5.30.2012

Thank you Sir

I love Wednesdays because it is Hip Hop Funk day at the YMCA. I go just about every week and bounce around with the other dancers, trying to look cool and get my moves right, and failing much of the time. But I am learning and getting some of the moves right and I do love it, so that's most of what counts, right?

The dance instructor is male, fit, really good at dancing and really loud as he shouts instructions into the microphone he wears. You can tell that most of the dancers in the room (all the women at least) are in awe of him. He makes jokes and they smile. He dances a certain way, or makes goofy sounds or expressions and they laugh. The classroom is usually made up of women and guys that I, in my limited knowledge, decide must be gay.

Sometimes we learn new dances. Most times we just go over old dances we learned months ago. Some of the "dances" are more like aerobics  with jumping jacks and punches and kicks thrown in. And as we leap and jump and try to breathe, the instructor counts like a drill sergeant, but instead of a scowl, there is the widest smile on his face. You can tell he loves teaching, loves Wednesdays as much as we do.

Sometimes a class member that he seems to know personally behind me or to the side of the room will get tired or just decide to stop dancing all together. The YMCA is a place where instructors end up getting to know people, so I can tell that he knows many people in the room. So, sometimes, when you can tell he knows someone and they start slacking off, he wipes the smile off his face and glares sternly at them, while the class titters and giggles in between their huffs and puffs and jumping jacks.

There's one dance we do just about every week, in which the instructor plays a drill sergeant pretty much the whole time. Towards the middle of the song, he tells us to "March!" which is a kind level down from the intensity that he had us at. Everyone sighs, catches their breathe and begins marching in place. But we all know what is coming, because after he says "March!" and we start marching, he always asks, "What do you say?? What do you say?" Then the whole class choruses, "Thank you, S----!" They don't really say "S", they say his name, which starts with an "S---", but I'm using that initial to protect the innocent. Anyway, since his name started with an "S----" and almost sounded similar to "Sir" , my first time experiencing this in the dance class, I was certain everyone was saying "Thank you, SIR!!!!" I blushed and tried not to say it and then (so thankful now that no one heard me, would chorus "Thank you, Sir" with the best of them.

I finally learned his name and that no one was saying "Thank you, Sir." Oh, what a let down.

Anyway, today in class, we did the usual dance where he said, "March!" And we said, "Thank you S---" and then he would say, "I didn't hear that. It wasn't loud enough. We are going to start from the top." Usually everyone groans and whimpers and moans and keeps going and then we dance and then he says "March!" We say, "Thank you, S----!" And once again he will say, "What do you say??" And so the cycle repeats, with him basically torturing us drill sergeant style. I used to think it was fun.

Then today I thought of something more fun. I wouldn't say it. I wouldn't thank him. What if he saw me?? I was all excited about the possibility of him seeing me, because well, who knows what would happen then? Well, sadly, in a room full of at least 40 people, he didn't notice my silence. Sad day...

But even though he didn't notice my rebellion, I felt awful for it only minutes afterwards. I imagined what it would have been like if the class had followed my lead, if we all had closed our mouths, and if his "What do you say?" had been met by an insolent silence. What if that was a wrap? What if that was the end of his fun what-do-you-say dance? It's not like he could force us to say it. The fact that we said it back to him made the game and the dance fun.

And then I realized part of the reason why I've always had trouble rebelling. I was not a rebellious child/teenager as a rule, but there have been one or two or three occasions in my life when I went all out and rebelled good and hard. Each time, I felt horrible for doing so, without anyone punishing me or making me feel horrible. And I realized today at least part of why rebellion made me feel bad. Because it worked. It worked for me. I was not punished for it. And if everyone had done it, then the dance would have been ruined. Because rebellion is powerful. Sometime it even does take power away from those you are rebelling against. I actually had power, and rebelling would bring that power to my attention.

