Bend and Bare, Bon, Bend and Bare

These are words I know well. In the early years of this blog, I used to have a large tagline at the very bottom of the page that read, “Spankings Happen.” And so they did, and I am grateful that they still do. When I hear the title phrase, I know it’s time for another session with one of our favorite spanking paddles. What follows is a fulfillment of my spanko dreams.

On the weekends, Randy sometimes paddles me more than once in a day. He is delighted when I raise my skirt to reveal residual redness or marks on my bottom from a previous spanking. He always asks me if it hurts. If I tell him that it does, he kneads my exposed skin to draw out the last throbbing vestiges of my previous punishment before starting again. If I say it doesn’t, well that’s a challenge he is happy to accept. Either way, the paddle smacks repeatedly against my tender cheeks. And that always hurts. A lot.

He often secures me by grabbing the waistband of my thong with his left hand. This leaves his right hand free to wind up and deliver a full swing of the paddle. Of course, I can’t see much other than the floor at these moments, but I’ve studied his technique in the hundreds of videos we’ve watched together. He recently started assigning silly titles to the videos. Two of my favorites are “Bon Beating Bonanza” and “That Lesson She’ll Remember to Forget.”

In other news, it’s finally starting to warm up (weatherwise), so we’ve been playing in the basement more often. That’s where our spanking bench is located. I love the bench. It’s an exhilarating feeling to have my wrists and ankles bound with velcro straps. Even before the serious punishment begins, as I lay there with my bottom completely vulnerable, I know I am due for the full treatment. This anticipation is delicious. Then I receive all that I deserve.

After it’s finished and everything is cleaned up and stowed away, we head back upstairs. Each step I take along the way triggers additional posterior pain. It’s almost a bonus spanking. Randy was so enchanted by this phenomenon last time that he had me go back and walk up the steps again for the benefit of his camera.

Spankings are good at our house. Randy’s health issues remind us that everything in this life is temporary. Carpe Diem in this context means assume the position, and I do!

A Spanko Birthday

I wrote this birthday celebration recap in early October of 2020, but it was never published for reasons I cannot recall.

Hey everybody! I hope you’re doing reasonably well despite 2020.

I love spankings. I guess anyone who reads this blog could easily deduce that fact. But the thing is, I want my spankings to be my way. One of the downsides of being a spanko bottom is that spankings seldom happen my way. Sometimes, even when spankings go my way, they are not exactly what I think I want. To explain what I mean, I have for you a story.

Several months ago, I had a clever idea for a homemade spanko birthday gift for my dear husband Randy. For years, I’ve seen those cute R-rated couples coupons. You know, the ones like “This coupon entitles the bearer to a sexy backrub.” I created my own coupons, but with a spanko bent. I included some bedroom stuff because that’s good too, but mostly they were spanking activities I know he enjoys. Here are some examples:

Punishment Paddling

Shower Spanking

Frilly Panty Challenge

Caning atop the Bench

Timed OTK Spanking

Cheerleader Paddling

The Dreaded Bath Brush

Spanking Video Night

I chose these scenarios because they are special occasion type spankings that are different from our regular bottom warming routines. I created fancy looking coupons, printed them in color, cut them to size, and bound them into a little booklet. Randy seemed amused when I presented him with this gift.

Then I didn’t hear another word.

For months...

Until a recent weekend that is. Randy thought it would be appropriate to cash in all of his coupons in one weekend to celebrate my birthday! Hoo boy.

Time, energy, and competing priorities ultimately limited our activities, but we made a noble attempt. We began on Friday evening in lieu of our regularly scheduled spanking session.

The shower spanking was fun. Being naked with him beneath the gentle warm water spray was wonderful. We actually fulfilled two coupons. He used a bathbrush on my bottom and it hurt a lot, but fortunately, this spanking didn’t last too long because I distracted him. :)

After we dried one other, Randy ripped another coupon out of the book. He wanted to try the frilly panty challenge. He has always had a thing for panties, and for whatever kinky reason, the look and feel of frilly ones on my butt appeals to him. There is a company in our town that makes special dancewear including these panties. Mine are shiny white nylon briefs with horizontal stripes of red lace. This was a hand spanking because, as I say, he likes the tacile sensations. He sat on the edge of the bed and I positioned myself over his lap.

This was a pleasant spanking. I adore the physical closeness of being OTK and feeling his touch. I waited for him to grab an implement and up the stakes, but he never did. We relaxed the rest of the evening and ended up snuggling in bed.

When Saturday dawned, Randy decided that it was a good time for the punishment paddling. I offered my respectful dissent. If I must bend over for a big paddle, I need to be warmed up first. Recognizing the logic of saving my bottom for more spankings later, he relented. My paddling would be postponed for the moment.

He selected instead the coupon for a timed OTK spanking. He fetched a favorite leather paddle and opened a timer on his phone. I returned to my familiar prone orientation. Randy raised my nightgown and briefly rubbed my skin. He said he was searching for evidence of the previous evening’s celebration, but found none. He vowed to improve his spanking performance.

The timer was set for five minutes, which is an eternity when someone is whacking your behind. His pace was slow and steady, but the swats were firm. By the time the alarm sounded, I was quite ready to be finished. He recorded video of me rubbing my bottom and complaining about how much it hurt. He asked whether I wanted to stand in the corner. I didn’t.

We each went about our normal weekend chores without another word about spankings. He ordered dinner for us from one of my favorite restaurants. It was a delicious surprise. As I was cleaning up, Randy set up his laptop in our living room. I knew that video night would be next.

In this case, video night means spanking videos. Sometimes we watch commercial spanking films, but more often, the content is videos of us that Randy captured. There was a time when I couldn’t bear to watch myself squirming and yelping. My bottom looked enormous (which it is) and my genitals were uncomfortably conspicuous. But I’ve evolved to the point where I can focus more upon the spanking and remember how I felt about it. This is a turn-on for me. As much as I enjoy the sensations of being spanked, fond recollections are even sexier. Video night offers both simultaneously.

Randy set up his laptop on the table in front of our couch. He sat in the center of the couch and then I climbed over his lap. He lifted my skirt and played the first of his selected videos. I saw my image on the television. I was wearing my cheerleader uniform and bent over facing away from the camera. The pleated cheer skirt was too short to cover the matching panties beneath. Randy was not visible in this shot, but the heavy wooden paddle he was holding was the star of the show. I could hear my whimpers as it slammed against my seat. As we watched, Randy replicated the action on the screen by snapping a small but thuddy wooden paddle against my exposed skin.

