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Story: Demon Torrents (2011) R/L – From The Punishment Book

Posted on By Mija

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Today, January JULY 11, England beat Norway in their World Cup match and are advancing still further/higher in the tournament. I watched the match  here in Long Beach knowing so many of my friends and beloveds were watching with levels of interest and anxiety all over the world. It was oddly comforting to know we all doing the same thing at the same time. That made the world feel a little smaller. Hooray!

I recalled this 2011 story (and the actual spanking) because of a series of Tweets  JustAnotherBoomer posted about giving a punishment spanking to his MLB1An FYI – That stands for “My Lovely Bride” not “Major League Baseball.”

Poor MLB!

The events below happened 16 and a half years ago – I was really this thoughtless and faced what were painful consequences. That didn’t happen a lot, surely not as much as I deserved, but I remember each one. I remember this one as one of the hardest I’ve ever received as a punishment. Others were more formal, planned rather than, as this one was, given in the moment. It so happened that this time my careless naughtiness coincided with my bedtime, How fortunate.

I mean, fortunate for the narrative! Not for me! Yet also, how fortunate for me too.

And how am I? Well, I miss Paul and 2011 tonight. Feeling watched over, safe, and loved. 2I know I am all of those things. But there’s nothing and no one that ever affirmed it like my beloved and that ebony brush.

Below is what I posted on The Punishment Book on January 11, 2011.

[My dad is currently out of town for a week.  The plan was that I’d be spanked each night.  Nice spankings though.  Except, well, I got in the way of that lovely plan.]

As Paul circa 2011 reported in a not-at-all cryptic comment on Twitter:

Not meant as ooo-look-at-us, but @eltercerojo went to bed genuinely scolded and spanked tonight. Both real and surprisingly resonant.

That’s the short version.  All of it is true.  This is going to be the longer story, one maybe that will keep something like it from happening again anytime soon.  As I’ve reported repeatedly in the past, most of my being in trouble and punishments happen not because of anything willful, but because I either don’t think things through or am not paying attention to what I’m doing.

So what happened?

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    An FYI – That stands for “My Lovely Bride” not “Major League Baseball.”
  • 2
    I know I am all of those things. But there’s nothing and no one that ever affirmed it like my beloved and that ebony brush.

The 8-Month Year – 2026

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Hiya!

Mysteriously, my calendar, doubtlessly inspired by1Or perhaps acting against. the productivity sphere’s innovation, The 12-Week Year, has developed its own variant: The 8-Month Year.

How does the 8-Month Year work, I hear you ask?

The system is simple. January, with its simultaneous regrets and resolute promises of reform, is permitted to start said year. February makes a brave, if brief, showing. Then, without warning and with no ransom note, March, April, May, and June vanish as though they never existed. July briskly follows, giving no notice to the missing months and expecting everyone to, likewise, avert their eyes and carry on.

In fairness to the calendar and its missing months, like every year this decade, 2026 hasn’t been an entirely uneventful year. At the end of January, an aging surfer-surgeon disassembled and rebuilt my left ankle, then gave me the happy news that I was down two tendons and needed a great deal of bed rest with said ankle higher than my heart for at least 5 weeks, followed by months of physical therapy. He also introduced me to the wonders of Aleve, which I’ve since adopted as Gen X’s Vitamin A.

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    Or perhaps acting against.

Gym Rules (2011) – Reader Request

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Below is a post from The Punishment Book, a domestic discipline blog I hosted about 15 years ago that ran for about eight years. There were a number of friends in various sorts of relationships who wrote for it. Someone recently asked me what sort of things got posted there. There were posts like this one that were basically accounts of discipline/punishments. Also, discussions of what discipline and punishment meant to us. We could go on and on… and we did.

My personal archive of posts reads like proof of AuDHD. If only someone had said.

[This post has been written twice. The first draft got eaten by TypePad (boo!). I thought maybe this was a sign that this story wasn’t meant to be shared, but Zille and Paul convinced me that if I didn’t share the story here, pictures of my bottom and its cane marks could end up on Twitter. Since the last thing I want to do is show my bottom to the world for being caned for not going to the gym enough, and thus prove why I need to go to the gym more often, I’m busy re-typing this on the bus.]

As those of you who read here and / or Spanking Blog1Hey! Spanking Blog! So glad to see you’re still out there.  know, I’ve asked Paul to help me make better use of my gym membership by giving me 49 strokes of the cane, that’s one for every dollar my membership costs, any week I don’t make it to the gym at least three times. Paul gets to pick everything about the caning except the number of strokes. He can choose the cane he wants, what I wear and what position I’m caned in. This week I only went to the gym once. My reckoning was last night (Sunday).

Now I wasn’t entirely sure I would really get caned for missing the gym this week. I had some very good excuses. First, my gym isn’t air conditioned and last week it was very hot several days. So I didn’t go to the gym for fear of getting over-heated. Then my mother showed up with all her loveliness and drama. I spent one whole day running errands with her. So I didn’t go to the gym that day either. Saturday was taken up with a family party. I couldn’t go to the gym Saturday. And Sunday I had to go out to brunch with a friend of my parents. And then I had to come home and get my writing sample ready. I couldn’t go to the gym on Sunday. Suddenly all the days were gone and a week had past with only one gym trip. But of course Paul would understand.

He understood and even agreed I had very good reasons for not having gone to the gym. But that didn’t matter. I hadn’t gone and I’d asked him to punish me, to cane me, if I didn’t go. I think if he had made the rule, he might have let me off this week. Maybe not. But because I asked for this and didn’t say “except for weeks when it’s really hot or I’m really busy” he followed through. And that’s right. My gym opens at 5:30 AM and is open until 11:00 PM. We make time for things that are important and getting good use out of my gym membership and spending some time on my body is important. Truth be told, for all that my excuses are good, I could have gone.

