On The Run
https://boyzbeingboyz.com/gallery39/0000.jpg
This story is based on this illustration by Jay-Em called on the run.
"Apollo Androcles Krawiec," Pandora said, tapping the hairbrush against her palm, "you have exactly three seconds to explain why there’s a $5,000 withdrawal from our joint account marked 'MGM National Harbor Casino.'”
Apollo froze halfway through the kitchen door, his keys still dangling from his fingers. The overhead light caught the sweat at his temples. He hadn’t even taken his shoes off yet. Upstairs, the bedroom window was still open—she been watching for his car. His wife’s full name was Pandora Nausicaa Oved. Her last name meant Tiller in Hebrew; she was German Jewish. He was Polish and his last name meant tailor.
"I walked away ahead," he said, too quickly.
"Five grand up, Pandora. I swear, I left right after."
She didn’t blink. The hairbrush—solid maple, the one she’d bought specifically for this—twitched in her grip.
"We agreed. No more chances after Atlantic City." Her heels clicked against the tile as she stepped closer.
“You promised me."
Apollo’s throat worked. He’d always loved how her accent sharpened when she was angry, the way her German vowels bit down on his name. But right now, with the dining room chair already pulled out and waiting, that love felt like a very distant second to the dread pooling in his stomach.
Pandora's fingers closed around Apollo's wrist like a sprung bear trap. He didn't resist—they'd played this scene enough times that his body moved on autopilot, though his pulse still hammered against her grip. The dining room chair creaked as she sat, the maple brush resting across her thighs like a scepter. Apollo's breath hitched when her free hand flicked open his belt with practiced ease, the metallic clink of the buckle hitting tile louder than it had any right to be.
"Tighty whiteys are way better than boxes, honey. They show off the curves of your cute little butt!" she exclaimed, yanking the tight white cotton down to his thighs. The cool air against his exposed skin made him twitch, betraying him instantly. Pandora smirked, running a fingertip along the underside of his shaft—then promptly ignored it, dragging him face-down over her lap with one sharp tug. She also pressed down hard on his waist
“You think I don’t know?" Her whisper was pure acid as the hairbrush’s shadow loomed.
"That rush when the dice hit the felt? The way your pulse jumps watching the roulette wheel?" The first crack of maple against flesh echoed off the kitchen cabinets. Apollo’s scream tore through the house, his fingers clawing at her stockinged calves.
She didn’t wait. Left cheek still flaming, the right one got identical treatment—a precise, brutal symmetry that had him bucking against her grip.
The maple wood cracked down again—left cheek—then right, each impact timed like a metronome gone feral. Apollo’s yelps weren’t performances anymore; they ripped out of him raw between gritted teeth, his toes curling against the rug fibers. Pandora’s rhythm never faltered, her wrist flicking with the precision of a conductor orchestrating his suffering. By the sixth strike, his thighs were shaking. By the ninth, his fingers had torn a thread loose from the rug’s edge.
When the twelfth blow landed—a vicious cross-cheat swing that lit up both buttocks at once—he couldn’t fake stillness anymore. Apollo rolled sideways off her lap with a graceless thud, hissing as his scorched skin met the wool rug. He barely registered the northwest corner’s cold floor vent against his knees before his hands flew back, palms cupping the damaged flesh like he could smother the fire.
Pandora was on her feet before his first frantic rub finished. Her shadow eclipsed him where he knelt—a trembling silhouette framed by the kitchen’s overhead light. The maple brush tapped impatiently against her thigh.
"Get back OVER here this instant!" she hissed, each syllable barbed with the promise of unfinished business.
"Christ, Pan—it *hurts*," Apollo gasped, fingers still pressed to his throbbing backside. His hips shifted instinctively away from her lap, his body betraying him before his mouth could form another excuse. The rug fibers scratched his knees as he knelt there, caught between the cold floor vent and his wife's simmering glare.
Pandora didn't blink, saying, “Good. That means it's working. Now get back over. Unless you want the restraints."
Apollo's throat clicked. He knew that tone—the one she'd used in Atlantic City when he'd tried to duck out of their hotel room bathroom mid-discipline. "Pan, I—"
"One."
