punished

Well, what can I tell you? I can tell you that some people might be offended by what I regard as my first time. I can tell you that IÆve spent a lot of time grappling with my own sexuality, my preferences and what some would call perversions. But, IÆm done with all that. I have no more time for the fear, the doubt, or the gnawing feeling that something was “wrong” with me. A feeling abated further by some of the other stuff IÆve seen on this page.
It was the spring of Æ86, my senior year in high school. Cindy Lauper and Def Leppard were our music, our clothes were all garish pastels, upturned collars and WAY too much hair. I was finishing up my secondary education at a Catholic school, and my boyfriend of three years was going to public school.
He was truly something special, someone of sensitivity and heart. He had eyes so deep that still, to this day, I see them looking back at me, sharing the dream of years to come. But, on one late spring afternoon, things changed. Mistakes were made.
He had come over that afternoon to surprise me, to say hello, to tell me he loved me, and to bring me a flower. I wasnÆt prepared. You see, I had other plans. I was to see someone else, another guy, and was just leaving. It was a difficult, and no doubt awkward smile I offered my boyfriend in return for the flowers and kindness he brought me, and there was the most painful knot in my stomach.
He wanted to spend some time with me, but I made excuses. I had to see a friend. I was just leaving. Kissing would smear my lipstick.
He knew something was wrong. Eventually, he took the hint to leave, and although I was relieved I felt terrible. The gnawing pit in my stomach, the guilt and confusion. And the look in his eyes, as though he was hurt, but wasnÆt sure why.
Once I was sure he was gone, I left for my rendezvous. I donÆt know why I did it. Maybe youÆre just young at some point and you do stupid things. Maybe I wanted to find out if the one I had chosen was, indeed, the best one for me. Maybe I was just selfish, if not for what I was doing, then for my not telling him. Either way, I brought my date back two hours later.
We parked in my driveway before going into my folkÆs house to watch a movie. He wanted to kiss me. I did. we went at it for a while. He groped and touched and, it was okay, but sometimes, it just doesnÆt feel right. I wanted the man I had chosen to be with me, not this person in my car. I wanted my boyfriend there, then , and now.
I got my wish. He tapped gently on the window, another flower in his hand. He looked numbed, dazed. My date and I bolted upright, scared silly.
I rolled down the window, not knowing what to say, mouth dry. He spoke, his voice cracking through the words.
“Just…just wanted to surprise you.”
He left the flower on the car and walked away. No yelling, no possessive tantrum. Just soft spring breeze, and the sound of his footsteps, walking away.
I called right away, I had to. “Stupid!” I thought to myself. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”
I was crying, trying to hide it, when we finally spoke. I offered apologies left and right, but he kept telling me that I didnÆt understand. He kept insisting that I had a REASON for what I did. I HAD to know that I wanted someone else. But, I didnÆt.
He never yelled, but his voice never stayed steady either. I could tell he was hurt. I knew I had done it to him. I could tell he was crying, suffering, all for what I did.
We came up with a plan. We were in love, we were both eighteen, therefore adults. He had only to come over the next day, and we would discuss it.
My folks werenÆt there. He showed up at my door a few minutes after I had gotten there. All day my stomach had ached, my heart was breaking, and I was drained. But, when he arrived, and I saw him, and those warm loving, forgiving eyes, I threw my arms around him and held him tighter than ever before. Surely, we were going to crush each other under the weight of this embrace.
But then, the time had come to go upstairs.
I took him by the hand and led him to my room. I sat him down upon the end of the bed.
“IÆm still not sure about this,” he said. “We donÆt have to do this.”
“Yes, we do,” I answered, teary already. “I hurt you,” I mumbled, my voice trailing off.
“Yes, you did. Very much.”
He was going to punish me. Spank me. We had toyed with the notion in the past just for fun, we were both virgins, after all, and wanted to stay that way. But, IÆd wanted him to, and I could tell he felt the same. I was just a matter of admission and courage. Until this day. Until fate intervened.
I was on my knees in front of him. He pulled my head into his chest. It felt so good to have him so close. To touch and to smell him. He took a deep breath.
“Stand up,” he said quietly, and I did so. With one hand, he wiped a tear from my face as he said, “IÆm going to punish you for what you did.”
He said it almost like a question. I nodded, head bowed. I felt a degree of shame wash over and envelop me. It was as frightening as it was delicious. A little more secure in what we were about to do, he said, “YouÆre going to be punished for hurting me.”



