This is a true account, told a few days after the event.
'Patience is a virtue' so we are told. And I agree - to a point. But there comes a time when that very patience becomes a gentle descent into a gnawing need, passing through layers until settling into determination, a desire for positivity and the recognition of identity. Did you know that identity is smothered by obligations and commitments?
I don't know what was different about that morning, I had the usual thoughts intruding into others but this time a feeling accompanied them, a very strong feeling. Before the routine began there must be a suggestion, a hint of how I was feeling and then a plan could be made. Devious? I don't think so. Encouragement is how I like to think of it. Honesty, possibly, name it what you will.
An email was sent. Few words but they said enough, I don't need to spell it out. The timing was quite clearly perfect, the impulse to act on instinct shouldn't always be ignored. Those few words encompassed all, every touch, every expression and certainly all my emotions and need. So why shouldn't I send them? You responded and agreed, why hadn't I told you before now?
The entrance to my home is invisible, it doesn't exist. I don't want it to. It's a barrier that has to be opened, I don't want to open that door and invite you in politely, as with other visitors. The right to enter is yours and symbolises the relationship, essential for me and the beginning.
It's been some time since I last saw you, you and I needed to make the connection and remember. Distance does that, it breaks security and ease. So I search your face and see the same features, I hear the same voice and know the feel of your touch. I relax. Now we could begin.
A sweeping look of the clothes I was wearing, not quite to your satisfaction. Deliberately so, I stand guilty of provocation, a slight test for reaction and reassurance of the roles. I wanted a silent acknowledgment in your face to arrive before the words were spoken and I wanted to smile.
The top button was unfastened with the tie askew, sleeves rolled up, not good enough. I knew that. I was told to put them right I wasn't supposed to be "trendy", then to turn round. The urge to push myself into you was irresistible, and well worth the slap on my bottom that made me feel like a child.
I didn't know that wearing a bra wasn't expected, 'schoolgirls' don't wneed bras apparently, it had to be removed to complete the look. Why does modesty show its face now? The inherent compulsion to turn my back to you while I fumbled with the buttons. An impulse to yank it off and throw it on the floor, kick it into a corner and glare. It was laid on the seat and I stood back up to face you. Coward, coward.
Two canes, ineffectual when resting quietly, they still scare me. One light and stingy, the other - a brute. Which one first for 'six of the best'? A small table gave support, knickers pulled down and then the wait while my world shrank into those two spaces occupied by you and me and a treacherous mind. Clever cells, they knew when to submit.
The cane is like no other, the pain leaves the rattan and hides in the muscles, before exploding into every nerve, sinking deeply, spreading outwards until returning to a line of fire that's waiting to be joined with others. They hurt, the first always do and demand concentration until absorbed into the mind. Only then comes acceptance and the journey into that trance-like state, dismissing thought and speech. Those stripes please you, therefore, both of us. I can bear your touch - this time, it soothes and comforts.
Was it then that you told me to kneel? Unfasten your belt and take down the covering that was hiding what I knew I must take in my mouth. Must? To feel silky skin in my throat? To swirl a ready tongue around delicate folds? No words from you now, just a steady watching. Such a willing penance.
I watch you walking around the room and into the next. Searching for something? I thought I had spoken, asked you the question that would stop your prowling. Clearly not. A chair? I found you a chair and placed it down in front of you and no matter how much I craved what was to come next, the humiliation is still hard to bear until it releases me to pleasure. I am told to stand to the side of you and remove my knickers. Your words wash over me, I obey by instinct.
To be taken over your knee is the very core of me and, try as I might, I can never explain that peace I feel when your thighs are under my body. The urge to squirm is overwhelming, wetness betrays me. It will never be a punishment in my mind, you have never spanked me in anger, it is, after all, a game and meant to be enjoyed. But body and mind conflict in greed, each demanding satisfaction through pain. For now, the mind is winning and if I were a cat, the room would echo with purrs.
