Cool air and Warm butt cheeks in Tasmania part 1
The attic hatch unfolded like a blossom, revealing a narrow staircase. Jules hesitated, gripping the rail as it trembled under their combined weight. The scent of cedar and lemon oil rushed down to meet them. She didn't speak until they'd reached the top, where afternoon sunlight streamed through circular windows onto polished orange-brown floorboards.
“Wait here," she commanded, gesturing to the clover-patterned bed.
Jules stood rigidly, his fingers twisting into his shirt hem again as Miss Sweetwaters vanished downstairs. The attic groaned faintly with each step she took—or was that his pulse drumming in his ears? The scent of lemon oil and cedar clung to the air, thick as honey, making his throat dry. When she returned, the hairbrush glinted in the afternoon light streaming through the circular window—its blueberry-designed wooden back and red bristles absurdly cheerful for an instrument of punishment. Jules swallowed hard at the sight of it, his thighs squeezing together instinctively.
She smiled sweetly, setting the brush on the clover-patterned quilt beside her.
"Don’t worry, honey, I’m gonna warm you up first. Hands on your head, young man," she murmured. Jules obeyed, locking his fingers together against his ginger hair, his elbows trembling outward like broken wings. Her chuckle was warm as she circled behind him—slow, deliberate—the click of her heels swallowed by the attic’s thick cedar planks. "Turn around," she added, tapping his hipbone with a polished nail. He pivoted stiffly, catching a whiff of her perfume—clove and something like burnt sugar—as she crouched to unbutton his khakis. The zipper’s rasp was deafening.
Then she froze, a stifled gasp escaping her lips. His underwear—tight cotton, stretched over narrow hips—bore a cartoon koala clutching her baby.
"Oh, *Jules*," she cooed, fingers hovering over the print.
"Do you *want* me to think you’re precious?"
His flush deepened, creeping down his neck as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband. One sharp tug and the fabric pooled at his ankles. Her breath hitched.
"Lord, those *cheeks*," she breathed, tracing a nail down the dimple above his thigh. "All that bike riding paid off, didn’t it?"
He swayed when she stepped around to face him—then choked as her fingertip flicked his erection.
"And *these*," she mused, rolling his balls between gloved fingers like marbles.
"Plump as quail eggs. Tell me, darling, do they *always* tighten up this pretty when you’re embarrassed?" Jules whimpered, his hips jerking involuntarily as she pinched the base of his shaft.
“Your dick remind me of a smoked hotdog, and your skin is the same color as yoohoo milk Jules. Every part of you looks so tasty. I could just eat you up!”
Miss Sweetwaters’ grip shifted to his waist, steering him backward until his calves hit the bed’s edge. She took off her gloves and dropped them on the floor.
"Over my lap, now,”she ordered, hiking up her sapphire skirt to reveal kiwi designed panties and her smooth thighs.
Jules obeyed impulsively, knowing hesitation would unravel his resolve. As he draped himself across her thighs, the scent of her lavender gloves flooded his senses—warm leather and something crisp, like winter apples. The danish woman quickly closed her thighs around his cock, making him gasp, while his balls rested on her left one. She pulled his pants, underwear, shoes, and socks completely off before leaning down, her hot-pink lips brushing his ear.
"My bra matches these little panties, darling," she murmured, tapping the lace-edged waistband. "And if you ever want another spanking—or *plenty* more games—just ask. I’ll give you my number." Her promise coiled in his belly, molten, just before her right hand rose high. He braced for pain—but the first contact was a featherlight tap, barely a whisper against his skin. Fifty-nine more followed, each landing precisely every second, a torturous countdown that left his muscles twitching with anticipation.
Then her left hand snapped down like a guillotine blade. The smack cracked across his left cheek, sharp enough to send a shockwave through his hips. Jules yelped, his voice ricocheting off the attic beams, fingers clawing at empty air—no pillow to muffle himself, no escape from the king-sized bed’s expanse. Another slap detonated on his right side, and his scream fractured into a sob. By the eighth strike, tears streaked his cheeks, hot and unstoppable, while Miss Sweetwaters crooned above him.
"Good boy," she purred, delivering slap nine with pitiless precision.
"This is exactly what you deserve for sneaking porn—filthy stuff for adults little boys!"
