Monday, October 30, 2006
The Fall Road Trip
This past weekend turned out to be a fine one. Not only was the weather close to perfect (for October), it was Parent’s Day at the university that my oldest daughter, Maribel, attends. Maribel plays for her university varsity basketball team. This is not one of the huge schools that you are likely to see on ESPN, but rather a school that participates in Division II athletics.
Maribel was not heavily recruited in high school, but this particular school seemed to think that she possessed at least a fair amount talent, so they invited her to attend the school to try out. Translation: squeeze at least one semester’s tuition and room-and-board out of mom and dad before you are told that you didn’t make the team. Fortunately, Maribel does possess some basketball talent (inherited from her father, naturally) and made the team. The school chooses to only give a very few full athletic scholarships, but when Maribel was deemed adequate enough to play, she was offered a “partial” scholarship. Translation: mom and dad still pay through the nose, but only through one nostril.
We picked up Angela’s friend Bernie (the police officer and former college basketball player herself) and made the 150 mile drive to the university. This will probably be the last time that we are able to visit with Maribel outside of basketball-related activity until Christmas, and then not until April since the basketball team will basically monopolize her spare time until then. So we were all excited.
There are three primary activities that are undertaken by the Spakowiak family during parent’s day. One of them is not, for those of you who might be wondering, spanking. We may be an imaginary family, but we are not that imaginary. The three activities are:
1) Eating tremendous amounts of food at the pre- and post-game tailgating festivities. Angela and Bernie pack quite the picnic, and I am something of a master with the barbeque.
2) Attending the Parent’s Day football game. The Parent’s Day crowd is usually considerable and in quite the excited mood.
3) The annual Parent’s Day 2-on-2 basketball game.
Number three is typically the highlight of the weekend. This tradition actually started shortly after Maribel first picked up a basketball and discovered she loved the sport. The teams are always the same: Angela and Bernie against Maribel and I. While I brag that Maribel’s basketball acumen comes from my genes, the truth is that Angela and Bernie are quite the players themselves. But, if you are followers of this blog and have read the story of how Angela and I first met, you’d know that. Bernie went to college on a basketball scholarship, and has taught Maribel a good deal of the nuances of the women’s game. Our youngest daughter, Colette, is the referee. Since Colette knows next to nothing about basketball, she makes rules up as we go to make sure that the game remains competitive.
The game was, as usual, quite competitive. We are all fine players, and all of us excepting Angela are over six feet tall (Angela is 5 foot 9 inches). I cannot give you the final score because we do not keep score. We determine the winner by the “next basket wins” rule. When we are all tired and ready to quit, the referee, Colette, declares, “Next basket wins!” Saturday, upon Colette’s order, Angela and I had the ball. Angela set a pick for me, and then rolled towards the basket. Rather than passing to her, I opted to try for the glory and took a jump shot. Clang! Lots of rim, no net. Bernie quickly pulled down the rebound, passed out to Maribel, who drove past Angela and passed off to Bernie for an easy basket. Colette, as per her duty, promptly declared them the winner. Angela was not pleased that I chose to shoot rather than pass to her, and so cost us the game, sort of. I’m sure I’ll get spanked for that later.
We ate more, found a friendly tavern in town, and ate still more (no liquor as Colette was with us and Maribel is not yet 21), while we rehashed both the football and basketball game. Then Angela, Colette, Bernie, and I headed for home, and Maribel headed back to classes, practices, studying, and other things that college students do on the weekend.
I think fathers never want their little girls to grow up. They seem so fragile. We too often read in the newspapers of the awful things that happen to teenage girls at the hands of unscrupulous teenage boys. Fortunately, Maribel has become quite assertive and adept at taking care of herself. Her mother, especially, taught her how not to let people fuck with her. As for me, the day that I knew that Maribel had grown up is very clear in my mind. It was the day that she was able to defeat her dear old man on the basketball court.
She’s a fantastic daughter.
Maribel was not heavily recruited in high school, but this particular school seemed to think that she possessed at least a fair amount talent, so they invited her to attend the school to try out. Translation: squeeze at least one semester’s tuition and room-and-board out of mom and dad before you are told that you didn’t make the team. Fortunately, Maribel does possess some basketball talent (inherited from her father, naturally) and made the team. The school chooses to only give a very few full athletic scholarships, but when Maribel was deemed adequate enough to play, she was offered a “partial” scholarship. Translation: mom and dad still pay through the nose, but only through one nostril.We picked up Angela’s friend Bernie (the police officer and former college basketball player herself) and made the 150 mile drive to the university. This will probably be the last time that we are able to visit with Maribel outside of basketball-related activity until Christmas, and then not until April since the basketball team will basically monopolize her spare time until then. So we were all excited.
There are three primary activities that are undertaken by the Spakowiak family during parent’s day. One of them is not, for those of you who might be wondering, spanking. We may be an imaginary family, but we are not that imaginary. The three activities are:
1) Eating tremendous amounts of food at the pre- and post-game tailgating festivities. Angela and Bernie pack quite the picnic, and I am something of a master with the barbeque.
2) Attending the Parent’s Day football game. The Parent’s Day crowd is usually considerable and in quite the excited mood.
3) The annual Parent’s Day 2-on-2 basketball game.
Number three is typically the highlight of the weekend. This tradition actually started shortly after Maribel first picked up a basketball and discovered she loved the sport. The teams are always the same: Angela and Bernie against Maribel and I. While I brag that Maribel’s basketball acumen comes from my genes, the truth is that Angela and Bernie are quite the players themselves. But, if you are followers of this blog and have read the story of how Angela and I first met, you’d know that. Bernie went to college on a basketball scholarship, and has taught Maribel a good deal of the nuances of the women’s game. Our youngest daughter, Colette, is the referee. Since Colette knows next to nothing about basketball, she makes rules up as we go to make sure that the game remains competitive.
The game was, as usual, quite competitive. We are all fine players, and all of us excepting Angela are over six feet tall (Angela is 5 foot 9 inches). I cannot give you the final score because we do not keep score. We determine the winner by the “next basket wins” rule. When we are all tired and ready to quit, the referee, Colette, declares, “Next basket wins!” Saturday, upon Colette’s order, Angela and I had the ball. Angela set a pick for me, and then rolled towards the basket. Rather than passing to her, I opted to try for the glory and took a jump shot. Clang! Lots of rim, no net. Bernie quickly pulled down the rebound, passed out to Maribel, who drove past Angela and passed off to Bernie for an easy basket. Colette, as per her duty, promptly declared them the winner. Angela was not pleased that I chose to shoot rather than pass to her, and so cost us the game, sort of. I’m sure I’ll get spanked for that later.
We ate more, found a friendly tavern in town, and ate still more (no liquor as Colette was with us and Maribel is not yet 21), while we rehashed both the football and basketball game. Then Angela, Colette, Bernie, and I headed for home, and Maribel headed back to classes, practices, studying, and other things that college students do on the weekend.
I think fathers never want their little girls to grow up. They seem so fragile. We too often read in the newspapers of the awful things that happen to teenage girls at the hands of unscrupulous teenage boys. Fortunately, Maribel has become quite assertive and adept at taking care of herself. Her mother, especially, taught her how not to let people fuck with her. As for me, the day that I knew that Maribel had grown up is very clear in my mind. It was the day that she was able to defeat her dear old man on the basketball court.
She’s a fantastic daughter.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
A Plea For Your Help
A short while back, I chanced upon a spanking-related blog where the young lady writer was bemoaning her lack of personal funds. To relieve her burden, she asked her loyal readers for donations to her personal coffer. When I first read this, I smiled to myself and assumed that the dear girl might collect a sum modest enough to perhaps buy a few cocktails and not much more. As things turned out, I was wrong.
The young lady was able to take in a cool one-thousand dollars or so!
Since there are obviously so many kind and generous people who frequent personal sites of a spanking nature, I decided that this would be an excellent income opportunity for everyone’s favorite imaginary spanko. Therefore…….
Oh, woe! I find myself in a state of financial despair. You see, when my two wonderful daughters have graduated from college, I had planned on a comfortable retirement in a warm climate for myself and my darling wife. I was planning on a large house on a beach or a bluff overlooking the ocean. So that I would have more time to work for my favorite charity (me), I will need some household help, say a cook, a housecleaner, and a personal secretary. And since I am a person of an exploring nature, I had planned on being able to travel frequently to learn the secrets of far-off places, such as Aruba, the French Riviera, or Tahiti.
Alas, when last reviewing my current monetary situation, and calculating my likely income over the next few years, it seems quite impossible that I will be able to afford even a simple lifestyle such as I have described above. Therefore, I am asking, nay, I am begging, you, my loyal readers, to assist me in an endeavor to acquire the funds for this very practical and necessary living arrangement.
