Afterwards, Across Your Lap - An Erotic Poem

Tender is the Night, a melting massage bar by Lush Cosmetics,
is the bar that leads to the sensuous aftercare described below

Afterwards, Across Your Lap

Exhausted, sore, I settle slowly

onto my left hip and thigh, robe riding up,

the friction of leather on still-damp skin

barely a sensation

compared to the welts your rattan raised

across my ass in tight red lines,

a fetish formation well-practiced, well-appreciated,

well-delivered.

After the caning you’d driven into me hard

from behind. I was already kneeling at the edge of the bed,

back still arched and feet still flexed when

you threw the cane down and spread me wide.

I cried out louder at cock than cane, the surprise

of pain twisted into pleasure more shocking even

than that one stroke that drew

the smallest, most delicate

drop of blood.

Afterwards, streams of water rushed over me,

stinging those striped marks, washing the shared rewards

of my punishment past my thighs, swirling with soap

around my feet before dissipating - foam into the sea.

I ran my hands over the welts

before stepping from the shower, water still running,

and marveled at how easily our bodies allow

our flesh to be transformed.

Then wrapped in a robe like a towel,

I found you asleep where I’d left you.

I woke you with kisses then left you with

a view of my stripes and a small paper bag

clutched in my hand.

You come to me on the couch, sitting to my right,

your cleansed and gleaming body naked so I

let the robe wrap fall away. You pat your lap;

“Over my knee,” you say. I shake my head,

“I can’t,” I whisper, but you laugh and hold out your hand.

I put my hand in yours, expecting to be pulled, but

you shake your head and nod towards the little bag.

Pulling out the shea butter massage bar you brought me home as a surprise,

I place it in your hand.

You tap your thigh, still smiling, and I twist

to lie across your lap, knowing you could just as easily

set the bar down and begin spanking me anew,

but instead you touch it to me where there are no marks,

circling, letting the bar warm and melt onto our skin.

Slowly slowly, you slide it over me, over the welts,

over the slight mark of broken skin, over the white flesh

that surrounds the perfect patch of red stripes over pink.

Slowly, slowly, over my thighs and up onto my lower back,

my hips, the scents of vanilla, jasmine, ylang-ylang turning

my body back from crisp cleanliness to the ripe fragrance

of a woman well-wanted, well-pleasured, well-used.

You set the bar down, its butter now coating both your hands,

and you spread my ass once again, your fingers massaging

the inner cheeks then sliding down from the base of my spine to the

moistening crevice still swollen from earlier service

and slipping across every inch in between.

Slowly, slowly, the circles over my backside begin again, but

among the patterns, tips of fingers grace the tender spot

between my cheeks, barely tracing the entrance to

its tightly guarded but not unbreachable depths.

Slowly, slowly, one hand remains. As the other continues

to caress away my decreasingly insistent pain,

the insistence of my body for the presence promised

by your fingertips is unable to be ignored.

So slippery, so slick, a single finger slides into me, the oft barred

passage unlocking easily at the pressure of your lubricated key.

Unexpectedly, I push back, welcoming, squeezing

around you. You slide into me deeper and I bite the arm

of the leather couch, tilting my hips to take you in, all the way

to your third knuckle, until you pull back and I almost release you.

I clench to draw you back in. You whisper, “You like this,”

and God I do as you knead my ass like handfuls of flowered dough

with one hand and thrust into me with the other, the single finger

turning into two as I open ever more greedily around your

plunging, provoking hand, prodding me to beg for three.

Slowly, slowly a thing of the past and your hand goes at me

as forcefully as I’ve ever felt it, faster, faster,

and neither of us knows if it’s the jockey spurring the pony

or the pony bucking underneath him; he has no choice but

to ride this one out until the end of the race and

the leather is now taut between my teeth because the glass

is thin on the sliding glass doors and the neighbors could

hear me if I cry out as you frictionlessly fingerfuck me

to completion and my hips are still rocking when

you slowly, slowly don’t let go and don’t slide out and

when my teeth have released the leather and I’ve turned

back to look at you, lips open still gasping,

“You liked that didn’t you,” you say. You smile again

like you did at the beginning and thrust one last time

and no one cares anymore about the sliding glass door

or the sound or the slickness we’ll leave on the leather.

