An Open Letter to My Lover

Copyright August 2001 by CFaulkner. All rights reserved.

Dearest Zack,

I just wanted to write you and tell you how fantastic last weekend was - I was definitely surprised by the way you'd planned everything, and renting a cottage at the beach for a weekend was a true stroke of genius. You know how much I adore the sea.

And you, of course. The combination of the two was . . . sizzling.

But it was more than just your famous spaghetti sauce and the quiet time on the screened porch listening to the waves as the sun set. It was the true intimacy of the time we spent together. You made it a wonderful safe haven, cocooning the two of us off from the rest of the world and making me feel like I could completely be myself and do or say anything to you without fear of rejection or censure.

We both know that my problem has never been in the "doing" . . . there's very little I wouldn't do to please you, very little that doesn't turn me on. But unlike 99.9% of the rest of the female population of the United States, my problem has always been in the "talking about it" area. In that, my love, the two of us take the opposite roles from what we're supposed to, gender-wise. I know that you would like nothing better than for me to roll over in the middle of the night some time, wake you out of a sound sleep, and spill my guts to you about life in general, and our relationship in particular. I've spent many a sleepless night with you in the course of the past few years, hashing and re-re-re-hashing exactly those things with you.

Don't hold your breath. That's not my style. I've always said that if I'm here, then I'm happy. You know my feelings on marriage. We consciously have no legal obligations to each other. I don't want to dissect why I'm here, I honestly don't want to hear why you think I'm with you, and, frankly, I don't much give a damn why you're in this relationship. It is what it is. Don't question things too closely or you might not like what you see. When I start looking longingly at the door, then you can worry.

It is a major compliment to you that, this weekend, surrounded by you and all of the creature comforts you provided, I, in essence, spilled my guts to you. I know you think that this should have happened long ago, but you should take heart that it happened at all. Saturday night, in that big king-sized bed, with all the windows open and the cool sea air washing over us, drying the sweat on our bodies after yet another bout of mindless pleasure, I lay between your legs. Your back was propped up against the headboard, cushioned by three or so pillows, and you maneuvered me so that I was leaning back against you, enveloped in your comforting presence, still throbbing from completion and so relaxed I lost my natural reserve about these situations.

You asked me if I was all right, as you always do. I don't know whether the question stems from the distinct differences in our sizes - although I'm no stick figure by any stretch of the imagination - or the fact that my tears after an intense orgasm still bother you, and I suppose the reason behind the question doesn't matter, anyway. It's a very gentlemanly thing to ask - although I'm always all right when I'm with you - and it makes me feel very cared for.

But this lovemaking session was different from the rest - in a "change-your-whole-relationship" way. This was the first time you've ever taken me over your lap and spanked me prior to pressing yourself inside me by inches. Oh, it was a playful spanking, and with my high pain tolerance (for spankings only) it didn't hurt much (although I can certainly see a lot of potential for that, considering your hand is the size of a platter and at least as hard as your head :)), but it did surprise the hell out of me, and there must've been no mistaking my considerable . . . interest.

You knew all the right things to do, all the right things to say, scolding me for getting sassy with you, telling me to watch my tone of voice when I speak to you, calling me a naughty girl who needs to spend more time over your lap getting her bottom blistered. Man, you must've been taking lessons, for crying out loud! Your voice had just the right "I'm disappointed in you" tone, and you had me wet well before your palm ever cracked down on my bottom! I've always thought, being a military officer, that you'd be a natural Dom. This is one situation where I've definitely been proven right!

You're used to giving orders and being obeyed. You're so serious sometimes, and I'm so giggly, especially when I'm tired, that I know I've gone a step too far. Or I've had a distinct potty mouth, although rarely. Hell, there have been multiple times in the past that you gave me "that stare" from under a drawn brow as you frowned down at me. That look itself was enough to send a jolt of fearful anticipation up my spine. But you would just say my name in warning, or haul me into your arms to kiss me out of my bad mood, or give me a "good talking to", when what I truly needed but never admitted was to be taken to our bedroom, have my pants and panties taken down - or my skirt flipped up - and be pulled over your hard thighs for a long, painful spanking to get me back in line. Or keep me in line.

The reason doesn't matter. The action does.

As I said that night, I don't know why I didn't tell you that I liked spanking. I guess it was being afraid of rejection, or being thought a freak. Your opinion of me matters to me. Not everyone likes what I like, and although we have been disgustingly compatible in the bedroom, spanking is not something I would just assume you would want to do. Hell, you're always so conscious of your size - which I appreciate although sometimes I think you go overboard; better overprotective than under, as far as I'm concerned - and whether or not you've hurt me accidentally during sex or when we wrestle sometimes . . . I guess you've noticed I don't do that much any more: I hate losing, and I would never want you to let me win, so I've given up on trying to physically subdue you. For now. ;)

Yes, I'm a total wimp about pain. You know that probably better than any person on Earth, having had to live through my sprained ankle and my gall bladder surgery. I don't do pain; it hurts me. Yes, I know this is a dichotomy. Deal with it. Spanking pain is just different, and I honestly have a fairly high tolerance, depending on the implement used.

I can see you reading this with your eyebrow raised. Your wimpy lover, who puts her back out and spends three weeks in bed moaning and groaning and making you dance attendance on her, has a high pain tolerance. Sure, right. Yes. But only in that very specific area.

Honestly, it is a pain I crave. But it's not just the pain by any means . . . I want the whole relationship culture that goes with it. The ritual aspects of that type of relationship appeal to me enormously, and I think what it offers is a sense of consistency, of safety. Action and consequence is missing from my life, but not if you're there with a paddle at the ready. Being scolded, spending time in the corner with my panties down and my hands on my head, lying over your lap, the spanking itself, the corner time afterwards (maybe), and the comfort and forgiveness afterwards. I'm a greedy cuss; I want the whole package.

