Saturday, July 29, 2006
Once Upon A Spanking, Chapter the Fourth
Continuing the saga of my fateful venture into voyuerism, I now describe how the six young ladies upon whom I had spied dealt with me.
Gunless girl stood and watched me while the other five scurried off. I expected them to return with cute little ping pong or plastic tear-drop thingies. Instead, when they reappeared, they were carrying long, wide, heavy looking paddles of the serious variety. I clenched by butt upon seeing them, fearing they would give me much more pain than I had thought. One of the ladies had been considerate enough to bring a paddle for gunless girl. Then two of the ladies hurried off again, and returned with a handy saw horse. My fate appeared sealed.
“Am I to assume that the sawhorse is for me?” I inquired, somewhat rhetorically.
“Damn right!” replied gunless girl. “Now get those pants down and get over it!”
Reality truly began to set in at that point. I was going to have to expose to these ladies my bare ass, not to mention my organ of manhood, and then drape myself across the horse while they whipped me with those large wooden instruments. I pictured myself on the horse, my ass prominent and on display for the amusement of this group of paddle-wielding females. I flushed in embarrassment. But I also resolved to get my punishment over with. How hard could these girls really hit anyway? I approached the horse, dropped my shorts and my undershorts, and bent across the horse.
Two of the ladies came around to the front of me, crouched down, and grabbed hold of my wrists. “That will not be necessary,” I said. “I won’t be jumping up or struggling.” I was, after all, a spanko, and no self-respecting spanko would attempt escape in such a situation.
“We’ll see about that,” replied gunless girl. In my somewhat prone position, I heard her come up next to me, and felt her tap my posterior with her paddle. I shivered, as it felt ice cold, like it had been in the freezer. I girded myself for the first swat.
I waited for my impending punishment to begin. And waited.
And waited.
And……..
CRACK! The sound startled me, and I lurched slightly. And then the pain came. And, boy did it come! I felt like my skin has just been flayed from my gluteus. My mouth opened in a soundless shout, and my eyes became very wide. I had never felt anything so painful in my life. However, I held my position.
I heard gunless girl say, “Well, I’m impressed. You’re pretty tough for a pervert.” I winced again at the sound of that ignominious word. “You guys can let him go. Kris, you next!”
Hmm, I thought. One swat from each girl. Painful, but not unbearably so. I brightened considerably. This punishment isn’t going to be that bad, I thought.
The next girl approached, tapped me, paused, and blasted my ass with a fine, swift swat. On top of the first swat, this one seared more. I had to fight for control. While I was recovering from swat number two, the third lady came up and delivered another blow. I grunted in pain, but I refused to move or cry out.
The girls were clearly enjoying the show. They commented on the lovely shade of red that my butt was turning, and how cute the slight quiver in my butt was. They encouraged the next lady to hit me as hard as she could, and I think she did. I lurched forward somewhat. My entire world was engulfed in the pain in my bottom. Everything else seemed to disappear. I gritted my teeth. Just two more to go!
One of the ladies who had held my arms was next. Her swat wasn’t quite so hard, although that was like saying that the Empire State Building isn’t quite as tall as the Sears Tower. The pain was still enough to make me perspire. I readied myself for the last swat. It came, swift and solid, landing right across the center of my poor, aching butt, right on top of the major pain already there. I gasped, then let out a long breath. It was over. Or so I thought.
I stood up. “What are you doing?” replied gunless girl.
“Each of you has had their turn. My punishment is over.”
“No it isn’t,” replied gunless girl seriously. “That was round one. This one’s going fifteen rounds!”
I’ve always been quick with math. An instant calculation told my that my paddling was going to be not six, but ninety whacks! I cringed at the thought. And with them rotating in this fashion, they were going to drag this punishment out, lengthening my torture. However, as you all certainly recollect, I am a spanko. When I left there, I was certainly going to have a red hot butt, something that I could enjoy for some hours or even a day or two. And I did deserve to be punished for my indiscretion. So I resolved to be properly stoic and take this paddling well.
The next chapter will explain just how well I took this spanking.
Gunless girl stood and watched me while the other five scurried off. I expected them to return with cute little ping pong or plastic tear-drop thingies. Instead, when they reappeared, they were carrying long, wide, heavy looking paddles of the serious variety. I clenched by butt upon seeing them, fearing they would give me much more pain than I had thought. One of the ladies had been considerate enough to bring a paddle for gunless girl. Then two of the ladies hurried off again, and returned with a handy saw horse. My fate appeared sealed.
“Am I to assume that the sawhorse is for me?” I inquired, somewhat rhetorically.
“Damn right!” replied gunless girl. “Now get those pants down and get over it!”
Reality truly began to set in at that point. I was going to have to expose to these ladies my bare ass, not to mention my organ of manhood, and then drape myself across the horse while they whipped me with those large wooden instruments. I pictured myself on the horse, my ass prominent and on display for the amusement of this group of paddle-wielding females. I flushed in embarrassment. But I also resolved to get my punishment over with. How hard could these girls really hit anyway? I approached the horse, dropped my shorts and my undershorts, and bent across the horse.
Two of the ladies came around to the front of me, crouched down, and grabbed hold of my wrists. “That will not be necessary,” I said. “I won’t be jumping up or struggling.” I was, after all, a spanko, and no self-respecting spanko would attempt escape in such a situation.
“We’ll see about that,” replied gunless girl. In my somewhat prone position, I heard her come up next to me, and felt her tap my posterior with her paddle. I shivered, as it felt ice cold, like it had been in the freezer. I girded myself for the first swat.
I waited for my impending punishment to begin. And waited.
And waited.
And……..
CRACK! The sound startled me, and I lurched slightly. And then the pain came. And, boy did it come! I felt like my skin has just been flayed from my gluteus. My mouth opened in a soundless shout, and my eyes became very wide. I had never felt anything so painful in my life. However, I held my position.
I heard gunless girl say, “Well, I’m impressed. You’re pretty tough for a pervert.” I winced again at the sound of that ignominious word. “You guys can let him go. Kris, you next!”
Hmm, I thought. One swat from each girl. Painful, but not unbearably so. I brightened considerably. This punishment isn’t going to be that bad, I thought.
The next girl approached, tapped me, paused, and blasted my ass with a fine, swift swat. On top of the first swat, this one seared more. I had to fight for control. While I was recovering from swat number two, the third lady came up and delivered another blow. I grunted in pain, but I refused to move or cry out.
The girls were clearly enjoying the show. They commented on the lovely shade of red that my butt was turning, and how cute the slight quiver in my butt was. They encouraged the next lady to hit me as hard as she could, and I think she did. I lurched forward somewhat. My entire world was engulfed in the pain in my bottom. Everything else seemed to disappear. I gritted my teeth. Just two more to go!
One of the ladies who had held my arms was next. Her swat wasn’t quite so hard, although that was like saying that the Empire State Building isn’t quite as tall as the Sears Tower. The pain was still enough to make me perspire. I readied myself for the last swat. It came, swift and solid, landing right across the center of my poor, aching butt, right on top of the major pain already there. I gasped, then let out a long breath. It was over. Or so I thought.
I stood up. “What are you doing?” replied gunless girl.
“Each of you has had their turn. My punishment is over.”
“No it isn’t,” replied gunless girl seriously. “That was round one. This one’s going fifteen rounds!”
I’ve always been quick with math. An instant calculation told my that my paddling was going to be not six, but ninety whacks! I cringed at the thought. And with them rotating in this fashion, they were going to drag this punishment out, lengthening my torture. However, as you all certainly recollect, I am a spanko. When I left there, I was certainly going to have a red hot butt, something that I could enjoy for some hours or even a day or two. And I did deserve to be punished for my indiscretion. So I resolved to be properly stoic and take this paddling well.
The next chapter will explain just how well I took this spanking.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Once Upon A Spanking, Part The Third
I believe it was Forest Gump's mom who said, "Stupid is as stupid does." Or perhaps not. In any event, here continues my story of what happened when I did something truly stupid.
Upon entering the house, I discovered, to my disappointment, that the ladies of the house were now more modestly attired. One of the ladies was leafing through the phone book. “What is the number for the police?” she asked.
One of her housemates replied, “Nine one one. Duh!” Such loving friends.
“Um,” I started, “there is no reason to involve the authorities. I’m sure they’ll just yell at me a bit and then release me when I promise to behave more civilly.”
“No way,” replied gun girl. “I’m gonna have you arrested. Perverts like you should be locked up.” Although I had frequently been called worse, being called a pervert still made me wince.
“Well, there was lots of screaming and yelling coming from the house. If I told the officers that I thought someone might be in trouble and I was just making sure no one was being molested, I doubt they would arrest me.” Desperation allowed my brain and mouth to start reconnecting.
Gun girl, who appeared to have something is a leadership role of the house, continued to glare at me. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s perverts like you who molest people like us.”
I was beginning to worry, both because this person was appearing to be rather intractable, and because she was still carrying the shotgun. I had to think fast. I decided to throw myself at the mercy of the court.
“I’ll tell you what,” I began. “How about, first, setting aside that rather scary looking weapon. I don’t wish to harm anyone. I’ll admit that I was in the wrong. Rather than calling the police, and having to answer a lot of questions, fill out forms, maybe go to court, let’s just settle this right here. I’ll plead guilty right now and you can decide my punishment.”
The ladies looked to one another. The former topless one spoke first. “Put that stupid gun down, Angela,” she said. It is ironic that gun girl had the same name as my future spouse. Gun girl started to say something, then cracked the gun open, removed the shells within, and carried it to another room. My bladder felt much better.
“Well, what should we do to him?” another lady asked. They began to discuss a number of possible punishments, some of which involved heavy, blunt instruments striking me in my testicle region. I started wondering of the police might have been a better option after all.
The now gun-less Angela returned and added her suggestions, which were mostly not plausible since they involved removal of internal organs or removal if certain external ones. Finally, one of the ladies, a very lovely but somewhat silly looking blonde, blurted out, “Why don’t we paddle his bare ass!”
