Sunday, April 29, 2007


How To Make A Spanko

Whilst at work the other day, I was having a polite conversation with one of my nosier co-workers. This was actually a woman approaching sixty whom I did not know all that well. She was asking some general, conversational, getting-to-know-you type questions when she inquired as to whether I had any offspring. I indicated that I had two daughters, one who was a junior in college and one that was a freshman in high school.

“That is quite a difference in ages,” she responded. “Was the younger one an ‘accident?’” she asked with a wink.

I found the question very nosy. I was tempted to tell the woman just exactly what I thought of her effrontery, but instead opted to hold my tongue. Rather, I told her that Colette, my youngest, was not an accident but indeed a planned, expected, and quite welcome addition to our family.

Colette was very certainly welcome. The planned and expected part is slightly more complicated.

Maribel’s birth was expected from the onset. Angela and I felt it was time to start a family, the doctor determined that Angela was perfectly healthy, we had sex, Angela became pregnant, and nine months later, give or take a few days, she delivered a healthy, bouncing baby Maribel.

Fast forward about four years. We began to discuss the idea of bringing forth a second child. We both agreed that it was what we wanted, but the time never seemed right. First it was we had just bought a new house. Then Maribel was starting school. Then we needed a new car. Then Angela was starting a new job. I was starting to wonder if Maribel was destined to be an only child.

When Maribel was about six, Angela began showing symptoms of a condition often referred to as PMS, although Angela began calling it “the devil in my (vaginal region).” (I prefer not to use the term that Angela chose for “vaginal region,” cultured person that I am). The first thing that the doctor had her do was to stop taking her birth control pills. Curiously, this seemed to relieve the condition. I had never heard a woman having this kind of reaction to birth control medication, but strange things can occur when you don’t really exist.

The intention was for Angela to perhaps try a new birth control medication. However, we had hit something of a lull in our sex lives. We were both working and Maribel was in school. I would leave for work (I was not working from home at the time) at a ridiculously early hour, Angela would see Maribel off to school, and I would be home to see our daughter safely home. As a result, I also would be seeking my slumber at a ridiculously early hour, usually well before Angela. Since I can be cranky when woken, we had few times when we were both conscious enough for marital relations. Since Angela was feeling well, we therefore decided that, for the short term, we would use a combination of condoms and the rhythm method.

Now, it should be pointed out that Spakowiaks are not especially known for their rhythm.

Some weeks later, Angela and I found ourselves awake and naked late one evening, after the child had been put to her rest. We began to partake in the usual activity that two horny people will frequently partake in whilst naked. When it came time to, shall we say, “engage,” I reached for the handy box of condoms in the nightstand. However, I found the box empty.

I related this bit of information to Angela. Her response:

“I don’t care! Just fuck me! Now!”

I truly despise disappointing my lovely wife, especially when she is naked. I happily obliged her, without giving any thought to where we might be in terms of rhythm.

The next part of the story is probably predictable. Perhaps a month later, Angela informed me that she had a doctor’s appointment. When I inquired as to the nature of the appointment, she responded, “I think I’m pregnant.” Since Angela had, to my knowledge, been pregnant only one other time in her life, I asked her what aroused this notion.

“I feel just like I did the last time I was pregnant,” she said.

No further explanation was necessary. Indeed, a medical opinion was not really required, either, as I was quite certain what its outcome would be. When she returned from the doctor, she informed me that, sure enough, she was truly carrying the early stages of life.

That evening, after much nervousness, we sent the little Maribel off to bed, and sat down to discuss this latest development. Angela hemmed and hawed for a fair amount of time while I sat, expressionless. At last, she got to the heart of the matter.

“What do you think we should do?” she asked.

“Well,” I began. “We HAVE been talking about having another baby. We were only waiting until the time was right.”

I paused, reading the anxiety in Angela’s face.

“And, my dear, it appears that the time is indeed right.”

The smile that exploded on Angela’s face almost blinded me with it’s intensity. She launched herself towards me and swallowed me up in a most massive embrace. She was so immensely happy that she took my hand and took me up to the bedroom, where we proceeded to make love again, this time with no concern towards condoms, rhythm, or any other method of birth control.

Alas, that love-making session did not end quite so pleasantly as the one previously described. One of the symptoms that Angela develops during the early stages of pregnancy is a tendency to become ill when engaging in sex. The sound of her barfing, though, was like music to my ears, as it served to completely confirm the fact that there would soon be another Spanko in the world.

