I tried to answer the question below on American Spanking Society a few days ago.
Do you believe it is possible for a “spanko” to truly be punished/disciplined by a spanking? If so, how can something they like (a spanking) be turned into something they wish to avoid? If you don’t think it is possible, than what do you think the point of so-called “discipline spankings” is and do they actually motivate BAD behavior?
I tried to do a brief answer but it was rubbish. So here is my story about what happened to me a couple of weeks ago.
I could not give up smoking. I did not smoke a lot but had the odd one when I had a drink and I did not know how on earth to stop. Himself agreed to help me and this is what he did. I have written this to him because when I started to write it came out like that.
I can smoke whenever I want and while I smoke you will say not one word about it. It is just that after each time I must pay the price. I cannot help it. I cannot believe you. I cannot make the punishment worse than the pay off of smoking and so out I go to have a cigarette. From where I stand I can see the dining table inside and I flick my head away to ignore it as well as I can. I can see you sometimes, sitting there reading or writing. It is an odd feeling, knowing that soon you will be making me wriggle and cry out. You sit so calmly. I love you for that. I love you for being so unflustered about the whole thing. I smoke, inhale, exhale, and as the light burns down I think more and more of that table. I think more and more of that nasty cane.
After I put my cigarette out I return. Sometimes the cane is waiting for me on the table but sometimes you send me to collect it. I hate both. Today you send me and I hang my head when I go. I hate that lazy snake of a cane. Fetching an implement is not something I often do. It is a combination of shame and irritation. I don’t want to collect the ruddy thing. If you want it then you get it. To have to bring that back and hand it over like some errant schoolgirl is hideous. I feel about twelve years old. I wish myself elsewhere. I go as I am sent.
I know I am in trouble. I know exactly what I have done and I knew what the result would be. This has to be the worst moment. I stumble out of the room and go to his closet. I have a private moment there with the cane where I tell it that I hate it. It sits silently in my hands and says nothing. I don’t care if I hurt its feelings. It will get its revenge soon enough.
You tell me to bend over the table. I do so and say nothing. We have done this time and time again. I know the score and I bend before the maestro who, without a word, flicks up my dress and pulls my knickers down to mid thigh. I shudder and spread my fingers out on the table.
You spank me and tell me just what you think of smoking. You spank hard, a solid hand, an unforgiving touch. It is hard, sudden, shocking spanking. There is no lead in and no warm up. I bite my lip and watch my hair bounce in front of my eyes. I know this is going to get much worse before it gets better. I listen to what you say and I know every word is true. I am ashamed and I want you to stop. I don’t say a word because we both know you won’t stop until you have given me what I need.
I hate that I need so much.
You place a hand on my back. We have discussed this. I need that hand to keep me calm and still. I am terrified of the pain of the cane, of its whippy nature, of the wait, the sound, everything.
You don’t talk much when you cane me. You just say what you need to to ensure that I stay in position and that I breathe. I wish I could cry. It would help because two or three strokes in I am begging you to stop. I tell you I am scared. I tell you I am sorry. I hate the pause between each stroke. I hate the sound before the pain. I hate that you use a tiny portion of your strength to apply each stroke. You could do so much more if I needed it. My toes point and I dance. It hurts so much that I forget why I am there. I just want you to stop.
You stop. You ask if I need more. I hate myself as I nod. I can’t lie to you. You need to finish me.
By the end my bottom is red, swollen, and I can feel the stripes as I can walk to the corner. I feel so miserable as you leave me there. It hurts and I want you to comfort me. I want to lie on my tummy in your bed. I want you to rub lotion where the cane has stung me.
Instead you leave me in the corner with only stern words for company. I am there for an age. My fingers find each other behind my back, resting on my bare skin. That is how I am told to stand, like an errant schoolgirl. My dress is tucked up leaving me exposed and my bottom is a beacon to the world. Sometimes you are there and you tell me sternly not to fiddle. Sometimes you may be gone but I do not dare risk to turn around. I can’t take one more swat, I can’t risk it.
Besides, you frighten me when it is like this. I like that you can scare me. I like that you have that ability. I still want to be in your arms. Only you can protect me from me; you are the only one strong enough.
