It was Friday afternoon, and already my stomach was a butterfly-filled knot of
apprehension oddly coupled with anxious anticipation, perhaps even yearning.  I
knew that she would arrive promptly at seven.  While that was nearly four hours
away, hours that would drag, I was already distracted to the point that any
future work today was hopeless.  Fortunately, I had already completed the story
she assigned for the week.  I reviewed it one final time, satisfied that it would
meet her high expectations, and saved it on the diskette that held all of the
stories I had written her.  I e-mailed the story to her, labeling it as always .
. .  "My Dutiful Submission".

A look around the room, reminded me that I had plenty to finish before her
arrival.  Taking the "hidden" cigarettes from the desk drawer, I stepped outside
for a quick smoke.  As I stood, shivering in the elements, always too lazy to
grab my coat, I wondered why I continued to endure these Friday fraisings.  The
simple "wording" of the thought, answered the question. Fraising.  It was "our"
word for spanking.  The initial definition had meant a forceful spanking on the
fullest part of the bottom.  Over time, it had somewhat lost that specific
meaning, and expanded to cover virtually any sound spanking.  But, it had been
the need for a word to describe that particular type of spanking that had led to
the "creation" of the word.  The word had also become so real for me, that now,
as it simply crossed through my mind, the knot in my stomach tightened, and the
butterflies seemed to take flight like a startled flock of birds.

I inhaled a final drag from my forbidden cigarette, pinching off the ashes in the
grass so that all evidence was hidden.  I had painfully discovered a few months
ago, that tossing the butts in the yard was not wise, as nothing ever seemed to
escape her thorough investigation.  I went back inside, discarded the filter in
the overflowing wastebasket, which I would certainly have emptied before her
arrival.

As I diligently filed the numerous papers that littered my desk, I had to admit
to myself that these Friday "sessions" really had benefitted me.  Without her
help I would never have reached this point, and would still be toiling away at my
previous job that I had absolutely loathed.  However, this relationship we shared
was confusing.  It's not a relationship, I reminded myself.  How could I forget
that important point?  She always made that very clear. Friendship was not the
correct word either, although that was the one she tended to use.  Actually,
after months, I still had no idea of where I stood with her, except to know she
did not remotely care for me in the manner that I had hoped she would.  In a
sense, I probably did know, but refused to acknowledge.  Anyway, it mattered
little, there was no way, given everything, that it was going beyond where it
currently stood.  I pushed the thought away, as I neatly filed the last of the
papers, and gathered the strewn pens into the upper desk drawer.  Content that my
work area would meet her exacting standards, I started on the rest of the large
living room.

My friends and family had been startled by my sudden change in recent months. I
had lived the single life to the fullest, until "she" put a stop to it. While I
did appreciate her assistance, and encouragement in turning my professional life
around, I sometimes felt her intrusion into my personal life was a bit . . .
well, intrusive.  She always promptly responded that the two were connected,
especially now that I was self-employed and working from home. I had gone from a
 freewheeling  single, complete with many late nights, lots of drinking, and a
dirty cluttered house, to a nose-to-the-grindstone, neat-as-a-pin, "saint" in
mere months.  I was supposed to be a  nonsmoker  too, but that transition was
proving a bit more difficult.  However, I had become very accomplished at
discarding or hiding the evidence.  The effort to keep that hidden from her, had
somewhat accomplished her goal.  My two plus pack a day habit, had been reduced
to less than half a pack a day.

While anyone who knew me, would have been shocked that any woman could produce
such a change in me, they had no evidence that any woman even existed, as our
time together was kept very private, almost secret.  I finished the living room,
even dusting, a task I was certain no other man in America performed, but one
added to my "cleaning checklist" just two weeks ago.  Of course, my failure to
complete it, had been sufficient grounds for my fraising that particular week,
although it had never been an issue before.  A final check of the room satisfied
me that all assigned tasks had been done.

