April's Thanksgiving Shower, Part 2

**The following story is based in part on actual events, fictionalized and embellished for your entertainment. The names have been changed to protect the guilty, the innocent, and the author.***

I felt vulnerable. The stairs were beside me, the front door was behind me and I was alone. The feeling was accentuated by my raised arms, hands stationed behind my head and the sounds of my siblings’ overt gawking from upstairs. Water still dripped off my naked body, puddling on the floor at my feet. My nipples hardened in the gentle waft of cold morning air circulating around me and I shivered. A rosy blush warmed and colored my pale cheeks. Gazing into the openness of the house, I longed to stare into a comfortable corner.

Lodged in the forefront of my thoughts was the imminent and inescapable arrival of our guests. The sound of a passing car outside sent a shuddering rush of panic through me. Every noise, large and small, echoed in my chest, quickening the beat of my heart. The sound of the closet door opening and closing turned my hot blood cold with knowing apprehension. Dad was coming back to me.

He arrived bearing gifts. The large towel in his hand grabbed my attention first. In a fit of temporary insanity I imagine him handing the towel to me and wrapping my naked, wet body within its warm and dry confines. Dad shattered the dream, throwing the towel to my feet. My eyes lingered on it because even a shattered dream was better than the nightmare resting in his other hand.

Dad waved the school-sized Lexan paddle in the air like a professor’s pointer. "Face the stairs, bend over and grab the bottom step."

My gaze darted around the openness, desperate for an escape from Dad’s impending wrath. With nowhere left to turn I looked to Dad and hoped for a holiday miracle. "It's really not necessary. I've learned my lesson."

"I'll decide what's necessary and what isn't," Dad said pointing the blunt end of the paddle at the bottom step. "Now bend over unless you'd rather wait until after everyone has arrived."

My heart thudded at the prospect of a larger audience. "Now is good for me," I said and turned to the stairs, bending over as instructed.

The first swat brought with it a swoosh of cool morning air. It was enough to make me shiver, only the paddle splatted against my bottom before I could. The result was a very loud yelp from me. My buttocks twitched trying to figure out whether they were freezing cold or stinging from the first sparks of a fire. I had the answer, but communicating it to my muscles amid the shock of tingles in my nerves was impossible. Instead, I blinked back the tears forming in my eyes and kept my hands on that bottom step because I knew another swat was already well on its way.

Sure enough, the second swat landed before I had stopped twitching from the first. Tears burst from my eyes and I managed a sniffle mid-yelp. My feet slid on the wet tile as I clenched and unclenched my burning buttocks in a futile attempt to alleviate the discomfort. Were it not for my hands holding onto the step I might have fallen. For a moment it was like I was half running, half slipping, on ice before I got my feet back under me. Dad stepped on the towel on the floor and moved it around with his leg, quickly mopping up the puddle around my feet. I appreciated the short break despite the fact I was quivering, waiting for him to continue.

Dad resumed his place behind me and rested the paddle against my trembling, tender bottom. "I hope you're learning from this. All I asked was for you to be courteous to your brother and sisters this morning by observing a sane shower time. I don't think I was being unreasonable, do you?"

Even with my upside down view of Dad's face I could see the disappointment in his features. I felt small, silly, ridiculous and even more so as my conscience told me I hadn't given him any choice with my behavior. I hadn’t really thought he would do more than frown at me, but I should have known better. I had challenged his authority almost blatantly by wasting time in the shower despite his warning. Though it hardly seemed possible, I felt myself blushing hotter as the realization of my foolishness pounded in my hanging head.

Dad raised the paddle and delivered a third swat forcing another yelp to emerge from  my lips and another bout of my feet dancing on the floor. "I asked you a question and I expect an answer, young lady."

My thoughts were consumed with the growing discomfort in my upturned bottom. The memory of his question eluded me, but the hovering paddle demanded a prompt response. "Yes," I said.

