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What the...? July 24th Already?

Hello and welcome back to my spanking corner of the universe!

Sorry Folks. I did not mean for this much time to pass with no blog. Truly I intend on at least one per week. In August that will be a real thing because I'm going to go into book writing mode and I'll have excerpts for you. This is not to say I'm not currently writing--I always am--but I'm going to legit focus on The Story of You. I think I've finally figured out how to write it, but I need your opinions. Below is an excerpt.

But before I get into that, how often do you want to hear from Ol' Mock? Is once a week too much? Is every two weeks better? Or is once a week not enough? I was thinking I could write spanking shorts ... maybe, when I don't have any new content to share. Might be fun just to have two characters we follow that we're just here to, um, see spanked? This means SWP which means, Spanking Without Plot. Ha! So basically Mock Indulgence. I think I've already got names for them. And I can see them in my mind. Whaddya think?

I've also found a stash of spanking stories that are MINT. I'm gonna write about them in my newsletter which comes out 2X per month. The next one comes out on July 31st. If you're not subscribed go HERE and you can do so.

Other than that, yes I"m still writing the FANFIC I keep going on about. We're at over 110K words. *face palm* I swear I'm not bragging. And while yes, I'm grateful for the "problem" of having all the words, I have a lot of other stuff I need to do and this story won't let me. I have a neurodivergent brain. It's hard for me to let go of things even to pause. I've gotten better over the years but sometimes I just can't. I have to get to this one part which is unfortunately at the end of the story. I can't rest until I'm there and all other writing is on hold until I do. But I'm almost there. Was hoping to get there by tonight but looks like that will be tomorrow now. Attached is Dean in a kilt -- yup, my obsession took flight and Dean is in a kilt in this story. This is by the lovely Sparkle who indulges my strangeness. The poor thing has had to listen to updates about my strange story without me being able to show her because it's a mess and I have to do so much editing before it will begin to make sense to anyone. But LOOK! Isn't he pretty?

Dean Winchester in a Kilt by Sparkle Artz

All right, onto the other questions I have for you, dearest readers.

I think I've come up with a way to present The Story of You to the world in a way that will be fun and exciting. I'm going to share some of how I've written it already and then I'll put questions below. I would love your feedback. This story feels important to me. I'm so scared it's gonna fall flat.

What to know before reading the excerpt:

  1. Currently the story jumps from the present to the past and back and forth like that through a long timeline. Several stories converge to one and to the point in time where we've already experienced them (them as adults as we've read = present and them as kids = the past). When Silas tells us what happened, he's him as "an adult telling us what happened."

  2. I think we've guessed they've all had abusive childhoods. I don't think I'm ever going to go into graphic detail but it will be enough details that it's going to be triggering for someone so beware. Though I really hope the story as a whole will end up being healing for someone who it might trigger overall.

  3. I'm going to have to change the timeline a bit as it feels more right for the "past" to have taken place in the eighties. Like, mid-eighties. So just go with that for now, all will be edited and fixed by the time it's all done.

  4. Even though it's "the eighties" this is still my fictional world and as we know, LGBTQ+ is always AOK in my worlds. As it should have always been. I don't write it not being OK. This is not to ignore the awful things our community experiences, this is MY way of making a place where we all belong. Being able to experience a story without having to worry about our sexuality being a controversy. "Normalizing" (for lack of a better term) sexual diversity in literature without it being a fucking controversy, more like.

The Story of You Chapter 5 (I think)


