THE THICKET

Since Deity will be back with you in just a day or two, this will be my last post. It has been a delight to make a contribution to this blog. I have gathered much inspiration from the pages here over time, and I have loved the opportunity to give something back.

He’s a special bloke, our Deity. When I wrote and told him how much I was enjoying writing the posts and that I found it liberating, he wrote back to say how pleased he was to hear it. He said that it had accomplished something that he had hoped when he first envisioned me writing for the blog. You see what I mean? Very special, indeed!

I’d like to leave you all with a memory. It was a very special day for me and I hold the memory dear. Now, it pleases me to share it with you...

One Saturday morning, quite early in the morning, my husband awoke me and asked if I had anything special to do that morning. Groggily, I told that I did not.

“Good. Then, have a quick shower, put on your blue skirt...that bohemian one...and the white crocheted top. No underwear. We are going to the Botanical Gardens for your punishment.”

“But, what about the children?”

“The children are old enough to be left on their own and you know it. Quickly now! No more delaying. Your punishment is well overdue.”

I prepared for our ‘outing’ with a sense of reluctance, together with a sense of heightened anticipation. I was quiet, contemplative and resigned to my fate.

There were few cars on the roads, but plenty of runners on the track that leads around the Gardens. I chose not to look into the faces of the running men. Could they know the reason the man accompanying me carried a thin piece of bamboo as one would a walking stick? In any case, I looked the other way to avoid the potential embarrassment.

As we made our way into the depths of the Gardens we travelled the paths that led past all varieties of plants, hand in hand. Neither of us spoke. When we reached ‘the thicket’, the vast planting of bamboo with an entrance that was denied to visitors (though not us), my husband searched the area for onlookers and on seeing none, beckoned me to follow him.

We passed the hundreds of bamboo plants, enough bamboo to make canes to last a lifetime, until we reached the secluded bench by the lake, deep in shade. It was a little area we had discovered and claimed our own. That is not to say that it was exclusively ours. Boys and girls from the local grammar school ventured here too, as disclosed by the cigarette packets they left behind. I reminded myself that no self-respecting teenager would venture to the Gardens this early in the morning.

“All right. I want you to tell me why you are about to be punished.”

“Because...because I didn’t fill up my car with petrol, and we ran out in the city last week.”

“Yes, that’s right. And, have you had many warnings about filling your car up well before it reaches empty on the gauge?”

“Yes. I have.”

“Yes, you certainly have. Perhaps once you’ve had a caning for it, you might decide it would be in your interest to attend to the matter earlier. All right. Now, I want you to bend over the back of the bench. Rest the palms of your hands on the seat, please.”

I did as I was asked.

He lifted the back of the light, cotton skirt over my back to reveal my bare bottom.

“There will be twelve strokes and extras if you come up. Remember, you need to be very, very quiet. Understand?”

I nodded.

He stood beside me and rested the cane across my bottom, tapping a little. Then, he lifted it up and brought it down on my bottom, hard.

“What do you say?”

“One, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

As each stroke created a new stripe on my bottom, I willed myself to be stoic, but the fifth stroke was searing and without a thought, I was up, and turned, with my arms around his neck and my head in his shoulder.

“Please, please no more. It really hurts. I will be good. I promise. I won’t ever do it again.”

“I’m sure you are sorry, sweetheart, but when I say there will be twelve strokes, I mean it. Now, you have been good up until now. Be a good...”

“Ohhh. There’s someone there. I can see someone with a backpack through the plants. He’s stopped. He’s listening.”

“Quiet now. Be very quiet, and he’ll go away.”

We waited, glued together, still as statues.

“Okay. He’s gone now. It’s safe. Back over the bench, little one. Be a good girl and after it is over, I will take you to breakfast.”

I let go of him, and returned to my whipping bench. I revealed my poor bottom to his cane. He proceeded on with the punishment and I willed myself to take the strokes silently. He had taken over the counting, softly declaring the number taken.

“Nine.”

“Nine!! That was number 10.”

