An Ill Wind

 

Around our house spankings are pretty much a routine, and while they're always enjoyable (if you like that sort of thing - and I do) they don't vary much from week to week. Every so often, however, my husband does something that surprises me.

Take last weekend, for instance. We had had some pretty bad weather with winds blowing at up to 90 kilometres an hour. On one of my trips outside, I had neglected to hold onto the storm door. It was blown open by the strong wind and the plastic door-closing mechanism at the bottom of the door snapped with the force of the blast. I was startled and Ron was quite annoyed. He had frequently reminded me to hold the door whenever it was windy outside.

I apologized profusely, then grabbed my purse and keys, jumped into the car, and within half an hour was back with a replacement part for the door. Ron repaired the damage the next day and I assumed all was well.

When the time came for our usual spanking date, I was dismayed to see the dressage whip lying on the bed along with two other less fearsome implements.

"Oh," I said. "What's the occasion?"

"You broke the door," Ron replied in a matter of fact tone.. Yikes! What was this? He never used spanking as a punishment.

"Well, be sure not to let it wrap," I reminded him. That was the part I hated most: the little tassel on the end wrapping around my right hip.

"Will if I want to," Ron stubbornly informed me. Uh oh, this wasn't going to be fun.

To his credit, my husband started off with the most benign of the implements and left the whip till last. His strokes weren't especially hard either, although they didn't have to be. The whip always hurt no matter how light the application. And yes, it did wrap several times. But I realized I probably deserved it, and did my best to accept the correction.

After it was over, I showed Ron the marks that the tip of the whip had made.

"See? That's why I don't like it."

"Good," Ron said unsympathetically.

I assured him I wasn't likely to forget to hold onto the door ever again.

Wet and Wild

Last weekend we had an especially energetic spanking session that included the dressage whip as one of the four implements involved. I have a love/hate relationship with that thing. The pain it generates, even when applied lightly, is at the top of my tolerance level. While I can stay in place calmly for all other implements, when my husband wields the whip I inch away from him while bent over the bed, trying to escape the darned tassel on the end of it. That's what produces the maximum pain.

I'm not exactly sure what other implements were used that day. I think the square wooden hairbrush was one. It has stiff bristles with tiny plastic balls on the ends, and it feels quite nice when the bristle side connects with my bottom. I forget what the other two were, although I think one was leather and one was wood. By the time Ron put down the dressage whip for the last time, I was quite exhausted.

He hadn't given me the okay to get up, so I didn't know whether he was finished or just switching implements. I heard a rattle behind me, then he stepped forward and I felt a warm stream of water splash over my hot bottom. Ron had sprayed me with the bottle of "cat controller". We keep a spray bottle full of plain water in the bedroom and use it when the cat's squalling in the early morning gets too annoying, or when the dogs are in full hysterical playtime mode and need to be distracted. It doesn't harm them and they all resent getting wet, so it's an effective training aid. They only have to see it in Ron's hand to turn into little angels.

The water was room temperature, and it felt good on my blazing bottom. I almost blurted out how spankings were supposed to hurt more on a wet behind, then quickly thought better of it. I had had enough for one day. I reached back and wiped the water away as it ran down my thighs.

I turned to look at Ron and he seemed very pleased with himself.

"Steam is rising from your bum," he snickered. I laughed too.

"That hit the spot," I replied as I stood up and hugged him. "You're such a smart ass."

"I know," Ron replied, and we both laughed at that too. As he put away the implements I decided that I would save experimenting with spanking a wet bottom some time soon. We had all the equipment handy. I refilled the water bottle, just in case.

The Wow Spot

Ron has become quite adventurous lately. Take last Saturday, for example. He was waiting for me in the bedroom, the dressage whip on the bed beside him and the open toybox on the floor at his feet.

"Take your pick," he offered magnanimously.

I found it hard to take my eyes off the whip; obviously he had already made his choice for the afternoon's activities. After rummaging through the contents of the box, I selected a wooden spoon and my favourite leather paddle. Ron nodded his approval and took them from me so I could prepare my bottom for the inevitable.

When I was suitably unclothed and in position over the end of the bed, the fireworks began. First the wooden spoon, administered in a rapid staccato pattern of left, right, left, right. Too fast, too hard, I thought, as I always do at the beginning of a spanking, but I said nothing except "ow!" and kept still.

Ron picked up the dressage whip next, but I quickly said, "Not yet. I'm not warmed up enough," so he relinquished his hold on it and took up the paddle instead. I waited for the hard thud of the flat surface on my bottom. And waited. And waited. I looked back and saw Ron smiling at me. He was messing with my mind.

