Let's get analytical!

Spanking, spanking, spanking. For many years that word could not pass my lips. It didn’t sound right; it was harsh and my tongue refused to wrap around it properly. I could whisper it into the night, but it sounded choppy, scared, there was a lisp to it. Spanking was my secret word.

I think a lot of kinkos (not the copy center, but those non-vanilla folks who like their coffee with cream and sugar and some light bondage, or what have you) go through this amazing period of their sexuality where several things happen:

• You think that you are both perverted and crazy.
• You wonder whether you’ll ever be satisfied with straight, vanilla sex.
• You over-analyze how you got to this place.
• Supress, surpress, surpress.
  
• You feel insanely alone.
• You go looking for others like you.
  

Jesus, I could blog for a straight year on everything I have discovered about my kink, related kinks, and kinkos, but really, this is just about me, right? Right, right. So, let’s just stick with my analysis.

Since I was a child, literally three or four years old, I have had spanking on the brain. I know; sounds young, right? But, as a result, I would become a voracious reader of Victorian era books, tearing through the Anne of Green Gables series, only to be disappointed that in seven books, there were like, two or three scenes. But I can tell you exactly where they are and my copies were dog-eared and broken-spined in those few places. Little House was a treasure trove. And, for those of you secret kinksters, pretty much anything set in the South, pre-1960. Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, n?!? Eh? Eh? Hee hee. (That one has a belt in it. Nice.)

I watched any television show that I thought might have something to do with spanking. You see, as JB Sir has taken to reminding me (often at inopportune moments), I am a clever girl. I went for The Little Rascals straight away, followed shortly by Father Knows Best (so-so), oddly, The Munsters (I managed to catch the one episode that had spanking in it and watched the whole series, only to be dreadfully frustrated it wasn’t a recurrent theme), and Leave it to Beaver, which, interestingly enough for a patriarchal television show from the 1950’s, remained rather opposed to the concept (though Ward talked about it all the time, in reference to his own upbringing). I’m still watching it and holding out for the one episode when someone gets a lickin’…as of yet, I’ve only heard it over the phone ala A Christmas Story. Oh, don’t get me started on all the accoutrements of the spanko scene—washing mouths out with soap, timeouts in the corner, slapping palms with rulers. Anything that could potentially lead to a spanking got me hot.

Okay, and art! See, I am an artist, so of course I have looked into anything that might have spanking in it. Norman Rockwell was gold for me (even the image just before the little boy got a shot gave me a tingle in my belly). Oh, and as I got older, Max Ernst with his The Virgin Spanking the Christ Child before Three Witnesses: Andre Breton, Paul Eluard, and the Painter. Surreal, uh huh, but did it for me, too. Pin-up girls and 1940’s prints, mm.

Somehow, I didn’t go looking for spanking music, though n did!

I just liked spanking. A lot. Too much for me to ignore the fact that it was weird. I was very, very careful with it. You mention spanking around me during my (and I don’t take this phrase lightly, but it seems appropriate, so bear with me) “in-the-closet” phase and you would have seen the blankest, stillest face humanly possible. Oh, yes, underneath? Every single nerve was on end, every single drop of blood in my body was surging toward the surface, up my neck and flashing toward my face, but I was a machine! A machine, I tell you. No one knew. Not one. Well, one, but that’s another story.

But, I’m out now. Well, sort of. In that, very few people in my life know about it. But I can say the word: Spanking. Out loud. I can ask for what I want. And right now I want to ask.

I want a spanking. The kind that leaves me feeling good, comforted, content and satisfied. Some spankings come in the middle of sex, with punishment, are furious, angry, unmerciful and devastating…and I want those, too. But right now, I want something else.

I want an appetizer; I want to be told I will be given a spanking and how. I want to know that it is because I need it. I did nothing in particular, just that I need a spanking and am going to get one.

I want ceremony. I want a stool in the middle of the room, to be told to bend over and place my hands flat on the seat. I want to feel my hair falling around my face, I want to be nervous.

I want it to start over my panties, with his hand on my bottom, caressing the lines of the fabric, smoothing over my skin, dipping between my legs briefly, making my heart race. I want it slow. I want no rushes—methodical slaps warming up my backside and making me coo. I want patience, determination, self-control.

I want him to rub my back and to pause, to circle me, to notice the bounce in my knees, the happy pout on my lips. I want to have my panties pulled down. I want to be clothed, except for my naked bottom, pink and rosy and waiting. I want him to spank me harder, to make me squirm, to wonder why I asked for this.

I want it to be over. I want to have controlled it this far, and now for it to be over. But I want also, for him to decide when it is over. I want him to evaluate whether or not I need more. I want him to surprise me with another implement—a hairbrush, a ruler, a belt, something. I want subtle threats and I want his patronizing encouragements: Good girl, good girl. Be still, behave.

I want to feel it the next day and the next day. I want to sit and remember that very moment, feel my face flush like it did when I was a girl. I want to speak the word with that magical awe and fear again.

Spanking. I am getting a spanking.