Paul let me know yesterday afternoon that I was going to be caned. I struggled a bit with the knowledge. I was in the midst of wrestling with the text of my writing sample and couldn’t quite make room in my head for the idea of being caned. So I buried myself in my work and didn’t think about it. Even as evening progressed (with me still working away) I was in denial. You see, not only is my dad with us this week, my mom is here as well. They sleep in the bedroom next to ours. And unlike my dad, my mom is a light sleeper.

When I came out of the bathroom after doing all those evening things, the nursery cane was at the end of the bed. He was going to go through with it.

I thought about calling safeword on the caning. I mean, my mom.

But the thing is, part of me didn’t want to. I want to be held accountable. I asked for this. So I cowardly tried to slide into bed with the vague hope that if I fell asleep fast (all that writing and editing had made me tired) Paul wouldn’t cane me. After all, he’s always trying to get me to sleep. He sternly told me not to get into bed.

So I took a deep breath and stood next to the bed, after closing the door, and, rather sadly, pushing my bed stool up against it. I hoped that like last week, this week he’d be using the cane over the knee (thats’ what the nursery cane, which is short and thin, is made for). Sure enough, he sat down on the bed and had me pull down my pjs. I took them down and climbed over his lap. He spent a good amount of time adjusting my position, turning the top of my body closer to the head of the bed and my bottom further down his leg. What he was doing wasn’t clear to me until the first stroke landed.

He was giving himself more room to swing so the tip of the cane would land harder.
The first stroke landed like a cut. The thing is, the nursery cane is very very thin and really really stings. That was true last week, but from the start it was clear this caning was a lot harder than the one the week before before. But, my brain cried, as I considered screaming, my parents are in the next room. So I pulled my hands forward (my arms had been folded behind my back) and started counting off the strokes on my right fingers, one at a time, while on my left I kept track in groups of twelve.

The thing about the thin cane is that it really stings. When Paul used it on me it felt more like a switch than a cane. By the time he reached twelve I could feel the tip marks crossing. The sting was terrible and I fought with myself to lie still. Paul will probably say I wasn’t still, but I’m sure I mostly was. As I counted each one off it seemed an impossible number was left. When he reached twenty-four I started to panic and tears welled up in my eyes. I tried to keep my breathing slow and even because I knew if I started crying I might make noise. And making noise, being heard by my parents seemed much worse than even the hurt the cane was doing.

Strange as it may seem, at thirty-six I felt a sense of relief because it meant there were only twelve left. However much they might hurt, I could get through twelve more. Paul sped up and the strokes landed harder still and faster, making me gasp into the sheets. My feet fluttered as I tried hard not to kick. After quite a build-up of pain, it ended in a rush — an almost “is that all there is?” moment. Then the burn started to soak in.
Paul kept me over his lap as he rubbed some LUSH dream cream into my bottom. It stings, but in a soothing sort of way. It hurt enough that I teared a bit as we snuggled close but I expected all signs to be gone by morning. This is so not the case. Almost 24 hours later and I’m still sitting tenderly, the right side of my bottom is still hot to the touch. Yes, this is me pouting a bit.

But not too much. I did, after all, ask for this. And I’m sure this week I will make it to the gym at least three times. Why am I sure? First because I want to. Second because my bottom really hurts. And third, my parents will not be here next weekend. Paul has let it be known that should he have to cane me next week, I won’t be getting off with the nursery cane.
I’m going to be such a good girl. No, really.

Posted by Mija on 17 October 2011 at 09:46 PM

Lots of posts like this one. Some of mine will be part of The Treehouse site when it goes live. There are also a couple here: Careless Girl (2006),  A Sunday in Disgrace.

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    Hey! Spanking Blog! So glad to see you’re still out there.

(Belated) Round-up – June 2025

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June 2025 has been [okay, was] a surprisingly full month. It’s usually pretty sleepy. For the past four years, Paul and I have spent a least part of it in Mendocino — a wild and beautiful part of Northern California — decompressing from the academic year and getting ready for the summer. This year, of course, is different. With the exception of a weekend in Dallas for TASSP, I spent June living on my own getting ready for spending July-August in the UK.

Like everything else this year, these preparations weren’t as simple as I’d thought they’d be (and I expected them to be hard), partly because this is really the first time I’ve lived alone outside of being in university residence halls. Partly too because of the wildly complex process of getting Sutti certified (health and recognized as a service dog) to come into the UK and fly in the cabin rather than cargo. Most of all though, it was difficult because the situation in Los Angeles, brought about by the federal government’s sending secret police into the city1Even now, writing this, I can hardly believe what’s happening. , was and is, horrible. Living amidst neighbors who are too scared to go to work or even leave their homes so their kids can go to the park is hard to imagine until it happens. Sitting in this lovely cafe in Mumbles, Wales, I’m afraid of what I may be coming back to.

On the positive side, in addition to spending time with Paul, I’m looking forward to the chance to experience Wales, a part of the UK where I’ve never been, and the Republic of Ireland later this month, another place I’ve never been there either. I’ve gotten back in touch with three “old” (as in long-standing, they’re all younger than me) friends, none of whom I’ve seen in more than a decade. Knowing I’m going to see (well, I’ve already seen two) before I go back to California feels good.

Kink:

  • Found a Saint Clare story, “Red Darn,” written many moons ago for a soc.sexuality.spanking short story contest. It’s “new” in that it was never archived on the web via The Treehouse.
  • Flew to Dallas, Texas and went to my first Texas All-State Spanking Party (TASSP). This was the best, most well-organized spanking party I’ve ever been to. Party report to come. Someday.

