Not pining for the old days

I was curious about this week’s Wicked Wednesday’s prompt of car keys, being in the automotive service department for 12 years. I dealt with car keys every day; lost, stolen, replacements, additions and trying to explain to customers why their expensive remote fob stopped working. “You mean there are batteries in this thing?”

From an erotic aspect, there is the backseat—everybody’s got a story or two about that—and the staple of urban legends, the key party for swingers. Interesting thing though, if you asked for the car keys before 1949, people would have handed you a door key. It was in that year when the Chrysler Corp became the first manufacturer to install an ignition switch/starter assembly. One of many details that can trip up a historical fiction writer.

“Grandpa! Grandpa!” came the eager chorus from a dozen young throats. “What are these?”
He leaned forward in his recliner and plucked the ring of keys from his grandchildren. “You mean all these keys that were stored away in a drawer to keep them safe from little snoops?”
“Sorry,” rang out from the boys and girls ranging in age from four to fourteen.
“Well,” he said, after laying the keys on his lap, “it is Christmas and I suppose I could tell you a story about these.”
“Yeah!”
The shrill shrieks finally attracted the attention of the parents—his children and in-laws—but he gave a benign wave as he lorded over the kids now sitting in a semi-circle around his fuzzy slippers.
“All these keys are from vehicles that Grandma and I used to own. Not all the vehicles though.”
“Why not?”
“Because in the olden days, cars didn’t have keys to start, they had push buttons.”
“Just like today!”
“That’s right. Back when we had to dodge dinosaurs in the streets, we pushed buttons too.”
“Did you have screens to watch movies too?”
“Yep. It wasn’t called a screen though, it was a window you cranked open by hand and watched the scenery go by.”
“Sounds boring. Come on, let’s go back to the attic and find more stuff!”

***

After all the presents had been opened, dinner eaten, naps taken and all the hulking vehicles loaded with loot and sleepy grandchildren; he kissed and hugged his six children. Each one reiterated their offer to house him rather than continuing to live alone. He waved off their concerns and waved goodbye. He took the keys to bed. To his surprise, he didn’t feel the stabbing grief as he fondled each key in turn. Instead, he smiled with remembrance at how his wife had always insisted they make love in the backseat of each new vehicle as soon as possible. She also liked being spanked over the hood. ‘Just to make sure the engine keeps running’ was what she would say.

“Ah, Gisèle, such times we had. You’d have enjoyed this evening and insisted on dancing in front of the fireplace. I remember so well the first time I saw you at the USO dinner in liberated Paris. This song reminds me of you, of us, when we were young.”

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Shivering due to an epiphany

I missed last week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt—foreigner—due to having no power after Hurricane Irma. Even if I had written something before the electricity was lost at 11pm Sunday night, I wouldn’t have been able to link to the prompt in time. What I found fascinating about the etymology of ‘foreign’ is that it comes from Latin meaning ‘outside’.

ORIGIN Middle English foren, forein, from Old French forein, forain, based on Latin foras, foris ‘outside,’ from fores ‘door.’ The current spelling arose in the 16th cent., by association with sovereign.

I don’t think when people talk about immigration as being an open-door policy, or closing the door on illegals, they are aware of the literary link to the past.

The current week’s prompt, eavesdropping, has an even more interesting origin. Eavesdrop is an literal word created to represent one specific action.

ORIGIN early 17th cent.: back-formation from eavesdropper (late Middle English)‘a person who listens from under the eaves,’ from the obsolete noun eavesdrop ‘the ground onto which water drips from the eaves,’ probably from Old Norse upsardropi, from ups ‘eaves’ + dropi ‘a drop.’

When you link the two prompts together you get this: Outside the door, the ground onto which water drips from the eaves was churned to muddy paste where the foreigner was eavesdropping.

As an aside, in The Fellowship Of The Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien uses this bit of dialogue quite adroitly.
‘Well, well, bless my beard!’ said Gandalf. ‘Sam Gamgee is it? Now what may you be doing?’
‘Lor bless you, Mr. Gandalf, sir!’ said Sam. ‘Nothing! Leastways I was just trimming the grass-border under the window, if you follow me.’ He picked up his shears and exhibited them as evidence.
‘I don’t,’ said Gandalf grimly. ‘It is some time since I last heard the sound of your shears. How long have you been eavesdropping?’
‘Eavesdropping, sir?’ I don’t follow you, begging your pardon. There ain’t no eaves at Bag End, and that’s a fact.’



