[Wanna win a new London Tanner paddle? One’s being raffled this month on this very blog. You enter by posting a comment to any post or page on the blog. Each new comment or reply to another comment gets you another entry.]

This was originally a post written for The Punishment Book, but I think it’s detailed enough to be a story in its own right.

Whenever we’ve been doing real-life discipline/punishment or accountability, it’s been with Sundays as the accounting day. Many of those efforts ended with breaks in consistency, with each of us seeing them as failures and each blaming ourselves for said failures. They weren’t failures, though we wouldn’t find that out for years. I wish I could travel back in time and tell both of us that what we were doing was helping and healing. ¹It was only when I had to finish my dissertation under the most unbelievable time constraints that the value of these bursts of structured discipline enforced by punishments became clear; I would not have been able to finish my PhD without them.

More on this at another time.

Yesterday was a discipline Sunday, complete with me being thrashed with our heavy London Tanner tawse in a strict uniform Paul selected and inspected. I’m going to try and write about it in the next week, but given that for the past six months or so, each week my job has managed to find new levels of stressful WFT-ery I’m not so sure I’ll get to it.

Here’s the two tweets that went up about it:

Prepping for a Sunday thrashing.

Checking list twice:#dailyuniform #sundaythrashing pic.twitter.com/cY0U1IgvNM

— Mija-again (@eltercerojo) February 17, 2025

This Sunday was a tawsing.
Inspection (everything was good for a change)

Corner time (5 mins)

24 over knickers
then 12 knickers down
Bent over the sofa

Then corner time (10 minutes)

Done… until bedtime. 😳 https://t.co/CjIcg1vvwk

— Mija-again (@eltercerojo) February 17, 2025

Sunday was also Paul’s birthday, though we celebrated today as well as yesterday.²My favorite part was hearing that Paul didn’t think this was the last time I’d get to make him a birthday pavlova. As part of this, I made him his favorite “cake”³. I know it’s not exactly a cake, but it’s been his traditional birthday cake since the first birthday we spent together. – raspberry pavlova. I learned how to make it online when I found out it was his favorite dessert. Because this was before recipe sites had a lot of pictures, I mistakenly thought the layers of fruit and cream went on and on. It’s one of those “mistakes” that turn out well. This pavlova was not my best, but not my worst either.

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A Sunday in Disgrace
by Mija M/F RL
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So last night, I posted that I wouldn’t be online today (Sunday) and that I was to be punished, but I didn’t know what would happen. Pablo has done a number of different things to punish me over the years we’ve been together. I suspected it would involve pain and my bottom, but I also wondered what else might be done.

Frequently, the “what else” is the hardest part.

All day yesterday, I seemed to be pretending tomorrow (today) was Monday rather than Sunday. Sunday is our traditional day for accounting the past week and planning the next. And this was an accounting I feared, while at the same time I was also afraid that maybe Pablo was going to tell me that since I wasn’t putting in *any* effort, we were going to once again put the idea of discipline (I like sparkle’s term “methodic discipline”) on hold for a while. You see, one of the things we’ve discovered is that Pablo can’t pull me along (at least not very far or very often). He can be very effective at pushing me back on track, but the primary motivation must always come from inside me.

This week it hasn’t.

My life isn’t micromanaged nor governed by many rules. Instead, the rules are very simple. There’s one household job each day (right now different rooms that are being de-cluttered) and a certain amount of time I’m supposed to spend working on my dissertation, wearing a rather uncomfortable schoolgirl uniform. And there are a few (very few) *not* rules, such as, I’m not to lie, not making new clutter, not leaving a mess in the kitchen (especially not leaving the cabinets open), and not making rustling noises with wrappers. This last extends to almost anyone around Pablo as it makes him growl.

We’ve tried more elaborate timetables and charts but chose this time out to stick with a few simple things that need to be done. This week, almost nothing got done. There were a few valid excuses on a couple of days of appointments, but I made no effort to try and work when I could. In fact, I tried very hard not to work. When I try hard at something, I generally succeed. Even more so with something like avoiding studying and cleaning, two things I’m very experienced at hiding from.

This blog and the fun of seeing it linked to from other places proved an easy distraction. And there were lots of phone calls, both made and received. Anyway, now I’m stalling because I’m embarrassed to write about being punished.

