I have not been a *very* good girl.

I have been wanting to write about this for a while and this blog post may never see the light of day, but I am going to write it. Because I started it a long time ago, like others, I am not going to change the tense. But it’s not *current* since we are apparently no longer speaking. Amongst the turmoil of my time in Vegas over Labor Day 2024, were some bright spots. I got spanked by Elephant every day. I brought a suitcase full of uniform things and had hoped I might get to wear uniform for him twice, but given everything, it didn’t work out until Sunday, and just the once. I was able to change my flight from a Sunday night red-eye to a Monday night red-eye, otherwise I’m not even sure that would have happened.

Shortly after waking up, I received the following text from him: “Marie. I would like to meet at 3pm for what really *should* be your regular Sunday formal thrashing in strict school uniform. I will pick out your uniform when I get there.”

It was 8:30 AM when I received that. Just 6.5 hours to freak out all by myself, nbd. You see, when I play with him and we do formal discipline like this, the only thing I really know in advance, is that I will be wearing a uniform – well, and that he’ll be spanking me, and importantly, I will not be in control. The use of the term “thrashing” implied tawse, so I suspected that, as well. I had hoped I’d be writing lines (alas, something I still hadn’t done in person) but really I had no idea the context or shape this time would take. I knew it would probably be around two hours because, amusingly, it’s always been nearly two hours on the nose every time we’ve done this.

I took a shower, got dressed, got breakfast with some other friends, ran into Elephant and another mutual friend, and got a much needed hug. My time was mine to pass and I had to figure it out. After breakfast, I went back to my room and tried to rest a bit, nervously tidied the entire space. A friend came and spent some time with me, another came to do the same after, and helped evaluate my back part as I braided my hair. I changed into pajamas. She left so I could center myself and I waited. I put my phone down and spent some time thinking about discipline, being obedient, about my uniform, wondering what I’d wear – oh my god, would he dress me? watch me? and what might happen. I was sitting on the arm of the armchair, feet swinging, lost in thought, when he knocked on my door.

I took a deep breath and answered it. Just him.

See, there can be this tendency to build things, or people, up in my head (I think this is probably common), but when it comes down to it, it’s just us. Just him and just me – the same two people who talk all the time about all sorts of things. Sure, he’s going to discipline me and he expects obedience, but it’s still just him. But he had a backpack. Ok – he’d already been scolded once for carrying a tawse through the hotel so this made sense. He set it down and headed for the couch, calling me to him. Just Elephant, with his gentle voice – that would soon be saying very squirmy things to me.

A pre-scene cuddle. The best. We sat in silence for a bit and he held me. This grounded me, got me back out of my head and into the moment. There wasn’t much talking. It was really nice. He rubbed my back and sat me up, telling me what uniform items he wanted me to wear. Gymslip. Navy sash. Shirt. EA tie. Navy knickers. Ankle socks. School shoes. Navy ribbons were already tied to each braid.

I didn’t want to wear ankle socks but I was not in an argumentative headspace. He told me to get each item out and lay them out for him. I got out each item and laid them on the bed. He came over and took a moment to inspect and admire them. There’s nothing quite like seeing a complete uniform laid out, for a uniform fetishist, after all.

“Dress yourself. In your own time.”

And then he went back to the couch, to watch. I think it would have been easier at this point to have him dress me – I was acutely aware of being watched and a bit nervous (though of course, I also loved it). I put my shirt on, buttoned nearly to the top. Socks. Slipped my gymslip over my head. Pulled my knickers up and awkwardly (probably only in my head?) tucked my shirt into them – I remember thinking I should have waited to put my gymslip on last, for this reason and because getting my tie on and straight was going to be difficult, too. I buttoned the top button of my shirt. When I picked up my tie to put it on, I mumbled something in his direction about always watching a video when I tie it. He said that was fine, he didn’t expect me to know off the top of my head. I don’t know why that surprised me? I think I expected myself to be able to tie it, without it!

I got my phone and navigated to my favorite YouTube video of how to tie a half windsor knot (this knot had been specified in the past, I didn’t personally choose it). I actually didn’t need the whole video, just the beginning, and I closed my eyes and tied it. Untied it. Retied it. Pulled it properly snug, adjusted the knot, buttoned down my collar. Fixed my sash. Slipped into my shoes. Untied and retied my sash to be able to reach up under my gymslip and flatten my tie and to make it straight. Then I was done. I stood in front of him and he came over to me to inspect my uniform. This always makes my stomach flip flop. It’s embarrassing to be looked at that closely, especially after being watched while dressing. After looking me over, he began adjusting my tie so it was properly tucked under my collar and not visible in the back, while reminding me he knew it was tricky but I should be paying attention to how my collar is laying and adjust it appropriately.

