fifteen.” He looked at me pointedly. “You don’t hear me curse, do you?”

I clapped a hand over my mouth and looked at him in horror. He wouldn’t—at least, I didn’t think he would. Still, I wasn’t moving my hand away from my mouth.

“Now,” he said. “Do you want the tried and true, or creative?”

“Creative,” I croaked.

Read the rest--and many other wonderful stories--at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Or both!!

A Real Post! Shocker!

2007-08-28T12:58:00.000-04:00

I was reading on the DD_Forum list, and when I replied to a post, I thought, Finally! An idea of something to blog about! If you ever have a suggestion on a blog topic, please feel free!

Someone asked about dating and searching for a spanker and feeling safe.

First of all, always listen to your instincts, because sometimes they only give one warning.

But I wasn’t getting that she felt unsafe. I was feeling like she felt vaguely disappointed and uncomfortable with her experience. (But I was just intuiting from an email, I know nothing!)

When dating, particularly when trying to find someone who enjoys your kink, and even more particularly when trying find someone who really gets our world, it’s important to know oneself.

We are all SO different.

In Pretty Women, kissing on the lips is viewed as the most intimate act, only to be saved for true love. For many people, it’s intercourse. For others, maybe something like anal intercourse. For me? It’s spanking.

But it isn’t that for everyone. Some people find the spanking thing to be a big ball of fun. They get together with friends, "play" with it with friends, meet new people with it ... to them, it’s fun. I admire that.

To others, it’s foreplay. Still others, part of sex. Even others, part of dominance and submission. To some, part of BDSM. Others, part of respecting and loving someone else. The luckiest people love all those bits, and are comfortable with everything.

Me? To me, it’s the deepest, most intimate thing in the whole world. I’m in love with that vulnerable place. I love going there. Being stripped down to just me, to the most sensitive part of me, to the most real part of me, is just ... I can’t even put words to it. That place is probably the scariest place to stay, and yet ... if someone’s watching over you, it’s the most wonderful, fulfilling, exhilarating place to be.

Vulnerable is the prettiest word in the English language, to me. It has so much trust and love mixed up with it, you know?

So where does spanking lie on your intimacy gauge? Fun with friends? Or only for the one? Probably somewhere in between? And if spanking isn’t it, what’s the most intimate act for you?

The Contract, Part III

2007-08-17T08:34:00.000-04:00

The Contract, Part III
By Nattie

Read the rest now at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Enjoy!

Chris,

Having fun drafting your contracts? Just wanted to ask if you could bring home some dinner. I’m caught up in that article the newspaper asked me to write. I’ve got to have it to the editor by five tonight.

Maybe some Chinese?

Luvvles,
Jen

PS: Do you think I’m a freak?

Almost two minutes after I sent that nonchalant email that took me six hours to draft, he wrote back.

Jen,

A freak? Of course not, whatever would make you think I would think such a thing?

Luvvles,
Chris

PS: I’ll stop at Hunan’s, but I won’t be out of here for another two or three hours.

I should mention that my article for the newspaper had already been sent off, and that I could very well cook dinner. But I needed some excuse to write him. My reply took three drafts and an hour and a half to sound casual.

Chris,

No biggie. It’s just that I noticed we haven’t kissed in a little while, that’s all.

Luvvles,
Jen

PS: Will you get a couple extra orders of fried rice for my lunches this week?

PPS: Sorry it took so long to write you back, I was working on the article and didn’t hear the ding of your email.

Okay, I’m not proud of myself, bending the truth like that. I’m not a chicken, either. It’s just that this spanking thing was like a virus in my heart. Now that I had seen it, it was like a cancer, all those fantasies from my childhood invading my random thoughts. I kept seeing his hand and dreaming about his hand, and I even went so far as to lay on the bed this morning with my panties down, like a girl about to get her butt spanked. Even though it was only me in the house, I was so embarrassed that I popped up and pulled my pants up almost instantly.

I felt a leap in my heart as I heard the ding of new mail.

Jen,

Why do I get this feeling that you’ve already finished your article? This is Chris, your husband, you can talk to me.

And I don’t think you’re a freak. In fact, I’ve been doing some surfing. There are others who feel exactly as you do about spanking, did you know that?

Luvvles,
Chris

For some weird reason, I deleted the email as soon as I read it, and then had to go into my Outlook trashcan to read it again.

I didn’t reply, but spent the next two hours before he came home discovering the wide world of spanking. As soon as he came home, I ran to him and hugged him, burying my head in his chest.

It had been a start to our communication, and he told me that “sometime” he’d spank me, but that I’d have to take the lead in this. He didn’t want to cross the line, and he was afraid of turning into a “controlling, abusive husband.”

