Dating married spanko

If they let me, I landed a few gentle slaps to the bottom until I got a curled lip and, "That's just weird. The closest I came to telling anyone was Jennifer, the girl I dated right before Emily.

She told me it was sick and made me see a psychotherapist who, I found out later, labeled me in her notes as a sexual sadist.

"To some degree, it's already coming out," said Allison, a teacher.

She went on to list a spanking scene in “Weeds,” at least one in “Californication” and a scene on “The Big Bang Theory” when Sheldon spanked Amy.

Let me clarify something: I'm not "into" spanking the way you might be "into" Celine Dion or “The Bourne Identity.” Spanking is a part of my psyche, an essential element of my sexuality.

It's not like slavering over cheerleaders, or fantasizing about sex on the beach at sunset.

She likes it so much that we now call her "vanilla, with sprinkles." No, for her the problem has always been understanding my need to connect with other hard-wired spankos. We took our first step on an October night, when we parked on a quiet Austin street at dusk and headed towards the sound of clinking glasses and gentle laughter. Organized by a bubbly redhead known as Chef Steel, these parties feature three-course meals paired with wine, served on china and crystal by respectful staff who glide about ensuring the guests' needs are attended to. These were people like me, who in this post-50 Shades era, had nothing in common with the vanilla couples toying with handcuffs and blindfolds, making up safe words and buying heart-shaped paddles.

I've explained that not everything about spanking is sexual and that wanting to meet, talk to and even play with others doesn't reflect one whit on my love for her. A server approached us, a pretty young lady no more than 20 years old. I knew the rules, they'd been emailed to everyone before the party, so no doubt she did, too. These people were true aficionados, who'd wielded (and felt) those paddles, as well as hairbrushes, floggers and straps, for years.We were in bed, still in those heady, lust-filled days of a new relationship.I really liked her, suspected that I might even love her, which meant I had to tell her the truth about myself.Her name tag said, "Melanie," and with a polite, almost shy, smile she asked what we'd like to drink. And they were very strict: if she messed up our order, spilled one drop, or even let our glasses go empty, she'd get a spanking. And then I became nervous for me: would I have to administer it? They knew that the technique for caning is different from the one you use to crop.They knew about role play, "domestic discipline" and aftercare.I didn't have much else in common with them, but the spanking was amazing. I'd driven 300 miles to go to a small spanking party in Washington, DC.