Friday, February 29, 2008
Maribel has a basketball game on Sunday this weekend. This is a special game, because it will be Senior Day, the last regular-season home game for the team’s senior players. Angela, Bernie, and I will be there in places of honor. Colette will be there, too. And that is part of what makes this such a good weekend.
Maribel convinced her coach to allow Colette to be an “honorary ball girl” for this game. As such, Maribel informed me that Colette had to be there early so that she could learn her duties (such as when not to run onto the floor, like when the game was going on). I made plans for Angela, Colette, and I go up on Saturday morning, but the girls did not approve of this plan.
“I’m not a child! I can go by myself!” Colette insisted. Indeed, there is a train that travels directly from our part of the world to the town where Maribel’s school is located. Plenty of students travel back and forth to and from school on that train. The plan was to have Maribel meet Colette at the train station on Friday night. Colette could spend the weekend with her sister, attend practice on Saturday, and then be the ball girl on Sunday. Obviously, my concern was what would the girls do during the non-practice and non-game hours on a March evening in a college town.
I let Angela handle this one. She made the girls promise to behave. No bars, no booze, no orgies. Maribel promised that there would be no naughtiness, especially since she didn’t want to be hung over or tired for her Senior Day game. There is apparently some sort of social event at the campus student union, with food and music and games and such. Maribel’s boyfriend also has a sister who will be up for the weekend. She and Colette know each other and get along. It sounded like a plan.
It is turning out to be only half of the plan. After the arrangements for Colette had been made, Angela began making arrangements for her and I. We would, after all, have the house to ourselves for Friday night and all day Saturday. Just a few minutes ago, Angela presented to me the agenda for Saturday, and I thought that, being ever the generous imaginary spanko, that I would share it with you.
The itinerary looks something like this:
7:00 am – Frank gets up and showers.
7:30 am – Frank wakes Angela up by giving her great pleasure (translation: she wants to start the day with an orgasm).
8:00 am – Breakfast
9:00 am – Morning Spankings, to be given with a hairbrush in the kitchen.
9:30 am (approximately) – Frank’s morning lesson. I expect that this will involve me being tied up in some fashion and having something inserted into my asshole.
10:30 – Angela relaxes in grand fashion (translation: Angela wants another orgasm)
11:30 – Naked cleaning.
1 pm – Lunch
2 pm – First Afternoon spanking, to be given with leather strap.
2:30 pm – Afternoon naps
3:30 pm – Play Spanko Basketball. This involves viewing a college basketball game on television, with swats given out for certain game events, such as fouls, turnovers, etc.
5:30 pm (or after basketball game) – Second Afternoon Spanking, to be given with paddle.
6:00 pm – Order dinner from our favorite restaurant that delivers.
6:15 pm - Frank attends to Angela (translation: Angela wants yet another orgasm)
7:00 pm – Eat dinner. Preferably naked.
8:00 pm – Evening spanking, to be given with whatever implement seems appropriate at the time.
8:30 pm – Cuddle on the sofa and watch a DVD (or perhaps more basketball). Keep bottoms warm with hairbrush.
11:00 pm – Late night snack (translation: Another orgasm for Angela).
11:30 pm – Use up remaining energy with rigorous sex in bedroom. Spankings optional.
As you can see, my Saturday promises to be quite eventful. We will leave for Maribel’s school early Sunday, and attend the game. Afterward, the school is treating the seniors and their families to a catered dinner. Then back home and to work on Monday.
So, I had best rest up, as I will need maximum energy for the coming two days.
It appears that I will be having a fantastic weekend.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Frank Discusses The Beauty Of Wood
I’m sure that I don’t need to tell you what the phrase “dire consequences” meant to a fourth grader in the early seventies.
I shant go into details of the encounter with the head of my school since they aren’t really relevant to this story. Suffice to day, the principal took out his trusty paddle, stood me up, bent me over, and gave me a good, solid swat.
I did not enjoy the experience. The paddle stung, but not overly so. It was over the seat of my pants. It was in the privacy of the principals office. I did not cry, although I very nearly did so. I was embarrassed because I was “bad,” and I wanted to forget the entire experience.
And yet, I have not forgotten it. In fact, in the years that followed, I re-enacted the experience in my imagination many, many times. Eventually, I began to replay the paddling upon myself as I reached adolescence. The paddling would became more severe, the pants came down, the swats went from one to five to as many as I could manage before my arm became tired.
So why am I writing about this experience? No, my dear friends, it is not because I believe that it was the genesis of my becoming a life-long spanko. Rather, the purpose of this little episode is to help explain why my favorite spanking implement is a nice, wooden paddle.