We watched a couple of other scenes, but by then, I was pretty much lost in spanko bliss. Sore, but happy, I retired to bed with my hubby for all that happened next.

I slept luxuriously late on Sunday because there was no need for an alarm. When I woke, Randy was already up. I could hear him watching sports on TV down in the living room. He greetly me sweetly as I wandered toward the kitchen in search of breakfast. I joined Randy on the couch. He was watching football.

“Lemme see your butt.” His tone suggested more a request than a demand. I placed my cereal on the table and arranged my body face down across his lap. I had been in precisely this spot the previous evening. He lifted my nightgown and mischeviously snapped the waistband of my thong. He grazed my exposed skin with his fingertips, again scanning for evidence of the previous day’s percussive celebration. He found no conclusive marks though I assured him that I was still plenty sore back there.

“Can I cash in the caning coupon now?” Randy inquired hopefully.

“Don’t I even get to finish my breakfast?” I was in no mood to be strapped down and beaten with the punishment cane.

“How about if I make this easy for you?” He was squeezing my cheeks as if to punctuate his question.

“Do tell.” He then retreived the small cane from beneath a couch cushion. He swished it through the air to ensure I knew what he had. This was a much friendlier cane.

“OK,” I conceded. I felt the first sharp snap as the short, thin cane fell across my bottom. It wasn’t a shocking pain as the punishment cane would be, but rather a smaller gnawing sort of discomfort that grows as strokes build. And build they did.

Randy proceeded with a fast flicking sort of attack. It’s the sort of sensation where I think, “That doesn’t hurt so much” until it does. As soon as I loudly exclaimed, “Ow!” he stopped the barrage and lifted me up to sit on his lap. We hugged and kissed and I thanked him for my birthday spankings. He thanked me for the coupons that made it all possible.

He asked me whether I woukld like to stand in the corner and I told him that I would rather finish my breakfast. He patted my very warm bottom and agreed that I should finish breakfast… And then maybe we could go back upstairs. He skipped his football game and we enjoyed a pleasant, restful Sunday at home.

So I don’t always get spankings my way, but sometimes that’s better in ways I wouldn’t have anticipated. All in all, it was a fine birthday weekend with lots of fun spankings and together time. Thank you, Randy!

An Almost Lost Story

Here's a short spanking account that's been hiding in plain sight here on the blog for almost 16 years. It was buried in a brunch response. So now in 2022, this tale gains a new life as a post of its own.

A couple of weeks ago, Randy and I had plans to attend a live performance. As I was getting dressed, he walked into the bedroom and spoke those three little words that make my heart flutter. “Assume the position.” This wasn’t a request so much as a command.

At our house, “the position” means that I get on hands and knees upon the bed. When thus situated, my bottom is easily accessible for whatever treatment Randy deems appropriate. On this evening, he chose a small thin cane. Far from the traditional school cane, this diminutive model is more appropriate for sensuous endeavors.

After lifting my slip and sliding down my pantyhose and panties, the spanking began. What Randy delivered was not six of the best, but more like sixty of the excellent. He employed a quick flicking motion as he caned my target repeatedly. No one stroke was terribly painful, but the gradual accumulation left my bottom very pink and stingingly sore. Needless to say, I absolutely loved his careful attention.

My gentleman may not have begun this interlude with the intention of making love, but I put the idea in the forefront of his thinking by demonstrating my gratitude. He returned the favor in most exquisite fashion. We rushed to make it to our play just as the curtain was opening. For us, however, the performance was definitely anti-climatic!

A Spanking for a Lazy Sunday Afternoon

A reader with whom I correspond asked me to describe a recent spanking. This is not one of those well planned and carefully executed spanking sessions you will find documented elsewhere on this blog. It wasn’t recorded, so I am telling the story the next day from memory.

Some weekends are filled with chores, appointments, and responsibilities – all the stuff we hadn’t time to complete during the week. Not so this particular Sunday. It was a precious commitment-free day off.

But not a day off from spanking! In fact, it was an ideal opportunity to enjoy our favorite aerobic exercise. Randy was up and showered and dressed, but I was still lounging around in my long pink flannel nightie. It’s not the sexiest sleepwear I own, but it’s cold where we live.

We were settled in on the living room couch, the site of numerous past spankings. We were watching a movie, but I soon lost interest in favor of a better idea. I stood up, lifted my nightgown and waited for my prince to move to the center of the couch. Bright fellow, he caught on quickly and plucked our small leather paddle from a nearby table. I arranged myself facedown across his lap in the time-honored corporal punishment position.

“So, please remind me,” he inquired with a hint of amusement in his voice. “Why are you getting paddled again so soon?”

“I’m a lazy girl. It’s almost one o’clock and I am barely out of bed.”

“Oh, yes, you are. And you definitely need to be punished.”

Despite the punishment talk, what followed was a most pleasant bottom warming. It hurt, as it should, but the pace was leisurely befitting a quiet Sunday. When I jumped in response to several quick pops in the same spot, he responded by grabbing the back of my pink thong panties. Now that I was safely secured, he continued paddling in earnest.

Did I mention that I love that little flexible, roundish paddle? It’s nice and stingy, generates a wonderful warm glow, and the smacking sound it makes as it repeatedly impacts against my bare skin is impressive. Getting spanked by my lover makes me happy.

Perhaps my favorite part of this particular spanking was that it wasn’t one of those thirty thunderous swats and you’re done variety. Randy could sense that I was into it, so he just kept going. Every so often, he would pause. I then arched my back to raise my stinging bottom toward the source of my discomfort. And on we went. It was lovely. There was no rush. Just lots of welcome whacks.

Eventually, we decided to quit for lunch. As I stood, I was confronted with the full consequences of what just happened to my bottom. It hurt more than I expected. That friendly little paddle left an impression back there. As I rubbed my chastened cheeks, they were hot to the touch and still quite sore.

“What’s the matter, Bon? Did I spank you too hard?”

“No, it was perfect. Just hurts.”

With that my lifelong lover retrieved some moisturizing lotion, sat back on the couch, and beckoned me to return. I did. He applied a generous portion of the gooey stuff all over my blazing sit spots. The lotion felt cool and good, but each touch reminded me of my posterior predicament.

The rest of the day was mellow and fun. It was just the break we needed.

So that’s how I got a Sunday spanking. I hope we do this next Sunday too.

Four Tales, One Tail

I don’t mind a good spanking or two. In fact, I’ve probably got them coming to me. But four? That seems like a lot. Here’s what happened last weekend.

