The Punishment Book

Thoughts on the punishment – Part 1 – Ginger Figging

I have so much to write about last night’s punishment that instead of trying to do one of my epic posts and it taking so long that I don’t post anything for the next three weeks, I’m going to try the mad notion of breaking things up into more manageable posts – crazy talk, I know!

I have so many emotions that I’ll start off with something more simple and basic: facts and thoughts about the new type of ginger butt-plug I made.

It was not an unmitigated success, but it did have a huge successful point in that we were a lot less concerned that we were going to loose the fig inside me, never to see it again. (As happened on Kink.com a while ago!)

However, I am used to carving ginger plugs with one notched area to simulate a butt-plug – and didn’t think about the fact that this time the notched area, which is usually where the sphincter ani internus (internal anal sphincter muscle) grabs aholt of the notch in the ginger, to keep it from sucking on in, or spitting it out (And the fact that I never trusted it for the former, and it didn’t work so great for the latter is why we were trying new methods!), was used by the flange from the cut-down butt-plug, and so the big fail was that I did not make the notched area longer nor make a second notched area....

So my bottom spent the whole punishment happily trying to spit that mean old ginger root right out! (I am pretty sure that actually ginger causes the anus to spasm and expel the burning foreign object from your bottom. I get why it would try to do this, but it’s something that needs to be worked around, because figging is the best punishment in the world. More on that later.)

I’m happy to say that the one worry I had, that the plastic flange would break the ginger did not happen, although this was a thick, tough old root. (We did the world a favour by stuffing it up my bum instead of leaving it for someone to try and cook with!) I should add that because this root was pretty old, it was stringy, which was probably good for tensile strength, but also meant it was very, very strong, intensity-wise.

Mr Defeu did not have it more than one-third up my bottom before the stinging began. I knew I was in serious trouble at that point!

To sum up on the actual fig-plug: yes, cutting the flange off a butt-plug works well, and at least on thicker ginger-roots, does not break it at the notch you have to cut in to hold it there. However, that notch either needs to be lengthened to give the anus room to grab on, as well, or a second notch needs to be put on. Unsure yet which will disturb structural integrity more. I will report back after the next punishment or discipline session in which ginger is used. (I hope soon!)

Okay, more about the experience of the ginger tomorrow!

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In the meantime, I just found this blog, and loved the discussion of real punishment and the emotional journey it entails: Bonnie-Jo -- Life of a College Spanko

(Reposted from my blog, to share with my darling PB-ers! I'm such a dork that when I found out I was getting a punishment, one of my thoughts was, "Ohmigawd! I'll have something to post on PB!" [blush])

Congratulations Haron OR Years of Caning Pays Off

It's finally happened.  After being punished for being bad (though she never really is), motivated to be good (and here too), for working too hard, and for reading in the dark, one of our esteemed PB authors, the lovely Haron, is almost a doctor (PhD) of law.  She turned in her dissertation this past week and even had a celebratory dinner / caning, which you can read all about here.  All she has left is her defense.

What a wonderful achievement!

Haron's an inspiration to me, given that I've been stuck ABD (that's 'All But Dissertation' to the innocent) for far too long.  She deserves all sort of congratulations for finally being out of school.   Though I suspect she will, heart of hearts, forever be a schoolgirl.

Lady in Red

I'm a procrastinator.  Often I say things like "Deadlines are good for me" and, "I work well under pressure," and both of those are true.  It's also true that I procrastinate--an awful lot. 

So it's no real surprise that I needed help getting this one last paper done.  (Yes, I'm finished with my degree, but this is something else.  Don't ask.)  And M tried to be helpful by setting a deadline of August 31st, which you'll notice was several days ago.  (discreet cough)  So when it still wasn't done by this past weekend, M decided to take things to a different level.

Paddled For Working Too Hard

"What happened to your morning break?" asked Abel, standing over me.

I blinked at him. I was going through one of my productive spells, typing away, as though the whole thesis had always been a breeze. A morning break? I wasn't aware it was time to have one, no more than I could tell what time it was, or what day it was, or for how long I'd been typing.

Sometimes I go through dry spells in my work, where I stare at the screen for hours, studying every fleck of dust, waiting for the moment it's finally time to make coffee, or an excuse to forget about the whole thing altogether. And then there are times when I sink my teeth into a piece of work, and not let go until it goes so dark that I can't see my longhand notes. For some reason, Abel isn't happy about either of these methods of research: he has drawn up a timetable for me, which includes breaks.

