There were some tears in her eyes when she was told to stand and look at me.
"Hurts, doesn't it?"
"Yes, sir," she whispered. She was really trying to hold it together. I felt my heart pound again. There was something special about this woman that made me want to both dominant and protect her. I was actually feeling sympathy!
"No rubbing. The last part will be the most severe. Speeding endangers you and others. It breaks the law and it come with a high price. How can you pay your bills on time if your money is tied up in speeding tickets? Speeding will never be tolerated, nor will anything else that endangers you. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir. But if I can say something. Technically…"
Priceless! Even with a red, stinging bottom, she still tried to outmaneuver me. "Did I ask for an explanation? No, I did not. Over my lap one more time for thirty strokes of the brush."
It took some effort to pin her over my lap this time, and the emotion I was looking for finally slipped out. I truthfully did not strike her very hard, again in an attempt to avoid significant marking, but her reaction was like she was being branded. I stood her up quickly and hid a smile as she did this funny little hop/dance and rubbed her hips with her hands since I would not allow her to touch her backside.
I tossed some pillows on the bed and ordered her over them with her bare bottom high in the air, promising to start the entire session all over again if she didn't mind me. With her positioned perfectly to receive punishment, I pulled my belt out of the loops and folded it in half.
"Thirty-five strokes. One each for the mile over the speed limit."
"No, please…"
"Start counting."
I told you Bree was a prize. She screamed out the first five strokes and then her voice changed. With each stroke, it grew deeper and calmer. I watched her relax after each stroke until she began to purr. That woman drifted into subspace during a punishment session! Laughing, I put my belt back on, tucked a blanket around her and sat by her side to wait.
"Is it over?" she asked several minutes later.
"You little brat. You went into subspace on me. It was the leather, wasn't it?"
She giggled. "Maybe. Just so you know, I'm going to be your favorite sub ever."
She was right. We fell in love, got married and every time we go out for Chinese, we both laugh about the $20 dollar soup. She still sasses me now and then (subby law demands that she does so) but has not gotten another speeding ticket. However, we all know that this is simply because she hasn't been caught again!
Sir John Hayse
John Hayse (affectionately dubbed as Sir John by his loving subbies) is Breanna Hayse's better half. A professional musician with a repertoire of recordings and compositions that go back to the stone age, SJ is also gifted in painting, drawing and a very humorous approach to writing. A dominant in the BDSM lifestyle since he first discovered the true purpose of a woman's bottom, he has worked for decades on his skill in mentoring and assisting submissives grow to become strong, sturdy and confident. Together, he and Bree work with committed couples to teach them the tools for a happy life and a healthy relationship. His greatest joy (besides turning a bottom 50 shades of red) is rendering Bree speechless with his romantic surprises and selfless devotion.
The First Time by Ashlynn Kenzie
The thing you have to understand about growing up as a princess is that it gives you an exalted view of your own importance.
For someone like me, when reality intrudes, the adjustment can be distressing.
My mother tried to make sure I faced that reality early on. My father and virtually every other adult in my world when I was a young child did their best to thwart her efforts.
I cannot say with any certainty at what point secret guilt began to tarnish the crown I wore, but it became a fairly constant companion while I was still a child.
By the time I was a teenager, I knew how to turn my regal status to my advantage, but I could never quite escape the knowledge that I didn't deserve the perks it brought me or the frightening awareness that, at some point, I was sure to fall from grace and lose it all.
I can be grateful now—and I was then, in a way—that my mother was clear-eyed, for the most part, where my failures were concerned, but she fought an uphill battle to hold me accountable where the rest of my kith and kin had influence.
The real world, of course, was oblivious to my crown and treated me like the commoner I was, once I moved beyond the boundaries of family and their close friends and out into a broader society, but I learned early on how to charm, particularly where men were concerned.
What I could never shake, though, was the guilt that I somehow was skating by on things I should have been taken to task for.
I don't know how that knowledge played into my childhood fantasies that eventually took on sexual overtones as I matured into a teen and a young married woman, but my memories of the things that gave me a strange tingly feeling early on were all connected to naughty little girls being held accountable. And there was only one way to hold them accountable—the punishment I secretly felt I deserved and yet feared and went to great extremes to avoid when my mother discovered my faults.
The pain of a spanking is something I can recall from only two encounters—once from a maternal palm and once from a male teacher whom I had failed to charm and who showed me just how badly with his classroom paddle. The shame was there, though, in a couple of other instances, even though the smacks delivered—once with a switch far too limber and once with a worn-out flyswatter over too many layers of clothing—were completely ineffectual. All those encounters were very public, so the pain of embarrassment went deep, whether the physical pain did or not. And those are the only four episodes I recall, although I am sure there must have been others. Perhaps the public nature of the punishment was what has kept them fresh in my mind all these years.
