Category Archives: fetish

Networking Meets Spanking

Today is a short blog entry as I’m killer tired from spending the day at a giant (80 people!!) birthday party for my only just two-year-old niece. I almost didn’t write anything despite my pledge to write daily this month but I wanted to share something.

I finally did something I’ve been meaning to do for far too long; I joined The Spanking Bloggers Network. It’s a wonderful community of bloggers who write about, yes you guessed it, spanking.  There’s lot’s of members (more than one hundred) so I can hardly be accused of being an early adopter. I had considered doing it a while ago, but as this blog is frequently about topics other than spanking, I wasn’t sure I really belonged. Then when I was convinced I did, I put it off and, well we know how that goes. But today it’s done and this blog and The Punishment Book are sporting the network’s nifty chalkboard button.

I confess, my schoolgirl heart dearly loves the way it looks.  Coincidence?  My lovely friend Zille joined just before me. 🙂

    =0=0=0=     =0=0=0=    =0=0=0=

Also, my parents are currently staying with Paul and me.  A few hours ago they went out and, feeling tired and unsettled I asked for a spanking.  It was a hard, over the knee hand spanking and left me whimpering from the sting. After I felt better, both because I’d been spanked and, I think, because it felt like we were claiming the house as ours.

But mostly I’m recording this because I asked for a spanking and I admitted I needed it. That doesn’t happen very often.

Firsts Friday: Adult Spanking

I got this idea from a conversation with padme on Twitter today.  We were talking about our first adult spankings and telling our stories (as much as one can in 140 characters). It made me decide to tell the story of mine as my blog post tonight and hope that some of you might join in either here or on your own blogs.

My first adult spanking happened in 1997.  Although Paul and I had met online and were talking every day on the phone, we hadn’t met in person yet as he still lived in Scotland while I was living on my university campus in Los Angeles. We’d said we loved each other and wanted to spend time together with Paul talking about coming over to visit me. Neither of us had any experience of spanking as adults (and what I had from childhood wasn’t something I wanted to repeat).  It seems impossible now, but at the time I was afraid I would freak out or flash back to darkness of childhood abuse or in other ways not have a good experience. When I talked about this with a friend, she and I came up with a plan where I would play with an experienced friend when the stakes didn’t feel as fraught as they were with Paul.

I was very fortunate to have just that opportunity. You see, at one point I’d accidently sent email to a friend  (Fireman Chris), from my university rather than my kink email address only to discover that he was a student at the same university.  He’s younger than me but had experience playing with different people and had very kindly (and without any pressure) offered to meet and play with me if I wanted.  With what seems now a ridiculous amount of trepidation we set a date for him to visit me in my dorm room. The plan was that he’d spank me and then we’d go out to dinner.

This is exactly what happened.  The first time wasn’t long and it wasn’t hard.  It was a gentle but firm handspanking and a perfect introduction to adult consensual spanking.  It left me dizzy with desire to do it again, something I told him with some embarrassment afterwards over dinner. Chris spanked me many times after that over the next couple of years (and a few times more recently too!) sometimes in my dorm room, sometimes in the backseat of his truck. I even got to spank him too. But I’ve always been incredibly grateful I got such a perfect patient introduction to adult spanking.  Thank you Chris!

Chris told his story here.  Zille told hers here.

George Got the Cane

Tonight when Paul got home from work I was wearing schoolboy shorts. Even before we sat down to dinner, which in a burst of domesticity I had ready (cottage pie), he had me bend over the back of one of our dining chairs — I can just grasp the seat standing on tiptoe — so he could smack the seat of my short pants hard.  I was surprised at how much the hand spanks stung through the layers of fabric but was bravely uncomplaining.

That’s the thing about being a boy for me, as I said below, I tend not to fuss or complain during spankings or thrashings, something which I do quite a bit of as a girl. It’s not something I really think about; it’s just my reaction to being dressed as a uniformed schoolboy.

