I admit defeat...

I have faced an angry taxi driver, and managed to walk away without being harmed.
I have faced an even angrier Uncle Nick about the same incident, and apart from a harmed bottom, was still okay
I have even entered the London Underground and managed to emerge the same day, not getting lost once.
I have eaten mushy peas, steak and ale pie, and even had a pint or two of beer, and not only survived, but enjoyed it.

But sadly I have to report I have been forced to cower underneath a duvet, surrounded by tissues, medicine bottles....
I have faced the common cold ...and now publicly admit defeat.

I do promise though that once some form of peace agreement has been reached, I will resume my blogging...right now though I am off to search for another blanket, Vitamin C, a new box of tissues and a hot cup of anything....

Prelude (Spanking Fiction)

"I hate you!”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dark, laden with her resentment, her rebellion against a punishment due. She heard the petulance and defiance in them and cringed. An absolute silence reigned in the room, and as she stared at the mottled brown carpet, she saw her red painted toenails as if for the first time, briefly admiring the contrast in colour. She kept her head down, staring at her feet that were neatly next to each other as his black shoes moved into her view, slowly and evenly. When they stopped, she noticed how it seemed that his feet were blocking hers from escape, in front of hers but spread apart, one on each side.  

He was so close to her that she could feel his body heat, his quiet breathing, and the smell of his aftershave permeating the space between them. Her breathing has become shallow, she wanted to move backwards, move her red painted toenails into safety and far away from his black shoes, but she did not move. He still had not said anything, and in the silence, she heard her heartbeat racing, the pulse in her throat fluttering in response. She noticed that her toes were curled now, as if trying to bury themselves into the carpet as they were trying to hide themselves away from the black shoes guarding them.

She felt his fingers under her chin forcing her head up and as her red painted toe nails could no longer be seen she closed her eyes. She could feel his gaze upon her face and heard his voice quietly saying; "Open your eyes, look at me". She could feel the tiny pricks of tears forming in her eyes, her breathing even further reduced, as the burn in her throat seemed to be constricting her, but she did not open her eyes. Both his hands were cupping her face now, cool against her burning skin, and she resisted the urge to turn her face towards the comfort of his palms. He repeated his instruction, his voice still gentle but with steel edge so cold, that she felt her womb clenching in response. She could feel her toes becoming relaxed, no longer trying to hide in the carpet, resigned to the inevitable, the red toenails defiant, but defeated.

As she opened her eyes, his face loomed over hers. She saw his dark eyes, staring into hers, his face stern and forbidding, and his mouth unyielding. A small sardonic smile started playing around his mouth, and not breaking his stare, he repeated her petulant cry; "You hate me?” She wanted to break free, to confirm her hatred, her lie, from the safety that can only be created by distance, but she knew her eyes had already given him the true answer. She knew that he wanted more than that, more than a negative shake of her head, he wanted her to say it. She also knew that it will be followed by another question, the one where she will  acknowledge that she is deserving of what he has deemed necessary, her submission to what he had outlaid, to what was only said minutes ago, but seemed like hours.

To be continued in "Fugue"

Language of choice

I am thanking all the gods of the heavens and earth or where ever they might be that I am able to speak a second language. I am also praising the above mentioned gods, that the second language is only spoken in a small community in the southern tip of Africa...(okay, and in some parts of London as well), and that I am therefore reasonably assured of one pedantic, British citizen not understanding one word of it...

The die-hard supporters for the continued existence of Afrikaans would have made me their leader after today, well, maybe after a stern talking to about the liberal use of some Afrikaans words that should not be uttered in polite company.

For being on the receptive side of dismissive and sometimes abrupt conversations/answers/or raised eyebrows, I have explained in full Afrikaans detail what I thought about his eyebrows touching his hairline, thrown in a couple of two more eh...impolite words about the rest. I am meeting his sarcasm with my own sarcastic remarks; I have even resorted to counting to twenty in Afrikaans - something that I have not done in years.

The only problem is that one does not necessarily have to understand a language to understand what is being said. As hard as what I try to keep my tone even, the Afrikaans words are spat at him, very similar to bullets from a machine gun. I hear how my voice drops, how the words are encased in ice and I know that my tone project my little retorts so well, that I could just as well have said everything in English.  

