Jump to content

sillygirl

Members
  • Content Count

    42
  • Joined

  • Last visited

  • Days Won

    1

sillygirl last won the day on September 16 2017

sillygirl had the most liked content!

Community Reputation

85 Excellent

About sillygirl

  • Rank
    Member
  • Birthday 04/21/1982

Profile Information

  • Age
    37
  • Location
    Salt Lake City, Utah
  • Gender
    Female
  • Experience
    Novice
  • Role
    Spankee

Recent Profile Visitors

2496 profile views
  1. I read the entire post. You need a spanking.😉 I think it’s interesting you attack shame and then invoke it. Shame is what kept me from realising my spanking needs for many, many years. Now, I have pretty well got the best of shame. It’s true that cloaking spanking in the realm of sexuality made it easier for me to accept it. But not all fetishes come from rape culture—including rape fantasies. And, in fact, I do not class my spanking interests as a fetish at all, since for me it is not sexual. Nor was I spanked as a child— though my interest certainly started that young. No. There does seem to be some interesting points you are trying to make, though. DD is a fantasy for me, but probably that IS related to childhood, particularly to the distant and disorganized attachments I had to my primary caregivers. In that way, maybe I seek spanking as a way to express love and safety. But ultimately, I believe this all comes down to brain chemistry. If spanking or receiving a spanking causes oxytocin release, you’re a spanko.
  2. Yes! I particularly remember reading sections of books over and over again if a character was spanked.
  3. No. Not at all. I’m quarantined WITH my ER, @ViewFromTheTop , and I’m super stressed to boot, so there’s been some spanking up in this house. Today, she insisted on an over the couch session I’ve had coming. Trying to wheedle out of it did nothing for me, because she has all the time in the world right now. I’ve never been spanked like this before! Not super excited that our Bampaddle arrived before Amazon stopped shipping non-essentials. Bam indeed! I’ll be sore for awhile. And probably real sweet and obliging.
  4. I laughed so much! Thanks for sharing. I told my wife/Er about this and she scowled and said “No way. Your bottom is supposed to get hurt, not my hand!” She rarely gives more than a few hand swats before switching to an implement. I would NEVER get away with jeans.
  5. I have PTSD. I am a Spankee and could easily be triggered during a spanking. So far that has never happened. I agree that consent is key here. But also, communication is critical. Many people in spanking relationships do away with safe words (consensual non-consent) for discipline spankings, but because of my PTSD, that could never work for me. My wife—whom I completely trust!—and I have a safe word to use in case of trauma flashbacks or any triggers. I know I can at any time withdraw consent. That knowledge has managed to help me keep the triggers contained. Good luck!
  6. Homophobic and disrespectful comments need to be reported. It is NOT okay that this happened to you. Unfortunately, I have had some very chauvinistic, sexist, and disrespectful comments made to me in chat as well. I guess we all chat at our own risk. But, I, for one, have enjoyed your comments and hope you will not let hateful posters keep you from posting your questions and insight.
  7. I think this is simply beautiful. Thanks for sharing!
  8. My wife once asked me if she needs to spank me until I cry. I think it would take a lot more than pain to make me cry during a spanking. I don’t get spanked because I’m a ”naughty girl” (although plenty of you who know me know that I can be bratty enough in playful situations). I don’t need a spanking because I’m carrying around hefty guilt or bad behavior. In fact, I’m exceptionally ”well-behaved” (if that’s even a thing), hard-working, and independent. I need to be spanked BECAUSE I’m so freakishly good and smart and controlling. I get spanked because I sometimes need to relinquish control—voluntarily giving it up to someone I trust and admire. I think if my wife got me into tears, it would be because I desperately needed her to take control for a little while. I might cry as I relinquish the control, but not because I’m being spanked.
  9. My wife sent me this: 🖐🙇‍♀️🍑 as a warning. Text seems to work well for us, too. But I think it’s getting myself into the mind space that’s hard for me. Just plain admitting to myself that I need a spanking is hard. Because I don’t want to!
  10. 👇🏼 👆🏼 Mind-reading expectations ARE ridiculous. I have not been trying to get her to do this through some sort of telepathic osmosis. I’ve been trying to get myself to not need it. That’s a very different—albeit still bratty—situation. Which she took care of tonight with a big-@$$ paddle.
  11. Right? Brats be bratty. I was a good girl, though, and told her the truth. She’s the real deal—no judgement from my honey.
  12. Thank you so much for these words! My wife loves me so much, and she would of course never judge me for needing a hug or a kiss. Real talk: this is my issue—judging myself for my needs. Thank you for helping me see truth.