Finally he got down to business, and a new and different pattern emerged. Instead of left, right, left, right, it was left, right, centre, left, right, centre - the centre being the middle of the spot where my bottomcheeks meet my thighs. The sweet spot? It was the ouch spot to me, and I told him so repeatedly. Every third swat elicited at least one loud "Ow!" and sometimes more.

"What did you say?" Ron asked. not pausing for an answer.

"Ow! I said 'ow!' Ow!"

"Was that 'Ow' or 'Wow'?"

"Not 'Wow', 'Ow'."

Ron wasn't listening. "I found your Wow spot!" he said delightedly, and made sure he gave it a lot of extra but quite unnecessary attention.

By the time my husband switched to the dressage whip that had been postponed earlier, I was almost glad. Anything to give my Wow spot some relief.The whip is such a stingy implement that although I had been able to hold my position earlier, I couldn't avoid displaying my displeasure at the force and speed of the strokes. I cautiously inched my way sideways along the foot of the bed, trying to get out of range. Ron had to reach farther, and then started to follow me in my futile escape attempt. We both stopped when I reached the far edge, and I had to stand up and walk back to my starting position.

The whip was too slender and flexible to connect with the Wow spot, so it danced on my bottom, thighs and calves, with intermittent whooshings as Ron swished it back and forth through the air near my head, enjoying the characteristic sound it made. I stoically endured its harsh caress, and became silent, struggling for control. Ron noticed, and tickled my ear with the tip of the implement. I exhaled and giggled. To my great relief we finished off with more of the spoon and the paddle.

"I'm glad I found your Wow spot," Ron said as he hugged me. He couldn't get enough of his new joke.

"I'll bet you are," I grumbled as I accepted his and returned his embrace.

I wonder whether Ron has been studying my spanking reference books in his spare time.

He Keeps Me Guessing

Sometimes I start to feel that our spankings have become routine and humdrum. It's not that they aren't thorough and ultimately satisfying. But they're usually a bit too predictable.

Last weekend I asked Ron if he had something special planned for our imminent get-together. His answer was disappointing but not unexpected.

"No."

"Oh." I glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. "But you have 15 minutes to think of something to surprise me with."

You'll never guess - he did!

First of all, he included the dressage whip among the implements lined up on the bed. That was a surprise, because he rarely uses it. The wooden paddle and the shoehorn beside it were familiar, but the way he went about his task was quite out of the ordinary.

Ron gave my bare bottom a generous taste of each of the implements, saving the whip as the final entry in the first round, and I remembered why I dreaded the last implement so much. Besides the general severity of the narrow black shaft, the small red-tailed tip wrapped and stung my right hip repeatedly. I was uncomfortable, but silently vowed to endure this special addition.

Round two of the implements followed. After an application of the shoehorn, I heard the whirr of the dressage whip near my head as Ron rapidly swished it back and forth.  I groaned to think that it was next, only to be fooled as I felt - with great relief - the wooden paddle instead. And so it went. Whenever I heard the swoosh, I tensed and moaned, only to feel a completely different implement on my backside.

But he used the dressage whip too. Each time, I made my displeasure known as it marked my bottom, but Ron didn't realize that most of my vocal protests were because of the wrapping.

Our session went on somewhat longer than usual. That was another surprise that pleased me, although it put my obedience to a real test. My right hip was getting more and more painful, but it is a point of honour with me that I do not attempt to change my position or ask that the punishment cease.

It eventually ended, and I enthusiastically thanked Ron for a very exciting time.

"That was a lovely surprise," I gasped. He grinned modestly and put the implements away.

Then I went to the mirror and looked at the results of his efforts. My bottom was dark pink, and the spot where the tip had wrapped looked like it had been attacked by a swarm of angry bees. It was covered with hundreds of tiny raised red dots, each one a souvenir of Ron's attempt to make this spanking special. It was over 24 hours before the skin returned to normal.

I must remember to be careful what I wish for.

From the Top Shelf - Private Lesson

I love to share selections from my library with you, and I envy writers who can produce a good spanking story. I find it difficult to write fiction, but I thought it was about time I tried again. Today's selection from the top shelf is one I wrote myself. I hope you like it.

