You’ll remember that I have an ongoing discipline deal with my boyfriends where they help me keep track of my health and fitness goals, and hold me accountable for failures to meet them. You might also have wondered why I haven’t written about any punishments in a while. Well, I’m sorry to say that it’s not because I’ve been turning in perfect records every week.

What actually happened was that after I got made homeless last September and moved in with D, the whole thing sort of gently collapsed. Tom wasn’t in a position to keep up with things, so between the three of us we agreed that it made sense for D to take over. He was good enough to give me moving week off. Then we tried to pick it up again, but almost immediately I sprained my ankle. And then there was just one thing after another. The more it mounted up, the more reluctant either of us were to confront it. During periods when I was checking in, he was too busy or tired to initiate a big scene. And every week he didn’t mention it, the less motivation I had to keep up with my side of the bargain.

During this time it was interesting to see how my habits changed. Despite not being actively engaged in the discipline arrangement, throughout these months D had a positive effect. He doesn’t drink, so I pretty much stopped drinking unless I was going out. He also works out nearly every day, and I started going to the gym with him. But I barely did my daily physiotherapy exercises. Yoga, pilates and strength training helped keep my pain at bay, but D and I both knew that I’d need to start doing them if I wanted my condition to improve.

By the time I plucked up the courage to approach him about it, in December, we were both working flat out getting my site launched, and made a mutual decision to not add anything else to my overloaded schedule until that was out of the way. So came Christmas, and New Year. In the second week of January we finally found time to sit down together, and agreed a weekly appointment on Sundays at 7pm. As a show of commitment we both added it to our Google calendars: and sure enough, when Sunday came round, here we both were. Tired, not quite in the mood, but determined to go through with it just the same.

We’d agreed to put the backlog to one side for now, so all we were looking at was the week just gone. Unfortunately, it being my first week back in the saddle, it hadn’t gone well. I’d been late with a couple of the daily check-in emails, and I hadn’t done my physio exercises at all. Everything else, as usual, was within limits – but then, it was my physio and check-ins that we both wanted to improve.

D asked me to undress. He prefers me naked for these punishments (by contrast with sex, when he likes me in long socks, stockings or heels). I lay over pillows on the bed and awaited my first dose of the bathbrush for several months.

Oh my god, that thing is hateful. Especially when you’ve forgotten how much it hurts. I don’t know how it manages to pack so much sting into one impact, but I hate sting, and it’s unbearable. With every whack I yelled or reared up out of position, and generally did not behave at all obediently, submissively, or like someone who had asked for this to happen.

Between strokes I tried to tap into my discipline kink, talk myself into finding some appeal to the experience, but when the next blow came it all went out of my head and I’d howl with pain and disbelief. It felt like he was doing it especially hard, but he wasn’t. My indignance was not helped by the fact that afterwards I was hardly even pink.

I did feel better once we’d done it, though. And more importantly, I did my physio exercises.

That undignified, unsexy punishment was, perhaps, the best thing that could have happened. After it I swore to be diligent. When, on Wednesday, I realised I’d forgotten to send emails both the previous days, I was genuinely shocked and remorseful. For the rest of the week I rearranged my life as best I could to avoid making any further mistakes.

The following Sunday we were both a little better rested. My totals were encouraging: only those first two late check-ins, and I’d managed to do my physio exercises on three occasions. I’m aiming for “every other day” at the moment, so given their uneven distribution throughout the week D decided to punish me for one missed set.

He sat on the corner of the bed and patted his lap. Naked, I leaned over, grateful to be permitted this intimacy. Before picking up the bathbrush he even gave me some warm-up spanks: a sure sign that I wasn’t in disgrace.

The punishment, when it came, was much more bearable. We were both proud of the improvements I’d made, and this felt more like a friendly reminder than aversion therapy. I still yelled, a bit, but when he spanked me afterwards I purred.

So far this week, I’m doing even better. I’ve not missed any reports. I’ve gone to the gym twice. Yesterday I had a perfect day: no booze, yoga class and physio exercises, although that was the first time this week I’d done them. Still, I’m on track. Isn’t it amazing what a spanking can achieve?

Photos from Triple A Spanking starring Leia Ann Woods, and an identical evil bathbrush.