Category Archives: uniforms

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.

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.

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?

Holiday Meme: Question 7

I spent the evening at dinner at Buca Di Beppo with kinky friends — a wonderful, fun night.  Inspired by Casey's post, I wore my black gymslip, school shirt and tie.  One of our friends attended school in the UK and was pleased my gymslip was so like the one she wore in her own school days.   It's late but I want to get a blog post up for today so I'm going to do some quick Christmas meme answers.  Hope you put your own favorites in the comments.

Favorite holiday song?   "Home for the Holidays" sung by Perry Como.  Just hearing this song makes me smile. We spent a lot of our Thanksgivings and Christmases in the car traveling around Southern California.  The song always makes me think of traveling and the fun of arriving at my grandparents' homes.

Favorite Holiday movie?  Love Actually  – the film is wonderfully touching and funny.  But my favorite bit is always the scenes at the airport where people are meeting and greeting each other.

Maid Uniform

[I’ve been meaning to write about this for a while — months really. It deserves me to say a lot more than I am, but I’ve found it hard to put my thoughts about this down.  This is brief but even writing this has left me feeling ashamed.]

This story begins with online shopping.  I have an old fashioned maid uniform. I bought it off eBay in a burst of desire. The idea of cleaning the apartment dressed in my uniform filled me with anticipation — even though it’s not Paul’s kink at all, I thought it would be fun just for me.  After all, I often pretend to be a housemaid when I’m cleaning and polishing. It’s all fun headspace

My uniform came and was everything I could have hoped for — modest, proper and old fashioned, but sexy in its black and white tradition.  It looks like something a housemaid in the 1950s would wear.

Excited to the core, I put it on, snapped a picture and broadcast it to Twitter.

And then I looked at myself.  What I saw was a Chicana woman dressed as a maid.  I’m from California and that carries with it a lot of baggage. Overwhelmed with feelings of embarrassment, almost a sort of racial memory, I took my uniform off.

It hangs in the closet, speaking to me of things I barely can understand.

I know I shouldn’t feel shame, but I do.  I can’t just embrace the desire and go with it.  Sometimes kink just doesn’t go deep enough.

A Student Scribe and the Collar Challenge

i-is-for-ida [Note: This blog does have spanking content. However, it is buried in a great deal of non-spanking content. If you need a quick fix you may want to surf on by.]

After a week spent cleaning and moving, I’ve finally gotten back into practicing calligraphy (the fact my dad was staying out of town this weekend is likely connected to my returned focus as well as some spanking play). For the past couple of days I’ve both had stuff I’ve wanted to blog here (and on caligráfica) while also doing lettering practice. What’s happened is that I’ve done the calligraphy and left the blogging to now, just keeping the practice album up-to-date. Soo, here’s some thoughts.

[Something you may have noticed when looking at the most recent Tinies is the addition of rather shaky Gothic capitals. At my class last Monday, in addition to going over our recent homework, taking us down from a 5mm to 2 1/2mm nib, and discussing the coming illumination project, my teacher also introduced capitals. I’m struggling with them, but just trusting that practice will eventually make them better and all that. On the “K is for Kate” I’m experimenting with using a reddish brown ink for the “K” and “Kate” but as the ink is thinner than the black, I’m not sure how it works out. Like most of my lettering practice, it looks a lot better photographed than it does in person.]

k-is-for-kateRipple effects

Our apartment seems to be getting re-organized and cleaned room by room. It’s amazing the amount of weird stuff we were saving for reasons lost in time and space. These included included random cardboard boxes and odd bits of outmoded technology. Purging things is hard for me, but once I start it feels so good I don’t want to stop.

Here’s an odd fact though — my motivation to get the house organized seems connected to practicing calligraphy. Further, the cleaning and organizing has moved outward from my calligraphy “studio” (as a friend pleases me by calling it) into the rest of the apartment. I’ve organized and now try and keep tidy our entire bedroom (which means keeping up on laundry since otherwise it takes over the floor). My dad’s moving in prompted me/us to re-organize the guest room and bathroom. This weekend we worked on the box room / technology closet. Having things organized has me feel a bit more centered – a Good Thing).

Collars and Shopping: The Challenge Begins

collar-closeupGetting organized required a bit of shopping, meaning Saturday dawned with plans for a trip to Costco and Dick Blick’s (both for a paper storage portfolio and also supplies for the coming illumination project). We also planned to go out for breakfast (at lunch time).

The night before, Paul, who has something of a fetish in this area, told me I’d be wearing a collar and tie all day Saturday. I reminded him we would not be at home and was told that was the point. After moaning a bit about having to be “in uniform” on a Saturday, I went to sleep, excited about the next day.

The next morning, after Paul had a bit of a lie-in and I spent happy hours consuming coffee and surfing friends’ blogs in my pjs, Paul told me it was time to get dressed. He picked out the shirt (one of the ones he had custom made so while it fits perfectly everywhere else, the collar is just a tiny bit too small). I got to choose the tie based on the other things I was wearing, but Paul added a pair of knickers to the “Items to Be Worn” list. This meant I couldn’t really wear my jeans because if you’ve ever worn heavy school knickers, you’ll know they give a new meaning to the term “visible panty line.” I decided on a slightly-too-short-for-someone-my-age black pleated skirt, striped tights, black docs and a black sweater with white trim. The tie (as you can see) is a burgundy and grey striped one.

