Thursday, September 28, 2006
Spankus Interuptus, Act Three
In our story so far, our hero, me, had celebrated the birth of my second child entirely too excessively. I had passed out in the car on the way home and was found by my dear wife's best friend, Bernie, who was now a police officer. Bernie took me home to Angela, who cleaned me up and put me to bed. As she left me to sleep off my excess, she left me with a warning.
I shant describe my next-day hangover. Suffice to say I suffered greatly the following day, although I did make it to work.
Fast forward two weekends, to a nice Saturday afternoon. Angela had invited over her sister and her two children, and they were all happily playing in the living room of the main house. I indicated that I was going to wander over to the guest house to watch some baseball and tinker a bit. Angela mentioned that she might be by shortly to join me. This made my heart flutter since usually when she meets me in the guest house we engage in corporal and marital relations, and since Angela’s sister was there, she could look after the kiddies for an hour or so.
When Angela did join me at the guest house, she entered sporting a wicked grin and holding the most nasty leather strap that I had ever seen. “It is time,” she said, “for you to receive your punishment for that major bender of yours.” I smiled seductively at her (at least I thought it was a seductive smile) and rose (to my feet, that is), awaiting orders.
Now, Angela and I do not have the kind of relationship where we truly “punish” each other for actual behavior. The “punishments” are usually for perceived slights, like me not noticing enough how nice her butt is, or her not making a meal tasty enough (Angela is, truthfully, a fabulous cook). We try to work out real differences in more mundane ways. So I suspected that I was in for some Saturday afternoon fun.
In the guest house, we keep what is often referred to as a “horse” for which to drape someone over, giving an excellent view of the spanking target. Angela arranged that with some furniture and cushions so that the spankee would be bent over but with the torso laying flat on the cushions. She then ordered me to don my birthday suit, which I did most readily. At that point, she had be bend over the horse with my feel off of the ground. She then secured my hands, feet, and waist so that I had virtually no range of motion. Then she stood back and admired her work.
At that moment, the door to the guest house opened and in walked Officer Bernie, although she was not on duty and thus in street clothes. She had a very satisfied look on her face, and so I was doubly puzzled. I knew that Bernie was of the homosexual persuasion, and that she was happily partnered. Angela and I had never discussed bringing another person into our sexual encounters, and Bernie had, to my knowledge, never expressed interest in a threesome with us. I did know that, since Bernie was Angela’s best friend, she knew of our spanking proclivities. But why was Bernie here now, and why did she look so pleased?
I gave Bernie the most cordial greeting that I could muster for a person who was naked, tied up in a very exposed position, and looking forward to an afternoon romp with their spouse. “What the hell are you doing here?” I pleasantly inquired.
“Well,” she said, “When I found you passed out in your car, I didn’t take your drunken, puke-covered ass to jail as a favor to Angela. So, in return, she asked me to sit in on your punishment!”
I thought this odd, but who was I to question the devious plans of my dearly beloved? I was, after all, a card carrying spanko. It looked like a new spanking adventure.
Angela gave me the standard, loving lecture about responsibility, recklessness, the dangers of drunk driving, et cetera. I listened politely and gave the appropriate responses where required. When she completed her speech, she turned to Bernie and said, “Would you do the honors?”
Bernie agreed, a little too enthusiastically. She picked up the afore-mentioned nasty strap. It was one of those so-called “prison straps,” that was a good six inches wide, at least two feet long, sturdy, and heavy. Bernie, being one who works out regularly, handled it like it was made of paper. “How hard should I hit him?” she asked Angela.
“As hard as you can,” replied Angela. Before I had the chance to consider the consequences of that remark, Bernie had brought the strap forward, making contact with my bare butt with goodly force.
When it comes to spanking, I have a mighty tolerance for pain. The harder the swat, the more pleasure I get out of it. I never shout out with pain or shock. Well, almost never.
The yelp that escaped my lips startled even me. My poor bottom simply exploded in pain. The strap had wrapped around somewhat, taking a nasty bite out of my hip as well. I issued forth a couple of words that are best left to the imagination.
I braced myself for stroke number two. While the pain was considerable, I am a spanko who likes a challenge. If I could become acclimated to the pain, this had the potential to be quite a sexual experience. I also trusted that Angela knew my tolerance for pain and would not exceed it. If I indicated that I was truly in discomfort, she would stop. However, my dear readers, Angela was not interested in pushing my pain envelope.
She and Bernie decided to inspect the damage. “Impressive,” Angela said. “You blistered his butt very well with just one stroke.” Bernie was pleased at the complement.
I girded myself for the expected onslaught. Instead, Bernie laid the strap down on the cushion that was supporting my head. Then she and Angela headed for the exit.
“We’ll be back in an hour or so,” Angela remarked. I inquired as to her intentions, but she and Bernie just walked out and closed the door behind them.
This brings to the end of Act Three. In the next act, we find out what Bernie and Angela did upon their return.
