Disciplining Ford

It was early Sunday afternoon and I was in somewhat of a hurry.

I’d just been dropped home by a friend from a bike ride that lasted somewhat longer than planned – and now I needed to get showered, dressed, and out the door again quickly if I was going to make it in time for a concert performance that I’d promised to attend. So once inside the front door, I shed bike and gear in all directions, raced into the bedroom, pulled off my riding clothes and was into the shower. Normally a nice, longish warm shower is one of the highlights after cycling, but that was not a luxury the time would allow today.

Once I had finished showering and was reaching for a towel, DW offered to help by getting some clothes ready and in fact, had already retrieved a some jeans and a belt, shirt and jacket from the wardrobe and laid them out on to the bed for me. Then, as I continued rapidly toweling off, she headed for the chest of drawers to get some socks and underwear. After finding some socks in one drawer, her hand hovered for a moment over my underwear drawer, but then ominously moved down one level to the punishment panty drawer. As DW pulled it open she asked, “What colour are Sunday’s panties?”

I thought for a moment and answered “umm… white, I think”. As the drawer contains two sets of day-of-the-week panties, one that is all white and the other multicoloured, DW had to start sorting through the white pairs. “Let’s see, that’s Monday, Wednesday, Friday, …ah Sunday”, she said holding them up by the waist with both hands, “Oh, and look they also have a little butterfly embroidered on the front. I would just like to be sure that you’re thinking of me while at the concert this afternoon.”

By that time I’d already put on my socks and shirt, so once DW handed me Sunday’s panties, I had little choice but to pull them on as quickly as possible – and to try and ignore the fact that I was definitely starting to get quite hard. Meanwhile, DW sat herself down on the side of the bed and set about tidying the punishment panty drawer. All of the panties had been pulled out onto the bed, and DW was examining each pair, carefully folding them in halves and returning them to the drawer – that was, until she noticed the all too evident bulge in my knickers that was about to be covered by my half raised jeans. With an exclamation she jumped up from the bed and wrapped her warm hand around the now bulging “Sunday” and embroidered butterfly. “Now that’s what I really enjoy seeing – hmmmm…”.

After she reluctantly withdrew her hand, I had the difficulty of zipping my now even tighter jeans and just managed to do up the top button over the top of my now solid hard-on. The just as obvious bulge in my jeans prompted more comments from DW – “so you managed to get them done up then – such a nice bulge”. Fortunately no other family members were around as I made my way toward the front door, my state of arousal then being further reinforced by a very passionate goodbye kiss from DW. I was well down the road before the strained swelling in my jeans finally eased.

That night, as I climbed into bed still wearing Sunday’s panties, DW reached down to rub her hands over them once again -“you can take them off if you like, you’re not ‘on notice’. I just wanted to know that I’d be on your mind. From what followed, I’d say it was pretty obvious that she had been.

One of the other real advantages of this particular weekend cottage is the placement of the well-curtained main bedroom on the western side so there is no real hint of sunlight until late into the morning. Once outside of our normal home environment, it’s not unusual that we sleep soundly until 10:00 or even 11:00am – perhaps a symptom that our normal daily routine leaves us somewhat sleep deprived. When we do awaken, the lack of any pressure to get on with the business of the day leaves us free to relax and simply enjoy the warmth of the big double bed … and of each other. The intermingling of our scents from the lovemaking of the night before is also a special, shared and intimate reminder that is often a prelude to a repeat performance … and once again drifting back to sleep.

Eventually the mutual desire for coffee and brunch stirred us from our fits of dozing – and yes, once I sat up on the side of the bed, I received a strong reminder that my butt had that definite, freshly spanked feel to it. The panties that DW had imposed the day before had been shed during the course of the evening somewhere back in the lounge room and as I stood up and turned my back towards the mirror in the wardrobe door, I could readily observe the rosy-cheeked legacy left behind the hairbrush. At least the swollen, welted area that I had felt by hand immediately after the completion of DW’s handiwork seemed to have subsided. Much to DW’s approval, showering further enhanced the sting and rosiness of my butt cheeks – helped along by a few of her playful grabs and mock surprise at my discomfort. I then returned to the bedroom to find a fresh pair of panties awaiting me on the bed. Being one of the first pairs that DW had employed for panty discipline, they were quite familiar – their most distinctive feature being a front panel composed entirely of flowery lace material that left virtually nothing to the imagination and offered no compromises to assist the comfort of a male wearer. DW watched as I did my best to adjust them while she made a comment that no male underwear seemed to be amongst the clothes that had been packed for the weekend.

