Harder Than November Rain

My pals HMP and Aarkey recently traded blog thought on the role of corporal "punishment" in bdsm relationships. The question? Is it really punishment or is it just something a submissive maso bottom wants and the dominant sado-top loves to dish out? To simplify a complicated subject, HMP thought that percussion play ought, for him, to be just that - play. Aarkey responded and came at the question by explaining that for him, even an intense corporal experience was, at its heart and soul, a "corporal punishment scene". Their point and counterpoint initially had me thinking that I just did not really have the experience base either of them have to really comment or meaningfully share my thoughts or know-how on the subject because I didn't have much. But, as is my wont, I ruminated on the subject and, never really at a loss for words, I figured I'd share.

I have to say, I initially thought that practically all my "beat me, beat me" scenes had been play. I've never really had a dominant hit me to actually punish me for something she thought I'd done wrong - or so my thought pattern went. Sure, I've been cropped, smacked and slapped silly because she said I'd been a bad, bad boy. But it was all in good fun, wasn't it? But then I got to thinking...hmmm. There were actually some very powerful times I'd really been "punished". Not always by being physically hit, but I'd been well and truly "marked" by her anger and sincere displeasure at something I'd done to actually and justly offend her.

"She-Who-Visits" and I have had at least three very powerful, substantially punitive, interactions that for me were real, retributive reprimands which have both emphasized her dominance over me and solidified my submission to her.

First up was our last cash-in-the-envelope session which happened over two years ago now. At the time and place in question I did something that really upset her. I was overcome with an almost magnetic need to do what I did. I'm much too embarassed to confess my transgression publicly, but suffice it to say - it was just flat-out wrong. I later learned that there was a genuine, bona fide, oh-so-poignant reason for her rage. Anyway, I did what I did and she proceeded to mercilessly, verbally chastise me and just brutally bitch slap me about the face so hard it made me burst into uncontrollable tears. I'm talkin' racking, blubbering, sobbing. I was genuinely and deeply sorry, both for my sin and for displeasing her. For, as you dear reader may gather, I love "She-Who-Visits" with all my heart. We made up on the spot as I melted in her arms and she brought me home from lose-it-land.

Second was an off handed, stupid remark I made to her in an email after I was unable to bring myself to sneak away to her for a long weekend. After she'd left New York I'd begged her for this quality time. She invited me and I thought I could tell all the lies necessary to steal away. But alas, I found I could not. She seemed to understand when I honestly confessed I just couldn't manage to pull it off. As a penalty, she asked me to buy her something she really needed. I brainlessly and dimly suggested that she'd gone all "prodomme" on me. Well, you can imagine her reaction! All "prodomme" huh? Ya wanna see all prodomme? I'll give you prodomme. Open a PayPal account and pay me for each and every email, phone call and sweet nothing you get, she wrote. Then she proceeded to simply cut me off. She gave me the silent treatment. For four long months. Thankfully, she relented one sunny October day after I'd sent her only the lyrics to "Old Habits Die Hard" -

We haven't spoken in months
You see i've been counting the days
I dream of such inanities, such insanities
I'm lost like a kid in a maze
But i've never taken your calls
You see, I put a block on my phone
I act like an addict, I just got to have it
I never can leave it alone

Finally, this past August, after she made me hers, we had a wonderful night out on the town at Paddles, a local kink club. Among my duties that enchanted evening was to mind her purse. During my dommy date, we found ourselves in a dark little corner, she in full domme regalia, me wearing my new collar - my long desired gift from her. I had just happily finished serving as her personal chocolate caddy, on my knees of course, as she dragged me up and away in tow. We got about five steps from our former perch and she stopped dead and pointed. There, in truthful, humiliating plain view - on the floor in the corner - was her purse. She yanked me close and pointed. "You were going to leave that?" she snarled menacingly. "I give you one task and you fail?" she spat. "It has my driver's license in it. With my real name on it." I fell onto the floor in real fear. I desperately kicked my foot at the purse to try, to snag it, to retrieve it with-all-my-might verve. She leaned on my leash. She's really strong from her island paradise outdoor expert job. I couldn't budge. She bent down, grabbed my face and growled, "Go get it. Don't lose it again!"

So, though I love her, I actually have a healthy, heaping dollop of fear of her. It strikes me that this deepens my submission to her and makes me love her love for me even more. In some measure, these punishments have helped mold me and bind me to her. Despite our distance, she can always walk through my walls like a ghost.