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SLAP HAPPY – Part 1
HE STOOD naked, in the position he had been taught, while awaiting her appearance. That was rigidly upright, his hands clasped behind his back, resting on his bare buttocks. His feet were about a yard apart – an important part of the stance for what he knew was to come.
He looked down at his body, and despite himself, felt a tremor of pride run through his athletic, bronzed frame. He worked out every day, often under her supervision. His muscles were toned, but not the grotesque things seen on so many body builders.
She loved, especially, the knotted cords of muscle at his thighs, and would sometimes press her pussy hard against them to bring herself to climax.
Those thighs were gleaming and superbly suntanned - his hair had been removed from his body below the neck. On his head, its jet black locks fell almost to his shoulders. It may have been unfashionable, but he was so rich he could afford not too give a fuck.
His cock stood out from his groin, erect, or nearly so, eight inches of thick meat that also made him proud.
He had recently shaved, and he could inhale the aroma of an expensive after-shave she insisted he wear. He was ready – and he was apprehensive.
It was the sort of apprehension he used to feel while waiting outside the headmaster’s study when he was at public school, what was it? Some 25 years ago. As a 15-year-old he had often been summonsed to the head’s office for “six of the best”. He always hated it. Now, he loved it – especially since his punishments were not meted out by men, by but her.
But when he was ordered into this position it was not for a caning. She used the words “I’m slap happy, boy, you know what to do” – a signal for him to stand in the long hallway of their sumptuous Surrey mansion, awaiting her arrival.
She called him “boy” – when she wasn’t calling him “slut”, or “cunt” or “pervert” – but it was simply a means of humiliating him. He was 40-years-old, and he was in her thrall.
Mistress Camille was a stunning, honey blonde of 45, and she had married him not only for his money, but also for his body and his large, but not overly gross, prick. He was absolutely crazy about her, and for outsiders looking in, it was easy to see why.
She was tallish – not his six feet two inches, but not far short of it. In fact, in her high heels, their eyes were level. She had large breasts, heavy even, with large, thick nipples and those nipples were surrounded by dark brown circles of areolae. He loved sucking them – the nipples, the breasts, the areolae.
Her waist wasn’t as narrow as it must have been when she was a teenager, or in her 20s, and her buttocks, while almost on the large size, were eminently worshippable. Her legs were long, strong and bronzed.
Her pussy was slightly thatched in trimmed back, brownish pubic hair, with just glimpses of labia through the growth, which she cut each day.
He had been waiting for her for around 20 minutes, he saw, judging from the clock ticking away on a mantelpiece in the large lounge opposite his waiting place, when he heard the warning click-clack of heels on the Italian marbled floor. He tensed, his cock waved slightly and then she was in front of him.
She smiled as she stood about two yards in front of him, looking with pleasure as she saw the effect she was having on him. His cock was immediately rising to a rigid hard-on.
It would have been impossible for any “straight” man with blood coursing through his veins not to react in such an animal, lusting manner.
Mistress Camille was naked save for a pair of boots, which came to half-way up her glorious thighs, a black, peaked cap in the military style such as chauffeurs wear jauntily placed on her head.
In her right hand, dangled two red leather gloves, which matched the burnished red leather of her domination boots.
“So, boy,” she smiled at him, “ready for your punishment, are you?” she asked, in a drawling voice, which still had traces of her upper-crust upbringing on the American East Coast – only traces now since she had lived in England for almost 15 years.
“Yes, Mistress Camille,” he said, politely, his cock now waving in a sort of arc and pointing almost directly at her chin.
“Good,” she said, pulling a red glove onto her left hand first, till it smoothed tautly and shining over her flesh, and then doing the same to cover her right, “because as I told you, I’m feeling a little slap-happy.”
Then she looked him hard in his big, brown eyes and licked her lovely lips, pale pink with only a small application of lipstick. “Right, then shall we begin?”
“Yes, Mistress Camille,” he said, the only words necessary at this point in their almost daily ritual.
Camille moved closer and stepped just off to his left, a position that permitted him to breath in the perfume on her cheeks, and behind her ears, and another aroma, muskier, more primal, that he swore he could detect rising from her crotch.
Then, she raised her right hand and placed the cool leather of the glove on his left cheek, pulled her arm back and slapped him. The sound of the crack splatted in the corridor, and his head snapped to the right as it took the blow.
By now, Mistress Camille had lifted her left hand, and as the stinging rang in his ears, she brought the left smacking down on his right cheek.
Then, a small smile on her face, she whispered: “Thank me, boy!”
He leaned forward, keeping his hands clasped tightly behind him, and kissed her on her full mouth, pressing his lips firmly against hers, and then her tongue pressed into his mouth and they kissed passionately.
Pulling back after almost a minute, Mistress Camille ran a leather-gloved right hand along his throbbing, thick shaft and told him: “Wait there, boy, I won’t be long.”
And she walked away, back towards her study, he thought, or maybe her bedroom, her bare buttocks jouncing sexily as she walked in the high-heeled domination boots.
He sighed, as he saw her wonderful back, buttocks and thighs until she disappeared into a room off the corridor. He waited, still apprehensive. The waiting always got worse because he now knew what to expect.
Ten minutes or so had ticked away, when she returned, gloves still on her hands and gleaming in the strong overhead light. “Ready boy?” came the inquiry, his response followed, in the affirmative, of course.
Mistress Camille resumed her position off to his left, and two sharp slaps rang out, on his left cheek first, then his right, which made his ears ring once more.