  • Got an adorable vintage uniform and was/am shocked to find it fits.2This prompted me to weigh myself. Without trying I’ve lost more than thirty pounds since September 2024. Explains why everything fits wrong — I’ve been wearing size 14-16s (US) – should be in size 8-10. Of course, that’s the one size range between 20 and 4 where I don’t have many clothes — right now everything I wear is baggy and  This gymslip fitting has been a singular bright spot.  Thanks to some excellent detective work on the part of Twitter and Bluesky readers, I was able to announce that it’s from a Welsh girls’ school that closed in the 1970s, just shy of its 100th anniversary.
  • Attended a small but mightly spanko munch in Santa Monica. This was great fun and a wonderful way to fight the drop from my first TASSP! I’d say it was a “local” brunch but more than half the people I met were visiting from somewhere else.

Internet: 

House & Garden: 

  • Was able to get my garden into (better) shape, front and back. Hopefully everything won’t die off while I’m away July and August.
  • The house is also slowly getting into shape. While “Busy Mija” has been cleaning and organizing, her alter ego “Entropy Girl” keeps leaving messes.
  • Moved some very heavy things all by myself thereby managing to get some impressive bruises.
  • Had a bumper tap accident. No one was hurt, but the damage to the other car (new Tesla), while not noticeable, includes some broken sensors so is going to be super expensive. Enough so I’ve reported it to my insurance rather than paying for the other driver’s damages. So next year’s insurance is going to be super expensive too. Upside?

Reading:

  • I’ve been celebrating the end of the semester/start of summer vacation AND hiding from reality (as said above, things are weird in Los Angeles/California/USA just now) by reading “cosy mysteries” by the armful. Some of the authors I’ve liked best are:
    • Alan Bradley
    • Rhys Brown
    • Laura Childs
    • Karen Baugh Menuhin
    • P.J. Nelson
    • Lydia Travers
    • Charlotte MacLeod (re-reading after almost 35 years)
  • Currently reading:
    • Cherished Belonging by Gregory Boyle  (audio)
    • Heartbreaker by Mike Campbell (audio)
    • Princess of the Savoy by Ron Base and Prudence Emery

 

….and I’m also reading everything I can get my hands on on girls boarding schools.

Related to that, I’ve got more to say and a larger project going up here soon, but will leave this post here as is and save everything else for later. I’ve got enough internet to post this now and may not in another hour.

So, wela di wedyn my friends. 

 

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    Even now, writing this, I can hardly believe what’s happening.
  • 2
    This prompted me to weigh myself. Without trying I’ve lost more than thirty pounds since September 2024. Explains why everything fits wrong — I’ve been wearing size 14-16s (US) – should be in size 8-10. Of course, that’s the one size range between 20 and 4 where I don’t have many clothes — right now everything I wear is baggy and  This gymslip fitting has been a singular bright spot.
blog

Spanking Stories – My Fictional Origins

Posted on By Mija

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This post got super long. There’s some good content (not by me) after the jump though. Plus, I manage to write about my childhood without being grim, so there’s that.

And, I’m also posting it at 2:15 AM so it’s very likely there are a lot of grammar, spelling and other errors. Sorry?  

I can’t remember a time I wasn’t interested in spanking. There was never a time I wasn’t looking for and noticing spanking references in popular culture.

I mean, interested, in a way that, even when I was 5 or younger, I knew no one could ever know, that I could never tell anyone about. My fascination has always seemed strange, even1Or maybe especially. to me. I was “spanked” too frequently and too hard throughout my childhood in ways that, even for the 1970s and 1980s, were abusive. I hated and feared being punished — even now I  remember how terrified I felt. The horrible anticipation; all these things that, when chosen as an adult, when I know I’m safe and loved, are scary in a good and exciting way, were frightening and shameful beyond belief when I was a child.2I knew I had to be truly bad to need to be punished so severely and so often, you see. In retrospect, my sister and I actually were unnaturally well-behaved children; the “trouble” we got into was mostly for dishonesty while trying to cover up mistakes and accidents (so many from ADHD as it turns out) so as not to get punished.

But even so, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel a shameful rush of excitement when I saw a spanking on television, or when another child mentioned they were afraid they might get spanked (my child-self’s lack of sympathy for my classmates appalls me), I could feel my heart pound harder, my face flush.3I don’t think I ever spoke about being spanked with anyone other than my sister. Maybe because by the time I was 7 or 8 I knew that the severity and frequency of my “getting it” was a lot more than my classmates. So I just listened. A lot. Best of all though was coming across accounts of spankings in books. Those stories I returned to over and over.  I’ve joked that I learned to read and became such a great researcher, if I do say so myself, looking for anything about spankings across literature, history, and social science.

A number of people (mostly female) over the years have written about reading the strapping scene in Laura Wilder‘s Little House in the Big Woods. A friend commented once that her book eventually opened to those pages on its own, much to her embarrassment. Likewise. I received the whole set of the Little House books for my First Communion when I was seven, meaning I no longer needed to wait my turn to check then out from the library.

The passage we all remember is:

“Aunt Lotty had gone, and Laura and Mary were tired and cross. They were at the woodpile, gathering a pan of chips to kindle the fire in the morning. They always hated to pick up chips, but every day they had to do it. Tonight they hated it more than ever.

Laura grabbed the biggest chip, and Mary said:

“I don’t care. Aunt Lotty likes my hair best, anyway. Golden hair is lots prettier than brown.”
Laura’s throat swelled tight, and she could not speak. She knew golden hair was prettier than brown. She couldn’t speak, so she reached out quickly and slapped Mary’s face.

Then she heard Pa say, “Come here, Laura.”

She went slowly, dragging her feet. Pa was sitting just inside the door. He had seen her slap Mary.

“You remember,” Pa said, “I told you girls you must never strike each other.”

Laura began, “But Mary said–”

“That makes no difference,” said Pa. “It is what I say that you must mind.”

Then he took down a strap from the wall, and he whipped Laura with the strap.

Laura sat on a chair in the corner and sobbed. When she stopped sobbing, she sulked. The only thing in the whole world to be glad about was that Mary had to fill the chip pan all by herself.