So yesterday, Pab asked if Sunday had any commitments. I searched my head high and low, but there were none. Our calendar was clear. After I’d verified that, he told me that I wasn’t doing anything all day except being disciplined. Eeek! I felt like I deserved that and was relieved that he wasn’t giving up on me, so I didn’t argue. And *then* he told me that I would have to write something for the Punishment Book saying I would be punished and *then* something on Sunday night describing what had happened. I balked, first arguing that the other authors might object to that sort of use of our blog. And then, when he pointed out that was unlikely, I started sulking and said I wouldn’t do it. Pab followed up with a promise to do it himself if I didn’t, but then after we talked, he saw that I shouldn’t have to have this space that’s been designated for me and the other authors and have it taken and used in punishing me.

At that point, these posts became his request. I’m doing them partly because he understood and respected my having this space and also because it’s probably a good thing to write about here.

Oh, and I was to be off the ‘net for 24 hours starting at midnight last night. This was a hard thing, but by this morning, when we were walking to The Coffee Bean for Sunday coffee and I was given the order of the day, I was offering to stay offline for a week if that could please be the only punishment. Pab doubted I could stay off that long, but even if I could, he wasn’t willing to revise the order given. So what was the order?

Uniform, talk, hard hairbrush spanking over my knickers, corner time with some questions to answer afterward, school work of significance, something else I’m not quite ready to talk about, followed by a very hard bare bottom hair brushing.

Anyway, to get going on the substance, after I’d had my shower this morning, I found a clean starched white shirt, grey gymslip, black shoes, green plaid tie, grey knee socks, and white knickers waiting for me on the uniform chair. I dressed very slowly, leaving the last button on my shirt and the tie for Pab to do.

After I was buttoned up, there ended up being no talk, just an inspection including a tactile check to make sure I was smoothly shaved beneath my knickers. I was, which didn’t elicit praise but rather a comment that “we wouldn’t be needing the ruler then.” (Because down there it gets ruled if it isn’t smooth when checked.) Maybe because I’d taken so long getting dressed, I found myself turned over his lap without any more talking. He told me he was going to spank me quite hard over my knickers and I could spend the day thinking of how it was going to feel tonight over my bare bottom. I don’t think he held much back and the spanking was hard and fast. The implement used is one generally used for discipline and punishment in our house. It’s a 10-inch heavy ebony hairbrush that *hurts* more than I can admit. It can take me from start to howling in about 15 seconds.

This morning I ended up howling into a pillow by the tenth smack and lost count at 60. They came very fast, hard and landed on alternating sides in almost the same spots. My sit spots to be exact.

He then had me sit in front of him for a small hug (sniffle) and a lecture, telling me I would be on a chair in the corner for a long time and wasn’t to look around or worry about what he was doing because I was being watched. There wasn’t exactly a threat of more hair brushing, but somehow I suspect hair brushing would be involved should I not stare deep into the corner until I was called out. I needed to be able to tell him what had gone wrong in the previous week, how it could be avoided in the week ahead, and what I planned to accomplish today.

So I sat bare-bottomed on the hard wooden chair and thought about the questions. My answers came pretty quickly and mostly included my laziness and the fact I’ve been trying to work in the late afternoon (procrastination) when morning is my most productive time of day. When we talked about this when corner time was over (30 minutes later!), and I told him both what I’d planned on doing and the reasons I thought I was struggling, he asked if I felt set up for failure today. As it was already getting late, I said “yes,” which kinda annoyed him, but it was really the truth. Plus, I felt a bit angry, even though there was no reason for me to be annoyed with anyone other than myself.

I went into my study, feeling sad that I couldn’t check my e-mail, put upon because I thought Pab was mad at me unfairly and started to type. Pablo got ready for a walk and then came in, and he comforted me for a bit, which made me cry. I think I was also thinking about the next hairbrush spanking, which was going to hurt a lot, as I could definitely feel the first one as I sat working.

Without the net, the work went pretty quickly. Because I’ve been quite lazy, two and a half hours was about all I could do, which still was a thousand words of a new chapter—not bad considering I’ve avoided writing anything new since August.

After I finished, Pab was still out, so I started dinner, still in my uniform, as I wasn’t sure I could take it off. I’d just finished the prep work (didn’t want to start cooking until the OTHER thing got taken care of when Pab arrived home. With flowers as an early Valentine’s and because he loves me. That was great. But he put them in the sink because he still had the other thing to do.