Then, with a gentle tap on my lower back, he told me to touch my toes and my face flushed as I did so. Even after all this time, it’s embarrassing knowing someone will be seeing my knickers in that position. He folded my skirt up and ran his fingers along the elastic of my knickers. He tapped my lower back again and told me I’d have to re-tuck my shirt into my knickers when I stood up. I did (again, awkwardly, or only in my head?) when I was allowed to stand back up.

At some point, he took everything out of his backpack. I THINK it happened either just before or just after the inspection here but it could have been after he told me to dress myself. While I watched, he took several items out and set them on the coffee table. Tawse – expected. Slipper – unexpected. Ruler – neither expected nor unexpected, not terribly surprising, made me smile a bit because I bought this ruler for him to use on me, left it with him. My ruler. Entire four-pack of Dove soap. Shit. He unwrapped the packaging and took out one box, opened it, and set the bar on the table with the other items. I knew then that he’d use it and I was nervous.

I stood to the side and he brought both straight backed dining chairs over from the table and set them down facing each other and told me to sit – so I did. He sat in the other. I looked at the floor and at his hands, my hands, but not his face. Then he spoke and I am pretty sure he asked me to look at him, and I did, barely.

[This is paraphrasing because I wasn’t taking notes]

He spoke slowly, carefully, considering each word – very like him.

“I’d like you to consider, in all the ways this weekend has been unfair and you’ve been treated unfairly – and you have – whether or not your behavior through this has been appropriate. You don’t have to tell me specifically, but I want you to think about it.”

What the fuck? I felt my face flush. MY behavior? I was completely justified in being angry about getting COVID and at how I felt the organizers had handled my situation. I had every right to be upset.

He continued, “You’re going to go to the corner to think about it and when you come out, I’m going to ask you about that and I want an honest answer – yes or no.”

My mouth felt dry. I nodded and was sent to the corner. I did not go into this corner time session thinking I’d say yes or no right off the bat. I was a bit thrown by this question (it didn’t feel unfair, though) because it was…a real thing. Our discipline is always real, not manufactured or made up reasons, but it’s often more about the discipline and obedience, the broad benefits of the structure of it, versus about a specific infraction or situation – real emotions, vulnerabilities, etc but not like this because there had never been an acute situation to draw from. This was specific and personal, and close at hand. I don’t think I was fidgety during this time, but I was a bit anxious – not in a bad way, but because he was already in my head. He knew me well enough to have seen something I was barely willing to acknowledge I was conflicted about, let alone openly talk about. He saw it. I was caught off guard by that.

As it was, this time in the corner and knowing the question he was going to ask, felt like a moment where I was able to explicitly give consent for this. He had my consent, broadly, for discipline and things we’ve discussed, but because this went over into a real-life thing and not a broad vulnerability or insecurity, it felt like he was asking for consent to use it in a way that made sense for the flow of what we were doing. I am not sure what he would have done had I come out and said “No” to his question – neither of us does of course, but I suspect it likely would have lead to a conversation and ultimately, in a similar state as it did – he agreed with this assessment when we spoke about it later. As it was, he called me out of the corner and had me sit back down in front of him. I was really feeling it at this point – my stomach had dropped, I knew what he was referring to when he’d asked me this and I didn’t want to say it out loud.

To my luck, he wasn’t asking for specifics, and true to his word, he repeated his question, “Are there ways in which your behavior this weekend has fallen short of the high standards you should be held, Marie?”

I nodded, my mouth dry, but I knew he’d expect an actual answer. I swallowed, licked my lips, and rather quietly, said “Yes, sir.”

He nodded then told me to stand up and moved the chair he had been sitting in, to the side. He took my seat and stood me in front of him, but not before reaching behind him and picking up the ruler off the table. He told me to face to his left. It’s possible he told me to put my hands on my head here? I don’t know what I was doing with them but I seem to remember them being on my head. I whimpered but did as I was told. He wasn’t going to spank me with the ruler, no. He was going to smack my thighs with it. He lifted the skirt of my gymslip out of the way and smacked the back of each of my thighs very hard probably six or so times. He took his time but was not gentle with them. I cried out with each. As I was catching my breath, he stood up, moved in front of me and directed me to hold my hand out in front of me.

Oh no.

