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Oasis 2025 Day Two: The Envelope Please

Posted on By Mija

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[My first and second Oasis 2025 posts are here and here.]

I’m not going to talk about the dog park today. Suffice to say Sutti and I went out, found a patch of green, she played hard, we came back, she ate, drank, and took a nap while I had a two-hour meeting with my department chair. It went well—we discovered we’re on the same page about where the department goes next, which is always a happy thing.

Afterwards I got coffee and started thinking about detention.

My detention with the Headmaster (Stephen Lewis) wasn’t until the very end of his evening schedule—9:02 p.m.—because I’d told him about my afternoon meetings and he’d kindly shifted me. (Thank you!). The later slot meant I wouldn’t see much of the vendor fair, but that was fine. This house already has more than enough implements, thank you very much. I did, however, pick up a wonderful tin of “Bare Bottom Balm” from the lovely Botany Bitch. She’s based in Southern California, but of course we had to meet in Las Vegas.

I did my first of these Headmaster sessions at last year’s Oasis. Paul walked me over, waited outside (yes, you can hear through the door), and then took me back to our room where school punishments blurred into home ones. This year would be different.

The set-up is remarkable. Each session is only six minutes long. There are chairs outside where the next two or three people wait, nerves jangling, muffled sounds of spanking drifting through the door. Quiet, shared humor in the hallway. The shortness of the appointment is part of the realism—you’re just another unfortunate student slotted into the Head’s busy evening.

Last year with Mr. Lewis, it had been straightforward: missing assignments—both of us playing the roles serious and straight, as though the scene were a page from an actual school register. This year I’d tried for an adventure. With Inez on my mind, I added a twist: tardiness (a perennial), missing work (inevitably linked), and—my favorite—“being cleverer than the teachers.” I hit send.

This was set out in Newcastle the day the uniform arrived. I forgot to take one at the hotel.

Hours before my slot I slowly assembled the uniform: ironed my white shirt, changed into navy knee socks and black Docs, tied my tie, buttoned my kilt. But before any of that I’d already donned the very irregular panties beneath my regulation knickers. At least deciding to wear the Scottish uniform solved my “what to wear” problem. (See photo—not taken in Vegas.)

And in case you’re wondering why I so often overpack for spanking weekends: it’s the possibilities. What if someone wants a safari scene? Or this is finally my chance for T-Rex cosplay discipline? Yes, I’ve packed the dark green blazer—but what if the navy one is the one that matters? It goes on like that, to infinity.

For those of us who do school roleplays that last hours, the idea of a meaningful scene in six minutes seems ridiculous. But Mr. Lewis makes it work.

I was called in, handed over my envelope containing my offenses. He inspected it first for tampering. I hadn’t tampered with it—not even with removable washi tape—but I had unthinkingly jammed it into my backpack, where it migrated to the bottom like a guilty secret. Though I’d ironed it along with my skirt, he declared the envelope and slip only barely passed muster. Already I felt like the careless schoolgirl I’d claimed to be.

You would think an envelope would protect a note a tiny bit better.

He questioned me, sharply but not unkindly. Tardiness. Missing work. Being cleverer than the teachers. My heartrate shot up. I was already regretting the pink-panties gambit. First I was taken OTK, knickers up. For a moment I started to relax—the navy knickers are enormous; surely they could keep the much smaller pink pair safely hidden.

I was then led to a table and told to bend over it for six sharp cane strokes. It was a light-ish cane, delivered over my knickers.

As the cane strokes fell, one by one, each with its signature SWISH, I was reminded of my “cleverer than my teachers” offense by being asked if I thought I was smart. “No, sir,” I answered quickly and meekly.

“You are smart,” he corrected me. “But perhaps not smarter than your teachers.”

I found the cheek to agree: “Not all of them.”

Painful, yes—but perhaps because of the double layers, not unbearable. With each stroke I became more certain I was going to get away with it, that my pink panties would remain a private joke I could tell “Mr. Lewis” about after our scene was over.

Alas, not so. After the final stroke, Mr. Lewis stepped closer, smoothed my knickers, and lifted the leg elastic just a fraction. His voice went severe: “I thought as much.”

