Well, Obviously…

Speaking of obvious, shall we put warning labels on spatulas and leather belts?
 
Will cause pain when applied to buttocks. Do not use while sleeping.
 
Yeah, spanking hurts. Sometimes it feels like he’s trying to spank this kink right out of me. He hasn’t yet.
 
He can keep trying, though.
 

I’m a big baby. Pain doesn’t turn me on. There’s a part of me that really hates — loathes, despises, insert passionate word here — spanking. He reaches for the wooden paddle and I groan. I mean that groan. I mean it with every fiber.
 
If there were a bonfire of the paddles, I’d be the first to throw my bra on top of the heap.
 
Spanking hurts.
 

But submission…oh, submission is glorious. Even among the most unsubmissive of us spankos (and I hate to speak for others), there must be something in laying yourself across the dangerous cliff of a set of knees, knowing that you might teeter but never topple.
 
As much as I dislike condescendingly obvious warning labels, here’s one that should be sewn onto every Top’s knees: Buckle up.

Any Other Way

Would you wish your spankohood away?
 
I admit life might be easier without this — find a nice guy, settle down and be scandalized with whipped cream on date nights.
 
There was a time, after my divorce and one failed D/s relationship, when I tried to suppress my spanking desires because I wanted something simpler. I talked myself into vanilla, dreamed of spanking but hid it under the sheets. Like an attic room full of antiques, the urges were still there but disguised as ghosts.
 
I dated a German man who, despite being from a country known for corporal punishment, was as kinky as an athletic sock. I spiced it up with thigh highs and corsets, vibrators, and anal sex.
 
 
Our relationship lasted for three months and ended with a spanking. In a final act of frustration, I asked him to give it a try: smack my cheeks as hard as he felt comfortable. Despite assuaging his concerns about hurting me, he complied with all the force of a love pat. He wasn’t a spanko; but I still was and it was time for a comeback.
 
The rest is history, my story. However, the question remains. If I could, would I wish myself to be any other way?
 
Having never been one, I don’t know what it’s like to be a vanilla. I don’t know if they lead easier lives. I don’t know that they are more likely to find compatible partners.
 

 
What I do know is this: my life is rich and textured. Hands hold meaning; his raised eyebrow is erotic. Because of what we do, I trust and, therefore, love with more depth than would be possible for me in a non-spanking relationship. He’s someone who truly understands me, can interpret every outline in the attic of my brain.
 
It doesn’t hurt that we can make athletic socks sexy. That kind of electricity is something I would never wish away.
 

Down They Go

I am a woman in control of her destiny. I am decisive. Like a chess player, I map out possible outcomes, anticipating others’ motives, and settle on the best plan of action.
 
It is a small thing, then, to be in charge of my pants.
 
They come down multiple times during the day, as needed, no planning required. I can even do it quickly, in the heat of the moment, with one hand on my button and another on his.
 
When I undress for lovemaking, my eyes are on him, provocatively, my own private strip-tease. Or it happens in a rush, my pants treated as obstacles to the end goal.
 

 
When I undress for a spanking, I hold my breath, stare at the floor, wish to cover every bit that is revealed. I must remind myself: first the button, then the zipper, push them down, breathe. My hands shake.
 
I want both — the lovemaking and the spanking — so why do I react so differently?
 
It is his focus. When I push my pants down at his command, I can feel his eyes plotting their strategy. Every inch of flesh is a potential Achilles Heel; where there is white, he imagines a striped blush.
 
It is in my own strategy, which is no strategy at all. I am present, but must only do what he says. Come here. Over my knee. Hands in front. Stop kicking.
 
I have no offense, no defense, no plan. There is no “if A, then B,” but only “A”. This is going to happen. I do not have the map; I cannot change the course although the outcome is certain.
 

Flashback Friday: I got stripes

Borrowing from American Spanking Society’s idea of Flashback Fridays, I will repost an entry from approximately one year prior. Hope you enjoy the trip down Memory Lane as much as I do!
 

It’s inexplicable, this recent addiction to Johnny Cash. I’ve always been a fan and I have a vinyl collection to prove it; but lately, I find Cash songs stuck in my head on an almost daily basis. The one that I’ve been humming since Friday night? “I’ve got stripes”:
 

On a monday I was ar-rested (uh huh)
on a Tuesday they locked me in the jail (oh boy)
on a Wednesday my trial was at-tested
on a Thursday they said guilty & the judge’s gavel fell
 
I got stripes – stripes around my shoulders
I got chains – chains around my feet
I got stripes – stripes around my shoulders
and them chains – them chains they’re about to drag me down

 
 
Except for me: I got stripes, stripes upon my sit spots/I got stripes, stripes upon my cheeks. I just hope I don’t sing it out loud.
 
