Answered Prayers? Bound in the Light

This beautiful writing is by Dauntless Vitality of A Dauntless Journey. It's especially meaningful to me in light of many recent conversations, public and private, about doubt. Disillusionment, disenchantment, disconnectedness. People doubting their place in the thing they do, doubting their trust in their partnership, whatever form that may take.

This lryic, affirming piece is written in the voice of a Great Dom who has no doubts.

Bound in the Light

 

You came to me 

I took you there

To all the places you denied but needed to go

The walls…The numbness

The hollow feelings…The need to hide

The fear…All gone

Breathe deep…Life fills you

You no longer just exist

You now live to feel

To feel the excitement

To feel the arousal of the senses

To feel what’s it’s like to be cared for

Appreciated…Wanted…Needed

Feelings within your heart and mind

Feelings you didn’t know were possible

Just to feel at all is new

And feeling like you belong and have found yourself

Your true self

The one you have been made to feel was wrong

Giving...Offering...Serving

You now see it fills you with peace

Serenity…Tranquility…Harmony

It feels safe…Secure…Protected

It feels like home

And here you lie

Naked…Exposed…Vulnerable

Completely open and available

Allowing access to all you are

Begging to be molded…shaped…formed

And shown who you already are

Not changed or made what you are not

Brought to the forefront of all you already are

A new fear…anxiety…nervousness

Now envelopes you

Not of what lies before you

What may happen to you

What may be subjected upon you

But of not having that

Of not being guided in who you are

Of not being able to see all this can bring

All this can offer

All that you are

It’s the fear of going back

Back to what was before

Back to being less

Being as you were before

Lost…Hopeless…Numb

You have found your strength...Your fortitude

You have been shown you have far more

Than you ever knew was possible

So you fight with all your might

You refuse…Struggle…Plead to stay bound

To stay bound in the light

The light that now shines

The light that shows you all you are

Encompasses your very being

It is freedom…Hope…Promise

The lack of binds…Of going back

Of being free to be who you were before

That is not living…That is death…That is denial

The fear of not feeling...Of not being

Is far greater than the safety of being nothing

~DV~

Written by DauntlessVitality

 

 

 

Caught

Who are you and why are

you texting my boyfriend?

　

This isn’t good. What was the last thing I told you yesterday?

DFTDT. Don’t Forget To Delete This.

　

Who are you and why are

you texting my boyfriend?

　

How did you get his phone? God, he’s an idiot.

　

WHO ARE YOU AND WHY ARE

YOU TEXTING MY BOYFRIEND?

　

Sorry, who are you?

　

I’m the girlfriend of the man you

texted 20,000 times yesterday

　

Yeah, that was fun.

　

WHO ARE YOU?

　

I’m not understanding this.
You’re on someone else’s
phone?

　

I’m on my boyfriend’s phone

that has all the texts from your

number yesterday bitch. You

know what phone I’m on

　

I should convince her I’m a guy.

Let Himself deal with that.

　

Alright, no need for the
language. You mean your
boyfriend’s a volunteer?

　

A volunteer? For what?

　

For the group. SFS

　

What group? What does that

mean? And why is this all written

in initials? There’s hardly any

words here

　

It’s written that way so you can’t read it,

thank god, which he didn’t want to

bother with but I’m sure he’ll

remember to thank me.

　

SFS is our group, Sexting For
Seniors. I guess your friend is
a volunteer, bless his heart

　

WTF?

　

Oh, you do know an acronym.

　

Our group is called Sexting
For Seniors

　

I can reverse phone book this

number you know

Yes but it won’t matter. The
SMSMS takes care of that

　

The what?

　

The text Masking System.
My grandson invented it. It masks
my number with an actual North
American phone number, which
you can text back to but if you call,
which we kn

ow not to do, you’ll
get the actual people at that
number who if you look up and
threaten in any way you’ll
probably get arrested

　

You’re so full of shit

　

And yet you sit there reading it.

　

Maybe we can talk later,
dear, when you feel better

　

No, we’re talking now. So you’re

a senior citizen with a sex group

　

Sext. Yes. I started the group
here locally, in Reykjavik, right
here in the Home, actually

　

You started a sex group in a

nursing home. In Iceland

Wow, I didn’t think you’d get Iceland.