Anyway, after we had dinner, Paul did the dishes and I retreated to the bedroom to work on my calligraphy homework. After an hour or so, I was done with my lettering for the night. He came in and I switched off my audiobook (In the Woods by Tana French for those who must know the details). Up until that moment I’d harbored a secret hope that I might get off with just the handspanking tonight. After all, Paul had done a hard day’s work (well, he’d been gone all day anyway) and it was getting late. But he took me by the ear and led me into the living room where the caning block was set up. Dread and the leftover cottage pie made my stomach rumble.

Paul had me put myself over the block. As I stood, bent far over and standing on my toes, I heard him fetch the canes. I gripped the metal bar of the table tightly. After making a few swishing noises, he then came over to me. At first I thought he was going to take down my shorts, but no. He was pulling them up. He was going to cane my thighs.  I quailed a bit, trying to find the words to complain but none would come. My school shorts, already quite short, were pushed further up my legs.  As I struggled to hold my position, the cane came down. Yes, it stung an insane amount, on the right side especially. I had no idea how I was going to bear even one more stroke, let alone the at least five more I was sure were coming. The caning was slow, with Paul stopping every other stroke to check the weals I could feel developing. By halfway I lost count, my only focus on staying in place. I thought there must still be one more, but it was over.

I took a deep breath, not having realized I’d been holding it to keep from crying out. But the caning wasn’t over. Over my school shorts, Paul gave me another six with the junior cane and, on top of those, six with the heavy cane. Because I was clothed he didn’t hold back at all. In fact, at one point my legs started trembling, partly from the pain, partly from holding the position on my toes. To get me to be still he tapped the back of my calves, promising to whack them if I kept moving. I was still, I was quiet and the caning seemed to hurt more than other heavier ones when I’ve cried, moved, complained and tried to cover up. But I kept repeating to myself “You’re George. George is brave. You’re brave.”

Like me, George may be untidy and need to be thrashed. But George was braver than me — able to take a caning with some stoicism. Except I’m George. Sometimes anyway.

Call Me George

For various reasons (mostly for being careless enough to joke about caning on Twitter) I’m dressed in a summer version of my boy uniform today (that’s a white tee-shirt, grey school shorts, white socks and black plimsoles in case you’re keeping score).

I have mixed feelings about dressing as a boy. On the one hand, it seems in our house, boys are braver and get caned more severely. On the other hand, I feel very self-conscious in boy uniforms. I am very much not boy shaped and feel my uniform swells in areas it should be straight. Yet I also feel very boyish in said uniform, feel it’s important not to whine about punishments, to be brave about spankings and canings. This seems to make Paul want to whack me all the harder.

Anyway, today I’m dressed as a boy. As some of you know, my boy name is “George” which is the name of my great-grandfather, who immigrated from England to California in the late nineteenth century. He was the last in my family of a long line of male relatives who attended Eton College. Was nineteenth century George caned there? I don’t know — I’ve never made the appointment with their historian to see his school records. But I’d like to think so.

Picture is an older one of me as a boy with my schoolgirl girlfriend, Bailey.

Playing With Others

Reading around I’ve been struck by two blog entries, both of which have made me want to express some thoughts myself.

First there’s Poppy’s post: Girl on Girl Action where she writes about her lack of interest in F/F play.  In the comments section she and Erica (who feels the same way) write about feeling a sexual tension with their spanker which makes the M/F dynamic the one that resonates for them. This makes perfect sense and we all like what we like, but it prompted me to think about my own play and interests.

There’s no doubt that I like M/F, M/M and F/F in about that order (I’m less into reading F/M but have and do) but also about equally. What matters most to me is that there be little to no sexual tension / erotic energy. The less of it there is the more erotic I find it. The same is true with my play — I don’t generally feel erotic tension with almost anyone I play with. For me, spanking play is generally an expression of friendship and caring in that sense. Playing with someone, with a few exceptions, doesn’t increase or excite my sexual attraction for that person.

This past Shadow Lane I played a F/F scene with a friend. It was lighthearted but intense play with lots of energy, but little to none of it sexual. That’s generally the case when I play with women, but it’s also equally the case when I play with men. Spanking, for me, feels like its own sexuality (or something-ality) somehow outside my normal sense of the erotic.

