The Cigar

"You will buy a cigar..."


His words echoed through my head for weeks before I finally obeyed the request. It wasn't even so much a request as it was a declaration. He does that on purpose, or at least I think he does.

"..... and the next time you smoke, I will burn you with it."

He wasn't happy that it took me so long to procure said cigar. But he didn't put up too much fuss about it either. I've been acting up left and right, and he's had a lot to deal with in terms of correcting my behavior. He's picking his battles selectively.

Now I'm not certain if I thought he was bluffing, or I just didn't think he would be able to go through with it... but apparently the threat of such filthy injury was not enough to stop me. Sure it stopped me for a few weeks. But that is my recent pattern. I go out with friends and every few weeks, I end up smoking a cigarette. It has to stop. I don't want to smoke. I was once a regular smoker, I will not become one again. And he's going to help me make sure of that. Even if in order to do so, he has to be a cold-hearted sadistic bastard.

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"Honey?" My voice quivers.

"Yes baby?"

"Please don't burn me."

"With a cigar?" He inquires, "did you smoke?"

I lower my eyes and say nothing.

"I am." The disappointment washes over his voice, "I am going to burn you."

"No honey, please, you can't..." I am filled with dread and desperation. And for some reason, I think I can talk my way out of it, talk some sense into him, and somehow escape what I knew I had coming.

"Oh I can and I will." He is unyielding from the get go.

This goes on for days. I beg and plead and argue and he doesn't budge. He is adamant. He is going to burn me. And still, I refuse to believe it. He guarantees me that there is nothing I can say, nothing I can offer, nothing I can do to get me out of this. I had fair warning. He was very clear. I smoked anyway. I promised him I wouldn't, and then I went ahead and did anyway. My regret is large but his disappointment is paramount. He wants me to learn the lesson. He has to burn me. He's going to hurt me, not harm me. But I am terrified that he's going to do the latter without intending to.

I am terrified.

I don't even know how to describe the quality of my fear. It is consuming and I am distraught with it for days.

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So he burned me.

Three times.

The last two left two red marks with three little blisters, on the inside curve of each ass cheek. It hurt exactly the way that burning flesh hurts. Each time lasted a fraction of a fraction of a second. He didn't harm me, he hurt me. He did what he said he was going to do. He burned me, which in effect was insist I surrender to something I did not want to surrender myself to.

It's really very simple. I don't want to smoke. I'm not allowed to smoke. The punishment for smoking is getting burned with a cigar. I knew that when I decided to smoke. I smoked anyway. I needed to be burned with a cigar.

As easy to understand as that is, I freaked out and refused to surrender myself to the punishment. I bitched and argued and begged and exaggerated and pleaded for days. And in the end, I didn't hold still ( he had to sit on me), I didn't take it quietly ( my poor neighbors), and yet according to him, I took it well.



Truth is, I surrendered myself to it the moment I bought the cigar.... and he went easy on me. He went way easy on me and I'm not exactly sure why.

The Belt

Spankings for me, are a cure-all. No matter what ails me, I need a spanking. When I'm naughty, I need a spanking. When I'm happy, I need a spanking. When I'm pretty much anything, I need a spanking. Even when I'm tired and have a head-ache. Nothing has as much effect over my state of being. It's remarkable, truly. I am the essential spankee. I'm not bragging as this has many unfortunate consequences for me; I have simply come to terms with this over the years, and I'm secure enough in my desire to own my proclivities.

So I like to be hit with things. Lots of different kinds of things. Interesting, creative, mercilessly painful things... such as his hand, a wooden spoon, the tawse, the cane. A variety of implements adorn my closet wall. And of them all, in much the same way that spankings are my panacea, the belt is my most favorite of favorite implements. When given the choice, more times than not, I choose to be hit with the belt. The deepest, darkest bruises, (I have a bruising fetish), have come from the belt. Truly, there is so much about the belt that appeals to me, I'm not even sure where to begin.

The domestic connotation cannot be ignored... and although I was spanked for discipline and punishment as a child, I didn't feel the belt until I was a consenting adult involved in a DD relationship. In fact it was probably the first implement, besides his hand, the first man to ever spank me ever used. My love for the belt has developed over years and every time it kisses my skin, my appreciation grows. When I'm being hit with it, I surrender to it quicker than I do any other implement. It's almost as if it comforts me. It certainly hurts, and yet there is this security that permeates the pain. It doesn't disguise the pain, it enhances it in just the proper way so as to quiet my mind and allow me to drift off into the depths of rapture that is a spankee being spanked.

