Fiction: Sophie’s Discipline Journal

If you’re like me, you have stuff around the house you haven’t looked at for years — things you want to toss but, you just know if you do, you’ll need that thing for something. The upshot of this neurosis is that one room of the house must be sacrificed to the god of storage. I try to stay out of there, but yesterday I needed something I knew I had held on to from the past. I looked for a small item buried. And I looked. No luck, and I was cursing the storage god until I dug up something that turned out to be a far better find, a shoebox full of computer diskettes. On these old magnetized recordings are personal files I saved because, at the time, they seemed important. On another day, I would have ignored them, but this day I was intrigued. …or maybe just bored… and the chance to dig up the past tickled my brain with possibilities. First thing, I had to fire up an old computer that had a floppy disk drive, and once that hurdle was crossed, I was wishing I had labeled things better. I started popping in disks and opening files to find nothing exciting: business correspondence, financial records, low-res graphics I had drawn, dumb stories I had written… In less than an hour, my boredom had only grown, and exponentially. The disks were about to go back to their box when I spotted something different that looked familiar. A little chill ran up my spine. Written right on the label it was, warming that chill to spark a fire in the mind. I had discovered something that was not merely personal, but should have been locked away, marked confidential. The record of a minute detail of my life this was not. I had found Sophie’s Discipline Journal.

I met Sophie Mulder in 1989. It was Thanksgiving. My younger brother had brought her home to dinner and to meet the family. The cynic in me figured she was just another cheerleader. It turned out she was his new steady. I can still see her seated at the table… the preppy clothes she was wearing… her hair parted in the middle of her pretty round head, falling in rich tones to shroud her narrow shoulders. I remember she ate too little and smiled too much while the rest of us tried to outdo each other over spiced politics and a festive serving of cherished opinions. Decorum wasn’t in the family vocabulary. Sophie nodded politely, stoic like a pilgrim at a pagan feast.

I had somehow picked up a few manners outside the home, yet still found my eye too keen to wander in the direction of her place at the table. Unlike the American Princess or Prima Donna Jake typically brought home, this Sophie girl was pleasant, quiet and unassuming, and I tend to be good or lucky at first impressions. Without knowing her, I liked her…a girl on whom I may have had designs had she not become more like a sister to me. That’s just the way it works; the significant other of a brother becomes a member of the family. It should never feel right to think of her any other way. 

At the distance from which I observed, I thought I knew my brother’s girlfriend pretty well. She was not a deep mystery difficult to comprehend, but more a discernible confidence not fully shared. Quiet girls reveal little. Maybe there is not much to hide. I often wondered what the conversations were like behind Jake’s door. If the two weren’t locked away in his bedroom, the girl who spent countless hours at our house was like a shadow following under and behind Jake wherever he went. She was loyal as a puppy. Regrettably, because she never had much to say, and acted as a docile and subservient attachment to her boyfriend, I thought she might be a bit shallow or a little slow. Her life seemed completely free of complication. It lacked passion and a point of view. However, Sophie was no dark apparition, but rather a light that brightened any room she occupied. She was more than redeemed for me by a smile like honey and a generous demeanor that was shown to all without prejudice. Then, as abruptly as she came into the sphere of my life, she was gone.

I was out of the house only a short time when I heard Jake and Sophie had broken up. Just like that, the three-year romance was over. She was the one to leave, and that was a shock in-and-of-itself. I felt sorrow for my brother’s pain, but he had no one to blame but himself — his only defense, too many temptations for the star quarterback and campus stud, even with this sweet flower, the envy of his friends, a beautiful girl he could call all his own. The destiny for many a young male — those wild oats, a spreading of the seed.

Sophie was devastated. She still kept in touch with my mother—the two of them had been close from the beginning—so I received the occasional snippet regarding her life after love. The loose picture painted was one of change, of a new woman, shocked into a battle for her own survival. Men were no longer such solid ground on which to plant her anchor. I heard she had a job. If there had ever been a girl destined for domesticity… I always saw Sophie’s future as the ward of a man, taken care of, and in turn bearing and raising a family well nourished by her boundless love. This girl should have quickly found a doting admirer, but instead I heard she was working in a doctor’s office by day and taking classes in the evening with no time left for dating. A year later, the news was that she was seeing a musician, and his description suggested a lover the antithesis of my brother. One day I bumped into her at the grocery store where, like old cousins, we exchanged hugs and a few family recollections. I noted she had gone from apple pie to rock ‘n’ roll. Then nothing.

