Mija’s Room

Category: swan song

Oasis 2025 – Day (-1) – Arrival.

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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.
amigas A watercolor sketch of a huge stack of luggage and a small black dog,

Mija and Her Brave Furry Companion in the British Isles OR Five Suitcases, One Dog, and the Case for Simplicity

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Preview — To be read in BBC Radio 4 style

A summer adventure across the British Isles with Mija and her faithful furry Sutti girl: castles and cottages, uniforms and ferries, triumphs, tribulations, and luggage of mythic proportions. Part travelogue, part comeSutti-to-Kings-Crossdy of errors, and wholly a tale of old friends, new discoveries, and the surprising case for simplicity.

Chapter 1 — Long Beach: Paperwork, Panic, and Packing

(in which bureaucracy meets AuDHD and luggage multiplies like Gremlins)

The days before July 4th were chaos. The house had to be left in order: weeds pulled, rocks shifted, spiders relocated from their Olympic training ground. Errands multiplied — medications, safe deposit box, vaccinations (for Sutti, not me). I was just about keeping up when United rang with the kind of breezy cheer reserved for delivering ruin: “You’re missing a Heathrow Certificate for your service dog. No papers, no entry. Cargo is an option?”

“No, cargo is not an option.”

My voice probably cracked. I’d been so careful about everything to do with Sutti, working on it months in advance, working off a series of lists, paid a veteranery service to make sure her certifications were correct.1Turns out those were for her health. Heathrow needed to document *mine.* This had not been mentioned prior. Sigh.] 

Numbly I stood and listened to the nice woman from United outline what documents needed to be obtained and emailed and what would be required to get them. That they usually took a month or so to process, but I could try and get them done faster if I followed her instructions. These included calling Heathrow. “I can’t” I whispered.

She didn’t hear me.

“Email them to me when you have them. Then call so I know they’re there.” 

I sat staring at the clock. It was late on July 3rd — the Friday before the biggest holiday weekend in the U.S.2Businesses that had opened all had mostly closed by 12PM. — and suddenly I understood the particular horror of being told doing something isn’t impossible, but almost is. Traveling with my dog in the cabin into the UK in 18 hours wasn’t closed off entirely — it could be done, there is a process, but only with Herculean effort, panic, and possibly a pact with Satan. That was, in too many way, worse than an outright “no.” 

Because I was already exhausted and anxious to the point of burnout. I spent most of the previous year feeling stressed and stretched beyond breaking. By the time the semester ended being told I had to resubmit a single form caused tears and a sense of overwhelming despair.

 

I am not cargo.

Soo, not at my best. But this is Sutti. I couldn’t go without her — she needed to be on the plane. And not as cargo.

So began twelve frantic hours of bureaucratic hopscotch: PDFs, rabies certificates, microchip scans, vet letters, panic disorder paperwork, and, I swear, fragments of the Magna Carta. And so many phone calls.3Real calls. Like where I dialed and talked to people. People I didn’t know and weren’t expecting my call. Who were really helpful. At one point I tracked down Sutti’s trainer on his 25th anniversary trip to Paris.4Okay, but I didn’t know that’s where he was. Or why. By dawn, miracle of miracles, Heathrow approved her. When the LHR certificate finally landed in my inbox, ready to forward triumphantly to United, the sense of accomplishment I felt was on par with getting my doctorate. My vet’s office later told me no one they knew had ever flown a dog into the UK in the cabin of a commercial airliner. I credit academic-deadline stamina, indignation, and loyalty to a small dog who is not cargo.5I was also extremely fortunate that my employer had had me document Sutti’s training, skill, and my need for it so I already had letters from my doctors testifying to my CPTSD, severe anxiety, and panic disorder. So I guess I should thank my university’s HR office. Someday. The Heathrow Animal Reception Centre, brisk, friendly, helpful, and sensible (July 4th being just another day to them), were also exacting. (I had to call after each batch to find out what they needed next. Finally they determined that my paperwork was valid, Sutti s a service dog, but since her school isn’t on the official ADI list, I could either prove her training in 47 different ways, none possible from outside the UK, or pay £447 so she could enter with me.

I gave them my credit card number. It was 5AM and I still needed to pack. Yeah, my packing never stood a chance. Executive function is, for me, a single-use tool, and mine was entirely eaten by the paperwork marathon while it was going on. Once that fire was out, nothing was left for choosing clothes. So I defaulted to the only possible strategy: bring everything.6It was pointed out to me, that there was another choice. Bring nothing and buy the things I needed. Sensible in retrospect and would have proved far cheaper in the end, but I’m not lying when I say it never crossed my mind. Surprised? In the end I had two giant 60-pound7To be fair to myself one contained a 20 pound bag of Sutti’s Very Special Food (sold in the UK it turns out) and all her toys and stuff. suitcases, a carry-on roller, and a backpack. The Luggage Hydra Gremlin was born. And had been fed after dark.

