Photo of Ariel Anderssen courtesy of Restrained Elegance

Actually, when D suggested we get the spankings over and done with at the end of my last entry, there were two in the offing. My punishment for not checking in as per our agreement a couple of days earlier; and a fun spanking he owed me to make up for being mean.

Put like that, it sounds kind of contradictory. But I suspect you’ll understand.

I was waking up with my laptop and a cup of tea, and thinking about making breakfast. I asked what he had in the kitchen, we made a plan. I settled in to read twitter while I finished my tea. D and I exchanged some sort of internet-related banter I can’t remember, but which probably involved my teasing him. His retort: “Get into the kitchen and start cooking, woman!”

Now, we’ve talked about him making sexist jokes, even in jest. I want to call him on it but I’m in too good a mood enough to properly have a go. Instead I say: “Well, I was just about to start making you breakfast, but now you’ve said that I’ll only do it if I get a spanking later.”

He thinks for barely a moment. “Yeah, that’s fair.” And all is forgiven.

–

After dinner, slightly tipsy, I walk past the open bedroom door and catch sight of what’s waiting on the bed. The punishment bath brush. And his belt, coiled neatly and waiting on the pillow. My tummy flips with nerves.

The next thing I remember is me, naked, standing in front of him as he sits on the corner of the bed, bath brush in hand. I’m grateful that he’s on the corner rather than the edge of the bed – it allows me to go diagonally over his knee with hands and feet on the floor. I always feel awkward and huge, a giantess, when I’m lying over someone’s knee with my arms and legs up on the bed. Hands and feet on the floor ironically makes me feel less self-conscious.

I got some warm-up smacks with his hand and the brush as he tested its weight. It doesn’t look like it’s having any effect at all, but it stings like blazes – as my squeaks testified. My head was right next to his big wall-mirror, but I stared at the carpet, unwilling to look myself in the eyes. Once he’d satisfied himself that he had the measure of the brush, he asked me if I was ready.

“Yes, sir.” I was feeling very sorry and submissive and just hoping I could stand it. How many minutes was I going to get?

Then – “I’m going to give you twelve,” he said, and I realised all in a rush that he didn’t mean twelve minutes, he meant twelve whacks, and that this was going to be bearable. Not pleasant, but bearable.

I winced and squirmed my way through them, continually amazed at how so small and innocuous an item as that wooden brush could have so much effect – but then it was over. Ironically, the ‘fun’ play that followed was far more humiliating than the ‘real’ punishment.

–

“Put on your pretty things,” said D, his smile telling me that the punishment was over. Most tops just give you a hug afterwards. He … well.

I put on the sheer black hold-ups with ridiculous hot pink lacy tops which I’d bought for amusement’s sake a couple of days earlier. Plus black patent stilettos that do up with ribbon. Standing in the heels I teetered over him, feeling shy and unbalanced, like a little girl playing grown-up dress up.

His erection told me how much he’d enjoyed spanking me (or perhaps just how much he enjoyed seeing me in stockings and heels). I was grateful for the punishment, both its inevitability and its relative lenience, and more than happy to show him how grateful I was with my mouth. In return he lay me on the bed with the heels in the air, and rewarded me for shaving my pussy that afternoon with teasing, loving licks, working inwards from my mound and upper thighs in a slow, slow circle that had me panting.

Just when I thought he was going to let me come, he stopped. I was guided to my feet again, and he tied my wrists behind my back with soft black rope. My breath was coming in tiny, nervous flutters. My whole body felt sensitised.

Suddenly he slammed me backwards against the wall. I fell against it, unsteady in the heels. His hand wrapped around my throat and forced my head up. My face was higher than his but he was looking straight into my eyes. I felt too tall, too vulnerable, my hands pressed together behind me against the cold wall. His other hand carved tendrils of sensation on my skin, making my breath catch, and then he lifted it and slapped my left breast with such force that panic, like white noise, fizzed in my brain for long seconds. I yelped loudly, shocked, and then gasped for breath, face feeling very pink, unable to move my head, his hand a steady pressure around my throat.

Our eyes met with the electric shock of hunter and hunted. I was overwhelmed by the terror of being trapped, knowing I couldn’t escape his unwavering gaze, or the next slap – which made me cry out again, even though I knew it was coming. I squirmed, not sure if I was more humilated by the smacks or by his continuing to look into my face as he hit me. More slaps, making my breasts bounce. My nipples felt hard and tight and too sensitive, a situation not helped by his insistence on pulling them, pinching them before slapping them again.

I felt horrible, humiliated, scared and so aroused I was dizzy.

After taking his time punishing my breasts, he threw me onto the bed. I landed awkwardly, hands still bound behind me. Normally I’d scramble to regain my balance, try to find out where he wanted me, but all autonomy had been shocked out of me. I just lay there facedown, breathing fast and waiting for him to act. He tied my ankles together with more of the rope. Then, with another length, he bound my thighs, just above the knee.

So I’m trussed hands, thighs and feet, unable even to steady myself for balance, high heels sticking out off the edge of the bed and aching breasts smooshed into the duvet. He climbs on top of me and busies himself spanking me for a while, which is actually kind of a relief. Hand spanking, that I can cope with, and I ground myself in the familiar, pleasant sensations. But then he stops, and I can feel his cock nudging against my bottom.

He slides the velvety tip up and down my crease, teasing me with its hardness; pushing, gently, insistently, pushing, just long enough for me to start to groan, to resign myself to the pain, to whimper, “if you’re going to do that, you’re going to need some lube” – when he stops toying with me and plunges himself into my cunt instead. In that position I can barely move, can’t do more than rock my hips back against him an inch or so, and the angle isn’t one that will get me off. But that’s not the point. He takes me ferociously, one hand pinning my shoulders, my head, to the bed, and I surrender.

When he stops, it’s only to flip me over and shove his cock in my mouth instead. I’m so deep in subspace that I take the length of him easily, and don’t resist as he violently fucks my mouth and throat. He moves me wordlessly between positions as he uses my body to his satisfaction, and I do everything he wants. Passivity isn’t normally my style, but I’m so brimming over with joy and intimacy that every motion, each acquiescence feels like the most significant act in the world.

I’m back on my face, being taken roughly once more from behind when I can’t bear it: I need to come. I beg him to untie me so I can kneel up. To my astonishment he indulges me. Once free I offer myself to him, arse in the air, as wanton as a bitch in heat. He seizes my hips in both hands and gives me what I’m after. I come shaking, violently, screaming, my head pulled back by the fist grabbing my hair and my arse lifted again and again against his hips.

Afterwards, I’m drowsing on the bed in a blissful haze when he jumps up and starts digging through a drawer. He gives me a kinky merit badge and I don’t guess until I’m holding it in my hands which one it’s going to be.

I smile. Yeah, that makes sense. I had wondered if it was going to be the Deep Throat one, but I guess that adventure is still to come.