If I said Maria was imaginative it would not be doing her creativity justice.
She was a spanko. A complete pain slut of epic proportions who spent her day concocting new and novel ways of getting and dishing out corporal punishment.
You may remember her from the news a few years back: she was the lady who petitioned our council to issue parking fines in spankings. Monetary penalties disproportionately penalise the poor, and do not dissuade the affluent, she argued, and that weekly public shows of transgressors lining up to receive their hundred spanks as punishment for their parking indiscretions would be a far greater deterrent. I remember the headlines as the wacky story was printed in dozens of newspapers with incredulous editorials slamming and praising her thinking in equal measure.
If that caused her infamy, her petitions to get MPs spanked for bad behaviour and bankers thrashed for causing a financial crisis were vocally supported by a minority and got her a handful of media appearances: they expected a rebellious left-winger, but all they got was a pervert who liked to see naughty men and women receive the thrashings their errant behaviour deserved.
Which brings me to last Thursday: an invite to the home of Lady Maria Jacobsen was not an uncommon occurrence, and my wife and I knew that it would involve plenty of sore bottoms by the end of the evening. She lived for her BDSM, although any innocent viewing the invitation would not suggest that there was anything untoward with the evening:
“Lady and Lord Jacobsen respectfully request the company of Mr and Mrs John Stones for an evening of fine dining, followed by live entertainment and board games, including Monopoly, Ludo and Scrabble and finished with fine Scottish whisky.”
To the initiated that is a respectful dinner party at an upper-middle class house with a music band and games. It isn’t.
At all.
There were clues on the invitation: the silhouette of a Victorian woman, holding a cane on the front was subtle, the black and white decorations of errant nymphs around the border were less so. But the small print: “Attire for men: Shirt, tie, blazer, shoes and socks only. Attire for women: Fancy, but nothing between the navel and the thighs” was blatant.
We would be going to get spanked, and dish out some thrashings, and it made my insides tingle. Maria was extravagant and the opulent décor of the 17th Century manor house made an ideal setting for her BDSM gatherings.
As usual, she refused any contribution towards hosting the event: the black-haired middle-aged lady wore a translucent top that showed everything with matching black stockings. She oozed with class and allure and she non-subtly squeezed my bottom as she embraced me.
“I hope you don’t mind if I give this bottom special attention tonight?” She asked my wife with a broad grin; they were old friends from University. “Oh, and payment for tonight …” She said to us, pointing towards an open petition on the table. “… every guest must sign it!”
“We the undersigned believe that every Lady must attend every debate in the House of Lords, or receive fifty spanks from their wives, husbands (or Government-appointed Sadist-in-Chief) for every missed session.”
She giggled. “Yep, there’s a personal interest here!”
This was Lady Jacobsen to a tee; she would present this petition to the Government and demand her provisions were enacted. She would fail, of course, but the passionate thrust of her argument would not be lost on anyone, and as any charity who had banked thousands of pounds from her Sponsored Spanking events her lust for mixing masochism with improving society would testify, it wasn’t all gesture politics and crazy headlines.
Dinner was fantastic, and came with an undercurrent of the evening’s theme. Over fifty of us tucked into a starter served on a wooden paddle (they were put to good use as we waited for the main course) and a lovely spread of tenderised beef with two vegetables.
Lady Maria like to ensure that her guests were well fed but not stuffed, and her desserts were always served as the main activities drew to a close later into the evening with the alcohol. She never liked her guests to have drunk much, if any, booze before the paddling as she claimed it dulled the senses and decision-making.
“I want a game of Monopoly with you two,” she demanded as the hired entertainment, demonstrations of rope bondage and domination, set themselves up in the main hall. “I have a great modification.”
Now, I hope dear readers, that you will appreciate that any adaptation made to the well understood rules of Monopoly by Maria would not be family friendly and would likely involve one, some or all the players with blistered buttocks at the end of the evening. I agreed in a heartbeat, as she demanded the same from some of her other close friends.