More after the jump

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  • 1
    Turns out those were for her health. Heathrow needed to document *mine.* This had not been mentioned prior. Sigh.]
  • 2
    Businesses that had opened all had mostly closed by 12PM.
  • 3
    Real calls. Like where I dialed and talked to people. People I didn’t know and weren’t expecting my call. Who were really helpful.
  • 4
    Okay, but I didn’t know that’s where he was. Or why.
  • 5
    I was also extremely fortunate that my employer had had me document Sutti’s training, skill, and my need for it so I already had letters from my doctors testifying to my CPTSD, severe anxiety, and panic disorder. So I guess I should thank my university’s HR office. Someday.
  • 6
    It was pointed out to me, that there was another choice. Bring nothing and buy the things I needed. Sensible in retrospect and would have proved far cheaper in the end, but I’m not lying when I say it never crossed my mind. Surprised?
  • 7
    To be fair to myself one contained a 20 pound bag of Sutti’s Very Special Food (sold in the UK it turns out) and all her toys and stuff.

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.

Consent and Limits: Context and Consequences

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Inspired by the wonderful podcast Sips and Smacks, Episode 108, this started back in April as a post on accountability, discipline, and punishment. However, as I tried to write it, I realized I need to write a context piece giving my take on consent and limits first. The specifics are, in places, blurry and that’s intentional. I’m not writing about any one event but rather some recent and not-so-recent experiences that inform my notions of consent, how it’s given, and what it means.

It probably goes without saying, but I’m going to say it anyway: this post is written solely from my perspective and experiences. It’s my narrative, my truth. That’s significant because in any narrative about any relationship, each person involved experiences things from their own perspective and within their own specific context. This shapes their narrative, that is, their experience of reality. Without getting too “narrative theory-ish,”  these differences shape each person’s “truth,” meaning that there’s rarely a single version of any experience involving more than one person. 

This post, as has always been the case with any post I make about our relationship and/or play, was read by and discussed with Paul before I posted it. In this case, I explicitly asked him to check it over for anything that was untrue, though he has his own perspectives based on his own experiences and misunderstandings, so before I posted it we could agree we’re operating from the same set of facts.

All of the following are based on how things have been between us for the past 25+ years — how they will be is something we’re still figuring out, literally day-by-day, a process that’s painful and wonderful. I’m writing this, in part, to try and tease out all this so I can understand where we are and imagine where we might go. Since neither of us have figured out or agreed how things will be going forward, I’m keeping this in the present.

There’s a lot to be said for a walled garden.

Paul and I have been partnered in some form or other 1 (1997) online only, long distance, (1998-2002) long distance, with in-person visits, (2002ish-2004) living together , (2004-present) married. basically since I delurked on the newsgroup.2I delurked in February 1997. Paul wrote the first “Pablo and Mija” story in March — he posted the first two in April 1997. Before that I’d never been spanked as an adult by anyone. Paul and I did a long-distance call in August 1997 that was a directed self-spanking as a serious punishment for a troubling real life issue between the two of us. That punishment, done via landline telephones using phone cards (yes, we are that old) in my dorm room was the first (adult) spanking either of us gave or received. Yet, even before this, we’d each playfully punished and disciplined the other with uniforms, essays, and lines. Those elements came naturally to the relationship –almost from our first exchanges.

Reading over Paul’s account of it, written for me and afterwards posted to the newsgroup, the early shades of the myriad ways accountability, and consensual non-consent to discipline and punishment are part of “our scene” are visible in that first punishment. Because of this, my limits and boundaries with Paul have framed my participation in the larger spanking scene. Negotiations and limits with other people exist, and have always existed, but those limits have always been created and lived within those I have with Paul, informing whatever I’ve considered doing with other people. There are, and always have been, a lot of things I do with Paul that I don’t do with anyone else and vice versa.

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    (1997) online only, long distance, (1998-2002) long distance, with in-person visits, (2002ish-2004) living together , (2004-present) married.
  • 2
    I delurked in February 1997. Paul wrote the first “Pablo and Mija” story in March — he posted the first two in April 1997.

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.

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  • 1
    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.

Thinking About Pooh…

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This post was inspired by this Twitter post:

I’ve got a lot of writing to post, assuming it gets finished. Two are stories, currently each over 1500 words with no ends in sight, another is a uniform post about my uniformity kink, also too long, also unfinished. Yet another is a loooong post on limits and consent, currently 2000+ words. Now that the 2024-2025 academic year is done, at least for me, I’m trying to write, that is, do “Mija writing”  for at least an hour a day. So far, so good, but nothing is yet finished.

