Punishment: the Domme's Perspective

He doesn't know what he does to me. He can't possibly understand... I had spent the day in a haze, thinking of how beautifully he had offered his vulnerable bottom to me the night before. I had spanked him till tears fell from his eyes, watching his bottom become pink, and then red under my strokes. I watched him tremble to avoid breaking my rule of not resisting a spanking. His devotion to me was so clear in that moment. His offering of his pain touched my heart. I let him know, over and over, how treasured he was for this offering made only to please me.

The next day, I was terribly distracted. As I spoke to him about this and that throughout the day, I found my attention drifting, while I longed to spank him again, to see how much farther he could go simply for love of me. But my care for him, and my duty to him restrained me from my intense desire to watch him cry like a spanked child once again. I resolved to myself that, after nearly a week of mentally and emotionally intense play, my brand new submissive needed some space to relax and just be seen as the treasure he is to me.

And so I spent the evening just speaking to him, talking about everything and nothing, in that way that close companions do. I still can't remember what I was rambling on about. I do hate to use five words to say something, when I could use twenty. But just as I had made what I was sure was a brilliant witticism, I looked up at the screen and saw him napping. I couldn't help but smile, along with a small surge of annoyance. I watched him for a moment, happy, at least, that he was comfortable enough to sleep with me there. After a moment, I woke him up, all stern Domme, confronting him for falling asleep on me, asking if I bored him in a stern, dry tone. Then he revealed to me that, even before he fell asleep, he had been thinking of other things, paying no attention at all to my erudite blathering. I schooled myself to remain stern, as I hid a smile. Still, the underlying issue of lack of attention remained, and I knew I would have to address it.

I had resolved to tell him, obliquely, that a punishment was coming, let him stew in anticipation, then, the next day administer a "funishment", letting the anxiety and anticipation become his punishment. He is a sweet, obedient boy, who really is his own best punisher when he feels he has let me down. I smiled, internally, at the sweetness of his discomfort, knowing that it came from a heart full of desire to see me pleased with him. Then, the other shoe dropped.

I had given him an assignment, and discussed the deadline with him. I had requested a written report, and he had given me an oral report the day before, assuming it fulfilled his obligation. You know what they say about assuming: it brings a sore ass for you from me... In my book, assumptions are toppish. While none of these "crimes" were serious, taken together, they created a pattern I did not like the looks of, and needed to nip in the bud.

I needed to punish him, and the surge of desire to give him a hard spanking that left him panting and tearful came back in full force. But I had told him I wouldn't spank him today. Finally, I made my plans waiting till midnight to come to confront him about his missing assignment, reveling privately in the pure lust I felt at the idea of spanking him extra hard tonight. When the moment came, however, as I saw his fear and remorse building, my heart was touched, and I comforted him as I told him that he would be receiving a punishment spanking tonight.

My boy knows how I feel bout punishment spankings, though he had never received more than a few extras at the end of a spanking for small breaches of protocol. There is meant to be nothing fun about a punishment spanking, no warm up, and plenty of tears, sobbing, and begging by the end. I saw this knowledge in his eyes, in the way he moved as I told him to bare his bottom for me. Suddenly, I was filled with a feeling of love and sympathy for him that made me gasp. I eased his fear a bit, telling him that, while this would still be a punishment spanking, I would not take it as far as I normally would tonight. He thanked me gratefully, and I ached with desire to hold him. Instead, I told him to retrieve his paddle, and lay across the bed, clutching a pillow. Last night I had watched his bottom carefully, measuring impact, but tonight, I longed to see his face as he suffered.

Battling with the depths of my own breathless affection, I murmured to him to begin by giving himself five strokes with the paddle. I didn't specify how hard he should give the strokes, assuming he would default to the medium strength stroke he preferred. I was overwhelmed, as he proceeded to give each stroke with all his strength, making a loud crack across is bottom. At the end of this first set, I gave him a break, checking to see how he felt, while also grasping to process the display of love and remorse he had shown me. It took me a long moment to continue, but I did, ordering the next set of ten, still not specifying strength of stroke.

I watched him, in awe of his beauty, as he worked through the ten strokes, each one hard. I watched in wonder as he let his tears fall over the pillow he clutched, while never missing a stroke, never compromising. When they were over, he laid down on the pillow, flexing his cheeks the little bit I allow from the sting. I watched him make a few gasps, then ordered him another ten, after only a little rest.

These he took as bravely as the last, crying out with each stroke, his voice breaking as tears ran down his face. Each stroke rang out loud, never flagging. I gave him another break between sets, watching him clutch the pillow, working to control his tears, rocking his body softly. And I would have stopped the spanking here, moved by the depth of what he was given me, certain that he was sorry. But this was a punishment spanking, and had to be serious. After a while of soft murmurs of my love, I told him to begin again, watching as it took a moment for him to comply, about to remind him not to earn extras, when he raised the paddle, beginning another set of hard strokes, this time sobbing audibly as he cried with each stroke.

On the seventh stroke, he hesitated, and I knew it was because his suffering was intense. I watched what he would do, in awe of him, as he finished the set with strokes just as hard as he had begun with. In that moment, I loved him more than I thought my own body could handle, and I resolved to bring the punishment to an end. I told him the next set would be his last, and he thanked me, in broken tones, for ending it. As I told him to begin the final set, he gave himself the hardest strokes yet, sobbing, and crying, clutching his pillow tightly, making the spanking as painful as he could. I felt my own sense of relief that it was over, and a storm of powerful lust. My darling boy had given me the most beautiful example of love I had ever seen. I allowed him to stroke his welted, red bottom, and watched him as he cried himself out gathering his strength.

I told him I loved him so many times. I told him how grateful I was, how thoroughly forgiven. I whispered to him, over and over, as he stilled and settled, how very much he means to me. But how can he know? How can he even imagine how I gasp for breath at the strength of his devotion, how the thought of him drives me wild with lust? My darling treasure, I hope you understand, what you are to me, and what I feel when your trembling lips whisper "yes, Mistress".