Feels Like Happy

Beauty in Contradictions

2010-02-10T15:12:00.004-05:00

Long story short—my cat knocked over a glass of water onto my beautiful gaming laptop, effectively frying both it and myself when I desperately tried to unplug it and get it out from under the line of fire while being half-asleep. Thankfully it’s under warranty, and within a couple weeks I should get either the laptop back all fixed or money to buy a new one. Until then, I’m writing from my mother’s laptop during the day and searching old private blogs and journals for saved writings that I lost with my burnt hard drive.

I ran across this one, written when I was sixteen years old and dealing with both vanilla and spanko contradictions that we all know very well. I wrote it to try to teach myself to embrace my good qualities and not dwell quite so much on the bad. Couldn’t help but share.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am sweet, gentle, nurturing, calm, and warm.

I am giggly, adorable, playful, quick, and childlike.

I am reserved, intelligent, well-mannered, pure, and chaste.

I am strong, resourceful, perceptive, capable, and loyal.

I am sexy, fiery, sassy, smoldering, and passionate.

I love cooking, baking, caring for children and animals, housekeeping, Little House on the Prairie, The Waltons, Garth Brooks, Tim McGraw, and family.

I love gaming, science fiction, pretending, stuffed animals, My Little Pony, Firefly, They Might be Giants, and life.

I love Johannes Vermeer's paintings, historical fiction, classical music, ballet, The West Wing, and the diversity of the world.

I love fast cars, leather jackets, action movies, big guns, epic explosions, and the perfect adrenaline rush.

I love dancing, satin, deep reds, fire, candlelight, and love itself.

I have wheat-blonde hair, forest green eyes, long eyelashes, clear skin, and a warm, soft body.

I have taken on the roles of daughter, sister, friend, teacher, caregiver, protector, and I will one day devote my knowledge and skills to the treasured station of motherhood.

My submission is mine to give to whom I will. It cannot be taken nor tarnished. It is precious as my heart and soul are precious. As pleasure is my friend and pain is my ally, submission is my steady and constant companion throughout the joys and sorrows of life. It gives me hope, keeps me safe, and encourages me to strive for excellence in everything I do.

I aspire to have a worthwhile life. I want to touch the lives of my children and of the children I educate. I want to bury my bones overseas after giving my entire life to the welfare of others. I want to be a source of pride to my parents, a source of adoration for my husband, and a source of comfort to my children.

I don't know how my life will turn out. One year from now, five years from now, ten years, twenty, fifty - I can't know. All I can do is be a joyous, kind, and loving handmaiden and serve God, my family, my fellow man, and myself.

Celebrities and Spanking Fantasies - Yum!

2010-02-07T23:08:00.009-05:00

All right, dear friends, time for some fun! What celebrities have you always thought would make fantastic spankers/spankees? It doesn't matter if you liked them when you were eight, it doesn't matter if they're not particularly big names - hell, it doesn't even matter if they're real! They could be animated, for all anyone cares. With all the movies and TV I watch, I could go on and on about all the celebrities I thought would make for excellent spankers, but I've started us off with five of the bigger names that more people might be familiar with.

1. Jeremy Irons. I've had a crush on him since I was twelve when I first read and watched Lolita. Voice that cuts through butter and a brilliant actor to boot. He just needs to put down the cigarette and pick up a cane.

2. Gary Oldman. Again, brilliant actor. Has played some of the most amazing villains in film while managing to naturally be this quirky professor-type offscreen.

3. Clive Owen. The man deserves to be on this list just because of the awesomely out-of-the-blue spanking scene in Shoot 'Em Up, but this picture cinches it. He's totally just waiting for you to come over and bend over his lap.

4. Dougray Scott. Played a terribly sexy villain in Mission Impossible 2, a movie which also had the "What are you going to do? Spank me?" line that I always got a kick out of. Still manages to have very kind eyes. Also, he's Scottish. Points.

5. Sting. I fell hard for Sting the same time I got a crush on Jeremy Irons. I always found the 'Don't Stand So Close To Me' music video (the original) quite sexy (he plays a young teacher and carries around a carpet beater half the video, and even takes his shirt off in the middle of his classroom! Come on, now!) He's since gotten older and kind of new-agey and now bearded, but I'll always remember young Sting.

Your turn! What celebrities have struck your spanking fancy as you watched them? If you'd like, add in a link to a favorite picture or video clip - or don't, totally up to you!

Non-Sexual Spanking? What Is This You Speak Of?!

2010-02-06T01:16:00.006-05:00

I’m really weird, you guys.

In my last post, I described my personal tastes in spanking, which in short is of the warm and cuddly variety. Then in last week’s brunch at MBS, I described spanking as not personally inherently sexual, but still could be for me. I then thought about it for another week before reading a post by the most-intriguing and dear Viola at Freshly Spanked and finally commented on the fact that no—spanking just plain isn’t sexual for me. D/s, yes; spanking, no.

I used to think I wasn’t a sexual person. Then I met and fell for a guy who quickly changed all that. Briefly—no, I did not sleep with him or anything like that, but I learned to appreciate my sexuality. I learned that I vastly enjoy and actually need a D/s tone in the bedroom to be fulfilled in the romantic department. I learned that I want and need experimentation and an open mind—I’m pretty much good to try anything and everything. But this guy, who was also into spanking, liked it in the fully erotic sense. I found myself actually getting turned off by his meant-to-be-sexy spanking references. Sex is sex and spanking is spanking and in my strange, convoluted mind, they’re separate things but almost equally special and crucial in my future marriage.

How did this happen? I asked myself this week. Why has everyone I’ve ever known loved erotic spankings, or a mixture of erotic and disciplinary spankings, but I turn out to just like spankings for the feeling and emotional connection? The answer hit me like a wave to the chest. Spankings were my safety net. While sex was this dark, scary thing during my adolescent years (this is now no longer the case), thinking about spanking was my happy place. I subconsciously disconnected it from my sexuality because I didn’t want it to be tainted as well. I was able to revel in the intimacy but warmth of spanking, one step above escaping into a good book or movie.

For a bit of background, this was included in my response to Viola’s post: “I'm not into ageplay - you're right, doing some kind of daddy-daughter thing does feel kind of incestuous to me, no matter how you swing it. While spanking personally takes me back to simpler, safer times, it's still within an adult relationship. It’s kind of like watching an old Disney movie—you don’t watch it and pretend you’re six again, you watch it for the happy feelings and warm memories it gives you.”

I don’t know if anyone else shares my outlook on spanking, but I suppose it doesn’t actually matter. I love learning about my fellow bloggers’ and friends’ takes and opinions on everything to do with spanking. We don’t have to share the same opinions—in fact, I think kinks are so varied that we very rarely fully do. Maybe I’m weird and strange and alone when it comes to this, but I suppose as long as it works for me, I really can’t complain. I doubt it will be easy to find a guy who shares my feelings or at the very least accepts them—but you know, I guess that’s where faith and the ability to not worry about it too much comes in =)

Pajamas and Cocoa!

