Brandon’s a bad boy. I watch him do things: Under-tip the waiter. Leave his dirty dishes on the table. Toss his socks on the floor.
And when I catch him being bad, if I’m in the mood, I get what I want. And what I want is for him to pay.
Just the other day, I picked up some worn socks right in front of him and saw his face change. He went from confident to sheepish in a split second.
“What’s this?” I asked softly. Too softly.
He snatched them from me and looked away as he said, “Sorry. I forgot them.”
“Do I really need more pointless excuses for your bad behavior?”
His face reddened, but when I glanced down at his jeans, I saw his cock was already swelling. A hard mound fighting against his zipper.
“Go put these where they belong,” I snapped. “And then come back to me.”
It had been a long week. Punishing Brandon and then an orgasm or three sounded like a perfect stress reliever for me.
He trotted upstairs, and I heard him overhead, scurrying to the clothes hamper like a frantic animal. I imagined his heart thumping. I imagined him feeling both eager and scared. Because he knew he had to hurt before he got to feel good. Those were the rules.
I reached beneath my outfit and tugged my panties down. I had on a long skirt, high socks and tall boots. Now that the underwear had been removed, I was ready to deal with him.
He came down the steps slowly. He kept licking his lips and his dark eyes flashed with anxiety. His erection was still evident beneath his faded jeans.
I sat down on the sofa and patted my lap.
“Best to just get this over with,” I said.
He dipped his head in a nod.
I cupped a hand to my ear and leaned forward as I said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you, bad boy.”
He flushed with color and barked, “Yes, Ma’am.”
“That’s what I thought you said.”
He approached me and carefully draped his lanky body over my legs. I rubbed his tight ass with my hand, moving my palm in soothing circles. I felt his muscles twitch and clench beneath the denim. I squeezed, kneaded and stroked, lulling him. At the exact second I felt his body relax, I delivered a blow so hard my hand stung from the force of it.
His hips jerked, and I felt the brush of his rigid dick against my leg. I struggled to quash my smile.
“Get those pants off,” I told him.
He nearly fell off my lap in his haste to obey. He got on his knees, undid his jeans and then stumbled-stepped to his feet to yank them off. I thought he might fall, but he quickly righted himself. Then he stripped off his boxers and his cock sprang free, looking harder than ever.
I grabbed his erection like it was a handle and tugged it, causing him to step toward me.
“Back over my lap,” I ordered, giving his cock a hard squeeze.
He arranged himself with a clumsy fumbling I found endearing. Between my thighs, my pussy was flowing like a river.