It had all started months earlier when Sammi and I had re-connected on Facebook. At first I couldn’t believe I was the person who had done the things that this man had done. It just wasn’t in my nature to introduce myself to someone by slapping them on the ass, nor was it in my nature to streak down Rundle Mall or spank a relative stranger in an anonymous Adelaidian park. However, Samantha was adamant that I had done these things, and after showing me the photographic evidence, wouldn’t take no for an answer.
For the first few weeks of our cyber friendship we took things pretty slow and steady; but, after the events of Adelaide, Samantha was curious why I had been so keen to win her spank bet. Given her casual admittance of her own spanking fetish, it didn’t take her long to draw my desires from my soul. And it was this shared revelation that not only solidified our friendship but took it to a whole new level.
Over the course of one several hour online chat, I revealed desires that I’d only ever shared with my girlfriends; both of whom had reacted with dismay to my evil, disgusting fantasies. But Samantha saw nothing evil nor disgusting in my revelations, quite the opposite in fact. She relished hearing about the various spankings I had fantasized about during my teenage years, shook her head in disbelief at the near-misses which populated my childhood and (in her own words) purred like a kitten whenever I talked about the things I had thought about doing to willing women’s bottoms.
For four months we shared our respective fantasies via ever more descriptive emails. I told her my desire to be taken over a woman’s knee and given a long, hard hairbrushing spanking; she told me of the time her mother had done just that. I shared my wish to role-play an American High School paddling; she divulged her desire to be caned whilst in school uniform. Every fantasy or real-life story we shared drew us closer together, increasing our already overwhelming urge to see each other again.
After I arrived back in the UK during the winter months of 2008, the first thing we tried to do was organize a meet during my visit to Scotland that February, but due to her hectic schedule we weren’t able to synch our calendars. So when we were able to organize a meeting in April of that year, we both committed ourselves to do whatever we could to make it happen.
In fact, Samantha went one stage further. Late one night, I discovered an email in my inbox titled “Forgive me”, it read something like this:
I want you to spank me. I mean REALLY spank me. Not a playful little thing like you gave me in Adelaide. I mean a full on, proper, spanking. I know I can trust you. I just know it.
She went on:
If you’d be willing, could I make a request? Could you spank me how I’ve always dreamed of it? You might think it’s weird, but, you see, when mum&dad used to spank me it was always there and then. Crime-yellyellyell-spankspankspank-owowow-gotoyourroom! Thing is, I’ve always wanted to be made to wait for it. To be told “go to your room young lady…and just you wait ‘til your father gets home…he’ll have something to say about your behavior, I PROMISE YOU!”
In closing, she said:
Look, Addy, I know you have a hard time around people so if this is too much, just say. Even if you don’t want to do it, I REALLY want to see you anyway. We can have a few beers, hang out, whatever you want, but we’ve been talking and teasing and, I guess, I hope, that maybe you’re the one who’ll help me with this. Let me know, aright? I’ll see you next week :p
I’ll be honest and say I was nervous about what she’d asked. Sure, I’d playfully spanked her before – as well as giving Louise a couple of play spankings – but what she was asking was different. It would require me spanking someone in ways that I’d only ever dreamed of – and the thought of doing that filled me with near crippling anxiety.
My mind went into overdrive. If I agreed to it, would I be able to go through with a “proper spanking?” If I lost my nerve or wasn’t able to do it, would I fuck up the friendship we’d built? Would she want to see me again? What if she didn’t like it, or I didn’t do it the way she wanted, or pushed her too far? What then for us? Perhaps the easiest thing would be to just catch up over a few beers and leave the rest for the cyber world.
But then there was her backside. There was a reason I’d chosen her behind to slap out of the dozens on offer that night. It was a vision, a Botticelli painting, the sort of posterior you saw in artistic erotic photographs not in some dingy bar in the capitol city of South Australia. To have the chance to spank it properly, to realize not only a dream since my teenage years but also knock an item from the bucket list, could I really say no?