Is it any wonder I’m kinked? I mean, there’s a strapping and corner time. Followed by aftercare — something that was not a feature of the spankings/beatings of my childhood:

At last, when it was getting dark, Pa said again, “Come here, Laura.” His voice was kind, and when Laura came he took her on his knee and hugged her close. She sat in the crook of his arm, her head against his shoulder and his long brown whiskers partly covering her eyes, and everything was all right again.

She told Pa all about it, and she asked him, “You don’t like golden hair better than brown, do you?”

Pa’s blue eyes shone down at her, and he said, “Well, Laura, my hair is brown.”

She had not thought of that. Pa’s hair was brown, and his whiskers were brown, and she thought brown was a lovely color. But she was glad that Mary had had to gather all the chips.”

That passage was easy to type. While I copied the text, I could have written it from memory.4Except in my memory that last line is “But she was *still* glad that Mary had to gather all the chips.”

Read on, this is a long post, but if you liked the above it’s (probably) worth it.

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    Or maybe especially.
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    I knew I had to be truly bad to need to be punished so severely and so often, you see. In retrospect, my sister and I actually were unnaturally well-behaved children; the “trouble” we got into was mostly for dishonesty while trying to cover up mistakes and accidents (so many from ADHD as it turns out) so as not to get punished.
  • 3
    I don’t think I ever spoke about being spanked with anyone other than my sister. Maybe because by the time I was 7 or 8 I knew that the severity and frequency of my “getting it” was a lot more than my classmates. So I just listened. A lot.
  • 4
    Except in my memory that last line is “But she was *still* glad that Mary had to gather all the chips.”

It’s the One Year Anniversary of Mija’s Room

Posted on By Mija

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Introductory Note: June rather than January is when the academic year changes at most colleges and universities in the United States. Academic year (AY) 2024-2025 is over; AY 2025-2026 is being rolled out. Paul left on his journey to rediscover his home in early May; I turned in my grades almost exactly a month ago today.  didn’t plan it this way, but it seems a good time to take stock of where I’ve been and where I want to go.

In June 2024, after spending more than a year messing with the layout and design while trying to figure out how to blog again, I pushed the button and made “Mija’s Room” live. My (or at least Mija’s) return to the internet was largely received with silence and disinterest, much to my delight. I wanted to write but feared answering questions, especially about Paul and me, as I figured out if I can be “Mija” again. Blogging was a way to reconnect with the parts of myself that had written stories and discussions on the ass/sss newsgroups for 15 years.

That soft launch was a year ago today this month, though I didn’t formally write a “Welcome” post until the end of September, some three months later.

Since then I’ve tried to write updates regularly, though it’s been less often than I’d like. I managed to post at least once each month, except for April.1That month I did update and add to the stories and links page, but never got around to putting up an actual post. Overall, and being kind to myself, I’m happy with having put up 39 posts and more than 25 pages. It’s been great to have a place to write about kink again in a more sustained way than Twitter/BlueSky can allow. Writing about Paul and me separating and all that accompanied that was harder than I’d expected it to be, especially when it went from a two to a three body problem. I’ve appreciated the support from and reconnection with old friends and the chance to make new ones.

Going to two national (really international) parties where I saw and experienced the changes the rising generation is making, especially in the far greater racial and gender diversity, as well as their comfort with switching is more than I could have hoped for and has been fantastic.

My “Mija” goals for this coming year include:

  1. Write at least two posts, ideally one story and one not-story, every month
  2. Be more timely in replying to readers and make replies regularly on blogs and sites I read
  3. Develop and curate my link pages so as to encourage readers and writers
  4. Inventory “The Cupboard”  (implements) and “The Wardrobe” (uniforms)
  5. Get el tercer ojo and The Punishment Book back up on the web, probably as archives rather than active sites.
  6. Working with Paul, get the The Treehouse back up and get two long-discussed special projects going
  7. Attend as many parties (national and local) as possible
  8. Attend Rosy Peaches and other Southern California munches
  9. Make new friends and reconnect with old ones
  10. Stop caring who knows I’m into spanking

Other goals include:

  1. Gett my house organized by both adding things that I want to add and clearing out the many many things I have that I “don’t find to be useful or believe to be beautiful”
  2. Figuring out the best way to meet my monthly expenses which are currently exceeding my incomings2This was expected and is okay. I’ve got a number of options, none of which involve selling plasma.
  3. Taking better care of my health, physical and mental, and all that entails, including, sadly, several surgeries
  4. Stay in touch with my kink and vanilla friends
  5. Restart calligraphy
  6. Get ready for my too-long-delayed sabbatical in AY 2026-2027
  7. Default to “no” rather than “yes” when asked to add to my work responsibilities
  8. Journal as well as keeping a calendar
  9. Don’t let the grim state of the US and world steal my joy or hope
  10. Do my best to be aware of ALL THE THINGS but don’t beat myself up for every mistake

Writing all of these down will help me remember them and be a gesture toward holding myself accountable.

These are pretty ambitious — I’ll see how well I can do. This is exactly the sort of sustained effort I’ve always struggled with so it will be a test for the efficacy of my ADHD therapy and treatment.

Let’s see how it goes…

 

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    That month I did update and add to the stories and links page, but never got around to putting up an actual post.
  • 2
    This was expected and is okay. I’ve got a number of options, none of which involve selling plasma.

A Sunday in Disgrace – from The Punishment Book (2005)

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[Wanna win a new London Tanner paddle? One’s being raffled this month on this very blog. You enter by posting a comment to any post or page on the blog. Each new comment or reply to another comment gets you another entry.]

This was originally a post written for The Punishment Book, but I think it’s detailed enough to be a story in its own right.

