It seems that a lot of our musings about the discipline lifestyle have to do with reconciling fantasy and reality. May I gently shove you all in the direction of this fascinating post by DykeGrrl, where she explores the difference between spanking relationships in her various stories and her own life with her very real wife.
While you're at it, take the time to read about the poor girl's punishments in the surrounding posts; she does suffer so. 🙂
P.S. I do, in fact, have an actual punishment to tell you all about, but not before I do a lot more work than I've been doing in the last week. Stay tuned.
There are punishment spankings and there are discussion spankings. Last Saturday was a bit of both.
The former type, punishment spankings, are fairly self-explanatory. I do something naughty, I get punished with a spanking.
The second type are a bit more difficult to describe. When I asked A. what he would call them, he blurted out “Daddy Spankings.” Why? “Because it’s where I help you figure out what you’re going to do and give you structure.” But, of course, punishment spankings would fall into that category too. Then he joked about them being “Daddy Bush Spankings” because there is an element of pre-emption to them. Yet, we both conceded that it was more than just keeping me from doing something bad. They are more about focusing my mind on the task or tasks ahead. I also find that they give attention to that little girl part of me – the “Natty” part if you will – so that she won’t be trying to distract me from what I need to focus on.
Usually we just refer to them as a discussion about my schedule which, of course, includes time across his knee.
I'm recovered from surgery now. My body is feeling pretty good and my brain is as good as it's ever been. Which of course isn't saying much. Stress is a bit high, but tolerable.
I've known for a few months now it was time to talk to Paul about bringing more structure back into our relationship. Or, more specifically, into my life. We were doing pretty well with it in February but my surgery and recovery took us away from that. Paul's far too sweet to hold me accountable when I'm not feeling well. He took such good care of me.
About a month ago I had the conversation. Do you know the one? It's tough. It's when I ask for more accountability. More close supervision. More structure. The conversation went well and I was happy that he'd been thinking about that too. I was about to go away for a week so we decided (he asked and I agreed) to write my thoughts on what I needed and a plan. I agreed to that too. But I didn't write it.
I was slaving away at my thesis, quite pleased with my well-behaved self, when a dark silhouette of my husband appeared in the door frame and commanded: "Get upstairs, now. You know why."
I swear, I had no idea, and it took several heart-thudding seconds for me to figure it out, and when I did, I could only groan. As much as I like to argue my way out of a punishment, there was no way out of this one.
Even when one is feeling particularly virtuous (in a smug sort of way), reality has ways of reminding one that a bare-bottom spanking is only a flick away. A flick, more specifically, of a light switch. Yes, my crime was trivial: I was reading in the dark. Abel decided a while ago that my habit of not turning on the lights as I’m working in a darkening room needed to be stamped out. Or spanked out.