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A girl's first spanking, and last one.

He took my breath away with the first blow. I arched my back.

"Get down, bitch, did I tell you that you could move?" He kept smacking my bare ass the whole time. I got back on all fours.

"I'm sorry," I gasped. My ass was hot, my pussy was wet, my head was reeling, and the spanks kept coming. I struggled so hard not to move, but I'm sure, in retrospect, that the pain had my ass dancing quite a bit that night. The pain grew sharper and sharper, my ass grew hotter and hotter, my breath grew more ragged. I'm sure I cried out at least once or twice before he stopped.

He pulled off his belt and began to whip me with it. Stripes of fire coursed across my flesh, consuming me.

Unfettered, unbound, the choice was mine, to stand up and leave and end the suffering, or to stay there and let him keep hurting me. There really was no choice, when it came down to it. I stayed. I stayed because he told me to, I stayed because I wanted to.

As he slipped his belt around my neck like a leash to choke me and hold me while he brutally fucked my ass and scratched my back raw, I cried out, and tears ran unbidden, unchecked down my face. Coherent thought was fleeting that cold, dark night 14 years ago, but the one solid thought that kept repeating through my brain was this: I was home.

I think we were both equally astonished by how we both felt after all was said and done. I knew I had found what I had been missing. I knew my mother had been wrong all those years ago. He had seen a side of himself I'm not quite sure he liked, and he never did fully accept. Our sex life never again matched that night, but I would find other partners as time went by to explore new heights and depths with, so I didn't resent him for it.

I have had a lot of sexual partners over the years, male and female alike, some names have been forgotten, some faces have faded into memory, but Leif's name and face will never be forgotten.

Years have passed, I've been to hell and back again, I've known the highest highs and the lowest lows, I'm not the girl I was back then, but life has a funny way of coming full circle sometimes.

I traveled half-way across the continent just to feel home again. Moments like that had become so rare and precious, it was worth the long trip. Maybe it was because I've gotten picky over the years, or refined my tastes to odd extremes, but it takes a certain kind of chemistry to inspire my submission, and few men have that, and I've yet to meet a woman who has. I know someone who does, so I'll gladly visit him when I can.

I arrived Saturday afternoon, and left the following Wednesday afternoon. By Tuesday afternoon I was sporting a slough of colorful bruises and I was criss-crossed with welts from my shoulders to my knees, front and back. We both laughed over my swollen "J-lo" ass. He found great humor in my discomfort - typical sadist. I found great humor in my discomfort - typical masochist. No wonder we get along. I just loved the glorious smirk that sprouted on his face every time I gingerly sat down and grimaced in pain. Oh, I love that feeling, its an endless source of pleasure and amusement, until the pain inevitably fades a few days later.

We went to the toy store to buy a new single tail Tuesday afternoon, he couldn't find his. I admit, the prospect scared me, and made me nervous, and oh so turned on. Just watching him watch me as he cracked the whip in the store made my heart pound and my stomach do flip-flops. My pussy throbbed.

He took his sweet time, too, letting me stew on the thought. We leisurely strolled back to his house, stopping at a couple other stores along the way, chatting and generally enjoying each other's company. Once we got back to his place, we lounged in the bedroom and watched a little television. I scratched his back and helped him relax. We had a late night the night before, and he wanted to rest a bit before playing.

I was a little torn between bringing up the subject of the new whip, or letting it drag out even longer.

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