“What did I say I’d do if I caught you masturbating again?” His sudden bark startled Beverly so much, she visibly jumped. Beverly clearly didn’t expect Jeffery home so soon.
“Spank me, but…” she squeaked, clearly intimidated.
“Spank your butt,” Jeff bellowed. “That’s right! Turn around. Take hold of that brass headboard and stick your butt out for it…”
Beverly took her offending hand out of her cookie jar and started to turn tail. When she thought her face was turned away, Beverly mimicked Jeffery’s facial expression, mugging as if he was ape-like. Then she saw that he saw. His expression turned even more stern, as hers turned ashen.
“Wait, I’ve got a better idea. Hold your hands out flat, palms up!”
“Just do it!” She obeyed. The fingers of both hands were sticky with her jism, one from holding her labia open, the other from strumming on her clit. The snakeskin belt that Jeff had taken off from around his waist was now doubled in his right hand. He brought it down sharply on the palms.
This was worse than a butt belting. Beverly could see these blows coming, making her wince and flinch at the harsher-seeming lashes, and her bottom was well padded to absorb the pain, unlike her palms.
“You’re wrong!” Bev hollered. “Wrong to strap my hands, and wrong to think that I have some limited supply of orgasms to have to conserve!”
No, you’re wrong!” he returned at an equal decibel level, continuing to leather her tender, upturned hands. “Wrong to think you can talk back to me…!” He gave her palms a stripe for emphasis. “And wrong to think you can dictate your punishments…!” Another crack of the belt burned into her hands. “Wrong to think you can mock me!” Yet another lash burned into her flesh. “And wrong because your orgasms belong to me. I say when you can have one… and you won’t be having another one until I’ve punished you good and proper!” Bev stuck out her tongue at her man, like a little girl would toward a parent.
Jeff grabbed Bev by the ponytail which sprouted lopsided out of the upper part of her head. He lifted her off the bed and used the doubled belt to lash her exposed left boob. The impact really stung, made the nipple protrude as if bitten, but by an actual snake instead of just its skin. The thrashing made Beverly’s negligee spaghetti-strap fall, so her right booby suddenly poked out, and got a snakebite lash for being so bold. A belt whipping across the breasts was worse than one on her hands, Bev quickly surmised. She closed her eyes as numerous crocodile tears leaked out of the corners, as several more licks stung her boobies alternately. Therefore, she didn’t see the next lash coming, aimed right between her legs at her swollen labial lips. Jeff marched Bev briskly to their bathroom with random strokes at her breasts and vagina. In a matter of three minutes, Bev had gone from ecstasy to agony.
“Get your clothes off,” he commanded. Bev hastened to comply, pushing the negligee around her waist down to her feet, and rolling each stocking down, so that she stepped out of all three articles simultaneously. She didn’t have the nerve to ask why she was stripping, and why in the bathroom. That became self-evident when Jeff turned the shower on full blast.
“Don’t get my hair wet, I just fixed it!”
“Don’t worry about your hair,” and he trained the shower nozzle toward her backside. He shut the faucet off. “Now turn around and reach up and grab the shower head.”
“Don’t question me! Do it!”
She did, and Jeff caught her with two light smacks across her ass with the bathbrush. Even light ones like these on a wet butt really stung.
She rubbed the sting.
“I said to hold the shower head,” and hard smacks rained down on Bev’s bum, like the water just had. He concentrated the blows on the lower portion of her tight, trim cheeks, the pain becoming so concentrated, Beverly couldn’t stand still for any more.
Jeff gave her a respite from the bathbrush. He spin the bar of Ivory soap in his hands, then rubbed he lather into her crotch. If he’d done this gently, Bev would’ve exploded in orgasm. But he did it roughly, dispassionately, as one would soap-up a smelly, muddy dog. He lathered-up her sex, washing away all the evidence of her fingering. Bev stood still for this and just watched him.
She did. He turned on the tap, not the shower, and ladled warm water onto her smarting cheeks and crotch with his hands. Again, she watched his face as he did this. His love was never so evident, it made her heart swell.
“I love you!” she blurted out.
“No! I really love you! I know I’m a brat. I disobeyed you on purpose, mimicked you to get your goat. I deserved everything I got…”
“We’re not finished yet.”
“I didn’t think we were. But I wanted you to know that you’re getting through to me… I’m no longer the head-strong bitch I was.”
“Then count these aloud, like a good little girl,” he said, picking up the bathbrush again.
“Ow! One, thank you, sir! May I have another?” she counted contritely. He gave her twenty five more blistering wallops with the brush. She counted each one, though by the end, she was just sobbing something like the number.
Jeff put the bathbrush down, wrapped her in a big towel, carried her to their bed, and gently put her on it. He began to disrobe.
They made love facing one another on alternate hips, his hands kneading the tender flesh of her beaten bottom. As he slid into her, she made a confession.
“My orgasms are yours and yours alone. I don’t know how many I have left in this lifetime, but all of them are your property. I’ll never take your property away from you again. At least, not without asking first.”
“Speaking of which, you do not have permission to cum until I say. Clear?” He started to really hammer into her. She nodded. He saw her melt, drift away, into her body’s Nirvana, which complimented the sub space her head was in. He fucked her demandingly. She quickly needed to answer those demands.
“May I cum, sir?”
“No, hold it off… Just experience it in the moment… don’t let it escape your grasp…”
“Yes, sir,” she whimpered, desperation in her voice, in her body-language.
“Hold it off… don’t you dare climax…”
“Yes… sir… but… please…!”
“Not yet, take it… That’s my good girl… Now you may…”
And Beverly screamed and clutched him with her arms, with her sex, with her soul.
They lay there in bed afterward, each thinking much the same thoughts. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship. He hated being as hard on her as she required at times. But she did need it. She didn’t know why she did things expressly to rile him up, make him punish her. But the calm after that storm was so exquisite. They were made for one another, they both knew it, but to all those around them, it sure didn’t seem like it. Fortunately, they’d found one another, fed the need that the other ached from having, which fed them individually, too.
Their breathing and pulse-rates stabilized, she turned to him and confided, “If you’re keeping score, that’s one less from my limited supply, and it was a doozy!”