Heading off for a few days

Tomorrow morning, John and I are heading for Las Vegas. A small group of friends will be convening at a Vegas hotel and hanging out/spanking Thursday through Monday. It's not a public event so there hasn't been social media buzz about it -- I think we'll end up with around 50-60 people.

I feel sad about having to miss BBW, but this will help make up for it a bit. I'll still get to see some of my favorite people, and have lots of great play! This party is definitely going to be quality spanko time, and face time too for seeing friends, catching up and getting lots of hugs and snuggles.

John and I need this getaway; I think it will be relaxing and fun, and without the urgency of cram-a-week's-worth-of-activity-and-greet-200+-friends-in-three-days that comes with the big events. 

I'll still be checking in, reading email and comments, etc. (With all the @#$%ing spam that's been getting through on Blogger lately, one has to remain diligent!) But I don't think I'll be posting anything of substance until after we come back.

Oh, and here's the one photo Mr. D took the other evening. It's a happy pic, so I thought I'd end on that note. Have a great rest of your week and weekend, y'all. :-)

The sign of a good play partnership...

...and friendship: When you can recover from a scene gone south and come out even better connected.

It's been a rough couple of months for Mr. D. First the illness and passing of his dear friend and neighbor, and then his mother. For the past month while his mom was in end stage, he has been dealing with family (and he has a lot of it), hospitals, funeral homes, legalities. We saw each other once in a month and it was a snatched few hours. Then last week, he had to cancel.

I have been out of sorts too. I was sick for a lot of the past month (and John has been too), so we weren't really having much fun together. I'm still having stomach issues and I have no clue what's going on. I need to see my primary doctor, not let them stick me with whomever's on call that day, and insist that I want tests, not just throwing pills at me that are going to screw up my system even more. But for now, all I wanted was some good quality time with Mr. D. I was feeling selfish and needy, reminding myself over and over how much he had on his plate, but I still wanted what I wanted.

Yesterday was a long wait. He was due at 6:00, but it ended up being 7:30. He'd called me in the afternoon; he'd reached into a box that, unbeknownst to him, had a sheet of glass in it. And he'd sheared the skin off two of his knuckles. It was on his left hand, so he could play, but still... the pain and the blood were intense. By the time he arrived, I was in tears. I felt like an idiot, but I couldn't help it. It had been too long, I guess -- I was feeling disconnected.

We talked. He filled me in on everything that's been going on, assured me that I was as important to him as ever, and he promised things would get back to normal, now that he could have his life back. I could see the exhaustion and pain in his eyes and maybe, just maybe, I should have said at that point, "Hey, you know what? We don't have to play. You don't have to do a thing but relax with me. We'll watch some TV, go to dinner, talk, hang out." But I didn't. I needed to feel that connection, and I know he needed to also.

The OTK hand spanking was lovely, as always. I was tender from the start, since it had been a couple of weeks, but I welcomed it. His sliced fingers were wrapped with gauze and tape, so they were protected, and I think his own endorphins took over -- he said he didn't feel them. But when we moved to implements, it went wrong, somehow.

Everything hurt. I couldn't suck it up, couldn't absorb it. Blows felt off -- too high up on the cheeks, too close to my hips. I wanted to tell him, but I didn't want to orchestrate the scene, or make him feel like he wasn't pleasing me. I figured I'd muscle through and share my struggle with him later. 

We were almost done. I was tearing up the bedspread with my fists, keening into the mattress, gasping for breath. Almost, almost... then it happened. A stray shot with the wooden paddle, striking hard on the side of my left cheek. And I lost it.

He knew. I heard him mutter, "Oh no... oh @#$%," and he stopped immediately, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me to him. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Oh Christ, it hurt. I cried and cried, shaking all over, my limbs jerking. It was a release, and yet it wasn't, because I felt distress. "You're OK, you're OK, I'm here," he crooned to me, rubbing my back, smoothing my hair, But I didn't feel OK. I hurt, but it wasn't a good hurt this time.

He used an ice-pack on me, which cooled down the heat and the ferocious biting sting, and I calmed down a bit. But as soon as he stopped and I curled onto my side, I blurted, "I'm sorry... but that wasn't good for me." And started bawling again.

"What are you apologizing for?" he asked, holding me close. "You have nothing to be sorry for. It was me, it was all me. I was off. I don't know why; maybe it was all the stuff that's been going on. Maybe I was overzealous because it had been so long. But it was me. I'm so sorry. I promise you, things will get back to the way they were. I don't want to lose you -- please forgive me."

