Spring Brea Brings Spans

It's still hard to believe that my wife and I are by ourselves for spring break. The story of how we ended up that way is one for another time -- and really, I should turn things over to Shayleigh, our beautiful twenty-year-old sex pet, when that time comes. She's off with her new friend, Julia, on a week-long fuck fest in Colorado, exploring her dominant side for the very first time.

My wife, Cat, was over the moon. As much as she loves having a submissive sex pet, she's apparently even more excited to have a girl-on-girl femdom padawan. The stories Shayleigh has told us so far have been incredibly hot. When she asked for permission to go on this trip, we happily granted it. Hell, we're paying for it. We also paid for an extra suitcase's worth of clothes, toys, and lube for her to take along.

Cat and I do well for ourselves, and we don't have any children or literal pets to spend money on. Shayleigh's basically a member of our family now. Why not give her a special treat? After all these months with us, she's more than earned it. I also have a feeling that the stories she brings back from Colorado will be repayment enough.

Who knows? Someday, Shayleigh might even bring Julia over to our house for a special visit.

It's still a little heartbreaking to be without our pet for a whole week. We'll be okay, though. We'll find stuff to do.

Speaking of...

Cat has one kink that we haven't been able to indulge in while Shayleigh's been around. It requires a little bit of setup and a lot of recovery time. To put it mildly, it would also undercut Cat's authority over Shayleigh, were our pretty pet to witness any of it.

"I'm going to be a bad girl tomorrow, Jack," Cat told me last night. "Ricki and Suzy are in town, and we're gonna have some fun."

Bad girls get spanked. They get spanked

hard

.

"Please tell me it's no boys allowed," I replied. I squeezed my eyes shut and held two pairs of crossed fingers up to ward off the harpies.

Cat laughed. "You know they'd both jump at the chance to fuck you," she said.

Setting aside how I feel about Ricki and Suzy as people, it was flattering to hear. It's also never happening. Divorced and married, respectively, those two are bonded by self-inflicted man-based misery. Hard pass.

"Well maybe they'd jump at the chance to fuck you, too," I teased.

"They jumped back in college," Cat replied playfully, "but I was the one who did the fucking."

Well, okay, they're not my cup of tea, but back in college they were hot. They weren't as hot as Cat, but who is? Shayleigh's the only one who's ever come close.

If it had been up to my cock, it would have been story time. My discipline held, though; I steered the conversation towards our impending kink session. I had a feeling my little buddy would like that just fine.

"So uh, just how bad are you going to be?" I asked my wife.

Cat moved in close and ran her hands all over my chest. She teased at a kiss, but leaned over to whisper in my ear instead.

"Your wife's just going to have a little fun, baby," she said, "but Cat The Brat is going to be a

very

bad girl.

"She's going to eat so many appetizers she gets a tummy ache," she said, putting on her terrible Shirley Temple impression right at the end.

Tummy aches get cured with enemas.

"And she's going to drink so much she gets sick," she added.

Sick girls get their temperatures taken.

"And she's probably going to slut it up with her ex-bitches, too," she finished. Then she licked my ear with the tip of her tongue.

Sluts get thoroughly inspected by their jealous husbands. If one finds anything amiss, the slut gets handcuffed, collared, gagged, and plugged. She also gets fucked. A slutty wife needs to be reclaimed by her husband's cock and cum.

Cat's hands went down to my pants. She felt the warmth and hardness there. She leaned back and brushed her lips against mine again. She closed her eyes and savored my hot, quickened breath.

"Save it up for me, baby," she said, patting my package. "Make sure you're ready for a workout."

* * * * * *

Whenever my wife plays Cat The Brat, I get to play Jack The Ass.

Jack The Ass is possessive. He's jealous. He's overbearing. He believes in corporal and sexual punishment for every transgression. He pretends to take care of his wife, but really, he just likes sticking things up her ass and humiliating her.

This scenario is way too intense to bring out on a regular basis. It's been six months at least. It's time, and the timing is perfect. Cat won't even have to blow a sick day to let her bruised ass cheeks recover. I will take one, though, to tend to them.

For the duration, Jack The Ass is just Jack. Cat The Brat is just Cat. If safe words or signals are used, don't worry. You'll know.

* * * * * *

I'm standing in the dark, next to the panel of light switches in the foyer. I can hear Cat stumbling up the walkway outside. She's late, and she's drunk. She's trying to be sneaky. She's failing miserably. Heels clatter and scrape on the stone path. It sounds like one of them is loose.

