Fiona Lewison brings us up to date as she looks to re-introduce spanking into her life…

When I started writing A Woman’s Awakening a few months back, I believed that my days of being punished were over, that it was something that belonged to my life with my husband and was best left in the past. I felt that being spanked by another man would be somehow pointless, wrong, unfaithful even, but since writing my disciplinary history, and getting more involved with Janus, my feelings have changed. It seemed the right time to move on, to exorcise some ghosts and, perhaps more importantly, to feel that sense of chastisement once again. I had, if I’m being honest, missed it terribly.

It was not an easy decision to make. Being spanked is a horribly undignified procedure at the best of times. It involves a potentially uncomfortable subjugation to another’s will, it requires a degree of bodily exposure that I wouldn’t normally consider outside a strong and well-grounded relationship and, last but not least, I find it very painful. But it is perhaps all these things that make it work, for me at least.

My first thought was to ask a lovely man I’ve got to know recently by email. I trust him completely even though we haven’t met, I felt that he would know what to do, and do it well, and I hoped that it would be a way to repay him for his kindness to me and his unfailing support. And the fact that I still haven’t summoned the courage to accept his offer to take me to lunch. But he declined for reasons that I know must be noble and to his credit. It was disappointing, but I had to look elsewhere.

I spent a couple of hours browsing spanking contact websites, and decided that I couldn’t face the process of getting to know a man in this way sufficiently to trust him with such an intimate task. It could take weeks, even months, before I felt confident. I’d have had to send a photo too, and I really didn’t want to do that.

Then, quite out of the blue, a close female friend, to whom I have confided everything, told me that she knew a man who would certainly be interested, and might well be suitable. Lucy and I go back more than 40 years, and I rely on her judgement and good sense unquestioningly, so I agreed to meet him. At his suggestion we all met in the bar of a very smart restaurant in Soho, and to say I was apprehensive is a gross understatement. I was about to meet a man with a self-confessed passion for smacking women’s bottoms, a man who was there for no other reason, or so I thought, than an expectation of adding my name to his list of female conquests. I felt quite strongly that I didn’t want to be ticked off as another ‘conquest’, but I also knew that, without an interest in the subject, he would be useless to me. If I wanted to achieve anything, it would have to be with a man who enjoyed spanking women. Why else would he do it? It was going to be a compromise; we would both get what we wanted, even if our respective needs were completely different. His motivation would be sexual and acceptably male-dominant, mine would be disciplinary and acceptably female-submissive, or ‘un-feminist’ as Lucy put it. It could work – but only if I liked him. Fortunately, I need not have worried about that in the slightest.

Maurice is 62, well-to-do and irresistibly charming, and it took only a few minutes to realise that I was attracted to him. I liked his maturity and his old-fashioned approach, his courtesy and his obvious love and respect for women. There was also a vigour and command about everything he did, and it was very sexy. He treated Linda and I to a wonderful meal, and I had already decided that, if he was still interested, I would be too. I had known him for less than two hours, and we hadn’t discussed anything to do with a punishment, but I was convinced that he could help me, and that I would surrender to him willingly if he would let me.

When we all got back to my place in a taxi, Lucy said her goodbyes and went upstairs. I saw no point in prevaricating, and asked Maurice if he would like to come round to the flat the next day (a Saturday) to have another chat and perhaps take things a step further. I was suddenly struck by the madness of what I was saying, but he agreed immediately and the decision was made. I still felt I could back out if I got too scared, but also that I could go ahead if I wanted to. Lucy would be in the flat the whole time, so I would feel safe too. It was a reassuring feeling, and I don’t think the circumstances could have been any more favourable.