Whenever we’ve been doing real-life discipline/punishment or accountability, it’s been with Sundays as the accounting day. Many of those efforts ended with breaks in consistency, with each of us seeing them as failures and each blaming ourselves for said failures. They weren’t failures, though we wouldn’t find that out for years. I wish I could travel back in time and tell both of us that what we were doing was helping and healing. 1It was only when I had to finish my dissertation under the most unbelievable time constraints that the value of these bursts of structured discipline enforced by punishments became clear; I would not have been able to finish my PhD without them.

More on this at another time.

Yesterday was a discipline Sunday, complete with me being thrashed with our heavy London Tanner tawse in a strict uniform Paul selected and inspected. I’m going to try and write about it in the next week, but given that for the past six months or so, each week my job has managed to find new levels of stressful WFT-ery I’m not so sure I’ll get to it.

Here’s the two tweets that went up about it:

Sunday was also Paul’s birthday, though we celebrated today as well as yesterday.2My favorite part was hearing that Paul didn’t think this was the last time I’d get to make him a birthday pavlova. As part of this, I made him his favorite “cake”3. I know it’s not exactly a cake, but it’s been his traditional birthday cake since the first birthday we spent together. – raspberry pavlova. I learned how to make it online when I found out it was his favorite dessert. Because this was before recipe sites had a lot of pictures, I mistakenly thought the layers of fruit and cream went on and on. It’s one of those “mistakes” that turn out well. This pavlova was not my best, but not my worst either.

A Sunday in Disgrace

by Mija M/F RL

So last night, I posted that I wouldn’t be online today (Sunday) and that I was to be punished, but I didn’t know what would happen. Pablo has done a number of different things to punish me over the years we’ve been together. I suspected it would involve pain and my bottom, but I also wondered what else might be done.

Frequently, the “what else” is the hardest part.

All day yesterday, I seemed to be pretending tomorrow (today) was Monday rather than Sunday. Sunday is our traditional day for accounting the past week and planning the next. And this was an accounting I feared, while at the same time I was also afraid that maybe Pablo was going to tell me that since I wasn’t putting in any effort, we were going to once again put the idea of discipline (I like sparkle’s term “methodic discipline”) on hold for a while. You see, one of the things we’ve discovered is that Pablo can’t pull me along (at least not very far or very often). He can be very effective at pushing me back on track, but the primary motivation must always come from inside me.

This week it hasn’t.

My life isn’t micromanaged nor governed by many rules. Instead, the rules are very simple. There’s one household job each day (right now different rooms that are being de-cluttered) and a certain amount of time I’m supposed to spend working on my dissertation, wearing a rather uncomfortable schoolgirl uniform. And there are a few (very few) not rules, such as, I’m not to lie, not making new clutter, not leaving a mess in the kitchen (especially not leaving the cabinets open), and not making rustling noises with wrappers. This last extends to almost anyone around Pablo as it makes him growl.

We’ve tried more elaborate timetables and charts but chose this time out to stick with a few simple things that need to be done. This week, almost nothing got done. There were a few valid excuses on a couple of days of appointments, but I made no effort to try and work when I could. In fact, I tried very hard not to work. When I try hard at something, I generally succeed. Even more so with something like avoiding studying and cleaning, two things I’m very experienced at hiding from.

This blog and the fun of seeing it linked to from other places proved an easy distraction. And there were lots of phone calls, both made and received. Anyway, now I’m stalling because I’m embarrassed to write about being punished.

So yesterday, Pab asked if Sunday had any commitments. I searched my head high and low, but there were none. Our calendar was clear. After I’d verified that, he told me that I wasn’t doing anything all day except being disciplined. Eeek! I felt like I deserved that and was relieved that he wasn’t giving up on me, so I didn’t argue. And then he told me that I would have to write something for the Punishment Book saying I would be punished and then something on Sunday night describing what had happened. I balked, first arguing that the other authors might object to that sort of use of our blog. And then, when he pointed out that was unlikely, I started sulking and said I wouldn’t do it. Pab followed up with a promise to do it himself if I didn’t, but then after we talked, he saw that I shouldn’t have to have this space that’s been designated for me and the other authors and have it taken and used in punishing me.

At that point, these posts became his request. I’m doing them partly because he understood and respected my having this space and also because it’s probably a good thing to write about here.

Oh, and I was to be off the ‘net for 24 hours starting at midnight last night. This was a hard thing, but by this morning, when we were walking to The Coffee Bean for Sunday coffee and I was given the order of the day, I was offering to stay offline for a week if that could please be the only punishment. Pab doubted I could stay off that long, but even if I could, he wasn’t willing to revise the order given. So what was the order?

Uniform, talk, hard hairbrush spanking over my knickers, corner time with some questions to answer afterward, school work of significance, something else I’m not quite ready to talk about, followed by a very hard bare bottom hair brushing.

Anyway, to get going on the substance, after I’d had my shower this morning, I found a clean starched white shirt, grey gymslip, black shoes, green plaid tie, grey knee socks, and white knickers waiting for me on the uniform chair. I dressed very slowly, leaving the last button on my shirt and the tie for Pab to do.

After I was buttoned up, there ended up being no talk, just an inspection including a tactile check to make sure I was smoothly shaved beneath my knickers. I was, which didn’t elicit praise but rather a comment that “we wouldn’t be needing the ruler then.” (Because down there it gets ruled if it isn’t smooth when checked.) Maybe because I’d taken so long getting dressed, I found myself turned over his lap without any more talking. He told me he was going to spank me quite hard over my knickers and I could spend the day thinking of how it was going to feel tonight over my bare bottom. I don’t think he held much back and the spanking was hard and fast. The implement used is one generally used for discipline and punishment in our house. It’s a 10-inch heavy ebony hairbrush that hurts more than I can admit. It can take me from start to howling in about 15 seconds.

This morning I ended up howling into a pillow by the tenth smack and lost count at 60. They came very fast, hard and landed on alternating sides in almost the same spots. My sit spots to be exact.

