There are times when a simple spanking can take me away from all things corporal. If you can’t understand how corporal punishment can transcend corporal realities, you’ve never been given a really good one, or you’re not a submissive at your essence.
It doesn’t have to be a spanking administered by my lover. It doesn’t have to be administered by a man. Indeed, sometimes a woman Dominant can wield a stronger, more punishing hand.
If you are still reading, maybe you understand. Understand how dread and longing can meld, understand how pain becomes pleasure, how punishment bleeds over into sexual excitement, how a simple spanking becomes one’s whole world.
I keep using that phrase, “a simple spanking.” Sometimes I ponder why I’m wired the way I am, finding a childish chastisement to be the sexiest act you could perform on me. I’ve never come up with an answer, just gotten lost in thought, carried away by potent fantasies. Fortunately, I am not alone in finding this simple act to be an addictive fetish, as I long thought I was when a girl growing up. There are others, some who share my bottom-orientation, and some who are yin to my yang, who find beating my butt to be as incredible as I do.
My wrists are cuffed and restrained overhead, my clothing roughly removed.
“You’ve been a bad girl,” is whispered in my ear. I can only nod in agreement. “Now you’re going to pay… dearly,” is added, and I close my eyes and stick my ass out for it.
The pain is intense, but is a necessary evil. I give myself over to it, let the tears fall, feel myself picked up from these depths of despair to float out of my body, to soar, high on hormones, and the crystal clear realization that this is what I was made for in life dawns on me all over again. These thoughts only lift me higher as I come to grips with the thought that I’m about to climax from pain. No tongue twiddling my twat is as effective, no cock as efficient, no fingers as skilled in bringing me to ecstatic release, just your hand, hurting me so good, slapping me with spanks where I love the attention, urging me on toward the brink.
That brink changes forms behind my closed eyelids. Sometimes it’s a tsunami wave drowning me, sometimes an avalanche carrying me away. Regardless, the orgasm pummels me, in synchronization with that punishing hand, bringing me to the edge of death itself, the little death, le petite morte. That punishing hand writes my epitaph, and I would gladly cross over, but it is not my time to leave. It’s my time to live, live life to the fullest! My eyes spring open, my lungs gasp for air, my wrists released from the manacles and my soul released as well, I hug you close, wishing I could meld my body into yours.
“Sometimes…” I whisper hoarsely, “there are times when… I need nothing more than… a good, hard spanking. Thank you for always giving me just what I need…”
No matter how hard I press into you, our bodies do not melt into one another. You know a better way, pushing that appendage into me where I’m hungry, where I’m aching for it, where it belongs. As amazing as it is, sex is a poor second to a purifying spanking, but it’s all we have to share, to show that no body else matters more. I want to give back a little of the heaven that my partner has bequeathed to me. So we fuck, exchanging endearments and spit, expletives and sweat, invectives and cum. And then share the bed to sleep in, in each other’s arms.
(The photo above inspired this piece. I purposefully made it non-gender-specific. Hope you like it!)