(Unfinished) Over His Knee (ver 1)

The night of our wedding, John sat at the end of the bed, still wearing his tux.

“You drank too much tonight,” he growled. “I told you to behave yourself.”

The sharp angle of his chin was dark with the charcoal fog of his perpetual stubble, despite having shaved before the reception.

Johnny,” I said, “It’s our wedding day.” I hiccupped like a cartoon character. Then put my head on his shoulder.

He was a strong man, with visible muscle when he was shirtless, and his shoulder was a tense knot. He shrugged me off and turned to face me.

His eyes were an icy blue, sharp under lashes, the kind of eyes that drill into your heart the longer you stare at them.

I couldn’t bear them for long. I looked down at my feet, blushing.

“It doesn’t bother me that you’re drunk, Nichole.” He took me by the chin and brought my eyes up to look into his.

“I bothers me that you told me you wouldn’t, and then you did,” he finished.

There wasn’t much to say to that.

“I’m sorry, John,” I said. Embarrassed by the tone he’d taken with me, like a disapproving father, and knowing he was right, I felt a tickle of rage build in my spine.

How dare you, how dare you, how DARE you

“Are you really sorry?” he asked. He brought my face to within an inch of his. “Because you look pissed off.”

I shoved him with both hands. This had the effect of pushing me off the bed and onto the floor. My legs got lost in the ruffles of my dress, and I kicked like a child as I looked for a way up.

“I’m not a little girl, John,” I said. “I don’t need you telling me what to do.”

John sighed. He brushed his knees off and adjusted his cuffs.

“Yes, Nichole, you do,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you that a woman can’t take control of her own life. But you are barely in control of your own mouth.”

I was stunned. He looked so angry. And the words cut me, just true enough that I felt ashamed.

My anger struck back at him in a whip crack of curses.

Fuck you, John. You love my mouth.” I screamed at him, still floundering around on the floor. “You fucked it right before we got out of the limousine, because you wanted me to say my vows with your cum on my lips.”

This wasn’t exactly true. He’d been a gentleman in the limousine, even though he’d insisted we come in the same car despite the tradition.

Sinking down to his lap and pulling him out of his tuxedo had been my idea. He objected and tried to pull me away, but I’d slapped his hands off me and taken him into my mouth and looked up into his eyes as I gave him his last orgasm as a single man.

He’d held my cheek in his hand and said “I love you so much, Nichole,” just as he came into my mouth.

But afterwards, he had smoothed his semen over my lips with his thumb, his penis still deflating between his thighs, and whispered in my ear that he wanted me at the altar with my “beautiful mouth still wet from this moment.”

I said “I do” with a small white pearl of his seed at the corner of my mouth, and thrilled like a skydiver when my mother wiped it away after the ceremony with a finger, then unknowingly kissed my cheek right where he’d cum on my makeup.

She came away unconsciously licking her lips and I thought I would die from the dirty excitement of it.

“She probably has your cum in her mouth,” I whispered to my brand-new husband.

He shrugged, smiled, and bent down to put his lips by my ear.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” he said, and stood, face placid and blank, as though he’d said nothing incredible at all.

I stared at him, eyes wide, a laugh boiling out of me that he stopped with a hug.

Hours later, I looked up at him from the floor.

“You even told me you fucked my mother’s mouth.”

“I never said that,” he said, gruffly. “And you’re being crude because you’re drunk, Nichole. Don’t force me to punish you.”

I rolled away and got onto my knees. He winced as there was a small ripping noise from my beautiful white dress.

“You have an awfully dirty mind,” I said, “for a twenty-eight year old virgin.”

I watched him change colors, from tan to white to red, as he reacted to my words.

He’d told me that his religious convictions had stopped him short of penetration with every woman he’d ever been with—including me—with a kind of quiet shame, many months after we’d first gotten together.

It didn’t bother me, because he enjoyed my mouth, and I enjoyed his.

His tongue, at least, was no virgin. He’d been taught to pleasure a woman by an older lesbian when he was quite young (a long story for another time), and his skill in the bedroom was incredible.

But, still. He was as much a virgin as my twelve year old brother.

John growled through his teeth.

“No more drinking,” he said. “Ever.”

Then he shot forward and pulled me off the floor as though I were no heavier than a pillow.

“Do you understand, Nichole?” He shook me.

I nodded, in surprise. Then harder, as he shook me.

“I don’t like side of you,” he snarled.

He sighed.

