“Why do you like spanking?” she asked.
I paused, and held her gaze. A pithy, flippant answer already beginning to coalesce in my mind.
But in her eyes, I saw something. Genuine curiosity.
So I hesitated, pondering.
How does one explain something as inexplicably personal as one’s own sexual tastes?
Perhaps I’d be able to answer her question if we were somehow able to meld our minds. If I could somehow show her my memories, and let her taste for herself the heady brew of passions and emotions that had shaped my sexual identity. If she could feel the impulses and experiences that had forged me. But I could not.
The best I could do was transcribe the complex tableau of my fantasies and desires into words, and then convert them one-by-one into subtle motions of my tongue. I would let them spill across the space between us, part of a crazy cascade of trillions of minuscule air molecules, that everyday miracle of physics we take for granted and call human speech.
The air I set in motion would make her eardrums quiver, and her mind would begin sifting order from amid the chaos, reconstituting my uttered words, and divining the meaning of what I’d said. Until they merged with the feverish electricity of her inner thoughts.
I knew that once the words left my mouth, I’d have no control over how they were interpreted. She might consider spanking an act of aggression, or think I was a brute, one who found satisfaction in physical violence. Someone who rejoiced in the pain and suffering of others. It might demolish her image of me, the one so meticulously curated from her very first impressions. She might glimpse my dark side, and think I was creepy.
And why do I like spanking?
How do you explain something that just feels right? It would be like trying to justify the delightful taste of chocolate, or the mellowness of a nice cup of tea.
Maybe I could explain it in terms of familiar physical sensations. That spanking was just sex without fucking. After all, you don’t need a cock for an orgasm, we all know a hand does just as well. The very same nerves are stimulated, not caring if they’re rubbed or stroked or slapped.
But it wasn’t just about novel sensations on neglected anatomy, choosing smacks on the buttocks over genital friction. After all, the pleasure of a spanking is experienced only by the recipient. Why did I like spanking, if all I was getting was a warm hand?
No, spanking demanded a psychological explanation too. That it wasn’t about the buttocks but the brain. That it was a means of tapping into both partners’ imaginations, a means of somehow elevating the shared sexual experience from the purely physical to the psychologically fantastic.
I could explain how the intimacy of sex comes from choosing to make yourself vulnerable, whether that’s by shedding your clothes, opening your legs, or presenting your bare bottom.
Or I could explain how spanking was an act of adult playfulness. By dressing up and acting out roles, this was a chance to indulge in grown-up games of misdemeanours and erotic consequences. And whilst a fucking might be over in minutes, a well-planned spanking might take hours. The growing anticipation, building to a crescendo of a cathartic punishment — and then, once a fire is ignited, who wouldn’t want to linger, and enjoy its glow?
Spanking could be just one of several kinky activities that might last all day, or unfold over several days. Or even become an ongoing private conspiracy, played in secret, with a brand new chapter improvised every night.
She was looking at me. I still hadn’t answered her question, we could both sense the sexual tension rising.
I pondered my answer, my heart racing.
The truth was, for many years, I’d harboured a secret. One I’d only ever revealed to my most intimate acquaintances.
That I like to spank smart, sexy women.
That I like to slowly peel down her panties, whilst telling her what a naughty girl she’s been.
That I like to spank her bare bottom until it is hot and pink and stingy.
That every now and then, I like to stop smacking, and perform an intimate inspection between her legs. My fingers sliding into her slick slit, or her tight little bottom hole.
That I like to spank and wank her to the edge of a climax.
That I like to spank her as she comes.
That’s why I liked spanking. But these were my secrets. She’d discover them herself, in time.
I realised I could never adequately explain why I liked spanking. My reasons were too personal, too uniquely mine. No words I could utter could really do them justice.
But I also understood her true question was one motivated by her own curiosity, her anxieties, and her need for reassurance. What she wanted to know was: would she like spanking too?
That question was much easier to answer.
“Why do I like spanking…?” I began, with a smile.
“Because it’s fun. And I do love to play…”
Originally published at spankingtheatre.tumblr.com.
