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An Emotional Spanking

By: sensual40ukman



We sat in a cafe at Kings Cross, facing each other across a small plain table. The bustle of the station hummed its soundtrack while the casual business of the day went on all around us. Frequent announcements, a commentary on the comings and goings of train after train, spilled out across the station. 

We were anonymous here and the noise and bustle of such a busy place provided us with a neutral backdrop that suited us well. We were surrounded by life, surrounded by people; and yet we were alone. You stood out, here, like a splash of colour in a black and white picture. And here, over a coffee, in the middle of the day, we talked about the ways in which I would pull down your knickers and spank your bare arse. I would relieve my tension on you, caress you with pain and leave you raw, used and humiliated.

You sipped your coffee and I saw liquid eyes that were fixed on me. Your soul, strong and assured, looked out at me. Under the cafe lights your hair shone and I knew that if I touched it, it would feel silky, would slip through my fingers like water. 

"Thank you for the coffee," you said, understating beautifully the tension of the moment. Your voice was clear, cool water and I drank deeply from it.

I smiled at you.

"It's my pleasure. Everything is my pleasure."

You put your cup down and looked at me, hard. When you spoke, I was not ready for the raw power of your words.

"I need what you are going to give to me," you said. "I don't just want it - though God knows, I want it. I need it."

"What do you need?"

"You. Taking me. Taking my dignity, tugging my knickers down, spanking me, hurting me. Seeing my arse, naked and bare. Bending me over, positioning me, playing with me like a toy. I need it. I need to feel dominated and used. Hurt. Needed."

"Well then, you'll be pleased to know - I need it too."

You paused. You stared. Your lips were moist, lightly parted.

"What do you need?" You whispered. Fearfully, almost.

"I need to hold your dignity in my hand, and crumble it like dirt. I need to see you naked and exposed. I need you to have the uncomfortable realisation that I am behind you, that I am looking at your arse, that it is on full view to me. I need you to know that I am fascinated, maybe excited, maybe disgusted by you. Your whole self, your body, your soul will be reduced to nothing more than a vulnerable bare arse and I need you to realise this. And I need to spank you. To feel the blow, to hear the stinging slap. To hear you cry. Your arse will turn red and you will feel the pain of it. That is what I need."

Your eyes glistened as you listened to me. You hung on to my every word and your eyes fixed on my mouth as the words spilled out of me. You didn't smile - it wasn't a moment for levity. But your face glowed and I knew that you were shining inside.

You picked up your coffee and took a sip, once again surveying me over the rim of the cup.

"My arse is yours to do with as you will," you said, quietly.

Without taking your eyes off me, you put your cup down and stood up. You turned around and faced away from me. You were wearing a full length skirt which accentuated your curves beautifully. You have a divine figure; sensual, curvy. Your arse filled the skirt, was hugged by it; and I admired the beauty of your buttocks, round and full and rich with a thousand possibilities

You looked back at me over your shoulder, your eyes strong, your face serious.

"Do you want it?" You asked.

I couldn't help but smile. What a question. Shamelessly, I allowed my gaze to move from your face to your arse. I gazed at it, so perfect. So round. So ready.

"Yes, I want it," I said finally. "I want it very much."

* * *

Two weeks after this, I pulled my car up in front of your house for the first time. It is a fact that with you, waiting for an email reply for just a few hours seems an unbearable length of time. The two weeks I had to wait to see you, to consummate our mutual needs, felt so long. It was a length of time during which my raw tension grew, my rage thickened and my need to punish you became almost unbearable.

But it was two weeks. With work and families and the commitments we both have...we are not in control of our time. And two weeks after our meeting at Kings Cross, your house was free. And we were both free too.

Our time had come.

You answered the door in a short denim skirt. You were wearing a pink t-shirt and I could see your black bra underneath. Your breasts are heavy and I loved to see them, full and ripe, contained beneath your clothing. You were wearing no tights, no stockings and your bare legs were smooth and innocently suggestive. They were made more shapely by the black high heeled shoes you wore. The shoes were sexy and the way they posed your legs - and the way they drew out the full roundness of your arse - was just incredible. You wore no make up on that day and your face looked plain and scrubbed and beautifully innocent. Your hair was tied back in a pony tail and it made you look active and youthfully sexy.

