More on Governesses, Dammit

Note: This is another post that I left nearly complete in my drafts folder over a year ago. It’s really  a synthesis of three strains of thought that are related for me in a way that I’m not sure  I’ve made entirely clear. It’s a response to a comment Alyx had left on one of my posts, combined with  a response to a comment Little Nic once made on an entirely different post that has stuck with me for a long time. Finally, it’s the product of my ongoing attempt to articulate my curiosity about F/F Domestic Discipline stories and fantasies in a way that explains why I sometimes find them troubling and surprising–without stepping on the toes of those for whom they are a core fantasy or a real-life dynamic. I let it sit because I was having trouble with that last part, and I can only hope that the remaining imperfections along those lines will not come across as disrespectful. This week, though, after I spent  fair amount of time reading some lovely fiction on an F/F discipline story blog that was new to me (hi, Ash!), I decided I’d take the risk and try to open the conversation. 

About a year ago, I wrote a post on my experience at a Littles Party at Shadow Lane. Although that post was primarily a description of that party, it also contained a little bit of speculation about the difference between the most common fantasy figures in M/F and F/F romantic spanking fiction:

The core fantasy figure for women in M/F romances, both kinky and vanilla, is The Man Who Can Read Our Minds.  I didn’t find this at all in F/F stories; indeed, we women seem to assume that our women friends can read our minds or will at least provide the emotional support we crave. Instead, the core fantasy figure in F/F stories appeared to be The Truly Toppy Woman. As I started to play with all kinds of men– and a few women– in real life, I began to understand what these women meant. I so wanted to be scolded, dominated, and spanked in a motherly way, but I really didn’t know any women who like to play that way– not even among the lovely group of women who seem quite happy to spank me in more light-hearted styles.

Alyx left an intriguing comment about the post, part of which I dealt with in the comment section.  But there was another part of her comment that has led me to this much longer response:

I always like to hear about individual preferences, and in my experience, what you say about [women in F/F fantasies] desiring maternal/governess type figures is true. And (in spite of the fact that I’m a lesbian) my own early fantasies were also about governess figures, rather than partners/girlfriends.

I think it’s fairly common that our early fantasies were about authority figures rather about than partners or lovers of either gender. After all, for many (or perhaps most) of us, these fantasies pre-dated sexual awakening. Nonetheless, I do wonder how that plays out depending on sexual orientation. Are straight women more likely to dream about male authority figures, and lesbian women more likely to dream about their female counterparts? I certainly had fantasies about both in my early childhood, with the m/f ones slowly morphing from featuring teachers and parent-figures to husbands or masters. I still occasionally had fantasies about a male teacher or parent figure in my adolescence. Most, though, were about women, sometimes even an actual teacher. Funnily enough, I can’t recall any that involved being owned by a woman. For some reason, my fantasies involving women were always inherently more egalitarian than those involving men.

As I’ve said before, the F/F stories I read in the beginning of my days on the Internet also tended to be more egalitarian than the M/F stories I read. This was true even in the school stories I read. Little Nic captured this extremely well in a comment she left on this post:

In so far as the influence of m/m stories works for me in punishment scenes I guess it’s in the expectation of ritual; the delay between discovery of crime and being called to account, the formalities,the ordered sense of predictable roles and at some level fair if severe play, uncluttered by too much emotional expression. I think if I am honest though I also take in a morality of the punishment absolves the crime and if I want to say climb on the roof again – know not to get caught at pains of a harsher thrashing. A sort of contract.

Getting me to contrition, crying for something other than the pain…takes something else and I suspect that it is more influenced by headmistresses, real and fictional, who famously had the words to break down the resistances and the sense to distinguish the major from the minor crimes. Both more humorous and yet more profound than the male fictional counter-parts.

That comment captures two aspects of my governess fantasies. As much as I’m drawn to fantasies in which I feel real contrition, there’s a limit to how well they work as spanking fantasy. After all, behavioral modification is all about, well, modifying behavior. So there are only so many times an authority figure can spank a charge without one of them becoming totally unsympathetic.  So, even in fantasy, I’m drawn to the kind of “crime” Little Nic mentions in that first paragraph.  The sort of thing that isn’t a big deal every once in a while, but would be problematic if done all the time. Then, both governess and charge can know the drill, with the former meting out punishment that the latter accepts as the cost of doing business.

Still, my deeper fantasies do involve real contrition, and Little Nic describes perfectly the kind of figure that works well for me.  It doesn’t absolutely have to be a woman, but the classic male headmasters seem to take themselves so seriously as to lack a sense of humor altogether– or to rely too easily on physical force.  The headmistress, on the other hand– and the governess– seems more inclined to use physical punishment as an exclamation point– after the charge has admitted wrong-doing.  This role isn’t restricted to women, by any means, but it seems like a more common style in both vanilla and kinky fiction for women than for men.

So that’s why it’s surprised me a bit to find lesbian spanking fiction that seems as hierarchical as M/F fiction, complete with the brat/top dynamic that is so pervasive in the M/F spanking scene.  I have enjoyed that game, especially in my early days in the scene, when I found it oh-so-hard just to ask for a spanking. It was fun to “earn” one exercising my not-inconsiderable propensities to be a smartass, and the illusion of non-consensuality remains powerfully enticing. But there’s a superficiality to that kind of play that I find extremely limiting. So while I don’t mind playing with it, I no longer find it satisfying as an end in itself. Nor, as I’ve written before,  am I comfortable with a domestic discipline arrangement– especially within an M/F dynamic.

I find it easier to deal with F/F domestic discipline fantasies and stories (and probably M/M or F/M, too), but they often contain the same elements that I find difficult in M/F fantasies: an older dominant/ younger submissive dynamic, the use of superior physical power to impose punishment, and the static power imbalance between partners. Now, some of my favorite versions of lesbian DD, like the Lesbia Series by Loki Renard, or stories by  Alyx , Ash, and Tenth Muse Top,  play with those roles or introduce magical other worlds of the sort that make M/F DD fantasies easier for me to take.  Still, I found it surprising that discipline was such a major force in lesbian spanking fiction.  I remember chatting about this once with Loki, who opined that, in this way, women are the same as men.  I wonder if that’s true, and my difficulty comes from the fact that I’m fundamentally a switch, interested in the flux of roles in my spanking play. Or perhaps the fantasies are a manifestation of that search for The Truly Toppy Woman that seems to underlie so many F/F fantasies, no doubt including my own of the governess variety. I don’t know, but I’m curious to know what those of you for whom F/F DD stories are a core fantasy think.

