I Miss Him

Can a girl be so spoiled as to have a great top/dom/boyfriend like I do...and still miss her Magician?
I know I am. I'm that spoiled.
We've decided that it's best we don't see each other for awhile, and maybe indefinitely. I don't use words like "FOREVER". I refuse. Only God uses a word like forever. And part of the time, it's about hell being forever, so I don't like to follow in those kinds of  footsteps. No. Forever is not in the picture.
I really do hope to see him again.
And I miss him.
But I'll get over it, I suppose.
Maybe it's that I'm an all-or-nothing kind of person. Maybe I can't ever give myself fully to one man--my boyfriend--and then only give a part of my self to someone else. Maybe it's all or nothing. I'd like to think that's why things aren't working out. That if our situations were different (And I wouldn't trade College Guy for anyone), my Magician and I could continue where we left off.
It would be nice to think that the problem wasn't with ourselves.
Even though it was probably both--the situation, but also ourselves...
I want to blame him.
I want to blame me.
I want to blame him so that he'll make it better. Change it. Fix it. Make it stop hurting. Please. Work some magic.
I want to blame me so I can let go of it. I want to say, "I couldn't help it. It's how I am. I can't change the way things are. So, it was inevitable. And it was my choice. So it's ultimately my fault. But it's not my fault because I couldn't help how life progressed."
How nice, to think that something that hurts is inevitable. Can't be helped. Not my fault. Not his fault.
More than anything else, I want him to not blame me. I hate that, and I think that's part of the reason I'm attracted to punishment spankings. It may be unhealthy, but there's something lovely about showing someone that you will "pay for your sins".
But we lived far apart. I haven't seen him for almost a year. Our only contact was through weekly emails. It's not like the pain should last too long for either of us, right?
I hope not.
And I feel guilty. I have College Guy. It is more than enough. And...am I leaving him with nothing?
Of course not.
Of course not. I couldn't ever envision him wanting when it comes to female attention. It will happen. And he will be fine.
Still, I wonder about it. And I miss him.

The Conclusion

After our "break", I am back on the bed, with my feet on the floor, hands still tied behind my back. And I am rambling about why I had squirmed out of the rope on my wrists earlier: " I think I thought I was going to cry, and I didn't want to, and I almost couldn't. And I was afraid that if I did start crying, it'd be too much of a crying scene."
"You know I don't mind your tears," He says.
"I know."
I can't remember actually all that went on next. Maybe it was more of the wooden paddle...with some caresses worked in there somewhere too. And then a tiny bit of the cane.
At one point, I wiggled down the bed-side, hoping to make the cane-stroke miss my sit spot. "You move like that one more time and you are in huge trouble, Bonnie-jo."
"I'm sorry..."
"If I hadn't seen you move, I could have easily hit your back. And that could have been dangerous."
"Hmph." I grumble. "I'm sure it would have felt better than what you've been doing."
Finally, he says, "You're almost done. 20 strokes of the cane---"
And I interrupt with whimpers and wiggles that put emphasis into my words, "No, no, no, no, I can't..I can't...Please no..." And I feel the panicked feeling coming back, and the feeling where I want to cry, but can't, and am holding back, for dear life.
"Hush. Yes, you can. And you will. They won't be fast, okay? They'll be really slow. You can do this."
I groan. "Okay, I know I can too."
"Okay."
I still myself now. Sometimes I react to a stroke, and he lets me squirm after each one, and then I still myself again.
Waiting.
Towards the middle of the 20 strokes, I'm sobbing after each one, but it's that kind of sobbing that is forced, the only way to let out the pain, and it dies down seconds after each stroke's fury dies down.
And then it's over.
I can't remember exactly how the rest goes. But I know that I wanted to cry when it was over. The need was the hugest I've ever felt. I needed that release, and was concentrating on working up the tears.
But College Guy doesn't  know. He hears me sniffling and he is intent on comforting, of course.
"I"m going to go get my lotion and take care of your bottom, okay, Bonnie-jo?"
I'm sniffling, and I don't  answer. Hoping my silence will give him a clue that something is wrong. The tears aren't coming. And I suddenly want him to spank me more. I want to cry so badly.
He pulls me into a sitting position on his lap, and I curl up, trying to bring the tears forward, but they're not coming.
 So I roll over onto his lap. This is the position that feels right still. No others do.
"Do you seriously want me to spank you more?"
I whimper, the tears are almost there. I'm grasping at them. Arghgh!! They're not coming!
"Bonnie-jo."
I don't respond.
"My lotion is over there on the table. I would get it and use it. But you are on my lap. Can you get up and bring it to me?"
I'm angry. I want to cry. I get up and attempt stomping over to it. But I'm slightly dizzy and feel kind of weird, like I'm tipsy or something. I manage to pick up the lotion (it's actually Aloe Vera, but let's call it what he called it....), and I don't hand it to him. I toss it at him.
"Here." I say.
"Get over my lap."
I do so. And as he touches my bottom, rubbing the lotion gently in, it stings slightly, and I sigh into the bedspread. And then, through the kindness of his touches, I get what I wanted. I cry. It begins softly, and soon I can feel my body shaking gently with the sobs. I don't think I've ever cried this hard before in front of him. But I console myself that it's not really in front of him. The bedspread hides my face. And he can't really see.
My tears fill me up, and my shaking subsides, as he continues to smooth my bottom, gently up my back, then down my legs.
Then he asks me, "Are you okay?"
And I say, "Yes, I am now."
He leaves to get a bucket of ice, and I stretch out on the bed while he's gone, almost falling asleep.
He puts the ice in the bag, and I say petulantly, "You don't have to do it, I can do it myself."
His hand comes down hard on my sore bottom and I yelp.
 "No you can't," He says. " I'm doing this."

