A few minutes of research indicates that I have been seriously absent here. Seriously. I’ve written 2 entries since this very day last year. Why, you ask? Because I’m a well-behaved (if wanton) girl. Usually.
Not today, though.
In the interest of complete transparency, I have been spanked frequently in the last year. And you might say that I’ve been in trouble once or twice. Generally, though, I think I’ve been fairly level-headed and emotionally stable this last year. All in all, there have been noticeably fewer days when I’ve been in a tantrum with Chris, fewer days when I’m so overwhelmed that I vacillate between distraction and depression, and many fewer days when the little things add up so dramatically that I break down in tears by bedtime.
In part, I attribute these improvements to a healthier living situation, achieved by an immensely stressful 350-mile move (and job change for Chris), selling real estate in a collapsing market, buying real estate during a mortgage industry meltdown, moving twice, living in a tiny apartment with a pre-schooler in love with her vast collection of toys and adjusting to life without air conditioning.
But the bulk of the reason, I suspect, is that Chris and I have made a concerted effort since last July to really pay attention to each other’s needs and desires, to pay attention to each other, to be with each other, and to prioritize each other. Simply said, spending good times with him makes me happier. So I’ve been … happier.
One of the outward manifestations of this renewal in our relationship has been an ongoing deepening in our Dominant/submissive dynamic. It’s always been there, appearing in little stages throughout our relationship and underlying the little rules I followed, the reassurance he provided and the punishments that have happened. But it’s no longer appearing for moments at a time and then drifting back behind a closed door.
It’s come out of the closet to stay, I suspect. I hope, anyway.
An example? We have long had rules. Rule # 1 – No lipstick or you won’t get kissed. I had a special dispensation for our wedding day, had to take it off before the ceremony and put it back on for pictures afterward. Rule # 2 – "Stay safe", meaning everything from following scissor safety rules to not jumping off of balconies. (Can I forget here to mention the infamous "don’t get sunburned" incidents?) Rule # 3 – When we’re together, I have to have permission to orgasm. Ask permission and have it granted, that is.
I suggested that last one in a moment of eager wantonness some years ago. You know, in one of those moments when I was writhing around in desperation and so full of arousal that I had no idea what I was doing? Yes, one of those moments. Well, he took me up on the offer and has been gleefully enforcing it ever since. These days, if he wants to make my imagination work overtime, Chris gets me into that needy state until I start making naughty suggestions in a blatant attempt to finagle him to do something – do anything – that will make my body sing.
In any event, Rule # 3 has recently undergone some editing. Specifically, the first clause has been axed. No longer is it forbidden to come without his permission "when we’re together". Now, it’s forbidden to come without his permission. Period. (Temporary relief from the rule may be granted upon prior request, or power granted to a proxy play partner.)
The upshot of this metamorphsis is that I can’t masturbate to orgasm unless I’m planning to call him up on the phone and ask permission. And I can’t do that.
Now, you know, it’s not as if I sit around all day and masturbate. Really, this change shouldn’t have any meaningful effect, since I masturbate to orgasm like once a month without him. Or at least that’s what I told myself.
But, you know, the forbidden is always tempting. Since the rule change, I’ve been catching myself fingering myself in the shower, and in bed at night after he’s asleep. I’m reminded of the furtiveness of childhood, when it was all brand new and I couldn’t wait for Mom to turn out the light and shut the door, so that I could slip my fingers up inside my nightgown and fondle my nipples, or slide hands between my legs and explore those secret curves.
This morning, it happened. There I was, water streaming down over my head while I thought about Brianna Wyatt’s character in Annmarie McKenna’s book Blackmailed. I didn’t realize how far I’d gone until it was too late.
It was several hours later when I e-mailed Chris and, mixed in with other information, confided that I had broken a rule but thought I might have difficulty confessing. It’s harder for me to confess when I’ve had tough days, and this has been a tough week with both my job and as a mother, so to spell out a failure as a submissive wasn’t something I was especially anticipating.
Fortunately Chris was astute enough to know which rule I had broken without being told. He didn’t even quiz me, just walked in after work and (after checking to be sure the princess was otherwise occupied) asked bluntly, "How was the orgasm?"
Admitting that it was sufficient if not excellent was equivalent to admitting I had broken that rule, of course.
So immediately after the princess was in bed Chris sent me – naked – to stand in the corner. I heard him in the bedroom, heard him in his office, heard him cleaning up and putting away leftover items from the day. And then he smacked my bottom and, er, I crossed my legs.
I had to ask permission to be excused from the corner to use the bathroom. When I returned, Chris informed me that he intended to give me punishment # 7 as a real punishment, rather than as an exercise to remind me that he is in charge and I am not. In actuality, it was both a punishment and a reminder because, you know, he had several things to say like "Who decides when you come?" and "Was it your decision to make?" and "I hope you understand now."
Saying "yes sir" was rather impossible with a pair of pink cotton panties stuffed in my mouth, so I just nodded and whimpered and screeched and made all of those other pitiful noises that I make when I’m in a lot of pain.
Afterwards we hugged and kissed and, without nearly enough rubbing, Chris sent me upstairs to write a blog entry about the punishment "while sitting on my sore bottom." Specifically, that I was to do nothing else and work on nothing else until this was done and published and I had come back down to his office and told him it was published. On Punishment Book. Here. For you.
So that’s where I’m going and that’s where I am and that’s where I’ll remain. At his feet or over the end of his bed or in his corner.
If I’m lucky, maybe he’ll even let me come again sometime this month.