Prelude to a Cream Pie (A Naughty Abby Vignette)

This video is a snippet from my 41st birthday spanking, just last week! Not the same spanking as below, but is close enough, as it includes a hand spanking with a sjambok balanced on my bum.

I'd already left a creamy ring around the base of his cock by the time he moved me to the armchair with the intention of punishing me. I'd known it was coming, had tried to be ready for it, had tried since he'd texted me of my transgression the day before.

I'd been sitting at my desk at work when the message came through: "I need to have the kitchen wench severely whipped for forgetting my morning coffee!"

Alas, I was the kitchen wench in question, and I truly had forgotten his coffee! As I'd run around the house doing my usual 6 a.m. morning routine, I'd been distracted by Twitter, of all things. I proceeded to send a series of apologies and emojis, knowing two things for certain. One, he wasn't at all mad at me, and two, I definitely had that punishment coming anyway. Sure enough, he followed up with "It's really ok! I just wanted something fun to whip you for, and you provided!" Kissy lips. Mmm, a weekend whipping was on its way.

I climbed onto the chair, pressing the outside of each knee into the sides of the seat. I crossed my arms and rested them on the back of the chair, settling my chin into the backs of my hands. I arched, presenting my bottom.

He already had the sjambok in hand, the braided whip that alternately thuds into the muscle or stings across the surface of the flesh, depending on how he wields it. He has coaxed both low, rumbling waves of pleasure from my body with this leather beast, as well as weeping and welts. I'd been looking forward to this moment but suddenly wasn't sure if I had it in me to take a full punishment whipping, even for fun. My whisper hoarse, I told him, "I don't know if... I don't know what I'm up for."

"I know," he said. Without saying anything more, I knew he'd already taken my position, my trembling, and my wetness into account. I wasn't ready to say I was ready, but he knew I was without my saying it and I could sense his arm pull the whip back. A small nod of my head into my hands. The crack of the leather braid cut across the air sharply, breaking the silence, followed by a quick snap as the whip just barely flicked the naked skin of my ass.

It wasn't enough to howl about but I wanted to howl. Mr. W began a light but steady rhythm, the heavy braid landing at times more like a flexible cane when he choked up on his hold. The blows weren't hard, only consistent, only warming my backside from sit-spot to top-of-the-crack one stroke at a time. Despite the gentler strokes, it was hurting more than my birthday whipping. Maybe I just wasn't warmed up yet. Frustrated with myself, I tried to signal that I was ready for more.

He began to mix harder strokes into the mix, whippy strokes that cut into the inner curve of my ass cheek. They bit, and with those strokes I did begin to call out my pain. Each "Oh!" or "Ah!" seemed only to encourage the steadiness of Mr. W's lashes. Soon it felt as if the whip was dancing from cheek to cheek with quick sharp snaps, stinging and biting and inciting me to tears.

I was having trouble holding position and my body was doing a spastic twerk. I couldn't maintain the arch in my back and soon found myself free of the whip, collapsed over the back of the chair despite the punishment being quite minimal. Mr. W was giving me space to breathe.

"How are you doing?" he asked once I'd caught my breath. I shook my head. "Not great. Not as good as I want to be doing," I told him.

He stroked my back, my bottom. "You were doing great for long spaces and then it was like your body would give up. Then you were back at it, ready to go. What can I do for you?"

I didn't have to think. I knew I needed something to get over the hump in my own head, and I knew we were going to have to get closer than the sjambok allowed. "I need to cry. Will you spank me with your hand, Sir?" I asked. I wanted it. I wanted his hand burning my bottom, close, hot, and hard. I wanted it to hurt and I wanted to get past whatever was keeping me from fully enjoying the punishment up to now.

I was already in the mindset that my spanking was causing me pain. As his hand began to smack me, quick sharp spanks back and forth, I found my tears quickly.

What was bothering me? Smack, slap, smack, smack - I could feel my cheeks wobbling in time with the spanking. I did so well for my birthday spanking. Why couldn't I do it now? "Ow!" Sob. "Ow!" More sobbing. "Owwwwww!" All the tears burst forth.

The spanking didn't stop as I relived the last two days. We'd laughed about forgetting the coffee; the pain and tears were not contrition, it wasn't that. Work had ended on a positive note on Friday, I wasn't processing any stress there. For our primary weekend activity, we'd been working on the Etsy store, setting up naughty books for our smut shop. Visions of extreme sexual scenarios danced through my head, and  yet I was still crying and he was still spanking me and I was still trying to find a way to enjoy it.

His hand was firm, his palm curved to the shape of my ass cheek. Grabbing, slapping, smacking, turning me tender, each smack landing with a fire brighter than the last, his full attention on giving me what I'd asked for. Giving me the spanking I'd craved, the spanking I hadn't had to beg for, but would have. Then -

That's it, that's it. More please. Closer, faster, harder, I don't want the whip or the strap or the paddle or the cane, just your hand, Sir, just your hand, Daddy, yes please keep spanking me don't let me go don't turn away just you and my bottom, please, Sir -

I felt the arch return to my back vertebrae by vertebrae. My ass pushed back, greeting Mr. W's hand with greed. "Ooh, yes please Daddy, please spank me," I whispered, all my flirty filthiness back in force.

Later, Mr. W would tell me that it was a visible process that began in my shoulders and worked its way down my body, releasing the tension and unlocking my head. From the inside, it was a distinct shift, a place of pain turned quite literally to pleasure as the realization came to me that I'd been missing Mr. W. We'd been working together all day but not fully interacting. Sharing surface thoughts but not digging deep. We'd been so busy that even though we'd spent the day together, I hadn't felt him with me until he'd taken my hand-spanking to heart and let me have it. Connected, our skin warmed to the same heat, here he was with me. The shift in my head was from loneliness to feeling loved.

Fortunately for Mr. W, I don't get romantic when I feel loved. I get dirty.

The tears disappeared without my trying to end them. The sobbing became sighs of encouragement. "Yes, yes," I whispered, in case he hadn't noticed the shift. I arched deeper, presenting my body for whatever might be next on the agenda. I knew what I wanted, though. One of the books I'd been reviewing had an especially naughty scene that had stuck with me. All I had to do was say one particular magic word one more time so he'd know what I wanted, too.

Thank god he saw how wet I was again. I was clearly ready to move on from the spanking and so was he. With his hands on my hips, my lower back, he held me in place as he rested the head of his cock just at the dripping opening of my pussy. "I feel so little beneath you," I said, keeping my voice as small as I wanted to feel. "Daddy."

"Yeah?" His breath was rough. I was too wet. He was slipping inside me.

My voice even smaller: "Oh. Oh! Daddy..."

He knew what I wanted. He held tightly to my hips and pulled me back onto him like a glove he wanted to ruin. "Yeah, that's it, baby,"he growled close to my ear. "Take it for Daddy. That's it."

Scene-wise, that was all we needed. I bit the back of the leather chair and he let me have it, a pounding for my pussy but a salve for my mind. I was at peace in this place of being possessed. Throbbing waves threatened to break the spell and return me to womanhood, but:

"Oh, Sir. Oh Daddy! I feel like my tight little hole is going to burst all over you. Oh! Please, please. It's so much!"

We came together, collapsing in a gasping pile of trembling limbs. "Dear god you are incredible," Mr. W sighed into my skin. "Mmmmm, thank you Daddy," I purred, snuggling back against him. "Thank you for my spanking. My fucking. I needed you."

He helped me stand and held me steady. I looked down and saw the creamy emulsion my body had left on his. I grinned, remembering what was in the kitchen, feeling like a little girl all over again. "We have lemon cream pie!"

Mr. W's blue eyes sparkled. "Go get me some pie, little girl," he laughed.

"Yes, Sir!" Naked, sated, barely dripping any longer, I skipped off to the kitchen for pie.


I hope you're following me on Twitter! I'm on there daily and am generally happy to interact. Plus I post pics of my butt there ALL the time. @AbbyW2007

Throwback Thursday - My Favorite Belting

It's #ThrowbackThursday again - i.e. I'm up early enough to snip a little low-def video from another Naughty Abby Spanking Video, 2008's "Time for the Belt." This is the same clip I'm posting to Twitter, but....

