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.

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…