I nod. “I liked that too,” you say.

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.

The Cabinet of Corporal Punishment and Pleasure

This is our Cabinet of Corporal Punishment and Pleasure as it stands in the corner of our bedroom. As you can see, our toys are mostly spanking toys but not exclusively so - nothing says being dominated like being controlled inside and out. We used to have a curtain over the front that blocked its contents from view, but the curtain refused to stay up. I like being able to see through the glass. Some couples hang framed photographs to remind them of who they were, where they've been, who they are now. We have a cabinet of toys and implements, a case of fleshly delights, but it, too, tells the story of us - inside and out.


In addition to the real-life spanking scenarios and bits of fiction that I post here, I'd like to start writing about what the cabinet contains, as well as what we add to the cabinet in the future. Product reviews with a twist. Some items will be exactly what they appear to be - spanking or sex toys. Some might have a history, and I'd like to tell that story too.

We tend to play with quite a few implements at a time, building warmth, then heat, then fire. With this endeavor, I envision a single-implement experience. This means that I will need to be spanked before writing each of these, with the intention of experiencing the session fully, as we often have multiple implements, toys, and elements in play at once. As the collection grows, we might be able to add in some role playing or additional toys or accessories if they will add to the experience and the review, but for now, I want to be completely immersed in the sensation. I want to be able to write about what each implement feels like on an unprepared backside. Is it sensual, or at least bearable? Is it too much? Do I want more or do I immediately begin to dread what will come next? What does it feel like once I'm warm? What color is my bottom? Am I elated or exhausted by the end?

From other posts, you know that I love to write about my experience, mental, emotional, and physical. That works best for what I normally have written here. But now - this is my favorite part of this new endeavor - I can write about Mr. W's perspective too. I am envisioning sexy aftercare scenarios, Mr. W with lotion tenderly massaging my sore buttocks, me with a little notebook and a pen, lying naked on the bed, interviewing him, getting his perspective on what it was like to spank me with each particular implement. How did it feel in his hand? Was it heavy, light, did it make him feel powerful? What was it like to swing it towards my bare bottom? Was he afraid of going too hard, or was it one of those implements that just feels so good, so right, that he wanted to thrash me as hard as he could until he could swing no more? I'm aroused just at the thought of getting to hear about his side of the story.

I'm ashamed to admit that I've been a selfish spankee. I always want to know that I've pleased him in taking my punishment, that he enjoyed both giving it and experiencing me receiving it. I've thrived on him telling me that I did well. That I was sexy. I'm only realizing now that saying "Thank you, Sir" isn't the same as letting him know how much I loved what he did, the words he said, how he treated me before, during, and after. I've tended to save that for writing, and during the times that I haven't been writing, I'm afraid I didn't tell him at all.

I'm excited that what I'm envisioning for these future posts will now honor both of our experiences. In life, we are always so in sync with what we find sexy, what turns us on, what we want to do to and with each other. I can't wait to explore that in writing as well. Perhaps we can even write some of these reviews together.

It would be wonderful to write one of these a week. If my bottom is too tender from our personal playtime, I can always review one of the other items on the bottom shelf so that my implement reviews can be "researched" on a fresh canvas. We'll also be on the lookout for new and interesting toys and implements to try. Suggestions are always welcome!

Mark Me

I can't imagine the punishment it would have to take for my bottom to mark the way it used to after a single spanking. I'm sure it could be done, but I think even Mr. W, lover of all things spanking, would have trouble delivering that level of corporal discipline to me. The strapping that resulted in the above pictures seemed to go on forever, and it was on top of the spanking I'd received the day before. By the end, I was pink. Not red, not scarlet, not crimson. Pink!  By morning, most of the marks were barely even a blush. There were a few tiny bruises on my innermost flesh and the tenderness remained, but the proof of my pain was gone.


