Mija’s Room

The Way We Say Goodbye – A Swan Song

Posted on By Mija

A couple of people on Twitter and Blue Sky asked what I meant when I wrote that Paul and I are spending the time before he leaves for the UK in what our therapist calls a “swan song.” I thought I’d try and explain.

I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but now it’s come to distances and both of us must try,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.

Marking the end of a relationship with a swan song is a concept I’d never heard of before our therapist proposed it. According to her, it’s one where a couple consciously makes a different sort of ending — one that focuses on celebrating what we’ve made and built together and the things we love about each other, imagining a future where we might never see each other again, yet recognize the other person and our relationship with them as the most significant in our lives. A swan song is also intended to leave space to develop or build something new between us, imagining what that could look like.

For us, that entails both committing to and focusing on each other for the time that’s left, setting aside recriminations, blame, and guilt. Letting go of our respective regrets. Instead, looking back at how our relationship began and reconnecting with the best moments and versions of ourselves and the kink that brought us together. I’m remembering how sweet we were and what attracted me to Paul in the first place.1His creativity, his intelligence, his voice, his mind, his body. It’s meant apologizing and forgiving each other for the mistakes we’ve made, choices that have done damage and caused pain. Example: we’ve both let our jobs and other personal commitments get between us, exercised poor judgment in our boundaries in and out of our relationship, and each has taken the other for granted. We both wish there was a time machine and we could go back and get a redo on so many things and make so many different choices.

I’m not looking for another as I wander in my time,
walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme
you know my love goes with you as your love stays with me,
it’s just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea,
but let’s not talk of love or chains and things we can’t untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.

In my case, I damaged our relationship and Paul by not realizing how much my rejection sensitivity and bursts of emotion were feeding codependency and making life with me feel like walking on eggshells. Even once I knew what I was doing, my ability to express pain, hurt, or anger without ending up sobbing was and is limited. Rather than figure out what was and wasn’t appropriate, I ignored and papered over clear problems, averting my eyes and hoping everything would be fine rather than risking the difficult conversations we needed. I unconsciously waited for Paul to take the lead or responsibility, thinking he’d see how painful this was and somehow find a way to protect me.  Short version: that didn’t work out so well. How could he protect me when he couldn’t protect himself?

Paul may write his own version of this, but in brief, he became so used to not telling me difficult things that he unintentionally “patronized”2Our therapist’s term. me, stripping me of control and agency, stunting any potential for growth. Without meaning to deceive, this became deception. It also fed my insecurities and increased my dependency on him, ironically increasing his resentment of me and the responsibilities he’s been burdened with. When he finally had to tell me hard truths (or when I figured them out), the situations were impossible to undo or repair. At least not without a lot of pain.

I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but let’s not talk of love or chains and things we can’t untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.

We celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary in Santa Barbara on December 29th at the courthouse where we were married. I wore my favorite uniform, something I wish I’d been able to do in 2004. 3Though there weren’t any other people we knew there, we needed the pictures for immigration, so instead, I wore an ivory dress that ended up with a story of its own.

What’s become clearer as we’ve focused on each other, communicated with honesty and compassion, and treated each other gently and with kindness, is that we are and have been the most important people in each other’s lives for nearly three decades. Paul and I met and came together in a fashion impossible to repeat with someone else.

Yes, mistakes were made, far more often due to misunderstandings than malice. But the love between us was and is real.

  • 1
    His creativity, his intelligence, his voice, his mind, his body.
  • 2
    Our therapist’s term.
  • 3
    Though there weren’t any other people we knew there, we needed the pictures for immigration, so instead, I wore an ivory dress that ended up with a story of its own.

I’m Mija-Again on BlueSky Too

Posted on By Mija

 

Happy New Year!

Because The Site Formerly Known as Twitter, where I still have an account as eltercerojo, has become so difficult to use or follow, not to mention the political ego toy of the US’s newest 12-year-old Bond villain overlord, I’ve been playing with BlueSky where I’m mija-again.1I did try Mastadon but haven’t been able to get comfortable there

It’s a lot like Twitter used to be, including allowing third-party readers. As much as the politics of the “X” owner bothers me even more, I find the random shuffle Twitter seems to revert to every time I open it super frustrating. Being able to read my feed chronologically makes “tweeting” (or whatever one does on BlueSky) a lot more fun. It also helps me *stop* reading it.

There’s a fair few spanking folks;  if you’re there, I’d love to see you.

 

  • 1
    I did try Mastadon but haven’t been able to get comfortable there

Recommending: Sips and Smacks

Posted on By Mija
Logo for Sips and Smacks
Adorable logo.

