angela146
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Aug 29, 2003
- Posts
- 1,347
This is a true story, but I've toned it down to make it more... um...
OK, let's be honest. I've toned it down because I don't want to admit to some of the really lurid details.
----
It was a Saturday afternoon. Hubby was out having lunch with some of our friends and I had decided to sleep in. I knew what kind of a mood he would be in when he came home, and I wanted to rub salt into it.
When the phone rang, I was ready. He said he was on his way home and there was a miserable tone in his voice. I was psyched and replied - in a perky, loving, wifely kind of tone - that I would be ready and waiting, that I had a big day planned.
And then I hung up the phone before he could complain. A few seconds later, it rang again and I ignored it.
The preparations hadn't taken very much. I was clean, fresh, and naked. The oven was preheated - I mean the actual oven in the kitchen - and there were two trays of cookies ready to bake - I mean actual chocolate-chip cookies.
I popped them into the oven and set the timer, then put on my apron and my three-inch heels, which I had ready and waiting in the kitchen next to the stove. The bowl and wooden spoon were still on the counter with some dough stuck to them.
Giddy with excitement, I sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and waited.
Bill tried calling a few more times before he arrived home, but I just let it ring.
When he arrived and I could hear him pull into the garage, the cookies were maybe two minutes from being done.
The door from the garage opened and he bellowed "ANGELA!" I silently laughed and got up from my chair to stand in front of the oven.
"Yes, darling?" came my reply, all sweet and innocent.
"I have ABSOLUTELY no desire to... do I smell cookies?" He rounded the corner and saw me, bending over to remove the trays from the oven. Other than my apron and heels, the only other "clothes" I was wearing were a pair of oven mitts.
His view was mostly of me in profile from slightly behind and to the left. I set the two trays on top of the stove and turned my head to look at him.
He put his hands on his hips and said, "What are you doing?!"
"Baking cookies!" was my obvious answer.
My darling husband fumes delightfully when he's angry - especially when he's sexually frustrated. "It's bad enough that I have to put up with our women friends trying to seduce me. Do I have to put up with you being a bitch and then getting all lovey-dovey when I get home?
I pouted and walked over to him. The high heels put a natural sway into my walk that must have been painful for him to watch. "Oh, darling," I said, "you know I wouldn't mind if you took one of them up on her offer to spread her legs for you." I put my arms around his neck and pulled myself into him, raising one leg up in the back to keep myself off-balance.
As I half-expected, he turned me sideways and gave me five good hard slaps on the bottom. I resisted, pouting and crying and complaining that I really meant it - I didn't mind if he wanted to fool around with Bethany or Tina. But that was hardly the point.
"You know I can't do that, you little whore!" The six more swats with his hand hurt even more. My yelps of pain were starting to become real and I involuntarily turned my bottom away from him.
"It's all your fault!" he roared, smacking me four more times before releasing my body. "If I wasn't married to you, Tina would probably have come home with me and been sucking me off right now!"
The smell of cookies started to get to him and he reached for one of them. Of course, he burned his finger on the chocolate chip and drew his hand back to lick the hot spot.
"They need to cool, sweetie," I reached for the bowl and handed it to him. "But you can lick the bowl and spoon! I saved them for you!"
He set the bowl down and licked the dough off of the slotted wooden spoon. Looking at it in his hand, he realized that there was a perfect solution for his frustration. "Bend over that counter, Missy!" he commanded.
I looked shocked - seeming to just have figured out that he might spank me with the wooden spoon. "NO!" I said, but he had his hand on my back to turn me sideways. Letting him turn me and bend me over, I swayed my bottom from side to side - just to rev him up a little more.
Almost immediately, I felt the first blow. It burned hotter than the oven. "OUCH!" I yelled. His swing was powered by anger at me and anger at our friends for teasing him.
I very quickly started to cry from the real pain of a beating with a slotted olive-wood spoon. It was scary and it hurt even more than I had hoped it would.
My tears and my crying seemed to feed Bill's anger-lust and made him swing even harder. I silently thanked him and counted the bruises that I would have over the next few days.
Between swats and cries, I started to tell him, "Honey! They wouldn't love you like I would!" That made him hit even harder.
It was pure Heaven and Hell, all at the same time.
