I have agreed to do the spanking A to Z challenge, and will publish 26 stories over the month, each containing corporal punishment, starting with "A" and ending with "Z".
She stood there, still dressed in her work clothes as I thumbed through my phone. “Something’s up,” she muttered, swinging on the doorway as I scowled at the hand-held electronics in my hand. I could see the hem of her dress in the reflection on the scratched screen, the feint green tartan replacing the toolbar and my attention.
“Just work.” That was true, of sorts; work was the main cause of my frustration most of the time, throwing the phone onto the table with a clatter. “Pete wants me to work this weekend,” I growled. “He’s always doing that to me. Doesn’t care that I might have something planned.”
“Oh baby,” she soothed. “It’s …”
“… and my new guitar strings haven’t come. Express delivery I paid for. 24 hours max.” She moved to my side, stroking my arm as my memories of the delivery app reporting “out for delivery” three days in succession further riled me. “And,” I said with clenched fists. “And, I have a headlight out on my car.”
“Oh well that’s easily sorted.”
“I know it is. It’s just one more thing. And I had a comment I wrote deleted by the blog owner just because it eschewed her point of view.”
“Honey,” she soothed. “It’s not worth getting wound up about.”
“I’m not wound up! It’s just little things irritate me, they add up. And I can’t deal with pettiness. It riles me. It’s rampant disrespect and utter pettiness.”
My wife giggled and slipped her hand onto my crotch. “I could make you forget it,” she whispered seductively. “I could … do that special thing.”
I wasn’t in the mood. “Later,” I replied, a little too abruptly. “I need …”
“To burn through the aggression first?” She finished for me. “Then you know I can help with that too.”
“I am not spanking you when I’m annoyed to alleviate frustration. It’s the wrong reasons.”
“It’s been weeks since you gave me a good thrashing.” She pawed at my arm, her eyes twinkling. “I bet your just not important to the delivery company,” she teased. “They don’t care. You’re insignificant. And Pete …”
“I’m not rising to it.”
“And Pete sees you as a soft touch. You won’t stand up to him, so he does it again and again.”
“I’m not rising to it.”
“And your comment was probably littered with grammatical errors too.”
“Take that back!” I shouted, a smile creeping across my face to match hers.
“And spelling errors too. I bet it was silly things to say, I bet the blog owner was right and …”
She never finished the sentence; her goading had me flinging the wind-up merchant over my knee in seconds with her green skirt hitched to the small of her back. “Apologise!” I never expected her to and she didn’t. Even as her lacy briefs touched her ankles, she refused to apologise, wincing as I stroked her exposed rear. She knew what was coming as my fingers glided over her pale skin. It had been awhile.
I had almost forgotten how it felt to have a writhing woman wriggling under my grasp as I weighed up my first strike. I debated: should I go hard against her sensitive flesh, smacking her peachy buttocks with the blunt palm of my hand to cause her to scream in surprise? Or should I gently stroke and caress her to coax squeals of delight from her sensitive body.
Holding her tight to my thighs, gripping her back as my fingers danced over her cleft, teasing the feint hairs standing out on end in expectant excitement by brushing against them. I could feel the burning glow of her tension in her breathing, the feint smell of fear tinged with anticipation of the pain I could inflict.
I could sense her impatience, her desperation and her lust. “Bet your comment was so moronic,” she squealed as my finger traced her crack. “And such a …”
She never finished her words; the right hand of husbandry justice slammed against her pale buttocks causing a loud crack of skin-to-skin pain, and a wifely screech of unexpected agony.
It was what I loved, the momentary tense of the buttocks as my hand landed on her cheeks and the flinch of her body as her consciousness digested the influx of intense agony soaring up her synapses. The sudden recollection from the wife that I could and would cause her skin to redden with the furious spanks of a frustrated husband.
She panted for a few moments before swallowing loudly. “I know they laughed as they deleted your comment,” she squealed, her voice dripping with gleeful torment. “Laughing at such a stupid …”
She wanted to rile me; she wanted me to lose all control, trying to make me see red over her teasing and unleash a volley of spanks on her defenceless skin. She wanted pain, and she was about to get it.
My hand launched dozens of hits against the squirming wife, raining firm, hard spanks against her peachy behind. She howled with every strike, her body tensing and quivering with every hit on her burning buttocks.
Every cry was a delicious melody, every hit was a nugget of frustration freed. I felt my anger draining away as her ruddled skin turned blotchy with bruises and her squeals became near constant.
I gulped, withdrawing my hand and sighing. “Let that be a lesson to you,” I said firmly as she wriggled against my erection.
She woozily looked up at me. “I think winding you up works.” Her eyes sparkled as she turned to look at me, feeling the kaleidoscope of colours on her seat. “It’s always little things that really get under your skin.”
“Yep,” I replied, taking a deep breath and examining my handiwork. “Wasn’t last month when you told me you’d had an affair with Ryan Giggs.”
She giggled from the nostalgic memories of recounting imaginary sexual activities with Manchester United’s legendary player to a Manchester City fan. “I’m sure Pete won’t mind if you can’t work this weekend,” she soothed. “And the guitar strings must come tomorrow. And headlights go all the time; only cost a few quid. And the blog comment … their loss. Fuck ’em.”
“I’d rather fuck you.”
“Well fuck me then,” she sighed. And fortunately, her knickers were already around her ankles and I was suddenly very much in the mood!