Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Just Another Day at the Spanko House
In strolling through the lush field of spanking blogs available on the world wide web, I have noticed a tradition that was started by one of our faithful bloggers, entitled “Half-Naked Thursday,” also known as “Half-Nekkid Thursday” or “HNT.” Discovery of this custom caused my darling Angela to come up with an idea of her own.
Last Wednesday was the first day of school for the lovely daughter Colette. Every year since Maribel started kindergarten, Angela has taken the first day of school off to help the children get acclimated to new schools, teachers, et cetera. While this was helpful and even somewhat emotional for the first few years, now I’m quite sure that she does this to celebrate. When the house empties after a summer of activity, Angela becomes curiously cheerful.
In any event, as I work from home and Angela had the day off, we had the house to ourselves. Since this was Colette’s first day of high school, Angela chose to drive her rather than making her suffer the bus. Upon Angela’s return, she brewed up a nice pot of darjeeling tea and brought it into my office. I was most grateful for the refreshment as well as an opportunity for a respite from the grind, but I noticed something somewhat different on Angela. Or rather not on her. For you see, my beautiful wife was not wearing any pants.
As I was sipping my tea and admiring my wife’s attractive posterior, she proclaimed that this day was to be “No Pants Day.” Meaning that the occupants of the house, which happened to be just her and I, would not be allowed any clothing from the waist down for the day (or at least until Colette returned). She treated me to a little wiggle, then insisted that I comply with the spirit of the day. Not being one to displease my love, I immediately removed my trousers and my undershorts (I left my shoes on because I have notoriously cold tootsies). Angela seemed pleased, so I admitted that her idea was an interesting one, and then I returned to work.
Angela went about her leisurely day, listening to music and baking one of her fantastic dessert delights. After an hour or so, I decided it was time for a morning snack, and strolled to the kitchen myself. I saw my dear at the sink, her back to me, and her derriere on display. I went over and gave her a hug. She playfully admonished me for “disturbing” her, and so she grabbed a wooden spoon and insisted that I needed a spanking. Naturally, I was not about to argue.
She delivered to my exposed tail two dozen or so tasty swats. I thanked her with a kiss and a hug and returned to my office. Perhaps an hour later, she came to my office with more tea. Naturally, it was my turn to claim to be disturbed, and so I grabbed my handy metal ruler, took her over my knee, and gave her a pleasant paddling.
The day continued in this fashion, with both of us finding fault with the least little thing and applying increasingly severe (and luscious) bun-warmings. We made use of the hairbrush, the bath brush, the leather strap, the belt, and a couple of different wooden paddles. At last, after she had just given me a nice long spanking in our living room, and with both of our butts wonderfully warm and perfectly red, I pulled her to me, kissed her long and passionately, and made her top as naked as her bottom. Then we made love on the sofa in the most pleasant and comfortable fashion.
We made sure we were once again clothed by the time Colette returned from her inaugural day of high school. Angela and I were, not surprisingly, quite content, while Colette was grumpy from discovering how much work high school world entail. We both greeted Colette with smiles and hugs. Our youngest commented on our unusual cheeriness and asked why our moods were so bright. I informed her that, quite simply, our day had been fantastic.
And, with that, a new school year begins anew.
Last Wednesday was the first day of school for the lovely daughter Colette. Every year since Maribel started kindergarten, Angela has taken the first day of school off to help the children get acclimated to new schools, teachers, et cetera. While this was helpful and even somewhat emotional for the first few years, now I’m quite sure that she does this to celebrate. When the house empties after a summer of activity, Angela becomes curiously cheerful.
In any event, as I work from home and Angela had the day off, we had the house to ourselves. Since this was Colette’s first day of high school, Angela chose to drive her rather than making her suffer the bus. Upon Angela’s return, she brewed up a nice pot of darjeeling tea and brought it into my office. I was most grateful for the refreshment as well as an opportunity for a respite from the grind, but I noticed something somewhat different on Angela. Or rather not on her. For you see, my beautiful wife was not wearing any pants.
As I was sipping my tea and admiring my wife’s attractive posterior, she proclaimed that this day was to be “No Pants Day.” Meaning that the occupants of the house, which happened to be just her and I, would not be allowed any clothing from the waist down for the day (or at least until Colette returned). She treated me to a little wiggle, then insisted that I comply with the spirit of the day. Not being one to displease my love, I immediately removed my trousers and my undershorts (I left my shoes on because I have notoriously cold tootsies). Angela seemed pleased, so I admitted that her idea was an interesting one, and then I returned to work.
Angela went about her leisurely day, listening to music and baking one of her fantastic dessert delights. After an hour or so, I decided it was time for a morning snack, and strolled to the kitchen myself. I saw my dear at the sink, her back to me, and her derriere on display. I went over and gave her a hug. She playfully admonished me for “disturbing” her, and so she grabbed a wooden spoon and insisted that I needed a spanking. Naturally, I was not about to argue.
She delivered to my exposed tail two dozen or so tasty swats. I thanked her with a kiss and a hug and returned to my office. Perhaps an hour later, she came to my office with more tea. Naturally, it was my turn to claim to be disturbed, and so I grabbed my handy metal ruler, took her over my knee, and gave her a pleasant paddling.
The day continued in this fashion, with both of us finding fault with the least little thing and applying increasingly severe (and luscious) bun-warmings. We made use of the hairbrush, the bath brush, the leather strap, the belt, and a couple of different wooden paddles. At last, after she had just given me a nice long spanking in our living room, and with both of our butts wonderfully warm and perfectly red, I pulled her to me, kissed her long and passionately, and made her top as naked as her bottom. Then we made love on the sofa in the most pleasant and comfortable fashion.
We made sure we were once again clothed by the time Colette returned from her inaugural day of high school. Angela and I were, not surprisingly, quite content, while Colette was grumpy from discovering how much work high school world entail. We both greeted Colette with smiles and hugs. Our youngest commented on our unusual cheeriness and asked why our moods were so bright. I informed her that, quite simply, our day had been fantastic.
And, with that, a new school year begins anew.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
The Rest Of The Spankos
Now that you have met the two-legged members of the Spakowiak family, it becomes necessary to complete the package by bringing in Spakowiak pets. Or, as a wise man once called them, the four-legged furry fertilizer factories.
In truth, since both dogs and cats are carnivorous, and since they pass bacteria in their feces, said feces should not, in fact, be used as fertilizer. I’m sure you were all dying to know that.
Our dog is called Wacky, both because of Angela’s and my spanking proclivities, and because the animal is fucking nuts. Wacky is that all-American breed of dog commonly known as the pure-bred Mutt. His father was a Mutt. His mother was a Mutt. We actually have papers that show his excellent Mutt lineage. At one time we considered entering him in the AKC Mutt show, until we realized that he would lose because he would continually lick the judges until they were covered in sticky dog slobber. Also, the AKC does not actually have a Mutt show. Snobs.