That two-day spanking session was last weekend. This past weekend, we didn't have a chance to play until Sunday night, so when Mr. W and I found that we had time to ourselves, I asked for a cold caning. Without any other weekend play, it would truly be without any physical or mental warm-up, but I wanted to test myself and give him a gift of trust, love, and my about-to-be-welted backside, Of course, he agreed.

As I bent over the wooden spanking stool, grasping the lowest rung and spreading my legs just to the width of its legs, he picked three canes from the cabinet - a small, whippy crooked handle cane, a straight cane of medium thickness and severity, and our thickest and heaviest,  a senior cane that is just as suitable for sex scenes as it is for role-playing schoolhouse and reformatory scenarios.

I didn't know how many strokes I was to receive, or even if he planned to use all the canes or was just frightening me with the threat of an extended thrashing. He kept me wondering, tapping me with the smaller cane, aiming, planing his blow, then whipping the air instead of me. When the first stroke landed, I was shocked that it had finally arrived and I unexpectedly screamed. I'd almost begun to think he wasn't actually going to go through with the cold caning, that it was just an elaborate ruse to get my legs spread and backside towards him. I was not to be granted such a reprieve. After briefly rubbing the sting from the first stroke, the cane swished again.

He continued to rub each welt after placing it. It was too early in the session for me to ride the pain or fall into its rhythm. Each stroke was a quick but agonizing blaze hastily extinguished by Mr. W's own firm but gentle hand. After the sixth stroke, he laid the cane aside. "Well done, young lady. Well done."

I had expected at least twelve strokes from each cane, so I allowed myself a sigh of relief. I looked over my shoulder to see him picking up the straight cane. We've been using this one most often for over a year and I'm familiar with its sting. When we have longer sessions, or those where I become the recipient of an amorphous rhapsody of cock and cane, this is the one he reaches for.

My backside was hardly warmed from the first cane, but I know how to take this second one. How to breathe, how to bend my knees the moment after he raises each new stripe, how to pull back into position. I would like to say I took this round of the caning gracefully, but I might be romanticizing. If nothing else, I can say I took this round decently, as he once again assured me after six strokes that I was doing well. "So sexy," he added. He let me stand a moment, kissing me, before bending me back over the stool.

I still wasn't sure of the plan. The first twelve strokes might have been the warm-up and now I had an indeterminate number coming in the form of the heavier senior cane. As it always does, the first stroke knocked the breath out of me. With this cane, there's always a moment when I exhale and I'm not sure if it hurt or not. Then, as I breathe in, it's as if I breathe in pain as well.

He landed another stripe, touching the welt but then letting his fingers wander. "I think you like the heavier thud of this cane," He rubbed deeper between my thighs, spreading wetness in tight little circles pressing into my flesh. "In fact, I think you like being punished a little too much. I think I have a lesson to teach this naughty bottom that will teach you the proper response to a caning."

Removing his fingers, he placed two quick hard blows to my backside. I moaned and clutched the rung I was grasping as hard as I could. "Two more, young lady," he advised. Okay, I told myself. I can do two.

I didn't breathe during the last two strokes. No breath in, no breath out. Just pain. Switching gears, he helped lift me to a standing position. My legs had gone stiff and I was now gasping just a little, tears welling up in my eyes. "You took that beautifully," he told me, wrapping me in his arms. "Why don't you kneel on the bed?"

I was so relieved. I'd taken an eighteen stroke cold caning, my first in so long I can't remember the last one. He rubbed me softly, promises of aftercare and whispers of how sexy the caning had been on his lips. I pressed my face into a comforting pile of blankets, my knees on the edge of the bed, legs spread, welcoming him into me. I turned to look at him, to whisper back, to tell him "Thank you, Sir," to tell him I love him. Instead, I burst into tears. He was picking up the small cane again.

