fiction: The New Principal 6: Relief

I’d escaped from class and examined the damage. Now that I was alone in the bathroom and could afford to give it my full attention, I found that the sensation that had developed down there while I was over the principal’s knee, and that had ebbed and flowed during the subsequent class, couldn’t be ignored any longer. It was overwhelming. No wonder it had been such a struggle to concentrate in class.

I stifled a moan, and it came out as a whimper. The arousal was too much, and I couldn’t contain it any longer. I felt like I might cry with desire for… who knows what. And not knowing was part of the problem.

I began slowly. With my panties still at mid-thigh, I teased myself gently. I stroked my belly, for now deliberately avoiding the source of the ache in order to heighten the sweet frustration of it. I allowed my fingers to drift down, down, through those little curls. Combing my fingers through now, the hair wiry but somehow soft. I paused a moment, holding my breath. Feeling like I was on the edge and savoring the balance until I finally let myself tip gently into it. Sliding my middle finger now into that cleft. Wet, oh, so wet. Perfectly slick. Not sticky, viscous honey. Like olive oil (extra virgin, ha!), making everything slippery. Drippy.

My abs were clenched, breathing shallow. I ran my finger slowly down over that firm nub of flesh. Up and down, deliciously. Liquid now starting to drip down the delicate skin of my inner thighs. Up and down still, more pressure, sometimes circling. Sometimes slipping off the apex of sweet sensation, a momentary enforced break. Now dipping into that well of wetness. One finger. Two. Back up again.

Wait. The spanking. Over his knee (my gut clenched at the thought), I had felt warm there, much like this. What did it to me? Was it the embarrassment, the pain? The caresses? Was it Mr. Martin himself, or him being hard against my hip?

I put both hands on my flanks, then started touching, experimenting with sensation. A light touch with fingertips. Now scratching upwards, leaving livid lines behind. Ah! My breathing shallow and labored. Now pinching here and there. Acting on the idea before I could think, I slapped my right ass cheek sharply. I gasped and panted, my breathing irregular. Squirming even as the report echoed on all the hard surfaces. Heavier breathing, the odd little whimper, but I held back from vocally expressing my want.

Just then I heard high heels clicking, metronomic, louder and louder. That smack had probably been audible in the hall. Shit. Couldn’t do that again, much as I may have wanted to, and once may have been too much. I held my breath. But that staccato rhythm continued, quieter and quieter. I let out my breath.

God, what a weird day. First time being called to the principal’s office. First spanking. First time getting off in the restroom at school. I chuckled at the ridiculousness of it, then had a flash of intuition about my future. I knew that when I looked back on high school this day would be a highlight.

My focus, and ache, returned. Or rather, I returned myself to my focus and ache. There seemed to be something about that bit of pain. Not wanted to risk any further noise, I scratched at myself. My attention was firmly fixed at my center while I denied myself the friction I craved.

With one hand pinching outraged skin (how outrageous to have been spanked!), I finally let the other rub and circle and dip. And then, at that moment when I remembered Mr. Martin smacking me so vividly that I could feel it, I came, stifling my cries in the echoing room.

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fiction: The New Principal 5: Examination

I closed the classroom door with a click then walked through the deserted halls, canvas sneakers echoing squeakily. I returned to the restroom where I’d freshened up before class, pushed open the heavy wooden door — empty! — and then was serenaded by the groaning hinges. The door clunked closed.

I was alone and unobserved for the first time since the spanking. I bent over slightly to get my hands on the backs of my thighs under the hem of my skirt while I walked. While I was in class I could certainly tell that the skin was tender, but somehow it didn’t seem fully real until I touched the heat with my fingertips, sensitive cool skin against sensitive warm skin.

As before, I went to the very end of the row, but this time I pushed open the stall door and turned to look at myself in the mirror from this makeshift blind. It was unlikely that anyone would come in during class time, but my instinct was to hide and I didn’t want to take even the slight risk of being seen.

