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D is for Discipline

21 Jul

 
Criss-crosses mark the fleshiest spots of my cheeks; in surprise, the lines turn from white to red.
 
I’m not crying because it hurts.
 
I stretch my arms in front of me and hold them there. I glare at my elbows and command them to stay strong, stay locked, as I await the next stroke. Each moment I wait is an opportunity to rebel; each moment I submit is a victory.
 
Within those moments, my mind travels to my past, present and future. I regret. I rejoice. I see my potential and I weep.
 
Pain is the easy way out. A tangible trigger, the release it brings is safer than weeping without cause. Each stroke of the cane touches deeper than the skin, ushering me through my mind’s corridor of guilt, memories and secrets.
 
Pain is a lie. I do not cry because of it.
 
I cry because he sees me, because I allow him to. Together we navigate the maze of static, disciplining the unruly self who otherwise denies the existence of darkness to arrive at the center.
 
There is light there.
 

Asking

29 May

It was his frightfully solicitous tone — for a man typically so blunt — that told me my doom was now rather than later.
 
I poured fresh beer and returned to the kitchen where I loudly dropped the bottle opener in the drawer, which I then promptly slammed. When he appeared at my side and asked if there was anything he could do to help, I knew what was really being offered. It didn’t have anything to do with preparing dinner, a task I resentfully completed after rudely refusing his assistance.
 
The only help I needed was a spanking, but I wasn’t ready to admit it yet.
 
In truth, everything I did that day was tinged with resentment. Hating my tone, my body language, I couldn’t stop them. I was possessed by anger. I blamed it on hormones, stress, anything to shift the accountability.
 
With resignation, I cleaned up the dinner plates, rejoined him in the living room and asked him to please pause the movie — forcing myself to finally be polite. I took his hand and asked him to join me in the bedroom, closing the door behind us.

 
“I have been rude and grumpy,” I acknowledged in a stammer. “Could you please…spank me?”
 
“Oh, absolutely,” he said, his demeanor instantly shifting from the solicitous stranger to the Dom I knew. This was familiar ground, a certainty that soothed my resentment.
 
“Pants off and over the end of the bed,” he ordered as he placed pillows over the foot board. “Your behavior this weekend has been…well, it’s been pretty awful, hasn’t it?”
 
“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry,” I answered, already hearing the tears in my voice. I bent over the pillows with my hands clasped before me, as if in prayer.
 
With the removal of his belt, instincts told me that there would be little benefit of a warm-up. My instincts rarely fail me.

 
I may have asked for this, but what happened after was completely up to him. I accepted his hand, briefly, and then his belt. I accepted the strap. Finally, yes, I accepted the cane. It was hard and fast, punishing and cleansing. Despite my difficulty in maintaining position, it was all that we needed it to be.
 
My regret deepened with the color of my bottom. Every horrid comment, petulant shrug of my shoulders, stomp and huff were accounted for; each thwap and groan echoed in the room like forgiveness until there were no hard feelings left, no anger.
 
It was just us — the way we are, the way we should be.

Flashback Friday: I got stripes

20 May
Borrowing from American Spanking Society’s idea of Flashback Fridays, I will repost an entry from approximately one year prior. Hope you enjoy the trip down Memory Lane as much as I do!
 

It’s inexplicable, this recent addiction to Johnny Cash. I’ve always been a fan and I have a vinyl collection to prove it; but lately, I find Cash songs stuck in my head on an almost daily basis. The one that I’ve been humming since Friday night? “I’ve got stripes”:
 

On a monday I was ar-rested (uh huh)
on a Tuesday they locked me in the jail (oh boy)
on a Wednesday my trial was at-tested
on a Thursday they said guilty & the judge’s gavel fell
 
I got stripes – stripes around my shoulders
I got chains – chains around my feet
I got stripes – stripes around my shoulders
and them chains – them chains they’re about to drag me down

 
 
Except for me: I got stripes, stripes upon my sit spots/I got stripes, stripes upon my cheeks. I just hope I don’t sing it out loud.
 
The implement? Another crop: evil, inflexible, and cane-like, it was dressed in an innocuous, cheery pink nylon from Fleck. The reaction? Air hissing through my teeth, knees buckling after each stroke, it made an impact.
 
For a spanko, it’s difficult to find an actual physical punishment. But this was another job well done! (Please don’t mistake that as encouragement for a repeat session!)

Corner, Spank, Repeat

25 Apr

Confession made.
 
In the wake of my spluttering, there is nothing. You say nothing. Your body language gives little indication that you even heard me.
 

