Tuesday, December 28, 2010

From a 10 to a 7

As much as we love Christmas, there are those elements in everyone’s life that may take the perfection of the day from a 10 down to a 7.  In the case of most people, it’s usually having to spend time with a particular relative who makes us uncomfortable, or with whom we’d never settled an old grievance that looms over our heads whenever we’re in the same social setting.

B’Man and I were headed to spend Christmas dinner with his mother, brother, daughters, my parents, and some family friends. In the mix was a particular person who’s presence is a source of tension for the both of us. I was just getting over a virus that had gotten so bad it had landed me at the emergency room to be fed the fluids intravenously that I couldn’t keep down orally. I was clearly on the mend on Christmas day, and couldn’t use the excuse that I was just too sick. I was expected to make the yearly traditional appearance. B’Man could see that the very thought of enduring this evening with this particular person was starting to unnerve me. I had asked his permission to stay home, and was met with a definite “no”. I can’ t say that I remained in a foul mood all day as a result, but the prospect of having to spend 3 hours in a tension filled room had caused my Christmas to lose a few points on the perfection scale.

B’Man and I had a lovely Christmas day, exchanging gifts, eating a large breakfast, watching football games, and enjoying each others company. But when 3:00 rolled around and it was time to go, I was obviously sinking in a funk that made it clear that his forcing me to go was only going to make the situation more uncomfortable for him. And the more he attempted to cheer me up, the more I sulked.

As I sat at the computer after I had gotten ready, B’Man came in holding the leather paddle. “Get off the computer and come over here,” he demanded as he sat on the couch.

For a moment I was confused until it dawned on me where he was headed and why. My only chance out of this was to pretend I didn’t understand and that he was being unreasonable and irrational.

I looked at him and frowned. “What is this all about?” I asked innocently.

His eyebrows perked up. “After all this time, you think you’d know better than to question me when I tell you to do something.”

“No!” I exclaimed. I jumped out of the computer chair and stood before him but far enough away that he wouldn’t be able to grab me. the calm on his face was infuriating. “You need to tell me what this is about," I said firmly.

“I have every intention of telling you once you’re in place over my knee.”

“Forget it! That’s not how this works!”

His eyes narrowed as his icy stare changed the very temperature of the room. “You’re going to tell ME how this works?”

I pointed a accusatory finger at him the way Charlton Heston’s Moses pointed angrily at the idol worshipping Jews. “This isn’t fair! You can’t do this!”

“I’m not going to argue with you about this, Sugar. Drop you pants and get over here, now.” He said calmly. “You’ve got five seconds.”

I was defeated. I had no argument, had no alternatives. Angrily, I unbuttoned my Levis and and pushed them down my thighs and flopped over his lap.

I lay there for a few seconds while he leaned over to get a good look at my face. Usually at this point my face has clear traces of fear, but this time I’m just pissed.

“I just want to get a few things straight,” He said as he starts to peel my panties down.

“We can’t have this discussion with me standing up?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you all day on this. You’re not listening.”

“I have been listening”

“No you haven’t, but you’re going to listen now.”

I sighed and tried to make myself comfortable.

“We’re going to spend time with family and friends, and we’re not going to allow one person to ruin this evening for us.”

I held my chin in the palms of my hands and stared sullenly at the ceiling. “It’s easier not to go,” I mumbled.

“You just don’t get it,” he said, and started to slap my behind fairly hard with the paddle. I wiggled and yelped a couple of times, but as spankings go, it wasn’t one of the worst. Its function was to get my attention and make me see that I had been willing to allow someone who I only saw once or twice a year to dictate my mood, and in the grand scheme of things, this person was certainly not worth my time and energy other than my prayers.

When the spanking was over, my eyes weren’t even moist. It didn’t really hurt anything other than my pride, and make me feel a little bit ashamed that I had needed to be reminded of what’s really important. I was, however sore enough to appreciate the car’s leather seats that had been sitting in single digit temperatures all day.

Christmas dinner with the family was much nicer than I anticipated. The person in question was not the bitch I was expecting, and a good time was had by all.  By the time we had arrived home, I had almost forgotten why I didn't want to go in the first place. 

