Fantastic Spanking

Spankings Solve Everything

2010-04-16T21:20:00.003-05:00

When you get to be my age, there is a problem to being handsome... all of your fellow male co-workers feel the need to come to you for advice with their intimate relationship problems.

Fortunately, with my looks, I don't often have that problem.

However, the other day I was having lunch with a younger former co-worker. He confided to me that he was afraid his wife might be think of asking for a divorce. When I asked why, he told me that his better half had become rather uninteresting in bed. I believe the phrase he used was "cold fish." He went on to say that he thought his spouse had lost interest in him and was thus not anxious to engage in sexual relations.

Since I really did not give the proverbial rat's ass about his marital problems or his sex life, I tried several different approaches to change the subject to one more insubstantial, but this gentleman seemed to think that I was a font of advice and was desirous of sharing it. So, after listening to him whine for several more minutes, I told him that perhaps their sex life had become rather boring.

"But we've had sex the same way for years and she always enjoyed it!" was his response.

"Did your wife's disinterest seem to happen suddenly or has her libido gradually waned?" I asked.

"Well ... I'm not sure...".

So not only was this person boring, but he was clueless. So I suggested the one thing that all Spankos offer to spice up lovemaking.

"Why don't you try spanking her," I said.

My lunch partner was aghast. "Won't that hurt her?" her asked.

"Probably," I responded, "but maybe she'll like it."

After a period of refreshing, if awkward, silence, during which he mulled over my advice, he hesitantly said that he might give spanking a try. Truthfully, I thought this guy was more likely to be spanked than to give a spanking, but I wanted to move the conversation past his problems, so I let it go. We finished our lunch and went our own ways.

Later that day, I related our conversation to Angela. "Good answer," was her response. I thought she was being sarcastic.

"No, seriously, Frank, that was a good answer. If this guy's wife is bored in bed, anything he does to take charge and change things up will probably turn her on."

A few days later, my friend called me to relate what had happened, even though I had forgotten about our earlier discussion and didn't really care anyway.

Apparently, when my he went home that night, he asked his wife to come to the bedroom where he wanted to talk to her. He nervously told her that she had been bad and he was going to spank her. He took hold of her arm and pulled her over his lap, then tentatively patted her bottom a couple of times. He then proceeded to confess that he was afraid that she wanted to leave him and that he'd do anything so that she'd remain his wife. This little whiny disclosure somewhat irritated his wife, who responded be telling him:

"Will you just stop your complaining and spank me already!!"

My friend reacted by whacking her butt, rather hard, several times. He said that he was shocked at his actions, and started to apologize when his wife said, "I dare you to try that again!" He took the dare.

To make a long story less long, they proceeded to engage in an exuberant, naked romp. Afterwards, he told her how much he admired his wife's red butt, and she admitted that she liked the warm feeling that remained on her cheeks. After some cuddling, they romped again. Now, he said, if either of them even hints at spanking, they both get so aroused that they practically run right to the bedroom.

I was going to tell him that it might be fun if they didn't bother with the bedroom, but I figured that I'd save that one for the next person who needed advice about their sex life.

How A Spanko Enjoys The Final Four

2010-04-06T20:26:00.001-05:00

I was sitting around early Saturday evening waiting for the Final Four of the college basketball tournament to begin when I heard my eldest daughter, Maribel, say those words to my other daughter, Colette, and her boyfriend, Luke, that always put a smile on a healthy spanko's face:

"Hey, guys, how about we go out and get some pizza and maybe see a movie? My treat!"

Translation: Mom and Dad need some time alone so that they can have some nice, noisy sex, so let's get out of their way for a few hours.

Maribel, who's twenty-four and is a spanko in her own right (although we don't talk about that), plays professional basketball in Europe. Her season is over, so she is back home. She usually is just as attached to the television during the NCAA tournament as I am. However, recently her interest has been more on the women's side of the game, and since the ladies were not in action Saturday, she was looking to spend the evening out. Colette had played a softball game earlier in the day (in the drizzle and mud, as per tradition at this time of year in this part of the country), and she didn't seem interested in sitting around the house, so she was more than happy to accompany her sister. Luke was content to go anywhere Colette went.

While Colette and Luke were getting ready, I approached Maribel and slipped her twenty bucks. "Please keep them busy," I told her, "and do NOT get home before eleven PM!" With a big grin, Maribel told me that she would be happy to stay out late, and would call me if by some chance they were going to be back early.

As we watched the three of them drive off (they were meeting Maribel's boyfriend at the pizza restaurant), Angela said to me, "I'll meet you back in the living room. I need to to grab a few things." By "things" I knew she meant "spanking implements."

"And make sure that your pants are off when I get back!" she called over her shoulder as she disappeared.

While Angela was making her preparations, I made us some Nilgiri tea. When she returned, she had removed her pants, and, in fact, had changed into a cute little t-shirt that loosely hung about half-way down her cute little tush. She was carrying a blanket and several paddles of varying sizes and weights. We snuggled down under the blanket on the sofa in front of the fireplace and sipped on our tea and watched a little more hoops. Then Angela slid over my lap and said, "I'm a little cold. Could you warm me up?"

I reached for a hairbrush paddle and gave Angela's bare bottom a series of slow, sharp whacks while we continued to enjoy the game. I gradually increased the intensity until her cheeks were a nice, pale shade of red. I set down the paddle and rubbed her rump, allowing my hands to share the warmth on her tush. I then took up the paddle again and added some warmth.

After a while, we switched positions and Angela used my warmed butt to warm her hands, that is after she properly warmed my butt. When her legs became tired because I was laying across them, I knelt, backwards, on the sofa and bent over the sofa back. I didn't like this because I could not see the game while I was being spanked. So I settled into a convenient position over an ottoman where I could see the television and Angela could comfortably whip my butt with a strap.

After both of us were well-warmed, we watched the dramatic conclusion of game one (gotta love those Bulldogs!), and then decided to get serious, spanking-wise. I laid Angela over the sofa and work her over with the strap, then piled the sofa cushions up underneath her so that I could lay into her with a leather paddle. I even pulled her cute little bottom-cheeks apart and used the hairbrush paddle to spank the tender flesh there. When I was finished, her rear end was a nice, uniform shade of deep crimson, top to bottom and side to side.

We switched positions, with me laying over the cushions and Angela wielding the weapons of mass-butt destruction (yes, that was a bad turn of phrase ... sue me). She used the leather paddle with vigor, then took up the strap to work on the more sensitive areas where the thighs meet the buttocks. Angela knows just where to strike to generate the most pain, which was intense and wonderful. Finally, she took the hairbrush paddle and had me stand up and bend over the cushions. She had me rise up on my toes to give her a more generous target, and then proceeded to pummel my poor fanny until her arm tired out. At spankings end, my backside was hot enough to barbecue hot dogs.

Angela set down the paddle and, while I was still over the cushions, continued to work on my butt, only this time instead of whacks and slaps it was with squeezes and rubs. Her hands proceeded to explore beyond my cheeks, then her tongue replaced her hands, then ... well, you get the picture.

Suddenly, Angela remarked, "Looks like the second game is starting."

"That's okay," I breathlessly replied.

"Don't you want to watch?"

"If I miss the first few minutes, I won't mind."

"Nonsense," replied Angela. She had me get up and she replaced the cushions to where they belonged. Then she sat me down in front of the TV.

"Can you see the screen?" she asked.

"Well... yeah," I answered, somewhat disgruntled.

"Good," said she. She then proceeded to kneel in front of me, gently part my legs with her hands, and resumed her "exploring." It quickly became difficult to pay attention to the basketball action, but I didn't mind. I was having some action of my own.

For this next part, you might want to send the children out of the room.

Angela rose up and climbed onto the sofa, straddling my hips. Slowly, she lowered herself onto me. As per what usually happens when she does this, my eyes rolled up into my head, my head lolled back, and the noises I began to make cannot be described and can only be imagined by someone who has been there. Eventually, I felt Angela's heart begin to beat faster, and she wrapped her arms tightly around me as she continued her ride to ecstasy. Her own breathing became faster and noisier, and her arms held me tighter. We climaxed together in a sweaty, noisy embrace.

We sat there just holding each other for several moments, catching our collective breath. When my eyes refocused, I glanced over and saw the dog, Flash, staring at the two of us like we were completely crazy.

Well, I suppose that, for at least a while, we were.

We disenganled, and Angela dismounted and sat next to me on the sofa. We cuddled for a bit, and then Angela turned to me, stretched, and said, "Shall I go and get the paddle?"

At this point, two things need clarification.

Point number one is that, in the Spanko vernacular, the phrase "the paddle" has only one meaning: The big, long, rather heavy wooden spanking paddle, in the fashion of a school or fraternity paddle.

Point number two is that I am a person who greatly adores a good, post-coital paddling. Feeling the clout of the sturdy wood against my already well-spanked derriere while I am relaxed and calm is, to me, a most pleasant sensation.

Angela scurried off and fetched the paddle. With her cute behind all nice and red, Angela looks simply adorable when she scurries and fetches. As she was returning, she tried to put on her "business" face. "You're really gonna get it now, mister!" she said. She tried to sound stern, but quickly dissolved into giggles. I stood up and moved behind the sofa, which sits in the middle of the room, piled up a couple of cushions so that I didn't have to stretch my hamstrings too much (it sucks getting old), and bent over, presenting a waiting bottom my darling wife.

"How would you like it, sir?" she sarcastically asked.

"How about medium rare," I responded.

"Sorry, sir, but we prepare everything here well done!" And with that, Angela proceeded to deliver twenty-five nice, hard swats to my butt. When she finished, I was wonderfully warm and sore. I knew that sitting would remind me of tonight's activities for several days.

"How was that, sir?" said my wife.

"That was very nice, thank-you."

"Well," Angela said, "I settle for nothing less than perfection, and your butt is not quite perfectly done yet!" So Angela laid on twenty-five more swats.

I do so appreciate being married to a spanking perfectionist.

When Angela finished paddling me, I thanked her by making ice cream sundaes for both of us, complete, naturally, with a cherry on the top. Then we settled down to watch the rest of the basketball game.

Just as the game was ending, Maribel called. "Are you guys finished, or should I take everyone out for ice cream?" she asked. I chuckled at my daughter's insolence. I told her that we had enjoyed peacefully watching the games, which was essentially true except that we did other things besides just watching. I also told her that, should they wish ice cream, that I had some genuine Saunders' fudge sauce that they could use for topping if they wanted to head back to the house. Colette simply loves Saunders' fudge sauce.

The offspring and their respective beaus arrived home in due course. Angela and I sincerely thanked Maribel for taking our other charges out for the evening. "No problem," responded Maribel. "Oh, and we're using in the guest house tonight." Apparently, Maribel and the boyfriend were planning on making some noise of their own.

I was more than happy to leave them to their young libidos. After all, since Angela and I had enjoyed a fantastic spanking, they deserved to enjoy some, too.

Be Warned

2010-03-21T20:58:00.003-05:00

This is one of my favorite times of the year. The NCAA college basketball tournament is underway. Thursday and Friday, I planted myself in front of my television at 11 am each day, and I did not get up until the all of the games of the day were over. With my main television, a smaller portable, a desktop PC, and a laptop, I could watch as many as four games at one time. It was bliss.

Unfortunately, Saturday did not begin quite so well. We had received one of those promotional giveaway boxes of Chocolate Cheerios in the mail the other day, so I opted for those as my morning repast. I figured that I like chocolate, and I like Cheerios, so Chocolate Cheerios should be pretty good, right?

Wrong.

The cereal tasted neither like chocolate nor like Cheerios. Furthermore, cereal is supposed to be crunchy. However, I had no sooner poured milk on said Chocolate Cheerios than they turned into a substance more similar dark brown mush. Rather than cereal, my breakfast more closely resembled really runny pudding. They were so bad that not even Flash, Luke's dalmatian puppy, wouldn't eat them, and Flash once ate a truck tire.

Thankfully, the day improved from that point forward. It progressed to basketball, then to spanking, then to a naked wife and more spanking, etc., etc.

But that, my friends, is a story for another day. One that I might even relate to you in the coming days.

In conclusion, if you are one who often goes for cold cereal for breakfast, I cannot recommend Chocolate Cheerios.

Unless you like runny chocolate pudding.

More Meme Of A Theme

2010-03-10T18:22:00.002-05:00

Today, I will address two of the last questions from the long spanking meme that I began sometime in the Clinton administration.

48. Would you rather be spanked exclusively on your bottom or other places could be interesting too?
Bottoms were made for spanking. They are the correct size, shape, and location. The human tush is also one of the major erogenous zones. So, for those of us where spanking is part of our sexuality, the multiple sensations to the gluteous maximus that come from a spanking is most welcome.

Angela and I almost exclusively restrict the locations on each other that we spank to the buttocks. If we are having a particularly intense spanking session, we might work our way down to the top of the thighs. If one is in a place where they are looking for a more vividly painful experience after one's bottom has been well punished, spanking the thighs can provide a quite exquisite sensation.

I have never tried being spanked on the hands, feet, nipples, genitals, or other spots that some might considered spankable, nor do I wish to.

49.Would you rather a spanking be a surprise or be something you have to look forward to?
For the most part, in a spanking relationship, I'm not sure that any spanking is truly a surprise. For the spankee, you know that you're going to be spanked eventually. You just may not know when. In my case, I look forward to all spankings, whether or not I know when I am going to get them. That being said, it is always pleasant when Angela expresses a desire to spank me, then sets the time for that spanking somewhere in the future. The anticipation is always delicious. Indeed, in the past, I may not have been in a spanking mood, but then Angela will mention that she'd like to redden my rump later that day. I always have to choice to turn down the spanking when the time comes. Usually, however, as I consider what is to occur and the pleasure that it usually brings, my mood changes and, by the time the appointed hour has arrived, my bottom is plenty ready for whatever she has planned.

In addition, jointly planning a spanking is also something that Angela and I enjoy doing. We have been known to sit down in the morning and discuss when the spankings will take place, what implements will be used, what positions will be employed, etc. We will frequently allow some part of the spanking to be decided by random choice. For example, we might choose four implements, then using a standard deck of cards, assign each implement to one suits in the deck. Then we will draw cards. We might also let the cards determine how many spankings someone will get, such as one must keep drawing and being spanked until they have drawn at least one card in each suit. We might also set up a scenario for spanking, and then use the results of the roleplaying to determine the type and severity of the spankings. In this fashion we have had times where we've maybe there were only one or two spankings given, and others where the spanking session lasted multiple hours or even days.

Finally, since we have had children for the past 24 years, it has not really been feasible for one of us to say to the other, "I'm going to spank you right now!" Instead we have needed to have some foresight as to an opportunity when would have some time to ourselves, perhaps when the children were at school, or had gone to play with friends. As I'm sure many of you will attest, this can be frustrating at times, but when opportunity is then found to engage in some spanking activity, the fun seems extra satisfying.

Therefore, indeed, I like spankings to be something that I can look forward to, and I look forward to all spankings.

The final question sums up ones approach to their whole spanking existance, and, as such, will require a post of its own for me to address.

Frank Muses About Sex

2010-03-02T16:51:00.002-05:00

Age has a funny way of messing with elapsed time. When you're a kid in school, those last two hours before the end of the day seem to take forever. When you start to work for a living, the time between now and Friday seems to go at a glacial pace. When Angela was pregnant, the last three months before our children were born felt more like three years.

When you get to be my age, the years whiz by like cars on the expressway.

Angela and I still have a happy, regular sex life. When we first met, we would rut like bunnies. At every opportunity, we would fool around with considerable gusto. If more than two days passed without us having intercourse, it felt like we hadn't touched each other in ages. I've always felt like that hasn't changed. I never was the kind of person who was satisfied with the obligatory once-a-week boink. Despite children, work, volunteering, sickness, and injury, we are never hesitant to get naked with each other and do so as often as possible.

So, the other day, whilst laying in bed watching the last part of the Olympic closing ceremonies, Angela and I thought that a little kanoodle was in order. I remarked to Angela that I was most pleased with how often we engaged in our marital relations.

My dear wife chuckled. "How often do you think we have sex?" she asked with a smile.

"Oh," replied I, "two, maybe three times a week." Angela chuckled again, at least until I did something that elicited something more carnal than a chuckle.

When we finished our little romp, Angela posed the question again, and suggested that, to get a clearer picture, we try to remember how many times we had copulated in 2010. I don't wish to brag, but our lovemaking tends to be fairly memorable, so the chore was not that difficult. I had procured a pen and paper to keep track of the count.

When we felt like we had included each time, I tallied up the total and determined that the number of times that Angela and I have had sex in 2010 was:

Nine.

Or ... about once a week.

And it seemed like we had our last roll in the day just a day or two before.

I guess that two days just isn't like it used to be when we were younger.

After concluding our analysis, I had a question for my darling wife.

"My dear, shall we go for number ten?"

Her smile was answer enough for me.

Frank Discusses Statistics

2010-02-26T09:04:00.004-05:00

Last week, Bonnie Burns, the Earnest Hemingway of the spanko world and author of My Bottom Smarts, published a poll asking her readers to describe their spanko orientation. The answers were basically broken down into male/female, straight/gay/bisexual, and spanker/spankee/switch. The results thus far of the poll can be found here .

I have always been something of a numbers person. I enjoy breaking down polls and statistics. This might seem strange to some, since one might expect an imaginary spanko to prefer imaginary numbers. But no matter. I have analyzed some of the results to Bonnie's poll and found some interesting items.

First, of the 366 respondents, 232 or about 65% identified themselves as male, 133 as female, and one as a platypus. For the sake of accuracy, I have disqualified the response of the platypus. Of the males, 50% identified said that they get spanked, either a spankee or a switch. For the ladies, just 22 of 132, or 17%, categorized themselves as women who spank, i.e. spanker or switch. 83% of women said that they ONLY receive spankings, they never dish them out.

While this poll was certainly not scientific, these results were, nonetheless, fascinating, although not quite fantastic. If half of all male spankos get spanked, but only one sixth of women spank them, that can only lead to one conclusion:

Women who like to spank men do not like to respond to Bonnie's polls.

I thought that perhaps there were a fair number of men who, due to situations beyond their control, only received their spankings from themselves, i.e. they were self-spankers. However, I could not determine if such a person would answer that they were spanker, spankee, or a switch, so I discounted that notion all together.

I'm sure that some may try to develop other theories as to where the discrepancy between male spankees and female spankers lie. You might think that women who spank men aren't as likely to spend their spare time reading about spanking on the internet. Perhaps these women aren't as dedicated to the general spanking lifestyle as men, but rather spank their men because their men ask them to. Perhaps many men wish to be spanked but currently do not have a partner who can spank them.

It is also possible that those 22 women who spank are spanking all 116 men who wish to be spanked. Those would certainly be very busy women, indeed.

I could attempt to post my own poll to try to obtain more information that might explain the difference. However, since I am an imaginary spanko, it seems much more logical that I should simply invent my own reasons.

For me, fortunately, I have one woman whom I spanks, and that same woman is more than happy to spank me. I don't need any analysis to interpret that statistic. I just categorize it as fantastic.

Unfinished Business

2010-02-17T09:27:00.002-05:00

In Fantastic Spanking, BH (before hiatus), I had been elucidating on a "meme" that had been published in a number of blogs that contained 50 questions relating to one's spanking questions. The questions mostly involved a choice between two related spanking options. The challenge that I gave to myself was that I had to choose one of the options, I could not fall back on choosing "both" or "neither." Since I am prone to wordiness, I also took this opportunity to provide the reasoning behind my choices. This way I could take one subject and write multiple posts on it, thus not having to think of other things to write about.

Having not thought of anything else to write about, I shall endeavor to complete the task, answering the remaining six questions over the next couple of posts. After concluding the survey, I will provide a list of all of the posts that I have written on this subject, because I know that you will all want to go back and read my answers again.

45. Would you rather your spanking be gentle and gradual or painful and abrupt?
In the Spanko domicile, there is no such thing as a "gentle" spanking. If it's gentle, it's not a spanking, it is lightly patting. A spanking is sharply striking a person with an open hand or an implement upon the buttocks. The key word there is "striking." If the contact with the buttocks is not "sharp," but "gentle," then it is just a pat. Spankings are meant to be painful. It is part of the experience.

46. Would you rather be defiant or fearful going into a spanking?
This is not an easy question for me to answer because spankings for Angela and I are a pleasing experience, something that we wish for and look forward to. The two choices presented in the question, defiant and fearful, are usually associated with something that one is anticipating with dread, or at the very least, trepidation. I really don't experience either when I ready myself to be spanked by my darling wife. So, to supply an answer, I need to rely somewhat on my imagination and picture myself in some different scenarios.

One scenario would be where Angela and I are role-playing. This is something that we do rather frequently. As I've mentioned before, Angela will often dream up rather outrageous reasons to paddle me. For example, I was once spanked because I was contributing to a canine take-over of humanity because I was displaying too much affection towards our pet dog. In these situation, I typically adopt a playfully defiant attitude.

In a different vein, were I truly being "punished" for some inappropriate action that I had taken, I'm sure that I would also put on a defiant face, to let the person punishing me think that they would not be able to affect my dignity.

So, in either case, my choice would be to be defiant rather than fearful when preparing to be spanked.

47. Would you rather be spanked exclusively in your own bedroom or anyplace else other than your own bedroom?
My interpretation of this question is that it is a choice between ALWAYS being spanked in one's bedroom or NEVER being spanked in one's bedroom. The nice thing about bedroom spankings is that they can easily transition into other pleasant adult activities that one generally participates in when not wearing pants. It is also a convenient place to store ones spanking accoutrement, keeping away from all but the nosiest eyes.

However, in a lasting relationship, one would think that being restricted to only one small place in which to be spanked could become rather tedious. In the past year alone, Angela and I have exchanged spankings in our living room, den, kitchen, in the hallway, in the guest house, in one or two hotel rooms, and on the runway of a small airport (the details of which would require more space than I have currently allotted for my online diary). Further, vacations and romantic weekends often include spankings, so if I was to only be spanked in my boudoir, these would have to be forgone. I cannot imagine not being able to take advantage of new and clever spanking locales.

To summarize, if I had to give up being spanked in my bedroom so that I could be spanked in the infinite other places that the world has to offer, I would do so.

Five Rings Reappear

2010-02-13T18:05:00.001-05:00

We were blessed with about a foot of snow earlier this week. So it must be the perfect time for the Winter Olympics to begin.

Except that there seems to be no snow in Vancouver.

I heard somewhere that Vancouver officials were having snow flown in from other parts of North America. I tried to contact them and let them know that they were welcome to all of our snow. I'd even help load it up for them. Give me a really big snow plow and I'll push the white stuff all the way to the airport, right up to the cargo plane. I'll be happy to work until all of our snow is on its way to Canada for all of the fine skiers gathering there.

Unfortunately, I could not get through to the proper Olympic snow authorities. Sometimes there are disadvantages to being imaginary.

Instead, for the next two weeks, I shall plant my tushie in front of the television and absorb as much of the competition as possible. Last night, the plan was simple. At precisely 8 pm, I would have a fresh batch of warm chocolate cookies ready, along with a big bowl of popcorn and a nice hot pot of tea. I would seat myself on my comfy chair in the living room in front of our 32-inch flat screen (but not flat panel ... I think mine still has a better picture) television, fire the TV up, and enjoy the Opening Ceremonies, complete with the Parade of Nations and the lighting of the Olympic Torch.

All was in readiness. I had my favorite blanket and I was all set to ensconce myself for a night of viewing. Suddenly there appeared my daughter Colette, and her boyfriend and current house resident, Luke. Colette was wearing her patented puppy-dog sad face, which she used when ever she really, reeeee-ally wanted something.

"Daddy," she said in a small, little girl voice, "can Luke and I pleeeease watch Survivor?" She stuck out her lower lip on her best "I am the cutest girl in the world" pout.

I almost always fall for Colette's puppy-dog face. In truth, most of the things that she really, reeeeeeally wants are perfectly reasonable. Once she asked for a rather expensive set of reference books. How can one turn down books? Another time she asked for a new dress for a wedding that the family was attending. She looked adorable in that dress.

This time, however, I thought I smelled a rat.

I stared at Colette for a few seconds whilst she held that perfect little pout. Then I saw the corner of her mouth twitch just a bit. I glanced at Luke, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable. Then I got it.

"Young lady," I calmly said, "you know that I have never spanked you.. But you're not too old for your first one."

At that point, everyone broke out in uproarious laughter. It was a fine act, and they had me fooled for a moment, but I quickly realized that the family was just pulling my proverbial chain. Indeed, it was Angela who had put Colette up to the gag.

Angela will definitely be spanked for that later.

The ceremonies ran until well after midnight. The youngsters faded early, so it was just Angela and I snuggled up under a blanket at the end. Angela had earlier donned her favorite warm, soft flannel nightgown, however as we lay under the blanket, she said that she had become too hot and decided to take the nightgown off.

The Olympics and a naked wife. It made for a fantastic night.

The Storm Before The Calm

2010-02-09T13:46:00.001-05:00

It is snowing today. This is one of those storms that will last for two days and make leaving the house a quite unpleasant experience. Fortunately, I do not have to leave the house.

Last fall, we acquired a new dog. Being the Spakowiak household, we couldn't get a new pet in the usual way, where the family discusses whether or not add a new pet, makes an affirmative decision, then goes to the local shelter and chooses one that looks friendly and suitable for their tastes. There has to be a more complicated story behind it.

Actually, the dog is Luke's dog. One of his friends from NAMI (a mental-illness support group) had an 18-month-old dalmatian This fellow was planning on being away for a week and asked Luke if he would look after the animal for him. After discussing it with us, we agreed to let Luke bring the dog here so he could tend to it.

Now, for those of you who are familiar with the dalmatian breed, you know that they are very good looking and very playful dogs. They are full of energy. The problems is that the energy never seems to run out. This dog will run for hours, and then wants to run some more. It wants to run in the day. It wants to run at night. If it can't find someplace to run, it will start chewing on whatever is at hand. I once had a friend who's dalmatian chewed up his mattress AND box springs all in the space of one day.

We discussed this all with Luke, and Luke agreed to keep a keen eye on the dog, and he did indeed live up to his word. He made sure that the animal was well fed, walked it several times a day, and played with it while it was indoors. Truly, the dog spent most of his time with Luke, even sleeping next to the boy at night.

When the week was over, we waited for the dog's owner to return. However, we didn't hear from him that day. Nor the next. After three days, Luke and I took the dog over to his owner's place. It was empty. We called this fellow's cell phone. No answer. Luke asked around at his support group. No one had heard from him. The fellow was from out of town, and we had no way of reaching his family. We came to the realization that this person had permanently left town and abandoned his pet.

I did not particularly wish to have a still-maturing dalmatian living in my house, afraid that the furniture would become this dog's next chew toy. Naturally, the rest of the family just assumed that we would adopt the animal. Even Angela was becoming attached to it. I was outvoted.

Therefore, we now have a new addition to the family. His name is Flash. He came by this name because of his ability to seemingly appear out of nowhere, especially when you least expect it. Flash can go from the third floor of the barn to his supper dish in ... well ... in a flash. The dog will be no where in sight, but if you touch his leash, he will instantly be at your feet, ready to go for a walk. Indeed, one does not really take Flash for a walk, but rather he takes you for a drag.

We live on a fairly busy road, and our yard does not have a fence. Our last dog, Wacky, was also rather exuberant, however, he was also pudgy and hairy. He did not like to be more than fifty feet from his food dish, and so we never had to worry about him getting into the street and being smushed by a passing vehicle. Flash, however, will run until he gets tired, and he never seems to get tired. I was afraid that he'd be killed by a car. So far, however, when he does wander near the street, if an automobile is coming he is back by the house in ... well ... you get the idea.

So since it is snowing today, Flash, Luke, and Colette are outside frolicking. Indeed, the snow does not seem to slow Flash down at all. He charges through it like a four-legged plow. One can see numerous furrows in the snow where Flash has been, and periodically you'll see his black spots come bouncing up only to bury himself into more snow.

I'd best get this tale completed as it appears that I'll be spending much of the next day or two running the snow blower. Hopefully, Flash will tire out before then. Perhaps I'll enlist Luke's help in training the dog to pull the snow blower, thus saving myself some work. But, for now, I'll finish my tea and wait for the snow to stop.

Or perhaps I'll sneak off to the guest house for a nap. And perhaps Angela will come and join me. And perhaps we can pass the time with some pleasant spanking activities while the others are enjoying the wintry weather. It will be a nice way to warm up on a cold day.

Do Not Be Alarmed

2010-02-07T18:07:00.003-05:00

As the first order of business here at Fantastic Spanking, I have begun tinkering with the layout. You'll notice that some of the colors and fonts are different. I'm trying to spiff the site up a tad. I'm not expecting a wholesale overhaul, just some cosmetic changes. Feel free to offer your opinion of said changes.

Also, I have updated by list of recommended blogs. I have removed several that either were no longer being maintained, had disappeared altogether, or were being restricted only to select invited individuals. I have also added perhaps half a dozen new selections to the bottom of the list, sites that are updated regularly and have content that I think my esteemed readers will enjoy.

There is one place that I would like to particularly recommend. Amber "Pixie" Wells, a well-known model and entertainer in the spanko universe, has a site entitled Spanking Pixie. I have found Ms. Wells' writings to be interesting, insightful, and articulate. In addition, she is as cute as the proverbial bug in a rug. As well as her fine writing, Spanking Pixie also has several very tasteful photographs of Ms. Wells proudly displaying her delightful derriere, in both a spanked and unspanked condition. Should Ms. Wells ever find herself in the imaginary world that I currently occupy, she has an open invitation to pay a visit to the Spankowiak household to meet Angela and I and perhaps stay for a nice cup of hot tea and some brownies.

For being so wonderfully adorable, I am awarding Ms. Wells the Fantastic Spanking Seal Of Approval.

It makes a great pet, but please do not take it with you when you go dancing. It has an aversion to clubs.

Frank's (Imaginary) Reasons

2010-02-05T18:47:00.003-05:00

Once again, Fantastic Spanking has taken a long, unscheduled break in its publication schedule. And, as usual, I have a perfectly good reason for the extended absence.

You see, I lost my job.

And then I lost my house.

And then Angela left me.

Now, my dear readers, let me first assure you that, in these difficult times, since I am an imaginary spanko and have complete control of my own destiny, this is not a tale of woe. Indeed, it is somewhat more literal than that.

The events occurred thusly: As you know, last spring I suffered a spinal cord injury playing basketball with my daughter, and missed several months of work recovering. I had been back at work for about six weeks. It was my day to drive to the office (I usually work from home), so I headed there one morning. Now, the building that houses my office is at 8100 Fulbert Road, which is at an intersection. When I arrived at the intersection, there was no building. There was also no Fulbert Road. There was even no intersection. I'm not making this up.

Okay, I am making this up. But everything here is made up. After all, I am an imaginary spanko.

I drove around for what seemed like hours, looking for my workplace, but it was not to be found. I stopped at a gas station and asked for directions. The attendant said that he remembered such a road, but couldn't recall where it was. I looked at a map and there was no longer any Fulbert Road. Finally, I was so frustrated that I went home.

Only when I arrived, there was no home. I was sure that it was there when I left. I called Angela, who was volunteering at a local school, and she came home ... or at least to where home used to be. But the big barn house was gone. The guest house was gone. The garage was gone, the shed was gone, everything was gone.

Angela and I stared at what we thought was where our home used to be. Finally, out of desperation, we called Bernie. She was really busy, but said that she'd meet us at a local diner for lunch. There, we explained the situation to Bernie. When she finished laughing, she said that she'd take us home herself, but first she wanted us to take a blood test because she thought we were seriously stoned on something.

Bernie drove in the direction of our house, but she just seemed to keep driving down our street. At last she turned around, figuring that she became distracted and just passed. We drove the other way for a while, until Bernie realized that she didn't know where we were. I was sure that we were on the road on which we lived since we had passed several landmarks that I recognized, but I was not familiar with our current surroundings. Being a member of the state Police Department, Bernie's car was equipped with a GPS which she activated and entered our address. "No such address," the blasted machine responded. Bernie instructed it to take us to the general vicinity.

We followed the directions of the GPS for about a half-hour, going down streets that were close to our house. We've lived at the same address for more than twenty years, and I though I knew all of the streets nearby. However, I did not recognize any of the streets that we took.

After another hour of following the GPS directions, we became completely bewildered. This was when Angela's cell phone rang. It was Collete. "Mom," she said, "where's our house?"

"I don't know, honey," responded Angela. "Your father and I can't find it either and we've been looking for hours."

Bernie pulled the car over, turned to me and said, "It's time to face facts, Frank. You've lost your house."