I shant describe my next-day hangover. Suffice to say I suffered greatly the following day, although I did make it to work.
Fast forward two weekends, to a nice Saturday afternoon. Angela had invited over her sister and her two children, and they were all happily playing in the living room of the main house. I indicated that I was going to wander over to the guest house to watch some baseball and tinker a bit. Angela mentioned that she might be by shortly to join me. This made my heart flutter since usually when she meets me in the guest house we engage in corporal and marital relations, and since Angela’s sister was there, she could look after the kiddies for an hour or so.
When Angela did join me at the guest house, she entered sporting a wicked grin and holding the most nasty leather strap that I had ever seen. “It is time,” she said, “for you to receive your punishment for that major bender of yours.” I smiled seductively at her (at least I thought it was a seductive smile) and rose (to my feet, that is), awaiting orders.
Now, Angela and I do not have the kind of relationship where we truly “punish” each other for actual behavior. The “punishments” are usually for perceived slights, like me not noticing enough how nice her butt is, or her not making a meal tasty enough (Angela is, truthfully, a fabulous cook). We try to work out real differences in more mundane ways. So I suspected that I was in for some Saturday afternoon fun.
In the guest house, we keep what is often referred to as a “horse” for which to drape someone over, giving an excellent view of the spanking target. Angela arranged that with some furniture and cushions so that the spankee would be bent over but with the torso laying flat on the cushions. She then ordered me to don my birthday suit, which I did most readily. At that point, she had be bend over the horse with my feel off of the ground. She then secured my hands, feet, and waist so that I had virtually no range of motion. Then she stood back and admired her work.
At that moment, the door to the guest house opened and in walked Officer Bernie, although she was not on duty and thus in street clothes. She had a very satisfied look on her face, and so I was doubly puzzled. I knew that Bernie was of the homosexual persuasion, and that she was happily partnered. Angela and I had never discussed bringing another person into our sexual encounters, and Bernie had, to my knowledge, never expressed interest in a threesome with us. I did know that, since Bernie was Angela’s best friend, she knew of our spanking proclivities. But why was Bernie here now, and why did she look so pleased?
I gave Bernie the most cordial greeting that I could muster for a person who was naked, tied up in a very exposed position, and looking forward to an afternoon romp with their spouse. “What the hell are you doing here?” I pleasantly inquired.
“Well,” she said, “When I found you passed out in your car, I didn’t take your drunken, puke-covered ass to jail as a favor to Angela. So, in return, she asked me to sit in on your punishment!”
I thought this odd, but who was I to question the devious plans of my dearly beloved? I was, after all, a card carrying spanko. It looked like a new spanking adventure.
Angela gave me the standard, loving lecture about responsibility, recklessness, the dangers of drunk driving, et cetera. I listened politely and gave the appropriate responses where required. When she completed her speech, she turned to Bernie and said, “Would you do the honors?”
Bernie agreed, a little too enthusiastically. She picked up the afore-mentioned nasty strap. It was one of those so-called “prison straps,” that was a good six inches wide, at least two feet long, sturdy, and heavy. Bernie, being one who works out regularly, handled it like it was made of paper. “How hard should I hit him?” she asked Angela.
“As hard as you can,” replied Angela. Before I had the chance to consider the consequences of that remark, Bernie had brought the strap forward, making contact with my bare butt with goodly force.
When it comes to spanking, I have a mighty tolerance for pain. The harder the swat, the more pleasure I get out of it. I never shout out with pain or shock. Well, almost never.
The yelp that escaped my lips startled even me. My poor bottom simply exploded in pain. The strap had wrapped around somewhat, taking a nasty bite out of my hip as well. I issued forth a couple of words that are best left to the imagination.
I braced myself for stroke number two. While the pain was considerable, I am a spanko who likes a challenge. If I could become acclimated to the pain, this had the potential to be quite a sexual experience. I also trusted that Angela knew my tolerance for pain and would not exceed it. If I indicated that I was truly in discomfort, she would stop. However, my dear readers, Angela was not interested in pushing my pain envelope.
She and Bernie decided to inspect the damage. “Impressive,” Angela said. “You blistered his butt very well with just one stroke.” Bernie was pleased at the complement.
I girded myself for the expected onslaught. Instead, Bernie laid the strap down on the cushion that was supporting my head. Then she and Angela headed for the exit.
“We’ll be back in an hour or so,” Angela remarked. I inquired as to her intentions, but she and Bernie just walked out and closed the door behind them.
This brings to the end of Act Three. In the next act, we find out what Bernie and Angela did upon their return.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Spankus Interuptus, Act Two
Part Two of our story describes how, in my besotted state, was presented to Angela by her best friend, who was also a police officer.
My alcohol-sopped brain suddenly recalled that, shortly after we had met, Bernie had entered the police academy. Apparently, she had decided to engage in her profession of choice right here in the town where I lived!
