Confessions of a Spanking Author

by Breanna Hayse

  He pulled out. "You stay in that position and think about it," he commanded.

  Nothing could have been hotter. My ass was bared and on fire, my pussy well-used and I had all kinds of delicious endorphins flowing from the orgasm. I remained perfectly still, no longer having any rebellion left in me—it was all bliss at that point.

  He stayed away for mere minutes before the door opened and he decided to come back for another round. He began to spank me again, with his hand this time. I put my face in the covers, moaning, the pain registering only as pleasure. I had turned into pure submissive, his to command or use as he pleased.

  "Spread your legs," he ordered.

  I opened my thighs and he began to spank my pussy, which was swollen and wet for him. He continued to spank until I squirted.

  "That's what happens to naughty girls," he said, helping me to stand and wrapping me up in his arms.

  "Isn't this a great way to resolve conflict?" I asked my Domestic Discipline-averse husband.

  "I love you," he said firmly, somehow also managing to convey, "don't push your luck."

  Renee Rose

  Renee Rose / Darling Adams is a naughty author and kinkster who loves writing about hot alpha males, Dominance/submission and power exchanges. Named Eroticon USA's Next Top Erotic Author in 2013, she now writes a monthly column about the erotic writing industry for the Eroticon site www.writesexright.com.

  She is passionate about supporting others in accepting and exploring their kink, whatever that may be. Please visit her blog at www.reneeroseromance.com and say hello! She can also be found on:

  Twitter

  Facebook

  Goodreads (Renee Rose) (Darling Adams on Goodreads)

  Pinterest

  Amazon

  Instagram

  Celebrating Twenty Years By Maren Smith

  That first fragile year of our marriage was so rocky that, had someone suggested we'd still be together after twenty years, I'd probably have laughed at them. And yet, here we are.

  I glance back over my shoulder even as I slip the key into the lock. He's still getting our stuff out of the back of the car. Twenty years together and he still quickens my heart, but today it feels a little different. Shutting the car door, he follows me up onto the porch with our play bag in his hand. In it are all the implements I enjoy because I'm not in trouble today. Quite the opposite. Today is our twentieth anniversary and he says we're going to celebrate it the same way we did the night we were married.

  I met my husband through a Shadow Lane magazine publication called Stand Corrected. At one time, they had personals in the back before they put the personals into their own publication titled, Scene One. I was nineteen when I posted my first ad. Two years later, I received an eight page letter from my husband, who opened his first communication to me by stating he was looking for a wife. We had so much in common, I couldn't help but respond. Two months later, I flew from Washington to Arkansas to meet him face-to-face in a visit that lasted nine days. We were married one month later.

  We live in Kansas now. It's a warm day outside. Inside, the building is dark and slightly muggy. I switch on the lights, but it doesn't do much to dispel the blackness of the club-style atmosphere. Eight months ago, practically by accident, I became an administrator at our local BDSM munch group. As prestigious as that sounds, in actuality, I'm just part of the cleanup crew. I make sure the kitchen area is clean, the towels and bedding are washed, and the floors are swept, mopped and vacuumed. It's the only place I've ever worked where cleaning the toilets first involves scraping the melted wax off the seat. Still, the job does have its perks. It's a quiet building surrounded by homes and situated on a busy country road. Don't tell anyone, but I get to come here whenever I need a quiet place to write or I just want to get away for a while. Twice a month, our members meet here for a night of likeminded socialization and kinky scening. Tonight, however, is not a party night and I'm not trying to get away from anything. Michael and I are here alone, and the anticipation is almost more than I can take.

  Twenty years. It sounds like such a long time, and yet it feels like yesterday. I remember our wedding day in snips and snatches. It was a zoo. Family relations flew in from all over. We had sixteen people living in a house that usually held six, and nobody had any privacy whatsoever. My mother broke down crying twice before we even got to the church. My sweet, but slightly dotty uncle ruined the iron trying to smooth the creases out of a plastic tablecloth. To this day, my obnoxious little brother has no idea how close he came to being killed by my future husband. And my disabled sister's wheelchair was so wide that it blocked the aisle. When it came time for Dad to walk me down it, we had to file past one at a time and everyone laughed because they thought I was so eager to join my soon-to-be husband that I was running to get ahead.

