Audrey here. I am going to be open about my life—more than I have been with anyone, including my husband... and maybe even myself.

My husband Bruce is the love of my life. We met as seniors in college 8 years ago. He swept me off my feet, and we married just after graduation. He's been a terrific provider... and a terrific lover too. And we've become more than just lovers and best friends. He is my entire world, and I would do anything for him, and I'm pretty sure he'd do anything for me too.

Where my story took a little bit of a turn, though, is one morning I was in his apartment (I was spending a lot of nights there), I opened one of the drawers in his dresser, and it turned out to not be the one I was thinking. Inside was a whole collection of... well, paddles and straps and rods and such. Of course, now I know what they were, but then I was pretty puzzled. A couple of them looked like sorority or fraternity paddles but had no markings on them. The rest... well, I could only guess, but that gave me more questions than answers. I picked one of them. It looked like an old-fashioned oval wooden hairbrush, only it had no bristles on it.

I heard his footsteps behind me, and I turned, and he was standing there. He looked a little embarrassed and at a loss for words. He looked away from me and down to the floor for a good couple of seconds. Finally, he spoke. "Well, I didn't think I'd keep it from you forever, certainly."

"What are these... for?" I looked down at the... hairbrush-paddle in my hands and then back at him.

He fumbled for words. "Well... I like to use them..."

There was a little lull in the conversation before he seemed to find the courage to continue, "I like to spank women... my last girlfriend, she liked it... when I spanked her."

I felt a little lightheaded. My brain made up a mental image of him chasing me with his belt and felt a twinge of panic. "Do you want to... use them on me?"

He quickly held up his hands. "No, no. Certainly not."

I felt a little relieved. He lowered his hands. "I mean... Not unless you want me to."

I looked back in the drawer. Unless I wanted him to? I was never spanked by my parents. I'd never even contemplated it. Pain just wasn't... sexy. It was never even part of the conversation. And Bruce wasn't one of those "pull your hair" lovers either. This just seemed so foreign to the man I knew. But I loved Bruce. I loved him so much I'd do anything for him... wouldn't I?

I closed the drawer and decided to defuse the moment by walking up to him and giving him a kiss. "I dunno... Let me think about it. Meanwhile, can I make you some breakfast?"

Over the next few days, I thought long and hard about my discovery and our conversation. Bruce as a sadist? It was so outside the character of him that I knew. But if he really liked to do that sort of thing... If it made him happy... I could try just for him.

It took me a while to gather up the courage to... volunteer, I guess. In truth, I certainly really wasn't very eager. Those things in the drawer... Some of them seemed so severe. How could he use them on anyone? How could I let him use them on me? I finally girded up all of the strength I could muster, invited him over to my apartment, and then sat down with him on the sofa.

"Honey... I've thought about the things... those things in that drawer I found. If you like... that sort of thing... I'm willing to try."

He smiled and asked, "Have you ever been spanked before?"

I shook my head.

"Well... not to put too fine a point on it... It hurts, you know."

"I figured that. But how much?"

"Well... in a way, that's really up to you more than it is me."

I was confused, and it must have shown. He continued, "What I mean is, it's your spanking. I'm just the means of delivering it. It has to take you... where you need to go, and then it's over. I don't know if that makes any sense... but that's the best way I know how to explain it. I'll spank you until you tell me you've had enough."

That was not at all what I expected. This sounded... voluntary. It made me feel better, but I still couldn't see what he would get out of it if I could stop it on my terms.

He spoke again. "Want to give it a try?"

I blinked. A shiver ran down my spine at the idea. But the shiver wasn't all fear; there was a little bit of excitement in it too. I nodded, not quite able to make words.

"Stand up, Audrey." His voice was calm and kind. But it was also firm. The shiver ran through me again, and I felt myself obey and rise up to my feet.

"Now lower your pants down to your knees." The same calm, kind, commanding tone. My hands reached for the button on the front of my jeans, unsnapped them, unzipped the fly and then rucked them down to my knees, with only my comfy boy-short panties preserving my modesty.

"Now lie down across my lap with your hips right here," he said and patted his right thigh. I knelt on the sofa next to him and lowered myself awkwardly down into position. I felt his left hand gently wrap around my waist, holding me in place, while his right hand began to rub little circles on my butt cheeks. I felt the shiver again and this time the trepidation was real - front and center.

"This is going to hurt, Audrey, I know. It's supposed to hurt. But if it gets to be too much, you just say 'stop,' and I promise I will. Ok?"

My voice didn't work properly. What came out was a high-pitched, breathy "Ok."

And then his hand stopped rubbing and disappeared. The entire world and even time itself stopped. And then the sound - a sharp, loud crack and a millisecond later I felt it land on my left cheek - impact, followed by heat. My mouth opened and formed a surprised "O" shape... but no sound came out.

He waited a second, and then repeated it, on the right cheek this time. SMACK... this time I responded with "Ow."

He kept up a slow cadence... once a second or so... SMACK... SMACK... SMACK... Each one brought a new vocalization out of me. It burned and stung in equal measure. But somewhere in the back of my mind there was pride. I was doing this for him, and I was making it through. Even as my eyes began to water just a bit.