　

Sext. Yes. Studies have shown
that seniors’ mental and physical
health benefit greatly from talking
dirty

　

And my boyfriend volunteered

for this

　

Apparently so. I do recognize
the number

　

I bet you do. What do these letters

mean?

　

Well, it’s hard to say out of
context

　

What does BHTBB mean?

　

Bare Hand To Bare Butt. Think, think.

　

Again, out of context but I
would say By His Truth Be Borne

　

That sounds religious

　

Not specifically, but the older
you get the more comforting
that stuff is

What’s MTIEHYH?

　

Damn. My Tongue In Every Hole You Have...

　

Are you there?

　

Yes dear, they’re just handing
out the meds. Don’t want to miss
that

　

WHAT’S MTIEHYH?

　

That would be May This In
Eternity Hold You High

　

Again with the religious

stuff? What’s sexy about that?

　

Personally I find the concept of an

eternally erect dick intriguing.

　

You’re putting the religious
connotation. I’d call it a more poetic
way of speaking from a different
generation

　

Which generation? Just how the

hell old are you supposed to be?

　

I’m seventy-five

　

Oh right. My boyfriend would never

sext a woman that old. That’s

disgusting. How can you do that?

I would never be with

a man that much younger.

　

What makes you think you could attract one?

　

As they say, different strokes

　

So how many other volunteers

are in this group?

　

Well, we’re not international
yet but there’s a good three or
four come in pretty steadily

　

Three or four? For how many other

horny old broads?

　

Oh, that’s just me right now. But
my roommate Gracie is joining, she
promised. And GK she owes me, the
hours I’ve put in on WWF with that
woman, she can’t

spell her own name

　

So you handle three or four guys

by yourself with your poetic

initials, which my boyfriend

understands. All day long

　

Sometimes

　

I’m coming for you. I’m gonna find

you bitch. I know this area code. I

Know you’re not 75 but it doesn’t

matter how old you are. I’m coming

for you. I’m gonna stomp your ass and

break your fingers.

　

Alright look lady, I’m a 12 year
old boy and it’s a felony to threaten
a minor over any type of social
media. So this counts. I’m telling my
Mom. I’m showing her right now

　

I’m coming for you

　

Hey, it’s me

　

Hey

　

Can you take my dog? I have to
be out of town for a while

　

Sure, how long?

　

Like, maybe a year?

Defiance

She needs him too much. Too much. It has to stop.
　
Why? She rages. Why after all this time of denial can she not be her need. The need defines her. She sought him out of need, she suffers his too frequent absences out of need. Is one day too long, two days, three days an eternity? Between encounters, and they are becoming fewer, the high wears off sooner, the dullness settles again from the air, and she is back to waiting. Stupidly, like a blind and wounded animal, lifting her face to the sense of his return.
　
She is not a stupid woman. She is not inconsequential. The conflict sickens her. She has no appetite for food, exhausted from trying to cloak her appetite for him. She feels herself faded and fading, yet her physical allure intensifies. She has that translucence that is the mark of good character strafed by grief. She draws attention from men and feels only vague contempt, then terrible guilt at their hurt feelings. But she is helpless to return their interest. She doesn’t understand their words. Only feels a trail of hurt that drifts behind her.
　
There was that time that was so different. Usually he undresses her slowly, teasing, kissing and caressing, talking casually. She is shy, it’s her nature, she blushes and turns away and this delights him, he turns her this way, that way, gazing at her, watching her redden, feeling her rising, excited distress. But that time he pulled her to him roughly and yanked down her shorts and underwear. He stood her between his legs and smacked her hard and fast. It particularly disturbs and arouses her to be spanked standing up. With no preparation to his silent brusqueness she is shocked and almost frightened, clinging to his shoulder under the pounding of the blows. The smell of her surrounds them as she wettens.
　
He mutters something and drags her by the arm, tripping over her clothing, to the bathroom, forcing her down over the vanity.
　
"Look in the mirror," he says as he draws his belt out. "Look at yourself."
　
She shakes her head, squeezing her eyes closed tightly. It’s him that likes to look, she doesn’t want that image.
　
The belt cracks across her cheeks. No words, no warm up, hard and fast, again and again.
　
"Look," he says. "Look in the mirror at us."

