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SwitchWithMe

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SwitchWithMe last won the day on May 11 2021

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  1. There is no PM log as the contact was through messenger and SMS text. I shared the information about this person in 2017 when I first had problems with them. Check your SW PM.
  2. As I said in DM, the contact was from an SW member, I know who it is, somebody I know in real life. It wasn’t through the SW PM, DM, or chat, but through Messenger and SMS Text.
  3. The PM was in the form of Messenger chat and voice, and SMS text. I know this person outside of SW, but know their SW nickname.
  4. Please just delete the post this is referring too. This is all just a huge pain in the ass. Fuck all this spanking orthodoxy shit.
  5. Before I started interacting with a larger spanking community online, I never really thought about doing things the "right" way. I just enjoyed spanking with friends. I made a post about how I was working with a spankee who had some issues, and exploring spanking through a spanking game instead of punishment rules-- and have gotten totally tortured in PM for it. The distillation of the conversation: What a real disciplinarian would do... What spankee really want... If you were a real man you'd beat her ass... Thanks. Talk about not feeling welcome. Another approach: Wow, that is an interesting approach... Cool, sounds like you worked with her past some things... Neat, that was creative... Note to self: Never post, never share anything. Bah.
  6. Even though I have been involved with spanking for 30+ years I am really new to the “scene”. I say that because until a few years ago I was spanking very close friends. Now I am in public places like this. I am a switch, and as a spanker, I can say I can’t conceive of spanking somebody who was not a close friend. I’m not sure how that would work. I know people do it, it’s just outside my experience. I’m not sure how I could connect with them otherwise. In the absence of that I’d just be smacking them. But I’m a strange beast. I have friendships that are platonic with women who are spankees. Even women I love dearly. Women I love like sisters, and women I love passionately— but platonically…
  7. I have changed my views on this. It has been a big adjustment for me moving from spanking within a circle of intimate friends I had known for years (some of them decades, some of them I went to their weddings or their parents funerals)… … to “the scene”, a public community of total strangers… … to that scene online with a face that is totally anonymous. Not just anonymous but unverified in every way: age, sex, gender, location, identity. My initial concerns of exploring this online were being outed. Well that’s long happened as people in real life are in these online communities and vice versa. There really is no perfect privacy for me. I can only rely on the integrity and decency of people I meet. Now after having some hassles and disappointments online, I can share the details if you like, I think a lot could be gained by creating verifiable social identities in the online kink world. I am part of a very small group on Discord (not public) and we verify our identities by sharing a snapshot of our ID’s with everything redacted except our face, age, sex. We also require a very specific biography so that people know what people’s backgrounds are, what their interests and expectations are.
  8. It’s one of my hard limits. It’s a position I just won’t spank somebody in. Full stop.
  9. Claire got off the L. It was more crowded than normal, and just this put her in a bad mood. A bit anxious. She left with the rest of the sheep, pouring down the street parallel to the L. It was a clear bright afternoon. She stood under a tree to see the screen of her phone without glare. Claire fumbled with her phone briefly— then she panicked. Get a bath brush at Target. Come home without panties. Eventually Claire could breathe. She had been a bit if a bitch to Eric, but he made nothing of it. One of those many sorties into battle that couples engage in. But not a war. Certainly not. Right? If she was wrong at this, what else? Fuck it, she thought. She got lunch with a friend who worked a few blocks off the L. Gilly, Claire’s friend, thought the whole situation was hilarious. She kept telling Claire she was being a bitch much of the time, and no, it wasn’t cute or sexy. Now she had a choice. Get a good paddling for it— and to expect this wouldn’t be the first and last. Or get over herself. Stop being a bitch to Eric. It took a while for the pizza to make it to the table. And now it was getting dark. Having more than a few cocktails didn’t save any time either. Gilly gave Claire a hug. I’d get the bath brush if I were you! She smacked Claire’s behind as she hailed a cab. And now Claire was left to her thoughts. Her choices. Claire found herself in a bath store, staring at seemingly a whole wall of batch brushes. She was embarrassed by the fact that she was getting excited, aroused. One by one she picked them up and felt them in her hand. A few smacks on the palm of her hand. From nowhere a sales person appeared. She had a devilish smirk. Claire was oblivious as she cracked her thigh a few times with the back of a wooden brush with a long handle. Startled by her visitor with her grin ear to ear, Claire blushed beet red and fled to check out. And who appeared behind the register in a few minutes— miss smirks and grins… It was pitch black on the porch. Claire started to panic. The instructions— come home without panties. Claire set down her purse and her bag with the brush poking out of the top, and after kicking off her shoes, unsnapped her pants and pulled them off. Thumbs in the bands of her bikini briefs, she pulled them below her hips, and they fell to the deck. In a start, she heard a sound from the darkness of the porch. A red ember from a cigarette. Claire struggled to see through the darkness. It was her mother-in-law. Claire wanted to vomit. She swooned a bit, and the she heard her husband’s mother, a woman long critical of her: You can give me that brush dear… I’ve so long wanted to do this. From your first date actually… Bottomless, Claire followed her inside.
