What comes after

It has been done.

I am a drunk woman, inebriated by sensations, overcome by the warmth that spread like whiskey fire through my blood.

My vision is blurred and I would not recognize myself if I could make it to the mirror; as dizzy as I am, as unsteady as my legs are, I could not walk a straight line or find my nose in the dark. My fingers have no interest in a sobriety test -- they are walking a crooked line across the raised highway of my heated cheeks, mapping the distance between each dip and curve.



The bedroom door closed behind him and my eyes lazily opened. He left me here to sleep; he thinks I'm sleeping already. Or perhaps he left me here to think, a task requiring neither silence nor solitude as I am flooded with thoughts and memories -- I cannot stop remembering.

I remember when he grabbed my arm and steered me toward the bedroom, searched my eyes for understanding, satisfied when he found recognition laced with fear there.



I remember when he slid his hand from my elbow to my wrist, encircled it and guided me over his lap to begin his calm, low sermon in a tone that makes my spine tingle from neck to tailbone.

I remember how I struggled, at once remorseful and joyful that he would not let me up, would not let me off that easy. I remember when I stopped struggling and just let it happen.

I remember elation and not defeat.



My roaming hands comfort my assaulted bottom as I remember these things.

And although I am penitent, although I did not enjoy the spanking or this mandated time alone, I remember it all while a smile plays hide-n-seek with my lips.

The other side

There was no denying as I watched, naked, from the doorway who those restraints you were attaching to the bed were for. That soon I would willingly place my hands in the velcroed enclosures and offer you my bottom as penance. I wanted to look away, to pretend that this was not happening. But you were still there, head bent as you prepared the area for my punishment.

I'd already been forgiven before you started scolding me. My tears had already fallen before you warmed me over your knees.

Now you were giving me something to remember: I am yours. I gave you the right to protect me and, in doing so, you bear a great responsibility toward me, toward us. I can't just say the words -- I must let you protect me. But I didn't. I am so accustomed to protecting myself that I disregarded your warnings and your direct order. I was wrong.

This is the other side of spanking. This is the side I do not enjoy. I do not like being held accountable, but I expect you to. I do not enjoy crying because I disappointed you and undermined what we'd built together.

I do not like what you are about to do, but I know that it is necessary.

You were not angry; your words were soft. You placed a pillow on the end of the bed to raise and protect my hips and motioned to me. Fidgeting and ashamed at my complete nakedness, I crossed the room and took the expected position: my hands near the restraints, waiting; my hips pressed against the cushioned foot board, lifting my warmed bottom.

And you gave me a choice. Which implement would you use first -- the thick wooden paddle or the stiff pink crop? Knowing this, knowing that both would be used, cemented the gravity of my actions.

It began and ended as a blur I'd rather forget. I don't want to remember my tearful pleas, or the way I pulled against the restraints trying to escape the paddle, and, later, the crop. I don't want to remember my howls and repeated apologies, my tears falling on the bedsheets.

But I remember. And I remember the moments of us together afterward, your tenderness, the way you held me and kissed away my lingering guilt.

I remember. I remember that I am yours.


(First photo of Caroline Lannon courtesy of Firm hand spanking.)

A day on the farm

The picture gives it away. I mean, even if you hadn't read this, I suppose you'd guess that somewhere along the way this story would lead to a switching of my poor, almost-bare behind. Stay with me, reader; I'll get there.

This tale begins where my Friday post left off. I arrived at his house, a bit nervous, and was promptly ordered into position for my deserved paddling. I waited on all fours with my dress hiked above my waist and my bottom in the air. The wait wasn't long due to my predictable tardiness and soon he was next to me, hiking my dress up further and paddling away. He's a multi-tasker -- lecturing while he paddles. An admirer of efficiency, I was impressed by his ability to soundly and memorably make his point.

A few minutes later, amid apologies and tearful pleas, we were finished and all was forgiven. Time to hit the road!

Through rush-hour traffic and hours on the road, my bottom retained its glowing warmth, frequently causing me to shift on the front seat and to imagine the pleasures of the evening ahead when we'd stop mid-way for the night. The details of our overnight stay deserve a post all their own, but suffice it to say that my earlier tardiness was dealt with and forgiven in a most satisfactory fashion (i.e. another round with the paddle over his knee interspersed with tenderness and a strong finish).

Upon arrival to the working farm on Saturday afternoon, we were greeted by warm friends, cold drinks, and vigorous card-playing. (I may not be a redneck but I play a FIERCE game of cards.) Eventually we made our way through the woods that surrounded the farm and, stealing glances over our shoulders, were delighted to see birch trees, their white trunks like lighthouse beacons drawing us near.

Spoiler: here is where the switch enters the picture.

Because he is gracious, and I was wearing inappropriate footwear, he waded through the tall weeds and selected a branch to use for...a walking stick? a dog toy? a souvenir? Well, sort of the latter, but the branch was most definitely a switch-in-the-making. And I could tell that his intent was to use it right then, with the sounds of the party on the other side of the trees.

I had never been switched. I'd never even cut a switch. But, having seen pictures of them, I knew that the leafy protrusions and knobby remains should probably come off. So I set myself to making it as smooth as possible. Translation: not smooth at all.

And then, with an eye for wandering party-goers, I dropped my jeans and bent over. His hand yanked my panties into my crack, forming an embarrassing wedgie, and I was treated to at least three hard swats with this new implement. (Here's where our stories differ. He says "medium" and I say "hard". He says "three" and I say "one bazillion".)

