The Punishment I Asked For Without Knowing It: Day One

I knew something was wrong long before he said a word. I confirmed it the moment he opened the door, I went out to meet him, and saw his face. There was a new severity in him, a premeditated coldness that announced rough seas, the kind that threaten to swallow you whole.

—You know what you did wrong —he said, setting his backpack on the floor. No hello, no kiss, nothing.

—Yes, sir.

I knelt at once, my hands still in my lap. I lowered my head slightly, but I didn’t look away from him. We held each other’s gaze like two people who already know how the conversation is going to end.

—Say out loud what you’re responsible for —he ordered curtly, as he took off his sneakers.

—I pretended to have a hangover so I wouldn’t satisfy your desires, just because I thought it would be funny, directly breaking one of the first points of our agreement.

I spat it out as neutrally as I could and had the good sense not to add anything else. I would have liked to remind him that I’d confessed my fault myself the day before, and that in the end we’d had the sex he wanted. But that wasn’t the issue right now, and we both knew it.

—Go to the bedroom. Bring the thick ropes, the ball gag, and the thin rope.

I nodded in silence. I got up, and once in the hallway, when he couldn’t see me, my expression twisted. I knew perfectly well what each thing on that list implied. What was waiting for me was going to be hard. Very hard.

I took everything out of the closet, knelt again holding the gear in my arms and on my lap, and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited.

Well, you’re certainly going to inaugurate your redhead phase in style, Marlene, I thought, resigned to my fate, my head bowed before what was about to come down on me.

I’d dyed it recently, at his request. We’d taken advantage of Halloween to do it and dress me up as Jessica Rabbit, with that fire-red hair falling over one shoulder. And there I was, kneeling in our room, dressed like her again: the tight dress, the matching underwear, my lips painted red. Just as he’d asked me over the phone, before I knew what was really in store for me.

At last he appeared, and I even thanked him with a look: my arms were already starting to ache. He took the gear and laid it out on the bed. When he got to the ball gag, he held it by the strap between his index finger and thumb and let it hang, as if it were something dirty or disgusting.

—This one, no.

I swallowed. If I didn’t look away it was pure pride, which I have in abundance for things like this. I knew exactly what he meant: the other gag, the black one, bigger than the red one we always used, horribly uncomfortable, one of those that take hell to get used to.

I was about to get up to fetch it, but he was already absorbed in his work, and he proceeded to tie me up without the slightest mercy.

Bindings don’t need to be tight to leave me helpless. Many times they’re almost symbolic: even if I could get free, I never do. But the way he did it that time left no room for doubt. I wouldn’t have been able to escape no matter how hard I tried. Not even with a sharp knife in my hand.

A rope between my legs that lifted my dress and bit all the way in, underwear included. My wrists bound so tightly I could barely move my fingers. My elbows brought together—I’m flexible, but not that flexible. A chest harness that finished pinning my arms behind my back. Another rope around my waist to trap my forearms at kidney height. Ankles, knees, and thighs, all of it cinched just as cruelly as my hands.

And then, the arch tie.

When the rope went from my ankles to the harness beneath the back of my neck and was pulled taut, I growled and gasped in equal measure. With a firm tug my back arched and I protested again. The only part of my torso touching the wooden floor was my belly.

And I knew he still wasn’t done.

You know that point where you open your jaw and the gag won’t go in because it hits your teeth? That’s what the black one is like: at its widest part it won’t fit until I make room for it in my mouth. Fastening it behind my neck with the buckle was the least of it; getting it in myself was going to be a nightmare.

Then came my toes, tied very close together. And from there I knew what came next: my hair. He gathered it into a ponytail with another rope, and when he pulled on it to connect it to my big toes, I snapped my fingers. That’s our safeword.

—I can’t… the mouth —I stammered, not knowing whether he could understand me through the gag, but the mere fact that I wanted to speak was enough for him to remove it—. Sorry, I can’t… When you pull my hair back I feel like the gag is suffocating me… Sorry… really.

He stroked my cheek and kissed my forehead. He was worried.

—Can you handle this? —he asked me—. Should we stop here?

—No, no. Keep going… I want to see how far I can get… It won’t be much.

—Can you take a simple cloth gag?

I thought about it for barely a second. I nodded.

—Let’s go.

And he finished tying me up.

