(sitting very gingerly this morning, even in my plush recliner)
Last night’s spanking was for one small thing and one bigger one. The small thing was that I didn't put the strainer thingie in the sink drain that leads to our garbage disposal, which we've already had problems with foreign objects ending up in, so Daddy bought the strainer thingie to prevent it.
Only I forgot to put it in. For some strange reason, it doesn’t work if you don’t use it. Fancy that. But it annoys me, because it catches all sorts of grody stuff and I hate dealing with that kind of thing. I have to get a fork to pick it out of the drain . . . ugh. It's just gross.
But I guess I better get over it, because I don’t want another spanking like the one I got.
The second thing was much bigger. When we played Tripoli with our friends last weekend (and Daddy won BIG), I was sitting next to my sister and, of course, we were bugging each other (despite the fact that I’m 42 and she’s 52; some things will never change) while we were waiting for the cards to be dealt. She was flicking my arm with her finger, and it hurt, so I did it back to her. I heard Daddy saying in that warning tone of his “Pipsqueak . . . ” and . . . well . . I don’t know. I guess I couldn’t imagine that he really wanted me to stop doing something that comes so naturally to me. Not even when he did it again, saying “Pipsqueak, stop that.”
So, oblivious me just smiled at him and continued to flick, poke, and smack my sister until whoever was finished dealing.
Daddy says I forgot who I was, and how old I was, and that, regardless of who we’re with or what we’re doing, that when he tells me to do something – or not to do something - I’m to say, “Yes, Sir,” and obey him.
And he’s right.
I just . . . I’m not the type to be openly defiant. I guess I just wasn’t thinking, and I know that’s not right.
So I got what I deserved last night, and boy did it hurt! I knew it was going to be very bad when he had me close the bedroom door, then, before I could come back to our bed, he told me to get my blue paddle out of my underwear drawer .
As always, he cuddled me before hand, and whispered into my ear why I was being punished, making sure that I understood that he wasn’t at all mad at me, but that these were things he couldn’t – wouldn’t – just let slide.
He made sure he had everything either of us would need laid out on a towel to my left, where my head is always turned towards him, except he always holds my inhaler himself, so it doesn’t get lost in the energetic shuffle that is me, trying to avoid his God-awful swats. But there’s also a lot of Kleenex available always and a scrunchie for my hair . . .
As well as whatever implements he’s going to use . . .
He lectures before, during, and after, although he never, ever raises his voice. I don’t think he’s ever raised his voice to me in the three years we’ve been together. He lectures in between swats, too.
This time, he spanked me a lot over my blue panties with the pink hearts – not that they were any help at all. My bottom was well and truly roasted long before he slipped his fingers under their waistband and tugged them down to my knees.
By the time he reached for the paddle, which I had to watch him do through tear filled eyes, my butt was already throbbing horribly, and he’d had to throw his leg and four or so arms over my own legs, because they were definitely trying (with only a modicum of success) to interfere.
When he spanks me, I am completely regressed. I am nothing more than what he wants me to be – a well punished little girl in a woman’s body, kicking and screaming and crying and begging. The transformation has always amazed me. I don’t even think about my reactions. Frankly, I can’t. They’re just about as pure as they’re ever going to get when I’m lying over his lap . . . or in a couple of other positions that have nothing to do with spanking . . .
He spanks so hard, and I cry so much that it often induces an asthma attack, which he is very mindful of. This one wasn’t quite that bad. The problem is that that the first thing I need to do after a punishment is sit on my butt and use my inhaler!!! YEOW!!!
Daddy held me for a very long time afterwards, making sure I was okay, rocking and stroking me and helping me calm down. I fell asleep in his arms, my bottom still aglow, but nowhere near as much as my heart.
I love you, Daddy.