He calls me—I am positive he thinks it’s a clever endearment—’a drowned rat’ whenever I return from my run; rain soaked. He’s never understood my passion for exercise (an obsession, is his term when he’s being nice). He’s never tried—never even asked—why it is I seek to flee and only reluctantly return. As I toweled off in the mudroom, for once, my shivers were not from being wet. It was not the runner’s high that caused the silly grin; no, it was my foolish whim to follow the strange rhythmic smacking I heard over the sound of the pelting rain and pounding footsteps of my shoes. I eavesdropped: first with caution, then shame and at the last, unabashed curiosity that led me back here, outside the door, hand raised to knock, hoping they will understand my need that seems so foreign to me.

A week prior:

“Are we clear on why you’re being spanked?”
“Yes, Sir!”
The smacking noise that had drawn me like a butterfly to pollen had ceased. I eavesdropped instead on the scolding lecture and the teary replies. His voice; stern and uncompromising, yet I heard no anger in his leading questions. Exasperation—that I sensed—but with an underlying respect and determination to teach his woman a lesson. Her voice; wheedling and needy, yet also resigned to taking her punishment like a big girl.
This big girl huddled against the building, collar upturned and hood drawn against the steady gush of water through downspouts. To those passing on the sidewalk—not that anybody else was crazy enough to run in a monsoon—would have assumed the figure in the bright yellow slicker was simply seeking rough shelter from the storm. The window above my head was open, the overhang sufficient protection from the elements; although, at the time I did not think it was odd that the drawn blinds allowed sound to radiate.
The smacking sounds resumed. I sagged against the damp brick and squatted in the puddles amidst the bundled yellow-red leaves of autumn. I folded my arms tight against the sudden twinge deep in my stomach. I felt sick, not with anguish at hearing a fellow female being spanked, but sick with envy. Her yelps and cries, her sobs and pleas; all settled in a soulful place that had never known this craving was possible. Spanking wasn’t possible; not in my current relationship, never, never, ever would I allow ‘him’ to spank me.
When the hard slaps finally ended, and the noises now competing with the splashing raindrops turned to a rhythm of a more primal nature; I crept silently away from temptation: for now. I knew then I would be back.

At present:

Laughter spills from their windows. Music, modern hits, flows out into the twilight bringing visions of a party in motion. I hesitate at the threshold. ‘He’ was gone, sent packing with no regrets, the apartment both emptier and freer without his snarky presence. I wanted answers to questions I couldn’t articulate. I had no expectations. I was naive; but willing, oh so willing to find out for myself how it felt.
So, I knock.
The laughter eases. Muffled conversation ends on a rising note of query. The door opens; warm light rushes out like puppies seeking freedom to gambol amongst the vibrant chrysanthemums; tearing off the multi-petaled heads and spreading fragmented jewels across the green carpet.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
I shiver once more.
A distant cry. “Honey? Who is it?”
A louder roar. “I don’t know! It’s a woman!”
“A woman?”
Rapid tapping of heels arrive in a whoosh of Estée Lauder. “Hi. Whatever it is you’re selling, we’re not interested, dear. Honey, we need to leave soon.”
She spins to leave. I call out with a desperate croak. “I heard you!” She pauses looking back over her shoulder. I clear my throat. My eyes never stray from her knowing expression. “Last week, during the storm, I was jogging, and I heard you. I heard you both.” My gaze slides to his. “You, sir, were… were…”
“Spanking my wife?”
I swallow hard at the flaring heat in his response. I don’t notice her return until her arm slips possessively around his waist.
“You were eavesdropping, dear? How very naughty of you.”
“But your window was open!” I protest in a vain attempt to explain my guilt.
That excuse doesn’t work for me, dear, and I suspect you don’t expect a free pass either.” I catch her smirk as she peers up at her husband. “It seems we may be a wee bit tardy to the concert, honey. I do believe this woman owes us an apology.”
“Well?” he states with a demanding tilt of his head. “We’re waiting.”
“I’m sorry I listened to your private… erm, session. I’ll never do it again.”
She quickly steps forward and seizes my hands. “That’s not how apologies are given around here… as I’m sure you can guess. If you are truly sincere and wish repentance, then you know what is required, else you’d not be here tonight on our doorstep asking for punishment.”
She tugs lightly. I submit, as I knew I would, and allow myself to be drawn past the door, and deep inside their world of discipline and painful pleasure.

