Progress tests

I've mentioned before that my course makes progress tests available so that students can check whether they've understood the material or not. These tests are optional and do not count towards the final grade. In fact, the course organisers will not even see the individual results, only aggregated ones.

Of course, for me, these tests are not optional, M expects me to take all of them and let him know how I've done.

During the last week of term I had five progress tests to do and an essay to hand in. Of course I was obsessing about the essay, what with it being the first one I'd written in four years, and also one of the progress tests had to be taken during a seminar session so I had to revise for that one first. The other ones were available online and you just took them when you liked before they wer taken down agin.

Most of the test were due in by mid-day on the last day of term, Friday, but one of them was going to be kept up until the following Tuesday. Then I was talking to some fellow students about another one, that was worrying me because I was aware I didn't understand the material as well as I might, and one girl said that it was going to be up until Monday so I'd have extra time to study.

Foolish me, I didn't check for myself.

With relief I focused on the other tests and left the two mentioned above until after all the earlier deadlines had been met.

You can see where this is going, can't you.

On Sunday I took the progress test that was going to be up until Tuesday. On Monday morning M double-checked with me how much work I had to do and I said I just had one more test to do before lunchtime and then I was done.

Then I went online and found that it wasn't there.

Then I checked my email and discovered it had actually been taken down on Friday.

Then M paddled me.



It's taken me a while to blog about it because I still feel ashamed about how I behaved during the punishment. Yes, he was wielding the paddle with some force, and no warm-up, and the paddle is evil, thick wood with holes drilled through. But I think really my inability to stay in place was tied up with the guilt and shame I was feeling for dropping the ball so badly. I wriggled and squirmed and howled and generally carried on like he was killing me. And then I managed to wriggle out of position and just could not talk myself back into it. Which of course just made me feel worse, like I was compounding my crime by being deliberately disobedient - except that I didn't want to be.

M's forgiven me for missing the test, and didn't really seem to mind me trying my darnedest to get away from the resulting punishment (I suppose on one level it means he was spanking me "hard enough"!), but I can't shake the guilt. I'm also still exploring some thoughts brought up by these events, as it's the first time, I think, that I've taken absolutely no pleasure at all from any aspect of a punishment. Normally even if I'm hating a punishment part of me is grateful to be receiving it because I know I deserve it and then the slate will be wiped clean. This time the only thought I had was to get away, get away (I'm beginning to sound like he beat the living daylights out of me, he really didn't I don't think I received more than ten or twelve strokes).

I don't know how to resolve how I'm feeling about this.

Rules

I haven't been able to sleep tonight and have instead spent quite a lot of time thinking about my rules.

I have what feels like quite a lot of rules. M and I have sort of played around with them for a while now (the first rules he ever gave me were for specific situations, such as when we were in fetish clubs together, several years ago) but when my course started in September and he decided that he wanted to be more directly involved in my life and studies than a partner might normally, one of the ways he did so was to set me rules.

The rules that rarely change are as follows:
1. I am to be respectful, helpful and friendly towards staff and students on my course, always. This makes me realise that I don't actually have a rule saying I have to be respectful and so forth towards my friends, or shop assistants, or even M himself, but I suspect this might be something of an unspoken rule.

2. Between Monday and Friday I am permitted a maximum of six 'junk' foods or drinks each - chocolate, fast food, etc. The main reason for this is that I could do with paying more attention to my food choices, particularly when I get hungry in the middle of the school day. I don't use them all as that would mean twelve junk somethings in five days! But having the rule has made me think a lot more about fruit, yoghurt or seeds and nuts as snacks, and in fact not snacking at all but having a proper meal. Which has helped with my energy levels.

3. Between 9am and 8pm on school days the only 'personal' internet time I'm allowed is 45 minutes in my lunch break. Now that it's the holidays but I stil have assignments and revision to do, I'm permitted two hours at a time but then have to do at least 30 minutes of work before I can go online again. I do think this is quite generous, unfortunately there were still some days this week when I did no work at all... Oops...

4. M makes minor adjustments to my bedtime most weeks, I think mostly to keep me on my toes... this last week it's been half-past midnight, as my term's finished. It was always before midnight during term. I'm afraid this is probably the rule that I break the most often.

5. I am to be on time for all lectures, seminars, meetings, etc. I am to text him immediately if I am late. Skipping a session, or not going into school, is absolutely forbidden without his express permission. I've had a few near misses with this rule, where technically I was late to a lecture or something but the lecturer hadn't actually started yet and so M late me off. I have been late to a few though, including a memorable one where I missed 15 minutes of an hour long lecture. Ow.

6. I am to inform M of all school assignments, when they're due in and how long I think they will take. They are all to be completed early (no more all-nighters for me!) and a copy emailed to him before I hand them in. I find this incredibly difficult and embarrassing, I don't quite know why. But it also helps because the thought of him reading it definitely gives me a big extra incentive to work hard. Which is also embarrassing - surely I should be working hard enough just for myself?

7. New rule added for reasons that will become apparent in my next entry to this blog: I am to write in my diary when all assignments/assessments are given/made available, and when they're due (You can see what happened there, can't you? *blush*).

