Tag Archives: DD

a little Daddy Christmas poem

Daddy, Daddy, the lil’ one asks
like their life depends just on that task

Daddy, Daddy, answer me

what will i find, under the tree?

Will Santa bring me: awesome toys

a dolly truck, that makes some noise?

Will I get stuffies or that doll

and candy chocolates galore?

will there be a little house

and a neat new pink-purple blouse?

Daddy, Daddy: I confess

I also need a mermaid dress!

and my coat looks all too worn

and please, I need a unicorn!

and then adds with whiny tone

Daddy, I wanna new phone!

Daddy listens, Daddy smiles

He has not heard that in a while

But when the tone gets all too shrill

Daddy cools down that too much thrill!

Come here, My lil one, listen please

Daddy speaks to the little tease

So many wishes, you have told

Are you sure, that you’re not spoiled?

No! no pouting – little one…

I know you just want to have fun

you did not mean it, getting wild

acting like an – ungrateful – child!



I know, My lil one, you have big eyes

and as not to spoil the surprise

while there is no guarantee

what Santa packs under the tree


I heard the angels as they say

Father Christmas has His ways

I heard the elders, who are wise

Yet only for children, who are nice!

Being nice, not tantrum dance

waiting, showing some patience

even though, it’s quite some wait

showing still some self restraint!


I also hear the Elves, they whisper…

Naughty children meet with Mister

Mister Wooden, Spoon or Brush…

better be patient and do not rush!



appeasement of a war zone (NSFW.M/F)


She arrived home late today. the zombie shift had been horrible, a veritable nightmare, once more. All those freaking idiots all over the place. As if it was not hard enough dealing with too many patients with too few people. No, now the visitors needed pillows to sit on with their damn fat asses. No consideration, that the nurses, getting the visitors another cushion had to leave the station and run across half the building to get them. No consideration for them being actually needed to take care of your family and relatives. Bring your effing own pillow, or sit on your all too fat asses, and quit bitching! she fumed to herself, replaying her angry thoughts. And than the doctors. What the fuck do they know anyhow. She was a nurse and knew that medication was ill advised, how could doc university degree have such a lapse in judgment? But no, the nurses have to do as told, regardless how they will be the ones cleaning the mess up… literally.

She slammed the door to her house so hard it swung back open. Shut you fucking bitch! she roared and slammed it again, even harder, and now the door knob fell off. “Oh for fucks sake” she thundered, knowing from past time incidents, this would cause another steep handyman bill from the money so hard earned. She kicked the door frame in frustration, and saw stars. OWWWWWWWWWW she wailed, instinctively rubbing her throbbing toe in her sandal she had just hurt.

This day was going to be a real hell, she self pitiedly muttered under her breath, while hopping off to the living room, to take a look at the damage she had just caused to her toe. The white sock she was obliged to wear as part of her nurse uniform already started to stain in burgundy, promising this becoming an ugly site to see. Well it felt like living hell, why would it not look like it too? she thought sarcastically as she inspected the broken nail stuk inward that super sensitive skin, now pierced by it.

**you better get that looked after and disinfected, young lady** she heard that voice say in her head, that voice, that was calm but nonchalant, annoyed and concerned all at the same time. that annoying voice she cared NOT to hear in this very moment. that voice that she would just put aside, and switch on some game show or food network on the TV and forget the whole fiasco of a work shift from hell. It was not her fault, the damn coworkers were late. It was not her fault, the people were being idiots. It was not her fault, the stupid door knob wouldn’t be fixable to some stupid door, and it was totally unfair, that she had broken her toe nail and slit open her toe, and was bleeding. She would just let the blood clean the wound out, and take care of it later, she was a nurse and knew more about these things than even the fucking doctors, so there.

**I was not asking, I was telling!** the voice continued, and she started shaking her head *no* in slow motion as if she was trying to shake a nightmare of drowning under water. No, this was ^never the fuck ever just a voice in her head, because her own replay of THAT voice in her head would not have used that catchphrase, that tone of voice with her, anyway. If this as a voice within she’d rip it a new one, and muffled it with chocolate and chips and ice cream and a snicker bar or 5. She closed her eyes tentatively. Deep breath. This cannot be happening. He had no keys to her house. He had not been in here uninvited ever. Her house was locked down, windows secured when she had arrived, and the door knob was OK before she had slammed the door shut, kinda, which still was not her fault, but still…

A shiver ran down her spine. No, it could not possibly be Him in person. How the fuck would that have been possible anyhow? No, it must had been her inner voice, telling her, inviting her, to do eat all the good stuff. Because let’s face it, OK? She had pulled off 3 nights of 12 hour shifts at work over the week-end. And she had still the household to do and all the groceries stuff and her car needed oil and she would have to go to that jerk of a garage guy giving her smirk looks and lecturing about proper car maintenance blah blah, just because she was a nurse, and a woman, and not a bloody car mechanic. And she did not want to. And now she would have to get the carpenter involved, again, and have him ask her all sorts of questions about how such a solid door could have so much trouble locking and if she is sure, that no brutal force had been used, possibly by one of her kids?