I knew better than to rise—no one says that and then sends the culprit on her way. He crossed back to the desk, selected the tawse, and told me to prepare for twelve strokes. It would have been six, he noted, had I not been “too clever.”

The first six bit and were bearable—sharp, stinging, the kind of pain I could take with steady breaths. The second six fell lower, harder. Each one drove me up onto my toes, fingers clamped white-knuckled around the table’s edge as I fought the urge to jump up, to throw my hands back and cover my bottom.

At last he told me that was all, and that better behavior would be expected in the future. I thanked him, as properly as I could manage, and received a brief embrace before being sent on my way.

Then, returning to myself, I asked him how it was going. He said it was fine—lovely, actually—except that he was terribly bored with the sound of his own voice. I left the suite laughing.

When I reclaimed Sutti, her temporary keeper reported that my absence—vanishing into a room she couldn’t see, from which came strange and worrying noises—was, as far as my furry friend was concerned, NOT OKAY.

Sutti’s ruling was clear: no more disappearing into mysterious rooms, thank you very much.

Day three’s post will also involve Stephen Lewis, but in a very different context.

Oasis 2025 – Day 1: Local at the Dog Park, Stranger at the Party

Posted on By Mija

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As I mentioned yesterday, this isn’t my inaugural Labor Day-weekend spanking shindig—I’ve been doing the “spank-and-sun” combo for a couple decades. What is new, though, is that it’s the first one in 20+ years without Paul, and the very first with Sutti in tow. Her presence rewrote the itinerary entirely.

Even in a city that markets itself as a playground for strangers, a quick stop at the dog park turns you into an instant “local.” Suddenly I’m swapping leash tips and weather forecasts with people who assume we’ve lived here forever—while I’m still trying to plot the route back to the hotel with the fewest left-turn-arrow intersections.

Sutti isn’t just any service dog; she’s a whoodle (Wheaten Terrier × Poodle)—fluffy, low-shedding, and happily immune to the chaos that follows me. Within minutes she’d made friends with every ball-chasing Labradoodle in sight. It was still under 90 degrees and I felt good about our calm, canine-filled intermission. It’s good to get outside sometimes, you know? Then, one young boxer, a newcomer like us, planted a wet, enthusiastic lick square on my forehead. It felt affectionate at the time.

By the time I was back in my Zoom lecture, fresh iced coffee to hand, that lick had staged a coup. First a tingle, then a welt, then a neat little cluster of blisters. Turns out I’m really, really allergic to boxers. Ooops!


 

My last Zoom ended at 3:00 PM.—that indecisive hour between lunch and dinner. Given that I hadn’t even had breakfast, it hardly mattered. I met a friend at the deli in Circa, across from the Plaza. My forehead welts by then were obvious, and she mentioned them immediately. I’d been hoping only I could see them. Not the case. I told her about the boxer and she wisely suggested Benadryl.

We caught up, moving from my forehead to a surprisingly detailed hair-brush showdown back in my room. Both of us measure brushes in inches but brag about their weight in grams, as if this were a miniature Olympic lifting competition. You can insert your own imagined commentary. Soon enough, our conversation gave way to testing: jeans first, then panties, smacks light enough for a first night. No one wants to start out a party feeling like they’ve been whacked by a novice lumberjack. It was perfect—warm, companionable, a glow we both hinted we’d like to revisit later.

We said goodbyes with vague promises about the suite parties that evening. The plan was solid—until 9 p.m., when I followed her advice and took a Benadryl. By the time I’d showered, it’d kicked in. The next thing I knew, it was 6:30 a.m. and I was already gearing up for another round of dog-park runs and Zoom meetings.

Perhaps by Day 2 I’ll make it up to the suites.

I did manage to get my name badge and (gulp) an envelope containing my detention slip.

Oasis 2025 – Day (-1) – Arrival.

