It’s been a long time since I’ve been really, really punished, so long I’ve forgotten what it’s like.
I come in on a Friday night and I’m exhausted. My kitchen is a mess, so I start cleaning it up, putting things away, when Jason comes downstairs. Without thinking, I spout off a snarky comment. In two quick strides he’s next to me, one arm wrapped around me and with the other… whack! … he hands a searing swat on the seat of my jean-clad backside. I blink, startled, and hang my head, immediately put in my place as he whispers in my ear, “You do not talk to me that way,” and gives me stinging ass a little squeeze as a reminder.
I nod and apologize. Instantly repentant. I was out of place and he put me right back in my place. I’m quiet and humbled, and when he brings it up a little bit later, I apologize. We’re good now. I get ready for bed, and I’m still a little humbled, but I’m feeling different things now.
I haven’t been punished in so long, the hard swat has brought up a longing in me that I truly can’t deny. I sort of... miss when he used to punish me. I don’t even try to decipher the weird contradiction. I never did actually like being punished. But I miss his calm, stern authority, and I needed that reminder.
But now twenty-four hours later, I’m laying in bed, awake, and he’s sleeping.
I broke a rule. It was before he’d even swatted me, but I forgot to tell him. And now… now I’m facing a very real punishment. He’s still asleep, and I can’t tell him until he’s awake, later. And I will be punished. He doesn’t let things slide when I break a serious rule, and it’s a serious one I broke, not intentionally but because I wasn’t focusing. I should have been focusing.
But now that I know I not only need to confess, but I’ll be punished for it, I don’t feel so attracted to this punishment thing anymore.
It was all well and good with a swat. But…this will be more than a swat. I get myself a cup of coffee and muster up my courage. I chat with a submissive friend, who sympathizes and even says she breaks the same rule and is punished for it sometimes, which really does help.
Finally, he’s awake. I bury my head on his chest so I don’t have to look at him.
“I have a confession to make,” I say, my voice shaking a bit. I do not want to do this so badly, tears already cloud my vision. He doesn’t let me get away with the hiding, but reaches for my chin, lifts my face, and makes me look him in the eyes.
“What is it? What do you have to tell me?” he asks, already stern and serious, his blue eyes focusing on me with the dominance that I crave but makes me squirm under the full penetration of his glare.
It’s so much better in the books. In real life, I want to crawl under the covers and pull the blanket up over my head.
In a rushed whisper, I tell him. He nods and listens, and now he lets me bury myself back on his chest. “I’ll spank you for that,” he says. “Why did you do it?” And I explain as he listens, and you know, he’s sweet about it. In his quiet, steadfast way, he asks me why he has rules for me. I tell him, tears starting, as I know he loves me so very much. He says he understands, but that a good spanking will help me remember to be good.
He’s right. I know he is. But there’s so much that goes on with a punishment. It hurts. I cry. And when it’s a serious punishment, I have a bit of an emotional hangover that takes some time to dissipate.
I hate being punished. I hate knowing I did something worthy of it.
But, this is why it works, too. At least in part.
When the time comes, he calls my name, and my stomach drops to my toes. I ask myself for the millionth time, why did you want this again?
The other night when he swatted me, I’d forgotten all this. My feet, lead weights, as I drag them upstairs and he waits for me. The way he looks at me when I come in the room, and says, “Lay over the edge of the bed.” The way my hands tremble when I bare myself for him, and the sense of sadness I get when my belly hits the bed instead of his lap. Over his lap, I can bear punishment more easily, with the warm assurance of his presence underneath me. Over the bed, this is sheer punishment. But, I obey. I have to. We do this for so very many reasons, and I’m not turning back now. Bared, still trembling, I hold the bedspread in my hands as he picks up his belt and stands behind me.
One direct question this time, with no real lecture. He asks why he’s going to punish me. I answer, close my eyes, and he begins. It stings, it burns, every smack of his leather belt making me come to the tops of my toes, it hurts so badly. Over the bed, strapped like this, I have nowhere to hide, no excuses, there’s nothing but me, my guilt, and his leather belt.
He doesn’t spank long, but firmly, before he lays his belt down and I hear the drawer to his desk slide open. Out comes the wicked plastic cane thing. It’s a found implement, one that has a whippy flat end and a thuddy other end. He uses both, until I can hardly stand it. My tolerance is gone. I can’t take this anymore. And then he’s done. And I’m crying, rubbing the heels of my hands in my eyes like a little girl, the tears flowing freely as he climbs up on the bed and says, “Come here now, baby.”
There are some who say that aftercare mitigates the effects of punishment. I wonder if they have ever been spanked by someone they love more than life itself.
Yes, now I’m climbing up in his arms blubbering all over him without apology, and he’s holding me to soothe me, running his warm, strong hands over the sting and ache, and telling me he loves me. Yes, now I want to crawl right up inside him and hold him so tight it hurts, my arms wrapped around him as I sniffle out my repentance. Him holding me like this does not make me want to be punished. No. It makes the punishment bearable.
After some time, my tears abate and I’m with him in the quiet, but our day is young yet. So I wipe my eyes and go about my day, with a quiet, humble spirit.
I’m not quite over it until the next day, when I finally wake up having slept it all off. I’m no longer sad, but quiet. Humbled. Determined to do better. In love. Thankful.
Punishment is both everything and nothing I remembered, and I’m once again reminded of how challenging, yet rewarding, it is to be his submissive.