By:
In: Spanking
paddle on bare butt

There were fireworks here on the First of July. Mrs. Lion got a new paddle with a message (see image above). The message was a lie! It didn’t hurt a little; it hurt a lot. I ordered the paddle from an Etsy vendor (Serenity Theory). Mrs. Lion commented that it was a bit lightweight, but she thought she could make use of it. She certainly did!

As  you can see in the image, the paddle spanned both of my cheeks. Most of her paddles cover a smaller area. The smaller paddles let her here apply more force to a smaller area of mybottom. The large paddle, while requiring more effor to swing, doesn’t give any area of my bottom a rest. Her normal pattern is a swat on one cheek, then the other. The cheek not being swatted gets a second or so to revover. The whole-bottom treatment gives no respite at all.

well-paddled male butt
My butt after the new paddle got a workout.

Another big difference (to me) is that swats from the larger paddle tend to land higher on my bottom in the fleshy center area. It feels different there. Her usual target is my”sit spot” below the center. Of course, she can just move down and hit both sides of my sit spot at the same time. She didn’t do it this time.

I was yelping from the beginning. It was a very painful ten minutes. It had been 26 days since my last spanking. I’m out of practice, I guess. After a while, Mrs. Lion took some mercy on me and switched to a leather paddle. I was still yelping and kicking, but the pain wasn’t quite as intense.

In the past, Mrs. Lion has stayed away from larger paddles, though on occasion, she has done two-cheek swatting. I can’t claim to have a preference. No matter what she chooses to do, I’m not a happy camper.For the record, my butt is still a little sore and I feel the aftershocks as I sit in my desk chair..

By:
In: Sex

Befitting a big cat, I suppose; I’ve had a lot of interesting adventures in my life. One particular memory bubbled up this morning. In my twenties, I discovered a very primitive form of online chat. In those days, interactive online activities were hosted by individuals or companies who charged for connection to their services. Chat was a plain terminal screen with lines of text scrolling.

Oddly, the conversations on these black screens with white or yellow type felt intimate. I can’t explain it, but it felt like I was in a dark room chatting with people. One Saturday morning I was in my office. I owned a small business and went in to get the invoices out to our customers. When I finished, I used the modem to dial into one of those services. I ended up chatting with a cute grad student. One thing led to another, and she agreed to meet me at my office.

I was particularly horny that morning. Maybe that need traveled over the phone lines to that woman. After our chat, I went back to work. I wasn’t at all sure she would show up. About a half hour later, the buzzer went off from the front door. I used the button on the intercom to unlock it.

I waited by the door to our offices. A pretty girl in jeans and ski jacket came up the stairs. She had long, brown hair that  flowed halfway down her back. Big, brave lion me was terrified. What had I done? She didn’t look much happier. Her bravery was being tested to the limit.

I don’t think either of us was sure that anything would happen. I was never very good at initiating sex. I was wearing jeans and a button-down oxford shirt. We sat close to each other and nervously talked about ourselves. She was an English major doing her master’s at Columbia. She didn’t have a boyfriend and made a strong point that she wasn’t looking for one. Uh oh. Not a good sign.

As we chatted, she moved closer. I went in for a kiss. She returned it passionately. Our clothes came off, and I was inside her almost immediately. She was very turned on. The sex was great. After we dressed, we talked a little more and exchanged phone numbers.. She said she had to go to the library but wanted to see me again. We kissed, and she left.

Over the next year or so, I would call her some evenings after everyone had gone home. She would come, and we would fuck. Each time she was as aroused as she was the first time we were together. At one point, she said that she was addicted to me. What?  She admitted that when I called, she came regardless of what was going on in her life. I asked her if she thought her addiction was dangerous. She said that sometimes it worried her. While we were having this conversation, she was undressing.

At the time, I didn’t give this much thought. We both liked to meet for sex. As far as I could tell, she wasn’t being damaged by her addiction. I’m not sure I believed her. It worked for us at the time. I can’t remember her name, but I can see her clearly in my mind’s eye. It was a very strange experience. I remember that at one point, I suggested oral sex instead of fucking. She was agreeable. It didn’t work. Even though I love oral sex, giving and getting, it didn’t feel right with her. She felt the same way.

Neither of us understood why this very limited contact was all that worked for us. I can’t say that I was addicted to her, but I loved being able to be with her whenever I wanted. We talked about our odd arrangement. I felt guilty that she only got sex. I liked her and would have been happy if we had more. She was more accepting of the situation. Her response was always, “Call and I will come.” She did every single time.