54 Things

Borrowing this meme from Hermione, I challenged myself to come up with a list of 54 random things that make me feel happy. I liked reading her list and could see how compiling it would be a pleasant exercise in appreciation. So, here goes:

1. Silly, couple-y things between John and me, like our pet names and nonsense words.
2. Reading comments on my blog.
3. Cloudy, rainy days, especially when I am indoors and don’t have to go anywhere.
4. Freshly pedicured toenails.
5. Petting random dogs on the street (after getting an OK from the owners, of course)
6. Burrowing under piles of blankets.
7. Giving and receiving massages.
8. Tuesdays with Steve.
9. Watching (and rewatching, and rewatching) Dark Shadows.
10. Getting compliments on my writing.
11. The occasional deer sighting up in the canyons where John lives.
12. Purring cats.
13. Beatles songs.
14. Bewitched episodes with Dick York (the original Darrin).
15. Snuggling, cuddling, spooning. Love body contact.
16. When a man cups my face in his hand.
17. Beethoven’s 7th symphony.
18. Finding the name of a song I’ve heard and liked, just by typing a lyric into Google.
19. Finding and downloading said song on iTunes. Gone are the days where I had to buy an entire album for one song, and hope I liked the rest of it.
20. Opening a new box of See’s candy and getting the first choice.
21. Quiet neighbors.
22. Good hair days.
23. Vine-ripened tomatoes.
24. Friends who accept and accommodate my various food oddities without making me feel, well, odd.
25. Waitstaff who get special orders and substitutions right.
26. Drivers who hang back and let me into a crowded lane.
27. Giving a random compliment to a stranger and watching their face light up.
28. Gatherings of spanko friends.
29. Classic movie musicals (e.g., Singin’ in the Rain).
30. People who know the difference between i.e. and e.g.
31. Big bouquets of colorful flowers.
32. Wearing red.
33. Wearing my stepmother’s beautiful necklace. I guess it’s mine now, but I’ll always think of it as hers.

34. The joy of hanging out with girlfriends, laughing and chatting and sharing.
35. The post-spanking bubble of bliss.
36. Burying my face in John’s sweet-smelling hair.
37. Seeing a picture of myself that I actually like.
38. Playing Scrabble.
39. Working crossword puzzles.
40. Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker ballet.
41. That moment during a workout when the endorphins kick in.
42. German chocolate cake at Aroma Café.
43. Starchy comfort food — bread, potatoes, pasta, pancakes.
44. Books that are so well written and captivating, I hate to put them down and can’t wait to pick them up again.
45. Being Chrossed.
46. Watching The Big Bang Theory.
47. Marx Brothers movies.
48. Warm, thick socks when my feet are cold.
49. Kisses, all kinds.
50. Random acts of kindness, just because.
51. Putting my body and psyche into my top’s hands and knowing I am safe.
52. The I Love Lucy “Vitameatavegemin” episode.
53. Weird Al Yankovic parodies.
54. Feeling like I belong, and that I matter. 🙂

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Repercussions of sass

You know that snarky little bit I threw in at the end of yesterday’s blog? Apparently, His Royal Lateness didn’t appreciate my airing his penchant for tardiness “all over the cyberwaves.”

Oh, dear. What’s a top to do?

Yeah, that.

We had quite the spirited “discussion” about it. He tried bringing up that “Top is always right” business again, but I wouldn’t have any of it. “The top is always…” he said, trying to coax me into finishing it. “The top is always late,” I snapped.

“No,” he said, punctuating his point with vigorous slaps. “I’ll give you a hint; the word starts with an ‘r’ and ends with a ‘t.'”

“The top is always a rat!” I crowed triumphantly. Wrong answer. 

But speaking of r—t words, I told him that if he wanted to be treated with respect, he’d have to earn it. He claimed that he already had, and I needed to learn how to respect him. I could start by kissing his hand.

Say what?

He then smugly stuck his hand in front of my mouth. And I promptly bit it.

I think that might have been the proverbial last straw. The heavy artillery came out, including that godawful “boot camp” paddle, the one with the boot sole that leaves wicked tread marks. Much lecturing ensued. Oh, the fuss he made! “Do you know that you hurt my finger?” he hollered. “Do you know that you’re hurting my ass?” I threw back. 

“You leave teeth marks on my finger, I leave tread marks on your bottom,” he growled. OK, he was keeping up with me.

(In case you’re wondering, that shiny thing on my right cheek is a clear Tegaderm protective bandage. I’m trying to give that weakened spot a bit of a break, and it seems to be helping. No fresh “butt measles” yesterday, despite the intense play.)

He gave me a second chance to kiss his hand. And guess what I did a second time?

As you can imagine, that didn’t go over too well either, and he made sure I knew it. After the next flurry, he started asking me questions about whether or not that had been a good idea, and what I was going to do next time. I didn’t answer, and he said, “Let me ask again.” But instead of asking, he gave me another flurry. “Ask already!” I screeched. “I just did,” he replied calmly, giving me yet another round. “You don’t recognize that language?”