Posted on By Mija

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Some things are over, some things go on.
Part of me you carry, part of me is gone.” — T.P

Wednesday, August 27, 2025

Day -1: Arrival

I left the house at 5:00 AM this morning to catch an eight o’clock flight from L.A. to Las Vegas. Landed just after 9:00 AM, hotel by eleven, dog park stop for Sutti tucked in before my 2:00-5:00 meeting, oodles of emails and then quick walkies before straight into teaching a Zoom class from 7:00-10:00 PM that’s only just finished. Tomorrow morning brings more meetings before the official start of Oasis tomorrow night. As ever the weekend feels like a braid of obligations: academic, domestic, and canine, with an added kink.

This is only my second Oasis—my first on my own. Last year Paul and I were in Vegas together, as we had been for decades of parties before. Onks ago, before he moved to Los Angeles, before we married, there were two long-ago Shadow Lane Labor Day parties I’d attended without him, but those were in Palm Springs, and I’d driven. No dog, no flight, no juggling of suitcases and expired licences. Flying makes traveling different, heavier somehow,  though I’d been careful—lesson learned from the UK trip—to pack light: just two bags, each under twenty-five pounds. Neither heavy nor hard to handle on their own,  but even packing light is heavy with the knowledge of how often and how much I’d taken for granted Paul’s quiet labor as bearer. Without him, every minor thing looms far larger.

Today it was the luggage hydra: deplane, doggie relief, train to baggage claim (blue line? red line? I never remember—this airport feels like it was designed as a riddle). Then the slow parade: bus to central car rentals, another bus to the off-site car rentals—only to discover my driver’s licence had expired last month. Back on July 28, my birthday, while I was in the UK, no less. Exactly the sort of stressful AuDHD slip that drove Paul quietly nuts and that he would have noticed, prevented, and made sure I fixed before I even clocked it was a problem.

Sutti and my much-smaller luggage watch me try and solve the Expired Driver’s License Problem.

Left to myself, I still made it through. Solved the license issue in twenty minutes via California’s DMV online renewal –a minor miracle—but not without the sense of carrying two bags that grew heavier with every transfer, multiplying like gremlins despite each being small enough to carry-on.1Though I’d checked them because, well, Sutti. And then, of course, my discomfort at navigating the casino: all flashing lights and noise, a disorienting labyrinth that seems custom-designed to trip every sensory wire I have. Paul’s guided me through such spaces so many times (I realized today I’ve never even been to Vegas without him), steady and unbothered while I flinched at the clamor, blindly following the thread of his presence like it was the only map that mattered. Alone, it was another gauntlet in a day full of them.

Still, I managed, and I am managing. Day-by-day. There’s a quiet pride in that, a sense of #smallvictories—getting the licence renewed, finding the right bus, shepherding the luggage and the dog and myself through the day. But the victories don’t lessen the losses. Friends like Tony, gone. And Paul: his absence both sharp and constant—so much so it blurs into the texture of everything, distorting, making it harder to name, and still harder to breathe. Not impossible—just hard. Everything is harder without being satisfying..

Tonight, beneath it all—the meetings, the luggage, the dog walks—runs the quieter anticipation: what it would mean to play here, or anywhere, without him. For years, Paul has been both my anchor and boundary: the one who made it possible to for me play, however rarely, with others, because I knew he would be there afterwards to carry the physical side of aftercare, to give the touch I otherwise find so impossible to accept. Even before he began attending these parties with me, he called every night whether I was away or home. Bedtime check-ins, his voice steady in my ear, the reassurance at each day’s end that no matter what I did or didn’t do at the party or elsewhere, he would be there to come back to, to gather me in, make sure I made it back to him and to myself. That’s always been my real aftercare—the spine of it.

Once he could come to parties with me, he was never far away. We didn’t play together much, but he watched me play with others, his presence making that play possible, his aftercare grounding me through some deep and dark scenes. He watched and helped me say “no” when I froze, carried me out of scenes that might otherwise have left me stranded. Care that was the invisible net beneath the visible play.

In June I went to TASSP in Dallas, my first time at that gathering, first party without Paul in more than twenty-five years. I stayed only a couple of days, and I made the conscious choice not to play much at all, apart from the group detention scene. It wasn’t abstinence so much as reconnaissance: watching, listening, reminding myself I could be present without having to prove anything by throwing myself into play. Oasis will test that same edge. Do I play? With whom? Why? And if I do, what scaffolding will I need to make it feel safe, meaningful, shared, and mine?