So you can see that, while we were planning on having a second child, and her arrival was truly welcome, her conception was not entirely expected. It was no mistake or accident, though. It was, in a word, fantastic.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007


Spring Cleaning, The Spanko Way

At my darling wife’s behest, last weekend I partook the effort to inventory our spanking implements. I knew that, over the years, that we had accumulated a considerable number of items whose sole purpose is to strike bottoms. However, as I gathered, sorted, and counted said items, I was surprised at the sheer quantity that we had acquired.

Now, these are not the only things that we have used for spanking. A fair number of household tools have been, on occasion, used to swat the behind of Angela or myself. The objects of my inventory, though, were those that were used exclusively for the sweet art of bottom chastisement.

So, what follows is a list of what our spanking implement collection contains, along with a count of each item. Any resemblance to a common Christmas carol is merely coincidence.

However, we have never used the partridge. That would upset the ASPCA, and I would never want to do that.

Sunday, April 22, 2007


Where Have All The Spankos Gone?

No, Fantastic Spanking has not been forgotten, forsaken, or for-anything-else. I cannot even claim writers block. The truth is that absolutely everything has gone wrong in the Spakowiak household.

Allow me to present just one example of the misery that I have had to withstand.

On the Wednesday following Easter, the lovely Angela’s parents were scheduled to depart. They had a 3 pm flight to Arizona to visit some friends, so Angela was preparing to take them to the airport at 8 am that morning to make sure that they made it through security in plenty of time. Their bags were packed, everyone was dressed and ready to go. I had said my good-byes and had retired to my office to resume the work week.

Suddenly, I heard my darling wife calling, extremely urgently, "FRANCIS!" The tone of her voice conveyed to me that there must be an emergency, so I hurried to the back door of the barn to see what had gone so terribly wrong
When I arrived at the scene, I discovered Angela’s father lying on the floor of the bathroom, groaning and clutching his chest. Angela was kneeling beside him and her mother was in an absolute panic, pacing back and forth. Angela ordered me to summon an ambulance.

"My dear," I said to her, "we should take a moment to see if your dad can talk so we can ascertain more clearly what is causing his discomfort."

"He’s having a HEART ATTACK, you blowhard!!" Angela’s mother shrieked back at me.

"Call the damn ambulance!" Angela ordered again. Just then, Angela’s father rolled onto his back and started shaking his head and pointing. I paused to see what he might be trying to communicate. He tried to talk but just gasped and slumped back.

"HE CAN’T BREATHE!" Angela’s mother cried. "Oh, my God, he’s going to die!" When she said that, Angela’s father began to shake his head again. Something about the way he was reacting told me that, while something was terribly wrong, it was not with his heart.

At this point, two things require a bit of an explanation. First, just off of the back door on the barn that is our house is a laundry room. As you enter that room, there is, to one’s left, a small loo. If one is not careful, when exiting the loo, if the laundry room door is approximately three-quarters open, one can walk right into it.
Second, my father-in-law is a dork.

And now, back to our story.

About this time, my younger daughter, Colette, appeared. She tried to calm her grandmother, who was still all a-twitter. But she was not to be calmed.

"He can’t breathe!" she screamed again. "He needs CPR!"

Angela checked for a pulse, and appeared to find one. Furthermore, her father was still quite conscious. Colette, to her everlasting credit, tried to reassure her grandmother.

"Do CPR! Do it now, before he DIES!" Angela’s mother continued to scream.

Colette then grabbed her grandmother by both arms. "GRANDMA!" she shouted. "SHUT UP!!"

That brought complete silence to the entire situation.

Now that she had everyone’s attention, Colette continued in a lower voice. "Grandma, you can’t do CPR on someone who is conscious."

"But he can’t breathe!"

However, Angela’s father was clearly breathing, albeit rather noisily.

"He’s is breathing, Grandma," Colette responded. "And mom found a pulse, didn’t you, mom" Angela nodded her agreement.

"We learned in our freshman health class last month that if you do CPR on someone who is breathing and has a heart beat, then you will kill them." That brought her grandmother up short.

Angela’s father’s breath seemed to be coming easier, although he still seemed distressed. He tried to speak again, and this time found his voice.

