No sooner than the last inch of fabric's disappearing inside her, he slapped her cunt causing her body to jump a little.
He stepped out from between her legs, pushed them together, then quickly pushed her knees down. The momentum of her legs made her fall forward off the counter, but he caught her before she landed.
He turned her around, placed his hand between her shoulders and shoved her down, bending her over the edge of the island.
He picked up the knife and slapped her ass with the flat of its blade.
"One."
"Two."
"Three."
"Four."
"Five."
.
.
.
"Twelve."
"Fourteen."
The spanks were not particularly hard, but she struggled to stay focused. She was feeling too many things all at once. She was excited to be bent over the kitchen island. When she picked out the kitchen, more than a decade ago, being bent over in the middle of it and spanked with a knife wasn't even a thing she was aware existed.
She was excited by the feeling of her soaked panties inside her. "Dirty laundry belongs in the laundry basket." That's how she was raised. That's how she's lived her whole life. She never, not even for a second, entertained the possibility that she could become the laundry basket.
She was excited to be plugged, to feel full, to be tantalized with every miniscule move that she made. To feel the wad of fabric becoming slicker and slicker.
Most importantly, she was most excited by not knowing what came next. She was completely at the mercy of his whims, and every whim he had had so far made her tingle and throb.
"Ow!" She shrieked as she felt the weight and strength of his fist land in the center of her ass cheek, almost immediately numbing her whole leg.
"Focus! One slight mistake and I end up taking a pound of flesh."