  10. That is an interesting post, thank you. It is certainly the case that some of the spankee’s in my life have felt a “pride” for being able to take a serious spanking. From their side, in being able to stay in place the best they can, willing participate, and take it. But I have to say, there is also a pride and contentment in keeping to whatever arrangement we agreed upon. In integrating this into our relationship or friendship, I say that also in part because i have had spankee’s who didn’t follow through or keep our arrangements. And whatever we did spanking wise wasn’t very full filling for either of us. Certainly not them. No release, catharsis.
  11. At home we generally got spanked before bed. As a spanker I have continued the pattern. I like it because it punctuates the day with the spanking. It is the finale. The end of the day also affords the most space. We don’t have to think about having to cut it short, interrupt briefly for this or that. Meals and chores are done. More importantly, it seems to be a context where the end of the day is a good runway for the spanking. In particular real discipline. She can really release into it. There is nothing she needs to be together for. So we can spank long and hard and end up in a good cry. We also have time to savor the whole ritual. Real psychodrama.
  12. I’m just going to throw this out here for what it’s worth. I came here after a close knit group of spanko friends imploded. It imploded because of a very unfortunate incident associated with scene safety where somebody got hurt badly. But we were friends. Family. I was at some of these people’s weddings. Was there when they buried people. I loved these people. When I got here I felt similarly to the OP. I was shocked at the degree of judgement. Assertions as to what being a “real” spanker means. How real scenes go down. Had a woman tell me in PM that I was a faggot for switching, she could only play with real men. All sorts of rigid ideas about roles, especially switches. Had people project all sorts of shit about how childhood spanking connected to adult interests. People triangulating about other users. Slandering them. I had very bad things happen. Most recently connected with some people in real life, and they were so high in whatever they trashed my deck furniture. Then I realized: That’s life. Sure as hell that’s people on the internet. People on the internet tend to be divisive, quarreling, petulant, and normalizing people. Nothing to do with the site really.
  13. My current spankee and I went through just this transition. We had started spanking as funishment and a bit of stress relief. We’ve been close Platonic friends forever. Discussing spanking has always been part of the process, and at one point, punishment spanking was just floated out there as a possibility. Punishment in intention and intensity. Specifically how that would happen, what it would look like. At some point she asked for it, and here we are. I think this transition was possible because the transition itself was discussed as a possibility that could be imagined, played with in our minds and I’m conversation. Not an abstraction.
  14. I have always found it useful to have an open dialog with my spankees about the implements we will use. Part of that is just having that dialog, and that is important because it’s about coming to understand the spankee. Who they are, what they want, what they hate. And really why. It’s also really the best way to come to understand that margin between what is comfortable and uncomfortable. Between what is tolerable and intolerable. That is interesting as that is the margin to explore, rub up against, push against, explore. The exercise of the spanker and spankee putting on the table what implements must be in play, and what must not be at play is an interesting experiment and really an interesting point of discussion, even play. Like, OK, you want that paddle off the table? OK. Then we’re going to add this bath brush. Oh, don’t like that? How about this… Spankees have always tried to please me, so this discussion tends to be the currency for a lot of exploration. Agreeing to their requests while holding firm on some of my interests tends to build trust. And is just a nice thing. The response is usually to give back.