To make matters worse, I do have a problem in restraining my hands to limit the gestures that go so well with the words and my tongue seems to click in disgust at him without any apparent control. I am not even sure whether it is worth mentioning that I am seriously having a battle with the concept to keep an expressionless face; I have glared at him, rolled my eyes, pulled my face and even stuck out my tongue (granted, that was when his back was turned)...

And Uncle Nick? All my outbursts, in Afrikaans and in English in a tone meant to wither and petrify, my gestures an expressive language in its own right, elicit nothing more than a maddening, frustrating and oh, so irritating patronising and amused look....

However, I do have this niggling feeling that the use of my native language is going to land me up in hot water sooner than later...

Punishment

He told me to finish what I was doing, he will be waiting in the bedroom. As I walked towards the room, my legs felt weighed down, my heart thudding in my ears and my mind in turmoil. The first thing I saw when entering the bedroom was the pillows stacked, with the cane on top. My instinct was to turn around, to tell him I am not doing this, but yet, I stepped deeper into the room.

I could feel the anger vibrating off him, as he stood in front of me. I tried to step back, sit down defiantly, but he pulled me back into that close uncomfortable space, making me stand in front of him, as he told me in a gentle voice that my days of living recklessly is coming to an end. Today. Now. I wanted so badly to defy him, to tell him that he does not understand and that he never will, but I knew in my heart that it would have been a lie.

As he ordered me to the bottom of the bed, and to assume the position, I was numb inside. I knew what was coming, I did not want it, I was already humiliated, burning with shame about my temper that seems to rule my life at times.  He lifted my dress, pulled down my panties, still lecturing, ordering me to not to move, and I could hear the anger increasing in his voice.

It was twelve strokes, but everyone of them burnt into my soul. I could not help but to whimper, the pain not only burning across my bottom, but into my heart. When it was over, he instructed me not to move, and with my bottom exposed, burning with pain, he left the room. I was told after an eternity that the punishment is over and that I could get up and get dressed, but all I wanted to do was to curl up in a ball. He was still angry, not willing to cuddle, and although he did I could feel that he is doing it only for me, and not for us.

My bottom was on fire, but a rebellion started burning in my gut. I was guilty as charged, I admitted to doing something so reckless that it could have resulted in my death, I was punished for it, but yet, his anger was not fully resolved, and he denied me the one thing that hurts more than all the caning in the world, his forgiveness, his safety, his arms around me, telling me that everything will be okay.

Not even an hour later, on our way out to have a late lunch, he tried to touch my face. I have been denying up to that point that anything is wrong, even defiantly stating that my bottom is not hurting, staying away from him without making it obvious. But as he reached out for my face, I jerked my face away, and as I tried to hastily avert my eyes, I knew it was to late. He saw the defiance, the anger, the rebellion shining in them.

I tried not to meet his gaze, dropping my head, but with his fingers underneath my chin, he tilted my head back, that he could look at me, forcing me to look at him. A quiet question about him detecting insolence hung in the air, I closed my eyes, resentment burning in me. How dare he ask that! How can he not know that I am angry? He punished me for I admitted guilt for, apologised for, but he denied me the full comfort of him. I wanted to shout at him, I wanted to tell him not to touch me, to leave me alone, but at the same time, all I wanted, was his arms around me.

He took me by the arm, leading me into the kitchen. I so desperately wanted to twist free, to tell him I am not going with him, but only a lonely "No" escaped from my lips. My feet following his, my arm staying in his hand willingly. As he made me held onto the kitchen chair, and lifted my dress for the second time in the day, and his hand finding an already burning bottom, I wanted to cry, my throat aching with the suppressed hurt,  but I did not.

We left for the pub about thirty minutes later, and as I got into the car, staring at the rain soaked street, I could barely sit. I refused to look at him, I did not want to talk to him, I did not want to be with him...then he gently put his hand on my leg, lightly rubbing it, not letting go....and like a sunflower turning her face towards the sun, I felt myself calming down, settling down, feeling safe, feeling loved.

Countdown to a caning

When I boarded the flight to the UK, I was excited, tired, apprehensive and nervous. It has now been a week, and I can honestly say there has not been a day where I did not enjoy myself. But I am out of sorts, in a big way.

Uncle Nick yesterday in his illness even had enough, although I actually think he was just looking for an excuse to get to my bottom. So, I can now officially say that I have been spanked, over someone's knee, albeit it was only a quick couple of swats. And I should be happy right?