"How does one lose a fucking house?" I asked heatedly. "Especially one as big as ours?"

"I don't know, Frank," Bernie replied. "And it seems that you've lost your job, also."

So we spent the next several weeks staying at a motel and looking for our house. We did eventually find it. If I recall, it was right where I left it.

But that is a story for another day.

Once we were back in the old homestead, the weather was miserable and snow was coming every day. Finally, Angela decided that she'd couldn't stand it any more and that she'd had enough. So she bought a plane ticket and left me to stay with her parents in Florida.

Oh, yes, she returned in a week or so. One can only stand so much time with Angela's parents before one must bid them farewell, else one will be very tempted to injure them severely in order to get them to stop being so darned annoying. But that story, also, will have to wait for a different occasion.

So, you see, all of my opening statements were true, just not in the sense that we typically think of them.

In the meantime, I have returned to chronicling my life on my own little corner of the internet. I feel as if this time the entries will be more regular. I've even given myself some incentive. If I stop writing, I will ask my darling wife to give my a good, hard, bare-bottomed spanking.

Except that I like spankings. Perhaps that will not be a proper incentive after all.

Memeing Into The Forties

2009-11-04T22:18:00.002-05:00

41.Would you rather be humiliated or respected during your spanking?
I initially thought that this was another question where the two options were too far apart to make a clear choice. Then I looked up the term respect in the dictionary. When used as a verb, as in this case, the word "respect" has several meanings. It can mean to hold in esteem or honor, or it can mean to show regard or consideration for. I don't think these definitions really apply to one that you are spanking.

However, respect can also mean to relate or have reference to. Let's see ... I like to be spanked and Angela respects that. Okay, that works for me.

Besides, we're just not into humiliation. I don't want to be humiliated or belittled when I am spanked. I just want to get spanked, and then I want to get laid. Angela is happy to indulge both of those desires.

That is something I can respect.

42.Would you rather spanking become part of a bigger BDSM alternative lifestyle or spanking just be spanking for spanking sake?
Angela and I am entirely too old, too suburban, too boring, and too old for any kind of alternative lifestyle. I'm so set in my ways, I don't even like staying up past my bedtime. We're spankos, and that is enough for us.

43.Would you rather be filmed during a spanking to share your exhibitionist naughtiness or are you too modest to show your bum to the world?
I find this question confusing for several reasons. First, I highly doubt that there are very many people who "film" their spankings these days. Some possibly video tape themselves, but I'm sure that most spanking videographers these days use digital cameras. Second, it seems to me that this is in fact two separate questions. I have no objections to "show(ing) my bum to the world." It is, after all, just a bum. There is nothing especially indecent about a bum. However, I would not wish to record any spankings for posterior ... er ... posterity.

Not Scary, Just Meme

2009-10-31T21:15:00.001-05:00

38.Would you rather your spanker be the person you wish to live the rest of your life with (i.e. marriage) or the person you can call on when your tushy tickles?
I appreciate that the writer of these questions was trying to do what his/her english teacher taught them in high school by using a variety of words to describe the same things, but "tushy tickles?"
Obviously, one of the reasons that Angela and I were joined in holy matrimony was that we both desired to live the rest of our lives with a person of like mind when it came to the subject of spanking. That desire hasn't changed.
When my "tushy tickles," I put some baby powder on it and it usually goes away.

39.Would you rather spanking be a part of love making or not a part of love making?
Is it truly possible that spanking could not be a part of making love? I can't even imagine that scenario, which is pretty difficult for an imaginary person, indeed.

40.Would you rather your spanker have total control over you when you are being spanked or do you still want to have some control while you are being spanked?
For me, this question is really a discussion on the matter of trust. Whilst I can see why someone who is new to the spanking, or may be newly acquainted with his or her spanker, may feel the need to retain a measure of control over the situation, when you have lived with someone who spanks you for 25 years, it is easy to turn control over to them. Even in my younger days, before I met Angela, when another lady was applying the wood to my rear, I wanted her to tell me what to do, to determine how I was to be punished, how hard, and for how long. I want my limits pushed. I want my spanker to feel free to be creative without having to be concerned that I might veto her choices.

Looking at the same question from a different angle, there is nothing like being able to turn your brain off and allow another entertain you. Just look at the popularily of television. Television is perhaps the least interactive activity in the history of mankind. This is true sexually, too (not the least interactive part, but the relaxing part). It's sometimes quite pleasant to be able to lay there and allow Angela to have her way with me, to do all of the work, if you will. So I'll let her decide on how I should be spanked, and I'll totally turn myself over to her.

Just ten more questions to go........

Back To The Business of Bottoms

2009-10-20T18:39:00.003-05:00

Once again, I have been dragging my feet in continuing the spanking preferences meme, lurkers or no lurkers. For that, I should be spanked. However, since receiving a spanking will get me no closer to concluding this line of thought, I shall instead entertain and amaze you with more thoughtful responses to more interesting questions.

33. Would you rather be spanked by multiple people at one time or just by one person at one time?
From the standpoint of being a spankee, I'd really rather not be spanked by more than one person in a session. I may have felt differently in my younger days, but now I think that just one is fine.

Now, if the question were directed at the person on the other end of the paddle, as it were, my answer would probably be different. While almost nothing is finer than bending over my darling Angela, paddling her fleshy globes to an excellent shade of crimson, and then boinking her silly, I believe that having several lovely bare bottoms lined up, awaiting their punishment, would have to be the ultimate situation for any devotee of the spanking arts. Indeed, when it comes to pink posteriors, the phrase "the more, the merrier" would indeed apply.

34. Would you rather be spanked once a day or once every few months?
I'm a spanko. This one is a no-brainer. Spank me once a day and I'll always be a happy man.

35. Would you rather your spanker be deeply in tune or be totally unaffected to your experience as a spankee?
I found this question to be rather contrary to all reasonable expectations. To be frank (and I am), it does not seem possible to me that the person by whom I am being spanked could be completely unaffected by the affair. There must be some reason to be whaling away upon someone's poor buttocks. Be it release of stress, sexual pleasure, curiosity, an expression of one's anger or displeasure, or purely for sadistic purposes, the spanker is there for the reaction of the one being spanked. It is no more likely that the spanker can be totally unaffected by the experience of the spankee than it would be for the person being spanked to just lay there, completely unmoving, feeling no sensations at all. Perhaps the question would have been more plausible if it would have read "to appear to be unaffected by your experience as a spankee."

So, clearly, I would prefer that my spanker be in tune with my experience.

36. Would you rather a closer physical relationship or a closer emotional relationship with your spanker?
As I have repeatedly stated, Angela and I use spanking as foreplay. While having a close physical relationship may lead to a close emotional relationship, it takes more than sex, or spankings, for the emotional sides of two people to mesh. As a husband, as a lover, as a friend, as a long-time companion, I'm striving for a closer emotional relationship with Angela. As my spanker, though, my aim is for a closer physical relationship.

37. Would you rather your spanker ice your bottom down after a spanking or send you to the corner to display his/her accomplishment?
The thought of having my bottom iced down after a spanking makes me shiver, pun intended. A spanking is designed to make one's butt HOT. I like the HOT feeling. Ice would just make my butt feel less HOT. So, no ice, please. I'll gladly stand in the corner and proudly display by HOT bottom.

To The Finest Blog Readers On The Internet

2009-10-13T20:50:00.004-05:00

Today has once again been christened "Love Our Lurkers" day by perhaps the greatest and most famous spanking blogger in the long and colorful (but mostly red) history of spanking blogging, the lovely and talented Bonnie Burns of My Bottom Smarts.

So, for those of you who may have never left a word or two of comment here in my little corner of the internet, or even for those of you who have, today is your chance to say "hello" to yours truly, a humble imaginary spanko and blogger.

I look forward to hearing from you, and I shall endeavor to leave each of you a personal response, although it may take a day or two.

In the meantime, please allow me to offer to everyone who is participating in Love Our Lurkers day, both as bloggers and bloggees (if there is such a word), the Frank Spanko Seal of Approval.His favorite is meal is cold, raw fish, but he'll eat hot dogs, too.

How Much Is Too Much?

2009-10-11T18:57:00.002-05:00

32.Would you rather your spanker know your spanking history or is ignorance bliss?
I admit that I am an old guy. Some may prefer to use the term "experienced." However, "experienced" is entirely too vague. I am 50-ish, I've been married for 25 years, and I have two offspring, one of whom has graduated from university. I no longer can run, jump, or throw like I could when I was younger, and I'm usually in bed well before 11 pm, even on weekends. By my definition, I'm old.

Not that there is anything wrong with that.

That being said, for me to detail my entire spanking history with someone would take rather a long time. By the time I was finished, neither of us would still be in the mood for spanking.

Further complicating the matter, my spanker is my treasured spouse, Angela. I really have no desire to be spanked by someone else. Angela is quite aware of my spanking history, especially since she comprises most of it.

Therefore, in order for me to properly answer this question, I must do it hypothetically, and I must make a couple of assumptions. Assumption one is that my spanker is not Angela. Assumption two is that, by "know your spanking history," I'm going to submit that the spanker has a general idea that I enjoy being spanked, but that I have not necessarily given them blow-by-blow (or spank-by-spank as the case may be) details.

Given these assumptions, my initial reaction would be that I might prefer that my spanker know my spanking history. Then I began to consider. Since, for me, spanking is usually a prelude to sex, I would have to assume that a spanking partner would likely also be a sexual partner. I would really not want to have a sex partner know a blow-by-blow (in this case, an apt phrase) history of my sexual past, all of my previous sex partners, things we did whilst having sex, etc. The only things that I'd wish to communicate to them are that they are not my first sex partner, whether or not they are currently my only sex partner, and that they won't catch anything from me. Those are also the only things that I would want to know about them.

I began to realize that I would feel similarly about a spanking partner. It's not really important that they know details about my spanking past. They only need to know that I fancy a spanking and that they are not the first person to spank me. Anything else only adds needless baggage.

Every relationship is different. Rather than assuming that one partner will be just like the next, or one will be completely different, I think that one should approach each relationship as a new beginning, a fresh start. Let the relationship grow naturally, comfortably. Don't try to force it into a direction that is was not meant to go. Knowing too much about a person's past can lead to comparisons and assumptions that will not necessarily be helpful to happiness. Avoiding too many details may help the relationship get beyond pre-conceived notions and take on a life unto itself.

Therefore, upon further review, my answer would be that ignorance is my preference over a spanker knowing my spanking history. Ignorance may not necessarily be bliss, but it may lead to a more blissful spanking.

That is, as long as I don't catch anything.

On Power And Limits

2009-10-05T08:21:00.003-05:00

I apologize for the delay in the resumption of my answers to the spanking preferences meme. Angela and I took an impromptu driving trip and were away for several days. Henceforth, I shall endeavor to finish the meme with regular posts.

30.Would you rather be forced into a spanking or willingly submit into a spanking?
If by forced, the question means physically grabbed and held down, then my answer is that I would rather willingly submit. For adults in a spanko-sexual relationship, the submission if a significant part of the fun. Additionally, Angela and I are not into exerting physical power over each other.

31.Would you rather have a safe word or be pushed beyond your preconceived limits?
This is a very difficult question for me. Clearly, I like to have my limits pushed. Angela knows my limits quite well, and she knows how and to what extent to push them. I think for someone in a longer-term spanking relationship, this is probably the case. In fact, Angela and I have never employed a safe word. We have always known each other well enough to know when "Stop" means keep going and when "Stop" means STOP! I have written about this in the past.

Furthermore, Angela is, for a lady, quite tall and quite strong, and I am certainly no milquetoast. If either of us felt that we were being spanked beyond our limits and the other did not agree, we would be able to free ourselves rather easily. Even when we employ some form of restraints, they are usually not so sturdy that they could not be broken out of should we wish to do so.

However, for a more petite person, being spanked by someone much stronger, a safe word seems quite necessary, especially if the two people are not well acquainted. If some likes crying or loud screams, a spanker may not have a clear understanding of when someone has been pushed beyond their tolerance. Further, if the pain becomes too intense, the excitement or pleasure of the ordeal may be overtaken by something much more akin to panic or stark fear. These are the kinds of emotions that are not easily shaken off. Indeed, someone pushed beyond their limits can experience panic attacks, nightmares, may pull back when relationships begin to get close, or may suffer depression. So safe words need to be agreed upon and employed so that there is no misunderstanding between the spanker and spankee that could lead serious problems.

For me, I want to push MYSELF beyond my limits. I don't want my spanker to do that. So, upon reflection, and even though Angela and I have never formally agreed upon one, I would want a safe word, or at least an understanding of when I am in true distress.

Indeed, although we have never formally agreed to one, I have a very clear safe word, or in my case a safe phrase, and I have employed it on the rare occasion. It is not a phrase that I normally use when enjoying a spanking. When I issue forth this utterance, Angela knows to pause and check with me to see if I wish to continue and to stop if that is my wish.

My phrase is,

"HOLY FUCK!"

Preferences Meme: Second Half Begins

2009-09-26T20:48:00.001-05:00

26.Would you rather be spanked by a stranger or by someone who knew you well?
Perhaps at one time in my life, I might have found it exciting to receive a spanking from someone whom I did not know. What adolescent spanko has not thought about being caught by an attractive woman (or man if that is your cup of tea) in some improper or illegal activity, and then taken to someplace private where their trousers are lowered and their bottom punished? Alas, these tend to be the the stuff only of fantasies, even for an imaginary spanko. These days, I wish to be spanked by someone who knows my preferences, my limits, my desires. Angela and I have been spanking each other for about twenty-five years. We are comfortable with each other. She knows just how to spank me. If someone else were to spank me, they would have to be similarly familiar with what I like. So I would rather be spanked by someone who knows me.

27.Would you rather be spanked by despotic, mean person or by a compassionate, benevolent person?
I found this quite a difficult question to answer, as the two choices are at the extreme opposite ends of the spanker continuum, and neither sound to me like a preferable spanking partner. My ideal spanker would not be one of the above, but rather someone who is insistent without being oppressive, who would take charge of the situation, and would show my butt no mercy. However, the other option to me sounds way too soft and squishy. I would certainly not want to be spanked by the a "this will hurt me more than it will hurt you" kind of person. It would feel like I was being spanked by Mrs. Brady. Yuck!

Using this logic, my ideal spanker would be closer to the mean end of the spectrum rather than the benevolent end. Therefore, given the above choices, I would prefer to be spanked by a mean, despotic person.

28.Would you rather be talked to while you are spanked or no talking at all?
In my relationship with Angela, I really do not have a choice here. I do not think that Angela could be quiet while she is spanking me if she had a mouthful of cotton. Her favorite lines are, "Does that hurt?" and "How does that feel?" She also likes to remind me just how red my butt is turning. Were she silent, I think it would feel like something was amiss, so I must say that I would prefer to be talked to whilst being spanked.

29.Would you rather get one swat at a time with pauses to let the sting set in or a continuous tanning to build up the fire?
This would be an easy questions to avoid by not specifying a preference, but, again, I made a commitment to choose an answer. This question will require a bit of consideration in order to do so. The cadence of a spanking really depends on the implement used as well as the the position. The reason for the spanking is also part of the equation. If being spanked with a larger implement, especially a paddle, I prefer a slower rhythm, waiting until the pain of the previous swat has begun to wane before getting another. With a smaller tool, I'd rather be spanked rapidly. If I am standing, I prefer the spanking to be slower. If laying down or draped over something, I like a speedier thrashing. If Angela and I reach a state of considerable arousal, the spanking will increase in tempo until we are both out of breath. After a long paddling, the last few swats might be very deliberate, with the usual questions between swats ("Have you learned your lesson yet?", "Are you sore enough?", "Are you going to do that again?") and the swats being especially hard.

With all of those different scenarios, when swat comes to spank, I am what has been referred to as a "pain slut." I like my butt to be as hot as possible, and I like it to be hot as long as possible. I like the soreness to build up to an exquisite cresendo. So, while I may find it enjoyable for a spanking to start or end with deliberate whacks, the most painful part is when the swats come rapidly. So, now that all things have been considered, I prefer to a continuous tanning to slower swats.

First Half Meme Summary

2009-09-23T20:35:00.002-05:00

For those of you who wish to know my answers to the first half of the fifty question meme that I have been entertaining you with over the past dozen or so posts, but do not wish to actually read those posts, today, as a public service, I shall briefly summarize my answers thus far. This also allows me to have material for a new post without actually having to come up with something original.

1.Would you rather be spanked outside in a cold woodshed or inside by a cozy fire? In a woodshed.

2.Would you rather be spanked in public or in private? In Private

3.Would you rather fantasize about spanking or actually be spanked?I'd rather actually be spanked.

4.Would you rather be spanked for your humiliation or for your spanker's pleasure? For my spanker's pleasure.

5.Would you rather be spanked by hand or by hairbrush? By a hairbrush.

6.Would you rather be spanked by belt or by cane? By a belt.

7.Would you rather be spanked by paddle or riding crop? By a paddle, my favorite implement.

8.Would you rather be restrained or unrestrained during your spanking? Unrestrained

9.Would you rather be spanked until you cried or until you are aroused? Until I am aroused. It is okay to keep spanking me once I am aroused as well.

10.Would you rather have just a red bottom or welts/bruises? I prefer the bruises.

11.Would you rather be spanked for the naughty things you have done or just because you enjoy the experience? Because I enjoy the experience

12.Would you rather be spanked with pants up or pants down? Pants down

13.Would you rather be spanked with undies up or undties down? Down

14.Would you rather be spanked somewhat clothed or entirely naked? Somewhat clothed.

15.Would you rather your spanking be strictly disciplinarian or sexually attractive in nature? Sexually attractive

16.Would you rather be spanked by a male or by a female? Female.

17.Would you rather be cuddled or scolded after your spanking? Cuddled

18.Would you rather be spanked OTK or bent over a table/chair? Bent over a chair or table

19.Would you rather your spanker have physical contact with you? No

20.Would you prefer to be spanked in the woods with a tree branch, bent over the hood of a car, or in a school with a ruler bent over the desk of your teacher/principal? Over the hood of a car

21.Would you rather be a brat to your spanker to deserve a spanking or simply ask your spanker for a spanking because you know you needed it? I'd rather just ask.

22.Have you received a spanking in the past week? The answer is still Yes

23.Would you rather be spanked for the physical pleasure or the emotional release? For the physical pleasure

24.Would you rather tell your best friends you enjoy be spanked or keep it secret? Kept a secret

25.Would you rather spanking be a lifestyle choice or just something you dabble in? A lifestyle choice.

The Meme Hits Middle Age

2009-09-18T20:41:00.002-05:00

22.Would you rather be spanked for the physical pleasure or the emotional release?
I would prefer to be spanked for the physical pleasure. I relish the pain and revel in the warmth that lingers after the spanking.

23.Would you rather tell your best friends you enjoy be spanked or keep it secret?
Angela and I prefer to keep our spanking inclanations to ourselves. That being said, our very closest friends are quite aware that we are spankos. Angela has known her best friend, Bernie, since college, and they have no secrets. My best friend currently lives several states away, but we have been buds since we were 13. I've never actually told him of my spanking preferences, but he's a pretty perceptive guy. At my bachelor party, he gave me a beautiful, shiny oak paddle that he made himself. However, Angela and I do not generally volunteer details or our sex life with anyone.

24.Would you rather spanking be a lifestyle choice or just something you dabble in?
Clearly, in my imaginary life, spanking is a lifestyle choice. It is something that Angela and I at least quietly mention virtually every day. We own dozens of spanking implements, several pieces of spanking furniture, and spanking is an important part of our sex life.

This question is worded rather cleverly. If it would have asked if I prefered spanking as a "lifestyle," I would have had difficulty answering. What would constitute a spanking lifestyle? Would one's professsion have to be in spanking? Would one's house be decorated in a spanking motif? However, the question used the term, "lifestyle choice," which, at least to my imaginary mind, means an important part of one's habits, but not the main focus of it.

25.Would you rather your lover be a vanilla or a spankoholic too?
My lovely wife, Angela, is a through-and-through spanko, and I much prefer it that way.

I have often wondered what it would be like if Angela were not a spanko. I was not originally attracted to her because of spanking because when we met, I did not know of her preferences. I thought she was beautiful, interesting, and funny. We shared many non-spanking interests, including computers, sports, and politics. She also liked me, which is always a plus. If Angela were not a spanko, would I still have married her? Yes, I probably would have. Indeed, I fell in love with her after our first couple of dates. We began our sexual relationship after a few weeks of dating, before we knew of each others love of spanking. I actually think that, were Angela not a spanko when we met, she would have accepted my spanking proclivities and attempted to satisfy them.

Should Angela suddenly disappear (this can, after all, happen to imaginary people), at my current age, I do not think I could settle down with a different person who were not a spanko. I've become too set in my ways, too comfortable with my desires. It would be too difficult of an adjustment for me to have a lasting relationship with a woman who did not wish to spank me, and I do not wish to change that aspect of myself.

The Meme Returns From A Short Break

2009-09-15T15:02:00.002-05:00

18.Would you rather your spanker have physical contact with you?
I had difficulty answering this question because I do not have a strong preference either way. My first impulse was to respond that I would, indeed, rather have physical contact with my spanker. However, upon further reflection, I realized that, given the way I usually prefer to be spanked (bent over, draped over furniture, or laying flat), physical contact might be awkward. Given that, I determined that my preference was that I would rather the spanker NOT be in physical contact with me.

19.Would you prefer to be spanked in the woods with a tree branch, bent over the hood of a car, or in a school with a ruler bent over the desk of your teacher/principal?
I had prepared a longer, more descriptive answer to this question earlier, but, as I mentioned in my last post, my computer crashed and took my response with it to the computer version of never-never land. I have become too frustrated to retype the entire thing, thus I shall summarize. Since the car hood scenario does not mention an implement, I shall assume that the spanker will use a belt.

In woods with tree branch
Pros: Nice outdoor setting; possibility of being caught adds to sexiness.
Cons: Difficult to find ideal location; Tree branch can break or a switch can cut; Risk of being seen can detract from scene; Dirt and leaves can adhere to crucial exposed body parts.

Bent over hood of car:
Pros: Can be done in an outdoor setting, or can be done in garage to insure privacy; Belt is good spanking instrument.
Cons: Possibility of being caught; car hood can be too hot; Might be difficult to find a good location; Oil slicks or exhaust fumes may be disagreeable.

Over Desk with Ruler by Teacher/Principal:
Pros: Preferred position; Can allow for more privacy; Scene can take many different turns; Can be creative with dress.
Cons: Ruler is not especially painful spanking implement; might have problem location a desk; We're not into a scene where the spanker has more "power" (not spanking power).

If the teacher option were with a paddle rather than a ruler, then it would have been the clear-cut choice. However, since I do not care for a ruler as a spanking implement, my choice would be to be spanked over the hood of a car.

20.Would you rather be a brat to your spanker to deserve a spanking or simply ask your spanker for a spanking because you know you needed it?
I would much rather ask for a spanking. I am a man. Men don't "brat."

If you were to ask my darling wife that question, she would probably take you over her knee and give you a good spanking in lieu of a response.

21.Have you received a spanking in the past week?
Is his holiness, The Pope, Catholic? Do fish swim? Does a bear do his business in the woods? Was George W. Bush a terrible president? Okay, that last one might be somewhat subjective.

Yes, I received a very nice spanking this past Sunday, thank-you very much.

On The Topic Of Positions

2009-09-07T20:22:00.006-05:00

I had answered three questions for this edition, however even imaginary computers crash, and it took with it two of my answers. So whilst I re-type those answers, I shall delight you with the one response that did not end up in the ether.

17.Would you rather be spanked OTK or bent over a table/chair?From my readings on the world wide interweb, it appears that perhaps the favorite position in which to be spanked is the traditional OTK, or over-the-knee, position. Although certainly not universal, the OTK position is often preferred because of the intimacy that it provides to both the spanker and the spankee.

Which is, perhaps, why I do not like this position. I would prefer to be bent over a table or chair.

You see, spanking is spanking, and intimacy is intimacy. While one may lead to the other, I'd rather they not intertwine. Stimulating other parts of me seems to distract me from the wonders of having my bottom warmed.

Secondly, being spanked over another's knee is, to me, awkward. Unless the spanker is seated on a bed, bench, or sofa, where the spankee can actually just lay across the spanker's lap, the OTK position requires too much balancing, positioning, etc. Unless the spankee is considerably smaller than the spanker, I don't think that this position works.

The last reason why I don't prefer over-the-knee spankings is that they remind me too much of parents spanking young children. I'm not generally opposed to spanking one's children, but I don't wish to get into a discussion of that nature at this time. However, whichever end of the hairbrush I am on, the OTK position makes me feel that the spanker is treating the spankee like a child, or that the spankee is being made to feel like a child. I feel like the spankee is being punished and that the spanking should be unpleasant, neither of which Angela and I practice. We like our spankings to be rewarding and fun.

Further, as I discussed while answering the questions about implements, I enjoy the process of submitting to a spanking. I get more pleasure, more tingles, out of presenting my butt to Angela without the need for her to hold on to me. In addition, when I bend over, it gives Angela a better opportunity to admire my butt (which she does every chance she gets), and to delight in the job she is doing spanking me. Having something to be bent over adds to the pleasure since the spankee has something upon which to lean, thus taking pressure off of the legs. There's nothing more disappointing than having to cut short a good spanking because one's knees, rather than one's butt, hurt too much.

All of that being said, when asked "What is your position on health care reform," I have been known to respond, "Over my knee with her pants down."

But that is certainly a topic for another imaginary blog.

Spanking Preference Meme: Questions 14 to 16

2009-09-05T09:15:00.001-05:00

I'm traveling to The Big City this weekend, but I wanted to leave you with an answer or two rather than have one of my patented week-long pauses, so here are some shorter answers.

14.Would you rather your spanking be strictly disciplinarian or sexually attractive in nature?
I would rather spankings be sexually attractive in nature. The discipline can be used as an excuse for the spanking, but for Angela and me, spankings are part of our sexuality, and most often lead to sex. Quite frankly, I think that all spankings between consenting adults are sexual in nature. They may supposedly be strictly for discipline, and they may be unpleasant, but the human tush is a major erogenous zone for adults. An activity such as spanking, which involves baring, presenting, and physically stimulating an erogenous zone, in close contact with another adult, frequently one with whom you are in a relationship with, will have a major sexual component.

15.Would you rather be spanked by a male or by a female?
Definitely female. I have only been spanked by a male once, in a situation where we were having an evening of spanking with another couple.

At my advanced age, I now really wish to be spanked by only one person, my lovely wife Angela. To show my shameless sexist nature, I could see myself spanking women other than Angela. But if I never spank anyone other than Angela, I will not be disappointed.

16.Would you rather be cuddled or scolded after your spanking?
Since spankings for us are sexual in nature and in practice, my strong preference would be to be cuddled.

That being said, in our case, after a spanking there is usually a great deal of moaning, grunting, and thrusting, with some occasional shouts or screams, depending on the proximity of other ears. Then we proceed to the cuddling.

The next post will spend a little time discussing spanking positions.

In case I don't address you before then, please have a safe, relaxing, and enjoyable Labor Day. Labor takes on a special importance this year, considering the large number of people at this time who are lacking in employment.

Dress Meme

2009-09-02T20:48:00.003-05:00

Today's questions deal with clothing, or lack thereof, during a spanking.

11.Would you rather be spanked with pants up or pants down?
With my pants down. I've always felt that being spanked with one's pants up was more like a massage. The spanking doesn't really begin until the spanker declares, "Take down your pants!"

12.Would you rather be spanked with undies up or undies down?
Undies down. When the pants come down, the underpants should, too. I am an adult, after all, and adults should always be spanked on the bare bottom.

13.Would you rather be spanked somewhat clothed or entirely naked?
I'm sure that you are now assuming that, since I prefer my pants to be down, or even off, when I am spanked, the logical progression would be that I would prefer to be spanked naked. You would be wrong. To me, a spanking is more erotic when one is partially clothed.

So what would I consider the ideal dress code for a spanking? For Angela and I, the answer is for the spankee to be wearing a shirt and slippers. I've always thought this was a sexy look. Wearing the shirt tends to draw attention to one's ass, which, in a spanking, is the primary area of focus. Wearing the slippers has a more practical purpose, to keep from getting schmutz on your feet. The footwear often called "flip-flops" will also work in this scenario. Shoes are okay in a pinch, but don't wear socks. Wearing socks with no pants just looks silly and is not sexy in any way.

The "pants down" look is also interesting, especially when the spanker is the one who lowers the trousers. Naturally, the pants must come down to the ankles, not just the knees. And in most cases, at some point during or after the spanking, the pants will come off.

A complementary question to this might be, "Do you prefer the person spanking you to be fully clothed, partially clothed, or completely naked?" While many spankos might be satisfied by answering "Yes" to that question, I, of course, wish to explore the issue further.
I prefer Angela to be wearing no pants when she spanks me. She has such a cute butt that it would be cruel to hide it from me during a spanking. Besides, when we are both not wearing pants, it makes it easier for us to switch roles, with the spanker becoming the spankee. It also makes it simpler to move from the spanking part of the session to the love making part.

In conclusion, I just think it would be a better world of everyone didn't wear pants. Since that currently is not socially acceptable, I'll take my pants off when I am spanked.

And (he says with an innocent grin), you should, too.

The Meme Continues

2009-09-01T08:33:00.003-05:00

10. Would you rather have just a red bottom or welts/bruises?
In reality, I do not have a strong preference either way. I like a good, hard spanking, and it doesn't really matter what my butt looks like afterwards. However, since I am an imaginary spanko, I cannot accept reality. Additionally, I promised that I would choose one answer because to do otherwise would be cheating.

Therefore, I would rather have welts or bruises. The reason for this is that I like my spankings to be hard, and as stated before, I like to be spanked with a sturdy, wooden implement. With this combination, the harder I am spanked, the more likely it is that I will have marks on my behind after the spanking has concluded. Additionally, I do like to feel the soreness during the typical post-paddling sex, and also to linger into the next day. With a bruised butt, both of these scenarios are more likely. I will gladly take a nice, red butt on any day, but for a more satisfying spanking experience, I'd like to have some bruises.

11. Would you rather be spanked for the naughty things you have done or just because you enjoy the experience?
When you have been married as long as Angela and I have, "naughty" no longer seems relevant. Also, we do not use spankings for discipline. We spank because we enjoy the experience. Spanking is a big part of our sex life, and helps us feel emotionally close.

Having said that, it is always nice to find an excuse for a spanking. But real life (or in our case, imaginary life) failings are either entirely too trivial to warrant a spanking, or are serious and require discussion and effort to resolve. I would not want to spank Angela for misplacing her keys, and I do not wish to be spanked if I am not following through in my physical therapy.

Therefore, we have taken the path of making things up for which a spanking would be deserved. Angela is especially good at this. For instance, I was once given 100 swats with a bath brush for risking all of our savings. The reason I did this, sayeth Angela, was because I looked at a pretty girl with a nice bottom. As my darling wife's logic went, this girl was very good at reading facial expressions, so she would see me looking at her and know that I would imagine myself spanking her. She would then stalk me and secretly take my picture, use Photoshop to super-impose my face onto a picture of a man spanking a woman, post that picture on her Facebook page, and tell the entire world that I kidnap pretty girls and spank them. This would cause me to lose my job and be sued by the parents of my daughters' friends. I would have to use all of our savings to defend myself and clear my name, leaving us virtually homeless and penniless. So, for that, I was spanked.

I have also been spanked for:

Exacerbating global warming by eating too many chili dogs
Nearly "popping" the moon when lighting off fireworks
Launching a tree to Mars
Creating mutant mice that almost ate our children
Teaching our children how to sabotage their teachers' computers (okay, I did that one, but it did not cause a complete collapse of this country's educational system)

So Angela and I spank each other because we enjoy the experience, but was also get spanked for the naughty things that we haven't done.

Memeing Implements

2009-08-30T17:37:00.003-05:00

Questions 5, 6, and 7 of the spanking preferences meme deal with spanking implements. I shall answer them each briefly and then elaborate afterwards.

5. Would you rather be spanked by hand or by hairbrush?
I don't care for hand spankings. I prefer a good, solid sting, thus I'd prefer to be spanked by a hairbrush.

6. Would you rather be spanked by belt or by cane?
Canes make me nervous. To me, they don't have the right "hurt." I'm also afraid of a cane causing damage to the flesh. I much prefer the sound and feel of a belt.

7. Would you rather be spanked by paddle or riding crop?
Interesting things can be done with a riding crop, but, again, I love the pain so my solid choice were would be a paddle, preferably a wooden paddle.

I'm going to add a related question so that I can more clearly explain my choices.

