So, the spanking from my previous post was over, but the realcitrant chapter was still waiting to be written, and so my sweetie Abel devised a cunning plan.
On Sunday last week he put on his stern face and told me to fetch a sheet of paper and a pen. And dictated to me the following:
Until I was well on the way to being a good girl, he said, I wouldn’t
be working at my lovely new rosewood desk in the living-room. Instead,
I would sit at a tiny school desk in the spare room, two paces away
from his study, so that he could check on me any time. I would wear my
school uniform until I was finished for the day. And if at any point he
noticed that I wasn’t doing what my timetable dictated, he would strap
me with a tawse. Really hard. And if I did it again, he’d strap me even
We have an authentic extra-heavy Lochgelly tawse, which I intensely
dislike even to play with. Not dislike-but-crave. Just dislike; it
And the strapping wouldn’t happen just at our weekly review, either, he
said. The supervision would be *constant*. I shouldn’t think that maybe
the first time I was naughty he would go easy on me, or that little
things wouldn’t count. Everything counted. And he really didn’t want to
give me that hard strapping, and he hoped I wouldn’t make him.
This, I must admit, freaked me out, and not in a good way. Because, you
see, it looked like I was somehow expected to reform overnight. I had
to combat years of slacking off habits – and I’d been perfecting them
since primary school – and just *become* this hard-working person that
I wanted, but didn’t know how to be.
I immediately drew a picture in my mind: the very first day I would do
my best, but my best wouldn’t be good enough, because I was bound to
slip up, and Abel would have to strap me. And I would be really sorry,
and we both would be really upset, and the next day I would try again.
And maybe even make it through the day, but very soon I would slip up
again. And he would have to strap me even harder. And it would be
disappointing for both of us, and I would try even harder than before,
but I was *guaranteed* to slip up again, and there would be a yet
Eventually, there would come a point where he wouldn’t be capable of
strapping me any harder, so he’d have to conclude I was incorigible.
Which I thought I was, anyway. Alternatively, I would start to feel so
uncomfortable at being bad, and so discouraged by my failures, that I
would throw all my energy at avoiding being caught. I’m very good at
that, believe me.
Either outcome would completely negate any disciplinary effort, and
would result in disappointment and confusion for Abel and viscious
attacks of self-loathing for me. I know this because, you see, it
happened before, only I didn’t get caught.
It took me only an instant to think all these doomed thoughts, and I opened my mouth to explain this to Abel, when he said:
“Just remember, the strapping isn’t inevitable. Think about it every time you’re tempted to slip off. You can do it.”
This was such an unfamiliar concept – the punishment not being
inevitable – that I closed my mouth with a clank, and blinked at least
five times in a row as the haze of doom was dissolving in front of me.
I could do it? Ya think? Wow.
I blinked a little more and set about preparing my workplace, and laying out my uniform for an early start. I even ironed my shirt, even though it had been ironed not so long before.
And I thought about the wonderful possibilities that *not* being
strapped gave you, like actually liking yourself from time to time, not
to mention being able to sit down.
So, if you’re reading this just for an account of spanking, I’ll spare
you the rest: there was no punishment last week. Apart from the fact
that I had to sit at the teeny desk, which was kinda a punishment by
itself. But the week was more about discipline, and hey, that’s what
this blog is *for*, isn’t it? Talking about discipline.
Here are some things that stand out in my mind:
Monday: Abel, a helpful lad that he is, put the Lochgelly on the desk.
The screen of my laptop shields it, sort of, but it’s very definitely
there. I’m so tense and afraid of misstepping, I ask permission for
every little thing. May I keep a bottle of water on my desk? What about
some lip butter? Can I throw the cat out and close the door? Abel says:
“You are not actually a schoolgirl, remember? You are a grown-up who is
being treated like a schoolgirl.” I relaxed a bit, just to be told off
for going to the bathroom in the middle of the third period without
asking permission. Insert some eye-rolling here.
Tuesday: I might have done double my comfortable word count the
previous day, and it may be very incouraging, but I’m exhausted. And I
haven’t actually read my email since Sunday – once the “school day”
ended, I couldn’t bear moving a brain cell. I can’t face even looking
at my paper again – but it’s only been one day, so I must. By lunchtime
I’m ready to weep with exhaustion. You know how they tell you to work
up muscle gradually, and not wear yourself out on the first day of
exercise? I wish some clever academic advised to go easy on schoolwork
if you haven’t done it for a while. Still, I’m determined not to blow
Wednesday: A guy is coming ’round to check our gas boiler, and so I
start the day wearing school shirt, sweater and socks with jeans.