Check out the original post Doctor When? for what I thought about this video at the time, and a not very well-hidden treasure if you enjoyed the 30-second clip. Fun Fact: Even in 2008 there was still some question as to whether spankings on film were "real," as I reference something about that in the post. Good thing we've all become porn stars since then and we all know that what we're doing on film is what we're doing in real life. And having fun doing it!

Becoming My Fetish Incarnate

If you're not up for reading - more welty bruisy pics below. But I'd love if you read my love letter to spanking as it slowly begins to consume more and more of my time and life. xoxo, Abby


I am overwhelmed with a renewed sense of desire, as if on the verge of something so illicit and delicious that my skin can barely stand the anticipation. An underlying but constant distraction keeps my mind and nerves abuzz. I get through the day but the thrum in the shadows grows louder and stronger and faster - I have become lust incarnate for a thing I cannot possess.

I crave this thing called Spanking. I want to live inside it, taste it, fuck it, be it, know it like an acolyte knows the meaning behind the meaning behind the meaning of a favorite prayer.

Suddenly I'm writing again. I have ideas for stories. I'm putting together collections. As you know, I've been more comfortable posting photos of myself as well, either spanked or just in celebration of the body and the bottom. Mr. W is working on a number of spanking-related projects that I hope to be sharing with you here soon. We've started going out smut hunting again, and looking for pervertibles, and just being in the mind-space all the time. It's starting to feel like we're always turned on.

For too long, spanking has been a core part of each of our identities, but we haven't allowed it to be front and center. Yet, if you asked each of us privately, it is THE thing that makes us each who we are. And if you asked us together what makes us amazing as a couple, if we were comfortable enough to say so, we'd tell you it's because we not only complement each other's fetish, we ARE each other's fetish. He is my top and everything I would want that to be. I am his bottom.

Starting next week, I've actually adjusted my work schedule so that I have more time to write and play and share all this with the world that knows what I'm talking about. And I want to be an advocate for spanking play! This blog contains eleven years of (on-and-off) writing about understanding why I am like this. I am at long last through with that. I am like this. I think things are about to get really good.

The pic at the top and these here below are from playtime with the strap and cane with Mr. W last night. I wrote the above yesterday but didn't get a chance to post it. Then all this happened. One of my "vignettes" to tell you the dirty details will be coming up in the next few days.

Afterwards, I asked him if he had a favorite moment or part from what we'd just done, but in true brat fashion I was too excited to tell him my favorite to let him answer. "My favorite part," I told him, "was when  you had my in - for lack of a better term - diaper position on the edge of the bed, and the strap really hurt and I started wiggling. You grabbed my legs and did your best to hold me in place, but you let me cry and twist and turn." That twisting and turning resulted in some of the welts you see on my left leg - truly my own misbehaving fault! "There was a moment in there when I realized you were just going to let me cry and squirm and I just let go and existed purely in that moment."

"My favorite moment," he replied, "was that same moment, when I felt you let go."

I'm writing up this last bit early this morning and I have the most delightful shivers. Someone's going in to work wet today.

Dear Dirty Diary #1

Dear Dirty Diary,

I was disappointed that Daddy and his Naughty Daughter didn’t make an appearance last night. We’d had every intention to play those parts to their nastiest and fullest, but instead real life family required our attention. This Naughty Daughter’s spanking was delayed.

Mr. W came up behind me just after I wrote the above paragraph. “I’m starting a new series!” He liked the idea of the Dirty Diary and I had every intention of coming back to write about a fantasy scenario in lieu of the one that did not get a chance to play out last night. But first, we needed to string the lights on the Christmas tree.

Diary, I need to share this with you, even though it has nothing to do with spanking. Every year, Mr. W teases me that there is a Skid Row Christmas album, and every year, for just a moment, I get excited and believe him. They are my favorite hair metal band from the 80's/90's and I inexplicably long for a Christmas album from them. Well this year, he put together a playlist on Spotify for us to listen to while decorating the tree. The first song was nothing I knew. Just as the second song was about to play, he told me to go look at the app. It was “Jingle Bells” by Skid Row. At first it didn’t even register. Then tears came to my eyes. Ridiculous as it seemed, it felt as if he’d found me a Christmas miracle, as if he’d willed it into existence just for me.

We finished the lights and hung our two 2007 commemorative ornaments – we’re coming up on 12 years married next May. Then the plan was to wait for “the kids” (my 23-year old stepson and his girlfriend) to join us for decorating the rest of the tree. However, when the girlfriend got here, they decided to run out for lunch.

“Well,” I said to Mr. W, I can work on my diary entry, or you can spank me and take some photos before they get back.”

You can see which we chose. As he bent me over the chair, he told me, “Sometimes naughty daughters just need a good paddling.”

This Naughty Daughter couldn’t agree more, and can’t wait for the rest of her paddling as soon as there is time to fully punish her on the bare. This paddling, despite the nude photos, was over leggings.

Note on the paddle: A curvaceous and balanced piece designed and crafted by Mr. W, the paddle is knotty alder and is still unfinished. The pain is deep and thuddy, exactly what you imagine for a traditional home or school punishment paddling. It matches my fantasy of how this scene should feel on a very naughty bottom.

An Early Stock-ing Stuffer

Stock-ing stuffer, get it? Because I am stuffed into the stocks! Still dorky after all these years.

We had a delicious first time playing with the stocks. Mr. W built a pillory that allowed us to place the main piece at three different heights (for standing, kneeling on the floor, and lying on a bench at mid-height). We were both overwhelmed with the sexiness of the thing, having both grown-up with fantasies of punished village women of imagined yore, their plump buttocks whipped on the town square for all the world to see, unable to cover their backsides or their faces due to the restraint of the stockades. And yet, Mr. W also made safety and my emotional comfort his first precaution. Much as we both wanted him to thrash my backside and leave me trembling, we played slowly and mostly lightly, ensuring more vicious sessions to come.

The flogger warmed my bottom, back, and thighs as I stood restrained at both wrists and the neck. This was followed by the strap on just my cheeks, bottom to top. He released me then and I allowed myself to fall to my knees, but we skipped the stocks at that height and moved to mid-height and the bench. The bench has been with us throughout our life together as well as our visible spanking life - it features in both Introducing Abby and The Breaking Point, the first and last of the Naughty Abby videos. It was "on set" for Please Not My Hands, right next to the front door and the chair where I received my tawse strokes, and I remember how hard we made love on it after the cameras were off.

Now, I lay upon my belly, legs angled to the ground and resting on my tiptoes, wrists and neck constrained. My hair hung in my face, leaving me feeling hidden and anonymous. From head to toe, I was all too aware of my exposition and it was easy to invite dread into the scene, but Mr. W tickled that same head to toe route with the tips of the flogger, just light wiggles against my body. The hair against my cheeks matched his tickling and my skin lit up, every cell open to sensation.

Just as I was welcoming the teases of leather upon my skin, the deerhide was traded for rattan. The cane cut deep with a thud. A welt rose so quickly that Mr. W's index finger was admiring its width before I caught my breath from the stroke. On to the next stroke and I began to cry. The strokes felt so deep, even though you can see from the photographic evidence that they were just right for easier play. We are still learning what it is like to play with my new shape, with the muscles of new size, with their exposure where there was once layers of thicker flesh. I am still learning what punishment on my new parts feels like. Liquid from both nose and eyes flowed to the carpet and to a support beam that ran across the base of the pillory.

Mr. W set the cane down and stroked my hair, then gently told me to hold on. He returned with tissues and held them to my eyes and nose. Although I was capable of releasing my arms, when he held the tissue to my nose and told me to blow, I blew, fully in his care and control. It was my favorite moment of the scene. It was so intimate, even more-so than the exposure, whipping, and caning of my ass.

We continued with a short caning. I wanted beautiful marks and he gave them to me in just the right proportion. It was just enough that afterwards, as I straddled and rode him on the couch, I whispered, "Next time. More vicious. I want it hard." Hands on my hips, he agreed. "I wanted you to feel comfortable this time. So next time I can beat you terribly." All the good muscles clenched around him. "Yes please," I whispered. Then just, "Yes, yes, yes..."