7a. Would you prefer to be spanked by a strap or a switch?
Switches can be fun in an outdoor situation, and they leave a nice lingering sting. However, I prefer a strap because it covers much more area and is much more satisfyingly painful. A properly maintained strap can be swung quite hard, and it also lands with a nice, loud snap, adding to the sensory experience of the spanking.

As you'll note, my preferences run to the long, flat, sturdier, more painful implements.

So now I've identified my four favorite implements. Let's see what happens if we take this a little further. In bracket fashion, I'll compare these four to each other.

Would you prefer to be spanked by a hairbrush or a belt?
While a belt can be pleasantly painful, if not used properly it can either be less than satisfying, or it can strike places that I do not wish to have spanked. A hairbrush does not have that problem. It lands where it is aimed, and it always hurts. It emits a pleasing smack when it lands, and can be used fast or slow. A hairbrush is a wonderful spanking implement.

Would you rather be spanked by a strap or a paddle?
Straps are fine, and I believe are easier to wield than a belt. Straps come in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. But nothing lights up a tail quite like a wooden paddle.

It is now time to determine the winner. For all the marbles.......

Would you rather be spanked by a hairbrush or a paddle?
I do enjoy a nice, long hairbrush spanking. It lights an excellent fire on one's behind, and a good spanker makes sure they land blows on the entire surface of the derrière. The one thing, though, that works against the hairbrush is position ... the best position for a hairbrush spanking is over the spanker's knee, which is not my favorite position. I prefer to either be laying down when I am spanked, or, most preferably, bending over. Bending over makes the bottom a perfect target for a paddle, especially a rectangular, wooden paddle, sometimes known as a fraternity paddle. This entire scenario is, to me, the singular spanking experience. By bending over, the spankee is submitting to the spanking, as opposed to something like an OTK position, which can allow the spanker to restrain the spankee somewhat. To me, part of the pleasure of a spanking is convincing oneself to remain in position and endure the punishment, despite the pain and discomfort. The paddle then covers more of the target area, thus inflicting the most damage. It also lands with the most satisfying CRACK. A paddle does not wrap around the toches and hit more tender areas, so it is easy to control. The only danger with a paddle is hitting one's tailbone, which can be easily avoided by the spanker by reducing the arm backswing and instead use a snapping action with ones wrist. A paddle also is very effective when one does not have a spanking parter and wishes to spank oneself.

For Angela and me, by far the most positive attribute of a paddle is the amount of sting that is inflicted. Because a paddle is solid, typically has a long and wide spanking surface, and a handle, it can land with considerable velocity and covers considerable area of one's backside. Further, the intensity of the discomfort tends to increase exponentially as more swats land, sort of like having pain piled upon pain. A long paddling session leaves a delicious soreness that fades only slowly, allowing one to enjoy the benefits of the spanking for longer than other implements. A paddle will not cut or slice the flesh, although it can cause bruising. Any blood drawn is typically caused by friction on the skin, from the capillaries that may reside under the first couple of layers of skin. Finally, a paddle leaves the bottom a most satisfying shade of dark red.

So the winner and champion of the implement contest at the Spanko household is a wooden paddle. Angela and I have an impressive collections of wooden paddles of all shapes, sized, and weights. We have a few leather and plastic ones, too, but it is the wooden ones that get the most use. While I am all for saving trees, when it comes to being spanked, give me a paddle and make it wood.

Meme Miscellany

2009-08-29T10:16:00.004-05:00

I think today that I will answer several questions, and I am going to take them out of order somewhat, as there are a set of questions between these that are related, and I prefer to to address them in a single post.

3.Would you rather fantasize about spanking or actually be spanked?
In my humble opinion, in order to be a true spanko, one must truly wish to be spanked. I'll make special dispensation for those who have a considerable appreciation for the spanking arts but whose preference is to be the one wielding the paddle, but I think in order to fully appreciate the experience, you must want to know what it feels like to feel the sting on one's seat. One can be a spanko at a time when they are not currently receiving regular swats, provided that the longing is there.

So my strong preference is to actually be spanked rather than to just fantasize about it. This might seem a trifle ironic for an imaginary spanko. However, even imaginary spankos like real spankings.
4.Would you rather be spanked for your humiliation or for your spanker's pleasure?
Angela and I really aren't into humiliation. We spank for pleasure, primarily sexual pleasure, and for stress release.

8.Would you rather be restrained or unrestrained during your spanking?
I would rather not be restrained during a spanking. Occasional use of restraints can be fun, but they can often be cumbersome and take time to set up. With us, part of the arousal involves voluntary submitting, enduring the assault on your behind, and anticipating for more.

Actually, I've always wondered what it would be like if the person doing the spanking were restrained, but that is probably a topic for another meme.

9.Would you rather be spanked until you cried or until you are aroused?
As Alice Cooper famously once said, "I never cry." Therefore, I would have to answer that I would prefer to be spanked until I am aroused. In truth, I am typically aroused even before the spanking begins, so I would not wish the spanking to end at the point that my arousal begins, but would prefer that the spanking continue so that my arousal might be extended. No pun intended.

A corollary question to this might be, "Would you prefer that the person you are spanking cry during the spanking?" To which I would answer that I prefer someone whom I am spanking not cry. To me, crying is a sign of displeasure or discomfort, and I would not wish to spank someone who does not find such activity enjoyable. I will elaborate more on this when pondering future questions regarding discipline.

The next post will deal with spanking implements.

Question 2: Public or Private?

2009-08-27T20:33:00.003-05:00

2. Would you rather be spanked in public or in private?
An interesting question indeed, as there is some ambiguity involved. By "public," does the questioner mean a public place where others are likely to witness the spanking, such as a sidewalk or a parking lot? Or does "public" simply refer to any place that is not behind closed doors and involves only the two individuals involved in the spanking, with minimal chance of being seen or overheard? Should one's backyard be considered "public" or "private?" What about is isolated outdoor woods? Is a spanking party considered "public" or "private," or would it depend on the size or the venue? Is a hotel room considered "private," even if the walls are thin and those in adjoining rooms would clearly be able to overhear the spanking?

Obviously, "public" and "private" are not absolute terms. In order to adequately answer the question, I should first provide my criteria upon which I base my answer.

So, for the purposes of this question, I shall define public as "any place where there is a reasonable chance of being seen or heard by others not directly involved in the spanking." Based on this definition, a spanking in front of another couple in your living room would be considered "public." Conversely, any place where there would either no chance or only a remote chance of being witnessed would be considered private. Thus, a spanking in a remote woods would be considered private unless it was a place where people often passed by. This clarification still leaves some situations potentially unaccounted for, such as if one person were spanking several others, or two couples were playing together. However, I believe some of those instances are covered in subsequent questions, so I believe that the above definitions are sufficient.

With that groundwork laid, my answer is that I prefer to be spanked in private. While there are some interesting aspects to being spanked in front of an audience, and there some libidinousness in "hiding" in a public place such as a restroom or storage closet where there was the possibility of being caught, I would be completely mortified if someone were to inadvertantly witness a spanking between Angela and I. Indeed, it quite puts me off.

I have, on the odd occasion, participated in a spanking in which others were involved. Indeed, I have written about a some of them. However, the vast majority of the spankings between Angela and I are alone. The reason for this is quite simple and common: our spankings almost always lead to sex. If you prefer the slightly more technical term, we use spanking as foreplay. We will sometimes use spanking as aftplay, too, but that is a topic for a different discussion. We often will use the spanking to explore new forms of arousal, or we'll extend that arousal by making the spanking longer and harder than originally planned. Being alone allows us to test different sensations by using different intruments and different positions. So to be spanked whilst others witness would probably necessitate postponing the sex, which to us almost defeats the purpose of spanking in the first place.

To summarize, while I may occasionally dabble in a public spanking, I much prefer to do my spankings alone with my darling wife.

The Meme Begins ... Question One

2009-08-26T08:38:00.004-05:00

1.Would you rather be spanked outside in a cold woodshed or inside by a cozy fire?
The cozy fire scenario is about as pleasant as it gets. However, there are many factors that add to the titillation of the woodshed. First is the cool air flowing around ones normally-covered regions, which also gives a sense of being outdoors. Second is the naughty factor, mainly that a woodshed can be considered a somewhat "public" place, in that it is not the privacy of one's own home. This leads to the possibility of being caught "en flagrante spanko." Thirdly, there are the role-playing possibilities. When one is "taken to the woodshed," it is implied that they have done something that has highly displeased the person who is taking you there. This allows the spanker to take complete charge of the situation, and the spankee to adopt one of a number of attitudes ... repentant, petulant, rebellious, etc. Woodshed spankings are always received bending over with ones pants around ones knees or ankles, perhaps draped over a sawhorse or workbench. Finally, woodshed spankings are typically harsh. They are not just a few taps that leave one's behind stinging mildly. They are good, hard spankings, dealt out with a sturdy board, a stout strap, or perhaps switches or a rod. They are meant to be remembered, so they are painful, and leave one's behind very red and sore, perhaps with some residual marks or bruises. Afterwards, the sex is fast and breathless, with both parties partially clothed. The male, be he the spanker or spankee, is probably standing, and his partner is either bent over or has her arms around her man's neck and her legs around his torso while supports her with his hands firmly holding her buttocks. Afterwards, you're both sweating and panting, so you catch your breath. You remember that there is a chill in the air, so retrieve your clothes, quickly dress, and leave the woodshed, arms around each other's waists, smiling. You exchange a kiss, and then return to what you were about prior to the incident that precipitated the trip to the woodshed.

Angela and I have played out this scenario a time or two. At our abode, we do not have a woodshed, per se, but we do have a tool shed. While it is rather small and crowded with, well, tools, a spanking can be managed with a little judicious organization. We will sometimes use the guest house and pretend that it is a woodshed. Although it lacks the atmosphere of a woodshed, it does have plenty of amenities and many of our spanking implements, so we can let our imaginations carry a spanking session to all sorts of interesting places.

We did once actually spank each other in a woodshed. When Maribel was in middle school, her class planned a camping trip at a large, local farm. We were volunteered to chaperone, so we went over the day before the trip to check on logistics. The owner of the farm was telling us where to find various items, and he noted that, if we wanted to make a camp fire, that there was wood in the woodshed. He left us to explore, and, naturally, we explored the woodshed. Much of the wood was not taken directly from a felled tree, but was rather scraps of lumber from construction projects and lumber yards. It was all cut into manageable lengths, so there were plenty of flat planks just perfect for using on round behinds. We gave each other a few good swats over our jeans, and then Angela, suppressing a giggle, said, "I told that the next time you got into trouble at school I was going to take you out to the woodshed! Now here we are!" On her orders, I proceeded to lower my drawers, place my hands on one wall, and stick out my bare butt, at which time she gave me about 25 nice, hard swats that burned very well. I stuck out my lip in a pretend pout as I pulled up my pants, but we had to postpone the breathless sex since we still have several items to work out before would leave, and we didn't wish the farmer to wonder where we were.

So I have never actually played out the above woodshed scenario. Yet. But Angela and I are always on the lookout for the appropriate structure at the appropriate time, at which time one of us will indeed be "taken to the woodshed!"

Frank's Brain Un-Freezes

2009-08-25T14:40:00.004-05:00

I must again apologize for my extended absence from this here blog. I have been very busy with physical therapy as well as working on the computer on some projects for Angela. My recovery from my butt injury and subsequent surgery has been coming along well enough, although maddeningly slow for my tastes. I can now walk pretty well with just the assistance of a cane, but it often feels like my legs are mere toothpicks that are trying to hold up a pallet full of lead bars. However, the doctors say that my progress has been better than average "for a man my age," i.e. old.

I have also been at a loss for subjects upon which to write. I haven't felt like delving into a long story, and I don't really wish to bore you with the mundane, day-to-day details of the Spanko household, especially ones that are not spanking-related. I have started several posts on spanking in general, but they did not seem to go anywhere so I have never finished them.

Then I came upon a "meme," or list of questions upon which to answer in one's blog, on the site by the lovely and talented Bonnie. It contained fifty questions exploring one's spanking preferences. Many of the questions were of the "either/or" type, such as "Who would you rather spank, Ginger or Mary Ann?" (This questions is not actually on the meme, it is just being used as an illustration). Although Bonnie's answers were interesting and enlightening, I must admit I felt that, to a certain extent, she cheated. Rather than answer "I'd rather spank Ginger," or "I'd rather spank Mary Ann," Bonnie often answered, in essence, either "both" or "neither." I felt that this was skirting the purpose of the meme, which is to thoroughly explore one's appetence toward spanking. Therefore, for this reticence, I respectfully ask Bonnie's fine and faithful husband to give her a good spanking.

By the way, if you don't know who Ginger and Mary Ann are, you are either too young or too smart to be reading this blog. Please leave now and explore something more suited to your age or intellect.

For the rest of you, I will entertain you with my answers to the afore-mentioned 50 questions. However, I, too, will cheat, at least a little. While I will attempt to answer each question, the meme has given me much food upon which to expound. Therefore, I will not attempt to answer all 50 questions in one sitting, but rather take my time and delve more deeply into why I answer as I do. This may give me fodder for 50 posts, although I will surely have questions where my answers are shorter than others, so I'll combine multiple questions in some posts.

This should give me things to write about until at least Thanksgiving if I am lucky.

Also, if you think that I should be spanked for cheating, I shall respectfully acquiesce and and request that Angela do so. I wouldn't want to disappoint my readers, who are the finest blog readers on the Internet, imaginary or otherwise.

To begin, I thought that I should respond to the query that I posed above, namely:

"Whom would you rather spank ... Ginger or Mary Ann."
I would rather spank Mary Ann. Those little denim shorts of hers were just dying to be pulled down. Mary Ann was spunky enough that she may have possibly enjoyed being spanked, and with her agricultural background, she could probably take some good swats without carrying on. Besides, Ginger was a painted bimbo who thought her ass was butter. She may have deserved a spanking, but that wasn't the question.

I shall begin the actual meme tomorrow. In the meantime, you can see the questions and read Bonnie's responses here. In addition, here a couple of other brave souls who took the time to answer.

The Cookie Jar
Angel Brat's Blog
Jflame's Spanking Blog (Part 1 and Part 2)

Mr. Spankowicz Returns

2009-07-01T14:04:00.000-05:00

I hate hospitals.

No, it's not because I'm afraid of dying, or that I don't like the smell, or actually for any health-related issues at all.

I don't like hospitals because they tend to be multi-story, shining monuments to incredible inefficiency. Furthermore, despite clear evidence that more personal care means better care, hospitals appear to be basically health care factories, treating each patient like little more than another widget on an assembly line.

Still, the people that work there do their best. Calling them competent is mere faint praise, as they are all smart, hard working, and conscientious. And yet the hospitals still manage to turn them confused and confusing, by giving them more work than one person can handle and bombarding them with process and paperwork at the expense of time spent with the patient.

Since this is a spanking blog, and not a health-care reform blog, that shall be the extent of my editorializing. So let me just relate to you the experience of my stay and my surgery.

The surgery was scheduled for 7 am last Friday morning. They asked me to come in the previous afternoon for presurgical testing and to talk with the anesthesiologist. They also required me to stay the night to make sure that I was properly "prepped." In other words, they wanted to make damn sure that I didn't eat anything. The testing was routine, but the chat with the doctor was not nice.

I have had surgery once before, when I hurt my knee playing softball about twenty years ago. At the doctor's request, I was given a general anesthetic. When I awoke, the nurse made me eat something, which seemed okay since I hadn't partaken since the previous day. No sooner had the food hit my stomach than my stomach gave it back, all over the nurse, the bed, the walls, etc. I was sick for two days, which was attributed to the anesthetic. So, this time I asked the surgeon if I could be awake for the procedure and he agreed. However, the anesthesiologist told me that I would be asleep during surgery. When I told him about my previous experience and my discussion, he literally dismissed me with a wave of his hand, telling me that general anesthesia was best for this type of surgery. When I insisted that I be awake, the just smiled and said that I would be fine.

That night, after visiting hours had ended and Angela had bid me good rest, I turned off the television and fell asleep. It had been a long day and I was quite exhausted. About an hour later, a nurse came in and gave me a cup full of pills. I asked what the pills were.

"They are to help you sleep," she responded.

"No thank-you," I told her. "I will sleep fine."

She firmly insisted that I take the pills, as they were important for my surgery. When I asked her to explain, she just told me that the doctors knew best what I should take.

"Madam nurse," I told her, "I do not take anything unless I know what it is and what it's supposed to do. It is, after all, my body, and ultimately my responsibility, and not your's or the doctor's, to take care of it."

The nurse grumbled that she would have to talk call the doctor, and left the room. I promptly fell asleep. The nurse returned, again waking me up, and the number of pills had fallen to two. One was aspirin, to reduce the inflammation around my spinal cord, and one was an antibiotic to make sure that I didn't get any infections prior to the surgery. These seemed like prudent precautions, so I swallowed them and promptly dropped off again.

I was woken at about 4 am and told to shower with the proper antibiotic soap. The nurse asked if I required any help showering. She was young and attractive, but I resisted the urge to ask her to join me, sans nursing uniform. After all, I did not think that Angela would approve. After cleaning up, the fun really began.

Another nurse came to my bed. Now, because of recent concerns of having the wrong person getting the wrong procedure, hospital employees are required to make sure that you are whom you are. Furthermore, due to the ridiculous interpretations of the famous HIPPA laws, hospitals want you to assent to everything that they do, no matter how small. So they are frequently asking, "Are you so-and-so, and what are you here for?"

So the nurse asked me, "Are you Francis Spankowicz?"

"No," I responded.

"Oh," she replied, crestfallen. She went back to her station and talked to another nurse, and then shuffled through some paperwork. They both looked befuddled. Finally, the nurse returned to my bed and asked again, "Aren't you Francis Spankowicz, and aren't you here for surgery on your back?"

"No," I said again.

Now she was really confused, "Then who are you and why are you here?"

"My name is Spakowiak, not Spankowicz. I am indeed here for back surgery."

"Oh. Why didn't you say that before?"

"I wasn't given a chance."

Satisfied, the nurse proceeded to ask me several million questions, most of which I had answered previously on the preadmission paperwork, and then again on the previous day when I was admitted.

After the questions nurse was finished, another nurse arrived. "Good morning," she said cheerfully. "Are you Mr. Spankowicz?"

"No," I responded.

I received another confused look. I felt sorry for her, so I said, "Are you looking for Mr. Spakowiak." She looked at her paperwork. "Spank-o-wee-itz...." she tried to pronounce my name phonetically.

"Does the name end in a 'K'?" I asked.

"Umm, yes...."

"So it's pronounced Spa-KO-wee-ack."

"Well, let me check something," she said, and walked away. She returned five minutes later with the questions nurse.

"Yes," said the questions nurse, "that's Mr. Spankowicz."

"Spa-KO-wee-ack," I replied.

"Right. That's him."

"Are you here for back surgery?" asked the second nurse. I nodded.

Relieved, she said that she was going to insert my IV. "Can I pee first," I asked, not wanting to drag the IV apparatus around any more than I had to.

"Do you need help," she asked.

"Not since I was three," was my retort.

Angela and Colette arrived about 6 am. Shortly after, another nurse came in to ask still more questions, and fuss over me some more. Before proceeding, she asked, "Are you Frank Spankowicz."

"No," replied Angela, Colette, and I at the same time. Colette, always the proactive one, grabbed the nursed clipboard and looked at the name.

"It's pronounced Spa-KO-wee-ack," she told the nurse. "But at least you have the correct spelling." Colette went over to the computer on the rolling rack that the nurse was also pushing with her and verified that the spelling was correct there, too.

After another million questions, this latest nurse was satisfied and left us. I chatted with Colette and Angela for a while, until the surgical nurse came on. She looked down on her paperwork and asked, "Are you Mr. ... umm ... Spankowski?"

Angela snorted, and Colette snatched the papers away from the nurse.

"Where do you see 'ski' in this name," Colette asked the nurse.

The nurse reviewed her paperwork and said, "Excuse me," and went back to the nurses station. She returned with the original questions nurse, who said, "That's right, he's Mr. Spankowicz."

Colette threw her hands up and walked away. Angela snorted again. I just smiled.

"I'm afraid that I am most definitely not Mr. Spankowicz."

The questions nurse looked at me and then back at her paperwork. "Yes, you are," she said. "See, I have your signature right here." She showed me the paperwork.

"That says Spa-KO-wee-ack, ma'am."

"Same thing," she said. She handed the paperwork back to the surgical nurse and returned to her station.

"Okay, Mr. Spankoshevitz...."

"Please, just call me Frank."

My family doctor had asked if she could observe the procedure, so she arrived about fifteen minutes before I was scheduled to be sawn open. Dr. Linda Wayne is a very good doctor. After I was injured (and after she stopped laughing about how I was injured), she had made sure that I was properly scheduled for all of my appoints with specialists and therapists, and made sure that I had the proper equipment to get around our house. She expertly guided me through the process. Colette, Angela, the doctor, and I chatted briefly, and then the surgical nurse came back to take me to the operating room.

"Okay," she said, "just to make sure everything is correct, just to make sure, are you Frank Spankowicz?"

Dr. Wayne shook her head and said to me, "This is really a good hospital, they just hire people who can't read."

I was wheeled to the surgery room. If you've ever had surgery in a hospital, they make the operating rooms just warm enough so that the staff doesn't get frostbite. The patient, of course, is buck naked except for a gown so thin that the breeze from mosquito wings seems like blast of arctic air. Fortunately, there were no mosquitoes in the operating room. I briefly exchanged small talk with the surgery team and Dr. Wayne, and then came the "gap."

Part of the reason that I hate general anesthetics is that, when one is unconscious, one does not dream. One feels like the time between going under and coming to is a mere instant. Except that one feels fine when one goes under, and one feels like shit when one wakes up. When I regained consciousness, I was laying on my stomach, with my bare ass pointing at the ceiling. My mouth was dry, my eyes felt like there was sand in them, my nasal passages stung, and, oddly, my butt hurt.

My butt hurt. That was something that I had not felt in entirely too long.

If you'll recall, when I was stricken, I could not feel my gluteus maximus, which is strange indeed for a committed, life-long spanko. Apparently, whatever the surgeon had done had resolved that little problem. Dr. Wayne told me later that a very small piece of my cartilage was slightly touching my spinal cord. When they cleaned out the injured area, the piece was cleared and no longer interfering with nerve transmission.

They rolled me back to my room where they made me eat red jello, which I promptly puked up, just as I had predicted. And since the jello was red, the nurses spent several minutes debating whether I was tossing up blood. When I pointed out that blood doesn't jiggle, they seemed relieved. I spent the night sleeping fitfully and peeing about every half-hour, which was unpleasant because every time that I stood up I felt like puking again. When I mentioned this to the night nurse, she said that I could always use the bedpan. I politely told her that I would much prefer to sleep in the loo so could she please leave a blanket and pillow in there. She laughed. I suppose she thought I was kidding. I was sharing the room with an 85-year-old gentleman who was having a pacemaker implanted. At about 4 am., after my eleventh or twelfth pee, he sat up and said that he was having difficulty sleeping, too. So we sat there telling dirty jokes and making fun of the nurses until one of them came in and scolded us.

The next day was Saturday, which passed uneventfully. Angela spent most of the day there, and I received phone calls from Angus, Liz, and several more friends and co-workers. Colette, Luke, and Maribel and the boyfriend all came by to visit. I asked Maribel if she felt bad because I was in the hospital, since, after all, it was she whose shot I was trying to block. She just laughed and called me old. I told Angela to spank (figuratively, of course) Maribel for such an impertinent remark, but Angela just laughed some more and sided with Maribel.

I went home on Monday. The doctors gave me strict instructions to take it easy for six more weeks or so. I asked what "take it easy" meant. They told me "no heavy lifting and no basketball, for sure." Angela inquired about sex. We were told that marital relations were allowed, as long as we "took it easy." Angela took that to mean no spanking. And I just got back the feeling in my butt!

While my convalescence is far from complete, I am much better off than I was three months ago. I can walk with the assistance of a cane, I can drive, I can do some light yardwork, and I shall soon be able to resume work. This is good, because I am bored. I can only watch Sports Central on ISPN (the Imaginary Sports Programming Network) or play solitaire on the computer so many times before I need to do something that actually requires some mental or physical effort. But progress is being made.

Angela is monitoring my progress carefully. She says that, for trying to keep up with my daughter, the professional basketball player, that I was not acting my age. For that, she says, I deserve a spanking. Angela has promised that said spanking will be a good one, once I am more recovered.

So I have something for which to look forward. But Angela is not correct in stating that the spanking will be merely good. Indeed, now that I am on the road to a solid recovery, and I can feel my butt again, a spanking from Angela will be fantastic.

The Story Unfinished, Conclusion

2009-06-22T11:50:00.002-05:00

Editor's note: Frank is recovering nicely and expects to be home from the hospital tomorrow. He has promised a full recounting of his time there. In the meantime, here is the last segment of his story about Liz. The previous chapter is here.

Liz straightened up and put her hands behind her head, still in punishment mode. "Thank-you, sir, for paddling me so hard," she said. It was something that I deserved and that I needed."

"You're welcome," I responded. "Your punishment is complete, Liz. You can put your hands down." Liz let out a huge sigh and immediately reached back to feel her roasted rear end. She winced when she first touched her buns, and started to more tenderly rub her red cheeks.

"Why don't you take all the time you want to recover," I told Liz. "There's lotions and stuff in the bathroom to keep your skin from cracking. And there are ice packs in the kitchen freezer to if you're afraid of swelling. If you want, when you feel better, come over to the barn. I'm making lasagna for dinner."

All through Liz' ordeal, she had not shed a tear, which I found curious. I could see her eyes reddening, but she would not let herself cry. I was afraid that perhaps all of these spankings she had been given this day had not really had any effect, and that she might return to her hedonistic ways, thinking that her conscience was clear.

As I started to leave, Liz said, "Hey Frank, thanks for doing this. And thank Angela for me, too." Her voice started to crack. Then I saw the truth. She was waiting for me to leave before falling apart. While her humility let her submit to this substantial punishment, her pride would not let anyone see her cry. I left her alone to deal with her emotions.

How did I feel about all of this? To this day, I'm not really sure. I was angry at Liz for living such an irresponsible life, especially since she seemed like such a practical person when I knew her from before. The spanking made me feel good, not just because of my spanko inclinations, but because it let me take some of that anger and disappointment out on her butt. Yet part of me felt like perhaps we had gone too far. The masturbation episode made me especially uncomfortable, because it seemed like we had made Liz degrade herself entirely too much.

However, not once did Liz protest. She cooperated throughout the entire afternoon. She had seemed so tense when she first arrived the previous day that I thought the least little weight might cause her to shatter like so much fragile crystal. And I knew my wife well. Angela would never embarrass or shame anyone (except maybe the children who were sometimes embarrassed by the very presence of a parent when around their peers) without a very strong and proper reason. Also, Liz seemed to trust Angela, and had said so. Being a woman, I think that perhaps Angela saw something in Liz' soul that a man could never see. I eventually decided that it was not the proper time to pass judgment. Time would answer my questions.

Later that afternoon, as I was preparing the lasagna, I saw Liz come out of the guest house and head towards the barn. I remarked as such to Angela, who quickly went outside to intercept her. I watched through the window as Angela took Liz' hand, and they appeared to speak warmly. Then Liz and Angela exchanged a rather long and emotional embrace.

As Angela escorted Liz into the barn, she said, "I told Liz that she could stay in the guest house for as long as she liked. I hope you don't mind." Of course I was okay with it, and I told Angela so.

"Was that why Liz gave you such a nice hug?" I added.

"No," was Angela's response.

"So what did you tell her?"

"That, Francis, is something that you will have to spank out of me."

As it turned out, there was not need to spank the truth out of Angela, not that I need a reason to spank Angela. Liz told me later that Angela had told her she knew Liz was a good person, that she had just done some bad things. Angela had said that she wanted to be friends with Liz so that she could learn about the good things that Liz had done over the years, and not just things that she needed to be spanked for doing. My darling wife has a wonderful heart.

Liz stayed for three days, and then told us that she had to go back to Florida to "get her affairs in order." By that, she meant that she needed to sell her condo and pay her bills. She first sold her Beemer (which she had paid cash for) and bought a used Escort. She sold most of her furnishings and other possessions and used the cash to pay off what she owed. The selling price on her condo made her a small profit, which she had to split with her ex-husband. She took what she had left and moved to St. Louis, where she took a contract job as working on the infamous and much-overhyped "Y2K bug." Since them, Liz has worked on a number of other contracts. She has not re-married and has not really settled down, but rather works a job in a city until the project is over, then finds a new contract that pays well in a different city and moves on. This is indeed not that unusual a life for a talented computer professional.

We see Liz from time to time, whenever she is nearby (meaning whenever she passes within a hundred miles or so of us she takes a detour to visit). Sometimes we have a nice dinner. Sometimes we play games. Games that do not involve the children. Games that do involve things that were done during those last two encounters with Liz. If you know what I mean.

But that, my friends, is a story for another day.

Suffice to say, Liz has turned her life around. She definitely has a fondness for expensive things, but she always saves her money and pays cash. She once said that, once she has gathered enough money, she often decides that she no longer wanted that item. So she's clearly more responsible.

Plus, she is our friend. Both Angela and I agree that she is a fantastic friend.

The Story Unfinished, Part VI

2009-06-20T13:36:00.003-05:00

(Editors Note: Frank has surgery on his injured back on Friday. He wanted me to tell you that the surgery went fine, and that he will be home from the hospital in a couple of days. In the meantime, Frank asked that I publish the remaining installments of his latest story. Due to it's length it will be posted in two parts, one today and one tomorrow or Monday.

The previous chapter of this story can be found here.)

When the last of her orgasm has left Liz' body, she slumped back in her chair, panting like she had just run a marathon. She rested her head on the backrest of the chair, and her bones seemed to have softened into jelly. Angela also relaxed, and when next she spoke, her voice was no longer commanding but had fallen back to a conversational tone.

"How does that make you feel?" asked Angela.

"Oh, my god," breathed Liz. "It feels like I just puked out fifteen years of shit." When she noticed Angela's look of admonishment, Liz added, "Ma,am."

"It was what you needed, wasn't it?" responded Angela. Liz just heaved a sigh and nodded affirmatively.

"Good!" said Angela, cheerfully. And then her voice became stern again. "Now there's one more thing that you need. Francis is going to take that big paddle from the table there and give you fifty good whacks on your red butt! After that, we're done. Now I'm going to check on the kids."

As Angela approached the door, she paused and added sincerely, "Liz, it's been a pleasure meeting you." And then she left.

I finished my water and silently waited while Liz' heart rate return to normal and her bones re-solidified. Then I walked picked up the paddle and walked to the center of the living room.

I gave Liz the speech that I'd used on Angela many times in the past. "Elizabeth," I began, "this is going to be what I refer to as a formal paddling. As such, there is a certain decorum that we shall follow. When I am ready to begin, you will stand up and ask me, sincerely, for a spanking. You will ask specifically for the spanking that Angela said that you will get. And you will tell me why you want the spanking. If you ask properly, I will agree to the spanking, at which time you will turn around and bend over. You will clearly count each swat out loud. If you forget to count or miscount, that swat will be given again. If you miscount again, you will receive five additional swats. If you make a third mistake, I will start the spanking over. Now, do you understand so far?"

"Yes, sir," was Liz' reply.

"At some point in the paddling, I will pause. At that time, you will remind me that the spanking is not yet over, tell me the number of whacks you have left to get, and ask me resume. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now this paddling is going to be very hard. Nonetheless, you will stay in position, you will not stand up and you will not put your hands over your rear end. If at any time, you fail to follow any of these rules, I will finish the spanking and we will begin again. Am I being completely clear?"

"Yes, sir, you are, sir,"

"Excellent! Now let's proceed."

Liz got up and stood before me. With her head held high and in a clear voice, she said, "Francis Spakowiak, I have behaved shamefully for for many years. I have wasted money, I have drank too much, I have used too much coke, and I have slept with too many people. I didn't do it because I it made me feel good, I did it because I could and for no other reason. Would you please take your paddle and give me a good, hard, long, painful spanking on my bare butt?"

I was impressed. Liz had handled that part without any hesitation, and without looking away. I looked her in the eyes and saw that she was ashamed, but determined. Not just determined to take this paddling that she had coming, but determined to make sure that, after I was finished, that she would leave her old life behind forever.

"Yes, Elizabeth, I will give you a good, hard paddling," I replied.

"May I have at least fifty swats?"

"Yes, fifty sound like a good number."

With this protocol out of the way, Liz turned around and assumed the position, positioning her feet about shoulder-width apart, hands on her knees, bottom presented properly. Her backside was already quite red and starting to bruise from its earlier abuse. However, that would not cause me to hold back in any way. After all, she did ask for a good, hard paddling.

