and warm your heart and home.
May good and faithful friends be yours,
wherever you may roam.
May peace and plenty bless your world
with joy that long endures.
May all life’s passing seasons
bring the best to you and yours!
May 122012
and warm your heart and home.
May good and faithful friends be yours,
wherever you may roam.
May peace and plenty bless your world
with joy that long endures.
May all life’s passing seasons
bring the best to you and yours!
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Apr 152012
Mar 292012
This one is all about me. Just me.
I’m waiting for the princess to fall asleep. She doesn’t do it well alone and her tired little face of sadness breaks my heart every time.
I could be catching up on the twitter timeline, enjoying myself but instead I am sitting here contemplating.
Life, maybe, or at least my place in the world.
I walked away from a world a few hours ago that I really need and derive soul from being in – that is a community of like minds, friends and acquaintances and some others I stare at with slack-jawed awe. I walked away because I have another world that needs and supports me and it is becoming increasingly clear that they need me (or someone like me) on a more focused track. Spring is always my busy time of year and summer a close second… Yes, those who follow me regularly know I disappear in May and June.
And I resent it, which is why I’m using these precious few minutes to ponder my psyche instead of throwing myself into the deep glory of giggling girlhood. I resent that I’m the one who is expected to pick up the ball and carry it further than last year or the year before that, with no more support than a hearty “Good job!” and less of a budget. But more significantly I resent it because of the personal price. I walk away from relationship, from friends, from physical intimacy, from active mothering, from the stability of my marriage and I abandon responsibility in favor of doing something that doesn’t benefit the people I love except through a paycheck that’s not really large enough to qualify as my share of supporting our family. It definitely benefits my employer, their public persona, even the world in a larger sense… But none of those people are really invested in me or honestly concerned about the impact their expectations have on me or my health or my state of mind.
I do a job that needs done in a time critical fashion and if I do it well, the only people who really know how difficult it is are the colleagues I’ve pushed aside or in front of me to make my work possible. If I fail, it will be spectacular and I won’t be doing it again. Failure, as a wise Texan or Ron Howard once said, is not an option, either personally or professionally.
So here I am, pushing publish at 9:40 pm and going back to my office. I’m looking forward to a hug from Chris and a pat in he bottom and a bit of time tomorrow doing errands, though my head will hurt with the list of things I’m not doing by the time I get back to my desk.
I have work to do.
Mar 252012
Ancient silver coin from Cyrene depicting a stalk of Silphium
Over the years, I’ve read various books and theories on herbal birth control and contraceptives that might have been used to prevent embryonic implantation or as old-fashioned ‘morning after pills’ in the years prior to modern hormonal birth control options.
There have been novels where the characters have tried a variety of folklore options: high doses of vitamin C or even citrus suppositories (lemon wedges appropriately wedged!), pennyroyal remedies and tea infusions (though this is more technically an abortifacient in actual practice and not birth control), sheeps-gut condoms tied with tourniquet-style strings, wild carrot seed, rutin, etc.
These options were not full proof, despite literary claims to the contrary.
Ancient silver coin from Cyrene depicting the fruit & seed of silphium
Today, however, in a random web search about something else, I saw this article about an apparently extinct Mediterranean fennel plant with the English name laserwort (despite the fact that it has never actually existed during the era in which English has been spoken). More creditably called silphium by contemporaries, it was highly regarded for its contraceptive properties.
It allowed people to freely express their love for each other.
In the end, whatever the reason, the plant ceased to exist, and we are left with only drawings and this infamous symbol of love. Long may you remember it is associated not with that organ in your chest, but with a woman’s freedom to express her affection and sexuality.
Mar 212012
A very long time ago, in the middle of a grief-stricken moment, my mother accused me of being stoic.
As I usually did, I went to my bedroom and cried, where she could not see. In those days I also mastered the art of crying in the shower, outside behind the barn, in the car . . . anywhere so that my family could not see. On the day my dad moved out and told my mom he wanted a divorce, I cried all the way through my SAT test but was dry-eyed at home. How odd that I thought it less invasive for my entire class to see me cry, but not to let my mom and brother?