By the way, my name is Peter. Depending on one’s point of view, I suppose I could be seen as the heavy in this recounting. Sophie wouldn’t see it that way but, let’s face it, the telling will be bluntly revealing to the unprepared. Maybe I should have locked her journal away, far from the light of day but, with her blessing, names changed to protect the guilty, I instead choose to reveal our secret now, all these years later, and with no whitewashing. I offer this not to win favor but simply to present the facts as they existed at the time.

Sophie Mulder, still single and pursuing a career as a healthcare professional, left a message on my answering machine in early 1994. She had an extra ticket and asked if I wanted to accompany her to a concert — not a date-date kind of thing, just old friends, and because she knew I loved jazz. On the drive to and from said concert, seated almost touching side-by-side in her tiny car, we had much to talk about. I made no secret of the fact that I was interested, and she responded by bringing me up to speed on her life in more detail than I had ever known. The quiet girl had become a woman. I drank in everything she had to say. All I wanted to hear was that she was healthy and happy. She told me how she was moving forward with her job and schooling, but it was a struggle. She was disappointed in her own performance. With much hesitancy and apparent embarrassment, she eventually broached a subject that came right out of the blue …right out of left field …right out of the closet. My closet. I was at a loss for words, but Sophie did the talking. Back home, several years ago, she had seen, stashed as a dirty secret, a stack of magazines. Apparently, I had not hidden them well enough.

I could see it was especially mortifying for her to admit that, after hearing about my little collection from Jake, she had had to see it for herself. I was shocked. This did not fit her at all. The little scamp had snuck into my bedroom while I was away and had gotten herself a quick education on a subject near and dear to my heart. Her curiosity was satisfied that my secret was, indeed, spanking. I was what you would call “into it.” The sordid publications I had collected from trips to a specialty book shop on the darkest street downtown all shared a common theme, that being discipline. They all featured bad girls and their old-fashioned comeuppances. Sophie never said a thing about it to me.

That night of the jazz concert was where our much deeper relationship started. From her discovery years before, a seed had been planted, and in the bucket seat of her tiny car, as she negotiated a tangle of traffic on the Ventura Freeway, I listened to Sophie’s bittersweet confession. Discipline had become her obsession, and she knew of no one but me who might understand. I did understand. This is documented in her daily journal, saved to floppy disk and with the comments I made to myself after a review of her entries each day of that year. What I present here is one such notable day.

My Discipline Journal

Date: May 3, 1994
Subject: Assignment: Post-Punishment Essay
Offense:   Home over two hours beyond curfew, late for work in the morning
Punishment: Spanking

My life has changed today. This is how it feels. It has been a terrible day and a beautiful day at the same time. It was all I feared and all that I want.

There was a time I floated free. Doing as I please, making poor decisions, taking unnecessary risks, there was no one to hold me accountable. If words can make a picture, that would be the “Before” side with my face, not a happy face, inside the circle. The “After” picture on the right would be the tender red area of a bad girl’s anatomy. That is the side of me sitting on sore here as I enter this at the computer. I promise I am not trying to be funny. Peter has made everything clear to me now. If I misbehave, he will get to the bottom of my problem. He is teaching me the meaning of the word Discipline. I still feel I am floating, but held on a string so I won’t blow away. Sir has instructed me here. I must think about what happened today and record my feelings.

I am encouraged by Sophie’s words. She is articulate in describing her commitment to this relationship we’ve undertaken. It’s revealing to see her ideas about this process, where she’s coming from and where she’s going. Forcing her to put thought “to paper” is proving beneficial. Her use of the before and after picture illustration is charming. I am reminded again that she is a most special person for whom I am developing an ever deepening affection. Today has brought us close in ways I have yet to fully sort out. My feeling for her is like a wound to be poked at so as to ascertain its severity.

