Have you noticed how many of my entries in the Punishment Book are about punishments for being careless?
Yes? Well this one won't be much of a surprise then.
I woke up this morning rather late (it was Saturday and we don't have children). During a rather sweet morning snuggle, Paul mentioned that it was a good thing he hadn't gone to bed when I did and asked if I could guess why. He usually doesn't go at the same time as me as we've long known I need more sleep then he does or I get sick and out of sorts.
Anyway, as much of what we've talked about in recent days has been related to his taking over technical moderation of our beloved soc.sexuality.spanking, my first guess was a late-night spam attack. This is my moderation week and the spammers always seem to know when I'm sleeping. But no. It wasn't that.
I wouldn't have gotten in trouble about that.
No, last night before I went to bed I'd gotten some water from the 2.5 gallon Arrowhead container in the 'fridge. They have a little nozzle on the front that slides in and out. Pull it out, cold water on tap. Slide it back in, the water stays in the container. Or so it's supposed to be.
Except apparently I hadn't pushed it all the way in. This resulted in a slow leak that had filled half of our 'fridge trays with water before Paul had noticed. He reported having used a roll of paper towels mopping up the water.
I apologized (and very nicely too) as no one likes to clean the 'fridge late at night. At least not anyone I know. I also didn't ask why he used paper towels when a large bath towel would have been more environmentally sound. One has to know what to say and when.
Paul looked at me and asked if I thought that was good enough. My being sorry. This gave me pause. I did think it was pretty good. And it wasn't like I'd ever done this before. So I asked if I was in trouble.
To my surprise (though probably not to yours) I was. But not yet, he said.
It waited until after dinner.
By after dinner, I'd also had a rather nasty little thing I'd done earlier in the day. Basically, I'd snapped. Paul had told me he'd be in to fix the toast in "just a minute" and 20 had gone by. Bacon was cooked. The table was set. Plates for the eggs were warming. I'd even had enough coffee. Finally I came in and asked in what would be my snarkiest tone if he needed another minute or 20 before making the toast as I was hungry.
Yes, as we discussed, it was okay that I was annoyed at the breakfast delay. But I also knew what he was working on was tricky and also I could have just said in a normal tone that we needed to eat. Or at least that I did. The fact is, I wasn't really mad at him -- I was taking out my irritation at something else entirely on him.
I did apologize right then and there. But still.
So anyway, after dinner I had somehow forgotten about all of this. Paul came up behind me as I wrote emails and told me to finish up what I was doing and then go and change into a white tee shirt, blue knickers and white ankle socks.
I went and changed. I was a bit surprised but then again I did feel bad about the mess.
Still, we'd had a rather nice day with a trip down to Third Street and time in the hazy sunshine.
[Hmm... I seem to be dragging this out. I hate writing the spanking parts.]
Anyway, I changed. Paul told me to take off my glasses and go and stand in the corner in the study and think about why I was there. I did, though I hate being without my glasses. I'm very nearsighted and it makes me feel very vulnerable.
A chair was already in the middle of the study. I stepped around it and into the corner, pushing my nose in so my forehead touched both walls.
The problem with standing in the corner is that time seems to go so slowly. I thought about the mess I'd accidentally made...and how bad I felt about it. I thought about how testy and impatient I'd felt all day and how I'd taken it out on Paul, not because it was his fault, but because he was there. I really hate that -- it's a behavior I associate with my mother and not in a sentimental kind of way. But this reflection only took a minute or two. As did the discovery that I can fold my arms behind my back so I can wrap my hands around each elbow.
Did I mention having attitude problems all day? Well the clue for me was a rather insane desire to call out to Paul (who I could hear in the other room) that I knew the answers now. I didn't though. Because I'm sane.
Anyway he came in and called me over to him. I told him I was sorry and that I hadn't meant to do it. He knew that. But you see, this is all connected (as he sees it) to my tending to move onto the next thing before making sure I finish what I'm doing. Hence, the Splenda packets. And so he tugged down my knickers and spanked me hard with his hand, over the knee, on my bare bottom.
It hurt. Quite a bit really especially when I kicked and my thighs got spanked hard. But it also didn't hurt that much too. I even thought of saying so... but I didn't.
The spanking finally ended (I swear, it seemed to take 15 minutes or more) and I was sent back to the corner with my knickers 'round my knees. I thought he was just going to admire his handiwork but when I heard Paul leave there was a stab of fear. Maybe he was going for the ebony brush. Or maybe the large wooden spoon. After all, this had been a kitchen crime.
My mouth went dry as I convinced myself it would be the spoon.
The tell-tale sound of a cane swish hit me like an electric shock. Unlike some of the other posters on the PB, I don't get punished with the cane. At least not since the rather memorable incident with the library fines.
Paul told me to kneel on the chair, bend over the back and put my hands on the bed. In his hands was the rather lovely cane that Tony Elka had used on me and then given me as a gift. I felt afraid. Paul can cane quite hard.
After the first stroke there was a long pause. I asked if I should count and was reminded I hadn't been asked to count. The bad thing about that was I didn't know how many to expect. For some I was quite brave. For others I yelped loudly and almost covered up with my hands. I'm not sure how many strokes there were. More than six and maybe less then twelve I think. But enough to bring tears to my eyes and leave me gasping.
Finally it was over and Paul held me on his lap. I whimpered a bit and said I was very sorry.
But, being sorry wasn't really the point. Paul, as he said, doesn't want me to be sorry. He wants me to be more aware of what I'm doing.
As ever, I'll try. Really.