Spring Break!
Hello, Readers! I made a commitment to Mistress that I would not post anything during the school year except on breaks. That way I can focus on school, which is my only job during the school year, with the generous exception of loving and caring for Mistress. Truth to tell, she was a little jealous of how much time and attention I was spending on the online world, and so I pulled back.
It's Spring Break now. Mistress is out of town for a few days, and so I'm Baaaaack! I thought you all might like to hear a little bit about last weekend. One of those weekends...
Mistress was under a lot of stress. There were some crazy work scenarios, plus a visit from a judgmental brother, some crises with some of her investments, and then one of Mistresses exes showed up out of the blue, (although that may have been mostly stressful for me). Mistress was under an abundant amount of stress and so she took a day off work to sort out her mind and relax.
Why is it that when she's home all day I can't seem to leave well enough alone? She's almost never home, and when she is, she is often working. This day, she was resting. She was in the living room watching the TV, and seemed not to have a care in the world. Why is it that when she's the most at ease, I begin to feel relentlessly bratty?
It started small. I began to do the dishes in the next room, but I deliberately made as much noise as possible. I put pots in the sink while it was filling, so the water splashed around. I banged plates and cups against each other as I loaded the dish washer. Apparently, I was in need of some attention. I know! Bratty! I could just as easily have sat down next to her and asked for it. Sometimes, though, I don't want to have to ask for what I need; I just want her to know what I need. It's highly unfair to her.
Her response was just to turn up the volume. Mistress watches all these shows I don't enjoy: ones full of intrigue and undercurrents, so you have to watch closely and listen carefully to fully understand the ins and outs. I'm a sitcom princess all the way. The easier and more in-your-face the humor, the better. I was capable of doing dishes or any other chore while watching my shows, because even if you missed a little, the rest was enough to catch you up. Mistress' show was not that way. It's some period piece about King Henry, and I think it's violent and smutty. Not that that was the reason I was being a brat. Well, maybe it was a little. If she had been watching a show I enjoy, I might not have been quite so eager to make a nuisance of myself.
She raised the volume, so a few minutes later I began making even more clatter in the kitchen. Mistress turned in her chair and called, "Baby," in an exasperated tone. I leaned around and innocently inquired, "Yes, Baby?"
She gestured toward the television. "Could you...?"
I pretended remorse, though I was actually a little amused. "Whoops," I whispered. "Sorry." I pulled a face.
Probably if Mistress had not been under the stress she was under, and probably if she had been paying a little more attention to me, she would have realized I was doing it on purpose. The little tremor I often get when I'm being naughty (some might call it the stirrings of my conscience) made me pull back. I finished the dishes in the sink more quietly.
A few minutes passed and I went about my work. I started the laundry down the hall. I left the laundry door open (this I did unthinkingly) and I heard the volume on the TV go up again. When I realized I was the reason, the stirring of my conscience came again, but this time my amusement forced it to flee.
Back in the kitchen, I actually started the dishwasher. It's a quiet enough dishwasher, but the TV volume still went up a little. Then I felt the real thick naughtiness take me, and I decided to bake cookies. It would have been just fine if I had used the frozen dough in the freezer, but I was having none of that. The ingredients were in the high cabinets, so I had to climb around on counter tops and, as you can imagine, I did it with as much awkwardness and noise as possible.
Every time the volume went up on the TV, I smiled a little. I know! I can hear the audience clicking their tongues and shaking stern fingers at me, but I have to say that in the midst of "naughty" it really does feel fun sometimes.
I pounded things, crunched plastic bags, clattered utensils, and made a general clamor. But it was not until I actually put my Mistress' patience to the test that I crossed the line. I turned on the table-top mixer.
This mixer is a prized possession of mine. Before Mistress bought it, I had been using an old beat-up hand mixer that required careful handling to keep from getting shocked. And the mixing beaters fell out of it more often than not. Mistress had heard me curse and snarl at that hand mixer for over a year before she brought home the aid for my kitchen. It was a beautiful piece of red magic, but it was not precisely a quiet appliance.
I turned on the mixer and stood over it like a pleased steward as it mixed up the cookie dough as loudly and as obnoxiously as possible. The only thing I could have done to be more annoying was crush ice in the blender (but I knew better than to do that, because for Mistress, that sound is like nails on a chalkboard for others. In fact, in our house, we don't use "nails on a chalkboard" for an expression. Instead, we say "ice in a blender").