In a different, but, for me, related post, Kaelah wrote about anxieties about playing with and in front of others. Playing in front of others is something that sometimes feels right for me, but more frequently I prefer to do scenes in private. Other times I want to play with someone else and want Paul there to see / watch, especially when I know the top in question likes performing.  And I’ve enjoyed having a public audience for my hand tawsing scenes. Mostly though, play is something I like doing in private.

Kaelah’s post reminded me of something else though. The achingly insecure jealousy I used to feel when Paul played with other people. Don’t get me wrong, I was playing with others myself and wanted him to do the same. But I couldn’t get over my good fortune in having found someone who loves me and wants to spank me. I knew I was his first partner and was sure, for too long a time, that he’d soon find someone he liked playing with better than me and wouldn’t love me anymore. It drove me nuts because I knew these feelings stemmed from my own insecurities, not from anything real. Even when Paul did develop intense feelings for another, it never made him feel less for me.

I’d like to say that I’ve outgrown these feelings of insecurity. Mostly I have. But what I’m struck by is how worth it playing with others is. Spanking, for me, as an expression of friendship has allowed me to feel intense affection for people I see rarely yet feel I know intimately. And of course I want the same for Paul. (In fact, I feel a lot of affection for anyone he plays with too. It’s like I’ve played with them by proxy.)

Reflections on Twitter

This post was inspired and begun by a reply I wrote to Abel’s blog entry discussing his recent issues with Twitter.  Abel uses Twitter in some ways that are the same as me (I too like the ability to DM friends I can’t afford / am not able to text) but also, partly because he uses a locked feed, partly because, as he said to me recently, he thinks we should always follow our friends, Abel experiences Twitter in different ways than I do. As ever, I find the differences far more fascinating than the things we have in common.

Here’s part of my reply

I like reading your reflections on Twitter, especially given our discussions [on Twitter itself] about it last week. One of the things it made most clear to me reading this and the comments that follow is that we all see Twitter in different ways, perhaps reflecting the power of the medium.

In contrast to you, for example, I don’t see Twitter as a way of keeping up with friends. I don’t keep track of who’s following me (I shut off those notifications) and likewise, don’t follow everyone I know / like. Partly, this is because I can’t — I can’t deal with a Twitter feed that’s larger than 70-100 people. But also, I only follow people I enjoy reading — life’s too short to read tweets that either annoy or bore me. By the same token, I also follow a number of people who don’t follow me. Some are famous, some are not. What they have in common is that I like reading them. One of the reasons I can’t quite imagine locking my Twitter feed is I don’t want to be aware of who’s following me and who’s not. Likewise I tend to follow people with unlocked feeds more than locked ones because of liking the ability to unfollow and re-follow without needing to ask permission.

Twitter for me is less about circles of friends or a version of IM / IRC and more about a series of windows — some of which look both ways, others that look only one. My own tweets reflect that. Sure there are days when what I’m doing is microblogging my misery, but, as is the case when I blog, I don’t expect replies. I’m just speaking to the universe. It’s nice when someone else is moved by it, but not necessary. To do otherwise would feel like I was performing and seeking approval, roles that don’t make me feel good about myself.

Just as a bit of background, Abel and I have had a discussion about locking versus not locking Twitter feeds.  There’s good privacy and even, as Lucy McLean points out, good legal reasons for locking one’s feed.  But locked feeds do change Twitter. Paul and I have been discussing this a lot lately.

Some of my problems with a locked Twitter feed are a technical ones.  If someone with an unlocked twitter feed makes a comment or reply mentioning me, I see that comment whether I follow them or not. But if their feed is locked, unless I’m following them I don’t see their comment, even if it’s directed at me.  This (obviously) makes it hard to get into discussions with people I’m not following.  Likewise, a locked feed means I have to ask to follow them before I can see what their Twitter feed looks like.  This is a problem for me in two respects.  First, I like to have an idea what someone’s Twitter style is like before I start following them.  Recently I had to unfollow someone, not because I don’t like them or because their tweets aren’t interesting but because they tweet at a rate of 100+ a day.  I can’t have that busy a feed.  At the same time, I also don’t follow (or unfollow and re-follow) based on what their icon looks like at any given time. If an icon is very explicit, I don’t follow. This isn’t because I’m a prude but because I read Twitter at work and have people coming up behind me all the time unawares.  I like being able to re-follow when I get home without having to ask permission over and over again.

