After a Few Drinks

“This is a bad sign,” I said, trying to be serious as I rifled through videos, vibrators and cuffs. I dangled a remote-control egg in demonstration. “I have to unpack my toy bag to get to the lube. It should be front and center.”

Propped against the headboard, he raised a brow patiently.

“Ah…here it is,” I said as I finally found something neither penis-shaped nor made of fabric near the bottom of my collection. “Carry on, Sir,” I smiled, tossing the bottle to him as my freshly spanked bottom returned near his chest and his cock stood a breath from my mouth.

With the lube, the dildo slipped into my ass easily at the same rate of speed that I took him between my lips: slow and teasing, with every gasping inch. Each time I moved, the curved glass dildo ground against my g-spot. This was incentive enough to give him the very best blow job I could, my hips keeping time with my mouth and tongue. Added incentive was his hand beating rhythmically against my butt, his fingers twisting the glass periodically — insanely, driving me wild by the nearness of orgasm, making me murmur around him.

His was close, too. I could tell by the rigidity of his abdomen and the urgency of his thrusts. I went deeper, breathing through my nose and spiraling my tongue over his length, unrelenting in my focus to swallow him whole.

I was rewarded, twice. Once when he delivered himself into my mouth. And again, moments later, when he slowly removed the dildo, twirling it around until I no longer withheld my own tremors.

I rested my head on his thigh; his hand cupped my bottom. We breathed together.

When the room righted itself, I noticed the sheets: “I’m sorry, I did try to swallow it all, Sir. But there was sooo much,” I said in awe.

Our easy banter returned, he asked, “How big is the wet spot?”

“Hmmm,” I said, lifting him and inspecting beneath. “About the size of your nuts.”

That sent us into peals of giddiness.

This is what ‘sexy’ is, I thought as our laughter subsided and he pulled me over his lap.

This, I thought, as he circled his arms around my waist and forced my bottom into the air, is real.

This way that we are together, I knew, as he began to spank me again, this is how it should be.

I vowed to keep lube in my nightstand from this day forward.


What He Should Do with a Girl Like Me

Five transgressions.

He says premeditated; I say mistakes. So four of the five were premeditated mistakes.

Based on my affinity for premeditation, he says, I should enjoy planning my punishment.

He is wrong. Choosing my own punishment is a bit like cutting my own cake: if I weren’t concerned about my ass, I’d take a bigger piece. Those details are better left to someone who doesn’t have to fit into my unforgiving jeans come morning.

But as any girl like me can tell you, there is no reasoning with a man like him. And so the fine print will be left to my imagination and my hand, written shakily in my punishment notebook.

What should he do with a girl like me?

I think on it for days.

There is a part of me that wishes to outline, step-by-step, my impending punishment. First a hand spanking — perhaps not so soft. And then twenty-five with the hairbrush, followed by twenty with the cane, and fifty with the strap. Over his lap, over my dining table — with my knuckles bulging white — and then over the foot of my bed.

This same part wishes to time my punishment: five minutes with each implement until my bag is empty. I look longingly at my kitchen timer. I count the number of implements.

I begin to write, but it seems unrealistic. Too much? Not enough? I rip the page from the spiral notebook.

What does a girl like me need from a man like him?

Finally, one sentence. It is all that I need:

For this punishment spanking, I will be spanked for however long and with whatever means necessary, at Sir’s discretion.

Short and simple — to some, this may seem a cop-out. Perhaps it is, to some.

That one stark sentence written in my own hand betrays exactly what kind of girl I am and exactly what kind of man he is. I trust him, infinitely. I’ve chosen him to discipline me because he knows what do, without me telling him. He knows what I need, without me outlining it. There is no magic number of strokes, no need for timers.

Spank me thoroughly, however he desires, that is what he should do with a girl like me.

It’s as simple and delicious as chocolate cake.


Snooze Button

I prefer to say that I’m “committed to sleep” rather than his preferred description of “lazy”. I am not lazy. I am not. I just sleep really hard and don’t notice the alarm clock until 3 snooze buttons later.