So, dear reader, that’s where it all started, which is why I was surprised, on this Sunday different from all other Sundays, that he was so enthusiastic about this contract idea—one that I had not planted in his head, might I add?

He pulled out his laptop, plugged it in and set it up on the table. (Coffee pot still untouched, I should add.)

We, Christopher and Jennifer Richardson, do, on this third day of May, the year of our Lord Two—

“Oh, cut that out!” I cried. When his fingers froze, I added, “Real language, not lawyer speak. Do you know I had to consult a lawyer to understand that pre-nup that you wrote? I mean, I didn’t even know until I talked to him that you practically promised me the shirt off your back if you ever left me, cheated on me, or asked for a divorce.”

He looked a little taken back. “Well, I want to make sure you’ll be taken care of. I can always make money.”

“And, I can’t?” I narrowed my eyes at him, preparing for battle.

Chris rolled his eyes. “It’s not that, sweetie. I just thought that if we had kids, or something, and you decided to stay home, I wouldn’t want you to suddenly have to be a raising children on your own while working a full time job.”

“You wouldn’t do that to me!” He wouldn’t, ever, that’s why I fell in love with him.

He just shook his head and chuckled. “That was the point, sweetie. I wanted you to know that.”

“Oh.” Still, I pulled the laptop away from him and erased what he’d written.

Chris and Jen promise to each other, on 5/3/03, the following:

Chris chuckled. “Remember our first spanking?”

You know, I still blush. We’ve incorporated spanking into our lives for over two years, but I still blush when he—or I, for that matter—use the ‘s’ word. I forget the details of why I went over his knee. Maybe I snapped something at him, something rude and bitchy during that awful PMS time.

He’d popped a hand on my bottom, and my temper hit the roof, to his dismay. I was just completely out of hormonal control, actually. My poor husband tries to give me my fantasy, and what do I do?

Freak out.

Some thanks I gave him, huh? He seemed to think so. He had gone into his office and wouldn’t come out for over three hours. When he came out, he did it right.

“Young lady?”

When Chris emerged from his office, he was not angry, which made it all the more difficult for me. For the entire time he was bottled up in the office, I was torn between self-righteous indignation and guilt.

If he had been angry, it would have been easy to choose self-righteous indignation and launch into a good row. But as luck would have it, Chris was calm and controlled.

“Come into the office,” he said. “We need to have a discussion.”

Now what girl with spanko-fantasies wouldn’t melt at those words? Of course, guilt won, hands down, and I shuffled into his office—I mean, our office—like a recalcitrant schoolchild.

We didn’t discuss why I’d responded so poorly to his earlier whack on my bottom. He just pulled out a wooden ruler, placed it in the middle of the large oak desk that he had inherited from his grandfather, and positioned himself in front of the desk like he was a principal about to give a good old-fashioned English caning.

“I think you know what to do,” he said.

Read the rest--and many other wonderful stories--at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Or both!!

The Contract, Part II

2007-07-27T19:18:00.000-04:00

The Contract, Part II
By Nattie

Read the rest now at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Enjoy!

Perhaps, I should take a moment to explain how we first came to spanking. See, I grew up fantasizing about spanking. Usually, it was a teacher who would suddenly see me and think me special. So special, in fact, that they needed to be stricter with me and teach me discipline and hard work. Generally, this extra attention was applied with a paddle or belt to my bare bottom.

Gradually, over the years, I started to feel it was a bit weird to be having these thoughts. I’d be daydreaming in class, and I’d stop and look around. The other students were all either writing notes, taking notes, or looking at the teacher in concentration. I’d wonder if any of them were thinking of spanking stories inside their head.

Invariably, I’d come to the conclusion-more and more often, as I got older-that I was just a little bit different in this area. So I cursed my fantasies and looked for a nice boy to come along and sweep me off my feet.

Chris and I met in a laundromat by our college, and we talked all night while we did our huge piles of laundry. I was pretty impressed that he seemed interested in me while I was in my laundry-doing clothes (an old, worn pair of sweats and a stained, threadbare t-shirt from my high school swimming days).

We had a very normal, uneventful courtship (we never did the break up then get back together dance that so many young couples do) and we had a normal, one-year engagement followed by a normal wedding with a white dress in a normal church in front of two or so hundred normal friends and not-so-normal family.

Then, we had a normal marriage, and we bought a normal house in a normal neighborhood.

I suppose it was a bit of a surprise to him when I let my decidedly un-normal fantasies invade our lives.