“How’s it going, Bernie?” I exclaimed. Or rather I tried to exclaim. Bernie related to me later that what actually came out of my mouth was something like, “Hozi go eh brrrrnnee.”
Apparently, Bernie had, by this time, recognized me, too. “Jesus fucking Christ, Frank,” she started, “you smell like fermented puke! What the hell have you been doing?”
“Celebrating!” I attempted to say.
“Celebrating what?” she asked. “The existance of beer?”
My knees started to buckle again, so Bernie strenghtened her grip on my collar and hauled me toward her car. “Get in!” she ordered. I wobbled toward the front door. “Not in front!” she shouted. “You smell like fucking puke, and I don’t want your puke covered clothes making my squad car smell like fucking puke! It’s bad enough you got your fucking puke all over my pants.” Such language from an officer of the law. Bernie uncerimoniously dumped me in the back seat.
As she climbed into the driver’s seat, I asked, “Are you taking me to jail?”
“No, you fucking idiot, I’m taking you home.”
“That might not be a good idea, Bern. Angela will probably kill me.”
Bernie mumbled, “I hope so,” and then started to drive. I slumped down and promptly fell asleep.
To give you some perspective at to the state of my inebriatedness, I later learned that the “parking lot” that I had pulled into was actually the median of the enterance to one of those snooty neighborhoods with a ubiquitous name like “Whispering Oaks” or “Rolling Pines.” Not only did I not walk, I had not even exited the car. I had just passed out. Bernie noticed me because my car had three wheels over the curb.
When I awoke, I was still in Bernie’s car, but she was not. It was pitch black. I slowly sat up and felt my stomach lurch. I prepared for another round of barfing. Fortunately, I was all barfed out.
Suddenly the car door opened. I heard Bernie say, “Here’s your fucking, puke covered husband!” She reached in and hauled my out of the car. My legs were a little steadier so I was able to stand with only a little assistance. As my head cleared, I clearly saw in the moonlight the face of my lovely wife. I went toward her to give her heartfelt hug. “Ewwww!” she said and jumped back. “You’re covered in barf!” Rather than a hug, I got a face full of ground.
“Stand back,” Bernie said to Angela. And then it started to rain really HARD. And really cold! Bernie has turned the hose on me! I thrashed, sputtered, and struggled to regain my footing, but mostly just flailed until the hosing stopped.
“I have to get back to the station,” Bernie said. “I have to get the fucking smell of puke out of my fucking unit. If my seargent finds out that I picked up a drunk and just took him home he’ll kick my ass!” With a wrinkle of her nose, she jumped into her car and drove off. When she reached the end of our drive, she stopped, stuck her head out of the window, and shouted, “I parked his fucking car a little ways up on the street where I found him. Hopefully, the next patrol will think it belongs to someone in that neighborhood and not have it towed away!”
Angela was very nice to me that night. She undressed me, cleaned me up, and put me to bed, albiet in one of the guest rooms. As she was leaving the room, I said to her, “Thanks for not being mad.”
“Oh, I’m mad, all right. Your just too drunk to do anything about it tonight. When I’m ready, you’ll get what you deserve.”
Now, my friends, you’ll probably recognize that as one of those little euphimisms for “You’re going to get a spanking.” However, at my level of intoxication, I didn’t really catch her meaning. I promptly fell asleep and forgot all about it.
Part three will explain why I should never forget what my dear wife tells me.
My alcohol-sopped brain suddenly recalled that, shortly after we had met, Bernie had entered the police academy. Apparently, she had decided to engage in her profession of choice right here in the town where I lived!
“How’s it going, Bernie?” I exclaimed. Or rather I tried to exclaim. Bernie related to me later that what actually came out of my mouth was something like, “Hozi go eh brrrrnnee.”
Apparently, Bernie had, by this time, recognized me, too. “Jesus fucking Christ, Frank,” she started, “you smell like fermented puke! What the hell have you been doing?”
“Celebrating!” I attempted to say.
“Celebrating what?” she asked. “The existance of beer?”
My knees started to buckle again, so Bernie strenghtened her grip on my collar and hauled me toward her car. “Get in!” she ordered. I wobbled toward the front door. “Not in front!” she shouted. “You smell like fucking puke, and I don’t want your puke covered clothes making my squad car smell like fucking puke! It’s bad enough you got your fucking puke all over my pants.” Such language from an officer of the law. Bernie uncerimoniously dumped me in the back seat.
As she climbed into the driver’s seat, I asked, “Are you taking me to jail?”
“No, you fucking idiot, I’m taking you home.”
“That might not be a good idea, Bern. Angela will probably kill me.”
Bernie mumbled, “I hope so,” and then started to drive. I slumped down and promptly fell asleep.