I gave Liz' bottom a good smack with the paddle, and she yelped and then called out "One!" I guess she did not realize how much this paddle would hurt, even on her already well-punished bum. The second swat drew a lesser yelp, and the third just a moderate grunt. I made sure that each swat struck her across the fleshiest part of her globes, covering the most area and maximizing the discomfort that she was surely feeling.

I steadily gave Liz twenty whacks, with just enough pause between each one to allow her to call out count and for me to wind up for the next stroke. I could hear the strain in Liz' voice, but she did not miscount and she held her position admirably.

When I paused, Liz took a couple of breaths to steady herself and then, without standing up, said, "Please don't stop. That's only twenty. You promised me fifty swats, and that's what I deserve. Please give me thirty more swats, even harder than the last ones!" Indeed, I felt that the remaining strokes should be the hardest that she had received all day, perhaps harder than she had ever felt in her life.

With the center of her bottom cheeks clearly well bruised, I took aim for a point slightly lower. When the paddle made contact, Liz shrieked and took her hands off of her knees, but she didn't completely straighten up or put her hands over her painful hindquarters, and she called out, "Twenty-One," so I did not feel that she deserved an additional swat. I did hit her in the same spot again, which elicited a similar reaction.

I made sure that the remaining swats were as hard as I could make them, without knocking Liz over or over-swinging. On each punishing whack I brought the paddle back over my head and swung it swiftly back down, snapping my wrist at the end to add to the sting. I achieved the desired result, as Liz was able to hold her position, but each number she called out seemed to be slightly higher pitched and not as loud as the last. The last few were clearly through gritted teeth. But the lady persevered.

After the last swat, I stepped back to admire the results. Her butt and the tops of her legs were a deep, dark red, with blotches of purple. There were marks on the sides of her cheeks from her earlier strappings and Angela's paddling. Her breathing came in long, slow breaths, and her legs were quivering.

(Please return for the conclusion of the story)

The Story Unfinished, Part V

2009-06-15T20:39:00.003-05:00

I am working feverishly to finish this little tale of mine because I have been informed by my team of medical professionals that the swelling around my spinal cord from when I fell on my ass playing basketball with my daughter has gone down such that I have been scheduled for surgery later this week. The story is nearing its exciting conclusion, and you are probably tired of reading it anyway, so I am confident that I shall succeed in wrapping it up before then. The doctors say that the surgery should not have me out of commission for long, however anything near the spinal cord required something of a hospital stay. So I may be absent for a week or so, which, for those of you who follow this little corner of the internet, is nothing out of the ordinary. So I now present part V of my tale (part IV can be found here).

"Sit down," Angela told Liz. Liz gingerly seated herself in the comfortable living room arm chair, but rather than leaning back, she sat near the edge with her back ramrod-straight.

Angela told her, "You don't need to be so formal. Relax. Sit back and get comfortable." Liz did so, but remained attentive. "No, make yourself truly comfortable. Lean back into the cushions. Go ahead and put your feet up." Liz relaxed some more, but did not use the footrest. "Put your feet up," said Angela, a little more firmly.

Liz stretched her legs out and rested them on the ottoman. She was still naked, and was trying to maintain some semblance of modesty, so she crossed her legs. It appeared that Angela was wishing to do away with the modesty, though.

"Please, Elizabeth, make yourself really comfortable," continued Angela. "You can slouch, and you don't need to cross your legs like you're at a business meeting. Go ahead and spread them out a little, maybe even prop your feet on the edge of the footrest. Go ahead. Pretend like you're home alone after a hard day at work, you've kicked off your shoes, and you're sitting down to watch your favorite TV show. Go ahead!"

For the first time all day, Liz began to look truly uncomfortable. She slid down the chair, parted her legs, put her feet up. As I'm sure you've surmised by now, this caused Liz to clearly put her female sexual region on display. Her pubic region was glistening with the moistness of arousal, something that Liz obviously wished to hide.

Angela's next command even took me by surprise.

"Touch yourself," Angela ordered.

"Huh?" was Liz' eloquent response. Liz was surprised, too.

"I said, touch yourself," repeated Angela. "Put your hand on your wet little pussy. Maybe put a finger or two inside, or rub your clit."

Liz just stared at Angela, as did I. "Did your ass beating make you deaf? Or were my instructions too complicated? I'll make it simple ... put your hand between between your legs and rub your pussy!"

Slowly, nervously, Liz slid her hand towards her female genitalia. Angela pulled a chair up so that she was sitting directly in front of Liz, with perhaps three or four feet between them.

Angela leaned forward. "I'm going to sit right here and watch you jack off," she said. Oddly, my first thought was that she had never said that to me, but I quickly pushed that aside. "This is what your life has been like. You did things you thought made you feel good, but you were really degrading yourself, and everyone except you could see exactly what you were doing to yourself. So now Frank and I are going to sit here and watch you while you spread your legs and put yourself on total display and play with your twat until you come!"

Liz pressed her hands through the lips of her vagina. Despite the obviously uncomfortable look on her face, when her fingers touched her tender areas, she gasped.

"See?" said Angela. "You're turned on. Even when your broke and alone, even when you're naked and embarrassed, even when your ass has been beaten black and blue, you're still turned on. So show me how turned on your are!"

Liz started to rub her sexual organs. Seemingly involuntarily, her breathing began to increase, and small gulps of arousal emitted from her throat. She began to stroke herself harder, and spread her legs wide so that she could more easily access herself. This caused her vagina to be wide open and in full view of Angela and I.

I'm not sure why, but I began to feel uncomfortable, like something was happening that I should not be watching. I found myself imagining that I was in the same position, being stripped naked and told that part of my punishment was to masturbate while my tormentor watched. I became abashed. I remembered that Liz appeared to have a dry mouth, so I decided to escape for the moment and went to the kitchen to retrieve for her a cup of water.

Angela continued to press Liz. "C'mon, Liz, get yourself off. You've offered your pussy to the whole world over the past few months, just like you're showing it to me now. So do yourself right. Give yourself a great, big orgasm for me. Go ahead and scream and squirt all over yourself. Use both hands if you need to. Show me just how nasty you are, and how disgusting you have been! This is your life, the one that you've pursued so hard the past few years. So let it out! Show me how much you've enjoyed that life!"

I poured water for Liz, Angela, and myself, and returned to the scene. I handed Liz her glass, and she took it gratefully. She paused momentarily and drank about half of the glass. She then returned to her punishment wank with Angela glaring intently at her. When Liz touched herself again, a spasm of arousal made her moan and arch her back involuntarily. She slid further down in the chair and reached deeper between her legs.

Since Angela had the bird's-eye view, I opted to stand off by the side to observe. I watched as Liz continued to tease herself. In a surprisingly short time, the orgasm began to gather within Liz. She laid her head back and closed her eyes. She began to grind her buttocks into the chair cushion and thrust her hips up onto her hand. Her moans became louder and more intense. I could hear the liquid sound as moisture accumulated around her hand and pubic hair, almost like a sponge being squeezed while in a bucket of water.

Angela leaned forward further. "Let it go, bitch!" she called. The intensity in Liz increased and the moans grew still louder. Angela stood up and grabbed Liz' knees, spreading them wider. "Let it go!" she called again.

And then Liz did indeed let it go. The moans turned into a loud, throaty shout that was almost a higher-pitched growl. She deeply pressed both hands on her pussy and lifted her hips so that her butt was no longer on the chair and she was supported just by her shoulders and her feet. She was now vigorously rubbing herself, trying to maximize the orgasm. She screamed and called out repeatedly, bucking her hips. Her breath came in loud, rasping groans. I thought that I had never seen such a long, loud, and intense orgasm, until I realized that it was not just sexual energy that Liz was giving off. She was trying to release all of the stress, tension, and bad feelings that had build up since she had left college.

(Part VI coming very soon.)
(No pun intended.)

The Story Unfinished, Part IV

2009-06-10T20:56:00.003-05:00

(part III can be found here)

When we finished our tea, I excused myself to use the rest room. As I did this, I noticed that Angela had fetched a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer. She called Liz into the middle of the living room, and began to lecture anew.

"I'll bet your feeling pretty small right now, standing here, practically naked, with a sore ass in front of a woman who you just met yesterday. Well, you've been acting pretty small, but you probably thought otherwise. So now you know what small feels like." Liz just nodded.

Angela continued. "Turn around!" she commanded. "I want to get a close look at your ass." Liz faced the other way, and Angela roughly squeezed Liz' tender bottom cheeks with both hands. I saw Liz wince. "Pretty hot," said Angela. "Let's see if we can make your face as hot as your ass!" Angela firmly turned Liz around by the shoulders, then grasped her bra by the fabric between the cups, and stretched it outward. Angela then proceeded to take her scissors and cut through Liz' bra.

I heard Liz let out an audible gasp. I'm sure that she knew that she'd end up naked eventually, but I don't think this was how she envisioned it happening. I had been standing off to the side, and I saw Liz' face redden. When Angela roughly slapped one of Liz' breasts, Liz blushed even more, and hung her head.

Angela cupped one of Liz' breasts forcefully, causing Liz to lift her head and look straight at Angela. "You don't seem to like me touching your tits," said Angela. "Why not? Have any guys have touched your tits since your husband left?" Liz did not respond. "That's what I thought," said my wife. "How many guys? More than ten?" After a long pause, during which Angela just stared at Liz, Liz gave a small affirmative nod. "Slut," was Angela's disgusted response.

Angela continued relentlessly. "How about girls? How many women have had their hands on your tits?" When Liz was silent but continuing to blush fiercely, Angela said, "Quite a few, I'll bet. Was any of that sex enjoyable?" This time, without hesitating, Liz shook her head, no. Angela just stared at Liz.

"Oh, my god," said Liz, almost at a whisper, "I am a slut." She stumbled back a step as her knees almost buckled under the weight of her past deeds. Angela put her hands on her hips and continued to stare a hole through Liz. Liz trembled for a moment, then took a couple of very deep, cleansing breaths. Then she let her hands fall to her sides, letting the pieces of her bra fall to the floor, after which she straightened up, lifted up her head with resolve, and placed her hands back behind her head.

"Angela," said Liz, "I know we agreed that Frank would be doing the spanking, but even though I barely know you, it's obvious that you know exactly what I've been going through, what an idiot that I've been, and what I need to get my head right. I need you to spank me. Really, really spank me."

Angela just stared at Liz.

"Please?" said Liz. Still no response from Angela. "Ma'am?"

After another long silence, Angela commanded, "Francis, please hand me the small paddle."

One of our favorite spanking items is what is often referred to as a "hairbrush paddle," although it was more the size of a hand-held mirror, with the handle slightly shorter and the business end more oblong rather than round. It was about 3/4 of an inch thick, made of mahogany, and had been covered in a clear, shiny finish. It was a beautiful piece of wood, and it stung like the devil.

I handed Angela the paddle. Without prompting, Liz turned around and bent over the sofa cushions that were still piled on the ottoman, lifting her bottom up so that it made a perfect target for my wife. Without hesitation, Angela patted each of Liz' fanny cheeks twice with the paddle, and then commenced spanking.

Liz was paddled with no mercy. Right from the beginning, Angela swatted her fast and hard. She started out by concentrating on the center of each cheek, then moved lower towards Liz' thighs. Angela worked over the sides of each cheek, and even spread Liz's cheeks so that she could paddle the tender flesh on the inner part of Liz' fleshy globes.

Throughout her painful ordeal, Liz kept lifting her butt up as if she was asking for more and harder whacks. Angela was happy to comply. Liz was rather vocal, crying out, groaning, and whimpering during most of the spanking. She grimaced and gritted her teeth, but she continued to will herself to take everything Angela gave her. Liz' bare bottom turned increasingly redder, eventually approaching purple as the bruises began to form.

After at least five minutes of spanking, Angela stopped. Her arm was clearly tired. Liz was panting raggedly, her posterior quite obviously very sore and burning. Her faced was damp with perspiration and her mouth was dry. There was pain and embarrassment in her face, but, curiously, still no tears. Liz stiffly stood up and cringed as the full effect of Angela's very effective paddling were truly starting to sink in.

(still not finished, my friends)

The Story Unfinished, Part III

2009-06-03T18:32:00.005-05:00

(Here is part two)

We repeated the hairbrush spanking, except this time I worked over both cheeks with no break. I made sure to get to some spots on her hiney that had been neglected on the first go-round. I kept her squirming the whole time, making sure that she didn't have a chance to relax.

When Angela allowed me to stop, Liz' butt was bright red, but didn't appear to be bruised. That was good, I thought, so when I use the strap it will hurt like the dickens.

Liz was told to stand in the corner again and wait for her punishment to resume. Angela went to check on the children to make sure that they were not misbehaving (they were, but Angela settled them down by threatening to make them watch video tapes of Masterpiece Theatre all day), and told me to watch Liz to make sure she did not touch her sizzling rump. I was also told to absolutely NOT talk to her.

This last order lasted maybe two minutes. With Angela gone for a bit, it allowed Liz and me to step out of our roles and chat for a moment.

"So is this as good as our last spanking, ten years ago?" I asked her.

"If good, you mean painful," Liz replied, "then this one is way better. If by good you mean sexy, then this one sucks by comparison."

I chuckled. "You were the one who agreed to a spanking. I'll bet you didn't count on a six-implement spanking, though."

"Or a super-heated butt plug! Well, I did sleep with you before she did. She's probably getting back at me for that," Liz remarked, slyly.

"Seriously, though, Liz, this is not going to be fun for you. Angela wouldn't tell me what she was planning, which means she figures that I'd object to it. Since she already knows that your butt can take a whack, so to speak, she'll have something very unpleasant planned."

"That's what I need, Frank," said Liz, earnestly. "I've screwed up my life completely. I could have been set for life, but instead I went crazy, than when my idiot husband left, I went crazier. I've probably blown through two million bucks!"

That gave me pause. Two million dollars would have set her up for life. With some careful investing, she could have done whatever she wanted, employment-wise, and not had to worry about what her wages. Instead, she had little except her car and the clothes on her back.

Liz continued. "I need to feel like there are consequences to my actions. I can probably find a job, get my finances fixed, find a new man, and life will be fine. But then I'll forget about all the stupid things I've done. I wouldn't have learned anything. But if I get a really good ass-beating, one that I'll remember, and not fondly, I'll think of that when I look at another eighty-thousand-dollar car, and opt to buy the Civic instead, like I should."

Who was I to argue with a pretty, half-naked lady with a red butt that was soon to get much redder?

Angela returned after a bit, and the punishments resumed. Angela selected the smaller of the two straps that she had set out and ordered Liz back to the middle of the room. "Is your butt cooling off any?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," responded Liz.

"That's unfortunate," replied Angela., "because Francis is just going to heat it up again. Do you see this strap?" She handed the strap to Liz. "Can you feel how heavy and thick it is?" Liz nodded. "How do you think that it will feel against your butt?"

"It think it will hurt very much, ma'am."

"Yes, it will." Angela took two of the cushions off of the sofa and placed them on top of the ottoman on which I had earlier spanked Liz. "Now hand the strap to Frank and lay over this," she said, "And make sure your butt is right in the middle. I want to make sure that Francis lays it on hard."

I took the offered strap and watched as Liz positioned herself with her pert, blushing bottom pointing towards the ceiling. "Give her ten, Francis," ordered Angela.

I did so. With Liz' rear end perfectly positioned, the first strike cracked clear and loud, and Liz let out a little shout and bucked. I paused for only a brief moment, and them brought the strap down again. I could tell by Liz' reaction that the second stroke hurt worse than the first. I suspected that the remaining eight would all be increasingly painful.

Liz was breathing hard when I finished. Angela walked around and sat down so that she was eye to eye with Liz. "Are you starting to learn that your childish behavior can have painful consequences?" she asked.

"Yes," Liz managed to say.

"And that you had better grow up soon or you'll always be in trouble."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Francis, give her another ten!"

Ten more times that strap lashed against Liz' rapidly-reddening buttocks. Liz bucked, arched her back, tightly held the side of the ottoman, and weakly kicked a few times. She did not, however, make any attempt to avoid the strap or cover her bottom.

When I stopped, Angela had Liz stand up. Angela walked around Liz once, inspecting her like a drill sergeant. After a brief lecture, Angela looked Liz up and down again, then told her, "You've acted like such a disgrace, it's time to increase the embarrassment level. Hold your arms over your head!"

Liz raised her arms, and Angela proceeded to unceremoniously pull up Liz' shirt over her head and completely off. Then she disdainfully tossed it aside. That left Liz standing there wearing just her brassiere, her hands still up. "Put your hands back behind your head! Now, how does that feel?"

"Shameful," quietly replied Liz.

"Good!" said Angela. "Now get back over those cushions. Francis, please get the other strap, and this time give her twenty, and make them hard. I want her to feel this for a week!"

Liz again positioned herself, and I again lashed her well. The heavier strap made Liz react even more than she had previously. Angela had me apply three of the strokes against her thighs, which caused Liz considerable distress. After a little more lecturing, Angela ordered twenty more for Liz, with several falling on her thighs this time. Liz called out in pain several times, and started to writhe on the cushions, but always kept her butt in place for the next crash of the strap.

When I finished, Angela again put Liz in the corner with her hands behind her head. Liz wobbled slightly as she walked, both from the blood rushing from her head and from the heat that emanated from her behind. As Liz did her penance and awaited her next ordeal, Angela made her and myself a cup of tea in the kitchen. We sat and talked quietly about non-spanking things for a few minutes as we sipped our beverage.

(yes, my friends, still to be continued....)

The Story Unfinished, Part II

2009-05-28T16:54:00.003-05:00

(Part I can be found here)

At the appointed time, Angela told the girls that we were going to the guest house to watch TV (I've always kept high-quality video screens at the guest house for my own sports-viewing pleasure) and visit with Liz, and headed off to the planned rendezvous. As we entered the guest house, I saw what else Angela's note had said. Liz was standing in a corner with her back to us and her hands behind her head. I could see that the butt plug was still snugly inserted, because Liz was not wearing any pants. Several spanking implements - a hairbrush, two leather straps, a cane, and two different-sized paddles - were neatly laid out on a table.

"I see that you prepared things as I asked you," said Angela. "That's good. It might save your butt a little abuse."

"Yes, ma'am," replied Liz, quietly.

"Now," continued Angela, "here's how things will work. You will do exactly as I tell you. There will be no hesitating and no complaining. If you don't like what I tell you to so, you can just leave. But remember, you agreed to this. We didn't try to coerce you or force you into anything. When I suggested a spanking, you didn't hesitate to say 'yes.' So I suggest that you quietly take your punishment."

"Yes, ma'am."

I found it interesting how quiet and accepting Liz seemed. We'd given her the night to change her mind, but instead she appeared to have done the opposite, that is, she seemed to have resolved to follow through completely, as if she truly felt like this would allow her to let go of her old life and start again. I saw neither fear nor defiance in her posture, but rather resigned determination.

Angela resumed her lecture. "You've acted like a child, taking what you wanted when you wanted it no matter what the consequences. So now you're going to get a child's punishment. But your punishment will be adult-sized. This session is going to be long, it's going to be painful, and it's going to be humiliating. So this is your last chance. Are you ready to go through with this?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Liz.

"Do you have any objections or disagreements with what I just said"?

"No, ma'am."

"Then let's begin."

Angela walked over and stood in the middle of the living room. "Elizabeth, come over here and stand in front of me." After a brief hesitation, Liz took a deep breath and did as she was asked. "Now Francis," (Angela was being very formal, because she usually only called me "Francis" either when she was angry with me or when she wanted to spank me), "Come over and sit on the ottoman." After I did so, Angela said, "Elizabeth, I want you to bend slightly forward and spread your butt cheeks nice and wide. I want Frank to take that plug out of your ass."

Liz pulled her cheeks apart and I eased the plug from her rectum. I saw Liz relax somewhat, meaning that the plug had likely still been causing her some discomfort. Angela asked me to take the plug to the sink and wash it off, which I did. I expected that the plug might get used again, unless Angela was intending to make use of a larger one.

"Now, Francis, please take the hairbrush from the table and seat yourself back on the ottoman." Although her back was to me, I could tell that Liz had tensed up again. Obviously, it was time for the spanking to begin, and the hairbrush meant that Angela was serious about the spanking being painful right from the start.

I fetched the hairbrush and sat back down. Angela ordered Liz to lay over my lap, which she did.

"Okay, Francis, I want you to choose one cheek and paddle it until I tell you to stop."

I chose the bottom cheek furthest away from me and began whacking it. I knew that Liz knew what a hairbrush felt like, so I started out striking her firmly but not especially hard. I wanted to build up the intensity so that Liz might initially find the spanking tolerable but become increasingly uncomfortable as I continued. And uncomfortable she became! As the swats became harder and more frequent, I could feel Liz tensing more, heard her breath hissing, until the hissing became vocal.

After probably a minute or so, Angela called a halt. "Did that hurt, Elizabeth?" she asked, almost tauntingly.

"Yes, ma'am," responded Liz through clenched teeth.

"Good!" said Angela. "Francis, now spank the other cheek." I proceed to pummel Liz' other globe, starting out harder than I had on the previous cheek. I wanted to startle Liz and make her squirm. Liz let out a shocked "Owww!" when I started, and reached down to clasp the side of the ottoman tightly with her fists. I made sure to thoroughly paddle Liz until her cheek was bright pink.

Angela had me stop, and made Liz stand up and face her. "Now your butt hurts pretty badly, right, young lady?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Reach back and feel your butt. I'll bet it feels pretty warm, doesn't it."

"Yes, ma'am. Very warm."

"Good. Now get back over Frank's lap. Your butt's going to get a lot more spanking before we're through here!"

I saw Liz' shoulders slump a bit, but she had to know that she would be getting multiple spankings on this day. After all, Angela had her put out six different implements.

(To be continued, again)

The Story Unfinished

2009-05-24T17:30:00.005-05:00

A long time ago, in an imaginary blogosphere far, far away, I told you about my friend, a lovely lady named Liz. To refresh your memory, Liz and I were coworkers for a while at my first job out of college. During a nasty snowstorm that winter, Liz found herself stranded at my house both by the weather and a dead car battery. With nothing better to do, we spent the weekend naked, and exchanged several fine spankings. Shortly after that, Liz took a new job and moved to Florida. I did not see Liz again until many years later, when Angela and I were married and our two children had been born. Liz' life had completely fallen apart, as she had made a great deal of money during the "dot com bubble," and had continued to live a life of extreme excess after the bubble burst, until she had found herself alone and virtually penniless.

After relating her sad tale to Angela and I, Liz confided that she had sought me out because she thought I would know what was required for her to get her life pointed back into a proper direction. It was Angela who felt that Liz' behavior had been childish and immature, and that the best course of action was to give Liz a good spanking. To my surprise, Liz agreed.

Now that you are caught up, please allow me to resume the account that my imaginary real life interrupted previously.

After some discussion, we agreed to some ground rules. Angela would be in charge, deciding how Liz was to be spanked and with what implement or implements. I would do the actual spanking. I suggested a safe word, but Liz said she didn't think that one was necessary. We agreed that Liz would be spanked only on her buttocks, she would not be struck anywhere else on her body. Otherwise, the length and severity of Liz' punishment would be determined by my darling wife, and Liz could agree to what Angela decided or she could leave.

That being determined, Angela wanted some time to decide just what she wanted Liz to get, so we asked Liz to stay for dinner and spend the night in the guest house. We enjoyed a pleasant evening together, eating turkey spaghetti with homemade garlic bread and a big salad. Liz got along well with my offspring and played computer games with them until it was time for them to go to bed. Then Angela, Liz, and I sat around until quite late getting caught up and talking about bygone days when we didn't have to act quite so much like adults.

The next day was Sunday. I usually rise first on Sunday, read the paper for a while, then make everyone a nice, big breakfast. As I was cooking, I saw Angela stick a note into a little bag that contained a couple of other items. She said that she was going to see if Liz needed anything and headed over to the guest house. Angela returned shortly.

As I was finishing breakfast, Liz made her way over to the main house. She had obviously showered and handled her other morning ablutions. She was also walking somewhat gingerly, and had a distinctly uncomfortable look on her face. I surmised that Angela has invoked the first part on Liz' punishment. Knowing Angela like I do, I guessed that the bag she took to Liz contained a tube of warming muscle rub cream and one of our trusty, gel toys commonly referred to as a "butt plug."

As an aside, I hate the term "butt plug." It sounds too crass. However, I have not been able to think of a better name for that particular item. Once I tried calling them "Rodney," but Angela felt that name was not appropriate.

In any event, I postulated that Liz' discomfort was caused because the note in the little bag told her to apply some of the warming cream to the butt plug and insert it into her butt. I grinned inwardly at my darling wife's evilness.

We enjoyed a pleasant breakfast of omelets with tomatoes, mushrooms, and swiss cheese, along with some tasty sausages and sweet rolls (from a can ... I can't make everything from scratch). After the children excused themselves, the three of us chatted for a while over tea. At last, Angela suggested that Liz retire to the guest house, and that we would be along in about 30 minutes. After Liz departed, I asked Angela if she would share some of the details of what she had in mind for Liz' chastisement, but Angela just replied with a slight smile, "You just do as I tell you and everything will be just fine."

To be continued......

The Rest Of The Family

2009-05-20T09:27:00.000-05:00

Now that all of my wonderful readers know much more about me than you probably cared to, I feel that I should provide an update on the other members of the Spakowiak family.

Colette once again is playing catcher for her high school softball team, and playing rather well, I might add. She has a strong and uncannily-accurate throwing arm, and is very adept at keeping mis-aimed pitches in front of her. She has even improved in fielding bunts, which is a common occurrence in fast-pitch softball. Unfortunately, my daughter cannot hit a lick. In twenty games, Colette has two hits, neither of which has gotten past the pitcher. However, she leads the league in throwing out runners at second base. In her first game this season, a pitch rolled about six feet from her and the runner on first tried to advance. Colette had the ball and threw the runner out by ten feet. Her team is currently playing in the state tournament, where they have won their first two games.

Maribel is back home. She was invited to a WNBA tryout in Chicago, which she attended. She said that she performed well, but was not invited to any teams' training camp. Maribel enjoyed her time in Israel, and has an open invitation to return next year, which she is mulling over. She confided to me that she's not sure if she wants to dedicate so much time to working out, practicing, etc., when they only play once a week. Bernie is helping her look into different opportunities in Europe and the US, including coaching. For now, she is working out and playing slow-pitch softball. With the men. Most of whom she can out-play and out-drink. She makes me so proud.

Angela has designed software for teachers and schools that allows them to create their own "intranet", or internal internet, that can only be seen by someone within that school's network. It has a piece that lets students make really slick, colorful web pages. Teachers can put up homework assignments, correct answers, reading suggestions, and reminders. It is really colorful and fun, and Angela has sold it to a couple of local school districts for a criminally low amount of money, considering how much time she has invested into it. She is negotiating with a larger software company for rights to the software, but Angela wants to retain the rights to the source code, which the other party is not so sure about. Angela says she'll pass up the deal if she can't keep the rights to the code.

Luke seems to be doing well. He has met with teachers from the local high school to gauge his progress, and they have given him satisfactory grades. He does well when he can learn the material through mostly reading, but he struggles with math. Still, he understands the fundamentals. He and Colette are actively "dating", which is an interesting challenge since they both live under the same roof. However, we have set some rules that seem to be holding. For example, since Luke is staying on the third floor of our house (which, as you will recall, is a converted large apple barn), Colette has to ask us when she "wants to go over to Luke's." I did once hear them giggling behind the closed door of Colette's bedroom, but it turned out that they were just watching Monty Python clips on YouTube.

Cat's kittens are growing up quickly. They are almost three months old, and they tear around the house with wild abandon. Cat has let Princess, our other cat, help with the kitten-rearing, so the two adult cats have been spending considerable time together. The kittens are good about using a litter box, but because our house is so big, we have had to put out several litter boxes. When a kitten's gotta go, it's gotta go. No matter how far apart they get, when one gets tired and decides it's time for a nap, the other two inevitably find it, so they sleep in one fluffy lump. Cat tried to herd them back to the laundry room, but the kittens are getting too big to herd. We've started offering them soft kitten food, but they still seem to prefer mommy's nipples. I can understand that preference. I have always been partial to Angela's nipples, but for a completely different reason.

As for yours truly, I am slowly getting around better. I can pretty much walk around the lower floor of our house, albeit with the aid of a walker, and sometimes I need to rest halfway to where I am going. I have started to regain some feeling in my butt, so Angela has started to give me a brief spanking every day, I tell her how much of it I feel, and she journals the results. She says it is for scientific purposes, but I'm not so sure. I'm scheduled to have an MRI next week, and, if the swelling around my spinal cord has gone down enough, the doctor is going to schedule me for surgery.

If you have stayed with this missive, you've noticed that nothing especially exciting has been going on. I'm still bored, and I've talked to my employer about picking up some work, but they are holding off for now so they do not stress me too much, as if boredom isn't stressful enough. So I'll find things to do, and continue to write. I'm convinced that I'll be walking normally eventually, although I may never be able to compete with Maribel on the basketball court any more. That's okay, she's been better than me for a couple of years, anyway. Perhaps, soon, I'll even be able to receive a proper spanking again. Now that would be fantastic.

Relief

2009-05-13T08:44:00.001-05:00

You'll forgive a cranky, old, injured, imaginary poophead for not writing anything recently. You see, I have been laying here feeling sorry for myself. My family has been wonderful, seeing to my every need no matter how cranky I may become. My employer has assured me that, despite the pathetic economy, my job is safe, and, in fact, it is actually helpful for them to have me on the disability list since it makes their payroll look smaller. The house is not falling apart. And the doctors have assured me that my recovery is proceeding well and that I should be up and walking very soon.

So why am I depressed? Well, quite simply, I cannot pee by myself. Whenever I need to use the facilities, I have to obtain the attention of someone within the house so that they can help me into a wheelchair, follow me to the loo, and help me mount the toidy. Everyone here has been cheerfully helpful, and have never made light of my inability to make it to the bathroom on my own or my having to sit down to urinate.

Today I have decided to write because this situation changed. Earlier, Angela was at the store, Colette was at school, and Luke was in his bedroom on the third floor of the barnhouse. After finishing my tea, I had taken a brief nap, having nothing better to do. When I awoke, naturally, I had to pee. I started to reach for the telephone so that I could use the intercom function to summon Luke, but then, out of impatience and frustration, I decided that I would make my way myself. I have been attending physical therapy regularly, so I can usually briefly stand on my wobbly legs and take a few steps with the help of parallel bars. So today, I hoisted my broken ass out of bed, grabbed my walker, and dragged myself to the rest room where I was able to empty my bladder.

This accomplishment made me feel really good, not so much because I was able to get there myself but because I really had to pee. After briefly resting, I dragged myself back to the bedroom and rewarded myself with another nap.

When Angela got home, she asked me, "What time did Luke come downstairs?"

"He hasn't," I replied.

"Then why is the toilet seat up?" One of the remarkable characteristics of women is the ability to always monitor the state of the toilet seat.

"Because I had to pee," was my response.

"By yourself?"

"By myself."

"Why didn't you ask Luke to help you?"

"I didn't think I could wait that long, and I didn't want to risk peeing on Luke." Angela thought for a moment, then nodded satisfactorily and left to put away her purchases.

So how did I feel? In a word, relieved, no pun intended. Not so much because I was able to accomplish something on my own that had previously required assistance, but because I now knew that I could pee when I wanted to, not when someone was available to help me. I also felt somewhat smug because I was getting my proper indepencence back. After all, even though I am imaginary, I am still a man, and the man is supposed to be in charge, to be king of his castle. He's not supposed to have someone help him pee.

I never realized how important peeing is.

Now that I can pee (okay, I'll stop talking about urination now), I promise to be more regular in indulging my loyal readers with my golden prose. Firstly, I owe you an update as to the events here at the Spanko household. I also should like to deal with some unfinished business with regards to a couple of tales that I began quite some time ago but have never completed. After that, I'll let my imagination carry me where it may.

For now, it is time for another nap, and then I will get to writing, although there is one additional update that I need to provide to you. Whilst my injuries continue to heal, I still cannot feel my butt, which for a spanko, is tragic indeed. But I have a feeling that this, too, shall pass.

Help Me, I've Lost My Butt

2009-04-26T09:38:00.002-05:00

When last I wrote, I mentioned that I had fallen on my fanny whilst playing basketball in our driveway. At the time, I thought that I had simply bruised my tail bone. It turns out that my injuries were slightly more severe, which explains why I have been absent from Fantastic Spanking for somewhat more than a month.