But while Paul was packing for his epic coast-to-coast journey across the US – from Long Beach, California to New York, New York seeing friends and Big Things along the way, and then on to London (for pictures of said Big Things see his Twitter feed), he pulled out a pile of letters, cards, and postcards from me.

I wrote letters and post cards to Paul most days in the summer of 1997 and pretty regularly after.

Going through them felt like going through a time warp.  I then pulled out some of mine from Paul. There aren’t as many as he was phoning me most mornings. He was, however, much better than at picking cards, including the one he sent with birthday presents1The only ones I received from anyone that year, a fact that scandalized him. in July 1997: the worst and most wonderful summer of my life. It was the summer when I was, at least in the technical sense, homeless,2Not “sleeping-on-the-streets” homeless. I’d taken a summer job that required me to sleep in as I was supervising and teaching ESL students, working (or at least on call) 24 hours a day, six days a week. But homeless in the sense of having no fixed address. having left my marriage but, because of that, been refused a bed in my parents’ house. My sister was on the other side of the country. The newsgroup, alt.sex.spanking, where my new (read: “only”) friends were, was inaccessible as I had no phone, no computer, and no way to dial into the internet. I felt like I was disappearing, becoming a ghost. These were not times I’ve ever wanted to revisit.

But, reading through them, I remembered that Paul didn’t let me disappear. When I no longer had internet access, he found a way to call almost every night. All I had to do was find a pay phone somewhere, use my 100 minute phone card to call him, give him the pay phone’s number and he’d call back and talk to me, tell me who was doing what on the group, about his life in Scotland, remind me that I only had to make it until the fourth week of August and I could move into the university dorms. He’d tell me he loved me — that I was special and made him so happy, that he felt so full of life. And I’d remember that in our cyber world I was “Mija” and that in that world she/I got to have fun adventures. Live with Pablo Stubbs in our treehouse. He made sure I knew I was loved, insisted on it until I couldn’t help but believe him. He told me I sparkled,  called me “angel” and while we spoke he made me feel like one. I suspect I wasn’t actually very sparkly those evenings, but certainly by my birthday (July 28) I had fallen in love. That much has never changed.3Talking with our therapist the other day, I don’t think it ever will — it’s part of who I am so losing it would require me to cut out too much of myself.

Yes, of course I still have them. Wouldn’t you?

For my birthday Paul sent me a package that magically arrived exactly on my birthday. The gifts included books. They were books that introduced me to two of his favorite authors who then became fast favorites of mine: Terry Pratchett and Bill Bryson4Bryson Bear, who came to live with me at Christmas 1997, was named after Bill Bryson the author.. There were also (on cassette tapes!) recordings of Paul reading the stories he’d written for me, by then Its, Spelling, Safety, Surfing, and Sleeping. 5Despite his feeling super self-conscious, he made those recordings so I could play them through my walkman and listen his voice on nights when I couldn’t get to a phone. And this lovely card, embarrassingly addressed (on an inner envelope) to “The Angel Who Needs to Have Her Bottom Smacked.”6Not going to recount the inside… ’cause we’d all blush.

We were the cutest, really.

 

Yes! Pooh-sticks!

It’s of Winnie the Pooh, of course, our long-time bedtime favorite, something he read to me even over the phone. While he’s read many, many, many books to me, he’s read and re-read the Pooh stories, especially at times of stress and sadness. Pooh and the other animals live in such a cozy, comfortable world. Pooh is safety, a reminder that things gone wrong can be righted. That the best pleasures are small, sweet, and quiet.

Because “Sometimes,” said Pooh, “the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”

 

  • 1
    The only ones I received from anyone that year, a fact that scandalized him.
  • 2
    Not “sleeping-on-the-streets” homeless. I’d taken a summer job that required me to sleep in as I was supervising and teaching ESL students, working (or at least on call) 24 hours a day, six days a week. But homeless in the sense of having no fixed address.
  • 3
    Talking with our therapist the other day, I don’t think it ever will — it’s part of who I am so losing it would require me to cut out too much of myself.
  • 4
    Bryson Bear, who came to live with me at Christmas 1997, was named after Bill Bryson the author.
  • 5
    Despite his feeling super self-conscious, he made those recordings so I could play them through my walkman and listen his voice on nights when I couldn’t get to a phone.
  • 6
    Not going to recount the inside… ’cause we’d all blush.

March 2025 Update

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Things that have happened this month, so far:

February Raffle:

The drawing notice finally went out – the winner is Natty!

