Monthly Archives: October 2011

Happy Halloween & the Best Laid Schemes


But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!

Happy Halloween everyone! I’m writing this in preparation for going out in search of a pumpkin to carve. (Oh wait, that’ll have to be tonight — forgot to get money from Paul.)

So, if you were following my plan to blog daily this month, maybe you’re wondering what happened.  It wasn’t just having my post eaten (though God knows that’s discouraging) — the past week has been sort of rough. As my (new) therapist remarked last Friday, I’ve been anxious and depressed for the past few weeks (her saying this prompted me to burst into tears – doh!).  In addition to all the usual stress plus the added mess that is the academic job market, I’m in the middle of changing one of my medications.  Lexapro wasn’t doing much and is muy expensive — I’m now on Zoloft — much cheaper though it’s too soon to know if it’ll be any better. Oh, and I had a touch of a cold. It all came to a head this weekend and all I wanted to do was sleep.

I didn’t just sleep. I went to a calligraphy playdate on Saturday — bringing with me Pan de Muerto (mmm)  which I bought at the lovely La Monarca Bakery rather than making it myself.  It was well received. I thought I was doing okay, but after a couple hours all the other women started asking me if something was wrong — apparently I was being too quiet compared to my usual self.  I told them I was just feeling thoughtful, but realizing that others could notice how I was feeling shook me and took some of the pleasure out of the day. But my italic lettering is getting better and I was glad I went and got to practice. I’ll post some samples soon. We’re just starting capital letters.

Yesterday I worked on revising one of the chapters of my dissertation to turn it into a writing sample.  It had to go from over 100 pages down to just 20.  This took a while and was painful, while also tipping my anxiety (everything about the job market does that). I haven’t looked at it yet this morning but Paul, in addition to caning me for being one gym visit short for the week, bought me a Magnum ice cream bar to be a reward when the cutting was finally done.  That and a good night’s sleep and this morning I feel better. Thank goodness.

So the experiment with daily blogging wasn’t a total bust, but not a complete success either. I do like writing daily, but I suspect if I do it again it’ll end up being more of a mood chart than a series of essays on kinky thoughts.

Eaten Post

TypePad, who I'm mostly very fond of, seems to be having issues with me composing online. This is frustrating because I like being able to compose online and find it annoying to use a text editor. But this is the third time in three weeks that TypePad has hung while posting and my post has been lost. Grrr!

So what did I write about? It was a Friday Firsts post about what my original fetish is and how I've added one as a result of my relationship with Paul.  I don't have the heart to re-write it right now but will try and give it a go tomorrow after my calligraphy playdate.

I guess it's just been one of those days. Still, Paul brought me home some chocolate.

Recent Search Terms

There are the usual:

  • hand spanking
  • hand tawsing
  • shadow lane parties
  • Niki Flynn
  • Alex Birch

There are the not surprising:

  • short pants caning
  • hands strapped punished
  • fetish saddle shoes
  • spanked in uniform
  • the sting and cut of the cane

And then there are the odd:

  • dallas spanks hard for amelie rutherford (odd in the sense that I had no idea these words came together anywhere on this blog. Until now I mean.)
  • bob dylan spanked (I just can’t imagine this one.)
  • scott o’rourke art (I don’t even know who this is.)
  • collar tied shut (You’re making my neck all itchy just thinking about it.)

I know doing search terms is a bit of a cop out, but I’m too tired tonight to write about calligraphy, the other thing I did all day today. Better post tomorrow!

What Type Are You? (Eye-En-Ef-Pea)

Have you ever taken the Myer’s Briggs personality test? It’s based on Jungian personality types, sorting people by four different categories.  My type, which I test at every time on every version of the test is INFP (introversion, intuition, feeling, perception). I took it the first time my freshman year of college and have taken it and administered it to groups a number of times since then. It isn’t the be-all or end-all, but is a useful way of understanding that people are different and they value different things.

What’s my type like?

The Idealist / Healer

The polite, reserved exterior of INFPs can at first make them difficult to get to know. They enjoy conversation, however, taking particular delight in the unusual. When INFPs are in a sociable mood, their humor and charm shine through. Disposed to like people and to avoid conflict, INFPs tend to make pleasant company.

Devoted to those in their inner circle, INFPs guard the emotional well-being of others, consoling those in distress. Guided by their desire for harmony, INFPs prefer to be flexible unless their ethics are violated. Then, they become passionate advocates for their beliefs. They are often able to sway the opinions of others through tact, diplomacy, and an ability to see varying sides of an issue.

INFPs develop these insights through reflection, and they require substantial time alone to ponder and process new information. While they can be quite patient with complex material, they are generally bored by routine. Though not always organized, INFPs are meticulous about things they value. Perfectionists, they may have trouble completing a task because it cannot meet their high standards. They may even go back to a completed project after the deadline so they can improve it.

