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.

“Now.”

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.

It takes only a fraction of a second.

The cane creates an indentation in my cheeks. Pain receptors fire off an impulse, a warning. The warning travels up my spinal cord where a basic decision — a reflex — is made to draw my bottom inward as if in breath. Then onto the brain where it interprets the pain, delivers the sting, and gives its educated edict: to maintain position.

It happens as fast as a blink. Yet, that blink seems as long as a dream.

Between reflex and will, while my hips curl defensively into the pillows, I wait for it. The beautiful sting. The challenge to maintain. The anger — yes, anger — shortly followed by submission. Within that blink, I resign this life while simultaneously embrace it. He allows me time, more time than I need, enough time to think twice and then think again.

We draw a dozen breaths between each stroke while he watches my face and sees realization dawn, depart, and return. He knows the battle between body and brain, one bent on avoidance and the other on acceptance, and rewards the victor.

He does this eighteen times. It is the only way to deliver a caning: with calculated patience.

On the way home from work, I picked up almonds, tomatoes and a six-pack of seasonal beer — all of the miscellany necessary to complete our meal. I had enough time to shrug out of my coat, slip out of my heels, and brush my teeth before he arrived.

Recently, our sex life has taken a back-seat to family, injury, and an unrelenting holiday schedule.  Cuddling had been our main course for three weeks — three long weeks of sexual frustration that had me daydreaming about 10-minute quickies and elevator spankings.  I hoped that tonight would mark the end of our abstinence.

With his hand tangled in my hair in greeting, he growled, “I feel like a late dinner.”

Abstinence? Kiss my ass.

Two long strides later, my arm-less chair was yanked into the middle of the room where he sat down and pulled me quite forcefully over his lap.  It was all warm-up, 100%.  Over my pants: slight kicking.  Over my panties: some protestations. On the bare: weak objections followed by gyrations.

He positioned me over the rolled arm of the couch and stood in my line of vision.  Belt removal was an exaggerated one-act play, as he slowly — loop by pussy-watering loop — freed the leather.  

Yes, he’s aware of the effect it has on me.  Yes, he plays dirty.

As far as the spanking went, I’m embarrassed to say that I was a cheap date. Fortunately, I date cheap men, so we were on the same wavelength.

Abstinence might be harder on men.

I hesitate to declare such a thing, because it’s difficult to imagine anything more trying than the pressure I’ve felt building for nearly a month.  But honestly, the way he pounded me from behind in a frenzy of teeth-shaking possession — he very well may have suffered its effects more than I.