Kit and I were penpals. I knew that she had been both top and bottom, yet somehow, it seemed, she hadn’t been spanked. It seemed improbable, so I wrote her, “you’ve never been spanked? Is it true?”
Here is her answer.
No, I have never been spanked in the literal sense of the word. Whipped, yes, flogged, yes, spanked as in a swat or a single wallop (or two), yes, but spanked with a hand or something like that- no.
<brows furrowing, frowning> Oh wait, yes, there was one time. One solitary time. How could I forget, it was the most painful thing. I think I blocked it out. Seriously, I think I did.
*Now* I remember. My first and only spanking.
In the basement
It was the second time I ever played with my boyfriend (we switched occasionally). At my mother’s house, of all places, as she was out of town and I was housesitting. The dark basement smelled of concrete walls and uninhabitedness. The air was dank and damp on that humid, summer Georgia night. Being led down the wooden stairs, I felt a sense of impending doom. The floor was smooth and cool on my bare feet.
He chose that location because it was the only place he was sure could support my body weight under suspension. The restraints on my wrists were tethered up and over the metal supports of the garage door. A spreader bar was attached to the cuffs on my ankles. I was naked; I felt very vulnerable. I wished he would blindfold me so I couldn’t see whatever it was coming. Ignorance is bliss.
A flogger first
He started with a flogger. It was a nasty little thing, made of rawhide that he had soaked in oil, so the strands were hard, unforgiving. Even starting out lightly, the sting made me cringe. I jumped a little. Each swing was an exercise in complete, stinging torture, and all I could do was stiffen and tense my muscles up. I imagine it was a pretty sight. After a while, I went from stoic, to cussing. I was pissed. It fucking hurt.
He stopped eventually and stood close behind me, I could feel the heat from him though I could not feel him. He gave my ass a caress, and nothing has ever felt so divine. Pure pleasure, in contrast to the searing pain that was there just moments ago. All my anger evaporated as I melted into his touch.
It’s too big!
When the spreader bar was unhooked, I thought I was free, and already congratulating myself on my job well done, on bearing it so well. To my utter horror, I realized I was nowhere near done, as he raised me up a little bit higher onto my tiptoes. He then went over to the table and retrieved a scary looking wooden paddle that looked somewhat similar to an oar though smaller, with holes drilled in it. I remember distinctly thinking, “It’s too big!” and noting the thickness of the wood with a mixture of sheer terror and trepidation.
When he struck me with it, I thought, “ow!” but it wasn’t as bad as it looked. It was a flat, direct feeling, much better than the stinging of the flogger. Or so I thought… as the strokes progressed, the flat whack turned into searing, excruciating pain. I lost count of how many times the wood met my flesh. I lost track of where I was, who I was, who I was with, nothing mattered but the burning pain in my body. I vaguely remember him ordering me to “Be still!” or was it “Turn around!” My body was moving to the dance of pain, the uninhibited, uncontrolled dance of a person on fire.
He came over and stroked my ass, and it felt good, and it hurt. He clenched his hand firmly into my pussy, and said, “I have never felt you so wet.” The tiniest part of the logical me was astounded to hear that, and filed that away to think about later when I could actually think. His fingers in me felt so good, the pain that I thought was about to kill me just seconds ago was long forgotten, all that mattered now was his fingers in me, the thumb on my clit…
Please don’t stop
Please, don’t stop I silently begged. But he did stop. He told me he was going to give me 20 more, and he wanted me to count them. “One.” Teeth clenched. “Two.” Harder clench. “Three.” God, I can’t do this! “Four.” Fuck! Fuck! Fuuuuck! “Five.” God damned bastard!! “Six.” I’m gonna fucking kill him! “Seven.” Ow-shit-fuck-ow-ow-ow-ow. “Eight.” Ooooohhhhh, owwwwwwww….. “Nine.” Whimpering ow, garbled nonsense. “Ten.”
On the verge of tears now. “Eleven.” I know nothing, nothing but the pain. “Twelve.” Crying now. <whack> <pause> “Kit, count!” “Thirteen” through sobs. “Fourteen.” I can’t breathe. “Fifteen.” Breath holding sobs. “Sixteen.” A dim awareness that 16 is 4 away from 20. Dare I come back to myself? It hurts so damn much! “Seventeen.” Our father, who art in heaven… “Eighteen” Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come… “Nineteen” Thy will be done. On earth as it is in heaven, oh my god… “Twenty.”
I was a mess
Complete and total sobbing, hysterical abandon. I was a quivering mess, reduced to nothing of the person I was however long ago that it was when I was smug and proud of how well I held up. I felt broken. I felt drained. I cried and cried and cried. He unhooked me, and I then realized that my right hand was asleep from bearing my weight on it while restrained up in the air. I’m not the type that likes to cry, I find it somewhat embarrassing. He turned my face towards him and looked deep into my eyes, looking at me, really looking. I looked back through my tears, and could hardly bear it. A sob caught in my throat.