It began one night, about three months after we had moved into our new house. Chris stormed into the living room and informed me that he had had it up to here-he pointed to the middle of his forehead, I guess indicating that there was still a little room left to frustrate him-with my constant spending on the new house.

You know, thirty dollars here for a pretty set of towels for the guest bathroom. Then fifty dollars for a satiny new set of sheets. Eighty-two dollars for the new curtains in the living room (and they were on sale!) and two hundred dollars (oops) on a new bedspread. Somehow, by the time we had lived in our new house for three months, I had accumulated over six thousand dollars worth of little stuff without even realizing it.

When he saw the credit card statement, he was furious. As partner already at thirty-two, he was pretty accustomed to being in charge. He’d been ROTC at one time, until knee surgery had nixed his first dream of a military career.

I suppose that when he stormed around the living room lecturing me that night, he wasn’t expecting me to respond quite like I did. I mean, he took my credit card, cracked it in half and whisked my checkbook into his back pocket.

“No spending, no spending whatsoever-not a cent!-without me until you stop frivaling-” I know that’s not a word, but he was upset, and that’s what he said “-our money away on little purchases here and there!”

I don’t know what it was about it that made me do it. Looking back, I think it was his repeated use of the word ‘no’ that did me in. It could have been his t-shirt stretched over his muscled chest and his hands on his hips. Or, it could have been that he’d suddenly reconnected with what military training he’d had and was suddenly sounding like the Gunnery Sergeant from Officer and A Gentleman barking at Richard Gere.

Whatever it was, I’m sure he wasn’t expecting me to grab his face and kiss him more passionately than I had ever kissed him in the ten years that we had known each other.

It sort of took the steam out of his lecture, and he stared at me a little astonished and open-mouthed. I, however, couldn’t contain myself and we spent the next six hours-well, okay, maybe two hours-having the best sex we had ever had.

We didn’t discuss it, or talk about it, until the next day when he came home “sick” from work at lunchtime to ask me what the hell last night was all about.

“I’m sorry,” I said, in a small voice. I was pretty embarrassed. All those fantasies of childhood had been re-awoken at his alpha display. Decidedly un-normal fantasies, and Chris is a decidedly normal sort of person.

At my apology, he sighed. “Well, hell.”

Chris, I should mention, is not the sort of person who says hell. In fact, I’d never heard him say it until that day, and I haven’t heard it since.

“Hell,” he repeated. “I’m not sure that was something to be sorry about.”

I could only blush and stare at my tuna fish sandwich. I was mortified, but a giggle escaped my mouth as I thought of our fun last night. We’d made the kind of love I’d only seen on a flash of pornography while cruising through the channels to find something to watch late at night. Steamy, passionate … I was so embarrassed, and we’d been married for three and a half years.

“Hell,” he said yet again, “don’t be embarrassed.”

“You know I’m a prude. I’m mortified-that’s much more than embarrassed.” Even more than mortified, actually, because just as he had come home from work early, I had been eating my tuna fish sandwich and staring out the window imagining what it would be like for my husband to take me over his knee and lay down the law on my backside.

“What was last night all about?”

I shrugged, and then made the fatal mistake of looking at his hands. I’d never noticed they were so big and strong. He’s a lawyer, but he has the hands of a rancher. They weren’t rough and hang-nailed, but they were wider than I remembered, thick and strong. I couldn’t get my fantasy of that hand spanking my vulnerable bottom out of my mind.

(So if you don’t mind, reader, I’m going to edit out the next four hours of lovemaking, skip over the three hour nap after that, and jump straight to our late night dinner, where Chris wouldn’t let me up from the table until I told him what was going on.)

“Well,” I said. I had eaten every bit of macaroni and cheese, but I still scraped my fork along the plate to get a little of the leftover cheese. “I think I’m weird.”

“Weird,” he prompted.

“Well, I’ve always had these weird sort of fantasies.”

When it became evident that I was not going to elaborate on my own, Chris parroted my last word back to me again. “Fantasies?”

I said it real fast, hoping that he wouldn’t catch my words. “Sorta like alpha hubby lays down the law and spanks wife sort of thing, like.” No, I’m not from the valley in California with their high-pitched “likes” of the eighties, I was just nervous.

And then I held my breath, which was a bad idea because he didn’t respond for over a minute.

“Did you say spank?”

Oh god. I nodded and a few tears of fear slipped down my face as my breath whooshed out and blew my napkin across the table.

“Oh,” he replied. Then-would you believe it!-he busied himself with putting the dishes in the dishwasher, gave me a good night kiss, and went into his office. I sat there alone in the kitchen for over a half hour, not sure what to think. I finally went up to bed and fell asleep, not waking when Chris crawled in bed next to me.

