Too Weak and Fucking Afraid to Be Good

(I wrote this post at least a week or two ago, but decided against posting it (but have now decided to in case someone doesn't realize how crazy I can sometimes get). It was probably on a Monday. I'm beginning to hate Mondays. On Mondays, I'm supposed to do 3 hours of homework. How many have I done today? One solitary hour. What is my excuse for my laziness? I don't have one. I've been doing a lot nothing. And I don't like myself. I don't like the ways I'm feeling, the choices I'm making or want to make. I want a spanking so bad. Anyway, here is the post. Enjoy.)

College Guy called me weak the other day, and it hurt. It was because I was refusing to define some term in a discussion we were having. It was a small thing. I was digging in my heels for no  reason, or so he thought. It hurt and it didn't hurt. I've always wondered how we can define things anyway. I'm such a relativist..at least..I like to think I am. "Relativist" is a word I'm trying to define myself by, and that is just nullifying and ironic in itself.

But I am weak. And I am afraid. There are good things about me--especially when I'm happy. I'm fun to be around, when I am happy that is. And I can be counted on to be loyal...that is..if I'm happy.

Everyday College Guy asks me how I'm feeling. "How are you feeling? Are you okay today?" Like I'm already  a member of his client list and he's checking in. I'm usually good. I"m usually happy. And if not good, I know I'll be feeling better. I make sure to ask him too. Make it even. Make it less than what it is.

But today I"m not okay. Today I'm weak. Today I"m afraid.

I love him. Or at least, I want him. I want him in the most selfish way possible....meaning that I want him physically, emotionally. I want him.

This makes me undesirable in my own eyes, perhaps in his too. You know, you don't want to get married...because as soon as a guy knows he really has you, he doesn't want you anymore. Just when you were getting used to the idea. That's what I wonder if dating is like.

I"m too scared to be good. Being strong in a relationship and fighting for it takes guts.
It's not that I don't see that.
I"m afraid.
I"m so fucking afraid.

This is why I need to be punished, and punished as hard as I can possibly live through. Otherwise the pain of this will be too much. And the fear of this will consume me. And I"ll end up----fat, overly-masterbated, and stark raving mad. Hating myself, possibly hiring someone to kill me (by spanking please, can you go that way?)

I want College Guy now. I like him now. I like him.
Do you know how scary that is? What if I make him hate me? I don't know if I'm freaking out and letting go by not trying as hard now because I feel it's inevitable....I don't know.

