I got spanked today. D and I hadn’t caught up on our discipline deal for three weeks. I argued, beforehand, that this was unfair and counted against me. If he doesn’t find time to deal with my misdeeds each week, I proposed, then they should be cancelled out. There shouldn’t be any rollover. It’s unfair [...]
Archive for the ‘Real life punishment’ Category
Two punishments
Posted by Pandora on January 25th, 2012
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.
Posted in D, D/S, Play, Real life punishment, Triple A Spanking 
Tags: bath brush, other pictures 
5 Comments »Settling the score
Posted by Pandora on August 23rd, 2011
“I’ve got a plan,” D told me, some weeks ago. “I’m going to put you in your collar, and deal with it all at once, everything you’d accumulated up to the point where we swapped over.”
One of the reasons my exercise accounting was transferred to Tom was that D and I hadn’t had the opportunity to clear the slate in some time. I was substantially overdue.
Two days ago, we finally settled the score.
Wrists bound to the head of the bed. Ankles bound together and tied to the foot. He didn’t want me going anywhere.
My collar, just in case I hadn’t appreciated the gravity of the occasion.
200 strokes with the bathbrush.
I think it was out of kindness that D powered through them as quickly as possible. I have to confess that at the time, I struggled to appreciate his generosity. Unable to leap up and run headlong out of the room like any sensible person, I sobbed, buried my head in the pillows, bit back tears.
Halfway through, he leaned over and asked in a low voice, “Are you still going to be speaking to me after this?”
“That depends on what you do next,” I replied, unable to keep a sudden smile out of my voice.
It turns out that 200 strokes of the bath brush earns you a hell of a lot of snuggles … among other things.
Whatever you do, don’t click here.
A good cry
Posted by Pandora on July 25th, 2011
I’ve been working a lot on my site the last couple of weeks, and it’s been a stressful time. Not preparing content; preparing content is an energising, happy-making experience. Instead I’ve been wrangling with the realities of finance, logistics, web development; contingency trees collapsing my timescales into unrealistically short deadlines. D, who is handling the site back-end for me, is only available to work on the project until mid September. I can’t apply for a CCbill account – which we need before we can get to grips with the billing integration – until my site is ready to launch. Ergo, my site needs to be ready to launch by September. Never mind the complexities of finding the money to pay his mortgage while I’m taking him away from other paying work.
The feeling of urgency when I think about this project has been increasing by the month. Every time I contemplate how much work there is still to do it feels like a hand is squeezing my heart. Not panic: merely a sense of overwhelming certainty that this is what I need to be working on, not anyone else’s website, not any client projects, this, now. My breath catches and my pulse quickens as every cell in my body urges me to drop everything and work on this, now, go go go. I have been patiently squeezing work on it into my evenings and weekends for too long. I know with every part of me that right now, this is where my time and energy should go.
Of course, I still have clients. I still need to pay my bills. I can just about find enough to finance the shoots already booked and D’s time; until one of my funding options come through, I still need to work for free. Much as I would like to, I can’t turn my back on my other commitments. But the collapsing timescales have left me little choice over the next four weeks.
During this process, I have been as tense as perhaps I’ve ever been. It’s a new, unfamiliar sort of tension. Not helpless anxiety, feeling out of control; nor a sense of being overwhelmed, of being unable to cope. It’s the muscular, jaw-clenched tension of being completely in control, of carrying all the weight oneself. I can manage. I can do it. It will happen. But the burden of responsibility is so heavy that my shoulders are shaking under it. Carrying this is occupying every part of my attention; I can’t think or talk about anything else. I’m absolutely determined not to drop it, but sweat is starting to drip down my back and my legs are beginning to tremble.
When I asked Tom for a stress-relief spanking, I wasn’t sure how I’d react. Would I crumble under the pain? Would I be able to submit? He was gentle with me, rubbing my back as I lay over his knee. The spanks he gave were firm, regular, reassuring.
I found myself staying quieter than usual. It was as if I didn’t want to communicate any vulnerability. As the sting increased, I gritted my teeth and had to force myself to breathe. I wasn’t fighting the pain, but I wasn’t relinquishing control, either. I lay there absolutely still, exhaling and inhaling in measured breaths, maintaining a carefully relaxed and limp position over his knee. It was as if I sat on the other side of my desk accepting each smack with a courteous nod, filing it away for future use. I had asked for this, I knew I needed it, but I wasn’t about to break.