The maple brush twirled in her fingers like a baton.
"Two."
His thighs burned where they pressed against the rug.
"Three."
She leaned forward, and he caught the scent of her perfume—bitter orange and gunpowder, the one she wore specifically for these nights.
"Four."
Apollo's fingers dug into his own flaming cheeks. He couldn't move.
Pandora sighed through her nose, then snatched his left ear between thumb and forefinger. The pinch sent lightning down his spine—not pain, not exactly, but the electric humiliation of being led upstairs by his ear like a misbehaving schoolboy. Her heels clicked against each step in a mocking rhythm.
The closet door creaked. Apollo knew these sounds—the rustle of leather belts sliding free from hangers, the whisper of silk-lined restraints she'd bought after the Atlantic City incident. Four belts today. Last time it had been three.
"Downstairs," she murmured, guiding him back by the same ear, her grip just shy of painful. The chair waited where they'd left it, but now Pandora straddled it backwards, her skirt riding up enough to reveal the tops of her stockings. Apollo's mouth went dry.
"Over."
When he hesitated, she looped a belt around his wrist and yanked. The sudden pull sent him stumbling across her lap, his hips knocking against the chair's edge. The first belt cinched tight around his right wrist, the buckle cold against his pulse point as she latched it to the chair leg. Apollo jerked instinctively, but Pandora merely clicked her tongue—that same disappointed sound she'd made when he'd tried to sneak back into their Atlantic City suite at dawn.
The second belt caught his left wrist mid-flail. She didn't rush, threading the leather through the chair's back slat with the precision of someone who'd practiced this in the mirror. Apollo's breath came in shallow bursts now, his forearms twitching against the restraints. He knew better than to test them; she'd used Italian bridle leather last time, the kind that didn't stretch no matter how hard you pulled.
Her knee nudged his ankles apart—just enough to slide the third belt beneath his left calf. The leather whispered against his skin as she drew it taut, the buckle clicking shut with finality. Apollo's toes curled against the floorboards. He could still feel the ghost of her stocking seam where it had brushed his thigh earlier, that fleeting warmth swallowed by the cold pressure of the belt.
The fourth one went around his right ankle—not tight enough to cut circulation, just enough to keep him from kicking. Pandora paused to admire her handiwork: Apollo bent taut over her lap, wrists and ankles secured with belts that creaked faintly when he tested them. She traced the welted stripes crossing his backside with the tip of the maple brush, savoring his flinch.
“Now that I’ve made sure you’re not going anywhere, we can get back to business!”
The maple brush whistled through the air and landed dead-center with a crack that made Apollo's entire body jerk against the restraints. Pandora didn't pause—her wrist snapped forward again, then again, each impact timed like a stopwatch. Left cheek. Right. Upper thigh. Lower curve. Never the same spot twice. Apollo's breathing turned jagged by the twentieth stroke, his fingers scrabbling uselessly against the chair legs. The belts held.
The hairbrush rose and fell with relentless precision—left, right, center, upper thigh—until Apollo lost count somewhere around the hundredth stroke. His wrists strained against the belts, the leather creaking with each jerk of his body, but Pandora’s rhythm never wavered. By the time the two-hundred-and-eighty-eighth strike landed—a vicious diagonal slash that overlapped every previous welt—his screams had dissolved into ragged, wet gasps. The brush clattered onto the floor, its maple surface glistening with a sheen of sweat. Pandora exhaled, rolling her shoulders as she glanced at the oven clock. Five minutes exactly.
"If I ever catch you near a casino again," she hissed, raising the maple brush high, "it'll be ten minutes. Six hundred strokes. Until your backside is swollen purple as a plum,” she warned her husband in a strict no-nonsense tone of voice.
"Curtain rods make excellent impromptu switches," Pandora murmured against Apollo's ear, her breath hot on his damp neck. His thighs tensed under her lap, the involuntary twitch making the leather belts creak.
"Perfect for naughty boys who can't stay in position."
Apollo's head whipped around so fast his neck popped. The terror in his widened pupils reflected the overhead light—and Pandora's smirk. "Pan—"
"But I won't. Lucky you. Corner," Pandora commanded, snapping her fingers toward the northwest dining room corner— Matching the same corner he had fled to on the rug.