Her palm cracked down again—10—and Jules' legs kicked wildly, toes curling against the quilt’s clover pattern as if trying to root himself to the bed. His erection strained against the side covers, trapped between her thighs and the fabric. Once she delivered the 30th smack after 30 seconds, he lifted his back with a strangled cry, fingers pushing down on the sheets, trying to lift himself off. but her right hand, which had been resting on his waist, pressed down the small of his back, pinning him like a butterfly to a board.
“No!” she mockingly scolded him.
The next five slaps rained down in rapid succession—31, 32, 33—each one hotter and sharper than the last, until Jules’ thighs were pistoning against the quilt, his entire body writhing in a futile attempt to escape. When she felt him twist sideways, hips bucking toward the edge of her lap, she didn’t hesitate. Her right arm snapped around his waist like a steel cable, elbow digging into the small of his back, pinning his torso flush against her thighs.
“Get over here!” she growled, fingers splaying possessively across his hipbone. “You’re not going anywhere until I say so, young man.”
Her left hand resumed its rhythm—34, 35—the smacks landing with wet, stinging precision, each one coaxing another ragged sob from his throat.
“M-Mommy, *please*—!” Jules pleaded after the sixtieth slap landed, his toes curling into the quilt as tears splattered the fabric.
“My bum’s *burning*!”
Miss Sweetwaters’ laughter was velvet-dark, her fingers tracing the welted heat of his cheeks before delivering another stinging smack.
"Poor baby," she crooned in mock sympathy, leaning down to whisper in his ear again.
"Do you still consider yourself a masochist? Do you still wanna be spanked? Do you still take pleasure in being given pain ?"
Sweetwaters’ palm cracked down in perfectly timed intervals–62, 63, 64–each smack punctuated by the hitch of Jules’ breath, his body tensing reflexively before the next strike landed. The pain was unbearable, his flesh throbbing like a second heartbeat, yet the humiliation of being pinned—exposed, his erection trapped between her thighs—sent jolts of twisted pleasure through him. He couldn’t articulate it, couldn’t even nod, but his hips twitched forward involuntarily, grinding against her thigh as if begging for more.
At the 180th slap, she felt the telltale pulse against her inner thigh. In one fluid motion, she parted her legs, letting his cock spring free just as her right hand darted beneath him. Her fingers curled around his shaft, catching every spurt of his orgasm in her palm as he bucked wildly, his cries dissolving into ragged whimpers.
“Such messy boy,” she tutted, swirling the warm slickness across his inflamed cheeks, working it into his skin with slow, deliberate circles. Jules shuddered, the cool air mingling with the sticky heat of his own release, amplifying the sting of each fresh smack.
“Now that your bottom is all slimy and slick, me beating it is gonna hurt a lot more!” The danish lady said enthusiastically. She continued to batter his behind for further two minutes and 120 spanks over 120 seconds, reveling in his tears, convulsions, cries of pain, and seeing the colors butt change—as well as the temperature of it increasing under her thorough manual application.
Miss Sweetwaters was spending the last fifteen seconds of the five-minute hand-spanking interval alternating between spanking his buttocks and thighs , which was making him scream with each fresh strike. She alternated between slapping his left thigh and butt cheek and his right thigh and butt cheek in rapid succession—twenty smacks in total. Then, she stopped spanking him with her hand. Jules gasped in relief—only for Miss Sweetwaters to announce cheerfully, "Okay, Jules, that was your warm-up. Now, it's hairbrush time!"
She reached for the brush, ignoring his panicked whimpers. Jules' stomach twisted as he saw her lift it—blueberry-patterned wood glinting cruelly in the attic light. She tapped it lightly against his throbbing cheeks for twenty agonizing seconds, each gentle *click* of bristles against skin making him flinch.
“Such a pretty shade of pink,” she mused, the cool wooden back down his welted flesh. "Let’s make it perfect ."
The brush rose high over her shoulder—then *cracked* down with a force that sent shockwaves up his spine. Jules’ scream tore through the attic, raw and shattered, as fire exploded across his backside. His legs kicked wildly, but she’d already twisted him diagonally across her lap, her right arm, wrapping under his stomach to support it and avoid a strain, while her thighs trapped his flailing legs.
Miss Sweetwaters quickly resumed the brutal hairbrushing—*whack! whack! whack!*—each strike landing with mechanical precision, the wooden backsde leaving big red splotches where they branded his flesh. His fingers clawed at nothing, the quilt slipping from his grasp as tears blurred his vision. By the fifteenth swing, his cries had dissolved into hiccuping sobs, his body jerking like a marionette with every impact. The pain was unbearable, his skin radiating heat like a furnace, yet his cock twitched against her thigh, aching and neglected.
