Exploring the Maze

The spanko mind is an interesting place, filled with layers of paradox and contradiction.  When viewed through the proper lens, pain can heal and confinement can liberate.  So it is with me.

On Friday evening, Randy and I were settling into what I perceived to be our familiar weekly OTK spanking session.  My skirt was around my waist and my panties were around my knees as he rhythmically slapped my bottom with a small leather paddle.  This spot over his lap on the edge of the bed was comfortable, other than the expected posterior distress, and even that was quite tolerable.

Then everything changed.  "I've got an idea," he announced.  "Let's go to the basement."  Instantly, I grasped his meaning.  Our spanking bench is set up down there because, well, there just isn't any other place for it.  This spanking would not be our regular Friday blue plate special.  I mentally prepared myself for a far different experience.  I wasn't sure what form it would take, but I knew that it would be memorable.

We walked down two flights of stairs to our rumpus room.  Randy told me to keep my skirt raised, so I did.  Those sorts of commands help to get me into the right headspace for a big session.  Feeling the cool air against my already tingling bottom awoke the butterflies within me.

Arriving before the bench, he immediately guided me down onto it.  As I lay on my stomach, he strapped my wrists and ankles into the attached velcro cuffs.  My legs were apart and my stinging bottom was on full display. From this moment forward, he would make all of the decisions.

Randy then disappeared for several minutes.  I heard him climb the steps.  I had plenty of time of ponder his next move and my own fate.  As tightly secured as I was, I couldn't do anything else.  I decided he must be planning a hard spanking.  That would be OK I thought.

When he returned, I saw through the corner of my eye that he was carrying something, but I couldn't determine what it was.  I would soon find out.  I gasped when a well lubricated plug slowly penetrated me.  It wasn't painful, but it was unnerving.  No sooner had I resigned myself to this intrusion into my very personal space, I felt the first sizzling flicks of a crop dancing in rapid fire fashion all over my upturned bottom.  A crop is designed to gain the attention of a large animal with a thick hide.  I am but a small animal and despite years decades of deliberate percussive toughening, my skin remains sensitive.  Those snaps really hurt and I told him so.  His nonverbal response was to increase both the pace and the intensity.

"You like spankings," he reminded me.  "At least that's what you tell your readers."  OK, I did say that and it is true in the abstract and I knew I'd like this one too as soon as it ended.  But in that moment, I was getting way more spanking than I wanted.  I mean, ow!

When he paused, I caught my breath and wondered what sort of pain stick he planned to apply to my seat next.  Wrong again.  He still had that equestrian whip, but he augmented it now with a buzzing vibrator.  He resumed swatting with one hand while he stimulated with the other.  It didn't take very long before I lost any remaining semblance of control.  Perhaps it was best that we were in the basement because I know I became quite vocal.  Even though spankings hurt a lot, they are almost always a definite turn-on for me.  All it took was a bit of buzz to send me sailing into the stratosphere.

I recall regaining my wits to the sharp sound of Randy still cracking my bottom with the crop.  This was not so vigorous as before, but he maintained a steady pace.  By this point, my bottom was hot and stinging all over, but I really didn't mind.

I pulled briefly against each of the restraints just to learn whether I was still locked in.  I definitely was.  I was completely restrained by my husband and my body was his to enjoy as he desired.  That thought, along with the sensation of a plug up my butt, made me feel very submissive.  I was his possession and that is precisely who and what I wished to be just then.  I didn't have to be strong.  I didn't have to choose.

I trust my husband with my heart, with my body, and with my life.  This experience renewed that trust in way that words cannot.  It's a funny juxtaposition that I felt completely safe and content in this situation that others might perceive as dangerous.  Maybe that makes sense, at least to me, in a spanko way.

Sometime after this, Randy found his satisfaction with me still tightly secured to the bench.  He gripped two ample handfuls of my well-punished flesh as he drove deep.  His thrusts felt wonderful as the entire bench rocked beneath me.  It occurred to me that we once broke a coffee table under similar circumstances.  I hoped the bench would survive because I truly enjoy the places I can go while strapped to it.

Next, he walked around me clicking photos of my predicament.   Evidence, I thought, of my latest spanking adventure.

Yes, the spanko mind is a remarkable place.  It's like a maze with a thousand corners, and I aim to stand with my sore, red bottom on display in every one of them!