After maybe thirty hard strokes, he stopped and started to take off his shirt. While he did that, I stood back up and wiped the tears away - only to produce new ones from my continued crying.
"Neither of them would let you beat them like that!" I offered. He was still unbuttoning his shirt. I took hold of his hand to stop him. "And neither of them would let you fuck her up the ass with a wooden spoon! ... Or whatever else you might want to stick in her ass!"
By that point, he was ready to resume. I scurried over to the table, pushed the silverware and place-mats onto the floor with a crash and sprawled myself over it, face down, with my bottom in the air.
"And neither of them would let you put hot chocolate chip cookies on her burning backside."
He looked at the cookies - still oven hot - and looked at me with my bottom waving at him. Then he looked at my face. I winked at him with an irrepressible grin.
Not needing any further encouragement, he took the spatula from beside the stove, picked up the tray with the oven mitt, and brought it over to me. I laid there as still as I could while he slid the first cookie off the tray and onto my bottom.
A scream erupted from my mouth. It felt as if I were being branded - which I might well have been. He laughed wickedly and slid another cookie onto the other side of my bottom.
I screamed again, this time saying "NO!"
But he kept going, putting cookies on the backs of my thighs all the way down to my knees. Crying in pain and squirming almost beyond control, I somehow managed to stay in place and leave the cookies to their cooling process.
My legs cooled them off for a while. In the meantime, he saw the tub of shortening that I had used to grease the cookie sheets. Dipping the handle of the spoon into it, and grabbing a big glob on his fingers, he came back over to me.
With the glob on his fingers, he opened my cheeks and greased me. Of course, I squirmed and tried to avoid it, but of course, he held me down. After putting a couple of fingers full of shortening in my back entrance, he took the handle end of the spoon and inserted it.
I tensed, making it hurt even more than it would have otherwise.
I really dislike anal penetration and I particularly hate being penetrated with a "toy" rather than his dick. But I let it happen.
He pushed, twisted, prodded, poked and pressured the spoon farther than it really should have been pushed. When I complained louder than usual, he eased off and left it in place inside me.
By then, the burning of the cookies had subsided but I was crying hard from all of the pain of spanking, cookies and ass-fucking. Bill took a deep breath and let it out, listening to me cry in pain. It was only the beginning.
Coming to his senses, Bill pulled out a chair and sat down. I admired his bare chest through my tear-clouded eyes. "Can you do some more, sweetie," I said. It came out more like a begging cry than I had expected but that was fine by me.
He had to take the cookies out of the way before he could resume my spanking - and chose to do it by licking them off of me. That was even more intense than having them put on my skin in the first place. Still, with the wooden spoon in my ass, it wasn't as erotic as it might have been.
With the last cookie eaten, and my bottom and thighs licked clean, he removed the spoon. It felt icky coming out and most of the shortening stayed behind. There were paper-towels handy to wipe off the spoon handle. When he finished that, he held it by the bowl-end and proceeded to spank me - or really beat me - raising me to a screaming level of cries.
Finally, he shouted at me, telling me how much he hated being teased by women whom he couldn't have. He layed into me about how my willingness to let he screw around made it even worse - since most women won't touch a married man even if his wife is OK with it.
Then, allowing his rage to really come out, he explained in detail how much he despised being manipulated into giving me what I wanted - that no matter how much he hit me with the damned spoon, it didn't make him feel any better.
Inside all of my genuine crying and screaming, I laughed. He couldn't hear it through his frustration.
Eventually, he slowed down, stopped and sat down. I savored the pain and the residual discomfort of having been bottom fucked with my punishment weapon. I cried freely, keeping my head turned toward him so he could enjoy it.
Every once in a while, he would hand-spank me for a minute or two just to keep me bawling.
When the anger finally passed and the horniness took over in its pure form, he pulled me off of the table, onto my feet and slapped my bottom repeatedly to direct me to the bedroom - crying the whole way.
The door closed. I was shoved onto the bed on my back, still in my apron. I stared at him, bare chested but still wearing his pants. He took off his belt. For a moment my heart lept, thinking that he might use it on me, but then he lowered his zipper.
That sound - and the look in his eyes - sent another burning sensation through me. It was the burning sound and sight of a prelude. Scared for my... my... I have no idea what I was scared for - I started to try to escape.