"Five minutes. Get the circulation back in those legs before you think about sitting again."
He obeyed without hesitation, lifting himself off of her lap and toddling towards the corner. She tilted her chin toward his throbbing backside with a pointed glance, before standing up and walking towards him. Pandora stopped when her toes touched Apollo‘s heels.
“And if I catch those hands anywhere near your cheeks, darling, I *will* whack that sexy ass of yours with the curtain rod.”
"Honey, I swear not to rub my bottom, and I’ll never even look at casinos again!”
"Good boy," Pandora murmured, her smirk softening into something dangerously close to affection. Her palm landed on Apollo's scorched backside with a light pat—just enough to make him hiss through clenched teeth—before she strode toward the kitchen.
The ache radiating from Apollo’s backside was impossible to ignore, but as Pandora turned toward the kitchen, something else demanded his attention—the way her blouse clung to the sweat-damp curve of her spine, how her skirt had ridden up just enough to reveal the black lace band of her stockings. She paused at the refrigerator, bending slightly to grab a water bottle, and Apollo’s throat went dry at the way the fabric stretched across her hips. His wife had always moved like a panther—all coiled strength and lethal grace—but right now, with her vanilla-scented skin glowing under the kitchen lights and her bust straining against the buttons of her blouse, she looked like something out of a fever dream.
"You’re staring," Pandora said without turning around. The water bottle crinkled in her grip.
Apollo swallowed hard, his pulse rabbiting against the inside of his throat as Pandora's shadow loomed over him. The scent of her perfume—gunpowder and bitter orange—still clung to her wrists where she'd pinned him earlier. He braced for another crack of the maple brush, but instead, her fingernails grazed the back of his neck with unexpected gentleness.
"All right," she sighed, her voice softening just enough to make his shoulders relax half an inch. "Suppose I didn't technically forbid you from looking ."
Her thumb brushed the shell of his ear—a fleeting touch that sent conflicting shivers down his spine.
“But if I catch those hands drifting back there again..."
She didn't finish the threat. She didn't need to. Apollo's palms flattened against the dining room wallpaper without conscious thought.
Pandora opened the freezer next and got out an ice cream sandwich. It was Neapolitan, meaning it had chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry, which was created by the people of the Italian island Naples, known as Neapolitans. It took her about 60 seconds to finish the ice cream sandwich, and just as she finish, scraping that chocolate residue off of two of her fingers and thumb, she felt the call of nature. Throwing the paper wrap into the trash, she quickly rushed to the downstairs bathroom, which was right underneath the staircase, sat on the toilet and relieved herself. Then she flushed the toilet and washed her hands with nectarine and grape, scented liquid soap. Pandora waited about 45 seconds before exit in bathroom quickly trying to catch her husband rubbing his butt. When she saw that he was still standing against the wall, his hands not moving from his sides. She was both impressed and irritated.
Oved then walked to another room with a sliding wooden door, also under the staircase and opened it, revealing the computer and some books as well. Pandora selected a novel who’s cover entitled Apollo could not make out from his position in the corner even when he looked over his shoulder, and sat down on their peach color plus sofa, which was right across from the red brick fireplace pace, which had a mahogany ledge on it. On the right side of the sofa, which is right in front of the dining room, was a black big screen TV television mounted on the wall using black painted metal mechanisms.
His wife started to read the book out loud, the title revealed as ‘Home-keeping and Butt cooking’. The fly involved and 11 year-old boy whose mother kept him on a tight leash. He’s expected to obey all orders and do everything properly. If he failed to then his mother‘s palm, hairbrush, comb, ruler, spoon, spatula, belt, slipper, shoes, including high heels, extension cord, egg beater, a switch or a bundle of them known as a bird from the backyard, and yes, even the curtain rod from various rooms in their house would be used to cook his buttocks. The boy‘s mother saw physical pain as a great to bad behavior not to mention great motivation to do better. The mom would always give her some prolonged painful spankings 5 to 10 minutes to be exact. Even something as small as walking in the back of his shoes and scuffing his feet say picking them up as he walked could get him an extended bare bottom blistering that reduced him to a blubbering tear-soaked mess.
