Venus as a Boy by Naomi Darvell, Nov 28 1997

'Don't worry; we're not gonna be late,' Ron said. There was the faintest edge of irritation to his voice. He popped the clutch of his vintage TR6-- deliberately, I thought-- as we left the parking lot.

It was our third date, and I wasn't ready to screw things up by nagging at Ron. He was exactly my type-- slightly geeky but with a cool ponytail; thin withought being weedy; when he took off his glasses, pretty to the point of being... 'epicene' was the word my English teacher liked. Ron also had a delightfully nasty sense of humor.

Ron was delicious, but he didn't understand how seriously my college took violations of curfew. It was a delicate matter. In our dorm, as in most others, any girl coming in late more than once would give up dating privileges for a week-- or more, depending on the frequency and the degree of lateness. Since last year, however, my house had adopted a different practice. A small group of juniors went to Miss Hanson, the junior field hockey coach, and our head resident. I didn't hear the conversation-- I was a freshman at the time-- but the reult was that we got to vote on whether or not to replace groundings with paddling. For me it was an easy choice: I grew up in boarding school, where it was always preferable to bend over and 'take your swats,' rather than accept demerits, which might add up to long periods of house arrest, extra study hall, or unpleasant kitchen duty. What I didn't allow for was the different style of punishment. The only 'constant' was the use of a small, light school paddle. I don't know what school Miss Hanson went to, but she was not satisfied with bending a girl over and paddling the seat of her shorts or trousers, or lifting her skirt and warming the seat of her panties.

I saw my first spanking one Saturday night in October, when I joined some other dateless girls in front of the television in the common room. The late movie was almost over when Mandy, a nice and rather studious girl, appeared at the double glass doors, which were of course locked at that hour. My friend Joan jumped up so that Mandy would not have to ring the buzzer, which would of course bring Miss Hanson from her first-floor apartment. 'Thanks a million, Mandy said, smiling-- only to look downcast when Miss Hanson came out, wearing pyjamas and carrying the paddle. Her long blond hair was down around her shoulders and she wore no makeup, which-- along with the pyjamas-- made her look weirdly young.

Miss Hanson walked over to Mandy and stood there tapping the paddle against her opem palm. Mandy clearly expected to be escorted to Miss Hanson's room or at least to a quiet corner; but Miss Hanson said, 'Right here, Mandy.'

Mandy had clearly been to a school like mine. She had no coat to take off; she simply put the stuff the'd been carrying on the floor and bent over, keeping her head down and holding the calves of her legs. A sensual thrill went though me at the way she stuck her blue-jeaned bottom out for the paddle.

'No, Mandy,' said Miss Hanson. 'Bring me that chair over there.' Mandy went to the desk where girls on 'front door duty' sat during the day, buzzing visitors an and accepting deliveries. She brought the gaunt, straight-backed chair over to Miss Hanson, who sat down and patted her knee. 'Get those jeans down.' 'Come on, Miss Hanson,' Mandy said. 'Not with everyone here.' 'They can leave if they want,' said Miss Hanson. We all headed for the stairway-- no one wanted to face a ticked-off Mandy the next day-- but we moved slowly enough that we all got an eyeful of Mandy's big, firm bottom in little red cotton panties bouncing around on Miss Hanson's knee.

After that, on the rare occasions when I had a date, I made sure to go out wearing respectable panties offering a lot of coverage-- a precaution that payed off when some guy named Dave-- definitely not worth the spanking I got-- dragged his feet about leaving a stupid party. It was a week night, too, and everything was dark as I ran up the stairs. As I plucked up my nerve to ring the bell, I heard a voice behind me. 'Well, my naughty girl.' It was Miss Hanson, coming in after me, presumably from some gathering with her dykey friends in the athletics department. 'Let's paddle your bottom,' she said. She had obviously had a good time, wherever she had been-- she did not seem the worse for drink, but something had gotten her endorphins up. As we went into the hall I saw with relief that this would not be a public spanking; no one was around. I made as if to wait in the hall while Miss Hanson fetched the paddle, but she said over her shoulder, 'Come with me.'

