“How do you like my wife’s cunt, boy?” Patrick growled in Ben’s ear, giving his left buttock a fifth spank. His hips thrust forward, with nowhere for the shockwave to go other than into Smita since Ben’s cock was still buried in her pussy, being milked of the last drops of his young seed.
“Answer!” SMACK! “Did you enjoy fucking my wife?”
To Ben’s great credit, his first thought was of the older woman beneath him rather than of himself — and not just of the jiggle of her brown breasts with each impact. When he looked at her, though, he met an expression not of fear but of amusement. She mouthed a word at him, and when he just seemed confused, she rolled her eyes and did it again. This time he caught it. “Rincewind.”
Of course! he realised, as adrenaline chased away his post-climax mind-fog, bringing back the memory of the conversation in the car on the way to her house. She told me not to be like Rincewind the cowardly wizard and run away.
“Trust me,” she had told him. Wait, did she know Patrick was here?
“Yes!” he squeaked finally. Then instincts from high school kicked in, and he added, “Sir,” just as another slap landed on his right arse cheek.
The bed shifted as a weight greater than either Smita or himself got on behind him. A clothed shin pressed into his calf, pinning it to the mattress, and the cotton of a shirt brushed his back as her husband pulled him up further, his scalp burning, and he got his first look at him in the flesh. An angry slab of gammon with glasses was his first uncharitable impression of the pink-faced, jowly man glaring at him. The stench of cigarette smoke was stronger on him than his wife, and unless there was a drastic difference in age, he had reached his fifties in far less graceful fashion than she had.
“‘Sir’, is it? So polite, now that you’ve sullied her pussy with your sperm. Always the same with the desperate boys that she brings home — you’re in too much of a hurry to get yourselves off, you forget to use a condom.”
He then addressed his wife.
“Afternoon, love. Did you have a good week?” It was like he flicked a switch to enter loving-husband mode when he spoke to Smita — as if finding her in bed with other men was an everyday occurrence.
“Oh, you know, the usual. You’re home early.”
“Conference got cut short. It was either see the sights of Swindon or come home.”
Absurdly in light of his predicament, Ben found himself enjoying the slight Midlands’ lilt to his gravelly voice — not full Brummie, but still with the musicality of that accent. SMACK! He was brought back to reality, but something inside him was still stopping him from trying to break free.
“Have you told this one the rules?” Patrick asked, waggling Ben's head by his handful of hair.
“Not yet. Ben, would you like to play a little game?”
“W-what sort of game?” Ben’s internet habits were far too vanilla to guess, although at least his earlier guilt started to evaporate as he began to realise the extent that they must have planned this scenario together.
“A fun one. For adults. I know you’ll enjoy it.”
“Um, okay?”
“You started well by calling Patrick ‘Sir’ — only address him like that. And don’t call me ‘Smita’ when we’re playing, or even ‘Professor Wilkins’. From now on, I want you to call me ‘Miss’. Just like you would have done with a teacher at school. Is that understood?”
“Yes.” Her husband gave his arse another slap. “I mean, yes, Miss.”
“Better. Now, if you ever want the game to stop, just say ‘Rincewind’, and we’ll stop playing, understand?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“It’s more fun without stopping, though. Like I said in the car, you might find things out about yourself that you never knew.”
“Right, Miss.” He waited, expecting further instructions. When none came, he asked, “Um, Miss? Do I need to know anything else about the game?”
“Only that you must do everything we say. Everything.” She gave him a stern look that reminded him more of high school than University, but he nodded anyway.
“Oh, I mean, yes, Miss,” he added hastily when her eyebrows went up.
“Good!” She beamed. “Patrick, you may continue.”
“With pleasure. I’m not even going to use your name, boy. You’ll just be ‘boy’ in this house, understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“First, apologise to my wife,” he said, pushing Ben’s head towards Smita. She was smirking up at him triumphantly as if she knew he would keep playing all along.
“S-sorry,” Ben stuttered, hoping that would be enough. SMACK! Apparently not.
“Sorry for what, boy?” Good question — surely I did what she asked?
“Sorry for cumming inside you, Miss,” he tried. Nothing he had ever watched online had prepared him for this situation; he felt like he was in free fall, but something prevented him from pulling his parachute cord.