I should have come out of those experiences, based on my need to expiate my guilt, with a clean conscience and a new outlook on life. That didn't happen, however. The certainty that I had never adequately paid the price for my sins and failures and that the price was going to be paid emotionally by the loss of the love I needed, once my true nature was discovered, was a secret fear that never left me. I knew I could not be my daddy's princess forever. It was simply a question of when the end would come.
In the meantime, I both embraced and fought my fascination with spanking, which had, by then, led me to furtively seek out books or movies that might mention it, and even to write my own fiction. Those pieces, of course, were quickly destroyed, lest someone discover my guilty secret and find out how truly perverted I was. For a time, I even succeeded in driving my desires underground, but when they resurfaced, they came on with a vengeance.
Always, in the back of my mind and heart, was the need to understand why I had come to this place and what I was looking for.
When the missing pieces of my childhood experience with sin and the resulting punishment that should have been beneficial, considering my needs, finally came to light, it was, at first, as simply a faint hint of something vital I had somehow missed in my own experience. I stumbled upon it on a spanking website, where I absorbed everything I could find as though I were starving not just for information, but for some kind of salvation.
I knew I had discovered something important to understanding my own situation, but I couldn't quite pin down what separated my experience from what I was reading about. I simply knew that experiencing the latter was becoming so vital to me, I feared I would absolutely disgrace myself trying to obtain it, and I knew it was undeniably connected to the need that had been with me since childhood.
I desperately wanted to experience spanking as an adult—wanted the physical experience as a test of my courage and ability to handle pain; wanted the social experience as a way to connect with the new community of seemingly normal people I had discovered with my same proclivities; wanted the intellectual experience as a means of expanding my vi
ew of the world and bringing something new to the fiction I was writing; wanted the sexual aspects of the experience I had finally admitted were there as a way of affirming that such was not a thing of the past for me.
What I came to understand I wanted, perhaps more than anything, however, was the spiritual aspect of spanking.
This is the truly hard part to explain, and yet, in reality, it is likely the simplest face of it all.
I needed to experience a cycle that was patiently explained to me by someone who professes to have no belief in God himself, but who embraces and knows how to perfectly play out a model of sin, guilt, punishment, expiation, forgiveness, atonement and reconciliation that is straight out of scripture and the Judeo-Christian tradition I am a part of.
Oh, Lord, how I needed it.
When my tutor filled in the missing pieces for me—and he finally had to spell them out, because I wasn't clever enough to put it all together quickly from the hints in his writing—it not only satisfied an intellectual curiosity, it erased the guilt I had felt about my need for spanking and gave me a valuable new perspective on my own spiritual life.
I realized I had only known about the first three items on the naughty girl plan of earthly redemption. I had never experienced what should have come next. At least not in an identifiable way, in a way I could cuddle into and absorb deep into my soul and believe in. I had simply learned to wait out the occasional punishment storms of my childhood and gradually feel my way back to normalcy—a normalcy that didn't come anywhere close to the forgiveness and reconciliation my soul was crying for.
Finally, I knew what was missing. I depended on and believed deeply in that very cycle in my spiritual life, but I had never realized that its expression was missing from my day-by-day existence.
Knowledge and understanding are, however, only a means of finding intellectual peace with the need.
It didn't take long for the 'me' inside to start demanding that the situation be rectified in reality. That took what seemed to be an eternity, when every single day was filled with the need, the desire, the overwhelming demand, from every aspect of my being that I somehow had to experience the cycle.
Intellectually, I knew it would never happen. I didn't see how it could—even in a long-distance play relationship, which I was willing to settle for, although the experience would be purely theoretical. When I put out careful feelers, at my most desperate moments, the knowledge that the experience had passed me by was reinforced. No takers. Not even theoretically.
It doesn't matter, I suppose, what changed the picture. I don't understand it, so I certainly can't explain it. I feared—and I suppose I still do—that someone had pleaded my case in such a way that I couldn't be turned down. I suppose I should feel humiliated, if that is the explanation. If I had to come face to face with that knowledge, I might, indeed, slink away in shame. But I don't spend a lot of time thinking about that possibility.
I think, instead, about the absolutely impossible thing that really happened.
This is what it was like for me—that first time.
***
I couldn't let it be a casual thing.
A social spanking would satisfy one level of curiosity.
But it would, I feared, leave me even more desperate for the real thing.
So I, an adult spanking novice, approached my first unofficial spanking party with a script in mind; one I helpfully shared with the one person in the world I was willing to have play it out.
In retrospect, at a different time in my life, I can see myself taking part in casual spanking games, had the opportunity offered itself. In fact, I had flirted with the possibility and even convinced someone I cared about to put me over his knee a couple of times. The half dozen half-hearted, mostly embarrassed smacks were disappointments on every level. In fact, they were worse than that. They were humiliating in a very bad way that I would not risk again.
There was, I think, a certain amount of fear that it could be repeated, that I could be a charity case not worth a decent effort. But desperation makes us all do strange things. And I figured this was my one shot at knowing something important about myself and moving toward a kind of inner peace and satisfaction, for lack of a better word, that had always been just out of my reach.