The night after my last post, my injuries were especially painful. While was considering contacting my doctor the next morning, I decided to take some pain medication and attempt to sleep. Sometime later, I awoke and needed to visit the rest room. My legs felt somewhat heavy, but I attributed that to the lateness of the hour. However, as I attempted to get out of bed, my legs failed me and I fell in a heap on the floor.

Confused, I tried to get up, but found that my legs did not want to support my weight and indeed were quite difficult to move. Angela heard me flopping around on the floor and inquired as to my situation.

"My legs won't work," I told her. "I fell when I tried to get up to pee and now I can't get up."

"Do they hurt?" Angela asked.

I considered for a moment, then responded. "No," I said, "they kind of feel numb."

"That's not good," replied Angela in the understatement of the year.

Angela called an ambulance, who took me to the local emergency room, where I was admitted and cat-scanned. Nurses and doctors came and went, checking to see whether I could feel my toes (I could) and flex my knees and ankles (I could, but it was an effort and I could not move them very far). They typed several million lines into laptop computers that they rolled around on little carts, assured me that they would know more "soon", and then scurried off to their next patient. I was pretty scared, but also bored and tired, so Angela and I mostly sat quietly, dozed, and waited.

At last I was given the news. It turns out that the fall during the basketball game had caused a compression fracture on two of my lower vertebrae and mashed the cartilage between them. The area had apparently gradually become inflamed, and the swelling had begun to press upon my spinal cord, until the pressure was such that the nerve signals were no longer completely reaching my legs.

I asked if my spinal cord had been damaged in any way. They said they didn't know.

I asked if my legs would return to normal. They didn't know.

I asked when they would know. They said when the swelling went down. I asked how long that would take.

They didn't know.

This was definitely NOT fantastic.

I was placed into a very uncomfortable back brace and admitted to the hospital. Later that day I was given an MRI and examined by a specialist. This doctor, thank goodness, did know something. He said that it appeared that there was not any damage to the spinal cord and that, with time and physical therapy, I would probably get most of the functioning of my legs back. I was relieved. I usually heal fairly quickly, so I figured that I'd be back to normal in a month or two. No, said the specialist, the swelling would take two or three months to go down, at which time he would probably want to do surgery to remove any bone fragments and fuse the two damaged vertebrae together. OK, I said, I should be back on the basketball court in the fall. He told me that it would probably take a little longer than that.

How long, then, I asked.

The entire process would probably take one to two years. At least he said that, with some anti-inflammatory medications and time to heal, I should be able to hobble around with a walker or a cane in a month or two.

So here I lay. Today, I can put enough weight on my legs so that I can almost stand. I have been dependent on my family and friends to get me around the house, transportation, and almost anything else. I am getting better at doing basic things, like getting dressed, bathing, and moving around in a wheelchair. At least our house has an open floor plan, so there aren't a lot of barriers for me to have to maneuver around. I can't say as much for buildings out in the world, though.

Colette and Luke have been wonderfully helpful. For the first couple of weeks, while I was still struggling the most, Luke rose at 6:30 am every morning to help me get out of bed, get to the bathroom, and get into and out of the bath tub. Due to his illness and his medications, Luke is usually not a morning person, so I asked him why he was rising so early to help. He responded that, since I had allowed him to live there and keep his own hours, that the least he could do was to give up some sleep so that he could be there for me. Luke is really quite a kid.

The worst part of this entire situation is that I cannot feel my butt. Spankings do not have any appeal to me because I cannot feel them. A week or so after returning from the hospital, Angela tried to relax me with a nice hairbrush paddling. I could feel the brush thudding against my gluteus maximus, but there was no pain, no sting. Even the doctors found this to be very odd. Fortunately, the other end still works fairly well, although I must be careful so that I do not aggravate my injuries.

The entire ordeal has left me feeling somewhat listless. I have been bored and mostly uninterested. I have not been able to return to work, although I can answer the occasional question over the telephone. I have spent most of my time watching television, visiting doctors and physical therapists, and playing mindless computer games. Since I had no desire for spankings, I had no interesting in maintaining Fantastic Spanking. However, lately my brain has begun to stir, and I have begun to replace game-playing with computer-skill tinkering. That made me feel more productive, and my desire to write returned.

So, while I convalesce, I shall attempt to keep my loyal readers, the greatest spanking blog readers on the internet, updated with the ongoing events occurring at the Spakowiak household, and regale you with tales of spankings past. My father used to quote an old saying that if life gives you chicken shit that you should try to make chicken salad. I have always thought that he was actually getting the proverb backwards, but I do understand his point. So, for now, chicken salad is what it shall be.

But please do not try to eat it, just read it.

The Slip

2009-03-17T20:56:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting on a sore butt as I write this. Unfortunately, I did not get the sore butt from a spanking.

Maribel has been home for a couple of weeks as her basketball league is having one of it's long pauses. Bernie and I were playing a little two-on-two basketball with Maribel and the boyfriend in our driveway. It was a cool day, but very sunny. The ground around the driveway was pretty muddy, since we'd had about seven feet of rain the previous week, so there was a bit of mud on the court, and a little on my shoe.

I took a pass from Bernie and drove past the boyfriend, heading for what I thought would be an easy layup. Maribel came up behind me and tried to block the layup. She got her hand on the ball, pulling me back somewhat. I kept going and made the layup, but came down a little off balance. When I landed, I slipped on a bit of mud and landed … SPLAT! … right on my rear end.

Being a fat, old guy, at least compared to Maribel and the boyfriend, I landed hard, and immediately leaped up and grabbed my ass because it hurt like hell. Bernie, Maribel, and the boyfriend started to laugh uncontrollably. They laughed so hard and so loudly that Angela, Colette, and even Luke came out to see what all the commotion was about. When they saw me holding my ass, they started laughing, too.

Naturally, I was the “butt” of their jokes for the rest of the day. I did not see the humor. I had a bruised tailbone, but it felt like there was a basketball in my rectum. Sitting was uncomfortable, and when I tried to sleep, I woke up every time that I rolled over. And yet, both of my children have frequently asked me, “How's your butt, dad?” after which they giggle and walk away.

So here I sit, with a perfectly good sore butt that is wasted. Perhaps the next time that Angela spanks me, I can compare it to this to see how it feels different. I feel confident in saying that I prefer spanking to falling any day.

...And Odd Ends

2009-03-10T18:22:00.003-05:00

A strange occurrence occurred at the Spanko household recently. Shortly after returning from Israel, the cat that we call Cat, since it has always lived on our property for a long as the prior owners could remember (and they lived here for thirty years), recently gave birth to kittens. I had thought this to be impossible. We have, in years past. been able to corral Cat a few times so that we could take her to the vet for shots and a checkup. The vet assured us that Cat had been neutered long ago, and, besides, she was well beyond her kitten-bearing years. And yet, shortly after the new year, Cat took up residence inside the house, which she has never done. She made herself a den in the laundry room on a pile of towels and has spend most of the last two months comfortably ensconced there.

Colette had earlier announced that Cat was expecting, but I did not believe it. But, early last week, cat started following me around and insisted on sitting on my lap whenever I was seated. She seemed to be agitated and would only quiet down when I would rub her tummy. I was concerned that she might be sick. Two days later, Colette came home from school, tossed her coat into the laundry room, said hello to cat, and did a double take. Then she screamed, “Cat is having kittens!”

I came out of my office and looked in on the situation. Sure enough, there was one tiny, slimy little fur ball laying next to Cat, and a second on it's way. Colette wanted to help Cat in her delivery, but I told her that cats are pretty good at giving birth on their own and, indeed, do not like to be disturbed while doing so. So we let Cat be. She ended up having three little ones, one that is black and white and fluffy, one that is orange and white and fluffy, and one that is almost a teenie, tiny replica of Cat. Mama and babies are doing fine.

We thought that our remaining cat, Princess, might not be pleased with the new additions to our household. However, several hours after Cat had her kittens, Princess walked into the laundry room, sniffed the kittens thoroughly, turned around and walked back into the hallway, and coughed up a hair ball. We took that is acceptance.

So the Spanko household has grown again. We have not decided whether or not we will keep the kittens, or how many we will keep. We did not want to adopt any animals just to replace the two that we had recently lost. We desired to wait until we were ready for new personalities, new challenges. But we have a couple of months or so to figure that out. At another time, in another place, in another world, these kittens might be considered a miracle. But in the life of an imaginary spanko, these little lives seem to be just another part of daily life. It will, though, be fun to hear the pitter-patter of little paws running around the house again.

An immortal cat. Having kittens. In the house of an imaginary spanko. No, it's not a miracle. It is, however, rather fantastic.

Odds and Ends

2009-03-08T21:35:00.000-05:00

The nice thing about being a computer programmer is that companies almost always need good, experienced computer programmers.

The problem with being a computer programmer is that companies almost always consider computer programmers to be overhead. So, when business slows down, companies look to reduce overhead. Therefore, since computer programmers are overhead, companies will look to reduce the number of computer programmers that they employ.

Right now, business is slow all over. Perhaps slow is not the word. After seven years of the George W. Bush's reckless, credit-induced economic expansion, people are now having to stop spending and pay off the bills. Many are also (gasp!) even trying to save a few dollars. Since most businesses depend on selling something, and since no one is buying, business is almost non-existent

This concludes the Fantastic Spanking Lesson in Economics.

The reason that I mention this is because, since I am a computer programmer, the rumors are almost constant that some or all of my ilk at our client may be released from our responsibilities. Indeed, several whose projects concluded are no longer employed since our client has not initiated any new projects for them to roll on to, and my company did not find any other clients for them to work for (not that they tried very hard). My project is scheduled to conclude at the end of April, and, although there will still be considerable work to do in the area, there are questions as to whether the client will have the money to pay for it. As a result, my job is in jeopardy.

Fortunately, this is really nothing new. There have been rumors and actual reductions aplenty over the last decade or so, and, while I have survived them all, I have always prepared myself for life after my current employer. So now is no different. I have made some contacts, kept my resume up to date, saved a little money, and planned my farewell email. I have taken some training classes in new technologies. And, I could use some time off. So the prospect of unemployment isn't all that scary. It would give me the opportunity to do some maintenance around the house, catch up on my reading, visit some friends, and exchange a few spankings with Angela.

More spankings with Angela? What could be more fantastic than that?

Across The Ocean Again

2009-02-24T22:21:00.002-05:00

Like Fantastic Spanking, I am just returning from a vacation. Angela and I visited Maribel in Israel. Angus came over on the train to stay with Colette and Luke. You might think that having a schizophrenic taking care of two teenagers is a bad idea. However, messing with Angus is not advisable. He has sat for us before, and if the kids start acting up, Angus pretends to hallucinate that the recalcitrants are on fire and proceeds to douse them with water.

Shortly after my last post, Maribel called and asked if we wanted to come to visit. Traveling to Israel is not the easiest thing in the world. It takes a few weeks to handle the red tape, such as travel visas and other permissions. However, if an influential Israeli invites you to visit, the red tape becomes much less sticky. Now, Maribel is not that influential, however, the owner of the team that she plays for is. Lior Garfinkel is apparently an Israeli financier and gigantic basketball fan. He was in the U.S. during Maribel's college championship game, and actually watched the game on TV. He likes to spend time with his players, and was the person who suggested that we come for a visit. We both have current passports, I since my Olympic trip to China, and Angela received hers shortly thereafter (she figured that, since I was getting a passport, the whole family should get one).

So, on Friday the 13th, we boarded a plane and flew across the ocean to watch Maribel play. The trip was timed so that we could see Maribel play twice. The EuroLeague, of which Israel is a member, does not schedule games like we do here in the States. They typically play one game a week, practice for four days, and take two days off. Maribel says that she hasn't played this few games in the winter months since grade school. However, at this point in the season, because of upcoming all-star games and tournaments, Maribel's team had two games in five days. Thus the timing of the trip. As a side note, Maribel's next game is Monday, and then they do not play again until late March.

Maribel's team had two wins and twelve losses when we arrived. This was not especially disappointing. Another note about European basketball. In most countries, there are about four “elite” teams. These teams win their league championships every year. You might say, well in the NBA, teams like the Celtics, the Lakers, the Spurs, or the Pistons are always at or near the top. While true, all of those teams have had stretches in the last twenty years or so when they were dreadful, and other teams led the pack. This does not happen in Israel. In Israel, one of the four “elite” teams wins EVERY YEAR, period. All of the best players are placed on one of these four teams, and the other eight teams vie for what is left. Needless to say, Maribel's team is not one of the “elite” teams. Thus the two and twelve record.

There is one final note regarding professional basketball overseas. While they may recruit American players, if those players are not on one of the “elite” teams, most of the playing time goes to the home-country players. So, although Maribel appears to be better than most of the other players on her team, she only plays about ten minutes a game.

So she plays one game a week, and ten minutes a game, which means that all of her work goes towards ten minutes of playing time a week.

At least she gets paid.

To her credit, Maribel is not complaining. She's averaging about 10 points and 6 rebounds per game, which is pretty good for a sub. To make things better for her, their team's center sprained her ankle in practice the day before we arrived, so Maribel was promoted to starter. So, in the two games that we saw, Maribel played considerable, and played well. She scored more than twenty points in both games, and her team won both. So they are now four and twelve. At least they are not in last place.

We had a very pleasurable trip. Israel is a very interesting and truly unique part of the world. I will not talk about the political problems of that part of the world. I will briefly say that the problems do not seem to come from within the common people. I met many Israelis and a few Palestinians, and none of them hated each other, wanted to kill each other, or begrudged the other their faith. A few wanted to perform violence on the political leaders from the other side, but I believe I was able to convince them that bloodshed was not a proper method to show their displeasure.

Rather, I told them about a way of dealing with leaders whose methods they did not agree with. I said that they should spank them.

Wouldn't it be fantastic if we use spanking rather than killing? But, alas, that is a topic for another day.

Wrong Game At The Wrong Time

2009-02-05T21:35:00.002-05:00

When our eldest daughter was just a babe, Angela and I would occasionally play a game called “See how long we can stay naked until the baby wakes up.” The game went this way: On Friday night, we would put little Maribel to bed. Then, the two of us would disrobe completely. We would remain that way until Maribel awoke the next morning. Sometimes we would snuggle on the sofa and watch television or video tapes (this was before Al Gore invented the DVD). Sometimes we would play cards or other games. Mostly we had sex. Then we would go to bed early, wake up early, and have more sex. If Maribel woke up in the middle of the night, that didn't count unless she stayed awake for a couple of hours, which she never did, thank goodness.

We played this game periodically until just after Maribel became old enough to climb out of her crib. One Saturday morning, Angela and I were writhing on the floor with our respective heads between the other's respective legs, when Maribel came out. The furniture was arranged so that when someone who was about two foot six walked in, they would not see someone on the floor right away. We heard Maribel say, “Mommy, what are you doing?”

Fortunately, the television was on. Angela responded, “Watching cartoons, honey. Why don't we change your diaper, then we can make some cereal and you can watch with us.” Maribel scurried back to her room, which gave Angela and I enough time to slip into our room and grab robes. After that, we had to find a new game.

The reason I relate this story is that, for some curious reason, Angela thought it might be fun to play that game again, only this time using Luke as the designated sleepyhead. Luke's general routine is that he stays awake until the latest of hours, usually watching the late-night entertainment shows, reading, or drawing. Then he sleeps until lunchtime. A lot of this is due to his illness and his medication, which sometimes makes him sleepy. He also seems to concentrate better during the quiet of the night.

The other day, after Colette had left for school, Angela came into my office wearing her jammies and a robe, and proceeded to deposit both onto the floor. “Hey,” she said, “how about we play that naked game we played when Maribel was a baby.” I immediately considered the possibility of being caught by Luke, and so I agreed.

Seeing Angela naked sometimes causes me to lose the ability to reason.

Without delay, I disrobed. Since it would be no fun to to sit alone in my office naked, I decided to go with Angela to the kitchen for a cup of tea. No sooner had I gotten my beverage and started back to my office when I heard Luke descending the stairs, a good four hours earlier than he usually arose. My brain quickly disengaged itself from my loins and I said to Angela, “Laundry room!” We scurried off to our hiding place before Luke could catch us, where there were enough clothes to allow us to dress enough to avoid embarrassment. As we returned, I said to Angela, “It was just the dryer pipe. It should work now.” I was hoping that would explain why were in the laundry room. Angela, trying to suppress a giggle, expressed her “thanks.”

We didn't even have time to have sex.

For putting us in such a precarious situation, I have informed Angela that she shall have to be given a long, hard spanking. Now I just have determine the particulars and wait for the proper opportunity.

I think that, with a new member of the household, Angela and I will have to wait a few more years before we play any similar naked games, perhaps after all of the children have left the nest. In the meantime, we can still find appropriate excuses for Luke and Colette to head out, leaving the house to ourselves for an hour or so, so that we can participate in some fantastic spanking.

The Current Spanko

2009-01-29T22:14:00.001-05:00

Now that I have finished telling you about what happened with the Spanko family last year, I thought it might be thoughtful of me to bring you up to date with what has happened this year.

Angela: My lovely wife has taken a part-time job helping local schools develop web sites. She has developed software that is colorful and easy to use so that elementary school students can create pages for their class, allowing them to do things like scan art projects and write articles. She sets up a site for the school, then the teachers and students can make unique pages for their class. She even sets it up so that the school principal can instantly post messages like school closings without having to know how to program. So far, I think she spent about 500 hours working on the software and the sites, and has earned about seven dollars.

Maribel: My eldest daughter was home from Israel for a month. She was not home because of the recent violence in that part of the world. Instead, her basketball league pauses for a month or so for the holidays and so that select players can participate in the EuroCup basketball tournament. The EuroCup and EuroChampionship tournaments are big deals across the pond. She spent some time at her old school, working out and helping her old coach. She also helped her boyfriend repaint his new apartment, spent a couple of days with Bernie in The Big City, and did lots of shopping with her sister. I think I saw Maribel three times during the month. It was like old times.

Colette: My youngest is looking forward to spring so that she can play for her school softball team. I don't think she realizes that practice starts in two weeks, and their first game is scheduled for March 15, even though the snow will probably not melt until March 30. She has started to “work out” to prepare for the season. Her definition of “working out” is spending 10 minutes a day in a squatting position, since she plays catcher. Maribel has tried to get her to lift weights, ride an exercise bike, or run, but Colette says that those are not proper exercises for softball players.

Luke: We have been handling Luke's education at home since he moved in. He is very smart, but if he studies too hard or gets confused, his schizophrenia acts up and he cannot think. He loves to read, so we have him reading his text books and talking or writing about what he reads. I dislike criticizing schools in general, however if one does not think in such a way that allows one to answer questions and take tests in the fashion that schools usually use, one gets left behind in a hurry. If you put a list of questions in front of Luke and ask him to write down the answers, he will not be able to answer them. However, if you ask him to read a section and then ask him to interpret what he read, he can do so swimmingly. So we have worked with his teachers to make sure that he stays up with material at his grade level. Angela and Colette have been very creative in finding ways to have material presented to Luke so that he can learn in his way.

There can be no mistaking the fact that Colette and Luke are girlfriend and boyfriend. Having the two under the same roof is something of a challenge. Angela and I sat down with them and told them what behaviors are expected of them. At first, as we tried to set rules and Colette, in her annoying logical way, would question them. Luke just seemed confused. At last, I told them that if I caught them having anything that I thought resembled intercourse, that I would surgically remove their genitalia and reattach it to the other person. That they understood. Still, we keep a close eye on the two to make sure that they use proper decorum. Once, whilst Maribel was home, Luke asked exactly what I meant by “proper decorum,” to which Maribel replied, “it mean that he doesn't want you to fuck in his house.” Although I was taken aback by Maribel's coarse language, Luke completely understood.

Cat, the immortal cat that has has always lived on our property, has moved into the house. The temperatures have been quite cold and the weather miserable, so I assumed that Cat was seeking a warmer environment. She promptly claimed a pile of towels in the laundry room, and planted herself there like Cleopatra. When she saw Cat, Colette went to pet her, looked her over carefully, and proclaimed that Cat was with child … or rather with kitten. I explained that this was not possible because 1) cats do not generally go into an estrous cycle in January, and 2) Cat was entirely too old to have a litter. However, Colette seems to have the ability to sense those things, and Cat does seem to be getting rounder.

As for yours truly, Angela and I were able to take advantage of Colette and Maribel's shopping trips to get in a few spankings. If Luke didn't accompany them, then we would steal off to the guest house or entice Luke to go there himself, so that we could have a few moments alone. I keep a big-screen TV and some fine stereo equipment at the guest house, so it has always been easy to convince our children go play with the expensive toys in the guest house. None of the spankings were especially noteworthy, but they were comfortable and pleasant. Besides, with the cold weather that we've been suffering through, the warmth is plenty welcome, even if it is just on my backside.

Now that you have been updated, perhaps it might be time to once again regale you with tales or spankings past, or perhaps spankings present. Besides, I'm sure there will be plenty of spankings in my future, and I'm hopeful that there are many on your future, too. After all, there is nothing like a fantastic spanking.

All's Well That Ends Well

2009-01-21T20:34:00.003-05:00

The next day I got up early and drove into my office, ostensibly to clean out my desk. When I arrived, Ray was sitting at my desk and Richard Head was no where to be found.

“Did you give yourself a demotion,” I asked Ray, “or are you adding my job to your responsibilities?”

“Actually,” replied Ray, “I thought we could talk.”

“I'm afraid that I don't have anything to discuss.”

“At least let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

“Real coffee, or the crap they put in the machine?”

“The good stuff, of course.”

“OK,” I said, “but you're buying breakfast, too.”

We drove to the coffee shop, ordered food and drinks, and sat down. We ate in silence for a bit, then Ray said, “I don't want you to quit.”

“And I want to play centerfield for the Detroit Tigers, but we can't always have what we want.”

“This is a bad time to be out of work, Frank.”

“I don't care. I have some money in the bank. My cars are paid for. Besides the house, we don't have any debts. And if I get desperate, I can always hire out the cat for entertainment.”

“I thought your cat died, Frank.”

“I still have one left. Look, Ray, I'm sick of the bullshit. I'm sick of the whining. I'm sick of the paperwork. I'm sick of trying to meet meaningless metrics while delivering crap applications. I'm sick of the whole dance. And I'm really sick of Dick Head dumping all of his anxiety onto me. I need some time to take care of myself and my family. So I'm walking away now before I stroke out.”

Ray considered for a moment. “How about this … it is customary to give your employer two weeks notice before leaving. Take that time off and forget about this place. Then call me and let me know how you feel.”

“No. I've made up my mind.”

“Well, I'm not accepting your resignation for two weeks. Call me anyway. That can be your exit interview. In the meantime, I'm going to talk to Mr. Head. If he feels that your project is in such jeopardy, I'll take over management of the project. You would report directly to me.”

“Won't happen. Dick Head will whimper too much. He'll put all of the blame on me.”

“Let me handle that.”

I thought for a second. “I don't know, Ray. We haven't always worked so well together in the past.”

“That's because I didn't have the experience to know that you don't need any guidance. You know the client well enough that I don't really need to be involved. They trust you and I trust you. And Dick Head will be out of the picture.”

“I don't know, Ray.”

“Don't make up your mind now. Go home, take it easy, get things settled around the house. Call me in two weeks and we'll talk then.”

I finished my food and coffee, went home, and went to bed. I think better when I'm asleep. When I woke up, Angela came in, made me get naked, and … um … gave me a massage. With her tongue. Afterwards I felt much better.

I spent the next two weeks catching up on Maribel's basketball team, working with Luke to get him settled in and determining a plan for treatment and schooling, and tinkering around the house. I thought about work for about ten minutes. When it came time to call Ray, I told Angela what I had decided. She agreed with me, so I dialed my employer.

“Ray,” I told him, “I will come back under one condition. I want more money.”

“I can't do it, Frank. The economy sucks, and raises are frozen.”

“I realize that. I want a bonus. I know that you wrote performance bonuses into the contract with the client for this project.”

“Done. When you finish delivery, I'll make sure that you're well rewarded.”

“Now,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Ray, I want the bonus now. In time for Christmas. We're ahead of schedule and under budget. I know you can do that.”

After a pause, Ray said, “Done.”

“For the whole team, Ray.”

“Of course. I can sell that. You guys deserve it.”

“And I want it grossed up. I don't want everyone to lose half of their bonus to taxes.”

“I don't know, Frank.”

“So can I come and clean out my desk or do you just want me to send my stuff to me?”

“Let me see what I can do, first.”

“Just make sure my good coffee mug doesn't get broken.”

“C'mon, Frank. I need you.”

“Then gross up the bonuses. You have budget authority the account. You've told me that yourself.”

“Bonuses have to be approved by HR.”

“But not the size, just the range. Those are my terms. It's a small price to pay so that you don't have to let Dick Head screw up the whole project.”

“I can't promise for sure......”

“Yes you can, Ray.” I hoped I could count on the popularity of Barak Obama to seal this one.

At last Ray said, “Yes, I can. Okay. I'll call you later and you can give me the full status of the project.”

I rang off, then sat back with a smile. I probably would have come back without the bonus, but I knew that my project was too valuable to the account for Ray to take any chances. Besides, if my project went well and the client was happy, Ray could be in line to be a regional manager, something that he badly wanted. Even if part of the bonus money came out of Ray's pocket, it would be worth it to him.

Politics being what they are, in order to toss a bone to Dick Head, the two weeks off that I took was officially called a “suspension” for “insubordination.” But Ray made sure that it was a paid suspension. Since I have no real desire to advance into management with this company, the demerit didn't concern me. Besides, Ray would make sure that I would get good marks when I delivered this project.

It has later turned out that Richard Head was taken off of the account and given the position of “supervisor of quality management” with the regional office. “Quality management” is another word for paperwork. It was a lateral move for Dick, but he is convinced that he has more responsibility. He is very happy with the move. I am very happy. Ray is very happy. Even the client told me, in confidence, that he was happy, too.

That weekend, Bernie and her mate took Colette and Luke out for pizza, and Angela gave me a long, luscious spanking as my reward.

So there you have it. You now know why I was absent from Fantastic Spanking for the month of September. It has taken me three months to explain an absence of six weeks. Since so much happened, I'm sure that you now understand. After all, you are the finest readers on the internet. On the plus side, over the ensuing period, more has happened on the Spanko front, which has given me more stories to tell.

Despite everything, things have turned out satisfactorily. There are still challenges, to be sure, but, right now, life is good.

Scratch that. Life is fantastic.

The True Joy Of Unemployment

2009-01-13T22:05:00.003-05:00

The reminder of this story shall be told in two parts. Part one will be Angela's reaction and subsequent actions when I told her about my resignation. Part two will discuss what happened when I visited my office the next day.

After hanging up the phone, I stood up, stretched, and headed toward the kitchen to make myself a nice cop of keemun tea. I heard the phone ring in my office, but I ignored it, letting it roll over to my voicemail. Curiously, I did not feel angry, upset, or worried. I felt calm, relaxed, relieved. No more would I have to play corporate games with corporate idiots. We have some money saved for just such an emergency, and I am not averse to working at menial labor whilst I am seeking something more towards my field of expertise.

As I was preparing my beverage, Angela came wandering into the kitchen. “Taking a break?” she asked.

“Sort of,” I replied. Then I told her what had transpired over the phone, and my decision to resign.

Angela smiled. “It's about time you quit working for those idiots,” she said. “You've hated that job for years.”

This was true. One of my best and most esteemed readers, the lovely Kallisto, summed up my feelings quite eloquently. She wrote to me that it's “hard to respect someone who hasn't earned your respect. There are some things due to a boss, simply because he is the boss, but I don't think respect is necessarily one of them.” Further, I felt like Richard Head did not respect me, because, despite my experience with this client, he did not seem to trust me. I was feeling like a break from working might be a good solution to allow me to handle some other aspects of my life.

Angela and I talked for a few minutes, and then I saw a twinkle in her eye. “We have a problem here. You didn't talk to me before you quit, young man,” she said. “I think that something needs to be done about that.” I could tell by the sly smile on Angela's lips and the tone of her voice that she only meant one thing.

“Shall we retire to the guest house?” I asked.

“I have a better idea,” Angela replied. Just then I heard Colette at the back door, returning from school. Since his hospitalization, Luke had not yet returned to school due to his convalescence. He spent much of his time his bedroom, and we encouraged him to, when he felt up to it, to do some reading. It did not matter what he read … comic books, graphic novels, joke books, anything to keep the synapses in his brain clicking in an organized fashion. Luke took to this idea, so we made sure that he was supplied with plenty of reading material.

Angela intercepted Colette just inside the door. “Do you have homework to do tonight?” Angela asked. Colette responded with a frustrated sigh, which usually meant that she had plenty. “Why don't you and Luke go to the library where it's quiet. You can work on your homework and Luke can get some more books.” Colette thought this was an excellent idea, and ran up the stairs to see if Luke was amenable, which he was. And, since Colette had recently secured her drivers license, Angela allowed her to take the car. Angela's car. I like my car too much to let anyone else drive it.

We watched Colette and Luke drive off. When they were out of sight, I followed Angela back into the house. She told me to wait for her in the living room, and she wandered off to make her preparations. Five minutes later she returned, dressed in her most sharp and professional business suit and carrying a briefcase. “Sit down, Mr. Spakowiak,” she said. She tried to look stern, but broke into a smirk almost immediately. I sat down on the sofa, and Angela took a chair across from me.

She set the briefcase down on the coffee table that was between us. “Mr. Spakowiak,” she said, “You have been a bad employee. Now, do you know what we do with bad employees?”

“Um, you spank them?”

“That's exactly right. And do you know how we spank them?”

“Um, by hitting them on the butt?”

Angela snorted, which she does very prettily, then resumed her stern act. “That's not funny,” she said. “We spank them on their bare bottoms.” At that point she flipped open the briefcase and took out a short leather strap, a hairbrush, and a wooden paddle.

“Now stand up and take off your pants. You won't be needing them for a while. Now give me that hairbrush, get over here and get over my knees!”

Bare-assed, I handed her the brush and draped myself over her lap. Angela patted my butt with the smooth side of the brush, which sent a shiver through me.

She asked, “Now, how many years have you worked here?”

“Twenty,” I responded. She rapped my right cheek smartly ten times, and then ten times on the left, counting out each swat. My buns started to burn.

“How many good reviews have you gotten?”

“Twenty.” Ten more whacks landed sharply on each side of my bottom.

“And how many annual raises have you gotten?”

“Um, three?” The next twenty swats were harder than the previous, making me squirm seriously.

“No, you've had raises almost every year.”

It was my turn to snort. “Yeah. Almost.”

Angela assaulted my rear with the brush again. “Don't be a smart-aleck,” she said when she finished. “Now get off my lap and get me that strap!”

Angela had me lay across the ottoman with my ass pointing up. The strap is not long, but it is thick and sturdy and packs a nice wallop. She kept with her twenty theme, giving me twenty strokes that were methodical and exquisitely painful.

“On your feet!” she ordered. I jumped to her command. “Now, I am going to use the paddle. These swats are going to be hard. They are going to leave nice, big bruises on your butt. And they will be very, very painful!”

And indeed they were. Quite wonderfully so, in fact. When she was finished, my butt did indeed feel as if it would have some nice bruises that I would enjoy for a few days. “Have you learned your lesson?” Angela asked.

“Yes, indeed, my dear,” I responded. “Now shall we retire to the bedroom?” Angela didn't need any more convincing.

We were still in the bedroom when the children returned home. Angela finished dressing and came out first. I followed soon behind her, smiling and feeling calm and pleasant. I walked over and kissed Angela, then planted a big smooch on Colette's chin.

“Did you enjoy your trip to the library?” I asked.

“It was okay,” replied Colette.

I kissed Angela again. “Don't they make a cute couple?” I asked her.

“Yes, they do,” replied my wife. “Why don't you guys get cleaned up for dinner.”

As the kids were walking away, I heard Luke ask Colette, “Are you parents acting weird?”

“They always act weird whenever they both take a nap in the afternoon,” responded my daughter.

The next day I went in to the office for what I assumed would be the final time. However, that will have to be a story for another day. For this day, while it may not have been my best, at least part of it was fantastic.

The Joy Of Unemployment

2009-01-09T22:16:00.002-05:00

The story of how I came to lose my job (sort of) is not really an exciting one, but I did say that I would tell you about it. I guess that I will have to make this interesting enough so that you will read until the end.

OK, I get a spanking at the end.

