A. has developed this new affinity for including soap in any punishment he delivers over the phone — much to my consternation (though, thankfully he hasn’t been savvy enough to make sure the bar is wet or that I bite down on it, so it basically just gets on my lips, but still…).
When I whined about it this evening, he told me I should just be grateful I wasn’t getting lines.
"Uh, I think I’d rather go with the lines," I grumbled while wiping my lips yet again.
Not that I really get to do any picking, but my question for you all would be to ask what you would pick: soap or lines?
So, on my personal blog I told the scary tale of bad bad buggery that made me very sick for a few weeks. For the first couple of those weeks I was too sick to do anything remotely naughty. But after awhile, I found myself feeling very cranky. My inner ten-year old had had just about enough of the whole staying in bed thing. Trouble was, I still wasn’t healthy enough to really get out of bed much. Which just made me crankier, and yet, really wanting a spanking.
Most of you are familiar with that feeling of being annoyed by just about everything and wanting to bitch about it all (and maybe even doing so) but when all is said and done, you’d really rather just get a nice, long spanking — though you’d probably be irritated if it was offered (or told that’s what you were getting).
I was feeling that big time.
W. and I have a book, in which we have been writing down the various rules and "systems" we’ve been trying to set up, in which we record punishments, where the lines parts write are kept, and where we keep notes of what works, what doesn’t, and why.
I guess you would call it our personal "punishment book."
Right. So the other day I said things were getting “back to normal.”
They are getting back to normal, but with some bumps. I wrote about the first day on el tercer ojo (my blog). My plan was/is to blog each day this month about how things are going. But of course I’m already two days behind. This too was supposed to be written up yesterday, but again, I’ve fallen behind.
What I’ve realized though is that being away from things — my work, spanking, uniforms and accountability in general — has made it a little difficult for me just to step back into life as a disciplined girl (or woman, whatever).
As it says on my blog, the first day went pretty well. I didn’t get any work done, but Pab and I had already talked about that and decided I didn’t need to start my school work yet. Everything else got done that day and the bedtime spanking was a sweet good girl one that hurt, but not too much. I went to bed feeling very smug. Clearly we have this discipline relationship thing down, right? And can slide back into this like a pair of comfy jeans. Right.
Tuesday? Not good.
Or at least we're getting back to whatever passes for normal in our house.
In early December I had abdominal surgery that required longish incisions on my stomach. The recovery was painful — more-so then I expected — despite some really really good drugs*. The surgeon had to cut through and reconnect muscle and resew my skin together. I was uncomfortable and needed (and got) a great deal of TLC while I was healing.
In many respects recovery wasn't fun, though I did get some really nice gifts and cards from friends and family. However, my healing did function as a "Get out of spanking free" card. Oh and a get out of research and writing too.
Apparently, that card has been played for the last time this month.
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.
It seems like only yesterday that I was posting here about desperately needing to be spanked. So given the title of this post, guess what I’m writing about today?
Yep, I’ve been spanked. Several times, actually, and not fun ones either. Serious punishments.
But if you’ve been paying attention in the last few months, your next question might well be, "Who could have punished Iris, given the fact that she’s no longer in a disciplinary relationship?" Or perhaps, "Who could have punished that sweet angel Iris?–she’s absolutely delightful!" Or maybe not. 😀
The tops of my thighs are quite stingy at the moment. Especially with my sweats rubbing against them. Or rather, with my sweats rubbing against my pajama bottoms rubbing against them.
Wooden spoons really are evil. As are drafty apartments.
So, um, I posted last week about how I've got a bed time now. And that I get a reprieve for Saturday nights.
Well, last night was Saturday night so I knew I could stay up to watch Saturday Night Live provided that I was in bed by midnight. And I sorta watched SNL. I mean, it was on in the background. While I talked on the phone. Until about 12:55 am. And while I was sitting on my bed, I wasn't exactly in bed (whoever knew that prepositions could be so important?). Or even ready for bed. Indeed, I didn't actually make it into bed with the lights out until 1:15 am.
"Right. I have to have a think about your punishment," A. said to me tonight on the phone with that stern, British accent of his.
So tonight I'll be going to bed at 12 am sharp. And wondering about what my punishment is going to be.
For the first time in our four and half year relationship, A. is enforcing a bedtime for me.
Both he and I have generally been night owls, appreciating a certain level of creative energy that comes in the wee hours. Long ago I used to be a morning person, but since my illness has reeked havoc with my circadian rhythm, I’ve been a I’ll-go-to-sleep-whenever-I’m-damn-well-tired-enough-to-and-
wake-up-whenever-I-damn-well-wake-up sort of person.
However, since being diagnosed with and beginning treatment for hypothyroidism at the end of August, my circadian rhythm has settled down into some regularity. By midnight I start getting pretty sleepy and if I stay up much later, I’m barely able to drag myself into the bathroom to brush my teeth, floss, pee, etc. And for the next two days I’ll be groggy regardless of how late I slept in.
But, well, despite how much sense it makes to go to bed at midnight, I’d never quite make it there before 1 or 2 or even 3 am. I mean, I’ve been going to bed in the am for years now, so I just don’t think about getting ready for bed at, say, 11 pm.
Well, I do now.