Early spanking.

I was, indeed, spanked growing up.  My parents were divorced or separated for most of my childhood, and I moved often, going back and forth between parents, in California (and Oregon for a brief time).  My brother and I lived with my mother most often, during the schoolyear, but spent every summer with my father on a ranch.  I know that I was spanked more by my mother, but honestly cannot remember a single incident.  I don't think I ever went "over her knee", and don't believe there was ever structure to her spanking (no cornertime, no "sent to my room", no "wait until we get home..."); I believe she was a grab-your-arm-and-throw-a-few-swats-at-your-bottom spanker.  I only halfway remember being spanked like this because I recall being embarrassed at having been swatted in someone else's house during a visit.  My brother was the troublemaker, and was spanked much more often than I, especially by our mother.

Spankings from my father were a different matter.  I only recall being spanked by him a few times--maybe 6 or 7 in total; but I actually remember 2 spankings, and one almost-spanking.  With my father, we were sent to our rooms (living with my mother, my brother & I shared a room; but we each had our own room on my father's ranch).  We were rarely sent to our rooms, so if it happened, we were pretty muchly guaranteed to get a spanking.  After a horrendous, dreadful wait he would enter with a large, thick leather belt (which I still have).  As I recall, we were spanked on whatever we happened to be wearing at the time--of the two I remember, one was on the bare, and the other was on tighty-whities.  I don't have any idea how many times the belt came down, nor how long it took, just that I was always sobbing almost immediately (if I wasn't crying before the spanking even started). 

I was terrified of being spanked then, but I was never afraid of my parents.  Not  once did I think either of them didn't love me, nor feel abused.  I was a good kid, but was spanked when my behavior was not.  It was that simple.  Our spankings were only on our bottoms--although I do remember my mother slapping a face or two on rare occasions--and never with anything other than a hand or that belt.  Our mother only once threatened to spank my brother with what she reported to having received as a child:  a red leather cord, maybe a quarter-inch thick, that was still hanging in her closet in my grandparents' house...

...which has always made this picture by Sassy Bottoms one of my favorites

Although the irony of it was incomprehensible to me as a youth, I not only found spanking terror-inducing, but also confusingly erotic.  As my age progressed, my terror began to supersede my sexual affinity for spanking less and less--I still had no desire to be spanked, but found it more and more arousing.  The very last parental spanking I received was from my father, in the previously described manner; but, although I did cry, the majority of the discomfort I felt was from my disjointed erection that was tormentingly crooked, pressing against the inside of my underwear, that I didn't dare to reach down and rearrange for fear that its presence would be known.

I was only once spanked by someone that  was not a relative.  While traveling through California (which we did often with my mother), we would often stop and visit the family of one of my mother's childhood friends.  We referred to her as "Aunt Susan", but did not call her husband "uncle".  They had two children who were of comparable ages to my brother and I, but his counterpart was a beautiful girl (who I had something of a crush on).  I don't remember details (apparently being spanked as a child was such an intense experience for me that I was actually unaware of my surroundings), but I believe that all four of us kids were spanked--the older ones first, then we younger ones, with a belt, standing up, over our clothes.  It was not nearly as painful as being spanked by my father, but a few tears were shed.  I wish I could remember having watched the older girl's being spanked, but even if I had seen it, I think I wouldn't remember it.

In fact, I have never witnessed, first hand, a girl's getting a spanking.  The closest was standing outside the doorway to an apartment, the young girl who lived there was arguing with the girl next to me when her mother appeared behind her and applied a sharp, loud swat to her bottom.  The girl let out a noise in surprise, then opened into a loud, open-mouthed wail, akin to the onset of a siren, as the door closed.

That is the extent of my childhood spanking experiences.  I sometimes wonder, though; would things have been different for me if I had a sister.......?

Word!

I am a big proponent of words.  I do believe very strongly in semantics, and am usually very careful with the words I choose.  Ironically, I also believe that words are never sufficient to convey even a fraction of a thought they're being used to represent.  Still, words are interesting and powerful.