Return to Position, Part 2 - The Continuation and Conclusion of Abby's Vacation Spanking

Read Part 1

“Kneel facing away from me,” he said.

I climbed onto the couch knees first, resting my elbows on the same over-sized throw pillows that had made the couch so comfortable the night before as we sat up chatting and sipping from ranch-themed mugs with cowgirl coasters. I spread my legs into a somewhat reverse-cowgirl position myself, knees wide enough apart to straddle a horse but feet together, tucked under my bottom. Then I leaned forward against the cushions so that my haunches rose into the air.

It was the tawse’s turn for a taste of my backside. He’d conditioned it before the trip and the ten year old leather was soft and supple again after an extended hiatus in the implement cabinet. The first stroke was quick and sure, a smooth pull of the long leather strap across both cheeks. “Aa-ugh!” My breath caught in the back of my throat, unsure if I was crying or moaning. The second stroke landed and I bit the pillow in front of me. “Uhnh!” Definitely both crying and moaning.

The next four strokes came in even succession, allowing me breathing space between each. “It’s so much,” I sighed between two of the strokes, though I couldn’t tell you which ones. I didn’t mean pain. Spread and arched before him, I felt sexy and beautiful, punished but pleasured. Everything I love to feel during a spanking was rushing through me in one wave of wanting more.

He paused to run his hand over my well-warmed bottom, squeezing each cheek then massaging the flesh. “You are so hot,” he told me.

“Already?” I asked.

“Always,” he answered. I looked back at him, my eyes wet but not weeping. “You are so hot,” he said again, emphasizing that he meant all of me.

I smiled. “I can take another six, Sir,” I told him. Another six, another sixty, another hundred.  I felt like me. It felt like us. I didn’t want it to end –the trip, the spanking, the togetherness of that moment. Once again, I returned to position, arching my back as deeply as I could, giving him a full canvas and a peek at how ready I was for a session of a different kind after the spanking ended.

“Six of the best it will be, then,” he told me. I nodded. I don’t like to count aloud, even though I know he likes it when I do. He hadn’t asked or told me to, so I didn’t when stroke number one striped me with a flare of scarlet.

“Are we not counting that one?” he asked.

“You didn’t tell me to count!” I stammered, playfully indignant.

“Well, count the next stroke. Starting, young lady, with ‘one.’”

He whipped me in the same spot, this time pain catching in my throat before I could mumble, “One, thank you Sir.”

He patted my stinging bottom. “That’s right,” he said. “You’re welcome.”

I was still trying not to laugh when the second stroke hit. “Oh! Two, thank you Sir.” The laughter was gone and it was all I could do not to reach back and rub.

Strokes three and four came hard and fast. “Oh God,” I whispered, realizing I hadn’t counted stroke number three. “Three and four, thank you Sir?”

It was his turn to try not to laugh. “Yes, three and four,” he confirmed. “Well done.”

He teased stroke five, doubling the tawse to tap my thighs and between them as well. I caught myself clenching each time the leather touched me, so I took a deep breath, relaxed my muscles, and pushed my bottom towards him. “That’s it,” he breathed. “Just like that.”

The stroke would have been mean if I hadn’t wanted it so much. This time I cried out in earnest. Then, after a moment – “Five, thank you Sir.”

“Last one, young lady,” he told me. “Are you ready?”

I nodded, deepening the pose. I wanted to feel every inch of that leather burnish my bottom to a bright glowing red. He knew what I wanted and was happy to oblige. He pulled back and let the tawse sting its way across my flesh. “Ohhh,” I groaned with all the air that was left within me. “Six. Oh. Thank you, Sir.”

Some spankings feel like they might never end. This one, however, seemed to have come to a conclusion. He stood back and admired his work, sated, content. I let the full weight of my body collapse against the back of the couch, feeling sensual and satisfied. I knew he’d let me off easy, the two hour drive back home looming before us. For as much as he’d teased all weekend about what an unpleasant return trip it was going to be for me, I didn’t think he truly wanted me to be unfocused and uncomfortable.

He was being too kind. We’d had an incredible weekend and I wanted to give him just one more souvenir that would stay in his memory. “What about the cane?” I asked.

“It’s okay,” he told me. “You were amazing.”

I turned towards the side of the couch and lifted myself so that my stomach rested on the arm, my hands touched the hardwood floor, and my bottom was turned straight up in the air. “What about the cane?” I asked again, giving him all the invitation he could need.

Upside down, I watched him as he watched me, not averting his gaze as he reached back towards the twin bed and fumbled to find the cane. We both blushed. “That is the most beautiful position,” he said, stepping towards me to tap my backside with the cane, gauging the angle he would need to stripe me evenly across both buttocks. “Thank you, love,” he whispered. “That is so, so beautiful.”

He found his stance and tapped again. “You don’t need to count. Just three.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The first cane stroke landed perfectly across the full of my bottom, sending electricity through my entire body. I felt it course along my spine, tendrils of heat spreading as far as my shoulders and the nape of my neck, while my toes curled against the couch cushions. My breath left my lungs in a rush, the force of air the only sound I made.

The second stroke came down just below the first. “Ow. Oh, ow, ow,” I whispered. He let me gather myself and to thank him, I deepened the bow, pressing my weight into the palms of my hands, sweaty against the knotty but smoothly polished floorboards.

“That is amazing,” he told me. “My God, yes,” he ran his free hand over the welts that had surely risen white above my warmed pink skin. “Last one,” he reassured me.

The third stroke struck my sit-spot with perfect aim and a little skid off the curve of my cheeks so as to add an extra thrill to the sting. I cried out in agonizing bliss and slammed my right palm against the floor.

“Well done, young lady.” He soothed the sting out of my skin with gentle, massaging circles of his hand on my flesh. “That was amazing. You are amazing.”

I wanted the praise and the comfort of his hands on my body, but we didn’t have a couch with arms like this at home and I couldn’t picture a way to get into this position for him again. I took a deep breath, re-centered, and extended my lower back so that my bottom was presented to him in its full vulnerability. He noted the return to position and this time it was his breath to catch in lustful uncertainty as he awaited my next move.

I nodded, signaling that I was ready for the next stroke. “I can take another three,” I told him. “Maybe more.”

He moved forwards and swished the cane through the air behind me. I shivered. It was nearly time to go home, but not yet. Not yet.

Return to Position, Part 1 - A New True to Life Spanking Vignette

Playtime began by the twin bed tucked into the corner of the sitting room. I bent from the waist at the side of the bed, resting my forearms on the well-worn patches of the bed’s handmade quilt. A leather paddle, a strap, and a cane were already laid out beside me. I wiggled my bottom. “Well?” I asked.

Mr. W placed his hand on the small of my back then stepped away. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw that he was just looking out the sliding glass door that looked onto the pasture one more time. He spoke quickly then, his voice soft but roughly teasing around the edges as he turned back to me and said, “I hope you’re ready, young lady. There’s only the horses to hear you, and even they’re too far away to pay much mind.”

My clothes were already tidily folded on a dining chair. I’d been conscientious, going so far as to carefully place my shoes under the chair. Even my panties were folded in half atop the stack of clothing. I had nothing to protect my bare bottom, but had also made sure that I had done nothing to earn it more marks than it was already due. I returned to position, wanting only, as ever, to please him.

We’d been there for two days, having arrived Friday afternoon at the rental ranch house in Strawberry, a miniature town north of the slightly larger but still tiny town of Pine, which is north of the small town of Payson, which is ninety minutes northeast of the sprawling and far less pastoral city of Phoenix. It was still reaching over one hundred degrees in the city every day. The forests and fields of mountainous central Arizona had called to our bodies and our breath, which were exhausted from months of heat and smog and recycled air. The promise of a quiet, empty house with only a barn, a verdant acreage shared by the neighboring ranches, and an abutting national forest at the far edge of the grazing lands had called to a deeper need – one that was finally about to be fulfilled.

He asked me then, “Are you ready for your spanking?” I nodded and arched my back. Yes, I was.

His hand cupped my right cheek, then my left. He circled his palm over the as yet unmarked flesh, reconnecting us skin to skin. We’d both been anxious for this moment but had so savored the anticipation that we’d waited until the hour before we had to leave for it to arrive. Now, here it was, the pure holistic space between about to be and having been spanked.