Spanking Startles and Such: 

Reading: Earlier this month I read The Weed that Strings the Hangman’s Bag by Alan Bradley, the second in his Flavia de Luce mystery series. They’re set  1950s (?) England, and about Flavia, an 11-year-old girl who solves murder mysteries.  In the midst of it all, I came across this startling passage where our protagonist mentions getting spanked in the church by the vicar’s wife, who used a sort of hymnal. Young Flavia, a chemistry fiend, had taken a scraping from a stained glass window to do a chemical test on:

Hymns Ancient and Modern (image adapted from Wikipedia)

Of the many phrases that came to mind to describe Cynthia Richardson, “good sport” was not among them; “ogress,” however, was. It was after all Cynthia, with her rodent features, who had once caught me teetering tiptoe on the altar of St. Tancred’s, using one of Father’s straight razors to scrape a sample of blue zafre from a medieval stained-glass window. Zafre was an impure basic arsenate of cobalt, prepared by roasting, which the craftsmen of the Middle Ages had used for painting on glass, and I was simply dying to analyze the stuff in my laboratory to determine how successful its makers had been in the essential step of freeing it of iron. Cynthia had seized me, upended me, and spanked me on the spot, making what I thought to be unfair use of a nearby copy of Hymns Ancient and Modern (Standard Edition).

“What you have done, Flavia, is not worthy of congratulation,” Father said when I reported this outrage to him. “You have ruined a perfectly good Thiers-Issard hollow-ground blade.”

OMG! Promo image of Expelled!

Gaming: Speaking of stained glass, I’m playing Expelled! on my Nintendo Switch. The game is set at a girls’ school in 1922. The player’s character is Verity, a scholarship girl who is being framed for pushing another student out of an ancient stained glass window.

My current status is “Extremely Naughty” so no surprises there.

After I posted about this game on the Sips and Smacks Discord server, someone told me the game company Inkle has an earlier game, Overboard, that also has spanking-friendly content.

Swan Song Update: 

I’m getting spanked a lot—like a lot a lot. I’m also wearing uniforms pretty often, for me, for Paul, or for me and Paul. I haven’t taken many daily uniform pictures, mostly because I’ve tended to forget until I’ve already changed out of it. I’ve also been gardening most days, which is something I obviously don’t do in my uniform. Speaking of gardening, I’ve been wearing overalls a lot. As I mentioned on Twitter and BlueSky, I find them pretty vibe-y and am surprised there aren’t more spanking pictures with people wearing them. Also, garden-related, I got switched by Paul for the first time.

Currently, I walk by this school desk, chair, and a small (!!!) hairbrush paddle (made by Adam and Gillian) every time I pass through the dining room.

On a more practical level, we both agree that if I can, I should keep the house after Paul goes to the UK, though given that our mortgage payment+taxes is about 90% of my current pay, this is going to be tricky. There are no raises in sight, at least not until I can go up for promotion in a few years, because I work for the government (state university). But given how much rent is in the Los Angeles area and the severity of the housing shortage in Southern California, worse than ever since so many people lost their homes during the fire, I couldn’t rent a place for much less. I’m exploring finding a housemate… we’ll see how this goes.

Paul and I are trying to get The Treehouse back up before he goes. There’s a lot of sorting out to do, though. On this blog, I’ve added a “6 of the Best” page to the top menu, pointing to six blog posts I currently like. This page will be updated1In theory anyway. as time goes on and I write more. We’ll see how it goes.

 

House and Puppy Stuff:

The garden is getting cleaned up — my newfound love of gardening has been so much fun. It’s involved me getting switched2Inside thankfully! and fulfilling a fantasy of having overalls taken down for a spanking. The feeling of going from fully dressed to standing in knickers and a tee-shirt, so quickly, is, as we all say now,3I suspect someday use of the word “vibe” will date this post. “vibe-y.”

Having completed two-thirds of her training, Sutti is now officially designated as a “service dog in training.” Her paperwork is currently in progress to get permission for her to come to campus with me. She is such a joy and such a brat—definitely brattier than I’ve ever been, but also far cuter.

Summer Plans:

Academic year 2025-2026 cannot be over soon enough as far as I’m concerned. After classes end, I’m planning to go to TASSP in June and then spend most of July and (perhaps) August in the UK and Ireland. Sutti is traveling with me, assuming we can get her passport sorted. So far, I think we’ll be in London, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Limerick, and various places in the North of England. This should get nailed down a bit more in the next couple of months. A lot depends on whether or not I get sabbatical time for the Fall 2025 term. While I’m slow to play with new people, I’m always happy to meet up for coffee or other beverages, especially if there might be cake. Let me know if you’d like to try and connect.

  • 1
    In theory anyway.
  • 2
    Inside thankfully!
  • 3
    I suspect someday use of the word “vibe” will date this post.

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

Posted on By Mija

0 comment(s) so far. Please add yours!

[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.