Pain on Purpose

OBB has more than pictures of the bottoms of delectable women. Here is something to think about. It’s from a new book — Hurts So Good: The Science and Culture of Pain on Purpose by Leigh Cowart.

There are degrees of pain that masochists enjoy. It’s not just about spanking or BDSM. Think of a marathoner running on a searing summer day, a hot pepper addict, those that rush into frigid water, ballerinas, boxers.  All of these choose to feel pain on purpose.

I think we all compare ourselves to others on the pain scale. Like belts are OK, but wood paddles are off-limits. While I have never thought of comparing myself to a pepper eater, perhaps I should? I suspect I am on the light end of the pain spectrum. This narration is about one on the other end of the spectrum.

“We have company coming over. We’d better get out to the shed now.” Earlier today, I had been crying in the parking lot of a fabric store, my slide into the familiar despondency of seasonal depression proceeding apace, but at this moment I am pert and excited. I follow him barefoot on a worn path through the long, wet grass in his yard. He’s been running space heaters in the outbuilding of his house in preparation for our time there: a touching gesture, but a tease nonetheless. He knows how much I hate the cold, and seeing as we’re standing here because I’ve asked him to do terrible things to me, the ominous fact that I am getting the niceties of warmth has not gone unnoticed. 

I have no idea what I’m in for, other than it will hurt. I twist my feet together. He’s jovial; I’m chirpy. We’ve had a sweet date involving poorly prepared German takeout with his mother, followed by boozy coffee drinks at a red-lit hole-in-the-wall cocktail bar down by the river. My skin is already feeling a little warm and soupy from the bowl I smoked in the kitchen. He unzips my dress. I step out of the black, low-cut scrap of fabric, and he gently removes my glasses and bra. My panties stay on because they are precisely the size of a postage stamp. It’s the little things, you see. 

I’m blindfolded and lying on an antique gynecological exam table, my feet corralled in the menacing chill of wrought-iron stirrups. I’m tied down to the table at the neck and under my breasts. Straining against these ropes makes me feel panicky and air hungry, so I work on my breathing exercises while he slips industrial rubber bands onto my arms and legs. My breath is already shallow, fast; I feel light-headed with anticipation. Right now, the adrenaline is from the dread, and there’s a lot of it. He cultivates this feeling, a gifted curator of my experience. 

He begins to snap the rubber bands. Right upper thigh near the hip. Left inner thigh near the panties. Outside of the legs, the sides of my arms. The seams of me. I start out okay, on top of the cresting waves of sensation, but soon I succumb to the reality of the pain. Early whimpering ends in a shriek, and he binds my hands with zip ties. I’m moving too much. 

Now he really gets going. The rubber bands bite hard; I’m seeing orange and white in the backs of my eyelids. There’s one spot on my arm that gets it bad, and every time he snaps it again, I make a pitiful sound, as if hearing my voice crack when I oscillate between endurable erotic pain and actual physical agony isn’t exactly what I asked for. That arm will have some purple tomorrow. 

The moment fills my brain in a singular way: like if you could inflate a balloon inside my skull and make it fill the whole area, and the only thing in that balloon was just that one thing. When was the last time you were thinking and feeling one exact thing? Just one fucking thing. 





I’m sobbing into the blindfold, and he makes me come with his hands, and I’m still crying and he’s snapping the rubber bands again and I’m dizzy from bucking my scrawny-ass neck against my ropes. The Hitachi clicks on, and he’s making me come over and over in a way that is also agony. I am squirming away from him, going nowhere. It’s too much, it’s too much, it’s too much. 

I miss the too much immediately when he returns to snapping rubber bands. He does this for what feels like an unknowable length of time, this back and forth: a fury of forced orgasms followed by searing pain. I presume there is a puddle on the floor, my thighs covered in thick, stinging welts. When he presses his body between my legs, it is a relief; I can take more pain this way. He is like a grounding wire. 

I am wet with sweat and endurance, and it’s just me and him and that one thought: pain. Still snapping the wide rubber bands across my raised pink skin, he cranks up the Hitachi to its highest setting, now a brutal power tool. He’s shoving fingers in my cunt, fucking me hard with his hand. I am shaking on the table. Everything hurts, my body feels swollen and slippery, and he leans over me, mouth to my ear, breaking the silence with a cruel laugh. 