No Fucking Way

After a long time in which my interest in spanking has been strangely muted, it’s returned with a particular intensity over the last couple weeks, reminiscent of those first days after I discovered spanking stories on the internet. Today, my desire to be spanked again built up so strongly that I found myself commenting on Twitter that if I were, at this moment, given a choice between no spanking and an ebony hairbrush, I’d take the hairbrush. Of course, Twitter soon had me regretting that comment, even as Mija piqued my interest by offering to be my governess. So I dusted off this governess fantasy, which I wrote last fall. I’m still not sure I’ve captured my feelings about hairbrushes in the way I meant to, but this is probably as close as I’ve ever come.

~~•~~ ~~•~~ ~~•~~ ~~•~~ ~~•~~

It takes a moment for me to realize what I have said. As I see the impact of my words on my normally unflappable governess’s face, my own mouth hangs open in surprise. I am not sure I have ever seen her delicately groomed eyebrows rise so high. Belatedly, my brain kicks into gear, trying desperately to think of a way to unsay the words, or at to least mitigate the damage. Nothing comes to mind.

“I’m sorry,” I say, finally. The apology, though heartfelt, sounds hollow, as if my sense of its inadequacy keeps it from ringing true.

Miss Ryan shakes her head briefly but says nothing.

I tell her that I don’t know why I’ve said that. I know I was rude, very disrespectful, and I really am very sorry. The words start to tumble out more quickly. I’ll do my work now, really, I will. I won’t give her any more trouble, I promise. Please, please can we just pretend that I didn’t say that?

“No, Eleanor,” she says gravely. “Words  cannot be unspoken. You must learn that. You will have to accept responsibility for your behavior.”

Her use of my full given name unsettles me, even though I know already that I am in a great deal of trouble. Miss Ryan has never tolerated rudeness from me, and I have certainly never been this rude before.

My stomach clenches as I await her verdict, and my eyes drift off to the cupboard in which she keeps her strap. In other circumstances, I would dread its appearance. This time, however, I know I will be lucky I don’t get the cane, which has recently become her ultimate sanction. I have felt it only once, after an incident of serious defiance. I genuinely regretted my offense then, too, but that didn’t make the pain any less searing. The stripes remained with me over a week, too, an embarrassing reminder of the cost of poor decision making.

The look of disappointment on Miss Ryan’s face took even longer to fade from my memory. Knowing that it is there again, I look down at my desk. The surface is empty now. The papers and pen I have swept away in my annoyance lie on the floor below, a highly visible reminder of my childish behavior. When I was younger, I was spanked regularly for such fits of temper and willfulness. Now that I am older, my punishments, like my offenses, are much less frequent.

Still, it is still rare that a month goes by in which I do not find myself bent over my desk for a strapping. I know that I have been pushing the limits all week, perhaps even all month, neglecting my studies and then grumbling about being confined to the schoolroom on Saturday mornings as a result. This is the fourth Saturday in a row I have found myself here, and I have made my feelings clear about that from the moment I walked into the door—ten minutes late.

On reflection, I’m surprised that she didn’t strap me for that bit of defiance, though it did cost me my iPod for the weekend. I knew her patience was waning as I stalled all morning, making very little progress in the work she’d assigned me. Nonetheless, she said nothing to me until it was almost time for lunch. “Very well, Ellie,” she announced, “as your surliness this morning has kept you from your work, you will return to the schoolroom for the afternoon.”

I was looking forward to meeting my friend Hayley after lunch, and Miss Ryan knew it. It was terribly unfair of her to do this to me without giving me a single warning!

I was furious. That’s when I said it. No effing way. Except I didn’t just use that initial.

“I really am sorry, Miss Ryan,” I say now. “I-I got mad. I wasn’t thinking.” It seems impossible that I could have uttered the words at all, much less directed them at Miss Ryan.

“Yes, I know, Eleanor,” she says, not unkindly. “But you have crossed a line. You know this.”

Still looking down, I nod miserably. I know she is right, and my regret is sincere. I feel my face flush as my embarrassment overwhelms even the dread I feel at the certainty I will be punished. As Miss Ryan lets the silence build, however, that balance shifts.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, a bit desperately this time. My voice is shaking and I am on the edge of tears. “I’ll be good this afternoon, really.”

“I know you will,” she agrees, almost soothingly. “But first you will go to your room and bring me the hairbrush. You know which one.”

This command makes me look up in horrified disbelief. “The w-what?” I stammer, dumbfounded.

“You heard me, Eleanor. Do not stall, my dear. We have quite enough to discuss as it is.”

Oh, I know very well which hairbrush she means. She had presented it to me early in our time together. It had been a particularly bad day, in which I had managed to earn not one, not even two, but three spankings. After the third and most memorable of these, she gently slipped out from underneath me, leaving me alone on my bed for a few moments. When she returned, she was carrying an old-fashioned black hairbrush.

“I will not continue to tolerate defiant behavior, Eleanor,” she said. “The next time you behave like this, I will spank you with this hairbrush. Is that clear?”

It was. Very clear.

“I would not advise that you test me on this. I don’t think you will like it.”

“I don’t think you will like it.” Those words had sent a shiver down my spine as I watched her leave it on my dresser– as a reminder to behave appropriately. There it had remained ever since, untouched except when I dusted my room. The threat had always been enough.

Indeed, in my mind, the hairbrush was the nuclear option, so horrible as to make its use unthinkable. And surely its time is now past.

I tell myself that my unusual discomfort is merely embarrassment. This is a tool for a little girl’s punishment, not something I should fear at my age. Nonetheless, I am irrationally afraid to lift it from my dresser. It feels dangerous as I carry it back to the schoolroom, almost as if I am holding a snake that can strike me at any moment.

Miss Ryan has moved her desk chair to the middle of the room and is waiting for me. I hesitate for just a moment in the doorway, long enough to draw a deep breath. Then I slowly cross the room to her and extend the brush with a trembling hand.

There will be a time for discussion, I know. She will ask me why I have become so frustrated, behaved so badly. I will not be able to explain it to her at first, but eventually, she will talk me through it. She will make me admit that I am in this mess because I have behaved immaturely, neglecting my studies simply because I don’t feel like working. She will listen to me, too, and she might even agree to ease the routine under which I have grown increasingly restless.

But that time is not now. Now, there is only the echo of my words and the hairbrush in her hand. There is nothing I can say. I can feel the tightness in my throat and the prickling in my eyes.

“You know what to do,” she reminds me.

I reach under my skirt to pull my underwear down, but my hands somehow get stuck there.

“Eleanor, I won’t tolerate stalling,” she tells me sternly. “If you are sorry, you will accept your punishment without a fuss.”

I don’t want her to think that I am not cooperating. Indeed, I don’t feel in the slightest bit defiant, and the resentment I normally feel at being punished in any way is strangely absent.

It’s just that it is so, so hard to make myself do what she wants. I start and stop several times before I blurt out with a strangled sob, “oh, God, Miss Ryan, I’m so scared!”