2010-01-27T17:03:00.002-05:00

The last few posts have been angsty, man. So much for Feels Like Happy! Time to get the show back on the road, eh?

Gabe and I were talking about the blog a few weeks back, and he mentioned the fact that a couple of the blogs he visited to learn more about the community seemed a lot more dark and scary than I’d led him to believe. I had to think about that one. The spanking community is SO vast, SO varied, that of course tons of different kinds of kinks will be exhibited. There are all different ways to love and play. But Gabe was worried. He’d always been my big brother, my protector, and the fact that he accepted my kink so quickly with its obvious connection to pain still amazes me to this day. His greatest concern as far as I go is for my safety. I have no doubt that he will take my future hubby aside and warn him about the consequences of ever taking advantage of TTWD, because that’s just the kind of loving , protective guy he is.

Anyway, as I tried to answer the question, I kind of stumbled around to find the right words. “Well—see—there are all kinds of ways to practice spanking and stuff—I mean, I’m perfectly happy to experiment, but I mean—I’m much less of a whips and leather spankee than… well… I’m more of like… pajamas and cocoa!” I finally blurted out. To Gabe’s credit, he knew exactly what I meant and started laughing ridiculously. What I was trying to say was this: I never want to be frightened during a spanking. I never want to feel less than I am or like a piece of dirt. I know humiliation is often a big part of the kink, but I honestly don’t get off on it. I like the love and comfort in a spanking, the close connection and safety and security. Whenever I think of ‘spanking’ I think of this scene: a firm but loving disciplinary spanking by a warm fire while dressed in cozy pajamas, after which the spankee is lovingly hugged and comforted and tucked into bed—maybe with a good bedtime story J. I relate it back to the same warm, happy, cozy feeling I get when I read a good book by the fire in my pajamas and my feet tucked under my lazy puppy dog, with a cup of hot cocoa in my hand and the snow falling softly outside the window. To me, it just doesn’t get any better.

I will always, always heartily support all varieties of the kink, so long as they’re practiced safely and are respectful of the individuals’ needs, emotions, and safety. I quite like reading about them, because I would absolutely love to experiment with different things every now and again. But when it comes down to it, deep down inside, I’m a pajamas-and-cocoa spankee!

Mayday! Mayday! She's Gonna Blow!

2010-01-25T19:09:00.005-05:00

I spent a week away from the spankosphere and the world didn’t explode. Shocking!

Taking some unplanned time off from the blog world was the best thing I could’ve done. I love reading my fellow bloggers’ work, I love writing my own posts, and the last thing I want to do is make this haven into a stressful environment for myself. I spent some time just thinking about vanilla things and it was wonderful.

But now I’m back and I have a few thoughts bouncing around in my head that I really need to get out. It will be ranty, and for this I apologize. Run awaaay, dear readers! Save yourselves!

1. I’ve been running the blog like a business, not a creative outlet. Scheduled posts, StatCounter, and promises to reply to emails right away have been driving me mental. I originally promised myself that I’d post every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday in an effort to ensure that I’d keep up the blog, not just drift in and out of it. The problem is that now I have the pressure of coming up with topics three times a week. Oftentimes it’s 3AM before I finally post something after scrapping half a dozen rough drafts of posts on different topics. In the end, I'm learning to chill out, be flexible, and post whenever—and whatever—the heck I want to post, silly rules be damned.

2. SpankoLife is MESSING WITH MY HEAD. So many strange people suddenly came out of the woodwork and started chatting and messaging me, and reading stuff from them makes me uncomfortable. Also, all the pictures. There are about ten billion pictures of women’s either marked or unmarked buttocks, and they’re PERFECT. I mean, perfectly spherical globes of perfection. I always really liked my butt—it’s quite big, round (well, so I THOUGHT), smooth with this one cute little dimple, and firm but not too firm, you know? But here I sit with a picture of the ass of a freakin goddess in front of me and I feel more than a little insecure. I hate feeling like that, especially when I’m sure these women are perfectly sweet individuals. I don’t want to be all jealous of them! Still. It’s weird. I wuv my butt, but now I feel all less proud of it. I'll get over it, but it's been poking at my brain recently.

3. The number of messages I’ve gotten from male doms online ordering me to do, say, or even post things is absurd. It’s like they think that just because I’m a sub, that means I have absolutely zero sense of pride or individualism. Just because I’m a submissive doesn’t mean I’m always submissive—does that make sense to anyone else? Do they really think that I’m instantly going to melt to the direction of some random bloke over the internet? Have some SENSE, people!!!

Okay, rant over! Love you all dearly.

Onward!

2010-01-19T02:24:00.011-05:00

Today marks my fourth week of blogging and being a vocal part of the spanking community. That statement probably makes it sound a lot more auspicious than it is, but it’s an exciting deal for me! The fact is, when I created my Blogger account at the end of December and clicked “Create Post” for the first time, I fully expected to post a couple of times, get no responses, and then crawl pathetically into silence once more. To my great surprise, the spankosphere welcomed me with open arms and accepted me as one of their own. I’ve finally met the bloggers I’ve admired for years, made dear new friends, and corresponded with many kind, brave people who have been good enough to share their stories with me. It’s been an incredible ride and it’s only just begun.

But I worry. The sheer amount of reading, writing, planning, commenting, and correspondence blogging entails makes it very easy to let my thoughts turn to an almost constant stream of spanking. I chop up vegetables for dinner while outlining the next post in my head. I reflect on my fellow bloggers’ posts and stories while driving to the store. I respond to an email in between bites of lunch. Before fully joining the community, this kink was an ever-present but subtle part of myself. Direct contact like reading blogs and stories was reserved for school breaks and weekend nights. The rest of the time my thoughts were elsewhere save the occasional jolt of excitement when something spanking-oriented popped up unexpectedly. Moments of submission like giving into pain instead of fighting it at the dentist were natural and casual. What used to be this fun little part almost feels like it has taken over my life.

I just need to figure out how to balance everything properly. I have a feeling that once school starts up again on Wednesday there won’t be as much of a problem. With five classes, I won’t have as much time and brainpower to devote to the blog as I did during break. I might end up cutting my posts down from three times a week to one or two. I’ll respond to emails once a day instead of pausing several times daily to do so. I’m worried that too much thought spent on the kink will end up lessening its value to me, make me nonchalant instead of passionate. But just enough thought on it has given me more happiness than almost anything else in my life right now. I guess it’s a matter of 'too much of a good thing,' eh? Moderation is proving to be really key in my blogging endeavors, and I didn't really think about it beforehand.

By the way—the last thing I want you all to get from this is the idea that I don’t want to correspond anymore or that comments and emails are some kind of burden, because that's just plain ridiculous. I can’t tell you how much that isn’t true. I'm writing this as a kind of reminder to myself to step back, breathe, and be practical and responsible about blogging and online time. It’s my own newfound obsession with the community that’s causing me trouble. I love reading your blogs, your comments, your emails TOO much! Every time my phone buzzes with a new email or notification, I can’t help but grin. Every comment, every email, is unbelievably precious to me. If I didn’t get them, I wouldn’t keep blogging—it’s that simple. It’s the community that keeps me going; it’s my own lack of discipline that gives me pause.