Her hand paused mid-swing as she noticed the telltale shudder rippling through him—his hips lifting slightly, his balls tightening against her lap. With practiced ease, she slid her right palm beneath him just as his orgasm hit, his cock spurting ropes of cum onto her waiting fingers and hand. She chuckled darkly before smearing it across his flaming cheeks, relishing the way he whimpered at the sticky humiliation.
"Tsk, tsk, such a *leaky* boy," she murmured, delivering three sharp smacks to his dripping wet skin. "Good news that a brush hurts even *more* on slimy skin!"
Jules sobbed openly now, his fists twisting into the quilt as she resumed the hairbrush’s relentless assault—each *CRACK* landing with pinpoint accuracy on the same spot, intensifying the burn until his entire backside felt like molten lead. His legs kicked uselessly, toes curling into the fabric as his cock twitched pathetically against her thigh, still sensitive from his release. Miss Sweetwaters adjusted her grip, angling the brush to strike the tender crease where ass met thigh, and Jules’ scream shattered into a garbled plea, his body convulsing against her restraining arm.
“P-please, you’re—*killing* me—” he rasped, tears dripping onto the quilt’s clover pattern. She paused just long enough to chuckle, tracing the brush’s edge along his trembling thighs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she crooned, “your *gluteus maximus* is pure fat and muscle—built to *take* pain. Those nerve endings? Just nature’s way of making sure naughty boys *remember* their lessons.”
The Danish woman continued the hairbrush spanking for three more minutes having decided beforehand to spank him with her hand and the hairbrush five minutes each, making the total 10 minutes. As she reached the conclusion of the bun baking session, Jules body went limp, only lightly flinching as a hairbrush continued to roast his rump and quietly whining having lost the ability to scream or struggle.
At the end of the 180 seconds, miss Spring Sweetwaters put her lips close to his earlobe and whispered, “ I’m going to give you one more whack, honey, so I have to leave an *unforgettable* impression on you!”
She leaned back raised the brush high into the air, her arm tense and rigid as she held it aloft for a full ten seconds—then brought it down with all her might, the wooden back connecting with his ravaged flesh in a single, devastating SMACK! Jules' entire body arched violently before collapsing limp across her lap, his whimper fading into eerie silence. Miss Sweetwaters blinked in genuine surprise as she rolled him over—his lashes fluttered against tear-streaked cheeks, his breathing shallow—she'd actually spanked him unconscious.
Turning him back face-down, she surveyed the damage with clinical admiration: his buttocks had darkened to a bruised plum hue, swollen into uneven ridges where the brush had landed repeatedly. Fingertips tracing the inflamed skin, she spent five minutes kneading the tortured flesh until it regained some pliability, then lifted him gently onto the bed’s clover-patterned quilt, arranging his limp limbs with care before padding downstairs.
Her online dashboard pinged with alerts from the lingerie boutique, but she barely registered them—her pulse still thrummed from his unconscious whimper, that delicious moment of total surrender. Ten minutes later, his hoarse shout of "Miss Sweetwaters?" made her grin mid-sip of rooibos tea.
"Yes, little Jules?" she called back, deliberately slow-stirring her cup. His response came muffled through the floorboards.
“Can I have something to drink? My throat aches from yelling so much.”
Miss Sweetwaters smiled, setting aside her tea cup with a deliberate clink. “Lemonade, darling? Such a sweet choice for such a naughty boy.” She padded back upstairs, her skirt swishing with each step, and found Jules still sprawled facedown on the quilt—his fingers clutching at the clover patterns like they might anchor him. When he turned his head toward her, his eyes were glassy, his lower lip swollen from biting back sobs. She held out the frosty glass, condensation dripping down its sides, and watched his trembling fingers fumble to grip it.
He gulped the lemonade in frantic swallows, wincing as the icy liquid hit his raw throat—then froze when she plucked the empty glass from his hands.
“My attic has a bathroom, honey. You’ll have to pee after drinking that 8 ounce glass of lemonade, so head in there,” she ordered. She pointed in direction of it, and he obeyed without hesitation. Walking into, he saw that the tiles head a sapphire blue color that there was both a pristine porcelain white shower with a gold curtain rod-hyphen, even though he didn’t see any curtains and a porcelain white clawfoot tub with a silver faucet on the left side of it that could be turned to a hot water or cold water setting. Then he noticed the porcelain white pedestal sink and the bottle of watermelon-scented liquid soap on it.
