I can’t say that the very first time he suggested spanking me didn’t come as a mind-boggling shock to my innocence. At that time we’d only been an item for a few months. From the very first night, sex was always good, but even so I sensed that there was something more about him that desperately wanted to rise above the surface of his own sexuality – as if some long-suppressed desire simmered dangerously beneath his lean muscled torso. I giggled at first, not taking him very seriously, but he was very persistent, looking at me with those smoky eyes of his that always made me melt.
‘Your bare arse is so juicily tempting, Annie. I could eat it … but I’d prefer to spank it, actually. It wouldn’t be painful, I promise. I’d be very gentle. But it would be such a fantastic turn-on. I’d be like on cloud nine! My bursting passion would erupt like a rocket to the moon!’
Rocket to the moon, indeed! I giggled with nervous delight. How could I refuse such a poetic request? I was simply overcome, my mind suddenly incapable of rational function. So I agreed – with reluctant trepidation. It would certainly be a new experience for me. Little did I know then that it would be such a fateful prelude to so many more such experiences.
And that was how it all began – with just an innocent hand-on-bare-bum affair. I became a compliant but not necessarily willing participant in his games. But then he graduated first to this bloody martinet whip thing, and then over the last couple of years to an assortment of canes, and then riding whips. Each new punishment implement is always more painful than the last, and consequently my poor bum is seldom free of the trace evidence.
The first time he was very gentle, just as promised. The next time was less gentle, and thereafter it gradually went from tolerable pain to excruciating agony. Ever since that first spanking he never made any real promises, because he knew that he couldn’t keep them. We had a sort of tacit understanding, however. The moment I started to shout insults at him, that was the signal for him to stop. I could moan and gasp and scream out loud, or stamp my feet. That was all OK and within the accepted boundaries of the game. But the moment I called him a cruel fucker or a slimy little shit, he knew that it was game over!
Anyway, let’s return to the French holiday. We’d just got back to our chalet, which was wedged between two others. Our neighbours were an elderly German couple on one side, and two gay French guys on the other. We were hardly through the door when Jamie virtually ripped my thin cotton dress off me. I quickly found myself bent over the table, my rump proffered in the way I know he likes – that’s to say naked and taut, my legs apart so that he can see all the way into my crease, particularly at my back-facing vaginal pouch. I could hear his heavy breathing behind me. He doesn’t like me turning my head round to see what’s going on, because he says it spoils his fantasy. I must be like a remorseful schoolgirl getting her comeuppance in the headmaster’s study, or I’d be the housemaid deserving her master’s chastisement, and so on.
When Jamie advanced on me with this martinet thing in his hand, I got a fit of the giggles, but that didn’t last long. After the first few swipes I was gasping and groaning with pain. If you’ve ever seen a martinet, you’ll know that at first glance it appears to be a fairly tame object, comprising a solid handle and a dozen slender and lightweight thongs of suede, each about a foot long. But first appearances can be deceptive. Lightweight suede or not, I can assure you that those thongs are anything but tame. More like bloody lethal! My poor bum can vouch for it. I had streaks like thin tails of red across both buttocks, and after the sixth stroke I yelled out so loud that Jamie told me to shush it. The neighbours would hear! Oh yes, Jamie, I should bloody care less! He’s bloody flaying my nether regions with his new toy, and I must button my mouth for fear of disturbing the neighbours in the next chalet!
By the time he’d finished I was sweating profusely, not so much from the summer heat, but from the pasting he’d given me. I was even shaking, but that seemed only to drive him all the more into a frenzy of lust. We had sex there and then, with me still bent over the table and him coming into me from behind. And if you’ve ever experienced a guy’s rangy thighs pumping against your welt-ravaged backside, you’ll know how I felt! Nevertheless, despite the pain, I did climax – virtually at the same moment as he did. Our combined warblings of ecstasy must have shattered the peace of the French countryside that evening. So much for Jamie’s consideration for our neighbours!