I washed the few dishes that were in the sink.  Fortunately, to my way of
thinking anyway, I still relied on the fast food "grease pits" for most of my
meals.  I disdained this task, and was careful to keep my usage to a minimum,
usually only a few coffee cups and a few knives and spoons.  "Wood pulp" china,
was my favorite, as it was simply discarded after a meal.  As I finished, I
wondered why I even went to all of this effort.  A Friday fraising was
inevitable, and quite frankly needed.  It had become sport for both of us. While
I knew she would always find something, no matter how trivial, I was always
determined to never allow her the chance to spank me for the same thing twice. 
And, to be honest, I knew it all had been to my benefit.  She always stated that
none of it was trivial, as slipshod, slovenly, slothful behavior in one area
would soon spill over to another.  I owed her a great deal, and she knew it.  She
enjoyed the control, and was, I think, thrilled that she got results.  I am sure,
although she never stated it, she really shared in my accomplishments.  She knew
in her heart, as I did in mine, that it was as much her success as my own.  She
was expertly "captaining" a ship that had been adrift far too long.

I finished my tasks in the kitchen, and grabbed another of the prohibited "cancer
sticks" as I took the trash out.  I reflected that this was the only behavior of
mine she had not yet fully controlled.  I was more ashamed at my own inability to
quit, despite her insistence, than I was fearful of the fraising she would
administer, were she to discover it.  I laughed, as I knew that was not
completely true.  The feeling in my stomach, which touched my very mind and soul,
betrayed the truth.  While I did want to please her, and always felt so awful
when I disappointed her, the thought of being soundly spanked for my misdeeds was
always great additional incentive.

It was odd, the manner we had arrived at this point.  A point I had in a sense
longed for, but yet never pictured exactly as this.  She had real control, and I
knew it.  I had always envisioned reaching this point in a way that was in one
sense, much more real, and yet in another much more of a fantasy. Actually, my
experience with spanking prior to her, had been mostly frustrating, usually
involving "professionals", who were obviously never really in control, and who
were clueless as to my real needs anyway.  My fantasy prior to hours of time
spent with her, "burning the phone lines", involved a lot of role playing.  Over
time I realized the reasons for that were many.  Not the least of which was the
whole issue of control.  While it was "safe", because once the scene was over,
the control returned to me, it was never satisfying, because, I had never really
given it up.  It had merely been "lent", and therefore, what I ultimately wanted
and needed, could never really occur. However, with that realization, came the
even more frightening understanding of the level of care and trust that would be
necessary to fulfill my true desire.

I snuffed out the cigarette and deposited it with the rest of the week's trash. 
My mind ran through the remaining list of chores, ever mindful that one oversight
would be sufficient cause for her to fraise and blister my bottom. If I ever felt
she was too severe, although I don't recall that I ever did, I always knew that
my smoking, if discovered, would result in a frightful fraising, beyond compare. 
Because of that, I was more than happy that she seemed to concentrate on some of
the "lesser sins".  I wondered if she knew that I had not quit.  While she was,
as they say, a taskmaster, she was also patient and caring.  This was truly a
matter of discipline.  Everything she enforced did make me a better person. 
Better professionally, emotionally, and every other way that I could think of. 
So, perhaps she was giving me ample time to break a habit that was both physical
and mental.  She was strict and demanding, but never brutish.  An underlying
benevolence, and genuine concern  were  obvious during even her harshest reproof,
and subsequent sound, stern  fraising.   I went back inside, and started the
final load of laundry.  It was now five o'clock.  I was well ahead of schedule. 
My emotions were churning.  I think every Friday, the anxiousness, both the worry
and the yearning, caused my emotions to race along the entire possible human
spectrum.  Never stopping long at any, flitting from one to another, many
revisited.  My thoughts returned to how this had all started.  Just a few months
ago, but in some ways it seemed so long ago, and so far away.

Somehow, through all of this soul searching on my part, much of it encouraged by
her, she was always patiently there, waiting.  I now suspected she had "pegged"
me from the start.  She knew at first I was not ready yet, and was still
floundering with my own thoughts and feelings on the entire issue.  She had even
encouraged me to try spanking others, which I did.  I had enjoyed the experience,
but soon discovered that I could never develop a real comfort as a top.  I could
"do" to others, as I wanted "done" to me, but never sensed or felt that I was
truly in control.  Eventually, I realized that I didn't even want to control my
own life, let alone attempt to control the lives of others. Through all of this a
startling, to me anyway, transition occurred.  The whole fantasy idea of a
spanking relationship, had become something that I knew I had to have as a
reality.  With that understanding, much of my perspective changed. The spanking
thoughts and fantasies that danced and frolicked through my mind were no longer
pictures of being punished in a role playing scene.  No, I was guilty of enough
"real" sins, to still warrant regular, routine spankings.