I lifted the pleats of my skirt and looked over my shoulder at my reflection. The area from mid-thighs up to — gathering up the pleats with my left arm, I briefly pulled down the waistband of my panties with my right — mid-bum was tender and warm, and the mirror revealed it to be a splotchy pink. Pink? Not red? Hmph. It felt red. I had felt it throbbing distinctly redly.

Craning my neck was awkward. I heard Mr. Martin’s voice in my mind: “Yes it’s awkward — it’s meant to be.” My gut clenched. I tucked the hem of my skirt up into the waistband to free my hands, turned toward the toilet and held my phone up to take an ass-selfie over my shoulder, then examined the photo. Hmm, the panties hid most of the color. I tugged my panties down to mid-thigh, where they’d be out of the way and snapped another photo.

Back down to mid-thigh, rather. That’s where they were less than an hour ago, where Mr. Martin had put them. No, not put. Pulled. Tugged, impatiently. The gusset was now soaked through and I was dripping wet, like syrup. Had I been this wet earlier? Had he seen? Did he know?

I slipped my phone back in the pocket of my blazer, then ran my fingertips in light circles over the warm, abused skin. I touched myself delicately all over, raising goosebumps in places. Then I placed my hands flat on my backside, middle fingers nestled in the creases at the top of my thighs, savoring the throbbing heat against my cool hands.

He had smacked my bum, a lot. And it hurt, a lot. But sometimes he had touched me gently. Fairly often, now that I thought about it. The light squeezes, the caresses, they didn’t feel like punishment at all. And the times when he had stilled, I suppose he was looking, or rather, gazing. I know he had been hard, I hadn’t imagined that. Then afterwards, he had touched my back lightly, and murmured in my ear.

He had suggested that I might come back to him, that I might choose to take more punishment at his hands. I’d have to want it to be able to choose it. But want… what? To earn extra credit? To impress him? To feel his touch, whether gentle or harsh?

I felt that clench again, threatening to overtake me.

I latched the stall door.

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fiction: The New Principal 4: Escape

I hightailed it to my second period class — French — and got my bum down onto my seat as fast as I could, which was pretty fast indeed. My desk was at the front of the class, closest to the door. You would have been forgiven for thinking I was playing a solitaire version of musical chairs to a tune only I could hear.

Once the general commotion died down and class began, I quickly noticed that getting comfortable on the hard seat with my bum still throbbing hotly was pretty much impossible. The uniform skirt was too short to really sit on — I would have to tuck it carefully under me to make it stay, and then I’d have a bundle of fabric right under where it hurt the most. No thanks. Staying still was bad, and shifting was worse, but I shifted anyway, with a desperate certainty that there must be some position that would ease my discomfort.

But I was wrong.

The throb of my bottom and thighs was surprising only for its novelty. Of course a spanking would hurt, that was its raison d’être. But the answering throb between my legs was something else entirely. Keeping up with notetaking wasn’t enough to keep my mind fully occupied; it kept slipping away to snapshots of the hour before (l’heure précédente). The smooth, cool wood (le bois) of the chair (de la chaise) under my bottom (au-dessous de ma derrière). Looking past my knees (mes genoux) to the terrazzo floor. Mr. Martin’s accent and the timbre of his voice (sa voix). The terrazzo floor now only inches (quelques pouces) away from my face (de mon visage). The uncomfortable constricting pressure as my body weight squashed my stomach (mon estomac? diaphragme?) and lower ribs into his lap (er, genoux again?).

I wrenched my focus to the lesson, scribbling more notes. The last thing I needed was to get caught not paying attention at the moment when she asked me a question, especially since she would expect me to know the answer.

I shifted on the damned unyielding seat, and the resultant ache drew me back again. The sting of that first smack. The pain (la douleur) as the smacks stacked up and he built up that throbbing heat (la chaleur)…

Suddenly the teacher was wrapping up the lesson, early, and generously giving us lots of time to work on homework. I sprang from my seat.

“Mlle Lamotte, I’m not feeling well. May I go to the restroom?”

“Oh, Alexandra, you’re looking a bit flushed. Do you have a fever? Do you want to go to the nurse’s office?”