She sees the real panic in my eyes, and her face softens immediately. She even places the brush in her lap so that she can take both of my hands in hers. “Yes,” she tells me soberly as she looks into my eyes, “this hairbrush will hurt a great deal. I don’t think you will like it.”

Those words again. She pauses after she says them, allowing them to sink in. Then she tells me that I will endure it anyway. I have behaved very badly, and I know it.

Somehow, her firmness reassures me. Wiping my eyes, I nod.

“Then let us proceed.” She waits for me to lower my underwear and settle myself across her lap. Once such a familiar position, it feels awkward now, especially as my feet leave the floor. As I shift into a minimally precarious position, I feel her tuck my skirt into my waistband. Then, the hairbrush rests against my bottom, smooth and cool. Without warning, she brings it down hard enough to make me cry out. Beginning slowly, she steadily increases the pace, while maintaining the strength of each individual blow. By the time she has laid on a dozen, the pain is overwhelming. And I realize have no idea how this spanking will last.

It turns out to be a long spanking, utterly relentless, and very, very hard. I cannot help struggling as the pain builds, until she remind me with a sharp swat to each thigh that I am to remain in place. Obediently, and also in a vain effort to reduce the pain, I force my body to relax. Nonetheless, I am reduced to tears very quickly. By the end, I am sobbing like the small child to whom that brush had been presented.

She waits for my sobs to diminish before gently helping me to my feet. When she orders me to my room for lunch, I know that, beneath all the sternness, she is tactfully giving me the time I need to compose myself.

I arrive back in the schoolroom on time, take my seat painfully, and promptly begin the work over which I have fought with my governess for days. I am somewhat surprised that it takes so little time to complete.

As soon as I turn it in, she gives me the rest of the afternoon off.

A Couple More Books

In my last post, inspired by an article in the New York Times, I wrote about the reading experience that tied spanking to sex in my mind. That was when I was 12. I’m quite certain of my age, because I felt it necessary to ask my teacher what we should do in our book reports if there was sex in the book. Her answer was not to worry, that we wouldn’t teach her anything she didn’t already know. I turned six shades of red at that.

Of course, this was before the internet, so I had no place to pursue this interest.  It certainly never occurred to me that adult spanking existed outside of sex in sci-fi and cheap historical fiction. Then, when I was in my early 20s, another time of sexual awakening for me, I read two books that briefly reinvigorated that curiosity. Or at least reawakened my consciousness of that curiosity.

The first was a book that has been widely interpreted as kink-negative, The Women’s Room by Marilyn French. Wikipedia tells me this novel was written in 1977 and is seen as one of the most influential works stemming from the second-wave feminist movement. I remember reading it in 1988 and being depressed for a week. Had my mother felt so isolated and powerless in the early years of her marriage to my father?

Not quite hidden in the relentless descriptions of the life of an unappreciated suburban housewife were more than a few kinky gems. I haven’t gone back to check the books this time, so I can’t vouch for the accuracy of my perceptions as an extremely naive twenty-something, but here are the bits I remember.

1) One of the main character’s friends describes the games she and her husband used to play, early in their marriage, before they had children. He would come home, dress up in his naval uniform, and perform a white-gloved inspection to be sure that she’d cleaned the house properly. Usually, she took great pleasure in passing his inspections. However, if she failed the inspection at any point, he put her over his knee and spanked her hard until she ended up sobbing in his arms.  At some point in this description, she confessed that she intentionally left areas un-dusted on the days she wanted a spanking. The games had stopped after they had children and she had to grow up, as she put it.

At the time, I saw that as the natural course of spanking desires– I’d get involved in more vanilla relationships, would become a grown-up, and would quit having these fantasies. Looking back on it, I see instead the sadder story of a couple who quit playing with one another and grew apart as other responsibilities and resentments took over.

There may have been more to it, though. If I recall correctly, the husband and the main character later establish a friendship, as each of them grows apart from their spouse. It is perhaps the only real friendship she had with a man in the novel. Then, the friend finds a series of sadistic fantasies this husband has written, involving genital torture of her and other women.  The fantasies about the main character are the only ones that aren’t violent. The marriage falls apart, and the main character is ostracized by the other wives, her only potential source of support in her isolated existence. This is probably one of the episodes that has been used to show that the author finds all kinky men to be abusers, but I remember her strongest reaction as anger at the reaction of the community she had for something over which she had no control.

2) On a lighter note (for me, at least), the main character comes across one of her children playing with her Fisher-Price family (or similar toys), having the mother spank the children for some sort of naughtiness. The main character found this overwhelmingly sad, a testimony to her imperfections as a mother. I just thought, hey, that’s great, other kids did that, too?

3) Later, after the main character’s husband leaves her for his secretary or something similar, she goes back to graduate school and ends up in an initially much more satisfying romance a man she meets there.  As she describes the openness and honesty of their sexual relationship, she tells us that they shared their submissive fantasies with one another and acted them out. I’m pretty sure I read that section five or six times, and it was the first time I had the slightest glimmer that this was something people could really do. I think I even remember wondering briefly if I could tell a partner that pretty much all my masturbation involved fantasies of spanking. I quickly decided that, no, I didn’t think I could.  And I went back to feeling burdened by that secret.

My guess is that the author actually understands kink quite well.  Thinking back on what I remember, I don’t see her attitude toward kink as less positive than her attitude about sex. Of course, in the main character’s world, she has to chose, even with the second man, between putting her own career aside for his or not having a relationship with a man at all. So there was definitely resentment and fury toward patriarchy and the men who had no idea of what we would now call their privilege. Nonetheless, I’m not sure she was saying that kink is inherently abusive, but rather that all sexual behavior with men is complicated– and in her world, perhaps ultimately undesirable– in a world in which the men hold all the power.

I was lucky to have been raised by parents whose dynamic was nothing like that, even though it would have been impossible for it to have been free entirely from the social pressures of the era.  I was sure my generation was free of all these foolish ideas about women’s roles, that paternalistic attitudes would die out with my generation. I was certainly wrong about those ideas dying out completely even in the generation or two after mine. But I’m glad I didn’t know that then.

The second book was one my father sent me a year or so later, when I was involved with a lovely guy who was totally wrong for me. Unfortunately, he didn’t see it that way, and I chalked the difficulties up to my inexperience. At some point, I ended up in a conversation about him with my dad, and that led to a brief acknowledgment that the sex part wasn’t so great. Trying to be helpful, if somewhat awkward, he sent me two books. One of them was a collection of writings by Susie Bright.  I’m damned if I can figure out from her Amazon page which one it was.  Indeed, I don’t remember many details other than being tantalizingly shocked by the range of sexual behaviors she described, like fisting. I had a quick moment of wondering if my lesbian roommate did that with her partner before telling myself sternly it was none of my damned business and relegating the practice to the realm of Things Only Other People Did. Mostly at sex parties or other adventures that were Not For Me.