The implement? Another crop: evil, inflexible, and cane-like, it was dressed in an innocuous, cheery pink nylon from Fleck. The reaction? Air hissing through my teeth, knees buckling after each stroke, it made an impact.
 
For a spanko, it’s difficult to find an actual physical punishment. But this was another job well done! (Please don’t mistake that as encouragement for a repeat session!)

Sore

I’m sore. Jeans were a bad choice today.
 
Although I am now alone in the house, I close the bathroom door behind me. With a snap of a button and a push of a zipper, I release the heat confined within my pants and regard the mirror behind me.
 
I attentively lift the right cheek and then the left. The evidence is there. My bottom looks like an unfinished Easter egg — the lower portion dipped in pink with the upper remaining shell white. I’m not looking at my face, but feel my lips betray satisfaction.
 
The soft pajama pants are still on the towel rack from when he ordered them “off!”, in that way of his. I consider the relief of the soft cotton against my spanked cheeks, consider trading my unforgiving denim for it.
 
I’ll stick with jeans, feeling chaffed and hot for the remainder of the day.
 
Then I do something I cannot understand: with my chin tucked against my shoulder, my eyes on the mirror, my hand descends in rapid smacks. Swat, swat, swat…and swat, while watching my pink cheeks react. I giggle at their rehearsal and imagine him in the clapping audience.
 
Wincing my way back into my jeans, I give myself one last contented pat, sore but smiling.
 

Photo Finish

A mere .002 of a second separated first place from second — not even a blink, hardly discernible to the naked eye. It appeared that Jimmie Johnson and Clint Bowyer finished at the same time at Talladega’s April 17th race, but the camera tells a different story. Johnson emerged as the clear, albeit narrow, victor.
 
Not much of a race fan myself, I still have an appreciation for the tight competition and photo finish, particularly as it applies to my sex life.
 
Finishing simultaneously is obviously a goal. Finishing .002 of a second apart would be a rare success.
 
And so there we were, exhausted after our 13 hour drive home from the Talladega excitement. Despite my fatigue, I could not fall into the sleepy peace that so easily found D.

Snuggling in close, I whispered against his neck, “I need something.”
 
I’m not normally so selfish to rouse a sleeping man so that he may deliver an orgasm. In doing so, it wasn’t my intention for him to actively participate in my pleasure. However, I didn’t want him to disapprove when I spasmed and purred beside him, particularly when I desperately wanted the lazy (and loud) guarantee of the Hitachi.
 
Can a woman have an affair with her vibrator? It felt a little like that, so I woke him.
 
Of course his assent came with a price.

Fully awake now, D ordered me on my knees, chest pressed flat against the mattress, naked bottom high in the air with my arm underneath as I worked the vibrator between my legs. Then he started spanking — a rhythmic, unrelenting barrage that pushed me harder and harder against the vibrating head.
 
Proving how great my need was, and how impatient I can be, it didn’t take more than a dozen smacks to feel myself cresting. Sensing the time was near — perhaps my cries of “I’m close!” were an indication — D didn’t break rhythm and spanked me through climax.
 
Open-mouthed and panting against the pillow, it was a surprise when I felt D slide between my legs, the vibrator still pulsating against me. With hard, downward strokes, his hand continued its rhythm against my bottom as his hips found a rhythm of their own.

With each of us hurtling toward completion at speeds rivaling any race car, it’s hard to tell who edged over the line first.
 
One shudder provoked the other’s; each spank and thrust elicited responding wriggles and moans. Until we emerged, both victorious, both spent, both exhausted from our own photo finish.
 
Approximately .002 of a second later, we were asleep.
 
 
I’d like to offer condolences and wishes for safety to those in Alabama, the beautiful home to Talladega, and the neighboring states affected by the ongoing storms.

If He Knew

Photo from Cherry Red Report.

 
He can’t know.
 
He can’t know the vibrations I feel with every spank, the pressure that builds at the bud, demanding to be uncapped. He can’t understand the weight of breasts bouncing, nipples tightening, as they loose themselves from my bra. I am certain he has no idea of the high-pitched yearning that screams low in my belly as I moan against the mattress.
 
Surely if he knew, he’d reach around and claim a breast, pluck and roll that swollen mound in his fingers, all the while maintaining the downpour of his hand against my cheeks.
 
If he knew, he’d move those stubborn fingers that grip my upper thigh. He’d move them a few millimeters, to the left and up a little. He’d push my button. He’d delve deep, trace circles, tap out an S.O.S. until the swells subside.
 

If all else fails, push your own button.

He would not torment me this way: climbing higher and higher up the ladder just to slide back down again. And again.
 
Almost by design, he teases me until I can take no more when understanding dawns.
 
“Oh, you want to come? You poor thing. I didn’t realize,” he laughs against my flushed neck, as if an apology erases the frustrations of the last hour on the brink.
 
