Category Archives: Discipline

Maturity vs. Perversity

He spanks me. Not every day — we have a little one in the house. Spanking, these days, is infrenquent enough that I sometimes lose sight of what it feels like to be over his lap and somewhat helpless. I never completely forget, but I temporarily forget, distracted by the complex details of everyday living. It's not that he doesn't want to spank me, or that he's disenchanted with me, but we have a little girl in the house. She observant, smarter than a whip, and asks questions. She asks a lot of questions. By the time the blossoming interrogator is asleep, both of us are usually too tired for a proper spanking and indulge in the wicked delight of cuddling naked, stroking bare skin, and pretending to be vanilla.

So we drift.

There are punishments. Not often, and usually not serious. I am a good girl. Chris has said that I'm too good, at times. The mistakes are few enough, the circumstances of life trying enough, and he knows I sincerely regret them enough, that he struggles to punish me for them. Ten o'clock at night is a difficult time to start an emotionally and physically difficult experience. Also, I'm really good at distracting him. My mouth can do positively magical things when it comes to distracting him.

Do try to pull your mind from the gutter — mostly frequently, I distract him with conversation or chores. 

So we drift. 

Not badly. Many of the changes, I suspect, come with maturity and an appreciation of the good parts of our lives. Our relationship is unquestionably important to both of us. We take time and care with it and I'm a little obsessive about every word and expression that comes out of him when we are together. (Indeed, sometimes I overanalyze. Just a bit, really.)  He does many nice things for him while I usually depend on the usual methods of organizing the household and providing oral sex to let him know he's important. 

(I got your attention that time, didn't I? Hah!)

Anyway, I think we're less interested in the 'scene' online and as 'players' than we used to be, because we have each other, even though we've had each other for a dozen years now. In fact, I'd say one huge change has been a disenchantment with the spanking and BDSM 'scenes' (read: public communities) as we've come to see some of the seedier and less ethical people who lurk at its center and along the edges. I make mistakes, and there are good, bad, and middling people in every community. However, in the BDSM and related scenes, we are perhaps overly-sensitive and distrustful to folks who say one thing and then behave a different way. So instead of flinging ourselves wholeheartedly into the business of being part of a physical community, we're on a long slide toward engaging primarily with physical friends, virtual friends, and those we think are going to drift into one of those two categories or both of them. (People in my physical world, virtual world, or both, I'm not abandoning you, even if I revert to silence sometimes.)

We share less with the world, if still too much for some of the most conservative of our loved ones. I went nine months without blogging on my personal blog At A Kinky House, and it's not ever really been a sex blog. It's always been a life blog that included sex and kink because my life includes sex and kink.

It's been more than a year since I have written here, too. We've drifted.

This morning, then, while I was settling nicely the spooning position where Chris had organized me, I confessed to something in the back of my head. The ultimate result of this confession was the announcement that I was to be punished.

Let me repeat. I am spanked often, and punished occasionally. I often crave and love spankings. Conversely, I am strongly averse to punishment, even if it undeniably clears my head and my conscience and frees me from guilt. The actual conversation which produced this pronouncement is somewhat irrelevant; my unusual reaction has sparked this blog entry on Punishment Book.

I think we've drifted pretty far, to be bluntly honest. And maybe we've needed to drift. 

Having been punished, even occasionally, I am well aware of the procedure and probable outcome of the evening. It will be at least 9:30 PM before we even attempt such a thing, because earlier than that we risk waking the blossoming interrogator and, well, being interrogated. I'll have showered, and he will tell me what to wear. This might range from a full schoolgirl uniform with Mary Janes and pigtails to nothing but a white t-shirt and socks to a babydoll nightie to nothing at all. 

Just because I'm being punished doesn't mean he shouldn't enjoy it. I'd prefer he get something pleasurable out of it, after all. Punishment is difficult enough, there's no reason to make Chris miserable too. After that, he will probably stand me in front of him and remind me why I'm being punished. In this case, it will likely be a little lecture about having faith and trust, even with the worst two months of the year for me still to come. The lecture will be followed by a round with the hairbrush, because he said this morning that I needed hairbrushing.