She deserved the Snickers. Matter of fact, she would hop to the kitchen, and get herself the half gallon Blue Bell Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough container, it will help her cool herself down, and ice is good for swelling toes too. So there, problem solved. Yes, she had bought it originally, to welcome home her babies who’d arrive from the summer camp tomorrow afternoon, but she’d just buy a new container for them in time. She needed a reward. She deserved it. She had fought in that war-zone, and had the scars to proof it. With a deep sigh and a pain twitched face she got up from the recliner, and hobbled over to the kitchen, getting a table spoon and her Blue Bell reward. She threw the lid on the counter and it bounced off the wall falling face down on the floor. She shrugged her shoulders. The floors are dirty anyway, whats one thing more on the ground, and sighed, knowing she had to wipe the floors too, before the kids would come home. Yeah, she needed the ice cream and she did deserve that treat, the poor, limping Cinderella she were.

She just collapsed in the recliner and starting eating the ice cream, closing her eyes at this rush of sugar and flavors soothing her nerves. oh my God, this was the heaven she deserved! She dug the spoon deeply into the ice masses and shoveled the treat into her mouth eagerly, eyes closed still, gulping down the sweetness, one load full after the other. This was not enjoying the flavors, at this point, this was shutting down and stuffing her feelings.

And then the spoon tried to dig into the container, but the container was gone. She opened her eyes, finding the container soiling the recliner and floor, leaving a sweet messy stain that would be a bitch to clean up. For fucks sake, not only was she wasting that delicious ice cream, now she would have to get her butt up again, and deep clean the sofa and floor in vain hopes she can salvage the recliner. But before she could even think straight, that voice thundered at her, startling her profoundly.

**Missie, when I give an order it will be followed through with, or you will be finding yourself at the receiving end of so much trouble, your mess up here will feel like a walk on the beach!**

And as she opened her eyes, looking up from the mess in the living room, her eyes could see, what her brain was trying to block out. And her eyes widened, and her mouth dried up, and her lips trembled as her jaw dropped, and it was barely a whisper that escaped her throat, which felt suddenly like tied up…

*oh no, it IS **#SpankieMonster**, threatening doom, standing in the door*


(c) StrictMotivation@yahoo.com




the vulnerability of the artist #food4thought


I completely understand how it is tough for the writer, the artist, the poet, the actor etc. when you expose your art (regardless what your art is) the artist exposes their vulnerability, their very heart and soul. it feels much more unsafe, much more risky, to present that to (unsolicited, possibly unfounded) criticism. even more so, than it is to show off our body, at times. after all, the way we look, kind of is mostly “per chance”, but our creations are our craft, our works. thus, showing that “baby” off feels much more exposing. the involved emotions will be more intense, more profound, bad or good.


thank you My artist friends and co-artists for not keeping your art hidden. for blogging, for writing, composing, for drawing, for sculpting, for acting, for building, for doodling, for coloring, for make-upping, for singing and performing, for photographing, digitally arting, for morphing and scrap booking, for videographing and for sharing: for artistically expressing.


it is so easy to hide it and be scared, so much harder (and better) to expose it and share it… victory is with the brave #StrictMotivation #wejustgetbetter


#SMalt paDDle brush (171122 #food4thought)


#food4thought yes, it is My declared plan to have every Top (and bottom) to have their own bratTtamer paDDle brush. working on that goal, one paDDle at a time #StrictMotivation Alternative Life Training #SMalt

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FAQ. the study #SMalt


Can I come and visit that study of yours? It sounds like an amazing (even if scary) place


No and yes. how so? No, you cannot be invited into the study in real life, because that described study is a virtual place, not a real room in a real house. It is a virtual room in a virtual house, in My House of #StrictMotivation Alternative Life Training (SMalt). And thus, Yes, you can be invited into the study, described in some of My writings, in the effect, that it will have on you.



