Wednesday, May 31, 2006


Power: A Story, Part 2

I had originally planned to post this tale in two parts. However, the short story is turning out to be not quite as short as I had anticipated. Therefore, I'm going to put up Part 2 today and, hopefully, get Part 3 finished tomorrow. Part one can be found here.

When we last left our hero (me) and his friend, they had nabbed two underage young ladies imbibing in their room. Because this was their third offense, they were in danger of being asked to find new quarters. Our hero was about to suggest an alternative method of discipline.

“Karl,” I started. “I think I have solution that might make everybody happy.”

Karl looked at me suspiciously. He was aware of my particular spanking idiosyncrasy (like I said earlier, he was a friend). However, he let me continue.

“How about this: A two-part punishment. First of all, no more drinking for these ladies. They will have to report to you every Friday and Saturday evening at least three times. They have to stay in their room, no drinking or music. If they don’t report, or if they’re partying when they aren’t supposed to be, you’ll report them to their R.A. and they’ll get kicked out of the dorm.”

We checked with the girls. They looked crestfallen, but they realized that this was their last chance. After some mumbling and grumbling, they agreed with part one.

“Okay, Frank” Karl said, “what is the second part?”

“That both of these girls get a good, sound paddling on their bare butts!”

Karl immediately started to sputter and cough. I thought he was going to deny that he even knew me right there. I looked at the girls and they were just staring with incredulous looks on their cute little faces. I started thinking that perhaps I had gone just a trifle too far. I must admit, it was a rather impulsive suggestion.

When Karl finally regained his composure, he started to say something, but Amber spoke first. “How bad of a spanking?” she asked. Hmmm, perhaps the door was opening just a little….

“Twenty-Five swats with a board,” I said.

Kelly asked, “How hard?” Were they actually considering the offer?

“Hard,” I firmly replied.

Silence enveloped the room. I could see that Karl was a) trying to think of a graceful way to leave the room, and b) determining how he could kill me without anyone finding out. Normally this would have been a totally outrageous suggestion and would have been rejected out of hand. However, I thought there was a fair chance that they would submit to my suggested punishment for three reasons:

1) These girls were freshmen,
2) They were desperate, and
3) They were drunk.

Numbers one and two aren’t usually enough to make a sensible person submit to a spanking, but number three often removes the sensible from the equation. And, as it turned out, my math was correct.

Amber and Kelly looked at each other, then looked back at us. “Okay, we’ll do it,” said Amber. Kelly shook her head in agreement. “But,” added Amber, “you have to PROMISE that you will never, ever tell anyone about this.”

I looked at Karl. Since he was technically the one who was in charge, I figured he was the one who had to ascent to the agreement before it could be executed. Karl was a good, honest, solid, conscientious R.A., and not one given to abusing his office. He was, however, still afflicted with male college student hormones.

“All right,” he finally said. The girls actually seemed relieved. As for me, I maintained a calm, mature façade. Inside, however, I was so excited that I thought I might pee my pants.

Karl said, “Where are we going to spank these girls? I know the dorm is mostly empty, but there are still people around who will hear.”

Once I calmed my bladder, I responded, “I know just the place.” And indeed I did.

On the bottom floor, underneath the lobby that both dorms shared, was a large room that was occasionally used for dorm activities, dances, or studying. Not many people used it, and I was pretty convinced that there would be no one there on this particular evening. Along one wall of the room was a fair-sized storage room, one large enough to suit our purposes. The storage room was usually locked, but Karl, being a person of authority, had keys. There was enough stuff in the storage room to muffle most of the sounds that we would undoubtedly generate, and the rest would likely die in the large room before it reached any ears. I also happened to know that the storage room held an ancient, but serviceable, wooden fraternity paddle.

“Okay, ladies,” Karl finally retook charge of the situation. “Frank and I’ll step out in the hall for a couple of minutes while you get dressed.”

Kelly responded, “We are dressed.” That sounded good to me.

Karl scowled, but chose not to argue. We led the girls down to the storage room. I dug out the paddle, and everyone took their positions. I reviewed the ground rules.