You smiled and welcomed me in. I tried not to look at the pictures on the wall. You have a very happy family.

With the front door closed, shutting us in our own world of secrecy, you turned to face me. In any ordinary situation, given what we were about to do, we would probably have kissed at this point. But this was not ordinary. This was about me punishing you. Your arse. A spanking. You, letting me unleash my tension and rage on your backside; you, giving up your polite, reasoned individuality for a time, while I went to work on your submission. This was not common romance.

And we didn't kiss.

"How would you like to do this?" You asked. It was such a plain, simple question. There was no embarrassment in your words.

I looked you up and down. I adored your legs, bare and shaped by high heels. Your skirt reached just a little way down your thighs, just past your knickers. Your heavy breasts were just inches from me and I could have reached out and touched them. Stroked them.

"Where is your living room?" I asked. Without another word you led me dutifully through a door, in to the family living room. Two sofas. A dining table. A TV. It was where the family came to eat, to relax, to be together. It was where I would expose you in the most basic way and make you cry with pain. It was where I would humiliate you. Never again would you be able to sit in this room without knowing what I had done to you, what you had given of yourself here. The echoes of your pleasure, your suffering, would reverberate around this room for evermore.

You turned to face me. Your face was a gentle question. I was aware that my face was not so gentle, in response. I indicated one of the sofas, with a stab of my eyes.

"Stand behind the sofa," I said. "Facing it."

Slowly, deliberately, you turned and walked over to the sofa. You stood facing away from me, standing straight and absolutely still and I adored the round perfection of your bum, so perfectly hidden beneath your denim skirt. I could see how full it was, how round, straining to be freed from the sexy confines of your skirt.

I walked up to you, slowly, and stood, close behind, without touching you. I leant forward, so that I could smell you. I knew that you would feel my warm breath on your neck. I could smell the shampoo in your hair and soap on your neck. I blew gently and was pleased to see goosebumps rise up on your flesh.

You didn't say a word. You didn't move. I stood for some time, so close behind you, letting my hand move near to your bottom but never quite touching you. I wondered if you would sense the closeness of my flesh there, if some sensual, organic electricity would make your buttocks tense and yearn for some contact. If you felt it, it didn't show. Your remained still, silent, waiting.

I wanted to touch your bottom, through the material of your skirt. I wanted to caress you. I wanted to run my hands over your curved buttocks and ready myself for what I was about to enjoy. And yet...I enjoyed the fact you were waiting, feeling nothing. I loved it that you were standing still, expectant, devoid of any sensation and yet wanting the sharpest pain.

"Bend over the back of the sofa," I said, finally. You leaned forward a little, so that your tummy was pressed against the back of it. It was a nice position, comfortable for you I am sure, and it pushed your arse out just a little way. It was very polite!

"All the way over," I demanded. "I want your hands on the seat, and your face as far down as you can get it."

You didn't nod or speak agreement. It delighted me that you simply did as I asked, without question. I watched, fascinated and excited, as you bent yourself over the back of the sofa, s far as you could go. All that was left for my amusement was your legs dangling down, your high heels planted firmly on the floor, and your arse thrust lewdly up in to the air. It was perfect.

I stood back to admire you. What were you expecting? Were you expecting a stroke, a caress? Were you expecting to feel my hands wandering lewdly over your round buttocks, feeling you and touching you up for my own sexual pleasure? Or were you expecting a smack? Were you waiting for the sudden blow of my hand on your bottom, a short, sharp smack to start off our session? You said not a word, and what you were expecting was of no consequence. You remained passive, waiting. You'd given your arse to me and it was mine, to do with as I wanted. I loved your silence. I loved your complicity. And I loved the fact that down there, with your face buried in the back of the sofa, you had no idea what was coming.