Isn’t it funny, though, how you know something is wrong but you still do it anyway? Getting to work in the morning has been a struggle for me recently. So shouldn’t it be obvious that staying out late on weekdays is not a good idea? I’ve just been making it harder on myself. I swore to myself I was not going to put myself in that position again. I don’t know why when I’m with Andi, we act like teenagers. I was feeling so guilty, and it was going to be so hard to confess to Peter. All that has been said, and I failed to really listen and to heed his warning. He says he is considering a stricter curfew, even on weekends. It’s not safe for a girl to be out so late. I respectfully say that is awfully old-fashioned. Part of me says I am too old for this, but I know he is only thinking of what is best for me. My curfew is important, and I did not take it serious enough. Please, Sir, I hope you will trust me in the future.

The longer we’re together in this relationship, the more I worry when she is out at night. I must think like a parent. What is good for her? What restrictions could be too stifling? Discipline must be about her needs not mine, and she has an adult life to live.

“I think somebody needs a paddling.” Those were Peter’s words, and my knees got weak. I thought I might faint right there on the spot. Sir had been talking and I had been listening. As I stood at his desk, I got lectured, and Peter is so good at making things clear. I knew I was in trouble and why. He never yells or gets angry, but his tone of voice lets me know I need to be hearing every word. He is in charge. We have been through lectures before, though, and I wasn’t exactly sure how this would end. It ended with “somebody needs a paddling.” He opened a drawer at his desk, out came that stick, and there was no air left in the room to breathe. I am not a fan of wooden paddles. When I’m staying in this house, his house, it’s scary knowing that Sir’s paddles can be used on ME!

I explained to Sophie that, to be effective, the words a disciplinarian uses must carry real weight. After her session this afternoon, “paddling” is a word she will hear loud and clear no matter how softly I say it. Before today, the paddle-ball paddle was persuasive, however, it was inevitable that at some point she would need to be given a tangible understanding of the consequences I am prepared to inflict. In the future, she will bewail any prospect of the paddle-stick, and I expect, even from my obedient Sophie, there will be a sincere effort to talk her way out of trouble. If one is to be an effective disciplinarian, there are conditions to be met. One is knowing when to be inflexible.

When Peter told me to go to my room, I wanted to deny it was really happening. As the words hung there in the air above me, I thought about trying to further plead my case. I already felt bad, had learned my lesson, and I was sure I would not do it again. I was still holding on to a slim hope that Sir had not completely made up his mind about this paddling. I could have argued, but thought it wiser to obey before he had anything more to say.

The decision had been made before the discussion started. We have talked plenty about these issues, so there was no good reason why Sophie should have had any doubts.

As I hurried to my room, his words were a slap upside the back of the head, “Get yourself ready. I’ll be in shortly.” My heart was racing over the butterflies in my tummy. There was no doubt left. I was so wishing I had listened to the good girl in my head! That night I was distracted by the fun we were having, and yes, the alcohol… but I knew what I was doing. I am so sorry about that now, and so sorry that I tried to minimize my culpability. Somehow that night did not seem real to me. It is so very real now. In the future, I promise I will always try to make the right decision, that I will be a good girl and consider things far more carefully.

She always makes me proud of her. Sophie understands why I needed to make this real for her. The way she embraces her discipline is beyond anything I imagined in past days of spanking books and magazines. Regardless of my inability to fully grasp the meaning of my strange predilections, this is what I have always wanted.

In my room, I needed to get ready. I was praying Peter would go easy on me, but I would not be here this weekend if I did not fully trust Sir’s judgment. I must be willing to accept whatever he thinks is appropriate. I was so worrying about that paddle. I did not like the look of it the first time he showed it to me. If only I had seen it as the warning he intended it to be. Before today my worst spanking was with a lighter paddle (see journal entry for March 20). Peter made that sting like the devil, so I was not taking anything lightly. I learned today the ball-paddle is kind of a toy compared to the stick. All of this was burning a hole in my mind as I prepared for my punishment. Peter did not explain how I was to get ready. I wanted very badly to please him. 

Sophie knows that ready means in a prepared state of submission, an acknowledgment and acceptance of punishment to be received. She willfully broke a rule, and more than once. I was not about to tolerate any reluctance or resistance on her part. The next time she considers breaking this rule, she will be certain of the consequences, and that she will not avoid anything by way of charm or sympathy.

