Spanking

People who aren’t into spanking could be forgiven for thinking that the whole thing looks a tad painful. Harsh smacks on the bare bottom. Occasional whimpers punctuating the sighs. The sound of stinging whacks on flesh.

Ouch.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. And there’s a delicious kind of spanking that comes not with a squeal and a sting but with calmness and closeness. It’s almost… snuggly? I hate that word. But I love the feeling: squashed tight against someone with my arse exposed, their fingers digging hard into my naked flesh.

Over the knee spankings. Those ones you read about sometimes in books from before the war. The naughty individual is taken over the knee and given a few stern whacks to teach them a lesson. But it’s not always about punishment: sometimes an over the knee spanking works far more like a treat.


I’m not, generally, a fan of massage. I’ve known only one guy who can give me a massage in a way that makes me squirm with delight rather than go stiff and twitchy and ask him politely to stop. But the closest analogy I can think of for a calm, OTK spanking is massage. That moment when someone puts their hands on you and your stresses melt away – causing a sudden and urgent need to lie drooling in a pile.

Some days it’s all I need, and I don’t quite realise it’s what I need until I get it. His hand firmly gripping my wrist, pulling me in one swift movement across his lap. The warmth spreading through my thighs as they press against his. A few words:

“Do you need a spanking?”

Need.

Weird word, but the right one. Usually, by eight in the evening or so, I do need a spanking. Not in the punishment sense – I haven’t been a very bad girl. I need a spanking because I’ve been a good girl. Because I’ve spent the day writing and pitching and cleaning and cycling and going over and over the list in my head of all the things I still haven’t got round to.

I need it because I made it and I’m spent. Because I need something to mark the end of the day.

Because I want to feel his hot hands on my skin, and I want to feel them hard. Not a stroke or a kiss or a squeeze: a smack.

Firm.

Hard.

Warm.

Not painful, just solid. More thoroughly and completely there than a gentler touch.

I like the position too. Being held firmly over his lap. Feeling his body squashed tight against mine. The delicious, silky sensation of his fingers slipping down below the waistband of my trousers, then my knickers. Sliding them down to expose my bum. It’s a weird mixture of vulnerability and safety: I’m exposed but he’s holding me close.

And he smacks his palm against me – gently for the first few, then harder until it builds gradually to that sweet spot. Thuddy, without too much sting. A whack rather than a smack. Not whipping his hand away as soon as it’s made contact, but leaving it there on the skin – resting against the blooming warmth of the red mark beneath it.

Sometimes sliding his hand down to dip his fingers into the wetness of my cunt.

Because this kind of spanking is not a punishment: it’s a treat. So when the spanking’s over he’ll fuck me in the same way – gently but firmly. Pushing himself into me with determination and care, and the kind of love that says ‘I’ve got you.’ As if the fuck itself will cure me of the stresses of the day.

Sometimes it does.