Celeste Asturias in an Alternate Universe

I am looking to create a story, under my nom-de-plum Celeste Asturias, about a society where punishing oneself and others for failing to live up to our highest ideals is the norm. Instead of there being rules about what you can’t do, there are expectations about living up to shared ideals, and confessing our shortcomings to ourselves and to others. The protagonists, a man and a woman, are in this type of relationship where they are subtly competing to accept the daily spankings to which they feel drawn. They point with some pride to their virtuousness in acknowledging their shortcomings, and gladly accepting correction. Be creative, and feel free to offer more than one alternative response to the prompt, speaking from a woman’s perspective

Echoes of Aspiration

By Celeste Asturias

In the luminous spires of Elysara, where the sun-kissed towers whispered of eternal striving, we lived not by chains of prohibition but by the silken threads of our shared ideals. To falter was not sin, but a call to confession—a sacred unveiling of the soul’s imperfections before the mirror of self and society. Punishment was our communion, a ritual of renewal, where the sting of correction sharpened our resolve. I, Elara, knew this truth intimately, woven into the fabric of my bond with Thorne. We were lovers, mirrors, and gentle rivals in this dance of atonement.

Each dawn, as the first light gilded our chamber, Thorne and I would kneel before our shared altar—a polished oak table etched with the ideals we held dear: Integrity, Compassion, Excellence. “What shadows lingered in your heart yesterday?” he would ask, his voice a velvet command, eyes gleaming with that subtle challenge. I confessed first, always eager to set the bar. “I hesitated in kindness,” I’d admit, recalling how I’d withheld a word of encouragement from a struggling neighbor. “My compassion waned like the moon.” His nod was approving, but I saw the spark—would he outdo me in humility?

Then came the correction. I’d drape myself over his lap, the cool air kissing my skin as my robes fell away. His hand, firm yet loving, delivered the spankings with measured precision—each strike a punctuation to my vow of betterment. Ten for the hesitation, five more for the pride I felt in confessing so boldly. The warmth bloomed across my flesh, a fire that ignited rather than consumed. “See how I accept this?” I’d murmur between breaths, my voice laced with triumph. “This is my virtue, Thorne—embracing the pain to rise higher.”

He’d smile, that quiet competitiveness stirring. “Your grace humbles me, Elara. But watch now.” His turn: a confession of impatience during a council meeting, where excellence demanded poise. Over my lap he went, his broad frame yielding with deliberate vulnerability. I’d administer the spankings—sharp, resonant claps that echoed our commitment. He took them without flinching, counting aloud, his pride evident in the way he arched just so, inviting the next. “Fifteen for my lapse,” he’d declare, “and five for the lesson it teaches us both.” In those moments, our rivalry was a spark, fueling not division but deeper union. Who confessed more profoundly? Who bore the correction with greater poise? It was our intimate game, binding us tighter.

One evening, as the stars wheeled above Elysara, a greater test arose. I’d failed in integrity—gossiping about a friend’s shortfall, betraying the ideal of upliftment. Thorne’s eyes softened with understanding, but the challenge was there. “Confess fully, my love,” he urged. I did, baring my soul, and accepted not ten, but twenty spankings—my choice, to prove my devotion. The pain was exquisite, a symphony of redemption, and as tears mingled with my smiles, I whispered, “This is how we ascend, together.” He matched me later, confessing a hidden envy, and in our shared welts, we found ecstasy. In Elysara, punishment was not burden but badge, and in our rivalry, we discovered the truest love—two souls forever striving, forever correcting, forever entwined.

Whispers of the Ideal

By Celeste Asturias

Oh, the quiet fervor of Veridia, where ideals bloomed like eternal gardens, untamed by rigid laws but nurtured through confession’s gentle thorns. Here, to fall short was to invite the balm of punishment—a self-imposed rite that polished the spirit like river stones. We didn’t hide our flaws; we paraded them with pride, seeking correction as one seeks the sun. As Liora, I thrived in this world, my heart entwined with Kai’s in a tapestry of mutual aspiration and subtle contest.

Our mornings were sacred duets. In the soft glow of our vine-draped home, we’d stand before the Wall of Vows, inscribed with the pillars of our society: Harmony, Wisdom, Devotion. “Reveal your stumbles, beloved,” Kai would say, his tone a caress wrapped in expectation. I’d go first, my voice steady, confessing a lapse in harmony—snapping at a colleague when wisdom called for patience. “I dimmed our shared light,” I’d say, feeling the thrill of vulnerability. Then, the acceptance: I’d position myself against the padded bench, offering my bare skin to his guiding hand. The spankings came in rhythmic waves—twelve for the outburst, eight for the insight gained. Each impact sent ripples of heat through me, a reminder that pain was the forge of virtue. “Look how willingly I submit,” I’d breathe, glancing back with a defiant spark. “This is my strength, Kai—owning the flaw, welcoming the mend.”

