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

Read Part 1

“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.

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.

Return to Form and Function

Temporary souvenier handprint from the first strapping, mentioned below, with an antique barber strop on our honeymoon. In pain, I reached out and pressed my arm against our vehicle, as we were outside at night. We took a photo the next morning, when we realized I had left a handprint on the window. I remember us looking at it and Mr. W commenting, "It looks like someone was in distress."

Last night, whilst on my hands and knees and thinking we were about to do something quite different, I found myself receiving a short hand-spanking. It stung, but I became giddy and lightheaded; I'd been thinking of nothing but this for too many days. When it stopped as quickly as it started, I was disappointed, only to realize that Mr. W had paused in order to reach for the long, fur-lined toybox that had gone into hibernation for the first time this winter. The latch opened with a slow metallic pop, but we both knew the meaning behind the rasping snap: "At last, it's spring."

He began to rummage through the box, searching, I supposed, for the perfect implement, but after a few seconds I became curious and peered over the side of the box to watch him. I felt a bit like I was cheating, like it was supposed to be a surprise, but he let me watch, and gauged my reaction when he laid one of the more pliant straps alongside me. Our eyes met, and I cannot say what my gaze held for him. Did he see fear? Trepidation? Lust? I felt a confused mix of all three, remembering both the ecstasy of a long strapping session we'd shared a few years ago, as well as the biting sting of a newly purchased stiff antique barber strop, which he'd tested on me at night on a bluff by the Pacific Ocean, under a million stars with no other lights for miles. I wasn't sure that I was ready quite yet for a strapping, but there was only one way to find out. I braced myself and cried out when it struck me, but oh, was I in heaven.

I'm not sure how long the strapping lasted. A few strokes? A few minutes? I think it was just enough to remind me how much I'd missed it. I never once had that thought I used to have all the time, that question of "Why do I like this?" It was a playful spanking, not one meant for punishment or anyone's enjoyment but our own. Then just as I was falling into the rhythm of the strap, he switched implements and began spanking me with an ovular, flat leather equestrian slapper, one of our first toys, and one we bought within our first few days together in Oregon. I adore this item. When used with enough force, it produces a sensation that causes me to say "Ouch!" or "Ow ow ow!" but it never makes me scream. It's a warm-up toy, a play toy, and a welcome opening or intermission. In this case, it was the intermission between the strap and the tawse.

For the first, and probably last, time ever, I nearly said, "Yaaaay!" when the tawse came out of the box. I have been obsessing about the tawse for weeks and was so relieved to see it rather than the cane or something dastardly and wooden. That last video clip I posted is proof that I am not in love with the sensation of the tawse, and certainly not when it's used as discipline, but I am in love with the scent of it, the weight of it, the idea of it wrapping its fiery tongue across and around the inside of each cheek, making me squirm and cry out and struggle to escape its sting. The sentiment of celebration dissipated the moment he began to use it upon me, but rather than fighting it, I fell straight into the focused mindset of taking each stroke, letting the sting settle, then consciously moving back into position to receive the next one. I squealed and pulled away a bit, don't get me wrong - it was the tawse, after all, even if it wasn't being used as viciously as I've felt it in the past - but I had been craving this so much that I didn't want to miss the experience by fighting it as I normally might have done. Finally, kneeling on the bed, back arched and legs apart, bottom red and hair flying, I felt completely like myself.

I didn't cry until it was over. I hadn't realized I wasn't crying until the spanking had stopped, and then suddenly I was overcome with a rush of tears. They were exhausted but happy tears, not born of pain but of the elation that comes with survival. It wasn't the punishment that I'd survived, however, it was its absence. Now, spring had sprung in bright red and pink blooms across the pale winter expanse of my backside. In years to come, I will happily leave the chasing of eggs and rabbits to my youth and look forward to a new Easter tradition - the Happy Easter Tawsing.

The Tears You Can't See on the Table

A preview of Abby's Strapping

I've never had a spanking not go according to plan. That's because there has never been a plan. Whenever we've tried to plan a spanking, we end up doing something else. Therefore, our play has always been spontaneous and unpredictable. I've learned this week that a planned and filmed spanking is something else entirely, especially when something goes wrong.

At my prompting, we filmed a hard strapping scene earlier this week. We've never played as hard with the strap as we did in this. I actually said to my husband beforehand, "Don't be nice to me. You can be nice to me afterwards." And you know what? He wasn't. I know it was as difficult for him as it was for me, and I think there may have been moments when we both wanted to stop, but we knew it was too good not to finish. Too good, that is, until the lighting wasn't quite right and the camera that was supposed to be zoomed at my (agonized) face from the kitchen counter (a camera angle we had struggled over for what felt like ages) failed to zoom.