Wacky is my dog. Make no mistake. He follows me around the house. He sits at my feet. I’m the one who must feed him and walk him. He is totally dedicated to me. That is, until someone in the house has food. Then he becomes dedicated to them until they give him some or finish. Then he will return to me.
We also have two cats, Princess and Furball. Princess is Angela’s cat. It is a very elegant Siamese, and Angela is frequently fussing with her, brushing her, trimming her tail, and digging the poop out of the fur on her rear end. Princess hates me. She has been known to pee on my shoes when she is particularly upset with me, for reasons that only she and her fellow cats will ever know. Now, Angela and I keep our shoes in the same closet. But princess NEVER pees on Angela’s shoes, only on mine. Angela insists it’s because my shoes smell like cat litter. Princess is seventeen years old and I’m convinced that she will never die.
We got Furball when Colette was about three, ostensibly as a friend for Princess (Angela thought the poor, spoiled cat was lonely). We picked out Furball from the local animal shelter when she was a kitten. Now, it is not an exceptionally brilliant idea to bring in a rowdy kitten to be a friend to a seven-year-old Siamese, but that is subject for another story. Furball got her name because, when the lady at the shelter asked what we were going to call her, before I could inform her of the dignified name that Angela and I had chosen, Colette blurted out “Let’s call her Furball!” Since Angela thought that was SO CUTE, Furball it was. Furball has become Colette’s cat, since the two of them basically grew up together.
There is actually another cat that we, at least nominally, take care of. The cat came with the house. We noticed this big orange-and-black when we were signing the final papers for the house. We asked the former owners, the elderly couple who had come up from Florida for the closing, about the cat. We were told that “it has always been around here.” When asked it’s name, they informed us, “Well it doesn’t really have a name, we just call it Cat.” Cat came up and sniffed my shoes and rubbed herself on my leg, and then on Angela’s leg, then sniffed the air and ambled away. Right then we knew that this was actually Cat’s property, and that she had approved of us as its tenants. Since the former owners lived on this property for almost 50 years, and since we’ve been here for seventeen, I figure Cat must be around 65 years of age, although I don’t know how that’s possible.
We’ve also had the obligatory juvenile rodents like mice, hamsters, and gerbils, as well as fish, but none of them thrived in our unique environment. However, Wacky, Princess, Furball, and Cat seem perfectly suited for the Spanko family, and we to them. Despite their tendencies to frustrate and torment us, I truly like our pets. I think they are fantastic.
In truth, since both dogs and cats are carnivorous, and since they pass bacteria in their feces, said feces should not, in fact, be used as fertilizer. I’m sure you were all dying to know that.
Our dog is called Wacky, both because of Angela’s and my spanking proclivities, and because the animal is fucking nuts. Wacky is that all-American breed of dog commonly known as the pure-bred Mutt. His father was a Mutt. His mother was a Mutt. We actually have papers that show his excellent Mutt lineage. At one time we considered entering him in the AKC Mutt show, until we realized that he would lose because he would continually lick the judges until they were covered in sticky dog slobber. Also, the AKC does not actually have a Mutt show. Snobs.
Wacky is my dog. Make no mistake. He follows me around the house. He sits at my feet. I’m the one who must feed him and walk him. He is totally dedicated to me. That is, until someone in the house has food. Then he becomes dedicated to them until they give him some or finish. Then he will return to me.
We also have two cats, Princess and Furball. Princess is Angela’s cat. It is a very elegant Siamese, and Angela is frequently fussing with her, brushing her, trimming her tail, and digging the poop out of the fur on her rear end. Princess hates me. She has been known to pee on my shoes when she is particularly upset with me, for reasons that only she and her fellow cats will ever know. Now, Angela and I keep our shoes in the same closet. But princess NEVER pees on Angela’s shoes, only on mine. Angela insists it’s because my shoes smell like cat litter. Princess is seventeen years old and I’m convinced that she will never die.
We got Furball when Colette was about three, ostensibly as a friend for Princess (Angela thought the poor, spoiled cat was lonely). We picked out Furball from the local animal shelter when she was a kitten. Now, it is not an exceptionally brilliant idea to bring in a rowdy kitten to be a friend to a seven-year-old Siamese, but that is subject for another story. Furball got her name because, when the lady at the shelter asked what we were going to call her, before I could inform her of the dignified name that Angela and I had chosen, Colette blurted out “Let’s call her Furball!” Since Angela thought that was SO CUTE, Furball it was. Furball has become Colette’s cat, since the two of them basically grew up together.
There is actually another cat that we, at least nominally, take care of. The cat came with the house. We noticed this big orange-and-black when we were signing the final papers for the house. We asked the former owners, the elderly couple who had come up from Florida for the closing, about the cat. We were told that “it has always been around here.” When asked it’s name, they informed us, “Well it doesn’t really have a name, we just call it Cat.” Cat came up and sniffed my shoes and rubbed herself on my leg, and then on Angela’s leg, then sniffed the air and ambled away. Right then we knew that this was actually Cat’s property, and that she had approved of us as its tenants. Since the former owners lived on this property for almost 50 years, and since we’ve been here for seventeen, I figure Cat must be around 65 years of age, although I don’t know how that’s possible.
We’ve also had the obligatory juvenile rodents like mice, hamsters, and gerbils, as well as fish, but none of them thrived in our unique environment. However, Wacky, Princess, Furball, and Cat seem perfectly suited for the Spanko family, and we to them. Despite their tendencies to frustrate and torment us, I truly like our pets. I think they are fantastic.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
My First Attempt To Post A Picture
Until now, this blog has consisted entirely of text. Today, I thought it might be interesting to broaden the Fantastic Spanking experience by including an actual picture.
So, as a public service, I have randomly chosen an image off of the internet to present to you, my loyal readers.
Perhaps my next venture into blog enhancement might be to add some actual context to the picture.
Enjoy.
On Spanking Plots
During my occasional periods of casual time, I have been known to troll the wide wide world of the internet, reading the wide variety of blogs out there dedicated to spanking, and also searching for spanking vignettes to watch. While perusing the blogs, I take interest in the many reasons why a couple will engage in spanking. Some spankings are for discipline, others as sexual foreplay, still others as stress relief, attitude maintenance, or even just for fun.
Curiously, most of the short spanking videos I happen to see, and I have a fairly extensive collection, are basically all the same: naughty young ladies being spanked by some sort of authority figure. I use the term “naughty” on purpose, as none of the actresses being paddled seem truly delinquent. Most of their offenses are, indeed, relatively mundane: smoking, drinking, coming home late, taking money, skipping class or practice, borrowing something without asking, et cetera.
Now, I certainly haven’t been able to view every spanking movie, clip, or video available, so I’m sure that there are many whose plots are more imaginative. However, the question still remains:
With the myriad of reasons why real people will partake in a spanking, why does so much of the video world persist in using the same theme?
I know that there are at least a few spanking “models” who relax by dabbling in writing or reading spanking blogs. Should any of you happen to chance upon Fantastic Spanking, perhaps you could enlighten me as to the reason why so many video spanking scenes use such common offenses as the reason to deliver corporal punishment.
