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.

After the completion of my second spanking instalment on Saturday (and a not unexpected tenderly butt-stinging time in the shower), DW determined that I was to remain in panties until Tuesday morning, when I was due to return to work after the Easter holiday break – assuming that my behaviour remained of an acceptable standard meanwhile.

Sunday morning saw me repairing to the hardware shop in search of some raw material from which to fashion a suitable replacement for the faithful Spencer Paddle that DW had succeeded in splitting across my backside. This I found in the form of some 12mm thick sections of oak in widths of approximately 70 and 90mm, the latter being closest in width to the old paddle. On (I suspect a rather bad) impulse, I also purchased a short length of 180mm wide good quality pine, about 12 mm thick.

The reason behind the last purchase has some history that dates back my meanderings through the F/m world and when I was subscribed to a website that specialises in photos and videos of men being spanked by women. One video set in particular that I shared relatively recently with DW shows a male spankee secured over the back of a rather large arm chair receiving multiple sets of six from an attractive disciplinarian in a rather short skirt. On the whole he is coping reasonably well with the strokes from a variety of implements, with his counting becoming just a fraction agitated by the sixth, and occasionally the fifth stroke – that is until his disciplinarian produces a majorly serious paddle which coincidentally, looks about 180mm wide and about 12mm thick.

The volume and tone of his responses to each stroke is radically different right from the very first. Only with what seems like a monumental effort of will after the fifth stroke does he manage to get his call of the count back from a rather high-pitched almost squeal, to a more male-sounding register. “How efficient!” remarks DW, “being able to get such a good reaction from so few strokes”. Mind you, if I produced the profanities that he did during this set of six strokes, I would be in panties and unable to sit comfortably for an indefinite period!

So while that particular piece of timber remains parked in the shed at the moment, I have had the time and opportunity to produce an oak replacement for our broken paddle that is virtually identical in size and shape. However, my first heft of the completed article revealed its decidedly increased weight in comparison to its pine counterpart…

Incidentally, I’ve also found the work of manufacturing the implements for use during my punishments to be a very strongly affecting aspect of my submission to DW’s discipline – and can recommend it to those so inclined.
Right now I am back in male underwear, but the manner in which DW has eyed off the new paddle gives some cause to believe that its maiden application to my backside may not be far away.

spanking, domestic discipline, paddle, submission

The rest of the spanking that DW had so generously promised at the completion of Thursday’s exertions had to wait a few days, again because of unscheduled arrivals by various family members. Even on Thursday, we hadn’t realised just how tight the window of opportunity would be and exchanged some rather knowing looks as we emerged from the bedroom and heard the sound of the front door opening not long afterwards. But come Saturday, DW managed to catch me unaware with a well-improvised ambush.

I’d been out playing sport (thankfully whilst temporarily exempted from panty-wearing) and rather than diving straight for the shower on arriving home, had sat down for about 10 minutes to catch up on some email. Once done, and finding that DW was no longer at her desk, I wandered toward the bedroom with the vague intention of heading for the shower – where I found DW standing at the door – “Coming to have your shower are you?” Thinking that this was a not so subtle hint that I should really get serious about doing so, I entered the bedroom. It only took a few seconds for me to conclude that certain ‘preliminaries’ were to be conducted first however.

Four pillows were back in the position that had become familiar from Thursday, only this time accompanied by the hairbrush, Spencer Paddle and one of our two canes – the straight one with the leather grip. Up until that moment, the serious spanking that all this portended was possibly about the last thing I was expecting but nevertheless, my submission to it was absolutely what DW was requiring. I left my top on, but pulled off my shoes, socks, shorts and underpants before once again assuming my position over the pile of pillows and taking firm grip on the end of the bed.

The hairbrush was to be first and DW set to work, alternating from one side of my butt to the other with real enthusiasm. Meanwhile, I struggled to maintain an accurate count of the strokes and by fifty, the brush had done its usual job of turning my knuckles white as I reflexively gripped the end of the bed and was breathing quite hard. DW then paused, and reached for the cane. This is a fairly new addition to our relatively small collection of implements, and its full ability to inflict pain and create longer-lasting marks is still largely an unknown quantity to both of us. It’s approximately 8mm in diameter, just over 900mm in length and reputedly of rattan – a combination that seems to put it at the “sting” end of the sensation scale. I’ve also read of the alleged potential for such a cane to cut flesh and wrap around. Although this has not been our experience to date, it also leads me to suspect that we have yet to realise its complete potential as a quiet achiever (certainly quieter than the hairbrush and paddle).

After 20 quite rapidly applied strokes, DW had turned the stinging in my backside to a feeling that it was radiating heat like a fire.