Weeks passed where a silence developed between us, and he said nothing about the desires I had confessed to him. Then, one day, I wrote him an email while he was at work. Our sex had stopped cold turkey, and we were completely avoiding the issue. It took me almost six hours to compose the few sentences I sent off to him that afternoon.

Chris,

Having fun drafting your contracts? Just wanted to ask if you could bring home some dinner. I’m caught up in that article the newspaper asked me to write. I’ve got to have it to the editor by five tonight.

Maybe some Chinese?

Luvvles,
Jen

PS: Do you think I’m a freak?

Read the rest--and many other wonderful stories--at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Or both!!

The Contract, Part I

2007-07-20T21:09:00.000-04:00

The Contract, Part 1
By Nattie

Read the rest now at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Enjoy!

It was a Sunday different from all other Sundays.

I sat in our white wooden breakfast nook, enjoyed my once a week treat of Lucky Charms, and let the sun streaming through the windows warm my skin. It was a typical lazy Sunday morning in my house, and I knew my husband would come down in a few minutes looking scruffy and—even after these seven years of marriage—looking cutely edible.

I smiled as he descended the stairs with all his grunts and groans that I had thought cute the first few months of marriage, then annoying for the next year or so, and finally such an ingrained part of our morning ritual that I usually thought nothing of them at all.

He came to the table with his rich, dark brown hair sticking up all over the place and grinned. I should have taken note then—Chris does not, in general, grin before his morning cup of coffee.

“I did some reading last night.”

He had a proud look about him, as if he expected congratulations or something. Considering he was an avid reader and read every night, I needed more information before doing my wifely duty of stroking his ego.

“Oh?”

He ran a hand through his hair to flatten it, but of course it just popped out in new directions. Then he sat across from me, which was my second clue that something was amiss. Normally I got a grunt, barely a passing glance, and he never, ever, sat across from me until he had his steaming coffee mug embraced between two hands as if holding a sacred object. Then he would blow on it exactly three times to cool it (which, as you’ll see later, doesn’t actually work), raise it in both hands, and sniff it with his eyes half-closed in what looks like sexual ecstasy. Finally, he would take a sip that would—without fail—burn his tongue.

My dearest husband burns his tongue every single morning, so usually the first words I hear from him are “Ow!” followed by an inhale through pursed lips that sounds like wind through a tunnel, and finally a “Mmmmmmmmmm—” drawn out just long enough to annoy me “—Mm!”

Then, and only then, would he look at me. And to his credit, he would smile with one side of his mouth and say “Good morning, sweetie. Good coffee.”

But here he was, sitting across from me wide-eyed and eager, the coffee pot ignored and untouched on the kitchen counter.

“I was perusing the internet, and found some sites on contracts.”

Since my husband is an attorney, I nodded appreciatively as if interested. “That’s great, honey.”

“D/s contracts.”

That got my attention. It had taken two years to train my happily vanilla husband to spank, and reluctantly spank, at that.

“D/s,” I repeated, laying my spoon down and resigning my Lucky Charms to a fate of neglect. “But, we’re DD.” I glanced over at the coffee pot to make sure that I had, indeed, made coffee that morning.

“Semantics, shmantics, Jen darling.”

Now, I don’t know if any of you readers out there have been up close and personal with a lawyer, but they are way too picky with words. My husband would never say ‘semantics, shmantics.” Never.

But, apparently, he just did.

Evidently, I was gaping at him in a bit of a shock, because he pulled from (Where? I don’t know. Behind his back? Under his shirt? Behind my ear?) a stack of seven or so papers.

“These are some samples of D/s contracts.”

Not to sound redundant, but I repeated, “But, we’re DD.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not the point.” He started spreading out the papers with the same enthusiasm he had spread out pictures of various homes when he had announced to me our readiness to look for a house. “Look, we could do a contract.”

“Um,” I said, staring forlornly at my now soggy cereal. Lucky Charms must be eaten fast, or else the marshmallows dissolve and the rest becomes quickly soggy and a bit gross, to boot. “Why would we want to?”

Stupid question. Chris loves contracts passionately. I think he became a lawyer just so he could write contracts. He even managed to persuade me to not only have and sign a pre-nuptial, but managed to make it rather romantic and sweet.

“Well, you’re the one who brought up this head of household stuff, but you had to take charge and practically train me to spank.”

I gnawed at my lip. I try, as much as I can, to make Chris feel like everything is his idea and that he’s in charge. Not for any DD reason, it just kind of makes me laugh inside when he struts around the house as proud as can be over his “great idea” which was actually something I wanted and planted in his head. It makes him happy, so it makes me happy to dupe him a little. Gives me a little power rush, you know? Men are pretty adorable creatures—even the most manly man has an irresistible and slightly gullible little boy inside.

