Spanked wife

Like getting kissed one moment and being spanked the
very next, Michael took me out to a lobster dinner that
night, then hurried home to one of his stupid
basketball games.

Deciding I was too full and aroused to be angry–I
really love lobster–I sat in my favorite position,
between his legs, with my cheek resting on his thigh. I
pretended he knew I was there. Playing with the cuff of
his pants, thinking of our adventures the night before
and how wonderful he looked, I snuck a peek at his
craggy face. Then I realized what my real problem was
and wondered if I had taken my pill.

He felt my eyes. “What?” he said, trying to look at me
and the TV both.

“I was just thinking how much I love you.”

He said, “I love you too, Marcia, but let me watch the
game. The Sonics may actually win for a change.”

I touched the bare skin of his calf. “I know how to
excite you more than that game,” I said.

He almost looked down. “Really? How?”

“Like with a striptease,” I said, “and one of your
special treatments on my bare rear end? Paddle me with
the ping-pong mallet? Or flog me on my tummy and boobs
with the whip?” I ran my index finger up the inside of
his thigh. “You could even use the leather quirt on my
you know what.”

He almost looked interested. “I don’t know,” he said.
“I get carried away and you know how lax you’ve in
using your safe word.”

I feared the battle. “I’ll only let you spank me until
I’m excited, okay? Then you can flog me until I’m ready
for the quirt. I won’t be bad. Honest.”

He looked hard at the TV, then at me. He sighed. “Okay.
I’ll change and let’s see how successful you are with
your dance. No hard-on,” he warned. “No spanking.”

I agreed. Boy did I agree! The hormones were in my
bloodstream tonight.

While he changed, I lay his choice of instruments on
the couch, then went around and lit half a dozen
candles. I talked to myself under my breath. I was so
excited. He returned and flopped down on the couch’s
end, letting his robe fall open to expose his flaccid
mouse.

Instant disappointment.

I almost asked: Don’t you love me, Michael? But instead
I got up and started the music.

I had worn a lacey blue cocktail dress to dinner. With
a deep-plunge back, spaghetti thin straps, and a bodice
that did nothing to conceal my boobs, it felt
incredibly sexy. Beneath it was a silk half-slip, my
panties and bra–from Victoria’s Secret, of course, and
silk as well–my garter belt and my nylons.

Turning off the lights, I began dancing to Jane
Monheit’s incredible voice. When I was eighteen years
old and on my own, I danced at a strip club downtown.
Not long, and never totally nude, but long enough to
learn how to dance. And how to remove my clothes.
Moving my hips and my bust slowly, I lowered the zipper
down my back, and let the dress work its way off my
body. It puddled at my feet. I have the perfect body
for dancing, Michael says, and I use it to best
advantage. Especially when I ovulate, which I
definitely did that night. Reaching back, I released
the catch on my brassiere, danced for a while holding
it in place. Michael was getting aroused.

Letting the straps fall off my shoulders, I held the
cups in place, making a point of keeping them there
while I removed my garter. I used my toes to pick the
garter up and toss it in Michael’s lap. He was much
harder now.

Five minutes later I was in a state. I let the bra fall
into my crooked elbows, danced for him bare-breasted
for a while (only size 34C, I am not the biggest girl
in the world, but they are my best weapon), then slid
off my panties and went down on all fours, then to my
tummy. I crawled to Michael, nipples touching the
floor; both they and his penis were rock hard. I had
won.

Draping myself over his lap, I shivered as his penis
poked my belly. He lifted the paddle and tapped one
cheek, then the other and I held my breath. He ran his
hand over my tingling skin. Then he whacked me so
unexpectedly and hard that I jumped and emitted a yip.

Embarrassing!

I don’t like the paddle the way Mike does. Being
spanked makes me ten years old again, helpless over my
daddy’s knee, my bare butt upended and a perfect target
for his angry hand. He spanked me in front of my
brothers until I was twelve years old, then privately
in his den until I was fourteen. By then my mother
objected to the spankings in general, to the bare-
bottomed part especially, but my dad paddled me bare-
bottomed anyway. Usually this happened in front of my
mother, especially when he was really mad. And he was
mad at me a lot back then.

Finally, when I was fifteen years old, Daddy lost all
patience at all. Dragging me out to the living room one
night, he upended me in front of my two younger
brothers. Taking down my sweats and my panties, he then
pulled my t-shirt all the way up, exposing my breasts.
Then he wailed me with my own hairbrush, searing my
backside until even my brothers said stop. Then he
dumped me on the floor, basically naked, to bawl in
front of them. He spanked me if I even touched my
clothes.

The next day I ran off.

Clutching his left ankle with both hands, I endured
Michael’s bombardment of my tail. I wheezed and I
gasped and I kicked my feet in the air. My bottom
screamed. I almost screamed. When I finally yelled
“teapot!” the word stopped his hand, but not right
away. Six more spanks came down for good luck. I lay
there panting, hair shaken loose, my butt feeling like
the guest of honor at a bee sting convention.

“Oh, Michael,” I groaned.

I really hurt.

He stood me up and put my hands atop my head, brushed
back my hair. I was still trembling. I squirmed like a
seven year old holding my pee.

“Don’t move,” he said.

I pushed out my boobies and sucked in my tummy, and the
flogger made wonderful pain stinging my breasts. I
squirmed even more.

“Keep still, I said.”

“Yes, sir.” I could no more keep still than a shark
could not bite your hand.

He worked me from my pubic hair to the tips of my
boobies and the nipple sting made me dance. I wiggled
in place.

“Be still, Marcia!”

“I can’t!”

“You better!” he said. And he showed me how much better
I had.

“Ow! Michael!”

He laughed.

“That hurt!”

“Then hold still.”

“I can’t!”