I woke early the next morning in a frenzied panic and shot out of bed like a madwoman. For a moment or two I really did question my sanity, in that hopeless ‘morning after the night before’ way, but I knew I had to go through with it, and that thought sustained me. I wasn’t afraid, but I was frantically concerned about a hundred other details. I opened my wardrobe and decided I hadn’t a thing to wear. I opened my underwear drawer and dismissed it all as dowdy, unsuitable or frankly threadbare. I resigned myself to the fact that shops must be visited, money must be spent. I stood naked in front of the mirror and examined myself from every conceivable angle. Had I put on weight around my tummy and bottom? I didn’t think so. In any case, there wasn’t much I could do about it in the space of twelve hours. Then I realised that I had no idea what my bottom looked like over someone’s lap. I tried bending over some plumped up pillows and craning round to see the reflection in the mirror. It hurt my neck, but it gave me some idea. I tried to slap my own bottom to see if it wobbled too much. It didn’t, but was I hitting it hard enough? Or in the right place? I pressed my thighs tightly together to see just how much of my nakedness would be on display. I felt this was quite a useful exercise, until Lucy waltzed into the room with a cup of tea. She laughed, not in that casual, knowing chuckle sort of way, but out loud, unfairly, horribly. But she was right, of course. I must have looked ridiculous. My vanity was getting the better of me.

By 10 o’clock we were in Peter Jones on Sloane Square choosing something for me to wear. This, as some of you will remember, is where I bought my school uniform all those years ago, and here I was again for very similar reasons. I had a strange feeling of déjà vu. I picked up a nice, quite tight pair of black trousers and showed them to Lucy. Amazingly (and I still don’t understand how she knows these things), she said they were “unsuitable”.

“Why?” I asked.

“He won’t want to be bothered with trousers. It’s too much effort. Make it easy for him.”

“Easy?”

“Yes. You don’t want to exasperate or embarrass him with the fuss of buttons and zips and hooks and all that nonsense.”

“Right. A skirt then?”

“Yes. Think about ease of access.”

“Ease of access to what?”

“For God’s sake, Fiona.”

And she walked off.

Of course, access to my bottom. I was being stupid. A dress and some new knickers. I chose a simple black thing, tight but not too tight, short but not too short, and we made for the lingerie department. I picked up a pair of lacy black Chantelle briefs and headed for the Pay Here sign.

“Fiona.”

“Mm?”

“They’re fine, but be more creative. He’s a bloke. Show him you’ve made an effort. Try to distract him, maybe?”

I understood Lucy’s implication. I could wear stockings and suspenders in an attempt to please him and perhaps divert his attention from the task at hand. It was, I realised immediately, a dilemma. Yes, Maurice is a man. Yes, he is statistically likely to be attracted to ‘a glimpse of stocking’, or, in this case, an explicit full-frontal gawp. But did I want to distract him? It seemed counterproductive somehow. I wanted him to spank me, not to sit there enjoying the view and forgetting the real reason I was over his lap. But I bought them anyway, reasoning that I could make that decision later.

We had some lunch, and got back to the flat at about 2pm. Four hours to go. Four hours in which to dither, and fret, and get changed eight times, and pick up the phone to cancel, and generally turn myself into a screaming idiot. With Lucy’s help, I tried to rationalise my concerns, despite knowing myself to be a woman particularly gifted in the art of irrationality.

A man I barely knew was going to see my bottom, and almost certainly a lot more besides. OK, I had been through that trauma with boyfriends in the past and survived. I had spent a glorious two weeks in Mykonos in my 20s on nudist beaches and been stared at by countless men, and countless women for that matter. Obviously my body had aged in 30 years, but I was still slim and presentable and not too bad for a woman of my years. Maurice, even though he might have some ideal in his mind, could not be too disappointed.

Someone other than my husband was going to spank me. John died more than five years ago, but he was the first man to do such a thing as a genuine punishment, and that meant something more personal and more loving than I could expect from a relative stranger. Did it matter? Yes, in some ways it did. It wouldn’t be the same, and I shouldn’t expect it to be. But would it be as useful? Would it help me in the same way? Lucy agreed that it would be very different, but that it could provide an even more salutary experience. A punishment from a man with whom I had no emotional ties could, in fact, work on a higher, and perhaps even more useful, plane. It could feel even more real. And that was essentially what I was hoping to achieve.