I would love to know that I could look to you to guide me (I know, I know. How completely out of character for an opinionated, stubborn, "lead or get the hell out of the way" women's libber like me. Yup. I never said I was going to be logical, did I? Quite the contrary, as you know.). I cannot think of anything that would make me feel safer with you. Loads safer than any ring you could put on my finger or words you could say in front of a J.O.P.

I don't want TPE. I don't want you to tell me when to breathe - unless I'm having an asthma attack - and totally take over my life 24/7.

If I could have anything I wanted, it would be us in a "domestic discipline" type of relationship, where we love and support each other exactly as we do now, where each of us works and contributes to the relationship financially, emotionally, and sexually. We're there for each other now, and I would expect that that would continue . . . But you would be in charge. If I did something that you didn't like (who me? Never!), like say . . . swearing. Or forgetting to give you the ATM slips until the end of the month . . . or being cranky and snotty (which we both know I never am!), then you would have the option of hauling me over your lap (or making me bend over the back of the loveseat, etc, etc, etc) and giving me a good spanking.

Now, deciding whether or not you're interested in this is a big decision for you. I'm already there. Waaaaaaaaaay there. But I have the easy part, being the brat that I am :). I can't help it, it just comes naturally to me, the way your dominance comes naturally to you. You role as disciplinarian is the responsible one, and boy, if I've ever met a person who defined "responsible", it's you. The question is, then, are you willing to assume that type of tremendous responsibility? And it is a responsibility. It's also the highest compliment I can give any man; to trust him enough that I would allow him to discipline me. Especially someone your size. If I trust you and I'm wrong, I could end up maimed, or worse.

But hear me now and believe me later, I have absolutely no doubts about you and your innate ability to succeed in this role. You are the most disgustingly honorable, forthright, upstanding citizen on the face of the planet, and if I have any concerns, they're about my abilities to rise to your standards. Especially if you make any rules about neatness. I'm sunk right there, slob that I am. I'd have to kiss sitting down comfortably goodbye for quite some time in that case.

Hmmmmmmmm. That brings something up. Yes, you'd be responsible for disciplining me. But I would be responsible for learning from that discipline. I don't want you to be envisioning decades of spanking me for the same things; I will certainly do my best to learn what you're taking the time to try and teach me. No, my potty mouth and speeding and appalling bookkeeping tendencies won't go away like magic after my first spanking. Or maybe even my fifth. But I will show progress, especially if you make the spankings memorable enough . . .

Back to the pain. Like credit, there is good pain and there is bad pain. Bad pain is back pain. Pure and simple. Ain't nothing remotely loving, caring, sexual, or even interesting about having to crawl to the bathroom on your hands and knees because you can't straighten up. Spanking - caning, hair brushing, paddling, strapping . . . you get the idea - however, is good pain. There's a reason for it, and it's an agreed upon reason, whether or not I agree. Get it?

Well, I can't see you making stupid rules. It's not like my language couldn't stand to be a little more civilized, I suppose. And Lord knows, if I didn't work for the bank already, my account would have been closed for overdrafts long since, and at thirty bucks a pop, I could have practically paid for that new laptop I'm looking at, so there's room for improvement there, too.

And I know you love me, never more so than if you take the time and energy to correct me. I know it goes directly against your grain to hurt someone - trained warrior be damned - especially a woman. You certainly could hurt people very easily, but you consciously don't. I've seen you with Beth's baby. If ever there was a picture of a man melting, it was you when you held her in your arms. Your whole gruff, unapproachable, in-charge demeanor changed, and my heart swelled as I watched you rock her and hold her close, stroking that tiny head and letting her suck the tip of your pinky. I could never see you inflicting pain gratuitously.

Basically, I guess it comes down to the fact that I trust you. Face down, bare bottomed, hairbrush in your hand TRUST YOU. I trust you not to cause any permanent physical damage, but I trust you to cause a whole lot of temporary bruising, which you should expect since I'm so fair skinned. I trust you not to listen to my begging and pleading before or during a spanking, but to do what you think needs to be done. To take care of business . . . to take care of me in this way. I trust you not to hold back because my bottom is getting red and swollen, or because you've already spanked me once that day. I trust you to spank me hard enough to make me cry, then sob, until I have no tears left and you're still paddling. I trust you to discipline me through my moans to my screams, then through those until I have no voice left . . . if you feel that is the severity of the correction I need.

But I also trust you not to inflict a long hard paddling on me when one is not justified by my misbehavior. I trust you to generally adhere to the rituals that make this situation feel safe for me. I trust you to respond to whatever safeword we choose, not because I intend to cry wolf, but because it's a responsible thing to have, especially considering my asthma. But then I also expect you to be aware enough of me and my condition that I shouldn't have to use it unless something's going on with me that you couldn't see. I trust that you won't let your emotions get the better of you when you're truly angry at me and that when it's over, it's over, and you'll welcome me with open arms and give me the forgiveness and comfort that is the reason I submit to your discipline. I want to be good and I desperately want you to be proud of me. It hurts me worse on the inside than any spanking you could apply to my outside when you are disappointed in me.

So, I might not have run off at the mouth about this to you, but we both know I always write better than I speak, and these are things I felt needed to be addressed. You have a lot of serious thinking to do, but then, unlike me, that's what you do best :).

Regardless, and I do mean regardless, I remain

Forever yours,

Lainie