Name That "Toy"

Miracle of miracles, our digital camera decided to start working again, for reasons I cannot discern. So I finally got a chance to take a few pictures, among them some of the so-called “loopy toy.”
Here is the item in question:



I made this because I was reading a description of something similar for sale, and said to myself, “I can make this with under $2 worth of supplies, in under half an hour.” And so I did, although it was closer to 45 minutes if you include the time it took me to go to the 99¢ store.

When I remember to buy duct tape, I’ll post illustrated instructions on how to make it, but basically, you make loops of cord (such as is used to connect speakers to a stereo) and secure them with layers of duct tape. If you’re feeling all creative, you can pad the handle created by the duct tape with some cotton fabric.

W. has dubbed it “the loopy toy.” But calling this a toy is, to me, a misnomer (a word which here means “utterly misleading name for something that makes my butt HURT!!”). It is possible, marginally, to use this in a way that doesn’t create instant, stinging, uncomfortable pain; it’s even possible to give fairly hard strokes that don’t leave welts that sting for several days afterward. But mostly, when used with any force, I feel it for days.

My challenge, should you choose to accept it: come up with another name for this. You can, if you like, make one yourself and experiment with it. I just want to call it something other than “loopy toy,” a name that makes me think of pool noodles and Saturday morning cartoons and friendly, fuzzy things. Which this is not.

Story: Caught

It's dreary and raining, like it's been all week. I'm going to console myself by posting the very first Janey and Michelle story I wrote. I particularly like the deus ex machina whereby they found out about each others' kink.

Caught
=========================

"Michelle, I have a confession to make." I looked up from the book I was reading. Janey looked... different. Not really nervous. But not like herself. Then she added, "Or, perhaps, you have a confession to make."

I raised my eyebrows in a question. She didn't add anything. "I don't know what you mean," I said, puzzled.

"I was using your computer while you were at class, to type up that grant proposal," she said. My heart paused for a second, but then I thought, 'no, she wouldn't look through my private documents....'

Then she continued. "I had saved the document to your hard drive, just using my name, because I didn't have a disk with me. But when I came back from lunch, I couldn't remember which folder I put it into, so I just did a search for files titled with my name, so I wouldn't have to dig through your private stuff." I started to blush uncomfortably. "Imagine my surprise," she said, "When I discovered that there are about a dozen files under my name. And I only saved one."

She hadn't! She couldn't! I looked at her face. She had....

"You didn't...?" My voice caught.

"Oh, I read them. The first one was a bit of a mistake. I thought it was the letter, so I opened it. But then, um, the story caught my attention." My mouth was dry. I just stared at her. She added, somewhat wryly, "I think we need to talk." I continued to stare.

"Well, are you going to tell me about the stories?"

"Ummm...." My mouth was still very dry. I swallowed. "I just wrote them, you know, to see if I could."

She raised an eyebrow. "They were very specific. And quite graphic. Try again."

I stalled. "What did you think about them?"

"We'll talk about that later. Tell me why you wrote them." Her voice was firm. I hadn't heard her like this before. Although I was desperately embarrassed, I was also getting a little bit turned on. Even if this was going to be the end of our relationship, there was a kind of a thrill in getting caught.

"Well, um, I kind of have these fantasies," I said, and paused.

"Yes, you clearly do," was all she offered.

"And, well, I just wanted to, um, imagine what it would be like, if you..."

"If I?"

"If you and I did those kinds of things together." I licked my bottom lip nervously. Now she'd say I was weird and perverted, and that would be the end.

But she folded her arms across her chest, and frowned at me. Not in a distant way. "Don't you think you should get my permission before writing things like that about me? Or perhaps you thought I'd never find out."

"Well, I didn't think you'd ever find them," I admitted.

"But now I have." The look she gave me left me half-turned on, and half-terrified. Maybe she had fantasies like this. Maybe she'd act them out with me. Oh, shit.

"So, what did you think?" My voice cracked a little, but there, I'd asked the question.

