My palm is patting Philip’s left buttcheek, making him shiver…Oh, that’s so adorable, I love the way he reacts when he knows he’s about to undergo a really long, hard, bare-bottom blistering, and that’s certainly what he’s facing right now. I should know, since I’m the one who has determined what his payoff for the sucker bet he lost will be.

Both of his bouncy buns are quite unprotected by the cherry red thong brief which he’s wearing as underpants; his sweatpants and sneakers have already been taken off by Bethany, so he’s wearing only his favorite University of North Carolina t-shirt and white athletic socks, other than that thong-style underwear.

She’s quite a pretty brunette, I can see why my naughty boy has developed a bit of a schoolboy crush on his second cousin, now that they live in the same town and go to the same school. (Of course, it doesn’t hurt that she and her lake house neighbor spent most of last summer whuppin’ up on his baby-naked buttcheeks either, does it?)

“Such nice, resilient buns.” I give his right nether globe a playful pinch. “They look so cute sticking up and out like this.” Philip squirms a little, but he’s been strapped down over the vaulting horse very securely. “They can take plenty of punishment, which I know from experience.”

Bethany’s smile is devilish as she moves to stand right behind his backthrust bottom rounds, while she pats her mother’s Spencer paddle against her palm. “So do I, Joanne—and they’re going to get as much whomping as they can handle; the girls I’ve chosen are really eager to blister this very naughty bare bottom. You’re a terrific judge, you should have your own television program.”

How sweet of her to say that. “Thank you, Beth…Philip wanted a whole lot if he won the wager, so clearly he should have to pay off a great deal since he lost it—that’s only fair.” He’d desired a release from his promise to allow Bethany and Moira McCartney, her summertime neighbor, to act as his fanny-tanning disciplinarians until his twenty-first birthday. He’d accepted the arrangement before his family had ended up moving back to Sunset Hills, thinking that he’d rarely have to suffer any consequences from it—but now he lives only two blocks away from Bethany, and goes to Heartland High School with both her and Moira.

She’s slowly rubbing the sturdy paddle’s smooth, flat surface all over those firm, meaty masculine buttocks, which are divided by his cranberry-colored thong brief but remain totally unprotected; those buns are trembling slightly. “What’s the matter, Philip honey, are you afraid that we little girls are going to hurt your tough, macho tushie too much, that you’re going to bawl like a baby for us?” She’s grinning with glee. “Well, that’s exactly what we’re going to do, dear cousin, and you’ll be crying us a river of tears…Oh, am I so ready to plaster your baby-naked bum-bum cheeks, toddler boy, but I’ll wait for my teammates before getting started—we’ll all want to watch each other work over this helpless hiney.”

Speak of the devil, or actually a trio of avenging angels, the other three teenaged females are bursting into the girls’ locker room right now. Damn, they’re all so cute-looking, almost as attractive as Bethany is—I hope that Philip will appreciate their prettiness while they’re stinging him thoroughly, right where Mother Nature intended him to be stung quite sharply. Black-haired, rather statuesque Moira looks nearly as athletic as Bethany, being slightly taller and slimmer but still showing the necessary feminine curves in the right places; the other two girls are the Manion sisters, fifteen-year-old Serena and fourteen-year-old Dakota, both with flowing, golden blonde hair, aquamarine eyes and peaches-and-cream complexions, who are several inches shorter than Bethany and pleasingly plump in body type.

All four of the young ladies are wearing the stylish playing outfits of the Heartland High girls’ tennis team, sparkling white with royal blue and canary yellow trim, but they’re not carrying tennis rackets—instead, Moira’s gripping the handle of a black rubber Canadian school strap, while Serena is casually flicking a bright red riding crop with a heart-shaped leather tip and Dakota, who’s a lefty, holds an oversized, flat-backed cooking spoon made of sturdy oakwood by its rubber grip.

Perhaps the Manion girls have never before seen a sixteen-year-old male’s exposed nether moons, because Serena is giggling while Dakota is virtually squealing in surprised delight at the sight of Philip’s nicely-rounded nates. Moira has seen them numerous times before, but nonetheless she’s obviously enjoying the ‘rear view’ being presented, especially the way that those naked buttock rounds are plumped out, seemingly begging to be all-out blistered; her calm smirk reminds me of the cat that ate the canary—or perhaps instead has caught the yellow bird and is about to consume it with eager relish.

Moira taps each pale hemisphere twice with the strap’s smooth striking surface. “My, these sassy cheekies seem very familiar,” she muses playfully, “But the proof of the pudding is in the punishing—I’ll have to thrash them severely to be certain that I’ve encountered them before.

“You’ll have plenty of opportunity to do that,” I inform her cheerily, “But let me explain to everyone exactly how this extended spanking session is going to work.” I walk to the other side of Philip’s strapped-down, bare-bottom-up form, so that the young ladies will be looking at his double-cheek target area while facing me. They’ve quieted down in anticipation of my little speech, although they’re all grinning in a self-satisfied manner. Their near-future victim, on the other hand, has a striken expression on his handsome, lightly-pinkened face, giving him the adorable visage of a naughty little boy who’s due for a good, sound dose of corporally corrective comeuppance—which he most certainly is going to receive, even though he possesses a male mid-teenager’s strong, athletic body rather than a child’s.

“Uhhhh…Oh, Joanne,” he moans as my left hand squeezes his hind end quite insistently, making him squirm helplessly within his restraints.

He’s so boyishly cute, reacting so predictably. “Hush, sweetie pie, I’m busy right now.” I’m going to have to explain exactly how to spank this tied-down, bare-cheeked boy, so that Serena and Dakota will feel comfortable about doing so—that’s not going to be an issue for Bethany and Moira, quite obviously. “First of all, be aware that the naked buttcheeks of a healthy sixteen-year-old male are made to endure a great deal of very sound corporal punishment—in fact, they were designed by Mother Nature specifically with thorough thrashings in mind.” The two older girls are nodding in agreement, but the two blondes look uncertain. “Beth and Moira already know this from personal experience, and as a trained nurse I can verify it as a medical fact.”

“Nurses know what Mother Nature thinks?” Serena’s eyebrows are arching.

My right hand lightly smacks Philip’s right nether moon. “We know how she designed the masculine anatomy, and I also have had extensive personal experience in blistering boyish bare behinds—especially this one. Feel free to squeeze these buns yourself, ladies, to see how firm and resilient they are.”

Although Bethany and Moira need no convincing of the accuracy of my assertions, they’re obviously happy to comply with my suggestion. “Indeed, what totally spankable glutes these are,” Moira affirms, giving Philip’s left asscheek a hard pinch after fondling it for several seconds.

As his hips wriggle, Bethany’s palm slaps each vulnerable hemisphere in turn, right followed by left, with considerable force. “Oh, stop that babyish squirming, dear cousin, just you wait until we’re giving you something to really react to.”

The sisters are clearly a bit bashful about touching this boy’s unprotected posterior, so I don’t insist on it at the moment. “Okay, that’s enough for now.” The other girls step back slightly, smirking in anticipation of employing their implements atop their helpless victim’s defenseless derriere. “Now, just because Philip’s rear end can absorb plenty of physical punishment, that doesn’t mean that he’s going to enjoy it—not at the conscious level of his awareness, anyway.” Of course, down deep in his psyche he will feel highly gratified at being spanked and humbled, but I won’t bother explaining that. “In other words, expect him to be crying very childishly while you’re working over his bare bottom with your implements—if he’s not bawling like a baby for most of the time that you’re walloping him, then you’re not doing it effectively enough.”

Bethany snickers. “As my mother always says, a good fanny-tanning is supposed to hurt a whole lot, and the person getting it should be crying a river of tears for most of his butt-beating.”

