The punishment program

I pinned a butterfly broach to the lapel of my black jacket, and gave one last check in the bedroom mirror that my hair and makeup were in pristine order for a “twenty-something executive” in a successful real estate office.   Satisfied, I finished my cup of strong black coffee and switched off the flat screen television.   The freeway to work was reported to be clear of all possible delays.   I would have time to stop and pick up a cup of coffee.

I scanned the bedroom.  I had the luxury of having a double bed for single occupancy:  it was neatly made, and my sleep clothes tidily folded and under one of the pillows.   There were no worn clothes anywhere other than in the laundry basket.   The room also passed muster.

I stepped into the hallway and paused at the small table by the entrance door.   My car keys were not on it.

I felt a slight tremor of unease deep inside my tummy.   I walked across to the kitchen.   And there they were, lying on the breakfast counter where I had absent-mindedly dropped them last night.

It was definitely an error.  I had no doubt that I would pay for it.

---oo0oo---

When I got home that evening, I dropped my car keys on the small table in the entry lobby - where they are supposed to “live” whenever they are not in use, and walked calmly into the kitchen.

At the exact spot where my keys had lain this morning was a small slip of white paper.   I did not have to read it, for I knew exactly what it would say.

Nonetheless. I opened it up and read its instructions: just letters and numbers, but the spelt out precisely the penalty that I was to pay, right now, for failing to maintain the highest possible order of orderliness in my life.

The regiment I was on was definitely working.   At all levels, business, social and private, the chaos that brought me daily mayhem was largely gone.   There was a long list of standards that were to be met at all times.   And there was a short list of consequences for any failure to meet them.   I freely entered into the contract to put my life in some sort of order:  and sometimes I had been made to pay for being in breach of one or more of those terms.

It was my duty to put my car keys in their assigned place.   I had not done so.   In order to stop a drift back into my bad old ways, I was about to receive a sharp - and very painful - reminder to keep a tight control over every aspect of my life.

The first cryptic clue as to my immediate future was the initial inscription “6 B’ in a neatly written hand-written script.

Six strokes of the birch.

Last time had been five.   They were more than enough to make me cry.   I was about to find out how much damage one additional stroke could make as it added to my misery.

---oo0oo---

I stepped into the den - it was time to get this over and done with:  procrastination would only increase the dread of what was an inevitable outcome.

I was now wearing nothing but bra, blouse and slippers.   The apartment was reasonably warm, but my legs and bottom, being bare. Felt very cool - almost cold.   I rubbed my bottom absently - partly to install some warmth, partly because I was reflecting on what was about to happen to it.

The machine was already set up in the middle of the room, a bundle of green birch saplings securely clamped to its delivery arm.   I looked at them:  thin, hard, long, supple - god damn it!

I switch on the PC.   It was virtually dedicated to this one task:  when discipline was to be administered, its program meant that every detail would be meticulously followed.   Its signals to the machine would determine a great deal of detail as to how and when each stroke would land - and every aspect of severity of each cut.

The piece of paper I held spelt out all the parameters the program needed:  6 strokes at level 4 to be delivered at intervals lasting between 15 and 45 seconds, at an angle of 35 degrees and that the electronic cuffs to remain activated for 20 minutes after the last stroke had been delivered.   And so on.   It did not take long to key all the numbers in.

I turned on the machine by simply plugging it in.   The plug itself had a built in timer:  after one hour, unless reset, it would disconnect all power from the outlet. 

I went to the bench and stepped into two wooden boxes, resting on the ground but secured to the foot rail at the end nearest the machine.   They were perhaps two feet apart.   They were slightly bigger in area than my feet, and came up to mid-calf.   A very simple notion - until I was free to step out of them again, my legs were as firmly set in position as if they were secured in manacles.

The machine was behind me.   I did not have to check if the tips of the birch twigs were aligned with my buttocks:  they were most assuredly were …

I bent at the waist over the edge of the bench;  cool leather against my tummy.   I swung the restraining arm over the small of my back, and then used my right hand to insert the end into a socket.   The click of hasp, and my lower body would be restrained until I freed it again.

The two wrist holds at full stretch in front of me were quite slack - it was easy to push my hands through them/   My right had picked up the cable:  it had a switch on it rather like those you get on a retractable pen.   Only this switch only works the once:  it starts the ball rolling and then ceases to have any functionality.   You can click it as often as you wanted in a futile attempt to stop the inescapable consequence of having pushed it the first time.

The way it works is that once I click the button on, my arms and waist ill be gripped tightly be electromagnetic restraints until either the program reaches its conclusion, or the power is cut off.  Hence the timer in the wall plug - no matter what unseen technical snag were to happen, I would always be freed from this device in an hour at the most.

