The Disciplined Self Image

I wasn't having a difficult hormonal meltdown this month. As a matter of fact, I'd say I was having a pretty easy time of it. I remained in good spirits, kept a decent sense of humor in less than perfect situations... Okay, I was overeating a bit, and maybe I sported a teeny weeny bit of an attitude for a split second... but for the most part, I was the model of grace, elegance, and emotional fortitude. A bit of alcohol and chocolate were my salvation, but as per usual during these times I wind up being just a tad too self critical. Like a woman engulfed in the illusions of anorexia, I could only look at myself in the mirror and see fat. The last few days of giving my body whatever it craves, plus the water weight gain was causing a less than accurate reflection in my mirror.

Church had been rained out this Sunday. We normally set up services in the park by 10:00 am, and at about 9:40 we received a torrential storm complete with thunder, lightning, and a slight flash flood that lasted just long enough to shut down production. We decided to spend the morning at a local restaurant having Sunday brunch, and I was in charge of finding and choosing one on the internet. My search took a little longer than normal as I perused descriptions and reviews of several possibilities.

"What's taking you so long?" BabyMan yelled from the living room.

Now, hormones are a fascinating entity. They tend to lay dormant in the physiological makeup of an otherwise intelligent woman, and then suddenly reach out a clawed paw and swipe threateningly at innocent bystanders. "I'm workin' on it!" I shot back with a bit of an edge to my voice.

He came into the den. "What's so hard? All you have to do is find one restaurant..." he began.

I shot up my hand. "You know what? You need to back off. You're crowding me."

His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head in amusement. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I'm working at my own pace here and I'll be ready when I'm ready."

BabyMan smiled. "Oh, I see what's happening here..."

I glanced up at that self satisfied smirk on his face.

I raised an indignant index finger. "Yeah, what's happening here is you need to get out of my face until I..."

That was it. He grabbed my wrist with one hand and my forearm with the other and pulled me out of the computer chair. The next thing I know, I'm bent over the arm of the den couch with my face smashed down in a throw pillow. BabyMan's hand came down fast and hard on my denim covered butt over and over again as I struggled, wiggled and kicked my legs against his vice-like grip from his other arm across my waist. I could hear him chuckling above me as he blurted a mock lecture on my attitude. "You think you can talk to me any old way? Do you know who I am? You need to get a grip on the way you talk to me, woman..."

At first it was funny. I found myself laughing at myself for a few seconds as I wiggled against his grip, until I realized that I was experiencing a certain amount of... PAIN! I soon found myself screaming at the top of my lungs into the pillow. The spanking continued until I was exhausted enough to stop struggling, and I lay there, resigned to scream "I'm sorry" into the pillow until he finally stopped.

When he finally let me up, he placed me back in the computer chair, and told me to finish looking for a brunch spot and be quick about it.

Brunch was wonderful. I had a glass of champaign, and a spicy Bloody Mary along with an all you can eat buffet... a culinary hormonal dream. Unfortunately I sat in front of a full length mirror and kept catching a glimpse of what I perceived as a humongous butt and thighs.

I had already weighed myself that morning, and winced at a reading of three pounds heavier than I was Friday morning. I know, I know... water weight. But at the time you couldn't convince me of it. Upon returning home, I made a declaration of dangerous proportions. BabyMan and I had discussed this subject many times, and I wasn't about to allow him to dissuade me this time.

"I'm going on a cleansing diet and drop ten pounds." I announced with determined conviction.

"No you're not," he said. "You promised me you were going to maintain your present weight and not lose any more."

"I never promised any such thing! You decided that. I never agreed."

"You lose so much as five pounds, you're going to be too skinny. I'm not going to be married to a stick. No more weight loss."

Now after the spanking I received a few hours earlier, you'd think I'd be able to make my point with a little less attitudinal fervor. "Hey, you know who has the final decision in my weight? Me, that's who. If I want to lose ten pounds..."

"That's it. Go get the paddle."

I froze. "Are you kidding me? This isn't fair!"

"I think we have a few things to discuss, and this hormonal thing is about become out of control. You need an endorphine injection, and we have to come to an agreement about this weight obsession that you're having... again."