"Yes?" Dad sounded incredulous. "So I shouldn't expect you to ever think of anyone other than yourself? You've been skirting the edge of getting a spanking for months. Apparently, I should have done this much sooner."

I bit at my lip and struggled to stop from waving my stinging butt around in the air. "That's not what I meant."

"Maybe you better explain what you meant then." Dad prodded with the paddle, slapping it lightly against my butt.

I swayed my butt in the air trying to ease the stinging created by Dad’s constant tapping. "I meant I was wrong and I'm sorry."

Dad said, "Somehow I don't think you'd be sorry one bit if you weren't bent over getting your butt spanked right now."

The truth of his words seemed a little humorous even with my upside down perspective. A tight grin found its way to my face. "Probably true," I said.

Dad shook his head, possibly disappointed in me or maybe he was just hiding his own amusement. "I sure wish I knew what it's going to take to get you to take a situation seriously."

"I do take it seriously," I said and wiggled my butt as the paddle patted against it for the umpteenth time. "My butt is seriously stinging."

There was a whoosh of cold air behind me. A split second later there was a loud crack splitting the air. It reverberated through my body, jiggling me in ways that would have otherwise been embarrassing. My butt seemed to explode in a fiery storm of ants.

Tears sprang once more from my eyes. I howled.  Dad was clearly not amused in any way, shape or form. He raised the paddle again and delivered another ear-splitting swat to my still bouncing butt. I teetered forward, raised up on my toes by the force of the impact. The paddle retreated as quickly as it had connected leaving me to agonize over its probable and imminent return.

I twisted to the side hoping to move my backside enough to keep him from landing another swat. Dad managed to find his target anyway. I cried out hoping he would figure out I had gotten his message. He wasn’t taking any chances though, he brought the paddle smacking against my butt another five times before resting again. I twisted, kicked, jiggled, hopped, jumped, screamed, shouted, and begged, but none of my antics succeeded in altering my situation or garnering any sympathy.

My butt was on fire from within. Deep down I knew it was earned. I was ashamed and not just because I was naked getting my bottom spanked. There was the nagging knowledge my sisters and brother had heard the entire spectacle. The way the paddle cracked against my butt and echoed in the open spaces of the house assured they would hear even if they hadn’t intended to listen. And then, there was my crying and pleading for mercy, just like a bad little girl getting her just desserts. I had plenty to be ashamed about and that was before starting to analyze my behavior in the shower. I felt all of six inches tall and oddly enough that’s about how high my head was dangling above the floor.

Dad tapped the paddle against my stinging posterior, directing my attention back to him. “Have you figured out I’m serious yet or do I need to make your butt seriously sting some more?”

“Yes.” My voice squeaked with submissiveness.

“Yes what?” Dad smacked the paddle against my butt making me jump and yelp.

“Yes, I’m taking you seriously,” I said.

“Good,” Dad said. He landed the paddle hard against my bottom and I responded as before. He waited for my fuss to conclude before continuing his lecture. “I don’t want to have this conversation again. For as long you live in this house, when I ask you to do something, you will do it. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” I breathed through the affirmation. The blood pounding in my upside down head was making me impatient. Another swat to my backside left me gasping for air and no less impatient than before. I wriggled my bottom, desperate to find comfort from the stinging burn and, as expected, I found none.

Dad tapped my bottom with the flat of the paddle until I stopped dancing around. From my bent perspective, it was a long wait.

He said, “And I’m done putting up with your nonchalant attitude about everything. You don’t live alone here and you were raised to know how to cooperate and share with the other members of this family. Apparently I’ve allowed you to forget, but starting right now I’m going to be reminding you whenever you need it. Is that clear?”

“As a glass-bottomed boat,” I said.

Dad shattered my glass bottom. He raised the paddle and delivered another hard swat. I was up on my tiptoes like a ballerina and singing opera for the neighbors in two seconds flat. Dad brought the paddle back to rest against my burning cheeks looking decidedly proud of himself. I wisely chose to keep the observation to myself.

