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  • Writer's pictureSweet Tea

I’m Making Spanko Butter

The current episode of my life’s spanko sitcom is delighting me. It all started on FetLife a few weeks ago when I asked my spanko friends, “What’s your favorite implement and why?” Among the range of answers I received, one in particular caught my eye. A friend named Cally in the UK told me he likes to spank bare bottoms using kitchenware items called “butter pats.”

“What in the blazes are butter pats?” I wondered, hopping to Google in search of answers. At first, all I could find were pics of the small foil-wrapped butter slices the restaurant people bring out with bread baskets.

That can’t be right, I mused. One cannot spank soundly with chilled butter squares.

With a bit more scrolling, however, I found what I was searching for and OH, were they lovely.

Here’s a basic demonstration of them in action:

As you can see, butter pats are wooden paddle-esque tools sold in pairs. One side is smooth while the other is cut with grooves designed to allow excess buttermilk to drain away during the pressing process. Grocers in Europe also used them to cut pieces from large blocks of finished butter at the request of customers. Some people call them by other names, like Scotch hands, clappers, spades, butter beaters, and butter paddles.

People across the pond apparently grew up seeing groovy butter sticks and balls on breakfast tables throughout the land well into the 20th century. Butter pats are mainly used these days by rare folks who like to make butter at home, but they were once a common item.

As a California yank, this whole phenomenon was new to me. I needed a pair of my own to spank bare bottoms with, and soon.

“What’s so special about them?” you might ask. “Why not just buy another paddle or hairbrush?”

Butter pats appealed to me for a handful of reasons.

  1. The difference in texture on each side would likely create interesting sensations.

  2. Wooden implements are my favorite and I can never have enough.

  3. People use them for non-kinky activities, making them authentically domestic.

  4. They were popular well before I was born, giving them that old-fashioned feel.

  5. They seemed to be just the right size for focusing on sit-spots of squishy cheeks.

“Have a look on eBay or Etsy,” Cally advised. “They’ll have a bunch there.”

Off to Etsy I went on my quest to spend yet more money on my spanking obsession. I quickly discovered Cally was correct. There were all sorts of vintage butter pat pairs to choose from, similar in size and shape. After a bit of deliberation over which to buy, I made my purchase—a set from England carved back in the 1930s—and settled in for the agonizing wait.

Get off your ass, Royal Mail, and bring me what is mine.

But WHO would I christen them with?

Naturally, I’d need a fun play partner to try my new toys out with once they’d made their way to me from across the sea. I also figured, though butter pats are lovely in pairs, that I wouldn’t actually need two in practice. It’d make my heart happier to give one to a fellow spanko who I could trust would put it to good use in the future, ideally on my ass as well as those of other spankees.

With these considerations in mind, I reached out to the eminent Dylan Paine.

Y’all might remember Dylan from this post of days past. The man is an exceptional spanker and smolders with so much sex appeal I can barely stand to look at him. Thick daddy vibes. He’s also a switch with years of experience both topping and bottoming, making him a versatile and particularly knowledgeable play partner.

When my Beautiful Butter Pats arrive, I told myself, tracking the package each day, I’m going to spank that man.

I informed him of my plans for his fate.

Ooh yeah, look at all that sexy consent.

The mean thing about my guessing game, as you may have gathered, is the fact that we don’t have butter pats in America. I’ve never seen butter with ripples here and was pretty sure Dylan hadn’t either. He could guess for days while I swatted his bare behind and never land on the answer. Can’t think of something if you don’t know it exists (mwahahahahhaha).

You shouldn’t feel bad for Dylan though. He’s mischievous, naughty, and well deserving of thorough spankings. Simply put, he’s a bro. Not a basic bro, but a bro nonetheless. You can tell he was probably quite the brat as a kid. Men with the bro affliction are notorious for their resistance to authority, rambunctious partying, offensive jokes, obsession with sports, and general macho shenanigans. Dylan fits that bill, but (luckily for me) lacks the entitlement and misogyny typical of his kind.

I had learned of his bro-ness the first time I went to his house a couple years back. Looking around, it dawned on me what I’d apparently gotten myself into. The protein powder in his kitchen. The stories of ragers with his boys. Bill Burr stand-up on the TV. A bedroom filled with all manner of branded billed hats. All the hallmarks were there. Dear god…

I turned to him, fearful and accusatory.

“Dylan, are you a bro?”

A sly grin grew across his face.

“I’ve been known to bro, from time to time.”

“You’re not a Trump supporter, are you?” I asked with a squint, ready to bolt if necessary.

“No!” he scoffed. “Of course not. He’s a moron.”

