The Pastor's Wife

One of functions as a ministerial couple is to get out among our people as often as possible and be a part of their lives during the week. We have often gone into the park in the evening and sat with them while BabyMan talks sports or armchair politics with the guys, and I’ll talk to the women. Many are homeless, jobless, in and out of jail, into prostitution, and most are challenged with an addiction of one kind or another. But they’re a lovable bunch of people, loud and colorful, Protective, compassionate and quite generous with us and each other. BabyMan is affectionately known as “Rev”, and I am usually referred to as “Ms. Rev.”

Often I will go alone in the afternoon. There may be eight or ten men and women sitting around enjoying the afternoon sun in the park, and they will make a place for me on the bench and offer me a beer and a toke of the joint they’re passing. And as tempted as I may be, no, I don’t take either one. But I take comfort in the fact that they feel they can offer it to me without fear of judgment, or repercussions. They know that we are not there to shame them into being who we want them to be, we are there to offer the gospel.

Our people live and move among the people of the neighborhood, living in doorways, congregating an bus stop benches, panhandling on the corners, taking odd jobs at local businesses. We’ll find them washing widows, sweeping storefronts, hanging out in front of the liquor store, picking through the garbage in the alleys, and pooling their money to buy fast food and cigarettes.

Now, being the Pastor’s wife affords me little to no privacy in my neighborhood. No matter what I’m seen doing, there’s a huge chance that it’s going to get back to my husband. If I even take one toke of the weed they offer me in the park, BabyMan will know about it within a day.  They may love me, but they'll sell me out to their pastor in a heart beat.  Ergo,  I've always managed to behave myself where they’re concerned.

A few days ago, I was walking down the main boulevard in the neighborhood and was, at the time, having one of my overwhelming nicotine fits. Happily they have been coming few and far between these days, but when they do, they consume me to the point where I really have to carefully consider whether or not I want to take the belt whipping that is promised me if I smoke. Sometimes it’s no contest. NO! Absolutely not. I’m not getting my rump roasted over a few moments of filling my lungs with tar, and taxing my heart with nicotine. I won’t do it!

And then there are times when my chest is so tight, and my head is aching for it. It’s a combination of my hormonal imbalance, my physical addiction , and an emotional dependency that is leading me to believe that maybe… just maybe…

I noticed a young man standing in the doorway of an apartment building smoking a cigarette, and before I realized it the words had flown out of my mouth. “Do you suppose I could buy one of those from you?”

I must have looked pretty desperate and pathetic, because the guy gave it to me no charge. . Cigarettes cost almost 10 dollars a pack these days, and the only reason he would give one away like that was if he recognized me as the pastor’s wife. I didn’t recognize him, I didn’t think he was from our church, but I couldn’t be sure. We get so many new faces every week and our regulars are always bringing in people they met during the week.

I took the cigarette, thanked him, and shamefully scurried away with it clutched in my fist as though it were priceless. I still had time to think about this. Weigh my options, list the pros and cons, analyze the consequences and consider the most important factor of all.  There are a lot of things I'd be willing to endure for a drag of a cigarette.  Blood letting, Chinese water torture, being gutted, the iron maiden. But the Belt? Hmmm... something to chew on.

So a couple days later BabyMan and I were in bed chatting away before he has to go to work. Out of the blue he asked me, “So, how are you doing with the smoking thing?”

“What do you mean?” I snapped defensively.

He lifted up on his elbow and glared at me. “You know what I mean. Have the cravings been out of control?”

I can feel myself nervously biting my lip. “It gets a little intense sometimes. But I can control it.”

I can't look at him. He knows something’s up. Why is he asking about this now? He hasn’t mentioned it in weeks. Why now? Does he know something? Did one of our people rat on me?

“You have something to tell me?”

“No, of course not!”  Honest. I promised I’d be honest. “Ok… ok… ok maybe…”

“Tell me.”

“I… I bought a cigarette from some guy off the street.”

“You what?”

“Actually I offered to pay for it and he gave it to me.”

“Did you smoke it?”

“No! I swear I didn’t! It was a Camel! I couldn’t smoke it. They hurt my lungs too much.” I was almost panicky. I’m not getting spanked for something I didn’t do.