Yet I also totally understand why someone would want to protect their feed. I’m not sure there’s a solution to this paradox but that’s not stopping me from blogging about it.

Final thoughts. I like Twitter a lot.  It’s by far my favorite social media — definitely like it better than Second Life, Google+ or Facebook.  I have a kink, vanilla and work Twitter accounts (the kink one is by far the most active).  I like Twitter because it can go one way — I can follow people who don’t follow me and people I don’t follow can follow me if they want to.  I love the hashtags, especially Shadowlane time when they give me a window to see someone else spanking weekend without having to know them and without their having to know me.  I love the 140 character limit that allows me to express something without worrying that it needs to be significant.

But I hate the idea that someone would follow me on Twitter out of obligation.  That I’m doing something that annoys them but they grit their teeth over and over out of friendship. If you’re out there and I’m doing that to you, unfollow me. I swear I won’t mind. And if your feed is unlocked, I probably won’t even ever know.


School Ties

Eight days from today I’m going to be hooded by my Ph.D. advisor.  The ceremony marks my official leaving university as a Ph.D. myself.  It’s been a long time coming and I’m very excited.

While I’m going to be wearing a very cool vintage dress for my party the next day, thanks to the wonderful Lucy McLean of Northern Spanking fame, on Thursday, under my robes, I’m going to wear a black pleated skirt, white stiff-collared shirt and a tie striped in my school colors.  Though I am wearing black sling backs rather than saddle shoes, the idea of wearing bits of my school uniform under my doctoral robes while I’m being hooded just feels right.

I got into the scene with my first halting delurk back in 1997, just when I was starting my M.A.  I’ve worn school uniforms in some variation to vanilla Halloween parties and even some graduate seminars. So I’m going to wear bits of it next week on the last day I can ever think of myself as a “real” student.

As to the question, will I be wearing school knickers or simple plain white panties underneath it all?  I haven’t decided.  Maybe I’ll let Paul pick.

H8 – Keep ‘Em Out of Sight

As many of you know, I’m not exactly white. I’m Mexican American or as I prefer to call myself, Chicana. My father and my grandparents were born here in Los Angeles, but my great-grandparents came up from Zacatecas, Mexico.  I grew up in Los Angeles where having a white mother didn’t make me anything but Mexican.  That said, I didn’t experience too much discrimination.  My parents were very careful, protecting my sister, brother and me from the hate and fear that my father’s face and skin color could evoke.  Still, up through the 1980s, they had a hard time moving into white neighborhoods.  Realtors refused to show them homes, tried to steer them to the browner parts of town.  And this was with my mother being white.

My uncle’s family experienced all that and much more. My cousins don’t have a white mother to temper their skin tone and that color’s effect on the neighborhood.  When they moved into a white part of town, a “welcome wagon” met them with a chicken casserole and a request that they keep their children in the backyard for fear the sight of these brown children would lower property values.

So what you say?  Sad, but these are different times, right?

I say wrong and I’m calling our spanking community out on it. What groups like Crimson Moon and Ms. Margaret’s SCONY are doing by not allowing M/M spanking in their groups, what SpankingTube is doing by not having M/M searches come up in their general search is the same damn thing as racial redlining was in a previous generation.  It maybe legally right, but it’s ethically reprehensible.

But, but, some people don’t like M/M spanking.  So what?  I don’t like oral sex.  I don’t ask that it be banned or shunted off into a corner so I don’t have to stumble upon it.  I just avert my gaze and look at something I do like.  For those of you who think you can’t learn to stomach M/M spanking, I urge you to free your mind and grow the fuck up.   If your arousal is so fragile that the sight or suggestion of M/M spanking can take it down, you may need some medical help.  Not everything in the scene has to exist specifically to get you off.

But, but, you agree with me.  Really. You wish these spanking groups or SpankingTube didn’t discriminate.  Then live your beliefs.  Don’t patronize them.   Don’t use their sites.  Don’t go to their parties.  And let them know why you’re not.  That you’d like to, but because of their policy toward M/M spanking in our scene, you can’t.  Then go places like Shadow Lane and SF-CP that are open to everyone whatever their orientation.