"You didn't think we were done, did you?" he said, the words a little cruel but a genuine smile in his voice.

I frowned and pouted. "I don't knowwww," I cried.

"Can you take a little more? For me? I can't resist this bottom."

I knew I could take more. I'd been feeling vulnerable and tricked, but when he tells me he wants to play just a little bit more, I can never resist. I love the challenge, especially when it's one I know I can meet.

"Just to thirty-seven. Can you make it to thirty-seven?"

I nodded. "Yes, Sir. Is it for my birthday? And for my birthday you'll give me thirty-eight?"

He stroked my hair. "That's right. Now, bottom up. Back arched." He tapped the small of my back with the cane, then the outsides of my thighs. "Legs together just a little. Perfect."

Part of me wanted to beg him to go much harder on this second half of the caning, now that we were going. I wanted not just the sensation or to give myself over to him, but also the marks. Even if nothing else marks, paddles, straps, floggers, or slappers, I expected a cold caning would. But knowing we'd have another night of play, perhaps even two or three in the coming days to celebrate my birthday, he went light on me, and I did not beg.

When I woke up Monday morning, examining myself in the mirror and finding not one remaining welt, I nearly regretted not asking for at least six, if not more, of the best. But we still have tonight. Tomorrow's my birthday, and we have no other plans than to be each other's for the rest of week. One of these nights, my flesh will have no choice but to yield to him. His birthday gift to me will be a shared gift for him - he will mark me.

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.

Jam Boxes and Other Holiday Treats

Our most recent toy purchase

"I want you to order me a jam box for Christmas," Mr. W announced from the kitchen.

I was staring at but not watching the TV in the adjacent family room, recent issues of my favorite cooking magazines spread out on the coffee table in front of me as I wondered whether I should try making anything fancy and new for the holidays. Some of them feature gift guides at this time of year; he must have flipped through a few of them. I began to contemplate what flavors he might have seen that would inspire this level of curiosity. Gift boxes, even of jam, can be expensive. Ghost chili and apricot? Our notorious combination of ginger and peach?


"What kind of jam?" I asked.

He said the same thing again, and my face turned as red as my bottom soon would be. "I want you to order me a sjambok for Christmas."

"That seems like a terrible idea," I replied. The sjambok has come up in conversation before, but he knows I've been terrified of them because of a horror movie I saw a few years back that contained ill use of just such a whip. Then again, I first saw the use of the cane in Lupus films back when they were still Rigid East and I was still a teenager, and those seemed like horror films to me then. Now, I prefer those films over most other spanking videos, and anyone who has read my blog knows that I do not fear the cane. Even though it's fun to pretend I do.

A few days later, Mr. W had a Cane-iac cart prepared. On our way to go Christmas shopping at the mall, he handed me his phone. "Are these okay with you?"

The cart contained two sjamboks, both a long and short one, a long leather strap with holes that mimicked the classic Canadian prison strap, and a longer cane than any we already own. "The cane looks thin," I noted. "Everything else?" he asked. "Yes. Do it."

All four items arrived last week, but we didn't have a chance to explore with them until this past weekend. I came home from an errand Sunday morning to find him practicing with the longer sjambok on our bed. I like that he tests new toys; my flesh is precious to him, so I trust him with it, He'd had a chance to get a feel for the physics of each item and I was wearing jeans, so when he asked to try them out on me as well, I was ready, even though we had a family event to get to and little time for play.

He bent me over the bed and tried the short sjambok first, which we'd hoped would be perfect for over the knee spankings. It stung, but I could feel how we could use it for warm-ups or for more punishing OTK sessions. The longer sjambok was next. It did the same, but more intensely. Even in my jeans I could feel it lick the inner curve of my backside, then in the next stroke grab the outer curve of my hips. I knew I would continue to fear this one for a while, but like the cane, I had a sense I would also grow to love it.

