Month of Love

February has arrived, and with it, Valentine's Day

It is the month for Love or so they say

With hopeful, eager and prospective lovers abound

Their Valentine cards already making the rounds...

New Rules

I can scarcely believe it, but the new week has arrived, however instead of bemoaning the normal gloom and doom of the arrival of Monday, I have decided to change my tactics this morning. As my bottom is currently reminding me that when things go wrong, it is normally with a vengeance, I will be embracing the "new me" by applying the following simple rules:

Rule 1:

To remain cool and calm at all times.

Rule 2:

To make sure my language remains ladylike throughout.

Rule 3:

No attitude, whatsoever.

Rule 4:

No sulking or pouting.

Rule 5:

To obey.

Rule 6:

To be realistic about rules 1-5, and take precautionary measures....

Sunday Afternoons

The leather couch is mine for Sunday afternoons

During this time only to be used as per my whim

And in my Sunday nap, always reserved for that special one

However, none of this is allowed....

Remember, it is my leather couch for Sunday afternoons.

Warnings

After a week where my bottom was on the receiving side of some serious attention,

not only once but twice,

I have to admit that some lessons were learned...

Of which the most important is not to scoff at subtle warnings coming your way...

A Cane for my Tears

It started on the flight back from Heathrow to Johannesburg at the end of November, and kept building until it reached a crescendo yesterday. I realised after three hours that I was unable to stop crying, and out sheer desperation took a sleeping tablet. Waking up about six hours later, the hurt and longing were still so overwhelming, that it felt the pain came from the deepest core within me, but at least I did stop crying.

Back in South Africa, it did not even take a day for my reasonably bad cold that started in England to turn into full-blown bronchitis. This resulted in being booked off sick, with my doctor that knows me far too well, threatening hospitalisation if I do go to work. It was a long, lonely seven days, leaving me brooding and missing Uncle Nick even more. December is not my favourite month in general but I also had the added stress of having to perform some very unpleasant tasks at work. The New Year arrived, and with that the frustrating, difficult and extremely stressful commencement of trying to obtain work with a visa sponsorship in the UK.   

I hated crying ever since I was a small girl when I realised that a show of tears often would indicate a victory to my tormentors, which meant that they would come back with a vengeance. Instead, I replaced my tears with anger and aggression, as I was determined not to remain the victim. Sadly, a small defence mechanism that started when I was a mere six or seven years old, over the years became such a habit, that the first person that was able to break through that hard wall, was Uncle Nick and his cane.

However, being back in South Africa, alone with the missing and the terrible hurt, the frustration and stress, my behaviour underwent a change. I became more and more impatient, snapping at people, my voice hard and aggressive with my temper ready to flare at the slightest sign of criticism, regardless whether it was done with only the best of intentions. I was so desperate to cry, but once again, managed to suppress and ignore it, stubborn and not willing to feel the hurt to the point where I cannot breathe.

It was decided during this past week, that the wall had to broken down again, for me to obtain release from this hardness inside me and find some form of balance and calmness again. As such, I reported to HH yesterday afternoon, and although every fibre of my body was telling me to run into the opposite direction, I knew that it was needed. As is his normal habit, he engaged in small talk first, but I was so aware of the cane hooked over the chair, my mouth so dry with my stomach doing slow churns of pure panic, that I could barely concentrate on the conversation. One part of me wanted the conversation to carry on indefinitely, the other part wanted the caning over and done with.

It was to be eighteen strokes, and as I was bending over the chair, my bottom exposed, feeling the cane lightly tapping me, I tried desperately to relax, but my fingers were clutching and curling into the pillow so badly, that my fingertips were hurting. As the first stroke burned across my bottom, I thought myself insane, for wanting this, to need it! With every stroke, it seemed that my bottom was numb for the first couple of seconds, and then a streak of fire will race across and deep into my flesh.

I could not help myself, whimpering every time the fire started, but by stroke seven, the initial numbness no longer was present. He was laying on the strokes with exact care, taking his time to make sure that every stroke counts, trying to place all of them neatly over the whole expanse of my bottom, and my whole bottom was on fire. As the strokes continued towards twelve, I could feel myself trembling, with small shudders running through me. My whispered words of pain was now replaced by only small moans, and when he stopped at twelve to ask whether I am still okay, I could barely answer him. I was feeling the pain and burn on my bottom, but the pain inside me had me shuddering from head to toe. I was so desperately trying not to give in to the hurt, but when the thirteenth stroke seared across my bottom, the wall broke.

