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C.A.B.fessions ~ The Spanking Girl (True Story. M/f, Warning: adult themes.)

C.A.B.

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C.A.B.fessions ~ The Spanking Girl

(True Story. M/f, Warning: adult themes.)

Quite some years ago, while using another social all-things-to-all-perves fetish site (which shall remain nameless because it sucked ass, and is probably worse today) I connected with a gal that was pleasant and unassuming. She was kind and gentle, almost to a fault, and had a weird Disney-esque way about her; as if tiny birds sang and circled her head when she went out walking.

She had none of the 'rode-hard and put up wet' quirky mental baggage that permeates these kinds of sites. And, diametrically opposed to her good-girl demeanor... she wanted to be spanked. And spanked hard. This was all the more reason to be wary. But in spite of the ever-present 'too good to be true' maxim dangling flags in front of my eyes, I cautiously invited more of her.

We went from emails to private messaging, and at long, a first phone call. Her voice was as light and girlish as her personality, although she was in her early 30's, she retained a resonant 'cuteness' in her speaking that was both charming and borderline annoying. The best way I can describe it is, perhaps, Bernadette Peters or Victoria Jackson like. It was either disarming or you felt the need to hang yourself as soon as was convenient whist she prattled away. Either way, her professed need for a merciless spanking had piqued my Sadist's muse... so I endured.

From the photos she sent there was a further mismatch, for in spite of her rainbow and lollypop voice, she was a tall, muscular woman... not in a Romanian shot-putter way, or Henry-likes-drag kind of way, but in a toned volleyball athletic way; not quite feminine, maybe kind of butch. There was no connection to those broad shoulders and tight breasts to that teeny Minnie Mouse chatter. More flags... but what the hell, her face was pretty and framed by blondish locks. Her hips were undeniably female, as were her long muscular legs. I'm not much for big girls, but I'm not a snob when it comes to willing 'punishment sluts'. And as I would come to find out, that is exactly what she craved.

Our relationship was pleasant friendship, spiced with some naughty talk as we explored each others fetishes. She lived by the Great Lakes and was at her wits end with snow and cold. She wanted change in a drastic way and was planning to move to the Florida Keys: her dream as inseminated by way of cheesy Jimmy Buffet CD's conjuring images of booze-soaked paradise where people seem to walk around all day unemployed, eating cheeseburgers, and stepping on pop-tops in a drunken stupor whist desperately seeking a condiment dispenser. I live in Miami, I know the keys intimately, and that vision only works for tourists until their wallets run dry, or they live on government checks in a tin trailer that smells like the locker room of the school they shouldn't have dropped out of. But... my feelings aside, I let her gush on about her dream relocation without peeing on it. Regardless of my own South Florida jadedness, eight months of snow still sucks.

Some months later I get an email that, indeed, she has arrived in the keys and has even secured a good municipal job ( which is one of the three kinds of jobs available; you either work for a municipality, a gift shop, or a hotel... fishing charters don't count because the Captain's pay is immediately deposited in a bartender's cash register after he's dumped the pasty-skinned, white socks n' sandal tourists playing Papa Hemingway for the day.) So we made arrangements to meet one weekend in her new island home.

The early evening of our play-date was spent at a local tiki bar, listening to her chatter away about this and that over peel-n-eat shrimp, sickeningly sweet guaranteed hangover tropical drinks, and wine for me. As she talked on, I ran my eyes over her. Yes-indeedie-do, she was a big gal, like the blonde from the recent Battlestar Galactica series. Strong and firm, but kind of ungainly in the small chairs we sat in, she was not that graceful with her body posture and had a kind of 'aw shucks' plainness of 'the girl next door'... but she was sweet. Like saccharine. Diabetic shock sweet. She wore a typical 'I just moved to the keys' outfit. Graphic tee shirt, soft shorts and flip-flops. I, perhaps overdressed, in my dress shoes, slacks, black crew neck and sport jacket (I live here, I’m acclimated).