I reached down, grabbed the hem of your skirt and tugged it up sharply. I pulled it over your waist, exposing you in the most obscene, childishly innocent way. Your knickers were all that stood between me and your dignity. And even then, your dignity was fading fast. I thought your white knickers, simple cotton briefs, were very appropriate. They were sexy and innocent. They framed your arse perfectly and I loved how round and firm your arse looked, encased in such simple, clean white briefs. It was tempting to touch you, to caress your bottom through the material. It was equally as tempting to administer a spanking while you wore them, smacking you with clean, delicious strokes, your panties easing the pain and adding to the humiliation. Your arse is perfect and I had never wanted to possess an arse more, than at this moment. In your passive silence, your perfect submission, you had no idea how much control you had over me. Or perhaps you did.

Spanking you through the material, even touching you gently, would compromise the intensity of what I needed to give to you. You needed to feel the stinging rage of my passion. Nothing less would do.

I ran my fingertips down the waistband of your knickers and tugged them down to your knees, with businesslike efficiency. Standing back, I was in awe of the tableau I had created. Bent over the sofa, in black high heeled shoes, your skirt up around your waist, your white cotton knickers down around your knees and your round, ample arse pushed up in to the air...you were picture of perfect submission. Passive, lewd, filthy, sexy, gorgeous. You are a goddess and never had it been so apparent than at that simple moment.

Your arse, bare and vulnerable, seemed to quiver lightly in the air of the room. Your cheeks were gently spread, just a little way, and I loved the dark forbidden crease that ran between them. Still, you did not move.

The delight in such moments as these, is in the anticipation. I could have released a volley of blows on your arse by now and felt my tension dissolve. I could have rained down hard, stinging slaps and watched your bottom wobble under each blow. I could have raised red weals on your cheeks, as I unloaded every last ounce of tension on your arse. But it delighted me that you were waiting, that you were unable to predict what was going to happen. And when. It gave me pleasure to know that even now, with not a single finger raised, you were tense and expectant. Your anxiety was high and the longer it lasted, the greater your tension became.

And there was something else. I loved the fact you had exposed yourself to me in this crude and unflattering way. You had invited me in to your home. Your family living room. And here we were, now, in the middle of the day. Me, fully dressed and in control. You, in the most compromising position. I loved the thought that you must feel vulnerable and exposed. With your face buried in the back of the sofa, you would be hyper-sensitive to every sensation going on behind you. The cool air against your buttocks and the sensation of peril every time you felt the breeze of my hand. You would know that you are vulnerable, that your arse is laid bare to me, to inspect and admire and criticise. The knowledge of your vulnerability, of your simple humiliation, pleased me greatly.

I remained poised, gazing down at you, watching your arse, admiring it. Round and full, begging to be abused and spanked. Penetrated. How many men have gazed in wonder at this arse? How many men have seen this arse laid bare, and known it is theirs to possess? Now, at this moment, it is mine. Was it always so?

The thought of you giving yourself to other men in this way, of other men having possession of your arse in such a basic, primaeval way, angered me. You were so submissive, you felt like you were mine. But submission is submission - any dominant can own it. Weeks of tension raged inside me and the need to wreak revenge on you became too much to bear. I needed revenge for you owning me the way you did. I needed revenge for you being so beautiful, for you giving yourself to any man that wasn't me, for you being so beautiful and seductive and perfect. I needed to hurt you for making me need you so badly.

I took one last look at your arse in its bare, unsullied state. So perfect. So soft. And then I raised my hand.

The first blow was aimed with stinging precision on one buttock. It rang out with the most satisfying sound - a perfect resounding slap. I aimed the second blow in the same place. And the third. And the fourth. I rained down well-aimed blows on your arse, one after another, each in exactly the same spot. With each blow I could see your skin blushing, becoming more and more red. At first you didn't make a sound, you took what I was administering to you. But after the sixth or seventh blow, you began to crumble. I heard you whimper first, then groan and then, after a few more blows, you cried out in pain. I kept on spanking you. Your cries began as simple cries of pain; but soon, they were sobbing cries of real anguish. And still I rained down blows.