Finally, like he knew my desires all along, his hand captures a breast, squeezes a nipple. His fingers move beneath me to stroke and coax, petting out the mews and purrs from my long neglected pussy.
 
“Come for me, baby,” he invites.
 
I waste no time with an RSVP.
 

Good Girls Gone Bored

Whoever said there’s a thin line between love and hate never experienced a wooden paddle. That line is thick and it’s no secret which side I’m on.
 
Throw bath brushes, wooden hairbrushes, rulers, and all things that come from trees (well, paper might be a nice switch) on that fire while we’re at it.
 
Call me Ronald Reagan*: A paddle is a paddle. How many more do we have to look at?
 
So I’m looking for alternatives, since D insists on using more than just leather, crops and canes. (Really. Shouldn’t that be enough? Must I write a post on boys and their toys?)
 

Then it hit me: plastic. I’ve never been spanked with anything plastic.
 
Scouring my bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen drawers, in search of something to test on my curious cheeks, I found it — a plastic cutting board. Bright yellow, like a warning sign, it’s long and wide enough to cover my whole bottom.
 
Should I? Will I?
 
Well, the house is clean. The dishwasher is running and there is nothing to do, all by myself, in this last ho-hummery of Winter, except spank.
 
 
*Original quote from Ronald Reagan in 1966 as Governor of California, opposing expansion of Redwood National Park, reads, “A tree is a tree. How many more do we have to look at?”

The Good Doctor

He tipped the Nyquil down my throat, tucked me in and left me with a sweet lullaby.
 
“Rest. When I get back, I will be paddling you,” he said, pressing his lips to my clammy forehead.
 
“Mmmm,” I murmured, still sleepy from the sickness that had overtaken me for the past few weeks. “Yes, I think I need that.”

“This isn’t about what you need. This is about me. And I need to paddle your butt ’til it’s glowing. Understood?”
 
“Yes, Sir. See you when you get back,” I whispered, smiling as I snuggled into his comforter.
 
I woke to the dim light settling in the bedroom, heard the garage door closing, and counted the beats it would take him to come to the room. Fifteen. Fifteen seconds and he was standing over me, his lips quirking at the corners as he surveyed my tangle of limbs and wild hair.

I think I wanted him to spank me.
 
Then there were the butterflies — those old, familiar friends that never fly far from us. My tummy curled into knots as I remembered his promise, given hours ago.
 
Instead of steering me over his lap, he slipped into the master bath and reappeared, discussing the steaks he was going to grill for dinner.
 
“You need some good protein,” he said.

Uncharacteristically shy, I sat up in bed, twisting my lips, contemplating what would come next.
 
“Um…but what do you need?” I asked, my voice sounding youthful and foreign, uncertain.
 
He paused on the threshold of the bedroom and turned, all business. “I need to start the grill…
 
“And when I get back, I need your pants to be off. You’re going to be spanked.”

Moments later I was over his lap, proving that even girls with Pneumonia have loud voices. And the steaks? We both take ours medium rare, bright pink in the center.
 

Fever

I am in the circle of your arms, can feel your heart against my back. My feet rub against each other. Good night, left toes. Good night, right.
 
I drift.
 
An inexplicable fever plagued me through the day, as it has for several months. Even in dreams it follows: a high-speed chase through the woods, kaleidoscopes of color, snippets of conversation on fast-forward, faces I recognize from the grocery store fritter in and out.
 
Little makes sense.

I am high in a tree, bent over a branch, laid bare to anyone who passes beneath.
 
I wriggle deeper into the branches to hide, but it only lifts my skirt higher, displaying more. I close my eyes against the roaring audience below, willing them to disappear. I am dizzy with fear — afraid of heights, afraid of this exposure, afraid of the jeers.
 
More! Now! Faster! Keep up!
 
I have no more. I can’t go faster. I can’t keep up.

I climb up the branches which lead to solid ground. In a clearing now, I am alone.
 

* * *

 
My thighs are slick…with what? Sweat?
 
No, just wet. From me, from my thoughts. Writhing images invade, like flags in the wind, the swish of skin against skin makes my temples pound and my clit throb. A tongue laps between my legs and there is a rushing sound — a madness — followed by waves moving over me as I attempt to swim atop and ride them.
 

* * *

 
We are in a theatre now, full of faceless people. I bend; you reach for me. I feel your cool hand against my damp and burning flesh. You comment, You’re like a river. I could swim in you.

Your hand feels strange, unknown, forked leather against my cheeks as you snap a rhythm against me, like a heart beating. Lub dub, lub dub.
 
Everyone fades.
 

* * *

 
I am in a room, my room, on my stomach with nothing beneath me — floating, finally cool. I’m weightless, slowly swooning. Near the ceiling, your fingers clasp my thighs. You tighten your belt around my waist and reel me in and over your knee.
 
Bright light and then dark. I hiccup a release and go limp in your arms, home again.