“Is that it? You treat my wife like a piece of cuntmeat, and all you apologise for is cumming inside her?” Patrick turned to his wife. “What do you think, Smita? You’re his tutor; what is an appropriate punishment for seducing your professor and screwing her in her marital bed?”
“Ooh, well, when you put it like that, love, he is very naughty!” The severity of her tone was only slightly undermined by the way she was playing with her dark nipples as she said it. “I think you started as we should continue — with a good spanking. God knows I’ve wanted to give one to some of my students over the years!”
“What do you say, boy? Do you deserve a spanking?”
Ben stared open-mouthed at the older couple. Previous conversations with Smita flashed through his head — those little murmured confessions of desire and hidden fantasies she had elicited from him in quiet moments in class, making him feel so daring to whisper them while classmates were bent over their books, even though they were always ostensibly connected to whatever text they were studying. Spanking had never come up in those conversations, but maybe Smita had read something in him he didn’t know about himself. He rubbed his already sore backside. Those initial smacks had hurt once the shock had passed, but there had been a bit of a rush too.
Maybe I should give it a try.
“How much of a spank?” he asked nervously.
“Oh, I think ten would be a good start,” Smita said.
“On each side,” Patrick added, grinning maliciously.
“From each of us,” Smita continued, trying to keep her severe teacher-face on. Ben swallowed, then nodded and shuffled back as Patrick released his leg, his dick sliding out to trail spunk over the sheets. “I think you have made rather a mess,” she added, pointing at the gloop dangling from his crotch and then dipping two fingers into her cunt and withdrawing them to look at the gooey strands of bodily fluids that had adhered to them. “I can feel more leaking out. Be a good boy and lick it up for me, would you?”
Ben could only gape. Cream pies always looked hot in porn when horny and alone in his room, but post-orgasm with a softening cock and spanked arse, licking up one he had created was much less appealing. He contemplated her tangled bush glistening with his saliva, her pussy juice and his precum, wondering where or if he should start. In the centre, below her still swollen clit, gelatinous lumps of semen quivered on the dark brown folds of her labia, still parted from their recently departed visitor as if waiting to embrace its return into their deep pink depths. A trickle of off-white gloop left the bottom of the opening and ran down between her buttocks. While he watched, gathering his courage, she clenched, and the inside flared, pushing out a miniature slow-motion cream mudslide that oozed over her dark star down to the bed.
SMACK! Hesitancy interrupted. Shit! I forgot about the spanks already!
“That one doesn’t count, by the way,” Patrick told him, then pushed his head down between his wife’s legs. “Look at the mess you’ve made of my wife’s pussy, boy. I don’t get to fuck many other pussies like she gets to fuck other cocks, so clean it up!”
Ben extended his tongue and inhaled. Bad idea — that filled his nostrils not just with her musk but with the sickly sweet smell of his own spunk. He gagged and almost used his safeword. Almost. But once again, something stopped him. Then the first of his allotted strikes landed on target, making him yelp.
“One!” Patrick announced. “Get licking — I’m starting again if I can see any of your jizz on her when my turn’s over.”
Wincing as the next spank hit his right buttock, yet determined to impress Smita, he started licking her thighs, tasting her skin, the salt of their combined sweat obscuring any hint of precum smeared there. He switched to the other side and worked inwards as soon as spank number three landed. Stickiness rubbed off on his cheeks, but he ignored it. More flavours mingled with the salt the closer he got to her slit. Spank four helped overcome his reluctance at sucking the first glob of congealed spunk from her hairs.
By the time the count had reached seven, he was licking her clit again, pushing past his revulsion at tasting his own ejaculate with the help of her first moan. Patrick shoved his face down when she did, and his tongue slipped inside. Viscous semen coated it as he lapped and sucked at her, barely noticing the following two smacks. Smita bucked, grinding into his face, and her husband, reading the signs, paused his spanking to push him down harder, their combined cum plastering his chin. When she came again, a flood of liquid squirted out, flushing out more coagulating clumps of his earlier climax with it.
“Good boy,” Smita gasped. “Maybe we should hire you as a maid.”
“So far, he’s just made more mess,” Patrick said and, with an extra hard SMACK, resumed the punishment.
Ben took the hint, the rush of endorphins from the pain overcoming his youthful smugness at giving a woman an orgasm with his oral skills. He moved down, sucking and slurping more at his cream as he remembered the threat of doubling his spanks. Trying to wash the persistent taste of spunk from his mouth with the taste of her juice, he gave long laps up her lips to her clit, making her shudder. Though he struggled to accept it, the more he kept licking, the more his hardening cock told him that he was actually enjoying this.
