#28) Long-Ago Offense – GRAPHIC CONTENT

Quality lovers are consistently looking for ways to keep a relationship fresh and interesting. Quality Tops seem to be constantly looking for new reasons to punish, create unique experiences and memories. My current boyfriend, Joe, fits into both of the above descriptions. I’ve told him a million times (in the six months we’ve been together) that I’m very content if he’ll just tell me that he’s going to punish me later, give me some time to anticipate the act, and then follow through. (Great sex will naturally follow, as night does the day.) But, he seems to like to mix it up. And I have to give him props, he came up with a good one over this past weekend.
We awoke in each other’s arms on this Saturday, having slept-in late. Normally, we might talk about where to go out to eat that day, what our evening plans were. But in these Covid-times, we are both content to order food to go, eat at home, and spend the upcoming evening chilling.
On this particular lovely morning, however, Joe turned to me, kissed me with a bird-like peck, and said, “Think. Please think about something you did wrong, that you were never punished for. It could be some misbehavior from long ago or more recently, it doesn’t matter to me. Just as long as it’s something you feel guilty about because you never got just comeuppance. Okay…?”
“O-kayyy…” I smiled, not sure that I could come up with anything. But almost immediately, just as soon as he got up to go to the bathroom, an offense came flooding back to mind. Then, all day long, details kept occurring to me. So, by the time Joe came home from carousing with his buddies in the late afternoon with Chinese take-out for our dinner, I’d been marinating in my thoughts all day. We cuddled on the couch where he dug into the food, and I picked at mine.
“Are you feeling alright?” he solicited.
“Just been thinking, as you asked, and…” my eyes well-up.
He put our white cartons on the coffee table and snuggled in closer. “And…?”
I gave voice to my recollections. “I think you know that I’m normally an honest person… I was in elementary school and they gave us a test. It was to gauge the aptitude for playing certain instruments in the school band. The test said that I’d be good at playing the saxophone. I went home and excitedly announced this news at our dinner table… My parents didn’t make a lot of money when we were growing-up. But I really sold this passionate desire to be a sax player in the school band. So they splurged and rented me a tenor saxophone… For about two weeks, I practiced pretty hard and attended all the rehearsals… But it was tough, and I found I didn’t love it, and there were other things that I wanted to do…”
Joe gave me one of his looks, knowing where this tale was going, but he didn’t interrupt.
“So after a couple weeks,” I continued, “I stuck that sax in its case in the band room and did other stuff after school with my friends… When my parents asked, I told them that I’d practiced after school and that I was doing great! I didn’t even pay attention to the flyer announcing the first band concert, but my parents did. The afternoon before that evening’s performance, my parents asked about when I needed to arrive back at school to be ready…”
I’d been able to hold the tears back in my retelling this story to Joe up until this moment, but all the emotions overwhelmed me. “So…” I sobbed, both with Joe and with my folks, “I confessed that I hadn’t practiced with the band at all. They were so stunned… I think ‘nonplussed’ is the word, that I’d lied, that I hadn’t practiced, that I’d wasted this major investment… they didn’t do anything… just gave me the silent treatment for about a month, I think because they didn’t trust me anymore… at least, for a long time after that…”
Joe let me sob it out, just petting my hair and holding me. When he finally spoke, he chose his words with precision. He held up fingers on his hand as he ticked-off the offenses, “One, you were not diligent with the saxophone, two, you lied about it to your parents, three, you let down the band by not contributing, four, you cost your parents the cost of the saxophone rental, an expense that could’ve been cut in half if you’d come clean right away after the two week trial, and five, you buried this down deep and never dealt with it for nearly two decades… is that about it…?”
I hung my head, but nodded it affirmatively. I wondered if his opinion of me had fallen, and articulated this concern as best I could with a broken and cracking voice.
“No… because we’re going to address all that this weekend. It’ll be a real punishment, and then, when it’s over, it’ll be forgotten. The little girl in you needs to be punished, and will be with a hand spanking, and the more serious offenses will have to dealt with more harshly.”
It worried me that I didn’t know what that’d be, but said, “Yes, sir.”
“Stand up and strip nude,” he directed, and I obeyed. As I was doing so, he watched me, then offered, “Every time you take off your clothes for a punishment, I can’t get over how beautiful you are, how much I’d prefer playfully spanking you and making love, but…”
I blushed at the compliment, agreed that I’d rather be playing, accepted his helping hand as he turned me over his knee. An improvised song came to mind, to the tune of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sounds of Silence.”
“Hello carpet my old friend,
I’ve come to stare at you again,