Years passed, really, before anyone saw me cry. My college roommate did once or twice, more from pure frustration and in moments of great despair, but even then I would run to the bathroom showers and drown my sorrows with hot water.
But then, there was this moment on the phone with Chris – before we even met – when I curled up on the bed in my graduate school apartment and sobbed. I know the reason, but it is not germane to the reality. That was the first time in years that I wanted to be held when I cried. Each time it was a little easier – whether it was leaving him at an airport gate, or the beginnings of a resolution when we disagreed or disappointed each other, or the loss of a long-held dream.
Now, more often than not, my inclination is to find his chest or shoulder before the tears start to flow, before emotion sets in. It’s not always possible. Distress, despair and loss still cause tears when I am alone. Pregnancy wrought an endless flow of them for six full months. Anger, as rare as it is, still pushes me to privacy; hiding in the bathroom crying is a sure sign that I am truly upset with him about something. But most often, my emotional pain is held within until he has the time and opportunity to wrap me in his arms and let me be a little girl, rocked back and forth and held tightly.
Tonight, I think the tears will flow against his chest. They tell him a story in words I am incapable of speaking. They tell him a story that is painful to write.
They tell him about me.
Mar 142012
[Update on March 20: To purchase this book from Amazon, click here.]
I recently wrote a short story. Well, recently I’ve written a lot, but that’s beside the point. What I mean is, I’ve written a short story called Turning Tramp and it is included in this anthology, edited by Cassandra Park and published by Ravenous Romance.
You can read more about the anthology on Cassandra Park‘s blog “Spanking Anthology Now Available”.
Other authors (other than Ms. Park and I, of course) include Erica Scott, Clarice Clique, Jeanette Grey, Jacqueline Brocker and more.
A brief excerpt from Turning Tramp:
At the moment, however, Helen was trembling with indignant disgust. “You’ll never believe what that man – I suppose you saw him in the corridor – just suggested to me. Outrageous!”
Susanna settled Helen into the chair and efficiently applied a base coat. “What’s that?” she murmured, vacillating between silver or emerald green for the primary color that evening. Helen pointed at the lavender and Susanna shrugged, acquiescing. As rundown and appalling as this place was in its brassy, shameless fashion, the women had been good to her.
“He wanted to spank me. Can you believe it? Said he’d pay me, too. The nerve. I mean, I get propositioned all the time. I’m a stripper. I expect this. But spanked? I won’t sell my body for feel-good sex, let alone something perverted. I told him to shove his hand up his ass and then find a goddamned BDSM club. There is one in this godforsaken city, or there used to be.”
Susanna had a sudden, unintended thought. She bit her lip and concentrated on applying shaded layers of lavender, purple and silver paint, swirling it to give Helen a mysterious mask that would last the entire evening. She’d seen him, with his relatively skinny frame and thick glasses, in the corridor. He’d been shorter than her and gray-headed, wearing an old-fashioned dress shirt with a plain red tie and dull gray pants. Even more interesting, she’d seen him the last several times she’d been at the club, always sitting alone at a table for two along the edge, drinking seltzer water and watching the girls.
A watcher, they all called him. He didn’t drink, he didn’t grope, he didn’t stuff money down Andrea’s bra when she paraded through the club floor to her cage. He didn’t proposition the waitresses.
He watched. They all said the word as if that were somehow more insidious and dangerous than actually accosting them, or groping them without an invitation. They all said it as if that was dangerous, as if all the other men and women who frequented the place didn’t do the same.
Susanna didn’t understand their instinctive distrust at all.
The book is available in e-reader format from Ravenous Romance for $4.99. Buy it.
Mar 122012
Suppose.