Connoisseur of shapely feet that I am, hers did not go unnoticed, long and slim with matching slim toes painted French. The white tips offsetting nicely on that beautiful top of the foot tan she was beginning to obtain that fades so smoothly to the cream and pink arches and soles. Delicious. The sadist in me demands to know... is she ticklish? As the evening wears on and the sun slips into the Florida Bay, I begin to talk earnestly, frankly, and sexually about what being a Sadist means to me. I smiled as her cheery face began to slack into a fixed glaze, as if her own inner thoughts were overloading her libido. Her eyes stopped blinking, her pupils grew, and her chatter was now replaced with quick darting looks to the other tables, rosy-cheeked that someone was listening to this fetish talk. But this is the keys, and you could be on your chair belching about dropping marijuana bales from a sea-plane and never turn a head, so busy are the tourists licking fluorescent maraschino juice from the pineapple chunk on their pink plastic flamingo stirrer.

As I speak I watch her body language, her legs crossing time and time again, she begins to glow with the reality of the eroticism. It is time to go. Time to explore.

At her small efficiency, it is dark and quiet, but for the buzzing and rattle of antiquated window air conditioners jutting from seemingly every wall. As we step inside she asks if I'd like some wine and I ask her to serve me some. I seat myself in her used rattan birds nest chair, she standing before me, nervous but excited. Two players onstage as the curtain rises. She had made it clear that spanking is only part of a larger desire, the need to be punished by corporal means for some imagined offense, what it is matters not. She had always imagined over-the-knee spanking in her fantasies; punished by a strict disciplinarian. She notes that it must be severe and that the punisher must berate her and ignore her apologies... in fact, upping the punishment for mouthiness (it should now be obvious that this gal was worth the drive.)

The play begins with me interrogating her on her behavior at dinner; was she aware of her many transgressions; did she harbor dirty thoughts and ulterior motives having me near; was she aware that this was rude, etc., and other such theater-of-the-mind. She slid right into the role-play as if she had fantasized this a thousand times before (and she had). Her eyes fell in shame and she became mousy. I told her she needed to do as she was told. To turn around and let me see this miserable girl that was caught being 'bad'. "Did you leave a tip?"... "No? Well its a good thing I did, missy. Those folks work hard and they don't deserve a keys wannabe like yourself stiffing them." Head bobs in knowing shame. "Take your clothes off. Drop them. You don't get to wear clothes in front of me! Do it now. Shame yourself." She does. She is magnificent, but she'll get no compliments tonight. "Jeeesus you're wet already aren't you. ANSWER ME! What a filthy girl. Well we are going to fix that..."

I will spare you the ongoing trash talk, but rest assured, every verbal denouncement and degradation seem to steep her deeper and deeper into that dreamy space that only the submissive know and relish. As a sadist, each whimper and pout thrummed my core with sexual burn. She was instructed to lay over my knees and present herself for punishment. My hand glide over the perfectly smooth globes that twitchingly awaited my open hand. She was instructed to count properly as each cheek was pinked up, then reddened in turn.

But the embarrassing truth of that matter was that balancing this tall girl on my lap was both annoyingly tricky, rather uncomfortable for me, and I am a bigger than average man. As much as I enjoyed the prolonged spanking and fingering; intimate with the heady perfume of her excitement; her labored breathing and hiccups of tears against my slacks... this position would not due. Besides, I had other things for her to endure. And. as if on cue, with the last few open-palm slaps to her behind I felt her pubic bone bear down on my knee and she shuddered a little. A perfect segue.

"Did you just cum? Did you just sneak one off on my good pants? You filthy little cum slut, you did, didn't you? You know what I think? I think you are enjoying yourself a little too much. You don't get to cum and be slutty little bitch while on my lap. Who the fuck do you think you are? On the floor. You get on the floor on all fours and wait there."