Confession:

I’m a binge podcast listener. When I find one I like, especially when it’s one like Sips and Smacks that’s structured as a series of conversations between friends, I tend to go back to the first episode and listen chronologically. The Sips and Smacks podcast is currently perfectly suited for my listening style — there are 90 91 92 93-95 95 1I started this post a while ago. episodes, each about an hour.  That’s not so many that it’s impossible to ever catch up (I’m looking at you, Pen Addict), but more than enough to get a sense of how the show, and especially the relationships between the hosts, and the hosts and their guests, have evolved.

So, in case you haven’t guessed, Sips and Smacks is a podcast about spanking by two women, Adalia and Rex, in spanking / disciplinary relationships with their partners. There’s a heavy focus on both the Daddy/Little Girl and the submissive-domestic discipline2This element makes me feel like the podcast is an extension, or, better yet, maybe an evolution, of the late Punishment Book blog. end of the scene, but in the course of all the episodes, pretty much everything gets covered/touched on.

I found Sips and Smacks in a super embarrassing way….

(more…)

  • 1
    I started this post a while ago.
  • 2
    This element makes me feel like the podcast is an extension, or, better yet, maybe an evolution, of the late Punishment Book blog.

Heartbreak – A Too Late Diagnosis

Posted on By Mija

[This was the first post I wrote for this blog. The first draft was finished back in July. According to WordPress it’s had more than sixty revisions.]

I’m 57

Say what?! Yes, really.

In the past little bit 1months/years, I’ve been diagnosed with both ADHD and autism spectrum disorder, both “late” diagnoses. Also, C-PTSD2The “complex” kind. Because my childhood was just that special. another something new.

Prior to this, I was misdiagnosed with bipolar disorder and treated with mood stabilizers and other psychotropic treats for over 10 years. Those medicated years are hazy – a blurred decade of my life.

Result: My sexuality, fantasy life, and inner worlds were medicated into grey numbness.

Finally I told my psychiatrist I’d lost the ability to feel sexual pleasure or have erotic (read: spanking) fantasies, asking for a medication change.3I regret waiting so long. I’d been so scared about messing with my meds (the suicide stats on unmedicated bipolar disorder are frightening) that I didn’t tell any of my doctors. He noted I’d had no manic nor depressive episodes since I’d begun treatment 10 years before 4The lack of any manic episodes especially surprised him. Apparently, the meds for bipolar disorder don’t work that well. a few stops and starts and finally I started Welbutrin. On my return visit two weeks later I reported feeling calmer and more focused.5Sexual fantasies hadn’t returned, but he’d said that might take practice and patience. Practicing spanking fantasy was a fun assignment.

Hearing that he questioned me about my work habits and childhood, both school and home. The questions went on for almost an hour — though our appointments were usually twenty minutes. Finally, hearing I’d not slept well, he gave me a small blue pill, told me to wait, and walked out. Almost 90 minutes later I woke to him scrolling through my chart.

Me: “What anxiety med was that?”

Him: “It wasn’t for anxiety. It was a low dose of instant-release Adderall.”

Me: Blank stare.

Him: “How much coffee do you drink?”

Dude, don’t even come for my coffee.

Me: “A lot. I like coffee.”

Him: “Not surprising. Reading your chart I don’t know if you have bipolar disorder,  but you do have severe Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder – primarily inattentive, possibly mixed hyperactive-impulsive.”

I froze — still, quiet. Nothing made sense — except the phrase “primarily inattentive,” a comment like “not working to potential” recalled long-ago report cards, the sort that throughout my childhood prompted beatings.

He paused. I still couldn’t say anything, so he explained that women/girls my age generally weren’t diagnosed with ADHD or ADD, especially if we were quiet and read all the time, but, based on my responses, I’d had severe ADHD all my life.

Since the Welbutrin was working, he increased the dose.

Dazed, I left. Over the next year tapered off all mood stabilizers and anxiety meds, and sleeping meds. I stopped carrying Xanax and, finally, let the prescription lapse. I ignored his recommendation that I restart therapy. My previous therapist had left the practice and I find therapy excruciating, especially the start-up part. I read a little about ADHD, seeing myself, past and present, in most of the symptoms.

Life was full — I got a new job as a tenure-track professor (yay?), and my mom was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.

Then the pandemic happened, and I was overwhelmed and started on Adderall. Therapy was impossible — every practice in LA was overwhelmed. Responding to the shortage, my university psychiatry practice decided I wasn’t mentally ill. To cut their patient numbers switched my meds to my primary care doctor, and after 15+ years of treatment, I was deemed “healthy.”