It turns out that, just as they were heading out the door, Angela’s father felt that he should make one last rest room pit stop since he did not think he would be seeing a bathroom for a while. While he was "resting," Angela and her mother took the last of the bags to the car. When they returned, they found Angela’s father in his current position. They assumed that he was having a heart attack.

What really happened was that, as he was leaving the rest room, he was reading his traveling itinerary and not paying attention to what might be impeding his path. He proceeded to wade, full force, into the side of the afore-mentioned laundry room door. The force of the blow spun him around, at which point he lost his balance and fell forward, hitting his chest on the bathroom sink and knocking the wind out of him.

I had brought my trusty cell phone with me, but after determining the source of his chest pains, rather than calling the paramedics, we called our family doctor, whom we have known for fifteen years. She sent us to the local x-ray clinic, who took him in with minimal wait. They discovered that the poor man had in actuality broken two ribs on the sink and two fingers as he fell to the ground. He was patched up by a specialist at the clinic, given excellent drugs, and sent on his way.

Naturally, Angela would even consider allowing them to travel that day. Instead, she had her father spend the next few days convalescing in the most comfortable room in the house, which happens to be our bedroom. That left Angela and I to scramble for limited sleeping space, as the third floor was still uninhabitable due to a lack of heat. Since winter had made a reappearance, it was too chilly. We ended up converting my office into a temporary bedroom. All of this busyness left no time or opportunity for any spanking, much to my chagrin.

There have been other setbacks as well. When Maribel returned to school after Easter, she discovered her laptop was missing (it was later recovered, thankfully). Angela’s back issues flared, resulting in my playing chauffeur for her. And, most frustrating of all, my PC decided to cease to function, making it all but impossible for me to contribute anything to Fantastic Spanking, even were I to have wanted to.

So, now I have returned, ready to once again regale you with tales of my imaginary life. I appreciate your patience, and I’m glad that you have returned. For those of you who haven’t come back yet (and you know who you are), I shall not miss you since I can’t. After all, I don’t exist.

Sunday, April 08, 2007


Easter, Spanko Style

Things have finally quieted down here at the Spakowiak homestead. The guests have gone, Angela’s parents have retired to the guest house, Maribel and her beau are on their way back to university, and Angela and Colette are watching a movie in the living room. I have whittled a twenty-foot pile of dirty dishes down to a more manageable height, and most of those will likely go into the dishwasher, once the current load has been cleaned and put away. The ones that will not fit shall be placed in the garbage, as I simply cannot look at another dirty dish.

Goodness me, I’m beginning to sound like my mother.

In fact, my mother was in attendance. Her favorite thing to say to me, and she repeated it about 37 times, was, “Now you know what I went through when we’d have people over.” She was, or course, referring to holidays during my childhood. She was also, of course, lying. I cannot remember having fifteen people for a sit-down meal, and I frequently remember my father and his mother graciously insisting on doing the cleaning up. My maternal grandmother was not always so gracious, and she frequently repeated the line, “Now you know what I went through when we’d have people over.” This was apparently a sort of family tradition.

The day started poorly enough. We awoke to two inches of snow on the ground. Those of you who call the Midwestern USA your home likely experienced the same. As I recall, Christmas saw temperatures around 50 degrees. I guess, then, it was appropriate that we have a white Easter. Angela’s mother insisted that we attend Easter services. I must confess, we are a godless family. I was raised a Roman Catholic, and most Catholic children follow one of two paths: either they become devout in their adulthood, or they become entirely cynical towards the entire religious establishment. I’ve chosen the latter path. Angela, too, was dragged to church every Sunday morning. Her parents are not followers of Catholicism, but rather belong to one of the Protestant denominations. She became disgruntled with religion when, during her college days, someone preaching outside of her school’s library said to Bernie, whom I have always known as a fine person, a good friend, and a homosexual, “God hates you!”

In reality, which, for an imaginary spanko is indeed extraordinary, Bernie and Angela were roommates for most of their college years. Bernie, who was a basketball player of considerable talent, was meeting Angela after a game in which she had performed especially well. Angela gave Bernie a congratulatory, friendly hug, which caused the so-called preacher to issue his ill-mannered remark. Legend has it that Angela chased the poor fellow completely off campus and had to be restrained by school security lest she claw off a particularly sensitive portion of the fellow’s anatomy. Sadly, I have never been able to get this story confirmed.

