Searching for a Spanker

By Jonathan Quincy Graves

Where do you look? I’ve gone to websites, dating sites, personal blogs, you name it, I’ve looked there, searching for a spanker. And yes, I’ve found the answer several times. At least I thought I had, but each time when I looked a little closer, it was some kind of scam. Or it was close to what I wanted, and my wanting drove me to see it as I hoped it was, but it wasn’t. You know what I mean.

I wanted to find someone who would love me, but who would also spank me. Not spank me for money, not someone who hates people like me and likes to hurt them, and not someone who thinks it’s a silly game and whose heart isn’t in it.

I wanted a long term—preferably lifelong—partner to hold me accountable, to set rules and limits that are entirely reasonable, and for which there is a cost to me if they are violated. The cost being a bare-bottomed, preferably over-the-knee spanking. A spanking in which I had no say in the timing, manner, or intensity of its execution. In my perfect scenario, I could avoid a spanking—don’t break the rules—but if a spanking was earned, the spanker, not me, made all the decisions.

One other critical element. I’m a man. I wanted my spanker to be a woman. If it’s to be a lifelong relationship, she should be spouse material. Over the years, I have fantasized about being spanked by my mother, a teacher, a babysitter, or an aunt (don’t actually have any aunts), but none of those could last over the long haul.

I suppose a man might hire a series of babysitters, kind of a tag-team of pretty, young, (mature or older, whatever your preference) spankers, passing the paddle from one to the next every year or so, but it wouldn’t be the same. They’d be employees, not partners. Even if you used a cutout, hiring an agency to pick and assign the candidates so you had little direct control, the relationship would still be commercial in nature. I wanted someone who would spank me because they loved me, not beat me for… whatever reason.

I’ve spent years on this quest. It was on the back burner during my marriage to Joan. Joan was a wonderful woman, a great spouse, and I loved her dearly (still do), but she met none of the qualifications of a spanker. She was intellectually and emotionally unsuited for the position, and I never tried to force it upon her. I hinted a few times, but they were hints that only a natural spanker would likely pick up on. Nothing came of them.

After Joan, I decided that if I ever married again, it would be to a woman who held the same position on spanking that I did. Say rather the mirror image to my position. If she wanted to be spanked by a man, like I want to be spanked by a woman, we’d both be frustrated. My fantasy is unidirectional. Granted, having a nicely formed, naked, female bottom across my knee does have a certain appeal, but only in play, not for discipline or punishment.

So, I looked off and on, with no real success. Off and on because after a period of no success, I sometimes despaired of ever finding the right person and stopped looking until the urge once again became overwhelming.

During one of the interludes—I was not looking—I received a notice in the mail for my twenty-fifth high school reunion. I seemed to recall notices like this one at the ten year and twenty year points, but they never fit into my schedule. Good old St. Anthony is 700 miles away, and summer is a busy time on my small farm. It’s hard to get away when the fields need to be irrigated, the hay cut, bailed and bucked, the garden tended, the myriad outside building projects demanding attention attended to, and the animals cared for. Lately, I’ve been paying a local lad to help with some of these chores, and with a little foresight, I should be able to get away for a few days. I wrote back to say I would be there.

As the date approached, I had second thoughts. A section of fence needed replacing, the barn needed work, and the hay was due to be cut, soon—all tasks I could not delegate to my young helper. I almost cancelled my reservations, but it had been years since I did any traveling. I decided I really needed to get away for a few days, and since I had committed…

Second thoughts struck again as I walked up the sidewalk to good old St. Anthony. Damn, I thought, twenty-five years. What are the chances I’ll remember any of the old gang? What are the chances any of them will remember me? And if they do, will they regret the fact?

Inside the door, at a long table with ID badges laid out in alphabetical order, sat Susan Kelleher. (I cheated and read her badge.) “Hello Susan, how have you been?”

“Really great, uhm…”

“John Doane,” I said.