I love breaks. Really. But sometimes breaking up is a nuissance, and up until that morning last week I'd thought it was optional, too.

"The break? Uhm. I forgot about it," I said. I mean, I was working. The text was adding up. That was good. Right?

Not if you're Abel.

"Upstairs," he said.

"Wha... Why?" I'd never been in trouble for working too much. This was too weird for words, and I even pinched myself on the thigh, to check whether I was having one of my frequent spanking dreams.

"You've been given a timetable," lectured my husband, pushing me up the stairs with a palm between my shoulder blades. "It's there to be observed."

Well, yes, but wasn't it there to keep me chained to the keyboard, rather than to make sure I'd had enough cups of coffee?

Not according to Abel. In reality - according to Abel's version of reality - it was there to help me pace myself. To keep me from burning out. To make sure I was still at my desk the next day, instead of being so tired that I head out for lunch with a girlfriend and turn it into afternoon tea, after which I'd get invited to stay for dinner and sleep over.

The timetable was binding, you see, and that included the breaks.

In our bedroom he told me to bend down with my elbows on the bed, and picked up a frat paddle that had stayed there from when we'd last played with it. (Note to self: in future, tidy away implements after playing. Like, immediately.)

"That's so unfair!" I protested. "I didn't know I had to take breaks! Hey, put that thing down!" I babbled my protestations. This has been known to get me into further trouble, but Abel must have been feeling generous, or maybe lazy. (Hi, Abel - do you like this entry? Good.)

He gently advised me to shut up, and then swung the paddle back, and landed it on my jean-clad behind with a good crack.

"Oooooh," I said appreciatevely. I didn't cry it out - this wasn't a hard enough stroke to yelp - but sort of breathed it, as tingling spread over my cheeks.

"Alright, stand up," said Abel.

And that was it. One swat, and he gave me a hug, and told me to go downstairs and have a break.

I didn't even have a heart to mumble anything rude, because he'd hardly been too harsh. But now I set up reminders for when I'm due to break for coffee.

A Questionnaire & Answers

Someone (who can identify herself  if she so desires) I met at Shadow Lane sent me a questionnaire to fill out.  Although this wasn't completely about punishment, I thought it might be interesting to post it here.  So here are the questions and my answers.  Pablo also answered the questions and his answers are on his blog.  I found it interesting that we had quite a bit of overlap without having talked to each other about this. 

Then again, maybe it isn't too surprising. 

One of Those Days

Yesterday was one of those days.

You know what I mean?  I was feeling a bit unsettled and possibly (though of course I'm not entirely sure) may have come off as a bit cranky and naughty.  There was no reason for this.  I'd had a good night's sleep, didn't need to go into my job, my research and writing had been going well.   And yet, well, I wanted something cool to happen.  I'm not sure what, but I was sure I'd know it when I saw it, if you can understand.

Pablo was home for the day and had some (boring) errands to run.  They weren't what I wanted to do (though getting coffee for me ended up being one of them and that was definitely something I wanted and needed), but seemed better than nothing.  So I went with him to the post office and Staples and the like. 

I got playfully accused of being a "little bit clingy" which, since it was true, did nothing to improve my mood.  Nor did knowing I needed to find a lift to Vegas for the Shadow Lane party next weekend, unless I wanted to miss the first night vendors' fair.  I hate asking for favors and at this point, I hadn't heard back yet from any of the feelers I'd sent out. 

"Feelers," well actually, that's just my word for begging.

And then we came home and I was supposed to get down to my writing. 

Unexpectedly Upturned

As Pablo and I were getting ready to leave today, him for work and me for a day of studying with a friend in her new office at a nearby university, I started searching for a book.  Not just any book but Methodology of the Oppressed by Chela Sandoval.  It had been recommended as vital to my research by two different people last year.  So naturally I'd ordered it from Amazon and then put it out of my mind.  But today I knew I needed to start outlining it. 

It was missing.  I looked and looked for at least 10 minutes before finally and frantically telling Pablo that my book wasn't anywhere.  So he started looking too.  We don't have a very big apartment, but there are many places a book can hide.  Of course when we moved 18 months ago, Pablo spent a long afternoon helping me organize my academic books by a combination of subject and author (I have a LOT of books) so exactly this sort of situation would be avoided.

