“You dressed to please them, didn’t you, you whore?” Peter shouted, his footsteps bringing him closer to Amy. He stood right behind her, then everything went silent, except for the gentle rustle of his shirtsleeves, as he raised his hand to shoulder-height.
“Yes, I did,” said Amy, determined to enflame him. She wanted this to be the hardest, most punishing spanking of her life, and there was no better way to bring out the best in her jealous husband than to let him think she’d dressed like a whore to arouse a bunch of young, hung builders. She gritted her teeth, as she waited for the impact, eager to see how great Peter’s wrath was and to know what kind of a punishment she was in for. The first spank was always a good indication of what was to follow, but Peter knew that only too well and was only too happy to make her wait.
Amy heard the sound of Peter’s breathing, made heavier than usual by his obvious anger. The anticipation was killing her, so she raised her buttocks higher into the air, trying to tempt him into that first firm slap. A swarm of butterflies made her stomach churn, as she heard the movement of his hand, but all he did was grab her skirt and lift it further away from her pert pink cheeks. Her arse was his now, ready to be punished – a punishment she so richly deserved.
“You tart!” yelled Peter, then at last it happened – his hand swished through the air and struck her left cheek. She still had her tight black knickers on, but the fabric wasn’t able to cushion the sting. A groan of pain burst out of her lips, then a sense of panic overwhelmed her mind, for the opening blow had been far more painful than ever before. Had Amy gone too far that day with her plan to incite Peter’s jealous nature? Yes, if the opening blow was anything to go by. He seemed determined to teach her an especially thorough lesson.
“Dirty bitch!” he bellowed, lifting his hand back on high, then delivering a second blow to the exact same spot. The initial pain was yet to die, so the second spank just enflamed it further, the mounting soreness sending prickly shivers all the way up Amy’s back and down her thighs. Amy closed her eyes and steeled herself, knowing there were still more spanks to come, the next one catching the top of her thighs. It was delivered with a venom that made her squeal. Her slutty attire and flirtatious manner with the builders had really brought out the animal in her man.
Peter drove his hand into Amy’s buttocks, executing five fierce slaps in quick succession. She groaned with discomfort after every one, but that didn’t stop her poking her arse even higher into the air, as if imploring him to spank her harder. The steady accumulation of blows was turning her aching arse cheeks red, the welts throbbing harder with each new strike. But Amy knew the pain was warranted. She had dressed and acted like a tart that day, encouraging the attention of the muscled builders. And even though she would always stay true to Peter, it hadn’t stopped the fantasies playing in her head – fantasies of two sweaty, bare-chested workmen sandwiching her naked body, their dirty hands clasping her exposed breasts, their hard cocks filling her deep, wet holes.
“I’m a slut,” whispered Amy, recalling her lust-fuelled fantasies of illicit sex with her work colleagues.
“A filthy slut,” confirmed Peter, then he ripped down her knickers, eager to punish her naked flesh. And Amy couldn’t wait! She was desperate to feel his hand delivering blow after blow to her bare behind. Her dirty mind needed correcting somehow. She had cheated on Peter in her head, so she deserved whatever he threw at her.
Her buttocks quivered from the force of the blow, as Peter lashed out at her curvaceous cheeks. He smiled when he saw how red her flesh was. Even spanking her through her knickers, he’d been able to create some punishing sore spots. And with her knickers now down around her ankles, there was nothing to come between his hand and her skin. That meant maximum impact and maximum noise. A healthy, hearty slapping sound filled the air each time he executed another blow.
“Take that,” he shouted, the palm of his hand smacking hard into the centre of Amy’s rear-end. He grabbed some flesh and pinched her right bum cheek, agitating one of the many sore red marks upon her arse. Amy looked back over her shoulder at him, letting him see the torment in her eyes, then she screamed in his face as he struck her again. The force of the strike had sent shivers right through her, the pain now so intense she couldn’t take anymore.