We were supposed to spend time with our family, but the plans fell through at the last moment. So my dear Randy decided that this weekend would be a splendid time to get caught up with our spanking backlog. Our what, you say? I said that too, but apparently, in his mind, we were operating at a deficit.

On Friday evening, which is our regular spanking night, when the time came, he produced a white tutu that he had been saving. He remembered that a reader asked whether I had ever been spanked while wearing a tutu. I admitted that I had not. My dear mate took that as a challenge, so now there is a little white tutu for me to add to my life-list.

The reader specifically asked for a tutu in pink, but Randy decided innocent white would be better because my marks would be more visible on camera. I put on the short ballerina skirt over my white thong. It fit my waist, but stuck more or less straight out below that. It provided no protection from the assault to come.

Randy announced that the naughty ballerina must be caned. He had me bend over the foot of our bed and ponder my fate while he finished setting up his cameras and lights. He wanted to memorialize my caning, presumably so I could rebut any future accusations of missing out on a tutu spanking.

And I didn’t miss out either. He said, “Young lady, I have learned that you have been moonlighting as a tap dancer.” I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. “Your jocularity has earned you extra punishment strokes.” He was trying so hard to be serious, but I just kept laughing, partly from nervousness and partly because the concept was so goofy. Finally, he broke character and whispered in my ear, “I’m going to beat your ass.” I shivered in anticipation.

He’s getting better at controlling the long punishment cane. With his added confidence has come increased velocity. We quickly departed the realm of play in favor of the world of pain. Ow! I exclaimed as each new stroke landed on my exposed skin. I’m used to getting spanked, but this caning hurt a whole lot. After one stray swing stung my upper right thigh and I jumped a foot straight up, he decided that I’d had enough. I gave him no argument.

After he took a lot of still photos of his favorite punished ballerina and my new collection of red lines, Randy pulled me across his lap and rubbed soothing lotion into the places where I needed it most. His hands were welcome and felt wonderful. One thing led to another, as often is the case, and that lotion ended up all over both of us. Fortunately, that bedspread can be washed.

The second spanking happened Saturday morning after Randy wanted to check me for residual cane marks. To his delight, he found some. This prompted an OTK session with a leather paddle. It left me feeling delightfully warm and toasty back there.

Never one to rest on his laurels, he had to “fix” my kitchen chair for me. I recently purchased some new chair cushions for our wooden kitchen chairs. Can you blame me? The cushions are soft canvas type material on the top side and rubber underneath. This helps prevent them from falling to the floor all the time. By now, you’ve probably guessed Randy’s fix. Yep, he flipped my cushion and directed me to lift my nightgown and sit down on the rubber.

This arrangement would have been uncomfortable on a normal day. But this Saturday was far from normal. My twice battered buttocks rebelled. The sensation was hot and itchy and ouchy and definitely not fun. If this was supposed to be punishment, it was working. After watching me squirm and sweat for about ten minutes, he released me.

As well as I know my husband, I didn’t anticipate his next instruction, “I want you to take a nice warm shower. Let the hot water run right on your butt. Let’s see how long we can preserve that beautiful redness.” OK, I thought, a shower sounds nice. So I did as he instructed. After the shower, I dried, put on a bathrobe, and returned to him.

“Oooo, I love it,” he said as he caressed my soft, warm cheeks. “You might need another spanking…”

Fortunately for me, it was just a hand spanking as I leaned over the kitchen table, Secretary style. But after being thoroughly tenderized, I definitely felt it. I was vigorously rubbing my poor seat as I trudged back upstairs to get dressed. I got spanked again!

Fast forward to Sunday… I was sitting on the living room couch and going though the email account I use for this blog. Randy was nearby half watching a motor race on TV. I was reading some of the silly messages to him. He is amused that strange men send me odd emails. One guy asked me if I have ever been spanked in rhumba pants. I asked Randy if we ever did that. “Oh yes! Absolutely,” he responded, clearly relishing the thought.

“When was that?” I wondered aloud. “Wait right there.” With that, he darted up the stairs, I guess in search of the elusive rhumba pants. After a few minutes, he returned carrying these.


“Oh yeah, those.” I had forgotten about that cute pair of panties with the target right on the back. I guess you could call them rhumba pants. All I knew was that I was just about to be spanked again while wearing those panties. Resigned to my fate, I pulled them up over my thong and under my skirt. Randy had me model for him. With my skirt positioned around my waist, I paraded through the living room to his amusement and delight.

The spanking could be delayed only so long, and I knew it. Eventually, Randy grabbed one of my sandals and led me to the couch. I positioned myself across his lap. “Bad girls,” he informed me, “get spanked on their rhumba pants with a sandal.” I didn’t repeat Friday’s mistake of giggling at his banter. I did make a mental note that there must be some secret top manual that defines the appropriate implement for each situation. Ballerina = cane. Rhumba girl = sandal. And so forth.

This private moment of merriment didn’t last long. Even with the horizonal frills, those rhumba pants provided only minimal armor. The sandal was effective, but far from extreme. I actually enjoyed a leisurely spanking on a Sunday afternoon. It was the first time all weekend that I felt free to get into it and luxuriate in the delicious discomfort. And he kept going, not too hard, just enough to be sure I felt it.

“You know, I like these rhumba pants. I think you should wear them for the rest of the day.” And so it happened. He felt the need to lower them periodically to inspect his handiwork. It was all good fun.

Now the work week has returned and I’m exhausted! I need my job so I have an opportunity to rest. Randy put one of those rubber cushions on my work chair, but I flipped it back over. Even if it costs me a paddling, it will be totally worth it.

The Uncle Trap

Living with Randy, I have to be prepared for almost any sort of spankery. And just when I get to thinking that I am ready, he introduces some element I hadn’t considered. That happened again last night.

As I write this, it’s Saturday morning and I’m sitting upon an achy, itchy, squirmy very well spanked bottom. I got spanked and it was a hard one. I can handle that part. What is more challenging for me are the psychological aspects of this spanking. Here’s what I mean.

Friday is our favorite spanking night and we have a standing date. So I knew it was coming, just not the details. After Randy finished work for the day, he instructed me to wait for him in the bedroom. I complied. He already had his cameras, microphones, and lights set up.

When he walked in, he quickly located the solid wooden dogleg brush. I associate that implement with serious spankings. He sat on the edge of the bed and beckoned me to join him. I took my place face down across his lap in the traditional corporal punishment position.

