I was a teenage Satanist.
In other words, I was a Goth embarrassment, a Sylvia Plath fan, a pale, thin brunette sealed in black. Red was my second favourite colour, particular the shade of soundly smacked bottoms. Cane lines crayoned on white flesh. Red passion flowers. Or perhaps it was the canvas on which they were etched. Artists need a flat easel but those who work on flesh prefer curves. This sort of work should be done as slowly as possible, preferably on chubby buttocks, the sort one must fondle before, during and after a punishment. Just to ascertain whether the skin can take any more reddening, of course. One wouldn’t want to besmirch the noble art of chastisement with sexuality. At least not until the receiver has been allowed to rub their bottom, perhaps while pouting defiantly, and after they have spread themselves in whatever position in which they like to receive oral sex. Or something a little more invasive...
My teenage hobbies were mooching around and deciding how suicidal I was. Usually while reading Sylvia Plath. I would wonder who would miss me after I was gone. How much I could hurt them. How they would rue the day they upset me, the centre of the known universe.
Perhaps I just needed someone to thrash some sense into me, fortunately I met a wise older woman. Her name was also Sylvia, although, unlike Plath, there was nothing remotely masochist about her. She taught me the benefits of a sound scourging on a moonlit night. Black clothes, red wine, white moon, scarlet bottoms and shared sighs – we were the cruel sisters, taking it in turns to whip each other into a frenzy. I was fond of my teacher. She whipped me well. She showed me how to make money from my passion, helping me to become a pro-Domme. She even taught me new words to describe a beating, sometimes over her knee, with one spank for each letter.
“Vapulation” – an obscure word for flogging – how it hurt memorising that one! “Rubious” was another one of Sylvia’s obscure words, one that would drive any Scrabble opponent into a red mist rage. It took less smacks to learn that one, perhaps because ‘the colour of rubies’ was poetic enough to be memorable.
Now I’m on my fourth twenty-ninth birthday I still persevere with men.
Heaven knows why, as they’re mostly useless. But I much prefer spanking women. And the most recent jewel in my crown was Svetlana, a Russian mafia princess.
She came into my life when I was looking for someone to kill my ex-husband. Too much information? Well, it was only a passing phase. I’d rather have him alive these days. That way he’ll suffer much longer.
Geezer Hardnut, my boyfriend, when I can prise him away from the Playstation, arranged for me to meet Svetlana. She was a genuine female assassin. So he said. He might be a liar but he’s killed more people than I have so I have to go with it.
Particularly as I spent at least a year wanting my ex husband killed. Actually, I never got as far as discussing my husband’s disposal with Svetlana. Some film noir heroine I would have made.
Svetlana was my scarlet woman. You could use ‘rubious’ to describe her crimson lipstick and the broken veins in her bloodshot eyes.
It was also the colour of her pert little bum once I had finished paddling it. Svetlana was thin, chic, adorably scatty and most probably insane. Her skin was as white as the paper I write on, her bruises as black as my ink. Like my teenage self Svetlana wore only black and red. Black boots, red leather mini-skirt. Her conversation also had one theme: what she wanted next. Apart from her blonde hair this was going to be like spanking my teenage self.
“You talk too much! Beat me! I want to be flogged.
Flogged hard!” Typical Svetlana. She can’t even be bothered to wait for a proper introduction. I can hear her husky voice, too loud from vodka and smoky from too many cigarettes. “Linear narrative? Is for pussies! Pull my knickers down and smack my bottom! Hard!” Well. If you insist.
We had a few quick drinks, the quickest I had ever had.
Then I knew I wasn’t hiring her as a hitwoman. You can’t trust chronic alcoholics. Especially not when they have a bad cold in mid-summer and a need to visit the bathroom every ten minutes. But you can still seduce them. As soon as we were back at my place we kissed till our lips hurt. I dragged her over my knee. One of her hands found the floor while the other grasped my foot tightly. She started to kiss my ankles. I slowly eased her white lace panties down, I was sopping wet just from the sight of her firm, chubby rump.
“Lay still, my girl,” I told her. “You’re going to get the spanking of a life time.” She had no more hope of laying still than a landed fish gasping for air. I smacked her hard as she wriggled and sighed.
I caressed her, fingering her openings, patting her firm, fleshy cheeks. As the heat built up she moaned loudly but she wasn’t going to beg for mercy.
They don’t spare the rod in Russia. She was probably used to having her pretty little bottom striped hard. And she was drunk enough to take a lot of pain. After a while my hand was hurting too much.
Her bottom was red and glowing, yet still ripe for more punishment. Despite the pain she still managed to stick it out and up. Before continuing I took a moment to contemplate the seat of pain and pleasure, the site of pride and shame. It was the finest specimen I had ever had at my disposal. Much too good to rush.