At this point, I knew I’d be writing something since he was clearly about to smack my palms with the ruler but I was scared because I’d never had my palms formally smacked (only once or twice during a spanking if I reached back, and rather mildly, and not by him). We’d talked about it in regards to both the ruler, and less-so, the tawse. I did not want to do this but he was standing in front of me, looking at me, and I knew he would not budge just because I was nervous and didn’t want to do it. I held up my right hand and he held it with his left, so my thumb was out of the way – and probably to keep me from pulling it away – which I tried to do anyway after the first smack. It burned and I tried to pull my hand towards me, desperately wanting to hold it against myself and rub the sting out. Two more smacks and I had to hold up my left hand. Now that I knew what to expect, I wanted to do that even less. I whimpered and asked him not to, and he just told me to hold it up. I did but this time, I had to make sure to keep my thumb out of the way myself. Three more stinging smacks. In the grand scheme of palm rulering, this was probably fairly mild, but since it was new for me, I really felt it. Emotionally & psychologically, I was fucked.

Now the backs of my thighs were burning AND my hands were stinging and I was sat down at the desk with my notebook and pen, and instructed to write. Not lines, no, but a short essay – no word count given, but the essay would start with, “I have not been a very good girl.”

I nearly cried when he told me the first sentence. He continued, saying I could write as much or as little as I wanted, it was up to me. He had me repeat the line to him and I left out the ‘very’ and he told me the ‘very’ was the most important word there, because I was already a good girl but had fallen short of the very high standards I should be held and was going to be reminded of that today. I wrote that first line, rubbed my hands a bit (they still stung), and thought. I wanted to be honest but this was very difficult. What I was about to admit in writing – if I could bring myself to – was something I tend towards as a defense mechanism that decidedly does not make me feel good about myself. It does not reflect the kind of person I want to be. More so, in the past when I’d written essays, he instructed me to read them out loud. This was real enough and vulnerable enough that I wasn’t sure I could if he asked me to. I knew he’d read what I wrote and that felt fine and safe, but in this case, I think reading it out loud would have been more than I could handle.

Eventually, I started writing. My essay was quite short – it didn’t need to be long. My…infraction, as it were, was rather simple. My instinctive urge to react and lash out when hurt and angry, is completely toxic. It’s learned behavior from a childhood spent in a hostile, abusive, unsafe home. I hate it. I have a lot better control over it now, though I haven’t always. Those are moments I have held deep shame over. This particular moment wasn’t as egregious, no, but I’d made passive aggressive and petty posts on Fetlife and Twitter, posts that looked benign enough from the outside maybe, but which I deleted nearly as quickly as I made them and which made me feel terribly about myself. That is not the kind of person I want to be. That urge makes me feel like my mother, it reminds me of her like nothing else, and it hurts only me.

I wrote that, and then sat, fidgeted. I’ll be quite honest, I was struggling not to cry. I had never felt so truly seen/exposed and like I could not hide from one of my deepest flaws and insecurities. It was a few sentences, maybe one full paragraph. When he noticed I’d stopped writing, he asked if I felt finished. I said it wasn’t very long but I wasn’t sure. He said it didn’t have to be long. He came over and stood next to me and when he asked again if it felt finished, I blurted out, “Yes, but please don’t make me read it out loud!” My tone was begging. I am sure he could tell. He picked up my paper to read it and I honestly cannot remember if he sent me to the corner then or left me sitting and waiting – it was a very brief read so it’s possible he did either.

All I know is after that, he arranged several pillows on the chair – both the back and the seat, and directed me over the back of it (by the ear? I can’t remember) and fetched the tawse. We didn’t discuss the contents of the essay. I think he knew it wasn’t even necessary. Writing it down was enough for me to feel it.

As an interjection, I think in the future/in another context maybe, this would have been exactly the type of vulnerability to push over the edge. The kind of control I want to give up. Do I get to decide that I don’t want to read it out loud if that’s what he decides I am going to do? Being told to do that, discussing the essay, etc. would have been intense and vulnerable and deep, but it wouldn’t have been bad. Even with hindsight, I don’t think it would have been appropriate in this instance, but when I think of the kind of vulnerability and emotional aspects I want to incorporate into discipline, this is exactly it.

I went over the back of the chair, bottom very high, feet well off the ground, my upper body supported by the pillows he’d placed on the seat. A few weeks later, I asked how many strokes of the tawse he’d given me and we estimated between 36-40. To some that may sound like a lot, and to others not many. I don’t think it was the hardest I’d ever been tawsed but it was fairly hard. He was, as is typical, fairly quiet during it, except for a moment when he told me to put my feet down. I was being exceedingly well behaved but I was vocal. I started whimpering, crying, and crying out that I was sorry, and asking him to stop, that it hurt. After several of these sorries, he did stop.

