My Redheaded Married Slut Begged

My Redheaded Married Slut Begged for the Spoon

I’ve always known I was wired differently. The first time I felt that rush—the one that starts in your gut and shoots straight to your cock—was when I was nineteen, watching some forgotten late-night movie where a stern professor bent a mouthy student over his desk and laid into her with a ruler. The sound, the way her skirt flipped up, the sharp cracks echoing, her little gasps turning into whimpers… I was rock hard in seconds and didn’t even know why. That was the night the adult spanking fetish sank its teeth into me and never let go.

Years later, here I am, thirty-five, successful enough that nobody questions why I work from home most days, and I still get that same electric jolt every time I think about putting a grown woman over my knee like she’s been bad—because she wants to be bad, because she needs the sting, the shame, the way it makes her pussy drip before I’ve even pulled her panties down.

Last weekend was one of those nights I’ll jerk off to for months.

Her name is Claire. Thirty-two, married (unhappily, obviously), curvy little redhead who answered my discreet ad looking for “women curious about real disciplinary spanking—no sex required.” That’s always my hook. I never promise sex. Half the time they beg for it by the end anyway.

She showed up in a knee-length skirt, white blouse, heels—secretary cosplay without admitting it. Nervous laugh, fingers twisting the wedding ring she hadn’t taken off. I let her stand in my living room for a full five minutes while I sat on the couch and just looked at her. Silence is the first punishment. You can watch the guilt crawl over them.

“You’ve been dishonest with your husband,” I said finally. Not a question.
Her cheeks went scarlet. “I… yes.”
“And you think you can just confess to a stranger and that makes it okay?”
“No, sir.” The “sir” slipped out on its own. Perfect.

I crooked a finger. She walked over like she was on a tightrope. When she was close enough I took her wrist—not rough, just firm—and guided her straight across my lap. She gave one startled squeak, then settled, round ass perfectly presented over my right thigh, toes barely brushing the carpet.

I started slow, because I always do. Palm on the skirt first, light warm-up taps, letting her feel how helpless she is. After thirty or so I gathered that skirt and flipped it up to her waist. Plain white cotton panties—God, I love when they try to be “good girls” right up until the moment they’re not.

Each confession got a harder smack. By the tenth she was squirming, thighs rubbing together, little damp spot already forming on those innocent panties. I hooked my fingers in the waistband and peeled them down slow, exposing that creamy skin turning pink under my hand. The air smelled like warm female and nervous arousal.

I spanked her properly then—steady, heavy swats that had her gasping and kicking. Her ass went from pink to red to that deep, glowing crimson that makes my cock throb against her hip. She was crying openly by the time I paused, snotty little sobs that just made me harder.

I let her hang there, panting, while I traced the heat radiating off her skin.

“Stand up.”
She struggled to her feet, panties tangled at her knees, skirt still bunched. I pointed to the corner.
“Nose to the wall. Hands on your head. You stay there until I decide you’ve learned something.”

Twenty minutes. That’s all it took before the quiet tears turned into soft, desperate whimpers of need. When I finally called her back she practically threw herself over my lap again, begging—actually begging—for more.

This time I made her count. Every swat she had to say “Thank you, sir, for correcting me” in that broken, horny voice. By thirty she was grinding against my thigh like a bitch in heat, slick smearing my jeans. I slid two fingers straight into her cunt without warning and she came with a wail, clenching so hard I felt it in my wrist.

Did I fuck her? Of course I did. Bent her over the arm of the couch, sore red ass high in the air. I made her hold her own cheeks apart while I fed every inch into that soaked, punished pussy. She kept saying “I’m sorry, I’ll be good” even while she was pushing back to take me deeper. When I came I pulled out and painted those glowing cheeks, watched my cum drip down over the welts I’d left.

She left walking funny, panties in her purse, promising she’d be back next month with a new list of sins.

That’s the thing about the adult spanking fetish—it’s never just about the pain. It’s about the surrender. It’s about taking a grown woman with a mortgage and a LinkedIn profile and reducing her to a sniveling, soaking mess who needs her ass beat until she remembers who’s in charge. And the dirtier part? I need it just as bad.

Sometimes I’ll have them write lines beforehand—hundreds of “I will not masturbate without permission” while I watch. Sometimes it’s the belt, doubled over, that heavy thwack that leaves perfect tramlines across their sit spots. Sometimes it’s the hairbrush—wooden, unforgiving—until they’re dancing on their toes and promising anything if I’ll just stop.

One woman—fifty-one, VP at a bank—books a hotel suite once a quarter. I make her strip to stockings and garter belt, kneel, and read her performance review out loud while I cane her. Six of the best for every “area of improvement.” Last time she had twelve. She cried so hard her mascara ran like war paint, then crawled over and sucked me off with a gratitude that still makes my knees weak.

The adult spanking fetish isn’t some childish game. It’s raw. It’s confession and absolution with my handprint branded across your skin. It’s the moment she realizes she’s safe enough to let go completely, to be small and bad and punished and forgiven all at once.

And for me? It’s the purest high there is—watching a grown woman’s dignity melt under my palm until all that’s left is heat, tears, and the slick proof that pain and pleasure aren’t opposites at all.

Claire texted me yesterday: “I did it again. Same guy. Worse this time.”
I smiled and typed back: “Saturday. 8 p.m. Bring the wooden spoon from your kitchen. You’re going to feel this one for a week.”

I’m already half-hard just thinking about it.