Darius and I waited up all night. Then we waited at the window so we could see the car pull up with them and our new brother. No one would bring us to the hospital. Mother was too exhausted. The cancer diagnosis had come near the end of her pregnancy. We were told the baby would be fine. Since the due date was so close, Mother refused the harsh cancer treatments, postponing them until after the pregnancy. The physician said she would be okay. She agreed to scheduling a C-section for her due date and then either way he would be here by that day.
Father was beside himself. He made those decisions in our home. He wanted Mother to begin treatment immediately. Nothing he said could make her though. Submission requires compliance.
I was caught in the middle. I was only fifteen. I didn’t know enough to form an opinion. I saw Mother’s points and Father’s. I knew Father was coming from a place of worrying over her. Mother was worried for the baby.
Darius was eleven. He acted out. Mother was his favorite person. He hadn’t wanted the baby in the first place and claimed ‘it’ caused her to get cancer. Father spanked him a lot and sent him to his room with increasing frequency but it did little more than piss him off.
As if Oliver knew, he arrived two weeks early. All of us were relieved. Baby was here. He was safe and she could start her treatment. But when I saw her leaning heavily on Father as he escorted her into the house, I knew something was very wrong. To this day, I don’t know why they let her leave the hospital like that. I blame the eighties.
I always tell Oliver Father placed him in my arms but it’s a metaphor and it sounds nicer than what actually happened. He was an afterthought. “Go get the baby, Silas. You’ll need to take care of him while I help your mother,” he said.
I stared at him, blankly. I was going to look after a newborn? I’d barely looked after Darius.
And that statement could have meant anything. “You’ll need to take care of him while I help your mother to bed.” Or, “You’ll need to take care of him while I get your mother set up with food and water.”
I knew what he meant by it. I knew because I could read him. He didn’t plan on having anything to do with Oliver until Mother was better.
“Get moving, boy,” he said when I didn’t head out quickly enough.
Darius’s eyes were wide as quarters, and in that moment we formed an alliance that would withstand the shitstorm that was about to befall us. He promised me without words that he would follow behind me.
I slipped on my sandals and so did Dar. We raced out the door, slowing when we got closer to the car. The door was left open. Anyone could have walked by and snatched him up. The beautiful, rainbow-patterned blanket in baby pastels that the neighbor had crocheted for him as a gift, hung down and out the car door. We couldn’t see this part of the car from the window, but I have an image my mind’s filled in over the years of Mother trying to grab for Oliver and Father tearing her away too weak to fight him. The blanket left to show the struggle.
Oliver was crying. Screaming. My heart raced like never before. I had no idea what to do with a creature so tiny. Darius and I stared at the car door for what seemed like ages. “Do we just shut the door and leave it there?” Darius said. He was scared too.
It was time for me to man up and be the big brother. “Don’t be an idiot. Come on.”
I remember exactly what I was wearing. It was nineteen eighty-four. I had just been to a Duran Duran concert a few months before when we didn’t know Mother had cancer and everything was still normal. It was a white crop top, sleeveless with the five members in black ink, and ’84 Tour and ‘Duran Duran’ in large lavender font. I wore a pair of cut-off jean shorts, my mid-drift showed. My hair was long and bone straight. It hung to my waist. I thought I was so fucking cool.
I was.
Oliver had a set of fucking lungs on him from the get-go. If there was any concern about him being born weak because Mother had been ill while she carried him, it was promptly erased.
We peered into the car.
“He’s funny looking,” Darius said when he set eyes on him. “He looks just like you. You could be the Father.”
I clapped his cheek on either side gently, it didn’t hurt, but I knew it was annoying as fuck. “Smarten up.”
He backed away scowling. “Lay off, Silas.”
I climbed onto the seat of Father’s SUV. I was getting tall even then, but Oliver was in the middle of the backseat. The end of the blanket covered half his face which made me wonder how Darius could tell he looked like me. Darius says a lot of things to get a rise out of people, but he has a keen eye for that sort of thing even when working with very little—I didn’t know which it was.
Either way, he was right. Oliver somehow looked just like me and we looked like our green-eyed Mother. My heart clenched and I swear my arteries tangled preventing blood to properly flow for a good five seconds. He was tiny and helpless. His cries hurt my nerves and pierced me. He had just been abandoned by his parents and it was like he knew.
I fell for him. Hard.
“Ugh. He’s so loud, Sye,” Darius said putting his hands over his ears. “Do something.”
The first thing I did was frown at Darius. He stuck his tongue out at me. Ignoring him, I turned back to Oliver.
“Okay. Okay, okay. I’m here now.” It took me a couple of minutes to figure out the stupid car seat and then I picked him up like you would an egg, wrapping him snugly in the crocheted blanket. He stopped crying. He fell asleep. I wanted to protect him from the whole world.
“Well, that turned out.” Darius watched me shut the car door carefully so I wouldn’t wake him. “What do we do now?”
I didn’t have a fucking clue. I was staring at his little face, my heart swelling. “Let’s start by going inside.”
The gravity of my situation didn’t sink in right away because Father was some help in the beginning. He gave me instructions as to how to make a bottle from formula—Mother was too sick to breastfeed him—and change diapers. “Look Silas, you’re going to have to stay home from school for a bit and help out,” he said to me that first night.
A pit formed in my stomach. “For how long, sir?” I had a perfect GPA which I needed to get into medical school. I didn’t want to ruin it. He knew that.
“For as long as it takes.” The look he gave was not one you argued with.