He means a hairbrushing with the ebony brush, too. I hate the ebony brush. I will cry, and whine, and whimper, and not be the least bit stoic. Hairbrushing has this effect on me; I am a pathetic mess from the first impact and my responses do not improve. 

Afterwards, he will cradle me close to him and remind me of how much he loves me. It will be nearly bedtime, because it is a work night, and I will fall asleep on his shoulder, maybe with the iPhone in my hand as I read or check e-mail or try to read back through a Twitter feed or two.

I will be safe and loved.

I know all this. I expect all this. I can cope with this, and probably not much more. 

This morning, when Chris announced I was to be punished, however, I didn't have the typical reaction. My stomach didn't clench with nerves, my tongue didn't run off and make any sincere or insincere apologies, my guilt-ridden consciousness did not kick in and intervene. 

No, a wave of lust hit me so hard I nearly rolled over and tackled the man. He was indignant, a little hurt, and all I could think about was a long, involved fantasy spinning out in my mind, a fantasy punishment that would, in the real world, quite possibly break me down emotionally to the point that the lust I felt in that moment did not make any sense at all.

The fantasy starts much the same as the reality, with me presenting myself — clean and dressed to his specifications — to Chris. Doubtless there would be a short lecture, and then I would be hairbrushed. I would not like it. But then fantasy interferes with reality. In reality, I am usually incoherent or at least struggling to breathe through the pain. In this fantasy, he leads me to the corner and tells me to stay there, as he goes about his evening: checking email, chatting with friends, reading, paying bills, preparing for work on Monday, etc. But when he chooses, he pulls me from the corner, arranges me over the end of the bed, and straps me. He then leaves me there, open and with my hands behind my back, by sheer willpower or with assistance. I am left again to cope with the pain and wait, until he returns with yet another implement, and there is the corner to face again. 

In my fantasy, there are at least three rounds of this, perhaps more like five, until I am completely mindless, and I am tucked into bed.

In the early days, I lusted for punishment like this. In the last few years, I wished for time like this — stretches of attention where we are primarily focused on each other and energized about being with each other. Recently, I knew this was the sort of scene that was almost for certain better played out in the recesses of my mind than in real life, and coping with what punishment I do receive has been quite enough.

So why, this morning, did punishment suddenly become a fantasy again?

The potch

About a year ago, W instituted what we call the "potch." It's a Yiddish word that means, basically, a small smack. In our world, it means a few smacks that I get every night at bedtime. It can be as few as one, delivered just to stay in the routine, or a few dozen. It's not a major spanking, and I rarely feel it for more than a few minutes afterward.

And the thing is, even though I thought I would need more than that–even though, perhaps at some times, I do need more than that–it works. It seems meaningless, and in the beginning, there was often a temptation to skip it, because, really, what difference would a few smacks on my bottom make in our dynamic?

But on nights when it's not wise or practical to do the potch (for instance, if my mother-in-law is visiting), our dynamic begins to get out of sync. (Mind you, that could also be due to the stress of having my mother-in-law visiting… but it also happens if we skip for other reasons.)

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Resistance

I've been quiet for quite a while. Some of this is because life has gotten in the way. My health hasn't been great (although I've been happy to discover that part of the problem was anemia, and that's eased up by finding a better iron supplement), and there have been big non-disciplinary changes in my and W's lives.

But more than that, it's because discipline hasn't been happening, or has been happening in frustrating ways, or has been complicated in ways that I haven't been able to put into words. I've spent a lot of the past two years or so feeling rather inarticulate about many things.

I'm still rather inarticulate, but I've decided I'll go ahead and try to write something, because it's entirely possible that I will find words once I start writing.

W and I have been on hiatus with discipline off and on for nearly two years now. Contrary to my disciplinary fantasies, W does not take easily to being in charge. She struggles with it, and many of her own physical and mental health issues were getting in the way. On top of that, she didn't seem to be entirely clear about benefitting from this arrangement on her own behalf, and that was building up a lot of resentment for both of us. So, not quite two years ago, I asked to take a break until she was ready to be the one to re-initiate.