“Exactly.” I nod in agreement. “He’ll also be howling and wailing, plus knowing him, also babyishly begging for mercy—just be certain that you don’t give him any, because this is a situation that he’s gotten himself into of his own accord.” Truly, he’d insisted on making what I considered a sucker bet with his second cousin, wagering that the Tar Heels would somehow advance further in the so-called ‘Big Dance’ than the Blue Devils–once he’d predictably lost, it was “Judge Joanne” who was the mutually-accepted arbiter of his payoff.

“We’re supposed to really hurt him?” There’s a shine in Dakota’s eyes as she gazes at Philip, even in his current highly-embarrassing position, and it involves something other than eagerness to whack his hind end with that wooden spoon she’s gripping. “Ummmm, I thought this was going to be, you know, kind of playful and friendly…I didn’t know that he’d be tied down like this, with his pants off and hardly any underwear covering his backside.”

Well, he is a seriously good-looking guy, plus he’s also a sweet person too, in spite of his shyness with the opposite sex—if I were her age, I might also be a bit smitten with this handsome boy. “If you want him to respect you, sweetheart, you’d better be willing to paddle him long and hard with that seat-smacker you’re holding. Philip’s expecting to get a good, sound spanking from you, two of them in fact before we’re finished, and those punishments are supposed to hurt a great deal.” She still looks somewhat conflicted. “Naturally, you don’t want to harm him, causing any long-term damage, but I’ll be monitoring the whole procedure, and I know how much whomping his behind can safely take—it’s probably a lot more than you’re figuring.”

Moira’s head nods. “Yes, trust us on this, Philip’s rump is built for very hard whacking, and he seriously deserves what we’ll each be giving him.”

“Uhhhh-Okay, if you all say so.” Dakota’s tongue licks her lips.

“It will be playful too, but he’s used to playing intensely when it’s time for him to be spanked,” I assure her; she does appear to relax a touch. “Now that we understand HOW to plaster his baby-naked buns, which is extremely emphatically, the next item is to learn WHERE on his bouncy bottom to place our stinging-hot swats.”

“On his ‘spank spot,’ of course,” Bethany offers.

Moira chuckles. “My mom calls it the ‘sweet spot,’ right at the bottom of a bare bottom, but it doesn’t feel all that sweet to me when her paddle lands there while I’m being walloped.”

My right hand begins lightly making circles on top of the lower half of my darling boy’s left buttock round. “It won’t be all that pleasant for this young man, either, once his ‘sit spots’ are being fired up for him. Those are all terms for the same location on the human posterior, the area just above a person’s thighcreases, that is the borderline between his glutes and thighs.” My right eye winks at the two older teenagers. “What are the two main benefits of the spanker focusing her swats on this particular place, do either of you happen to know?”

Bethany smiles knowingly. “Sure…Because the ‘spank spot’ is plump enough to take a whole lot of really hard whomping, plus it’s nice and tender, so those spanks will sting like a son-of-a-…Well, you know what.”

“Somebody certainly knows quite a bit about delivering butt-blisterings, doesn’t she?” I’m impressed by the sixteen-year-old’s expertise, which I’m aware was obtained on both sides of the paddle, strap and switch. “Yes, Beth, you’re correct on both counts.” My pointer finger gently traces the thighcreases of my masculine ‘interactive demonstration model’. “Here’s as low as you should go in applying your strokes, ladies—some people like to strike the spankee’s thighs as well, but in my humble opinion the posterior is the only part of the human anatomy intended to be the ‘seat of correction,’ as it’s called.” I poke my finger against the crown of Philip’s asscheek. “This is as high as the swats should land, dead-center in the middle of each chubby cheek, where there’s still plenty of padding to absorb the impact. You need to give the sides of his derriere some smacking attention too, but try to avoid actually hitting his hips—keep every stroke landing on his behind, and direct at least half of your spanks to the very bottom of Philip’s bare bottom.” My palm sharply slaps down twice, once on each of his plump ‘sit spots,’ making him gasp softly. “Right there!”

Serena sighs. “There’s more to whipping a guy’s butt than just swinging this cute little whip at it, isn’t there?” With her left hand, she casually fingers the leather crop’s red-trimmed, heart-shaped tip.

“Not really, Serena,” I respond, “It’s simply a matter of focusing a tad on the placement of your strokes, not to mention being woman enough to chastise your naughty boy as thoroughly and intensively as he needs and deserves to be disciplined. I believe that every female was created by Mother Nature to be a caring but very strict spankmistress to the menfolk she’s close to in her life—that basic ability is within you, so you’ll simply have to draw it into your conscious awareness.” I glance toward Moira. “Isn’t that right?”

She nods eagerly. “Absolutely, Joanne—I love spanking males who’ve misbehaved smack on their naked fannies, turning their rear ends dark red and making them cry for me, and it’s so easy to do once I simply get started.

The two younger girls aren’t entirely convinced yet, I can tell that they’re dealing with what’s called an ‘approach-avoidance’ conflict. “Stand back, ladies, I’m going to give you a demonstration of how to employ each of your implements on these chubby cheekies, just so you can see that Philip’s naked nates can endure plenty of punishment…Dakota, I’ll be using the wooden spoon to start with, so please hand it over now.”

“Sure, Joanne.” Her bluish-green eyes are wide with astonishment that this isn’t just a silly childhood game, instead that some serious butt-whacking is actually going to take place. I’m patting my hapless victim’s exposed moons with my left hand as the cooking spoon’s slim handle is placed atop my right palm. Gripping it tightly, I take a step backward to allow myself a full arm’s-length swing at my pale, quivering twin targets.

“The sweet thing about a spanking spoon like this one is that it’s flattened back has a round striking surface, so that it fits quite nicely upon one of our naughty boy’s ‘sit spots,’ rounded spoon to rounded bare bumcheek.” I press the implement’s back against Philip’s lower right buttock, while the Manion sisters nod in mute comprehension. “I’m only going to give him a couple dozen very smart swats, just enough for you ladies to see how effective this kitchen seat-smacker truly can be when applied to a defenseless derriere, even though it looks rather light as an instrument of corporal correction.”

Now I’m spanking my darling boy’s firm, fully-rounded naked fanny, alternating from his right asscheek to his left one, swinging with swift downward strokes of the relatively lightweight implement. His posterior is optimally exposed, allowing me easy access to the bottom of his bottom, and I’m taking full advantage of that by walloping that sensitive ‘spank spot’ with enthusiasm. Bethany and Moira are tittering at my hapless spankee’s yelping and wriggling, while their younger compatriots look awestruck at his painful predicament. With the sound spanks being delivered at five-second intervals, I’m finishing this demonstration within two minutes of starting it.

Dakota gulps. “His hiney looks so red, doesn’t it”

Bethany’s head shakes. “No, it’s just a mild pink right now, those buns have barely been touched yet—they’ll be glowing a dark maroon before we’re finally finished lambasting them this afternoon.”
(Since I had the keys to the school’s east entrance and the girls’ locker room, given to me by my close friend Carlissa, the tennis team coach whom I’d been covering practice for today, we did indeed have as much uninterrupted time as we’d require—nobody else was scheduled to be using the building on this Saturday.)

I hand the oversized oaken spoon back to Dakota. “Okay, next in order is going to be the Canadian school strap, so if you please, Moira, I’ll borrow it from you.” After she’s placed the rubber implement’s corrugated rubber grip in my waiting right hand, I take another half-step backward, gauging my swinging distance again, since its sinister black striking surface is about thirty inches long—getting a full arm’s-length swing remains quite desirable. “This is a semi-flexible spanking implement, not as swishy as leather but still not rigid like a wooden paddle. It was developed for application to the rear ends of Canadian schoolchildren, who might have several layers of rather thick clothing covering themselves down there during the winter months; their teachers were only allowed to spank misbehaving students over their clothes, so they needed to employ something with enough impact to sting quite a bit even through heavy protection.” I’m raising the strap up over my right shoulder, while Bethany giggles gleefully at her cousin’s anxiously twitching, pinkish southern hemispheres.