My Prince lifted the hem of my dress to reveal the bare skin of his target. He gently caressed my soft flesh with the cool, smooth, oval-shaped back of the brush. He snapped the waistband of my thong, presumably because he could. His left hand was then fastened to my waist to keep me in place.

“We’re going to play ‘Uncle” tonight.” I remembered this game, and not particularly fondly. This has nothing to do with your mother’s goofy younger brother who sent offbeat gifts for holidays that only he celebrated. No, this uncle is a whole different trip.

Uncle, he reminded me, is a spanking game where he whacks my bottom until I concede by exclaiming, “Uncle.” I think this arrangement violates the basic tenets of our spanking relationship. He is supposed to be in control and decide when a spanking is over. Spankings should be positive experiences that we share together, not any sort of competition. I didn’t like this, and I told him so.

Randy noted my objections, but continued with his preparations. It kind of made me mad, having to take a spanking and be in control at the same time. I resolved to show him. And so, the trap was sprung.

“Just call ‘Uncle’ when you’ve had enough and I’ll stop,” He counseled me. Forget that, I thought. I’m not saying it.

And I didn’t! He swatted long and hard, over and over, with that cursed brush before eventually declaring my bottom to be too damaged to continue. He was worried that my skin would break, and I appreciate his concern. Yet, I hate that we had to get to this point. The cause was his insistence upon playing this dumb game and my bullheadedness and competitive streak. Boy it hurt!

We reconciled soon thereafter in the best possible way, but I am stuck with all these feelings. I know he didn’t mean for it to go that far. Randy just wanted, as he often does, to change things up.

I’m trying to figure out why I acted as I did. Had I just played along and called “Uncle” earlier in the proceedings, we would have had a nice toasty Friday evening spanking session. But I got ticked and stubborn. I wanted to prove to both of us how tough I am. Even more, I wanted to prove that I need him to be in control. Ultimately, that’s pretty much how it played out. I made my point, but in the process, I earned and received a well-deserved punishment spanking for my stubbornness.

Maybe that’s justice or as close as we’re going to get this weekend.

Reassertion

It's been coming for a long time, all summer in fact. 2021 has been one unpleasant blow after another. On June 29, the mercury reached 116 F degrees in what had always been our temperate paradise. Our aquatic wildlife is dying. Wildfires continue to destroy our precious forests. A lifelong friend finally succumbed after a long struggle with breast cancer. There are protests in the streets with little hope of resolution. Worries at work for Randy. An unexpected appliance replacement. Beloved businesses closing. And COVID. Damned COVID and the purveyors of death who actively promote its spread. If normalcy returns, it won’t be this year. It’s too much for me.

Spankings, even the serious kind, can’t fix everything, but I needed something to shake me out of my funk. I decided to ask Randy to help me, knowing full well what that could entail. The sort of spanking I needed was not the fun, sexy variety that I thoroughly enjoy. No, it had to be the opposite of that.

He readily agreed. We talked briefly and aligned our expectations. This had to be a session that I wouldn’t soon forget.

It began early on Saturday afternoon. He had delivered our weekly spanking the evening before. It hurt to be sure, but I felt no lasting effects the following day. Randy instructed me to go upstairs to our bedroom, strip completely naked, and sit on the bed. Already we diverged from the usual program. I complied. By the time I removed all of my clothes, I found myself shaking from a combination of nervousness and anticipation. It’s not fear, I told myself. Couldn’t be fear. And so, I waited.

My Prince Charming appeared after about ten minutes, but rather than dealing with me, he busied himself with setting up cameras, microphones, and lights. I wasn’t sure I wanted these very personal moments captured for eternity, but we had passed the point where I get to decide.

I wanted him to finish until he did finish and then I wanted him to go back to his gadgets. It’s funny how the mind works in moments of stress. He lined up the tools he would use to punish me. He placed them beside me in plain sight almost as a taunt. Would I chicken out? Would I freak out? Or would I close my eyes and just allow it to happen?

A solid wooden bath brush with an oval-shaped head. A pair of leather and fur cuffs. A tube of lubricant. A shiny black butt plug. A short length of plastic rope. Yeah, this was getting serious.

“Legs up,” he instructed as he lifted my ankles above my head as I flopped onto my back atop the bedspread. He placed a cuff over each ankle and strung the rope between them. He knotted the rope at each cuff to establish the maximum distance between them. Next, Randy handed me the two ends of the rope and told me to pull it tight and hold. I was now fully exposed and totally vulnerable.

Part of Randy’s head game is to convince me to be an active participant in my own punishment. Not only must I comply, not only do I consent, but I also have to contribute.

For a brief moment, before I faced the next test, my mind wandered to the cameras and how embarrassing it is to be captured this way. It only got worse when he inserted the plug all in one long slow push. I tried to relax my muscles, but it’s difficult to fight the natural urge to resist this intimate invasion.

So, there I was, in quite a predicament. I don’t think I was looking forward to the spanking, but I knew it was inevitable.

I wasn’t expecting a warm-up and I didn’t really get one, unless you consider hitting slightly less forcefully with that accursed brush. Many times it struck the stretched flesh of my lower bottom cheeks. This relentless stinging, throbbing, burning, aching pain fit my definition of a genuine punishment. It was way more intense than I like or want. But it was precisely what I needed, and I knew it, so I held my safeword in reserve. But did I scream repeatedly. Ow! He made my bottom hurt, a lot.

I thought we ought to be finished when he took a short break. But no, we weren’t. “I want you to count.” “Not fair,” I said under my breath. I was already hanging onto a rope and squeezing my battered butt cheeks so as to not lose the plug. Do I have to do everything? If he heard me, he didn’t acknowledge.

“One,” I blurted as the brush bruised my left cheek. “Two” quickly followed on the other side. Around ten, Randy began to torment me by calling out random numbers. As a result, I failed in my count several times resulting in extremely distressing upper thigh shots.

By the time he decided to conclude this corporal punishment ordeal, I had no idea what the count was or what it should be. My mind was muddled and my hindquarters were aflame. “OK, let’s get to the corner,” he said in a strangely matter of fact voice. I asked whether I could remove the plug, but he told me it was still very necessary.

I pushed myself up to a sitting position at the edge of the bed. He let me rest there for a moment to regain some semblance of bearings. The bedspread felt surprisingly rough against my skin. Next thing I knew, Randy was escorting me to the corner. He had me place my hands behind my back and hold the bath brush so it was visible for pictures. He moved the lights to better illuminate the source of my agony. Next, he had me bend over for some shots in that position.

