The Void

Damn, the walls are hard. I should know. I've been bouncing off of them non-stop.

Yeah, I know; I almost never blog on Tuesdays. Creature of habit, that's me. Lover of ritual. Perpetuator of predictability. Well, screw it. I'm writing anyway, because I feel like it.

Monday nights have been the same for nearly two years. Not just the visit from ST, but the hours after he leaves. I change into PJs, take off my makeup and wash my face. I make myself something to eat, as I am ravenously hungry. I go through the photos he took, resize and crop them. I blog about our scene. I read the paper and do the crossword puzzle. Then I watch Jay Leno's Monday night "Headlines," eat some chocolate, and pour myself into bed.

Last night, I felt a strange restlessness later in the evening. I waited for sleepiness to overcome it, but it did not. No Leno, since the damned you-know-whats are pre-empting all of NBC's programming. I watched some old repeats of "Friends" and ate my chocolate. Around 1:00, I went to bed.

But I was missing something. That lingering, stinging, delicious pain. That stoned, boneless exhaustion born of intense endorphin surge and stress release. This morning when I awoke and rolled over, I didn't groan at the sweet, stiff ache in my bottom. Because it wasn't there.

Dammit. I have been spoiled. And I am experiencing withdrawal. My limbs twitch in my computer chair, unable to relax. Is there such a thing as spanking DTs?? In "The Lost Weekend," Ray Milland hallucinated and saw big black menacing birds flying around inside his room. I see flying paddles.

I know. I could have been spanked last night. But I just wasn't ready to play with someone new yet. It's easy to look back now and say I should have played with him. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. It wouldn't have been right, and I know it. Still, the craving is there. The void is there.

I need to let the void be there for a bit, feel it, acknowledge it. I know myself. When I rush to fill voids, to fill that emptiness, I don't feel better. I know I'm compromising myself and others. That's why I didn't play last night. I would have been grabbing at Mr. Possible to fill the void ST left, and that wouldn't have been fair to him, to ST or to myself.

So today, I face the void. I face the restlessness. I can't do this myself, but I comprehend what makes people self-spank. They crave that special pain, that impact. But that's not enough for me. I need the contact of a spanker, of strong hands and arms. I need to hear his voice. Trying to recreate the sensation myself while imagining someone else is providing it just leaves me feeling frustrated and foolish.

Next week, after plenty of time to think, feel and process, I do believe I will be ready. I hope Mr. Possible has a really, really, really strong hand and arm. He will need it. Because I need it.

Do I have any fellow spanking addicts? Can I hear from you? What happens when you go without? How do you feel? What goes through your mind, your body?

"So, Erica, how was your Monday?"

It was certainly different. I was a bit nervous. I felt a bit out of whack, no pun intended.

But I had fun. :-)

I don't know what I'm going to call him yet. What was it that Hermione called him -- Mr. Possible? Yes, definitely. I asked him if he was OK with my blogging about him, and he said absolutely.

No, we didn't play. In some ways, I wanted to. But I knew I simply wasn't ready yet. So, aside from a few test swats on my shorts, we refrained.

Instead, we talked, and talked, and talked some more. Asked questions. Talked about experiences, preferences, limits. I was comfortable enough to sass him a bit. I asked if he'd read my Friday blog, and he said, "No -- what did you say?" And I told him to go read for himself; I wasn't telling.

He said he'll remember that. Yeah, whatever. :-)

We watched a couple of my DVDs, short ones. He enjoyed them a great deal, which made me smile. He even watched one of the videos with ST. Watched our chemistry, saw our closeness. I know he won't compete with that. He is who he is, and ST is ST. Separate people, separate interactions. I showed him how to navigate FetLife; he'd just joined.

He was sweet. Kept checking in with me, asking how I was doing, how I was feeling. Very much into communication; I do like that. Reassured me time and again that it was OK we weren't playing, he was simply enjoying hanging out with me and getting to know me better. I felt the same.

Three hours later, he was going to head out. "So," he said, looking me straight in the eye, "let's see how kinky you are."

Oooh. A challenge. "Yes?"

"I want you to go into the bathroom, take off your shorts, remove your panties, put your shorts back on, and bring your panties to me."

Well, now. Interesting request. And yup, it gave me a little zing. "OK," I said, "but the shorts are staying up!" "Understood," he answered.

So I went into my bathroom, slipped off the shorts, then slid down the little orange-and-white striped thong. After putting my shorts back on and buckling my belt, I went back out to the living room.

He held his hand out, and I put the panties in them. Closing his fingers over them, he smiled and said, "These are going home with me."

!!!!!!!!!!!

He promised to bring them back next week. And then take home the pair I'm wearing then.

I guess I'm kinky, because I thought that was hot as hell.

At the door, we hugged. He told me he'd had a great time, and thanked me for having him over. Then he added, "And please tell John thank you for being OK with this." Yes. I'm a lucky woman, having a man who trusts me and grants me this freedom. I never forget that.

No pictures tonight, of course. Not sure when I'll have those pictorial blogs again. But it's one step at a time, and so far, so very good.

I will miss that deep, lingering soreness tomorrow, and that sleepy, dreamy bliss that never lingers long enough. But perhaps next week, we can make that happen. :-)

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes, Part 2

Some of you (and I think maybe ST himself) may be wondering why I seem to have assumed that he and I won't be playing anymore, now that he's met someone. Granted, it may look like I'm being sort of black-and-white, one extreme or the other. And there could very well be an in-between, down the line. I'm simply operating from past experience.

I've lost several play partners in the past due to new relationships. A lot of girlfriends simply don't understand the dynamics of a spanking partnership, and I get that. Some are more open-minded and secure, certainly. Others, notsomuch. After having experienced an episode years ago where the (now former) girlfriend of a former play partner was jealous to the point of psychosis and made things so unpleasant for both of us that he dropped out of the scene and I damn near did too, I know just how bad it can get.

When I told John three weeks ago that ST had met someone, his reply was, "I'm sorry, sweetie... better start looking, now." He's been through it with me, so he knows. Although his viewpoint on this sort of situation is rather pragmatic. "What's the big deal?" he says. "Men should explain it this way: that it's like having a tennis partner. They get together with their tennis partner, play an intense game, and then part company. They don't go out on a date afterward and they don't go to bed together. It's a separate activity." OK, while I can see the logic of that, my beloved engineer boyfriend is not factoring in human emotions. It's not that simple, even though it should be. A spanking playmate is not a tennis partner. The latter keeps all her clothes on. There is no physical contact with the latter.

So. I wait. And because my nature is such, I expect the worst, but hope for the best. The best being, of course, that ST will be joyously happy with this new relationship, and still be able to come visit me now and then. But I know that for now, the weekly visits are a thing of the past.

I will miss those, certainly. It's the first time I've been able to see a playpal/friend with such regularity. When Craig and I were playing, it was periodic. And even when Danny and I were playing regularly, it was more like every other week -- and toward the end in the months before he moved away, the times got fewer and farther in between. But ST has been as dependable as the sunrise. He was a solid presence, unflappable, even though my moods ran the gamut from week to week.

They say when a door closes, a window opens. But what happens when the door is still ajar, and you don't know if it's going to close, or open back up? What if someone opens the window while you're looking at the door?