I’ve never regretted a single moment of eavesdropping.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

chalk beneath my feet

how many before me have sat here
and elsewhere
sore bottom and tender thighs
seed even now
~hopefully~
taking root in my eager womb
arms wrapped around knees
hem madly flapping as my heart
aches to watch wake riding waves
dispersed upon upwelling tide
cold air scaling white cliffs
to send gulls flying
hurtling inland to build squalls
to match my wet cheeks
hoping he will return
knowing that many will not
two months mine
the others given to the sea
a harsh mistress
offering naught but death
and wealth
for the fortunate few
who ride her swells
as he rode mine
willingly did I open wide
submit to his cock
that glorious and sole
redeeming aspect of being
a sailor’s love
who with calloused hands
spanked the calendar away
drawing red lines across
the needy surface
the sails fill and his ship
is flying over the
feathering sea
away from me
again
my hand waves
over the edge of the world
she falls
down
down
into the briny depths
we turn our backs
from Land’s End
and stroll arm-in-arm
widows of the deep blue ocean
with chalk beneath our feet

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

In case of an emergency…

… apply liberally.

Off High Street, down a narrow twisted cobbled alley barely wide enough for a pony trap, a turquoise door propped open beckoned the footsore weary tourist with the promise of an adventure. Gleaming in the late afternoon rays, the gaily painted easel with the large red arrows pointed the way to Curio & Osities Antiques.

“Daddy? Do we have time to go shopping there?”
Erik Jorgensen gave his new bride Lisle an indulgent smile. “I thought my little girl wanted an ice cream?”
“I do, Daddy, pistachio and caramel sea salt, but I wanna see what cool stuff they have. Please?”
“Alright, but you still owe me ten spanks for going over your stuffie budget. Money isn’t mined by dwarves you know.”
Lisle made a disgruntled face. “I know that! Everyone knows that money is farmed by unicorns!” She squealed and raced down the alley after he playfully swatted the back of her frilly purple skirt.
Following at a more leisurely pace, Erik couldn’t help laughing at his little girl’s antics. The honeymoon thus far had been a wondrous romp between amazing sex, scintillating history and more discipline than he could ever have believed possible. While Lisle was a thoroughly modern professional woman who enjoyed a good stiff drink and a cigar after work, little girl loved nothing more than laying over her Daddy’s knee being soundly spanked.
Bratty or obedient, it didn’t matter, little girl took great pains in plotting her next session. Erik certainly had no objections, and in fact, allowed her to fill the toy chest with carefully curated implements. For her, spanking wasn’t a black and white issue for punishing misdeeds, but so enjoyable, she insisted on bending over at every opportunity. Her favorite saying was: ‘Daddy, if it’s not pink, don’t stop to think.’
By the time he wandered into the brightly lit shop with that indefinable odor of old stuff, little girl was already out of right; although he could hear her sighs and excited exclamations. Examining a bin of etchings, he didn’t bat an eye when she came rushing up at full tilt, blond ponytail snapping behind her.
“Daddy, Daddy! Look what I found? Look. Look.”
Seeing the quirky expression on the proprietress’ face, Erick sent her a short nod and gave full attention to his wife. “What did Daddy say about inside voices, little girl?”
Scuffing her shoe, she pouted very briefly then held out the object she was clutching. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I got so excited I forgot.”
“I accept your apology, however that will be ten more spanks for your total.”
“Okay,” She shrugged. “See?”
He plucked the item from her hand and turned it over several times admiring the craftsmanship. He addressed the owner who was clearly fascinated by the conversation. “What can you tell me about this piece?”
Visibly collected herself, she replied without hesitation, “That is an early 19th-century ebony and ivory hairbrush from Spain. The bristles are boar and was likely part of a bridal trousseau. It’s quite unique having the ivory inlays in the handle. Most brushes are either one or the other.”
Erik smacked lightly upon his palm. “It has a nice heft and impact.”
Lisle tugged on his jacket sleeve and whispered in his ear.
“Pardon me. My little girl would like to know if there is somewhere more private we can test before purchasing.” He smiled at his blushing bride of one week and lowered his voice. “She’s very picky about spanking implements.”
With noticeable concern, the woman asked Lisle if she was okay. Color suffused her face as well, when the reply was a forthright and blunt, “I am fine, thank you. I need to know how the brush feels on my bare bottom first, before Daddy buys it for me.”
Bemused and bit bewildered, the owner nevertheless didn’t want to lose the sale, so she led them to her back office, and closed the door once they were inside. Erik and Lisle listened for her footsteps to fade.
“What do you bet she’ll sneak back to listen, Daddy?”
“Your ass.”
Giggling with happiness, little girl draped herself over his lap, and fidgeted while he raised up her skirt and drew down her sparkly heart panties. “There will be twenty spanks now. If you like this brush, it’s way over budget, it will be one hundred and fifty later at the hotel before dinner.”
“Yes, Daddy. You may fire when ready.”
The smooth patina of the ebony wood impacted little girl’s bare bottom with a loud ‘splat’. Erik laid the first ten down the right buttock, from crown to crease. “How does that feel?”
“Good. It smarts a lot though.”
“Excellent. The last ten will be harder.”
And they were. Crisp cracks, unmistakable for anything other than a spanking, rang out in the room. The brush sank in the buttery flesh and bounced back with a soft recoil.
“I want it, Daddy. I’ll gladly pay the price tonight. One hundred and fifty strokes as hard as the last one.”
After purchasing the brush, and and watching the owner lick her lips when little girl told her ‘it’s not polite to eavesdrop’, Erik towed Lisle out of the shop before anything more was said… or done.
“She needed a spanking, Daddy.”
“Do you want me to go back?”
Lisle pondered for a moment and then said with a thoughtful expression, “As much as I think she deserves it, I want you all to myself. For now.”
A very happy little girl skipped back up the stone alley hand-in-hand with the bestest Daddy ever.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Breaking the martyr inside

