My shopping cart
Your cart is currently empty.Continue Shopping
Christmas is for the children, well, so people say. I count myself in as a child because I turn into a great big one during the festive season. Well, as long as I’m not Christmas shopping, but that’s a whole other diary post. I love the twinkly lights, the scent of pine and all the lovely food. It’s such fun.
I borrow my friend’s young children so I can go to visit Father Christmas in his grotto and eat so many mince pies I often think I might burst. If it’s covered in glitter I want it and I buy more cuddly Santas and snowmen than is probably healthy. I indulge my inner child and it’s absolutely grand.
Even organising parties, baking and feeding people makes me feel like a kid again. There’s great satisfaction in making people smile and make yummy noises over something I’ve cooked. It’s a simple joy and always reminds me of happy times I spent in the kitchen with my Gran when I was a kid.
I’m so busy indulging my little kid side in December that sometimes my more grown up needs sort of get ignored I you know what I mean. The big girl toys get left in my drawer and that essential stress relief goes out of the window. So sometimes, just sometimes I end up throwing a bit of a tantrum. It’s not pretty, and I’m not proud of it but there you go. That’s what happened today. Mr Divine was trying to be helpful I’m sure by volunteering to help me decorate the tree but I like to do that on my own and so he just kept getting in my way. Then as I snapped at him to move out of my way for the hundredth time I dropped an ornament and it smashed on the laminate flooring.
It was not my finest moment, thank God it wasn’t one of my inherited decorations just one of my newer ones but still I loved it and gave the husband a thorough telling off. He’s such a patient soul so he stood there and took all I threw at him.
“Feeling better, now?” He asked.
“Not really.” I replied with a shrug. The anger had worn off and I was starting to feel a bit silly for over-reacting. Mr Divine had the perfect solution: a spanking.
It sounds barbaric, diary, I know, but it didn’t really hurt much, just enough to jolt me out of my childishness. Then it was all about fun and sex and hot cheeks. I don’t know what it is about a spanking that turns me on but boy does it work. Maybe it’s the humiliation or the fact I’m out of control, maybe it’s the physical reaction to his hand hitting my arse or a mix of all three but by heaven, the sex after that spanking was glorious.
I must remember to indulge my adult side next Christmas too. I’m sure I can earn myself another spanking before then, though. Maybe I can even get another one in before new year if I try hard enough.