Really?

I’m not mentally ill, but was struggling. Feelings, good and bad, flooded back, emotions I hadn’t realized I wasn’t feeling. Without medications’ dulling effects, it was like being thirteen again. Thirteen-year-olds aren’t fun to live with.

At the same time, we had to wipe Mija off the internet because a friend’s anti-racist work made them the target of an alt-right group. Horrible. Paul’s blog barely survived the purge. Mine didn’t. The Punishment Book didn’t. Neither did Pablo & Mija’s Treehouse. It was like I’d died/killed my digital self. I had to have emergency surgery in the middle of COVID-19 isolation. My mom died. I was in menopause…

It’s hard for me to live with me, so imagine how bad it is for Paul.

Really, terribly bad.

This is the hard part. I’ve dragged out this opening, literally burying the lead. But I think you need the above to understand the below.

As my spanking mojo came back, I went to Laura’s site and read stories, especially Paul’s and mine. Some stories I’d forgotten. Others are part of me. All are still *hot.* I mean, they’re our fantasies. Almost thirty years on, Paul’s stories and fantasies are my fantasies and memories, in addition to the ones I brought to this relationship. Re-reading them is fun.

Eventually, I noticed my partner in crime wasn’t, well, interested in us criming. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d really played or even teased each other. I put one of my uniforms on, partly for myself, partly because that was something we shared, that thrilled us, except now me in it didn’t thrill him. Were we too old? Too middle-aged? Did a schoolgirl who’s visibly greying not work for him? I asked, and he gently told me his head was in more of an inward bottoming mode, and he wasn’t feeling it. With everything going on I…well, I just accepted that was so.

But that wasn’t all of  “it.” Over those years, when I was numb and needy and just difficult, Paul gave so much of himself, took such good care of me, worked so hard, and did everything he could to try and make me well and happy that he kept nothing back for himself. Gave himself no space, no time, nothing of his own. Tried to pretend everything was okay.6He was pretty good at it. As I didn’t realize and didn’t give enough (or maybe even anything) back to feed his heart and soul, he was left hollow. Yes, right, codependency. Finally, all the drama and medication and moods and outbursts and insecurity, coupled with the lack of space, both of us working from home in a small apartment, and no social contact with anyone but my family (dear lord, how did that happen?) for the three pandemic years, and I’ve, well, it looks like I’ve worn out his love for me. He doesn’t want to live with me anymore, and he doesn’t want his life linked to mine. Being near me leaves him tense and tired. Finally, he had to tell me what had happened, that I was/am too much.

Paul’s into what I still think of as “our” scene; it works for him with his play partners. But not with me. Okay, now, thankfully, with me, too. Not anymore.7Happily, this much has changed since my first draft.

He’s moving back to England in 2025 because he’s homesick and has never felt like he belonged here — something else I didn’t notice, despite a post he wrote more than 10 years ago saying exactly that. I missed it due to my inattention.8The moment he posted this would be the moment I’d time travel back to were it possible. Paul doesn’t want me to go with him — he wants to live alone, 6,000 miles from Los Angeles (and me).

That conversation started 18 months ago. We’re seeing an excellent therapist and, after a lot of work, are communicating better and rebuilding our physical and emotional connections.

But he’s still leaving and doesn’t want me to come. His/our/my life as it is/was is broken, wrong, over. Can it be reimagined or redesigned? Can we start anew? Is a new season possible? I think it could be, maybe someday. I’m holding on to that hope — it’s a slim one, but there nonetheless. Paul’s hope is that we can salvage our friendship and that perhaps I can be happy with what our therapist calls “a demotion” to being one of his play partners and friends. Maybe. I’ve tried and am trying, but I can’t visualize it; that much grace may be beyond me. So the next few months are Paul and my swan song to our relationship as we’ve known it. An ending worthy of our beginning.

Speaking of which, maybe because of ASD (even more recently diagnosed), for me, 1997 happened yesterday.

Paul’s the person I’ve loved most in the world for close to 30 years. We were both 29 when, after an exchange born from alt.sex.spanking, he whispered via email that he loved me. 9That looked like this: {I love you} in case you’re wondering. We were 30 on May 5, 1998 when we met in person; Paul traveled from the UK to LA and stayed a month in my dorm room with me, someone he’d never seen until he got off the plane. Though I’d arrived at LAX more than five hours early, I couldn’t even look up at him when he met me in customs. He was already hugely important to me, but I was also afraid that meeting in person would mark the end. It took a long time for our relationship to feel real, for me to believe I was loved and wanted.

