I am a volunteer, I told myself in the most convincing voice I could conjure. This is what YOU asked for… there is no one forcing you to do anything, these were your rules.
It was no good, the American-style positive self-talk, that we Brits are almost always extremely embarrassed by, has its limits, and the more I tried to persuade myself that everything was going to be fine the less confident I felt.
Today would be my first experience of ‘maintenance’, It’s only maintenance, was reverberating around my psyche, gosh had I really said that only last weekend? Yep, and now here I was, waiting for my Head of House to arrive so that we could begin the session.
The concept of maintenance had been developed between us jointly, that is not the kind of political ‘jointly’ but wholly, organically, and honestly together, we had created the blueprint for that which was about to unfold. By goodness was I having second thoughts now, but it was too late, ‘the bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn’ I thought to myself. Easier said than done, when one is having to face-up to the very real consequences of one’s own thoughts and actions.
The truth of the matter was that I was about to be severely disciplined, at my express request, by my HoH as a consequence of my dire need for accountability to my new diet. I wasn’t a large young lady, at five foot two, in heels, I am quite a bit shorter than average, but with a fine, athletic, hour-glass figure. My hair is a radiant mix of browns with just a hint of strawberry-blonde, and my eyes are a devastatingly bright kingfisher shade of blue. I was very, very lightly made-up and my garments had been chosen with the kind of meticulousness that any ordinary person would only expect from a high-end fashion designer, though certainly a less pretentious one.
Alas, as I looked at myself in the mirror, all I saw were the almost unperceivable imperfections of my body. It’s true that I was over-weight, perhaps 10 or 12 pounds, and that my short stature did not wear those extra pounds too well. My excesses were worn a little on my face but mostly my inner thighs, stomach and yes, my backside. I was deeply disappointed not just with what I saw but with how I felt. This was not simply a vanity project, this extra weight was metaphorical as well as physical, I felt that I had really let myself down, and I was deeply concerned that I no longer had that within myself which had seen me through so many times before. Where had my self-discipline gone? Where was that younger woman who would leap out of bed as early as 5 am every week-day to queue outside the gym at opening time, with the band of elite exercisers who knew ‘The Secret’? A two-hour session was challenging, stimulating, and in the end, thoroughly enjoyable. The following cycle ride to teacher training college a breeze, and the ride home as to a lark at dawn. Many a time this would be followed by a half-marathon training session or a sprint/recover class at the local athletics club, just for the fun of it. How had this happened and more to the point, how had this happened to me?
With these burning questions, and more, I glanced again at the clock on the wall in the kitchen, how slowly time doth crawl when one is willing it to race, I thought making up my own faux-Shakespearean quotes as I went along. Although I was now dreading what had to be done and doubting my ability to withstand it, my preference was shifting towards ‘getting it over with’, a much more resigned stance than earlier in the day. I had after all dealt with worse before, on several occasions I had been formerly disciplined by my HoH for serious incidents for which I had been at fault. One in particular lingered in my mind, a time when I had once and only once, been caught telling Jeremy a half-truth. It was very early in our relationship and I had felt truly awful, not about being caught out, but about lying in the first place to someone I had already fallen in love with. Back then I had been desperate to atone, it was a matter of the utmost importance that I be given the chance to make it right. I was certainly given ample opportunity to make amends on that occasion, I thought wryly. Subconsciously, I shifted in my seat and could almost feel the welts that had been the resultant payment for my error of judgement way back when.
However, this was different. It wasn’t Jeremy questioning my behaviour, assessing the validity of my counterclaim and then sentencing, this was entirely of my own volition. Yes indeed, rules and penalties had by now been established, and would be enforced, but these were all created out of my desire to improve my physique. I would not be doing penance for someone I had harmed or let down in some way, now I would be expiating for my misdeeds to myself. Is it enough? I kept asking, ‘Is it enough of a good reason to put myself through this, just to ensure I stick to my diet? But I already knew the answer, my diet was of paramount importance in particular to my self-esteem, not to mention my femininity. Lighter makes me feel more feminine, I cannot deny it. My state of tension over ‘the maintenance’ due this morning, was entirely because these things mattered so very much.
I got up from my chair in the kitchen, with my completed food and booze log, and made my way to the bedroom for one last check that everything was where it should be. Of course, I already knew that it was, I had followed his instructions to the letter - even the more humiliating ones, for example, grooming. It is a standing order in our house that no matter the reason for the discipline, a disciplinary would mean that she presented herself for punishment clean-shaven down below. The act of grooming itself part of the imposition. He wanted me to do this not for his personal pleasure - discipline is never mixed with pleasure in our relationship – but to focus my mind on my impending correction and to ensure that I was sufficiently chaste before he had to begin.