“Forgive me,” she said, but she was just too late, for Peter’s arm was already gaining speed. It surged through the air towards her arse, the eventual thwack almost deafening to hear. Amy howled with pain, but there was an added element to the howl that sounded like a pre-orgasmic sigh of pleasure. There was no doubt Peter was punishing Amy, but she couldn’t deny she was enjoying it, too. Both she and her jealous husband could smell the sex-juice that had dripped from her gash throughout the spanking.
“You really are a slut!” said Peter, realising the punishment had turned Amy on. He pressed a hand between her legs and felt how wet her pussy was.
“So, fuck me like I’m a slut,” said Amy, then she pushed her sore buttocks against his crotch and rubbed them up and down his cock. It was fully erect. He was horny, too!
“On the table,” said Peter, lifting Amy into his arms and then laying her down on the kitchen table. Her knickers were still around her ankles, so he removed her stilettos and then pulled them right off, allowing her to spread her stocking-clad thighs and him to mount her curvy body. Amy didn’t guess it, but he’d chosen the missionary position and the kitchen table for a reason – so that when he thrust, Amy’s freshly spanked cheeks would grind against the hard wooden surface.
Amy thought her punishment had come to an end, but as his helmet pressed inside her, she felt the bitter sting return to her cheeks. Then, when Peter rammed his manhood deeper, the throbbing in her buttocks felt even more vivid than the delicious pulsations he ignited in her gash. Peter always fucked her harder after a spanking, so she wasn’t surprised by the high-speed tempo, but the mix of sensations was harder to deal with. Bursts of intense pleasure alternated with almost unbearable twinges of pain, as Peter’s thrusts sparked vibrant tingles in her pussy while all the time adding to the soreness in her arse.
“I hope you’re learning your lesson,” said Peter, staring into Amy’s eyes. She longed to tell him she was, but she couldn’t stop screaming. Every thrust of his dick drew a howl from her lips, half cry of pleasure and half cry of pain. She slapped her hands against his buttocks, as they bobbed back and forth between her thighs, powering the meaty thrusts of his cock. The same venom he’d shown when spanking her arse was now being displayed in the hardest, deepest penetration she’d experienced in years.
An intense pulsation made her cunt walls spasm, as Peter powered his full-length into Amy’s slit. She felt her red raw arse cheeks getting squashed against the tabletop, and this reminder of what a bad girl she’d been was enough to tip her over the edge. Her fingernails dug into Peter’s buttocks, as her insides spasmed harder, a thick wave of juice flooding through her cunt. This time her scream was of purest pleasure. All the pain seemed to vanish in the heat of her climax!
“Oh, baby,” groaned Amy, wrapping her limbs round Peter’s body and locking him in her climactic embrace. Her pussy was convulsing around his erection, her pulsations stimulating his shaft and head. Each time her muscles tightened round his length, she could feel the excitement in his cock, the quickening throbs in his helmet making it clear he was just about to explode.
Peter pulled back his hips for a final time, then hammered his cock deep into Amy’s gash. Her cunt walls pulsed around his prick, as a bolt of orgasmic tension shot along his shaft and made his head vibrate. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her, but as the creamy waves of spunk spilled into her gash, it felt like Peter’s helmet was bulging to almost twice its normal size. It throbbed hard between her tight, wet walls, almost as if it was spanking her from deep within. A powerful sequence of clear, precise throbs made it drum against her muscles, as jet after jet of come gushed out.
And as Peter thrust again to drain the spunk from
his balls, so Amy’s sensitive behind got crushed against the wooden tabletop. She felt a burst of pain in her arse cheeks, but her cunt had the upper hand now, the blissful feel of Peter coming inside her allowing her to cope with the excruciating sting. Her insides were still convulsing at speed, and her orgasm still refusing to fade, as the full extent of her husband’s mastery added a powerful mental dimension to the physical rush. Peter had not only punished her for behaving like a slut and fantasising about the builders, but he’d also proved she didn’t need to have those illicit fantasies. None of those builders could have spanked and fucked her with any more passion than Peter had done. Every fantasy she had could be fulfilled by him, his jealous nature and dominant force able to take her to such incredible heights.