Merde. “No, I think I just need to wash my face and get some air and maybe a drink of water. The restroom is fine.” Mostly I was craving solitude. How could it all have happened only been 40 minutes ago? It already felt like it had been days.

She gave me the permission I sought and I strode away briskly. When I turned in the hallway to quietly latch the door using both hands, we made eye contact briefly through the crack.

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fiction: The New Principal 3: Maelstrom

In a slight daze, I wandered out of the school office into the chaos of the hall between classes. The noise and bustle engulfed me, swirling around me on all sides, but it felt like it was at a distance. Maybe I was at the eye of the storm. But it felt like I was the storm, and my swirling thoughts were causing everything else to rotate noisily around me. I walked indifferently through the maelstrom.

“Lexiiiieee! What happened?!” Ugh. Tanya. We’d been chummy in school years before but hadn’t hung out together for a long time. We were too different from each other. She teased me about my serious demeanor, and I tended to find her pink, sparkly girliness grating. Though she meant well. She must have heard my name on the intercom and made note.

“Nothing, Tanya. Nothing happened. Look, I’m going to be late for class. Talk to you later, OK?”

She paused, peering at me. “Oh, I almost forgot! You know I’m in band, right? Well, we just found out when our recital is going to be. Can I put you down for a ticket?”

“Enough with the promo, Tanya. Late, remember?”

“OK, bye,” she said weakly and wandered off.

“Honestly,” I muttered as I hurried away. She’d been regarding me oddly, which seemed to prove that I looked as much of a mess as I felt, so I made a beeline for the restroom.

I neither expected nor found the solitude I would have preferred: there were four other girls who had taken up stations in front of squared-off white porcelain sinks, a few stall doors were closed, and the general echoing clatter was punctuated by the occasional whooshing flush. Worried that my thighs might tell the tale, I went straight to the last sink, where I figured I was least likely to be closely observed. The stall behind me stood empty.

I turned one battered knob and splashed cool water on my face while examining myself in quick, businesslike glances.

Red eyes – check. I looked like I’d been crying. Or, generously, like I had a cold.

I pulled a length of brown paper towel from the rattling dispenser on the wall to my right and dried my face and hands.

Messy hair – check. I extracted the elastic, combed my hair out briskly with my fingers and redid my ponytail.

Sloppy shirt – check. It must have pulled up out of the waistband of my skirt while I was… upended. Over his knee. With my hands and feet barely touching the floor. And he… Never mind. I tucked the shirt back in smartly and smoothed down the blazer and skirt.

As I got myself tidied up, I became aware that, yes, my ass and thighs were throbbing with heat. It had to be visible below the hem of my skirt. Although I was seriously tempted to check, the last thing I wanted was for people to look and I didn’t intend to telegraph that there was something to see, so I mastered the impulse. I had to hope that the others were too involved with their own reflections to pay attention to me as I strode purposefully out the door and off to class.

The hallway was still bustling, the advantage of which was that my legs were unlikely to cross anyone’s sight-line, especially with me being as short as I am. And anyway, I’d mostly blend into the forest of other bare legs.

My thighs, though. They were hot. They’d be warm to the touch, I was sure. It felt like blushing. And with my skin so pale, no blush ever seemed to go unremarked. The very though brought color and heat to my cheeks. That is, my other

Oh god, this was going to be a long day.

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fiction: The New Principal 2

[Continued from Part 1.]

I looked at the principal blankly as I tried to make sense of his words. Over his knee? How…?

Reading my hesitation, he explained, “Your hips on my knee, your hands and feet touch the floor. Yes, it’s awkward — it’s meant to be.”

Oh hell. This skirt was so short, I’d pretty much be flashing him as soon as I got into position. Was it my imagination, or was he starting to look a little flushed too? I took a deep breath, stood beside the chair, then tipped myself forward over his legs — awkwardly — while trying to minimize the physical contact, utterly in vain.

“Mhmm,” he murmured, as I pointlessly attempted to get less uncomfortable.

