My journey into this culture (and I truely believe that it is a culture onto itself) has shown me that it is as unique to the individual as any other aspect of life. There is certainly no one-size-fits-all. Instead there seems to be a mish-mash of reasons for having a spanking ranging from punishment to pure fun. The latter being my preference althought I can understand the first.
I have tried twice before to blog for seperate reasons but have found that I lack the drive to continue it once the initial information has been given. However I have decided to start a blog that includes stories as well. I only ask that you respect the copy right and keep them for your own personal use.
I hope you enjoy!
Hockey Night and Shaving Cream
“I’ve made a discovery,” I proclaimed loudly over the cheers emanating from the TV. I watch as you groan even louder at the enemy, the team which has just scored against the mighty titans you have associated yourself with. The puck has just bounced off the crossbar and into the net after a barrage of shots. I briefly sympathize with the goalie, as that was a difficult shot to block. If the defence doesn’t pull up their socks they were going to lose the game. Again.
“Oh? And what’s that?” Your eyes don’t even flicker in my direction. I want your attention that was so intently focused on that puck. With a small huff, I turn to go on my way but a little voice in my head teases me. Since when do I let a little black piece of rubber get the better of me?
“Your shaver works so much better than mine.” I stated, flopping down onto the couch. I turned the volume down with the remote, which is quickly returned to its rightful owner and restored to its former ear-popping glory. I roll my eyes and cover my ears in protest. Finally relenting, you turn the volume down three notches. I give you an obviously fake smile but snuggle in for the rest of the game. “I don’t know why yours is better than mine, it’s not like you shave anything but around your beard.”
Another score and another groan from you. The score was now 2-0 and it’s only the first period. A commercial flickers on and you turn to me, a frown on your face. “You are distracting the team. If you are going to stay here, you need to either say supporting phrases or nothing at all.”
“How am I distracting the team?” I laugh, watching as you loose the battle not to smile.
A quick glance at my attire had you smirking. “Dressed like that, it’s a wonder any of them are paying attention to the puck at all!” I looked sceptically at my worn out jean and not-so-revealing dust-covered t-shirt. The game had returned and I had lost you again. It was truly amazing how fast commercials were when you were counting on them to stay longer.
I got up quickly and headed to the washroom. Filling my palm with shaving cream, I walk as casually as I could up to you and gently wiped the cream on the top of your head. The thick curls barely move. I went back to the washroom, washed my hands, and grabbed the two razors in question. Settling back down beside you, I placed the razors strategically in your line of sight and waited for the next commercial. Another goal for the other team sends the crowd into cheers and you run your hands through you hair in frustration. You glance at your foam-covered hand and I try and put on my most innocent look.
“Now look what you’ve done! You’ve ruined my experiment,” I huffed, a smile tugging on my face. At your raised brow I decide to hit the highway. I try and jump off the couch but mid-flight I’m caught and brought back down to earth with a thud only to be dragged up again and placed in the corner farthest from the door.
“I’ll deal with you next commercial,” you growl softly. I gulped and try to ignore the knot in my stomach. Still, this was more attention that you had been paying attention to me. I couldn’t help taking a sneak peek at you sitting on the couch, the shaving cream still mashed into your hair. I decided that the experiment had not been totally lost and make my way behind you. Smoothing what was left of the cream over your hair, I stand back viewing my work with satisfaction. The thickness of your hair was perfect for a stealth operation.
At the sound of cheering I look at the TV to see another score against your team. “That wasn’t fair! He tripped the g-” Forgetting that I had been sent away, I tried to jump back but knocked painfully into the side table. Momentarily forgetting my plight, I reached down to my offended toe right before your palm made its connection with my bottom with incredible speed and accuracy.
Before I could say “hat trick”, I was unceremoniously picked up and dropped across your lap. I wiggle but as usual this does very little. Your grip is too tight already. Our differences of high always worked to your advantage during situations like this. My pants had just been separated from their rather desperate owner when a glimmer of hope flashed across the screen. A goal for your team! In a brief moment of optimism, I hoped for clemency for my misdeeds but instead was greeted with evil looking grin.
Settling down with you arm pressed into my shoulder blade, you said in a very calm voice, “for every score the other team gets, you get 10 spanks, understand?” “And for every score we get?” I asked tentatively. “You’ll see.” So I lay there, my bared bottom now laying for the world to see as the fresh autumn air kissed it, thinking what a joy the next two periods were going to be. Whether through conscious effort or pure routine you passed a pillow to place under my head, not taking your eyes off the tiny black dot which was to decide my fate. Our team, as they were now tied to both of us, did not have a terribly good start. An icing call against us made me hold my breath. A renegade forward almost scored!
Each time a threat came close to the net your hand, which was resting lightly on my pensive cheeks twitched and tightened. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of just waiting, something happened. A breakaway straight to the goal, the defence nowhere in sight. I just waited for the goalie to catch it once, then watched it go in on the rebound. The goalie had done his job; the defence had not! A break for commercials had me groaning. Oddly enough you did not seem so upset.
Patting my bottom gently, you say in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “I’m sorry to have to do this sweetheart but you brought it upon yourself.”
I bite my tongue against the multitude of responses which had crept to my lips. “Of course I did, darling,” I cooed, fringing indifference.
A sharp slap to my bare backside made me yelp. “I’m the only one who shall be talking young lady. You will be counting.”
“Counting?” I had never counted, would never count and certainly was not starting today. I didn’t want to mention that counting was talking too.
“Oh yes, I think that since your fate rests on numbers you need a better respect of the almighty score.” You are enjoying this way too much I decide. “Besides, I’ll just tickle you if you don’t.”
I gasp in protest but your fingers find their mark on my side. I pray for the return of the game but no such luck. It only took a few seconds to procure my promise to count every single spank. “Good,” you say smugly. You waste no time as the commercials are at least half way done. The first lands heavy with an incredible amount of sting. I gasped again and he chuckled. “Well?"
“One, now hurry up, the games almost back” or in my mind, I wanted this over quickly. Another chuckle and a swat. “Two! Hurry up!” This went on for another eight swats, leaving me with a very stinging bottom and your attention back on the game. I felt your hand start to slowly trace a familiar pattern over my red cheeks. I sighed contently, nuzzling into the pillow. I felt your body tense and relax with each pass of the puck but your hand was not lost to me.
All in all I only got 20, but your team won! 6-4. During the last spanking it wasn’t all bad. Your hand did fall heavier than I had wanted, but as you rubbed the sting away in between the stinging spanks I felt myself relaxing. I almost protested the sharp glancing approach you often favour and I detest but those hands made me forget the next instant. Your finger tips gently traced a light pattern on my now warm cheeks, an occasional fingernail found its mark are the game ended and the familiar “Hockey Night in Canada” theme played.
“You know,” you say with a sly grin on your face. “Every fan needs his good luck charm. Off to the bedroom with you, I owe you for the goals.”
At your gently squeeze of my bottom, I look languidly up at your face. “When’s the next game?” '
© Dark Angel 2009