When the spanks started coming really hard, my breathing became a little more ragged and I wondered if I would cry. But then it ended, and as we hugged I realised that I was much more relaxed, and I hadn’t thought about work for a whole fifteen minutes. As heat radiated out from my bottom into the rest of my body I felt that pleasant glow and the beginnings of a happy buzz. That evening, I was more functional and sociable than I’d been in days.
The next day Tom and I got together to deal with any discipline arising from my weekly exercise schedule. The decision to hand over maintenance of my exercise regime to Tom had clearly paid off: I had missed only 2 items from my weekly goals, one of which was a late report. It was the best I’d done in quite some time, and our mood as I lay down over pillows for twelve whacks with the brush was very positive. Not a punishment; merely a gentle, necessary reminder to accompany deserved praise. I took them almost silently, acknowledging the pain but not succumbing to it.
Afterwards we were both keen to continue to play. Still feeling somewhat fragile, I asked if I could go over his knee. I wanted the physical intimacy, the reassuring closeness of being supported and held. Again, I wasn’t sure in what way my tension would manifest. Would it spill over into anger, making me reject the pain? Would I react badly if things went in a direction I didn’t expect?
As the spanking started I realised I was reacting in a very similar way to the previous night. I breathed evenly through the pain, accepting it, waiting for more. It occurred to me that my quietness might give the impression that I wasn’t enjoying it, but deep inside I nurtured a suspicion that I needed him to go hard. Still, I couldn’t quite let go of my pride enough to give the encouraging murmurs and whimpers which normally signal to a top that I want more. Instead I rested a palm against the bare skin of his thigh, under my ribs. His hand on the back of my neck steadied me securely, and I returned the gesture with a reassuring pressure of my fingers. Too withdrawn for words, I managed to unbend enough to signal my assent non-verbally, squeezing his thigh and, occasionally, with the slightest appreciative wiggle of my hips.
He got the message. My quietness was not the disengaged, uncertain silence of someone who wasn’t into what was happening. It was the quietness of someone too strung out to play games; of someone willingly waiting to be pushed.
This time the pace of the spanking stepped up more briskly. The weight of his hand knocked the breath out of me; then a yelp. Sting layered upon sting to create a growing burn. Finally, I found myself unbending. My muscles loosened as impact shook my body. I pressed my face into the pillows and surrendered.
By the end, I was crying out. But it wasn’t until he stopped, his hand affectionately caressing my inflamed skin, that the tears came. Where pain had released my emotional grip, tenderness pushed me over the edge. I curled in his lap like a small thing and wrapped my arms around his neck and cried. He held me fiercely, understanding without explanation what was taking place, and before long I was laughing through my tears. It was laughter at how ridiculous my stress had been, how ridiculous my preferred mode of relaxation. But it was also the laughter of delight, at having found this perfect solution to grown-up woes, and at having a partner who knew what I needed.
Posted in D/S, Play, Real life punishment, Thomas Cameron Tags: hand spanking, other pictures, otk spanking 8 Comments »The evolution of punishment: II
Posted by Pandora on July 12th, 2011
A week yesterday, D and I rearranged our domestic discipline deal – in which he helps me keep track of my health goals – to include Tom.
There were several reasons. Tom was initially who I went to about keeping tabs on my alcohol intake, last year, but he was too busy and not well enough to take on the extra responsibility. Although I see D every couple of weeks, we often don’t find the time or inclination to set up a punishment scene; time is short, we both usually have work and social commitments while we’re together, and our first priority in any private time is making enthusiastic love and gazing romantically into each others eyes. Perverse, I know.
The last time D and I cleared the tally was back in April, and I’ve been increasingly busy since then. Things slipped – specifically my exercise regime. Although last week’s holiday has left me refreshed enough to pick things back up again, I’m owed a serious session when we next find the chance. It was D who initially suggested passing some of the responsibility over to Tom, who lives with me and is able to keep more regular track of things. And Tom’s health has improved this year: he now feels ready to take it on.