My wife giggled at her friend’s exuberance, bouncing from person to person with unrestrained glee. Her happiness was contagious, but it was not just her bright personality worthy of admiration. The curve of her breasts as she walked, the hairless pussy and the long legs were a feast to my eyes and a tonic for my erection.
“She’s too rich for you,” my wife murmured. “And way too scary. It would be exhausting.”
“I know. But I’m older now. One week would be heaven,” I whispered under my breath: it was a long-standing joke we shared: Maria and I dated for one night and after being dragged half-naked around campus, we screwed for an hour on the Chancellor’s Lawn and was arrested. We didn’t have a second because she called the first date “tame” and I called it “exhausting.”
If compatibility between us was an issue as lovers, it brought us closer as friends and occasional spanking partners, hence how I was bottomless on a bar stool facing Maria as she laid out a specially commissioned Monopoly set.
We had miniature canes, paddles, blindfolds, hands and ropes as the pieces.
We had a “dungeon” instead of jail.
We had BDSM equipment instead of properties.
We had sex shops instead of the stations and online retailers instead of the utilities.
But most of all, we had no money and just a spanking bench behind the banker, a hired dominatrix.
Maria was proud of her creation, smiling at us as my wife put the “blindfold” metal piece on the Start. It certainly had her creative touches throughout, as she rubbed the back of my hand. The rules were simple; when my wife rolled the dice and threw a three, she opted to buy the Whitechapel Road equivalent – “Wax Play Candle” – from the banker for a cost of 12 spanks.
That’s 12 spanks that I had to pay: my wife rolled the dice, I got the reddened rear, feeling self-conscious as four couples, Maria and the dominatrix watched as I walked to put my the flat of my hands on the soft bench. My heart pounded as my wife rolled the die again to select the instrument that the leather-clad dominatrix would use.
The paddle hurt; I was not “warmed up” and she hit at the limits of what I could handle with enthusiastic zeal. The blunt slap of the wood resonated against my skin, lighting a deep fire inside my buttocks.
More than when my wife did it.
More than when my wife’s friend did it.
Even more than when Maria did it.
The professional dominatrix hurt; each smack forced a torturous cry from my lips as my fingers dug into the padded bench; I could see a dozen other submissives across the room in a variety of positions, receiving torment: the air was alive with squeals and screams, yells and howls.
I saw Lord Jacobsen thrust a cane against a diminutive lady’s rear, hollering in excitement as she wailed. It was hot.
I watched the ferocious bare-breasted Lady Hamilton-Smythe spun on a wheel as gentlemen took turns to savage her body with floggers; I’d seen her party trick before, the heir to a shipping fortune would be fucked like a whore on a pirate ship when they’d finished whipping her. That was hot too.
In fact all of it was, and all of it took my attention away from the wooden paddle beating my poor bottom.
I rubbed my exposed redness when the domme finished counting to twelve, and she shot me a smile as I grumbled. “That hurt,” I spat at her.
“It was supposed to, deary,” she patronised, as she sat back at the head of the table, passing the die to Maria.
Maria received the spankings herself as she bought the Wartenburg Wheel and after our two play partners purchased “properties,” it was my wife’s turn to roll the die, meaning that I required further spankings: I had to pay for my partner’s purchases and she wanted to buy “The Ball Gag.”
The dominatrices bare hand was nowhere near as painful as the paddle, but still sent searing pain from my raw posterior. It was embarrassing too: my exposed bottom punished in front of dozens of people as our game attracted quite a crowd of upper-class perverts.
My erection showed no sign of flagging; the gloved hand of a sexy dominatrix caressing my ass and then firmly spanking it twenty times would engorge the equipment of any depraved individual and I thoroughly enjoyed the delightful pain she rippled through my perverted body.
I loved it.
I loved the twenty-five caning strikes for the “Under-the-bed restraints system” or the thirty-five hand spanks for the “Vampire Gloves.” I loved them; I was warming up and as I returned to my seat, the heat of my abused buttocks glowed on the cold, rough fabric of the stool.
