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 color...direct 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.