He’d chuckle softly, his own confession bubbling forth: a moment of wavered devotion, distracted during our evening meditation. “Your example inspires,” he’d admit, taking his place over my knee. My hand descended with care, the spankings firm and deliberate—ten for the distraction, ten more for the growth it promised. He bore them with grace, his body tensing and releasing in perfect rhythm, pride shining in his eyes. “See my acceptance?” he’d counter. “I embrace this fully, for us.” Our competition was unspoken yet electric—who could confess with more eloquence, endure with more serenity? It wove desire into discipline, turning correction into foreplay for the soul.

But one twilight, the ideals tested us deeply. I’d betrayed wisdom, advising a friend poorly out of haste. Confession poured from me like rain, and I chose severity: twenty-five spankings, administered by Kai under the moon’s watchful eye. The sting built to a crescendo, tears flowing freely, yet I held my head high. “This purifies me,” I declared, my voice unwavering. Kai, moved, confessed his own hidden doubt in our bond—a fleeting jealousy. Matching my count, he accepted my hand’s judgment, our shared cries mingling with the night winds. In Veridia, such rituals weren’t mere punishment; they were affirmations. Through our gentle rivalry, Kai and I didn’t just correct—we elevated, our love a beacon of ideals realized, one loving strike at a time.

Veils of Virtue

By Celeste Asturias

In the mist-shrouded valleys of Aspira, ideals reigned supreme, not as tyrants but as guiding stars, illuminating the path through confession and correction. Society thrived on transparency: no forbidden acts, only the noble pursuit of perfection, with punishment as the willing bridge over our human chasms. As Mira, I embodied this ethos, my life interlaced with Arden’s in a bond of affectionate rivalry, where daily spankings were our currency of growth.

Evenings were our ritual’s canvas. By the hearth’s warm flicker, we’d face the Scroll of Aspirations—Truth, Empathy, Resilience etched in flowing script. “Unveil your day’s imperfections,” Arden would prompt, his gaze holding that playful dare. I’d confess boldly: a slip in empathy, ignoring a stranger’s plight when truth demanded action. “I veiled my heart,” I’d say, positioning myself across his thighs, the anticipation electric. His spankings followed—fifteen crisp impacts, each a spark against my skin, blooming into a glow of redemption. “Witness my pride in this acceptance,” I’d whisper, my tone laced with challenge. “This is how I honor our ideals—with open surrender.”

Arden’s response was swift, his confession of faltered resilience during a laborious task. “You lead by example, Mira.” Over my lap he draped, and I delivered the correction—twelve for the weakness, thirteen to surpass my own count, his way of vying for virtue’s crown. He took them stoically, his breaths measured, pride evident in every quiver. “Feel my commitment,” he’d say. Our competition simmered beneath the surface—who articulated the flaw more poetically, who embraced the pain more profoundly? It transformed discipline into intimacy, each session deepening our connection.

A storm-laden night brought revelation. I’d compromised truth, bending facts in a heated debate. Full confession demanded rigor: thirty spankings, my request, under Arden’s steady hand. The intensity built, waves of sensation crashing over me, yet I reveled in it. “This refines us,” I gasped, tears of catharsis streaming. Arden, inspired, bared a deeper shortcoming—a moment of withheld empathy toward me. Matching my severity, he submitted, our shared vulnerability forging unbreakable ties. In Aspira, punishment was poetry, and in our rivalry, Arden and I composed symphonies of the soul—eternally striving, eternally correcting, eternally in love.

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Fictional Utopian (or Dystopian-Presented-as-Utopian) Societies with Punishment for Failing Ideals

Many works of fiction explore societies that strive for perfection through mechanisms of confession, self-correction, or punishment, often blurring the line between utopia and dystopia. These systems enforce shared ideals like loyalty, harmony, or moral purity by requiring individuals to acknowledge and atone for shortcomings. Here are some notable examples that echo the themes in your story—where correction is a path to virtue, sometimes embraced with pride or rivalry.

