Category Archives: Haron

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.

Stop-watch Spanking (or nearly)

Sometimes the dispensation of discipline is so swift that, looking
back, I’m not sure: has it really happened, or was it a wild fantasy of
the type I tend to have when I can’t sleep at 4am?

Abel doesn’t like it when I lean against the radiator in the kicthen.
He thinks that there’s a good chance that it’ll break off the wall,
scalding me with hot water and flooding the house. I’ve only recently
became aware of this fear, having spent three and a half years happily
warming my bottom against the kitchen radiator whenever I felt like it.

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A Good (?!?) Old-fashioned Spanking

The punishment I described in my previous post had actually happenned
two weeks before that; I don’t take time off to write up posts often enough.
And on this occassion my delay has come back to bite me on the butt: a
couple of hours after I theorised about a spanking infusing me with
four weeks’ worth of good behaviour, I was over Abel’s knee, said butt
bared and getting smacked.

In somebody else’s house, as well; he hadn’t even waited to get me home. Don’t you feel bad for me? Please say that you do.

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Holy Paddle!

I’m beginning to notice a pattern here: I get spanked, I make a post about it, and then nothing happens for a month. But only for a month. When those few weeks are over – well, what do you know, I’m in trouble again. Do you think I have a reserve of "goodness" that lasts only for a month?*

Beside that, it seems, there’s another pattern at work: for the second time in a row I got two punishments in one day. It was pure misery, although I can’t really complain, because I did bring it on myself, really, by being a complete and utter brat. There was even some stomping of feet involved, and some throwing of things. So you see that I’d kinda asked for what I got, although I hadn’t specifically said: "Please, wallop me with an enormous paddle with holes in it"; Abel totally improvised on that bit.

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Equality (or not)

There's this immensely cool writer person called John Scalzi; I heard him speak about blogs at the last WorldCon, and have been blog-stalking him ever since.* It looks like one of his back entries has been hit by one of our, erm, friends of the God Says Man Is HoH ilk, and Scalzi refutes her with a persuasive list of reasons why, if one were drawn to choose a head of household, his wife would be more qualified for the title.

It was fun to read (because I take a lot of pleasure out of preachy HoH nuts having their empty wee heads slammed in), but it made me quite sad. It is an objective truth that in our family Abel is the competent person who knows who to call when the car breaks down, and such, and I'm an artistic soul in need of serious maintenance (which is just longhand for "incompetent").

Were I a man and Abel a woman, it would be quirky-cool for me to admit that she (Abel) should be appointed a head of household, because she (Abel) takes care of the practical side of our family life. But, being a woman, I simply can't afford to say this, because how many HoH nuts would file this away as another proof of inferiority of all that's female to all that's male? And when you add to it the fact that we're into spanking, and that I don't bring in any money other than from the sales of some porn stories – well, there would be no use for me to scream "But we don't *believe* in your HoH stuff, we're equals!" – I'd be forever written off as a Weak Female. And perhaps as a traitor to the feminist cause, as well.

My point? Being an incompetent, masochistic feminist is a lonely place.


*Did you know I went to WorldCon in Glasgow? Well, I did. The move to the UK had been worth it just for a chance to go. It was full of writers like you wouldn't believe it; disturbingly, I had previously blog-stalked so many of the younger, cooler of them, that it felt like we should all be mates, but of course, that's what stalkers usually feel in their more delusional moments.**

**A few nights ago I dreamt that one of those writers, who is possibly the most handsome man I've ever seen off a TV screen, gave me a caning. I didn't feel a thing, as is usual in dreams, but I revel in the pleasure of dreaming about somebody so beautiful. It's really odd, because I don't normally go for traditionally handsome men, nor for the young ones.***

***Hi, Abel 🙂

Two punishments in one morning? Surely not!

You know how smug I can get about being good for longest stretches of time? Well, sometimes destiny has a way of giving smug girls unsubtle hints that maybe they (the girls) could do with being less self-satisfied. My hints came last Saturday morning, and took shape of a paddling and a caning for two separate offences within a stretch of less than four hours.

What can I say? Ouch, that’s what.

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A Naughty, Punished Wife… or whatever you call it

Two weeks ago I got what was easily the most embarrassing punishment of my life. Mind you, it's no use going "oooooh", and starting to scroll down in search of all the mortifying things that a man can do to a woman's body (and I'm sure we can all imagine plenty of those). The embarrassing thing about my punishment was its cause: it was a stereotypical thing that a stereotypical wife does in your dull, stereotypical spanking story; the sort, you know, that you never read to the end. How would you like to be a walking, bending over, squealing stereotype?

And what did I do that was so terribly stereotypical, you ask?

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Fantasy… meet Reality

It seems that a lot of our musings about the discipline lifestyle have to do with reconciling fantasy and reality. May I gently shove you all in the direction of this fascinating post  by DykeGrrl, where she explores the difference between spanking relationships in her various stories and her own life with her very real wife.

While you're at it, take the time to read about the poor girl's punishments in the surrounding posts; she does suffer so. 🙂

P.S. I do, in fact, have an actual punishment to tell you all about, but not before I do a lot more work than I've been doing in the last week. Stay tuned.

How I Got The Slipper

I was slaving away at my thesis, quite pleased with my well-behaved self, when a dark silhouette of my husband appeared in the door frame and commanded: "Get upstairs, now. You know why."

I swear, I had no idea, and it took several heart-thudding seconds for me to figure it out, and when I did, I could only groan. As much as I like to argue my way out of a punishment, there was no way out of this one.

Even when one is feeling particularly virtuous (in a smug sort of way), reality has ways of reminding one that a bare-bottom spanking is only a flick away. A flick, more specifically, of a light switch. Yes, my crime was trivial: I was reading in the dark. Abel decided a while ago that my habit of not turning on the lights as I’m working in a darkening room needed to be stamped out. Or spanked out.

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