The way we’ve worked it out is that Tom has taken over the tracking of my exercise goals (both working out and my physiotherapy stretches), which are also the things I’ve primarily been struggling with. This feels appropriate because he has worked as a personal trainer in the past, and he and I have got a lot out of him teaching me squash. D doesn’t drink, and so has a different perspective on my intake which I’m finding useful; it makes sense to keep that with him. Tom and I have a weekly Wednesday night date, so (health permitting) the punishments are unlikely to get more than week in arrears.
My feelings are complex, as you’d imagine. I’m delighted to be able to bring this lovely new dynamic into our relationship, and I hope it will bring us closer. I know that he values this sort of responsibility very highly. It makes sense to share this not only with both of my partners, but with someone who is physically present in my life on a daily basis. In fact that’s already working well: Tom’s been actively encouraging me to find time for my physio exercises, and I’ve done them more often since the handover. If nothing else, that alone makes the change worthwhile.
On the other hand, I’m slightly sad that something will be lost from the connection between D and I. He and I have both found this process very rewarding – more than we expected. It has evolved very naturally and I think we’re closer for it. But I can’t help being aware that since we started this whole thing, I’ve succeeded at keeping my drinking within the limits we chose. Which is good news, of course… but it does mean that in practice, D’s continuing role is not likely to result in much punishment.
We’re both keen to try and maintain the dynamic somehow or other. Perhaps there will be other things I become accountable to him for. Otherwise, we are both invested in continuing to play scenes just for fun which build on this intensity, and talking about various things we’d like to do. Then there’s the fact that neither D or Tom is specifically responsible for dealing with any punishments for late reports. I’m copying them both in on the same daily email, so I think those will simply be dealt with by whoever gets round to it first. And besides (just plucking ideas out of the air here, not dropping hints at all…) it’s not impossible that both of them might decide to get together for a simultaneous session. If my D feels the need, I’m sure he can find a way.
–
I haven’t written about all of the scenes D and I played as part of this arrangement. They are worth remembering. One of the most remarkable aspects of this whole process was how varied the punishments were, emotionally, even if the format and implement were very consistent.
There was the evening where he startled me on his bed, and fell on me with a mock roar, pinning my wrists. I giggled and decided to risk his surprise by fighting back. Not my normal style, but he barely missed a beat. “Hah. Struggling it is, then,” he grinned, and the ensuing tussle was vigorous enough to leave me breathless, giddy, still giggling, facedown and helpless against the onslaught of the brush. It was a valiant effort, though. I’d have got away if I hadn’t been laughing so much.
Other times I would stay as quiet as I could. I wouldn’t necessarily be in the mood to take a lot of pain, but he’d be so gentle and supportive that I couldn’t pretend this wasn’t all for my sake. Subdued, I’d try to accept the inevitable without too much drama. We’d get through it briskly, with minimal fuss. Afterwards I’d reach for a cuddle and the touch of his skin would be like an electric jolt. With a shock, I’d realise that I was soaking wet.
The most memorable time, however, was the scene which started with me taking the bathbrush in my new Japanese style school uniform, and moved on to a delightful semi-roleplay involving spanking, molestation, and anal rape. My schoolgirl was definitely horny and enthusiastic, but neither of us were physically suited to anal play – she due to inexperience, me due to certain embarrassing medical issues. She didn’t want it. I desperately wanted D to take what he wanted whether I was ready or not. I wanted to be pushed; I want to surrender to my tears while he continued to hurt me. It was very, very intense, and I’m not even sure I was still horny by the end of it. I was completely broken down, and just wanted to be held. But it was extremely satisfying, and definitely hot in retrospect.
–
Yesterday, I ordered another one of these to give to Tom. (I did consider seeing if I could have got away with presenting him with a stuffed toy instead, but I’m not sure it would have been in my best interest.) Tomorrow evening I believe I will be accounting for everything that’s come up since the handover. I’m nervous in a number of ways. Will Tom be harder on me than D? Will I be able to accept the inevitable differences, trust in him enough to let him do it his own way? Will it work between us? If it does, will it leave D feeling left out?
Our priority is helping me meet my goals, not in finding excuses for punishment, so if all goes to plan in the long term my concerns will be moot. In the meantime, I’m sure there’ll be plenty of things to report – starting with tomorrow night.
