I’ve been researching spanking as I recently had my own first encounter. On reading the posts present on ‘OTD’, I thought I’d be brave and offer you my story. This is a true story and I suppose if ever one would enjoy reading the awakening of someone’s interest in corporal punishment then this is as good a story as any.

I’m a 25 year old teacher. I married my wonderful husband in August of 2016 and quit work at the same time to become a housewife. He is 16 years my senior and quite an eminent classical guitarist. This means a strict regimen of 4 hours a day of practising must occur for him to maintain his wonderful skill. Prior to my moving in, I had not had a true appreciation for his dedication to his art for we’d only been able to see one another on weekends or the odd day I had off.

Moving in has come as quite a shock. He practises for four hours and lectures for 8 hours at a prominent music college, leaving me idle and frankly feeling neglected. I felt duped at first, as though he had concealed what would be a lonely lifestyle for me so as to entice me in and trap me. He’s an authoritarian and very old fashioned. He likes dinner on the table when he gets home and then it’s off to practise. That having been said, he’s very loving and when we’re together nothing could make me happier.

Anyway I’m off point. The fact is I had been getting increasingly restless and annoyed, and ultimately petulant and sulky. I’d have dinner ready, then skulk off to another room of the apartment while he practised and then would often grow so sullen that by the time he emerged I’d be cold and even give him an ear-full for leaving me alone. I made little sly comments about being abandoned/ neglected and I thought he was ignoring them with impunity until New Year’s Eve arrived.

We had no plans for the eve as he had to fly out to Hungary for a series of concerts and talks in the coming days and so was preparing. I suppose I could have gone out with friends but I wanted to be with my new husband. Anyway, we have a few rules I’m to abide by. One of which is that I do not enter the practise studio while he’s working. He enters a sort of trance when practising, and interruptions can really throw him.

So, feeling particularly hard done by, I finished off my 3rd French 75 cocktail and, feeling brave, I sauntered into the studio to interject. He raised his eyes to me but didn’t stop playing and asked if I was ok. I said yes and approached the guitar, a very expensive Humphreys millennium guitar which I am NEVER to touch, flicking the fret board brazenly and grinning, looming over him. He sat, astonished I think, staring at me with a gimlet eye and I really needed no goading. I started to trace his jaw with my finger provocatively but he caught it between his own fingers and dropped my hand to my side. I felt rejected and summarily launched into a tirade peppered with words like deceived, neglected, unfair, lonely etc.

He waited until I was finished and huffing from my exertions, and then he told me that he agreed he had been absent, that it had been an abnormally busy time for him and that he wasn’t aware of how lonely I felt. He asked me why I hadn’t just said this calmly and reasonably. I told him I’d been hinting for months and he pointed out that hints are missed when people are stressed and dialogue is important. He then went on to say that I clearly need more loving attention and he’d acquiesce, just as soon as his book was finished and these important upcoming dates were tied off.

For some reason, this enraged me. In a tipsy haze I saw it as being second fiddle to his work yet again and I slapped him without prior comment. His expression changed and I actually felt quite nervous. He’d never looked so cross. He told me to go and sit in the lounge because clearly I needed more than love and attention in this moment, but he needed to calm down and he didn’t want to ‘deal with me’ in what is supposed to be his calm space.

For some background info, I was not spanked as a child and, prior to this experience, had no interest in corporal punishment sexually or otherwise, nor had I had any experience or desire to do so as an adult.

I had no idea why I found myself banished to the lounge, but when he entered he looked resolute. His sleeves had been rolled up, I noted, which he does not do during practise.

He told me I had an attitude problem. That at first he thought it was down to my long hours at work and pre menstrual hormones, but that now he could see it was not. I tried to interject but he spoke louder and continued. He told me he loved me very much but that I must understand he married late because his vocation is music and that he made it no secret he was steadfast in his ways. He told me he would try to be more accommodating and drop some of the nonessential work he’d been doing to have date nights etc but that I must change too. No more tantrums as he put it.