Knowing myself as I do (again, where is the “bravo” for that?), I habitually set the alarm to sound 27 minutes before I actually need to wake. Good, solid planning, I say. Lazy, he answers, with his eyes flashing and his lip pulling meanly at the corner.

I suspect he’s jealous that I can sleep through a tornado (and have, twice) while he cannot.

“If you push that snooze button, I’m taking you over my knee for a different wake-up call,” he said the night before, his hair forming the shape of two horns. Perhaps that was my imagination but jealousy is ugly, don’t you think?

I suspected that even a spanking wouldn’t rouse me from slumber, and flippantly muttered, “Challenge accepted.”

I love to sleep. I love to be spanked. Combining the two would be like a scrumptious jelly donut with peanut butter on top; I cannot imagine a better way to break my fast.

True to his threat, at 5:33 AM, I lazily committedly slapped the snooze button and he was all over me like…peanut butter on a jelly donut, sitting up against the headboard and twisting me over his lap.

Within those 9 minutes between snooze alarms, my butt quickly discovered that he is disgruntled first thing in the morning! The source of his crankiness became apparent when he reached beneath the pillow and pulled out a hairbrush.

(Of course we are all familiar with “The Princess and the Pea”, and I cannot help but draw a parallel. How could he, a princess by another name, sleep comfortably with a damn hairbrush beneath his head?)

Hairbrush applied, I was no longer jelly — pliant and easy to spread — but fully awake by minute 9 — aroused and kicking — when the alarm signaled for the second time.

Round two saw me moved from his lap to over pillows, awakened bottom waving in the dim room, as he extricated the belt from his pants atop my dresser. The strapping was fast and hard, pushing me off the pillows, further up the mattress and wiggling for cover. With more stealth than I thought possible, his hand grabbed my ankle and yanked me back within striking range for the last resounding “crack” of his belt.

Against my better judgment, I pushed the third snooze alarm. Coy act aside, I was enjoying myself and thinking that the loss of 27 minutes of sleep was no great hardship if every morning started this enthusiastically.

What fate awaited me in those last 9 minutes?

Ah well, most men do not like their sexual prowess to be timed, so I will omit those details. But a brief summary: they were minutes well spent.

At 6 AM, the time when I really did need to get out of bed, I rose on shaky legs, started the coffee, turned on the shower and beamed at the red cheeks in the mirror.

This demonstration would not change my sleeping habits. No, Sir. The only change I could foresee was that I would no longer be hitting the “snooze button”, but rather the “spank button”.

Three cheers for laziness committment.



It wasn’t so much a rule as it was an implicit understanding: no intimate touching. He could pull her panties down, spread her legs, make her assume every position ever seen on any spanking site ever seen, but he could not touch her pussy.

He could order her to touch herself while he spanked her, watching her fingers unravel an orgasm like an impossibly long magician’s scarf.

He could push the just-used cane between her legs, his hand covering the fresh welts as she bucked against its slender hardness.

He could tell her to straddle his knee while facing him, his hand beating the same rhythm as her rocking hips until both became a blur of white light and low vibrations.

Or he could spank her indecently centered, over and over, until the blood flow catapulted her above the waves.

For, as every brat knows, there is a way around every rule — a creative loophole easily found if one is possessed of the desire.

The desire possessed him. Four times.

She went to bed a rag doll. Her bottom and pussy both throbbed with yearning to be rubbed, which, of course she could do — without permission — now that his eyes weren’t upon her.

Her creative loophole, like the adage of the tree falling in the woods: if he didn’t see it, it didn’t happen.


Learning Curve

An image of a graph, unbidden: he on the Y-axis, his voice dropping; me on the X-axis, my nerves growing. The lower his voice, the higher my anxiety, until he is just a whisper and I am quaking on the couch.

Inverse correlation, I recall from mathematics, imagining the downward curve of our conversation.

My lips join the curve and I quickly concentrate on my twisting hands — suddenly finding interest in the cuticles — as I suppress a smirk.

“Have I said something amusing?” He asks, tilting my chin between thumb and forefinger.

