In the stories, this is how it works.
There are two people, each with a back story, often both troubled, her with some major character flaws that are childish (lack of self control, no sense of self preservation, an inability to think though consequences) but not overwhelming. She does not, for example, have a vile temper that frays at the most imperceptible of provocations; or as my favourite line from Gabriel Garcia Marquez reads, “flatulence that could kill flowers.
His flaws are the loneliness of the long time repressed male, and slightly too much rugged sexuality for any reasonable girl to be able to resist. He is over big, over powerful and the kind of controlling that would normally necessitate a short term stay in a mental facility.
They meet, and theirs is an unrequited or unrecognised passion. She expresses her flaws; he saves her from herself and spanks her. This pattern is repeated with occasion acknowledgments of his intense isolation and the burdens of responsibility until the author has completed the word count and a portrait is painted of a blissful, sore bottomed future.
Do I mock these tales? I do not.
I have sought them out and devoured them for as long as I can remember. They are burned in my brain, scenes selected at will for my own personal perusal when I need inspiration (not for writing, you understand.)
But I thought it worth mentioning that none of it is quite like that. I would like it to be.
This is what it is like.
They meet. They talk, laugh and circle each other warily.
Between them they have enough character flaws to people a small colony but no flaw too dangerous or burdensome. They work hard and do things like the washing up and read work emails that make them sigh and say, “No, nothing” in a clear expression of irritation when the other asks if anything is wrong.
They leave piles of clothes in the other’s house. They engage in spankings that are tremendous and sometimes too short because they can’t remember when they supermarket is coming to deliver or because they promised to meet friends in the pub.
They share their little histories. They share them in asides, short stories over coffee; tales of “When I went to France”; snippy explanations of why they don’t like the tea things set out like that; and then the other kind. The kind in the dark when skin to skin they explain how they really got here, their genuine journey, the one they tell only a few times in their lives.
In the stories this comes out after a car accident, or the barn burning down or when he arrives home to see a police car parked outside. He goes pale with fear, sorts out whatever the incident was and after checking her safety, he spanks her with such thoroughness that any number of clichés might be true. She cries. They understand each other. The past hurt is resolved, understood, a line is drawn under it and they make love. (Not regular making love but the kind that has a sound track and you could film it without seeing any wobbly bits.)
How beautiful. How magical. How completing of oneself.
I have waited, me, the reader of spanking fiction for this moment. I have used words like, “yearn” and “finally understood.”
This is what I know. When you finally let him in, after spankings, shared meals, at least one minor illness, several arguments, some late working nights, some serious discussions of how one tidies a kitchen and the other rituals of getting to know someone, then there is the moment.
There is seldom an exciting prelude, just some time and a feeling of trust and it happens. You tell him all the rest, well not all of it, but a significant real truth, the personal account, the heart truth. And, if you have found a hero of spanking reality he does not take you over his knee and spank you until the pain goes away. He does not make a speech about how all the pain is over now. He does not withdraw leading you to seek him out on a stormy night days later.
He listens. He hears how you hurt. He cries with you; big, strong, manly tears because he feels it too.
But later, when you squabble about the dishwasher or leaving towels on the bed he spanks you; a hard little spanking, and he squeezes you extra tight afterwards.
That’s how it really is, just so you know.
Wonderful. Just wonderful. And that last picture says it all.
It sounds perfect to me.
Poppy, good afternoon.
and warm 
Spanking literature is largely formalistic, real life is not.
This can and often does cause problems when starting out on this path. ?:-
So have you successfully negotiated the maze ?:-
Paul.
Does anyone know what’s happened to that wonderful spanking pictures site Her Stepfather’s Belt? It’s coming up ‘Not found’ at the moment.
Thank you, Sweetsong and I have no idea.
Scarlet, me too.
Paul, still negotiating – still rocky but we will get there. xx
I can’t add anything to this. It’s perfect. And perfectly beautiful.
No need to get hot under the collar surely.
As one who has written many fantasies and, like you, glimpsed the real McCoy – I thought this honest snap shot was a good read.