Here’s how you can help. Please send me money. Anything that you can afford would be greatly appreciated. However, to simplify my accounting, and since I need to gather a considerable amount of cash, I am asking that donations be at least $10,000, or more if possible. I will accept money orders, cashier’s checks (no personal checks), or cash (small bills only). I shall also be setting up an imaginary PayPal account. I can even set up a recurring donation where I go to your checking account on a monthly basis and withdraw whatever amount that I may need at that time. Due to unreasonable government regulations (imagine Uncle Sam not considering my family a charitable institution), your donation will not be tax deductible. But I’m sure that the good will that you will gain will be well worth your expense.
To contribute, please send your donation to:
The Spanko Retirement Fund
P.O. Box 77345
Yesimkidding, Montana 90901.
All contributors will receive a certified certificate, signed by yours truly, printed on 100% authentic white printer paper, as a thank-you for your wonderful assistance.
Because of logistical concerns, I’m afraid that there can be absolutely no refunds.
So please prepare your gift to the Spanko Retirement Fund today. I promise, it will make you feel absolutely fantastic.
And now, if you will please excuse me, I must take my leave. I have to answer an inquiry regarding a bridge that I am offering for sale in California…………
The young lady was able to take in a cool one-thousand dollars or so!
Since there are obviously so many kind and generous people who frequent personal sites of a spanking nature, I decided that this would be an excellent income opportunity for everyone’s favorite imaginary spanko. Therefore…….
Oh, woe! I find myself in a state of financial despair. You see, when my two wonderful daughters have graduated from college, I had planned on a comfortable retirement in a warm climate for myself and my darling wife. I was planning on a large house on a beach or a bluff overlooking the ocean. So that I would have more time to work for my favorite charity (me), I will need some household help, say a cook, a housecleaner, and a personal secretary. And since I am a person of an exploring nature, I had planned on being able to travel frequently to learn the secrets of far-off places, such as Aruba, the French Riviera, or Tahiti.
Alas, when last reviewing my current monetary situation, and calculating my likely income over the next few years, it seems quite impossible that I will be able to afford even a simple lifestyle such as I have described above. Therefore, I am asking, nay, I am begging, you, my loyal readers, to assist me in an endeavor to acquire the funds for this very practical and necessary living arrangement.
Here’s how you can help. Please send me money. Anything that you can afford would be greatly appreciated. However, to simplify my accounting, and since I need to gather a considerable amount of cash, I am asking that donations be at least $10,000, or more if possible. I will accept money orders, cashier’s checks (no personal checks), or cash (small bills only). I shall also be setting up an imaginary PayPal account. I can even set up a recurring donation where I go to your checking account on a monthly basis and withdraw whatever amount that I may need at that time. Due to unreasonable government regulations (imagine Uncle Sam not considering my family a charitable institution), your donation will not be tax deductible. But I’m sure that the good will that you will gain will be well worth your expense.
To contribute, please send your donation to:
The Spanko Retirement Fund
P.O. Box 77345
Yesimkidding, Montana 90901.
All contributors will receive a certified certificate, signed by yours truly, printed on 100% authentic white printer paper, as a thank-you for your wonderful assistance.
Because of logistical concerns, I’m afraid that there can be absolutely no refunds.
So please prepare your gift to the Spanko Retirement Fund today. I promise, it will make you feel absolutely fantastic.
And now, if you will please excuse me, I must take my leave. I have to answer an inquiry regarding a bridge that I am offering for sale in California…………
Thursday, October 26, 2006
A Brief Discussion of Stress Relief
In my review of the many wonderful spanking blogs across the world wide internet, I have found that, not surprisingly, many couples engage in spanking as a way to reduce stress. Indeed, when I am tense, it seems that nothing relaxes me more than a nice, bare-bottomed paddling delivered by my darling wife. Angela, too, enjoys a good spanking after a particularly stressful day. However, unlike many spankos who find that getting a spanking helps with stress, Angela calms herself by spanking me.
Allow me a brief example. A few months ago, Angela was pulled over by one of our local law enforcement persons for passing through a traffic control device when it was showing a red light. Angela proceeded to precipitate a disagreement with said officer since she was quite certain that the light was not red but was still yellow, and that, besides, in her opinion there was no possible way for her to stop in time without squealing her tires and perhaps causing the car following to collide with her car. The officer, not shockingly, disagreed, and presented her with a citation.
Angela was quite angry when she arrived home. She informed me that the ticket was actually my fault since, in her estimation, I run red lights frequently and yet never am caught. Further, she told me that I was to be spanked for my “transgression” following our evening meal. After eating, when our daughter, Colette retired to her bedroom to work on homework, Angela took me to the guest house, relieved me of by belt, ordered me to remove my pants and lay across the back of a sofa, and proceeded to give my poor backside a serious whipping. Not that I minded.
In the more than two decades since we’ve been married, I have received a goodly number of these types of “punishments.” In the past, I have had my buns beaten:
So you see, Angela has no compunction against using my butt to work out her aggression. Being the ever-helpful spouse, I have lovingly made it known to her that my bottom is always there for her. It is one of the bonuses of being in a spanko relationship. After pummeling my behind, my dear wife feels calmer and relaxed. As for me, I just feel fantastic.
Allow me a brief example. A few months ago, Angela was pulled over by one of our local law enforcement persons for passing through a traffic control device when it was showing a red light. Angela proceeded to precipitate a disagreement with said officer since she was quite certain that the light was not red but was still yellow, and that, besides, in her opinion there was no possible way for her to stop in time without squealing her tires and perhaps causing the car following to collide with her car. The officer, not shockingly, disagreed, and presented her with a citation.
Angela was quite angry when she arrived home. She informed me that the ticket was actually my fault since, in her estimation, I run red lights frequently and yet never am caught. Further, she told me that I was to be spanked for my “transgression” following our evening meal. After eating, when our daughter, Colette retired to her bedroom to work on homework, Angela took me to the guest house, relieved me of by belt, ordered me to remove my pants and lay across the back of a sofa, and proceeded to give my poor backside a serious whipping. Not that I minded.
In the more than two decades since we’ve been married, I have received a goodly number of these types of “punishments.” In the past, I have had my buns beaten:
- When Angela was in a rather harrowing car accident.
- When one of our daughters was three hours late coming home on weekend evening.
- When one of our cats became desperately ill (she had a bladder infection, but came through it nicely)
- When she and her boss got into a heated argument
- When George Bush was elected president (even though imaginary people can’t even vote … except in Florida).
So you see, Angela has no compunction against using my butt to work out her aggression. Being the ever-helpful spouse, I have lovingly made it known to her that my bottom is always there for her. It is one of the bonuses of being in a spanko relationship. After pummeling my behind, my dear wife feels calmer and relaxed. As for me, I just feel fantastic.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Frank Spanks Angela, Volume One
Editor's Note: This was written prior to the start of yesterday's Tigers-Cardinals game, which, as you know by now, was won by the Cardinals. 7-2. However, due to technical difficulties on the part of the organization which hosts this work, I was unable to post the entry. Therefore, while the date may say Sunday, please pretend that you are reading this on Saturday. Thank-you. ed.
This is a good weekend. My beloved Tigers are preparing for the premier game in baseball’s World Series. Colette is conveniently spending the night at the home of a friend, leaving just Angela and I to enjoy to game, and to enjoy the spanking that my beloved spouse earned for foolishly thinking that the Tigers would not be victorious in their League Championship Series versus the Oakland Athletics. As you must know, the triumphant Tigers cleared that hurdle in just four games, allowing Oakland to win a grand total of none.
The realization came upon me earlier this week that, although I have related a number of the firsts in my spanking career, I have never explained how I came to know that Angela was also a connoisseur of the fine art of spanking. Unlike some of my other epics, the story is not long or involved.
I remember the date well because it was the day after the Tigers had won their third game of the 1984 World Series, in which they eventually defeated the San Diego Padres, four games to one. Angela and I were not yet married, but had been dating, as well as engaging the pleasures of the flesh, for quite some time. Angela had spent the night at my apartment and we had watched the Tiger game cuddled on the couch (except for every time the Tigers did something positive, when I would jump off the couch and scream exaltations to my team). Afterwards, I made us both ice cream sundaes, and then we retired to the bedroom, where we eventually fell asleep, but only after we had played our own ball game.
The following morning, I arose first. As I was showering, Angela became conscious and, after donning one of my larger t-shirts (and nothing else, I might add), she wandered from the bedroom and spied my personal computer. Since this was 1984, it was well before the time when the world had begun to ride the Information Superhighway into the Cyber Age. My computer was what was known as a Tandy 1000, with a 4.8 MHZ processor and two floppy disk drives. I was the only person on my block that owned their own home computer. Naturally, I put the machine to the best possible use – I wrote spanking stories on it.