Most of my recent essays have been triggered by magazine articles—the paper kind no less. The March 2017 edition of Real Simple, had an article entitled, How to Conquer the Martyr Complex. The author Ingela Ratledge begins her essay with the following statement: Some highlighted quotations follow, but I recommend reading the entire article for the parallels between D/s and martyrdom.

Overdo. Complain. Repeat. Sounds like the worst motivational slogan ever, right? Welcome to how I roll. Biting off more than I can chew is standard procedure for me. (“Sure, I can volunteer for the spring carnival and make a résumé for my niece and cook multiple options for dinner!”) And so is feeling fried and resentful later on. I’ll corner my husband for a thorough debriefing on my saintliness, hoping he’ll be overcome by a powerful mix of gratitude and admiration (gradmiration, anyone?). Instead, he typically says, “Oh, you didn’t have to do all that.”
Of course, he’s right. In addition to juggling life’s many nonnegotiables, I’m taking on tons of extra-credit assignments—and accomplishing them through gritted teeth. I’m being…the M-word.
I have plenty of company. We’re surrounded by folks who perpetually sacrifice themselves and then kvetch about their lot. The question is, to what end? I get zero thrills from playing this unwinnable game of whack-a-mole. I’m weary of holding a grudge against those who swan around unburdened by phantom obligations.

“The concept of self-sacrifice can be found across all religions and cultures,” says Candida Moss, PhD, professor of theology at the University of Notre Dame and author of The Myth of Persecution. “If you live in the Western world, you are still influenced by the social values that mattered thousands of years ago.” Yep, she adds, even if you’re an atheist: “Dating back to ancient times, martyrs were regarded as brave, virtuous, and strong.” The critical difference is that historical martyrs, like Joan of Arc—as well as more modern martyrs, like Gandhi and Nelson Mandela—had higher goals. “Real martyrs stood for something,” says behavioral science expert David Emerald, cofounder of the Bainbridge Leadership Center. “For them, the suffering was not the point—it was secondary to their fight, and that’s been misplaced in current culture.”