“Philip already knows what it feels like on his totally uncovered hind end, that’s why he’s so nervous,” she informs the two blondes.

With a lead-in like that, I proceed to deliver twenty-four blistering-hard cracks of the rubber across my squirming, squealing and eventually weeping spankee’s upthrust, naked nether globes, neatly overlapping the broad crimson bands thus produced with one another and methodically marching them upward from his thighcreases to the crowns of his buttock rounds, then back downward, covering already-strapped territory. I’m breathing a tad heavily by the time I’m finished, about three minutes after beginning, while Philip is sobbing raggedly, trying with difficulty to control his own breathing.

“Give him a bit of comforting, Dakota,” I suggest to the seemingly shocked fourteen-year-old. “Why don’t you rub his back a little, sweetheart?

She’s doing so, somewhat numbly, as I return the school strap to Moira, who coolly removes the riding crop from Serena’s slightly shaking hand and gives it to me. “It’s not nearly so terrible as it looks,” she explains quietly. “Philip’s taken much, much worse lickings from Bethany and myself, not to mention my mother; he’s used to undergoing an extreme amount of corporal punishment—this has been simply a mild warmup for him.”

“Which is going to continue immediately,” I note briskly, swishing the flexible leather implement through the air, “So you’ll have to step away just a touch, Dakota dear.” She does so, although not before giving our boy’s blond hair a quick, affectionate tousle—oh yes, she’s definitely attracted to him. “Since you’re all tennis players, you shouldn’t have any trouble with the wrist-snap required to whip the crop’s supple tip against this young man’s red rump, sharply enough to make it sting him good.” I’m taking aim at Philip’s bare buns, which now are evincing a shiny scarlet coloration. “You don’t yet know what spanking implement you’ll end up wielding during our second time around, so it’s important—especially for you two, Serena and Dakota—to carefully watch each of them in action.”

This is challenging, giving my boyish victim an effective ass-whipping with the riding crop, because I’ve only used one a couple of times previously, but I take my time—allowing ten seconds between flashing lashes—and apparently do a creditable job of it, judging from the teardrops trickling down Philip’s facial cheeks, well before I finally snap the crop’s cruel tip against his cutely quaking nether ones for the twenty-fourth time. I’ve spread the whip-cracks around on those twin-moon targets, but all of them nonetheless have landed on already smarting, brightly-reddened areas.

“My, you do carry on like a kindergarten baby, naughty child,” Serena tells him rather flippantly afterward, as he’s sniffling in his strapped-down but bottom-up position.

Her little sister bristles with annoyance. “How do you think you’d feel if you were whipped on your naked hiney like that, Sere?”

Once I’ve handed the riding crop back to the older blonde, I accept the Spencer paddle from Bethany, gripping its taped-up handle tightly and hefting it with my right hand, appreciating its sturdiness (half-inch-thick cedar), its full-sized rectangular head and the eighteen small, beveled holes dotting its smooth striking surface at regular intervals; a solid fanny-whacking spanker like this is a terrific ‘lesson-teacher,’ as long as a person is on the swinging side of it—but of course Philip’s going to be on its stinging side instead.

“Your sister does have a point, Dakota,” I state pedantically, while adjusting my stance facing my spankee’s left hip, “Because males do tend to react to a little friendly fanny-tanning as though they’re being tortured by the Spanish Inquisition. They’ll howl like a banshee and bawl like a baby, trying to get the females blistering their bare behinds to stop spanking them, or at least take it easy on their rear ends. I’m going to give Philip only a couple dozen paddywhacks with this Spencer paddle, but you can expect him to weep and wail like a toddler getting his seat smacked by his mommy.”

“Ooooh,” he murmurs, clearly feeling seriously embarrassed by my analogy, not to mention having been whupped on his naked buttcheeks in front of four female teenagers, especially two younger than him who are nearly strangers. Obviously, I’ve never been a teenaged boy who’s being walloped on his bare nether moons by a former female babysitter while four girls close to his own age are witnessing that chastisement, but I’m guessing that it has to be an extremely humbling experience. Once they’re spanking his upturned bare bottom themselves, Philip’s degree of embarrassment will undoubtedly be heightened even more—which will be much to my amusement

My right hand raises the cedar paddle high over my shoulder, ready to strike downward. “Okay, girls, here’s how to apply this sturdy fanny-whacker to a deserving male’s defenseless derriere.” I’m administering this sound chastisement rather deliberately, plastering Philip’s bouncing bumcheeks with bridging strokes across both of his ‘sit spots’ that are connecting fifteen seconds apart, giving him plenty of time to anxiously anticipate the next stinging swat. (In spite of my relatively small stature, I’ve become an expert at applying a wooden paddle, even a good-sized one, to unprotected masculine hindquarters.) He’s blubbering shamelessly as I deliver the final half-dozen wallops; all four of the ladies, even Bethany and Moira, seem to be suitably impressed with my paddling proficiency.

“Look at his hiney,” Dakota says in a near-whisper, “It’s as red as a fire engine.” She may be awed, but her assessment of the coloration of the fiercely smarting posterior she’s regarding is completely accurate.

Presenting the cedar instrument of chastisement to Bethany, who grins at me as she grasps its handle, I nod in affirmation. “It definitely is glowing like a stop light, which means that Philip is ‘hurtin’ for certain’ back there, even though that was merely his warmup procedure—you young women will be the ones truly collecting his sucker-bet payoff.”

Dakota sighs softly. “Oh, I don’t know about this.”

I’m focusing my gaze on her sympathetic aquamarine eyes. “You and I need to have a private chat, honeychile. Let’s step into the coaches’ office, so I can enlighten you concerning this bare-bottomed baby boy…”
{The End}

ELEVEN IN HEAVEN” by the Crimson Kid

“ELEVEN IN HEAVEN” by the Crimson Kid

So when I could’ve been any age I’d experienced in my life, which was quite a bit of experience since I died at the ripe old age of ninety-two, why did I decide to be an eleven-year-old boy for eternity?

Well, it wasn’t any easy decision, obviously, and I was given as much time as I wanted to make it by Saint Peter, who was a youthful twenty-eight himself.

On my life on Earth, I’d enjoyed being a college student a great deal, so I seriously considered spending eternity as a twenty-year-old collegiate junior, on the cusp of adulthood with all the strength and stamina of extreme youth. Another age I pondered assuming was thirty-two, wherein I’d still be quite strong and fairly youthful, yet possess a touch more maturity and self-awareness.

Forty-two years of age was the oldest that I mused about being, because I’d spent my last dozen years on Earth suffering from increasingly difficult physical infirmity, so I wished to be well shy of fifty. I even briefly thought about existing in Heaven as a seventeen-year-old high school student—that had been a rather enjoyable period during my earthly existence.

Of course, as Saint Peter had taken pains to explain, I wouldn’t be reenacting a year of my corporeal lifetime, I would simply become a somewhat idealized version of myself at whatever particular age I decided upon, then live a typical albeit moderately improved version of whatever my general human existence had been. I wouldn’t be repeating anything either—specific conditions would eventually change enough to give me adequate variety in my heavenly afterlife.

To repeat my opening question, then why did I choose to spend eternity at the age of eleven years and six months, to be precise about my decision?

Well, that’s a good age for a kid to enjoy quite a bit of freedom, away from overly tight parental (in my case maternal) supervision, yet still avoid having serious responsibilities. Not that there weren’t trade-offs involved, but I figured that they’d be worth the relatively carefree lifestyle I would be enjoying—for the most part, I’d say that I was correct about that, although at this immediate moment it doesn’t necessarily feel that way. Still, I put my trust in the heavenly authorities, whom Saint Peter assured me would place me in the best possible position available

The position that Miss Amundsen, my sweet, pretty sixth-grade teacher is going to place me in very soon, that’s quite another issue—but I’m getting ahead of myself here.

