All that I am, all that I ever was…

I am more than my mental health. I am more than my homelessness. I am more than any one aspect of me. I am Addy. And this is…

{NSFW} 14. Fantasy -vs- Reality

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Day 14: How would you say real life BDSM/kink varies from fantasy BDSM/kink?

“The next thing that happened I will remember forever. My mother pulled a kitchen chair into the middle of the living room and dragged me over her lap. I hadn’t noticed, but she had also picked up a wooden butter paddle. This was about the same size as a table tennis bat but solid wood about 1” thick, and corrugated on one side. Despite my shrieks of “you wouldn’t DARE!!” she then pulled my pants down and proceeded to give me the spanking of a lifetime. My arm was pinned up behind my back, my (rather plump) rear end was bouncing up and down and very soon I was screaming my head off. Every time I opened my eyes I could see my brother’s grinning face – he must have thought it was Christmas! I pleaded, I promised to be a good girl forever, to never be naughty again – I shrieked about how much my bottom hurt, and groveled like a naughty toddler with snot dribbling from my nose.

It was total AGONY!! It also seemed to go on forever. The last bit was the worst, as my mother punctuated each CRACK of the paddle with a lecture about exactly what she was doing, at the top of her voice. When she finished I had to apologise to my brother while still face down (with the paddle still hovering above its big crimson target). Then I was given a lecture and made to repeat exactly what would happen to my “fat behind” if I was ever naughty again…”

Over the years I’ve written many fictional stories involving spanking and discipline. In these stories I’ve been spanked by librarians, teachers, parents, relatives, neighbours, friends and girlfriends. I’ve been tipped over someone’s knee for the hairbrush, made to grab my ankles for the cane, thrown over the arm of the sofa for a blistering belting and bent over a desk for a dose of the paddle. I’ve leapt up and grabbed my stinging bottom after the cane lashed across it, I’ve had snot dribbling from my nose as the hairbrush paints my cheeks crimson, I’ve had trouble sitting in class after the paddle blistered my ass and begged, pleaded, groveled and promised never to be naughty again more times than I can count.

But in all of the hundreds of stories I’ve written there has always been something missing. Something important. Something that prevents me from loving these stories in the way I’ve loved non-kinky fiction I’ve written. And that something is me.

When I write I like to draw on my own experiences whenever possible. In my twenties, I wrote a short story where a character goes on a rollercoaster for the first time. Not having ever ridden a rollercoaster, the first couple of drafts were awful, so I took myself to a fun fair and rode a rollercoaster for the first time. I hated it. But after harnessing my emotions, I rewrote the sequence and it was better for it.

The same can be said for other areas of life, such as kissing, being drunk, sex, cunnilingus, all of which I wrote about before I’d experienced it in real life. All of which were much easier to write about after I’d done all these things, for instead of drawing on clichéd tropes and all-too-familiar similes, I was able to voice the experience in my own words.

Having a paddle whack across my ass may very well feel like I’ve sat on a hot stove, but I don’t know.

Having a hairbrush tear into my ass may very well produce tears and snot, but I don’t know.

Having a blistered ass may very well make sitting down uncomfortable, but I don’t know.

And I HATE IT!

I hate having to write these sequences without the experiences to draw on. I hate that I can’t draw on my own memories and feelings to write these sequences. I hate having all these questions floating in my head that I can’t answer: how much does it hurt? What noises would I make? What would it feel like?

Pain. The physical pain of being spanked and the emotional pain of shame, humiliation, excitement and arousal that accompanies it.

That is the all too obvious difference between fantasy and reality.

A difference I need to erase.

“…This was all bad enough – and at the time the physical pain, and the two big blisters on each of my bumcheeks was the worst thing. But I found out later that all the neighbours had gathered in their back gardens as soon as the row started, and had heard everything through our open living room window. And even worse – as I had shuffled upstairs afterwards, with my pants round my ankles, they had actually seen my well spanked bottom – imagine my horror when I remembered that I had bent right over halfway upstairs to remove my tangled underwear!! I was the talk of the village for months (apparently a lot of people congratulated my father, and my mother certainly wasn’t shy about telling her friends what she’d done). Other humiliations were having to clean my neighbour’s car (inside and out) the following day, knowing that all eyes were glued to my punished rump – then going to school. I found out that my brother told everyone he met that his mum had “pulled my sister’s knickers down and given her a good spanking”.

The final humiliation was having to meet the Headmaster on Monday with my mother to own up to all my truanting etc He was going to exclude me, and wanted to know how he could be sure I would be good in future. I blushed deep red, totally mortified, when my Mother said “If she does, then I’ll do the same as I did on Thursday – put her over my knee and tan her bare backside until she can’t sit down!” I’m sure he took great delight in then asking me if I’d learnt my lesson – In my confusion and embarrassment I told him that “my bottom is still sore and blistered” – definitely “too much information” as they would say today – I was nearly 18 after all.”

~ Quotes from a real life spanking recollection ~

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