Author Archives: Haron

Refreshing naughtiness

I was bad yesterday, and it felt really good.

Even after I was punished for it, and even after I assured Abel how sorry I was, I still remember how good it felt to be nonchalantly naughty.

The story is simple (Abel has told it in more detail here): we were at a church wedding, and I fancied a mint.

I had no mint, but there was a pack of gum in my bag. When I reached to get some (this was, I must underline, after the solemn part was over, and the newlyweds were having pictures taken with the registry tome), Abel asked what I was doing.

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Helping your neighbours

I’m not usually big on practical jokes, because I like people around me
to feel good. I’m empathic like that. However, I’m not completely above
occasional little naughtiness when events call for it.

This time, it felt like the events were *begging* for it. Abel and I
were showing our friend Sarah around our town when we encountered one
of these charity fund-raisers with a bucket: you throw some coins in
there, and the guy gives you a sticker to say what a big damn hero you
are for giving money away.

So. Abel tosses some coins into the bucket and receives the sticker.
Now, if you happen to have a child with you, stickers are great.
Otherwise? Not so great. Grown-up clothes don’t look so good
accessorised with stickers, plus there’s icky glue on them. Plus, it’s
uncool to advertise your charitable donations – particularly, with a
big piece of paper stuck to your boob. Therefore, I felt I was
justified in rolling my eyes a little when Abel slapped the sticker
onto the outside of my coat. "Keep it there," he said sternly.

It felt like he was putting me through a character-building exercise.

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The Repeat Offender

Certain misdeeds chase me like demons of doom: most of the time I get punished for things I had already done wrong before, and suffered the consequences for, possibly several times.

It would be tempting to say: "Well, obviously, spanking doesn't work if you re-offend," but it's not so simple.

I don't react well to being expected to reform once and for all after only one occasion. Whether there's a spanking involved or not, the "go forth and sin no more, EVER" approach only makes me resentful: if I *could* avoid certain undesirable behaviour for the rest of my life, then I would, punishment or no punishment. I expect to live for a long time, though, and I don't anticipate spending any part of my life as a saint – which would certainly be the implication if all my usual quirks and badnesses were corrected forever within the next few years.*

One of my pet hates is hearing the phrase "Obviously, last time I didn't punish you hard enough." I don't hate it in a love/hate way: it just irritates the hell out of me. I'm not receptive to punishment when I'm irritated.

On the other hand, the phrase "I let you off last time", said in a hurt, regretful tone shred me into tiny little pieces.

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A Nail-Biting Story

Last night I caught myself chewing my nails. I haven’t done it since I
was about – oh, six or so – and decided that coming back to the habit
twenty years later wasn’t something I wanted.

"Uh-oh," I said to Abel, with my mouth full of nail. "I think, I need a beating."

This is exactly the sort of matter where any initiative from Abel would
have been firstly, impossible, secondly unwelcome: if he had seen me nibble on the nail, and forbidden me to do it under the threat of a punishment, he
would have been invited to take a hike. However, helping me with an
issue that I brought to his attention myself is a sort of husbandly
duty. (The poor guy is so exploited.)

He sat on the bed, bent me over his lap and tugged down my knickers, and gave me a few experimental swats with his hand.

"Ouch," he said. "This hurts."

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Fitting the punishment in

One of the things I noticed about working for yourself is that you never have enough time. For anything. Even for most of your work. Everything needs to be extensively planned, squeezed into the calendar, finished in too little time, crossed off the to-do list.

This seems to include punishment. Unless it’s planned ahead, or cramped into a tiny pocked of the day when neither Abel nor I happen to be running mental circles around our tasks – it’s not going to happen. Luckily, we’ve got pretty good at finding time for things like that – eventually, after much putting-off – but it has also come to mean that I’m losing any ability to worry about a punishment much beforehand – or else I’d spend days and weeks waiting for a snatched moment, fretting.

A few weeks ago Abel woke me up before going off to catch a train, and informed me I was in for it: I had let the credit on the gas meter run out again. (We are old enemies, that gas meter and I.) I sighed, and agreed, and fell back asleep until my alarm clock went, and then there was work, and more work, and over the next few days we remembered a punishment was supposed to happen, but we failed to find that small shred of time and aloneness that would make it possible.

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Reporting for Punishment

‘I hope you’ll dress smartly for your appointment,’ said Abel as I curled up in my bath robe at half past 10 in the morning.

‘What do you want, a ball gown?’ I said. Nevertheless, I dragged myself
upstairs to put some clothes on. At 11am exactly I was supposed to
knock on his office door, reporting for my punishment.

This used to be a fantasy of mine: hours of anticipation,
self-conscious squirming, minutes ticking away – walking up the stairs
with enough time to spare that I can take a few deep breaths at the
door to calm my nerves. We sometimes role-play with scenes like that,
and I love it. Reality has shown that I’m just so good at
compartmentalisation, that the first time I thought about the
punishment that morning when Abel reminded me to get dressed for it.
Not that I wasn’t happy to get over with it: the punishment had been
hanging over me for more than a day.