I haven’t really seen anyone yet—just a few quick waves across the lobby this afternoon. The anticipation is still in my head, untempered by coffee or dinners or catching up. Today his absence showed itself in the unglamorous practicalities: luggage straps biting into my hands, the absurd relay of trains and buses, the birthday licence expired in the desert heat. Tomorrow, I know, it will surface in quieter ways—less visible, more tender.

For now, I’ll go down to dinner, alone. Later, at least, I will not be entirely alone in the king-sized bed. Sutti will be there, breathing steady beside me. A small comfort. But a comfort all the same.

  • 1
    Though I’d checked them because, well, Sutti.

Start HERE: Inez’s Detention Essay

Posted on By Mija

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File: Extracted from the Archives of Saint Clare’s School for Girls
Document: Inez’s Detention Essay

How to Read “Inez of the Upper IV”

The story of Inez de Vries unfolds through a series of documents—some official, pulled from the prim and unforgiving files of Saint Clare’s School for Girls; others are more intimate, drawn from the journals, letters, and scribbled notes of the girls themselves. These pieces will be posted gradually, over the next two weeks, allowing the narrative to take shape not through a single telling, but through fragments. Some will appear typed and orderly; others will retain the texture of handwriting, rendered in a cursive-style font to honor the green-ink originals. Readers are invited to step into the role of archivist, assembling the story from these traces, and imagining the lives that fill the gaps between pages—the tensions, the alliances, the secrets too dangerous to write down. Not everything will be explained. But Inez is watching. And she remembers.

Use the comments to build the story together: ask questions, float theories, invent what’s missing. What do you. think lies between the lines? The archive is incomplete—but the story lives in the spaces between.

Forward to “Inez’s Detention Essay”

This document was born while I sat in detention.

Not real detention—there were no actual stern administrators (though Miss Kelley, in her crisp blouse and sharper glare, came awfully close), no crusty erasers hurled across the room (though I did get pinged by a crumpled-up wad of paper, thrown from who knows where). This was serious fun: a school detention roleplay at the June Texas All State Spanking Party (TASSP) weekend. There I was, part of a group of grown-ups—some with responsible day jobs, others traveling with at least one ergonomic pillow—who had voluntarily submitted to strict Saturday school in a hotel ballroom. For fun. Because we’re all perfectly normal.

We were given serious parameters: no phones, no electronics, absolutely no nonsense. There were choices, made weeks before you arrived. You could do a math worksheet, copy lines, bring in your own work to do, or write an essay. I picked the essay, because of course I did—if you’re going to cosplay penance, you may as well bleed ink. And oh, did I. Green ink. Lined paper. Straight-backed posture. No snacks. No headphones.

No mercy.

Now, let’s talk uniforms. My roommate (she can identify herself if she wants to) and I came dressed to impress (or at least to suppress). Matching plaid skirts, white button-downs, penny loafers—the works. I forgot my cream knee socks, but I did bring two green pairs, so we matched anyway—our ties flawlessly mismatched, their difference, we decided, denoting our different years. And here’s the thing: that matching moment? It hit me where I live. Hard.

Because for me, school uniform fantasy isn’t just about strictness or hemline drama or any sort of discipline fetish between a top and bottom– though all of those are real and very much there for me. My school uniform fantasies are also about uniformity. Belonging. Being a girl with other girls, seeing yourself reflected in someone else. That’s key for me, a strange, ritual comfort of seeing myself echoed in the person next to me. It’s the comfort I remember most from my years in an all-girls school. We didn’t just wear the uniform; we dissolved into it. Became part of the ritual that each of us participated in and tried to resist with personal rebellions. For someone like Inez, that enforced sameness is both a cage and a cradle. Something she resents. And maybe, secretly, needs.

This was my first time doing a formal, structured group role-play like this—and oddly, the restrictions became creative fuel. With each scratch of green ink, Inez’s own Saturday misery took shape: her frustration, her sharp tongue, her dread of a Sunday filled with more of the same. Her sense of the injustice of corporal punishments received and promised, and her own self-importance. She’s not just whining. She’s watching—the system, herself, the clock. And she’s planning.