That next morning we got dirty looks from the German couple and barely concealed sniggers from the evidently delighted gay guys. And it wasn’t long before the whole campsite became aware of Jamie’s liking for domestic discipline, so we had to pack up and move on. The supreme irony is that most of those contemptuous stares were directed towards me – particularly those from my fellow women holidaymakers! Although I was the victim, apparently I was also the object of scorn, presumably because I’d allowed myself to be a compliant female who gives in to the perverted whims of a dominant male! As Jamie roared off in his MG past the other chalets, with me holding onto my sun hat for dear life, I did at least manage to poke my tongue out defiantly at all those watching, scornful faces! He and I laugh about it even now. His ‘funny ways’ are not without their humorous moments.
But your question is, why am I such a mug to put up with his CP fetish? I suppose the answer must be that I love him to bits, and I know that he doesn’t do it sadistically – not really. He says that it’s his way of showing his passion and desire for me.
‘When I see you naked, Annie, I just can’t ever resist the urge to whip that sweet little butt of yours to shreds!’ he’d tell me all dolefully afterwards. ‘Can’t help feeling that way. It’s so cute and firm, but as ripe as two fresh peaches. I know I must be bent, but I really do adore you, Babes. I guess it must be a sort of way of expressing my love.’
Expressing his love? Well, OK, I know that sounds just a teensy-weensy bit feeble. But which of you girls wouldn’t instantly fall for that vulnerable little-boy act? If you could see his face you’d know that it fills with genuine remorse, his eyes brimming with emotion, as much as mine are brimming with tears of pain and sometimes anger. Even when he goes too far – which these days is quite often – somehow he always manages to appease me. He goes from being the wicked headmaster to the caring lover in an instant. His expression is all worried-looking as he views the damage he’s just inflicted. He sort of stands there gazing at my steaming butt in a daze of disbelief, his trembling hand running gingerly across the freshly delivered welts.
‘Forgive me, Annie Babes, please. I didn’t m-mean to. I get carried away. You know I do. Can’t help m-myself,’ he stammers pathetically. ‘But you look so ravishing … and when I’ve made your poor bum like that, it’s … it’s irresistible.’
And then he’d fetch the Vaseline jar, and get himself off again whilst he massaged my sore cheeks, kissing them all the while and muttering sweet nothings. And I allow myself to remain bent over the table while he administers to me, his fingers sometimes straying into my crease, where certainly my unpunished flesh there hardly needs his soothing treatment. And even when he’s overstepped the mark and my buttocks are stinging and throbbing madly from one of his numbing and bum-blistering onslaughts, I somehow can still never blame him. I often get angry, of course, but I can never bring myself to condemn him or even deny him his pleasures next time.
So, yes I’m a mug. On the other hand, which of you girls can say that your man climaxes you every time? Yeah, every time! Sure, I have to put up with having a permanently smarting backside, but it’s worth it – I think. And for the next few days after a session he’s really attentive and caring, and he never forgets to buy me flowers on his way back from work. It’s those little things that count, I guess. Those small tokens of his appreciation – or perhaps guilt – show that he’s really devoted to me. And until the next occasion when he gets the urge, we’re meanwhile blissfully happy, going about our daily lives just like any other couple. He’s always considerate; never loses his temper; list
ens to me; chats to me as a friend; is very respectful to my mum; goes shopping with me without moaning; helps with the housework and never forgets to kiss me as he leaves for work in the morning. In fact, I can truthfully say that he’s my soul mate, our destinies inextricably entwined. There’s nothing we can’t discuss together, and in every respect but one, he’s a gentle person and a caring and devoted husband. Yes, husband! I even married the man, knowing beforehand all about his ‘funny ways’. So I take the view that whatever unsavoury baggage he brought into our marital partnership, I accepted it, and must therefore live with it and take the consequences.
Well, up to a point, anyway. And that point came one fine Sunday evening last spring.