8. I am not permitted to touch my cunt with my bare fingers, ever, ever, ever. In fact this rule's now been in place for more than eight months and I'm very proud of the fact that I've never deliberately broken it. I do occasionally break it by accident, over the last few months I was averaging once a fortnight but this is now my fourth week without slipping. I'm torn between feeling proud I've managed for so long, and reminding myself that it's inevitable I'll break it again at some point...

Transient Rules that are Currently In Effect:
1. This week I was instructed to masturbate, with a butt plug in for at least 15 minutes, and then have one orgasm, on three separate occasions. I love this rule because it was a potent reminder that he has control over this part of me, of my life, without just forbidding orgasms - which would be a lot less fun as I often don't see him all week. I spent a lot of the 15 minutes thinking about how it didn't matter whether I wanted an orgasm or not (or more than one, which is usually the case - just one is sort of like an appetiser), I'd been instructed to and that was the end of it. Which was a seriously hot thought. I'm hoping we'll keep variations of this rule for a while.

2. I am not allowed to swear. I'm not really sure how seriously M takes this one, it sort of feels a bit like he imposed it for the week because so many of my usual rules are about my school day, and therefore don't currently apply. Except I've sworn three and a half times since Tuesday, so I suppose I'll find out soon how seriously he takes it...

3. Mince pies do not count as junk food :-)

So, yes, it feels like quite a lot of rules. However they're all helpful rules that, when kept, help me to feel good about myself, to do better work or be more organised, or to remember that I'm supposed to be his good girl.

The more permanent rules listed at the top have been in place since September, with a bit of tweaking at the beginning, and feel like they've been pretty well integrated into my life now. I like having them, when M and I meet on Friday evening I love being able to say that, for example, I've only had four junk foods and one junk drink during the week, or that I've been on time for all my classes.

I'm now wondering whether M would be willing to expand the rules to cover some other aspects of my life that I have difficulty with. There are two main ones that I'm thinking of, one being how much money I spend during the week and the other on getting errands and chores done around my school work (for example it took me more than a month to tell the bank my new address after I moved house, even though all it needs is a phone call and I looked up the number on the internet in the first week). Somehow the thought of letting him have authority over these parts of my life is more daunting than what we're currently doing.

Fiction

[I have a non-fiction account to write up as well, but needed to get this out of my head.]

She was sobbing by the time he finished and continued to do so for some time afterwards. Until the sofa cushion was more than just damp. The lesson had been effective though and she carefully stayed in position, despite the pain which continued to burn and throb and sting all at the same time. But finally the pain began to subside, her tears ended and she lay quietly, her dark red, sore and swollen bottom uppermost over the arm of the sofa. Her head and elbows pressed into the tear-wet seat, and bright red thighs lead to knees spread wide, to ensure complete exposure of what was normally kept hidden and private.

She heard him moving behind her again and then something cold and hard pressed into the cleft of her bottom. “Do you know what this is?” he asked. And suddenly she found some more tears to cry out.

She hadn't meant to be naughty, but of course that was no excuse. And as it was the third time in as many days, he decided it was time to take steps. She'd told him first thing the next morning, of course, thumbs moving surely across the phone's keypad: I'm very sorry Sir, but last night I stayed up past my bedtime again – I just got carried away with my game. I'm very sorry. Telling him was never the problem – at this stage it never seemed quite real.

The reply had been swift and to the point: Naughty girl! Wear a buttoned shirt and long skirt. Panties will stay at the tops of your thighs until after punishment. Be more careful to keep your rules. And then the butterflies in her stomach told her that it was definitely real.

It was ten hours before she arrived, all spent in self-conscious embarrassment of her half-undressed state. Two separate hours of commuting with her panties bunched under her bottom, rubbing against her skin as she walked and disturbing the smooth line of her skirt, worrying that the strangers she was squashed up against could feel the extra folds of fabric and would somehow know. Careful not to catch anyone's eye, hoping they would think her flush was just due to the heat. Eight hours at work, feeling the rumpled cotton as a sort of dissonance at odd moments in every situation; sitting, standing, in the meeting with her boss, in the queue at the canteen. A constant reminder that she had a punshment waiting. A very helpful reminder not to break any more rules.

There had been another text at the end of the day, carefully enhancing her trepidation: When you arrive take off your shoes and coat, bend over the arm of the sofa with your back to the door. Think about what you did that was naughty.

As disobedience at this stage would have been very foolish, she was careful to follow the instructions to the letter. The minutes spent in contemplation were not especially helpful, however – she had broken her rule because Lego Star Wars was her current obsession and playing it was more fun than going to sleep. And, well, maybe because she wanted his attention – he hadn't punished her for a long time now. At least two weeks. She hadn't deserved it. Best not to tell him that...

Her whole body tensed as he entered the room. Wordlessly, meticulously, he rolled her skirt up past her hips and tucked it into the waistband, leaving a bare, vulnerable, naughty bottom neatly framed between it and the already-lowered panties. All at once she realised she'd become somewhat accustomed to the position of her underwear during the day. The skin on her bottom prickled at the new exposure.