It could hurt more than I needed it to. I still couldn’t really gauge whether my husband smacked me gently, firmly or severely because I had no way of measuring it against other experiences with other men. I knew only that it shocked me to begin with, and was as painful as I thought it should be in the circumstances. What if Maurice felt differently? What if his idea of a gentle spanking hurt so much that I couldn’t go through with it? Lucy pointed out that it was my bottom, that I was ‘in charge’, and that I could always ask him to do it less vigorously. But I didn’t want to do that. In fact, I realised there were a whole host of things I didn’t want to do, all centred around the subject of control. It also occurred to me that if it did hurt too much, it wouldn’t be for long. I could bear it if I had to.

Maurice could overstep the mark and behave selfishly and brutishly. I would be half-naked across his lap, exposed and vulnerable. I dismissed this as soon as I thought of it. I just couldn’t believe he would behave in such a way, and a cry for help would bring Lucy bursting into the room wielding a rolled-up copy of the Radio Times in a very threatening manner. I was as safe as it was possible to be in the circumstances.

So, all things considered, I had nothing to seriously worry me. I felt a fluttery nervousness, which was to be expected, but I wasn’t scared. I got changed calmly and methodically, choosing the old-fashioned sexiness of the stockings and suspenders, and settled back on the sofa with the largest gin and tonic I’ve ever poured in my life. It worked a treat, as it always does.

Maurice arrived at 6pm bearing flowers and wine, and I was immediately impressed with his ease and charm. He complimented everything he saw, the flat, the furnishings, the paintings. He liked my dress. Was it muslin? I said it was. You’ll need to wash it in cold water, he warned. I didn’t know that. I was reminded of a scene in Northanger Abbey when the young man is deemed suitable: “He understands muslin, my dear!” It was all a bit surreal, but I was coping. That was the main thing.

I felt strangely eager to begin (or to get it over with – I couldn’t quite decide), but Maurice was in no hurry. I got the feeling not that he was prevaricating, but asserting his authority in deciding when to act. I was in his hands already, and I liked it very much indeed. We chatted inconsequentially for perhaps 20 minutes, then Maurice made his move by suggesting that he and I should have a private conversation. I had already decided that we would use a spare bedroom that I’ve converted into an office, and within a few seconds we were in there alone.

Maurice began by asking me whether I was still sure I wanted to go ahead and, when I said yes, he began very politely and respectfully to go through the exact details of what I wanted to happen. Did I want to be told off? Did I want to go over his lap, or bend over a chair? Did I want to be spanked over my skirt, over my knickers, on the bare bottom? Would I take my own knickers down or leave that to him? Did I want my legs smacked? Did I want it gentle, quite hard or hard? Would I object to a little stroking if it helped me to calm down?

I listened in a sort of daze while he spoke, nodding occasionally, but my overwhelming feeling was that I didn’t want to make any of these decisions myself. I wanted him to make them for me. I felt that it wouldn’t be a punishment if I had any say over what happened. I understood that he couldn’t possibly make any assumptions on this first occasion because he risked doing something that I didn’t want to happen and upsetting me. But I wanted to be upset. I wanted to be very upset. I wanted to be embarrassed and a little scared. That was the whole point. It wasn’t going to be the loving punishment I’d received from my husband, it was going to be an ‘unloving’ act of discipline designed not to strengthen the bond between two people, but to make me sit up and take notice. So I tried to be honest and open with him. I said, first of all, that ‘needed’ was a better word than ‘wanted’. That I didn’t really know what that would entail until it happened. That my husband had always taken my knickers down, but that I didn’t know whether it was necessary or not. That it hurt a lot. That it made me very emotional. That I felt better afterwards. Basically, I told him that I hadn’t a clue what I was talking about. Then he said the magic words.

“You need me to make those decisions for you.”

I said “yes” with all my heart, feeling much happier and much closer to my goal.

Then he asked why I felt I needed to be punished, saying that it would help him to make the right decisions. I couldn’t argue with that, so I told him. I know you’ll understand if I don’t go into the details here, but I explained some personal difficulties, some aspects of my behaviour that let me down, a dreadful error of judgement I’d made recently, and the fact that I’d missed having someone on hand to help me behave in a more positive and less destructive way. This sounds as though I’m a lost cause. I’m not. I just know I can improve, but I can’t always get myself together to get there. A perfect candidate for the ‘short, sharp, shock’ so favoured of our beloved magazines. And, I pointed out, I needed a man to do it. Not a friend, not the very sensible Lucy, not a wishy-washy counsellor, but a man.