I had been to her apartment before, for first-aid supplies and things like that. It was quite a nice place, with trendier furnishings than you might expect. An institutional straight-backed chair seemed out of place near the door to the kitchen; Miss Hanson must have brought it in for spankings here, and I wondered how many of these took place. Oddly, she gave me a little hug before she sat down and pulled me across her sturdy lap. She turned up the skirt I was wearing. As my bottom emerged, providently covered in thick cotton, I braced my feet against the floor and turned up as smartly as possible, presenting myself in what I hoped was an effective show of obedience. This was how my nanny at home had positioned me for her frequent hand spankings.

As if by accident, Miss Hason rested her free hand on my buttocks as she gave me a preliminary scolding. 'I'm not going to spank you too hard this time,' she said, 'Because it's the first. But be assured that future occasions will be different. Hmm.. ' she added, sounding bemused and no doubt noting my uptilted bottom, 'it looks like you've been spanked before.' The paddle fell perhaps twenty or thirty times, during which I never had to cry out, and I maintained my upturned position quite easily. 'Good girl,' said Miss Hanson. 'Here; let me finish you off by hand.' She dropped the paddle to the carpet and began slapping my fanny on alternate sides. She spanked with loose fingers, which felt almost pleasant; my bottom cheeks soon relaxed completely, as if they were being massaged. When the spanking was over I stood up almost reluctantly and rubbed my own behind a bit, in no great discomfort nor in any particular hurry to leave. I think I was vaguely withing that Miss Hanson would take me on her lap and cuddle me, as my nanny used to when I'd been spanked. Instead she stood up too, gave me another hug and then drew away, but not without kissing me cheek first. I slept on my tummy that night, not because I really needed to but to pleasant sensation of having been mildly and lovingly punished.

After that I saw several spankings in the front hall, while being aware of others taking place in private. I was lucky enough to be punished only in Miss Hanson's apartment. She was sincere when she promised that subsequent paddlings would hurt more; on my thrid trip to her apartment I collapsed in tears and she did take me on her lap, stroking my hair and giving me little kisses on the forehead. I had long since realized that Miss Hanson's punishments affected me erotically: once, having rushed in after quite a hot making-out session, I almost climaxed on my punisher's lap, and I was awakened several times that night by dreams which pushed me to the edge of orgasm, so that I had to use my hand before falling asleep again.

Now I also began to get jealous of other girls who went to Miss H.'s apartment for spankings, some of them frequently. I wondered if they were all receiving similar gentle scoldings and comforting kisses. Things got so bad that, by the time I started dating Ron, it came as a huge relief that I could still get excited over a boy. By the time of the first date, I wanted to have sex with him. He kept bringing me home late; he was the type who always liked to be slightly in violation of something. I was too embarrassed to tell him about the paddling; the slight edge of fear that persisted through each date, as looked ahead to a sound bottom-warming, made me feel ever more excited and vulnerable.

This third date had been frustrating. We stayed in the club too long to do any making out at all. We shared a bottle of Champagne and smoked cigarettes, and argued about when we were going to sleep together. As we pulled up to the curb in front of my dorm, I got ready to jump out of the car. The top was down, although it was rather cold, and I planned to leap over the door without even opening it. Ron was sort of a decadent type, but he liked to be polite and always walked me to the door. So far I had managed to get rid of him quickly on the front porch, but there was always the danger that he would stand around long enough to see Miss Hanson emerge, possible with paddle in hand.

This evening Miss Hanson must have gone around checking to see if anyone was late: through the glass I could see the dreaded chair, pulled out in front of the desk already and with the paddle resting on the seat.

'What the hell is that?' asked Ron, peering into the dim hallway.