But why are some of us more susceptible to this messaging than others? Much of it boils down to basic issues of self-worth. “Typically, martyrs don’t know how to validate and love themselves very well,” says Sharon Martin, a psychotherapist in San Jose, California. “They feel that their value is in serving others—so if they stop doing that, they will have no value.” Alas, altruism and ulterior motives make strange bedfellows, which is why bending over backward doesn’t offer a golden ticket to the promised land. Says Martin, “Martyrs don’t get a lot of warm feelings from doing good deeds.” So what’s keeping us in this racket? Partly it’s a matter of control. “Martyrs think that if they don’t do something, it won’t get done,” says Mazer. Or at least not properly. “The martyr operates on the assumption that he or she knows best and has the answer rather than an answer,” says Emerald, because the alternative—that our contributions aren’t actually essential—is downright destabilizing. “It’s a stab to the ego to admit that the world does not depend on you,” explains Emerald. Also, funneling the bulk of your energy into external situations provides a handy distraction: It gives you a pass on addressing your own vulnerabilities, goals, and shortcomings. How could you possibly be expected to finish that master’s, quit a job you despise, or make it to the gym when you’re so busy taking care of everything else?” “As a martyr, you don’t have to take personal responsibility,” says Mazer. “You can project your unhappiness and blame outward.” You may be trying to cover up the fact, says Garcy, “that you have no clue how to get from where you are to where you want to be.”

I will raise my hand and admit freely that I am a martyr of long-standing suffering both in my personal and professional life. I have always thought of myself as worthless, and have never been able to love who am I. I’m the worker bee/drone who does everything without asking, follows the rules, and then stews volcanic-like inside when nobody else gives a shit and I wind up mopping the floor of someone else’s mess. It has taken being out of work for the past 19 months to realize that I’m only responsible for my own actions and ethics.

Tomorrow is our 30th wedding anniversary, and for the entire time—plus the nearly two years we were dating—my wife has been ill, sometimes critically. For the past 19 months, I have been her 24/7 caretaker at home. The specific reasons and medical issues are not important, but she has been near death at least a dozen times since we’ve been together. In fact, when she was seven-years old, her parents and she were told she wouldn’t survive to adulthood. She’s now 53. Ironically, having been nursed by me, she’s in better health now, than at any time in the past. Going to the hospital only makes her sicker. The next hurdle is the possible amputation of her left leg below the knee: She goes back and forth on her decision; but it is her decision, not mine and not her doctors’. I fully support her no matter what happens.

What I took from the article in terms of similarities to D/s, is the way both Doms and subs struggle with doing it ‘right’ even more so than perfectly. Self-worth, and the lack thereof through depression, plays an outsize role in submission. The opposite, arrogance, leads many Doms down blind alleys where they abandon their subs for not being good enough for them. Whether you’re a Top or bottom, if you don’t realize that the world not only isn’t going to stop for you, but could care less about your accomplishments, then you’ll continue to be disappointed and upset when the people in your life don’t constantly pat you on the back. A simple thank you should suffice… or a good spanking.

Probably the most positive aspect of D/s though, is when both partners drop the resentment of martyrdom and make the effort to do things not for praise, but because caring for the other is the right thing to do. If both the Dom and sub take responsibility for themselves, instead of waiting to be rescued, and from a position of personal strength, use that self-confident energy to prioritize their partner’s needs, then both will want to keep caring instead of keeping score and holding grudges. Didn’t get spanked last night? It’s not a crisis. Forgot to take the trash out? The next pickup is fine. Didn’t notice the kitchen floor was waxed? Likely a rough day at the office.

Partners doesn’t mean clones. Men and women are different. Doms and subs are different. We all have different parents, different upbringings, different beliefs, different desires: We are each of us unique. The weaknesses and strengths are different as well. Have you ever given a gift without expecting something in return? Remember how good that felt? Maybe you paid for someones meal, or helped someone to cross the street. I know I’ve given directions hundreds of times before for the sheer pleasure of getting a smile of relief in return. I have to keep reminding myself that I don’t need to jump up and down waving ‘look at me, look at me’ every time I do something good.

Being a martyr leads to bad choices. Life is crappy for most people most of the time. We martyrs ruin the few happy moments by obsessing over what we should have done differently, said more eloquently, reacted more politely; instead of moving on, we squirrel away the slights—both real and imaginary—until our blood pressure nearly bursts our poor hearts. In a D/s situation, this doesn’t happen [shouldn’t happen] because there are protocols in place to prevent an escalation of emotions. Many times, an instant swat on the backside will serve as a placeholder until time is available for a real spanking. To be submissive means that martyrdom is no longer allowed and ranks right up there with back-talking, sulking and other forms of verbal and non-verbal communications that disrespect the D/s compact.