Anyone can have an off night. Tops are human, even though sometimes we expect them to be super-human. But it takes a big, big man and the best kind of top to know when he's a little off his game, and to acknowledge it. And I don't have to forgive him; there is nothing to forgive. He's a good man, and a good top. My top.

We went for a late dinner. And he gave me another hand spanking, just to reconnect in our most intimate manner. All was well.

Today, at last, I feel at peace. The rough edges, like overgrown hangnails, have been smoothed once again. I feel clean and connected and cared for. My left cheek is marked, but it will be fine by the time we head for our special weekend on Thursday. More on that later. For now, I have much to do. But I wanted to get this out first.

I don't have any pictures this time. He did take one photo before we started with the implements, but I don't know if it came out. If it did and he sends it to me, I'll post it. I was smiling in it. As I am now.

In today's "ewwwww" file...

How many times have we seen a spanking video or clip where a flaky tenant doesn't make rent, and the landlord handles the situation with a spanking? Apparently in Bumfu--er, Waynesville, Ohio, this happened for real.

Check it out: http://fox8.com/2013/02/21/landlord-accused-of-spanking-tenant/

(Sorry -- for whatever reason, I can't get this to post as a link. Copy and paste it into your browser.)

In short, a 29-year-old male tenant was behind in his rent $2800, so the 58-year-old landlord told him, "If you're going to act like a child, I'm going to treat you like one." And then subjected him to four swats with his belt. (It doesn't say so in this article, but I read elsewhere that it was bare bottom.) The tenant complied because he said he was scared and "just wanted to get it over with." Now he's taking the landlord to court.

OK, I'm having two separate reactions here. As a spanko, I admit I couldn't help thinking, "Jeez -- four measly belt strikes in exchange for a $2800 debt? Bring it! Where do I sign on?" That's nearly three months' rent for me.

However, what's hot in fantasy isn't necessarily so in reality. Aside from the bit of spanko titillation, my reaction is "Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwww, gross!"

And no, before any accusations of such come my way, it's not because it's M/M. I'd be equally skeeved had the tenant been a woman. 

Granted, in the videos, this type of scenario is hot as hell. But in reality? Blech. If a tenant is irresponsible, a landlord should handle it legally. Warnings, written notice to pay or quit, eviction. You don't degrade a grown man or woman because they owe you money. And really, is this landlord so wealthy that he can afford to let $2800 go in exchange for a few swats at a young man's bare butt? What a perv!

I wonder how much more skeeved I am by this because I'm a spanko. I suppose the average vanilla might find this story mildly shocking, but somewhat amusing. Me? I'm outraged that what I love is being used so improperly.

What do you guys think? I'm interested in hearing.

Have a good weekend, y'all.

Warning: Cussing and Fussing Ahead

So, let's review the pre-Mr. D visit list:

Schedule cleared? Check.

Hair washed? Check.

Legs shaved? Check.

Outfit (and panties) chosen? Check.

Apartment tidied? Check.

Anticipation/excitement built to the point that I can feel my blood thrumming in my veins? Check.

Mr. D? Can't make it.

FUCK.

It's not his fault. It couldn't be helped. This afternoon, there is a family memorial for his mom, and it's right here in the Valley. He was going to come straight over after that. It was going to be a nice long visit, dinner and everything. We were both looking forward to it. But then his sister, who is from out of state, asked him if she could go home with him after the gathering and stay the night, and then would he please take her to the airport in the morning?

What's he supposed to say? "Sorry, sis, I have a date with my spanking partner"? Right. Not in the real world.

Yes, I know this is what's known as a First World Problem. Don't tell me I'm whining; I know I'm whining. But goddammit, I was really, really geared up for this visit, this session.

Fellow bottoms: You know what it's like to be really looking forward to a spanking session with a beloved top, only to have it yanked away at the last minute. For those of you who don't know how it feels, I'll endeavor to explain.

It feels kinda like this:

It feels like craving your favorite treat so much, you get in your car and drive to the bakery, all the while anticipating your treat. By the time you get there, you want it so badly, you can practically taste it. And then you find out it's sold out.

I'm not a man, but I would imagine it kinda feels like that condition guys get (or they say they get) when they were expecting sex and then don't get it. Perhaps the spanko equivalent to blue balls is white butt.

