The spanking bench

I leant over the spanking bench and wiggled to get comfortable whilst Bee secured my ankle and wrist cuffs to the rope already attached to the frame. Once bound, I could straighten or bend my knees a little, and I had some movement in my forearms. That was all. The padded bar of the spanking bench rested on my ribs, just below my breasts which the bench supported and pushed forward. I had my back to the door of the room.

We had timed it perfectly. I drove to their house that afternoon, we had a cup of tea and a catch up, and then we experimented with positions and ties. The Keeper sent a text when he left work, which gave me just enough time to strip down and stand still while I was secured. Around me on the floor there lay a selection of objects, some that they owned and some I had brought with me: floggers, canes, paddles. One of my forearms was pink following my experimental sorting of the objects from least to most scary.

I wanted this, asked for it. This playful, illicit fear. The kink butterflies that make you blush and shift in your seat and make your knickers wet. Leading up to this moment, I had flirted with him, goaded him into hitting me with whatever he wanted, and as hard as he wanted. We had agreed a safeword, and I had asked him to challenge me unless it was used. And so I waited.

When he arrived home, he would beat me. His choice of implement, his choice of intensity, his choice of duration. We have played before and whilst I get the kink butterflies, I know I am completely safe. That he respects my choices and wants me to have a good time. He knows I like a random chance element to help choose my fate, so there were dice ready to be rolled to determine the number of hits I would receive. 

Secured to the spanking bench and waiting for his arrival, I didn’t know that that evening he would make me count some of the hits, or that I would be tasked with keeping simultaneous counts for each side of my arse as he randomly alternated between them. I didn’t know that at some point I would cry into my blindfold, or that once I had regained my composure he would carry on (which I am very grateful for as I didn’t want him to stop). I didn’t know that he would slowly build me to a crescendo with my favourite cane, and that during this rhythmic whacking I would come as Bee grabbed and twisted my nipples to push me over the edge.

And so I waited. Glancing over at the line of implements. Imagining the sting of a paddle that I fucking hate and wondering if I would be able to take it. Hoping that he wouldn’t start too hard so I wouldn’t need to call an end to the scene too soon. Wondering if he would spank me with his hand (he did), if I would need to use my safe word (I didn’t), and if I would be left with marks (oh yes, brilliant ones).

Bee waited with me, and we chatted about my predicament. They made me laugh when they mused out loud ‘I’m actually curious to see what he starts with’. Yes, Bee. Weirdly enough, so am I.