Last night I was handspanked. Not for any reason but because it seemed like a good idea. Paul had promised it early in the day but bedtime had come, complete with clean sheets on the bed, and I slid between them not feeling disappointed. It had been a good day.
Paul came in and urged me out of bed. As it always seems when it comes time for a spanking, it suddenly seemed all quiet in the neighborhood. I mentioned that it was kind of late. Paul said there was no one to hear (meaning my dad and mom). I mentioned our upstairs neighbors — God knows we hear what they’re doing on their bed often enough — I cringed but wasn’t surprised when Paul replied that he didn’t care whether they heard or not.
Fine. So he doesn’t care what the people upstairs think. I tried to relax and put them out of my mind figuring it would be easier if I didn’t care either. This was a nice spanking in that I was arranged comfortably on the bed, my head resting on my arms. I had visions of a blissful spanking where I was brave and sexy and all that. That’s not the way it goes for me though, part of me has to struggle to escape, has to feel subdued somehow. I wish that weren’t the case, but there it is. Before he started, Paul pinned my legs with one of his and wrapped his left arm tight around me. I focused on breathing, reminding myself this would just be a handspanking.
Just a handspanking but Paul has a heavy hand. Even though my panties the first few smacks stung. The thing about a hand spanking, especially one through ones panties is it feels pretty whimpy to complain about it. So I tried not to whimper and was just getting to the point where it all seemed bearable when I felt his hands tugging my panties down. I’ve made the argument in the past that I should get to keep them up because it hurts just as much through them, but honestly that’s not the case. That thin layer of cotton protection acts as a sting baffle. When it’s removed the smacks feel sharper and burn more.
I struggled a bit and then something in my brain relaxed. I could feel my body stretch out, welcoming the spanks, trying to match my curves to his hand. It still hurt, but only in a good way. I felt powerful as a bottom/submissive/spankee/whatever and was sure there was nothing that Paul could do to me that I couldn’t accept, no pain I couldn’t embrace. These feelings are rare for me no matter what’s being used, but it was the first time it had happened from a handspanking.
Part of me wanted it to go on and on.
But it was late. I wasn’t feeling crazy so didn’t ask for the hairbrush or anything more painful, instead relishing my bottom’s gentle throbbing soreness. The lotion afterwards felt lovely — everything felt lovely.
And then… and then… and then it was over. Nothing dramatic. Just a hand spanking.