I recently finished more than a year of physical therapy--visiting a physical therapist twice a week, and up to 4 & 1/2 hours of P.T. exercises every day--first for a herniated disk, overlapped by a minor ankle surgery.  Not long ago, there was a P.T. "volunteer" who basically shadowed my therapist (P.T. students earn practicum hours by working for no pay at a P.T. center).  The place I was going specializes in dancers and dance injuries, so this volunteer was a tall, slender, beautiful young lady with a dancer's body.  As you can probably imagine, I already had enough trouble keeping my eyes (and sometimes my tongue) in my head at this place, and I had to put out extra effort to keep from locking my eyes onto Katie's lovely, lithe limbs.

I've known my physical therapist for a number of years, having been her patient several times before (the lot of a professional dancer), and we often talk about her family and personal life.  One particular session, my therapist was discussing a boy in her young son's ballet class, who was barred from returning (pun intended--dance humor, for those who know...), and the conversation turned to "class clowns", who tend to get others in trouble while remaining unscathed.  The very friendly, good-natured Katie joined the conversation with a story of how she once got into trouble:  she and her sister were watching a horror movie, and her sister (as all siblings are required to do) startled her, to which she reacted with a scream.  Apparently, in her household, screaming was prohibited so she got in trouble with her father, despite her reasoning with him that the fault was not hers.  This was an interesting story, appropriate for the conversation and told well (despite my abridged version); but it took a sharp turn in my deviant mind when she finished with the sentence that instantly seared into my memory forever, "So yeah...spanked."

With that one dangled word, a floodgate of curiosity (and desire, quite frankly) opened in my head, most of which I had to immediately quell, both in order to concentrate on the exercises I had to do for the rest of the session, and to make sure I showed no physical evidence of where my thoughts went (if you know what I mean--I was wearing tights...)!  There are so many things I still wish I could ask her--firstly about her story's specifics.  How old was she when this took place?  Was she spanked right there in front of her sister, or taken into another room?  Was her bottom clothed, or bared for the spanking (she's from the South, so the traditions are different from my own childhood, and therefore extremely intriguing to me)?  Was she spanked with an implement--a paddle or belt?  How long did the spanking last?  Was she sent to her room afterward (if she wasn't already there), or to a corner, or did she return to the couch she had been sharing with her sister? 

These questions led to more general questions and thoughts about her spanking life.  I imagined (fantasized) that this spanking happened within the last year (she never indicated how long it had been since the story took place).  I pictured this adult Katie over her father's knee, being paddled with a hairbrush on her bare bottom, and contrasted that in my mind with the idea of a teenage Katie getting the same.  I wonder, still, when she was last spanked, or if her family continues to implement (pun!) spanking to this day.  I wonder what items she's been spanked with.  I wonder if, like me, she has any desire to have spanking in her current life.  Most of all, I wonder what that incredibly lovely bottom would look like, smirking up at me from across my lap, painted in pink from the strident caress of my palm.

All these thoughts still haunt me, just from the casual utterance of that word: "spanked".  The word "spank" has always had this power over me.  Hopeful excitement courses through my veins upon hearing it, and disappointment crushes me to hear it used as a misnomer.  The word itself is taboo; I rarely speak it aloud, and crave hearing it from others.  There is an innocence to the word, intertwined with pure eroticism.  That is a big reason why it can be so sensual to be made to say it, or make someone say it; why I love to hear someone required to ask for a spanking.

There are a few words that affect me in this way, and always have.  When talking about spanking, I use the word "bottom", which I rarely use among normal acquaintances.  Again, "bottom" carries with it a sense of innocence for me, and the word seems to have the onomatopoeic curve of the area it describes--smooth and soft--just as "spank" carries the sound and impact of its corresponding action, but with a cheerfulness that makes me smile.  I am intensely affected by the word "panties", and, despite loving the sound of the word, have difficulty saying it aloud.  I was aware of my passion for panties at a very young age, even before I acknowledged my affinity for spanking.  Finding the concepts somehow related, I am ensorcelled by bottoms clad in panties, especially when those bottoms are being spanked!

There are phrases that are effective too:  "over-the-knee" has become haphazard to me, but "over my knee" has much more erotic effect for me.  On the other hand, many words and phrases turn me off.  One girl that I gave a few spankings to referred to them as "hitting"--which left my passion entirely soured.  Even worse, I despise hearing a lot of swearing from a spanker!  There are some spanking video sites that do this often, and I cannot bear to even watch their wares; hearing a "mother" using horrific language while spanking her "teenage daughter" implies terrible, unloving parenting to me, which slaughters the innocence and care that I find so enticing in spanking.  The same is the case for the teacher/student scenario:  I would have no respect for any teacher who swears at students--respect is an essential part of spanking, even in a fantasy scenario (I'm not talking about master/mistress domination stuff here--although there still is a respect even there, at least from the submissive)!