Oh, brother.

“OK, I’ll ask in English,” he said cheerfully. “Is biting your top something you will refrain from, from now on?” When I didn’t answer right away, he added, “Did you understand that question?”

“Yes,” I grumbled, “now that I’ve put it through my Asshole to English dictionary.”

Everything after that is a blur. 🙂

Until, of course, the third time he put his hand to my mouth. And I tenderly kissed his palm, cupping it to my face, after thanking him. While he told me that I was the best bottom ever, he could never want for another, and he disciplined me because he cared about me. 

Alllll better. So much yum.

Yesterday was one of those days where I didn’t want to return to the real world. I wanted to stay in the bliss bubble and simply be with my top. But alas, he had to go be a dad, and I had my own things to do. And yet, after he left, I was still in that soft, wistful, fragile state, and wanted to capture it. So I experimented with my camera’s timer and some arty effects, and got this:

Some who don’t know me, might look at a photo like this and think, “She’s been broken.” On the contrary. I was put back together.

♥

Validation for spankos!

So, kids. Every day, it seems they (whoever they are) discover something new that’s going to kill us. One day it’s coffee. Then it’s eggs. Then it’s fats. Then it’s carbs. Then it’s…

Sitting???

That’s right. According to the Washington Post, too much sitting can cause all sorts of ailments and organ damage, and even kill you. Read all about it here.

I swear, someday they’re going to say that breathing is bad for you. (Oh, wait. It already is, if you’re around smokers.) But I digress.

My point is — spankos, we have never been more pertinent! If sitting is such an evil, then it should be avoided at all costs, no? And what better way to avoid it than to make it impossible to sit?

We’ve always known that spanking is good for our psyches. But now it’s good for our health, too. Spanked so hard that it hurts to sit down? Excellent! Don’t just grab a pillow for your sorry butt; get off of it! Do you want to die? Of course not!

So, spankers, rejoice in the fact that you’re helping your bottoms maintain their good health. And spankees, never again complain that you can’t sit comfortably! You’re not supposed to be sitting — it will kill you!

How ironic that I’m writing this while sitting around waiting for Steve, who is late as usual. :-Þ

I Meme What I Say

Slow news day. Slow news weekend, too. Because I’m bored, I thought I’d tackle the latest meme that’s been floating around. 

The phone rings. Who do you want it to be?
Wrong number. I hate the phone. OK, OK, John or Steve.

When shopping at the grocery store, do you return your cart?
I do indeed, every time. 

In a social setting, are you more of a talker or a listener?
I’m both; depends on who I’m with and how comfortable I am. 

Do you take compliments well?
Better than I used to.
 
Are you an active person?
As in physically? Yeah, I do the gym thing. As long as I don’t have to actually go outside.

If abandoned alone in the wilderness, do you survive?
Not for five seconds. I am a complete wimp. First I’d plop down in the middle of the wilderness and cry. Then I’d probably eat something poisonous and croak.

Did you ever go to camp as a kid?
My mother used to make me go to get me out of the house. I hated it. Passionately.

What was your favorite game/s as a kid?
I loved all kinds of board games. And my Etch-a-Sketch.

A sexy person is pursuing you, but you know that he/she is married, would you?
Would I what?

Are you judgmental?
Would love to say no, but yeah, I am sometimes.

Do you like to pursue or be pursued?
Be pursued (as long as it’s fun pursuit and not some stalker-y pursuit).

Use three words to describe yourself.
Cranky without attention.

If you had to choose, would you rather be deaf or blind?
I can’t choose. Yeah, I know, it says if I had to. Well, I can’t, dammit. They both suck too badly.

Are you continuing your education?
No.

Do you know how to shoot a gun?
I do not. I’d probably drop it and shoot myself in the foot.
 
How often do you read books?
Every day.
 
Do you think more about the past, present or future?
Used to be past, but now it’s more future. I have to remind myself to stay in the present.
 
What is your favorite children’s book?
The Phantom Tollbooth.  

Where is your ideal house located?
Anywhere there are no barking dogs, kids, party throwers or TV/music blasters. Yes, I like things quiet.
 
Boxers, briefs, thongs, panties or grannies?
Boyshorts and cheekies, and the occasional thong. I would not be caught dead in granny panties.
 
Last person you talked to?
John.

Have you ever taken pictures in a photo booth?
Long ago, yes.
 
What are your keys on your key chain for?
Apartment, outside door in apt. building, mailbox, laundry room locker, John’s house.

Where was the furthest place you traveled today?
From here to the gym.

Where is your current pain?
In my nose. The air has been so damn dry here for so long, the insides of my nostrils are cracked. I know, TMI!

Do you like mustard?
Love it. But not the spicy stuff.

Do you prefer to sleep or eat?
Sleep. I can go longer without food than I can without sleep.

Do you look like your mom or dad?
My dad.

How long does it take you in the shower?
Five minutes for a shower; about 15 for a hair wash/leg shave.
 