She opens her eyes and gasps at his face in the mirror. His eyes glitter, his lips are drawn and wet. The cords in his neck stand out as he throws his weight behind the blows. He watches her mons bump the edge of the vanity. His rhythm is unvaried, as always, but his usual meticulous coverage is off, he hits the same places over and over, he’s watching the mirror.
　
She finally cries out. He stops and lies against her, panting, then stands and lifts her around the waist and carries her, legs bumping, to the big bed. He tosses her on her back, watching the pain shock spread through her as her asscheeks slam contact to the softest comforter that feels like sandpaper when she drags herself towards him. He can’t get his pants down before her legs are wrapped around his waist. Her body arched like a steel cable she pulls him into her. They clutch hands tightly, the time will be soon.
　
They can climax together. They’ve done it since their second time. She feels the hum of his blood change, he feels her clench high and to the left. They spill together, spasm together, whirlpools inside the granite of their union, the fierceness of their concentration.
　
This memory overcomes her. She straps herself, swinging wildly, catching her hip, her lower back, her shoulder blade. She falls onto the bed and straps her belly and her breasts, she spreads her legs and strikes in vain. The only one she feels from this stupid, inconsequential, too soft woman’s belt, is when it hits in her in the face. She’s never felt that before. She masturbates ferociously, knowing she’ll cripple herself for orgasm, not caring.
　
Finally she fumbles for the favored dildo and presses it between her beaten lips. Her cunt suck at it desperately, trying to make it come insider her.
　
She cries against her closed eyelids, cradling her burning clit. She doesn’t know any way to change this. She is this need. It’s all she wants to be.

Blue Heaven

For my birthday I bought myself art.

A soft sculpture.

Like all great art, it fires the imagination.

And stirs the soul.

The genius of this piece is in the knotting, that cascades down the strands.With its perfect weight, each swing is different, each strike is different, as the knots form and reform their patterns in kaleidoscopic blue.

The Custom Blue Flogger, by Conina, is available here.

A Tribute

Hand Spanker to the World
Tool User, Stacker of Sting,
Player of Roles and the Nation’s Bottom Handler
Stormy, husky, brawling,
Spanker of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have been your painted woman under the gas lamps luring the farm boy.

They tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On my cheeks and legs I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.

And having answered so I turn once more to those who would sneer and say to them:

Come and show me another Spanker with lifted head singing
so proud alive and coarse and strong and cunning.

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Barehanded,
Strapping,
Paddling,
Caning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding.

Bragging and laughing that under his palm is the pulse.

Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
Youth, half naked, sweating, proud to be Hand
Spanker, Tool User, Stacker of Sting, Player of Roles
and Bottom Handler to the Nation.

　
Parody of "Chicago" by Carl Sandburg, 1916

　

Two

I have diverse interests. I'll label this: F/F/f, spanking, anal, aftershave.

~



"I’ve found us a third," M says.
　
How sweet is this woman? How thoughtful? She’s found us another Bottom to play with? She reads my mind?
　
"Another Top," she says. "Her style is very different from ours so we’ve been talking about it, deciding what we wanted to do."
　
What you wanted to do to me?

Aloud I say, "okay?"

M is very thorough. Thinks things through. Safe word in place, boundaries clearly established, some restrictions apply. All I have to do is go along.

I say, "okay?"

We meet in the storeroom of the office building the woman manages. She knows where the custodial staff will be, no one will interrupt us. It’s not a bad space. Darkish. Smells like fresh paper.

She is darkish and smells like aftershave. She does. Perfumes smell different on different people. Or it’s aftershave.

She says, "you will call me Mommy."

Oh here we go. So not, no. I could get into that, I could call someone Mommy. But not you. You’re possibly the most unMommy-like creature I’ve ever seen. Handsome woman, I don’t mean that, but you’re not Mommy and you’re pushy and you’re standing too close. Tell you what, I’ll call you Ma. That’s the Chinese word for pompous overbearing bulldyke.

Aloud I say, "okay."

Ma lands one on my right butt cheek that hurls me into M, elbowing her left tit severely. Which I hope to hell hurts.

Ma’s right hand is a solid block of wood. Or titanium. The muscles of her arm have been removed and replaced with steel cables, powered by hydraulics in her shoulder. Ma’s a beast.