“When we are finished here, we will never speak of this again. All will be forgotten. When you check in with Karl on weekends, you will say that he is helping you with a project for a class. There will be no sexual contact. You are here to be punished, period. This is something serious, it’s not a mating game. The paddling is going to hurt, but you two will behave appropriately. There will be no screaming or carrying on. You will attempt to stoically take your punishment. I don’t expect you to be perfectly quiet or perfectly still, but I do expect you try keep your voices down and stay in the proper, bent-over position until we are finished. If you break your promise, we will inform your R.A. of your exploits tonight. If we break our promise, you are free to report us to the proper authorities and we will not deny what happened. Do we agree?”

The young ladies solemnly nodded their agreement, so we got down to the matters at hand. I pointed at Amber first, and told her to pull down her jammie pants and present her bottom to me. She hesitated only briefly, then took a deep breath and, resigned to her fate, did as I asked.

Upon seeing her small, soft, pert, pale, perfect little butt, I had to pause to discreetly admire. Such a specimen of the human anatomy I had never had the pleasure of gazing upon before. I had to take a slow, deep breath to calm my racing heart, as well as other excited body parts somewhat further south.

Despite my excitement, there was one other detail that I did not fail to notice. I realized that this sweet young thing with that fantastic fanny had never been spanked before in her life. If I dealt to her soft little rear end the swat that I had initially planned, this poor girl would be curled up on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, with her poor behind experiencing pain beyond anything she thought imaginable. I knew at that moment that I’d have to pull my punches a little.

I had planned to give her all 25 swats in a row, without much of a pause. I knew that was no longer an option. I am a spanko, not a monster. So I devised a new plan. I walked up behind her and asked if she was ready. She quietly said yes, so I tapped her buns with the paddle a couple of times and then let it fly for real.

Continued >>

Monday, May 29, 2006


Power: A Story, Part 1

Memorial Day weekend is perhaps my favorite of the year. Here in the Midwest, it is the real beginning of summer. The flowers are in full bloom, the days are long, the air is warm (if just a bit too humid), and baseball season is in full swing (hey, how ‘bout them Tigers!). School is almost over, and the young ladies are wearing their shorts or summer whites, attire that makes the posterior look positively perfect. I usually take a couple of days off of work this weekend to put in the garden, and this year is no exception.

As I was wandering through the local Farmer’s Market this morning looking for tomato and pepper plants, my mind wandered back to a different holiday when I was in college lo those many years ago (no old age jokes, please). It was my first senior year (I chose to attend school on the five-year plan, much to the dismay of my father who was footing the bill), and it was Easter weekend. Where I went to school, the dorms remained open over Easter, although most residents chose to spend the weekend either at home reconnecting with old friends, or at the beach reconnecting with their favorite malted beverage.

It was late on a Saturday night. The Resident Assistant, or R.A. as they were affectionately referred to, who’s name was Karl, was a good friend, and he was “on duty” that weekend. Being “on duty” for an R.A. means that you have to stay sober for the weekend and wander the halls, making sure that everyone else who was not sober were otherwise behaving themselves. Since there was almost no one around on Easter, being “on duty” was especially boring.

We lived in a men’s dorm, but our building was connected to another dorm that was populated entirely by young ladies. Usually, each dorm had one R.A. on duty. However, Karl had kindly volunteered to handle both dorms for the night so that the R.A. on duty from the ladies residence could spend some time with her boyfriend (we were both extremely envious of her boyfriend). I didn’t feel like working on class work and I didn’t have anyone to drink or sleep with, so I offered to accompany Karl on his rounds, and he was happy for the company.

We wandered floor after eerily quiet floor, encountering nothing more naughty than a couple of ladies washing their undies. We were thinking of wandering back to my room to have a beer (being of age, I always kept a small quantity of high-quality ales in my room) when the floor that we were standing began to vibrate with the ungodly thump with a recording of one of the popular dance bands of the day being played, apparently on the floor below the one which we were currently patrolling, entirely too loud over speakers that seemed to be designed to only play bass tones. Since it was late and loud music was restricted after certain hours, and since the music was generally awful anyway, Karl was required to investigate.

We strolled down to the lower floor and found the offending room. Karl knocked on the door to alert the occupants that he was on the job. A young lady’s voice on the other side of the door shouted something unintelligible at us. Karl pounded again, and loudly identified himself. The young lady responded that she couldn’t hear us, and considering that the music was at a volume such that we could feel the sound waves pushing us across the hall, that was not much of a surprise. After a pause, the music volume decreased from deadly to just dangerous, and moment later we heard the door being opened.

