Confessions of a Spanking Author

by Breanna Hayse

  I didn't know where to look. What an odd concern, at a time like that. I desperately wanted to watch his face, but I was too ashamed to, when I realized he had taken me at my word about needing to correct a bad behavior.

  He told me, in words I can't recall precisely, except that I know spanking figured prominently, what I deserved.

  And then he stepped to my side as we stood by the bed and sat down, as far back as his bent knees would allow, so that, when he took my hand and gently turned me to face in the opposite direction I had been looking, I could see at once that he had carefully planned for my body to be fully supported. I felt a profound gratitude that I would not be dangling over his knee and would not have to risk fainting from the blood running in a contrary direction when it was all over and I was expected to stand up.

  I did fear that lying down might be a little awkward, however, but he made it simple, and somehow I found myself stretched out over his strong jean-clad thighs, my arms bent and hands crossed just below the pillows, making a small platform for my forehead, and my legs resting comfortably stretched out on his right side. At least, for the moment. Who knew where they might end up?

  The short dress I wore over leggings was whisper light, so I don't know if he simply bunched it up at my waist or took his time and folded it patiently. I remember that his fingers were warm when they brushed my skin as he hooked them in the elastic of the leggings and maneuvered them down.

  He commented on my panties—simple white nylon with a broad band of lace at the top—that I had purchased just for the occasion.

  I felt his warm palm simply laid against me for a moment and while my brain screamed, He's going to do it. He's really going to do it, the comfort of that gentle touch was replaced by a little-girl level smack to my right cheek.

  I had to ask, later, for some of the details. He told me I went somewhere else in my head, and he was right. It wasn't an unexpected reaction for him. He's dealt with newbies before. He filled in the blanks for me.

  He spanked, he said, quickly, but not too fast or hard, in a regular back-and-forth pattern between cheeks. Hand flat, fingers together, wrist straight, using his forearm more than his shoulder. I did register the equal opportunity nature of his execution at the time. I meant to count licks in my head, but that thought took flight early on.

  Part of me worried I would cry or kick or scream or say something completely unladylike. Part of me worried he wouldn't push me to that point.

  I was so grateful the door was closed and yet, perversely, I wanted the other girls to hear, at least—to know without a doubt I was really now among the initiated and that we weren't just chatting about the weather beyond their sight.

  A few spanks in, it registered that he was upping the ante. Then he stopped briefly, his hand resting quietly on my panty-clad bottom again, and asked if I remembered my safe word. I took that as a warning, but I responded that I did.

  And then realized I had no idea what it was anymore.

  When he began again, it was not at the level he had been dishing out to the bare bottoms I had been watching bounce only a few moments before in the other room, but it was more than a little girl could have taken without sobbing. A lot more. I know I moaned a little a few times. I know I breathed heavily and I probably clenched. I never thought to ask. I worried, very briefly, that there was way too much jiggle going on back there, but then my concentration got stolen by the increasing sting he was imparting and jiggle was low on my list of things to think about.

  I remember wondering where his other hand was. He told me later it was snug around my waist, but he didn't need to clamp down at all. He knew I wasn't going anywhere. He probably worried that I would be content to stay there the rest of my life.

  And then, suddenly, I realized his hand was resting quietly against me again, and he was saying something soothing. Something in contrast to the calm, controlled, but steely scolding he had been vocalizing while adding downbeats with his palm and fingers just second before.

  I don't remember how I got up or managed to shimmy the leggings back up and make sure the skirt of my dress wasn't caught in them. I just remember that he was standing, too, and his arms were open to me, and there was nowhere else on earth I wanted to be. He held me while I gulped back tears and sobs that had nothing to do with physical distress and everything to do with the controlled release of an emotional dam that had been threatening to break with disastrous results for years.

  I don't know how long he would have let it go on, but I finally realized I was not the only guest he had, and I swallowed down what was left of my reaction and untangled myself from that warm, safe place against his chest, where my head was buried.

  I put on my big girl face. I just couldn't find my big girl voice yet, so I was still quiet when he told me he would leave me alone a minute to get myself back together and rejoin the party.

  I know I put my jewelry back on. I know I checked my hair and make-up. I know I walked back into the party room. I know I sat down, with not very much discomfort, in the chair I had occupied before. I know the party went on and I think there were some more spankings delivered to naughty girls, but I couldn't tell you any details.

  All I was aware of was a curious feeling of relief that was accompanied by a persistent cry for more.

  I didn't want him out of my sight, I do remember that. Being able to see him, hear him, made it real for me—even more than the faint sting I was sitting on.

  When I thought about his belt, I realized with a jolt I had almost forgotten it, and I wondered if he had, as well. It would have been so easy to, with so very much going on and so many demands for his attention. I would not beg, I told myself, and I would not feel sorry for myself for one instant if that were the case. I had already received so much. But I prayed. A lot. In fiction, the naughty girl prays to escape that fiery kiss. I was praying to taste it to the depths of my soul.