In general, I'm not a pain whore. I don't get off on the hurt. I don't crave the ow. I don't necessarily find comfort in the agony. I am able to translate pain into pleasure, but not exclusively so. However when it comes to the belt... I am a slut. I relish in the hurt of the belt. The closest I've come to coming from a spanking, was with the belt.


But not just any belt, his belt.

Breaking

I have been horribly misbehaved recently. I've been angry and my feelings have been hurt and I've used both as an excuse to be a pugnacious little devil. I've sassed and bratted and blatantly disregarded direct instruction. Never before in my life have I been so willfully disobedient. Sparing you the gory details, and me the embarrassment - let me just say that today, he put me firmly back in my place... with his belt.

Rebellious as I've been, of course I fought at first. He came over, we talked and ate some lunch, and he told me in as calm a voice as can be,

"I am going to break you today."


*gulp*

I defiantly shook my head in disapproval.

"Oh yes," he chuckled, "and I'm going to use my belt. You need to be punished for your unabashed brattiness. It's gone too far, you've crossed the line; and I will not allow it to continue."

His voice became stern and the look in his eye turned cold. Not callous or unaffected, just cold. He was going to break me. I could see it in his eyes. I struggled. I refused to hold still over his knee. I kicked and squirmed and pleaded.

"Ow. Ok. Ow. Ok honey, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please. Ow. Ok. Ok. Ow!" I cried out, reaching my hands back in a futile attempt to cover my bare cheeks, kicking and squirming more.

He's naturally much stronger than me and can easily overpower me in that position. Pinning me to his lap, he smacked away at my bare, and by now pinkened, bum. My struggling continued and eventually he grew tired of my fighting. He threw me off his knee, next to him on the couch. I smiled in response to my faux success only to be scooped up off my feet and over his shoulder. Brat that I am, I smacked away at his backside as he carried me like a sack of potatoes into the bedroom. Tossing me to the bed, he turned to get the belt off the back of the door (which is where it usually lives). It wasn't there so he went to the next logical location, the closet.

"It's not there either!" I called after him, giggling to myself.

"Fetch me the belt," he commanded as he walked back into the room, clutching the tawse. "Now!"

He began swinging the tawse at me. Thrashing me relentlessly, he asserted his willingness to just use that until I produced the implement he sought. Reluctantly getting up, I dug through the laundry basket to find the jeans it was last worn with. And he proceeded to smack the tawse against my flesh as I pulled the belt from the belt loops. You see, not only have I been disobedient, I've been neglecting my chores.

"Kneel and present it to me properly."

I hesitated.

*SMACK*

"I said, kneel and present it to me properly brat!"

Falling to my knees, I carefully folded and raised the belt in my hands. I obeyed, though I didn't bow my head. I kept my eyes on his, in my own quietly defiant way.

The first few whacks were shocking. It's been awhile since I've taken a good belting, and I could tell by the hits that he was planning on making up for the lost time. He didn't warm me, but he was careful to not overwhelm me too quickly. I resisted. I moved. I cried out. I covered myself with my shaking hands. I pleaded for mercy. All I got from him was a smirk. I watched in the armoire mirror as he continued to lay into me with the thick leather. Loud belt smacks interspersed with "ow's" filled the room. He'd closed the bedroom door and at the time I wasn't sure why but I now know it was because the belt is loud, and he was hoping to spare the neighbors.

According to him it took me longer than usual before I surrendered myself to the beating. Which secretly pleased him. He loves beating the willful defiance out of me. And the longer it takes, the more I challenge him, the more it turns him on. I'm not sure how long it took, but eventually he reached his goal. He broke the brat in me. She yielded,

"Uncle."

And now this is one of the best things about beltings for us... once we reach the point where the pain turns to pleasure and the pleadings turn to coos, we can go forever. He can hit me with his full force, repeatedly, and with quick succession, and I just take it. I hold position. His eyes lock with mine. We smile at each other. He beats, I get beat. It's pure heaven. It's as intimate for us as sex, perhaps even more so at times.

can someone please tell me...

Why autonomy can be so constricting,

and restraint so liberating?