Karl prepared to give his standard “please turn down the volume after midnight” speech when the door opened enough for us to view the individual who had opened it. Karl opened his mouth to speak, but rather than performing the movements required for speech, his jaw just dropped until it was almost resting on his chest. I glanced at the doorway and saw the object of his attention.

She was a petite, dark-haired, fabulously cute young woman. She was wearing what can only be described as teddy-bear jammies and bunny slippers. She was an unexpected vision of loveliness for two bored young gentlemen. She was also holding a bottle of peach schnapps.

Now, Karl and I knew the older residents of that particular building, and this darling wasn’t one of them. She was certainly either a freshman or a sophomore, and was clearly under the legal drinking age. Since this was now the early eighties, under-age drinking was a big no-no with potential dire consequences. The first offense brought about a “verbal warning” from the enforcing R.A. (The term “verbal warning” was a curious one because the offender had to sign a form to verify that he or she had received a verbal warning). The second offense resulted in a “letter,” an official-sounding page allegedly from the university housing director stating all of the bad things that would happen to you should you be caught again. A third offense meant you would spend the remainder of the semester sleeping in the parking lot.

In his official capacity as R.A. On Duty, Karl, upon seeing the forbidden bottle of spirits, asked to be admitted to the room so that he could issue the requisite warnings. The young lady complied. As we entered, we saw yet another curious cutie wearing a nightshirt with a big picture of Mickey Mouse on it that went down to her ankles. She was also holding a bottle of a syrupy, alcoholic beverage. Judging by the incessant giggle emanating from this girl, she had obviously consumed a good deal of the bottle’s contents.

Karl first confiscated the offending bottles. He then ascertained that the names of the two ladies was Amber (the teddy bear one) and Kelly (the Mickey Mouse one). He asked if they knew what a verbal warning was.

“Oh, yeah,” replied Amber. “We got one of those at the beginning of the semester.” That was strike one.

So Karl told them that they would be receiving a letter of reprimand from the Housing Director. At that point, I noticed an official-looking letter proudly displayed on a cork board. Kelly saw me looking at the letter and said, “Oh, we already got one of those, too. See, it’s right there on the board.” That was strike two.

Which made the situation of our nabbing these two with forbidden refreshments strike three.

Suddenly, the little light of realization went on in Amber’s pretty little head. “Ohmigod!” she exclaimed. “WE’RE GOING TO GET KICKED OUT OF THE DORM!”

Amber started to cry. Kelly started to beg. They both asked for us to overlook this one little incident. They pleaded. They promised, PROMISED that it would never happen again. Karl was sympathetic, so he offered a compromise.. He would tell the R.A. of their floor what had happened, and let her make the decision as to whether or not the incident should be reported to higher authorities.

“BUT SHE HATES US!” the two girls wailed in unison. It seemed their fate had been sealed. With only five weeks left until finals, these two would have to find a new place to lay their respective heads.

As they continued to beseech us with their requests for forgiveness, my evil little mind had an idea.

Continued >>

Wednesday, May 24, 2006


An Ode To The Bottom

Perhaps the most admired yet misunderstood and disrespected part of the human physique is the region known as the gluteus maximus, better known as the butt. Gentlemen, what parts on the female body do you first see? If she is walking towards you, the first thing you look at is her face. Only if we find the face worthwhile do we then allow our gaze to wander breast-ward. If the lady in question is walking away from you, what do your eyes immediately jump to? Her hair? Her feet? Her shoulders? None of the above. Before we even look at her legs, we evaluate her butt. If a woman has a nice face and a nice butt, we men usually immediately categorize her as “hot.”

Now, ladies, please don’t feel self-conscious of you don’t think that your butt is up to standards. Believe me, it is. At least in my studies, the female tushie is the most universally attractive part of her body. No matter what shape or size it is, your butt still looks good. I have yet to find an explanation. Perhaps it is the soft curves that you all have. Perhaps it is the unique way you walk or dress. Suffice to say, regardless of who you are, your bottom is the tops.

And yet, inexplicably, we keep it almost constantly covered. The only time that we expose this most magnificent of muscles is when we are showering, performing required bodily functions, or visiting the doctor (note: doctors, though very professional, are famous for their lack of appreciation of the human butt). In most places in this country, it is against the law to expose ones butt in public. It is called “indecent exposure.” Indecent? Surely something as lovely as the bottom can’t be indecent. In some cultures, it is forbidden for anyone to see the butt of someone of the opposite sex (except perhaps one’s spouse or children) under penalty of death or worse. And why? It is just two large oval-shaped pieces of flesh that attach your waist to your legs. You see other muscles exposed … arms, legs, sometimes chests (although some chests, like mine, are distinctly lacking muscle), but not the round rump.