I met a man last week. Someone who knows all about John and ST. He is local with a fairly flexible schedule, and his polite intro email to me did everything right. What do you know -- two face shots and no dick pics! Hallelujah! He doesn't want to replace anyone or push his way into anything. Just wants to help me deal with what's going on, and play when I'm ready. Seems like a very nice guy. Cute, too. :-)

I did all the proper things, folks -- believe me, I learned my lesson about that last year! (wincing) I met him publicly, we talked a long time, I got all the pertinent information. He offered to come over tomorrow afternoon, knowing it will be my first ST-less Monday in a long time, and I will be feeling an emptiness. He does not expect us to play; he just wants to talk some more, maybe watch some of my videos.

I'm not ready to play with someone else, not just yet. I'm in a weird transition mode, not knowing which way things will go, and he knows it. And yet, he still wants to see me. The idea of friendly company tomorrow sounds wonderful. But I just can't play yet. I'd feel like I was hurriedly replacing ST, which I most certainly am not doing, because he's irreplaceable. If/when I play with someone new, it must be because I want to play with HIM, not because I just need to grab onto whoever's available. That wouldn't be fair to either of us.

I need more friends, y'all. A lot of people have exited my life in the past year or so, for various reasons, and my world has narrowed. I have so many wonderful friends online; I love my readers, love my email mates. But it had gotten to the point where my only real-time contact with others (besides the gym and other day-to-day stuff) was with John on weekends, ST on Mondays. Maybe it's time for me to be more open to new possibilities. Open those windows. And leave the door open as well.

So tomorrow, I will have company, a new friend. It will be fun. And I will think of my dear old friend and smile, because I know he'll be having a fabulous time.

Quickie random Friday thoughts

Happy Friday and congratulations to my fellow Chrosslings. Yup, still get the same thrill as ever.

This blog now has 199 followers. Wondering who's going to be #200.

I currently have 666 friends on FetLife. ST commented on my wall that he can't stop spanking me for a minute without my turning into a little devil. What can I say... :-)

Spankos are partying in Chicago at Crimson Moon this weekend. (sigh) Isn't it time for Shadow Lane yet? Hope everyone there is having a blast. Play some extra for me.

Probably hundreds of people will want to spank me for this, but I honestly don't care about the Olympics. John watches them non-stop, so when I'm with him, I'll see them. Otherwise? OK, maybe the gymnastics. But that's about it.

And finally -- yes, I know this is un-PC. I know it's in questionable taste. I apologize to anyone who has dyslexia. But all that said, this still made me laugh out loud.

Have a great weekend, y'all.

You want me to read WHAT?

Earlier this week, Beth posted about seeing the Anne Rice "Sleeping Beauty" trilogy on the bookshelves at Target, here. It was on display right next to that other trilogy. She expressed her shock and surprise (and I agree with her) that the Beauty series would be so casually displayed in a family store. For those who aren't familiar with it, it's not wannabe stuff. It is hardcore BDSM, very dark. Not "BDSM For Dummies" like that other trilogy.

Reading Beth's post reminded me of my own experience with the Beauty series, many years ago. In my book, I talked about how John took me to my very first scene party in October, 1996. There, we met a man named Patrick, who gave me my first public party spanking. We chatted him up quite a bit at that party, and he ended up inviting us to his house about a month later.

During our evening there, Patrick asked me if I'd read the Anne Rice Beauty trilogy. Honestly, I'd never even heard of it; pretty much all I'd read up to that point, as far as scene material was concerned, was a few spanking stories and Shadow Lane's "Stand Corrected" magazine. Clearly, in his mind, this omission was unacceptable. "Oh, that is a must!" he exclaimed. And without any further ado, he marched into his bedroom and re-emerged with three books. "This is your reading assignment," he announced.

I was a bit taken aback. Assignment? What was I, in grade school? But remember, I was a novice. Brand-new in the scene, just a few months. I was intimidated and thought, well, if he thinks I should read these, then I guess I should.

Oh, man. I knew I was in trouble from practically the first page. I hated it. There was very little spanking in it, as I was to discover. But there were plenty of harsh beatings, whippings, humiliations, torture scenes, ponyplay, and more. Metaphorically speaking, in my scene reading I was currently at the "Dick and Jane" level, and he'd just assigned me "War and Peace." Plus, although there was a bit of M/F, there was also F/F, F/M and M/M, none of which resonated with me. So I winced and cringed and squirmed my way through the first book, "The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty," not enjoying one bit of it.

Then I started the second book, "Beauty's Punishment." If possible, it was even worse, even more graphic. I got through about 1/4 of it, and then I slammed the book shut.

Why the hell am I subjecting myself to this? Because someone I barely know told me to? Screw that! He can take his assignment and... give it to someone else. I'll read what I damn well please.

Yes, folks. My scene personality developed early. :-)

The next time we saw Patrick, I brought him back his books, and politely but firmly told him I didn't like them and wasn't going to finish. I seem to recall he was a bit miffed at that, surprised that some still-wet-behind-the-ears subbie would defy his orders. I don't think we saw him again after that.

So cut to 16 years later, and I still haven't read the rest of the series. Nor do I intend to. And you know what? If, today, a man were to try to order me to read the 50 Sheds of Hay trilogy, I'd punch him right in the bazingas.

Ch-ch-changes

Three weeks ago, when ST came over, he told me that he'd met someone. Not just any someone; a potential relationship someone. A lovely woman with whom he'd had a wonderful first date. Spanks and sparks flew.

As long as I've known ST (nearly two years now), I've known he wants a girlfriend. It's been a long time for him. And, while he loves what he has with me, I certainly can't blame him for wanting more. He deserves the whole package -- love, companionship, sex. I want all these good things and more for him.

She knows about me; he told her right away. She said she doesn't know how she feels about that (our arrangement). We had three weeks to think about it, because right after their date, she left the country for a family vacation.

This weekend, she will be back. Next Monday, he will be with her, as he should be. The following week, he will be out of the state, attending a family wedding. After that... we don't know.

I am not saying goodbye. But things are definitely changing. I think, even if she accepts me and my presence in ST's life, we can assume that the weekly sessions are over. Maybe they'll be once a month. Or maybe not at all, for a while. It's a new relationship, after all. That should be his full focus.

As he put it, as of tonight, we are on hold.

I was determined I wouldn't cry. I didn't want him to feel bad, nor did I want him to leave with his last sight of me being a stupid blubbering baby. Ah, but screw it. I cried anyway. At least I got it over with before we played. This was our last time together for a while, and I was going to make it as much fun as possible. He wished to do the same.

So. He said this was going to have to be one hell of a spanking, in every room of my apartment, with every toy the two of us had. I was leaning against him and yawned. "OK, guess you'd better get on with it."

"You need to get up, young lady." And, in my oh-so-mature way, I replied, "Fuck you. Make me."

Aaaaaaand we were off. First on the couch. Then over the recliner. And then we moved into the dining room. Each place we went, he chose a different implement.

 

 Next, the kitchen. With me over the sink. I threw a handful of water at him over my shoulder. He didn't think that was amusing, even though I thought it was rather hilarious.

 I had to hold my skirt up so he could swat me all the way into the bathroom. Is nothing sacred? The bathroom, too?

 Uh huh. The bathroom, too.

 

Even in the shower, for God's sake...
 

Finally, we ended up in the bedroom, and he retrieved all my implements from the closet and the drawer. Then he got down to serious business.

A couple of implements were sacrificed:

This one used to be a loop:

For the final photo, ST piled ALL the implements -- his and mine -- on top of me. We called this the Implement Avalanche.
 

