Penny spanks Penny

Hello! I’m here, don’t worry. :) I’ve just had a rather demanding week and the bratty batteries (the bratteries) needed recharging a bit.

So what’s been happening? Apart from boring stuff, that is (even Naughty Little Writers have to pay the bills and do the laundry). Well, the other evening I took full advantage of my re-earned privilege and had a deeply filthy time. BH was out, so I got changed into one of my dress-up outfits – a baby pink Jane Jetson-style minidress and long white socks – went into the bedroom armed with my wooden ruler, threw myself over the end of the bed, flipped my skirt up, pulled my panties down (just down past my bottom; for some reason I was really in the mood for that rather than having them round my knees or ankles) and gave myself a jolly good thrashing. I know I have BH, and he does a wonderful job of spanking me, but I do sometimes spank myself too. It’s different, somehow, psychologically and/or emotionally speaking: it feels like a form of private indulgence, a bit like sinking into a hot bath with a good book. Only naughtier. And it’s also different because, as both spanker and spankee, you are in complete control of what happens and can give yourself just exactly what you want. It’s like having a mind-reading spanker. It’s a strange, unique and guiltily exciting sensation, inhabiting both roles at once. And I love it.

Maybe it says a lot about my overactive imagination, but I find when self-spanking that I always imagine a scenario, such as a school or domestic discipline one (though just a simple “you’re for it now, my girl” one, centred on the moment of punishment), and I always imagine that someone within that fantasy is spanking me. I even imagine their scolding words, and my pathetic responses. I’d be interested to hear from other self-spankers on the things they think about. Do fantasies come to you too, or do you stay in ‘reality’? Am I especially crazy?

A couple of dozen hard, deliberately-paced swats – I love a long pause – then I really let myself have it. Hard, fast, relentless; unforgiving wood stinging my defenceless skin with pitiless rapidity. Isn’t it great, the variety that a spanking can have within it? Alternating cheeks, rhythm, varying the target area, going to the thighs, delivering a succession of swats to the same spot. (This last one always has me pleading to my imaginary spanker for mercy, to no avail).

Once my rear was suitably red and sore, I gave myself a post-spanking scolding (or rather the imaginary disciplinarian who had just roasted my hide did) then sent myself to the corner. There I stood, hands on head, feeling very small and unclever, for at least, oh… two minutes, before the urge for release grew too much. One hand slipped down between my legs, and the other down onto my hot little bottom, and I stroked and caressed and fingered myself shamelessly. Masturbating in the corner always feels so incredibly illicit and furtive; it has such delicious overtones of wickedness. Qualities that, of course, only make me go even weaker at the knees.

Bathing in satisfaction on the bed afterwards I reflected upon my outrageous behaviour and decided that I would definitely have to give myself another good hiding sometime. Or, if BH ever reads this, maybe not.