I took a moment to drink in the sight before me. Pale buttocks, lean and toned. And below them, framed by her shapely thighs, her labia, thick and...inviting? For long moments I couldn't tear my eyes away from her naked sex. It was an epiphany for me, a watershed moment in my late adolescence.
At last, self-consciousness brought me back to the moment. I stepped toward Becca, raised my hand and brought it down hard on her right ass cheek.
SMACK.
"Oh!" she squealed, but didn't break position.
"One, miss Bailey," I snapped, reviving the memory of her humiliating push-ups a week ago. I waited, in no hurry to exact my retribution.
"One, miss Bailey," she repeated quietly.
I whipped my hand down on her left buttock so hard that she rocked forward and had to put her hands on the floor to steady herself. The smack echoed through the kitchen.
"Ahhh...two, miss Bailey. Please...I'm sorry."
I wasn't listening. I viciously whacked her upturned ass again and again and she counted each one, her voice first pained, then coming in whimpers, and finally wracked by sobs. When I finally stopped, my hand was burning, swollen and red. Her bum was a bright collage of red and purple splotches and she was openly bawling, still grabbing her ankles.
"Th-thirty f-f-four, miss B-Bailey. Please...please...no more?"
My anger had burned down to embers and I stepped back, still not fully in control of myself, flying high on a blend of adrenaline, emotion, and power. My eyes fell again on her pussy and before my conscious thoughts had caught up, I was touching it. I cupped it from behind, letting my fingers slide forward over it. Smooth, warm skin. Crinkly pubic hair. Then back again, the impossibly soft caress of her labia as it brushed over my palm.
Wetness.
Not a little...a lot. Slick and slippery on my fingers. I sought out the source, stroked my fingers between her swollen pussy lips. Hot, soaked and almost frictionless, her pussy practically drooled over my probing fingertips. And the smell of her was...it was everywhere. I breathed it in. Felt it infuse me. Felt it awaken something primal and fundamental deep inside me. Something reckless, insatiable and undeniable. Something exhilarating and scary.
Becca's cries turned to gasps, then low moans. Her thighs were quivering, though whether from the shock of pain, powerful lust or the strain of maintaining her bent-over posture I didn't know...and didn't care. I slid my fingers forward and they brushed over an engorged nub of flesh. Becca sucked in a breath, then let it out in a ragged, shuddering sigh. I focused there, rubbing drenched digits back and forth over her clit as her groaning grew louder and more urgent.
And then she climaxed; her moaning broke into a series of deep, strangled grunts, the muscles in her thighs tightened, then began to quake violently, her hot, sweet-scented juices leaked over my wrist and palm before dripping onto the floor. I stepped back but my eyes didn't leave her. She was a wondrous vision to behold.
I found out later it had been her first orgasm. Her first one in eighteen years. How did it affect her, I wonder, that her first significant sexual milestone came from being brutally punished and then masturbated by a classmate? How did the circumstances of her sexual awakening affect the choices she made later in life?
Perhaps, in a very real way, the creature she would eventually become was conceived right there in my kitchen.
*
We were both in a daze as Becca pulled up her track pants and staggered out of my house.
I spent the weekend alternately terrified about the potential consequences of my actions and horny out of my mind at the memory of what we had done. What I had done TO her. I spent much of the time with my fingers between my legs, stroking myself to shattering orgasms as I recalled the image of Becca bent over, bruised and dripping. By Sunday evening my pussy was too sore to touch but the arousal remained.
