The scent of the woman’s arousal, and her fierce struggles that ground her thighs into his swollen cock, distracted him from his purpose. Martha must be punished. Lacking a place he could lock her away, or a chore he could set her to, he’d settled on physical punishment, hoping the humiliation of being treated like a child would somehow penetrate her stubborn brain. She had acted outrageously, recklessly. Now, with her delight in her “punishment” smeared across his palm, he realized he’d underestimated her—and her passion. Martha was driving him out of his mind. Looking at her buttocks, he felt revulsion for his violence. He’d never left a mark on a woman, but there was the reflection of his hand in red relief on her tender skin. Never mind, the minx seemed to enjoy it. He’d dipped his fingers into her well to test the water, so to speak, rimming her cunt, only to discover the little witch was primed for sex. Meaning to soothe, he massaged her buttocks, torn between the need to wring satisfaction for her foolish prank and the need to pump his cock against her thighs.
