A Holiday Stress Reset by the Christmas Lights - Part 2

 “A Holiday Stress Reset by the Christmas Lights” Part 2

A fiction story by Lisa

(If you have not read Part 1 please read it here)

This story contains a spanking between a husband and wife. Also includes oral sex. If any of these themes bother you or you are underage, please please please do not read

Tom’s strong hands were on my shoulders, lifting me from the rug. The air felt electric against my hot skin. His eyes, dark and possessive, held mine. “You’re not finished,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me. He didn’t mean the evening. He meant me. My body hummed with a strange, submissive readiness, the deep ache in my bottom a grounding, delicious anchor.

He guided me, one hand firm on the small of my back, toward our bedroom. The hallway was dark, lit only by the soft glow from the living room. Each step made me aware of the tender heat he’d left on my skin, a secret rhythm between my legs keeping time with my heartbeat.

In the bedroom, the world narrowed. The faint scent of our laundry detergent, the cool cotton of the duvet, the silent promise of the bedposts. He led me to the edge of the mattress.

“Bend over. Hands on the bed,” he instructed, his tone leaving no room for anything but obedience. The command, so familiar yet so potent, sent a fresh tremor through me. I complied, leaning forward until my palms pressed into the soft comforter, my back arched, presenting my still-throbbing backside to him. My jeans and panties were still a puddle around my ankles.

I heard him step closer. Felt the shift in the air. Then, his warm palm covered one heated cheek, not striking, just owning. “So responsive,” he murmured, almost to himself. “So perfect.”

The first spank landed. Smack! It was different here—more intimate, without the earlier anger. This was just about sensation, about him and me. His hand was relentless, covering every inch of my sensitized skin, each impact a bright spark that traveled straight to my core. I cried out, not in protest, but in a wild kind of surrender. The sharp stings layered over the deep, resonant ache from the hairbrush, creating a symphony of pain that was somehow, impossibly, pure pleasure.

“Ten more,” he growled, his breathing growing heavier behind me. “Just my hand. Just for us.”

I lost count. I just felt. Each crack of his palm drove me higher, my whimpers turning into ragged moans. My hips began to rock of their own accord, seeking friction against nothing. By the time he stopped, my entire world was the roaring heat between my legs and the glorious, punished fire of my skin.

He helped me stand, my legs shaky. With gentle, deliberate motions, he peeled my jeans and panties the rest of the way off, letting them fall to the floor. Then he guided me backward until my calves hit the mattress. “Lie down. In the center.”

I did, sinking into the cool sheets. He moved to the dresser, opening the top drawer. I heard the soft shush of silk. My breath caught. He returned with four long, wine-colored scarves, the ones I’d worn with a dress last New Year’s Eve. He held one up, the fabric catching the dim light.

“We’re going to slow things down,” he said, his voice a velvet promise. “I want to take my time. I want to hear you beg.”

A thrill, sharp and potent, shot through me. He took my right wrist, lifting it to the carved wooden post at the head of the bed. He looped the silk around my wrist, then the post, tying it with a secure but not painful knot. He repeated the process with my left wrist, then moved to the foot of the bed, securing each of my ankles to the bottom posts. The silk was smooth, decadent against my skin. The slight tug on my limbs, the utter exposure… it was complete vulnerability. I was spread open, utterly his.

He stood back, his gaze a physical caress as it traveled the length of my bound body. “Beautiful,” he breathed.

Then he knelt on the bed between my legs. He didn’t touch me where I burned for him. Not yet. His hands ran up my inner thighs, making me jump. His thumbs traced the crease where thigh met hip, then brushed lightly over the sore, heated curves of my bottom. I arched off the bed, a needy sound escaping my lips.

“Please,” I whispered.

“Not yet.” His voice was a low tease.

He bent his head. His mouth, hot and wet, found the inside of my knee. He kissed, licked, nipped a path upward, agonizingly slow. His stubble scratched deliciously against my sensitive skin. He paid lavish attention to each thigh, his tongue tracing patterns that made me squirm against my silken restraints. He was mapping me, learning me anew, and the anticipation was a sweet, torturous agony.

Finally, his breath ghosted over the very heart of me. I bucked, a desperate, wordless plea.

His tongue touched me. Not a thrust, not a deep lick. Just the soft, flat pad of it, dragging a slow, wet line from my entrance up to my clit.

I cried out, the sensation so intense it was almost pain. My hips strained against the scarves.

He did it again. And again. Slow, maddening strokes that built a fire but refused to quench it. He licked and swirled, exploring every fold with a leisurely, devastating precision. He’d bring me to the very edge, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps, my back arching, and then he’d pull away to kiss my inner thigh, to bite gently at the swell of my hip.

“Tom… please… I need…” My words were a broken mess.

“What do you need?” he murmured against my slick skin, his breath hot.

“You. Inside. I need to feel you.” The admission was torn from me.

He gave a low, satisfied hum. “Soon.”

His mouth returned, more focused now. His tongue circled my clit, then flicked it rapidly. One of his hands came up to cup my breast, his thumb rubbing my nipple to a hard, aching peak. The dual assault shattered my coherency. Pleasure coiled tight in my belly, a spring wound to its breaking point.

“I’m going to… oh God, please let me… I can’t…” I was babbling, pulling against the scarves, my body bowing off the mattress.

He pulled his mouth away. I whimpered in protest, a sound of pure loss.

In one fluid, powerful motion, he rose up over me, settling his weight between my spread thighs. I felt the thick, urgent heat of him press against my drenched entrance. He looked down at me, his face a mask of fierce desire. “Now you beg for it,” he commanded, his voice rough.

“Please,” I sobbed, my eyes locked on his. “Please, Tom. Fuck me. I need you to fuck me. Please.”

A savage grin touched his lips. He pushed forward, not in a slow slide, but in one deep, relentless thrust that buried him to the hilt inside me.

The cry that left my throat was one of pure, shocked relief. He filled me so completely, stretching me, claiming me. The deep, throbbing ache in my bottom seemed to sync with the rhythm of his penetration, a perfect, punishing counterpoint.

He began to move. Deep, measured strokes that hit a spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids. The scarves held me firm, allowing him to set a pace that was entirely his own—powerful, possessive, and utterly devastating. Each thrust rocked my entire body, the headboard giving a soft, rhythmic tap against the wall. The sounds of our joining were obscenely loud—skin on skin, my ragged cries, his guttural groans.

I was completely possessed. My world narrowed to the place where we were joined, to the feel of him moving within me, to the pressure coiling impossibly tight. He leaned down, capturing my mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing my moans. His hands found mine where they were bound, his fingers lacing through mine, pinning them to the bed.

The pressure broke. My climax tore through me, violent and consuming. I screamed into his mouth, my body convulsing around his, milking him. The waves seemed endless, each one wracking me with unbearable pleasure.

Feeling me clench around him, he let out a broken shout. His thrusts became frantic, losing their rhythm, driving deep as he chased his own release. With a final, powerful surge, he stilled, buried deep, and I felt the hot pulse of him inside me.

He collapsed atop me, his weight a welcome anchor. Our harsh breaths mingled in the quiet room. Slowly, he raised his head, his eyes searching mine. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. The look said everything—possession, satisfaction, a deep, abiding connection.