Eric read my last two posts; two I might add, I was tempted to delete. They started a conversation. Good enough.
"Amy," Eric leaned in and kissed me on his way to the garage this morning. "We're going to be taking inventory tonight so be ready."
I assumed he meant at work. I assumed he meant he'd be home later than usual. I assumed "be ready" meant, "you're on your own again tonight". I assumed wrong.
"Tonight is not about discipline or playtime or a reset. As my role as HOH, it is important to me that whatever spanking implement I use, in whatever situation, is appropriate. Therefore, tonight we will be taking an inventory of every implement we own. You will receive ten swats with your jeans on and ten swats on your bare bottom. You will rank each one by it's level of intensity so I can do a better job."
I stood speechless (a rare occurrence) while my mind surveyed the array of thoughts, emotions, and feelings I was suddenly experiencing. It was obvious Eric understood my fear of trying ttwd to get me to a better place, with the threat of it not working, a disappointing blow I'm not sure I could handle. "Inventory" is not personal. There is no end game expectation beyond a count and ranking.
Emotionally, I need a good cry and spankings rarely bring me to tears but inventory? Might just be impersonal enough to take me to the edge and possibly over it.
And physically, I got that tingling feeling in my butt that happens whenever my husband utters the name, "Amy Lynn!" or says those words, "Upstairs young lady!". Is it just me? Do you get that break out of goose bumps on the back of your legs, that wet spot, the tingle, and a flock of butterflies in your stomach? Inventory. The feelings were all there.
This afternoon, I'll be carefully cleaning out our chest and lining each implement in a row on our kitchen counter. The scale is one to ten; one being light and ten bringing immense pain. I'm not frightened and I don't have an unrealistic list of expectations of what is to come. After all, it's just inventory.