I lay there, waiting for the first blow of the hairbrush. My "inner child" was screaming at me to call it off, and yet I wasn't scared enough.

It may sound strange, but something was missing - and I was pretty sure I knew what it was.

"Honey?" I said, turning my head to the side.

He was halfway through the motion of spanking me with the hairbrush but stopped short. Looking annoyed, he asked, "Yes?"

I turned fully over on my side, facing him. My cotton pajamas were still in place and I had my eleven-year-old look about me, but I spoke in my normal adult voice. "How angry are you right now?"

He looked at me quizzically and thought for a moment. "Not very," he answered. "Actually, I'm more annoyed that you interrupted me than I am about you 'defying' me."

I smiled a little, but tried to keep myself from smiling too much. "Well, if this is going to work, you have to be furious at me - as angry as my mother would have been."

He sat down on the side of the bed and asked, "So, how are we going to manage that?"

I laid back and put my hands behind my head, resting casually and stretching my body to show off my figure. "Well," I said, "I could tell you about something from my past that will really piss you off."

He looked at me, trying to discern what I might be talking about. "Is this one of those stories you've been saving for me?"

There are a few stories - a few incidents from my childhood - that I've kept secret from John. In fact, there are some that he still doesn't know about. He asked me to hold some of them back and share them slowly over the course of our lives together.

This was one of them.

I sat up, crossed my legs and held onto my ankles, balancing myself on the bed and tossing my ponytail behind my head. My innocent-little-girl voice returned. "Well, it's not just a little story I've been saving... I've been lying to you ever since the first time you touched me 'down there'."

He slid further onto the bed, still keeping one foot on the floor, but crossed his other leg in front of him - settling in to listen for a while. "Oh, what did you lie about?"

I looked down at the bed, and rolled my head around, not looking at him. "Well, you weren't the first one to make me come." I felt his hand under my chin, lifting my head to face him.

"I take it you don't just mean yourself?"

I shrugged and tried to look away, but he wouldn't allow it. My little-girl voice got even younger - I had done something very bad and now had to admit it. "Nope," I confirmed. "I was the first... and you were the third..."

His face looked sad - maybe even scared. I was feeling a little playful - kind of naughty - but he was starting to look like I was about to admit betraying him. And in a way, I was.

"Mom was the second, sweetie. She was the first person - other than me - to give me an orgasm."

John removed his hand from my chin. Now there was more than annoyance or sadness on his face. I intended to make him angry, and it was already starting to work - even before I told the story.

"Let's hear it," he said as he eyed me.

This is the story I told him...

When I was about ten years old, I discovered my parents' "stash" of naughty magazines and books up in the attic. There were boxes of Mom's old romance novels - Harlequin, Barbara Cartland, that kind of thing. The pictures on the covers were of strong, dashing men sweeping women off their feet. I had to read them.

I took one of them out and opened it. Sitting there in the attic, I read a few lines, and then skipped ahead, reading bits and pieces of a romantic story about an over-emotional woman. And then I found the point where the dashing young man forced a kiss on her.

She resisted, he persisted. He pressed further, touching her all over her body, pushing her down onto bed, partially stripping her and then... Oh, My God!

The things those books talked about! There were men taking women, not gently "making love" but taking them, forcing themselves on women who wanted it but couldn't allow themselves to want it.

These men drove women to passion that my ten-year-old self could only begin to understand! I grabbed as many of the books as I could carry and took them down to my bedroom - hiding them in the bottom drawer of my dresser, under my off-season clothes.

From there, I would take one out at night and read it. Sometimes, I would read one in the middle of the day. I couldn't help it - and I couldn't contain my desire once those books awakened it.

It was incredibly difficult to not get caught masturbating after reading a few pages of one of those things. I wanted what was in those books! I desperately wanted one of those men, not boys, men, to come visit me in the night and take me against my will - to make a woman out of me - have his way with me - not give me a choice in the matter.