Note: I did not say disrespect the Dom. Being a martyr is not directed at others, it is aimed solely at self. The self that believes they will never be good enough, and are constantly letting others down by not working harder and better. When a submissive says to their Dom; ‘I’m a burden’, ‘I’ll never be what you want’, ‘I don’t know why you stay with me’, ‘I hate myself for feeling this way’. Those are all spanking violations. Write ’em a ticket, flip up the skirt, yank down the knickers, and give your sub a nice, long spanking for disrespect. How hard is up to you, but in this case, actions speak louder than words, although re-enforcing the discipline with loving praise will help to overcome the desire for self-harm.

Hi, my name is Lurv Spanking. I’m a recovering martyr. It’s been one year since I last hated myself.

Bursting in mid-thought

Barbara Baxter—Bubbles to her friends, including her husband—was an effervescent blonde; the type of person who instantly drew both avid admiration and calmed many a sticky situation. Stylish, without being snobbish, accomplished—with an ‘aw shucks’ self-effacing grin—and the life of any party; despite likely catering, cleaning and washing up, Bubbles seemed to float through social situations with an enviable iridescent charm.

Behind the serene visage framed by lacquered wispy blond curls and punctuated by plush scarlet lips, her limpid blue eyes concealed a secret so vile that Bubbles hid her vice behind layers of passwords and private browsing. It likely never would have popped had not her adoring hubby forgotten a vital document that morning. Kissing him goodbye, she hustled out on the morning school run—three children in opposite directions—with GPS ruthlessly laying waste to her fellow moms with a ferocity that would have made Sherman proud.

When he pulled back in the painted driveway—her taillights disappearing around the corner—hopped out and disarmed the security; what he found on the kitchen table were dirty breakfast dishes—not a sin—and Bubbles’ laptop still running. In shock at what he saw, he neglected to retrieve the paperwork he’d returned for, and thus had a really, really bad day at work. By late afternoon, he girded his loins for “The Talk” by practicing out loud while half-listening to mellow jazz rather than political chat.

Had any of their far-flung social net been polled as to the compatibility of Bubbles and Wand [he had a rep for making problems vanish] the overwhelming vote would have been ‘perfect’. Thus do we confuse complacency for communication in the pristine prism of couples.

I hate to burst your bubble, darling, but hiding your kinky yen for a good hiding was a very bad idea.
And then Sir smacked the back of the heavy hairbrush right across her bare bottom, peppering the saucy flesh with a fusillade of hard cracks.

Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble by Kalidwen.©

The spanking illustration provided by the very talented Kalidwen over at Kalidwen’s little spankings: Musings & fessées. [Note the laptop picture is of their blog. Very neat.]

“I’m such a freak!”
“No you’re not.”
“I’m sure you hate me right now.”
“No, not hate. Upset that you’ve hid this from me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I think it’s past time that you stop pretending everything is fine, Bubbles. Clearly you have needs that are not being met. Not, may I point out, by neglect on my part, but by deceit and evasion on yours.”
“I’m really, really very sorry, Wand. What can I do to make it up to you?”
“How about you start by firing up your computer and showing me one of your favorite stories.”
“I’m so embarrassed.”
“In fact, I think ‘bare-assed’ would be an appropriate state for you right about now. Put the laptop on the bed, strip, and lay over my lap. We’re going to play a version of ‘Pin The Hairbrush on the Bottom’. You are going to read the story out loud to me. At the end of every sentence I will pin the hairbrush on your bare butt twice. If I feel you are not telling the story with enough enthusiasm, I will spank you even harder. Is that clear, Bubbles?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You may begin.”

Bubbles had never felt so humiliated before. As far back as she could recall, spanking had played an oversize role in her fantasy life. Her dolls and stuffed animals were the best behaved on the entire block, but family discipline had never included physical chastisement. Dating and sex in high school through college, was mostly casual, crammed in between studying and part-time work. Falling in love, getting married, launching a business after three children; did not leave much room for intimacy, never mind kink. The day she’d tumbled across the first D/s blog was both a blessing and a curse. If only I’d been honest from the beginning!