“Where is the cigarette now?”

“I through it in the toilet.”

His eyes narrowed incredulously. “Are you telling me you had a nicotine fit, got a free cigarette, and threw it away because it wasn’t your brand?”

Frankly the way he said it, I wouldn’t have believed me if I were him. But it was the truth! “Yes! That’s exactly what I’m saying! I’m not lying!” Dammit, not only was my butt on the line, but so was my credibility, and this wasn't sounding so good.  “Listen, If I’m going to get the belt for smoking, I sure as hell ain’t gonna smoke a cigarette I can’t enjoy.”

He stared at me for a long time, and I stared right back at him with all the conviction of a woman with perfect integrity. "I believe you,” he finally said.

I let out a sigh of relief and felt my heart begin to calm it’s beat.

“You came awfully close to making a big mistake, Baby. But let me be clear. The last time you needed a spanking, I was a little confused and I wasn't sure what to do.  If I find out you’ve had a cigarette, I… WILL…NOT…BE…CONFUSED. Do you understand?”

I think I swallowed hard. “Uh huh,” I mumbled. He kissed me, rolled out of bed and headed for the shower.

My head collapsed on the pillow. Belt averted… for now. I wonder what the chances are that someone on the street will give me a Virginia Slim Menthol Light?

Ah, the pressures of being the pastor's wife.

Rescue Me... Again.

Thursday morning found me in no better condition. I hated myself during times when I was in emotional turmoil with no real logical or rational reason for it. It makes me feel stupid, worthless, and most of all, guilty. What did I have to be miserable about? Nonetheless, there I was, with a heavy heart, watching BabyMan getting dressed as though I were invisible. He had left me alone last night when he had to have known how much I needed him. After all, he calls himself a Sugarologist, an expert in the study and science of Sugar. He knows me better than anyone in the world, and has learned what it takes to bring me out of these bouts of profound sadness and despair. And he left me there. Alone. And he was doing it again.

When he grabbed his briefcase and his gym bag, I knew he was on his way out the door. He leaned down to kiss me goodbye, and I turned my head away from him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Are you kidding me?

“Just go,” I snapped.

“Wait a minute, I don’t understand”

“You’re damned right you don’t understand. So just get out!”

“Come on, baby, talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you. You left me last night. I needed you and you ignored me and fell asleep on the couch. JUST GO!”

I finally turned my eyes to catch his. He looked genuinely confused. I couldn’t understand why he had no idea what I was talking about. We had been through this before. Sure, I could spend hundreds of dollars and hours talking to a therapist, I could start taking a serotonin re-uptake again… but he has learned how to take the place of all that. Whether it was holding me, or making love to me or spanking me, or tickling me, or feeding me, or praying with me… he always found a way to rescue me.

And last night… he left me.

“I can’t leave you like this,” he said.

“Funny, you didn’t have that problem last night.”

Exasperated, he left the room. I assumed he was leaving, but didn’t hear the door. I got up and padded my way into the living room where I found him sitting in silence. “Why don’t you get the hell outta here? You’re going to be late," I said.

Now he was making me nervous. He was just sitting there, saying nothing. My nerves were on edge, and I was about to explode. I turned and went to the island that separates the kitchen from the living room where there sat a bottle of wine. I popped the cork and poured myself a glass, something I’ve never done at 7:30 am. Before I could get the cork back in the bottle, BabyMan had jumped up, grabbed my glass and violently dumped it in the sink, splashing my nightgown in the process. “That’s not the answer,” he said. He slammed the glass on the counter, and went back to his chair. I turned and stomped back to the bedroom, and pulled the covers over my head and waited for him to do something. About 15 minutes later, I heard the door open and close. He was gone.

“PUSSY!” I yelled after him. This is not a word I normally use, (I actually hate this word) but I was spitting mad, and I knew this would hurt him. It’s a word that BabyMan reserves for someone without a backbone. Fortunately, he didn’t hear me.

I cried myself to sleep again, and when I awoke 4 hours later, I got up, dressed, got in my car and took off.