He flipped the skirt out of the way and I froze. Then I flinched when the first stinging slap landed, though I’m not sure if I was reacting more to the feeling, the sound, or the idea of it. He started by scattering smacks all over, and after a few moments they began to land more heavily. My bum was feeling warm now and must have been getting red. Then he started to rain smacks down on one spot and I squirmed from the pain and tried to avoid the blows. But resistance, as they say, is futile. My breath caught as I felt a stirring in my gut and my abs clenched. I was breathing heavily and heard myself whimpering, as if from a distance. Between my legs it felt warm and sort of, I don’t know, swollen I guess, like blooming.

Suddenly he stopped and tugged at my panties. “Lift, girl” he growled, and tugged them down below my bum. Oh god! How much could he see? Was he looking? I imagined I could feel his gaze and I squirmed — to get away, to stop the spanking, to ease the feeling in my gut, to do something. I was mortified, but the nervous fluttering had connected with a throb low in my belly, and further south.

“Mmmm,” he purred. His legs were warm under me, and was that his…? Oh.

I wanted… I don’t know what. But, oh god, I wanted.

More slaps, and getting harder. More whimpering. That must have been me. Occasional low groans. Those were from him. Then I suddenly let go, my mind taking a step away from the pain to where the pain was still there but somehow didn’t really matter. Still breathing hard. I relaxed into it, ceased struggling, stilled.

After a moment, he stopped.

He began stroking my bum and thighs, gently, gently. Caressing. A squeeze.

A pause.

Somewhat hoarsely, he said, “Right. That’s that. Up you get.” He hauled me to my feet. I was lightheaded and red-faced, tears prickling at my eyes from the pain and embarrassment. My bum throbbed hotly. I was self-conscious and started to pull up my panties but stopped, unsure, and looked at him, then flicked my gaze away. I waited, frozen.

“Yes, you can pull them up now.” He moved the wooden chair back to the corner, wheeled the black office chair back to the desk and sat down.

“Have a seat.” I put my jacket back on and sat on the cool, smooth chair, trying to catch my breath and not make any noise, while I tugged my clothes back into place while moving as little as possible. If it had been hard to look at him before, it was doubly difficult now. After this. My hand jerked towards my hair when I realised it must have been a mess too. Everything about me was a mess.

His voice, when he spoke, was still a little gruff. “So that’s the skipping dealt with. Now, your marks, awards and extra-curricular activities clearly demonstrate that achievement is important to you. From this moment you have a clean slate as far as I’m concerned, but you may be thinking that isn’t enough to make things right, in your own mind. In fact, you might prefer to go above and beyond to impress me that you really are well behaved, but you might be at a loss as to how to do so.

“Well, I know a way. The punishment you just got was earned in full, but you can bank credit by taking punishments that you haven’t earned. It could be spanking, or maybe the strap. Do you know what a tawse is? No, you wouldn’t, I suppose. Anyway, there are options. Think on it.”

The bell rang.

“Ah, end of the first period. You’re done now. You had better get going — I know you won’t want to be late for your next class.” One corner of his mouth lifted.

I stood, and he walked me to the door. He put one hand on the knob, the other very lightly on the small of my back, and his mouth was close to my ear as he murmured, “Do think on the extra credit option, Alexandra.”

I walked out of his office — past the door to the still-humming photocopier room and the still-bustling secretary, into the tumult of the hall while everyone was rushing to their next class — feeling disheveled and spaced out, and wondering just how much of an overachiever I actually was.

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fiction: The New Principal 1

This is my first fiction piece on the blog, and I might be jumping into the deep end by starting with a very specific genre: the schoolgirl spanking story.

It all started with a skirt. I’d been thinking that I could use a little pleated skirt, then remembered I had one in the pile of clothes to get rid of that, with alteration, might work. After I hacked off 7 inches, I found it surprisingly schoolgirlish. A back-to-school themed play party motivated me to cobble together the remainder of a school “uniform”, which sparked my imagination…

Ten minutes into first period, the intercom crackled to life with the high school secretary’s familiar voice saying words no one had ever heard before: “Alexandra King, please report to the principal’s office.”