Now that I have likely offended many of the faithful, I shall resume my tale.

Angela relented to her parents request, and had the girls put on nice dresses, something which our girls are not especially fond of doing. I steadfastly refused to attend, as I had a great deal to do as far as cleaning up after breakfast and preparing dinner. This, naturally, irritated Angela’s mom, so that she referred to me as “the heathen” for the rest of the day.

Fortunately for me, Maribel’s boyfriend had escaped grandma’s notice, so he avoided services, and was kind enough to assist me in my kitchen duties, for which I shall be forever grateful. Upon returning from church, when Angela’s mom discovered the young gentleman was here, and that he had further spent the night at our house (he slept on a sofa in my office since the third floor rooms of the barn still do not have proper heat), she proceeded to harangue him for not being a gentleman, and lecture me on the proper way to raise our daughter. Fortunately, she does not know that Maribel and her beau know each other biblically, or she’d have condemned us all to a fiery afterlife. Maribel was also not happy that her man had not attended the religious service with them, and she all but ignored him until I accepted responsibility for keeping him here to be my servant. The boy picks things up quickly, and complained that, with all of the work that I had him do, he would have rather gone to church with Maribel. This was, of course, a complete lie, since he had repeatedly mentioned how relieved he was that he did not have to go. To preserve some semblance of family peace, and as a way of showing my appreciation to the boy, I backed his story up one hundred percent.

Fortunately, the meal was excellent. I prepared a glazed ham (one that I had bought that was at the grocery store), au gratin potatoes, glazed carrots, fresh green beans (no mushroom soup casserole for me, thank you very much), homemade bread, and fresh brownies for dessert. Everything was yummy, and the entire crew ate so much they were too tired to harass me further after the meal.

I must thank you for your patience in persevering through my kvetching, as there is a point here that bares some relationship to the spanking nature of this particular blog. After the feast, Angela served tea in the living room. After making sure that everyone who cared for one had a cup, she returned to the kitchen to replenish the pot. While waiting for the kettle to boil, she gave me a hug and a kiss for making such an excellent supper. Then she heaved a great sigh, looked out at the crowd in the living room, and said to me, “I can’t wait for everyone to leave. I could really use a spanking.”

It was good to know that my darling wife and I are of the same mind. Soon, Colette will retire for the night, and Angela and I will make for our bedroom. Once there, I do believe that we will both get naked, select a suitably quiet instrument, say perhaps a wooden rod, and take turns reddening the other’s ass. It is such a pleasant thought, it has almost relieved the stress of the day. We will complete the stress-relief process along with the spankings. It will be a fantastic ending to the holiday.

Friday, April 06, 2007


Yet Another Seal Sighting

Things have been rather busy here at the Spanko household. Maribel is home for the Easter weekend. There have been a steady stream of her friends stopping by to have her relive her fine run through the basketball tournament. Colette’s school is off for a week, and she has decided that all of her friends have to visit her, which they seem to gladly do. In addition, Angela’s parents are spending the holiday with us. Even though they have the guest house all to themselves, they spend every waking moment in the main house, making sure that Angela does not over-stress herself and her bad back. Unfortunately, my stress level does not seem to concern them.

On top of all that, I haven’t been spanked in ages.

Well, life could be worse. I could be responsible for cooking Easter dinner for twenty people.

Actually, it will be more like fifteen.

Angela invited Bernie and her partner. Since her parental units are here, she also invited her sister, her husband, and their two rug rats. The weather in this part of the country has turned ridiculously cold, so the tots will have to be entertained indoors. Maribel’s boyfriend will be joining us. Finally, Angela wouldn’t feel proper (so she said) if she didn’t check with my dear mother to see if my parents had Easter plans (they didn’t). Naturally, since Angela’s back is still a little crotchety, she can’t spend a great deal of time on her feet. So while my darling wife gets to play gracious host, your’s truly gets prepare Easter dinner. And fetch drinks. And clean up. And provide computer advice for the entire family. And not kill anyone in the process.

I could really use that spanking right about now. Alas, it shall have to wait until after the holiday and her parents return to the warmer climes of Florida.

So, since there are no spankings on which to report, I shall instead report on a charitable event that should be of some interest for you, my loyal spanko readers.