Private Lesson

"As exciting as watching paint dry," one of her friends told her. Hannah didn't care. She loved the equestrian sport of dressage. True, it wasn't exciting or dangerous like racing, jumping, and polo. It was simply horse and rider moving as one, the rider's invisible signals guiding the animal through intricate patterns and movements. It looked deceptively simple. The truth was, it took a lot of hard work.

Hannah loved riding Curtain Call, her grey mare,  and Cally always seemed to know when it was important to perform well.  This day was one of those times. They were competing in the first show of the season, and Hannah was nervous. Would all their hard work be rewarded?

When the steward called their number, Hannah rode Cally into the ring, saluted the judge, then guided her mount through the compulsory three minute routine that each horse and rider would perform. The time flew by, and when it was over Hannah knew they had done well. So did her partner; Cally tossed her head when Hannah patted the mare's warm, damp neck and inhaled the tangy aroma of horse sweat.

As she left the ring, she passed Siegfried on his way in. He was riding his new Hanoverian stallion Kohl, and was concentrating on keeping the young horse focused. He ignored Hannah's cheery "Good luck!"

Siegfried. Her handsome German riding master. He was forty-something, an excellent rider, and a strict disciplinarian. Siegfried had very high standards: he expected his students to be immaculately dressed, their mounts well-groomed, and if they ever dared to arrive late, well... Hannah loved to watch him training a horse on a long line. The way he handled the long-lashed lunging whip as the animal circled around him always excited her more than she cared to admit.

Hannah had been delighted when she and Cally were accepted for private lessons. Siegfried bestowed this honour only on students whom he felt had potential.  She and Cally had worked hard all winter, and now they had put all that effort to the test.

-------------

After leaving Cally in her groom's capable hands, Hannah walked to the secretary's tent where results for each class were posted. She scanned down the list for her class, expecting to see Siegfried's name first and then her own lower down. To her delight Hannah saw her name in third place. Siegfried's name was below, in fourth position. She had beaten him in the Novice class.

Beaming, Hannah rushed to tell her groom the wonderful news and to give Cally a big hug. She had scarcely arrived when she heard the sound of boots crunching on the gravel behind her. Turning around, she found herself facing Siegfried. He did not look pleased.

"So, your score is higher than mine."

Hannah smiled. "Yes, it was a fluke. I didn't expect to be in the ribbons."

Siegfried did not return the smile. "In Germany we have a tradition. When the pupil surpasses the teacher in a competition, the teacher gives the pupil a kick in the seat of his pants."

Hannah looked alarmed. Was he going to kick her, here in public?

"But that's only for the men. For the pupils who are women, we have a different tradition." That's when Hannah noticed Siegfried holding his dressage whip in one hand and tapping it against the palm of the other hand. He nodded curtly, spun on his heel and  quickly strode away.

Hannah blushed and wondered what he meant. Surely not... Everyone carried a whip; they were as much a part of one's outfit as spurs, top hat and gloves. She glanced around to see if her groom had overheard. She didn't think so. He seemed occupied with brushing Cally.

-------------

When she arrived the following week for her early morning private lesson, Hannah was uncharacteristically unsettled. She replayed her teacher's threat in her mind, and wondered if he intended to follow through. He had probably forgotten all about it, and she was not about to remind him.

The lesson passed uneventfully in the indoor arena, although Hannah was distracted and Siegfried shouted at her when she failed to execute a relatively simple maneuver that they had practised hundreds of times.

"I'm sorry," she called, and tried again.

"Don't be sorry. Do it right! Why do I waste my time on you?" Then, as she and Cally performed the exercise correctly, "That's better. Enough for today." Siegfried left the arena and Hannah breathed a sigh of relief. So, he has forgotten, she thought.

Hannah led her mare back to the barn and made her comfortable, then carried the saddle and bridle into the small room used for cleaning and storage. She hung the bridle on a hook, lifted the saddle onto a low sawhorse, and filled a bucket with warm water. The barn was deserted; the first group lesson wasn't for several hours. As she  rubbed saddle soap into the girth, she heard footsteps approaching. Siegfried's muscular frame filled the doorway. The shiny silver top of his dressage whip flashed.

"We have some unfinished business. You remember what I said at the show?" Hannah nodded, her heart racing wildly. He gestured toward the saddle. "Bend over." She did so, dropping her sponge and clinging to the rough legs of the sawhorse as if they would save her.

"What was your score last weekend?"

"I... I think it was 103."

"And mine was 97. That's how many points lower?"

How could he expect her to do math in her head in this position? "Oh, I don't know." Dear God, was he really going to do what she thought he was going to do? "Six."

"Six. So you'll get six."

