My love affair with spanking—that delicious blend of sting, surrender, and soaring pleasure—began on my wedding night. In our honeymoon suite, the chandelier's soft glow caught the beading on my wedding gown as I found myself bent over the mahogany dining table, the cool polished surface pressing against my flushed belly . My satin dress bunched around my waist, exposing the lace-trimmed panties now stretched taut between my trembling thighs.
I whispered to Bobbie how desperately aroused I felt, begging him to spank me. He pulled my lace panties down my thighs to where my garters sat. His palm landed with precise, rhythmic strikes—twelve in total, alternating between my quivering cheeks. By the tenth, the initial sharp bite had transformed into waves of liquid heat radiating through my pelvis, triggering an explosive climax that left me clutching the table's edge, gasping as my inner muscles pulsed and contracted without a single touch to my most intimate parts.
Why would anyone surrender to such exquisite pain? On our wedding night, champagne still buzzing through my veins, I craved experiences I'd only fantasized about in dog-eared romance novels hidden beneath my mattress. I trusted Bobbie implicitly—his gentle eyes always watching for my reactions, his strong hands capable of both tenderness and controlled force.
His first tentative swat barely registered; I arched my back, silently demanding more. Each subsequent strike built upon the last—the sharp crack of skin against skin, the millisecond of breathless anticipation before the sting bloomed across my flesh, transforming into a molten river of sensation that pooled between my legs. By the final smack, my skin glowed crimson, sensitive to even the whisper of cool air across its heated surface.
The marks sometimes linger for days—faint pink handprints that I trace with my fingertips in private moments. Few sensations rival that perfect symphony of vulnerability and power—my body yielding while my mind soars. There's intoxicating intimacy in feeling Bobbie's arousal pressed firmly against my hip as I lay across his lap, in hearing his breathing grow ragged with each strike, in knowing that my surrender ignites something primal within him that only I can satisfy.
Every time I'm spanked, no matter how or when, I become incredibly aroused and always need sexual release afterward. My pussy is dripping wet and my need for hard cock or a woman’s tender mouth is immense. Preferences change with different partners, but Bobbie is the only man I've ever allowed to spank me—and will ever allow. Throughout our forty-four years of marriage, he has tried various methods—hands, paddles, belts, and more—but my favourite remains the classic ritual: I slip into a short skirt or dress, lower my panties to mid-thigh, and position myself across his knee for a hand spanking. I can feel his arousal through his trousers, knowing that later his erection will fill me—whether orally, vaginally, or anally—leaving me soaked.
I've also been spanked by eight women, though I won't reveal all their names to avoid spoiling upcoming stories in the "Our Sexual Adventure" series. Readers know that Katy was my first female spanker: a brief, unexpected encounter that thrilled me immensely. Then there was Mikki, who spanked me many times and taught me how much I love woman-on-woman spanking. Completely naked across her knee, I reveled in both the warmth of her hand and the sharp sting of her wooden paddle. That feminine intimacy felt raw and intensely connected, both completely naked always!
There's a vulnerability in that shared space, a bond I cherish as much as my long-standing play with Bobbie. When I fell in love with Mikki, every sensation between us intensified tenfold. With her, spanking exists purely for pleasure: we strip bare, skin against skin, and afterward spend lazy hours soothing reddened flesh with lotion, kissing each tender spot before melting into lovemaking.
I've spanked Mikki countless times, my palm tingling with each impact against her creamy flesh. Her bottom would flush pink, then deepen to cherry-red beneath my steady rhythm, each strike drawing a delicious gasp from her parted lips. Afterward, I'd squeeze cool aloe lotion onto my palms, massaging it into her heated skin with circular motions while she quivered beneath my touch. Those moments always melted into languid lovemaking—her fingers tangled in my hair, my mouth tracing constellations across her inner thighs until we both shuddered with release. We'd find ourselves in a tangle of limbs, her thighs trembling beneath my fingertips as I parted her delicate folds, revealing the glistening pearl at her centre. My tongue would trace lazy figure-eights while her mouth explored me with equal devotion, her warm breath sending shivers across my sensitized skin. We'd mirror each other's rhythms, building a symphony of sighs that crescendoed into breathless pleasure.
Sometimes with women, Bobbie, their husband or both would watch from the corner armchair, their breathing heavy as she bent across my lap, but I treasured most the afternoons when we were truly alone. In that private sanctuary, with sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains, we could take our time—spanking transitioning to touching, touching to tasting, minutes stretching into hours as we explored each curve and hollow without hurry or performance.
Bobbie's spankings served a different purpose—they came when I'd crossed a line or acted without prior discussion. Though our relationship grants us freedom without needing explicit permission, we've always maintained absolute honesty. Being across his knee in those moments feels like accepting consequences—a dynamic entirely distinct from what I share with women. That's why I prefer to remain partially clothed with him: dress hiked up, panties lowered but still clinging to my thighs. I could call "stop" at any moment, yet I rarely do, finding a strange liberation in that surrender. (Once we tried a cane—Wendy’s favorite—and I did stop. I’ve taken his belt too, though it’s not my preferred tool.)
Occasionally, I enjoy other sensations—floggers, for instance, offer an intriguing contrast. With women, it's pure, unadulterated pleasure; with Bobbie, it's a consensual punishment we both crave. Outside the bedroom, I'm not submissive in life or work, and Bobbie remains attentive to my needs whether we're making tender love or having urgent, primal sex. Perhaps I submit to spanking precisely because it stands apart from everything else in our relationship. These are simply my experiences—yours may differ entirely.
