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