Unless you’re Darius. “That’s horseshit, Dad. Get Uncle Paxton to come help.”
“Go to your room. Don’t bother coming out till school tomorrow.”
Darius stormed off. He was lucky that’s all Father did. But Darius was right. Uncle Paxton could have come to help. Our parents were from small families. We had an Uncle on Dad’s side and an Aunt on Mom’s, her sister. Mom’s sister lived in Hawaii with her husband and three children who were all young at the time and she couldn’t leave them for long. Our grandparents from Mom’s side had already long passed. Mom’s dad died of alcoholism when I was five. Gramma when Darius was six from a series of strokes.
Father was estranged from his parents. That left Uncle Paxton, Father’s twin brother.
“Look, let’s see how things go and then I’ll ask Pax. I’d rather not though. I don’t want anyone involved in our family’s business,” he said when Darius was gone (we heard the door slam from upstairs). “Sometimes we have to grow up quickly, Silas. It’s time for you to be a man. Do me proud. Look after your brothers and I’ll get your mother through this. Teamwork.”
I wanted him to be proud of me so fucking badly. I wanted to be a team player.
So, I mixed bottles. I rocked Oliver to sleep. I went to bed with dried formula on my best concert shirts. I never went back to school. I somehow managed to finish that year. Father brought my schoolwork home for me. I don’t know what he told them and why they were okay with such an arrangement. I guess you could get away with that kind of thing in the eighties. Gone was my straight A average but I squeaked by with straight B’s.
When Father went to work, I looked after everyone. I would strap Oliver into his stroller after I’d forced food into Darius and yelled at him enough he finally got dressed, and then walk him to the bus stop where the yellow school bus would pick him up. “She should be in a hospital,” Darius would say.
“Father knows what he’s doing, Dar.” Our Father was a surgeon. He knew how to look after Mother, give her meds, give her pain killers. At that time, I trusted him implicitly. He was run ragged too. I watched as he massaged her feet and brought her fresh-squeezed juice. He would sit behind her as she laid against him and sing to her. He’d run fingers through her hair. “Go to school and let the adults worry about the adult things.”
“You’re a huge veiny, dick.”
I swatted his ass for that. He fingered me as he got onto the bus.
I’d make the short trip home, pushing Oliver in the stroller, trying not think about school. I wanted to be there with my friends. I wanted to go to more concerts. I wanted to illegally drink beer under the willow trees and dive off the dock when summer drew near.
Guilt gnawed at my stomach. Oliver needed me. He had no one in the world but me. Mother needed me too. She was withering.
When I’d get home, I’d warm up a bottle for Oli and some soup for Mother. I’d set Oliver beside her on the bed and put her tray together. “Silas honey, I’m sorry about this. I’ll be better soon. By the end of the summer. You’ll be back at school in the fall,” she would say. Her voice was weak. Her hair was falling out from the chemo. Her eyes looked bruised. Her chest rattled.
Mother wasn’t going to get better, and I knew it, but I wasn’t going to say it out loud. “I know, Mama,” I said. I had begun to use Darius’s endearment for her. “Don’t feel bad. I’m happy to do this for you.”
“You shouldn’t be looking after a baby at fifteen. Where’s your uncle Paxy?”
If she didn’t know why he wasn’t there, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell her and stress her out further. “I’m sure he’ll get here soon,” I’d tell her.
Father didn’t care for me bringing the baby in to see her. He said it stressed her out but Mother would beg for me to bring him in for snuggles with her and so I did.
Darius grew angrier. “Something’s not right, Silas. I know you’ve got some kind of hard on for Dad but see past the hero-worship dude.”
I had just put Oliver down. I hadn’t slept in days. If I wasn’t up with Oliver, then it was Mom puking her guts out and Father wasn’t cleaning that up. I was tired of dealing with shit from Darius too. I slapped him across the face. “Where the fuck did you learn to talk like that? You little shit. Watch your fucking mouth. If Father hears you talking like that, he’ll throw you out the window with the mood he’s in.”
“You asshole!” Darius lunged at me. I was bigger and stronger and held him back, but he was clever and wily still getting a hefty punch in on me.
Father walked in to witness our violent outburst. He pulled us apart like naughty kittens and decided to blame me because I was older. It was out of character for him. Looking back, I think that’s when it began though I can’t say for sure. “I don’t know what the hell went on in here, but you know better Silas. Pants down and lay over the bed.” We were in Darius’s room.
I was so fucking tired, I didn’t argue. I undid my jeans.
“I started it,” Darius volunteered.
“I don’t care. Maybe next time you won’t cause trouble.”
Dad removed his belt and without ceremony laid ten stripes across my ass. They had all his power behind them. I’m not sure I’ve ever hit Lakshan as hard as he laid into fifteen-year-old me and he likes being laid into severely. I didn’t. I tried to muffle my screams so Mom wouldn’t hear, so Oliver wouldn’t wake up and so Darius wouldn’t be forever traumatized.
At least Mom didn’t hear.
“You two behave yourselves. I’ve got enough shit to deal with,” he said before he left.
I was crying silently but I heard Oliver wake up, so I forced myself to roll over immediately flinching—the pain was so bad. I caught sight of Darius’s face. It was red and he was crying. He looked like he’d watched a murder and maybe he had. Something died that day. “Th-There’s blood, Sye,” he cried.
I closed my eyes and opened them again, gathering the strength to be stone. Gathering the fortitude to pretend everything was okay in hopes he would believe me. “C-Can you go get Oliver? Bring him in here.” My lip wavered as I breathed through the fire.
His head nodded frantically, and he ran out. I made myself pull up my stripped, Cotton Loom boxer shorts and pull my jeans the rest of the way off. I’d have to deal with myself later. Oliver was still tiny at two months. He fit on Darius’s twin bed with us.