We’d spent a wonderful afternoon at a riverside pub with a few of our crowd. They, of course, know nothing of Jamie’s ‘funny ways’ or, for that matter, the perpetual condition of my backside. I mean, there I was in the bar sipping my vodka and coke, laughing and joking. All the while, my friends are entirely oblivious of the fact that I’m perched on the edge of my seat, trying to take the weight off my striped backside! Typically my punishments are administered once a week, but he makes an exception whenever he’s been overly harsh in his delivery. In that case he usually lets me off for a whole fortnight – not so much for the sake of leniency, but more because he likes my flesh to be relatively free of bruising at each new session – like an artist who needs a clean canvas to work on, I suppose! That’s not to say he doesn’t like a few pencil-thin, black trace-marks to remain there – sort of as testimony both to his artistry and to my own rampant stupidity. He calls them my ‘battle scars’, and I’m some brave heroine like Boadicea displaying her war wounds! And war wounds or not, I’m still expected to make love to him, whether the wounds are fresh or stale.
Anyway, we’re walking back home, arm in arm, both of us pleasantly tanked up from the afternoon’s boozing. And then the bombshell comes, out of the blue.
‘I’ve been having a chat with Mathew,’ he announces all casual-like.
‘Oh yeah,’ says I warily. Mathew is one of Jamie’s less savoury buddies.
‘He knows this bloke who makes spanking videos, and he’s –’
‘Forget it!’ I reply sharply before he’s even finished. I can tell instinctively what kind of perverted little scheme Jamie’s about to unleash upon my unwilling lugholes. ‘Definitely not, Jamie. No way.’
And then of course he starts trying to twist me round his little finger, just as he always does. He’s not at all put out by my brusque refusal, his face all wrinkled up in a coy smile and a sort of droopy puppy-like expression that I instantly recognise for what it is.
‘It would be fun, Babes. Really it would. And nobody ever need know. Not even Mathew. Only Richard – that’s the video guy – would know.’
‘Oh? Fun? Fun for whom, may I ask?’
Jamie giggles.
‘It really would be a right turn-on, Babes! I mean … the thought of you being filmed while another girl is caning your sweet –’
‘Another girl? Caning me?’ My voice is as indignant as it is astonished. ‘You actually mean to tell me that you want this – this Richard freak to arrange for some low-life tart to cane my private ass, while you and him are watching? Is that your bent little caper?’ He laughs nervously, but this time he becomes all sheepish, that vulnerable and damaged little-boy look creeping over his handsome features.
‘It’s just that – that I’d like to watch … just for once, rather than being the person doing it, Annie. I can’t explain. You know I can’t. But it would be a mind-blasting experience … just to be able to watch a girl doing it to you, for a change. And it would only be for this one time, I promise. I’d never ask again. Never. Honest I wouldn’t.’
I look at him angrily now. This is something that goes beyond even the boundaries of his own lustful extremities. It’s already bad enough that he gets his sexual kicks out of beating me, but now he wants to take his ‘funny ways’ a stage further.
‘Jamie, are you seriously expecting me to allow myself to be caned by a woman, and what’s more while I’m being bloody filmed … and by some porn-movie perv who I don’t even know? And all so that you can get yourself off on it?’
The sheepish grin remains frozen on his lips.
‘Just once. Please, Babes. Even the thought of it gives me a hard-on. And – and … well, I know it’s not important, but Richard pays two hundred quid to his models … just for two hours’ work!’
So now I’m going to be insulted into the bargain. I stop in my tracks and tear my hand furiously away from his.
‘You want me, your own wife, to be like a – a bloody prostitute, is that it?’
Now he’s all shifty and confused looking.
‘No … no, Babes. It’s got nothing to do with the money. Call it an added extra, if you like. I mean, getting paid would sort of add to the illicit intrigue of the whole thing! I could watch, knowing that my beautiful wife was being videoed … and being paid for it!’
Well, I’m seething. He’s on a good salary, drives a sporty car that he bought outright, and we live in a nice home in a respectable area. My dad was a director of a well known company, and my poor mum is a church warden … but her dumb daughter is married to a bloke who wants her to appear in a porn movie whilst having her butt flayed to buggery! And I’ll get two hundred pounds for the privilege!
My eyes are blazing. Passers-by in the street look away.
‘Forget it!’
But clearly he won’t. His puppy eyes are looking at me pleadingly. He grabs my hand again and squeezes it tight.
‘It’s only because I’m so – so absolutely infatuated with you, Annie Babes! Really I am. Seeing you like that would – would drive me wild with desire. Afterwards we’d have the best bonk ever!’