Pure Punishment

My alarm clock on my cell  rings obnoxiously, and I grunt, sit up, and stumble around the foot of the hotel bed to College Guy's side.
 The only outlet is there. I hit the off button and shuffle back to my side, crawl under the covers.
"What are you doing?" He asks me sleepily.
 "I'm only going to lie here for a couple minutes. I"m getting up, don't worry."
5 minutes later, I'm in the shower.
I come back to the bed 15 minutes later, knowing that we have only about a half hour before we have to hit the breakfast in the lobby and be on our way. I'll have to speed the 4.5 hours back to the city I live in so I can arrive to work on time.
30 minutes for a punishment.
30 minutes for a punishment that I don't want. Just the night before he'd tried to use the cane for a "fun" spanking. The fun spanking that didn't happen because my tolerance levels had been the lowest I'd ever experienced.
But this punishment had been on the agenda for weeks--ever since I'd lost track of how much homework I had and spent a painful night working on a paper and a presentation and getting only two hours of sleep. That had been "unacceptable" and a punishment was in order.
This morning feels better than the night before. Maybe I'll be able to take this spanking.
I climb back onto the bed and College Guy opens his arms, pulling me in for a kiss. I snuggle next to him, and we chat. Then, a pause.
"Okay, Bonnie-jo, I want you in the corner. Now."
He's caught me off guard. I'd almost forgotten how this morning was supposed to go.
"So soon?" I stall and stare wide-eyed at him. How does he transition the way he does? I never knew anyone could do it so smoothly and quickly.
He tells me about a week later that after I'd asked that, he'd given me his "huffy-look" and I'd smiled and gotten serious all at the same time. He says that look on my face was his favorite face of the weekend.
I stand in the corner, hands on my head. He turns the tv on. And my prevailing thought is that he won't make me wait long, because we only have 30 minutes before we have to get going. And, even though I wish we had longer to spend with each other, I'm glad I won't be made to wait long.
Soon he tells me to turn around. He's sitting in a straight backed chair. I can't remember if there was a lecture. Probably not. (Lol, if there was one....ha..that would be hilarious.)
What I do remember is him grabbing my pants, zipping them off and tugging them down in seconds. A lonely blue thong remained. It was a new one, one he'd never seen before.  A small thread of decency. One that was removed in something like half a second. I think spanking parties should have panty removing contests. Which top can de-panty his girl first? I do think College Guy would win every time. I'm never prepared for how fast it goes when he's about to discipline. And I usually end up yelping in sheer surprise.
So I yelp and am pulled through the air. I land with a thump across his lap.
He begins with my sandal. It's one of my most hated implements, made from some kind of hard hard plastic,  its sole made out of a sort of plastic/wood with ridges in it. He's lecturing and smacking, and I'm writhing and yelping.
I struggle and he talks. I try to listen so that I can give the appropriate "Yes, Sir's" , and he makes me say a lot of them.
Then he stops. "Now, you know you're getting Gepetto to end this. You're going to count, 'One, I will not procrastinate. Two, I will not procrastinate.' Got it?"
"Yes, Sir." I moan.
He shifts in his seat, grabbing the hated bathbrush, and then his leg comes over both of mine. He grasps my arm firmly and pulls it behind me. I suppose he wants to secure me before the onslaught, before I start performing dances I didn't know existed on his lap. But all it serves to do is make my sense of dread greater.
Each blow is hard and concentrated. And he's not moving to cover my whole bottom like some nice tops do. He's focusing on minute areas of my sit spots. Over and over and over again. We get to 10. I count it and  let out a huge sigh.
Whammm!!! The bathbrush meets my bruised flesh again. "No..no.." I whimper. "I don't want any more... Please, please, can't we stop at 10?"  Normally I'm not so wimpy, but this spanking is hard. And I'm still recovering from my vanilla-ish feelings of the night before.
"No, we cannot stop at 10. Do you think you deserve for me to stop at 10?"
"Nooo......but I don't want anymore." I grumble.
"Count."
"11, I will not procrastinate." SMACKKK! "Owww!!"
We reach 20 and I sigh in relief. But the bathbrush comes down again. I moan, and I count.
By the time we've reached 30, my counts are more like sobs and screams, you know....kind of a back and forth between two different styles:
   Style #1: This really high, my-finger-is-stuck-in-the-door, kind of voice, the kind guys use in movies when someone or something has just slammed into them in their most vulnerable spot.
   Style #2: This really weepy, I'm-feeling-so -sorry -for-myself kind of voice, the kind little kids use when they are crying because some other little kid knocked them down, and they are angry and want the other kid to get in trouble.
I've never found it so hard to count before, and once in awhile, he offers me the words, counts along with me.
SMAAAAAAAAACKKK! I sob and count.
SMACKKKKKKKK!!!!!  The sobs get longer, and the counting starts lagging behind.
I focus on trying to talk through my tears. I've stopped any attempts at holding still long ago.
It seems to go on forever.
But finally, we are done.
I don't remember what number he went to. Something like a hundred? Nah, I think it was maybe 50? 70?  I"ll ask him later. Funny how he remembers the numbers I get better than I do. You'd think it'd be the opposite.
 I lay across the bed, and he rubs Aloe Vera into my smoldering bottom.
I tell him thank you for spanking me, even though I didn't want him to spank me. The harder the spanking is, and the more I react to it, the more I want to say thank you. Because I never want him to think that I'm not okay with what he did.
And he tells me later that he actually felt sorry for me every time we passed the 10's numbers and kept on going. Because he could feel and hear my relief and following disappointment each time. "You moaned at 21, 31, 41....I kind of felt bad for you."
Sure he did. Whatever.

My Magician

I'm sure that most of you have forgotten the other guy who sometimes spanks me--not College Guy--the other guy. You know, the Magician guy. Underneath my blog's title, I say that there are two tops who spank me....but it has been awhile since I've seen My Magician. It's been over 6 months. It's almost been 9. We're trying to plan to see each other this next month. And I'm nervous but happy. It's been forever.

So, I don't really have anything to report on him especially--no scary, dramatic, involved spanking to describe.  All I have right now are some reminiscings and a bit of info.