  13. How do you feel about asking for a spanking? I’m an adult who has needs, and I have a loving spouse who is willing to help fulfill my needs. But asking for this is so hard for me! I’m not expecting my honey to read my mind; I’m very opposed to that ridiculous expectation. But I am a spankee, while my love is not necessarily a spanker. I feel a little... dirty... asking for something like this. But I spent the past few days (or longer—whatever!) trying to convince myself this is not a need, only to come back to the reality that—for me—this is a need. She even asked me if I needed a spanking and I said no. Except now I’m thinking I DO need one. So... what does my community think about asking for it? Is it girl-power at its greatest, or simply trying to top from the bottom? I’m very confused.
  14. “Hey!” Leah’s head popped up at the sternness of the call. With her thumb carefully pausing the Stories stream on her phone, she looked up into the eyes of the man across the room. He stood in the corridor to the kitchen, gaze fixed on her, and one brow slightly raised. An uneasy sensation started in Leah’s navel—a fluttering of discomfort and concern for his displeasure. “Did you hear me?” Felix asked, and this time his tone was not so sharp, although the sternness was still there; his eyes blazed with it. “Er… No. I’m sorry, babe. What did you say?” His eyes widened slightly—a sure sign of his displeasure—and he answered quietly, “I need help in the kitchen.” “Oh!” Leah breathed. “I’ll be right there.” Desperate to deflate the tension in the room, Leah looked away from him, back at her paused Stories. She swiped past someone annoying, but could not concentrate on the next image and its accompanying information. Felix was still standing across the room. She peeked up at him, and found him watching her with no alteration of expression. “I’ll be right there,” she insisted, hoping to shoo him away and give herself a moment to gather her composure and finish her reading. She again broke eye-contact. “Yeah?” he asked, and his tone absolutely chilled the room. “I think you and I have different opinions on the length of time suggested by the term ‘right there’.” She kept her eyes on her phone, but she was no longer reading the words on the screen, or seeing the images as she scrolled past them. “That’s real nice, Felix,” she shot back. “Like I’m an idiot who doesn’t know what I’m talking about?” Silence answered her, and she cut her eyes across the room at him. He had pursed his lips slightly. When she met his gaze, he replied softly, “Put your phone away and come spend some time with me.” She scoffed, although she obediently tossed her phone onto the couch seat beside her. “Spend time with you? What, peeling potatoes? Please, if you will, think back to what I said when I walked in tonight. Do you remember me saying, ‘Let’s order in?’ That’s because I did not want to make dinner, Felix! I was—I am tired, and I want to relax.” He did not rise to her bait. In a much less-expected turn, he calmed, he softened. His danger increased as his tone quieted further. “I can see that you need to relax. I can see what level of tension you are carrying.” Abruptly, Leah realized where this conversation was heading. As Felix calmed, she saw what he implied with his apparent understanding of her need to relax her tensions. She bounced to her feet, trying to bandage the corpse of her plans for the evening. “No, I’m fine,” she answered, desperate to cling to a tone of disinterest and ignorance. “I shouldn't have I snapped. I really am happy to help. What do you need me to do?” And although she spoke of her willingness to assist him, she did not move nearer the kitchen, as that would place her in his power. He shook his head slightly—so slightly. Felix knew she had seen it flare up between them: her need and his intentions. “Come here,” he ordered her in a tone that was still as soft as a blade cutting silk. “No.” Leah could feel herself scrambling, could hear it in her tone. “I’m not asking for a spanking, Felix. I’m not bratting. I’m fine.” He nodded, as if accepting her words, but then he repeated himself. “Come here.” She shook her head in refusal. She could stall him. She thought she could stall him. Probably. He crooked a finger at her, and said gently, “Right now.” Gently like rain weathering a boulder. She felt the flutters in her belly again—the first sign of his dominion that she had ignored a few minutes earlier. The dominion she had given him. That was the part the rankled most. She could refuse him—absolutely—because she had given him the right to discipline her. And she was a grown-ass woman, goddammit! But she had given it to him, like a gift wrapped up and presented with pride. If she snatched it back now, she would have to live with herself and the knowledge that she was a coward and a liar. And the knowledge that he knew she was a coward and a liar. She could not let him have that. Leah took a step, after which the others seemed marginally easier. When she stood in front of him, he crooked that eyebrow at her again. “Bastard,” she murmured. She was certain he heard the insult, but he was good at not letting her defiance challenge his authority. He placed a hand on her shoulder and directed