Thank you so much for four amazing weeks, you guys. Getting to know you all has been one of the coolest experiences of my life and I feel so lucky to know that I'm only at the very beginning of this journey.

To my fellow bloggers who are much wiser than me: Have you guys dealt with this issue? Have you worried that you’re spending too much time and energy in the blogosphere? How did you get past it?

Maggie Ramsay and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

2010-01-16T02:52:00.005-05:00

When you try your best but you don’t succeed,

When you get what you want but not what you need,

When you feel so tired but you can’t sleep,

Stuck in reverse.

You ever have one of those days where absolutely nothing goes right? Where from the first thing in the morning, nothing quite turns out as planned? I don’t mean days on which life-changingly awful things happen. Just days where no matter how hard you try, no matter what your efforts, things just don’t work out. I had one of those days today.

I just wrote out this long post detailing all the bad events of my day, hoping that maybe writing it down and sending it out into the void would get all the thoughts out of my head enough that I could finally get some much-needed sleep. As it turned out, just writing it down helped enormously. I don't think there’s any need to post it, nor do I really want to. I’m trying really hard to refrain from using this blog as a personal journal. That’s not what its purpose is, and I know that if I post things like that, I’ll regret it. My dear readers may not mind, but I certainly will.

I promise to return next week and get everything back to normal. I’ll make sure my regular Tuesday post is positive and interesting. For now, I feel bad posting for the second time without any content, so here’s a story I pulled from the dark recesses of my computer, written when I was fourteen (although edited tonight) and featuring a topic close to my heart.

Procrastination (M/F)

I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my eyes. I change my mind; I want to be a fireman, I thought ruefully, my head swimming with medical jargon. I love what I do, but they were really understating it when they said med school wasn’t going to be easy. I looked over to Cat, who was sitting at her desk with her laptop in front of her. She was up late with me, finishing a paper. Or rather—I looked closer at her screen. No, nevermind—she was surfing the web. I sighed. My wife, though filled to the brim with amazing qualities, really had a procrastination problem.

“Cat,” I said suddenly. She jumped, hurriedly closing the window and turning around. That confirmed my suspicions pretty well. “Did you finish your paper?”

“Oh—almost, James” she replied brightly, but it was obvious she was lying. I knew her too well.

“How long have you been surfing the web instead of studying?” I decided to get straight to the point and not trick her into digging herself into a deeper hole.

Her face fell and she swallowed nervously. “Well, uh… not too long.” She looked down at her feet and kicked them against the carpet. Convincing.

I raised my eyebrow in response. “How long is ‘not too long’?”

Cat glanced at the clock and her eyes widened in shock. “Oh… I guess I must have gotten carried away. I just took a study break and lost track of time.”

“You didn’t answer my question, young lady.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She knew she was already in trouble, and nothing she could do or say would change that. The only question now was whether or not to lie. If she lied and pretended she had spent less time surfing the web than she had, then she might get off easier. But if she was caught, lying would earn her a much harsher punishment. She knew full well that in the long run the best thing to do was tell the truth, but right now she was terrified of what he would think.

Finally, she whispered, “An hour and a half.”

“An hour and a half, Cat?” I repeated, incredibly annoyed with her. “You do realize that had you spent that time working you might be finished by now, right?”

“Yes sir,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re really not, little one. You’re just sorry you got caught.” I got up from my chair, went to the couch and sat down. “Come here.”

She reluctantly got up and came over to me. I pulled her down into one of the chairs next to me. “This is very important, honey, and I want you to hear it and take it in. Your schoolwork is the most important thing in your life right now. It must be your first priority. You’ve procrastinated all your life and until now it was never properly addressed. I love you with all my heart, and because of that I’m going to make a point of punishing you each and every time you procrastinate. Sooner or later you’re going to make a conscious choice to work before you play, and then we will have fixed the problem. Do you understand?”

By now she was crying, almost to the point of sobbing. I knew very well why: it always touched something deep inside her whenever I told her that because I loved her, I was going to work on her flaws and help her become a better person. “Yes sir,” she choked out, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. I reached over and grabbed a tissue out of the box so she could blow her nose properly.

“All right. Are you ready for your punishment?”

A sob escaped at the word, but she swallowed back the rest of her tears and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Then go get the hairbrush,” I said as I moved to the middle of the couch. She nodded tearfully and went into the bedroom, returning with the wooden brush. I took it and put it beside me. I beckoned her over to my side, where I unbuttoned her jeans and slid them and her panties to her ankles. “Step out,” I ordered, and she did so. I knew she wouldn’t need them for quite a while and definitely wouldn’t want them once we were through. I guided her across my lap and situated her until she was in the best position.

Without preamble, I raised my hand and brought it down on her pale little bottom. She jumped and gasped as she always did, then began to wriggle around as I brought my hand down again and again on her defenseless behind. After her bottom was a nice light pink, I reached for the hairbrush and rested it on her bottom. She whimpered in anticipation.

[CRACK] She let out a shriek as the brush connected with her bottom. I kept raining them down, pausing every ten or so to lecture her and let her catch her breath, then kept on spanking. After about fifty strokes I put down the hairbrush. She was absolutely sobbing. There was nothing quite so tough for her to take than a hairbrushing, because it was a deep, intense pain that I delivered rapid-fire, unlike things like the cane and the strap where I let one stroke settle before I did the next.

I patted her bottom lightly and pulled her to her feet. “We’re not quite done, little one,” I said, which brought on a fresh wave of tears. “I want you to remember this lesson, because even though I will if I have to, I do not want to have to repeat it.” I pushed her by the small of her back into the bedroom, where I placed a couple of pillows in the middle of the bed. “Lie across those.”

She gingerly got on the bed and placed her hips on the pillows, effectively pushing her bottom up into the air and making it the perfect target for a caning or strapping. I went to the closet and removed the cane, running my fingers along it to make sure it was in good condition.

“I don't mind you taking a ten-minute break now and again, honey,” I told her. “It’s good for you to get up out of your chair once an hour. With this in mind, I’m going to give you eight strokes, one for every ten minutes you spent surfing the web past the reasonable break. Do you think this is fair?”

“Yes sir,” she mumbled repentantly into the comforter. Good enough for me. I stepped back, took careful aim, and brought the cane down.

[THWACK] She sucked in a sharp breath but dutifully counted, “One, sir.”

I smiled proudly at the fact that she’d counted without having to be reminded. “Good girl,” I acknowledged softly, and watched as she straightened up at my encouragement.

[THWACK] Her toes curled at the pain but she kept position. “Two sir.”

[THWACK] Her knuckles whitened as she clutched the comforter. “Three, sir.”

[THWACK] This one caught her right at her sit-spot and she let out a little helpless cry. “Four, sir.”

[THWACK] She breathed deeply, managing the pain, trying her best to take it well and prove that she knew she deserved the punishment. “Five, sir.”