After five minutes had passed, Pandora put the book down, looked at Apollo and said, “come here, sweetheart,” crook her finger at him. Her husband loved it when she did this thinking it’s so sexy. Once he was with in arms, reach walking around the couch to stand in front of her, she grabbed his left forearm and stood up, wrapping it around her shoulder. Then she grabbed his left waist with her, left hand and let him upstairs. She smiled as he flinched with each step because it meant that she had beaten his ass thoroughly. Once the couple got to the bedroom, which had yellow walls and burnt green-colored carpet, she laid him down flat on their bed. The covers head, a big white horse with black spots and a platinum blonde man standing in a grassy field designed onto it, while the pillows, which Pandora took one of the covers and slid under her husband‘s growing a prop, his butt, had a black stallion, standing on top of it, sander in the desert designed them. Apollo washed his wife, picked up a bottle of pink hibiscus lotion that also had the flowers designed on the bottle, the black bottle cap, which normally was pushed down on the south side to create opening, and then dumped a big dollop of the quart-sized bottle under his bare buttocks. He groaned in both pain and pleasure as the cold substance hit his hairbrush bruises which made Pandora smile. She started rubbing and kneading the lotion in his ass asking him, “Does this feel good baby?”
Without hesitation, he responded, “Yes! This cool lotion feels so good in my burning ass point don’t stop Pandora!”
She cackled at his response, not stopping her ministrations, before she responded with, “Don’t you worry, handsome! I won’t stop until this bottle is empty.”
Pandora continued, massaging her husband’s well spanked ass, bang on the bottom of the bottle some more would come out when the lotion stopped flowing when she squeezed. After she made her absolutely no more could be extracted, Pandora threw it in the trash. And she leaned down to whisper in Apollo‘s ear, “I know you’re tired right now, honey, so I’ll let you rest for a little longer. But once you’ve gotten your strength back, it’ll be your turn to coat a different part of my body what’s the different type of cream!“
She laughed out loud at the dumbfounded expression on his face, as well as the gasp that he let out before roughing his hair for five seconds rubbing his butt for 95 seconds and leaving the room.
This story is based on this illustration by Jay-Em called on the run.
"Apollo Androcles Krawiec," Pandora said, tapping the hairbrush against her palm, "you have exactly three seconds to explain why there’s a $5,000 withdrawal from our joint account marked 'MGM National Harbor Casino.'”
Apollo froze halfway through the kitchen door, his keys still dangling from his fingers. The overhead light caught the sweat at his temples. He hadn’t even taken his shoes off yet. Upstairs, the bedroom window was still open—she been watching for his car. His wife’s full name was Pandora Nausicaa Oved. Her last name meant Tiller in Hebrew; she was German Jewish. He was Polish and his last name meant tailor.
"I walked away ahead," he said, too quickly.
"Five grand up, Pandora. I swear, I left right after."
She didn’t blink. The hairbrush—solid maple, the one she’d bought specifically for this—twitched in her grip.
"We agreed. No more chances after Atlantic City." Her heels clicked against the tile as she stepped closer.
“You promised me."
Apollo’s throat worked. He’d always loved how her accent sharpened when she was angry, the way her German vowels bit down on his name. But right now, with the dining room chair already pulled out and waiting, that love felt like a very distant second to the dread pooling in his stomach.
Pandora's fingers closed around Apollo's wrist like a sprung bear trap. He didn't resist—they'd played this scene enough times that his body moved on autopilot, though his pulse still hammered against her grip. The dining room chair creaked as she sat, the maple brush resting across her thighs like a scepter. Apollo's breath hitched when her free hand flicked open his belt with practiced ease, the metallic clink of the buckle hitting tile louder than it had any right to be.
"Tighty whiteys are way better than boxes, honey. They show off the curves of your cute little butt!" she exclaimed, yanking the tight white cotton down to his thighs. The cool air against his exposed skin made him twitch, betraying him instantly. Pandora smirked, running a fingertip along the underside of his shaft—then promptly ignored it, dragging him face-down over her lap with one sharp tug. She also pressed down hard on his waist
“You think I don’t know?" Her whisper was pure acid as the hairbrush’s shadow loomed.