I flick the outside lights on.

"Oh shit!" I hear her say. She doesn't sound afraid, though. She's still in party mode. Everything is funny.

I don't bother peeking outside. I get my hand ready on the next light switch -- the one for the foyer, where I'm standing. I let my drunk wife bumble through the whole process.

It takes her awhile. The door is locked, so she needs to find her keys. I hear bags and purses being moved around, opened, and rifled through. I hear the telltale jingle, then the clumsy scrape of metal against metal.

Finally, she pushes the door open. I let her get all the way inside and close it. At least she remembers to take her keys out of the lock. It's a small miracle.

I flip the switch, and see what I'm dealing with.

Cat staggers and blinks rapidly. The keys in her hand jangle when she instinctively lifts her hands to cover her eyes, and she hits herself with the large paper shopping bag she's carrying.

I was right about the loose heel; she almost topples herself thanks to it. The green cocktail dress is a bit disheveled, but at least it's covering her tits and ass. Her purse is awkwardly slung over one shoulder and half open. Her fiery red hair is in a ponytail -- sort of. It's the sloppiest attempt at one I've seen in months. Even if it were done up properly, it'd be the wrong style for her outfit.

"Welcome home, Cat," I say. I keep my voice even -- dead even.

She adjusts to the light, lowers her hands, and finally sees me. She's still stupid from the alcohol. She doesn't connect all the dots right away. I see it happening, though. She's going to get there very soon.

"Heeeeeeey, honey!" Cat says. She tries to be cute. She tries to be casual. Her voice and body language are already telling a different story. She looks and sounds like she's trying to placate an angry dog or a hungry lion.

"You're late," I say.

"Am I?" she asks. "Oh, I'm sorry, baby. Did you miss me?"

"You missed dinner," I say.

I'm wearing jeans and a casual T-shirt. While the latter's not skin tight, it lets me show off my broad chest and developed arms. I'm six-foot-one, which puts me four inches above my wife -- two, I suppose, until those heels come off.

"Baby, baby," she says, "I told you I was going out."

"For 'a few drinks with friends,'" I remind her.

"Well, yeah," she says. "And you have a few drinks, there's music, you have some apps, it's a whole thing."

I change my tone. I set the trap. "Here, honey," I say gently. "Let me help you."

I relax my body language and walk over to her. I take her shopping bag and set it aside. I take her purse and do the same. I brace her while she removes her heels. Once they're off, she sighs in relief.

When I get behind her and start unzipping her dress, she starts connecting the dots again.

"Uh, honey?" she asks warily.

"Shhhh, baby," I say. "It's okay. You know what needs to happen now. You're late, you're drunk, you missed dinner, and you filled up on greasy food. I need to see what's going on with my wife."

"Jack, honey," she tries, "everything's fine. I'm sorry I was late. Let's just get ready for bed. We can talk in the morning."

"That's not how this works," I say. I put some steel and fire into my voice. "One of us needs to be responsible. It's not you right now, so it has to be me. If you cooperate, things will go so much easier."

I lower one hand to her perfect ass. I give it a hard squeeze. "You want this to be easier," I grimly assure her.

I feel her entire body tense. "Yes, Jack," she says.

I slide the dress down and have her step out of it. That leaves her completely naked; I'm not as surprised as I ought to be. She starts to shake a little bit. It's not because she's cold.

"No panties," I note darkly. "You didn't wear any to the club?"

"No," she answers.

"That's a lie," I respond immediately, and I give her ass another hard squeeze. "That's extra punishment."

"I-" she begins, but I cut her off.

"If I have to dig through your shit, that's extra punishment," I say. "Go ahead and tell me it's not a lie."

She hangs her head. She stays quiet.

I find the base of her anal plug and tap it.

"Did this stay in the whole time you were out, like it's supposed to?" I ask her.

"I had to pee," she says. That's not an answer. She really is a brat.

Taking the plug out in the bathroom is allowed, though. Nobody wants to deal with an accidental drop into a public toilet. It would serve her right for getting shitfaced, but the image isn't sexy to me in the least.

"Okay," I say, "but that's all? Just that?"

"Yes, Jack," she says.

"Hmmm," I say. I'm not sure if that's a lie or not.