It reminded me of my place; it was a mindfuck of delightful proportions: I wanted it more and more, willing my wife to purchase all manner of tokens on the game: we could extend our “properties” or equipment to double, treble or quadruple the penalty for another game player landing on them. I willed her to go on a shopping trip, leaving my posterior at the mercy of the kinky woman running our game. I wanted it, but like all of the players, we struggled to get a group of properties together to build on.
But Maria and my wife were excellent at landing on each other’s properties, and this meant spankings.
Maria howled with pain as I got to paddle her nine times for landing on the Vampire Gloves square. Her bottom was blotchy: a delightful glowing of scarlet that I knew and recognised. This was the aristocrat’s passion, and while she screamed with pain as her vicious wooden paddle landed on her tortured rear, inside she was glowing.
This was her: I knew from our midnight screw all those years ago, she couldn’t experience pleasure without the pain. She needed her nipples tweaking or her backside slapped during sex. She needed her skin to be bitten or her hair pulled during foreplay. She needed to be used and abused, with passion and unflinching energy, and that’s what we had now. The fierce thrust of the wooden paddle against her raw skin was the pain.
It’s what she craved, we both did. We both needed it, but I loved the fierce defiance in her eyes as my hits landed and her eyes fizzled.
“I’ll get you for that,” she warned. “I’ll get you.”
She did, on the next turn. My wife’s die roll was a little bit short and we landed on the Mayfair-equivalent – “The St Andrew’s Cross.” I groaned as Maria yelped with delight. A further die roll meant that I would be receiving my twelve hits from the hand of our host.
The sexual tension between Maria and I was obvious; our friendship and deep respect was clear too, but we shared a bond that only two submissives that were once lovers could really have. I loved her: not in the way I loved my wife, but I adored her.
She was the only person who I would thoroughly enjoy receiving corporal punishment from other than my spouse. She was the only person who could arrive unannounced at our house, have a cup of tea and demand some mutual spankings. “After all, an afternoon tea without a red bottom is an afternoon tea not worth having.”
Indeed; Lady Jacobsen was one of a kind.
Her firm grip on the base of my back as she arranged herself into position, rubbing the hair that lined my masculine bum. I know she glanced at my testicles hanging underneath or traced the line of my body from my taut calves to the arch of my back. She does these things, because I do those things. The admiration of the sub is part of the game.
The pause builds drama. I am not watching her: I am watching the rampant debauchery in the room, waiting for her to begin. Waiting for the moment, knowing that every second that passes it’s more imminent.
That burning torture of expectation as she toys with my mind with her teasing mentality, is agony. It’s the dominant for the moment inflicting their control as she gently pats my bum: reassuring me that she’s not going to damage me. It’ll be alright.
And I know it will. I just want her to begin. My body is itching for my ex-lover to pound me. That’s her right, as she owned those properties we landed on. That’s the game and I want her to seize her moment. I want my cries to add to cacophony of distressed squeals and pained rears in the room. I want my reddened backside bruised by her hand. I want.
I got. She took a deep breath as the first strike landed on my bum; sending a blunt rush of sexual agony as I yelled in pain. She pushed on my back, pushing me into the bench as her second strike landed moments after the first.
There was no time between them: she was pounding my arse, angrily thumping my rear with her firm strikes. I heard her sigh as she did them, exerting herself with a workout as my rear allowed her to work out the frustration.
But I cared not; my body was shaking, drifting out of the present with a fog of debauched pain. I never counted all of them in my head, as I never realised many of them landed. My arse became a pit of floaty torture, my belly spinning as I savoured the feeling not the strikes.
It was heaven: I squealed and cried but never heard a sound. I panted but never realised I was still breathing. I was in agony but could have been on a bed of feathers. I wasn’t there, I was somewhere else.
It was over far too quickly; I was nowhere near subspace, but I was floating for a few seconds and wanted her to continue. Alas, we had a game to play.
The rules of the game stated when a submissive could not take or was willing to take any more spanks, that player bailed from the game and their assets were transferred to the person spanking them. Our fellow players started dropping out quickly, shortly afterwards: Maria had monopolised many of the better properties and she was dishing out a lot of corporal punishment.