“My father was right,” he said. “I needed to do this to you a long time ago.”

And then, as I kicked and struggled, squealing like a child, he carefully threw me over his knee.

My stomach is very flat, and I hung over his muscular thighs like a pair of folded pants, as he carefully held me down and drew up my dress around my waist.

“What are you doing?” I said, over and over, as he pulled silk wave after silk wave of soft, complex material up around my navel. The hard fist of his knee pushed up into my stomach as he exposed me.

“You know what I’m doing, Nichole. I’m going to punish you for being such a brat on your own fucking wedding night.”

He carefully unhooked my stockings with his clever fingers, sliding one, then the other down the creamy skin of my legs.

His fingertips tickled me with an icy electric jolt behind my knees, on my calves, over my feet.

He carefully slipped my heels back onto my feet after my legs were naked.

“I think,” he said, “that you will wear stockings every day from now on.”

I’m not sure he knew that he had said it, but there was a definite… stiffness to his groin as he slipped me out of the expensive lingerie.

His finger slipped into my panties, which were an expensive lace design that caressed my womanhood in a very decadent way, a soft, even sexual way that I appreciated all the way down the aisle and standing before our hundreds of friends, the gentle cupping of my labia deep within my dress, the friction of lace between my private lips when I walked.

His fingers, unusually long, brushed over my soft pink vaginal lips and teased the fabric out of the folds of my sex, then carefully tugged the straps over my hips.

“Did you enjoy these, Nichole?”

They were his idea.

“You don’t need to do this,” I said, ignoring him. “What are you trying to do?

He put his middle finger against the warm curls of my carefully, almost obsessively trimmed feminine hair, and stroked downward as though he were petting a kitten.

“Did you enjoy feeling lace fingers inside you as you married me?” he asked.

I nodded, eventually, my face the same rusty color as the carpet.

“Yes,” I admitted.

He nodded.

His middle finger drew a small circle over my opening.

I bit my lip.

“You need to be punished before I touch here,” he said.

“I don’t,” I said, “I don’t. I’m a grown fucking woman, and I—”

His finger drew back to my… other opening.

I gasped.

“And here too, I think, before the night is over.”

“John, no!

He was a well-endowed man, and the idea of him penetrating any more than my womanhood was terrifying.

“You’re going to learn not to say no,” he said, “and you’re going to learn respect.”

His hand fell away from my sex.

“I respect you, John, I just don’t—”

His hand came down, hard, his fingers held together like a paddle, as he struck my bare white bottom between the dangling straps of my underwear.


I tried to gasp and squeal and curse at the same time. The result was a kind of girly squeak like a toy that a dog might chew on.


“No!” I managed, that time, as he spanked me a second time.

“No?” he asked. “Are you sure?”


He was hitting the same spot, over and over again. I could feel a burning handprint start to form on the otherwise milky surface of my small, tight rear.


“No?” he asked. “No?


I let myself gasp that time. The first slap was painful, but each one was worse and worse, as my bottom became more and more sensitive to his powerful hand.

That time, he didn’t bother to spank, he pinched my bare bottom with his powerful fingers right where he had spanked me.

Within seconds, there were tears in my ears.

No, John,” I cried, “I mean… yes, John, please. Yes, yes, yes, yes, ye—”

The pain stopped. His fingers gently patted the sensitive area where he’d hurt me. Spanked me, like a child.

“See how much better that is, Nichole?”

I nodded, still crying. “I see,” I said, “I see.”

In the mirror by the dresser, I could see the satisfied smile forming on his face.

“You will wear stockings every day from now on,” he said.

I nodded vigorously. I liked them too, after all.

“Yes, John,” I assured him.

“You’ll put them on in front of me at the breakfast table, and I will remove them before bed every night.”

“Yes, John.”

He continued to soothe my red skin, but one finger slipped between my legs and tickled my private entrances.

“I will take you in our bed every night for the rest of our lives. Every night. Even when you’re pregnant, Nichole, which I promise you will be soon. Maybe even tonight.”

“Yes,” I said, “Yes, John, I want that anyway.”

It was true. The only thing I desired more than my husband… was his child.

His middle finger slid back to the lips of my womanhood, where he found I was warmly damp. His fingertip pushed between the sodden folds of my wet sexual lips, where he teased the moisture out of me and onto my blushing mound.

My breathing quickened.

He tugged the top of my dress down to my stomach, and closed a hand over one of my breasts. I caught his hand with mine and helped him find my nipples, which were as hard as little stones.