"That rush when the dice hit the felt? The way your pulse jumps watching the roulette wheel?" The first crack of maple against flesh echoed off the kitchen cabinets. Apollo’s scream tore through the house, his fingers clawing at her stockinged calves.
She didn’t wait. Left cheek still flaming, the right one got identical treatment—a precise, brutal symmetry that had him bucking against her grip.
The maple wood cracked down again—left cheek—then right, each impact timed like a metronome gone feral. Apollo’s yelps weren’t performances anymore; they ripped out of him raw between gritted teeth, his toes curling against the rug fibers. Pandora’s rhythm never faltered, her wrist flicking with the precision of a conductor orchestrating his suffering. By the sixth strike, his thighs were shaking. By the ninth, his fingers had torn a thread loose from the rug’s edge.
When the twelfth blow landed—a vicious cross-cheat swing that lit up both buttocks at once—he couldn’t fake stillness anymore. Apollo rolled sideways off her lap with a graceless thud, hissing as his scorched skin met the wool rug. He barely registered the northwest corner’s cold floor vent against his knees before his hands flew back, palms cupping the damaged flesh like he could smother the fire.
Pandora was on her feet before his first frantic rub finished. Her shadow eclipsed him where he knelt—a trembling silhouette framed by the kitchen’s overhead light. The maple brush tapped impatiently against her thigh.
"Get back OVER here this instant!" she hissed, each syllable barbed with the promise of unfinished business.
"Christ, Pan—it *hurts*," Apollo gasped, fingers still pressed to his throbbing backside. His hips shifted instinctively away from her lap, his body betraying him before his mouth could form another excuse. The rug fibers scratched his knees as he knelt there, caught between the cold floor vent and his wife's simmering glare.
Pandora didn't blink, saying, “Good. That means it's working. Now get back over. Unless you want the restraints."
Apollo's throat clicked. He knew that tone—the one she'd used in Atlantic City when he'd tried to duck out of their hotel room bathroom mid-discipline. "Pan, I—"
"One."
The maple brush twirled in her fingers like a baton.
"Two."
His thighs burned where they pressed against the rug.
"Three."
She leaned forward, and he caught the scent of her perfume—bitter orange and gunpowder, the one she wore specifically for these nights.
"Four."
Apollo's fingers dug into his own flaming cheeks. He couldn't move.
Pandora sighed through her nose, then snatched his left ear between thumb and forefinger. The pinch sent lightning down his spine—not pain, not exactly, but the electric humiliation of being led upstairs by his ear like a misbehaving schoolboy. Her heels clicked against each step in a mocking rhythm.
The closet door creaked. Apollo knew these sounds—the rustle of leather belts sliding free from hangers, the whisper of silk-lined restraints she'd bought after the Atlantic City incident. Four belts today. Last time it had been three.
"Downstairs," she murmured, guiding him back by the same ear, her grip just shy of painful. The chair waited where they'd left it, but now Pandora straddled it backwards, her skirt riding up enough to reveal the tops of her stockings. Apollo's mouth went dry.
"Over."
When he hesitated, she looped a belt around his wrist and yanked. The sudden pull sent him stumbling across her lap, his hips knocking against the chair's edge. The first belt cinched tight around his right wrist, the buckle cold against his pulse point as she latched it to the chair leg. Apollo jerked instinctively, but Pandora merely clicked her tongue—that same disappointed sound she'd made when he'd tried to sneak back into their Atlantic City suite at dawn.
The second belt caught his left wrist mid-flail. She didn't rush, threading the leather through the chair's back slat with the precision of someone who'd practiced this in the mirror. Apollo's breath came in shallow bursts now, his forearms twitching against the restraints. He knew better than to test them; she'd used Italian bridle leather last time, the kind that didn't stretch no matter how hard you pulled.
Her knee nudged his ankles apart—just enough to slide the third belt beneath his left calf. The leather whispered against his skin as she drew it taut, the buckle clicking shut with finality. Apollo's toes curled against the floorboards. He could still feel the ghost of her stocking seam where it had brushed his thigh earlier, that fleeting warmth swallowed by the cold pressure of the belt.
