Listen. I’m not exaggerating when I say I am perishing. My body is shriveling up like an unwatered houseplant in a rental property owned by Satan. You know scurvy? That old-timey sailor disease where your gums fall out because you didn’t eat an orange? Yeah. That. Except instead of vitamin C, it’s vitamin S: Spanks. And I’m deficient.
Every cell in my ass is screaming like a Victorian orphan: “Please sir, may I have some more?”
And God said NO.
You don’t understand. This isn’t just “haha I like a smack now and then.” This is biblical. I am Moses, wandering forty years through the desert with no paddle in sight, my ass crack the parting Red Sea. I am Job, except instead of boils it’s just the eternal itch of untouched buttocks begging for divine wrath. If there were a commandment number eleven it would say: “Thou shalt beat my ass until the neighbors call the council.”
And yet… nothing.
Do you know what it’s like to walk around with a rear end that’s basically a neon sign flashing SPANK ME, COWARD and still get ignored? My cheeks are so tragically pristine you could eat your dinner off them. Smooth. Untouched. No handprints, no cane stripes, no belt kisses. A virgin snowfield of missed opportunity. I look in the mirror and weep. I need it. I crave it. I wake up in the middle of the night sweating, trembling, rolling over like a possessed seal muttering “just hit me daddy, please, I’ll do my chores.” My dreams aren’t erotic, they’re OSHA safety training videos where I’m failing every inspection until somebody bends me over a table and beats compliance into me.
People talk about the hunger for touch, for intimacy, for love. Cute. Adorable. I’m not in the mood for a cuddle puddle. I don’t want to be spooned. I want my ass cheeks obliterated. I want thunderous percussion. I want to be personally responsible for a noise complaint. I don’t just want it—I want it like a junkie wants a fix. Strap me down, call me a disgrace, and slam me until my ass looks like a Jackson Pollock painting in red. Is that too much to ask? Apparently yes, because the universe has conspired to blue-ball me harder than a nun at an orgy.
Do you understand the torment of this denial? It’s medieval. Torture chambers had less suspense. I am a wound-up clock with no release. A champagne bottle that never pops. My bratty little nervous system is vibrating like a wasp nest wired to a car battery. Every time I bend over to pick up laundry, my brain screams, “NOW WOULD BE A PERFECT TIME.” Every time I walk past a belt? My thighs clench like I’ve seen the Holy Grail. Every time I sit down on a chair, I imagine how much better it would feel if my skin were radiating heat like a wood-burning stove. Every time someone raises their voice at me, my thighs get wetter than the Mariana Trench. I am feral. If someone even brushed past me with a rolled-up newspaper I’d probably cum so hard I’d astrally project into 1923.
And yet. Nothing. Not a single whack. Not even a “tsk, bend over.” The drought continues.
It’s gotten bad. I find myself fantasizing about absurd scenarios just to cope. “What if I mouth off to a cop and instead of arresting me, he drags me behind the station for a good, old-fashioned belt thrashing?” “What if the Starbucks barista says my order wrong and then paddles me senseless over the counter?” “What if the ghost haunting my flat just smacks me one good time with ectoplasmic fury?”
I am unwell.
This isn’t just desire, it’s torment. Every night I go to bed unspanked feels like a war crime. I toss, I turn, I grind my pillow like a desperate pervert in a Victorian asylum muttering “just one swat, just one please, I’ll polish the floor with my tongue if you call me a bad girl.”
And the worst part? It’s gotten to the stage where literally anything looks like a spanking implement. Wooden spoon? Daddy. Flip-flop? Daddy. Ikea cutting board? Daddy. Some guy drops his belt at Tesco? I almost moaned loud enough to get arrested. You ever been so desperate for a spanking that regular life feels like a series of missed opportunities? Like every person around you is a potential executioner of justice but they’re all cowardly pacifists? You’re just sitting there, cheeks unpunished, spirit untamed, soul yearning, and everyone else is like “haha wanna get brunch?” NO. I WANT CONSEQUENCES.
But here I am. Raw. Unpunished. Achey-breaky-booty untouched. At this point, it’s not even horny anymore. It’s medical. It’s survival. Hook me up to a spanking IV drip. Call a specialist. Write me a prescription for 30 firm swats and a follow-up paddling.
I want someone to grab me by the wrist, bend me over the arm of the sofa, and spank me until my neighbors think I’m being exorcised. I want to cry and giggle and kick my legs like a cartoon brat in detention. I want the sting, the burn, the humiliation, the whole degenerate three-course meal with dessert.
Instead? Dry. Withered. Parched. A Sahara of ass.
If someone doesn’t spank me soon, I swear I will start throwing myself ass-first at inanimate objects. Car doors. Lampposts. Possibly an unsuspecting priest. I’m done.
Because if someone doesn’t beat my ass soon, I swear I will implode. I will fold in on myself like a neutron star of bratty energy, collapse into a spanking singularity, and when future astronauts find the black hole that forms in my absence, they’ll whisper: “This is where the needy little bottom died, forever unspanked.”
And let me tell you—if that’s how I go out? That’s the cruelest punishment of all.
So please. For the love of God, for the health of my soul, for the preservation of my sanity and panties alike:
Somebody. Spank. Me.
Or else I’m taking my desperate, dripping, bratty ass straight to Hell—and trust me, Satan’s hand is probably the only thing that can keep up with me at this point.