Okay, perhaps she wasn’t so silly after all. It seemed like a very sensible suggestion to me. However, rather than appear too enthusiastic, I opted to remain silent.
Gunless girl was now studying me. “I think,” she said, with a mischievous grin, “we might have struck his weak spot.” If only she knew that I was a spanko. Then again, if she know I was a spanko, we would likely return to shotguns, perverts, and police. I maintained my silence and tried to look uncomfortable.
“Yeah,“ replied blonde girl. “Look, he’s starting to squirm.” Taking the hint, I tried to look like I was squirming.
“Looks more like he’s shitting his pants,” commented another of the ladies. Apparently, my squirming was not terribly convincing. The other cuties issued forth a heartfelt “Ewwwww!”
“That settles it, ladies,” announced gunless girl, “go get your paddles!”
Please stay tuned for part four, when we find out what the ladies did with their paddles.
Upon entering the house, I discovered, to my disappointment, that the ladies of the house were now more modestly attired. One of the ladies was leafing through the phone book. “What is the number for the police?” she asked.
One of her housemates replied, “Nine one one. Duh!” Such loving friends.
“Um,” I started, “there is no reason to involve the authorities. I’m sure they’ll just yell at me a bit and then release me when I promise to behave more civilly.”
“No way,” replied gun girl. “I’m gonna have you arrested. Perverts like you should be locked up.” Although I had frequently been called worse, being called a pervert still made me wince.
“Well, there was lots of screaming and yelling coming from the house. If I told the officers that I thought someone might be in trouble and I was just making sure no one was being molested, I doubt they would arrest me.” Desperation allowed my brain and mouth to start reconnecting.
Gun girl, who appeared to have something is a leadership role of the house, continued to glare at me. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s perverts like you who molest people like us.”
I was beginning to worry, both because this person was appearing to be rather intractable, and because she was still carrying the shotgun. I had to think fast. I decided to throw myself at the mercy of the court.
“I’ll tell you what,” I began. “How about, first, setting aside that rather scary looking weapon. I don’t wish to harm anyone. I’ll admit that I was in the wrong. Rather than calling the police, and having to answer a lot of questions, fill out forms, maybe go to court, let’s just settle this right here. I’ll plead guilty right now and you can decide my punishment.”
The ladies looked to one another. The former topless one spoke first. “Put that stupid gun down, Angela,” she said. It is ironic that gun girl had the same name as my future spouse. Gun girl started to say something, then cracked the gun open, removed the shells within, and carried it to another room. My bladder felt much better.
“Well, what should we do to him?” another lady asked. They began to discuss a number of possible punishments, some of which involved heavy, blunt instruments striking me in my testicle region. I started wondering of the police might have been a better option after all.
The now gun-less Angela returned and added her suggestions, which were mostly not plausible since they involved removal of internal organs or removal if certain external ones. Finally, one of the ladies, a very lovely but somewhat silly looking blonde, blurted out, “Why don’t we paddle his bare ass!”
Okay, perhaps she wasn’t so silly after all. It seemed like a very sensible suggestion to me. However, rather than appear too enthusiastic, I opted to remain silent.
Gunless girl was now studying me. “I think,” she said, with a mischievous grin, “we might have struck his weak spot.” If only she knew that I was a spanko. Then again, if she know I was a spanko, we would likely return to shotguns, perverts, and police. I maintained my silence and tried to look uncomfortable.
“Yeah,“ replied blonde girl. “Look, he’s starting to squirm.” Taking the hint, I tried to look like I was squirming.
“Looks more like he’s shitting his pants,” commented another of the ladies. Apparently, my squirming was not terribly convincing. The other cuties issued forth a heartfelt “Ewwwww!”
“That settles it, ladies,” announced gunless girl, “go get your paddles!”
Please stay tuned for part four, when we find out what the ladies did with their paddles.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Once Upon A Spanking, Chapter Two
Presented here for your review is part two of the story of a time during my college days when I made a particularly poor choice.
I found a spot that gave me a good view of the activities in the house while keeping hidden. Or so I thought. I was enjoying the sights of a lady in a t-shirt and thong bending over another lady while pummeling her with a pillow, and the gentlewoman with the failing short wrestling with another dear gal whose midriff shirt had been pulled up well above her midriff, and not seeing a bra anywhere to be found, when I heard a noise behind me.
I spun around to see a tall, curvaceous, dark-skinned girl glaring at me. Okay, in truth, that is what I eventually saw. Upon first look, what took up my entire focus was the very large shotgun barrel that was pointed at me.
The girl (and I use the term “girl” only to differentiate her with the other females in this story) raised the gun until it was pointed directly at my face. “What the fuck are you doing,” she asked, none too gently.
I thought of a clever lie to explain my presence. I was going to tell her that I was part of a neighborhood watch program, and that I heard the shrieks coming from within, so I was investigating to make sure that no one was being the victim of a sexual assault.
That was what my brain did. My mouth, however, issued forth, “Umm … err … well… (cough) … I unhh ….” If you have read any of my other adventures, you’ve probably determined that this disconnect between my highly evolved brain and my rather unintelligent mouth was a common problem for me.
“Bullshit!” she said. “You were looking in the window!”
“No … I mean … I was ….”
“That wasn’t a question.”
Seeing that she had deduced my motives accurately, I decided that silence was my best option at that moment.
We quietly stood there for some moments. At that point, I decided that, whatever else happened, I had to defuse the situation enough so that she would lower her very scary weapon, and so that I would not embarrass myself further by urinating on myself. I raised my hands to about shoulder height and took a long, slow, deep breath to steady myself.
“My dear,” I began, “I understand that you believe me to be trespassing on your property. I must confess, there is some validity to that assumption. However, I mean you absolutely no harm. I simply let my college hormones think for me for a moment, and I made a very poor decision. Now, why don’t you lower that shotgun. I’m sure that you’re scared and angry with me, but I’m sure you don’t wish any violence.”
She and her shotgun stared at me for a bit. I turned my hands palms-up to try to show her that I was not a threat. It was her turn to take a cleansing breath. Slowly, she let the gun barrel fall until it was pointing at the ground.
At this point, I noticed that the other house residents had discovered what was happening and were now watching us from the window. They were, to both my relief and disappointment, more appropriately covered. One of the shouted through the window, “Bring him inside so we can call the police.”
The word “police” once again almost caused my bladder to lose control. “Come on,” said the girl with the gun. While getting very nervous, I decided that following her instruction was the best way to further calm things. It was also the best way to get the girl to divest herself of her shotgun.
Part three will be posted here just as soon as I write it.
I found a spot that gave me a good view of the activities in the house while keeping hidden. Or so I thought. I was enjoying the sights of a lady in a t-shirt and thong bending over another lady while pummeling her with a pillow, and the gentlewoman with the failing short wrestling with another dear gal whose midriff shirt had been pulled up well above her midriff, and not seeing a bra anywhere to be found, when I heard a noise behind me.
I spun around to see a tall, curvaceous, dark-skinned girl glaring at me. Okay, in truth, that is what I eventually saw. Upon first look, what took up my entire focus was the very large shotgun barrel that was pointed at me.
The girl (and I use the term “girl” only to differentiate her with the other females in this story) raised the gun until it was pointed directly at my face. “What the fuck are you doing,” she asked, none too gently.
I thought of a clever lie to explain my presence. I was going to tell her that I was part of a neighborhood watch program, and that I heard the shrieks coming from within, so I was investigating to make sure that no one was being the victim of a sexual assault.
That was what my brain did. My mouth, however, issued forth, “Umm … err … well… (cough) … I unhh ….” If you have read any of my other adventures, you’ve probably determined that this disconnect between my highly evolved brain and my rather unintelligent mouth was a common problem for me.
“Bullshit!” she said. “You were looking in the window!”
“No … I mean … I was ….”
“That wasn’t a question.”
Seeing that she had deduced my motives accurately, I decided that silence was my best option at that moment.
We quietly stood there for some moments. At that point, I decided that, whatever else happened, I had to defuse the situation enough so that she would lower her very scary weapon, and so that I would not embarrass myself further by urinating on myself. I raised my hands to about shoulder height and took a long, slow, deep breath to steady myself.
“My dear,” I began, “I understand that you believe me to be trespassing on your property. I must confess, there is some validity to that assumption. However, I mean you absolutely no harm. I simply let my college hormones think for me for a moment, and I made a very poor decision. Now, why don’t you lower that shotgun. I’m sure that you’re scared and angry with me, but I’m sure you don’t wish any violence.”
She and her shotgun stared at me for a bit. I turned my hands palms-up to try to show her that I was not a threat. It was her turn to take a cleansing breath. Slowly, she let the gun barrel fall until it was pointing at the ground.
At this point, I noticed that the other house residents had discovered what was happening and were now watching us from the window. They were, to both my relief and disappointment, more appropriately covered. One of the shouted through the window, “Bring him inside so we can call the police.”
The word “police” once again almost caused my bladder to lose control. “Come on,” said the girl with the gun. While getting very nervous, I decided that following her instruction was the best way to further calm things. It was also the best way to get the girl to divest herself of her shotgun.
Part three will be posted here just as soon as I write it.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Once Upon A Spanking, Part One
On these warm summer evenings, my mind will occasionally harken back to the adventures of my youth. If you’ve followed this blog of mine for any length of time, you undoubtedly have realized that, in my younger and dumber days, I had a knack of getting myself into rather odd situations. As was my luck, some of these situations even involved a spanking or two.
It was, I believe, at the beginning of my second senior year of college (I was on what is commonly referred to as “the five-year plan”). I had headed up to school as soon as the dorms opened because I had become bored sitting around my parents house. I figured that I could get moved in and then maybe find some friends and quaff a few ales. I was between girlfriends, so I didn’t have any romantic liaisons planned for the immediate future. After unpacking, buying my books, and checking in with some comrades, I felt the need to reacquaint myself with the campus and its surrounding environs.