I would not quit. I wasn’t prepared to yield even when she had three-quarters of the game board. It was a touch of personal pride, but I wanted her to surrender to me.
Even though my arse was bruised and hurt deliciously as I sat on the stools. Even though every strike of the cane or paddle had me screaming. Even though tears streaked down my cheek when I had to take twenty hits with the hairbrush. I would not quit.
Maria even implored me to: partly because she knew where my limits were but also because she wanted to move onto cheese, biscuits and wine. She begged me to cede and even threatened to concede herself.
Which is when we landed on St Andrews Cross again, with all it’s upgrades: 36 hits with the hairbrush.
“We’ll give in after this one,” I offered as they looked at me. I was told my bum was black and it was agony to sit on, but I wanted one last session. I needed it: my mind was awash with hormones and pride and I felt defiant.
I held onto the bench, oblivious to the large crowd watching us. She parted my legs with a tap on the inside of my thigh; even that movement hurt as my bruised skin moved. I expected her to pelt me, I expected her to savage my arse with glee, just as I would have done with her.
We are both spankos, we are both desperate masochists and we were both depraved individuals, rotten to the core. She knew the swell of intense arousal and the fire of submission that would be burning strong inside of me. She knew that every nerve in my body would be in expectation, wanting to submit to her malevolent games. She knew I wanted her to be evil.
She was only too happy to oblige.
I screamed at the first hit, right in the centre of my bum. I screamed, the pain was overwhelming and fierce. The roar of my suffering was excruciating and yet, I wanted more. I wanted it harder.
“Oh it tickles,” I screeched through the profanities. “Damn it, that tickles,” I cried, panting as her body swelled and the hairbrush landed squarely on my most bruised areas: the smooth curve of the brush slapping against my skin as my body moved on the cool leather of the spanking bench. I felt everything and nothing, moaning and yelling as the pelts was hammered onto my abused body.
I was floating; every slap consuming and overpowering my exhausted nervous system. Every smack of her hairbrush sent me further into my devilish, dark place of sexual degeneracy. Every hit was accompanied by the hand of Maria pushing me into the bench. I was being controlled, restrained; I knew my place.
My place was to receive torment and torture, taken to a beautiful realm of freedom as my senses were ravished. And I loved it.
Even as I “refused” the 36th spank to hand Maria victory, I loved it. I felt my devastated bottom: I had days of healing ahead of me, but I didn’t care. I felt pain, I felt torture, I felt alive.
Which was good.
It was customary for Maria’s events for the submissives to compare bruises and marks; sure, Maria called herself “a marks slut”, but weren’t we all at heart? I admired some of the elaborate patterns on Lady Hamilton-Smythe and we could have played chess on the criss-cross designs on Baroness Foxton’s legs. Indeed, the caress of Maria’s bruised bum as she leant on the back of chair to exhibit her marks, elicited a moan from her lips as I massaged her welts.
“I trust you are coming to our Charity Gala next month,” Lord Jacobsen asked as my fingers slid over her bruises.
“Ummm …” I muttered as he looked at me in the eyes and moved my hand out of the way.
“If you want to spank her, hit her hard … here!” He barked and lavished a dozen hits on her bruises. She spat an avalanche of yells before he stopped.
“Right. Ummm … we haven’t seen an invite from you about your charity do.”
This admission caused Maria to experience another dozen spanks for her “oversight,” before she was allowed to stand properly.
“I’ll get you one right now,” she promised before slinking out of the room.
“My niece has got leukaemia,” he said in a low voice. “We don’t tell many people, but we want to raise a six figure sum for research. We’ve got some seriously good pledges but … we need your help.”
“For money?” I asked; my wife and I were not rich but would happily donate, but he scoffed.
“For spanks.” He sighed as scratched the bridge of his nose. “I have loads of rich perverts that would pay to see people screaming in agony, yelling as hit after hit lands. To do what you’ve just done. I need depraved individuals. To squeeze money out of depraved individuals.”
With an invitation like that, who could refuse? “We’re in.”