I find it fascinating that two words that mean the same thing can have such different effects on me.  A "spanking" delights me, but a "whipping" does nothing.  A "paddling", however...... *impish grin*

I would love to hear what words affect you, Dear Reader!

Rock ON!

I'm FINALLY posting again!  I've had a subject brewing in my mind for days, but I am post-poning it (yes, all puns are intended!) for this one:

I have always loved finding spanking scenes in mainstream(ish, at least) media, whether in books, movies, or music (THANK you, Madonna, for "Hanky Panky"!).  My most recent discovery is in the movie "Rock of Ages", which, thanks to the gods of Netflix, I have finally seen.  During Catherine Zeta-Jones's number, "Hit Me With Your Best Shot", while she and the ladies are singing in a chapel, her husband, played by Bryan Cranston, is in another room being dominated--and spanked with a ruler--by his mistress (not the leather-and-spikes kind, just the he's-a-politician-having-an-affair kind).  The spanking scene is very short, flashing back and forth between the chapel and brief glimpses of the steamy scene, but it's still very effective, despite a touch of tongue-in-cheek (again, all puns...).  Within the vignette, the mayor, Cranston, has his wrists bound with a rosary, then is pushed forward into a bent position over a desk, with his forehead resting on an open bible.  His mistress picks up a ruler and gives it a test-smack into her open palm, then grabs the back of his slacks.  When she jerks them down, his head lifts suddenly in seeming wary surprise.  Along with the rhythm and lyrics of the song, Cranston's mistress spanks his underwear-clad bottom; first with single smacks, then rapid ones (only four...to fill the musical phrase).  This vignette ends with a shot of Cranston's face cartoonishly reacting to an obscured spanking behind him, complete with goofy non-verbals.  Still, the scene was quite enjoyable.

Here are some screen-shots:

I love the look on her face in the last one, as if she's very calmly and sweetly doing what needs to be done.

Annie

Last night my Aunt took me to see the current Broadway revival of Annie.  The show was moderately entertaining, though not directed well, but it reminded me of a few things.  When the original movie came out in theaters, my mother, brother, and I sat through it three times in a row (back when you were allowed to do such things).  I had an enormous crush on Annie, and fantasized about her--I was a child, so the fantasies weren't too sexual, but somewhat...

What really affected me, though, was a book of the movie.  Back then, when movies opened, comic books or collector's books with photos and stories would often be published (I still have comics of "The Dark Crystal" and "Supergirl" movies").  I wish I could find this Annie book (it's probably in a storage unit on the other side of the country).  Many of us with a propensity toward spanking--and probably many other fetishes--are affected even by the word, or mention of it from external sources.  Having just read through several people's blogs, I am well aware that many of us looked the word "spank" up in the dictionary on numerous occasions.  The "Annie" collector's book had a prequel story that titillated my sexuality even then. 

There are at least three lines in the beginning of the movie that refer to spanking.  The first is Ms. Hannigan's, who says to Annie, "...and if this floor don't shine like the top of the Chrysler Building, your backside will!"  The next one comes from one of the orphans who, while helping Annie hide herself in a laundry basket, says, "You'll get whipped again!"  implying that Annie has been spanked on numerous occasions.  Later, when Annie has been returned to the orphanage, she tentatively gives Ms. Hannigan the required credo, "I...love you...Ms. Hannigan...?", to which Ms. Hannigan replies, "...and you will loooove the paddle closet!"

At the time, these references didn't have a great affect on me, even though the concept of spanking already did.  I think the reason is the language used:  the word "backside" was not used much in my experience, and I don't think I even knew at the time that the line was a reference to spanking (I wouldn't have realized that a spanking is what would make a backside "shine"); we also did not use the term whipped, although I knew others who did, so it wasn't as intriguing--and still isn't;  and my family did not use paddles (the idea of parental paddlings still fascinates and intrigues me, perhaps because I never experienced them in reality), so, again, I don't think I even realized quite what the "paddle closet" was.