Once both dressed, we enjoyed a leisurely brunch of bacon and eggs on the outdoor table and (hard wooden) chairs on the verandah. To the best of our recollection, the rest of the Saturday was spent reading, relaxing, walking and perhaps watching some TV. It’s also typical that we venture to the nearest town and bring back something special for the evening meal – about an hour’s round trip. But after we had eaten, and as evening was falling, I found myself again sitting on the lounge at DW’s behest, clad in nothing but “my” panties, glancing periodically at that large station clock on the wall as the minutes ticked by toward 7:00pm – the hairbrush and Spencer Paddle still placed strategically on the coffee table.

An “Ok Mister!” from DW signified that 7:00pm had arrived. I raised myself from the lounge and assumed the same position at the front of the lounge chair as the previous evening, while DW grabbed the paddle. My panties were not tight and DW grabbed the elastic at my hips on each side and peeled them slowly down my legs and let them fall to my ankles. At that point in our DW lifestyle, I seem to recall that the Spencer Paddle was relatively a new acquisition (perhaps made in anticipation of that weekend), and this was to be my first real taste of it for a serious spanking.

My first impression was of the seemingly deafening noise from that first impact across both sides of the fleshiest part of my backside. This was almost immediately replaced by an alarmingly painful sensation that was, as best I can describe it, a combination of intense sting and burn. Although made of relatively light pine, I came to realise that this paddle engenders a very different variety of pain to the almost pure sting of the hairbrush. The second stroke arrived while I was still in the process of digesting the first but this time, it left me with a more deep seated impression, suggesting that this was also likely to be a rather bruising encounter.

“You had better count!”

“Twoooo Ma’am”, I responded. To my relief, DW didn’t correct me so as to exclude her first stroke from the total.

Nevertheless, to my escalating concern, it seemed DW had resolved that strokes with this paddle should be administered at about the same pace as those from the hairbrush, but to both sides of my backside simultaneously. As a consequence, I found it necessary to re-assert my grip on each arm of the chair and become mentally resigned to what was shaping up to be the most severe spanking that I had received. As the stroke count advanced through the thirties and into the forties, the only sign of relief was that the pain induced by each stroke was beginning to plateau, or even reducing slightly – in a manner that had never been apparent with the hairbrush.

At fifty, DW stopped to inspect the progress of her efforts. After gently running her hand over each butt-cheek, she must have determined that a slight change in technique was called for if both were to receive their fair share of the punishment. So from the 51st stroke onwards, it became clear that DW had decided to apply the end of the paddle alternately to each side. The much more localised and intense pain from each swat immediately banished my previous slight sense of relief that the pain-level seemed to have stabilised. Perhaps from my reactions with each stroke, the tone of my counting, or the developing appearance of my backside, DW must have detected the re-invigorated effect from each stroke, and gave a slight murmur of satisfaction.

Finally, after the 100th stroke had been delivered, and I was perspiring and breathing much more heavily than from any previous spanking, DW called a halt, and gently placed the paddle back onto the coffee table.
“That will do for this hour, pull up your panties, and come and sit down.”

I was not in a position to do either of these with any degree of urgency. I felt somewhat light headed as I straightened and gingerly reached around for my butt with both hands to make some assessment of the damage. I could feel a large area of swollen, welted flesh as I gently ran my fingers over each cheek – and at one particular spot on the right hand side, could feel a sign that the skin was slightly broken and had started to weep – just noticeably. I reached down for the panties and eased them carefully over my fiery backside, spread out my dressing gown over the lounge and very tentatively, sat down. Progressively I lifted myself toward the back of the seat to get into a somewhat more comfortable position against the backrest. When I was able to sit still, the stinging of my butt would subside somewhat and enable me to transfer a little more of my weight to it – however, any slight movement tended to result in an acute, throbbing reminder.

After I had been more than content to sit still for the rest of the hour, I rose carefully for my 8:00pm spanking. As I started to lower my panties, I received confirmation that the welted area of my right butt-cheek was indeed weeping a little. This time it was to be the hairbrush and DW laid on another 100 strongly delivered, alternating strokes, working her way over the previously spanked area, plus a little more I suspect. By the end of it, I was well into new territory in terms of the pain that could be induced from a spanking, having never before experienced the repeat of such severe medicine after such a short interval – and as ever, the sting from that brush never let up, from the first stroke to the last. By the end of it I was almost gasping from the pain and my eyes were definitely starting to water.

