by Trent Evans
“Tom, I—”
“Watch your tongue, girl.” Tom’s low voice had turned icy. “Try again.”
A whimper escaped her before she composed herself. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?” Tom slapped a welted buttock, the flesh rippling with the blow.
“It makes my pussy — wet”—her voice dropped to a mortified whisper—”to think of Keihl spanking me.”
Keihl barely stifled a groan at the words.
Holy fuck!
“Well, that’s too bad, Sharon,” Tom said, stepping behind his wife’s ass. “You just get my cock tonight. Maybe next time. First though, we need to take care of one more thing.”
He adjusted her hips, ensuring she held the position he liked. She was pushed back at a more extreme angle, her sleek thighs held neatly together, a pleasing uniform plane stretching to the floor. Her bottom, curvy yet firm, pointed up at her executioner, waiting for what was to come.
Tom’s hand skimmed over the inflamed, weal-laced flesh, each cut of the cane now quite visible across the otherwise smooth, tanned flesh of his wife’s buttocks. Keihl winced, imagining how much they would ache the next time Sharon tried to sit down.
“Hmm, I think you’ll be okay,” Tom said, patting a particularly swollen line. “Let’s get this done.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Keihl felt a flush of sheepishness at the sound of her voice; he’d been staring at the tableau before him so intently, he’d come to see her as just a pair of buttocks to be beaten. He’d almost forgotten there was a person still there. Callous objectification. He found he really didn’t care anymore, and his cock throbbed its agreement.
There was no preamble, no warm-up; Tom’s hand smacked down with full force across the lower swell of Sharon’s ass, her body tensing at the blows. He took his time, spanking every inch of her curvy bottom with hard, punishing smacks. She hissed at the last one, a strike low at the juncture of thigh and buttock.
Tom stood back, his head tilting. “A good base. Now for some heat.”
“Honey, please.” Sharon’s voice was thick, strained.
“No, girl. You need this. Quiet now.”
Tom stood close to her side, gripping her around her waist with one arm, pinning her to him. With that, he began again; quick, random blows raining down upon her now squirming bottom.
“Oh! Please, Tom!”
“What?” He cracked down a vicious blow at the center of one cheek, and she let go a tight shriek.
“Sorry! Sir!”
“That’s better. Don’t forget again, or your little ass is going to be worse for it.”
He concentrated spanking each individual cheek then, smacking the same spot four or five times in a row. By the fifth blow, she’d be squealing. He repeated this, over and over, mercilessly. He covered her bottom with those series of smacks, until at the end, she was sniffling and moaning.
Tom paused, his big hand cupping one of the reddened, martyred buttocks. “What do you say, girl?”
Sharon bit off a sob. “I-I need this, Sir. Please give me more.”
“You sure about that? This ass looks very sore already.”
Her bottom shifted, and he clamped her hips tighter to him. His hand squeezed the blushing flesh, and she blew out a pained breath.
“No — I mean, yes. Please, Sir, I need more.”
“Okay, a few more. Then we’ll see if you can start doing as you’re told.”
His hand dealt several more punishing, thudding strikes, the flesh of her bottom rippling at each impact, and she cried out at each one, the volume rising to screams whenever a smack landed on previously welted flesh.
Keihl sat stunned, both at the severity of the punishment, and the almost paralyzing arousal he felt while watching it. It was a revelation to him.
Tom finished with one last tremendous smack along one of Sharon’s upper thighs, and she reared up, her keening wail heralding eyes that were now brimming over with tears.
“All better now, yes?”
She nodded, her streaming eyes downcast.
Tom’s hand brushed through his wife’s silky blonde hair and stroked the nape of her neck. “Back over, dear. We’re not done yet.”
Sharon’s hunted eyes darted back to Keihl, and for a moment their gazes met. Then she looked down again, and slowly sank back over the sofa, her chest heaving with a shaky breath.