Angela, being a technology professional herself (back then they called us “computer programmers”), was familiar with how my machine functioned, so she fired the beast up and began to explore. Since Al Gore had not yet invented the Internet, and since the machine did not have a hard drive, the pickings were rather slim, so she started reviewing the contents of the various floppy disks that I had scattered around the desk. She happened upon one that I had labeled “SSTORIES.” No, the double “S” at the beginning is not a typographical error, but rather a pneumonic of the contents of the disk. Loyal readers will certainly be able to easily ascertain what the first “S” stood for.
Angela listed out the files on the disk, which were all cryptically named because, at the time, technology did not allow for more than 8 characters in a file name. Since the file name did not offer a clue as to its contents, Angela proceeded to list the contents of the file. Then she began to read the contents of the file. Then, apparently, and to my utter surprise, she, shall we say, “touched herself.” She proceeded to repeat this cycle with more of the files on the disk. About this time, I exited the bathroom wearing just a towel. Since it was a small apartment, Angela spotted my appearance immediately. She gave me this most mischievous smile and said, “Well, you perverted son-of-a-bitch!”
Since I had been unaware of her activities whilst I was showering, I hadn’t the slightest clue what she was talking about. Angela got up and came over to me. “You’re a naughty little boy,” she said to me, “and I’m a naughty little girl.” While I liked the tone of her voice and the contents of her comment, I still didn’t have the foggiest notion about what she was referring to. Then I noticed that my PC was on. While I couldn’t read exactly what was on the screen, I knew from experience that she had been reviewing my corporal punishment literature.
I was totally aghast! Despite the come-hither look in her face and the allure in her voice, I figured that we were through. I expected that Angela would quickly dress and take leave of my apartment, never wanting to see such a weirdo as I ever again. I further expected that she would expose my little secret to all of our friends, and they would also distance themselves from me. I would be branded a sicko, a sexual deviant, perhaps even a pedophile (although my stories never involved children). The police would discover this, and I would be suspected of every sexually-oriented crime from exposing ones private parts in public to … well … I didn’t even want to think about the other extreme. The worst was that I would never be able to be able to enjoy the company of my dearly beloved Angela ever again! I became so distressed that I was about to panic.
Then Angela surprised me. She grabbed my arm and directed my into the bedroom. From there, she whipped off my towel and pushed me into a seated position on the bed. Then she stood next to me and said, “Spank me!”
Still on the verge of panic, I responded, “Huh?”
Smiling, she threw herself, face down, across my lap. “I said, spank me!” she said.
“Are you sure? You’re not wearing any pants and I don’t want to hurt you….”
“Just spank me, you idiot,” she exclaimed. So I did. Gently at first, more pleasant little pats than proper slaps. “Harder!” she said. I had no idea what to do. I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t know if she would enjoy this or think that I was some kind of brute. I didn’t know what her pain threshold was. We had never talked about anything like this before, so I had no idea of what the boundaries should be. But she was insistent, and her beautiful butt was there on my lap for my amusement. I began to slap her harder, probably enough to sting a bit and turn her cheeks light pink.
“C’mon! Really spank me! Or are you really a wimp?” she said. Panic, worry, or not, she had thrown down the challenge. I would give her what she had asked for, if for no other reason to show her what she was really getting herself in to. I began to spank her with full force.
She started to kick and squeal as I gave her several significant swats with my hand in quick succession. When I noticed her struggles I quickly stopped. “Are you okay?” I asked. To my complete and utter surprise, Angela was actually laughing!
As her laughter subsided, Angela said to me, “I’ve been waiting for a guy to do that to me since I was thirteen!”
It took me a minute to comprehend the meaning of her words. Then it hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks: Angela, the girl of my dreams, this fine, wonderful woman, was a spanko! I was dating with a bona fide spanko! I was sleeping with a card-carrying spanko! I was so happy that I resumed spanking her with great enthusiasm!
At this point, the remainder of the story pretty much tells itself. After completing our morning’s folly, Angela and I exchanged stories about our love of striking and having struck the glorious gluteus. Later that afternoon, the Tigers won their fourth game of the Series and thus became World Champions. And, following that, I asked Angela to be my wife, to which she instantly agreed.
The rest is history. We married the following summer. Maribel followed shortly after. And, twenty-eight years later, the Tigers are in another World Series and Angela and I have spent all those years exchanging spankings that we both find so wonderful. It all started that one day, so many years ago. It was one fantastic day.
This is a good weekend. My beloved Tigers are preparing for the premier game in baseball’s World Series. Colette is conveniently spending the night at the home of a friend, leaving just Angela and I to enjoy to game, and to enjoy the spanking that my beloved spouse earned for foolishly thinking that the Tigers would not be victorious in their League Championship Series versus the Oakland Athletics. As you must know, the triumphant Tigers cleared that hurdle in just four games, allowing Oakland to win a grand total of none.
The realization came upon me earlier this week that, although I have related a number of the firsts in my spanking career, I have never explained how I came to know that Angela was also a connoisseur of the fine art of spanking. Unlike some of my other epics, the story is not long or involved.
I remember the date well because it was the day after the Tigers had won their third game of the 1984 World Series, in which they eventually defeated the San Diego Padres, four games to one. Angela and I were not yet married, but had been dating, as well as engaging the pleasures of the flesh, for quite some time. Angela had spent the night at my apartment and we had watched the Tiger game cuddled on the couch (except for every time the Tigers did something positive, when I would jump off the couch and scream exaltations to my team). Afterwards, I made us both ice cream sundaes, and then we retired to the bedroom, where we eventually fell asleep, but only after we had played our own ball game.
The following morning, I arose first. As I was showering, Angela became conscious and, after donning one of my larger t-shirts (and nothing else, I might add), she wandered from the bedroom and spied my personal computer. Since this was 1984, it was well before the time when the world had begun to ride the Information Superhighway into the Cyber Age. My computer was what was known as a Tandy 1000, with a 4.8 MHZ processor and two floppy disk drives. I was the only person on my block that owned their own home computer. Naturally, I put the machine to the best possible use – I wrote spanking stories on it.
Angela, being a technology professional herself (back then they called us “computer programmers”), was familiar with how my machine functioned, so she fired the beast up and began to explore. Since Al Gore had not yet invented the Internet, and since the machine did not have a hard drive, the pickings were rather slim, so she started reviewing the contents of the various floppy disks that I had scattered around the desk. She happened upon one that I had labeled “SSTORIES.” No, the double “S” at the beginning is not a typographical error, but rather a pneumonic of the contents of the disk. Loyal readers will certainly be able to easily ascertain what the first “S” stood for.
Angela listed out the files on the disk, which were all cryptically named because, at the time, technology did not allow for more than 8 characters in a file name. Since the file name did not offer a clue as to its contents, Angela proceeded to list the contents of the file. Then she began to read the contents of the file. Then, apparently, and to my utter surprise, she, shall we say, “touched herself.” She proceeded to repeat this cycle with more of the files on the disk. About this time, I exited the bathroom wearing just a towel. Since it was a small apartment, Angela spotted my appearance immediately. She gave me this most mischievous smile and said, “Well, you perverted son-of-a-bitch!”
Since I had been unaware of her activities whilst I was showering, I hadn’t the slightest clue what she was talking about. Angela got up and came over to me. “You’re a naughty little boy,” she said to me, “and I’m a naughty little girl.” While I liked the tone of her voice and the contents of her comment, I still didn’t have the foggiest notion about what she was referring to. Then I noticed that my PC was on. While I couldn’t read exactly what was on the screen, I knew from experience that she had been reviewing my corporal punishment literature.
I was totally aghast! Despite the come-hither look in her face and the allure in her voice, I figured that we were through. I expected that Angela would quickly dress and take leave of my apartment, never wanting to see such a weirdo as I ever again. I further expected that she would expose my little secret to all of our friends, and they would also distance themselves from me. I would be branded a sicko, a sexual deviant, perhaps even a pedophile (although my stories never involved children). The police would discover this, and I would be suspected of every sexually-oriented crime from exposing ones private parts in public to … well … I didn’t even want to think about the other extreme. The worst was that I would never be able to be able to enjoy the company of my dearly beloved Angela ever again! I became so distressed that I was about to panic.
Then Angela surprised me. She grabbed my arm and directed my into the bedroom. From there, she whipped off my towel and pushed me into a seated position on the bed. Then she stood next to me and said, “Spank me!”
Still on the verge of panic, I responded, “Huh?”
Smiling, she threw herself, face down, across my lap. “I said, spank me!” she said.
“Are you sure? You’re not wearing any pants and I don’t want to hurt you….”