So, in the end, the only person responsible for making my Christmas a 7 instead of a 10 was... myself.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Trust Me

To admit that stress relief spankings are effective is probably one of the hardest things I've ever done in ttwd. Punishment spankings for something I did wrong is one thing, but to submit to a comparable level of pain for something that is above and beyond my control, like stress or anxiety was viewed by me as a little barbaric, unfair, and crossed that fine line between submission and masochism.  Ever since the article on whipping therapy started circulating around in the last few months, I tried to keep an open mind, but in talking with so many other women about the concept of stress relief and hearing how they ask for it and benefit from it, I could only shake my head in disbelief as I tried to understand the phenomenon behind the practice.

B'Man initiated several stress relievers in the past few months due to some chemical imbalances that kept me off kilter, and I reluctantly submitted. The very first time my thinking was, okay, lets get this over with. when it doesn't work, I can tell him it's a waste of time, and we'll never have to do this again.

Well, much to my chagrin... it was helpful. My head was a little clearer, my endorphins a bit stronger, my energy a bit heightened...

This past week I was in emotional trouble. I had not been out of the house since Sunday, and here it was Friday. The bowels of hormone hell had opened up and swallowed me whole, and as I sank into the abyss, I grabbed on to B'Man's ankle and dragged him under with me. I had run out of Vitamin D, a supplement that had kept my chin above the murky waters for several weeks. I felt myself drowning. Menopausal symptoms had hit a new level of discomfort, a level that I had never imagined. The body aches were more severe, the fatigue more acute and the mood swings more intense. I knew this was temporary, but it seemed interminable.

On Monday, I instant messaged B'Man and announced that he could handle it any way he wanted, but I had absolutely no intention of leaving the house under any circumstances. The cold was more than I could bear, and my nerves were dangerously on the edge of reason. While the outcome of the war was in question, I was clearly losing the battle. I no longer had the will to fight for my sanity as vigorously as I had been. All the weapons in my arsenal,... the supplements, cardio, weight training, protein shakes, journaling, and full spectrum lighting were all being out-gunned by the menopausal monster.

And I could barely get out of bed.

B'Man had tried giving me a stress relief spanking on Thursday morning, and as I lay across his lap taking the leather paddle, I could feel that this was not making a dent in my troubled psyche. I had gotten to the point where I was beyond this type of help, and for the first time in months, I began to worry about my emotional stability and feared that I was on my own.

He walked into the den on Friday morning as I sat at the computer, mindlessly surfing through nothing of any significance. "let's try this again," he said as he waved the paddle at me. For a moment I considered arguing with him, but he seemed determined and I was too weak physically and emotionally to put up a fight.

He placed a pillow on the arm of the couch in the den, and waited patiently for me to move. I rose to my feet and folded myself over the pillow as he moved my robe out of the way. The paddle came down softly at first as I heard him warn me "This is going to get a little intense, Baby."  Then he began a hard and fast rhythm as I sobbed into the pillow at my head.

And then it happened. The paddling stopped, and I heard something I never thought I'd hear. B'Man was unbuckling his belt and pulling it out of the loops of his pants. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no..." I tried to lift myself up, but I felt him put his hand on my shoulder blade and push me back down. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him kneel beside me. "I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

Trust you? Do you know what you're doing?

I nodded my head, closed my eyes and buried my face in the pillow. My worst spanking nightmare was coming true. I had tasted the belt only once before, and had vowed never to be in the place where it would rear it's ugly head again.  Now I was being asked to trust the man that held it in his hand.

If I can't trust him, who can I trust?  He'd never been one for gratuitously inflicting pain. He's dedicated himself to being my protector and my provider. There was clearly nothing he wouldn't do for me, he had proven that again and again.

So I didn't fight it. I lay as still as possible (which wasn't very still at all, but the best I could do) and submitted to probably the second most painful spanking I had ever had. When he was done, he enveloped me in his arms and waited patiently until I stopped hyperventilating.

The day went by with less anxiety.  I felt as though I could breathe, where before I was gasping desperately for every breath.   We've been spending the weekend exercising, attending holiday parties, eating out and basically making up for all time I had lost with my face buried in my hands.  I feel freed and back in control.  I also feel a bit more confused about the connection between this type of pain and the release of neurotransmitters in the brain.  I know I will never be able to bring myself to ask for this type of therapy, something that I admire my friends for being able to do when they need it... but I feel very blessed that I have someone looking out for me that knows when and how to use it effectively.

Trust you?  Yes.  I trust you to the depths of my very soul.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Just a Little Peevish?

I’ve been bragging to my friends of late that I have been virtually unspankable. Okay, I confess, that's not entirely true.  Spankable behavior has been mainly due to thoughtlessness, and my unwillingness to consider his feelings in my actions and decisions. When B’Man needs me to take care of a particular task during the day or asks that I refrain from a certain behavior that’s has the potential to drive him to drink, The least I can do is take it seriously and put some real effort into it.