[THWACK] She squeezed her eyes against the tears and turned her head away from me, rubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. “Si-Six, sir.” I was glad I had only chosen to give her eight strokes—it seemed just about time to stop.

[THWACK] “Owww, seven sir, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” She whispered the last bit. I didn’t say anything, eager to give her the last and be done with it. As far as I was concerned, the punishment was over. She’d reached remorse. We both braced ourselves for the final and hardest stroke.

[THWACK] “Eight sir,” she cried out with pain and relief. Her tense shoulders crumpled with exhaustion.

I laid the cane aside and sat on the bed next to her, pulling the pillows out from under her hips. She crawled over to me and laid her head in my lap. She cried into my jeans as I offered silent comfort, brushing the hair from her face, pulling it off her hot and sweaty neck.

“I’m sorry, James,” she choked out as the sobs began to ebb. “I don’t mean to do it, it just happens, and I hate it. I hate it so much.”

“I know, baby,” I smiled, leaning over to kiss her forehead. “That’s why I’m here. We’ll get through it together.”

We rested for a while until Cat felt well enough to get back up. I dropped her off at her desk with a final kiss and walked back to my own. Before opening up my books again, I couldn’t help but watch her for a minute longer. She sensed my eyes on her and glanced up, breaking into a grin. She looked pointedly at her computer as if to say, Stop looking at me, I’m busy here! and turned back, typing with renewed vigor and attentiveness. I opened up the textbook, picked up my highlighter, and returned to work as well. Just another day.

SpankoLife, I Join You.

2010-01-13T21:22:00.005-05:00

I’m feeling a bit under the weather tonight, so I’m sorry to say I don’t have a particularly interesting post for you all. My two-week intensive course finishes Friday, and I’m bogged down with schoolwork and stressing out over it has, of course, left me with a handy cold. That said, I did want to pop in and let you all know that I have joined SpankoLife at the suggestion of a reader. I’ve heard a lot of good things about it, and I know several bloggers who are on it, so I finally gave in and grabbed an account. Fetlife was also suggested, and while I know it’s a bit more expansive, I like the feel of SpankoLife a lot better (doesn’t feel so intense or something, you know?). Of course, I’ve already had a couple messages with the creepy people who like to frequent such sites, which is to be expected, but it’s still creepy. So if any of you are on SpankoLife, please please pretty please friend me! I need my halfway normal people who aren’t constantly asking me what I'm wearing =P

You can go to my profile by clicking this handy dandy link. Hope to see you there!

I’m off to a warm bubble bath and an early bedtime. Love you guys! Have a lovely rest of your week.

EDIT: SpankoLife chat is trying to kill me, so I also grabbed a Yahoo! Messenger account. maggiejramsay@yahoo.com. If you want to IM, that's the best place to find me :)

See this? This is me cringing.

2010-01-12T02:43:00.003-05:00

Self-spanking. The angel and demon of this single spankee. It’s been compared to masturbation numerous times, and it’s an excellent analogy. Self spanking is to partner spanking as masturbation is to partner sex—it fills the immediate need, but is oftentimes severely lacking. I should point out that this isn’t true for everybody. Some people revel in the personal intimacy of self-spanking or masturbation, as they know exactly what works and what doesn’t and there isn’t the added pressure of pleasing your partner. But others, and I find myself in this category, require a partner for everything to fully work.

Enter 14-year-old Maggie. She’s read the stories, seen the videos, and finally wants to feel what it’s like to get her bottom reddened. She convinces her mother to purchase a wooden paddle brush, which she can easily pass off as legitimate given her hair type. It sits in her room until a day about a week into the future, when the house is empty and it’s time to try it out. She bends over her desk, grabs the brush, braces herself, and brings it down. [SMACK]

Well, that didn’t work at all. Bit too nervous, a bit too soft. Let’s try that one again. [SMACK]

OW HOLY GOD WHY THE HELL DID I THINK I’D LIKE THIS OW IT STINGS WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME

…you know what, actually… now that the initial ow is over there’s quite a delicious sting to it. Again, only slightly softer, no need to be too overzealous. [SMACK]

I ended up finding an intensity that I could deal with. Once my arm got tired and my butt couldn’t take a whole lot more, I checked out my backside in the mirror and couldn’t help but feel a goofy grin spread across my face. My rear was deep red, hot to the touch, and more than a little sore. I tried sitting, which didn’t work at all but only made me happier. I’d done it! I knew what it felt like to be spanked, and I actually liked it! Booya!

Over the next few months, I tried a variety of implements, including belts, wooden spoons, wooden dowels, and curtain rods. Some worked, some didn’t. I could never give myself quite the severity I knew I’d get from a partner, but I wasn’t complaining. It was hard enough—I actually ended up breaking that paddle brush (teehee). I remember at one point while undressing I noticed a small bruise from the belt on my backside. I about flipped, I was so proud to sport that little mark.

Unfortunately, after a while, self-spanking lost its excitement. It ceased being this personal adventure and started feeling desperate and awkward. I’ve long since given up on that whole thing, and I honestly don’t miss it. I’m more than happy to wait for the right partner to mark my bottom, even if it is frustrating at times. There’s just so much else that goes into a spanking for me that self-spanking doesn’t do it anymore. At the risk of TMI, I’m the same way with masturbation—it’s just not worth it unless I have a guy I love and trust there with me in that moment. That probably puts me in a minority, but I don’t mind. I’ve shared that part of myself, both willingly and unwillingly, several times before with different guys and that’s enough for me until I find that one man I want to share my life with. So for now, my bottom remains unmarked and pervertibles stay used for their intended purpose. So long as I have all of you wonderful bloggers to live vicariously through, I’ll stay feeling happy =)

Bonitatem et disciplinam et scientiam doce me.

2010-01-09T23:05:00.008-05:00

After my last post, I received an email from a reader who suggested that I turn the exchange with my teacher into a spanking story. Although it seemed pretty weird at first, throwing a fictional spanking into a true story, after Finish This Fantasy I was itching to write something else and it seemed a fitting topic. I had absolutely NO idea how cathartic writing this story would end up being, nor how special it now is to me. Because of how close to my heart this story is, it honestly feels pretty odd posting it. However, as it was a reader who first suggested I write it, it probably only makes sense that I put it up. Please forgive me for its length and self-indulgence =)

Italicized text is fiction; the rest is as true as my memory allows.

“Maggie, hang on a second.”

My stomach flipped over as I hovered by the door. I had known this was coming, but like any procrastinator, I had hoped that it wouldn’t happen for a while yet. Almost every teacher had watched my grades fall and kindly asked me if they could help me. I had dismissed their concerns with quick lies and sweet smiles, but I couldn’t fool my Latin teacher. The man was too sharp and knew me too well. My peers jostled my immobile body as they squeezed through the classroom doorway in a hurry to get as far away as possible from the obvious scolding that was about to take place.

“Sir?” I replied softly once the last student had left the room.

Mr. Hartwell was erasing declensions off the board, his back to me. “Close the door, I want a word with you.”