It's like the olden days before TiVo and Hulu and everything on TV being available everywhere, when you used to look forward every week to your favorite program. The time would finally come, you'd sit down in front of the TV all excited... only to hear "Tonight's episode of blah blah blah will not be seen tonight, so we can bring you..." NOOOOOOO!

It's like planning a weekend getaway, down to the last detail, eagerly anticipating how much fun you're going to have and all the cool things you're going to do. The car is finally packed, you do a last-minute check of everything and then you jump behind the wheel -- and the car doesn't start.

It makes you want to scream, "Fuck life! Fuck reality! I don't care! I want what I want NOW!" And of course, you can't. Because you're a Grown Up, not a child. Because you have to be mature and reasonable. 

Oh, fuck that, too.

Yeah, yeah, I know. There's always next week. (sigh)  The day will go on; I'll fill it with something else. But you can't blame a girl for cussing a bit and shedding a disappointed tear.

OK, maybe a few tears. GodDAMMIT. :-(

Valentine weekend!

Even though we were still both coughing, John and I had a lovely Valentine's dinner out last night. He wouldn't tell me where we were going, so I got dressed up and got in the car (and found a pound of See's chocolate sitting on the seat). After we'd driven a while, I knew we were going to one of our favorite places, near where John used to live, called the California Canteen.

We all have our quirks, and one of John's is that he hates valet parking. If it's reasonably possible to park elsewhere, that's what we do. The Canteen has neighborhood parking in the streets behind it, but sometimes a space is hard to find. Last night, we drove up the canyon road and I was dismayed to see the curb lined with cars. There was one space -- but it was a tiny one, between a Cadillac and an SUV. And I can't parallel park worth a damn. Soooo... John got out of the car and directed me, back and forth, back and forth, as I inched myself into that freaking space. I was a nervous wreck, but John was having a grand old time. Because this was his view:

Hummmmpppph. Anyway, I finally got in there and we went to have a wonderful meal (vegetable risotto for me, goat cheese salad for him). John had to finish my rice. We exchanged cards; he'd written me a lovely little poem, as he does every year. ♥ And then it was off to Aroma Café, home of the world's best cakes (and our favorite, German chocolate).

John was his usual mischievous self. We had parked a couple of blocks away, and the walk down the dark streets toward the boulevard was especially fun with John reaching up my skirt as we walked. :-D  And once we got in the café and were waiting in line for the counter, John kept asking, "Where's the cake? Where's the cake?" "It's right there," I said, pointing to the bottom shelf in the large case. "I can't see it, can you get up closer to it?" Of course... he wanted me to lean over in my tight dress. OK, fine. I glanced around to make sure the people behind us were looking elsewhere, and I bent way over, poking my finger against the glass. "See it now?" I teased. "Sweetie!" he exclaimed, stepping up behind me. "I can't take you anywhere!"

Uh huh. I'M the troublemaker. 

I don't know if you can tell from the photo just how ginormous that slice was, but we completely devoured it.

Smooching my Valentine:

Not the best picture. I look like my face is squished up against a fishbowl! But I like it anyway. :-)

And of course, my See's!

My cell phone camera is weird. If I'm using the regular view (looking outward), I can make different adjustments before taking the picture (flash, etc.). But if I switch modes and I'm taking a picture of myself, then I can't adjust anything, and the picture quality is fair at best. But I didn't have my regular camera with me. Oh well.

This was our 16th Valentine's Day together and it was romantic and sweet as ever. I am a lucky woman.

No Mr. D tomorrow, but he will be here on Tuesday. And in a couple of weeks, I'm going to have all the spanking I can handle and then some. Stay tuned!

Valentine's Day, Kinko Style

In less than an hour, it will be February 14. A day that a lot of people consider lovely and romantic, and that a lot of other people consider to be commercialized and a drag. Some say it's a woman's holiday, and men prefer Steak and Blowjob Day. Hmmm. I don't know -- I know a lot of romantic men, including my sweetheart. Lucky me, huh? But for those of us of the kink persuasion, Valentine's Day isn't necessarily just about hearts and flowers.

(I have to digress here for a moment, being the obsessively literal person that I am -- how the hell is she going to scream that loud if she's gagged?)

