Daddy Spank

I like to be spanked.

There, I’ve said it, confessed my dirty little fetish…although all things considered it’s rather a tame one, isn’t it? So ubiquitous as to be vanilla and yet, the connotations of pride requiring punishment are less socially accepted. We live in a brutal world and people who crave a certain brutality, even in a playful capacity, aren’t quite right, according to perception.

My man and I, we are lucky enough to live in a rather sexually permissible city, one which is also beautifully cosmopolitan. Not too far a walk from our apartment is a toy store, a very discreet sort of toy store. Once you climb the steps and pass through the door all manner of consensually perverse items are available for perusal. Some, those of a less intimate nature, can even be tested; though potential buyers are required to submit to salesperson scrutiny.

My man was quite eager to learn how to spank me as I wished with his hand, but I desire more than just the action…an entire scenario centered around my wicked willfulness and how I must be punished. This dynamic requires the use of props, and of roles assumed, dialogue spoken…and I count myself so very lucky when I voice my desires that his only answer was…sounds like we need a toy, then.

In public I let him talk, he charms and disarms people easily with his Empire inflection; I find we have some kind of ingrained response to immediately please our cousins across the pond who sound so much more mannered. He’s a subdued sort of person, normally, not quite shy but neither outgoing without the benefit of a fair amount of alcohol (in which case the native capacity for sarcasm becomes positively deadly). I’ve always considered that people likely underestimate him based on the way he looks – he possesses nothing of typical attraction in his personage – but of course I see something entirely different and enticing, always.

And so in me he has been able to uncover a thoroughly wanton creature ever available to his demands and desires…happy to serve as required, equally ecstatic to request…nay, demand satisfaction.

We are well-matched, and every time I have occasion to view us together in a reflective surface it’s my opinion that we look insufferably smug in our mutual affinity. Fortunate, I suppose, that neither of us are compelling enough to attract attention.

But the salespeople of The Wicked Whip, they know their business. We’ve never visited such an establishment, only dabbled via mail order previously. But we want toys which won’t lose their novelty over time, as those we’ve tried before. And though I love my man’s hand and all the things it can do, I want him to wield something a little more forceful.

A sweet-smiling domina stands behind the counter. “And what I can assist you lovebirds with today?”

We smile in response, I can see it, feel it. I appreciate that someone discerns how in love we are. But as always I defer to him.

“My sweetheart wants to me to use a paddle when I spank her.”

She looks genuinely touched, as if it’s the nicest thing she’s ever heard of. “We have a lovely selection of paddles and crops for spanking. Do you use your hand?”

“Yes.”

“We even have a hand-shaped paddle.”

He chuckles to view it, looking in the direction of her pointing finger. “I fear that would add comedy rather than melodrama to the proceedings.”

“A paddle,” I say, moving over to the display upon the wall. “It has to be a paddle.”

He comes up behind me, his arms wrap around me and I breathe in his scent as always hopelessly aroused by his assorted odors. He’s not much taller than I so his mouth finds my ear easily. “And what should Daddy use to punish his wicked little girl?”

I flush to think of a stranger hearing our exchange, but then consider she’s heard it all.

“These paddles aren’t right, they’re too big.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, moving away and picking up a hairbrush from the counter underneath the display. “It’s heavy.”

“It’s specifically weighted to deliver a uniform blow,” she informs us, hanging back discreetly.

These paddles, they make me recall byzantine ritual in secret societies…I think about how parents use whatever comes to hand. Very few might actually buy a paddle for the purposes of discipline. It is only when we are older and desire to recall the feeling of helplessness that we use such fanciful accessories. That’s what I want: to choose something of significance. He has assumed the role so easily, despite my doubts.

“It’s play, sweetheart, it’s not real. Unless that’s part of the appeal for you. Being wrong.”

I don’t have to reply, he knows it is. Merely the thought of going against the societal paradigms keeps me warm at night. But he’s always been willing to accept my imagination without judgment. For example, we are twelve years apart in age, though I prefer to pretend the gap is larger, and he indulges me.

“What’s it to be, young lady?”

I am no longer young, and it’s not that I wish to be, but in the imaginary world we inhabit – constructed by our mutual obsession – I am young enough to be spoiled and coddled and spanked when necessary.

“I blame myself,” he says, raising a hand as I straddle myself over his leg, ass in the air, whimpering. “I’m far too lenient with you, young lady.”

“These aren’t right, they’re too big.”