I nudged the doorstop off to the side with my foot and let the door fall closed with a disconcerting THUNK. Unsure of what to do, I awkwardly made my way to a second-row desk and sat down. Mr. Hartwell finished his erasing and turned to his own desk, shuffling around a couple of papers. Finding his gradebook, he picked it up and placed it down in front of me with two pieces of paper that had been meticulously placed so that all I could see was the name “Ramsay, Maggie” and a line of numbers.

“Read those off to me, please.”

I swallowed and recited, “100, 100, 98, 96, 100, 98, 100, 100, 96, 100.”

He leaned over, flipped forward several pages, and replaced the sheets of paper. “Now read these.”

“76, 74, 68…”

“Louder, Maggie,” he ordered, his voice dangerously stern. “You earned those grades, now respect them.”

I tried to keep my voice steady in spite of the tears which now pricked my eyes and began again. “76, 74, 68, 62, 54.”

The room was silent for a moment after I finished reading. I chanced a glance up at Mr. Hartwell, who was leaning against his desk, one foot crossed in front of the other. “The first set of grades you read were your quiz and test grades from last semester,” he informed me. “The second set of grades you read were your quiz and test grades so far from this semester. Do you notice a difference?”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled. I wanted to slam the gradebook shut and throw it across the room; anything to keep those numbers from glaring at me.

He was quiet again. I was beginning to hate the silence. Finally, he began, “I used to be so proud of you, d’you know that?”

It was a slap in the face. I’d been prepared for some kind of tongue-lashing or at least a show of concern, but not this. I couldn’t answer, just looked painfully up at him.

He nodded. “I was. Top of the class. A few mistakes due to rushing and overconfidence, but you knew the subject and you were excited by it. But right now, I’m embarrassed to have you in my classroom. Do you know why?”

I shook my head at the floor, even though I knew perfectly well.

“Because you’re not trying anymore. You’re letting your mind go to waste and disrespecting yourself, your teachers, and this school. You think you can slip under the radar, but you can’t. Homework not turned in, rude silence and a shrug when I ask you a question in class. Pathetic work on your tests and quizzes when I know for a fact you have the potential to get every question correct. Afternoons and free periods spent with your new friends—yes, I have noticed,” he added as I flinched, “instead of at the library where you belong. I’m very disappointed in you, Maggie.”

As it had since childhood and always will, the last statement hit me harder than anything else could have. This man I respected, whose class I loved, whose opinion I valued, was disappointed in me? The tears came fast as the reality of my behavior over the past several weeks finally came crashing down. The skipped classes, the sneaking around, the dishonesty. I knew in my heart this ridiculous farce was over. I couldn’t lie anymore, couldn’t smile innocently and feed my teachers stories. “Please, Mr. Hartwell,” I choked out. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. I know, you’re right, I know, I didn’t mean it, I really didn’t mean it, I really didn’t!” I buried my face in my hands as I sobbed; the shame made it unbearable to look at him as I blurted out a stream of pleas and apologies. “I’ll do better, I swear, I’ll get my grades up, and I’ll study really hard, just, please, please please…” I couldn’t make myself finish: Please just don’t be disappointed in me. Anything but that.

I felt Mr. Hartwell sit down at the desk in front of me and his steady hand grasped my forearm. “You can fix this, Maggie, I know you can. You’re more than capable of turning the situation around. It’s not the end of the world.” He pulled my hand away from my face, but I kept my eyes squeezed shut as I cried.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice firm and even.

I blinked up at him through a haze of tears. He kept his hand on my arm, and the pressure calmed me enough to listen. “You can fix this, Maggie,” he repeated. “But you need to reconsider how you’re living your life. Your well-being and education must be your first priority, and the kids you’re spending time with now aren’t doing you any favors. Do you agree?”

“I do, sir,” I confessed simply. “I know.”

“Then I think it’s time for Maggie to come back, don’t you?”

I held back the tears that threatened to come again as my face broke into a watery smile. “Yes, sir.”

He surveyed me for a moment, then nodded and murmured, “All right.” He stood up and moved to the front of the room. He pulled the straight-backed chair out from behind his desk and into a more open space. He sat smartly down on it and beckoned me over.

My face paled as I realized what he intended. “Please, sir,” I moaned, clutching my desk for dear life. My sweaty palms weren’t helping much with this.

“No, Maggie,” he replied firmly, shaking his head. “You’re going to turn the situation around, but I’m going to get you started. Come here.”

I slowly got up from the desk and made my way to his side. He took my arm and pulled me across his lap until my feet were completely off the floor. After flipping up my navy skirt, he rested a hand on my panty-clad bottom.

“You will make your education your first priority,” Mr. Hartwell stated, and landed a hearty smack on my backside. I gasped in pain.

“You will end your relationship with your current group of friends and seek out healthier acquaintances,” he continued, steadily hitting each cheek.

“Yes sir,” I grimaced, shifting uncomfortably.

“You will respect your teachers, your fellow students, this school, and yourself by fully committing yourself to your schoolwork.”He upped the ante a bit, speeding up the smacks and adding more force behind each one.

“Owww, yessir!” I yelped, desperately trying to wriggle away from his paddle-like hand. It was no longer only slightly uncomfortable but downright painful.

He continued raining down the spanks for several minutes, lecturing intermittently, until finally stopping. Before I had a chance to even move, though, I suddenly felt a different implement on my bottom. He raised it up and I heard it whip through the air before meeting my rear with a sharp thwack. I jumped and new tears pricked my eyes as the stinging ruler came down again and again. This time he refrained from lecturing; this was meant to drive the point home. By the time he finished I was wilted on his lap, sobbing and gasping for air.

Mr. Hartwell pulled me upright and I kneeled in his lap, careful to keep my bottom from touching anything. I threw my arms around his neck and sobbed into the collar of his shirt as he wrapped his own around my shaking frame, providing me with steady comfort. As I finally began to calm down, he pulled me away from him and brushed my hair from my sweaty and tear-stained face.

“That part of your life is over now,” he told me quietly, wiping away the fresh tears with his thumb. “You’re done with it. You’re done with those people and that way of life. You’ve been punished and forgiven; it’s in the past and we’ll never speak of it again. It’s time for you to come back.”

I paused at the door, sniffling shakily and struggling to put on a public face before I left the classroom. I turned back to my teacher.

“I’m gonna make you proud of me again, Mr. Hartwell.”

He seemed taken aback for a moment, then smiled, his expression warm. “Yes you are, Maggie,” he replied confidently, as if there was no question about it. And for me, there wasn’t.

Lost and Insecure, You Found Me

2010-01-07T02:45:00.003-05:00

I was in a bad place in the late winter of seventh grade at a prestigious private school. Family issues caused my foundation to be ripped out from under me, and I didn’t know where to turn. I began hanging out with a pretty bad crowd, with whom I skipped class on multiple occasions to slip down to the pizza and sandwich shop down the street. This often required climbing out windows, sneaking across low roofs, and using dumpsters and cars to jump down to the ground.