The fourth one went around his right ankle—not tight enough to cut circulation, just enough to keep him from kicking. Pandora paused to admire her handiwork: Apollo bent taut over her lap, wrists and ankles secured with belts that creaked faintly when he tested them. She traced the welted stripes crossing his backside with the tip of the maple brush, savoring his flinch.
“Now that I’ve made sure you’re not going anywhere, we can get back to business!”
The maple brush whistled through the air and landed dead-center with a crack that made Apollo's entire body jerk against the restraints. Pandora didn't pause—her wrist snapped forward again, then again, each impact timed like a stopwatch. Left cheek. Right. Upper thigh. Lower curve. Never the same spot twice. Apollo's breathing turned jagged by the twentieth stroke, his fingers scrabbling uselessly against the chair legs. The belts held.
The hairbrush rose and fell with relentless precision—left, right, center, upper thigh—until Apollo lost count somewhere around the hundredth stroke. His wrists strained against the belts, the leather creaking with each jerk of his body, but Pandora’s rhythm never wavered. By the time the two-hundred-and-eighty-eighth strike landed—a vicious diagonal slash that overlapped every previous welt—his screams had dissolved into ragged, wet gasps. The brush clattered onto the floor, its maple surface glistening with a sheen of sweat. Pandora exhaled, rolling her shoulders as she glanced at the oven clock. Five minutes exactly.
"If I ever catch you near a casino again," she hissed, raising the maple brush high, "it'll be ten minutes. Six hundred strokes. Until your backside is swollen purple as a plum,” she warned her husband in a strict no-nonsense tone of voice.
"Curtain rods make excellent impromptu switches," Pandora murmured against Apollo's ear, her breath hot on his damp neck. His thighs tensed under her lap, the involuntary twitch making the leather belts creak.
"Perfect for naughty boys who can't stay in position."
Apollo's head whipped around so fast his neck popped. The terror in his widened pupils reflected the overhead light—and Pandora's smirk. "Pan—"
"But I won't. Lucky you. Corner," Pandora commanded, snapping her fingers toward the northwest dining room corner— Matching the same corner he had fled to on the rug.
"Five minutes. Get the circulation back in those legs before you think about sitting again."
He obeyed without hesitation, lifting himself off of her lap and toddling towards the corner. She tilted her chin toward his throbbing backside with a pointed glance, before standing up and walking towards him. Pandora stopped when her toes touched Apollo‘s heels.
“And if I catch those hands anywhere near your cheeks, darling, I *will* whack that sexy ass of yours with the curtain rod.”
"Honey, I swear not to rub my bottom, and I’ll never even look at casinos again!”
"Good boy," Pandora murmured, her smirk softening into something dangerously close to affection. Her palm landed on Apollo's scorched backside with a light pat—just enough to make him hiss through clenched teeth—before she strode toward the kitchen.
The ache radiating from Apollo’s backside was impossible to ignore, but as Pandora turned toward the kitchen, something else demanded his attention—the way her blouse clung to the sweat-damp curve of her spine, how her skirt had ridden up just enough to reveal the black lace band of her stockings. She paused at the refrigerator, bending slightly to grab a water bottle, and Apollo’s throat went dry at the way the fabric stretched across her hips. His wife had always moved like a panther—all coiled strength and lethal grace—but right now, with her vanilla-scented skin glowing under the kitchen lights and her bust straining against the buttons of her blouse, she looked like something out of a fever dream.
"You’re staring," Pandora said without turning around. The water bottle crinkled in her grip.
Apollo swallowed hard, his pulse rabbiting against the inside of his throat as Pandora's shadow loomed over him. The scent of her perfume—gunpowder and bitter orange—still clung to her wrists where she'd pinned him earlier. He braced for another crack of the maple brush, but instead, her fingernails grazed the back of his neck with unexpected gentleness.
"All right," she sighed, her voice softening just enough to make his shoulders relax half an inch. "Suppose I didn't technically forbid you from looking ."
Her thumb brushed the shell of his ear—a fleeting touch that sent conflicting shivers down his spine.
“But if I catch those hands drifting back there again..."
She didn't finish the threat. She didn't need to. Apollo's palms flattened against the dining room wallpaper without conscious thought.