Normally my responses to Sammi were within a day, but with this email I didn’t know what to say. I was too nervous to reveal my fears in case she thought I was weak, or pathetic, or worse. So I left my confusion unsaid, retreating instead into the world of DVDs and blog writing,
Three days after she’d sent the mail, with still no response from me, I received a short-n-sweet MSN:
U ok? Something I said? L
Initially, I panicked and didn’t respond. But after a second ‘??’ message I relented and slowly tried to explain my fears. Her responses to my anxiety were thoughtful…and a little playful:
To my fear of not being able to do it properly: I know you’ve never spanked anyone like this before, Addy, I’m not expecting Michael or Dallas. We all have to start somewhere, so why not start with me?
To my fear of being nervous over role-play: In all honesty, it’ll be weird for me too. I might laugh at you telling me off. I might tell you to fuck off. I might find a tomato to throw at you. But I reckon you could handle a little improvisation. I’m not looking for an Oscar worthy performance, you know?
To my fear of not doing it the way she wants: You’ve cyber-spanked me over a dozen times. You know what I like. Just do what you do online in real-life.
To my fear of pushing her too far: Two words Addy – ‘safe’ and ‘word’. If I say it, you stop. I trust you.
Before she added:
If you honestly don’t want to. Or if you’re too anxious. Or too not up to it. I don’t mind. I still want to see you, okay?
Before we moved on to discuss a film we’d both watched recently, I told her I would think about it, but couldn’t at this stage make any promises. She had revealed to me a life-long dream; a dream that would see her scolded and then made to wait upwards of two hours for a spanking that would, if her dream were followed to the letter, leave her bottom battered and bruised for days after the event
And as I stood outside the hotel room that night, imagining her reclining on the bed dressed only in her PJs, all the fears that had occurred when I’d first read her mail returned, but this was Samantha, and even though I didn’t start admitting it until long after her death, I loved her.
There are many people who would consider what happened next to be abusive, but these people forget to take into account one tiny – entirely significant – word; consent. Everything that occurred in the minutes after I entered that hotel room had been carefully planned, discussed and accepted by both parties. In fact, we’d even gone beyond the safe-word buffer to orchestrate a series of gestures, words and signals that we could both use if we were feeling anything other than perfectly comfortable.
If Samantha said plus dur she wanted me to spank her harder, mucho plus dur meant she wanted me to spank her harder still and le plus dur meant no harder than this at any point during the spanking. However, if she said suave it meant she wanted me to spank her a little softer, répit meant she wanted me to pause for a moment and if she used her safe-word it meant the spanking must cease, immediately.
We had also decided that if I was feeling overly anxious and felt I needed to pause, that I should caress the back of her neck, to stop, that I should run my hand through her hair and if things got too much, I could use my safe-word to halt the event in its entirety.
As I opened the hotel room I was ready to run my hand through her hair, but the moment I saw her, lying on her side, her back to me, I knew that I couldn’t let her down. Her hand was plunged beneath the soft cotton of her pyjama shorts, mindfully caressing the soft mound of flesh that would soon have a fire lit upon it, her eyes mindlessly staring at the beige curtains that hid us from the world.
The moment I closed the door the role-play began. On my snapped words she jumped to her feet, trying her hardest not to smirk as I unleashed the beginning of my scolding. It was impossible to deliver with any authenticity – noted by her continual smirk and near-giggling fit – because of how utterly adorable she looked in her nightwear. Instead of the flannel pyjamas I’d been expecting, she was wearing a thin tank-top that revealed the paunch of her stomach and an almost miniscule pair of shorts that had me wondering why she’d bothered. They certainly wouldn’t offer much protection, revealing as they did the bare flesh at the base of each buttock, but they did offer me a vision of ravishing beauty that had me struggling to stay in character.
Knowing that we would need to commence the spanking in fear of losing the moment altogether I informed her that by the time I was finished she wouldn’t be able to sit for a week and marched toward the bed. As soon as I was in position I ordered her over my lap, another action that had her fighting back the giggles as she felt the end product of her provocative attire. A quick dig at my somewhat erect state was answered with a swat to the seat of her shorts and the instruction that this was no laughing matter.
