Valerie's Punishment

The dirty, omelet crusted edge of the black nylon spatula glared at me from the silverware drawer. Valerie had been given simple instructions, the dishes were to be done when I returned home. This would not do. We had only been dating a short time and I knew that bad habits had to be broken swiftly. I hefted its weight in my hands and went upstairs to confront her with it.

She was sitting on the bed, reading a novel, dressed casually in sweat-pants and a grey jogging shirt. The sweats were the sort that appear tight and loose all at the same time, hugging the curves of her thighs and ass.

She looked up as I entered the room.

"Give me your hands," I said. She was still uncertain of what was going on as I handcuffed them together and pulled her to her feet. She opened her mouth to say something, appearing confused. I threw the spatula down on the bed and raised her arms up over her head, "lift your arms," I commanded at the same time. She complied, somewhat bewildered and I shackled her to the ring at the top of the bed post. She had to stand on her tiptoes, her wrists straining in the metal cuffs.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

She turned her head and looked over her shoulder at me. I held up the spatula. "I've spoken to you before about doing the dishes properly," I said, "this will be the last time." She still didn't know what was going on, even when I reached my fingers inside her wasteland and pulled her sweats down just past her rock hard ass, her reward for a constantly athletic lifestyle. I looked at her a minute, the way her panties concealed the smooth skin of her ass. Then tugged them down, bearing her flesh.

"What's going on?" She asked again. I grabbed a handful of her long black hair and turned her face away from me, so she couldn't see what was coming. "What--" she said again, a little panic in her voice now, sensing the seriousness of it. I swung the spatula. It whistled through the air and landed flatly on her right ass cheek with a sharp crack like a gunshot. She cried out in pain so loudly that I was certain the neighbors could hear through the thick wall of the apartment.

I placed one hand over her mouth, "be quiet," I whispered in her ear, "don't make it any worse." Then I started to paddle her hard. She squirmed under each blow, trying to get away, her protests muffled by my hand, Her head shook, long black hair falling across her cheeks and face, wet with perspiration already. I watched the firm skin ripple and counted the blows, coming swiftly now, ten, fifteen, twenty, at thirty I stopped, keeping my hand over her mouth as she continued to moan, her breathing frantic at first, then slowing, swallowing, finally, the moans were low and quiet. I put the spatula down on the bed and pulled off her sweats and then her panties.

"I won't do it again," she said quietly, "I've learned my lesson."

"You will learn your lesson," I told her. Balling her panties up, I shoved them in her mouth. "But we're far from done here."

This was a lesson that I didn't want her to forget. Taking a roll of duct tape from the dresser drawer, I taped her mouth shut tightly behind the wadded up cloth. A line of of silver, and an X over top of that. She realized that I meant to treat her even more cruelly and tried to cry out, shaking her head rapidly from side to side.

"There's nothing you can do now," I said, "You have absolutely no control." With her hands bound and the gag in place, I could punish her with impunity.

My initial goal had been nothing more than punishment, to teach her a lesson, to break a bad habit. But seeing her there, with the look of fear in her eyes and her arms above her head, her hands, clenching the chain to ease the strain

on her arms, filled me with a previously unknown passion. I slowly reached up and felt her breasts through the thin fabric of her jogging shirt. She wasn't wearing a bra and they were surprisingly warm and firm as I slid my hands over the fabric, feeling her nipples harden. Suddenly, it was all I could do to keep my hands off them. She'd turned her head to look away from me, her eyes at the floor, resigned to being powerless, she could only accept what came, the inevitable. My hands slid down from her breasts to the curve of her waist, so smooth, it it felt indescribably right. My fingers danced along the inch of bare skin between the top of her sweats and the bottom of her shirt, and then slid up, across her bare stomach. It was a paradise, an unexpected paradise. She let out a moan as my hands strayed higher, pushing her shirt up, over her breasts, exposing them.

"I'm sorry," I said, "but I need my hands for other things. I took two clothespins from the laundry basket on the floor beside the bed. Her eyes widened instantly and she began to shake her head violently as I clamped the first one down on her rigid nipple. She let out a muffled squeal of pain and tried to back away from me, straining at the chains, as I released the other one, it's spring closing hard and pinching her skin. She shut her eyes tightly, lines forming at the corners as she suffered the discomfort.

My hands were now free to caress the entire length of her body; pushing between her thighs, her waist, up along her back. I was overpowered by the feeling, by my need to touch her, by my desire for her. I ran my fingers up through her hair, across her face, down across her breasts, occasionally brushing or flicking the clothespins and hearing her cry out. Down then, between her legs, the fingers of my right hand feeling her wet, touching her soft clit, now getting larger beneath my touch. With my left hand, I caressed the curve of her ass, her back, then pressing myself against her, both hands now between her legs. Her head had slumped down, eyes rolled back and she began to moan loudly, even through the gag.

There was a chain around the bed we used to use to lock our bicycles to the porch railing. Silver, with one inch links. I wrapped this around her waist and clasped it together with the heavy lock, then unhitched her handcuffs from the bedpost. She sighed as her stiff arms came down past her shoulders. Her hands had turned purple. I locked them to the chain around her waist, now securely fastened in front of her. She could neither lift her arms nor separate her hands.

"Bend over the bed," I instructed and she obeyed. I pushed her feet apart, spreading her legs. "Now touch your clit," I said, but her fingers were motionless. I picked up the spatula and brought it down hard on her already red ass, "Do it!" I commanded. Bringing the spatula down hard. Then again and again. Her fingers started moving, exploring, first one, then two, fingers on her left hand disappearing inside her while the other hand gripped the skin of her labia, pulling it, caressing it. Now, each blow brought a moan who's motivation I could not discern -- pleasure? or pain? Her ass was a field of red, a hundred impressions of the spatula one on top of another. Her fingers moved quickly now and I was overcome by my own lust. I stopped spanking her and my own hands went frantically to my pants, unzipping them and taking out my rock hard cock which she had always found slightly too large to be comfortable. I couldn't hold back any longer, pressing it up against her, her fingers reaching out, stroking it. As I pushed inside her, she gasped loudly through the gag and I began to fuck her, slowly, then with increasing force, her body shook on the bed and I plunged deeper, my body slapping up against hers, sending waves across her skin.

After long minutes, I felt her start to come beneath me, by now, screaming into the gag, her fingers moving frantically. I felt a rush and I was exploding inside her, cum gushing from my cock in a seemingly never ending flow, again and again I pumped inside her until I was completely spent. Her fingers dropped away, and all the rigidness went from her body, her eyes closed and I lay heavily on top of her.

I realized at that moment, laying completely exhausted and nearly lifeless on top of her, and seeing that look of utter contentment on her face that this wouldn't be the last time I would find that spatula, inexplicably unwashed, in the kitchen drawer.