Discipline in practice, not just theory…
March 9th, 2009 | Author: Zille
Most of my blog posts recently have been ruminations/discussions about punishment and discipline. Well, this weekend, my Master put those ideas and notions into practice!
Discipline from Kink On Demand
Saturday was just lovely, but very vanilla. Master’s oldest friend, Jay, was in town, and we went out for brunch to our favourite crepe place with him and his ex-girlfriend with whom I immediately bonded, and we all had a lovely time. Then we went for a walk in Muir woods, and we mingled enjoyable chatting with trying out the new infra-red camera my Master just gave me as a gift.
Sunday was very not vanilla. After we did another brunch with Jay, he packed up to go back home, and my Master and then I got some of the alone time that I’ve been quite desperate for recently, since his job has grown like The Blob and swallowed up his life (and, by extension, mine.) First I spent a couple hours prepping dinner for later that evening: slow-roasted pork with black grapes, roasted Brussels sprouts with shallots and walnuts, and then there was supposed to be a Bibb lettuce and tarragon salad, but somehow the Bibb lettuce froze in the fridge (my Master had turned the fridge cooling up, perhaps a bit too high…) and lettuce, it seems, doesn’t take very kindly to being frozen.
After I’d cooked up a storm (all the while dancing around the kitchen to Lily Allen’s new album It’s Not Me, It’s You
By the time I left the bath, I was pretty well sunk into depression. When I came out wrapped in my towel, my Master looked up from his computer, smiled and asked how I was (which was his way of seeing if it was time for us to have the scene we’d been looking forward to for the last couple weeks.) If this had been two years ago, I’d have acted very passive-aggressively because of my depression, but by now he has taught me how to think of other people than myself, even when I am feeling terrible like that, so I just said, honestly, “I’m feeling really depressed…” and then fled to the bedroom, so I wouldn’t say anything more than that, since I was likely to say something stupid.
He gave me a moment and then came in and was his usual wonderful self. I worked at not lashing out at him in my pain, and we ended up having a wonderful talk and growing closer. Then, we grew even closer….
Part of our discussion was that I needed regular discipline, not just punishment. It seems he’d just bought me new “discipline shorts,” as opposed to “punishment shorts,” (I swear the man has a fetish for buying me new clothes … although I can’t say I mind this in the slightest!) and so he decided that the best way to relieve my depression was with discipline. And, while when one is depressed, one just wants to say, “Leave me alone, I just want to lie here in bed,” just listening to him talking about disciplining me, and knowing that he was planning for it (as evidenced by buying the shorts) was starting to make my body respond, even if my stubborn brain was lagging. And, of course, when I’m not in the middle of a depressive fit, I agree entirely that the best and possibly only truly effective way for him to help my depression is with discipline.
A funny aside: as we were lying there, he said, “It’s too bad you don’t have a punishment coming to you!” All I had to say to that was, “I can’t say I’m unhappy to avoid the paddle today!” but I knew what he meant: that the catharsis of punishment would have been good for me, and for us. But I am glad that he doesn’t give me the paddle unless I truly deserve it. (Well, deserve it by his lights. I still am a bit dubious about the punishment for not watching Tess of the D’Urbervilles!) I may masturbate about being punished, but in real life I truly do not ever crave to taste the horrible bite of that paddle! (Which of course makes him enjoy punishing me all the more. Sadists!)
Well, next thing I know, I’m wearing dark green lycra boy-shorts, and he has pulled over the black leather office chair (which is in the bedroom because we had nowhere else to put it), and set it up so that I am kneeling on it in a very compromising position. (He was quite pleased with it, so I can assure you lot that pictures and/or video will be coming soon!)
Then he got a cane, and started up the discipline session. Before we began, I put in a sole request: that he lecture me about discipline as the session happened.
It’s very funny – as a child, a lecture was the worst form of punishment I could imagine. I would have preferred CP or lines or being grounded – anything to avoid listening to my mom or dad droning on about some stupid thing that I obviously disagreed with, or I wouldn’t be in trouble in the first place! It was a punishment of utter boredom and resentment (which, I’m afraid, only taught me, “Don’t get caught.”)
Now, however, I can’t think of anything hotter than my Master giving me a stern lecture as he disciplines me or punishes me. I think that this, more than anything may show what a sick freak I am! [wide grin]
The discipline was quite different from a punishment, firstly because my Master didn’t count the cane strokes – he just caned me for as long as he felt like it. (I kept count automatically for a while, and then just decided it was more depressing to know how many had happened when I didn’t have an end result to be working towards!) The whole time he kept up a running lecture on discipline, my lack thereof, and a plans for a future with me getting lots and lots more.
After he’d gotten me quite warmed up, he swung the chair around, and it turned out my head was just at cock-height, so I stayed in position and gave him the somewhat desperate blow-job of a girl who has been caned, and will be caned more, and knows that the reprieve will last only as long as she makes the blow-job interesting for her disciplinarian! It was a great position for deep-throating, and he could still see the lines where the cane had hit on the shorts, and the mirror was behind me so he could watch me bent over with a tram-lined bottom, giving him head … so the blow-job lasted quite a while, with me getting so into it that the chair was rocking on its legs.
Then he moved the chair over to rest against the bed. This was good, because I didn’t have to worry about tipping over, but also bad, because it meant that he was planning to do things that might tip me over. A very, very intense caning followed, and I ended up completely incapable of staying in position, writhing around in the intense pain and burning heat as my bottom was striped from the top of the fleshy part to the where it meets my thighs. I was not caring about how much noise I was making by that point in time, and I imagine our neighbours were thinking, “Oh, hell, the perverts next door are at it again!” (Happily, these are just some college students – not upstanding members of some church, whose Sabbath we would be disrupting!)
