Initially I spent my reveries working out the details of going to the corner, draping myself over his lap, being whacked with the ping pong paddle (or rubber paddle -- implements that cause only surface bruising), squirming and kicking, crying. And of course, because it's fantasy, the spanking gets more and more severe. Involves more implements. An extra sojourn to the corner. Time over pillows on the bed.
However after awhile I noticed my focus had shifted to the dialogue. Each night I drifted off to sleep concentrating on what would be said and in what order. Editing the language to make it more stern, more infantalizing, more cheeky or more desperate. And the sharper it got, the more tingly things got between my legs.
Eventually I'd honed the conversation to a point where I simply had to write it down. Remembering it each night was getting to be a pain. It's nothing particularly clever or original. And the language isn't an exact match of what A. and I really sound like (though it's remarkably close). But it does articulate the place I imagine going emotionally and physically. And the more child-like I'm treated, the hotter it gets for me.
"Tell me again why you are going to be punished?"
"Because I didn't go to bed when I was supposed to..."
"And how late were you?"
"Just three minutes on Tuesday. But, um, an hour and a half on Friday and an hour and forty minutes on Saturday."
"And why were you up so late on those two nights?"
"Cause, um, I was online..."
"Did you forget to set the alarm?"
"No, Sir. I just kept thinking that I only needed a few more minutes."
"So you disregarded the alarm?"
"No. I hit the snooze button cause I thought I just needed a few more minutes."
"How many times did you hit the snooze button?"
"Um...uh...um...7 or 8 times I think."
"Seven or eight times?! That sounds a lot like disregarding the alarm to me."
"No. I just...I mean, I didn't mean to. I wasn't intending to disregard it."
"How do you do something 7 or 8 times without intending to?"
"I...I, um, I...I dunno...I just...I didn't mean to..."
"It would not be a good idea to argue with me, young lady."
"I'm not arguing, Sir. Just...explaining how -- "
I pause. And scowl. And purse my lips tightly together in an effort to choke back the reasonable explanation/cheeky argument dying to come out. And look down at the carpet.
"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir."
"Look at me." A. grabs my chin and pushes it up so that my eyes meet his. "Now explain again, why is it important for you to go to bed on time?"
"Cause I feel more sick if I don't get enough sleep."
"That's right. Little girls who are sick need to rest. And when was the last time I had to punish you for going to bed late?"
"Last week." Sigh.
"Tsk, tsk. So clearly last week's punishment wasn't hard enough."
"It was hard enough. I just -- "
"-- Are you arguing with me again?"
I'm not sure how to answer this question. If I say "yes, I am arguing," it almost sounds defiant. But if I say no, well, that would definitely be arguing even more. So I just hang my head, purse my lips, and look at the carpet. A. grabs my chin and snaps it up again.
"If I have to warn you about arguing with me one more time, you're going to be holding a bar of soap in your mouth during your punishment, is that clear?"
"So, was last week's punishment severe enough?"
"No, Sir," I say just above a whisper.
"No, it wasn't. And what happens to naughty little girls who continually miss their bedtimes – not to mention are cheeky and contrary?"
"They get punished."
"And how do they get punished?"
"They get spanked."
"That's right. They have their jimjams and knickers taken down, are taken over the knee and get their backsides tanned. Lift up your shirt." (In another variation of this fantasy I'm wearing my pink dress and have to lift that up rather than my pajama top.)
"Please don't spank me! Please! I promise I'll go to bed on time this week," I plead even as I lift up my top.
"Oh, you'll be going to bed on time after I get through with you." He grabs hold of my pajama bottoms. "Let's get these down." With a quick tug, they are swimming around my ankles. "Right. Over my lap, please." Without hesitation, but without a great deal of speed either, I step to his right side and drape myself over his lap. "This, I'm afraid, is really going to hurt," he declares while stroking my hair.
There's no warm up. Using the ping pong paddle, he peppers my fleshy panty-clad cheeks with hard, sharp whacks all the while deploring my cheekiness and bemoaning my poor choices. The pain is searing and surprising. I start to panic somewhat as he turns to lamenting the less than dignified position in which I find myself.
"How very shameful, having someone take down your jimjam bottoms and spank you like a child. Just disgraceful." He keeps whacking with a fast, heavy hand. "And since your last spanking was so clearly a waste of time, I'm going to make sure I get every last inch of your bottom and thighs with this paddle in the hope that I won't have to do it again any time soon." That's the cue for him to stop just long enough to pull my panties in between my cheeks giving him a bare canvass to paint with the ping pong paddle.
And paint he does. There's no counting. Just minute after agonizing minute of hot pain accompanying a stern lecture about how disappointing it is to see that I've chosen to waste my precious energy on roaming the internet late into the night rather than getting the sleep I need to get stronger. About my shocking lack of deference when being addressed. When I'm asked a question I'm to answer respectfully and without quarreling. About how this penchant for arguing demonstrates the same unrelenting willfulness that keeps me from going to bed when I should, or keeps me on the computer for longer than I should be, or frittering away my energy when I should be saving it. And if it takes all afternoon, he's going to beat that willfulness out of me.
Of course, when I did get spanked over the phone with the ping pong paddle earlier this week for exceeding my allotted time online (which I'm doing again at this very moment, ugh!), I'd forgotten just how much that damn thing hurts.
"It never seems to hurt as much in the fantasy," I pouted as my backside smarted.
A., who too has experienced the dissonance between beatings in fantasy and reality, concurred.
"No. No it doesn't."