Holy ouch! A switch really stings! I mean it really, really stings. I stood up between each stroke; I couldn't help myself. Shifting my weight from foot to foot, I tried to shake off the burn of the thin, whippy branch. His hand on the small of my back would reposition me while I sucked in air and awaited the next bite. This happened eleventy-billion times, at least.

And then, hand-in-hand we rejoined the party, the memory of our little jaunt fresh on our minds and hidden beneath the seat of my jeans.

Yep. It was hot.

(Artwork by Endart.)

Weightless

The mirror confirms the activities of last night: bottom is still pink, tender to the touch, small bruise from the paddle forming on my right cheek. I don't bruise easily; there was some power behind those four punishing swings. Enough power to make my hands fly away from the wall and lean my weight against him while I caught my breath and whimpered.

"Take a deep breath," he said when my hands returned to the wall. I obeyed, dragging the air through my open mouth, feeling the worry ease out of my forehead. "And another," he said. And I took another, steadying myself and regaining my focus.

It took all of my willpower to stand there and wait for the next smack, knowing how much it would hurt. His forearm against my ribs, cupping a breast reassuringly, helped me through it.

You see, those four smacks weren't meant for pleasure: four strokes of the heavy paddle, for the four times he's had to remind me of completing the same task. I deserved it. And he told me what to expect days before. I won't say that it was just as hard for him to deliver them as it was for me to receive them, but I know it wasn't easy.

It's been a rough week here at Pink Headquarters. A very rough week. I didn't realize how much stress I was feeling until shortly before he was due to arrive. I didn't want him to come. I didn't want to face the punishment on top of all of the other things that had been going on, thinking that the paddle would just add to the overall crappiness that I was feeling.

But I should have known. I should've known that my head would clear afterwards and that I could much better deal with things once the matter of my discipline was out of the way. It's amazing, "this thing we do". My stress was like a physical presence; my burdens weighed so heavily. And yet, those ten minutes (yes, it took 10 minutes) of leaning against the wall, intimately dealing with one of my discrepancies, somehow eased the weight of the week.

There were two people in that room. One of those people felt let down, and the other felt guilty for making him feel that way. But when they emerged, it was clear: let's start again; all is forgiven.

I got stripes

It's inexplicable, this recent addiction to Johnny Cash. I've always been a fan and I have a vinyl collection to prove it; but lately, I find Cash songs stuck in my head on an almost daily basis. The one that I've been humming since Friday night? "I've got stripes":

On a monday I was ar-rested (uh huh)
on a Tuesday they locked me in the jail (oh boy)
on a Wednesday my trial was at-tested
on a Thursday they said guilty and the judge's gavel fell

I got stripes - stripes around my shoulders
I got chains - chains around my feet
I got stripes - stripes around my shoulders
and them chains - them chains they're about to drag me down

Except for me: I got stripes, stripes upon my sit spots/I got stripes, stripes upon my cheeks. I just hope I don't sing it out loud.

The implement? Another crop: evil, inflexible, and cane-like, it was dressed in an innocuous, cheery pink nylon from Fleck. The reaction? Air hissing through my teeth, knees buckling after each stroke, it made an impact.

For a spanko, it's difficult to find an actual physical punishment. But this was another job well done! (Please don't mistake that as encouragement for a repeat session!)

Bottom line?

I'm nervous. I've been told not to dwell on it, but I am apparently poor at following directions anyway. So, yes, I am dwelling.

I do seek accountability. I do have an appreciation for rules and structure. But I am so used to functioning on my own, doing as I desire, existing happily in my selfish world of indulgences and guilty pleasures that I have a hard time believing that someone else might know best. In this, as in many others, he has a clear point.

As indicated by an earlier post, pouting is out. Explanations haven't seemed to budge his resolve either. So I'm just going to have to suck it up and take it, submit to whatever punishment-fits-the-crime-scene he has in mind.

Why is a semi-seasoned spankee like myself dwelling? Because I've been disciplined, but never punished. There is a line between the two, and I fear that that line will be on my bottom by the end of the night.

Eek! Update to follow.

Trouble with a capital "Oof!"

I'm the dork who got herself into trouble. And why? For the same reasons I always do: stubbornness, procrastination, and a firm belief that I'm too much of a good girl to actually warrant true discipline.

(Artwork by Kami Tora.)

Wrong on that last account, evidently. Today I was informed that I earned myself some time with the wicked crop (the longer cousin of the one I prematurely praised in an earlier post). And that, readers, is true discipline indeed.

It's not like I haven't been warned, scolded, spanked for my tardiness prior to this, the last straw. But, really, doesn't he know how "busy" I am? Doesn't he think it's cute when I drag my feet and make sweetly apologetic excuses? Apparently my charms are wasted on that steel-hearted brute because nothing I said (although I know better than to argue) could change his resolve.

Whose fault is this really?

The blame rests squarely on me. And I regret that our Saturday will be marred with the business of reminding me of my promise and of my failure to deliver on that promise. Although, he assures me that it will not make him any more or less comfortable. Well that indifference makes me feel a whole lot better, thank you, Sir.

So when I assume the reminder position on Saturday while he sips the tasty drink I make for him, I will be cursing my slacker ways and dreaming of better excuses so I can get out of the next punishment.

Or, crazy thought: perhaps I'll do as he asks, because when he says, "next time it will be worse", I'll know he means business!

(Author's note: I mean "steel-hearted brute" in the most tender way, of course!)