It Takes a Village to Raise a Spanko

Being a woman in the computer age has afforded me relationships and alliances that I could only dream of as a veritable loner in my teens and 20's. In closing down my blog, I realize how very blessed I have been to find like minded people all over the world who not only understand me, but have been so generous in their advice and support.  I know that when I jump off this ledge by clicking publish, I'll have so much to say that I'll desperately want to come back. This blog has been such a huge part of my life in the past year.

I came into blogging as a young fresh faced newbie... a bit selfish, thoughtless, certainly not the sharpest knife in this drawer. And now, look at me.  A year later, I'm all grown up, and B'Man and I have settled into a comfort zone that will be a part of our lives forever. And all of you who commented, and chatted, and befriended me were a part of that growth, and I just want you to know that I appreciate you.

Sara, the voice of reason and wisdom;

Janet, my first and most treasured phone buddy and confidant;

Kady, the hand I reach for during hormonal storms, and Christian conviction;

Kay Lynn, the wordsmith who can paint a picture in a paragraph;

PK, who created Cassie, a woman I identify with to the marrow of my bones;

Mick, another admirable and respected source of the HoH experience;

Jenn and RW, a couple of sweet kids I consider my little sisters;

Galway Giirl, a woman who's personal stories inspired my posts more than she knows;

Katia and Emilie, The rebels of the neighborhood who had the courage to break with tradition to find their way;

Ronnie and Daisychain, a couple of adorable Brits with the classic humor I've come to look forward to each week;

Tammy, who sought me out for advice but wound up teaching me a few things;

Ally, My source for Homeopathy and holistic self examination.

Arianna, the poet and visual artist.

The wit, wisdom and invaluable advice of the new girls on the block... Monica, Audra, Surrendering Slowly, Alexandra, Serenity, Stormy, DaisyChristian, Misty, Lynn, and Judy.

And to the person with whom I parted ways over a disagreement, (you know who you are) you were the first person to reach out to me last year, and I will always appreciate that.

All the guys and gals from Joannie and Friends Forum who have come in to lend support and love.

And, of course Bonnie, The Grand Dame of the spanko community and whose posts B'Man would read to me when he considered proposing this relationship.

This is the village where I grew up. And even though I'll no longer be a contributing blogger, I hope you will allow me to be a part of your lives as we continue to do This Thing We Do.

Love Always

SugarAnne

Warning! Warning!

Every once in a while I'll reflect on the subtle differences in communication that have taken place in the last year as a result of ttwd, or tweed, as my phrase turning husband might say. He has a distinct look on his face when he's warning me that I'm coming dangerously close to a spanking if I don't back off, or lower my voice, or calm down, or rephrase my request... There's a look that he gets that begins with his simply getting very quiet, and his head will ever so slowly turn toward me until his eyes lock with mine. His facial expression is not menacing or hard, and half the time there is no frown or wrinkling of the forehead. it's just a look. facial muscles relaxed, but the silence is deafening.

Lately he's taken to shifting his eyes to look toward the leather paddle that's been sitting in the den since a previous incident. A while ago, on my way to bed, I stopped in the den during my evening ritual to kiss him goodnight. He inquired about the light in the living room (I have a bit of a habit of leaving it on when I'm the last one to leave the area). I was immediately irritated. I hadn't finished my evening ritual, and was going to be in and out before the final exit. And again, I have to blame the hormones for my reaction.

"Why are you sweatin' me? I'll get to the lights when I get to it. Do you mind?"

It wasn't a nasty, venomous snap, just a little sarcasm that may have crossed the line, and my tone may have gone over to the dark side.

B'Man reached for the remote and muted the television as though he wanted to make sure he was hearing correctly.

"What's your problem?" I ask, still in battle mode.

Suddenly I recognized that slow turn of the head, and his eyes made contact.  It reminded me of Linda Blair when she made that slow 360 degree turn of her head in The Exorcist, revealing the demon within.  There's a slight lift of the eyebrow that indicates that he's a bit surprised that I chose to challenge him, and a touch of humor at my sudden stupid bravery. His eyes shift to the other side of the couch, and I follow his gaze to the arm of the couch where there rests the leather paddle that was used to bring me back to earth on Christmas day. I bite my bottom lip and try to smile sheepishly as he cuts his eyes back to me. There are no words that come from his mouth. It's not necessary. I got the message. I leave the room as quickly as possible with my dignity in tact.

B'Man's warnings have have been quite clear and unmistakable of late. Usually in the morning when he gives me a particular task for me to complete during the day, he'll write it down and hand it to me. There have been misunderstandings and miscommunications in the past that have warranted a written record of his request. When he hands it to me, he'll say, "There, it's written on paper. Don't make me come home and have to write it on your ass." or, my personal favorite: "I'll be back here with a white glove... and a black belt."