After that, we took a break for some lotion and some snuggling. But you know what? We were both insatiable tonight. In about a half-hour, we started all over again.

"Are you learning anything? Are you going to be a good girl for a while?" I grudgingly said I would, for a little while. Very little.

We laughed a lot. It was fun. Just as I wanted it to be.

Goddammit. I hate change. I fucking hate it. Have I mentioned that? But I know others welcome it. I've always been an oddball that way.

I love you, my friend. My door is always open to you, as is my heart. Until we play again, I wish you all the best with this new and wonderful change in your life.

Someone thinks I'm lovely! :-D

My friend (and fellow parodist) Lea named me as one of her recipients of the Lovely Blogger Award that's been making the rounds of the blogosphere lately. Thank you, Lea! It really is lovely to be acknowledged by one's blog peers, and in my case, one whom I follow and admire.

According to the award's rules (optional, of course), I am now supposed to list my 15 choices for the LBA, and telling you seven things about myself. But you know what? Within the past year or so, we had something similar going around called the Versatile Blogger Award, and I was a participant in that as well. So this time, respectfully, I am going to pass.

I honestly can't come up with seven things that y'all don't already know. With years of blogging and posting, plus an autobiography, what haven't I told you? How many times can I mention The Minutiae of Erica -- who doesn't already know that I hate cottage cheese or that I was in a carpool as a kid with Jamie Lee Curtis?

For the blogs I admire, you can reread my Versatile Blogger Award post here. I'd like to update that list with three more entries: the always thought-provoking Ludwig's Rohrstock-Palast, the smart and entertaining Pandora's Spanked, Not Silenced and of course, my buddy Secret Spanko.

Yesterday was one of those days we all have now and then, riddled with irritants. Nothing earth-shattering, just a lot of annoying crap. I overslept and had exactly five minutes before I had to leave for a haircut appointment (I was late, of course, and then my hairdresser was running late anyway). I scraped the hell out of my forearm. I discovered that the book I'd just started was worthless, because, due to a printing error, there were 33 pages missing -- it skipped from page 32 to page 65. I did laundry, and of course, the dryer I'd chosen didn't work and I was left with a dryer full of damp sheets, towels, underwear and socks. Not wanting to use another five quarters, I then draped damp wash over every available surface in my apartment. Finally, went to record something on my DVR and discovered that something was on the fritz and the on-screen recording functions weren't showing up on the TV screen. So I called my TV repairman, a really dependable, inexpensive and knowledgeable guy I've used several times before... and got a recording that this number was not accepting incoming calls. WTF?

But then I heard about Aurora, CO. And that put it all in perspective. My thoughts go out to the victims and their loved ones. Awful, awful thing.

Go be nice to each other, y'all. And have a great weekend.

Can you stand one more 50 Sheds of Hay post?

Say yes. I believe you'll enjoy this one.

Bonnie-jo sent me a link to Haire of the Dog, a column written by Chris Haire of the Charleston City Paper. In this particular post, Haire claims he doesn't have time to read the "50 Shades" trilogy, so he sought an audiobook version. What he found was a brilliant recording someone created, of "Fifty Shades of Grey" being read by renowned physicist Stephen Hawking. (I seriously doubt the real Hawking would waste his time with this nonsense, but the imitation is spot-on.)

Mr. Hawking, who can't speak due to ALS, communicates through a synthesizer. Mr. Haire includes an excerpt, an actual portion of the dreck-fest (it sounds like a dialogue spoof, but it's the real thing), in all its raunchy splendor, read in this synthesized voice. Go, read and listen here. Once again, remove all foodstuffs and liquids from the vicinity.

I'm telling y'all, I'm thinking more and more that I need to write my own crapfest sex book. If that's what's selling, I can do better than E.L. Jerkoff -- my experiences are for real! I could fictionalize the past nearly two years of Monday sessions with ST, for example. I could be the mature and outwardly prim heroine Annabel Blue, who has a secret life. And into this life comes our hero, Christopher Black, who rocks her world with kinky adventures.

What would I call it? Say it with me, kids. "Black and Blue," by E.L. Scott.

Ode to our stress relievers (AKA spankers)

OK, without going into an abundance of detail, let's just say this past weekend sucked eggs. Saturday was a whole lot of stress and aggravation and heat and traffic, culminating in a horrible fight between John and me. In the car, on the freeway. Fortunately, I'm sane enough to keep my head while behind the wheel and I didn't crash us into a divider (or another car). But it was highly unpleasant. Many apologies (both of ours) and a million tears (mine) later, we are OK. But it left me feeling shell-shocked, fatigued and tense. I hate fighting. I hate confrontation. And I go into emotional overload.

So I was more than ready for ST today, and guess what? He was more than willing to help me with my stress problem. Whatta guy, huh? So, to the tune of the Rolling Stones' "Mother's Little Helper" (embedded below), I have penned "Stress Releasing Helper."





What a drag it is, being stressed

Life is oh-so-hard today,
I hear every bottom say,
Baby needs something today to calm her down
And though she’s not really ill
When she’s acting like a pill
She goes running for the shelter
Of her Stress Releasing Helper
And he puts her OTK
Spanks her till she feels okay

Feeling like a shrew today
I hear every bottom say,
She just can’t stop acting out, it’s such a drag
So she eats a frozen cake
Till she gets a stomach ache
And goes running for the shelter
Of her Stress Releasing Helper
And he knows just what to do
Spanks her bottom black and blue

Spanker please, lots more of these,
I’m still not sane, I need more pain!
What a drag it is, being stressed

Jobs are such a bitch today,
I hear every bottom say,
Bosses think you’re there to work, how fucked is that?
Now they want her to stay late,
She says “NO, I’ve got a date!”
And goes running for the shelter
Of her Stress Releasing Helper
She forgets about the rut
While he’s whaling on her butt

Spanker please, I’m o’er your knees
I’m full of steam, please make me scream!
What a drag it is, being stressed

Life will piss you off today
I hear every bottom say
Plain vanilla every day is just a bore
It’s a spanking that she’ll need
Not the pills and not the weed
She goes running for the shelter
Of her Stress Releasing Helper
He will spank her backside bright
And she’ll sleep in peace tonight

Feeling so much better. Thank you, darlin'. You're so much better than any drug (cuter, too). :-)

Correspondence Hall of Shame, 7/13

What better day than Friday the 13th to honor the Internet Freak Show?

Message to me on FetLife:

Nice profile pic. Is that your freshly spanked as?

As what? Nah, that's not me. Some strange woman just happened to appear bare-assed in my bedroom.

Guy on Alt wrote to me. His profile bore zero resemblance to mine, and he was older than what I specifically requested, so I didn't reply. A week later, I get this:

Why won't you let me spank you??? We can meet for a coffee or lunch and see how it goes and move on from there. You pic the place in your are that you feel comfortible with.

I still didn't reply, but realllllly wanted to write the following:

Uhmmm... why? Well, let's see:
1. You're several years older than my crystal-clear stated age range, and you look 10 years older than your age;
2. You can't type three sentences without making three errors; and
3. Your profile states that you're especially interested in women who wish to learn how to lactate. Wrong anatomical region, pal. I don't have milk glands in my butt. Move on.

When we're you last punished? Don't you feel that twinge right down to your clit Erica ?

None of you're fucking business.