“Oh, I see, you still have your wits about you. Yes, that was ten.”

If he was testing me to see if I would launch from the seat to hit him, he wasn’t going to win. I had come this far. I wasn’t rising without permission. My mind was settled on it.

Eleven was easy. Twelve, the final stroke, was hard. He had made a point to tell me that it would be memorable, and it was. The stroke landed on my thigh. The thick welt was immediate and I sucked in air and shook to contain the pain without sound.

He helped me to stand when I was ready and hugged me tight.

“Good girl. My good girl. I am proud of you. Come and sit with me so that I can comfort you.”

We cuddled and watched the ducks pass by in front of us for several minutes; he often caressing my thigh, as if to will the welt away.

“You must keep the car filled with petrol, now, darling, all right? It is dangerous to be so low all the time. Do you promise me you won’t do it again?”

“I promise.”

“All right, then. Let’s get some breakfast now.”

We left the thicket and made the way back along the paths to the cafe. Their seats are wooden and the sitting was anything but comfortable. But, I was happy, and proud of myself. I had never loved him more.

As this year comes to a close, we look ahead to a new year, full of the promise and hope that all beginnings bring. Our little community here knows the value of being true to ourselves, listening carefully to one another and looking out for one another. Each and every one of us, in our own way, can make a difference to the shape of this New Year around the world.

I wish you all a joyous and peaceful 2009.

sneaky little bugger

In the company of our home, i regularly tell my girl when it's time for her to go to bed, when she's done with her meal, and what she should wear. On a rare occasion, i'll vocalize similar things in front of others, but usually in tones low enough for just her to hear, and sometimes i'll even utilize facial signals where only she knows the message behind them. Being the little brat that she is, she'll recognize the social limitations of fully exhibiting our power exchange, and push those limits. When i've indicated that she's done with her french fries by subtly placing a hand on her wrist as it moves to her plate, she'll wait until i'm in the middle of an anecdote, occupied by my boisterous regalement, and slip one or two crispy culprits into her mouth. She always looks right at me as she does it, knowing full well i'm witnessing her commit this foul.

She'll later, under interrogation, say she was playing with me. And i do understand what she means. She enjoys the idea of the flow of our power somewhat inverted, where i, the one who is in command, has limits applied to me based on the social situation we happen to be in. It's also a way to flirt, grab my attention and speak to me in a silent dialogue only her and i are having. But, that doesn't absolve her of having transgressed a directive of mine. Correction does follow such behavior.

Recently, she and i attended the wedding of two very dear friends. The ceremony was in the evening, and prior to us walking the few short blocks from our hotel to the wedding's venue, i invited my girl to have a cocktail with me in the lounge just off the lobby. The bartender delivered us the overly rambunctious drink menu, and before even opening it, i said,"Two gin martinis, up, with olives." We enjoyed the moment of solitude. Her in her gown, me in my tuxedo, letting the stiff alcohol of the martinis wrap itself around our conversation, giving the precipice to the evening a distinct smoothness.

Once at the wedding, it became clear to me how stiff those drinks were. My girl is a charmer when sober, but she's an absolute heart sizzler when she's had a few. She seems to forget that others are around us, and her sensual arousal amplifies. She was pawing me, rubbing her hands up and down my chest as we stood amongst the chapel seats. She played little kisses along my jawline with her lips, working her way upto my ear. I loved it, but i also knew this was not the place for it. I pulled her arms-length away from me and looked in her eyes, giving her an expression that indicated 'perhaps not now'. What i saw in those brown bobbles was the earliest indication of a very pernicious bratty girl. To sway me, she wiggled back up against me, and lay her head on my chest.

"You smell soooo nice."