As Miss Spring Sweetwater is predicted seconds later, he fell. The urge to urinate quickly, sat down on the toilet, which was also white and pour on them and relieved himself. Then he thoroughly washed his hands and walked out of the bathroom, leaving the door open as it had been when he got in there. The door was wood and oiled the same color as the floor and ceiling. Once he was back in front of the woman who caught him reading adult material in the bookstore, she smart at him and said, “You can put your clothes back on honey, and I’ll drive you back to the bookstore…unless of course you wanna have more fun with me.”
He blushed again and was unsure of what to say. She reached down to gently scratch his inner thighs, enjoying his whimpers as she did this, saying, “Well?”
Jules swallowed hard, his throat still raw from screaming. The sensation of her nails dragging lightly over his sensitive skin sent conflicting signals—his ass throbbed with residual pain, but the teasing touch reignited an ember of arousal he couldn’t suppress. His cock, still flushed and oversensitive from his earlier orgasm, slowly begin to become wrecked once more.
“I…I should go,” he whispered, but his hips tilted forward almost imperceptibly, betraying him.
Miss Sweetwaters' fingers paused their ministrations, her lips parting in a predatory grin.
“Is that *really* what you want, baby?” she murmured, kneeling slowly until her hot breath ghosted over his swollen cock. He whimpered, bucking against empty air, and the words tumbled out before he could stop them.
“Please, put it in your mouth, ma’am!” She exhaled sharply through her nose, her pulse kicking at the victory—another boy unraveled, another fantasy made flesh—but kept her voice silk-smooth.
“Your wish is my command, sugar.”
Then Miss Spring Sweetwaters got a stern look on her face and warned him that if he touched her head and tried to make her fellate him faster, it was over. He promised he wouldn’t.
“Good,” she murmured, gripping his waist and laying him across the king-size bed like an offering—his thighs trembling, his cock twitching against his stomach. She lowered her head between his thighs and dragged her tongue from his perineum to the tip of his cock in one torturous lick, reveling in his full-body shudder, the way his fingers knotted in the quilt to keep from grabbing her hair.
When she took him into her mouth, Jules’ hips bucked involuntarily—a choked gasp escaping him as her lips sealed around him. He couldn’t hold back like he had with her hand; every flick of her tongue, every suctioning pull drew ragged moans from his throat.
“M-Miss Sweetwaters—” he whimpered, and she hummed around him, the vibration shooting through his groin like lightning. Her nails scraped his inner thighs, her fingers pinching his balls just enough to make him cry out—a symphony of pleasure-pain that had him thrashing beneath her.
Her lips sealed tighter, her tongue swirling under the crown of his cock in slow, torturous circles before suddenly speeding up, bobbing her head with wet, obscene slurps. Jules arched off the bed, his fingers gripping the quilt so hard his knuckles turned white, his toes curling as she sucked harder, faster—until he couldn’t take it anymore.
**M-Miss Sweetwaters—I'm gonna—!** he roared, his hips jerking uncontrollably, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she locked eyes with him as his cock twitched violently, his orgasm flooding her mouth in thick, pulsing spurts. She swallowed every drop, humming around him as his thighs trembled, milking him until he whimpered from overstimulation. Only when the aboriginal boys penis was completely flaccid, the Danish woman remove it from her mouth.
She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, smirking at the way Jules panted, his chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes glazed with post-orgasmic haze.
“I’ll be downstairs, sweetie. You take all the time you need to recover from your climax, then come on down too so that I can take you back to the bookstore,” Miss Spring Sweetwaters said to him before crawling up his body, kissing his forehead, then getting off the bed and walking to the attic staircase. Before heading down, she blew him a kiss with her left hand. Jules, while worn out, was still strong enough to lift his head and watch her go. *She’s like a goddess, a pleasure in pain. And she’s given me both like a wave of fire or water or electricity. We both have totally flooded my senses. I’m so lucky!*
/
Jules was riding his bike up Hill Road that led to the house of the woman who had given him what he Fantasized about for so long. It had been 10 days since he had first met Miss Spring Sweetwaters. After he recovered from coming into her mouth and put back on his pants, underwear, socks and shoes, he went back downstairs and she drove him back to the bookstore and her pain calmer. She bit him goodbye, ruffled his hair and kissed his cheek, then driven away once he
“Wait here," she commanded, gesturing to the clover-patterned bed.