Not far over, in the crappy little dinette, there is a large wooden chair that mismatches the others around her breakfast table. I pull it into the room before her and turn it on end so the head of the chair is forward on the floor, as well as the front of the seat, the back facing the ceiling and the four legs jutting out at 45 degrees. I place one of her throw pillows on the arch of the chair. I need something to immobilize this big bitch and this chair and her own off-balance weight will do the trick nicely. I tell her to bend over the chair, arms forward, ass up, positioned between the legs. She complies, ready for more spanking.

I go to my bag and pull out my coils of precut rope. Tying her wrists to the top of the back of the chair I savor that special moment that any rigger has when a virgin bondagette nervously tries to comply and do what they think is appropriate to 'help.' Its a sweet and dark feeling, one that sears fire along the loins. Her arms stretched out, padded by the pillow and her boobs, her reddened globes up and vulnerable, she thinks this is all. Wrong. I tell her that her punishment will be more severe and she does not have the luxury of flopping around on my knee. Now she will endure everything I do to her without movement. Upper arms to uprights. Knees to the legs of the chair, it is wide and she is fully spread and glistening. And now as I tie each ankle to the legs of the chair pointing high, she feels the imbalance. There is now no leverage. And her dinette chair, is now C.A.B.'s 'humbling chair.' Impromptu bondage furniture, too heavy to move.

During the tie, I speak low and dreadfully silky to her. I speak in abstract of the concepts of punishment and torment and endurance. I speak of her need for it. She, all the while, whimpers agreement. I chastise her for wanting to cheat on her punishment by deriving orgasmic pleasure from it, and that now that will be corrected, and she will know punishment. I talk of tickling and she grievously moans in dread. I tell her there is nothing she can do to avoid the torture to come. Punishment has been upgraded to torture. And while a pain slut may come to expect and regulate the sharp slap of an open hand or a whip, tickling used properly is an inescapable nerve-ending overload that cannot be wished away. I tell her that I am gong to force her to scream and laugh and that it only stops when I am satisfied. She gets nervous and starts to babble about 'wanting to be good' and 'sorry' this and 'sorry' that. I wad up her panties from the floor and push them in her mouth, "Keep them there. Spit them out and it will be bad for you." Compliance.

Fingers are my best and favorite weapon of choice, not only for the dexterity, but because I like visceral contact. I want to feel her squirm and jerk and buck under my nails. There is no fanfare and I start at her armpits, standing over her in complete domination, She does not even have the privilege of looking her tormentor in the eye.

I am pleased; she is a rare one indeed. For such a powerful girl, she is one of those prone to 'helpless ticklishness', in which the body seems to go almost limp with submission to the forced laughter. And her laughter is as cute as one would imagine. She can not stop and seems hopelessly lost in ticklish torment. Her laughter turns to squeals and muffled cries as I work her ribs and pelvis, throwing in the occasional sharp slaps to her ass and puffing vulva. My hand comes away wet with each stroke. Clearly she is enjoying this new form of punishment. I permit her rest breaks wherein she is told to apologize sincerely and accurately without falter... but at the first hitch in her voice the spit wadded panties go back in her mouth and she is tickle tortured further, mingled with my angry trash talk and fingering of her clit, driving her to the unavoidable edge of needing orgasm.

I audit her, "You love this don't you? It's terrible when you can't wiggle away and you just have to take it. Can't stop it. It's torture isn't it? ISN'T IT? Answer me. Tell me you love your punishment. THIS is true punishment isn't it? You deserve it, don't you? BEG ME FOR IT!!!"

Between muffled cries and laughter, a weak, "yes... Yeeesss"

"SAY IT! BEG ME TO TORURE YOU!"

"YESSS!! TORTURE MEEEEEE! I deserve it, s...Sir!" she wails off in chaotic, uncontrollable laughter as I squeeze her sides and scratch at her pits.

"Don't you DARE call me Sir. I don't own you. I wouldn't want you! Filthy slut."