  He didn't let me down. But the next time he held his hand out to me and told me it was time, he also let me know my private initiation was over. He pointed me toward a couch with a wide, rolled arm. The layout of the room prevented me from bending over that arm and resting my hands and face on the seat. But he thought I would fit just fine, bent at the hips and stretched out along the length of the arm, with my face to the wall. He was right, as usual.

  I assumed the rest of the room had a fine view when he repeated the undraping procedure. I found I really didn't care. In fact, I probably would not have protested if he had skimmed everything down and put me completely on display, as he would always do thereafter.

  I remember gritting my teeth and clamping my hands around opposing arms, determined not to try to avoid whatever he had in mind for me. The hand spanking had been attention-getting but, certainly, bearable. I had never encountered a belt before and had no idea what I was letting myself in for. I remembered, however, that he had said I wouldn't like it.

  He was wrong.

  I loved every soul-cleansing, searing, striping, hot, lick of it, even though I suspected he knew how to use it harder than he was. Probably much harder.

  I loved the sound of his voice, even though I had no idea what he was saying. Only a few words he spoke survived in my brain, and I wasn't sure about those until someone else confirmed it.

  I loved feeling anchored, although I didn't know exactly why I had that feeling. He told me, after the fact, that his left hand was always on my back, but he wasn't holding me down. He said I didn't try to evade the licks at all and that he was not surprised at that, because he knew how much I wanted to experience it and that I was prepared to be as receptive as necessary.

  I loved the idea in my head that this strong man was standing over me, his belt doubled, making sure I finally paid for something I had done wrong in a way that didn't bruise me with ugly words or accusations, or mark me with hostile silence, or stripe me with misplaced anger or a bullying show of that strength.

  I loved the knowledge that, when he put the belt back around his
waist, I could look at it and remember not pain, but forgiveness, because he made sure, when he knew I had paid the price I needed to pay, that I experienced that, fully, as well. Finally.

  And, so, that is what it was like for me the first time.

  It was, blessedly, as though every short, sharp lick loved me.

  Ashlynn Kenzie

  Ashlynn Kenzie has been writing since she was introduced to the idea of strong, take-charge males as a young teen who “met” Rhett Butler on paper. She has been making a career of putting words on pages for more than 25 years, beginning as a freelance housewife humor columnist and than accepting a job with more regular hours on a daily paper. She has also earned awards for her newspaper work and top prizes for short-story fiction.

  Her earliest spanking stories date back even further than her professional efforts, but those were fiction pieces hastily written, reread a few times and destroyed, lest her husband and growing number of children discover her “secret” life.

  Ashlynn makes her home in the southern part of the United States, loves to travel, read and write (both spanking fiction and “vanilla” novels -- with one recently completed under another name), has an affinity for older country and rock music and finds joy in chocolate.

  She is the author of two Blushing Books releases -- “Finely Disciplined Thoughts” and “Reading Her Heart.” A sequel to the latter, “Leading Her Home” will be released in late July and a third book in the series is in the works.

  She may be contacted at ashlynnkenzie45@gmail.com.

  Real Life, Take Two by Dinah McLeod

  I've always been a spanko, long before I knew the meaning of the word. It wasn't something I stumbled into—I was hard-wired for it from birth, as far as I can tell. I can vividly recall spending mornings as a young child with my head under the covers, painting scenes which ended with me getting spanked. I guess you could say I've been writing about it for years! Not that spanking held a sexual aspect for me back then—it didn't, yet it was something that I longed for even if I didn't know how to put it into words. That was also before I knew enough to be embarrassed by having such a fetish, which came with age.

  Like most spankos, I looked up the definition of spanking in the dictionary until I knew it by heart. Each subsequent word—smack, wallop, whack—gave me chills. If ever I happened across a spanking scene in a book I was reading I would pause and thank God for the hidden treasure. The scene would then be swallowed whole, page by page. When I finished, I would retrace my steps and read it more slowly, savoring every word. I would read and reread the scene with a wildly beating heart that I could neither control nor explain. Those scenes became dog-eared in my memory, even if not on the page.

  How is it, you might wonder, that I managed to reach the ripe-old age of twenty before I even acknowledged my desire to myself? I couldn't say, really. Perhaps if I'd gone to college like most girls my age, I would have discovered it, in the midst of a half-drunken groping session. But it was not meant to be and instead, I walked around with a fetish so surreptitious that I wasn't even consciously aware of it.

  Isn't it funny how, in hindsight, you can look back and laugh at yourself for being so blind? I remember going on a double-date with a friend and the man who would become my husband. He liked to throw me around a bit, probably because it always made me laugh and because it was an excuse to get physical. What teenage boy doesn't love that? Well, for some reason I can't remember he ended up throwing me over his knee. My heart jumped into my throat in a way that was both terrifying and deliciously pleasing as I scrambled to get away. I was a tiny thing back then, and he had no problem keeping me where he wanted me—not that I truly wanted to escape.

