From Erotic Submission
Tied & Feeling the Cane (SpankCitement)
Clare Fonda Appreciation Week Month (Cherry Red)
Red Bottoms for Green Thumbs (Wellred Weekly)
Fifty Shades of Not Porn (Joan Defers)
Game of Thrones (Chross)
Boardwalk Badness Weekend (XOXO, Beth)
More Boardwalk Badness (Erica Scott)
Sin: chairs are for sitting.
Tops. This is where I sigh and roll my eyes. This is where I list some of the sins of the walking paradox — the Top.
1. They admire us for our intelligence but spank us for our smart mouths. If they didn’t want us to be smart, they should be spanking someone dumb.
2. They twist the words that we say into the words that we actually mean. How dare they?
Sin: making us watch ourselves during a spanking.
3. They carelessly yank our panties up between our cheeks so they can benefit from pantie-clad and bare-bottom at the same time. I thought they were supposed to be the decisive bunch.
4. They confuse the first words we ever learned — no and yes. A plea of, “No, not so hard,” might as well be, “What a lovely wooden paddle. Yes, my butt would be honored.”
Sin: creative spanking benches.
5. Spanking us for using foul language but then — minutes later — fucking the shit out of us while encouraging us to say pussy and cock and harder, don’t you dare stop. Seems a bit like a mixed message, doesn’t it?
Sin: white shoes.
Incidentally — shhh — these transgressions are what I like best about Tops. Turns out I’m a sinner, too. Who’d have thought?
However, her history never goes away. Even buried deep, it has a way of making itself known. In great happiness, it attempts to guard her. In great sorrow, it attempts to slay her.
I hurt myself today
to see if I could feel
I focus on the pain
the only thing that’s real
Sometimes she controls her history. She asks for pain so the hurt inside will lose its consuming focus. Internal becomes external and is much easier to grasp:
Her eating disorder of her teen years. Her rape in Spain in her 20s. Her heartbreak in her 30s. Her feelings of inferiority throughout life, each decade marked by grand injury, now marked by the cane.
Suppressed but now addressed, she allows herself to cry.
What have I become, my sweetest friend?
For those moments, over his lap or clutching the desk, she is complete. The complete woman — past, present, future — with no part carrying more weight than the other. In those minutes, she comes to terms with her shuttered history and understands how it fits with who she is now and who she will become.
In her tears, she keeps herself.
If I could start again
a million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way
From Get Your Daily Spankings.
Clairvoyant. (Spanking Discussion)
It’s all you. (Newt Kai)
I have a thing for photocopiers, too. (Heart & Soul)
Principled Porn. (Dreams of Spanking)
Melted a little. (Erica Scott)
Relax. (Olivia Crowe)
His hand, with strong, downward volleys, brooked neither breath nor thought. Her eyes closed; her teeth gritted. She shook her head against the sharp sting. She would not beg. She would not. She would stand and she would take it.
“Beg me,” he demanded, while he palmed her pussy and nibbled her neck. “Beg me for my cock.”
She ground against his hand but still she shook her head. She risked no words. She clamped her mouth.
The belt slithered from its home and snapped behind her. Snapped again, and then found its quivering target. She fought to maintain both her physical and mental positions. It would be so easy to say the words, after the leather bit her cheeks. Say the words!, her body agreed.
“Say it!” He commanded gruffly. “Say the words to make this stop!”
She would not.
He kicked her legs apart and pushed her forward. With her chest on the mattress, she knew she was wide open. A zipper sounded; his pants came down. Behind her she felt his hips, felt his hardness.
So easy! So close!, and yet she chose to fight, even while her toes lifted her higher. His fingers hurt as they squeezed, pulling her against him, their hips miming the pleasure she denied. She was swollen, her cheeks angry with refusal.
“You want it. Say that you want it.”
She did but she would not say it. She could not.
“No. I don’t. I want you to spank me more,” she lied, “all night if you have to. But I. Will. Not. Say. It.”
He would not give up easily. A blur followed, with her on all fours for the paddle, a hand in her hair for the tawse. Their wills matched, either her bottom or his need would decide the fate of the battle.
I want it! I want your cock!, her mind screamed.
The next moment she was carrying his weight as he pushed inside her.
“I didn’t say it,” she gasped as he moved behind her.
“You did. You said it!” He insisted as his arm circled her waist and a finger found her clit. Her ravaged cheeks debated pushing against him or away, and so they did both, rocking back and forth, claiming pleasure along with pain.
“I did not!”
Did she?
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.