Charming. The Lochgelly is still there. “You are not inevitable”, I say
to it. The bloody thing wiggles its tails at me, I swear. Mental
exhaustion is becoming physical, and it takes five minutes to think
every thought, and another five minutes to type it. Abel gives me a
generous permission to go to a dance practice in the afternoon,
provided I work late into the evening. For a chance to have a two-hour
break I’m ready to promise to actually take the paper into my dreams
Thursday: My newly-found goodness is put to the test: Abel has to leave
for a work trip in the morning. I actually have very little left to
write, and only some editing to do, but it’s been known to take days in
the pre-school-desk days. I wonder what I can force myself to do when
Abel isn’t likely to come into the room any second and find me out. Not
surprisingly, the morning is a struggle. Surprisingly, I manage to
soldier on for long enough to finish the bloody thing. Finish! It’s
done! My reward is going out for lunch with Tasha. I had been dreaming
of this sweet moment of freedom since Monday morning, and believe me,
it was a long, long time to spend in constant cravings.
Friday: Day off! Unfortunately I’ve been so absolutely shattered every
evening of the week, that I need to spend the day cleaning, rather than
chilling out with a glass of grapefruit juice. But I’ve never been so
happy to get out the vacuum-cleaner. And it feels so good to be out of
the uniform. It’s great for role-play, even extended, few-hours-long
role-play, but it’s incredibly uncomfortable to wear all day, every
day. Unrollable long sleeves drive me batty.
On Saturday Abel is back, and we have our weekly review. He is
adequately full of praise, and I feel smug beyond my modest
And here comes the blow.
I’m not off the punishment regime, oh no. The school desk stays up. The
uniform stays out. Abel is away all week, so the daily reports are
back, and last week’s arrangement stands: any little slip-up, and I get
thrown out of the ranks of good girls, with a massive strapping to
underline my disgrace.
My newly found confidence is immediately out of the window. It was one
thing to be so very good with Abel there, nudging me on. But listen, I
barely made it through Thursday, and all I had to do was edit the
paper. And now he expects me to be good again, all on my own, and any
tiny mistake completely blows all my effort and good work?
“But it’s never worked before,” I whine. “How can I be honest about my misbehaviour when the consequences are so utterly dire?”
“Do you mean,” he says, “that you haven’t always been truthful in your reports?”
I can’t believe he doesn’t know it anyway. I mean, is he not
telepathic? So I sigh and confess: yes, when we did the discipline
thing before, telling the truth was a lower priority than being in his
good books. That was why I needed such close supervision in the first
Girls who are dishonest aren’t worthy of living under a disciplinary regime, he says. Was I going to be honest or not?
An overnights reformation, again. But I can’t bear to be an unworthy
bad girl. That would be the scariest punishment of all. Can you imagine
being too bad to be punished?
With a sigh I say I’d be honest, and think that I hope he is ready for
the truth, because when I’m bad, I’m very, very bad, and an unprepared
person can be quite overwhelmed with the reality of it. But I want to
be good. I do.
“How many times have you lied to me?” he asks, breathing menace.
I say, three, maybe four. I don’t know.
As I hide my face in his chest, cringing, he tells me what my
punishment for dishonesty is going to be. Next week, when he’s back, he
expects to find a cane on the living-room table. I am to have 12 hard
strokes with it. And I should be grateful that he is so moderate with
the number of strokes, but that’s because I was brave enough to own up.
And he tells me to post about the upcoming punishment here, which I am
doing, and which is also quite incredible, given that he hasn’t
actually read the blog in its entirety, but is doing the exact same
thing as Pab did a couple of weeks ago. Is there a top telepathic
I don’t want that caning, but I think of it as earning a permission to
be a good girl: all past badness needs to be accounted for. Otherwise,
how is that overnight reformation going to happen?
Anyway… It’s a new week now, and I’m still here at my school desk,
but I’ll admit that I’ve rolled up my sleeves. I’m not prepared to be
completely good yet.