Hot-Tempered Hubby Is Put In His Place By His Domme Wife.

When I spoke to Peter in the morning, his tone made me think he might need a good spanking. But when he snapped at me that afternoon as I asked what he wanted for dinner, I had made up my mind: He definitely needed a spanking.

I made a hearty chili and a pan of cornbread, and I wore a short black dress with tall black boots. Peter walked into the kitchen where I was stirring the simmering pot and stopped dead in his tracks. He knew what that outfit meant, and he didn’t say a word.

“That’s no kind of hello,” I said, still stirring.

“Hi,” he finally responded. But his tone was meek. All the snap and impatience of earlier in the day was gone.

I chose a clean wooden spoon from the hanging bin and turned to face him. I smacked the wood against my palm and said, “We need to have a serious discussion about the way you’ve been talking to me, Peter. The snippy tone you’ve adopted.”

I put one foot out; the boot’s shiny surface caught the light from the overhead fixture. The spiked heel looked almost deadly at that angle.

“You owe me an apology,” I said, smacking the spoon against my hand again. “In ten years of marriage I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to you that way. And I don’t expect you to speak to me that way. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” he said softly, nodding. The eye contact had disappeared, and his gaze was now cast at his leather loafers. I smacked the spoon against my hand three times rapidly, and when he glanced up, I said, “I’m waiting, Peter … . ”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Peter amended.

“Go into the living room, remove your clothes and get into position,” I said, turning my back on him and tending to the meal again. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

I heard him pause and then follow my instructions. I could feel his energy, an equal mixture of dread and excitement. I could only smile. I made Peter wait — naked, chilled and anticipating — for fifteen minutes. When I walked in to find him on his hands and knees, his bare ass presented, his cock hard and pointing like a divining rod, I had to steel myself against my own mounting arousal.

I sat, rigid and proper on the ottoman, and patted my lap. “Over here.”

He knew better than to stand. He crawled to me — head down, eyes on the floor — and arranged himself across my lap. Big hands splayed against the hardwood floor, torso over my lap, ass out. I trailed the wooden spoon down his spine. I stroked the meat of his buttocks with the head. I dragged the narrow handle down between his asscheeks and felt him instinctively clench.

“Would you like to say something to me before I begin, boy?” I asked, almost conversationally.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice weak, a ghost of its normal booming cadence.

“Sorry for … ?”

“Being snappy. Being rude … being mean.” I could tell he was searching for the right adjective. I figured I’d help him.

I smacked his right asscheek with the head of the spoon, making a lovely thwack sound that caused my pussy to grow even wetter.

I had to focus hard not to squirm. “How about dis — re — spect — ful?” I accented each syllable with another blow from the spoon.

He bucked beneath my short, sharp blows, and I felt his rock-hard cock rubbing against me. I chewed my lower lip, not wanting to give away how turned on I was by the whole scenario.

“Yes!” he said. “Yes! Disrespectful. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I was disrespectful.”

Another blow from the spoon, less hard but just as noisy, at the very top of his thigh. “Ma’am!” he added, desperately.

I nodded once and said, “Good to know.”

I delivered a few more blows, not really counting, focusing more on the sound and his reaction than precision and counting. Then I dropped my chosen implement of punishment with a clatter. I grabbed a handful of his hair and tugged him off my lap and onto his knees. When I forced him to look me in the eye, I whispered, “Show me how much,” and spread my legs.

Beneath my dress and above my boots, I was naked. My pussy was shaved bare and wet beyond belief. Peter situated himself between my spread thighs. He was practically whimpering. He didn’t touch my thighs or even raise his hands from the floor because he knew he wasn’t allowed to. I grasped at the back of his head once he started to lick me. I ground my pussy against his gasping mouth. His tongue moved over me restlessly. He was trying to lick and suck everywhere and anywhere at the same time. I squeezed that handful of hair to get him to still and said, “Focus.”

He paused and then began a gorgeous, measured lick. He lapped at me, stroking my clitoris with the tip of his tongue, before stopping that to simply suck at the hard knot of flesh that was sending bursts of bright, warm pleasure through me. I tried not to cry out. I arched up to get at his tongue. I absently pinched my nipple, hard enough to make me hiss, and then I did it again. He resumed licking and then, as I thought I’d lose my mind, he swirled his tongue in never-ending circles around my pulsing clit.

I came with a thrust of my hips and a booming cry of victory. “Keep going,” I exclaimed, still riding out the startling spasms of my first orgasm.

He knew me well and gentled his pressure until I was driving my hips up to meet him, then his tongue grew strong and firm again. He got me off a second time by sucking hard and then harder still on my clit. I was panting, trying to catch my breath as he sat back and looked at me expectantly, so I nodded at his erection and said, “You can get off. On my boot. Then you can clean it up. After dinner, you can fuck me, but you better make it good. Because your mouth has been pretty smart this week.”

He was already stroking his hard-on, his fist a blur on his rigid cock. He watched my face as I spoke, no doubt thinking of the fucking to come later. And how I’d make him pay all over again.

“Get yourself off, now,” I said roughly. “Or I’ll make you wait.” I tapped my foot to make my impatience known.

“Yes, Ma’am. Yes, Ma’am … ” he chanted, and then he came all over my boot.

I tapped my toe again and eyed the mess he’d made. When I nodded, he bent to lick my boot clean. I smiled. Now that we’d addressed his attitude, we could have a nice dinner.

Peter loved chili, and I loved nothing more than to please Peter.

— Ms. Pamela R., San Diego, California