Next, jeans still up, he reached for the prison strap. A few strokes in and I was ready to pull my jeans and panties down. Too soon he reached for the cane. He only gave me two strokes and they stung like hell. He knew it.

I had to shower and get ready for the family gathering, but he pulled me over to the mirror so I could see the marks I already had, even with my jeans and panties up. "Just a few more with your panties down," he said, my jeans falling around my ankles and his voice deep in his throat, the voice that means what we are doing is making him the most aroused man in the world, the voice that knows I'm already wet but I want him to whip me more.

The cycle continued. The sjamboks, the strap, the cane. Not too heavy, we knew we had more playing to do later, so the marks were light, strawberry pink. "More strap," I whispered, when he'd finished. "Just a little."

He gave me another three, perfectly whipped across my bottom, getting both cheeks in one stroke. I bit down on the bed comforter with each so I didn't cry out. At last I groaned and pulled my body up into a kneeling position on the bed, arching my back, begging.

"We have to get ready," he said. I moaned louder into the blanket in protest. "But later, just you wait, young lady. You have a night of punishment ahead of you."

I pouted at him, arched my back deeper, thrust my backside and open thighs towards him. He fingered than slapped my waiting flesh. "To the shower," he commanded. I grinned. We'd get through lunch with the family, but I knew we had a delicious evening ahead of us.

The Littlest Jam Box

Ginger Peach Popping

It was over ninety degrees, rare in Portland. Our thighs were sticky and our thoughts were dirty as we drove around running errands. The plan began simply, with the intent to go home and get naked and lie on the bed in front of the fan while the little window air conditioner worked on cooling the room. We talked about running ice cubes over each other’s bodies. Mr. W thought pressing an ice-cube to my ass then spanking my wet, cold bottom would be a good idea.  I took it further. “What about popsicles?” I said.

At first we envisioned something of an ice dildo. Mr. W could ice any part of me he wanted and lick me down as my body melted the ice. Then I began to think about making the popsicles out of fresh juice – it would be a welcome change from the kale and cucumber juices I’d been making for breakfast with my new juicer. “What about fresh peach juice?” I suggested. “With… I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud… ginger mixed in? For that little bit of ouch?”

The next thing I knew, we were on a frantic hunt for popsicle molds. We tried Safeway, Walgreens, even Target. No one had what we were looking for. Finally, we stopped at Kitchen Kaboodle, and we found popsicle mold paradise. We could make rocket pops, otter pops,  long, thick, overwhelming-for-icicle-ass-fucking pops. Then the ideal mold came into view. It could make nine small oval-shaped popsicles. Perfect little melting, stinging, delicious icy miniature butt plugs. For sixteen dollars, we could easily fulfill our sudden summer fantasy.

We stopped at Safeway for a second time on the way home to pick up fresh peaches and ginger root. I was wet the whole time. Mr. W took a sticker from a soft avocado and placed it on my bottom: “Ripe.” We couldn’t stop giggling.

At home I juiced five peaches and about two inches of ginger. I tasted for flavor – it was both spicy and sweet, exactly how I’d want my bottom to taste. I poured the juice, put the mold into the freezer, and began the long wait.

After an afternoon of trying to pass the time while periodically checking on the firmness of our pops, they were finally frozen. “Leave them for now,” said Mr. W as he took my hand and led me to the bedroom. “I need to warm you up first.”

“It’s nearly a hundred degrees today! I’m plenty warm,” I pleaded.

“Not in the right places,” he replied, taking a seat on the corner of the bed and patting his right thigh. “If you’re so hot, we can begin with you naked.”

I whimpered and fussed as I removed my clothes, playfully embracing the character of a girl who doesn’t want a spanking even though I was ready to dive over his lap.

He grinned. “Being difficult, are we?” He tilted his head towards my nightstand. “You can bring me the leather paddle before I take you over my knee.”