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Thoughts on the punishment – Part 1 – Ginger Figging

ginger-plugI have so much to write about last night’s punishment that instead of trying to do one of my epic posts and it taking so long that I don’t post anything for the next three weeks, I’m going to try the mad notion of breaking things up into more manageable posts – crazy talk, I know!

I have so many emotions that I’ll start off with something more simple and basic: facts and thoughts about the new type of ginger butt-plug I made.

It was not an unmitigated success, but it did have a huge successful point in that we were a lot less concerned that we were going to loose the fig inside me, never to see it again. (As happened on Kink.com a while ago!)

However, I am used to carving ginger plugs with one notched area to simulate a butt-plug – and didn’t think about the fact that this time the notched area, which is usually where the sphincter ani internus (internal anal sphincter muscle) grabs aholt of the notch in the ginger, to keep it from sucking on in, or spitting it out (And the fact that I never trusted it for the former, and it didn’t work so great for the latter is why we were trying new methods!), was used by the flange from the cut-down butt-plug, and so the big fail was that I did not make the notched area longer nor make a second notched area….

So my bottom spent the whole punishment happily trying to spit that mean old ginger root right out! (I am pretty sure that actually ginger causes the anus to spasm and expel the burning foreign object from your bottom. I get why it would try to do this, but it’s something that needs to be worked around, because figging is the best punishment in the world. More on that later.)

I’m happy to say that the one worry I had, that the plastic flange would break the ginger did not happen, although this was a thick, tough old root. (We did the world a favour by stuffing it up my bum instead of leaving it for someone to try and cook with!) I should add that because this root was pretty old, it was stringy, which was probably good for tensile strength, but also meant it was very, very strong, intensity-wise.

Mr Defeu did not have it more than one-third up my bottom before the stinging began. I knew I was in serious trouble at that point!

To sum up on the actual fig-plug: yes, cutting the flange off a butt-plug works well, and at least on thicker ginger-roots, does not break it at the notch you have to cut in to hold it there. However, that notch either needs to be lengthened to give the anus room to grab on, as well, or a second notch needs to be put on. Unsure yet which will disturb structural integrity more. I will report back after the next punishment or discipline session in which ginger is used. (I hope soon!)

Okay, more about the experience of the ginger tomorrow!


In the meantime, I just found this blog, and loved the discussion of real punishment and the emotional journey it entails: Bonnie-Jo — Life of a College Spanko

(Reposted from my blog, to share with my darling PB-ers! I’m such a dork that when I found out I was getting a punishment, one of my thoughts was, “Ohmigawd! I’ll have something to post on PB!” [blush])

Toyland

Since I'm writing this on Christmas, the title seemed appropriate.

I've been thinking a lot this week about different implements and the images or feelings they evoke. In my mind, there are some that are very traditionally "domestic discipline" types of implements, and some that I could only put in the "S&M" category — they "feel" more like a sexualized, eroticized implement, to me, and I don't understand their appeal. Let me explain …

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Bonnie’s Question: Choosing Spanking

[I didn't get a chance to answer this Sunday, but it was such an interesting question I thought I'd reply here and and on my blog.]

This week at her brunch, Bonnie asked: 

Have you or your partner been given a choice between receiving a spanking or something else and chose the spanking? If so, how does the act of consciously choosing to be spanked alter the spankee's mindset?

In discipline or punishment terms, I always choose the not-spanking option.  It's not often that Paul gives me a choice — a large part of what works in our dynamic is that I'm not in control, that I don't get to decide.  But when I've had the option of writing lines or something non-physical I think I've always chosen it.  This is because for me the idea that I could be spanked is the powerful one, more powerful even than the act of being spanked.  Part of that for me is that spanking has to feel like the last resort as a punishment, heavy enough that I'd choose anything else above it. That's the theory anyway.  The reality hasn't been tested much.

I suppose in reality most of the time I'm being punished I've chosen to be spanked in the sense that I could always opt out.  Probably.  I've never tried to though.  The times I've asked to be spanked / punished for something are few and far between.  Those have been very submissive moments and during the punishments I've found it easier to accept the pain and not struggle against it. 

