Getting A Ticket

As part of my punishment I need to post about my day. I am currently sitting on two pillows. One was not enough. I need two...nice soft goose down pillows; the kind that you normally rest your head upon. Well, today, it is not my head. It is the other end of my body.

Today Master found out that I messed a light. I did not notice this light almost three weeks ago. It was late. I was in a strange part of town and I was tired after driving from Phoenix to Tucson. All that I wanted to do was to get home. I would have done that, except I took the wrong freeway exit and ended up on I-19 heading south. So, I decided to get off as soon as possible and turn around.

When I took the freeway exit, I did not notice the light. Just off the freeway, at the first intersection, there was this stop light. Why do they make them so small? In all honesty I would have stopped if I had seen the dumb thing.

Well, what can I say? I plowed right through it as if it was not there. I did not even slow down I went right through the intersection. I guess that I am lucky that there was no traffic, after I entered the intersection. I can just imagine a large semi-truck, Those things can't stop on a dime. I would have resembled a dime if it hit me.

Now, you would think that it was the entire story. No one was around; just my little car and I. The intersection was empty…. Yes, it was empty except for this camera device that the city installed. Before I knew what happened, I noticed some flashes of light as the strobes went off to catch my one girl crime wave.

There was nothing that I could do. I did drive through the intersection. So, I decided that I would just go home and forget all about it. Either I would be cited or not. From what I had heard, there was even a good possibility that the pictures would not turn out. That was a little bit of hope. I could not get this out of my mind the entire trip through downtown streets making my way home. Making sure I did stop, a full and complete stop, at every stop sign and stop light the rest of the way. And, so I got home and forgot all about it, I really did.

Well, what should show up in the mail the other day? You've got it, a nice computerized traffic citation from the court. I was totally busted. Yes, there were copies of the pictures of my car. There was picture of me, a little fuzzy, but still recognizable, a picture of my license plate, and there was a picture of me going through the intersection.

And then there was the citation along with a note saying that the “fine” was $155.

For a moment, I had completely forgotten about the incident. I had to go back to the calendar and check the dates to see if it was really true. Oh, now I remember that late afternoon. I remembered this incident. Darn!

Then it hit me -- what can I say to Master? Well, obviously, I would tell him the truth. But, we all know the "truth" can be put in so many different ways. Do I plead my case first before I tell him or do I tell him first and beg my case afterwards? Do I just tell him matter-of-factly and just say, as he would, "Oops"? I know that I have messed up. I know that I broke one of his 31 crash landings that will get you spanked rules. Sometimes not being the person in charge has its huge disadvantages. Something in me said that this was one of those times.

When I did tell him, today, what actually came out was a mixture of all of the above. I don't really remember the exact words. The actions which followed blocked out the memory. Yet, I did try to plead my case. I did tell him that I didn't see the light. (That was a mistake as my bottom later found out!) I did tell him that I was tired. (Hey, I am on a roll here. I can almost imagine what is going through his head ... 10 ... no, 15 ... no, 20 swats.) I did tell him that the intersection was empty. I told him all.

He then proceeded to lecture me for about an hour about my driving, attention, record, insurance, license, and everything else. I remained totally silent as I listened to him with a frown on my face. Perhaps a pleading “six year old” attitude will help. (It never does. It is just my reaction to be scolded.) Sometime during the repeats of the lecture he mentioned what he promised would happen "the next time..." I remember exactly what was promised "the next time..." I know it exactly what was promised. What was promised was a brush treatment. I have never in my life experienced a brush on my bottom, never, not even once.

I was sent to fetch "THE BRUSH!" The time for argument was over. The time for whining was over. The time for discussion was over. I might beg. I may plead. But, he had made up his mind. That was it. All that I could do was to comply. My feelings and I have been down this path before. I know what to expect.

I plodded up, slowly, step by step up the stairs to the second floor. Ok, so I did not want to go. But, still, I did. I returned with this brush in my hands, holding it by the handle in my left and the "business end" head in my right. When I returned downstairs, I timidly offered it to him with both hands. He took it from between my outstretched hands and put it on the table with a clunk.

"You know the rule." he commanded.

Yes, unfortunately, I do know the rule. Now, it is not that he has not seen me naked before. That was not the issue. I am not ashamed of my body. We are Master and slave. I have seen his "birthday" suit before too. Being commanded to remove my clothing in such a fashion however is humiliating.

The tears started to swell as I slipped off my shoes. I pulled the maroon shirt out of the pants and let the tail fall. I undid the belt and the zipper for the jeans. When I slid the jeans down, he only said "come on..." By now the tears were beginning to run down my cheeks. The socks were cotton and they slipped off my naked feet. The beige panty joined them on the floor by my feet.

I stood before him, stripped naked from the waist down. I had started to cry already and he hadn’t even laid a hand on my bottom. I could not help myself.

He pulled out one of the dining room chairs and sat down. I knew what was coming but I just couldn’t move. Then the words came, he said simply "Get over my lap", patting his thighs with both hands.