That will inspire a bit of caustic, yet nervous laughter from me.

And yet, every so often the lioness will come out in me. A hormonal symptom? Possibly. But mostly I simply feel like exerting my power (what little there is of it). B'Man will allow me to go so far. He clearly recognizes a need in me to push my limit, but when it's reached, I am reigned back in, gently but firmly.

I may rant and rave, point fingers, make empty threats, become a little snide or sarcastic, and then finally...

"Obviously I didn't spank you hard enough last time," or... "Apparently you don't get your ass spanked enough around here."

That tends to change my mood pretty fast.

Then of course there's the silent but deadly removing of his belt, folding it in his hand and menacingly slapping a piece of furniture to elicit a nervous reaction from me. I'll jump from the sound and catch that humorous twinkle in his eye as he shakes the belt at me and says, "You get where I'm coming from?"

I'll raise my hands in surrender. "I'm sure the whole neighborhood gets where you're coming from, BabyMan."

As he saunters out of the room, sporting that Simon Barr Sinister laugh of his, I'll mumble "Jerk," under my breath.

"I heard that!"

Weight to His Words

"You need to give weight to my words" (WHAP!)

This is what he said to me over and over again as he spanked me Wednesday evening after he came home and discovered that I completely ignored his instructions to me.

Okay, I figured out about 3 months into our tweed journey that obedience is the key word here. If B'Man gives me something that he wants me to do, no matter how trivial or insignificant, what he's really looking for is an understanding between us that I give weight to his words.

I don't like admitting certain things in this blog because he reads it, and I'm no longer able to effectively feign ignorance.

But I suppose he knows it...
I know that he knows it...
and he knows that I know that he knows it.

"You've been getting away with murder lately," he's said to me on several occasions.

Murder is such a strong term. But I imagine that if I look at it from his perspective, I've been systematically killing his authority by tiny itty bitty degrees, that if he were not paying close attention, he would never have noticed.

Tasks during the day are the little projects that he may give me on top of my normal cleaning and errand and shopping routine. It's usually something that he's noticed has been neglected and needs attention. For instance, a few weeks ago he told me to clean the window sill in the den. That means to give it my full attention and put some real effort into removing the clutter, and polishing it so that it looks freshly painted. It's a ten minute job on the outside, certainly nothing to agonize over or go out of my way to avoid.

I waited until the very last minute, I got a shoe box, dumped all the junk in it and plopped it on the floor. Then I took a damp rag and made a cursory swipe of the dust and smeared it around seconds before he walked through the door. He noticed that I was just finishing up as though the task was an annoying afterthought... and he noticed how lousy the job was.

"You know I should spank you for that," was his comment at the time.

I innocently replied, "Well you weren't really specific about what you wanted. How am I supposed to know what you're looking for if you don't tell me?"

I think it was my reprieve from that spanking that began the domino effect of a long line of half assed jobs.

Now, don't get me wrong, this doesn't happen all the time. When he wants something done. I usually give a sufficient amount of weight to his words and go out of my way to please him and go above and beyond the call of duty. But lately I've only been batting about a 500.

I know it...
He knows that I know it...
And I know that he knows that I know it...

So Wednesday the task was to clean out the science projects in the refrigerator.

Honestly, I think I had gotten to the point where I have gotten away with so many half assed jobs that if I ignored this one completely it wouldn't be such a big deal. This was not a conscious rationalization on my part. I just somehow didn't see the urgency in it any more.

When he got home we had a short discussion about it in the bedroom as he changed out of his work clothes. I was genuinely surprised when he told me to bent over my dresser and drop my jeans. I actually asked him if he were kidding.

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

My jaw dropped.

"I want you at the dresser so you can watch your face in the mirror."

When he lifted the paddle off the hook on the wall, I wanted to be angry. But I couldn't. I didn't have a leg to stand on.

I turned around, pulled down my pants and panties, and placed my elbows on the dresser and placed my face in the palms of my hands as I stared at my own face. My eyes were already red and I had this pathetic guilt ridden look on my face.

"You need to give weight to my words," he said several times as the paddle came into contact with my sit spot.  My knees buckled as I tried to remain still and started to cry.  After about five stinging swats he had me count off the final ten. And of course... if I miscount, he starts over. I hate counting! Who can concentrate? number 7 feels like number 349! Who's brilliant idea was having the spankee count?

But I digress.

I know that publishing this post is in effect telling him that I admit to taking advantage of his good nature, and it's going to cause him to be more vigilant in holding me accountable. But I suppose this was going to happen eventually anyway.

I know it...
He knows that I know it...
and I know that he knows that I know it.

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.

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.

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.

