Weekend Spanking Challege - Spanking #4

The sun had barely finished setting when we began the fourth and final night of the weekend’s spanking sessions. It had been impossible to accomplish much more than fantasizing and waiting for time to pass during the day, but we‘d wanted to give my bottom a full day‘s recovery before the experiment culminated with a caning, followed by the reward for the completion of the challenge, a full spread of - well, yes, my ass - but also, Chinese takeout. In our very early years together, we had somehow linked Chinese food as the obvious conclusion to a real caning session, probably because one night after a caning I didn’t feel like cooking, and now the two go together so much in my mind that I don’t want Chinese without having received the cane, though I’ll admit, I’ll take the cane even if it doesn’t come with a side of pork fried rice and spring rolls.

We decided to run out and get the food first. “After all,” Mr. W said, “I don’t think we’ll be in there for an hour like the last three nights.” I agreed. Though an extended session sounded delicious, this was to be my first time receiving a spanking four nights in a row. I’d made it so well so far, despite the discomfort  I’d felt during the sitting portions of the last few days. So I turned the oven on to 150 degrees F, called in our order, and then we went out together to pick it up. Fifteen minutes later, back at home, I turned the oven off, put all the containers on a large cookie sheet, then placed the sheet into the oven to keep it all warm. “Ready!” I called, and we dashed into the bedroom.

There was a brief moment of gleeful abandon. I stripped to my camisole and panties, which this time consisted of a double layer of scarlet mesh. I think at this point we can all agree, protective panties are not my forte, nor, I suppose, should they be, when I know I’m just going to end up naked.

Once again, my favorite little red leather paddle was the first to warm me. I’d lamented to Mr. W not too long ago that I missed these full warm-ups, and noted that this was the perfect paddle for the beginning of a spanking. My heart and my bottom sing his praises now, knowing not just that he heard and responded to my plea, but also that it was the long warm-ups that made this weekend a success. As he began the spanking, I squealed and squirmed beneath the paddle. I can admit now, I took a bit of delight in just responding naturally, letting it hurt but also consoling myself with knowing that this was the last night of it, that I wouldn’t have to do this again tomorrow. I could just react as a girl in pain, getting a good spanking. I let myself remove what little left I had of my brave face.

Next up was a tan leather slapper, which we bought within days of moving in together. It came from the now defunct equestrian department of our local Petsmart. Apparently we were the only people buying equestrian equipment, and since we don’t have a horse, I can see how it wasn’t lucrative for them. It’s two long pieces of leather, stiched together tightly with only the last four inches left to smack freely. It has a warmth and a thuddiness to it that I don’t find in any of our other leather toys. It doesn’t sting. It hurts, but it’s a good hurt. If I didn’t crave the transformative power of a harder spanking, I could happily be spanked with nothing but this and the little red paddle all day long.

After a few minutes with the slapper, just hard enough to get my backside warm to the touch, down came my panties at the hands of Mr. W. Once again, he pulled out the flogger. What a sexy warm-up, I thought to myself. On a day when I haven’t already had three spankings in the last three days,  these three toys are some of my favorite for lighter play. They hurt, but not so much that they would normally make me cry. I can take them on my bottom, my back, my thighs, my breasts, or even, occasionally, on the soles of my feet. At the right time, some implements feel like I’m being spanked with sex. This night, night four, just before a caning, I was not being spanked with sex. The flogger stung as much as it had on night three. I’d hoped I’d arched past the frustrated pain of the previous night, that the excitement of completing the project would take me back to ecstasy, but so far I had a very sore bottom and had lost even the anticipation of writing about it, never mind receiving the painful strokes that would become, I hoped, striking prose burning with the heat of my experience.

Finally, he repositioned me, making me kneel on the bed, back arched, legs spread. I turned to face him. “This must be hard for you, knowing how much pain I’m really in.” He touched my reddened bottom. “It is, but I know how much this means to you.” He strapped my gag in place, knowing I‘d need it to get through the rest. “Back in position,” he said, his voice low. “Are you ready?”

I nodded. The first six strokes came quickly, each a brief explosion of agony followed by a tiny eternity of waiting until the next stroke landed. I bit down on my gag, trying to focus on counting the strokes. After the first half dozen, he touched my bottom gently, then squeezed my welts. He lightly dragged his fingernails over them. I moaned into the gag and tried to squirm away, not really wanting to escape. He tapped me with the cane. It wasn‘t up to me this time; I moved back into position for the next six.

I feel now like I was still counting in my head, but also like I lost track of everything but the sensation. When I remember last night, I remember light like butterscotch casting a glow throughout the room from the small lamp on my night table. I remember the velveteen softness of the bedspread beneath the bare skin of the front of my body, conflicted by the repeated bursts of sharp pain on the back side. I think I closed my eyes, or lost my vision to the welting shocks that were wracking my body with a powerful erotic electricity. I remember wanting to touch myself. I remember wanting to disappear into the pain.

He gave me a moment to breathe. He touched, and scratched, and squeezed. I don’t remember the next twelve strokes, though I know I was surprised when they ended and that I‘d kept track of them after all. I had thought he might try for the forty-eight he’d playfully threatened, and which, I knew now, I would have tried to take. All I recall of this part of the session is a sensation of both flying and settling into a new depth of existence, like I was somehow both outside my body and rooted so firmly within it that I felt base, raw, a creature born to be ravished, stripped of sense of time and place, turned to nothing but overwhelming sensation, emotion, elation.

I asked Mr. W later what I’d been like during the caning. “I remember being quiet and still. I remember the light before and behind my eyes,” I told him. “No,” he told me. “I can’t get the image of your bottom writhing under my cane out of my head.”

After a few moments of more gentle touching, this time without the squeezing or scratching, just a genuine soothing, loving hand, he offered six more. “You’ve done so well,“ he whispered, caressing me. “Six more. Just six more.“ A part of me was devastated that it was only six. The rest of me knew it was time. He didn’t want to push me past the edge of erotic, to leave me regretting all four nights because of one stroke too many. We’d run a spanking gamut and made it, and I was finally going to have the marks to prove it.

The last six were those intense, glancing blows that fully raise the skin, as if even flesh must stand in attention to the mastery of the strokes. There is thunder and lightning in their remembrance, moisture and flame and a racing heart. I am throbbing now as I recall this scene and the intensity of a different kind that came afterwards.

As I thought all day about how to write this final night, I kept thinking to myself that it turns out the challenge wasn’t about getting through four days of spankings. The challenge, though I am aching even as I sit here writing, is to refrain from a Spanking Number Five. I have become so accustomed to the tenderness that I fear to let it fade. I have been consumed by these last four nights, both in the receiving of the spankings and in the writing about them. We will avoid a night five, for safety and for sanity, so we can take a step back and enjoy the experience, not to mention think about how we want to challenge ourselves next.

Even so, I can’t help but wish for twelve strokes more.

Read the first three nights:
Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #1
Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #2.
Weekend Spanking Challenge - Spanking #3