DW then reached for our homemade Spencer Paddle. Fashioned out of knot-free pine about 10mm thick with three rows of holes to ensure that no cushion of air spares the recipient, I am well and truly familiar with its potential for pain and lingering after effects. DW has made a specialty of applying it either across both butt cheeks, or much worse, to one cheek at a time. After about 15 absolutely ringing strokes, DW decided that she might even up the effect a little by trying her hand at some backhand strokes from the other side of the bed. I slid across a little grudgingly to facilitate this and away she went. After about 5 strokes, it happened – our old, tried and true Spencer Paddle, veteran of many a punishment campaign had had enough, and split into two pieces! We were both more than a little stunned.

DW chose to make up the rest of the 100 she had mentally allocated with the hairbrush and left me to recover some composure.

“I think you were about to go and have a shower?”, DW mused. That had certainly been the plan before I was waylaid – but with the thought of how the hot water would amplify the stinging pain in my freshly tanned butt, the urgency for it somehow seemed to have subsided.

spanking, domestic discipline, paddle, submission, caning, hairbrush

As near as I can tell, DW has three primary ways of determining whether a remedial spanking has adequately achieved its purpose:

1. It must be sufficiently painful during the course of its delivery.
Based on a combination of the sound of its delivery and my reaction, with practice, DW has learnt to judge whether each stroke has proven effective for the particular instrument in use. For the hairbrush and Spencer paddle, DW knows that a well-delivered stroke makes a resounding report that echoes loudly throughout the room and beyond – whereas a stroke that produces only a dull thud has added little of value to the punishment.

In my experience, certain assumed positions and locations seem more conducive to the delivery of effective punishment strokes. Perhaps all too obviously, the most painful lessons have occurred when I am bent over the farthest, and when DW has had confident “swinging room” to deliver more fulsome strokes. In terms of sheer pain ‘value’, I’d have to rate being straddled over the side of the spa as perhaps the most memorable – something about that particular arrangement seems to put DW into stride and my memory of the last 100 rapid, perfectly delivered strokes from the hairbrush that I received in that position is still very fresh. A closely ranked second would be over the back of a captain’s chair at a hired cottage that provided just the right combination of height and reach – yeeouch!!

DW is also not in the custom of nominating beforehand the number of strokes that I am to receive – preferring, I believe, to rely on the progression of my responses and the visible state of my backside to deem what is sufficient, and quite often, that a punishment should be paused or even split over multiple days in order to maintain the effectiveness of each stroke. After all, there is not much point in continuing on immediately if it has become obvious that a spanking has reached a point of ‘diminished return’. An hour’s break usually seems sufficient to ensure a renewed effectiveness – and when they occasionally occur, on-the-hour repeat spankings over the course of a day are something to be reckoned with!

For more rapidly delivered strokes, the interval between them is kept pretty constant, allowing just sufficient time for any involuntary exclamatory response on my part, and to announce the count. Nevertheless, I feel sure there are times when DW is deliberately raising the rate to test the limits of my endurance, and so that my response and counting become intermingled.

I expect that as our inventory of spanking implements progressively grows, the role will become clear for a more leisurely rate of delivery from items such as a severe cane or large paddle – where I suspect that the progression of pain sensations from each individual stroke is an event in itself. That red ball gag in the drawer may then find a use in keeping my noise level below that of the spanking strokes themselves.

2. Its effects must be visibly apparent for several days after the event – as a minimum.
When DW has decreed a punishment spanking, I can be sure that it will continue either continuously or in stages, until she is convinced that I will carry the visible signs of it for an appropriate period of time. As this is often difficult to judge on the same day that a spanking has occurred, DW has made a frequent practice of inspecting my backside over the days following a punishment spanking to ensure that she has ‘left her mark’ on me. As the general redness of a spanking fades, DW is content only if she finds more lasting signs such as tell-tale dark red lines and/or more generalised bruises. We’ve also been somewhat surprised by the ability of a hot shower to restore that healthy glow to my butt for a week or more after the event.

If, contrary to expectations, the markings are not sufficiently persistent, repeat performances can be expected until such time as they are.

After one particularly punishing weekend, the blisters on my butt cheeks took a full 3 weeks to resolve themselves. This in itself gave rise to the codeword between us of ‘weekend’ – which when used by DW, can be translated as an extremely severe warning to cease any particularly bad behaviour on my part.

3. The pain should also persist for some days as an ongoing reminder .
As this can also be difficult to judge at the time of the spanking, DW has adopted more of a prescription approach based on her experience that a certain number of strokes from a specific implement will produce the right outcome. Whilst the hairbrush appears to be the most severely painful of our implements during the course a spanking, DW has found that the more solid Spencer paddle is best for producing those long term painful reminders of a spanking. Once the more immediate stinging subsides, I then find it is replaced by a duller but continuous reminder that is there even when seated on the most apparently comfortable seating.

