My underwear drawer is full of things other than undies . . .
things like a depressingly solid blue plastic cutting board that my
Daddy/husband decorated one side of for me.
And the remains of a surgically dissected, thick leather belt that he cut down to “just the right size" for reddening my poor vulnerable rear.
Is it any wonder I don’t keep my undies there any more? I hate to be
sent there, and I always am. He could, you know, just as easily keep
all those things in his own dam – darned drawers, instead of sending me
for them all the time. But he knows I know that once I’ve given them
to him I’m going to be face down, bare-bottom-up over his lap,
screaming and crying and wailing and trying desperately to twist out of
his hold while he spanks every inch of my derriere and down the backs
of my legs. I swear that man’s hand is made of pure redwood!
And there's a method to his madness that I don't like to consider any
The whole house is full of reminders of the way we live: the cane (and
a big red enema bag, but we won't talk about that now) perches
ominously above our bed, or rather it did until it fell down behind the
bed. By accident, of course . . . (batting my eyelashes innocently) The
dining room table has been christened with copious salty tears on more
than one occasion, as have the kitchen counters. And that’s not even
taking the van into consideration!
And what well-equipped kitchen doesn’t harbor myriad double entendre
utensils that are outwardly so vanilla as to be considered boring –
wooden spoons, rubber spatulas – but which, in the right hands (or
wrong hands, depending on who’s doing the receiving) can ensure good
behavior from the most recalcitrant of submissives – innerkid, slave,
and/or disobedient wife?
(shuddering, thinking there are alot of things I need to make "disappear" when we move the next time we move . . . )
Carolyn "Pipsqueak" Faulkner