She lay in this position for what seemed like an eternity before I did anything. Occasionally she would squeeze her fingers into my thigh or adjust her position, her bottom wiggling as she did so. On one occasion she asked if I was okay, her soft brogue kick-starting my mind as I touched the back of her right knee causing her whole body to flinch. Caressing my hand up her leg I lingered over her sit spot before massaging her two, pert cheeks with gentle, compassionate motions.
As my fingers traced over the shorts I realized why my mother hadn’t gone through with her threat to spank me so hard I wouldn’t be able to sit for a week; I understood why my mother had saved me from my grandfather’s belt and why Louise had had such trouble spanking me on that distant, frustrating day.
I cared for Samantha; cared about her. How could I cause her such pain? How could I blister the breathtaking posterior that lay before me? How could I take a wooden hairbrush to this vision of perfection?
For another minute I caressed her, squeezed her flesh, teased her to the point that her groin ground hard into my thigh and I came close to throwing her off my knee and driving myself deep inside her.
All that stopped me was her; her desire; her dream. So eloquently described and politely asked for. I knew how much courage that would have taken, how many hours spent writing and re-writing the email before finally, summoning the strength to unburden her soul to someone she trusted. She wanted me to spank her. She wanted her bottom blistered. She wanted to be punished as she’d always dreamed of being punished; and I knew more than anyone how strong that urge can be and the chaos it can cause.
I patted her cheeks three times before informing her in a far more authoritative voice than I’d been able to muster so far that this was the punishment she deserved, that this would hopefully teach her that bad behavior would not be tolerated, that she had brought everything that followed upon herself.
This, even though I meant it in a different way, was entirely true.
The spanking commenced the moment Nick Cave began to play. Samantha herself had chosen the music that would score her dream spanking, opting for the dulcet, urgent tones of Nick Cave to soothe her through what would be the hardest spanking she had ever received. It didn’t go unnoticed to me then, or now, the irony of her chosen song; Babe, I’m on Fire.
For the first couple of minutes I lightly peppered her posterior with small, barely registering pats. The sound was minimal, the pain non-existent. She began clenching her cheeks, digging her nails into my thigh and muttering – with no effect – mucho plus dur every few moments. After three minutes that had barely raised a sweat, let alone a warm posterior, I gently rubbed the back of her neck and listed to her exhale into the duvet. With a twist of her hips she rolled over on my lap and looked up at my sad, anxiety riddled eyes. She sat up, running her hand over my cheek and kissing the tip of my nose, eager to discover what was wrong and what she could do to make things better. I told her that I didn’t know whether I could do it, that I didn’t want to ruin her fantasy, that I wasn’t experienced enough that I wasn’t…she stopped me before any more inadequacies could be released from my soul, telling me that she knew I could do it and – more than that – that she knew I wanted to do it.
To alleviate my fear of hurting her too much she reminded me of the complicated series of signals we’d concocted and pointed out that, just as she needed to trust me not to push her too hard, that I had to trust her in that she wouldn’t let me push her too hard.
I apologized; she said none was necessary.
I told her to roll back over my knee; she smiled and dutifully obeyed.
Re-starting Nick Cave we tried the spanking for a second time – and this time things got off to a much better start. Buoyed by her pep-talk my swats were firmer, harder and created such a crisp, smacking sound that my heart fluttered in anticipation every time I raised my hand above her voluptuous rear.
Soon she started to moan, then groan, kneading my hip with her hand as the smacks continued. Every time they did I became more confident, and as my confidence grew, my smacks became harder, and harder, and harder until, with barely a syllable of warning, I whipped her shorts down.
Every time I struck her posterior it left the faint outline of my hand amidst a sea of pink flesh and, as she muttered plus dur over and over, I felt my anxiety lessening with every passing moment.