“I think you’ve already cleaned there, boy,” Patrick said after the eighth pair of strikes. “Lick up the rest you spilt.”
Ben pulled back to look. Her pussy shone with his spit now, but gooey cum had cascaded over her arse crack. He turned back to Patrick. “There? Really, Sir?”
“All of it!” SMACK! “That’s for even having to ask, not number seventeen. This is number seventeen!”
Not sure he could take many more spanks, Ben started licking desperately at her perineum and then, wrinkling his nose, he traced the inside edge of each cheek in turn. She helped spread them by pulling her knees up to either side of her chest. There was no avoiding it; the mess ran right over her puckered hole, though at least it appeared otherwise clean.
He looked up to see the mocking glint in her eyes, and as the penultimate slap stung his arse, he lapped at her star. Smita let out little encouraging cooing sounds as he gathered both their cum on his tongue, swallowed and then repeated, aware of each individual ridge he passed over. To his relief, they didn’t make him stick his tongue in, although the force in the twentieth smack came close to propelling it inside anyway.
“That’ll have to do.” Ben detected a note of disappointment in Patrick’s voice as he knelt up again. He went to feel his burning buttocks, but his hands were intercepted before they got there. “Looks like you need some help accepting the second part of your chosen punishment, boy.”
The older man used his free hand to undo his belt. For a horrible moment, Ben thought that was what he was going to be hit with next and prepared to utter his safeword. Instead, Patrick twisted his arms together behind his back and bound his wrists between his shoulder blades with the leather strap. He almost toppled over without the use of his arms to balance, but another painful grab at his hair steadied him and turned him to face Smita, who was in the process of sitting up, grinning at him while she pulled her long black hair back into a bun.
Oh crap! I forgot I agreed to ten each side from her as well.
“You’ve stained the sheets,” she said, pointing to the quivering mound of congealed cum in the middle of the damp patch on the bed between her legs. “Clean them, too.”
The fingers pulling his hair let go, and he landed with a splat, face first in his own jizz. After licking arse, cotton seemed less psychologically objectionable, so Ben set to sucking on the slimy patch even before Smita had moved behind to make her contribution to the abuse of his buttocks. He immediately discovered his error when he met the unpleasant mouth-feel of cold cum.
Any thoughts that her spanking would be easier to bear disappeared when the first one landed — if anything, hers were more intense and came faster, spurring him to work as fast as he could. Some of the spunk was stubborn in its hold, so he had to scrape with his teeth, drooling and slurping blindly, since, without his arms to push himself up, he could only guess where his target was by the stickiness against his lips.
“Twenty!” Smita announced, and Ben rolled onto his side, gasping, both sets of cheeks burning, feeling simultaneously triumphant in having completed his task and confused to find he was already hard again. With some undignified, beached-seal-like wriggling, he managed to sit up, jizz clinging to his chin, to find himself staring straight into the twin lenses of a video recorder and his own phone camera that his older temptress had pointed at him.
“Patrick does so love to capture my little trysts,” she said, shaking the larger device, “I hope you don’t mind?”
Too late now. “No, um, Miss. But what are you doing with my phone?”
There was the simulated shutter sound as she took a photo with it before she answered, “I thought you might like to share this day with someone special. Let her know what a dirty boy-slut you are.”
She flipped the phone around to show not one but two thumbnails of photos queued to send in Messenger – one of his filthy face a moment earlier, and the other of his rosy arse with face pressed in her cunt while she gave the thumbs up to Patrick. Colour draining from his face, he searched the top of the screen to see the intended recipient. Beth. His last girlfriend. Not the most acrimonious break-up he’d had, but definitely not someone he wanted seeing those photos.
“Tap send.” It was not a suggestion.
“N-no, Miss. I can’t.” It was true, after all — his hands were literally tied.
She arched an eyebrow. “With your nose!”
“No, Miss! Not to Beth. She can’t see this!”
“Oh.” She seemed disappointed. “You don’t want to keep playing?”
Ben stared at her — the face from a hundred wet dreams. He glanced at Patrick, who was watching him with a look partly of contempt and partly of hunger, which gave him even more confused butterflies. Then back at the photos on the phone.