This point – where the pain becomes so intense that I loose control, is the “Holy Grail” of a scene for me (at least right now. It wasn’t always like this for me, and it may not stay this way, but that’s where I am right now). It’s a hard place to be in, and when I’m there, some sane part of me just wants it to stop now. But the rest of me – the submissive, masochistic me – is in heaven, and the minute it stops and I’ve gotten my breath back, I wish it were still going on.
My Master made it last as long as he liked (which was probably a cautious: “as long as he was comfortable keeping me in that level of pain,” although thinking that makes me sad, makes me feel bad for getting in the way of full sadistic satisfaction for him) and then gathered me up in his arms on the bed to hold me while I cried my release. He loves that part: making me cry and then comforting me!
Despite how much noise I’d been making, it didn’t take me long to get myself back under control once the pain had stopped. And then my Master asked, “Do you know what I am going to do to you next?”
Well, I had a panicked attempt at thinking, decided that everything was so good in the moment that I didn’t want to accidentally come to the wrong conclusion, and then be disappointed, so I just shook my head and waited to hear my fate.
He was going to fuck my ass. Hard and unmercifully. So I hadn’t needed to worry about disappointment at all!
He bent me over the side of the bed and pulled the shorts down just far enough – which is the way we both like it best: my legs trapped together, and the indignity of knickers pulled down just enough for him to do what he wants to me. It’s like … if we were going to have sweet romantic love-making, adult to adult, he’d get me properly undressed – but that’s not what either of us want: we want me to be embarrassed, feel degraded, giving him all the power and me none. Yum.
I’ve written before about that moment before his cock is shoved in my ass, so I won’t spend paragraphs waxing lyrical about it, but I can’t help but mention that delicious fear – the same as when the cane is about to fall, only this is his penetrating of my body as well as him hurting me: it’s simply the most dominant thing he can do to me … and that moment as he is lubing up his cock, and then lining it up and then pressing the tip in…. I wish it could happen to me every day!
In our talk before the discipline session started, the matter of playing with non-consensual themes had come up, and so I was excited that this anal sex would really be just about his using my ass for his pleasure, which is just about the hottest thing I can contemplate. Just the phrase, “using my ass for his pleasure,” makes me have a physical response that, if I was male, could only lead to “blue balls” if not worked out immediately. Right now as I remember and write this, my knickers are getting undeniably damp….
What to write about the sex…? It was brilliant, but it was simply a long period of “the old in-out-in-out,” so I’ll leave the repetitive physical details to your imaginations, which will be more exciting than me detailing each thrust. But I will say it was the longest and roughest anal sex I ever had … and the sensations were so deliciously painful and debasing, that, sometime after a change of position leaving me on my back at the edge of the bed, with my legs bent back and him having the deepest penetrative access possible, I moaned out in the most intense passion: “I never want to come again, please Sir, just hurt me like this forever! All I want is to be yours to use as you please!” (This was prefaced and followed by rather more inarticulate cries, moans, gasps, and sobs.)
All good things must come to an end, (although I’d like to protest that – why can’t they last forever, damnit?!) and finally he ordered me to get a wash cloth and clean him, and then bring him off with my mouth. Well, he had to help me to the bathroom because my legs were about as sturdy as wet cardboard by that time, but I happily washed him clean (not that he looked like he needed it, thank the gods of back-door penetration, but we are very health-conscious and ATM just isn’t particularly sexy to either of us.)
I ended up sitting in a totally different position from my usual kneeling between his legs, and practised my hand-job skills, and I had to ask him to let me know when he was going to come so I could get my mouth ’round his cock in time!
Well, the depression was gone! And the time had slipped away and it was now somehow after 7PM, so I staggered out to get dinner into the final stages. I have to say that after the discipline session, being able to feed him food I’d cooked myself was far more satisfactory than our usual post-scene Chinese take-away!
He warned me the discipline was not done for the day, however. And when we went to bed later that night, he pulled a pillow down into the middle of the bed, and had me lie over it, and gave me six more from the cane. This time it was about measured strokes and self-control – after the second, I had to gasp, “Please give me a moment, Sir—!” to make sure I didn’t bother the poor neighbours a second time. These were not “ceiling scrapers”, but since the strokes were landing on an already very well-wealed bottom, they really didn’t need to be!
The minute he finished the 6th one, and put the cane away, I jumped down between his legs without needing the slightest direction from him. Despite his earlier generous orgasm, he came really quickly, showing that he was just as pleased with the pre-bed caning as I was. I mentioned to him that maybe this should be more common…? I certainly slept like a baby, and had very good dreams! How could I not?!
Depression? What depression?!
Northern Spanking
I Feel Myself.com
Hope you have...
I love that point of losing control. I call it my “PIN number moment” because it is at that point when I’ll tell anyone who got me there what it is. This kind of sex is way better than any thing you’ll ever hear on Dr. Phil.
Maggie my spice,
I look forward to finding out your PIN and all sorts of other good identity-theft factoids!
And … almost anything in our lives is better than anything “you’ll ever hear on Dr. Phil.” Ever.
I hope you were given a dozen strokes of the cane, or should I say 12 of the best, 12 of the very best, on that voluptous bare bottom of yours.