It was a pleasant evening, and most of the moving activities had concluded for the day, so the campus was somewhat quiet. I wandered from end to end, then headed toward town to see whom I might bump in to. As I strolled, I chanced to encounter a particularly noisy house. Since it was still light out, I thought it unusual for the party to have started so soon, but this was, after all, a college town. I meandered past, and then stopped at the sound of unmistakably female voices squealing with delight. Being a typical college gentleman, I stopped to investigate.
I glanced at the house and thought I saw a handful of very pretty young ladies engaged in some sort of horseplay. As I studied the house further, it appeared that some of these young ladies were not entirely dressed, if you catch my drift. I continued to watch.
After a few more moments of viewing, I thought I spied the sight of one thing that makes all young college males sit up and take notice: a bared breast. I concentrated harder to be certain, but with the continuous movement of the wrestling ladies, I could not ascertain conclusively if what I’d glimpsed was, indeed, a luscious, topless female. I decided to take a closer look.
If you recall the first paragraph of this essay, you’ll note that I referred to my college days as “dumber.” This was certainly one of those dumb decisions. While I considered my approach of the house to be “investigation,” someone else might use a different term when one is looking into the windows of a strange house. The term “pervert” comes to mind. You are free to supply your own adjective.
In a weak attempt at stealth, I walked up the front walk of the house next door. About half-way up, I veered off and snuck toward the building that I was truly interested in. Its front room had a big picture window in the front and a smaller but still substantial window on one side of the house. I went to the side window, and unobtrusively peeked in.
What I saw was five fine young ladies engaged in what is commonly known as a “pillow fight.” They were in varying states of undress, ranging from short t-shirt and shorts to long t-shirt and no shorts. They were enthusiastically pummeling each other with a variety of pillows, cushions, and the occasional stuffed animal. At that point, I realized that my earlier discovery had indeed proven accurate: One of these lovely ladies had been wearing one of those torn sweatshirts that were in vogue at the time. The shirt had been pulled down past her shoulders and almost to her waist, showing off such a fine set of womanly curves as I had ever been fortunate to gaze upon.
To be continued............
It was, I believe, at the beginning of my second senior year of college (I was on what is commonly referred to as “the five-year plan”). I had headed up to school as soon as the dorms opened because I had become bored sitting around my parents house. I figured that I could get moved in and then maybe find some friends and quaff a few ales. I was between girlfriends, so I didn’t have any romantic liaisons planned for the immediate future. After unpacking, buying my books, and checking in with some comrades, I felt the need to reacquaint myself with the campus and its surrounding environs.
It was a pleasant evening, and most of the moving activities had concluded for the day, so the campus was somewhat quiet. I wandered from end to end, then headed toward town to see whom I might bump in to. As I strolled, I chanced to encounter a particularly noisy house. Since it was still light out, I thought it unusual for the party to have started so soon, but this was, after all, a college town. I meandered past, and then stopped at the sound of unmistakably female voices squealing with delight. Being a typical college gentleman, I stopped to investigate.
I glanced at the house and thought I saw a handful of very pretty young ladies engaged in some sort of horseplay. As I studied the house further, it appeared that some of these young ladies were not entirely dressed, if you catch my drift. I continued to watch.
After a few more moments of viewing, I thought I spied the sight of one thing that makes all young college males sit up and take notice: a bared breast. I concentrated harder to be certain, but with the continuous movement of the wrestling ladies, I could not ascertain conclusively if what I’d glimpsed was, indeed, a luscious, topless female. I decided to take a closer look.
If you recall the first paragraph of this essay, you’ll note that I referred to my college days as “dumber.” This was certainly one of those dumb decisions. While I considered my approach of the house to be “investigation,” someone else might use a different term when one is looking into the windows of a strange house. The term “pervert” comes to mind. You are free to supply your own adjective.
In a weak attempt at stealth, I walked up the front walk of the house next door. About half-way up, I veered off and snuck toward the building that I was truly interested in. Its front room had a big picture window in the front and a smaller but still substantial window on one side of the house. I went to the side window, and unobtrusively peeked in.
What I saw was five fine young ladies engaged in what is commonly known as a “pillow fight.” They were in varying states of undress, ranging from short t-shirt and shorts to long t-shirt and no shorts. They were enthusiastically pummeling each other with a variety of pillows, cushions, and the occasional stuffed animal. At that point, I realized that my earlier discovery had indeed proven accurate: One of these lovely ladies had been wearing one of those torn sweatshirts that were in vogue at the time. The shirt had been pulled down past her shoulders and almost to her waist, showing off such a fine set of womanly curves as I had ever been fortunate to gaze upon.
To be continued............
Thursday, July 20, 2006
On The Use Of Safe Words
A key component to a spanking relationship is the practice of using what is commonly known as a safe word (for a Wikipedia article on the subject, click here). This is certainly a wise practice to make sure that the person on the business end of the paddle, so to speak, is not hurting beyond their endurance.
If you read the entire article I link to above, you will note that some couples do not actually use a specific word or gesture, but rather have an understanding as to when the person being spanked is in real distress. This would be a good way to describe the relationship that Angela and I have.
We have never really discussed using a safe word. When we began the spanking part of our lives together, they were entirely for erotic pleasure, so pushing ones limits was never an objective. As the spanking very gradually became more intense, we sort of got a "feel" for the other's tolerance, so we never surpassed it. Therefore, in our relationship, a safe word has never really been required or desired.
In reality, there are certain phrases that clearly communicate it is time to stop. For me, there have been two occasions where I was no longer having fun. The worst was when Angela was wielding a rather thick and long leather strap. I took two or three strokes that were fine. However, on the next one, the end of the strap whipped around to my front and slashed into my genitalia. Before Angela could swing again, I firmly but calmly stated, "My dear, you must please stop immediately!" before collapsing to my knees and whimpering. She immediately recognized that I was truly distressed and ceased immediately. She knows my tone of voice well enough to know the difference between playing and suffering.
My innate feelings for Angela are quite equivelent. Once, I was using a cane and I missed my mark, striking her lower on her thighs than I had intended. Similiar to my response, Angela, in a voice that was easy to interpret, said to me, "HOLY FUCK! YOU LITTLE SHIT! THAT REALLY HURT!" As you can see, Angela is somewhat more explosive than I.
So I now know, althought it may be subtle, that anything stated by her during a spanking in such a manner is an indication that the spanking is not so fantastic.
Note:
I was saddened to see that the lovely and talented Patty has opted to cease publishing her blog, A Creative Spanko Wench. I, for one, shall miss her fine writing and outstanding and very delicate drawing. I wish Patty nothing but the best in all things and I say to her, thank you for all of your wonderful work. Be well, Patty.
If you read the entire article I link to above, you will note that some couples do not actually use a specific word or gesture, but rather have an understanding as to when the person being spanked is in real distress. This would be a good way to describe the relationship that Angela and I have.
We have never really discussed using a safe word. When we began the spanking part of our lives together, they were entirely for erotic pleasure, so pushing ones limits was never an objective. As the spanking very gradually became more intense, we sort of got a "feel" for the other's tolerance, so we never surpassed it. Therefore, in our relationship, a safe word has never really been required or desired.
In reality, there are certain phrases that clearly communicate it is time to stop. For me, there have been two occasions where I was no longer having fun. The worst was when Angela was wielding a rather thick and long leather strap. I took two or three strokes that were fine. However, on the next one, the end of the strap whipped around to my front and slashed into my genitalia. Before Angela could swing again, I firmly but calmly stated, "My dear, you must please stop immediately!" before collapsing to my knees and whimpering. She immediately recognized that I was truly distressed and ceased immediately. She knows my tone of voice well enough to know the difference between playing and suffering.
My innate feelings for Angela are quite equivelent. Once, I was using a cane and I missed my mark, striking her lower on her thighs than I had intended. Similiar to my response, Angela, in a voice that was easy to interpret, said to me, "HOLY FUCK! YOU LITTLE SHIT! THAT REALLY HURT!" As you can see, Angela is somewhat more explosive than I.
So I now know, althought it may be subtle, that anything stated by her during a spanking in such a manner is an indication that the spanking is not so fantastic.
Note:
I was saddened to see that the lovely and talented Patty has opted to cease publishing her blog, A Creative Spanko Wench. I, for one, shall miss her fine writing and outstanding and very delicate drawing. I wish Patty nothing but the best in all things and I say to her, thank you for all of your wonderful work. Be well, Patty.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Shamelessly Borrowing
Normally, I prefer to choose my own subjects on which to write. In addition, I prefer not to explicitly ask for feedback on the assumption that you will leave a response to my work if you are moved to do so and not if I continualkly pester you.
Today, I shall violate both of those policies.
The beloved Bonnie, author of My Bottom Smarts, who is perhaps the most famous of all spanking bloggers, has alerted her readers to what is being referred to as Delurk Week. The object of the exercise is, for those of you who generally prefer to not leave comments on the writings of others, to change your pattern and inform us of your presence. Since I do so enjoy Bonnie's efforts, and since I'm always happy for a short and easy topic on which to write, I've chosen to join in this effort.
Therefore, if you please, drop me a sentence or two to let me know what you think of the imaginary world of Fantastic Spanking. You may even withhold judgement and just say "hi." It is not necessary to leave your name, as your words will make a most satisfactory signature.
So I say to you, my gentle readers, go forth and delurk! You might just find the experience to be quite fantastic.
Today, I shall violate both of those policies.
The beloved Bonnie, author of My Bottom Smarts, who is perhaps the most famous of all spanking bloggers, has alerted her readers to what is being referred to as Delurk Week. The object of the exercise is, for those of you who generally prefer to not leave comments on the writings of others, to change your pattern and inform us of your presence. Since I do so enjoy Bonnie's efforts, and since I'm always happy for a short and easy topic on which to write, I've chosen to join in this effort.