This spanking life is not one romantic chapter after another surely – we are real people with real lives and I for one was highly amused by the fact that one of the best romantic prose-poets in spankoland lifted the veil for a moment and told it like it (sometimes) was.
Surely you can lighten up a smidge – this was not aimed at you, I am sure – but was a bit of honest introspection.
Look at it this way – when Poppy says it works you know it is worth something.
If you are living that spanking novella dream then great -it won’t come tumbling down just because of this post.
I for one thought this was a great post – although I fear for your bottom Poppy when Dexter reads it.
best wishes to everyone DJ
A couple of thoughts on why I loved this post: when I was a little girl, I lived in a house that had its share of downs, but also some ups. My mother seemed depressed frequently, though. I realize that’s a medical problem, but something that became clear to me over the years is that she watched television peopled with perfect families, and she always wanted what was told as a story. She saw it as being better than our real life. I think that’s a dangerous thing, to get caught up in what romantic or clever or funny or erotic stories tell us, because real life is a bit messy. So I appreciated the tone here, that suggested that stories shouldn’t be what we aspire to. I think it is easy to spoil what you have by looking for perfection. If a girl isn’t inclined to spoil things, then she is wise and knows about real life, and I am so happy that she can discriminate between the two. But from experience, I know not everyone can.
I have a love affair with the man I’m married to, and he saves me over and over again. BS (before spanking) and AS, and everywhere in between. But he also drives me a bit crazy on certain days, and sometimes I read what you write, Poppy, and think that you’re writing about me. I can be snippy and tired and weepy and not sure what I need. He doesn’t always figure it out. Sometimes he misses all my cues, and I finally have to TELL him. That almost never happens in stories!
Last thought: I often find that I’m angry, but I’m not angry for the reasons I thought I was. Sometimes it comes from another place and another reason. Good writing evokes all kinds of emotions, depending on where we are in our lives. That’s what it’s meant to do. So maybe it’s okay that there’s an emotional response to something that wasn’t intended. Somewhere buried in between the lines is an answer.
I do know that Poppy would never, ever hurt anyone intentionally. A girl who writes like an angel is holding her hands couldn’t possibly.
Hugs to all of us who visit here and learn from each other.
Scarlet, you made me cry a little but in the best way.
Some of us can break a little looking for perfect- I know I have. It is just part of the joy of life to love imperfections.
You are wise about anger too. I know at the moment I can get angry easily (although not for a whole 48 hours so maybe I am through the worst of it) and I know my anger was (is?) all about the fear of further pain. I am learning a lot about myself by listening to when I get angry and seeing what it might mean.
You are so kind to me and about me- if I have an angel holding my hands I suspect she might be called Scarlet (which would be an excellent name for an angel!)
‘A girl who writes like an angel is holding her hands…’ As always, dearest Scarlet, you articulate my rather impressionistic thoughts in the most beautiful way. And yes, I reckon you’re a bit of an angel too!
She is wonderful, isn’t she?
I don’t know quite what else to say. I appear to have wandered into the twilight zone where things are all a bit odd. Sometimes I wonder if blogging is worth it – it makes one meet some really unkind and bewildering people but I have also encountered some wonderful people and I would not change that for the world.
Funny old world.
I just wanted to write about love. I still do. Love and spanking- makes me smile.
Love and spanking – an essential food and a delicious spice. We couldn’t survive without the one, and life would be very boring without the other.
I have noticed, dearest Poppy, that in the world of TTWD there are many people with whom one would rather not rub shoulders. The brave ones like you, who stick their heads above the parapet and go public with their thoughts, lay themselves open to abuse from such people. Unfortunately that goes with the territory, but the other side of the coin is the tremendous love, loyalty and affection that such brave and honest writing earns, especially when it comes from ‘one of the best romantic prose-poets in spankoland’, as DJ Black so eloquently puts it.
Dearest Poppy, I hope that the love, loyalty and affection that characterizes by far the majority response to your thoughts convinces you that blogging is, indeed, very well worth it.