her to turn around. With a frustrated sigh, she allowed him to turn her. Another sigh got her over the back of the love-seat, on her tiptoes, pin-striped bottom elevated for his ease. “I’d like to clarify some things,” he said once she was positioned in front of him. She groaned, but more from mortification than frustration. He was unstoppable, however. A swat across her bottom made that clear if his unchanging tone did not. “When I told you last week that I felt like your phone was interfering with our quality time together, this situation was exactly what I was referencing.” She tried to clench back the words, but they sprang out of her mouth. “I had no idea you were clairvoyant.” A ringing smack answered her—silenced her—and he continued as if she had not spoken. “I told you that you were sometimes withdrawn and distant from me.” He swatted harder, but Leah clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of so much as a grunt. “I told you that when you get on your phone, you tend to ignore me, miss out on our conversation, or distance yourself from me. I also told you that when you do that, it makes me feel unimportant.” A harder swat caught her by surprise, but she still refused to make a sound. “It makes me feel rejected.” Leah sighed. “I know.” He gave her a gentle pat on the backside and answered her, “I know you know. Up.” She wasn’t fooled. This was not over. She pushed herself backward, so her feet were firmly on the ground, but before she had fully straightened up, Felix’s arms slid around her from behind and unclasped her pants. She squeezed her eyes shut as the pin-striped work pants were jerked down below her knees. His firm hand on her back directed her over the seat once more. “Felix,” she started, hoping to bargain her way out. His hand across her right buttock made her jump. Her trousers had been much more protection than she had realized. Or else he was being mean. “I was tired tonight. I was tired and not engaging, I know that.” The left cheek got a taste of his firm treatment. “But this is not my phone’s fault.” “You’re right. This is your fault. Did you think I did not understand that?” He peppered his query with several more swats, until she was wincing and jerking away from him. He paused for a moment, as if to allow her a chance to answer his question. She didn’t, because bastards did not deserve answers to stupid questions. “Yeah,” he replied to her silence. “That’s what I thought.” His hand returned, and brought with it a storm of smacks across all the unexpected regions of her backside. She could no longer restrain her voice: squeaking and uttering startled exclamations with every hard swat. Her hands spasmed on the cushion beneath her face, aching to reach back and stop the onslaught. She clenched them on the cushion and concentrated on not giving in. “When I asked you to come help me in the kitchen, I should have been clearer that I did not need your help with the process of making dinner. I should have been clearer that what I really wanted was your company. I’m strange that way, lover: I have this need to spend time with you and talk and laugh and stuff.” The sarcasm was infuriating. “It’s not my fault you were not clear about your needs!” His hand smacked deliberately across the top of her thighs—to flesh less-accustomed to harsh treatment. “Of course it’s not your fault,” he answered in the same soft, infuriating tone. “I did not say that it was.” She tried to back up, to regain her footing both physically and morally, but his hand pushed her back down with no trouble. And his other hand smacked again at her thighs. “I am acknowledging that I was not clear about my needs. I am clear, however, about your needs, lover.” A volley of swats alternating between pantied cheeks left Leah without power to answer back. And tears stung at her eyes. Not because of the pain; physical pain could usually always be compartmentalized. Emotional pain was not so easy for her to box away. She hated that he was getting to her. She hated that she had hurt his feelings. “Up,” he commanded, and placed a hand on her shoulder to help her regain her feet. She waited this time, knowing before his hands slid to her hips what was coming next. He caught the elastic band of her panties with his thumbs and slowly peeled them down her body. Bared now, with pink bottom on display, she went back over the couch. “I have to hand it to you, Leah: you never do things by halves.” She let out a sigh, then tensed as she felt his hand slide across the already stinging surface of her backside. “As soon as you realized you had crossed the line with me tonight, you just—” His hand ricocheted off her bottom with a loud crack, and Leah gasped in shock. “—committed to the naughtiness with a level of dedication that cannot be over-estimated.” Another sharp slap rang into the room, along with a squeal from Leah’s clenched mouth. “I am not a brat!” she insisted in the slight respite he offered her. He responded with his hand only, pain only, reverberating slaps only. She had learned long ago that Felix did not argue—not when he was spanking, and rarely at any other time. He believed in fair fighting, but Leah usually bratted herself out of that privilege