I turned 57 this past July. Paul will be here when he turns 57 in February. Then he’ll leave and never come back. Yet, sitting here, I can clearly see 1998, see his hand pressed against the gate’s glass, mine reaching up to press against the other side, both of us tearful in the LAX terminal as he left after that first visit at the end of May 1998. I remember watching his handprint fade as he boarded.

Like it happened yesterday. Or earlier today.

Post 9/11, no one can say goodbye at airplane gates.

Re-reading our stories was hard, but once I started, I couldn’t stop. I still can’t. At first, I wanted to burn Mija and everything connected to this part of me to the ground. My impulse in crisis is always to push forward and try and effect change, to get past the problem onto higher ground rather than reflect and be still. No more uniforms, no more school girls, no more spankings. Mija has been away for a long time, and I’m so old now. Why would I be Mija again and always and always and always need to explain about losing Pablo? Why he left me? Need to admit I killed his love for me through combined selfishness and inattention. Better to feel…

…nothing?

Losing Mija did at least some of this damage. I think, no, I know Mija’s the best part of me. Being Mija on that messed up, fantastic, beloved newsgroup was wonderful; it literally gave me life at what was, until now, my darkest moment. I had access to a deep well of love and generosity toward Paul and a pretty large community. There were hard times, but nothing we couldn’t do if we tried. Plus, we had friends. Too many of them are gone too.10Recently and too painfully, one “friend” chose their relationship with Paul over friendship with me, despite neither of our wishing that. Our situation is/was already complicated enough.

I don’t want to delete Mija. I am Mija. What I felt then is what I feel now. I want to play again, write, create, and be happy in this kink that I love. Make friends again — friends who can understand and who experience this kink themselves. I want to take care of myself so I don’t hurt anyone else. That’s where this blog comes from. A place of hope.

I try and want to be brave and fair, but this is the hardest thing ever, and I’m too spoiled to be stoic. Likely too used to being looked after. Profound grief is hard to cope with. Daily, I remind myself that I can’t wish this away, I can’t ignore it, and time is passing.

While Paul’s feelings toward me have changed so much, mine toward him are the same — in fact, almost thirty years on, they’re far, far deeper; our shared memories mean I love him more. My physical skin literally knows him — from our first meeting, he’s been the only person who can always touch or hold me without me flinching or pulling back. He’s never made me afraid, never intentionally hurt me. Almost since the beginning of our relationship, I haven’t held anything back, so there’s nothing about me he doesn’t know. Finding the newsgroup and meeting Paul began the happy parts of my life, so much better than the years before I barely remember them. From his first visit, perhaps even before, he was my person, and I was always, to my amazement, his. Together, we always felt like home to me, wherever we were.

But our life hasn’t been that for him. I make him tense. He gave me so much, and in return, I damaged the only person who’s ever seen and known every part of me. I feel the truth of that all the time. It darkens my dreams.

And now?

For the past 18 months, now is too hard. Most mornings, I wake wishing I hadn’t as I remember how different the future will be. Days pass with dread. I feel constant pain, a heavy weight constantly pressing my chest where I once felt only the lightest brushing of feathers. Then, the day starts and gets better. Paul’s here, and I can hold him, and he holds me. He spanks me, and it’s still wonderful. Sometimes sweet and good, sometimes hot and overwhelming. These days my pain tolerance is lower. I cry (even more) easily. When he spanks me, I sob more than ever.11Impressive since I’ve never been stoic, at least not with Paul. We still play Scrabble, and he sometimes reads me stories at night. We laugh at the same jokes. We live with the most adorable, bratty, spoiled dog on earth. Daily I forget he’s leaving, that he doesn’t love me or trust me enough to see a way through this.

Yet somehow, I am so much in love.

I still hope our futures can change and that our lives will intersect in another season. Mostly, I know in a lot of ways, I’m lucky. Not everybody gets to love the way I do and be loved the way Paul loved me, the way we did back when we did those things we do.

Anyway. Now you know.

….I’m back, I hope. Mija, still, and again.

  • 1
    months/years
  • 2
    The “complex” kind. Because my childhood was just that special.
  • 3
    I regret waiting so long. I’d been so scared about messing with my meds (the suicide stats on unmedicated bipolar disorder are frightening) that I didn’t tell any of my doctors.
  • 4
    The lack of any manic episodes especially surprised him. Apparently, the meds for bipolar disorder don’t work that well.
  • 5
    Sexual fantasies hadn’t returned, but he’d said that might take practice and patience. Practicing spanking fantasy was a fun assignment.
  • 6
    He was pretty good at it.
  • 7
    Happily, this much has changed since my first draft.
  • 8
    The moment he posted this would be the moment I’d time travel back to were it possible.
  • 9
    That looked like this: {I love you} in case you’re wondering.
  • 10
    Recently and too painfully, one “friend” chose their relationship with Paul over friendship with me, despite neither of our wishing that. Our situation is/was already complicated enough.
  • 11
    Impressive since I’ve never been stoic, at least not with Paul.