He patted my bottom with the paddle, keeping me hovering on my toes. “Obviously you still think this all a big joke, but let me remind you I can crack this paddle against your butt at least one more time than you can keep cracking jokes. If you want to put it to the test, just keep on going.”

I swallowed hard, which was pretty hard with my hair mopping the floor, and dug deep for the serious tone Dad was waiting to hear. “I believe you.”

I  watched the expression on his face looking for signs I wasn’t just digging myself into a deeper hole. “I got the message and I’m sorry,” I said finishing with a sniffle I hoped might gain me a little sympathy or maybe at least one less swat than he planned to deliver.

The paddle left my butt and I braced for another swat while wondering what else I could have said to make a difference. Dad interrupted my tension. “You’ve got a long way to go before I’m convinced.”

He brought the paddle down hard, catching me off guard and nearly launching me into orbit. I almost grabbed my flaming bottom before sense re-took its hold over me. Still, I hopped around in a circle in front of Dad, wringing my hands in the air as if they could magically assuage the fiery pain in my butt.

Dad watched my display with a glimmer of amusement trickling back into his eyes. “Settle down,” he said, masking his satisfaction with sternness.

“It hurts,” I said forcing myself to stop hopping around. The blood rushed back into my face as if I were still hanging my head upside down instead of facing Dad. It wasn’t like I had somehow forgotten I was naked, but suddenly standing still as all my bits stopped jiggling about was like a humiliating slap in the face with reality. No matter how many times it has happened or will happen, I will never get used to Dad spanking me, seeing me, in my birthday suit.

“Good,” Dad said and pointed the paddle back at the bottom step, “Now bend back over before I decide it needs to hurt even more than it’s already going to.”

My eyes followed an imaginary line from the end of the paddle to the bottom step behind me. I looked back at him, my eyes pleading for leniency, but he didn’t even blink. There was no escaping Dad’s justice. I turned back to the stairs and bent over, offering my butt once more. All I could do was wait, bearing the silence and the throbbing stinging pangs emanating from my exposed buttocks. I was torn, wishing Dad would just finish it and yet hoping he would pause long enough for the intensity to weaken.

“You’ve got five more coming and I mean them to make a lasting impression,” Dad said and raised the paddle high. “Keep your hands on that step and your butt in the air unless you want extra.”

It may have seemed ample warning from his perspective, but from mine it was too little, too late. The first of the five finishing swats landed against my butt with an ear-ringing crack. If I hadn’t known better I would have sworn a firecracker had exploded on my bottom. I barely had time to yelp and hop before the next swat landed and from there out I’m not really sure which was louder; The paddle cracking against my bottom or the howling coming out of my throat. It’s a fair bet everyone within a block of our house knew someone was getting a spanking. I just hope they didn’t recognize it as me.

After the last swat Dad rested the paddle against my burning butt as if he was considering whether or not to give me another swat. I couldn’t help the twitching in my buttocks, but I dared not move otherwise. Tears continued to stream from my eyes. My tense muscles threatened to send me into nervous convulsions while I waited for his decision. I barely contained a remark asking him to make up his mind. It sounded funny in my ears and yet somehow I doubted Dad would agree. The house was unusually quiet, with even my sniffles seeming muted.

Finally, Dad said, “Straighten up and face me.”

I raised myself into a standing position, sucked in my lips to keep from saying anything stupid and turned cautiously to look him in the eye. Our eyes met for about a second before I decided my feet were a safer object to focus on. My butt was a pulsing, crackling flame, but Dad was done swinging the paddle. I should have been relieved, the spanking was over and yet I stood trembling under his scrutiny. There was nothing to put my finger on, only intuition telling me the worst remained ahead rather than behind me.

Dad transferred the paddle to his off hand and grabbed my arm. “I think you owe some people an apology. What do you think?”

“Yes.” I nodded.