And then he completely blind sided me by saying that he would help me adjust my attitude in a way that he’d thought I needed for some time; a spanking. I laughed it off and told him to stop watching ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’, which he’d seen when on a long haul flight and complained that it was the un-sexiest thing he’d ever seen! However his expression remained grave. He said I’d been acting spoiled and childlike and was goading him for retribution, even if it was subconsciously.

He told me I had a choice. I could say no but that if I did he could foresee troubles arising again in future and that he knew neither of us wanted that. I was so dumbstruck as I played the scenario out in my mind. I reasoned I had a pretty high pain threshold. I didn’t want to lose my husband and if he sought to spank me for my bad behaviour then it would surely mean he’d have to break from work. Usually if I ‘had a moment’ he’d leave me alone but the prospect of a few stingy slaps, and then presumably comfort after, seemed agreeable in my naïveté. I had no frame of reference. I’d never been hit before. And so I relented.

He agreed and asked, as he didn’t want to tire his hand, if we had a wooden spoon. I replied that we hadn’t as I think they’re unhygienic and as I did so he had a eureka moment, asking for my hairbrush.

Now that I’ve read stories on these sites, I realise how ominous that should have been to me but it didn’t really ring any alarm bells. I fetched it from the bathroom and brought it to him, standing to his right. Note that he is left handed. He told me he loved me but that I was no longer to have tantrums or make shrouded remarks and that I was to communicate with him like an adult. He also told me I’m no longer to drink as a punishment to him. He doesn’t like being around drunk people due to his estranged sister’s alcoholism. He then went on to say that he intended to only have to do this once and so he was going to make it really hurt. He asked for my permission to begin and said that once he started he’d see it through. I smirked in my head. There’d be no begging, I was sure.

With my acquiescence, he told me to remove my pyjama trousers and panties and stand astride of his right leg. He pulled me down so that I straddled his thigh, and then pushed me down so that my torso was on the couch, facing the opposite direction as he was. I could feel the heat from his thigh against my sex and I felt aroused in spite of my predicament. He repositioned me a couple of times and stroked my hair. He told me it would hurt a lot but not to block with my hands, and with that he began.

I felt the cool wood pat my behind a couple of times and then it slammed into me. I couldn’t believe the sting. I couldn’t absorb it. It burned squarely in the centre of my right buttock. He repeated this on my left cheek and alternated slowly, but they were harsh, biting strokes. I choked on my shock and could scarcely catch my breath. As I started to moan, he picked up pace and intensity, moving his focus down below the original area of impact.

My resolve was shattered by the humiliation of my body’s betrayal and the fire blazing on my behind. I collapsed into an ocean of tears. My body was wracked with sobs as I processed his frustration. His music had spellbound me when we met and it is true he’d not really hidden his dedication. He is a loving and dedicated husband too, and I had been naively demanding of him. He was spanking me not just to punish but to reset our relationship, and that realisation had me bawling.

Just as I thought the agony could no longer climb in extremity, the brush began to work against the tender crease where my bottom met my thighs. The pain was fresh and teeth-grindingly intense. He wailed on me with all of his upper arm strength, a strength honed by hours of manual dexterity training and I lost my voice with protest. His ministrations fell further still onto my thighs but became lighter and yet this was no reprieve. It felt as though I’d been skinned from mid buttock to mid thigh.

Without warning, my spanking halted. I gasped and rasped for air, limp and spent astride his leg.

He soothed me, rubbing my back, but held me in place, moving the circular motion of his palm down to lightly graze my burning behind. I mewled in protest but didn’t move. He told me that we were starting afresh but that if I misbehaved in future it would result in a bare bottomed spanking over his knee and that if it was serious I could expect a whipping from his belt. I was too exhausted to even process the magnitude of that prospect and stayed motionless. He asked me to stand but I was too weak, sliding off his thigh to my knees in front of him.