[I started this post on October 10, 2024]
Last night I posted the following on Twitter:
If anyone at Willow Street Station this evening saw a middle aged girl in a (some might say) too short skirt and white knee socks getting smacked on her white knickers, well, um, I may be able to introduce you…. #spankedathometoo
— Mija-again (@eltercerojo) October 9, 2024
Background and Details:
On Tuesday, before I picked Paul up at the Willow Street Station, I changed out of the long pink skirt I’d worn when I’d dropped him off into a new1New to me — it was an eBay find. brown corduroy skirt, a tan turtleneck, white knee socks, and tennis shoes. I left on my thick, white knickers. My logic was, arguably, that it was past 7PM and now chilly as a marine layer rolled over Long Beach. The skirt’s corduroy was certainly heavier and warmer than the pink skirt’s light cotton.
For so far as the skirt covered.
This last bit is, perhaps, important as my new skirt is full, pleated, and so short it barely covers to the middle of my thighs. And that would be the middle of my thighs in the front. It is shorter still from behind. Still, I reasoned, it was quite dark, and the train late enough that the platform would be pretty quiet.
I parked close to the station platform just as the train was arriving and got out with our very adorable dog.2I almost wrote “puppy” but she turned one year old last month. They do grow up fast… She’d come along because she’s both the most spoiled creature in the world, AND convinced I am constantly leaving Paul places. She’s always delighted when she’s able to “find” him and thus force me to bring him home. Standing there, holding the leash as people disembarked and the train continued its journey south, I watched for Paul, watched the dog, and had a bit of creeping awareness that the skirt felt a bit shorter than I remembered. Had it ridden up a bit? I carefully tugged down its, um, rear.
The pup saw Paul and bounded toward him, tugging the lead, and forcing me to follow. She greeted him as though he were returned from a months’ long dangerous adventure while side-eyeing me, clearly saying “See? I found him again.” He greeted her, hugged me, took the dog’s lead, and, I think, commented on my skirt.
I opened the front passenger door and started to get in.
“Get back out, please.”
Paul and doggo still stood on the curb, him urging her to jump into the back. My getting in is sometimes a trigger for her, so I got out and stepped onto the curb. As she finally jumped in, I got back in too.
“I said ‘get out of the car, please.'”
A jolt passed through me as I realized (duh!) this wasn’t about the dog.
I got out nervously, glancing up at the people milling on the platform, their number seeming to double and then double again, the lights getting brighter.
Paul indicated I should face the car and flipped the too-shortskirt up. Even though it meant my bottom in its white knickers were likely all-t00-visible, I was glad to be facing away from the platform.
Whack!
pause
Whack!
pause
Whack!
pause
There were only six hand smacks, three on each side, but they were hard and, to my mind anyway, delivered way too SLOWLY.
Whack!
pause
Whack!
pause
Whack!
done?
Once he finished I slid into the car, barely hearing him ask what people on the platform saw. Mercifully, since I studiously avoided looking to my right and had my head down, I had no idea. I was aware of my skirt riding up, the feel of the leather seat against the back of my too-warm thighs.
When asked how many people I thought had scene me get smacked, I guessed low, but had no idea. My embarrassment coupled with excitement and surprise made my head spin. I’m not sure how we drove home, only that at some point my sense of giddiness made me sorry it was all over so quickly. I then became aware of how bare the front of my thighs were.
We were almost home. I turned on the front passenger light, glanced at my legs untouched bareness, and turned the light back off.
Paul noticed. We were almost home.
The light several blocks ahead turned green. Remembering our “red-light game,” I pointed that out, indicating we’d not be stopping. However, seemingly knowing our car was close, the signal turned yellow, turning red just as we were approaching.
My thighs were already almost completely bare. Sliding my skirt up still further was gratuitous. I quickly closed my window. The two smacks were insanely loud inside the car. Fortunately (?) the embarrassment distracted me from the pain.
And we were almost home.
Pt 2 – Spanked at Home
[paddle picture goes here.]
I bounced inside (really, I did feel kinda giddy).
We talked about dinner, ultimately deciding it was too late (already after 8:00PM) for anything more than a light snack. Paul took the pup out. I thought about changing, but instead decided to lay across the sofa on my stomach3Once upon a time, Paul told me that laying like that was the best way to provoke him into smacking me. This did enter my mind as I lay there – was it still true, even now? on the sofa and read through my sample ballot.4Because, as you certainly know, I’m a responsible adult. A college professor. Certainly not a good and/or naughty girl, hoping for some good/naughty kinds of attention.
Minutes passed..
I thought my white knickers might be visible, but wasn’t 100%5Maybe 80% sure.
Paul came back in and I made room, hoping for some smacks, maybe a brisk hands spanking on my knickers now we were home with a locked door between the outside and us. Paul rummaged through the coffee table drawer, pulling out what I think is our most beautiful implement, a Compass Rose paddle.6I purchased this for me at one of the last (if not the last) Shadow Lane Party. I bought it both because it’s beautiful and because even then I was having some topping fantasies flitting around in my head. Not often, but enough to let the paddle seduce me. Until very recently it had never been used, something which seems like such a shame now.
That said, this thing stings. I mean it *really* stings. And it’s also light so it can be used pretty fast. With a few exceptions, I’ve not got the kind of tolerance I used to have. Sting is especially difficult because my skin is made super sensitive by eczema. Some implements can feel like they’re literally burning my skin.7Not naming names here but… Mason Pearson hairbrush, anyone? Because of this, no matter how much I want to be spanked hard (and I do) or how much I try and be brave, I generally and genuinely can’t. More often than not I have to be both held in place and have at least one of my hands pinned behind my back.
I also do not engaged in clever repartee ala the marvelous Erica Scott. Mostly I say “o no!” and “wait! stop!” and “No, no! I can’t, I can’t!” This last sometimes provokes some response from Paul.
P: “What ‘can’t’ you do?”
M: “I can’t stand anymore… it hurts too much. I can’t!” {insert wailing}
P: “What will happen?”
M: “I’ll die.”
In the end, of course, I don’t die. And sometimes afterwards I’m sorry there wasn’t more. I like being sore afterwards, not the skin damage, but the deep ache that can wake me if I roll onto my back.
This spanking was both quick and not especially heavy, yet so much more than I either hoped for or expected. I both was sure it was too much and after wished there were more.
My prediction for the beautiful-yet-long-unused-paddle? I think and hope it gets more use, and, respect.
- 1New to me — it was an eBay find.
- 2I almost wrote “puppy” but she turned one year old last month. They do grow up fast…
- 3Once upon a time, Paul told me that laying like that was the best way to provoke him into smacking me. This did enter my mind as I lay there – was it still true, even now?
- 4Because, as you certainly know, I’m a responsible adult. A college professor. Certainly not a good and/or naughty girl, hoping for some good/naughty kinds of attention.
- 5Maybe 80%
- 6I purchased this for me at one of the last (if not the last) Shadow Lane Party. I bought it both because it’s beautiful and because even then I was having some topping fantasies flitting around in my head. Not often, but enough to let the paddle seduce me.
- 7Not naming names here but… Mason Pearson hairbrush, anyone?