And with those quiet words he bent me over his lap. I thought to myself, “punish me..as much as I hurt you,” but I was not yet brave enough to say that.
His first spank across my plaid school skirt was light, almost comical. I didnÆt respond. I wanted him to MAKE me respond. He began spanking harder.
All the world for me was the floor I could see, the discarded panties and notebooks, and the sound and feeling of his hand against me. Then, I felt suddenly cooler.
He was raising the hem of my skirt. Obligingly, I lifted my hips to help him pull it up, exposing my panties to him. He had seem them before, but now, it all seemed so, frightened, embarassing, like that moment before that first wonderful kiss. And then it came.
He spanked harder now, his hand against my pantied bottom. He didnÆt speak much, but I could hear his breathing increase. I began to emit little grunts, which he took as encouragement. I shut tight my eyes to block out any tears. I didnÆt want them. Not yet. I wanted to earn them.
A much harder spank broke my silence and I cried out, “Ow, please, IÆm sorry.”
He sat me upright. My breathing was heavy, so was his. I wanted to embrace him, smother him, but not yet. I wanted more.
“Have you learned your lesson?” he said looking deep into my soul.
“Yes,” I gasped, “but…is that as much pain as you felt?” He looked confused, hurt.
“I humiliated you. I was thoughtless, cruel. I canÆt forgive myself for that.” I started to cry again.
He sat there, shocked, motionless.
“I need to punished! I need this, I need to be satisfied! DonÆt you understand?”
Suddenly, I felt foolish, and alone. I was asking him to satisfy some deep need, deeper than I knew, deeper than we had ever gone. Just before I was about to tell to go away and leave me, he gripped my wrist firmly and looked into my eyes. He did understand. He was just waiting for the go ahead.
He spoke, but always gently, his voice never rising. It didnÆt need to. I was quivering, shaking with fear, delight, apprehension and love.
“You think you should be humiliated for that you did?” he asked.
I turned away from his gaze and nodded my head.
“Then, how should we do that?”
I hugged myself, unsure how to answer. I thought of something overtly sexual, but it seemed out of place.
“S-strip me,” I offered meekly.
“No,” he said shaking his head. “Strip yourself.”
A chill went through me. This was even better than the thought of his ripping my clothes off. I had to unbutton my shirt, hearing each unfastening in my ear like a gunshot. I had to take the shirt off, and then my bra. He had seen me naked before, but nothing like this. I had never been so revealed. He was seeing something deeper, something inside my heart and my soul.
I felt shame and exhilaration, I felt love and restitution. When my bra was off, I actually found myself trying to remove me skirt without exposing my breasts. Finally, I was nude, trying to cover myself with my hands. I began to tremble and cry. He held me close. His loving hands patted my back, assuaging my guilt.
“Shhh. ItÆs almost over. Do you feel this is helping?”
I nodded. It was. He released me from his grasp, and took one step back.
“You should put your hands on your head, please,” he said, voice almost a whisper. He was so polite, yet so firm. Slowly, nervously, I removed my hands so that my parts were no longer covered. He walked around me slowly, I could feel his eyes on me, on every part of me. His hand would occasionally reach out and stroke one curve or one area of skin. Warmth radiated from these spare caresses and I shuddered with a feeling I had never known before.
“Are you ready to end this?” he asked when he was finally in front of me again.
I nodded. He led me gently to the bed.
“Then, get on the bed, on your knees. Press your shoulders to the mattress.”
I did so, unclear as to why he was so specific about my position. But, as I got there, I understood. As I leaned forward, pressing my shoulders to the mat as instructed, I felt my bottom thrusting out and open. This was the sensation I was looking for. This was the shame I wanted. He could see every hidden part of me. The totality of my privates, the hidden areas of my bottom. He kneeled beside me, resting a hand gently on my right cheek.
“I love you,” he said, and I respond in kind with confidence.
His hand went up, then came down again. And again. He was spanking me harder, now, harder than before, and my bottom began to enrapture itself with that warmth. I began pleading out loud that I was sorry. That it would not happen again. He would reply that he knew that. But, first, I would have to be punished. Punished! YES! And so sweetly punished! So deserving!
I was crying openly. Openly and freely, because I felt released, absolved, loved and cherished. The pain in my bottom began to crescendo, the blows coming faster and faster.
And then stopped. He leaned forward and rubbed my bottom gently as I wept. My bottom felt like the smoldering embers of a campfire in June. He kissed one cheek, then the other. I had begun to regain my composure.
But, then, he lifted me, and cradled me in his arms, and the crying started afresh. I clung tightly to him, and he engulfed me in his arms. It was all forgiven. He knew it. I knew it. And I was so…loved.
Soon after, we did lose our virginity to each other, and our erotic life took a new turn as began playing more and more with certain items of dominance and submission. Eventually, we confessed our mutual love of spanking and, to some degree, bondage. We also had to admit the extreme sexual pleasure we received from my spanking. It was actually more intense, more fulfilling, and more a symbol of love and trust than our first time having sex could have possibly been. ThatÆs why I telling you about it.
As for my boyfriend, we eventually did break up. I eventually married someone else, who is trying to understand my particular kink, but just doesnÆt get it. Other than that, IÆm very happy. And, on some warm summer nights like this one, when the evening breeze floats in and IÆm alone, I can still open my summer dress just enough to touch that special part of me that helps me remember being younger, learning things for the first time, and the wonderful, painful feeling of his hand loving me… loving me…

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