Swish thwack! The whip whistled through the air and landed across the seat of Hannah's tightly-stretched tan breeches. She flinched, gasped, but did not move. Stay calm, she told herself. Courage. That's what he wants to see. Self-discipline.

The second stroke was harder, the sting sharper. Hannah squeezed her eyes shut. Only four to go. This was an honour. She had done something significant, something unusual, and this was her reward.

Swish thwack! The third stroke was lower, but not harder. She jerked and groaned. Halfway there. You can do it, her inner voice soothed.

Siegfried remained silent, administering the remaining strokes calmly but forcefully. Hannah managed to get through them all without disgracing herself, even though tears were oozing through her closed eyelids.

When it was over, she slowly raised herself to an upright position, resisting the urge to clutch her blazing backside. Riding would be impossible for the next day or two. She looked up. Siegfried was smiling.

He reached out, took her hand in his and shook it briefly, formally.

"Good work. You did well."

Thank you, Zelle, for the beautiful book cover.

Colouring Outside the Lines

When I am spanked, most of what I receive is concentrated on my sweet spot - the centre of each buttock, where the padding is plentiful and the sensation is erotically delicious.

Sometimes the paddle strays beyond this imaginary centre. I call it colouring outside the lines. Sometimes it's a little higher or lower than the regular impact zone. This heightens the sensation for me and, because it's unexpected, it keeps my attention and draws me back if my mind starts to drift off. These out of bounds areas are also quite sensitive because they have not been warmed up, and the resulting jolt of pain adds some spice.

Take, for example, our most recent adventure with the dressage whip. Sometimes I think my husband can read my mind. I had been thinking and writing about that particular implement but he had no way of knowing. Yet that was what he had chosen. In fact, it was all he had chosen. But when I said it would be fine to use later on, after a warmup, he left the room and came back with the bamboo paddle and the wooden shoehorn. Neither one can be considered a lightweight implement in terms of pain, but both are easier on my bottom than the whip.

First he applied the stingy shoehorn, at moderate speed and intensity, to my bare bottom as I bent over the bed. Then the paddle, slower and more methodical, but with harder impact. So far, so good. Then the whip. Oh, no, too soon!

I knew the strokes weren't hard, but they were very stingy. I wished my bottom had had more of a warmup. Ron tends to adjust his speed according to the width of the implement, and the rapid tapping was very tingly indeed.

He switched to the two wooden weapons, and when it was time for the whip again it was a little more bearable. My target zone was warm, reddened, and adjusted to the treatment it was receiving.

The third time it came around, though, the strokes were much harder. That would have been fine, except that the tip was connecting with my right hip. This wrapping outside the comfort zone was initially an irritation, but it soon became an ouchiness I didn't want. I came extremely close to wanting this to end. Telling myself it was probably no worse than the caning I have been longing to experience didn't help.

Ron put down the whip, thank goodness, and applied each of the other paddles to my posterior again. Does it sound odd to say they felt good? Much nicer than the alternative. Then it was the whip's turn, but before I felt it, I heard a whistling swishhhh. Ron was waving the whip through the air, entranced by the sound. I started to laugh at his silliness.

Once more he coloured outside the lines, lower down this time. I knew I would have marks. Clenching the end of the blanket between my teeth, I willed myself to breathe and take it. The laughing helped, as Ron alternately sliced the air and my bottom, describing the sound that it made. I forced myself to remember my brave words about wanting my limits tested. They were being pushed, and I struggled to ignore that inner voice that shouted "Stop!"

Ron must have sensed my struggle, for he uncharacteristically asked "Are you done?" My lightning-fast "Yes!" brought our adventure outside the lines to a close. I wiped the tears from my eyes and hugged him. 

As I write this I do have marks: tiny red ridges along the outside of my right hip that look like long, bony fingers fanning out across the pale skin. I wonder how long they will linger as reminders of our excursion outside the lines.

An Equestrian Event

Ron had a special surprise for me last week when we retired to the bedroom for some spanking fun. He had recovered one of our rarely-used implements - the dressage whip - from its hiding place in the closet. I hadn't been on the receiving end of that particular implement for some time, but the memory was still fresh. I had mixed feelings about becoming reacquainted with it.

My husband noticed my distressed expression.

"Something else too?" he queried, then walked to the bedpost where some of our leather implements hung. I held my breath as he took hold of the black leather strap, then exhaled in relief as he moved it aside and took the dogging bat in his hands.

"That's better." I had a thought. "And the riding crop. We'll have a horsey theme."

