When I was about 35 years old I dated a girl named Jennifer – a 27 year old, 5’2”-ish, adorable half-Chinese woman with black hair, brown eyes, and a small, but shapely frame. She was on the shy side, but it was only part of her charm. She wasn’t a dominant, or even a fetishist, but she was a theatre nerd, and a fairly gifted actress. Once she became comfortable with disciplining me, her ability to sternly put me in my place – using a rod, or a belt usually – could have won her a Tony award if anybody had been watching.
We were together for a little over a year. We lived in different cities, so she would sometimes stay over my place for just the weekend. That way we could spend more time together. I had a small two-bedroom apartment by by Newport Beach, and that is where the majority of the spanking occurred that eventually became commonplace in our relationship.
I worked as a freelance audio-visual technician, mostly on the weekends. That meant I would get up before she did, and say good-bye to her before I left.
One morning, I forgot.
I was in a hurry to get to work. I realized it once I got to the bathroom at the office so I sent her a text to apologize. She was understanding, but when I got home that evening I could tell that her feelings were hurt. Nonetheless, she made a delicious spaghetti dinner, and we enjoyed it along with some pleasant conversation in my small dining room that overlooked the adjacent neighborhood.
As we lay in bed together that night I couldn’t get it off my mind. I felt terrible about leaving her all alone in the apartment without even hugging her goodbye. We had been kissing, and pleasuring each other by candlelight as we often did in the evening when she stayed over for the weekend. Her face always looked extra beautiful in the warm light of the candle. I felt even more endeared to her when she was sad. She would try to hid it, yet there was something about her that was…subdued. Maybe there was a way I could make it right, I thought.
“Jennifer, I’m so sorry I left without saying goodbye this morning.” I whispered to her. “Will you punish me for it?” I asked sincerely.
She nodded without hesitating. “Yes I will,” she said. “Do you have something that’s quiet?”
My roommate was asleep in the next room. I knew that the plastic rod that was used to adjust the blinds made for a good quiet, yet painful, instrument of discipline. At this point in our relationship I was keeping the rod underneath the bed, and I didn’t bother hooking it back onto the blinds.
“I can get the rod,” I said.
It wasn’t normally like this for us, but this time there was no smiling, no sexual touching, or any role-play going on once she agreed to whip me. I reached under the bed and retrieved the rod. I handed it to her. I already knew exactly what to do, and my intention was not to turn the punishment into a sexy game. I was already naked from the waist down, so I stood up, and bent over the bed. I placed my hands on the comforter.
Jennifer stood up, and prepared to give me the punishment I had earned, and asked for.
I told her that she should scold me as she whipped me with the rod. That would help me to learn not to forget. She agreed, and that was the only negotiation, or discussion we had about what my punishment would entail.
I felt the first stroke nick my bottom. “OWW,” I said beneath my breath.
I forgot how bad the rod could hurt. It didn’t even need to be used with a lot of force. Most of the time when Jen beat me with it, it would hurt so bad I would lose all sexual interest in the punishment, and I would take it purely out of macho pride. This was already becoming one of those instances.
The next stroke landed, and was just as unwelcome. I remember at some point I began to to lift up onto my toes. The strokes came a few seconds apart. I had to count them.
I remember feeling the sting of the rod, counting it out loud, and then hearing her scold me as I waited for the next stroke.
“How do you think it makes me feel when I’m waiting for you to come hug me goodbye, and all I hear is the slamming of a door?” she chided.
The rod came down and helped me to share some of her pain.
“What do you think that does to my heart?” she whispered, caning me again, but being careful to not make too much noise.
It’s strange how some things stick out in a memory, and others are fuzzy. I know she scolded me more than that, but those two sentences are accented in my memory. Her voice was firm, and angry. Yet she whispered her admonishments into my ear, or she spoke them softly from behind me.
She would end up giving me ten strokes. They hurt…not that they were unbearable. They just stung and made me wish it would be over. When she was finished, I was relieved. I didn’t do anything to try to get more. I just accepted that she was satisfied with the discipline that she gave me. I apologized to her again, and all was forgiven.
I look back now on the memory of it all and find it incredibly arousing. I also think fondly about the way she disciplined me so firmly, and lovingly. Strangely though, the caning she gave me worked. I never forgot to say goodbye to her again.
That whipping with the rod that I got that night taught me something about my own kink. I learned that the line between real punishment, and sexual play can be blurred. That surprised me because I always thought of my spanking fetish as a purely sexual desire. Punishment? That was just part of the game.
In truth, it’s a delicate dance. In order for a spanking to be ultimately pleasurable it must feel as real as possible. But the more real a punishment becomes, the less pleasurable it is in the moment. Once in a while, you hit that perfect sweet spot where you are truly taught a lesson, not merely the pretense of one. And yet, the tenderness, the nakedness of the moment leaves you breathless at the thought of it.