True Punishment

Punishment that's part of play isn't truly punishment. It's good hurt, not after you've been "bad" hurt. True crime, spot-on reprimand isn't fun but when it is administered fairly by a dominant I think it can be an integral part of a bdsm relationship.

However, for me, the line is fine. When is punishment fair and fit to the submissive's grubby little caper for which he's been caught red-handed and when does it cross over to the disproportionate? Should us subbie guys have any say either before or after the fact; or is correction the simple and exclusive métier of the domme?

I suppose I don't envision life in a dommy dictatorship. I like to think that I might be permitted to plead my case prior to the imposition of sentence; or at the very least file an emotional appeal after the fact in the hopes of future understanding, compassion, and lenity.

Obviously, that's the fast talking lawyer in me.

I do admit to the attraction of just going with my domme's mood and flow; but in my opinion that's ultimately a recipe for passive aggressive, misdirected, connection damaging retaliation on my part. I think in any relationship, there has to be some sort of positive dialogue and communication; the imposition of punishment shouldn't withstand exclusion from a list of relationship talking points.

My musings are inspired by my recent long weekend and current interactions with She-Who-Visits. My unique, long distance, challenging relationship with her is the closest I've come in my life to a "lifestyle" bond with a domme. Our ties to one another are deep, long lasting, and complex. We've been "together" for five years though most of the time we live thousands of miles apart.

This past trip was wonderful. But more than any other face time we've spent; she said very mean and cutting things to me and chose to impose real punishment. It wasn't so much the substance of the mean things she said which hurt so much but the way she delivered it.

Sometimes, I don't even think she realizes she says very cutting and hurtful things. I can't really give examples because they are so personal and involve her life and my life in a way I'm just not comfortable sharing in the blogosphere.

Should a domme get a pass on fairness and self awareness just because she's in charge? Should a submissive just suck it up and take it because that's what we've signed up for? I suppose I could try to answer my own questions. But I really don't have any answers. The answers I come up with all breed more questions.

My most recent crime was ending a self imposed stint of on-my-honor chastity. I was at about three weeks when She and I met up for our long weekend. When she asked about how long it had been since I'd come she mocked my pride at making three weeks. An obvious back handed compliment.

Then, despite preparing for a last night of play, punishment took the form of final night denial. No play at all. Very mean things were said.

The next morning I told her she'd hurt me deeply. She said it was very important that I understand my deep transgression and she wanted to drive the point home. Just before we left for the airport I thanked her for not allowing me release. I told her for me, it's win-win. She smiled.

Later, when we retreated to our respective corners of the globe she blithely set a date after which I could end my self imposed stint of chastity. I told her I wished she could watch me. She said if I waited until October 6th; she might be able to. I told her I would.

I didn't.

I suppose I should be punished. She hung up on me Thursday night when I told her what I'd done. She called me a dirty pig and said she wouldn't speak to me until after the weekend.

So here I am; stewing in the juices of my domme's displeasure with me and wondering will her punishment fit my crime - or will it be a cruel, unfitting expression of where she is with her life - essentially unrelated to my passive aggressive act of indulgent self denial.

Getting off would have been so much better with her voice urging me on over the phone.

Kibbles & Bits

“Thoughtless sprinkles! Yum. That’s it, shake them all over.”

She was really getting completely into this torture. I lay on the floor, on my increasingly troublesome stomach which was making some extremely disturbing noises. Right in front of my face, where She had just set them out, sat a bowl full of, you guessed it – prunes. I was adding the zest of the little white email orbs I had torn, rolled and offered as a vain penance. I had done so many of them that my left thumb had seized up on me.

“Now clean your plate for me and don’t forget to mix in your brainless little email balls.”

She was wearing one of her tight little bath wrap dresses. The ones that ride up her strong swimmer’s thighs. The ones that every now and then just completely malfunction and expose some delicious body part or another. I was gazing at her armpit in olfactory lust.

“What are you looking at?” She mocked. “My armpit? Are you thinking you’d like to lick?” she teased. “Here, wash the lovely little garnish down with some nice, tasty juice.”

She had explained that not long ago she had eaten a few too many prunes herself. She’d been spearing them with a toothpick and they tasted so good she lost count. All of sudden she had grabbed her stomach and made a mad dash for the toilet. There she’d spent the rest of the night sweating, groaning and expelling. She said when she read my email it made her feel the same way.

“Can you feel it yet?” she gleefully grilled.

“Yesssss!” I moaned, as a completely involuntary groan left my throat.

“Good. I want you to feel what I felt,” She explained rationally.

There was nothing rational about how I felt. My insides were spinning and reeling like a Coney Island Tilt-A-Whirl. My brain was a broken circuit. But my dick? My dick was hard as a rock, baby. She made me eat all the prunes and email sprinkles in the bowl. Then she poured prune juice into the wine glass, soaking my little shriveled white balls throughly.

"Drink it up like good little plaything," she directed encouragingly.

I drank and ate until it was all gone.