The first slaps are kind, your words wash over me and I agree with everything you say, an automatic response, detachment has arrived with the caning and speech needs concentration. So I listen to the sounds, not understanding but taking comfort from your voice and lay there, contented.
A shift in my position, you move me and pin my legs with yours. A glimmer of confusion until the next spank is felt, hard and firm. My hand flies back in response and is pinned. My bottom is well heated and I learned that sometimes 'playing' can be real. I don't know how many you had decided I deserved, it was a spanking, unique to me.
"It's time you were fucked."
I was knelt in an armchair, my head touching the seat. I don't remember walking there. Memories of movement are replaced by pictures. Slides of snapshots jumping from one to the other, the brain saving only what it wants to keep.
You taught me to enjoy anal sex, but first, lubrication is necessary, the use of natural wetness that will aid entry. Slowly, easily, you push into me and you fuck me. Yes, with the "long, luxurious strokes" you had promised in the beginning. Now the room does echo with sound, mine. Groans of pleasure that I take as reward. Yours is next.
Again you speak but I'm deaf. You rock against me and enter where a 'submissive' should be fucked. Again, the room is filled with moans but now yours join mine and I hear you come. Another joy.
Rest. Flick the invisible switch and close the door on that other room, for now.
I make you coffee and we share a cigarette. Conversation is light and laughter comes easily. Your humour and mischief makes me laugh. The respite is needed for fun of a different kind, another connection that cements the other. I need to hear you talking about other matters, it tells me so much and reinforces the trust between meetings. I listen, very carefully, to your responses and enjoy the conversation.
You have decided to reopen the door. Without words, you move and I feel myself slipping back. Another slide, a different snapshot.
I am told to bend over the arm of the same chair, it's time for the 'brute' and to count the strokes.
That cane is duplicitous, it makes you forget the agony it inflicts from one meeting to the next. And, no matter, the length of time between each, it could be hours, minutes or weeks, it dons a virginal disguise.
The safe haven my mind has taken me to flees and leaves me, quite alone, to the cane's mercy. My only consolation is that it will return, ten-fold. Until then I place my trust in your expertise, knowing that you are in control. The pain is overwhelming, it rushes to each limb and dilutes. But not for long. It speeds back to its source and forces that stripe deeply inwards, spreading outwards and takes shelter there. I count, but not for long, coherent speech does not marry well with a detached mind.
Now I am a mass of emotions, catapulting from one to the other, ruled by your skill with the cane. The speed of the cuts changing to confuse my brain until you stop. Rubbing my throbbing cheeks does not offer ease. Was it then I had to "find a corner"? How can a corner of a room be so impossible to find? And why does the sequence of events juggle themselves and yet the basis stay still?
The chair is a familiar resting place now. It has become accustomed to a female form resting over its arms. I strain to hear your movements, a clue to what was happening. And then, dear man, a longed for sound. A belt being removed from your waist and in fascination, I watched it folded to the exact length you wanted.
There is no deep-rooted reason inside me why I need to be punished with a belt. I was never belted as a child, no memories drive me. Simply put, to me, it is a sign of masculinity that intends to overpower and, as a female, I submit willingly to its raw intentions. My psyche demands it without question. Those hard stings are welcome, completely different to the touch of a cane and accompanied with a separate mind-space that falls into a recognition of maleness and strength, but not to mistaken for inequality.
And the unexpected finale. You asked me if I'd had enough punishment to ensure future good behaviour. Twice you listened to the wrong answer, it wasn't what you thought, it was my decision. The answer was transmitted to my voice and the words escaped. Not enough. I wanted to take this further into a slightly different realm and would not be content until it was satisfied.
I got my wish.
The last tier of pain invited the rest in unity. I didn't count but the last was the hardest I had ever encountered and, again, I learned something new about myself.
You had to leave, understandably so, life was intruding and must be dealt with. I watched you drive away, and smiled.