‘What? On film, as well … is that it?’ I’m incredulous.
‘No … no, of course not, silly. I mean after … when we got home.’
I let out another snort of indignation, but he’s looking at me all doleful and with that hurt expression that usually makes me melt. But not today. I’m in a right huff and I pull myself away and flounce on ahead of him. He’s really worried now and when he catches me up he tries to hug me, but I’m having none of it.
‘Annie, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. Honest. It’s just that you know my funny ways … and I can’t help it. I wish I could control them, but I can’t. I know I’m bent … and … and you’ve been really very understanding … all this time … and always given in to me. And I’m so, so very appreciative. I love you all the more for it.’
He looks as if he’s about to cry. I’m beginning to weaken. Yes, I bloody am!
We walk in silence for a while. He’s holding my hand again, and I don’t pull away.
‘Jamie, I know you can’t help it. But your – your fetish is getting worse, and more demanding every time. The spanking bit was already a shock to my system, but it was OK, I guess. But then it’s progressed to canings and then whippings … and they’re always more severe each time. I’m not a bloody donkey, Jamie. My bum’s not made of fucking leather, for Chrissakes. There’s only so much a girl can take. Call me a spoilsport if you like!’
‘But you’re not a spoilsport, Babes. Far from it,’ he protests. ‘You’ve been great about it, and I love you madly for it. You’re the best wife a bloke could have … especially for such a miserable shit like me.’
I can tell that there’ll be more. The hangdog charm is on full-power again.
‘But isn’t our sex life really fantastic, Annie? I
mean … I never look at other girls. My eyes are
entirely for you. It’s only you that turns me on. I just have to look at you naked and I get the immediate hots. It just so happens that I’m turned on all the more when – when that cute little juicy bum of yours is thrust back at me, ready to be flogged. It’s like an addictive drug … one that I can’t resist.’
I’ve calmed down
now and I listen sympathetically. My heart goes out to him as I hear his pitiful excuses. What a daft softie I am! I can sense his desperation, but I’m not ready to give in yet awhile to this new and yet more shocking demand. Perhaps I like that brief moment of power over him that I have. It’s the same every time he wants to cane or whip me. And these days, of course, it’s never something as mild as a mere hand-spank. That’s all in the past. Like any drug, the craving always increases every time, the addict always needing more of a fix.
It’s a part of the ritual, I suppose. I make him go through his pleading routine on each occasion, and I always know when he’s in the mood for one of his sessions. He gets that randy look about him, and becomes all ingratiating, rubbing up against me and fondling my bum. Then he starts sort of breathing his usual pre-spank patter in my ear, telling me how he can’t wait another minute for me to get naked, and how he’s already hard at the thought of me bent over the desk. When I eventually give in to his pleas – and, of course, he knows that I always will – then he leads me by the hand upstairs, kissing me all the while, with both of us giggling like silly school kids embarking on some really naughty mischief. He takes me to the spare room, which doubles as his study. This, of course, is where the desk is and where his assortment of canes and crops and his martinet are kept locked in his ‘special’ cupboard. And it’s here in this small room, behind closed windows and curtains, where it all happens, and where I shout the place down and dance around holding my throbbing posterior – whilst he’s getting himself off on the whole scene!
As we go up the stairs I can’t say that my mouth isn’t dry with terror at what I know awaits me, and I’m conscious of that chilling emptiness in my tummy. If anyone thinks that the prospect of pain whilst being flagellated is like an aphrodisiac, then it’s a load of crap. For me it’s just a means to an end, although I confess to a sort of strange thrill beforehand. That pure illicit feeling of being in that bent-over posture, naked and compliant, and knowing all the while that I’m making my man as hard as steel, is really mind-blowing stuff. As he stands behind me sizing up my proffered hindquarters, with his cane swung out for action, I secretly revel in knowing that he’s got that odd sick look of lust on his face. He’s completely wrapped up in his own kinky world. If the house collapsed around us I don’t think he’d even notice! And, as I’ve already said, the sex afterwards is explosively orgasmic. He gets my G-button every time.
Nexus Confessions: Volume Three Page 20
