Credit where credit is due. I have borrowed the title for this post from a book that was originally published in 1993. I have a first edition copy. Amazingly, it’s still available.
From the first moment I read it, the title intrigued me. The Art Of Spanking. It speaks of so much. There are the literal interpretations, such as illustrations…
and of course, photographs.
There there is prose.
The Art of Spanking described so vividly in many wonderful D/s novels. We can enjoy snippets and excerpts every day, and the same is true of short stories.
Here’s a clip from my work in progress, a medical BDSM romance.
His hand was hot and carried a significant sting, and Sybil gasped as he whisked his palm across her sit spot, but even as she wriggled in both joy and pain, she was very aware that her glistening dew would soon be evident against the satin gusset of her panties. He would know she was totally turned on. What would he do then?
But when I ponder the phrase, The Art of Spanking, I don’t think of photographs, illustrations, or even that which brings me so much pleasure and satisfaction, the written word. I think about the talent and imagination of the spanker. Spanking, in all its crimson glory, is an art form in itself.
The delicate lifting of her skirt and lowering of her panties. The whisper of his fingertips across her naked skin. His few first, light slaps, slowly increasing in pace and gusto.
Art.
The sudden, unexpected jerk across his knee, the skirt up, the underwear unceremoniously pulled down, left dangling around her ankles. A series of sharp stinging swats that leave her gasping in a matter of seconds.
Art.
The instruction to strip, place the waiting blindfold over her eyes, then lay over the mound of pillows and wait. Every sound stirs her butterflies, then she hears what she craves as much as she dreads. His footsteps walking down the hall.
Art.
A candlelit dinner, holding hands across a table.
“I’m going to put you over my knee when we get home.”
The line, though delivered in a soft sweet whisper, sends a swath of delicious trepidation down her spine, and she sits, wriggling, through the remainder of the agonizingly long meal.
Art.
Innuendo, promises, a look, a shake of the head, the crossing of arms, the languid rolling up of the sleeve. Whatever form it takes, spanking, in the hands of one who is creative and caring, is Art.
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