He spanked me again.

“Bastard.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.” I glared at him slantwise. He was not
supposed to hear.

I let my excitement build, knowing I’d need it for
later. Closing my eyes, I imagined having that long
thing between his legs between mine, and that, added to
the sting of my nipples, pushed me close to orgasm.
“Teacup!” I gasped.

Michael dropped the flog and took me over to the
ottoman, lay me down on my back. Bringing my knees to
my chest, I clutched them there tightly, raising my
butt and making myself open for him. He came and stood
over me. His erection, an angry red and hugely swollen,
was a giant rocket ready to blast off. The tip leaked
semen. Squatting slightly so I could reach him, Michael
began to methodically strike the left side of my
genitals, then the right, then my clenching anus. I had
no hair to protect me, so each hit stung terribly. It
was worse on my clitoris. I jumped spastically when it
was struck, his testicles bumping my nose.

I was not allowed to touch him with anything but my
mouth, so while he tortured my poor bottom, I tortured
his cock. After half a minute Michael shuddered
violently and I stopped licking. “You okay?” I said.

He grunted a yes.

“Don’t waste it, Michael,” I begged, fearing he’d shoot
all over my chest. “Please!”

“I’ll do anything I want,” he threatened. “And you’ll
like it.” He locked me with his flaming eyes.
“Understand?”

My heart flipped wildly. “Yes, Michael. Anything you
want.”

He pipped me once sharply on my aching clitoris.
“Anywhere I want.”

“Anywhere you want,” I croaked.

That really hurt!

He wasn’t through yet. “In fact–” he looked at the
drawn patio curtains. “–I might let you take a lesson
where everyone can see.”

My breath froze. “Michael, no.”

“Questioning my authority, Marcia?”

“No, Michael.”

“Put me in your mouth.”

I quickly gulped him in.

“Suck slowly, Marcia.”

Keeping my eyes obediently locked to his, I did as
ordered. “Mmm. Nem-im-oh-ay?”

Is this okay?

“Keep sucking, Marcia.”

Marcia kept sucking.

After a time, Michael repositioned himself and his
penis began a thorough examination of my throat. He
inspected my tonsils, my larynx and my voice box,
examining them again and again, making sure I was in
the finest health. I facilitated his examination by
distending my jaw to its fullest extent, then tilting
my head back for his convenience. I made a lot of
noise. Not much of it was attractive to my ears, but
Michael seemed to think so. His examination became very
intense.

“Mmm-num-niem-neum-umm-nigul!” I pleaded. When he
wasn’t squashing it flat with his deep probes, his
pubic hair tickled my nose. I couldn’t breathe. In
fact, I saw pretty white stars. “Mnn-num-em?”

“That’s it!” he suddenly hollered. “On your feet!” He
yanked me off the ottoman.

Gasping for air, shaking terribly, I stumbled along
behind him, trying not to trip over my own feet. My
throat spasmed; I couldn’t stop gagging. “What?” I
squeaked. “What did I do?” I felt ten years old again
being dragged to the living room.

“You pissed me off!”

“How?”

He made me open the patio curtains. “All the way,” he
commanded, when I stopped half way.

“Michael–”

He spanked me bare handed.

“Ouch! Okay! Okay!” I pulled the curtains fully back.
“There!” I cried.

Michael took me over his knee on the spot and lit up my
backside. I screamed.

“Michael! Michael! Not so hard!”

He spanked me even harder.

“It hurts!”

His hand blistered both cheeks. “Your brothers should
be here right now,” he panted. “See how all those years
of spankings went to waste.”

“Michael! The window! People can see!” And indeed
someone did see. In the parking lot, two skateboarders
had stopped midway down the hill and were staring
directly at me. Open-mouthed, one of them pointed.

“Michael! Michael! Kids!” And not just any kids,
either. These two were part of the local parking lot
gang who hung out and made rude comments to girls like
me. Just yesterday, one of them grinned leeringly at me
as I unloaded groceries. I heard words like “fuck” and
“up the ass” and “in her mouth”. And these were some of
the nicer comments.

“Michael!”

Finally he stopped. Taking me by the arm, Michael
dragged me to the bedroom and threw me on the bed. I
bounced once and then I was onto to my stomach and then
onto my hands and knees. “Michael! Michael, wait!” He
was waiting for nothing. Pushing my chest to the
mattress, he spread my legs and jacked my ass in the
air. He mounted me.

“Michael! Oh my God!” I took all eight inches of him up
the ass, nonstop, sucking air against the pain.
“Michael! Michael! Huuuuhhhhh! MICHAEL!”

He came at once and didn’t stop coming for ten minutes.
I jumped and warbled and wailed and had my face mashed
into bed sheets. I pounded his legs and his hips. I
cried and pleaded. I even grabbed my hair and tried to
pull it out. Michael came and came and came. So did I.

Later, after he collapsed and I had collapsed under his
weight, I lay on the mattress panting, my bowels afloat
in sperm. I won’t say how my rectum and anus felt. You
should know.

“You bastard,” I mumbled. “I hate you.”

Michael laughed.

“You think it’s funny,” I said. I thought of the two
boys on skateboards, the look on their faces tomorrow.
The whispers.

I knew how to stop the whispers.

Wondering what they would say to riding something
besides their skateboards, I slipped out from under
Michael-he’d sleep now for hours–and went to the
living room, then to the patio doors. The boys hadn’t
moved a millimeter. Smiling, I crooked my index finger
at them and indicated the building’s entrance. I went
and unlocked the front door.

Grinning darkly, I listened to my insides rumble and
rubbed my flailed bottom. I thought that maybe, just
maybe, I’d leave the curtains open while I pleasured
the two boys.

Naked, with the lights on, and on my knees.

I opened the front door.

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