I stop to let her pant and rest. Pulling up a chair behind her, I savor the site of those large narrow feet, upturned and slightly flushed from bondage and struggle. I am not disappointed. They are as soft and creamy as if she never went barefoot native at all. I take my sweet time, teasing her with tickling trash talk all the while. Who can resist a bevy of long wiggling toes exposed for tickle torment? Between I introduce her to the painful joys of bastinado with her very own wooden spoon from her "I just Moved In" Walmart kitchen utensil variety pack. I taught her how sole spanking makes them even more sensitive to tickle torture. If it were not for our agreed safe-word and safe-grunts; anyone would have granted her mercy, so pitiful were her cries. But, we are what we are. She is a punishment slut. And I am a Sadist. We dance the torment macabre for a very long and slow while. Her tearful laughter pumping me to the point of heart-thrumming sexual agony.

I finish her off with a barrage of bereavements and demands, all the while rubbing her engorgement to froth and convulsion. She agrees to anything. She cums hard without asking permission. She a noob. It happens.

Later, over coffee and she sitting blanket-wrapped in her birds nest, me, pleased on the righted chair, discuss the psychological nuances of the session (although it did not sound that haughty at the time). I packed my gear and my own engorgement (there was no mutual sex, per say, as this was our first meeting) and I asked her if she enjoyed her first time with me, and would she like to play again sometime. There was a pause and I thought this was the last of her.

"Are you fucking kidding me? Yeah?!?"

Life is good.

"Call me."

"I will. Definitely."

Kisses. Hugs.

"Oh... Welcome to Florida."





~ C.A.B.
 
Nice job, C.A.B.

... Interesting to see our trademark quirk paired with something a bit darker, such as spanking. And I always enjoy your Dennis Miller-esque descriptive metaphor and attention to atmosphere. (The "spanking girl" angle is one which has surfaced in my own experience a couple of times, though I never included it in any of my "True Stories" efforts for the TMF.) Again, fine job,.... an entertaining read.

...And good for you, too.
 
Outstanding!
I can smell a submissive one and I am stoked....my all time favorite had a deep submissive side.

C.A.B is my hero LOL!
 
I like your vivid descriptions of the spanking and tickling you did. Thanks for writing and do tell us if there were more meetings.

I have to ask: did you feel then (or at any future session) like you two were accommodating each others' fetishes as an agreement to play (I'll spank you if I can tickle you too)?

Or was she genuinely into both kinds of punishment?
 
... Interesting to see our trademark quirk paired with something a bit darker, such as spanking. And I always enjoy your Dennis Miller-esque descriptive metaphor and attention to atmosphere. (The "spanking girl" angle is one which has surfaced in my own experience a couple of times, though I never included it in any of my "True Stories" efforts for the TMF.) Again, fine job,.... an entertaining read.

...And good for you, too.
...or Mr. Miller's C.A.B.esque manner of speaking. Thank you for your comment.

Outstanding!
I can smell a submissive one and I am stoked....my all time favorite had a deep submissive side.

C.A.B is my hero LOL!
They're quite rare, like diamonds. Treat them as such. Thank you, Sir.

Mmm. Excellent. Truely excellent.
Glad you enjoyed. Thank you.

I like your vivid descriptions of the spanking and tickling you did. Thanks for writing and do tell us if there were more meetings.

I have to ask: did you feel then (or at any future session) like you two were accommodating each others' fetishes as an agreement to play (I'll spank you if I can tickle you too)?

Or was she genuinely into both kinds of punishment?
Yes. I met her a further two times. There was no verbal agreement per say, as mentioned, she had a punishment need (fetish) and tickle torture was among many things that helped her realize her desire (fetish). Thanks, TB.

It's spankedelichromatically hot! 😀
It was serendipitoushlyscrumdeliumtious! Thanks, Bo.
 
Great story. :couch:
I hope you will write about other sessions you had with her. 😀
 
I am breathless after reading this! You write so well, I could really feel it all as it was happening. Please please post more stories be they true stories or fiction.

Deelicious!! 🙂
 
Wonderfully told experience. I wonder if she sought out other ticklers after you introduced her to it?
 
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