Suppose you were on your knees, your mouth hungrily sucking him, your tongue licking him, making his length hard and stiff and proud between your lips and under your hands. Suppose his head is thrown back, his fingers are clenching your scalp in a rhythm that matches the movement of your jaw.
Suppose.
Now, suppose you – without warning – pull from somewhere (beneath your pillow, beneath the bed, out of your pocket, etc) a hot dog bun and slide it around his wiener.
Does he:
a) deflate immediately, call you an unattractive and unkind name, and stomp away to lock himself in another room, possibly ending the relationship over your insubordination and disrespect
b) laugh at the funny joke you just made and then toss in the wastebin so you can get back to the business at hand
c) stare at you in shock for five seconds, fling it across the room, and fuck your mouth until your throat is sore and your jaw is numb
d) let it fall to the floor, throw you over the end of something, and spank you until the tears leave pools of liquid beneath you
e) drop it to his feet, make you eat it, then spank you until the tears leave pools of liquid beneath you, then fuck your mouth until your throat is sore and your jaw is numb
f) another combination?
I’m not sure what the F/F and F/M equivalent would be here, but I’d certainly enjoy that perspective as well.
And no, I have not done this. But someone made me think of it, and I’ve been pondering possible reactions ever since.
Mar 112012
One day there was a terrible, no good, very bad day. Very bad day. Let me repeat: very bad day.
Near the end of this no-good day, I drove more than usual, sat in fucking traffic more than usual, got home late, banged my knee hard. Had to clean the back seat of the car to hopefully remove the overpowering scent of apricot dragonfruit sweet Lifewater spilled during aforementioned traffic. I was perhaps a bit too dramatic with a small one who rarely gets in trouble and made a smelly, thoughtless mistake, and I felt guilty because I never want her to be in trouble – not even when she honestly should be.
You know what? It all sucked.
Read the rest of the entry at The Punishment Book here. (Please comment there if you wish – it’s simply easier to follow one discussion.)
Mar 082012
Not so long ago, one of the neighbors hauled a beat-up, shiny leather could out of their basement. It’s gigantic and bulky. The upholstery is damaged, and they sat it, at first, at the end of their driveway with a big cardboard sign on it that announced Free.
Now, we all know that if you really want someone to haul away your junk, you put out a sign that says “$20 or best offer”. No one wants free junk. So there it sat for two days.
It rained.
Not long after, I saw that the sofa had mysteriously migrated to the end of the street, where it sits beneath the bus stop schedule sign.
I think we have the nicest bus stop bench in the county. Certainly the most comfortable. Just don’t suggest to me the words mold, rot or rodent. Also, I don’t want to know what the teenagers are doing on it while waiting for the bus in the dark hours.
Repeat. I. Don’t. Want. To. Know.
Mar 062012
Recently one morning, approximately 3 long weeks after the thesis marathon began, I bent over Chris’s head and murmured, “Will you get up or do I have to be mean?”
“What kind of mean?” he mumbled, his face still buried in the pillow.
“Cold hands,” I returned. “Lost blankets.”
“Bare, sore bottoms,” he mumbled. “Bottoms without panties.”
I couldn’t help it. “Yes please,” I said, laughing.
“You’re depraved,” he grumbled.
I kissed his temple. “You’re one letter off,” I corrected.
Later that day, he stepped into my office. “I think I might finish today,” he told me.
Good, I thought. Good. Yes, please. And suddenly I wished I had slipped my freezing cold hands down his back to cup his rear inside his boxers. Good.
Mar 042012
I first saw the ocean when I was just barely five, mere days before I started kindergarten. I was raised far, far inland and though we were frequently to be found near, in and on lakes even at that young age, they were still relatively quiet, peaceful places.
The ocean rocked me.
Emotionally, the ocean was a thing of great beauty and utter fascination. It drew me, called to me. I heard it before I saw it, and tugged on Dad’s arm from blocks away to ask. “What’s that noise?” I said again and again.
He responded, “What noise?”