“You know, Bubbles, if you’d only been honest from the beginning, I could have spanked you on our honeymoon.”
“I know, Sir. Please forgive me.”
“Is that the only thing you want?”
“Oooooooooooooh. You beast!”

As she began reading the fictional story, Bubbles fell deep into the starring role as she always did. She squirmed as Wand spanked her bare bottom, trying to keep her composure as she read aloud the arousing passages of punishment. Her normally soft voice climbed the register as the heat seared her skin, each loud SMACK echoing off the walls and pulling a squeal from her pouting mouth. The girl in the story became her. The stern boss, the strict headmaster, the mysterious stranger; they all morphed into characters with her husband’s face. She started punctuating the narrative with personal entreaties.

“Wand told the naughty girl to spread her legs wider as she lay over his lap. She felt herself swelling at the thought of her boss seeing the wet proof she was a wicked, wicked girl. As she hesitated, he didn’t, and swung the hard hairbrush even harder onto her already sore and flaming cheeks. She cried out as the pain snaked like lightning through her trembling body. He scolded her loudly, over the loud SMACKS ringing in his corner office. Through teary eyes, she could no longer see the words on the computer screen, but she knew them by heart. Kicking off her tangled panties, she hunched up scalded bottom in penance.”

‘Spank your naughty Bubbles, Sir! Spank her very, very hard for holding out these past ten years. She’s a greedy, selfish girl for masturbating all that time to literary spankings, when she could have had your strong hand whipping the sass right out of her! Spank me until I’m sobbing, then shut me up with your hard cock. I don’t deserve your magic shaft in my pussy, drill my ass instead and spank me until you come deep inside my virgin bum.’

“The contrite girl knelt on the office carpet, messy mascara face swallowing her boss’ cock to the root, while her hot throbbing bottom rested on her heels. When he was satisfied with her oral ministrations, he lifted her up, spun her around, and forced her shoulders to the desktop. Cold lube drizzled down upon her cringing asshole. Her anal cherry was about to be popped. Underneath her wet chin was the proposal she’d typed up, the red lines through all the errors reminded her of all the time she had wasted hiding her desires. When she got home, her husband was going to see a new woman. Sex and spanking and sore bottom every day was his right.”

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

The Submissive Mindset: What is it and how to reach it.

Seek a Zen-like state. Be the void where thoughts are soap bubbles drifting in morning mist. Your being is not manipulated by unwanted thoughts.

 

‘When does a submissive reach her goal?’
‘When her ego returns the starfish to the sea.’

 

The above was a comment I left on nora’s blog recently. She was bemoaning the fact that it is so hard to get into and stay in a submissive mindset when having been a take-charge dominant woman for so long. She’s not the only person struggling with maintaining the deep submissive posture that she craves. What today’s woman seeks is a calm oasis in the vast landscape of modern society. In the past, being submissive had different connotations.

I finished reading The Signature of All Things, by Elizabeth Gilbert last week. The blurb reads as follows:

Elizabeth Gilbert’s first novel in twelve years is an extraordinary story of botany, exploration and desire, spanning across much of the 19th century. The novel follows the fortunes of the brilliant Alma Whittaker (daughter of a bold and charismatic botanical explorer) as she comes into her own within the world of plants and science. As Alma’s careful studies of moss take her deeper into the mysteries of evolution, the man she loves draws her in the opposite direction—into the realm of the spiritual, the divine and the magical. Alma is a clear-minded scientist; Ambrose is a Utopian artist. But what unites this couple is a shared passion for knowing—a desperate need to understand the workings of this world, and the mechanism behind of all life.

The novel is a very ambitious fictional biography, and I will admit to enjoying the prose much more than the weak plot and shallow characters. The author weaves an undercurrent of sexuality throughout the novel by creating a mechanism whereby Alma Whittaker can explore masturbation through erotic books accidentally obtained in bulk library purchases by her wealthy father. The only detailed manuscript named in the novel is Cum Grano Salis [With a Grain of Salt] and is apparently a literary construct by the author. It is an erotic treatise; purportedly being the memoirs of a man exploring the many and nuanced pleasures to be found in “marvelous bodily pricks and holes”. On page 92, Elizabeth Gilbert writes the following excerpt from the book that her protagonist Alma is reading:

I have come to believe that there are some people who benefit both in body and mind by regular beatings to the naked posterior. Many times, I have seen this practice lift the spirits of both men and women, and I suspect it may be the most salubrious treatment we have at our disposal for melancholia and other diseases of the mind. For two years, I kept company with the most delightful maid, a milliner’s girl, whose innocent and even angelic orbs became firm and strong with repeated flagellation, and whose sorrows were routinely erased by the taste of the whip. As I have described earlier in these pages, I once kept in my offices an elaborate couch, made for me by a fine London upholsterer, specially fitted with winches and ropes. This maid liked nothing more than to be tied securely upon that couch, where she would hold my member in her mouth, sucking me as a child enjoys a stick of sugar, whilst a companion—

Sounds a bit like Ruby’s adventures in The Bumhampton Chronicles, doesn’t it? This is the only reference to corporal punishment in the entire novel, unless you count slavery and asylums as implied instances: or British sailors under the lash. In any event, submission is never directly stated or acted upon, but rather assumed to be the natural order of the Universe. God first, white Protestant males next—or Royalty if not American—followed by the wealthy; then white middle-class women and the unfortunate white poor who toiled dawn-to-dusk for survival lumped beneath. Catholics, Jews, African slaves and Natives of all areas around the globe, were not to be mentioned in polite society beyond scholarly publications created to cement the white man’s place at the top.

So is the author herself a spanko? That is unknown, however, the snippet she created in Cum Grano Salis and a few pages later, shows an interest in flagellation.

Leaving behind the novel, is there even such a thing as the submissive mindset? I wrote the Zen koan posted at the beginning of this essay, because the closest parallel I have experienced to a submissive mindset myself, is during intense zazen—meditation—when all the cares and worries and emotions that beset the waking mind, drifted away into a place of empty contentment. Religion has always been protective, sometimes violently so, towards meditation/prayer as a means of enforcing submission towards the Divine. Anything that smacks of secular interference into the mysteries of the Universe has always been ruthlessly suppressed. Medicine, literature, science, sexuality; all forms of free-expression continue to run afoul of the strict tenets of faith. Religions demand submission: on their terms; or else.

“It’s a dichotomy though that the more you want to be submissive in your thoughts, the harder it becomes to quiet the chattering mind.”

The above comment I wrote for missy’s blog on one of her frequent posts about desiring a more submissive mindset. For missy and nora, among many other women in D/s relationships, they want their Doms to impose their will and demand submission through actions and words. This is in fact, how religion, and other organizations including the military, create institutions that thrive with the mindset of obedience through rote training, intimidation and fear. That mindset though is diametrically opposite to how a successful D/s relationship operates through willing cooperation and respect.

In Gilbert’s novel, Alma’s father Henry is a tyrant, created thusly by the circumstances of birth, and an early life at sea as a cabin boy. In order to carve out a life for himself, all beneath him are submissive to his needs, and any defiance is dealt with harshly. All within his orbit fear him and his temper. Henry is not a Dom. He’s a bully who’s only goal is to be richer than anyone else. Money is a vehicle with which he transcends his past and allows him to collect everything but love and an heir.

So yes, you can as a Dom, force submission through pain and fear, and render someone meek and broken to your needs. Or, you can, through selective dominance, allow—yes, allow—your submissive to tap into the well that already exists. Instead of thinking of your submissive as a tabula rasa you then write your desires upon their willing soul, instead treat them as intelligent beings who want your guidance in becoming better versions of themselves. After all, what is the difference between kneeling in a church praying, and kneeling naked in corner reflecting on inappropriate behavior?

There is of course, no real definition of what makes a submissive mindset. In this case, it seems to be an oxymoron when what makes thoughts disappear is active action, not passively waiting to be dominated. Actively seeking out actions that re-enforce the submissive bond; actively asking for a spanking when stress or melancholia rear up like the Garden’s serpent. When real-life work, family and the ever looming emergencies strike, chanting a mantra that you’ve created at your Doms behest. Having rituals that bond and release you from being in charge; even if only for awhile.

Remembering that ‘this too shall pass’, and that by taking care of your Dom first, your submissive mindset reminds them, that through service and discipline, the more they put into helping you quiet the chattering mind, the stronger and more confident you become in maintaining your submissive mindset to the enrichment of you both.