Racing to 2000 Spanks

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!"

My yells for the third smash into my senses has her laughing; her evil amusement swelling my horniness and my cock with depraved lust. She's laughing at me: savouring my pain, my agony and my torment.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes," I squealed.

I heard the rise in her voice as she hummed; the malevolence that dripped from her laugh as she powered the paddle against my abused rump again, and again, panting as she launched a full-on assault on my backside.

I barely had time to breathe, screaming with every slam of her weapon on my skin. I begged for a respite. Pleaded with her, as my skin blazed with agony. It burnt. Every strike from my loving wife tore through my skin.

"Seventy," she cried as tears streaked down my face.

"Eighty," she muttered a few seconds later as my throat felt dry from all the yelling.

"Ninety!" I asked her to slow down: my goal was in sight as I squeezed my fingertips into the black leather chair. "Slow down," she scoffed, ignoring my pleas as her paddle continued to batter my backside with impunity. The red-hot pain was excruciating; this was not a normal paddling, this was dozens of hard, furious hits. She was trying to knock me into the following week, and I had resisted giving her my safe word. This was not normal. "Hurt too much?"

"Yes!" I screamed, as the last hit lit my flesh on fire. "Yes!"

"I'll stop then," she offered with a sigh. "On ninety-nine."

"But that's ..."

"What you asked for," she finished for me, throwing her leather paddle on the armchair.

"But I won't win. It means I'll be on one thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine. One away. Oh but ... please ..."

"So you want to be spanked now?" She asked, picking up the paddle again. "Right, I've lost count. Start again from one."

I groaned. But this was all part of her games. There was no way I was going to finish the race for 2000 spanks with anything other that a very damaged bottom.

And I wouldn't want it any other way.