Hello and happy holidays. It’s been a busy year for lots of reasons and sadly this blog has suffered neglect. 2012 will be better, I promise, but I’m thankful that you still come and see us. All of us have experienced a lot of changes over the seven years the PB has been up. Some we’ve shared here, others we haven’t. But we’ve never stopped caring about TTWD, each other or the many wonderful men and women who read here and care about the topic.
But enough about that, on to the reason for this blog post. Over the past two years I’ve been following Pandora Blake’s quest to create a spanking film and photo site quite closely. Today that site, Dreams of Spanking, went live. There’s lots of wonderful content and I like it for reasons I discuss on my blog, but my main reason for mentioning it here is that two of the Punishment Book’s writers, Zille (in Caned in Jodhpurs) and Haron AKA Adele Haze (topping her lovely partner Jimmy in Her Ladyship’s Breakfast) have filmed and worked on the site. I’ve put a couple of my favorite stills (with permission) up, but you should go and look at the site.
But most of all, congratulations to Pandora, Haron and Zille. I’ve always known you dream of spanking, but it’s wonderful to get to see what those dreams are.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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.
‘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.
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?
It’s finally happened. After being punished for being bad (though she never really is), motivated to be good (and here too), for working too hard, and for reading in the dark, one of our esteemed PB authors, the lovely Haron, is almost a doctor (PhD) of law. She turned in her dissertation this past week and even had a celebratory dinner / caning, which you can read all about here. All she has left is her defense.
What a wonderful achievement!
Haron’s an inspiration to me, given that I’ve been stuck ABD (that’s ‘All But Dissertation’ to the innocent) for far too long. She deserves all sort of congratulations for finally being out of school. Though I suspect she will, heart of hearts, forever be a schoolgirl.
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."