Maintenance Spankings

It was a little over three years ago when I was introduced to the amazing link between pleasure and pain. He told me that the same nerves sense both sensations. The brain can easily get confused between one and other. And then he demonstrated. Sure enough, the right combination of pleasure and pain produces the best, most earth-shattering orgasms I’ve ever had. Orgasms that leave me dazed, floating through subspace, unable to remember my own name.

But pure pain? Nah, not my thing. I’m not that kind of masochist.

Or am I?

Well, it’s complicated.

He introduced Maintenance Spankings a few months ago. Ten whacks with the diamond paddle. And the routine is always the same.

I stand up, pull up my skirt, pull my panties into the crack of my ass, exposing my ass cheeks for him. I lean over, resting my forearms on the bed or the bench, whichever is handy. He comes up behind me, fondles my hanging tit, rubs his cock on my ass cheek. I can feel his body heat. I close my eyes, listening, feeling, reveling in the sensuality of the moment. The intimacy.

I must ask for each whack, and thank him for it afterward. “Please Sir, may I have my first?” I ask him in a soft, submissive, and very uncertain voice. I don’t really want what’s coming. I dread the pain. I flinch and pull away a bit as the first blow lands. The crack of the paddle on my ass is shockingly loud in the quiet room. The pain doesn’t register for a millisecond. And then it slams into me, spreading, burning, getting worse for a second or two before it finally ebbs. I cry out. It’s a few seconds before I can whisper, “thank you Sir may I have my second?”. The second one is even harder. I forget to breathe for a few seconds. After that, he takes pity on me. The remaining 8 aren’t as hard – only 8 or 9 on a scale of 10. At about the fifth or sixth, the tears finally begin to flow. I think about the stresses of my week. The struggles. Every mistake I’ve made, every wrong that’s been done to me. And I cry. Not a trickle of tears, mind you, no, I’m crying hard. Letting it all out, letting it all go.

I don’t cry in front of ANYONE. I’m strong, dammit. I’m in control. In the rest of my life, in my real life, I’m not submissive at all. I’m a woman with responsibilities. A mortgage to pay, bills to manage. An ex-husband and a special needs child. And I don’t cry. I just do it. Because someone has to, and I do it well.

With Him, though, I can let down my guard. I can let down my control. And I can cry.

When it’s done, I hear his soothing voice, telling me I’m a good girl. I feel his hand stroking my burning ass. I take a minute, grab a kleenex and blow my nose. And then I sit beside him and rest my head on his shoulder as he shows me the pictures of the marks he’s made. I’m amazed and proud. As the endorphins kick in, I can feel my body and my brain relaxing. I’m his submissive whore, fully present in the moment, ready for whatever he has next.

So why do I do it? Why do I endure those 10 blows?
Because it reinforces his dominance over me, my submission to him. And that is not only a fabulous way to start a play session, but something that I need and crave on a regular basis – to know that He’s still in control.
Because it’s cathartic for me. This is how the runner feels after a 10 miler.
Because I can look at the marks on my ass for days afterward and smile at the memory of another intense session.
It is, actually, a lot like exercise. I don’t enjoy it while I’m doing it. But I love the feeling I have afterward.