We ask to see smaller versions and as we examine them, he picks each one up, considering their heft.

“Mmm, this one is nice.”

“It makes a lovely crack,” she adds, helpfully.

“Should I try it, hmm?”

“I’ve been good today.”

“Are you certain of that, or do I detect a bit of sass in your tone, missy?”

The blood rushes to extremities and I blush and flush and squirm and decide to dare observation. We are led to a back room: the walls covered in black leather and adorned with mirrors which reflect any number of accessories and furniture to be examined and tested. He runs his fingers along a leather-covered bench and she demonstrates for us the position to be assumed. I lay down upon it, the leather smells like bleach. She notices I crinkle my nose.

“We’re vigilant regarding cleanliness.”

He nods, well-mannered, and the blow is forestalled, as they discuss the furniture. We have no room in our miniscule apartment for such an apparatus, but he finds it amusing and arousing…something constructed simply for the sake of fetish, of sexual expression. He continues the discussion, his voice as always lulling me into daydreaming fantasy and general arousal when thwack! The blow falls and I gasp and moan and he chuckles.

“Yes, that’s quite the sound effect.”

“I –“

“Hush, young lady. Your mouth has gotten you into enough trouble today, hmm?”

They begin a discussion of what type of wood is best for a paddle. She maintains that one should use a bamboo cane if caning is the fetish to be indulged (rattan breaks too easily), but more springy types of wood are best for paddles, some give is needed when timber meets flesh. He spanks me twice more and I will myself to stillness. Normally when he spanks me his thigh rests between my legs, and I rub my swollen labia against it - one sensation causing another – and he hits me as much as he deems necessary (or until I say the safe word) and it is followed by wordless panting rough doggy-style fucking, as the antecedent activity has inflamed us entire. He might even dig his fingers into my reddened skin and it hurts – it all hurts – until the pressure is finally relieved. Sometimes I cry during orgasm, and after, as he holds me, the tip of his tongue seeking the tears.

“Oh sweetheart, Daddy loves you, but you are such a wicked girl, aren’t you?”

I always sleep so well after a good spanking, my innocence redeemed at point of punishment.


Oddly enough, the solution comes to me as I am channel-surfing and a scene from Forrest Gump flashes across the television screen. I keep clicking, as my man is of the opinion that the film is sentimental rubbish, but the image of the table-tennis paddle remains in my mind. A few days later I wander into a sporting goods store and the plastic rackets I find disappoint me. I inquire after wooden paddles and am informed that they still exist, but I should try a certain shop in Chinatown to find them.

“How about a leather paddle?” he asks over dinner that evening. “It seems more…sensible.”

I frown. “It should be wooden.”

He leans forward on his elbows, his lips pursing slightly with mischief.

“What is it which haunts you as to be so specific about this?”

I had been spanked as a child, I recall it vaguely…but how indeed did it flip so thoroughly in its’ orientation?

“I think it has something to do with what I didn’t have…no male authority figure to individuate from, and I can’t emotionally evolve beyond that point.”

He chuckles and spears a green bean. “I shouldn’t have pried…such a clinical viewpoint takes the fun right out of it.”

“What if I say…I want my daddy!?”

Our eyes meet and his stare penetrates my most vulnerable space…I cannot refuse him when his brown wide-eyed gaze finds mine, whatever the circumstance.

“Daddy’s here, sweetheart, to fill all your empty spaces.”

The innuendo makes me snicker like a schoolgirl…which is precisely the point.


I find a shop devoted to pingpang and surprise my man with a classic wooden paddle. He frowns at the sandpaper-like surface of the blade.

“I could see one or two swats being enough to teach a lesson, but more than that is going to actually pain you, love.”

“Try it. Please?”

We are already naked, and soon on our knees in the bed, the position assumed, and when he lands the blow the room echoes with a crack.

“Oh now our neighbors think I’ve taken to beating you, I’m sure.”

“They’ll look for signs: a certain skittishness in my reactions, bruises –“

Another crack, but slightly softer. The paddle does not render a sting like the one purchased at The Wicked Whip, but it feels more appropriate. I whisper pomegranate and he tosses it aside. I kiss the blade and he makes a sound of breathy derision.

“Can’t do it.”

I sit up, turning around, and it’s true. He’s totally flaccid, and as he is uncircumcised I have to bite my lip to keep from giggling at the sight…yet another example of our cultural divide.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think we’ve exited the realm of play, sweetheart. And you know I love to play, ever since you brought me ‘round to the concept, but this is too real.”