It was only when you started to wriggle, seriously, trying to escape the pain, that I realised you had probably had enough. Instinct had taken a hold of you and if you had been able, you would have rolled way and ceased the pain entirely. But I held you by the waist and guided you back in to position. When I stood back, I found myself gazing down on a buttock crimson with punishment. You were splashed with colour and the crimson flower, an angry, humiliated blush, was bordered by a bruised rainbow of blue.

I realised how painful it must have been and I was suddenly unsure of how long I had been spanking you for. I had no idea how many blows I had administered. You were sobbing in to the back of the sofa, while I held you in place by your waist. You sobbed and cried - real tears, mainly pain, I am sure, but no doubt mixed with humiliation and perhaps something else...relief? And yet you were not trying to finish the session. You were not trying to get away. 

And I had only administered on one buttock.

"Hold still," I said.

"No..." you pleaded, realising what was coming. But you didn't try to stop me.

You cried out, an anguished, tortured cry, on the very first slap that I administered on your other buttock. It was the cry of someone who knows all is lost. The slap itself couldn't have hurt quite that much. The thought that the whole ordeal was starting again, I suspected, was all. Every muscle in my body still tingled with cold rage and I still needed the relief you could afford me. I slapped you hard, once, twice; again and again and again and again. You were crying from the start, burying your head deep in to the sofa, screaming and sobbing. I have never heard such a beautiful sound. The more you pushed your head in to the sofa to muffle your cries, the more you pushed your arse out for me to address. I went at you with determination and love. I wanted to hurt you, for you to have the most intense pleasure I could give. And to find this, we would walk over burning coals of pain.

I smacked you and smacked you, each blow well-aimed upon the last. The room echoed with the sound of my blows, of my focused breathing and your pained cries. I only stopped when you physically rolled your body over, on the back of the sofa, to hide your bottom from my hand. In so doing, you presented me with your cunt, hairy and exposed, your slit open and wet. But I didn't want it. Not now. 

Bent far back, over the back of the sofa, your arse was a world of pain. You were crying, your sobs irregular and of control. You could hardly catch your breath. I loved to hear your pain. It was raw and honest and beautiful and I loved you for it.

"Stand up," I said, quietly.

You moved gingerly. I could only try to imagine how tender your buttocks were. I could only begin to imagine the pain. You moved carefully, trying to minimise the pain, as you moved. But you overcame the discomfort and did move. You stood up, slowly, and faced me. You were crying, sobbing, and your face was a map of pain. You looked me directly in the face and your eyes were hard, determined, triumphant.

"Turn around," I said.

Slowly, you did as I asked and remained before me, absolutely still, facing silently away. I gazed down and looked at what I had done to you. Your arse was a bruised mess, and palette of red and crimson. It was unrecognisable from the perfect unblemished canvas I had started with. You remained motionless, sobbing. I realised that if I wanted to inflict more, now, you would let me. You had given your arse to me, to do with as I wanted. You were in my hands. Your arse was mine to enjoy and use and abuse. You were not ready to take that gift away from me.

"Ok," I said softly. "Face me, now."

You turned back round to face me. I gazed at you and saw a beautiful, triumphant, lost soul. There was the pain, yes But behind that I saw relief in your expression. I saw elation and I knew that despite the pain, you had found what you were looking for. It was only then, at this moment, that I realised how much my hand stung. The force with which I had spanked you had not been insignificant. I had hurt you terribly. And it had been delicious.

"You perfect, perfect thing," I said. My eyes searched your own, probing deep. "Do you still need what I just gave you?"

You looked at me and your face was serious and full of expression.

"It was perfect," you said. Your eyes were locked on mine, almost in challenge. When you spoke again your voice was quiet. "I will always need it."

Gently, not wanting to hurt you any more, I pulled you to me and tightly, I hugged you. And hugged you. And hugged you.