“I keep this heart-shaped paddle for those I love,” I said, picking up my favourite implement. I watched her closely, looking to see if the word love terrified her. It often does. Because who needs another needy stalker? After a certain age the fiction of a mystic other or perfect lover can no longer sustain us.
Luckily our needs and desires remain as fierce as ever, perhaps even more so with the realisation that there is less time in which to indulge our desires.
“Who cares who you love?” she gasped. “Hit me!” It was the right answer I suppose. Certainly the one to get her bottom smacked as quickly as possible. I unleashed a quick flurry of spanks. Which gave her something to think about. And then I told myself off for losing control.
I usually ask a receiver to kiss the paddle before and after use. Sometimes I douse the surface with water because it makes an already tender bottom much more sensitive to the smacking leather impact. And because moist, reddening cheeks look even more enticing. I asked her to kiss the paddle, already slightly warm from contact with her hot bottom. Then I laid it one side and picked my tawse up.
This’ll make you tingle, you hard-arsed bitch. I gave her three quick, hard whacks. She screamed and begged me to stop. Finally! I was getting somewhere. She reached a hand behind her to block my access but, like any mother since time immemorial I merely grabbed the hand and jammed it further up her back. I raised my left thigh to position her more temptingly. She rewarded my efforts by sprawling lewdly, showing me her shaven pout and releasing more of the scent that drives me wild: freshly spanked, horny young woman. I never tire of it.
I dangled the tawse between her legs, rubbing it back and forth as she opened further for me. I smacked her bottom harder, I used the tip of my middle finger right on her puckered little anus and shoved two of my fingers in her mouth. She sucked on them greedily, eager to show me she would now do anything. Her bottom was red hot to the touch.
“Had enough, darling?” “You call this pain? In Russia we birch each other.” Bloody cheek! This is sometimes called bratting. Behaving as a brat to provoke punishment. Some find it cute. I find it annoying but a pretty bottom excuses a multitude of sins.
“Really?” I said. “I wonder if you have sampled a birch made out of rattan. Lasts much longer than the real thing. Even on an impudent rump such as yours.” I showed her the birch, tied in a red bow. She was a little frightened now, but trying not to show it. I prefer the birch because canes are harder to control, however experienced you are. It’s quite easy to miss and give someone an extremely painful swipe just where they don’t need it...in the middle of their thigh, for instance. No erotic benefit and a sting like sulphuric acid. An exaggeration perhaps but it’s a sensation you won’t forget in a hurry. As it was, the birch caught her right on the sweet spot. With a few more whacks, just to keep her yelping for more, I picked her up and took her to my bed.
It was high time she played with me, selfish little baggage.
We spent the next few hours making each other come, rubbing our faces in each other’s bodies, snuffling up our mingled earth and sea scents. Needless to say this sweet ecstasy wasn’t enough for her. She needed coke and cigarettes more than anything else.
As the bedroom filled with smoke time and time again I decided that what she needed was a proper caning. I hate smoke! “Time for you to bend over properly,” I told her. I didn’t have to fake the aggression or the cold hatred. She had been boring me with coke babble and a little nicotine breath in your face goes a very long way.
“Come on. Stand up, bend over and grasp your ankles. You need six stripes across your backside, young lady.” Her eyes glazed over as she stepped into the world I was creating. She staggered to her feet, wobbled a little, wiped her nose yet again, snorted down some coke-drenched snot, glared defiantly and then bent over. I got up and picked out my thickest rattan.
“Grasp your ankles and hold the position.” She managed it somehow. Now it was impossible to hold back. Her back was arched, her peach was ready and I could resist no longer.
I tried spacing out the strokes, for maximum pain, but the sound of her cries was just too exciting. All too soon I had given her five beauties. She was panting but I still hadn’t broken her.
I drew the cane back as far as possible and landed it with maximum force. She jumped up squealing, hopping around the room holding her bottom. She calmed down enough to kiss the cane and then we feasted on each other.
I will always remember that day, long after the stink of cigarettes evaporated. The frenzied love. The talk. The laughter. But the instant she ran out of Marlborough she vanished for good.
Maybe she found a rich Englishman. Maybe she annoyed the wrong person. She could have drunk herself to death or got into heroin.
I think of her often, my Russian ruby. But it’s a relief she’s gone.
I’m old enough to know she would have been a disaster if she had hung around. With age comes wisdom. Or perhaps the fires of madness flicker a little softer.
I was a teenage Satanist. Now I’m twice as old as the little girl who courted darkness. Whenever possible, I seek the light.
My skin’s still white, my hair is black, but in summer I wear light colours. I still like smacking bottoms of course, all the shades of red my hand can conjure. From the prettiest pink to the deepest vermilion. Suicide now looks like a cop out and as for Sylvia Plath? Thank God for Prozac...
Erotiske noveller skrevet af The Moon