He then had me sit in front of him for a small hug (sniffle) and a lecture, telling me I would be on a chair in the corner for a long time and wasn’t to look around or worry about what he was doing because I was being watched. There wasn’t exactly a threat of more hair brushing, but somehow I suspect hair brushing would be involved should I not stare deep into the corner until I was called out. I needed to be able to tell him what had gone wrong in the previous week, how it could be avoided in the week ahead, and what I planned to accomplish today.

So I sat bare-bottomed on the hard wooden chair and thought about the questions. My answers came pretty quickly and mostly included my laziness and the fact I’ve been trying to work in the late afternoon (procrastination) when morning is my most productive time of day. When we talked about this when corner time was over (30 minutes later!), and I told him both what I’d planned on doing and the reasons I thought I was struggling, he asked if I felt set up for failure today. As it was already getting late, I said “yes,” which kinda annoyed him, but it was really the truth. Plus, I felt a bit angry, even though there was no reason for me to be annoyed with anyone other than myself.

I went into my study, feeling sad that I couldn’t check my e-mail, put upon because I thought Pab was mad at me unfairly and started to type. Pablo got ready for a walk and then came in, and he comforted me for a bit, which made me cry. I think I was also thinking about the next hairbrush spanking, which was going to hurt a lot, as I could definitely feel the first one as I sat working.

Without the net, the work went pretty quickly. Because I’ve been quite lazy, two and a half hours was about all I could do, which still was a thousand words of a new chapter—not bad considering I’ve avoided writing anything new since August.

After I finished, Pab was still out, so I started dinner, still in my uniform, as I wasn’t sure I could take it off. I’d just finished the prep work (didn’t want to start cooking until the OTHER thing got taken care of when Pab arrived home. With flowers as an early Valentine’s and because he loves me. That was great. But he put them in the sink because he still had the other thing to do.

For the “other thing,” I had to change out of my uniform into a grey Pab’s T-shirt and keep on my white knickers.

In the eight years I’ve been doing online writing, this is something I’ve never written about. Part of my punishment/discipline tonight was what we call a “bottom cleaning” or enema. I think the reason it’s so hard for me to write about them is that anything connected with what we refer to as “my bottom hole” is the most private and invasive thing and leaves me without any resistance. Enemas are the most extreme part of what get done “down there.” I tend to cry the entire way through, not because it hurts (these aren’t cold water or punishment-style enemas) though of course they aren’t comfortable exactly, but because the process leaves me feeling totally helpless. Such was the case tonight, for the slightly soapy first and the plain water second. He held me for each of the five minutes I had to hold the water before he let me run (or walk gingerly, as the case may be) to the bathroom.

I can be bratty through spankings (though not punishment ones, of course), but even the mention of anything anal, especially the “e thing,” tends to make me suddenly quiet and submissive. By the time the second one had ended, I was curled up on the bed. Pab came in after putting the e-stuff away, told me there was one last thing, and sent me to the corner. I stood there very, very still, trying to get my head around the idea of being spanked very hard with the brush. By then, I knew I deserved it, but I still felt afraid. The brush is used for punishment for good reason. There’s no implement I like, but my feelings about the ebony brush run on a spectrum between fear and loathing. Still more because even worse than the cane, it leaves very few lasting marks and can be (and has been) used daily on occasion. Before I went to the corner, I very softly asked if he could gag me for the hair brushing as I was worried I was going to end up screaming.

Corner time seemed very brief before I was called over to Pab’s lap. I sat and embraced him, apologized for the previous week, and told him how much better I was going to be in the coming week. He had the brush in his hand. He comforted me a bit and allowed that I was right to be scared of the brush. He’d put out an old, clean cotton shirt and told me to fashion whatever sort of gag I needed. Then he pulled down my knickers almost to my knees and helped me over his lap. I twisted the shirt into a sort of rope I could bite on. Panic already had tears running down my cheeks.

Pablo patted my bottom.

“What’s this?” He asked.

I took the shirt out, wondering if he was pointing out my bareness as he reached forward to pull my right hand into the small of my back, effectively pinning me.

“My bare bottom. Sir.”

“No,” he said, patting a bit harder. “What do you feel?”

I froze for a second. Hope rose a bit within me.

“Your hand. Sir.”

Maybe it just meant a warm-up? That would certainly help, though.

“Right. What sort of girls get hand-spanked on their bare bottoms?”

I answered, feeling a bit embarrassed, and also feeling my knickers slip down past my knees.

“Little girls?”

“What sort of little girls?”

“Um…” Goodness. Oh right. “Naughty little girls. Sir.”

“That’s right. I don’t think I need the brush tonight. But remember how hard my hand is. You’re not getting off entirely.”

And that was true. The hand spanking was long and hard and made me cry. He spanked my whole bottom and up and down my thighs. He then held me across his lap and lectured a bit on the horrible fate (mostly the bare-bottom hair brushing) that would befall me if I had another week like the previous one.

I won’t. Even with my bottom still burning more than three hours later, I still feel grateful. When I asked why he’d not hairbrushed me, Pab said he always wanted a punishment to be no more than enough. It was enough. This week will be different.

While Pab made us mashed potatoes to go with my orange pork carnitas, I arranged my flowers. He told me the bottom cleaning was going to be part of our Sunday ritual from now on and I squeaked a bit. I know he likes how quiet and submissive I am afterward.

We’ll wait and see on that last thing. With any luck, the soap and bag will go back to lurking under the bathroom sink.

And a new week begins tomorrow for this newly good girl.

 

  • 1
    It was only when I had to finish my dissertation under the most unbelievable time constraints that the value of these bursts of structured discipline enforced by punishments became clear; I would not have been able to finish my PhD without them.
  • 2
    My favorite part was hearing that Paul didn’t think this was the last time I’d get to make him a birthday pavlova.
  • 3
    . I know it’s not exactly a cake, but it’s been his traditional birthday cake since the first birthday we spent together.

