I got tawsed tonight. Not for discipline, not to remind me to be a good girl, but as a punishment for not doing what I’d promised to do today. You see, after a week of cruising along, doing more work than I’d even needed to some days (this included working after coming home from a day working on campus), I was supposed to transition to the next stage of my work. This next stage is writing. Not writing ideas of others, but laying out my own.
My heart sank. Even though I knew it was coming. Even though part of me wants to be held accountable (well, all of me does, just not all the time) I didn’t want this tonight. The bedroom meant the hairbrush and I was already sore from Sunday (a caning and tawsing) discipline.
So I held on tight and asked for a few more minutes of being held. Paul agreed, saying he wanted me to change into ankle socks and school shoes (I was wearing ballet flats on bare feet) and to find him 4 safety pins. After the snuggle ended (it was now tainted with dread so not quite as nice), I went and changed my shoes and went on the hunt for the safety pin box. During the interval, Paul changed his mind. He lifted the Ikea footrest onto our coffee table and went to fetch the tawse, explaining he didn’t feel like fighting / struggling with me across his lap.
I had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, he was right. It’s still summer weather here, despite it being the first day of Fall. And I do always struggle over the knee, despite my best efforts to be still. On the other hand, otk is informal, childish and intimate. The caning (despite the make-shift block) is more formal and distant. But even more importantly, it’s in the living room — a room separated from our building’s public walkway by only sheer curtains and our small patio.
Before I could argue much, Paul told me not to argue, that this was his decision. Of course.
I just wanted it over. I quietly bent over the block so he could tie first my hands, then my feet together with school ties. Being tied makes being punished much easier for me. The headspace of accepting the punishment and loss of control comes so much more easily. Paul took my panties almost to my knees before fetching the tawse.
I tried to be calm, but I felt a bit panicked, especially when I realized he was going to use the tawse rather than the cane. The tawse in question is one of Ian’s creations and of heavy leather, not even broken in after several years of ownership. When it makes contact it makes a lot of noise. Meanwhile I could hear people walking by, laughing and chatting, as clearly as if they were in the room. I bit down on the leather of the footstool, knowing Paul wouldn’t care who heard me.
Neither of us knows how many strokes he gave me. Somewhere between 36 and 40 is the best guess. Enough so I had to stop it in the middle because I’d somehow twisted my tied hands into a numbing position. Part of me hoped it would be over after he fixed the tie, but the thrashing continued, at least another 12 strokes. And I was still quite tender from Sunday’s thrashing. Finally I was untied and stood so he could pin my skirt to my shoulders, front and back, (-er, that would be to the shoulders of my shirt) and had to spend 10 minutes standing still in the corner. Finally, I had to have dinner with my plaid pleated skirt pinned up.
But then it was over. Except for losing this coming Sunday as a “free day.” Instead I’ll be working, writing. Probably in plaid yet again.