For the “other thing,” I had to change out of my uniform into a grey Pab’s T-shirt and keep on my white knickers.

In the eight years I’ve been doing online writing, this is something I’ve never written about. Part of my punishment/discipline tonight was what we call a “bottom cleaning” or enema. I think the reason it’s so hard for me to write about them is that anything connected with what we refer to as “my bottom hole” is the most private and invasive thing and leaves me without any resistance. Enemas are the most extreme part of what get done “down there.” I tend to cry the entire way through, not because it hurts (these aren’t cold water or punishment-style enemas) though of course they aren’t comfortable exactly, but because the process leaves me feeling totally helpless. Such was the case tonight, for the slightly soapy first and the plain water second. He held me for each of the five minutes I had to hold the water before he let me run (or walk gingerly, as the case may be) to the bathroom.

I can be bratty through spankings (though not punishment ones, of course), but even the mention of anything anal, especially the “e thing,” tends to make me suddenly quiet and submissive. By the time the second one had ended, I was curled up on the bed. Pab came in after putting the e-stuff away, told me there was one last thing, and sent me to the corner. I stood there very, very still, trying to get my head around the idea of being spanked very hard with the brush. By then, I knew I deserved it, but I still felt afraid. The brush is used for punishment for good reason. There’s no implement I like, but my feelings about the ebony brush run on a spectrum between fear and loathing. Still more because even worse than the cane, it leaves very few lasting marks and can be (and has been) used daily on occasion. Before I went to the corner, I very softly asked if he could gag me for the hair brushing as I was worried I was going to end up screaming.

Corner time seemed very brief before I was called over to Pab’s lap. I sat and embraced him, apologized for the previous week, and told him how much better I was going to be in the coming week. He had the brush in his hand. He comforted me a bit and allowed that I was right to be scared of the brush. He’d put out an old, clean cotton shirt and told me to fashion whatever sort of gag I needed. Then he pulled down my knickers almost to my knees and helped me over his lap. I twisted the shirt into a sort of rope I could bite on. Panic already had tears running down my cheeks.

Pablo patted my bottom.

“What’s this?” He asked.

I took the shirt out, wondering if he was pointing out my bareness as he reached forward to pull my right hand into the small of my back, effectively pinning me.

“My bare bottom. Sir.”

“No,” he said, patting a bit harder. “What do you *feel*?”

I froze for a second. Hope rose a bit within me.

“Your hand. Sir.”

Maybe it just meant a warm-up? That would certainly help, though.

“Right. What sort of girls get hand-spanked on their bare bottoms?”

I answered, feeling a bit embarrassed, and also feeling my knickers slip down past my knees.

“Little girls?”

“What sort of little girls?”

“Um…” Goodness. Oh right. “Naughty little girls. Sir.”

“That’s right. I don’t think I need the brush tonight. But remember how hard my hand is. You’re not getting off entirely.”

And that was true. The hand spanking was long and hard and made me cry. He spanked my whole bottom and up and down my thighs. He then held me across his lap and lectured a bit on the horrible fate (mostly the bare-bottom hair brushing) that would befall me if I had another week like the previous one.

I won’t. Even with my bottom still burning more than three hours later, I still feel grateful. When I asked why he’d not hairbrushed me, Pab said he always wanted a punishment to be no more than enough. It was enough. This week will be different.

While Pab made us mashed potatoes to go with my orange pork carnitas, I arranged my flowers. He told me the bottom cleaning was going to be part of our Sunday ritual from now on and I squeaked a bit. I know he likes how quiet and submissive I am afterward.

We’ll wait and see on that last thing. With any luck, the soap and bag will go back to lurking under the bathroom sink.

And a new week begins tomorrow for this newly good girl.

• 1
  It was only when I had to finish my dissertation under the most unbelievable time constraints that the value of these bursts of structured discipline enforced by punishments became clear; I would not have been able to finish my PhD without them.
• 2
  My favorite part was hearing that Paul didn’t think this was the last time I’d get to make him a birthday pavlova.
• 3
  . I know it’s not exactly a cake, but it’s been his traditional birthday cake since the first birthday we spent together.