But, but, Mija, you’re ranting.

Yes. Yes I am.  Don’t hate. You know you don’t want to.  And don’t support people who can and do.

ADDED: For more information on what SpankingTube is doing and why it sucks see this post by PaulThe Problem with

For a less rant-y take on M/M spanking see this post by IndyHomophobia in the Scene.  And another one by Indy here: Homophobia in the Scene, Revisited.


PS. What did my uncle do? He had his twin brother move in next door with his family.  And then two put up a basketball hoop so all the kids played outside in the street, property values be damned.

Dressing the part

I know how important wearing uniforms is to my bottoming.  All I need to do is change into my gymslip or plaid skirt and I feel like someone who is subject to authority.  But I hadn’t really considered it from the other side. Yesterday was a new experience.

Yesterday (well, MLK Monday — this took me longer to write than I expected) Paul and I were supposed to both spend the day dressed as school boys.  We’d washed and ironed shirts and seen to it that uniforms were carefully laid out the night before.  I woke up before Paul and took my shower, realizing as I toweled off that my plans for the day would have to change. My skin was acting up, specifically eczema on my neck and chest.  There was no way I could tolerate wearing a stiff shirt and collar for the entire day.  I couldn’t even imagine putting one on.  Slowly I put on a tee-shirt and jeans and waited for Paul to wake up so I could tell him he’d be an only school boy, at least for the first half of the day.

When I told Paul about my skin he was understanding. As I’d hoped, it didn’t deter him from putting on his uniform, the first time I’d seen him wear any version of it since our wedding night some six years ago. As I saw him changing into it, an idea formed in my head. Perhaps, just for one day, I could watch over his school boy self.  Just for one day, I could be in charge.  This prompted several quick actions.  First, I very quickly wrote up a list of rules that seemed appropriate for a uniformed boy I was watching over.

Uniform Day Rules

  1. Sit only on furniture made for sitting, not on your bed or the floor. If you wish to go to bed or have a nap, change out of your uniform, hang it up and put on either play or night clothes.
  2. While wearing your uniform, you are to only visit places on the internet appropriate for a school boy.  You may do research on the news, but no adult websites.  Ever.
  3. Food is to be consumed at the table.  Nowhere else.  Drinks are to be water and juice. Coke is a treat and should be asked for as such.
  4. All modifications of your uniform, including unbuttoning your collar require permission.
  5. Remember that you are a school boy and should try be neat and tidy and keep a good attitude at all times.

As you can see, I kept them simple, never doubting that assuming he agreed (and I was pretty sure he would) Paul would follow them or at least try to.  Second I decided that I shouldn’t be dressed casually, that I should dress as a proper teacher since he was such a proper school boy.

What did I wear? My grown-up panties and bra, a silk blouse (which Paul in a very un-school-boy-like moment, mentioned was a tiny bit see through for a teacher — opps!), grey bias cut wool skirt and black pumps with sensible heels. As I put on my business-y jewelry, I felt suddenly focused and in control.

I think Paul was a little surprised to see me dressed up and even more surprised by my rules list.  But he gamely agreed. Did he know yet how suddenly sure of myself I felt?  I doubt it. I barely knew myself.  He was so focused on the computer and its toner that he didn’t notice me move my straight-backed wooden desk chair to the center of the living room.  He argued that I couldn’t put him across my lap.  But I was sure I could.  Yes, I’m a good 8 inches shorter than Paul, but I’m strong and don’t like to be told what I can and can’t do.  Reader, I was able to hold him and give his him some hand spanks over his short pants. However, what I hadn’t considered was the shorts were made of some industrial material meant to stand up to small (or even big) boys. It was like spanking sandpaper.  I got to twenty-five and my palm protested.  The point had been made however; I could take him over my knee.

Next time, I told myself, the shorts would not be a problem.

Paul sat at the kitchen table quietly, wearing his uniform and doing work that needed to be done. I had checked in with him and discovered he had work to do so discarded my plans to have him write me lines or having him do a handwriting lesson.   After a couple hours, I checked in with him, only to be told he had another hour of work.  Perfect, I thought. I can spank him when he’s done.