He started up the stairs, pushing me ahead of him. I shuddered at the thought of facing my siblings with tears on my face and a butt that could easily be mistaken for a heat lamp. It was clear Dad wasn’t offering me a choice. I climbed the stairs as slowly as I could dare without annoying him. They were waiting for us at the top. Their hushed whispers turned to silence upon seeing me, making it clear the discussion had been about me. If I could have hid in a corner I would have, but instead I was forced to stand facing them. I closed my eyes searching for the strength and humility to say what had to be said.

April's Thanksgiving Shower, Part 01

***The following story is based in part on actual events, fictionalized and embellished for your entertainment. The names have been changed to protect the guilty, the innocent, and the author.***

I awoke to the cold shrill of the alarm clock beside my bed. It was late autumn and I shivered as I reached from beneath my warm covers to slap the offending alarm back into silence. The cold breath of morning air was enough to push away the last vestiges of sleep and any thoughts I might have had of returning to the comfortable oblivion of my dreams. Resigned to the waking world, I threw aside my covers and jumped from bed, wrapping myself in the warmth of my robe as I hurried out my bedroom door. The race was on.

As I rushed down the hall toward the bathroom I heard the sounds of my siblings rising. The door to my left swung open and my brother burst into the hall just in front of me. I brushed past him enjoying watching the sleepy smirk on his face turn to a frown as I entered the bathroom two steps ahead of him. Under an impish impulse from days long past I stuck my tongue out at him as my hand grasped the edge of the door and began to swing it closed. My tongue froze in place when the door stopped short by the insertion of my father’s foot.

My heart skipped a beat and my cheeks had the good sense to blush red, caught in the embarrassingly childish act of taunting my brother with my tongue. Fortunately Dad’s eyes were amused although you might not have guessed it by the stern lock of his jaw and the wagging finger he raised toward my nose. I narrowly avoided rolling my eyes in annoyance at Dad’s interference and braced myself for a lecture about proper behavior for a young woman my age. Usually Dad never tires of such lectures, but he had other concerns for a change.

Dad said, “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, but this is not a morning for dallying in the shower. Company is going to be here in about three hours and you aren’t the only one who needs to shower still.”

My tongue had a sudden and nearly irresistible urge to re-emerge from my mouth, but I managed to contain it by huffing up on attitude. “I’m not five.”

Dad’s eyes stopped laughing. “Don’t get sassy with me, young lady. I’m just giving you fair warning to be out of there in a half hour or less if you don’t want to be sporting a red backside when company arrives.”

My brother took the opportune moment, hidden behind Dad’s back, to stick his tongue out in my direction. The smirk was back on his face and it irritated me enough that I decided it was necessary to prove myself unfazed and unafraid of Dad’s threat. In retrospect this probably wasn’t my finest moment in reasoning.

As Dad’s foot retreated from the doorway I said, “Whatever. I’ll be out when I’m out,” and I closed the door.

Dad raised his voice to be certain I heard him through the closed door. “I’m serious April.”

“Uh huh,” I said and flicked on the switch for the fan to drown out anything else he might have said. Again, this probably wasn’t the wisest course of action.

I turned the water on in the shower, opening the hot water valve all the way and stepped back waiting for the room to begin filling with steam. It irked me to no end that my father felt the need to warn me about taking too long of a shower at my age. Sure, I’d taken long showers in the past and even in the not so distant past, but that was beside the point. It was Thanksgiving morning and he had to think pretty low of me if he thought I wasn’t smart enough to figure out this wasn’t a morning for a long shower.

Having grown up with four older sisters and a younger brother, I was no stranger to the difficulties of sharing the bathroom. For as long as I could remember we had raced to the entrance every morning in order to secure our access to the best hot water and least wait. Dad wouldn’t have bothered saying a word to any of my siblings, but me, well just because I had taken an hour long shower one time on a holiday when I was like ten years old, he felt I needed reminding about bathroom courtesy. A full decade later and he was still acting like I had just done it yesterday. It was annoying to the point I almost wanted to time myself to ensure I did take a full hour.

