I remember my first spanking with a combination of perfect clarity and the fairy tale gloss that comes with having remembered something over and over again for many years: in my case, six of them.
S_F and I had talked at length about what my first spanking would be like. We’d been friends for almost a year at that point, and I knew and trusted him, and in the time that we’d been openly talking about spanking I’d gained a lot of confidence. I could say the word without getting sick in my stomach ; ). We did not, however, set up a date and time for when we’d be having my first scene. It just so happened that on that August afternoon that we were alone in the house, I was feeling well (I’d had some health problems left over from my more difficult years and was often a bit sick back then) and we were both in positive, relaxed moods. S_F determined that it was as good a time as any to give me my spanking.
From the time that I first discovered that S_F and his wife were into spanking, and learned that consensual adult spanking was a real thing, the desperation of feeling that I had an unfulfillable desire was replaced with excitement, but a new concern rose in my mind: what if I didn’t actually like being spanked? What if it was only the idea that excited me? What if the real thing didn’t live up to that which I had so long imagined?
This was at the front of my mind at the onset of my first spanking. I felt like my entire life had, in one way or another, building to this moment. What if I hated it? It had the potential to ruin all those years of fantasy. There was only one way to find out.
S_F lead me upstairs to his study and sat down in the middle of the brown sofa there. I came in slowly and uncertainly, gently closing the door behind me. He beckoned me over to him, and I found it difficult to get my muscles to respond. My heart was beating faster than I knew was possible and I felt a little dizzy. I realized that I had been holding my breath, and I closed my eyes for a second, forcing myself to focus and move forward.
“What is going to happen now, Alex?” he asked me, once I was standing in front of him. His voice was full of confidence and affection, and his tone wrapped me in comfort. I gathered my courage to answer the question.
“You’re going to spank me,” I finally muttered. I played with the hem of my skirt nervously, wanting to get the apprehension that had been building for so long finally over.
“Why?” he asked. I furrowed my brow. I wasn’t sure what the right answer was to that.
“Uh...because I want you to?” I said, trying to make a statement but falling back into a question. S_F nodded.
“Precisely. Are you ready to go over my lap now?” he asked. I was very ready, and I muttered that I was. “Please do so, then.”
Just lying down in position filled me with an immediate joy that I had never known. It was as if the instant that I was in place over his lap, I knew that I was in the right place. Despite the extreme nervousness that I was feeling, I grinned uncontrollably.
S_F flipped my skirt up, and he placed his hand on my plain, white underwear. I lay there for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to relax as combating forces of fear, anticipation and excitement fought in my chest. Then, he began to spank me.
He started firmly, but in a way that was not overwhelming or frightening. As I relaxed, accepting the reality of the situation, the fact that this was real and not a dream or a story I was making up, I realized that the sensation was actually a bit pleasant, and my fears of hating spankings began to leave. After a few moments, he increased the force behind each swat and it began to truly hurt. It didn’t hurt in the way that other things in my life before that day had hurt: other pain, even very extreme injuries that I had suffered, had seemed to pass through me, its acknowledgment entirely under my control. For the first time, I felt present in my body while something hurt, and there was nowhere else that I wanted to be.
S_F checked in with me frequently, and I told him that I was doing well each time. After each confirmation of wellbeing, he increased his force and/or speed, making the spanking continue to grow in intensity. As the pain grew, so did my emotional comfort. I felt the strongest feeling of relief that I had ever known. This is finally real, I thought happily. Tears started to flow down my face. A few seconds later and I was sobbing. S_F rubbed my back gently with his left hand and told me that I was a good girl. He told me that he was glad that I was able to let go, and he encouraged me to cry as much as I felt was necessary. I cried and sobbed. It was the beginning of the release of fifteen years (as I remember thinking about spanking from the time I was three) of tension, stress, fear, self-loathing and shame. In a way, six years later, I’m still struggling to fully rid myself of these things, so it was not an immediate change, but the first de-corking of the bottle was a fabulous feeling.
I remember very little else about the actual spanking: mainly, it’s the good feelings, the safety, the self acceptance and the happiness that come to me when I review the memory again. After the spanking ended, I cuddled against him for a long time as I finished crying. It wasn’t a whimpy spanking at all, and I was incredibly bruised afterwards. I wish I had taken a photo, but at the time, the idea that I would ever want to share this experience with someone who wasn’t there at the time was the furthest thing from my mind. I didn’t care about other people. I didn’t care about anything else. I was safe, I was sore and I was tired. I went to sleep after hugs time was over and I slept better than I had ever before.
Thus my adventure in Spankingland began.