Jules stood rigidly, his fingers twisting into his shirt hem again as Miss Sweetwaters vanished downstairs. The attic groaned faintly with each step she took—or was that his pulse drumming in his ears? The scent of lemon oil and cedar clung to the air, thick as honey, making his throat dry. When she returned, the hairbrush glinted in the afternoon light streaming through the circular window—its blueberry-designed wooden back and red bristles absurdly cheerful for an instrument of punishment. Jules swallowed hard at the sight of it, his thighs squeezing together instinctively.
She smiled sweetly, setting the brush on the clover-patterned quilt beside her.
"Don’t worry, honey, I’m gonna warm you up first. Hands on your head, young man," she murmured. Jules obeyed, locking his fingers together against his ginger hair, his elbows trembling outward like broken wings. Her chuckle was warm as she circled behind him—slow, deliberate—the click of her heels swallowed by the attic’s thick cedar planks. "Turn around," she added, tapping his hipbone with a polished nail. He pivoted stiffly, catching a whiff of her perfume—clove and something like burnt sugar—as she crouched to unbutton his khakis. The zipper’s rasp was deafening.
Then she froze, a stifled gasp escaping her lips. His underwear—tight cotton, stretched over narrow hips—bore a cartoon koala clutching her baby.
"Oh, *Jules*," she cooed, fingers hovering over the print.
"Do you *want* me to think you’re precious?"
His flush deepened, creeping down his neck as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband. One sharp tug and the fabric pooled at his ankles. Her breath hitched.
"Lord, those *cheeks*," she breathed, tracing a nail down the dimple above his thigh. "All that bike riding paid off, didn’t it?"
He swayed when she stepped around to face him—then choked as her fingertip flicked his erection.
"And *these*," she mused, rolling his balls between gloved fingers like marbles.
"Plump as quail eggs. Tell me, darling, do they *always* tighten up this pretty when you’re embarrassed?" Jules whimpered, his hips jerking involuntarily as she pinched the base of his shaft.
“Your dick remind me of a smoked hotdog, and your skin is the same color as yoohoo milk Jules. Every part of you looks so tasty. I could just eat you up!”
Miss Sweetwaters’ grip shifted to his waist, steering him backward until his calves hit the bed’s edge. She took off her gloves and dropped them on the floor.
"Over my lap, now,”she ordered, hiking up her sapphire skirt to reveal kiwi designed panties and her smooth thighs.
Jules obeyed impulsively, knowing hesitation would unravel his resolve. As he draped himself across her thighs, the scent of her lavender gloves flooded his senses—warm leather and something crisp, like winter apples. The danish woman quickly closed her thighs around his cock, making him gasp, while his balls rested on her left one. She pulled his pants, underwear, shoes, and socks completely off before leaning down, her hot-pink lips brushing his ear.
"My bra matches these little panties, darling," she murmured, tapping the lace-edged waistband. "And if you ever want another spanking—or *plenty* more games—just ask. I’ll give you my number." Her promise coiled in his belly, molten, just before her right hand rose high. He braced for pain—but the first contact was a featherlight tap, barely a whisper against his skin. Fifty-nine more followed, each landing precisely every second, a torturous countdown that left his muscles twitching with anticipation.
Then her left hand snapped down like a guillotine blade. The smack cracked across his left cheek, sharp enough to send a shockwave through his hips. Jules yelped, his voice ricocheting off the attic beams, fingers clawing at empty air—no pillow to muffle himself, no escape from the king-sized bed’s expanse. Another slap detonated on his right side, and his scream fractured into a sob. By the eighth strike, tears streaked his cheeks, hot and unstoppable, while Miss Sweetwaters crooned above him.
"Good boy," she purred, delivering slap nine with pitiless precision.
"This is exactly what you deserve for sneaking porn—filthy stuff for adults little boys!"
Her palm cracked down again—10—and Jules' legs kicked wildly, toes curling against the quilt’s clover pattern as if trying to root himself to the bed. His erection strained against the side covers, trapped between her thighs and the fabric. Once she delivered the 30th smack after 30 seconds, he lifted his back with a strangled cry, fingers pushing down on the sheets, trying to lift himself off. but her right hand, which had been resting on his waist, pressed down the small of his back, pinning him like a butterfly to a board.