I right myself and glare meaningfully at M.

Do you even know this woman? "Her style is different than ours?" Her solar system is different than ours. She’s some kind of Spankbot. What did you get me into?

Aloud I say nothing, just grunt as I am slammed over Ma’s lap. What’s she sitting on? I didn’t see a chair.

Ma has one speed, Stun. There are no spaces between her fingers. They don’t cup, they don’t wrap. She must have thumbs, she got my clothing down with record efficiency, but in no other way is this appendage a hand.

It’s a baseball bat, it’s a club, it’s –

It’s over? She stands me up, facing away from her, facing M. My butt aches with that far off tolling bell feeling. As the pain rolls in, that bell is going to get louder and louder and it tolls for thee.

M steps forward and holds my arms above the elbows. Something smooth and slender and hard touches my anus. Twirls lightly at my anus. I hear Ma uncork a vat of lubricant. She pushes some into me and says conversationally, "Now you’re going to fuck this."

I say to M, "I don’t want to, don’t tell me to do this."

Now on top of everything else I have to deal with demonic possession? Something else is in here with me and it just said that out of my mouth because it wasn’t me that said it. I don’t beg. Ever. Once I locked myself in the bathroom but that was not begging. And in front of a stranger with a glass dildo? I need help. Get me an exorcist.

M pushes me down slowly, lowering me onto the thing. Being spanked standing up destroys me. Something in the maximum impact jiggle, I don’t know. Anal standing up, in this half crouch, is dizzying. There is something too perverse in a situation that makes you feel like you’re going to throw up and orgasm at the same time. It’s a paradigm shift even I can’t straddle.

"Do it yourself," M says softly, "do it to yourself." She puts my hands on her shoulders. My legs are long gone. I’m supported by her shoulders and a glass rod up my ass. How can something that slimed with cold lube burn?

I can’t cry. If this makes me cry I have to kill myself. It’s in the Code somewhere, I’ve read it.

M taking my victimhood. Making me complicit. Do it to yourself. Copulate in front of us.
She stands very close to me and my calves are pushed back into Ma’s legs from the knees down. Their woman heat sears me front and back. My heat rages through me, igniting that deep muscle burn in my bottom. I raise and lower myself, making unfamiliar noises in my throat.

Stay in the moment. Find the submission, find the surrender, find the reward.

M takes her hand from my waist and fingers me. She sets me free to come. I rock against the glass dick, my fingers digging into her shoulders. Brightness falls from the air. The inner scream. The little death.

Ma snorts and disappears. Off to clean her glass gun. M towels me down from a case of personal cleansing wipes she has thought to bring. She finds my clothes but we can’t go yet. I can’t walk. We sit on the floor forehead to forehead counting the heartbeats.

I've written about M before, here.

A Story of Us at a Spanking Party, Part 2

Iwanttodothis. Iwanttodothis. How far away is that freaking bed? Mr. B pulls me in front of him. Mrs. B glances briefly at my thigh and returns her gaze to you. I close my eyes.

"Open your eyes," you say from across the room. How do you know I closed my eyes? Fuck you. I open my eyes and stare at the wall.

Mr. B takes a butt cheek in each hand and mashes it. He squeezes and kneads and and pumps. Mrs. B packs a bit more in the trunk than I do, perhaps he likes the chance to get a whole cheek in his hand. Are you watching? How long do we let this go on? He moves down and squeezes my thighs for a bit, then pats his lap. Mrs. B gets up and goes to you, I guess. She doesn’t say anything.

Mr. B pulls me across him and makes several thousand minute adjustments to my position and my panties. His thighs are bony but his pouch is couchy to lie on. What’s happening? What’s Mrs. B doing? He’s got me tipped awkwardly and I can’t let go to get my hair out of my face. Why wouldn’t they put us some way we could see each other? Watch each other?

Mr. B starts a soft rant about unacceptable behavior. I think well, I walked into your hotel room and let you watch me be undressed and got over your lap. What about that did you find unacceptable? Clearly I have to fill in those blanks for myself. He just talks. He talks forever with a random swat here and there. I’m bored. I hate videos where these guys go on and on just to hear themselves talk. I’m uncomfortable the way he’s holding me but I don’t know if I say that if he’ll make me more uncomfortable. I really don’t know enough about this stuff. Are you watching? How long do we do this? I hear your belt come off and the sound of your zipper. What’s she been doing?

