49

When a spanko has a birthday she looks forward to celebrating in many ways. There are birthday presents to receive. Birthday brownies to eat and birthdays spankings too. Birthday spankings make getting older not so bad, if you're a spanko that is.

We had a wonderful day of birthday shopping and brownie eating yesterday. Last night it was time to face the music. Or should I say time to face Musicman with the magic paddle in hand. Except of course, I didn't really face Musicman.

No, my face was too the lounge as I assumed the position, bared and bent over. And then it began: Whap...one...whap...two...whap, whap, whap...five. I think he was trying to confuse me.

Whap...six...whap...seven...whap...OH...seven, wait, no I meant eight. On and on it went. It takes some time and careful counting to get to 49.

There is very little formality or ritual to our spanking play, so I rarely have the need to count. In fact I don't think I've counted since last year's birthday spanking. I seriously misjudged how hard it is to do that when all I really wanted was to let go and fly freely.

He kept me guessing by following no particular rhythm. Sometimes slow with a moment to breath and relax into the pain, sometimes several, fast and sharp, causing my mind to jump ahead to keep up with the numbers.

Sometimes the wooden side of the paddle connected delivering a sharp sting. A flick of the wrist and the suede side connected, no sting, but lots of thud. I soon lost track, not of what number we were on, but of what number was the goal. Yes, I seriously forgot how old I was or even that the reason for the spanking was my birthday.

My world narrowed, nothing existed but that paddle and the next number to come. By the end, I was a panting mess, able only to gasp out a number and try with all my might to stay on my feet. I guess it's a good thing he didn't insist on starting over everytime I messed up the number. If he had, I think we'd still be at it. I missed ten numbers somewhere along the way.

I counted 39, he stopped and I sunk to the floor, butt burning, mind reeling. Lost in a haze of pain and pleasure. He assures me he does know how old I am and that he gave me the full compliment of what I was due. It seems he didn't trust me to keep the count straight, so he counted too.

He soon ordered me to the bed and the party continued. Good thing he didn't make me count the amount of times I orgasmed. It probably wasn't even close to 49, but it sure felt like it. I've never been good at counting those anyway and rarely ever try. Who cares anyway how many times I come, all I care about is the fact that I do. Over and over and over again. Yep, I'm really starting to enjoy getting older.