Describing how you feel in a situation like that is complicated. If whoever reads this has ever done yoga, let them imagine the hardest, most taut, most forced pose they can endure, but with no possible relief. It’s uncomfortable, very uncomfortable. And it’s worse if you try to struggle even a little, because then it turns into pain. There isn’t a single part of your body you can move—well, your fingers; not even your mouth, because with your neck stretched out it tends to stay open—only an intense, continuous, relentless pressure wrapping around every cell in your being. You get to a point where you don’t even know which part bothers you most. In my case, maybe my back.

Beside me, sitting cross-legged and not blinking, he waited for me to snap my fingers. As soon as I did, with a pair of tailor’s scissors in his hand, he cut through all my bindings as if untying a roast fresh from the oven.

The relief you feel at that moment is just as hard to explain. The closest thing I can think of is when you go to the physiotherapist and they work over an injured area mercilessly: that relief that arrives the very instant they stop. Or when you leave the dentist after a deep cleaning and your whole body wants to melt into the chair from sheer relaxation.

I was left like a disjointed puppet, and he massaged every area marked by the ropes, helping me rotate each joint in circles. It’s beautiful to be cared for like that when you feel so vulnerable. It’s tender. Or at least that’s how I experience it.

But he wasn’t done with me.

—Take the handcuffs and put them on yourself, behind your back.

I stared at him, mute, completely frozen. He had already punished me enough, and we’d just come from a moment of affection and tenderness, and… and… and…

—Are you planning to disobey me?

I was unable to answer or hold his gaze. The rope session had worn down any attempt at defiance, even if I didn’t like the question at all. I’m a good submissive; I was only thrown off balance and exhausted, I didn’t mean to offend him. I always obey a direct order.

—No, sir —I replied, crestfallen, my head bowed.

I went back to the closet to look for the handcuffs. I didn’t know where they were; we hadn’t used them in ages. Neither he nor I liked them. But that was the point, of course. I always enjoyed bondage, and he was applying it to me in a way that would make it feel like punishment. And he was succeeding.

After a good while rummaging around, they finally turned up. Before putting them on I knelt with my back to him. The sound of the metal ratchet filled the bedroom twice in a row and, with my forehead pressed against the wardrobe, I waited for further instructions.

And again I waited, and waited, and waited.

He called his parents to let them know he was home. He listened to some voice notes, sent one back to his friends.

The message he was sending me was crystal clear.

—Who earned all this? —he asked, turning his attention back to me.

—I did, sir.

—Am I the one to blame for you being like this?

—No, sir.

—Turn around, pretty girl.

I obeyed.

—Look at me.

I obeyed.

—I’m asking you again, and I want you to answer me honestly, not what you think I want to hear. Do you feel this is all my fault?

Sitting on the bed, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together, he leaned toward me. There was a sad smile on his face.

—May I speak freely, sir? —I asked, my heart on the verge of collapsing.

—Always, sweetheart.

And the words came pouring out of my mouth. Sour and sweet, frantic and soft. I knew full well that what I’d done was stupid, that I’d let myself be carried away by a vain feeling of power by denying him what was his. A power I didn’t even enjoy, as I proved hours later by confessing my mistake. That I was truly sorry for having ruined the costume fantasy that way, because I was sure he would have wanted to begin it in a very different manner. That one thing was playful little mischief in everyday life, and quite another was betraying the agreement we’d both signed, one of the pillars of our relationship.

—And I’d love to tell you I won’t do it again… but you know how I am. You know I love to annoy you, and that so many, many times I act without thinking.

He took my chin and our faces were left a kiss apart. Seeking his understanding, I rested my cheek on his knees and my hair spilled over his legs.

—I know, pretty girl. I know —he said, stroking my head—. For me, what really matters is that punishments don’t damage what we have, that when I apply them you understand they’re part of the game we call dominance and submission. I’d never forgive myself for punishing you and breaking you so badly on the inside that, when it came time to sleep, we’d end up turning our backs to each other in bed.

—No, never that… —I answered with my eyes closed, horrified just imagining it.

—Your punishment isn’t over yet —he told me, almost as if he were asking my forgiveness.

I lifted my gaze and found that beautiful face, a little shadowed.

—Shall we keep playing, pretty girl?

I nodded, with a tender smile on my lips.

—I love you, Marlene.

—And I love you, Adrián.