Wrong. I am miserable, my temper is shorter as normal, I am reluctant to engage in any conversations, and to be honest, am walking around as if I have a sore tooth. And to say that Uncle Nick is slowly but surely running out of patience is putting it mildly. He keeps on asking what is wrong; I keep on doing the stupid woman thing of saying: "Nothing". 

Until this morning, I really did not know why I was feeling this way, and there was nothing I could point to, so the "nothing" answer seemed to only logical one. Then it struck me this morning, and I could not actually believe that for two days I have been walking around moping. I am in my own odd way a creature of habit and it has been firmly established that I build up this inner tension that eventually manifests itself, within a two-week period.

There was my answer: I am overdue for a punishment. So, this morning, I told Uncle Nick I finally figured out what was wrong with me. When hearing what I had to say, he just folded me into his arms, and said, "We will sort you out today", and as I am sitting here, I now that in less than an hour, he will be doing just that.

With a cane. For doing this...

Behind closed doors: Raven Red and the London Spank Daddy

I did not want to go into details in what happened behind closed doors between the London Spank Daddy and me; it became clear that I was not going to be let off the hook so easily. Uncle Nick even had a serious chat today with me, carrying on about something concerning the readers being let down. So here, it is the account of what happens to a Raven that sometimes does not know when she should rather not say a word...at all....and to be honest, it is a salute to the man known as the London Spank Daddy.

During my breakfast meeting with Peter Jones at the pub, I agreed as per our initial conversations that we would go to his apartment for more privacy. It is rather difficult to discuss certain aspects around a mutually bound lifestyle in public, especially when it does appear that patrons are becoming more interested in my conversation that the pint of ale in front of them. Again, very confident within myself, conveniently forgetting that my flippant responses and attitude might be conceived as bordering on insolent, I followed him into his private domain.

When that door closed behind me, all the nerves came rushing back, setting off butterflies again. There are no more eyes or ears that represent safety; this was only him and me. I remember jabbering away, no idea of what I was saying, no longer making eye contact so brazenly as before. Then only a quiet command: "I am going to teach you respect. Stand in the corner, with your hands on your head".

Frankly, if anyone told me a week ago that, I would do this; I would have still been laughing. Nevertheless, to my own surprise, I found myself in a corner, facing the wall, with my hands on my head. I swore that no one would ever make me stand in a corner! Even worse, I obeyed blindly, no argument, eyes averted and feeling absolute shame burning my face. Granted, rebelliousness was swirling like a bad summer storm inside me, but there I was, like a naughty schoolgirl sent for time out.

Then there was the absolute quietness behind me. I had no idea what he was doing, he was not talking, I could not hear him moving and with every second going past, I could feel my discomfort and shame increasing. When he eventually did speak, my first reaction was to drop my hands, turn and face him, which was a mistake. Again, just a quiet voice: "Did I give you permission to move or drop your hands?"

I found myself facing the damn wall again, hands back on my head. Words not fit to utter in public was racing through my mind, but yet, I said nothing, this time only closing my eyes, praying for it to end. But the end was not in sight. All of a sudden, I heard him move, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him placing a chair next to me. I was ordered to stand in front of the chair, lean over and with both hands hold onto the top of the chair and not to move.

After the little flurry of activity, again, I could not hear him moving, nor did he speak. The absolute quietness was unnerving, and I could feel apprehension grow within the depth of my stomach. All of a sudden, he moved, and I could feel him standing very close behind me. To my utter mortification, I felt him lifting my dress, and slowly lowering my panties, but no resistance, no movement from me, still obeying the command not to make a movement. 

It was also clear that the London Spank Daddy knew what he wanted to do. The implement of his choice was something that has never touched my bottom, and he quietly explained to me what the punishment would be. He also made very sure, as I was standing with my dress lifted, my bottom bare, holding onto a chair that the riding crop remained within my eyesight.

When I thought that nothing could get worse, he quietly was starting asking questions. He knew that I did not want to say "Sir", so although I obediently answered his questions, he would not respond until I added the "Sir" to the answer. Absolute shame coursed through me, but just as resentment wanted to bubble over, he quietly would ask the next question. I realised that unless I show the required respect, the London Spank Daddy will keep me in position, bent over, bottom bare for as long as what it takes.

I felt the leather cuff on my left wrist first, and my heart started racing. I have an absolute fear of my hands being restrained, and as he took my right hand to and cuffed it as well, I broke position. My voice was barely audible when I found myself pleading with him. Pure fear made my mouth seem so dry, that it felt that I could not get the words out. Without a word, he undid my right hand, and stood with his hand on my shoulder, pressing it reassuringly, quietly waiting for the irrational fear in me to subside. As I could feel myself calming down, he made me lie across the bed, only restraining the left hand to the bedpost, and I knew that the promised riding crop waited.

