NOTE · 4 MIN READ

It is an unusual ritual, a convergence of feelings that are both physical and emotional. The anticipation is the best part, the spanking itself is socially and physically awkward, and there is a sense of foolishness and disappointment afterward.

I found Jeff’s ad on a website of advertisement and we exchanged email for a couple of weeks before arranging a meeting at his place while his male partner was out. His lover is not interested in spanking, and so he is very discrete. And one afternoon I found myself driving to an unfamiliar part of town and knocking on a strange door that would be opened by a man who would have me naked over his lap within a few minutes. You never know what you will discover.

In this case a trim man, somewhat younger than myself, appeared more nervous than me. We shook hands and walked into the dinning room of the townhouse and made very small talk. I don’t really want to know these people, nor they me. It is a secret pleasure that we distribute, not guilty as much as necessarily hidden. No need for our other lives to intersect, but a certain desperation for this anonymous and very specific meeting. We had a glass of water and I helped him move the dining room table back so a straight backed chair could be placed centrally in an open area.

There is no protocol to start. I asked him if he preferred just my pants down or all my clothes off. I didn’t care and I feel better about getting spanked if the person doing it gets their own kind of pleasure from it. The bottom has the better part of the deal. They can be abandoned, they can let themselves go in submission whereas the top all the time has to think about what to do next, are they hard enough or too hard, how much longer. He preferred naked, and so I took off my clothes which is embarrassing in front of a man. He wanted to stare, but looked away and watched me obliquely. I wanted a hard spanking; he was the instrument and I couldn’t object to his spin on the interaction.

When I was completely naked, he sat down and I asked if he spanked right or left handed. He looked as if the question had never occurred to him and then said, “Left.” It makes a difference. For a left handed spanker your bottom should present on his left side. I draped myself over his lap, supporting myself with my hands. My feet touched the ground. It is a position that is great for children, but adults are really too big; still there is that humbling effect of having your bottom up in the air. It is better for adults to do it on a couch or bed where the legs and torso can be supported. Jeff usually does it that way, but since I was straight, he wondered it would be more congenial in the straight-backed dining room chair space. I think he was right.

I shifted position a bit and he ran his hand down my back and over my bottom. I couldn’t see him or what he was doing, but knew that he was looking me over and enjoying what he saw. He probably was thinking that it was a better ass and body than he had expected to walk through his door. I think he likes guy butt the way I like girl butt and it was the same kind of pleasure and wonder I would have felt having a young woman over my lap presenting for chastisement. One doesn’t have many moves, but within the limits of the position I untensed my bottom and stuck it out. It is subtle, but a feeling of letting go, of offering and accepting.

His first smacks were disappointingly gentle. I think they were pretty hard, they sounded loud, but I imagine that I will be overwhelmed by the spanking and it never happens. I stay lucid, as it were. He continued for a few minutes, getting faster and harder. I was warming up and he was loosening up too. I started to shift around, it was harder to keep my bottom open and presented and not clench it and withdraw from his blows. I wanted it to hurt enough that I could stop thinking, but that doesn’t happen.

What goes on in the head, my head at least is a conflict. Once you are being spanked or whipped, you are disappointed that you can take what is being dished out, and afraid that it will escalate beyond what you can stand; as if a bit of common sense intrudes.

It was an odd feeling, distant and alienated mentally, I could not see my tormentor nor get a sense of what he was thinking. I was afraid to cry out or react too much less it inhibit him, but I couldn’t ask for it harder either. His blows continued to ring out and I thought how much longer it would last. He had reached around with his free hand and grabbed the tip of my penis which was only partially erect. I had masturbated earlier, it makes me more sensitive to the pain than I would be if sexual arousal was mixed it. I think this was a disappointment for him.

He stopped and rubbed my ass which was quite red and warm. He was enjoying that, and I welcomed the respite and relaxed into it. His rubbing pulled my cheeks aside and I knew he was looking at my asshole. I didn’t mind. I wish I could have offered it to his pleasure, but while I like to have it penetrated, I am not intimate with men, that has no allure.

He took the watch off his right wrist and pushed me into a more secure position and started in again, much harder and faster with both hands. It was impossible to keep my bottom open and offered. I squirmed and clenched and pushed with my feet and moved higher over his lap. But he was unrelenting. It must have been a good sight, and although I felt in control; I clearly was not. Tears filled my eyes (not crying tears), I was sweating. He took care to place some strikes right in the middle and I felt them on my asshole. That felt like several things at once, like he knew that I knew he was playing with that secret part, and I liked that he would acknowledge it. And he hit over and over again on the softest part and I would have to raise a leg and try to climb off his lap, but he held me tight and kept on going.

He was getting tired and would stop from time to time to and rub and caress my ass. It felt good. Then back at hitting it. The whole encounter lasted 30 minutes and I didn’t want any more by the time he was finished. I was worried that I would be bruised, but by the next day there was no trace of the encounter other than being a bit sore.

It was once more awkward when I got up. As long as I was over his lap we were each in our own space, playing our roles. It seemed like there should have been some concluding ritual. Thanking him, standing in the corner, getting buttfucked, whatever. There was a little talk, how red my butt was, how red his hand was, how much my butt could take. I evidently have a fairly high tolerance. Then I was out in the bright sun, driving away, reflecting on the experience, already thinking about the experiences to come.

It is a let down. My ass was very warm, and the memory of the posture was fresh. But it never quite gives the promised release.