The thrill of it died out immediately when I realized the TV sound was muted and I felt Mistress' dark gaze. I turned innocently around, but my stomach flip-flopped, and I'm certain Mistress could see it in my face. She looked cross.
"What are you doing?" she asked, in the clipped-off way that meant she was out of patience.
Innocence! "Nothing." I shrugged. "Just making a treat."
Exasperation exploded from Mistress, "Why?"
Now, I have to say for the record that at this point I began grasping for ways that her anger could not be my fault. It's a fairly natural tendency to try to think your way out of problems, so I grasped at the nearest lie that could turn her anger onto herself.
I made myself feel hurt and angry. "What do you mean 'why'? I knew you were having a hard week and I wanted to make you feel better!" Oh, I laid it on thick! The pouting, the glaring...
Mistress wasn't fooled. "Pura! How exactly is running the mixer while I'm watching a show going to make me feel better? You're driving me crazy!"
Leave it to Mistress to come right out with it! I started to cry now, and though the tears were definitely real, and the hurt I felt was also real, the shouted response was a calculation measured to get the response I wanted. "Just go back to your stupid show and I'll mix your damned cookies by hand!" And I wrestled the mixer to try and release the bowl from its authoritative grip.
Whack! Mistress had grabbed the nearest serving spoon, which happened to be one of those wicked slotted metal spoons, and laid it across my backside with authority. I cried out in shock and whirled around to face her. She looked utterly calm.
"Do you think I'm okay with you talking to me like that?" she asked, so so calm.
"You're being mean!" I tried to grab the spoon from her hands. "I actually cook with that!"
She grabbed my hand and pulled me against the counter. I squirmed, but she slapped that spoon across my bottom several more times in quick succession. With no kind of warm-up, it was a fierce sting, and I jumped nearly out of my skin each time.
"Pura, why do I keep getting the feeling you're trying to bug me on purpose?" Mistress said, in the calm way she always uses when she disciplines. This was the moment I actually realized we had stumbled into discipline. It had been some few months since I had felt more than a playful swat or two, and I was remembering exactly how painful spankings actually were. But, I also did not feel like "bugging" her was a good enough reason for her to administer discipline.
"Because you're paranoid!" I snapped, and that disrespectful tone earned me another couple swats with that bloody spoon. "Because you're having a hard week, and you're looking for someone to take it out on."
Eek. Those words just slipped out in an attempt for me to gain the upper hand and get myself out of the trouble I had placed myself in. For a moment, I thought it worked. I was overwhelmed with guilt. Mistress set the spoon down quietly on the counter and walked away.
Guilt is a funny thing. It was at least as painful as my throbbing backside, but the pride I felt at "winning" kept me from speaking up and taking back my hateful words, even though Mistress was quite right that I had been deliberately trying to distract her. And I in no way believed she was taking her frustrations out on me. In fact, she's so annoyingly careful about that, that I sometimes managed to get out of a spanking I actually deserved simply because she was not in the right frame-of-mind for it.
I rubbed my bottom, but could not assuage my guilt. I did not dare to move too much, or to leave the kitchen, for fear my guilt would be read in my actions or my face. I clutched the counter with firm fingers and focused on breathing only.
A couple minutes passed in silence. I finally gathered myself well enough to begin putting away ingredients I had left on the counter. I glanced once around the corner to look at Mistress, and saw her turning the TV off completely.
I went quietly back into the kitchen, but then I heard her call, "Pura, come here," in her calmest voice. She had seen my reflection in the TV screen.
I did not dare disobey after all the manipulating I had done. I put down the things in my hands and went obediently to her. She did not give me the chance to sit down beside her or kneel in front of her as I often did. She looked up at me and her gaze stopped me in my tracks. She was so serious, so calm.
"Do you think I am taking my frustrations out on you?" she asked coolly. I nibbled on my lip and shook my head no.
"Then why did you say it?" she asked, sitting forward on the couch and peering at me with those fiery eyes.
I squirmed. "I don't know," I lied.
She nodded. "So, let me see if I fully understand this: You chose today, of all days, to help me reestablish my authority at home."