Phew. The bro had sense—a green flag for healthy spanko play. ✅

Christmas in July

A week or so after I’d placed my Etsy order, my upstairs neighbor informed me a package had arrived with my name on it. One of my vanilla besties was over drinking with me at time time and watched as I gleefully tore open the box.

“Did you order another spanking weapon?”

“YES!!” I beamed with joy.

I unwrapped the paper inside and finally laid eyes on my new toy for the first time. Enamored, I sighed and my heart skipped a beat.

SO beautiful.

The wood was sturdy and the grooves were prominent. The size was also perfect, with its handles fitting snugly in my tiny hands.

9 in (23 cm) long x 2.5 in (6.5 cm) wide

I gave a test-smack to the back of my thigh with the smooth side. It delivered more sting than thud. I then flipped it over and gave myself another few smacks with the grooved side to check the sensation on my skin. The first word that came to mind was spicy.

Some of the grooves on one of the pats had splinters, which have no business piercing spanked bottoms. That would not do.

Wrong type of ouch.

I made my way to my local hardware store the next day and bought a square of sandpaper to smooth off the splinters, careful not to sand down the overall texture of the grooves themselves.

The day after that, Dylan came over. After kicking it for a while, I lured him to my bedroom.

“Is it time?” he asked, watching me pull a blindfold from my dresser drawer.

“Yes,” I said, smiling.

Time for my game.

I covered his eyes and sat on the edge of my bed, pulling him over my thigh and moving to take his underwear down immediately.

“On the bare already?” he asked.


I had planned not to warm him up at all that day. Doing so could dull his ability to fully feel the unique pain created by the butter pats. I like the guy too much to be that mean though, so I spanked him with my hand for a minute before starting with my mystery implement. The first smack of the butter pat hit and he winced, drawing in a sharp breath.

“Oh my god, that stings.”

Continuing, I delivered what I’d promised, flipping the butter pat over every few swats to sprinkle in that smarting spice. Between strings of ouches and ows, he offered up guesses and I dropped hints to guide him.

“Is it a hairbrush?”


“A spoon?”

“No. But the vanillas did use them in kitchens.”

Smack smack smack…

“Fuck! A spatula?”


“A cutting board, then.”


“What could it possibly—ow!—be then, if not any of those?”

Smack smack smack…

“You have to use your imagination, Dylan. We don’t have these in America.”

“Then how the fuck am I supposed to guess what they are?!”


Smack smack smack…

“Think about it. 1930s English kitchens. What did people make at home back in the day?”


“Not that. But you need it for pie.”


“What else?”

Smack smack smack…


“What’s in the crust?”



Smack smack smack…

Ow! Salt?”


“Sugar? Ow!

“What else?”

“What else? Hmm. You can tell I don’t make pie…”

Smack smack smack…

“Come on, Dylan. You can do it. ‘Oh no! We’ve gotta go to the store. We forgot the…’?”

Smack smack smack smack smack smack smack…



I took off his blindfold and showed him our new weapons, complete with the YouTube demonstration posted above. He turned one over in his hand, marveling at its design.

“This is amazing. It’s perfect.”

“They’re a hundred fucking years old!”

Dylan, like many spankos, shares my penchant for using antique household goods as implements. We were impressed that the butter pat was up to the task and didn’t crack despite its age. Formidable additions to our arsenals, to be sure.

The thing about a play-partnership involving two switches is that the dynamic sets both people up for a life of revenge. After going at him with some of my other toys, Dylan brought me over his lap to give me a taste of my own medicine.

Smack smack smack…

“Ow ow owwww!! It fucking stings so much!”

Making spanko butter hurts.

After playtime, bottoms painted pink, we made out and did other sexilicious things that will stay between us and any fortunate flies on the wall. The next morning, we spanked a bit more before he packed his butter pat and walked toward my door to head out to work.

“The next time we’re at your house, I’m really gonna give it to you good,” I said, referring to the caution we have to take to keep the noise down at mine. (Gotta shield my upstairs neighbors’ virgin ears from our blasphemy.)

“YOU’RE the one who's gonna get it good at my house, young lady,” he threatened, turning to tower over me like a dark demon. “You trying to flip our dynamic? Who’s the spanker around here?”

“I am. 😁”

“Wrong answer. We’re gonna talk about that.”


For now, Dylan is gone, but I suspect we’ll cross paths to make more spanko butter in the future. Our twin toys now reside at our respective abodes, ready for action whenever the need arises.

Home sweet home.

I highly suggest browsing Etsy for your own pair of butter pats if you wish to mimic this experience. Make sure the ones you order are free of any chips, cracks, or snags. If you’re happy with them post-spank, leave the seller a kind review as I did.

Ahahahaha! 😂❤️❤️❤️

This concludes another account of my naughty adventures in Spankoland. Thanks for reading, you lovely weirdos. Peace be with you. 🙏



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