Ritual

For me the ritual of a spanking is just as powerful, or perhaps even more so, than the actual spanking itself. When I fantasise about the simplest of scenes it’s always the ritual I dwell on. It’s been that way forever. From Enid Blyton perversions to designing my own school and rules.

Even now, despite all the school scenes I’ve played I never tire of that formality that comes with the ritual. Perhaps so much of the shame and humiliation comes from going through the carefully crafted routine that you know you could have avoided but didn’t.

So if it’s a school scene there’ll be the knocking on the door beforehand, standing before the headmaster, being scolded, adjusting clothing before bending over. In my fantasies I gloss over the actual spanking. As much as I gloss over the spankings etc. in spanking porn; I prefer the build-up, the story unfolding and the anticipation.

And I love how different people have their own rituals. Abel for example will regularly roll up his shirt sleeve before delivering a caning. Carefully removing his cufflinks, methodically folding the sleeve the correct number of times before he’s satisfied his arm is sufficiently free to deliver the punishment.   

Whilst HH will tower in front of me, looking down as he casts sentence, often raising my chin with his finger so my eyes can’t escape his censor.

Even Mr Allen, who I don’t role play with, also seems to have his rituals: taking his time in selecting his implements, weighing each in his hands and examining it carefully. Then with with great precision chooses his stance, measuring the implement exactly to the bottom, before any stroke is permitted to fly.

Then there are the rituals we create; that seem private to us. Although it’s unlikely they are, we just like to feel it is so, as proof our own special connection.

My favourite one with HH is having to ask permission to pull my panties back up after a spanking  or such. I can’t even remember when it started; if he first reprimanded me for not doing so or whether I asked for permission. That’s irrelevant now, but it’s one of the most endearing and lasting of our rituals.

I always ask: whether we are alone or in company, whether the spanking was light hearted or severe, whether in role or as me. And I say “may I?” not “can I?”; that’s important too. It makes me feel incredibly head spacey; almost as much as the whole scene before it. Usually he grants permission, but sometimes he refuses, enjoying my discomfort at being denied.

And I never forget. Until, I did, last weekend. On the Sunday HH gave me a final spanking before he was due to leave. Only his hand (as hard as it can be), given how sore I was. We cuddled afterwards chatting a while, me naked from the waist down. Until the time for departure drew near and I offered him a cool drink for the road. As I slipped from the bed to fulfil the request I absentmindedly retrieved my panties from the floor and pulled them on. 

The elastic had barely snapped into place when I swung around in horror. HH was shaking his head. ‘Oh I forgot, I’m sorry. I never forget.’ I wailed, dramatically. On the scale of transgressions it’s a pretty small one, but I pride myself in remembering.

Of course it didn’t go unpunished. Despite how sore I was, over the bed I went for a short but firm hairbrushing.  But I was glad to be dealt with for it, secure in the ritual and all that it means to us.