Details

It seemed like a rush. He kisses me fast, we say our hellos. Grabs my bags, and then he is off in his characteristic fast walk that I have to push myself to keep up with. We are on the second floor of the hotel. But no matter. He picks up my rolling suitcase and carries it to the next floor, no time for elevators, with me trailing behind him, chattering away "How do you feel? One year since we've been to this very same hotel. And we're dating now..." He answers my questions as he walks, throwing them over his shoulder. And then we are at the door, in the door, putting my stuff in corners of the room.

"I have to go to the bathroom, give me one minute." Our beginnings have become a sort of dance, with me characteristically prolonging the inevitable. And I'll let you in on a secret, it's usually because I want to start up so badly that I try to savor the moment.

I pop back into the room moments later.
"Lose the flip flops" he says, "And get on the bed." We spend a bit of playful time there, and then it is on to business. He puts me over his knee. I had been promised a thorough warm-up before this spanking--this spanking that was going to be the"somewhat erotic-but really hard spanking" I had asked him for. We had a bit of discipline to get out of the way first, but then it was supposed to be a spanking that would be nice and awful all at once.

I still have my jean shorts on as the OTK paddle thuds softly onto my rear end. I bite back what I want to say, namely, "What are you doing? Why are you going so soft? Where is your hand for this warm up? Where is my bare skin getting warmed? What do you think you can possibly do through my shorts?" But the combination of his implement of choice and the degree of clothing I have on is more acceptable than me losing the shorts and him continuing with the implement. So I wisely keep my mouth shut.

And soon I am biting back little squeals because these shorts are awfully short, and he has begun using more force and  interspersing little spanks to my unprotected thighs.

Then,
"Get into the corner, now."
"Which one?"
"That one over there."
I giggle. The room has random lamps and other objects in the way of all of its corners. "That's not a corner."
"Move it."

I do so, and he adds, "I want your shorts and panties down but not off."
I take my time pulling them down and leave them more on than off. He lets out a sigh of disgust and pulls them all the way down for me, smacking my butt for my insolence. I try to hide my grin but give up struggling with my face. I'm grinning. But after a moment of standing with my hands on my head, my smile fades. My butt starts itching/stinging in a way I've never felt before. It hurts in tiny little splatters, here and there, like pins and needles. I stamp my foot, trying to get some relief.

"Don't move, Bonnie-jo."
ARRRRRRGGGGGGGGG. It is perhaps the most annoying moment of the whole spanking, the moment that employs the most self-discipline, but I get through it.