My stomach lurched. Shit. Shit. I’d started skipping a class here and there. That must be it. But this was only the second week of school, and I’d been strategic so no one teacher would notice a pattern. And since they all liked me, I figured they’d give me the benefit of the doubt for a while at least. Assuming that getting a handshake at the end-of-the-year award ceremony didn’t count as “meeting”, I was about to meet the principal for the first time. Shit.

I felt the weight of everyone’s gaze as I stood and gathered my books. I usually sat more or less front and center, but in Calculus my friends all wanted to sit in the back corner. I slouched towards the door at the front of the room, trying vainly to disappear. Even the teacher’s eyebrows were headed for his hairline. Out in the empty hallway, I relaxed a bit.

This year, my last in high school, was going to be really different from the previous years. The new principal, Mr. Martin, liked to call himself “Headmaster”. Or rather, “Headmahstah.” I guessed on the basis of the accent that he was from somewhere in England.

New uniform. Dorktastic.

The uniforms that we now wore were his doing. I live in jeans and T-shirts. I hate skirts. And bloody blouses. Blazer, tie and knee socks. Ugh. And now all the guys are always looking at all the girls’ legs. How exactly is this supposed to make for an “environment conducive to learning”?

At the office, the secretary showed me to a chair and then bustled off to the photocopier room, which immediately started to hum. After a few moments, the Headmahstah’s door opened and he called me in. Despite the suit and tie, he looked too young to be a principal — mid to late 20s maybe. Sarah, who sat next to me in English, had a boyfriend who was 25. (She was nearly 18, while at 16 and three quarters I was about the youngest in the class.) But then Mr. Martin acted way older than 25, so I guess it balanced out. I could just see over his shoulder that the walls behind him were cluttered with class photos (from his previous schools, I assumed) and the metal filing cabinets were topped with an assortment of travel curios and a few houseplants.

“Sit down.” There was one sturdy straight-backed wooden chair facing his desk. I sat and studied my knees.

“Do you know why I called you in to see me?”

I was pretty sure I knew, but I didn’t want to say anything. Like my brother told me, if you get pulled over and the cop asks if you know why he stopped you: don’t confess anything, don’t make it easy. I shook my head.

“When I started at this school over the summer, I familiarized myself with the files of some of the more noteworthy students.” He crossed from the desk to the window and surveyed the grounds while I surreptitiously studied the room. “Your file stood out: straight As, awards, the whole lot.”

The dates on his degrees put him at 33 or 34. Huh.

“Imagine my surprise when I checked the attendance records of your various classes and found that you had been skipping. That seemed out of character.”

He turned toward me, his eyebrows raised imperiously during the pause, as though he were peering over reading glasses. Half-moon glasses, I thought, and then I had to stifle a smile when an image of Dumbledore in robes and long grey beard popped to mind unbidden. “You’re only harming yourself with that behavior. So now we’re going to correct it. It’s for your own good, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I guess,” I said.

Giving me a penetrating look, he said, “The correct answer is ‘Yes, sir.’ Try it.”

I took a breath, raised my head and looked into the middle distance, not towards him but vaguely over his desk. “Yes, sir.” Fine. I’ve said the words, but you can’t make me mean them.

“You know your behavior must be punished. Skipping classes is foolish and childish so your punishment will be too. I’m going to give you a spanking.”

My eyes flew up to meet his. I gaped. Shit.

“Now, Miss King. Stand up.” I couldn’t remember ever having been addressed that way before. The title and last name should have sounded grown up, but in this context it felt like a rebuke.

He wheeled his black leather office chair to the side and replaced it with another chair from the corner, which was straight-backed and wooden, like mine. He sat. “Take off your blazer and come around, now.”

The photocopier in the next room was still humming. What was the secretary copying? The phone book?

“Over my knee.”

[Continued in Part 2.]