Let me be bluntly truthful here, including to myself—I didn’t want to deal with members of the ‘feminine persuasion’ in terms of serious romance and sexuality, something I’d had considerable difficulties with between the ages of fifteen and seventy-five during my earthly lifetime. That’s not to state that I don’t care for females, in fact the opposite is pretty much true—I dearly love my mother, Marlene, I have mostly an affectionate relationship with my sisters, twelve-year-old Tammy and nine-year-old Wan-Ling, not to mention having preteen crushes on my sixteen-year-old babysitter, Melissa, and of course on Miss Amundsen as well.

“Feeling a bit cool back there, Raymond?” she’s asking me teasingly, while seated at her teacher’s desk grading papers, but of course I’m not expected to answer. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m going to warm you up nice and toasty in just a minute. Meanwhile, you need to stay in that corner and think about being a gentleman to Carol—regardless of what she might tolerate

Yes, I refer to Carol, a cute brunette classmate of mine, as my girlfriend, but it’s just a ‘puppy love’ type of situation, the kind you’d expect from eleven-year-olds, not to mention the kind that I find comfortable. There aren’t all that many expectations, mostly holding hands, smiling at each other and sneaking a few quick kisses here and there. Once in a while we might visit each other’s house, but of course under maternal supervision. Since I’m still short of puberty, what else would I need from a ‘romantic’ relationship any

Actually, it’s the little bit of ‘pushing the envelope,’ after being Carol’s ‘puppy love’ boyfriend for over a year, that has me staying after school and looking into a corner of my classroom, pants puddled around my ankles and briefs pulled down to my upper thighs in the rear. Speaking of envelopes, I can faintly hear my twenty-six-year-old teacher as she puts a folded-up piece of paper in one, then seals and addresses it—undoubtedly a note to my mother, explaining why I’m being kept late, exactly what’s about to happen to me and what I did to deserve it.

Okay, so even as a relatively innocent and shy sixth-grader, I’m quite fascinated by feminine derrieres, and even preteen girls often have sweetly attractive, shapely bottoms. Carol certainly does, although she has no boobs to speak of—however, I was a ‘butt man’ on Earth and I remain one in Heaven, even as an eleven-year-old. After ten months or so of her being my girlfriend, I screwed up enough courage to pat her jean-clad (or sometimes skirt-clad) rear end, and she seemingly didn’t mind—in fact she occasionally patted my own behind, over clothing of course, shortly after I’d started doing it to her. Well, eventually patting led to light smacking (‘love-patting’) and gentle squeezing, obviously when we believed that no one was observing us playing with each other’s prepubescent posteriors. (Miss Amundsen did catch me giving Carol’s derriere a playful smack, over her skirt, then she gave me a sharp warning about “inappropriate touching.”)

About three weeks ago, I took advantage of my girlfriend wearing a rather short skirt and reached under it to squeeze her seat over only her panties while we were on the playground during recess. At first she looked upset, in fact raising her right hand as though to slap my face, butt then she broke out into girlish giggles. “So you like feeling my panties, do you, naughty boy?” Carol demanded light-heartedly. “Maybe I don’t mind all that much, but Miss Amundsen sure will, and I definitely don’t want to have my bare buns paddled by her…So if you keep doing it and we get caught, I’m going to slap you and act upset, like you did it even though I didn’t want you to.”

I nodded in agreement, accepting that I would take the entire blame for any “inappropriate touching” that I was spotted engaging in, even though she truly was allowing it—my girlfriend shouldn’t have to endure punishment for my youthful feminine fanny fascination, after all. (If she was noticed giving my behind that kind of attention, she wouldn’t have deniability; however, she was considerably more discreet about doing so than I was—although Carol did admit to being quite fond of my own nether moons.

So we went along in that manner, with the ‘escalation’ a one-way affair since I don’t wear skirts, and I did notice that she started wearing a skirt to school more often than she wore her jeans, which I took to mean that she actually was enjoying my clandestine attentions to the seat of her panties—and the twin bumcheeks beneath, of course. Also, the rump-smacks and -squeezes I received from her gradually became more forceful and quite a bit more frequent, although she was still pretty careful about being observed

Unfortunately, I ‘escalated’ to the next level at precisely the wrong time, at recess this afternoon. Carol had, in fact, just warned me that Miss Amundsen appeared to be growing suspicious of our tendency to play together in areas where none of our classmates were, and had reminded her about “ladylike behavior” being expected from the girls in her class at all times. Well, I was overconfident and disregarded her warning at the worst possible moment, reaching not only under her skirt but inside her silky-smooth panties, up through a leg hole to squeeze her left buttock round. It was truly a thrilling sensation, my palm directly touching her smooth girlish derriere for merely a single second. She turned around, looking shocked, just as I heard our teacher’s stern voice from behind me. “Raymond Galimore Scott, did you actually dare to reach inside Carol’s panties?” she demanded curtly, although the question was clearly rhetorical

My girlfriend reacted quickly, smacking my face with her open right hand, hard enough to leave her pink palm-print on its left cheek. “How dare you, Ray!?” she shouted at me, acting extremely offended. Whether or not Miss Amundsen was really convinced by Carol’s performance, she would appear to be blaming the victim of my cheeky misconduct if she didn’t formally accept the girl’s show of indignation.
Less than a minute later, our teacher was seated on one of the swings while I lay upended across her lap, bluejeans bunched up at knee level, briefs taken down in back to just below my naked hiney, which her right palm was vigorously smacking against at brisk, four-second intervals. It took the rest of our classmates another minute or two to be congregated in a rough semicircle facing the disciplinary tableau being performed by Miss Amundsen and myself, and their attention was significantly more focused than it had ever been in class.

“So you like touching girls’ bottoms, do you, Raymond?” she demanded angrily while continuing to spank me with a surprisingly unyielding open hand. “Well, let’s see how you like it when I give your own naughty rump some touching attention from me, shall we?” Of course, I didn’t care for it at all, not overtly anyway, and soon I was openly crying over her knee, partly from embarrassment but mostly from the sting she was imparting to my bare behind, crisply alternating buttcheeks with practiced precision. It was a five-minute chastisement, according to what Carol told me later, and I bawled like a baby through the last three-and-a-half minutes of it, again according to my dear girlfriend—I’d lost all track of the time myself.

Our teacher was kind enough to pull my briefs back up in the rear before standing me up, then she rapidly replaced my jeans at the waist, leaving me to zip up and buckle my belt while sobbing raggedly. “Let’s return to our classroom now, children,” she instructed my dumbstruck classmates. “We won’t be talking about what’s just happened—unless someone else wants to take a trip across my lap. Carol and Raymond will remain after school today, so I can discuss this situation in detail with them.”

Once we were alone with Miss Amundsen, after school had been dismissed for the day, she questioned us about our ‘puppy love’ relationship. Carol took the lead and admitted to us hugging and kissing on occasion, and sometimes visiting one another’s homes under maternal supervision, but she left it at that. When our teacher asked her a follow-up question about whether or not I’d ever “fondled” her behind or not, my girlfriend managed to interpret it as referring only to direct skin-to-skin contact, thus she was able to reply with “Not until today, ma’am, but he did spank me over my jeans on my birthday, and he gave me a quick swat one other time.” (Kids still enjoy having birthday celebrations, of course, even when they don’t really grow any older.