I can't be sure, but after a while, I think he ratcheted things up. Each spank started to raise the temperature up just a little more than the first set. The separate "Ouch" and "ow" and "eek" noises I was making morphed into a solid keening whine, and then I heard myself say, "Ok, ok, stop please stop stop stop" and started to cry. But even as I gave myself over to the tears, a distant part of my mind chastised me for stopping, worried it wasn't enough for him.

He stopped instantly and rubbed my poor, abused bottom instead, and his other hand started to rub up and down my back.

"Shh. It's alright, Audrey. That's a good girl. You've taken your spanking, and now it's all over. I'm very proud of you."

His calming words made my heart completely melt. His approval meant more at that moment than anything in my life ever had. My bottom burned like a thousand sunburns, but his hands and soothing voice made me feel safe and cherished. Looking back, I realized it was the same hand that had just finished giving me a painful spanking but was now bringing me back with tenderness and love.

He helped me up and let me sit in his lap with my face buried in his chest, and he held me close, my pants still at my knees, and my bottom still burning. But somehow I felt closer to him than I ever felt with anyone in my life.

I finally stood, pulled up my pants gingerly over my sore bottom, kissed him good night and he went home.

And that was my first spanking. I had to process it for a few days. Yes, it was painful in the moment, but it was not too much to endure. And I knew it made him happy because he told me how proud he was of me after it was over. That approval began to become a drug for me. It was always clear that I could stop him at any point, so I felt safe, but it began to be a challenge for me to see how far I could go for him.

He started ramping up in other ways too. The next spanking he gave me was bare-bottom. It was embarrassing taking my panties down while standing directly in front of him. But it didn't stop there... After a while, he started making me undress completely for my spankings. Now, by that point I had been naked for him more times than I could count, but this was completely different. It was borderline humiliating baring myself for a spanking like a naughty child. But I was doing it for him and his approval, and that was enough to push through the discomfort.

Another change that I can look back on and marvel in retrospect... After telling him to stop that first time, I only ever had to stop him a few times ever. Of course he respected me any time I told him, but we both seemed to move towards the middle, so to speak. I got better at enduring my spankings, and he got better at reading me and knowing exactly where my limits were. It got so that I would be at the point where I could swear the next swat would make me "tap out" and that next one didn't come.

He also began to experiment with his... collection. The first thing he used on me was that "hairbrush" paddle that I had first pulled out. Before he took me over his knee for a warmup spanking, he placed the little paddle in front of my head so I could see it while he spanked me with his hand. Once the first tears began, he ordered me to hand it to him over my shoulder. My hand picked up the implement of my own punishment and handed it back to my personal executioner. He accepted it from me and then positively blistered my bottom with it - alternating painful swats low on each cheek where he knew I'd feel it sitting down for a day or two.

But the biggest change of all was still to come. After more spankings than I could count... as I lay on his lap crying after a paddling he did more than just rub my bottom and back after the spanking. He dipped a finger between my thighs and ran it between my damp pussy lips. For a minute, it didn't even occur to me to wonder what he was up to, but then I felt my pussy wake up under his ministrations. My crying morphed quickly into moaning as he gently fingered me. By that point, he knew pretty well how to "work me over" and he fingered me to a surprisingly hard orgasm while I lay over his lap, and once I had shuddered my way through it he continued his soothing aftercare.

By now, I've felt every implement in his collection - every paddle, strap and rod. I'll never forget the first time I felt what he called his "delrin cane." It was a three-foot-long black plastic rod the thickness of a pencil. After a lengthy warm-up spanking over his knee, he had me stand bent over our dining room table with my feet apart and my chest resting on the table top. He moved behind me, and I felt him tap the rod several times gently on my bottom while I shivered and my stomach became a ball of fear. I heard the "whoosh" and then "SNAP!" I had just enough time to register the sound, and then a line of fire erupted across the center of my ass and I squealed pitifully and dissolved into crying. But despite that, I held on while he gave me a dozen more - a baker's dozen in all - and then picked me up and held me tightly, letting me cry until I had no more tears to give him, all the while telling me what a good girl I was.

That first "aftercare orgasm" moment, I realize now, was a turning point. He didn't always mix pleasure with spankings, but having it be an option made me realize that I had changed as well. My fantasies began to include scenes where I would stand in front of him, and he'd use that calm, kind, commanding tone to order me out of my clothes and over his knee for a spanking... and those fantasies would inspire me to touch myself. It's stunning to think about it now. If you'd have told my former self that I'd get horny fantasizing about getting a painful spanking I'd have called either a priest or a psychiatrist for you.

Even now—despite those rogue fantasies that inexplicably make my pussy tingle—there's no way I’d ever ask for a spanking. And spanking is not the end-all/be-all of our sex life. We have plenty of ordinary sex too. But when he uses that particular tone to say, "Audrey, come here, please," it fills me up with a heady cocktail of contradictions—dread and eagerness, embarrassment and pride... but I'll always answer, "Yes, sir," and follow his commands. It's the gift I give to him in return for the gift he's given me.