The steam began filtering beyond the tub and the mirror fogged over. I exited my robe and pajamas and stepped into the shower. The water beaded on my skin and poured through the long strands of my hair, running down my back. Everything should have just flowed away, but I closed my eyes and the incident with my father replayed itself in my mind. My brother’s smirk and wagging tongue vexed me toward insanity. I would prove to him, to both of them, that I’d take as long of a shower as  I pleased and there was nothing they could do about it. Or so I thought at that point in time. Yeah, I know, another not so bright idea.

I wasn’t so much determined to test my father’s resolve as I was to prove I wasn’t going to be swayed by threats. It seemed to me the best way to prove that was to take my shower as if nothing had been said at all and so I did. I lathered up with soap, scrubbed my hair and doused it with a healthy dose of conditioner. My indignation began to fade away and I almost forgot all about it. I was rinsing my hair, humming to myself, comfortable in the warmth of the water and feeling cleaner by the second when the bathroom door flung open and bounced against its stop.

My arms snaked in front of me and I emitted a shallow, obligatory scream. Dad walked purposefully into the bathroom, grabbed the shower door and slid it open. His hand reached inside the shower and turned the water spray off while he glared at me all the while. I stared back at him, mouth agape and speechless.

Dad grabbed at my arm and lost his grip due to the unrinsed soap suds still present. He scowled deeper at me and grabbed hold of my hair, pulling me sideways out of the tub. “I warned you,” he said.

I decided pointing out the blaringly obvious was the appropriate response rather than defending myself. “You’re pulling my hair!”

“March.” Dad’s firm grasp of my hair and deliberate pace toward the hallway made it clear it was an order rather than a suggestion.

Embarrassed about being naked, soapy, and wet I decided to try and mask it with some less than wise humor. “I’m April, remember Dad?”

Dad’s hand slapped my left butt cheek and I yelped, kicking my corresponding leg into the air slightly. “You’ll be Cherry Red by the time company gets here. I wonder if you’ll still think it’s all a joke then?” Dad asked. He slapped the right side and I responded accordingly. His hand alternated back and forth from cheek to cheek making my soapy, wet butt sting. I tried to twist away from him, but his grip on my hair kept me from doing more than dancing around in a semi-circle. I’m guessing if I’d seen myself flailing around in all my naked glory I’d have turned beet red. It’s not like his slaps hurt that much, but the reaction was impulsive to the stinging and the undeniable intent on my Dad’s face. I was in for it and his hand slapping my naked bottom was definitely the least of things I should have been worried about.

We entered the hallway, Dad’s free hand still slapping at my butt and my brother, along with two of my sisters were all lined up to watch. I tried to avoid looking at them as Dad marched me down the hall toward the stairs, but it was impossible not the see the satisfaction in their eyes. None of us were immune to Dad’s discipline and it was always nice to see someone else in trouble as long as you weren’t next in line. Of course on this occasion I wasn’t exactly in line because there was no waiting. Well almost no waiting anyway and I’m not sure whether I would have preferred more or less.

As we started down the stairs, Dad slowed his pace enough for me to hold the railing and take careful steps to avoid sliding to the bottom on my wet bottom. I’m sure his motivation was a purely selfish desire to be the one and only person imparting redness on my backside. At the bottom of the stairs he stood me in the middle of the tile floor right next to the front door. He let go of my hair and my hands couldn’t decide if they wanted to protect my modesty or comfort my head. Either way I was dripping a puddle onto the floor.

Dad wagged his finger in front of my nose and I tried to follow it with my eyes until I got dizzy. He said, “You are going to stand here with your hands behind your head and wait until I come back. Is that understood?”

I asked, “Do I have a choice?”

“Yes,” Dad said and pointed to the front door, “you can turn around and walk out the door and find your own place to live.”

I raised my hands to rest behind my head and offered a wide smile at Dad despite the fact I was far from happy. He continued to point at the door and glare at me for a long quiet moment before turning his back, apparently satisfied that I understood him. My biggest fear right at that moment was that he would wait to come back until the doorbell rang with our imminent company on the other side. I knew I was in for a spanking, but getting it in front aunts, uncles, and cousins seemed a fate far worse than death or possibly walking out the door naked. I suppose it would have been better had I thought of such things while I was in the shower.

