The Symbolism of Spanking Dreams: Coming Home

I had the most vivid spanking dream the other night.

It began with me climbing a hill going up and up and up until I was so high that rivulets of fog streamed through the crevices of the brown mountain peaks. (Even though I was dreaming, my mind recognized the setting as California.)

Being California, the houses along the hill were of modern design and also very large. Finally, I reached the top of the hill which looked down upon the canyon below.

I saw the front of a house, one of mansion size, which I recognized as “my house” even though I’ve never lived in one that large. Then, all of a sudden, I was inside the house.

I may have been an adult before in the dream, but now I was a child around 11 years old. I wore a loose-fitting white dress, more like a nightgown but it was a dress not pajamas, and knelt in the corner.

A pretty lady, who in my dream was my Mom but didn’t look like my real-life mother, watched over me while holding a paddle. She held the paddle in a “school marm" grip: right hand holding the handle and left fingering the board.

She didn’t speak, but I recognized I would be spanked once my cornertime was done.

And, rather than fear, I felt the most wondrous sensation of blissful relaxation: peace, calm, wrapped in a blanket of love as enveloping as the long white dress that covered me.

But before I got spanked, I woke up :(

About a month ago, I had another spanking dream set in the mountains. Once again, I was around 11 years old, but this time the hills were Appalachian green.

Once again, I went up and up and up the hill, but this time the houses were smaller wood-framed ones, not mansions. Finally I reached the very top of the hill and saw a combination church/school made out of red brick and several stories high.

A bell rang signifying the end of school. A nun stood on the steps and exiting students wore plaid jumpers, so it was a Catholic girls’ school.

(I’m not Catholic, but I yearned as a teenager to go the Catholic high school near my neighborhood. I loved the look of the uniform plaid skirts and knee socks, but I think I was more attracted to being educated in an orderly environment instead of the pot smoker- and bully-infested suburban high school hell hole I attended as a public school student.)

But instead of leaving school for the day, I and a few other girls followed a nun up many steps to the building’s attic classroom. There we changed out of our jumpers into loose-fitting white dresses worn while serving detention.

Then we knelt in the corners of the room. The nun held a long ruler similar to the way the mother in my other dream gripped her paddle, right hand holding the bottom of the stick with left fingering the “spanking end.”

As in my other dream, the disciplinarian didn’t speak, but we students recognized spankings were coming once cornertime was done. Again a blissful feeling of peace and calm washed over me.

And, like the other dream, I woke up before I got spanked :(

OK, the symbolic meaning of the female disciplinarian is clear: a wish for maternal love. But why do both dreams begin by me climbing a huge hill and why do I wear a white dress?

Is my mind in dreams pondering heaven’s existence and my future there as an angel, a naughty sort who gets loving spankings from God?

Perhaps. But as I wrote this story, I recalled my earliest childhood memory.

It was the mid 1960s, I was either three or four years old. My mother, brother and I moved temporarily from Washington D.C. to live with relatives in West Virginia because my Mom couldn’t handle being alone while Dad was deployed in Vietnam.

(His assignment meant he spent the whole time in Saigon completely out of harm’s way, but still she was totally freaked out. Who could blame her?)

I remember our family, minus Dad, coming back home from church one Sunday. I wore a white dress. And, to get home, we drove up and up and up a hill, so different from the District’s flat streets that I was used to.

We arrived and I went inside the living room. “This is home now,” I said to myself. “This is where I live.”

That’s all I remember from that time.

“The child is father of the man,” William Wordsworth said, but who is mother to the girl?

I am.

Notes from the "Naughty Chair"

Hi everybody. I’m Claire and I’m naughty. I don’t mean to be but sometimes I just can’t help myself.

And when I’m naughty my husband spanks me with the “naughty girl paddle,” no “ifs,” “ands” or “buts” about the matter. It’s always been this way ever since we got married twenty years ago.

When I’m bad, my husband tells me to “fetch the paddle, little girl, you’re going to be spanked.” And I best reply “Yes Sir, Daddy” in my most pleasant and submissive tone or it’ll be all the worse for me.

Yup, I call my husband “Daddy.” Always have. Always will. It’s one of Hubby’s many rules for me. If I don’t call him “Daddy,” no matter where we are or who we’re with, I get spanked on the spot. It can be kind of confusing when his parents visit because my mother-in-law calls my father-in-law “Daddy” too.

After I bring my husband the “naughty girl paddle,” I kneel before him. Hubby scolds me for a long time about what I’ve done wrong. And then he puts me over his knee, lifts my skirt, lowers my panties and spanks me till I’m screaming “Please Daddy, please, don’t spank me so hard. I’ll be good.”

But Hubby keeps spanking till tears and nose snot flow because he knows I need a firm hand. He spanks me till I’m spent, till my voice is hoarse from screaming and legs exhausted from making bicycle kicks in the air. My husband keeps spanking till he’s spanked the “naughty” right out of me, at least for the time being.

After he’s spanked me, I must curtsy before my husband and kiss him softly on the cheek whispering in his ear “Thank you Daddy for spanking me so hard. I know you do it because you love me and care about how I behave.”

And then my husband puts me in the “naughty chair.”

The over-stuffed chair faces a corner of the living room. Normally it would feel soft and comfy, except my bottom is always so sore after a spanking.

The naughty chair hasn’t moved in the twenty years since we bought our house. It’s kind of embarrassing if people we don’t know well come to visit because they can’t help but see it.

“That’s where Claire sits as additional punishment after I’ve spanked her for being naughty,” my husband will tell them as he nods towards the chair. One or both members of the visiting couple often blanch upon hearing this: spanking isn’t “politically correct” these days.

“Your daughter is also named ‘Claire’,” the wife might say. “My, but you’re awfully strict. Do you really think she needs spanking?”

“Claire is my wife,” my husband will reply. “And, yes, she does need spanking.”

Then he’ll give me a hard swat on the bottom with his open palm and tell me to show the nice couple how I sit in the naughty chair.

So there I sit with my ankles crossed and my hands folded primly in my lap, looking straight ahead at the corner like a young lady should. And there I continue to sit till my husband tells me I can get up.

After serving my time in the naughty chair , my husband always ask me if I’ve learned my lesson. And I always say, “Yes Sir, Daddy.” And then he hugs and kisses me and all is forgiven, until the next time I’m naughty.

Sometimes, if I’m going to be sitting in the naughty chair for a really long time, my husband gives me a teddy bear to hold for company. But lately he’s letting me have a pencil and a notebook because he wants me to use the time productively.

You see, my husband wants me to write my story, and that of other girls like me, stories of being raised by exceptionally strict parents and attending exceptionally strict private schools where we were educated to be properly submissive young ladies.  And how we spend our married lives with “Daddy Dominants” who keep us in a submissive state, keep us very well in fact.

And how we learned to love this way of life.

I’m Claire and I’m naughty. I hope you like my stories.