'Don't ask me,' I said. 'Someone playing some kind of joke,' I said.

'Or making a porno movie,' Ron suggested, laughing.

Miss Hanson came storming out of her apartment. At least she was completely dressed, in jeans and a sweater. The instant she opened the door I tried to squeeze through, but she flung it wide open.

'Well, who's this?' Miss Hanson said. 'Is this the person who's been bringing you home late all month?'

Ron, damn him, looked about to explode with glee.

'Come on, Miss Hanson,' I said, 'this is too much.' She glared at me; apparently she thought I was presuming on the familiarity between us. If she had not been thinking of spanking me in front of Ron, this seemed to have pushed her over the edge. She grabbed my wrist and pulled me towards her. The sound of our argument had drawn people out of their rooms and down the stairs as Miss hanson began ranting at me: 'You're a mess! You're out late again and-- oh my God you've been smoking and drinking. You stink! I'm going to turn you over my knee right now and this time it's going to be bare bottom.'

For the first time in my life I felt that sickening panic which is said to come over people in situations where, for example, your father threatens to spank you when you feel you are much too old. It was bad to be spanked in front of my fellow students, many of whom had been through the same; but I wanted to defend myself against a spanking in the presence of Ron. I really made a serious attempt to escape; even when it was clear that Miss hanson's iron grip on my wrist was not about to relax, she had to drag me over to the chair. Then I refused to take my jeans down, and she had to pin me between her lags and struggle with the tight fabric. While she was tugging at my waistband Miss Hanson went on scolding: 'You're absolutely out of control these days. What you need is a good sound spanking. Bend over! Now you'll get that fanny tanned in front of that boyfriend of yours!"

The first spanks landed harmlessly on my panties. I couldn't feel anything; I was so afraid and ashamed that I was having a kind of out-of-body experience. 'It's time to bare your bottom,' Miss Hanson said all of a sudden, and she rudely grabbed my panties-- not even by the waistband, but by the material over my butt-- and pulled them down.

'What's this?' she said. 'Do you think keeping your bottom hard will make it hurt less?' This was far from what I thought. I had learned in the days of my nanny that a bare-skin spanking stings far less on relaxed buttocks than on clenched ones. I must have been tightening up involuntarily, out of embarrassment at the realization that Ron was standing right behind me. I tried to relax, with only partial success. The pain as the paddle came down right, left, and center was shocking.

'Go on, get up,' Miss hanson said at last. I was weeping uncontrollably; she pushed me off her lap. I stood and pulled up my panties, then my jeans. My throbbing bottom felt twice its usual size. I wondered if I dared turn around to where Ron was no doubt still watching. Before I could move he rushed over and put his arms around me. 'Oh darling! I'm so sorry!' he said. He sounded genuinely sorry, too.

'Get yourself upstairs,' Miss Hanson ordered, and I had to walk past all my housemates, who were still standing around. Late as it was, I got into the shower-- going to bed reking so badly of smoke was out of the question. When I stepped out of the shower, there was Miss Hanson. I put on my robe, deliberately not making a mad rush of it. I wanted to look nonchalant: she'd seen everything, hadn't she?

'I apologize,' she said, speaking as if by rote. 'What I did was unacceptable.'

'Oh shut up, I said. It's too late. I bet Ron will never ask me out again.'

'Oh, I think he will,' she said enigmatically, but I only replied, 'I'm going to bed.'

I was extremely angry. Even the seriousness of Ron's sympathy only emphasized for me the ferocity of what Miss Hanson had done. I was angry with myself as well, because I thought that her vehemence was likely to be in some way a response to my own intense feelings, which in previous sessions I must have allowed to show more than I realized.

The next day I was coming from Latin class when Ron popped out from behind a building. Normally he was so elusive; it felt odd to find him hanging around looking for me. We went to the Konditorei Bischoff for coffee-- or rather I had hot chocolate. 'Mit Schlag?' Ron asked, and I had to laugh. The alternative was to get embarrassed again.