“Of course, John, your name was on the tip of my tongue. You look like you are taking good care of yourself,” she added as she located and handed me my badge. It had my picture from the yearbook on it. Hairstyles—even for those of us who still have their hair—have changed over the years. I also find it hard to believe that I actually had that goofy smile back then.

Once I got past Susan and into the main room, I felt the need for refreshments, so headed in that direction. They had a pay-as-you-go bar, so I got in that line. As I waited for the line ahead of me to dwindle, I gazed out at the room, trying to recognize the folks who showed up for the reunion. Not many names flashed in my mind to link up with the faces. There were two or three who might be people I recognized. There were far more for whom I had no guess.

As I scanned the room, the woman in the line ahead of me jabbed me in the ribs and said, “Aren’t you going to say hi, John?”

I turned toward her, but she stood at an angle so I did not have a good look at her nametag. As I searched for it, stalling for time by saying, “Hey, good to see you,” I suddenly realized that while I could not see her badge, I had a great angle on her cleavage. As that realization struck, I snapped my eyes up to her face. She had that look women give men when they catch them scoping their bodies—more amused than offended.

I felt myself blush. Since Joan, I’ve had little contact with women. Caught staring, even though I was completely innocent… Anyway, not recognizing the lady poker, and not being able to see her nametag, I said, “I’m sorry, I’m not good with names, and I’m discovering that twenty-five years separation does not make it any easier.”

“I see,” she said, “so you just stare at any breasts that happen to come along? Recognition of their owner is not required?”

“Oh, now, that’s not fair. I was trying to read the name on your badge.”

“That’s your excuse, is it?” she said. “And I suppose you’re sticking to it?” she added with an amused, quirky expression. “I thought for a minute I’d have to put your name on my calendar for delivery of a good spanking.”

She had turned more directly in my direction, so I glanced down and read “Maryellen Kane” off her nametag. I only half listened to her as I pursued her identity, but the S word caught my attention. I must have been in a particularly vulnerable portion of the in-out breathing rhythm because I choked and coughed.

“Are you going to be okay?” she said.

“Yes, yes,” I managed, getting my breath back. “Maryellen, it is great to see you. Don’t scratch me out of your calendar too quickly.” Oh my god, I thought. Did I just volunteer to take a spanking from this woman I only knew in passing and haven’t seen in twenty-five years? What does she think of me now?

Her face became more thoughtful as she said, “Ah, finally, the tumbler clicks into place, and you remember my name. You had to cheat, though, so you only get partial credit. It’s great to see you too, John. What’s going on in your life these days?”

Maryellen was part of the geek squad back in high school, President of the Debate Team, and Secretary of the Chess Club. We were not close. I flipped burgers to pay my tuition and had no time for after-school activities. Maryellen wasn’t homely looking back then, but she did nothing to improve her appearance. The woman before me, though not a raving beauty, did look good. Really good. Nice cleavage and trim waist. Having been caught once, I dared not let my gaze fall to her ass.

Before I could bring Maryellen up to date on my life, she realized she stood frontmost in the drink line, so turned to the bartender and asked for a gin and tonic.

“Make it two,” I said over her shoulder. I may be a part-time farmer (it’s not really my day job), but I was raised a gentleman. I whipped out my wallet and extracted enough cash to cover both our drinks plus a couple bucks for the tip glass.

With her drink in hand, Maryellen looked around the room and said, “Let’s grab that table in the corner and you can bring me up to date.”

Sounded good to me, so I let her lead me across the room. Yup, nice ass.

We took chairs next to each other, facing out to the room. “Like what you see?” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“I asked you if you enjoyed the view,” Maryellen said. “You were just checking out my ass, we’ren’t you?

Damn, I thought, how did she know? Check that. I’m a man, she’s a woman. She walked in front, I walked behind. Of course, she knew I was checking her ass.