Orange Socks and Spanking

Posted on By Mija

“Oh no! Daddy heard I was wearing orange socks and told me to wait for him in my room….”

What’s the connection between wearing orange socks and spanking? Did you even know there was one?

“Naughty Santa put orange socks in my stocking again this year! I swear the jolly old elf is trying to get me in trouble”

I posted the above picture (me wearing orange knee socks) and told this little bit of spanking history on BlueSky and Twitter today:

A million years ago… no wait, in the late 20th century (that is the 1990s) on the Usenet group alt.sex.spanking, there was a discussion of how to ask for a spanking and/or “punishment” scene1This was long before the term “funishment” came into usage. without actually asking. Someone posted how in their house there was an absolute rule against wearing orange socks. Any wearing of orange socks merited punishments of varying severity.

“What on earth?!? I cannot believe you’re wearing those orange socks again. I thought we dealt with this seriously enough last time but clearly you need another lesson.”

“Orange socks” struck some sort of chord, maybe because it was both simple and silly (who doesn’t like that?) and it quickly became an inside joke and shorthand on the newsgroup. “Orange socks” as a punishment/spanking trigger was especially popular with several posters who were married/partnered with former vanillas as a way to playfully nudge or “ask for it.” For a while there was an”Orange Sock Award,” people would report orange socks sightings, and share places they’d found to buy them.2This was so long ago Amazon only sold books.

“I’m hoping it’s an orange socks kind of night.”

“Orange socks” as an inside spanko joke migrated with the group from alt.sex.spanking to soc.sexuality.spanking and came to mean a punishment that wasn’t about anything important but might still be severe. It was used periodically on the newsgroup until we put the lights out in 2012.

“Wait! That’s not fair! The rule is about wearing orange socks. As in a pair.  I’m only wearing one orange sock. Singular!!”

Now you know. The reason I’ll always give anyone in orange socks a second look.

  • 1
    This was long before the term “funishment” came into usage.
  • 2
    This was so long ago Amazon only sold books.

At Willow Street Station – A Real Life Story in Two Parts

Posted on By Mija

[I started this post on October 10, 2024]

Last night I posted the following on Twitter:


Background and Details:
On Tuesday, before I picked Paul up at the Willow Street Station, I changed out of the long pink skirt I’d worn when I’d dropped him off into a new1New to me — it was an eBay find. brown corduroy skirt, a tan turtleneck, white knee socks, and tennis shoes. I left on my thick, white knickers. My logic was, arguably, that it was past 7PM and now chilly as a marine layer rolled over Long Beach. The skirt’s corduroy was certainly heavier and warmer than the pink skirt’s light cotton.

For so far as the skirt covered.

This last bit is, perhaps, important as my new skirt is full, pleated, and so short it barely covers to the middle of my thighs. And that would be the middle of my thighs in the front. It is shorter still from behind. Still, I reasoned, it was quite dark, and the train late enough that the platform would be pretty quiet.

I parked close to the station platform just as the train was arriving and got out with our very adorable dog.2I almost wrote “puppy” but she turned one year old last month. They do grow up fast… She’d come along because she’s both the most spoiled creature in the world, AND convinced I am constantly leaving Paul places. She’s always delighted when she’s able to “find” him and thus force me to bring him home. Standing there, holding the leash as people disembarked and the train continued its journey south, I watched for Paul, watched the dog, and had a bit of creeping awareness that the skirt felt a bit shorter than I remembered. Had it ridden up a bit? I carefully tugged down its, um, rear.

The pup saw Paul and bounded toward him, tugging the lead, and forcing me to follow. She greeted him as though he were returned from a months’ long dangerous adventure while side-eyeing me, clearly saying “See? I found him again.” He greeted her, hugged me, took the dog’s lead, and, I think, commented on my skirt.

I opened the front passenger door and started to get in.

“Get back out, please.”

Paul and doggo still stood on the curb, him urging her to jump into the back. My getting in is sometimes a trigger for her, so I got out and stepped onto the curb. As she finally jumped in, I got back in too.

“I said ‘get out of the car, please.'”

A jolt passed through me as I realized (duh!) this wasn’t about the dog.

