It sort of begins in a low simmer.
I'm angry with Jason. It's not even his fault, really. I mean, sometimes it is. He's not perfect. But this time, it's a bunch of things, as it often is.
I'm feeling all weird and insecure about a few things. An ongoing issue with one of my children persists, and though things have improved, it still continues to be draining. I'm very tired, and my reserves are down then. I'm supposed to go to Jason the minute I'm feeling this way. And I do. But he's busy, and he brushes me off. I go downstairs, and I'm ready to lose it. Finally, something pushes me over the edge. I rarely really lose my temper anymore. It's not allowed. And I have much better systems in place now for managing my frustrations, but this time, I lose it.
I storm around the house muttering and yelling at the kids. It seems I've spent all day trailing behind everyone and picking up after them, and can't anyone else do anything around here? It's just normal daily stuff that on a good day, I'd just face and deal with, ask my kids to pick up their things or sweep a floor or whatever. But I'm simmering today, feel like I've been repeating myself for days, and it doesn't take much to set me off at a full boil.
Jason comes downstairs, hears me, and gives me “the look.” He holds up a hand. “Five.” It is not a number for how many swats I'm going to get this time. Five means I'm in trouble. And at that point? I don't even care.
I take a damp dishtowel in my hand and whip it across the room. “Yeah. Yeah, I know,” I mutter at him. I know I'll get in trouble, but in my head right now? I'm flipping him off. I'm still sort of blaming him. It was childish, and selfish of me in this instance, I'll readily admit, but hey, I'm aiming for transparency here, folks. I was pissed off, and in my mind, thinking, “You want me to behave? Oh yeah? Then make me, big guy.”
I don't recommend that. Really, I don't.
“Is that how it's gonna be?” he asks. “Fine, then. Ten.”
Code: “Girl, you're gonna get your ass whipped for this.”
I storm upstairs and pick up my phone and text Maisy, my best friend who knows all about us, because sometimes she can haul me off the edge when I'm losing my mind. I tell her simply what's going on and say something like I'm in huge trouble and I DON'T EVEN CARE.
She responds right away, “Oh, honey, yes you do, you really really do.”
She knows. I've been here before, and it never ends well for me. She reminds me that getting myself under control right now, and going upstairs and lying down and counting to ten, or a thousand, is likely in my best interest, and she says one thing that is perhaps exactly what I need to hear right now. “If you control yourself now, Jason will be proud of you. You know that.”
She's right. I know she's right. I remember the last time I was in this place of “too far gone to care.” It was about six months ago. And after the reckoning with Jason over that issue, I remember telling myself do not ever let yourself get to the “flip him off” stage again. Well, here I am.
The night winds down quickly. Our kids need us, and I am on my own upstairs. I put the little ones to bed and Jason manages everything else. I stay upstairs, and as the house quiets, I hear him come up. I've calmed myself down now. I mentally prepare myself for one of two scenarios:
Option one: he comes upstairs completely spent, too angry to deal with me and sends me to bed without another word. I hate when that happens. I hardly sleep a wink. But I'm prepared to deal. He can't just go on auto-pilot-dom-mode at will. I mean, let's be honest here. Was I in auto-pilot-sub-mode? Ha. Hell, no. I'd taken a good hour to get myself even prepared to begin to submit.
And then there's option two: he would come upstairs and spank me soundly.
Neither option sounds very palatable, but I'm reasonable enough and experienced enough in all of this to know that I really need option two. It's out of my hands now, though.
He comes in the room...strolls in the room, actually...and says in a low voice, almost teasing. “Little girl, what am I going to do with you?” He sort of clucks his tongue, and shakes his head. “What to do with you? Oh, that's right. I know exactly what I'm going to do with you.” I remain quiet. I know he is not joking.
He's taking control.
If it were just the two of us now, very likely he wouldn't be getting ready for bed. If it were just the two of us, I'd have been spanked the minute the first shout came out of my mouth, sooner even. He'd be unbuckling his belt and pulling it through the loops, and likely ordering me to strip and lay over the bed. I've been there. A serious infraction like what I've done would earn a strapping. But he needs to make sure our kids are all asleep, and even then, he rarely uses the belt, as it's quite loud.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed so I can get ready for bed and he pierces me with a look. One index finger points to the bed. “I said you could move?”
I slink back on the bed and remain quiet. He's in control right now, and I best do what he says. I don't say a word.
He gets himself ready for bed, and I lay there silently, waiting for permission to move. After a few minutes, he tells me, “You may go get ready for bed now.” I do, sort of dragging my feet, because I know I'm getting a spanking. I don't cross lines like that and get away with it. But I'll wait for his instructions.
When I'm prepared for bed, I come into the room. It's dark. I shut and lock the door, and walk over to my side of the bed. I'll lay there until he calls me to him. I don't know if he needs time to control his anger, or he wants me to wait. Sometimes he prefers I wait. But as I go to my bed, he stops me.