I searched his eyes for any sign that he was joking. He remained stoic and immovable.

Damn!

I stomped into the bedroom and brought the paddle back into the living room. He had sat on the couch with a pillow on his lap to make my butt raise higher in the air. He took the paddle and patted the pillow with it. "Let's go," he said.

"This sucks!" I said as I placed myself over his lap for our discussion.

"Now, we both agreed that you would get a spanking for every pound you lose beyond what you've maintained for the past eight weeks."

"It's my body!"

"And you're my wife." BabyMan sighed.  "Okay, here's the new deal. You may lose 9 pounds if you wish, but I reserve the right to pull the plug on that at any time. In the mean time, you'll take a spanking now for those 9 pounds."

"So I'm being spanked for nine pounds I haven't lost yet?"

"Yes. I'm being very generous here. Nine for the price of one."

"What if I never lose the weight? Then I'm getting a spanking for nothing."

"No, this is also a stress reliever."

"I don't need a stress reliever!" I protested.

"I think maybe you do."

"If I'm stressed, it's because you're the cause of it!" I bellowed.

And with that he yanked down my panties and proceeded to paddle me until I was red and raw. I bucked and jerked with each strike as he pushed my legs and my upper body back down with his elbows. Several times I reached back and covered myself whereupon I was told to place my hand back on his ankle. And I did... until I just lost it. I reached back and by the grace of God caught the paddle in my fingers. I yanked it out of his hand, and tossed it unceremoniously across the room.

Victory! I laughed with an almost sinister tone. Until it hit me what I had done.  "Uh oh!"

BabyMan understands that my self image is delicate, especially during the hormonal hurricanes, and I really appreciate that he loves me just the way I am right now.  I also recognize that what I see in the mirror is often a misconstrued reality of who and what I really am, and I'll count on him to not allow me to go overboard with my quest for perfection.  Still, hopefully by August I'll be in one of those itty bitty bikinis.

And all I had to do was sacrifice my butt for it.

What We Have Here... Is a Failure to Communicate.

Poor communication is the most common complaint (as stated by 68 per cent of couples seeking counseling). Apparently, the average couple talk for only five minutes per day! Yet communication is the most important aspect of a relationship.  It's most commonly a complaint that woman has about their men, and in my parent's marriage, my father is the one who has difficulty keeping the lines of communication open. He plays his cards close to the vest, and believes that when in doubt it's best to say nothing. Dad's in doubt a lot.

And I am my father's daughter.

I'm the one who can't seem to be the instigator and cultivator of effective communication. It took me several years to get my husband to the point where he now understands that my inability to communicate my thoughts, desires, pains, weaknesses, hopes, etc, are not a result of being dispassionate or disinterested. Indeed, I communicate in non verbal ways that over the years he has learned to read like an open book. He's memorized every nuance of my body language, and has become content in his connective familiarity.

But there's one thing he has not let go of, and that is my forgetfulness to remain in touch with him throughout the day. "I'm always reaching out to you," he says.  "I need to know that you're thinking about me and seeking me out."

So after the incident where I disappeared without my cell phone, and he spent the day worrying, he put his foot down.

"You have a new daily task," he declared. "From now on, until July 1st, between the hours of 11:00 am and 2:00 pm, you are to get in contact with me." This is not a punishment. He wants to instill a new habit in me, and the best way to start a new habit is repetition. But the word task? That suggests that failure to complete the assignment would result in consequences to my backside.

But how hard can it be, right? It's not like I'm so busy that I can't find a few moments to contact the man I love.

The first couple of days were a breeze, and I was enjoying taking a moment out of my day to chat with him.  I could call him, or text him on his Blackberry, or Instant message him on the computer.  All I have to do is make the initial contact, and conversing with him is always a pleasure.

The third day, I found myself losing focus as I went about an increasingly busy day. I looked up at the clock to find it was 2:02, and I had yet to contact BabyMan. I ran to the phone, dialed his office, waited for the receptionist to announce my call, and by the time he picked up it was 2:05.

"HI BABY!" I yelled nervously into the receiver.

"You're late." he chuckled.

Damn!

When he got home, he immediately grabbed my shoulders from behind, propelled me to the kitchen where he pointed to a crock filled with wooden cooking and serving utensils.