So here it is: Inez’s Detention Essay, the first and central document in Inez of the Upper IV, written in silence during a detention role-play in June 2025, at TASSP in Dallas, Texas. I was surrounded by uniformed peers, in a space where play met penance. Inez de Vries showed up fast, furious, and fully in character—pen ready, knickers righteous, and temper barely held in check. The green ink is a nod to the fountain pen ink I used to write the original. I think Inez is special.

May her voice strike a chord. Preferably one slightly out of tune.

 

A  version of Inez’s essay in a non-cursive font for anyone struggling with reading Inez’s handwriting. 

Detention Essay

Submitted by Inez de Vries

 

Saturday, 11 June, 1955

   In response to the prompt requiring me to explain the events leading to my detention, I offer the following account. Let me say from the outset: the situation is largely one of my own making—an unfortunate sequence of poor decisions on my part. Still, I must also note that Mr. Green’s reaction to my admittedly regrettable choices was wildly disproportionate. In what follows, I will outline the situation clearly, owning my role in it while also pointing out the unnecessary escalation that turned a simple misunderstanding into a school-wide spectacle.

   It began Thursday morning during Geography. Mr. Green arrived and, without any sort of warning, began collecting our essays. This was a surprise to me, as I had mistakenly noted the due date as next Friday, the 16th of June, rather than Thursday the 9th. As a result, I was quite without an essay to submit.

   When Mr. Green reached my desk and noticed my conspicuous lack of essay, he inquired sharply where my work was. In a moment of panic—yes, I panicked—without thinking of the possible consequences I told him I’d left the paper on the desk in my dormitory. I asked if I might bring it to him on Monday, assuming that a weekend’s delay would be of little to no consequence. After all, though we had no classes Friday, it’s not likely he will grade them all in two days! I believed, wrongly, that he might be understanding.

   Instead, he ordered me to go fetch it at once.

   At this, several girls tittered most unkindly, and were not reprimanded by Mr. Green who only stared fixedly at me. Mortified, and not knowing how to extricate myself, I left the classroom as instructed. However, since there was no essay to fetch, I did not return. I did hear Matron call my name at one point, but as I was in the lavatory I did not respond. Upon returning to the main building, I went straight to my next class—Modern History with Miss Clark—where I was expected to be.

   It did not occur to me that anyone was actively searching for me. I wasn’t hiding; I was precisely where I ought to have been, in my scheduled class attending to my lessons.

   That is, until Mr. Green interrupted Miss Clark’s lesson not even a quarter hour before the lunch bell, asked for me by name, and ordered me into the hallway. There, in front of several startled girls and an entirely uninterested broom cupboard, he demanded to know why I hadn’t returned to his classroom. When I admitted, trembling slightly, that the essay did not yet exist, he looked far too triumphant for a man of his age, telling me he suspected as much.

   He then assigned me Saturday supervised gation and informed me that my completed essay was still due Monday—but  I would now receive a failing mark. I pointed out (with, I thought, great logic) that if I was going to fail anyway, there seemed little reason to bother writing the paper at all. He replied that were I to turn it in I might yet scrape my way up to the bottom position in the form, and that was reason enough.

  I protested again, politely but firmly, suggesting that if  I was going to both be punished and do the work, I ought to be allowed the possibility of receiving credit. Instead of engaging in a reasoned discussion, Mr. Green turned scarlet, seized me rather brusquely by the arm, and dragged me back to his classroom. There, opening his desk drawer, he commanded me to hold out my hands and proceeded to deliver six strokes of the tawse—three on each palm!

   This was deeply shocking. Does the school know its Geography Master keeps a personal leather strap in his desk and employs it to beat his students?

   Yes, I am aware that Saint Clare’s employs corporal punishment, but I had understood it to be reserved for severe offences. I struggle to see how a late essay merits what can only be described as a public flogging. My hands, I must add, are rather delicate—and my mother, were she to learn of this, would most certainly object, especially given her wish I practice my violin daily. I was not able to even hold the instrument or its bow yesterday and likely will not be able to for at least a week.