This all changed with the acquisition of the "Annie" movie collector's book, several years after the release of the movie.  It began with a story, with some illustrations--perhaps a scene cut from the movie--that takes place earlier in the evening than the opening of the film.  In it, Annie makes an attempt to escape the orphanage, but is caught and returned.  Upon her return, she receives an over-the-knee paddling from Ms. Hannigan (I wish I could remember more details, but it's been many years since I last saw that book).  Needless to say, this changed my outlook quite a bit.  I could not help but imagine Annie over her stern guardian's dress-covered lap, with her short little red dress flipped up, receiving the paddle on her bloomers while she cried and thrashed (there may have been a drawing of that exact thing in the book, or perhaps just a mental image of my own creation burned into my memory).  The scene makes that second spanking line not only make more sense, but sound even more intense: "you'll get whipped again [on top of the paddling you got earlier tonight]!"  It also makes it clear that this punishment was a regular thing among the orphan girls--a thought that set my very imaginative young mind ablaze!

I do remember being directly affected by one scene though.  The orphan girls overhear the plot to trick Warbucks out of money and Annie herself, and they try to escape, to sound the alarm.  They're immediately caught, and dragged back in by Hannigan, her brother Rooster, and his girlfriend Lily, to be locked in the paddle closet.  On the way in, Lily, with a girl in each hand, corrals the oldest with quick kicks to her backside, after each of which the girl rubs her bottom while walking toward the camera.

Here are screenshots of the implements inside the paddle closet:

Behind Bernadette Peters (playing Lily St. Regis) you can see a paddle and a carpet beater hanging...

it's a loooooong paddle!

...and on the opposite wall, a collection of wooden brushes.

Having never witnessed such a thing, I can only imagine what life would have been like in the '30's, with such implements put to regular use.
I think this movie may be the very reason I am still enamored with art and stories of young girls being spanked.

First Spanking Story

For years I have enjoyed reading spanking stories.  Until now, I have never written any myself.  I have surprised myself today for several reasons:  1) Although I've been tempted to write a spanking fiction before, it never occured to me that I would first write a F/M story--especially since I have only realized I'm a switch fairly recently.  2) The following story was really the fantasy I was having while waiting for my alarm to go off this morning.  I usually begin my day with physical therapy exercises, then a little internet browsing.  Today, I made myself write this story first, before I could forget any of it. 3)  I was surprised at how much I enjoyed writing this.  I actually had to write it in two parts, because I wrote far more than I expected, and had to take a break to make it to a ballet class.  And 4) People have been trying to get me to write for a long time (I used to write elaborate letters, and send them to about 300 people around the country).  I'm really proud of what I've written.  I think it's better than I expected--I used a lot of metaphor, simile, alliteration...stuff I admire, but didn't think I had a knack for (The title's cheesey, but I LOVE alliteration).

I would love to hear comments (I'd love to know someone has read this)!

Big Boy Babysitter

Audrey arrived right on time, as expected—she was always punctual, and insisted on the same from me when she babysat.  She hung her coat on the door-hook, then turned and walked with me down the hall, past the kitchen, toward the living room, the whole while chatting idly with me about how I had been since she last saw me.  When she asked, “Have you been behaving?” I replied with a cheery, “Yes, Ma’am”.

Once she was seated comfortably on the living room couch, I finally worked up the nerve to ask my question.  “Miss Audrey, some of the guys are meeting at the diner around the corner…may I go out and play with them?”  I asked as politely as I could, to influence her decision.  She seemed a little surprised—perhaps put off—by the question.  It took her a moment to answer.  “I’m sorry, but the answer is no.  I’m here to baby-sit you tonight.  Why would I come over here, if you weren’t going to be here?  You and I can play together tonight, and you will have to meet ‘the guys’ some other time.”  Sulking, I plopped down in a chair, arms folded, and glowered downward.  The babysitter stared at me for a moment with a look that was half disbelief, half annoyance, then, with a little shake of her head, as if to clear her thoughts away, she rose and excused herself to the bathroom.