At the same time, I began a relationship with a guy several years older than myself who took advantage of me in more ways than one. He was much bigger and much stronger than myself and he was able to get his hands in places he should never have and at one point held me against a wall and ‘kissed’ me until I couldn’t breathe and almost passed out.

I found the book Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov stashed away in a far corner of the basement library. I proceeded to positively devour it and learned to use my charms to get whatever I wanted. I used my perceived innocence to my advantage, sweet-talking teachers into giving passes on schoolwork and distracting them while my friends stole test answers.

One person saw through my act: my Latin teacher. I was never able to fool that man. I went through sixth grade and the start of seventh with flawless work. Latin intrigued me and I was good at it. But as the months went by, he watched my homework go undone and graded failing tests. I remember cringing as he would walk around the room as we took a test and stop at my desk. Disappointment radiated off him as he stood there, looking at my pathetic paper. Finally, right around spring break, he held me back after class and told me he needed to talk to me. He said that he knew I had the potential and capacity to be the best student in the class, but my behavior was disgusting. He told me that he had once been so proud to have me as his student, but now he was embarrassed to even grade one of my papers. He informed me, thoroughly, of his disappointment in me.

I’d never dealt with anyone quite like him. Teachers had reprimanded me before, and I’d dismissed them without a thought. They’d seen my falling grades and had kindly tried to help the best way they could, sweetly offering after school assistance. But my Latin teacher combined tremendous caring with the authority I couldn’t help but respond to. He spoke to me as if I were his daughter, with words and warnings akin to those I had read in my recently discovered spanking stories. Maybe he had sensed the sub in me and realized that this was the only way I’d react properly. Maybe he had no idea and that was just his way of dealing with problems: swift and strict. Either way, it worked. I broke down and sobbed, apologizing, begging him to give me another chance, promising that I would make him proud of me again. Never in my life had I had this kind of reaction, not even to my parents when I was in trouble.

I left the classroom a changed girl. I ended my friendship with the bad crowd and started spending more time with the sweet, nerdy kids, the kind that have since always been the sort of people I love to hang out with. I broke up with the abusive boyfriend, a move which prompted a string of hateful and disgusting emails from different addresses which continue to this day (I think we can all agree the guy’s unstable). I spent hours in the library studying for my tests and asked for extra credit work. On the day of the next test in Latin, he hesitated at my desk, skimmed the answers, and lightly squeezed my shoulder before moving on.

When he returned the test next class, up at the top with red pen he had written, “100%--A+. Good girl.” To this day, that phrase brings me back to that time and I can’t help but smile a little. I wasn’t a bad girl anymore. I was a good girl. I was a good girl for him, but most of all I was a good girl for me. I went to a bad place which could have led to serious trouble, and he brought me back. I doubt he remembers me now—I was only one of thousands of students he had throughout his career—but I will always remember him. All it took was his compassion and authority united to create a man I could submit to for my own betterment.

If anyone ever asks—this is why I embrace my submission. Yes, it’s a part of me, but there are bad parts of me to that I should never encourage. But my submission has saved me and made me better. Critics can scoff all they want, but I have no doubt that I could have been expelled or even arrested for some of the things I pulled, and my submission brought me back to the light.

I’m now a little older and a little wiser. I’ve learned to see what consequences my actions have on others, and fix them accordingly. I am much more than my submission, but I will never forget what it did for me—and what my dear Latin teacher did for me. Thank you, sir. You’re the reason I’m working towards my teaching degree today, and I will never let myself forget it.

Finish This Fantasy V

2010-01-05T01:55:00.005-05:00

One of my very favorite bloggers, Hermione, posted another one of her Finish This Fantasy topics, and I finally get to be a part of one! Woohoo!! =D Bolded is what was provided, and the rest was my ending. I tried to make it short and sweet. Thanks a million, Hermione!

We're on vacation, walking back from the beach, a little sweaty from the sun, a little sticky from the salt water. We notice a patch of soft grass beyond a sand dune off the path. Slyly, we glance at each other, then, at the same time, we pull off our swimsuits. Then I bite my lip, holding back a smile, as you settle yourself in the warm grass and beckon me down to you. I obediently drop to my knees and lean over your natural form, giving you a soft kiss on the lips before continuing down the ridge of your chin and to your neck. I taste the salt on your body, feel the heat of the sun. My hair brushes against your shoulder and you sweep it up and gather it in your fist, bringing my head up for a rougher kiss. A slight downward pressure from your hand tells me plainly what you want. I travel south and work you with my tongue, reveling in your quiet noises of pleasure. You stop me after a couple minutes, and I suppress a laugh at the self-control it’s obviously taking you. I look expectantly for further instruction, to see what my next move is, but you take over. Sitting up, you take my arm and gently guide me over your lap. Your legs are almost feverishly hot from both the sun exposure and the bloodrush. You rest a hand on my bottom and trace the tan lines. The first smack is, as always, a shock. You continue at a rhythmic pace, making sure to catch below the tan lines where I know they’ll show even with my swimsuit back on. I bury my face into the fresh-smelling grass in anticipatory embarrassment, instead trying to focus on the cadence of the smacks and the scent of the earth. When you finally let up, I jump from your lap and practically attack you. Our sweaty, salty bodies combine in a pounding, breathless frenzy until we reach earth-shattering simultaneous climaxes. We collapse on our backs and lean against each other on the flattened grass, watching the deep red sky darken until the moths fly low over the ground. Sensing it’s time to leave, we pull our swimsuits back on and slip back out from behind the sand dune. We’re on vacation, walking back from bliss, a little sweaty from exertion, extraordinarily happy to be together.

Apple, Tree

2010-01-02T23:56:00.006-05:00

“You are the child of God’s holy gift of life. You come from me. But you are not me. Your soul and body are your own, and yours to do with as you wish.” –Burt Holloway, Secretary

I’m sure like me, many of you watched the film Secretary with excitement and interest. Spankos have both praised the movie for bringing BDSM to the forefront of media and criticized it for making the protagonists tortured souls instead of regular people in a healthy relationship. Personally, I was willing to overlook that issue (annoying as it was) in favor of everything else the movie offers, including the above quote from Lee’s father.

I was born into a relatively large family which was and always has been full of love and support. My parents are truly decent people who raised their children to prefer others before themselves and treat people with utmost respect and love even if they make choices you would not make yourself. They have always, always supported us in whatever we chose to do with our lives, no matter how silly or unattainable our dreams may have seemed.

In talking with my mother, I’m quite certain that not only do my parents not practice any form of d/s, but they don’t see it as a healthy thing to do in a relationship. My mother once asked Gabe during one of The Talks parents like to have with their teenagers, “You’re not into… ropes and things, right?” with the definite air of “THIS IS NOT OKAY.” Little did she know that it was her daughter she had to worry about! I don’t believe she meant it in an intolerant way—I just think she is of the widely-felt opinion that any form of BDSM is dangerous and both emotionally and physically harmful to those involved. Hopefully as each generation becomes bolder and more willing to experience new ways of doing things, this line of thought will change.