As I took one last look around the room that would effectively become my dungeon in a just a short passage of time from now, I allowed herself a tiny flutter of pride in the immaculate presentation of the implements and the time I had taken over all of the details. One of which was the separation of the tools, it had been agreed after much debate (and even some practise strokes) which items would be reserved for discipline, and those that would be used for maintenance. The maintenance implements being the ones that would pack a sting, leave a good impression – so to speak - but would not give long lasting marks due to the weekly nature of maintenance. The disciplinary items would be used immediately after the maintenance had been carried out, as per any infractions that had occurred during that week and they would leave lasting marks. There were not many potential downfalls, but the consequences would be severe and in the space of a week one could rack up something which resembled a cricket score if one were not very, very careful.
Potential infractions included; eating junk food, drinking alcohol over and above the agreed ‘two glasses of red per day’ maximum, consuming soft drinks (water and fizzy water excepted), or failure to lose 0.5 kg (or more), and attempting to slow the punishment by use of hand or foot. Any of these things would result in six stokes with a disciplinary implement of Jeremy’s choosing, being administered immediately post the maintenance section. The only caveat here being if I were to lose say 0.4 kg, then I would be given six plus one strokes, as one additional stroke per 0.1kg ‘off target weight’ was the agreement that had been reached.
There were two further misdemeanours which would be punished yet more severely; failing to eat every 4-5 hours and gaining weight. Either infraction would result in 12 strokes plus one per 0.1 kg above target weight (with a 0.5kg ‘grace’ with regard to the 0.1 ‘additionals’ only i.e., a 0.5kg weight gain would equal 12 strokes but a 0.6kg weight gain would be 13).
I shuddered at the thought, however this week being a kind of trial or ‘dummy run’ would only allow for maintenance, which is just as well as I reflected that had this week ‘gone live’ then I would be due 54 strokes, post maintenance, for just one day of binging. I had known what I was doing, and had convinced myself that I would certainly not have allowed this to happen, had the week been ‘for real’. I simply couldn’t comprehend what 54 swishes would feel like, my previous ‘best’ for other domestic mishaps was 18 with the cane, and that had been murder.
My eyes lingered on the group of disciplinary implements; a cane, a huge leather strap, a crop and ‘Jack’s Flogger’ - a recent and most unwelcome addition to the collection - and I wondered if I could even manage 18 slashes of any one of those toys anymore, it had been rather a long time since I was last disciplined. Best I focus on what is to come, I thought to myself.
The maintenance portion had been pre-agreed in terms of the number of strokes, the implements, and even the order in which the implements would be used. First there would be the obligatory hand spanking of an intensity and duration of Jeremy’s choosing. Followed by four hits with the small leather paddle, four with the slipper – which I wholly object to the name of, come on, it is clearly a gym shoe! – and finally, four with the crop.
All of this was ‘doable’ if one put one’s mind to it, the only fly in the ointment being the 18-individual hand-spanks that I had earned yesterday for swearing. Jeremy had curtly informed me over my (non)breakfast this morning, that those would be administered immediately prior to the small paddle. This was a minor blow, and had not been foreseen when I had helped to create this monster, the fact that ordinary household disciplinary matters would have to continue to be settled in the usual way, alongside any dietary ones. Oh well, I thought, I guess the maintenance will assist me in trying to avoid too many household issues as well as in weight loss… hopefully.
The front door opened.
“Jacqui, are you ready for me?”
“Yes, sir”
“Good, I’ll be in in two minutes”
Oh shit, I thought and in that one moment I realised that all of the debating, the deep thought, the promises, the resolutions, the politicking, and frank discussions were over. This was it. Time to be held accountable for your actions, time to put your money where your bottom is. I ruffled the pillows in the middle of the bed to give my hands something to do, as he entered.
“Let’s have a look at your log then please.”
I handed it to him in silence and went and sat pensively on the edge of the bed.
“Oh dear, 54… 54! My goodness me this will not be happening next week, will it,
young lady?”
“Hell no, sir!”
“Hell no, indeed, Miss.” He paused to take in the room and my preparations, before he closed the log and handed it back to me.
“Good work on the room by the way, I take it you are groomed also?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir,” I all but whispered.
“Lie over the pillows please.”
I complied instantaneously, and raised my hips up off the pillows just long enough for him to undo my jeans and drag them from my hips to my knees. The exposure made me tremor ever so slightly and he delighted in this little visible sign of my trepidation.
He began with short, fairly rapid, but medium-hard slaps to my buttocks. He covered the bare sections of flesh and those covered by the ‘M&S sensible undergarments aisle’ style knickers.
“Good girl,” he half-smiled to himself, as he realised that I had remembered, without him reminding me, that sexy lingerie is not permitted for discipline. His fingers reached for the elastic of my briefs and he ever-so-gently tugged them past my bottom cheeks and down to mid-thigh. I wiggled - the faintest evidence of unease - but quickly relaxed as best as I could.
The swats were harder now, much more meaningful, as he began to set to his work. He diligently covered my rear with spanks of increasing intensity but not cadence, I didn’t make a sound. After a while, with my cheeks colouring he spoke;
“Why are we here, Miss James?”
“Because I want to stick to this diet, sir.”