Now naked, I found the paddle he wanted in the drawer. Nearly half an inch thick, the oval boudoir paddle we’d bought for each other almost seven years ago was one of his favorites, though I found its sting overwhelming at times. “Not too hard please?” I pleaded as I handed it to him and straddled his right knee, resting my torso on the bed and reaching for a pillow should I need to bite down or muffle my whimpers or cries.

He set the paddle down and caressed my bare backside. “However I want,” he retorted. He began hand spanking me with sharp slaps to the curve of my bottom, sending each cheek jiggling upwards in quick succession. I squirmed but stayed in place, squeaking rather than squealing into my pillow. The day of planning and talking and teasing had made me more than ready, and when he took a break from the spanking to slide his finger between my thighs, I knew without a doubt what kind of wetness he’d find there. “You’re dripping on my knee,” he admonished me, returning to the spanking. I giggled, earning me the harder swats I’d been craving. “At least you’re turning a nice pink for my troubles.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I answered. “I like to turn pink for you.”

The slight pause that came after I spoke was my cue that he had picked up the paddle. He rubbed it in circles on the spots he’d spanked hardest, soothing me with the smooth leather. Then it lifted from my skin and landed harder than I had expected, hard enough that I gasped rather than made any outward sound of pain. “Five more just like that,” he informed me. “Quietly, young lady.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and clutched the pillow to my face, otherwise remaining still so he would know I was ready. The paddle strokes came quickly, alternating cheeks, and though it wasn’t many, I could feel my bottom heating up. “Am I warm, Sir?” I asked.

He touched me experimentally here and there, making “hmm” sounds as he explored, as if I was a science experiment. I knew he was doing it to tease me so I waited patiently, relishing the pause between the spanking I’d already received and whatever was to come next. At last he came to the expected conclusion: “You could be much, much warmer.”

He tapped my left cheek with the paddle. “Up, up,” he instructed. “Stand facing the bed and put your forearms on the mattress.” I did so, keeping my legs pressed together. Moments later, the paddle was being pushed between my thighs and wiggled back and forth. “Apart,” he said, slapping my inner thighs as I spread my legs. “Further apart, further.” As more space opened up, the harder the slaps were. “That’s good, that’s right,” he finally decided.

The paddling resumed, the strokes not as hard, but not letting up either. I was no longer giggling as the paddle continued to build layers of heat upon my backside. I tried not to cry out, instead pressing my lips together to keep my sounds to myself, but soon I was biting my lower lip and a quiet keening began to accompany the steady sound of my flesh being smacked left, right, and back again with the stiff leather paddle.

He stopped to stroke my now well-spanked bottom and bent to kiss the spots that were most sore. He licked me and blew on the moisture, cooling me. Then he leaned forward and put his head next to mine. He kissed my cheek, then with a voice rough and low, he softly said, “Put your knees on the edge of the bed. Otherwise stay where you are. I’m going to ice-fuck your ass now.”

Without letting me reply, he left the room. I got into the required position, my legs still wide open. When he returned, he pressed the ice-pop to the top of the cleft between my cheeks. “Ohmygosh,” I gasped in reaction to the cold. He lifted the pop from my skin and asked if I was ready. We’d played with both ginger and ice before, though never together, and I wasn’t sure that I was ready for the combination after all, but I wanted to give him this new experience. I nodded. “I hope so,” I said.

He returned the pop to where he’d started and ran it down the cleft, then back up and down once more. I shivered, but it didn’t sting. “Your bottom is so hot, the ice is melting already,” he whispered as he licked the wet trail he’d left down the middle of my ass. “I’m going to press it against your asshole now.” He returned the pop to my flesh, nestling it between my checks just above his intended target. “Deep breath.”