This time as I gradually recovered some composure, it was readily apparent that an area of skin on both sides was now broken. DW bade me bend over, this time to apply a little antiseptic – that also stung like hell – before I raised my panties. Assuming and maintaining a comfortable sitting position had now become a much more problematic endeavour.

Any doubts I may have had that DW would follow through with a 9:00pm spanking were soon dispelled. Once again I was bent over facing the lounge chair, panties at ankle level apprehensively contemplating how I would cope with another round of Spencer Paddle strokes on the still very fresh feeling results from an hour before. I’d say it was this round that had the greatest effect in terms of the longer lasting physical and mental reminders that would persist from the weekend. By the time that DW had completed another 100 hundred alternated strokes with the paddle, apart from the agonising ordeal of the strokes themselves, I knew that the now raw areas of my backside that had started to weep quite noticeably, would provide a consistent remembrance until they had fully healed.

This weekend was to prove a watershed in terms of commitment to our Disciplinary Agreement and the development of our disciplinary relationship. It left me in no doubt that if my behaviour was sufficiently aberrant, DW would follow through with the application of spanking punishments that would make me seriously reconsider before I indulged in it. I suspect for DW, it was a real test of whether I meant to standby my commitment to fully submit to her discipline. Although the most severe spankings that I’ve since received have not quite rivaled the regime of that weekend (although some have approached it), I can be assured that if my behaviour warrants it, spanking punishments at that level, and perhaps even beyond, will await me.

The 9:00pm spanking proved to be the last for the evening and we retired to bed not long afterwards. Interestingly, despite the care required to minimise the pain and discomfort from my comprehensively blistered backside, it was not long before my panties had again been slipped down for some rather extraordinary lovemaking – but as I was to find out in the morning, the disciplinary component of the weekend was not quite complete.

In late April DW had been rather unwell with a cold that had hung around for a few days making her feel rather miserable with the aches and pains that typically go with it. After we’d climbed into bed one night, I suggested that she roll over so that I could massage her back and shoulders. This I did for about ten minutes or so but inevitably (DW would say), my hand progressively strayed downwards to caress and fondle her backside – well after all, it is such nice backside…

After a few more minutes, DW turned her head toward me on the pillow and commented rather dreamily, “You know Ford, I suspect that you do entertain some thoughts of spanking my butt”. Not quite a comment that I was anticipating because, as far as I am aware, DW doesn’t harbour any particular desire to be spanked, but the discussion that followed went pretty much like this.
“Well … not because you’ve done anything to deserve it”, I responded somewhat hesitantly.
“Yes… but if you were to spank me, how exactly would you go about it? Where would you have me?”
“… draped over my knee I should think.”
“Where would you be sitting?”
“… the chair over there would probably suit quite well.”
“… and would you be wearing any clothes?”
“Well as the spanker, I think I’d be clothed, but you would be a different matter however.”
“So what you have me wear?”
“Hmm … perhaps your white torsolette with suspenders, stockings and some panties that show quite a bit of cheek.”
“What else?”
“… perhaps a French maid’s outfit with plenty of lace petticoating that I have to pull up out of the way to get to your butt.”
“And what would you spank me with?”
“Oh definitely my hand… that is unless you really want to feel how much the hairbrush stings?”
“No… I don’t think so, but how many times would you spank me?”
“Perhaps 25 for starters, but you would have to count and ask for each one, along the lines of ‘that’s 5, thank you Sir, may I please have another Sir?’ So I’d give you as many as you asked for, and I’d be able to tell how effective each one has been.”
“… and would you pull my panties down?”
“Yes, or alternatively, I’d pull them up out of the way so that my hand could get to your bare cheeks.”

Now it was DW’s turn to reach across the bed to wrap her hand around a now very rigid part of my anatomy. “Hmmm…! – I think that you had bring that over here!”

It’s just an impression, but I think that DW was starting to feel better.

Although my punishment spankings first entered our relationship (to our best estimate) in about mid 1998, it was not until late 2003 at around the time of our wedding anniversary that DW first decided it was time for a weekend away that was primarily dedicated to remedial discipline. Certainly we had been for weekends and holidays that included spankings of varying intensities, but for this particular weekend, DW made it clear that spanking punishment would be the main order of business and that anything else would be scheduled around it, rather than the reverse.

In discussing our individual re-collections of this weekend, neither of us can now recall much about the particular aspects of my behaviour, or perhaps the frequency of its recurrence, that resulted in the decision for a discipline-focused weekend. DW did express the view that, as I am “consistently naughty”, she would not have had to look very far for ample justification. Our recent discussion of this history also led to a (probably unfortunate for me) reminder from DW about specific aspects of our Disciplinary Agreement that I continue to infringe all too often.