Posted in D, D/S, Play, Real life punishment, Thomas Cameron Tags: bath brush, other pictures No Comments »Deserved vs undeserved punishments
Posted by Pandora on June 14th, 2011
1.“Real” punishment in spanking porn One of the most popular tropes in spanking porn is the concept of the performer being consensually punished on camera for some real misdeed, and experiencing genuine feelings of remorse, catharsis and release in the process. Real Life Punishment, Dallas Spanks Hard and Strictly Spanking all focus exclusively on this [...]
Posted in Fantasies, Gender politics, Northern Spanking, Queer politics, Real life punishment Tags: meta-analysis 6 Comments »When a caning is just what you need
Posted by Pandora on March 25th, 2011
Frustrated by not being able to run any other processes while editing video, I recently souped up my four year old Dell to a whopping 4GB of RAM – the maximum I can get without replacing the motherboard. It’s much more capable of multitasking as a result, but file conversions and rendering still take bloody [...]
Bathbrush, meet thighs
Posted by Pandora on March 10th, 2011
My discipline deal with D (how’s that for an alliterative beginning?) has been revealing so far. To my surprise, I’ve pretty much kept within my drinking limits, apart from one week which included two birthday parties and two other boozy social occasions.¹ And my gym schedule has been easy to maintain, at least when I’m [...]
The evolution of punishment; or, how I came to like it
Posted by Pandora on February 9th, 2011
If I were to tell you that historically, punishment has not been something I’ve enjoyed, I’d appear to be stating the obvious. Of course no-one enjoys punishment, that’s sort of the point. But even within the familiar paradox of kink, punishment has not been a framework that I’ve tended to find fun to play with. [...]
Punishment, humiliation and bondage
Posted by Pandora on January 19th, 2011
Photo of Ariel Anderssen courtesy of Restrained Elegance
Actually, when D suggested we get the spankings over and done with at the end of my last entry, there were two in the offing. My punishment for not checking in as per our agreement a couple of days earlier; and a fun spanking he owed me to make up for being mean.
Put like that, it sounds kind of contradictory. But I suspect you’ll understand.
I was waking up with my laptop and a cup of tea, and thinking about making breakfast. I asked what he had in the kitchen, we made a plan. I settled in to read twitter while I finished my tea. D and I exchanged some sort of internet-related banter I can’t remember, but which probably involved my teasing him. His retort: “Get into the kitchen and start cooking, woman!”
Now, we’ve talked about him making sexist jokes, even in jest. I want to call him on it but I’m in too good a mood enough to properly have a go. Instead I say: “Well, I was just about to start making you breakfast, but now you’ve said that I’ll only do it if I get a spanking later.”
He thinks for barely a moment. “Yeah, that’s fair.” And all is forgiven.
–
After dinner, slightly tipsy, I walk past the open bedroom door and catch sight of what’s waiting on the bed. The punishment bath brush. And his belt, coiled neatly and waiting on the pillow. My tummy flips with nerves.
The next thing I remember is me, naked, standing in front of him as he sits on the corner of the bed, bath brush in hand. I’m grateful that he’s on the corner rather than the edge of the bed – it allows me to go diagonally over his knee with hands and feet on the floor. I always feel awkward and huge, a giantess, when I’m lying over someone’s knee with my arms and legs up on the bed. Hands and feet on the floor ironically makes me feel less self-conscious.
I got some warm-up smacks with his hand and the brush as he tested its weight. It doesn’t look like it’s having any effect at all, but it stings like blazes – as my squeaks testified. My head was right next to his big wall-mirror, but I stared at the carpet, unwilling to look myself in the eyes. Once he’d satisfied himself that he had the measure of the brush, he asked me if I was ready.
“Yes, sir.” I was feeling very sorry and submissive and just hoping I could stand it. How many minutes was I going to get?
Then – “I’m going to give you twelve,” he said, and I realised all in a rush that he didn’t mean twelve minutes, he meant twelve whacks, and that this was going to be bearable. Not pleasant, but bearable.
I winced and squirmed my way through them, continually amazed at how so small and innocuous an item as that wooden brush could have so much effect – but then it was over. Ironically, the ‘fun’ play that followed was far more humiliating than the ‘real’ punishment.
–
“Put on your pretty things,” said D, his smile telling me that the punishment was over. Most tops just give you a hug afterwards. He … well.
I put on the sheer black hold-ups with ridiculous hot pink lacy tops which I’d bought for amusement’s sake a couple of days earlier. Plus black patent stilettos that do up with ribbon. Standing in the heels I teetered over him, feeling shy and unbalanced, like a little girl playing grown-up dress up.