I run my strong hands all over her body. I silently urge her to stand up straight, and to keep her hands at her sides. I molest my naked, vulnerable, terrified wife. I massage her perky breasts. I tease her nipples. I give her kisses all over her neck, collarbone, and shoulders. Each one begins as a threat to bite. I don't, though -- not yet. I just kiss.

I wait for her to relax a little bit. I want her to feel some hope. I want her to try it.

She does.

"Baby," she says seductively, "that feels good. Do you want me? Just let me freshen up a little bit, and then you can have me anywhere you want."

I ignore her. I move my hands down -- one on her back, one on her tummy. I move them in tandem, and press in various places. She does her best to stay quiet, but she can't help it: during one or two of them, she winces.

"You got yourself all backed up," I say.

I shake my head. She can sense it even though she can't see. I walk around her naked body until we're face to face. I put my hand up to her forehead, and then her cheeks.

"You're warm, Cat," I say. "You might have a fever."

I see the last bit of hope leave her eyes. She nods, then looks away for a moment. She knows what's going to happen to her, and she's dreading the humiliation. When she finds my eyes again, I seize her chin.

I move in close. I sniff, and immediately react with disgust. "That's alcohol and puke, Cat," I say. "You made yourself sick. That explains the ponytail, too."

Her green eyes, drained of hope, now betray dread. They're still a little glassy from the booze, but the gravity of her situation has penetrated into her foggy brain. She's connected enough dots. The picture is clear.

"I'm sor-" she begins, but I cut her off.

"Take a deep breath and hold it," I say. I stare her down until she obeys.

I sniff again. I lick. I widen my eyes and clench my jaw.

"Pussy," I seethe.

I feel her face quivering in my hand. I let my expression and my voice go completely dead again. That scares her even more.

"Is there cum?" I ask her.

"No," she whispers.

She's trying to shake her head while I still have hold of her chin. Her voice scales up from a whisper to a frightened, weeping plea.

"There's no cum, Jack, I swear. I swear to God, I would never-"

I squeeze. She shuts up.

"You know you can avoid everything that's coming," I say casually. "If there's cum, then we're done. You can pack your shit. You can get the fuck out of my house. Text me an address. I'll have the divorce papers ready in two days, tops."

I can see the conflict in her eyes. There's a tiny part of her that really would do anything to avoid her impending punishment. I like that there's an internal struggle. I like that there's hesitation.

I like that she makes the choice to accept what's coming to her tonight, and tells me again:

"No, baby, no. There's no cum. There's no cum. I'm so sorry, baby."

I stare her down. I put some life back into my voice -- just enough so that she knows I'm not going to murder her, or kick her out onto the street still naked.

"It was Ricki and Suzy again, wasn't it?" I ask.

"Yes, Jack," she answers.

"Isn't one of them still married, too?" I ask.

"Yes, Jack," she says. "Suzy is, to Paul."

I shake my head in disgust. "Well, that's too bad for them, Cat," I say, "but it's also too bad for you. I'm not a professional pussy-smell inspector. I can't be sure if you only licked Ricki, and I don't trust you to tell me the truth right now. That means you get double extra punishment. You fucked around with two marriages tonight instead of just one."

"I'm sorry, baby," she says.

"You're not," I counter. "You will be."

I shrug, and finally let go of Cat's chin. "Well, Suzy is Paul's problem," I say, "and he's hers. I hope he's able to get through to her tonight, or at least kicks her out."

"He won't," Cat says. "He's a wimp."

Upon hearing that word, I push into Cat's personal space with my whole body. She jumps in surprise. I seize her with my strong hands -- one on her throat, one on her ass. I push my pelvis against hers. I make sure the denim of my jeans lightly scratches near her pussy.

"I'll bet you wish I was a wimp," I whisper in her ear.

She shakes her head. "No, Jack," she says.

"I don't know if I believe that," I say, "but it's the best answer you've given so far."

I walk over to the end table and retrieve the thick black collar. Emblazoned onto it in red capital letters is a single word: SLUT.

"At least your hair's already up, slut," I say.

I unceremoniously collar my wife. To her credit, she manages to hold it together and not cry -- for now. I walk back to the table and get the ball gag. Once again, the straps are black. The ball itself is red. This one has lots of meshed holes for breathing -- or for puking. No matter what else happens tonight, I'm not going to kill my wife.

Well, I'm not going to accidentally kill my wife.

"Open," I command.