What movie do you want to see right now?
Philomena. 

What did you do for New Year’s?
We got take-out from Whole Foods, watched a movie, and then had champagne and kisses at midnight. 

What was the cause of your last accident?
Wouldn’t call it an accident; I have a bruise on my shin from where I clunked it on Steve’s Harley. 

Exciting stuff, I know. Should have something a lot more fun next post!

Tramp stamps, anyone?

Of all the tattoos out there, the “tramp stamp” seems to be one of the most popular. For those who aren’t tattoo-savvy, that’s a rather unflattering nickname for an inking on the small of the back, just above the tailbone. These tats are very popular with spankos, and in the fetish world in general.

I don’t have any tattoos myself, and I don’t have the desire to get any, but I think some of them can be very cool. John is always teasing me about getting a tramp stamp, for whatever reason. Every weekend, whenever we’re cuddling in bed, he’ll poke at my lower back using his fingernail as if it were a needle, asking what I want back there. I’ll say something like, “John, stop it,” and he’ll start stabbing out John, stop it on my back. “You really want that there? That’s kind of weird.” Argh.

I don’t know why he does this; it’s not like he actually wants me to get a tattoo. In fact, several years ago when I was toying with the idea of a small one, he said, “Do you really want that on you when you’re 70? The only thing I want on you when you’re 70 is me.” 🙂 So much for that idea.

Tramp stamps, like any tat, can be anything you want. Many are simple and elegant, like this:

Some are amazingly intricate and detailed:

Aaaaand then we have stuff like this:

Trust me, that’s not the worst one I saw in my searches.

So, readers, do tell. Do you have a tramp stamp, and if so, what is it? And if you don’t, let’s pretend you’re getting one — what would it be?

Me? shrugging  I dunno. How about this: A small, bright red arrow, pointing downward — kind of like the one in the preceding photo, but farther down. And above it? Exit Only. 😉

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Hey, y’all, check this out!

Look who became a Harley girl yesterday!

No, of course it’s not mine; it’s Steve’s. He took me on my very first Harley ride yesterday. This is the second time in my life that I’ve been on a motorcycle, and the first time was just a little putt-putt with a narrow seat and no back rest, with me clinging to my friend for dear life. I was amazed at how comfortable this ride was, how steady and stable and safe I felt. And of course, it didn’t hurt that Steve is an experienced rider who knew I’d be nervous and did everything possible to put me at ease. (And don’t worry; I wore a helmet!)

So off we went up Topanga Canyon and stopped at a look-out point high up in the hills. It was a gorgeous day; not super hot as it’s been, with blue skies and streaks of clouds. Unfortunately, other people kept coming and going, so we couldn’t sneak in any outdoor play. But we did duck behind a clump of bushes and take this:

The ride was so exhilarating, I couldn’t wait to get back home to play. According to Steve, there is a name for women who accompany Harley bikers…

“Riding bitch.”

“I am not a riding bitch!” I snapped. “I don’t like that term.”

“You don’t have to,” he smiled. “I like it. I’m the top.”

“How about if I make you my riding bitch?” I grumbled. Apparently he didn’t care for the idea, since he smacked my thigh. Meanie.

On top of all the rest of the spanking, I had an extra 30 coming as a bonus for smartassery. Not that big a deal, until he added that I had to count them down… from 10,000. WTF? Yes, just to make it complicated, I had to count down out loud from 10,000 to 9,970. It was harder than it sounds, as you’ll see in this video snippet.



That’s a brand-new riding crop, BTW. Stings like crazy, but I like it. It has a bite to it, a lot of snap, but perfect for someone like me who loves smack over thud.

But of course, when I was well worn out and ready for it to be over, he just had to pick up that @#$%ing Licking Stick to finish me off. Boooooooo!

Afterward, he massaged my bottom and legs with lotion, which was so soothing, I nearly fell asleep. What a perfect day. 🙂

Of course, John gave me a ration of noise about it later. You see, he loves to tease me about how he’s going to get a Ducati. My standard answer is over my dead body, because I don’t want to have to deal with his dead body. That man is not getting a motorcycle, period. I have been through eight — count them, eight — different cycling accidents with him, and if he can’t keep from getting maimed on a bicycle (granted, he was using it to commute to work and was on the road a lot, but still), I don’t want to think about what he could do to himself on a motorcycle. So when he heard that I’d ridden on Steve’s Harley, he made a big fuss.

“What?? You get to ride and I don’t?”

“You can ride one. You don’t get to buy one.”

“How come Steve gets to have a bike and I don’t?” Oh dear, we’re in grade school again, are we? 🙂  “Because Steve is Steve and you are you. And you’ve reached your accident quota with me.”

“I’m very disappointed,” he grumbled. “Tell Steve how disappointed I am, and how it’s all your fault.”

Uh huh.

Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, no. When we were idling at stoplights and I felt the cycle engine vibrating between my legs, I did not get aroused. Another myth dispelled. Oh well…