I know now that he didn’t hear it. I did though. I heard it in the back of my head, as though it was a beacon calling to me. My great-aunt and great-uncle had a pool enclosed by a great screened-in structure that shielded playtime from the sun and let us swim at night, but I wanted to see that noise. I needed to hear it more clearly. They lived in a neighborhood mere blocks from the water, so eventually my dad and I walked along the strange sidewalks to see the short, rocky steep coast. There was no beach, so the waves beat against the rocks that climbed up to the sidewalk. A guardrail just tall enough to keep children like me from rushing down onto the boulders separated that seawall from the street.
Beyond the surf, the water stretched forever. I’d seen big lakes before, or what I’d thought were big lakes, but this was almost unfathomable to me. As little as I remember about the first day of school, I remember vividly this first sight and smell of the ocean. I asked a million questions about the waves, trying to understand what sort of enormous boat would create a wake of waves that went on and on. Dad explained about weather systems and how rain made the waves choppy. Looking back I think I’m grateful he didn’t try to explain the effects of the moon’s gravity on the tides – it would have been too much. Too much unbelievable, too much magic. In the sweltering heat of the hot Florida days and the chlorine of the swimming pool, I hadn’t noticed the aroma of the ocean water – at least not until I stood there on the sidewalk and simply breathed in the ocean.
Together we stood and stared under the hot August sun. It was his first sight of the ocean, too, you see.
Eventually, we left my great-aunt and great-uncle and headed south along the Gulf coast of Florida, staying in a place near a proper beach. Physically the ocean threw me into the surf, pulled me into its water and tossed me back out again, as though it were in itself a playmate I could befriend. Dad, over and over, would have to pick me up and toss buckets of water at me to wash off the caked sand. My nose and throat burned from the overexposure. Repeated applications of sunscreen couldn’t stop the sparkling ocean water from attracting the sun’s increasingly dangerous rays.
My brother swallowed one mouthful of salt water and ran up the sand crying to our mother. He refused to have anything to do with this terrifying, smelly reality called ocean and preferred the safety of the sand. (He now scuba dives in it, so no worries!)
I, on the other hand, couldn’t get enough. The ocean was alive. It breathed. It danced. It loved the earth with its nurturing massage and it permeated my senses until I exulted in it, eventually exhausted and sated and happy enough to sleep without dreams or memory.
“All of us have in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and, therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea – whether it is to sail or to watch it – we are going back from whence we came.” – John F. Kennedy
These days I am more accustomed to experiencing satiation with sex than with ocean. The principle, I think, is much the same as my first experience with the ocean. It tempts me. The hinting promise of it, in the back of my mind, followed by the foreplay tease where I wait, smell, anticipate listen and finally touch, until the hunger wells up inside of me and begs to be indulged.
Indulgence is a greedy, wanting thing that wells up. More. More, please. My body says it. My mind begs for it. My mouth pleads, eventually. I hold out as long as possible to prolong the pleasure, not wanting to reach the point of satiation – because satiation means that it is over for another day and I do not want it to end. I’m reaching for human contact – for intimate contact - with someone who is so much a part of me that I feel separated from him when I am long denied the restorative elixir of intimacy.
I am bound to another as I am tied to the ocean. He is my blood, in my tears, in the salt of my sweat. And he lets me live near the sea.
Mar 022012
from 2005… I don’t think I ever shared it here, because it was in my ‘unfinished’ folder:
Chris and I don’t have many rules. But we do have this one. It goes something like this: Thou shalt not have an orgasm when playing with thy husband unless permission is first received from thy husband. This generally requires me asking for permission first.
I have been working on a project that last week took a wild turn for the worst. Tuesday morning everything was on the up and up and it was going to be finished well before its deadline and I was really happy. Wednesday morning the whole thing was scrapped and I was essentially back at step one with a good week’s worth of work ahead of me to do in three or four days. I wasn’t getting much sleep, I drafted Chris to help me and I was really tense.