   Struggling with my still stinging palms, I yet again politely voiced my concern about his refusal to give me credit for work he was still requiring I do. Mr. Green responded curtly that any further comment from me would earn twice that number of strokes on my bottom, then and there. He then dismissed me.

   Yesterday, as I prepared for the Saturday gation I was presented with what he referred to as a “contract”—a document offering a return of one tenth credit on my essay for every six cane strokes administered. Even my limited mathematical prowess reveals the cruelty of this arrangement: thirty strokes would be required to regain full credit. Thirty! This aside, I believe a “contract” is negotiable by both sides. This was not.

   No girl should or even could possibly endure such a thing—not without medical attention and, quite frankly, a barrister. I can only assume that such a punishment would necessitate a full weekend spent in the infirmary, lying face-down, unable to sit or sleep or do anything other than whimper and plot revenge.

   I found myself wondering whether Matron keeps a specific ledger for girls caned beyond reason and where in the infirmary it might be kept. Were I were required to endure such a caning I fear I would have warranted my own page. Though I acknowledge that I ought to have kept better track of the deadline and certainly ought not to have lied, my actions were born not of malice but of a moment’s fear. I eventually admitted my error. I have resolved, going forward to double-check dates and tell the truth, even when it’s awkward. That said, I do believe Mr. Green should likewise reflect on the excessive nature of his response and the transactional nature of his assigned corporal punishment.

    When Miss Kelley reviewed my essay, she said it was persuasive except for my “utter failure to take responsibility.” I found this rather unfair—as I clearly do accept responsibility. I asked her to read it again. She declined, and simply told me to rewrite it, making my regret more “apparent.”

   Miss Kelley, although seemingly kind and intelligent, is—like so many others here—part of the grand machinery of unthinkingly severe discipline. She ordered me to report to Mr. Johnson to fulfill the terms of Mr. Green’s ghastly “contract,” in addition to my original punishment AND this detention and essay. Recall, the term of this contract, as noted, would amount to more than thirty cane strokes.

   Reporting for punishment, I feared for my life.

   Thankfully, Mr. Johnson—who, in addition to possessing disarmingly beautiful brown eyes, also possesses a rare and precious quality among St. Clare staff: common sense—listened patiently. He reminded me that I had been punished previously for a similar incident last autumn, but even so he believed that thirty strokes was beyond excessive. After hearing my side and giving me a chance to reflect on how I might improve my forward planning, he ruled that twelve strokes would suffice.

   I agreed.

   These were delivered in sets of three, over my regulation white school knickers. The cane was (fortunately) not the thickest, though the strokes landed close together and stung dreadfully. Even now, hours later, they throb most uncomfortably.

   When Mr. Johnson dismissed me, I voiced my concern that this punishment might not meet the terms of the so-called contract. Mr. Johnson assured me he would speak to both Mr. Green and Miss Kelley and explain his decision with which he expected they’d agree.

   I returned to Miss Kelley just as detention was being dismissed. She looked at my punishment form, handed it back without comment, and instructed me to deliver it—along with this essay—to the Headmaster’s office on Monday morning.

   And so I shall.

   In conclusion: I regret my mistakes, and I promise to plan more carefully in future. As Mr. Johnson wisely noted, preparation is the best prevention. I also hope that this incident encourages some reflection—not just from students like myself, but from our teachers  and housemistresses as well—on the role of compassion in discipline. After all, one does not become obedient by being beaten, but by being believed in.

