I know it’s coming, but not exactly when. Meanwhile I have no choice but to sit and wait until DW looks at her watch one last time, and gets up from her chair with the words ‘OK Mister, let’s get you spanked’.
No choice because my arms are crossed behind my back with forearms parallel and my wrists tightly secured together with a thick leather strap. DW has wrapped it twice around and cinched the buckle to the point I can be sure there’s absolutely no possibility of getting free until she decides to release me. While my situation has some level of physical discomfort, more significant is my realisation that I’ve now surrendered control to DW as a ritual preliminary to being disciplined, and that DW has now assumed that control.
My wrists secured, DW has then tied my ankles together with the belt I wear on most days – again cinched to ensure I know there’s no hope of escape. My belt has hence become a daily reminder of my surrender to discipline by DW.
The final step in that surrender is the application of a ball gag. Short lengths of leather bootlace on each side between the ball and its securing strap enable it to be placed well behind my teeth – not so much to enforce silence, but ensure whatever I may attempt to say is completely unintelligible. DW is now free to explain any particular infringements since my previous spanking – without interruption or excuse.
Prior to all this, I’ve been stripped down to the frilliest, lacy and most feminine pair panties reserved for these occasions and that I’ve been required to wear during that day. Meanwhile, some combination of the hairbrush, Spencer paddle or cane is ready nearby for what will follow.
So here I sit. I don’t know for how long. Somewhat ambivalent about the prospect of being released – because once I am, DW will have me grasp my ankles and apply her best efforts to ensure my butt is marked and noticeably painful for at least the coming week.