A grateful Amy went to kiss his lips, but he pulled away and gave her a final masterful look. He pressed his hands beneath her body, cupping her buttocks and fingering the bruises his hands had raised.
“I want you to dress sensibly tomorrow,” he said, reminding her of the lesson she’d been taught that day. “I don’t mind you dressing like a slut for me, but not for that bunch of guys you work with.”
Peter’s words made Amy smile; and she wondered whether to tell him that her short skirt and revealing blouse had always been meant for him, not the builders. But in the end she said nothing, for her plan had worked well – too well for her not to use it again. She loved the jealous rage she’d inspired in Peter and so it was best to let him carry on wondering what went on when she was working with all those handsome muscular men around her. He’d be picking her up every single day and was sure to keep a close eye on what she was wearing. So it was all in her control now. She knew how to bring out the green-eyed monster in him. Just wear a short skirt and strappy heels to work and she was guaranteed a thorough spanking.
The Vendetta
by Korben Rushe
All sorts came to see her.
Men. Women. Straight, gay, and every level of bi. The most confident to the most timid. Some came with detailed ideas of how they wanted their fantasy acted out, others asked her to surprise them. She’d had high-up executives seek her out, secretaries, chefs, police officers, athletes – even a clown. Not that any of these little differences mattered to her. When it came down to it, they were all here for the same thing.
When she’d first got into this business, Rachel had expected there to be a type, a combination of character traits which would make her clients distinct – identifiable in a crowd even, with experience. But if ten years in this job had taught her one thing, it was that her customers came in all shapes and sizes, from all walks of life.
Even with this knowledge in stow – even though she’d known this other woman was coming – Rachel couldn’t quite believe her eyes when, out of the window, she caught the siren in red loitering at the end of her driveway.
Claudia Greenwood.
Over fifteen years had passed since Rachel had last seen her, yet she hadn’t changed one little bit. Still, the short, choppy blonde haircut. The honey-tanned complexion. Still the bold style; dress flaming crimson, plunging like liquid rubies into her ample cleavage. For a brief moment, Rachel let her mind linger on the shade of red, imagining how soon, once she’d had her way, it would ’t just be the woman’s dress which burnt that colour ... She felt a slight throb deep within her in anticipation.
There was one notable difference in Claudia though. In all the years she’d known her, Rachel could not recall a single occasion where she had seen the other girl looking nervous.
She still couldn’t believe their paths had crossed again. When her husband, Tom, had first told her that Claudia had visited his solicitor’s firm seeking advice about divorce, and had suggested he and her meeting up at Harvey’s – the most exclusive wine bar in town – Rachel had been fuming.
“She doesn’t even want a divorce – I can tell,” Tom had explained, filling up Rachel’s glass of red wine, then his own, as he broke the news.
She’d frowned, puzzled. “How so?”
He’d snorted. “Well, she’s got her feet nicely under the table with that Lord of the Manor, hasn’t she?” A glug of claret. “Not that I can see how that pip-squeak she’s shagging gets to be called a Lord. He’s barely stopped riding his bike with stabilisers, probably still has wet dreams about his schoolteachers ...” The wine had got to him – he was flushed, careless of his words. “I mean I always thought she was into men – real men, I mean. At least that’s the impression she always gave me when we were ...”
He gulped loudly. Realisation too late that he’d gone too far.
“I’m sorry, Rach. I didn’t mean ...”
She raised a hand to silence him. “Upstairs.”
“But I ...”
“Upstairs now, or I make it 20, instead of ten.”
His blue eyes widened. “Sorry, Miss. I’m going now, Miss. Straightaway.”
Five minutes later, she’d followed her husband up the staircase. She loved him, she really did, but sometimes, he forgot the rules, needed reminding.
As the well known procedure dictated, Tom was waiting beside the single Chesterfield chair in their bedroom, stripped of all his clothes. Moonlight had pooled through the window, turning his skin to ivory, and darkening to black the usually brown hair on his chest, which trailed down his tight stomach to his groin.