“Who, me?” I said. “Of course not. However, I must say, you are looking good. Do you belong to one of the local gyms?”

“Lying, too,” she said. “We’ll have to add that to your mounting list of transgressions. You asked if I belonged to a local gym. The answer is no. I’m not local. I didn’t stay here in the old hometown. What about you?”

We traded information back and forth, interrupted occasionally by one or two of our former classmates who were sure we were dying to know what they had done over the past twenty-five years. It was nice to see them again, I suppose, but in truth, Maryellen and I had made a strong connection and were engrossed in each other.

I told her about my job as a Composites Engineer at Brunning Aerospace and my small farm with three horses that takes up most of my time. I told her about my Joan and how she died in childbirth with our stillborn first. (Hard to believe that still happens these days. I suffered from survivor’s guilt for a long time. Still do, a little.) I get maudlin when I talk about that part of my life, but Maryellen is a good listener, and I got through it without overly embarrassing myself.

I learned from her she’d married, moved with her husband to a town that is spitting distance from my farm (about 45 miles, so an impressive spit, but much less than the 700 miles to good old St. Anthony). They had two kids, a boy and a girl, both off to college now, and went through an amicable divorce three years ago.

I could hardly believe how the time had passed when I noticed that Maryellen and I were about the last of our class still in the room and the cleaning crew were beginning to work around us. When a man started folding chairs and noisily stacking them on the tables, we got the hint.

“So, where are you staying?” I asked.

“I’m at the Sheraton, room 204,” she said.

“Me too,” I said. “Well, not in room 204. I’m in the other wing, room 336.”

“Probably. I would have noticed if they’d booked me in the same room with you. I definitely would have had to spank someone if they’d done that.”

The S word caught me by surprise again, but I managed not to choke on it this time. Still, I got the distinct impression that Maryellen was watching closely for my reaction. After a moment, she gave a knowing nod, and we left our table and good old St. Anthony for the night.

“Interested in a little dessert before calling it a night?” Maryellen asked as we walked to the door. “They’ve got great chocolate chip cookies in the motel lobby.”

Several of our former classmates were in the motel lobby when we arrived. They seemed to have made more trips through the line of the pay-as-you-go bar than we had. They were about to head to the motel’s lounge and encouraged us to join them. I glanced at Maryellen, then declined the invitation for both of us. Instead, we hit the coffee and cookies and took possession of two comfortable chairs in a corner, as far out of sight as possible.

After a time of light conversation, relaxing, and cookie munching, Maryellen said, “We are approaching my bedtime, but there is one matter we must address tonight before I leave you.”

“Oh?” I said, with no idea what she might be leading up to.

“Yes, oh,” she said with some bite in her tone. “I caught you twice this evening, rudely checking out my body without my permission.”

“I didn’t mean…” I said. She seemed to actually be offended. I didn’t mean to piss her off.

“I know what you meant,” she said, interrupting me. “Before you even knew who I was, I caught you looking down the front of my blouse. Then later, you once again undressed me with your eyes examining my ass. I might have forgiven these two gross breaches in etiquette if you had not proceeded to lie about your actions. You must agree with me that was a step too far and should not be ignored.”

By this point, confusion had set in. Our evening together had been quite enjoyable. I even planned to look her up when we were both back to our respective homes. I’ve always been essentially clueless when it comes to understanding women, and it saddened me that we had failed to reach a mutual connection by such a wide margin. Her last statement wasn’t really a question. I thought it best to say good night to her when she got up to leave. Then, feeling more disappointed than tired, I’d have another cookie and mull the situation over. Maybe I could redeem myself in her eyes before the end of the reunion.

“Well,” she said, “at least you are not making excuses and trying to wiggle out of your punishment.”

“Punishment?” Perhaps I’d had too many cookies. What was this woman talking about?

“Yes, John. However, since you did not physically violate my person, and you have been a gentleman in all other regards this evening, a simple hand spanking should take care of the matter.”