It wouldn't be my fault, honest! He would be too big and strong, I would try to resist but I wouldn't stand a chance! I dreamed of being fucked forcibly by one of those men...

... even though, at the time, I didn't know what fucking actually felt like.

One of those books drove me to one of my worst spankings ever.

I had read a particularly hot chapter in the middle of the afternoon and had put it away again in the bottom drawer of my dresser. I lay there, wanting - needing - to get off, needing to put my hands down there.

I knew that if I started, I wouldn't be able to stop... but I did it anyway.

There was too much noise. Mom heard the bed creak rhythmically and started marching up the stairs. If I had stopped right then and there, I could have grabbed another book and made it look like I was reading it. I might have avoided the spanking - or at least minimized it.

But I couldn't. I was on the edge of a mind-blowing orgasm. I kept going and almost reached my climax just as she burst through the door.

I didn't stop.

She screamed at me, "get your hands out of there young lady!" I didn't - not right away. I wanted to come.

I was already on my tummy. She grabbed the hairbrush off of the dresser, yanked back the covers and started hitting. You know how it goes - "Get... your... hands... out... of... there... right... this... instant!"

Each stroke of the hairbrush felt like a blow from a hammer.

The pain was excruciating, enough to make me move my hands - although I did think about continuing since I knew she was going to spank even harder once I removed them - and I still hadn't quite come yet. But I did remove my hands, and my orgasm slipped from my grasp, sliding me back down the slope on the wrong side of the climax - over before it had started - or so I thought.

The spanking hurt like Hell, but I didn't care. I buried my face into the pillow and screamed as she hit me harder and faster and with more anger than ever before. I had dared to do it right in front of her. In her mind, I was deliberately defying her - because, of course, it was always about her.

But then a funny thing happened.

My orgasm started to come back. It got stronger. The pain fed it, along with the pressure. Mom's spanking hurt worse than anything had ever hurt before - but it felt so damned good. The pounding on my bottom sent ripples of pressure right into the area that needed stimulating. It continued the job that my fingers had left unfinished.

That spanking was a learning experience - just not the one my mother had intended. I learned that spankings can make you come - harder than just diddling can - and orgasms can take the edge off of the pain of a spanking.

Of course, she lectured and continued to hit again and again. I have no idea what she said, other than the usual crap about my being a slut. I screamed into my pillow, but some of that scream wasn't from the pain.

My kink was born in that moment. I learned what sex really was all about - in addition to a powerful man sweeping me off my feet, laying me back and fucking me - it was about being spanked to an orgasm - and maybe even a powerful man bending me over, spanking me then forcing himself on me.

Of course, that didn't happen right away - the powerful man spanking me to an orgasm, that is.

And I never dared to try to get my mom to spank me through another orgasm. It was just too dangerous. So I had to spank myself - when I was alone in the house. I would start myself off with my hands, and then finish the job with the hairbrush or a paddle.

But that wasn't what I really wanted.

...

I looked up at John - I'd been staring at the bed the whole time, afraid to look him in the eye - and when I finally did, I was glad to have waited. He was livid - red in the face as only a fair-skinned blond can get.

But there was more - I wanted to stoke his fire.

"I had to wait twelve years for the real thing," I told him. "I couldn't even get it from you right away after we were married. I had to slowly convince you that I really did want to be spanked hard and fucked hard."

"Once you did it," I said, "once you felt what it was like to have me go wild in your arms, once you felt the pleasure of letting yourself go with me and using your full strength on me - that was when my life became complete."

Since then, of course, John has learned to do it even better - developed his skill with his hands and implements and mind. He has ways of making me scream that I never dreamed of.

"But none of it has ever been quite the same as that very first one," I told him. "It all started when my mom caught me wet-handed and tried to beat it all out of me. (Talk about counter-productive). She was the one who showed me what real pleasure was all about - and she didn't even know it."

I stopped and waited.

His teeth were clenched. This was a dangerous game, rubbing salt in the wound I had just opened.