She smiled when she saw his cock involuntarily twitch in the moonbeams, as she stepped into the room.
“You know why you are here?”
Eyes glued to the floorboards, he nodded.
“You’ve been a bad boy?”
Another nod.
“And bad boys must be taught the error of their ways, if they’re ever to become good boys.”
“Yes, Miss. Please help me become a good boy.”
Walking towards him, she stopped momentarily at her dressing table to pick up her most treasured possession – and the key item of her trade, her passion. She’d bought the Venetian mask on her and Tom’s honeymoon, in one of the tangle of backstreets which threaded as disordered as spun sugar through the watery city. The mask was midnight blue and speckled with delicate silver stars and she wore it for all of her clients. To them, she was simply Miss. The Mask. A firm hand. A pair of green eyes. She wore plain black clothes, no make-up. She wasn’t there to be eye-candy. That’s why they came. In more ways than one.
“Up here,” she’d barked at Tom, once she’d settled comfortably into the green leather chair.
Knowing the procedure well, he was quickly lying across her lap, the sturdy arms of the chair bearing the majority of his weight.
“The leather’s cold,” Tom joked, but Rachel hadn’t been in the mood for humour. She never was once she’d assumed the role of her alter-ego.
She gave him a sharp rap on one cheek of his pale arse for his insolence.
“Ow! Rach, a little warning ...”
Another slap across the other cheek, and then he was quiet. He knew better than to address her as Rachel once she had put on her mask.
Red finger marks were already surfacing on his moonlit skin. “Now,” she said calmly, “we may begin.”
Tradition – and the practice did have a surprisingly long and complex series of traditions – dictated multiples of six as the best figures for administering spankings. But having always been one who liked rounded numbers, Rachel had made a conscious decision to do away with convention and opt for multiples of ten. Besides, her clients were hardly going to complain. Show her one person who didn’t ever want more for their money!
“Ten.” Smack. “Nine ... Eight ...Seven ...”
Rachel could already feel Tom’s hardness pressing into her thigh.
“No!” she ordered, scratching his shoulder with a fingernail. She upped the vigour of her slaps.
He knew the rules. This was a punishment, not a treat. They would wait for his erection to wilt, before she continued the countdown. Until then, his bottom was growing increasingly red, strawberry was tur
ning to beetroot.
Thanks to Tom’s cock having a mind of its own, nearly an hour had passed before they were through. Her hand felt as sore as his arse looked.
“Thank you, Miss,” Tom blurted over his shoulder, his face wet with tears. “Thank you for teaching me a lesson.”
“You’re welcome, Tom,” she said, removing her mask – the signal that Miss was once again Rachel.
Reaching between his legs, she tickled his balls. This time she did not admonish his rapidly-hardening member; squeezing a hand around its length, she stood up and led him towards the bed. “Take your bloody time with your punishment, won’t you? Never mind that your poor wife here is dying for a fuck ...”
Afterwards, as they held each other close, Rachel’s thoughts had wandered back to Claudia.
“That bitch has already destroyed my life once, I won’t let her sweep in and do it again.”
Tom immediately knew who she was talking about, but fear had caught alight in his eyes.
“It’s okay,” she’d consoled him. “I promise no more spanking. You’re allowed to talk about her now. Just no in depth details of when you two were an item, okay?”
“Deal,” he smiled, relieved. “You know, it might not be all bad, her coming back into our lives.”
Under the duvet, Rachel had teasingly squeezed his balls. “Be careful, Tom. I can easily go back on my promise, you know.”
“No, no,” he stammered quickly. “What I mean is this could be an opportunity. For you.”
She’d released him, growing curious.
“An opportunity?”
Tom had relaxed. “When we were at uni, you always used to say how you wished you’d had a chance to get even with Claudia. To teach her lesson for the misery she put you through at school.” His eyes darted away. “The misery we all put you through ...”
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