Lucky number 7

Number One:

"No, I think you have to do it HARDER."

He increased the impact just enough that it was finally past the ticklish whisper of his palm against my bottom.

"Ummm....yeah, that's better. Now HARDER, I think." I said, feeling the frustrated pull in my belly. I knew I needed something, had fantasized about this moment for as long as I could remember. It took all of my courage to finally ask my college boyfriend to spank me, "really spank me", hoping he would know what that meant.

He had no idea what that meant. But I give him big points for being open-minded.

And so there we were, two 19-year-olds, he on the bed and me over his lap with my pants around my knees. His hand slow and tentative, warming my firm, young cheeks as I marveled at the sensation of finally being over a man's lap.

We improved with time, but it was far from perfect. I wanted and needed more. These first moments didn't quench my desire, but fueled it instead, propelling me down an unusual path that most don't know exists. A spanko was born.

Number 7:

"Pull down your pants. NOW!"

The words surprised me. There we were, enjoying a glass of wine after dinner in my cozy living room on our first meeting. And the commanding tone of his voice shocked me.

I knew it was coming. I had dressed appropriately, at his request. Concealed beneath my daily wear of a scoop-neck tee and jeans was the corset, garters and stockings as he had specified.

So the shock was unwarranted, but the spreading fingers of heat through my pussy WAS unanticipated. Nobody had dared be that direct with me, not on the first meeting. And yet, his steady gaze of expectation had me fumbling for the button on my pants as I eeked out a "yes, Sir."

Pants down and off, I glanced shyly at him, finding amusement and pleasure in his returning stare. "Turn around," he said.

A moment's pause, and I turned, fumbling with my stockings as I did so. I willed myself to stare at the wall in front of me, to stop fidgeting, to breathe. I heard him rise and leave the room, his footsteps across the kitchen quickly replaced with the sound of the chair in my dining room being pulled out and carried to where I stood.

This was the moment. There was no doubt now that this was happening: I would soon be over his lap, feeling his years of experience as a Dom against my neglected bottom.

I felt his fingers caress my exposed cheeks and the butterflies took flight. Gooseflesh replaced his fingertips and I gasped on an exhale of held anticipation. "Are you ready?" He whispered, close to my left ear now, his breath hot and soft. What could I say? "No"? "Give me a minute"? God, yes, I'd never been more ready or unready in my life!

I must have nodded. Or squeaked out something that resembled a "yes", because soon he was seated and pulling me across his knees.

After some minor adjustments to my garter, a caress to my hair and a tender acknowledgment of my offered bottom, he began a slow and measured rhythm that would gradually increase to an unpredictable staccato that lasted for months (and counting).

He is often hard, harder than I knew I wanted, but he carries me across the line between pleasure and pain, pushing me further than I've yet been pushed. He propels me down this path, that first began as a curiosity-turned-obsession, but has now transformed into a necessity.

It's as necessary as orgasms and sex, poetry and chocolate. It is who I am, a defining part. I am not a spanko. I am his submissive.

(Artwork by Endart.)