To give you some perspective at to the state of my inebriatedness, I later learned that the “parking lot” that I had pulled into was actually the median of the enterance to one of those snooty neighborhoods with a ubiquitous name like “Whispering Oaks” or “Rolling Pines.” Not only did I not walk, I had not even exited the car. I had just passed out. Bernie noticed me because my car had three wheels over the curb.
When I awoke, I was still in Bernie’s car, but she was not. It was pitch black. I slowly sat up and felt my stomach lurch. I prepared for another round of barfing. Fortunately, I was all barfed out.
Suddenly the car door opened. I heard Bernie say, “Here’s your fucking, puke covered husband!” She reached in and hauled my out of the car. My legs were a little steadier so I was able to stand with only a little assistance. As my head cleared, I clearly saw in the moonlight the face of my lovely wife. I went toward her to give her heartfelt hug. “Ewwww!” she said and jumped back. “You’re covered in barf!” Rather than a hug, I got a face full of ground.
“Stand back,” Bernie said to Angela. And then it started to rain really HARD. And really cold! Bernie has turned the hose on me! I thrashed, sputtered, and struggled to regain my footing, but mostly just flailed until the hosing stopped.
“I have to get back to the station,” Bernie said. “I have to get the fucking smell of puke out of my fucking unit. If my seargent finds out that I picked up a drunk and just took him home he’ll kick my ass!” With a wrinkle of her nose, she jumped into her car and drove off. When she reached the end of our drive, she stopped, stuck her head out of the window, and shouted, “I parked his fucking car a little ways up on the street where I found him. Hopefully, the next patrol will think it belongs to someone in that neighborhood and not have it towed away!”
Angela was very nice to me that night. She undressed me, cleaned me up, and put me to bed, albiet in one of the guest rooms. As she was leaving the room, I said to her, “Thanks for not being mad.”
“Oh, I’m mad, all right. Your just too drunk to do anything about it tonight. When I’m ready, you’ll get what you deserve.”
Now, my friends, you’ll probably recognize that as one of those little euphimisms for “You’re going to get a spanking.” However, at my level of intoxication, I didn’t really catch her meaning. I promptly fell asleep and forgot all about it.
Part three will explain why I should never forget what my dear wife tells me.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Spankus Interuptus, Introduction
For those gentlemen out there who have been gifted with fatherhood, I’m sure you’d agree that the entire process of having your first child is truly wonderful. From choosing with your spouse to enter the world of parenthood, to the conception, to the nine months of pregnancy with your beloved wife growing a beautiful baby, to the miracle of birth, one’s first child is a magical experience. It was no different with Angela and me.
The second time, however, is somewhat less perfect. What was, the first time, a series of new and mysterious events, becomes, the second go-round, a collective pain in the ass. Pregnancy number one is growing a precious life. Number two, although the events are identical, is mostly nine months of complaints and misery.
Please don’t misunderstand me. We were both overjoyed when our youngest came into this world, and we love her totally and unconditionally. Her birth was not an “accident,” but something what we had discussed and agreed upon. We were ecstatic when we discovered that Angela was with child.
Then, for the next nine months, Angela was utterly insufferable.
She was too fat. She was always hungry. She was never hungry. She was too hot. She was too cold. Her legs hurt. Her back hurt. Her boobs hurt.
For Maribel, these were steps to the path of making a baby. For Colette, these were reasons why she was going to inflict terrible harm on my private parts. When Maribel was on the way, Angela said, crying, “We did it! We’re having a baby!”
When labor set in prior to Colette’s birth, Angela said, “GET THIS FUCKING BABY OUT OF ME!!!!!”
Once the umbilical cord was cut, Angela returned to her normal self. And so, when I returned to work the following week, I felt the need to celebrate. Thus, several of my workmates and I paid a visit to our favorite local tavern.
Several hours and entirely too much beer later, I walked out of said tavern. Okay, that is not a true statement. Actually, I stumbled and wove my way out the door and to my car, only tripping two or three times and only falling down once, after which I climbed into my car and proceeded to drive home.
At this point in the story, I’m sure you’re saying, “What a fucking idiot! If he was so drunk he couldn’t walk, he’s awfully fucking stupid to be driving.” Any, my dear readers, you would be correct in your observation. It was, indeed, a pretty fucking stupid thing to do.
As I proceeded home, I found myself getting increasingly dizzy. Eventually, even I decided that I should get off of the road. So I pulled off of the road into an empty parking lot and exited the car to walk around a bit and take in some fresh, night air. Or so I thought.
My next recollection was of hearing a tapping on the car window. I opened my eyes and thought that I was having a religious experience. I could see nothing but a huge, white light blaring in my face. After a pause, the light moved and I heard the tapping again. It appeared that someone was tapping my car window with a flashlight.
“Sir? Sir, are you all right?” I heard a voice say. I shook my head to try to clear it. I responded in the affirmative. “Would you please step out of the car?” the voice said.