With bottom offered across his knee,
He’s gonna paddle it mercilessly…” I sang softly. If Joe was entertained, he didn’t show it. We all know what comes next, the silence was broken with the loud report of his bare hand connecting at high velocity with my bared butt. I’ve made no secret of the fact that I have a big, round, bubble of a butt. Joe spanked all of it, even insisting that I reach back with both hands to part myself so that he could spank my crack and rosebud.
As he rubbed the scorched territory, he said, “We’ll let you cool for a few minutes, then give you another set.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumbled between sobs, luxuriating in his heavenly caresses. All too soon, his wandering hand left, and I realized just an instant before impact that he’d raised it to begin again. He repeated this three more separate times. I got five long sets of spanks, and was feeling worn-out before they were finished.
The movie, “The Big Lebowski” is a favorite of ours, and we quote lines from it often. So, I piped-up with, “You’re a good man, and thorough,” in response to how completely he’d punished my tush.
“Yeah, well, that’s just like your opinion, man,” he returned.
I came back with, “Do you like sex, Mr. Lebowski? Your ‘fucking lady friend’ is in the mood for a ‘natural, zesty enterprise’…”
Instead of answering me, he took me by the hand and walked me to the computer. Sitting me on his lap, I adored the intimacy, while squirming in agony. He looked-up a handmake wooden paddle merchant online, found a particularly wicked-looking one with holes drilled through it.
“That reminds me of ones rumored to be in the desk drawer of principal’s offices, for use on errant students’ butts…”
“That was my idea… for addressing your more serious crimes…” he answered. Then I saw that there was an overnight delivery option, which he clicked. “It should be delivered tomorrow, then your last paddling will be delivered…”
“Until it is, are you gonna continue using your hand?”
“I thought tomorrow I’d use both the wooden spoon and a leather belt. Don’t those sound like something a punishing parent would use… or should have used…?”
I winced. My butt was in for a long, painful weekend. “I mean it, can we make love now, please?”
His answer surprised me. “Nope,” he shook his head, “not until your weekend of punishment is over…”
I teared-up as if I hadn’t cried at all this evening, “I really need your love tonight, Joe!”
“You have my love, my love,” he responded, “just not my cock until tomorrow.”
I know I’ve been spoiled. I’m used to make-up sex after punishment. I feel the need for that expression to make aftercare complete. And Joe knows that. And he was saying “no.” We walked to the master bathroom hand-in-hand. While I removed my smeared make-up and washed my face, he lovingly massaged coldcream into my sore tushy, then took me to the bedroom and tucked me in.
“You aren’t even gonna sleep in the same bed?” I protested.
“I think it’d be easier, safer if I slept in the guest room tonight. See you in the morning,” and he kissed my forehead and turned out the light.
I cried myself to sleep like I was a girl back in elementary school (which I realized was appropriate).
It seemed like dawn, but it was closer to nine A.M. with sun steaming in through the gauzy curtains when Joe pulled the covers off me, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled me over his knee. He reignited the flames that raged there last night with a moderately hard refresher with his hand. I was throwing my hair back, in the depths of this painful wake-up call, when I saw that he’d placed a long-handled wooden spoon and one of his belts on the mattress beside us. It wasn’t as long a session as those last night, but I needed to know what to brace myself for, so asked.
“Are you gonna segue from your hand to each of those?” I tearfully inquired when he again rubbed my smarting curves.
“Not until later, after breakfast.”
“Thank you!” I said with sincerity.
“But we’ll keep them right there, where they’re handy for later. You go back to sleep. I’m gonna make you breakfast and serve it to you here…” And he was gone as quickly as he’d appeared. My pussy was wet from the warm-up. I debated whether I could surreptitiously rub-out an orgasm before Joe came back with the breakfast tray. I decided I couldn’t risk it, knowing that he had a nose for my scent of arousal, so just stuffed my fists between my humid thighs and tried to go back to slumberville.
Breakfast was sumptuous (I could’ve gotten in a climax and let the evidence dissipate in the time it took my lover to make the lavish spread). Cheesy scrambled eggs and toast and fresh fruit and coffee and mimosas. I ate propped-up on one hip, balanced on a pillow beneath me while Joe rubbed more cold cream into my backside. I realized this moisture would make the next punishments sting more, but just enjoyed it in the moment. He drove me mad with lust by parting me and rubbing the ointment into my rosebud, too.
“I swear I’ll cum if you do that half a minute longer!” I warned.
“Can’t have that…” he replied and stopped it. He gave me the Sunday newspaper to enjoy while he took the tray away and did all the dishes. But he was back before I knew it. “Which implement do you want to feel first?” he asked, brandishing both the spoon and the belt, one in each hand.
“You know I hate wooden ones and love leather,” I replied.
“So which do you want to feel first?” he repeated.