Sometimes I fail miserably, and B’Man can immediately tell if it was through a willful disobedience and laziness, or if it was one of my attention deficit oversights. For the latter, he will usually smile and afford me grace and mercy. But there will be those times when I will become irritated by the reminder.

Case in point:  I have been sufficiently warned that I am to keep the hall closet door closed. The hall is narrow, B’Man’s shoulders are broad, and it’s inconvenient and uncomfortable for him. About a dozen trips bent over the kitchen counter and the sting from a wooden spoon have forged a habit of staying mindful of that door. Rarely do I hear the squeak of the closet door hinges from another room, the signal that I have been negligent. On those rare occasions, I can react in one of two ways. Usually, I’ll drop what I’m doing, run into the hall, my mouth agape, and my hands on my face like that picture of Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. I might giggle nervously, profusely apologize, and rack my brain as to when I opened the damned thing in the first place. He’ll watch me, assess my body language, check the way I nervously bite my lip, note the genuine surprise in my eyes, and hear the confusion in my voice. I will see in him the signs of a softened heart and a merciful reprieve. He’ll drop his head and his shoulders will bounce up and down as he chuckles to himself. “That’s okay, Babe. Try and pay attention to that, okay?” he’ll say. I’ll kiss him appreciatively, and we’ll move on.

But there will be other times. I’ll hear the squeak of the closet door hinges, and I’ll immediately feel irritated. Irritated at myself for forgetting, and irritated B’Man for bringing it up. Why can’t he just close the damned thing himself and lay off me? He’ll wait a moment for my apologetic, submissive reaction to the offending sound, and when I don’t show up, he’ll come looking for me. He may find me in the kitchen, my body language telling quite a different story. I’ll be standing erect, defiant. My eyes will shoot daggers at him, insolence dripping from my words. I’ll say something really stupid, like, “get over yourself.”

B’Man doesn’t say a word. He reaches for the crock on the counter, and grabs the biggest, heaviest wooden spoon in the arsenal. Suddenly, I realize what I’ve just done, and I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, moving from an expression of anger to one of sincere remorse. He gently touches my shoulder, turns me around, and I bend over with almost no effort at all on his part. He doesn’t have to tell me what to do… I know the drill. My thumbs will slip into my waist band, and my pants and panties will slide to my thighs. The sting of the wooden spoon to my sit spots is especially painful, I suspect because of the extra infraction of my smart mouth. I might get five or six hard swats from this, and the burn, coupled with my contrition will cause my tear ducts to shoot like tiny water pistols. When he’s done, he’ll drop the spoon on the counter next to me. No more words have to be said.

B’Man’s pet peeves are all pretty much handled the same way.  Keep, the kitchen cabinets closed, keep the remotes in their respective rooms, close out the browser on the computer…

And now there’s a new one.

Well it’s not really new, it’s one of those things B’Man’s been nagging me about for years, and I never really paid that close attention. Now with the advent of the wooden spoon, I’ll probably be more mindful of this particular irritation that I’ve been ignoring for years.

This is a picture of our kitchen. As you can see, at the end of the counter on the right, there is a recycle bin. Now don’t ask me why I keep doing this… I honestly don’t know. But whenever I empty a bottle or a can or a jar, instead of dropping it into the recycle bin, I’ll leave it on the counter. And there it will sit for hours until I clean the kitchen. This drives B’Man absolutely out of his mind. He’s tried to keep a sense of humor about it. He’s teased me, begged me, and made empty threats. He’s done. It is now officially a spankable offense. In the past month there have been at least seven or eight wooden spoon incidents concerning this issue, and I’m unnerved at how often I lose sight of that directive. Apparently it's unnerving him too, because he's not giving me those acts of mercy, regardless of my attitude.

Just a few days ago as I sat in the easy chair on the right side of the picture with my laptop on my knees.  I was chatting in instant messenger with Kady about this very subject, and explaining how I’ve got some kind of mental block in this area. When she asked how the counter looked now, I assured her that I was in the clear, and that I had just finished polishing the marble to a perfect shine. At that moment, B’Man walked in the door, dropped his briefcase, kissed me hello, and shifted his eyes over to the shiny counter where there sat… the lone paper towel that I used to buff the marble with. It never made it into the recycle bin.

*Sigh*  This is going to be a long winter.