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

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“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