He reached for the leather paddle. Designed, cut, stitched and finished by Mr. W himself, it had been made for this trip and this moment, for my body and his swinging arm alone. The leather was of a medium weight, two single pieces stitched together for heft and shape, the handle just long enough for a firm and controlled grip, the head of the paddle long enough to swat both cheeks with one stroke, but also restrained enough for a closer, over the knee session, each individual cheek able to receive the attention it so craved.

The first few strokes were quick but without force, letting me adjust to the sensation. It had been some time since our last session and he knew I was nervous about my ability to accept and receive the spanking. We’ve always liked to flirt with a little bit of fear, but he never wanted me to actually be afraid.

I had pressed my face into the blanket but wordlessly murmured loudly enough for him to read my sighs. I wanted more. The next few strokes were firmer and I rose on my tiptoes, arching over the narrow mattress and grasping the edge of the opposite side. No sooner was I in position, though, that he sat on the edge of the bed and patted his thigh. I stood up, straddled his right leg, and returned to my place, arms stretched forward, face inhaling worn clean cotton and the scent of newly conditioned leather caught in the back of my breath.

The paddling began in earnest. I let out little yips and moans interchangeably, already overwhelmed with the proximity of our bodies and the inability to tell pleasure from pain once my skin had warmed. The smacks and slaps fell surely and steadily. I could feel my backside changing color. From white to blush to the edge of pink – but no sooner had I begun to ride the rhythm that he shook his knee beneath me. “Stand up,” he commanded me. “Go kneel on the couch.”

I am never so hesitant and in need of exact instruction than during a spanking. I stood but looked back and forth on the edge of panic between the two couches in the sitting room. He saw my face and smiled, touching my arm. “This one, you,” he said, pointing towards the nearest couch, an upholstered sofa with deep cushions and bolstered arms.

Standing in front of the couch, I still didn’t understand exactly how he wanted me, so I fiddled with my hair, pulling it up into a ponytail and wrapping the hair around itself into a loose bun. I liked when he could see my face. I liked that he could see both the moments of anguish and the moments when a series of strokes landed just right, when the flush rose full to my cheeks and my jaw dropped, tongue in the corner of my mouth or front teeth biting my bottom lip, heady, steady, ready for more.

Continue to Part 2

My Body His Drum

When it was time, he asked me to lie face down on one side of the bed, naked and trusting, as he readied two slender canes and a short stiff leather whip known as a sjambok.  We'd already discussed the session we were about to commence. It would be different from our usual spanking sessions and we were both excited to try this new experiment in sensation. Despite my body's light trembling, I was thoroughly calm, my usual pre-play anxiety set aside in favor of anticipation.

Placing the canes and whip next to me, he leaned over and stroked my hair, allowing his fingers to comb through the waves. His fingertips rubbed tiny circles over my scalp and the nape of my neck, waking the nerve endings, gently commanding them to welcome his touch. He then moved down my back, first working delicate patterns on the surface of my skin, then sweeping arcs over the musculature with the flat of his palm.


Continuing downwards, he took both cheeks of my buttocks in each hand and squeezed. This part of my body is always ready for his touch, no coaxing needed. I arched my back, presenting my bottom more fully. He kneaded the flesh, switching sides, pressing deeply into the soft, welcoming tissue. Before I was ready for him to end his touches there, he continued the journey down my thighs and calves until he finished at my feet, where he stopped and reached for the sjambok.

The whip picked up where his hands left off, stroking not striking, tracing a path from the soles of my feet back up to my neck then down again. Its journey was meandering, teasing and tickling. Every cell of my body answered yes when he finally asked if I was ready.

Despite the plan, my body expected pain. I tensed, but the sjambok landed lightly and quickly on the lower curve of my backside, then again, and then again. Tap, tap, tap, it struck a dancing rhythm, the leather bouncing off my bottom in teasing wisps. He let the sjambok fall across my flesh as quickly as he could, each stroke blurring into the next, building with intensity as he began to unpredictably allow the whip to fall harder than I expected every few strokes. These blows stung but so quickly merged back into the overall pattern that I began to look forward to the sudden peaks of sensation.

Once my bottom was tingling, he allowed the whip to travel down the backs of my legs, still tapping a steady rhythm, and then to the soles of my feet. He lifted my left foot and placed three firm lines across the arch, then circled his thumb deeply into the flesh, massaging away the sting as quickly as it had come. He repeated the cycle, then used the handle of the sjambok to continue the massage over the sole of the entire foot. I moaned encouragingly. We had not discussed including feet but now I didn't want him to stop. He gently set the left foot down and picked up my right. I wiggled my toes at him in delight and he laughed quietly, teasing and tickling me before letting the sjambok do its work.

Finally the whip traveled back up my legs to its final destination, where after a few more moments of tapping, the rhythm stopped. He set the sjambok down and picked up the canes, taking one in each hand. Tracing patterns with their tips all over the back of my body, he spoke to me in a warm, assuring voice.

"Breathe into the sensation. Long, deep breaths. Sigh, moan, or cry out if you want. Let your voice and your breath flow. Tell me if you want me to go faster or slower. If you want me to go harder or lighter. Feel free to touch yourself. You are welcome to come when you are ready, if you are ready. This is for you."

"Yes, Sir," I breathed, my entire body tingling as he began the tapping rhythm again, this time with the canes falling one after the other after the other, back and forth, percussively coaxing a pink blush to the surface of my skin. I could feel the warmth rising even without seeing the change of tone.

The canes felt completely different from the tapping of the sjambok.  Whereas before I had felt trembling throughout my body as I became more and more open to whatever sensation he was about to bring to me next, there was now no awareness of sensation other than the tingling of the area where the canes were striking. The harder strokes blended seamlessly into the overall pattern he was playing on my flesh and soon I wanted more of them. "Harder, please," I asked.

He allowed the canes to strike with more force. "Let your body move as it wants," he told me. "You may allow your body to meet the canes. Arch, twist, take what you want from the strokes."

I arched my back so that the cane strokes were all landing in the curve between thigh and buttocks. He teased down my thighs and I wiggled, begging the canes to come back to that same spot. The flesh there buzzed with electricity; I could nearly feel sparks with the landing of each cane. He continued to tease, drumming down the backs of my legs quickly, only to return to that same spot that was now sending tendrils of energy to the furthest extremities and deepest recesses of my body.

I slid my right hand beneath my body and between my thighs. I pressed two fingers to the flesh there and found that I was so wet, so ready, that my fingers nearly slipped inside without any further pressure. I adjusted and trapped the tips of my fingers between the bed and my clit. "I'm ready," I urged him. "Harder, faster, please. Please."

He let loose an intense rhythm across my ass and thighs, my body his drum. My head spun, sensing that the blows would have felt like pain on another day or in another body but in this body, today, the canes had both grounded me in pleasure and lifted me into ecstasy. The muscles of my thighs tightened as I felt myself rise towards orgasmic peak.

He noticed the change and directed all of the attention towards my backside. Moments later, I was coming in spasms that shot up into my shoulders and down through the soles of my feet. Every inch of me was trembling as I collapsed atop my hand.

He set the canes down and put one hand on each of my hips, wordlessly directing me to twist and kneel on the edge of the bed, thighs parted. I was still shuddering, unsure how I would take anymore sensation. I craved the firm grasp of his hands on my shoulders, craved being held, centered. When he rested his hands exactly where I wanted them and began to knead the muscles at the top of my spine, I had to ask. "How could you tell I wanted that?"

"I could tell by the way you moved," he answered.

He continued to massage and sooth me until I caught my breath. I nodded and arched again, opening to him. He trailed his hands down my back and stroked the heated backside presented to him. Once more, he asked if I was ready.

I was ready. I was ready to do this every night with him for the rest of our lives.

The Marks That Do Not Fade

Sometimes, for the sake of the length of the post or because I don't know how to tie a piece of real life into the narrative, something gets left out. Usually it's nothing that will affect the story, but in a recent post, Mark Me, I left out the most important part.

