My poor dog ate a square of “special” chocolate meant to be a sleep-aid for me. It was not the chocolate that hurt him (thank goodness, chocolate can be deadly for dogs) but the “secret ingredient.” Apparently doggo is as susceptible (in a bad way) to the stuff as I am (can’t consume it, in any format. I end up in a corner, staring out at a world made threatening and unfriendly, my heart pounding, anxiety raking its claws up and down me. Kind of like it is doing now, without the substance, as I watch my poor dog stumble about, confused and frightened.) His vet assures me that the minute amount he consumed, while disorienting and possibly misery-inducing for him, won’t kill him – but he was definitely traumatized and I feel horrible. I am also awake at 1:30 a.m. when I should be sleeping. He’s sleeping soundly at last, but even that is unusual. Usually when I wake up he pops awake as well, though he has been known to grumble and go back to sleep when I’ve tried to wake him too early, so maybe that isn’t a sign of any ill-health. I dunno.
In any case, I’m now awake, and my internet has been restored (I apparently had a malfunctioning box (hey no one’s ever said that to me before!) and have been without access to the big wild world since, oh the last time I posted.) Honestly it was a little bit of a relief, because it denied me the many and sundry distractions it provides, so instead I have been getting my own house set up, helping my daughter to get moved into her new house, and have been exploring the neighborhood between her place and mine (we’re about a mile apart) and the surrounding environs (a new park! A new grocery, Starbuckies & hardware store!) on foot. I got a fuckton of steps over the last three days, ya’ll.
I also had a lot of time in my head to think about lots and lots of stuff, but the main thought I’ll share tonight, since it’s the one that will probably get me praise-from-afar, and since I owe it to him and ya’ll, is…
Task 8: Tell me about the worst punishment you’ve ever received.
Punishment is such a great topic. I could go on all day about punishment dynamics, the good, the bad, the ugly; my opinions on it and my experiences with and without a punishment dynamic; how good punishment works (IMO and for me), and what doesn’t work, and why.
BUT. The task laid before me is to describe the worst punishment I’ve received. I am going to assume that means worst as in “best,” not as in it really sucked as a tool to use to punish or correct bad behavior.
There are actually two incidents that come to mind, and since W and I (nor any of my shorter term play partners) did not have a punishment dynamic, it turns out that both of these are from my relationship with V. We discovered early on that, although punishment had not been a part of my D/s before, it very much was a dynamic I craved. As much as I need to be praised and rewarded for good behavior, I also need to be corrected when I am not living up to my Dom/Top/Owner’s expectations or to my own commitment to behave a certain way or to be obedient. V apparently enjoyed this dynamic as well, and we threw ourselves rather heedlessly into developing it.
There are two kinds of punishments that we had found to work quite well: corporal punishment, and punishment that had some element of sexual denial or embarrassment/humiliation. Now, before you say it – it is absolutely not true that a sexual, masochistic submissive cannot be punished in these ways. Perhaps these methods will not work on someone else, but they do for me, and I dare say they worked better than another type of punishment might have, because, for me, it is absolutely imperative that the punishment fit the crime, and that the dynamic reflect the relationship within which it resides. These both very much did. And that is one reason these stand out to me, years later, even without the aid of photographs!
V had been playing with edging with me. Instructing me over the course of several nights to use my Baldy before bed to bring myself to the brink of orgasm, but then quit, over and over. This was excruciating for me, because 1. It was not always easy for me to come in those days, and to get to the point of actually doing it, only to deny me that release, was torture, and 2. I was still fairly embarrassed to be masturbating and telling him about it. He also made the task difficult by infusing my fantasizing with extremely dirty imagery. All of these things combined finally in a session in which I was unable to hold back. Or unwilling, I don’t know. All I know is that my desire to obey him was overrun by my need to press Baldy as hard as I could against my tired, swollen clit and get the relief I so desperately wanted.
He was not amused.
Or maybe he was, because he seemed to enjoy the torment he brought me via my “punishment.” Now keep in mind that I am as susceptible to the edgier, “unique” sort of punishment as I am to cold caning, especially when it makes me feel small or sad or humiliated. Or thwarted sexually.
He told me to put Baldy away entirely for the rest of the week. He was to see me the coming Saturday, and this was when our access to each other had not been restricted to just evening hours two nights a week, so he came over Saturday morning. He had instructed that I was not allowed to touch myself in an pleasurable way, either, and actually pushed me away when I greeted him at the door with a grinding against his already-hard cock inside his jeans. I was ravenously horny, but he knew that.
“Stand back against the wall,” he said. “Spread your legs, but don’t you dare touch yourself.” He leaned against the opposite wall, and stood there, stroking himself through his jeans, while I watched. And then, slowly, deliberately, never taking his eyes off mine, he unzipped his jeans and pulled his cock out into his hand. When I made to come forward, to fall to my knees and worship his cock, he barked a command at me to stay where I was, silent, not touching him or myself. Then, with slow, sensuous movements, he stroked himself, harder and harder, his palm cupping over the the top of his bulging, purplish head while I watched. A drop of precum glistened at the tip,and I know he knew I ached to lap it up; in fact my entire body was a pounding ache, every nerve ending attuned to his performance, my body throbbing with the desire to be a part of what was happening a few feet in front of me.
It was, truly, torture.
“Get a cup,” he said at last. I was slow to move, thinking I had misunderstood. Wasn’t he going to shoot his load on me or in me? But no, he took a cup from me and proceeded to milk himself into it. Watching him cum was oh-so-exquisitely painful! Making my partner do that, watching or tasting or feeling that end result of my ministrations is a favorite thing of mine. And here I was being denied that. And then –
“On your knees,” he said.
Now, some people might believe I am a cumslut. And they might not be wrong in some respects. But in others…um, not so much. He put the cup to my lips. “Drink it,” he said. I have NEVER been a happy cum-in-a-cup drinker. Or even lapped up off a body. Once the stuff is cold, it makes me gag (thou swallowing it hot, straight out of a cock is a delight to me.) I pulled back, maybe I whined. He grabbed me by the face and put it to my lips. “DRINK.” And I drank it down, gagging. And contrite. “I hope that stolen orgasm was worth it,” he said as he zipped himself up, “because you aren’t touching that pussy for a week.”
The other kind of punishment that works for me – in spite of enjoying impact play – is corporal punishment. This has generally been in the form of cold canings from V, although I am curious about hand spankings, hair brushes and even belts. The reason these implements work as both punishment tools and tool of pleasure/pain play, is all in the intent. I know he is not doing this to bring me the delicious pain that translates into pleasure, and indeed it does not – except in that it gives me relief in my head. It settles me into a very small, contrite submissive state, a very needy and pliable state, a state in which I will do anything to please him.
The other element of this on particular cold caning was that it was very public. We were at a play party where there were people I both knew and did not know, and he set me across the back of a chair in the front room, in front of everyone, so that I had to see them all seeing me. And then he made me repeat what the offence was (I believe I had been mouthy) and then proceeded to cane me, one hard strike after the other, while I counted and repeated that I was sorry about what I had done and ask him to administer another, until it was through. It was a snively contrite little girl who pooled at his feet for the rest of that evening, whimpering and rubbing my face against his leg.
And there you have it. Task 8 complete in the Twelve Tasks of Kinkmas. Also, for those you that get off on it, maybe a little masturbation fodder for Masturbation Monday!