#21) The Ritual of the Ribbon – mild sexual content

First, let me give credit where credit is due. This started with Mary Catherine Finnigan, or M.C. as she was known to her friends in high school. Five of us were spending the night at her house our senior year when we heard a commotion; the unmistakable sounds of somebody getting slapped, both hard and repeatedly. Then M.C.’s twin sister ran past the den where we were camped out, crying and rubbing her pajama-clad bottom.
“She just had a ribbon ceremony,” M.C. snickered, “it’s nothing.”
“What’d ya mean, a ribbon ceremony? Was there a horse show or supermarket opening we didn’t hear about?” Jessica remarked to gales of laughter.
“In my house we get our hair tied back with a ribbon after it’s brushed, in preparation for…”
We all leaned forward, literally hanging on M.C.’s words.
“…for a hairbrush spanking on the bare butt,” she blurted and blushed.
“You still get spanked?” Jessica inquired, simultaneous with Tiffany remarking, “That was a spanking? I thought it was machine-gun fire.”
We went to seek out Colleen Janice, or C.J. as she was known in this household of initials and corporal correction. I guess I ought to state that the two twins are very different in personality. M.C. is fun-loving, warm, and gracious. C.J. is a prig, officious, sometimes even mean-spirited. We were having the slumber party with M.C. Her sister was there, but not invited to become the center of attention, as she just had done. Anyway, C.J. was boo-hooing face down on her bed. Several of us lent moral support and sympathy, then M.C. came into her sister’s bedroom with a pump bottle of skin lotion, and we all got what we came for; a glimpse at the damage done. C.J. eased her flannel p.j.’s down over a slightly bruised and very reddened bottom, and the story was told.
Simply stated, when any of the four Finnigan girls misbehaved, they were called into their mother’s room after dinner, just before bedtime. The offender was told to sit on the edge of her parent’s bed, knowing full well that this would be the last chance to sit for some time to come. Mrs. Finnigan would casually brush the girl’s hair (they all had luxuriously long tresses), while recounting the crime, then tie the girl’s hair back at the nape of her neck with a black velvet ribbon. The girl was told then to stand, her backside was bared, she was taken over her mother’s knee and spanked with the wooden back of that hairbrush. We watched M.C. gingerly but lovingly massage the soothing ointment into the abused skin of C.J.’s derriere.
“How many did you get?” Jessica was forward enough to inquire.
“I think I got more than eighteen wallops,” C.J. sniffled.
“It’s standard to receive the number of swats equal to your age, unless it’s something really bad,” M.C. added.
“Do you still get it?” Jessica confronted M.C.
The apple cheeks of M.C.’s face blushed until they resembled the apple cheeks of C.J.’s butt, but she answered, “Let me put it this way. Dorthea Doris (if you’re keeping track, she goes by D.D.) is two years older than us. She came home from college last month and informed my parents that she planned to move in with her boyfriend on campus. Dorthea Doris got more than her requisite twenty wallops before she changed her mind… I try my best to behave around my mother, so as not to have to face the music…”
We all surmised that M.C., or any one of us, for that matter, were of an age to get it, in her mom’s perspective, so we quietly snuck back to the den, got in our sleeping bags to go to sleep. I freely confess that the thought of the ribbon ceremony, the look of C.J.’s adorable tushy, the percussive sounds that still rang inside my head all joined to keep me wide awake. They also joined to make me deliciously aroused, so to the accompaniment of my friends’ gentle breathing in blissful slumber, I masturbated to ecstatic release.
That was the first time I jilled-off to a scenario about the ribbon ritual, it wasn’t the last. It became one of my most treasured litanies of licentious license. I imagined that I was called to Mrs. Finnigan’s bedroom, I fantasized that my mom adopted the routine, I pretended that the man of my dreams did the same. We didn’t practice corporal punishment in my enlightened household. I don’t know why, maybe the appeal of the unknown, but thoughts about it always got me hot; hotter than anything else. The thing that really appealed to me was how ritualized the punishment session was in this household.