I was out for more than seven hours, walking around malls, eating greasy food, picking a fight with my own mother, driving in strange neighborhoods, getting into a road rage altercation (I was the enraged one). By 5:00 pm I was exhausted, guilt ridden, and emotionally beaten. The anger had been eroded from the size of a boulder to the size of a pebble. Now all that was left was a sadness that left me defeated and broken.

When I walked in the house, he approached me, arms folded across his chest, eyes, intimidating and probing. “This place looks like you haven’t been home all day. Where have you been?”

I couldn’t look at him. His tone of voice made me nervous. “Out,” I said timidly.

As he towered over me, staring at me, I began to feel about 3 feet tall. I turned and sat down on the living room couch, and trembled as I watched him take a seat in the easy chair. We stared at each other, waiting for someone to break the silence.

Finally he said, “What should I have done?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But you had a world of possibilities, and you chose none of them. Even now, you sit in that chair on the other side of the room, and you don’t even have the nerve to touch me.”

Suddenly he rose from his chair, crossed the room and pushed his body into mine until I was lying down and he was on top of me. The healing warmth of his body penetrated my nerve endings and sent a jolt of electricity through me that brought cathartic tears streaming down my face. We held each other for several minutes while my body convulsed in gut wrenching sobs.

Less than 30 minutes later we were on the road to recovery. We were smiling and talking again like the events of the last 36 hours were of no consequence. I offered to make him dinner, and he asked for a salad. When I brought it to him in his easy chair, he instructed me to leave it on the coffee table, and kneel in front of him. I did.

“I’m going to eat my salad,” he said. “and you’re going to go get the paddle, the bath brush and the mineral oil. Wait for me in the den"

I didn’t hesitate the way I normally do while searching my brain for a way out. I knew I deserved this, and I had no more fight left in me. I got the implements, went to the den and curled up in a ball in the corner of the couch wearing just my panties and my shirt.

When he came in 20 minutes later, he had the handcuffs with him. I knew this wasn’t going to be an easy ride.

As he sat on the couch I was told to kneel between his legs and put the cuffs on. He then guided me over his left knee, a position he has grown quite fond of in the last month or so. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. The spanking with the paddle wasn’t so intense and painful that I couldn’t hear and understand everything he said to me, and I was even able to hold off the tears. “I’m not always going to be perfect as the HOH around here, but you WILL NOT TREAT ME like a PUSSY!” (WHAP!)

Pussy? Oh, God, did he hear me through the door this morning?

“Do you believe I’m a pussy?” he demanded. (WHAP!)

“No…no I don’t!” I was trembling and sweating, grateful for the paddle because it wasn’t the brush. Apparently he hadn’t heard me this morning when I called him that awful word. But he sure knew that I had to be thinking it.

“Do you think I deserved a phone call from you today letting me know where you were? That you were safe?” (WHAP!)

“Ow! Yes, I should have called! Baby, I’m sorry. Listen, I…” WHAP! “Aaahh!”

The paddle took on a horrible rhythm, and I began to squirm and strain against the cuffs. It was beginning to become unbearable, and he hadn’t even picked up the bath brush yet.

When he finally did, the talking was over. The brush did most of the communicating, and I answered by shrieking into a pillow and kicking my legs. BabyMan closed his legs, and I was clamped in as though caught in a massive bear trap. I could feel my sit spots begin to swell with searing heat, and all I could do was scream and declare how sorry I was over and over again.

When he finally stopped, the pillow was sopping wet from sweat and tears, the cuff marks around my wrists were chafing, and I was sapped of enough energy that I could barely move. As he rubbed me with mineral oil, he explained a few things to me, the most important of which was how much he loves me and isn't always sure of the right thing to do in these situations. He took a chance to leave me to my own devices, and that was a mistake, one that he’ll try never to make again. Regardless of his action or inaction, I am not to cross the line into disrespect.

So I get it. I’m going to have to stop expecting him to be perfect in this area of our lives, and I’m going to have to step up the communication when he needs it. Meanwhile, he’ll always be there to get me a cool, damp towel to put out the fire.

That I can always count on.