So Ron picked up the riding crop too and laid both implements on the bed beside the dressage whip. I stared at the terrible trifecta and shivered. All of a sudden I wasn't so eager to begin. Ron chose the riding crop to start with, and when I hesitated, he helped me by placing his right hand in the small of my back and guiding me into the appropriate position.

The crop bit into my bottom cheeks, and it wasn't wildly painful; it was a reasonable warm-up. All too soon it ended, and without a pause for reflection, the fiery sting of the dressage whip took my breath away. I shouted my distress, but I don't think Ron took much notice. He administered rapid-fire strokes, and although they weren't excessively hard, they sure did sting.

"Does that hurt?"  Why do men ask such silly questions?

"Ow, ow, ow, yes!"

After what seemed like an hour (but was probably closer to a minute) Ron switched to the dogging bat. Oh, good, I thought. The bat never hurts much.

How wrong I was! Either Ron was putting all his strength behind the strokes or my bum was overly sensitive after its tenderizing from the whip, but that dogging bat hurt like never before.

Then it was back to the whip, and I was cautioned to stop squirming and hold my position. I did so with difficulty.

"Say 'Uncle' when you've had enough," Ron generously offered. "Say 'Uncle Ron'." But I refused to give in first. He went through the rotation of implements several more times, and finally gave me the familiar tap on the back of my head--with the crop, I think--that signaled it was over.

I was glad our Triple Crown event was done. I felt some stinging spots on my right cheek, caused by the tip of the whip, so after giving Ron a thank you hug I hurried to the mirror to check the state of my bottom. It was bright red, but otherwise showed no damage. Ron may have noticed the disappointed look on my face, because he asked, "Do you want some more?"

"No, that's all right," I hurried to assure him.

The next day I still felt the burn, and walked a little stiffly for most of the day. But that's to be expected after any equestrian encounter, whether or not a horse is involved.

Tally Ho!

Since I recently got reacquainted with our dressage whip after an extended period of silence, I thought I would share my favourite site with you. It's Horse Tack Co.

There are plenty of other sites out there, of course, but I've had excellent service from this one and they ship to Canada.

Dressage whips - not for the novice spankee! There's a lovely selection to choose from. Some are brightly coloured, some feature non-slip handles, and I especially like the gold capped one. Check out the whip and crop rack; it holds 8 implements.

(Did you know that dressage whips aren't intended to hurt the horse? They are long and slender so the rider can give her mount subtle signals without taking her hands off the reins.)

Crops - choose from candy-striped, glittery or reflective, and most come in a variety of colours.

Bats - here you'll find my favourite, the dogging bat. It's very loud, but not too severe. Ron calls this the weed whacker. I often refer to it as the leather paddle when I write about it because I think the word "bat" sounds too brutal.

The other item we have from this page is a purple bat with a little hand on the end. I call this our riding crop, for the same reason as above Most bats also come in a variety of colours. There's also an interesting-looking fly whisk.

(I'm not sure what the difference is between a bat and a crop. Possibly bats are thicker and make more noise, and most don't have wrist loops, while crops do.)

Other possibilities that are a bit more expensive, but might be worth a look:

Reins - The cool thing about using reins is that they come in pairs. So right off you have twice the pleasure! And since you have to double them to use them - one end has a buckle and the other has hardware to fasten them to the bit, neither of which you what coming in contact with a tender bottom - that means four layers of pleasure on impact! Besides plain leather, they also come braided and rubber-covered. Imagine the possibilities!

Stirrup leathers - Very similar to leather belts, although they are narrow. They are of necessity quite thick and sturdy. You could also consider the bondage possibilities. Check out the description of the Arc de Triomphe model. "No one can resist their feel!"

Brushes - There's a lot to check out here; these are the prettiest by far. But be careful! You wouldn't want your bottom to come in contact with one of these.

Thoroughly Topped

Recently I must confess I was having some doubts about Ron's commitment to spanking. In fact, I had started to wonder if he might actually be vanilla. Then last weekend he managed to convince me that he was an extremely proficient and committed Top.

It all started the day Ron cancelled our regular date; other matters were more pressing. I understood, but wondered why he hadn't scheduled an alternate day and time. The next day came and went - no spanking. I hinted at it the following evening, to no avail. I then sent another hint as part of an email reply to him. Still nothing, but I gave it yet another day to give him a chance to make it look like his idea. No luck. I started to wonder if he had lost interest in my bottom, and spent a night silently calling him every name under the sun, including the V-word.

