Two Kinds Of Spankings

What follows is an excerpt from a conversation Girl On The Net had with her fellow (and with her blog readers) as she was attempting to more carefully specify the parameters of her spanking kink. She identifies two different kinds of spankings, each of which I know to be popular with sometimes-but-not-always-different factions of my Spanking Blog readership:

At that moment what I’m hoping for isn’t one sharp stroke. I’m not anticipating a measured, precise stripe across my backside. But usually that’s what I get. One stripe – carefully applied – then the inevitable order:

“Count them.”

And I count. One, two, three, four… I count the strokes and I thank him for each one. This controlled, dominant guy, who will dish out exactly as much pain as I deserve and no more.

That’s nice – it is. But it’s not the best.

The best – what I’m hoping for – is a loss of control. I’m looking for him not to deal out punishment like it’s medicine, and he’s the careful pharmacist weighing the exact number of pills. I want punishment that comes only because it pleases him to do it. A beating powered not by his judgment but by his rage.

“Get the fuck over and pull down those knickers.” Voice cracking slightly because he’s so angry, then later trembling more because the sight of my exposed cunt makes him want to do more than beat me. He slips the belt out through the loops of his trousers and folds it quickly in half, then half again – a short, thick, leather strap with which to smack me.

One, two, three, four, five, six… they fall in a blur. There’s no time to count, and I can’t get a word in because with each stroke he’s telling me more about how I’m a dirty girl, and why I deserve this. Why he loves this.

In the latter scenario, he’s not ‘done’ when I’m suitably punished, he’s only ‘done’ when he’s satisfied. When he’s beaten me hard enough to make his prick throb, and fucked me good and hard while I grip on tight to my calves and focus on the dual pleasures of staying upright and coming round his dick.

I explain this to him – this difference. The difference between pain as punishment – the way it might be meted out if I were a naughty schoolgirl and he a headmaster giving me six of the best – and pain as sexual brutality. In the latter I’m not being punished because I deserve it but because he needs it – he can’t get hard unless he sees my arse glowing red from the stripes, hears the thwack of leather on taut skin. Hears me squeal. Watches my cunt get wet from it.

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