Their conversation was short. Did she know what time her bedtime was? Had there been some emergency that had prevented her from going to bed on time, for three days in a row, which she had somehow neglected to share with him? Did she acknowledge his authority over her? And his right to punish her for failing to keep the rules they'd agreed, with no good excuse? (Yes, Sir, no, Sir, yes, Sir... gulp... yes, Sir...) He did not ask why she had broken the rule.

His hands, firm and impersonal, guided her hips into position, then pressed against her knees, feet, elbows and head in turn, ensuring maximum accessibility for the paddle and maximum awful, humiliating exposure – because naughty girls don't have the privilege of privacy. Then he laid out her punishment. Since she had difficulty following his rules and doing what was necessary rather than what she wanted, this would be an exercise in exactly that. The new rule was to keep her body exactly where he had put it – closing her knees, or lifting her head, feet or elbows would incur two penalty strokes. She cringed as the cool wood rested against her cool bottom, feeling the outline of the holes drilled across its surface, hating the anticipation, dreading its end.

The first stroke was awful. All resolutions of bravery, of taking her punishment properly, were slammed out of her by the force of the paddle as she shot to her feet clutching her bottom. It hurt! She did not look at him – she knew it would be futile. How she wished she could beg and plead!
To tell him that it was too much, that it was impossible to take. But she knew, too well, what the response would be. This was, after all, a punishment for her lack of self-control. Better to gather herself for a moment, take a deep breath and get back into position, tears already gathering behind her eyes.

The penalty strokes were applied to the backs of her thighs, and four strokes were required for her to receive the requisite two in the proper position. Finally, at the end of the first five strokes, he counted.

“One.”

He counted to eighteen, six for each night she'd broken her rule, but by the end she'd taken closer to thirty as the pain repeatedly overwhelmed her defences. His lecturing had made everything even worse, dwelling on her lack of control, how her naughty behaviour reflected poorly on him, how disappointed he was by her failure to follow even simple rules. She had started crying as the first penalty strokes were applied, and her efforts were redoubled by each fresh application of solid wood against agonised flesh. The fight to keep her head down, rather than lift it to scream as instinct demanded, was unbelievably hard, and her hands scrabbled futilely over the sofa seat in an equally difficult battle not to cover her poor bottom. But the need to keep her legs stretched wide, muscles tense and skin taut for the paddle's bite, to say nothing of the shame of her exposure, was the worst. Her legs wanted to close instinctively each time the pain crested, and frequently did despite her best intentions. The backs of her thighs were steadily painted to a bright red under the penalty strokes, and staying still for them was even harder.

A long time later, she finally ran out of tears.

“Do you know what this is?” He pressed the cold, hard tip between her bottom cheeks and waited. On the second attempt she got the words out.

“A butt plug, Sir.”

“That's right.” His free hand gently traced the buises left by the paddle's holes. “And where does it go?”

Tears ran up her forehead and into her hair. “My bottom, Sir.”

“To remind you to be my good girl,” he confirmed. “Stay in position please, but open your bottom for me.”

More tears fell and she sobbed a bit but her hands were already moving, gingerly brushing over still-hot skin and then grasping firmly, wincing. Parting. Stretching wide.

Of course he waited a moment first, to give her time to fully appreciate her position and the hot flush of shame sweeping over her body. Then his finger, carrying a spot of lubricant, touched directly onto her anus. She tensed and her grip tightened against the bruises, still afraid of the punishment she'd received last time for relaxing her stretch during this process. She would never give him reason to buy ginger root again.

His finger rubbed against the opening, probed, probed, probed, twisted, left and returned with more lube. Pressed further in. Resistance was strongly disapproved of and she concentrated on keeping her muscles relaxed and accepting, even as the finger was replaced by the cold, hard snub of the plug, pushing against her, pressing in deep, then deeper... Her tears fell faster.

The plug was deeply seated inside her without mishap and his voice warmed with approval. “Good girl.”

She continued to hold herself apart, knees wide and head down, and replied with more tears.

“I know you don't like this,” he said, and then the heel of his hand pressed against her secret flesh, hot and swollen like her bottom and thighs, but unlike them also slick with wetness. She cried louder and her legs twitched, longing to close. But that lesson had only just ended, she didn't want a revision session so soon. “Even though part of you does...” His hand pressed in with slow, firm circles, sparking nerve endings, making her quiver. “But it does seem to work wonders, you're always more obedient, attentive, after some time with the plug.”

His touch disappeared as he stepped away. “Put your hands in front of you again,” and she gratefully released her hold and relaxed, hands free to wipe tears and dishevelled hair from her face.

He covered her with a throw, usually soft but now abrasive against her tender skin, and gently stroked her hair. “Get some rest.”

She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, feeling the itch of the blanket and the fullness in her bottom, sharply aware of the ache in her sex – and of the futility, with nothing to rub against. Or permission to rub.

She exhaled with a sigh, muscles going slack. It was okay. Everything was okay.

He always took care of his possessions.