After a while, I asked for permission to pee, and it was granted. I removed the plug so I could clean up. I was impressed by how marked my bottom was. I recognized that sitting was going to continue to be problematic for a while.

When I returned, Randy was packing up his equipment. I was happy to see it go. I was done. Well done, that is. I asked whether I could get dressed, and he said, “Sure.” Then he asked me to wait for him in the living room.

We sat on the couch and watched a football game. I lay across his lap, OTK style, with my skirt up as he rubbed soothing lotion into the areas that he just finished thrashing. After a while, I expressed my profound gratitude with lips, tongue, gums, and teeth.

This was a good spanking. It was a bad spanking. But most of all, it was a necessary spanking. A day later, I still see and feel the after effects – lightness, joy, optimism, clarity, contentment, and a double portion of soreness.

Quarantine Spankings

Our formula for the surviving the current pandemic involves equal measures of precaution, luck, and morale boosters. Randy and I are very fortunate to be able to continue working from home and we’ve managed to mostly avoid confined public spaces. We have been lucky so far. This post concerns those morale boosters, which are also known as spankings.

Way back in March, we each set up our own work space. I converted our dining room into an office where I can write. Randy installed a desk in one corner of our living room where he does his work. The two rooms are adjoining so while I can see him, we aren’t on top of each other (at least not while we’re working). It’s been a pretty good setup. Early on, we discussed converting our departed daughter’s room from a guest room to an office, but decided that we like being in relatively close proximity. We use ear buds for video meetings and to listen to music so any auditory distractions are manageable.

The other advantage to this arrangement is the ease with which we can partake in those morale boosters. Almost every workday, usually around the lunch hour, Randy will text me and ask whether I need a “break.” Sometimes, I have meetings or pressing assignments, but more often than not, I respond in the affirmative.

For all of our time together, until recently, spankings were a special occasion. Even if it was just a quickie before heading out on an adventure, getting my bottom toasted was a highlight of my day and my week. This wasn’t an event that I ever thought would be or even could be routine. But here we are.

I now wear skirts most days with a thong underneath to facilitate efficient spankings. After all, our time is limited. When the moment arrives, I position myself either bent over the back of the couch or less frequently, over his lap on the couch.

Randy keeps our trusty leather paddle on a side table beside the couch. This appears to be its new home. This particular semi-flexible implement has proven to be ideal for this scenario. We learned early on that most wooden implements are too severe for daily use. This paddle is the opposite of a pervertible. It’s an object that obviously can have only one purpose. We don’t get visitors, but if we did, anyone viewing that paddle on our table would immediate recognize that it’s there because someone gets her bottom beat with it. Happily, that someone is me.

Once I am in settled into position, Randy lifts my skirt, grabs the paddle, and asks, “Ready?” After I repeat the word as confirmation, our paddling begins. He starts with moderate intensity swats and gradually increases the strength as the spanking proceeds. My bottom hurts in a stinging way, but it also feels good. I’ve recorded my vocalizations and they sound like this:

          Ow! Ouch! Ooo! Ah! Yeow! Eek! Ack! No!

I might say “no,” but that doesn’t mean I want him to stop spanking me. I have a safeword for that. It means that the strikes are now arriving faster than I can process them.

And then suddenly, it’s over. Randy returns the paddle to its place of honor, rearranges my skirt, and helps me up. At this point, I feel small and a bit disoriented. My morale is definitely boosted, but wow. He hugs me as I bury my face into his strong chest. I rub my bottom to savor the residual soreness.

Next, we usually heat and consume a quick lunch. I escape to the bathroom to refresh my makeup, fix my hair and clothing, and check for any posterior marks (alas, no marks, just a bit of redness). Within a few minutes, I am back at work, sitting on an unforgiving dining room chair because Randy filched my cushion while I was in the bathroom. But it’s OK. I spend the afternoon in video meetings hiding a hint of smile. My husband spanked me and I love him. The discomfort is sadly short lived, but the good feelings carry me through until quitting time.

We still enjoy our more choreographed spanking adventures, especially on Friday evenings, and those remain a special part of our relationship. But this new opportunity has expanded our definition of what a good spanking can be. When (if?) we return to spending our days in our respective workplaces, I will miss these lunch breaks.

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!

A Saturday Conversation

This is a transcription of a digital voice recording of a spanking session that happened back in 2013. It has been lightly edited for clarity and brevity. I don’t recall why I didn’t post it then.

I know I haven't been around for a while. Randy and I have been overcome by the four horseman of the holidays – illness, over-commitment, fatigue, and distraction. But today is a good day. We skipped our standing date last night because we were both just too tired. But this morning was different. I love Saturday morning. It holds the promise of an entire weekend. Two whole days lie before us.

Randy asked me to turn on our digital recorder. Here's what we recorded, more or less.

R: Young lady, it's time for you to learn some discipline.

B: Did you bring your textbook?

R: Oh, yeah. (waving a stingy round wooden paddle)

B: That's a bad book. It has only one page and there's nothing written on it.

R: The lessons will be written on your bottom.

B: How please am I supposed to read that?

R: Don't worry, you'll get the message.

B: Discipline, huh?

R: Yes. Self-discipline

B: So am I going to have to spank myself?

R: No, I'm going to do the teaching. Get your clothes off.

B: (I briefly crooned a silly version of The Stripper while slowly wriggling out of my nightgown and panties. I finished by kicking my panties in Randy's general direction) Doo-doo-doo-dee-doo-doo-doooo.

R: You're beautiful, but you're still getting spanked.

B: (pouty face) You and your lessons.

R: Get over my lap. (I complied)

B: (rubbing begins) Mmmmm

R: You know I only spank you because I have to.

B: Bullshit. You love it.

R: No, it's true. If I didn't spank you every week, there's no telling what would happen to you.

B: Hrmpf

R: (spanking begins, lightly at first, but using the cool, smooth wooden paddle)

B: Ow. Ow. Ow. (this is starting to hurt)

R: (now smacking the paddle against my bottom with a steady rhythm and alternating sides)

B: Aaaaaaack. Ahhhh.

R: Now you’re getting the point.

B: Point? Ouch!

R: Yeah, the point is that you need some discipline – right here on your ass.

B: Point? I think that toys with points are a hard limit for me.

R: (Whack!) You know what I mean.

B: Aaaaah! I know it hurts... a lot.

R: Good. I’m finally pleased I’m getting through to you.

