My Dirtiest Erotic Spank Confession

My First Real Erotic Spank Fetish Awakening – I Still Jerk Off To

I still remember the exact moment I admitted to myself that I had an erotic spank fetish. It wasn’t some slow realization; it hit me like the first hard smack she ever gave me.

Her name was Lena. Three months of raw, sweaty, no-strings fucking that left bruises on my hips and bite marks on her shoulders. One night she had me face-down on her bed, wrists pinned above my head with one hand while she rode my cock from behind like she owned it. I was moaning into the pillow when she suddenly pulled out, leaving me empty and desperate.

Before I could protest, her palm cracked across my left ass cheek so hard the sound bounced off the walls.

I gasped. My whole body jerked. And my cock; already leaking; throbbed harder than it ever had in my life.

She laughed, low and filthy. “Oh, you like that, don’t you, baby?”

Another smack, harder, right cheek this time. The sting bloomed hot and bright, racing straight to my balls. I pushed my ass up without thinking, begging for more like a slut. She gave it to me; ten, fifteen, twenty open-handed slaps that turned my skin from pale to pink to angry red. Every impact was perfect: sharp enough to make my eyes water, deep enough to make my hole clench around nothing. I was humping the mattress, dripping pre-cum in a sticky puddle, whimpering her name.

That was the night I became a complete spanking slut.

After that, it was all I could think about. I’d be in meetings and feel my cock twitch remembering how she made me count every stroke out loud, voice cracking on the higher numbers. I started craving the ritual: the scolding first, the slow strip, the way she’d make me stand in the corner with my punished ass on display before she’d let me crawl back to her. I wanted her to tell me I’d been bad, that I deserved every burning slap, that only good boys who take their punishment get to come.

One weekend she told me to bring “toys.” I showed up with a thick leather belt, a wooden hairbrush, and a paddle with holes drilled in it (because I’d read online that it hurts so much more). She raised an eyebrow, smirked, and said, “Someone’s been doing his homework.”

She started slow; classic OTK on the couch, jeans and boxers yanked to my knees, her warm thighs under my stomach. Hand first, always. Smacks rained down left-right-left-right until I was rocking into her lap, cock trapped between her legs, sliding against the rough denim. I was already begging; please harder, please don’t stop, I’ll be good, I swear.

Then the hairbrush. Fuck. The first crack took my breath away. Dense, unforgiving, perfect oval bruises. She painted my ass cherry red while I kicked, sobbed, and thanked her for every stroke. By the time she switched to the paddle I was a wreck; tears, snot, drooling on her thigh, cock so hard it hurt. The holes sent little bursts of extra pain like lightning. I lost count around thirty. All I know is I came untouched, spurting thick ropes all over her jeans while she kept paddling me through every spasm, milking me dry.

But the belt; that’s my ultimate weakness. She made me bend over the arm of the couch, legs spread wide, hands gripping the cushions. She folded it double, snapped it once in the air just to watch me flinch, then laid into me. Thick, heavy strokes that wrapped around my cheeks and made me scream into the pillow. Welts rose instantly; hot, raised, perfect. Between lashes she raked her nails over them, shoved three fingers in my mouth and made me suck while she beat me more. I was crying real tears by the end, but my cock was leaking again like the traitor it is.

When she finally dropped the belt she didn’t let me come a second time right away. She made me kneel, face pressed to the floor, welted ass high in the air, and lick her boots clean while she smoked and admired her artwork. Only when I was shaking and begging like a desperate whore did she flip me onto my back, straddle my face, and ride my tongue until she flooded my mouth. Then; finally; she jerked my aching cock rough and fast and let me explode while whispering:

“This is what happens to dirty boys with an erotic spanking fetish. They get beaten until they cry… and then they get to come like the greedy little pain sluts they are.”

I’ve been chasing that high ever since. Different women, different tools; riding crops that leave razor-thin lines, canes that make me see stars, thick strap-ons she uses after she’s already bruised me raw (because a thoroughly punished hole takes cock so much better). Sometimes playful teasing swats while I’m buried inside her, or brutal hours-long sessions that leave me marked for a week and walking funny.

But every single time that first smack lands, I’m gone. Lost in the burn, the humiliation, the way pain flips into the purest, filthiest pleasure I’ve ever known.

I’m not ashamed anymore. I crave it. I need it. I dream about the next time someone bends me over, tells me I’ve been bad, and turns my ass into a canvas of handprints, welts, and tears.

Because nothing; absolutely nothing; makes me come harder than a long, hard, merciless erotic spanking.