Rescue Me

Thursday evening I’m lying on my stomach on the couch in the den, holding my breath as BabyMan takes a cool, damp towel and lays it on my red, swollen behind.

I let out a sigh through my lips that turns into a whistle.  “Do you see steam rising from my butt?” I ask.

He smiles. “No, but I think I heard a slight sizzling sound”

“I’m really sorry,” I say again for what seems like the hundredth time. The first ninety-nine had been while I was over his knee begging him not to use the bath brush on me. Apparently he didn’t listen.

“I know” he says as he rubs his fingers through my hair.  “It’s okay.”

Great.  Now it's okay.

What had gotten me to this place? The only thing I can imagine is that my hormones turned on me again, and provoked a rage that caused me to lash out at the very best friend I’ve ever had. The depression came upon me so quickly that I woke Wednesday morning feeling bitter, irritated, and even mean-spirited. I spoke to him through angry tears as I tried not to take it out on him, knowing full well he didn’t deserve my wrath. He hadn’t hurt me. Someone else had. Someone who’s opinion was not important to me, someone who’s views I didn’t even respect. Usually I can brush off the words of a person who means nothing to me as insignificant and worthless, but this time it was different. My hormones betrayed me and turned my rational thoughts to crazy deep dark cavernous paranoid speculation. Inside I was out of control… sad, fearful, disquieted and inconsolable.

To his credit, he tried. He knew that “coming in to get me” was in all likelihood my ticket out of the abyss, and before he left for work he ordered me to prop myself up on pillows to take a painful and usually effective paddling for a jolt of reality. As he spanked me with the paddle, he spoke softly and gently to me, trying to convince me that what I was experiencing was only an illusion, and not only was this person essentially non existent, but I was loved, cherished, and worthy, and the only opinion I should be interested in is God's.

I listened, but didn’t hear. He told me that to gain more endorphins I was to make sure that I got to the gym for my workout (“I’m taskin’ you on this one, Sugar,”) and spend a good deal of the day taking care of myself. He told me to do my hair , nails, makeup, give myself a facial, find a new recipe for dinner, (I always enjoy that) wear something girlie that shows off my figure, get out in the sunshine, spend some time on the beach… whatever it took.

I cried - sobbed, really - from a combination of the pain and his generous kindness that I just knew I didn’t deserve. When he left, I found myself sleeping and then waking a couple of hours later with certainly enough physical strength to get out of bed, but not the emotional strength. And there I remained until BabyMan returned some 9 hours later.

When he saw that I hadn’t moved a muscle all day, I knew that he was disappointed and irritated that I disobeyed him on absolutely everything that we had talked about that morning.  This would normally be a spankable offense, but sometimes when he knows I’m going through the valley of depression he’ll find another way to deal with it. The last time I was feeling down and hadn’t finished a task, he took me out to one of our favorite restaurants for dinner. He hugged me and held me and kissed me and wouldn’t allow me to hide in the dark place until I was smiling and laughing and talking a blue streak.  The reality is, that no matter how he chooses to handle it, he's the only ne in my life who's been able to pull me back into the sunlight. 

But this time was different. He stood at the foot of the bed and asked me if there was anything he could do for me.

“No” I said.

And that was that. He retreated into the living room, turned on American Idol, and there he stayed for the rest of the evening.  He just left me. I needed him, and he just left me!

 I cried myself back to sleep.


To be continued…

With Dignity and Elegance

BabyMan will be the first to tell you that I cry really easily. Too easily as far as he's concerned.  And no offense to all of you out there who say you can take a spanking without a tear or the occasional gut wrenching sob, but I find that absolutely… unbelievable. The pain of having my bottom burned by a paddle accompanied by a scathing diatribe on how I’ve disappointed him is enough to have me screaming into, and completely soaking through an extra firm pillow. But I have spoken to many women within a forum and through blogs, who can actually bend over, take 30 or 40 stripes with a cane, and never utter a sound or move an inch. A friend sent me a video on Spankingtube of a woman who was being whipped with several different medieval torture devices, and remained relatively quiet as a mouse (she cries slighly, but if it were me, they'd be able to hear me in Afghanistan) while her behind turned a deep purple before my very eyes.  Even more amazing, she remains perfectly still.  There was no cutting or splicing of the tape for the opportunity to apply makeup to her bottom for effect.  This was real, up close and personal.  I found myself screaming at the computer screen, “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? GET UP!  RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!"