“No!” she mockingly scolded him.
The next five slaps rained down in rapid succession—31, 32, 33—each one hotter and sharper than the last, until Jules’ thighs were pistoning against the quilt, his entire body writhing in a futile attempt to escape. When she felt him twist sideways, hips bucking toward the edge of her lap, she didn’t hesitate. Her right arm snapped around his waist like a steel cable, elbow digging into the small of his back, pinning his torso flush against her thighs.
“Get over here!” she growled, fingers splaying possessively across his hipbone. “You’re not going anywhere until I say so, young man.”
Her left hand resumed its rhythm—34, 35—the smacks landing with wet, stinging precision, each one coaxing another ragged sob from his throat.
“M-Mommy, *please*—!” Jules pleaded after the sixtieth slap landed, his toes curling into the quilt as tears splattered the fabric.
“My bum’s *burning*!”
Miss Sweetwaters’ laughter was velvet-dark, her fingers tracing the welted heat of his cheeks before delivering another stinging smack.
"Poor baby," she crooned in mock sympathy, leaning down to whisper in his ear again.
"Do you still consider yourself a masochist? Do you still wanna be spanked? Do you still take pleasure in being given pain ?"
Sweetwaters’ palm cracked down in perfectly timed intervals–62, 63, 64–each smack punctuated by the hitch of Jules’ breath, his body tensing reflexively before the next strike landed. The pain was unbearable, his flesh throbbing like a second heartbeat, yet the humiliation of being pinned—exposed, his erection trapped between her thighs—sent jolts of twisted pleasure through him. He couldn’t articulate it, couldn’t even nod, but his hips twitched forward involuntarily, grinding against her thigh as if begging for more.
At the 180th slap, she felt the telltale pulse against her inner thigh. In one fluid motion, she parted her legs, letting his cock spring free just as her right hand darted beneath him. Her fingers curled around his shaft, catching every spurt of his orgasm in her palm as he bucked wildly, his cries dissolving into ragged whimpers.
“Such messy boy,” she tutted, swirling the warm slickness across his inflamed cheeks, working it into his skin with slow, deliberate circles. Jules shuddered, the cool air mingling with the sticky heat of his own release, amplifying the sting of each fresh smack.
“Now that your bottom is all slimy and slick, me beating it is gonna hurt a lot more!” The danish lady said enthusiastically. She continued to batter his behind for further two minutes and 120 spanks over 120 seconds, reveling in his tears, convulsions, cries of pain, and seeing the colors butt change—as well as the temperature of it increasing under her thorough manual application.
Miss Sweetwaters was spending the last fifteen seconds of the five-minute hand-spanking interval alternating between spanking his buttocks and thighs , which was making him scream with each fresh strike. She alternated between slapping his left thigh and butt cheek and his right thigh and butt cheek in rapid succession—twenty smacks in total. Then, she stopped spanking him with her hand. Jules gasped in relief—only for Miss Sweetwaters to announce cheerfully, "Okay, Jules, that was your warm-up. Now, it's hairbrush time!"
She reached for the brush, ignoring his panicked whimpers. Jules' stomach twisted as he saw her lift it—blueberry-patterned wood glinting cruelly in the attic light. She tapped it lightly against his throbbing cheeks for twenty agonizing seconds, each gentle *click* of bristles against skin making him flinch.
“Such a pretty shade of pink,” she mused, the cool wooden back down his welted flesh. "Let’s make it perfect ."
The brush rose high over her shoulder—then *cracked* down with a force that sent shockwaves up his spine. Jules’ scream tore through the attic, raw and shattered, as fire exploded across his backside. His legs kicked wildly, but she’d already twisted him diagonally across her lap, her right arm, wrapping under his stomach to support it and avoid a strain, while her thighs trapped his flailing legs.
Miss Sweetwaters quickly resumed the brutal hairbrushing—*whack! whack! whack!*—each strike landing with mechanical precision, the wooden backsde leaving big red splotches where they branded his flesh. His fingers clawed at nothing, the quilt slipping from his grasp as tears blurred his vision. By the fifteenth swing, his cries had dissolved into hiccuping sobs, his body jerking like a marionette with every impact. The pain was unbearable, his skin radiating heat like a furnace, yet his cock twitched against her thigh, aching and neglected.