Before I could respond—I was way behind the curve—she rose from her chair and said, “Come with me,” and strode off toward the hall, not looking back to see if I would follow.

I followed Maryellen up the stairs and down the hall to room 204. Already judged and convicted for the crime of checking out her ass, I assumed it would not make matters worse if I did a more thorough job of it while I had the chance. Yup, nice ass. I was amused at a small wave of guilt that passed over me for making this observation. Maryellen’s judgement already influenced my responses.

Guilt was not my only emotion; it wasn’t even in the lead. I also felt excitement, arousal, and fear. Fear? Damned right. I’d never been spanked, not even in my youth, when spanking was more common in society. Spankings were meant to hurt without causing real or permanent damage, and I am not into pain. When a horse kicks me, which happens rarely, I do not exclaim with glee and encourage the animal to do it again.

Arousal? Well, what do you expect? Maryellen is a good-looking woman, about to put me over her knee (I assumed). Let me rephrase that. She was soon to put me over her knee after baring my ass (another assumption). I’m 42 and have had few intimate interactions with women since Joan nearly 20 years ago.

Room 204 was dimly lit by a bedside lamp. Maryellen strode to a corner and pulled a chair out a couple feet, while I stood in the middle of the room wondering what would happen next. She came back to me, and taking my left wrist in her left hand and placing her right hand in the small of my back, she guided me to the corner. Once I faced the junction of two walls, she said, “Stand there, John, while I get out of this dress. I don’t want you damaging it while I spank you.”

“Uhm, okay,” I said. Yeah, I know, not a clever response, but having never been in this position, I had no idea how to respond. I guess in the stories you see online, it would have been, “Yes, Ma’am,” or maybe, “Yes, Mistress.” Neither of those was consistent with the free and open conversation we’d enjoyed with each other through the evening.

I stood where Maryellen put me, listening for clues to what she did behind me. She opened and closed a suitcase, then went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. I reviewed her words, “while I get out of this dress,” and assumed she was doing that now. I wished I’d been allowed to watch, and blushed at the thought. We didn’t know each other that well.

Then again, I thought, if she’s getting out of her dress, what is she getting in to? Excitement and arousal were surging ahead of fear and trepidation. Should I leave this silly corner and take off my own clothes to greet her exit from the bathroom? That would be the manly thing to do. Best not. She’s been leading this scenario since we left the motel lobby. I kinda like that.

The bathroom door opened behind me, then, silence. I could sense her watching me as the tension rose.

“You may leave the corner, John. Step over here, please.”

I turned to see Maryellen, dressed in a pale green nightgown that flowed over the curves of her breasts. She sat in the chair she’d pulled from the corner. With her hand, she indicated a spot on the floor in front of her.

I walked to where she indicated, and she reached for my belt. My hands moved to assist her, but she slapped them aside. She unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my pants, unzipped the fly, and let the pants fall to my ankles.

Looking me in the eye, she said, “Pull down your boxers, please, John. In future, I may choose to do that myself, but, for your first spanking, I want it clear that you agree with my intent to spank you.”

In future? I thought. That implies more scenes like this.

Now, my dominant emotion was embarrassment. I’ve not had a great deal of experience lowering my boxers in front of a lady. Plus, earlier thoughts and this whole situation had caused my cock to rise to half-staff with no physical stimulation.

I took the waistband of my boxers in both hands and, stooping over toward Maryellen, pushed them down to my knees. When I stood up, she was staring at my member.

“My,” she said, “you are a naughty boy. You have a nice cock, John, but this is hardly the time to be flaunting it. Stand right there.”

Maryellen rose from her chair, brushing the head of my penis with her nightgown as she turned toward the bathroom. She returned with a wooden hairbrush, which she placed on the bed in easy reach from the chair.