Nothing satisfies my spanking urges more than feeling fine, shiny piece of lumber cracking against my ass (not to be confused with the crack of my ass, the thought of which probably makes you nauseous, and so I apologize for mentioning it). For me, no position says “spank me” more than being bent over, bottom bared, waiting for the board to be vigorously applied. I love the sound of a paddle striking its target. I adore the instant, searing, deep sting that comes when I feel a paddle on my waiting backside. Even the color of a paddled bottom seems more fiery, more angry. It just looks like it I imagine that a spanked bottom should look like.
I realize that, other than a thin cord or whip, no other spanking implement can inflict as much pain or cause as much damage as a board. It is understandable that many dedicated spankos are wary or even fearful of a wooden paddle. But, for me, it’s give me wood or give me … well… since I’m not Patrick Henry, death might be a bit extreme. Actually, any other implement will do just fine. But I find a paddle most satisfying. It feels, and it makes me feel, utterly ……..
(to be continued).
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Warm Thoughts On A Cold Day
That being said, at the beginning of our relationship, when Angela and I first discovered that we were both interested, nay, were frequently craving, a good fire on our backsides, hardly a day went by when we didn’t exchange spankings. There were times when we thought that we were sacrificing our social lives so that we could spend time beating each other’s behinds.
Ah, those were the days.
During the winter, I am more prone to reminisce about those long gone times. That is because, before the offspring came along, we could easily spend a dank, cold weekend locked in the house, in various states of undress, inventing many ways to take paddles, belts, straps, canes, or whatever else was handy to each other. We would invent games, design role-playing scenarios, or just accuse each other of outlandish misbehaviors. The bruises at the end of such a day would be something to behold. Then we would make love and fall asleep buried under piles of blankets and comforters, often on the floor or on the sofa. The next day we would wake up, shower, and start all over again.
We gave good morning spankings. We gave good night spankings. We gave welcome home spankings. We gave spankings to celebrate the beginning of the weekend, and to celebrate the end of the weekend. We would even wake each other up in the middle of the night for a spanking. We were crazy in love, and crazy in love with spanking.
Twenty-five or so years later, we are still crazy. And we still love spanking. However, our endurance is certainly much less. And the opportunities present themselves less often. Now, rather than trying to squeeze as many spankings as possible into an allotment of time, we savor the spanking time that we do have.
And yet, soon Maribel will graduate from college and move out on her own. Colette has expressed interest in going away to college. Before many more years, we will again have the house to ourselves. Will the quantity of spankings increase? Or will we be too old for spanking by then?
But now is not the time to worry about that. There is still the present to be concerned about, and I have a feeling that the present still holds many spankings yet. Indeed, I can feel a spanking coming on soon.
Indeed, I believe that it will be a fantastic spanking.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
A Non-Spanking Update
Two of my most favorite things in the world are my family and college basketball. So when my eldest daughter, Maribel, showed an aptitude for the hardcourt, and she made her college basketball team, I couldn’t have been happier. Now that she’s a senior, she’d a star. She plays for a Division II school, which means you will never see highlights of her game on SportsCenter. But she has become a great player. She is currently leading her team in scoring and rebounds, and she leads her conference in rebounds, shooting percentage, and free-throw shooting.
Her team made it through the non-conference portion of the season with three losses, one in a tournament of other top DII teams, and one against the Big State University, which I have earlier described. They are now twelve games into their conference season, and they are 11 and 1. They have won four games by more than twenty points, one of them by more than 30. They are a shoo-in for the post-season tournament. I was able to talk to a couple of coaches from their opponents, and they told me that Maribel’s team was perhaps the best that they have played all season.
I wanted to see every game of Maribel’s this season in person, both the home and road games, this being her last season. Unfortunately, the weather, my health, et cetera, have caused me to see fewer games than even last season. Fortunately, her school is advanced enough technologically that they stream video broadcasts of all of their games over the internet. So at least I’ve been able to still see her play, albeit over cyberspace.
Last year Maribel’s team just missed being one of the last eight teams in big tournament. This year I’m hoping for better things. Their goal is a championship, and they are focused and driven.
The scary part is that, after the tournament, Maribel will graduate in two months. It will be time for her to join the real world. Basketball will no longer be able to consume her life. Yes, she may be good enough to get a tryout on a women’s professional basketball team, either here or abroad, but if she does not latch on she’ll have to move on past sport. I’ve watched her play since grade school, so not having her on a team anymore will be odd.