"Pick a pervertable" he said.

Pervertable. His new favorite word he learned from Sara referring to common things around the house that can be converted into an implement of punishment.

My jaw dropped. "Are you kidding?"

"Not at all. You're going to get one swat for every minute you were late."

I smiled. Okay... I'll play along. I reached for the wooden meat tenderizer and handed it to him. He wouldn't dare spank me with that.

He took it, considered it for a moment, and shrugged. "Okay," he said. "Bare your butt and bend over the counter."

"Are you crazy, you're not actually going to..."

"You picked it. Not you gotta live with it."

I gave him my best you've-lost-your-mind face, turned around and dropped my pants and panties. I felt him put a hand on my back and bend me over until my stomach lay on the cold marble counter. He then proceeded to tenderize my meat with the five promised strokes.

Now this wasn't such a big deal. BabyMan knew I would have a bit of trouble with this particular task simply because I'm admittedly disorganized and a bit careless, and things that were are important and urgent often take a back burner to distractions... a symptom of ADD as a child that I never really grew out of.

The next time I forgot to contact BabyMan in my 3 hour window was less than a week later. I was visiting my mother, and completely lost track of the time. At 2:30 I jumped up and ran to her phone and dialed frantically. Again I yelled a panicky "HI BABY!" into the receiver.

"Hello," he said cheerfully.

Good. He's in a good mood. Maybe he didn't notice what time it is. Maybe if I don't bring it up...

"I see we'll have to discuss a few things when I get home."

Damn!

I looked over at my mother, curiously observing the nervous smile plastered on my face, clueless to the fact that her son-in-law was about to paddle the daylights out of her precious little girl.

He didn't want to spank me. I get that. As often as he does it, one would wonder... but I believe it's really not his idea of a fun Friday night.

"You know, you don't have to spank me," I say as I follow him into the bedroom and watch him choose a paddle from the array we have hanging on a hook by the door.

"Believe me, I don't want to," he says.

"You don't want to... I don't want you to... If you don't spank me, it's a win-win situation!"

He wasn't in the mood for levity. "Bend over your dresser."

My dresser is the one with the huge mirror attached to it. He wanted me to watch my own spanking in progress as well as the look on my face.

He lifted my skirt, pulled down my panties and paddled me long and hard as I watched my face turn from annoyed to fearful to to saddened, to pained. The lecture this time wasn't about disobedience. It was about his genuine hurt that I didn't go out of my way to seek him out and connect with him. I think my tears had less to do with my physical pain, and more to do with the fact that I caused his emotional pain.

I am still so desperately trying to remember how important this task is to him every day. I don't want to disappoint him again. I only hope he understands that my forgetfulness and lack of attention are not a result of indifference.

While I've been sitting here for the last 40 minutes or so, The instant messaging window opened, and BabyMan greeted me on the computer. I haven't spoken to him since 9:00 this morning. It is now 2:06.

Damn!

When Do I Get My Spanko Card?

In my vast internet travels of the past few months as a blogger, I have met and conversed with several women who are seeking discipline and accountability from their significant others. I had never really considered myself a "spanko," because I desperately sought alternatives to punishment spankings.  They hurt. Okay... being held accountable for my poor choices, or lack of respect makes a certain amount of sense, but I constantly find myself torn between wanting a quick get-it-over-with spanking for my infractions, and the don't-speak-to-me-for-three-days method of resolving the anger and resentment. I appreciate the expediency of punishment spanking in my marriage,  but the latter choice is more conducive to a happy, healthy backside.

So last Thursday I met a neighbor in the laundry room and we begin to talk about how we'd been hibernating all winter, and hadn't seen each other. She graciously invites me to hang out with her on her boat docked in the harbor of Lake Michigan. We'd get some sandwiches, bring our laptops for the free wifi, catch up on the gossip, just a girl's afternoon. I jumped at the change of pace, and after my morning workout, I left with her... without my cell phone.

Little did I know that my mother, who I had made a tentative appointment with for that same afternoon, was calling my home phone and my cell phone to no avail. She then called my husband at his office in a panic, apparently convincing him that I may have slipped in the shower, cracked my head open on the faucet, and was slowly bleeding to death.