Therefore, if you please, drop me a sentence or two to let me know what you think of the imaginary world of Fantastic Spanking. You may even withhold judgement and just say "hi." It is not necessary to leave your name, as your words will make a most satisfactory signature.
So I say to you, my gentle readers, go forth and delurk! You might just find the experience to be quite fantastic.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Odds And Ends
Todays entry contains some things that I'd like to mention regarding those in our treasured spanking community whom I believe deserve some attention.
Comments on the Blogs of Others
Comments on the Blogs of Others
- Today, Patty of A Creative Spanko Wench has posted one of her drawings, this one of a middle-aged gentlemen paddling what could be his wife across his knee with a haribrush. I thought that this drawing was particularly well done.
- One of the finest essayists on the subject of Dominance And Submission writes for Confessions Of An English Gentleman. His writing is clear, concise, and very thoughtful. Although his particular choice of lifestyle is not really my cup of tea, his entries give me great insight into his pleasure, and, by design, mine. I look forward to reading his essays.
- Last Tuesday, the famous Bonnie of My Bottom Smarts wrote an especially funny column on some of the more unusual search queries that have been used to fine her site. While the search strings aren't especially humorous, her comments following each one are. I'd recommend not drinking anything while reading this else you could end up like me and snort said liquid out through your nasal passages.
A Question
I cannot seem to find the fine blog entitled Paul Sez. The link that I had been using, paulsez.com, no longer brings me to Paul's clever entries. Does anyone know the whereabouts Mr. Paul's work, or if he has chosen to cease publishing?
A General Thanks
I was recently purusing the internet looking for other excellent spanking blogs when I discovered a couple of sites that were previously unknown to me that had included a link to Fantastic Spanking. I'd like to extend a mighty big "thank-you" to the owners of those blogs, and equally to everyone who has done me the kindness of adding to there site a link to me. If you have included a link to here on your blog, please leave a comment or drop me an email so that I may have the opportunity to visit your site. Anyone who reads Fantastic Spanking must naturally be intelligent and creative, and I should like to reciprocate by directing my readers to your side.
I hope you are having a fantastic weekend!
Friday, July 14, 2006
The Spanko Residence, Final Part
When last we met, the Spakowiak family had found the means to purchase a small farmstead, which included a couple of acres of land, a small house, some other small out-buildings, and a very big, sturdy barn, which we were determined to remodel into our castle. Herein will be described the final result of the barn-house. It is somewhat longer than the previous chapters (which are displayed below), but I hope you find the additional descriptions, and the accompanying spanking, satisfying.
Angela, Maribel, and I moved into the farmhouse, which, in actuality was not much smaller than the dwelling that we had been renting. It had three small bedrooms, a cozy living room, and a smartly-designed kitchen. There was, however, only one powder room. I could see from the beginning that it was going to be difficult for me to live with two women, albeit one a toddler, and one bathroom. I was desperately hoping that the barn remodeling would be finished before Maribel reached puberty.
At this time, for the sake of brevity, I shall not go into the several thousand (or was it million?) difficulties we encountered in the process of transforming the barn. For the most part, Angela was satisfied with the progress. While we had chosen the best craftsmen and materials, I, however, frequently questioned their punctuality and professionalism. Such became my pique that, after a few months, Angela forbid me to have any part in overseeing the construction, assuring me that it was best for the good health of me and the relationship if she assumed that role.
Perhaps just as frustrating was the fact that, living in a small house with a pre-pre-school aged girl, there was almost no opportunity to engage in any of our beloved spanking activities. While there are the occasional situations when we could fob Maribel off on gullible relatives for a few hours of privacy, for the majority of the time my bottom was disappointingly pale. I began to despair.
At last, on a fine September Saturday, the upgrading of the old barn was completed. While there were a few minor details left to deal with, I was told that the abode was ready for us to move in. Angela did not let me near the structure until our parents had arrived, to be able to share in the unveiling. So, upon their arrival, I was promptly blindfolded and let to our creation.
I felt myself crossing a threshold and heard the door close behind me. Then, with a flourish and a “ta-da!”, Angela whipped off my blindfold and presented me with The Spanko Residence.
To say that I was impressed would be a gross understatement. While I had certainly seen the plans and discussed details with Angela, I was not prepared for the majesty of our new home. I stood, staring and gaping, until Angela nudged me and said, “Well, what do you think?”
When I found my voice, I responded, “I believe that, once moved in, I shall never want to leave.”
What I saw was a wonderfully open view. The builders had cut large openings in each end of the barn and inserted large panes of glass, so the house was wonderfully bright. The main living area was in the center of the building, and was larger than the entire farmhouse. A fireplace had been installed in the center to provide warmth and coziness. There was a second fireplace at the far end of the room. The floors were polished maple, just asking for some plush throw rugs to be placed on them. Around three sides of the living room were a kitchen to die for, an entertainment room for the children (for we wished to bring forth siblings for Maribel), a fabulous bathroom with a hot tub and stall shower that would hold the entire family, a well-equipped laundry room, and other small storage rooms.
There were three sets of stairs leading up to the second floor, which had been added about 12 feet up. The second story rooms were directly above the ones on the lower floor, with a walkway running entirely around. There were five generous bedrooms up there, although we would eventually turn two of them into offices for Angela and myself. There were also not one, not two, but three bathrooms, all with showers, and one with a whirlpool bath. There was enough closet space for perhaps three or four families, although, with what would eventually be three women living with me, the closets eventually filled up.
Above these rooms were yet more rooms. I shant describe them now as they were, at the time, unfinished and unheated, and primarily planned for puttering and storage.
Everything was made of wood, that had been sanded and lacquered. Not pre-made wall sheets, mind you, but real wood. And, the most amazing thing about the entire affair was that, somehow, after all of the comings and goings, the banging and pounding, the barn still smelled wonderful!
I told Angela, “I’m returning to the small house to retrieve my easy chair and my television. Then I am going to sit down, turn on a ball game, and never get up again!” The house was perfect.
Angela suggested I postpone my vegging until we had finished moving in the furniture. Then she asked that the grandparents take Maribel back to the small house so that she could discuss with me a small detail that needed seeing to. When our parents and the tyke disappeared, Angela led me to the kitchen. There were already a few utensils hanging neatly on the wall. One of these was a small, polished, wooden cutting board.
Now, since we have owned it, the cutting board had never been used for cutting. There was nary a stain or a knife mark on it. It had, however, been applied to my naked bottom, and Angela’s, on a number of memorable occasions. It usually resided with our collection of other spanking implements, so I did not know why Angela had mounted it where she had. I was soon to discover why.
Without preamble, Angela said to me, “Take off your pants!” Thus the reason for the cutting / spanking board. Before disrobing, I wrapped Angela in a loving, emotional embrace.
“You’ve done good!” I told her. “This house will be the finest living quarters outside of the Rich Corner (a term used for the area in our city where the most affluent residents resided).” I proceeded to relieve myself of my trousers and undies, and then I headed for the exact center of the living area. I bent over, awaiting my second spanking in the barn.
And such a spanking it was! Angela knew just the right touch to make me bathe in the warmth on my bottom. While the paddling was relatively brief, she was thorough and exuberant. Each swat was snapped onto my fleshy posterior with a fine “Crack!” and a most satisfying sting. She made me count the last ten, and delivered them harder and slower than the others, which was perfectly acceptable with me. When she concluded, my butt was a most excellent shade of red, and she left it with just the perfect tingle.
As was our habit, we exchanged places so that I could provide her butt with a feeling comparable to mine. Afterwards, I fetched a pile of sheets used by the craftsmen that had been left in a corner and laid them out on the floor. Then, once again for the second time in the barn, we made love on the floor.
Not wanting to worry the folks, we did not linger, but, upon heavenly climax, quickly dressed, caught our breath, fixed our hair (she had also thought to leave some combs in the downstairs commode), and returned to the small house. We spent the remainder of the weekend moving our furniture into the barn-house (which took a few hours), and finding the arrangement of the afore-mentioned furnishings that most satisfied Angela (which is still occurring as of this writing). We purposely moved the bedrooms first, so that we could spend the night sleeping in our castle.
I would like to say that our second daughter was conceived during our spanking dedication of our residence, but, alas, that blessed event would not take place for another couple of years yet. Following that, Angela’s health began to deteriorate, so we opted to freeze the size of the family at four. So we have all staked out our favorite places in the house. I painted the old house and tore out a couple of walls to make it part guest house and part workshop/spanking paradise. This too shall perhaps be the subject of a future entry. In the meantime, we continue to call the big barn our home and our castle. It fits our criteria perfectly: it is roomy, it has a wonderful character, and, most importantly, (…wait for it…) it is fantastic!
Angela, Maribel, and I moved into the farmhouse, which, in actuality was not much smaller than the dwelling that we had been renting. It had three small bedrooms, a cozy living room, and a smartly-designed kitchen. There was, however, only one powder room. I could see from the beginning that it was going to be difficult for me to live with two women, albeit one a toddler, and one bathroom. I was desperately hoping that the barn remodeling would be finished before Maribel reached puberty.
At this time, for the sake of brevity, I shall not go into the several thousand (or was it million?) difficulties we encountered in the process of transforming the barn. For the most part, Angela was satisfied with the progress. While we had chosen the best craftsmen and materials, I, however, frequently questioned their punctuality and professionalism. Such became my pique that, after a few months, Angela forbid me to have any part in overseeing the construction, assuring me that it was best for the good health of me and the relationship if she assumed that role.
Perhaps just as frustrating was the fact that, living in a small house with a pre-pre-school aged girl, there was almost no opportunity to engage in any of our beloved spanking activities. While there are the occasional situations when we could fob Maribel off on gullible relatives for a few hours of privacy, for the majority of the time my bottom was disappointingly pale. I began to despair.
