So I’ve been a bad boy.

Not “forgot to take out the trash” bad. Not “missed one deadline” bad. Not “accidentally came without permission” bad either.

Legitimately, objectively, no-argument bad.

The worst part is that when I sit down and write it all out, I don’t really have any defense. I can come up with explanations. I can talk about being busy, distracted, overwhelmed, or whatever other excuse my brain wants to invent. But at the end of the day, I dropped the ball. Repeatedly.

I’m behind on my Women in History series. Way behind.

I’ve got something like five Sub’s Corner features sitting in various stages of completion. Half drafted. Quarter drafted. Barely drafted. Pick your level of failure.

I responded poorly to Mizz Geena in an email regarding my work. Looking back, I genuinely regret that one.

I took eighteen days to respond to an email from Miss Autumn. Eighteen. Days.

Mistress Meghan commented to me and I never responded.

Nurse Jessica sent out a health and wellness survey and I managed to procrastinate that too.

When you see it all listed together, it looks even worse than it felt while I was doing it.

The reality is simple: I wasn’t acting like someone who takes his commitments seriously. The women involved deserved better than that.

Apparently, they agreed.

Because Mizz Geena and my Owner got together and created something called a Punishment Series.

Not just a punishment.

A series.

The first item was physical discipline. A lot of it. The kind where you spend the days leading up to it thinking, “Well, this was probably avoidable.” The kind where every missed email suddenly seems much more significant.

Officially I get a shit-ton of lashings. 24 with a leather strap. 24 with a studded paddle. 12 with a cane.

Let’s just say I am not looking forward to that part, and leave it there.

The second item was somehow even worse.

I received an official disciplinary letter.

An actual letter. Signed. Apparently this is a thing now.

Madam Nora and Mizz Geena signed it. duckie told me he had to create an actual file for it because one apparently didn’t exist before. Meanwhile, I have to frame a copy and hang it in my office.

That’s right. I have an official letter documenting my stupidity.

Framed. On display.

Like an achievement. Honestly, that one may hurt more than the physical punishment.

Then came chastity.

Not temporary chastity.

Not “a few days to think about what you’ve done” chastity.

I remain locked until the work is complete.

And not according to my standards. According to Mizz Geena’s standards.

Which means every unfinished article, every assignment, every outstanding obligation has suddenly become very, very important. Funny how productivity improves when your future depends on it.

Then there are the apology emails.

Those are deserved.

I owe several women sincere apologies, and I intend to write them. Not because I’m required to, but because I genuinely dropped the ball with people who deserved better from me.

I also earned myself two hundred Bad Boy Points.

Sorry, duckie.

I know exactly what that means next month.

You’re welcome.

I also got punish-fucked. Yeah, it sounds hot, and honestly it kinda is, if you’re a masochist. I am.

She did all of this while Brandon sat on the couch watching the whole thing and laughing half the time. Honestly, that probably made it worse. Or better. I’m still not sure.

One of her favorite toys is this ridiculously oversized dildo. I mean, it’s almost cartoonishly large. It looks like something a superhero would have if comic books were a lot less subtle. Seeing her pick that thing up always put me somewhere between excitement and sheer panic.

What followed was intense. She worked me over thoroughly, mixing in plenty of spanking along the way. By the end I was yelling, squirming, crying, begging, and completely overwhelmed. The crazy part is that even while I was protesting and carrying on, I still wanted more. Looking back, it was one of those experiences that left me exhausted, humbled, and grinning like an idiot afterward.

Finally, there is what they are calling Hard Labor.

Apparently Mizz Geena’s new property has no shortage of work to be done. Stones to move. Things to carry. Projects requiring actual effort and sweat. Somehow my punishment has evolved into being shipped off to perform manual labor under supervision.

My Owner agreed to this suspiciously quickly.

That part concerns me.

The date hasn’t been finalized yet, but I have a feeling I’m going to discover muscles I forgot I possessed.

The funny thing is that after all of this, I’m not angry.

Embarrassed? Absolutely.

Ashamed? A little.

Motivated? More than I’ve been in months.

The women involved aren’t punishing me because they dislike me. They’re punishing me because I accepted responsibilities and failed to meet them.

And honestly? They’re right. So the articles are getting finished. The emails are getting answered. The assignments are getting completed. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from this entire disaster, it’s that procrastination is a lot less fun once it starts generating paperwork.