But he was too fast and too strong. He had his pants off and was on top of me before I could do anything about it.
I fought him - as hard as I could - as if he were a rapist and not my husband. In fact, I fought hard enough to make him have to slap me repeatedly to subdue me. But he knew that my frenetic resistance, my repeated shouts of "NO!" and my begging him to stop, were all signs of not just consent - but of a *demand* that he fuck me.
Which he did, with relish - no, actually with chocolate and cookie crumbs. It was a sweet ravishment, not a savory ravishment.
When he finished and collapsed onto the bed beside me, I rolled over to my tummy and looked at him. I raised my ass up off the bed and swayed it. "It's all nice and lubed up for you. It's even been partially fucked so you can get inside easier.
The thought of fucking my shortening-filled ass got him rock hard again in an instant. With whatever energy reserves he had, he climbed on-top of me and stuck it in me. This time, I didn't squirm - afraid that I might push him off too easily.
Instead, I kicked my legs - which actually feels good to him - as I screamed in pain and discomfort. But surprisingly, it didn't really hurt. It just felt icky and slippery.
As he fucked, he told me all about how he wanted to do it Tina, just like he was doing it to me, to punish her for being a tease. "Close your eyes and pretend it's her," I suggested.
"I don't have to," he said, "she looks a lot like you from this angle."
Content that he was fucking Tina in his mind and me in his body, I relaxed, stopped fighting, and just let it be. After a bit, I even arched my bottom in rhythm to his fucks.
It took a long time of in and out before he came again. That had to be one of the longest ass-fuckings I've ever had. I guess I would describe it as nauseatingly unpleasant. But he eventually came and rolled off of me again.
This time, he wrapped himself around me and hand-spanked me back to tears.
----
BTW: if this sounds like one or more of my previous stories, that's probably because it's something we do on a fairly regular basis. The format changes from time to time, but the whole "coming home frustrated, finding me in the kitchen, beating the crap out of me and ass-fucking me" thing is a staple of our sex life.
I wish I could get him to do it more often, but it takes a special kind of frustration to get him that angry and that violent.
Thank you Tina!
OK, let's be honest. I've toned it down because I don't want to admit to some of the really lurid details.
----
It was a Saturday afternoon. Hubby was out having lunch with some of our friends and I had decided to sleep in. I knew what kind of a mood he would be in when he came home, and I wanted to rub salt into it.
When the phone rang, I was ready. He said he was on his way home and there was a miserable tone in his voice. I was psyched and replied - in a perky, loving, wifely kind of tone - that I would be ready and waiting, that I had a big day planned.
And then I hung up the phone before he could complain. A few seconds later, it rang again and I ignored it.
The preparations hadn't taken very much. I was clean, fresh, and naked. The oven was preheated - I mean the actual oven in the kitchen - and there were two trays of cookies ready to bake - I mean actual chocolate-chip cookies.
I popped them into the oven and set the timer, then put on my apron and my three-inch heels, which I had ready and waiting in the kitchen next to the stove. The bowl and wooden spoon were still on the counter with some dough stuck to them.
Giddy with excitement, I sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and waited.
Bill tried calling a few more times before he arrived home, but I just let it ring.
When he arrived and I could hear him pull into the garage, the cookies were maybe two minutes from being done.
The door from the garage opened and he bellowed "ANGELA!" I silently laughed and got up from my chair to stand in front of the oven.
"Yes, darling?" came my reply, all sweet and innocent.
"I have ABSOLUTELY no desire to... do I smell cookies?" He rounded the corner and saw me, bending over to remove the trays from the oven. Other than my apron and heels, the only other "clothes" I was wearing were a pair of oven mitts.
His view was mostly of me in profile from slightly behind and to the left. I set the two trays on top of the stove and turned my head to look at him.
He put his hands on his hips and said, "What are you doing?!"
"Baking cookies!" was my obvious answer.
My darling husband fumes delightfully when he's angry - especially when he's sexually frustrated. "It's bad enough that I have to put up with our women friends trying to seduce me. Do I have to put up with you being a bitch and then getting all lovey-dovey when I get home?