I wait for moments that feel like days. I wait so long and worry so hard that I can feel my first wrinkle crease my forehead, seeds of gray sprout and bloom in my blonde hair.
 
Your silence ages me; your silence erodes me.
 

There is no punishment greater than this mandated silence. I don’t dare cross my ankles or reposition my hands that are balled beneath my thighs. There is an itch on my arm, but I cannot scratch it. I fear breathing, so great is my desire to disappear in your moment of reflection.
 
For all of my outward stillness, there is a giant riot on the inside: Spank me! Send me to the corner! Wash my mouth out with soap! Do something before I come undone!
 

If you insist on silence, just point to that looming corner. Pantomime the removal of my pants before patting your thighs. You don’t need words for me to follow your instructions: corner, spank, repeat.
 
Give me the loud clap of forgiveness as hand meets cheek.

Breaking Bad

19 Apr

I cannot be bad.
 
I know right from wrong and act accordingly. I don’t cheat, lie or steal, smoke, drink irresponsibly or spend superfluously. I’m rarely catty, forsaking that middle-school urge for a more direct approach.
 
In short, I am precisely the woman I never thought I’d be while partying my way through undergrad: responsible, civic-minded, a model citizen (apart from that salt shaker I recently “borrowed” from Denny’s which I swear I will return).
 

When I’m spanked it’s most often a display of submission and sexuality rather than discipline and obedience.
 
But, dammit, I want to be bad.
 
I want the lecture, the equal measure of disappointment and remorse, the forgiveness and redemption. I want to sniffle and plead as I hesitantly unbutton my pants and implore him with my eyes and words. I miss the stomach-sickening uncertainty and the trust-affirming authenticity of a true disciplinary spanking.
 
I want to know that he loves me, even when I’m worse than bratty. I want him to take me even when I’m bad.
 

Do I manufacture this, this badness? Will that undermine my relationship with him — and would the discipline still be authentic?
 
Here’s my goal: set goals. Ask him to hold me accountable to them and offer true discipline when I fall short.
 
Not one to procrastinate, I shall start away.
 
Goal #1: start smoking. Perhaps I’m better at being bad than I thought, eh?

Knowing

28 Feb

I tell you right away, knowing that nearly two weeks separate us, twelve days of opportunity to forget.
 
It’s unlikely, but perhaps events between now and then will soften your resolve. Maybe if I write enough poetry and dedications, you will take pity and relent.
 
The first day ticks by and ends in a question: Do I feel guilty?
 

There is only one answer, the honest one, and I give it, knowing that it will seal my fate.
 
Why wasn’t my resolve strong enough to resist the alluring, but wrong, choice? Why couldn’t I anticipate this resulting anxiety — this bitter pit that occupies my stomach and makes my mouth go dry? I should have been pulled into line by my own moral compass, but I failed. And now I’ve had to confess to you, and let your compass guide me.
 
Yes, I feel guilty.
 
You pass sentence; my guilt must be assuaged.

I wait, knowing what you plan to do. I know you will not relent. You will not soften. You will not forget.
 
You never offer indifference or abandonment, and easy redemption would feel cold. It is not the way with us; I do not forgive myself so easily.
 
On the twelfth day, anxiety and guilt reside heavily within me as I make my way to you. I extract them with the unbuttoning, unzipping, and lowering of my pants.
 
I meet your eyes and I know your love.

Involuntary Movements

1 Feb


It’s like a facial tic, Tourette’s of the legs, epileptic seizures of the thighs. I’ve lost all communication with my calves and there is no stopping them: they curl protectively toward my clenching bottom.
 
It’s not a question of obedience. There is no bratty will at work here. There are invisible strings attaching the wooden spoon to my feet and, with each downward stroke, my lower extremities rise in reaction.
 
It’s quite unfair, then, when you deliver upon my thighs sharp reminders to hold my position, triggering yet another involuntary movement of my hand.
 

“Submit,” the spoon suggests. “Accept this,” it demands.
 
But my willful feet make nosy witnesses, straining to see the spots of deep pink blooming on my cheeks. My hands are natural Florence Nightingales, yearning to offer comfort to the wounded.
 
If I am to be disciplined for the ministerial work of my feet and hands, at least offer one concession: arrest them. Tie up those bad influences so they will no longer contribute to my delinquency. Tie them up so all that is left is me, submitting to you.

The 11th Hour

9 Dec

The 11th Hour: Used to describe the final moments of a given event or situation where change is still a possibility.
 
Perhaps…perhaps tonight, for the first time ever, he will relent.
 