Eventually you return. You send me to the sink to brush my teeth. I stumble there, aware of how you can see my naked bum, aware of how foolish I look bent over the sink with you standing behind me. I use one hand to try to cover my bottom as I bend. I think this may make me look even more foolish. I don’t care. I don’t want you to see me like this.
You hold me then, soothe me, gently rub lotion into my sore striped bottom and let me sleep in your arms.
I don’t know how many times we do this. We do it again and again, each time a kind of therapy and healing. I needed a record. I know that you were shocked when I asked you to take a picture of me. I was bent over and I had stripe upon stripe, calm in the aftermath. It occured to me that I love you. You stand beside me so solid, so filled with love that I feel peace. I know I can depend on you to do this a thousand times if I need it. So I ask you to take a picture. I want to be able to see this when I am away from you. I want to remember just how it felt. More than that, I need to know what you see, to be able to reconnect to that humility when I need it.
You do as I ask and the sight shocks me. I could never have believed how I could be so naked. The drape of my dress over my pale back, the startling red of my bum, the almost purple stripes, all of these make me more naked than if I had stood in front of a whole crowd without so much as a handkerchief.
I can see this picture now and I know how the girl in the picture feels.
I cannot look at a cigarette without wanting to beg you to stop.
I love you. I am so grateful to you.
One last thing to my readers.
Please don’t lecture me on smoking. I don’t care what you say about it and it doesn’t work. Hearing how bad it is just makes me want to go and buy a packet because I don’t want to be that good girl. What Himself did helped so much because I could smoke as many as I wanted. He never said one word about it. That freedom helped. Please no lectures as they are likely to make me smoke.
Thank you.
And if you are a girl and feeling a bit tense then go and look at Maria’s blog- she has a delicious film clip.
Oh, Poppy, we all have our demons. They are just different for each of us. I have a demon, too, and maybe someday I’ll write about it. But my demon is part of why I live the way I do now, part of the reason I turned to Fred and asked him to be in charge of me. I love what you wrote; it was so honest. You help me to be honest, too.
This topic is soooooo emotionally charged. I’m happy you got what you needed and it worked for you, Poppy. My heart hurt for you, reading this and looking at those painful pictures.
I have such mixed feelings on this sort of thing. Smoking, drinking, overeating, etc. are addictions of varying degrees. People with addictions can feel wretched and guilty enough over their weaknesses. For me, and I will speak only for myself — if I had an addictive habit I wasn’t happy about and someone punished me for doing it, it would break my heart. I’d hate myself even more and feel like a failure because I drove someone who loves me to hurt me that way. AND I’d be furiously angry and resentful of them to boot.
Perhaps for people like me, spanking does need to remain a fun thing, even when it’s heavy play. There’s always a little piece of me that remains grounded in reality and thinks, “This isn’t really REAL. You like this. You enjoy this pain. This makes you feel sexy, remember?” The punishment for my addiction to a substance would cut too close to the bone.
Amazing about the many variations and motivations within our little scene, no?
P.S. The above comment was not, repeat, NOT intended to be a criticism of any kind, honest honest honest. We are all so different, and that fascinates me.
Poppy, your honesty continues to impress, I’ll say no more.
Love and warm hugs,
Paul.
Thank you, Scarlet. I did not even think about the honesty element of this when I wrote it. I just think one has to tell the truth when one writes.
Erica, no criticism detected at all! I know just what you mean about the difficulty of dealing with these issues through spanking or any kind of punishment. I should have written about how before this I had fallen out of love with smoking. It had become a kind of self harm thing. It was something I did when I felt bad. It made me feel bad. I hated it. I asked for this. I asked for this help specifically. It wasn’t the words he said that made the difference. It was the change of habit. I can’t think of any other emotionally charged bad habit I have that could be changed through spanking. I want to go to the gym more and run more (3 weeks off did not help me) and if I were punished or spanked for that it would make me hate myself and the spanker and the descent would begin into awfulness. I should have explained that within the post.
I am someone who cannot be spanked for fun. It makes me want to bite. It makes me unhappy. Like you say we are all different but I am like you in that if someone spanked me for any other addictive habit then it would just make everything much, much worse.
Paul, good morning! I hope your morning is as pretty as mine. Thank you and hugs to you too.
Again, those pictures brought tears into my eyes! The bums just look so sore and red
I smoke, too, when I´m drunk. Egres does the same. We don´t keep cigarettes home, but if we are partying with our friends who got cigarettes and they share them with us, then we both smoke and hate that the next morning: no more drunken smoking ever again. And yet it happens again.