So I told him what I wanted. I identified, in writing and in advance, a legitimate problem in my life that I knew I needed to correct but kept managing to avoid dealing with. I had recently experienced yet another ineffectual effort to get my attention and make me change my ways, courtesy of the local traffic enforcement agency, so the sin was fresh on my mind.
I told him I wanted to be held accountable for what I was doing in such a way that I would begin to change my habits.
I told him I wanted to experience both his hand and his belt.
I told him I wanted a safe word, and I wanted to be pushed to such a point that I would think seriously about using it.
I told him I would not be divested of my panties—my one and only I don't want to, and one I thought might cause a snag, but I wasn't quite ready for that body image-related reality.
I expected him to be polite. He always is.
Part of me also expected him to run in the opposite direction. He stayed put.
And he not only graciously accepted my conditions, he added a few of his own that I didn't fully appreciate until later. They were all for my benefit.
I would be the only newbie at the party. As such, he told me, he wanted to give me my first spanking in private and told me what room—with a door—he planned to use. He also warned me I wouldn't like the belt, but he understood why I needed to experience it.
A few days passed between the exchange of letters and our first meeting. It's a good thing I had many demands on my time and attention, or I might have done something foolish, so great was my fear that this was going to come crashing down around my ears.
When it came time to head out for the adventure, I filled hours of travel time with 'what if' thinking and the creation of impossible-to-achieve scenarios in the realm of the ideal experience I was searching for. What I didn't do was speed, at least very little and only when my attention got diverted for a moment. The discipline I needed was already working.
There were a lot of details in the middle—fun, social stuff for the people involved, but boring to recount for anyone who wasn't there. For me, though, every look, every statement, every move was somehow connected to the experience I was reaching for. I'm not sure how I seemed to other people, but I found myself uncharacteristically quiet and deferential. I wanted to be a good girl so he would let me play.
And then, suddenly, I was walking through a door and into another world.
He eased me into the situation, encouraging casual party talk, offering refreshment, teasing a little, laughing a lot. I thought he might be so comfortable playing host he would lull us all into forgetting why we were there. I think I got quieter. At least I was very quiet in my own head, although I wasn't sure the flutterbys inside me weren't loud enough to attract attention, even over the party noise.
I think someone gasped a little. It made me glance up quickly from another-worldly contemplation of my hands in my lap. Somehow, in the space of a moment when my attention was diverted, he had stood up. And he was quietly rolling up his right sleeve. I think he rolled them both up, but I couldn't guarantee it. The right one made it suddenly real. A man doesn't calmly roll up his right sleeve, while staring at naughty girls, without a sound and implacable intention. I was slightly out of his range of vision, so I didn't have to look him in the eye. I could simply sit very still and try not to gulp too loudly.
I'm not sure what order things played out in after that. There was a lot of bare-bottom spanking; some with hand, some with a variety of implements he had thoughtfully laid out in advance. I had a prime seat. I could see and hear everything and my brain was doing a thousand-mile-a-minute switch back from the reality before my eyes to the expectation I had built up over days of anticipatio
n about my own role.
It took a while to deal with so many naughty girls—girls with experience who needed a very firm hand—and still I sat quietly. He was, I thought in despair as time went on and the others proved so challenging and entertaining, surely too weary from such exertions to handle me.
I could see a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, even in the dim light, and I began to prepare myself for a well-phrased and gently-offered excuse for putting me off until some other unspecified time when he would be better able to deal with my needs. I even began practicing how graciously I would respond when the brush-off came. I would not cry, I promised myself, until I was all alone and no one could see my despair and shame and disappointment.
And then he stood up and walked toward me, his hand out, and he asked if I was ready.
Was I ready?
Oh, gawd, I had been ready most of my life, but with the reality upon me, I wasn't sure I could risk having the dream shatter.
I don't remember if he took my hand to help me rise or if I managed that simple move on my own, but it seemed the room grew very quiet. I had planned to exit with a grin and a sassy rejoinder to those who would be able to hear, but not see, what was going on in the privacy he had felt I needed. That never happened. I think I left the room with head bowed and hands clasped in a penitential stance.
He followed me quietly those few steps and waited patiently while I took off my earrings (I have no idea why) and laid them with exquisite precision on a bedside table, wondering exactly where he was and how I would know what to do next in this strange new world. It was suddenly important to make it perfect for him.
I was determined to remember every moment, every impression, every nuance. But I could tell things were already slipping away from me as my senses overloaded and my brain kept whispering, 'Don't ruin this. Don't ruin this'.
He waited until I slowly turned toward him, and then he began talking to me in a voice pitched just low enough to send an unmistakable message about the seriousness of the moment. He told me just how dangerous my behavior was and spelled out some of the disasters I was courting on the open road. I think I tried to justify myself briefly. I think he ignored me.
Confessions of a Spanking Author Page 10