That Escalated Quickly – Real Life (New Story!)

Posted on By Mija

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woman in green Scottish school uniform reading a book
That’s the kilt and school desk. I did not wear either the tie or blazer today.

[Wanna win a new London Tanner paddle? One’s being raffled this month on this very blog. You enter by posting a comment to any post or page on the blog. Each new comment or reply to another comment gets you another entry.]

That Escalated Quickly (2025)

by Mija

M/F

[texting with a friend during a break in writing something super important1The academic job letter is the worst writing genre in the world. It manages to both be extremely boring AND incredibly high-stakes stressful at the same time. ]

Me:
I just had things escalate unexpectedly here.

Not Me:
Oh?

Not Me:
👀

Me: Yup. Here goes…

So, I’m wearing my Scottish uniform—the green one. I’m wearing a green plaid skirt, sweater, white shirt, and green knee socks. Paul had just got home, and after we’d unloaded the groceries, I was taking a break from what’s been a 14-hour workday (so far) by chilling in the living room while Paul worked on fixing the smoke detector. I realized I had about 20 minutes left on my break (more like five now).

I joked, “There’s not much point in having you guess my knicker color today.”

Paul goes, “They should be green.”

I was like, “Right,” and went back to Candy Crush.

Then he said, “Well, show me.”

Normally, he makes me stand up, touch my toes, and then he lifts my skirt to check if my knickers are the “right” color—before giving me/them about a dozen smacks with his hand.

Paul was on the other side of the room, and honestly, I was too lazy to actually stand up (major facepalm). So I quickly turned and pulled my legs up so my feet were over my head with my toes touching the cushion, thinking it’d be a cool “flashing” my knickers moment for him.

I was already amused with myself, so I was caught between giggling and laughing hysterically.

See where I’m going with this? Yeah, I didn’t really nail it.

I only meant to be in that legs-up position a second so he could see that my knickers were the classic bottle-green school ones, but there was one fatal flaw—I couldn’t see a thing because I was laughing so hard, and my chunky thighs were totally in my way.

Then Paul goes, “Don’t move,” and comes over to smack me on my knickers. I was still laughing. It didn’t hurt, his angle was off; plus, since I was in bottle green heavy cotton school knickers, it might have even hurt him more than me.

He said, “Don’t move,” again, and started rummaging through drawers (everything had been scattered on the dining room table over the weekend, but I’d tidied up on Monday before the dog trainer showed up. We do try not to scare the (presumably) vanilla folks.

Paul muttered, “I don’t know where anything is,” and told me to stay put.

I figured he was after our little paddle. Okay, maybe I secretly hoped he was, so I finally said, “I dumped everything in the school desk.”

With my thighs practically covering my face and no glasses on, I couldn’t really see or even hear what was happening. Did I mention I was laughing? I had no clue what he’d grabbed—or that he’d even made it back to the sofa—until that dreaded tawse landed.

[insert picture]

Yeah.

I did move then, but (I think) his left hand was still on my thighs, so instead of escaping I ended up pulling my legs back even further.

I tried not to move but ended up practically (okay, forget the practically) screaming, “Wait, no, no, wait!” as clearly as I could.

After five more screams, it was finally over.

Six of the best.

For now.

There was barely time for a hug and this text before my “back to work” alarm went off.

Now I’m back at my desk trying to work—well, typing this post out first, and then maybe doing some more actual work.

But seriously, that escalated quickly.

 

 

 

 

  • 1
    The academic job letter is the worst writing genre in the world. It manages to both be extremely boring AND incredibly high-stakes stressful at the same time.

Update: February So Far

Posted on By Mija

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[Wanna win a new London Tanner paddle? One’s being raffled this month on this very blog. You enter by posting a comment to any post or page on the blog. Each comment or reply to another comment gets you another entry.]

So, it’s February 12, 2025.  As someone commented recently, “The Year 2025” sounds like text from a science fiction novel, not the time we’re actually in now.  No wonder things are so dystopian.

I typed “2014” the other day, mostly because I’m absent-minded,  but I think also because it’s been a pretty fucking terrible decade. But so far, 2025 has been different, and by “different,” I mean, like, “I can’t tell whether something is from The Onion or not.”

No, don’t worry; this post isn’t about politics. But they factor into my situation.

Why I’m Not in Vegas at Oasis

The current politics and changing policies have impacted my life in dozens of ways since late December. There’s a reasonably good chance my department will be eliminated, and I’ll lose my job at the end of this academic year. 1This would be bad under normal circumstances, but at this moment, when ethnic studies are being made illegal in some states, there are not a lot of jobs for literature professors who research and teach ethnic studies, feminism, and gender studies. To understand what’s happening, see the recent cuts at a sister campus, Sonoma State University. I can’t go to Vegas because I’m part of the faculty senate leadership team on my campus, and we’ve been given an additional twenty-plus hour-a-week job for no extra pay to navigate this crisis.

On the upside, on the swan song front, therapy has gotten easier; our therapist says we’re both making a lot of progress individually and together. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’ve been spanked more in 2025 so far than I was in the entirety of 2024. I’ve tried to wear at least a part of my uniform every day, even when I’m teaching. I’ll have more on the whys of this as part of the #dailyuniform series I’m writing. As of today, there’s only an intro, but I’ve got sketches for five and ideas for another ten. I’m 57 and a slow blogger, so that may take care of all my posts for the next decade

Weirdness on the Blog

In the meantime, there’s something wrong with new posts not showing up for between twelve hours and three days after being posted. The direct links work, but the new post doesn’t appear on the main page for an insanely long time — think hours or even days. P thinks it’s a caching issue. Me too. The hard thing is that caching is complicated — there are many, many, many, so so many points where the problem might be. Pretty much all of them require my writing or calling ISPs or service providers and playing the “Have you tried this? I’ll wait” and “That didn’t work? How about this?” over the course of several hours while they decide this is someone else’s problem. I haven’t had the time or heart to do it so far.

