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Let her sleep in that silken bondage overnight. They might want to play again in the morning, and Dan would keep his captive safe.
CHAPTER SEVEN
NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY—
SPANKING
I do quite naughty things now. I do like to be a bit sexy.
—KYLIE MINOGUE
Spanking is a fetish in and of itself. Yes, the theme can slide sensually into a story with bondage or blindfolds or role-playing. But spanking is so enjoyable, the act deserves to be paddled—I mean, punished—I mean, praised singularly. Spanking is a concept dear to my heart (as well as other regions of my anatomy), and I have dedicated more stories than I can easily tally to the concept. I do tend to lose count when the strokes begin to fly.
If the subject makes you sit on the edge of your seat—whether as the potential spanker or the spankee—be sure to proceed with care. Safe words come in handy when “no” or “stop” lose their meaning. (And over a lover’s knee, many words lose power.)
But how do you start? Of all the fetishes I’ve written about, spanking is one of the most erotic to watch on video. Check out the different sexy movies dedicated to the theme to give yourself an idea of the multitude of ways to incorporate spankings into your world. You may find that you like the views from the rear, or the images of a tearful receiver. Then page through these spanking snippets to see if any leave you either craving a well-paddled bottom, or a bottom to paddle.
If you do decide to spank your way to pleasure, pay attention to small details, like the knickers in my short story called “The Prize”:
I did what he said, bending over the edge of his desk, holding my body steady on my straight-locked arms. Charlie stood behind me. He lifted my skirt. He saw my panties. He touched them. Silky and pretty and red.
He pulled them down himself. Dragged them down my thighs. Let them fall around my ankles. And then he started to spank me. Hard. His hand meeting my naked skin to the rhythm of whatever music was playing in the bar. Something fast.
He spanked me until I could feel the heat in my skin, and the wetness between my thighs. Spanked me to that steady beat of rock ’n’ roll music. I stared at the clutter on his desk, saw the whiteness of the papers, but the red of the pens. Only red pens. Saw the picture on the wall behind his desk. Red.
“The Last Goodbye” is a spanking story I wrote that takes an over-the-knees position:
“Over my legs, girl,” he hissed. “Now.”
I bent myself into the proper position, felt his warm hand lifting my tiny skirt, felt him watching me. He pressed the paddle against my panty-clad ass, letting me feel the weight of it, before he landed the first blow. I sucked in my breath, but remained silent. It was different from the belt, but not worse. He began spanking me more rapidly, pausing only to pull my black satin bikinis down my thighs, leaving them on me, but baring my ass. The pain intensified immediately, and tears wet my eyes, but I still didn’t cry out. I wasn’t trying to test him. This wasn’t a game. I didn’t know how to do what he wanted. Not without sounding phony. Not without being fake.
In my story “OTK,” the Dom understands the sub’s boundaries, and pushes on them:
Jack was a master. Plain and simple. He knew how to create a rhythm in which I was momentarily lulled into believing I could handle the punishment. And then he would land a startling blow, wringing a gasp or cry from me, making me lift up slightly before catching myself and lowering my body back into the proper position.
I didn’t count. He didn’t ask me to. He simply paddled me until he got what he wanted. First, I held my body as still as possible. And then, I squirmed, unable to stop, and he kept me in place easily, gripping my sore wrists in one hand and pinning them in place at the small of my back. And finally, he won the tears of submission, when I simply pressed my face against the cool leather sofa, and cried.
Make the most of spanking sex. Dress for the event like the character in “Spring Cleaning” by Samantha Mallery:
When we have spanking nights (which usually come when we’re cleaning the kitchen because of the plentiful wooden spoon paddles), I know to put on a pair of my sweet, lace-edged panties.
Play with different implements. Here’s a scene with a belt by Xan West from “Nervous Boy”:
I slowly take off my belt, knowing his ears are attuned to the sound of the buckle being released, of leather pulled through denim. I fold the belt in half, twice, and snap it, watching him twitch.
The leather bites into him. The belt brings me to a ravenous place. I want to open him up. I want to rip him apart. I want to be inside him. Now. I never take out my belt unless I’m sure I’m going to fuck, because it does this to me every time.
“Take it boy. Yeah that’s it. Scream for me. Just keep taking it. I know you can do it. Show me how strong you can be.”
Each hit ramps it up. Each welt a badge of strength. He rides on it, grounded in pride, sure of himself now. I growl as I concentrate on one spot. I want to ram into him so hard. I claim him with the belt instead, striking out with the bite of it, waiting for the moment when I allow myself to fuck him. We both grunt with the last blow.
Vida Bailey takes us up a notch with a fantasy about a cane from “Favorite,” written expressly for me:
“What’s your favorite one?”
He’s sitting at his desk, chair pushed out. I’m standing at the door, blushing.
“You know the one.”
