Category Archives: Spanking quickie

The Cane and I

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11
Twitt

Just as he knows how far I can bend before breaking, he often grasps each end of the cane and makes it yield to him.

Flexible yet rigid, the cane bows while still remaining a cane — an undeniable length of power, solemnity and grace made ever more so by its temporary transformation into a curve.

It bends as I do, with resistance. Under his tutelage it bites, caresses, cajoles — anything he asks. Soon there will be line atop of line mapping our path, a pale criss-crossing of passion aligned with punishment.

I suck awareness through my teeth as the cane moves air. By my side, he is pleased.

I turn my head and think: there is nothing so erotic as a cane and a woman held by a man who understands how to use them.

Fade to Yellow

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10
Twitt

He’d just finished with the acrylic paddle, a nasty little piece that bit hard into her lower cheek. His hand resumed, encouraging circulation to minimize the bruising, a theory she wasn’t going to argue.

When he held her, it wasn’t to keep her. It was to feel her struggle and her surrender. He looped one leg around hers, pinned her arm behind her back and plunged his finger deep.

With the crook of a knuckle, he declared his power as she relinquished hers all over his lap.

It lasted a week, that bruise where bottom meets thigh, reminding her of the euphoria of fleeting possession, of the elegance and magic of rough seduction.

From red to purple, from brown to yellow, it faded as he did.

An Annoying Personal Problem

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20
Twitt

I noticed it a few months ago and now I focus on it to distraction.

He’s spanking me, getting warmer, warmer yet. Then it happens: my left eye squeezes shut. Just my left eye, so I’m a moaning, winking idiot.

I’ve thought about taping the eyelid. Or closing both eyes — which may be more practical — but I can never get the right eyelid to mimic the intensity of the left and this seems to bother me more.

I don’t think he’s noticed, and I haven’t said anything until now. But it’s sort of killing my head space during a spanking. In fact, I haven’t reached the holy grail of euphoria — aka Subspace — since noticing this facial tick. I’m consumed by it. Silly, huh?

“Oh, there goes the eye. Left eye, open! Open! Stay open! Oh, god, there it goes again…And is he still spanking me?”

Well, Obviously…

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5
Twitt


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.

Sore

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28
Twitt
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.