Now, I don't know how much of my readership has ever been on the receiving end of that kind of a question, but it is not cool. There is no right answer.
"Mistress," I started, trying to apologize my way out of this before it actually began. Now that we were right up to it, I was rethinking my naughtiness. I was rethinking it with a vengeance, now that I was finally thinking clearly.
She shook her head. "No," she ordered my silence. "I don't think your excuses will help you today."
I would have said something then, if not for Mistress re-positioning herself on the couch and motioning me closer. Every piece of me rebelled, but I could find no legitimate reason to resist her. I took the necessary steps to deliver myself to her, and quickly found myself in the familiar position over her knees, staring at the business-end of a spanking.
Mistress did not have any compassion for the long spanking-drought we had been under. She started hard and I was crying out between gritted teeth in a matter of moments. And if that was not bad enough, she started lecturing! Mistress never lectures while she spanks, so I would at this time like to take a moment to sarcastically thank all the HOHs whose blogs promote this type of behavior, because I am here to tell you, she did not learn it from me!
I don't remember everything, or really much of anything, she said while I was over her knees, but all I knew is that while she was talking, the spanking was so, so much worse.
I thought she was done when her hand stopped, and I was relieved to pull myself away from her lap. But she quite firmly pulled me back to her, and I realized that everything that had happened up to this point was a "warm-up." The sweatpants and panties came off and I collapsed across her lap again with a defeated cry. She was not even halfway done!
I was crying rather steadily, and I was certain another smack would throw me over the edge when she finally finished. Even her gentle caress of my red backside made me jump and cry out.
For a long time, I stayed where I was over her knees, my head buried in the couch. When I finally moved, she picked me up and placed me gently on the ottoman facing her. It would not have mattered how gently, because my backside was on fire, and the sudden added pressure of my weight made me cry out again. But I did not move from where she placed me.
Mistress had an ironic little smile on her face, and she asked me, "Are you satisfied, Little Pura?"
I bit back the automatic curse that tried to form, because that would not have yielded good results. "What do you mean?" I asked her through my teeth.
Her smile grew. "Well, honey, it seems pretty obvious to me that you were asking for my attention. Now you have it."
I think I can safely say, I will be very careful of what I unintentionally ask for in the future. Mistress is apparently extremely literal.
It's Spring Break now. Mistress is out of town for a few days, and so I'm Baaaaack! I thought you all might like to hear a little bit about last weekend. One of those weekends...
Mistress was under a lot of stress. There were some crazy work scenarios, plus a visit from a judgmental brother, some crises with some of her investments, and then one of Mistresses exes showed up out of the blue, (although that may have been mostly stressful for me). Mistress was under an abundant amount of stress and so she took a day off work to sort out her mind and relax.
Why is it that when she's home all day I can't seem to leave well enough alone? She's almost never home, and when she is, she is often working. This day, she was resting. She was in the living room watching the TV, and seemed not to have a care in the world. Why is it that when she's the most at ease, I begin to feel relentlessly bratty?
It started small. I began to do the dishes in the next room, but I deliberately made as much noise as possible. I put pots in the sink while it was filling, so the water splashed around. I banged plates and cups against each other as I loaded the dish washer. Apparently, I was in need of some attention. I know! Bratty! I could just as easily have sat down next to her and asked for it. Sometimes, though, I don't want to have to ask for what I need; I just want her to know what I need. It's highly unfair to her.
Her response was just to turn up the volume. Mistress watches all these shows I don't enjoy: ones full of intrigue and undercurrents, so you have to watch closely and listen carefully to fully understand the ins and outs. I'm a sitcom princess all the way. The easier and more in-your-face the humor, the better. I was capable of doing dishes or any other chore while watching my shows, because even if you missed a little, the rest was enough to catch you up. Mistress' show was not that way. It's some period piece about King Henry, and I think it's violent and smutty. Not that that was the reason I was being a brat. Well, maybe it was a little. If she had been watching a show I enjoy, I might not have been quite so eager to make a nuisance of myself.
She raised the volume, so a few minutes later I began making even more clatter in the kitchen. Mistress turned in her chair and called, "Baby," in an exasperated tone. I leaned around and innocently inquired, "Yes, Baby?"
She gestured toward the television. "Could you...?"
