On Monday I wrote a post here which included the statement
I'm at a critical stage in my life as a PhD. student. You'll hear more about it as the weeks go on, but this is the basic situation. Six to twelve months of productive work on my part, and it's very likely I'll finish my degree well and will be able to land a research and teaching job. Without the hard work, it's likely in 12 months I'll be looking at leaving graduate school without completing my degree.
At the time I wrote that, I'd done a little spade work which included several meetings with my advisor, an assessment of what I've already written (140 pages, maybe half of which is good enough to end up in the final document), started learning EndNote and using it to compile a library / bibliography. Oh, and I'd ordered some books from Amazon.
Some stuff was as you might expect. But then again, maybe not. The week didn't start out with any sort of heavy scene, just me in my uniform (okay, that much you should have expected) at my newly cleaned desk, spanked and working.
So far I've read through 2.5 books of theory and taken probably 10 pages of notes. This is pretty good as I hadn't worked the theory side of my brain in over a year. I've worked every day for at least 5 hours and been smacked multiple times each day.
Yesterday started, as the day before it had, with me in my uniform, bent over the back of my desk chair, skirt up, with the slipper whacking me 12 times, hard. My desk chair is a plain, straight backed wooden one with (as I've recently come to discover) little padding on the seat. Bent over, hands touching the seat puts me on high on my toes, a position that both makes me feel small and exposed, but also seems formal so leaves me feeling quite brave. Although I yelled out and kicked up my feet, I didn't lift my hands from the chair.
Settling down to work was hard. Unlike other times I've had stuff to read or write, Paul didn't unplug me from the 'net (o those parental controls). He really couldn't — I needed the 'net as a resource this time. But what he has been doing throughout this week is sitting in the same room with me, able to see my screen. I'm not forbidden from spending time on-line or even sending Twitter messages (my new addiction) but those activities are supposed to be breaks, not the majority of what I'm doing.
Yesterday I was warned twice. And told I'd be spanked soundly at bedtime.
At bedtime, I stood in the corner and listened while Paul tried different implements on his hand. I listened only because the one time I turned around to see what was going on I got caught. He told me I was supposed to be intimidated. I giggled to show how much I wasn't scared. Which probably shows how nervous I really was.
After much testing, Paul choose the ebony brush. Little effort (well, except at holding me down) on his part produces huge amounts of pain and panic on my part. This thing is terrible even with a warm-up, without it's deadly. In deference to the fact I've also gone back to the gym this week and restarted weight training, which left me me with rather painful arms and shoulders, this spanking wasn't going to be over his lap with him sitting in a chair. The night before, cramps in my shoulders and neck had been almost as painful as the spanking itself.
Of course, the night before he was only using his hand.
Last night he sat on the edge of the bed. I panicked when it became clear I was going to lose my pjs and panties right away. Didn't he know how much the brush hurts used cold? That it doesn't matter how slow he starts, that I was already sore, that my skin is sensitive, that I just couldn't take it.
I did not go over the knee willingly. I gave my arms grudgingly to have my wrists held. My shoulders already hurt. And then the spanking started. Whatever panic I felt before re-doubled and I started whining and yelling for him to stop, for him to listen to me and start over my night clothes. I wrenched each arm in turn away from him, finally managing to (somehow) reach back over my shoulder and grab the wrist of his hand holding the brush, choking through sobs and explaining how this was too much, I couldn't take it and that if he was going to use the brush he needed to start over my night clothes and not on my bare skin.
I don't think I've ever felt so panicked and frantic during any spanking. I know I've never been as clear in issuing directives about the way I wanted things to go.
He heard me, carefully moved my arms back behind me, pinned them to the small of my back, put his leg over the back of my knees and went back to spanking me, on the bare with the hairbrush. I considered safewording. I could — I have one and know he would have stopped to find out what was wrong.
But what could I have said that I hadn't already made completely clear? It wasn't that I was in distress and Paul didn't know. He knew, this was the way he wanted it and this was and is ever what I had chosen. Asked for even because it's what I need and want.
So I put down my head and sobbed, unable finally to do anything else. And then it was over and I sulked for a bit, apologized for being difficult, and finally with all my heart I thanked Paul.
You see, I want to finish this PhD and ultimately it's going to take a lot more of this.
This morning I'm stiff, sore and hoping to finish another theory book in time to go to see the new Clive Owen film.