I hear you grunt softly and Mrs. B starts talking. Murmuring, on and on. Mr. B pulls my panties down and finally picks up the pace some. Can you see me? Is she looking at me? The rant is now "bad bad bad bad bad bad bad" with "girl" thrown in here and there but he’s got some rhythm going. I can hear Mrs. B’s voice and a metronomic light thudding but no sound from you.

Mr. B suddenly roars into "BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD" accompanied by slamming spanks upwards into my cheeks. I suck air and start chanting "OW OW OW OW OW" along with him. His arm is clamped on me, his knobby elbow driven between my ribs, but he’s almost knocking me off his lap. I gasp and twist away, it’s making me dizzy and it hurts way deep. I jerk hard away from him and he stops, rubbing me too rigorously but he’s stopped spanking. My ears ring.

He stands me up and turns me around. You’re standing in front of Mrs. B with no pants or shoes on. Your face isn’t red and you’re not breathing hard. You’re not hard anywhere. What happened?

They lead us toward each other until we’re toe to toe. "You can hold onto each other," Mr. B says absentmindedly, looking through implements. He holds up something on a handle that looks like a piece of metal between leather flaps, for Mrs. B’s approval. I look in your eyes. You shrug and put your arms around me.

"You can take the rest of those clothes off," Mr. B says. I shake my head but you push my arms up and lift off my shirt and take off my bra. I can’t reach high enough to do you, I push your shirt up and you shrug out of it.

I put my palms on your butt cheeks to see if they’re hot. You grab my hands away but too late.

"She’s covering him!" Mrs. B shrills. You say later that she said it in a normal tone of voice but she didn’t. She shrill gloated it. Mr. B comes around behind me and Mrs. B stands behind you.

"Now my dear," Mr. B says, "you know that’s not allowed. Put your palms up for Mrs. B to punish."

I put my face in your chest. You tighten your arms around me. "You don’t have to," you breathe into my hair, "say the word." My breath is ragged mewling muffled against you. I turn my left hand up and open it behind your back. She hits it with something that sounds like a cap pistol going off and buckles my knees. You hold me up. I clutch my left fist to my chest between us.

"Other hand," Mr. B singsongs. "Stretch your arm out, get it away from his back."

I stretch my arm, mashing my breasts against you. I open my hand and she cuts half of it off. I scream, waiting for the half with my fingers to hit the floor. Waiting for the blood spout. What did she hit me with? That was nothing that was lying on that table. You pull that arm back between us, kissing my still attached fingers, trying to calm my sobbing. You hold me tighter, rubbing my back and kissing my eyelids.

"Put your arms around," Mr. B says. "You need to be braced."

I wrap my arms around you. My hands are numb.

We stand belly to belly. Mr. and Mrs. B begin rocking from foot to foot behind us, slapping their hands with their implements that we can’t see. Then Mrs. B moves to her left and takes aim at you. There’s a tremendous thwack followed immediately by a whistling shot to me that slams us against each other. They alternate like this, quickly, weaving an encircling of pain around us, the blows ricocheting through us one to the other.

They change implements, at one time tossing the exchange over our heads. Straps, leather paddles, tawse, crop, metal thing with leather flaps. No wood I think, but maybe. Wasn't there gleaming wood somewhere? I can’t keep up. I’m sorry, I’m making it almost impossible for you to hold us up, I keep getting on my right tip toe with my left knee digging into your thigh. I keep trying to put my leg down but it goes back up with each blow. You’re stuck with your legs braced apart and holding most of my weight. When you jerk towards me with the hits it looks like you’re fucking me I’m sure. What was I worried about? They’re watching us fuck anyway.

They pick up speed. They’ve practiced this. They’re in perfect harmony alternating strokes. No matter what he uses he catches me between the cheeks like clockwork, every fourth stroke. I graciously accommodate him by continuing to lift my left leg, separating my cheeks.