At last, on a fine September Saturday, the upgrading of the old barn was completed. While there were a few minor details left to deal with, I was told that the abode was ready for us to move in. Angela did not let me near the structure until our parents had arrived, to be able to share in the unveiling. So, upon their arrival, I was promptly blindfolded and let to our creation.
I felt myself crossing a threshold and heard the door close behind me. Then, with a flourish and a “ta-da!”, Angela whipped off my blindfold and presented me with The Spanko Residence.
To say that I was impressed would be a gross understatement. While I had certainly seen the plans and discussed details with Angela, I was not prepared for the majesty of our new home. I stood, staring and gaping, until Angela nudged me and said, “Well, what do you think?”
When I found my voice, I responded, “I believe that, once moved in, I shall never want to leave.”
What I saw was a wonderfully open view. The builders had cut large openings in each end of the barn and inserted large panes of glass, so the house was wonderfully bright. The main living area was in the center of the building, and was larger than the entire farmhouse. A fireplace had been installed in the center to provide warmth and coziness. There was a second fireplace at the far end of the room. The floors were polished maple, just asking for some plush throw rugs to be placed on them. Around three sides of the living room were a kitchen to die for, an entertainment room for the children (for we wished to bring forth siblings for Maribel), a fabulous bathroom with a hot tub and stall shower that would hold the entire family, a well-equipped laundry room, and other small storage rooms.
There were three sets of stairs leading up to the second floor, which had been added about 12 feet up. The second story rooms were directly above the ones on the lower floor, with a walkway running entirely around. There were five generous bedrooms up there, although we would eventually turn two of them into offices for Angela and myself. There were also not one, not two, but three bathrooms, all with showers, and one with a whirlpool bath. There was enough closet space for perhaps three or four families, although, with what would eventually be three women living with me, the closets eventually filled up.
Above these rooms were yet more rooms. I shant describe them now as they were, at the time, unfinished and unheated, and primarily planned for puttering and storage.
Everything was made of wood, that had been sanded and lacquered. Not pre-made wall sheets, mind you, but real wood. And, the most amazing thing about the entire affair was that, somehow, after all of the comings and goings, the banging and pounding, the barn still smelled wonderful!
I told Angela, “I’m returning to the small house to retrieve my easy chair and my television. Then I am going to sit down, turn on a ball game, and never get up again!” The house was perfect.
Angela suggested I postpone my vegging until we had finished moving in the furniture. Then she asked that the grandparents take Maribel back to the small house so that she could discuss with me a small detail that needed seeing to. When our parents and the tyke disappeared, Angela led me to the kitchen. There were already a few utensils hanging neatly on the wall. One of these was a small, polished, wooden cutting board.
Now, since we have owned it, the cutting board had never been used for cutting. There was nary a stain or a knife mark on it. It had, however, been applied to my naked bottom, and Angela’s, on a number of memorable occasions. It usually resided with our collection of other spanking implements, so I did not know why Angela had mounted it where she had. I was soon to discover why.
Without preamble, Angela said to me, “Take off your pants!” Thus the reason for the cutting / spanking board. Before disrobing, I wrapped Angela in a loving, emotional embrace.
“You’ve done good!” I told her. “This house will be the finest living quarters outside of the Rich Corner (a term used for the area in our city where the most affluent residents resided).” I proceeded to relieve myself of my trousers and undies, and then I headed for the exact center of the living area. I bent over, awaiting my second spanking in the barn.
And such a spanking it was! Angela knew just the right touch to make me bathe in the warmth on my bottom. While the paddling was relatively brief, she was thorough and exuberant. Each swat was snapped onto my fleshy posterior with a fine “Crack!” and a most satisfying sting. She made me count the last ten, and delivered them harder and slower than the others, which was perfectly acceptable with me. When she concluded, my butt was a most excellent shade of red, and she left it with just the perfect tingle.
As was our habit, we exchanged places so that I could provide her butt with a feeling comparable to mine. Afterwards, I fetched a pile of sheets used by the craftsmen that had been left in a corner and laid them out on the floor. Then, once again for the second time in the barn, we made love on the floor.
Not wanting to worry the folks, we did not linger, but, upon heavenly climax, quickly dressed, caught our breath, fixed our hair (she had also thought to leave some combs in the downstairs commode), and returned to the small house. We spent the remainder of the weekend moving our furniture into the barn-house (which took a few hours), and finding the arrangement of the afore-mentioned furnishings that most satisfied Angela (which is still occurring as of this writing). We purposely moved the bedrooms first, so that we could spend the night sleeping in our castle.
I would like to say that our second daughter was conceived during our spanking dedication of our residence, but, alas, that blessed event would not take place for another couple of years yet. Following that, Angela’s health began to deteriorate, so we opted to freeze the size of the family at four. So we have all staked out our favorite places in the house. I painted the old house and tore out a couple of walls to make it part guest house and part workshop/spanking paradise. This too shall perhaps be the subject of a future entry. In the meantime, we continue to call the big barn our home and our castle. It fits our criteria perfectly: it is roomy, it has a wonderful character, and, most importantly, (…wait for it…) it is fantastic!
Thursday, July 13, 2006
The Spanko Residence, Part IV
After taking a day off, here is the fourth installment of the tale of how our fabulous living quarters came to be ours. The last part completed with Angela and I christening the barn with a spanking and a boink, and a decision to buy the property.
For the next few days, we discussed several different ways to make the little house bigger. We thought about tearing the house down and building a new, bigger house, but that sort of defeated the purpose of purchasing the property, and, besides, the old house was very cute. We considered adding rooms to the house, but we were afraid of ruining the character of the house. Everything we considered just didn’t seem quite right. We began to despair.
One evening, I was conversing with a close friend on the telephone. I have known this gentleman since prep school. He has a creative mind, and has some skill in carpentry. I told him about the farmstead that we had become interested in, and about the difficulty of coming up with a design to increase the livable space in the house.
His response caught me off guard. “Why you don’t just leave the house as it is and remodel the barn?” he said. “If that barn is as sturdy as I think it is, you could do anything you want with it. Just live in the farmhouse for a while, and build your real house in the barn.”
I discussed this concept with Angela, and she practically squealed with delight. She began to invent all of the exciting rooms that we could install in the barn. While her ideas were sound, the sheer number of them had me thinking that we might have to construct a second barn to include them all. So after some discussion, we contacted the real estate agent and asked her if she could hold the property for us while we explored financing options and did some research to determine if our grand plan was feasible.
My friend flew in to take a look at the barn with us. He and Angela spend the next two days huddling and designing our dream house. Not being architecturally inclined, I left them to their folly while I negotiated with the bankers, architects, and builders to see if we could have just a tiny bit of our life savings remaining after supplying the down payment. On the third day, friend and Angela went to visit an architect, who met with a builder, who came up with an estimate of how much money it would be, which he then presented to me.
When I regained consciousness after my fainting spell, I locked myself in my office and attempted to calculate whether or not we would be able to eat should we choose to proceed with this effort. I determined that, as long as Angela continued to work, and even though it would pretty much cost us every penny we had in the bank, and although I would have to sell my pretty, expensive, new car (on which the monthly payments were substantial) and buy an older vehicle that I could pay off completely, we would be able to afford to purchase and remodel the old farmstead and still be able to buy food, although not much else.
Thus ends part four. Part Five will be the final installment. It will give a description of how the new home turned out, and the first spanking that Angela and I engaged in once the barn remodeling was finished.
Conclusion ==>
For the next few days, we discussed several different ways to make the little house bigger. We thought about tearing the house down and building a new, bigger house, but that sort of defeated the purpose of purchasing the property, and, besides, the old house was very cute. We considered adding rooms to the house, but we were afraid of ruining the character of the house. Everything we considered just didn’t seem quite right. We began to despair.
One evening, I was conversing with a close friend on the telephone. I have known this gentleman since prep school. He has a creative mind, and has some skill in carpentry. I told him about the farmstead that we had become interested in, and about the difficulty of coming up with a design to increase the livable space in the house.
His response caught me off guard. “Why you don’t just leave the house as it is and remodel the barn?” he said. “If that barn is as sturdy as I think it is, you could do anything you want with it. Just live in the farmhouse for a while, and build your real house in the barn.”
I discussed this concept with Angela, and she practically squealed with delight. She began to invent all of the exciting rooms that we could install in the barn. While her ideas were sound, the sheer number of them had me thinking that we might have to construct a second barn to include them all. So after some discussion, we contacted the real estate agent and asked her if she could hold the property for us while we explored financing options and did some research to determine if our grand plan was feasible.
My friend flew in to take a look at the barn with us. He and Angela spend the next two days huddling and designing our dream house. Not being architecturally inclined, I left them to their folly while I negotiated with the bankers, architects, and builders to see if we could have just a tiny bit of our life savings remaining after supplying the down payment. On the third day, friend and Angela went to visit an architect, who met with a builder, who came up with an estimate of how much money it would be, which he then presented to me.
When I regained consciousness after my fainting spell, I locked myself in my office and attempted to calculate whether or not we would be able to eat should we choose to proceed with this effort. I determined that, as long as Angela continued to work, and even though it would pretty much cost us every penny we had in the bank, and although I would have to sell my pretty, expensive, new car (on which the monthly payments were substantial) and buy an older vehicle that I could pay off completely, we would be able to afford to purchase and remodel the old farmstead and still be able to buy food, although not much else.
Thus ends part four. Part Five will be the final installment. It will give a description of how the new home turned out, and the first spanking that Angela and I engaged in once the barn remodeling was finished.
Conclusion ==>
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
The Spanko Residence, Part The Third
Presented for your enjoyment is the third installment of the story of how Angela and I discovered the parcel that was to become our home. In the first episode, we chanced upon a property that had been a small farm. Part two talked about what we found when we toured the property. At the end, Angela had an idea as to what types of activities in which we we could engage in the big old barn.
Since we had left the little one with the grandparents, we were in no particular hurry to get home. I immediately turned the car around and began to proceed back to the farmstead, desperately hoping that the real estate agent was long gone upon our return. Upon arrival, we quickly canvassed the area and found the property to be deserted. We hastened to the barn.
