I had to wait nearly two weeks this year to receive my birthday spanking. Unusually for me, I didn’t mind waiting. It wasn’t a punishment, and I trusted that whatever Mr C. had in mind for me, I’d enjoy it. But neither of us anticipated quite how much I’d enjoy it …

I was wired and restless when he arrived at my place last night. A lot’s been happening lately, my sleep patterns are all screwed up and I’ve been full of that fretful energy – you know, the kind of background tension that feels like either something important is about to happen, or like you’ve just missed something? That. We’d planned to spend some time playing that evening, and although I felt like my nerves were jangling and my attention was out of focus, I hoped the spanking would relax me and ground me again. I just wasn’t sure I’d find it easy to get in the mood.

We’re pretty great at calming each other down, though, and after tea and cuddles we settled down to watch a movie. It was already fairly late by this point, and I asked him if he was still planning to spank me later. He said he certainly was, and I said “Good, I think I need it. I can’t seem to settle down, my nerves are all over the place.”

He gave me a long look, and then his voice and eyes altered ever-so-slightly in that way they do when he’s being my Dom rather than my boyfriend. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I think I know what you need. I think you need to be paddled.”

I squirmed under his appraising gaze, cheeks flushing. I knew what he meant – I needed the affirming sensuality I associate with his wooden paddle. I needed to enjoy the spanking I was being given, to wholly, gladly consent to what was happening. I smiled secretly and twined my fingers through his, excited by his dominance and feeling very loved.

I’d planned to show him Stardust, but I couldn’t find the disk, so instead we watched Sweeney Todd. Tom hadn’t seen the film before, and put up admirably with my excitable running commentary. By the end of the film I was totally overstimulated, and my inner pervert had well and truly woken up. I felt playful and bratty, and after lusting over the abusive fictional relationships in the film I was craving a scene with a darker flavour, a non-consensual edge.

“Do you still want to paddle me?” I asked after he kissed me, wiggling in his lap.

“Why?”

“Because … I thought that maybe you might want to crop me.”

“Did you now.” He grinned at me. He was enjoying my flirting but his manner made it very clear that he’d do whatever he damn well pleased.

We started with a spanking, of course: I was lustful and eager, positioning myself without guidance over his lap. He followed my lead, and the spanking that followed crackled with sexual energy. I lifted my bottom to meet each loving smack, and my gasps were more of pleasure than pain. Every so often his fingers strayed, exploring the tender crease between my cheeks, dipping lower to caress my aching wetness. I shivered and hollowed my back, pushing my hips upwards to encourage him to continue. He stopped far before I wanted him to, however, and helped me into a kneeling position as he turned his attentions to my breasts, caning them lightly while I bit my lip and adored every moment. Once he’d tormented my nipples to his satisfaction, he told me to arrange pillows in the middle of the bed.

As I lowered myself over them I was craving more pain. Whatever he did, I wanted to feel it; I wanted it to sting and burn enough to sate my hunger for sensation. Tender caresses and light smacks weren’t going to satisfy me tonight. I needed it raw, I needed it to push me.

He was feeling generous: since this spanking was in honour of my birthday, and since I’ve been a good girl recently, he decided to grant me my request. The only trouble was that I don’t own a riding crop. When I’d suggested it, I thought he might have brought his own with him, but he hadn’t. So he opted for my newest implement, one we’d used for the first time a week ago, during our first play session after my trip away.

I bought this a couple of months ago for my cat. Who, of course, has studiously ignored it, leaving it languishing untouched in my bedroom after my fifth attempt to entice her with it failed. Little did I suspect it would find a new lease of life as a spanking toy, but as soon as Mr C laid eyes on it last week, he was determined to test its efficacy. He pulled me into an unusually intimate position, straddling his left thigh with both of mine, while his left hand held me down by the waist. By holding the “toy” end to stop it dangling and silence the little bell, he used the plastic handle as a thin, whippy switch. My vulnerability and helplessness, legs parted and the switch flicking against my tender inner thighs, was intensely erotic. Before too long he was just as turned on as I was, and the toy was abandoned as our embraces became more intimate.

This time, he picked up on that same mood, instructing me to lie over the pillows with my legs spread as wide as I could. He knelt beside me, a hand resting in the small of my back, as much for the intimacy of the contact as to hold me down. I was soon panting and writhing under the sharp, stinging little strokes. A couple of times the tip caught me between my buttocks, and I responded eagerly, moaning and pushing my hips back. After that he paid especial attention to this sensitive area, igniting it with cruel little flicks on the inner curve of each cheek.

I felt wanton, shameless. I lifted my arse to meet each stinging stroke, moaning in ecstasy. I was so wet I thought I might turn into a puddle any moment. The whipping had started light, but as it increased in intensity I wasn’t even aware of feeling pain, only a blazing physical pleasure that seemed to shoot straight to my dripping cunt. Slowly, methodically, he began to whip me harder, and when this only increased my arousal he started to murmur encouragement to me, Come on, good girl, that’s it. That’s my good girl. The rhythm intensified, the strokes grew sharper, my cries wilder – until suddenly, inexplicably, I was coming, writhing under the slicing switch that continued to stripe my bottom and thighs with little red weals. It wasn’t until my orgasm had faded that I started for the first time to feel the sensations as pain. He cradled me in the afterglow. I was whimpering, incoherent. My cunt ached for him, and yet somehow, impossibly, I’d achieved release without being touched once. My whole body was lit up, every inch of me tingled with sensitivity. I’ve never come from being spanked before. How’s that for a birthday present?

I still had my birthday spanking to come: 24 hard strokes of the wooden paddle, one for each year of my age. Not many birthdays offer so traditional a number. He waited for me to settle down before bending me back over the pillows. I was flying by now: I felt like nothing he could do would penetrate the warm glow that had settled over me. I moaned appreciatively through the first 16 strokes, enjoying every second of it. But I was still craving that edge: I wanted to feel it, to be pushed, not just float in a haze of sensual pleasure. At the 17th crack of the paddle I got my wish, and I abandoned myself joyfully to the pain, sobbing and wriggling under the punishing blows that followed. Yes, yes, yes. This was exactly what I’d wanted. I needed it to hurt; I needed, by the end, to be frightened of each next stroke, to not want it any more. Except, of course, that I absolutely did.

The rest of the night is a happy haze of pleasure: pure, unadulterated pleasure. He introduced me to my delightful gift, which entirely lives up to its name. I actually lost count of the orgasms he brought me to with its smooth, warm, organic hardness. Eventually he stopped pleasuring me for long enough for me to take his own hardness eagerly into my mouth, and return the favour. I fell asleep happy and sated, glowing with love. Learning to come from being whipped was definitely the most unexpected present of all