Because of the position I was in and the play he’d given my bottom, I was already a little open to the advance. The ice quickly shocked me closed again. He pulled the pop away then pressed it to me once more, using the thumb and forefinger of his other hand to spread my cheeks apart. He spun the pop, sending shivers and the first shock of sting through my body as the ginger juice reached more sensitive flesh. “I feel it,” I murmured as I exhaled.

“Does it sting?” he asked.

“A little. It’s cold. But a little, yes.” I began to bite my lip again, nervous at the thought of the spicy ice melting and flooding me as he continued to press onward.

I had hoped the ice would numb me from the sensation of the ginger as he worked it inside me, but as he made my ass open around the pop, the cold only highlighted the burning of the ginger. Suddenly I felt like I was naked and on fire in the Antarctic. “Too much, too much,” I moaned. In seconds his tongue was against the burning flesh, lapping the juice but not extinguishing the flames I felt dancing on my skin. I took a long, slow breath, then another, pressing my ass back against his mouth. “Okay,” I said after another moment. “I want to try again.”

He stood up. “Your ass is so spicy,” he said, the grin apparent in his voice. He pressed the melting popsicle to my asshole again. “Are you going to take it?” he asked. I nodded. “Alright. Take it, my little ginger slut.”

Slowly, more cautiously than his words implied, he pressed what was left of the ginger peach pop into my ass. He didn’t press it so far that it was left inside me to melt; instead, he tugged at it gently, fucking me, burning me, freezing me, overwhelming me. He interspersed this with sucking the melted juice from me, trying to catch it before it dripped down into my pussy and onto my thighs.  Just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, that the cross of sensations would spread throughout my body and overcome me, he removed what was left of the pop – now just clinging bits of frozen juice on the small plastic stick that came with the mold – and set it in a cup on the nightstand.

“I should leave you like this, stinging, dripping, open and anxious.” He gave me one last slow lick from my clit to the top of my ass. “But I want you too much.” He touched my asshole gently. “Should I fuck you here?” I shook my head vehemently. He slid his finger down to where my body had joined its own juices to the stickiness of the popsicle juice. “Here?”

My pussy was so ready for him that his finger slipped inside me without any pressure. I was so open, so ready, and still so very much on fire. “Please,” I begged. “Please, Sir. Please fuck me.” He paused, allowing me to continue desperately. “Please, please Sir. I can’t. I can’t wait. Please.”

He didn’t make me wait any longer. He took me hard and immediately I was in glorious pain. The lips of my pussy were tingling with the ginger juice that had dripped down and I was so sensitive that his cock felt like it would split me open as he pounded into me hard enough that I wasn’t sure I could stay up on my knees. His pelvis slammed into my paddled bottom, reminding me with each thrust that the spanking had surely left me bruised. Tears came to my eyes as the chill of the ice faded and my asshole was left was an intense sting. When he suddenly forced two fingers into me without missing a thrust, I screamed and came simultaneously. He pushed his fingers deeper into me and I could feel his cock somehow get even harder inside me as he told me, “Come again, or I’m going to get the ginger we didn’t use and make you take it all.” Shuddering and moaning, my body now fully his toy, I followed his directions.

Afterwards, shuddering, still stinging, now throbbing, I remembered we still had eight popsicles left in the freezer and that the weatherman just that morning had predicted an extended heatwave. I wondered how long Mr. W would wait before ginger peach popping me again.

The Last Oregon Spanking

Arizona morning, from my new backyard

My last spanking was over a pair of jean shorts I’d cut to such a risqué degree that they were more like denim panties. The bottom curve of each cheek was visible in a normal standing position and half of my backside was exposed if I bent over or reached forward. Panties were not an option; even a thong would have been visible in certain positions.

They were my moving shorts, for indoor packing only, and only worn on the last day before loading the sixteen-foot truck that Mr. W would haul from our tree-shaded apartment just outside Portland, Oregon to our new desert abode southeast of Phoenix, Arizona. We were moving to a guesthouse attached to a main house that would house five other members of our extended family. Instead of a thousand miles, there would now be about five yards between our back door and that of our relatives. The move was at first an exciting prospect, a chance to change our pace and start anew. But as the long drive and new living situation loomed closer, the short shorts weren’t just an amusing way to dispatch of a pair of worn-out jeans, they were a necessary distraction on a day when our future suddenly felt like a fearsome thing.