No sooner had we entered the barn that Angela removed her dainty female undergarment (it was a mild evening so she had worn a knee-length casual skirt). She scurried to the center of the floor and flipped up her skirt. “You first,” she giggled, then bent over, giving me my most favorite view in the whole world. I whipped off my belt and told her to get ready. Her little squeal indicated that she was.
I fired off a good lash with the belt. It struck with a pleasing smack on her wondrous posterior. Amazingly, despite the size of the building, there was no echo. Apparently, the wooden walls and dirt floor nicely absorbed sound. I let loose with several more swings, and Angela jumped and giggled, and kept bending over for more. Not wanting to disappoint my darling spouse, I proceeded to thoroughly thrashed her behind while she sung with pleasure.
When I paused, she stood up and turned around. My turn,” she indicated, reaching for my belt. I allowed her to take it, lowered my trousers and undertrousers to the floor, and joyfully assumed the position. The first stroke that Angela delivered stung like a most delicious fire, and I moaned with delight. She wasted no time in following up with another, and another.
I must confess, I find the belt to be a most delightful implement with which to be spanked. When swung horizontally, it has a most satisfactory sting, making my rump region feel like a sparkler. It leaves me feeling warm and cozy, and yet, if the spanker is careful, doesn’t leave marks or bruises. And Angela was quite proficient with it. She found a nice rhythm, and moved the lashes up and down so that my entire bottom was treated to an erotic pleasure.
When Angela felt that I had been comfortably thrashed, she stopped and stepped back to admire her handiwork. After allowing her to gaze for a bit, I rose and turned around. She immediately noticed my quite obvious arousal. She came to me, pulled my face to hers, and proceeded to plant a long, passionate, thoroughly enjoyable kiss upon my lips and she reached down with her other hand to gently grasp my swollen manhood. When our faces disengaged, I held up a finger to pause her, then pulled up my trousers and hurried out to the car to get the blanket that we kept in the trunk for just such an emergency. When I returned, Angela was naked, so, naturally, I also donned my birthday suit.
We made the kind love that evening that you make in forbidden places, with lots of low moans, panting, and laughs. It was more than a quickie, but not as languorous as on a soft mattress surrounded by pillows. We ran our hands over each other, engaged in oral pleasure, and took part in intercourse in several basic positions. While there was some urgency in our coupling, we were not in a terrible hurry, so we worked to delay ultimate gratification for a few extra minutes. When we finally climaxed, we did so with moans and laughter. As we at last collapsed in each other’s arms, I felt so invigorated it was like being in college again.
When she caught her breath, Angela looked up at me and said, “We have to buy this place.” Since we had just christened it, I naturally agreed with her. “However,” I said, “we need to do some major remodeling. We can’t settle for that little house.”
Thus ends part three. Part four will describe how we made our decision to purchase the farmstead.
Part Four ==>
Since we had left the little one with the grandparents, we were in no particular hurry to get home. I immediately turned the car around and began to proceed back to the farmstead, desperately hoping that the real estate agent was long gone upon our return. Upon arrival, we quickly canvassed the area and found the property to be deserted. We hastened to the barn.
No sooner had we entered the barn that Angela removed her dainty female undergarment (it was a mild evening so she had worn a knee-length casual skirt). She scurried to the center of the floor and flipped up her skirt. “You first,” she giggled, then bent over, giving me my most favorite view in the whole world. I whipped off my belt and told her to get ready. Her little squeal indicated that she was.
I fired off a good lash with the belt. It struck with a pleasing smack on her wondrous posterior. Amazingly, despite the size of the building, there was no echo. Apparently, the wooden walls and dirt floor nicely absorbed sound. I let loose with several more swings, and Angela jumped and giggled, and kept bending over for more. Not wanting to disappoint my darling spouse, I proceeded to thoroughly thrashed her behind while she sung with pleasure.
When I paused, she stood up and turned around. My turn,” she indicated, reaching for my belt. I allowed her to take it, lowered my trousers and undertrousers to the floor, and joyfully assumed the position. The first stroke that Angela delivered stung like a most delicious fire, and I moaned with delight. She wasted no time in following up with another, and another.
I must confess, I find the belt to be a most delightful implement with which to be spanked. When swung horizontally, it has a most satisfactory sting, making my rump region feel like a sparkler. It leaves me feeling warm and cozy, and yet, if the spanker is careful, doesn’t leave marks or bruises. And Angela was quite proficient with it. She found a nice rhythm, and moved the lashes up and down so that my entire bottom was treated to an erotic pleasure.
When Angela felt that I had been comfortably thrashed, she stopped and stepped back to admire her handiwork. After allowing her to gaze for a bit, I rose and turned around. She immediately noticed my quite obvious arousal. She came to me, pulled my face to hers, and proceeded to plant a long, passionate, thoroughly enjoyable kiss upon my lips and she reached down with her other hand to gently grasp my swollen manhood. When our faces disengaged, I held up a finger to pause her, then pulled up my trousers and hurried out to the car to get the blanket that we kept in the trunk for just such an emergency. When I returned, Angela was naked, so, naturally, I also donned my birthday suit.
We made the kind love that evening that you make in forbidden places, with lots of low moans, panting, and laughs. It was more than a quickie, but not as languorous as on a soft mattress surrounded by pillows. We ran our hands over each other, engaged in oral pleasure, and took part in intercourse in several basic positions. While there was some urgency in our coupling, we were not in a terrible hurry, so we worked to delay ultimate gratification for a few extra minutes. When we finally climaxed, we did so with moans and laughter. As we at last collapsed in each other’s arms, I felt so invigorated it was like being in college again.
When she caught her breath, Angela looked up at me and said, “We have to buy this place.” Since we had just christened it, I naturally agreed with her. “However,” I said, “we need to do some major remodeling. We can’t settle for that little house.”
Thus ends part three. Part four will describe how we made our decision to purchase the farmstead.
Part Four ==>
Monday, July 10, 2006
The Spanko Residence, Part Two
Here, my friends, is the second part of this multi-part series that discusses how the Spakowiak family came to live, love, and spank in a barn. Part One was published yesterday, and you may scroll down if you wish to puruse that episode prior to enjoying this one.
We walked through the house and found it sturdy, quaint, and cheery. Unfortunately, as was our experience, the main domicile did not have as much room as we would have prefered. I was prepared to thank the real estate agent and be on my way, when, in her politely pushy way, she convinced me to have a look at some of the other buildings on the property.
There were three other structures. One was a good sized garage, that would hold perhaps three cars as well as providing work space for woodworking and mechanical repairs. The second building was a generous storage shed. These were nice and in good repair, but not of much other note. The last, and most interesting, building that we toured was the barn.
When I entered the barn, the first thing that I noticed was that it was, I believe the term is, humoungus. The roof appeared to be at least thirty feet in the air, and the floor looked like it would comfortably house a 747 airplane or a basketball gymnasium, complete with a couple of thousand seats. As I continued to examine it, I discovered that the building was quite sturdy. No, that is an understatement. I believe that the building was so sound that it could be hit by a Class V hurricane or a volley of artillery shells and show nary shudder. The framing and support joists were made of old-growth lumber that was a full twelve-inches square, and there were a lot of them. The wood that made up the up the walls of the barn were cedar and well cared-for, if a bit weather-beaten. And the place smelled wonderful!
There was only one problem. Inside the barn, there was nothing between the walls except space. The building was completely empty and unfinished. Since I didn’t have a 747 or a basketball team, I did not see a use for the place. So we expressed how impressed we were with the property, but it really didn’t meet our needs. We again thanked the real-estate agent and headed for home.
Angela was oddly quiet on the drive home. I attributed her silence to the fact that it had been a long day and that she was likely tired. As we neared our rented house, I asked her if she was planning to head straight for bed. Curiously, she indicated that she was not tired.
When I inquired further, she confided that she was intrigued by the old farmstead that we had just toured. I pointed out that the house was far too small for our wishes, but she indicated that it was not the house that had piqued her interest, but the barn. I asked her what she found so fascinating about a big old empty barn.
“You know,” she replied, “If we bought that house, I could spank you in that barn every day.”
To be continied. I'm not promising anything, but part three just might involve some spanking.
Part Three ==>
We walked through the house and found it sturdy, quaint, and cheery. Unfortunately, as was our experience, the main domicile did not have as much room as we would have prefered. I was prepared to thank the real estate agent and be on my way, when, in her politely pushy way, she convinced me to have a look at some of the other buildings on the property.
There were three other structures. One was a good sized garage, that would hold perhaps three cars as well as providing work space for woodworking and mechanical repairs. The second building was a generous storage shed. These were nice and in good repair, but not of much other note. The last, and most interesting, building that we toured was the barn.
When I entered the barn, the first thing that I noticed was that it was, I believe the term is, humoungus. The roof appeared to be at least thirty feet in the air, and the floor looked like it would comfortably house a 747 airplane or a basketball gymnasium, complete with a couple of thousand seats. As I continued to examine it, I discovered that the building was quite sturdy. No, that is an understatement. I believe that the building was so sound that it could be hit by a Class V hurricane or a volley of artillery shells and show nary shudder. The framing and support joists were made of old-growth lumber that was a full twelve-inches square, and there were a lot of them. The wood that made up the up the walls of the barn were cedar and well cared-for, if a bit weather-beaten. And the place smelled wonderful!
There was only one problem. Inside the barn, there was nothing between the walls except space. The building was completely empty and unfinished. Since I didn’t have a 747 or a basketball team, I did not see a use for the place. So we expressed how impressed we were with the property, but it really didn’t meet our needs. We again thanked the real-estate agent and headed for home.
Angela was oddly quiet on the drive home. I attributed her silence to the fact that it had been a long day and that she was likely tired. As we neared our rented house, I asked her if she was planning to head straight for bed. Curiously, she indicated that she was not tired.