  With great respect and most heartfelt and deep regret for my actions, I remain,

Inez de Vries

Inez So Far
Post TitleDate Posted
Teaser – “Inez of the Upper Fourth” – a Saint Clare Summer Saga21 July 2025
Saint Clare School Justifications or A Few Explanations for the Inconsistencies That Are Absolutely Not My Fault)22 July 2025
Waiting for Inez – It’s your own time you’re wasting…23 July 2025
Start HERE: Inez’s Detention Essay24 July 2025
Inez of the Upper IV – Cast of Characters25 July 2025
The Real Motto of Saint Clare’s School for Girls27 July 2025
The Staffroom Files Part 1: Inez of the Upper Fourth29 July 2025
Notations from Matron’s Logbook: Inez of the Upper 4th30 July 2025
Staff Meeting Transcript – Inez of the Upper IV2 August 2025
Inez’s Diary, 19 June 19553 August 2025
Clarissa’s Letters Home or The Jelly Baby Files11 August 2025
The Elwood Files – Inez of the Upper IV17 August 2025
The Lady and the Headmaster23 August 2025
The Secret Letters – Part 15 September 2025
Melodrama by Post: Aunt Gladys, Lady de Vries, and Other Disasters – Plain Text9 September 2025
Heard in the Charrington Household, OR,The Day Miss Gladys Came Home12 September 2025

Your turn.

What do you see between the lines?

Use the comments to ask questions, imagine what’s missing, and connect the dots. Inez might be listening.

A  version of Inez’s essay in a non-cursive font for anyone struggling with reading her handwriting. 

 

 

(Belated) Round-up – June 2025

Posted on By Mija

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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. 

 

  • 1
    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.

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

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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…

 

  • 1
    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.

My June is about…

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… Re-Organization

April and May 2025 were something to survive. Along with the ordinary end-of-the-semester stuff, April was all about Paul getting ready to leave in early May. It was an odd sort of leaving. He was packing right up until the day he left. I was in the craziness that is finals week at any university, especially Spring term.1Spring is always the worst because everyone panics realizing that faculty will be gone over summer and so all of the things that have been put off all semester have to be done now. On the day he left I took him to pick up his rental car,2He drove across country, from LA to NYC, stopping to visit friends and Giant Landmarks on the way. planning to come back and take a Zoom meeting. But then I decided I didn’t want to be left. So I grabbed my bag and Sutti and basically said a “see ya!” kind of wave and drove to campus. When I got home, Paul was already on the road.

I’ve spent the last few weeks working in the garden, reading and listening to cozy mysteries, making playlists, playing with Sutti, going to doctors, and trying to clear out the house. While this isn’t exactly the first time I’ve lived alone, the other places were in university housing so it also kind of is. Except I’m not alone because Sutti, having completed service dog training and able to come with me everywhere, is my constant companion. Since we’re both missing Paul, her for pats and me for smacks, we’ve been doing our best to comfort each other. Someone on Twitter suggested I make a point of posting #smallvictories every day. It’s a good practice and is making me be aware of the good things that I make happen each day.

(more…)

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    Spring is always the worst because everyone panics realizing that faculty will be gone over summer and so all of the things that have been put off all semester have to be done now.
  • 2
    He drove across country, from LA to NYC, stopping to visit friends and Giant Landmarks on the way.

About Uniforms Part 1: Introduction – Where Did That #dailyuniform come from?

Posted on By Mija

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Happy February!1This started out as “Happy New Year.” I’ve been working on this damn post since November 2024. Here’s to hoping 2025 is better than we’re expecting.

Think of this as an introduction to a series of posts. The first, hopefully, of many, though frankly, I’ve never been one to finish multi-part stories. But, you know, it could happen so let’s be optimistic

This, much as is the case with spanking, may be a topic I can write about forever.

If you follow me on Twitter or Bluesky, you may have noticed that for several months, I’ve been posting (terrible) selfies wearing school uniforms, sometimes remembering to tag them with what I thought was my own made-up hashtag, #dailyuniform.2But of course, others use it for other stuff, too. Why? Well, frankly, I’ve been in the spanking scene since 1997. Even allowing for ones I’ve given away as my size changed, I’ve got A LOT of uniforms. Why not enjoy them?3Like spanking, uniform kink is a habit for me. The more I do it, the more I think about it, the more I want to indulge. And on and on.

The way I think about uniforms and what they mean to me has several facets. So, let’s get started with my uniform biography.

A bit of the inventory – December 2023 – apologies for the terrible lighting.

(more…)

  • 1
    This started out as “Happy New Year.” I’ve been working on this damn post since November 2024.
  • 2
    But of course, others use it for other stuff, too.
  • 3
    Like spanking, uniform kink is a habit for me. The more I do it, the more I think about it, the more I want to indulge. And on and on.