Okay, part of my angst is jealousy. I’ve given it my best shot when being punished to take it without fighting, squirming and crying like a 4-year-old. I believe there’s something to be said for taking a spanking with peace, serenity and total acceptance, and this is what I want to achieve.

A friend of mine, Jade Alanson, wrote a series of books about an entire family of brothers all in domestic discipline marriages, as well as the parents. My favorite character in this series is Kathleen Brady, the matriarch of the clan, who has been in a dd relationship so long, she has come to take her spankings with poise and elegance. I suppose I identify with her mostly because she’s closer to my own age, and she has a degree of wisdom, humor, and quiet dignity that I admire.  I can see her in my mind’s eye, striking a balance as she hangs on to her pride and a measure of humility at the same time. As Jade describes her, "No matter how much she knew a punishment was inevitable, she had her little ways of offering resistance with a last unspoken gesture of defiance.” And throughout her punishment she speaks to her husband in in a calm, rational demeanor that impressed me enough to want to emulate her class.

Kathleen Brady!  What a babe! This is who I want to be, because it speaks of self respect and acceptance. It also takes a drop of power out of his hands and puts it in mine for just a fleeting moment as it assumes my own consent and cooperation.

So every time I hear the words, “Go get the paddle and wait for me in the den,'" a couple of things cross my mind. The first is Oh My God, how am I gonna get outta this? And once I’ve accepted the fact that I’m trapped, I think, Kathleen Brady. I need to act like Kathleen Brady. She’s elegant and strong, and she accepts her fate with dignity and grace. I need to remain still, not fight or squirm, and do my very best to keep quiet. I need to…

“AAAAAAAH! OH GOD! THAT HURTS! NO BABY, PLEASE… PLEASE… PLEASE… AAAAAH! OH GOD, HELP ME, AAAAAAAH..."

So why is this so difficult for me? Where do I go to acquire the nobility and decorum that I so desperately want to portray? I don’t want to constantly be screaming and sobbing like I’m being tortured, running the risk of having the neighbors call the police because the sounds from our unit lead them to believe that I’m being slowly murdered.  Some of my tears and yelling is a reaction to BabyMan’s disappointment in me, but most of it is a reaction to the pain. That paddle stings to no end, I am in constant anticipation that another strike is going to grace the same general area, and intensify the burn.  The anticipation alone causes me to squeal like a pig.

The downside of taking a spanking the way I desire to with little sound or agonizing, is that I believe that BabyMan will note my silence and assume that he is not getting through to me. If there’s no audible evidence of pain and suffering, he will no doubt wield that paddle with more force and determination in order to achieve his goal. So I’m trapped in somewhat of a dichotomy.  Even if I do ever get to the point in my life where I can display the quiet, calm elegance during one of the most painful and humiliating sessions of my life, I run the risk of creating a more sever punishment by virtue of my silence.

So I will admire from afar the people I have come to know as my models of feminine strength.  And I will forever remain really really... loud.            

Just Cause, or Just 'Cuz?

The more I learn about ttwd, the more I am aware that we are coming into our own identity as a couple. I remember the day I asked BabyMan to spank me the first time. I made it clear that my derriere was my most sensitive erogenous zone, and that just touching it will set me off and turn me into a aggressive sexual commando. I had absolutely no interest in being punished or corrected or disciplined. I was after eroticism, and today, ten years after that initial conversation with him, he accommodates me at least once a week in that area.

But something's happened that I hadn't expected. My man turned into a spanko lunatic. Not only is he finding opportunities to put me over his knee, but now sometimes those opportunities aren't even verbalized or justified. And when I press for explanation, more and more I receive the answer of, "Just 'Cuz."

Does this mean Just because I can, or just because It (my butt) is there, or just because I feel like it? Or is it Just Cause, as in Your behavior over the last few days has given me just cause to burn your butt for your sarcasm, your disrespect and your disobedience?