As spankos, we have quite an interesting love/hate relationship with the butt. On the one hand, we paddle, pummel, swat, smack, and otherwise almost totally abuse the butt. On the other, we find nothing more delectable than seeing a nice, hot, red rear end (for those who are “tops”), or feeling the comforting heat and tingling on the bottom in the time immediately after a spanking (for those who are “bottoms”). Such an odd dichotomy.

And yet, not. The butt is certainly one of the bodies most erogenous zones. Stimulation of the region usually produces some arousal. The more stimulation, the more arousal. So, for the common spanko (if there truly is such a thing), a spanking gives maximum stimulation, thus maximum satisfaction.

There you have it. There is nothing in life quite like it. The beautiful butt. The perfect posterior. The reddened rump. The sexy seat. The terrific tush. Any way you put it, the human butt is a most spectacular spot on the anatomy. And, for those of us with a proclivity towards spanking, it has a most unique feature of bringing pleasure and pain at the same time. Nay, there is pleasure in the pain. If pain can be pleasant, being spanked brings just that.

And, my friends, I find that simply Fantastic.

Sunday, May 21, 2006


My Inauguration As A Spanker

My choice to discuss my catagorization as a "switch" in the last journal entry was not random. As I have already discussed the first time that I had my backside properly blistered, if I am indeed a "switch," then there must have been an initial time for me to me to be wielding the implement of punishment. Indeed, allow me to relate such an event.

It was late in my sophomore year in college. I had discovered that, if I actually addressed a women (as opposed to a typical college male mating call such as "Hey BAY-BEEEEE!"), they would speak to me. If I was nice enough to them, I could actually find someone who would wanted to spend time with me. One young lady whom I was spending plenty of quality time with (some of it with our clothes on) was named Suzy.

The story is really not an unusual one, except for the spanking part. We'd been dating for about half of the semester. We were hanging around in her dorm room. We were alone, since her roommates had all chosen this weekend to visit their respective home towns. It was Saturday night and we were bored. There was nothing good on TV (this was before the age where there was cable in every room, so we only had a few crappy channels to choose from, rather than 100 crappy channels), all of the movies in town were far from masterpieces, and, since neither of us had surpassed the drinking age, we didn't have any potent potables. We were sitting on her bed, fully clothes, wrestling and tickling, basically just being silly.

All of a sudden, she wiggled over my lap. "Spank me," she said.

I responded just like any other intelligent, sophisticated college student would. "Huh?" I said.

"Spank me," she said with a giggle. Well, I did like this girl and I did want to respond to her every whim. So without further ado, I firmly patted her cute little posterior several times.

"No, you goof," she responded. "I mean really spank me!"

Now my brain and my other behavior-controlling organ about three feet lower were both wrestling with what to do. I figured it wouldn't hurt to get some clarification. Wouldn't hurt me, anyway.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "I mean, it might hurt and...."

"Just spank me, you idiot!" she half-ordered, half-squealed.

"Well, if you insist," I answered. I proceeded to swat her backside several times with considerable force. She squealed and wiggled that fine fanny. "Is that better?"

"That's a good start." That's all I needed to hear. I let loose with my best spanking effort.

She wiggled and giggled and squealed and did other cute stuff. I sent swat after swat onto the seat of her jeans until my hand started to hurt. When I stopped, she giggled some more and let out a soft moan., but she didn't seem at all uncomfortable.

This will never do, I thought. My hand hurts too much. It's time to see if she's really into this, or just being silly.

"Stand up," I ordered, although not too firmly. With a smile on her face, she did so. "Take down your pants, young lady," I said.

She giggled yet some more, and thought for a second. But since we'd removed our trousers (and the rest of our clothes) for each other several times previously, she undid the front, wiggled them down over her buns, and let then fall to the floor. She even went a step further and kicked them off.

Without asking, she resumed her position over my lap. At this point, the racing hormones and blood pounding in my head seemed to make time move at a different speed. I'm not sure how long I stared at her near-perfect posterior. It might have been two seconds, it might have been two hours. She said to me, "Well, what's taking so long?" That was enough o clear my head to a point where I could at least concentrate on the task at hand.