I pretended remorse, though I was actually a little amused. "Whoops," I whispered. "Sorry." I pulled a face.
Probably if Mistress had not been under the stress she was under, and probably if she had been paying a little more attention to me, she would have realized I was doing it on purpose. The little tremor I often get when I'm being naughty (some might call it the stirrings of my conscience) made me pull back. I finished the dishes in the sink more quietly.
A few minutes passed and I went about my work. I started the laundry down the hall. I left the laundry door open (this I did unthinkingly) and I heard the volume on the TV go up again. When I realized I was the reason, the stirring of my conscience came again, but this time my amusement forced it to flee.
Back in the kitchen, I actually started the dishwasher. It's a quiet enough dishwasher, but the TV volume still went up a little. Then I felt the real thick naughtiness take me, and I decided to bake cookies. It would have been just fine if I had used the frozen dough in the freezer, but I was having none of that. The ingredients were in the high cabinets, so I had to climb around on counter tops and, as you can imagine, I did it with as much awkwardness and noise as possible.
Every time the volume went up on the TV, I smiled a little. I know! I can hear the audience clicking their tongues and shaking stern fingers at me, but I have to say that in the midst of "naughty" it really does feel fun sometimes.
I pounded things, crunched plastic bags, clattered utensils, and made a general clamor. But it was not until I actually put my Mistress' patience to the test that I crossed the line. I turned on the table-top mixer.
This mixer is a prized possession of mine. Before Mistress bought it, I had been using an old beat-up hand mixer that required careful handling to keep from getting shocked. And the mixing beaters fell out of it more often than not. Mistress had heard me curse and snarl at that hand mixer for over a year before she brought home the aid for my kitchen. It was a beautiful piece of red magic, but it was not precisely a quiet appliance.
I turned on the mixer and stood over it like a pleased steward as it mixed up the cookie dough as loudly and as obnoxiously as possible. The only thing I could have done to be more annoying was crush ice in the blender (but I knew better than to do that, because for Mistress, that sound is like nails on a chalkboard for others. In fact, in our house, we don't use "nails on a chalkboard" for an expression. Instead, we say "ice in a blender").
The thrill of it died out immediately when I realized the TV sound was muted and I felt Mistress' dark gaze. I turned innocently around, but my stomach flip-flopped, and I'm certain Mistress could see it in my face. She looked cross.
"What are you doing?" she asked, in the clipped-off way that meant she was out of patience.
Innocence! "Nothing." I shrugged. "Just making a treat."
Exasperation exploded from Mistress, "Why?"
Now, I have to say for the record that at this point I began grasping for ways that her anger could not be my fault. It's a fairly natural tendency to try to think your way out of problems, so I grasped at the nearest lie that could turn her anger onto herself.
I made myself feel hurt and angry. "What do you mean 'why'? I knew you were having a hard week and I wanted to make you feel better!" Oh, I laid it on thick! The pouting, the glaring...
Mistress wasn't fooled. "Pura! How exactly is running the mixer while I'm watching a show going to make me feel better? You're driving me crazy!"
Leave it to Mistress to come right out with it! I started to cry now, and though the tears were definitely real, and the hurt I felt was also real, the shouted response was a calculation measured to get the response I wanted. "Just go back to your stupid show and I'll mix your damned cookies by hand!" And I wrestled the mixer to try and release the bowl from its authoritative grip.
Whack! Mistress had grabbed the nearest serving spoon, which happened to be one of those wicked slotted metal spoons, and laid it across my backside with authority. I cried out in shock and whirled around to face her. She looked utterly calm.
"Do you think I'm okay with you talking to me like that?" she asked, so so calm.
"You're being mean!" I tried to grab the spoon from her hands. "I actually cook with that!"
She grabbed my hand and pulled me against the counter. I squirmed, but she slapped that spoon across my bottom several more times in quick succession. With no kind of warm-up, it was a fierce sting, and I jumped nearly out of my skin each time.
"Pura, why do I keep getting the feeling you're trying to bug me on purpose?" Mistress said, in the calm way she always uses when she disciplines. This was the moment I actually realized we had stumbled into discipline. It had been some few months since I had felt more than a playful swat or two, and I was remembering exactly how painful spankings actually were. But, I also did not feel like "bugging" her was a good enough reason for her to administer discipline.