While my parents aren’t spankos or anything of the sort, my siblings and I might not be as different as we think. Though Gabe isn’t inherently into it, he has no problem whatsoever in indulging his future wife should she have the kink, and is also not averse to using it to spice things up in the bedroom. While I have no idea about my other brother, I’m almost certain my elder sister and I share a similar love of spanking and submission. I haven’t directly brought up the subject, but knowing her and from what I can infer from some of her comments, I’m not the only daughter into TTWD.

It’ll be interesting to see how my own children end up. As far as I’m concerned, as long as it truly makes them feel happy and fulfilled and it doesn’t cause any mental or lasting physical damage, they have my support in whatever they choose to do in the bedroom. I’m with Burt Holloway on this one.

Carefully Submissive, Deliriously Happy

2009-12-31T01:07:00.005-05:00

Originally, my previous post was going to be a two-parter: the first about the benefits of submission, the second about the difficulties which arise from submission. I could write a novel on the problems I’ve faced and the times I’ve suffered due to my instinctual penchant for submission. Though it’s an important topic for discussion, the last thing I want to make you do is read a whiny posting about all my instances of submission gone bad. Thankfully, you’ve been saved by my wonderful commenters, who in my last post articulated the problems of submission much more eloquently than I could ever hope to do.

Sfp commented, “My submissive side kept me in a marriage that made me very unhappy for a very long time. As a people-pleaser—I was never going to let everyone down by failing in that area.” She went on to note, “Like any trait that any of us have—it is a double edge—there are positive and negative aspects.”

Meow agreed with sfp’s sentiment, adding, “Being submissive can lead to being too passive sometimes. I tend to be very passive, but now I recognize the difference inside when someone exploits that passivity.”

I'm sure many of us have been similarly bitten by our own submission, and I invite anyone who wishes to do so to share their experiences and/or what they learned from them. As I mentioned before, it's an important topic which I'd prefer not to hog.

Now that you’ve been saved from what would have most assuredly been a long-winded post about myself, I’d like to honor the name of this blog, if you’ll allow. When I started it, I promised myself that it would not turn into a journal filled with depressed ramblings of “Everybody else is getting spanked, but I’m not. Hrmph!” Because really, nobody wants to deal with that. I named the blog “Feels Like Happy” as a kind of reminder. With this in mind:

“Be deliriously happy, or at least leave yourself open to be.” –William Parrish, Meet Joe Black

Happiness is being loved for who you are, including all the quirks and baggage that come along with you.

Happiness is trusting someone enough to allow yourself to be vulnerable, and

Happiness is being trusted enough that your partner feels safe enough to be vulnerable with you.

Happiness is being able to share the deepest, most intimate part of yourself with another and receive love and acceptance in place of rejection.

Happiness is being able to turn to a community of like-minded people in times of loneliness.

Happiness is being able to have frank, open discussions with such a community, without fear of dismissal or ridicule.

Happiness is knowing that one way or another, you’re not alone.

This world we have, this thing we do: it feels like happy to me.

Submission: It Comes In Handy

2009-12-29T01:45:00.004-05:00

I think we’re all very well aware of the benefits of a D/s relationship, whatever form you may have, wish to have, or have seen others have. Speaking as a submissive, there is a special sense of fulfillment we feel when we are able to give in to that part of ourselves in a relationship.

I was reading some other blogs today and something occurred to me. At present, I don’t have a partner with whom I can fully flex my submission—yet without meaning to that part of me suddenly pops up in the strangest of places.

The dental hygienist is poking at my sensitive gums with her sharp pokey-stick of doom; I befriend the pain and give into it instead of resisting. My doctor tells me to relax before I receive a vaccination; I instantly become calm and feel my muscles loosen up. My professor warns us to be well-prepared for the upcoming exam; I have the overwhelming need to make him proud of his student and therefore study extra-hard. Thinking about it, none of this is a conscious decision. It’s as if my brain kicks the submissive part into gear when it knows it’ll help. Interestingly, it doesn’t work if submitting would be harmful.

I don’t know what the case would be if I weren’t submissive. I doubt I’d be able to relax at the doctor’s or dentist’s, and I may not feel as strong a need to make my professor proud of me. Realizing all this just reinforces how innate submission can be, and I find that fact amazing. This is us; this is who we are. How lucky are we to have found and embraced such a special part of ourselves, and be able to benefit from all the wonderful things that come from it?

With all this in mind, I pose a question to my miniscule but much-appreciated and much-loved readership: have you found submission (if you practice it) to be a benefit to you in your daily lives outside of your relationships?

BJ Hunnicutt Was Right

2009-12-26T02:15:00.005-05:00

Growing up, my parents praised me frequently for my patience. An otherwise painfully stubborn and spoiled kid (I was the fourth and last child), patience was my one redeeming quality which kept my parents from killing me at several points in time, bless them. God forbid you ask me to eat my green beans, but I could stand quietly with my mother in line at the bank for hours. An angel didn’t touch me and grant me the gift of serenity through monotony—I was just able to amuse myself. You try being bored at the post office while you make up names and backstories for every person in line, including how they’d react if something suddenly happened, like a T-Rex suddenly burst into the building or somesuch.

Ten years later and I’m sitting in the front row of my Philosophy lecture, eyes bright and for all the world looking like a young lady who finds ontology the single most intriguing topic in the world. When the professor’s eyes sweep over me as he speaks, I scribble down something kind of akin to what he’s saying. As he drones on, I write in tiny letters, “Professor McNamara—Belt” before quickly scratching it out and glancing furtively around. Since the first years of high school, I’d used my ability to amuse myself when bored to create what I call “The Implement Game” (Hey, my creativity doesn’t extend to names, shush). Sort of a human “What Implement Are You?” quiz. People I do this for include professors, doctors, car mechanics, guy across from me in the waiting room, etc. Whoever’s around and looks generally authoritative while I try desperately not to disintegrate from boredom. All I do is decide what implement most fits the person’s look and personality. My British linguistics professor will probably prefer the cane, while my West Virginia-bred chiropractor might wield a leather strap pretty effectively. Then I try to figure out their styles: would they prefer me to count? Do cornertime before or after? Are they a lecture-while-they-spank kind of disciplinarian or would they prefer to do that beforehand?

Sometimes I worry that connecting these poor innocent people to spanking might cause problems later. Am I going to suddenly become attracted to all these people because of this image of them I’ve created in my head? So far nothing’s happened—on the contrary, I’ve made it through many a three-hour night class by letting the spanko part of my imagination out to stretch its legs every so often. It actually oddly makes me more apt to work harder in class and deal with strangers more politely, thinking that they might belong to this secret world too. Even so, what’s that M*A*S*H quote? “A lack of occupation with sex leads to a preoccupation with sex” or at least something close to that. Guess it goes for spanking too!