Tom stood behind her, fingers playing over the painful pattern embossed on his poor wife’s hindquarters. She shifted suddenly as his hand moved between her thighs, one hand clenching the curve of her hip. Then he lowered his zipper and opened his pants, his erection springing forth. Before Keihl could move or say anything, Tom had taken a grip of Sharon’s hips and plunged his turgid cock into her. She grunted as he sank fully within her, his hips bumping up against her ass.
“Ah, so wet, girl,” Tom said, his hands stroking her hips as he plunged within her. Keihl could distinctly smell her arousal now, and it made his mouth water.
Kirsten.
“Tom, I can’t.” Keihl put his hand to his head, despite the voyeuristic urge within him to take in every detail of what was happening. The absurdity of the situation almost made him laugh.
“Look… don’t touch,” Tom ground out, not taking his eyes from his wife’s round bottom. “You aren’t doing anything wrong.”
“Not sure Kirsten would… agree.”
Tom slapped Sharon’s ass, hard, the sound like a pistol shot, and she mewled. “Rotate your hips like you’ve been told, girl.”
Sharon’s fine hips took on an exaggerated rolling and twisting. Tom groaned, patting her ass. “That’s it, Sharon. Much better.”
The couch creaked as Tom’s stokes increased in vigor, the almost fully-clothed man lunging forward repeatedly to stake his bound wife to the back of the couch. She began to pant as his strokes became more punishing. From Keihl’s vantage point, Sharon’s ass, with its starkly outlined weals over the inflamed red background, winked rhythmically into view as her husband plumbed her depths over and over.
“I can’t fucking do this, Tom.” Keihl stood and moved to the front door. He laid his hand on the brushed silver of the door handle, and paused. The rhythm of Tom and Sharon fucking had picked up speed, the slaps of flesh on flesh the counterpoint to her breathless moans.
“Fuck,” Keihl muttered as he closed the door behind him. The evening breeze had come up, invigorating the air with a coolness, a welcome change from the sweltering afternoon.
“Evening, Mr. Warren.”
Nathan’s hulking form leaned against the dark stained wood of the front porch railing. The big man’s muscular arms were clasped over his barrel chest. He’d changed to jeans and white tank top. Keihl thought the man looked like he could rip phone books in half.
“You got any cigarettes?” Keihl rubbed both of his hands over his face.
“Yeah,” Nathan said, digging into his pocket. “Didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t.” Keihl crooked a weary grin at the huge man, taking the proffered Marlboro from the ham fist.
“Everything okay in there?” Nathan flicked open the bright metal Zippo, lighting the cigarette Keihl held out.
Keihl puffed, wincing. “I suppose that depends how you define ‘okay’.”
Nathan smiled, stuffing the lighter back into his pocket.
The two men stood on the porch for a minute, watching the sun continue to fade from the evening sky. The Marlboro was making his head spin, and his belly roiled threateningly.
You fucking Nancy.
“Why are you here, anyway? Didn’t you have something else going tonight?” Keihl took one last drag off the cigarette, and looked around. He shrugged and dropped it to the concrete of the porch, grinding it under his heel.
“Mr. Forster thought you might need a ride earlier than planned.”
“Figures,” Keihl said. He cocked a thumb toward the driveway. “You ready to go?”
Chapter Eleven
“Damn,
that smells great, hon.” Keihl gave his wife a quick smooch behind her ear, his hand whispering over her lower belly. “What’s the occasion?”
The meal was spread across most of the kitchen in various states of readiness. Nobody but Keihl and a few of Kirsten’s closest friends were privy to this secret.
She could cook — really cook.
“I knew I made a good decision when I married you,” Keihl said, sitting down at the far end of the long dining room table.
Kirsten stuck her tongue out as she set a steaming plate down in front of him.
“Mmm, carbonara. You trying to kill me?” He beamed at her, then dug in, his growl of pleasure a sound that brought a secret prideful joy to her.