Summoning up all the gallantry I possessed in my eleven-year-old persona, I backed up Carol’s technically truthful but nonetheless misleading account, which made it seem as though I’d abruptly advanced our preteen romantic interaction from a few light kisses to squeezing her derriere beneath her pink panties. I could tell that Miss Amundsen was vaguely suspicious that she wasn’t being given the full background information—sure, people can bend the truth, even in Heaven, it’s something that even nice sixth graders have always been accomplished at—but since our accounts pretty much matched and she had no solid evidence to the contrary, she was forced to accept them as accurate; that made me appear to have come close to sexually harassing my girlfriend.

Carol was sent home with another reminder about “ladylike behavior” and informed that “public displays of affection” were not allowed at any time during the school day, then my pretty blonde teacher turned to me. To my surprise, she looked somewhat bemused rather than angry, her cornflower blue eyes were twinkling as they regarded me, standing in front of her wide mahogany desk.

“You’re far too shy to go directly from a little hugging and kissing to reaching under Carol’s panties,” she stated bluntly albeit fondly. “However, since I can’t prove otherwise, I’ll have to accept your edited version of events and treat you accordingly, Raymond. You’ve been paddled after school before, so you know the drill—nose in the corner, pants down to your ankles, underwear just below your hind end in the back.” Her beautiful eyes held my gaze. “Since you’re insisting on playing ‘Tom Sawyer,’ you’ll be getting twice the usual discipline from me, both yours and Carol’s.” She shrugged. “Well, I hope that she appreciates your sacrifice, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I concurred as I turned and headed for the classroom’s far corner, “I hope she does too.”

So that’s where I am at the moment, and it’s where I deserve to be. The heavenly authorities had been quite correct to send me to a school with a staunch corporal punishment policy, and specifically into a sixth-grade class taught by an attractive woman who takes a ‘no-nonsense’ approach toward student misconduct, as well as placing me in a female-headed household with a loving mother who is a strong practitioner of the “spare the rod and spoil the child” approach to rearing her children.

I can hear Miss Amundsen’s sturdy teacher’s chair being pushed backward, then being pulled sideways into the open area near the door, along with her patent leather shoes click-clacking steadily. My body shudders involuntarily as I inhale sharply, waiting to hear her command.

“It’s time, Raymond,” she says calmly. “You may pull up your underpants for the moment, then get ‘Miss Policewoman’ and bring her to me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, while pulling the rear waistband of my light blue briefs back up to my waist, although only temporarily, then I’m shuffling to the front of the room, where “Miss Policewoman” is hanging from a peg next to the blackboard in all of her polished royal-blue-and-gold glory—she’s a paddle, of course, one made of three-eighths-of-an-inch-thick walnut with twelve small holes in her six-inches-by-four-inches, rectangular-yet-round-cornered striking surface. I grasp the impressive-looking ‘enforcer’ by her handle, which is five inches long and two wide while wrapped in no-slip black electrical tape, sliding her leather thong off the wall peg, then walk over to my teacher, who’s seated herself on her chair’s cushioned seat.

She accepts the implement’s taped handle in her left hand. “Stand to my right, then over you go, young man,” come her brisk instructions. There’s nothing for me to do but obey, so I jackknife my body over her well-toned thighs, which are underneath a pleated black skirt; she shifts me forward by bouncing her right knee and pushing on the seat of my underpants with her palm, making my behind push up a touch higher, then her right hand’s four fingers slip underneath the waistband of my briefs. “Lift up, please,” she directs me, and as I elevate my hips she slides the underwear down to my upper thighs. “Keep that bare bottom pointing at the ceiling, Raymond,” I’m reminded, while feeling the paddle’s smooth striking surface lightly patting my upturned, exposed buttock rounds, “Miss Policewoman” obviously having been transferred to my disciplinarian’s right hand.

“Uhhhh, okay, ma’am,” I acknowledge, fully aware of how much this ass-thrashing is going to hurt—I’ve experienced such corporal correction, at both school and home, on a rather regular basis.
The flat wooden implement is lifted away, making me inhale sharply. Two seconds later, the hardwood cracks against the center of my right nether globe—SMACK!! The hot sting is unpleasantly familiar as I gasp curtly, then five seconds later I feel a near-identical impact atop the crown of my left buttcheek—WHACK!! My gasping is a touch louder, the stinging sensation quite intense, but of course I’m helpless to do anything but absorb as many blistering-hard swats as Miss Amundsen wishes to deliver to my quivering, exposed hindquarters with “Miss Policewoman.”

Typically, she administers many more paddywhacks than I believe I can endure, walloping my rear end for long minutes while causing me to yelp, then sob, then wail and finally howl with kicking legs and wriggling hips, my entire focus remaining on the paddle’s steady, almost metronomic plastering of my blazing boyish buns. Being an expert spankmistress, my teacher lands most of her sizzling smacks on those twin ‘sit spots,’ barely above my thighs, but she makes certain that my entire mid-to-lower posterior, from the plump crowns of my southern hemispheres to the sensitive thighcreases bordering the swells of my undercheeks, are thoroughly whomped with her devilishly-effective paddle.

By the time that she’s finally finished, eight minutes after having begun my chastisement, I’m merely whimpering softly while moaning after every swat. It takes me fifteen seconds to realize that Miss Amundsen has concluded my punishment, or at least this part of it, and is lightly rubbing my lower back with her left hand. The teardrops are still flowing down my facial cheeks and spattering on the floor beneath my face, as I’m gradually catching my breath. My fiercely smarting bottom feels as though there’s a firestorm of heat and sting swirling on top of it, a hardly unexpected sensation.

“This part of your fanny-tanning went very well, Raymond,” my teacher announces, obviously quite pleased with herself. “You carried on like a well-spanked toddler boy, just like you always do, and you’re sporting a highly attractive, bright crimson glow on this chubby caboose of yours.” The paddle’s flat surface is gently tracing circles on my burning behind. “I’m guessing that this ravaged rump must be stinging something fierce right now…Am I correct, sweetie pie?”

“Yeh-essss, Mih-Miss Amundsuh-sen,” I manage to blubber, feeling deeply humbled by her cheery self-satisfaction, yet somehow eagerly embracing the humility. I feel her fingers tugging my briefs back up to waist level, then she lifts my torso upward and plants me back on my feet, steadying me as I try to find my balance.

“Back into the corner, nose touching both walls,” she instructs. “Once you’re there, lower your underpants below your bumcheeks in the rear, so I can view my handiwork—well, paddlework, really.” She pushes the handle of “Miss Policewoman” toward me. “You can hang up your sweet seat-smacking enforcer first, since I’ll be using ‘Miss Firestarter’ for the rest of your corporal comeuppance.”

I sigh resignedly, knowing that Miss Amundsen’s Canadian school strap, made out of semipliable rubber, will hurt my hiney even more than her paddle already has. Gripping “Miss Policewoman” by her handle, I slowly shuffle over to the wall, my ankle-swaddling pants inhibiting my progress, hang up the walnut fanny-whacker and then manage to waddle back to the assigned corner, quite aware that my good-looking young teacher is watching me with open amusement; she titters liltingly as I slide my briefs just below my throbbing derriere in the back, then obediently press my nose into the corner.

I find it strangely gratifying that this young woman, whom I have a schoolboy crush on, has spanked my naked nates so emphatically and is planning on administering an even more intensive chastisement atop them a mere ten minutes from now.

Cornertime is a period of contemplation for me, and what I’m mulling in my mind right now is my decision to spend eternity as an eleven-year-old, or to be precise an eleven-and-a-half-year-old. The reasons I’ve noted earlier, about being old enough to have a cute ‘puppy love’ girlfriend, and experience childlike crushes on my attractive teacher and pert teenaged babysitter, all without having to worry about serious romantic entanglements, strike me as fully valid—but are they enough to entirely explain my choice?