It seems that a fair number of lovely, British ladies who make their living in the spanking entertainment trade, have decided to use a part of their anatomy somewhat lower than their bottoms to raise money for a worthy cause. For those of you with filthy minds, I am not referring to their naughty bits, but to their legs. These ladies have agreed to run the distance of five kilometers (or three miles for those who still have not stopped to learn the metric system) and to collect pledges in an effort to support cancer research. They are calling their effort Bums On The Run.

Please click on the banner or the link so that you may learn more about the ladies who are running, the cause they are running for, and how you may make a donation in their name.

I know far too many people who have died from cancer, including family members. Far too many more are living with it or have survived it, usually after a difficult recovery period. So for these beautiful spankos to give their time and their lungs to this cause it, to me at least, quite admirable. I wish them well and offer them my support.

In addition, I am so impressed with the lengths that these ladies are going to, that I wish to reward them by presenting to them the Frank Spanko Seal Of Approval. He shall even be glad to accompany them on their run, provided they keep his skin damp.

I commend you ladies. What you are doing is truly fantastic.

Sunday, April 01, 2007


More On What Makes A Spanko

Allow me to summarize my last little essay, so that today’s entry will be contextual.

1. There are some aspects that almost everyone can find pleasurable.

2. Spankings are painful (I’m adding this for the sake of clarity).

3. No one likes pain.

Given these three statements, how can anyone like to be spanked? For spankos to be spankos, that is, for us to seek out, nay perhaps even crave spankings, then we must therefore choose to look beyond the pain and focus on the pleasurable.

Given this, then why do we spankos choose to look past the pain of spankings when non-spankos prefer to avoid the pain and therefore the spanking?

Some have suggested that this is genetic, i.e. that we are “born with it.” I’m not sure that I agree, at least entirely. This seems to be just a little too simple, or too random. I think that perhaps the genesis of a spanko is much more complicated.

Let’s look at several factors.

First, there are multiple things during your basic spanking that, taken individually, are quite erotic. There is the position, with one’s posterior thrust outward. There is submitting to a more dominant individual. There is contact to the buttocks region, which is an erogenous zone. There is the factor of building anticipation.

Secondly, there is a curiosity factor. If one is willing to wait until the pain resides, there is a reward in the after-effects.

Third, there is a desire to try new things. This also fits into the curiosity factor.

Fourth, there is a tendency to open-mindedness. Some might think that one who likes to be spanked is somehow abnormal. But others are either not inclined to think that way or are willing to look past the perceived abnormality in order to experiment with spanking.

Finally, I believe there is what I like to refer to as the “young discovery” factor. Allow me to present an example. I have been fanatically following the sport of baseball for almost as long as I can remember. From elementary school to junior high to high school, I watched baseball, read about baseball, played baseball, collected baseball cards, went to baseball games, and did many other activities revolving around baseball. My greatest regret in my life is that I was never talented enough to be a center fielder in Major League Baseball. Was I born with this love of baseball, or was it factors such as the city I was raised in, my parents interest in the sport, a neighborhood field where all the kids would gather most every day in the summer to play? I suspect that it was moreso the latter.

I suspect that my love of all things spanking was similarly obtained.

Just like I cannot pinpoint the exact time in my life that I became interested in baseball, I cannot identify the exact period in which I became a spanking enthusiast. However, my willingness to experiment and explore as a youngster more likely developed both loves.

Why spanking, you might ask, and not, for example, a preference for feet? That is a legitimate question, and difficult to answer. However, it would be equally difficult to answer the question of why I love baseball and not, for example, hockey or golf, since both of those sports are also very popular where I grew up. I believe that, with further examination, I could probably come up with satisfactory questions for both questions.

Could there be some genetic factor involved? Probably. Perhaps curiosity is something that one is born with. Perhaps it is a particular nerve configuration in one’s posterior that might make a spanking unbearable for one and painful but pleasurable for another. Those will have to be discussions for another time. For now, I conclude that, for the most part, spankos are made, not born. One becomes a spanko more by environmental factors than by hereditary. These factors are likely not the same for any two people, but with examination, I believe that all of us can identify a number of events in our lives that, taken together, have led us to adopt spanking as a hobby or lifestyle.

Now that I’ve dedicated three blog entries and a considerable amount of thought to this subject, there remains one question:

Does it really matter?

To be completely honest, I really do not care why I am a spanko.

That fact that I am is fantastic.

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