My ears pricked up as I heard the bathroom door click closed.  A dozen thoughts ran through my head, with an overlying theme of “Now’s My Chance”.  I silently padded to the front door, adjacent to the bathroom.  As quietly as I could, I lifted my coat from its hook on the door, then unlocked the top lock with a click.  Suddenly, the bathroom door flew open, and an arm shot out and grabbed me by my wrist.  Without a word, and without releasing my wrist, Audrey took my coat from my hand and hung it back up, while my face burned with embarrassment and the continued fearful surprise from being caught; then she marched back into the living room with me in tow.  I could feel her anger radiating from her body, as she physically placed me in the corner, none too gently.  I nervously listened to every sound, with my eyes glued to the corner, not daring to even make the slightest move.  Still not having uttered a single word, Audrey was moving around the room with purpose.  I heard the not-unfamiliar sounds of the coffee table’s being moved, and the armless dining chair’s being placed.  I could hear Audrey’s irate breathing, and feel the intensity of her movements.  When she angrily dropped herself down onto the chair, the only sounds left were her breathing, and my cannon-like, mile-a-minute heartbeat.

After a few terrifying, nerve slicing minutes of silence, she finally spoke.  “Come here!”  I had never heard so much anger in her voice.  I obeyed immediately and, knowing what was in store, came to stand on her right side.  She looked up at my face with the expression of a penultimate, pregnant thundercloud.  My cheeks burned with shame and trepidation, foreshadowing of another imminent burning of cheeks.  Her eyes bore into me with blazing anger, and just a touch of hurt.  I wanted to curl up and disappear into the cracks in the hardwood floor, but could not have torn my eyes from hers with a crowbar.  She finally spoke again, slowly and distinctly, but with a little tremor in her voice; “What did you ask me, when we came into the living room, right after I arrived?”  Somehow finding a semblance of my voice cowering in my stomach with the rampaging butterflies, I meekly replied, “…i-if I could go out and play with the guys…….” with a hastily added “Ma’am!”

“…And what was my answer?”

“Y-you told me n-no….Ma’am.”

“So what were you doing when I came out of the bathroom?”

“……….I……I was disobeying you, Ma’am”

“ You were disobeying me.” This sounded more hurt than angry.  She continued; “ you were choosing to do what I had specifically forbidden you to do.  Not only that, you were abandoning me!  You were going to leave me alone in your house, not knowing where you were or how to reach you.  How do you think that makes me feel?”

“……..um……”

“I thought we were friends.  I trusted you.  Now, not only do I feel that I’ve failed as a babysitter, but I feel like a fool—I was foolish, thinking we were friends.  Friends trust each other, and care about each other.  You obviously care little about me if you were so cavalier about leaving me alone, the one night I’m here, to go play with your other friends, who you can see anytime”

“I do care about you…I’m so sorry!”  I could not have felt worse if my intestines were being slowly drawn from my body with shards of glass.  “Please…I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings!  I wasn’t thinking!  I’m so sorry!”  I was nearly in tears already.  “Please be my friend!”

The babysitter looked into my eyes for a long moment, then seemed to make up her mind about something.  She said, “It is going to take a lot to restore my trust, but I do believe you’re starting to feel sorry.”  She reached out and began to unbuckle my belt, then pulled it all the way out of the belt loops, which made my stomach drop like I’d just swallowed a bag of rocks, knowing what that meant.  She tossed the belt behind her, onto the couch.  I was wise enough to keep my arms at my sides as she began to unbutton my jeans, while saying, “Now we’re going to make sure you’re sorry!”  As she carefully lowered my zipper, she continued, “You will never choose to disobey me again!”  With one sharp tug she had my jeans down to my ankles.  Without a pause or a word, she immediately followed up by yanking my bikini underwear down to my knees.  I was already so ashamed of myself that I was unusually completely unaware of whether I had an erection or not, and made no attempt to cover up.  My shame compelled me to unhesitatingly lay myself across her lap, without her having to even imply it.  My spanking began immediately.

Miss Audrey’s hand began to sting my bottom before I even felt her move.  The well-deserved swats rained down like a monsoon, spanking anywhere from the top of my bottom, just below the tailbone, to the notorious “sit-spots” with no apparent logic, so I was never able to predict just where on my bottom they’d land, leaving me with no mental preparation for the sting.  While she did maintain a rhythm, she would change order:  sometimes alternating cheeks, sometimes clapping repeatedly in one white-hot spot before moving on, sometimes spanking up and down on the same cheek or crisscrossing them both. 