Growing up... Spanko

2009-12-24T01:07:00.003-05:00

Among the comments and emails I received in response to my first blog posting (how COOL is that, by the way?! I got responses! Yay!), I received several mentions of how young I was when I first started visiting spanking websites. Though entirely reasonable points (which were made especially by mothers), I admit I was momentarily surprised. I’d never really thought that hard about the fact that I was incredibly young to be visiting all those places, even though looking back, it’s obviously true. What has to be understood is that for the longest time, spanking just wasn’t sexual to me. Forgive me for writing a novel, but I wanted to shed a little light on the situation.

As a child of the Information Age, I was raised on the World Wide Web. Three of the five other people in my immediate family have careers in the IT industry, and as a result I had an early introduction to the Internet. I belong to the small but ever-growing population of spankos who were lucky enough to have access to the strong community we are all familiar with—not after years of worry and coming to grips with ourselves, but during this period of learning. I was barely twelve years old when I first entered that special word into the Yahoo! search engine: spanking.

My reaction then must have been akin to those boys of a similar age who first discover Internet porn: This is too good to be true! People write stories about spanking? People LIKE spanking? Huh? SamPast was my introduction. Her website featured non-sex stories of child spankings, and with large-print, colorful Comic Sans text, I felt for the first time like there was a world out there for someone like me. At that age, spanking was anything but a sexual topic for me. I drew comfort in the relationships featured in her stories, the love and caring and attention. After long days and rough experiences at school, there was nothing better than curling up at night and reading one or two of her stories before bedtime.

Two years later, I found Tasha’s stories. I became familiar with the idea that there was indeed a sexual element to spanking, although it didn’t quite click in my mind yet. Through her stories, I learned about submission and what I thought of as the more hardcore side to my simple love of a warmed bottom. I was extremely intrigued and excited to explore this new part of the world. Still, though, it frightened me a little. Where were my footie pajamas and loving father figure? It was Pablo and Mija’s stories that blended things to the point that it all made sense, including both Domestic Discipline accounts and schoolgirl spanking stories.

Over the next few years, time, research, and experience were instrumental to my understanding of what I liked. Is spanking arousing for me now? Oh, hell yes! =) But more than anything else, it’s a comfort thing. It’s a lifestyle thing. My favorite fantasy is the young girl who messed up and had to be corrected by her father with a ton of love and hugs afterwards. Simple, sweet. Would this have been the case if I encountered the spanking world in my 20s? I don’t believe so. As it stands now, I think the bound-and-gagged part of Maggie is a smaller part of the whole than the in-fuzzy-pajamas-over-his-knee Maggie. Had I found it when I was older, I’m positive I’d be writing with a collar around my neck right now, or at the very least wishing for one.

Am I condoning minors looking through adult sites? Oh good Lord, no. I’m just saying that if it had to happen, it couldn’t have worked out any better way. Best case scenario, other youth won’t follow in my footsteps. But if they do, I hope they find the community I did: the one filled with intelligent, well-spoken, kind individuals who just happen to share a love of spanking.

Outie or Innie?

2009-12-22T11:26:00.004-05:00

The levels of ‘out’ness within the spanking community varies almost as much as the spankos themselves. Some people have no problem with the world knowing their tendencies, some people can barely share it with their significant others, and others have reached their own happy medium.

I’ve known I was into spanking since I was about three years old. Cartoons and books with any form of spanking were instantly exciting, and I remember that once I could, I would secretly read or watch those parts over and over. But that’s just it: secretly. Even as a youngster with absolutely no experience with spanking, some part of me warned against sharing it with people, even my parents or best friend. For thirteen years, I kept a secret which nobody ever found out about.

Three people on this earth know about my love of spanking: my older brother, first boyfriend, and the rebound guy after my three-year relationship with my boyfriend ended.

My brother Gabe is my best friend. Although we fought like cats and dogs during our childhoods, tough times in the family during our teenage years caused something to finally click. He is my protector, my shoulder to cry on, my goofy, ridiculous, closest friend and confidant. I trust him more than anyone else in the world, and I could never thank him enough for being everything a big brother should be.

During a heart-to-heart late one night, we told each other our deepest, darkest secrets. He told me his, which I had actually suspected for years but we had never talked about before this. I told him mine, and was apparently successful in my hiding for all those years: he was stunned. Instead of being disgusted and thinking I was a mental patient, though, he started laughing and exclaimed, “That’s awesome! That’s like… a cool secret!” Having somebody who accepted and supported this intrinsic part of me lifted a giant weight off my chest. Though we don’t talk about it a lot (well, really, do you want to have lots of discussions about your sexual preferences with YOUR brother?), every so often he’ll ask a question or mention something about the lifestyle, just to understand me a bit better.

I’ll go into more detail another time about the boyfriend and rebound guy: there’re good lessons involved. To make a long story short, outing yourself can be a wonderful thing, especially since for many of us, it is so core to what makes us who we are that it seems dishonest to not mention it. But before you say anything, you must, must, MUST make sure you trust that person. Make sure you trust them with your life, because it could very well be ruined should the wrong person know. But if trust exists? What on earth is stopping you?! Go for it!

Obligatory Awkward Introductory Post

2009-12-22T01:09:00.003-05:00

In a monologue by Kate Winslet’s character Iris in the 2006 romantic comedy “The Holiday” she lamented, “We are the cursed of the loved ones. We are the unloved ones, the walking wounded.” At which point you can find me, sprawled out on the couch with a half-eaten bag of Milanos, grumbling, “We are the unspanked ones, the walking unwounded” while glaring at the TV and chomping into the sweet chocolatey biscuity goodness, mourning my unmarked bottom (although it WAS in danger of growing larger. I mean, that’s a lot of Milanos).

Most folks in the spanko community would look at my eighteen years of age and my longing for a good spanking and laugh their heads off. And rightly so; how many stories have we heard of spankos taking decades, lifetimes to find the perfect partner? It’s hard enough trying to find the elusive One without having to bring up the fact that, “Oh, honey? Um… I’d quite like it if you slapped me around / let me beat you up a bit. No, it’s nothing weird, honest! …honey?” Let’s face it: spankos have got it rough, and not just in the good way.

Considering what I’ve read as I lurked around the spanko blogosphere, I definitely had one thing easy: I HAD the spanko blogosphere. From ages twelve to seventeen, I snuck through a world which I legally wasn’t allowed in but relished all the same. I sunk into Tasha and Sampast’s stories, played in Pablo and Mija’s treehouse, and found a safe haven in Bonnie’s warm, educational blog. I promised myself that come age eighteen, I would be brave enough to de-lurk and carve out my own little niche in the web. I had dreams of posting stories, thoughts, findings, and commenting and talking with bloggers whom I’ve admired for so long. And then I started college and thoughts of starting a new project went out the window. Until now, oh blessed Christmas vacation.

My name is Maggie Ramsay. I’m in my first year of college in New England, I live at home with my adoring (but clueless as to my spanko tendencies) family and menagerie. Who knows how well this whole blogging thing will actually work out in practice? For now, I’m happy—and I’m so very, very proud to finally be a real part of the spanking community with all you fine people. Thanks for being there. Thanks for existing and proving that I wasn’t alone in my love of a warmed bottom. My love and best wishes to all of you during this season of cheer, joy, and winter spankings =)