Thursday, 7 June 2012

Memoirs Of A Dedicated Spanker

Story from Janus 06.

Memoirs Of A Dedicated Spanker


The cane descended in a blurred arc on the soft white buttocks poised over the edge of the bed. There was a moment's pause, then a white line appeared in the centre of the flawless cheeks, immediately to be replaced by a vivid red weal, split only by the deep division of the bottom.

At the same time, a gasp of astonishment at the intensity of the pain escaped the lips of the pretty sufferer, to be followed by a loud wail; for this was the very first time that this particular bottom had felt the firm smack of discipline. Relentlessly, the second stroke followed the first, an inch or so below and exactly parallel. The sweet rotundities clenched together, as if seeking comfort from each other, where none was to be found. This time Monica, (for such was her name) let out a loud and pleading yell.

'OWWWW! Oh please Simon, PLEASE No more NO MORE. I can't stand it.' But evidently Simon was not to be swayed by such heartfelt pleas for, waiting only until the tortured cheeks had relaxed, he delivered another well directed stroke just below the first two. This time her stockinged leg kicked up, and she tried to rise from the shameful position of pain, but a firm hand in the centre of her back held her in the humiliating posture.

'Oh no OH NO NO! PLEASE NO MORE! I can't bear it.'

'You should have thought of that when you were making such a disgusting exhibition of yourself at the party,' he replied grimly, taking a firmer grip on the long yellow cane.

'But I love you Simon, how can you hurt me so much?' For answer, he laid a particularly firm stroke across the lower curves of her bare bottom, and she screeched in agony; the tears shot out of her eyes and wet the bedcover. He seemed unmoved by her misery and continued to apply the stinging correction.

She twisted and turned, trying desperately to avoid the biting fiery rod and her naked buttocks opened and closed in a most engaging manner as they tried to find some relief from the fierce pain of the chastising cane, but without success. At the same time her feet beat a tatoo of anguish on the floor, even though her knickers, which were around her knees, hampered her movements.

But then a strange change began to come over her; the screams gave way to groans softer, yet deeper, and her frantic boundings became more regular and rhythmic, and her bottom seemed to rise to meet the challenge of the cane. He recognised what was happening, and began to change the strokes to a more rapid rate, but much gentler now and directed low down at the centre of her soft bottom.

"Oh darling,' she breathed huskily, 'don't stop now, it's such a wonderful feeling. What's happening to me?'

"Oh Simon. I'm coming. OH I'M COMING. OH! OH! OH! OHHH!'

* * * *

Well, it's a pleasant fantasy which I often have, and I expect others do too, and why not. But I think it is fantasy none the less. The idea that severe pain applied to the soft bare bottom of a pretty, but unwilling girl, for the very first time, will result in instant climax, seems to me to be very unlikely. Nevertheless, in a life dedicated with single-minded purpose to getting pretty round bottoms across my knees, for the mutual delight of a good spanking, I have quite often seen girls brought to climax solely by the studied, application of the bottom discipline; but this happy outcome has only been achieved after quite lengthy preparation and initiation. In my rather extensive experience, this delightful dénouement can only be reached via careful and cunning stages, and certainly not by sudden and unexpected severity; indeed anyone who tried it is more likely to end up in the Sunday Papers.

However, it is obvious that many of us desire nothing so much, as to get a lovely and willing bottom across our knees for a prolonged and thorough spanking; yet many find it difficult to locate and initiate a happy 'victim'. As I have spent the greater part of thirty years in this delightful sport, perhaps my experiences may be of some assistance to likeminded smackbottomists who have not been as fortunate as me.

I first developed this taste in an unexpected fashion. When I was about fifteen, I was very keen on horse riding, and during the summer holidays, when I was free from my housemaster's all too ready strap (but that is another story) I used to go riding nearly every day. It was during the summer holidays, that I had as my regular riding companion, a girl who was the daughter of the local vicar. He was friendly with my parents, and this was probably why we were allowed to go off together unescorted. No doubt, we were thought too respectable to get up to any mischief. How wrong events were to prove that judgement to be.

The girl, whose name was Alison, was a year older than I, and she was strikingly beautiful. She had long blonde hair, vivid blue eyes, and a wide sensual mouth. But it was her body which caused me to fall instantly and completely in love with her. The sweet swelling breasts, the narrow waist, enchanted me. But what occupied my attention and all my thoughts, was her adorable bottom. From the narrow waist, it flared to the surprisingly wide hips, and the round cheeks seemed to me like the two halves of an apple, laid side by side. As we rode together, I used to ride slightly behind her, so that I could watch this divine object. Encased in tight jodhpurs, which were growing too small for Alison's widening dimensions, the broad behind rose and fell, opened and shut, in time with the rhythm of the canter. As for me, this delightful sight produced certain changes, which were particularly inconvenient on horseback.