Hi Darling
you are totally fuckable
I am in LA a lot

Well, good for you, Snookums. Feel free to pass by my apartment when you're in town. And then keep going.

Finally -- doesn't happen often, but this little gem is from a female:

Hi Erica , my name is [deleted] I just wanted to say I was asked to be spanked across my ample bottom ... I am so naughty lately and justly deserve it but an so embarrassed to be bare bottomed and humiliated ... Any suggestions I know I can't hold out they are ready to doank any moment and I do not have a choice.. My bottom is swelling with anticipation . So are breasts he plans to tug and pull them a bit I imagine.. Here we Go....

What am I supposed to say to this, really? Thanks for sharing? Happy doanking? (WTF is doanking?) Oh, and her bottom is swelling with anticipation? Hmmm. Sounds to me like an excuse why she can't get her jeans on.

Hope everyone out there is doing well and dealing with the heat without too much suffering. It is disgusting here -- the air feels like a thick, hot, and wet blanket. All the more reason to stay indoors, my preferred place. :-D

Have a great weekend, y'all.

528 Pages of Garbage -- the most hilarious review EVER

Unless you've been living in a cave six feet underground with no access to any sort of media, you already know the story. Here's the gist: Bored, middle-aged wife and mother Erika Leonard decides it's time to unleash that novel that's been inside her all her life, the one that's going to change the world. How? By adding that bit of zing that will tingle the nether regions of the missionary-sex mommies out there -- kinky sex! BDSM! (gasp) Of course, Ms. Leonard has no personal experience with BDSM, its practices or lifestyle, etc., so she dutifully researches The Internet for information (because you know, everything you read on The Internet is true). And she writes, and she writes, and she writes -- not just one, but three booky-books. Renames herself E.L. James, and the rest is history, and another reason to fear for humanity.

Do I sound pissed off? Yeah, kinda. If I may be allowed to rant a bit here (and even if I'm not, screw it, it's my blog), it's not fair. I spent a year-and-a-half researching (and reliving) my own life in order to write a book about it, with plenty of real-life experience in kink, more than enough to scratch the Mommy Porn itch. I edited, re-edited and then edited some more, trying to make it a decent read, interesting and compelling without being overwrought or manipulative. And yet, as books go, it's barely a blip on the radar.

But then this woman comes along, and with her sole knowledge of BDSM gleaned from The Internet and other crap erotica (she patterned her writing after that Pulitzer-prize winning novelist, Stephanie Meyer, of the Twilight series), she pens this melodramatic, misinformed mish-mash. BOOM! She becomes a superstar and is rolling in the royalties. Her Amazon page alone has, at last count, 8,351 reviews. (Granted, nearly half of them are negative. But I doubt she's weeping into her piles of money over that.)

My book, by the way, has 16 reviews. All five-star, for which I am thankful. But come on.

I apparently went about this all wrong. Perhaps I should have fictionalized myself, first of all. Then I should have composed my book chock-full of cliches and repetitions, thrown in a whole lot of "holy crap" and other inwardly expressed phrases of shock and awe, and titled it "Fifty Shades of Red." And of course, renamed myself E.L. Scott.

Anyway... the review I mentioned in the title of this blog is not going to be mine. Because I will not read this dreck. I refuse. But now I don't have to, thanks to a blogger I discovered yesterday via a friend on Twitter.

She calls herself Amberance, and her blog is BizzyBiz. She has been blogging since 2005, but I haven't gone back to read earlier posts. If they are as brilliant as her "50" series, I am in for hours of entertainment.

What Amberance did was read "Fifty Shades of Grey," even though she didn't want to and knew she'd hate it, and she took her readers through the book, step by step, chapter by chapter, relating the story as it unfolds. But in this retelling, she added her own commentary.

Warning: Ms. Amberance is an outspoken young woman. And she didn't just dislike "Fifty Shades." She hated it, with all her heart and soul. She was furious with it. She is fond of four-letter words. And her angry rants throughout make Lewis Black sound like Little Mary Sunshine.

But oh my God, is she funny. Scathing. Freaking hysterical. I thought I would break a rib, I was laughing so hard.

The review is broken up into several posts, written as she progresses through the book. First up is 50 Heaves of Puke, in which she announces she's started the book and she will be reviewing it. Here's an excerpt:

I was entirely blindsided by how earth shatteringly awful this book actually is. I had a notebook on me to take notes so I could remember what I didn't like about it. After ONE chapter I had two pages of notes, largely written in all caps and containing insightful criticisms such as "I hate everyone in this book" and "Go die". After TWO chapters I was actually yelling. Out loud. At a book.

And this, folks, is just the beginning. Now, look to the blog archive on the right-hand side, under June, and you'll see 10 more blog entries starting with 50, with titles such as "50 Yawns of Boredom," "50 Sobs of Anguish," and my favorite, "50 Bags of Douche." Read from the bottom up.

But first, set aside some time. You'll need it. You'll want it. And do not consume any food or drink while you read. You will spew it all over your monitor.

Ms. Amberance skewers everything about the book -- the bad writing, the obvious cliches, how thoroughly unappealing the main characters are, and -- perhaps the most egregious -- the way the BDSM world is misrepresented. The most tired cliche of all: People into BDSM are fucked-up and disturbed. I am not sure whether or not Ms. Amberance is into TTWD, but she seems to know a hell of a lot more about it than E.L. James does.

I loved her asides. She'd quote bits and pieces of dialogue and scenes, and add her comments, often in angry CAPS. She accuses Ms. James of being far too intimately acquainted with a thesaurus (OK, she didn't put it that way, but I'll let you read for yourself). Later, when a particular phrase had been repeated over and over and over, Amberance muses that perhaps Ms. James lost her thesaurus, or maybe she just shoved it up her ass for the time being. I nearly fell off my chair.

Sometimes, she'd get so frustrated, she'd simply yell at the book. Shutupshutupshutup. Stop, stop, STOP. You did NOT just say that. Yes, we know. You've already told us that a hundred times.

I could keep on quoting, but I'll stop. Oh, OK, just one more. Toward the end, one of my favorite outbursts: "Fuck this dialogue with a deer antler." I love this woman's mind!

Anyway, y'all, I'd say this series is a must-read. Even if you liked the damn book, you'll laugh at this. I guarantee it. May I spend eternity in Hell with nothing to read but the Fifty Shades trilogy if I'm lying.

The heat is on, Part 2

OK, so they got the A/C working again. But I got roasted anyway.

Seems ST took exception to my naked shower photo. "Don't you know that's how you get stalked and killed? Haven't you seen the movies? It always happens in the shower!"

I shrugged. "So, are you going to kill me?"

"No, but you'll wish I had!" Oh dear.

Would you believe that both he and John called me "Negative Nellie"? Of all the nerve! I am not negative, dammit. I am realistic. And OK, maybe a bit cynical. But negative? Meh. Misunderstood, once again.

"What do you want? You want me to be all full of sunshine, spouting positivity every minute?"

"No! Then I'd have to spank you for nauseating me!"

"Oh, fine! If I'm negative, that's no good. If I'm positive, that's no good either. Why don't you just admit that I can't do anything right and be done with it??"

"Ah, we're digging deep here tonight. You believe you can't do anything right."

Thank you, Dr. Fraud.

I wore such pretty panties for him, and he just yanked them down unceremoniously. Humph. When I complained, he said he was appreciating them -- he just appreciated them more in the down position. "It's all in the presentation," he insisted. "You know, like fine dining, like excellent cuisine. It's about presentation."