“Just spank me, you idiot,” she exclaimed. So I did. Gently at first, more pleasant little pats than proper slaps. “Harder!” she said. I had no idea what to do. I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t know if she would enjoy this or think that I was some kind of brute. I didn’t know what her pain threshold was. We had never talked about anything like this before, so I had no idea of what the boundaries should be. But she was insistent, and her beautiful butt was there on my lap for my amusement. I began to slap her harder, probably enough to sting a bit and turn her cheeks light pink.
“C’mon! Really spank me! Or are you really a wimp?” she said. Panic, worry, or not, she had thrown down the challenge. I would give her what she had asked for, if for no other reason to show her what she was really getting herself in to. I began to spank her with full force.
She started to kick and squeal as I gave her several significant swats with my hand in quick succession. When I noticed her struggles I quickly stopped. “Are you okay?” I asked. To my complete and utter surprise, Angela was actually laughing!
As her laughter subsided, Angela said to me, “I’ve been waiting for a guy to do that to me since I was thirteen!”
It took me a minute to comprehend the meaning of her words. Then it hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks: Angela, the girl of my dreams, this fine, wonderful woman, was a spanko! I was dating with a bona fide spanko! I was sleeping with a card-carrying spanko! I was so happy that I resumed spanking her with great enthusiasm!
At this point, the remainder of the story pretty much tells itself. After completing our morning’s folly, Angela and I exchanged stories about our love of striking and having struck the glorious gluteus. Later that afternoon, the Tigers won their fourth game of the Series and thus became World Champions. And, following that, I asked Angela to be my wife, to which she instantly agreed.
The rest is history. We married the following summer. Maribel followed shortly after. And, twenty-eight years later, the Tigers are in another World Series and Angela and I have spent all those years exchanging spankings that we both find so wonderful. It all started that one day, so many years ago. It was one fantastic day.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Help Frank Spank
As mentioned a few days ago, my lovely wife, Angela, and I had a bet regarding the outcome of the American League Championship Series (those are baseball playoffs for those of you who are not sports fans or live in Europe). I predicted that the Detroit Tigers would win the series, and Angela felt that Oakland was the better side. Naturally, there was a spanking riding on the outcome.
Those of you who follow the sport know the result. For those of you who don't, the Tigers won. Handily. In a best-of-seven series, the Tigers won 4 games to zero. That's right. The number of games that Oakland won was none. Zilch. Nada. Zip. The Athletics hung an egg for the entire series.
So now, it is up to me to determine exactly how I should give Angela the punishment that she has earned.
I'd like to somehow make it baseball-related. I'm thinking of having my dearly beloved dress in a Tigers uniform, sans pants. For each ball that a Tiger pitcher throws, I'll give her one swat on her right butt cheek. For each strike, she'll get one on her left. Perhaps I can use a larger paddle and cover both cheeks for Tiger hits or outs that their opponents make.
That being said, I'd like your input. If you have any ideas of a baseball-related spanking activity, or of different ways I could swat her for each event in the game (stolen bases, errors, etc.), please sent them along. Since I know with certainty that my readers are the best, most creative spankos in all of mankind, real or imaginary, I'm sure that you'll have a considerable number of suggestions to offer. I will appreciate each and every one. Angela may or may not, but that is not my concern. After all, the best was HER idea to begin with. Remember, Angela and I are imaginary people so your spanking ideas can be as outrageous as you wish.
So, my fellow spankos, please help me make sure that my dear Angela Spanko gets what can only be described as a fantastic spanking!
Those of you who follow the sport know the result. For those of you who don't, the Tigers won. Handily. In a best-of-seven series, the Tigers won 4 games to zero. That's right. The number of games that Oakland won was none. Zilch. Nada. Zip. The Athletics hung an egg for the entire series.
So now, it is up to me to determine exactly how I should give Angela the punishment that she has earned.
I'd like to somehow make it baseball-related. I'm thinking of having my dearly beloved dress in a Tigers uniform, sans pants. For each ball that a Tiger pitcher throws, I'll give her one swat on her right butt cheek. For each strike, she'll get one on her left. Perhaps I can use a larger paddle and cover both cheeks for Tiger hits or outs that their opponents make.
That being said, I'd like your input. If you have any ideas of a baseball-related spanking activity, or of different ways I could swat her for each event in the game (stolen bases, errors, etc.), please sent them along. Since I know with certainty that my readers are the best, most creative spankos in all of mankind, real or imaginary, I'm sure that you'll have a considerable number of suggestions to offer. I will appreciate each and every one. Angela may or may not, but that is not my concern. After all, the best was HER idea to begin with. Remember, Angela and I are imaginary people so your spanking ideas can be as outrageous as you wish.
So, my fellow spankos, please help me make sure that my dear Angela Spanko gets what can only be described as a fantastic spanking!
Sunday, October 15, 2006
A Fantastic Spanking, Indeed
At this moment, I am working on another of my long winded, incredibly interesting and descriptive stories. In the meantime, I should like to keep my loyal readers engaged by placing a few of my words of wisdom here. However, I seemed to be having a case of, I suppose what might be called, topic block. But then, while I was perusing some of the excellent web logs out there in cyberspace, I came across what seemed like an excellent suggestion.
The question posed was: What’s the most painful spanking that you’ve received?
In forming my response, I’ve opted to ignore the one incident that I mentioned earlier, in which Angela accidentally clipped with a nasty strap a portion of my scrotal region. That was less a spanking than a mishap. I’d prefer to relate a spanking that I received that was very hard, but a true spanking in that it was welcomed in its entirety.
It happened a number of years ago, when Maribel was still in high school. My love and I had left the children in the main house while we retired to the guest house to “do some work.” This was an arrangement that occurred with some frequency. This allowed the girls to play their teenage-heartthrob music very loudly on my very expensive and fine sounding stereo equipment while Angela and I engaged in some butt-beating activity in privacy.
I was laying over the back of a sofa, au natural, and Angela was using a short-handled bath brush to put a most pleasant warmth on my derriere. I was allowing myself to become lost in the feeling. Angela was in a playful mood, and she was making fun comments about the deepening shade of crimson on my paddled fanny. I, for the most part, was not paying attention to the comments, preferring to just enjoy her work.
Angela stepped back to take in the sight of my reddened rump. I was laying there feeling quite content, thinking of what other activities lay ahead. Angela took this opportunity to comment, “I’ll bet your girlfriend doesn’t spank you as well as I do, does she?”
I was so wrapped up in the warmth on my bottom and the stirring in my loins that her comment didn’t really register. So, I offered the usual comment that a husband makes when he is not exactly paying attention to his wife.
“Yes, I guess so,” I said.
Now, lest you think that I am some sort of cad, I feel compelled to note that I did not, nor have I ever had since I married my dearly beloved, have a girlfriend. And no one in the whole of the imaginary world spanks as well as my darling Angela. Yet, I had just absent-mindedly admitted just that. I knew that I was in big trouble.
“WHAT!” Angela exclaimed in semi-mock horror. “You’re in big trouble now, buster!” (I told you that I’d be in big trouble). “I’m really gonna beat your butt now!”
I quickly came to my senses and realized what I had blurted. While I knew that my remark was not the correct one (to say the least), I figured that Angela was still full of playfulness, so I replied to her, in my best sarcastic voice “As if you could really hurt me!”
I knew that I was now just digging myself a bigger hole, but, I figured, what was she going to do, spank me? I was already being spanked. Or so I thought.
With that smile and laugh that women always seem to use when they have been playfully insulted by their spouse, she charged me. I tried to stand, but in my vulnerable position, I was not able to become upright before she reached me. She put her hand in the middle of my back and pushed me back over the soft. The momentum carried me far enough over the sofa that I ended up with my ass up in the air and my feet off of the ground. And then Angela began using that bath brush with more vigor that I ever thought possible.
Being pinned down with my feet unable to reach the floor, I was pretty much totally helpless. Angela was assaulting my ass with all of her might. And don’t think that my wife is a weak little woman. Angela played volleyball in college, is an excellent basketball and softball player, runs regularly and is in terrific shape. My arm-strength is about average, and Angela can often defeat me in a contest of arm-wrestling. And she was an experienced, enthusiastic spanko, so she knew how to wield a paddle.
And wield it she did. I could hear the brush whoosh through the air and feel the movement of air from it. Plus, Angela was swinging as fast as she could. My rear end turned into one continuous, intense sting. I grabbed a soft cushion and held on for all of my might. Since I could generate no leverage, I deemed it useless to struggle, so I resolved to just take my spanking like a man.
Blow after blow after blow just exploded onto my ass as Angela took out her feelings at my insult. As she spanked, she made remarks like, “Am I hurting you now? Does your girlfriend spank this hard? Are you ever going to insult me again when your ass is bare and I’m holding a paddle?” To which my answers were, “YES, dear! No way, dear! Absolutely NOT dear!”