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Edit: Marie Rebelle chose this post as one of her Top 3 for the week.

the fantasy and reality of my arrival

In the lead-up to the trip, I spent some time fantasizing about Gawan. That didn’t come easily though: it made me feel disloyal to Wolf.

After my first date with Gawan, I happened to mention to Wolf that I hadn’t really done any fantasizing about that trip in advance, which surprised him. How would I know whether I actually wanted to do anything sexual with Gawan if I didn’t even try it out in the safety of my mind first? Good question. Wolf not only didn’t mind, he expected it — and it was a valid exercise to help me figure out what I wanted.

But I was also aware that a fantasy is fiction, designed by me, for me. What Gawan did in the fantasy would be exactly what I wanted, limited only by my own self-knowledge. I didn’t want to set real-Gawan up for failure compared to fantasy-Gawan, and I didn’t want to set myself up for disappointment when I eventually had to face the fact that real-Gawan wasn’t psychic.

So I let my mind roam, but cautiously: I imagined my arrival. I’d go through passport control, heave my bag off the carousel, exit through double doors that hid the public arrivals area from view. Once I passed through the doors, there would be a crowd of people standing beyond the barrier and looking expectantly in my direction. Somewhere in that crowd, one man was looking for me. I’d scan the faces. Ah, there, to my left. We’d smile at each other, while I pushed my cart toward him and closed the distance.

The way I’d constructed the scene turned out to be gratifyingly accurate. I got a few details wrong: passport control was done by a camera not a person; the airport was a little older than I’d envisioned, and the ceilings lower. But that irrelevant detail of him being to my left — that was actually correct. I hadn’t predicted that he’d pull out a bottle of Coke with a flourish, out of (very valid) concern that my blood sugar was about to crash.

Next step: the hug. When Gawan had arrived in my city many months earlier, we had our very first hug. I’m naturally reserved, and I was finally meeting in the flesh a man whose presence in my life had so far been limited to a flow of data through the internet. That first hug was kind of awkward, which, knowing me, was probably inevitable. He was exhausted from a grueling trip, but I know I was holding back.

When I imagined this second meeting, I crafted a new hug. It was the culmination of long hours of airports and airplanes, months of pensive waiting. I felt more sure of him, of the relationship, of myself. So I’d fling my arms around him unreservedly and press myself against him, my head against his chest, and smile contentedly (not that he could see), just savoring being there, with him. Did I imagine all those details, or am I remembering how it actually happened? I’m not sure. Does it matter?

Once we got to the quiet train station, he strode away from the few other people and claimed a seat on a bench at the far end of the platform. I cuddled up next to him. As with the hug, this was a way of overwriting the ambiguities of the first date — and my overly conservative estimate of the proper personal space allowance when sitting on a bench beside my internet boyfriend.

The plan was to stay at a hotel near the station for the first night, then trek back to his place the next day, which gave me two likely settings in which to imagine our first fuck. Despite its inherent sexiness, I did not see it happening at the hotel. I’m not entirely sure why, but I suppose it felt a bit rushed and impersonal.

That’s not to say that the hotel room was a scene of chasteness and decorum. It was small, and the two beds (one double, one single) filled it, such the most inviting place to sit was at the foot of the double bed. We came in, we sat, we kissed, we touched. My pants were off within about 5 minutes after the door closed, and I was naked not long after that.

I had gotten much more rest on the plane than I’d thought possible, so I didn’t immediately need a nap. What I got instead was a spanking, followed by a touch of the flogger, and then the leather paddle (in other words, “the travel kit”), while wearing a pair of black, fun-fur-lined leather cuffs.

The original image had a certain, very NSFW, symmetry about it.

I was more than satisfied, and happy to leave things there. Fatigue eventually caught up with me and I crashed.

Gawan: Intro to Spanking

It was virtually certain that, during this trip, Gawan would give me a spanking.

The merest suggestion, barely more than an allusion, had been made very early on in our correspondence. We had arrived at the topic with both of us knowing that the other had an interest in it (I as a novice, he an expert), and when he made his vague invitation it was infused with a certain polite flirtatiousness — that is, he was polite while flirting, and flirting was the polite thing to do in the context.