“I made some coffee this morning.” After all these years, I didn’t think I needed to mention it.

As if I had said nothing, he shuffled the papers excitedly, which I had yet to glance at. “See, we could make a commitment to each other and our relationship—our special relationship—with a contract, just like D/s!”

I glanced down. “But, I don’t want to call you Master.” Not for real, anyway. Sometimes I do the Bewitched thing and say ‘Yes, Master’ when he’s being particularly bossy, but that always ends with him sticking his tongue out at me while we have a good chuckle.

“That’s okay, we could come up with our own expression of commitment. We’ll use the D/s format to renew our marriage vows, in a way, and to make a commitment to our lifestyle.”

I frowned at his boyish excitement. Not that it wasn’t all romantic and stuff, but I’m not really one for change. “Don’t rock the boat,” my mother used to say, and my father would chime in with “no need to go fixin’ what ain’t broke in the first place, I always say.”

“Don’t you want some coffee?” It came out a bit shrill for a casual question.

“No thanks, honey.”

I didn’t know what to think of that, so I picked up my bowl and carried it to the sink, throwing the poor soggy cereal into the jaws of the garbage disposal and rinsing them down the drain. I even wiped out the sink, despite the fact that I’m usually not the type of person who is overly concerned with a shiny, sparkling sink.

I finally turned to him and asked, with a bit of trepidation, “So. What’s wrong?”

Chris was starting to look a little disappointed in my lack of enthusiasm, like a little boy who was about to get his bubble burst. I felt a twang of guilt, so I sat down and worked up an interested smile.

“Wrong?” he asked.

“I mean, if you want to change our relationship, what’s wrong with how it is now?”

Chris was gathering up the papers, looking even more dejected. “Nothing, I just wanted to add … a new dimension, a little excitement. It’s no big deal.”

As anyone in a long-term relationship knows, ‘no big deal’ is usually the ‘one little thing’ brought up for years in the and-you-couldn’t-even-do-this-one-little-thing-for-me argument. He stood to finally get his cup of coffee, and I grabbed his hand. We have a pretty good relationship, and we do go out of our way to try and give each other happiness.

“Okay,” I said, with a smile that I hoped conveyed enthusiasm.

His eyes lit up, and he flashed his cute little boy grin. “Okay?” he asked.

I sighed. “Yes.”

So that’s how it started, that Sunday different from all other Sundays. The television was not turned on the whole day, not even during the football game I’d overheard him arguing about with his buddies over the phone the few nights before.

Read the rest--and many other wonderful stories--at Discipline and Desire, or wait for the next installment next Friday. Or both!!

D/s with Anita Blake

2007-07-19T12:34:00.000-04:00

Have you read any books in the Anita Blake series, by Laurell K. Hamilton?

The wonderful thing about paranormal and horror genre, is that it seems to allow kink and D/s themes in a commercial book.

I just love the way she portrays Nathan. He’s strong, he goes after what he wants, and yet he’s so beautifully submissive. Anita loves him, but she doesn’t quite give him the dominance (and sensitivity) that he needs. It’s taken her awhile to even respect his needs, respect him the way he is.

And the way The Harlequin ended! Asher--be still my soul--is going to teach Anita about submission in the next book. Whew, boy, do I want to see that. We’re talking hands-on training, Anita going under, feeling all those feelings for the first time with Asher.

Now that’s something to wait for!

Speaking of fiction, I’ll finally be delivering on my promise (and Reesa’s generosity) on Friday, with the first FREE installment of one of my more popular short stories, The Contract.

Missing the Man Already

2007-06-18T23:57:00.000-04:00

I’m going to be much better about blogging this summer, I promise! I have some good news, too: Reesa of Discipline and Desire is going to allow me to post one of my stories on my blog! Stay tuned!

You know when you’ve got a great man?

When, all dominance and spanking aside, you start to wonder who is serving who. We sometimes wander into D/s territory, so the word ’serving’ does fit in. But he looks out for everything. I’m going on a trip soon, and he already has my plane ticket, my shuttle ride, my check-in info, my parking paid ... everything set.

Not to mention the day to day stuff. He’s always looking after me, keeping track of things so I can be little miss creative. I feel a little guilty and often wonder what in the world I do for him. It’s certainly not near as much.

So I wondered, who’s serving who? I thought to myself, that’s how you know you’ve got a great man.

Contrast that with the perception of the D/s lifestyle, by some.

It makes me giggle, sometimes. If they only knew ...