  The cake was cheesecake, because it's my favorite. The music at the reception was Reggae and bagpipes, because (the argument could be made) I wanted to see how fast I could clear the room. I still have my wedding dress. How it survived the flood last year when everything else in our basement was destroyed, I'll never know. And then there was the wedding night and those four little words that over time molded us into the couple we still are.

  I lead, he'd told me. You follow.

  And then he spanked me, forever cementing in both our minds the domestic discipline nature of our relationship.

  Nodding me toward the back room, Michael shifts the play bag from one hand to the other. He moves ahead just far enough to get the door to the dungeon, holding it open for me so I can enter first. He does this not just because I know where the light switches are, but because he's a 'butt' man and after all this time it still turns him on to watch the lilt of my hips as I walk.

  There's nobody else here, but I still pick the spanking bench in the very back, where the walls and floor are painted jet black and the lights are multicolored—orange, yellow, red, purple and blue. We don't speak. There really isn't anything to say, but rather than isolated, I don't think I've ever felt more in tune with the man. While he sets up at a station nearby and opens the bag, I fetch two pillows: one to kneel on, and one to hug. I'm a hugger when I get spanked. I need something to hold on to, to help me endure and keep me grounded. Something Michael learned fairly early on in our marriage the first time he bent me over the arm of the couch rather than over his lap.

  I don't remember what that spanking was for. All I do remember is, after only three or four swats, I was bawling and not just because he was upset with me or because it was the Punishment Paddle he was using. I cried because I wasn't across his knee and he wasn't holding my hand. I felt abandoned. I'd lost all sense of connection with him. I didn't feel corrected. I just felt beat.

  But this wasn't that time. We've grown a lot since then and the Punishment Paddle, although by no means retired, isn't in the play bag.

  I take off my shoes, tucking them up against the wall out of the way. I start to kneel on the lower ledge of the spanking bench—stark black wood, topped with crimson leather padding and dotted down the sides with bondage rings—and start to lay myself over the top, but Michael stops me.

  "Not like that."

  When a girl is getting ready for her spanking, there are no three little words with more power to either titillate or destroy, depending on the type of spanking about to be delivered. I know exactly what he wants. Twenty years, and I still blush when I have to take my pants and underwear off in front of him. Again, I start to kneel, moving faster now because for some reason I am a whole lot more comfortable showing him my naked butt than I am my naked front. I only manage to get one knee on the ledge before, again, he stops me.

  "Not," he repeats, "like that."

  He's quiet. Smiling but firm, and I can see in his eyes exactly what he wants.

  My stomach is a tangle of anticipation and nervousness as I grudgingly take off everything. My hands shaking, I fold my underwear into my clothes, hiding them. As if by doing so, I've somehow been hiding my nud
ity too. I don't like being vulnerable, and there is nothing more vulnerable than this.

  This time when I take up my kneeling position on the bench, he doesn't stop me. Instead, his hand settles on my back, guiding me as I bend over the top and so obviously enjoying the view as he strokes the softness of my skin. My husband has big hands, made rough from a lifetime of blue-collar work outdoors. I like the feel of all his callouses, the hardness of them even when he's being gentle. I'm so preoccupied with the sensation that it takes me a minute to realize he's caressing the spot on my shoulder where I got tattooed.

  My husband hates tattoos. Always has, which was why I got it. All I said was I wanted one. Michael said no, and in the fit of ill-thought out rebelliousness that followed, I somehow convinced myself that he was acting more like my father than my spouse. I don't remember any part of the argument that followed, but I do remember that moment when I decided he could rule everything in the house if he wanted to, but he couldn't control what I did with my body. The second he went to work, I had my entire paycheck in my pocket and immediately took myself to the nearest tattoo parlor. Eight hours later, I returned home to find him frantic with worry and pissed.