“I know I can find one that works.” I wrap myself around him, pull him down on top of me. “What do you want – name it – in exchange for your continuing patience?”

It’s a tough call – he does what he pleases, always – but one of our games involves me showing a certain reluctance towards suggestions, which he then coaxes, cajoles, and teases out of me.

“Hmm, I may be in the mood for some rough trade one night. No refusals allowed.”

We have an affinity for the other’s kinks. He kissed a man at a party once – drunk enough to subdue his embarrassment – because I wanted him to. He wanted to teach me how to smoke a cigar and I agreed to please him. He spanks me because it pleases me. I try, despite feeling unworthy of the task, to pretend to be a certain type of anonymous male partner…as that kiss apparently awakened something within him which he does not care to acknowledge, and yet, can’t stop thinking about. So I stand in for the stranger he kissed and felt curious enough about to do more.

“Could you paddle a guy with this?” I ask.

A smirk. “Only if he thinks he’s too good to suck my cock.”

“How could anyone even conceive of such a thing?”

“Some people are just so willful,” he replies, and pinches my ass. “But not you, young lady.”

“Oh no, sir,” I say, and bring him back to life with my obedient mouth.


The quest, the obsession, seeps into our other life, the one in which we cannot show our full affection lest we be cut off from the world entire, the world which does not care for smug affinity. We have dinner with friends and after the meal sit outside on the patio, swatting away mosquitoes, and my man is called upon to provide the remedy, as I remove a square tin and butane lighter from my purse.

“God yes, before they all descend on your head and have a feast!” our host, who possesses a full head of hair, proclaims jokingly.

The wife also makes a crack about balding, causing my man to rub his shiny pate with a self-deprecating smirk, and the situation plus the wine I drank with the meal gives me a flush of boldness.

“He doesn’t need hair, he has better things to do with his androgen than grow hair, believe me.”

A chorus of knowing chortles greets my assertion and he gently wags a finger at me.

“Young lady,” he whispers, mock-stern, “Daddy spank.”

The way he phrases the words, ends it with a hard ‘k,’ the hushed tone of playful menace, renders the crotch of my panties soaked in an instant. He sits back and lights a cigar, his raised eyebrows giving his already round face additional symmetry as he waits for my reaction. I am blushing, though perhaps it’s difficult to discern in the ambient light of the patio. A few puffs and then he hands it to me and I take a mouthful of bluish smoke, the taste on my tongue largely vanilla, then the more earthy acridness of the tobacco itself. I exhale it at the bugs, far more inelegant than he, despite his careful teaching. One of the other women sees fit to scold.

“He’s got you into all his vices, doesn’t he?”

We beam, it’s an equal exchange.

“He just makes everything so…tempting.”

More titters, but I’ve probably gone too far, everyone looks embarrassed now, as if they’ve received a glimpse of what it means to be tempted by him. But he gives me a smile, and I smile in return, and we have to remember to turn our attention to the others, though I can’t resist one last comment.

“All it takes is those two words and you can have anything.”

He continues to smile as if he already knew.


“Are you having fun with your new toy? Satisfaction guaranteed.”

Her manner and her demeanor don’t quite match up, I’ve decided. The proprietress of The Wicked Whip is all angular authority, black on black – velvet and leather – but her voice is cheerful and her smile even more so.

“It’s great, but it’s not quite what I want. We’ll keep it but I wondered –“

“Yes?” She tilts her head and her Bettie Page bob swings out on one side, an ebony curtain. I feel decidedly awkward, not because of the subject, but it seems aficionados have better fashion sense, which must make ordinary drab me an imposter.

“I want something like this.” I take the pingpang paddle out of my purse and show it to her.

“Ah yes. There are some who produce a variation on this design, though we don’t carry any of their lines. May I?”

I hand her the paddle and she beats the air with it, in masterful elegant strokes.

“How many times has he used it?”

“Just once. He’s afraid he’s going to hurt me, and so he’s not motivated to try.”

“But you like this type of paddle.”

“Yes. It’s exactly what I want.”

“You don’t want this one. Eventually it will break. However, it’s not an unusual preference.”

She proceeds to tell me – interrupted by the occasional request for nipple clamps and pony harnesses – about a particular type of table tennis paddle, only one side is covered with a rubber surface, the other is plain wood.

“Hinoki wood,” she informs me, “high quality.”

The handle is wide and the blade elongated enough to stand up to more rigorous play, she continues.

