Wrong Choice

The second the wrong title slipped past your lips—“Mrs. Dorothy”—her expression changed.

Not anger, exactly. Something colder, more precise. Like a collector noticing a tiny crack in priceless porcelain.

Her hand—the one that had been kneading your ass so possessively—froze. Then tightened.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, voice suddenly soft in that dangerous, disappointed way mothers sometimes use right before the real punishment begins. “We just talked about this.”

Before you could stammer an apology, her fingers were already moving—quick, efficient, practiced. The button of your shorts popped open. The zipper rasped down. She hooked both hands into the waistband and yanked them—and your underwear—down your thighs in one smooth, ruthless motion. The fabric bunched at your knees, trapping your legs together.

You barely had time to gasp before she sat on the wide, carpeted step behind her, thighs parting to create the perfect cradle. Strong hands caught your wrists, spun you, bent you forward. Your bare stomach met the cool silk of her robe; your cock—already traitorously half-hard from all the earlier grinding—brushed against the inside of her thigh.

Then you were over her lap.

Completely.

Face down, ass up, shorts tangled around your shins like makeshift shackles. The position **** your back to arch, presented you like an offering. Her left arm banded across your lower back, pinning you in place with casual, terrifying strength. Her right hand smoothed over the newly bared skin of your ass—once, twice, almost tender—mapping every inch as though committing it to memory.

“Mommy told you the rule,” she said quietly. Each word measured. “And you broke it. On purpose or not, that doesn’t matter. What matters is correction.”

The first spank landed without warning.

Open palm. Full ****. A sharp, cracking sound that echoed up the stairwell.

Fire bloomed across your left cheek instantly—hot, stinging, spreading outward in a bright wave. You jerked, a choked sound escaping before you could stop it.

She didn’t pause.

The second spank caught the right cheek, mirroring the first—harder, if anything. The impact jolted your whole body forward against her thighs; you felt the thick, rigid length of her cock twitch violently beneath the silk, pressing up into your hip like it was trying to brand you through the fabric.

“Count,” she ordered, voice velvet again. “And use the right name. Or we start over from one.”

Her hand hovered, waiting.

The air smelled of her perfume and the faint, musky scent of your own arousal mixing with the sharp bite of spanking-heated skin.

Another spank—lower this time, catching the sensitive crease where thigh met ass. You yelped.

She rubbed slow circles over the stinging flesh, almost soothing, before lifting her hand again.

“I’m waiting, baby,” she purred, leaning down so her full breasts pressed against your back, nipples hard points through silk. “Say it properly while Mommy teaches this pretty bottom who it belongs to.”

Her fingers trailed between your cheeks for just a second—teasing, threatening—then withdrew.

The next spank was already coming.

How many will it take before you remember?

And more importantly…

Do you even want to remember too quickly?