B: OK, OK.

R: (more swats follow)

B: Ow. Ow. (and so on)

The recorder was switched off at this point. Spanking play blended into a different sort of fun thereafter.

Benchmarks

This is not a Christmas story, but it is a new spanking story that captures some Christmas week fun.

          Two words: cheer leader

That was the text message I received from Randy the other day. I was at work. We had been talking about how best to commemorate MBS's ten millionth page request. I was in a meeting. It was all I could do to not blush. I knew precisely what he meant, or at least I thought I did.

After the meeting, I texted him back.

          What's the second word?

He should know that cheerleader is just one word.

          Paddled!

I had to ask, didn't I?

          6:30

I had my marching orders. I left work at the end of the day and upon arriving home began my preparations. I tied my hair into pigtails emerging from either side of my head. I collected the pieces of my cheerleader uniform – a red sweater with a big white W on the front, a red and white pleated skirt, matching red cheerleader briefs, and white footies with little red pom-poms at the back. Randy loves the naughty cheerleader routine. Truth be known, so do I!

As I donned my costume for the evening, I couldn't avoid recounting the memories of past encounters with my inner cheerleader. The skirt was clearly intended for someone without my mature hips. When I bend over, most of my panty-covered bottom is visible. I knew from experience that neither the flimsy nylon cheer panties nor the cotton thong hidden beneath would offer any meaningful protection once the spanking began.

I checked myself in the mirror (twice), went to the bathroom, read e-mail, and paced the floor in anticipation of my man's arrival. Waiting to be spanked is much worse than any spanking. I had visions of a friendly neighbor stopping to share a cookie surplus and finding instead an oddly nervous little rah-rah granny.

When Randy finally arrived, he was all business. He takes celebrations seriously, especially if spanking is involved. He kissed me and then told me to go upstairs to our bedroom. He said he would be up in a minute.

True to his word, he trudged up the steps shortly after I did. When he entered the room, I was seated on the bed and displaying my best naughty teen pout.

“Bon, I understand that you've been spending too much time on spanking blogs.”

“Too much?” I ad-libbed, “How much time is too much?”

“You've achieved it, young lady.” Shivers passed through me. I adore that authoritative tone.

Randy sat next to me and stared into my eyes. He gently grasped my chin between his thumb and forefinger. His sudden physical closeness and formality was a bit unnerving.

“You know, of course, that I am going to have to spank you.”

“Yes, I know,” I murmured with head bowed.

“All right, then. Get over my lap.” I complied.

As soon as my torso came to rest atop his thighs, his heavy hand began falling on my bottom. What followed was a vigorous, stinging hand spanking. I voiced my discomfort, but it was a delicious scene. As he smacked alternating cheeks, he told me how he thought that girls who spend their days talking about spankings on the internet need a dose of reality.

“Every time you sit down tomorrow, you're going to remember what being spanked is all about. This is no fantasy. It's just my hand and your butt.”

This man presses every one of my buttons.

In time, he tired of spanking and lecturing. He helped me up from his lap.

“Now we are ready for the main event. In commemoration of ten million hits, you are going to receive ten pops from the paddle. Bend over and put your hands on the bed.”

I did as he commanded, but I was very curious to see what sort of paddle he would retrieve from our toy chest. We have an extensive collection ranging from hideous to sweet.

“Eyes forward... Are you ready?”

I couldn't see what he was wielding, but I was certain I would soon feel it.

“Yes,” I conceded.

Rather than swinging the paddle, though, Randy stopped to caress me through my uniform. He clearly liked the feel of my breasts through the sweater, and especially, the warmth of my freshly spanked globes through those silky red briefs. His roaming fingers, the spanking, the uniform, and his voice all conspired to build my arousal.

“OK, I need you to stay in position. I do not want to miss. Count them out for me please.”

Smack! “One,” I squealed with surprise as the blow was considerably harder than I anticipated. I judged that he was swinging a fairly large wooden paddle, but by no means the worst.

Smack! “Two.” The second swat was even harder than the first.

We continued with this disciplinary call and response until ten nearly full force swats had been delivered. There was no more lecturing, just workmanlike paddling. I didn't lose count, though I felt my knees buckle involuntarily a couple times. Overall, I handled my session very well. At least that's what Randy told me afterward.

When I played back the audio recording in preparation for writing this story, I was surprised by how much I shrieked. Wooden paddles really hurt! In fact, just as he predicted, I was sore a day later.

When the paddling was over, Randy lifted me back to my feet and enveloped me in a big hug. As I snuggled my head into his chest, I felt at peace. After a few minutes, he invited me to go to the mirror and admire my marks. He knows I love that part of the ritual. My sit spots looked very red and even had a hint of a possible bruise on the outside of my right cheek. This was a memorable spanking befitting a momentous occasion.

Randy took great delight in stripping off my cheerleader uniform one article at a time. His enthusiasm was unmistakable. Now clad in only a gray sports bra, the short pleated skirt, and footies, I was positioned in a kneeling position on the bed. He then bent me over again, but not for paddling this time. I welcomed his overture and we enjoyed a very satisfying completion.

So, there you have it. My ten million page cheerleader paddling was a wonderful success. Thanks again to all of you who made it possible.

Happy holidays from Randy and Bonnie!

Friday Evening at Home

I haven't shared a good spanking story in ages. Given that this is the whole point of MBS, that's a real shame. It's not for lack of stories to tell, I just get busy. These events transpired on Friday evening during our weekly fun time. I used the recorder to capture our dialogue, though the best parts involved very little talking.

As usual, I arrived home a couple of hours before Randy. This is a good arrangement most days because it gives me an opportunity to catch up on housework, fix some dinner, and check in at the blog. On Fridays, however, I often use this time to prepare for the evening's scheduled percussive festivities. What's funny is that I can plan only for myself. I generally have no idea what he has in mind. Sometimes, I suspect he doesn't either before it happens. My challenge is to provide suitable visual, auditory, olfactory, culinary, and tactile inspiration.

After a relaxing shower, I started by laying out a fairly tight plain white sweater. This is a versatile top in that it can be girlish, trampy, or businesslike, depending upon the rest of the outfit. I slid it over a padded über-bra (hey, I can pretend to have ample boobs).

For my lower half, I started with a silky pair of full white nylon briefs. Randy loves this style because it reminds him of what many girls and women wore back in the sixties. Next came a pale pink garter belt and dark tan stockings. I actually remembered to put on the garter belt underneath. I know what he likes. Atop this layer, I added a red pleated skirt. With the hem at mid-thigh, it felt pretty short.

