(The following post is gonna be a LOT more ... uh ... *sexual, I guess* than I normally write. It's a cross-post from my own blog, and I'm not editing much. I hope that it inspires some discussion about others' first times -- in spanking, that is -- but I didn't want to take the sex that happened off, because it's kind of important to a post that will come later about how I began to know what I wanted as a spanko. Forgive me if it offends your sensitivities. *Hands you smelling salts and a fan*)
Today I was thinking about my first time. I guess for most people (read: Vanillas) the “first time” means when they lost their virginity. I could tell you that story but it’s boring and sad. (Well, that is, except for the fact that I actually had anal before I had the other kind but I do digress …) No, when I say “the first time” I mean spanking, of course. And that story is much more fun.
Like your average, everyday spanko, I believe I was “born this way.” We can have the Nature vs. Nurtue debate some other time, but I was definitely the kid who looked up the word spanking in the dictionary as soon as I could read; remembered every spanking scene I saw on television; and tried to just “happen by” when one of my cousins was getting spanked at a family function — which happened frequently. One of my cousins — who I spent the majority of my youth with, it seems — had a father who made a leather paddle, with holes, and hung it up in the livingroom as a warning to any children considering misbehaving.
I was spanked at home, and no, I didn’t like it — and as I discussed before it always made me feel very unloved and unwanted. OTHER people getting spanked, though, that was awesome. And we would play “House” or “School” in the neighborhood and I would always seek to be the Bad Kid … which I find odd considering how abhorrent I found actually being punished at home. But by my cute, red-headed next-door neighbor boy? Or the older girl up the street? I would tease and taunt and brat like crazy …
So, by the time puberty hit, I was pretty sure there was something seriously wrong with me. There was no Internet then. (Or, maybe there was by then but it was still being used in military or whatever the hell.) When I was 17 I discovered Letters to Penthouse at Borders one day with my high school best friend. Imagine my complete delight at the entire section for bdsm. I dog-eared the several “good” spanking stories. I still wasn’t sure that feeling I was having was an orgasm (though I’d had sex several times by then – stupid teenaged boys) but it was worth doing again anyway.
When I was 19, and getting ready to move to North Carolina for the first time (long story – but the first time “didn’t take”), I was dating a guy who was REALLY into me, and I thought he was very, very nice...
He hit the brakes. Thankfully the street was empty. His eyes were huge. “You want to SPANK me?”
I think I died a little bit right then but his reaction was so funny that all the tension left the car. “Oh my God. No. Nonononono. I want YOU to spank ME.”
“Ohhhh. OK. Well, you know I always give that juicy ass a couple of swats when I’m doing you doggy style.”
“Yeah, and that’s hot. But I mean (*blush*) … I mean that I want it to be … like … ummm … more REAL than that. Like I’ve been bad. Like you’re in charge or something?” I was not one to mince words with him and never when it came to sex, so it’s very much to his credit that he reacted to the words “like you’re in charge.”
He said, “That I can do. When we get to the house we’ll talk more about it, ok? But if you ask for it then you better be ready to take it.”
I just smiled and was quiet the rest of the short drive. When we got there and pulled in, we did smoke a little bit and I asked if we could hold off on the beer until later, telling him I wanted us both to be clear-headed. (I didn’t consider weed to be mind-muddling. *shrug* I was 19.) He agreed and we began to talk a little about what I wanted, but I was stammering and hemming and hawing. I do remember telling him that I had the fantasies for as long as I could remember, and that I wanted him to start slow but not be afraid to get very, very hard — that I would tell him if it was too much. I didn’t know anything yet about safe-words, but I told him that I would say “no more” when I couldn’t take it. He asked how I wanted to start and I told him that I wanted him to decide that. I told him I felt safe with him and that’s why he knew, and no one before him did. I could see the pleasure that gave him light up his eyes.