As you may know from that post, it wasn't the marks, which had faded by morning. Most of that session was a caning, starting on an unwarmed bottom. This was something that happened in the middle, after the first eighteen cane strokes.

After standing me up from the spanking stool, Mr. W did comfort me, assure me, and tell me how sexy those eighteen strokes had been. He then pointed to the corner of the bed and told me to bend over it and to ensure that the mound of tender flesh between my thighs was pressing right against the corner. I slowly positioned myself, at first straddling the corner, only to find my legs spread too far apart. I tried again, resting my weight of my upper body on the bed and straightening my legs behind me, keeping myself balanced with the balls of my bare feet. "That's perfect," he said, then walked away to the cabinet.

The position I was in made it awkward to see what he removed. Turning my head as best I could, I saw something leather in his hands. I thought it was one of the barber strops, the darker, heavier one. but I learned all too soon that it was a strap that hadn't yet had a chance to burn into my backside.

The first stroke was a blow to both my senses and to my previous understanding of what a strapping feels like. It landed with intense weight, though I knew the actual swing had been light, a test swing. There was just something about this leather, its thickness, its age, its strength. I knew which implement this was now. This wasn't a strop, strap, or any common leather belt. This was a gun holster, doubled over right at the spot, Mr. W observed later, where the larger part bends perfectly so the harder section with the dip in it is on the backside and the more supple part bends just right.

Found at an antique mall here in Arizona, of course, it was stiff but in good condition, the actual pistol holster removable from the belt itself. I had originally rejected it, but Mr. W had already fallen in love not just with the piece but also with what he was imagining doing to me with it. At last, I relented. He spent hours cleaning and conditioning it, turning it pliable and plausible so that by the time he finished, I was longing for the sensation of it swishing across my cheeks. But it has been in the cabinet since, life as well as less daunting toys keeping it from its debut.

Now that I was finally experiencing it, I had no idea how to process it. The second stroke was a struggle to understand. Was I in more pain, or was this a relief from the caning? Mr. W continued slowly but steadily, my body rocking against the corner of the bed, his placement of my body well-chosen.

"I called your father, young lady, to tell him about the punishment you'd be receiving," he began, clearly now a teacher or a headmaster, though I no longer remember if the first part of the punishment had started that way. "When I told him about the strap I intended to use, he implored me to carry on with the cane or the paddle instead." The leather landed fully across both cheeks, a blaze now building over the welts that had already risen from the canes. "He said that he has caught you, many a time, reading stories or watching videos of naughty young women receiving the belt or the strap in punishment. Reading or watching with your hand between your legs." He was getting a feel for the snap of the belt now and was exploring the heaviness of its swing. I was beginning to moan into the mattress.

"However, after explaining my intentions and my methods, he agreed to this form of punishment for you," he continued. "I promised to whip you so that you no longer have such desires. You will understand what it means to feel the strap in a way that will keep you from craving it ever again."

Two more strokes landed, three. "Please Sir," I begged into the blanket beneath me. "Yes Sir, please take these perverted wishes away from me."

"Oh, I will," he promised. The strapping continued until tears welled and I began to tremble, the intensity now almost too much too bear. "Please. Please," I whispered.

Laying the strap down, he began to soothe my bottom with his hand, first with light caresses then with firmer massaging circles, rubbing the sting and the burn away from my now sanguine skin. I could still feel the stripes left from the caning, but the strapping's bruises felt almost subcutaneous, as if it wasn't just my skin feeling the burn but the entirety of my flesh.

It was after a few minutes of this calming and caring that he once again picked up a cane, as detailed in the original post. To be honest, the details are fuzzy from this moment on, because I remember it as emotions rather than the exact order of events and words. He gave me another six cane strokes, totaling twenty-four for the evening so far. It was here that I learned we were going for thirty-seven strokes total, to celebrate my last days at that age. I still felt confused after what I had thought was aftercare, I felt overwhelmed at the thought of taking any more punishment, but I also wanted to please him, to rise to the challenge, to be everything we both wanted me to be in that moment. I agreed to more.

After stroke thirty, with seven left to go, he said to me, "Alright, young lady. Are you ready for six of the best?" I knew I couldn't take six hard strokes, even if he were to let me off lightly on the final seventh stroke for our grand total. I could take it physically; it was my head and my heart I was worried about.

Tearfully sniffling and with both despair and pleading, I asked, "How about just seven okay ones?" 

He sighed. "It's just a phrase," he said. He sounded so disappointed in me. I began to sob. I didn't know he didn't mean truly hard strokes. Sometimes I actually ask for those. I'd ruined the whole night. He was mocking me, thinking I was stupid, that the spanking writer doesn't know the phrase "six of the best." My breath was becoming hyperventilation.

He set the cane he'd been holding down and leaned over me. "Look at me," he said, warmth in his voice. "Sweetheart, look at me."

I looked at him askew, ashamed. "I disappointed you," I sobbed.

"No, no," he insisted. "Do you have any idea how sexy this is? This is us."

"But you were mocking me," I carried on. "You were making fun of me."

He made me look into his eyes. "I wasn't making fun of you. And you need to know," he continued, rubbing my back, stroking my hair, keeping my attention on him, "I'm not punishing you. We're playing that you were naughty. You aren't bad. You aren't a disappointment. You are good. You are beautiful."

My breath began to calm but I wasn't ready to talk. "I am so proud of you. You are amazing." He wasn't only proud of me for taking my spanking. I'd had a rough weekend and I was having trouble believing I was a good person, but he sees that in me and so much more that I have yet to see, but I'm learning. I may not have woken with spanking marks, but his words stayed on my heart. These are the marks that do not fade.

"When I see that you're getting too much into your own head, I bring in a story for you, So you can play with me, be present with me. So you can be naughty, so you can be punished, but so you can come out of it still feeling like you. You are good. You are my wife. I love you."

Still crying, but now with tears of relief and gratitude, I nodded my head. "I love you," I told him. I nodded. I was ready for my last seven strokes.

Afterwards, well-loved and my bottom well-soothed, we spent the night in each other's arms. Even in the morning from his desk at work he texted me to tell me how close he still felt to me. I felt that close to him too. I initially kept this piece of the story as something only for us, but that first post just isn't complete without it. This little piece is what makes that scene, and all of our spanking scenes, more than just spanking or sex. I think it's what makes my blog more than erotica or a spanking diary. I hope it's what keeps readers coming back after all these years and my many periods of hiatus. The only thing we unitedly love more than spanking is each other, and we wouldn't have our spankings any other way.

Mark Me

I can't imagine the punishment it would have to take for my bottom to mark the way it used to after a single spanking. I'm sure it could be done, but I think even Mr. W, lover of all things spanking, would have trouble delivering that level of corporal discipline to me. The strapping that resulted in the above pictures seemed to go on forever, and it was on top of the spanking I'd received the day before. By the end, I was pink. Not red, not scarlet, not crimson. Pink!  By morning, most of the marks were barely even a blush. There were a few tiny bruises on my innermost flesh and the tenderness remained, but the proof of my pain was gone.


That two-day spanking session was last weekend. This past weekend, we didn't have a chance to play until Sunday night, so when Mr. W and I found that we had time to ourselves, I asked for a cold caning. Without any other weekend play, it would truly be without any physical or mental warm-up, but I wanted to test myself and give him a gift of trust, love, and my about-to-be-welted backside, Of course, he agreed.

As I bent over the wooden spanking stool, grasping the lowest rung and spreading my legs just to the width of its legs, he picked three canes from the cabinet - a small, whippy crooked handle cane, a straight cane of medium thickness and severity, and our thickest and heaviest,  a senior cane that is just as suitable for sex scenes as it is for role-playing schoolhouse and reformatory scenarios.

I didn't know how many strokes I was to receive, or even if he planned to use all the canes or was just frightening me with the threat of an extended thrashing. He kept me wondering, tapping me with the smaller cane, aiming, planing his blow, then whipping the air instead of me. When the first stroke landed, I was shocked that it had finally arrived and I unexpectedly screamed. I'd almost begun to think he wasn't actually going to go through with the cold caning, that it was just an elaborate ruse to get my legs spread and backside towards him. I was not to be granted such a reprieve. After briefly rubbing the sting from the first stroke, the cane swished again.