I took a while getting dressed since I was also tweeting and consulting travel websites, but finally I was dressed and the game began. The game? Yes, game. Or rather, challenge. You see, as things exist in our world, the collar on these shirts belongs to Paul, not me. I was informed that on Saturday I wasn’t to tug at, fiddle with or even touch it at all. Period. The penalty for each infraction while we were out: 12 smacks with the heavy hairbrush when we got home. (This was in addition to the base of 12 at which I was apparently starting.)


Those of you who know me know I have rather nasty eczema and an annoying habit of fidgeting, rubbing and scratching, though of course I shouldn’t. One of my eczema spots is my neck. Within minutes of buttoning it, the skin under the snug collar began to itch.

I complained. Paul reminded me that I could always ask him to slide his fingers under the collar to relieve the skin (or pull it tighter though he didn’t say that). But no touching for me.

Great. My collar had rarely felt snugger.

Twitter Tells the Tale

On the way to breakfast I discovered that by using my iPhone constantly I could keep my hands busy enough and away from my neck. My tweeting was sky high, with the result that I ended up logging each failure and its location.

First tweet was a picture of my collar and tie

2:58PM Damn! Made it thro breakfast but forgot &pulled on tie in cashier line. HB count now at 24 + I was scolded in parking lot. Sulking.

From breakfast we went to Dick Blick’s (art store). My focused shopping and full hands kept me safe there. (I even ended up buying my first paper tube for use holding paper.) But then we left…

3:55 PM Ack. Not thinking & fiddling w/ collar again. Must keep hands busy. HB count now at 36. =8-0

Sensing a pattern? As soon as my hands are free, they seem to head for my collar. Feh!

5:53 PM Due to Costco stress & distraction, HB total now at 48.

The Costco trip was a success. We got an amazing deal on a great set of chrome storage shelves (for the closet) at Costco for less than $28. They’re amazing because despite the low price they don’t suck and each shelf can supposedly hold 350 lbs. Nonetheless, Paul and I have not tried sitting one one together in order to test this claim. It does seem to be doing a great job holding stuff.

But that’s not so interesting, right?

Payment Made

ebony-hairbrushOkay, about the hairbrush and me. On the way home I whined that all the stress of shopping and crowds had left me feeling tired. Paul very kindly said my hairbrushing could be postponed until later. I’m always happy with spankings being “later” especially since they sometimes end up not happening. However, in this case, the count would continue to rise with each slip of my hand until after I got out of the collar. Which meant until after the hairbrushing. After an hour of stalling, I finally literally asked for it. As much as I wasn’t looking forward to 48 whacks, 60 would have been worse.

The chair was put in the empty space in our room — a space generally only used for the chair. Paul bared me, put me over his lap, told me not to put my hands back and started whacking me with the brush. The whacks weren’t super hard, I know he’s capable of much harder ones, but without a warm up they hurt. I was in no sense of the word brave. I didn’t put my hands back, but only because Paul said there’d be an extra 12 each time I did it. Instead I tightened my grip on the chair, whined, kicked and finally howled.

I lost track of the count at 12 and begged to know what it was. Paul wouldn’t tell me, but just continued to whack me. Not knowing the count heightened feeling of being out of control, of being trapped. I protested that he might just keep going forever then. Fortunately it wasn’t long before the spanking reached a climax and was over. I’m sure he didn’t give me extra and am equally sure it took less than five minutes. But felt it like an eternity.

Afterwards he put together the new shelves while I cooed over organized my new art supplies.

[This entry’s non-kinky content is cross-blogged at caligrafica. Guest modeling by Carrots and Small Bear.]

Mad4Plaid OR 9/22, the First Day of Fall

plaid-skirtsBorn on Twitter, thanks to tweets between the delightful Eliane and me, tomorrow being the first day of Fall (in the Northern Hemisphere) is hereby declared “Mad For Plaid Day.”  You can participate by spreading the word and, most importantly, wearing either a plaid skirt or kilt.  Modest or slutty, uniform or vanilla, all plaids are welcome.

You can follow the fun here or on Twitter.  Just let me know what you’re doing and how you’re celebrating and I’ll add links.  Pictures are always welcome.

Do come and play.

Players thus far:

  • Zille: who claims there will be picture
  • Kate:is  wearing her skirt to and from classes.  What a good girl!
  • Elaine : says she is changing after work as her kilt is too short (naughty girl!)
  • Mystery Minx: always the rebel, says she’ll wear a non-plaid games kilt.
  • Bridget: so in tune with the beginning of Fall, she wore a plaid jumper without even knowing.
  • Sandy: also wore plaid without meaning to and claims famous spanking model Rad is wearing a plaid bow.  (I know I’m not alone in wanting pictures of that.)
  • Chris claims he can “motivate” his lovely Serenity into a plaid skirt.  We’ll have to see.  (Okay, we want to see)
  • Casey D. Morgan didn’t go out in her skirt, but very sweetly changed into one and took a picture.  Such a game girl!

[This blog entry is evolving.]