I pouted and walked over to him. The high heels put a natural sway into my walk that must have been painful for him to watch. "Oh, darling," I said, "you know I wouldn't mind if you took one of them up on her offer to spread her legs for you." I put my arms around his neck and pulled myself into him, raising one leg up in the back to keep myself off-balance.
As I half-expected, he turned me sideways and gave me five good hard slaps on the bottom. I resisted, pouting and crying and complaining that I really meant it - I didn't mind if he wanted to fool around with Bethany or Tina. But that was hardly the point.
"You know I can't do that, you little whore!" The six more swats with his hand hurt even more. My yelps of pain were starting to become real and I involuntarily turned my bottom away from him.
"It's all your fault!" he roared, smacking me four more times before releasing my body. "If I wasn't married to you, Tina would probably have come home with me and been sucking me off right now!"
The smell of cookies started to get to him and he reached for one of them. Of course, he burned his finger on the chocolate chip and drew his hand back to lick the hot spot.
"They need to cool, sweetie," I reached for the bowl and handed it to him. "But you can lick the bowl and spoon! I saved them for you!"
He set the bowl down and licked the dough off of the slotted wooden spoon. Looking at it in his hand, he realized that there was a perfect solution for his frustration. "Bend over that counter, Missy!" he commanded.
I looked shocked - seeming to just have figured out that he might spank me with the wooden spoon. "NO!" I said, but he had his hand on my back to turn me sideways. Letting him turn me and bend me over, I swayed my bottom from side to side - just to rev him up a little more.
Almost immediately, I felt the first blow. It burned hotter than the oven. "OUCH!" I yelled. His swing was powered by anger at me and anger at our friends for teasing him.
I very quickly started to cry from the real pain of a beating with a slotted olive-wood spoon. It was scary and it hurt even more than I had hoped it would.
My tears and my crying seemed to feed Bill's anger-lust and made him swing even harder. I silently thanked him and counted the bruises that I would have over the next few days.
Between swats and cries, I started to tell him, "Honey! They wouldn't love you like I would!" That made him hit even harder.
It was pure Heaven and Hell, all at the same time.
After maybe thirty hard strokes, he stopped and started to take off his shirt. While he did that, I stood back up and wiped the tears away - only to produce new ones from my continued crying.
"Neither of them would let you beat them like that!" I offered. He was still unbuttoning his shirt. I took hold of his hand to stop him. "And neither of them would let you fuck her up the ass with a wooden spoon! ... Or whatever else you might want to stick in her ass!"
By that point, he was ready to resume. I scurried over to the table, pushed the silverware and place-mats onto the floor with a crash and sprawled myself over it, face down, with my bottom in the air.
"And neither of them would let you put hot chocolate chip cookies on her burning backside."
He looked at the cookies - still oven hot - and looked at me with my bottom waving at him. Then he looked at my face. I winked at him with an irrepressible grin.
Not needing any further encouragement, he took the spatula from beside the stove, picked up the tray with the oven mitt, and brought it over to me. I laid there as still as I could while he slid the first cookie off the tray and onto my bottom.
A scream erupted from my mouth. It felt as if I were being branded - which I might well have been. He laughed wickedly and slid another cookie onto the other side of my bottom.
I screamed again, this time saying "NO!"
But he kept going, putting cookies on the backs of my thighs all the way down to my knees. Crying in pain and squirming almost beyond control, I somehow managed to stay in place and leave the cookies to their cooling process.
My legs cooled them off for a while. In the meantime, he saw the tub of shortening that I had used to grease the cookie sheets. Dipping the handle of the spoon into it, and grabbing a big glob on his fingers, he came back over to me.
With the glob on his fingers, he opened my cheeks and greased me. Of course, I squirmed and tried to avoid it, but of course, he held me down. After putting a couple of fingers full of shortening in my back entrance, he took the handle end of the spoon and inserted it.
I tensed, making it hurt even more than it would have otherwise.
I really dislike anal penetration and I particularly hate being penetrated with a "toy" rather than his dick. But I let it happen.
He pushed, twisted, prodded, poked and pressured the spoon farther than it really should have been pushed. When I complained louder than usual, he eased off and left it in place inside me.
By then, the burning of the cookies had subsided but I was crying hard from all of the pain of spanking, cookies and ass-fucking. Bill took a deep breath and let it out, listening to me cry in pain. It was only the beginning.