“Is this high enough sensation for you, dear?” 

I come around his hand. I feel like I am dying. Things get quiet. My body is ringing like a bell, and the crickets outside sing me back into the room. 

He cuts off my zip ties and releases me from the table, removing my rubber bands with the tiniest of playful snaps. He takes off my blindfold. He’s standing over me. I look up at his big, pellucid eyes and catch them just for a second before he kisses me. He pets my hair. We smile while we do this, my soggy face brushing up against his salted beard. 

And just like that, I felt bad, and then better.”

My Dream

I woke up seeing the photo below in my mind. I have shared it here before. I acquired it 2014, but I suspect it was taken a long time before that. 

So why would I wake up thinking of this picture? She represents my perfect other spanking woman. She is attractive, her clothes are well put together. [Not like the ridiculous costumes we saw at the Met Gala] I asked Bacall what she saw in the picture. Her only comment was the belt had to go. I rather like wide belts and they are back. Manicure, jewelry and real important to me – a smile. It does not hurt that her blouse seems to be under tension. [I think it’s darts in the blouse that creates effect]

I see us having a chat before she uses that paddle on me. I like to chat. It builds the anticipation.

Spanking Benches

There are a lot of men who want to spank women. There are a lot of women who want to be spanked. Here is a hair-brain idea to get the two together.

I have seen women throw out any inhibitions when they see a fucking machine. I have heard “I want to be next”. They could care less about partially disrobing in the presence of people they do not know very well, mounting the machine and enjoying it with abandon. Women are not shy. They just hold their cards close.

Another “machine” that is irresistible to many women is a spanking bench. There are all sorts of benches, but the idea of being bound and not able to resist a spanking seems almost universal. Some benches not only allow spanking but also being taken from behind. Keyword Taken.

So with this in mind, my hair-brained idea is for you to build a spanking bench of your particular choice, take a picture of it, preferably with a lass on it, and show it to prospective women. Just show her the picture and ask a simple question like “What do you think of this?” If she is still looking at it after five seconds you will know she is intrigued and sees herself on the bench. It’s then up you to gently close the deal. She wants to say yes. Give her the chance.

It’s My Birthday

Back in the day, I would give a lass a paddle party. I would lay out my entire toy bag and allow her to choose the ones she wanted used on her. They never choose the small or lightweight paddles. They went for the heavy artillery.

“This one please, Sir.” “OK, put it to the side, with the belt and the ruler….. Pick one more and we can get started!”

Just Bottoms

I only made one post last week. I will try to do better this week. This post should appeal to all you voyeurs out there.

For Openers

I never consider a wobbly ironing board, but this bound lass seems to like it judging by her smile.

This lass checks off all the boxes nice ass, Jeep’s, guns and heels.

The way I like a lass attired for a spanking

From the vault – It’s been a long time since I have seen her. Her bottom matches the felt.

I wonder if they are on break. Is there more to come?

Great picture!

Buns on the grill. Buns in front of the grill.

Showing off

We Are Lost

America is losing the thread. Compare the America of now with the America of 20 years ago, and we see a deterioration. We feel disturbance at this because we don’t know if we can get our way back. The losing of the thread feels bigger than ideology, bigger certainly than parties. It feels like some more fundamental confusion, an inability to play the role of who we are, and to be comfortable in who we are.

Certainly, most obviously and geopolitically we lost the thread in Afghanistan. We went there 20 years ago to make quick work of mass murderers who’d attacked us, and those who’d harbored and helped them. But we didn’t get the man who gave us 9/11, he escaped, and attention turned elsewhere, to Iraq, and we just stayed and walked in circles and came up with new words to rationalize the mission and it all turned into a muddle of confused intentions. Ten years in it was like the drunken song, “We’re here because we’re here.”

Evidence of a lost thread: 9/11 was a deeply communal event. We were all in it together, wounded together and mourning together. We dug deep, found our best selves, and actually saw the best selves in others. The spontaneous community of those who showed up at the hospital to give blood, of those on the top floors of the towers who gathered to try to lead people out, of those on the plane who banded together to storm the pilot’s door—“Let’s roll.” It wasn’t just you, you were part of something.