He continued to rub each welt after placing it. It was too early in the session for me to ride the pain or fall into its rhythm. Each stroke was a quick but agonizing blaze hastily extinguished by Mr. W's own firm but gentle hand. After the sixth stroke, he laid the cane aside. "Well done, young lady. Well done."

I had expected at least twelve strokes from each cane, so I allowed myself a sigh of relief. I looked over my shoulder to see him picking up the straight cane. We've been using this one most often for over a year and I'm familiar with its sting. When we have longer sessions, or those where I become the recipient of an amorphous rhapsody of cock and cane, this is the one he reaches for.

My backside was hardly warmed from the first cane, but I know how to take this second one. How to breathe, how to bend my knees the moment after he raises each new stripe, how to pull back into position. I would like to say I took this round of the caning gracefully, but I might be romanticizing. If nothing else, I can say I took this round decently, as he once again assured me after six strokes that I was doing well. "So sexy," he added. He let me stand a moment, kissing me, before bending me back over the stool.

I still wasn't sure of the plan. The first twelve strokes might have been the warm-up and now I had an indeterminate number coming in the form of the heavier senior cane. As it always does, the first stroke knocked the breath out of me. With this cane, there's always a moment when I exhale and I'm not sure if it hurt or not. Then, as I breathe in, it's as if I breathe in pain as well.

He landed another stripe, touching the welt but then letting his fingers wander. "I think you like the heavier thud of this cane," He rubbed deeper between my thighs, spreading wetness in tight little circles pressing into my flesh. "In fact, I think you like being punished a little too much. I think I have a lesson to teach this naughty bottom that will teach you the proper response to a caning."

Removing his fingers, he placed two quick hard blows to my backside. I moaned and clutched the rung I was grasping as hard as I could. "Two more, young lady," he advised. Okay, I told myself. I can do two.

I didn't breathe during the last two strokes. No breath in, no breath out. Just pain. Switching gears, he helped lift me to a standing position. My legs had gone stiff and I was now gasping just a little, tears welling up in my eyes. "You took that beautifully," he told me, wrapping me in his arms. "Why don't you kneel on the bed?"

I was so relieved. I'd taken an eighteen stroke cold caning, my first in so long I can't remember the last one. He rubbed me softly, promises of aftercare and whispers of how sexy the caning had been on his lips. I pressed my face into a comforting pile of blankets, my knees on the edge of the bed, legs spread, welcoming him into me. I turned to look at him, to whisper back, to tell him "Thank you, Sir," to tell him I love him. Instead, I burst into tears. He was picking up the small cane again.

"You didn't think we were done, did you?" he said, the words a little cruel but a genuine smile in his voice.

I frowned and pouted. "I don't knowwww," I cried.

"Can you take a little more? For me? I can't resist this bottom."

I knew I could take more. I'd been feeling vulnerable and tricked, but when he tells me he wants to play just a little bit more, I can never resist. I love the challenge, especially when it's one I know I can meet.

"Just to thirty-seven. Can you make it to thirty-seven?"

I nodded. "Yes, Sir. Is it for my birthday? And for my birthday you'll give me thirty-eight?"

He stroked my hair. "That's right. Now, bottom up. Back arched." He tapped the small of my back with the cane, then the outsides of my thighs. "Legs together just a little. Perfect."

Part of me wanted to beg him to go much harder on this second half of the caning, now that we were going. I wanted not just the sensation or to give myself over to him, but also the marks. Even if nothing else marks, paddles, straps, floggers, or slappers, I expected a cold caning would. But knowing we'd have another night of play, perhaps even two or three in the coming days to celebrate my birthday, he went light on me, and I did not beg.

When I woke up Monday morning, examining myself in the mirror and finding not one remaining welt, I nearly regretted not asking for at least six, if not more, of the best. But we still have tonight. Tomorrow's my birthday, and we have no other plans than to be each other's for the rest of week. One of these nights, my flesh will have no choice but to yield to him. His birthday gift to me will be a shared gift for him - he will mark me.

Light

After the first dozen paddle stokes, with an afternoon of play still to come

It's bright in Phoenix, but I've been working on escaping a time of shadows for some time, searching for but unable to find myself in the dark, so when we began talking last week  about sharing an intense play session, something we haven't done for months, it felt like there was finally a light at the end of my own self-made tunnel. It began with talking, holding each other, reconnecting. But in addition to rediscovering the things that make us us, while he worked and I waited for the day to end, we'd send messages back and forth about the terrible things that needed to be done to my bottom. The wonderful, terrible things that we haven't had a chance to do in so long. After he got home, he'd hold me and listen to the story of my day, even if nothing had happened. Then we'd close ourselves off in the bedroom and wrap around each other, as if it had been years since we'd seen each other. In a way, that's been true.


On Saturday we stayed in bed, naked and watching a marathon of American Horror Story: Asylum on Netflix. Each time a cane appeared on screen or was mentioned, both of which were surprisingly often during the first half of the season, we would kiss.

Fun fact: Mr. W found that
Canes4Pain customized and
provided canes to 20th
Century Fox for the show, and
they sell one of the customized
canes on their website.

Between our plans, the kissing, and all the canes, it was just a matter of how long we wanted to tease each other before my already bared bottom would be up in the air and ready for its close-up with whatever implements Mr. W desired. We'd planned on the paddle followed by the cane, but once I'm in under his administrations, I never know what he might choose from the cabinet of corporal punishment.

Mid-afternoon, while the sun was still bursting through our closed blinds with its desert insistence, our kisses turned to touches turned to the pause button being pressed. I'd been on my side, pressing into him, but he pressed me onto my back and gently lowered himself over me, parting my thighs with his knee. "What are the rules, young lady?" he asked me, sliding himself into the soft division of flesh that had already been wet for hours.

My voice always becomes higher and lighter when he calls me "young lady." I feel the anticipation for the coming spanking. I feel submissive and the desire to be overpowered. I also feel beautiful and vibrant, with hope ahead even if I am about to pay for any past, albeit imagined, transgressions. I, too, become lighter when he calls me "young lady."

I answered in a quiet voice, close to his ear, "I'm supposed to come before you spank me."

He nodded. "That's right," he told me, thrusting forcefully before we fall into a rhythm. "I think," he offered as took me steadily, insistently, "that you should come twice before we begin. You are about to receive a very severe punishment and I want you focused on each stroke. I don't want thoughts of your pussy to get in the way of you fully appreciating just what a naughty girl you are."

"Yes, Sir," I answered, tapping on his shoulder with my right hand, my signal that I'm about to orgasm. He drove into me harder again. "Take it, young lady. Take my cock before you take my paddle and my cane."

My tapping became frantic as my spasms squeezed around him. He continued, not giving me a moment to catch my breath. Moments later, throwing my head back and biting on my lower lip, my body was once again turned into electricity, my hand no longer tapping his back but slapping the bed and my hips rocking up to meet his, completely out of my control.

This time he allowed me a minute of breathing space before taking my hand and leading me to the wall by the bedroom door, away from the window. "Hands on the wall, spread your legs nice and wide." I followed the instructions. "That's it, very good. Now push your bottom out." I tried. "More. Very good." He rubbed his hand over my backside. "Stay just like that."

I heard him open the cabinet behind me, heard the clacking of wood against wood and the rustling whisper of leather on leather. I looked over my shoulder and saw the 24-holed paddle in his hand.

He spent a long while rubbing my bottom with it then pulling back, only to set it lightly against my skin again. Teasing, tricking me. Without a warm-up, I knew the strokes were going to hurt. The first set or two are always worse than the ones that come later on, once the flesh is warm and I start to ride the pain. For that reason, I wanted to get through the initial part of the spanking and was near begging for it by the time the first stroke came. It primarily landed on the left cheek and stung intensely. I squealed then waited, fearful that I would be asked to count, but then the next stroke landed on the right. I pressed my forehead against the wall, trying to keep my back arched.

Stroke three landed in the center, snapping at both cheeks, and I howled. I was so close to the wall that I heard myself echo and was embarrassed that I'd lost it at stroke three. My knees went a little weak and I let go of the wall with my right hand so that I could hold on to the door frame to the bathroom. Repositioned, I pushed my bottom back out to him. He stroked my hair. "Find your breath," he said gently. "Let me know when you're ready."