Maurice listened attentively while I spoke, then told me what he thought was the best plan. The only thing I’d actually agreed to before this was a spanking, but Maurice politely pointed out that he didn’t believe a one-off punishment like that would be enough to make a real difference to my behaviour. (Yes, I know. It’s very much in his interests to say that, but bear with me.) He would do nothing more than spank me on this occasion but, if I was comfortable with him and felt that he’d done a good job, I could visit him at his house for what he described as a “course of treatment”. The idea appealed to me deeply, and I agreed immediately.

True to his word, Maurice started making decisions. I would be spanked over his lap “quite hard” until he was satisfied that I was showing the required obedience and contrition. He couldn’t say how long that might take. I was to be spanked on the bare bottom to maximise the embarrassment and usefulness of the punishment. He would take my knickers down. I would be smacked on the legs if I kicked about, or put my hands in the way or didn’t keep still. He would put his hand on my bottom only if I was having difficulty calming down.

At this point I felt a real sense of fear, but it was undoubtedly mingled with a strong desire to demonstrate the obedience he demanded. I was never particularly obedient over my husband’s lap, but with Maurice I wanted to be. I really had no idea whether I could do it, but it seemed the best course of action. If I behaved well and took my punishment with good grace, it wouldn’t last too long or be too painful. There was a logic in it that appealed to the scaredy-cat in me. All I had to do was be a good girl. Simple, right? No. It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.

From this point on, my every move was dictated for me. Maurice sat down on the kitchen chair that I’d brought into the room earlier (my swivel chair with wheels would not have been practical) and ordered me across his lap. I was shocked at the sudden command – that moment when dream becomes reality is always a shock – but I knew it was the right thing to do, so I did it. The instant I was back in that childish position after so many years, I felt liberated and happy. It felt as though it was the right place to be, and at the right time. I felt comfortable and trusting, obedient and willing. The sensation was so pleasing that I let out a long sigh of satisfaction. I had come home. Someone was looking after me. For the next half an hour I didn’t have to make any choices or decisions. All I had to do was lie there under someone else’s control. It was beautiful.

Then Maurice patted my bottom. Under any other circumstances I would have considered it so outrageous, so against my every instinct as a woman, that I would have been instantly furious. I mean red-faced, sputtering furious. No man had ever done that to me before, not even my husband. In all those years that I worked in male-dominated offices, where that sort of thing was supposed to be common, it had never happened to me. And he kept patting my bottom as he talked to me and reminded me of the reason I was over his lap. It was condescending, humiliating and unbearably sexist. I should have felt uncomfortable with it, helplessly offended. Somehow, being smacked on the bottom by a man should have been preferable to being toyed with like this. But it was, of course, part of the whole process. A hugely important part, in fact. And I didn’t mind one bit. The subjugation to another’s will, the understanding that being treated as a person who might need, and has indeed asked for, moulding and cajoling into something more productive, and in a very old-fashioned way, was exactly why I was here, and exactly why it was so effective. I could do nothing but suffer in silence and try to understand that it was ‘good for me’.

Then my dress was raised over my bottom and I could feel Maurice staring at my underwear. Somehow I knew that he liked what he saw, and I was very pleased. I had wanted to impress him, and I felt sure that I had. But it offered no distraction, no respite from what was to happen. My knickers were pulled down to mid-thigh in a swift and assertive way, and there I was prepared for the bare bottom spanking I had been promised. It felt alarming in some ways, but it also felt free from any constraints. I suppose, above all, it felt right. It felt ‘proper’. It felt as though this was the only way to do it. The familiar feeling of an arm sliding round my waist was strong and manful, as it had been with my husband, and I welcomed it even though I had no intention of struggling. I felt confident that it was unnecessary for Maurice to hold me down with his elbow pinioned between my shoulder blades. I could not have been more wrong.