Yes, she’s been told to wait for him. Yes, he had that determined tone in his voice, the one he uses to steel himself against her pleas. And yes, he told her to get in position on the bed, her bottom a white flag announcing surrender.
 
But maybe tonight will be different.
 

 
How dare he, anyway? This was her mistake. She does not need a tender, hot bottom added to the growing list of consequences. Just who does he think he is?
 
She does not need this spanking.
 
He must know that. He must know that she is truly sorry, so sorry that the words tripped across her tongue and twisted from her lips in a sentence that was not a sentence: verb, noun, regret, verb, regret.
 

 
There must be some other solution.
 
She’ll apologize, tearing up in disappointment with herself. She’ll promise never, ever to do it again. She’ll distract him with her caressing hands, her grateful mouth and her remorseful tears, making him forget his original intent.
 
He will take her in a flurry of forgiveness and together they will fold.

 
And then, he is there, his hand settling on the lowest valley of her back and her battle is over. She repeats her apologies, calmer now, resigned.
 
Her hand curls around his forearm and squeezes it, assuring him that she will not try to bargain even though this is difficult. As planned, she promises that she will not do it again, but her words are not an effort to avoid what will come next.
 
Their 11th hour reprieve is not escaping from discomfort, but rather embracing it. Their 11th hour reprieve is with her, over his knee, his hand forging forgiveness between them.
 

Ain’t too proud to beg

24 Nov

“Pride comes before a fall.”
 
-Proverb
 
I used to proudly state that nobody could make me cry with just a spanking. I am physically strong: there is nothing petite or dainty about my build. Being 5’11 and with a high pain tolerance, I know I posed a challenge to many a spanker — first with my long legs that rarely dangled and kicked helplessly, and second with my refusal to allow any pain to sink into my prideful heart and mind.
 
Yes, I could take quite the spanking. If I cried, which was rare, it wasn’t about the physical pain, but rather the emotional connectedness. I’ve written about this already.
 
Now there is an additional component. My bottom is betraying me these days. In addition to the emotional element, the pain is sinking in.

 
My coyness, once ceremonial, is now a sincere desire for the spanking to end — and sometimes for it not to even begin. I don’t understand this increased sensitivity. Is it hormonal? Weather change? Is D just spanking me harder, trying to find my growing limits? Or is my bottom always sensitive these days due to the frequent and vigorous attention that it receives?
 
D, of course, has noticed my panicked wriggling, my change in tone, my increased struggle.  He has commented on how quickly my voice fills with tears, way before I actually shed any.
 
He claims that he is “turning it up a notch”.  Perhaps I had grown complacent in receiving a spanking.  Perhaps his desire for dominance is quenched by making me truly submit — and true submission often means submitting to something we don’t necessarily want or think that we can take.

The result is a much more emotional experience. I, the Amazonian woman, become a pygmy over his lap, powerless to stop the onslaught of his hand. My surrender is both an emotional and a physical one requiring an enhanced trust in the man I call my own.
 
With him I am free to beg. I am free to plead. There is no disappointment in myself, either from him or me.
 
It turns out that I need this, as much as I don’t really want the pain. I need to know that I can be pushed to my outer boundaries, emotionally and physically, and be reigned in afterward by the safety of his arms.

What comes after

6 Sep

It has been done.

I am a drunk woman, inebriated by sensations, overcome by the warmth that spread like whiskey fire through my blood.

My vision is blurred and I would not recognize myself if I could make it to the mirror; as dizzy as I am, as unsteady as my legs are, I could not walk a straight line or find my nose in the dark. My fingers have no interest in a sobriety test — they are walking a crooked line across the raised highway of my heated cheeks, mapping the distance between each dip and curve.

The bedroom door closed behind him and my eyes lazily opened. He left me here to sleep; he thinks I’m sleeping already. Or perhaps he left me here to think, a task requiring neither silence nor solitude as I am flooded with thoughts and memories — I cannot stop remembering.

I remember when he grabbed my arm and steered me toward the bedroom, searched my eyes for understanding, satisfied when he found recognition laced with fear there.

I remember when he slid his hand from my elbow to my wrist, encircled it and guided me over his lap to begin his calm, low sermon in a tone that makes my spine tingle from neck to tailbone.

I remember how I struggled, at once remorseful and joyful that he would not let me up, would not let me off that easy. I remember when I stopped struggling and just let it happen.

I remember elation and not defeat.

My roaming hands comfort my assaulted bottom as I remember these things.

And although I am penitent, although I did not enjoy the spanking or this mandated time alone, I remember it all while a smile plays hide-n-seek with my lips.

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