• Thomas More’s Utopia (1516): In this foundational utopian text, society is structured around simplicity, communal living, and moral laws with few rigid rules. Punishments are pragmatic rather than vengeful; for instance, serious crimes like adultery or rebellion lead to slavery, where offenders labor for the community as a form of ongoing correction and redemption. This serves as a “badge” of atonement, allowing reintegration if behavior improves, aligning with ideals of justice and utility. Magistrates determine sentences case-by-case, emphasizing rehabilitation over retribution. 9 32 38 
• George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949): Oceania is a dystopian regime masquerading as an ideal state of equality and strength. The “Two Minutes Hate” is a daily ritual where citizens must publicly confess and channel inner “shortcomings” like doubt or disloyalty into collective rage against enemies. This enforced self-correction, under constant surveillance, upholds Party ideals, with pride in zealous participation acting as a subtle competition for ideological purity. Failure invites torture or vaporization as punishment. 41 
• Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World (1932): This seemingly perfect world eliminates suffering through genetic engineering and conditioning. Individuals are expected to confess emotional lapses (like monogamy or introspection) via social norms or soma-induced bliss. Punishment comes as exile to islands for those who fail to conform, but it’s framed as a “correction” to maintain societal harmony—echoing a proud acceptance of one’s role in the greater ideal. 41 
• Lois Lowry’s The Giver (1993): In a community designed for sameness and peace, citizens must confess rule violations or emotional “stirrings” during family sharing rituals. Shortcomings are corrected through public apology, medication, or “release” (euthanasia), all to preserve ideals of equality. The process instills a sense of virtuous compliance, with protagonists grappling with the pride (or horror) of upholding these standards. 41 
• Samuel Butler’s Erewhon (1872): This satirical utopia inverts morality: physical illness is punished as a moral failing (with imprisonment or flogging), while crimes like theft are treated as ailments requiring sympathy. Citizens proudly confess “shortcomings” like sickness to accept correction, satirizing how societies enforce health and virtue as ideals through self-imposed or communal punishment. 41 
• Karin Boye’s Kallocain (1940): A totalitarian “Worldstate” uses a truth serum to force confessions of disloyal thoughts, ensuring self-correction aligns with state ideals of unity. Individuals submit to this chemical interrogation as a dutiful act, with punishment for hidden flaws reinforcing the utopian facade. 41 

These stories often portray such systems as double-edged: empowering for self-improvement but risking oppression.

Real Historical Utopian Communities with Confession and Punishment Practices

In the 19th century, especially in the U.S., numerous experimental communities sought utopian ideals through communal living, often incorporating confession-like rituals or mutual correction to address personal failings. These bear strong similarities to your described society, emphasizing voluntary submission to criticism as a path to moral elevation.

• Oneida Community (1848-1881, New York): Founded by John Humphrey Noyes as a Perfectionist society, Oneida aimed for communal harmony, shared property, and “Bible Communism.” Central to this was “Mutual Criticism,” where members voluntarily submitted to public or committee-based sessions to confess shortcomings (like selfishness or laziness) and receive frank critiques. This was seen as a “means of grace” and path to spiritual perfection, with participants taking pride in their humility and growth. It functioned as a gentle rivalry in virtue, much like your protagonists’ dynamic, though without physical spankings—instead, emotional or social correction prevailed. The practice was mandatory for full membership and helped maintain ideals until the community’s dissolution. 20 21 24 27 28 29 
• Shakers (United Society of Believers in Christ’s Second Appearing, active 18th-19th centuries): Known for celibacy, communal ownership, and ecstatic worship, Shaker communities enforced ideals of purity through confession sessions. Members regularly confessed sins or failings to elders, accepting correction via labor, isolation, or public rebuke. This self-punitive approach was embraced as virtuous, fostering a competitive spirit in spiritual advancement, though physical punishments were rare. 11 30 
• Hopedale Community (1842-1868, Massachusetts): A Christian socialist utopia focused on non-violence and moral reform. It incorporated mutual criticism circles where members confessed lapses in ideals like temperance or charity, accepting communal feedback as correction. This promoted pride in self-improvement, similar to acknowledging shortcomings gladly. 10 

Other communities like New Harmony or Brook Farm emphasized ideals but lacked explicit confession-punishment rituals, per available sources. These real experiments often failed due to internal conflicts, but their correction practices highlight how utopian visions can integrate punishment as a tool for collective virtue. If you’d like to weave any into your stories under Celeste Asturias, I can brainstorm adaptations!