Just about every large business in America is now run by its human resources department because everyone appears to be harassing and assaulting each other, or accusing each other. Is this the sign of a healthy country?

Twenty years in our history is treated as all sin, sin, sin. We’re like mad monks flagellating ourselves. We are going through a nonstop condemnation of our past and our people and their limits and ignorance. It isn’t healthy. Reflection and honest questioning are, but not this. And so much of it comes from our most successful and secure, our elites and establishments. Regular people look and think, “But if our professors and media leaders and tech CEOs hate us, who is going to help us think our way out of this mess?” And they know someone has to, because they know in a way elites can never understand, because they have grown so used to security.

No nation can proceed in the world safely and fruitfully when at bottom it hates itself.

Corner Time

I have never been a fan of corner time. I saw this image and it made me think this could be a whole different take on corner time. Not my cup of tea, but I know it is for some guys.

Admin stuff. We are still in areas where a hot cell signal is a luxury. Plus our bandwidth allotment for the month is about gone. So this may be the only post for the week.

PS Readership is down by 20% in the last two weeks. You find something better. I saw Bonnies recent list of new spanking sites. I was not impressed.

Growing Up Jim – III

This the third of a series by a regular reader

Were you both each others first spanking partner?

From a sexual standpoint, yes.  First and only partners, but you must to take into account that we started dating when I was 15 and she was 16 and have been together ever since.  There was a brief bit of dalliance when we were about 21 or so, but that only lasted a few months.

When I was between 8 and about 12 I had an infrequent and casual spanking relationship with “the girl next door” – this is the Nancy who I mentioned in my account of the neighborhood group spanking.  I would really consider this more of an advanced game of “doctor” than a true spanking relationship.  I think she was really interested in seeing developing pubescent male genitalia than the actual spanking segment although she did enjoy feeling my bottom with her hand (as I did hers!).  For whatever reason she never touched my penis and I never touched her vagina – we looked but did not touch –fannies were definitely fair game for touching.  This activity stopped when we were in 7th grade and started growing significant pubic hair – her breasts were beginning to develop and I suspect she was afraid I would want to have access to them also (her fears were probably well founded).

How did you two get started?

As I said we started dating when we were 15 and 16.  This was the late 60’s.  High school sex, at least in our circles, was pretty much limited to a lot of kissing and a bit of fondling mostly through or under clothing.   

As the relationship progressed, we became progressively more bold and we both spent a lot of time topless.  Both of her parents worked and we had their house to ourselves for several hours every weekday afternoon.  There was a significant amount of grinding with pants on which frequently resulted in orgasm for both of us.  About the time she was a senior in high school she decided to take a bit of a plunge and we began “finger play”.  This facilitated orgasm for both of us.  We were terrified of pregnancy and established a rule which pretty much guaranteed there would be no pregnancy – one of us had to keep our pants on at all times – the pantless person changed but we were never both pantless at the same time.

In 20/20 hindsight it was an odd situation – we had both seen and felt each other’s genitals, but had not had a really good rear view of each other – we had seen the more intimate frontal nudity but not the rear.  One day she laid across my lap bottomless – I was sorely tempted to give her a few smacks but did not – I was 17 she was 18.  I was interested but feared she would think I was strange and there was NO WAY that I wanted to turn this girl off!

The fall took her to college at the state college about 10 miles away where she lived in a dormitory with a bunch of women who were w-a-y ahead of her in the sexual experience department.  By the second semester in college she was on the pill and it was not long before we were having sex in her dorm room on a regular basis.  We were still terrified of pregnancy and were using condoms also – belt and suspenders!

One evening on a whim after sex, we were rolling around in bed naked and I found her across my lap with her bottom in classic OTK spanking position – still do not know if that was an accident.  I playfully told her that she was a naughty girl and should be spanked – I proceeded to give her a very light hand spanking – when I stopped after a few spanks, her response was to shake her young fanny which I took as a non-verbal request for more of the same.  I gave her a dozen or so harder spanks and stopped.  I was incredibly aroused and so was she – sex followed at a furious pace.  Afterwards she suggested that we experiment with a small paddle in the near future.  I made our first paddle the very next day and we have used it on and off for 40 + years.  It wasn’t too long before I suggested that “turn about was fair play” and she began to paddle me also.