Now BabyMan is not normally reactionary, but after a while his imagination began to run amok. He began calling and texting me, envisioning the life draining from my body as I hover between the porcelain of the tub and the light at the end of the tunnel.

My neighbor and I returned to our building about 20 minutes before BabyMan was due to walk in, and I noticed that my cell phone was hooked up to the charger where I had inadvertently left it all day. In checking it, I found numerous missed calls and texts. Suddenly it rang.

"Hello?"

"Where have you been?" His voice was curt, strained.

"Hi Baby. I spent the afternoon with Dianne from next door. You been looking for me?"

"I'm glad you're alright," he said. His tone made me nervous. "Your mother's been looking for you all day. Call her."

*Click*

He hung up on me. He's never done that before. I bit my lip, called my mother, and convinced her that I was indeed still in the realm of the living.

When BabyMan arrived a few minutes later, I knew he was pissed because I was unreachable all day. I didn't have my cell phone with me, and I never made an attempt to call him using my friend's phone. It never crossed my mind that I had scared my loved ones, and I didn't even realize that my phone wasn't in my purse all afternoon. I was contrite and apologetic when he walked in the door, but he started to do something that I hadn't seen him do in months. He started to yell... and yell... and yell!

"What the hell is the matter with you? Have you lost your mind? Do you know your mother's been terrified all day? She called me at work and scared the hell out of me. Where did you go? Why didn't you have your phone with you? Why didn't you call me to tell me you had deviated from your regular day? How dare you treat everyone like this? I didn't know if I'd find your body when I came home! I'm thinking my life is over because you might be dead!"

The diatribe seemed to go on forever. My neighbor is on the other side of our living room wall, and I'm sure she can hear everything. BabyMan's not just scolding, he's shouting at the top of his lungs, and I'm beginning to feel about 3 inches tall.

I couldn't argue. He was right. I forgot my cell phone, I forgot my mother, and I told no one where I'd be in case something happened to me. I was thoughtless, inconsiderate, and stupid.

If someone out there in SpankoLand is responsible for issuing the official spanko cards, now would be a good time to knock on my door. Normally I relish the idea of knowing damned well that I deserve a spanking, and getting away with it. If BabyMan conveniently forgets that I have one coming, or suddenly decides that the offense isn't worth the severity of a spanking, then I'm in heaven. Once I hear the words, "get the paddle and meet me in the den," I'm scanning the hard drive in my brain for something I can say to get me out of it. Sometimes I come up blank. sometimes I grasp at straws so ridiculous and pathetic that the words that come out of my mouth would cause me to laugh were the situation not so tense. On one occasion I've even offered to bribe him with cash not to spank me. I've always maintained that there's nothing worse than the pain and humiliation of being bare-assed, up-ended, lectured and paddled to screaming tears.

Until now.

Now I know that there's something worse. Being yelled at and then giving each other the cold shoulder for hours or days is probably the worst feeling I have experienced in my marriage. Thanks to our commitment to Domestic Discipline, this hasn't happened in months. And now it happened again. I kept thinking to myself When the hell is he going to stop yelling and spank me already so we can get on with our lives?

But it never happened. As the volume of his voice rose and the F-Bombs flew, I shrank another foot and a half, and simply waited for the earth to open and swallow me up.

The final punishment for disappearing all day with no communication was more sever than I ever imagined. There was a disconnect between us where we barely spoke for almost 2 days. He was furious with me, and I resented him for hanging on to his anger. Had he paddled me, we would have been wrapped in each other's arms in a matter of minutes.

Now, days later, we've made up, apologized, and both promised to handle things differently in the future. And in my humble and reluctant admission that I would have rather been spanked, BabyMan smiled and said "Congratulations! You're officially a spanko. I'm sure you'll get your card in the mail any day now."

While lying in bed this morning BabyMan mentioned that he 's been asked to preach at a friend's ministry across town next Tuesday, and that the subject of the assigned message is the Difference Between Happiness, and Joy in the Lord.

I thought for a moment, and then asked him "What is the difference?"

"Well," he said. "When I spank your ass, you're not happy at all. But there's an underlying joy in the Lord that shines through."