You get my point, though. Don't get me wrong -- I love the traditional Valentine's Day trappings. I love red dresses, and pretty red hearts decorating everything. But I like red bottoms, too. I love flowers. I love chocolates (well, except for those crappy drug store chocolates that practically scream "Last minute!!"). And Cupid is a cute little guy. But I was happily struck by one of his arrows over 16 years ago; I really don't need his services anymore. Now, I'd rather be struck by this.

Valentine cards everywhere you look, filled with sweet sentiments and poems.  Sure, I love those too. And how could we forget those cute little sugar pellets (AKA candy message hearts), with their own (really) sweet sentiments: "I LUV U." "BE MINE" "UR CUTE."

Personally, I'm drawn to this one:

Valentine's dinners out are fun, but can be hectic. The restaurants are packed and the meals tend to be overpriced. You could, of course, have a nice romantic dinner at home; one of the advantages to that is you can dress down rather than dress up. In other words, we girls can wear our lingerie and forget about putting a dress on over it.

But if you see and hear something like this, you might want to save dinner for later:

Yes, kisses are wonderful; I recommend them wholeheartedly. (WholeHEARTedly, har! Get it?) But the kiss of a leather belt on an upturned backside can be especially heartwarming. Or warming of something. Whatever. 

So, for those who complain that Valentine's Day is too sentimental and mushy, I say nonsense. Mushy? She looks rather firm to me.

And guys, sure, there are women who expect all the roses and the candy and the bling. Which is a shame, because they're missing the whole point of the day. Sure, I love that stuff, too. But the day really should be a lot more simple than it is.

It's about love, not stuff. Love, and for those of us of the kink persuasion, a damn good spanking.

And for those who are uncoupled, not to worry! That's the beauty of spanking; it can be shared among friends, too. And you can split a box of See's afterward. ♥

Welcome back, Mr. D. :-)

I missed you. 

It had been a month to the day since I last saw Mr. D. Granted, I spent a lot of that month being sick, between my stomach episodes and this raging cold. But still, there was a gaping hole in each week.

Sadly, his mom passed away this past weekend. However, he and his family gave her a lovely send-off; she was in end-stage hospice at his sister's home, and several of them had gathered on Saturday. Mr. D played the guitar and sang to her, and at the end of the second song, she peacefully slipped away. 

I wasn't expecting to play today; I figured he was just dropping by and we'd talk, catch up. I was still coughing and sniffling and didn't feel very spankable. (Who feels attractive when they have a cold??) So we chatted for an hour or so, and he told me all that had been going on. I surprised him with a piece of chocolate cake with a candle in it, a card and a gift card to REI Co-op (Friday had been his birthday, after all). And then he said, "I think your bottom wants to feel my hand."

Oh, yes. It really, really did.

Yes, I'm a dork. I was wearing thick black socks. My feet were freezing.

The hand spanking was nirvana. Damn, but I love that so much; the solid feel of his hand, the sound, his voice. I didn't think I'd be able to take much, what with having been sick and not being spanked for a month, but I absorbed it greedily and wanted more. Even the "thuds" were welcome. You guys know what I mean -- the occasional slaps that don't meet the flesh quite right and make a dull thud instead of a crisp smack. Mr. D knows right away. "Sorrrrry, thud!" he says. Today, he apologized, saying he "stubbed his thumb." Har har.

I did cough some. But he'd make sure I was OK, check in with me. I didn't want him to stop.

We moved on to implements. OK, that's when I couldn't take much. Ow, ow, ow. Everything hurt like crazy, so much so that he lightened up just a little, just enough so I could sink into it again. Then, sneakily, he ramped it up again.

Still, I was crying out "please, please" before too long. He paused. "I know, baby," he said. "I know you think you can't take any more. But I know you want to take more." Reluctantly, I nodded. "And this is what you need, isn't it?" I nodded again.

"Tell me," he gently pressed, continuing. "Tell me you need it."

"YES," I blurted. "I need it, I need it." Once the tears started, he knew I was done. The tissue in my hand was now a crumpled and soggy rag.

It was a chilly night here, and I hadn't put the heat on in the bedroom. The comforter and blankets bundled up around me felt good, as did his soothing.

He couldn't stay long tonight; he's behind on his work and still fielding phone calls and texts and all sorts of details. It's OK. There will be other times for dinner, for spanking marathons, for lingering. A couple of hours was just right for this reunion.

