I'm a procrastinator. Often I say things like "Deadlines are good for me" and, "I work well under pressure," and both of those are true. It's also true that I procrastinate–an awful lot.
So it's no real surprise that I needed help getting this one last paper done. (Yes, I'm finished with my degree, but this is something else. Don't ask.) And M tried to be helpful by setting a deadline of August 31st, which you'll notice was several days ago. (discreet cough) So when it still wasn't done by this past weekend, M decided to take things to a different level.
On Sunday morning he laid out the day's schedule: first I had to put on my plaid schoolgirl skirt and one of his white shirts (I don't have any of my own that button), then I went over his knee for a spanking that dealt with not having the paper finished yet. Then I had to sit on the hard kitchen chairs to work on the paper while he watched football in the living room (though he did provide me with earplugs to drown out the cheering and cursing). And I got spanked every 30 minutes until the paper was finished. (M really dislikes creating heavily structured schedules, so this was a pretty big deal by itself.)
After about an hour's work (and three spankings), I started to lose steam. "M," I wheedled, "I'm hungry."
He looked over at me. "You do look hungry. And we haven't had food yet."
Me (surprised he hasn't swatted me and ordered me back to work): "Uh huh. And I can't do any more until I've eaten something. Can I go out and get some food and bring it back here?"
M: "Mmm, I don't think so. I'll go bring some back; you can stay here and keep working."
Me (pouting very slightly and sweetly): "But then I can't come with you and we can't sit down there and do a crossword together."
M (laughing): "OK, you can come with me. But only if you wear that outfit."
Please understand: there's something cute and a little sexy about pulling back my hair and slipping into a plaid skirt and his shirt to be punished. If no one else can see me, that is.
Me: "What?! No way! I'm not going out in this!"
M (who has now gotten quite attached to the idea): "That's the deal. Either you come out in that outfit or I go by myself and you stay to do work."
This is how you know I was desperate to get out of the house: I took the deal. He let me get a bit more ready and presentable, so I put on makeup, curled my hair, put on a bra, etc. It wasn't a very traditional schoolgirl outfit anyway (with apologies to those who have a fetish around those sorts of details), so I also rolled up the sleeves and tied the ends of the shirt around my midriff.
Which made me look……only slightly less ridiculous. (OK, the flipflops probably didn't help either.)
But I Really Wanted to go out. So we did.
It's an interesting experience, walking half a mile to a popular local eatery on a Sunday morning dressed as a bizarro schoolgirl. I figured the best way to salvage it was to pretend I was making a fashion statement, and so I owned that look. Tried to walk confidently, as if I dress like this outside all the time and actually prefer skirts that only cover half my thighs. Nonchalantly kept my hands at my sides to keep the (suddenly gusty) wind from lifting said skirt the few inches necessary to flash the world. Valiantly fought back the blushes. Oh, and pinched M every time he dropped something and asked me to pick it up.
And yes, I did finish the paper when we got home. It only took one more spanking to get there.