Monday, December 31, 2012

2012 - A Year Exposed

Just over eight months ago, I started this journey looking for a spanking. I craved the physical sensation and was not disappointed when my bottom blushed, flushed with evidence of the gluttony of pleasure I had indulged in. But it has gone far beyond a friendly swat or two. The boundaries of my comfort have been pushed, making a path for an unexpected lesson in love and trust.

There is a certain amount of vulnerability I expose myself to when I lie across a man’s lap. Physically, my bottom is bare, free of the threads that guard my innocence. On an emotional level, I’ve gone through my own journey…originally wanting nothing more than anonymous spanks, giving access to my bottom but not my heart.

The Englishman made a single request when we first met, and that was simply to be honest with myself and with him. It seems like a simple request, but life is much easier to navigate when armed and shielded, walking away from battles with minimal damages. But instead, in a moment of bravery, I remove the mask that keeps the face of my emotions hidden, sharing with another the deepest and darkest parts of myself…parts so deep they have never seen the light of day.

In retrospect it is easy to see that any disagreements the Englishman and I have had were simply adjustment periods. After an especially intense day of play, or a talk that left me sharing quiet whispers of myself, I would be especially needy…making vanilla outings a struggle. A few weeks ago I found myself close to tears when he had to leave my company early. Unable to be consoled, I ran away trying to outrun those tears. I felt horribly for ruining what little time we had together. We talked and it was clear that none of this would be solved over a chat…instead we scheduled an emergency session.

I was given 12 strokes of the cane, 4 sets of 3. They felt like tickles compared to the pain I felt inside me. He stood me up and held me, but he could feel things were not right. He asked me what was wrong, and I stood there, my body leaning into his and wanting to be held tight. I had no answers, but he knew what I needed and asked me, “Do you feel like you’ve been punished enough?” The Eskimo kisses against his chest told him I hadn’t been. He took a deep breath in and kissed the top of my head and said, “Who am I to deny my girl the punishment she deserves?” He leaned me back against the spanking horse and this time I received 20 strokes with no break. Tears streamed silently down my cheeks, the quiet whimpers escaping the corners of my mouth. He held me, and I was done.

The punishment was not for his sake; it was not to earn his forgiveness. I needed to forgive myself, to find the strength within me. Sharing myself with someone else, without an ounce of armor, left me feeling vulnerable. I was weak, embracing the insecurities that threatened to smother the beautiful light that burns so fiercely between us. Instead, the punishment I received only served to fuel the fire. There was no better way to end the year, as I know just how precious I am held in his heart, and he in mine.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

Ho-Ho-Hocus Pocus

Many weeks I find myself following the Englishman’s lead in a dance. Sometimes his cues are subtle, like the gentle tug of my panties, letting me know to lift my hips. Other times they are more direct, like when his cane rides up my knees asking my legs to straighten up. There are days when lessons are taught, one where no amount of begging is heard, tears ignored. Last week I witnessed a grand performance- me an admiring spectator, fascinated by a Sir performing his magic.

The morning started with a note: “My instructions today are simple ... wear a dress or skirt ... make sure you have some lotion for your bottom - you will need it.” Act One: hypnotism. I immediately set my coffee down and rifled through my closet. It has been so cold, and yet I was challenged to wear something with built in air conditioning. He has been spoiled by the temperate weather and has found great pleasure in sliding his hand up my thigh underneath the hem of my skirt, granting him easy access to the bottom he loves to hold. Helplessly, I fulfill his request, weak to the power of his suggestion.

He is on the edge of the couch while I am on my knees and over his. Naked, I crane my neck behind his body, looking into the large mirror that frames the scene. I am the bisected woman- act two, a classic. My bottom is being spanked red, swimming in absolute pleasure on its own, my mind participating only in observation. Trying to force logic, my eyes admire the sight of my bottom being spanked, feeling loved. But there seems to be a disconnect as there is absolutely no communication between the two halves of my body. I watch in awe as I bear witness to two parts of the same person experiencing completely different sensations, his body refracting my image. But any logic held is lost as the audience falls silent in the third act, the grand finale, as his fingers perform a disappearing act.

And yes, there was an encore. Happy Holidays, indeed.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

I'm Late, I'm Late for a Very Important Date

I take it very personally when people are late for appointments. I understand that to be a personality flaw on my part, but only in the sense of how personally I take it. The Englishman has been chronically tardy for our meetings, and it has only been in the last month or so that he has been punctual… at least, more punctual. It seems as if it is the single flaw in our Persian rug…perfect together in every way except for this one exception. So it was with great anxiety that the last two meetings it was ME that was tardy… and while I had very good excuses to why I was late each time, it wouldn’t be enough to save me from a spanking.

I texted him letting him know that I would be 10-15 minutes late. I hurried to get there, aware that it was already a low-maintenance appearance day as my morning was much busier than usual. I felt horrible knowing how much of an effort he has been putting out to meet me on time, and now it was me that was egregiously late. When I arrived he was comfortably waiting for me. I apologized as I entered the room, and he greeted me with a smile. Whew. He wasn’t annoyed with me. I would have had a fierce pout on by now. We hugged each other tightly as we never seem to get enough contact during the week. It wasn’t long before he whispered with a low voice into my ear, “I was going to text you back what would be waiting for you”. I told him he should have and then asked him what was waiting for me. He pulled out a slim, wooden paddle. I suspiciously eyed the implement. He is not fond of paddles and finds them to be wholly an “American fetish”, as he finds no connection to them at all. I wondered to myself if he chose the implement because he would know that I would know he was not enjoying it. Or was he simply trying to put aside an implement we don’t use often for special reasons? “You’re going to get a cold paddling,” he said. But that was a lie. As we stood face to face I felt his hands slide down to my hips. He held them firmly in his hands and pivoted me ninety degrees. His left hand moved slowly from my right hip and up to my chest, holding me still as he spanked me while I stood still. My hands took a firm grip onto his strong forearms, holding myself steady against his weight with each swat. Can we not do this forever? I never want to leave that space.

Forever comes to an end. He instructs me to bend over the table as he begins to paddle me. I love the sensation…like a firm hand, thuddy and lovely. My lack of discomfort does not please him and I am instructed to lower my jeans (I mentioned the lack of effort…I consider them to be casual, but he is fond of them, anyways). I am embarrassed as I fumble with the buttons and am unsuccessful at pulling my jeans down without bringing my panties along for the ride. I am not taking my time on purpose, and yet his patience runs thin. He sits on the edge of the table and pulls me across his knee with such force I hardly have a chance to take a breath before I realize the paddle is coming at my bottom faster and harder than when my pants covered my bottom. I squirm under the force, tears beginning to form until they gain enough momentum to spill over. Aware of how sorry I am, he stands me up and pulls me close to him. I cry into his shoulder before he whispers, “And that is now the late paddle… next time you text your Sir you will be 10 minutes late, you know what will be waiting for you.” And that was no lie.

One week later and I found myself late, once again. I’m only three minutes late, and try my best to distract him with a seductive embrace. I thought for sure I was out of the woods as I watched his hungry hands grasp my bottom over my winter dress. As he pulls up the hem of my dress to finger the raised edges of my panties, I graze his neck with my lips making my way to his ear. It is only then, over his shoulder, I catch a glimpse of the paddle waiting for me on the table.