The wildfire on my bottom could have melted an igloo.  Just when I thought I could take absolutely no more, and began to wiggle and whimper, Miss Audrey suddenly stopped her assault on my burning behind.  “Stand up!” she simply said.  I would not have disobeyed her at that moment for a winning lottery ticket.  My hands glued to my sides, so they could not even begin to succumb to the temptation to rub out any of the ongoing flames behind me.  I strained to force my focus on my babysitter’s words, rather than my posterior’s predicament.  “Why are you being spanked?”  My strained, quivering voice replied, “I disobeyed you, tried to sneak out…and I hurt your feelings!”  She said, “The hand spanking you just received was for trying to sneak out, and we’ll deal with your hurting my feelings in a few moments.”  My eyes quickly darted to where Audrey had tossed my belt on the couch—I had forgotten about it, but now my bottom started to throb anew.  “Right now, we’re going to deal with your disobeying me.”  My soul quavered as I realized what exactly that meant.  I had thought we had just done that, my comprehension of her words delayed by the distraction of the belt, but I suddenly realized what was about to happen.  “It’s not enough that you disobeyed me.” she said, “It’s even worse that you chose to blatantly disobey my decision.  That was very disrespectful, and WILL NOT HAPPEN AGAIN!  Am I understood?”  I heard a meek “Yes Ma’am” before I realized the words were coming from my own mouth.  She replied by saying, “Go get the hairbrush!”

Without hesitation, I shuffled into my bedroom, pants still around my ankles and joined by my underwear at this point.  I retrieved the flat, square wooden hairbrush from my nightstand drawer, and returned as fast as my penguin gait could allow.  It wasn’t until I handed it, handle first, to her awaiting, outstretched hand, that it really sunk in that I was about to be branded by the hairbrush on my already emblazoned posterior.  It was at this point that I truly began to cry.  Seeing my tears, the babysitter said, “Do you understand just how naughty you have been?”  I nodded, tearfully.  “Do you think you have been punished enough for your behavior?”  Knowing the truth, I slowly shook my head ‘no’.  “Do you have anything to say to me?”  she asked.  After the kind of moment that lasts a lifetime, when you have to voice a truth; something you know, but wish to just hold inside, the releasing of which is intensely embarrassing to the point of painful; I replied, “I have been very naughty.  I treated you horribly, and I’m so very sorry.  I deserve a very, very hard spanking for what I’ve done, and the way I’ve treated you.  Please give me the spanking I deserve.”

Miss Audrey looked into my eyes for a moment.  She could see that I was sincere in my apology, in my regret and shame for how I’d acted, and in my acceptance of my impending punishment.  With a quick, almost invisible nod, I saw a slight change in her expression.  Some of the anger had dissipated.  Even so, I knew that I was still in for a severe spanking—and that belt was still looming in the not-so-distant future—but the change in her eyes indicated that I was beginning to be forgive; a feeling like a cool breeze on a warm day in a secluded, flowering glade.  This strengthened my affirmation of the spanking, almost making me eager to comply with her tacit command when she merely patted her awaiting lap.

For the second time that evening I silently and resignedly crawled across my babysitter’s lap, placing my unclad pelvis directly over her slightly parted legs.  Dropping my head, I was very aware of my hands and feet touching the ground, and of my naked flesh resting against the soft cotton skirt that covered her legs.  I was even more aware—frighteningly so—of my naked, unhappy bottom, quivering freely in the air as the highest point of my body, under my babysitter’s direct gaze.  The burning sensation tattooed all over my bottom had abated a little, but I could feel a pulsing of heat that matched my quick and heavy heartbeat.  I had a moment of utter ecstasy when the cool, flat wood suddenly but gently settled on my right buttock, sliding over to the left one; then time slowed waaaaaaay down, like the climb of a roller coaster’s highest hill before the first drop…