Her hand paused mid-swing as she noticed the telltale shudder rippling through him—his hips lifting slightly, his balls tightening against her lap. With practiced ease, she slid her right palm beneath him just as his orgasm hit, his cock spurting ropes of cum onto her waiting fingers and hand. She chuckled darkly before smearing it across his flaming cheeks, relishing the way he whimpered at the sticky humiliation.
"Tsk, tsk, such a *leaky* boy," she murmured, delivering three sharp smacks to his dripping wet skin. "Good news that a brush hurts even *more* on slimy skin!"
Jules sobbed openly now, his fists twisting into the quilt as she resumed the hairbrush’s relentless assault—each *CRACK* landing with pinpoint accuracy on the same spot, intensifying the burn until his entire backside felt like molten lead. His legs kicked uselessly, toes curling into the fabric as his cock twitched pathetically against her thigh, still sensitive from his release. Miss Sweetwaters adjusted her grip, angling the brush to strike the tender crease where ass met thigh, and Jules’ scream shattered into a garbled plea, his body convulsing against her restraining arm.
“P-please, you’re—*killing* me—” he rasped, tears dripping onto the quilt’s clover pattern. She paused just long enough to chuckle, tracing the brush’s edge along his trembling thighs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she crooned, “your *gluteus maximus* is pure fat and muscle—built to *take* pain. Those nerve endings? Just nature’s way of making sure naughty boys *remember* their lessons.”
The Danish woman continued the hairbrush spanking for three more minutes having decided beforehand to spank him with her hand and the hairbrush five minutes each, making the total 10 minutes. As she reached the conclusion of the bun baking session, Jules body went limp, only lightly flinching as a hairbrush continued to roast his rump and quietly whining having lost the ability to scream or struggle.
At the end of the 180 seconds, miss Spring Sweetwaters put her lips close to his earlobe and whispered, “ I’m going to give you one more whack, honey, so I have to leave an *unforgettable* impression on you!”
She leaned back raised the brush high into the air, her arm tense and rigid as she held it aloft for a full ten seconds—then brought it down with all her might, the wooden back connecting with his ravaged flesh in a single, devastating SMACK! Jules' entire body arched violently before collapsing limp across her lap, his whimper fading into eerie silence. Miss Sweetwaters blinked in genuine surprise as she rolled him over—his lashes fluttered against tear-streaked cheeks, his breathing shallow—she'd actually spanked him unconscious.
Turning him back face-down, she surveyed the damage with clinical admiration: his buttocks had darkened to a bruised plum hue, swollen into uneven ridges where the brush had landed repeatedly. Fingertips tracing the inflamed skin, she spent five minutes kneading the tortured flesh until it regained some pliability, then lifted him gently onto the bed’s clover-patterned quilt, arranging his limp limbs with care before padding downstairs.
Her online dashboard pinged with alerts from the lingerie boutique, but she barely registered them—her pulse still thrummed from his unconscious whimper, that delicious moment of total surrender. Ten minutes later, his hoarse shout of "Miss Sweetwaters?" made her grin mid-sip of rooibos tea.
"Yes, little Jules?" she called back, deliberately slow-stirring her cup. His response came muffled through the floorboards.
“Can I have something to drink? My throat aches from yelling so much.”
Miss Sweetwaters smiled, setting aside her tea cup with a deliberate clink. “Lemonade, darling? Such a sweet choice for such a naughty boy.” She padded back upstairs, her skirt swishing with each step, and found Jules still sprawled facedown on the quilt—his fingers clutching at the clover patterns like they might anchor him. When he turned his head toward her, his eyes were glassy, his lower lip swollen from biting back sobs. She held out the frosty glass, condensation dripping down its sides, and watched his trembling fingers fumble to grip it.
He gulped the lemonade in frantic swallows, wincing as the icy liquid hit his raw throat—then froze when she plucked the empty glass from his hands.
“My attic has a bathroom, honey. You’ll have to pee after drinking that 8 ounce glass of lemonade, so head in there,” she ordered. She pointed in direction of it, and he obeyed without hesitation. Walking into, he saw that the tiles head a sapphire blue color that there was both a pristine porcelain white shower with a gold curtain rod-hyphen, even though he didn’t see any curtains and a porcelain white clawfoot tub with a silver faucet on the left side of it that could be turned to a hot water or cold water setting. Then he noticed the porcelain white pedestal sink and the bottle of watermelon-scented liquid soap on it.