“I told you earlier you deserve a good hand spanking,” she said as she resumed her position seated on the chair, “but this,” she gently caressed my erection with her fingers, “has earned you the brush.” She grasped my wrist and guided me to stand beside her. She pulled her nightgown up to bare her thighs, and said, “Over you go, John.”

I bent over, awkwardly, to lie across Maryellen’s lap. She did not position my erection between her thighs, like they do in the stories. It had grown with the sight of her flesh (respectably long and firm for a guy in his forties) and lay pressed against the outside of her right thigh.

Maryellen reached between my legs and grasped my cock. “Yes, indeed,” she said. “You are being very naughty. I have a solution for that.”

She raised her hand and brought it down with a SLAP!

Of course, I knew that was coming, but it still surprised me. I can’t say it hurt, exactly, but it did sting a little.

She paused with her hand cupping my naked ass, then raised it and delivered another good SLAP!

“I suspect you’ve had this coming for a good long time, John.”

All my life, I thought. I said nothing.

Maryellen gave my naked bottom another hard SLAP! Then another, and another. She no longer paused between spanks, but delivered them at a regular cadence from side to side, working her way with overlapping spanks from the high point of my ass down to where thigh meets buttocks, then a couple inches more.

By the time my spanker reached the “sweet spot” often mentioned in stories, the initial slight sting had grown damned uncomfortable. She didn’t stop. She didn’t even pause, but continued to spank from side to side, working her way back up my ass. Now her attentions were generating some real heat. I lay quietly across her lap, wondering if I could continue to do so if she continued to spank like that.

To my relief, when her hard palm reached the point of origin at the high point of my ass, she stopped to cup and squeeze the hot flesh. I took a deep breath and relaxed across her lap. I had not noticed, but all the muscles in my body had tightened as she spanked me.

Maryellen reached down between my legs to grasp my cock again. “Not quite so impudent as before,” she said. Still fat, it had softened some during my ordeal. I’d not noticed. After the first dozen spanks, my attention, rather than on my front, had been laser focused on my backside. “Still,” she continued, “I think we can teach it some manners with my brush.”

Maryellen lifted her hairbrush off the bed and said, “Your spanking would be over now, John, if not for your disrespectful demonstration when you lowered your boxers. I expect you to do better next time.”  WHAP!!

“Ouch!” slipped past my lips before I knew it was coming. I’d been distracted by her statement, “next time.”

“Yes,” Maryellen said, “that got my naughty boy’s attention.”

After a half-dozen hard spanks from that brush, I started to squirm and my exclamations became more vocal with, “Not so hard.” “Maryellen!” “Please!” and “Shit!” that last earned me a spank to my thigh and the admonition, “Language, John.”

Maryellen stopped spanking after two dozen strokes. My ass and upper thighs felt like they were on fire. She lay the hairbrush back on the bed, then softly stroked my ass with her hand.

“We generated some nice heat back here, darling. Of course, we could have gone on much longer. Then this naughty bottom would burn like lava flowing down the slopes of a volcano.” Her hand glided down my ass to my thigh. “But you haven’t been so terribly naughty. I think you’ve learned your lesson for tonight. Do you agree? Should I spank a little longer to make sure?”

“No! Yes, I agree! I’ve learned my lesson. That’s enough! Uhm, thank you.”

Maryellen laughed at my flustered response, then helped me up off her lap. She took me into her arms and held me tight. After a minute, she eased back and felt for my erection. It had gone into hiding from her hairbrush.

“Not so bold anymore,” she said, “but I bet he’ll be back. Step out of your pants, John.” Her fingers went to the buttons of my shirt.

We made long, slow love that night in room 204. After, before drifting off to sleep, Maryellen said, “I’ve been looking for you all my life, John. Where have you been?”

“Searching for you, Maryellen. Searching for you.”

END

Copyright © 2023 by Jonathan Quincy Graves. All rights reserved.  Please do not repost or use for any commercial purpose without written approval from the author.

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