After consideration, I answered, “If it’s just one set with each, I’ll take the spoon first, to get it over with…”
“Oh, no,” Joe returned. You’re going to get to know these two toys very well all day, at least until that lethal paddle gats here…”
“Will you go easy on me with the spoon, knowing I’m gonna get the wooden paddle later?”
“Listen to you! Trying to negotiate your punishment down, when you misbehaved so flagrantly!”
I knew he was right. I deserved what I’d earned. I stuffed the pillow under my hips as I rolled over and presented my ass up. “I’m sorry. You know best, sir. Give me the beating I have coming.”
Apparently this softened his heart. He picked-up the belt and doubled it in his hand.
“You can reach underneath and touch yourself if you want…” he said with such kindness in his voice, I nearly started crying before he even started. I didn’t need to hear the offer twice; I got busy frigging my already-wet pussy. Before the fifth lash had cracked across my cheeks, I was building to a sweet climax. He also considerately only used the spoon on me when I was in the throes of orgasm, so barely felt its bitter sting. Then he was back to using that warming, sensuous, erotic belt, driving me from one plateau to the next. I cannot rhapsodize too strongly on how I love what leather does to me, but then wondered if it was all a trap. Was this a part of his sinister plan, to wear me out with exhausting orgasms before the paddle was administered? I didn’t know, I just knew I had the most exquisite day of punishing pleasure imaginable.
Time, in certain situations, has no meaning. I’ve been to Las Vegas, and two A.M. is the exact same as two P.M. there. I was in the delivery room with my pregnant older sister (because her husband could not be there) and time evaporates in that venue, too. That’s how this day felt. The bed was soaked with my perfuse sweat and powerful squirts of jism, so we had to keep moving around, trying to find a dry section of mattress, as so to continue this divine destruction of my derriere, when “ding-dong” the doorbell rang and we looked up and it was three in the afternoon.
Joe looked me in the eye. To keep my eyes on his, he reached out and wrapped his fist in my hair, “You have to answer the door. In the nude. With your bright red caboose visible. To sign for the package. And you have to tell the deliveryman that it’s a paddle in the package, for use on your ass. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, both thrilled at his mastery and mortified at what I’d have to do. I took deep breaths as I scampered to the front door. The cold blast of air made my already hard nipples crinkle all the tighter when I opened the door. It turned out to be a delivery-woman. Her eyes grew wide when I asked her to step inside and she saw that I was totally nakey. “Thanks for getting here so fast with this,” I said as I took the clipboard and pen from her. I sensed Joe behind me, monitoring what I said. “…It’s a paddle, to use on my bottom, as if I need more, huh?” and I turned to give her a glimpse of my flaming fanny flesh.
“Yeah…” she replied, clearly not knowing what else to say. She left as quickly as she could.
“You love humiliating me, don’t you?” I smiled.
“You love it, too. Admit it.”
I couldn’t help but smile more broadly. Her eyes were so big, so pretty, I started to fantasize about her staying, watching what we were doing, participating…
“How about some reheated Chinese food before we get down to business with this?” and Joe lifted the cardboard box for emphasis.
“Yes, please!”
I watched him for a minute, finding it so sexy for my man to be handling all the kitchen-chores this weekend. Then I got an idea. I ran to the sliding glass door and put on the big boots there.
“What are you doing?” Joe asked, about to plate-up our food.
“Do you like my outfit?” I smiled mischievously, turning around for him to see my near-nudity from all angles. “You like humiliating me…?” I yanked the heavy door open and rushed outside. Yelling back at him as if he were far away indoors (so all the neighbors could hear), I articulated while rubbing my reddened rump. “God, Joe, you spanked and strapped my poor butt so hard! I’m so afraid of the paddling you have in-store for me!” Having announced this total truth, I sat my bum down into a snow drift. You could practically hear the sizzle and see the steam, as scorched tushy met driven snow. “Fuck, that feels good!” I enthused as a chill shuddered its way through me. “What? You say it’s time for my paddling? As you wish, sir…” I ran back inside, shut the patio door, brushed off the snow that remained clinging to my curves, and smiled back at my lover. “Now I’m ready for that dreadful paddle…”
Taking me at my word, he put my plate of food in the center of our kitchen table along with a fork and spoon. He bent me over the edge of that table. I was able to wolf-down a few mouth-fulls before he came back with the unwrapped paddle.
“I’m glad you didn’t make me eat this with chopsticks…” I joked before the first ear-splitting, butt-contorting wallop landed.
I didn’t taste the food as it went down my throat, smell the mouthwatering fragrance beneath my nose. I didn’t feel the hard edge of the table rubbing against my sex, enjoy the cool flatness of the table against my hard-pressed nipples. All other sensory experiences were obliterated. I only felt white-hot pain across both cheeks. It took a full second for it to register in my brain as I felt the welt rise across the smooth surface of my butt. Then I was screaming, standing, rubbing, dancing, acting like a surprised and sorry little girl getting her deserving fanny paddled in her principal’s office. I felt Joe’s hand in the center of my back, pushing me back over, as he said what I needed to hear.
