Finally February & a #tinyspankingstory!

I cannot believe it is finally February. January was a difficult and LONG month. It felt like several months. Now, we have only 4 more Monday’s until March. Waiting for things doesn’t seem like so much when you count it in Monday’s.

I’ve been struggling with writing new longer fiction (though Birdie and her attentive Governess, Miss Bea Whitmore feel so very present in my head), so I tried my hand at a very pared down story – just the core of the idea. I wrote a few and I’ll share them here. I am going to try hand writing them & sharing a photo of that, and include alt text here for those who need it.

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R/L: Just Enough

Well, dearest gentle reader, I got spanked yesterday and I did not die. It feels odd to type that in a way that implies it’s not a normal thing for me to be spanked. Even at our sort of best, we are not daily or multi-times a week players. It’s just not practical between work and parenting and our heads aren’t always there. However, it had been more than a month since I had been spanked at all and for me and us, right now, that is rather a long gap. I was nervous. Probably more nervous than I had ever been before a spanking. The acuteness of my need and the distinctness of how much I did not want to be spanked, because of how far away kink feels right now and other complex feelings, was overwhelming. The type of spanking I needed is, as talked about before, at the core of my kink, but one I haven’t experienced often. Very close approximations in the past, the time last year I linked above, and also as written about, it is difficult for my husband to do. But at the end of the day, he is my husband. He is my life and nesting partner, I chose him – and he chose me – for lots of reasons. We are both worth the effort.

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Missing a Piece of Myself

*please keep taking leaps of faith that make people say “that’s a bold move.” it’s part of your lore.*

photo above is from @case.kenny on Instagram

What do you do when your kink goes from feeling like the fundamental piece of the puzzle to your sense of self, the piece that pulls everything together and makes you feel whole, to feeling like you can’t grasp it no matter how hard you try? The puzzle piece isn’t lost forever, of course – it’s too fundamental – but you can’t see it through the mess. The hardest part is it feels as much of a need as ever, but it’s not there. It feels broken. I feel broken.

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