"Turn around and come over here." He is sitting on the couch. "Kneel in front of me."
I do so, feeling very submissive and serene. It's all going to be okay.
Reality check.....
He begins, "This is the discipline part, okay. I'm going to give you 100 with Gepetto." Perhaps he talks more, but this is all I hear for awhile.  My mouth has dropped open. I'm looking down, trying to fight the many impulses: get up, run away, cry, beg, tell him no.
He is lecturing me on what I did--procrastinated on days when I could have gotten lots of needed schoolwork accomplished. When he starts numbering what I've done and how this is the third time he's addressed it, I fill with shame.
"Look at me!" He grasps my face in his hand, forcing my eyes to his gaze. Whenever he does this it's a rush for me: first adrenaline, then embarrassment, then this submissive feeling where I meet his gaze. But today, I keep moving my eyes.
"Bonnie-jo," He warns, my face still in his hand. "If you do not look at me I will cane you."
So I do. I meet his gaze and don't break it. He has said the magic words.
"Do you have anything to say?" He asks me.
"No, yes, uhhh..no...yes..What..What about the rest of the spanking?" I quaver.
He smiles. "I'll give you time between this and the rest of it. You'll be able to make it."

I place myself over his lap, and begin whimpering before he has even touched me. I can tell he feels some kind of pity, because he says before he starts, "Just try to focus on getting through it, okay." I don't hear through my whimpers, so I say "What?" And he repeats himself. Has anyone noticed how hard it is to listen when you're thoroughly in dread of a spanking?

I try to just exist as he spanks. At first  But then he pauses. I didn't know pauses were allowed in discipline, but these ones are so helpful. "Take a breath, Bonnie-jo." He says. And when he begins again, I have new resolve.

When he is done, he tells me to get up. Pulls me into the bathroom. Firmly pushes me down, onto the closed toilet seat. "Sit here. No, sit, all the way on the lid. I want you to stay here, feel that sting, and think about what you did. It cannot happen again. The procrastination is stopping. It will stop. Hands on your head. I want you to think about it."

Later, the "fun part" has begun, and discipline is over. I'm on the sofa on all fours, and he has his belt out.  As each stroke falls, I arch my bottom out, ready, hungry for more. Well, at 4 out of 5 strokes I want more. Every 5th or so stroke has me yelping and falling back down onto the sofa. And then I raise my bottom up again to meet him, wondering how long it will take for me to use up my desire for this. Yes, belts are nice things, but what's to come isn't so nice. And I know this. Thankfully, he sets down the belt frequently and uses his hands in other ways, not spanking, if you know what I mean.

Then he ties my hands behind my back. I have decided that being tied up isn't a feeling I particularly like, and I never really have. What turns me on is the tying part. The process of being tied, the rope placed around you, the feel of him threading it through, the drag of it on various and sundry body parts as it wisps at flesh, the way he tightens it just enough, tests it to see how it will hold. This is what I love. But then I am immobile and slowly but surely spiralling into a slight claustrophobia--just enough to make me very turned on and very sensitive, and speedily approaching the limits of my feelings of any kind of control over myself.

It is at some point during the caning that follows, a caning, I should add, that is a very kind caning as far as canings go--cane swipes with much space in between swipes to allow me to breath and him to soothe my burning skin with his hand and his kisses. But during this caning I reach a kind of climactic need, a need, I'm not sure for what. I feel like I want to cry, to scream, to sob, to fall asleep,  and to cum, all at once. The feeling is too powerful and I don't know what words to use to let him know. So instead, and I still don't know how this happens, because that rope was on tight to start off with, I wiggle my wrists out of the bondage rope.

He doesn't notice for a bit, and then he does. "That was foolish."
"I know, I know.." I laugh. "Uhh...it was just too much. I didn't know what to do."
"You could have used your mouth and let me know."
"I know, I know...I was scared."
"Is that an apology?"
"Oh. Yes, yes, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I should have talked to you." I crawl off his lap and he gets of the bed.

"Bonnie-jo, I'm going to punish you for that. You can't just go and do what you want without talking to me. 6 swats with the three-holed paddle."
I moan. "Okay, okay."
"Keep your feet on the floor."
These swats hurt like hell. And I suddenly realize that this sorority-style paddle can really hold its own alongside that cane. It is almost a relief to know that after these 6 swats, I have the cane to look forward too.
He ties me back up. "If you need a break, you need to let me know with your mouth."
"Hmm..speaking of which." I say suggestively, "That's a good idea. I can think of a really good break."
He smiles. "Do you want to?"
"Yes, but I'll need a glass of water first, or else it won't be a very good one."