The heavenly authorities, who know what my innermost psychological needs and desires are, have placed me in a household with a loving mother who’s an extremely strict believer in the frequent bottom-warming approach to child-rearing, not to mention in a sixth-grade class with a pretty teacher who takes an identical approach to classroom discipline. Even my ‘sweet sixteen’ babysitter has the authority to blister my bare behind, which she makes very liberal use of. My sisters, who treat me with sibling fondness, nonetheless are thrilled at witnessing my sound chastisements and teasing me before, during and after them, with Mom’s indulgent approval.

I still have my earthy memories and adult analytical ability, in spite of my preteen mindset–Heaven is a complex place in some ways—thus now I’m trying to understand why it is that I’m red-assed and sore-bottomed so very often, probably three times a week on average, not even counting any of the second and third tannings for the same offense. (My mother is of course a strong proponent of the “spanked at school means spanked again at home” concept, so she and Miss Amundsen communicate regularly concerning my conduct in class. In addition, my perky, athletic babysitter, Melissa, always asks Mom about my behavior upon arriving at our house, and insists on administering a proper ‘reinforcement spanking’ to any of us children who’ve had to be corporally corrected since her previous babysitting stint—that turns out to be me around ninety percent of the time, which results in my quickly going pants-down over Melissa’s knee for an extended hairbrush walloping, watched by my mother and both sisters.

Tomorrow I’ll undoubtedly be good-naturedly taunted by the girls who constitute three-quarters of my classmates, both for the mild handspanking I received during recess today and for the considerably more severe corporal correction which I’m in the middle of undergoing right now—plus possibly even for whatever maternal bedtime butt-blistering I’ll be receiving tonight, if they hear about it from one of my sisters. Yet mixed in with the dread of such feminine teasing is my excitement at the idea of those young ladies—with the obvious exception of Carol—making me blush in embarrassment

“Raymond, I’ll tell you now that I’ve recommended to my friend Marlene that she give you an extremely extensive whipping with willow branches this evening, just so you have an idea what to expect,” Miss Amundsen chirps cheerfully from behind her desk. “Tammy and Wan-Ling should enjoy helping you cut and prepare three whippy switches for your mother to apply to your naked hind end, and I have it on reliable account that they’ll sting your seat like the very devil.” Her chuckle sounds like a bell chime, delightful yet playfully diabolical. “Enough chit-chat for the moment, it’s time for an intensive encounter between the Canadian school strap and that bouncy bubblebutt of yours.” I hear the desk drawer sliding open, then shutting again six seconds later. “Come over here and bend way forward over my desk–you know the drill, honeybun.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I obey immediately, temporarily pulling up my underwear before hobbling over to assume the proper punitive position with my derriere starkly backthrust. Moving to stand facing my left hip, my teacher once again bares my behind by lowering my briefs to just below it.

She titters softly. “It’s fortuitous that your plump round rump is so highly resilient, Raymond, almost as though it was intended to endure a great many long, hard lickings.”

As I sense the attractive woman raising the twenty-inches-long rubber implement over her right shoulder, her hand tightly gripping its corrugated leather handle, I’m aware that she’s quite correct about my posterior—it does manage to absorb a great deal of serious disciplinary attention from the womenfolk in my heavenly afterlife

THWAACK!! The first crack of the strap snaps across both of my vulnerable asscheeks, right at the “bottom of that bare bottom,” as both my teacher and mother like to describe my fatty underbuns, and thereafter the stinging-hot strokes continue to impact those hapless gluteal globes at steady six-second intervals, in a center-left-right pattern.

Whatever profound thoughts I’d been about to grasp regarding my life as an eleven-year-old in Heaven, they’ve disappeared into limbo as my total attention has become focused on the enflaming of my naked fanny via the strap’s sharp, reverberating lick.

Thank you, Miss Amundsen, from the bottom of my heart, and the heart of my bottom…

{The End}

Love Without Limits

Love Without Limits
Reports from the relationship frontier
by Deborah Anapol, Ph.D.
The Truth about Polyamory
For better or worse, our cultural is abandoning its love affair with monogamy .
Published on April 18, 2013 by Deborah Anapol, Ph.D. in Love Without Limits

Thirty years ago there was plenty I needed to know about polyamory, but not so many places to learn it. In fact, the word polyamory hadn’t been invented yet so I’d adopted the unwieldy but descriptive term, responsible non-monogamy, when my first book on the topic, Love Without Limits, was published in 1992. By the time my latest book, Polyamory in the 21st Century, was published in 2010 there were nearly two million Google entries for polyamory, not to mention dozens of books in a multitude of languages, hundreds of articles, a little scientific research, and even some reality TV shows. We also have more new language for alternatives to monogamous (or serially monogamous) relating. Consensual non-monogamy is the preferred term in the academic world and New Monogamy is being talked about in the marital therapy world. But whatever it’s called, it adds up to the same thing. Our cultural obsession with monogamy is going the same way as prohibition, slavery, the gold standard, and mandatory military service. In other words, while serial monogamy is more popular than ever, life long monogamy is pretty much obsolete, and for better or worse, polyamory is catching on. Here is the latest information from the relationship frontier.

1. There is no evidence that monogamy is better in terms of relationship longevity, happiness, health, sexual satisfaction, or emotional intimacy. There is also no evidence that polyamory is better. So you may as well go with what feels best to you – and your partner(s).

An article reviewing scientific evidence addressing the question of whether monogamous relationships are superior to other types of relationships has concluded that there is no empirical basis for the common assumptions about the benefits of monogamy. The fact that this article was published in the peer reviewed Personality and Social Psychology Review (Nov 2012), suggests that research and logic are finally influencing scientific thinking on this subject. Of course, there’s not much research being done in this area at all, but the common arguments in favor of monogamy – including the illusion that it offers protection from jealousy, sexually transmitted diseases, and divorce have been shown to be purely speculation, and unfounded speculation at that.

For some individuals, monogamy is a better choice, for others polyamory is probably a better fit. If you’re not sure what would work for you, I suggest you find out — before you get involved in a committed relationship if at all possible since compatibility is the name of the game.

2. Women are not necessarily in favor of monogamy. They just don’t like being lied to, treated inconsiderately, and expected to go along with a double standard.

Historically, monogamy was imposed upon women by men who wanted to know who should inherit their property and assets. When inheritance of resources passed through the female line (matrilineal) this kind of control was unnecessary as it was perfectly obvious to everyone who the mother was. Later on, it was argued that monogamous marriage “till death do you part” protected women and children financially in an era when women’s employment opportunities and property rights were severely limited. In the 21st Century, most women are more interested in equal rights – to sexual pleasure and personal freedom as well as careers and political power – than in being guaranteed that a man will provide for them and their offspring.

Of course women are entirely capable of having secret affairs and shirking their share of domestic responsibilities, and perhaps we will even see more of this as more men adopt the role of “house husband,” and more women out-earn their husbands. The bottom line is that everyone wants to be treated with respect and to have their needs honored. Both genders have dysfunctional conditioning to overcome whether they choose monogamy or not. Win-win relationship agreements that are fulfilling to everyone involved and allow for intimacy with multiple partners, are just as appealing to women as to men. In fact, all of the early leaders of the modern polyamory movement were female. For more on what women want, see http://www.lovewithoutlimits.com/articles.html

3. Gay men are more likely than heterosexual couples, lesbians, or bisexuals to practice consensual non-monogamy – but they still struggle with jealousy.

Numerous surveys have found that gay male couples are less likely than either heterosexual couples or lesbian couples to require monogamy within their partnerships. Nevertheless, most humans, regardless of sexual orientation, are not immune to jealousy. In fact, as it appears to me, the fear of jealousy is the biggest deterrent to polyamory for modern couples who no longer have moral objections to non-monogamy. Often what it boils down to for gay men, as well as heterosexuals, is that the partner who has less opportunity for extradyadic liasons – whether because of perceived lack of desirability, lack of time, lesser sexual appetite or motivation – is the one who has concerns about being jealous. However, if the relationship is basically healthy and if additional partners are found to enhance, rather than detract from, the satisfaction of all partners, jealousy can usually be managed successfully. For useful tips on how to survive your own or your partners’ jealousy, see my Compersion ebook at http://www.lovewithoutlimits.com/books.html.

