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.
He warned me once. I agreed that the dubious honour of having been the only doctoral candidate on my former dorm floor not in need of reading glasses was rather pleasant. Then I forgot all about it.
Abel warned me again. Then he gave me a final warning. And then another one, when I argued that the scope of the previous warnings didn’t include reading off the brightly lit computer screen. This continued over a few months, you understand: I don’t throw caution to the wind after a warning, as much as gently lower it.
But now he flicked the lights on, and gave me The Look, and I knew that this was, in fact, it.
The feeling of the inevitability of a spanking is rather piquant, don’t you think? Abel disappeared into his study to rummage in the implements, and I lingered downstairs, gazing at the landing above. However, I couldn’t invent any reason for delaying my ascent, and so I went, trying to make the stairs creak as little as possible.
Which is a little silly, if you think of it. I mean, who’s ever been let off spanking-free for making it up the stairs without creaking?
Not to go into too much detail (you didn’t really want to read all about how he sat on the chair, and how I pushed down my trousers and panties and bent over his lap, and that sort of thing), but I got a hell of a slippering. And I didn’t take it well, either: even before he raised the slipper, I was apologising most profusely, and covering my bottom with my hands. He said before he started that he saw his task for the following five minutes in making sure I’d never do it again, and – ouch, ouch, ouch. I’m so sorry for myself, you have no idea. I don’t know how I survived the traumatic experience of being spanked off my good-girl pedestal.
The hugs afterwards, however, were good. And the kisses were good. Abel was also very sorry for me.
But not so sorry that he didn’t immediately send me right off to make this post. I think he’s coming to see the Punishment Book as some sort of extension to the discipline ritual, which, I guess, is fair enough, even if it hurts to sit and type a long post when one’s bottom is freshly spanked.
Oh, wait, do you think that’s the idea?