As I replied, between his carefully calculated smacks, my mind wandered to the time when I thought I would never ever call anyone ‘sir’ again.
On leaving sixth form, 12 years ago, I had been sure that my ‘sir-ing’ days were over. In fairness, I had been using the respectful title largely in irony by that stage of my academic career in any case. I had been ‘it’ at school, and I knew it. Quite literally, Miss Goodie Two Shoes Who Is Far Too Good To Be Spanked, Even If It Were Allowed. I really had been the model student, a great ambassador for the school, a sports captain for athletics, tennis, and football. I sang in the school choir, played clarinet in the orchestra, starred in the annual musical, and of course was the form representative. Indeed, if my school had had a head girl, I would certainly have been it, and I knew it.
“Ah!” I cried, a rather hard blow jolted me back into the present and I caught her breath a little. The spanking stopped.
“Right, now I am going to give you 18 hard individual smacks. What are they
for?”
“For swearing at you yesterday, sir.”
“Yes, don’t do it again.”
“No, sir.”
“You will count and thank.”
This was not the gratuitous demand that it so often is with certain types of men and women, it was Jeremy’s way of assessing how well or otherwise I was coping with his discipline. He was constantly scanning for subtle signals and signs that I was struggling too much… or too little. It might be a slight tremor in the voice or a rapid response to a particular blow, or it may be as simple as my jerking my shoulders back or a slight raise of the head on impact.
The first strike struck, somehow there is never any preparation for the first real one, she thought as she recited:
“One, thank you, sir.”
“Why are you thanking me?”
“For reminding me to improve my vocabulary, sir.”
“Good.”
“Two, thank you, sir.”
And so it went on, each blow deepening the hue in my hindquarters and driving the message home.
“What is it time for now, Little Miss?”
“The paddle, sir.”
“And how many strokes will you receive?”
“Four, sir.”
“What are they for?”
“To remind me to stay on my diet, sir.”
“See that you do.”
He then, deliberately, aimed the shortish leather paddle low and at the centre of my bottom. He didn’t fail to notice the slight catch in my voice as I acknowledged and thanked. Three more shots were fired in the same area, and I bridled ever so slightly, but remained silent and in place. He gave me plenty of time between each crack, as he wanted me to feel the full benefit of each wave of pain, he was there to make sure I stayed honest.
I was extra alert once the paddle had been discarded as next up was the gym shoe. I, briefly, wondered if he would be brave enough to properly lay this on, as it has a reputation for punching above its weight.
The first blow was highly anticipated, and I was relieved the moment I realised the pain in my rear was bearable. Note for later, I thought, must level with Jem that he can go for it more with the slipper. You see, I didn’t want this to be easy or even just a little difficult, it needed to be tough - a very difficult experience - so that I wouldn’t be tempted to renege on her diet at any time during the whole of the next week. I was of the mind that in this particular case prevention would be better, much better, than cure. Strokes with disciplinary items, no thanks, I’d much rather go through this once per week and never have to feel that! It’s a no-brainer!
Almost before I realised, we were onto the crop, which whilst a little nasty, (depending on where exactly it is applied), is totally within my capabilities. Well, mostly… the final lash was a low cut to the extremely tender area between bottom of buttock, and top of thigh, which anyone who has ever been physically punished in this way will know only too well.
He stood back and admired his handiwork, and was rather pleased with the perfect purple outline of the end of his riding crop on the buttock/thigh region - his last attempt to send the message home.
“That’ll be gone in a couple of days’ time,” he reassured himself.
I lay still awhile to ensure there were no more waves of pain to come, and thought for a moment how I would feel if I had now to face even one stroke of the cane or something of its ilk. It doesn’t take a clairvoyant to begin to understand my innermost feelings at this point. This was a good beginning to my new diet, and I had now more than a little confidence that this regime was actually going to work.
Jeremy sat next to me, relieved that I hadn’t required any discipline for letting myself get out of position or attempting to impede the progress of the punishment.
“You may get up, slowly, whenever you are ready.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied and meant it.
I gently pushed up onto my forearms into kneeling, and then sitting, feeling very relieved that I had managed the pain without too much fuss, and hopefully with some dignity too. One of my worst fears before a disciplinary, is always whether or not I will break position or attempt to protect my backside in any way. For me, it is a matter of honour to remain in place for the duration, and to attempt to take my medicine as prescribed. To me that is a large part of my apology. Far easier said than done, however the fear of failing to acquit myself well, was a massive motivation.
I carefully adjusted my clothing so that I was now properly dressed, and only then did I make eye contact with Jem for the first time since I went over the pillows. He gave me a slight smile, which I willingly reciprocated.
“Thank you, sir.”
“How was it?”
“I’m okay, thank you.”
“Good, well it was only maintenance after all, wasn’t it?” he said, with more than a hint of bedevilment in his voice, and that familiar sparkle in his dark blue eyes.
“Yes, sir… until next week.” I replied, very much to my own chagrin.
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Another wonderfully written story. You feel you are receiving the punishment with Jacqui.