We started to make out and I almost forgot about the whole conversation. It was good, and the pot had made me horny, and I was raring to go — when suddenly he said, “Go straddle my weight bench.” I started to ask why and my hesitation earned me a sharp swat over my jeans. As I stood up he said, “Take everything off. Everything.” He watched as I undressed and I felt exposed, and naughty, and like my senses were on overload. Naked, I obeyed his previous command, and straddled the bench, facing a full-length mirror that he kept there to watch himself workout and the support frame for the barbell, which had weights attached to it.
“So, you need to be spanked, huh?” C asked me, his voice suddenly husky and deeper than usual. I was watching him through the mirror. His shirt was off; his jeans and belt were still on. His eye caught mine and he said, “I asked you a question.”
“Yes. I do.”
“Lie down on your belly. Keep your feet flat on the floor.” As I did what he asked, my ass was pushed up, providing an excellent target. He started slowly at first and I got used to the sensation. He dipped his fingers in my pussy every few moments, commenting on how turned on I was by my first spanking and how good it was going to feel to fuck me after. I would whimper or moan, and try to hide my face, but every time this would be met with a sharp smack and a command to meet his gaze in the mirror.
After awhile, he began to unbuckle his belt. I believe it is this moment that has cemented, in my sex-memory, that “man unbuckling his belt” = “most sexy thing on planet.” He doubled it over and then whispered in my ear, hot and wet, “Do you need to feel leather on your ass, little girl?”
I’ll let you guess my reply.
The whipping started slow and then got faster, and then he alternated; and as it got harder, I tried to squirm away, but never told him “no more.” To reward me for my squirming, he found some rope in his little basement hideaway that we were in, and he bade me grab on to the barbell-support. He tied each of my hands to it. I can barely recall now exactly how I was bound, but I know that because of the weight on the bench, I couldn’t have gotten free without him. And I was completely ok with it – which surprises me when I think of it now. Surprises me and turns me on. He continued the whipping but now I would tense as I saw, in the mirror, as he raised his arm each time. He decided this wasn’t good, either. He said, “I want you to accept it. I want you to know it’s coming, but not know when, and just accept it.” Neither of us knew the language of submission yet, but that was pretty damn good, I’d say. He took his t-shirt and fashioned a blindfold for me.
Straddling the bench, naked, bound and blind-folded, I drank in the sensation of the leather on my skin, the warmth of his touch on my back to calm me, the sharp pull of my hair when he asked me a question and I was slow to answer. My first trip into this world of submission and pain and I had found total bliss. Finally, C said, “I think we should stop. You’re awfully bruised.”
“Yes, that’s probably enough for the first time. Did you like it ok?” He was undoing the ties around my hands as I asked and he took one of them and held it to his cock — it was hard and … well, ready.
“Does that answer your question?” He laughed. I reached for the blindfold and he said, “Wait. Put your arms under you and push yourself up a little but keep that on.” I could hear his pants come down, and I felt his hands at my pussy once again. “You’ve done such a good job feeling and not seeing. I want you to hold off a little bit. Push that ass out.”
Within moments he was inside of me, his hands grabbing my sore ass, my body responding like it had never done before and he was saying things that I had needed to hear for so long. Things like, “Are you a bad girl that needs to be spanked?” and “Did I whip that ass good for you, you naughty little slut?” He reached around and rubbed my clit while he fucked me and I came harder than I ever had before — especially since in the years since I’d bought my first Penthouse I’d learned what an orgasm really was.
C and I had several other such adventures together. Our safeword at one point was “radiator” and when we wanted to make each other laugh at work (we worked at the same restaurant together) one of us would tell the other we were having a bad night just by saying, “Ugh – RADIATOR, ya know?” Ultimately, he was a vanilla that I had turned, though, and once I met my first “real dom” I knew that for sure. I never felt like he GOT it — just like he was very good at making me happy — which, in itself, is an amazing thing that I repeatedly thanked him for.
What about you? Were you that lucky? Was it a catastrophe? Did anyone run from the room calling the other a perv? Inquiring minds want to know ... especially since they just mentioned their p-word at least twice in this post and they don't say that! ;-) (Around this house we call it a "snowflake" -- because everyone's is different. The average age of humans in this house at any given time is 35. Take from that what you will.)