When I inquired further, she confided that she was intrigued by the old farmstead that we had just toured. I pointed out that the house was far too small for our wishes, but she indicated that it was not the house that had piqued her interest, but the barn. I asked her what she found so fascinating about a big old empty barn.
“You know,” she replied, “If we bought that house, I could spank you in that barn every day.”
To be continied. I'm not promising anything, but part three just might involve some spanking.
Part Three ==>
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Welcome To The Spanko Residence
In past entries, I have made mention of the domicile in which the Spakowiak family lives. At this time, I should like to provide more details about our particular homestead. You see, it is quite fantastic. I shall start with a discussion of how Angela and I came to purchase this particular location to call our home.
Shortly after Maribel was born, we began a search for a new home, as the house we were living in was rather small, not terribly interesting, and rented. We were intending on bringing forth at least one additional offspring, and wanted the children to live on a property where they could have a decent amount of playing space. Since Angela and I were both employed in the information technology field (translation: computers) we make a healthy income. We therefore decided to search for something of a good size, was on a fair-sized plot of land, and had character.
We soon discovered that this type of housing did not exist, at least within our price range.
Every property we examined that was of an acceptable size was plastic and commonplace. We reviewed many older, interesting houses, and, while of considerable character, they were all too small for our requirements, and were frequently on postage0stamp-sized lots. When we did come across an abode that seemed to be ideal, the asking price would be beyond our means … by perhaps one or even two digits!
One weekend afternoon, while driving back from someplace or another (I may be imaginary, but even my memory is limited), we drove past what appeared to be a small farmstead in the middle of suburbia. It had an abandoned look to it, but there was a for-sale sign in front of the house. For some curious reason, this particular property seemed to be speaking to both Angela and me. In addition, our lease was to expire soon and we did not wish to sign another one. Therefore, the next workday, we made an appointment with our real estate agent to look the place over.
At the appointed time, we rendezvoused at the farmstead. We learned that the property belonged to an elderly couple who had farmed the surrounding property since around the time of World War II. They had gradually sold off parcels of their land to developers who had installed on them that horrid suburban invention known as the “subdivision.” What was left was their house and remaining buildings, and about two acres of land which they continue to tend as a small farm or a large garden, depending on your point of view. The couple, now in their eighties, had decided that upkeep of the property was now beyond their energy level. Since they were comfortable financially, as the land that they had parted with proved to be of considerable value, they had decided to move into a nice little home in a part of the country where the weather didn’t suck for half of the year. They were hoping to be able to sell the farmstead to someone who would live on the entire property, and not to yet another developer. So they were patient to sell, looking for just the right buyer. In addition, their asking price was very reasonable, somewhat below the asking price for houses in the surrounding “subdivisions.”
Please stay tuned for part two of my little serial story, as I hope to publish the next installment on the morrow.
Part Two =>
Shortly after Maribel was born, we began a search for a new home, as the house we were living in was rather small, not terribly interesting, and rented. We were intending on bringing forth at least one additional offspring, and wanted the children to live on a property where they could have a decent amount of playing space. Since Angela and I were both employed in the information technology field (translation: computers) we make a healthy income. We therefore decided to search for something of a good size, was on a fair-sized plot of land, and had character.
We soon discovered that this type of housing did not exist, at least within our price range.
Every property we examined that was of an acceptable size was plastic and commonplace. We reviewed many older, interesting houses, and, while of considerable character, they were all too small for our requirements, and were frequently on postage0stamp-sized lots. When we did come across an abode that seemed to be ideal, the asking price would be beyond our means … by perhaps one or even two digits!
One weekend afternoon, while driving back from someplace or another (I may be imaginary, but even my memory is limited), we drove past what appeared to be a small farmstead in the middle of suburbia. It had an abandoned look to it, but there was a for-sale sign in front of the house. For some curious reason, this particular property seemed to be speaking to both Angela and me. In addition, our lease was to expire soon and we did not wish to sign another one. Therefore, the next workday, we made an appointment with our real estate agent to look the place over.
At the appointed time, we rendezvoused at the farmstead. We learned that the property belonged to an elderly couple who had farmed the surrounding property since around the time of World War II. They had gradually sold off parcels of their land to developers who had installed on them that horrid suburban invention known as the “subdivision.” What was left was their house and remaining buildings, and about two acres of land which they continue to tend as a small farm or a large garden, depending on your point of view. The couple, now in their eighties, had decided that upkeep of the property was now beyond their energy level. Since they were comfortable financially, as the land that they had parted with proved to be of considerable value, they had decided to move into a nice little home in a part of the country where the weather didn’t suck for half of the year. They were hoping to be able to sell the farmstead to someone who would live on the entire property, and not to yet another developer. So they were patient to sell, looking for just the right buyer. In addition, their asking price was very reasonable, somewhat below the asking price for houses in the surrounding “subdivisions.”
Please stay tuned for part two of my little serial story, as I hope to publish the next installment on the morrow.
Part Two =>
Saturday, July 08, 2006
A Long And Winding Story
My spanko friends, it seems that I have come down with an affliction called "writer's whine." In truth, I must confess, I made that up. Perhaps I should explain: Whilst I enjoy writing these anecdotes of my make-believe life, I am finding that my recitals can be rather lengthy. As a result, they take a considerable amount of time to record. The whine part comes in because I sometimes feel like I don't want to write anything simply because it will take too much time out of my busy non-existence.
Now, I suppose I could write a little a day, and then publish the entire story. However, I believe that a blogger should post frequently, at least three times a week. My favorite diaries are the ones that include new material most every day. So, while I want to post often, I do not want to consume a considerable part of my day. So, as any self-respecting worrier does, I do not post at all.
Therefore, I have come to a compromise that I hope will resolve both of my concerns and continue to keep this little piece of the internet fresh and interesting. I shall endeavor to release my longer stories in multiple parts. I realize that I've displayed a few of my recountings in two or three parts, but even those have been on the lengthy side. So I shall perhaps give you a few paragraphs a day. That way I shall reduce the demands on my time, as well as shamelessly encouraging you to return to this particular indulgence of mine more frequently.
And with that, I shall begin my story!
Unfortunately, I have run out of time for writing for this day. So I shall regale you with another of my adventures beginning tomorrow.
Or perhaps Monday.
If I feel like it.
Indeed, I already feel as if this experiment is quite fantastic.
Now, I suppose I could write a little a day, and then publish the entire story. However, I believe that a blogger should post frequently, at least three times a week. My favorite diaries are the ones that include new material most every day. So, while I want to post often, I do not want to consume a considerable part of my day. So, as any self-respecting worrier does, I do not post at all.
Therefore, I have come to a compromise that I hope will resolve both of my concerns and continue to keep this little piece of the internet fresh and interesting. I shall endeavor to release my longer stories in multiple parts. I realize that I've displayed a few of my recountings in two or three parts, but even those have been on the lengthy side. So I shall perhaps give you a few paragraphs a day. That way I shall reduce the demands on my time, as well as shamelessly encouraging you to return to this particular indulgence of mine more frequently.
And with that, I shall begin my story!
Unfortunately, I have run out of time for writing for this day. So I shall regale you with another of my adventures beginning tomorrow.
Or perhaps Monday.
If I feel like it.
Indeed, I already feel as if this experiment is quite fantastic.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Meet The Spankos
In previous posts, I introduced you to my wonderful wife, Angela. Now allow me to bring the rest of the family into the story.
I have two beautiful daughters. Maribel will soon be twenty. She just finished her sophomore year at one of our esteemed state universities. She is smart, articulate, athletic, outgoing, and quite popular. Colette is thirteen. She's not as friendly as Maribel, but she is very loyal. Once you are her friend, she will do anything in her power to assist or defend you. C0lette is also incredibly intelligent. She is a voracious reader and is also something of a computer geek. She's also in that awkward time where she is no longer a little child but still a good distance from adulthood. Angela is very good at handling teenage crises, but, for me, they are an endless source of frustration.
Allow me to illustrate that last statement. Shortly after Maribel came home from school this summer, she and Colette planned an outing to the local mega-mall. They said that they were looking for some summer clothes, but more likely they were planning to meet up with friends and look for handsome boys. In any case, I was sitting and leisurely reading the newspaper when Colette strolled by. She had applied a considerable amount of makeup to her young face, and rather poorly.
Being a typical father, I do not understand the female fasination with makeup. To me, it covers up ones natural beauty and can make one look sterile and artificial. So I prefer my girls to keep away from the stuff. Also, I must confess, I am not ready to lose my "little girl," so by having her avoid more mature practices I'm trying to hold on for a few more months.
I stopped Colette and informed her that she was to go back and wash the makeup off of her face. Naturally, she regaled me with the typical teenage whine, but I held firm and she finally returned to the powder room to wash. I returned to my newspaper.
Roughly 15 minutes later, Colette returned. Her face had clearly been cleaned, but I could not fail to notice that she was still wearing a little makeup, more stratigically placed this time. I proceeded to let her know that I was disappointed in her attempt to deceive me by still wearing a little makeup, and again insisted that she remove it.
"But, Daddy," she complained, "Mom put this on for me!"
Now. my recollection was that Angela and I had agreed that the girls were to postpone the wearing of makeup until perhaps their fifteenth year. I was quite confounded that my love would so blantantly diverge from this agreement. However, Colette was not known to tell tales, especially ones that were easy to disprove. So, with my youngest in tow, I went to find Angela.
"My dear," I began when I found her, "did you help Colette apply the bit of makeup that she appears to be wearing?"
"Yes," she responded. "Doesn't she look cute?"
"But darling," I replied, "I thought that we had agreed...."
"Oh, I think she's old enough," interrupted Angela. "Besides, she just needed a little instruction on how to properly apply a couple of things to enhance her beauty."
Before I could fashion a reply, Maribel came by to gush about how nice her sister looked with a little polish applied to her face. She and Angela fussed a little more, and then the girls hurried off to their shopping and socializing excursion.