I went for the door latch and discovered that it had moved. In my pickled state, I searched for it until finally the person behind the voice opened the door for me. I managed to swing my legs out of the car, and when I looked up, I saw that the person with the flashlight was a police officer. And a woman officer, no less. I attempted to dazzle her with my smile.
“Stand up, please,” the officer ordered. I began to push myself up to a standing position, when I discovered two things. Number one, I was too drunk to stand. Number two, I was incredibly nauseous. Against my better judgment, I proceed to regurgitate much of my evenings consumption all over the poor police officer’s pants.
“Shit!” she said as she jumped back. Odd, I thought to myself, that voice seems somewhat familiar. I must be really drunk, I thought, because I don’t know any female police officers. I tried to stand again, but instead fell flat on my face, right into my own vomit. This caused me to retch again.
Ms. Police Officer stood back cursing as I completed emptying the contents of my stomach. After a few additional gags, the spasms stopped. At this point I felt a very strong hand pick me up by my collar and haul me to my feet. Holy shit, I thought, is this woman strong! My legs were still very weak, but the officer’s iron grip kept me upright. I lifted up my head to see who my jailer was going to be. To my everlasting astonishment, I looked into the face of my wife’s best friend, Bernie.
In act two, we find out what Bernie decides to do with Frank the Drunken Sot.
The second time, however, is somewhat less perfect. What was, the first time, a series of new and mysterious events, becomes, the second go-round, a collective pain in the ass. Pregnancy number one is growing a precious life. Number two, although the events are identical, is mostly nine months of complaints and misery.
Please don’t misunderstand me. We were both overjoyed when our youngest came into this world, and we love her totally and unconditionally. Her birth was not an “accident,” but something what we had discussed and agreed upon. We were ecstatic when we discovered that Angela was with child.
Then, for the next nine months, Angela was utterly insufferable.
She was too fat. She was always hungry. She was never hungry. She was too hot. She was too cold. Her legs hurt. Her back hurt. Her boobs hurt.
For Maribel, these were steps to the path of making a baby. For Colette, these were reasons why she was going to inflict terrible harm on my private parts. When Maribel was on the way, Angela said, crying, “We did it! We’re having a baby!”
When labor set in prior to Colette’s birth, Angela said, “GET THIS FUCKING BABY OUT OF ME!!!!!”
Once the umbilical cord was cut, Angela returned to her normal self. And so, when I returned to work the following week, I felt the need to celebrate. Thus, several of my workmates and I paid a visit to our favorite local tavern.
Several hours and entirely too much beer later, I walked out of said tavern. Okay, that is not a true statement. Actually, I stumbled and wove my way out the door and to my car, only tripping two or three times and only falling down once, after which I climbed into my car and proceeded to drive home.
At this point in the story, I’m sure you’re saying, “What a fucking idiot! If he was so drunk he couldn’t walk, he’s awfully fucking stupid to be driving.” Any, my dear readers, you would be correct in your observation. It was, indeed, a pretty fucking stupid thing to do.
As I proceeded home, I found myself getting increasingly dizzy. Eventually, even I decided that I should get off of the road. So I pulled off of the road into an empty parking lot and exited the car to walk around a bit and take in some fresh, night air. Or so I thought.
My next recollection was of hearing a tapping on the car window. I opened my eyes and thought that I was having a religious experience. I could see nothing but a huge, white light blaring in my face. After a pause, the light moved and I heard the tapping again. It appeared that someone was tapping my car window with a flashlight.
“Sir? Sir, are you all right?” I heard a voice say. I shook my head to try to clear it. I responded in the affirmative. “Would you please step out of the car?” the voice said.
I went for the door latch and discovered that it had moved. In my pickled state, I searched for it until finally the person behind the voice opened the door for me. I managed to swing my legs out of the car, and when I looked up, I saw that the person with the flashlight was a police officer. And a woman officer, no less. I attempted to dazzle her with my smile.
“Stand up, please,” the officer ordered. I began to push myself up to a standing position, when I discovered two things. Number one, I was too drunk to stand. Number two, I was incredibly nauseous. Against my better judgment, I proceed to regurgitate much of my evenings consumption all over the poor police officer’s pants.
“Shit!” she said as she jumped back. Odd, I thought to myself, that voice seems somewhat familiar. I must be really drunk, I thought, because I don’t know any female police officers. I tried to stand again, but instead fell flat on my face, right into my own vomit. This caused me to retch again.
Ms. Police Officer stood back cursing as I completed emptying the contents of my stomach. After a few additional gags, the spasms stopped. At this point I felt a very strong hand pick me up by my collar and haul me to my feet. Holy shit, I thought, is this woman strong! My legs were still very weak, but the officer’s iron grip kept me upright. I lifted up my head to see who my jailer was going to be. To my everlasting astonishment, I looked into the face of my wife’s best friend, Bernie.