I’m not sure how long the paddling lasted, but it must have been close to ten minutes. I grunted, moaned, gritted my teeth and bit into a sofa cushion trying to endure. But endure I did. I knew that, should I express a true desire for her to cease, she would immediately. However, I refused to give her that satisfaction.
When she stopped, my backside was close to raw. I could feel a coolness from where the first layer of skin had been removed. This contrasted to other parts back there, which were absolutely on fire! When Angela released me and I made it to my feet, with a satisfied smile, I reached back to rub my crimson ass. I thought I was going to burn my hands! And yet, I was exhilarated. The pain had evolved into an exciting crackling, and I felt a rush of euphoria knowing that I had endured such a brutal assault on my bare bottom and actually enjoyed it!
Not surprisingly, it was now my turn to attack her, not with a paddle but with lust. She resisted just a little and only briefly, and then we made loud and breathless love on the floor, the details of which are best left for you to fill in.
When we retired to bed that night, Angela inspected my bruised butt. She gently washed it with soap to prevent infection, then rubbed in some aloe to soothe the burning and prevent the skin from cracking. Then I rolled over onto my back, and, while reveling in the warmth on my posteior, she climbed on top and we made love again, this time more quietly and slowly.
Overall, it was actually a most enjoyable spanking. Angela was not truly angry, and yet she punished me like I had committed the worst of crimes. I didn’t feel punished, but loved having my limits tested. It was neither the longest nor the hardest that I had ever been spanked, but it was the longest that I had been spanked in such a forceful manner. It was, in truth, a memorable afternoon. Oh, yes … it was also fantastic.
The question posed was: What’s the most painful spanking that you’ve received?
In forming my response, I’ve opted to ignore the one incident that I mentioned earlier, in which Angela accidentally clipped with a nasty strap a portion of my scrotal region. That was less a spanking than a mishap. I’d prefer to relate a spanking that I received that was very hard, but a true spanking in that it was welcomed in its entirety.
It happened a number of years ago, when Maribel was still in high school. My love and I had left the children in the main house while we retired to the guest house to “do some work.” This was an arrangement that occurred with some frequency. This allowed the girls to play their teenage-heartthrob music very loudly on my very expensive and fine sounding stereo equipment while Angela and I engaged in some butt-beating activity in privacy.
I was laying over the back of a sofa, au natural, and Angela was using a short-handled bath brush to put a most pleasant warmth on my derriere. I was allowing myself to become lost in the feeling. Angela was in a playful mood, and she was making fun comments about the deepening shade of crimson on my paddled fanny. I, for the most part, was not paying attention to the comments, preferring to just enjoy her work.
Angela stepped back to take in the sight of my reddened rump. I was laying there feeling quite content, thinking of what other activities lay ahead. Angela took this opportunity to comment, “I’ll bet your girlfriend doesn’t spank you as well as I do, does she?”
I was so wrapped up in the warmth on my bottom and the stirring in my loins that her comment didn’t really register. So, I offered the usual comment that a husband makes when he is not exactly paying attention to his wife.
“Yes, I guess so,” I said.
Now, lest you think that I am some sort of cad, I feel compelled to note that I did not, nor have I ever had since I married my dearly beloved, have a girlfriend. And no one in the whole of the imaginary world spanks as well as my darling Angela. Yet, I had just absent-mindedly admitted just that. I knew that I was in big trouble.
“WHAT!” Angela exclaimed in semi-mock horror. “You’re in big trouble now, buster!” (I told you that I’d be in big trouble). “I’m really gonna beat your butt now!”
I quickly came to my senses and realized what I had blurted. While I knew that my remark was not the correct one (to say the least), I figured that Angela was still full of playfulness, so I replied to her, in my best sarcastic voice “As if you could really hurt me!”
I knew that I was now just digging myself a bigger hole, but, I figured, what was she going to do, spank me? I was already being spanked. Or so I thought.
With that smile and laugh that women always seem to use when they have been playfully insulted by their spouse, she charged me. I tried to stand, but in my vulnerable position, I was not able to become upright before she reached me. She put her hand in the middle of my back and pushed me back over the soft. The momentum carried me far enough over the sofa that I ended up with my ass up in the air and my feet off of the ground. And then Angela began using that bath brush with more vigor that I ever thought possible.
Being pinned down with my feet unable to reach the floor, I was pretty much totally helpless. Angela was assaulting my ass with all of her might. And don’t think that my wife is a weak little woman. Angela played volleyball in college, is an excellent basketball and softball player, runs regularly and is in terrific shape. My arm-strength is about average, and Angela can often defeat me in a contest of arm-wrestling. And she was an experienced, enthusiastic spanko, so she knew how to wield a paddle.
And wield it she did. I could hear the brush whoosh through the air and feel the movement of air from it. Plus, Angela was swinging as fast as she could. My rear end turned into one continuous, intense sting. I grabbed a soft cushion and held on for all of my might. Since I could generate no leverage, I deemed it useless to struggle, so I resolved to just take my spanking like a man.
Blow after blow after blow just exploded onto my ass as Angela took out her feelings at my insult. As she spanked, she made remarks like, “Am I hurting you now? Does your girlfriend spank this hard? Are you ever going to insult me again when your ass is bare and I’m holding a paddle?” To which my answers were, “YES, dear! No way, dear! Absolutely NOT dear!”
I’m not sure how long the paddling lasted, but it must have been close to ten minutes. I grunted, moaned, gritted my teeth and bit into a sofa cushion trying to endure. But endure I did. I knew that, should I express a true desire for her to cease, she would immediately. However, I refused to give her that satisfaction.
When she stopped, my backside was close to raw. I could feel a coolness from where the first layer of skin had been removed. This contrasted to other parts back there, which were absolutely on fire! When Angela released me and I made it to my feet, with a satisfied smile, I reached back to rub my crimson ass. I thought I was going to burn my hands! And yet, I was exhilarated. The pain had evolved into an exciting crackling, and I felt a rush of euphoria knowing that I had endured such a brutal assault on my bare bottom and actually enjoyed it!
Not surprisingly, it was now my turn to attack her, not with a paddle but with lust. She resisted just a little and only briefly, and then we made loud and breathless love on the floor, the details of which are best left for you to fill in.
When we retired to bed that night, Angela inspected my bruised butt. She gently washed it with soap to prevent infection, then rubbed in some aloe to soothe the burning and prevent the skin from cracking. Then I rolled over onto my back, and, while reveling in the warmth on my posteior, she climbed on top and we made love again, this time more quietly and slowly.
Overall, it was actually a most enjoyable spanking. Angela was not truly angry, and yet she punished me like I had committed the worst of crimes. I didn’t feel punished, but loved having my limits tested. It was neither the longest nor the hardest that I had ever been spanked, but it was the longest that I had been spanked in such a forceful manner. It was, in truth, a memorable afternoon. Oh, yes … it was also fantastic.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
How To Spank Frank
Sometimes I think that I’m not an ordinary spanko.
Of course that assumes that, for starters, that any spankos are ordinary, and, in addition, that anyone is ordinary. But, having read the thoughts shared by others of my ilk, it seems that the favorite kind of spanking preferred by a goodly number of spankos is to be taken over their partner’s lap and spanked with their partner’s hand.
Please forgive me. Everyone has their own preferences, and their reasoning seems solid. But I, quite frankly (no pun intended), find that kind of spanking, well, the only word that I can think, is boring.
Now, there have been many a time when I have laid across my dear Angela’s legs while she slapped my ass with her palm, but this has been more as foreplay than for a proper paddling. The position, to me at least, seems, well, childish. We are adults. We engage in adult spankings. And being spanked by Angela’s hand simply just doesn’t hurt enough.
My favorite kind of spanking is to be bent over and whacked repeatedly with a nice wooden paddle. And not a wimpy little one like a ping-pong paddle. I like a nice, solid paddle with some heft. It can be round or rectangular, and cover one bottom cheek or both, as long as it makes a good smack and brings a good sting.
Why, you may ask, does this kind of spanking bring me so much pleasure? The answer is actually quite simple. A spanking is a multi-sensory experience. It’s not enough to just feel the burn on one’s backside. There’s the sound, the sharp crack of the paddle as it meets ones flesh, or of hearing the swoosh and knowing that a sharp sting will be following forthwith. There’s the sight of looking back and up at your partner as she gets ready, with pleasure, to deal the next blow. There’s the smell of find wood, sweet and fresh. And, finally, there’s the taste of your partner’s nipples and other crucial areas as, once the paddling is finished, as one uses their mouth and tongue to thank them.
For me, no other kind of fills all of the senses like a good, old-fashioned paddling.
There’s one other point that I find most interesting. I simply like the sound of the word “paddling” more than any other term for a bottom smacking. It has a rolling sound that has a sensuousness to it. In contrast, words like “spanking” or “strapping” sound too harsh, and “beating” or “whipping” just sound too violent.
