3. Even considering the above, I’ve had a number of spankings I continued to take because to try and stop would have resulted in aggravation and emotional fallout I wasn’t ready to face. I feel bad about this; it felt like a cowardly choice afterwards. Perhaps it’s what allowed me to eventually develop the aforementioned safeword hair trigger.
I couldn’t help but notice that where the ease of safewording is concerned, I am, let’s just say, unusual in my local community. This makes me quite cross. You may have heard me rant about this in person, as it’s a pet topic of mine. I’ve also written about it in a less blunt way over on The Spanking Writers. I’ve found my dedication to safewords quite difficult to keep or defend on a few occasions.
I’m going to give you some direct quotes I’ve heard in the scene just in the last 3 years.*
Let me tell you, then, how easy it’s been to remain the sort of safe, responsible bottom who can be relied upon to safeword when she needs to. Let me tell you about the sulking divas with canes I’ve had to deal with, until in the last couple of years I drastically limited the circle of people I will bottom to. Let me tell you about comforting friends who aren’t quite as bloody-minded or determinedly blunt as me.**
Do you know what’s interesting? None of the scary shit ever happened to me in my professional spanking work. It has to people close to me, but never to me. Go figure.
*Attributions are missing because I have no permission to attach names to quotes; with some of them, I don’t care to ask, or ever speak to the person again.
**This is where I’d also like to acknowledge the lovely, careful, responsible tops I’ve enjoyed playing with ever since I emerged onto the scene 12 years ago, but this is not the place.
I’m not sure where the hell to start this post, so I’ll start with the conclusion: I got the cane the other day, as a punishment for a flaw I had requested help with eliminating. The caning hurt, but no more than my pride did for having earned it in the first place. Then I felt better. Then I decided to write a blog post about it.
The paragraph above reads like something I’ve written many times before, but both the event and the decision to blog about it were a novelty to me. Because I hadn’t wanted to be punished for real-life things for a long time, and now I do again. Because my ally in this exercise is Jimmy, for whom a discipline dynamic is a curious new beast he’s exploring at my instigation, rather than a deep-seated kink. Because I haven’t done a stitch of blogging since September, after having blogged at least every other day for over five years. Because my life is so different now than it was less than half a year ago, that I wonder how I can recognise these fingers that are falling on the keys in front of me.
Far from the thought that everybody in the world follows my every move with bated breath, I’m going to give you a short digest of recent events, which can both get you up to speed with where I am, and set the backdrop for the punishment caning that is, after all, the point of this post.
September: Ask husband for a break. Move out with one suitcase, one cat and £600 to my name. Agree to promise not to say a word about it on the Internet; regret the promise instantly because suddenly I’m unable to blog or tweet truthfully about what I’m doing without raising questions. Arrange a room-in-exchange-for-work agreement with a friend’s business, where my boyfriend Jimmy is also living. Lose room and work because of the business going down; receive an offer of floor space from a friend’s friend, move again, this time to the outskirts of London.
October: Sleep on a single mattress in a tiny room with the cat’s litter tray at my feet. Frantically apply for office jobs while trying to stay on top of freelance obligations. Die of sexual frustration due to lack of a bed or any privacy. Turn 32. Go dancing all night for the first time ever. Have mind-blowing sex with Jimmy’s other girlfriend Shona (she has a bed). Come down with a chest infection. Recover in time to win a month-long freelance contract with obligatory office hours. Help Jimmy move house (he now also has a bed). Help Shona temporarily move into Jimmy’s place (down to one bed between three again). Feel isolated. Feel lonely. Feel furious at being unable to express myself through blogging. Prefer this anyway.
November: Commute for 3 hours a day to freelance job; work on existing freelance commitments in the evenings. Help Shona move house (yay, two beds again). Shona asks me to be her girlfriend. Jimmy stretches his dominant muscles. I can’t remember when I’ve last had more than one waking hour off. Bite the bullet and tell Abel I’m not coming back; wait for him to be comfortable to make the break-up public knowledge. Could now, in theory, blog again, but can barely see straight for fatigue. Get contract extended.
December: Work days, work evenings. Look for a place to live. Transfer my entire pay to an estate agent and acquire a flat with two bedrooms: one for Jimmy, one for me. Move house; help Jimmy move house. Enjoy having a door and a bed. Pick up my stuff from Abel’s house in a manoeuvre that requires shoving my entire life into a van in two hours. Lose most of the memory of that evening; go to work the next day. Finish contract. Stop functioning for a week. Jimmy has surgery. Reluctantly return Shona to her family for a few days; survive Christmas. Jimmy turns 28. See in 2012; dance all night, have lots of sex, play guitar. Start thinking about blogging.
And so we return to the issue of the punishment caning.
One day I let Jimmy and Shona know that I was going to spend a few hours working on my blog. They made all the right encouraging noises, and I settled at a desk to write.
Here are some of the things I did instead: read Twitter, read FandomWank, read LiveJournal, read some more Twitter while clicking every single link and checking out all the retweeted profiles, watch some Dreams of Spanking movies and read comments on all the scenes. You will notice that none of these activities have in any way involved any writing. When Jimmy finally asked me how the blogging was going, all I could say was, “Errr… FandomWank is great.”
“Would you like some help with that?” he asked. In our relationship this question has developed a new meaning: would you like to give me the authority to make you do this, under the threat of punishment?
Yes, I did.
Subsequently, Shona named the series of exchanges that followed “The Jimmy and Adele Show”. It had dialogues like:
Jimmy: “Put down the summary of all the paragraphs you’re going to write.”
Adele: “Can I finish reading this LiveJournal thread?”
Jimmy: “You can, after you’re done.”
and
Jimmy, from *another room*: “Your word processor looks very similar to your FireFox skin.”
Adele: “…”
Jimmy: “Go on, you can do it. Extend the first summary into a paragraph.”
Adele: “WHY DO YOU HATE FUN?”
The cajoling worked for a while, but the post I was writing – the stupidly long essay about the R v. Peacock trial – was a complex beast. I needed to find a selection of articles to link to, some choice tweets, some news items. I kept taking Twitter breaks; these kept getting longer. Finally Jimmy told me that I was to stay off Twitter until further notice.
I tried. I tried so hard, you may have seen steam of the effort coming out of my ears. When I succumbed to temptation in the end, it didn’t even feel very good. I was so ashamed that I barely skimmed a few tweets, and went back to writing straight away, but my heart was heavy with self-disappointment.
I wondered whether to tell him, or to wait until I was asked. I decided I would tell, but not right away, because by this time we’d broken off for dinner, and I didn’t want the entire evening to be about me. I told Shona though. She doesn’t have a punishment kink (as far as we know), but she’s been cheer-leading me through my efforts with the understanding of somebody who’d looked writing block in the face before. She offered me a hug and much sympathy, and it felt better not to carry my guilt around all on my own.
I made my confession the following morning, sick with shame. Jimmy was all sympathy, but sentenced me to a stroke per tweet I’d read, anyway. We’d been experimenting with discipline for several months by then, and he tends to save corporal punishment for a last resort. He’d used it only twice before. The fact that he saw it as necessary now very nearly brought me to tears: it was this, not the eventual caning, that felt like the lowest point of the entire episode.
This didn’t make the writing any easier; I ended up earning twenty-five strokes in total over the course of the day, but at least, eventually, the post was done. And then the caning was done, with me lying flat on the bed with a corner of a pillowcase between my teeth. It felt natural and okay: not a judgement on me as a person, not a pretext for either of us getting off; just a friendly favour, albeit a painful one.
And this was how I came back to being a spanking blogger.
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