“‘Beware the fury of the patient man’,” I whisper back, meeting his eyes. Two can play this quiet game.

“I am neither furious nor particularly patient.”

I measure him, then, for both. He is calm. Decisive. Oh, shit — patient. This will be a long afternoon, I think as the curve slides along the X on a shaky breath.

By now, he is so quiet that I almost miss his command. “Stand,” I think he said, so I do.

“Hands against the wall,” he says above the roar of my pulse. “Do you know what’s going to happen?”

“Yes, Sir,” I reply.

“What? What’s going to happen?”

My mouth dries, so I wet my lips. “You are going to spank me,” I say, mustering more courage than my nerves actually allow.

“And you know why, don’t you?”

Yes, I know why. I understand the direct correlation between his disappointment and the color of my bottom — the greater one is, the redder the other. And, yes, I have disappointed him. And, yes, he will spank me red.

“I want you to count for me,” he says as he unbuttons my pants.

I sigh and remember that math was always my most painful subject.


Breaking Through

He told me to bring the leather strap.

That didn’t seem sufficient, so I brought everything that fit into my monogrammed tote bag — paddles, canes, tawses, cuffs, brushes, a vibrator, plug, lube. (Spanking wasn’t the only thing on my agenda and from our earlier conversation, his plans were likewise freaky.) It had been so long — weeks, months, I’d lost track — since we well and truly played.

With Thai food so hot it made the hair stick to his forehead, reminiscent of other fun diversions, and a glass of wine in his hand, he gave me the look.

“Are you going to spank me?” I asked, measuring his eyes.

“Yes,” he answered without pause.

“Should I go to the bedroom and take my pants off?”

“Go to the bedroom, yes. Leave your pants on,” he said slowly, as if contemplating popping my button himself. I imagined him steering me by the waistband, unsnapping and unzipping my jeans before yanking me over his lap, leaving him easy access for phase two.

“When?” I asked, needing him to say it. I wanted the baritone of direction, although, at least tonight, I’d been comfortable in the lead.


Ah, there it was: the tone, the dominance, the man in control. The man who would demand just the right amount — stretching my capacity to feel and breathe, to give and take — while instilling blissful quiet.

In the bedroom, he didn’t take it slowly. Our kink had been missed and it was time to recover.

With my pants unloosed, just as I had pictured, and with me over his lap, he lifted my shirt and unhooked my bra.

So we’re playing that way, I thought with no objection. Better than cuffs, his hand painfully grabbed my tit and held me in place.

Even in that position, it was hard for me to stop directing. I’m not sure what had gotten into me, but I was petulant and mean. He wasn’t spanking me right. He didn’t warm me up enough. He needed to stop playing my buns like bongo drums — a practice that usually makes me laugh. Even his sharp reprimands against my thighs couldn’t silence my complaints.

A balloon of frustration swelled between us and I longed for it to burst.

Three times he asked me to retrieve another implement from the bag, in addition to the strap and paddle I’d chosen to begin. Three times I left his lap and self-consciously waddled across the room with my pants and panties below my spanked cheeks. Each time, my frustration grew.

Why wasn’t this spanking working? Where was my easy submission? Have we been so far departed from D/s that we couldn’t find our way back?

The cane sliced through my doubt by the fourth stroke as I bit back tears and released the anger I didn’t know I held.

This was not how I pictured our evening together. This was not what I thought I’d needed when I packed that bag earlier in the day and began my drive to him, enthusiastically singing along to the radio. I’d pictured a fun interlude, but instead he delivered what was necessary: a reminder of our desires, our story, and the way that we fit.

He spanked the whole woman last night. He spanked the filthy girl with the lube and the butt plug. He spanked the naughty girl with the witty comebacks and challenging frown. He spanked the quiet girl and the wild child. He laid me bare; he spread me open.

I made the request and he answered with a demand.

Wrapped in the comforter, with him behind me, his thighs rubbing hotly against my welts, I was finally at peace. Finally, joyfully submissive.

But it didn’t stop me from whispering, “Will you fuck me now?”

And he did. On his terms.