Last week I was proofreading a news story for A. and remembered that I had a post here that I started several months ago but never finished. Now that I have my new laptop and have become a manic blogger again, it’s time to dig up it up and finish it, especially as I really enjoyed what I remembered. Or rather, I enjoyed the remembering. The actual event remembered was not so enjoyable while it was happening. Indeed, it was rather painful.
Awhile back A. made me his sub-editor, which is a copy editor here in the US but the British term works so much better from a kink perspective. It has basically involved proofreading and occasionally filing a story for him from my time zone when he needs it filed at a precise time that’s not so convenient for him on his side of The Pond.
A few months back I was supposed to file a story at midnight my time — you know, right before I went to bed. Except, I forgot. Now this would have been a bigger problem than it was, but I hadn’t quite gone to bed when I finally remembered at 1:30 am. So, you know, my slightly duplicitous behavior had some value.
Yes, duplicitous because I had been saying for the week or so before that night that I was going to bed on time. However, even though I was in bed, I would still go online. The lights were going out later and later, but I’d convinced myself that this was okay because I really was in bed.
Now, even though I was still up to file the story, I hadn’t yet proofed it. And I was tired. And in the middle of something (I can’t remember what now). So my hyper anal retentive editor eyes were a bit clouded as I scanned the story quickly and filed it without doing a second read. Once I finally turned the lights out at 2:30, I worried that not only were there errors I might have missed, but that I had filed the story late and in explaining how it was filed late, I was going to have to admit to my early morning online activities. That fear of being caught made me realize that my in-bed loophole really wasn’t okay.
The next day A. greeted me on the phone with an order to get the long-handled brush. I had missed two significant typos.* The penalty was twelve strokes for each one. I fetched the brush and dutifully administered the strokes.
"And I sill haven’t punished you for that one from last week."
I knew he had and it led to a brief argument wherein I tried to remind him of the context of the punishment but his memory was entirely unhelpful. Considering that there was most likely further punishment to come and arguing was just going to make him crankier, and that twelve self-administered strokes wasn’t the end of the world, I finally gave up and just took the strokes.
"Okay then," he said in that tender, sweet, end-of-spanking voice.
"I’m so sorry the story got filed late. I just totally forgot, and…"
"What time did it get filed?" He asked almost matter-of-factly.
D’oh! He didn’t notice? You mean, if I hadn’t said anything then…shit!
"Um…about 2 am or so."
"What time did you get to bed?" With this question he sounded much more worried. And here I thought he’d be upset about the story getting filed late.
"Well…I was in bed at 12:25…"
"But what time did you go to bed?"
"But I was in bed at 12:25."
"What time. Did you go. To bed?"
I took a breath before answering.
It was his turn to pause.
"This is very unfortunate timing for you." It was the strictest voice I’d ever heard him use. Authoritative, dispassionate, implacable. Like the kind of voice you’d imagine a teacher or paternal figure using in a spanking story. It gave me goosebumps. And definitely made my tummy do flip-flops.
Except this wasn’t fiction. That voice was really directed at me! And I felt so guilty. It was the first time I’d really felt like I’d been very naughty. I mean, most of the time what I do is only sorta naughty with a slight amount of willfulness thrown in, mostly because I’m afraid to ever be really bad. But this time I’d actually been dishonest and more than just not volunteering information.
Yet it wasn’t the insecure sort of guilt. While I was afraid of whatever lay ahead in the next few moments because it was going to hurt — a lot! — I knew it was going to be okay.
"Start spanking and don’t stop until I tell you. And make sure they’re steady, sharp strokes." Sorta like his voice, steely and inexorable.
"Yes, Sir," I squeaked out before taking a big breath and obeying.
They were as sharp and as steady as I could make them, which is damn hard when it’s on one’s own backside. As time passed, they were less and less steady as I mentally pleaded with him to let me stop. Which he did eventually. But only for a few minutes so that we could discuss the full nature of my transgression. Then he had me right back at it and included my thighs. I was exhausted and throbbing by the time his voice returned to post-spanking soft and warm again.
Even though this event happened something like four months ago, I remember it in such detail because it’s become one of my favorite punishments ever. Not so much because I liked the punishment (and a part of me was somewhat relieved that it was over the phone as it would have hurt a hell of a lot more in person), but because it felt the most real out of any of our punishments — if that makes any sense. That it was so close to the way I’ve always imagined punishment being (sans the over-the-phone part): an unyielding disciplinarian, unwitting misbehavior, guilt, scolding, security.
Indeed, sometimes I think the appeal of the punishment kink is that it’s the closest way to bring fiction to life. Now, let me be very clear: fiction will always be fiction and real life something entirely different. But I think we all read spanking stories with that wish that somehow they could come to life. That we could really be that naughty, adorable girl going over the stern but lovable disciplinarian’s knee. Or really be that strict, caring parental figure smacking the luscious bottom of the woman we love not just because we really like smacking, but also because it will truly make life better for someone we care a great deal for. As a spanko, it’s genuinely exciting being able to come close to that given how complex and fraught with danger trying to turn fiction into reality is. It’s what, at least in part, gives WIIWD its power.
On a less abstract level, if someone were to ask me what on earth I like about having someone punish me for real life infractions, the first thing I’d say is the remembering. Thinking about the
punishment later on — maybe in a few hours or the next day. Replaying it over and over in my mind. Every time I rewind the whole thing and hear A. say "this is very unfortunate timing for you," I feel absolutely giddy and aroused, even if I so didn’t at the time.
And being away from my partner most of the time makes these mental
reenactments a sort of nourishment. A way to sustain me through the long months of separation. The substitute for cuddling as I drift off to sleep at night…or turn the intensity up on my vibrator.
*When we first began to link spanking with bad editing, I was a bit nervous that the whole thing might be a really bad idea relationship-wise. But I’ve quite liked it. If he was really polite whenever I missed typos, I’d get all insecure and worry that he was actually thinking I was incompetent and needed to find another editor. Using our time-honored way of dealing with mistakes, I knew where I stood.
And the spanking made me feel better as a badly edited story makes A. look badly which then makes me feel badly (though he did try to convince me — with limited effect — that everybody makes mistakes). I think it’s the first time I’ve felt the post-spanking atonement so many say they like about punishment, which is very cool. However, the two sub-editing punishments mentioned in this post are the only two times I’ve ever made an editing mistake with his copy so far. I suppose one could say punishment worked, though I’d be more inclined to credit my probably pathological perfectionism.