He crouched down in front of me so his face was level with mine, so he could look me in the eye, and asked, “You’re saying sorry. What are you sorry for, Marie?” I do recall actually thinking for a split second here – I still wasn’t ready to say it out loud, that I’d let me temper get the best of me and I was ashamed, so I said, “For falling short of the high standards I should be held to.” In hindsight, this feels so formal, but it’s just what came to me. He nodded, stood back up, and continued. He finished shortly after and sent me to the corner with my skirt pinned up at my shoulders.

Alas, we were not finished. My bottom was stinging, my thighs were stinging, and I was in the corner thinking about how I’d let myself down. When the ten minutes was up (it’s always ten minutes for me), he fetched me (by the ear? the arm? just with his voice?) and had me stand in front of him. He began untying my sash while I pathetically stood in front of him, knowing he was going to take my gym slip away. When it was undone, he gathered it and lifted it over my head like I was a child. My knickers were still down and at my thighs. He tugged them down and had me step out of them too. I stood in front of him, rather humbled, in just my shirt, tie, ankle socks, and shoes.

Then he reached for my tie. I asked him not to, I said please, no. He reminded me that girls who are not mindful should be made very mindful, and took my tie away and replaced it with the cardboard and plastic that came with the shirt, to keep it stiff. Then he stood behind me, adjusting it and tugging, to make sure it was snug. When he finished, he left me where I was standing, got the opened bar of soap, and went into the bathroom behind me. I immediately covered my face with my hands and started begging – again. I heard the water running. It turned off. He called me for to come here, Marie. I did not. I said I didn’t want it, please don’t, can’t he just spank me again.

He actually didn’t repeat himself, but was suddenly next to me, holding his hand out, motioning for me to take it. I did, and he walked me to the bathroom himself. This was to be my first ever proper mouth soaping and I was nervous. He knew all this – we’d done a simpler mouth soaping on FaceTime once, with just me holding the bar in my mouth for 2 minutes, at his direction. But not yet in person, not wet. Not properly.

We stood there, facing each other, him holding the very wet bar of soap in his hand and telling me to open my mouth. I shook my head, then made my fatal error. I started to ask him not to. As soon as I opened my mouth to speak, he took his literal opening and firmly pushed the bar into my mouth. I immediately gagged at the taste but I had to actually bite down to hold it, because it was wet. I think he set a timer, and then he started scolding me. At one point, when I tried to look down, he told me to hold my chin up and was expecting me to look at him. I couldn’t keep the soap away from my tongue. Tears fell from my eyes, not so much from the soap, but the scolding.

“This isn’t very dignified, is it?” I shook my head.

“No, no it’s not.”

When I looked down, without moving my head, “Look at me. Look in the mirror.”

More tears.

“This should happen every time, shouldn’t it?” More head nodding from me.

We’d discussed soap of course for language (not just cursing, but inappropriate language in general – he’d threatened me with it for excessive cheekiness before), for emphasizing that something is not a conversation, etc. It seemed apt here, that although I hadn’t said these things out loud, I had said them. Mouth crimes, as it were. When the agonizingly long minutes were up, he took the soap out and allowed me to rinse. When I came back out of the bathroom, he sat back in the chair from earlier and took me over his lap, and hand spanked me, hard. He didn’t spare my thighs, either. He stood me up and rulered them again – fronts and backs, tops to bottoms.

After so thoroughly seeing to my thighs, he told me I was to stand in the corner for 10 minutes, and then we would be done. I was so good in the corner. It’s so centering for me, especially during such intense discipline. It makes me feel settled and calm and I don’t have to do anything but be. When it was done, he called me over to the bed and held me for a good bit of time, and rubbed lotion into my bottom and thighs. Then he took some photos of my marks for me, and told me I could change. I left my shoes on and braids in, but put a dress on. I went to put away my knickers and get panties, but he told me to put them back on. Oh. We were going to head down to the pub and grab a bite, and that social time after is good to connect and process.

It was unfortunately not enough aftercare and there were some other unfortunate things going on, and the drop from this scene hit me very heavily. Ironically, it is also one of the reasons his soon-to-be-ex wife decided we’d been having an affair, and demanded he go no contact with me (oh, did I forget to mention that somewhere?). She felt he had violated their agreements by having a discipline dynamic with me and punishing me for something real. The irony is that the whole point is that we never did have a dynamic. This wasn’t some sort of agreed upon rule that was broken. He saw me in that moment, he saw me struggling, and thought he could use this thing we do to help me get beyond it – and he did.

I don’t wish this never happened, but sometimes it stings knowing I’ve gotten to experience this feeling and never will again. All the ways we discussed engaging with discipline in the future – gone. Reduced to nothing. All because one person could hurt me (and him), and did. It feels like a part of my sense of self has been ripped to shreds and I don’t know how to pick up the pieces.

-M