  He had me through the door and his belt off in the same smooth motion. Three hard swipes were all he gave me before he threw the belt across the room and excused himself from the situation until he could calm down. It was the only time he ever spanked me in anger, and now, supposedly older and wiser, all I want to do is cover that ugly mermaid with something that reflects me—a full-back garden trellis with flowers, butterflies and hummingbirds. Something bright, beautiful and colorful. Michael still hates tattoos. Every time I talk about it, he gives me a Look. I must be a slow learner, because in the next year or so I am going to get that new tattoo.

  His hand on my back finds a resting place between my shoulder blades; his other drifts down my spine. I can't help a slow shiver when the heat of that touch drifts over my waiting bottom. He gives each cheek a squeeze. Oh yes, he's a butt man all right.

  There are no more hesitations. No lectures; it's not that kind of spanking anyway. Just one last circling caress before the hand on my bottom abandons me, returning a half second later in a clap of sound so loud that it shatters the quiet of the dungeon and of sensation so exhilarating I can feel it vibrating through my every waking nerve. Slow and sensual, he spanks me, building a slow burn under my skin, spacing each progressively harder swat with more caresses, more squeezes, increasingly intimate touches that break down my lingering nervousness and fill me up with nothing more than my innate desire for more. He starts with his hand, moving gradually on to other things—the strap, a tawse, a leather paddle made for me by a friend and intricately decorated with roses and thorns. I love leather. I hate wood, but I love leather—the touch, the feel, the smell of it. The visual and audial pleasure of each kissing strike and the burn it leaves behind. He's building me up until I'm clinging to both the pillow and the bench with the same desperate need. I've lost the ability to stay quiet. I don't know how long ago it happened, by my soft whimpering hums have given way to vocal cries and the only thought I can keep is of how much I truly love this.

  "Spread your legs."

  I am so grateful no one else is here, but even were this a party night, I would still obey. I part my knees as wide as the ledge of the bench will allow, giving him access to as much of me as he visually and physically desires. I feel so hot. My arms tighten around the pillow, hugging it fiercely and muffling my involuntary moan as he checks my wetness. For the first time, his hand between my shoulders leaves my skin. Once upon a time, my hair was so long he used to wrap it around his fist, but I cut it two years ago. Barely down to my shoulders now, it's too short for him to do anything more than comb his fingers up along the back of my scalp and fist. He drags my head back to free the sounds he so loves to hear while he slides his fingertips up and down my slit. I am so wet the slickness as he coaxes me open is unmistakable. It's like last New Year's Eve party all over again—eight Doms, two hours of non-stop play, and the only reason we ended it when we did was because I was supposed to help with the balloon drop. By the end of it, however, I was so lost in subspace the only thing I remember clearly was that wonderful finale when he sidled up behind me, held me just like he is now, with one hand gripping my hair and the other owning my pussy, and the heat of his breath burned my ear when he commanded me to cum.

  Just as then, I hear him demand, "Who owns this pussy?"

  The answer is as obvious as the arousal coating his fingers. "You."

  His fingers penetrate me, taking total possession. "Who owns this ass?"

  It's sensual cruelty to force me to be so coherent when he does this to me. I don't want to talk; I just want to feel. I'm burning. My bottom on fire, my pussy hugging onto his slow thrusting fingers, the bulge of his own erection still confined behind the denim zipper of his jeans but pressing into my hip.

  My answer not coming quick enough to satisfy him, his fingers withdraw and a barrage of reminder slaps catch me, hard and fast. His swats dance all over my bottom, making holding still a Herculean task of impossibility. I grind, helplessly humping against the padded edge of the bench. It's a sorry substitute for what I really want.