Everyone has something different that stirs their drink. If you enjoy being taken over your partner’s knee and smacked repeatedly with the back of their hand, then, by all means, put yourself in that position as often as possible. But, for me, strip me down, bend me over, find a good, solid piece of wood (a sturdy wooden hairbrush fits the bill nicely, too), and give me a good, healthy whack. And then, if you please, maybe a few more. Or quite a few.
It is guaranteed to make me feel fantastic.
Of course that assumes that, for starters, that any spankos are ordinary, and, in addition, that anyone is ordinary. But, having read the thoughts shared by others of my ilk, it seems that the favorite kind of spanking preferred by a goodly number of spankos is to be taken over their partner’s lap and spanked with their partner’s hand.
Please forgive me. Everyone has their own preferences, and their reasoning seems solid. But I, quite frankly (no pun intended), find that kind of spanking, well, the only word that I can think, is boring.
Now, there have been many a time when I have laid across my dear Angela’s legs while she slapped my ass with her palm, but this has been more as foreplay than for a proper paddling. The position, to me at least, seems, well, childish. We are adults. We engage in adult spankings. And being spanked by Angela’s hand simply just doesn’t hurt enough.
My favorite kind of spanking is to be bent over and whacked repeatedly with a nice wooden paddle. And not a wimpy little one like a ping-pong paddle. I like a nice, solid paddle with some heft. It can be round or rectangular, and cover one bottom cheek or both, as long as it makes a good smack and brings a good sting.
Why, you may ask, does this kind of spanking bring me so much pleasure? The answer is actually quite simple. A spanking is a multi-sensory experience. It’s not enough to just feel the burn on one’s backside. There’s the sound, the sharp crack of the paddle as it meets ones flesh, or of hearing the swoosh and knowing that a sharp sting will be following forthwith. There’s the sight of looking back and up at your partner as she gets ready, with pleasure, to deal the next blow. There’s the smell of find wood, sweet and fresh. And, finally, there’s the taste of your partner’s nipples and other crucial areas as, once the paddling is finished, as one uses their mouth and tongue to thank them.
For me, no other kind of fills all of the senses like a good, old-fashioned paddling.
There’s one other point that I find most interesting. I simply like the sound of the word “paddling” more than any other term for a bottom smacking. It has a rolling sound that has a sensuousness to it. In contrast, words like “spanking” or “strapping” sound too harsh, and “beating” or “whipping” just sound too violent.
Everyone has something different that stirs their drink. If you enjoy being taken over your partner’s knee and smacked repeatedly with the back of their hand, then, by all means, put yourself in that position as often as possible. But, for me, strip me down, bend me over, find a good, solid piece of wood (a sturdy wooden hairbrush fits the bill nicely, too), and give me a good, healthy whack. And then, if you please, maybe a few more. Or quite a few.
It is guaranteed to make me feel fantastic.
Monday, October 09, 2006
An October Classic Or Two
I am a huge baseball fan. When I was a kid, I watched baseball, I played baseball, I talked baseball, and I studied baseball. I had baseball cards, baseball games, baseball books, and baseball pictures. I read biographies of Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, Lou Gehrig, and Abner Doubleday. And this was all before I had completed grade school.
So, naturally, I was totally immersed in the baseball playoffs last week. My only disappointment was that none of the series lasted the full five games. My greatest pleasure? Watching the Yankees lose.
You see, I hate the Yankees. I despise them with every fibre of my non-being. I believe that George Steinbrenner has done more to harm the game than anyone else in the history of the game.
It should also be noted that, in my childhood, my team was the Detroit Tigers. I still swoon over the mention of the 1968 Tigers with Al Kaline, Denny McClain, Mickey Lolich, Bill Freehan, and Willie Horton (who was my favorite player for many years). I still get nostalgic thinking of the 1984 Tigers, who started the season 35-5, won 104 games in that season, and beat San Diego in five games in the World Series. I worship Sparky Anderson, Alan Trammell, Lou Whitaker, Kurt Gibson, Lance Parish, and, yes, even Rusty Kuntz (pronounced “KOON-TZ” for you perverts out there).
So, naturally, I was doubly pleased to see the Yankees sent home by my Tigers. To see their hall-of-fame, $200-million lineup throttled by the young hitters and, especially, pitchers on the Tigers. To see them spraying the fans with champagne. To see the tears well up in Jim Leyland’s eyes.
The only sad thing for me is that the loss appears to be costing Joe Torre his job. The losses weren’t his fault. As a matter of fact, Torre is the main reason why this band of high-priced losers (except for Jeter, who is not a loser) manages to perform so well each season. The fault lies with Mr. Steinbrenner, who does not understand the importance of the roll player in making a champion.
Angela is also a baseball fan. Unfortunately, she does not believe in the Tigers as much as I do. She believes that Oakland will make short work of my team in the League Championship. To which I say:
Piffle.
Besides Barry Zito, the A’s pitching is vulnerable, and the Tigers will pummel them.
Therefore, my precious wife and I have made a bet. The wager is not something monetary, though. In the true spanko, or Spanko, fashion, we have wagered a most creative spanking. I have not decided what her spanking will be when the Tigers win, but I’m imagining her wearing nothing but a Tigers’ jersey and cap, perhaps yelling “Ball!” or “Strike!” after each swat. I have a week or so to plan, so, in the meantime, I can enjoy my boyhood team for a few more games.
To my Tigers, I say: I hope that you all play fantastic.
So, naturally, I was totally immersed in the baseball playoffs last week. My only disappointment was that none of the series lasted the full five games. My greatest pleasure? Watching the Yankees lose.
You see, I hate the Yankees. I despise them with every fibre of my non-being. I believe that George Steinbrenner has done more to harm the game than anyone else in the history of the game.
It should also be noted that, in my childhood, my team was the Detroit Tigers. I still swoon over the mention of the 1968 Tigers with Al Kaline, Denny McClain, Mickey Lolich, Bill Freehan, and Willie Horton (who was my favorite player for many years). I still get nostalgic thinking of the 1984 Tigers, who started the season 35-5, won 104 games in that season, and beat San Diego in five games in the World Series. I worship Sparky Anderson, Alan Trammell, Lou Whitaker, Kurt Gibson, Lance Parish, and, yes, even Rusty Kuntz (pronounced “KOON-TZ” for you perverts out there).
So, naturally, I was doubly pleased to see the Yankees sent home by my Tigers. To see their hall-of-fame, $200-million lineup throttled by the young hitters and, especially, pitchers on the Tigers. To see them spraying the fans with champagne. To see the tears well up in Jim Leyland’s eyes.
The only sad thing for me is that the loss appears to be costing Joe Torre his job. The losses weren’t his fault. As a matter of fact, Torre is the main reason why this band of high-priced losers (except for Jeter, who is not a loser) manages to perform so well each season. The fault lies with Mr. Steinbrenner, who does not understand the importance of the roll player in making a champion.
Angela is also a baseball fan. Unfortunately, she does not believe in the Tigers as much as I do. She believes that Oakland will make short work of my team in the League Championship. To which I say:
Piffle.
Besides Barry Zito, the A’s pitching is vulnerable, and the Tigers will pummel them.
Therefore, my precious wife and I have made a bet. The wager is not something monetary, though. In the true spanko, or Spanko, fashion, we have wagered a most creative spanking. I have not decided what her spanking will be when the Tigers win, but I’m imagining her wearing nothing but a Tigers’ jersey and cap, perhaps yelling “Ball!” or “Strike!” after each swat. I have a week or so to plan, so, in the meantime, I can enjoy my boyhood team for a few more games.
To my Tigers, I say: I hope that you all play fantastic.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
On A More Serious Note.....
I’d like to take time out from the usual topic of this blog to discuss something substantially more serious, namely the subject of mental illness.
Last week was Mental Illness Awareness Week. It was proclaimed so by Congress in 2003, to help bring awareness to the realities of mental illness, and dispel the myths. Entirely too many people put mental illness into two categories: either the psychopathic loonies who abound in movie and television thrillers, or insecure whinings of those with too much money and too little to do. Alas, neither of these examples paint an accurate picture of the affliction. In fact, these two examples make up virtually zero percent of the mentally ill.
Additionally, mental illness is not caused by parents who are too strict or too lenient. It is not even caused by abuse or neglect. While there appears to be a environmental component, mental illness is a physical illness of the brain. The very complex parts of the brain that control mood and thought are not working correctly. The primary cause of mental illness appears to be genetic. According to Dr. E. Fuller Torrey in his book, Surviving Schizophrenia, a child who has one parent who suffers from a form of depression has a 20-25% chance of getting major depression or a bipolar disorder. If one parent has schizophrenia, their offspring have a 13% chance if being schizophrenic. Even if no parent has a mental illness, there is as much as a 5% chance that their children will contract one.
Lest I be misunderstood, when I say “mental illness,” I’m actually talking about a serious, debilitation illness. I am not referring to someone with ADHD, dysthymia, or problems with anger management. I’m not talking about being “bummed out” for a while. I am talking about symptoms like auditory hallucinations (“hearing voices”), visual hallucinations (“seeing things”), catatonia, mania to the point of being unable to sleep or literally having no fear, inability to even get out of bed. People with these symptoms cannot get better by getting out of bed and taking a shower, or by thinking positively. For someone with severe depression or bipolar disorder, they may, at times, be literally incapable of thinking positively.
Mental illness leading to suicide is the 3rd leading cause of death of teens in the U.S., behind only accidents and homicide. Mental illness is the leading cause of disability in adults. Mental illness costs the U.S. economy over $100 billion every year in lost productivity. Approximately 20% of adult jail and prison inmates have a serious mental illness. Perhaps as many as 50% of those in juvenile detention centers have a serious mental illness. At least half of these people receive no treatment at all! Half or more of those arrested on drug offenses have a serious mental illness.
And yet, mental illness is treatable. Medication can relieve many symptoms, and newer meds are showing to be more effective with fewer side effects. With proper support, those with a mental illness can return to independent living and can return to work. But “treatment” does not mean “cure,” and it can take a decade or more before the person can begin to function independently even part of the time.
I could go on, but I simply don’t have enough space or time. I would like you, my loyal readers, to take just a few minutes from the time you may spend reading or writing about spanking, and visit some of the excellent web sites pertaining to mental illness. A good place to start is www.nami.org, run by the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI). A Google search with terms such as “mental illness,” “depression,” or “schizophrenia” will return a wealth of resources on the topic.
And, last but not least, if you think that you may suffer from a mental illness, or know someone who does, remember that you (or they) are not alone! Help is available. NAMI offers support groups in every state. Doctors are becoming more skilled at recognizing symptoms. And for goodness sakes, don’t treat someone with a mental illness as a freak! A person with a mental illness is as “normal” as you or I (okay, maybe not “I” because “I” don’t actually exist), they just have a chronic illness like diabetes or epilepsy.
As NAMI likes to state at every appropriate opportunity, recovery is possible. But only if sufferers have access to treatment and support. While you may not be able to provide treatment, you can certainly provide support, simply by becoming more informed about mental illness. I ask again: Please take just a few minutes to do a little reading. I’m sure that you will find this use of your time rather fantastic.
Last week was Mental Illness Awareness Week. It was proclaimed so by Congress in 2003, to help bring awareness to the realities of mental illness, and dispel the myths. Entirely too many people put mental illness into two categories: either the psychopathic loonies who abound in movie and television thrillers, or insecure whinings of those with too much money and too little to do. Alas, neither of these examples paint an accurate picture of the affliction. In fact, these two examples make up virtually zero percent of the mentally ill.
Additionally, mental illness is not caused by parents who are too strict or too lenient. It is not even caused by abuse or neglect. While there appears to be a environmental component, mental illness is a physical illness of the brain. The very complex parts of the brain that control mood and thought are not working correctly. The primary cause of mental illness appears to be genetic. According to Dr. E. Fuller Torrey in his book, Surviving Schizophrenia, a child who has one parent who suffers from a form of depression has a 20-25% chance of getting major depression or a bipolar disorder. If one parent has schizophrenia, their offspring have a 13% chance if being schizophrenic. Even if no parent has a mental illness, there is as much as a 5% chance that their children will contract one.
Lest I be misunderstood, when I say “mental illness,” I’m actually talking about a serious, debilitation illness. I am not referring to someone with ADHD, dysthymia, or problems with anger management. I’m not talking about being “bummed out” for a while. I am talking about symptoms like auditory hallucinations (“hearing voices”), visual hallucinations (“seeing things”), catatonia, mania to the point of being unable to sleep or literally having no fear, inability to even get out of bed. People with these symptoms cannot get better by getting out of bed and taking a shower, or by thinking positively. For someone with severe depression or bipolar disorder, they may, at times, be literally incapable of thinking positively.
Mental illness leading to suicide is the 3rd leading cause of death of teens in the U.S., behind only accidents and homicide. Mental illness is the leading cause of disability in adults. Mental illness costs the U.S. economy over $100 billion every year in lost productivity. Approximately 20% of adult jail and prison inmates have a serious mental illness. Perhaps as many as 50% of those in juvenile detention centers have a serious mental illness. At least half of these people receive no treatment at all! Half or more of those arrested on drug offenses have a serious mental illness.
And yet, mental illness is treatable. Medication can relieve many symptoms, and newer meds are showing to be more effective with fewer side effects. With proper support, those with a mental illness can return to independent living and can return to work. But “treatment” does not mean “cure,” and it can take a decade or more before the person can begin to function independently even part of the time.
I could go on, but I simply don’t have enough space or time. I would like you, my loyal readers, to take just a few minutes from the time you may spend reading or writing about spanking, and visit some of the excellent web sites pertaining to mental illness. A good place to start is www.nami.org, run by the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI). A Google search with terms such as “mental illness,” “depression,” or “schizophrenia” will return a wealth of resources on the topic.
And, last but not least, if you think that you may suffer from a mental illness, or know someone who does, remember that you (or they) are not alone! Help is available. NAMI offers support groups in every state. Doctors are becoming more skilled at recognizing symptoms. And for goodness sakes, don’t treat someone with a mental illness as a freak! A person with a mental illness is as “normal” as you or I (okay, maybe not “I” because “I” don’t actually exist), they just have a chronic illness like diabetes or epilepsy.
As NAMI likes to state at every appropriate opportunity, recovery is possible. But only if sufferers have access to treatment and support. While you may not be able to provide treatment, you can certainly provide support, simply by becoming more informed about mental illness. I ask again: Please take just a few minutes to do a little reading. I’m sure that you will find this use of your time rather fantastic.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
On Links And Comments
Hello, my friends. Just thought I’d put a little something here so that people don’t think that I no longer exist. For a person who doesn’t really exist, this would truly be a tragedy.
In my daily perusal of the contributions of other spanko writers, I have come across a couple of lines of discussion that I thought I’d address. Number One is the subject of links. I’ve read various reasoning as to what links they have chosen to include on their blogs. Some people prefer a small list because it is easier to manage. Others have a very large selection of links so that all of their friends, or persons who link to them, or both, are given their due.
My criteria is simple. The reason I place a link to another blog on my treasured site is:
Because I like it.
If you blog is not listed, please do not allow your feelings to be hurt. It could be that I have simply never visited your little piece of the internet. Or, I’m afraid, it could be that I do not care for your content. But take heart and do not be offended. It can be hard to satisfy my imaginary tastes.
Subject Number Two is comments. I receive relatively few comments here. But that is okay. If you are here and you choose to leave your thoughts, I thank you, and I appreciate your input. If you do not comment, it will not hurt my feelings. I’m glad that you have chosen to stop by, and I hope I was able to add something of value to your day.
I’d expect that your comment criteria and my link criteria have much in common. You leave comments because you like to. Or you don’t because you don’t. And that is perfectly acceptable to me. Indeed, it is just fantastic.
In my daily perusal of the contributions of other spanko writers, I have come across a couple of lines of discussion that I thought I’d address. Number One is the subject of links. I’ve read various reasoning as to what links they have chosen to include on their blogs. Some people prefer a small list because it is easier to manage. Others have a very large selection of links so that all of their friends, or persons who link to them, or both, are given their due.
My criteria is simple. The reason I place a link to another blog on my treasured site is:
Because I like it.
If you blog is not listed, please do not allow your feelings to be hurt. It could be that I have simply never visited your little piece of the internet. Or, I’m afraid, it could be that I do not care for your content. But take heart and do not be offended. It can be hard to satisfy my imaginary tastes.
Subject Number Two is comments. I receive relatively few comments here. But that is okay. If you are here and you choose to leave your thoughts, I thank you, and I appreciate your input. If you do not comment, it will not hurt my feelings. I’m glad that you have chosen to stop by, and I hope I was able to add something of value to your day.
I’d expect that your comment criteria and my link criteria have much in common. You leave comments because you like to. Or you don’t because you don’t. And that is perfectly acceptable to me. Indeed, it is just fantastic.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Spankus Interuptus, The Dramatic Conclusion
After a night of excessive carousing, I was discovered passed out in my car by my wife's best friend, Bernie, who was also an officer of the law. Bernie took me home to Angela who, a few days later, decided on an appropriate punishment for me. The last chapter found me well secured on our guest house, and having just received one tremendous blow from a prison strap. In this final episode, I describe the rest of the punishment.