Boom went my plans to post something new every day this month.

What’s New Here?

I’ve added a few stories from “back in the day,” including “A Meeting With Our Headmaster,” part of the St. Clare series. It’s a favorite of mine. It started as a straight scene report of a school role play I’d promised to the scene’s “Headmaster.”  After I finished the report, though, I checked with the headmaster’s then-partner, sending her a copy of the draft before I sent it to him. They’d had a long-distance relationship for a few years with no end insight. Paul and I were still long-distance, and I knew how hard some posts about playing with others were for me.

In the email I sent her, I asked if it was okay to post it on the newsgroup, offering to fictionalize it if she’d rather or if I could not post anything about our play. She wrote back, saying it would be easier for her if I turned it into fiction and didn’t tell anyone who the story’s headmaster was modeled on. It was easily done, and I think it made it more fun. If I recall correctly, the story’s schoolgirl was braver than me.2But I also remember my actual self getting way more strokes. There’s also a real-life post from my old blog, el tercer ojo, called “What I Wished For.” Also, I put up several of Mija’s early collaborations with Pablo partly because Laura’s site was down for a bit.

Something Funny to End On

So, the other day, I outed both Paul and me by texting the link to my most recent post (the uniform one) to a longtime vanilla friend rather than to my decidedly not vanilla spouse:

That thing where I send my husband a link to my most recent blog post except actually send it to a (very close) guy friend. Vanilla guy friend.

I am dying. He’s being adorable about it, but I anticipate much teasing when next we meet.

[image or embed]

— Mija (@mija-again.bsky.social) February 3, 2025 at 6:06 PM

I’m really hoping said friend isn’t reading this. It’s been preying on my mind as I’ve considered what to post. Plus, I’m going to be teased forever. 

  • 1
    This would be bad under normal circumstances, but at this moment, when ethnic studies are being made illegal in some states, there are not a lot of jobs for literature professors who research and teach ethnic studies, feminism, and gender studies.
  • 2
    But I also remember my actual self getting way more strokes.

Story: What I Wished For (2011) – Real Life

Posted on By Mija

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This post was originally published in 2011 on my old blog, el tercer ojo. I think it may also have been posted to soc.sexuality.spanking. It should have been, but my cross-postings were always pretty erratic. Paul washing my hair, or helping me wash it, has always been one of my favorite things since we first met, making this is an especially sweet memory.

I miss our “nursery cane,” as well as the Travel Cane1The travel cane was much loved because it was light, bendable, easy to fit into a suitcase. Our met the fate of so many, either getting left in a hotel room or forgotten in a suitcase that later got given away. that The Stockroom used to sell and were legend on the newsgroup. If you have any leads on either, let me know in the comments.

Sadly, not the nursery cane…
What I Wished For (M/F) RL 

[Note: this is how I remember the conversations with Paul.  He may have different memories.]

Heading home yesterday on the bus, I posted a Tweet along the lines of

The hottest idea I can think of right now is someone giving me a bath, washing my hair & putting me in pjs & beating me. A bit.

My thought posting this was we might get to play a bit this weekend when my dad goes away. When I got home, I played some Oblivion (more on that another day), Paul solved the dinner problem with a run to Carl’s, and I snuck off to take a nice bath.

I was just undressing when there was a knock at the door. Struggling into my robe, I felt annoyed. Is there no alone time to be had in the apartment? But when I opened the door it wasn’t my dad suggesting ice-cream. It was Paul.

“If you leave the door unlocked I’ll come in in a bit & wash your hair.”

Mmm. Nice.

“…but only if I also cane you before bed.”

I protested quietly. My dad was home.

Paul countered. My dad after all sleeps soundly. And the small cane is silent.

I left the door unlocked.

Paul came in and carefully and throughly washed and conditioned my hair, rinsing it with many pitchers of water.  I sat in the bath, feeling the warm water run over me, feeling all cared for and clean.

“Clean pjs tonight” he said as he left. I almost retorted that I *always* wear clean pjs as he must know from the laundry pile, but instead was quiet, pouting only to myself.  I thought about being caned with my dad in the other room.  It felt risky and naughty and I knew, knew that Paul was serious.

Dressed for bed, I sat through some National Geographic program on the Pope (!!!) until my dad announced he was tired and going to bed.  Paul was awfully quick to agree with him he would be tired after so much driving.  We watched a bit more of the program which seemed expressly designed to annoy Paul.

Finally he reminded me to take my meds (I’d already done so), do any final bedtime things and then go and stand facing the closet. This because I’ve managed to fill the corner I usually stand in with stuff to take to the dry cleaners.

When Paul came in he went to the closet. I heard the rattle of the rattan canes, the quiet swish as he found the right one and then he came over, led me to the bed, took down my pjs and put me across his knee (this is a “nursery cane” made for otk use).  I was warned that my hands would be pinned behind my back if I couldn’t keep them in front of me.

The thing about being caned otk is that while it isn’t as hard as a longer heavier cane, there are a lot more strokes given a lot more quickly.  I gasped (quietly) and drummed my feet at the sting. Paul put up with my wiggling for a bit and then pinned my legs with his.  The sting went from painful to close to unbearable.  Tears clouded my eyes and I longed to wiggle away or make noise or something.

But between the strokes, I could hear my dad snoring so buried my face even deeper as tears leaked from my eyes.

It wasn’t a long caning but seemed to go on and on.

I slept insanely well last night. This morning, of course, no marks at all.

  • 1
    The travel cane was much loved because it was light, bendable, easy to fit into a suitcase. Our met the fate of so many, either getting left in a hotel room or forgotten in a suitcase that later got given away.
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