Although I’m not submissive in daily life, I willingly surrender to spanking because it’s a space where I choose vulnerability. With Bobbie, it sometimes serves as consensual punishment—when I cross a line or act impulsively.
Isabella (my girlfriend, Isa) has spanked me, though she insists it isn’t really her thing. She even let Bobbie hand-spank her—she never stopped him, yet again claimed it wasn’t for her. What she does enjoy, however, is watching me get spanked. Over the year she’s lived with us, we’ve developed our own little ritual. If either of them decides I’ve done something deserving of a spanking, they just announce it—and that’s exactly what happens.
I’m never asked for my opinion, nor am I allowed to give one. Of course, I could offer it and they’d accept it, but this is how our play has evolved: they decide when, how, and where. I merely bend over and obey.
Sometimes, when Isa’s in a playful mood, she’ll invent some imaginary offence I’m supposed to have committed. Only after I’ve been spanked does she confess she made it up. She has a wicked streak that I absolutely adore.
If you've read my first two stories, you'll know Wendy—tall, confident, with those knowing green eyes that seemed to see right through me. When I was moving to Plymouth to live with Bobbie, Wendy helped me find a rental house with bay windows overlooking the harbour. One evening after viewings, she invited me for tea and pulled out a polished mahogany box from beneath her bed.
"If you're going to be a sailor's wife," she said with a wink that made her freckles dance, "you'll need one of these." The velvet-lined interior cradled an array of toys in various shapes and sizes. She helped me select a few—vibrators in sleek chrome and soft silicone. Then she withdrew a paddle, its surface gleaming under the lamplight. As she explained its purpose, I felt heat rise to my cheeks.
"There's absolutely no way," I insisted, clutching my teacup so tightly my knuckles whitened. "Someone hitting me? That's completely insane."
Eight months into our marriage, I found myself in a discreet boutique with Wendy, my fingers trembling as they traced the smooth contours of a rosewood paddle. The wood felt warm against my palm, almost alive, with two perfect rows of heart-shaped holes that caught the light. When the craftsman burned "naughty Carol" into the handle—the letters curling in elegant script—something shifted inside me. The weight of it in my hand felt like coming home to a place I'd never known existed.
Since then, that paddle has become an extension of our intimacy. When Mikki first felt its firm kiss against her skin, her gasp of surprise melted into a moan that told me everything. She convinced James to buy her an identical one, and we'd often find ourselves side by side on cool satin sheets, fingers interlaced, the synchronized rhythm of wood against flesh filling the room as Bobbie attended to me and James to her—our bodies flushing pink then crimson with each precise strike.
I've shared stories of three women who've spanked me; the other five remain delicious secrets for future tales. My journey into sensation continued when I purchased my first flogger—fifty strands of butter-soft deerskin that trail like whispers across sensitized skin. We've experimented with household items transformed into instruments of pleasure: the hollow pop of a table tennis paddle, the sharp sting of leather slippers, the thud of wooden spoons that left perfect oval imprints. Though I never warmed to the whistling slice of canes or the crack of whips, we've settled into our favorite trinity: the intimate connection of hand against flesh, the authoritative voice of the paddle, and the sensual cascade of the flogger's many tongues.
Hand and paddle sessions follow a predictable rhythm: twelve strikes, evenly distributed across both cheeks, each landing with a satisfying crack that echoes off our bedroom walls. When I've been particularly naughty, that count doubles to twenty-four, leaving me with a deep crimson glow that makes sitting uncomfortable yet deliciously reminiscent for days afterward
My flogger is crafted from buttery-soft deerskin leather—polished black handle worn smooth from years of use, with fifty alternating black and scarlet strands that dance like flames when swung. Our play with this toy unfolds with exquisite deliberation. Bobbie starts by trailing the cool strands across my goosebump-covered bottom, down the sensitive backs of my thighs, and teasingly between them where I'm already slick with anticipation. I typically shed my blouse and bra for these sessions, savouring the feather-light whisper of leather as it brushes across my hardened nipples, leaving trails of tingling sensation. When he finally begins to swing it in earnest, the soft thud against my flesh builds in intensity until I'm arching my back, fingers clutching satin sheets, shuddering through cascading waves of release that leave me breathless and trembling.
For paddle sessions, I typically wear my favourite jewelled plug—purple my favourite colour, catching the light with every movement. After my spanking, when the heat radiates from my reddened skin like a furnace, Bobbie applies cool aloe cream with reverent hands, massaging until I'm purring with contentment. Then, with agonising slowness, he'll ease the plug out before taking me deeply, completely—a fullness and surrender I've come to crave above almost all else. The sensation of his hard cock penetrating my bum hole is electric.
Though I've occasionally been blindfolded with black silk and bound to a bed with velvet restraints—sometimes with carefully selected others watching from the shadows, always with Bobbie's protective presence guiding the experience—I have no interest in the cold metal of handcuffs or the elaborate rope work others seem to favour. Though without sight and bound, not knowing exactly who the stranger is that's giving my pussy a hard pounding is so exciting. Whilst I can make guesses i’m not entirely sure. Though when I get my Bobbie’s big hard cock, I don’t need sight to know which cock is pleasuring me.
This journey of discovery began on our wedding night in a Hotel in Plymouth, nothing but moonlight and curiosity between us, and has continued throughout our forty-four years together, pausing only during my two pregnancies and tender recoveries when Bobbie showed his devotion in gentler ways.
If you enjoyed this story, don't forget to like and favorite it. I welcome your comments and suggestions. Additionally, if you have ideas for other side stories about our life and adventures that you'd like to read, please feel free to message me. Carol xx.