You can be welcomed into My disciplinary practice, virtually, online, from the convenience and privacy of your home and receive the scoldings and lectures, as well as other forms of discipline in that very spirit. Be them through Live Directed Discipline aka interaction over skype, kik, snapchat. messenger etc or through Static Directed Discipline in the form of emailed instructions. 


you can experience and explore those unique feelings that come with real(istic) punishment scenarios, having to report about your achievements and challenges or confess the shortcomings; endure the interrogations and being held to a standard and accountable.



you may get send to the corner, experience stress positions and the stress of having your motives and motivations questioned, your inventory taken. you can feel the humbling experience of being questioned by an experienced disciplinarian who can see through your excuses and see you through your trepidations at life. Someone willing not only to take matters in His hands, but also to take you in hand as needed.


Someone who is very versed in providing this service, and who can translate those very feelings conveyed through faced and followed through disciplinary actions in “real time” or “real life” in long distance / remote settings, through means of online, virtual, “cyberspace” communication. Someone who knows what it feels like to be “for real” on either side of the stick and can use implements at hand to create that desired realistic experience.




Someone who supplements the discipline and structure necessary for your success at life, if and when you are struggling to implement it from within with consistency and integrity.


Someone, who puts your long term best interest above their or your own convenience and pushes you, to become and be the best you, you can be.


#gratitude 171119 Disciplinary success

#PS (Proud Sir) That moment when after #SSC #Discipline their behavior shows radical changes toward betterment. #worthit 😀 good girl! keep going! #StrictMotivation Alternative Life Training #SMalt


A Punishment Report #SMalt

A Punishment Report from one of Mine

(published with permission)

Punishment Report

I didn’t sleep very well last night.  It was hard to get comfortable.  Physically uncomfortable. Emotionally, I was feeling a bit better than I was physically but still raw.  A bit stung.  There is something very humbling about going to bed after a spanking with Sir’s scolding still ringing in my ears.  Sore.   Not hurt.  Sore.

I have a sore bottom still, today, because Sir disciplined me last night for not being diligent about my hydration, my bedtime, and going for a daily walk properly over the last two weeks or so.  My heart is also sore because Sir was right.  I was not being very diligent.  I was giving up too easily on things I can do.  I was not in an attitude of let’s make this work, let’s get this stuff done.  I was not seeing my lacksidaisical performance as an affront to my self worth or Sir’s authority.  I didn’t see my resistance as defiance.  I did not see my quick denial, my detachment, as disrespectful to Sir.  I was wilfully blind. And Sir put a big huge spotlight on all of that last night. 

Sir categorized all the unwanted behaviour.  Self loathing.  Self sabotage.  Lazy.  Half-hearted.  And I have the both the lack of progress that comes with this and the bruises to prove it.  Sir used the word naughty.  Not ‘bad girl’.  Naughty.  Disobedient.  Badly behaved.

It is shameful when Sir takes my inventory more accurately than I do.  I think, nooooooo!  And then I listen to what Sir is actually saying and sulk a little before having to acknowledge that Sir is right.  Sigh. It is so easy to be in denial about basic things.  And that is not honest.  Sir forces me to look more honestly at my behaviour.  If I really want to regain my health, what I have been doing is really not the best I can do.  Not good enough.  We are not even going for perfect.  But not good enough.

Naughty.  Oh, how I hate that word.

Sir talks about having the discipline to do the right thing.  No matter the cost.  No matter whether there is a reward.  No matter if it will pay off later or ever.  There is no cost-benefit analysis to be done in looking at my strains.  Those are ‘have to do’ things.  Tasks and konsequences are ‘should do’.  And if I cannot find the discipline in me to do them, Sir will provide the discipline for me.  And it will suck.  I have to learn to do the hard things, not just when it is convenient or easy or I feel like it.

Deserve.  Oh, how I hate having to acknowledge that I deserve to be disciplined.  To ask Sir to discipline me.  I will stand in the corner (which I also hate) feeling like shit and wanting to be anywhere else than there before admitting to myself and to Sir that I deserve to be punished because I did not live up to what I need to do, what I agreed to do, what Sir told me to do, what is good for me.  It feels like forever.  It feels like I will have to stand there until the agony of being in limbo, with discipline pending, is more difficult to bear than the fear of the discipline itself.  Having to say, “Please Sir, I am ready to accept discipline” or worse, “Please, Sir, punish me for I deserve it” is this awful acknowledgment that I have failed.  I have not been a well-behaved good girl.  I know.  Sir knows.  There is this naked honesty that feels so vulnerable.  It is really hard to get there emotionally.  And I know Sir will wait until I do. It’s a consent thing.  It’s a power-exchange thing, a giving up of control.  And it’s emotionally necessary for the discipline to help me change.  But it really is hard.