The latter Just Cause explanation has usually been the norm. It's usually a culmination of his irritation with all the things that I may or may not be aware of over the past 10 days or so. Sometimes more frequent. and I'm beginning to be able to see the subtle signs that there's a storm brewing behind those eyes of patience and wisdom. In giving him a bit of my own brand of attitude every once in a while, the problem usually lies in my timing. My sarcasm can actually be quite adorable, if I must say so myself, and quite often he relishes in my sense of humor. But there are times when he's clearly not in the mood. These are the times I need to be more aware of his temperament.

Recently a new reader commented on my last post in appreciation of BabyMan's innovative style when planning Submission day. In it she exclaimed that I have the "Ideal husband."

As much as I love it when BabyMan's head gets huge and can't fit through the door, I felt, for some reason, that I needed to deflate it just a bit. Nothing overly rude or disrespectful... just an answer to her comment suggesting that I was responsible for molding him into the ideal husband.

Now, while BabyMan is at work, he tends to pop into my comment section a couple of times a day. For some reason, I suspect, my comment didn't quite sit well with him. He then wrote a comment making sure that I understood that he was not pleased. This was the last thing added to his list of all the little things that aren't worth spanking over on their own, but accumulated, created Just Cause for a maintenance spanking.

When he got home that night, he was his usual upbeat, cheerful self. He kissed me and said, "So... you're molding me, huh?"

"Come on, Baby, I was only playing..." I giggled. I grabbed his face with my hands and looked into his eyes. "That didn't really bother you, did it?"

"Bother me? No," he smiled good naturedly. "I know you're molding me, Sweetie. I know I am a product of your creative desire." He kissed me again and disappeared into the bedroom to change.

I'm not quite sure what to think when I can't read him. I've known this man for 13 years, and he can read my every facial expression, body language. Every sound that comes out of my mouth and every scent that comes off of my body tells him what I'm thinking or feeling. He prides himself on knowing every nuance of my psyche. He calls himself a Sugarologist with a Doctorate degree in the study of SugarAnne.

But me, I'm still working on my bachelors in BabyManology. He can sport a pokerface that can keep me guessing right up until the last second... and today was no exception.

After dinner he announced that we were going to engage in a little maintenance, and I was to get the paddle and meet him in the den. He still had that good natured, big hearted smile on his face.

These things usually take me by surprise, and I wind up staring at him, with a dozen thoughts flying through my head. Is this gonna hurt? What did I do? How many things over the last few days am I getting spanked for? Was that "molding him" crack the catalyst for all of this? Why does he have that stupid grin on his face? Is this a joke? Is he serious?

"Sugar?"

I'm snatched out of my thoughts and back into reality. "What?"

"You're hesitating again. I think you should move.   Now."

I realize that my jaw is still on the floor. I close my mouth and walk into the bedroom to retrieve the paddle and go to the den to wait for him.

When he came in I was told to stand up, drop my pants and turn around. He simply begins slapping me on my upper cheeks as I stood there holding my shirt out of the way. This is almost more painful than the sitspot.

I'm frustrated. I'm being spanked as hard as a punishment spanking, and he's not giving me any information. And he's still smiling.  Just what does he have to be so cheerful about?

This is driving me crazy. I have to try to get some answers out of him. "Come on, Baby, you can't be mad at that comment about molding you."

"I never said I was."

"So what are you mad about?"

"Nothing Sweetheart. I love you, and I just love being molded by you."

Dammit, he keeps bringing that up! "Then why are you spanking me?" I squeal through gritted teeth.

"Just 'cuz"

Just Cause? Just 'Cuz?  What the hell is that supposed to mean?

He grabbed me and pulled me over his lap and began slapping my sit spot with the paddle. Hard. My hand is on his ankle and he informs me that if I remove my hand from his ankle, it'll be worse for me.

I held it there as long as I could while the spanking became longer and harder and more painful. I held in the screams and eventually let them fly into the pillow.  I began apologizing (for what, I'm not sure) but I figure this is what he wants to hear. I'm on fire now, and begin to struggle, bucking my body and my legs up with every swat. BabyMan takes his elbows and pushes both halves of my body back down forcefully and delivers the next scorching swat that causes me to buck again. At some point my hand came off his ankle, and flew behind me to protect myself.