This was the early eighties, so thong panties weren't yet in vogue, but she was wearing cute little pink satin undies. I took it upon myself to rain a considerable number blows upon those panties. The squealing and wiggling resumed but she made no effort to get away.

Now, I'm sure that many of you are think that we weren't very responsible. We didn't discuss what we were doing beforehand. I didn't ask her what she wanted or what her limits were. We didn't even agree on a safe word. I just smacked her butt repeatedly. While it is always a good idea to make sure everyone's expectations are the same, college-age hormonal overload can often blow logical thinking right the fuck out the door. And besides, this is my story!

After a goodly nunber of whacks, I stopped to allow both of us to catch our breath. Then I adjusted her panties so that they were gathered between her two lovely butt cheeks, leaving them unprotected, and continued my work. Shortly thereafter, the panties came down, then off altogether. I can safely say that, up to this point in my life, this was the happiest and most excited I had ever been.

So there we are, a wonderfully cute young lady, half-naked, laying across my lap, her bare booty turning the perfect shade of red under my hand, while she giggled, moaned, and cooed. And then we heard someone knocking on the goddamn door!

"Fuck!" we both said in unison. Quickly she rolled off of my lap, stood up, and grabbed a sweatshirt to tie around her waist. She scurried to the door (she scurried very well, thank-you). "Who is it?" she shouted at the door.

"It's Beth," the voice on the other side of the door responded. Beth was the ubiquitous Resident Assistant for the dorm floor that Suzy lived on. "I heard some loud noises coming from your room and I wanted to make sure that you were okay."

"Everything is fine," Suzy said. "Sorry for the noise. We were just making popcorn." Suzy was a lousy liar. "We're done now, so there won't be any more noise."

"Well ... okay," said Beth, skeptically. "Just try to keep it down."

"We will." We heard Beth walking away. We both laughed in relief, the kind of conspiratorial chortle where you try not to make any actual sound. The spanking had ended, however.

I won't go into any details as to how we spent the remainder of the evening. Suffice to say that it was quite a while before her pants went back on. I'll leave the rest so that you can use your own imagination and save mine for another story.

That was the only spanking that Suzy and I took part in. At semester's end, we said our farewells and moved on. I'm not sure if she returned to school in the fall or not, as I didn't see her after back at school the following August. It was one of those relationships where we both knew what we wanted, got it, and cordially parted to find new adventures for ourselves. It was best that way. But I occasionally remember Suzy fondly, sort of like the girl with whom you exchanged your first kiss. It is a memory that I will always find, well, Fantastic!

Wednesday, May 17, 2006


Switching the Switch?

In the vernacular of the intermet spanko, I am a switch. Now, I was always under the impression that a switch was a spanking implement, a long, thin sapling cut from a tree. But, no, apparently a switch is a person who is perfectly happy being on either end of a spanking.

Why am I a switch? The answer to that question is the same as what you get when you cross an elephant with a rhinosorous: "'Elifino!" It can be risky to psychoanalyze someone who doesn't actually exist. It just seems like if you are only on one end, you are missing half the fun. Sort of like cooking a fine, gourmet meal and then watching others enjoy your culinary masterwork while you eat mush. Like cake without frosting. Like the Yankees without Steinbrenner. No, wait ... that last one would really be a good thing.

Now I can understand that someone would prefer to not be spanked. Not everyone is amenable to actually have pain inflicted on them. But if one is only on the recieving end of a spanking and never on the giving, they miss out on all kinds exceptional opportunities to get revenge, comuppance, or even just a good upper-body workout. And if one is only on the giving side, they don't get to experience the wonderful, warm, crackly feeling on their gluteal regions.

For me, the only thing more Fantastic than making love to Angela with a nice, warm tushy is making love when I can hold her hot posterior as well. Besides, while she is weilding a paddle to roast my backside, it is fun to be able to plan for the next time when the tables are turned. And while I am reddening her rump, I'm sure she's planning her next go at me. It is how we make sure there is the proper balance in our relationship. And that is what imaginary relationships are all about.

Aren't they?

Monday, May 15, 2006


The Weather Was Not Fantastic

Welcome to week two of Fantastic Spanking. So how does an imaginary person spend a rainy weekend? Why, getting spanked, of course.

I'm sure that the weather reference will give you a clue of where the author hails from. If you follow the weather and watch the weather raders, you know that the only place in the continental United States where it rained this weekend was ... well ... basically everywhere east of Utah. So I guess it isn't much of a clue after all.