How I Got The Slipper

I was slaving away at my thesis, quite pleased with my well-behaved self, when a dark silhouette of my husband appeared in the door frame and commanded: "Get upstairs, now. You know why."

I swear, I had no idea, and it took several heart-thudding seconds for me to figure it out, and when I did, I could only groan. As much as I like to argue my way out of a punishment, there was no way out of this one.

Even when one is feeling particularly virtuous (in a smug sort of way), reality has ways of reminding one that a bare-bottom spanking is only a flick away. A flick, more specifically, of a light switch. Yes, my crime was trivial: I was reading in the dark. Abel decided a while ago that my habit of not turning on the lights as I'm working in a darkening room needed to be stamped out. Or spanked out.

Pushing an Elephant Up the Stairs

Lately I've been ill a lot, and consequently ended up spending lots of time staring into space, arranging and re-arranging various pieces of work in my head into increasingly scary action plans.

I have quite a lot to do, you see. There's the thesis. There's my fiction writing. And there's something Which Must Not Be Named, but alright, as you're curious I'll say it once and never say its name again. *motions for the readers to move their heads closer into the circle* Job search! (There. Now you know. My name is Haron, and I'm terrified of applying for jobs.)

Yeah, anyway. You'll be pleased to know (I think) that since my last update I haven't earned any new punishments. The draconian regime has been working (that's when I haven't been sneezing my nose off). Yet, it hasn't stopped me from peering at my work load with eyes wide open in terror. Instead of focusing on every day as it comes, I cower in front of the big picture.

And what do you know? Abel has come up with another cunning plan.

Being Good

So, the spanking from my previous post was over, but the realcitrant chapter was still waiting to be written, and so my sweetie Abel devised a cunning plan.

Being Bad

I've been struggling with a chapter of my thesis. This is because I'm lazy. But also it's because the chapter had little to do with the lovely, exciting European Court of Human Rights, which is my specialty, and lots to do with the dull, disgusting European Union legislation. Yawn. My usual way of dealing with a tricky piece of work is to avoid it for as long as possible, and then even longer, way past the possible avoidance cut-off date, and then get depressed because it had to be done OMG THREE MONTHS AGO, and freeze.

So I did that.

The complete freaking out over this paper happened just about at the time when we started this blog. Abel and I had been going easy on discipline for a couple of months. And the stuff we'd tried before hadn't really worked for me, because, frankly, I don't think Abel realised just how bad my work habits are, and how much control I need in order to work out some better ones.

But here I was, blogging about discipline, and at the same time having so little of that discipline that my work had got to the stage where the task seemed too great to even attempt it. So, you see, I *had* to tell Abel that it would be nice of him if he could rub my nose into my work more thoroughly than he'd done it before.

He's a soft man, but he obliged. He told me to submit a report on my progress every day, and that, if by 5 pm next Friday the paper wasn't finished, in our weekly review meeting he would put me over his knee and spank me harder than ever before. He would spank me for six minutes.

He'd spanked me awfully hard before, and for nothing like this long. In fact, just the previous day he'd spanked me for two minutes with his left hand, because it was the way I happened to have landed over his lap, and it had *hurt*. It was definitely going to be his stronger right hand doing the smacking if it came to that. I had an uh-oh feeling, and on Monday morning I got to work.

A Sunday in Disgrace

So last night I posted that I wouldn't be on-line today (Sunday) and that I was to be punished but didn't know what would happen. Pablo has done a number of different things to punish me over the years we've been together. I suspected it would involve pain and my bottom, but also wondered what else might be done.

Frequently the "what else" is the hardest part.

All day yesterday I seemed to be pretending tomorrow (today) was Monday rather than Sunday. Sunday is our traditional day for accounting the past week and planning the next. And this was an accounting I feared, while at the same time I was also afraid that maybe Pablo was going to tell me that since I wasn't putting in any effort, we were going to once again put the idea of discipline (I like sparkle's term "methodic discipline") on hold for a while. You see, one of the things we've discovered is that Pablo can't pull me along (at least not very far or very often). He can be very effective at pushing me back on track, but the primary motivation must always come from inside me.

This week it hasn't.