"Move your hand," I heard him say sternly. I nervously placed my hand back on his ankle.

I'm not getting the usual lecture enumerating my many infractions over the last few days, I'm not getting any information at all. Just a spanking that is so long and hard that I'm beginning to cry.

When I realize that he has finally stopped, my mind is consumed by a combination of fatigue and confusion. I'm breathing hard, as I lie there, waiting for him to give me permission to move. After about a minute, I hear him give the okay. I push myself up and kneel next to him on the couch as I rub my bottom and squint at him through watery eyes, still trying to read his face. Finally I asked "What the hell was that all about?"

"Nothing, Darling. I just love you, and I love being molded by you." His eyes narrowed.

My mouth flew open. "You ARE upset about that! Are you kidding me?"

"No, Dear, I'm not upset by that at all." His voice is even tempered, calm, loving, almost musical.

He's playing with me now. I wiped the water from my eyes.

Then he said, "I want you to hug me and thank me."

"Thank you? What for?" I whined.

"I want you to thank me for allowing you to mold me."

He saw that I was hesitating again as I stared at him in disbelief.

"Now," he was smiling and stern at the same time.

I figured I better obey him at this point. I put my arms around him and kissed him on the lips and said, "thank you for... letting me... mold you." I felt silly... embarrassed... pissed. When I pulled away and saw his face, his eyes were full of a twinkle of humor and amusement.

"Go to bed and wait for me," he commanded.

I wanted to scream, No! Not until you tell me what the hell just happened here! But from what little I could read on his face, he wasn't about to offer up explanations. I went and got in bed, and when he came in, we made love passionately as my 400 thread count sheets felt like sandpaper against my freshly paddled bottom.

This happened several days ago, and to this day he's never explained why the maintenance was so severe that day. He never admitted to being angry, he never enumerated my past misdeeds. His only explanation was that he loved me.  But I think he wanted me to know just who, indeed, is molding who.

And that is Just 'Cuz.

Submission Day

After BabyMan and I spent an hour in the gym Saturday morning, we came back for what I thought would be a relaxing day at home. But when I emerged from the shower, BabyMan says something that stops me cold and drops my jaw to the floor. "Sugar," he says, "I want you to girl up. We're going to have a submission day."

I stare at him for a moment, blink a couple of times. "Would you repeat that please?"

"Today is Submission Day. We're going out to do some shopping and then to lunch and a movie.  And we're going to dedicate the entire day to working on your submission."

I don't know whether to laugh or look around for something to throw at him. "And what's wrong with the way I submit?"

"Needs... refining." He had a no nonsense look on his face that I couldn't quite read. Was this a joke?  He walked over to the wall where we keep the leather paddle hanging on a hook, grabbed it and said, "I want you to girl up," (a term he coined meaning to wear something feminine, do the hair, make-up, etc.) "and meet me in the den."

Now, if you've read this blog at all, you know that the words "meet me in the den" mean that I'm going to wind up over his knee for one thing or another. At this point my jaw is still on the floor as I watch him walk out of the room. I want to argue, I want to demand answers, I need an explanation. I haven't done anything wrong!

Think, Sugar, think! He thinks your submission is below standard... to argue now is not the best idea at the moment. Just do what he tells you and find out what this is all about later.

I picked a form fitting sweater and a tight linen skirt, applied eyeliner, lipstick, and a spritz of the perfume he gave me for Christmas. I walked into the den to find him sitting on the couch with a pillow on his knees, something he usually does to make my behind rise higher over his lap. Now I'm beginning to get nervous.

"There's a paper on the printer," he said. "Take it off, lay over my knees and read it to me."

I bit my lip as I felt my forehead wrinkle. What could I have possibly done to...?

"Now, SugarAnne. This is about submission. Don't hesitate." He smiled. "Oh, and by the way, take off your panties. You won't be needing them."

I won't be needing them? What does that mean? What the hell is he up to?