She smiled at me. Relief flooded through me. I like our relationship, and I'd rather not lose it. "I liked them. A lot. I think we should talk."

"About what?" I asked innocently.

"About doing something to make it more than a fantasy," she said calmly. I swallowed. "You've never done this except for fooling around at parties, have you?" I shook my head no. "Neither have I. I guess we're all talk and no action. But if the stories you wrote really reflect what you like, I think we’ll do just fine together."

"So you'd spank me?" I asked, nervously. There. I'd said it.

"Oh, yes. I think I'd like that. And I'd do the other things, too." I blanched. Some of those fantasies were a little more heavy than I really thought I could handle.

"There's no one in the house right now," she said, calmly. "Perhaps I should give you a little taste of what we're talking about. Besides, I'm a little ticked off that you'd write stories like that about me, and keep them on your hard drive, where anyone could find them." My heart began to thump. She sat down on the ottoman, and patted her thighs. "Come here."

I got up from the armchair and took the three steps to the ottoman. I stood in front of her. "Well?" she asked, and patted her thighs again.

I awkwardly knelt on the floor beside her, and then she helped me to position myself across her lap. I could hardly believe this was happening. She rubbed my butt gently for several seconds. Then, I felt one of her hands leave, and she brought it down--neither hard nor soft--on my bottom. I let out a little squeak of surprise.

She paused. "Is this okay? Just say stop, and it's over."

I blushed even more furiously. "No, it's fine. I like it. I was just a little surprised, that's all." My reward was a sharp crack on the bottom. And then another, followed by several seconds of hard smacks. She stopped, and rubbed my bottom a bit.

"Maybe we should pull down your pants," she suggested. "I don't want my hand to get sore too soon."

I stood up and turned to face her. I couldn't believe I was about to pull down my pants for a spanking. I hadn't done that since I was a kid, and I certainly hadn't enjoyed it then! But this was different. She wasn't doing this because she was angry, even if she had given the excuse of the stories. All of a sudden, I remembered that it wasn't the spankings I hadn't liked when I was a kid. It was the lack of power. But I didn't feel powerless now.

I slowly unbuckled my belt, and then unbuttoned my pants. I pulled them down, just about to my knees. "That's enough," she said. "Get back over my lap for your punishment." The care in her eyes was enough to remind me that we were both adults, and that this wasn't really a punishment. I lay back down over her lap, and she began to smack my bottom, hard. I had forgotten what it was like to actually get a spanking. I began to wiggle my butt a little bit, writhing to get away from her hand. She stopped.

"It's okay," I panted. "I like it."

She didn't say anything, but then I felt her fingers slide under the waistband of my panties. I wasn't sure what to think. I mean, sure she'd seen me naked before. We were lovers. But to get a bare-bottomed spanking from my lover... was I ready for this? But I didn't tell her to stop, and my panties joined my pants, at my knees.

SMACK! Her hand cracked down hard, several times. My bottom began to burn. It was really starting to hurt. "I think just a couple more," she said, breathing hard. The spanks covered my bottom and thighs.

"Your butt's nice and pink," she said, happily. Then I felt fingers between my thighs. "Oh, my. And you're very wet."

I sat up, wincing slightly at the touch of the rough fabric on my tender bottom. I slid my fingers under her skirt. "You're pretty steamy yourself," I commented. We smiled at each other.

Story: Road Trip

I've decided the blog is getting way too serious, so I thought I'd dust off a couple of my less serious stories and post them for your enjoyment.

I posted this story to the SSS short story contest in 2001. It was inspired by a road trip in horrid traffic, but the events are otherwise completely made up.


Road Trip
======


Hot. Sticky. LOWS in the 90s. Janey called. “Let’s get out of town. I’ll finish work at noon tomorrow. How about you?”

“I should be done with this paper tomorrow morning.”

“Good. I want to get into the ocean.”

Janey made reservations for a camp site. She has a friend working at a state park, so we managed to get one.