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Overview of Opus Dei and Self-Mortification

Opus Dei, formally known as the Prelature of the Holy Cross and Opus Dei, is a Catholic institution founded in 1928 by St. Josemaría Escrivá. It emphasizes sanctifying ordinary life through work and daily activities, with about 93,000 members worldwide, most of whom are laypeople. Self-mortification, or corporal mortification, refers to voluntary practices of physical discomfort or denial as a form of spiritual discipline. In Catholicism, these practices have historical roots in imitating Christ’s sufferings and fostering self-control, but they are not mandatory for all Catholics and have become less common in modern times. 12 Within Opus Dei, such practices are presented as optional tools for spiritual growth, particularly for celibate members (numeraries and associates), though critics argue they are effectively required to fully embody the organization’s “spirit.” 11

These practices gained public attention through media like The Da Vinci Code, which exaggerated them as violent or masochistic, but official accounts describe them as mild and short-lived. 10 Below, I’ll outline the practices based on official Opus Dei sources, accounts from former members and critics, and broader Catholic context. Note that Opus Dei stresses that mortifications should never harm health and must be approved by a spiritual director. 10

Official Opus Dei Perspective on Practices

According to Opus Dei’s own explanations, corporal mortification is a minor aspect of spiritual life, emphasizing “small sacrifices” in daily routines over dramatic acts. The focus is on reducing self-centeredness to better love God and others, uniting personal discomfort with Christ’s redemptive suffering (e.g., his 40-day fast in the desert). 10 Key practices include:

• Cilice: A lightweight metal chain with small prongs worn around the upper thigh. It causes mild discomfort similar to an itch or muscle ache but no injury or blood. Not all members use it; it’s primarily for some celibate members. 10 
• Discipline: A small whip made of woven cotton strings (weighing about 2 ounces), used briefly on the back or buttocks. Typically done once a week for 1-2 minutes, akin to the discomfort of fasting. 10 
• Fasting and Other Denials: Abstaining from food or comforts, such as skipping a meal or forgoing seasonings. Opus Dei follows Church-wide fasting rules (e.g., during Lent) and encourages small acts like punctuality, avoiding complaints, or persisting in work despite fatigue. 10 

Frequency and intensity are low, with the Church prohibiting anything that causes harm. These are not unique to Opus Dei but draw from centuries-old Catholic traditions practiced by saints like St. Francis of Assisi, St. Therese of Lisieux, and St. Padre Pio. 10 The purpose is spiritual: to combat tendencies toward comfort that hinder charity, rather than seeking pain for its own sake. 10

Accounts from Critics and Former Members

Organizations like the Opus Dei Awareness Network (ODAN), comprised of former members, describe these practices as more routine and obligatory for numeraries (full-time, celibate lay members living in Opus Dei centers). They claim such mortifications are presented as essential to living the “Spirit of Opus Dei” and are done under obedience to spiritual directors, potentially fostering an unhealthy view of the body or pride in endurance. 11 Specific practices include:

• Cilice: Worn for 2 hours daily (except Sundays, feast days, or certain seasons), leaving small prick marks on the skin. 11 
• Discipline: Used once a week on the buttocks or back; permission needed for more frequent use. 11 
• Daily Routines:
  • Cold showers every day, offered for the Prelate’s intentions.
  • Meal mortifications: One small denial per meal, like no sugar in coffee, no butter on toast, or skipping dessert. No snacking between meals; extra fasting requires permission.
  • “Heroic Minute”: Rising immediately at wakeup, kissing the floor, and saying “Serviam” (I will serve).
  • Silences: No talking from evening examination of conscience until after morning Mass; limited speech in afternoons until dinner. Sundays often avoid music.
• Gender-Specific:
  • Women: Sleep on boards over mattresses; forgo pillows once weekly; prohibited from smoking or entering bars.
  • Men: Sleep on the floor once weekly; forgo pillows once weekly; allowed smoking and bar visits for recruitment purposes. 11 

Critics argue these are not fully disclosed during recruitment, leading to uninformed commitment, and contrast with Escrivá’s own intense practices (e.g., self-flagellation drawing blood). 12

Broader Catholic Context and Differences

In Catholicism, corporal mortification has a long history, with saints and monastic orders (e.g., Franciscans, Dominicans) using tools like hairshirts, whips, or fasting to combat temptation and imitate Christ. Medieval practices were often severe, but St. Francis emphasized moderation and joy, banning them for the ill. 12 Post-Vatican II (1960s), many orders reduced or eliminated them, shifting to a positive view of the body as a “temple of the Holy Spirit.” 12

Opus Dei differs as a lay prelature, not a religious order, lacking the Vatican oversight that regulates monastic groups (e.g., annual bishop visits, candidate rights). 12 Canon law (e.g., Canon 630) prohibits compulsory “manifestation of conscience” to superiors, which critics say Opus Dei violates through required spiritual “chats.” 12 Unlike orders, Opus Dei doesn’t mandate upfront disclosure of practices or provide support for those leaving. 12 Today, such practices are rare outside conservative groups and always require prudence and health considerations.

For more details, consult official Opus Dei resources or speak with a spiritual advisor. Views vary, with supporters seeing them as paths to holiness and detractors as potentially abusive.