So Friday night sometime after 11 pm, Chris literally threw up his hands, said something like ‘that’s enough for tonight’ and herded me in the direction of the bedroom. And me, being me, agreed. A person can only take so much work.
But I was feeling, well, squirrelly. Rebellious. And I told Chris I was feeling like I wanted to do something disobedient. “You know what the consequences are,” he said, not looking at all like he minded.
I do know what the consequences are. The rule is that if I orgasm without permission, then Chris may punish me by fucking me anally, without worrying about whether I get off on it or not. Or he may defer it until such time of his choosing, in which case I have to think about it, anticipate it, consider it, etc. It may also involve spanking, other ‘preparation’ for my punishment, and a lot of teasing.
So Chris doesn’t mind me breaking this particular rule, truly. In fact, the rule is to remind me of my submission, not to make him feel dominant. Trust me when I say he relishes every time I break it.
And he knew I was going to break it. He took great delight at building me up to a point where I was highly aroused but still retaining my state of mind. This didn’t involve a lot of spanking, but rather nibbling, pinching, rubbing and fondling. And I said several times I didn’t want to ask. He kept touching me.
[FYI - This is not a complaint. I adore – am terribly greedy and eager and happy about – being touched. Anywhere. Any time. Yes please.]
I orgasmed. No permission. Not even asked for and refused.
When I came back to the present, I didn’t care. I just laid there and waited while Chris fondled my bottom, apparently thinking about how much he was going to enjoy punishing me for this particular offense. And then he started again. Tweaking and rolling my nipples and fondling my bottom until I knew I was either going to dig myself a very deep and dangerous hole or I was going to break down, ask permission and start feeling the very submissive head space that I was fighting.
I wasn’t ready to break down and in a true spirit of rebelliousness, I reached down and started rubbing my own clitoris.
No surprise when I had the second orgasm.
Chris just smiled and held me close. We snuggled for a few minutes and then he started telling me about my punishment, about how my bottom was going to be spread apart and he was going to slide his finger in to help me prepare for my punishment. And then he did. One finger in, additional pressure further forward and his second hand was on my nipples.
I still wouldn’t ask.
I suffered the third orgasm with his one finger of his left hand in my bottom and two fingers of his right hand pinching one of my nipples. I say suffered because I knew I only had to ask and he would give permission but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to ask. I wanted to be naughty, disobedient and I wanted to feel punished after.
Instead of punishing me straight off, he was helping me dig myself into a deeper hole. And I think he was enjoying every second of it.
He did take mercy on me (or on himself) after the third one, and decided that my punishment would shortly commence. He also took the time to remind me that the other two punishments would be deferred at his leisure. He teased me about how obvious it was that he could, instead of punishing me right then, continue to torment me until I totaled any number of additional punishments from unpermitted orgasms.
After that, I was thoroughly punished (see above for what happens, I won’t describe it in detail!), he was thoroughly happy, and I had no more orgasms that night.
I did, however, sleep extraordinarily well and my neck and backache was miraculously absent.
At least, until Saturday when I started working again.
Sunday afternoon, Chris and I spent the baby’s naptime cuddling happily. During that very happy and contented ninety minutes of bliss, we discussed (umm… planned) my imminent punishment, to be endured when Chris chooses.
It seems I’m to be naked and bound (how is undecided), and ordered face down on the bed with a butt plug inserted into my bottom. I will be required to stay there for as long as Chris chooses (in his words, 30 seconds or two hours or sometime in between). He will feel free to come and go as he wishes, to pinch, rub, smack and otherwise remind me of my helplessness and hurt me. I am, while in this position, to consider the relative wisdom of active disobedience. To think about how when my punishment is over, I’ll still have one more to go. To think about how helpless I am, and how naughty I am for liking my punishment at the same time it is uncomfortable and so very embarrassing. To think about how when it is over I might very well still be frustrated and unsatisfied.
Obviously, I’m already thinking.
The Answering Machine