I don’t know if she’s as fierce as he is, but your guttural "unh unh unh" makes me think so. We’re slick with sweat and trembling. The delicate ambergris air that greeted us is now thick with this miasma of us. All of us. Sweat, arousal, perfume, Mr. B’s cologne, her lavender talc. I find your lips with mine but I’m afraid to stay that way, afraid I’ll bite down or worse. We can’t be going home from this explaining missing teeth.

I haven’t had much experience but I know this is not the distanced politesse of professionals. There’s a gleeful, lusty savagery at play that only comes from true love of the sport.

Your cock is burning rock between us. You’re going to jizz all over both of us. I don’t want them to see that. I should have known you wouldn’t care but I don’t like it and my mind searches wildly for a solution between the raging hail of strikes.

I feel your rhythm change, no longer dictated by their beat. There’s no time left. My legs feel like wet noodles but I jump. I jump and wrap my legs around your waist, praying your cock stays between us and doesn't shoot out under me and spray Mr. B's good lawn shirt. I feel your shock as you catch me but that's nothing compared to the shock when I yell "BATHROOM!"

That wasn't the safeword but it sure halts things. The whole room waits, the candles cock their flames in "huh?"

"Bathroom," I whimper, "I need the bathroom."

Mr. B says, "It's there," and you sprint to the door which I kick closed behind us.

"Fuckme fuckme fuck –"

You slam my tortured bottom onto the vanity and jackhammer into me exploding on contact.

"YEAH!!!!!" you yell.

It echoes off the tile.

"Baby that was so good wasn't it? I never felt you come like that. I don't know if I ever came like that. Let me suck your neck. I never suck your neck."

"Yes, yes," I gasp. "Please be quiet. They're right out there. They can hear."

"I thought that was your fantasy."

"My fantasy is someone hearing me get spanked, not fucked."

"Yeah, sit there and tell me there's a big difference there for you. Let me suck your elbow a minute. Wasn't that good?"

"Yes," I say. "Yes it was so good. Please don't suck anything else now. Please go get my clothes. I don't know what we're supposed to do now. Are we supposed to thank them?"

"Don't worry. I got it covered. I'll get your clothes." You grab a towel and wipe yourself off and shove another one between my legs. You go out and I hear more murmured voices and you come back, carefully closing the door.

"I couldn't get your panties, baby. I think Mr. B put them in his pocket."

"Oh god," I moan. "We have to take these towels with us. They’re covered with cum and mascara."

"Hell no, Mr. B likes souvenirs, leave him the panties and the towels."

As you turn to pee I see that Mrs. B claims her territory. You’re deep and pulsing red from tops of cheeks well down your thighs. I clench. I never imagined seeing you this way. I want to kiss and lick your cheeks. I want my tongue inside you, feel that heat so deep. I slide off the vanity and twist to see myself in the mirror. Mr. B has hit one spot so many times I’ll probably need a skin graft. But it’s all there. A sanguine canvas of darkening bruises, stripes and berries.

I bend over, my fevered forehead searching for a spot of cool on the vanity surface that doesn’t exist anymore because my flaming butt has sucked it all up.

I say, "look what he did to me. On the right."

You touch your tongue to the spot. "It’s not broken, we’ll get some ice. God, look at you. Look at you. I’m hard again, are you wet? Yeah –"

"No," I say. "I can’t. I need the room, I need the bed."

"Okay, Come on. Let's get you dressed. Get back up here, put your legs through. Get your shoes – do we have to do up all these buckles? Stand up and pull these up. Do you think of wearing clothes you can get on and off?"

"Do you think about how my ass looks in these pants?" I yank the wrinkled linen, which has turned to burlap laced with shards of razor blade, up around my swollen cheeks and pussy.

"That’s true," you say, "they look good. Just wait one second before you put your bra on. I can't not suck you baby, it's unnatural. No, I know, let’s go. We’ll get you bed and ice."

"I want enough ice to sit in."

"We’ll get that, and bed and rest and food and fuck. We gotta keep your strength up. I have a surprise for you later."

A Story of Us at a Spanking Party, Part 1

We meet at the hotel hosting the spanking party. We have a day and a night, eternity together. You have more eternity than I do. I get there around 11am if the planes go and have an early flight out the next morning.

You’ve been there early, finding the people you met last time, making plans, solidifying plans, happy to see them again. I’m only a little late but you’re sitting in the lobby tapping your foot. You ask briskly what I want to do. I say I’d like to see the view from the room.

