Behind closed doors: Raven Red and the London Spank Daddy

I did not want to go into details in what happened behind closed doors between the London Spank Daddy and me; it became clear that I was not going to be let off the hook so easily. Uncle Nick even had a serious chat today with me, carrying on about something concerning the readers being let down. So here, it is the account of what happens to a Raven that sometimes does not know when she should rather not say a word...at all....and to be honest, it is a salute to the man known as the London Spank Daddy.

During my breakfast meeting with Peter Jones at the pub, I agreed as per our initial conversations that we would go to his apartment for more privacy. It is rather difficult to discuss certain aspects around a mutually bound lifestyle in public, especially when it does appear that patrons are becoming more interested in my conversation that the pint of ale in front of them. Again, very confident within myself, conveniently forgetting that my flippant responses and attitude might be conceived as bordering on insolent, I followed him into his private domain.

When that door closed behind me, all the nerves came rushing back, setting off butterflies again. There are no more eyes or ears that represent safety; this was only him and me. I remember jabbering away, no idea of what I was saying, no longer making eye contact so brazenly as before. Then only a quiet command: "I am going to teach you respect. Stand in the corner, with your hands on your head".

Frankly, if anyone told me a week ago that, I would do this; I would have still been laughing. Nevertheless, to my own surprise, I found myself in a corner, facing the wall, with my hands on my head. I swore that no one would ever make me stand in a corner! Even worse, I obeyed blindly, no argument, eyes averted and feeling absolute shame burning my face. Granted, rebelliousness was swirling like a bad summer storm inside me, but there I was, like a naughty schoolgirl sent for time out.

Then there was the absolute quietness behind me. I had no idea what he was doing, he was not talking, I could not hear him moving and with every second going past, I could feel my discomfort and shame increasing. When he eventually did speak, my first reaction was to drop my hands, turn and face him, which was a mistake. Again, just a quiet voice: "Did I give you permission to move or drop your hands?"

I found myself facing the damn wall again, hands back on my head. Words not fit to utter in public was racing through my mind, but yet, I said nothing, this time only closing my eyes, praying for it to end. But the end was not in sight. All of a sudden, I heard him move, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him placing a chair next to me. I was ordered to stand in front of the chair, lean over and with both hands hold onto the top of the chair and not to move.

After the little flurry of activity, again, I could not hear him moving, nor did he speak. The absolute quietness was unnerving, and I could feel apprehension grow within the depth of my stomach. All of a sudden, he moved, and I could feel him standing very close behind me. To my utter mortification, I felt him lifting my dress, and slowly lowering my panties, but no resistance, no movement from me, still obeying the command not to make a movement. 

It was also clear that the London Spank Daddy knew what he wanted to do. The implement of his choice was something that has never touched my bottom, and he quietly explained to me what the punishment would be. He also made very sure, as I was standing with my dress lifted, my bottom bare, holding onto a chair that the riding crop remained within my eyesight.

When I thought that nothing could get worse, he quietly was starting asking questions. He knew that I did not want to say "Sir", so although I obediently answered his questions, he would not respond until I added the "Sir" to the answer. Absolute shame coursed through me, but just as resentment wanted to bubble over, he quietly would ask the next question. I realised that unless I show the required respect, the London Spank Daddy will keep me in position, bent over, bottom bare for as long as what it takes.

I felt the leather cuff on my left wrist first, and my heart started racing. I have an absolute fear of my hands being restrained, and as he took my right hand to and cuffed it as well, I broke position. My voice was barely audible when I found myself pleading with him. Pure fear made my mouth seem so dry, that it felt that I could not get the words out. Without a word, he undid my right hand, and stood with his hand on my shoulder, pressing it reassuringly, quietly waiting for the irrational fear in me to subside. As I could feel myself calming down, he made me lie across the bed, only restraining the left hand to the bedpost, and I knew that the promised riding crop waited.

Again, he did not say a lot, lifting the dress back up, my bottom bared. I could feel the light tap tap taps of the crop against my bottom, not hard, not soft, just enough to irritate the skin, the nerve endings uncertain of what is coming, and leaving me waiting in nervous anticipation. Then as I heard the swish of the air, I felt a burn across my bottom, and I could not help but to whimper, tense waiting for the next swish to warn me of the burn that is to follow. However, he resumed the tap tap tap of the crop against my bottom. I soon realised that he is not following a pattern; he is playing, keeping me on edge, making sure that every swat will be remembered.

I felt my bottom burning, heated, and I could imagine it being red, when he stopped. He moved in front of me, and my final humiliation commenced. “You will be receiving your final 10 strokes, and you will be requesting them. You will be counting, saying: One, thank you Sir. If you take too long, I will add on extra strokes". Silence settled in the apartment. It was racing through my mind that he could not be serious; actually, I was praying that he was not being serious. I have to count, ask and thank him? He must be out of his absolute mind. Yet, when I heard "I am waiting, young lady”, I found myself saying"One, thank you Sir".

I still cannot decide which was worse. Knowing that once that little sentence was uttered, the pain will be following, or the realisation that he did not always wait for the whole sentence, and that I could hear my voice lift in response to the burn that streaked across my bottom. After the tenth stroke, he gently undid the cuff on my left hand, the punishment at the hands of the London Spank Daddy complete.