In the first third of the strapping, I was wearing jeans. Even through the denim, the strap, a barber strop with a surprisingly vicious bite, my bottom stung and burned. On film, however, it just looks like he's beating a dark blur. Without the facial camera, you can't even tell it hurts, other than my occasional yelping. Therefore, we left that out of the edited 4 minute "movie" we ended up posting on the clip site, leaving only the strapping on my white panties and then on my bare backside. It's a bit mean--not squeamishly so, but enough so that when I watch even the five-stroke clip above, I wince.

What's strange about the whole experience is the feeling of having failed an audience that wasn't even necessarily expecting anything. The table over which I am bent was covered in tears by the end of the ten minute punishment. I don't normally cry that much and it was overwhelming in itself. To feel that I had given so much of myself, that my husband felt that he had taken so much from both me and himself, and then to not have the film we wanted afterwards was frustrating. If anything, it was that feeling afterwards that was squeamish. I've never had to think of a spanking in terms of being a success or not. It's been fun and it's been relieving; it's been arousing and it's been terrifying. It's never been a matter of business.

I imagine this will be a subject I return to as we explore this new endeavour. On the upside--we bought new lighting, hopefully fixed the problem with the second camera, have a better concept of what we want to see, and, best of all, were both still able to be completely aroused by what we had filmed. A strange separation occurs after a spanking scene has been uploaded to the computer, I've discovered. Even knowing how much it hurt, how my husband had to hold me so gently afterwards as I cried, telling me how well I did and how proud he was of me, I watched the strap cracking against my own flesh and I found myself thinking, "Beat me harder."

For all the learning we have to do, for all the fears and doubts and questions I have, I can't help but think I've finally put my toes into the right water after all.

Core

Sometimes during sex I see images in my eyelids. Most recently it was a mosaic of turquoise, rippling like stained glass under water. For a time it was a bare cherry tree, Japanese brush strokes stark against an expanse of white. When I was younger, I saw a ship with golden sails, distant against a gray horizon. I was often overcome with the beauty of the visions, but I never lost my place, my rhythm, or my partner. I've never been overcome with the occurences inside my own eyes.

During a spanking, I see the swing of my husband's arm in the corner of my eye. I see the rumpled tan of the comforter on bed, the speckled plaster on the library walls, the grain in the wood of the desk. If I'm bent over, wrists to ankles and hair in my eyes, I see glimpses of my bare toes curled or my reflection in the patent leather of my Mary Janes. I may see tears gather on the hardwood floor. I am present, whether I am counting or squirming or stamping my foot in defiance. I am anxiously awaiting that one stroke that takes me from wanton to weeping. I wouldn't miss that moment for anything--

anything, except, apparently, for a blinding white light.

The last time we played, I missed the ending of my punishment. It had been about a month since my last spanking, so we were at it for a while. A long warm up led to one of my more intense strappings, the leather strap being my current fantasy implement of choice. We experimented with our three barber strops, each of different weight and texture, the results of which remain in violet outline upon my bottom a week later. By the time I goaded him into caning me, the scene could have been over. Instead, I began describing what might happen next, the stripes as they would appear on my already terribly pink flesh, the way I might cry out, the way it might make me come.

In moments, the strokes were raining upon my upturned backside. Firmly, not viciously but controlled, stern and agonizing. I remember flashes of pain unlike anything I'd experienced before, fascinating even now both because they hurt like nothing else ever had and because I was so aroused.

I don't like pain. I struggled with this statement for years, not understanding what I was, what I wanted, until very recently. I had even, for a while, settled with the invented term "self-sadist" rather than call myself a masochist, because it is so very much not what I am or what punishment is about for me. Experiencing pleasure at what was surely one of my most painful experiences of punishment was terrifying and overwhelming and exhilarating. And then it was over.

Afterwards, I knew I had been thrashed. I had bruised my sternum on the edge of the desk and a seemingly brutal diagonal welt across the crease of my left bottom cheek was proof of just how much I had thrown myself out of target. My thighs were sticky and the source throbbed in time with my racing heart. I've never missed an orgasm before, nevermind the last strokes of a caning, but this time, all I could remember was white lightning. He held me and I tried to remember, but all I had was an intense sensation of bliss and burning and blankness.

I've gone back to that moment countless times in the past week. I keep thinking the initial shock of the experience will pale to a more exact memory of what I felt there at the end, but all I am left with is a craving to experience it again. I'm afraid of myself a bit for this. I know I've been wanting to go farther, into the extremes of what we do, deeper into the dark places. I'd never have thought that the deepest, darkest core of me was so filled with light. I want more.