Before I know what I’m doing, I’m stepping in, canting my body to the side. I rear back my hand and stop.
“Fuck, baby,” I mutter as my hand drifts down to cup one plump cheek. “Look at you.” I pull her swimsuit up and settle it in her buttcrack, then do the same on the other side, the backs of my fingers rubbing her skin as I go.
She’s so fucking soft.
I’ve got to explore. My hands tighten, dig into her flesh, knead it just a little. Hell, if this is my one and only chance, then I’d better learn her here and now or that’ll be it and, no.
Hell, no.
Her back rises and falls faster. I reach out to soothe her, to tell her it’ll only hurt for a minute, but the rush is so good she’ll never want me to stop.
Someone behind us coughs. I blink back to the setting—outside, daytime, small white tent, packed full of more people than it should hold. My wife—my goddamn bratty-asswife—volunteering to get her first official spanking, as if just anyone here would do.
“You want this, baby?” I ask, ignoring the shuffling behind us. “You sure? I’ll stop if you—”
“Just do it!” Her harsh whisper comes with a glare that turns my warm, heavy cock solid in seconds.
“When I’m ready,” I force out, not letting her see how much topping from the bottom apparently turns me on. Or is it the brat thing? How’d I never notice the brat thing? And why’s it so fucking hot?
With a final, painfully slow stroke, I raise my hand and, in a single motion, bring it back down in a stinging slap.
Her ass shakes, her whole body jolts, and she lets out a little squeak that’ll be forever enshrined in my permanent spank bank.
My cock’s rock hard, already leaking pre-come, more ready than it’s ever been.
Hell, look at these curves. All this fuckingbountythat she hides behind her boring, everyday clothes. I’m half annoyed that I almost never got a look at this body and half relieved, though I hate everyone else looking at her right now. Seeing this, her, us. But damn, if she’d spent our time together walking around in bathing suits all day, I’d never have gotten any work done. Neither of us would have.
Every time I caught sight of her, I’d have felt the need to unload on her, inside her. Fill her up so she knew exactly who she belonged to.
Reality and fantasy blend as my hands explore the width of her hips, run up the outside of her suit and slide under it, gathering it up and twisting high on her hips until both sides are tightly coiled rope.
She wiggles, probably working to get friction on that sweet little clit, that juicy cunt I ate last night, with its thick lips and the snug hole my cock barely got a taste of. Fuck, I want in there. And I don’t want it in the dark, without names or faces or voices. I want it out in the open, in front of everyone, so they know who all this belongs to. I want it, masks off, so I can see her expression, so I can eat it up, while I lap at her, nibble her, bite every inch of this skin, mark her with my—
“Hey, Zed. You gonna spank her or put her to sleep up there?” barks Morgana, with her friendly brand of snark.
There’s laughter. I force my mouth into a smile, relieved that they can’t see my entire face behind this mask, because for once, I’ve got no control over my expression. Hell, I’ve barely got my body in hand. It’s like my brain’s shut off and the rest of me’s gone rogue.
“Need help up there, bro? I could—”
“No!” I snarl over my shoulder. “I’ve got this.”
But do I?
Yes. I’m the king of fucking control. Everyone here knows that. I never lose it. Never give it away.
I inhale, eyes closed, working hard to expel the chaos.
“Spread,” I tell her, my body thrumming with a fresh surge of satisfaction when she obeys immediately. “Good girl. So good.”
She wiggles a little, lifts her ass, her legs wide apart. I step aside, my body remembering how this works, though my mind’s not entirely online, and smack the other cheek, then the first, harder.
She gasps.
I shake out my stinging palm. Yeah, I want her gasping. I want her moaning. I want that plump little body writhing with pain and need and the frustration I’m dealing with just watching her. Waiting. Wanting.
Another smack, this one low and close to that little patch of yellow that’s gone darker than the rest. Part of me can’t comprehend that it’s real—Twyla, wanting this, getting off on this. Taking this, from me. Who is this woman?
I want to know so bad it hurts.
