I know lots of people don’t believe me when I say that I don’t like being spanked. It is true; I don’t like it at all but instead of trying to persuade you of that I will tell you about the things I like around the spanking. I hope that will make it all a bit more clear.

We all know that spanking is more than palm on bum. We know that there is a magic when it is done right. I am presuming as I write this that all the skill comes from the spanker, and I think it does. I think he has all the magic.

So I want to write about the accoutrements that make spanking what it is, the elements that transform something horrid into something wonderful.

There is the  look, that silent stare that tells me I am in trouble. That silent communication that picks me up and twirls me around. That feeling of being sixteen again and unsure of quite what to do or how much more I can get away with, all of that in a stare. It is being noticed with a black ribbon on. I love that impact and the knowledge of his intentions. It is making me wriggly just thinking about it.

And then I link the stare he gives me to the way that he watches me, that he notices what I do, and how I do, and that all of it matters to him.  I matter so much to someone that when I am a bit lacking in sensible, instead of ignoring me, someone takes me by the hand and takes me somewhere (even if that is the corner.) I love that I am loved like that. I love that I am seen.

In this picture (below)  you can see a girl who has had the stare. She is shy and embarrassed. Her hand has gone up to her face in a subconscious gesture of shame which she tries to hide by pushing back her hair. Many men who are strict will have seen this exact reaction form on the girl in front of them.

My silence is part of the gift he gives me: I am a talker. I talk and laugh, consider, ponder  and discuss. I love that he can make me silent with the knowledge of him. I love that he can make my stomach sink from three thousand miles away.

The voice that is never, ever raised is part of the magic. Shouting scares me. It intimidates me in all the wrong ways. It reminds me of people who are horrible and unkind. I love the power of his quiet, steady voice. I love how I settle down so that I can hear him. I love his voice and the way he uses it.

The forearms – any man who spanks has great forearms and they have always been my favourite part of a man. Those muscular, firm forearms speak of intentions carried out, a man of his word and a man of action. That makes me all wide eyed, but when he folds his shirt sleeves back … I do not have words for that.

The belt around his waist is a constant, knee trembling reminder of what he is to me. The way he can rest one finger on it and I have a sudden inexplicable urge to be good for at least twenty seconds. I am not quite sure why this implements wields such power over me but it does.

I love the security of being loved like this. I love the ease of communication and the being loved as though I were a flower and he has delved between every petal to know me better than anyone has ever dreamed of knowing me. I love that he learns about me, my fears, hopes, habits and mind. I love that.

The strength of him, I love that. He is strong, mentally and physically and that makes me want to lie in his arms and be kissed thoroughly and for a terribly long time.

I love that he lowers my garments. I love that he wants me disrobed, that that is his desire and that I cannot stop him. I love that he does this with a care for how and when it is done. I love that he knows what I look like draped over his knee and that he can recall this image at will.

I love the submission he makes me feel. I am transformed from a stressed, unhappy curled up woman to a playful, adored little girl who will do anything to please the one she loves.

As someone who struggles to forgive herself, I love the forgiveness this life brings me.

I love the love that runs through every moment and every interaction.

But I especially love how he wears his belt.

Would you like another?