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.