Anyway, toward the end of the book, there was a chapter, maybe more, on things real people had tried to broaden their sexual horizons.  One snippet– it was probably two or three paragraphs, max– was about a woman who was curious about being whipped, but didn’t actually want to experience the pain herself. So she lay, naked, under another woman, also naked, as the second woman was whipped, feeling all her responses rather directly. Of course, I also placed this experience firmly in the realm of things Only Other People Did, too.

It was also the hottest fucking thing I’d ever read.

I no longer wonder whether I’d ever tell a long-term sexual partner about my interest in spanking; indeed, I can’t imagine having a sexual partner who didn’t enthusiastically enjoy exploring those fantasies with me. Nor do I see the world of non-mainstream sexual activity as something I’d never in a million years want to try. Sometimes, when I look back at my 20-year old self, I wonder how she’d respond, seeing her older, much less fit counterpart unashamed to be spanked, naked from the waist down, in a room full of people.  I like to think that she’d find it liberating, that she’d be inspired to seek it out.  I’m not sure about that, though.

Oh well,  I still think that scene Susie Bright described is really fucking hot.

The Most Erotic Book You’ve Ever Read

Two weeks ago, in the New York Times’s Sunday Review of Books, two authors were asked to discuss the most erotic books they had ever read.  The authors in question, both women, eschewed D.H. Lawrence or more modern literary erotica to discuss books that had been seemed erotic in their childhood and early adolescence.

The first author, Anna Holmes, chose a Judy Blume book, Forever.  The second, Francine Prose, took refuge in the Bible and the dictionary.  I can’t claim to have ever considered the Bible as a source for adolescent fantasy, but I suspect most spanking enthusiasts are aware of the power of the dictionary.  It’s just that many of us looked up “spanking” in addition to, or perhaps even instead of, Prose’s search terms, “penis” and “vagina.”  I’m quite sure I read Forever as a kid, as I read all of the Judy Blume books.  As I recall, it had the most mature material of her books for kids and adolescents. However, I don’t remember that it made much of an impact on me; it certainly didn’t affect me to the extent that it did Holmes.

Nonetheless, I felt a strong sense of recognition as each author described the power of early erotic imaginings.  Prose writes:

…the books I recall as most erotic were the ones I read before I’d ever had sex, before I had any experience against which to measure what was on the page. Everything was abstract, mysterious, potential. Every veiled reference to what people did in bed inspired a pale, tentative version of the buzz that adults today pay good money to get, at their computers.

Holmes agrees, explaining that she was only 12 when she read Forever and noting that the “sexual narratives we absorb in youth are formidable, formative.”  She continues:

 Still, despite (or because of) its avoidance of in-your-face salaciousness, “Forever . . . ” remains a potent and arousing little work. Unlike the racier, more graphic sexual set pieces in Blume’s adult fiction, “Forever . . . ” seems far more fascinated by the power of suggestion than explication, more curious about sexuality as the possibility, rather than the completion, of something. Put another way, “Forever . . . ” is erotic not because of the intercourse, but because of its portrayal of what comes before that act, namely, the delicious choreography of physical courtship that used to be called “heavy petting” but is now commonly described as “foreplay.”

Looking back, it’s clear to me that most erotic book I read in my youth was, not surprisingly, one in which spanking and sex were mixed– sort of.  I didn’t follow the classic path of a girl reading her mother’s trashy romance novels, though. For me, it was a Heinlein novel– and I was reading it for a book report at school!

Soon after I began the tentative yet exhilarating journey of coming out to myself about spanking, I decided to try to look up the book  in question– mainly because I wanted to see if the passage that made such a strong impression on me bore any resemblance to my pre-teen perception. I hadn’t really read much science fiction since I was an adolescent (due in no small part to a teenage overdose of Heinlein), decades before. Once, as a 20-something, I’d tried to read Heinlein again, but I had hated it. So, hoping I wouldn’t actually have to read the whole book to find what I was looking for, I went to Wikipedia.

There, I learned that Heinlein had written a series of novels for adolescents that celebrated their independence and resilience.  Ah, no wonder I liked them. That would have been right up my 12-year old alley. Of course, I had no idea which of his books were for teenagers and which for adults, so I probably read them indiscriminately. From the Wikipedia article, I also learned that Heinlein was apparently famous for his strong female characters.  That made me snort whatever I was drinking out my nose. I’m so not seeing that!

As I made my way down the list, I realized that the book in question was called I Will Fear No Evil. It was also widely viewed as one of Heinlein’s worst.  Zille Defeu, who has a rather higher opinion of Heinlein than I do, once wrote a post about her adolescent experience with this very same book, and it was so close to my own experience that I wanted to link to it here. Alas, that post no longer appears to be up, so I can’t send you to it.

Anyway, I remembered the plot accurately enough: an old man’s brain had been transplanted into the body of a young– and, of course, voluptuous– woman.  For some reason, this gives the old man access to the young woman’s thoughts and memories, too. Even more improbably, they had known each other in real life; she’d been his secretary.  He had drooled over her more than a little, too, as she was wont to wear paint to work instead of clothes. I don’t know what I thought about that then, but it screams unimaginative male gaze to me now.

Anyway, I remember being fascinated by the way his brain and her body interacted.  It turned out that the younger woman had been sexually involved with the old man’s right-hand man before the operation, and somehow, this continues after her brain is replaced by his boss’s. Yeah, I know.  Just bear with me.

I didn’t want to read the book again, so I turned to Amazon, looked Inside the Book, and searched for spank. Voila, immediately before me was the scene that I remembered. Jake, the male love interest, and the young woman/old man were flirting, and she clearly wanted to have sex. Unfortunately, they are interrupted by the news that their transport is ready to take them to a dinner appointment. The young woman pouts and refuses to get dressed for dinner until he makes love to her.  He settles the argument by flipping her over his knee and spanking her.

For some reason, I’d remembered that it was a 20-smack spanking, but it was only ten. After it’s over, she submissively gets dressed, then asks him to hold her in the transport as they talk about it. He explains that it’s the only thing he knows that will work for a woman when he can’t make love to her. Then she tells him that she thinks she had a “female orgasm” during the spanking.

OK, it’s utterly unbelievable now, but I wouldn’t have known that at twelve. Did I even know what an orgasm was?  I doubt it– I was pretty naive, apart from the basic biology.  Still, I must have understood something, as I was fascinated– utterly fascinated— by the fact that he alternated cheeks as he spanked her.