With one imaginary daughter having a sleep-over at a friends house and the other out with her boyfriend, Angela and I spent Saturday evening playing one of our favorite games. We call it Trivial Pursuit for Whacks. The rules are simple. Each question that you get wrong, you get one whack with a spanking implement of choice. Angela and I prefer a nice, wooden paddle. If you miss a question that could have earned you a piece of "pie", you get five whacks. If you get a "pie" question right, you get to give your opponent five swats. When you get all of your "pie" pieces and you make it to the center space, if you miss the question you get 10 swats. If you get it correct ... your opponent really gets their butt scalded! We usually play without pants to make the game more interesting ... in more ways than one! Angela is very intelligent, as am I. However, her knowledge is much more trivial than mine, so she tends to answer more questions. Consequently, I tend to get more whacks. The way we play, you win whether you answer the questions right or wrong. Often we don't actually finish the game because we ... uh ... ahem ... let's just say that we become distracted by things of a more sexual nature.

Here's hoping that you have a fantastic week.

Saturday, May 13, 2006


Why I Am What I'm Not

Hey, guess what? There are actually people READING Fantastic Spanking! I know for sure that at least two people have been here, because they left comments. To those two, and any readers who haven't left comments, thanks from the bottom of my imaginary heart. Still more amazing, one of those two readers actually put a link on HER blog to MY blog! I almost feel like Sally Fields at the Oscars.

I have a confession to make. The title of my last two posts, First Spanking, is not actually accurate. I was spanked as a child. Never for very long, never on the bare butt, and never with an implement, but I did get the occasional pat on to po-po. I never liked them. I did get paddled in school exactly three times. Once in second grade (two swats, not very hard, but might be worth a story some time), once in sixth grade (one swat that hurt like hell), and once in eight grade (not very hard or interesting). All were over my pants, and none were exciting in the least.

When I moved towards puberty, I started spanking myself. I'm not sure why. May have been for suppressed guilt, or the excitement of doing something dangerous, or because I liked the sensation on my ass. I spanked myself a lot. When no one was home, I'd pull out a nice plank of wood and beat my bare bottom but good. I worked my way up to a couple hundred swats good, hard swats. Many times I'd wouldn't stop until my rear end was bleeding, although after a while my butt would get kind of numb and I really wouldn't be able to feel the swats anymore.

So that wasn't really my absolute first spanking, or even really my first adult spanking. But I consider it my first "spanko" spanking because it was by another adult and because it gave me a good feeling. From that point, I went on to several college and post-college spanking adventures, and ultimately I met Angela. The rest is history. Considering that I am a fictional character, perhaps "history" is not the correct word.

Let's just say that the rest is fantastic.


First Spanking, part two

When we last left our hero, he had been found in a compromising position in his neighbor's shed. His Neighbor Gorgeous was contemplating his fate.

She thought for a bit. At last, she said, "Let's go into the house." I followed her into her house and down into the basement, which had been transformed into a nice, neat little workbench-type area. She motioned me to a stool by the bench, and I took a seat. She had regained her composure, so we had a nice little chat about appropriate places for doing certain activities of a personal nature. She was actually very friendly and straightforward. She didn't lecture and she didn't condemn, nor did she accuse me of being a freak or a pervert.

After our chat finished, she asked, "Is your mother home?" I got a little nervous at this point because my mother was not as enlightened as Neighbor Gorgeous.

"No," I responded. "She and my sister went clothes shopping at the Mall. They'll be gone a while."

"No, matter," she said. "She doesn't need to know about this anyway."

She paused and looked around. "However, I can't just let you off scott-free. You do need to be held accountable." She paused again, and then she dropped the 100-megaton bomb. "I' m going to whip your ass!"

For the second time that afternoon, I stared at her with a dumb look on my face. Was she proposing to spank me? This was a teenage spanko's dream! To be taken over her knee and have my bare bottom firmly warmed by this beautiful woman, perhaps with a classic wooden hairhbrush. Then she'd give me a long, forgiving embrace, and rub my poor, sore bum. Naturally, the embrace would melt into first a polite kiss, then a passionate one, then we'd have wild, panting, sweaty monkey sex on the workbench!

Well, I got one, maybe two things right.

I gave her my best gentlemen's response. "Huh?" I said. Ok, maybe not my best response.