Pandora opened the freezer next and got out an ice cream sandwich. It was Neapolitan, meaning it had chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry, which was created by the people of the Italian island Naples, known as Neapolitans. It took her about 60 seconds to finish the ice cream sandwich, and just as she finish, scraping that chocolate residue off of two of her fingers and thumb, she felt the call of nature. Throwing the paper wrap into the trash, she quickly rushed to the downstairs bathroom, which was right underneath the staircase, sat on the toilet and relieved herself. Then she flushed the toilet and washed her hands with nectarine and grape, scented liquid soap. Pandora waited about 45 seconds before exit in bathroom quickly trying to catch her husband rubbing his butt. When she saw that he was still standing against the wall, his hands not moving from his sides. She was both impressed and irritated.
Oved then walked to another room with a sliding wooden door, also under the staircase and opened it, revealing the computer and some books as well. Pandora selected a novel who’s cover entitled Apollo could not make out from his position in the corner even when he looked over his shoulder, and sat down on their peach color plus sofa, which was right across from the red brick fireplace pace, which had a mahogany ledge on it. On the right side of the sofa, which is right in front of the dining room, was a black big screen TV television mounted on the wall using black painted metal mechanisms.
His wife started to read the book out loud, the title revealed as ‘Home-keeping and Butt cooking’. The fly involved and 11 year-old boy whose mother kept him on a tight leash. He’s expected to obey all orders and do everything properly. If he failed to then his mother‘s palm, hairbrush, comb, ruler, spoon, spatula, belt, slipper, shoes, including high heels, extension cord, egg beater, a switch or a bundle of them known as a bird from the backyard, and yes, even the curtain rod from various rooms in their house would be used to cook his buttocks. The boy‘s mother saw physical pain as a great to bad behavior not to mention great motivation to do better. The mom would always give her some prolonged painful spankings 5 to 10 minutes to be exact. Even something as small as walking in the back of his shoes and scuffing his feet say picking them up as he walked could get him an extended bare bottom blistering that reduced him to a blubbering tear-soaked mess.
After five minutes had passed, Pandora put the book down, looked at Apollo and said, “come here, sweetheart,” crook her finger at him. Her husband loved it when she did this thinking it’s so sexy. Once he was with in arms, reach walking around the couch to stand in front of her, she grabbed his left forearm and stood up, wrapping it around her shoulder. Then she grabbed his left waist with her, left hand and let him upstairs. She smiled as he flinched with each step because it meant that she had beaten his ass thoroughly. Once the couple got to the bedroom, which had yellow walls and burnt green-colored carpet, she laid him down flat on their bed. The covers head, a big white horse with black spots and a platinum blonde man standing in a grassy field designed onto it, while the pillows, which Pandora took one of the covers and slid under her husband‘s growing a prop, his butt, had a black stallion, standing on top of it, sander in the desert designed them. Apollo washed his wife, picked up a bottle of pink hibiscus lotion that also had the flowers designed on the bottle, the black bottle cap, which normally was pushed down on the south side to create opening, and then dumped a big dollop of the quart-sized bottle under his bare buttocks. He groaned in both pain and pleasure as the cold substance hit his hairbrush bruises which made Pandora smile. She started rubbing and kneading the lotion in his ass asking him, “Does this feel good baby?”
Without hesitation, he responded, “Yes! This cool lotion feels so good in my burning ass point don’t stop Pandora!”
She cackled at his response, not stopping her ministrations, before she responded with, “Don’t you worry, handsome! I won’t stop until this bottle is empty.”
Pandora continued, massaging her husband’s well spanked ass, bang on the bottom of the bottle some more would come out when the lotion stopped flowing when she squeezed. After she made her absolutely no more could be extracted, Pandora threw it in the trash. And she leaned down to whisper in Apollo‘s ear, “I know you’re tired right now, honey, so I’ll let you rest for a little longer. But once you’ve gotten your strength back, it’ll be your turn to coat a different part of my body what’s the different type of cream!“
She laughed out loud at the dumbfounded expression on his face, as well as the gasp that he let out before roughing his hair for five seconds rubbing his butt for 95 seconds and leaving the room.
31-35, M