Spanking hot

My dirty little secret is that I love following rules. I know, we're meant to carve our own paths and fight the system. And I do that in real life when there's good reason to. But fundamentally, I've always been a bit of a 'good girl'. I am most in my element during situations where there are clear rules to follow: fancy dinners with etiquette about which knife to use; parties with dress codes that are written down in black and white; family traditions that are the same every single year. Those are my comfort zones. It's not just that I like to know I'm doing the right thing, I also enjoy the pageantry that comes along with strictly laid-out social interactions.

Perhaps it's unsurprising, then, that I'm into BDSM.

Kink is the perfect canvas on which to paint the picture of my sexuality. I like being told what to do. I like having the option to relinquish all control in any situation, passing it to someone who decides on my behalf how I will stand or sit, whether I may speak, and—of course—when I might be allowed to come.

And I love the pomp and ceremony that comes along with that. I know some people play in a more casual way—for them it's the sensations and the power exchange that is important. Some of my friends could spend a happy kinky afternoon playing with nothing more than a couple of repurposed ties attached to a bed frame and a wooden spoon to spank with. But I love the accoutrements that come with kinky play: the scent of leather, the clink of chains, the beautiful harnesses and furniture. All of that sets a scene. It helps to establish a tone that instantly puts me in my comfortable, rule-following happy place.

When Steve offered to give me a tour of his dungeon, I knew straight away that I was in for a treat.

I'd known Steve for a long time, but we had never played together before. We'd made eyes at each other across tables at munches, and we'd run into each other at the odd kinky event or two. But somehow, every time I got up the courage to ask him if he wanted to play, he'd be busy engaged with somebody else. I used to watch from afar, in awe of how he managed to stay so composed and calm while in dominant mode. He keeps a straight face at all times, plays almost silently, and that gives him an air of strictness that makes the back of my knees go weak. Some powerful types are all about show—they speak loudly, move boldly, and generally want to take up as much space as possible to demonstrate their authority. Not so with Steve. He's calm. Measured. Deliberate. That's what drew me to him.

When I found out he had access to a dungeon equipped with more beautiful kit than I'd ever laid eyes on before? Well, that was just the icing on an already delicious-looking cake.

Steve gave me a tour before we started to play: explaining what each piece of furniture was for and ways one could be attached to it. Handing me implements from the rack on the wall and letting me hold each one in turn, feeling the soft leather of each flogger running through my fingertips, or testing out crops by giving myself gentle whacks on the palm. Everything felt so good—I was like a kid in a sweet shop. Asking questions, getting stuck in, posing over different pieces of furniture. I knew that I had to get all the excitement out of the way before we began playing, because once play began there'd be very strict rules.

That alone made me tingle with excitement.

We discussed safe words, check-ins and limits, and Steve made it clear that he was going to start off gently and build up. All sensible, as this was the first time we had played. I told him I wanted to be restrained, and I pointed out one of the more beautiful whips that I really wanted him to use on me: a long red-and-black leather whip with multiple tails. Like an extended flogger, greater reach but the same delicious sting. Other than that, Steve only gave me one firm rule for our play session:

"You may not speak," he said. Immediately, my clit throbbed. Not speak at all? For the whole play session?

"Unless you need to safeword, or take a break of course," he added, "But other than that—no talking. I know you like rules, and I like to be able to hear the sound your flesh makes when I smack it."

My head spun with giddy excitement.

"Yes!" I told him. "I can definitely abide by that rule. I would love to."

He finished off the tour, pointed out the piece of equipment over which I should drape myself, and then left me alone in the dungeon to prepare.

Naturally, I strip naked. But not completely naked. I do like to dress up, as I say. The pageantry is part and parcel of what I love about BDSM. So I don pearl earrings, a bracelet and (yes, the pun is very much intended) a pearl necklace too. Put my hair up in a fancy chignon, as if I'm going to a wedding, and add a satisfying slick of bright red lipstick. The impression I want to give is of a woman who has just stepped out of a ballgown, having left the party early so she can head down to the dungeon for playtime.

A quick glance in the mirror tells me I've nailed the look I want, so from now on I can turn off the part of my brain that makes decisions, and instead allow the part of me that feels to take over. Wandering through the dungeon, I touch the implements hanging on the wall—handcuffs, nipple clamps, floggers and whips of all shapes and sizes—and enjoy the thrill of not yet knowing which Steve might choose to use on me. When I hear his footsteps on the stairs, I assume the position we'd agreed in advance: standing with my feet on the bottom rung of the curved wooden rack, with my arms stretched out in front of me to be cuffed to the metal frame.