When Janey came by early Friday afternoon, I was in the living room, eating a popsicle and watching television. She knew from my guilty start that the paper wasn’t done. She turned off the television. I finished my popsicle quickly.

“How much more?”

I bit my lip. “I’ll work quickly.”

“I’ll put together a bag for you.” Janey went upstairs. I typed. Janey went to the store to get road food. I continued typing. By three-thirty, I finished, and we drove away.

Of course we ran into traffic.

“Why can’t all these people go somewhere else? Why can’t they drive faster? Why do they have to tailgate?”

Janey made soothing comments. She even let me choose all the CDs we played. It wasn’t enough. “I HATE traffic. Why couldn’t we go earlier this week?”

No response.

“When are we going to GET there?!”

Janey half-smiled, half-snapped, “You won’t like what happens if I pull this car over, Missy.”

And then it started to pour. “This is stupid. I hate rain.” Janey glanced at me, and kept driving. “These people don’t like to be outside in the rain. They can go home. I HATE traffic.”

“Michelle, enough. Take a nap, or talk to me. Stop whining.”

I glared out the window. How can she be so calm?

We needed to change lanes. No one would let us in. “Why can’t these idiots learn to DRIVE?” I flipped off a particularly offensive motorist. Janey put her signal on again, and pulled off at the next exit.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m pulling over.” She pulled to the shoulder in a small wood. She unbuckled both our seatbelts, and got out. Tropical air rushed into the car. Janey walked around, opened my door, and then the back door of the car. She pulled out the hairbrush.

“I’m sorry. I’ll stop whining, Janey.” Even that was a whine.

“Get in here. NOW.” Reluctantly, I climbed across her lap. My bottom was immediately on fire. The brush seemed to stick to my sweaty skin. She paddled my thighs until I was nervous about whether I’d be able to sit at all.

Hairbrush smacks and drumming rain filled the car. I finally stopped wiggling and kicking, and lay across her lap.

“Janey, I’m sorry, I won’t whine anymore. I promise.”

“Good,” she said, finally. “Now get back in your seat, and think about what I’m going to do when I get you to the camp site.”

Punished... and disciplined

Yeah, so the reason I was feeling so very cranky last Friday is this: I really didn’t work well last week. I procrastinated more thoroughly than I’ve procrastinated in a long while.

Appearances on this blog to the contrary, academic writing is pure torture for me. Last week on Monday, I spent seven hours actually working, and got, I think, one paragraph finished. It was miserable, frustrating, and very discouraging.

Tuesday came, and I couldn’t seem to force myself to get started, because it just meant more of the same misery. And so it went. I managed to work at least a little each day, but it wasn’t good work. And a lot of my so-called “work time” was actually spent playing solitaire.

W. says that guilt is counterproductive. She’s right, but I can sure manage to produce a whole lot of it. And when I add guilt to other anxiety and stress and frustration… well, to say that I’m not pleasant to be around is something of an understatement. So that’s where I was on Friday.

Friday evening, I finally admitted to W. that my vagueness about how my work had been going was due to my failure to do any work. I might not be a good liar, but I think both of us were willing to let things slide, because neither of us really wanted to go through with a punishment spanking.

We made a plan for Saturday. We’d do our usual morning stuff, go to yard sales with a friend, and then I would come home and work for three hours. This was W.’s diabolical method of getting me to do the work I was supposed to do, and not be able to weasel out of it by taking a punishment spanking. She said I would also get a punishment spanking, and it was my choice whether it would be before or after I did my work. I waffled, since part of me wanted to put it off for as long as possible, but the other part of me knew that I wouldn’t be able to work well with the spanking hanging over my head. I finally said I thought I should have it before, and W. agreed that it was the best plan.

Saturday came, and I was nervous. I wasn’t looking forward to the punishment, and I wanted it to be over. We went through the morning and early afternoon, but then W. realized that she’d invited the friend over for the evening as well.

