Bad decisions and consequences

There was this discussion on Fet about punishments, and a few posts described really harsh things. I contered with a very low key account of getting a few swats on my pants for being uppity. I consider our relationship to have a "punishment dynamic", since there is punishment at times. But the thing is that the stuff she does to me for positive for more positively associated reasons are way more bloody and painful than the corrections I get.

She came home Friday six days ago, and as always things were a bit weird after she's been gone. I had a hard time finding my bearing, kept clinging to her and at the same time got bouts of anger and insecurity. I don't handle separation well, it's not as if I have very healthy patterns from childhood in the attachment area of things (yeah, I'm a shrink, I think like that).

Anyway, come Saturday when the kid was asleep, she pointed me to the bedroom, had me lay on my stomach and proceeded to tie me down, hands and feet to the bedposts. "I'm going to beat you" she said, and my stomach did a happy and scared flip, "there's not going to be any peace and quite around her 'til I do, anyway." And then she did, a lot.

She ended it with a volley of blows with the thick rattan on my ass that made me try to faint and fly at the same time. It wouldn't have surprised me one bit if I had started to levitate. And if I remember this correctly, it simply ended with her untying me and cuddling on the sofa. Or was this the time she fucked me silly? That might have been the day after. It was good, anyhow.

Two days later I marvelled over the tenderness I still felt, and when I checked in the mirror, there were actual bruises. I had bruises on my ass! That hasn't happened for forever, no matter what agony she puts me true, I never get to show it off, 'cause it simply doesn't show. But this time it did.

So that's the stuff she does just because she want to, and to keep me her good, calm, submissive little slut.

Now this morning, when Mistress hade left for work and I was about to herd the kid through the door on our way to the pre-school said kid had a complete meltdown over Mistress choosing black pants for her. She didn't want black pants, they were ugly, she only wanted pink pants, pink and purple were the only pretty colours, why couldn't she have pretty pants, she hated us, she wasn't going to play with anyone at pre-school, and oh why did she have to have ugly clothes??!!

My interest in taking off all her layers of outdoor clothes that covered the black pants in question was non-existent. I tried some halfhearted attempts of compromising, offering her other pants to change to at lunchtime when they go inside, but it failed because we actually didn't have any other suitable pants. They were in the hamper. I sighed and was preparing myself for ignoring her wailing and bodily drag her to the pre-school.

And then a memory came to me, of when I was around four or five, and had a fight with my mom over a pair of pants. She wanted me to wear some sort of bib-and-brace overalls, and I just refused. They were baby-pants! Ugly baby-pants! I remember my mother pleading with me that I had worn them last week and liked them just fine, and I remember how utterly illogical that argument was in my ears. That feeling of having to wear something that didn't fit who I was, that felt demeaning and wrong and humiliating. It's only a snapshot, and I don't know how it went, but I'm guessing I lost the fight since I remember it so vividly. Or, equally likely, I didn't have to wear the pants but my mother reacted with coldness and hostility and punished me by withdrawing her love because I voiced my opinion.

Anyway, I know what it feels like having to go around in clothes that makes you feel bad and makes you feel ugly. I don't care that the pants in question was gorgeous and supercomfy and that Mistress has an exact copy of them, they didn't match little S' view of herself. And suddenly I thought, what the hell, we'll fix this. And I got the kid in the car instead of the stroller, and headed for the nearest mall on the way to the pre-school. We were going to buy pants!

Only, the shops didn't open as early as I had hoped, but then I was on a mission, so we went ten minutes in another direction, found a supermarket with a small clothes aisle, and eventually a pair of pants. That were actually in a set with a cute matching top. And then we got a pair of warm winter mittens, and three pairs of gloves, because those always get dirty or lost, and it's good to have a few to change with. And it was really cheap, too. On the way out past the register little S got a balloon too, for free, and we made our way to the pre-school quite happily. I was pleased with little S getting new clothes and with being able to leave a contented child for the day.

And then I got home and texted Mistress about my adventure. The first text was rather optimistic, like "oh, and I got some clothes for little S, wasn't that great?". The next one, ten minutes later was more along the lines of "Uhm... I just realised I should have asked first. I should have asked for permission, shouldn't I? Sorry..." That one got a terse answer, that yes, I should definitely have asked permission first.

Epic slut fail.

So now I got punished. And remember those bruises on my butt? If she does that simply for maintenance, what does she do when I spend money without permission and goes on errands completely without telling her about it? Well... she docked the money for the clothes from my allowance this month, about a fifth of the sum I get for lunches and other indulgenses. And I had to complete a task that I was supposed to do today anyway, before lunch instead of whenever I wanted. That's the punishment.

And now I'm forgiven. I'm still a bit ashamed, and feeling greatful to her for holding me to her standards, and very much decided that I'll never to that again and always text her about my doings and plans, as I usually do.

I feel punished. And I feel contrite. And I feel very much that she owns me, and that I made a mistake, and that I should do better in the future. It does matter that she holds me accountable. It does matter that she meets out punishment. It doesn't, however, have to be cruel or nasty or bloody. A short jerk, a disappointed voice, a reminder that she's not pleased with my actions. It makes me thankful to be hers, and it makes me feel safe and secure and looked after.