  The harshness of the spanking ends in another grip. No longer interested in gentle, the way he holds me now is nothing less than conquering.

  "Who owns this ass?" he demands.

  "You!" I'm gasping, shaking as he shoves his fingers back inside me, fucking me with them now, the pumping slap of his palm against the swollen, aching lips of my pussy like a spanking all its own.

  "Damn right, it's me." I love that. I love the way he growls it just before he shoves my head down on the pillow and I hear the wondrous sound of a zipper clicking down metal teeth.

  He's my husband, my lover, my friend, and my muse. Parts of him can be found in every dominant I've ever written about. We've been together for twenty years, though a roller coaster of ups and downs that should have torn us apart a dozen times over. For whatever reason, they didn't and here we are. Still together. Still so strongly connected after all this time and yet, had anyone told me during that first rocky year of our marriage that we'd still be together after twenty years, I probably would have laughed…

  The (nowhere near) End

  Maren Smith

  “Hi, I'm Maren. I'm married to a wonderful, dominant man, and have five four–legged children: two dogs and three cats. I love strong, authoritative men–men who are both ready and willing to leave the lady of their choosing red–bottomed and weeping and for her own good. Writing has given me the wonderful freedom to explore my spanking side without feeling 'weird.' Even better, with the invention of the Internet, I can write what I love and know it will be appreciated by people with the same interests.”

  CONNECT WITH MAREN SMITH

  Blog: http://badgirlscorner.wordpress.com

  Facebook https://www.facebook.com/maren.smith.10

  Email: thetarantularanch@yahoo.com

  A MESSAGE TO MY READERS

  If you enjoyed reading this, I would appreciate it if you would help others enjoy this book, too.

  Recommend it: Please help others find this book by recommending it on readers' groups and discussion boards.

  Review it: Reviews help authors a great deal, particularly on Amazon. Please tell others why you liked this book at Amazon, Goodreads, Barnes and Noble, and / or Blushing Books.

  OTHER BOOKS BY MAREN SMITH

  Last Dance for Cadence, Corbin's Bend Book 8

  How to Live Without a Man

  Something Has to Give

  B-Flick

  Bippity-Boppity-Boo

  Black Sheep

  Daughter of the Strong

  The Diva

  Enemies

  The Great Prank

  Jinxie’s Orchids

  Katy Run Away

  Kindred Spirits

  Life After Rachel

  The Locket

  The M
iner’s Wife

  Mistress

  Morogh the Demon

  Mountain Man

  My Lady Robin Hood

  The Next Ex

  Saga: Constance’s Story

  Spanking Tails I thru X

  The Suffragettes

  Treasure

  Varden’s Lady

  Have Paddle, Will Travel

  Masters of the Castle Series:

  Holding Hannah (Book One)

  Kaylee’s Keeper (Book Two)

  Saving Sara (Book Three)

  Sweet Sinclair (Book Four)

  Chasing Chelsea (Book Five)

  Owning O

  Ana Adored: Mistress of the Castle (editor)

  Box Sets:

  With Hearts Aflame

  Masters of the Castle

  The Naughty List

  Spanking Tails Vol. 1

  To Bathe Burning Buns by Patty Devlin

  I have in my possession—the new rules. You know, the ones I'm supposed to obey? (Can you believe he had the gall to ask me if I wanted to add any?)

  As if.

  Seems *rolling eyes* isn't on there either, and I pointed it out too.

  That's what I'm doing now, looking for a loophole consultant.

  Yeah, I need advice because in place of the eye rolling rule, he has this other clause he says covers it all.

  It says something like:

  No talking back or anything else disrespectful.

  Yup, so if someone can help me out of that, well, yes, I need a bunch of tips, or ideas to get around it.

  That rule has already cost me a hot bubble bath. (You just don't mess with a girl's bath time.)

  This is the way it went down:

  I had just run a nice steaming bubble bath and I'd talked the man into running to McDonald's to get a McFlurry for me to eat in the aforementioned bath.