And power scares the crap out of me. I want someone to follow or at least, to be able to count on, to be able to listen to when I don't know what to do or think. But I don't like this about myself, and I'd love to change it. What if I could trust myself to know what's best, at least most of the time? What if I could trust myself to rebel at the right times, against the right things, and say, I know that this is right and I will stand up for it no matter who is disappointed in me?




5.27.2012

His Hands

I've had a sort of hands fetish for a long time. This is something that can be very entertaining when sitting through long dull high school or college lectures. Even if the teacher or prof has old, stubby, grizzled hands, that's alright because there are plenty of other hands to look at and imagine that they are spanking hands.

College Guy and I have a picture on Facebook of me cuddled up against him, his hand around my shoulder. That hand is just about the first thing I look at when I see the picture. How his hand is capturing my shoulder perfectly, holding me against him. How it's relaxed but confident in its claiming of me.

Holding his hand while walking through the downtown streets of our city, watching him sleep in on a lazy Sunday morning one of his hands grasping the corner of our bed, his hand around both of my wrists, holding me captive with my legs above my head, pinned up like a pretzel,  while he spanks me hard and fast, one hand, grasping, strong, unyielding while the other stings and punishes. His hand on my head bringing it close to him, down, guiding my head towards him, then other times on my face, fingers cruel, steely, grasping, forcing me to look him in the eyes and tell him "Yes, Sir."  His hands supporting my shoulders, bringing me towards him, pressing me against him as he says, "You. Come here",  then as I lie on my stomach whimpering his hand trailing down to my butt, rubbing soothing, "You're okay, Bonnie-jo."


5.26.2012

The Basement

This post is a return to the past. To a weird occurrence in the past that I've never known what to think about. It confused me, and I return to it in my head occasionally.

My Magician, the older spanker I used to see but broke up with over a year ago, told me before I met up with him for the very first time, "I do not want sex. I will not want sex. If that is what you are looking for you can move on to the very many other men out there who are looking for it." I loved this about him. It made him safe.

The very last time I saw My Magician, he had been spanking me in various positions. It was late afternoon/early evening, and we had spent the entire day together, him showing me parts of his home city for the first time. We had been to an old mansion-museum, and he'd swatted me playfully in the stairwell in front of all the museum cameras. We'd seen the ocean. I'd been caned by one of those old-fashioned crooked school master canes in his office, with his secretary unknowingly working away on the other side of the door. We'd had breakfast together, lunch together, and we were just about to have dinner together.

But before dinner, we had a couple of hours set aside in which he would spank me in the hotel I was staying in. I don't remember a whole lot about this last spanking he would ever give me. I think I stood in the corner for awhile..maybe. I also remember giggling at everything he said or did. For some reason, his seriousness gave way to fits of silliness in me. Really, I was feeling him out. I wanted him to get serious and spank hard, so I did the opposite, hoping he would come to rescue me from my bratty giggling self.

I remember him looking perhaps a bit at a loss as to what to do with me. We didn't have a punishment spanking lined up because I hadn't done anything to be punished for. We didn't have a roleplay lined up either, and he knew I was wary of roleplaying. What I do remember is he had me lay facedown on the hotel bed and pulled up a chair so that he was sitting next to me, close, but far enough away so that I felt like I was some kind of patient in a doctor's office.

Then he blindfolded me, telling me that maybe this would help me calm down and stop thinking everything was so funny. He began giving me light swats very slowly and in between them, asked in a light, playful tone, "I want to know what Bonnie-jo thinks about when she is alone, all by herself, and thinks thoughts that get her hot and bothered?"

I shift on the bed slightly. What is he doing? What? Oh no, is he trying to push things to far? Of course he's not...what??

"What do you think about, hmm? "  His voice is teasing.

I don't answer for awhile. Instead I scrunch my face under the blindfold in awkwardness and disapproval. I don't want to be made to talk about this. Not in person. This is embarrassing and feels weird.

"I think about being spanked." I finally say, sort of uselessly. Then I shut my mouth. Just take that. That's all you need. Now be normal please.

His hand comes down hard on my bottom. Then it rubs just a little tiny bit, not enough to be erotic or anything, then it comes down again. I sigh in that way that means this is lovely.

