I know, of course, that I am there to be spanked. There is no other reason to be there, no other reason I ever come there. Every Thursday, unless he calls and cancels, I am there for only one reason: I want a spanking. I walk into the little ante-room, not much bigger than the stall in a men's room, and remove all my clothes. I am careful to remove everything that I am wearing, including my witch, ring, glasses and even my St. Christopher's medal. Once, I did not, and he lecture be about obedience. "The sign says, 'Remove all your clothing.' You did not obey. You are dismissed." And I had to wait a week for the spanking. There was no crueler punishment. Completely naked, I turn the knob on the door and enter. The room is dim, but not dark. There are no windows, and no door other than the one through which I just entered. The lights are turned down low, too low to read by, but bright enough to see every detail as if it were a sepia tint from the early 1900's. The air is warm, very warm, and scented with sandalwood. The temperature must be 80°, yet, naked as I am, I am not hot, just comfortable. I feel caressed, comforted, embraced by the warmth and scent. There is a bed and a chair in the room, and no other furniture. The bed is turned down, as if I was supposed to get in and sleep. Its satin sheets, chocolate brown, look as if they would feel soft and cool, yet I have never touched them. Every Thursday, the bed is turned down. Is it turned down for someone? Are the sheets always this sweet, tempting color? Is the bed ever used? I will never know, for I am here not for the bed, but for a spanking. For no other reason. I hear the outer door open, and turn to face the door, covering my genitals with my hands, and dropping my eyes to the floor. I am not embarrassed or humbled, just expectant, and so grateful that now, at last, I will get the spanking I want, that I look away from the man who will spank me in gratitude and respect. He comes in, dressed as he always is for these spankings, bare-chested and bare footed, wearing only a well-worn and well-faded pair of blue dungarees. They are not tight. They are not ripped. They fit him loosely, but well. He wears no belt, and the waist button is open. I can glimpse the edge of the waistband of his underpants inside, against his stomach. The slightest bit of hair trails down past the belly button into the underpants' waistband. My erection begins to grow. In his hand he is carrying a paddle. it is about 14" long and 3" wide. It looks like the kind of paddle fraternities engrave their Greek initials on, though there are no initials on this one. It is made of maple. It stings like fire. he does not always carry this paddle. Sometimes he wears a belt. Sometimes he caries a leather-covered ping-pong paddle. Once he carried a 3-foot switch. on some occasions, he has nothing but his hand. His hands are soft and very broad. I think I like the spankings he gives me with his hand the most, because he touches me with every swat. But it is hard to tell. I know I will be sell spanked with this maple paddle "Well, let's go," he says as he brings the chair away from the wall and puts it in the middle of the room. "You know why you are here, don't you?" "Yes," I answer. "I am here for a spanking." "Indeed you are. And I am here to give you a spanking." Without another word, I lay across his lap. He moves his legs apart a little, to be sure that I am well seated with my bottom right over the middle of his lap. He slides his left arm around my waist and pulls me tight against him. Then he touches me, lightly, with the paddle. It just rests on my ass, just barely sitting there. My hands and toes are on the floor on opposite sides of his legs. My eyes are open, and I see his feet, toes on the floor, arched, to hold me higher. Ten I fell the paddle leave my ass. An instant later, I hear a sound like a pistol shot, and feel a searing pain in my bottom, just where the cheeks emerge from my upper thighs. I want to cry our, but before I can, a second pistol shot announces the fire across the fullest part of my ass. From that moment on, I see and hear less and less. I cannot tell whether I cry out or not. I can only feel the heat-pain growing, first in my buttocks, the spreading, deeper, and deeper through my body. The blows come faster and faster, louder and louder, until he establishes a rhythm that matches, or becomes the rhythm of my pulse. At first, I want it to end. Anything, to stop the pain. But as soon as that thought occurs to me, I worry that it will end. I don't want to ever change, but rather to stay here, always, bowed over his lap, on fire, in paint, wanting it to end, and knowing that it never will. The pain continues until I am all one ball of pain, nothing but the sensation of heat, punctuated by rhythmic jabs. I am a sphere of warmth. I am loved. Suddenly, it is over. He stops and taps me on the back. I stand up, and automatically place both palms against my buttocks. I feel the heat in them with my hands, and press hard, to intensify it in my buttocks. He looks at me, smiles, and stands and puts his hands on his hips. I know what the signal means, and kneel in front of him. I reach for the waistband of his jeans and find it. He lifts himself on his toes as I slip the zipper down and push the jeans to the floor. he steps out of them. I kiss the front of his underpants and lick him there until they are wet. Then he puts his thumbs into the waistband and pushes them down. automatically, as if there were no other use for it, my mouth is upon his penis. I take it in my mouth and suck on it. I suck with the same ardor and passion with which he spanked me. I such with the same strength, constancy and care. And he responds. he breaths hard, he arches his back and he holds back. He holds back so well that I am worried that I am not doing a good job. I such on his penis like a baby sucks on a bottle or his mother's breast: with a mixture of security and desperation. I am a vacuum, a miniature plunger, an all encompassing suction cup. I see his chest heave, and feel his penis engorge further. Finally, with a release that satisfies both of us, he orgasms. I hold the semen in my mouth like milk from a bottle. Out of breath, I try to hold it all. He reaches down and tousles my hair. I stand up and look down. He touches my chin and pulls it toward him. "Give it back," he says and I kiss him, moving his cum into his mouth. He sucks on my tongue, and holds my chin until my mouth is clean. Then he points at the corner of the room. I go and stand there, my face to the wall. I do not know if he gets dressed and then leave, or if he takes his clothes with me and dresses in the outer room. I only know that I do not move until I hear the outer door close. Then I look up and the room is as it was: He has remembered to take the paddle with him and to return the chair to its place by the wall. I go to the outer room and dress. I leave and think about next Thursday.