In act two, we find out what Bernie decides to do with Frank the Drunken Sot.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
A Post For Postings Sake
It appears that Fantastic Spanking has joined the elite class of internet diaries. Yes, my friends, I have been referenced by the one and only Dan in his famous and fabulous effort with the wonderfully descriptive title of the Spanking Blog (as opposed to The Spanking Blog which belongs to some guy who gave up on blogging to spend his time on more meaningful efforts, namely filming spanking videos). As an avid reader of Spanking Blog (not to be confused with … oh, never mind), it is a great honor to know that Dan was kind enough to inspect my little piece of cyberspace, and an even greater honor to know that he enjoyed some of my writings. It should be noted that, in Dan’s entry, he indicates his interest in “No Pants Day.” To show my appreciation to Dan, I believe that I shall make today another “No Pants Day!”
It has been some time since I have added to this chronicle. I have just finished installing a major computer system upgrade at work. The install has taken about two weeks now. Actually, the first two days were spend installing, and the next two or three in resolving issues and tying up loose ends. The rest of the time was spent making “emergency” changes because management “didn’t realize” that something worked the way it did even though we went over it with them about 100 times. Programming computers would be much more rewarding if it wasn’t for all of the bloody users!
In any event, I should, hopefully, now have time to begin adding to this journal again. I have a number of topics that I wish to pontificate on, and a few reminiscences to regale you with. I may even have more suggestions for spanking video plots.
But, for now, I must take my leave. I see my dear wife standing by the doorway, holding a wooden hairbrush with an evil look in her eye. It appears that I may be in for a fantastic evening.
It has been some time since I have added to this chronicle. I have just finished installing a major computer system upgrade at work. The install has taken about two weeks now. Actually, the first two days were spend installing, and the next two or three in resolving issues and tying up loose ends. The rest of the time was spent making “emergency” changes because management “didn’t realize” that something worked the way it did even though we went over it with them about 100 times. Programming computers would be much more rewarding if it wasn’t for all of the bloody users!
In any event, I should, hopefully, now have time to begin adding to this journal again. I have a number of topics that I wish to pontificate on, and a few reminiscences to regale you with. I may even have more suggestions for spanking video plots.
But, for now, I must take my leave. I see my dear wife standing by the doorway, holding a wooden hairbrush with an evil look in her eye. It appears that I may be in for a fantastic evening.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
An Imaginary Mind Wanders
I graduated from college with a degree in computer science. Right there is a contradiction in terms. Science involves discovery, learning new thing. Computers are just stupid machines that do exactly what we tell them to. We, being computer programmers. So now you know that when your computer doesn’t do what you tell it to, don’t blame the computer, blame the programmer.
But I digress. When I took my first job, I worked in a department called Data Processing. As time passed, Data Processing became Information Systems, then Information Technology. What do these three terms have in common, you may ask. The answer is simple.
The all mean absolutely nothing, but they sound good to some suit that sits behind a shiny desk and gets paid entirely too much money.
What does this have to do with spanking? I haven’t decided yet.
I’ve been feeling rather pensive lately, as a huge, highly visible project at work is now winding down. This means that I’ll go from being unimaginably stressed and busy to having almost nothing to do. Which is perfectly fine with me. So I’ve been thinking about this spanking thing that I am so deeply involved in. Now, I’m not one to ruminate on the question of why I am a spanko. Well, I am a spanko because the actual author of this little collection of diatribes made me so. But I don’t ruminate on why HE is a spanko, either.
Rather, I’ve been contemplating the activity itself. What do I get out of it? I spend quite some time think about, reading about, perusing the internet for, and participating in spanking. And for what? I don’t really learn anything. I don’t really make any new discoveries, just perhaps different variations on the same theme (and if you’ve read my earlier post on the lack of creativity in spanking videos, those variations do tend to be damn few). I am frequently having to watch my words or my acts so as not to divulge my little hobby to my friends, my co-workers, my family, or my children. Granted, if asked outright, I would not deny my spanking proclivities, but neither would I put an “I Love Spanking” bumper sticker on the back of my imaginary car.
So why do I participate? This is a different question than “why am I a spanko.” If I so chose, it would not really be so hard to discontinue practicing this curious art, or at least drastically reduce the amount of time spent in spanking pursuits. So why don’t I? Why don’t I spend more time working on my professional career, or donating my time to charitable organizations, or building things? Why, instead, do I manage my collection of spanking pictures, spanking videos, spanking implements, spanking stories, and, yes, spanking experiences? Why? Why? Why???
But then, I have realized that the answer is really quite simple. There is no complex psychological reason why I am an active spanko. No irrational, driving need, no obsessive fear that if I no longer engage in spanking pursuits that I will not somehow be “me.” Indeed, the reason why I spank and get spanked is quite obvious.
Because I like it. It makes me feel good.
And if you regularly read this online log of mine, I suspect that it makes you feel good, too.
So rather than looking for more complex answers that, in reality, do not exist, I shall count myself lucky for being able to appreciate what is actually a simple pleasure. And I shall also appreciate that my wife and good friend, Angela, enjoys spanking, too.