The delicacy with which I adopt a sitting position over the following days, particularly on a hard chair, can provide DW with a good indication of the lingering after effects. Alternatively, she also can adopt the more direct method of unexpectedly grabbing a piece of my butt, and observing my reaction. I expect that the penalty for her detection of a faked response on my part would not be worth the attempt.

It seemed only just after the last of our daughters had left the house, and as I was settling down at my computer, that DW decided that an opportunity is an opportunity, and was not to be missed on any account. Her instructions were very simple and to the point – in the bedroom right now, strip down to your panties, face the corner, arms folded behind your back, get ready for what you know you deserve, and is now coming.

My anticipation over almost the last week paled into insignificance compared to what I now felt. As ever the case, and despite my best efforts, the expectation of an imminent punishment made the removal of my clothing a less than graceful undertaking – almost tripping over my jeans as I pulled them off. This was all somewhat to DW’s amusement, who feigned not to understand why I should be in such an agitated state. So while I stood there in only Thursday’s purple panties, with a mix of vulnerability and foreboding growing by the minute, DW made ready.

First the wooden hairbrush was transferred from its pride of place on the dresser onto the bed. In terms of the amount of sting it can inflict for the full duration of a spanking, this is a truly fearsome instrument. While I see comments in blogs and websites about how the release of endorphins, progressive deadening of the butt nerves, or whatever, can reduce the sensation of pain over the course of a spanking – absolutely none of them apply to my experience on the receiving end of this particular hairbrush. Whether it’s ten, fifty, or a hundred strokes, I can attest that the last one stings just as much as the first – and although it’s NOT DW’s practice to tell me how many are coming, it’s my job to count every single one, irrespective of the speed of their delivery, or pauses for Q&A or lecturing. It fits exactly the descriptions I’ve read of a hairbrush designed for spanking – solid hardwood with an absolutely flat back – and came into our possession quite by accident (or fate), but that’s another story.

Meanwhile DW had place a pile of four pillows almost half way down the bed – “OK, do you know where I want you?”. I turned, nodded and somewhat awkwardly, placed myself facedown with my butt raised upwards over the pillows, and grabbed a firm hold with both hands to the board at the end of the bed. Once I’d settled into position, DW placed the smooth, cool back of the hairbrush on my backside, just about where the “protection” of my panties ended – “Do you know why you are getting this?”. I managed to semi-coherently explain that it was the result of my bad language in front of our girls. “Yes that’s right, and maybe this will help you remember not to do it!”

For remedial spankings, DW does not even consider the luxury of warm-up strokes, and this was no exception. Alternating from one cheek to the other, DW set a steady cadence of (I estimate) about one stroke per second – fast enough to have a cumulative build-up in my pain level, but not so fast that she can’t give each one her full force, and listen and watch for the right responses from me. From the combination of my flinching, involuntary exclamations and tone of my counting, DW can clearly determine which of her strokes have REALLY struck home. Probably from a combination of this particular position and DW’s determination to make her point, every stroke was finding its mark – and as she progressed through thirty, to forty and then fifty, the tone of my counting had become progressively more acute, my breathing quite rapid, and the first signs of a cold sweat were emerging from my efforts to deal with the agonising build up of the stinging pain in my backside. At fifty strokes, DW paused, again placed the back of the brush gently on my backside – “Can you remember what else you are receiving this for?”

This is one of the more difficult aspects of DW’s punishments. Up until now, my sole focus had been on mastering the pain being inflicted on my backside and on keeping an accurate count of the strokes but now, knowing that there was obviously more to come, I was being asked to perform some minor feat of memory. I tried to re-focus from the pain and cast around mentally and finally came up with the only thing that I could recall – that I had been too late in coming to bed earlier in the week. Now this situation can be a lose-lose from my position – to not recall may, or may not be worse than reminding DW of a yet different offence to the one she had in mind. Fortunately in this case, I picked the right one.

DW successively hitched up each side of my knickers to expose my bare butt-cheeks, expressed some limited satisfaction at the state of their colour, and set to work once again. Any illusion I had that thin nylon panties offer virtually no protection from a well-used hairbrush were dispelled by the end of the 51st stroke. There really is nothing to compare with the stinging pain of each well-aimed stroke from that hairbrush on my bare butt cheeks. As ever, DW was undeterred by my reaction to the escalated pain-level. It turned out that she had 100 strokes in mind, and inevitably, that’s what I was to, and did, receive.

As I lay on the bed, breathing hard and seriously perspiring, and as I gradually relinquished my grip on the end of the bed, DW simply said, “That will do for now, we’ll save the rest for later”.

