I happened to like my wife’s cushy tush — very much, in fact.

It was her idea to put some parameters on her snacking. I was just happy to help.

“I need to have consequences when I’m eating mindlessly,” she’d murmured in the mirror as she examined the ass I dearly loved — and lusted after — on a regular basis. “Like a little shock or a penalty.”

“I personally love your ass,” I informed her.

“You’re not taking me seriously.”

I watched her fingers push at that tender, plump skin and got an idea. She’d never go for it, but I could try.

“How about every time I catch you mindlessly snacking, you get a spanking?”

Her big green eyes turned my way, and I thought I saw a flicker of a smile. “For real?”

“For real,” I said, my cock getting hard merely from hearing the hopeful tone of her voice.

“And what if that doesn’t work?”

I put my head back, pretending to think. But I already knew what I was going to say. “How about if I catch you four times, I get to fuck that sweet ass.”

“You think it’s sweet,” Serena asked softly, eyeing herself in the mirror. She was blushing, which meant I’d need to fuck her immediately.

“I’ve never thought anything but,” I said as I advanced. She let me take her. It was as easy as pie. I bent her over the hope chest at the foot of our bed and spread her pretty thighs. My fingers found her clit, and she was so fucking wet, so slick — just from the dirty talk — that my dick slid into her with swift perfection. “I’ll keep you in check, pet,” I said, laughing.

And she came. Just like that.

The first two times she mindlessly snacked were because of salt cravings. Serena has a thing for salt. Once was directly before dinner and once was directly after. She wasn’t hungry and admitted it when questioned. Her eyes danced with nervousness, her cheeks blazed with heat. And both times, I bent her over the edge of our dining-room table and spanked her plump ass until it was cherry red.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she chanted as I spanked her.

She was sorry, but not really. And me? I wasn’t sorry at all. I took her there on the table, both times. I had her suck my cock the first time, something she did with more vigor and zeal than I’d seen her apply in ages. The second time, I lost my cool and went down on her, burying my face between her shapely thighs, pushing my nose and my mouth to her slick pussy and eating her until she came, clutching my hair and yelling my name. Both times ended with a rousing fuck that left us both wondering if these were really punishments or rewards.

It didn’t matter. The point was: They were good.

The third time she ate out of stress, her snack of choice was chocolate. A hard demon for anyone to battle. I came home early to find her sitting in a lawn chair, eating a melting chocolate bar with sinful, desirous intent. She might as well have been fucking the thing, the way she was going at it. I told her so as I made her brace herself with shaking, chocolate-coated hands on the bench of our picnic table.

“You know, anyone could be home and see this,” I said as I yanked down her purple shorts. Sun splashed over her ample bottom, and I heard myself growl.

I gave her ten good spanks for giving in to her chocolate craving. Then I spread her legs wide and entered her sweet, juicy cunt without even taking my pants off. My cock poked rudely out of my nice work pants and my belt jingled every time I thrust. When I pressed my fingers to her bright red ass and drove my thumb into her anus, she came. She made a lot of noise. Something told me that my shy wife was hoping someone might hear or see our interaction.

That was fine by me.

She knew damn well that if she hit four I was taking her sweet ass. As the week went on I saw her debating with herself whether or not to cheat — and whether or not to get caught. That was our game, and we were both in 100 percent.

The fourth time she was blatant about it. It was the weekend, and I was looking for something in my closet when she came into the bedroom eating a piece of pie. No plate. No fork. No napkin. She held it in one hand, apple filling sliding down her face as she nibbled and licked. Her fingers were coated in sticky-sweet cinnamon and sugar, and her face was flushed. She was rubbing her impudence in my face. Anyone could see that.

“Hungry, are you?”

Serena shook her head. “Nope.”

“Hunh. Go figure.” I went back to what I was doing. I held my breath, listening to her sigh. She sat on the bed, polishing off the pie.

She was confused. Good.

Finally, she marched up to the closet and put her hands on her hips. “What the hell?”

I didn’t move or speak for a moment. When I stood, I did it facing the wall of clothes and not her. I could feel her vibrating with confusion and anger, and I waited a few more heartbeats before turning on her and grabbing her wrist. I had a black leather belt in my hand.

“What’s the matter, sticky girl?” I asked, yanking her arms up and looping the belt around the hanger rack and her wrists in one deft motion. I had her trussed up before she could really react, and when she did it was with wild surprise.

“I’m — didn’t — I didn’t think — ”“Cat got your tongue?” I asked, yanking down her yoga pants. “Or maybe, just maybe, it’s sealed to the roof of your mouth with sugar,” I said in her ear. I ran my hand up between her legs. She was wet, unbearably so, and she shivered in my arms.

I plucked one nipple through her thin white T-shirt and pressed my body to hers. “That’s four times. You know what that means.”

She nodded, saying nothing, but I felt her press back to meet me. I ran my fingers over her clit, revving her up and getting her on the edge. But I had no intention of letting her come. Not yet.

“What does it mean?” I demanded.

“You get it.”

“Get what?” I pushed two fingers in her slippery pussy and felt the muscles grip my fingers.

“My ass,” she sighed and shivered again.

I pushed four fingers into her. She was wet enough to take it. It made my cock throb to feel how soaked she was. I spread the ample moisture around her back hole and pressed my lips to the back of her neck. “Angle your hips.”

She didn’t move.

“Behave and I might let you come. Do you smell apples?” I teased. “Funny — I do. I wonder why?”

She angled her hips just so, and I pressed the tip of my cock to her ass. She held her breath, and I kissed the back of her neck — the place where it always made her horny. “Breathe,” I ordered. When she inhaled, I pushed past that stubborn ring of muscle, and I was in. Her ass was a wet, smooth channel around my dick.

I started to move in slow, even strokes. This wouldn’t last long. She was so snug back there — so velvety. She sighed, and it was a good sound. A happy sound. I gripped her hips tight — tight enough for her to really feel the bite of my fingers — and with my free hand I made continuous lazy revolutions around the swollen knot of her clit.

“Oh!” she said as she came. I felt the spasms of her orgasm work through her ass, too, and that did me in. I came buried balls-deep in her bottom, teeth pressed to her neck, fingers wet with her juices.

“I need to stop snacking,” she said softly.

“We’re working on it,” I reminded her.

And we still are. If we beat the battle of the stress-eating, I really think we need to move on to the stress-shopping. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.