I had reached the hard part.  This is when the nerve begins to crack.  One idly contemplates just waiting out the hour for an automatic release - to come back to this some other time later, when it might not seem to be so bad.   But the inevitability of extra strokes made that possibility never more than idle speculation.

My thumb touched the button several times - increasing the agony of delay by leaving it un-pressed.   I really did not want to press that button, but know that I am going to have to, sooner or later.   Eventually I started a count-down from 10 - in the manner of a space launch.  Ten being far enough away from the actual start made it possible for me to initiate that count:  once the counting had started, it all became very automatic.

After I reached a silent “one”, I pressed the button without really thinking about it.

The bands holding my wrists and waist immediately tightened - I did not have to carry out and tests:  past experience had confirmed that I was not totally at the mercy of the discipline program.

The machine whited and whined as it moved up and down on its central spindle.   Whether by intent or happenchance, it meant that the room was filled with the sounds of this constant meaningless activity.   This meant that enough noise was being made that it had become impossible to know when any one stroke was about to land.

The first one took my completely by surprise.   I was lying helpless, face down and semi-naked, worrying myself over how bad it was going to be - even feeling slightly nauseous.  And then the pain exploded across both buttocks.

I mewed an animal mewl and felt hot tears flood my eyes with their tingle.   I could not take six of these.   That was impossible.   Except that all attempts to struggle free were totally futile.

Then the second landed and stripped me of all dignity and reason.   I roared in pain and screamed a string of obscenities at the closed curtains.   The third sent me into a mute, gasp-ridden, silence.  I was reduced to invoking a silent prayer from some sort of merciful relief - any sort - jus tso that I did not have to take any more.   I was wracked with incredulity that any human could cause another human to undergo such torture.

My whole universe had shrunk to the screaming agony raging across my bottom, and the damned whirring and whining of that detestable machine.

I don’t really remember the final three cuts:  the pain wad sent me into some sort of mild shock.   But I clearly recall that the paid did get worse and worse throughout the entire session.

My next clear recollection is of lying secured to the bench, knowing that the beating itself was over.   And that I had to lie there, without being able to give any sort of relief to my brutalized flesh until the clock ticked out.

One thing was certain.   It was time to go back and renegotiate the terms of the contract.   This sort of thrashing for a trivial slip was so unfit that it was downright insane to continue om with it.

I lay there for seemed to be forever until there came the clicks of the restraints being released.   I pushed myself upright with some difficulty, wipe the remnants of dried tears from my face and limped to the bathroom to attend to my poor backside.   I touched it gingerly.   It was going to be days before sitting became comfortable again

---oo0oo---

Perhaps it was the unnecessary savagery of it all:  for the next six weeks passed with a single hint of straying.   Putting my car keys on the table returned to being automatic - but the same sort of behavior spread to all other areas of my life.   All of them.   Even filing away every piece of paper before leaving the office at the end of the day.   No loose tooth paste caps scattered about the bathroom.   And so on.  I had returned to being one neatly stowed away young lady who knew how to keep things totally ship-shape.

If things carried on like this, I could even think of going out on dates again.   That would be nice.   I contemplated which of my would-suitors would be the first to share a bottle of wine with me …

This was the whole point of the contract:  to act like a responsible adult.   It did not matter was the motivation was for acting in such an admirable way - only the end result counted.   And, most of the time, I was very happy that I had entered into such an agreement.

---oo0oo---

I sat at my desk in the second bedroom, which acted as my home office.

A missed gym session, without a hint of any reasonable excuse.   On the contrary, the time that should have been spent in the gym was used to watch a DVD while eating ice cream:  that was not any sort of reasonable excuse.

Which had the effect of turning a minor lapse into something far more serious.

I took out a slip of paper and studied its shiny white surface.  I recalled that his was the third time a gym session had been missed:  that logically called for a count of 8.

Would eight whacks of a paddle be excessive?   The current paddle being used was fearsomely large and heavy.   Too excessive?   No - not really.   If someone was going act in the manner of an irresponsible schoolgirl, then a school girl type of punishment was called for.

But at what level?   Level 5 would make a very lasting impression on a trim, firm bottom.   8 swats of a wooden paddle delivered with the venom of Level 5 would be very effective:  even if the victim were to be wearing jeans in a fruitless attempt to lessen the effects of being on the receiving end of adman good hiding.    

And perhaps 30 minutes of waiting time - to be spent in quiet contemplation - before being allowed to stand up:  that would a quite exquisite touch.

I wrote out the details in my neat, precise script.

I left the note on the kitchen could, where I would find it when I arrived back home that evening.

I would know exactly what was on it, but I would still hope that it spelt out some lesser amount.

And once again, no doubt, before this evening was over, I would want to get out of this contract that I had made with myself.   But for now, that was not an option.