"Because you're paranoid!" I snapped, and that disrespectful tone earned me another couple swats with that bloody spoon. "Because you're having a hard week, and you're looking for someone to take it out on."
Eek. Those words just slipped out in an attempt for me to gain the upper hand and get myself out of the trouble I had placed myself in. For a moment, I thought it worked. I was overwhelmed with guilt. Mistress set the spoon down quietly on the counter and walked away.
Guilt is a funny thing. It was at least as painful as my throbbing backside, but the pride I felt at "winning" kept me from speaking up and taking back my hateful words, even though Mistress was quite right that I had been deliberately trying to distract her. And I in no way believed she was taking her frustrations out on me. In fact, she's so annoyingly careful about that, that I sometimes managed to get out of a spanking I actually deserved simply because she was not in the right frame-of-mind for it.
I rubbed my bottom, but could not assuage my guilt. I did not dare to move too much, or to leave the kitchen, for fear my guilt would be read in my actions or my face. I clutched the counter with firm fingers and focused on breathing only.
A couple minutes passed in silence. I finally gathered myself well enough to begin putting away ingredients I had left on the counter. I glanced once around the corner to look at Mistress, and saw her turning the TV off completely.
I went quietly back into the kitchen, but then I heard her call, "Pura, come here," in her calmest voice. She had seen my reflection in the TV screen.
I did not dare disobey after all the manipulating I had done. I put down the things in my hands and went obediently to her. She did not give me the chance to sit down beside her or kneel in front of her as I often did. She looked up at me and her gaze stopped me in my tracks. She was so serious, so calm.
"Do you think I am taking my frustrations out on you?" she asked coolly. I nibbled on my lip and shook my head no.
"Then why did you say it?" she asked, sitting forward on the couch and peering at me with those fiery eyes.
I squirmed. "I don't know," I lied.
She nodded. "So, let me see if I fully understand this: You chose today, of all days, to help me reestablish my authority at home."
Now, I don't know how much of my readership has ever been on the receiving end of that kind of a question, but it is not cool. There is no right answer.
"Mistress," I started, trying to apologize my way out of this before it actually began. Now that we were right up to it, I was rethinking my naughtiness. I was rethinking it with a vengeance, now that I was finally thinking clearly.
She shook her head. "No," she ordered my silence. "I don't think your excuses will help you today."
I would have said something then, if not for Mistress re-positioning herself on the couch and motioning me closer. Every piece of me rebelled, but I could find no legitimate reason to resist her. I took the necessary steps to deliver myself to her, and quickly found myself in the familiar position over her knees, staring at the business-end of a spanking.
Mistress did not have any compassion for the long spanking-drought we had been under. She started hard and I was crying out between gritted teeth in a matter of moments. And if that was not bad enough, she started lecturing! Mistress never lectures while she spanks, so I would at this time like to take a moment to sarcastically thank all the HOHs whose blogs promote this type of behavior, because I am here to tell you, she did not learn it from me!
I don't remember everything, or really much of anything, she said while I was over her knees, but all I knew is that while she was talking, the spanking was so, so much worse.
I thought she was done when her hand stopped, and I was relieved to pull myself away from her lap. But she quite firmly pulled me back to her, and I realized that everything that had happened up to this point was a "warm-up." The sweatpants and panties came off and I collapsed across her lap again with a defeated cry. She was not even halfway done!
I was crying rather steadily, and I was certain another smack would throw me over the edge when she finally finished. Even her gentle caress of my red backside made me jump and cry out.
For a long time, I stayed where I was over her knees, my head buried in the couch. When I finally moved, she picked me up and placed me gently on the ottoman facing her. It would not have mattered how gently, because my backside was on fire, and the sudden added pressure of my weight made me cry out again. But I did not move from where she placed me.
Mistress had an ironic little smile on her face, and she asked me, "Are you satisfied, Little Pura?"
I bit back the automatic curse that tried to form, because that would not have yielded good results. "What do you mean?" I asked her through my teeth.
Her smile grew. "Well, honey, it seems pretty obvious to me that you were asking for my attention. Now you have it."
I think I can safely say, I will be very careful of what I unintentionally ask for in the future. Mistress is apparently extremely literal.
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