"Right," I grumbled. "What are you going to do, stick a sprig of parsley up my ass?"

"No-o-o-o..." he teased. "Maybe some ginger?"

"The HELL you will!" I screeched.

Actually, I was in good spirits tonight, no emotional agenda. Just wanted to have some fun and laughs, and play hard. ST was more than happy to oblige.

"You see, I'm digging deep, too, and learning things about myself."

"Yeah? And what might those be?"

"I'm mean! I'm a sadist!"

I could have told him that and spared him some digging.

He proudly announced that he had cleaned and oiled all his leather implements this weekend; did they feel different? Frankly, no. And I just wasn't reacting to leather tonight, not early on, anyway. I just propped my head in my hand and smiled at him over my shoulder, watching him and not even flinching.

"I'm not even getting a reaction out of you, am I?" I shrugged. "Not yet."

And then... I can't believe I said this. My fellow bottoms are going to shoot me. I'm going to be thrown out of the Spankee Association. But yup, I said, "I might react to the hairbrush."

Oh, @#$%, did I ever. Me and my big mouth. He gave me several hard flurries with it, leaving me breathless.

When he got up to get my canes out of the closet, I glanced at the hairbrush next to me on the bed. He saw me look at it and warned, "You keep your hands off that!" OK. So I pushed the brush off the edge of the bed... with my nose.

Well, I kept my hands off it! Right?

Meanie.

Even after the caning, he still wasn't done. He pulled out that big wooden paddle. Been a while since I've seen that fucking thing. Haven't missed it a bit.

It didn't miss me. Not once.

Ah, but it was all fun. Honest. For those who said they wanted to see me smiling again, here you go:

"You've never asked for the hairbrush before," he commented. "What was going on with you tonight?"

"I don't know," I answered. "I guess I just needed to feel a bit more." Not sure why. Maybe my tolerance has gone up to another level. Or maybe I'm simply in a place lately where I'm craving and welcoming pain. All the more reason to be in very trusted hands.

In other news -- John is feeling better. He was able to do some much-needed yard work on his days off, and he even went for a bike ride twice over the weekend. He hasn't been riding in months. So this was a great relief. He needs aerobic exercise to keep his heart strong, but he hasn't had the energy to do it in a very long time.

Onward with the week. Please hold a good thought for my building's antiquated A/C. As I write, the news is on and the weather guy is saying he's going to kick the predicted temps up a few notches higher than they were before. Isn't that special.

Thank you, ST. :-)

The heat is on

Southern California has had an unusual reprieve from the extreme heat in the rest of the country. Not anymore. Triple digits, starting tomorrow. No marine layer. If you live at the coast, you will be comfortable. But inland, you will fry.

Preparing myself for failing A/C, hot cars, restless nights and wearing as little as possible.

Or nothing at all. I do believe I'll be spending a lot of time in here.

Hope everyone had a nice weekend.


EDIT: As of late last night, the A/C has been blowing room-temperature air. It's nearly 10:30 AM and the temps are climbing rapidly. Just kill me now, OK?

Repost: Houseguest From Hell

Hope all my U.S. readers had a safe and fun 4th! I felt like posting something, but am short on inspiration this week. I found a story I'd posted a few years ago on my old MySpace blog -- since I have many newer readers now, I thought it was worth a revisit.

Before that, however, a couple of things. For those who were so kindly concerned, John seems to be doing a little better. He's still tired and not quite himself, but his face isn't hugely swollen anymore and he isn't feeling pain, just some discomfort. We went out for lunch, he napped in the afternoon while I watched the Twilight Zone marathon, and then we went for a nice long walk into the town square. He has today and tomorrow off, so he'll get plenty of rest.

And also, a special thank you to Red at Consensual Spanking for the smiles... and the kindness. ♥

Hope you enjoy!

Houseguest From Hell

Tom stood outside his front door, juggling his briefcase and fumbling for his keys. As he put the key in the lock, he could hear the giggling from inside and he groaned. Looks like Lauren was already here. His wife’s friend, here for another one of her visits.

He and Jane had been married for two years and this was Lauren’s fourth time visiting them. She and Jane had been college roommates. Although they had little in common—Lauren came from a wealthy family and was at the school on her father’s money, while Jane was there on a scholarship and worked a part-time job—they got along well and became close friends. Two years after college, Lauren had come into a huge inheritance; she’d quit work and moved to New York. She traveled extensively, and every few months, she made a trip to visit Jane. When Jane and Tom got married, this practice continued, much to his chagrin.

He did not like Lauren. He didn’t see any reason why she couldn’t stay in a hotel, with all her money, but Jane insisted on putting her up in their spare bedroom. While she was there, it was very clear she was used to being waited on. She never washed a dish, hung up a towel, made a bed. She spent inordinate amounts of time in their single bathroom, making both Jane and Tom late for work on occasion. She was a complete slob, eating where she pleased and leaving crumbs everywhere. She would take Jane shopping and buy her extravagant gifts—designer clothes, perfume, expensive trinkets. Things that Tom could not afford to buy his wife, and Lauren knew it. The worst part of her visits? For a day or two after Lauren left, his normally sweet-natured wife was withdrawn and moody, and very snappish with him if he tried to ask what was wrong.

He walked into the living room and saw his wife and her girlfriend on the couch, painting each other’s toenails. On the table was a half-empty bottle of wine and two glasses, a bowl of chips and a box of chocolates. Music was blasting from the stereo. He walked over to the entertainment center and turned the volume down a bit. “Hi, honey, hi, Lauren,” he said.

“Hey sweetie,” Jane said, beaming at him, her face flushed. Clearly, she’d had her share of wine. Tom noticed the ashtray perched on the arm of the couch. Neither he nor Jane smoked.

“Lauren, didn’t we ask you last time to please smoke on the balcony?” he asked.

“Well, hello to you too, Tommy,” Lauren answered, stuffing a handful of chips into her mouth. “You’d better be careful, or I might think you’re not happy to see me.”

He frowned at the familiar use of his nickname. From Jane, it was endearing. But from Lauren’s lips, it sounded belittling and sarcastic. Silently, he picked up the ashtray and carried it into the kitchen. Once in there, he looked around. No sign of dinner anywhere. He and Jane alternated weeks, either preparing dinner or picking it up/ordering it. This week was hers.

Sure enough, he heard Jane call from the other room, “Honey? Lauren and I are going to go have a girls’ night out. Do you mind calling for a pizza or something?”

He walked back in. “Do I have a choice?” he asked. Jane shook her head at him, and Lauren smirked, “Aw, come on, Tommy, be a sport. It’s Ladies’ Night at Mas Tequila, or else we’d ask you to come with us.”

Yeah, right, he thought. You know damn well I’d say no anyway. Out loud, he said, “OK, you guys go have fun. I have some work to do anyway.” He picked up his briefcase and walked into the spare bedroom, which also served as an office. He noticed, with distaste, Lauren’s clothes strewn all over the room. A bra was draped over the top of the desk chair; he plucked it off, threw it on the bed and sat down. He could hear Jane and Lauren scrambling off the couch and running into the bedroom to change, laughing and discussing what they’d wear.