Her mother, Lucia, first generation Italian from Torino, made sure that Kirsten knew how to cook. Her mother had always expressed puzzlement at the “modern” women who didn’t think learning how to prepare a delicious meal was particularly important. Kirsten’s eye-rolls and vociferous gender role protests aside, the family recipes were passed from mother to daughter, by sheer force of Mama’s will.
“What’s the occasion?” Keihl took a huge swallow, his throat working. “You haven’t cooked like this in months.”
Her travel schedule had been brutal lately, and it didn’t look like it was going to improve anytime soon. In her profession there was no rest for the wicked. The more you built a reputation as a killer, the more your boss deployed you as a weapon of mass destruction — or “seduction”, as her painfully politically incorrect boss liked to put it.
Kirsten wanted to be home more, especially once she learned they were expecting. She’d always thought the “nesting” instinct to be bullshit, but she definitely did feel something … different.
A pull toward home. Toward him.
“I just figured I needed to brush off the cobwebs.” She wiped her hands off on the white dish towel draped over her shoulder. “Use it or lose it, you know?”
“Oh, you’ve still got it, girl. This is great!”
She smiled at him. She always liked watching him eat for some reason. She knew it was a little odd, but she found men who tore into their meals, well, manly.
“You keep cooking like this Kirsten, and you will lose something — a husband who isn’t a fat ass.”
Kirsten laughed, slapping his arm, and walked back into the kitchen to get her plate of eggplant parmesan. She dimmed the lights before joining her husband. She sat for a moment, just watching him. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d shared an actual meal at home, alone. It was something she knew she’d make a point of doing more often. Like so much else in a woman’s busy life, she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the simple things. Like a meal with her man.
You picked a fine time to feel like reconnecting, Kirsten. Sleep deprivation and screaming babies aren’t particularly conducive to solidifying the bonds of a relationship.
She poured him some wine, an eight year old Sauvignon Blanc that would have had Keihl wincing if he’d known how much it cost. They ate in silence for a minute or two before Kirsten put her fork down. Keihl looked up at her, his mouth quirking to a half smile as he sipped from his glass.
Kirsten wished she could drink her own glass of wine, needing that courage.
“I feel like I’m torturing you, drinking when you can’t,” Keihl said, winking.
She exhaled, licking her lower lip, her mouth suddenly dry. “So, there is a reason for all this.”
Keihl wiped the corner of his mouth and laid the burgundy napkin on the table. He leaned back in his chair, one hand flat on the table. “I knew it.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You never cook, dear. Shit, you’re hardly ever here,” he said, smiling. “Knew it must be something special.”
Kirsten refilled his glass to Keihl’s amused chuckling, then she gathered up the plates.
Keihl rose from his chair. “Wait, I should do that. You cooked all—”
Shaking her head at him, she pursed her lips into a kiss. “Be right back.”
She took the plates to the kitchen, then walked quickly down to their bedroom. When she came back into the kitchen, she stood in front of the stove, steadying her trembling hands on the black glass top.
“Get it together, Kirsten,” she whispered, trying to ignore the tremble in her voice. “You can do this.”
Then she walked back out to the dining room.
* * *
“Jesus Christ,” Keihl breathed, his eyes wide.
Kirsten strolled around the table to stand next to her husband. His eyes followed her as if his head were on a swivel.
“What — what are you up to?” He reached out for her, and she grasped his wrist. She moved his hand under the brief black robe she’d changed into, the long, lithe legs he so admired fully exposed to his gaze. The hem barely covered her ass, and as his fingers explored beneath it, his eyes registered the heated surprise of finding she hadn’t a stitch on underneath it.
“I need you to tell me.”
“Tell you what?” His eyes rose to hers.
“If you’ll do it. I need to know before I go any further.”
A flash of something flickered through his gaze, and she feared it might all be ruined. Killed before it could ever begin.
“Sit down.” He indicated the chair next to him with a slight movement of his head.
“Answer me, Keihl. Please.”