His erection told me how much he’d enjoyed spanking me (or perhaps just how much he enjoyed seeing me in stockings and heels). I was grateful for the punishment, both its inevitability and its relative lenience, and more than happy to show him how grateful I was with my mouth. In return he lay me on the bed with the heels in the air, and rewarded me for shaving my pussy that afternoon with teasing, loving licks, working inwards from my mound and upper thighs in a slow, slow circle that had me panting.
Just when I thought he was going to let me come, he stopped. I was guided to my feet again, and he tied my wrists behind my back with soft black rope. My breath was coming in tiny, nervous flutters. My whole body felt sensitised.
Suddenly he slammed me backwards against the wall. I fell against it, unsteady in the heels. His hand wrapped around my throat and forced my head up. My face was higher than his but he was looking straight into my eyes. I felt too tall, too vulnerable, my hands pressed together behind me against the cold wall. His other hand carved tendrils of sensation on my skin, making my breath catch, and then he lifted it and slapped my left breast with such force that panic, like white noise, fizzed in my brain for long seconds. I yelped loudly, shocked, and then gasped for breath, face feeling very pink, unable to move my head, his hand a steady pressure around my throat.
Our eyes met with the electric shock of hunter and hunted. I was overwhelmed by the terror of being trapped, knowing I couldn’t escape his unwavering gaze, or the next slap – which made me cry out again, even though I knew it was coming. I squirmed, not sure if I was more humilated by the smacks or by his continuing to look into my face as he hit me. More slaps, making my breasts bounce. My nipples felt hard and tight and too sensitive, a situation not helped by his insistence on pulling them, pinching them before slapping them again.
I felt horrible, humiliated, scared and so aroused I was dizzy.
After taking his time punishing my breasts, he threw me onto the bed. I landed awkwardly, hands still bound behind me. Normally I’d scramble to regain my balance, try to find out where he wanted me, but all autonomy had been shocked out of me. I just lay there facedown, breathing fast and waiting for him to act. He tied my ankles together with more of the rope. Then, with another length, he bound my thighs, just above the knee.
So I’m trussed hands, thighs and feet, unable even to steady myself for balance, high heels sticking out off the edge of the bed and aching breasts smooshed into the duvet. He climbs on top of me and busies himself spanking me for a while, which is actually kind of a relief. Hand spanking, that I can cope with, and I ground myself in the familiar, pleasant sensations. But then he stops, and I can feel his cock nudging against my bottom.
He slides the velvety tip up and down my crease, teasing me with its hardness; pushing, gently, insistently, pushing, just long enough for me to start to groan, to resign myself to the pain, to whimper, “if you’re going to do that, you’re going to need some lube” – when he stops toying with me and plunges himself into my cunt instead. In that position I can barely move, can’t do more than rock my hips back against him an inch or so, and the angle isn’t one that will get me off. But that’s not the point. He takes me ferociously, one hand pinning my shoulders, my head, to the bed, and I surrender.
When he stops, it’s only to flip me over and shove his cock in my mouth instead. I’m so deep in subspace that I take the length of him easily, and don’t resist as he violently fucks my mouth and throat. He moves me wordlessly between positions as he uses my body to his satisfaction, and I do everything he wants. Passivity isn’t normally my style, but I’m so brimming over with joy and intimacy that every motion, each acquiescence feels like the most significant act in the world.
I’m back on my face, being taken roughly once more from behind when I can’t bear it: I need to come. I beg him to untie me so I can kneel up. To my astonishment he indulges me. Once free I offer myself to him, arse in the air, as wanton as a bitch in heat. He seizes my hips in both hands and gives me what I’m after. I come shaking, violently, screaming, my head pulled back by the fist grabbing my hair and my arse lifted again and again against his hips.
Afterwards, I’m drowsing on the bed in a blissful haze when he jumps up and starts digging through a drawer. He gives me a kinky merit badge and I don’t guess until I’m holding it in my hands which one it’s going to be.
I smile. Yeah, that makes sense. I had wondered if it was going to be the Deep Throat one, but I guess that adventure is still to come.
Posted in D, D/S, Play, Real life punishment Tags: bath brush, bondage, breast slapping, hand spanking, kinky merit badges, rough sex 6 Comments »