College Guy and I met in person only a month before I met My Magician. The competition, at least in the mind of College Guy, was steady and always present. But now that we've been dating for more than 8 months, we've grown closer, and I believe he feels less competition, less threat. 1.5 years  ago (which is how long I've actively been a spanko) there actually was a bit of a threat, which top would I end up becoming closer too, etc. Still,  this is hard for College Guy. We went into this relationship saying we could see other people for non-sexual spanking relationships--we're too young not to take advantage of something like that. And yet, College Guy hasn't met up with anyone other than me. And I've had many rendezvous with My Magician. It's been an interesting ride. Needless to say, there has been drama. I will admit that I have been partially to blame, and that a lot of it was out of my hands as well...it was just what happened.

When I first met My Magician, I was blown away by how perfect everything seemed. He was an experienced spanker, he was professional, well-educated and at least twice my age (I like old people). He had that Flight Captain/ Sports coach quality that always makes me wish I were either  a stewardess or  a dude that likes to wear a helmet and tackle other guys while trying to catch a ball.
The first time we chatted was in a hotel bar, and I remember the feel of the leather seat sticking to the backs of my sweaty upper thighs as my short skirt rode up. There was the lemon zinger that the waitress brought me,  and  I remember how mad at myself I was when I realized I would be slightly tipsy during my first spanking. After that first night,  I hardly ever drank around him again because I never wanted to risk missing parts of a spanking because of tipsiness, and I especially didn't want to ever act out of control or embarrass myself.

That first night he told me my bottom was beautiful. I had been religiously attending aerobics classes for the month beforehand, and breathed a huge sigh of relief.  He was using a flogger, and I remember turning to watch him in the mirror across from the bed I was lying on. I could hardly believe my eyes. Some part of my brain captured the moment as though I were outside of myself and was watching it all on a movie screen. The flogger fell lightly across the upturned and pink bottom in the mirror. The bottom did indeed look beautiful, the light from a nearby lamp glowing over it. The man with the flogger struck again and again, and the violence of the movement captivated me. That girl in the mirror is me...that bottom is mine.

It was validation, and I ate it up. This man who'd spanked at least 10 girls before me, this man who had been spanking well for years, this man wanted to see me again. I couldn't believe it. He had a list, and now I would be a girl on that list. I know it may sound unnatractive to some, but I loved that. And in the following months, we wrote emails back and forth (he lives quite aways away). I treated him like a sort of diary, in a way, but he didn't get to see me as I really was--he saw only the parts that I thought were dramatic, exciting, or romantic. He became the person I'd complain to about College Guy or any boy problems in general. And he was and is an awesome emailer.

But I never asked hard questions. I did at first somewhat, but the more I liked My Magician, the more I didn't want to know if the answer could possibly be one I didn't like.  And I tried hard not to let him see the annoying, fearful, self-pleasing,  and lazy person I could be.

The hard questions come back to bite you. So they did. And it made me take a fresh look at My Magician and at myself. It was a painful look.

Sometimes you have to be reminded who you actually are. I had to remember that I was an adult and that he was an adult. Even though I had attempted to play an adult around him, I still felt like and ultimately wanted to act like a little girl.

Things happened. I had done some very hurtful things to College Guy in the recent past; but on the positive,  College Guy and I started growing into our relationship. The two men and their ideas of what I should be doing with them collided, and there was an argument, a line drawn in the sand.  My Magician planned to see me after it had been way too long, and then, beause of this arguement and line drawn, he changed his mind and cancelled his flight only the day before. And I felt abandoned. Pure and simple. He was doing what was best for him at the time, and I know that now. But I wanted to do nothing more than see him, and tell him how hurt I  felt. Maybe throw myself on the ground and kick and punch it like some two year old.

And then I asked a hard question and I didn't like the answer.

"A person's a person no matter how small" says Dr. Seuss...and I would add "no matter how tall",  or no matter how high they are put on a pedestal in the mind of Bonnie-jo, they are still a person.

And yet, I still write him,  and he still writes me. And I still like him and his company. I still fantasize about being over his knee. And  we still are planning to see each other soon. But I don't know where that little girl went who played at being the adult. Maybe she grew up and is now that adult. Maybe I don't want her gone, but mabye it's better that way. Maybe.