The next morning while I was showering I remembered all the great advice that you, my dear friends, had given me. Tell him what you want. Men aren't at all intuitive. he can't read your mind. Well, I thought I had been pretty direct, but I'd give it one more try.

At breakfast Ron asked me if I had slept well.
 
"No."
"Why not?"

"I was awake fretting. I wanted a spanking last night and you didn't read my mind."

Ron smiled at that, and so did I as I continued.

"We missed our date last week and I'm overdue for one."

He thought a minute, then teased, "I don't know if I can fit you in. There's a lot of gardening to do."
We both laughed and I knew I had made my point.
.
.
.

While we were fixing dinner together, Ron said, "I think I'd better get out the buggy whip."

"Dressage whip."
"Whatever. But I don't even know where it is."
"Behind the door in your study."

Aaargh! Why had I said that? I remembered that whip well and I dreaded it. My chest tightened and I struggled to breathe. I had lost my appetite. But I so wanted to feel it on my bare skin again.

Later that evening, Ron went on up ahead of me while I turned out the lights and tried to control the assorted fluttering things in my tummy. When I walked into the bedroom my husband was standing at the foot of the bed, dressage whip in hand. This was very different. I felt unsure of what to do next.

"Where do you want me?"

He motioned towards the bed, so I slipped off my robe, removed my panties and bent over the end of it.

"That will do nicely," Ron said. He didn't keep me waiting; the whip sizzled through the air and landed right on target. Ow! It was worse than I remembered. After three strokes I couldn't take any more needed him to stop now what was I doing there I must be crazy it hurts too much.

"is it all right?" Ron asked. I stupidly bravely replied, "Yes." Another stroke, and I squealed, "Ouch! It hurts!"

"Do you want the paddle instead?"

A reprieve. "Yes, the paddle, then finish with the whip." At least that would delay the inevitable for a while. I stayed in position while Ron put down the whip, opened the drawer and returned with a leather paddle. 

It was not much of a reprieve. He hit hard and fast. This was nothing like the sensuous spanking I usually got. The man meant business. The pauses for rubbing were brief, and the spanking in between them went on and on. I was intoxicated with the pain, inhaling it, absorbing it.

Ron put down the paddle, took my arm and pulled me upright. Then he placed his hands on my shoulders and guided me downward until I was kneeling in front of him, and I rewarded him for being so good to me. Then when he helped me to my feet I assumed it was my turn. I scrambled across the bed, stretched out and waited for him to join me. 

I had forgotten about the whip. But Ron hadn't. He stood beside me, raised his arm, and I lay flat on my tummy and took the strokes. They were still hard and biting, but now they felt very, very good. Several times the whip cracked across my bottom, then the tip tickled the top of my head. What was this? A playful whipping? I looked up and smiled. Ron continued the pattern; he gave me some hard, fast strokes, then ruffled my hair. I don't know how long it might have gone on, but when he saw that the whip had done some damage to the skin, it was over.

I was totally drained, and so contented. My bottom felt like it was on fire, and I was incapable of moving. I remained where I was while Ron put away the toys, locked up the house for the night and turned out the lights. I slept for a couple of hours, then woke up, felt the welts, and rummaged in my bedside drawer for the arnica. I'd have to wait till morning to inspect the damage.

The next day, I was very glad I didn't have to go to work and sit as a desk. My bottom was still burning, but I was able to keep myself busy and only sat down for meals. I had a few marks on each cheek where the whip had bitten, and applied arnica frequently. We spent a companionable day together doing things around the house, although I was walking a little stiffly.

I was also wondering if that was it for the weekend, or if Ron was going to keep our regular date the following day. I really didn't want to be spanked again so soon, but it was his call. I had to wait for my answer until the usual appointed hour. Then I heard "it's time." I guessed I was in for spanking number two.

This time, it was back to the usual, comfortable routine. Ron used the same leather paddle as before, but it was once again erotic and sensuous. He stayed well clear of the marks, aiming low on my buttocks and producing extremely pleasant sensations. He settled into a slow, steady rhythm and I rolled my hips to meet the paddle on each downward arc. There was leisurely rubbing in between, and Ron's fingers caressed other places, finally giving me the release I needed. 

As he held me close afterward, Ron murmured, "Your bum is so bruised."

"It's not so bad. I'm using arnica. They'll be gone in no time."

"You'll need Twenty Mule Team Borax to make those go away."

My funny Top.

P.S. The dressage whip is now kept in the bedroom, in plain sight.