Wanting so much to give him the perfect bottom to be punished, I held myself in position for strokes four, five, and six. I yelped with each but didn't scream. I returned to the proper position each time. Rubbing my bottom with his hand this time, he told me how well I was doing. I crave this kind of approval. I want so much to do well at being spanked. I returned to the original position with both palms against the wall and nodded. "I'm ready."

The seventh stroke, firm against my left cheek, felt like the hardest of the set so far. I struck my right palm against the wall. The same hand that had moments before been slapping the bed as I came was now my voice as I tried not to cry out in pain. My knees buckled and my palm smacked the wall with each subsequent wallop, though I was proud of myself for returning to the original position without prompting.

By stroke ten I had tears in my eyes. He paused the paddling. "I'm listening to your every breath. I'm watching your body. I've got you. You've got this. You're doing amazing." He kissed me. "My sexy, sexy girl. Just a few more strokes. I know this position is hard. " Kissing me once more, he turned me back to the wall. "These will be harder than the ones before."

He completed the set as a baker's dozen, three cracking strokes against my backside to bring the total to thirteen. They came quickly in succession, so quickly that after the third stroke I exhaled, only realizing then that I'd been holding my breath. He wrapped his arms around me as I tried to rub the sting away. He kissed the tears away from my eyes and took my hand, leading me to the stool with the curved seat, the perfect place for a longer spanking. We'd placed it by the window, between the bed and the cabinet, earlier in the day. He placed a pillow on top of it and placed a hand on the small of my back. His hand felt strong and firm. He wasn't pressing me down, just allowing me to bend forward over the stool beneath his guidance.

The first paddle of the day,and
our perfect little spanking stool

I grasped the legs of the stool, fully bent over now. He removed his hand. The blinds were still closed but the sun hadn't faded. With my hair flipped over my face, the sunlight was warm against the back of my neck. We normally don't get a chance to play until dark, so the sun and its heat were unusual but welcome sensations. Between the light and the man standing behind me, I felt cocooned, safe, and finally, at last, like me. An unnamed weight was lifting from my shoulders.

Caressing the bottom he'd just turned pink with his left hand, he opened the cabinet with his right. "Ready for the second paddle?" he asked, removing it from its hook before I had a chance to answer. He placed a different paddle, a leather strap, and his current favorite cane on the bed. Closing the cabinet, he asked again. "Well, young lady?"

He circled the second paddle, round and flat, over my backside. I didn't want to lose the sensation of the warm-up and have to start all over, so I nodded and murmured, "Yes, Sir."

The paddles, the strap, and finally the cane took me to new heights that afternoon. We went slowly until the end, when I asked for a faster, harder caning, ending with two quick severe sets of six each, leaving both of us gasping and looking into each other's eyes with astonishment and joy. I was soaring on the pain and with the intense bond I was feeling with Mr. W. Sometimes, a spanking is a spanking. Sometimes a spanking is sexy and fun. And sometimes, with the right person, the right connection, and at long last hope after all has seemed lost, spanking isn't just freedom from darkness, it is flying into light.

Jam Boxes and Other Holiday Treats

Our most recent toy purchase

"I want you to order me a jam box for Christmas," Mr. W announced from the kitchen.

I was staring at but not watching the TV in the adjacent family room, recent issues of my favorite cooking magazines spread out on the coffee table in front of me as I wondered whether I should try making anything fancy and new for the holidays. Some of them feature gift guides at this time of year; he must have flipped through a few of them. I began to contemplate what flavors he might have seen that would inspire this level of curiosity. Gift boxes, even of jam, can be expensive. Ghost chili and apricot? Our notorious combination of ginger and peach?


"What kind of jam?" I asked.

He said the same thing again, and my face turned as red as my bottom soon would be. "I want you to order me a sjambok for Christmas."

"That seems like a terrible idea," I replied. The sjambok has come up in conversation before, but he knows I've been terrified of them because of a horror movie I saw a few years back that contained ill use of just such a whip. Then again, I first saw the use of the cane in Lupus films back when they were still Rigid East and I was still a teenager, and those seemed like horror films to me then. Now, I prefer those films over most other spanking videos, and anyone who has read my blog knows that I do not fear the cane. Even though it's fun to pretend I do.

A few days later, Mr. W had a Cane-iac cart prepared. On our way to go Christmas shopping at the mall, he handed me his phone. "Are these okay with you?"

The cart contained two sjamboks, both a long and short one, a long leather strap with holes that mimicked the classic Canadian prison strap, and a longer cane than any we already own. "The cane looks thin," I noted. "Everything else?" he asked. "Yes. Do it."

All four items arrived last week, but we didn't have a chance to explore with them until this past weekend. I came home from an errand Sunday morning to find him practicing with the longer sjambok on our bed. I like that he tests new toys; my flesh is precious to him, so I trust him with it, He'd had a chance to get a feel for the physics of each item and I was wearing jeans, so when he asked to try them out on me as well, I was ready, even though we had a family event to get to and little time for play.

He bent me over the bed and tried the short sjambok first, which we'd hoped would be perfect for over the knee spankings. It stung, but I could feel how we could use it for warm-ups or for more punishing OTK sessions. The longer sjambok was next. It did the same, but more intensely. Even in my jeans I could feel it lick the inner curve of my backside, then in the next stroke grab the outer curve of my hips. I knew I would continue to fear this one for a while, but like the cane, I had a sense I would also grow to love it.

Next, jeans still up, he reached for the prison strap. A few strokes in and I was ready to pull my jeans and panties down. Too soon he reached for the cane. He only gave me two strokes and they stung like hell. He knew it.

I had to shower and get ready for the family gathering, but he pulled me over to the mirror so I could see the marks I already had, even with my jeans and panties up. "Just a few more with your panties down," he said, my jeans falling around my ankles and his voice deep in his throat, the voice that means what we are doing is making him the most aroused man in the world, the voice that knows I'm already wet but I want him to whip me more.

The cycle continued. The sjamboks, the strap, the cane. Not too heavy, we knew we had more playing to do later, so the marks were light, strawberry pink. "More strap," I whispered, when he'd finished. "Just a little."

He gave me another three, perfectly whipped across my bottom, getting both cheeks in one stroke. I bit down on the bed comforter with each so I didn't cry out. At last I groaned and pulled my body up into a kneeling position on the bed, arching my back, begging.

"We have to get ready," he said. I moaned louder into the blanket in protest. "But later, just you wait, young lady. You have a night of punishment ahead of you."

I pouted at him, arched my back deeper, thrust my backside and open thighs towards him. He fingered than slapped my waiting flesh. "To the shower," he commanded. I grinned. We'd get through lunch with the family, but I knew we had a delicious evening ahead of us.

The Littlest Jam Box

Ginger Peach Popping

It was over ninety degrees, rare in Portland. Our thighs were sticky and our thoughts were dirty as we drove around running errands. The plan began simply, with the intent to go home and get naked and lie on the bed in front of the fan while the little window air conditioner worked on cooling the room. We talked about running ice cubes over each other’s bodies. Mr. W thought pressing an ice-cube to my ass then spanking my wet, cold bottom would be a good idea.  I took it further. “What about popsicles?” I said.

At first we envisioned something of an ice dildo. Mr. W could ice any part of me he wanted and lick me down as my body melted the ice. Then I began to think about making the popsicles out of fresh juice – it would be a welcome change from the kale and cucumber juices I’d been making for breakfast with my new juicer. “What about fresh peach juice?” I suggested. “With… I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud… ginger mixed in? For that little bit of ouch?”

The next thing I knew, we were on a frantic hunt for popsicle molds. We tried Safeway, Walgreens, even Target. No one had what we were looking for. Finally, we stopped at Kitchen Kaboodle, and we found popsicle mold paradise. We could make rocket pops, otter pops,  long, thick, overwhelming-for-icicle-ass-fucking pops. Then the ideal mold came into view. It could make nine small oval-shaped popsicles. Perfect little melting, stinging, delicious icy miniature butt plugs. For sixteen dollars, we could easily fulfill our sudden summer fantasy.