“And I mean what you think I mean,” proclaiming with a wink. “You can assuage his fears initially concerning the rubber surface by having him use the unsurfaced side. Eventually, if you want him to use the other side I’ve no doubt you can convince him. However, these paddles are expensive, professional quality, imported from Japan.”

“Money is not an issue.”

She smiles. “Certainly not, when it comes to fulfilling your desire.”

“His too.”

“Of course.”

She writes down an address and phone number. “They sell them. Full retail but oh so worth it, believe me.”

It would be rude to ask how she knows, but I can only imagine. After I thank her, I then think of another question and she smiles her smile of salesgirl complicity and leads me into another room, where we examine various items. I explain the scenario, blushing as I do so, and she helps me select the best accessory. I leave with a bag containing a very lovely toy, a few accessories, and a booklet on use and care. My next stop is a store with the rather whimsical name of Pong World.


I let him find the new toy…leave it lying rather casually on my night table, looking as though it were meant for me rather than what he has requested. The new paddle is placed in the special drawer, but he hasn’t opened it since the debacle. I feign erotic disinterest that night and the next morning, though my affection is still apparent, and it’s difficult to meet his direct stare across the kitchen table as we eat breakfast.

“I’ll be late tonight,” he tells me. “Don’t wait supper on me.”

“Okay.”

Usually when this happens I whine and pout (though not in a serious fashion) and my toes curl at the ruse of indifference. I love my man: it’s easy to be coy, but hard to be cold.

One eyebrow raises as he chews his fried eggs. I keep my eyes on my plate and the silence tells me he’s onto me.

“I might be very late.”

“Oh? Guess I’ll lock the door then.”

“Yes I’m sure you’ll find something to do, hmm?”

I look up and into those eyes, suddenly hot, the sweat then poring forth to cool me. He has a kind face, a sweet face, I thoroughly adore that face…but he can look mischievous when he chooses, even as wicked as he claims me to be.

“Uh-huh.”

He leaves for work before I do, my kiss is purposefully distracted, missing his mouth and I mumble, I am not fully engaged and I wonder if I’m pushing the boundaries of play. He puts his fingertips on either side of my face and focuses my attention.

“Young lady, behave.” A chaste kiss follows and he’s gone.

It’s a signal, it must be. At the very least I hope it stands for please do something to make me punish you.


I hear his key in the lock, I’ve been lying on the bed for hours, waiting. But he is not as late as I thought he might be…neither of us can keep up the pretense effectively, it seems.

But as soon as I discern the rasp of metal I begin masturbating with the new toy. It’s a dildo, one created especially for women who wish to engage in a bit of gender-swap. I have to thread it through the body harness in order to achieve rigidity, otherwise it’s meant to fit over the crotch and can be worn under (presumably baggy) clothing. I know he has seen it, examined it, knows its’ purpose. So I know what his reaction will be, to find me thus.

I am spread wide, my eyes closed, gasping with faint moans, seemingly oblivious to his entrance, but I can hear his footsteps, I know that he is standing in the doorway – I can smell him – and I act as wicked as I need to, in order to spur him towards discipline. I move the toy up and down within me, using slow deliberate strokes, and though my eyes long to open I will not look until he speaks. But my actual arousal continues to build, and after several minutes of the combined activities – pleasuring myself and being observed in the process – I am no longer pretending merely to set the scene.

“Well well…while the cat’s away…”

I open my eyes and his posture is half bemused - leaning in the doorway - and half authoritative, his arms folded across his chest.

I blink my eyes rapidly, and I don’t feel I have to pretend to be embarrassed, there is something inherently daunting about the force of his scrutiny.

“I wondered –“ I stammer between breaths – “what it felt like.”

“And you saved yourself just for that, hmm? Oh I am very disappointed in you.”

He has mastered (though one might observe it is a byproduct of his nationality) the headmaster’s tone, and I have to stop myself from simply begging for the punishment, that is not part of the scenario, ever.

“It’s my toy!”

“Did you just raise your voice to me, young lady?”

“Sorry.” I’ve moved out of my frozen, caught-out position, removing the dildo and sitting up on the bed.

“But not contrite. What am I to do with you? When you so blatantly, brazenly, subvert my authority? What is the purpose of this?” He waves the dildo in my face and I can smell myself: musk, vaguely astringent.

“To give you what you want.”

“And yet you say it’s yours? Are you attempting to imply I am no longer good enough to fuck you?”

