Kitchen Rules and the Paddle Spanking That Enforced Them

Sofia_xx
Sep 9
3 min read

The kitchen clock ticked past eight, and the sink was still full. I’d promised - twice - that the dishes would be done after dinner. Instead, I sat curled on the couch, scrolling my phone, pretending the clatter of silverware piled high didn’t exist.

When he walked in and saw the mess, the silence that followed was worse than shouting. He looked at the sink, then at me. Calm. Measured.

“I told you what was expected.”

I fumbled. “I was going to...”

“You were told. You chose not to.” He disappeared into the hallway, returning with the paddle—smooth wood, long handle, no nonsense. He placed a chair in the middle of the kitchen, its legs scraping across the tile.

“Stand up.”

My stomach dropped. “Wait... I’ll do them now...”

“You’ll do them after,” he said firmly. “Over my knee.”

Heat rushed to my face as I stood, my phone slipping from my hand. Slowly, I lowered myself across his lap, my palms braced against the cold tile, the scent of dish soap sharp in my nose. His arm settled across my back, anchoring me in place.

The first swat from his hand landed hard, sharp enough to steal my breath. Another followed, then another, each one louder in the echo of the kitchen. He didn’t speak at first. Just spanked, steady and deliberate, until my bottom burned.

Then he set his hand aside and reached for the paddle. The sound alone made my chest tighten.

“This,” he said, tapping it lightly against me, “is for ignoring clear instructions.”

The first strike landed with a crack that filled the kitchen. I gasped, my legs kicking out before I could stop them. The paddle bit deeper than his hand, spreading the sting wide and hot. A paddle spanking was no joke.

“Count them,” he ordered.

My voice shook. “One.”

Crack. “Two.”

By five, tears blurred my vision. By eight, my voice cracked. By ten, I was breathless, my backside blazing with heat.

He set the paddle on the counter, his arm steadying me as I stood on trembling legs. “Skirt up. Panties down. Corner. Ten minutes.”

I froze. “Please...”

“Now.”

Shame burned hotter than the sting as I shuffled to the far corner of the kitchen, skirt lifted, panties at my knees. The wall was cool against my nose, the air cold across my punished skin. I could hear him moving (running water, stacking dishes) but he left me there, exposed and humiliated, a reminder of what I’d earned.

Every second felt stretched thin. My face flamed, my legs ached, and the thought of anyone walking in made my stomach twist. The sting across my bottom pulsed with every heartbeat, impossible to ignore.

Finally, his voice cut through the silence. “Pull your panties up. Come here.”

I obeyed, face still hot, tugging the fabric into place with shaking hands.

He stood tall, arms crossed. “What’s the rule?”

“When you tell me to do something, I do it,” I whispered.

“And if you don’t?”

“I get the paddle.”

He nodded once, satisfied. “Now finish the dishes. Properly.”

Every clink of the plates in the sink reminded me of the paddle’s bite, and I knew the lesson would follow me long after the last dish was dried.