I had to change each time I needed to run anything out to the trash or load my car for a final trip to the Goodwill donation center. We’d left too much to do last minute and my continued need to strip my lower half to put on something outdoor appropriate did not make the process any easier. This earned my bottom swats and smacks at each turn – but that was my intention. I made sure to empty the high shelves in the laundry closet when Mr. W was nearby. He came up behind me, pressed his hand against my back, and gently forced my torso to rest atop the washer so he could give me a quick but firm spanking for teasing him with the view. I put a box in the middle of the kitchen floor so that anything I packed inside it required my bending over completely. Both my backside and thighs received the reward for that particular position. In each room, I sought to find a way to bring him to me. He knew the game and was happy to oblige.

That evening, boxes ready and all but two dishes and two forks packed away, he led me to the bedroom for the final Oregon spanking. Emotions were high; I was, in my nervousness, suddenly doubting the move and whether we’d made the right decision. I wanted to cry. I wanted to escape the situation.  Fortunately, there is no better medicine for wanting to cry and mentally escape than a firm, loving spanking. He let me keep my shorts on – they weren’t doing much to protect my backside anyway. He told me to kneel on the bed, lean forward, and bite my pillow. I followed the instructions, tears already in the corners of my eyes, as he gathered a few implements – we had decided all our toys would travel in my car, not in the rental truck, so they were still with my suitcase in my otherwise empty closet.

My cheeks were already warm, but he spanked me with his hand first, his touch comforting me even as I tried to prepare for whatever pain was to come. I hadn’t looked to see what he’d selected, but I figured a cane was somewhere in the mix. I tried to follow the rhythm of his hand, to be a good girl and take my final Oregon spanking bravely, but I was squirming like an unrepentant brat. Maybe it was the denim shorts that made me act so naughtily, maybe it was just the stress of the move, but I could not stay still for him. It was no wonder that the loving hand that was spanking me was soon holding a leather strap.

The strap was biting but not brutal; the quick crimson stripes it left upon me quickly faded back to the overall pink my skin had turned over the course of the day. After a short strapping session, however, my wiggle-worming around the bed was no longer acceptable. I thought I was about to receive a caning, a solid twenty-four or thirty-six strokes before I’d be allowed to call in our traditional post-caning Chinese food – the reason we’d kept out the plates and forks, our dinner was a planned post-final-spanking event, especially considering we were moving to a land of indeterminate-quality Asian cuisine.

Instead of the cane, the birch landed firmly across both of my cheeks. Its nubs and twigs and bitter branches all in one stroke made me cry out in shocked agony. In retrospect, I remember it pricking and welting and shocking my flesh, but I can’t recall the degree of pain or if I just let myself fall into it, howling for the sake of howling, releasing not so much the pain of a birch whipping, but instead letting go of all the fear and anxiety of the move, the regrets of what we would be leaving behind, and the misgivings of what our new living situation would bring.

I can’t say how many strokes I took or at what point Mr. W pushed aside the flimsy strip of denim between my legs and took me fully over the edge of emotion and sensation. I remember lying exhausted afterwards, closing my eyes and drifting, then waking and running my hand over my backside and discovering little swollen bumps where the birch had raised my flesh. I cried out for Mr. W, fearful that I had splinters. He inspected me, then stroked and soothed me, and rubbed lotion into my punished but not broken skin. No splinters were to be found. He held me, then we called in Chinese, and after dinner we slept a final night in the bedroom that had been the scene for our spanking challenges, our playtimes, our loving times, our safety and our place of rest. The following morning, I threw away my moving shorts before we left for Arizona, knowing there would be other shorts and other spankings to come.