The first thing Steve does is approach the implements hanging on the wall, selecting which tools he's going to use to apply pain and pleasure across the whole of my body. He begins with the crop. Starts off by running it all over my skin, like he's tracing the lines of my bum and thighs, almost as if he's drawing a map of my flesh—every ridge and ripple and curve. I'm already thrumming with anticipation, but this act makes me even more alert. Hyper-attuned to exactly where the tiny leather tip of the crop is, so I can be vigilant for that first stroke.

And then it comes.

Thwack. Once, just hard enough to make me gasp, but gentle enough that the swift shock of it is rapidly replaced with a warm glow of pleasure. Then again—thwack. I draw another sharp breath, and allow myself a brief moment to acknowledge Steve's impeccable timing. I knew he would be skilled as a dominant, but even within these first two strokes I know he understands something that not all doms have grasped: the pleasure is as important as the pain. The strokes are vital, but so too is the gap between them. The way darkness is as vital in photography as good light. I appreciate each flick of the whip more because he has waited patiently to select the perfect moment to land it.

He switches to the flogger I requested, and it feels just as good as I'd hoped. Broad, abrupt stinging sensations as he lands each smack on the pale canvas of my bum, then gorgeous tickling gentleness as he traces it up and over the pain. He continues to map my body using the flogger, running it all over my back and thighs and bottom, before eventually planting a flag in that map—smack—one more stroke. I would squirm with delight if I weren't so well restrained. And if I weren't focusing so hard on being a good girl for him.

A brief check-in: he steps forward to look at my face, strokes my hair slightly. Starts to gently massage my bottom. All this layers more tension and excitement into the scene, so that when he next hits me with the flogger, it zips through my whole body like electricity. I am sure it's reflected in my face: the brief expression of shock followed by a radiant kind of glee spreading outwards from my filthy smile.

Steve applies the flogger again, this time in neat sharp circles that deliver a rapid flurry of blows to my backside. The strength of the smacks builds and I gasp and wriggle against them, enjoying the way the flesh of my bottom jiggles with each stroke. Revelling in the total lack of having to do anything—even speak! My body is pressed up tight against the wooden support, I am enjoying the cool, smooth wood against the skin of my breasts and the hot licks of the whip against my bottom and thighs. When Steve comes to check in on me again, putting the flogger against my chin to tilt my head up towards him, I swear I almost let out a catlike purr.

Perhaps I'm making him sound cold. It's certainly very strange for me to have a play partner who doesn't speak. But I'm enjoying the protocol of it. I like knowing that there won't be further instructions, just physical actions. And Steve's actions fluctuate so beautifully between kindness and punishment: pleasure and pain. He plants gentle kisses on my flushed skin, and strokes me with flat, soft palms before spanking my bum again. There's a kind of closeness and intimacy in this comfortable silence, and I relish the opportunity to soak in it rather than feel like I have to say something to keep the mood alive. He and I are the mood: we don't need words to feed it. Just the commitment to stay quiet together, and allow each bite of the crop or the flogger to ring out, echoing through the dungeon.

He increases the speed of the flogging, making short, targeted circles with it in the air, delivering a flurry of harder smacks. Then he kneels at my feet to kiss me where he's just hit, worshipping my arse as if a minute ago he wasn't punishing it. See what I mean about light and darkness? Those little breaks in between blows get me hotly nervous. The kisses are a double-edged sword. And just as the kisses heighten the drama of when the next whipstroke will land, so the strokes add a yearning for the kisses I know will come next.

For the next act, Steve turns me over—still never speaking, just letting his gestures and actions tell the story. I'm now cuffed to the same piece of furniture, but flipped over the other way—breasts and stomach and mound exposed for him to tease and torment. Gently flogging my chest and stomach warms the skin up beautifully, and I find I am arching my back a little trying to meet the leather as it lands on my skin.

He strokes my face, puts a hand round my throat, and does everything he can to ground me. I'm so blissed out I don't even think about why he might be doing that until—thwack! – the flogger lands on my vulva. It's a gentle stroke, as promised Steve is building things gradually, but it comes as a surprise and my body jerks, even as it betrays me by opening my thighs a little, like I'm begging for more.

And I am.

He cups my vulva in his palm and then gives it a few manual smacks. By this point my clit is thudding and I'm eager for him to take things further. Layer one more round of pleasure on top of all this delicious pain. At one point he pauses the flurry of flogger blows and kneels at my feet—putting his face right in front of my pussy as if he's inspecting me. He uses his hands delicately but firmly to rub between my legs, and I moan involuntarily. I want to say "yes, that's it, oh please," but I know I am forbidden from speaking. Holding that rule closely in the front of my mind, I allow my body to do the talking for me. Legs open and trembling, cunt starting to drip with eager wetness, in my mind I urge him onwards in his explorations.

