I remember the first guy who ever spanked me. Before I even knew I liked it that much. He exuded dominance, before I knew what dominance could be, or what it could look like.

He was big and tall, solemn and serious. He intimidated me but I didn’t know why.

I was shy and submissive, confident and curious. I wanted to please him but I didn’t know how.

In retrospect, it looks like the start of a kinky relationship at the wrong time. If only I was a few years the wiser.

And oh, how I remember those big hands of his. Those thick fingers and that strong grasp. He would dip a finger inside me and I’d just melt. My face would flush and I was his.

But those spanks–those caught me off guard. I never knew when they were coming. When I was clothed, when I wasn’t. When we were in bed, in the living room, in the kitchen. Wherever.

THWACK. His hand would come into contact with my ass, bare and clothed. Either way, it fucking stung. It heightened my senses. It put me on edge.

But more importantly, it turned me on. My breathing would increase. My crotch became slick. Both cheeks flushed a crimson red. And it made certain he was thinking of me sexually even when he seemed distracted.

Funny to think how much I crave those spanks nowadays.