“No, I just wanted –“

“Oh I know what you want. You want to undermine me, to upset me. You’re not happy unless you’re plotting mischief, isn’t that right?”

“No! I –“

He puts his hand in my hair and pulls tightly, leans in so that all I see is his face.

“Are you actually arguing with me?”

“No sir.”

“Are you certain? Because it seems very obvious to me that you believe I’m wrong.”

“No sir. You’re in charge.”

“Then why are you undermining my authority?”

“I’m sorry.” He’s not hurting me, but the intensity of the scenario brings tears to my eyes.

“You’re always sorry, aren’t you? Until the next time.”

“I’m sorry!” I choke on a sob.

“Not good enough! I come home to this, to an ungrateful little bitch who’d rather fuck a piece of plastic? You are in trouble!”

There is still a hint of the patrician, but also something I’ve never heard before and my heart hammers to wonder if it’s gotten too real again.

I cry - it’s easy - and fall on my side, curling in on myself.

“Get up on your knees! Now!”

I obey with automatic response. I can hear him taking off his clothes as I sniffle and sob and wipe at my nose. He’s lost his poise and it turns me on more than I could ever articulate. I’m thoroughly wet, he’ll feel it as soon as he puts his thigh against my pussy. I hear the drawer open and an mmm as he takes out the new paddle. He kneels on the bed, assuming his own position, then puts the paddle against my face. The wood smells faintly of lemon.

“It’s got a craving for your disobedient arse. Should I give it a taste?”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

He startles me by hitting me hard. I cry, too quick to be smothered in the pillow.

“Don’t sass me, girl! Answer the question.”

“Yes Daddy.”

Another crack, harder than the one which came before. The sting begins to spread out across my right buttock, hot and tingling. Usually when I receive a spanking he is muttering things between the blows…

wicked (smack) naughty (smack) willful (smack) ungrateful (smack) little bitch
(smack smack smack)

But he only breathes and grunts with each strike and I’ve lost count of how many there are, my ass is going numb and I’m rubbing myself against his leg like a rutting dog. The faster I move the more he hits me, my face is buried in a pillow, and I finally scream as something is loosed within me and fulfillment courses through my body like honey drizzled into hot liquid…the syrupy-thick bliss of orgasm melted by the heat of my arousal and my screams take the shape of pomegranate. He places the paddle carefully on the bedside table, drawing me to him, wet and throbbing, ready for the more exquisite torture of the rod. But the sex is not frenzied. He strokes within me slow as my former tease, and his inflection is astoundingly seductive as he talks to me, still panting from his previous task.

“There, sweetheart…now that’s much nicer than a piece of plastic.”

“Oh yes Daddy.”

I’m climbing the staircase – that’s how I always envision orgasm, a long set of stairs and with every step, every thrust I am ever closer to the door – and then the door opens and it’s like staring into the sun….all blinding light and heat and a long drop back to the ground. My man is so enthralled that he collapses on me when he comes. On the edge of hysteria I start laughing and he does too. He rolls over on his back and I rub his potbelly like I always do, satisfied and adoring.

“Oh Christ, we can’t do that every day, love, I’m much too old for such athleticism.”

“Only when I’m bad.”

“And you were amazingly wicked, young lady, how long had you been planning that?”

I answer from the bathroom, after I pee I examine my butt in the mirror on the back of the door. Like two ripe strawberries. Returning to the bed I see he’s already removing the lid to the jar of body balm we purchased, specifically for post-paddling application.

“Here, let’s see if this helps.”

“You were mad.” I say, poutingly accusatory.

“And you were bad. Quid pro quo.”

“I won’t be able to look at you without grinning like an idiot for weeks now.”

“Me too. I had no idea how much fun it is to be authoritative.”

“And you’re so good at it.” I take hold of his cock, smiling.

“Wicked girl, haven’t you had enough?”

“I think you should use the rod, Daddy, one more time, then I’ll be good, I promise.”

He sighs, and delivers a passionate kiss. “Sweetheart, I fear I shall never beat the spirit out of you, but not for lack of trying.”


And no matter what I say, or do, even if the threat is merely voiced, in that same sexy taunting way…it’s nearly as good as the punishment itself, though I melt quick as wax to the flame to hear Daddy spank. But we bring the paddle wherever we go, as though it is an equal partner in our relationship. We kiss it goodnight after we play, Daddy and his little girl.

She was right, the domina, it was easy to convince him to progress to the other side…

….once it had developed a taste for his ass too. Quid pro quo.