As always, I shared my thoughts with her.  Then she set her trap.  I am sure if I
asked her, she would disavow that it was her intent, but the turn of events has
always raised my suspicions.  Perhaps, when one has turned so much control over
to another, they naturally want to feel that the person in charge is more
knowledgeable, cunning, and wise than they are.  So perhaps I am giving credit
where it is not due.  But, as I mentioned before, I believe she had me "pegged". 
It all came from a question I asked her one night.  She had made a slightly
accusatory and disapproving statement concerning something she surmised I had
done, based on the context of our conversation.  I simply asked what she was
trying to imply, infer, or insinuate.  Her reaction was a laugh, and a compliment
on my ability to "scold".  A lengthy discussion of the issue followed.  This area
was easy for me to describe, especially my particular likes, since I have spent
so many hours picturing scenes of being thoroughly scolded, before my eventual,
long painful trip over the knee of a strict lady. I explained, at length, my
preference for the "accusations" to come in groups of three or more, and
alliteration was a real plus.  Statements similar to the "imply, infer,
insinuate" that I had mentioned earlier.  I gave her many other examples as well,
 such as "your behavior recently has been obnoxious, offensive, and obstinate.² 
She soaked it all in, and it was the beginning of the end for me.

She had always encouraged my "self improvement".  Armed with this new
information, she was able to get me to at least attempt some new habits, as well
as give up some bad ones.  The first area she hit was my "over indulgence" in
alcohol.  She told me that she found it improper, immature, and impolite toward
her.  And the only possible consequences for me would ultimately be degrading,
destructive, and detrimental.  To be honest, initially, I didn't even realize she
had employed my prescribed technique.  I just know that I was struck by the
words, and felt so awful about having hurt and disappointed her, that my
consumption was greatly curtailed.  I also knew she was right, and felt that I
was a better person for the instruction and reprimand.  Her success, only
encouraged her.  A few weeks went by before I fully realized the subtle change
that had occurred.  I found myself, with little thought, breaking many of my
worst habits, as well as developing some good ones.  Then one day I realized what
had happened.  And, as has always been my reaction to those in authority, I
rebelled.

During this period, she had begun assigning me weekly writing tasks.  I had
always dreamed of being a writer, but had never persistently pursued it.  At
first it was fun, and her compliments, and encouragement caused me to really work
hard.  But, when I figured out her scheme, I quit.  It wasn't until that Friday,
when I didn't E-mail my story, that she became aware of my "discovery" and
subsequent reaction.  She was livid, and told me that we would meet promptly at
seven to discuss the issue.  I was given a stern warning not to be so much as a
minute late, or she would never speak to me again.  I considered testing her, but
couldn't.  I knew that she meant too much to me to risk losing.  The two hours of
reflection, before our meeting, only made me feel more guilty for not having just
done the story.

From the very start of the meeting, she was firmly in charge.  I knew I was wrong
before she even started.  Obviously, I could have at least been mature enough to
confront her, and forthcoming enough to let her know I did not intend to do the
story.  Sure enough, those were the first things she pointed out. She scolded
that I had not only been deceitful, and dishonest, but also defiant,
disrespectful, and disobedient.  While her words, all true and valid, reduced me
nearly to tears, I was in a sense glad they continued.  At least I did not have
to attempt to explain my actions.  I could only nod in agreement as she defined
my behavior as self-centered, senseless, and selfish.  My spirits sank, and my
heart ached, as her rebuke continued.  I was certain that this would end with her
leaving, never to speak to me again, and all I would be able to do is sit there,
knowing that everything she said was true.