Ack! This meant that I had to face three more hours of work before my spanking. I was anxious, and this only made me crankier. I managed to force myself through the work as W. and her friend played with the Nok Hockey set W. got at one of the yard sales. Finally, I was done, and finally, the friend went home.

I might not have been looking forward to the spanking, but heaven knows I wanted to get it over with. Also, in my highly trusting way, I needed her to prove once again that I could rely on her, and that she would follow through with what she had said she was going to do.

But W. didn’t mention the spanking, and so I sulked.

I already described the half-punishment spanking I got for that. Afterwards, I managed to get myself to talk. I said that I really needed her to follow through with the punishments, and that I was feeling really guilty about not getting work done, and that I needed the external structure to make it possible. We processed, like good lesbians.

W. said she needed something to make it easier for her to hold me accountable, and suggested a more detailed log of what I had done with my day. In addition to the number of hours, we agreed that I would make a note not only of what I had done, but also of how well I had used the time. W. suggested checking in about my work each day, but I wanted to spare her the stress of having to worry about it every single day, so I convinced her that once a week would be often enough.

This seemed handy, W. joked, because we had made a bet the summer before last, for which the forfeit was her giving me a (fun) spanking every week for a year. For a variety of reasons, that hadn’t actually happened, so she was looking forward to paying off her debts. (I admit, it was a total sucker bet, and I knew what the outcome would be. But she insisted I was wrong, and I took her up on it.) Anyhow, we decided that I would get either a reward or a punishment spanking each Sunday night, depending on how my work had gone the previous week.

I also asked her specifically to hold me to the part of my work schedule/rules that benefits her the most: that I have to be done with at least the minimum amount of work by four o’clock. This doesn’t say I can’t work after that, but it means that any work after that is extra. Otherwise, I have a tendency to procrastinate all morning, and I end up not getting any work done for the day.

So my diabolical wife came up with yet another evil plan. In addition to my punishment (to be delivered at some point on Sunday), I now have to get up when she gets up in the morning. This means getting up at SIX AM!! Ugh. And for this week, anyways, I have to start work by nine.

This helps me by giving me plenty of time for breakfast and reading the paper before I get started with work. But it also helps her, because she is decidedly not a morning person, and if I’m sleeping, she doesn’t turn on the light or the radio. So me getting up means that she has an easier time getting up. I don’t enjoy it, but I do like giving her that support.

The unfortunate part is that I also have to go to bed early. I’ve never liked having a bedtime, and W. has been reminding me every night that I have to come in to bed. And I have no doubt that she would enforce it if I didn’t.

So all of that is the discipline part.

On Sunday, W. came in at 9:15 to let me know that I had fifteen minutes before I needed to come to bed. This was the first night of our deal, and I admit I was rather surprised that she was following through so strictly. I came in and got into bed, and W. finished with her own preparations for bed. She hadn’t mentioned the punishment, and I was feeling just a bit cranky (‘cause I never do seem to expect her to really follow through).

She decided that I had earned both the punishment spanking we had discussed, and a reward spanking for getting my work done well on Saturday (and because I had managed to work all of the hours I was supposed to). She gave me the reward spanking first, and it was a good warm-up. While she was spanking me, she talked about how nice it would be to only give me reward spankings, and how much fun they would be.

Then she put down the various toys she had been using, and picked up the “loopy toy.” It was time for the punishment. She noted that she had spent half an hour on the reward, and was going to spend five minutes on the punishment. If I did good work all week, she pointed out, I would get at least thirty-five minutes of reward every week. The punishment spanking was hard, but she paused between the strokes, so I didn’t get too many of them.

Afterwards, she checked in about how I was feeling. I couldn’t really explain everything that was going through my head. On the one hand, I hoped that the increased structure was going to help me to work. On the other hand, the spanking hadn’t hurt, and I was concerned that it wouldn’t be effective. And it was incredibly strange to have the physical arousal from a play spanking combined with the decidedly non-aroused mental state induced by a punishment spanking.