After I have committed an infringement, in that (majority of) occasions when a spanking cannot be administered immediately, the serving by DW of spanking ‘notice’ has the effect of restoring our relationship to a level of civility and stability. DW can become comfortable in the knowledge that she will exercise her agreed right to perform discipline once a suitable opportunity arises – whilst I am (somewhat less comfortably) aware that I have deserved, and will inevitably receive, a level of remedial discipline that’s appropriate to my infringement.

Meanwhile, DW doesn’t feel a need to maintain an angry or resentful attitude in response to my aberrant behaviour – because she knows there will be an opportunity to deal with it. Likewise, I can be certain that the level of discipline inflicted will ensure that I express genuine repentance, with the additional expectation that I’ll express gratitude for receiving it. That will then be the end of the matter.

Family circumstances have meant that this particular period of notice was one of the longest that I have had to endure. Blue, yellow and purple day-of-the-week nylon panties have successively appeared from Tuesday through to Thursday, with still no clear prospect that a suitably private opportunity would be available for a spanking. Although these particular panties could be described as relatively comfortable, their silkiness and unmistakable femininity have kept me continually mindful of my status throughout the workday – and of the punishment ordeal to come.

For someone that’s accustomed to wearing nothing in bed, I’ve found the nightly enforced wearing of panties to be a real privation – that is also an exquisite tease. With the initiation of any sexual relief being solely at DW’s discretion, and with her unique ability to arouse me to the state of a raging hard-on, sometimes I am left to fall asleep with her cuddled behind me, often with her hand gently surrounding my cock in its silken prison. On other occasions, just when I have virtually given up hope of relief for the night, DW relents.

When the opportunity for my spanking ultimately did arrive, it came in instalments that made the Easter Weekend a rather painful affair.

After preparing for bed on Friday night, I exited the bathroom to find a pair of pastel green nylon panties sitting on my side of the bed. They were high-cut, with lace trim to the waist and legs, a gusset of white cotton and “Friday” embroidered at the front, along with a small flower. The meaning being quite clear, I resignedly slipped them on (while DW looked on knowingly) and climbed into bed with her.

The panties were not really unexpected as DW had already placed me ‘on notice’ for a spanking earlier in the evening – just as I had been preparing to go out for dinner with a couple of our daughters. There was no point in denying it – I had used some rather inappropriate language to one of our girls in expressing my opinion about a particular website that was giving trouble. This is clearly covered as a punishable infringement in our Disciplinary Agreement. DW had then simply followed me into the bedroom while I was putting on a jacket to go out and quietly but firmly advised “You are ‘On notice’ – you shouldn’t be using language like that, and I and the girls shouldn’t have to be hearing it”.

‘On Notice’ is a term defined in our Disciplinary Agreement that means I am due for ‘Remedial Discipline’ in the form of a serious spanking. As there are other members of the family in the household, it is rarely possible that I receive such spankings immediately, so being ‘On Notice’ is designed to be a constant reminder that some well deserved physical discipline is inevitably on the way. Requiring that I wear panties is simply DW’s method of ensuring that I am continually reminded of that fact. In my experience, my continual awareness of the silkiness and the femininity of the panties serves to moderate my temperament somewhat, and serve as a warning that any further infringements will only make the coming punishment more severe.

This relatively ‘mild’ form of feminisation is a private affair between DW and myself, although my choice of outerwear does need to take account of the potential for visible panty lines that might make it apparent that my underwear is designed for the female anatomy. Being placed in panties is also not something that I will simply ‘get used to’ to the point where it loses its salutary affect – my awareness of being in panties is almost continual throughout the day, serving as an ongoing reminder of the spanking to come, and that I need to avoid any possibility that my style of underwear becomes apparent to anyone else.

Once I am in panties it is also only at DW’s initiation that we can make love. Sometimes I feel that she is teasing me rock hard and absolutely bulging but it stops at a close embrace with her cuddled tight in behind me as we go to sleep. As it was some 48 hours on Friday evening since we had made love, Friday and Saturday nights were exquisitely teasing but thankfully, Saturday morning saw some welcome respite as I was allowed to remove my panties for a some well overdue sexual relief – for both of us.

Although it had been originally planned that my disciplinary spanking session would be scheduled for Saturday night, this did not prove possible due to changes in plans by other family members. Now it is Monday and I am required to work progressively through a set of ‘day-of-the-week’ panties being pink for Saturday, white for Sunday and right now, red for Monday. Unfortunately, a drawer full of specifically set aside panties in our bedroom is capable maintaining a ready supply – including some that are just ridiculously frilled, tight or just plain uncomfortable, according to DW’s purpose at the time.

If the intent of being ‘On Notice’ in this manner is to give me the incentive to submit to a scheduled discipline as soon as practicable, this is certainly achieved. I won’t say that I can hardly wait to assume the position(s) of DW’s choosing, but that combined feeling of real foreboding but relief at finally submitting will be more than welcome, when it arrives.