He held my stiff right nipple between his thumb and middle finger. A jagged splinter of bright silver pain tapped against my heart. His hardness moved as I whimpered.

“John, please…” I breathed.

“But first, before we make love each night, I will punish you for the mistakes you’ve made during the day. Everything you do wrong—and we both know how much that will be. Every night, Nichole. You’ll finally have the discipline you’ve always needed.”

“What?” I cried, struggling again. Not even my parents were so cruel with me. “No, John, please I…Oh, shit. I didn’t mean to say ‘no,’ I meant—”


He picked a spot just between my parted halves of my buttocks, right over my most private hole, where my skin was the most sensitive.

“I can’t believe I waited this long to discipline you, Nichole. You need this even more than I do,” he said.

His excitement was obvious, but there was an odd satisfaction in being punished. The universe was suddenly a simple place, where I knew exactly what was expected of me.

I’m not going to let him do this, am I?

His next spanking blow was twice as hard.

I howled, weeping, as he carefully held me so I wouldn’t fall or otherwise be injured.

Once I had quieted down, he tickled the skin to make it sensitive… and then spanked it again.

“Don’t whine,” he said, holding me carefully. “You’ve gotten away with being bad for far, far too long, and you know it.”




I shuddered with sobs as he spanked me, but there was a strange sensation of forgiveness that filled me in equal measure to the pain.

As he punished me, I knew that it was over, and that whatever he believed I’d done wrong was no longer an issue.

It was so much easier than arguing, or explaining, or spending an angry night alone on the couch.

It was oddly pure.


“You’re sorry for getting drunk tonight, aren’t you?” he asked.

I nodded, my eyes squeezed shut against the pain.

Whatever I’d felt before, it was true: I was now sorry.

And I was sober.

A final blow was so hard that it nearly pushed me off his leg and onto the floor.

My father spanked me as a child, of course, and it hurt, but nothing had prepared me for the strange jolt of excitement and terror that shot through me as his firm, heavy fingers slapped down directly onto my exposed anal hole, his middle finger just barely catching my womanhood. The sudden electric clap of sensation stung everywhere at once, from my fingertips down to my toes.

I let out a suffering sound that curled into a moan as the simple relief of not being spanked echoed through me like a note sung in an empty room.

His erection was, by now, stony and extended, like a lead pipe against his leg, and I felt it throb under my stomach.

He shivered. His cheeks were flushed and ruddy, his ears burning with exhilaration.

“I needed this too—I’ve been so angry,” he said, with a quiet kind of reverence. “I had no idea I would enjoy it so much.”

He was breathing heavily. His dark grin was hungry, almost a sneer.

“I…want to make you happy,” I said, meaning every word.

He smiled and nodded. His finger stroked my cheek.

“Good girl,” he sighed.

He reached down and released his manhood. It sprung to attention with a visible bounce.

“Put your mouth on my cock, Nichole. It’s time to be a wife now.”

When I was slow, he chose a new spot on the back of my thigh, less sensitive, but made up for it by hitting the same spot over and over.

I kicked my long legs and struggled as the pain washed over me, and he held me effortlessly on his lap.

“No!” I screamed, then: “Yes! I mean yes! I mean—”

He snarled.






He beat my thighs with his palm as though he were playing a large drum, keeping a steady pounding rhythm, striking me hard enough to knock the wind out of me each time.

After a minute or so, when I started to go numb, something strange happened.

There was a rush of panicked endorphins, and the tingling agony changed into a finger of lust. It slowly crooked into my sex, and tickled something…pleasurable.

A hammer of relief crushed my spine, and all at once I came over his knee, my legs stiffening into ballerina kicks, the low, animal groans coming out of me faster than I could breathe.

A damp explosion rolled out of my syrupy warmth as the waves of pain collided in my stomach with the cymbal crash of orgasm.

“John…John I think I might…John I’m-I’m-I’m Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh!” coming with the throbbing rhythm of my punishment, my thoughts collapsing into a stutter of consciousness as I orgasmed with the hard, painful rhythm soaking into my thighs.

“Every night,” he hissed. “You will be punished every night.”

I would have argued, but the relief was its own kind of orgasm, a cold shivering pleasure that made my skin feel like crackling ice.

“Yes, John,” I managed, eventually. “Every night. I will take my punishment every night.”

His penis twitched. The tip became wet with lust. Stiff in his tux, it looked like the angry head of a fleshy trowel, thick and smooth.