Perhaps the jumble in my head explains why I didn’t sleep well, because I kept waking up all night. And perhaps this explains why Monday was such a wash in terms of getting work done.

To my credit, it was also just a frustrating point in the writing process. But even though I kept at it for the requisite number of hours, I didn’t work very hard.

Tuesday was pretty much the same story. Deep down, I knew I needed a “real” punishment spanking, just to clear the slate. But, oh, how I wanted to avoid it.

W. had checked in about how my day had gone before she got home. I mentioned my frustration with the work, and admitted that I hadn’t gotten much done. But then I went back to reading my email (this is after working to one level or another for six hours, and I knew I wasn’t going to get anything worthwhile done that day anyhow).

Then my study door opened, and my wife said, rather grimly, “Get in here so I can give you your spanking.”

!!!!!!!

I slowly walked into the bedroom. She asked about my day, I repeated what I had said. She asked to see my work log. When she saw that I had worked 6 hours, I could tell she wanted to back down. But then she asked me about the grade I had given myself (C = moderate focus, many breaks).

She asked what I meant by “breaks.”

I hemmed and hawed.

She specified: did I take a walk? did I read a book? did I have a snack? Or did I play solitaire.

I admitted that it was solitaire. She sighed, and told me I had to go remove solitaire from my computer. I complied, because I knew I wasn’t going to be able to avoid playing solitaire. And then I went back to the bedroom.

The loopy toy was out. I didn’t let myself beg or whine, because I know it’s just as hard for her as it is for me. And, honestly, much as I wanted to weasel my way out of it, I had more than earned the punishment I was about to get.

This time, she hit me like she meant it. Two days later, my bottom is still sore. When I twisted away from her, she paused long enough to hold me in position, and started again. She stopped at one point, because she realized that she had broken the skin. She made it clear that she didn’t like the necessity, but she was going to continue with the spanking anyways She spanked me with her hand for a while, and then went back to the loopy toy.

Afterwards, W. explained that she really does not like giving me punishment spankings, but for as long as they work, she is going to do it.

And then she said she didn’t think a weekly check-in was going to work. We have to check in every single night about what I’ve done, and if I’ve earned a punishment spanking, I’ll get it right then.

I’m very grateful to W. for taking up this disciplinary role, for a lot of reasons.

I know it doesn’t come naturally for her, and I know that both of us still struggle with the external meanings of what it is that we’re doing.

Somehow, having structure imposed externally, even if I pretty much created that structure myself, makes me feel safe, and makes it easier for me to hold myself to a schedule.

And spankings work much better for me as a consequence than being booted out of grad school. Because being booted out of grad school is such a big thing, and such a distant, abstract thing, that I can’t quite make myself cope with the possibility. So it just hangs there every day that I’m unable to work. And it’s such an all-or-nothing problem that either I feel like I can keep slacking off with no consequences, or else I feel so overwhelmed by the consequences that I can’t manage to work.

So here I am, both punished and disciplined. Hopefully, the two will combine to help me get through the writing-induced panic, and the procrastination-induced wastes of time. And who knows, maybe with the threat of a spanking hanging over me, I’ll actually step away from the computer and go for a walk when I need a break, and end up being in decent physical shape into the bargain.

Reality

By the time last Friday rolled around, I was in a supremely cranky mood (more on that in a different post). In the interest of being slightly more pleasant to be around, I made my usual mistake of substituting brattiness for cheerfulness.

Friday

My official excuse for crankiness, I suppose, was the fact that one of my friends needed to drop by to pick something up from me, and she was incredibly late. I had opted to hold dinner until she had been here and gone, so that W. and I could have Shabbos* dinner uninterrupted. My friend took far longer than she had expected to get here, and dinner was getting progressively overcooked. I finally gave up and served dinner, and just as we were about to light the candles… yup, my friend made it here. I went to let her in, and she needed to come into the apartment for something or other, and told us to just start dinner. So we lit the candles and said the blessings and started eating, even though that seemed rather rude (we had invited her to share dinner with us, but she said she had to leave and couldn’t stop for dinner). While my friend was here, I found I couldn’t help teasing W. in front of her, because W. blushes so very nicely. My friend finally left right around when W. and I finished eating. This was just as well, because in my dedicated procrastination (and, ahem, my dedication to my wife’s needs, of course), I had looked up the Torah portion for the week. We read this, and I was getting silly and snarky. Wen teased me for being a brat.

