Having Been Spanked

I'm still enjoying grabbing still shots from my old Naughty Abby movies. I had quite thoroughly been spanked (and hand-tawsed) in this one, Please Not My Hands.

By Tuesday morning, the soreness from my four weekend spankings was already less noticeable. The fifty-minute drive to work was accomplished with minimal repositioning and my bargain-priced office chair was only uncomfortable in the usual way. I was disappointed.

I’d carried a sore and sexy sense of accomplishment on Monday, so pink and tender, reminded constantly of my thrashings. That morning, in response to Mr. W asking how my bottom was feeling, I’d pulled my skirt up and my stockings down for him in the kitchen, even though it was only minutes before I had to leave for work. He’d been about to pour some coffee but as I bent over to show him how I was finally welted and bruised from the previous night’s caning session, he accidentally knocked his empty mug over instead. If it hadn’t been a Monday, I think that I would have opted to just stay home as he drew me to standing position and kissed me in a definitely non-Monday morning fashion. Employers understand if an employee has to call in “spanked and ready for more” instead of just plain old “sick,” right?

Tuesday brought a different flavor of craving. I wasn’t thinking about sexy spankings and taking the moment in the kitchen into the bedroom as I’d been the day before. As I found myself trying to work but only feeling an absence of discomfort, I kept thinking that I wanted another session to bring me back to where I’d been. We should have done a Night Five after all, I thought to myself, but I thought it the way one might think, realizing sobriety has come too soon, I should have had another when I had the chance. Now I had to start all over again.

The emotions I was having over missing having been spanked within the last twenty-four hours seemed extreme to the logical side of me. I sent a text to Mr. W. “I think I’m crashing. I can’t remember which hormones get released in response to pain, but I think I’ve run low. I wish I could have just one more spanking.”

“I can help with that!” Mr. W wrote back.

It’s been a long while since we played this hard or this much, and I had forgotten how addicting that feeling of having been spanked can be. When I first started blogging, then-spanking model Niki Flynn had a quote on her blog that read something like, “I don’t like being spanked. I like having been spanked.” I always identified with this. It’s not the pain itself, it’s giving in to receiving it, and then, afterwards, knowing that I had taken it, that I‘d made it through. This desire for the experience of submitting to and succeeding at receiving the pain of a spanking lives at the very core of me.  Even when I experienced a phase of being wary of receiving pain on purpose, spanking was still the subject of every single fantasy I had.

I crave having my panties pulled down, being placed in position, being turned first pink, then red, then striped. I want to be consumed by a hard flash of agony that becomes white light behind my closed eyes. I want to scream in silence, then moan low and long so that it’s not the pain that is public but the arousal that comes the moment the quick sharp reaction to the pain ends and the realization that it has faded and I am safe begins, only to have it happen again, over, and over, and over.

Then, before we move on to anything else, be it sex, dinner, or just regular life, I want to lie for a moment, held in warm arms, breath soft and comforting against me as I sob, or tremble, or just lie quietly still, knowing that I am complete, that I am strong, that I am alive - that I have been spanked.