It was our habit to stop in a deserted woodland glen, at the end of our outward journey, to rest and eat our picnic. It was here too, that I first learned of the unpredictability of women, for instead of laughing at me, as I feared, she threw her arms about me, and kissed me hotly on the lips. This was the start of her slow but steady seduction of me. Each day she allowed me to progress a little further. First to caress her over her clothes; then to fondle her soft bare breasts; at last (with something of a struggle) to unbutton and draw down her straining jodhpurs. Beneath, she wore pink satin knickers reaching to mid thigh, where the tight elastic pinched into her soft flesh. These she stubbornly refused to allow me to remove, but I was content to run my hands over the satiny surface, paying particular attention to the astonishing rear swellings. So things continued for the next couple of weeks, with me unable to make any further progress towards my dishonourable objective.

One day, she did not turn up for our daily ride; however, she appeared the following day as usual, but without any explanation. I noticed, as we rode along that she seemed uncomfortable and stiff in the saddle, unlike her usual fluid and graceful movements, which so fascinated me. When we came to our usual secret stopping place, she flung her arms around me, with extraordinary passion, and to my astonishment, began to cry bitterly. Eventually, the reason emerged.

'Daddy whipped me yesterday.'

'Good gracious, whatever for?' I asked, with a curious feeling of excitement.

'I told a lie, and he got very angry.'

'What did he whip you with?'

'Oh, a horrid old cane he has.'

'On your hand?' I asked, hardly daring to breathe.

'Oh no. In my...' she hesitated. 'On my bottom; it's always on my bottom.'

'Tell me about it,' I encouraged gently. I knew her family were strict, but I had never thought of this.

'He got terribly cross when I told this little fib, and of course I denied it and things just got worse, and then he sent me upstairs to "get ready", and I know what that means only too well. I said I was too old to be treated like a child, but it was no use, his mind was made up, and I went miserably off upstairs. The routine is always the same. I have to put two pillows on the end of the bed, and then take off my skirt and let my knickers right down to my knees. Then I have to go and stand in the corner and think over my crimes. I stayed like that for about ten minutes, and then I heard his footsteps on the stairs, and I began to cry with fear. He came into the room, tapping the beastly cane against his leg.

'Well, my girl,' he said, 'perhaps this will teach you to tell the truth. Get yourself across the bed, and try to take your whipping as befits a great big girl like you.' I begged and pleaded with him to let me off, but that only made him more angry. 'Get down at once, girl, or it will be the worse for you. Do you want extra strokes?' So I lay over the pillows at the end of the bed. He pulled the hem of my slip right up over my back, as if I wasn't bare enough already. Then I felt him lay the rod right across the centre of my behind.

'Are you not ashamed of yourself, a great big girl like you. Having to lie in this disgraceful position, in such a state of undress, with your knickers down, and your backside bare, just like a naughty little child? Well, we shall see what a good dose of the cane can do to teach you that liars of any age deserve to be well chastised.' All the time, he was tapping the cane against my bottom. Suddenly, I felt the cane lift, there was a hiss, and I felt this incredible pain across both sides of my bottom. I shrieked and kicked, and tried to kick, but he held me down, with his hand in the small of my back. Before I could regain my breath, the cane swept down again and again, and I was lost in a blurr of agony. It is impossible to describe the feeling; it is like someone drawing a red-hot wire across one's flesh; it is simply not possible to believe that it is feasible to endure so much pain; but it is, all six strokes of it. And you have to lie there, and submit to it, for there is nothing else you can do. It was so painful that I don't think I had the breath to start weeping until he had finished.

'Perhaps you will learn that I will not tolerate any daughter of mine being a liar, and next time you feel the devil tempting you, remember how you look now.'

'With this, he left me, to take Evensong.'

I listened in astonishment to her story, which had come out in a breathless rush. I put my arm about her, and tried to comfort her, but at the same time, I felt extremely excited, at the thought of this beautiful girl actually having to take down her knickers and have her divine bare bottom properly caned.

'Poor thing,' I said, with every appearance of solicitude, but feeling a hypocrite at the same time. 'How could he be so cruel to my lovely Alison.'

She came into my arms; soon her jodhpurs were down, though she winced as I pulled them over her broad sore buttocks. Nor did she make any protest this time, when I gently drew down her silky pink knickers. The sight that met my eyes remains clear to me today, and indeed, virtually determined the pattern of my life in the future, though I didn't know it then.