Whatever I thought at the time, I’m pretty sure that reading this scene, and others in Heinlein, led to a broadening of my fantasies. No longer was I always a child or movie character about to get spanked for a misdeed– I could be an adult and be punished all the same.  Moreover, I dimly understood that Something Else would follow those fantasies, even if I couldn’t have explained what it was.  Of course, the fantasies were no less exciting for my not having understood them at any conscious level.  In fact, as Prose and Holmes suggest, they might have been all the more exciting for just that reason.

Flying Through Submission?

It’s taken me a while, but I’m finally getting around to replying to a really interesting comment  Mija posted  in response to my last post.  In it, she describes her experience of reaching that magic point at which it all submission, both physical and psychological, seems genuinely easy:

…you made me think of something. The way I can, as you did, sometimes get to the point where I’m flying through submission. That it’s like a switch, that somehow as I struggle to get into the headspace where I can just accept what’s happening, accept the pain, just follow directions with both my body and mind, that sometimes, sometimes, the magic thing happens where I’m able to do it. And everything changes.

Suddenly, of course I can endure. Of course I can obey. And I can’t even imagine why I thought I couldn’t. I think at these times I’m actually in my body, in the moment. My critical gaze is off. I’m not trying to control the scene at all (even by being ever so helpful). And I can just been in the moment, connected with the person who’s topping, not thinking about what’s behind every thing, what this looks like from the outside.

And then, she asked the questions:

… is this what it’s like for you? Do we all experience the fear and struggle to let go, only to do so and find that it feels inevitable and easy?

My answer is, yes and no.

It’s quite rare for me to play a scene that involves letting go of control, at least as myself. I rarely do so even in role play, as I’m usually in a sort of sulky adolescent headspace. At those times, I obey the authority figure, conceding to myself that there’s nothing I can do about the punishment I’m about to endure.  Internally, however, I usually latch onto whatever the authority figure has said that I don’t agree with and use that stubbornness to get through the scene.  My second spanking from Miss Chris at the Littles Party was an exception to that rule. When she called me on having apologized insincerely for my first offense, I gave in even internally.  That wasn’t an emotionally charged scene, or even one in which I feared I wouldn’t be able to take the spanking. So my acquiescence wasn’t so much a struggle as a metaphorical tip of the hat to her for having outplayed me so skillfully.

My more usual play experience is like the scene I played with Iris’s M at Shadow Lane: relaxing into a gradually escalating spanking in which the unpleasantness of the pain is either short-lived or outweighed by the accompanying pleasure.  Those scenes aren’t really about control, even though I often do relinquish it as the scene progresses. For example, I knew it would have been a bad idea to keep playing for that extra 15 minutes M teased me about taking, but I would have, if he’d pushed it. In that case, though, it wasn’t so much a conscious act of submission as being lost in an endorphin haze.

The part of Mija’s description that resonated for me, even in the more sensual play style I favor, is the rare magic feeling that you can take anything and wondering why you ever thought you couldn’t.  That is indisputably rare and wonderful. However, I don’t think it’s sudden for me.  Usually, I can tell whether it’s a good day or not with respect to tolerance quite early in the spanking. Even when I struggle initially and still get in the zone, it seems like a gradual process for me.  I suspect that would be quite different if I played hard scenes cold more often.

I’m intrigued by the idea of having to struggle through a hard, cold thrashing until the endorphins finally kick in, and I’ve even done it a couple times, with Mr. Allen.  As he wasn’t messing with my head at the same time, and he gave me plenty of time between strokes, I didn’t feel as though I were struggling against him, just against the pain. I can imagine that playing out differently if my spanker were using the force of his or her personality to get me through those first twelve to eighteen (yikes!) strokes of a strap or a cane, though.  The main question is whether I’d be so scared that I couldn’t take any more after it finally got to be pleasant that I’d never realize I was flying!

The other issue Mija’s comments raised for me was the difference between obedience and relinquishing control.   As I was thinking about that, I was also involved in an interesting e-mail discussion with Emma Enchanted.  She described a scene in which she was having trouble letting go, of uttering words the top demanded of her.  Her refusal might have seemed stubborn to those on the outside, but as she described it to me, I came to see that it was actually the result of a deep respect for the submissive experience. As she puts it:

There are people, I know, who use language to create a mindset of submission. Those who find in certain words the power to transform themselves. This has never been the case for me, although the words hold just as much power. For me the transformation must come first before the words will flow. They can’t be forced from me (even by myself) -that would diminish the meaning inherent in them.

Perhaps because I’m fundamentally not all that submissive, that’s not true for me. I usually don’t find it all that hard to do what I’m told, especially if it’s a physical challenge, like keeping my hands on the chair and my feet on the floor; I certainly don’t have to feel submissive to do those things. Of course, some commands are harder to obey than others. For example, when we played last year, Paul made me write the following line 50 times: “If I am not a very obedient girl, I will be soundly spanked.”  When I first saw the line, I almost laughed aloud at how well he had chosen it to mess with my head. It wasn’t hard to write the lines, but at some point, he made me read it aloud, more than once. That was much harder, because it was so embarrassing. That, like the reading aloud this year, was a time at which I feared that I couldn’t obey– not that I didn’t want to, but that I couldn’t.

I suppose that was a struggle, but it was more a struggle with myself than with Paul, a point he captured very well in his comment on my last post.  Once I did it, the second time was easier, and it wasn’t that hard when he then made me repeat the line with each stroke of a six-stroke caning.

It was after the official scene was over that I had an experience similar to the one Mija described.  I think Paul knew that I’d just begun to lower my barriers as the scene was ending. After a short break, he asked me if I needed more, and I agreed that I did. So he took me OTK and started spanking me– hard and fast. At first, I was okay, but then I began to struggle, both physically and mentally. He restrained me with his leg and spare hand so that the physical struggle wasn’t an issue, and I found myself beginning to panic. Eventually, in a sort of desperation, I did what the red-headed heroines in cowboy (or daddy) spanking stories always do: I went limp.

At the same time, I quit worrying about how long he was going to spank me, if he was reading my reactions accurately, if I needed to do anything to help him see where I was, or even if I was going to lose control and embarrass myself.  Paul told me later that he hadn’t felt me give in, which was probably because he had me constrained tightly enough that the change in my posture wasn’t at all obvious.  With time– and this was the longest and hardest hand-spanking I’ve ever taken– I became convinced that he didn’t know I’d given in, and I still wasn’t worried about that. I was just relieved that it didn’t hurt as much after I’d stopped struggling and ready to submit– yes, submit– to the spanking until he was done.

I was, as Mija described it, very much in the moment. Intriguingly, though, that wasn’t the time at which I felt the strongest sense of connection with Paul. That usually comes for me with the mind-fuck, with the sense of appreciation that I’ve been outplayed.  It is the struggle for control, having someone wrest it from me, rather than relinquishing it willingly, that is the most important part of the head game for me.  I think that’s at the very heart of my switchiness. That’s probably the stuff another whole post.