Grounded

Grounding, sometimes referred to as restriction, is a punishment in which the recipient’s freedom is artificially limited by the disciplinarian. Generally, grounding includes some form of confinement and a limitation of activities. However, grounding is an extremely flexible discipline which can be adapted into almost any situation with a little imagination on the part of the disciplinarian. When confinement is not feasible alternative restrictions can usually be implemented and the same goes for limiting activities. With its wide range of possibilities it should come as know surprise that grounding is one of the world’s most common punishments.

Societies use jails or prisons to confine prisoners and within that confinement the inmates activities are controlled by adherence to a strict regime. In this way, jail time may be seen as an extreme form of grounding. For most, iron bars and concrete cells are not necessary. When disciplinarians make use of confinement they tend to utilize the home environment, either sending the recipient to their bedroom, a special room in the home, requiring them to stay within the house, within a certain portion of the house, or within the boundaries of private property surrounding the home. Of course, other locations are sometimes used depending on availability and control over the space. The decision as to how much area the recipient is allowed to occupy may or may not be influenced by the recipient’s transgression.

Often times the more severe side of grounding is the limitation to the recipients activities. The wide range of possibilities makes it impossible to provide a comprehensive list, but is should suffice to indicate that any activity which is not strictly necessary to survival, may be taken away and those which are necessary to survival may be strictly controlled and regulated. The most common restriction to activities revolve around entertainment, such as limiting access to computers, televisions, radios, mp3 players, cd players, and games (video or otherwise).  Second only to entertainment activities are restrictions from communications like; telephones, cellphones, and visitors.

As with most popular disciplines, grounding offers the disciplinarian many ways to connect the punishment to the recipient’s poor behavior. A speeding ticket might result in the loss of the use of a car, staying out past curfew might mean being stuck at home with an early bedtime, or inappropriate attire for an evening out might mean staying home wearing an embarrassing outfit or even nothing at all. Most disciplinarians agree, it is this fundamental connection between misbehavior and punishment that makes a disciplinary measure an effective teaching tool.

The aspect of grounding which truly sets it apart from all other disciplines is time.  A spanking is immediate and while a recipient might complain about the length of time in the immediacy it is a relatively brief measure. Even writing line, one of the more time intensive disciplines, is of little relevance when compared to the time involved in grounding. Although, technically grounding can be used for any period time, intervals shorter than a day are typically ineffective and privately viewed by the recipient as a joke. Likewise, time frames that span more than a couple of months tend to reach a point of diminished returns. Time spans between one and two weeks are typically utilized and generally have the best results in terms of lesson teaching and behavioral modification.

While grounding is undeniably an effective discipline used on its own, it is also commonly used with additional disciplinary measures. Anything from writing lines, to spanking, all the way to punishment chores can be used simultaneously and the limitations are only so far as the disciplinarian’s imagination is restrained. Grounding is often the best alternative when a single disciplinary measure is insufficient because of its unique adaptability to almost any circumstance and the ease in which other disciplines may also be included. All told, it is easy to see why grounding is a favorite among disciplinarians so long as the time is available.

Punishment Chores

Outside of the kitchen oven, not many things clean themselves. Hence, chores were born and while almost no one enjoys doing chores, they are a necessity of life. Of course chores can be much more than simply cleaning, but in general they are tasks that must be done and yet are no fun to do. Naturally, this situation lends itself to the disciplinarian as a way to accomplish two goals at once.

Chores, as punishment, might be directly related to the recipient’s misdemeanor. Traipsing mud across a floor might result in the recipient scrubbing the floor clean. However, to differentiate the discipline from the responsibility of cleaning up after one’s self, the task might be required to be done with a small brush or sponge rather than a mop. This is the typical fashion for using chores as punishment; Making the recipient complete the chore in a manner that requires harder work and more time than it could otherwise be done. In this way, the recipient can link the chore to their poor behavior and like with corner time, give it some in depth thought. There is nothing quite like monotonous labor to induce deep thoughts.