The skin of her bottom was like satin, perfectly white, and almost translucent. In extraordinary contrast, the six weals stood out like red gashes, their edges sharply raised. Three of the weals were placed in perfect parallel, across the centre of the orbs, one more just across the lower curve of the bottom, and the fifth at the junction of the cheeks and the plump upper thighs. But the last had been layed diagonally across the other strokes from the top of the left hip, to low down on the right thigh; where it transected the other cuts. I concluded that her father took considerable pride in his handicraft. (I was too young to know the real reason, of course).

Muttering false words of sympathy, I kissed gently down each etched line of agony, feeling the heat with my lips. She began to utter little cries, which at first I took to be due to pain, but they soon turned to groans of pleasure, obvious even to some one as inexperienced as myself. Soon we found ourselves fondling those forbidden parts, and it was not long before we entered our mutual heaven. That was the start of it, and each day we galloped to our secret hiding place, for me to caress and adore the scarred cheeks. But as the marks faded I noticed that our ardour was not quite so great as on the first occasion. Moreover, I missed the rosy glow in her cheeks. I determined to see if it were possible to bring it back!

I began to find fault with her laughingly, and to pretend that I was cross with her. One day, I taxed her with not loving me enough.

'You are very fickle,' I said, 'I am beginning to think that your father is right, and perhaps you need a good spanking from time to time to keep you in order.'

I had determined to retreat, if this produced what would now be called a negative response.

'Of course I love you,' she said, pouting slightly, 'but if you doubt my love, I suppose I had better let you prove it.' I was again surprised by her response, but delighted to seize the opportunity.

We were standing, clasped in each others' arms, both with our jodhpurs well down, and as I spoke, I was gently running my hands over the silky spheres, on which I had such dishonourable designs.

'Come my dear,' I said, assuming a tone of mock severity. 'Come, and lie across my knees, I am going to spank your naughty bottom well.'

She took up my bantering tone, like an unwilling schoolgirl, summoned for punishment. 'How could you be so cruel; you pretend to love me, and yet you want to hurt me.'

'It is because you have been so horrid to me, that I must chastise you. Over my knees at once, or I shall have to increase your punishment.'

With mock reluctance, she laid herself across my thighs, as I sat on the grass, pressing herself against my throbbing staff. I pushed back her blouse hem, to expose her wonderful bottom, in all its soft glory. As usual, I was amazed and enthralled by its width and sweetly rounded contours, with the long deep cleft between the close set cheeks. After I had admired this splendid sight for a few moments, I wrapped my left arm around her slender waist, and rather hesitantly began to smack the swelling posteriors quite lightly with my hand. At first she sighed slightly at each stroke, but then began to move her bottom in a sort of circular motion, but made no attempt to turn away from the chastising hand. I, for my part, gazed with fascination as her divine white cheeks began to turn, at first, a charming pink, and then a more vivid red. I was rather surprised to see how clearly the marks of my fingers showed on the delicate surfaces, immediately after each smack, before blending into the more general redness, which suffused her breech. Each time my hand landed, I exulted in the softness of the satin surface, and felt it becoming increasingly hot, under the continuing assault.

For her part, Alison's movements began to change from circular gyrations, to a much more vigorous back and forwards motion in time with the strokes. This caused her bottom to open and shut in a most seductive fashion. At the same time, although she had started to weep, her little cries turned to deeper and more breathless groans. Soon, she clenched her bottom cheeks together tightly, and began to utter a long continuous keening sound, which even some one as inexperienced as I was, recognised, and I at once stopped the rear tattoo. She lay gasping for a few moments, and then turned to look at me over her scarlet bottom, and said with a little smile. 'Now I'm rather glad I was a naughty girl!'

Afterwards; our lovemaking brought us rapidly to ecstasy and satisfied exhaustion.

There remained only ten days of our summer holiday left, but each day we hurried to our secret meeting place, and most days the delightful spanking episode was repeated. I knew when Alison wanted this, because she would commit some small fault, quite deliberately, in order that I would have an excise to put her across my knees and bare her lovely bottom for correction. We both went through the charade of pretended naughty girl being whipped for her own good, although, of course, we well recognised its true meaning.

At the end of the summer, we vowed to meet again as soon as possible in the Christmas Holidays; and I lived through the school term, with the picture of Alison's lovely round spanked bottom for ever in my thoughts. Alas for my hopes. When I got home, my mother mentioned that Alison had left with her family for Northumberland, where her father had taken a new living. I never saw her again. But more than twenty-five years later, I saw a picture of her in the paper attending a church conference; the caption stated that she was the wife of one of our more trendy bishops. I wondered if he adhered to the biblical injunction about sparing the rod!

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