She finished by stating that my action, or rather inaction, was insensitive,
inappropriate, and inexcusable.  Inexcusable.  If ever there was a word that
seemed to signal the end, and subsequent exit, that was the word.  It echoed in
my ears, and further burned and twisted my already tortured conscience.  Then the
dreaded question, which I couldn't answer, but knew would eventually come. "Do
you have anything to say for yourself?"  My silence, as I had no reasonable
reply, was answered with a stern questioning "Well, do you?"  Knowing I had to
say something, I mumbled a heartfelt, sorrowful "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry?  That's your answer?  Were you listening to what I said?  I said it
was inexcusable.  Don't you know the meaning of inexcusable, Word-Boy?"

The deluge of questions overwhelmed me.  The final cutting, "Word-Boy" reference,
a glaring contrast to her frequent use of "Word-Man" when complimenting and
praising my writing.  I sat in silence, feeling a combination of guilt, regret,
and self-pity.  I waited for her to simply leave.  Although, I could not look at
them, I could feel her angry eyes.  The painful silence hung in the air.

"Fine, "Word-Boy", I'll tell you the definition.  It means your behavior cannot
simply be brushed aside and forgotten with a simple meek apology.  It CANNOT be
justified and it CANNOT be overlooked."

"I understand.  You are right.  I don't blame you for leaving.  I was wrong, so I
understand that you can't forgive me."

She laughed.  The laugh had a hint of real amusement coupled with a wicked edge. 
"I said it was inexcusable, not inexpiable, Word-Boy."

She continued by asking me if I knew the difference.  I didn't.  She explained
that inexpiable meant the action could not be forgiven, inexcusable meant it
could not be overlooked.

"Do you understand now, Word-Boy?"

"Not really."

"The difference is atonement.  Inexcusable behavior cannot be overlooked, but it
can be forgiven.  After appropriate atonement.  I have already decided on your
atonement.  A very sore, soundly spanked, properly paddled, blistered bare
bottom."

The statement was straight forward,  authoritative , and simply not to be
questioned.  My reaction was a mix of fear, yet joy.  Dread, yet desire.
Acceptance, yet reluctance.  Apprehension, yet anticipation.  My heart was
aflutter with the words.  My stomach was a painful knot.  I was torn in two
opposite directions.  I knew the punishment was just and fair.  I knew it would
not only purge the guilt from my tired and troubled conscience, but also set
things right between the two of us.  She had used the word.  Atonement.  She had
decided the appropriate and necessary price of my atonement.  The implication was
obvious.  She would forgive me.  She would not leave.  That was enough to lift my
spirits.

The flip side was equally obvious.  She was rightfully hurt and angry.  Her
ultimate forgiveness would no doubt exact a painful price.  I was shaking from
anticipation.  Anticipation that combined fear with yearning.

Her right index finger silently beckoned me to her.  Without question I obeyed. 
There was again a tense silence which hung in the air.  She ordered me to lower
my jeans, which I obediently did.  Her demand that the underwear too, be lowered
caused but a moments hesitation on my part.  My mind determining that as
embarrassing, and humiliating as it was for me to bare myself for the punishment,
it could only be worse if she did it.  And given her current tone and attitude,
there was no doubt that she would.  That could only result in turning what was
certain to be a long sound spanking, into an incomparable blistering.  I had no
choice but to comply with her demand.  She patted her right leg, signaling my
expected position.  This was the real love/hate moment. The dread, apprehension,
and fear playing a delightfully wicked tug of war against desire and yearning. 
My heart was pounding, my breathing erratic, and my churning stomach in knots, as
I assumed my assigned position over her lap.

The silence was deafening.  I felt so exposed at that moment.  I felt her hand
gently slide over my entire bottom.  My pulse raced even faster, and I could hear
my heart like a jackhammer.  Her touch was gentle, and it was torturous. In one
sense I simply wanted my punishment to be over.  I wanted the feeling of
atonement.  I wanted the relief, the freedom, and most of all her forgiveness. In
another sense, I wanted the moment to last forever.  I wanted the spanking to
last forever.  I never understood that feeling.  Perhaps, I simply felt my
behavior warranted a fraising which was that severe.  A fraising that just went
on and on.  Perhaps, there was the myriad of emotions that coursed through my
entire body at this moment, which made me feel more alive than at any other time.
 And then there was the realization that this spanking would be delivered by
someone that truly cared about me.  Why else would she be bothered with the
effort.  It certainly would have been easier for her to walk away. Her finger
traced along my crack, causing me to shiver with a combination of delight at the
sensation, and humiliation at my exposed position.  The spanking began.  The
slaps were not severe, but enough to cause my bottom to sting.  She was patient,
as she mixed in the occasional random harder spank.  Too, soon the spanks were
harder, working from side to side.  Three to the left, three to the right,
completely covering my bottom, the pattern continued.  Three firm spanks in
precisely the same spot on the left side, three mirrored on the right, then back
to the left, a slightly different spot than before.  While never terribly severe
in intensity, the duration had my bottom burning.  For ten long minutes the
process continued.  Through it all I was able to maintain my position, as well as
most of my composure.  At least as composed as one can be, with their bare bottom
upturned and soundly spanked.