The funny thing about that scene with Paul was that I had to consciously re-submit two or three more times during the spanking. Maybe that was because he took several breaks, or maybe it happened in the middle of a long flurry, as the pain became more difficult to manage. I became aware that my body had begun to tense up, and I had to force myself to go limp all over again. Outwardly, I’m not sure it looked very different from a stubborn determination to outlast him, but inwardly, there was all the difference in the world.

Still, I don’t think I was flying through submission. I was just submitting so that I could take the pain I needed to take flight.

Paul Brings Me to Tears

As I said in my previous post, I struggled quite a bit to figure out how to write about this scene with Paul. Initially, I thought it was too emotionally intense for me to blog about at all, but I eventually decided there was plenty of interest to discuss without revealing some of the more personal aspects of the scene. So I’ve decided to make its own post. After all, one of the things I value so much about all my interactions with Paul is that he makes me think, and this scene was no exception. It was also intense enough emotionally that I couldn’t really take it all in at the time. As a result, I’ve found myself coming back to think about it fairly often in the weeks since Shadow Lane. This post, then, is my attempt to work through the scene, to understand it. I doubt that I can do it justice, but I hope I can convey that it was important to me, and perhaps give you an idea why.

This was the third year in a row that I played with Paul at Shadow Lane. The first time was a watershed event for me– the only time I’d ever really felt submissive. I think Paul would agree that we were both a little lucky that scene worked so well, and we talked about it quite a bit leading up to our sophomore attempt last year. He asked intelligent questions and tried to understand my somewhat contradictory answers, but I didn’t feel like I was giving him much to work with. It was almost as though all I could say was “I don’t know! You did it before, so just do it again!” I knew that was unreasonable, and I felt a little bad about not being more helpful. But the truth was, I only had that one experience of submissiveness. I really didn’t know how to generalize from that experience, and perhaps I still don’t.

Not surprisingly, our sophomore effort last year was a bit rockier, even if I found the whole experience extremely interesting. It also gave us something to talk about– what did work for me, what didn’t, and my best guess as to why. I thought I had learned a great deal from that scene, but I think I still gave Paul fairly mixed signals. And, then, at some point, I surprised him completely by acknowledging there were probably some real life areas in which it would be safe to push me.

By the time we got to Shadow Lane, it had been months since we’d talked about play, and I wasn’t really sure where we were in that discussion. I had no idea whether or not I’d managed to explain myself. In retrospect, I should probably have known that Paul would have already planned the scene and that he would have asked me had he needed more information. At the time, though, I wasn’t quite mentally prepared to play when the text arrived from Mija. “We’re back. P wants to see you. !!!”

I don’t know why those exclamation marks didn’t particularly register with me, but they didn’t. So I was still pretty casual when I got to their suite, and it took me a little while to notice that Paul most certainly was not. Apparently, further discussion– other than deciding to play in my room– was unnecessary. I was given a series of instructions and informed of the time at which our scene would start. I hesitated for a second or two, and Paul told me I’d better get going, then, or I wouldn’t be ready on time. So I returned to my room,  changed into schoolgirl attire, and tidied up the room by shoving everything into a drawer. Then I waited, trying to get into the right head space. I don’t think I’m particularly good at doing that by myself, though.

Paul greeted me with a friendly hello, in that soft, almost musical voice of his, so different from his stern demeanor in-scene that, in spite of his earlier orders, I wasn’t sure that we’d started yet. When I play with Paul, we both play as ourselves, but there is nonetheless an element of artifice to our scenes. After all, I’m not generally expected to do what he says in real life, and I suspect he would be appalled at the very notion. When we play, however, I most definitely am, and there are penalties for being disobedient, even unconsciously.

The first time we played together, Paul carefully explained the rules to me in a way that helped draw a line between real life and the upcoming scene. The next two times we played, I found that line a lot less clear. Both times, I also found myself in trouble for disobedience very early in the scene, in an unsettling way. Last year, I resorted to my primary defense mechanism: cheekiness. Not surprisingly, that didn’t go so well for me. So this year, I tried to avoid that, explaining instead that I had honestly thought I was obeying his commands. The ensuing punishment for disobedience was fairly mild, a single stroke of a small whippy cane, but I still felt a little hard done by.

Later, as I thought about the scene, I realized that I hadn’t been quite as cooperative as I had thought. Yes, I was trying to please him, but in doing so, I was anticipating his commands rather than listening to them. That’s probably a also defense mechanism, a way of retaining some control of the scene instead of letting go, letting him steer it. If he’d called me on that at the time, I think I would have realized he was right. Being forced to admit something like that would probably have taken me to a submissive place fairly quickly. Indeed, when I’ve re-played this portion of the scene in my daydreams, I’ve usually imagined that this admission was followed by a harder warning punishment, perhaps six strokes of the cane, very obediently taken.

As it was, I was sent to the corner while he made arrangements.  “You know by now how you stand in the corner with me,” he told me firmly. I had a quick moment of panic in which I wasn’t sure I did know, but then he carried on, telling me to put my nose “right in” the corner, to fold my arms behind my back and to remain very still.  That was easy enough to do, so I did it, once again shivering as he placed his hand on my neck and gently pushed to see that I’d complied fully.

I’m not entirely sure about the order of the next events I’ll describe, but Paul definitely started to unveil his plans while I was in the corner. It would be a three-part scene, he told me, and he would use three implements: the slipper, the tawse and the cane. I would get to choose the order in which I took the three implements, but I would have no say over the number of strokes to be applied with each one.

When he released me from the corner, he continued, I was also to undertake a writing exercise. My handwriting would be unimportant; it would only matter what I wrote. I was to describe three things I didn’t like about myself or wanted to change. He would then read them and determine how many strokes I should get after each portion of the writing assignment.

I think that’s also when he pinned my skirt up to my blouse.  I was really surprised how vulnerable that made me feel, especially as I’m kind of used to being scantily clad from the waist down by now. In this case, he hadn’t even removed my knickers, but I nonetheless felt extremely exposed.

Then there was the task. I was to remain in the corner until I’d decided what to write.  It could be anything I wanted it to be, as long as it was honest. At first, my mind was so blank I couldn’t even decide if I could or would go along with this. Was I really willing to tell Paul– or to tell anyone, really– what I’d most like to change about myself? Of course, I could have chosen a middle ground, revealing flaws I wasn’t really all that worried about, like keeping a messy desk or waiting days between the time I fold my laundry and put it away.  Nonetheless, it didn’t take me very long to decide to proceed with the depth I knew Paul wanted to tap. After all, I completely trust Paul not to belittle me about anything I was to say, not even unintentionally, or even to use it against me outside the scene. That’s a high degree of trust, but Paul’s earned that with me.

