Being Good

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
sucks, OK?

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
harder strapping.

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.”

I can?

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.
school-deskI 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.

: 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

: 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
with me.

: 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.

: 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.

9 thoughts on “Being Good

  1. Tasha

    It’s scary to be in your head for this. I think I preferred the short synopsis I had before. But not only are you a Good Girl; you are a Brave Girl. I can’t think of anything more difficult than owning up to dishonesty. And next week… well, you know where to find my shoulder.

  2. domino

    Oh!! I don’t envy you having to wait so long for your punishment!
    But I agree with Tasha – you are a very Brave Girl. Confessing one’s misdeeds, especially when the misdeed is having been ah… creative with the truth is very hard.


  3. Lil

    My heart (and my butt) ache for you but there is nothing as refreshing as clearing the slate. I know the cane very, very well and it is truly the most dreaded of implements for me.
    I do have a morbidly curious question for you and anyone else who may care to answer, though. How “hard” is “hard” for him (and/or you)?
    I’m quite sure that punishment will leave many marks, but how severe will it be? I’ve been caned hard enough to draw a little blood but the hardest stroke I ever received actually opened the skin a day after the punishment, and remained there for weeks. The scab only recently vanished and although I wore the scar proudly as a reminder of having survived the punishment, I still regret bringing on such a severe spanking in the first place.
    It is NEVER the severity of the physical pain that is the most difficult to bear, but rather the emotional pain of having let someone down (besides yourself, which is worst of all).
    I feel for you as you anticipate and dread this punishment but you are indeed very, very brave and you WILL be a better person for it once it is over.
    Lots of mental hugs coming your way!

  4. Haron

    Tasha and Domino: It’s not that I’m brave. It’s that in the heat of the moment I speak before I think, and that includes confessing to spankable offences. Although I do like to believe I would have confessed even after having thought about it.
    Lil: I honestly have no idea how hard our “hard” is. The marks are not an accurate way to measure it, because the tolerance of my skin has changed with experience. A cane stroke that would have left me with a purple stripe for weeks when I started out, nowadays will leave a mark that will be gone the next day.
    I suppose, you could measure it by pain tolerance. I guess you could apply this criterion to any person: a stroke that hurts at your pain threshold and beyond is “hard”. A stroke that doesn’t but smart is not.
    If you measure it like this, you could say that my punishments are hard: they certainly hurt beyond what I’d choose for them to do at the time. Whether there’ll be marks depends on an implement and where the stroke lands, but the punishment doesn’t stop until I feel I’ve been properly, well, punished.
    As for the physical strength of the stroke – well, that is usually harder when we play than during a punishment spanking. Because when we play, my pain tolerance is a great deal higher.
    Hope this makes sense. 🙂

  5. Mija

    I’ve read this over several times (nice pictures btw) and really felt for you. I’ve tried several times to jump from zero to hard work in a few days and ended up with terrible headaches and also having to admit to dishonesty. Your struggle is really admirable. 🙂 I hope last week went well, but whatever happened you learned (or relearned) that you can write a lot in a few days. That’s something worth knowing and remembering. 🙂
    As to the question about punishment and pain. For me punishments always hurt more, I think partly because of my shame and partly because I know I can’t really ask for mercy. Though I don’t safe word when we play (well, save once when the alternative was messy) usually, knowing I could makes a difference. While if I safeworded during a punishment, Pablo would stop, having the reason be “it hurts too much” would be a violation of trust. Even at my worst I can’t do that.
    I’ve got some more thoughts on all this, but they’re very disorganized. But thank you for sharing this. It can’t have been easy at all. But you should be very proud of yourself. 🙂

  6. Kate

    But…but…how are you expected to work hard all day in a room full of *toys*??? That just seems so unfair. The deck is totally stacked against you.
    FWIW, I can’t face that tawse either. I’ve tried. I thought I could do it if I just psyched myself up for it this time, but honestly, I think it was handcrafted by the Devil himself.
    Hang in there, kiddo.
    P.S. I split on your father. 😉

  7. Haron

    Well, Kate, I guess, the threat of that tawse is so bloody effective exactly because I don’t want anything to do with it. 😉 It’s worked so far…
    P.S. :-P~~~~~~~

  8. Lil

    I’ve been thinking about you and have realized that certainly you have by now had to face your punishment, and that dreaded cane. How was your week as you anticipated what was coming? Do you feel better now? Was it as awful as your mind thought it would be or did you feel mostly relief just to get it over with?

  9. Haron

    Lil, I’ve been away for a few days, but now I’m back, I’ll soon be posting about how the events have developed. Thanks for thinking of me!


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