I can tell when I’ve done something wrong by the look on his face.  And when I see that look, something inside me drops.  It’s like that feeling you get when you’ve almost fallen asleep, and you feel like you’re falling, and you jump awake…yes…the feeling directly after that…the dulled panic and deep, body shaking heartbeats.

It’s not the little transgressions…the ones that almost make me smile in playful defiance…the things I’m not really sorry about…the spankings and punishments I look forward to as a sort of play-time/foreplay.

No…those times are the times when I look at his dominance as something delicious to be eaten up greedily – lip-licking decadence.

I’m talking about the real screw-ups.  The ones where I know I’ve disappointed him.  The times when I know the punishment really is punishment meant to correct my behavior and ensure that I don’t forget to “do the right thing” next time.

He doesn’t do it with anger.  He does it with resignation…knowing he must – for his sake and mine – for our joined benefit and happiness.

So what did I do?  Well, I forgot my 5 minutes of meditation.

Daddy requires that I stop, at some point in the middle of my day…when we are apart…and revel in thoughts of him and of us…to reflect…to consider…to ponder…and then text or call him when I am through.

For him, it’s a way for us to connect when we are apart – a way for me to prove that I’m thinking about him…that I want him…that I need him.

And yesterday…I forgot.

No excuses (though I tried to come up with one yesterday).  And I knew there’d be a consequence, which of course there was.

Daddy sent me to wash my face and present on the bed, waiting for him to come to the bedroom.  When he got there, he asked me, “What’s worse…the feather or the hand?” I laughed because I didn’t have a clue what he meant.  He smacked me on the ass, hard, and repeated the question.  I stopped laughing and answered, “The feather.”  He told me to count to five and, as he swatted me, I did just that…and  I wondered if that was all I was to endure, which of course it wasn’t.

“What’s worse…the flogger or the riding crop?”

“The riding crop…”  (ahh…so that’s where this was going….)

Flogger:  1…2…3…4…5…

“What’s worse…the riding crop or my hand?”

“Your hand…”

Hand:  1…2…3…4…5… (yah…those ones hurt…)

“What’s worse…the riding crop or the spoon?

“The spoon…”

Crop:  1…2…3…4…5… (ummm…yes…I winced…)

And then…

The Spoon:  1…2…3…4…5… (close to tears on this one…)

Afterward, he rubbed away the pain as he told me why it was so important that I never forget again, and he graciously let me write the transgression and punishment in my discipline log before I had the chance to forget (and therefore earn myself another punishment).  I’m a very forgetful woman, and the majority of my fuck-ups have something to do with not paying attention or letting something important slip my mind.

Needless to say, I DID NOT forget to do my 5 minutes today.  And instead of a punishment, I was greeted with two of my favorite words sent via text…

“Good girl.”

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