In my fantasies I play a variety of roles and delight in stepping outside of the bounds of my normal experience. In real life, my spankings are more mundane, if such a thing can be said of spanking.
I don’t play a part and I never have to run my thoughts or responses through a filter of what would be appropriate for someone else to feel or say or do. All that changed a few weeks ago.
I was catching up with an old spanko friend, chatting about where our lives had taken us, what we were up to, how we had been. Intermingled was plenty of taunting and teasing of the friendliest sort. Until all of a sudden it changed and he wasn’t my good buddy joking around with me, he was a strict looking teacher and I was a naughty schoolgirl caught sneaking off the grounds.
I paused a moment, surprised by this new twist and not at all sure where it would lead. But I’ll try almost anything once, and if that anything involves me getting spanked more’s the better.
Sneaking off school property was a huge infraction and a girl sent to the principal for such a thing could surely be suspended. In fact, Mr. Michael’s voice assured me as it broke through my frantic thoughts, that would most certainly be the penalty I could expect. Suddenly I was very much a school girl – terrified to be sent home in disgrace. How would I tell my parents? How could I face their displeasure or worse, their dissapointment.
I was sorry, I pleaded, I would never do it again, the Principal didn’t have to be told… And in my heart I still believed, as only an innocent young girl can, that the very worst thing that could happen in the world would be my parents learning of my disobedience. So I was genuinely relieved when Mr. Michaels suggested that we deal with the situation privately and equally as crushed to learn exactly how he proposed to do so – with a hard wooden paddle drilled through with holes.
Spanko-emma knew how much that paddle would hurt, knew exactly what to expect, and dreaded it. But I was naughty-schoolgirl-emma and had never been so much as spanked, let alone paddled (Oh, and how embarrassing it was to have to admit that to Mr. Michael’s when he asked). I knew only that the paddle looked incredibly large and scary, that Mr. Michaels looked very stern, and that I wished ferverently to be able to rewind the clock and not sneak out or at least not to have been caught in the act.
Butterflies battered my stomach. My knees felt weak and I was almost relieved to be ordered across his desk so that I wouldn’t embarrass myself by collapsing in front of him. The height of the desk forced me up onto my tip toes and my arms stretched tight so that my fingers could find purchase on the opposite edge. The wood was smooth and cool and solid beneath me and comforting in a way I couldn’t have explained but was as old as the time honored ritual to which I was now being inducted.
I blushed a charming shade of red, soon to be surpassed on my backside, and protested as my skirt was raised and panties lowered. Shame, which had been hiding distantly behind fear and nerves, now stepped boldly forward in my conciousness. Only the crisp crack of the paddle, following a moment after a stern directive to count the strokes aloud, could send the shame skittering out of my mind as quickly as it had come as the first blush of red spread across my cheeks and my first taste of pain burned itself into my flesh.
Any girl would have jumped up, I told myself, embarrassed by how quickly I had lost position; shocked and startled by the fire the paddle had ignited with barely any effort. It’s harder, so much harder to bend over that desk a second time, fully understanding now what will happen when you do. The paddle fell hard igniting another flame and then another. Pausing between each to let me suffer fully, pulling cries from my throat along with each count.
At some point I reached back, promising to be good, promising that I had learned my lesson, pleading for leniency that wouldn’t be shown. Again I forced myself back into position. Again the paddle landed and again until all twelve strokes had been delivered, until my bottom was sore and red, and my throat caught with little girl sobs.
As quickly as we had assumed the roles we shed them and I was caught in comforting arms, pleasantly warm and sore and absolutely content. Looking back I know that the spanking was firm but not harsh and that spanko-emma could have gotten through it with a minimum of fuss. How lucky was I then, to be able to experience it as a girl not accustomed to such things, as a girl off-balance and vulnerable in a way I often find it difficult to be?
Drifting off to sleep that night, still warm from memories, I was so very glad to be reminded that there are always new experiences waiting to be discovered. I can’t wait to see what they are and where they’ll lead.