I knew it was going to suck even more than usual when Sir started with my heavy leather strap.  It burns deep into my skin.  It adds up, exponentially.  There is this distracting thudding ache that competes, like a counterpoint, for my attention with Sir’s scolding.  I had already been scolded the night before.  For hours.  And still, more scolding.  Painful.  Emotionally painful.   Naughty.  I think Sir said that word about 200 times.  “I will do better.”  I think I said that almost as many times, in affirmation.  I want to whine.  To beg.  To make it stop.  And it won’t.  Sir won’t.  Saying a safeword is only postponing the punishment.  I don’t wanna be spanked is not a safe word thing.  And I will hate myself if I give up like that.   

I was afraid I was going to be defiant.  Resistant.  Sometimes I get into that headspace and I feel trapped.  I just can’t cooperate.  The stakes seem too high – I will lose some part of myself if I surrender to Sir in some way.  And in the past, I have dug in my heels.  And then Sir is patient.  And relentless. And it will get worse.  I know it will get worse.  It’s like knowing you’re about to crash and feeling helpless to prevent it.  You’ve already put the energy in motion and you can’t take it back.  And then it gets a lot worse.  Sir will say get the soap – I can hear it in my head as a threat as I struggle with the paddling.  Or Sir will make a position more stressful – I can already feel that in my limbs when I am whining about being in the corner.  Or I risk disrespect, I say ‘yes’ but not ‘yes, Sir’ and I fear that Sir will send me to the corner with soap in my mouth or a clothespeg on my lip and I can already feel the tantrum rising.  And I really didn’t want to have *any* of that.  I can’t control the punishment.  I can make it worse, however.  #notworthit.  So I try to stay present, be in my body, pay attention, not get caught up in my own thoughts.

I wanted to be more graceful, more cooperative, more listening, more receptive.  I wanted to be a better submissive in accepting discipline.  So I had to listen to Sir more carefully last night to stay there. I can’t let my “no!” and “fuck it!” defiant thoughts get any traction.  So I kept refocusing on what Sir said when I was in the corner – that this is about accepting there will either be self-discipline in doing what I need to do for my growth, my health, or Sir will provide external discipline until neglecting myself is #notworthit.  And so I endured.  I was more cooperative than usual.  And it still sucks.  I am still sore.  But I am not feeling as bad about myself.  Sir said I took it well.  That is high praise for someone who has escalated discipline many times before by her defiance.

But the punishment.  Oh.  Relentless.  And Sir counts to random numbers.  I have to give up my expectation that 10 is when Sir will stop.  Or 20.  Or isn’t there a Czech thing about 25?  So Sir will stop at 25.  Nope.  Not stopping.  There gets to be a point where it is hard to breathe.  When my bottom is burning.  When Sir’s words feel like salt.   I feel scorched by Sir’s truths.  It is a collapse, a giving in, a moment of change.  And then Sir switches implements.  And we do the whole scolding, failure, acknowledgment, affirmation process all over.  For a new topic. 

The punishment feels endless.  How many things did I not do properly?  It is like there is a coda in the music of the discipline and I think I hear the closing chords in Sir’s words; it is almost the end.  But it’s not.  We loop back to something else I had forgotten;  some other lapse I had completely forgot I also fucked up repeatedly.  And then I start to feel crushed, anxious.  How many things am I being disciplined for?  This already burns.  I am going to be sore tomorrow.  It hurts.  I am ashamed.

My pride – my “I’m trying!!” is pierced.  It is not good enough. Even I know that if I am honest.  But Sir is relentless in the scolding, the interrogation, the spanking.  And I think, “I get it!  I’ll do better, really, truly, I promise” but the discipline still goes on and on and on.  I don’t get to decide when I’m done, when I’ve learned, when I have been disciplined enough.  And I know from experience I get to that point where I think I’ve got it and yet that means there is still at least another 30 or 40 percent to go. That’s when it really sucks.  When it is an endurance thing.  And obedience.  Patience.   Regret.

Home.  Bumpy bus ride.  Nothing reminds you about diligence like constantly feeling a sore bottom.  A bottom you don’t want to rub in public.  A sense of shame.  Chastised.  But the enemy doesn’t care about smacked bottoms or hurt pride.  There still comes the thought “it’s almost 1 pm and […] it would be so easy to stop and get something [forbidden] and convenient to pick up a new frying pan at the same time to replace the one that is too old in the finish to be non-stick anymore and probably unsafe…” and then STOP.  My bottom is sore.  My ears are tuned more acutely to what I tell myself.  The words easy, convenient.  The phrase “I can just…”  Those are all getting in trouble words.   Nope.  Naughty.  Ouch.  Sigh.