'I felt so terrible over what happened to you!' said Ron. 'It will never happen again if I can help it. Good God! Did it happen each of the other times I brought you back late?' He didn't wait for an answer. 'It makes me... it really makes me feel...' I was surprised that he could become so inarticulate.

'It reminds me,' he went on, 'of trips to the woodshed when I was a kid. There really was a woodshed; my father would take us there. Being told you had to go to the woodshed was like a death sentence.'

'I suppose it was,' I said. 'What did your father use?'

'A strap,' Ron said. 'He kept it there specially.'

'Well, last night was nothing like that.' I said. 'I've never been strapped.' This discussion brought me and Ron closer together. Certainly he never again brought me home late, and we went out more frequently than ever. My relationship with Miss Hanson was another thing. I absolutely hate it when someone does you an injury and then feels so bad about it that you wind up having to take care of their feelings as much as your own. Miss Hanson was absolutely wretched, and she deserved to be. But after a few days I got tired of intercepting her guilty looks across the dining hall. I called on her in her apartment one evening. My heart softened when I saw how glad she was to see me. She made tea for us and we talked for a long time. At first she apologized, but I said emphatically that I couldn't bear to re-hash the incident, so we just traded harmless bits of personal information until she said, 'What's his name? Ron?' This came so out of context that, fascinated by the boy though I was, I didn't at first know what she was talking about.

'I sort of like that type myself,' she said. 'What? Did you think I was a Lesbian?' 'Aren't we all, a bit?' I said, and she looked pleasantly surprised, as if recognizing a fellow sophisticate. It was patronizing, I thought. What was she? Five years older? She was still talking about Ron:'You realize, he had a BIG boner when you were lying there getting spanked.' 'Oh, don't tell me this...' '...and you know, I wouldn't mind spanking his little butt some time.'

When I asked Ron if it was true, he admitted that he had been excited by my spanking. I did not mention the other part of what she said-- about finding him attractive and wanting to spank him-- out of some kind of jealousy. But I began to have fantasies in which both Ron and I were to be spanked by Miss Hanson: he would go first, baring his rear end and lying across her lap while reciving a scolding. By the time she began spanking he would have an erection, and one particularly hard whach would make him come all over her thighs-- which in my fantasy would be bare. I would throw myself down on her wet lap to be spanked while Ron stood within my view, his trousers still down and his cock halfway erect, rubbing his wounded backside.

As time went on I increasingly imagined spanking while I was with Ron. We had begun spending most of our time in his apartment, locked up in his bedroom if either of his roommates happened to be there, kissing and embracing, but still not much else. One day, perhaps encouraged my some body language of mine, he confessed that he would like to spank me. 'I won't hurt you,' he promised, and I rolled over immediately and lifted my skirt. Luckily I had abandoned the precautionary cotton panties for something more diaphanous. He whacked me about a dozen times with his hand, and we went back to kissing. It soon became a routine with us to kiss and fondle each other until the sexual tension became agonizind, at which point Ron would take me over his knee and spank me, before taking me in his arms for more kissing and fondling. I began removing my panties and sometimes I asked him to spank me very hard; it seemed to relieve the awful ache of longing. Several times, when no one else was at home, we could no longer stand the tension and we masturbated togther. Once or twice Ron even shot his sperm onto my burning bottom-cheeks, then took me into the bathroom and tenderly washed it off. Ron expressed fear that I would arrive home one day with a red bottom, only to encounter Miss Hanson and her paddle. 'What if she bares your bottom and sees it's been spanked already?' he asked-- and this became another fantasy of mine. In reality it never happened: I stopped arriving late, and Miss Hanson seemed to have no desire ever to spank me again.

That was my last year of living in college. In June I moved in with Ron. I don't know whether it is good or bad for our erotic life that every time he makes love to me I either have just been spanked or am looking forward to a spanking afterward.