“I’m ready for my close-up, Sir,” I whispered to Spencer across the kitchen.
Spencer paused as he returned the lemonade pitcher to the fridge. The fridge door partly obscured his face, but his grin was unmistakable. Then he put on his stern face before closing the door and looking towards me.
I stood at the entry to the kitchen wearing a gray tee shirt and no panties. “As if expecting a whipping!” he said, quoting a favorite line from a spanking novel. He knew full well that I was expecting at least a paddling and maybe a whipping too.
I’d already seen the new paddle prototypes set on the couch in our home library, our favorite spot for spankings. The paddles were an oversized spatula design. We’d found a vintage version in the cookware section of an antique shop and Spencer asked me if I remembered seeing such spatulas in old spanking videos. I didn’t. “I’ll make us one,” he said. “Maybe that will help you remember.” I’d responded with, “Probably not,” blushing and a little flustered that I didn’t recall ever seeing anything like this unusual spatula. He stealthily patted my backside in the store. “We’ll see,” he had said at the time. “Oh, we’ll see.”
Standing half-naked in front of Spencer, the time to see was now. He pointed his finger towards the library and made a little motion sending me in that direction. He followed closely behind.
He had prepared two paddles, one made from bright, stingy Cherry and the other from warm, tingly Raintree. I knew the woods without asking. Closing the door behind him, Spencer advised, “It’s time for your spanking, young lady. A product test is still a good, hard paddling, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Sir,” I said, unable to hide the excitement in my voice. We’d been busy in the weeks leading up to this and my backside was pale, primed, and ready. Nonetheless, I was nervous as well. New implements are always a little scary, aren’t they? Will it hurt? Of course it will. Will I die? Probably not. Will I want more? Almost assuredly.
“Well, bend over then,” he said. “You may use your pillow.”
I grabbed my oversized bolster, pressed my hips to it, and placed my elbows on the couch. I arched, presenting my bottom for product testing punishment. My only crime was marrying a paddle-maker, but I was two decades too late to mend my ways.
“Cherry first,” he said, picking up the thinner, lighter, and stingier of the two paddles.
The swat was quick and the sting was sharp, but faded as quickly as it came. I wiggled a little to get my bearings. He knew my routine and placed his empty hand on my lower back, then lifted the paddle to strike again.
This time, he didn’t stop after one stroke. Left, right,
left, right, the swats came quickly but not too hard. I could practically feel
the pink rising to my cheeks. After a dozen, he paused to let me catch my breath.
He circled the flat surface of the paddle over both cheeks, massaging while
teasing more strokes by quickly pulling away, then returning to caress again. I
gave a quick nod of my head: more, please.
Spencer paused. “Too much?” he asked, more teasingly than tenderly. He answered himself, “No, you can take some more.”
The paddling resumed, as did my fussing and mumbling “ow-ow-ow” into my cushion. True confession, I love the sounds I make when I’m being spanked and sometimes the sounds of pain turn me on as much as the spanking itself. Although the sting was intense, I knew I could take it for some time. That didn’t prevent me from bemoaning my situation. “It stings, Sir!” I gasped.
“Yes,” he agreed, not missing a beat.
The sting soon felt like a glow and my bottom was fully warmed. He sensed I was ready for the heavier paddle, and he was right. He traded out the Cherry for Raintree and started anew. Naturally, I howled at the first stroke and momentarily stood up. “Sir!” I exclaimed.
He remained silent. I bent back over the bolster and the paddling resumed. The Raintree brought a deeper, more intense sensation than the Cherry. With more strokes, I began to feel it in the muscles of my cheeks, as if the flesh had only just realized it was under attack and was tensing for further assault. There was pain, but also the underlying pleasure of warmed-up skin no longer processing sting. Now, the deeper flesh of the backside began to accept each punishing stroke with gratitude.
The little murmurs of pain I’d been muttering became the sighs of a bottom crossing over into sub-space, welcoming the paddling, no longer wishing for it to end. Spencer paused to assess. When he spoke, his voice was lower, huskier. He, too, had crossed over into a space of deeper experience. “Twelve more,” he said. I nodded. “Count them,” he advised.
The first stroke of twelve arrived on my backside like an explosion of fireworks. There is something about Raintree that feels both bright and dark, like color behind closed eyes. I couldn’t help it; I let out a louder yelp than I’d intended. Then, recovering: “One, thank you, Sir,” I said, quietly and quickly.
The second, third, and fourth strokes continued at the same intensity and rhythm. I counted each aloud. The fifth was fiercer than expected; I stood up then bent back down, and tears finally sprung to the ready. The sixth stroke coaxed the tears from my closed eyes. I kept counting.
He lightened up just a little for strokes seven through nine, sensing I was reaching the zenith of what I could handle for sensation that day. My breath had started to tremble; the tears were flowing freely now. The tenth stroke came harder, but I took it well. “Final two,” he told me.
The strokes were hard and intense, but much like the finale of a fireworks show, the bright colorful explosions on my bottom were spectacular. After stroke number twelve, I let my weight fall onto the bolster, crying from the release.
Spencer sat next to me and took me into his arms. “You did so well,” he said, kissing my face and stroking my hair. “That’s my good girl.”
I pressed into him. “Thank you, Sir,” I said. “For my spanking, I mean.” Then, already shifting back into myself. “Those are so good. You did so good.”
“So did you,” he grinned. “I love this Raintree,” he said, looking down at the paddle he’d just placed next to the Cherry on the couch.
“But the Cherry, too,” I answered, nodding. “I might have been happy taking just the Cherry.” I reached over to stroke it.
He picked the Raintree back up admiringly and laughed. “Raintree,” he said again. “Don’t make me fight you over it!”
I laughed with him then picked up the Cherry and held it pointing in his direction like a sword. “A lover’s spatula?”
He nodded. “A Lover’s Spat. I may have secretly already named it that.”
“Me too,” I confessed. We put our paddles back down and he picked up his phone, flipping immediately to the camera. “Back over that bolster, young lady! I believe you said you were ready for your close-up.”
“Well, now I am,” I answered, rubbing my bright pink
backside. I took my place over the bolster once again.
I hope you enjoyed reading about our first experience testing The Lover's Spat spanking paddles. Want your own? Come visit us at LittleRedSpanking & LRSToys! All pieces are handmade-to-order right here in our Arizona workshop. Custom requests welcome!
International Orders & Etsy Shoppers: littleredspanking.etsy.com
US Orders: LRStoys.com (our own Shopify site)