I peeled my panties down my legs and stepped out of them, grabbed the paper off the printer and placed myself over the pillow. Once I was settled in and BabyMan had lifted my skirt to my waist, I began to read aloud.

The paper was titled Submission Day Guidelines. It was a list of how I am to conduct myself in a submissive manner to his specifications during our day out together. the first section was the requirements for what I was to wear for the day. I am to be girled up, wearing a skirt, feminine blouse, no panties... I turned to look at him. "Are you kidding? No panties? All day? Out in public?" I squealed.

He slapped my bare behind hard with the paddle. "Keep reading!"

I turned back to the paper. The second section were his expectations of how I am to conduct myself when we are in the position of standing in line at a store or restaurant. I am to stand behind him with my arms around his waist, and If I desire to be released to go off on my own, I am to ask permission by whispering in his ear. He will either release me or turn down my request. otherwise I am to stay connected to him at all times by either holding his hand or hooking my finger through his belt loop while we are standing or on the move.

When ordering in a restaurant, I am to make my selection, tell him, and he will order for me.  I am to allow him to open all doors for me including the car door. When going up stairs, I am to be in front of him and behind him when descending stairs for my protection against falling. I am to wait for him to pull out my chair, and when I stand to go to the ladies room he will stand in reverence and respect to my femininity (I like that part).  Wow, this is kind of cool.  It's almost like stepping back into the 50's, but I'm not wearing any panties!

After I read the entire list, he explained that for each infraction I would receive five strokes with the bath brush, or as he affectionately calls it, "the heatstroke".

The day was to be an exercise in submission, self control, and appreciation of my freedom. And really, how difficult could it be? The hardest part should be making sure my short skirt doesn't ride up on me and show my bare ass to the world.

Well, the day was a little frustrating for me. I tried hard to make sure I remembered each requirement, and act according to the guidelines, but I dropped the ball several times during the day. We went to a store where we picked out four skirts together (he wanted to make sure I had enough regulation skirts for upcoming submission days) we ran a few errands, then went to lunch where I made my first infraction. I opened my own door to go into the restaurant, and that's when he informed me that I had just earned 5 strokes. He had said it with such good humor and affection that I found it hard to believe that he would actually spank me with my second most feared implement (the belt being my first) over something so minor. I mean, this was still really a game, right?

At one point while standing on an escalator with BabyMan behind me, he used the umbrella we brought with us to lift my skirt from behind while there was a man within viewing distance. I instinctively slapped it away and snapped, "Stop it!" This is when I was informed that I have to accept and welcome any way he chooses to touch me regardless of who may or may not be in the vicinity, or what I may or may not be wearing. He didn't add five more strokes because he added that rule off the top of his head, which he reserves the right to do. I was mortified... and a little turned on.

We had such a great day, wandering around an outdoor mall before a 5:00 showing of Date Night. Unfortunately I blew it 3 more times, rushing in front of him on the way down a flight of stairs, drifting away from him to look at items in a store without his permission, and opening my own door again in a book store. I almost made another mistake when I planned on leaving the movie theater to get more butter on my popcorn, when he stopped me and informed me that not only am I to ask permission to leave him, but serving my needs was his job, and I was to ask him to do it for me (I like that part, too).

There was something about the whole idea of being totally submissive to his will and desires that I have to admit, excites me a little. BabyMan has always given me a freedom of which I've heard other women express an envy, and I've always appreciated that I'm not micro-managed, or given the third degree about my whereabouts and activities.  This Submission Day exercise was a complete turn around to what I'm used to. In a strange way, I liked it... even though I suck at it.

When we arrived home, I was relaxed and comfortable until he told me to get the heatstroke and the paddle. I was going to get my fun, slap and tickle spanking that I love so much, but I also had 25 painful strokes coming to me from that damned bath brush.  Okay, so this wasn't a game any more.

I don't know why I hadn't taken him seriously all day, but it was time to pay the piper. I'm assuming that Submission Day will be a tradition in our marriage from now on, and it looks like I have a lot of work to do in order to avoid the consequences. These guidelines don't seem really difficult to the naturally submissive type, but that's not me. It never has been. 

But I have a feeling...It will be.