Sometimes chores are used for less direct reasons. The recipient might have been wasting time, acting sullen, or behaving irresponsibly. In such instances chores can be useful in restoring a balanced routine as well as a positive attitude. Being forced to do monotonous labor in an inefficient manner cannot help but instruct the recipient in better uses of their time. Imagine using a toothbrush to clean kitchen floor while a mop rests against a nearby wall. Now, to take it even further imagine a time limit has been established for the chore. The frustration, the taunting of a nearby mop, the ticking of the clock, all have a way of encouraging a positive change.

Additionally, the very essence of chores provides discipline for both the body and mind of the recipient. The laborious tasks assigned as chores often require mental focus and physical prowess in order to accomplish the task to expectations. Most disciplinarians will set exacting standards for the quality of the work and the time allotted for completion. Failure to meet those standards can be dealt with in a variety ways from starting the chore over to adding new chores, or even adding other disciplinary measures such as spanking.

Used alone, punishment chores are an effective force for positive change. In some instances though, disciplinarians may feel additional measures are necessary. Fortunately for them, punishment chores can be enhanced easily with other punishments such as spanking or corner time. Most commonly however, punishment chores will be used in coordination with some form of grounding. Disciplinarians favor this option because it places the recipient in the position of having their activities not only restricted, but controlled and scheduled.

Chores are clearly a flexible and easily used discipline. By their very nature, chores teach patience, dedication, responsibility, and respect while offering no, or at least very limited risk, to the recipient. Clearly chores are a punishment well suited to correct a wide variety of disciplinary issues and can easily be added to or used in replacement of, any number of disciplinary measures. And it goes without saying there are always plenty of chores needing to be done in every household.

Writing Lines

There is probably nothing more effective for teaching than repetition. In this way, writing lines can be one of the best tools in a disciplinarian’s arsenal. It can be used on its own or in conjunction with other disciplinary tools, depending of the severity of the behavior problem and the preferences of the disciplinarian. For best effect, the written line should be reflective of the bad behavior, either in a positive or negative light.

Before assigning lines, the disciplinarian should carefully think out the process and decide the parameters they wish to observe. There are many options available from determining the text to be written, to how many times it will be repeated, to the style of penmanship permitted. The recipient should be fully aware of all expectations before they begin.

The biggest downside to lines is the amount of time it consumes. The disciplinarian must be prepared to monitor the work of the recipient during the process and review it at the conclusion. Depending on the number of lines settled upon, the process easily takes two or more hours. As long as the time is available, the punishment is viable, but if there are other demands on time, then it may be best to seek out an alternative punishment.

Once the appropriate text has been selected and the quantity of repetitions selected, a standard for the legibility of the handwriting should be established as well as an acceptable margin for errors. In most cases, errors are not permitted at all, while the quality of the handwriting is expected to diminish over the course of the work so long as it remains legible.

It is common to have established repercussion for errors and illegible handwriting. Those repercussions can be anything, but typically involve re-writing the line at least one additional time and potentially can include other discipline such as a spanking or hand punishment.

The recipient is usually given a place to write with little in the way of distractions; Away from televisions and radios. Workspace at a table or small desk with a hard backed chair is quite common. They may be required to turn in each page as it is completed or wait until the entire assignment is complete. Either way, they are expected to continue working without interruption until the entire set is complete. Discipline for errors is typically put off until the end, but can also be given throughout the process as errors are identified.

No modifications to the attire are necessary, but some disciplinarians find it appropriate to have the recipient writing lines while bare bottomed. This is particularly true if spanking accompanies the assignment for either errors or for additional discipline. In the end, there is little doubt that the recipient is well aware of what they did and why they were punished, making writing lines a very effective disciplinary tool.