That is the last thing I remember. I don’t remember going up the stairs, having the restraints taken off my wrists or ankles, I don’t remember what I said, or what he said to me. I was in a haze, a stupor, a mentally exhausted and used mess.
I slept like the dead that night. I woke up with my ass still on fire in the dawning light of morning, with him straddling me. In my half-awake stupor, he made love to me, slowly, tenderly, quietly, without fanfare. Then we slept more.
I wish I had pictures. But alas, I don’t.
~deep sigh~ Wow. That was something, reliving that. The emotions are heavy even now.
Well, that is the story of my first spanking. <small smile> So don’t cry, I did enough for both of us.
Thank you so much for the story of your first and only spanking. Your account of the experience is incredibly vivid. The part that’s lacking is your subsequent reaction: How did you feel about it afterward? Do you want to have that kind of a punishment again? You say the emotions are heavy even now; can you describe those emotions to me?
Many people yearn to experience a punishment scene of that intensity. Many bottoms, of course, are not prepared for the actuality of the experience, no matter what their fantasies, and many tops have no clue what the reality is like for the bottom undergoing it.
It can challenge the couple
A couple that can get to that point successfully, with understanding (as opposed to through a forced match through a swamp of horrors) usually takes some time unless they’re both very experienced. To know the kind of intense scene that you as a bottom can handle, the top must have insight, experience, and, most important, love. Without those three you have wretched suffering without redemption. It sounds as if that might have been your experience and I am sorry to hear it.
I read your story prepared to be very aroused but did not find it exciting. I love to make someone suffer but the bottom’s experience has to be right for it to be erotic for me. I have to know that she wants and needs this kind of suffering, that even if in the moment she’s howling and begging me to stop, that afterward she’ll say she was glad we did it and, ideally, pull out her calendar so we can schedule another session. Most people don’t get to that level overnight, in fact most don’t ever get there, although of course there are exceptions.
How did I feel about it? Well I thought about it today, while driving (which helps me think).
After the haze wore off, I was hungry. Ravenous! We made… bratwurst, and had a beer. There was a feeling of giddiness, a high, I felt proud as a peacock. I felt like I had just completed a marathon. Something akin to being broken down into the sum of my parts and put together stronger than before. My ass was on fire, I remember half teasingly taking this ice pack out of the freezer and sitting on it while dinner was cooking.
After we ate, I was tired. Exhausted. It hit me like a ton of bricks, and all I wanted to do was sleep. I slept like a log. The next day I felt a little bit weird, not from anything I felt but because I sensed something in him that was not comfortable. He finally said when he looked into my eyes after it was over, something broke inside him, that the look on my face, the look I was giving him tore him up into a million pieces, and it wasn’t a good feeling.
It changed him
I don’t remember trying to project any kind of, “You bastard, how could you do this to me??” feelings, but that is what he took it as. He said after that, though there was a few more times of his topping me, that he could never have it be the same again, that he couldn’t do it anymore. That he loved me and it hurt him, that look that I had about me. He said it changed him forever.
I really don’t think it was a hurtful look that I gave him, I know what I was feeling when I was looking at him at the point of time in question. I was showing him my bared soul. No pretenses, no nothing, just true and deep and raw unhidden soul. I guess it was too much, because things were never the same.
So in the context of that, what I felt after that discomfort reared its head was confused. There was one other time, of serious play where I hit subspace so hard I really think he stopped in the nick of time before I fell off the edge of sanity. I was gone. After that he went inside (we were outside) and sat in a chair and brooded. Well, maybe not brooded, I don’t really know what he was doing because he shut me out.
I sat outside and fell hard, coming down from that all alone was awful, I felt so lonely, so saddened. I felt abandoned, even though he was there and I could see him through the window as I sat outside on the porch. I tried to get to him, to delve into his mental state but he wasn’t willing (or more likely, able) to let me in. I think something really broke beyond repair, and that was the evidence of the manifestation of it all.
Something was wrong
After that, we didn’t play much. Either way, not me topping him, or vice versa. There was something wrong, and I didn’t know how to fix it no matter how I approached it. He was reluctant to talk about it, ever, even in the many, many months that followed, despite my repeated, and various ways of trying to approach the subject. He just clammed up, went into himself with it. In the end it was one of the reasons for the demise of the relationship.
So, to make a long story short, what I felt was very much tainted by the other feelings surrounding it. Had it been a happy and normal thing between us I am sure I would have felt different, but it was what it was, and there we went.
Not very helpful is it? For finding out how it could have been had the whole thing been untainted by emotional drama. So, even though I experienced it, it’s not a good indicator because of that.
I would have been more than willing to do it again had he been alright with what happened; we even did do it again, but *his* heart wasn’t right with it, mine would have been had his been.
Thank you, Kit, for permission to post this very personal story.