Paddled the Arrogant Lawyer Till She Begged

My Paddle Broke the Ice-Queen Lawyer

The first time I ever made a grown woman cry from a spanking and then thank me while her thighs were still trembling, I understood that the adult spanking fetish isn’t a kink. It’s a calling.

Her name was Victoria, but I never used it. From the moment she stepped through my door she was simply “young lady,” “little girl,” or, when she was really in trouble, “you filthy little thing.” She was forty-one, divorce lawyer, the kind of woman who destroys men for a living. Six-foot-one in her heels, ice-blonde hair always twisted up like she was ready for court, mouth that could make a judge blush. She found my private listing and wrote me a message that was half challenge, half plea: “I need someone who won’t flinch when I fight back.”

I didn’t flinch.

She arrived on a Thursday night in January, snow still clinging to her long black coat. Underneath, a charcoal suit skirt and silk blouse the color of fresh cream. No jewelry except the wedding band she’d been divorced from for three years but still wore like a dare. I took the coat, hung it up, and told her to stand in the middle of the rug.

“Hands behind your head. Elbows out. Don’t speak until I tell you.”

She obeyed instantly, but her eyes were pure venom. Good. I like the ones who hate me at the start.

I walked a slow circle around her, letting the silence stretch until I could almost hear her pulse. Then I stopped behind her, close enough that she felt my breath on the back of her neck.

“You’ve been bullying people again, haven’t you, young lady?”
A tiny snort. “It’s my job.”
“Not tonight.”

I reached around and unbuttoned her blouse one button at a time, slow enough that she could have stopped me. She didn’t. When it hung open I slid it off her shoulders and let it drop. Black lace bra, expensive, doing its best to contain breasts that clearly didn’t need permission for anything. I unhooked it with two fingers and tossed it on the chair. Her nipples stiffened the second the air hit them.

Still behind her, I unzipped the skirt and let it pool at her feet. Matching black lace panties and sheer stockings held up by a garter belt. I left those on. For now.

“Step out of the skirt. Good. Now walk to the couch and bend over the arm. Palms flat on the cushion. Legs apart.”

She moved like she was gliding to the gallows, spine straight, chin high. The second her palms touched the leather I kicked her feet wider. She gasped, but didn’t protest. I stood back and just looked—long legs trembling just enough to betray her, that perfect heart-shaped ass framed by lace and garters like a present begging to be ruined.

I started with my hand. Always do. The first smack was light, almost polite. The second was not. By the tenth she was shifting her weight, by the twentieth she was making these tiny angry sounds in her throat, like she couldn’t decide whether to swear at me or moan. I kept going until the lace was warm and her skin glowed pink underneath.

Then I hooked my fingers in the waistband of her panties and peeled them down to mid-thigh in one slow drag. She made a strangled noise when the cool air hit her wet pussy—because of course she was soaked already. I let her feel how exposed she was for a long moment before I laid the first bare-bottomed smack across both cheeks. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot. She jerked forward, fingers clawing at the leather.

I didn’t speak. I just spanked—hard, measured, relentless. Left cheek, right cheek, tops of her thighs, that tender undercurve where ass meets leg. I painted her crimson, watching the color bloom under my palm, watching her arrogance melt one stinging blow at a time. Somewhere around the fiftieth she broke. Not dramatically—just a single, shattered “please” that sounded like it had been ripped out of her chest.

I paused, hand resting on the furnace-hot skin I’d just created.
“Please what, little girl?”
“Please… I don’t know. Just… please.”

I smiled against her hair. “You’ll know soon enough.”

I left her there, bent and burning, and went to the kitchen. Came back with the heavy maple cutting board paddle I keep for special occasions. Her eyes went wide when she saw it. She shook her head, just once, almost imperceptibly. I answered by laying the first stroke right across the fullest part of her ass. The crack echoed like thunder. She screamed into the cushion, whole body bucking.