4. Children raised in consensually non-monogamous families have been shown to do at least as well on many measures of health and achievement as children in monogamous (or serially monogamous) families.

It’s not news that many adults project their fears onto their children, and moralistic concerns about polyamory are a good example of just how misguided our imaginings can be. In my book, Polyamory in the 21st Century, I discuss both research and anecdotal reports which indicate that if anything, children in polyamorous families or open marriages do better than children in conventional families. Clients often ask me how much to share with their children about their non-monogamous lifestyle and I always encourage them to respond truthfully in an age appropriate way. Young children really don’t want or need to know much about their parents’ sex lives, but if parents indoctrinate their children with monogamous beliefs, those children are not going to react well when they eventually learn that Mom and Dad are not practicing what they are preaching. Children and teens benefit greatly from loving supportive relationships with a variety of adults, so keeping other partners hidden from children is doing them a disservice.

5. Polyamory is not necessarily easy, especially if family of origin issues and skill deficits are not addressed.

Polyamory isn’t a solution for a floundering relationship, but it can solve problems of unequal or different sexual desire in an otherwise healthy and happy relationship. The tantalizing pleasures of expanded intimacy can also be a great motivator for stepping up to the plate to do your personal work. Polyamory requires emotional literacy, as well as the ability to communicate well, set and respect boundaries, and keep agreements. Beyond these basic skills, polyamory is also a very rich opportunity to address dysfunctional patterns inherited or acquired in childhood. Unlike monogamy which limits your projection opportunities to one partner, polyamory provides opportunities to change patterns of relating with both same gender and opposite gender partners. For example, a man who had to compete with Dad (or a brother) for Mom’s attention is likely to have this old wound resurface if his female partner takes another lover. It may look like his issue is with the woman, but the source of his problem is his competitive stance with other men. Or if he has two women partners who each learned from their mothers that men are unreliable and weak, they may gang up on him and recreate his childhood fear of an angry and rejecting mother.

Few people imagine that they are choosing poly relationships specifically to work out family of origin issues which are less likely to arise in a couple, or to learn how to use jealousy as a path to unconditional love, but the reality is that polyamory can a very effective spiritual path for those who are open to it.


Difficult Roads

If there’s one thing that points out that life is uncertain, it’s relationships; polyamorous relationships especially.

I have recently been taking a hard look at my relationship with May (I’m not in any other romantic relationships right now) and also her relationship with her boyfriend, Don, from the perspective of, “what if?” Where are May and I going? Where are Don and her going? What will happen when I do meet someone and a relationship develops? What if? Will I be able to handle it?

These are unsettling questions, because possible answers include some scary things happening, like May and my relationship ending, May and Don’s relationship ending, and taking down our relationship with it, me falling in love with someone, and getting deranged with new relationship energy (it wouldn’t be the first time, lol). It also contains possibilities like being hurt, or hurting the ones we love. Of course, it also contains the possibilities that things will continue to go basically well, that we ride out the rough patches, learn and grow together, and do what I hope will happen: grow old together with our poly family.

I think many relationships, especially traditional “marriage” type ones, have a flimsy facade of certainty, of security. Marriage is forever, isn’t it? Once you find “the one”, you’ll live happily ever after, won’t you? Or at least our society says so, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. When I was monogamous, I held that same unexamined belief, despite a plethora of examples to prove it wrong, including my own parent’s divorce. But mine, like many people’s I suspect, was a most superficial faith, a thin covering hiding my true but impossible-to admit-to-myself insecurities about the permanence of relationships. I avoided facing the reality at all costs, because the implication was just too hard to look at: that ultimately we are alone in this world.

The awkward reality is that the future of relationships are completely uncertain. Any, or all of the above predictions, or none of them, may happen, and we have no way of knowing what will come to pass.

I have been meditating on how to be happy while living with this understanding. Faced with the reality of uncertainty, I believe we have two choices in how we approach our life:

1. Run away and avoid any situation where there is not complete, total, absolute guarantees about the outcome (when you find that, can you let me know?). I have been there, done that quite a bit.

2. Accept the fact that things change, and take some appropriate risks in going after what you want.

Since I became polyamorous, I’ve had to confront head-on a lot of the fears that I had when I was monogamous. I think I’ve also come to see and begun to accept the uncertain reality of relationships and also life in general.

When you’re married and monogamous, many people I believe don’t think they need to consider questions relating to the permanence of their relationships, so it’s convenient to avoid doing so. In meeting and getting to know other polyamorous people, I’ve noticed that a lot of them live their lives the opposite way: they throw themselves right in the middle of all of the possibilities that life and relationships offer, both joyful and heartbreaking, confront head on the fears that life’s uncertainties create, and go for it anyway. They choose option #2.

It’s been a scary but also empowering process working towards living my life with more acceptance that there are no guarantees, and that by pushing the boundaries I will get bit on the ass more than if I stayed in a cozy, stable, yet ultimately unfulfilling life. In doing so a few approaches have helped me to feel certain within myself that no matter what comes my way, I can handle it. For many of these ideas I must thank Susan Jeffers, whose book, “Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway,” has been pivotal in these changes.

1. Build a “whole life”

Build a life that is rich and diverse. If you build your life focused on just your romantic relationships, and one or more starts to fall apart, you will feel like you have been left with nothing. If you create diversity and committment to many different areas of your life, including friends, family, work, spiritual practice, hobbies and so on, if a piece is removed, there is still a great deal there.

2. Have “high intention, low attachment”

When you want something, create a vivid, real picture of what you want, and put it out into the universe. Intend for it to happen; but then, let it go. Accept that it may or may not happen, or it’s unknown how long it will take. Be open to the fact that you might get what you want, but in a way that is different that what you intended or expected.

3. When there are two or more possible ways something in your life could turn out, consider that each of the possibilities is a win

If you seek growth, deep experiences in this world, and self-knowledge, then recognize that, while some possible outcomes will be happy ones and others sad or challenging ones, that each outcome will bring you new understanding, growth, and new things to your life. Looked at this way, there isn’t really a “bad” outcome and a “good” outcome, but rather simply outcomes which will give us different experiences and teach us new things. The challenging outcomes will make us stronger people; the happy outcomes will bring us new joy. Either way, we are getting something out of it.

4. Live in the now, taking nothing for granted

Appreciate what you have today, because it may not be the same tomorrow, or may not be there at all. Give 100% commitment to what you do have in your life right now: your relationships, your work, your children, your friends, your family, your self.

5. Look for the good in the change

Things changing or ending always creates spaces in our lives for new things to come into existence. Without those changes, those spaces would not exist. They free us up to begin another relationship with someone who we’ve always been interested in but never had time to pursue, move to a new city that we’ve always wanted to live in, or spend time working on ourselves, reading, studying, and meditating.

I find it intriguing that uncertainty exists not only in the human experience but is woven into the very fabric of the laws that govern our universe. At the subatomic level, quantum mechanics describes the behaviour of particles, and fundamental to these laws is Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle.

This principle states that a particle’s position and momentum cannot be both known at the same time. But more interestingly, until the particle is actually observed in some way, the position and momentum do not exist in a definite state: they exist only as a fuzzy cloud of probabilities, and the best we can say about the particle before we actually probe it and it figures out what it is going to do is, “it’s somewhat likely that when we observe the particle that it will be in this position and traveling at this velocity, it’s slightly likely it will be here and going this speed, and it’s very likely it will be there and going this fast.”

At a very real physical level, until a definite state, or situation if you will, is solidified, only uncertainty, along with the probability of certain situations becoming reality, exists.

