The impatient tap of the paddle on her open palm swept through me: a cold chill of sobriety mixed with the sizzling expectation of anticipation and excitement. It always did that, and she knew it.
She stood there, feet slightly apart in her work suit, holding the weapon with the eager expression I knew so well; her mouth curled slightly as the leather slapped against her skin, staring at my naked body. Waiting. Demanding.
"Come on!" She snapped. "Bend over."
I hesitated: sure, the scarlet paddle was nowhere as painful as the cane, the hairbrush or the tawse, it still hurt and my darling wife was never in the mood to hit gently. We were in a race, and she was determined to play.
The race to 2,000 spanks in fact. An Internet meme she joined with fellow perverts on the 'net, to spank their subs two thousands times: capped at 100 hits a day, we had made excellent progress towards the total. Just one last ton stood between me and victory.
She'd tweeted after every session: the pink hue of my buttocks were often adorned with scarlet splotches or red stripes. She adored that it hurt me to sit, loved my cries and pleading for her to stop.
Only "no" meant "hit harder" to her. Sobs and yells of desperation drove her arousal, and my loving sadist delighted in my pain. It drove her pleasure, and unless I squealed my safeword, there was nothing going to stop me from receiving those hundred spanks.
I bent over the arm of the chair: her favourite position for admitting beatings to my bare arse. I felt the glare of her gaze. I felt the cool leather against my warm skin. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, as I waited.
She loved to make me wait; the tension of the moment filling my soul as I closed my eyes. That was in the slave contract I signed: I must never look at her inflicting a punishment unless I am told to. She believes it heightens the pain. There are many things in my contract: nakedness at all times in the house and garden, domestic servitude, and submitting myself to her whims. And this was one of her whims.
Nineteen days had come and gone, and I had received hundreds of spanks every one of those days; alas only a hundred of them ever counted.
She varied her implement. From her blunt palm, to the stout cane and agony of the tawse. She kept me guessing, she loved to. All part of the games we played.
And if she loved making me squirm, it was nothing compared to the empowerment she felt as my body erupted into a ball of pain, yells and torment. She lived for those moments: in truth we both did.
The lull. I knew what's coming, but I can do nothing about it, waiting for her to make her move. I'm helpless, lying over the leather armchair as she inhales deeply. It's coming ... I can feel every swish of air over my erect hairs.
I held my breath as she smashed the leather paddle against my slouched body. Nothing ever prepares me for the first strike: not a gentle tap or stout hit, but a ferocious slam of paddle against my healing skin.
Profanity escapes from my lips as my senses erupt: I feel as magma has been poured into my senses as she cackles sadistically. "One!"
The second hurts even more, landing on top of the burning abuse I've already suffered; I grip the edge of the chair, squealing in agony. Begging for mercy is hopeless: she wants to make me explode into teary sobs. "Two!"
