How I Discipline — What Started it All

You’ve always longed for a special kind of man. A sophisticated, accomplished man who understands the necessity of being firm with you. A man who understands the old-fashioned notion of being in control of a woman’s behavior, and isn’t afraid to exercise His control over you with the particular forms of juvenile punishment you find so embarrassing, so painful … and so necessary. A man experienced in taking charge and setting limits, who cares about you enough to enforce those limits when you go beyond them. An old-fashioned disciplinarian, someone you respect and admire so much for the way He runs his own life and for the way He helps you run yours that your helpless submission to His authority when your behavior goes beyond the limits He sets is natural, unquestioning … and inevitable.

Most nights find you sitting on your bed imagining Him firmly and lovingly correcting you. Upstairs in your bedroom, nervously perched on the edge of your bed, watching your clock ticking towards the time He set, each tick bringing the inevitable closer. You look around your empty room, feeling the humiliation of being sent there without supper. A little girl, helplessly awaiting her stern father’s arrival. Alone in your room, feeling a growing dread, a sense of fearful anticipation that rises as you nervously pick at the waist of your white pajamas. The special ones. The ones that make you look and feel like a little girl. The ones hanging prominently in your closet to remind you of the penalty for your misbehavior. The ones He has you change into when he sends you to your room … to wait.

Is it really just the creaking of the floorboards in the wind, or do you suddenly hear the sound of his slow steps on your stairs? Does the hair on your neck rise as you hear a sharp “click,” realizing that He is there, outside your room, turning the knob on your bedroom door? Does your mind flash forward a few minutes, to the lecture, his scolding, and the butterflies in your stomach as He gives you the inevitable command.

Can you see your unsteady hands moving to obey? Do you see yourself slowly untying the drawstring at your waist, your pajama bottoms slowly sliding down your legs as you shuffle from your bed towards the chair He is positioning in the middle of your room? Do you see yourself, your pajamas at your knees, your bottom on display, your hands shielding yourself in front as, red-faced with humiliation, you argue with Him … plead with Him, playing for time. One last desperate promise to be good as He takes your hand and gently puts you across his lap. Can you imagine yourself bent over his knees, face-down, a young woman submissively awaiting a little girl’s punishment, your bottom framed by your pajama top and lowered pants, bare and painfully vulnerable?

And then it begins. The unmistakable sounds from behind your bedroom door. The stern male voice delivering the lecture, the loud SMACK that punctuates each main point, and a woman’s intermittent pleading, which soon changes to a continuous wail. Can you imagine the scene within? Open the door a crack and peer inside. What do you see? The bare bottom of a young woman, perhaps, unusually prominent from its position, bent shamefully across a well-dressed man’s lap. The white pajama top ending just above her neat, trim waist, her pajama bottoms now in a tangle around her ankles. Her legs pressed tightly together, compressing the crease between her buttocks to a desperately tight line, the buttocks themselves wobbling obscenely as the man’s powerful hand rises and falls against them with unrelenting regularity. As that hand explodes with incredible impact upon her writhing, crimson behind, and the young woman twists her head up towards her chastiser, how do you feel when you recognize that tear-drenched face … as your own?

A long pause. The stern male voice again, followed by the rustle of clothing and the sound of small feminine feet. Walk down the hallway to your bathroom and peer inside. Do you recognize yourself now, wearing a white hospital gown, gingerly positioning yourself back over your chastiser’s knees? Watch Him unbutton the back of the gown and separate the flaps to bare your crimson behind for the juvenile procedure He has prepared for you. Does your tummy turn a flip when you see Him pick up the baby thermometer on your sink and methodically coat it with a thick layer of Vaseline? Does your face burn when you feel his hand parting your cheeks? Do you feel the slight tickling sensation as He slowly inserts the thermometer between them? As you lie across his knee, only the tip of the thermometer peeping from between your reddened buttocks, does your mind slip, unwillingly, to the bulging enema bag hanging high above you, the long rubber hose attached to it descending down to the hard plastic nozzle, already greasy with Vaseline? After He withdraws the thermometer, do you hesitate when He instructs you to spread your legs, … wide! Do you see yourself held face down, his hands prying apart your tightly clenched cheeks? Do you feel Him pressing the nozzle up against your most intimate opening? Do you Him slowly, gently pushing it up into your bottom, inch by inch until He has inserted its entire length inside you?

A moment, while He looks down and enjoy the view you present to Him. His instruction not to move. Then, the loud “click” as He releases the clamp, and the sudden pressure as the warm soapy water spurts into your bottom. His voice calmly describing why you have earned a punishment enema, a “thorough cleaning out” as he puts it, and all the while the sensation of the warm soapy water slowly, inexorably filling your bowels. When you have taken the entire bag, how long will he keep you in this humiliating position, the nozzle still protruding from between your reddened cheeks while the “medicine” does its work? Ten minutes? Twenty? Will He decide to remove the nozzle and use the butt plug instead? Will He spank you while he makes you retain? Will He spank you while He administers the enema?

I am looking for you — an attractive woman who both wants and needs a disciplinarian to help her guide her life. And you are looking for me: a disciplinarian. An attractive, successful, educated man, perceptive and compassionate, who understands your need to be punished, and is experienced in administering the punishments you need.

Let's set aside the obvious fact that this is (c) MRSTRICT1@AOL.COM and can't be reproduced or sold without my permission.  This was really the first "story" I wrote, and what started all the fan mail I got, and no, I'm not being grand in saying that.

This is undoubtedly my most ripped-off verbiage, I've seen countless men online claiming to have written this, they didn't, no one else did but MOI.

Does it matter?  As a matter of personal pride, sure it does.  As a matter of being my fundamental calling card, like a pornographic business card if you will, or a blurb or jacket cover about who I am and what I do and like to do, yes, it described ME.  Has my approach changed over the years?  Yes, I used to be a self-described dom, then migrated to loving/sadistic daddy, and now am ... well, I suppose an amalgam of the two, with some other stuff thrown in besides.

Anyway, this was the first, if you want to rip it off at least credit me and don't just reproduce it as your own.

And of course, if you're female and it gives you butterflies ... well, you know how to find me. :)