And that, my friends, is simply fantastic.
But I digress. When I took my first job, I worked in a department called Data Processing. As time passed, Data Processing became Information Systems, then Information Technology. What do these three terms have in common, you may ask. The answer is simple.
The all mean absolutely nothing, but they sound good to some suit that sits behind a shiny desk and gets paid entirely too much money.
What does this have to do with spanking? I haven’t decided yet.
I’ve been feeling rather pensive lately, as a huge, highly visible project at work is now winding down. This means that I’ll go from being unimaginably stressed and busy to having almost nothing to do. Which is perfectly fine with me. So I’ve been thinking about this spanking thing that I am so deeply involved in. Now, I’m not one to ruminate on the question of why I am a spanko. Well, I am a spanko because the actual author of this little collection of diatribes made me so. But I don’t ruminate on why HE is a spanko, either.
Rather, I’ve been contemplating the activity itself. What do I get out of it? I spend quite some time think about, reading about, perusing the internet for, and participating in spanking. And for what? I don’t really learn anything. I don’t really make any new discoveries, just perhaps different variations on the same theme (and if you’ve read my earlier post on the lack of creativity in spanking videos, those variations do tend to be damn few). I am frequently having to watch my words or my acts so as not to divulge my little hobby to my friends, my co-workers, my family, or my children. Granted, if asked outright, I would not deny my spanking proclivities, but neither would I put an “I Love Spanking” bumper sticker on the back of my imaginary car.
So why do I participate? This is a different question than “why am I a spanko.” If I so chose, it would not really be so hard to discontinue practicing this curious art, or at least drastically reduce the amount of time spent in spanking pursuits. So why don’t I? Why don’t I spend more time working on my professional career, or donating my time to charitable organizations, or building things? Why, instead, do I manage my collection of spanking pictures, spanking videos, spanking implements, spanking stories, and, yes, spanking experiences? Why? Why? Why???
But then, I have realized that the answer is really quite simple. There is no complex psychological reason why I am an active spanko. No irrational, driving need, no obsessive fear that if I no longer engage in spanking pursuits that I will not somehow be “me.” Indeed, the reason why I spank and get spanked is quite obvious.
Because I like it. It makes me feel good.
And if you regularly read this online log of mine, I suspect that it makes you feel good, too.
So rather than looking for more complex answers that, in reality, do not exist, I shall count myself lucky for being able to appreciate what is actually a simple pleasure. And I shall also appreciate that my wife and good friend, Angela, enjoys spanking, too.
And that, my friends, is simply fantastic.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Coming Soon To A Spanking Video Near You
A while back, I lamented on the lack of creativity in the “plots” of most of the spanking videos that I have had the opportunity to view. Being a generous sort of person, I thought that perhaps I could be of some assistance in that area. So I have racked my imaginary brain and consulted with my imaginary friends (the ones that know of my little hobby), and come up with a few suggestions for interesting scenes in the world of spanking videos.
1. “Now, young lady, you’re in college now! You should know better than to push your little brother into the Grand Canyon!”
2. “Oh my gosh! We’re at the Super Bowl, with billions of people watching on television! This is SO COOL! You MUST spank my on my totally bare bottom right now!”
3. “You over-reported our corporate earnings by HOW MUCH! For that you deserve a good spanking!”
4. “OK, (pant, pant), we’ve cycled over 2,000 miles, over mountains and through deserts (pant, pant). Can I please have that spanking you promised me now?”
5. “You got a ticket for what? Naked gardening? You’re going to get a good spanking for that, mister!”
6. “Now, missy, I know that the boys next door tease you, but that is no reason to fill their house with 2 million bees and then sic a herd of hungry lions on them when they come running out! As your punishment, you’re going to get my belt to your butt!”
7. “So, now that you’ve won a gold medal at the Winter Olympics in figure skating, what are you going to do next?” “I’m going home to get a spanking!”
8. “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing!” “Well, you did, so no one else got any. For that, I’m going to take a hairbrush to your bare butt!”
9. “Weren’t you supposed to be in Iowa shilling for U.S. presidential candidate John McCain? Instead you stayed home and played cards! For that, I’m going to spank you but good!”
10. “Instead of cutting the grass, you were doing what? Blogging? Mister, I’m going to give you a good spanking!”
(Okay, that last one was Angela yelling at me just now. She did promise me a spanking this weekend, if you recall.)
Fantastic? I’ll let others be the judge of that. I shall just sit back and await the fine performances that these suggestions are sure to inspire.
If you would like to assist in the improvement of spanking video plots, feel free to send them along and I will include them in a subsequent post.
1. “Now, young lady, you’re in college now! You should know better than to push your little brother into the Grand Canyon!”
2. “Oh my gosh! We’re at the Super Bowl, with billions of people watching on television! This is SO COOL! You MUST spank my on my totally bare bottom right now!”
