She married a Yank in the end, and I was sorry to see her go, but the funny thing was, I remember him boasting about how she’d never been had, and he’d be the first. He was right, in a way, but if only he’d known he might not have been quite so smug.
COLIN - Norwich
The Erotic Ethics of Spanking Girls
It’s not easy having a conscience, not for me. Unfortunately it’s the way I am and there’s nothing I can do about that. Nor would I want to, but I have a problem, which is that my personal ethics and my sexual needs don’t match. That’s because I like to spank girls.
It’s not something I admit to many people, even now, because I know that most of them just won’t understand. They think it’s just some sort of perverted kick and that that means I’ll do it when I can and whether the girl on the receiving end likes it or not, but it’s not like that at all. Gay men used to have the same problem, that most people thought being gay didn’t just mean you preferred partners of the same sex, but that it made you into some sort of homoerotic maniac, up for anything, with anybody and more than happy to stick your cock up any convenient arse without a second thought for the person you were buggering. Nowadays we all know that’s crap, and it’s the same with spanking. I would never, ever, spank any girl unless she was willing, and more than willing. Nor would I spank any girl if there was the slightest issue with her ability to give consent. But I do like to spank girls.
A lot of people also don’t seem to get the difference between fantasy and reality. In fantasy it’s fine to imagine a pretty secretary being put across her boss’s knee to have her smart little office skirt rolled up, her knickers pulled down to the level of her stocking tops and her bottom smacked. It’s fine to imagine her spanking being given in front of the entire typing pool. It’s fine to imagine making her suck you off afterwards, on her knees with her red bottom stuck out behind and the tears rolling down her cheeks. It’s even fine to imagine her getting it in the boardroom having her bent over the table for the entire senior management to take turns up her bottom hole. It’s fine because it isn’t real.
Reality is different, but it took me years to come to terms with that. I always knew what I wanted to do. It was a natural urge for me, something I had no control over, just like being gay, and like so many men who’ve had to struggle with being gay in a homophobic society, I was appalled. I wanted to be a civilised, caring man, dedicated to equality between men and women, which, by the way, I believe in absolutely. I also wanted to be accepted by my peers, as a free thinker, as a liberal, and as an egalitarian. That’s not easy when you’re having a conversation with a serious-minded young woman and all the while you’re trying to fight down an urge to wonder what it would be like to tip her over your knee, flip up her miniskirt and pull down her little see-through nylon panties for a sound spanking in front of all your friends and hers.
This was in the sixties, and it was agony. It was a time of revolution, of student power, of a push to get rid of the old ways and bring in the new, and there I was, firmly in favour of change but all the time thinking that what the female contingent among my contemporaries really needed was to be lined up in a very, very long row for bare-bottom spankings all round. Then there were the miniskirts. The miniskirts were agony. They were supposed to be sexy, and they were deliberately daring, showing off a girl’s legs and if she bent forward just a little bit her knickers too. To show that much was not only a fashion statement but a deliberate defiance of all that was prudish and old-fashioned, which included the idea that it’s appropriate to punish a girl with a spanking.
And of course it isn’t, but I wanted it to be, desperately, and it was impossible to reconcile that desire with my beliefs. So I kept my thoughts to myself, for years, allowing myself only the very occasional guilty relief over what were then quite rare pictures of girls being punished, most of which you bought in an envelope of a dozen from seedy-looking characters on the corners of Soho streets, although just occasionally one of the glossy men’s magazines would devote part of an issue to the subject, and in time there were specialist productions.
That only made it worse, or at least it made my guilt worse, because just to know that pictures of some beautiful girl being put through the spanking routine existed was an exquisite agony. I had to have them, and yet I was convinced it was wrong. Again and again I bought packs of photos and magazines, only to dispose of them in a fit of guilt a few days later, and then to buy them anew, often the very same ones. The seedy men from Soho must have thought I was a lunatic.
Worse still, and this probably won’t make any kind of sense to you, I used to have plenty of girlfriends. I’m a bit above average height, not bad-looking in a boyish sort of way, and I do try to be kind and considerate. In any case, I had no shortage of female attention, both at university and afterwards, and while I did my best to keep up what was considered a conventional relationship, with plenty of sex but only conventional sex, every instant was a keen agony, which was why none of my relationships lasted very long. It was easiest with the girls who were a bit shy or not especially conscious of their bottoms. I could handle that, in missionary position with the lights out, or even girl on top with the lights on, although it was never completely satisfying. The more liberated girls, who tended to be more aware of the appeal of their rear views, were far harder to handle. To have a girl on my lap and my hand on her lovely, soft, curvaceous bottom, mine to touch and stroke, that was agony. Looking back, I now know that some of them wouldn’t have minded a spanking, especially if it was done gently, and some would even have liked the idea of being punished. At the time I not only assumed that no woman could ever desire such a degrading fate, but was absolutely determined not to give in to my perverted urges.