As Miss Spring Sweetwater is predicted seconds later, he fell. The urge to urinate quickly, sat down on the toilet, which was also white and pour on them and relieved himself. Then he thoroughly washed his hands and walked out of the bathroom, leaving the door open as it had been when he got in there. The door was wood and oiled the same color as the floor and ceiling. Once he was back in front of the woman who caught him reading adult material in the bookstore, she smart at him and said, “You can put your clothes back on honey, and I’ll drive you back to the bookstore…unless of course you wanna have more fun with me.”
He blushed again and was unsure of what to say. She reached down to gently scratch his inner thighs, enjoying his whimpers as she did this, saying, “Well?”
Jules swallowed hard, his throat still raw from screaming. The sensation of her nails dragging lightly over his sensitive skin sent conflicting signals—his ass throbbed with residual pain, but the teasing touch reignited an ember of arousal he couldn’t suppress. His cock, still flushed and oversensitive from his earlier orgasm, slowly begin to become wrecked once more.
“I…I should go,” he whispered, but his hips tilted forward almost imperceptibly, betraying him.
Miss Sweetwaters' fingers paused their ministrations, her lips parting in a predatory grin.
“Is that *really* what you want, baby?” she murmured, kneeling slowly until her hot breath ghosted over his swollen cock. He whimpered, bucking against empty air, and the words tumbled out before he could stop them.
“Please, put it in your mouth, ma’am!” She exhaled sharply through her nose, her pulse kicking at the victory—another boy unraveled, another fantasy made flesh—but kept her voice silk-smooth.
“Your wish is my command, sugar.”
Then Miss Spring Sweetwaters got a stern look on her face and warned him that if he touched her head and tried to make her fellate him faster, it was over. He promised he wouldn’t.
“Good,” she murmured, gripping his waist and laying him across the king-size bed like an offering—his thighs trembling, his cock twitching against his stomach. She lowered her head between his thighs and dragged her tongue from his perineum to the tip of his cock in one torturous lick, reveling in his full-body shudder, the way his fingers knotted in the quilt to keep from grabbing her hair.
When she took him into her mouth, Jules’ hips bucked involuntarily—a choked gasp escaping him as her lips sealed around him. He couldn’t hold back like he had with her hand; every flick of her tongue, every suctioning pull drew ragged moans from his throat.
“M-Miss Sweetwaters—” he whimpered, and she hummed around him, the vibration shooting through his groin like lightning. Her nails scraped his inner thighs, her fingers pinching his balls just enough to make him cry out—a symphony of pleasure-pain that had him thrashing beneath her.
Her lips sealed tighter, her tongue swirling under the crown of his cock in slow, torturous circles before suddenly speeding up, bobbing her head with wet, obscene slurps. Jules arched off the bed, his fingers gripping the quilt so hard his knuckles turned white, his toes curling as she sucked harder, faster—until he couldn’t take it anymore.
**M-Miss Sweetwaters—I'm gonna—!** he roared, his hips jerking uncontrollably, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she locked eyes with him as his cock twitched violently, his orgasm flooding her mouth in thick, pulsing spurts. She swallowed every drop, humming around him as his thighs trembled, milking him until he whimpered from overstimulation. Only when the aboriginal boys penis was completely flaccid, the Danish woman remove it from her mouth.
She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, smirking at the way Jules panted, his chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes glazed with post-orgasmic haze.
“I’ll be downstairs, sweetie. You take all the time you need to recover from your climax, then come on down too so that I can take you back to the bookstore,” Miss Spring Sweetwaters said to him before crawling up his body, kissing his forehead, then getting off the bed and walking to the attic staircase. Before heading down, she blew him a kiss with her left hand. Jules, while worn out, was still strong enough to lift his head and watch her go. *She’s like a goddess, a pleasure in pain. And she’s given me both like a wave of fire or water or electricity. We both have totally flooded my senses. I’m so lucky!*
/
Jules was riding his bike up Hill Road that led to the house of the woman who had given him what he Fantasized about for so long. It had been 10 days since he had first met Miss Spring Sweetwaters. After he recovered from coming into her mouth and put back on his pants, underwear, socks and shoes, he went back downstairs and she drove him back to the bookstore and her pain calmer. She bit him goodbye, ruffled his hair and kissed his cheek, then driven away once he
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