Deciding to go ahead didn’t make it any easier to think of anything to write. It was almost as though the behaviors I knew were there kept circling around in a murky fog, refusing to alight next to me where I could get a good look at them. After a while, Paul asked me sternly if I was thinking about what I wanted to write. “I’m trying,” I told him honestly.

He commented, much more gently, that it was very hard, wasn’t it?

Maybe that was the moment of kindness that made me almost start crying in the corner, or maybe he said something else later. All I can remember for sure was that he did or said something nice that took the air out of any remaining resistance.  I put together a rough outline in my head and told him I was ready.

Writing my assignment wasn’t as hard as thinking about it had been. Paul later said that I’d been a bit general, even vague in places, and that was probably true. So I suppose my barriers weren’t completely down. I just remember wanting to be done with the writing, to get the assignment out of my hands.

When I announced I was done, Paul sat in a straight-backed chair and instructed me to stand facing him.  Then, he informed me that he had lied about the next part of the assignment. In a rather dramatic “oh, shit” moment, I realized what he was going to make me do.  He was going to make me read each paragraph aloud, damn him!  I should have known him well enough by now to expect that.

I should definitely have known to keep my “oh, shit” reaction unspoken. The truth is, with as hard a task as Paul had set for me, I didn’t really think my exclamation would register, but it did. He looked pretty shocked as he asked me what I had just said.

“Something spontaneous and ill-advised,” I told him glibly.

Yeah, being glib with Paul is Not A Good Idea.

I think he wanted to get back to the heart of the scene, so he didn’t punish me for that. Instead, he threatened me with soap, and I subsided quickly.

It was time for me to start reading. He was kind again, asking if one of the three parts of my writing that would be easier to read than the others. I said I thought so, and he encouraged me to begin.

I couldn’t though; it seemed utterly impossible that I would say aloud what I had written.  I don’t know if my hands were shaking at the very thought of doing so, but I know my voice was when I told him softly that this was very edgy for me.

Yes, he knew it was, he reassured me. Then, he waited patiently.

Somehow, I read the first part of my writing.

Paul invited me to discuss what I had written OTK. He uses OTK spanking partly as a warm-up, I think, but mostly because dangling over his knee makes me feel so helpless, in a way that assuming position for a harsher punishment doesn’t.  Very early, he asked me why I thought I engaged in that particular behavior, and I found myself admitting something to him that I’d never really articulated for myself. He was encouraging, telling me that understanding why I did something was half the battle.

I did start to cry then.

It was almost a relief to have to stand up to face the first implement I’d chosen, the slipper. It was the great unknown, so I wanted to get it over with first.  Although I cautioned him that I’d never had it before,  he said I should still get twenty with it; twelve wouldn’t be enough. I was ordered to bend over and clasp my legs wherever was most comfortable.  I’d better hold on tightly, though– if I moved my hands or feet, the stroke would not count.

So I wasn’t quite touching toes, but I was as close to that position as my middle-aged, never particularly flexible body could manage.  Throughout the rest of the scene, I learned a new appreciation for how much harder it is to maintain that position than to bend over a sofa, desk, or chair. At one point, I had to ask for  permission to spread my feet a bit more for balance.

The slipper wasn’t as hard to endure as I’d feared, but it was painful enough that I was very glad to be allowed to stand again.  Until I realized I’d have to read the next part of my assignment.

The whole ritual was repeated twice more: reading, an OTK discussion, then bending for the next implement. I don’t remember very much about the conversations that took place in the remainder of the scene, only that Paul at one point scolded and spanked me for being too hard on myself about one of the things I’d read. That probably made me teary all over again, even though I remember thinking he was only partially right, that I must not have explained what I meant clearly enough.

The physical part of the scene was no picnic, either.  I took the tawse next. As I’d expected it was the hardest implement to get through. Paul announced once again that I was to get twenty, which seemed an impossibly high number to me.  My uncertainty must have been pretty obvious, because Paul told me early on that he would give them slowly, that I didn’t need to panic. True to his word, he gave me a lot of time between strokes, but I don’t think he backed off at all on their severity. It bloody hurt!  On top of that, my calves were getting really sweaty, making it harder and harder to hold position. Finally, the 20th stroke landed, and I waited obediently for permission to rise.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but the intensity of the scene peaked there. I don’t know if my natural defenses kicked in about the emotional part, or if the endorphins that had built up during the slow tawsing had made me more mellow, but the last part much easier to get through, both psychologically and physically.  I remember feeling a sense of relief after the first couple of cane strokes.  They hurt, to be sure, but I knew I could take all twelve.  It wasn’t until Paul mentioned that this seemed easier for me than the earlier implements that I suddenly realized why.

I was flying.

I guess the scene was challenging enough emotionally that I wasn’t paying attention to my physical responses, so I was really surprised by that realization.  I answered his question honestly, probably in a tone of wonder.

Nonetheless, he seemed content to keep the caning at the same level. I can’t remember whether he made me stand in the corner again at the end, or if he just ended the scene after the caning. But I do remember nestling in when he led me to the bed and put his arm around me, letting him hold me until it was time to apply lotion to the cane marks.

Thinking back on the scene, I really liked the edginess of having to confess real-life faults, the vulnerability and openness that accompanied those confessions. At some point, Paul mentioned that I had been very brave, and I agreed with him rather strongly.  I certainly felt much braver going through that scene than I ever have just from enduring pain.  The combination of sternness and encouragement he used was also very helpful in getting me to that vulnerable space, as it broke down my resistance very effectively.  As Paul told me later, that’s why he does it. “I’m not being nice to be nice,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, “I’m being nice to be mean.”

That might not be the kind of comment everyone would appreciate, but I did. I like that kind of meanness, and it works very well on me.

The parts that seemed a bit more out of place to me were the discussions we had about what I planned to do about the faults I’d confessed. It seemed strange to have such an adult conversation in the middle of scene in which I was made to feel so small. Still, Paul got much of those discussions right, and even when I didn’t agree with him, it didn’t detract from the rest of the scene. After all, the point wasn’t to solve all the problems in my life– most of which have no easy answer.  It was to get inside my head, to get through my defenses.

That’s not so easy to do, really.  But, once again, Paul managed to push me to a place I wasn’t sure I could go.

I wonder if I want to go back there again.

Shadow Lane Highlights, 2013. Part III: Sunday and Monday

I’ve been dabbling on a third part to my Shadow Lane 2013 highlights for the last week or so. My third annual scene with Paul was certainly one of those, but it took me a while to decide how to blog about it. I had planned to make it a stand-alone post, a fairly serious contrast to my more light-hearted highlights. That’s left me a little worried that there won’t be much substance here. Oh well, I’ll try to publish the two posts closely enough together that this one doesn’t seem so sparse. Besides, who looks to spanking blogs for substance?