The first smack, when it arrived, shocked me so much that I screamed. This was “quite hard”, according to Maurice’s statement earlier, but it was much harder than my husband had done it and I was immediately in difficulty. From revelling in not having to make any decisions, I suddenly had to make a very important one: to bear it, or to refuse it. By now the smacks were falling with an appalling weight and rapidity, and I was in a lot of pain. I had never been spanked like this before, and I very nearly panicked. It was dreadful. Each smack sent a convulsion through me that I couldn’t control. I couldn’t even draw breath between each one to make some sort of noise or protest because they came so fast. On several occasions I nearly choked.

And still there was Maurice’s grip around my waist. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t defend myself in any way. I felt that I couldn’t scramble off his lap even if I wanted to. And still it went on, relentlessly. I have never known such pain, such agonising helplessness, such resentment and anger. I hated Maurice with all my heart. Surely I didn’t deserve this? Surely my failings didn’t merit such harsh treatment? I am the fair sex. I am physically weaker than the male. It is wrong for a man to do this to a woman. I was stupidly indignant, and felt I had every right to make a fuss. So I struggled. I tried to put my hand back, and I kicked my legs in what I knew was a ridiculous, petulant female act of resistance. He stopped spanking me. It had worked. He had seen reason. He understood that he was doing it too hard. The relief flooded through me. Then he said plainly that he had warned me about this very thing. I sank back on his lap, and began to cry when I realised my mistake. I had been told this would happen, and had only myself to blame. He had to act, in the same way that my husband had had to act in our kitchen all those years ago. My legs stiffened in anticipation, and I felt more stupid than I have ever felt. Two desperately hard smacks landed on my thighs and I froze solid. It was so painful that I was stunned into silence. But, in a beautiful way, it settled everything in my mind. I knew from that moment on that I would never, ever misbehave over Maurice’s lap again. It was an extraordinary feeling of understanding and resignation, and was undoubtedly the most influential and useful thing I have learned about being punished properly. Don’t disobey. Don’t misbehave. Don’t question. It’s the only way it works. Accept what’s happening, and you will benefit from it. Resist, and it will be useless. It’s simple really, but it takes a lesson like this to bring it home.

From that point on, I settled down and took my punishment. Maurice said later that it had lasted almost exactly five minutes. It doesn’t sound like a long time, but then moments of heightened experience never seem to fit in with our usual perception of time. Things can seem to fly by, things can seem to drag. I had imagined that I was spanked for at least half an hour. My bottom was sore, I was crying uncontrollably and Maurice was comforting me. I had hated him, and now I loved and admired him. He had taken charge, and he had given me what I needed regardless, and in spite of, my absurd, teenaged protestations. Through my tears, I was very, very happy.

Eventually, Maurice said he would ask Lucy to fix me drink, and left me alone to compose myself. I was outwardly flustered and confused, but I felt a comforting inner warmth that was very nice indeed. There was a knock on the door, and Lucy came in with another huge gin and tonic. She asked if I was OK, but I couldn’t speak. I just fell into her arms and cried on her shoulder like a little girl. It was a great comfort, and in a few moments I was smiling.

Being spanked by Maurice was an enormous first step in a new direction, but I had taken it and I had survived. I felt better about everything, and I was proud of myself. I also realised that I needed, and indeed wanted, more. I didn’t know what exactly, but I felt confident that Maurice would know. He had behaved impeccably, he hadn’t taken advantage of me in any way, he hadn’t touched me inappropriately. He had simply done what was necessary, and no more. I trusted him to make increasingly important decisions, and the next day we spoke on the phone and arranged that I would travel down to his house in two weeks’ time for a weekend of “continuing therapy”. I was about to spend two days undergoing something straight from the pages of a spanking magazine. An old house in the country with creaking stairs, draughty corridors and a menacing figure of authority watching my every move. I could not have been more excited, or more terrified, at the thought.

 

Fiona has kept a detailed diary of her experiences at Maurice’s house – you can read the first part of her ‘Janus Weekend’ by clicking on the highlighted link.