If he said what she knew he was about to say, she would die. Just die. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way! But she’d seen it. The doubt. The uncertainty. She knew her husband well, and that look, that hint of the clever mind that whirled behind those bewitching eyes, spoke volumes. He was going to back out.
“If you want my answer, you’ll sit down,” he said, his voice rougher. “Come on, sit.”
She fought the tears that wanted to form behind her eyes. She shrugged, her shoulders heavy, and sank to her seat.
“I’ll do it.”
“Look, maybe this was all a mist—” Her mouth gaped, and she felt her heart squeeze to a halt. “What?”
“I said, I’ll do it, Kirsten.” His mouth was a thin line, but his eyes blazed, boring into her with the powers of acute observation she knew served him well in the courtroom.
Mostly, those eyes just made her want to jump his bones.
“Oh... okay,” she whispered, her head tilted downward. “Are you … sure?”
“There’s something you need to know first.”
The other shoe. There was always something else. Just as her dream looked to be coming to life, the delicious possibilities of fantasy laying themselves out before her, the harsh sting of reality was ready to dispel it all.
“I’ve been talking to someone about … things like this.”
“You — what?”
He nodded. “Tom.”
“You’ve got to be joking. Tom? As in ‘Doctor Tom’?”
“Yes.”
“What did he tell you?” She sat back in her chair, pulling the robe closed over her blatantly displayed cleavage.
“Don’t,” Keihl said, shifting forward and grasping one of her hands in his. She clamped onto him firmly, eager for his touch, even though her subconscious was registering the danger ahead.
“Did you tell him about—” she swallowed, looking away “—this?”
“No, never,” Keihl said, his jaw clenching.
The vehemence with which he said it gave her some small reassurance. The thought of Keihl and Tom talking about what The Game had been evolving into made her feel — awkward.
Aren’t you looking for ‘hot fucking pissed’?
But she knew that wouldn’t quite be the truth though. It should be, but it wasn’t. She’d always liked Tom and Sharon, though she wondered why Keihl didn’t express interest in the four of them doing much together as couples. She’d guessed it was simply a matter of Keihl needing friends that were separate from them. Neutral ground. Like Joely was for her.
Now
, she wasn’t so sure there wasn’t something else to it.
“He wanted me to tell you about him and—”
“What did you tell him?”
Keihl frowned at her, his eyes darkening. That look always elicited equal parts irritation and arousal in her. It was different, now. There was a heated weight to that gaze. As if it were a signal of something ahead.
Consequences?
“I already told you — nothing. Don’t interrupt me, Kirsten. We need to talk about this. It’s important.”
She closed her mouth on the retort trying to claw its way out.
Stop with trying to prove your feminist bona fides, Kirsten.
That tone made her pussy tingle. It was as if he were speaking to a little girl. A disobedient little girl. She felt like such a slut, thinking about sex at that particular moment. But the whole conversation revolved around sex, and she couldn’t help herself.
“He and Sharon.” He rubbed at his chin, long fingers tracing his strong jaw. “They live a lifestyle — similar to what you said you were interested in.”
Kirsten felt her heart skip a beat and excited butterflies begin their frantic fluttering in her belly. “Okay. Why are you telling me this?”
“Because, some of what they do.” He looked away for the first time. “I’m not sure I could do. To you.”
She swallowed, elation and nervousness warring within her. How was it possible? She put her hand to her lips, nibbling on the tip of her finger.
“With the baby and everything.” His eyes darted downward for the briefest of moments. “Maybe the time isn’t right for all this?’
“Keihl.” She sat forward, her grip on his hand tightening. “I don’t want you to worry about the baby.”
“Why not?” The note of frustration in his tone surprised her. “I can’t very well be beating your ass red with you nine months pregnant, can I?”
She inhaled sharply at the imagery his words elicited in her mind. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one harboring such thoughts.
“Well, no, you probably can’t.” It was her turn to look away, and she felt the heat at her cheeks. “I’ve been doing some — reading.”
“Reading?” His lips curved slightly.