Now that I have your interest, I can begin. Between Maribel leaving for Israel, the death of two dear pets, Luke's arrest and subsequent hospitalization followed by his moving in, I had missed several days of work. Now, I work for a computer company as what is commonly, and sometimes derisively, called a “contractor.” So I get paid by Company A, but I actually do work for the “client,” Company B (although without the boogie woogie bugle boy). I am a team leader, which means that there are a team of people who work on a large project, and I am responsible for for doing the paperwork to keep them busy. So my job is about 50% technical, 50% team leadership, and 50% paperwork and meetings. Since I refuse to work 60 hour weeks, I have developed tools on the computer to streamline the resource reports, status reports, progress reports, and all of the other reports. Further, I hand-picked the members of my team because I knew that they didn't need a lot of direction. So my team functions just fine without me.

For some reason, my superior does not seem to understand this. He thinks that when I am absent that my team's progress comes to a screeching halt. His name is Richard Head, but I call him Dick.

In any event, Dick Head called me shortly after Luke moved in, complaining that Company B was not happy with the progress of my project. I knew that this was crap because I had just spoken with my contact at Company B, and they had no complaints. This person did not even realize that I had missed so much time. Then Dick complained that my reports were not up to date. I knew this was crap, also, because the responsibility generating Dick's reports was rotated amongst the team members, so everyone on the team knew how create them. Finally, Dick told me that there were several issues that were jeopardizing my project that were not being addressed.

“Dick,” I responded, “that's crap.” Tact is not always one of my strong points. “I've read the status reports that my team sent you, and I've talked to everyone on my team. I've been monitoring my emails. I haven't seen or heard of any issues that the customer is concerned about that someone on my team has not address. If there's a problem, it's the fact that your panicking.”

“Frank,” said Dick, “there are several milestone dates that have not been met.”

“Dick,” I responded, “that's crap. Everything so far has been delivered on time. The only problem is that we are waiting on the customer to verify the results.”

“I have no way of knowing that.”

“That's crap, too. They have been clearly documented on the status reports as well as the milestone reports. The customer is aware of this and has accepted responsibility for it.”

This went on for a few more minutes. At last, I told Dick that I thought I heard my wife calling and rang off. I actually did hear Angela calling. She was calling the dentist to make an appointment for Colette, but my quota of Dick Head had been reached for the day.

Later that day, I received a call from our account manager. Ray and I have known each other for nearly twenty years. We both started with the company at about the same time. He took the management track whilst I went the technical route. One of the main reasons I took on this project was because he was the manager of the account. Ray knows that I have my own way of doing things. While they may not be his way, he knows that I get things done, they get done on time, and they get done right.

“Frank,” said Ray, “you have to stop telling Dick that he's full of crap.”

“But he is full of crap, Ray.”

“I know, but you have to stop telling him that. He's still your boss.”

“Ray,” I responded, “that's crap.” My tact hadn't improved. “The agreement we had when you asked me to lead this project was that I was free to lead the project in my way, with minimal interference. Dick has ridiculous status requirements, but I have satisfied every one of them, and yet he isn't satisfied.”

“Well, Dick has a job to do, too, and ….”

“And he does a damn poor job of it, Ray, and you know it. The only reason that I don't throttle the son-of-a-bitch is that I'm usually not there to do it.”

“Speaking of that, Dick would like you to work full time in the office for a while.”

“That's not going to happen.”

“I agree with him, Frank.”

“Why, Ray?” I asked. I was really angry now.

“Dick will feel more comfortable if you're here.”

“It's not my job to to make him comfortable. It's my job to deliver this project to the client.

“He's your boss, Frank, you need to respect him.”

That comment made me really, really angry. Then I decided on the best course of action in this situation. My anger evaporated once the solution became clear. I responded calmly.

“Okay, Ray, I'll be in the office tomorrow. And I will make sure that Dick Head is happy. And then I will clean out my desk and say my goodbyes. I quit, Ray.” And I hung up the phone.

In our next chapter, I shall describe what happened once Angela discovered what I had done.

Now That Luke Has Moved In.......

2008-12-30T22:52:00.002-05:00

Now, let's return to the saga of Colette's boyfriend, Luke, who, when I left you before Christmas, was suffering from a mental illness crisis.

Bernie had settled Luke’s parents down, and was explaining to them that they had a very sick son, and that if they wanted to throw him out of the house that they could potentially be guilty of child abuse, for which they could go to jail. I doubted that would actually occur, but Bernie is a police detective, so she knows better than I, or at least can threaten with more authority. When I caught Bernie’s eye, she asked me, “How is he?”

“Quieter,” I said. “But he needs help, now.”

Bernie started to follow me back to Luke’s room, and his parents began to follow. “Stay there,” she ordered.

“That’s my son!” responded his father, with some vehemence.

“Right now,” Bernie shot back, “he’s in my custody.”

“You can’t take him to jail!” his mother screamed.

“He’s not going to jail,” Bernie told her. “He’s going to the hospital.”

Luke’s parents stayed behind with Angela, and Bernie and I went back to see Luke. He and Colette were still holding hands. “Luke,” I said when we got there, “This is Bernie. She is with the state police. Colette’s mom and I have known Bernie for a long time. She’s going to help you.”

Bernie said, “Luke, you appear to be having a health crisis. You are showing severe symptoms of what is known as bi-polar disorder. Do you understand what I am saying?” Luke nodded. “If it is okay with you, I’d like to take you to the hospital.”

Luke stiffened considerable. Colette put her arm around him and told him, “It’s okay, Lukey. I’ll be with you the whole way.”

“Is it okay with my parents”? Luke asked.

Bernie responded, “It’s not up to them, it’s only up to you.”

After a brief pause, Luke said, “If they can make not feel like this, I’ll go with you.”

Normally, when a police officer takes a person having a mental illness crisis to the hospital, they will put that person in handcuffs, both for the officer’s protection as well as the person in crisis. If the officer is properly trained, his is all explained to the person in a slow, non-threatening manner. However, because we all knew Luke so well, and because Bernie was not actually on an official police call, Bernie decided that the restraints were not necessary. We helped Luke to Bernie’s car, and, with Colette accompanying, he was driven to the community mental health facility.

Fortunately, I was acquainted with the intake person at our local mental health facility (you’ll forgive me, but I hate the term “mental hospital”), so it was not necessary to resort to fisticuffs this time. To show you the stigma that inpatient mental health facilities have acquired from nightmares of the past, when Luke discovered that the building was basically a hospital, like any other hospital, with small, antiseptic rooms, white sheets, white walls, and such, he relaxed considerably. He later confided to me that he was afraid the place would be filled with padded rooms, strait jackets, chains, and large, thug-like orderlies.

I left Bernie and Colette with Luke and returned alone speak with Luke’s parents. This time they let me in without requiring a police escort. I explained, again, that Luke had a brain disorder, that he was ill, that he was not going to turn into a drooling, psychopathic lunatic, and that he could still lead a decent, productive life, but that it would take lots of time for him to heal. His mom sat and listened silently, but his father looked positively uncomfortable. I was afraid that he still thought that Luke was just rebellious and lazy, and could simply get better by changing his attitude. When I asked him if that was what he was feeling, he said nothing, but got up and left the room.

When he was gone, Luke’s mom told me what I had kind of guessed. Luke’s father had an aunt who had committed suicide when he was a lad. This lady was always considered that crazy relative who never went out and always stayed in her rooms with the lights off and the drapes drawn. One day, Luke’s father and his parental units were visiting this aunt. Before leaving, the woman was told that she would feel better if she just took a nice, hot shower. Two days later, the poor woman was found dead, hanging from her shower head with a cord around her neck. Luke’s father always blamed his parents for his aunts death. I also suspected that Luke’s father was in denial about Luke’s illness because he feared that it was the fault of his genes that his son was ill.

Now, there definitely is a hereditary component to mental illness. However, I would never consider that this was anyone’s “fault.” We know that there are hereditary predispositions to other diseases as well, such as diabetes and some types of cancers, but we don’t blame the parents for those disorders.

At this point, I brought up my feelings that Luke should live with us for a while as he was recovering. Luke’s mom was quiet for a long time, and then told me that she would discuss this option with her husband. I told her that she did not have to make a decision right away, but would need to let me know before Luke was released. I left shortly thereafter, knowing what the answer would likely be.

Luke’s mom called the next day and confirmed my suspicion. Luke would come home with us.

Luke spent about a week in the hospital. He was diagnosed with not a bipolar disorder, but with a schizoaffective disorder. This is sort of like a combination of bipolar and schizophrenia. Luke had told the doctors that sometimes his thoughts were confused and jumbled, and that they would coalesce into strange sounds. This, in combination with his symptoms of depression and mania, led to his diagnosis. He was given medications and a referral to a therapist, and, with his parents written permission, was discharged to me. I won’t mention the pathetic lack of supportive care that Luke or I were offered, the absence of any information about his disease, and no discussion as to what to expect as the disease ran its course. This is a universal failure of our health care system, and something that I suspect that I shall rant about another time.

So Luke has moved in and taken up residence on the third floor of the barn. Our new resident has presented a number of challenges, not the least of which is the fact that his girlfriend sleeps in the same house, one floor below. So far, the medications have kept Luke stable, but he is still growing, so his brain will change considerably for a few years yet, so we are on the lookout for signs of relapse. There are no support groups for adolescents with mental illness in our community, which is also not unusual, so we are trying to start one. Luke seems accepting of his disease. Angus has paid us a visit and spent a lot of time talking to Luke about what he went through when he was first diagnosed. It is very difficult for Angus to travel, yet when I first told him that Luke had taken up residence with us, he immediately offered to come and meet Luke. Angus is a good soul.

Luke’s parents have been quiet so far, which is to be expected. There is a period of anger and grief that everyone has to go through when they find out that a loved one, especially one of their children, has a serious illness. Further, it is very hard to admit that sometimes you are not able to properly care for a sick child. I think they will come around in time. I have not put a timetable Luke’s stay. At this point, I am considering Luke a member of the family.

Another challenge that I have faced has been with my employer. I have had to miss some time from work in order to get Luke settled and cared for, and this has not pleased my employer. I was not on this imaginary earth to make a corporate entity, who really does not give a shit about me except as far as I can used to make them money, especially happy. Besides, I have made them considerable money. I was not averse to pointing both of these items out to my slave masters. When they ordered me to spend more time with them and less with Luke, I told them exactly which small, dark, smelly orifice they could insert their pointy little heads into.

And then I quit.

But that is a story for another day.

A Spanko Christmas Carole

2008-12-24T17:33:00.002-05:00

Rather than continue with tales of the trials and tribulations of the Spanko household, I thought that I’d offer something that combines the warmth of the imminent holidays with the warmth of a spanking. Thus, as my Christmas present to you, allow me to present a classic holiday song that I just made up. Yes, it is a riff on a Christmas standard, something that has been done a thousand times on a thousand spanking blogs. However, this one will have the added benefit of your basic Fantastic Spanking twist. If you do not partake in Christmas celebrations, please consider this a friendship gift.

Rupert The Red-Bunned Reindeer

Rupert the red-bunned reindeer
Had a very shiny tush
And if you ever saw it
It would surely make you blush

All of the other reindeer
Used to laugh at Rupert’s buns
They never let poor Rupert
Join in any Reindeer fun

Then one foggy Christmas Eve
Santa came to say
“Rupert with your butt so bright
Won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?”

At this point in our song, it is necessary to pause and offer a bit of an explanation. As you’ve undoubtedly ascertained by now, Rupert’s butt was red because he was a spanko. Please don’t ask how a reindeer could be a spanko, just go with it. I promise that I won’t ask you how reindeer can fly. In any event, Rupert enjoyed the fine art of spanking, and would partake in said spankings with his elfen friend and fellow spanko, Mimi. Of course, since reindeer do not wear clothes, after a session with Mimi, Rupert’s red bottom would be on display for all to see. Since Rupert was something of an outsider, anyway, this fact did not bother him. Also, since Rupert was a Christmas reindeer, his butt didn’t just redden, it would glow like a beacon. After an especially good spanking, Rupert’s butt could be seen for miles.

On the particular Christmas Eve in question, apparently Rudolf was suffering from a severe head cold. This caused the glow of his red nose to dwindle until it was barely lit. Santa went looking for a replacement, and then saw Rupert’s red buns lighting up the horizon. He summoned Rupert and asked if he would like to lead his team. Rupert naturally was honored, and agreed immediately.

So all of the reindeer were hitched to Santa’s sleigh, with Rupert at the head. There was a problem, however. Since it was Rupert’s butt that provided the illumination, he would have to fly backwards. After several attempts at takeoff, which all ended in near-catastrophic crashes, Santa realized that reindeer were not designed to fly backwards. Suddenly, Christmas was in jeopardy. Fortunately, Mimi, being the elf that she was, had a solution. The other eight reindeer were perfectly capable of pulling the sleigh, they simply needed Rupert for the light. So Mimi devised a sling that would hang below the sleigh that Rupert could comfortably dangle from, ass first. Thus the glowing rump was facing forward, providing the proper lighting.

As the team began to take off for their yearly trip, they realized that they had another problem. Rupert’s butt had begun to fade. Just like any spanked bottom, the redness will eventually go away. But Mimi had a solution for that, too. She disappeared and then returned moments later holding her trusty paddle. She jumped on Rupert’s back, facing his tail, and smacked him on his ass. The brilliant glow returned. Santa would be able to safely navigate the globe, delivering toys to all of the good little boys and girls. Rupert and Mimi had saved Christmas!

Then all the reindeer loved him
As they shouted out with class,
“Rupert the red-bunned reindeer,
Saving Christmas with his Ass!”

It must have been quite a sight, seeing Santa Claus flying through the air, being capably pulled by eight flying reindeer, with a ninth dangling from beneath the sled, ridden by a girl elf, backside glowing like a lantern. The periodic CRACK! sound heard that night would have been Mimi’s paddle landing on Rupert’s haunches, keeping the guiding light shining.

It is not known if Rupert was a part of Santa’s deliveries for more than that one year, nor is it clearly understood why Rupert’s butt was immortalized in song but Mimi was not. But, since Christmas is a mystical and magical time, especially for children, those trivialities are not important.

The only important thing was that, thanks to Rupert, everyone had a fantastic Christmas.
Whether or not Rupert, Rudolf, Olive, or any other extra reindeer fly this year, on behalf of all of us at Fantastic Spanking, please have a safe, peaceful, and joyous holiday season. I wish all of you the gift of Fantastic Spankings now and throughout 2009 as well.

And Now, Back To Luke

2008-12-23T22:12:00.003-05:00

I did not intend for the discussion of the end of my summer and the start of my fall to take until winter. Further, I don’t want my loyal and wonderful readers to think that Fantastic Spanking is no longer about, well, spanking. However, some things cannot be helped. Perhaps, as a Christmas present to you, I shall present an actual spanking story. But, for now, it is time to return to the boy Luke.

The Luke front was rather quiet for about two weeks after his adventure with jail. He went home, saw a doctor, and received a referral to a psychiatrist. Our town is fortunate in that there are a reasonable number of psychiatric doctors who work with adolescents (most places are severely underserved in this area), but it was still a month before his appointment. Luke started spending a considerable amount of time with Colette. Angela and I chose to carefully monitor this situation, but it appeared to be a case of “new boy-girlfriend-itis.” Besides, Colette and Angus were friends, so Colette was not afraid of mental illness. She is also quite an assertive girl, and Luke is not a large fellow, so I was not afraid of any unwanted physical advances, at least those initiated by Luke.

I had asked Colette to let me know if she saw any changes in Luke’s behavior that concerned her. For a week, everything was fine. Then Colette started getting calls and text messages from Luke at very late or very early hours. He did not seem to be interested in food. He seemed to be irrationally happy. Angela, Colette, and I sat down with him on the Saturday and went over the basics of mental illness and bipolar disorders. We explained that mental illnesses are due to physical problems with the brain, not because of a lack of discipline or character. We told him that we were not doctors, but that his behavior, while not yet dangerous, were clear symptoms of some kind of problem, and that the psychiatrist would be able to determine the problem and prescribe medication that would help him. We also explained that bipolar disorders are not, at this time, curable in the general sense, but are chronic diseases that require lifetime management, like diabetes or epilepsy. We told him that there was no reason why he could not lead a reasonable, productive life if he did indeed manage his disorder. Luke seemed to understand what we told him, and indeed confided that he did not feel “right” and was glad that relief was possible.

Unfortunately, Luke’s parents did not seem to be of the same mind. Despite considerable evidence to the contrary, they continued to tell him that he wasn’t really sick, that he need to “apply himself” more, study harder, and stop hanging around with “bad” people. I found that last one particularly irksome since the person with whom he spent the most time was my youngest daughter. If Luke’s parents thought that Colette was a “bad” person, he was going to have to deal with Angela, and nothing stirs my lovely wife more than someone doing wrong by her daughters.

The situation came to a head one evening when Colette was paying Luke a visit after school. I found out later that Luke had not attended classes that day, but I did not know it at the time. I only knew that she was to be going there at the conclusion of the school day.

It was about 4 pm when the phone rang. I answered, and before I could even say “hello,” Colette began screaming, “DADDY! Luke is really sick and his parents won’t do anything!” I found this statement somewhat bewildering, so I asked for clarification. “Lukey (Colette’s pet name for the boy) is curled up in his bedroom, crying and shivering, and his parents are just yelling at him!” Alarmed, I asked to speak to one of Luke’s parents.

Colette put Luke’s father on the phone, and I asked about the situation. “The kid decided that he didn’t want to go to school today,” he said. “I told him that if he didn’t go, that he could find another place to live. He moped out of the house, but came back an hour later and went right to his bedroom. So I told him that I was going to pack up his stuff!”

I heard Colette begin shouting obscenities, which would not do. Luke’s father returned the phone to her, and I told her to remain calm and wait outside of the house. Then I called Bernie and informed her of the situation.

There are little-used laws in most states that allow a police officer to have a person who is clearly suffering from a mental illness crisis to be committed to a hospital for 24 hours without the consent of the person or a judge. Most police do not use this authority because they are afraid of being sued, despite the fact that no one has ever won a judgment against a police officer for using this authority. I was afraid that Luke needed to go to the hospital, but that his parents would forbid it. Bernie could authorize hospitalization for 24 hours over his parents’ objections, and if he did not respond in that time, the hospital could keep him longer.

Bernie usually works in plain clothes, but she changed into a uniform for this occasion. She met Angela and I at Luke’s house, where we found Colette pacing frantically on the front sidewalk. We heard commotion coming from the house, and indeed Luke’s parents were shouting. Bernie pounded on the door, announced herself, and proceeded to enter the house before she could be invited in. Angela, Colette, and I followed her. Colette showed us where Luke’s bedroom was, and there we found the commotion.

Bernie’s presence, uniform and all, brought the room to silence. Then Luke’s father blurted, “See what’s happened now, you little idiot! The neighbors have called the police!”

“No they didn’t,” responded Bernie. “I was called by a concerned friend, who said that there was a sick child here that was being abused. And, from what I’ve witnessed so far, they were exactly correct!” This brought Luke’s father up short.

Bernie and Angela herded Luke’s parents to the living room, and Colette and I went over to see about Luke. He was indeed curled up into a ball, shaking uncontrollably. His back was to me, but when I looked over him I could see that his eyes were as wide as saucers and filled with terror. “Go away,” he whimpered.

“Fuck you,” responded Colette. I’m sure that she meant it in the nicest possible way. However, sometimes I think that little girl is perhaps a little too much like her father.

I beckoned Colette to silence, then sat down on the edge of Luke’s bed. “Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” I asked him, quietly.

“I don’t know,” he said, shakily. “I’m scared. I can’t move. I can’t stop shaking. I think I’m going to puke.”

When a person is in crisis, I know better than to make any sudden movements or touch them without asking them first. “Luke,” I asked, “is it okay if I put my hand on your neck and head.” Luke drew a shaky breath, then nodded his head. His forehead was warm and clammy, and the muscles of his neck were completely rigid. I took his pulse, and found it to be extremely rapid but strong. “Do you hurt anywhere?” I asked.

“Only my gut,” he replied.

“Have you thrown up?” Luke shook his head.

“Okay, this is going to seem like a silly question, but please bear with me. Tell me exactly what you are thinking right now.”

“I can’t think!” he almost screamed. “My brain is full of stuff, but none of it makes sense. I’m so sad I feel like that all of my friends have died! I want to out and run as fast as I can until I either crash into something or collapse and die!”

The symptoms seemed to fit. Luke is suffering from a bipolar disorder, I thought. But I am not a medical professional. He needed to see a doctor.

Colette came over. “Luke,” she asked, quietly, “can I please hold your hand?” Suddenly, the shaking subsided somewhat, and Luke rolled over onto his back and offered his hand, which Colette gently took.

I realized at that point that Luke had just one chance if he was going have any chance at recovery. He was going to have to come and live with us.

Tomorrow, I hope, I shall complete this story of how the Spanko family grew by one.

Angus: Not Cured, But Recovering

2008-12-16T21:46:00.002-05:00

Angus’ symptoms soon came back, and he was admitted to a psychiatric hospital and put on Thorazine and Haldol. Please note that this was about 1983. In 1983, we were just coming out of the dark ages in terms of treatment for mental illness. The medications were still poor, were very sedating, and had horrible side effects. Patients were frequently warehoused in hospitals because the medical system didn’t know what else to do with them. If someone with schizophrenia can be lucky, Angus was lucky in that he knew that he was ill, and he realized that the unusual, out-of-place voices and vision that he had were not coming from external stimuli but were rather a result of his disease. That fact did make life any easier for him, but he was able to communicate with doctors when his symptoms got worse, and did not resist taking medication.

Didn’t resist, that is, until the medication made him sicker.

Angus was also fortunate that in that his parents accepted his diagnosis and wanted to help. No, help is not the correct word. Angus’ parents wanted to be part of his recovery. There is a subtle but important difference between the two. You might be trying to help a person with schizophrenia by trying to get them to leave, go to school, get a job, et cetera, but these efforts will fail. After a severe attack of the disease, a schizophrenic cannot just go back to what used to be his normal life, any more than a person who loses his legs in a car accident can just go back to being a star on the track team. The schizophrenic, like the amputee, needs time to heal. He needs support and rehabilitation. He needs to find out new ways of doing things, and to realize that some things he will no longer be able to do. Most of all, he needs time and patients. He has to heal at his pace, not at yours.

Back to Angus’ parents. They undertook a process to learn as much as they could about Angus’ disease. They listened to Angus when he told them about his hallucinations, and they did not deny them. When Angus was tired or irritable and just wanted to stay in his room, they left him alone. They let Angus know that it was okay that he was sick, for him to want to isolate himself, and that if he did want to come out to talk, that they would be there to listen, but they weren’t going to force him to talk. They told Angus that he would always have a place to stay with them. In return, Angus promised them that it was okay if they monitored his medication to make sure he was taking it regularly. He told them that, when he left the house, he would let them know where he was going so that if he didn’t come home they would know where to start looking for him. Perhaps most importantly, he promised to let his doctors share everything with his parents, that they could call the doctors to report worsening of symptoms, and that if they thought he needed to go to the hospital, he would go. They trusted Angus, and he trusted them.

Angus and I talked for hours that day. We talked about the dopey stuff, like school, girls, sports, and what the worst of the new rock bands were. We talked about our dreams, our plans for the future, as unrealistic as they might be. We talked about our sexual exploits (this was a very short discussion since neither of us had much of any sexual exploits at the time). Mostly, we talked about nothing, which is what friends mostly talk about. I left knowing that Angus was feeling more peaceful than before I got there. However, I also left feeling scared shitless for my friend.

Remember when I said that he gladly took his meds until they made him sicker? I had returned to school, and near the end of the semester, I got a call from his dad that Angus was back in the hospital. The medications had started to make Angus frequently nauseous, and had given him twitches in his hands and face. He had started to drool. Then his kidneys began to fail. His doctor was reluctant to reduce or eliminate the meds because they were controlling his schizophrenia. After peeing all over himself one night because he was too doped up to get out of bed, he struck a deal with his parents to slowly stop the medication to see if these problems went away. They did. But the hallucinations became worse, and Angus’ thoughts became so scrambled that consciousness was agony. He managed to obtain some hashish, and that calmed him down, and some cocaine mellowed the visions. But when the drugs wore off, his symptoms returned with a vengeance. He couldn’t sleep. He started taking his meds again, but they didn’t help, and he began to slip into psychosis. Finally, Angus remembered his promises to his parents, and agreed to let them take him to the hospital.

Except that the hospital wouldn’t admit him. Angus was responsive when he arrived, and the admittance person said that because “he wasn’t a danger to himself or others,” he didn’t need to be hospitalized. Nothing could convince this person otherwise. Not the hallucinations. Not the psychotic symptoms. Not the extreme agitation. Finally, Angus reached over and punched the admittance man in the nose. Even that didn’t immediately achieve the sought results. Instead, the police were called. However, when the police arrived and Angus was screaming at the admittance man that he was going to “tear off your fucking horns and shove them up your shiny red ass, just below your fucking pointy tail,” the police said that they couldn’t take custody of Angus because he was “too fucked up,” and Angus was admitted.

Angus later told me that he wasn’t really hallucinating that badly at the time, but the admittance person was too stupid to realize that Angus needed help right then. So Angus got pissed and drilled the guy in the face, then purposefully started ranting about devils because he knew it would scare the cops and get him admitted. Angus said if he described an asshole, the cops would know he wasn’t hallucinating. My friend was sick, but he wasn’t stupid.

This time Angus spent six months in the hospital. For the first three months, he was mostly psychotic, and usually sedated. He remembers very little from that time. But then God, or at least medical science, intervened. Some of the early, second-generation schizophrenia medication had started to come out, and Angus was given that. It started to work. The psychosis finally receded, the side-effects were much less severe, and the hospital was able to successfully treat his ailing kidneys.

Lest you think the story ends here, I should now like to point out that it took Angus almost ten years to achieve some long-term stability. He had almost two dozen hospitalizations during that time period. He would occasionally disappear for several days, leaving his parents petrified that he had come to a sad end. He always reappeared, thank goodness, often calling his parents, or sometimes me, to pick him up since he had no idea how he had gotten to where he was.

It was about this time that I discovered an organization called NAMI, the National Alliance On Mental Illness. They are a wonderful group that offers support groups and classes to those who suffer from mental illness, as well as their families and friends.

I need to pause here. Please take a moment to scroll to the top of the screen and once again read the description of my little corner of the internet. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

OK, welcome back. Hopefully, you noticed the part where it says that everything in this blog is NOT REAL. At this point I feel the need to clarify that statement. I, Francis Spakowiak, a.k.a. Frank Spanko, am imaginary. I, and all of my exploits, are fictional, made up by the strange and twisted imagination of my author. However ……

NAMI is real. And they really do help people. A lot.

NAMI offers a class called Peer-To-Peer, which is for people who are recovering from a mental illness. It is taught by others with mental illness, not by some doctor or anyone else who has not actually experienced first-hand what it is like to suffer from the disease. The class talks about how the brain works, what breaks down when someone has a mental illness, how the meds work, how to recognize when they are suffering a relapse, and where to seek help when they do. Most importantly, the class teaches its students how to cope.

After attending the first two weeks of the class, Angus told me that he “learned more about his disease than eleven years of fucking doctor and hospital visits.” Angus likes to say “fuck” a lot, and I like to type the word.

The class is also free, which is important because so many people with a mental illness cannot work, so they survive on social security and Medicare benefits. If they are lucky, they get some help from their family, too.

Today, Angus lives alone in a very neat, small apartment about two states away. Whenever I happen to be passing through his state, I try to take time to stop and see him. We speak on the phone occasionally, and email frequently. Angus works primarily as a health care journalist, writing articles on mental illness, medications, treatments, and ways to cope. He is an excellent blogger, and his blog receives several thousand hits a day in my imaginary world. Despite this success, he rarely leaves his apartment. He does not own a car, and is afraid to drive or ride in one. On the rare occasion that he travels, he refuses to fly, but rather will take the bus or train. He used to do most of his research at the local library, but now does most of it on the internet. He says that the internet has saved his life, because it helped him stay in touch with so many people without having to leave his apartment. He is a wiz at VOIP and video-conferencing. He still sees and hears the devil, but has learned to ignore it when it is angry and converse with it when it is not. In a way, Angus’ imaginary friend is real. TO HIM.

I used to feel sorry for Angus because of his reclusiveness. Then I thought of myself. I work from home. I don’t travel much. I often world rather not leave the comfort and familiarity of my apple barn-turned-house. I don’t really like flying, although I will when it makes sense. I take meds for my ills. And I spend a lot of time on the internet. So I needn’t feel sorry for him because I’m not really much different than he. Which, when you think about it, is pretty fantastic. Except, perhaps, that my imaginary friend is indeed imaginary, but, then again, so am I.

Although, if I am imaginary, and I have an imaginary friend, that might mean, by the rule of double negatives, that my imaginary friend is actually real.

More About Angus

2008-12-15T21:58:00.004-05:00

Angus was alone in his bedroom. The room was dark, and the blinds were closed, shutting out the sunlight. The pungent smell of tobacco filled the room, and there was an ashtray that was filled to overflowing with ashes and butts. Empty cigarette packs and dirty clothes littered the floor. Angus’ hair was long, even for the early eighties, and unkempt, and it looked like he hadn’t shaved or bathed in a while. He was curled up in a ball on his bed with his back to me, and he appeared to be sleeping.

“Angus?” I called quietly.

“Go away,” he responded, without moving.

“Fuck you,” I said in response. Of course, I meant it in the nicest possible way.

Angus whirled on me, eyes wild and teeth flashing like an animal. I was startled at first, but just stood and stared at him. After a few seconds he relaxed and slumped back down on his bed.

“Holy fuck, Frank,” he said. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“You look like shit, Angus.”

“Thanks. So do you.” Considering I usually walked around in old jeans and ratty t-shirts, and was not yet inclined to shave daily, he was probably right. We were friends, after all.

Angus sat up and motioned for me to sit, so I started to join him on his bed, but first I flicked on the light. “Turn if off,” Angus told me.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because the devil can’t see me in the dark.” This, too, seemed odd, but I complied.

“What do you mean by the devil can’t see you in the dark.”

“There’s a devil that follows me around, driving me nuts, telling me how evil I am, how I hurt people. But he can’t see me in the dark. He’s outside the window right now.”

I peeked out the window. “No devil there,” I told him.

“He’s there, all right. You just can’t see him.” I sensed fear in Angus’ voice.

I thought for a moment, then blurted out “Angus, that’s bullshit.”

Angus sat up straight as a rod. His eyes were wild with fear and hatred. Then he sat back and rubbed his eyes. When he finished, they were calmer.

“I know that,” he said. “But I can’t get the thoughts out of my head. When I look out the window, I see the devil. When the lights are on, I hear the devil. He tells me all of the things I’m going to do, like kill and eat little children. He blames all of my problems, my family’s problems, on my violent behavior. He even blames my sister’s death on me!”

“Your sister’s dead?” I asked incredulously.

“No, dammit, she’s fine. But the devil keeps telling me she’s dead. He showed me her funeral!”

I had never known Angus to be violent, either. I considered for a moment. “Angus,” I said, “You are seriously fucked up.”

“No shit!” he responded, and then he laughed. At that point, his mom burst into the room.

“Are you all right, honey,” she asked him. Then I saw the smile on his face. She turned around and gave me a big, long hug. “You must be a miracle worker. I haven’t seen Angus smile for weeks!” Angus’ mom was quite sincere, so, at that point, I really knew that something was seriously wrong.

Angus told me what he had gone through since we had last seen each other. Apparently, Angus’ thoughts had been gradually getting confusing and bizarre since his senior year in high school. At the time, he attributed it to the stress of graduating, but the problem got worse. He had moved out because he was convinced that his parents were planning to kill him. He moved into a small, ramshackle house that he shared with five other guys. He tried alcohol, marijuana, cocaine, and quaaludes to calm his thoughts. Often, the drugs worked, but never for very long, and when he came down from them, the problem worsened. He started smoking because the nicotine calmed his nerves, and admitted that his nerves needed a lot of calming.

Angus’ parents filled in the rest. Two months previous, Angus had purchased and taken a considerable amount of different controlled substances, trying to find a combination that would “get rid of the devil.” He had passed out on the street. One of his roommates apparently alerted the police, but did not stay around for them to arrive. The roommate also took whatever drugs Angus might have been carrying, although it is unknown whether this was done for selfish or altruistic reasons. Either way, Angus was taken to the hospital. When he regained consciousness, he began screaming about being chased by demons who wanted to kill him, and desperately tried to leave. Instead, Angus was held down, restrained, and sedated.

It took Angus about three days to come back to his senses. At that point, he saw a psychiatrist. He described what he thought he saw, answered several thousand more questions, and was promptly diagnosed with schizophrenia.