Again, he did not say a lot, lifting the dress back up, my bottom bared. I could feel the light tap tap taps of the crop against my bottom, not hard, not soft, just enough to irritate the skin, the nerve endings uncertain of what is coming, and leaving me waiting in nervous anticipation. Then as I heard the swish of the air, I felt a burn across my bottom, and I could not help but to whimper, tense waiting for the next swish to warn me of the burn that is to follow. However, he resumed the tap tap tap of the crop against my bottom. I soon realised that he is not following a pattern; he is playing, keeping me on edge, making sure that every swat will be remembered.

I felt my bottom burning, heated, and I could imagine it being red, when he stopped. He moved in front of me, and my final humiliation commenced. “You will be receiving your final 10 strokes, and you will be requesting them. You will be counting, saying: One, thank you Sir. If you take too long, I will add on extra strokes". Silence settled in the apartment. It was racing through my mind that he could not be serious; actually, I was praying that he was not being serious. I have to count, ask and thank him? He must be out of his absolute mind. Yet, when I heard "I am waiting, young lady”, I found myself saying"One, thank you Sir".

I still cannot decide which was worse. Knowing that once that little sentence was uttered, the pain will be following, or the realisation that he did not always wait for the whole sentence, and that I could hear my voice lift in response to the burn that streaked across my bottom. After the tenth stroke, he gently undid the cuff on my left hand, the punishment at the hands of the London Spank Daddy complete.

Raven Red and The London Spank Daddy

Shortly before I left for the UK, my chatting list increased with an extra person whose talk  I found both interesting and different. Okay, and I will freely admit it, my curiosity seems to outweigh common sense at times, which most probably can explain most of the troubles I can get myself so easily into. During these chats, I had become increasingly fascinated by both the persona and the person, and without thinking about it, I  made an appointment to see the author of the book, "True Confessions of a London Spank Daddy", Mr Peter Jones.

I think at times Uncle Nick can only despair as to what the Raven can get herself into, but he has never denied me the chance to explore and investigate this new world that has opened up to me. Granted, he does offer his opinion on whatever the subject matter is, and at times when his patience runs thin, the inclusion of the potential consequences for me, if things do go wrong are part and parcel of the whole conversation.

With promises to Uncle Nick that I would remain in contact, I set off on yet another journey, this time into the heart of  London, to keep the appointment with Peter Jones. Maybe I should have been more nervous about the meeting, but the daunting task of using the London Underground system were more of a problem for me than anything else.Clearly all the gods conspired against me as well, as in the short time of one day, I not only had to use the tubes, I had to find alternative routes, move from underground to overland trains, and even had to utilise the bus services at one stage.

When Peter Jones and I finally did meet, and I was face to face with the man known as the Spank Daddy of London, it struck me that I should maybe have been more worried about the meeting than what I have been up to until that stage. Alas, it was a bit late in the day for common sense to prevail, so I found myself slightly at a disadvantage, off-balance, and frankly, with quite a bit of nervous fluttering in the base of my stomach.

However, having a traditional breakfast at the pub on the corner, and with the welcome heat of huge cups of coffee, the initial awkwardness between us eventually melted away. The conversations that ensued were all over the place, with both of us trying to ask questions and talk about everything in the limited period of time we had available. I did found myself a couple of times in a bit of trouble over my natural talent for being open and honest in what I say, well and the fact that I do have a problem to get the word "Sir" without any sarcastic inflection over my lips...

I was more than once sternly reminded during the day that I should show some more respect. To be totally honest, I did every now and again had moments of total enjoyment to see blue eyes turning absolutely icy before a very clipped voice would remind this "Young Lady" that she is playing with fire. As we walked to the nearest underground station for me to commence my return journey, I realised that I did enjoy every minute that I had spent with the London Spank Daddy but even more so, to have a change to meet the man behind the silhouette. A man that is part of a culture where all of us has one common thread, and that no matter what part of the thread we each hold and belief in, it does bind us together.

Oh, and for the curious of nature, Raven Red with the London Spank Daddy? I am not even going to deny that that it was the equivalent of having an open flame next to a keg of gunpowder...but for the rest? Now that would be telling.....