But he seems to not be expecting me to speak. He continues as the hand spanking continues at a slower rate and I relax under it. His voice is almost hypnotic. I breathe deeply, in and out. I feel like I'm in some dark and huge cave. All alone with him.

"So you want to be spanked...and I know you want to be punished and punished hard." Oh, it's nice when he says that. "And who would be punishing you? A man, yes?" His hand comes down. Then there is nothing. Silence. His breathing mingled with mine. And darkness.

"Maybe a lover," he continues. Someone who knows you so well, maybe even better than you know yourself. Someone you trust so much that you let him see everything, everything you feel guilty for..." He continues the spanks randomly. They aren't hard and they are definitely not soft. And there's enough space between them to keep me wanting more.

But I don't like his soft voice talking about some mysterious lover and the spankings that lover will give me. His voice is lilting almost. But my mind is saying to myself, Why why why is he doing this? What does he want? Please don't want more than I can give! Because I just might give it to you anyway...

The monologue drones on and on, with me coming in and out of reality as his spanks mix with his words and become almost one. Then SLAP! His voice changes, it loses some of it's softness and its dreaminess. "Maybe, maybe what Bonnie-jo actually thinks about is someone spanking her, not a lover, but someone else. A man who does not know all parts of her. A man who cares and who punishes her. A man she can trust, an older man, maybe the neighbor next door...Someone you (and some point he stops saying "Bonnie-jo" and starts using "you") can open up to and feel like a little girl with. Someone who will spank your bare bottom, because that is the way you are punished when you are bad." SMACK! SMACK!

"Someone who will take you maybe, down to his basement and..." He suddenly drifts off and almost chuckles, the seductive voice gone. I start cracking up too, partly because I'm so relieved that the intensity of his speech and attitude has left.

"Sorry, sorry.." He says, clearing his throat, "Okay where was I?"

"The basement." I giggle. " You left off in the basement."

"Aha, right, the basement. Well.." I can hear him trying to compose himself and not chuckle again. "The point is that she, Bonnie-jo, can feel safe with this man." He begins the slow, moderate spanks again, and I breathe deeply and settle into them.

"He punishes her when he knows she needs it, and sometimes, just because he spanks her and he spanks her hard because he wants to and because she wants him to. Maybe he calls it a good girl spanking. Or maybe he just spanks her hard because he knows she needs to have her bottom spanked good and hard and long..."

And then there is no longer his hand but a small paddle or wooden bathbrush, I think it was, it's hard to remember, besides that fact that I was blindfolded. He continues the spanking, and even though it hurts a lot more because it's now wood, he still keeps the spanks slow.

And in my mind I'm spiralling. The monologue is making me feel incredibly turned on. And I'm not supposed to feel that way around him. But it's dark and we're in this cave and anything could happen. The story is my story. Except I'm not sure if the other players are real or imaginary, but as he speaks and continues on and on and on, detailing my feelings and desires, the swats falling softly on my bottom meet each word. Down deep, I'm terrified. And probably I'm also terrified that this may be the last time he will ever spank me.

The spankings stop. "I'm stepping out for just a minute, Bonnie-jo. Stay where you are."

But I don't stay. I can't stay. I have to be a brat and push him to spank me hard, to punish me. He must snap out of this weird seductive monologue. I must snap out of it. So as the door shuts behind him. I sit up, pull off the blindfold, and look around as the sun blinds my eyes.

He comes back into the room and gives me one quick look and all playfulness and lightness is gone. Thank God. The spanking towards the end of this post happens (click on the little blue word that says "post" in case you didn't see  this blog yet...).

At the end of that spanking I am very bruised but contented.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. "But I had to do something horribly disobedient."

"Why?"

"Because this may have been the last time you would spank me." My reason is true, but I don't tell him my other reason. And that reason is the following: because I was too afraid of that moment, that deep dark cave where anything could happen, and the lilting sound of his voice telling me exactly what I wanted and didn't want. Way too scary.