I think I hid my smile pretty well.  "Very funny," I said.

The Spelling Bee Sting

BabyMan and I have never gotten into the facebook phenomenon. A few years back when we first heard of it, we went in, created a page, and never found the time or the inclination to return. It's a lovely tool in which to make and maintain connections with people one would otherwise lose contact with, but we've resigned ourselves to the old fashioned method of cultivating connections with people we love through physical contact, the telephone, and maybe an email once in a while. The new practice of calling someone you hardly know a "friend" is still a little foreign to us, and for now we've chosen to remain in the dark ages.

About a month ago I was surfing around the internet, and came across a site called SpankoLife. It advertises itself as the "Facebook for Spankos." I thought the whole concept was hysterical, and as my curiosity piqued I just had to go in and take a tour. I signed up for a membership and tooled around for about 20 minutes. It was just as it had described itself. There were thousands of spanko personalities with their own pages who invite each other to become their "Friends." There is a forum, an area for videos, a chat room, others can visit your page and "write on your wall," (whatever that means). You can sign up for different groups such as BDSM or Domestic Discipline, Age Play, F/M discipline, etc. There's an area for announcements and upcoming events like spanking parties all over the country. It was like walking through a spanking carnival.

While it was fun to take a look, it didn't take me long to realize that nothing in this site was for me, and I exited, with no intentions of returning.

So a few days ago, I'm going through my favorite blogs, when I noticed that a fellow blogger mentioned in her post that she had recently joined SpankoLife. I hadn't given it any more thought except for the occasional email from a spanko requesting to be my "friend." I decided to go back in and take another look around. I hadn't been there 2 minutes when a window popped up in the lower right hand corner with one word on it:

Hello

Oh, how cool! People can Instant Message each other in here. I wrote, Hi

I like your Username.

It's my husband's pet name for me,  I shot back. Good. Let this guy know I'm married, things will remain fairly tame. I saw that his username indicated the state he was from. Coincidently, also my home state. I'm from your neck of the woods, I wrote. What town are you in?

That kicked off a conversation that lasted almost 2 hours. At one point BabyMan walked in and asked what I was doing.

"I'm talking to this guy on SpankoLife," I said.

"Oh yeah? What are you talking about?"

"He's an Engineer living ten minutes from my home town. I used to do recruiting work for the pharmaceutical companies in his area. I bet I probably have his resume in the computer." I thought the coincidence was a hoot. I was excited to find a connection, however remote.

"Do you know his real name?"

"No. Don't want to ask. I'd feel obligated to give him mine," I said.

"Good thinking," he said, and left the room after reminding me that we were going to a play that evening and leaving in about an hour.

I continued with my conversation as I enjoyed a cursory, superficial exchange with a total stranger.

Until...

The conversation turned to a sexual context. I became a little tense as my cyber-companion asked questions that began to cross the line into intimacy. Suddenly I was torn between wanting to keep my new "friend" and cutting him off to maintain a reasonable distance and propriety. He had been perfectly civil and courteous, but his last question to me had suddenly removed the mask of modesty and teetered on the edge of titillating. Okay, I mean what was I expecting? I was in a site for spankos, and the subject of sex was going to eventually come up.

I was caught up in the anonymity and the excitement of talking to a stranger with such openness and candor. There was certainly no fear of ever meeting him. I began to give him what he wanted: a detailed description of a sexual encounter involving implements of punishment and…

And then BabyMan walked into the room.

"You still talking to that guy?" he asked.

I looked at him, then back down at my screen. Oh my God, what the hell am I doing? I felt my heart start to beat faster. I knew that if BabyMan were having this conversation with another woman, I'd be furious.

"Uh huh," I choked out.

"What are you talking about now? I heard you laughing a few minutes ago."

"Oh... “ Holy shit, was I laughing? "Nothing." My voice was cracking, I couldn't look him in the eye. He could tell that I was nervous about something. He sat down next to me on the couch, and peered at my laptop. But before he could focus on the conversation, I suddenly hit the escape button, and the chat window disappeared.

"What'd you do that for?"

"I didn't. The chat system in that site keeps kicking me out,” I lied. “We must have lost each other 20 times in the last hour."