Since I was securely tied, and I was not wearing a watch, I had no idea of the passing of time. So I waited patiently until Angela and Bernie returned, which, true to their word, they eventually did. I began to get excited (if you know what I mean) with the prospect of a good whipping by the love of my life. I had reflected upon Bernie’s presence, and had decided that, since she had brought me home rather than arresting me, and since she did so despite the fact that I was covered in puke, if she wished to observe and even participate in my spanking, I could in no way object.
Angela retrieved the mighty strap. “Are you ready for a good beating now?” she asked, smiling. I anxiously indicated my ascent. Angela, and expert spanker if ever there was one, drew back the strap and let it fly. While not as wicked as Bernie’s stroke, it still hurt a great deal.
Angela proceeded to set the strap aside, and she and Bernie once again headed for the door. “Excuse me, ladies,” I called after them, “aren’t you forgetting something?”
Angela turned her head and smiling, simply said, “No.” Then the two of then disappeared again.
I began to get frustrated. Did Angela really seem intent on giving me the spanko’s version of the infliction known in the medical community as “Testicallus Azurus,” more commonly known as Blue Balls? I decided that I would simply have to wait and see. Besides, I really didn’t have many other options. Eventually I dozed off.
I was startled awake when the two ladies returned. Angela was carrying one of my favorite wooden paddles. She offered me a brief greeting and then, without further delay, she walked up and gave my ass a nice swat. It wasn’t especially hard, and not nearly as painful as the strap had been. I assumed that Angela felt that the strap was perhaps a bit too severe to be used repeatedly, and that the swat was a warm-up to a good, long, paddling. Not surprisingly, I was wrong. Angela laid the paddle on a chair well out of my reach, bid me farewell, and she and Bernie again left me alone.
This went on three or four more times. Even though both Bernie and Angela took turns, and even though they alternated between the paddle and the strap, each lick seemed to be somewhat less intense than the last, and then I was left alone for another hour. I began to get very tense. As the ordeal went on, my language began to get a trifle more abusive and I begged, pleaded, demanded, and insisted on either a proper spanking or to be released from my bonds. Still, I received neither. At one point, Bernie asked me if I was ready for “a good whuppin’.” I readily agreed, but was rewarded with one little whack that was only slightly more than a tap. Then the two ladies laughed and left again. I was beginning to believe that I now understood the deviousness of a Chinese water torture.
As darkness was falling, I was getting desperate. I decided that reasoning with Angela would be appropriate. In my head, I prepared my arguments, beginning with a sincere apology. Therefore, when the door opened again, I opened my mouth to begin do deliver my appeal. For those of you who have followed my other adventures, I’m sure it will come as no surprise that the utterance that came forth from my lips was something like:
“YOU FUCKING BITCH! EITHER BEAT MY ASS OR LET ME GO, GODDAMMIT!!”
I immediately regretted my words, and prepared to apologize when I heard a single voice begin to laugh heartily. Angela was alone this time, and she had a look of pure satisfaction on her face.
“All right, you drunkard,” she said, “I’ll spank you properly. But first we have to talk.”
We discussed my drunken behavior of the night in question. She said that I had scared her tremendously when she saw me because she could picture me either broken and dead on a car wreck, or, perhaps worse, me getting into an altercation with another car and doing great or fatal harm to its occupants. She also said that it would be horrible for her to have to explain to a six-year-old Maribel why her daddy was in jail. I told her that my drinking binge was completely irresponsible, and that, even though living with her when she was pregnant was extremely stressful, drinking until I could not stand was not a proper release for the stress.
When we finished our discussion, we both felt emotional to the point of tears. We both expressed our undying love and respect for each other, and promised to be more mindful of the other person before doing anything so compulsive. Angela came over and gave me a great, big hug. I would have returned the embrace, except that I was still tied down.
Angela then proceeded to roast my ass with the paddle and the strap most deliciously. My relief was most, well, most relieving. She then untied one arm and one leg, allowed me to roll over, and performed upon me the most exquisite fellatio that I had ever experienced.
I don’t know which made the biggest impression on me, the tremendous sickness that I suffered through the next day or the terror in Angela’s voice when she explained her fear of losing me. They were both significant feelings that I shall never forget. I have never since engaged in such an alcoholic orgy, nor do I see a situation where I might wish to. I have an incredible wife and a fine family, and I wish to be able to enjoy them well into my dotage. I guess that, on that day, I realized how fantastic my family truly was.
Since I was securely tied, and I was not wearing a watch, I had no idea of the passing of time. So I waited patiently until Angela and Bernie returned, which, true to their word, they eventually did. I began to get excited (if you know what I mean) with the prospect of a good whipping by the love of my life. I had reflected upon Bernie’s presence, and had decided that, since she had brought me home rather than arresting me, and since she did so despite the fact that I was covered in puke, if she wished to observe and even participate in my spanking, I could in no way object.
Angela retrieved the mighty strap. “Are you ready for a good beating now?” she asked, smiling. I anxiously indicated my ascent. Angela, and expert spanker if ever there was one, drew back the strap and let it fly. While not as wicked as Bernie’s stroke, it still hurt a great deal.
Angela proceeded to set the strap aside, and she and Bernie once again headed for the door. “Excuse me, ladies,” I called after them, “aren’t you forgetting something?”
Angela turned her head and smiling, simply said, “No.” Then the two of then disappeared again.
I began to get frustrated. Did Angela really seem intent on giving me the spanko’s version of the infliction known in the medical community as “Testicallus Azurus,” more commonly known as Blue Balls? I decided that I would simply have to wait and see. Besides, I really didn’t have many other options. Eventually I dozed off.
I was startled awake when the two ladies returned. Angela was carrying one of my favorite wooden paddles. She offered me a brief greeting and then, without further delay, she walked up and gave my ass a nice swat. It wasn’t especially hard, and not nearly as painful as the strap had been. I assumed that Angela felt that the strap was perhaps a bit too severe to be used repeatedly, and that the swat was a warm-up to a good, long, paddling. Not surprisingly, I was wrong. Angela laid the paddle on a chair well out of my reach, bid me farewell, and she and Bernie again left me alone.
This went on three or four more times. Even though both Bernie and Angela took turns, and even though they alternated between the paddle and the strap, each lick seemed to be somewhat less intense than the last, and then I was left alone for another hour. I began to get very tense. As the ordeal went on, my language began to get a trifle more abusive and I begged, pleaded, demanded, and insisted on either a proper spanking or to be released from my bonds. Still, I received neither. At one point, Bernie asked me if I was ready for “a good whuppin’.” I readily agreed, but was rewarded with one little whack that was only slightly more than a tap. Then the two ladies laughed and left again. I was beginning to believe that I now understood the deviousness of a Chinese water torture.
As darkness was falling, I was getting desperate. I decided that reasoning with Angela would be appropriate. In my head, I prepared my arguments, beginning with a sincere apology. Therefore, when the door opened again, I opened my mouth to begin do deliver my appeal. For those of you who have followed my other adventures, I’m sure it will come as no surprise that the utterance that came forth from my lips was something like:
“YOU FUCKING BITCH! EITHER BEAT MY ASS OR LET ME GO, GODDAMMIT!!”
I immediately regretted my words, and prepared to apologize when I heard a single voice begin to laugh heartily. Angela was alone this time, and she had a look of pure satisfaction on her face.
“All right, you drunkard,” she said, “I’ll spank you properly. But first we have to talk.”
We discussed my drunken behavior of the night in question. She said that I had scared her tremendously when she saw me because she could picture me either broken and dead on a car wreck, or, perhaps worse, me getting into an altercation with another car and doing great or fatal harm to its occupants. She also said that it would be horrible for her to have to explain to a six-year-old Maribel why her daddy was in jail. I told her that my drinking binge was completely irresponsible, and that, even though living with her when she was pregnant was extremely stressful, drinking until I could not stand was not a proper release for the stress.
When we finished our discussion, we both felt emotional to the point of tears. We both expressed our undying love and respect for each other, and promised to be more mindful of the other person before doing anything so compulsive. Angela came over and gave me a great, big hug. I would have returned the embrace, except that I was still tied down.
Angela then proceeded to roast my ass with the paddle and the strap most deliciously. My relief was most, well, most relieving. She then untied one arm and one leg, allowed me to roll over, and performed upon me the most exquisite fellatio that I had ever experienced.
I don’t know which made the biggest impression on me, the tremendous sickness that I suffered through the next day or the terror in Angela’s voice when she explained her fear of losing me. They were both significant feelings that I shall never forget. I have never since engaged in such an alcoholic orgy, nor do I see a situation where I might wish to. I have an incredible wife and a fine family, and I wish to be able to enjoy them well into my dotage. I guess that, on that day, I realized how fantastic my family truly was.