I stripped everything off, even my socks, jewelry, everything. Starkers, as the Brits say. It felt so strange, but I wanted to show Peter that I was in a state of total surrender to my discipline. From the core of my being, I must submit to him when he chooses to take the upper hand. I made a quick dash to the bathroom to pee. Trembling with nerves, heart beating hard and fast, the waiting was unbearable. There is nothing like waiting naked knowing any moment Peter and the paddle will be coming through that door. I could not sit still. In my mind rang a mantra that found its way under my bated breath. “You’re going to get a paddling,” it taunted me. “You’re going to get a paddling.”

I had to decide on a position to be in when Sir arrived. I thought about standing at attention in the corner, nose and toes to the wall. I really hate the corner. It seemed to me that too much drinking, staying out too long, being late for work, did not call for a child’s time-out. I could have been kneeling on the chair with my fingers laced behind my head, like a good little sub, but hard on the knees. Save that for another day. I chose to lay on my bed on my tummy looking as ready as I could, my feet together and my hands at my sides, palms up in surrender. I hoped it might be a more dignified position for discipline than Peter having to take me over his knee this time. I wanted to just bury my head in the pillow, never have to face him, never have to see a thing. I heard his footsteps approaching from down the hall. Peter had never seen me naked, but what mattered more was my bottom was bare.

I was not expecting that Sophie would be nude, but I was pleased she had chosen to strip for her discipline. We have come a long way from a brother-sister kind of relationship. She holds no secrets from me now. The spankings I have given her in the past have been, for the most part, on her bare behind, however, in such a way as to best protect the core of her modesty. Despite the purity of our intentions, this kind of discipline is sexual in nature, and her beauty can’t be overstated. I have always buried those feelings. Her small breasts had never been exposed to me. I had taken her pants down, but she had never stood before me in a revealing state. The significance of her nudity today was not lost on me. I did not allow the sight to distract me from acting as her disciplinarian in the strictest sense. I was pleased by her uncompromising surrender but maintained my resolve to focus entirely on the punishment needed. Regrettably, the need today was for a lesson she would not forget.

I felt so naked. Peter was a formally attired disciplinarian, dressed the way an authority figure should be dressed. I was not allowed to hide my face. I had to stand at attention. I had to look him in the eye. He makes it all very formal, and he did put me my stomach, right across his lap. I dangled there helplessly, and as I type this, my memory of those moments is like a fever dream. I remember he asked me why I was over his knee. My answer was quick and to the point, stating my transgressions. I told him I was sorry, and I meant it. I could see nothing but floor, yet the image remained of that stick in Peter’s hand. I was full to bursting with sincere.

He said, “You’re not as sorry as you need to be.” I did not want to hear that at that moment, but this is exactly what I have dreamed of. I need to know he is in control, that he doesn’t make too much of a girl’s apologies before she has been punished. He asked, “What happens to bad girls?” I know what happens in this house. I just did not want to say it out loud. He insisted, and with a warm face and what remained of my breath, I said, “They get a spanking, Sir.” He waited, and I added, “On their bare bottom, Sir.” I don’t know what came over me, but I wiggled mine a little for him, as if I needed another reason to blush.

I’m getting used to Sophie addressing me as Sir. In the beginning, it sounded awkward. I don’t believe it was easy for her at first either, but the honorific has become a matter-of-course. For all intents and purposes, it fits the nature of our relationship. She lavishes me with respect, and I want in every way to be worthy of it. I also noted the wagging of her tail. Was she trying to be cute? If so, it worked. It seems she is becoming a bit more the exhibitionist.

As I have written before from past spankings, it feels so awkward and embarrassing to be over Peter’s knee like a naughty little girl. I was too wrapped up in the fever of the moment, but I prefer when he sits on the edge of the bed. When he uses the chair, there is less to support me. I get this helpless feeling, again like I’m floating. My head is lower than my feet. My bottom is turned up high directly over his lap. My arms are folded behind and my hands are held against my back by Sir to prevent any interference.

Sophie was about as surrendered to her fate as she could be. I was feeling the power I had in that moment, a power unlike any I have ever experienced. Having a young lady over my lap for a punishment spanking is a moment of the most intimate control, but also one of grave responsibility.

I felt something cool, flat and hard resting on my bottom and he was scolding me again. I hope Peter will forgive me for not remembering every word, but I was under some serious stress. Something about next time explaining to my friends that I can’t stay out so late. He was just tapping me with the paddle and it was already a little stingy. I cringed when he said something about my friends being here to see the trouble a girl can get into. I do remember him telling me that when he sets a curfew, I am to be home by that time and not a minute later. “Is that understood, little girl?” The first tear ran down my cheek. “Yes, Daddy,” I said.

It was once again gratifying to hear Sophie call me daddy. She seems to gravitate to that word when deep into the scene emotionally. As a child, she was never spanked, but I now wield that level of authority when she has gotten herself into trouble. I have always in some way felt paternalistic towards her, and I want nothing more than for her to be secure under the safety and support of my fatherly care. Today her vulnerability was more acute than ever, and a spanking from Daddy provided the proper emotional tone to reinforce the idea that we were not engaged in a scene conducted for her pleasure.

As I waited for doomsday, he continued to scold me, promising that, after today, I would start taking my responsibilities seriously. Peter is hardcore when it comes to my welfare. I had gotten so used to being independent. I really appreciate this, but I’m still having a hard time adjusting to his hands-on discipline. Not being able to do all the things I used to do is a sacrifice. I must not forget that Sir’s rules are for my own good, as are his punishments. It struck me how disappointed he was in me. More tears were forming and ready to fall.

I was disappointed, but there was no loss of confidence in her. After her confession, and then surrender across my knee, I was not so much thinking of her failure. That’s the past. For me, this was about her future, and together we are going to make it bright. 

Then it happened, and I never want to see that nasty thing in Peter’s hand ever again. Is it even made of wood? It felt like molten metal !!!

In preparing myself for this moment, I had to weigh the options. Her heart is gold, but her behavior of late has been unacceptable. She is no longer the little apple pie girl I once knew, and this incident a last straw, I decided it was time to introduce a big girl to the paddle-stick. It was fashioned for punishing such girls and making them cry, a board just long enough to span the width across the tender crowns of her pale rounded bottom, where I administered a strong dose of just the right medicine.

I am remembering my spanking today much too clearly. Before today, what Daddy gave me stung a lot, but the best I can describe it, it was to a certain degree manageable. Today it was like all of a sudden being on fire, and the burn penetrated deeper. It only got worse with every spank. I could not think. I could only react. I was like five-years-old and getting my first ever spanking!

I have given much thought to what happened this afternoon. Peter was in complete control of me and there were no unnecessary compromises. I hated every second of it, but my consequences were what I’ve always thought they should be. No mistake about it, I was punished today for my misbehavior. I have pondered for a long time what it would be like, and now I know. Sir chased the bad right out of me. I was cleansed by fire. I cried like I have never cried. Over his knee, I struggled so hard. I so desperately wanted to get away, but I had to take every red-hot spank across my bare fanny until he was finished. I am sitting on a big soft pillow right now, and hours after I can still feel where he punished me. I needed it, but I want this to be the last time I ever need it again. Daddy, I learned my lesson this time. I promise I will be good!

Sophie took her spanking like a good girl. As to be expected, she struggled, squirmed and kicked throughout her punishment. In my heart flowed every tear she cried. I punished with all due restraint, but her sit spots will be sore for a day or two. I told her I was proud of her. I assured her that she was forgiven and that she must forgive herself. She needed catharsis, and I can already detect in her a higher level of serenity. This has been a monumental day.

7 thoughts on “Fiction: Sophie’s Discipline Journal

  1. Wow. This is incredible, Franz. I love being able to read both of their thoughts. I love her acceptance of his discipline, how she recognizes that she needs it. I love how he takes his authority over her so seriously. You have outdone yourself! I hope there is more to come❤😘💋

    1. Thank you, nora. It’s rare, but sometimes a story just pops into my head and almost writes itself. There are elements of my life pulled into it, and a general situation I’ve pondered before, but the result was a different way of telling the story this time. ❤

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