At this point in the narrative, I find it necessary to pause and lecture a bit. First, take most of what you’ve heard or seen about schizophrenia on television or in movies and throw it into the trash bin, since it is probably bullshit. Schizophrenia is not split or multiple personalities. Schizophrenics are not prone to violence, any more so than the rest of the population. Schizophrenia is not caused by bad parenting. Schizophrenia cannot be cured by simply not wanting to be schizophrenic. I could go on ad nauseum.

Schizophrenia is a disease of the brain. It is a thought disorder. It occurs when there is a chemical imbalance in the brain, or the brain does not process the chemicals correctly. Its sufferers can have visual and auditory hallucinations (seeing or hearing things), severe anxiety, confused thinking, hyper- or hypo-sexuality, alogia (lacking speech), anhedonia (unable to experience pleasure), and catatonia, among others. While theories abound, it is not known what actually causes schizophrenia, although ones heredity does play a part. About 1 percent of the population suffers from some form of schizophrenia. About half of all schizophrenics suffer from a co-occuring addiction disease. Over half of them smoke. Worst of all, about two-thirds of all schizophrenics receive NO TREATMENT AT ALL.

After talking to Angus, I realized a couple of things. First, when Angus saw the devil, he really saw the devil. You’re probably asking yourself, huh? How can he see something that isn’t there? Isn’t this just his imagination gone wild? The answer to the second question is no. As to the first question, Angus’ brain was sending signals to his visual receptors that the devil was in front of him, even though there was no physical devil there. Between his eyes and his brain, the signal was getting scrambled, so his brain gets the signal of a devil. So he is really seeing the devil. While the devil is not real, the devil is real TO HIM.

I’ll repeat that because it is very important. The devil is real TO HIM.

Now you know why schizophrenia is such a scary disease.

OK, end of lecture. Back to our story.

Tomorrow.

Before Luke, There Was Angus

2008-12-14T22:18:00.005-05:00

I’d like to pause from my previous narrative somewhat to explain why I have such a concern for those with serious mental illnesses.

When I use the term “serious mental illness”, I am referring primarily to the bi-polar depressions, major depression, schizophrenia, borderline personality disorder, and perhaps obsessive-compulsive disorder. In many cases, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder can have serious symptoms that mimic the above as well. I don’t wish to trivialize or dismiss less serious mental illnesses or less-serious cases of PTSD. I just want to point out that, at least as far as this story goes, I am discussing a mental illness that is disabling or debilitating.

When I was in junior high school, I met Angus Dorriman. Angus and I became fast friends, and spend considerable time together during our teenage years. Upon graduation, I headed off to college, whereas Angus was still weighing his options. We wrote and called each other the first year I was away, but contact became less frequent as the year went on, and dried up completely after spring break.

When the school year ended and I returned home, I called Angus to let him know that I was back in town. His parents informed me that he had moved out of their house into a room of his own. He had not made them privy to his new address of phone number. I thought this was odd, but Angus had always had an odd relationship with his parents. I asked around to some of our other mutual friends, but then did not know where Angus was, either.

The summer passed with no word from him, but sometimes high school relationships change when one leaves for college. I returned to school in the fall, and asked Angus’ parents to, if he surfaced, have him call me. There was still no word, though, until spring break of the following year.

When I was home during that week, almost on a lark, I called Angus’ parents to ask about him. They said that he had returned home, and that I should come over to see him. They were mysteriously vague to my obvious questions. However, I did miss Angus, so I headed over. What I was confronted with was a shell of the person who I had known earlier.

(Tomorrow, I shall describe that encounter with Angus and what I learned)

Luke Gets Out, But........

2008-12-11T22:53:00.001-05:00

The first thing that I did was stake out a corner of the police station waiting area to use as an “office.” Then I took out my trusty cell phone and went to work. I first called Luke’s parents. On the fourth try, after getting their answering machine three times, Luke’s mother answered. I told her who I was and why I was calling, at which point she excused herself and gave the phone to her husband. I explained the situation to Luke’s father, that he was terribly scared, that I suspected that he suffered from bipolar depression, that the stress of jail could do long-term damage to his brain, that depression is treatable, and that I thought that it would be best if Luke’s parents could come over and bail him out.

Luke’s father flatly refused.

“There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s not crazy, he’s turning into a drug addict, and I’m not having any drug addicts in my house. Let him spend the night in jail. Maybe that will teach him a good lesson.”

I tried to explain that, if Luke did indeed suffer from depression, that it was simply not possible to “teach him a lesson” in this way, that he was quite possibly self-medicating, and that he needed treatment, not punishment. But the man would have none of it, and refused to come down to the police station.

My next thought was that I should call a lawyer. However, I didn’t know any lawyers, so I tried the next best thing. I called Bernie. After all, she was a detective for the state police. She would know what I should do.

Bernie’s first suggestion was to call a lawyer. And, being a police detective, she knew some good lawyers. However, when I told her that Luke’s parents were not interested in bailing him out that night, Bernie decided that it would be better if she drove over and handled the situation in person.

Bernie arrived in record time. Colette only had time to pace the room and call Luke's father a “mean bastard” 57 times. Bernie was allowed to talk to Luke for a few minutes to see how the boy was coming along, and then talked to the desk officer at length. However, there was still no way that the boy could be released without a parent present. So Bernie came out and said, “Let's go talk to Luke's parents.”

When we arrived there, the house was dark. We rang the bell a couple of times, but, to no one's surprise, there was no answer. Colette began shouting obscenities at the door, but I quickly quited her. Even though the man might be a mean bastard, one should still show some decorum, I admonished her. Fortunately, having police training, Bernie knew the proper technique to compel someone to open the door when they were not inclined to do so. She pounded on the door with her fist and shouted “Police officer! Please open the door!” until Luke's parents appeared.

When the door opened, Bernie showed her badge. “May we come in?” Bernie asked as she barged into the house. Colette and I followed her in. Colette started to say something to Luke's father, but I shot her a dark look, and she chose to be silent. Bernie strode into the middle of the room and began to speak.

“I'm from the state police, and I'm investigating your son's case. I just interrogated Luke. He was almost incoherent. His speech was slurred, he could barely keep his head up, his pupils were dilated, and he was sweating profusely. His breathing was shallow, and, judging by the veins in his neck, his heart rate was accelerated. He was in shock. I think that something was in that dope that he was smoking.”

“Serves him right,” replied his father. His mother looked shocked, but did not say anything.

“Excuse me?” responded Bernie. “Did you plant those drugs in Luke's bedroom? Or did you spike his stash so that he'd get sick?”

Luke's father's face took on a look of outrage, and he started to say something, but Bernie cut him off. “If you planted those drugs, not only are you guilty of possession, you're guilty of supplying drugs to a minor. That gets you ten years in this state.”

“I'd never plant drugs in my son's room!” hollered the father. “What kind of father do you think that I am?”

I quietly answered that one. “The kind that sends his sick son to jail and won't bail home out.”

A sudden quiet engulfed the room. After a long silence, Luke's mother started to walk away. “Where are you going?” asked Luke's father.

“To get our son, you fucking jerk,” replied his mom.

Five minutes later, Luke's parents were driving to the police station, and we were following them. During the drive, I mentioned to Bernie, “I didn't notice any of those symptoms in Luke.”

“Of course you didn't,” replied Bernie. “You're not a trained detective like I am.”

To which Colette replied, “Bullshit.” Colette is such a sweet girl at times. “You lied your ass off. And you did it very well. Thank-you.”

“You're welcome,” responded Bernie. “I love doing things like that.”

So Luke was bailed out and went home with his parents. I reiterated my fears that Luke was suffering from a mental illness to them. Despite some skepticism from his mother and outright denial from his father, they promised to have him examined by their doctor and obtain a referral to a psychiatrist.

This sounded like a happy, or at least promising ending. Such was not the case, as I shall explain in my next entry.

Luke's Troubles

2008-12-06T22:04:00.001-05:00

The story will now jump to a Saturday night, or more accurately, a very early Sunday morning, in early October. It was slightly more than a week since we had lost Princess and Wacky, so I was still a little discombobulated. The whole house was sleeping, and I was having a dream that I could hear a dog bark in the house, but when I went to see why the dog was barking, there was no dog. Then the process would repeat itself, only with a cat meowing. Suddenly the dream was interrupted by reality.

Colette had come bursting into out bedroom, waving her cell phone I knew immediately that something was very wrong, because Colette NEVER comes into our bedroom. She says that Angela and I do “icky stuff” in there. At first I thought she was referring to our spanking proclivity, or perhaps our sexual activity. However, Colette later explained that she was talking about “icky stuff” like trimming toenails or plucking eyebrows. I didn't understand, either, but then I've never understood adolescent girls. But I digress.

Colette started hollering, “Luke is in jail! He needs our help!”

“Why doesn't he call his parents?” Angela groggily responded.

“Because his dad put him there!”

Since I didn't want to go back to my odd dreams right away, I told Angela to go back to sleep, and I got up and asked Colette to explain.

Apparently, Luke's father found a small amount of marijuana in his bedroom. The man decided, for some curious reason, that it would teach Luke a “lesson,” that he would call the police. The police came and arrested the boy for possession. He was lead away from his own home in handcuffs and locked up. Since it was clear that his parents wanted him to spend the night in jail, Luke placed his one phone call to Colette's cell phone, and he was still on the line.

I spoke briefly with Luke, who was so scared that he could barely speak. I told him to sit tight, and that Colette and I would come and assess the situation. So I brewed myself a quick cup of tea, threw on some clothes, and splashed some water on my face. Then Colette and I piled into the car and headed to the local police facility.

When we arrived, we discovered that, thankfully, Luke was not in the general lockup but was instead being held alone in a separate room. He was physically fine, but was sitting in a corner, quivering and staring into space. He did not respond when we first came in, but when Colette ran over to him and sat down next to him, holding his hand, he came back to earth.

He told Colette that he had been out with friends when his parents had gone through his room. They had found two small marijuana cigarettes hidden with his underwear. Luke insisted that the reefer was not his and he did not know how it got there. His father decided that the proper way to “teach the boy a lesson” was to contact police, who were waiting for Luke when he returned home. Luke was arrested, handcuffed, and taken to the police station, where he was put through the humiliating booking process. The police did not have a separate holding cell for juveniles, and fortunately they felt that it might be dangerous to put Luke in with the general population, although there were only two other men in there and one was soundly asleep.

At that point an officer came over and asked if I was the boy's father. I told him that, no, I was Colette's father, and that Colette was “a good friend.” I was informed that, because he was a minor, they could not release the boy to my custody. Only his parents could come and get him.

Luke and Colette both broke into a panic at the prospect of Luke being forced to spend the night in jail, or perhaps longer if his parents refused to have him released. I took a long look into the boys eyes, and I saw abject and nearly irrational fear. I knew that, if he stayed there for long, it would take him a long time to recover and would perhaps do irreparable harm to the boy.

How can this be, you may ask. He had illegal drugs, so he belongs in jail. And a night in jail should scare a normal adolescent enough to realize that he cannot be using marijuana.

The problem was that Luke is not a healthy adolescent. He was showing all of the symptoms of bipolar depression, also some known as manic depression.

(to be continued, again)

Trouble In Spanko-Ville

2008-12-02T22:47:00.002-05:00

This is the story of how Colette's boyfriend, Luke, went from a young criminal to the newest resident in the Spanko household.

Luke moved into our school district about two years ago. He was one of those quiet boys who people whispered about. He's a troublemaker, we heard. He uses drugs. He has a violent temper. He wants to make our local high school the next Columbine. Colette told us it was all bullshit. Since we've never heard her use that word before, we figured that she was probably right.

Colette and Luke became friends during the previous school year. They seemed to have some similar interests. Both liked to read, both seemed to have analytical minds. Both like to make fun of the “popular” kids at school. Colette is an excellent student. Luke is not, so Colette spent some time with him helping him get his grades up.

Colette had mentioned Luke a few times, but when her mother and I first met Luke, we weren't sure what to make of the young man. He was not well dressed, wearing torn blue jeans and a white undershirt. His hair was long and greasy, and he always covered it with a baseball cap. However, he was always respectful to Angela and me. He always calls me “Mister Spankowik.” I'll forgive him for the mis-pronunciation (it's pronounced Spa-KO-wee-ack), and I am usually a pretty informal kind of guy, but there are two types of people who I prefer the more formal title: Those who want my money, and any male friends whom my girls bring home. Luke was in the latter class, and followed my rule without being told, so that made him okay in my book.

Luke began to follow Colette around like a puppy. He went to all of her softball games both when she played for her school as well as in the recreation league this summer. This fall, when school started, they officially started dating. They make such a cute couple. They're both afraid to be too affectionate lest they offend the other, so they tentatively hold hands and sneak a few kisses. They text each other lots of smileys, but nothing too blue.

As nice as Luke is, he is also, as some might say, troubled. He will occasionally smoke marijuana, despite the fact that Colette strenuously objects. He is subject to long periods of moodiness for no apparent reason. He will periodically miss school even though he does not appear to be ill. He sometimes has trouble sleeping, to the point where he will be awake from Friday morning until Sunday or Monday night. Once he disappeared for three days and not even his parents seemed to know where he was.

However, he seems to be very bright. He is an avid reader. He loves to draw. He is also musically inclined, and plays the piano and guitar. Luke and Colette can sit for hours listening to music ranging from Miles Davis to Dido and Fiest, or latest hip-hop artist. He even likes Steely Dan, which is another point in the plus column for me.

If you recognize Luke's traits, you probably can predict where this story is headed. If you think that Luke is a typical, lazy, teenage slob, you're not looking closely enough. My reasoning will become clear soon enough.

(to be continued)

... And Smaller Still

2008-11-29T09:36:00.002-05:00

The normal routine at the Spanko household was that, when Frank gets up the animals get fed. First, I put a bowl of food out on the porch for Cat, the immortal cat who guards the house and property. Then I distribute a bit of crunchy cat food to Princess and Furball, Colette’s cat. Finally, I give about one-half of a can of some foul-smelling slop that passes for dog food to Wacky. Then I take a shower. Usually the indoor cats and dog trail me about until they get their portions.

With Princess gone, things already seemed odd. I missed the sharp yap that Princess aimed at me, like she was going to chew my arm off if she wasn’t fed immediately. Three days after she was put down, I was going through the modified feeding routine, except Wacky was not at my heels. Wacky had only missed breakfast twice in his life that I could remember. Once was when he had clawed out a window screen and climbed out in the middle of the night. He hadn’t gone far, and I found him digging a hole near the guest house. The other time was when he had killed and eaten a woodchuck. His stomach was upset for three days, and he never got close to a woodchuck again.

I fed Furball, then searched out Wacky. I found him in my office, laying on his side, whining and coughing. He had pooped all over himself, and he seemed unable to walk. I cleaned him off and offered him some food. He seemed to be able to smell the food, but not to see it. His bark was not crisp and sharp, like it normally was, but came out more like a hoot.

Wacky and I made an immediate trip to the vet where we received the diagnosis: Wacky had had a stroke. The vet thought it was possible that, with treatment, he might be able to recover. So I left him there and went home to worry. But not even the worrying worked. When I called the vet later in the afternoon, Wacky was not any better. In fact, he was worse. He was on a ventilator because he could not breathe on his own.

I talked to Angela about what we should do. We agreed that, if Wacky did not show any improvement in the morning, that we would end it. This was at 4 pm. By 5 pm, I was pacing the floor, wringing my hands, and generally being a nervous wreck. When Angela asked what was wrong, I told her that I was worried about Wacky.

“What are you worried about?” she asked.

“What if Wacky doesn’t get better?” I responded.

Angela was quiet for perhaps half a minute. Then she came up and hugged me for a long time. When she released her embrace, she said, “He’s not going to get better.”

Angela was right, which she usually is. The reason I was so upset was because Wacky was at the vet’s, alone, sick, scared, and dying. He was suffering, and I was going to let him suffer for a whole night. So I gathered Angela and Colette together and told them that we had to go see Wacky right then.

So we had Wacky put to sleep.

There were tears in my eyes when we returned home with Wacky’s body. In fact, I bawled my eyes out. Losing two members of the family in one week was more than I could bear. Angela came in and held me for a while, which felt nice even though it did little to slow the flow of tears. A few minutes later, the phone rang. I answered, and it was Maribel. Colette had texted her that Wacky had died. Maribel was so upset that she left her team practice and flew immediately from Israel to the U.S. She told me not to bury Wacky until she arrived home.

Grief is a strange thing. It hurts more than anything imaginable. This is especially noteworthy for a spanko, one who regularly allows pain to be inflicted in them. Although suicide was not contemplated, when I saw the light of life fade from Wacky’s eyes, I did not think that I wanted to live without him and Princess. I am usually the sensible one in the family, making the rest of the family stop and take a breath when chaos seemed to be breaking out. This time, however, I could not manage. Colette was wonderful, making sure that the vet was paid, carrying Wacky’s boxed-up body to the car, and telling me over and over that it was okay to cry.

But I didn’t want to cry. Not because of some manly, macho, boys-don’t-cry kind of thing. I didn’t want to cry because I wanted my pets, my friends, back. I wanted Princess back to pee on my shoes. I wanted Wacky back to bark and run in circles when he heard a noise that might have come from the yard, no matter what time of the day or night. But they weren’t coming back. They were gone, and I’d have to settle for what I had left, which were pictures and memories. It didn’t seem like enough.

We buried Wacky next to Princess. It was a family project. Maribel and I did most of the digging while Colette and Angela determined what to include with Wacky to make him comfortable in his eternal afterlife. I haven’t decided if there is indeed an afterlife, but if there is, then our beloved pets will have to be there. Anything that we love that much would have to there to spend eternity with us. We laid a single rose on top of Wacky’s cardboard casket and covered him up. The finality of it was too much for me to bear, and the tears flowed freely again.

The house suddenly seemed too quiet, too big. Maribel returned to Israel to play basketball, which left just Angela, Colette, and I, along with Colette’s cat, Furball. Even Furball seemed sad. But, even though Furball usually follows Colette where ever she goes, later that day when I was sitting at my desk, staring at my monitor and feeling terribly sad, the hairy little sweetheart (Furball, not Colette) climbed into my lap, purring loudly, and cuddled up. She was a little warm bundle of comfort.

Life goes on, and bad feelings fade, although sometimes it takes a long time. I have never had an animal as long as Princess and Wacky, and I will always think fondly of them. But I still miss them terribly. I’ve contemplated going to the local shelter and getting a new pet or two, but then I think about the pets that I’ve just lost, and I don’t want to just replace them. Like my darling wife and my wonderful children, Wacky and Princess are irreplaceable. So I will endeavor to move forward, because I must.

Within days of Wacky’s passing, I lost a job and gained a son, sort of. But those are stories for another day. Today, I just day goodbye.

Good-bye, Wacky. Good-bye, Princess. I will miss you. You helped make my life fantastic.

The Saga Continues: The Spanko Household Population Gets Smaller

2008-11-26T09:20:00.003-05:00

I knew something was seriously wrong when Angela called to me. “Frank, something is wrong with Princess!”

First, a couple of words of explanation are in order. Number one, Princess is Angela’s cat. She is about 18 years old. Princess hates me, and has never been afraid to express that sentiment in typical cat ways.

Number two, whenever Princess has appeared to be in something less than perfect health, Angela always tells me that “Princess needs to go to the vet.”

So when Angela called to me with such urgency, I knew that Princess was dying.

This entry has proven to be more difficult to write than I originally thought, even though the episode occurred almost three months ago, as you can tell by the amount of time that has passed between this and my last offering. Of all the pets that have come through the Spanko domocile, Princess was not my favorite animal. Princess bonded to Angela as soon as we brought her home from the shelter, and treated me like I was pond scum. She peed on my shoes. She barfed on my pillow. She used her paws to bat the cords on my computer until they came loose. When I wanted to read the newspaper, Princess would stand on it, and when I tried to pull it out from under her, she would growl and swipe her claws at me.

And yet, I had become quite fond of the animal. I was used to seeing her waiting for her breakfast in the morning, sitting on Angela’s lap, even looking at me like I was something that she would rather put out with the trash. So when I came to the realization that Princess would no longer be a part of our family, emotion overcame me.

I found Princess in our bedroom, underneath the bed. Her breathing was ragged, her coat was greasy and unkempt, she was shivering, and it did not appear that she could see. Angela was gently calling to her, but Princess did not seem to be able to move. The poor thing had been on kidney medication for the last couple of years, and her appetite had been gradually decreasing, but, for an old cat, her behavior was otherwise normal until this morning.

We took Princess to the veteranarian, who weighed her, took her temperature, and looked into her eyes. We discovered that she had lost two pounds in the last two month, which is a lot for a nine-pound cat. Her temperature was under 99 degrees (normal for a cat is about 100.5 or so), and there was blood in the back of her eyes. The diagnosis: catastrophic kidney failure. We could give her fluids and more drugs to keep her comfortable, but that there was nothing we could do to get her kidneys to function again, and that the blindness would be permanent. Since her temperature had begun to fall, she probably did not have very much longer to live.

So we had the vet put Princess to sleep.

I’ve always thought that “put to sleep” was a stupid euphemism. Princess wouldn’t be sleeping. She would be dead. The vet took her life, killed her, put her to death.

And yet, that is a far too cruel way to phrasing it. Indeed, the vet, a very nice lady who has taken care of our animals, with great success, for the last 15 years, would have much preferred to make Princess well again. However, that was not possible. Princess had worn out. So we said good-bye to her as the vet injected the drug overdose into her veins, and brought her home to bury her.

Surprisingly, Angela seemed to handle Princess’ death somewhat better than I, which was especially curious since the cat and Angela adored each other. I guess that I’m just an old softie. But the house just didn’t seem the same without Princess. It seemed too quiet.

Soon it would get quieter.

Number Four: What's The Title Of This Blog?

2008-10-31T19:07:00.001-05:00

Why, you may ask, am I draped over an ottoman, completely naked, wearing a blindfold, with my hands tied behind by back?

That was a question that I was asking myself recently.

The story actually begins where the last one left off. It seems that my dear wife, Angela, was quite distressed that her oldest daughter was jetting off to Israel to play professional basketball. It wasn’t so much that Maribel was leaving home, it was that she would be so far away, and in a potentially dangerous part of the world. But Maribel was incredibly excited, and she was an adult and a college graduate who was now making her own decisions about her future. Angela was having trouble coming to terms with this.

Whenever Angela finds something distressing that is out of her control, it is always my fault. And whenever something is my fault, I get my ass spanked for it.

For a spanko, this is not the worst eventuality.

Angela had just returned home from taking Maribel to the airport. I was just finishing up my work day, and Colette was in the living room with a pair of friends, working on an assignment that they had been given earlier that day at school. Our evening meal was more than an hour away, and was to consist of pasta made with sauce that Angela and I had prepared and frozen previously, salad from a bag, and garlic bread.

I could tell that something was on Angela’s mind because the corners of her eyes were twitching. She motioned to me and said, “Let’s let these girls alone and go over to the guest house to watch some baseball.” As the girls had gotten older, it was not unusual for Angela and I to retire to the guest house to watch some television, especially now that we had purchased a 45-inch big screen flat panel LCD television and put it there. However, it was 5:30 in the afternoon and there was no baseball on, so I knew that Angela had plans other than sports viewing.

So we retired to the guest house across the yard whilst the girls worked on their school project. Once we were inside, Angela pointed at me and said, “This is your fault!”

“Of course, darling,” I responded. “However, could you please remind me just what exactly what I did to raise your ire?”

“You let Maribel go to Israel!” she responded.

I know better than to argue. Besides, arguing simply means that it will be that much longer until I get spanked. I graciously accepted responsibility for my sins and apologized profusely.

“You’re not getting off that easy, buster!” she said. Buster was another of those spanko trigger words for me. “I’m going to whip your butt until you can’t sit down for a month!” I immediately began to look forward to the next month.

“Get your pants off and get over the back of that chair!” she ordered. We had an old, overstuffed easy chair in the guest house living room that has a padded back. If one puts a pillow under ones waist and a couple on the seat of the chair, it is quite comfortable to lay across when one is having one’s butt pummeled. I removed my trousers and laid over the chair as directed.

Before I was finished positioning myself, Angela decided that it would be more appropriate if I was not wearing quite so many clothes. So I got naked and returned to the chair, making sure that my bottom was pointed in the direction where she could do the most damage. Angela took the belt off of my pants, doubled it over, and swung it a couple of times to get the feel of it. As I was settling in and preparing myself for the first strike, Angela had me stand up again. She then went over to our toy closet, which is behind a cleverly hidden door that is at the back of the coat closed, and took out a blindfold that she had once concocted out of a scrap of fabric from an old pair of blue jeans and a piece of elastic sewed onto each end.

She came back to me and ordered me to turn around, and then reached up and pulled the blindfold over my face. I am not overly fond of being blindfolded during a spanking, and, knowing this, Angela rarely uses it. However, this was her spanking so it was not my place to question. With her assistance, since I could not see, I was again positioned comfortably over the back of the chair, with my butt positioned and awaiting her lashing.

“You’re really gonna get it this time, Francis!” Angela began. “You let my little girl run off to the other side of the world just to play basketball!”

“Professional basketball,” I interjected. This was a bad idea. Angela cracked me good with my belt. Startled, I instinctively yelped and reached back to rub the stripe of flame that she had left across by rear end. This turned out to be mistake number two.

Angela stood me up again, and I heard her again rummaging through our toy closed. When she returned, she told be to put my hands behind my back. This only meant one thing, that my hands would be tied. This is starting to get pretty fun, I thought. I later discovered that she had used a couple of my old neckties, one of which she used to securely tie my wrists together, and the other she tied around my waist and looped through the tie on my wrists. This effectively kept me from putting my bound hands over my butt. Finally, Angela replaced the blindfold and guided my back into position over the chair.

After a pause, I heard Angela pick up my belt and take a couple of breaths. After what seemed like an eternity but was probably only about ten seconds, I felt the belt slash against by backside. Again I yelped, more because I was startled than because of the pain. Not that it wasn’t painful.

My dear wife slowly, carefully, and thoroughly lashed by buttocks, taking out all of her fears, worries, and stress. The strokes became harder as she went on. Angela made sure she hit all of the good spots, including allowing the looped end to occasionally wrap around to catch the side of my bottom cheek. She even gave me a few good smacks across the upper thigh. With my hands bound and my eyes covered, I allowed my other senses to take over, relishing the feel, the sound, yes, even the smell of the spanking. My fanny was practically sizzling.

Eventually, Angela stopped the lashing and tossed the belt aside. There was silence for a bit, then I heard Angela fetching something from the closet. I assumed that it was another implement for beating my backside, and I was correct. With no other warning than telling me to “Get ready,” Angela slammed a big, heavy paddle into my butt.

I do so love being paddled. Having a fine piece of wood crash into my ass, covering most of its area, exciting so many nerve ending at once, brings me exquisite pleasure. Nonetheless, I was initially surprised to feel the board swung with so much gusto. Once again I yelped, and I strained against by bonds. No sooner had the first swat registered when she brought the paddle down again. I normally take spankings stoically, with little movement. I take pride in my restraint. However, with my hands secured and my feel barely touching the floor, I allowed myself to struggle and buck, since I was not able to really move much. I arched my back, gritted my teeth, allowed the breath to come out of my lungs in raspy gasps (or gaspy rasps, depending on your point of view).

The paddling went on until we were both pretty much worn out. My butt was blazing, feeling sore from the surface of the skin to deeper within the muscles. Angela untied my hands, helped me stand, and took each bottom cheek in one of her hands, giving them good, healthy squeezed. My buns throbbed deliciously. Finally, Angela removed the blindfold.

Having had my eyes covered and placed in a position with my ass higher than my head, I suddenly found myself a little unsteady on my feet. Since I was still nude, I also was beginning to feel a bit chill everywhere except on my rear end, which I figured wouldn’t feel cool for many days. I walked over to the sofa and sat down, pulling an afghan over me as I did so. I looked over and saw Angela, nearing tears. I suggested that she come over and sit next to me.

We snuggled up together, and I asked Angela why she seemed so sad.

“My baby’s gone,” she replied.

“Your baby is on an adventure,” I responded. “One that she has spent all of her life preparing for. And not just the basketball part. She’s sensible. She’s friendly, and she makes friends easily. She’s assertive, so no one will be able to take advantage of her. And she’s really, really smart. These are all things that she learned from her mother. And she had a really great mother.”

“Had a great mother?”

“I beg your pardon. She HAS a great mother!”

“That’s better,” Angela said, smiling.

“Except for the basketball part. That she learned from me.”

Angela playfully punched my arm, then snuggled in closer. We talked about all of the things Maribel had been through in her life, from her first day in kindergarten, to her basketball championship, to her college graduation. We even laughed about all of the strange situations that she managed to get herself into in high school, but those I shall share some other time.

We snuggled and talked until Colette called and reminded us that we had not had dinner. So I ordered an extra-large deep dish pizza, Angela made a huge Greek salad, we invited Colette’s friends to stay for supper, and we gorged ourselves. Angela and I saved the love making until bedtime, when Angela massaged lotion into my buttocks, and then into other places, at which point … well, I’m sure you can ascertain the rest.

The next morning, before starting work, I again sat down to chronicle my life for my wonderful readers, when Angela came in. Her eyes were again starting to tear, but this time she did not look wistful, but worried. Our family was soon to become smaller. This shall be the subject of my next tale.

Sometime life is good. Sometimes life is bad. A wise man once said that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Through it all, we strive for the brief moments when everything is perfect. Those moments, fleeting as they may be, are what make life fantastic.

Number Three: A Journey

2008-10-25T08:42:00.002-05:00

Ever since she was a little girl, my eldest daughter has loved the sport of basketball. She loved it so much that she has spent more than many hours playing the game, and she has become very proficient at it. Contributing factors have been that both her parents are fans of the game, and her mother’s best friend, Bernie, was a talented college player. All of my loyal readers have followed the last two years of Maribel’s college career, including her team’s Division II championship earlier this year.

When her college career ended, however, everyone, Maribel included, felt that she would now enter a new phase in her life that did not include competitive basketball. Maribel was not entirely sure of what she wanted to do after school, but she had several options in mind. She had thought about going into coaching, and she was working as a graduate assistant for her college coach. She thought about augmenting that with teaching, facilitating coaching on a junior or senior high school level. She’s also considered a career in law enforcement, since she admires the work that Bernie does.

One career that she did not consider, at least initially, was as a professional basketball player.

So when Maribel unexpectedly came charging into the house the evening following Angela’s parents departure screaming, “I’M GOING TO BE A PROFESSIONAL BASKETBALL PLAYER!” both of her parents were rather surprised.

When Maribel had calmed down somewhat, we all gathered in the living room so that she could elaborate. I had known that she had made several basketball-related contacts whilst at the Olympics, and that, in general, these contacts were impressed with her basketball acumen. Since we had traveled to China courtesy of the Women’s Basketball Team, Maribel had spent some time practicing with them. During some of those practices, it appears that there were scouts present. One of those scouts was so impressed she had called Maribel earlier in the day and invited her to the team’s training camp, which was to begin in three days.

“Wow!” Colette exclaimed. “Who will you be playing for?”

“Tel-Aviv!” responded Maribel.

Angela asked, “Isn’t that in Israel?”

“YES!!” screamed Maribel.

My immediate thought was that Maribel was not old enough to be living so far from home and that there was no way that I was going to allow this.

Then I remembered what year it was.

Maribel was no longer a teenager. She was a 23-year-old adult. She’d been primarily living away from home, at school, for the last four years. She had traveled extensively with her college team. She was the one who basically guided me during or China trip.

But mostly, this was the fulfillment of a childhood dream.

I would have given up spanking for a chance to play center field for the Detroit Tigers (that’s professional baseball for those of you who are not familiar with that particular organization). Unfortunately, my skills were never adequate enough to get that opportunity. Maribel apparently had the skills. Besides, she would probably go regardless of how I felt about it. That’s what I would have done were I in her shoes.

“Are you CRAZY?” was my darling wife’s response, however. “People get blown up in Israel!” Angela did not appear to share my view, at least at first.

“Things have calmed down there, Mom,” was Maribel’s thoughtful reply. “Besides, they told me that basketball players never get blown up.”

Naturally, there were a thousand questions. The answers were reasonable. This was to be a tryout, there was no guarantee that Maribel would actually make the team. If she did qualify, there was a strong possibility that her playing time would be limited since she would be the youngest player on the team. The league would pay for her plane fare to Israel, give her a place to stay during the camp, and fly her home if she failed to make the team. There was considerable security provided both at the practice facility and the place where she would stay.

Two days later, my little girl, my champion daughter, was on a plane headed almost half-way around the globe. There were no guarantees, but Maribel had kept in shape and was able to work on her game against the Olympians over the summer. In addition, she was not just showing up to try out for a team that had never seen her play before. She had been scouted and she had been invited, so they must have liked something about what they saw. Still, even though Maribel had spent most of her time away at college for the last four years, the house seemed too quiet with her so far away.