If just to touch a girl’s bottom was a keen pain, then to take a girl from behind was agony. It wasn’t actually that common in those days, when there weren’t many sex guides around, or porn, and most people assumed that missionary was just the way you did things, but there are girls for who being in a crawling position for sex comes naturally, and who would offer themselves that way for sex.
It was so hard to resist, to be presented with that glorious rear view, a pretty girl on her hands and knees, naked or with her clothing dishevelled, her breasts hanging down, her soft, round thighs a little apart, her bottom lifted to offer her sex and also to let her cheeks come open and show off the tight dimple of her anus, to be able to enter her but unable to spank her first, and to try not to imagine what it would be liked as we fucked.
That was impossible. I had three girls like that over the course of the seventies: Linda, a slender blonde with a little round bottom that just cried out to be slapped; Laura, a bouncy little half Spanish beauty with huge dark eyes, voluptuous curves and a wiggle that used to make me stiffen at a hundred yards; and Paulina, a Jamaican girl with a mobile, meaty rump so full and firm it was as if she’d had her cheeks inflated with a bicycle pump. All three were very aware of their bottoms, all three preferred to get into a crawling position for sex, and I never spanked any of them. I could scream.
It was in the eighties that everything changed. I met Matthew. It was at a wine and cheese evening I’d offered to host for a local charity, and while I’m always very careful to keep my spanking literature under lock and key, I made one mistake. In a recent edition of my favourite there had been a particularly sadistic photo set, with a janitor not only spanking three college girls but making them watch each other being punished, parading them with their knickers down and their hands on their heads and finally making them wrestle, in the nude, after telling them that he was going to fuck the loser. As so often happened my conscience had got the better of me. I’d shredded the magazine and put it out with the rubbish, but as luck would have it Matthew volunteered to help clear up after my event, opened one of the tied bins bags in order to fit in some extra rubbish and saw the shreddings. He recognised the colour scheme of the cover, and when everybody else had gone he asked me if I collected
the magazine, and, if so, did I happened to have issue 30.
I tried to deny it, but he knew, and he’d read the guilt in my face. Besides, this was the first time in my life I’d met anybody who shared my tastes and it was an immense relief to be able to talk about my problem. Matthew did not see it as a problem. In fact, he couldn’t understand my point of view at all. To him, spanking was a normal part of foreplay, and something that he assured me the majority of girls enjoyed. I didn’t believe him, at first, to which he responded by pointing out that he was married and had been spanking his wife, Margaret, regularly for the previous five years. I couldn’t accept it, certain that he was abusing her, but our discussion had grown heated by then and when she came to collect him – and remember that we’d been drinking steadily all evening – he asked her straight out if she enjoyed her spankings.
She was deeply embarrassed, but when he explained the situation she actually got quite indignant and gave me a brief but pointed lecture on a woman’s right to take control of her own body, as if I was some kind of chauvinistic dinosaur and her husband the conscientious liberal! In no time at all I was apologising and admitting that they were right.
Matthew worked near me and we were involved in the same charity, so it was inevitable that I saw him again. When I did I apologised once more and he assured me that it was of no consequence. This was lunchtime and we were in a quiet pub, so I jokingly asked him if he’d managed to track down issue 30 yet. He said he hadn’t but was particularly keen to get it because his wife appeared in it. I dropped my pint.
He told me the whole story. She had always liked to be spanked, and like me had eagerly purchased the first specialist magazines when they came out, something I’d assumed no woman would ever do. Seeing an advertisement for models, she’d applied, and duly been photographed as she was put through the entire spanking routine, ostensibly for shop-lifting and by some dirty old man she’d never even met before. It had been in a dingy antique shop owned by the uncle of the magazine’s proprietor, with her in a summer dress with polka-dot panties underneath, all in the classic sequence; accused of stealing, told off, given the choice between the police or a spanking, accepting her punishment, upended across his knees, her dress lifted, her panties pulled down and her bottom smacked, finishing with a shot that showed her red bottom and her pussy and anus stretched wide to the camera.
She had only done it once, not because she didn’t enjoy the experience, but they’d quibbled about the money and taken ages to pay. I was amazed, not only that a woman could enjoy being spanked, which I still hadn’t fully come to accept, but that she could take pleasure in the systematic degradation which to me was what pornography was all about. Yet from what she’d said when we met I knew that he was telling the truth and not merely trying to justify his abusive behaviour.
That meeting left me shaken. Their relationship challenged some of my most fundamental beliefs and it was also what I wanted, so badly. Before I’d always had the strength of my moral certainty with which to console myself that I was doing the right thing. That was gone, and in its place came doubts and a gradually rising regret for missed opportunities. I also had to get hold of issue 30, if it was the last thing I ever did.
It took me three months, of browsing in the cellars of the dodgier kind of vintage magazine shops, of scanning the for sale ads in my magazines, or standing at specialist market stalls in a state of near terminal embarrassment as the crowds ebbed and flowed around me. In the end I found the first forty-eight issues on offer at fifty pence each in an ordinary buy and sell magazine. I bought the lot.
The day they arrived was a Saturday, and my first experience of spanking overload. The forty-eight magazines were in two large boxes and I unpacked them one by one, flicking through each as I did so. The effect was a parade of exposed and spanked bottoms, in every variety of female clothing and in every position: college girls in their uniforms with their skirts turned up and their panties pulled down, secretaries OTK to their bosses with their smart suits disarranged to show off bare pink bottoms, young nuns touching their toes as they waited for the cane with everything on show behind, ballerinas with tutus lifted high as they posed for punishment from stern mistresses, fetish girls strapped up tight for the application of a whip to their rubber-clad cheeks, wives rolled up by their legs as they were spanked in what I learnt was called the nappy changing position.
It got to me in a way that nothing ever had before, all that spanking, all those beautiful female bottoms, and then there was Margaret. She was a good-looking woman, but I’d only seen her in ordinary day clothes and no more than a touch of make-up. As a supposedly teenage punk shoplifter she looked impossibly exciting, full of attitude and cheek, pert and insolent, in short exactly the type of girl who would benefit most from a good spanking. And she had a lovely bottom, full and cheeky but in perfect proportion to her waist and thighs, and so firm that even bent across the elderly shopkeeper’s knee her cheeks held their shape in a way to which no superlative can do justice. By the time I’d come three times I was in love with her and my head was so full of images of spanking that I felt dizzy and weak.
Those images would not go away. All night my dreams were full of girls being spanked, or prepared for spanking, or doing corner time with their smacked bottoms on show, anything and everything from that sadistic, perverted and utterly, breathtakingly thrilling ritual that is the classic English spanking routine. I couldn’t keep my hand off my cock, and I masturbated until I was painfully sore and could no longer get an erection. I still wanted to come, but what I wanted to do more than anything else in the world was to spank a girl, and for true satisfaction it had to be Maggie.
That was not good. She’s was Matthew’s wife for a start, and to approach her would have been a breach of ethics as unacceptable as what I wanted to do to her. Not that I could imagine her accepting in any case. Yet I had to have some sort of contact, if only vicariously, which was why I told Matthew that I’d got hold of issue 30. He was delighted, and immediately wanted to see it, but there was something else. I suppose I still hadn’t got it into my head that women can really enjoy being spanked and even be open about it, but it had never occurred to me for a single second that Maggie would want to see the magazine too.
When Matthew came round she was with him. She even kissed me as they came in at the door and apologised for being angry with me the first time we’d met, saying she hadn’t realised I was “one of us”. I didn’t know what to say, completely bemused by the idea of a woman not merely wanting to look through pornographic magazines, but with her husband and another man she hardly knew, and when she featured in one of the magazines, and not just nude, but with her bare bottom spread to show off her pussy and anus while a dirty old man spanked her!
It was the strangest experience of my life. They were completely casual, chatting happily about the weather and some road works they got stuck in on the way over, accepting drinks and sipping them, completely at leisure. I wasn’t. I was shaking so badly I spilt the gin as I made Maggie her drink, and when Matthew coolly asked me to fetch the magazines it was all I could do to go through the motions, mechanically, barely able to take in what we were doing and quite unable to accept that Maggie really wanted to see the pictures.
They read the magazines together, first flicking through a couple of issues that happened to be on top, and then digging for number 30. I just sat there, hideously embarrassed, not knowing what to say or what to do. They didn’t seem to notice, leaning close together and smiling happily as they leafed through the magazine until they found her photo set, at which she gave a gasp of delight, her hand going her mouth and her cheeks flushing pink, the very picture of embarrassed, excited femininity.
Matthew thanked me, with real feeling, but Maggie was lost in the magazine, turning the pages with her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted, repeatedly giving little exclamations of shock and delight, ever more excited as she went through the sequence of her scolding, exposure and spanking. When s
he came to the one of her with her red bottom spread to the camera she was drumming her feet on the floor in sheer delight.
They went through the set a second time, and a third, drinking the pictures in, Maggie silent but for her excited little gasps, Matthew repeatedly saying what a bad girl she was for doing the shoot. He said she deserved what she’d got. He said she deserved more. He said she ought to thank me for finding the magazine by offering me the opportunity to punish her.
She stood up, she came over to where I was sitting, standing straight, her feet together, her hands fidgeting in her lap, her face downcast as if she were ashamed of herself. She called me sir, and she asked if I’d like to spank her bare bottom. I could only stare, at first at her, then at her husband. He gave me an encouraging nod and I did it. I patted my lap, signalling her to go over my knee.
It was my first time, after all those years of yearning and self-recrimination, and now I had a woman over my knee for punishment, a beautiful woman, and crucially, a willing woman. I took it slowly, savouring every instant: my first ever spank, delivered to the taut seat of her knee-length black skirt; her exposure, the pretty, respectable skirt rolled slowly up her thighs to show off first the tops of her hold-up stockings, then twin slices of creamy white, soft thigh, the tuck of her beautiful bottom and the underside of her lacy black panties, her full, feminine moon, a trifle plumper than when she’d been in the magazine eight years before but if anything more spankable still.
Confessions 2 Page 3