I didn’t share this scandalous secret with any real-life man until Jake. His full story will have to wait for another time; how we met, fell in love, discovered that we shared a taste for spanking (from opposite perspectives). I invested in Jake my whole heart, so, of course, eventually confided in him the keys to my sexual Pandora’s Box. We incorporate spanking into our life a lot; the punishing variety when called for, the playful at anytime. Our ribbon ceremony has evolved over time. Now that I’ve given the Finnigan’s their credit for planting the seed years ago, I want to relate how it has germinated into a gloriously blossoming and deeply-rooted entity in my life today.
As I mentioned, we might role-play a scene featuring the ribbon in some playful frolic, but let me recount a punishment scenario, to bring out all the nuances.
Last weekend we were the guests at a friend’s dinner party not far from my ol’ Kentucky home. As is typical at these Southern-influenced, sexist gatherings, the women congregate in the kitchen, while the men group around the backyard barbeque pit. Well, while we gossiped I had a little too much wine. So, during dinner, feeling no pain as the conversation ebbed and flowed, I contradicted my lover. I did it rather loudly and perhaps obnoxiously, and as soon as I did it, I knew that my evening would end with the ribbon ritual.
The car ride home around midnight was surprisingly frosty for a hot and humid August evening. My boyfriend was uncharacteristically silent. To break the ice, and show him that I knew what was in store, I replayed a scene from the movie, “The Story of O” that is code for us. I reached under my skirt and pulled off my underwear, then pulled the ankle-length outer garment up, so that my bare fanny was sitting flush against the car’s leather upholstery. I folded my hands in my lap submissively (but also to keep them from playing mischievously in my increasingly-wet feminine folds). I bowed my head so that he wouldn’t see the grin play at the corners of my mouth; I love how my anus puckers up and kisses the Jaguar’s leather, how my trickling sweat mixes with my arousal when sitting bare-assed in the bucket seat.
We both go straight up to the bedroom. He busies himself taking off and putting away his clothes. I fetch the hairbrush and red velvet ribbon from the drawer and place them on the bed before letting my clothes drop to the floor around my high heels. I’m stepping out of the pile when Jake instructs me to keep the stiletto heels on this time.
“I’m sorry for…earlier,” I whisper, my hands drawn to the coolness of my fulsome fanny flesh. The tingle of anticipation ricochets around inside my body, from the pit of my tummy to the skin surface of my nudity to all the little peach fuzz hairs that stand up on end.
“Not nearly as sorry as you’re gonna be,” he responds, sits, and draws me down next to him on the bed’s edge.
He drags the bristles of the brush through my hair, holding it gathered in his left hand at the back of my neck. When he has it smoothed and collected, he puts down the brush, french-braids the ponytail, and threads the ribbon underneath to tie it. He’s gotten quite good at this with practice. I’d feel pampered except I know what’s to come. Consequently, my mind isn’t on the luxury of being groomed, but rather on my tingly and cool buttocks, orbs that will soon be tortured and painfully reddened.
(I remember the first time he tried to coif my hair. I felt the crown of my head and commented, “It has a big bump in it.”
“So has your bottom,” he retorted, and pulled me across his lap.)
He is so good at it, it makes me think about how good a father he’d be to daughters, fixing their hair before school or church. The thought melts me more.
The color of the ribbon we use is a change from the Finnigans’ ritual. They saw spankings as somber, funereal occasions, so employed a black velvet ribbon. We see spankings as sexual, vibrant sharings, even when punishment-oriented, so Jake brought home a scarlet red spool of velvet ribbon when I first told him about it. We’ve used that color ever since. Jake says it compliments my coloring; he tries to paddle my bottom crimson to match the ribbon.
I agree with the Finnigans that having a girl’s hair out of her face when up-turned over the knee is important. It doesn’t get stuck to the tracks of your tears or end up in your mouth. Jake needs to read my expressions. I feel his eyes dart from the target area to my face, back and forth, swat after swat, as I blink and wince, bite my lip and tear-up. He reads me like I was his favorite Hemingway novel, in that he might have done it before, but he appreciates new subtleties every time. He spanks me expertly. Every spank gets to me, makes its emphatic point.
