​Spanking has always fascinated me. Some of my earliest memories revolve round reading of Noddy, being being punished with a slipper, and later, a girl in a magic show, tied over a barrel for some nefarious purpose. Cor, I thought, that’s smashing, and looked forward to going to bed later so I could think about it privately, and enjoy the odd shivers it caused.

 I didn’t grow up with my dad, but when I went to stay with him fifteen years ago I found he had a whole wall of spanking literature, all the classics, some gruesome modern froth, and some guides to erotic bondage, too. I’m convinced there’s a spanking gene. And clearly, I possess it. The notion of pain thrills me.

Whether I’m causing it, watching it, or having it inflicted upon me, as long as it’s happening, I’m happy. I can’t explain it, and I don’t really want to analyse it over much, for fear the buzz might dissipate or dwindle upon inspection. Let’s just assume, for the sake of brevity, that I’m a terrible pervert. All the best people are.

I was working at the Sunset strip theatre, Dean Street, Soho, doing eight minute shows, seven times a day, showing my tits and bits for a fiver a time, when a chap from the Janus shop popped by to watch. He was scouting for new models. After the place closed he stopped me as I left, asking if I’d like to model for his magazine, and maybe make a video or two. “Sure!” I said. “Whatever! When do you want me?”

I didn’t give life-changing decisions a great deal of thought in those days, and in truth, I still don’t. Money, attention, why the hell not? I was 21, and been stripping full-time for a couple of years. I’d had heaps of fun, really nothing but fun, despite everyone’s dire warnings. Family and chums seemed convinced I’d end up a crack-addled old wreck, weighed down with remorse at my poor life choices, but so far I’d had to disappoint them, and I was confident this new foray into modelling would be just as jolly.

(Spoiler: it was. This isn’t a misery memoir. Soz. )

We arranged to meet the next afternoon at the Janus shop. I hadn’t been in there before, and found it thrilling. Rows and rows of magazines and videos, all devoted to the noble art of whacking. Did I feel a certain stirring, a little thrill, at this brave new world I’d stumbled upon? Probably. When John the scout asked me to step into his office, take my pants down and bend over, I was very happy to oblige. Two years stripping, remember. I’d only got my pants back on five minutes earlier.

“Very nice”, he said, in a rather distracted way. He was probably mid-40s, and doubtless overjoyed to have a pretty young girl with a very fine bottom half-naked before him, but hid it with a cold, detached, professional air. “Yes, I’m certain we could use you for a photo shoot, videos too, if you can take a spanking. Have you been spanked before?”

I hadn’t. I’d only had one boyfriend, and he was a pretty ineffectual, weedy sort of lump, terribly keen to respect women. I wouldn’t put up with that sort of nonsense now.

“Well, I’d better spank you, then give you a few swats with this handy strap. Just to make sure you can take it, you understand.”

“Oh! OK then. Good idea!” said I, green as the hills. I was convinced this was a respectable business man, kindly ensuring I was suitable for this new job opportunity, rather than a raging spanko. Not that I’d have cared if I’d realised.

God, I enjoyed that spanking. He was an absolute grand master. He cupped his hand and brought it down gently on my quivering, cool, virginal bottom, gradually increasing the intensity as I arched my back, clearly desperate for more. He obliged, going harder and harder, for maybe five minutes or so, until he explained with a satisfied chortle I was starting to hurt his hand, and it was definitely strap time. A lovely old leather thing, delivering a satisfying thud to my already tender, warm buttocks. I could have stayed there all day, very cheerfully. But my giddy, endorphin-flooded brain suddenly recalled I had to be back on stage in forty minutes. Regretfully, I stood up to convey my need for a speedy departure.

“Do you think you could use me, then?”

“Oh yes”, John squeaked, all pretence at composure gone.

“You’ll fit very nicely into the Janus stable. When are you free?”

“My day off is Tuesday.”

“Tuesday it is.”

We gazed into each other’s eyes as we shook hands: his was considerably warmer than mine. Smashing. I ran back to the Sunset Strip, where a few regulars gasped and grumbled at my newly reddened buttocks. I twirled round the pole with renewed enthusiasm. A new career! More chances to take my pants off in public! How could I be so incredibly fortunate, day after day? It wasn’t the least bit fair. I must be enjoying the luck of ten girls at least, maybe more, all of them yawning their lives away in dreary admin jobs. Fortune favours the brave, my mother always told me: how wise she was.

Next Tuesday we met at a studio in Islington. He’d asked if I had any ideas for a shoot, any particular sets of clothes I fancied wearing: I told him I’d spent a year as an aerobics instructor, and had a nice line in colourful leotards. So I became Ella Mae the aerobics bunny, spanked while I performed press ups and leg lifts. There was a story to accompany twenty or so photographs, but I really can’t remember the gist of it now, and I don’t suppose it mattered much then. John wielded the camera, and a rather plump, headmasterly type did the spanking. I took hand, strap, slipper and plimsoll. I learned to make the ‘spanking face’, mouth open, forehead screwed into anguished lines, but didn’t actually get much of a spanking that day. They’d developed a rhythmic counting technique to ensure they captured the impact shot to best advantage, and if that sounds dull, it kinda was. Making spanking films and photo stories isn’t terribly exciting while it’s happening - everyone is involved is concentrating on making the product as good as possible, rather than catering to the participants’ preferences. But afterwards…..well, I thought about that shoot a lot. I’d loved it, loved it. Being the centre of attention for a whole day was very heaven. At the Sunset strip I had to share the limelight with seven other girls (all of them lovely, and it did mean I got a lot of reading done); but at the shoot it was all about me. I was the whole show. Nothing could happen unless I was in the room. If I wanted a break, everything stopped. I’ve always felt that’s how it should be. No one’s ever called me a team player.

And I liked being spanked too. It’s impossible to explain if you’re not into it, but I’ll try anyway. The pain - when lovingly, thoughtfully administered - takes on a meditative quality; it lets your mind roam free, indeed, insists upon it, leaving the body to deal with the harm being inflicted upon it. It releases a shedload of endorphins, of course, and works on me like some mind-expanding drug: if I have a thorny problem, of any description, all I ever want to do is drape myself over someone’s knee and command they spank me until I find a solution. It never fails. I’ve had all my very best ideas mid-session.

 This makes me a pretty demanding submissive, I realise. But most submissive are demanding, exacting creatures, control freaks by nature: their urge to be spanked is a desire to escape from that part of their personality, to take a rest from always being in charge.

 On their own terms, of course. In truth, it’s always the submissive who’s in charge. The rest is mere play-acting. Woe betide the dominatrix who doesn't understand that. But I’m getting way, way ahead of myself here. I’d had my first spanking, and loved it. What next?