He’d done some work, nuked a frozen pizza, watched a bit of TV and gone to bed. Around 1:00, he woke up when he heard Jane enter the bedroom. He watched her kick off her shoes, unzip and shrug off her dress, her footing a bit clumsy. She stripped off her underwear and crawled into her side of the bed; he could smell alcohol and toothpaste. Feeling an intense desire to connect with her, both physically and emotionally, he turned onto his side and reached for her, trailing his fingers down her arm. But she shrugged away from him.

“Tom, not tonight—it’s late, and we have to get up early,” she whispered. Then she briefly squeezed his hand. “Go to sleep. Good night, honey.” And within minutes, she was asleep.

Frustrated, he flopped onto his back. Outside the bedroom door, he could hear the TV blaring loudly. Obviously Lauren wasn’t ready to go to sleep yet. Groaning, he pulled the pillow over his head.


Lauren often came in the middle of the week and stayed through the weekends. Tom wasn’t crazy about the idea of her staying in the condo alone while they worked, but Jane refused to hear any of his trepidations and insisted on giving Lauren her own key so she could come and go as she pleased. The next night, he came home and found Jane and Lauren in front of the TV, watching a movie. Not only was Jane wearing a new dress, but he could see new shoes sitting a few inches from her stockinged feet as well. Again, there was no sign of dinner.

Jane hit Pause on the remote and smiled at him. “Good, Tom, you’re home,” she said. “We were thinking about ordering in some Chinese, what do you think?”

Well, at least they weren’t going out again. He loosened his tie and sat down next to her. “I don’t know,” he said, only half joking. “Can we afford it, after what you no doubt spent on that outfit?”

Before Jane could answer him, Lauren snorted. “Don’t be so damned cheap, Tommy,” she said, grinning, but with a cutting edge in her voice. “You didn’t pay anything; I bought the clothes and shoes for Jane. I looked over the poor dear’s wardrobe; looks like she hasn’t gotten anything new since the Bush administration. Bush Senior, that is.”

Jane giggled, but Tom wasn’t amused. What was that, some not-so-subtle hint that he didn’t spend enough money on his wife? He shook his head and muttered, “Go ahead, order what you want.” He got up and went into the kitchen to get a beer, hoping it might help dissolve some of the tension in his neck and shoulders.

“Oh, Tom,” Jane called after him. “Honey, Jack pulled one of his last-minute numbers and he needs me to go out of town with him tomorrow night. Lauren was going to go home early, but I told her to just hang out here. I’ll just be gone tomorrow night, and all day and night Friday. I’ll be back Saturday, and we can all spend the weekend together, OK?”

Jack was Jane’s boss; she was his personal assistant, and although the man paid her generously, he couldn’t tie his own damn shoes without her. Tom was glad he wasn’t in the same room, so they couldn’t see his teeth grind together. Great—just what he needed, a night alone with Lauren. What the hell was he going to do with her? And without Jane there as a buffer, she’d no doubt spend the whole time needling him. He put his head in his hands for a minute.

“Tom? Did you hear me?”

He forced his voice to sound cheerier than he felt. “Yeah, I heard,” he said, retrieving a beer and going back into the living room. “And what are we supposed to do while you’re gone?”

Jane shrugged. “Come on, it’s not for that long. You’ll be at work all day tomorrow, and I’m not leaving until the evening. Friday you’ll work, and Lauren can hang out, do whatever she wants. You guys just have to get along on Friday night. You can do that without killing each other, can’t you?”

Lauren rolled her eyes, then laughed. “Oh, we’ll have a grand time, won’t we, Tom? Don’t worry, Jane, I’ll behave myself, I promise. Old Tommy won’t even know I’m here.” She looked pointedly at Tom. “Will you, Tom?”

He sighed. Clearly, he didn’t have any say in this, either.


The following night at 9:00, Jane’s boss came to pick her up in the company car and they took off to the airport. Jane had prepared dinner for the three of them, and then Lauren took off for the evening, so things were peaceful. Tom went to bed at 11:30, and Lauren still hadn’t come back, so their paths did not cross that evening. Maybe this would be OK after all.

Friday morning, Tom got up, showered and dressed, made coffee. The door to the spare room remained closed and no sound came out, so he knew Lauren was still asleep. Fine, he thought. I just hope she doesn’t burn the place down or something before I get home from work. Reluctantly, he left to go to the office.

Once again, outside his front door at 6:00 PM, he could hear music blasting. Letting himself in, he surveyed the room. Lauren was sprawled out on the couch, her feet up—she hadn’t bothered to remove her sneakers. She wore gray drawstring sweatpants and a skimpy white tank top, and her eyes were closed, her head nodding to the music. The newspaper was strewn about in sections. On the table was her ashtray, filled with butts. He smelled microwave popcorn; a bowl with the dregs of it sat on the floor by the couch. And next to the ashtray was one of their best Waterford glasses, from the set his parents had given them for their wedding, half-filled with red wine.

In annoyance, Tom stomped over to the stereo and shut the music off. Her eyes flew open and she made a face. “Jesus, Lauren,” he grumbled, picking up the bowl and indicating the wineglass. “It’s bad enough you eat and drink me out of house and home, but do you have to use our best crystal?”

Lauren rolled her eyes at him and sat up. “Ahhhh, lighten up, Tommy,” she slurred, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “Wha’s… what’s the point of having stuff if you don’t use it?”

He stared at her, then shook his head. “You’re drunk.”

She giggled. “And you’re ugly, but I’ll be sober in the morning!” Laughing hysterically at her own joke, she fell backwards onto the couch. Tom left the room with the popcorn bowl and the ashtray, and dumped the contents of both in the kitchen wastebasket. On the counter, he saw the bottle of wine; it was nearly empty. The kitchen was a mess. Apparently she had made herself some lunch and couldn’t be bothered to clean up after herself.

Gritting his teeth, he walked back into the living room, where he saw Lauren taking another healthy slug of wine. “I think you’ve had enough of that,” he snapped.

She looked blearily at him. “You’re no fun. Can’t drink, can’t listen to music… what can we do for some fun, hmmmm?” She smiled, shifted over on the couch and patted the cushion next to her. “C’mon, come talk to me. I’ve been alone all day.”

Shaking his head, he went over to sit next to her. Before he could open his mouth to attempt a conversation, she launched herself into his lap, pressing up against him and planting sloppy kisses on his face and neck.

“Lauren, what the hell…?!” he yelped, pushing her back.

Lauren laughed, then sat up on her knees and leaned forward, rubbing her chest against his arm. She wasn’t wearing a bra. “Don’t you want to touch them? They’re so much bigger than Jane’s.”

Tom flinched in disgust. “That’s because you bought yours,” he said. He figured that would shut her up, but nothing seemed to faze her in her intoxicated state. She continued to press against him. “Come on, Tommy, you know you want me,” she murmured, breathing into his ear.

“Stop calling me Tommy!” he snapped, pulling away and shifting backward on the couch. “Want you? Lauren, are you out of your mind? I don’t even like you.”

Lauren glared at him for a moment, then snickered. “What’s that got to do with anything? I don’t like you either!” She scooted closer, putting her hand on his thigh. “I just wanna figure out what l’il Janie sees in you, that’s all.”

Angrily, he slapped her hand off. “Cut it out! Apparently, Jane has better taste in husbands than she does in friends. Now knock it off before I toss you out of here on your drunken ass!”

She pulled back, all flirtation gone from her face and replaced with anger. “Fuck you, Tom. Your loss,” she bit out, then grabbed the wineglass and drained it. Then she got up, weaving toward the kitchen with the empty glass in her hand.

