Every day has two numbers associated with it; maintenance and punishment. This past week, Sir told me that the punishment strokes would be fast and hard from now on. Before, they were an extension of maintenance. No more! There is now a solid division between “funishment” and punishment.
The day before yesterday, I lived up to my name. I could not get anything right; I did not use Sir’s preferred style for a thank you in public, I did not hand a glass over properly, among other missteps. Plus maintenance had been deferred from the day before–along with its punishments. It all added up to 100 maintenance strokes, and 30 punishment strokes.
Sir set up a kneeling mat for me, and a low stool for himself. He sat down.
“Remove your skirt and tuck your slip back up into its waistband.” I made the adjustments. He arranged me over his lap.
“We are going to do the punishment first. There will be no breaks, but I will go quickly. Remember to breathe. I have got you. Can you breathe?”
“Just a moment, Sir.” I moved over his lap until I found a spot where I could easily breathe. “I am ready, Sir.”
“Good.” He started with the short, leather strap. The blows fell relentlessly. I felt myself starting to struggle against the shocking pain and tried to breathe, to chant my mantra, to relax; but nothing worked. I was frustrated with my inability to deal, but rapidly got to where I just waited for the punishment to end. The last blow landed right on my cunt. Yes, I yipped.
It also reminded me to be mindful of my actions. This is valuable, because I tend to go on autopilot most of the time. Living and being in the now can be difficult.
Sir paused, changed tools, and gently ran his hand over my ass. I shivered every time his hand ran over a welt from the strap. He dragged his fingernails over my skin. I jumped with every pass.
“Now for the maintenance,” he said. “I will be doing these in groups of 20.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”