Taking up where I left off on Saturday night, let the highlights continue!

11) Spending the Wee Hours of Sunday Morning with Judy and Emma Jane. Saturday night definitely extended well into Sunday morning. I remember checking out the suite parties and talking to a few people for a while, then leaving with Emma Jane to plan our schoolgirl shenanigans for the next day. On our way down to my room, we met Judy in the hall and convinced her to join us. What followed were a lovely couple hours that alternated between talking about real life and plotting our role-play offenses. Almost all the plans we made were utterly incommensurate with the not-too-heavy scene we both needed by that time in the party, but it was a hell of a lot of fun nonetheless! It was also one of those lovely bonding experiences that makes the concomitant lack of sleep oh so worth it.

12) Brunch Instead of Court. I woke up early enough on Sunday to go to Spanking Court, but the room was just too crowded for me. I watched one of the cases brought up between Emma Jane and Cate Stoker, and then embraced my claustrophobia and went down to brunch, where I found Paul and Mija. Mediocre food, good company, and setting up a scene or two for later. I’m not usually so efficient!

13) Admiring the Work of Unlikely Brats. After a relaxed pizza dinner and my somewhat scarier scene with Paul, I returned to Paul, Mija, and Adele’s suite to catch up with the latest in shenanigans. I don’t feel right revealing the names here without their permission, but it was definitely a highlight of the party to hear the story of how two women conspired to remove the clothes of their male suite-mate while he was showering. The really funny part was that this sort of game isn’t very characteristic for either of them. One is actually rather submissive, a temperament that doesn’t seem to go well with pranks of this nature. I’m not sure I’d use that term to describe the other culprit; it’s more that I’d expect her to insist on an improbably high degree of originality in her pranks. Original or not, the joke ended up being uproariously funny, not least because the victim manfully donned a dress belonging to one of the perpetrators and even allowed himself to be photographed in it after finding them.

14) A Mellow Party with Craig & Lizzie. I hadn’t seen enough of Craig and Lizzie this party, so I was really happy when Lizzie sent me a text that they were having a small gathering in their room. It was great to hear the stories of all they’d got up to at this party and to see mutual friends K & M again. I was sorry to be sore enough that I couldn’t really ask M to play. I really enjoy playing with him, even if he’s the only top I know with hands that are big enough to wrap!

Perhaps predictably, Craig had some new thumper-style toy that he wanted to show us all. Of course, Craig’s showing us involves Lizzie’s taking it– and usually every other female bottom in the room, too. As Lizzie bent over and bared herself, I was shocked to see that she was almost completely unblemished, even at this stage in the party. Lizzie is a consummate pain slut, and I don’t think much of her body is off limits. I know she likes being waxed, and it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that she gets off on going to the dentist. So seeing so few marks on Sunday night of the biggest spanking party of the year was quite remarkable.

Fortunately for my faith in my perception of reality, Lizzie explained that she had indeed been bruised before the fire-play and wax play session she and Craig had earlier in the day. I’d love to try fire play some time. But only as a bottom, not a top! I’m not quite sure whether the wax mold of Lizzie’s bottom that Craig proudly displayed has made me more or less likely to try wax play again!

Anyway, Lizzie took a few gentle-ish blows of Craig’s new toy, followed by a hard one that got a fairly strong reaction from her. The floor was then opened to the other bottoms present, who were either willing or strongly encouraged to give it a go. They were both willing to take the stronger blow, with similar reactions to Lizzie’s. When it was my turn, I agreed to try a couple softer strokes. My concern that I really was done for the evening was confirmed by the reaction I got to making the expected adjustment in my attire. I was clearly as marked up as I felt. Still, as is often the case with super-thuddy implements, it looked worse than it was, at least when administered fairly gently. Given the opportunity to experience it at the Lizzie level, I declined, somewhat regretfully. No more potentially damaging play for Indy at this party.

After that party broke up, I made a rather perfunctory visit to the lone remaining suite party. That convinced me in short order that the party was sadly coming to an end. I made my way to bed, knowing I had only a few waking hours left in the party, but still two promised spankings to collect. Would I be able to fit them in, or would a failure to plan them better result in disappointment?

15) Back-to-back F/F Spankings. Fortunately, the two spankers involved, Mija and Adele, were in the same suite. So all I had to do was pack, turn up before breakfast, and express a willingness to be beaten. Mija insisted that coffee come before any spankings. That– and breakfast– seemed like an excellent idea, even if it did leave us less than an hour to play. We therefore returned promptly to their suite, where Adele was at first concerned that she couldn’t find her slipper. Perfectly willing to be spanked with something else, I wasn’t very concerned by its absence until Paul oh-so-helpfully retrieved his and offered it to her. I was quite pleased that Adele found her own slipper, approximately half the size of Paul’s. Observing that there was a “certain poetry” in using the implement she’d brought specially for me, she got to work.

I’m still rather baffled that anyone would think of me and slippers together, especially as I’d never felt one before the previous evening, in Paul’s hands. I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about them, but Adele used it much more moderately than Paul had, and I have to admit, I kind of liked it. I even encouraged her to extend the spanking a little. I actually didn’t mean that cheekily, but the response suggested that might have been the way she interpreted my comment. I suppose that is generally a fairly accurate assumption in dealing with me, so I didn’t complain.

As soon as Adele let me up from the end of the sofa over which she had bent me, I found myself over Mija’s lap. The truth is, I love Mija’s hand. The last time we’d played, I’d commented that I’d be happy to take her hand all day. In retrospect, she might have interpreted that as a challenge, but I actually didn’t mean it that way. I just love being spanked rhythmically, fairly hard, but not very quickly. it’s not that I actually could take that all day, but that I love it so much I might not notice I couldn’t. She has a lovely hand.

This time, she spanked me quite a bit harder that I was expecting, but it was just as lovely. When I asked her if she’d been working out, she explained that she hadn’t; she just had a much smaller time-frame in which to get my attention. Not only was it a lovely spanking, but I’m convinced that the kinds of medium-ish spankings she and Adele gave me help marks from harder scenes to heal more quickly. I’m not sure I can defend that claim logically, but it works for me, at least through a placebo effect. Whether I can really credit Mija and Adele with an easier three-hour flight than I sometimes experience on the way back from SL, it was a lovely way to end the party.

So thanks to Tony, Eve, and everyone who made this party once again my favorite of the year. Whether you appeared in one of these posts at length, in passing, or not at all, it’s seeing all of you that make these parties so special. I can’t wait till next year!