The way he so gently but firmly explores my clit and cunt reminds me of the curiosity which I brought into the dungeon. He takes out a stool and places it beneath my feet, so now, instead of standing, I am crouched. Genius move, I think. There's a subtle tension in my thighs and feet as I perch on the stool which I just know will get worse as I become more sensitive to his touch. My legs are forced apart by the stance, giving him very easy access to my clit which he immediately takes perfect advantage of: applying a magic wand tantalisingly close to where it throbs, but not yet close enough for me to come.

Flogging my bum with that beautiful red-and-black whip, I find myself twitching away as the strokes get harder, but aching for more of them anyway. He intersperses bursts of flogging with sweet rumbling pleasure from the wand, teasing me with what he could give, but never quite delivering all of it. This is him showing off his mastery, and it's lucky he told me not to speak or I'd have to say something about it. I'd feel compelled to compliment him on how well he mixes the pleasure alongside the pain. Dropping in a brief kiss before smacking my inner thighs. Rubbing me with soft palms then whipping that hand back for a brutal smack.

I moan and sigh and gasp as he starts to build rhythm. And I'm acutely aware of every single part of my body—the way my chest and torso are stretched out, presenting my tits for him to squeeze or smack depending on his preference. The cuffs now digging into my wrists as I buck against them, trying to chase the wand as he presses it almost-but-not-quite against my clit. Over and over. Giving, and then taking away. More and more, until it almost drives me mad.

Steve notices that I'm losing control, and he puts a finger to my lips.

If I could speak, this is the point at which I would beg him. But I like not being able to speak, so instead I beg with my eyes, and with my moans, and with the hungry way I arch my back to meet him. Begging, always begging, in a language of squeals and gasps.

Instead, he lets me lick the wand: without saying a word he communicates his instruction so clearly that I do it immediately. Moistening the tool with which he will finally let me come. I stick out my tongue and cover it nicely, feeling even as I do that my cunt is getting wet enough that it probably won't be necessary. By the time he applies it I am already slicker than I usually am before sex. It's the atmosphere, you see? The rules. The pageantry. The scent of leather and the sound of whacks and the knowledge that I am just a pliant mess in someone else's skilled hands.

He presses the wand against my vulva much more forcefully this time, and although I can't speak in my head I'm shouting 'YES!'. This is exactly what I need. The deep and intense rumbles against my clit are pinpoint-perfect, delivering just the right pressure in exactly the right place. He holds it there with measured calm and almost sadistic patience as I build and build and then… he takes the wand away.

Just at the point when I think I'm going to tip over the edge into climax, he whips the wand away and applies the flogger again. To my bum, my vulva, the inside of my thighs: blow after blow raining down on me, crushing the orgasm that was just about to blossom in my crotch, and making me gasp out in shock. Blissful agony.

But I need to come. This play is all well and good but he's got me hot for it now—I really need to come. In my head, there's a soundtrack of petulant screams. My inner voice demanding to be given release. To be rewarded for staying still and taking all that delicious punishment. A few more intense thwacks with the flogger, and his open palm, until… ah yes. The finale. The reward that I've definitely earned. Steve uses his fingers inside my wet pussy, angled to meet my g-spot as he fucks me with his hands, rippling through my body with a force that is multiplied many times over by the fact I've had to wait for it so patiently. In and out, in and out, over and over in swift, aggressive strokes—almost like he's trying to pull an orgasm from my body. I close my eyes, and allow myself to stand just on the edge of orgasm for a couple of seconds more before clenching myself tightly around his fingers and letting the first spasms rock through me, resonating from my crotch all the way up my spine and into my brain. Washing over me like warm waves. Burning me up like a fever.

Just as I crest that peak and start to surf down the other side of that orgasmic wave, Steve pulls his fingers out and delivers a few short, sharp smacks. One to my clit, a couple more to my thighs, just enough to remind me that this is a performance of pain as well as pleasure. I experience them like wake-up calls: buckets of iced water thrown over me to calm me down at the end of this beautiful concerto of sensation. He is characteristically gentle and gracious as he eases me down from my kinky high too—stroking me with his palms, kissing me, and letting me rest in glorious post-orgasmic bliss on the wooden rack. Breathing one long sigh of satisfaction and release.

My pearl necklace remains in place. My bottom is on fire and my cunt is sated. We have still not said a single word to each other.

The End