As one of the favourite cottages that we rent on a regular basis provides more than enough privacy and is within only 1.5 hours driving distance, it was selected and booked about 2 weeks in advance from Friday evening through until early Sunday afternoon. When the Friday morning prior to that weekend finally arrived, I can remember that DW sent me off to work in a quite lacy pair of white nylon panties that go by the brand name “No knickers” – I think intended to indicate that they are designed to avoid visible panty lines. It seemed surprising to me that I can recall that particular detail, but what I endured whilst they, and other pairs, were successively lowered over the course of the following weekend is hardly something I’m likely to forget in a hurry.
Although I had managed to leave work a little early, the Friday evening traffic out of the city had been quite heavy and after picking up the key, we arrived at the cottage around 8:30pm, unloaded the car and made ourselves at home. DW’s spanking implements for the weekend consisted of the hairbrush and homemade Spencer Paddle (the one recently broken) and these found a place on the coffee table in the cozy living room that opens onto the back verandah. Beyond was a view of the valley below and the first lights were becoming visible from a small town in the far distance. As it was coming into summer, the weather was probably quite warm but nevertheless, the cottage is well heated with a choice of either a (bottled) gas space heater or slow combustion stove. As we’d previously experienced, this meant that it was cozy to the point that the wearing of clothes could be optional.

DW had already required that I strip down to just my panties and left me seated on the lounge watching some TV from the few channels available while she disappeared into the bedroom. Some few minutes later she emerged wearing only a white and very lacy camisole that didn’t by any means cover the matching G-string. Looking at my crotch and observing the progressively appearing bulge, DW couldn’t resist her quite characteristic comment that – “I see I have your attention, turn off the TV”. Her next move was to pick up the hairbrush, tap it a little menacingly onto her other hand – “well up you get then!”.

Rising somewhat hesitantly I was instructed to face one of the low-armed lounge chairs that furnished the living room – “pull down your panties and get into position”. I slipped the panties down and let them fall to my ankles. Grabbing each arm of the chair toward the back, I bent over until my elbows were bent to about 90 degrees and DW was content that the target for her hairbrush was being adequately presented. Standing by my left hip she placed one hand firmly in the small of my back and used the other to rub the smooth back of the hairbrush from side to side on the most sensitive lower area of my backside. She then uttered a brief murmur of satisfaction. “Don’t forget to count for me.” “No Ma’am!”

Perhaps it was a combination of the absolute privacy, the available space or simply my deservedness, but the strokes that DW then administered were by far the most severe that I had received up to that time. Alternating from side to side in classic fashion, the sting from virtually every stroke caused me to gasp before gathering just enough self-control to give out the count. By thirty, I was starting to breathe as if I had been playing a strenuous sport, and as DW progressed toward fifty, I could feel that I was breaking into a cold sweat. Not being accustomed to such strong and involuntary physiological responses to a spanking, I was beginning to wonder just how long DW would continue when finally, a pause did come after (I think) about 73 strokes – 73? Huh?

In reality, DW had simply paused to renew her grip on the hairbrush. Once she had done so, the brush was again rubbed across my now stinging backside. “Where was I up to?” I sought for an unambiguous answer. “The next would be 74.” The only other thing resembling a pause was at 99, just long enough to ensure that the 100th was a real stinger.

I remained in position, panting, sweating and wondering if any more strokes were to come. “You may stand up.” After I’d done so somewhat breathlessly, I said “Thank you Ma’am”, and instinctively cradled my now tortured butt with both hands. I could feel a large area toward the bottom of each cheek that was becoming more swollen and hard by the moment but couldn’t feel anywhere that the skin actually seemed to have broken.
“Hmm… yes that’s right, your backside is very bright red, except for some rather pale-looking patches in the middle”, observed DW. “Pull up your panties please.”
I raised them carefully and after some adjustments to at least reduce their discomfort, I turned around and we fell into each other’s arms. “Thank you for disciplining me Ma’am.”
“That’s alright Ford. Now tomorrow evening, I will be spanking you every hour, on the hour from 7:00pm onwards – understand?” DW glanced at the rather large station clock on the wall as if to emphasise the point.

As we sat down close together on the lounge (gingerly in my case) and started to relax, our warm, almost naked bodies blended into a progressively more passionate embrace. The lovemaking that followed was very special.