Poor Paddle Disposal Strategy
This is an excerpt from the novel The Rutledge House Ladies by Lizbeth Dusseau:
“I think you’re drunk!” Robert caught his wife’s wrist as he rose from his chair.
“No, please, darling!” Her voluptuous body still oozed with an alluring charm, which normally delighted Robert German. But since he’d been fuming for nearly two hours, he was much too pissed to let sex get in the way of his plans.
“You’re driving drunk again after your license was suspended,” he reminded her with a lethal glare in his bronze eyes.
“No! I’m not drunk at all,” she swore pleadingly. “Just a glass of wine. Honest.”
“You’ve had a half-dozen if you’ve had one.” He pulled her toward the side of the room, opened one closet door in a long line of whitewashed cabinets, and withdrew a ten-inch paddle from its hook. Veronica immediately tried pulling away from his firm grasp of her hand.
“Honey, I’m sorry. It really wasn’t much.” Her worried eyes pleaded for mercy as she gazed at the dreadful thing. There were ten identical holes drilled through the thick surface making it the worst possible implement he could choose.
“Don’t even try. You’ve made me so angry, there’s no way you’re getting out of this.”
“But, darling, really,” she tugged more without results.
“Don’t fight me,” he said with a steely twist in his delivery. Returning to his chair, he sat at the edge of the seat and upended his wife over his lap. Her pale blue dress was short enough for the hem to ride up high on her fleshy thighs, nearly uncovering his target without any effort on his part. But holding her with a firm left hand at her waist, Robert completely bared her ass with one swipe of his right hand. Once her dress was over her hips, he had only to pull down her tiny black panties.
“Oh, please, darling…” She could sound so terribly desperate.
“It’s useless, babe, your bum’s gonna pay tonight.” He loved that term for the female derriere, just as he loved the look of a bright red behind once it had been vigorously punished. Veronica had a fine ass: round, dimpled at the top, its two broad and fleshy cheeks spread out nicely when she was lying over his lap. Often he could glimpse the sex pouch between her thighs. But now her legs were pressed together tightly as though they were locked in position. He chuckled under his breath knowing that would soon change.
With the paddle gripped tightly in his large palm, Robert raised it to shoulder height. “No!” she cried as the first strike smacked her naked rear. He kept on. “Ouch, no, no.” He was peppering her determinedly, with some strikes brisk and others slow. Some were hard, some harder still, and others deliberately lighter as though he were about to quit. By the time he reached the second round of ten, she was flailing, and crying, and gyrating so madly that he had to pause. “I can’t stand it, please.” Her desperate wail sounded so pitiful.
Veronica hated this paddle — no, hated was not a strong enough word. She loathed it, despised it, wished it off the face of the planet every time she was spanked with the damnable thing. Once she tried swiping it from the closet and disposing of it in the trash. When Robert discovered it there — as though he had some sixth sense clueing him in to her scheme (he never fooled with anything once it was in the dumpster), she got the paddling of her life. He could forgive a lot of things and others he let slide; but this overt rebellion was too deliberate a crime not to punish with a most befitting taste of that drilled wood.
“You can stand a lot more than you think,” Robert scolded. “I’m just getting started and we’re in for a long ride tonight.”
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