Coming to his senses, Bill pulled out a chair and sat down. I admired his bare chest through my tear-clouded eyes. "Can you do some more, sweetie," I said. It came out more like a begging cry than I had expected but that was fine by me.
He had to take the cookies out of the way before he could resume my spanking - and chose to do it by licking them off of me. That was even more intense than having them put on my skin in the first place. Still, with the wooden spoon in my ass, it wasn't as erotic as it might have been.
With the last cookie eaten, and my bottom and thighs licked clean, he removed the spoon. It felt icky coming out and most of the shortening stayed behind. There were paper-towels handy to wipe off the spoon handle. When he finished that, he held it by the bowl-end and proceeded to spank me - or really beat me - raising me to a screaming level of cries.
Finally, he shouted at me, telling me how much he hated being teased by women whom he couldn't have. He layed into me about how my willingness to let he screw around made it even worse - since most women won't touch a married man even if his wife is OK with it.
Then, allowing his rage to really come out, he explained in detail how much he despised being manipulated into giving me what I wanted - that no matter how much he hit me with the damned spoon, it didn't make him feel any better.
Inside all of my genuine crying and screaming, I laughed. He couldn't hear it through his frustration.
Eventually, he slowed down, stopped and sat down. I savored the pain and the residual discomfort of having been bottom fucked with my punishment weapon. I cried freely, keeping my head turned toward him so he could enjoy it.
Every once in a while, he would hand-spank me for a minute or two just to keep me bawling.
When the anger finally passed and the horniness took over in its pure form, he pulled me off of the table, onto my feet and slapped my bottom repeatedly to direct me to the bedroom - crying the whole way.
The door closed. I was shoved onto the bed on my back, still in my apron. I stared at him, bare chested but still wearing his pants. He took off his belt. For a moment my heart lept, thinking that he might use it on me, but then he lowered his zipper.
That sound - and the look in his eyes - sent another burning sensation through me. It was the burning sound and sight of a prelude. Scared for my... my... I have no idea what I was scared for - I started to try to escape.
But he was too fast and too strong. He had his pants off and was on top of me before I could do anything about it.
I fought him - as hard as I could - as if he were a rapist and not my husband. In fact, I fought hard enough to make him have to slap me repeatedly to subdue me. But he knew that my frenetic resistance, my repeated shouts of "NO!" and my begging him to stop, were all signs of not just consent - but of a *demand* that he fuck me.
Which he did, with relish - no, actually with chocolate and cookie crumbs. It was a sweet ravishment, not a savory ravishment.
When he finished and collapsed onto the bed beside me, I rolled over to my tummy and looked at him. I raised my ass up off the bed and swayed it. "It's all nice and lubed up for you. It's even been partially fucked so you can get inside easier.
The thought of fucking my shortening-filled ass got him rock hard again in an instant. With whatever energy reserves he had, he climbed on-top of me and stuck it in me. This time, I didn't squirm - afraid that I might push him off too easily.
Instead, I kicked my legs - which actually feels good to him - as I screamed in pain and discomfort. But surprisingly, it didn't really hurt. It just felt icky and slippery.
As he fucked, he told me all about how he wanted to do it Tina, just like he was doing it to me, to punish her for being a tease. "Close your eyes and pretend it's her," I suggested.
"I don't have to," he said, "she looks a lot like you from this angle."
Content that he was fucking Tina in his mind and me in his body, I relaxed, stopped fighting, and just let it be. After a bit, I even arched my bottom in rhythm to his fucks.
It took a long time of in and out before he came again. That had to be one of the longest ass-fuckings I've ever had. I guess I would describe it as nauseatingly unpleasant. But he eventually came and rolled off of me again.
This time, he wrapped himself around me and hand-spanked me back to tears.
----
BTW: if this sounds like one or more of my previous stories, that's probably because it's something we do on a fairly regular basis. The format changes from time to time, but the whole "coming home frustrated, finding me in the kitchen, beating the crap out of me and ass-fucking me" thing is a staple of our sex life.
I wish I could get him to do it more often, but it takes a special kind of frustration to get him that angry and that violent.
Thank you Tina!
Last edited:
It takes me a great effort of will to get past the domestic setting though. 
