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.