Although the last five strokes burned, with my bottom on fire and in agony, I was watching in amazement as my tears were silently dropping onto the chair, even having the realisation that I am no longer whimpering or moaning as the cane was finding it’s mark, because I was finally crying. It is a now a day later, and I do have problems in the sitting down department, with last night spent quite uncomfortably sleeping on my tummy, not wanting any linen to be in contact with my bottom. However, me, as a person? I am softer and gentle again, I feel lighter inside, and I know that although I most probably will start building the wall again, for now, I am okay.

  

Different Angles

 I never seem to be able to do things the "normal" way; invariably I will find myself doing things from a very different angle. This is also very true of my spanking relationship. Uncle Nick and I are in a relationship, with all the canes, straps and hairbrushes very firmly in place. However, he is in the UK and I am in the southern tip of Africa and apart from the occasional visits, it means that I am sort of left to my own devices.

Now Uncle Nick will be the first to tell anyone that I do have this unique talent to land myself in trouble, and that it apparently seems to come naturally to me. I would love to be able to disagree with him and produce concrete facts to the opposite; however, I have no time to do so, for I am rather busy on a full time basis trying to explain my little incidents away.

Then to add to my woes, I am blessed with a bit of a temper, can be so stubborn that it will put any mule to shame, and not forgetting that for some reason it can be very important to me to try to get the last word in. I have attempted to rectify my apparent inability to lie or be evasive, however, my reactions of blushing, refusing eye contact, nervous giggles that might or might not escape, and some unexplained stuttering had put and end to that as well.

 Therefore, sadly I have to agree with Uncle Nick, left to my own devices, I do tend to be more in trouble than actually out of it, and yes (sigh), I am rather or actually, my bottom is, in need of more attention than what irregular visits can achieve. The angle thing? This is where it comes into play. I do, every so often, well; okay more often then, see two South African men who fulfil the role of local Disciplinarians. Uncle Nick armed with his moleskin notebook keeps record of the worst of my "crimes", which he is adamant he will deal with during the next visit due. For the record, when that moleskin notebook comes out, I do tend to offer any apology I can think off with some begging and pleading added for good measure. Not that it ever works though...

For the rest, HH and Mr Sparkles have the "pleasure" to deal with the rest of my little misdemeanours. Mr Sparkles deal with the diet issues, and I do believe he has a very unhealthy love for brush-like implements. HH sees to the balance, and for some odd reason, he takes great joy out of having a general conversation with me, while his beloved canes and paddle always seems to be prominently displayed. I must admit, it is quite difficult to talk about the weather when you know that you are personally due for a heat wave...

Therefore, as I have said above, here I am, again with quite a different angle to the spanking world...but really, trust me; I promise it is NOT my fault...   

 

 

High Noon

I am extremely unfriendly on Monday mornings. In fact, everyone that knows me normally avoids me until at least two o'clock in the afternoon, simply because by then, I have resigned myself to the fact that I find myself back at work. However, with the additional non-optional instruction recently added to my Monday mornings, it is recommended that unless it is necessary, all contact with me should be avoided.

On Monday morning, I dragged myself out of bed, already miserable and grumbling about all the meetings that were scheduled for the day, walked into the bathroom - and well, my language use nearly became very unladylike. It sat in the corner, patiently waiting for me, knowing that I had no other option but to step onto it. We stared at each other for about five minutes, before I decided that I should just get it over and done with. The good news was that although there was a minor shortfall again, I did lose weight this past week. However, the weighing is only one part of the instruction; the reporting of it is another. 

The disciplinarian, in all his infinite wisdom had drawn up a spreadsheet, and to my utter disgust, even locked the columns, except where I have to complete the information. Nothing can be changed...not the targets, or his little hidden messages in the thing! As I recorded the weight, the corresponding column on the right hand side turned bright red, with a sweet little message of "You have not reached target, prepare for punishment" in bold, glaring at me. To make matters worse, for every day of the week, I have to record whether I did exercise or not. Last week’s record of exercising was quite impressive, simply because there was none to speak of. Again, I had a column on the right hand bright red telling me gleefully that "You did not exercise - prepare for punishment"

The agreement is that I will mail the sheet to him first thing on Mondays, however, on Tuesday morning; I received a text message querying the non-delivery. I could have given him thirty-seven good reasons why I had not mailed it yet, but simply put, I did not have the courage to submit the thing, and was desperately trying to figure a way out of it, which was not very successful either. The end of this sad tale and my tail for that matter is that I am currently nursing a very red and tender bottom, for today at exactly noon, I was rather firmly reminded about my resolutions about my diet and exercise regime, with the assistance of a cane, a bath and a clothing brush...

