There are certain parts of domesticity that feel just perfectly
appropriate to connect to her Liddel side. The growedup side of her is
very helpful and does so much, but the Liddel side of her has chores and
rules around the house that are emphasized as being Squeaky's
rules, as opposed to Carolyn's. Above and beyond and outside the
covenant of two adults sharing a household, dividing the minutia of living
life in whatever way they've agreed.
Such esoterica was not, actually, on my mind in the moment, when I
surveyed the state of the kitchen this morning. I actually usually do the
kitchen-cleaning, but Squeaky has age-appropriate rules about helping
keep things ship-shape between scrubbings.
And friends, will you give me an amen when I testify to seeing in
that kitchen, painfully, (one might even foreshadow things by saying
stingingly) obvious indications that Squeaky had managed to forget
every single one of those Liddel chores, lately?
And will you truly be agog to hear that she's been soundly spanked
for just such lapses several times? Or will you just feign to be.
Which brings us to the crux, the moral core, of the issue, as a Forward-
thinking Daddy or Dom sometimes finds himself facing.
You see Sistren, I was gazing (yes, agog... perhaps even two gogs!)
at this stunning visions, with my own memories of the previous
sound hand-spanking she got along these lines, dancing and kicking
and crying like sugarplums, which had fueled an odd confidence in me
that we wouldn't be revisiting *this* particular issue, with her nose six
inches from the carpet, anytime soon... gazing because I'd been sick and
down and out the last couple of days, and she'd been taking very sweet
care of me.
You see the dilemma right away, I bet, above-average as all of you are.
On the one hand, she'd been so sweet and helpful and a true Treasure
lately, with Daddy being sick lately.
Let's call that hand, the left hand.
On the other hand, I truly believe with all my mediocre mind that what
she needs... what she in particular needs, is for someone to not let
her get away with things. She suffered benign neglect, being a
menopause baby, much younger than the other siblings, when she
reckons her parents were just tired of parenting, and found it easier to
just cave to her than to put the effort into giving her limits and
So I believe that what's best for her often is the thing she doesn't
want -- and she's never before been able to tell me differently when I've
asked her if that's what's best for her: for me to use a cherishingly-*firm*
hand with her.
That would be the other hand, the right hand.
And I'm afraid that I'm right-handed.
Previously, this bit of babygirl blitheness has earned her merely a "baby
spanking", which in our house means using only my hand -- for I am the
softest of touches.
(Though of course I understand too well the therapeutica and purging
and rebirth which is possible only through very, very sincere tears
of regret, to balance the tears of forgiveness and tenderness and
cherishment, when a Liddel lady must be firmly disciplined -- even if only
a mere hand-spanking. I believe in that like Mitt Romney believes in
But when even the soundest and most sincerely sob-evoking of
corrections hasn't made the proper impression, the Forward-thinking
Daddy comes equipped, boyscoutesque, with the tools best suited to
tackling the problem at hand -- one of which can be found right around
Isn't God's plan miraculous and wonderful? He designed us males from the
get-go without very wide hip-bones, so when it came time to create pants for
us, we'd need belts to keep them up.
And He designed the female bottom to be soft and round and perfectly
designed to safely take the sound application of the belt, when it's best
for her. In fact, the doubled-over belt is almost always the *perfect*
length and width for most effectively strapping a better memory into a
young lady worthy of one's time and attention!
Wondrous synchronicity! Irrefutable proof of Intelligent Design!
Alright, enough drivel. Taking this belt from around my waist, and going
to check on Miss Squeaky with her nose in the corner, whom I can see
fidgeting visibly through the bedroom door right now.
Charming, just too charming -- I think I shall enjoy this view of a
fidgeting, condemned womanly bottom, which simply *exudes* something
darling when the other side of her is nose-into the corner like a small
child, trying hard not to listen for my approaching footsteps, I'd warrant,
as a covey of flutterbys tickles her endlessly, low low in the tummy,
waiting for *it*.
Life is too good to be believed, sometimes, ain't it?