Living with a Spanko

This particular picture reminds me of B'Man and myself.  Me with the surprised, pained, but slightly aroused look on my face, and him with the perpetual grin.  This is what we look like when he's in his playful mood and I'm in my "Hey, take it easy," mode.

B'Man's obsession with my rear end has caused his behavior to blossom into constant grabs, pats and swats on public streets, in the lobby of the theater, in the grocery store... I'm not going to say that I don't love it. I do. We started exploring the concept of spanking because of my sexual sensitivity in that area in the first place. But now my crazy lunatic spanko of a husband has taken it to an HNL ( a hole nutha level).

Living with a spanko is a life dedicated to dodging bullets. B'Man is constantly on the lookout for opportunities to hone his spanking craft, and there's a certain sinister glee in his walk that tends to unnerve a woman committed to protecting her butt from pain. Sometimes I think my man has lost his mind.

There's a long hallway between our door and the lobby of our building, and I like to stand there in the morning as I watch him walk away toward the exit. Too often he will turn around and walk backwards and exclaim loudly enough for someone to hear through their doors, as well as any undetected persons in the lobby, that I am to behave myself or he will come home and "wax that ass." This is his favorite euphemism for spanking, and his favorite way of watching my face twist in mortification. The fact that he has an obsession with my butt is not a secret to the outside world anymore, and he's coming out of the closet at the most interesting times.

In Jamaica, we were in the local marketplace where B'Man picked up a spatula. Nothing hand made or interesting, just a regular metal and plastic spatula made in china. The merchant, knowing that we were tourists at the local resort, was confused by his interest. "Do you plan on cooking while you're in Jamaica?" she asked him.

B'Man replied as he slapped it hard against the palm of his hand, "Yeah. I plan on frying my wife's bacon." 

The merchant tilted her head, glanced at me and smiled knowingly.  I could only roll my eyes while B'Man laughed and jabbed me with his elbow.

We were in Best Buy recently looking to purchase a new MP3 player, when B'Man noticed a sales associate playing with a plastic paddle ball with the Kodak emblem. He announced that he used to be great at that game, and asked her if he could try it. Well, it had been several years since he played with one, and he couldn't seem to nail it even once, and I laughed and teased him about his pathetically spastic attempts to hit that little rubber ball with the paddle until he gave up. it was obviously a cheap promotional toy left behind by a Kodak sales rep, so B'Man asked if he could have it.

"You plan on getting good at that again?" I asked.

"Nah. I plan on using it to wax that ass!" he said whispering loud enough that it seemed that anyone within a 5 foot radius could hear as he slapped the paddle against his hand.

Aside from the obvious public displays of affection for my backside, he is constantly on the lookout for opportunities to put me over his knee. Several times in the last few months I have made a few off the cuff remarks about personal goals that I want to accomplish. One of them was my desire to cut down, and eventually cut sugar out of my diet completely. The first time I mentioned it, B'Man was getting dressed and coincidentally reaching for his belt. He doubled it in his hand and brought it down hard on the bed inches from where I sat. Then he sported that boyish grin of his and said, "I'd be happy to help you with that endeavor, Baby. Just say the word."

Flashbacks of his "help" in my quest to quit smoking caused a physical tremor, and I graciously declined his offer.

"Hey, I can make it so every time you see a candy bar you get the urge to stand up."

"Yeah, I get the basic idea, thank you anyway."

"I'm here for you, Baby," he said, pounding his chest proudly with his fist. "That's my job."

Now I've never been one for maintenance. Many of my friends understand, appreciate and encourage the practice... Frankly it just makes me nervous. While admittedly it may or may not help with stress, it can be as uncomfortable and painful as a punishment, and I'd just as soon avoid it if I can.  B'Man likes the idea of maintenance, and while we thankfully have not set a schedule for it, he manages to sneak one in every so often... I suspect more for his benefit than mine. Out of the blue, for seemingly no reason at all he'll say "You haven't had a good spanking in a while. Go bring me the paddle."

Of course I have to argue about it. "WHY! I haven't done anything!"

"I know, Baby, and we're going to keep it that way."

"No way, Uh-Uh! forget it! This maintenance thing is Bullshit!" I snap as I point at him accusingly.

This is where he'll smile, lean into me and say in a low, threatening voice, "You have 'til the count of three.  One... two..."

The fact that I argue turns it into a punishment.  I am tricked.  Hoisted by my own petard.

30 years form now, B'Man and I will likely be together in some retirement home, wheelchair and walker bound... me losing track of my glasses and teeth, and rolling my eyes at him when he expresses his irritation at my forgetfulness and irresponsibility.  No doubt he will flag down a CNA or an orderly and tip him a few bucks to go outside and cut him a switch so that he can "wax that ass."