Play is different.  I do ask for spankings sometimes in play / everyday life.  Those times, when I get them which is almost always, I feel a lovely contentment and gratitude for my partner.  Best of all?  When he pounces on me and spanks me just because he wants to — those times I feel attractive and well loved. 

 

The convenient kink

When I first explained my punishment kink to my godfather (I have an, um, unique relationship with my godfather as I explain in this post), the first words out his lips were, "what a convenient kink!"

As this article in the New Yorker demonstrates, people do all sorts of stuff to help with their procrastination issues. It reminded me that it is a rare person indeed who needs no assistance with self-discipline.

We, of course, include hairbrushes and canes, in addition to software, to limit our time on Facebook.

But what’s in it for you?

Chris (of sparkle and Chris) and I have been having a conversation lately about what he as a top gets out of the punishment dynamic.  We thought it made for an interesting post, since we talk a lot about what the bottom gets out of a discipline/punishment arrangement, but we don’t hear about the other side very often (or if we do, it’s from an unrealistic Tops Are Superior Creatures perspective).  So we compiled our discussion into a post and present it here for your reading pleasure.  It’s not a complete, polished dissertation, it's rather unfinished and in process, in fact, but we’re very interested in your thoughts on the matter.


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It’s Not Squicky, It’s My History

Trying this again … a repost from my blog. Apologies to those who read both — which I think is up to 4 people now. LOL

Today I was thinking about how what happened to us as children shapes who we become as adults. Of course, I began to think of this in the context of spanking. Some people find this topic extremely squicky … for me, it’s kind of matter-of-fact.

I was spanked, mostly by my mother (only once by my dad that I remember — but I remember every detail, oddly) until I was around 9 or 10. I was a good kid, really. I didn’t lie, didn’t cuss, didn’t *pick* fights with my brothers (though one of my brother’s and I fought almost constantly). When I grew into a teenager I NEVER smoked, drank, sneaked out … In fact, the only really big thing I did was have sex. I’m pretty sure if my mom thought a belt whipping would work to stop me from doing that again, she would’ve. As it was, she yelled for awhile and then said “You’re going to get PREGNANT!” and she almost passed out when I said, “I am not. I know how to use a condom properly.” Ah, memories. LOL

But some of those spankings I remember in great detail — what I had done “wrong” (some of them were just downright un-fucking-fair), where I was spanked, what I was spanked with, etc. And I remember, too, how broken I always felt afterwards. You know how you read M/f or M/m stories and there’s often a hug at the end, and the parent or adult wiping the tears away and stuff? Yeah … never happened to me. As soon as I was let up from her lap I would usually be yelled at again to go to my room — or I’d run there of my own volition — and I would bawl. I don’t remember crying because it hurt — I’m sure it did, but I don’t remember the physical pain at all — I cried because I thought she hated me when she spanked me. I never had some warm, fuzzy, “this will hurt me more than it hurts you” talk with my mom before; and there was never a hug after … I ALWAYS knew that she was angry when she spanked, and I often wouldn’t even look at her the rest of the day.

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Examining My Conscience

quia peccavi
nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere:
mea culpa,
mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa.

(Okay, this starts out like an account of a play scene, but isn’t. If
you’re looking for that you’re going to be disappointed.  Fair warning)

Here I’m going to digress just a little bit.  I’m Roman Catholic —
have been since birth.  My first 13 years of education were in Catholic
schools, mostly taught by nuns.  In my own weird way I’m quite
religious.  I’m not very spiritual however — in fact I have almost no
faith in God.  It’s the ritual that attracts and comforts me.  I’ve
been away from the Church for a while — the typical lapsed Catholic.
There are a number of reasons I’ve absented myself — disagreement with
RC politics and my own personal choices (marrying after a divorce and
outside the Church being chief among them).  Being away and not
attending Mass or joining my local parish have been my doing and I
mostly don’t feel inclined to return.  But right now it’s May and the
roses are blooming.  There are alters to Mary all around. 

Right now I miss my religion*.

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