Sir SpanksALot asked about the other punishments I get.

There are several and I will pick one now and write about another in a few weeks.

Sir S wondered if this was a bit forward asking about punishments and I do not think so. After all this being the kind of blog it is I don’t suppose I can pretend that nothing out of the ordinary ever happens. It happens.

I get shy talking about it though. That shyness is the point though, the fact I can’t talk about these things without tucking my chin down as I type, the fact that my fingers rest in the air above the keyboard before I dare commit to describing what I do, I think tells you two things.

Firstly, it tells you that I am a certain type of girl. DJ knows this, he knows what type of girl I am. He knows what will make an impact on me, what will make me shy, then sorry, and finally what will make me scuttle into him for comfort and sanctuary. He knows how far to take things with me, when to slow, when to push and when to allow me free again.

Secondly it tells you that the punishment works. The memory of it stays with me, it loiters in my mind like frost on glass on a winter’s morning. If you were to talk to me, in real life, I would never mention these things, but if you knew and you asked I would not say one word about what happened. I would look at DJ and ask him not to find the words. Even after the punishment I still look to him for protection from it, for his guidance and reassurance that I am his.

That may sound harsh and when you read this punishment you may think it not harsh enough. All I can say is – it is right for me. It helps me to feel safe, loved, forgiven and free.

My greatest and most persistent flaw is being fretful. That may not sound so bad but it tears me down and would tear us apart if DJ allowed it to do so. I get tired from work, uptight with how much there is to do and finally overwhelmed with the belief that I am incapable of doing what is expected of me.

DJ does a lot to take the pressure from me in practical ways but sometimes I fight him so hard that there is nothing he can do besides wrestle control back from me.

So this punishment is designed to calm me, silence me, and make me still. It is punishment for hurting myself, and for hurting us.

I want to stop writing now. I want not to tell you anymore. We could have a cup of tea and you could tell me what jobs you must do before the holidays. DJ doesn’t like it when I try to divert him in this manner but I think you would understand.

But I said I would tell you so here goes.

We are in our bedroom. The curtains are drawn and the room is warm. I come from the shower and he has laid things on the bed. He often lays things on the bed and I respond by hiding under the covers and hoping for a cuddle.

I am lying there on my tummy when I hear him come in. He doesn’t speak, just moves around the room. I don’t know what he is doing. He may or may not tie my legs down at this point. I don’t like being spanked when I am not over his knee. I like to feel him close to me and to hold on to him when the pain builds but some implements are not for his lap. I prefer him to tie my legs- he has soft buckles for them on the bed- so that I am safe, held down by him. He prefers me to submit willingly and to stay as he places me.

As I am writing this I will tell you that this time my legs are bound. Too far apart for my liking or for modesty is how he ties them but I don’t say a word. I hope for a change of heart from him and I know that arguing will only make this worse and so I stay still and quiet, only moving in response to his quiet, short, simple instructions.

He then places a blindfold over my eyes, like the buckles it is soft. It is another element of control that I have lost, all of a sudden I have not just a lack of choice but also a lack of knowledge about what will happen. Still, all is silence. I have talked myself into this silence as we both know.

The final preparation is something he has only recently started to do. He places a collar around my neck. We never spoke about this. I do not know how he sees this or why he chose it but I know what it symbolises. I am being transformed, from a wildling into something tamed, something owned, someone whose existence is linked to another. I like this only because he does it. I may come to like it for other reasons later, I may not but this time is not about what I want.

It is so quiet.

If you were not a clever man you may think the transformation complete. You may think that the shrill, difficult woman from the early evening has gone away and you may lie with me and start to kiss me. My eyes would fly open under my mask and I would bristle at your stupidity.

This is when it starts.

A spanking at first, gentle by our standards and building to a steady warmth and deep tissue pain. The immediate caning or whipping is for books and professionals. DJ wants me to take a lot tonight and I can only take what he wants me to, I can only allow it into me if he prepares me. I know this and react less to this spanking that to the others he gives me even though by the end of this my entire bottom feels as though it is burned.

And then something else, maybe a taws, maybe a martinet or a strap as he goes from one implement to another and back again. I can’t tell you what he uses; I ask sometimes but forget the moment it returns for a second bite. I can tell you each of them hurts. The one with all the slips of leather rushes at me, not just my bottom but in between my legs, it curls and snaps into me finding the corners or me I had hoped to hide.

There is the strap split into two – what is that called? I won’t ask him, I don’t want to talk to him about it. This is more solid and it places itself hard on me, covering the width of my bottom every time as he lays it across me.

The rounder piece of leather feels at first like a light relief until he works it over and over up and down my bottom repeating itself until I thoroughly understand what it has to say.

He stops.

I hear him walk from me and I shudder into the bed having arched my back to endure what he gave me.

At this point I used to think it was over. I used to think he had done what he needed and would stop. I used to think he had done a fairly good job at sorting me out.

I know better now.

He tells me to stick my bottom up. I do.

He says to stick it up more. I do this too.

I feel him touch my bottom, his warm hands feel cool against the heat he has made on my skin. He pushes my cheeks apart and I invariably pull away from him.

He instructs me to push myself up again and this time I obey and hold still.

You would think the ginger, all cool from the fridge would not be so bad compared to the stinging and aching of my bottom, or, at least, you would only think this if you have not felt it.

The pain is different to the others. Slow at first and then waves of it mounting in me and returning, rebuilding, crashing in to me. I hate him pushing it in place. I hate the way he holds it steady as I squirm. I hate the way I hold still not only to listen to him now that he has started to talk but also because I need to feel his hand on my bottom.

He talks. I listen. I respond when he requires it. I call him Sir and, due to the intense punishment from before, I do not falter when I use the word. It feels right to call him Sir – it would feel foolish to use his name.

He tells me what I need to know. He tells me what will and what will not be tolerated. He tells me that he loves me without once using the word ‘love’ but instead uses all the words that encase love for a girl like me.

Finally he stands again. He pushes the ginger in to make sure it is snug and this time I am sure I cry out. I think, this time, he uses the leather thing with all the tails. He uses it hard, he uses it thoroughly, covering me entirely with it and not allowing me to escape with any part of me. I would like to tell you I embrace the pain but I can’t lie about this. It pushes me further than I thought I could go. The nasty, insistent snapping of it, coupled with the humiliating pain and presence of the ginger underline all his words from before.

It finishes when he says it finishes. He may just use this implement, he may use others. I accept his choice, not because he is stronger than me, not because I am restrained but because I accept his authority.

I don’t know how he knows when I am complete. I do not know how he knows when I accept who we are again. I do not know anything other than when he releases me.

How does he release me?

However he chooses of course. But that is for another time. I have kept you long enough for now.