Pleasure through Pain

It was because of our"really-hard spanking session, with some erotic stuff thrown in" that made me think about it. That was the only name we could really come up with for the spanking College Guy and I planned for this past weekend when we saw each other for another Saturday--a day stolen away from the normal others, a day to play hooky, a day to pretend like we were normal boyfriend and girlfriend just hanging out , a day that became one of the most tiring days of my busy life. I found myself fighting sleep at 10pm...knowing I'd have to wake up at 5 am the next morning to speed the 4 hours back to my job, my life, and my city.

It had been a heck of a spanking. And it had been a spanking for nothing, well,  almost for nothing. I'll give you details later, but it's late, and they'll take too long to write out. For now, I just want to tease out how it made me feel--like a brat, and not a sub. What am I? I'm still asking myself this.

I know what I want to be--the perfect play partner/spanko girl, of course. Strong in my own opinions, but able to learn from new ones,  fun enough to take a joke and to throw one back out at the top, but cognizant of the time to play and the time to be serious, innocent but wise, a little girl needing a man's help, and a woman that can stabilize her boy in a fast-paced, hurtful, at times foolish world.

This is what I want to be, when I actually think about it. But underneath everything, my most animalistic desire is to lose control, and to become...I'm not sure what...

I had asked College Guy for a "really hard spanking", one that would force me to submit to him, to sub to him. To give me the rush I craved, and hopefully, to give him one too.

But I feel that somehow I never really submitted. Instead, I  whimpered, cowered, wailed, fought, and wept throughout the ordeal. I faltered and withered and he stood firm. It felt good. It felt absolutely right. I balked at the spanking, and he spanked me while telling me I was okay. I loved it. But what was it?

Towards the beginning of the spanking, he sat on the couch in the hotel room and pulled me over his lap. There was some discipline with the bath brush to get out of the way. 100 spanks with the bath brush. It was the part of the spanking we "had to do" before the erotic,  horrible but fun part....It was deserved, but I still began softly crying the moment I was over his lap. Funny how it's getting easier and easier to make noise during his spankings. He counted them himself, silently,  and towards the middle, as I began to tire myself with fighting to wiggle off his lap, he stopped spanking, stroked my back. "Shhhh...take a breath." He soothed. "Calm down, Bonnie-jo." My body instantly responded to his voice and hand, and all of the fight went out of me. I took several deep breaths. "You can do this, " He told me. "I'm going easier on you then normal, even." It was true. I knew he was trying to save me for the "fun" spanking coming. "Yes, Sir, I know." I sighed.

I'll save the details of the "fun" spanking. Let's just say most of it was not very fun.... Most of it was hard and hurt a lot. Towards the end, he tied both of my hands behind my back, and bent me over the bed, feet on the floor. Then the cane came out. "Noooo" I began, remembering the last time we tried the cane. But he did not listen to me. And I was glad. SWISHHH!!! The cane would strike and I would respond with yelps and gasps and wiggles. Then his hand would stroke my bottom , my back, soothing, preparing for the next strike. Then a pause.I would moan and grumble, knowing what was coming.  SLICEEEEEE!! Down it would come again.

He told me he was going to end with 20 cane strokes. "No...I can't." My weak protest. But it was "not an option"--one of my favorite phrases I love to hate that frequently come out of his mouth. I whimpered and sobbed before and after and during each and every following stroke. To me, cane strikes slow down reality, much like some kind of drug. But he was there, fighting the battle with me, the battle against the pain and the  fear involved in that cane and the time that stood still in its presence. My whimpers grew to a kind of high pitched intensity, and once again, he broke in with comfort, "Shhh, hey.. You're okay. You're okay. Just a little more. You're almost done."

It was perfect. In the past, I would have scolded him or made fun of  him for comforting me. "You're supposed to be cold," I would have said. "I don't want you to care about what I'm going through. I want you to not care." But that's not true at all. And I realized that this time. I loved it that he cared. I didn't understand how he could bring down the cane full force on my welting bottom while simultaneously soothing me, saying "You're doing great", but that is what he did. And that was what I come back to every time when I fantasize about this spanking. It's the soothing hand through the pain...the pleasure through the hurt....the comfort through forcing me to face my fear. Pleasure through pain. Not because of pain. But next to it. Beside it. Through it.

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.