“That’s for your parents, having lost their investment in your education…”
WHOMP! My mouth was wide open, my brain frozen, unable to process what was happening.
“That’s for your poor parents, realizing that they’d raised a liar…”
WHOMP! My hands were flailing about, my knee turned to jelly, Joe’s hand forcing me back in-place.
“That’s for the band director, doing without your services…”
WHOMP! My buttocks had never experienced pain that intense, that all-consuming; I couldn’t take any more! He clearly intended to give me more…
“That’s for your peers, your bandmates, limping along without you…”
WHOMP! I feel the switch get flipped, my system is flooded with endorphins, I plummet down into my sub-space while simultaneously floating above it all.
“And for keeping this secret for years, turning into decades…”
WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP! Even in the dungeon of dejection, lost in sub-space, and soaring eight miles high, I feel these, as they’re administered to the backs of my thighs.
The beating has reduced me to my essence, a sobbing, quivering mass of contrition. Joe lifts me off the table, turns me to face him, envelopes me in an embrace, where he kisses my tears away, and pets my hair, and tells me that I’m his, I’m his Good Girl, that it’s all over with. I think I feel his hand on my bottom, though I’m mostly numb back there, comforting and caressing, as strong a physical balm to my wounds as his words are a psychological one to my woes. He lifts me. I cling to him. I feel his cockhead touch my pussy lips. My pussy is not my own; in response to my backside being mercilessly thrashed, it has gotten excited. It is the pussy of a whore, the insatiable sex organ of a reprobate. My pussy should tighten and retreat from such violence. This pussy engorges and swells obscenely and gets sopping wet and eager and fragrant and lust-filled. This pussy kisses Joe’s erection softly, opens as my mouth does for his tongue to take him in and bath him with loving affection. I sink down on the shaft a millimeter at a time, so infinitesimal and slowly, until I am fully impaled, fully his. His fingers dig into my fanny flesh savagely, driving me mad with longing. A middle finger of one hand inches its way toward my rosebud, where it tickles the petals into relaxing and opening and admitting him there, too.
“Fuck me…!” I implore, never wanting anything so much in my life. But he does not. He has penetrated me completely, possessed me entirely. He just fills me, as I like my rectum to be taken and filled when doing the deed in that nasty locale. I grind into him. We don’t thrust, there is no in-and-out, back-and-forth. He is a tree truck that I have my arms and legs around, gripping tightly and grinding against slowly. He is rough and dry and stoic, and I am nothing but softness and wetness and passion, and I mix the two by grinding my sex into his. Heretofore, my orgasms have all been explosive, cataclysmic, even ejaculating affairs. This one is totally opposite, an internal implosion that crumples me into myself. I throw my head back, a groan rises out of my core. I buck spasmodically, violently, just once. It is enough to drive that finger into my butt-hole. I attach my mouth to his as if his breath was life-giving. My sex simultaneously floods and grips him. My anus sucks his finger in deeper, flexing hard, nearly breaking the invading digit. My mouth kisses him with all the passion in my soul. From outward appearances, we’ve hardly moved a muscle, but it is the most intense climax of my life, and its combined effects are enough to pull the orgasm out of Joe. His testicles tighten, pump jet after jet of molten cum into me. His groan mimics mine, just as guttural, just as profound, only deeper in pitch. He sits me down on the table’s edge. I cannot speak, so pick up the nearby plate and goggle down several mouthfuls for sustenance, feed my lover a forkful then, too. His sex shrinks, pops out of mine. His spunk and my jism combine their scents and fill the room with the most amazing musk. I rest my forehead against his chest, wishing this moment of pure connection could last forever.
“So, that was fun,” I try to understate with a straight face, “what’ll we do for the rest of the weekend?”

2 responses to “#28) Long-Ago Offense – GRAPHIC CONTENT”

  1. Yummy!

    I’ve recently noticed more intensely, while helping to coach a couple, that our spanking fetish is very tied into childhood matters. Those childhood emotions were so strong and we have such unconscious nostalgia for them, that we try to recreate those sensations. Your spanking for a childhood infraction makes that connection.

    In my case, this week my husband did not have to get me to dredge anything up. A $325 red light ticket was all the reason he needed 😦


    • Love hearing from you, Julie!
      In many ways, I think grown-up adults are just big little kids running around, with all those pent-up, remembered foibles.
      I sincerely hope that you might share some details of the speeding ticket punishment with us; pretty please!


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