In the meantime, I shall ponder the possible reasons in my own, albeit imaginary, mind. Perhaps, in a future missive, I shall put forth some few suggestions.
Curiously, most of the short spanking videos I happen to see, and I have a fairly extensive collection, are basically all the same: naughty young ladies being spanked by some sort of authority figure. I use the term “naughty” on purpose, as none of the actresses being paddled seem truly delinquent. Most of their offenses are, indeed, relatively mundane: smoking, drinking, coming home late, taking money, skipping class or practice, borrowing something without asking, et cetera.
Now, I certainly haven’t been able to view every spanking movie, clip, or video available, so I’m sure that there are many whose plots are more imaginative. However, the question still remains:
With the myriad of reasons why real people will partake in a spanking, why does so much of the video world persist in using the same theme?
I know that there are at least a few spanking “models” who relax by dabbling in writing or reading spanking blogs. Should any of you happen to chance upon Fantastic Spanking, perhaps you could enlighten me as to the reason why so many video spanking scenes use such common offenses as the reason to deliver corporal punishment.
In the meantime, I shall ponder the possible reasons in my own, albeit imaginary, mind. Perhaps, in a future missive, I shall put forth some few suggestions.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Colette
It is now time to say a few words about my youngest daughter, the lovely Colette. Colette just celebrated 14 years on this planet, although it is difficult determining her age based on her behavior. Sometimes she seems as mature and composed as someone in their twenties. Other times I would swear that she is barely eight. And, when she has one of her legendary fits, I picture her as a 3-year-old. Curiously, she rarely acts as if she is fourteen.
Colette is a little stockier and a somewhat shorter than her sister. Where Maribel was the athletic one, Colette is the artistic one. I’ve seen her make the most realistic drawings with nothing but a pencil and a napkin. While she has friends, she’s not as outgoing as Maribel. She is an avid reader, loves all sorts of music (including classical, a genre that I’ve never developed a taste for), and positively hates watching television (an aversion that I make no attempt to discourage). She starts high school this year, and is both excited and terrified at the prospects.
There are two traits that most define Colette. One is that she is fiercely loyal. She does not make friends easily, but when you are her friend, she’ll go to extreme lengths to defend you.
Her other distinctive trait is that she is as stubborn as an old mule with a carrot.
In the process of raising ones offspring, one will often make certain requests of the youngster that they are expected to abide by. They frequently bristle at these suggestions, but accept them because they don’t wish to experience the consequences. Colette, however, will have none of it. If she does not wish to follow our rules, she will proceed to make our lives utterly miserable until she is allowed to proceed her way. No amount of cajoling, punishment, or reasoning will convince her otherwise.
Allow me to present an example of both of these endearing qualities. One summer afternoon, a couple of years ago, we were at a local playground enjoying fine weather and getting a little exercise. Angela, Maribel, and I were shooting baskets while Colette and a friend were experiencing some of the other recreational equipment. Colette spied some of their classmates engaged in jumping rope. Since Angela and her friend are both quite accomplished rope-jumpers, they decided to join them.
Well, apparently these classmates were “mad” at Colette’s friend that day for some perceived slight (something hugely significant like she wouldn’t trade shoes with one of the other girls). Because of this, the girls indicated that Colette was welcome to jump with them, but her friend was not. Since Colette is completely loyal to her friends, she steadfastly insisted that the friend be allowed access to the rope. When the girls continued to refuse, Colette displayed her other talent: she planted herself astride the jump rope and refused to allow the activity to continue until they assented to her friend. When the girls tried to pull the rope in, she stood on the rope and refused to move.
Try as they might, the other girls seemed unable to pull the rope free. Colette may as well have been the infamous Monty Python 16-ton weight, such as she would not budge. Her friend suggested leaving the girls to their own selfishness, but Colette persisted in pinning down the rope. At last, the oldest and largest of the other girls took matters into her own hands and gave Colette a mighty two-handed shove, knocking my baby girl onto the seat of her pants.
At this point, her mother and I decided that it might be best if we were to intervene. We started to head in that direction, but no sooner had we taken a step when Colette was on her feet. Like an angry lion, she flew up to the girl who had pushed her and delivered a straight right hand directly to the girls face that spun her around and sent her sprawling. Angela and I decided that we should now hurry to the scene before further fisticuffs left someone injured.
When we reached the crime scene, I tried to take charge, but Colette was determined to control the outcome. She was standing over the girl who had shoved her, snarling, and with her fists tightly balled, daring the girl get up and attempt another shove. Although Colette and her sister had, in the past, gotten into some nasty spats, I had never known that she had such pugilistic tendencies. I wasn’t sure if I should be appalled or proud. The girl, wisely, remained down.
Colette then turned to the rest of the girls and indicated that they should resume twirling the rope, and that her friend should be the first to jump. Cautiously, the girls resumed their activity. After a couple of minutes, Colette turned to the girl on the ground and indicated, very assertively, that she should join her friend. I pictured a parent taking their cranky child to Disney World and telling them, “Now go out there and HAVE FUN, GOD DAMMIT!” Keeping her distance from Colette, the other girl slowly joined Colette’s friend. Soon, the girls were synchronized in their jumping, and I actually saw hints of smiles from both of them.
Angela opened her mouth to deliver some words of chastisement to our little girl, but, since she, like me, was utterly flabbergasted by what had taken place, she could find no words. Maribel, curiously, was grinning radiantly, in obvious pride in her sister. So we turned to head back to the basketball hoop. I looked back, feeling that some words of wisdom were needed, but the only ones that I could come up with were, “Play nice, girls.” And, amazingly, they did.
Despite my descriptions, my family really is not inclined to violence. Yet, on the rare occasions where it seems the only solution, we proceed to conduct ourselves with considerable gusto. And yet, we also are able to diffuse the situation as quickly as we escalate it. It is an interesting and unique trait of the Spakowiak family. I’ll leave it up to your own deliberations to decide for yourself if this trait is, or is not, fantastic.
Colette is a little stockier and a somewhat shorter than her sister. Where Maribel was the athletic one, Colette is the artistic one. I’ve seen her make the most realistic drawings with nothing but a pencil and a napkin. While she has friends, she’s not as outgoing as Maribel. She is an avid reader, loves all sorts of music (including classical, a genre that I’ve never developed a taste for), and positively hates watching television (an aversion that I make no attempt to discourage). She starts high school this year, and is both excited and terrified at the prospects.
There are two traits that most define Colette. One is that she is fiercely loyal. She does not make friends easily, but when you are her friend, she’ll go to extreme lengths to defend you.
Her other distinctive trait is that she is as stubborn as an old mule with a carrot.
In the process of raising ones offspring, one will often make certain requests of the youngster that they are expected to abide by. They frequently bristle at these suggestions, but accept them because they don’t wish to experience the consequences. Colette, however, will have none of it. If she does not wish to follow our rules, she will proceed to make our lives utterly miserable until she is allowed to proceed her way. No amount of cajoling, punishment, or reasoning will convince her otherwise.
Allow me to present an example of both of these endearing qualities. One summer afternoon, a couple of years ago, we were at a local playground enjoying fine weather and getting a little exercise. Angela, Maribel, and I were shooting baskets while Colette and a friend were experiencing some of the other recreational equipment. Colette spied some of their classmates engaged in jumping rope. Since Angela and her friend are both quite accomplished rope-jumpers, they decided to join them.
Well, apparently these classmates were “mad” at Colette’s friend that day for some perceived slight (something hugely significant like she wouldn’t trade shoes with one of the other girls). Because of this, the girls indicated that Colette was welcome to jump with them, but her friend was not. Since Colette is completely loyal to her friends, she steadfastly insisted that the friend be allowed access to the rope. When the girls continued to refuse, Colette displayed her other talent: she planted herself astride the jump rope and refused to allow the activity to continue until they assented to her friend. When the girls tried to pull the rope in, she stood on the rope and refused to move.
Try as they might, the other girls seemed unable to pull the rope free. Colette may as well have been the infamous Monty Python 16-ton weight, such as she would not budge. Her friend suggested leaving the girls to their own selfishness, but Colette persisted in pinning down the rope. At last, the oldest and largest of the other girls took matters into her own hands and gave Colette a mighty two-handed shove, knocking my baby girl onto the seat of her pants.
At this point, her mother and I decided that it might be best if we were to intervene. We started to head in that direction, but no sooner had we taken a step when Colette was on her feet. Like an angry lion, she flew up to the girl who had pushed her and delivered a straight right hand directly to the girls face that spun her around and sent her sprawling. Angela and I decided that we should now hurry to the scene before further fisticuffs left someone injured.
When we reached the crime scene, I tried to take charge, but Colette was determined to control the outcome. She was standing over the girl who had shoved her, snarling, and with her fists tightly balled, daring the girl get up and attempt another shove. Although Colette and her sister had, in the past, gotten into some nasty spats, I had never known that she had such pugilistic tendencies. I wasn’t sure if I should be appalled or proud. The girl, wisely, remained down.
Colette then turned to the rest of the girls and indicated that they should resume twirling the rope, and that her friend should be the first to jump. Cautiously, the girls resumed their activity. After a couple of minutes, Colette turned to the girl on the ground and indicated, very assertively, that she should join her friend. I pictured a parent taking their cranky child to Disney World and telling them, “Now go out there and HAVE FUN, GOD DAMMIT!” Keeping her distance from Colette, the other girl slowly joined Colette’s friend. Soon, the girls were synchronized in their jumping, and I actually saw hints of smiles from both of them.
Angela opened her mouth to deliver some words of chastisement to our little girl, but, since she, like me, was utterly flabbergasted by what had taken place, she could find no words. Maribel, curiously, was grinning radiantly, in obvious pride in her sister. So we turned to head back to the basketball hoop. I looked back, feeling that some words of wisdom were needed, but the only ones that I could come up with were, “Play nice, girls.” And, amazingly, they did.
Despite my descriptions, my family really is not inclined to violence. Yet, on the rare occasions where it seems the only solution, we proceed to conduct ourselves with considerable gusto. And yet, we also are able to diffuse the situation as quickly as we escalate it. It is an interesting and unique trait of the Spakowiak family. I’ll leave it up to your own deliberations to decide for yourself if this trait is, or is not, fantastic.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Maribel
Ah, the return of normalcy is such a wonderful thing. The air conditioning works, the in-laws have concluded their visit, the temperatures have fallen from blast furnace range to something much more pleasant, Maribel returns to university next weekend, and school starts for Colette shortly after that. At last, I am able to return to my writing. Or dear blog, I have missed you!
Speaking of my eldest daughter, I thought that it was time that I provided a more significant introduction to the fine Maribel. She will be twenty years of age before the month is out. She attends one of our excellent state institutions of higher learning, although not the BIG state college. She is very intelligent (she gets that from me) as she graduated high school in the top ten on her class. She is also very athletic (she gets that from her mother), as she played soccer and basketball in high school and excelled at both. Maribel is also quite beautiful, or so say the gaggle of male hangers-on who seem to trail after her like pigeons after a man with a hole in his popcorn bag. As her father, naturally, I’d consider her fabulously gorgeous no matter what she looked like.
Maribel is quite friendly, never lacking for people with which to socialize, or, as she prefers to say, “party.” She is also very persuasive, as her collection of dolls, bears, clothes, and electronic toys (all paid for by her parents) attests to. But, then again, how can one say no to ones lovely daughter, especially when her mother shares the same interests?
My daughter has a male companion, or a “boyfriend” as he is commonly referred to. Roger, as he is called, is a baseball player at the university that Maribel attends. That makes him an instant winner in her father’s book, since he is quite the avid baseball fan. Roger is a gentleman and a scholar, which also endears him to Maribel’s parents. He has great reverence for my daughter. They are not, however, entirely chaste. I do not care to go into details about my daughter love life because having your baby girl being sexually active scares the proverbial living shit out of her father. I can only say that they have, at least a few times, engaged in pleasures of the flesh. Angela knows more about this than I, and insists that they are behaving responsibly. Were this not so, I would be less impressed with the young man.
I know, too, that he also spanks her, but that is a story for another time.
Actually, I need not fear that Roger will attempt to take advantage of my daughter, as she is very assertive. And when it comes to how her male suitors treat her, she is VERY assertive. For example, on the night of her junior high school prom she returned somewhat earlier than expected with a small bruise on her forehead. When queried about the contusion, Maribel explained that her date attempted to perform some very un-gentlemanly acts upon her. They had driven to an all-night drive-in theatre in our town, and were snuggling comfortably while watching the flick. He first tried to kiss her when she was not prepared, and she told him, in no uncertain terms, that she did not care for that type of advance. When he persisted, she explained that, should he continue, the night would have a very unsatisfactory conclusion.
When he began to reach for her breasts, she head-butted him in the face, breaking his nose.
In considerable pain, the young man tumbled out of the car in search of some towels to staunch the blood flowing freely from his nose. When he was out of the car, Maribel slid to the driver’s seat and, since the boy had left his keys in the car, locked the doors, started the engine, and proceeded to drive home, stranding him at the drive-in.
While the story seemed to me to be somewhat, well, fantastic, the account was verified by some of Maribel's friends as well as by her sister.
I was certainly appalled at the nights events, but I admired the way that she had handled the situation. She remained calm and in control, and dealt with the miscreant decisively. She proved to be a true Spakowiak. Which, to me at least, is indeed fantastic.
Speaking of my eldest daughter, I thought that it was time that I provided a more significant introduction to the fine Maribel. She will be twenty years of age before the month is out. She attends one of our excellent state institutions of higher learning, although not the BIG state college. She is very intelligent (she gets that from me) as she graduated high school in the top ten on her class. She is also very athletic (she gets that from her mother), as she played soccer and basketball in high school and excelled at both. Maribel is also quite beautiful, or so say the gaggle of male hangers-on who seem to trail after her like pigeons after a man with a hole in his popcorn bag. As her father, naturally, I’d consider her fabulously gorgeous no matter what she looked like.
Maribel is quite friendly, never lacking for people with which to socialize, or, as she prefers to say, “party.” She is also very persuasive, as her collection of dolls, bears, clothes, and electronic toys (all paid for by her parents) attests to. But, then again, how can one say no to ones lovely daughter, especially when her mother shares the same interests?
My daughter has a male companion, or a “boyfriend” as he is commonly referred to. Roger, as he is called, is a baseball player at the university that Maribel attends. That makes him an instant winner in her father’s book, since he is quite the avid baseball fan. Roger is a gentleman and a scholar, which also endears him to Maribel’s parents. He has great reverence for my daughter. They are not, however, entirely chaste. I do not care to go into details about my daughter love life because having your baby girl being sexually active scares the proverbial living shit out of her father. I can only say that they have, at least a few times, engaged in pleasures of the flesh. Angela knows more about this than I, and insists that they are behaving responsibly. Were this not so, I would be less impressed with the young man.
I know, too, that he also spanks her, but that is a story for another time.
Actually, I need not fear that Roger will attempt to take advantage of my daughter, as she is very assertive. And when it comes to how her male suitors treat her, she is VERY assertive. For example, on the night of her junior high school prom she returned somewhat earlier than expected with a small bruise on her forehead. When queried about the contusion, Maribel explained that her date attempted to perform some very un-gentlemanly acts upon her. They had driven to an all-night drive-in theatre in our town, and were snuggling comfortably while watching the flick. He first tried to kiss her when she was not prepared, and she told him, in no uncertain terms, that she did not care for that type of advance. When he persisted, she explained that, should he continue, the night would have a very unsatisfactory conclusion.
When he began to reach for her breasts, she head-butted him in the face, breaking his nose.
In considerable pain, the young man tumbled out of the car in search of some towels to staunch the blood flowing freely from his nose. When he was out of the car, Maribel slid to the driver’s seat and, since the boy had left his keys in the car, locked the doors, started the engine, and proceeded to drive home, stranding him at the drive-in.
While the story seemed to me to be somewhat, well, fantastic, the account was verified by some of Maribel's friends as well as by her sister.
I was certainly appalled at the nights events, but I admired the way that she had handled the situation. She remained calm and in control, and dealt with the miscreant decisively. She proved to be a true Spakowiak. Which, to me at least, is indeed fantastic.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Once Upon A Spanking, Conclusion
At long last, here is the final chapter on this recollection of one of my spanking adventures. I apologize to my loyal readers for the delay getting this to you, but real life has a way of interferring, and, even though I am not real, I do have a real life (go figure). Anyway, enjoy.
I resumed my position of shame over the saw horse. Gunless girl took aim and fired with her paddle, starting my rear end burning anew. Before I knew what happened, I was dealt another blow. I let out a startled shout. Gunless girl laughed. “Thought you were gonna get off easy, eh? Well, each round gets a little big longer!”
I allowed my math mind to whirl again. If she meant that, for each round, I was to get one additional swat from each girl, that meant … well … 1 plus 2 plus 3 plus 4 …. Plus 14 plus 15 equaled … um … One-hundred twenty! Multiply that by six, and you get … HOLY SHIT!!
Now I felt panicky. I could not begin to imagine what that many whacks would do to my poor posterior. That amount of punishment would do serious damage. Sitting would be out of the question for days, perhaps weeks. I remembered hearing stories of how people could have their feet beaten so badly they would die from the poisons that the body released to try to combat the pain. I began to fear that so many hard blows to my arse could require actual hospitalization.
As the next girl began delivering her next set of blows, I tried to concentrate on the heat to my seat in an attempt to calm myself. I decided that, after a sufficient amount of blows, the ladies would come to their senses and cease their spanking. If not, when I felt that serious injury was near, I would insist on stopping, and resort to struggle if necessary. So I steeled myself to take as many as possible.
The second set of swats was, in truth, twice as painful as the first. I managed to stay over the horse without restraint, but did find myself dancing a little from foot to foot, and moving my bum up and down a bit to try and bear the pain.
With little pause, round three started and, as I feared, gunless girl delivered three smart whacks to be now-searing butt. The ladies had now lined up in an orderly fashion, so the timing became pretty regular. Each lady would deliver her blows, briefly admire her handiwork, and then make way for the next person to torment me. The pain was really sinking in. I tried to stay still, but continued to dance around somewhat while remaining bent over. The ladies seemed to appreciate this and occasionally encouraged me to keep this coping action up.
By round four, I had begin to get used to the paddle swats. The pain was still intense, but I knew what to expect so I was able to just concentrate on the flaming heat and push away the anxiety. When the final girl had delivered her four, gunless girl called for a break. I waited for permission to rise, and when it was given, I stiffly got off of the horse. One of the other girls came up and placed her hand on my tortured tushie, and gave it a little rub. With a big grin, she commented on how well she and her sisters were doing. I cautiously reached by hands back to see if I could rub some relief into them. I heard no objections, so I gave myself a short butt massage. By my calculations, I’d already received sixty swats, but I still had several hundred more to go.
Gunless girl ordered that, since my punishment still had a considerable ways to go, that I should divest myself completely of my pants, since they would just get in the way. Reluctantly, I did so, seeing a little more of my dignity tossed aside. In a surprise show of sympathy, one of the girls offered my a cold glass of water to refresh myself. I gratefully accepted, and, although I considered just pouring the water over my butt to cool it, I decided it would be best if I simply drank the beverage. As I was doing so, I saw gunless girl pulling an ottoman into the middle of the room, and them put a couple of sofa cushions on top of it.
“Enough pausing, time for more spanking,” she said, much more gleefully than I would have preferred. “We’re going to change things up a little. Lay over the foot stool, and make sure your butt is pointing straight up!” I laid across the cushions, and, though it was somewhat awkward, the cushions were something of a relief.
The paddling began again. The new angle gave the ladies a way to deliver a completely new form of pain. They started to work on the lower part of my bottom, and on the sides. A couple even used a two-handed technique to get more leverage. I grunted and “ouched” quite a bit as my butt was beaten over and over. I could feel myself starting to quiver somewhat, as the pain continued to sink in.
We paused again after round five and I was again allowed to rise. At this time, gunless girl gave me something of a dose of good news.
“You’re good and sore right now, so this must be having an affect. We have two rounds left.” Only two? Despite a goodly number of smacks remaining, I could at last see the end. “The next round will be ten swats from each girl. Now bend over that chair.” She pointed to a low-backed easy chair in the middle of the room. I dragged my sore-butted, half-naked self over the the chair and laid over the back if it.
This paddlings I received in this round drove the pain deeper into my backside. The sting wasn’t as bad, but the soreness wasn’t going away. Each swat was causing me to lurch a little and grunt occasionally. My butt didn’t feel like it was on fire anymore, it felt like each cheek had been hit by a sledge hammer, and each swat felt like a nail hammer was striking me. I had to grab a cushion to keep from leaping up and covering my ass with my hands. The round seemed to go on forever.
When the last girl delivered her tenth swat, I heaved a huge sigh. Even though I knew still more whacks were coming, I felt greatly relieved that this round had completed. I was ordered to stand up and move to the center of the room. I took this opportunity to reach back and check to make sure that my ass was still there. It was, but it felt like it had doubled in size.
When I reached to room’s middle, gunless girl walked up until she was toe to toe with me. She looked me right in the eyes and said, “You’re pretty warm back there now, aren’t you?” in a very strict voice. I just nodded. “Good! You deserve every whack. You were pretty fucking stupid doing what you did. You were just looking for a show, but you violated our privacy and our trust. What you did was mean, selfish, and totally shitty. You’re lucky I didn’t just blow your head off. Now it’s time to finish this.”
She took a step back. “You’re going to get fifteen whacks from each girl. You’re going to be naked while you take them, shoes and everything, and your going to take them bending over with nothing to hold onto. You’re going to count each swat, and if any of the girls pauses for more than a couple of seconds, you will ask them for the next swat. And your going to take these quietly and without moving. This way, maybe you’ll feel just a little bit how we did when we discovered your peeping tom act!”
Now I was truly humbled. I actually responded to her by saying, “Yes, ma’am.” I felt so small and childish. She was right. I deserved everything that these ladies dished out, as severe a paddling as they could give. I turned around and completed my humiliation by removing my shirt, shoes, and socks. Then I bent over and put my hands on my knees.
SMACK! The first of my last round of torment crashed into my already-roasted cheeks. “One!” I shouted, trying not to show strain in my voice. “Two!” “Three!” Gunless girl was being slow and methodical, and she was hitting hard! After four, she paused, and when I didn’t feel the fifth swat I realized that I now had to ask for it. “May I please have another swat?” I said in a voice that felt very small. She was happy to oblige.
Swat after swat from girl after girl blasted into my bottom. I managed to stay still, although it was sometimes difficult. Each time one of them stopped, I asked them to continue in a smaller and smaller voice. I began to feel very emotional. Gunless girl was right again. I did now know how awful it felt for these ladies to be spied upon. I felt terrible. Not only did I deserve this punishment, it was something they needed to do to me to start making things right. Despite my attempts at control, I could feel tears coming to my eyes.
While the fifth girl was delivering her fifteen, the tears began to gather on my cheeks. One of the other ladies noticed and cried, “Oh my god, he’s crying!” The girl wielding the paddle stopped and the room became quiet. The ladies had realize that this wasn’t revenge any more, it was a serious and important chastisement. Someone said, “Maybe we should stop.”
Before anyone else could respond, I cried, “No!” As I gathered my composure, I elucidated. “I harmed you ladies. I need you to finish.” I saw gunless girl nod, and the paddling resumed. I didn’t sob, but my voice was cracking with strain, more emotional than physical, as I continued to count the strokes.
At last the spanking was finished. I remained bent over. I was stiff and sore. By butt was numb with pain, and I was emotionally spent.
“You did well,” replied gunless girl, the anger now gone from her voice. “Now go stand facing the wall for a few minutes and compose yourself. Stay there until I come back for you. Lades, we’re finished here.” Still naked, I headed for my place of shame. Before leaving the room, the other five girls were kind enough to gently pat my behind and leave me with a few words of forgiveness.
As I stared at the wall, reflecting on my stupidity and thoughtlessness, I allowed the tears to run their course. Although it was still humiliating to be standing in their living room, butt naked and with a seriously red and beaten rump, my shame began to subside and I started to feel better. I could feel the bruises setting in and I knew that they would be with me for a while. After a few minutes, the ring leader, the now-gunless- and paddle-less girl, returned with a bottle of skin lotion. In a business-like manner, she applied a considerable amount to my rear end. I expected to see steam rising from behind me.
When she finished, she handed me the bottle of skin lotion and a bottle of Heineken. “The lotion should keep your skin from cracking too badly,” she said, “and the beer should keep your head from cracking.” I gratefully accepted both. The Heineken had been opened, and I downed it in two swigs. I felt the tension easing away.
“Now put your clothes on and get the hell out of here. And don’t come within two blocks of this house ever again.” As I began to dress, she continued. “As far as we’re concerned, this is over. It shall never be spoken of again. I expect that you will respect that and not talk of this again, as well.” As I looked for my underpants, she added, “Oh, and we’re keeping your undies as a souvenir.”
I finished dressing and, as she suggested, got the hell out of there. I never thought that I’d want to leave a house full of pretty girls so quickly, but you learn a lot of new things in college. And I did respect her wishes. When walking around town, I would go out of my way to make sure I didn’t pass that house. I have slipped a little on her “never spoken of” edict, however, twice now. The first time was when I told Angela, since I try not to keep secrets from her (she used that as an excuse to spank me, but that one I enjoyed, and besides, Angela never lacks for reasons to spank me). The second time was with you, my esteemed readers.
As luck would have it, one of the residents of the house turned out to be in one of my classes that semester. She recognized and greeted me right away, but took care to avoid any reference to the paddling in which she had participated. We studied together a few times, and even had a couple of friendly dates (no, we didn’t spank each other and we didn’t sleep together).
The bruises on my ass faded in a few days. However, the memory continues to linger. While, in truth, the paddling wasn’t really so bad, me being a spanko and all, the ordeal was. It was, though, a fitting punishment for a brief moment of insanity on my part, and it was well deserved. It wasn’t the pain that made me feel remorseful, or baring my bottom to the fine young ladies. It wasn’t really even being nude. There was nothing remotely sexual about that particular spanking, however, and that was the primary difference between that and any other bottom warmings that I have endured. These ladies were truly mad at me, and rightly so. They made me meekly submit, and took their anger out on my butt.
That day made me become more insightful. Whenever I feel like doing something impulsive, I seem to recall that incident and, before acting, decide if what I was thinking of doing would deserve a spanking like I received on that fateful day. So I am able to more thoroughly consider the consequences before I act on that impulse. And that, my friends, while perhaps not really fantastic, is certainly something to take away from the experience.
I resumed my position of shame over the saw horse. Gunless girl took aim and fired with her paddle, starting my rear end burning anew. Before I knew what happened, I was dealt another blow. I let out a startled shout. Gunless girl laughed. “Thought you were gonna get off easy, eh? Well, each round gets a little big longer!”
I allowed my math mind to whirl again. If she meant that, for each round, I was to get one additional swat from each girl, that meant … well … 1 plus 2 plus 3 plus 4 …. Plus 14 plus 15 equaled … um … One-hundred twenty! Multiply that by six, and you get … HOLY SHIT!!
Now I felt panicky. I could not begin to imagine what that many whacks would do to my poor posterior. That amount of punishment would do serious damage. Sitting would be out of the question for days, perhaps weeks. I remembered hearing stories of how people could have their feet beaten so badly they would die from the poisons that the body released to try to combat the pain. I began to fear that so many hard blows to my arse could require actual hospitalization.
As the next girl began delivering her next set of blows, I tried to concentrate on the heat to my seat in an attempt to calm myself. I decided that, after a sufficient amount of blows, the ladies would come to their senses and cease their spanking. If not, when I felt that serious injury was near, I would insist on stopping, and resort to struggle if necessary. So I steeled myself to take as many as possible.
The second set of swats was, in truth, twice as painful as the first. I managed to stay over the horse without restraint, but did find myself dancing a little from foot to foot, and moving my bum up and down a bit to try and bear the pain.
With little pause, round three started and, as I feared, gunless girl delivered three smart whacks to be now-searing butt. The ladies had now lined up in an orderly fashion, so the timing became pretty regular. Each lady would deliver her blows, briefly admire her handiwork, and then make way for the next person to torment me. The pain was really sinking in. I tried to stay still, but continued to dance around somewhat while remaining bent over. The ladies seemed to appreciate this and occasionally encouraged me to keep this coping action up.
By round four, I had begin to get used to the paddle swats. The pain was still intense, but I knew what to expect so I was able to just concentrate on the flaming heat and push away the anxiety. When the final girl had delivered her four, gunless girl called for a break. I waited for permission to rise, and when it was given, I stiffly got off of the horse. One of the other girls came up and placed her hand on my tortured tushie, and gave it a little rub. With a big grin, she commented on how well she and her sisters were doing. I cautiously reached by hands back to see if I could rub some relief into them. I heard no objections, so I gave myself a short butt massage. By my calculations, I’d already received sixty swats, but I still had several hundred more to go.
Gunless girl ordered that, since my punishment still had a considerable ways to go, that I should divest myself completely of my pants, since they would just get in the way. Reluctantly, I did so, seeing a little more of my dignity tossed aside. In a surprise show of sympathy, one of the girls offered my a cold glass of water to refresh myself. I gratefully accepted, and, although I considered just pouring the water over my butt to cool it, I decided it would be best if I simply drank the beverage. As I was doing so, I saw gunless girl pulling an ottoman into the middle of the room, and them put a couple of sofa cushions on top of it.
“Enough pausing, time for more spanking,” she said, much more gleefully than I would have preferred. “We’re going to change things up a little. Lay over the foot stool, and make sure your butt is pointing straight up!” I laid across the cushions, and, though it was somewhat awkward, the cushions were something of a relief.
The paddling began again. The new angle gave the ladies a way to deliver a completely new form of pain. They started to work on the lower part of my bottom, and on the sides. A couple even used a two-handed technique to get more leverage. I grunted and “ouched” quite a bit as my butt was beaten over and over. I could feel myself starting to quiver somewhat, as the pain continued to sink in.
We paused again after round five and I was again allowed to rise. At this time, gunless girl gave me something of a dose of good news.
“You’re good and sore right now, so this must be having an affect. We have two rounds left.” Only two? Despite a goodly number of smacks remaining, I could at last see the end. “The next round will be ten swats from each girl. Now bend over that chair.” She pointed to a low-backed easy chair in the middle of the room. I dragged my sore-butted, half-naked self over the the chair and laid over the back if it.
This paddlings I received in this round drove the pain deeper into my backside. The sting wasn’t as bad, but the soreness wasn’t going away. Each swat was causing me to lurch a little and grunt occasionally. My butt didn’t feel like it was on fire anymore, it felt like each cheek had been hit by a sledge hammer, and each swat felt like a nail hammer was striking me. I had to grab a cushion to keep from leaping up and covering my ass with my hands. The round seemed to go on forever.
When the last girl delivered her tenth swat, I heaved a huge sigh. Even though I knew still more whacks were coming, I felt greatly relieved that this round had completed. I was ordered to stand up and move to the center of the room. I took this opportunity to reach back and check to make sure that my ass was still there. It was, but it felt like it had doubled in size.
When I reached to room’s middle, gunless girl walked up until she was toe to toe with me. She looked me right in the eyes and said, “You’re pretty warm back there now, aren’t you?” in a very strict voice. I just nodded. “Good! You deserve every whack. You were pretty fucking stupid doing what you did. You were just looking for a show, but you violated our privacy and our trust. What you did was mean, selfish, and totally shitty. You’re lucky I didn’t just blow your head off. Now it’s time to finish this.”
She took a step back. “You’re going to get fifteen whacks from each girl. You’re going to be naked while you take them, shoes and everything, and your going to take them bending over with nothing to hold onto. You’re going to count each swat, and if any of the girls pauses for more than a couple of seconds, you will ask them for the next swat. And your going to take these quietly and without moving. This way, maybe you’ll feel just a little bit how we did when we discovered your peeping tom act!”
Now I was truly humbled. I actually responded to her by saying, “Yes, ma’am.” I felt so small and childish. She was right. I deserved everything that these ladies dished out, as severe a paddling as they could give. I turned around and completed my humiliation by removing my shirt, shoes, and socks. Then I bent over and put my hands on my knees.
SMACK! The first of my last round of torment crashed into my already-roasted cheeks. “One!” I shouted, trying not to show strain in my voice. “Two!” “Three!” Gunless girl was being slow and methodical, and she was hitting hard! After four, she paused, and when I didn’t feel the fifth swat I realized that I now had to ask for it. “May I please have another swat?” I said in a voice that felt very small. She was happy to oblige.
Swat after swat from girl after girl blasted into my bottom. I managed to stay still, although it was sometimes difficult. Each time one of them stopped, I asked them to continue in a smaller and smaller voice. I began to feel very emotional. Gunless girl was right again. I did now know how awful it felt for these ladies to be spied upon. I felt terrible. Not only did I deserve this punishment, it was something they needed to do to me to start making things right. Despite my attempts at control, I could feel tears coming to my eyes.
While the fifth girl was delivering her fifteen, the tears began to gather on my cheeks. One of the other ladies noticed and cried, “Oh my god, he’s crying!” The girl wielding the paddle stopped and the room became quiet. The ladies had realize that this wasn’t revenge any more, it was a serious and important chastisement. Someone said, “Maybe we should stop.”
Before anyone else could respond, I cried, “No!” As I gathered my composure, I elucidated. “I harmed you ladies. I need you to finish.” I saw gunless girl nod, and the paddling resumed. I didn’t sob, but my voice was cracking with strain, more emotional than physical, as I continued to count the strokes.
At last the spanking was finished. I remained bent over. I was stiff and sore. By butt was numb with pain, and I was emotionally spent.
“You did well,” replied gunless girl, the anger now gone from her voice. “Now go stand facing the wall for a few minutes and compose yourself. Stay there until I come back for you. Lades, we’re finished here.” Still naked, I headed for my place of shame. Before leaving the room, the other five girls were kind enough to gently pat my behind and leave me with a few words of forgiveness.
