Spanking Party


This past weekend I went to my first, and most probably last, spanking party. I’d read about it online a long time ago. On one, or more, of those sites that feature videos of guys spanking guys. There are organizations that hold a monthly  event at a night club or someplace public. The idea of actually showing up in person to a room full of men who are into spanking was a bit daunting. Or creepy. I wasn’t sure which.

What I was sure of, and have been sure of, is that I find spanking arousing. A guy with a great butt over the knee of another guy can be a real turn on. Even the word spank spoken out loud is arousing. I watch the clips online, but always stop as soon as they cut to flat out pornography. I’ve never understood how anyone can watch a video of two people having sex. Two complete strangers in tight close-up with the camera framed on the most graphic and unromantic fucking. This is supposed to be erotic? Many people find it so, but it’s a huge turn off for me, and it completely ruins the sexual tension of the spanking itself.

Through one of those sites, one that has an area where you can interact with other fans of spanking, I’ve met a couple of guys for a kind of spanking date. Sort of like using an online dating site, but one where all the members are interesting in trading spankings. Well, some only want to be spanked. Some only want to do the spanking.

Sounds like an Annie Lennox song.

Some of them are looking for sex afterwards, and that’s where this meeting in person can be tricky. If you only want to explore the spanking as discipline, or fantasy, or just plain fun, then setting a play date with a potentially creepy guy, who has no doubt lied about his stats, can place you in an awkward situation. I’ve had my share of those.

So, slipping in quietly to an organized event, having the chance to observe the goings on without being asked to participate, might be just the thing. Perhaps I could meet another fellow somewhere around my own age, who has the same idea. We could exchange numbers and maybe strike up an ongoing arrangement. I wrote to the email address provided, got the details of the affair, and decided to go.

My car is in the shop (a little cache of corn kernels under the hood leads me to believe a critter has been munching on the wires, causing my starter to stop,) so I was on my bicycle. Unfortunately, we are in the middle of an insane heat wave. In October. Forget autumn. This is Sahara desert hot. Picture Lawrence on that camel, off to conquer Arabia. Yeah, that’s what it was like riding a bike in the merciless sun. A hundred and three degrees of crazy.

The address was about a forty minute ride away, so I arrived drenched in sweat. Sat in a patch of shade for about ten minutes, trying to return my body to its normal temperature. The party was being held at a night club. At least, that is what I guessed when I saw the word club.

Turns out, not surprisingly, that I was wrong. It was not a night club. It was an S&M club. The kind of place with rooms decorated like dungeons. Where people engage in S&M role play. Getting naked in front of strangers lurking in the shadows, presumedly in rented overcoats. The kind of place I had no idea existed in real life. If I had seen a set like this in a movie, I would have though it implausible.

The door was standing ajar, for which I was grateful, as I did not have hand sanitizer with me, and did not wish to touch any of the surfaces. There were two jolly old gay Santa Claus types manning the sign-in table. They were helpful enough, taking my admission fee, giving me a legal form to sign (releasing them from any possible litigation, as well as declaring that I was not employed by a government agency. Hmmm… what if I was a mailman?) and explaining the layout and the general rules.

In the lobby there was a sitting area, with a couple of couches and a coffee table. A place for guys to mingle outside of the dungeons. Among the handful of men loitering there was only one that I would describe as handsome. Actually, he was very handsome. Appeared to be somewhere in his thirties, which was easily at the lower end of the age spectrum among the guests.

It was my expectation that there would be loud dance music. You know, like at a party. A crowd of gym bodied gay boys in their underwear. Sure, I figured there would be a few older daddy types, for the young boys who wanted to be paddled for being bad, but most of the guys would be in the twenty to forty range, right?


The other thing I noticed immediately upon entering the dungeon space, is that most of the patrons were, well… I know that gay culture dictates we use fashionable euphemisms for people who are overweight. He has a thick build. He’s stocky. He’s a bear.

Most of the patrons were that.

It didn’t take me long to make my way through the dark dingy hallway and back out into the lobby. The one handsome thirty something was seated with what I surmised to be his boyfriend lying across his lap. Not for a spanking, mind you. His head was in his lap. Kind of lovey dovey and affectionate. So why were they there, at a spanking party? To show off how lucky they were to have found one another? Look at us, a happy couple of youngish handsome men who share a spanking fetish as part of our long term relationship. When one of us misbehaves, the other has permission to pull down his pants and administer punishment.

Good for them. Okay, I’m done. Where’s the exit?

Oh, wait. There was a familiar face. Sitting on the other couch, across from the lovers. This guy was one of my awkward spanking dates. He looked much better than when we met, about a year ago. He looked like he’d been working out. His hair was longer. Made him look younger. More handsome. Or was that just in comparison to the images I’d just been exposed to in the dungeon? Besides, he was a bit of a jerk. Better off pretending I don’t recognize him, wave my wand and disapparate.

Once outside, I took off my name tag and tore it up. No need for that anymore, and I’d hate for anyone in the glaring pounding rays of the sun to guess that I had been there at all. Not me, I’m just a perspiring cyclist trying to survive the oppressive heat.

Like that guy over there. What is he doing out on his bike? I thought I was the only mad dog or Englishman. Gee, he’s not bad looking.  Dark eyes, gentle smile. Salt and pepper on top, but probably only a couple of years older than I am. Rather fit,too. He’s in a sleeveless tee. Has a lean and toned body. Now why couldn’t I have met a guy like him in that club?

Or is he going to the party? I fiddle with my bike lock long enough to watch him pedal down the street toward the sex club. Sure enough, he turns into the lot. Man, if only he’d arrived a few minutes earlier. He might have been that person I was hoping to meet. Maybe.

It was a tantalizing thought, but it will have to stay that. There was no way I was going back inside that place. I rode home and deleted my profile on the online dating site for spankers and spankees. If I’m meant to meet up with the salt and pepper bicycle riding playmate, it will have to happen in some way that does not involve seedy scenarios or legal waivers being signed in advance.




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