“And you’re not having any more wine, either!” he shouted, getting up to go after her. Before he got to the kitchen, he heard a loud crash. Oh, shit… he ran in, and there she stood at the counter, with the Waterford glass in shards at her feet. “Ooopsie,” she giggled.

“Goddamn it, Lauren!” he yelled. “Now look what you did!”

“Oh, relax, you cheapskate, I’ll replace it!” she sneered, reaching into the cupboard. She took down a second wineglass from the shelf, then reached for the bottle.

“Put that DOWN!” Tom roared, not wanting to step into the kitchen and trample on the broken glass. Lauren’s hand froze, and she turned to give him a measured look. He watched in shock as her hand deliberately opened and she let the glass slip through her fingers and crash to the floor, joining the wreckage of the other one. “I guess I’ll pay for that too!” she taunted.

Tom was across the kitchen in three strides, his shoes crunching noisily on the broken glass. “You’re damn right you’ll pay for it!” he growled, grabbing her arm. In a swift motion, he pulled out one of the breakfast nook chairs and sat on it, and, grabbing Lauren’s other arm, yanked her toward him, sending her sprawling face down over his lap. He clamped his arm across her back, and then began applying his palm to the seat of her sweatpants with vigor.

Lauren screamed and thrashed, kicked her legs wildly. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m giving you what you need and deserve, that’s what I’m doing!” Tom yelled back, pulling her closer against him and tightening his grip. His hand cracked down again and again, and Lauren, enraged, punched his shinbone as hard as she could.

“OW! Damn you, Lauren! OK, you asked for it!” In a fury, he reached under her belly and jerked the drawstring untied, and yanked her sweatpants and panties to her knees, ignoring her shrieks. He then swung his leg up over both of hers, trapping them, snatched her flailing arm and pinned it to her side, and began to spank her bare bottom with all his might, thoroughly enjoying the sight of his bright red handprints rising on white skin.

Lauren hollered at him, threatened, swore, and pummeled his leg with her free hand, but nothing stopped the spanking. Finally, when his hand ached and her bottom was streaked with red and purple, he ceased the blows and loosened his grip on her. She fairly flew off his lap and clumsily stood, nearly pitching forward as her clothing tangled about her feet.

Quickly she snatched up her panties and then her sweats, glaring murderously at Tom. Her face showed no contrition or embarrassment. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears, but she angrily dashed them away. “You bastard,” she hissed, her voice cracking.

Tom got to his feet and matched her glare. “Yeah, I’m a bastard,” he said calmly. “And you certainly don’t want to stay in a bastard’s home, do you? Get your stuff together and leave. I don’t want to see you here ever again.”

Lauren stormed to the kitchen door, then turned and looked back at him. “Jane’s going to be SO pissed off when she hears about what you did to me,” she jeered.

I could throttle her senseless, Tom thought, and no jury would convict me. Instead, he took a deep breath and coldly replied, “Listen up, you spoiled little bitch. You won’t tell her a damn thing—not unless you want her to hear all about how her so-called friend came onto me. Now get out.”

After she flounced out of the kitchen, Tom sat down at the table, feeling stunned, his heart pounding and his hand throbbing. He heard various crashes and thuds as Lauren raged through the bedroom and bathroom gathering her things. As she stomped through the living room, he called out, “And leave the spare key!” There was no reply, but a silver key came flying through the door and bounced on the tiles. Then the front door slammed, rattling the windows. Tom sighed heavily in relief, ran a hand through his hair and surveyed the mess around him. After a few moments, he stood and went to retrieve the broom and dustpan. Cleaning up would be easy, compared to figuring out what he was going to tell Jane.


On Saturday afternoon, Tom gave the condo yet another look, but everything was done. He’d swept up the broken glass, washed the dishes, cleaned the bathroom, put the living room and spare room back in order. Now, he anxiously waited for Jane to arrive.

He knew he was going to have to tell her, one way or another, about what had happened, but he didn’t know how to broach it. And he did not want Jane to know about how Lauren so blatantly came on to him. She didn’t deserve that kind of hurt.

He sat on the couch reading the paper, absentmindedly swinging his left leg, until he felt a twinge of pain in his shin. Rolling up his pants leg, he saw a large plum-colored bruise where Lauren had punched him. “Freaking hellion,” he muttered. “I’ll bet her butt looks worse than my leg, though.”

Finally, he heard Jane’s key in the lock, and then the door opened. He looked up and his stomach clenched. Jane’s face was tense and annoyed.

Without greeting him first, Jane walked in, put her bags down and said, “Tom, do you know where Lauren is?”

He looked at her. “Hi, sweetie. Welcome back.”

Jane’s face softened, but only slightly. “Sorry… hi, honey. I’m just upset about Lauren. She said she’d pick me up today at the airport so we could have a little ride together. I told Jack to go ahead without me, and then she didn’t show up. I called and called her cell, but she didn’t pick up. I had to take a cab.”

Before Tom could reply, Jane walked into the office, then came back out, her brow furrowed. “Her stuff is gone,” she said. “What’s going on?”

Tom cleared his throat. “Um… well, she had to cut her visit short.”

“Without letting me know?” Jane asked, walking over to the couch and standing behind it, folding her arms. “That doesn’t sound right. What did you say to her?”

This was not going well at all. Defensively, Tom countered with, “What makes you automatically think I said something to her?”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Come on, Tom, I know you can’t stand her. I know you hate her visits. But I figured you could at least be civil to her. Now what did you say?”

Tom’s mouth tightened, and he stood up and paced. “It’s not what I said, it’s what I did to her, if you must know.”

Jane’s face paled, and her voice was shrill. “Jesus, Tom… what did you DO?”

He turned to face her, his own temper rising. “Don’t take that tone with me—you’re making it sound like I cut her up into a million pieces and buried her in a Hefty bag.”

Jane put her head in her hand for a moment, then asked again, in a slightly calmer voice, “Tom, just tell me, what did you do?”

Tom took a deep breath. “Nothing that she didn’t have coming. If you must know, I put her over my knee and I spanked the hell out of her.”

Jane’s mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”

“I sure as hell did, and she deserved it,” Tom snapped. “She broke two of our best glasses, and I swear, at least one of them was on purpose. And she”—he cut himself off before he blurted out what else Lauren had done—“…she was being thoroughly obnoxious and rude to me.”

“So you brutalized her,” Jane said, her voice even, but her eyes snapping with anger.

“I didn’t brutalize her, I spanked her!” Tom yelled. “I don’t regret it, either! I was sick and tired of the way she prances around here, acting like she’s the Queen of the Manor, being snotty to me. And I’ll tell you what else—I’m sick to death of the way YOU act when she’s here, and especially after she leaves. You totally allow her to be rude to me, and after she’s gone, you’re in a crappy mood for days!”

Jane glared at him, two bright red spots appearing in her cheeks. “Oh, is that right?” she sneered at him. “I suppose you’d like to spank me, too?”

Her words shocked him, and he stared at her face. Before he could think, he heard himself say, “I will, if you don’t knock this shit off right now.”

His wife looked utterly horrified, then furious. She pounded her fist on the couch and shrieked, “You wouldn’t dare!”