When the girls left, I asked Angela why she had so blantantly disregarded our earlier agreement. She brushed off my concern. "It's okay," she said. "I felt she was old enough to wear makeup responsibly. And it made her look really good!"
At that point, I was summarily dismissed. Quietly fuming, I returned to my reading, but I could not concentrate. I just stared at the paper, wondering what other rules Angela felt could be broken without consulting with her husband and the girls' father. Would Colette soon be attired in slinky, skimpy little outfits more aprropriate for young adults out bar-hopping and looking for a handsome man with which bed? Would she be wearing mini-skirts and high-heels to school in the fall? I was quite concerned that my little girl was joining the sexual revolution a little earlier than I was comfortable with.
Thirty minutes or so later, I was still ruminating when Angela appeared. She was clad only in a long t-shirt and panties (why are women's underpants referred to as "panties"), and she was carrying one of my favorite wooden hairbrushes. Without saying a word, she took the paper from my hands, handed me the brush, and positioned herself, bottom up, over my lap. After over twenty years of marriage, my Angela does know my moods.
Still without talking, I pulled up her t-shirt and pulled down the panties. I proceeded to paddle her bare butt quite thoroughly, striking one cheek firmly several times and then repeating this on her other orb. She squirmed on my lap and tightly gripped my leg, but she otherwise didn't resist or complain. I worked over both cheeks considerably, then I delivered a handful of swift swats to the backs of her thighs. After a few more whacks to her now-bright red bottom, I concluded the paddling. I do admit, the activity did make me feel better.
Angela rose from my lap and proceed to rub some of the sting out of her pert posterior. She allowed me to inspect the damage. I must admit, I had done quite a fine job. Her backside was uniformly crimson and clearly tender.
At this point, Angela proceeded to explain that she felt the conflicts with Maribel over makeup were not productive, and that, being a woman, she could understand the pressure that a thirteen-year-old girl would feel to begin practicing more adult-like activities. She also pointed out that, if we were to compromise on small things like makeup, that perhaps she would not feel inclined to progress to more advanced subjects like tobacco, alcohol, controlled substances, or, god forbid, sexual activity. Being a typical father, the thought of my "little girl" doing the naked mambo with a horny teenage boy made me uncomfortable, to see the list. So I conceded the point. I did ask, and Angela agreed, to, in the future, present Colette to me when introducing new behaviors rather than having my youngest just try to stroll past. This, we agreed, would avoid unnecessary conflict and save unwanted shock to my fatherly heart.
It can be hard to watch ones children grow up. It is even harder one is still growing up themselves. But, I guess, that we never really stop growing up.
When you stop to consider it, that concept is pretty fantastic.
Have a safe and enjoyable holiday.
I have two beautiful daughters. Maribel will soon be twenty. She just finished her sophomore year at one of our esteemed state universities. She is smart, articulate, athletic, outgoing, and quite popular. Colette is thirteen. She's not as friendly as Maribel, but she is very loyal. Once you are her friend, she will do anything in her power to assist or defend you. C0lette is also incredibly intelligent. She is a voracious reader and is also something of a computer geek. She's also in that awkward time where she is no longer a little child but still a good distance from adulthood. Angela is very good at handling teenage crises, but, for me, they are an endless source of frustration.
Allow me to illustrate that last statement. Shortly after Maribel came home from school this summer, she and Colette planned an outing to the local mega-mall. They said that they were looking for some summer clothes, but more likely they were planning to meet up with friends and look for handsome boys. In any case, I was sitting and leisurely reading the newspaper when Colette strolled by. She had applied a considerable amount of makeup to her young face, and rather poorly.
Being a typical father, I do not understand the female fasination with makeup. To me, it covers up ones natural beauty and can make one look sterile and artificial. So I prefer my girls to keep away from the stuff. Also, I must confess, I am not ready to lose my "little girl," so by having her avoid more mature practices I'm trying to hold on for a few more months.
I stopped Colette and informed her that she was to go back and wash the makeup off of her face. Naturally, she regaled me with the typical teenage whine, but I held firm and she finally returned to the powder room to wash. I returned to my newspaper.
Roughly 15 minutes later, Colette returned. Her face had clearly been cleaned, but I could not fail to notice that she was still wearing a little makeup, more stratigically placed this time. I proceeded to let her know that I was disappointed in her attempt to deceive me by still wearing a little makeup, and again insisted that she remove it.
"But, Daddy," she complained, "Mom put this on for me!"
Now. my recollection was that Angela and I had agreed that the girls were to postpone the wearing of makeup until perhaps their fifteenth year. I was quite confounded that my love would so blantantly diverge from this agreement. However, Colette was not known to tell tales, especially ones that were easy to disprove. So, with my youngest in tow, I went to find Angela.
"My dear," I began when I found her, "did you help Colette apply the bit of makeup that she appears to be wearing?"
"Yes," she responded. "Doesn't she look cute?"
"But darling," I replied, "I thought that we had agreed...."
"Oh, I think she's old enough," interrupted Angela. "Besides, she just needed a little instruction on how to properly apply a couple of things to enhance her beauty."
Before I could fashion a reply, Maribel came by to gush about how nice her sister looked with a little polish applied to her face. She and Angela fussed a little more, and then the girls hurried off to their shopping and socializing excursion.
When the girls left, I asked Angela why she had so blantantly disregarded our earlier agreement. She brushed off my concern. "It's okay," she said. "I felt she was old enough to wear makeup responsibly. And it made her look really good!"
At that point, I was summarily dismissed. Quietly fuming, I returned to my reading, but I could not concentrate. I just stared at the paper, wondering what other rules Angela felt could be broken without consulting with her husband and the girls' father. Would Colette soon be attired in slinky, skimpy little outfits more aprropriate for young adults out bar-hopping and looking for a handsome man with which bed? Would she be wearing mini-skirts and high-heels to school in the fall? I was quite concerned that my little girl was joining the sexual revolution a little earlier than I was comfortable with.
Thirty minutes or so later, I was still ruminating when Angela appeared. She was clad only in a long t-shirt and panties (why are women's underpants referred to as "panties"), and she was carrying one of my favorite wooden hairbrushes. Without saying a word, she took the paper from my hands, handed me the brush, and positioned herself, bottom up, over my lap. After over twenty years of marriage, my Angela does know my moods.
Still without talking, I pulled up her t-shirt and pulled down the panties. I proceeded to paddle her bare butt quite thoroughly, striking one cheek firmly several times and then repeating this on her other orb. She squirmed on my lap and tightly gripped my leg, but she otherwise didn't resist or complain. I worked over both cheeks considerably, then I delivered a handful of swift swats to the backs of her thighs. After a few more whacks to her now-bright red bottom, I concluded the paddling. I do admit, the activity did make me feel better.
Angela rose from my lap and proceed to rub some of the sting out of her pert posterior. She allowed me to inspect the damage. I must admit, I had done quite a fine job. Her backside was uniformly crimson and clearly tender.
At this point, Angela proceeded to explain that she felt the conflicts with Maribel over makeup were not productive, and that, being a woman, she could understand the pressure that a thirteen-year-old girl would feel to begin practicing more adult-like activities. She also pointed out that, if we were to compromise on small things like makeup, that perhaps she would not feel inclined to progress to more advanced subjects like tobacco, alcohol, controlled substances, or, god forbid, sexual activity. Being a typical father, the thought of my "little girl" doing the naked mambo with a horny teenage boy made me uncomfortable, to see the list. So I conceded the point. I did ask, and Angela agreed, to, in the future, present Colette to me when introducing new behaviors rather than having my youngest just try to stroll past. This, we agreed, would avoid unnecessary conflict and save unwanted shock to my fatherly heart.
It can be hard to watch ones children grow up. It is even harder one is still growing up themselves. But, I guess, that we never really stop growing up.
When you stop to consider it, that concept is pretty fantastic.
Have a safe and enjoyable holiday.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Are We Prudes?
During my weekend ruminations, I heard about the American television network, CBS, being fined by our ever-vigilent Federal Communications Commision an amount adding up to millions of dollars. The FCC's reasoning was that it received over 4,000 email complaints about the show (for more details, see here).
Apparently, every single one of the emails came from two so called "family advocacy" web sites. Many, if not all, of the emailers hadn't even seen the show. They just went to these sites that they frequented, and clicked a couple of buttons to send what basically amounted to a form letter to the FCC. Furthermore, the show in questions had actually aired previously without complaint. The difference? The first airing began at 10 pm. The second began at 9 pm. So the difference of one hour, according to the FCC, means the difference between permanently scarring the phyche of our youth or having them grow up pure and healthy.
It got me thinking, are we, as Americans, prudes?
I'd also like to ask those of my loyal readers who are not residents of the good ole U.S of A., is this a problem for your citizens? Are you shocked and shamed by brief glimpses of possible sex, or is sex just considered a part of a healthy lifestype?
Sometimes I wonder who actually lives in the fantasy world - myself, or those who purport to uphold "moral standards."
Other than that, I hope that your weekend was simply fantastic.
Apparently, every single one of the emails came from two so called "family advocacy" web sites. Many, if not all, of the emailers hadn't even seen the show. They just went to these sites that they frequented, and clicked a couple of buttons to send what basically amounted to a form letter to the FCC. Furthermore, the show in questions had actually aired previously without complaint. The difference? The first airing began at 10 pm. The second began at 9 pm. So the difference of one hour, according to the FCC, means the difference between permanently scarring the phyche of our youth or having them grow up pure and healthy.
It got me thinking, are we, as Americans, prudes?
I'd also like to ask those of my loyal readers who are not residents of the good ole U.S of A., is this a problem for your citizens? Are you shocked and shamed by brief glimpses of possible sex, or is sex just considered a part of a healthy lifestype?
Sometimes I wonder who actually lives in the fantasy world - myself, or those who purport to uphold "moral standards."
Other than that, I hope that your weekend was simply fantastic.