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

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[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.

Oasis Party – Labor Day Weekend 2024

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OMG! It’s next week! [Okay, last week  – whatever.]

This year (next week!!) I’ll be at the Oasis Party, the Las Vegas Labor Day spanking party reborn.  For the first time in a couple of years, I also have sustained interest and thoughts about spanking in the front of my mind, so much so I’ve even, well almost1I say “almost” because I haven’t actually *finished* anything yet. , started writing stories again. [Edit: Thanks to a discussion with Marie, I found and (sort of) finished an old story, begun back in the newsgroup days and finally posted here the other day as “Hot Wax”.]

The Oasis party started a few years ago, but this will be the first time I’ve gone to any scene party since the last Shadow Lane Party held Labor Day Weekend in 2019,  the last one before the way-too-soon deaths of Tony Elka and John. I couldn’t bring myself to go back to the Suncoast, knowing I would be unconsciously looking for the people who wouldn’t be there.

[I wrote the above two weeks ago. Thinking about lost friends stopped my writing cold.]

Jumping forward in time.  Learning how to use Telegram… yes, am old.

[Written Friday, August 30]

So it’s Friday, and I’m here. It’s wonderful — seeing old friends and making new ones. Oasis is something new, for me. There’s a new generation and I really like them, like the assumption of open acceptance, the mixers, the energy. COVID intrudes, of course, but it’s been a lot of fun. Highlights so far:

Friday

  • Seeing friends I haven’t seen since before the pandemic… and making new friends too.
  • Eating at Blueberry Cafe at 2AM after flying in on the last flight Wednesday night
  • Going to a POC (People of Color) brunch this morning where I met the delightful Al Doyle (among others) and won an amazing door prize made by Bad Kitty Care.
  • Getting to have coffee and meals with people I care about.
  • Listening to a lecture about implements by Strict Dave.
  • British Detention2then, of course, punished at home… with Stephen Lewis (more on that later)
  • Peeked into the vendors’ fair (there were too many people) and saw many kewl things for sale, especially super clever cards.

Saturday:

  • Did something completely new: I attended the Boys and Bois suite party. What was new?
    • Topping in a public space
    • Topping men
    • Getting direction on topping from a lovely pro-switch named Alaska Rae from .3Whose paddle I ended up somehow stealing. Eeek!
    • Got to hang out (too briefly) with a *perfectly* uniformed Paul.4His attention to uniform detail puts mine to shame.
  • Briefly hung out at the Dinner Dance in the most princess dress I’ve ever worn.5Not a bad way to celebrate 57. And 57 is a cool age to be when in your head you’re still roughly twelve.
  • ….but, at bedtime, I made the horrifying discovery that my beloved Bryson bear had gone missing again.6This, combined with being unable to get needed medication from the Vegas pharmacy where my doctor sent it, cast a shadow over the rest of the party. Emotional regulation and rejection sensitivity off meds and combined with “top drop” is no joke.

Sunday: 

  • Continued search for Bryson. 🙁
  • Hung out with friends.
  • Watched Jesus Christ Superstar with a super fan, Marie, and Paul, while under the influence of gummy edibles. We were… amusing.

Monday: 

  • Made fliers offering a reward for Bryson’s return — though no one from the hotel would take them.
  • Said good-bye to friends.
  • Had an impressive emotional breakdown lasting well into Tuesday when I (finally) was able to get my meds. 🙁
  • 1
    I say “almost” because I haven’t actually *finished* anything yet.
  • 2
    then, of course, punished at home…
  • 3
    Whose paddle I ended up somehow stealing. Eeek!
  • 4
    His attention to uniform detail puts mine to shame.
  • 5
    Not a bad way to celebrate 57. And 57 is a cool age to be when in your head you’re still roughly twelve.
  • 6
    This, combined with being unable to get needed medication from the Vegas pharmacy where my doctor sent it, cast a shadow over the rest of the party. Emotional regulation and rejection sensitivity off meds and combined with “top drop” is no joke.