Abel and I live in the sort of conditions that any spanking enthusiast would call priviledged: we have the house to ourselves, its walls are thick, the neighbours are quite deaf, and there is space enough to swing a cane in pretty much every room.*

From time to time, however, we go to visit our respective parents.

This is where we get a glimpse of what other, less fortunate spankos with big families have to deal with. Zero privacy, other than in our bedroom; the walls are made out of paper,** and it’s easier to forget about real spanking altogether for a few days, than to attempt a little bit of play.

Except we can’t forget about spanking, or limit ourselves with whispering stories to each other. I mean, I guess we could, but we refuse to be limited by the circumstances.

Our recent parental home adventure was a couple of weeks ago in Abel’s parents’ house.

It was all rather spontaneous. One morning, before everybody else woke up, I was lying on the bed reading. Bottom-up, as one does; still dressed for bed in my knickers and his shirt.

Abel was dealing with his email. He must have read something exciting,*** because he walked over to me and landed a big ol’ swat on my behind.

“Take those knickers down,” he said.

“Oh?” I said. “We’re, um, not alone?”

“Don’t care,” he said. Boy, that email must have been really good.

I wriggled my knickers down, and waited to find out what he would use. A hand-spanking was out of question: the naked-skin-slapping-naked-skin noise is quite loud, even if you don’t know what exactly it is. We hadn’t packed any canes. The nearest birch tree was way out of reach. As far as I was concerned, he was stuck.

Not so, it appeared. He picked up the electric cord from our camera, doubled it up, and told me to brace myself.

Now, headspace-wise, electric cords don’t do anything for me; they don’t feature on my fantasy horizons. However, when we’re talking about pure physical side of spanking, I don’t mind what an implement is, as long as it produces the right sensation.

Or, should I say, the wrong sensation: the infernal burning, the branding pain, the flaming cuts… It was quite horrid. And, of course, I had to stay absolutely quiet throughout the ordeal: we didn’t want people to come running to my rescue, did we?

Although Abel normally insists that I stay as still as possible for my whipping, we had to get rid of the rule here: I can be either still or quiet, but not both.**** If I couldn’t yell, I had to wriggle, a lot. I enjoyed the freedom, though it took me a lot not to howl at a couple of particularly evil cuts.

The stripes afterwards were quite pretty, and I squirmed all the way through breakfast, but there was nothing to show for it only a couple of hours later. Other than our big grins, I suppose.

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* Not very high, mind you. It’s not a very big house.
** In my parents’ place you can hear the neighbour three floors up praciting her piano. Every note.
*** Which one of you correspondents has been getting me smacked? Hmm?
**** And frequently, neither.

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