Beautiful, really.

He squeezed his erection in a fist, and allowed his lust to drip from the pounding organ, which was harder and longer than I’d ever seen.

Gently, he cupped and lifted his jewels from the darkness of his pants. They were the size and shape of large, potent eggs, and I knew from experience that they contained an incredible amount of masculine seed.

“Take me into your mouth now,” he said. “Quickly, before I have to spank you again.”

The light in his eyes told me that would not be unwelcome.

For him.

I obeyed him so quickly I didn’t know what I was doing. My mouth popped open into a receptive “O,” making a small, wine cork pop, and he chuckled as he fed the large, spear-like head of his penis between my lips.

A salty, man-like taste of sweat and strength was followed by the stretching bulk of his above-average member pushing my mouth open as he slid home into my throat.

Yesss…” he sighed, as though he were climbing into a warm bed after a long day.

He took either side of my head and guided himself down to the root.

His enormous, egg-like pouch rested on my chin, the skin of it tight and shiny with the swollen, ready contents of his oversized pearls.

“Your face is so beautiful,” he said. “I can’t help but split it open with my cock.”

I gripped his shaft as I withdrew several inches of him so I could breathe.

He gently pushed back in, looking down into my eyes.

“Let me lead your mouth,” he said.

I nodded, feeling him scrape against my teeth.

He winced.

He pulled out with a wet sound, and slapped me gently across the face.

“Don’t,” he growled, “forget about your teeth.”

I nodded vigorously.

“I won’t!” I said. My body continued to vibrate from being spanked. “I’m sorry, John…”

He held my gaze for another few moments, then opened my mouth with his thumb and peered inside with a smile.

“So small,” he said.

His manhood speared my mouth the moment he withdrew his thumb. I had the good sense to take a very deep breath.

He plunged his erect member all the way in, and held me still until my lungs burned. Then pulled out and leg me gasp.

“Good,” he said. “Good, Nichole.”


But he forced himself back down before I could finish speaking.

He slowly and methodically made love to my mouth, as he had since the very day I met him, with long, penetrating strokes. Within minutes, he began to grunt.

“I want to cum,” he said, in a hoarse and ragged voice, “but I can stop myself.”

He pulled himself out of my mouth, leaving me gasping—whether from breathlessness or hunger I wasn’t sure.

The large, wet opening at the end of his manhood squeezed shut like pursing lips as he forced himself not to explode. He closed his eyes and breathed, calming himself as he bore down and clenched his muscles.

After a brief moment, a marble-sized droplet of thick white seed rolled lazily out of his penis, but nothing more. His erection did not falter, but instead grew even harder.

He reached down and flicked the tip as though he were striking a tuning fork.

He gave me a cocky smile.

“Now, Nichole. I’m going to have you out of your dress, and then I’m going to have you against your headboard.”

He stood. He removed his tuxedo and hung it over the back of a chair.

I waited patiently on the end of the bed.

Naked, a light masculine fur in the furrows of his very obvious muscles, he walked toward me with his manhood pointed at my face like an accusatory finger.

“Stand,” he said.

I stood.

He striped me viciously, tearing the dress from my body with an impatient roar.

He threw me down on the bed and pulled my legs apart.

His hardness bobbed out in front of him.

He walked toward me on his knees.

“John?” I asked, before the harpoon head of his extraordinary manflute penetrated me as he’d promised, “Could you…” I looked down.

“Speak. What is it?”

I couldn’t meet his eyes. I looked down at my naked body, porcelain cream the same color as the discarded dress. My carefully manicured pubic bush was damp like the grass after a rain.

“Could you… kiss me?” I asked. “Down there?”

He paused. His penis dripped on the bedspread.

He nodded, and kneeled between my legs. His erection slid dumbly across the sheets, drawing a wet line on the fabric.

His hands smoothed apart my hair, and his tongue nudged its way into my sodden heat.

“Scream,” he said.

And attacked my sex with his mouth.




He turned me away from him, so my burning skin faced his erection.

“I’ve waited so long for this,” he said.

And his large cockhead appeared at the entrance of my labia, gently bumping through the folds into the wet pocket where only his tongue had touched me.

“It’s so… warm…” he breathed.


He slipped in, enormous and hard, and I parted around him like a mouth, as he pulled me onto his penis like a leg into a stocking, the stretching too much for me to comfortably handle, the


“You’re going to learn to be submissive and obedient, the way a wife should.”


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