I walked around to his right side, and putting both hands on his left leg, I pushed and lifted myself up and over. As I lowered myself down on his legs, my feet lifted from the floor. I grabbed the legs of the bar stool with both hands and slid down the smooth wooden legs of the chair. My feet could only dangle off the right side of his legs.

I felt him shift a little under my weight as he adjusted my shirt, pulling it up and out of the way. He moved his legs slightly further apart to put his left leg under my bust line; pushing them slightly up His right leg supported my hips and upper thighs. My hips were directly over his leg. The curve of my bottom cheeks sticking straight up. As he stroked my skin, the tears ran off my nose now and the drops landed on the wooden floor below. They were the only things that were able to go to the floor.

He grabbed my right forearm with his left hand and held it tightly to my right side. I knew what was to follow and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for myself. Still, I felt secure. For some reason, his holding me tightly was a comfort even though at the same time, I felt pinned.

He started the lecture. What a time to do this with me over his lap. But, I guess that he wanted to tell me why so, it turns out that this first part was for my lack of memory. I should have remembered what had happened so long ago. He explained that later we would get to the attentiveness. Oh great! That helps a lot! He even made me repeat why I was to be spanked.

When he started to slap my bottom, it was with his hand, first the right and then the left cheek. Up and down, right to left, top to bottom and back again. While this stung, it was not as bad as the belt treatment.

Then things heated up a bit. What felt tingly turned into a sting. What stung turned into a hurt. What hurt turned into a pain. What was in pain turned into a burning sensation. He started hitting faster and harder. I started to squirm, back and forth with my hips. My legs, well, they just did not dangle there either. But, there was little that I could do. My entire weight was on his lap. All that I could do was to squirm. I wasn’t going anywhere.

I tried to push down on the edge of the chair. His response was to shift his left arm so that his elbow was in the middle of my back, He still held on to my forearm, but now began to push down with his elbow at the middle of my back. He told me to stay still and stop squirming. I could not help it. This hurt! This burned!

I wanted out. I begged. I pleaded. I screamed. I promised to be good. I promised to do what he wanted. And, I cried. The crying started in real earnest. He did not listen. He would stop when he wanted to stop and not before. My butt cheeks bounced under the onslaught. Up and down they went. Each one no sooner stopped shaking than it was hit again, only to start its undulation all over again.

I suppose that after a few minutes, real minutes, by the clock, he tired of spanking my bottom. It felt like hours. By now, it had begun to feel differently when he hit me. I guess that he realized that when I stopped squirming as much as I did. It was time for a break. He did not want my bottom to become numb. I have a considerate Master, who is always looking out for my interests, don't I? After all, he wants me to feel everything when it happens. Thanks a lot, sir!

My bottom had probably taken on a nice shade of red by this time. It never fails to do so. Still, from my vantage point, with my head down I could not see anything but his legs, my legs, and the chair in some perverted inverted view of the world upside down. That is when I looked back. When I looked straight forward, all that I could see was the floor and the tears drop from my nose.

When he finished spanking me by his hand he let go of my forearm, lifted his elbow off my back and grabbed my upper arms below my shoulders. He helped me to my feet as I slid across his lap and down on my feet which reached the floor by now.

My hands could not help it. They flew to the same position all slaves know, over my stinging bottom and they knew exactly what to do, press in cautiously, ever so slightly and move vigorously up, down, and side to side, anything to remove the sting in my bottom. I could not help myself either. I had to see. From what I could make out, it was crimson. Yes, it was very red. My lack of clothing never entered my mind again. It did not matter. What mattered was that I wanted to sooth the pain in my bottom.

He instructed me to go to the corner and wait there until he said otherwise. I was to stand there and think about what I had done. I was not to rub. I was to stand there and wait, showing off his handy work as if it was a painting and he was the painter examining its detail.

Eventually 15 minutes had passed and I could hear him get back on that chair. This was not long. I guess that he did not want it to be so, because it was just long enough for my bottom to start to pulse. This could only mean one thing. We are not finished. There is more in store for me now that my bottom had begun to twinge.

I twisted around to look because my curiosity was aroused. What I saw was he, sitting on that chair. He told me to "Come here". This was not the place that I wanted to go. I knew it. Yet, I had gone this far. I had to finish it. So, with head hung down, and by now a dry cheek, I walked over.

He told me to get back over and patted his legs again. I had just had a spanking. My bottom was still sore. I did not want another one. Yet, he was insistent. I was to get over his lap again. As I started to pull back, ever so slightly, he grabbed my left arm and told me clearly to get over. I reluctantly obeyed and slid over his lap. My legs still did not reach the floor. This time he reached for the brush. I could hear him pick it up as it made a wood on wood sound against the wooden table.

The lecture started as before. “This is for not paying attention when you drive and for running the red light.”

I knew that it was a mistake to have said that I didn’t see it earlier. As before, he took hold of my right arm and holding it tightly, pulled me towards him as he shifted his weight to raise his right knee, and my bottom, a bit.

About that time, I started to cry again. I was bent over. Feet down, and naked bottom sticking out. I could not twist or slide in any direction, I was pinned there. I could feel him twist slightly to the right. I can only image why.