Without a shadow of a doubt I knew that this would become a landmark moment in my life. What had felt so wrong, so impossible, only minutes before had fast become the only thing in the world that I knew. Over and over I struck my hand against her cheeks, watching her flesh sink, ripple and bounce to the rhythm of the continual smack smack smack that was threatening to overpower Cave’s powerful music. By now there were all manner of grunts, eeks, ouchies and moans emanating from Samantha’s muffled mouth, but unless she said her safe-word, I knew she wanted me to continue. And continue I did.
Leaning over to the bedside table, I picked up the hairbrush and tapped the firm, cold wood, against her soft, warm backside. Her body tensed. She fell silent. Every ounce of her anticipating what was to come.
Samantha would go on to tell me that the next five minutes were the most intense of her life. After the inauspicious start to the spanking she had formulated the belief that I wouldn’t be able to apply the hairbrush as effectively as she had wanted me to, and that no matter how many times she uttered the words plus dur I wouldn’t be able to find it within myself to strike her any harder. As it turned out, she didn’t need to utter the words plus dur once; though she did, on two occasions, utter the word suave, for I unleashed such a rapid, thundering, storm of a spanking that even she, with her high pain tolerance, found it difficult to cope.
Within minutes there wasn’t a single patch of flesh across either orb that wasn’t a deep, crimson red. Every time the hairbrush sunk into her skin it bounced away to reveal a crescent shaped mark that, over time, coloured a fine shade of purple. Soon, her entire posterior was dotted with these marks, some of them overlapping with others as the carefully aimed onslaught continued with her permission.
Her grunts, eeks and ouchies became cries, exclamations and sobs. The playful squeeze of my hip became a constant vice-like grip. And, as her legs threatened to propel her off my lap, I latched my right leg over the back of her knees, locking her in place; an action that was greeted with a blissful moan of approval.
I painted her backside with that brush for nearly five minutes until, as Nick Cave drew to a close, I took the opportunity to end her punishment. I undid my grip on her legs and eased her to her feet. At first I was overwhelmed by the tears that trickled down from red, puffy eyes, guilt and shame overwhelming me from pushing her too hard; but she immediately sensed my self-criticism and drew me into a long, almost unbearably tight hug. From my vantage point I could see that where her head had lain was now a damp patch of tears, drool and snot; and her posterior was redder and more swollen than any that I’d ever seen before.
Easing us apart I ran my fingers gently over her face, wiping away the tears, before asking her if her lesson had been learnt; she nodded sorrowfully. I asked her if she was going to be so naughty in the future; she shook her head sorrowfully. Taking her gently by the hand I led her to the corner of the room and arranged her hands on top of her head, informing her that she would spend fifteen minutes thinking about what had led her to this point. She obediently stood as still as she could, occasionally shifting from foot to foot, unable to say anything.
For fifteen minutes we both remained as quiet as the proverbial mouse. Occasionally a sniff or rustle of carpet emanated from Samantha’s location, but no words were said. We just stood (and sat) in absolute quiet, allowing the events of the last thirty minutes to sink in. From the look of her backside I had, well and truly, fulfilled her dream of a spanking she would never forget; and I had remained true to my word of a spanking so hard she wouldn’t be able to sit for a week.
As I sat there, staring at her round, swollen cheeks, I realised that she had been right; it was a work of art. The colour wasn’t just pink or red, it was an assortment of every hue imaginable; red becoming crimson becoming patches of purple, blue and black. The crescent imprints of the brush seemed to stand out far more now than they had on first impact and added a pleasant abstract look to the painting. It was something that I was strangely proud of, and, without asking, snapped several photographs, from several angles, for posterity’s sake.
With the fifteen minute’s up I walked over to Samantha and turned her to face me. We shared a tight, loving hug, during which I asked her if I could go for a cigarette. Pushing away from me she answered with a nod and disappeared into the bathroom.
I left the hotel room wondering if the last thirty minutes had been some sort of dream; if Samantha was okay; if she would ever talk to me again and whether I would get to partake in such a magnificent, overwhelming experience ever again.