As I stared at the wall, reflecting on my stupidity and thoughtlessness, I allowed the tears to run their course. Although it was still humiliating to be standing in their living room, butt naked and with a seriously red and beaten rump, my shame began to subside and I started to feel better. I could feel the bruises setting in and I knew that they would be with me for a while. After a few minutes, the ring leader, the now-gunless- and paddle-less girl, returned with a bottle of skin lotion. In a business-like manner, she applied a considerable amount to my rear end. I expected to see steam rising from behind me.
When she finished, she handed me the bottle of skin lotion and a bottle of Heineken. “The lotion should keep your skin from cracking too badly,” she said, “and the beer should keep your head from cracking.” I gratefully accepted both. The Heineken had been opened, and I downed it in two swigs. I felt the tension easing away.
“Now put your clothes on and get the hell out of here. And don’t come within two blocks of this house ever again.” As I began to dress, she continued. “As far as we’re concerned, this is over. It shall never be spoken of again. I expect that you will respect that and not talk of this again, as well.” As I looked for my underpants, she added, “Oh, and we’re keeping your undies as a souvenir.”
I finished dressing and, as she suggested, got the hell out of there. I never thought that I’d want to leave a house full of pretty girls so quickly, but you learn a lot of new things in college. And I did respect her wishes. When walking around town, I would go out of my way to make sure I didn’t pass that house. I have slipped a little on her “never spoken of” edict, however, twice now. The first time was when I told Angela, since I try not to keep secrets from her (she used that as an excuse to spank me, but that one I enjoyed, and besides, Angela never lacks for reasons to spank me). The second time was with you, my esteemed readers.
As luck would have it, one of the residents of the house turned out to be in one of my classes that semester. She recognized and greeted me right away, but took care to avoid any reference to the paddling in which she had participated. We studied together a few times, and even had a couple of friendly dates (no, we didn’t spank each other and we didn’t sleep together).
The bruises on my ass faded in a few days. However, the memory continues to linger. While, in truth, the paddling wasn’t really so bad, me being a spanko and all, the ordeal was. It was, though, a fitting punishment for a brief moment of insanity on my part, and it was well deserved. It wasn’t the pain that made me feel remorseful, or baring my bottom to the fine young ladies. It wasn’t really even being nude. There was nothing remotely sexual about that particular spanking, however, and that was the primary difference between that and any other bottom warmings that I have endured. These ladies were truly mad at me, and rightly so. They made me meekly submit, and took their anger out on my butt.
That day made me become more insightful. Whenever I feel like doing something impulsive, I seem to recall that incident and, before acting, decide if what I was thinking of doing would deserve a spanking like I received on that fateful day. So I am able to more thoroughly consider the consequences before I act on that impulse. And that, my friends, while perhaps not really fantastic, is certainly something to take away from the experience.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Blogus Interuptus
I'm afraid that I owe my loyal readers an apology for leaving you hanging as to the ending of "Once Upon A Spanking." The piece has been mostly written, however it needs a few closing sentences and circumstances have conspired to delay completion.
Similar to those of you in the real world, in my world it has also been rather warm (sort of like Mt. Ranier is a rather big hill). The air conditioner in the main house decided to take a summer vacation, and, of course, finding a repair person during such a heat wave is a bit like finding George W. Bush at the Democratic National Convention. The guest house does have functioning have A/C, but only two bedrooms. I suggested that the girls, Maribel and Colette, take one bedroom and Angela and I the other. I'm not sure who whined the loudest about how mature they were and it was so childish to share sleeping quarters with their sister, so in the end it was decided that each girl could have their own room and Angela and I would sleep in the living room. We are such indulgent parents.
In any event, we are being gifted this weekend with a visit from Angela's Parents, also known in these environs as Gramma and Grandpa Shout-A-Lot. The original plan was that they would take over the third floor of the barn, but, with no A/C, the third floor has turned into an iron smelting factory. Gramma (a very kind but utterly intractable woman) stated that SHE IS NOT DRIVING ALL THIS WAY TO STAY IN A HOTEL, and yet should they try to stay in the guest house with us, they will either have to sleep with us in the living room (which surely transfers me from the sofa to the floor) or deal with another whining contest. Naturally, Angela is a trifle on edge.
The moral of the story is that we will probably be having to find numerous ways to entertain those who brought forth my lovely wife into this world. These ways will have to be away from the house should the A/C still be on the fritz. With luck, they will find a lovely hotel while we are out and opt to room there for the duration, however long that may be. So writing time will be scarce, and spanking time non-existent (Angela said that her parents cannot know that we are spankos because THEY WOULD NOT UNDERSTAND). So the completion of my little story may have to wait yet a few more days. I'm sure that you'll understand and be patient.
Please remember that, even though the thermometer reads 100 degrees, it is not that hot when you are sitting on the porch sipping on a tall glass of iced darjeeling tea. Just don't attempt to do anything, else you are liable to melt, and I would prefer not to have liquid readers.
Be well, all.
Similar to those of you in the real world, in my world it has also been rather warm (sort of like Mt. Ranier is a rather big hill). The air conditioner in the main house decided to take a summer vacation, and, of course, finding a repair person during such a heat wave is a bit like finding George W. Bush at the Democratic National Convention. The guest house does have functioning have A/C, but only two bedrooms. I suggested that the girls, Maribel and Colette, take one bedroom and Angela and I the other. I'm not sure who whined the loudest about how mature they were and it was so childish to share sleeping quarters with their sister, so in the end it was decided that each girl could have their own room and Angela and I would sleep in the living room. We are such indulgent parents.
In any event, we are being gifted this weekend with a visit from Angela's Parents, also known in these environs as Gramma and Grandpa Shout-A-Lot. The original plan was that they would take over the third floor of the barn, but, with no A/C, the third floor has turned into an iron smelting factory. Gramma (a very kind but utterly intractable woman) stated that SHE IS NOT DRIVING ALL THIS WAY TO STAY IN A HOTEL, and yet should they try to stay in the guest house with us, they will either have to sleep with us in the living room (which surely transfers me from the sofa to the floor) or deal with another whining contest. Naturally, Angela is a trifle on edge.
The moral of the story is that we will probably be having to find numerous ways to entertain those who brought forth my lovely wife into this world. These ways will have to be away from the house should the A/C still be on the fritz. With luck, they will find a lovely hotel while we are out and opt to room there for the duration, however long that may be. So writing time will be scarce, and spanking time non-existent (Angela said that her parents cannot know that we are spankos because THEY WOULD NOT UNDERSTAND). So the completion of my little story may have to wait yet a few more days. I'm sure that you'll understand and be patient.
Please remember that, even though the thermometer reads 100 degrees, it is not that hot when you are sitting on the porch sipping on a tall glass of iced darjeeling tea. Just don't attempt to do anything, else you are liable to melt, and I would prefer not to have liquid readers.
Be well, all.