I felt my face become flushed, hoping that my cyber-buddy wouldn't make another entry. If he did, the chat window would reappear with the entire conversation intact. I immediately exited out of the site, closed my laptop and attempted to get up from the couch.

"Just a minute..."

I froze.

"I want to know why you ended that conversation when I came over here."

"I didn't. I told you, the chat system keeps dying."

He stared at me the way he does when he's trying to search for the truth in my eyes. He knew I was lying. He always knows. "There's something you didn't want me to see, and I want to know what it was."

I laughed nervously and looked away from him. He remained stoic as he held me captive for the next five minutes. I dodged his questions and maintained my innocence as he cross examined me with all the agility of a litigating attorney. The bottom line, he had the burden of proof, and since there was too much reasonable doubt, I was acquitted.

Frustrated, he finally left for the shower, and I sat breathing hard and trying to hold my heart inside my chest.

I eventually got up and went to my closet to pick an outfit for our evening out. After I was dressed, I sat on the living room couch and stared at the floor. What had I just done? I was having an inappropriate conversation with a man and then lied right to my husband's face about it. We were on our way to a major production in the city. I had been looking forward to it for weeks, and now I was sinking into the abyss of shame and guilt. In our BS days, I would have rejoiced in the thought that I got away with lying to BabyMan with no consequences. Now it just felt...Wrong. Sickening. Ugly.

When BabyMan had finished dressing, he came into the living room to put on his shoes. "What's wrong?" he asked.

As I looked up at him, he was surprised to find tears in my eyes. "I'll never go back into that site again, I swear, " I sniveled. "I'm so sorry."

"Sweetie, you can go into that site if you want. I'm not trying to police you. I just want you to be honest with me. If you start doing things behind my back, we're going to get into dangerous territory.  If I start to think I can't trust you..."

My head snapped up. "YOU CAN trust me."

"I know. But if you lie to me how long do you think that'll last?"

I put my head in my hands and started to cry. I never wanted to test his faith in my honesty. Not at this stage of the game. After a moment I felt him touch my shoulder. I looked up and he had his hand extended, beckoning me to take hold of it. I grabbed on to it and stood up. He walked me over behind the couch and told me to bend over the back. What the hell, I wasn't going to protest this. I didn't have a leg to stand on. I bent over the back of the couch and placed my hands on the cushions and waited. He left the room, and came back with the paddle. I closed my eyes tight as I felt him lift my skirt and pull my panties down below my sit spot. With as much dignity and elegance as I could muster, I stayed as still as possible as he assaulted my bottom with enough force to make my knees buckle as he lectured me on the importance of integrity and honesty.

After about 10 swats, he told me that I was going to get a swat for every letter in the word, TRUST, and that I was to spell it out.

“T,” (WHAP!) I felt the paddle push the tears through my eye sockets. “R,” (WHAP!) these were so much harder than I ever imagined. “U,” (WHAP!) I started wailing and couldn’t get the last 2 letters out.

“Come on, Baby, it’s almost over,” he whispered.

I collected myself, took a deep breath… “S,” (WHAP!) I screamed and bolted upright. He gently put his hand on my back and guided me back over the couch.

“T,” I finally blurted out.

Needless to say... I won't be lying to BabyMan anytime soon. The stupid part about all of this is that it was never necessary to lie to him in the first place.

Kinder, Gentler...

I haven't been punished in quite a while. It's a pretty good feeling to know that my marriage has reached a point where the spankable issues that plagued our lives aren't constantly at the forefront of our relationship. They're still there, but now they hover quietly in the background, making the occasional appearance to shake things up like an attention seeking 2-year-old. I've been punished for lying, non-communication, smoking, walking out, making unilateral decisions, disobeying orders, and of course the ever popular smart mouth that gets out of hand every once in a while. These issues kept popping up over and over again and in rapid fire because... I must be some kind of an idiot.

The truth? I was afraid to let go of who I am. I liked being able to tell my husband the occasional lie because it's more convenient and expedient than the truth. The house smells like cigarette smoke because the window was open and these kids were smoking outside our window all afternoon.