3. “You over-reported our corporate earnings by HOW MUCH! For that you deserve a good spanking!”
4. “OK, (pant, pant), we’ve cycled over 2,000 miles, over mountains and through deserts (pant, pant). Can I please have that spanking you promised me now?”
5. “You got a ticket for what? Naked gardening? You’re going to get a good spanking for that, mister!”
6. “Now, missy, I know that the boys next door tease you, but that is no reason to fill their house with 2 million bees and then sic a herd of hungry lions on them when they come running out! As your punishment, you’re going to get my belt to your butt!”
7. “So, now that you’ve won a gold medal at the Winter Olympics in figure skating, what are you going to do next?” “I’m going home to get a spanking!”
8. “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing!” “Well, you did, so no one else got any. For that, I’m going to take a hairbrush to your bare butt!”
9. “Weren’t you supposed to be in Iowa shilling for U.S. presidential candidate John McCain? Instead you stayed home and played cards! For that, I’m going to spank you but good!”
10. “Instead of cutting the grass, you were doing what? Blogging? Mister, I’m going to give you a good spanking!”
(Okay, that last one was Angela yelling at me just now. She did promise me a spanking this weekend, if you recall.)
Fantastic? I’ll let others be the judge of that. I shall just sit back and await the fine performances that these suggestions are sure to inspire.
If you would like to assist in the improvement of spanking video plots, feel free to send them along and I will include them in a subsequent post.
Friday, September 08, 2006
And The Answer Is....
A couple of my extremely intelligent and fabulously attractive readers (as all of my readers are) were kind enough to leave comments regarding my previous entry. The gist of their comments were, well, that they were leaving a comment. Seriously. I kid you not.
Therefore, to state the obvious, when I fail to add entries to my collection I receive no comments, and when I do post I do receive comments. Thus, I feel compelled to place some of my words of wisdom down for the perusal of the wide world of blogdom.
Although, I'm finding there is but one minor, almost insignificant, problem with such a plan.
I have absolutely nothing to say today.
Until tomorrow, then.
Therefore, to state the obvious, when I fail to add entries to my collection I receive no comments, and when I do post I do receive comments. Thus, I feel compelled to place some of my words of wisdom down for the perusal of the wide world of blogdom.
Although, I'm finding there is but one minor, almost insignificant, problem with such a plan.
I have absolutely nothing to say today.
Until tomorrow, then.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Where Have All The Spankos Gone?
So, dear readers, today I was checking to see if there were any new comments for Fantastic Spanking. There were none. This was not surprising, since I have not made an entry to my journal in over a week.
Horrors!
Today I shall rectify that, although I must confess that the next one may yet take some time. My professional life has been busy beyond belief. My employer is installing a new computer billing system this weekend. This is not so remarkable, except that I am the leader for this project. Therefore, I have been attempting to make sure that all of the “I”s are crossed and the “T”s are dotted. Things have been beyond silly.
I have been so overwhelmed that my lovely Angela and I have not partaken in our favorite activity in more than a week.
Double Horrors!!
Fortunately, Angela has promised to rectify that this weekend, as soon as she gets a chance. Translated, she is, I believe the correct term is “horny,” and as soon as she can find an excuse to get Colette out of the house, we’re going to “get busy.” The nice thing about “getting busy” in the biblical sense is that, once completed, we will be relaxed. This is opposed to the “busy” situation at work, which will continue to be busy while we, the lowly programming staff, correct all of the issues resulting from ill-advised management decisions regarding the new billing system.
I probably deserve to be spanked for that last comment. Which is perfectly acceptable to me.
I’ll leave you with a quote from that renown 20th century philosopher, Robin Williams:
“Joke’em if they can’t take a fuck!”
Indeed.
Horrors!
Today I shall rectify that, although I must confess that the next one may yet take some time. My professional life has been busy beyond belief. My employer is installing a new computer billing system this weekend. This is not so remarkable, except that I am the leader for this project. Therefore, I have been attempting to make sure that all of the “I”s are crossed and the “T”s are dotted. Things have been beyond silly.
I have been so overwhelmed that my lovely Angela and I have not partaken in our favorite activity in more than a week.
Double Horrors!!
Fortunately, Angela has promised to rectify that this weekend, as soon as she gets a chance. Translated, she is, I believe the correct term is “horny,” and as soon as she can find an excuse to get Colette out of the house, we’re going to “get busy.” The nice thing about “getting busy” in the biblical sense is that, once completed, we will be relaxed. This is opposed to the “busy” situation at work, which will continue to be busy while we, the lowly programming staff, correct all of the issues resulting from ill-advised management decisions regarding the new billing system.
I probably deserve to be spanked for that last comment. Which is perfectly acceptable to me.
I’ll leave you with a quote from that renown 20th century philosopher, Robin Williams:
“Joke’em if they can’t take a fuck!”
Indeed.