  Though I can't remember exactly what landed me there, the memory of him handling me as though I weighed no more than a feather and his hand falling over my skirted bottom seared itself in my brain forever. He probably gave me no more than three spanks all in, his hand bouncing off harmlessly, but if I hadn't been smitten with him by then, I certainly was after the fact.

  Perhaps it would have gone even further, had I not broken free, giggling though my cheeks were flushed for reasons I didn't understand.

  My friend had been watching the whole encounter. "Careful," she piped up with a secret little grin. "She might like it too much."

  My eyes had widened in surprise as I looked back at her, wondering where her comment had come from. It is a moment I have never forgotten and I've wondered from time to time if my friend saw something in me that shouted the truth I refused to acknowledge.

  Sadly, it would be several more years before I worked up the courage to be honest with myself and even more before I found the confidence I needed to share it with others. As I mentioned, I was twenty and had been married for close to two years before I realized what I was and that, more importantly, there were people who shared my secret obsession. I'll never forget the night that I got on Google and entered spanking stories into the search engine. I was home alone, as I spent most nights because my husband and I worked opposite shifts. I felt baffled to see those words pop into my search engine—it felt like my fingers had been possessed. When I hit enter, it shook up the imitation vanilla world I lived in forever.

  I sat up in my chair, on the edge of my seat as my eyes roved the page of results. I couldn't believe how many there were. Pages upon pages written by and for people just like me! If there were so many of us, surely there was nothing wrong with being a spanko, right?

  I don't remember what spanking story I read first, only that I read another after that, and another after that. I couldn't stop myself and I couldn't get enough. Somewhere in the middle of all that reading I knew that my life would never be the same. The hours flew by like mere minutes to the point that I was shocked when I heard my husband unlocking the door. I hurriedly closed the browser and went to the door to greet him, secretly afraid that he'd be able to see the self-actualization written all over my face. Surely it would show, in the high-pitch of my hello or the shakiness of my smile. If it did, he didn't mention it and I was nothing short of relieved.

  For the time being, I wanted to keep my fetish to myself so that I could completely savor the newness, the excitement. On the heels of that though, was a bit of shame, mixed with fear. What if, when he found out, he thought I was weird? What if he laughed at me? I couldn't decide which was worse.

  So I kept my secret, devouring the wealth of stories and information at my fingertips whenever I got the chance. The world felt alive and thrilling in a way that I hadn't ever felt before and I counted down the minutes until I could be alone with my trusty computer and my insatiable curiosity. Google became my new best friend. When I couldn't be reading about spanking, I was thinking about it. Though I tried to live my life as I always had, struggled to pretend that nothing had changed my new obsession spilled into everything I did. I'd opened Pandora's Box and the lid would never close shut again.

  Spanking stories turned into real-life accounts, which turned into chat rooms. I was dying to learn anything I could and not surprisingly, it was the people who actually had spanking in their lives that appealed to me the most. During all this reading, I found my way to a website on domestic discipline. Though I was initially disgusted by the concept—what woman in her right mind would accept a spanking for punishment, much less ask for it?—it was something that kept drawing me back in. Despite myself, I wanted to learn more. Though I told myself it was just horrified fascination, in time I had to admit that it was more than that. For whatever reason—and I would spend years analyzing the why of it all—I wanted to live in that kind of relationship myself.

  Once I realized what I wanted I began trying to drop hints to my husband. Jim, poor thing, never saw it coming and my hints didn't register on his radar one iota. Probably because so-called hints involved me bratting and acting out just to see how he'd react and becoming increasingly frustrated when he did nothing. Or, at least none of the things I wanted him to do. Perhaps you know something that I di
dn't at the time—that men don't often hear the things we won't say.

  I tried unsuccessfully to get him to read my thoughts for months. The only thing I succeeded in doing was driving a wedge between us with my secret longing. The more I bratted, the more Jim withdrew until I didn't know what to do. Yes, it occurred to me to come clean with him, but I just couldn't. I was ashamed of wanting to be spanked like a little girl and I couldn't bear the idea that once the cat was out of the bag he might see me differently. (Of course, come to think of it, anything was probably better than what he was seeing at the moment!)

  Innately I felt that grown women shouldn't want a man to take control and tell them what to do—even though I knew through my fervent internet searches that plenty did. Some of them even found the courage that eluded me and came clean to their husbands. I often dreamt of doing the same and being rewarded for my honesty with a red bottom of my very own!

  He gave me plenty of openings. There was no way he could have missed my new interest in my computer—I stayed glued to it so often that my chair began to sport a permanent impression of my ass. When he asked what had so much of my attention, I wanted to scream the truth at him at the top of my lungs. My yearning felt like it was burning me from the inside, but I just couldn't bring myself to risk his opinion of me.

  Oh, if only I could go back in time. I would save myself so much agony! I should have known that he would love me, no matter what. But part of me felt that if I admitted my need—because it had surely become a need—that even if he didn't think I was crazy, he wouldn't be willing to do it. Some days, that almost seemed to be the worse of the two.