"Come sit by the end of the bed and rub my footsies. Didn't you buy me some special heel cream?" She cooed seductively.

I stroked and caressed the tanned and gorgeous feet I so love but had no grunt and groan control. My moan was my massage. The vicious knots in my stomach flowed up through my core and out into the air in a desperate whimpering whine for relief.

I know She let me go. She allowed nature to take it's course. But it all became a haze. She sat in her bath and laughed at me. At one point she made me close the bathroom door and she slid another two emails under it on the floor.

"Use these. At least they're good for something", she commanded. As I rubbed the letter sized xerox paper together to soften it, I had an intense flashback to my mother. She grew up very poor and when she was a kid her family could not afford soft toilet paper. Even as an adult she would rub her Charmin to ease non-existant chafe. I called out to She that I was having a flashback.

"About your mother?" she uncannily crystal balled. "You know how inappropriate it is that you know she used to do that, don't you? You know what a wonderful, cute, little pervert you are, don't you?"

I loved She's punishment. I didn't do anything wrong by asking her to come visit. But She wanted me to suffer because she wanted me to feel what she felt. I'm sorry I made her stomach heart. But I'm not sorry I needed her. And I loved that She loves me enough to punish me.

Expiation

It was Your idea. Has anyone been so dedicated and in love with You that they went 62 days ...? You started this. It's a beautiful thing. Come to Miami to celebrate us! You know You want to! Just say yes! You and the husband have plenty of holiday bonding time coming up. But this 62 days is special. We should be together for it!

Instead of continuing the high and selfless road to approval, in a moment of need I broke down and wrote these words to She. As she struggled and wrestled to work out whether to stay home with her husband for his unexpected long weekend as he'd requested or visit me in Miami She read these words. I knew I was in trouble when she informed me by email she was disappointed. She knows I long to please her. It hurts me like nothing else to disappoint.

She made me suffer for a day before she told me she'd decided to split the weekend and come to Miami for the first part and spend the second part at home. But ominously she delivered instructions.

"You are to bring five copies of the email you sent me and present them to me in the room when you see me."

Her arrival in Miami was Day 66 on the money. The airport has become an old friend. I know where to park, where to wait, what stores there are and where to buy a Starbucks. Her plane arrived on time.

We hugged then she handed over her luggage. I zipped her back downtown in the same little Audi TT I'd rented in October to our room where I had gotten all her special requests. I know she likes extra pillows, an extra blanket, a fan and wine glasses. At her request, in the midst of a crazy busy day, I had even booked her a massage in the room. Such a good little subbie I am.

But after we returned from the local wine shop with her choice for the evening she asked for the emails. She ordered me to strip naked and kneel in front of her.

"Do you know what kind of emotional turmoil your stupid email caused me?", she asked sweetly, obviously enjoying my discomfort.

"I'm sorry, I'm so, so, sorry", I pathetically blurted.

"My guts were wrenched out. Do I spend the weekend with my husband who I love and who tells me we need to connect? Or do I fly to Miami to be with my lackey who I adore?"

As she mused she reached for a large tupperware container.

"Do you like prunes?" she almost giggled.

"Actually, I really like them."

"Well, you are in luck then", she chuckled, "Because that's your dinner. I'm having lamb and risotto. You are having prunes ... lots of prunes. In fact, how about an amuse bouche?"

She fed me prune after prune. When we got to twenty, room service arrived and she began to eat her delectible meal. Every now and again she'd point to the tupperware container and urge me to have another.

Then she poured me a big glass of prune juice. I drank. And another. I knocked it back with florish. She had finished her succulent dinner and I ate twelve more prunes.

The door bell rang. She told me to get into a robe and answer it. When I swung the door open it revealed her amazingly hot masseuse, dressed in tight jeans, a tank top, and six inch heels. The woman toted the table that She would lie on naked to get oiled up and rubbed. Ms. Hot Hands was early. I asked the gorgeous woman to wait a moment and went back to She.

"Okay", she declared, "I'm going to take a quick shower. Let her set up in the bedroom and tell her I'll be right there. Excuse yourself and tell her you're going out and will be back. Close the door. But I want you in the wardrobe, right here. She opened the door and quickly had me try it. I fit.

"While you are in there you are to rip your five emails into bite sized little balls and put them in this wine glass."

She set them on the floor of the wardrobe and put her hands on her hips.

"You'd better finish each and every one of those wretched things."

"Yes Ma'am." I stammered. The thought of being right next door to these two hot women all lotioned and potioned up was too much to bear.

"And if you have to use the bathroom, you have to come past us."

So for the next hour and half I was holed up on the floor of our room's large wardrobe, ripping my emails into little spitball sized offerings while Ms. Hot Hands was kneading She flesh. Eventually, the masseuse left.

Finally, after completely ignoring me for a time, the door opened. I had transformed five pages into little nuggets which filled a large wine glass.

"Good boy!", she exclaimed, "You must be parched poor thing. Here, have a nice tall glass of prune juice."

I gulped it down. I felt my stomach gurgle ...

To be continued ...

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.