Besides, I was still pink two hours after he left. :-)

In other news, John and I spent the weekend hacking and sniffling at each other. What a pair we made. We took turns pampering each other and did little more than eat meals out, run a few errands and flop in front of the TV, bundled up in blankets. I think I slept better than he did, though. John doesn't like to take OTC cold meds. Me? I have no such reservations. I took a shot of Nyquil each night and I was out. (Did you know it's 10% alcohol?) Still, sick as he's been, he remembered to surprise me with early Valentine's Day roses. ♥ They arrived Sunday evening after I came home. I sure hope to hell we're both better by this weekend so we can celebrate! I'm going to bake brownies for him.

I think, maybe, some balance has been restored, finally. Thank you, Mr. D. I'm so sorry for your loss. You were a wonderful son, loving and caring. You can be proud of that for the rest of your days.

Happy birthday to my top

Today, February 8, is Mr. D's birthday. Unfortunately, I don't think he's going to be doing any celebrating, what with his family situation. His mother is now in end-stage hospice. I asked him if he thought his family would remember his birthday, and he said probably not -- perhaps after the fact, but not right now. That made me sad. Everyone deserves to be acknowledged on their special day, I think.

So, to my dear top and friend, I acknowledge you here. I know you don't feel like celebrating now. But eventually, you will. And I will be here to take your birthday spanking, over and over and over, and fuss over you and brat you and make you laugh. 

I miss you. I miss your smile, your strong hands, that wicked gleam in your eye. I miss your calm voice and your comforting arms. I miss the pleasure and pain, the connection, the release. I miss YOU.

Take care of everything you need to, take your time. Just know that our play will be the light at the end of your tunnel. We will have fun again. It's just been put on hold for a while. Close your eyes in the midst of the turmoil and try to recall the euphoria.

And yes, this blog will be fun again too. Have a great weekend, y'all. Stay safe, those who are back East in Blizzard Nemo's path.

OT: Nostalgia

Some of my readers might remember these guys:

From The History Channel Club magazine: On this day in 1964, Pan Am Yankee Clipper flight 101 from London Heathrow lands at New York's Kennedy Airport--and "Beatlemania" arrives. It was the first visit to the United States by the Beatles, a British rock-and-roll quartet that had just scored its first No. 1 U.S. hit six days before with "I Want to Hold Your Hand."

I remember hearing that song for the first time.

I had a clock radio on my nightstand as a kid. In the 1960s, clock radios were not the sleek, digital creations they are now; they were big honking things that looked like this:

You twiddled the knobs to go up and down the spectrum of stations, listening for your favorite.

Anyway, I sometimes had trouble going to sleep and music played low would soothe me. So I was allowed to turn the radio on... but only to the classical station. No rock and roll; that would just keep me awake. 

On that February night, around 11:30, I couldn't sleep and switched on the radio. Normally, I liked the soothing quality of the classical station, but that night, I was restless and chose to defy the station restriction -- I fiddled with the dial until it was on KRLA, a very popular rock station in L.A. at the time. I turned the sound way down low so there was no way it could float outside my bedroom, and leaned in close to listen. The deejay came on and announced, "This next song is from a group who just arrived here from Liverpool, England. They have a funny name, but I have a feeling they're going to be huge." And then "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" came on.

Thus began my nearly lifelong love affair with The Beatles.

I was mesmerized by their sound. As the days progressed and the news of them spread, their music was everywhere, their pictures, their footage, everything. My brother, who was 14 at the time, bought their records and, much to my mother's disgust, played them non-stop. And of course there were their Ed Sullivan Show guest spots, the audience filled with screaming, hysterical young girls. As the camera focused on each Beatle in turn, their name would flash on the screen. In John's case, underneath his name was "Sorry girls, he's married." That first marriage of his was a total train wreck, but no one knew that at the time.

I had such a crush on John, even at six. I told my brother I was going to marry him when I grew up. Ken scoffed at me. "You can't do that; he's already married." I just smiled and said, "That's OK, I'll wait until he's divorced."

Hey, it was Hollywood.

When their first movie, A Hard Day's Night, came out, we saw it in the theater. I barely remember going, but I've seen that movie so many times in my life, I can practically recite the dialogue, line for line. I even won a phone-in radio contest, answering a trivia question about the movie plot (I was 20 at the time, and won $100).

Ken got to go with a bunch of his friends to see them at the Hollywood Bowl. I begged and pleaded and cried for him to take me with them. I really couldn't understand why a group of 14- and 15-year-old boys didn't want a six-year-old little girl in tow. I was inconsolable for a while. I have a vague memory of Ken giving me his records to play, but I'm not sure if it was because of the concert.