The hairbrush is a fearsome implement. The initial swat stings mightily. But it also reverberates deep in the flesh. Therefore the sensation is felt maddeningly across the surface, but also thuddily in the muscle, too. I hate hairbrush paddlings, which makes it the perfect tool for punishment.
He takes me through all the stages like a drill instructor marches his platoon of Marines around the base. The anticipation transforms to resistance with the first several swats. It hurts so fucking much. I don’t mean to, but I can’t help but kick. One of the stilettos flies off my foot and sails overhead. The pain mounts. I give in to it with resignation, like a drowning victim has to give in to the surrounding ocean. It’s all I can focus upon. Sometimes the pain is so intense, it makes me pity myself, my poor bruised bottom that I’m normally so proud of, the fact that I’m being punished like a naughty little girl. Just when it’s at its worst, when I don’t think I’ll be able to stand any more, even with all the screaming and crying, something clicks. I think that it’s actually the flood of endorphins in my system, but it feels like a light switch being turned on. I start to float out of that deep dungeon of sub space. I can accept my punishment, even welcome it. I’m high on it. I’m no longer submerged and drowning, I’m carried away by it.
My legs are bent at my knees and cocked up at odd angles as Jake brings the spanking to a close. He’s hammering his point home, concentrating on the lower portion of my bottom, where it’s fleshiest, especially right on the crack, my sweet spot, where I feel it in my sex and up my rosebud. The spanks are sending jolts of voltage up my spine, and I’m jerking about with each one of them. I’m also rubbing my engorged clit against his hard-muscled thigh, and just about to climax. The other shoe dangles from my toes. Jake swats, I jerk and gasp, the shoe wobbles. He’s waiting for that other shoe to drop. Smack, my butt wobbles, the shoe slips further off of my toes. Smack, I jump, my sex grinds into him. Smack, I groan, my toes curl, I cum, the shoe falls off and smacks me on the back of my head. But it’s such an all-consuming climax, the shoe’s impact doesn’t interrupt my orgasm in the least. I hardly notice it until I see Jake smirking.
Because it’s punishment, Jake feels that I need a little corner time. I hate corner time in general; it prolongs the time until he’s fucking me. I must just stand there; not touch my sex, not even pinch my nipples. I catch my reflection in the full length mirror across the bedroom. My face, bathed in tears and sweat, radiates contrition; my bottom, glowing the same bright hue as the velvety ribbon, radiates heat. My entire being radiates sexual energy.
I don’t think that spankings were sexual for the Finnigan girls. Spankings are the epitome of sexuality for us. And that ritualization of the act is the common denominator.
Jake approaches me from behind, encircles me in his arms. His face nuzzles the neck bared by the ribbon. I swoon, pressing my hot ass into his loins.
“Now may I tell you that I’m sorry?”
He nods and kisses me just behind my ear.
“I am truly repentant for my wrong. Now may I tell you that I love you?”
He presses his face to my jaw line, so that his long nose fills the crevice there between bone and neck. He presses his front to my back, so that his erection fits up the deep crevice back there. Both of his heads seem to throb in unison, nodding his big one and his smaller one involuntarily vibrating like a tuning-fork.
“I love you with all my heart… so fuck me, please, with all of your being…”
His rigid prick enters my ready pussy with ease. Within three thrusts I’m cumming again. I brace my hands against the two walls that I face, spread my legs wide, and luxuriate in his hips pounding into my tender tush.
All the previous orgasms are just preparatory for the big one that is looming. I feel it building within me, all the more momentous with every moment that he slams into me. Then, when I’m at the pinnacle, feeling like a surfer who has been swept up and is tubed within the on-rushing wetness, I let my fantasy unroll in my mind. The mother-of-all-fantasies gets me off like nothing else.