“Where do you think you're going? Get over here.” He's sitting on the edge of the bed. Dread begins to pool in my stomach. He's sitting on the edge of the bed near the implement drawer. When he sits at the foot of the bed, he takes the rod out of his desk drawer. That thing is hard to take, but nothing compared to some of the wicked implements in the drawer. I know before I drag my feet over to him what will happen. He will not pat his leg and ask me to lie over his lap. No.
As soon as I'm within arm's reach, his hands are around my waist, and I'm hauled over his lap. There is no prelude. In seconds, I'm bared, and I feel the first painful bite of the brush.
“Tell me,” whack! “Why,” whack! “I'm spanking you!”
Every single word punctuated with the whack of that awful brush. I squirm and yelp, and do my best to pant out the replies. “I yelled and swore and lost my temper!”
“That's right,” he says, continuing to rain down swat after wicked swat. I'm twisting on his lap. I can't help it. This type of spanking hurts so badly I can hardly bear it.
“You. Lie. Still.” His leg traps mine and now I'm pinned. The paddling goes on and on. Finally, he stops. But I'm not repentant. I'm still angry. In fact, oddly, the spanking dredged up even more of my anger at him. He stops spanking me, releases my legs, and places the brush down.
“What's gotten into you?” He asks. And he blames some of the things I've been doing. But finally, the anger bubbles up and I'm yelling at him which I know is stupid when I'm still bared and over his lap, and the brush is right next to him, but I can't seem to help myself.
I blurt out something like “No! It's not my fault! Maybe if you spent less time focused on your stupid game and more time focused on me I wouldn't have gotten so far gone!”
It's embarrassing to admit I was that bratty. But I was. I did speak what was on my mind. Usually if I'm angry like that and he's just spanked me, I'm able to keep a lid on my temper and then very quietly and respectfully say something like, “I feel a bit neglected. I wish I'd been able to spend a bit more time with you today. Do you think you could spend some time with me tomorrow?” But nope, not this time.
So, naturally, he picks that brush up again. “Is that right?” he asks. “Is that how this is going to go, little girl?” And he resumes the spanking with renewed vigor, continuing until he breaks through to me. Round two.
I'm sorry now. The brat is gone. It's been thoroughly spanked out of me. He releases me and orders me to bed. I crawl over to my pillow, repentant and humbled, and mumble an apology. He climbs in next to me. But there's so much I need to say. There's so much on my mind and heart. I'm fully chastened and sorrowful. My bottom throbs from the sound paddling he's just given me. But I still need him.
“Come here, now,” he says gruffly, hoisting me up in his arms and I curl up on his chest. And then I tell him.
It all spills out. Every last bit of the worries and fears and frustrations. And the tears fall.
I don't always cry during a spanking. Tears are an emotional reaction, and it takes certain conditions to reach that point. Now that the brat has been spanked out of me, and he's holding me, now that remorse is in full swing, and I'm free to let it all out, it all comes out.
I'm crying freely now, dampening his t-shirt with my tears. I wonder if he's still upset with me, and I ask him.
“No. I'm not angry. I'm giving you space to vent, and I want you to let it out now.” I do. And he apologizes immediately for his part in all this, which was minimal but still there. And I talk and talk and talk. I tell him everything. And this is when a funny thing often happens.
After a hard discipline session with Jason, I'm laid bare. And sometimes, when I'm in that aftershock of a sound spanking, emotions I have that I couldn't name or even recognize before, surface. And now I'm weeping because I miss my dad.
My dad loved the spring. It was one of his favorite times of year. I miss sitting with him in the car, while we drove together. He was always singing, with the windows rolled down, and all was right with the world. He was such a happy guy. He loved to laugh. He was not a perfect father, but he loved me. And, oh I miss him so very much.
Just typing it all out now starts me crying again. It's an almost indescribable connection...Jason disciplining me, and the emotions connected to everything else in me...this is it, the difference right there, between a sexy spanking and discipline. The “realness” is more deeply connected to who I am than merely the sexual side of things. The desire for this relationship runs deep. Yes, it's incredibly erotic. Those of us wired this way find the attraction to a strong, no-nonsense, authoritative man is just about the sexiest thing there is. Nothing turns me on more than being dominated by my man. And yes, the discipline side of things is rare. I've said it many times, but it bears repeating. It's the side of things I like the least but need the most.
The quiet comes then. The quiet after a spanking and a good cry, while he holds me. He's still very much in his stern place, though. “You will go to sleep now.”
I ask if I may read. I'm still a little wired.
But he says no reading allowed tonight. He wants me to sleep, not get caught up in a book, and he orders me to roll over and lay quietly. I obey. I'm quiet now. So quiet. And I lay there in the dark, while he nestles his hand against my hip, and I think, “I should blog about this. How this lifestyle picks up all the pieces and puts them all back together, until it all makes sense again.” How things can be askew, and my feelings and emotions may be confusing and frustrating, but how after a good spanking and a good cry, I feel at peace with the world again. I should blog about this, because this is the reality of a D/s relationship. This is why I blog. Tomorrow, when I wake up, I'll write about what happened and how it made me feel.
And so...I do.