Tom felt such a surge of anger, he had to turn away. He couldn’t believe this was his lovely Jane acting like this. What the hell was going on here? He raked his hand through his hair and willed his voice to be calm. “Don’t test me, Jane,” he warned. “I am SO not in the mood for it.”

Jane’s voice took on a sarcastic tone. “Ooooh! Big man. Big tough talker! I’m so scared!”

Tom looked back at Jane, took in her blazing eyes, the challenge in her face. He thought, If I don’t do something, right now, she’ll never take me seriously again. Feeling adrenaline rush through him, he strode over to her. “Fine—have it your way, honey,” he said, grabbing her arm, then bending down and summarily tossing her over his shoulder.

“TOM!” she hollered. “What the hell… put me down!” She squirmed and struggled, but he held on tight and carried her into their bedroom. Once there, he set her on her feet, sat on the edge of the bed and abruptly pulled her down across his knees.

“Oh, come on, Tom, you can’t… don’t! OK, you’ve made your point!” she cried, but he ignored her, held her down firmly with one arm and pushed her skirt up with the other. Then he began to smack her behind. Not quite as hard as he’d spanked Lauren, but enough to make an impression.

“Owwwwwwww! Tom, no! Ow, that hurts! Stop it!”

“Yeah, I’m sure it does,” he replied, not stopping. “You should have thought of that before.” He could already see bright pink color peeking out from beneath her lacy bikinis. She didn’t fight like a hellcat as Lauren had, but she protested loudly as the smacks rained down.

After several more swats, his right hand, stiff and bruised from spanking Lauren yesterday, began to ache. “Dammit,” he said, pausing. He looked around the room, and his eyes fell on Jane’s makeup table, and the hairbrush and comb lying next to the mirror. “Jane, get up, and go get me your hairbrush.”

“NO!” she screamed. “Tom, no, I don’t want to!”

“I know you don’t want to. Do it anyway,” he said firmly, giving her another very hard whack. She let out a howl, then scrambled to her feet and hastened over to the dressing table, picking up the brush. Then she turned back, slowly approaching him. Tom watched her, and silently held his hand out for the brush, but she clutched it to her chest. Gone was all her earlier bravado and rage. “Tommy… please…” she whispered. The brush in her hand trembled.

Tom steeled himself, tore his eyes away from her tearful face. He plucked the brush from her fingers and took her wrist. “Sorry, baby,” he said, pulling her back down over his knee, a little more gently this time. “Next time, maybe you’ll think twice before you challenge me.”

He pushed her skirt back up to her waist, and pulled down her panties. She moaned and cried out, “NO, Tommy, no,” and her hand flew back to her behind.

“Jane,” Tom said, keeping his voice measured. “You move that hand, right now. Don’t make me ask you again.” She began to sob, but her hand crept back to her side. “Good girl,” he said, and hesitated a moment before he brought the brush down, hard. She screamed, but kept still.

Tom slowly gave her bottom 40 hard whacks, 20 on each cheek. Jane cried into the bedspread, her hands balled into fists, but she didn’t fight him. When he was done, he put the brush down, and cringed when he looked at the angry crimson evidence of what he had just done. Gently, he ran his hand over Jane’s backside, hot to the touch.

“Janie… honey,” Tom said softly, caressing her back, stroking her hair. There was no reply; she lay still, her face buried, crying as if her heart would break. He eased her panties back up, smoothed her skirt down. “Please, baby, don’t cry,” he pled, gripping her shoulders and carefully pulling her upright. To his great relief, instead of pulling away from him, she turned and collapsed into his arms, weeping into his chest.

He held her close, rocking her back and forth slightly. “Shhhhh… it’s OK, Janie, shhhhhh…I’m sorry, I hated hurting you… shhhhhh.”

After several minutes, Jane stopped crying, but she didn’t move from his embrace. He continued to hold her, rubbing her back, listening to her sniffle, kissing her forehead. Finally, she pulled back a little, looked at him and gave him a watery smile. “I guess I kinda deserved that, didn’t I…”

Tom didn’t expect to hear that from her; he drew her close again. “Yeah, you kinda did,” he whispered in her hair. “But I’m still sorry.”

Jane sighed, then shifted on his lap, wincing as she did so. “I don’t blame you for letting Lauren have it, either,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I know she was a total bitch to you. And I shouldn’t have let her do it. I don’t know why I did.” She paused, then went on. “She always could get away with anything. I told myself that it was OK, she was so generous with me, and she could be fun when she wanted to be. Plus… I would sort of live vicariously through her.” Her eyes dropped and her face colored in shame.

Tom stared at her, his feelings wounded. “You mean, you’d rather have her life?”

“NO, honey,” Jane cried, grabbing his arm. “It’s not that… I love my life with you. I love my job. I love our place. It’s just that, sometimes…” She sighed again. “I envy her freedom, you know? To come and go wherever she wants, whenever she wants. She’s been on so many trips. I know we’re saving up for a house… but you know, we haven’t gone on a vacation in so long, and it’s hard for me when she lords it over me all the time…” Her voice trailed off and tears welled up again.

Swallowing hard against the tension in his throat, Tom said nothing, but held Jane tighter and waited. After a pause, Jane continued.

“I’d tell myself she was my friend, that she loved me, and I did have fun when she’d come. But she was constantly telling me about what I was missing, putting you down, telling me you were cheap, that you didn’t treat me well enough, that I deserved better. I’d feel myself getting mad at you, and then I’d feel guilty for that… oh, shit, honey. I’m sorry. It’s like… she was trying to sabotage us, or something.” She laid her head on Tom’s chest. “Please, please don’t be upset with me.”

“Shhhhhh, I’m not upset with you,” Tom said, squeezing her tightly. He was glad she couldn’t see his face or read his mind. That bitch, he thought. If only Jane knew just how much she tried to sabotage us. He chose his next words very carefully. “Honey…if she makes you feel that bad about yourself, about your life, then she’s not much of a friend, is she?”

He steeled himself, waiting for his Jane’s angry defense of Lauren. But all she said was, “No, I guess she isn’t. And she probably hasn’t been for some time.” She scrubbed her hands over her face, looked at Tom. “We’re not in college anymore. I guess I need to move on.”

Tom’s face remained impassive, but inside, he was fist-pumping and hollering, oh, thank God! He stroked Jane’s tumbled hair off her face, then spoke. “Sweetie, saving up for a house is a good thing, but we do have to enjoy life now. How about this—I know we both have vacation time coming. What do you say we take a little trip, just you and me, get away for a while? Anywhere you want. I think we could both use it, don’t you?”

Jane’s eyes widened in surprise and delight. “Tom, you mean it?” she cried. “Oh, that would be so great… are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said, smiling at her beaming face. She snuggled back into his arms, kissed his neck. “Thank you, baby.”

Tom slowly relaxed, feeling like things were going to be much better from now on, but one doubt still nagged at him. “Janie,” he said, hesitantly. “Are you sure you wouldn’t want to trade lives with Lauren?”

Jane raised her head from his chest and looked at him. Despite the traces of tears, there was mischief in her eyes. She caressed his cheek with her fingers. “Nahhhh,” she said softly. “Wouldn’t want to be her. Right about now, she has a really sore butt too. But she doesn’t have anyone to make it all better, like I do.”

Tom grinned, easing her backward onto the bed. “That sounds like a hint to me,” he teased. “Guess I’d better get to it, huh?”

Jane grinned back, and threw her arms up around his neck, pulling him down to her. “Guess you’d better,” she murmured.