Fashion Advice

I have identified the following as a MUST HAVE item for my cupboard...

In all colours that might be available,

And the sooner, the better.

Optimist

I had verbally presented my objections against any form of brushes, leather straps and canes,

I forwarded my proposed Spanking Bill of rights,

And even found a picture to support my claims...

Although he had an uncontrollable fit of laugher,

He did not say a word, 

This was the only response I received...

(SIGH)

Let no one say that I am not an optimist....

Spanked for Angel Wings

After a spanking, I am soft and gentle,

He says my voice becomes smooth and liquid,

The harshness and anger within broken down,

I am an angel born again

And for a while, with the redness and heat of my bottom

I will remain placid and tender,   

But even with the angel wings on my back

Eventually, I will forget about the lessons learned

He will gently remind me of my stubbornness and wilfulness, 

He will quietly warn me that my time is running out,

And while I tempt his temper and my fate,

My angel wings become neglected and short

Then on a fair day, he will take me gently by the arm

And even as angel wings will try to sprout again,

Fertilised out of offered regrets and apologies,

He will gently remind me that it is too late

He will pull me over his lap, ignoring all protests and resistance,

His hands removing all barriers, to leave my bottom bare

And with the first impact of his hand against my naked flesh 

I will remember the lessons, the heat and the pain

For as he spanks me, he is guiding me towards softness and gentleness

To be able to hear my voice become smooth and liquid,

Wanting all the harshness and anger broken down,

For then I become, His angel, born again.

A Spanking Question

I have various scenarios around the "men always ask" bit...Who exactly were they asking? 

"Sir, I would like to ask you for your daughter's hand in marriage, and would also like to know whether I should be spanking her bottom".

I can only imagine the look on my father's face...

"Vicar, thanks for marrying us, just a quick question, should I spank my wife?"  

Most likely, a long prayer session will be coming up...

"Honey, we are now married, should I be spanking your bottom?" 

Okay, to be honest, Uncle Nick ever so often will ask "Do you want your bottom smacked?", but for some odd reason even if I do reply in the negative, it makes no difference...

I tend to walk away with a sore, warm and red bottom soon after the question was asked...  

Sweet Rewards

For the record, I would like to state that I am NOT the only one on diet.

However, I do feel that the often repeated "supportive" statement of 

"Sweetums, I have lost some more weight, do not know why you find it so difficult",

should be rewarded in kind...

Erm...I will not be available for the rest of the day...

Fragile

He is difficult, opinionated, and sarcastic

And he knows no mercy when administering a spanking

He has a sense of humour that makes me laugh

And he understands my heart and soul...

But today,

I am fragile, raw and hurting

For the missing of him, has become unbearable... 

Cats, Dogs and Diets

Well, seeing that Uncle Nick had already let the cat out the bag...

Yes! I am once again in the dog box....

 I have barely recovered from last week's bottom warming session with what I consider as rather the vigorous use of a cane and bath brush...

When sadly, although I have now lost 2.4kg (5.30 pounds) during the past two weeks, I missed the target by a mere 0.300grams (0.66 pounds)....

It also appears that my deep-rooted beliefs against the required exercise programme are not helping either...

Therefore, I shall be presenting my bottom once again this week...

Double Jeopardy

In my work, I deal quite a bit with the South African Labour Relations Act in terms of Disciplinary hearings. I cannot even begin to explain how many times I have had to explain the term "double jeopardy" to an aggrieved manager. They say it does help to draw a picture when a concept is not understood...

I am wondering if any objections would be raised if I try to explain it this way?

Bottoms and Handbags

We were miserable, cold and tired after a very, very long day with both of us very short in the patience department. We had been travelling since early that morning, and although it was early evening, our journey was not yet over. Uncle Nick was grumpy, and well, I was even grumpier. Walking into Preston station, we had to determine which platform our train was going to leave from, and Uncle Nick that is so richly blessed in the patience department, had already stormed off in a huff to the information desk, not preparing to wait for the information board to change to the next page.