One thing about my memory has always baffled me. I remember the arrival of the Beatles so clearly, recall so many details -- the excitement and joy, how all of America was so caught up in these "four lads from Liverpool." And yet, a scant three months prior, one of the 20th Century's worst tragedies happened: the assassination of JFK.

I remember nothing of that. Not one thing. I don't remember hearing it in school, I don't remember seeing the news, and I don't remember my family's reaction. It's a complete blank. Weird.

But I'm glad I have my memories of the Beatles; glad that I was there to witness the phenomenon, have them be a part of my childhood/adolescence and then a lingering soundtrack winding in and out of the rest of my life. I don't love every song or every movie (I've watched Help! a few times and find it to be an annoying mishmash), and I have no desire to go to a Paul McCartney concert. In my mind and heart, they'll always be frozen in time as those four moptops in the suits, who seemed larger than life and so very grown up to me then, but in reality, were just babies themselves.

In my mind and heart, John wasn't shot to death, and George didn't die of cancer.

And my brother is still alive, sharing his memories of the Hollywood Bowl, 1964, with me.

I'm back

Did you miss me?

Sometimes, I run out of things to say. (yes, really) The past few weeks have been uninspiring, to say the least. Stomach virus. Toothaches. Lack of work. Last weekend, John had a raging cold, poor thing, but I went over there anyway, because I missed him and I didn't want to sit home all weekend. And now I feel that sort of pre-cold nonsense; pressure in my sinuses, scratchy throat. Plus, I woke up today with a stomachache again, just like I had two weeks ago. Trying very hard to resist the 21st-century version of playing doctor and looking up symptoms on the Internet. No good can come of that.

I have not seen Mr. D in three weeks. He's been through the wringer; first that godawful pink-eye in both eyes, and then his mother's hospitalization. She is now in hospice, and it's just a matter of days. :-(  But get this: Even with all he's going through, he still called me yesterday and asked if he could bring me some soup or something. How sweet is that? I said no, of course. I'm not going to chance getting him sick, and I don't want to add "care-taking Erica" to his list of responsibilities. I told him we've waited this long; let's wait until we can get together, both healthy and unburdened, and fully enjoy some great play. I don't know when that will be, though. I miss him. And the poor guy's birthday is this Friday. Some birthday this is going to be, with his family situation.

John and I, after some discussion, came to the unfortunate decision that we can't do Boardwalk Badness in Atlantic City this year. It's just too expensive; we ran the numbers on the party tickets, the hotel room, flight, baggage fees, shuttle... too much. If we lived closer and could drive, like we do to Shadow Lane, that would make a huge difference. You know, it's not that John can't afford this trip. He can... but the fact that it's John paying for it, not us paying for it, makes me feel guilty. My finances, in a word, suck. John makes good money and he is generous with it, with me. But I know, in my heart of hearts, that the spanking parties are my thing, not his, and it doesn't feel right to me to ask him to spend that much for what is mostly my indulgence. If I could contribute to it, it would be different. But I have an expensive root canal in my future.

April will be sad, hearing about BBW and missing my friends. But I am resigned to it.

Usually, my Mondays are wonderful writing days. Yesterday, I went to the gym and struggled through everything, feeling winded and off (guess it's that pre-cold thing). I wasted time running an errand to a place that should have been open but was inexplicably closed. Came home, flipped the kitchen switch and the overhead light went out. Got up on a stepstool, managed to unscrew the heavy glass globe and change the bulbs. But when I tried to wrestle the globe back into place, I fumbled and dropped it. Shattered glass everywhere. After that, I kissed the day good-bye and crawled into bed to watch Turner Classic Movies.

What's a spanking blogger to do, when there's no spanking to blog about? The past couple of weeks, I endeavored to come up with some interesting and interactive topics, ones that would encourage comments. But my views still dwindled, then plunged. I then figured, well, perhaps I'm trying too hard. Maybe I should just shut up for a little while, until I have something to say. Until I have something fun and fresh to tell.

There ARE good times ahead. John and I will feel better and have a wonderful Valentine's Day celebration. We have an opportunity to get together with some friends at the end of the month, and that will help offset the disappointment over BBW. I'll get some more work. Mr. D and I will reunite, I will take his birthday spanking and then some, and we'll make up for lost time.

I'm still in the game, kids. Just down for the count for a little while.