INFPs are creative types and often have a gift for language. As introverts, they may prefer to express themselves through writing. Their dominant Feeling drives their desire to communicate, while their auxiliary intuition supplies the imagination. Having a talent for symbolism, they enjoy metaphors and similes. They continually seek new ideas and adapt well to change. They prefer working in an environment that values these gifts and allows them to make a positive difference in the world, according to their personal beliefs

Want to take the test? There’s a version here.  Let me know what your letters are — I’m always curious about people and their types.

Just a Hand Spanking

Last night I was handspanked. Not for any reason but because it seemed like a good idea. Paul had promised it early in the day but bedtime had come, complete with clean sheets on the bed, and I slid between them not feeling disappointed.  It had been a good day.

Paul came in and urged me out of bed. As it always seems when it comes time for a spanking, it suddenly seemed all quiet in the neighborhood. I mentioned that it was kind of late. Paul said there was no one to hear (meaning my dad and mom). I mentioned our upstairs neighbors — God knows we hear what they’re doing on their bed often enough — I cringed but wasn’t surprised when Paul replied that he didn’t care whether they heard or not.

Fine. So he doesn’t care what the people upstairs think. I tried to relax and put them out of my mind figuring it would be easier if I didn’t care either. This was a nice spanking in that I was arranged comfortably on the bed, my head resting on my arms. I had visions of a blissful spanking where I was brave and sexy and all that.  That’s not the way it goes for me though, part of me has to struggle to escape, has to feel subdued somehow. I wish that weren’t the case, but there it is.  Before he started, Paul pinned my legs with one of his and wrapped his left arm tight around me. I focused on breathing, reminding myself this would just be a handspanking.

Just a handspanking but Paul has a heavy hand. Even though my panties the first few smacks stung. The thing about a hand spanking, especially one through ones panties is it feels pretty whimpy to complain about it. So I tried not to whimper and was just getting to the point where it all seemed bearable when I felt his hands tugging my panties down. I’ve made the argument in the past that I should get to keep them up because it hurts just as much through them, but honestly that’s not the case.  That thin layer of cotton protection acts as a sting baffle.  When it’s removed the smacks feel sharper and burn more.

I struggled a bit and then something in my brain relaxed. I could feel my body stretch out, welcoming the spanks, trying to match my curves to his hand. It still hurt, but only in a good way. I felt powerful as a bottom/submissive/spankee/whatever and was sure there was nothing that Paul could do to me that I couldn’t accept, no pain I couldn’t embrace. These feelings are rare for me no matter what’s being used, but it was the first time it had happened from a handspanking.

Part of me wanted it to go on and on.

But it was late. I wasn’t feeling crazy so didn’t ask for the hairbrush or anything more painful, instead relishing my bottom’s gentle throbbing soreness. The lotion afterwards felt lovely — everything felt lovely.

And then… and then… and then it was over. Nothing dramatic. Just a hand spanking.

Sound & Spanking

Over on Hermione’s site she’s standing in for Bonnie and has asked the weekly brunch question.  This week the question is:

What effect, if any, does the sound of an implement have on you during a spanking? Do you react differently depending on how much or how little noise an implement makes? What is your preference? Do you ever choose an implement based on the sound it makes?

Sound is very important to me in spanking scene. Some implements, which objectively don’t hurt much at all, like a ping-pong paddle, have associations because of the noise they make. I associate the loud clap of a ping-pong paddle with being spanked in childhood. I tend to think the paddle hurts a lot more than it objectively does.

This holds true for other implements as well. If something really hurts, I perceive it to be noisy — even something like a cane which I know is all but silent. I’m not quite sure where this comes from, but it means I’m constantly being told by Paul that we’re making less noise than we are.  Either that or he’s trying to make me feel better.


Another week has passed and unlike the previous two, I have gone to the gym three times this week. Despite having showered I’m still drenched in smugness. 

Día de Los Muertos

[I’ve broken with my promise to blog every day this month. In my defense, I did start this entry last night, but I collapsed into sleepiness before I finished writing it. There will be two blog posts today.]

Here in Los Angeles, people are starting to build alters for Día de Los Muertos — literally translated as “day of the dead”.  Day of the Dead is on All Souls Day, November 2nd. It’s a national holiday in Mexico where the dead are remembered and celebrated. Traditions connected with the holiday include building private altars honoring the deceased using sugar skulls, pictures and including their favorite foods, drinks and hobbies.  In Los Angeles it’s become something of an arts festival with artists making alters both to deceased friends and family and also to famous people who’ve died over the past few years.

My family didn’t really celebrate Día de Los Muertos in a traditional fashion, but my grandmothers always kept alters to the dead in their homes. Photos of their dead parents and siblings were always surrounded by flowers and watched over by candles and statues of Our Lady.  It was something I didn’t think about much — one of those things I saw without really registering an opinion. Looking back, I think I didn’t appreciate the value of Día  de Los Muertos because I hadn’t lost anyone close enough to me to understand the importance of celebrating memories.  You might say I was very fortunate in that respect, not losing anyone very close to me until quite recently.