My mind and heart racing, I became ultra-aware of the slow motion scene.  I heard the hiss of Audrey’s intake of breath, and recognized it as the final breath she would take before searing pain would overtake me.  I felt the agonizingly slow movement of the hairbrush, as it lifted from my left buttock, raising high for its initial assault.  I felt the feminine muscles of Audrey’s beautiful legs move and tense, as her position painstakingly changed with the raising of her arm, and in preparation of counter-balancing when she would forcefully bring it back downward.  More than anything, I felt my heart pounding from my toes to my ears, as it tried to warn every atom of my body about what was about to happen.  There was a long pause, when the entire world seemed to stop whatever it was doing, to watch the hovering hairbrush held in her hand.  Then the rollercoaster passed its acme, and life picked up speed, following in time with the descending hairbrush.  By the time I heard the popping sound of impact, the universe had sped up beyond normal, and I didn’t feel the flash of fire in my bottom until another pop had already echoed through the room.  Apparently in a hurry, my body quickly caught up with what was happening, amplifying the delicate pain in my bottom to nearly unfathomable heights, blocking any awareness of the existence of anything beyond the repetitive, fiery explosions that seared through my body and soul.

After an exquisite eternity, I drifted slowly, shuddering back to reality.  Once again, I became aware of the hardwood floor beneath my hands and feet; my body too spent to even kick.  I felt again the weight of my body balanced on the cotton-clad legs.  I felt the waterfall of salty tears covering my face, and the small spasms of breath that shook my whole body through my sobs.  Suddenly, the realization struck me that there was no popping noise in my ears, no fiery brand bouncing on my  blazing bottom, but a gentle, cool palm, lightly resting on, and occasionally slightly squeezing the raw flesh.

“Stand up.”  The words sent an electric shock through my nervous system, which my brain eventually translated, forcing my body to respond and obey.  Once I was standing, Audrey reached down and wordlessly helped me untangle my jeans and underwear from my ankles.  “Go back to the corner, please.”  Despite what I’d just endured at her hand, my beautiful babysitter’s voice seemed angelic—proof that this was, indeed, reality.  I walked to the corner, naked from the waist down, and crossed my hands behind my back, grasping my forearms as I knew Audrey preferred, light sobs still bubbling through my mouth.  “Stay there until I come get you” she commanded, redundantly, “and then we’ll finish your spanking.”  With these words, ice slid down my spine, to be immediately melted by the throbbing inferno below.  Audrey left the room.

What felt like hours elapsed.  Tears dried, burning eased, throbbing receded back into a normal heartbeat.  Then, out of the silence, Audrey’s voice rang out.  “Are you ready?” she asked.  I was still reeling from the shock of hearing her voice, when I hadn’t been aware of her reentering the room, but managed a weak, “Yes, Ma’am.”  I felt her hand on my arm, and let her lead me back to the fear-reigniting punishment chair.  “Place your knees on the seat, as far apart as you can.  Wrap your arms around the back of the chair, and arch your back, so your bottom is out.”  Shaking, I did as she instructed.  Once in position, I heard the clinking of the belt buckle, as she picked it up from the sofa and wrapped it around her hand several times, leaving one end loose, rather than making a loop. 

“You’re going to count these, and thank me for each one.  If you fail to do so, we will repeat the stroke.  If you lose count, we will start over until you get it right.”  These were all statements, not questions.  She expected no answers, and I remained silent, awaiting the onset of my final punishment, acutely aware that ALL of my body’s most private spots were on display to my disciplinarian babysitter.

SSSSSMACK!

“ONE, thank you Miss Audrey!”

SMACK!

“TWO, thank you…..Miss Audrey!”

The lashing of the belt continued, and my tears began to flow again—not with heaving sobs, but smoothly, as I contemplated how I’d hurt my lovely babysitter’s feelings, and accepted my punishment.

“NINETEEN……owww….thank…thank you Miss Audrey!”

SLAPPPP!

“OWWW….TWENTY….thank you….Miss Audrey!”

“Back to the corner, please.”  Despite the throbbing welts I could feel, I noticed that there was no anger in her voice any longer.  This instilled a new fear in me:  was I forgiven, or did she not care anymore?  She hadn’t reiterated the reason for this part of my spanking, as she usually would.  She hadn’t really spoken at all, other than the few commands.  Had she given up on me?  Had I disappointed her beyond salvaging?  Standing in the corner, my tears continued to flow unabated as I increasingly continued to worry.  Finally, I could take the hideous silence no longer, peeked my head at her, still seated in the punishment chair, and ventured, “M-Miss Audrey…?”

