Let the Punishment Fit the Crime

So yesterday, I had my punishment for breaking our no-masturbation deal this summer. My wife has been reading my blog, and the blogs I’ve linked to, and the blogs those people have linked to, and a bunch of other sites I hadn’t even heard of. We talked a lot last week about punishment in general, and why I want it, and how or whether it could work in our relationship. Silly me, though, I didn’t connect all of that to my upcoming punishment.

My wife may have been reading other people’s blogs, but she came up with her devilish punishment all on her own.

She called me from the grocery store, and told me to be waiting for her in the bedroom when she got home. When she came in, she sat on the bed next to me, and asked me what day I had broken our deal. We checked my letter with the confession in it, and determined that it was two weeks after I dropped her off at camp. So she told me I was going to have to masturbate one hour for each of the weeks she was at camp after I broke the deal. Five hours!

I tried to bargain—I had been with her for one of those weeks, and picked her up to come home halfway through the last week, so three and a half hours would be more like it. And also, the last two weeks shouldn’t have counted at all anyways, since we had called off the deal. She considered my arguments, and said we could check in after four hours.

I guess I’m a little arrogant—I thought it wouldn’t be too bad of a punishment. She started by making me read my letter of confession to her. I was touching myself, but not, well, seriously—enough so that it was clear I was masturbating, but not so much that I was going to come. Because I know myself, and continuing to masturbate after I’ve come gets to be rather difficult. So I was pacing myself. I got away with this for an hour and a half, but even without coming, I knew by then that it was going to be really, really hard.

She made tapas for lunch, and instructed me to eat one-handed. And then she raised her eyebrow, and pointed out that I wasn’t being “goal-oriented” enough. When I slowed down after coming, she told me she was going to keep track of all of the minutes when I wasn’t coming. And then she went back to surfing the web, on her laptop, next to me on the bed.

I was touching myself, but it wasn’t interactive in the least. By the end of two hours, I was completely miserable—my cunt hurt, my arms were sore, my nipples were swollen. I got rather whiny (not intentionally—it just sometimes happens). But she held firm. And she pulled out a butt plug, and lubed it with (evil woman!) KY Warming Gel. {{Shudder}} They may *say* it loses its effect after fifteen minutes or so, but I noticed that it was rather warm back there for a good forty-five minutes.

By the end of three hours, I wanted nothing more than for the punishment to be over. I squirmed, I sobbed, I begged… nothing. She was holding firm. I tried to weasel my way out of things by slowing down, only for her to look up from the computer and start counting off the minutes that I wasn’t coming.

As I went through it, I started to think about how she had felt, that I had broken our deal by cheating, rather than by talking to her about it. All of a sudden, my choice seemed less reasonable, and she seemed less unreasonable. I agreed to the deal, and even if I thought it was just a game, I realized that I should have respected her enough to discuss it, instead of cheating.

The introspection didn’t mean that I wasn’t more than ready for the punishment to be over at the end of the fourth hour. But when we checked in, I don’t know what she saw, but whatever it was made her decide I hadn’t been punished enough. I had to keep going. I was so sore that it took all of my creativity to figure out a way to touch myself that wasn’t thoroughly painful. I could barely stand to come again, but she kept ticking off the minutes when I wasn’t coming.

Finally, finally, I thought it was over. She ran a bath, and led me into the bathroom. I winced as I got into the tub, because the water was brushing against my sore, swollen cunt. And then she reminded me that I had fifteen minutes left. I whimpered. It seemed impossible. I could not imagine forcing myself to go on for fifteen minutes more.

Then she gave me an out. Kind of. She held up one of the loopy toys, and said I could do the final fifteen minutes, or get thirty strokes. It was not an easy choice—especially because I had been sitting in a tub of warm water, which meant my bottom was especially tender. But I went for the thirty strokes, because at least then I wouldn’t have to be forcing myself to do it.

She made me turn over, and kneel in the tub. She proved that she’s not completely evil by taking her time between the strokes, so I could catch my breath and not absolutely fly out of the tub. But she also made me control myself, and not yelp so loudly that the neighbors would hear me. After the second or third time I squealed, she told me I would earn two penalty strokes if I did it again. I made it to twenty before I yelped again… and the count went down to eighteen. I know she was going easy, and a lot of the strokes were just token swats. Even the few where she came down full force were enough to cause a good deal of pain. Finally, it was over. She washed me tenderly, and then joined me in the tub. Everything was forgiven.

Afterwards, we spent a long time processing about our experience. I was surprised at my response to it, and just a little scared. Why? Because it did exactly what I had hoped it would do. Before the punishment, I hadn’t even noticed the guilt I had for breaking the deal by cheating; but afterwards, it was like a spot in my chest stopped hurting. There’s no better explanation. I had been guilty, but once I was punished, I wasn’t guilty anymore. And it’s not like I just chose not to feel guilty, because that would mean repeating the behavior. At least right now, there is no way I would cheat on a deal like that one again.

But why is that scary? Because it’s one thing to imagine being punished for my shortcomings, and it’s something else entirely to realize that it would work in real life. I didn’t really have much trouble integrating play spankings into my life, because they seem more, well, normal. It’s not strange to be a little kinky in bed, you know? But it says something entirely different about me, and about the relationship if I get a spanking for “real” things, especially if that spanking has nothing to do with sex.

And this punishment was really just a practice—she and I both wanted to see what it would be like, and wanted to see whether we would carry it through to the end. She chose something that, in the end, wasn’t really that important. If it hadn’t worked, we wouldn’t have lost much.

But now I wonder where things are going to go from here.