  15. The weather matched Helen’s inner world. A dread of cold, dark rain. She stood there in a doorway to an upstairs apartment, the one above the laundry. Shelter from the rain, but momentarily hiding from the world, from her predicament. Indifferent to those walking by, she just studied the sky. Some would take her example and look as well. Like Helen— they found nothing. She really wasn’t looking at anything. It was as if she were trying to escape through her eyes. To hide in those dark clouds. Here attention returned to the paper in her hand. Folded up in eighths. Wet, not from the rain, but the sweat of her panic. Helen unfolded it and read it again and again. As if the words would change, and it would all be a misunderstanding. Sadly, that wasn’t the case. Just the basics. Summons for Corporal Punishment across the top. Her name, Helen Searle, and address, clearly printed on the summons. She folded it up and crushed it in her hand as she cursed and punched the door jam. She hated herself for getting herself into this predicament. That night her drunkenness went beyond normal limits. Damage would be an appropriate adjective. Helen burned in the blush of shame. She thought of her family, particularly her father. What he must have thought bailing her out in the earliest hours of the night. The bailiff relaying the story of her state of undress and public fornication. She remembered clearly, even damaged by the pints of bitter, bracing herself against that garden wall. A guy she barely knew fucking her from behind. Looking up and seeing a couple in a window, bluish in the glow of a cell phone as they called the police. Suddenly Helen panicked as she looked at her phone. She was 15 minutes late, and just from brooding in this doorway. She ran up the stairs to this space above the laundry. The magistrates office for voluntary corporal punishment. Because of her unblemished record, and through the influence of her father, an attorney no small standing in the community, Helen had been offered corporal punishment in lieu of adjudication which would have resulted in fines, a criminal record, community service— and in this social and political climate, some symbolic incarceration. Likely a series of weekends in the local women’s facility. That terrified her. There were chairs, two rows of four. The space was nearly empty. A young woman some years younger was crying quietly. A severe woman, clearly a mother, glancing at her with a devilish smirk as she messaged somebody on her phone. Helen checked in and took a seat. The space was stark. A random plant on a pot on the floor in a corner. Strangely thriving despite the low light, even the air seemingly having a hard lacquered edge. The only decoration, a framed print of a woman blowing away a dandelion puff. Helen’s mind raced. She had no idea what to expect. Researching corporal punishment online only wound her up more. At this point, she had no idea if she was getting whipped, caned, paddled, or strapped. Images and stories of everything flooded her psyche. A woman left. She was tall, close to six feet. In her 40’s. Raccoon eyes from mascara running from tears. It was clear that she had been through something. Her cheeks were flushed. At the look of her, the young woman who had been crying quietly bawled loudly. I can’t mom… just… let me go to jail… The woman put her hand on Helen’s shoulder, studying her eyes as she wiped her snot and tears with her other arm. She was about to say something when Helen was called back. Helen was led down a very long hallway. Her attendant was about her age, and identified herself as her “escort” through the judicial discipline procedure. It struck Helen odd that Margaret, her escort, was not in the uniform of the magistrates office. Jeans, a blouse with a blazer. Flats. Helen could have dressed just like this at her own work. As they got to the end of the hallway, Margaret held Helen’s arm very tightly as she beeped herself in with her electronic badge. Inside a desk and two chairs. The whiteness of fluorescent lights on white walls, white ceiling tiles. A folder on the table. A boundary, a border. A wall between roles. Maggie and Helen would sit across this folder. Maggie walked Helen through obligatory consent forms. Basic consent for agents of the state to strike her body. And there were release forms, releasing the state from liability for any damage that might occur in the execution of this said striking. Helen checked a series of boxes acknowledging she had been informed that bruising, welting, weeping, petechia, and so on were common. She also checked a series of boxes acknowledging that she did not have various health problems. For due diligence, Maggie checked her pulse and blood pressure. Helen was spared additional trauma by her escort being so direct, quiet, to the point. It felt like a medical procedure. Then Margaret showed Helen another paper. This showed what she was sentenced to. It said: The subject, Helen Searle, will be subject to a voluntary judicial strapping. The number of blows will equal her age in years. Helen gasped a cry and covered her mouth reflexively. She looked at Maggie as she absorbed this. She was thirty years old. A warm hand reached out and rubbed the back of her hand. Maggie explained that Helen was at a crossroads. She could get processed in the system, or take the strapping. Yes. Of course. Helen repeated this again and again. Yes. Yes. To convince herself, more than her escort. Helen calmed down, pulled herself together. A forced smile. Another beep from Margaret’s electronic badge, and they passed down a short hallway. Margaret provided some advice as they walked. Helen was reminded that her discipline would be administered regardless of her cooperation. Everyone would be happier. Especially Helen. As they reached their destination, Helen’s discipline escort held her arm tightly again as they entered a small room. No bigger than a closet. It was clearly a changing room. A toilet behind an ajar door. A few whicker baskets on a shelf. A chair. Margaret handed Helen a long tshirt. Clothes in the basket, change into that. Relieve herself. Helen just stared at her pilot until she realized, no. There would be no privacy. None whatsoever. Helen’s mind turned to mush at this point. Another room. She stood there in bare feet, cold on ceramic tile. She was lost in this chemise of what felt like a nightshirt. Nothing underneath. She was cold, gooseflesh. Erect nipples. It wasn’t clear what she expected. A dungeon? Helen stood before a table. Just a table. She waited for others, but it was her and Margaret. And a table. She cried, unforced. Tears just welled up in her eyes and poured down her face. Helen saw the long strap in Maggie’s hand. It was just them. Memories of her at her whipping her and her siblings with his belt flooded through her mind. She felt small. A daughter, a little. Of her father. But also this village she lived in, of Maggie. Now especially Maggie. A woman not too much older than her, sharp blue blazer, hair tied up. Holding this long strap. You know what to do Helen. Yes. She did. By the hem, she pulled the shirt over her ass. Then up over her hips to her waist. And bent over the table.
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