To make a long story, well, not so long, two weeks later Colette received a text message from her sister saying, “I MADE THE TEAM.” At least that’s what Colette said it meant since I don’t speak “text” very well. So Maribel is now a professional basketball player in Israel. Thus far, she’s averaged about eight minutes of playing time per game. She is not scoring very much, but she seems to be getting a lot of rebounds and assists. She told me that she needs to work more on her defense. Her salary, although nothing compared to NBA standards, allows her to live decently and perhaps even save a little.

While I have been philosophical about Maribel’s new adventure, Angela has been more emotional. It is hard for her to accept that our first-born is now on her own, that she doesn’t need our support any more. I’ve tried to explain that she’ll always need our support, just that the support now must come in different forms. She understands, but she is still sad. Apparently, that is a “mom thing.”

Of course, her discomfort is my fault. This was to lead inevitably to my own discomfort, in the form of a sore bottom. But that, too, is a story for later.

First a champion, then a professional. My daughter, Maribel, is fantastic.

Number Two: A Spanking For Angela

2008-10-19T09:46:00.002-05:00

As I stated in the last post, I felt it necessary to deal with Angela’s poor decision of allowing her parents to visit us so soon after I had returned from China. In truth, Angela had made no decision at all. Her parents basically tell us when they will be coming and show up. Still, any excuse for a spanking will do at the Spanko household. After we dropped off Angela’s parents at the airport (new regulations don’t allow non-flyers into the terminal area … thank goodness), we returned home and sent Colette and her new boyfriend out to the movies. Maribel had returned to her college where she was working as a graduate assistant for her former basketball coach. So we had the house to ourselves.

I sent Angela up to the third floor guest room. As she was climbing the stairs, I retrieved my favorite paddle, a nice, sturdy, wooden, school-style paddle. Then I went to meet her. The third floor of the barn horseshoes around the perimeter of the house, with a stout wooden railing running around the inside of the walkway, and the rooms on the other side, between the walkway and the exterior wall of the barn. I stood at the top of the stairs and called Angela. She came out of the guest room, pretending to pout.

“Now, young lady (she loves to be called “young lady” before a spanking), you know the rules about allowing your parents to visit, don’t you?” I demanded of her.

“Yes, sir,” she responded in a small, childlike voice. She was trying to hold her pout, but it was starting morph into a smirk.

“What is the rule?” I asked.

“No visits for at least a month after trips to China.”

“And what is the punishment for breaking this rule?”

“A spanking.”

“What kind of a spanking?”

“On my bare butt,” she replied, “with the paddle,” she added as I slapped the blade of the paddle on my palm. She lost the battle to maintain her pout and started to giggle.

“Is something funny, young lady?” I roared at her. Angela covered her mouth and tried to look contrite. She failed, but I gave her points for trying.

“I’ll be sure to remember that giggle as I’m paddling you,” I told her, trying to suppress a smile myself. “Now take down your pants and bend over the railing. “All the way to your ankles,” I added as she lowered her jeans. Angela did as I told her, putting her wonderful little fanny perfectly on display for me.

I patted her butt with my paddle, and then rubbed the blade across her skin a few times, dragging things out slightly. As I readied for the spanking to begin, I told her, “Now count these out.” “Yes, sir,” she answered, and braced herself for the onslaught.

I cracked her good across her cheeks. “One,” she gasped. Wood is not Angela’s favorite material to be spanked with, primarily because the first few swats can be especially painful. It does, however, turn her bottom a luscious shade of red quite quickly. Crack! “Two!” she cried.

I gave her ten swats, in a fairly deliberate cadence. She had no problems keeping up the count, but her voice seemed to rise slightly after each stroke, until “Ten!” was almost a squeak. When I stopped, she stood up, turned around, and began to vigorously rub her tush.

“Did I say you could rub your butt?” I demanded. She gave me a fake contrite look and dropped her hands. “Now get those pants out of the way, young lady. You’re not going to be needing them for a while. Then get back over that railing. This spanking has a long way to go.”

I briefly examined my handiwork, admiring the lovely pink shade that her butt was becoming. Then I resumed by work. This time I gave her twenty. I started out at about the pace and force that she received the first ten, but then, for the last ten swats of this set, I made each one slightly harder and paused a bit more after each whack.

When I completed this set, Angela remained in position until I told her to stand up and turn around. I took her chin in my hand and lifted her face up until she was looking me in the face. “Does that hurt?” I asked her sternly. She nodded. “Good,” I said. “Now, do you remember when I said that I’d remember that smirk you had on your face earlier?” Angela nodded again, trying to hide the dreaded smirk. “Well, here’s what we’re going to do about it. You’re going to spend the rest of this spanking completely naked!”

“Oh, no! Not naked!” she exclaimed, this time completely losing any pretense of contriteness. “Please, don’t make me get naked!”

“Yes, young lady, you WILL get naked NOW!” By now I was smiling, too.

Angela again returned to her position over the railing. This time I gave her thirty whacks, good and hard. I made the first ten slow and methodical, then the next ten were a little faster. The final ten were crisply paced. When I stopped, it was my turn to rub her butt.

“You’re not finished yet,” I said to her. “I intend to give you an even one hundred whacks. You have forty to go. And these are going to be really hard.”

“Yummy…” she started, then stopped and tried to get back into character. “…I mean, no, please, not forty more, please!” There was laughter in her voice as she tried to plead.

Since the little roll play was pretty much shot to hell, I laughed as well, and squeezed her cheeks to sample the effect that the paddle was having. Her butt was warm and firm, and I could tell there were some bruises starting. Angela never lets a few bruises get in the way of a good spanking, and since I didn’t think she’d be wearing a bikini any time soon (she hasn’t worn a bikini since 1992), I didn’t think she’d mind.

I wanted to maximize the burn for the last set, so I set a brisk pace and gave each swat a good snap in the downstroke. It had the desired effect, as Angela was dancing around a bit and emitting some very cute little peeps. After twenty I had to stop and rest my arm, then I gave her ten more a little faster. For the last ten, I slowed down and swung harder. The crack as the paddle made contact with her ass echoed loudly around the house, so it was a good thing that we don’t have any neighbors close by. After each swat, Angela lifted her rump up to make sure that I had a perfect target, so I knew that she was enjoying this as much as I was.

After the final swat, I stood back and heaved a big breath. I realized that I my heart was pounding and I had begun to perspire. Angela remained in position for a few moments, then, as she stood up, reached back to test the damage. She put her hands on her hindquarters and sighed. “Nice work there, Francis,” she complemented. “Only the best for my wife,” I replied.

“Are we finished,” Angela asked coyly, “or do you have some more wood that you would like to use on me?”

“Use in you,” I corrected, as I began to disrobe. Angela bent over the railing again. However, due to our respective heights and builds, this is not the most convenient sexual position for us, so we quickly retired to the bed in the guest room where we could be more comfortable. We did need to change the sheets on that bed, anyway.

After a pleasant romp and a brief nap, Colette and company returned home and Angela cooked chicken fettuccine for dinner. Angela and I were rather affectionate during dinner, which caused curious and somewhat disgusted looks from Colette. I found Colette’s reaction satisfactory since a) I enjoy embarrassing Colette in front of her friends (but not too much) and b) they told me that Colette had not yet engaged in any sexual activities with her boyfriend.

You know the rest of the story. I retired to my office with a cup of tea when Maribel burst into the house with news of her newest adventure. But that is a story for another day, or at least until tomorrow.

Suffice to say, it had been nice to have a quiet house for a few hours, and it was simply fantastic to use that time to paddle Angela’s butt.

Number One: The In-Laws

2008-10-15T21:35:00.000-05:00

Please allow me to begin to explain all of the reasons for my lengthy absence from Fantastic Spanking. I have a long list of subjects that I had planned on regaling you with. However, the weekend following our return, disaster struck.

I was informed of an impending visit from my in-laws, specifically Angela’s parents.

Now, Mr. and Mrs. Angela are fine people. They have always accepted me as part of their family, are civil to me, and have been very generous to Angela and me. Indeed, we probably could not have afforded our current residence were it not for some monetary gifts that they were kind enough to shower upon us. I sincerely enjoy spending time with them.

However, they live in Florida. Annually, they plan a visit to us. Not to our part of the country. Not a trip that includes visiting us. They come to visit us. We are the sole item on their itinerary. They stay with us. They wish to be entertained by us. They wish to entertain us.

All of this really isn’t so terrible, either. The problem is that they usually give us about four days notice of their intent to visit. Having just returned from China, I had considerable items piled up at work waiting for me to attend to, as well as much house and yard maintenance to catch up on. I did not have time to be constantly attending to my in-laws. Angela insisted that this was all okay, that they were her parents and she would be responsible for seeing to them.

This was easier said than done. Angela’s parents wanted me to tell them all about the trip to China. Her mother kept calling on me to help with this or that, because she, “didn’t want her baby to her back any more.” Her father wanted to chat about sports and house repairs, probably so that he did not have to spend too much time with Angela’s mom. They wanted to go out to breakfast. They wanted to go out to lunch. They wanted me to cook dinner because, “they just love my wonderful cooking.” I finally had to actually go in to the three times in one week just so I could get a little work done. On the first Saturday that they were here, I made them chaperone Colette and her new boyfriend (whom you shall meet later) on a shopping-and-movie outing so I could have a couple of hours to cut the lawn, which had grown so tall that Cat could walk through it and not be seen. This trip did not go so well, but that is fodder for another story.

The last weekend that they were here, I was able to convince them that I really needed to do some major yard maintenance. They were kind enough to offer their assistance. We made a plan to get everything that I needed done, and with everyone pitching in, there would be time for a picnic afterwards. So, naturally, that was the weekend that Hurricane Ike decided to attempt to completely flood seven states. We received 10 inches of rain that weekend, which meant that there would be on yard work and no picnic. Angela’s mother complained that they never had weather like that in Florida until Angela reminded her that, on more than one occasion in the past, they had opted to pay visits to us to avoid impending hurricanes. So Angela’s mother then complained about how much she hated hurricanes.

Now that I have bored you with my problems, I shall attempt to conclude this chapter. During Angela’s parent’s visit, I was hardly able to accomplish anything, so posting updates to this little piece of the internet was right out. As we were collapsing into slumber on their last night here, I promised Angela that, as soon as her parents were on the plane to return them to Florida, I would take her home and give her a good, long paddling on her bare butt for allowing her parents to disrupt my happy life. That, too, will be discussed in an upcoming story.

After said paddling, I made myself a cup of hot Oolong tea with just a touch of lemon. Sighing contentedly in my now-quiet house, I sat down in my office to begin to record my thoughts. I had no sooner typed the first words when Maribel came charging into the house screaming, “I’M GONNA BE A PRO!!”

So writing had to be postponed because Maribel had been offered a tryout with a professional women’s basketball team. In Israel. Preparations had to be made. All of which I shall share with you soon. Having a professional basketball player in the family is fantastic, even though it causes me to neglect Fantastic Spanking.

Pining For The Fjords

2008-10-10T21:57:00.001-05:00

It is hard to believe that I have not had the opportunity to write to you since August. I’m sure that some of you think my author has abandoned this little piece of the internet, allowing me to simply fade away into the digital mists. Fortunately, I am alive and well, or at least as alive as an imaginary spanko can be. The absence can be attributed to the intrusion of real life, or as real a life as … well, you understand, I’m sure.

Indeed, an unusually large number of things have happened to the Spanko household. Our home has been in such an uproar that every time I have sat down to do a bit of journaling, another crisis occurs to pull me away.
If you do not believe that things have been completely preposterous around here, allow me to list the major occurrences from the last six weeks:

1. Angela’s parents visited from Florida
2. Angela received a good spanking
3. Maribel moved to Israel
4. Frank received a good spanking
5. Angela’s cat died
6. Colette’s new boyfriend was arrested for possession of narcotics
7. My dog died
8. I quit my job
9. I got my job back
10. Colette’s boyfriend moved in with us

Each of these events has a story behind it. Some even involve spanking. I believe that things have begun to quiet down, so over the next several days I shall attempt to bring you up to date on all of the upheaval. In addition, there are one or two other items for which I owe my loyal readers an update, such as how I resumed my acquaintance with Liz.

For now, there is a baseball game on television, a cup of Assam tea steeping on the table next to me, and, thankfully, the house is quiet. So I shall take this opportunity to allow some of the pent up stress to ease out of my pores, to gather my thoughts, and to perhaps even spend some quality time with my favorite pillow. On the morrow, I shall begin to chronicle, in my unique and engaging way, the changes that have occurred here in the world that I like to refer to as Fantastic Spanking.

Bye, Bye Beijing

2008-08-27T21:51:00.001-05:00

Please accept my apologies for not publishing an accounting of our final hours at the Beijing Olympics sooner. I had intended on recording my thoughts on the plane trip back. Unfortunately, at the airport in Beijing, the Chinese authorities discovered that I indeed do not exist. They, therefore, confiscated my laptop, concerned that it might contain imaginary secrets. I think that they actually wanted to dissect my computer, trying to determine if it was truly fantastic

I received a surprise on Saturday. Wanting to take full advantage of my last day in China, I arose early and started packing my bags. I wanted to spend some time in the city before taking in the final women’s basketball game, after which we would be saying our goodbyes to this adventure, or so I thought. Maribel was just returning home from yet another night of revelry, as had been her habit on this trip. She started talking about plans that she had made for after the game, and a great restaurant she wanted to take me to.

“Maribel, my dear,” I said. “We’re leaving after the game. We won’t be here for dinner.”

“Father, dear,” she responded, “all of the players on the girl’s team,” (she calls the U.S. Women’s Olympic Basketball Team the “girls team” for some reason), “will be staying to watch the boys.” (She calls the … well, you get the idea) “I just reminded a few people that we were here with the girl’s team and we were expecting to attend all of the same events that they did. So we’ll be flying back on Monday with them!”

This turned out to be very exciting. Whilst the Women’s team won the gold medal easily, the Men’s gold medal game was very exciting. I was quite exhausted at its conclusion. I do not believe that I have ever enjoyed a game quite so much as that one.

After the game, Maribel was approached by a well-dressed woman who had a heavy, eastern-European accent. She has seen Maribel working out with some of the US Olympic players, and had also talked to her college coach, and asked if she would be interested in trying out for the women’s professional league in Russia. Maribel was terribly flattered, but politely told the woman that she wanted to return home and weight her options, but would be in contact within a week. However, she was giddy all the way home thinking that she might have a chance to continue her basketball career.

So our long trip ended with a long plane ride, and a reunion with Angela and Colette, as well as The Boyfriend. Colette asked a million questions, but after the first hundred thousand or so, I had to ask her to slow down, as I was so tired that I thought that I would fall into a nap in mid-sentence.

I have a few hundred more stories of the 2008 Olympics, but time and space preclude me from presenting them at this point. However, I will save them for future updates. For now, I will simply return to my boring life, my boring job, and my not-at-all-boring family. There might possibly even be a few spankings to tell you about.

It is fair to say, though, and not at all an overstatement, that attending the 2008 Beijing Olympics was truly a fantastic experience.

The End Is Near

2008-08-22T21:54:00.000-05:00

It is hard to believe that our Olympic experience is coming to a close. We’re scheduled to depart Saturday, sometime after the gold medal game in Women’s basketball. I am lobbying to stay until Sunday so that we can watch the men’s finals, but we are here courtesy of the women’s team, so I expect that we will respect their schedule.

Earlier in the week I was watching the 100-meter dash finals on one of the big screens that are strategically placed around the city for those who aren’t connected enough to have tickets, which in a city of 26 million, is almost everyone. For those of you who don’t follow sports, the race was won by a gentleman from Jamaica named Usain Bolt. I call him lightning bolt. He is barely 22-years-old, and yet he literally runs faster than anyone who has ever lived, save perhaps one who is not being changed by a hungry animal or someone to whom you owe money. I had mentioned before that Maribel had made acquaintance with a lesser Jamaican sprinter. I asked her if perhaps she could get her friend to allow me to meet Mr. Bolt, but his training schedule is interfering. I may possibly still get the introduction should Mr. Bolt prove to be a basketball fan. The fellow is more of a cricket fan, but fortunately cricket is not an Olympic sport.
Speaking of my eldest daughter, she is truly making the most of her time in China. I do not believe that she has slept since we stepped off of the plane. Morning and afternoon, we attend the various sporting competitions. In the evening, we take in the sights of Beijing and enjoy a nice meal. Afterwards, I return to our room to twiddle with my computer and become reacquainted with my pillow. Maribel, in contrast, investigates the Chinese nightlife. And, in a city this size, there is plenty of nightlife. She seems to have made hundreds of new friends, if the number of text messages she receives is any indication. She usually returns to the room just before sunrise. I usually hear her in the shower when I awake, and I’m frequently an early riser. Her bed appears to be slept in, but I’m quite sure that she just pulls the covers back and rolls around on a it a bit so that I think that she’s slumbered.

This afternoon, we were taking in the men’s basketball semifinal games. We were sitting with the women’s roundball team, and I noticed that Maribel did not seem to be comfortable in her seat. I asked her if there was a problem with her chair. She said that her chair was fine, and that the reason for her discomfort was because her butt hurt.

I did not ask her why her butt hurt. I did not want to know.

The Chinese have been more than gracious Olympic hosts. Almost all of those who live here that we have met speak excellent English. This, to me, is quite extraordinary because there aren’t very many Americans who speak Chinese. Then again, Americans seem to think that their language is uniquely theirs, and the only one that one ever needs to speak. This despite the fact that our language, English, originated in, well, England.

It is time to pack our bags, gather our souvenirs, and say goodbye to the new friends that we have met. We’ll attend our last events, and head back to our humble life in the U.S. China and the Olympics will become a lasting memory. I’ll return to Angela and Colette, the big barn that is our home, and my daily employment that pays the bills. Life will return to the routine. There is, however, one thing that I shall look forward to when life returns to normal. Because I really need a spanking.

Nonetheless, it has been a fantastic trip.

Now That I'm In China

2008-08-19T21:10:00.003-05:00

So far, our Olympic Adventure has gone quite smoothly. I was briefly detained at customs at the Beijing Airport. The border agent apparently somehow had confused Francis Spakowiak with Franko Spankowicz, who is a (gasp!) journalist from Poland. When the Olympic Representative who was traveling with us pointed out that Franko Spankowicz was 20 years younger than me and that I clearly did not understand even a word of Polish, I was allowed through with apologies. Another border agent asked if Maribel was Courtney Cox. When it was pointed out that Maribel is 20 years younger and six inches taller than Ms. Cox, the agent just looked sheepish.

Beijing is a city of something like 26 million people, 15 million living within the city limits and 11 million in the surrounding suburbs. I come from a city that has maybe 100,000 people, so to me it seems like there are people, shoulder to shoulder, everywhere. I have yet to take an elevator with fewer than 20 people in it. Even though Beijing was founded 2500 years ago, it seems like almost everything is completely new. Of course, that’s because most of it was built since 1980. The rest was built around 180. What isn’t spectacularly new is spectacularly old.

We have spent our days watching various events and our evenings taking in Chinese culture. We’ve seen many basketball games, although I have skipped some of the USA games because I did not think they would be competitive (which they weren’t). I’ve watched a few team handball games. If you’ve ever seen team handball, you know why I think it is a fun and exciting game. If you haven’t, you probably think that I’m odd. We’ve also seen a little swimming, some volleyball (the indoor variety), badminton and table tennis, as well as softball and baseball. Some of the tickets were supplied by the Olympic Committee. I won’t talk about how I obtained the others because I scalped them and the Chinese authorities get very mad at scalpers. I have not watched any gymnastics because if I want to watch little girls do somersaults, I’ll go down to my local schoolyard.

We have discovered some excellent Chinese restaurants. Not Chinese like the ones so ubiquitous in the U.S. These were real Chinese where real Chinese people eat. Maribel befriended one of the players on the Chinese women’s basketball team (so it wasn’t Yao Ming), and she directed us to a few excellent establishments. They weren’t fancy, they weren’t expensive, they were more like a mom and pop diner, but they were fabulous. I would tell you more about what I had except that I cannot pronounce their names or their ingredients. That was fine by me as they tasted, well, fantastic.

On Friday evening, Maribel had a date with a Jamaican sprinter, a handsome and limber gentleman. Being old and poopie, I went to bed early while my daughter went dining and dancing with one of the finest athletes in the world. She returned to our room just before sunrise. When I asked her how she had spent her time, she said she and her escort had hooked up with several other Jamaican and American athletes and talked basketball all night. They were impressed that she had met and played with the US Women’s basketball team. I wondered if she had perhaps engaged in other activities that involved removing one’s clothes, but, after she returned, she talked on the phone for an hour with The Boyfriend, telling him in considerable detail about her night. If she had slept with someone, I don’t think she would have been so animated with him.

We will spend the morning watching some of the track and field activities, then head for the basketball arena for the men’s quarterfinals. Afterwards, I will probably have a light dinner and spend some time with my pillow, whilst Maribel has plans to drink with beer with some members of the basketball crew, although not players as the women’s team will be in the semifinals on Thursday.

I was afraid that I might get bored watching so much sports in two short weeks. However, the experience is so much more than the competitions. Meeting so many folks from other parts of the world, sharing their experiences, learning about the history and culture of this ancient and modern country. I have also learned so much about how sports are viewed in other countries. So many athletes truly compete only because they love their sport. They will never make any money, never become world renown, but they are already heroes in their own countries because they are here. I find their stories more interesting than those of the superstars because they are more courageous, more refreshing, and, if I may say so, more fantastic.

Almost There

2008-08-11T17:11:00.002-05:00

This is being written from high above the Pacific Ocean. The lights in the cabin have been turned off as the flight crew has decided it is time for us to be sleeping. Since Beijing is 13 hours ahead of where the Spanko residence sits, I’m not whether or not this will help aid in avoiding jet lag. However, a few million last minute details as well as the excitement of the upcoming trip caused me to get little more than a nap last night. A long limo ride to the airport (I’m going to the Olympics, for goodness sakes, I’m not taking a bus), what seemed like hours getting through security screening, an hour sitting in the terminal, another half-hour on the tarmac, and by the time the plane was in the air, I was ready for a nap. So now, at the prescribed snooze time, I’m not especially tired. Since the rest of the plane is mostly quiet, I decided to take this time to do some journaling.

Since the last sundown that I experienced with my feet on the ground, I have lost all sense of date and time, but I believe that it was Wednesday evening when Angela and I partook in our planned Olympic Spanking. Armed with the huge number of suggestions (one) received from my esteemed readers, we designed our kinky little games. We decided to start with Opening Ceremonies, a nice, warm, ten swat paddling for each of us, to start things off. From there we would go to the diving competition, a belt spanking with the spankee in the position of a swan dive. Next would spanking gymnastics, being spanked while hanging onto the high bar, draped over the pommel horse, and then the freestyle spanking. Next there was the fencing tournament, with the swords replaced by a thin, flexible plastic rod (actually the handle of a former cat toy). Whomever lost the point had to be whacked across the butt with the same rod. Finally there would be track and field, where we designed a spanking pentathlon. That’s five events for those of you who are bad counting in Greek. The events were the 100-meter dash (100 swats with a hairbrush delivered as fast as one could), the hurdles (placing a two-inch-wide board across the spankee’s butt and being spanked with a belt around it), the high-jump (the spankee would jump in the air and the spanker had to try to hit their butt … if you hit their legs you lost a point), the long jump (seeing how far one could jump after getting whacked with a paddle), and the 1500 (the spankee had to count to 1500 as fast as they could while they were bend over and well paddled). We would conclude with Closing Ceremonies, which we decided to design later.

We were working on an excuse to go over to the guest house when Maribel came in and announced that she needed to do some “last minute shopping” and that she was taking Colette with her to help. We were more than happy to let them go, and even gave them fifty bucks to make sure that they didn’t “forget” anything. When the girls were off, we still headed for the guest house, since our kinky furniture was there, without needing an excuse. Once we were inside, the drapes closed, and the air conditioning cranked up, we wasted no time in removing our pants. It is so much more comfortable without pants.

After our Opening Ceremonies, we began the competition. The diving competition spanking turned out to be a trifle trickier than originally planned. It seems that holding a “swan dive” position when one is on dry land is very difficult. However, these were the Olympics, so we were determined to improvise. With strategically placed pillows and cushions, one could comfortably get into some semblance of a “swan” pose. Once posed, it was an effective position in which to receive the belt. When Angela concluded, I was one well-whipped swan.

Angela took her turn as the gracefully-spanked bird, and then we proceeded to spanking gymnastics. I hung a wooden rod horizontally from a hook in the ceiling, and reached up and grabbed it. I am rather tall, so, with my arms held straight up over my head, I can just touch the ceiling. So I wasn’t dangling, but rather just stretched out with my feet flat on the floor. Angela chose a short but sturdy strap, and gave me a nice thrashing. I couple of her strokes stung quite seriously, and I danced around a trifle. This caused Angela to “deduct points” and gave me a couple of swats across my thighs, causing me to dance somewhat more.

I attached a chain to the bar to lower it so that Angela could reach it. It turned out that Angela’s “target” was easier to strike when she was slightly reaching forward. Angela danced around quite a bit, but when I “deducted points,” rather than striking her thighs, I would tickle her. Angela acts really cute when she’s tickled.

We have a “spanking horse” if you will, so we took turns draping ourselves over it and tanning each other’s hides with a strap. For the freestyle spanking, I took ten strokes with the strap in five different positions over the sofa. I had Angela assume a number of different ways of touching her toes whilst I lashed her with a cane.

As you might imagine, the fencing competition disintegrated into silliness rather quickly. We were both quite naked by this time, so I’m sure we looked rather ludicrous dancing around trying to touch each other with our little plastic “swords”. The plan was that, whomever got the first touch would spank the other with the little plastic “sword.” This worked for one or two rounds, both of which I lost. I found the plastic rods wonderfully stingy. The next round resulted in an argument over who got the first touch, so we decided to call it a tie and spank each other.

When we resumed, I decided that it would be more fun if I were to aim my little plastic stick for Angela’s cute little tushie rather than just touching her. I quickly darted in and flicked my wrist, catching her on the side of her bum. This caught her by surprise, and she momentarily gaped at me. I gave her little whipping, and when we began fencing again, Angela tried the same maneuver on me. We ended up dancing around in circles as we tried to smack each others’ butts. We twirled faster, and I started to back-pedal, when I danced into the back of the sofa and fell backwards over it. Angela’s momentum caused her to follow me over, and she landed on top of me, laughing hysterically.

She stopped laughing. Suddenly she planted a big, wet kiss on my lips. “I’m going to miss you, Frank Spanko,” she said. This caught me somewhat by surprise.

“I shall miss you too, Angela Jane Spanko,” I responded. Jane is not really her middle name, but I think it sounds cute, so I will occasionally employ it. “But I’ll be back before you know it, and I’ll have plenty of exciting stories to relate to you.” Together, we rolled so that we were now laying properly on the sofa. Angela kissed me again, this time longer and deeper. It was then decided that the Spanking Olympics had concluded, and without further ado, we proceeded directly to the Closing Ceremonies.

After, shall we say, the torch had been extinguished, Angela said, “We’d better get back to the barn. The kids will be back any minute, and I promised Maribel that she and The Boyfriend could have the guest house for the night. They’ll probably have their own Spanking Olympics.” This last statement made me cringe. I don’t mind that my daughter is a spanko, but I don’t want to know that some other man will be doing to my little girl that I just did with Angela. Fathers are just like that, I guess.

So now the cabin lights are starting to come up and the flight attendants look like they are preparing to serve breakfast. It won’t be long before the plane lands and our Olympic adventure begins. There will be so much to do that I’d better save my strength and my words for when we reach Beijing. I have a feeling that every new experience will simply be fantastic.

The Olympics And You

2008-08-05T22:05:00.001-05:00

About eight years ago, in March, a friend and I took a trip to Florida to watch some spring training baseball. My darling wife was not thrilled about being left with two children for ten days whilst I relaxed in the sun and enjoyed our nations favorite pastime (besides spanking, or course). She did acquiesce to my going, however, as long as I paid the appropriate price. She promised me that I would not be able to sit comfortably throughout the trip.

Although she did not exactly succeed in achieving her stated goal, the spanking that she gave me the evening before I left was felt for several days. I probably spent the better part of an hour bent over with my pants down. She warmed up with a hairbrush and a paddle, then applied a variety of canes and rods to me with gusto to make sure that the bruises were nice and deep. She interspersed these with ten or fifteen paddle swats, swinging with most of her might. She then followed up with a nice whipping with a length of coaxial cable, double over. This made the surface of my poor cheeks nice and tender. She then finished up with another nice, long session with the hairbrush. The plane ride down was particularly uncomfortable, and I did some squirming for the next couple of days, but fortunately after four or five days I could no longer feel her work. There were, however, still marks remaining on my butt from my punishment when I returned home.

The reason why I relate this little anecdote is because, since I will be gone for just over two weeks and am unlikely to get spanked whilst in China, Angela has promised a spanking that I will remember throughout the trip. She has started referring to it as an “Olympic Spanking.” Now, to be fair, I felt that, since Angela is also quite unlikely to feel the burn on her bottom when I’m gone, I have assured her that she, too, will receive a memorable paddling. So perhaps what we will have is the “Spanking Olympics.”

Indeed, this could have all kinds of silly results. The 100 swat dash. The marathon strapping. Kay-whacking. The 200 meter belt stroke. Such are the possibilities that I’d like to invite you, my loyal and brilliant readers, to offer your suggestions on an Olympic-themed spanking. Tell me what you think would be an appropriate spanking prior to the beginning of the Games. I’ll take the best suggestions, use them on Angela, or she on me, and then relate to you the results. This way, you, too, can say that you’ve participated in a fantastic spanking.

So all that remains to be done before I leave is for me to pack my bags, say my goodbyes, and, with your help, participate in an Olympic-sized spanking. I look forward to all of it, even if I will end up sitting on a bruised butt on a 24-hour plane ride. But what could be better than the Olympics with my daughter and a spanking with my wife? And by sending me your suggestions, you, too, can be a spanking Olympian!

Frank Catches You Up

2008-08-02T21:45:00.003-05:00

With all of the excitement of the Olympics, I have neglected to report the outcome of the exhibition basketball game between the Women’s Olympic Basketball team and a team that consisted of my daughter, Maribel, and 11 other players whose names I shall not bother to mention because that would mean that I would have to make them up and I’m too lazy to do that at this time.* Therefore, I shall correct that oversight.

Maribel’s team lost, 106 to 80. Women’s basketball legend and Olympic coach, Anne Donovan, paid Maribel’s team a high complement, I think, by saying, “Those ladies played very well against us. Before the game I thought we’d win by at least 50.”

Indeed, Maribel’s team held their own on the offensive end. However, the Olympic Team is incredibly talented and it seemed like they could not miss a shot. Maribel was brilliant, at least in my opinion, scoring 21 points, and adding 8 assists and 14 rebounds. She also blocked three shots, including one by Candice Parker. She was usually covered by Parker, Lisa Leslie, or Sylvia Fowles, all of whom are taller than she, and yet she was still able to get off shots or find open teammates. Maribel also played tough defense, forcing the Olympians to take many outside shots. However, they made most of those shots, hence the eventual wide difference in the score. Maribel says she does not want to play professional basketball, but her play did have a few interested parties taking note.

On a different topic, you may have heard on the news that, despite promises to the contrary, China is restricting access to certain internet sites. Among those expected to be censored are those that are “morally questionable.” It is expected that virtually all blogs will be restricted because their authors just might say something critical about Chinese government. Spanking blogs will likely be right out because the Chinese masters don’t seem to think as highly of spanking as we dedicated spankos are. I guess that flaming bamboo shoots up ones fingernails are okay, but spanking is not. Some people just have no sense of humor.

You probably think that means that Fantastic Spanking will therefore be dark for a couple of weeks, or that I might publish prewritten material whilst I am away. Fear not, my loyal readers. I shall be offering regular updates from Beijing. Now, you may be wondering how this is possible. The answer is simple. Since I am indeed an imaginary being, I can do anything I want. There are advantages to not actually existing.

My passport has arrived. The plane tickets are here. My bags are packed. Okay, that last one isn’t true as I never pack for a trip until the last possible instant. However, the excitement level continues to rise as the Games get closer. Maribel talks about the trip 24 hours a day, even when she is sleeping. I just remain silent and smile. And, of course, I share my thoughts with you, my loyal readers. And I do that because, well, because anyone who reads my thoughts simply must be fantastic.

* - Longest run-on sentence in the history of Fantastic Spanking.