“Yes, Sweetie?”  The word gave me a flash of hope, that enabled me to continue, turning somewhat to face her.

“I’m so sorry I hurt your feelings…can you ever forgive me?”

The lilt of her light chuckle surprised me.  “Of course!  You’ve just been punished for what you did wrong—the mistakes you chose to make.  I forgive you.”

My lip began quivering as tears surged again.  “May I have a hug?”

Despite the unusually abbreviated cornertime, the babysitter opened her arms, which I rushed to fill!  Sitting astride her lap, oblivious to the awkwardness that my nudity would normally insinuate, I wrapped my arms tightly around her, my chin on her shoulder as my tears  dropped down her back.  She gracefully and lovingly reached her arms around me, her right hand drifting down to lightly caress my surely scarlet, bare bottom.  “I love you, Miss Audrey!” I whispered.  “I love you too, Sweetie.” she replied, causing my arms to restrict around her just a little bit more.

We remained entwined like this for a heavenly eternity, until Audrey finally said, “Let’s get you ready for bed.”  I begrudgingly released her from my anaconda embrace, and stood from her lap.  She walked me to the bathroom, where she watched me floss and brush my teeth, a slight smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye.  She left to go rearrange the living room, as I finished up in the bathroom.  When I entered the bedroom, yawning, worn out from the evening’s excitement, she smiled broadly and helped me take off my shirt.  She helped me lie down on my turned-down bed, giving me a sweet kiss on my forehead in the process.  I rolled onto my stomach, of course.  She bent down and gave me a gentle kiss on each curve of my bottom, just before she lithely covered me with the sheet and blanket.  With my eyes closed, I heard the light click off, then a soft, “Goodnight, Sweetie.”  I never heard her walk down the hall, put on her coat, or leave, locking the door behind her.  All I was aware of, as I drifted off to sleep, was the two tingles of loveliness where she had left them…

Introduction continued

I have had a number of spanking partners--most of them lovers who indulged in spanking with me, in some form or other.  Some liked playful, sexy swatting, others took actual spankings, sometimes with implements.  However, there is one experience I absolutely crave, but have never had:  I desire to give a real spanking.  I wish to give a girl a real punishment, for a real offense or behavior.  This is contradicted somewhat by my inherent desire NOT to cause people pain (a slight paradox of my nature), but I do believe in "spanking with love".  I wish to give a girl a real spanking experience:  let her feel the awkward, exhilarating dread of the impending punishment; make her choose to submit to me with commands to prepare herself (i.e. lifting skirt, placing herself across my lap, admit she needs a spanking, et al..); deliver a sincere punishment, completely out of her control, yet in a situation where she feels safe; make her absorb the spanking (i.e. cornertime, standing or sitting; allowing crying to abate); and finally, lavish her with forgiveness, comfort, and love.

Simultaneously, it has only been in recent years that I've realized I'm truly a "Switch".  While I intensely long to have an errant girl across my lap, bottom bared and shifting shades of red, I also have a compulsion to be taken across a woman's lap, for the same treatment.  I have been across the knee of several of my lovers, but, as I wish to deliver, I long for a real spanking.  I long to relinquish control to a feminine disciplinarian.  I have trouble letting go of control in many areas, which is perhaps why the idea appeals to me so much.  I fantasize of being suddenly, unexpectedly led to a chair, where a woman seats herself, then takes me over her knee.  Although I normally have a high tolerance for pain, apparently my bottom does not; I imagine receiving a real spanking—most often imagining hand or hairbrush, but sometimes other implements—without regard to what I “think I can take”, until I, and my chastiser, feel I’m well and truly punished.  I can't imagine releasing control enough to be brought to tears, but I think I would like that to be the case.  That would definitely require a great degree of authenticity in the punishment.

Lately, I don't know which scenario I want more.  In the past I've always had a tendency to naturally dominate--most of the girls who've been attracted to me were at least somewhat, if not very, subservient.  I've always had the fantasy of being dominated--made to perform sexual acts for the pleasure of my lover--but it's never been so prevalent, and I know it isn't a full lifestyle I'd be happy with.  I am very much a Libra, needing balance and justice...and change.

For now, both my palm and my bottom remain their natural shade and integrity.  They both itch to be red and sore, for the  right reasons.......