Choices

We all have choices. Mine is to obey, or not obey. This week, I disobeyed twice, both of them dealing with time. Slippery thing, time. One, I was late to my Keyholder's tasks. Twenty minutes late. Two, I was out socializing thirty minutes longer than I was allotted. Fifty minutes altogether of disobeying. My Keyholder had promised me punishment for these, and for a couple of days I nervously awaited her judgment. She gave me a choice: fifty (50) strokes with the cane, or fifty minutes kneeling against the wall, being ignored. Choices.

I thought about it. My maintenance caning is ten strokes, and those are hard enough to take, specially when they are harder strokes. Fifty in a row would be difficult, but it would be over quick. Kneeling, being ignored, for fifty minutes can be difficult. My Keyholder always teaches me to go the extra mile. My first choice was to let her choose, but she had asked me to choose. I weighed it, and chose -- both.

My Keyholder was kind enough to split the caning up: ten strokes every ten minutes. For a day I thought about it, and today the day finally came for the punishment. My Keyholder led me to the wall and had me get in position: kneeling, body straight up, nose against the wall, hands at my side. The kneeling was not kneeling on soft fluffy carpet, but on hard floor. More on this later. As an added torment, my Keyholder put a rod of bamboo at my shins. It would be difficult, I could tell. Then, the caning began. Ten strokes, not too bad, at first. I counted and promised to obey my Keyholder at every stroke. Then she left me to think for ten minutes.

How long is ten minutes? How many breaths? How many thoughts? How many shifts of balance to try in vain to get comfortable? The bamboo at my shins discouraged too much shifting. I found the least uncomfortable balance point, and tried to stay with it. The first ten minutes were long. After what seemed like a long time, I heard her coming again. This time, the ten strokes were harder, or seemed harder. I tried to bear them stoically, and dutifully counted out. She left me in my discomfort. The next ten minutes were difficult. The kneeling was beginning to take its toll, the rod digging in, the shifting painful. I focused on breathing and tried to bear it. She came back quicker, it seemed. Time was flowing in fits and starts. Little moments of pain that lasted forever, and vast fast-forwards past swaths of discomfort. The next ten strokes were the hardest to take. Each stroke set me slightly off balance and my shins and knees protested. Again, I was left to ponder my disobedience. I whispered that I would obey my Keyholder, over and over. Ten more minutes, ten difficult minutes. I almost fell over trying to shift. At last I settled, breathed, tried to process it. Tried to detach.

Another ten minutes. Ten more strokes. I almost welcomed them, now. Each stroke meant getting closer to the end. Each cane stroke released much-needed endorphins. It hurt, but the kneeling was worse. Then, I focused on breathing even more, on willing the reality of what was happening to be different. I imagined myself lifting myself up, becoming lighter, and this amazingly helped. Maybe I did lift myself off the cruel bamboo, hovering above it, yogi-like. I thought of many things. Ten more minutes. The next strokes would be the last. I thought of how this was a trifle compared to real tortures. It made it easier to bear, for a bit, then I fell back into myself and whined. "No whining," she called out from around the corner. I gritted my teeth and became silent. At last, she came around for my last ten strokes, which I welcomed. Plus one, for an infraction that morning. But, I still had ten more minutes of kneeling. Ten very difficult minutes, which took forever and passed in no time.

"Time's up," she said. She called for me, but I could not move. I needed her help, and she did help me. Then I fell at her feet and kissed her and thanked her. She seemed upset at having to punish me, and I reassured her that it was okay. I welcomed her corrections. I don't enjoy them, but I welcome them. It made me a better servant. The corrections are worth it.

Now, next time I have a choice, I will think of the cost of it, of kneeling against that wall. And I will choose to obey.