I told him when he was finished, I wanted him to stand in the corner.  I worried about not sounding forceful enough; I tend to phrase orders as requests and wondered if this made me sound uncertain. But then I thought, if I change this then I won’t be topping as myself, I’ll be doing this as if I were another person. So I didn’t change construction, instead relying on the carefully phrased rule that Paul was to “keep a good attitude” to ensure he’d obey me.

As it turned out, this wasn’t an issue.  Paul stood in the corner without arguing. I arranged him, having him hold his hands behind his back.  I set a timer for 10 minutes, partly out of fear I’d relent on the amount of time I planned to have him there, partly so I wouldn’t forget and leave him in the corner too long.  Watching him stand there so very still and good was very calming for me.  I spent the time imagining holding Paul across my lap, spanking his white underpants, his bare bottom.  By the time the timer rang (or rather quacked, it was my iPhone) I had gone and fetched the small cane, hanging it artistically on my desk.

Paul came over to where I was sitting.  I unfastened and took down his school shorts, guiding the fabric so they fell to his knees and no further.  I then led him across my knees. As I wrapped my left arm around him and sort of settled him into the right spot, I felt a rush of control and a sense of rightness descend.  There was so much that felt good about it: Paul’s weight across my thighs, the whiteness of his shorts, even being able to see his grey socks and black shoes, just off the floor.

The handspanking, both on his underpants and bare bottom, weren’t severe or especially long.  That wasn’t the point.  I know Paul can / would take anything I was capable of giving, but this wasn’t about CP, not exactly.  It was about the ritual, the physical act of me holding him.  I didn’t feel like I was proving anything, but in the process I think I did prove something to myself and to Paul.  After the spanking, when he’d pulled his underpants and shorts back up, I gave him 6 sharp cane strokes and 12 with the large slipper.  Then we sat together on the sofa, quietly talking.

After dinner, I changed into my school boy uniform (complete with boy’s underpants!) and went across his knee for a hard hand spanking. I thought it might be hard to change headspace after a day spent in control, but as ever, with the change into my uniform came the feeling of being small and subject to discipline. My headspace became that of a boy being punished by an older, stronger one.  I was quite brave, even when the sting started to overwhelm me.  The danger of that is that Paul sometimes thinks he isn’t getting through to me, but he seemed to understand.

After, I changed into pjs and we ate chocolates and watched Sarah Jane together.  All was right in the world.

I don’t see myself as topping more than once every few years — it’s not a primary drive for me.  But I was surprised (and happily so) at how much what Paul wore and what I wore made me feel in control of the scene,  more so than I’ve ever felt before. It’s definitely something I’ll be musing about for a while.


Additional:  Paul wrote up his thoughts on this same topic / experiment here.

From the Corner

Life has suddenly become more stressful.  In addition to the normal holiday stress, I'm looking for work and worrying about not having any.  It's all going to be okay, but while I know it, I don't feel it. It's frustrating feeling like I'm putting myself out there but not hearing anything, yes or no, from anyone.

Today, mostly thanks to a rainstorm keeping us home, I put on my gymslip and knickers and Paul spanked me with his hand and the hairbrush and then caned me.  The scene left me sore, but slightly more centered than I'd felt before. Much as I do think being spanked, especially by Paul, generally leaves me feeling better, I don't think it did as much for me today. Instead I think the calm feeling I had after the scene was due to the corner time during it.  

When he first sent me to the corner, I didn't think I could stand still and quiet — there was just so much going on in my head. But as I stood there, unable to really see or hear anything, I started focusing on breathing and just being in the moment.  There was nothing I could or was supposed to do other than stand and be still.  It made being spanked easier.  After, I was almost eager to go and stand in it, even knowing when the cornertime was over I was going to be caned.  

I know a lot of people find cornertime boring or even objectifying.  I can see that. In fact, given my personality, I'm surprised cornertime works at all.  But it does.  Once I can finally stand still, I start feeling a sort of calm acceptance, a feeling of not being in control, one that leaves me feeling taken care of.  It doesn't feel childish or even like a punishment exactly.

Clearly this needs some more thought.  What are your thoughts from the corner?