The natural born brat asked for it.
Nike was running down the corridor propelled by her muscular legs. She had on her tennis whites, sneakers and short socks, and her racket in a sports bag. She stopped by her locker and grabbed a fur paddle that was waiting for her.
Tennis was good. She won and now she was on her way for the real reward and the one who was willing to mette it out to her.
Nike offered a paddle to the Wolf. As she bent over, her tennis dress barely covered the situation. She smiled under her eyelashes, daring him.
"You asked for it," growled the Wolf back, his blue eye growing dark and steely.
He hefted the paddle, threw it in the air, and admired the glint of light on the smooth, polished, wooden handle. He caught it the midair.
The Wolf draped Nike over his knees and made sure her arms were pinned beneath her body, her hands at a strategic place. Her strong, sinewy body found it's natural place in his lap, her palms at his leathered crotch.
He flipped her tennis dress over her waist. He was in no mood for anything 'Barely' covered, he only wanted bare.
The Wolf moved his hand over the naked globes. They twitched at his touch. As his palm moved over the hem of her dress, he enjoyed the difference; the boundary between Nike's bare flesh and the dress. He moved it to a spot between her shoulder blades, to hold her firmly in place.
"Are you ready, Nike? You have to count, you know!"
"Yes Mr. Wolf!" she quipped sweetly, batting her eyelashes.
"I hope you realize this is tennis too. A just reward for a good game."
Nike knitted her eyebrows, then brightened and nodded.
He swung and connected.
The left cheek trembled and exploded in pain.
Nike let out a gulp of air. The Wolf waited.
"Fifteen?"
"Yes. Good Nike!"
He swung again. She jerked forward.
"Umm, fifteen - all?"
"Thaaaat's right! Now, for the ace!"
The Wolf served an ace. Nike didn't look so smug now as she bit her lip.
"Thirty - fifteen!"
"You know how to keep the score! Not just ask questions! We'll teach you some respect yet," and he swung again, sharply.
"Oomph...!" coughed Nike as a tear ran down her flushed cheek.
"Thirty - thirty!"
"Are you sure? Perhaps we should call this game a forfeit and start again?"
"No no..." she quickly calculated ... fifteen love was on the left, right was fifteen all, then left was thirty fifteen ... then right again ..."it's forty fifteen, Sir!"
"Too late....This is a double fault, Nike!" he swatted her again, just to keep the ass-blush evenly distributed.
"That is thirty - thirty! And this will be ..." as he smacked her right cheek real hard, he admired its firmness, its remarkable bounce. The Wolf loved bouncy bums; he also loved her squirming in his lap. Sweat suddenly dampened her white dress. Nike gasped for air. Both cheeks burned and she was not sure of the score.
"Thirty forty, Sir?"
"Oh yes, Nike, and now, is this going to be the game point?"
He slapped Nike's red ass sharp and hard. Again, she jerked forward.
Tears welled in her eyes from pain, humiliation, excitement, or all three.
"Deuce...err...forty - forty," sobbed Nike.
"Then someone must take this game. Who?" he asked as he moved his hand across the tenderized flesh of Nike's burning bottom, rubbing it.
The Wolf paused to push his finger between the heated cheeks and found an incredible sweet wetness. He brought the finger to his lips.
"Who's to win, Nike? Left or right?"
Still trembling from his touch, her ass cheeks twitching, she whispered: "Left, Sir."
"Left what?"
"My left cheek needs another swat, sir... to win."
He swung fast and hard. Nike almost flew off his lap, but he held her fast.
"And a game to Nike!"
The Wolf waited for the sobbing. There was none. He caressed her bald pussy. It was almost difficult to grasp, so sleek and moist, but he managed. He flipped her over and held her with her buttocks pressed together, pelvis thrust upwards, lower legs hanging across his arm, and one tennis shoe hanging from her foot.
He brushed her flushed face, and gazed into her liquid eyes.
"What do you say... after such a lesson?"