I enjoyed not having to check with BabyMan on making a decision that ultimately concerns and affects the both of us. In the heat of the moment, I felt empowered. Nah, I don't have to discuss it with my husband. If he doesn't like it, well, he'll just have to get over it.

And I think disobeying often gave me a sense of satisfaction. You can't tell me what to do. You're not the boss of me!

Now in the grand scheme of things, these issues weren't so bad. I'm a pretty good wife for all intents and purposes. Quite often when I read domestic discipline fiction, the heroine is usually being punished for some unconscionable act of lunacy such as losing the deed to her home at the casino, then driving 90 miles an hour without her seat belt to the wrong side of town in a miniskirt and stilettos, buying a pound of valium from the friendly neighborhood pusher while simultaneously on her cell phone to her husband swearing that she is "as we speak" picking up their 3-year-old from pre-school.

So in comparison, I just might have been wife of the year in our BS (Before Spanking) days. I didn't drink and drive, or flirt with other men. I wasn't a clothes horse or jewelry hound spending my husband's money recklessly. I didn't gamble, pop pills recreationally, or go upside my husband's head with a cast iron skillet. My issues were subtler, but just as frustrating to my husband as our heroine's actions were to her husband in that story. There was something about me that didn't fill his personal need to be respected. Of course if you had asked me in our BS days if I respected my husband, I would have been insulted by the question. Similarly if you asked me if I was submissive, I would be just as indignant. After all, I made him dinner every night, and I almost never denied him sex. Isn't that the definition of submissive, dammit?

It wasn't until last October when we started DD that I began to realize that the wife I had become was not the wife I wanted to be for him. There was something in my attitude that was lacking. It wasn't until my first spanking that I understood that the issue of my cavalier disobedience meant more to him than I ever imagined.

Over a phone call? Are you kidding me? You ask me to make a lousy phone call, I decided not to do it, and you want to do WHAT to me?

I had disobeyed him on this task because I wanted to be my own woman, and let him know that I'd get to his little, insignificant demands when, and if, I felt like it. In other words, I will respect and submit to him when it is convenient for me and not a moment sooner. The disobedience alone wasn't really the issue, but more to the point, I just didn't care if he felt disrespected. The spanking wasn't especially painful (he hadn't yet cultivated his paddle swing) but I was expecting him to concede that he could not and should not attempt to control me, and if he still wanted to spank me, I'll gladly accept the sexual foreplay. Instead, I got anger, disappointment and a lecture. That's when it occurred to me that for my habits and attitude to be spankable, it must really bother him. There's a twinge of desperation for him to have to go this far to make his point.

I recall vaguely the lecture he gave me during that first spanking, and it went something along the lines of, "From now on when I tell you to do something, you do it!"  But I don't think that's what he wanted to say at all. I think what he really wanted to impart was,  I am your husband, your lover, your provider and protector, and I would break my back to give you anything that you ask for. So from now on, you are to treat me as though I'm someone that you love deeply enough to want to impress with every fiber of your being.  I think I picked up on the real meaning of that spanking if only subconsciously that day. On the surface, I was sulking, pouty, pissed, but surprisingly, not for long. When I came into the living room afterwards to find him pensively staring out the window, I put the pause button on my rehearsed diatribe. I heard the little voice inside me say, "He really is crazy about you, you idiot!" What actually came out of my mouth was, "Would you like me to make your dinner?"

Whoa!  Where'd that come from?  Who said that?  Was it possible that that spanking was the first installment of my transformation into a kinder, gentler, more emotionally generous partner?  The goal here has always been to eliminate punishment spankings all together, and on more than one occasion while over his knee, BabyMan has reiterated “Your spankings should all be erotic. I shouldn’t have to punish you anymore.”

Agreed.

I'm not saying that I'll never get punished again. Far from it. There are still those elements in me that cause me to be bare-assed and up-ended. Rebelliousness, laziness, rudeness, defiance, sassiness... and let's not forget the hormones from hell. I have a love-hate relationship with my bath brush, and I don't see that changing anytime soon. The difference now is that my disobedience and disrespect are not a conscious effort to hang on to my identity. I don't have to anymore. My real identity is who I am now...

Kinder, gentler, and a little bit wiser.