"Jack," she says, and I get behind her in an instant. I pull the ball into her mouth. The next noise might've been word, if I'd let her finish making it. Maybe not. It doesn't matter. I fasten the buckle behind her.

"One more, baby," I say. "Hands behind your back. Sluts can't be trusted not to touch themselves."

I bring over the handcuffs -- plastic, with expensive microfiber padding all around. They're extremely comfortable, or so I've been told. I don't know why I would've bothered. They must've been a gift -- maybe from some other Jack, for some other Cat.

The collar and the gag have killed any thoughts she might've had of resisting. She puts her hands behind her back for me. I click the cuffs on her wrists. She still hasn't cried.

I retrieve the chain leash, and I link it to the collar. That finally does it. My drunk, disloyal slut of a wife finally breaks down. The sobs wrack her shivering body. Her posture goes to hell.

"That's right, Cat," I whisper, my voice full of false pity. "Now you're starting to be sorry."

I tug the chain and lead my leashed, collared, plugged, gagged slut of a wife into the bedroom. When we get there, I seize her body again, turning it around and guiding it backwards so that the bed is right behind her legs.

I unhook the leash and toss it aside. It's never going to be on Cat for very long tonight, but I like it. It sends the right message.

"Stay," I order.

First, I grab some tissues from the nightstand. I return to her and tell her to blow her nose. We do that a few times, until I'm reasonably confident she'll be able to keep breathing once she's on her back. I use a few more tissues to dab at her tear-streaked face. The mascara ran a bit. It's a bad look, but a fitting one for a drunk slut who knows she's about to get punished.

The bed is already prepared. Towels and pillows are exactly where they need to be. Cat thinks she's subtle. She thinks she's impulsive. Her husband knows better.

I push Cat down, backwards, onto the mattress. She yelps through the ball gag and begins squirming. She's trying to find some comfort. I let her. I have to go get the lube -- two kinds, in fact, plus the large rectal thermometer and a couple of hand towels. Before all that, though, I find the box of nitrile gloves in the drawer. I make sure to turn and look at my wife as I snap one snugly over my hand. She recognizes the sound. It grabs her attention. It reminds her again of what's coming.

When I walk back around to her bottom half, she's anything but calm, but at least she's stopped squirming. Her legs are bent so that her feet are near the floor. She's on her back, and it looks like she got her cuffed hands past the first pillow.

"You're going to be like this for awhile, honey," I tell her, "so let's get you situated."

I drop my tools onto the large towel, then get up on the bed and adjust the other two pillows. There's one for her upper back and one for her head. I look into my wife's eyes. Within them, I briefly see a flash of some other Cat, who silently tells me that she's in a good position. Then the dread returns. I know we're ready.

I get off the bed. I retrieve the can of silky, silicone lube. I maneuver myself between Cat's legs. I urge her a bit closer to me, making sure her plugged asshole is just over the edge of the pillow and mattress. Once I'm satisfied, I get ready to inspect my wife.

When my gloved hand touches the base of Cat's plug, I feel her whole body tense up. I place the other hand on her pelvis, right above her clit hood. My thumb could brush there, if I wanted it to.

"One grunt for 'yes', two grunts for 'no,'" I remind her. "Am I going to get any nasty surprises when I take this plug out, Cat?"

She grunts twice.

"I hope you're right," I say.

I spread a little extra lube around the plug base, then begin easing it out. I don't rush things. Cat's done this part plenty of times before, both by herself and with me. She grunts and groans a bit when the widest part passes, but all in all it's a smooth trip.

It's not one of her bigger ones. It's metal, with a faux-gemstone faceted base. It's one of a pair; she chose the emerald base tonight, rather than the ruby red. It doesn't quite match her eyes or her dress, but it was the right one for the ensemble.

That's a little suspicious.

"Did anyone besides us see this plug tonight, Cat?" I ask her.

She doesn't want to answer, but she also doesn't want to spend the entire night trussed up like this. She grunts once.

"Did any other man see it?" I ask.

She starts squirming, then grunts twice. She grunts twice again. I feel her head shaking on the pillow. Before the third protestation of partial innocence, I press down on her pelvis.

"Okay," I say. "That's still extra punishment, but at least you don't get tossed out onto the street just like this."

She stops squirming. She still isn't calm. I wouldn't want her to be.

I set the plug aside, wipe my hands, and open the Vaseline. I don't say anything to my wife. I don't need to. When the first glob touches her stretched hole, she whines. It's not pain. It's humiliation.