Peering in my full length mirror, I liked what I saw, but I couldn't decide how to finish the look. What exactly was I going for? Each part worked fine, but the assembled whole seemed a little, well, disjointed. The stockings ruined the schoolgirl. The panties ruled out a stripper. Maybe a hot but slightly retro secretary... Yes, that was it! I added an old pair of plastic eyeglasses and overdid my make-up just a little. Next came a shiny black belt and matching pumps. A naughty office assistant stared back at me from behind the mirror. This would work just great.

It was still almost an hour before Randy was due to arrive. I had time to prepare the stage, but I wondered what I should do. I wanted to avoid interfering with any of his fiendish plans. Sometimes, he gives me a hint about his intentions, but this day I had nothing to go on.

I lit a vanilla-scented candle in the living room. I knew he'd like that. I turned on the air conditioning so we would be comfortable once things warmed up. I carried two paddles down from the bedroom. One was a semi-rigid roundish leather model. The other was our wooden teardrop paddle. Both are quite familiar and very effective. I removed two small portraits from the wall near the kitchen and replaced them with the two paddles neatly suspended from their respective cords. Randy had seen this little decorating trick before, but not recently.

I briefly considered burning some popcorn in the microwave to create an offense for my ill-behaved secretary, but I decided that stench would clash with the sweet candle in a most unpleasant way. No, we would have to invent something else.

Just about then, I heard the garage door opening one floor below. Randy was home. A wave of anxious anticipation passed through me. I ran into the lavatory, quickly rearranged my hair, and doubled checked my look. Sooner than I expected, I detected the unmistakable thuds of my man trudging up from the basement.

When the basement door opened, there he was. He paused for a moment as if to assess the meaning behind my appearance. His eyebrows raised in unison as a wry smile crossed his face.

“I'm ready for my dictation, sir,” I chirped with appropriate emphasis on the most important syllable.

“All in good time, my dear,” he replied. “First, I think we need to perform your performance evaluation.”

Oooo, he's good, I thought. He excused himself to use the bathroom while I pondered the events to come. I sat on the love seat hopeful that Randy might soon join me.

Naturally, his plan was a bit different. His idea of a performance evaluation involved me standing behind the love seat and bending over the back of it. At the urging of my Prince Charming, I placed my forearms on the seat of the couch. Quite by design, I'm sure, my bottom was way up in the air and completely vulnerable.

It was about this time that I realized that he hadn't even kissed me yet. I rationalized that kissing was probably fairly rare in real performance evaluations. So was spanking, I supposed, but that didn't stop Randy for even a moment.

“What a vision of perfection," he crowed as he unwrapped his human gift. Up went my skirt.

“Someone conveniently hung up two paddles just in case a spanking was necessary. How thoughtful!”

“So is this my performance evaluation?” I teased.

“No, but we will begin shortly.”

I clenched my teeth in anticipation of that first crashing swat.

But it didn't come, at least not immediately. Instead, Randy's palm caressed the taut fabric of my traditional white panties. His fingers assayed my lower curves and traced the gusset line. He rubbed the back of his hand repeatedly against the thin, smooth nylon covering.

Perhaps he was simply enjoying this exploration, but it had the effect of lulling me into misplaced confidence. When I wiggled my bottom in response to his touch, he slapped it hard across both cheeks.

“Young lady, your work of late has been below our standards. I could easily fire you, but spanking you is totally more fun.” I cracked up with this line, but he continued, now mixing friendly pats with stinging swats.

“Besides, if I fired you, who would get the spankings around here?”

It must have been a rhetorical question because he never answered it. Next, he grabbed the leather paddle and began spanking in earnest. Had anyone come to our front door, they surely would have heard the unmistakable sounds of corporal punishment. The swats reverberated throughout the room and my reactions were nearly as loud. I didn't care because the pulsating heat generated by the paddle seared into my very soul. I love being spanked because of the way it makes me feel – sexy and ravenous for his love.

“I can see we're getting nowhere this way,” my husband chided. I might have wanted to disagree, but before I could say a word, my bottom was bared. Now wielding wood, he assaulted my skin with fast, firm strokes. I screeched with pain but no relief was forthcoming. Were my head clear, I might have contemplated employing my safeword, but by this stage, I was simply experiencing each moment.

Despite the intensity, or perhaps because of it, Randy soon moved on to other pursuits. He dragged my panties all the way down and silently invited me to step out of them. After I did, he guided my legs apart and explored my wetness with his skillful digits. I was soon panting and imploring him to finish what he had started. He certainly did. His pleasure piston left me gasping and grabbing fistfuls of the pillow. As he worked, his fingers kneaded my scarlet flesh as if to renew my spanked glory. It was a satisfying soreness that drove me to the crest and beyond.

---

Well, I did get that kiss, but not until after Randy asked me what I wanted for dinner. When you live with a man, you take the good with the bad. On this evening, the good was outstanding. Thank you, my love, for a wonderful spanking!

The Beauty Treatment

Here's an amusing spanking snippet from Friday evening. When I remember to activate our little recorder device, I often pick up dialogue that I would not otherwise have accurately recalled.

I was lying across Randy's lap at the edge of our bed. The hem of my skirt was around my chest and my panties were bunched up at mid-thigh. Randy had just completed several minutes of tribute to my rounded bareness through the vigorous application of a small, firm leather paddle.

It hurt, of course. My spankings always do. But it was a warm, sweet, stinging sort of ouch, and the kind I crave every so often. The accompanying physical contact made the experience better still.

So there I was, thoroughly spanked, but in position for more if he determined that was appropriate. I didn't know at the time whether this was a break in the spanking or the beginning of foreplay.

R: Y'know, Bon, you have the perfect bottom. (He kissed me right where he had just been paddling moments before).

B: Mmmmm

R: Nature made you to be spanked. Look here (tracing with his hands). Your bottom is the place where you are the widest right to left. It's also where you are deepest front to back...

B: So I have a big butt.

R: Well, uh...

B: It's OK. I know.

R: (recovering now) These curves are just magnificent, a work of art. How could I not want to touch you and spank you?

B: Did you ever think that my big bottom could be my body's natural defense against years of spankings?

R: So that would mean... Oh! If I spank you harder and more often, you will become even more beautiful! What a cool concept!

B: Ow! Ow!

R: It's a win-win proposition.

B: That's not what I... Yeeow!

R: We could make a lot of money with this new system.