Throughout the ceremony, she held my hands in numerous combinations of one or the other or both at the same time. By the completion of the marital vows, i went to speak with my friends in the groom's party, thinking my girl would speak to the bridal counterparts. Not so. She'd wedged her way into linking with my arm, clinging to me as i talked "shop talk" with the boys. When we adjourned to the upstairs veranda for the cocktail hour, i suggested to her to take it slow, and just get some wine to sip. After all, it would be a shame not to enjoy (remember) the evening. At one point, we got separated, but from across the room, i occasionally looked over at her wherein she would smile and show me her glass still just half-full. By the time dinner was about to be served, we reconvened, and she proudly showed me her white wine glass as if to say "See? I'm still on my first glass." But, here's where the games began. She knew i wouldn't fall for it.

"Same glass? Why does this one not have the red scarlet imprint of your lips on the rim? Again, please take it slow."

We assumed our seats at our table, joining our eight other table-neighbors. When the waiters worked the room with wine bottles, my girl declined. Somewhere during the appetizer course, she noticed my bourbon was low and offered to get me a drink. I took her up on her offer, thanking her for it. By the time she'd returned, i'd somehow managed to gain the entire table's attention telling them a story about the groom and a creative use of bananas. She'd returned with a glass of amber whiskey, but also a cocktail of her own. I couldn't say anything in the midst of my stroll down memory lane - and she knew it.

For the rest of dinner, we engaged in a duel of sorts with me putting her contraband drink out of her reach, and her taking it back - again while i was consumed with a conversation so that i couldn't stop her. Eventually, i was able to pass it off to a waiter who was clearing dishes. Thankfully, the dance portion of the evening commenced, which served as a perfectly timed distraction. I adore dancing with my girl, she is adept at being led, which makes dancing a virtual heaven. We scooted around the floor for a few numbers, then i cut in between the groom and his new bride for a quick shimmy. Afterward, i couldn't immediately find my girl. When i did, she had a wrinkly, wry smile pulling at the side of her face.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing." She said this as she wrapped her arms around my neck and swayed her hips to the slow rhythms of the band's tune. But, i could smell exactly what she'd been upto. And she knew it. This only made her smile more. The next number, the band kicked the rhythm up, which meant much more coordination from those dancing. Within the first few bars of the song, i knew my girl wasn't up for it. She stumbled, she plodded and she most certainly didn't follow my lead.

"Okay. We're done."

"Why?"

I went and grabbed her jacket from the coat check, holding it up to help her put it on, then gave her my arm to escort her outside. We walked back to the hotel, with her leaning heavily into me. A few times, i had to catch her, as she nearly tripped to the sidewalk. By the time we reached our room, she was incapacitated. The removal of her gown and undergarments was left to me. In this state, i knew she would not be responsive to what needed to happen. Lucky for her. Her booty got a reprieve that evening, but, later, she would pay for it.

Framed

We've all heard "The Devil made me do it." So often, a discussion of the muse guiding the artist to their masterpiece serves as part of art history lore. I know i've wanted to use the Dark Lord as a scapegoat many a time, and i've certainly pined for the imposition of some angel as a catalyst to create.

The idea of compulsion, an automatic response from us that cannot be controlled is a very liberating notion. Accountability needn't fall upon us for we acted by someone else's prodding. Lately, i gave this some thought as i pondered my uncontrollable response to every female who unknowingly wandered underneath my gaze.

In the past, I've spoken in much flourishing detail here, here as well as here about my magnificent infatuation with the feminine creature. It comes as no surprise to me (and perhaps you, the reader) that i'm a gigantic fan. Further, i recognize i'm quite taken and affected by the characteristics and qualities that effluviates from the softer gender, and that my body has innate reactions to their perfumes, their voices, their silky skin, their curves. To be put bluntly, i become a hound. Removed are the gentlemanly mores of society i consistently uphold, they are replaced, almost transplanted, by a feral beast who lives by the guidance of his senses.

When it comes to my applications of sadistic potency, i do not see an immediate demilitarized zone between them and the effect a beautiful girl has on me. In fact, i wonder if part of my punitive focus on females stems from a desire to make the damn, incredibly gorgeous nymph pay for her dominance over me.

I couldn't help it. She made me do it. It was out of my hands.

Luckily, i've found a few willing martyrs to soothe these demons.