But then, just as soon as we were finished with dinner, she stood up suddenly and said, “Get into the bedroom.”

I was a little mystified, and asked why.

“You’re being a brat. Get into the bedroom now!”

So, of course, I followed her into the bedroom. I stood near the door as she rummaged through our toy cupboard, and under the immense pile of laundry by the side of the bed. Finally, I asked, “What are you looking for?”

“I can’t find the loopy toy,” she said irritably. “Go get the bath brush.” She had picked the two implements that are most likely to make me submit in a matter of seconds. I went and got the bath brush. She ordered me to pull down my pants and lay across the bed, and I complied.

She settled herself on the bed, and then informed me that I was getting the spanking for being irreverent about the Torah. And for being a brat in general. This was a useful indicator to me that the spanking was mostly in play.

She delivered firm smacks with the bath brush, with pauses in between while she lectured me on irreverence. Then she shifted to talking about me being a brat. The smacks came even harder. She paused in the spanking, and mused, “When I’m waiting for my students to do something, I start counting. And if they don’t get it, I keep… on… counting!” She emphasized each word with the hardest smacks yet.

I was torn between my desire to be good and submissive and do what she wanted, and my desire for more spanking. Also, I couldn’t quite figure out what she wanted me to do. (I hope she gives her students more guidance than she was giving me!)

Then she mentioned teasing her at dinner, and I got it. After about half a dozen more smacks, I apologized for teasing her to make her blush. The spanking stopped, and I was forgiven. At least for the time being.

Saturday

I was still a little cranky on Saturday, pretty much for the same reasons as on Friday. We spent the morning having brunch with one of our friends, and then spent the afternoon going to yard sales, where we made many decidedly non-kinky purchases. I worked on my dissertation for three hours in the evening, and then I went to spend a little bit of time with W. But, as I said, I was incredibly cranky, and not feeling up to talking about it.

I realized pretty quickly that I was not fit for human company, so I went into my study, so I wouldn’t be inflicting myself on W. Now, I know this is not a great way to deal with anything that’s bothering me. I just stew, and she feels shut out. But it’s a very difficult habit for me to get out of, and when I’m in a bad mood, I probably don’t put nearly enough effort into breaking the habit.

So there I was in my study, putzing around on my computer, feeling irritable. The door burst open, and W. said, “Get in here!”

“What?!” I asked. This is not her usual method of coaxing me to talk about my worries.

“You heard me. Get in here!”

I slowly followed her into the bedroom, and saw that she had found the dreaded loopy toy.

For the second evening in a row, I was ordered to pull down my pants and lay down across the bed. She brought that evil “toy” down across my bottom with moderate force. I can’t remember the specifics of her lecture, but she made very clear to me that sulking and shutting her out was not an option. She didn’t care whether I was angry or sad or whatever, but I don’t have the option of just blocking her out and ignoring her. It wasn’t precisely a punishment spanking, but she was doing a very good job of making her point clear.

She finished, and I was surprised at my ability to actually talk to her about what was bothering me. So I felt a bit less cranky, things were a little better between the two of us, and we managed to have a reasonably pleasant evening together.










*W. has been wanting to be somewhat more observant of her Jewish faith, and I’ve been trying to be as supportive as I can in this. Fortunately, W. is pretty reconstructionist in her Judaism (which means adapting it to her actual life and beliefs), so we mesh pretty well. Thus, backslid Southern Baptist and current pagan that I am, every Friday, I bake challah and make a special meal for Shabbos. Maybe 52 weeks of observing the Sabbath somehow makes up for the three weeks of having a Christmas tree.