I’d been conscious of the pretty girl and her mother since we arrived at the small beach-side hotel. The mother, 40-something, was bubbly, slim and attractive but her daughter, early twenties and just out of University, was a babe. Physically, she was undoubtedly a beautiful creature but what had caught my attention was the way she carried herself. She had a poise, a calm about her that is quite uncommon, but that almost forced you to watch when she crossed a room. When talking she looked directly into your face with her beautiful blue eyes in a way that was mesmerising.
It was a busy, sporty kind of holiday so I hadn’t seen much of her but one lunch time both families shared a table. Gradually the others disappeared to their individual afternoon plans: a palates class, sailing and reading until only she and I were left.
“Isn’t it beautiful here”, she said, with a sweep of her hand that took in the wide bay and a group of catamarans chasing each other in the stiff breeze.
Without thinking I responded: “Isn’t it just. There’s something about a catamaran skimming across a bay that’s hard not to watch.”
“Oh, My God!” she exclaimed, “It’s you! I never thought it would be you!”
And then came the words I had hoped never to hear, and which had haunted me ever since I started writing a blog: “You’re BibulousOne. You write the Pain As Pleasure blog. I follow you on twitter. You described the scene in the same words in a post yesterday and you made it sound so much like here, I wondered if BibulousOne might actually be writing about this bay. I’ve been playing a game trying to guess who it would be most likely to be.”
She had me. Denying it clearly wasn’t going to work. I felt myself sinking under the weight of the realisation that I had been found out. An apparently vanilla businessman with a family and a job who writes a blog about hard core BDSM sex. It’s not a pretty picture and I have always known that one word out of place could ruin me. My thoughts were all recrimination and anger at my own stupidity. I once crashed my car into another through lack of concentration and had felt the same sense of despair at having inflicted something so hideous on myself .
“Oh, don’t worry” she said. “I’m not going to tell anyone. My secrets are just as big as yours.” She told me her story.
It transpired that she had supplemented her University loans and supported a serious lingerie habit by performing in spanking movies, graduating to harder corporal punishment scenes as her tastes developed. I sometimes watch such films and could imagine how popular so young and attractive a model would be. I had seen enough of her in a bikini to know that the adjective “spankable” certainly applied to her bottom.
She told me how much she hated lying to her mother about how she funded her somewhat upmarket student lifestyle. She had agreed to come on this holiday in order to ‘come out’ and had in fact done so the night before. Over dinner at a beach side restaurant she had carefully explained about the spanking and the films. As she told me about her mother’s response, which had focussed only on concern for her daughter’s safety and happiness, her voice started to break.
“She was just so lovely about it. There I was telling her all these terrible things that she obviously couldn’t understand and all she cared about was if I am happy and if I am keeping myself safe. I think I wanted her to be angry with me; I needed her to be upset.” She was crying as she told me this.
“It’s left me wanting to be spanked, needing to be spanked. I want someone to hurt me, make me feel I have been punished for telling my lovely, beautiful, caring mother all those horrible things and making her so confused and uncomfortable. I’ve read your blog. I know you sometimes spank submissive sex workers. Would you spank me? Hard. Please. Now. Right now.” She looked up at me, eyes wet with tears, waiting for an answer.
I hesitated. My relief that the person who had discovered my hidden identity wasn’t going to reveal it had been replaced by surprise at the strange request. I was on a family holiday; had been sat with my wife and my offspring just ten minutes earlier, yet here was a beautiful young woman asking me to play out a BDSM punishment scene. I felt the two worlds I inhabit collide in a way I always tried hard to avoid.
“Look,” she said, seeing my hesitation. “I understand this is strange for you so this is what I will do. I will go up to my room, Number 15 on the first floor, and lean over the table by the window. If you feel you can do this for me, just come up in five minutes time, walk in and spank me; use a belt if you have one. Don’t stop till I am crying. I really want you to hit me hard, but then just leave. You wouldn’t need to feel guilty, you don’t even need to touch me. You would just be helping me deal with a deep emotional need to be punished. Please do it. Will you? Please.”
And she left.
Three times I stood up to follow her and sat down again, before finally allowing my kinks to take over. I think I always knew I was going to do it and the hesitation was a doomed attempt to salve my conscience. The thing was, I understood her motivation perfectly. I have been in situations where having someone tie me up and beat me has seemed the only way to assuage my guilt.
Walking past the tree in the hotel courtyard, I checked that no-one was around and ripped off a whippy branch, stripping it of it’s leaves as I climbed the outside stairs to the first floor. I left a trail of leaves in my wake.
When it was over, and I had left her gasping and crying over the table, her bottom deep red from my hand and my canvas soled beach shoe; criss-crossed with thin lines from the homemade switch, I returned to the bar. Endorphins gave me a floaty, ‘out of body’ sensation which I usually associate with receiving corporal punishment rather than giving it. I wondered if I had gone too far. In truth I had lost myself in the beating; enjoying the impact of my hand and the implements on her bottom, the bikini pulled up to leave the impact area clear. I had tried to focus on the pale skin where her bikini had been but knew she would have marks across the tops of her legs. At the end I had beaten her mercilessly with the whippy switch until it had broken in two. I had found it difficult to just leave, so had stood next to her for a few minutes, my hand resting gently on her back while she sobbed. She was sobbing from the beating I had given her but I felt sure she also sobbed with the release of working out her guilt for the horrible revelations she had inflicted on her mother.
After thirty minutes or so she walked across in front of the bar, heading for the beach. She gave me a quiet nod as she passed. The filmy material she had wrapped round her waist to cover the marks swung enticingly from side to side as she walked.
I smiled deep inside myself as I sipped my beer and admired the catamarans skimming cross the bay.
They were hard not to watch.