Beyond hoops, I do not know what Maribel’s career interests lie. She’s getting a degree in physical education and teaching, so coaching may be in her future. I know that she has expressed interest in Bernie’s vocation, which is law enforcement. But she has worked so hard at reaching her basketball potential that I don’t think that she’s thought much past that.
Father’s worry. But then I think that Maribel is not one to sit around and not be busy. There is plenty of room in the barnhouse, so she’s welcome to move back in with us. She’ll be twenty-two when she graduates, so she does not have to hurry to find a profession. Truth be told, it will be nice to have her around the house as an adult. I can’t speak for Angela, but I have finished being a father to Maribel.
Yes, I know, you never really stop being a father. But I don’t need to raise her anymore. She’s all growed up, as they say. I’m content to be her friend and confidante. If she wants my advice, I’ll be glad to impart it, but I don’t need to force it upon her anymore. She’ll make her own decisions, her own mistakes. I’ll offer my support and whatever help I can, if I can and if she asks. Otherwise, I shall simply try to enjoy her company.
I’ll stop ruminating now. Perhaps I shall seek out Angela and find an excuse to spank her. Or for her to spank me. So that I have something to write about. Something fantastic to write about.
Saturday, February 09, 2008
Stress Relief, Spanko Style
“Because she sucked,” Angela responded.
“We’ve had worse,” I opined. “Besides, she was very nice. The late food was more likely the fault of the kitchen rather than the waitress.”
“She still sucked. You just liked her because she was cute.”
“She wasn’t all that cute. Our daughters are way cuter.”
“But I’m not?”
Angela was in a snit. Yes, our waitress was slow an inexperienced. Yes, it took a long time for our food to arrive, even though the restaurant was not really busy. But the food was good and plentiful, and we were not in a hurry. And yet Angela made several impolite comments in a fairly loud voice that, if the waitress didn’t hear, some of the other patrons certainly did. Then Angela gave the poor girl quite a lecture when we were finished, and insisted that I not give her a tip. I tipped her anyway, mainly for putting up with Angela’s grumpiness without reacting.
When Angela gets like this, I must tread carefully. Our relationship is not one where Angela will purposely misbehave, or “brat” as many of you young ladies refer to that type of behavior. Usually, the best thing for me to do is to leave her alone for a bit, and then try to gently ask her what might be really bothering her. Sometimes it will be clear that the pain in her back (actual pain, not husband pain) will be flaring up, causing her to be rather touchy.
But sometimes she just needs a good spanking.
Since this is a spanking blog, and not one dedicated to marital relationships, it should be obvious which option I chose.
I pulled the car into the driveway, but stopped in front of the guest house. “What are you doing,” Angela inquired.
“Let’s go inside,” I responded. “We need to talk.”
When we were inside and I had closed the door behind us, I stated simply, “Go get a hairbrush.”
“I don’t want a spanking now.”
“Yes, but you need one. Go get the hairbrush.” Grumbling, Angela when to retrieve the requested implement.
I sat down on the couch, and Angela returned with the hairbrush, a nice, sturdy, wooden one. Angela may have said that she didn’t want a spanking, but we have several hairbrushes stashed in the guest house and she picked the heaviest one.
I had her drop her pants and told her to position herself over my lap. Still grumpling, she flopped herself down across my knees. I wasted no time in giving her about ten hard swats. Angela hollered and complained.
“Be quiet,” I told her sternly. “You need this and you know it. Now hold still and take this like a man!” That last bit was our little joke.
Angela relaxed and I resumed the spanking. I gradually increased the intensity and the rapidity, and I could feel her tense more and more. I paused briefly and rubbed her butt to let her relax a little, and to see how hot I had made her. I determined that her butt could take a little more pounding, so I applied the hairbrush again. She did not tighten up as much this time, so I knew that the paddling was working.
When I stopped, Angela let out a cleansing breath. I rubbed her broiled bottom again. “Thank-you,” she said, simply.
“Your welcome,” I responded. Angela sat up, and we talked and cuddled for a few minutes. After a while, Angela said, “We should get back to the main house to make sure Colette hasn’t burned it down yet.”
“Not yet,” I responded. “We’re not quite done yet. Go get a paddle.”
This time there was no grumbling. Angela scuttled off, and returned with her favorite paddle. I piled the sofa cushions up, and then had her bend over them so as not to put too much pressure on her back. Then I gave her ten good, hard whacks, making her count and thank me for each one. At the conclusion, I rubbed her butt a little more, then she fetched her pants and we returned to the barnhouse.