It’s time to embrace that uncertainty is fundamental to living, find happiness within it, and even celebrate it, as we celebrate other laws of nature.



For the submissive female…

For a submissive female, finding an appropriate dominant partner is something that should be approached with a great deal of thought. Just because a man is dominant does not mean he will make a good dominant for every submissive. Just as in a vanilla relationship, there are many different kinds of relationships within a power relationship.
There are several things a submissive needs to look for in a potential dominant.. But before doing that, she needs to first look inside of herself and decide what she wants and needs from such a relationship. Is being in love with her dominant an important part of the relationship she seeks? Does she want to be a submissive to a dominant or a slave to a master? These are only a couple of the questions a submissive must ask herself before entering into a relationship with a dominant.

After asking herself these questions, a submissive needs to then ask her potential dominant the following questions to see if they would make a good pair. Doing this can make the difference in life and death in some cases. Safety should always be foremost in a submissive’s mind when seeking a dominant partner.

Is he looking for a short term or a long term relationship? D/s relationships can be anything from occasional play partners to committed lifetime partnerships. It is very important that a submissive is looking for the same kind of relationship as her potential dom.

Is he looking for a mono or poly relationship? If he is looking for a poly relationship, will it be one in which he expects his submissives to be intimate with one another? This is important to know before committing, because it will save a submissive a lot of heartache down the road.

Casey was thrilled when she agreed to be a slave to Master Jay. But she made the mistake of not asking enough questions during the intial session with him. She was swept away by his charm, his confidence, and the control which she so desperately sought. After several months of happily serving him, Master Jay told Casey that he was bringing another slave into the relationship. Casey was devastated, and even more devastated to learn that this had been his intention all along. A lack of communication between Casey and Master Jay had placed her in this horrible situation. By now, she felt totally his, and the thought of leaving him was not even a thought in her mind. So she stayed and endured the poly relationship that she had no desire for…crying herself to sleep each night.

What aspects of the scene is a potential dominant into? Again, this is very important to know, because there are so many aspects to the lifestyle. There is bondage, spanking, whipping, nipple torture, golden showers, anal play, sharing, performing, humiliation, objectification, wax play, knife play, mental/emotional control. There are some dominants who are into very taboo areas such as incest and bestiality, and this is why it is very important to set boundaries and ask questions before committing to a dominant. Otherwise, a submissive may find herself in a very difficult position down the road in which she is made to compromise her values or say goodbye to a Master she has grown to love.

Is the potential dominant sadistic? This is an important question to ask because if a submissive ends up with a sadistic dominant and she is not masochistic, it is going to be a very difficult road. The submissive will only fear her Master, and the trust will not develop as it should.

Another important reason for finding out if a dominant is sadistic is so that the submissive can explore the reasons why he is into giving pain to his submissives. There are some dominants who only play at being dominants. They wear the mask, but are only abusers searching for easy prey. They use their submissives as punching bags and they give pain because they are cruel, administered when they are angry and out of control. They prey on submissives who have very low self esteem, thinking they deserve no better.

There are other dominants, though, who are into sadism, but they are able to administer the pain showing the utmost control. Their reasons are of a different nature. They enjoy administering the pain, but do it as a means of helping the submissive release her inner pain that she holds onto. The dominant takes the pain only as far as the submissive will allow, encouraging her to use a safe word.A safe word is a word that has been predetermined by the submissive and her dom. It is a word that she will use if a scene gets too intense for her and she wishes to stop. It is usually a neutral word (such as apple or car)…nothing that could be mistaken as a part of the scene itself. The dominant will immediately stop the scene when the submissive uses her safe word. Very often when the pain threshold is reached, the submissive will be in tears. A true, loving dominant will embrace these tears and tenderly hold his submissive, encouraging her to let them flow.

Will the dominant require the submissive to sign a contract? A contract is a document that is drawn up by the dominant, stating the terms and conditions of the relationship. It may include such things as responsibilities of both dom and submissive, rules, infractions, punishments for infractions, reasons for dismissal, duties, expectations, and length of time the submissive will serve. Not all dominants desire contracts, believing that they serve little purpose in a true D/s relationship. Other dominants do want contracts, believing it will make the submissive feel safe to know exactly what her boundaries and limitations are…and also to know that the dominant has responsibilities he must adhere to as well.

Regardless of whether there is a written contract or not, it is important for the submissive to discuss these things with the dominant. That way she is entering into the relationship with her eyes wide open to all of the possibilities.

Is the dominant looking for a slave or a submissive? Although the two terms are sometimes interchanged, they have very different meanings. A slave is submissive, but a submissive is not necessarily a slave.

A submissive gives up control, but has more of a say in when she does. She has more of a voice in the relationship. When the dominant tells her to do something and she isn’t comfortable, she has the choice to opt out.

A slave has no control. A slave is owned property who obeys…period. She may respectfully discuss and share her feelings with her Master, but he makes the final decision, and she must abide by it. If she doesn’t , then she is dealt with harshly.

There is much a submissive must consider in choosing a dominant. It is very easy for a submissive to get swept away under a dom’s control without asking the important questions first. But by asking the questions, she will be saving herself a lot of heartache down the road. She will also increase the odds that she will be entering into a relationship that is safe and consensual in every aspect.

Cheryl Williams, Yahoo! Contributor Network
Jan 15, 2008 “Share your voice on Yahoo! websites. Start Here.”

What is a POLY FAMILY?

Polyamory is a practice which embraces the possibility of loving multiple people at once, and establishing meaningful romantic relationships with multiple individuals. People who are polyamorous may identify themselves as “poly,” and polyamory is also sometimes known as ethical non-monogamy or responsible non-monogamy, emphasizing the ethical code and morals associated with polyamory. The focus of polyamory is on meaningful relationships with others, not necessarily purely sexual relationships, and this differentiates the practice of polyamory from swinging.

For people outside the polyamory community, the poly lifestyle can be confusing, and this issue is compounded by the fact that there are multiple forms of polyamory, designed to accommodate a wide range of comfort levels. Most people who identify as polyamorous would say that the most important thing about polyamory is honesty; a poly relationship is characterized by open discussion, honesty, trust, informed consent, loyalty, and constant negotiation. In a polyamorous relationship, everyone is aware of what is going on with everyone involved, and everyone fully consents.
The term polyamory translates from the Greek as “many loves,” but in fact a polyamorous relationship doesn’t necessarily involve multiple people involved together all at once, and it certainly isn’t the same thing as polygamy or polyandry, the practice of marrying multiple spouses. For example, a woman in a long-term relationship with another women whom she considers to be her primary partner might also have a relationship with a man whom she considers her “secondary partner,” and her two partners may not interact all that often, beyond meeting each other. In other cases, people practice polyfidelity, which is polyamory within a group, in which case various partners may come to know each other very well. Everyone reaches an arrangement which suits his or her individual comfort level, and takes the comfort level of partners into account as well.

Polyamory is sometimes dismissively characterized as having “a partner on the side,” which many polyamorous individuals find quite offensive. The whole premise of polyamory is that it is possible to love multiple people at once in honest relationships where people cope with jealousy and other emotional issues, and hope to reach a state known as “compersion,” which refers to taking genuine pleasure in a partner’s happiness with someone else. Some members of the poly community define compersion as “the opposite of jealousy,” emphasizing the open and loving nature of their relationships.

Just like Brussels sprouts, polyamory is not for everyone. It requires a very deep level of trust and excellent communication skills, and both partners have to be willing to work together. If one partner pushes another into a polyamorous arrangement, the results are often less than satisfying for all involved, and members of the poly community frown heavily on cheating, lying, and other negative practices. A number of online communities and guidebooks for people interested in the polyamorous lifestyle provide excellent information on finding and negotiating polyamorous relationships.