We stopped at Safeway for a second time on the way home to pick up fresh peaches and ginger root. I was wet the whole time. Mr. W took a sticker from a soft avocado and placed it on my bottom: “Ripe.” We couldn’t stop giggling.

At home I juiced five peaches and about two inches of ginger. I tasted for flavor – it was both spicy and sweet, exactly how I’d want my bottom to taste. I poured the juice, put the mold into the freezer, and began the long wait.

After an afternoon of trying to pass the time while periodically checking on the firmness of our pops, they were finally frozen. “Leave them for now,” said Mr. W as he took my hand and led me to the bedroom. “I need to warm you up first.”

“It’s nearly a hundred degrees today! I’m plenty warm,” I pleaded.

“Not in the right places,” he replied, taking a seat on the corner of the bed and patting his right thigh. “If you’re so hot, we can begin with you naked.”

I whimpered and fussed as I removed my clothes, playfully embracing the character of a girl who doesn’t want a spanking even though I was ready to dive over his lap.

He grinned. “Being difficult, are we?” He tilted his head towards my nightstand. “You can bring me the leather paddle before I take you over my knee.”

Now naked, I found the paddle he wanted in the drawer. Nearly half an inch thick, the oval boudoir paddle we’d bought for each other almost seven years ago was one of his favorites, though I found its sting overwhelming at times. “Not too hard please?” I pleaded as I handed it to him and straddled his right knee, resting my torso on the bed and reaching for a pillow should I need to bite down or muffle my whimpers or cries.

He set the paddle down and caressed my bare backside. “However I want,” he retorted. He began hand spanking me with sharp slaps to the curve of my bottom, sending each cheek jiggling upwards in quick succession. I squirmed but stayed in place, squeaking rather than squealing into my pillow. The day of planning and talking and teasing had made me more than ready, and when he took a break from the spanking to slide his finger between my thighs, I knew without a doubt what kind of wetness he’d find there. “You’re dripping on my knee,” he admonished me, returning to the spanking. I giggled, earning me the harder swats I’d been craving. “At least you’re turning a nice pink for my troubles.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I answered. “I like to turn pink for you.”

The slight pause that came after I spoke was my cue that he had picked up the paddle. He rubbed it in circles on the spots he’d spanked hardest, soothing me with the smooth leather. Then it lifted from my skin and landed harder than I had expected, hard enough that I gasped rather than made any outward sound of pain. “Five more just like that,” he informed me. “Quietly, young lady.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and clutched the pillow to my face, otherwise remaining still so he would know I was ready. The paddle strokes came quickly, alternating cheeks, and though it wasn’t many, I could feel my bottom heating up. “Am I warm, Sir?” I asked.

He touched me experimentally here and there, making “hmm” sounds as he explored, as if I was a science experiment. I knew he was doing it to tease me so I waited patiently, relishing the pause between the spanking I’d already received and whatever was to come next. At last he came to the expected conclusion: “You could be much, much warmer.”

He tapped my left cheek with the paddle. “Up, up,” he instructed. “Stand facing the bed and put your forearms on the mattress.” I did so, keeping my legs pressed together. Moments later, the paddle was being pushed between my thighs and wiggled back and forth. “Apart,” he said, slapping my inner thighs as I spread my legs. “Further apart, further.” As more space opened up, the harder the slaps were. “That’s good, that’s right,” he finally decided.

The paddling resumed, the strokes not as hard, but not letting up either. I was no longer giggling as the paddle continued to build layers of heat upon my backside. I tried not to cry out, instead pressing my lips together to keep my sounds to myself, but soon I was biting my lower lip and a quiet keening began to accompany the steady sound of my flesh being smacked left, right, and back again with the stiff leather paddle.

He stopped to stroke my now well-spanked bottom and bent to kiss the spots that were most sore. He licked me and blew on the moisture, cooling me. Then he leaned forward and put his head next to mine. He kissed my cheek, then with a voice rough and low, he softly said, “Put your knees on the edge of the bed. Otherwise stay where you are. I’m going to ice-fuck your ass now.”

Without letting me reply, he left the room. I got into the required position, my legs still wide open. When he returned, he pressed the ice-pop to the top of the cleft between my cheeks. “Ohmygosh,” I gasped in reaction to the cold. He lifted the pop from my skin and asked if I was ready. We’d played with both ginger and ice before, though never together, and I wasn’t sure that I was ready for the combination after all, but I wanted to give him this new experience. I nodded. “I hope so,” I said.

He returned the pop to where he’d started and ran it down the cleft, then back up and down once more. I shivered, but it didn’t sting. “Your bottom is so hot, the ice is melting already,” he whispered as he licked the wet trail he’d left down the middle of my ass. “I’m going to press it against your asshole now.” He returned the pop to my flesh, nestling it between my checks just above his intended target. “Deep breath.”

Because of the position I was in and the play he’d given my bottom, I was already a little open to the advance. The ice quickly shocked me closed again. He pulled the pop away then pressed it to me once more, using the thumb and forefinger of his other hand to spread my cheeks apart. He spun the pop, sending shivers and the first shock of sting through my body as the ginger juice reached more sensitive flesh. “I feel it,” I murmured as I exhaled.

“Does it sting?” he asked.

“A little. It’s cold. But a little, yes.” I began to bite my lip again, nervous at the thought of the spicy ice melting and flooding me as he continued to press onward.

I had hoped the ice would numb me from the sensation of the ginger as he worked it inside me, but as he made my ass open around the pop, the cold only highlighted the burning of the ginger. Suddenly I felt like I was naked and on fire in the Antarctic. “Too much, too much,” I moaned. In seconds his tongue was against the burning flesh, lapping the juice but not extinguishing the flames I felt dancing on my skin. I took a long, slow breath, then another, pressing my ass back against his mouth. “Okay,” I said after another moment. “I want to try again.”

He stood up. “Your ass is so spicy,” he said, the grin apparent in his voice. He pressed the melting popsicle to my asshole again. “Are you going to take it?” he asked. I nodded. “Alright. Take it, my little ginger slut.”

Slowly, more cautiously than his words implied, he pressed what was left of the ginger peach pop into my ass. He didn’t press it so far that it was left inside me to melt; instead, he tugged at it gently, fucking me, burning me, freezing me, overwhelming me. He interspersed this with sucking the melted juice from me, trying to catch it before it dripped down into my pussy and onto my thighs.  Just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, that the cross of sensations would spread throughout my body and overcome me, he removed what was left of the pop – now just clinging bits of frozen juice on the small plastic stick that came with the mold – and set it in a cup on the nightstand.

“I should leave you like this, stinging, dripping, open and anxious.” He gave me one last slow lick from my clit to the top of my ass. “But I want you too much.” He touched my asshole gently. “Should I fuck you here?” I shook my head vehemently. He slid his finger down to where my body had joined its own juices to the stickiness of the popsicle juice. “Here?”

My pussy was so ready for him that his finger slipped inside me without any pressure. I was so open, so ready, and still so very much on fire. “Please,” I begged. “Please, Sir. Please fuck me.” He paused, allowing me to continue desperately. “Please, please Sir. I can’t. I can’t wait. Please.”

He didn’t make me wait any longer. He took me hard and immediately I was in glorious pain. The lips of my pussy were tingling with the ginger juice that had dripped down and I was so sensitive that his cock felt like it would split me open as he pounded into me hard enough that I wasn’t sure I could stay up on my knees. His pelvis slammed into my paddled bottom, reminding me with each thrust that the spanking had surely left me bruised. Tears came to my eyes as the chill of the ice faded and my asshole was left was an intense sting. When he suddenly forced two fingers into me without missing a thrust, I screamed and came simultaneously. He pushed his fingers deeper into me and I could feel his cock somehow get even harder inside me as he told me, “Come again, or I’m going to get the ginger we didn’t use and make you take it all.” Shuddering and moaning, my body now fully his toy, I followed his directions.

Afterwards, shuddering, still stinging, now throbbing, I remembered we still had eight popsicles left in the freezer and that the weatherman just that morning had predicted an extended heatwave. I wondered how long Mr. W would wait before ginger peach popping me again.