Yes, I think I can easily punished by spanking, too. Playful spanking that I enjoy and that turns me on big time is something like in the movie clip you linked here
It doesn´t hurt too much, it´s spontaneous, the spanker is exaggerating and there´s a lot of acted roles in the whole situation. But when you get punished… Then it´s something like you so beautifully wrote in this entry. At least for me it´s painful, scary and serious business. But I know I need it and I know that after I feel relieved, lighter, cleaner and I can move on. Sexy spankings I want and they are stimulating and erotic. They feel good before, during and after. Punishments I don´t want, but I know I need them. They don´t feel good before, during but only after.
Sorry for stealing so much space here with my comment *blush!*
Great post, I must love it
XXX
Maria
Poppy, you have written so tellingly and with such feeling about what it is like for you to be on the receiving end of a bare bottom caning…….thank you for that.
Generally, Mrs.A escapes the cane but from time to time, when she has been particularly naughty and is already over my knee with her knickers down, I look at her mature bare bottom and think to myself ‘What she really needs is the cane’. What happens then is that she has to climb off my knee and bend over my study table whilst I fetch the cane. Like you Mrs.A finds the cane extremely painful and each of the six strokes I give her have her doing a lovely ouchie dance whilst she stays bent over the table. Usually, I do eventually rub soothing lotion into her chastised cheeks but if she has been VERY naughty she has to stay in the corner for a long time before she’s allowed to go to the bathroom to soothe her very sore bum.
Thanks again…..
Aristotle
I love your writing. So simple yet beautifully evocative.
On the hand, when I’m checking Girl’s work, I’d never let her get away with that misspelling of ‘believe’. :0)
Yeowch! Fascinating, Poppy.
There’s a catharsis for me, inclusive of a kind of humbling, “comeuppance” feeling, about being chastised for real, and I find getting the cane in particular involves an aura of formality that makes me feel like a wayward girl from a different time; the contrition I feel becomes very vivid and memorably compelling, and I often really do learn my lesson, grateful that my energy has been disciplined.
Mostly I’m spanked because I love it, however, and a nice, fun atmosphere saturates the event, but there’s nearly always that reassuring element of feeling lovingly corrected to it, regardless. I feel reigned in, by choice, which seems to balance my emotions in a sexy way.
This is a beautiful post, Poppy, along with excellent, thoughtful comments. I’m very proud of you, little girl.
Bill, thanks for catching that typo. The editor should have but didn’t, and it’s fixed now. -The Editor
That should read “reined in.”
Oops.
Freudian slip? (My husband is my King!)
Blimey, I should not have gone out should I?
Maria, I am so glad you understand this. You go through the same things that I do. Thank you for saying it. And your English never fails to amaze me.
Aristotle, you thank me and I thank you for your kind words.
Bill, thank you and did you mean to say, “On the other hand?” The best of us make typos, don’t we?
Lorraine, I appreciate the thought in this comment. There is something formal and otherworldly about the cane, isn’t there? You write beautifully. You also make high quality typos.
Dev, thank you for looking after me in all these ways.
This was such an honest and poignant description of TTWD, and why and how it works, and most especially the intense and convoluted feelings involved in punishment. Thank you.
Ouch! I hate it when I do that.
I meant what I said about your writing though.
Sara, what a lovely, kind thing to say. Thank you.
Bill, we all hate it when we make a mistake but don’t feel bad, humans tend to make mistakes, no matter how good they are with words, we all stuff up at times, it does not matter so much. The context did make me chortle though. I meant what I said too.
I treasure that compliment, Poppy! I so admire your writing, your expressiveness. I’ve much to learn about the craft, but that’s really encouraging, thanks.
We all have oodles to learn about the craft, someone should start a school!
You have no idea the relief I feel at knowing I am not the only one who speaks to implements. I am not crazy.
You described this so simply and beautifully — I ached with empathy and desire. Nicely done, Poppy!
Yes, for me to cane a naughty women is the ultimate of corporal punishment. It is my high, To plant six or more strokes upn her knickers down bare bottom, is pure fantastic joy, And the swish of the cane as it descends painfully on that naked derriere of hers, is music to my ears. And forever more, it always will be.