Then, the flat end of the brush landed on my right cheek, just below the curve outlined with my dropped legs. Oh that hurt. It was as if every nerve in my bottom was hit. Before I could react too much to it, the left cheek exploded in a similar fashion and in a similar place. At this point, I was promising anything and everything. It did not matter what I said or did, it did not stop.

The right cheek ... the left ... the right ... the left. I never knew anything could hurt so much. The only thing that came to my mind was how much this hurt. That is all. I clenched on to the chair as tightly as I could. I tried to clench my bottom. I tried to raise my legs. I tried anything that I could to ease the pain that I was feeling.

Nothing helped. He paused only for a moment to tell me to put my feet down. A light tap to the back of the legs reminded me that there are other places that hurt even more. So, I un-clenched my bottom and the legs dropped. By that time, he had let go of my arm and grabbed my waste. He held me oh so tightly.

Then it started up again. The right cheek then the left then the right. The brush would sink in as far as it needed to go and then rebound while the skin and muscle tried to recover. The rebound would throw the brush head back into the air, but not until after it has left its mark on my skin.

Oh, dear God, this hurt. It was worse than anything I have experienced before. I screamed. He spanked. I begged. He spanked. I pleaded. He spanked. I promised to be good. He spanked. I promised again. He spanked some more. It did not stop. It just kept coming. I wanted out. I needed to get out. I did not know that I had that many tears in my eyes. They all seemed to come out at once, all punctuated with my pleas and screams to stop. He did not listen. He was intent on making his point upon my wobbling, quivering bottom; up and down, like a pile of toned jelly to the beat of that brush.

I do not know how long it went. I do know that after a while, he stopped. He put the brush down. He let go of my waist. I hoped that this was the end but no, he only massaged my bottom. Even that hurt like the devil. It just hurt. By now, I told myself that I would never do this again. I swore it. My tears signed it.

Then he picked up the brush and started in again. Right ... center … right ... right ... left ... center … right ... left ... left the pattern was not the same. It caused me to not know where he would hit next. That made it very difficult to anticipate and steel myself to it; not that it really mattered. It all hurt just the same no matter where he hit me.

"You’re grounded" He said.

Splat! I screamed "yes".

He said "no driving". Pow!

I yelled "Yes, it hurts".

He said "no car". Smack

I hollered "Yes, stop".

He said "three weeks". Whap!

I pleaded "Yes, please stop."

“Understand!”. Swat! “Yes, I have learned my lesson. Stop!” This is one of those times where you would say anything, do anything, promise anything, agree to anything, anything to get it to stop.

It did not stop. He went on. Only he knows how many times. I only know the results. After what seemed like an eternity, he stopped just as quickly as he began. By that time, my bottom was simply all that I could feel. I do not know how long it lasted. It was probably not very long because it was very fast. There was none of this hit ... wait 10 seconds ... hit. It was hit ... hit ... hit, just as fast and just as furious as he could. That only set my bottom ablaze with a white fire.

He helped me up and together we went to the corner so that I could stop crying. He left me there, after placing my hands around the back of my neck and warning me to not move them. I do remember kneeling, but that is about all as my bottom is what I felt. I did not care how I was dressed. I did not care who saw me naked. I only cared that my bottom hurt. It burned. I can tell you that the brush is a terribly painful and satanic thing. It is something that you never want to experience being bounced off your bottom as if it was the ball in a child’s game.

I can tell you that if it means getting another session like this, there is no way that I would miss another signal. As for that specific intersection, I think that I will stop even long after they may have removed it. After a while, my knees began to hurt and I tried to rock back down on my haunches. My bottom said that it was not a good idea, long before my husband said to kneel up straight.

I must have spent a half an hour there, on that hard floor. The tears stopped. The crying stopped. Even the anger at being spanked subsided when I thought that it was for my own good. It was my fault. I did it. You did the crime, you do the time. Still, the pain did not stop. It just changed. It changed from a hard sharp one to one that was dull but ever-present. After the period was over, I was let up, hugged and kissed, given many comforting words, a few good strokes at places other than my sore derrière. I managed to collect my clothes from the floor and still undressed went upstairs and plopped down on top of the bed, red fanny up. I guess that I did not care. The neighbors be damned.

Awhile later, I manage to get up. That was a lesson in pain too as it flared back up. A short trip to the dressing room, and I can’t help but look at myself in the full length mirror. My bottom is red circles. My bottom is white in places. In others, it is just blue splotches. He seemed to have concentrated on my lower area. Near the top, it is just red. I could not help but think “Oh, my God” as I ever so gently pushed and pulled the skin to more closely examine my results.

Today, I am one well spanked girl. Tomorrow, I will still be one sore girl. Negotiating a sitting position is not going to be easy for the next few days.

I managed to slip back into my clothing as carefully as possible. My bottom has paid the price for my lack of concentration. That will never happen again.

I am relegated to a bicycle for the next three weeks. He has my car keys. That is something that I do not relish because that is not a fun thing to ride with a sore bottom.