I got my first over-the-knee paddling under some unusual circumstances. I had just started dating a guy who liked to spank me almost as much as I liked to be spanked, and I was very excited. One evening I showed up at his house with a great big paint paddle stashed in my overnight bag. I’d purosely worn a flimsy excuse for a short plaid jumper, a white button-down shirt best desribed as “gauzy,” white ankle socks, and penny loafers. With pennies in them, as I recall. At any rate, I was in Naughty Schoolgirl mode and eager to face the consequences of my wayward ways that night.
The only problem was that a couple of mutual friends of ours were down in the basement workshop, sawing and banging two-by-fours around for this “must be done, gotta be done” project of theirs. I was all right with this, and at 9 p.m. I was downstairs offering them Pepsi.
Unfortunately, they were still there at 10 p.m. I had to work in the morning, and I started thinking seriously about getting some “personal time” as soon as possible. I glanced up at the clock about every ten minutes, but the Second and Third Comings of Bob Vila showed no signs of quitting.
By 11 p.m. I was fidgety, with places South crying for attention. I squirmed in my chair and asked my boyfriend, “Do you think they’ll leave soon?”
I got the dreaded answer, “Well, uh, . . . Jim was *going* to leave early, but work changed his shift, and now his wife is mad at him, so I said, you know . . .” I gritted my teeth, but decided to be patient. If I hadn’t been such a dyed-in-the-wool bottom, I might have put that paddle to use myself.
When midight came around and the two guys were *still* down there with the buzz saw whining, I knew I had to do something drastic. I went to my bag and got the paddle out, and walked up to my boyfriend. “Do me a favor,” I asked.
“Yeah?” he asked. He was looking at me pretty suspiciously–after all, here I was, this trashy little “schoolgirl” with a bat in my hand.
“Here,” I said. I put the paddle in in his hand. Now he was looking *really* suspicious.
I turned around and bent over. “Spank me.” I wanted this done right here, right now. The hell with the guys downstairs!
My boyfriend laughed and pulled me down onto the couch with him, then he flipped me over his lap. He made some comment about being shocked–Shocked! At the impropriety of my behavior. My skirt was up in a heartbeat, and the next thing I knew the paddle was cracking down hard on the seat of my panties.
Thwack! Oh, man . . . This was the good kind of pain, like having your bare feet touch a burning sidewalk on a hot summer day.
Thwack!! But come to think of it, it was a bit loud. The sound of the paddle literally rang off the plaster walls. And there *were* guests downstairs, for all they were playing with a buzz saw . . .
I was facing the stairway to the basement at the time, and as I looked at it I began to consider the real possibility of a very awkward social situation developing. I’d given the guys that Pepsi three hours ago, and they hadn’t been upstairs to get rid of it yet. What if they really did trudge up here, tired, sawdust billowing from their clothes, what would they think when they saw *me*? After all, here I was, rumpled-up skirt, red bottom exposed, being punished like a bratty little child. (I *had* demanded to have my own way, no matter what the consequences were . . .)
Maybe they’d be so horrified they’d never be able to look me in the eye again. Maybe they’d start hunting around for a Polaroid. What if they came upstairs and my boyfriend wouldn’t let me up, and they got to *watch,* or even *help?* Ohhhhh . . .
If these thoughts bothered my most firm and respectable discipliarian, he never showed it. Instead, he kept that paddle hard at work, peppering my wicked behind with the fiery kisses of redemption. A decent girl would soon have begun making apologies and promises. *I* was dirty enough to notice how each smack pushed my pelvis forward just a little bit, and I wiggled myself into a position to enjoy it. Imagine–a young girl masturbating during her own punishment for loose morals! A hundred swats were in order, at the least!
Maybe hoping for a hundred was greedy, and the Heavens disapproved. In any case, he stopped and set the paddle down, then began gently caressing my bottom. At first I was disappointed. I’d waited such a long time for this, and he was done *already?*”
He was new at this kind of game, and I hoped I wouldn’t get that “I can’t stand to hurt you” speech. But as he worked his hand over and across and down and between I began to see things differently. His touch was even more tender than it was during lovemaking, and I soon wanted to relax into that gentleness and trust it to hold me tight. I was desperately in love with him at the time.
He hadn’t forgotten about that paddle, of course. He picked it up again just as I was getting used to the stroking and petting, and the sensations on my posterior changed dramatically.
All spankings have their own character and (for me), associated fantasy. This time he set a good, brisk paddling pace, a rhythm just right for a vigorous British squire who’s found a naughty schoolgirl snitching raspberries in his woods. (“I’m sorry, Sir! Oh please, no more, Sir!”) I couldn’t help but love this too, even though my bottom was warming up quickly.
I think I would have been happy to be smacked all the way to the razor-sweet edge of my tolerance. Unfortunately, we still had the little visitor problem. The guys downstairs didn’t seem to have noticed so far, but there is only so long a man can fool around with power tools before realizing that there is an attractive woman in a schoolgirl outfit being spanked right over his head.
So after my boyfriend decided I’d had my proper punishment, he flipped my skirt back down and playfully pushed me to my feet. “To bed with you,” he said, and shooed me up into his loft with a series of light swats. Much later, after some much-enjoyed attention to my physical needs, I fell asleep in his arms–still listening to the sound of the buzz saw.