"You heard me," she said. She went over to the workbench and took a long brush, the kind you use to clean off an outdoor grill, off of a hook. It wasn't wood, it was plastic, but it had a long handle and a nice, hard, fair-sized head. She tapped it on her hand a couple of times and turned back to me. "Let's get this over with. Stand up and turn around. And take down your pants!"

I did the first two commands forthwith, but paused a bit with the pants. I wasn't sure, but this seemed to be getting a little weird. I looked back at her, quizically. "Go ahead," was all she said. No sense dragging this out, I thought. I dropped trou. Since I was still shirtless, I stood before, basically naked. My member, figuring that discretion was the better part of valor, had taken refuge in its shell.

"Now bend over the stool." I complied. She gently pressed down on my back until I was perpendicular, with my stomach resting on the seat of the stool. She did not speak another word. She tapped each cheek of my buttocks twice, then got to work.

I was spanked well and thoroughly that day. The first swat took my breath away, but she didn't bother to pause to let it sink in. She proceeded to methodically and completely beat my butt. At first I was determined to stay still and not make any noise. That lasted maybe five swats. I didn't blubber or make a spectacle of myself, but I did squirm and dance around a lot. She put her hand firmly on the middle of my back to keep my butt in place. I whimpered a lot, grunted a few times, and had a small shout escape a couple of times when she'd hit especially tender spots. She spend most of the time concentrating on the prominent, fleshy parts of of my poor bare butt, but delivered a goodly number of swats to the top, bottom, and sides as well. The pain increased until all I could do was grit my teeth, stiffen my back, close my eyes tightly, and endure the punishment.

When she at last stopped, I let out a long, whistling sigh. She stepped back to admire her handiwork. "Jesus, that HURT! I said.

"No, shit," she responded. Who know such a soft looking lady had such a potty mouth. "I hope that teaches you not to invade other peoples' property to engage in your private activities."

"It sure does," I said as I started to get up. She put her hand in the middle of my back and pushed me back over the stool. "Now this is for scaring the shit out of me!"

She started paddling me again. This time she didn't go as fast as before, but she was swinging harder. She concentrated exclusively on the center and lower part of both cheeks. I didn't do much wiggling this time, just tensed up and settled in to absorb the punishment that I had fantasized about for years. The second spanking didn't sting as much, but made the pain deeper and more lasting.

I realized later that the first spanking was to create maximum discomfort at that instant, and the second one was to generate maximum discomfort for several days afterwards. She succeeded on both counts.

This time when she finished, she tossed the brush on the workbench and walked a little away. She was panting a bit. "Stand up and pull your pants up," she said. I did so, and turned around. "Have a seat if you'd like."

"No thanks, I think I'll just stand," I responded, figuring that I'd have a little mercy on my seat. The stinging had stopped, but my butt throbbed considerably and felt like it was 1000 degrees and twice it's normal size.

The rest of my fantasy quickly went out the window, much to my surprising relief. There was no hug, no comforting, no monkey sex. Just a pregnant pause as we both tried to find a convenient way to get me the hell out of that house. I had finally realized that I was an idiot, just assuming that I could hide out in their shed without knowng them, and engaging in my hobby that was more proper in a place of my own. She must have felt invaded and she was understandably angry. This was not a sexual fantasy. It was her way to take her emotions out on the person who had upset her, and it seemed appropriate.

Finally, she said, "As far as I'm concerned, this little situation is finished. I'm not going to tell your parents what happened. Let's just leave it right here and move on with our lives. I just hope you learned your lesson." I had.

I grew up a lot that day. I learned a lot of things. Number one, I was definitely a spanko. While the paddling had hurt like hell and I did not wish to repeat it with her, I also had enjoyed it. The pain that lingered on my buns for several days would give me a warm, comfortable feeling. I also realized that, at nineteen, I was an adult. Fantasies were just that. They couldn't happen in real life. If I wanted to have a sex life, I had to pursue it with real women in real situations. I didn't know if I'd ever be able to indulge my spanking proclivities again, but I knew that if I wanted to, it would have to be with someone I loved, or at least liked an awful lot at the time.

We never spoke of the incident again. While I was away at school that next year, Neighbor Gorgeous became with child, so she and her handsome husband moved away to a house with a bigger lot so their kid could have lots of room to play outside. I was kind of glad she moved so that I'd never have to worry about being uncomfortable around her. And, until I met Angela, I never told anyone about my first spanking that I got from Neighbor Gorgeous.