(more…)

  • 1
    New to me — it was an eBay find.
  • 2
    I almost wrote “puppy” but she turned one year old last month. They do grow up fast…

A Brief Interlude at Rosy Peaches OR Mija’s First Munch

Posted on By Mija

[I began writing this post on Thursday, September 26, the morning after the munch.]

When peaches meet…

Last night, I dashed out of the second-floor classroom and hurried down the stairs. The Uber I’d requested five minutes before the class ended was early — the app alerted me the driver was already there.1I’d thought about sneaking out early, but I’ve found it more difficult to pull that off now that I’m the professor. I was wearing what I think of as my “Barbie Flight Attendant” outfit – a pink plaid fitted jumper,2I’d received comments about “looking nice” all day on campus. That means I either did look nice or stood out like a sore thumb. Or maybe both. pink striped shirt, burgundy tights, black buckle docs, and white knickers no one could see. My hair (finally) is long enough to need clips to hold it back.

The waiting Uber took me to The Auld Fella for my first Rosy Peaches Munch. I arrived at 10:25, barely a half hour before the munch was scheduled to end. When I took a peek at the outdoor area reserved for the munch, I was surprised at how many people had come and were still there. It was a crowd — and like Oasis, a much more diverse one than I’d experienced ten years ago. I was glad to see that, but, you know, a crowd is still a crowd.

Those of you who know or have spent any time with me know that in-person (as opposed to online) social interaction is, to put it mildly, hard for me. For a brief moment, I considered retreating inside the pub and waiting there for Paul, who was scheduled to pick me up at 11. Fortunately, the endorphins from three hours of teaching caught up, and I walked in. A bare moment later, one of the organizers greeted me, asked my name, and began to introduce me. Here entered a haze of names and faces, including two lovely people I’d met at Oasis last month. Unfortunately, at this point, social overwhelm found me stumbling for conversation, and all names immediately left me.

Happily, at that point, I ended up in conversation with someone new3How new? She has no scene name yet. to the spanking scene, who made a point of telling me how great it was to meet another “hard-wired spanko,” and the two of us got into it; the rest of the munch, for me, receding into the background.

Talking with her for the brief half-hour we had, I found her obvious joy and wonder at the, brand new to her, spanking scene infectious. As I caught some of her emotion, it brought back the wonder, pleasure, and excitement I felt in those first few months after discovering this online4Confession: in 1996 when, inside my university email program, I found alt.sex.spanking I had a misapprehension that it was a real place… in Florida for some reason. More on that later… community with post-after-post about spanking. She was clearly having so much fun. It reminded me how much fun this scene can be. Seriously heart-lifting.

Time flew — it felt like only a few minutes later when I got a text from Paul saying he and our doggo were parked nearby whenever I was ready. Sure enough, it was already 11 and time to go.5Have I mentioned I’ve got a 10:30 PM bedtime? Yeah, well, I do. We walked out together, exchanging contact information, still pouring out our hearts, chatting until her Uber arrived. Scolding, discipline/punishment, “good girl”/”naughty girl,” dictionary word searches, hiding, being seen, painful vanilla relationships — it felt like all the topics from a weekend spanking party were captured and mentioned. As her ride pulled away, I remembered how fun talking in person about all things spanking with another spanko woman is. On the ride home, I struggled to keep my enthusiasm from boiling over.

Finally home and in bed, thinking about everything that had happened in an hour, happy and excited, I wished we’d had longer and hoped we could speak again soon. Friday morning, I woke up feeling all the joy, smiling at how much fun we’d had, plotting new adventures.

Friday, I also got whacked super hard with our London Tanner tawse and wrote lines at my new-old school desk. But that’s another story/post.

Image credit: https://pngimg.com/image/4902
  • 1
    I’d thought about sneaking out early, but I’ve found it more difficult to pull that off now that I’m the professor.
  • 2
    I’d received comments about “looking nice” all day on campus. That means I either did look nice or stood out like a sore thumb. Or maybe both.
  • 3
    How new? She has no scene name yet.
  • 4
    Confession: in 1996 when, inside my university email program, I found alt.sex.spanking I had a misapprehension that it was a real place… in Florida for some reason. More on that later…
  • 5
    Have I mentioned I’ve got a 10:30 PM bedtime? Yeah, well, I do.

Readers, Welcome – Also, What Is This Place?

Posted on By Mija

Hello…hello…Can you hear me?

<tap, tap>

….Is this thing on?

AI-generated art that looks pretty like me… on a good day.

Welcome. 🙂 In honor of Mija’s Room receiving its first, and so far only, comment (thank you, Natty!), here is my welcome to my room. In my imagination, this is my corner of The Treehouse, the virtual real estate in the town of alt.sex.spanking/soc.sexuality.spanking where Pablo and Mija once lived.