the instant she felt tension in the house. He was willing to listen, to explain, as long as she was also listening and explaining. He had no patience for her tendency to shrink into sarcasm and insults. Well, not no patience: he just did not stand still and let it happen. Because they both knew the adage she clung to as her only moral tenet: Respect is my religion. And it was. Respect was what she believed, what she practiced, what she expected from others and demanded of herself. Respect was her love-language and gospel. His hand stopped, and she let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding. Blood pumped in her ears, but besides that there were no other sounds. She looked over her shoulder, but Felix was walking away. Confused for a moment, she wondered if he had told her to stand. Had he told her this was over? She hoped, but she knew that was not how he operated. If he had been finished, he would have helped her right herself. He would have embraced her. He would have teased her to call him another profane name. When she saw him return, it was with a drying rag in hand, vigorously drying a wooden spoon he must have retrieved from the kitchen. Leah groaned and pushed her face into the cushion of the love seat. Felix traced the wooden spoon over her bottom, making the tender skin jump slightly. “I’d like to hear from you now, lover,” he told her gently as the spoon continued its soft torture across her bottom. “I’d like to hear anything you need to say.” She trembled, begging herself to apologize, to tell him how thoroughly she understood his frustrations with her phone-use. She wanted to say that she knew “be right there” was a way to push him away. She wanted to give in now and admit that she had part in their row and that she loved him and respected him. She wanted to say something, but her jaw tightened, and her teeth clenched, and her pride would not give way. “Okay,” he responded into the silence. And the wooden spoon lifted away from her bottom briefly before it cracked back with a sharp noise and a rising blaze of pain. It ripped a cry from her throat. Then came again. And again. Tears spilled onto the cushion below her face, and cries wrenched from her throat with every true hit from the damp wooden spoon. Her hands spasmed uncontrollably on the cushion, clenching and releasing with every strike. Leah’s cries became breathless whines and then sobs. And the only thing left in the world was pain, and tears, and blood pumping in her ears. Sound returned last. The first sensation was a slight abatement of pain. Then the sense of gentle touch—stroking on her back. Sight came blinking in next, watery vision of the cushion beneath her hands. Then the gentle caress of his tone, “I need to hear from you now, Leah.” Leah drew a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry,” she told him. She knew he had no expectation of apology. That was no part of his spanking routine. He had often said he knew she was sorry when she went under his ministrations, and that if she was not sorry, the sorry state of her battered bottom was enough for him. He never expected nor needed an apology, and Leah certainly never gave them willingly. She had a history sprinkled with others' useless apologies--empty attempts at remorse that had rarely made a dent in their behaviors. Unlike others with her affinity for being spanked, Leah did not plead out with empty apologies in an attempt to curb her lover’s firm punishments. “I’m sorry, Felix,” she murmured again, in tear-choked desperation. Because she was sorry for ignoring his request for her attention. She was sorry that last week’s conversation about how her phone-time affected him had not made her change her behavior. She was sorry that she had hurt him. She was sorry she had caused him to feel rejected. His loving face came into view, leaning over the couch to look her in the eyes. There was fear in his gaze as he searched her face for something—traces of brokenness, maybe. And he asked in a tortured-quiet voice, “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Yes!” she exclaimed. And the relief in his eyes made her smile at him. “I thought that was the point, Mr. Spanky Man!” He smirked at her and pulled away. Grasping her arm, he pulled her upward, back onto her feet. He caught her chin in a finger, to direct her gaze to his. And he said, “Pain is not the point, lover.” He gestured between them. “This is the point.” She raised her brows at him, letting her expression demand a better explanation. He leaned in and pressed her lips with a kiss. “The point is, I get what I need: quality time.” She rolled her eyes again and jerked away from him. But he caught her chin before she escaped. “And you get what you need.” She snorted, “A restraining order?” “A reminder that I love you.” Her shoulders relaxed at that. She stared deeply into his eyes. He wrapped his arms around her, enfolding her completely, and she relaxed against him, letting him hold her. Letting him absorb the pain and the disharmony. Letting him share the rare moment of her gentleness. Into the stillness, he whispered a taunt, “Come help the bastard make dinner now.”
  15. Part two! Part two! Part two!!!
×
×
  • Create New...