Six in total. Slow, perfectly placed. By the fourth her legs gave out and she was hanging over the arm of the couch, sobbing openly, snot and tears and mascara smearing the leather. When I finally set the paddle aside her ass was a deep, furious red with darker bruises already rising where the edge had bitten in.

I let her cry it out. Then I crouched behind her, ran both palms gently over the heat, feeling her flinch and shudder.
“Color?” I asked quietly.
She hiccupped. “Green… Sir.”

That word—Sir—coming from a woman who eats weaker men for breakfast, was the single hottest sound I’d ever heard.

I stood up, unbuckled my belt slow enough for the clink to make her tense. She knew what was next. I doubled the leather, rested it across her swollen cheeks, and waited until she was holding her breath.

“Count them. And after each one you’ll say ‘Thank you for teaching me, Sir.’”

The first lash landed with a whistle and a snap. She howled the number, voice cracking. By ten her voice was hoarse, by fifteen she was babbling apologies for every cruel thing she’d ever said in a courtroom, every man she’d ruined, every time she’d touched herself thinking about exactly this. At twenty I dropped the belt and slid three fingers straight into her cunt without warning. She came instantly, violently, squirting down her own thighs and onto my wrist while she sobbed my title like a prayer.

I didn’t let her come down. I spun her around, pushed her to her knees, and fed my cock between those trembling lips still smeared with tears and lipstick. She sucked me like a woman possessed—messy, desperate, grateful—while I gathered her hair in one fist and fucked her throat until drool ran down her chin onto her bruised tits.

When I was close I pulled out, hauled her up by the arm, and threw her face-down over the ottoman. Her ass was so swollen she couldn’t even close her legs properly. I spread her anyway, lined up, and drove into her in one brutal thrust. She screamed again, but pushed back just as hard, meeting every stroke like she was starving for it. I fucked her like I hated her, like I loved her, like I owned her. I spanked her tender thighs with every thrust until she was crying again, until she came a second time so hard her whole body seized and milked me dry.

I stayed inside her after, both of us panting, my chest against her back, feeling the heat still pulsing off her skin.

Eventually I pulled out, turned her over, and gathered her up like she weighed nothing. Carried her to the bedroom, laid her on her stomach on cool sheets, and rubbed arnica into every welt and bruise while she whimpered and hiccupped thank-yous into the pillow.

She stayed the whole weekend.

Friday night I made her wear a short plaid skirt and white knee socks while she cooked me dinner. Every time she bent over I flipped the skirt up and added a few sharp smacks with the spatula. By the time we ate she was sitting on a cushion, squirming, barely able to swallow.

Saturday morning I woke her with my tongue between her legs, licking gently around the bruises until she was begging again. Then I rolled her over and took her ass for the first time—slow, relentless, while she clutched the headboard and cried my name into the mattress.

Sunday afternoon I sat in the armchair and put her over my knee one last time. Light, almost tender swats—just enough to remind her. She cried quietly the whole time, not from pain but from something deeper. When I finished I pulled her panties back up over her sore bottom, smoothed her skirt down, and held her until the tears stopped.

As she was leaving, coat on, makeup fixed, looking every inch the terrifying lawyer again, she stopped in the doorway and turned back.

“I have a settlement conference tomorrow,” she said, voice steady. “I’m going to destroy them.”
I raised an eyebrow.
She gave me the smallest, wickedest smile I’d ever seen. “But first I’m going to sit down very, very carefully and remember exactly who I belong to when I’m not in charge.”

Then she walked out into the snow, hips swaying just a little gingerly, and I stood there hard as steel knowing that in exactly four weeks she’d be back, ready to be stripped down and rebuilt all over again.

That, right there, is the real dirt of the adult spanking fetish: it isn’t about the pain or the sex. It’s about taking a woman who rules the world and giving her the one place where she doesn’t have to. Where she can be small, and bad, and beautifully, perfectly punished until she’s whole again.

And I’ll be waiting with the paddle warmed up and her name already on my lips.