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.
Helping your neighbours
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.
The Repeat Offender
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.
A Nail-Biting Story
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."
Fitting the punishment in
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.
Reporting for Punishment
'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.
Bad Girl with Worse Memory
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?
Congratulations Haron OR Years of Caning Pays Off
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.
Waiting For My Punishment
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."
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 gas.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good
When a girl hasn't been in trouble since forever, and when she spends most of her waking time buried between pages of rather dull academic volumes, her mind naturally turns to mischief.
At least mine does.
So I wonder. What would happen if I:
a) Got the new Harry Potter book
b) Waited just long enough that my friends in less advanced time-zones have their copies, but haven't got very far in
c) Sent around an email reading (in big, friendly letters): "OMG, have you got to the spanking scene yet?"
Do you think they'd tell?
It's never this quiet in spanking fiction
Is it still a discipline relationship when one isn't getting disciplined?
I will have you know that I haven't been punished since way back in February. I've been on the brink: had stern glares addressed at me, and frowns, and threats. But I've been good enough, and Abel generous enough, that there hasn't been a punishment.
And you know what?
Pushing an Elephant Up the Stairs
Lately I've been ill a lot, and consequently ended up spending lots of time staring into space, arranging and re-arranging various pieces of work in my head into increasingly scary action plans.
I have quite a lot to do, you see. There's the thesis. There's my fiction writing. And there's something Which Must Not Be Named, but alright, as you're curious I'll say it once and never say its name again. *motions for the readers to move their heads closer into the circle* Job search! (There. Now you know. My name is Haron, and I'm terrified of applying for jobs.)
Yeah, anyway. You'll be pleased to know (I think) that since my last update I haven't earned any new punishments. The draconian regime has been working (that's when I haven't been sneezing my nose off). Yet, it hasn't stopped me from peering at my work load with eyes wide open in terror. Instead of focusing on every day as it comes, I cower in front of the big picture.
And what do you know? Abel has come up with another cunning plan.
So, the spanking from my previous post was over, but the realcitrant chapter was still waiting to be written, and so my sweetie Abel devised a cunning plan.
I've been struggling with a chapter of my thesis. This is because I'm lazy. But also it's because the chapter had little to do with the lovely, exciting European Court of Human Rights, which is my specialty, and lots to do with the dull, disgusting European Union legislation. Yawn. My usual way of dealing with a tricky piece of work is to avoid it for as long as possible, and then even longer, way past the possible avoidance cut-off date, and then get depressed because it had to be done OMG THREE MONTHS AGO, and freeze.
So I did that.
The complete freaking out over this paper happened just about at the time when we started this blog. Abel and I had been going easy on discipline for a couple of months. And the stuff we'd tried before hadn't really worked for me, because, frankly, I don't think Abel realised just how bad my work habits are, and how much control I need in order to work out some better ones.
But here I was, blogging about discipline, and at the same time having so little of that discipline that my work had got to the stage where the task seemed too great to even attempt it. So, you see, I *had* to tell Abel that it would be nice of him if he could rub my nose into my work more thoroughly than he'd done it before.
He's a soft man, but he obliged. He told me to submit a report on my progress every day, and that, if by 5 pm next Friday the paper wasn't finished, in our weekly review meeting he would put me over his knee and spank me harder than ever before. He would spank me for six minutes.
He'd spanked me awfully hard before, and for nothing like this long. In fact, just the previous day he'd spanked me for two minutes with his left hand, because it was the way I happened to have landed over his lap, and it had *hurt*. It was definitely going to be his stronger right hand doing the smacking if it came to that. I had an uh-oh feeling, and on Monday morning I got to work.
Abel has threatened to make me the first Punishment Book author to be spanked for not posting about my punishments in a timely manner.
*sulk - stomp - whinge - whine*
Let's see... would the reason for me not posting be that I've been *on a punishment regime* with severely limited spare time? Do you think?
*moan - pout - complain*
That's OK, I'll be writing it all up as soon as my ego heals.
The State of Haron Address
My name is, and isn't, Haron. I'm 25 years old. I discovered spanking 7 years ago - it took me about four months from the day I got online. I hear, that's terribly slow for an average spankophile, but I have an excuse: I was busy learning English.*
By the way, you could be sure that I always have an excuse for everything. For example...