For real

Usually, it’s so straightforward. I like spanking you. You like being spanked.

Well – perhaps it’s a little more complicated than that. Perhaps it’s the anticipation we enjoy, and the post-spanking cuddles. As for the actual punishment itself: well, there’s always that fine line between enjoyment and confusion – for me, how can I be hurting this person I like so much; for you, your usual self-confidence and pride giving in to the pain and humiliation of the spanking.

But last night. Last night was different. Last night wasn’t *playing*. Last night was for real.

The pile of post had been full of the usual – holiday brochures, offers to take up the latest and greatest financial services, junk mail of every description. A few business-related letters for my company. And then the plain, white envelope stamped “On Her Majesty’s Service: Urgent Attention Required”.

It wasn’t the money that was the problem. Hey, anyone can get a parking ticket from time-to-time. But not telling me? Not paying the fine? Ignoring three reminders?

For a car that’s registered in *my* name? Meaning that *I* was the one who was now being summonsed to appear in court as a result?

I’d sorted it by the time you got home, of course. Called the magistrate’s office. Charmed them. Told that little white lie about having been away on business, having not received the earlier notes. All sorted.

Or, not quite *all* sorted.

You’d had a good day. Your project was going well. You’d had lunch with Sam. You’d stopped off to buy a bottle of nice wine on your way home, as a treat. You were smiling, giggling. I usually love it when you’re like that.

But last night – when you’d finished telling me about your wonderful day, you stopped and realised that I looked serious. Asked me what was wrong. Recoiled in shock (or was it fear?) when I held out the letter.

It didn’t need a lecture: your downcast eyes told me that you knew the gravity of the situation.

I sent you to the bedroom, to take off the oh-so-smart business suit and put on your pyjamas. Ten minutes later you were standing in position, in the hallway, facing the wall outside my office, hands on your head.

I left you there. Fifteen minutes, twenty maybe. As I listened to the final few tracks of the music I’d been playing when you got home. You knew the recording, of course: as the sound of the jazz floated out from the living room, I could imagine you listening to the tracks, counting them down to the end of the CD – wondering whether I’d play another, or come to deal with you when this one had finished.

But the time was now. The time to walk out of the living room, past you, opening the heavy office door and beckoning you to follow me inside. Fetching the high-basked wooden chair from the table at the side of the room, and placing it in the middle of the floor. Sitting down, as you watched me, tears already in your eyes.

As I started speaking, you interrupted, crying out your apologies, beginning me to understand and to be forgiving.

I brushed aside your pleadings. Left you in no doubt as to the magnitude of your misdemeanour. No doubt as to my intention to punish you. Severely.

Not playing, this time. For real.

I ordered you over my lap. You stood still frozen to the spot, tears falling to the carpet. So I reached up – my hands around your small, pale wrists, pulling you towards me, manoeuvring you expertly over my lap.

None of the usual brattish squirming and wriggling from you last night. A very meek young lady indeed.

A few gentle spanks to start with. Warming up my hand. So that once I had slid down your pyjama bottoms, I was ready to start punishing your bare behind with all of my strength. You usually complain vehemently at those few harder smacks at the end of your usual spankings: that’s where this spanking started, and from which it become yet more intense.

I paused, allowing your sobs to subside a little, before pushing you to your feet and instructing you to remove your pyjama trousers altogether.

I never use my belt on you when we play. Too many ghosts from your past; too many memories of the harsh strappings suffered by you and your sisters, before you escaped to university. So you closed your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief, as I unbuckled the belt and slid it out from my trousers.

You trembled as you touched your toes. Cried as I whipped you with the thick, doubled-up leather – all the time lecturing you about what happens to girls who misbehave.

And then I walked around you, turning the chair around; making you stand up then bend over its high wooden back, leaning right forward on your tiptoes. And that cliché about the final stroke of the cane being the hardest: last night that wasn’t true. Last night, that first stroke was delivered as hard as I know how, and the others maintained the momentum until the dozen was reached.

Then I left you there, draped over the chair.

Put away the spanking implements.

Sat at my desk, watching you.

Asked you if you’d like to stand up.

Asked you if you’d like to be held.

And clutched you so close to me, your tears wetting my shirt as I ran my fingers through your hair, re-assured you, hugged you. Your punishment now complete, your offences forgotten.

Just the two of us, holding one another tight, like it should be.