I was tired, dying for a warm cup of coffee, and desperately needed some peace and quiet, preferably in a comfortable sitting position, and as he stormed off, mumbling whatever he was mumbling, I refused to budge. I leant back against a pillar, waiting for the information board to change; there was no way that I was going to consider walking in any direction that was not needed. Lo and behold, a couple of seconds later, the page appeared, I determined the platform and time that we were suppose to leave from and turned around to call Uncle Nick back.

The words literally died on my lips. There he was, standing in the middle of the terminal foyer, putting Lot’s wife to shame, with tired and irate passengers having to find their way around him. Obviously, the next step for me was to identify what he was focused on so attentively that it appeared that he was not even breathing. There she was, with her three friends, clearly trying to determine where they are supposed to be going. She was fashionably well dressed, a nice mini skirt, and her handbag was one of those with the very long straps, where the bag will then nestle against the side of the top part of leg. Well, that was how the bag was supposed to be worn, however, somewhere along the line, she had flung the bag over her shoulder, which had resulted in the bag snagging itself underneath her skirt and resting against her bottom.  

The problem was that every time she adjusted the bag, she was only pulling it forward, resulting in the skirt being lifted higher and higher, until her whole bottom was exposed. I cannot quite remember the colour of her panties, I think it might have been white, well, Uncle Nick will most definitely remember, but by this time, I was hopeless with laughter. As she was walking up and down with her friends, re-adjusting the bag continuously, lifting the skirt higher and higher, the statue formerly known as Uncle Nick was eventually only moving his eyes. A couple of times she did pass quite close to him, and it was as if I was watching a National Geographic programme; the absolute stillness in his demeanour, waiting, waiting for the target to come within reach...

Although I doubt that he would had actually given her bottom a smack, even with every ounce of his body telling me, that he really, really wanted to, I owe this girl a world of gratitude. I have decided to adopt a strategy, in that every time he does seem to start building an interest in my bottom, specifically referring to its temperature and colouring, I only need to find another bottom to distract his attention with...while I safely make my escape...

Mondays!

And they ask why I hate Mondays....

I think I will try again tomorrow....

Colour of Spanking

When my temper flares, I stumble over words in my haste to spit them out and I feel the heat, the redness of the moment, with my blood seemingly boiling in my veins. Yet, deep inside me, there is blueness, an icy core that embraces my feelings of hurt, humiliation and rejection. It is from this frozen core that my responses are born from, with words and actions created, and purely designed to stab as deep, as the wounds received.

My barbed words often fail to find their mark with him, and his ability to shrug them off only further infuriates me, the redness becoming a furnace as frustration within me builds, and I become daring, ignoring the boundaries and warnings. As I run out of steam, standing helplessly and exposed, knowing that I have overstepped the mark, the frozen core within rapidly melts away.  It is replaced by cold, blue shivers of fear, but with the last remnants of the frozen venom lingering, I remain defiant, unwilling to admit defeat.

  

I see in the way his eyes becomes hard, his mouth setting in unforgiving lines, his body rigid and foreboding, that within him, dark red and smouldering and slowly uncoiling itself, his temper is coming to life.  His anger remains controlled, never more than a slow heat, but his words are encased in ice, the frozen, blue shards of quietly spoken words with no compromise offered that adds to my fear, my knowledge that retribution will be due.

When pulled over his lap, my humiliation and anger still fuels the odd retort, but they are mere embers, the red heat in them snuffed out even before they can be fully delivered. I am cold with fear and in its icy blueness, my foolhardiness and insolence are reflected, and as he removes my panties, exposing my bottom, I shiver in the chilliness of his dismissal of my   regrets offered. With hard, rhythmic blows to my exposed flesh, I feel my bottom heating up, the pain of the burn ever so slowly increasing, as his hand alternates between reddening cheeks.

And as he deftly delivers each smack in accuracy, he holds me down, ignores my squirming, removes my hand when I want to protect my bottom that burns and stings, and takes no heed of my apologies, begging or pleading. He seeks the bridge between the flames and ice of me, to provide in my need for reassurance, to remind me of what he sees within me, to break down the hardness in me. He will only stop and gather me in his arms, when I do find me again, rich in the colour purple, stable, calm, warm and soft, the perfect balance of the heated redness and blue coldness of my soul.