Rincewind, he thought but shook his head. I’m not Rincewind. Taking a deep breath, he pushed his nose to the screen and pulled back, feeling a sensation similar to that of being on a rollercoaster just as it tipped over the first hill as he saw the tick change from blue on white to white on blue, indicating it had been received.
“Good boy,” she said with a grin and leant in to give him a kiss.
“Smita does know how to pick a compliant little fucktoy,” Patrick conceded, watching his wife snog the younger man. “Now do the floor.”
“The floor?” Ben asked as she released his lips.
“Yes. I was watching you the whole time you were in here, leaking all over the carpet. See, here! And here, and here.” He pointed at barely visible shiny spots on the carpet. Ben supposed they could be precum droplets from earlier, but could just as easily be Patrick’s from a previous night or even something like glue from months before. Being ordered around was starting to turn him on, though, so he decided to play along.
“I’m so sorry, Sir. I didn’t realise.”
Awkwardly, he shuffled to the edge of the bed on his knees and then fell backwards so he could lower his feet to the floor and slide slowly off to the first spot his new Sir was indicating with his foot. His abs burning from doing all the work since his arms were still unavailable, he bent over and licked at the spot. Despite the unpleasant sensation of fluff in his mouth, he still had to try hard not to giggle at the absurdity of this task until a foot was suddenly on the back of his head, crushing his face to the carpet.
“That’s right, get your teeth into it, you filthy little carpet mun— Ow! What was that for?”
Although he had flinched at the sound of palm connecting with flesh, it took Ben a moment to realise it was not his buttocks that had been hit. The foot had slipped from his head, so he raised himself and turned to watch.
“You were going to use a dirty word.” Smita had eyes narrowed and hand raised, ready to give another slap to her husband’s rear.
“What? Carpet— Ow! We say plenty of dirty words. What’s wrong with that one? It’s not like I’m directing it at a woman.”
“I’ve had it directed at me, and it’s not yours to repurpose. Even if you think it’s funny. Just call him a filthy boy-slut or something. Otherwise I might change my mind about who the boy-bitch is today. Understood?”
“Yes, Miss.” Patrick’s tone was not sarcastic and so practised that it was obvious even to Ben precisely who was in charge in this relationship. He didn’t have time to feel smug, though. “You, boy-slut! You’re meant to be cleaning the carpet, not making it dirtier.”
Ben looked down to see a shiny smear where his sticky face had been pressed. Oh crap, this is going to take longer than I thought. “Sorry, Sir, I will try harder.”
After several minutes of watching him licking and sucking on carpet, the married couple seemed either satisfied with his work or bored of that particular task and beckoned for him to come back to the bed.
“These, too,” Patrick said, tossing Smita’s silk knickers on his face once Ben reached his feet.
“I didn’t make these dirty,” Ben protested, forgetting to say “Sir”. Patrick pushed him over and gave him another two smacks for his impertinence.
“Are you calling my wife a slut, boy?” he asked. “You’re the slut, remember that. Imagining all the fun she was going to have with her new little fucktoy has been making her wet and insatiable for months, and that’s entirely on you.”
Smarting from the latest strikes but trying to hide the ego boost from being told he’d made Smita wet, Ben reluctantly bent down to the damp gusset. Panty sniffing had never really occurred to him — he’d always thought it would be fresh arousal rather than the stale dregs of previous arousal that would do it for him, but he couldn’t deny the thrill that the idea of licking these in front of their owner and her husband was giving him. He gave them a lick. Tangy and a hint of salt. After a few more licks, Patrick became impatient and shoved the whole lot in his gob to suck on.
While they watched him churn the underwear around his mouth with his tongue, there was a loud ding. As Smita reached for his phone, he felt a horrible foreboding. Is she going to send photos to someone else? He watched, transfixed, as she read the message and giggled. She showed the screen to Patrick, eliciting a dirty laugh.
“Beth liked the photos you sent her,” Smita said, holding out the phone. “What do you think of her suggestion?”
Tell Sir to fuck him good, Miss.
The colour drained from Ben’s face as he read the words, but the blood seemed to all go down to his treacherous cock, making it throb again. He raised his eyes, pleading with them to Smita, who just took another photo, and then to Patrick, who licked his lips.
“One more thing for you to clean, boy-slut,” he said and began slowly undoing his fly.
Oh, fuck!
