Mija’s Room

Tag: thigh spanking

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

Posted on By Mija

[I started this post on October 10, 2024]

Last night I posted the following on Twitter:


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

For so far as the skirt covered.

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

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

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

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

“Get back out, please.”

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

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

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

(more…)

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

Red Lights and Bruises

Posted on By Mija
Bigger image…
Look closely, I swear those are finger marks.

This morning Paul and I took the cutest dog in the world (she is, and I won’t hear another word — I’m sure your dog is cute too) to the “nice” dog park, that is, the one with trees and grass rather than wood chips and dust, about a 15 minute drive from our house, with plans to go out for brunch after.

Driving to the park, in response to his probably-not-out-of-thin-air-but-I-don’t-remember-the-lead-up that he could smack the tops of my thighs, I replied that he could, but as I was wearing think white cotton jeans it would likely hurt him at least as much as me. We were stopped at a traffic light — I was so unconcerned I didn’t even look up from my phone.

Until he told me to take my jeans to my knees…

“I can’t do that.”

He assured me I could and would. Surprise! I did, fully aware there was a van next to us. A van whose driver was so much higher up. And at that moment, glancing over into the car. (BTW, I’m not sure who’s writing this because I definitely died from the sudden flush of embarrassment). His hand smacked down hard, once on each thigh. Because balance is important or something.

The light changed, we turned the corner and passed another driver who could definitely see down into our car. I expected Paul to say something along the lines of “Be a good girl and pull up your jeans,” but as we drew up to the next light, he told me to move my hands out of the way.

Two more hard smacks.

That was when I learned the “rules” of this new game. My thighs would be smacked at every traffic light between our house (first two lights, check), but only if the lights were red because, as was explained to me, “we have to drive safely.”

Reader, there were a lot of lights. Too many of them were red. I know there were a least five, but am leaning toward seven. Or maybe fifty. As we approached each light I both willed us to go faster and prayed we would not pass SUVs. Neither seemed to work. The embarrassment added another level to the sting.

I couldn’t pull my jeans back up in the car, even when we’d parked. I had to slip out of the car, yanking and fastening as I went. The only good thing was I was wearing a longish top.

The pictures above are my bruised thighs. I confess I’m rather pleased with them. I have a kind of olive skin that generally doesn’t bruise or even redden much. Except, clearly, my thighs.

My dilemma, aside from figuring out how to amusingly explain these should anyone ask, is whether I should start wearing skirts so as not to be riding around Southern California with my jeans pulled down to my knees. Or would that make this new game more likely to be repeated, often?

I can but hope.