I’m not sure if many people are reading here yet — if you are, please leave a comment if you can — this blog and site are still taking shape. For a new site it’s trying to do a   – but is mostly going to be a place where I post about my flavors of the kink, musing about ToGI, and all things that, for me, connect to spanking.

One reason it’s trying to do a lot is I have a lot of writing from 1997-2015 that’s not on the ‘net at present. Before it was taken down, it was in three places:

Part of the front page of Pablo and Mija’s Treehouse before it was taken down.
  • Pablo and Mija’s Treehouse – started in 2001 as a Christmas gift from Paul to me. It housed both Paul’s writings, my writings, and a few that we wrote jointly.  They were mostly written for the newsgroups alt.sex.spanking and soc.sexuality.spanking.
  • el tercer ojo – my first blog, started on TypePad in the early 2000s. It originally was going to be a space where I wrote about kink, politics, education, and all the other areas of interest. It soon became clear that it was mostly going to focus on kink. This blog is a kinda extension of that one, I think.
  • The Punishment Book – started in 2004. It was a blog I started with a group of friends. We wrote (sporadically) about how discipline and punishment fit into our lives and relationships, with a lot of real-life accounts. Other than the newsgroup, it’s been my favorite writing community ever — there was a great group of readers and a lot of fun discussions.  I wrote more about it here and would like to find the time to write even more.

All three had to be taken down, literally overnight. The reasons are complicated and have to do with a vanilla friend who, several years ago, unexpectedly became the focus of some of the nastiest parts of the alt.right. They was doxxed on a right-wing website; their connections were combed over as well. Because we’d shared hotel rooms at conferences and we were known to be close friends, I feared my kink might get added to the already terrible attacks they were already experiencing. I couldn’t think of anything to do other than take everything down and erase as much of Mija from the web as I could — not an easy task since the sort of massive data analysis possible now was science fiction in 1997 when I started writing. It felt like Mija died — that we’d had to kill her off, though in truth, I wasn’t actively writing.

That band has thankfully moved on.  As I’ve come back into the scene, I’ve been surprised to hear from a number of people that The Treehouse was a significant site for them and that they miss it. I find that deeply moving because I miss it too, more than I realized. The Treehouse was the first place “Pablo and Mija” lived together. The domain “thetreehouse.net”  was our first “home.” Plus, I like having control over my stories, knowing that there weren’t ever going to be ads or the like.

So, the structure. Obviously, there are dated posts (this is one of them). Posts are new unless I mention somewhere in the subject line or first paragraph that it was posted earlier somewhere else.

At the top, under the header, or in the hamburger at the far right, you can find the pages that are not posts.

Home: This will take you back to the blog’s first page.

About: Basic facts about me as well as art credit  — this banner is an adaptation of a drawing by KayQy’s “Solitude Lineart” – shared under a Creative Commons license.

Glossary: I sooo like a good glossary. This is where I’m going to try to EXPLAIN IT ALL by describing or defining things I write about that may not be obvious to all readers. It will, of course, be chaotic and inconsistent.

Links: This page has links to sites of friends, sites where I read, and eventually, sites where I’ve bought things. Basically, anything kink-related I enjoy and recommend.

Stories: These are my stories, both fiction and real-life accounts, mostly from Pablo & Mija’s Treehouse and The Punishment Book. Most of my writings have been somewhere in the discipline/punishment genre, with a fair dose of school uniform stuff. Hopefully, these will eventually end up on The Treehouse 2.0.

I’m tempted to commit to some sort of posting frequency, but let’s be honest, that would be a piecrust promise. We’ll need to see how this goes.

Meantime, leave a comment if you can.

Spanking Hazard! – Apple Loud Environment Alert

Posted on By Mija

Recently, while I was hand-spanked, otk in the middle of our living room, I felt a vibration on my wrist. Since I was a bit preoccupied, I didn’t check at the time. Since I have ADHD plus assumed it was likely work-related, I promptly forgot about it, that is until I opened my phone and saw this:

95 decibels — how loud is that? I had no idea so I looked it up on the interwebs and found that 95 decibels is as loud as a jackhammer or subway train.

That’s pretty loud. Again, this was a hand spanking. Taking the news to the website formerly known as Twitter, I shared my news:

The always lovely @JanTweetly commented that she had questions. When I asked what they were, she replied:

This is said post.

Q: Whose?

A: Mine– receiving.1She was too polite to ask “why.” Even though it was pretty recent, I don’t remember. Maybe just because it’s fun?

Q: What noise exactly set it off?