It sucks getting old. No, it’s not the creakiness that begins to set into the joints. It’s not the minor ailments that come one after another. The hardest part is trying to be nice so often in a world that is filled with assholes. Sometimes the resistance breaks down, and the anger comes pouring out. Too often that anger is directed at the wrong person. For those of us who are dedicated spankos, the best antidote at such times is simply to have a good, sturdy implement applied nice and hard to one’s bare butt. It seems to drive the stress out of one’s body, bringing about a return to a feeling of peace and contentment. In other words, it makes one feel closer to fantastic.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
The Other Outcome
When we last met, I was due to pay off on a bet that I made with my wife’s best friend, Bernie, regarding the outcome of my daughter, Maribel, and her university basketball team versus the team from the Big State University.
For those of you who may not recall, and you know who you are, Bernie had bet me a spanking that my daughter’s team would lose. Sadly, she was correct. Her team lost by one point. That meant that I was to get twenty-five whacks. Said whacks, in a word, painful.
Firstly, a word of explanation is in order. Bernie is not a spanko. She is a police detective. And she is very strong.
My wife chose herself to be arbitrator of the spanking, supposedly to make sure that the bet was paid off fairly, and to make sure that nobody was overly abused. Unfortunately for me, her definition of abuse is much less strict than mine. She’s probably trying to give me an excuse to spank her. But I’ll deal with that later.
We rendezvoused at the guest on Sunday afternoon. I was expecting your basic drop-your-pants- and-bend-over spanking with a paddle. Angela and Bernie, on the other hand, had other ideas. I should know better than to put my butt in the hands of two women who have known each other for almost thirty years. Angela decided that, to start with, and despite my protestations, I should be naked. Then Angela suggested that, rather than a nice wooden paddle, that Bernie should wield one of our leather straps. The big, heavy strap. The one that hurts like a bitch. Angela proclaimed that leather would be safer because, “Bernie is so strong she could easily break a wooden paddle” across my butt.
I was draped over the back of my nice overstuffed recliner. Angela gave Bernie a brief primer on how most effectively swing the strap. Bernie took a couple of practice swings against a sofa cushion, and then Angela deemed her ready.
Bernie carefully took aim at my waiting bottom, brought her strong right arm back, and delivered a swat that took my breath away.
“Harder,” said Angela.
I tried to protest that the first swat had been plenty hard, but I hadn’t yet recovered my breathing enough to speak. Bernie delivered another swat, this one making me emit a small groan.
“Harder,” responded Angela again. The next swat elicited a louder groan from yours truly.
“That’s better,” said Angela. “Now give him twenty-five just like that.”
I began to protest that I had already received three swats, leaving just twenty-two remaining, when Bernie began thrashing me in earnest. My, goodness, that woman could swing a strap! The pain was such that I was gripping the arms of the chair so tightly that I thought that I would tear through the fabric. I do not believe that I have ever felt such a sizzle on my poor, defenseless rear end.
After ten swats, Bernie paused to admire her work. “Am I doing it right?” she asked Angela.
I answered for her. “Yes,” I said, still somewhat breathless, “I’d say you were doing very well if it wasn’t my butt that you were doing it on!”
Angela agreed. “You have fifteen more, then, she told Bernie.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’ve taken thirteen, not ten, haven’t I?”
“The first three were just practice,” Angela responded. “They don’t count.” When I protested, she said, “I’m the referee here. I decide what counts and what doesn’t. Now shut up and take fifteen or I’ll let Bernie spank you some more!”
Bernie resumed the assault on my butt. I took my punishment like a man. Meaning that I bitched and complained the entire time. For someone who is not a spanko, Bernie wields a mean strap. She managed to make my butt burn hotter with each stroke, and I am one who prides himself on his ability to take a swat.
However, I managed to take the final fifteen, plus two more because Angela determined that my butt was not quite evenly covered. Afterwards, they made me remain draped over the chair whilst they inspected the damage that Bernie had inflicted on my poor derriere. They groped my tush and commented on how hot and swollen it was for what seemed like hours as I helplessly lay there with my punished ass in the air.
At last I was allowed to rise, dress, and acknowledge Bernie’s considerable basketball acumen, even though she was only right by one point, and had the referee called a foul on the last play of the game, Maribel’s team would have won and it would have been Bernie draped over the chair, although I’m sure that Angela would have made sure that I went much easier on Bernie than she went on me. But, considering that I am a true blue spanko, and that it was such a great game, I will admit that the spanking was worth it.
And so, should the imaginary internet gods allow it, I am back, to once again share my thoughts on all things spanking with the rest of the world, or at least the twelve people who regularly peruse this little corner of the internet. Let us all hope that the rest of 2008 turns out to be fantastic, and that it brings all of you fantastic spankings.