When the elevator doors close you put your hand between my legs and kiss me. All is well.

Room 357 is a sweet oasis of sex. You’ll only give me slow sexy spankings which lead to sex and we call for some wine which leads to sex and we even get a bit of food which leads to sex. It’s just easy times, we’re not getting worn out. We have a mission. We will go out and mingle and explore. But we have sex first. We’re practical that way.

Freshened and relatively alert we get dressed and descend. We find a demonstration of something to do with people being spanked. I never quite figure it out and you seem more concerned with finding somewhere to stand that you can have your hand up the back of my shirt. Some of the players you know nod to you from the "stage" and you blush. That’s sweet.

There’s a room that’s been set up with tables and chairs and a bar so people can mix. It’s nice, they’ve gone to some trouble to make it feel like a club and we get drinks and sit at a table, people watching. Rubbing legs. Smiling at each other through the candlelight. Smiling at other people walking by.

A man and woman approach. He says "may we join you?" You stand and offer your hand and say sure, introducing yourself and then me. I shake his hand which is warm and firm and shake hers, which is cool and limp. She doesn’t shake hands with :people. You pick right up on it and take her hand as if to kiss it, then pat it with your other hand. She dimples, she likes that.

They’re middle aged, well kept and well turned out, thickening though the middle, aren’t we all. His hair is gray and thinning over a pleasant, confident face. She has expertly dyed helmet hair, which is adding twenty years, and beautiful hands. Long, slender fingers covered with rings. Signals to other women of her enduring marriage of appropriate spousal giftage. Her face is nice but more closed than his. She steals glances at you which is cute.

He says "nice to meet you. We’re Mr. B and Mrs. B and we’d like to spank you."

They fill us in briefly on their experience, which is extensive. Mr. B is a top, Mrs. B in the last several years has become an excellent switch. But he’s never mastered it he smiles. They have a commitment in about an hour but if we’re interested they’re in their room, 212, until then. And maybe they’ll see us in a few minutes?
　
They go. Nicely done. Giving us time to decide. Giving us time for the frantic whispering that ensues.
　
You: Do you want to?
　
Me: I know you do. I saw your face when he said it.
　
You: Do you want to?
　
Me: Yes? I don’t – I thought you were more interested in meeting people new to this --
　
You: I’m interested in anything. And they’re perfect. We said we’d look for someone with experience too. Do you want to try this?
　
Me: They’re spanking us? He’s spanking me and she’s spanking you? Is that what they meant?
　
You: Let’s go talk to them and find out.
　
Me: What do we do after? How do we get out of the room?
　
You: By the door?
　
Me: We have sex after spanking! Always! We have sex during spanking. You’re going to have a hard on and I’m going to be soaked. How do we get out of there? I don’t want to have sex in front of them.
　
You: If they’ve done this so many times before they’ve seen people get aroused. We’ll excuse ourselves and hold on till we get back to the room.

Me: Hold on to what?
　
You: We’ll check on the way if the stairwells are locked. Then we won’t have to wait for an elevator, we can just run for the room.
　
Me: That’s the worst plan I’ve ever heard.
　
Mr. and Mrs. B’s suite looks like they’ve unloaded their RV into it. It’s not unsophisticated, there are some beautiful Oriental silks draped over the end of the bed and one chair. World travelers? Large scented candles flicker in exotic stands and on the coffee table on a gold embroidered runner their implements, burnished, shining, aged and revered. It’s enchanting. These people are serious, talented players at setting a scene.
　
Mr. B offers bottled water and explains their interests. He will spank me, Mrs. B will spank you, with a variety of implements and as they direct us. Anyone uncomfortable with anything at any time and it stops, no questions.
　
Mr. B sniffs the air, scenting virgin. "Is this your first time, my dear?" he asks me.
　
"First party, thing, like this, yes." Gee, how could you tell?
　
"Then you say the word and it stops."
　
Thanks, good, all on me. I nod. Mr. and Mrs. B sit on the end of the bed with their hands folded. Mr. B nods at you and says "Would you like to take off her pants and shoes?"
　
Shit. You’re the tallest, why can’t you go first? You kneel in front of me and mangle my sandals off with a lot of muttered cursing. Mrs. B’s linen slacks are beautifully cut trousers, matching her silky blouse. My linen pants are low cut, tight through the hip and thigh, and end in huge bells, much like the pants I wore a hundred years ago the first time they were in style. You finally get one leg down and I get caught in the pooled fabric and trip, falling onto you and knocking you off balance. Our audience laughs lightly.
　
My face is purple. You yank the other pant leg off and stand me up with my back to them, gripping my arms, probably afraid I’m about to bolt pantless. My white lace panties are sheer, my cheeks are clearly visible. My top is too short to cover anything so I roll down the sleeves because that’ll really help.
　
You rub my back and kiss my forehead. "Come on now," you say. You turn me to face them, now my sex is clearly visible, frosted with white. You wrap your arms around mine and hold my hands.
　
"Lovely," Mr. B says. "Come here, lovely."