Later he praised my cleverness and banter (and my breasts — he’s no churl), but I think it may have been my ass that finally got him checking his calendar and booking flights.

To be spanked by a master! I had no doubt that this would be an educational experience at least. I’d intended to be studious and to try to learn some transferable skills.

It didn’t particularly work out that way.

There were at least two spankings, maybe three, but they sort of blur together in my mind. I recall a few isolated details here and there but I can’t reconstruct the experiences in an objective, chronological way. I think that’s probably because my mind disengaged and I was mostly just experiencing.

I noted two distinct tempos (or tempi, for the musicians in the crowd) that seemed to have metronomic regularity. At one point, he observed that I seemed to respond better to a regular rhythm rather than an irregular one. I didn’t have any recollection of his having tried an irregular rhythm. Perhaps he tried it very briefly and was able to reach a conclusion before I noticed. Or perhaps that scrap of information just floated away on the stream of my consciousness.

I noticed that he started with a cupped hand, which is milder and makes a distinct ‘clop’ sound. Cupped or, later, flat, the sound rang out through the small room, bouncing off the terrazzo floor and out into the empty hallway. I felt a bit self-conscious about it but not to the point of distraction.

These were sensual spankings and I didn’t find them challenging. That will have been a deliberate concession: I’m certain that he could have had me crying if that had been our goal.

The regular rhythm, the even progression from my ass down-down-down the backs of my thighs, and the gentle crescendo of intensity was pleasant, even a little soothing. I relaxed into it, but that relaxation was limited and conditional, not transferable. My ass was warm and pink, and I was wet, content to go this far and no further. And so it was.

I had expected that I would color rather easily. Rather disconcertingly vampiric, he found it, when I seemed to pale and heal in the few moments it took for him to locate and ready his phone for photos. He was good-naturedly frustrated with my rapid recovery. It seems that he wanted the evidence of his handiwork to last a little while. To put his mark on me.

Photo courtesy of Gawan, who apologizes for the quality. He was “too distracted by other matters to get particularly arty.”

This is about as good (i.e. red) as it got.

There was one incident of hand-to-ass contact that was not a spanking. We were waiting on our floor for the aged elevator to arrive. In front of the elevator there was a good sized space (on every floor but the main), into which had been shoehorned some configuration of rather tacky overstuffed chairs and loveseats. It was like a miniature lobby, smaller and more private than the one at ground level, and the rooms themselves were small such that handy sitting area wasn’t a bad idea. I supposed that one could enjoy the breeze through the open windows, and perhaps a smoke. (What a cross-cultural experience it was merely to see ashtrays in a public building!)

So, we were just going down to breakfast. It was early-ish, sunny and cheery, and we were unencumbered. With mischief in his eye, Gawan led me the few steps to one of the chairs and, after a quick peek back down the hall to ensure that the coast was clear, jovially manhandled me over the oversized and overstuffed arm and proceeded to deliver a couple of quick swats to my bottom. When the elevator chimed, he grinningly rushed to right me. I was grinning as well, and on my feet again before the door clattered open. And I’ll bet my cheeks were a bit flushed too.

F4TF: punishment

Food for Thought Friday is a new weekly meme “designed to get you thinking”. (It’s run by sex bloggers so the topics will often, but not necessarily always, be about sex.)

This week’s question has a preamble, which I’m including because it’s quite relevant to my answer.

Within the D/s community, there are times when it is necessary for a Dom to administer a corrective spanking/caning/thrashing. Our question this week, however is directed to those on the receiving ends of such punishments.

Do you consider a corrective spanking/caning/thrashing as a pleasure or a punishment?

I think it’s necessary to back up a step. A dominant/submissive (D/s) relationship is about power exchange. It doesn’t necessarily involve impact play. It also doesn’t necessarily involve a punishment dynamic, and if it does, the punishment doesn’t necessarily have to be physical. And you can have impact play without power exchange.

