Discipline

So much of what I have written so far has been looking back at significant moments of my new existence. As though I need to explain how I could have come to be who, be what, I am. But now these words are being published to the world and I am aware that I want this to be a place about my current life too. More so even.

Recently I had a day where I woke very… itchy. My servile nature had been boosted the night before and nothing my mind had created overnight had done anything to lessen those feelings. And all day they stayed high. My Master sent me to a business meeting with my panties sopping wet from his teasing of my high.

By the time I was home with him my Master knew that I was rippling with a need for a tightly held leash, metaphorically speaking. We chatted of normal things, as we always do right after work, and I let down my attention and my labido, or so I thought. But at a moment I crossed the room, away from the Skype Camera and my Master, and turned up the thermostat. I had forgotten my place, and my Master was kind enough to notice. And to know that this was behavior that required attention.

When I returned to my seat in front of my webcam his word came strict and short: “Stand.” I sensed that the tone of the conversation had changed DRAMATICALLY. His next commands were just as short and not-so-sweet. “Turn Around.” Of course I did as commanded. “Bend over.” Now I knew what was coming – I had, I realized, done something wrong. It wasn’t mine to know what, but to take the punishment obediently and I tried.

Master had added to me this night a verbal command that, when I heard the word, translated to the most realistic feeling of his hand smacking hard on my ass. It had been playful at first, but now he used this conditioning to make sure I knew I’d been wrong. As I stood, bent with my ass facing the camera, he explained that I had not asked permission to leave my seat, and of course he was right. Now I would be spanked for my mistake. He asked me, with the slight sound of a smile to his voice, how many strikes did I think I deserved?

“As many as Master thinks appropriate!” I answered, hopeful that the answer would please him and, by association, lessen his punishment some. But he knows better and chose a number that was appropriate for the infraction: 10 blows.

I stood and took each one. The feel of his hand, albeit as punishment, was also a glorious sensation. Because it was his. Because it was him doing what I need to become a quality slave for him. When he was finished I was allowed – instructed – to sit. Though no actual hand had touched me, my ass smarted as though it was red and raw. My face glowed with the same bright red from my embarrassment at having overstepped as well as my excitement at being spanked. Master laughed.

As the night continued I found myself pulling on the leash periodically. At the time I thought I was getting caught up in our conversations and forgetting my place. But now I know I was eager for more of my Master’s attention. And he was good to me and gave it. Repeatedly. When he next asked how many strikes I deserved for my second infraction I knew sucking up would not work and I threw out a number. As I knew he would do, he added half again to my suggested number.

By the time our conversation was towards the end he had begun to enjoy my jumping to attention, back-peddling madly any time I thought I’d overstepped and was about to get another lashing. Even though the physical reaction was intense and amazing, I also could not bear the idea that I would need addressing that many times in one night.

My Master is so very good to me. He understands that I want and need him to set rules and enforce them on me, and that his tight grip on my leash, both metaphorically and hopefully someday physically, both excites me and trains me, which I love more than the arousal. I hope that he will never stop finding new ways to improve and refine me. I know I will never consider myself worthy of his attention, but I crave those times he allows me to try.