I have a death grip on your wrists but you disengage and push me forward. "Go on now," you whisper.

I Don't Regret

This blog is a collection of spanking stories. So let's start with one that has no spanking in it. But spankings lost and spankings missed, that's something else.

~

I don't regret, but I wonder. Years ago I lived in New York City with my first husband, a charming, handsome, funny, kinky, loving boy, who wanted in the worst way to be an actor and was just the worst actor, bless him. He'd heard of a photographer people were talking about and decided he needed new head shots. Unemployed actors spent a lot of time getting new head shots and going to classes run by more established unemployed actors.

Head shots were the 8x10 close up portrait prints they stapled to their resumes and handed out to anyone who'd take one. It's all done online now I imagine.

This photographer lived in our neighborhood so we went to see him. I would guess he was late 50s, early 60s, at twenty-three people his age just looked "older" to me. He was very fit, small of stature, but compact and strong looking, with thick white hair. Quite the dapper bohemian in his beautiful little garden apartment. He had French doors that opened onto a tiny back garden. More treasured than gold in that city. That was magic.

He shot right there in his living room. I sat to the side watching and he made a fuss over me, but politely. He kept taking pictures of me sitting there. We had a good time. His name was Roy.

After my husband and I had split and he had moved away, he called and wanted me to get in touch with Roy and get a copy of his contact sheet, the page of thumbnails they make up so you can choose which shots you want printed. Apparently he had rallied and was planning to storm the renowned Boise suburbs acting scene. I called and Roy said to come right around.

In his charming apartment he gave me some kind of wonderful tea and talked in his witty, articulate way. He stood beside the work table looking through the contact sheets. I went to him and knelt in front of him and pulled his clothes down and took him in my mouth. I felt no hesitation in doing that, he acted like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His balls, his cock, his semen -- his scent and taste were light and exotic like the faintest spice in the tea. I took my time. I enjoyed it very much. He climaxed in my mouth in a fine stream of coconut milk.

A couple of days later he called early in the morning and made quite the job of an obscene phone call. I laughed and told him it wasn't an obscene call if I knew who he was. He did it several more times but I got irritated that he would only call in the morning. I worked at night and would have just got to sleep and he'd wake me. So I turned the phone off when I got home.

Other things happened and I never saw him again. Ignorant, wasteful child. Years later I realized that man was probably a Great Dom. The nonchalant grace with which he accepted that fellate, his palm resting so lightly on the top of my head. Not pushing, not guiding, just calmly owning me. The rough sense of danger in the phone calls, the sly menace. He was inviting me. He knew me. I didn't.

I didn't know my nature until a long time later. I had always accepted I had secrets I would never tell anyone, even my first husband who was so open to anything. You just didn't tell. It never occurred to me that something so big a part of me needed to be expressed in my life to make me whole.

A few years after I saw him that last time, I saw three pictures of me from that day of my husband's shoot, blown up big like mounted posters hanging in a laundromat with Roy's business card fastened to the lower corner. Photographers would do that to advertise their work. Unemployed actors hung out in laudromats a lot. Later I heard that he'd died.

What would my life have been like if I'd been mentored at that age to a man like that? If I'd been awakened that much earlier and with that kind of skill.

Je ne regrette rien. But I wonder.

Dedicated to SC of Flipping Spankcakes and MM of Secret Spanko, in appreciation of their acceptance, encouragement, assistance, and threats. And to Pink of The Pink Report, my first love.