In my mind’s eye I’m back in high school, with an athletic body and a bum so tight, it’s like a drum that craves beating. But the spanker isn’t Jake or any of my past boyfriends. My bi-curious mind goes back to conjure up images of the pretty Mrs. Finnigan. She’s my secret-most fantasy! I stated earlier that I didn’t think spankings were sexual for the twins. I don’t know about Mrs. Finnigan, however. She sure swung a mean hairbrush, she seemed to relish it, evident from the impression she left on C.J.’s bottom, which I can still see vividly in my mind’s eye today. I even composed a fantasy where this surrogate-mother-figure caught me smoking with a group of girlfriends behind the school in the softball dug-out. She lectured us all, then (because she knew me better than all the rest and wanted to make an example of me), in front of everyone gathered, she sat on the metal bench, pulled me to her side, pulled up my skirt and pulled down my underwear, placed me firmly over her knee and hand-spanked me long and hard. The potent emotion of humiliation in front of my friends is so delicious! I’ve secretly craved to be spanked by another female, in public, and specifically by Mrs. F. in my dreams from that time in high school until this. The thing that’s surprising is that this fantasy is pure spontaneity, whereas it was inspired by pure ritual.
As Jake’s rock hard six-pack of an abdomen pummels and pounds into my bottom, I imagine that it’s really Mrs. F. as she was decades ago, doing the honors on my butt, as I was decades ago, in front of all the dinner guests we left an hour ago. I cum so cataclysmically, I fear for my sanity.
Having my hair groomed and tied back unleashes something wild in me. Having this simple act ritualized turns me into an absolute slut for my lover. I suggest that you try the ritual of the ribbon in your household sometime soon.

Of course, having a big spool of wide ribbon in the house unleashes the Martha Stewart in me, as well.
One day a few months back, I got the medium-sized butt-plug in the mail from the Stockroom. I unwrapped it from the brown box, and tied a festive length of red ribbon around it, and left it out for Jake to find. Somehow, a new toy for use up my butt demanded the acquisition of a new toy to use on my butt, so I went out to the local tack store (where we buy all our riding apparel, it is Kentucky, after all), and bought a brand spanking new, extra-long riding crop. I tied ribbon around it, too, as soon as I got home. Then, near six p.m., when Jake usually gets home from work, I took off all my clothes, and wrapped my nude body in several twists of the ribbon. I started at my waist and coiled it around my upper body across my tits, then down to my ankles and back up, and finally tied it in a nice big bow behind my back over my cute little butt. I squeezed a healthy dollop of lubricant on the business-end of the butt plug when I heard his car pull in the driveway, and bent over, presenting my nearly-nude rear to the doorway. My memory will always treasure the look on his face when he opened the door. He nearly dropped his briefcase and went right to work unwrapping and trying out his new playthings, starting with me; I even had to remind him to shut the front door, he was so lost in his gifts! When the plug was firmly in place and my ribbon-wrap pulled out of the way, Jake gave this funny little laugh.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, looking back over my shoulder at Jake as he took aim.
“You don’t know how close I was to bringing a client home with me for dinner,” he chuckled. “This CEO flew in from Kansas City and met with me all day about the acquisition. She’s an attractive blond and had no dinner plans…”
“She?” I breathed, suddenly even more intrigued.
“Yeah. But she said that she wouldn’t dare come with me on such short notice for you, out of consideration for the cook…She said that she’d study our notes over dinner in her hotel…” 
“Oh, I wish you had brought her, there’s enough of everything to share…” I smiled lasciviously. Knowing what you know now, I’m sure that you realize I fantasized about Jake really having done so, and having a strange woman watch and comment as I had the holy hell whipped out of my plugged posterior with that new and stiff whip. I fantasized about taking the crop from Jake’s hand after he was through, and holding it out to this blond, “Would you care to take a turn…?” She’s the embodiment of an icy cool blond, but our play has started to melt her. She unbuttons her collar, then realizes that this is not where she’s overheated. She unzips her pencil skirt and steps out of it before accepting the proffered whip. I turn, bend full over at the waist, give her a good look at the target area. She taps my bum with the crop to take aim. I close my eyes in anticipation…

More than once, we’ve used the red ribbon as a makeshift blindfold. It’s surprisingly strong and works well for bondage-play, to tie up my wrists and ankles, either paired together, or spread-eagled and tied to the four-poster bed. I suppose if I were smart, I’d buy up stock in companies that manufacture wide ribbon spools. I think that there could be increased demand for the stuff as soon as people read this story...  

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: