Little Fun to Be Had in Explanations

I've recently become compelled by the unknown. In my quest to ascertain the necessity - the readability - of plot in spanking fiction, I've allowed myself to explore the darker half of my fantasies. These are the ones that make me squeamish with myself, the ones that make me wonder if I'm actually on the other side of this whole cruel business, if I am a sadist out to wound the helpless and it just so happens that too often, one of the helpless is me.

In exploration of plot, I've forbidden myself to imagine reason in the scope of punishment. I envision harsh canings solely because a girl has had the bad luck of the draw. I picture being tied down and strapped for longer than I can take, crying "Why?" until I am gagged, no explanation forthcoming. I foster the feel of cobwebs in my hair, flung to the floor of an unused basement, no light by which to see a tormentor, hands bound and unable to soothe anguished skin. No reason to be there, no sign of escape, nothing, nothing, nothing but punishment for a crime never committed, never accused.

I used to cling to reason, even in play, even in rushed fantasy. I'm not sure I ever used these words aloud, but I can recall thinking, "Tell me what I've done so I can repent." I do remember asking for a reason and there being no reason, that the spanking, albeit not much like the less savory scenarios above, continued despite neither of us coming up with a cause for discipline.

Perhaps I've molded to the style of play we've embraced. Maybe that's why I seem to have lost my desire to repent imagined sins. Real ones, too. I've made plenty of bad judgement calls recently. It seems they have nothing to do with my identity as a spankophile. Life itself deals out the consequences for human error. My fetish, these days, is about punishment dealt as nothing more than the consequence of being human.

In last week's issue of Entertainment Weekly, Stephen King wrote about the scariest films being the ones with no explanation. "But nightmare exist outside of logic," writes King, "and there's little fun to be had in explanations; they're antithetical to the poetry of fear." I've been thinking about that phrase all week, the poetry of fear. The punishment, as they say, must fit the crime. Knowing twelve strokes are to come for talking back? Any of us can handle that. But if there is no crime, how does the punisher know when to stop? Or does he stop? Is it discipline or cruelty? Is it punishment, or only stark, unending, blissfully blinding white pain?

If we skip the plot, isn't that all that's left? Meaningless chaos wreaked upon the bare flesh of the innocent? Or is that pain the plot itself? The poetry of punishment, of pain, of fear, with little fun to be had in the explanation, and all of the fun to be had in the execution.