But I never forgot her.

Thursday, May 11, 2006


From the Beginning....My Very First Spanking

Since this is the beginning of my blog, I may as well start at the beginning.

I was born a middle-class white child.

Jump ahead to puberty. I discovered two things .... spanking, and, well, for now lets just say that I began a life-long fasination with ruining my eyesight, if you know what I mean. I was kind of a dorky kid, so I wasn't swarming with friends or surrounded by girls.

We lived in a fairly old suburban area near Detroit. There was an older couple who lived next door. They'd lived in the house for years, and their children were grown and off on their own. They had an old wooden shed in their back yard, and, since neither families had a fence, I had easy access to it. Since both of them worked, I'd often take the opportunity to slip into the shed to be alone. As a kid, I'd sit and fantasize about being a superhero or playing center field in the Major Leagues. As a teen, I'd fantasize about spanking and engage in my favorite self-pleasure.

When I went to college, the older couple moved away and a new couple moved in. They were young, childless, professional, and attractive. The lady of the house was especially attractive. We're talking hubba hubba attractive. The kind of attractive that would cause a 19-year-old male of the species, with just a glance at her, to begin erecting a camping shelter in the clothing below his waist.

I was home for the summer after my freshman year. Since both of them worked, I saw no reason to discontinue the use of the shed next-door. I'm sure that my gorgeous neighbor occupied my thoughts many times while I was practicing my hobby. It was a very pleasant way to while away a summer afternoon.

So picture this: here I am, a skinny, dorky 19-year-old kid with a 70's haircut. Sitting on the floor of an old shed, shirt off, with his pants around his knees and a firm grip on his member. Not a pretty picture, eh? Suddenly, one August afternoon, the shed door opens up and standing there in the bright sunlight, presented with the picture just described, is Neighbor Gorgeous. I'm not sure who was more scared ... her or me. While there was no way that I was hiding in her shed waiting to attack her, considering the state of my clothing, she was nonetheless quite shocked to see me as I was. My first instinct was to bolt the hell out of there. However, with the state of my trousers as well as the state of a certain body part, that proved to be not as simple as it seemed. So the next logical thing for me to do was to stutter incoherently, which I did quite well, I must say.

Neighbor Gorgeous recovered her wits first. "What the fuck are you doing in my shed!" she exclaimed. Since I was so good at it, I continued to stutter. She turned her back to me. "Stand up and pull your pants up!" she ordered. Since this seemed like a logical request, I complied.

"Are you finally decent?" she asked. I sputtered my ascent. She turned around, started and then cut off about four sentences, and then finally said, exasperatedly, "What are we going to do about this?" I stopped stuttering, figuring that silence was probably the best response at this point.

continue >>

Wednesday, May 10, 2006


Allow Me To Introduce Myself

My name is Frank Spanko. Okay, that's not my real name. My given name is Francis Spakowiak. Ironic, huh? I am a spanko. I'm married to a lovely woman named Angela. She is also a spanko. I have two daughters. I do not spank them. I have never spanked them. Considering that I am a spanko, that would just be icky. Maribel is 19 and attends college. She recently "outed" herself to us as a spanko. No, I've never shared Angela's and my spanking proclivity with her (refer to that icky thing). Could it be that, like eye color and cancer, being a spanko is hereditary? My other daughter, Colette, is 13. To my knowledge, she is not a spanko, although there is still time.

We live in the Midwest U.S., in a fairly rural area. We have a big, old barn that has been converted to a really fabulous house. At the other end of the property is the old farm house, which is pretty small. I've converted that to a guest house -slash- workshop. It is also a fine place for Angela and me to go for a leisurely evening of spanking and such without being overhead by the kids.

If all of this sounds too good to be true, that's because it is. That's right, this entire blog is made up. Fiction. The fanciful fantasies of the author. All of the situations that, as a teenager, you imagined that could happen to you have happened to me. Or haven't happened, since I haven't actually happened.

So don't admire me, envy me, feel sorry for me, love me, hate me, or waste any other emotion on me. Just read my blog and enjoy, or not, if that is your pleasure.

Of course, your comments are always welcome, real or imaginary. If I like them, I'll keep them and take them to heart. If I don't, they'll go into the proverbial bit bucket.

Welcome to my blog. Hope you find it fantastic.

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