“Thank me, boy,” she hissed, and this time he bent at the waist and began to kiss and lick, and nibble at her nipple-erect breasts.
This was all part of their ritual. The first “Thank-you” was always a kiss on the mouth, the second was worship at her beautiful big breasts. The third “Thank-you” was the one he really feared!
After a minute or so lapping and laving at her breasts, he was pushed away roughly, by her gloved right hand smacking his shoulder, a signal he was to desist.
“Don’t run away, boy, two more slaps to come, remember?” she grinned, before she walked sexily away to whatever it was she did to while the time away as he waited in dire apprehension for her return.
This time, that return was delayed. She always loved to keep him waiting for the third visit, knowing full well that the minutes would tick by agonisingly slowly as he waited for her to come back.
Finally, after at least 25 minutes, maybe 30, he heard the click-clack sound announcing her return to complete his face-slapping humiliation. The face-slapping he could live with – he HAD to live with! It was the method of saying “Thank-you” that made his wait for her so awful!
Mistress Camille stepped back to his side and ran her left hand over his cock this time, feeling its thickness, its rigidity, despite its owner’s knowledge of what he would soon be forced to do.
She grinned a big grin revealing dazzling white, perfectly-shaped teeth. “Right boy,” she said, “ready for your final two slaps, are we?”
He nodded, his cock waving in front of him. “Yes, Mistress Camille,” he said, his voice husky with emotion mingled with fear.
“Good,” she said, still stroking his erection, “and then you can thank me properly, can’t you?”
Again he croaked out a “Yes, Mistress Camille” and the honey-blonde arched up an eyebrow.
“You DO want to thank me properly, don’t you, slut?” she asked, her voice now harsh, almost strident.
“Yes, Mistress Camille, very much so, Mistress Camille,” he heard himself intone.
She laughed. “Liar!” And then she adopted her slapping position.
He waited as she dragged out the slapping process, all part of the ritual to delay the third “Thank-you”, and then she slapped him to more ear-ringing submission. These two were the hardest slaps he had endured, but his feet-wide stance meant his head merely snapped from side to side as she punished him.
At last she stepped away and standing about a yard from him, directly in front of his nude body, she planted her booted feet almost three feet apart and whispered tenderly: “Now, boy, thank me!”
With an almost audible groan, he sank to his knees and pressed his face up to her strongly aromatic pussy, waves of sexual perfume floating out across his features.
His mouth pressed against her lovely lush labia, then his tongue invaded the labial divide, before plunging lower to her cunt lips, cunt lips that were dripping sex juice.
“Oooh, that’s so lovely, you filthy old pervert,” she sighed, ignoring the fact that she was five years his senior. “Oh yes, don’t stop, you’ve got such a hot tongue!”
The naked male licked and lapped at her, tasting her moistness, drinking in her sexual juices, and then came the words he hated – words that not always, but nearly, came during the third of the “Thanks” sessions.
“Ooooh, boy, Camille’s sorry, but she wants to go wee-wee, she’s got SUCH a strong urge,” came Camille’s words, which displayed not one iota of regret.
The man continued to work at her minge, his mouth licking and kissing at her. He knew from bitter experience that her words were a mere prelude to more teasing words of torment.
“Ahh, that’s good,” she said, “that’s lovely, working on my clitty like that. Keep that up, boy, and Camille may not need to go pee-pee!”
Still he laved at her labia, her cunt, sometimes even back at her musky anus, and still she moved herself sensuously on his face.
“Oh god, that’s so fuckin’ naughty,” he heard her announce, “licking at my asshole, you filthy pervert! And fuck, it’s made me want to piss even more than before!”
As a precaution, her kneeling, licking slave, moved his mouth back to her labia, only to be taunted once more by his mistress-wife: “Shouldn’t have licked my asshole, cunt, made me think about taking a piss – big mistake, boy!”
The taunting words continued, as she teased him while he worked away at her pussy. And then, possibly five minutes or so after he had started his third “Thank-you” session, Camille announced the words he had learned to detest – “Incoming!” It was a command he thought typical of the daughter of a retired United States Army general.
He clamped his mouth around her juicy labia, as tightly as possible, and then the warm jet of hot piss crashed into his mouth, and he began to gulp her down.
As usual, it was a strong, salty, bitter, strong-tasting stream of urine, possibly aided by the intake of several strong cups of coffee she always enjoyed on the morning of a “Slap happy” session.
The flow streamed on, and on! For about 45 seconds, Camille urged herself to expel as much of her hot piss down his throat as she could, before, after the final drops had passed, she panted: “Clean me, bring me off, cunt!”
Glad that the revolting stream had finally ceased, he licked around her still juicy labia, and then ploughed his tongue hard against her clitoris, as her leather-gloved hands grasped his head and jammed him hard into her crotch.
At last his oral ministrations worked their way and Camille panted out in ecstasy as she splattered his face with more juice – this time of a sexual nature – and then she snapped: “On your feet, boy, plant that thigh!”
He rose, stiff-cocked despite his disgusting drink, and Camille pulled herself against him and pressed her groin onto his left thigh, graunching and rubbing herself to total completion as her orgasm peaked, then subsided.
Pulling away at last, Camille pushed him back. “Go clean up, then meet me in my study,” she snapped, the teasing tone now gone, and replaced her usually bossily bitchy self. “I’ve got some news for you on the face-slapping front,” she informed him.
“And you might not like it!” she laughed, as her thick-cocked husband went towards the main bathroom.
He was still within earshot, when he heard Camille laughing some more. “On the other hand, seeing as how you’re such a piss pervert, my darling, you just might!”
To be continued
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