Then the fraising began.  She started on the left side, with ten harsh spanks
that reverberated throughout the room, all landing squarely on the "sweet" spot. 
I was struggling to maintain my proper position, finding little if any relief as
she moved to the right side, and repeated the entire process.  She revisited the
left side with ten more, that had my legs kicking in earnest, as my " ows " began
accompanying the regular beat of the percussion that filled the room.  A
torturous return to the right side, as I writhed beneath her painful, punishing
palm.  Mercifully she paused.  Her hand slid over my flaming bottom.  I doubted
this pause was for my benefit, so much as an opportunity for her to inspect her
work.  Her eyes no doubt relishing the color she had "painted" over my entire
bottom, as her hand savored the heat which radiated. Her touch was gentle, the
antithesis of moments prior.  She ran her nails, ever so lightly, over my tender,
scarlet bottom.  I relaxed under her touch, again aware of my racing pulse, and
the feeling in the pit of my stomach, which was no longer knotted and painful,
but rather in a state of rapid excitement.

I felt her weight shift, and winced at the signal the fraising was not yet
finished.  A quick volley of eight alternating, intense spanks, were combined
with my ever higher pitched wail.  A moments pause, a final stinging blow to the
left, and then the right, and my first fraising under her masterful touch was
ended.  Her hands and eyes again took time to feast on her accomplishment.
Finally, I was ordered off of her lap.

"I'll expect that story, by noon tomorrow, in my E-mail, or we are through. Is
that understood?"

"Yes Ma'am."

³If it is satisfactory, all is forgiven.  Don¹t disappoint me.²

With the final statement still in the air she left.  I knew my assignment, and
started immediately.  To this day, I believe it is my finest work.  Oddly, the
quality of the story was the cornerstone of her contention that I needed regular
fraisings to modify many other areas of my life.  It was obvious, to her anyway,
that there was little else, if anything, that could control my recalcitrant,
rebellious, and often reprehensible behavior.  The pattern was set, and every
Friday we met for that expressed purpose.  We talked almost every day, usually at
length, but Friday was always atonement day.

I finished my laundry, folding and hanging every bit of it.  In an hour we would
meet.  I stepped outside to enjoy a final cigarette, before showering.  I again
wondered why she had not questioned me about smoking for several weeks. I had
given her some round about answers the last time the issue was addressed. I never
lied to her, but was not necessarily so honest as to ³tell² on myself. She was
usually thorough in her questioning, but had never followed up in this area. 
Something was up.  She was not one to be distracted, or fooled.  The house was
neat as a pin, so I walked to the street and deposited the butt in the drain
along the curb.  I went inside, still a bit confused about the smoking
³leniency².  Oh well, whatever the reason, it was working to my benefit.

It was 6:45 after I had completed my preparation with a relaxing shower and a
fresh shave.  I gave the house a final once over, knowing that she would be hard
pressed to find the slightest of reasons for this weeks fraising.  I decided to
see if she had responded to my story, and rushed to check my E-mail in the few
minutes before her arrival.  I was delighted to see she had.  A response always
indicated her approval.  I read it, and was thrilled by her praise.  Then my
heart sank.  The note ended with a simple statement.  ³Hope you enjoyed that
final cigarette!²  The knot in my stomach had never been tighter, or more
painful.  I stared at the screen, in a sense wondering why I was so startled, I
knew it was inevitable.

Then her IM flashed across the screen.

³Glad to see you are punctual.  My patience has been exhausted.  After tonight
though the smoking will end.²

Another frightful Friday fraising session had begun.