B: (now laughing and yelping both)

R: I think it only really works with hard swats.

B: Aaaaaah!

R: Your beauty is rising before my eyes.

B: Ohhhhhh...

I can assure you that I was quite “beautiful” in his eyes before the evening was concluded.

I later mentioned to Randy the upcoming male holiday, Steak and a BJ Day. He had heard of it. His comment was, “I don't need a steak.”

I think the best spankings are those that involve the element of fun.

The Spanko Files: Jim and Scout

I would like to share with you the story of Scout and her husband Jim. What I am about to present is by no means the whole story because they are just getting started in the world of recreational spanking. However, it’s a fine beginning, and one that may prove instructive for those who follow in their footsteps.

I first became aware of Scout when she inquired whether I had any ideas that might help convince her husband to spank her as she desired. My semi-serious response was posted as Fifty Reasons to Spank Your Wife or Girlfriend.

Scout was pleased with these suggestions, and responded as follows:

I, too, am a 40+ year old woman, and I’ve been married for 17+ years to a wonderful man. Like you and so many others, I've had a preoccupation with spanking for as long as I can remember. Over the years, I've brought it up to Jim, but he's only ever responded with a few light taps. Those were frustrating to me, and his unwillingness to spank longer and harder reinforced my conviction that what I craved was deviant and wrong. Well, one of the wonders and joys of turning 40 is that you don't care so much what other people think. I grew comfortable with knowing that this was something I needed, that it was just intrinsically part of me. More importantly, I have the wonder and joy of a loving marriage with a soul mate. We are good at recognizing that when we are losing connection, we have to heighten it. I knew I had to tell him, in plainer language than I'd used in the past. Your site has been tremendously helpful in finding that language. Things are proceeding apace, I am happy to report. The pace is deliberate, to be sure, as his travel schedule, our house guests, our three children, and eroticism-antidote, stomach flu (a different family member every four or five days) all impinge on our ability to indulge in play. We had a stumble when an attempt wasn't right, but since then, we've had great talks and laughs. Yes, he is bemused by my request, but he is also willing to give it a try, and a re-try. We've had one successful "ice-breaker" paddling. We're going to build on that, and I know it's only going to get more natural and fun for both of us.

That seemed like an excellent beginning and I told her so. Over the next few weeks, Scout and I exchanged several e-mails in which we discussed some of the finer points of this lifestyle. Then, last week, she sent this message with the subject “Good News.”

Thank you for corresponding with me over the last few weeks. You have been most helpful :-) and I have some good news to report. It may even help others like me. My husband, Jim, has traveled a lot this winter and spring. On one of his trips away in March, we were sending each other suggestive and flirty emails. In one of them, I owned up to indulging my spanking fetish by Googling the word "spanking" on the web. I was amazed by what I'd found. Many others shared my fantasies, which I'd always thought were peculiar to me. I worried I had some self-esteem issues or needed counseling because of my fantasies. Also, I had asked Jim to spank me before, but he was reluctant. He did it a few times, but it was only a few light taps that were more frustrating than satisfying. The stories, advice, and accounts on your blog encouraged me to talk more plainly with him. He was bemused, mostly, but welcoming of the spicy talk. He read some, too, and gave me the task of acquiring a paddle. I found Adam and Gillian's site and got the leather "hairbrush" paddle, in burgundy. Well, we had one bad experience. Though I thought I had conveyed what I wanted pretty well, he somehow thought I was asking for something different. We don't have to go into it, but we definitely needed to talk some more, which we did. I should say, we have been married or together for more than 18 years, and luckily we move on from things really well. The downside to the bad experience was that Jim was again reluctant to spank. He thought the paddle was too much. When he went away again, I found a lighter, smaller paddle online (the hickory "little zinger" from Walt). And, curious because I'd seen your dogleg brush depicted on your site so many times, I found one exactly like it, too. I ordered both implements. Jim got home. One of the good things about his being away is that we always have fun phone calls and send provocative emails. He was charmed by the new toys. I told him we had to have an "ice-breaker" paddling, so that he could see he wasn't truly hurting me and that I wanted him to do this. We went into a closet off of our bathroom (we had house guests and were worried about noise) and I gave him the leather paddle that he's so wary of. I told him we didn't even have to do pants down, that we could start slowly, but to my delight he grinned and said that wearing anything was definitely not an option. He bent me over his thigh and gave me about five or six firm swats with the paddle, keeping an eye on my skin. He thought that modest amount, which turned me dark pink, would surely still be visible the next morning, or that I'd be bruised (I wasn't). Surprisingly, to both of us, I think, he was obviously aroused by the experience (as naturally was I) and what followed was truly wonderful. The next time, it was Jim's turn to surprise me. He packed the two paddles away in his closet and put the wooden brush in his nightstand drawer. From the drawer, he extracted nipple clamps! Oh well. It's about indulging each other, right? I actually don't find them objectionable at all, and find they add to the absurdity/fun/kink. We are true newbies. He has spanked me a grand sum total of three times, each with a combination of his hand and the brush. He favors having me lie on the bed over pillows. For a guy who never used to spank hard, he lays it on pretty authoritatively now. We're still working things out (warm-ups, please!), but everything is progressing in a positive, fun, and very satisfying way. Each time is better than the last. For others, I would say one thing that really helps is talking about it in a way that emphasizes the fantasy nature of it. I am way more "into" whatever scenario he spins now that he is indulging what I've long fantasized about. Most of what he says (all?) will never come true, but I am also making an effort to do the things I know he really appreciates (the thing they all appreciate, LOL). Our sex life has never been better, and we've heightened our connection to one another. Thank you, and your blogging friends, for your humor and sage advice. I've been a lurker on several sites, and owe a debt of gratitude to Todd and Suzy, Cassie (and Tom!), Ceeci (and Mojo), Paul, Abel and Haron, Tiggr (and Dante), and others.

As we were subsequently discussing the possibility of adapting her account for "The Spanko Files," Scout offered this brief status report.

Things here continue to get better. The night after I sent this account, I found myself across Jim's lap. He was doing his new husbandly duty, commenting with a chuckle, "I am certainly more confident doing this!" We are having fun and our biggest worry is noise.

So, there you have have it. Excellent advice and insight from the front lines of a successful vanilla partner conversion. I might not have suggested that dogleg brush for beginners, but Jim and Scout are obviously doing quite well with it.

Scout has assured me that she will provide occasional updates. I look forward to following their progress, cheering their discoveries, and celebrating their continued happiness.

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