A: The sound of Paul’s right hand clapping.

Q: Does it [Apple Watch] expect any response from its alarm?

A: No, but it scolded me, saying that “prolonged exposure” might cause hearing loss.

Q: Does Siri make inappropriate comments?

A: All the time, but not at that precise moment.

This sound alert brought me back to a discussion years ago in another time and place. When people were talking about the first word that came to mind when they thought of a spanking, mine was “loud.” It was not anyone else’s selection.

The sound spanking smacks make (especially with a small light paddle) is deafening to me and ratchets my fear level up to eleven. I’ve always assumed it was the association I somehow made with childhood as I was spanked far too often, far too hard, and a lot of times with a wooden ping-pong or other paddle.

This means I can react to a loud spanking as if I’m being killed, but be rather stoic, at least some times, for canings or strappings/tawsings. Since being diagnosed as neurodivergent, I’ve now begun wondering if it’s as much a feature of that. I am pretty reactive to noise generally, finding it near impossible to focus where there’s loud music, conversation, televisions, or slot machines.

I also try super hard not to make noise/cry out myself.

Do you find the sound sound of spanking difficult?

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    She was too polite to ask “why.” Even though it was pretty recent, I don’t remember. Maybe just because it’s fun?

Newsguy Repost – Details: Uniforms and Canes (M/F)

Posted on By Mija

[This post was originally written for Newsguy, the now-defunct Usenet host and provider, in July 2000. For a brief couple of months, Newsguy paid me to write the occasional post for their front page. This focuses on the respective specifics of a friend, Paul’s, and my flavors of the kink. ]

“A fetish is nothing if not specific.”

My partner made this wise remark to me at some point when I joked, with some amazement, at the effort and expense he had put into finding just the right gymslip and knickers for me (grey pleated and bottle green, respectively). When one is dealing with something that has the power traditional school uniforms have for my partner, expense, and inconvenience –not to mention my own physical discomfort, British school uniforms being somewhat less than seasonal in my desert clime– seem trivially unimportant.

“A fetish is nothing if not specific.”

My brain echoed the phrase again as we sat the other night admiring a friend’s1You may know him on FetLife as HH (HenryHiggins) canes. He’s got quite a few — all with distinct (and distinctly painful) qualities based on their length and the density of the rattan they’re made from. They are sanded and varnished to precise silky smoothness. All but one has the crook handle of a traditional English cane. Each cane has specific value to our friend for its own sake. As he flexed the canes and swished them through the air, their number (six, I believe) obviously didn’t seem excessive to him. Choosing the right one to impart the right message was an important part of the ritual discipline he’d be administering.

For me, sitting nervously, watching and listening, which cane he would use seemed unimportant. Had he owned but one or two, that would have been enough to make me shift nervously in my chair. The swishing of one would have made me cringe slightly, probably visibly. For me, the detail that was important — specific — was that I was to be caned in the specific and traditional manner of a very strict English school. The caning would be slow and exceptionally painful, yet I would be expected to remain as still and quiet as possible during it. Since, for me, restraints tend to make scenes easier, the authenticity of this caning was what would make it possible for me to restrain myself.

Our friend knew this about me, knew that how and why I was being caned was as important (or more important) than the caning itself. So beforehand, we carefully discussed what I’d done that merited this level of punishment. As we talked, I became a disobedient schoolgirl who deserved the sort of strict, harsh punishment I imagined would be meted out by a traditional (and perhaps sadistic?) headmaster at a strict school sometime in the past. I felt guilty and nervous, my hand finally shaking as it tapped gently on his “office” door.

This is the power of specificity for me. My friend, knowing his role, scolded me and slowly maneuvered me into position. In the past, this part has been extended by conversation, time in the corner, essay, and line writing. By the time I’m bent over, standing on tip-toe, blushing and dying of shame as my knickers are slowly lowered to my knees, I’m generally already in tears. Some might think (and sadly *have* thought) that the caning itself is irrelevant at this point and that the strokes don’t need to be very severe. But for me, this isn’t the case. Our friend didn’t disappoint; each stroke was delivered with full force, in straight lines, with a great deal of time between each. I thanked him for each one and willed myself to stay in position for “twelve of the best” as befits a girl receiving such a traditional punishment.

In the morning I could see where each stroke had left the distinctive double marks or “tram-lines” that are the evidence of a traditional caning. I couldn’t help smiling at the proof of my “punishment” as I admired it in the mirror. It’s all about details, you know.

After all, a fetish is nothing if not specific.

What details of your kink matter most to you? For me, I’m all about ritual.

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    You may know him on FetLife as HH (HenryHiggins)