I have a large wooden paddle that I like to call “the scene-ender”. I only use it at the end of scenes, and I swing it hard, and it hurts like hell. It was a gift, one that I’ve had for more than seven years now. It’s not quite what I wrote in this scene from “Julianna and the Realtor”, but it’s close.

I started lightly slapping between Julianna’s thighs, making sure to angle my fingers so that I got close to her clit each time. She figured out what was going on and closed her legs around my hand, but I reached back and… well, normally I’d have grabbed her hair to make her open to me, but she was wearing a wig, so I settled for digging my fingers into the hollow of her shoulder, almost pinching her trapezius muscle. She squealed and tried to pull away, but that just made me grip tighter, until finally she growled and opened her legs.

I rewarded her with a hard, firm whack! right between them, still not letting go of her shoulder. 

“Okay, okay!” She whined out the words; I knew she was in pain. “Stop, please!”

“‘Stop’ isn’t a safeword,” I reminded her, not ungently, and added yet another smack! that I could swear made her shiver with delight.

“Fuck you,” she growled.

“Fuck you,” I said right back, and pushed two fingers into her again. This time I pressed down on her g-spot and she moaned, loud and low. I let go of her shoulder and she sighed with relief, a sigh that got cut short as I fucked her with my fingers. I allowed her to start getting into it and then I took my hand away and, trailing my fingers over her back to keep contact, went around to the bed and took out a paddle that I call “the scene-ender.” It was huge, two feet long, six inches wide, and more than half an inch thick, with two rows of large, beveled holes and a handle that fit my grip perfectly. 

When I tapped it against Julianna’s backside, she jolted as if I’d swatted her. “Can you take ten?” I asked.

This was a negotiation we did every time I used this implement. I only took it out when I knew she was ready for it, but I wanted her to experience the dread of choosing her own fate.

“Four,” she countered.

“Seven.”

“Six.”

A long pause before her reply. “Six.”

“Good girl.” I tapped her bottom again. “Ready?”

She nodded and grabbed on tight to the spanking bench.

I didn’t give her a chance to prepare more than that. I swung the paddle in a wide arc and it crashed into Julianna’s ass with a terrific crack!

“Owwwww! Fuck!”

Crack! 

I wasn’t in the mood to give her recovery time. I wanted to overwhelm her.

Crack! 

She let out a howl of pain. When I pulled back for another swing, I saw bruises starting to form on her ass. Good.

Crack! Crack!

Oh, she hated when I did that, but I loved it. She kicked her feet and almost — almost — sobbed for real. We’d been together long enough that I could tell the difference.

Of course, I was fine with either real or fake tears. Both turned me on immensely.

“One more,” I said, rubbing Julianna’s back with my free hand. “You can take one more.”

I didn’t get any response beyond a sharp nod.

I drew back almost like I was about to smash a tennis ball across the net.

I smashed the paddle across her backside with a loud, heavy whap!

Julianna followed it up with the loudest “owwwww!” I had heard in quite some time, but she also slumped on the bench, going almost boneless. There was a large, dark-red mark right in the center of her bottom, covering a good portion of both sides, and I knew she would have a lovely purple bruise tomorrow.

But that was tomorrow. For right now, I helped her off the bench and we climbed onto the bed. It was queen-sized, more than big enough for the two of us; I held her in my arms, her ass not touching the comforter or anything else, and even as I felt her heartbeat thundering through me I knew her backside was throbbing in time.