My partner and I have been dabbling in D/s power exchange. Also, we sometimes do spanking. We raised the matter of punishment early in our discussions, and immediately dismissed it: neither of us are interested in it.

But I’ve given it more thought in the interim. At first, I found the idea of punishment upsetting to the point of being a squick. The problem for me is that I generally have strong internal motivation (I always try to do my best), and I’m also very sensitive to disapproval, so physical punishment would be utter overkill. At this point I feel that I can begin to understand why others appreciate such a dynamic, but it’s still not for me.

What about “funishment”? As I understand it, the language of punishment is used as a framework to add meaning to the experience, but both parties ultimately expect it to be enjoyable. Having words that don’t really match the actions smacks of roleplay, which isn’t something that I enjoy.

I have had spankings and I enjoyed them. And for me, that’s the point.

don’t stop at one

I had gone to sleep wondering what would happen in the morning, and woke up the same way.

I woke first, shortly before the original scheduled start time of 8:00. Would he want to try the enforced availability idea after all? The thought of it got me warm and wet. Structured playtime or not, I knew there was a good chance I’d be getting fucked soon. He woke up a few minutes later, and I initiated some cuddling while his grogginess faded.

Nothing at all was said about the old plan… which is how I knew it was still off. Oh, well. But it didn’t make a great deal of difference because we picked up more or less where we’d left things the night before. He informed me that his cock was very hard and then gave me a few ideas of what he thought I might do with that. I asked him which of his ideas he’d prefer, and he said he’d like me to suck on his cock. So I did.

He murmured his encouragement and enjoyment, but called me off after a short time so we could change things up. He wanted a fuck, and so did I. On knees and elbows I was, and good and wet so he slid in easily. My ass was up, my knees splayed wide and welcoming, my chest and shoulders on the bed, my arms outstretched, my hands braced against the wall. His hands held the nape of my neck, pressed down on my back, or gripped my flanks while he pulled me to him and pounded into me.

He came hard, and then it was my turn. Between the Pure Wand and the vibe, I had a good G-spot orgasm, about mid-range in intensity. He asked whether I wanted to try for another, which I did. The second one was good, more intense. After this we got up and went about our morning routine.

Later on in the day, he admired my ass while he was busy with something else and gave me a few smacks. It was game on again. We went to the couch — him sitting in the middle, me on elbows and knees over his lap — and he gave me a spanking. We then retired to the bedroom for more of the same, although it didn’t take long before we were ready for something different. My first orgasm, with wand and vibe, was again mid-range.

The second one, however, was beautiful. The lead-up was very intense, and I didn’t recognize the noises I was making, nor did he. I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular, just completely in the moment. In fact, I wasn’t so much making noises as allowing noises to happen, as if from a distance. I was in the middle of the experience, and yet I also felt part of my awareness was outside it — it was ecstasy in the sense of its Greek roots: “standing outside”.

This sense of awareness, from both the inside and the outside, reminded me of a couple of times when I’ve been performing. The first time I ever felt it was while singing (solo, a capella) and I knew the words and tune so well that for once I didn’t need to focus all of my attention on my performance. I still had awareness to spare, which I used to observe the reactions and focus of the audience members; they were engrossed, and the whole experience was tremendously satisfying. The most recent occurrence was a solo performance of my own choreography, although the feeling was less pronounced than that first time. This feeling, or part of it anyway, reminds me of some aspects of “flow” as defined by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. (A little research shows some connections but also some differences. A topic for another post?)

If this orgasm didn’t tie for the most intense that I’ve ever had, then it came a close second. After a moment, a small wave of tears washed over me, followed by a giggle fit, where everything was really funny. After some more ministrations, a third, slightly less intense, orgasm soon followed.

I guess the lesson here is not to stop at one.

The next day, my adductors were achy, and I think I’ve finally worked out why: when my knees are splayed wide in leapfrog position, I engage the adductors to keep my knees from sliding further out. My abs, which I had deliberately engaged for the orgasms (5 that day), frequently complained at the slightest movements. I even ended up with a few small bruises from the spanking, which is a first (we’re lightweights).