Wednesday

Heels and panties.

That is, in my book, the canonical “Waiting for a spanking” outfit. Others may have other preferences, and I don’t claim there is universal appeal or a reason for it, but it’s the dress I require.

Heels. Because, I suppose, insofar as parts make a difference to me, I could be called a leg-and-ass man, and I like the shape and emphasis that heels impart. But also for formality, grace, elegance, movement, and femininity, all of which appeal to me more than the pretty curve of a gastrocnemius muscle.

Panties. Because of this: there is nothing more emphatic about the non-equivalence of our relationship than that I can, without asking, without permission, without negotiation, without a moment’s doubt or hesitation, reach out, take hold of my belovèd’s panties, tug them down her legs, and bare her as I please. It is as true for lovemaking as for spanking — if there is a difference.

In heels and panties, standing, facing the window, she waited. She interlaced her fingers atop her head. I told her that she need not: that hands relaxed at her side would be fine. She replied that it was easier in that pose not to fret and fidget. Perhaps that is why it is such a classic.

Always, when I lower her panties that signals that the spanking has begun, with all of my rules of proper behavior in effect. Her friends who are spanked — and yes, dear reader, this is not the least unusual, despite the public hush shrouding the fact — deem me to be particularly exigent in that respect. Which does not relax my standards.

I wore a coat and tie for the occasion. We both find the marked contrast wonderfully sexy.

We waited, quietly, together. Edges beckoned. As it does every day anew, her gift of Self stunned and moved me with its incomparable, precious beauty.

— Frenulum