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Bad Girl with Worse Memory

If you were to judge my behaviour recently by the absence of any posts here on the Punishment Book, you might well think that I have been reformed. So No True. I’ve simply been a model of efficiency, using every scrap of free time to polish away at my schoolwork. In fact, in the weeks I was drowning in schoolwork, Abel found a reason to punish me four times, but we have both decided that posting about it could wait.

So it waited.

So you think now would be a good time to make that post, right?

Well, not quite. Thing is, neither of us can remember what these punishments were for any more, nor what they were. I think a repeat instance of reading in the dark was involved, and I’m pretty sure there was something about blatant cheekiness. I vaguely remember being taken upstairs for a few licks of the cane over my trousers, as well as some fast, sharp swats on my bare behind as I was bent over the arm of the living-room sofa. Other than that… I’ve no idea what happened.

Because Abel doesn’t remember either, we’ve decided that a short summary would suffice. I mean, some offences don’t merit being recorded in punishment books, right?

Waiting For My Punishment

The punishment I got the other day was marked by the longest wait I’ve
had to endure between finding out I was going to be punished and
finally getting it over with.

Do you know that in Tyrer v. the UK, the European Human Rights Court
case that screwed judicial birching of juveniles forever, the Court was
swayed, among other things, because the lad had to wait 3 days for his
birching? Yup, the Court thought things like that made a punishment
inhuman.* Well, I had to wait for 9 full days for my comeuppance, and
it nearly killed me.

It so happened that earlier this month Abel and I left home on the same
day to go in different directions: I was going to spend a couple of
weeks with my parents in Kiev, and he was doing his usual
flitting-about all business-like thing. He was coming home a week
before my return.

"I wonder," he said on the phone just after getting home, "is there a
good reason why the indicator on the gas boiler should be flashing red?"

I have a history with the gas boiler, documented for posterity, and
rather unpleasant. "Um," I said, feeling slightly ill. "It’s, um. I
think it might be out of credit."

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Paddled For Working Too Hard

"What happened to your morning break?" asked Abel, standing over me.

I blinked at him. I was going through one of my productive spells, typing away, as though the whole thesis had always been a breeze. A morning break? I wasn’t aware it was time to have one, no more than I could tell what time it was, or what day it was, or for how long I’d been typing.

Sometimes I go through dry spells in my work, where I stare at the screen for hours, studying every fleck of dust, waiting for the moment it’s finally time to make coffee, or an excuse to forget about the whole thing altogether. And then there are times when I sink my teeth into a piece of work, and not let go until it goes so dark that I can’t see my longhand notes. For some reason, Abel isn’t happy about either of these methods of research: he has drawn up a timetable for me, which includes breaks.

I love breaks. Really. But sometimes breaking up is a nuissance, and up until that morning last week I’d thought it was optional, too.

"The break? Uhm. I forgot about it," I said. I mean, I was working. The text was adding up. That was good. Right?

Not if you’re Abel.

"Upstairs," he said.

"Wha… Why?" I’d never been in trouble for working too much. This was too weird for words, and I even pinched myself on the thigh, to check whether I was having one of my frequent spanking dreams.

"You’ve been given a timetable," lectured my husband, pushing me up the stairs with a palm between my shoulder blades. "It’s there to be observed."

Well, yes, but wasn’t it there to keep me chained to the keyboard, rather than to make sure I’d had enough cups of coffee?

Not according to Abel. In reality – according to Abel’s version of reality – it was there to help me pace myself. To keep me from burning out. To make sure I was still at my desk the next day, instead of being so tired that I head out for lunch with a girlfriend and turn it into afternoon tea, after which I’d get invited to stay for dinner and sleep over.

The timetable was binding, you see, and that included the breaks.

In our bedroom he told me to bend down with my elbows on the bed, and picked up a frat paddle that had stayed there from when we’d last played with it. (Note to self: in future, tidy away implements after playing. Like, immediately.)

"That’s so unfair!" I protested. "I didn’t know I had to take breaks! Hey, put that thing down!" I babbled my protestations. This has been known to get me into further trouble, but Abel must have been feeling generous, or maybe lazy. (Hi, Abel – do you like this entry? Good.)

He gently advised me to shut up, and then swung the paddle back, and landed it on my jean-clad behind with a good crack.

"Oooooh," I said appreciatevely. I didn’t cry it out – this wasn’t a hard enough stroke to yelp – but sort of breathed it, as tingling spread over my cheeks.

"Alright, stand up," said Abel.

And that was it. One swat, and he gave me a hug, and told me to go downstairs and have a break.

I didn’t even have a heart to mumble anything rude, because he’d hardly been too harsh. But now I set up reminders for when I’m due to break for coffee.

The cane needn’t hurt

I got caned this morning: four strokes, not very hard at all, but very
much deserved.

These were a result of my instinctive tendency to forget
about tasks I don’t like performing. For example, I don’t like going to
the corner shop to put credit on the gas card… thus we run out of

Abel shook his head and let it go the last couple of times. The few
times before that he wasn’t at home to discover I’d let the credit run
out. However, the very last time he warned me that if it happened
again, there would be a caning for me.

So, yeah.

The punishment was as light as any caning had a right to be, but my pride
has a weeping wound right through the middle. I think I’ll just go and die now.