As I’m getting older, that’s changing. My grandparents’ generation is gone on my mother’s side and disappearing fast on my father’s. These are people who’ve embodied family for me, who always made me feel valued and loved. Even more importantly, they clearly knew who they were and what they stood for. Through them, I knew myself.

I don’t think I’m going to make an alter this year — as I said, it’s not really a tradition my family held with — but I am going to buy some pan de muertos (yes, that’s bread of the dead), eat it with a cup of good coffee and remember some very wonderful people.

Firsts Friday: Implements

Ah, a girl and her toys.

Once upon a time I couldn’t see kinky toys for sale without wanting to buy something. Of course I didn’t have much money and had less discrimination so I bought a lot of not-very-good toys, but still. I still remember the rush of naughty excitement when I bought my first spanking toy.

I bought it at the now-sadly-defunct Magick and Fetish Shop at Sunset Junction in Hollywood. The owner had belts, floggers and all sorts of interesting things (including a combination incense burner and punishment stick) but I gravitated toward the hairbrush.  It was a simple wooden brush with black bristles. A true hairbrush, probably designed for a man.  I should have had it tested on me first because it also had a series of three or four deep grooves carved into the back.  These acted like holes on a paddle and made the brush very painful.  While it was my first toy and I was thrilled to buy it, I was less thrilled when it got used on me.  In fact I hated it and not in any sort of good way.  Fortunately someone else had it tried on them and loved it so I happily gave it to her — with both hands, no-take-backs.

At this past Shadow Lane I bought a small and very pretty paddle for me to use when I spank people. It even came with its own flowered bag.  It’s not to be used on me, but rather to be used by me.  So far I’ve only used it on Indy (who vouched for it being effective despite its small size).  I’ll take a picture of it and post it here someday. Meanwhile you’ll just have to trust me when I say it’s a beautiful thing.

Can you remember the first implement you bought? Were you a better shopper than me? Do you still have it


Indy played along.

Good Advice That She Just Didn’t Take

I asked for blogging ideas on Twitter and then basically dismissed them all. Erica had a good one — she wanted to me write about hand tawsing and what I get out of it. I would — it's an interesting topic after all — but I already blogged about it in the entry hand punishments back in 2007. I'm not sure I have much to add, except that Paul tawsed my hands for a scene we did at Shadow Lane this year and I'm regretting that he's ever taken it up.

Serenity suggested (because she's sure going to be writing about them soon) that I write about my thoughts on buttplugs (could we think of a less descriptive term??) and ginger. But I don't have much experience with being plugged — my anal adventures have involved thermometers and That Thing.  My only experiences with ginger has been the pain the roots are to grate when cooking. 

Maybe I'll bake some cookies and leave the ginger plug stories to Serenity and Zille

Fiction: Ghost Girl

[Today, as I joked on Twitter that I’d taken money out of Paul’s account for the first time today and was a “kept woman.”  Serenity reminded me of a story I wrote about this some ten years ago. As I told her, my fantasies about being kept have always been dark ones. This one was inspired by a short story by Joyce Carol Oates. Please don’t reproduce it without permission. ]

Ghost Girl

by Mija


There the relationship began. They’d met on-line and chatted for weeks, at times bouncing dozens of emails a day back and forth. As they talked, the two discovered mutual friends and so much in common. Lindsey had been around the scene for a year, not a regular player but hardly a newbie. Karl wasn’t new either, though Lindsey was his first real-life partner. Long before he could tell her how much he cared he couldn’t imagine ever being with anyone else. Her voice over the phone made his breath catch.

When the two finally met it was electric – their voices more shattering in the small cafe then their words were on-line or across the phone wires. When Lindsey looked back now she could remember shivering as his hand skimmed her skin. The scenes too came naturally, and felt more serious than Lindsey had ever felt with anyone before. She lifted her bottom to meet his hand, yearning for burning physical pain.

But Karl worried about hurting her. She comforted him as he nearly wept in self-loathing at the sight of bruises marking her legs and bottom. Lindsey embraced Karl and urged him to trace his fingers over the hot, reddened and discolored skin.

“I like wearing your marks,” she told him, looking into his eyes, her face open to his. “It makes me feel like I belong to someone. To you.” A feeling like feathers stirred next to her heart.

“And you want that? To belong to me?” he asked, fingers barely touching her skin, making her tremble. His voice was hardly a whisper.

Her eyes filled with tears. Always, Lindsey had wanted that as long as she could remember. The desire felt so great she could only nod her answer and marvel at the brightness of his stare, the glow of his eyes. He desired her, wanted her. How lucky!

He raised his hand and brought it down hard on her lower thigh, leaving a mark the shape of his palm. She shuddered, trying not to cry out from the sting. He bent and gently kissed the edges of the mark, before raising his hand and striking the same spot again.

“I’ve marked you. Now you belong to me.”

Lindsey marvelled at the yearning in his voice.

“Yes,” she replied, “I’m yours.”

He kissed the marks again before striking her other thigh. Lindsey moaned softly. Karl was such a very gentle man, after all.

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