Guest Post: Jean Marie's First Spanking

Jean Marie submitted this wonderful account in response to my call for first time spanking experiences. It was too lengthy for the brunch format, but too good to chop. Therefore, I now present, for your reading pleasure, Jean Marie's first adult spanking.

I was in my early years of college, in the first stages of a budding romance with the third man to know me sexually. Although considered pretty and popular, I was also shy and reserved, probably because I felt I was different, I felt I was strange; I felt sexual excitement at the thought of being punished hard.

So I was with this guy that we’ll call Ken (because I was such a perfect little Barbie), in his dorm room two floors below my identical quarters, and we’d just made love for the second time. I was deep inside myself pondering questions that consumed me; sex was good with guys, why was it so much better when I masturbated? Why did I need to fantasize the same old potent series of images where I was brusquely lectured as I was briskly bared, then turned over and SPANKED in order to have a fulfilling orgasm?

Ken, being the considerate guy that he was, and probably feeling slightly wounded that I hadn’t swooned at the sight and sensations of his prodigious cock, asked what was wrong, asked how he could make making love better for me. I remember that I so wanted to confide in him, I so wanted him just to be able to read my dirty mind, that I felt so freakish; all that I was able to do was cry while he cuddled me.

Sobbing, I told him that I ought to go. Although I loved our naked bodies together, the sublime yin and yang of his hairy-muscled one with my sleek and soft one, I got up and pulled my jeans on. He lay there with a mixed look on his face of appreciation for my body and confusion at my psyche and I felt that I might be falling in love with him, while I also felt self-revulsion at my kink.

I ran upstairs, crying harder all the time, slammed my dorm room door in frustration, pulled my jeans down and administered a sound self-spanking, hating how good the sting felt, hating that I was getting more aroused with each angry slap, wishing it were Ken whaling the tar out of my innocent butt.

I stopped, but instead of segueing to man-handling my sex with self-gratification, as was the usual consequence to man-handling my tush with self-discipline, I pulled my pants up, pulled my favorite paperback book off the shelf, and ran back downstairs.

Ken looked just as confused as when I’d left him when I thrust my well-worn copy of A Man with a Maid, Volume One into his hands. “Here, I need you to read this!” I blurted. I kissed him and ran back to my room. Would he notice that the book fell open naturally to page 72, when the man, my hero, Jack, restrains the girl, my soul sister, Alice, across a bench and beats her bared bottom with a soft riding crop? Would Ken notice the tell-tale smudges on the pages and recognize my nectar? Would he realize that he was reading my romantic roman a clef?

The next day, a Saturday, I went to a craft fair in the open-air quad of the campus. Among the knotted rope wall-hangings and tapestries was a guy selling custom-made leather goods. He made thick leather belts with a big brass ring for a buckle. The tail of the belt passed through the ring and back under itself, and was identical to the buckles on the instep of the Frye boots that Ken (and every other college guy) wore along with his bellbottoms. I bought one, along with a leather hair clip to pull my long tresses out of my face, particularly if I were having to assume a position where my head was lower than my upturned ass.

I phoned Ken nervously was soon as I got home. “I bought you a present, can I come by and give it to you later?”

“Anytime… I’m reading your book…”

“Thank you, how far have you gotten?”

“About page sixty,” Ken replied.

“It’s just getting good, please keep reading and I’ll come by later this afternoon…”

“See you then,” and he hung up.

I went to take a shower, my body fairly vibrating, my sex softly singing as I soaped it up. I paid particular attention to my round rump, scouring its smoothness with my fingernails to keep the complexion as clear as my facial cheeks, sudsing the crevice and rosebud thoroughly. You’re gonna get a lotta attention tonight, I confided to my best asset, as I patted the proud protuberance dry.

At three o’clock I couldn’t wait any longer. I was already breathing hard, so I walked the stairs extra slow. I knocked on Ken’s door, trying to quiet my racing heart.

He greeted me with book in hand. I noted that his finger was wedged between pages half way through the tome. I also noted that he had a hard-on. I kissed him passionately, the paper-bag present scrunching noisily between our bodies.

“I thought you might like this…” I said, pulling the belt from the bag as he closed the door.

Ken laid the book face down on his bed, just like I wanted to be. He smiled in recognition that the belt matched the boots he was wearing. He began to remove his macramé belt from his jeans belt-loops. I reached out and stopped him, my heart in my throat.

“I didn’t buy it for you to wear…” I struggled to whisper. Then I walked to where the book rested, undid my jeans and pushed them and my panties down in one motion, and bent over.

I’ve felt vulnerable in that position, attired similarly, hundreds of times since over the intervening years, but never more so than at that shimmering moment. As I closed my eyes in anticipation, a terrible thought flooded my mind. In the book, after Jack has whipped Alice soundly, he lubricates her rectum and has anal sex with her. I prayed that Ken knew what act I was asking for; “strap me!” I silently beseeched over and over like a mantra.

My entire consciousness was on my caboose. “Paint it crimson with a paddling,” I implored nonverbally. If he’d tried to pry my derriere apart, I’d have clenched, stood bolt upright, screamed, backed out of the room half naked. I awaited the leather to deliver me to a higher state of being, to nirvana. It seemed like I waited like that, posterior proffered, for an eternity.

Smack.

Ken came through. A moderately soft smack cracked across my butt cheeks. I held still. I got another, just as hard, or should I say soft. “Punish me, really leather me,” I prayed. “It’s so well padded there, I can take a real thrashing. God knows, I’ve used hand and hairbrush and who-knows-what-all…”

These prayers went unanswered; Ken continued to smack my tushy with maddeningly sweet little love-taps. It tingled when I wanted it to burn. It pinkened an area that I craved to be fire engine red. Still, it was better than imaginings. I didn’t keep count, but I probably received about twenty baby-swats.

If I’d been the self-actualized harlot then that I am now, I’d have parted my sex and frigged myself to a climax while getting what I so desperately desired for the first time in my adult life. Instead I just fantasized how great it’d be to actually get a good, hard belt whipping. I toyed with the idea of telling Ken that I’d stolen his present from the street vendor. Would he get incensed? Would he give it to me good as comeuppance on my up-turned arse? I just fantasized about it, squirming my thighs together out of mounting excitement, which Ken interpreted as wriggling in agony.

He dropped the belt, got some skin lotion, and rubbed a liberal amount of the cold cream into my warm flesh. I’m sure he could see my swollen lips, my juices flowing. He read the signals, undid his jeans to release his throbbing manhood.

Ken penetrated me to the hilt with one thrust, which pushed me to the brink of ecstasy. What toppled me over the edge was the sensation of his hairy flat stomach grinding against my mature, pleasantly plump bottom that was, for the very first time, alive with the joy of having just been spanked by a real, live man.

Ken wasn’t Mister Right, but he was a very competent Mr. Right Now. No matter how sweetly I pleaded or brattily I misbehaved or even rudely goaded, he never hauled off and gave me what I really wanted, a no-holds-barred, bent-over-the-knee, now you’re gonna get it young lady, spank me for all that I’m worth type of lesson. It took a long time and a lot of kissed frogs to find my Prince. But my first patty-cake strapping was memorable for the promise of unlimited potential that it held.

Perhaps I’m a little jaded now. Although my buttocks are just as soft as the day I got my first adult punishment (and I’m proud to say just the same size), perhaps I’m a bit calloused at heart. Hundreds of chastisements later, some of which pushed me past my limits of a high pain threshold, it’s been so rejuvenating to think back and recount my first time, back when I was more naïve than naughty, filled more with longing than licentiousness.

Keywords: spanking, belt spanking, first spanking, spanking stories