Choked and Spanked by His Girlfriend

The apartment still smelled of garlic and roasted chicken, plates pushed aside, wine glasses catching the lamplight. Trent sank into the couch, twenty-eight, a software engineer whose shoulders had finally loosened after a day of other people's broken code. Beside him, Yolanda curled one leg under herself, twenty-six and sure of the room the way she was sure of a layout. She designed brands for a living and carried that clean authority into everything she touched, including him. Her black tank top clung to her. The heat of her thigh against his made the quiet feel charged.

He had rehearsed the words through dessert. They came out rough anyway.

"I've been wanting something," he said. "From you. Specifically."

Yolanda turned, dark eyes steady. "Then stop circling it."

His ears burned. His cock stirred just from the way she looked at him, as if she already knew and was waiting for him to be brave. "I like it when you put your hands on my throat. When you choke me. Not past what I want. Just enough that I feel owned. And I like it when you smack my ass. Suddenly. Sporadically. No pattern. I don't want to see it coming. It makes me hard every time you do it in the kitchen like it's nothing, and I want you to do it on purpose. A lot."

Silence held for a breath. Yolanda's gaze darkened, playful warmth folding into dominant hunger so complete it dropped through his stomach. She set her glass down without looking away.

"You want my hand around your neck," she said, voice low, "and my palm cracking across your ass whenever the mood hits me. Sudden. Mean. Unpredictable."

"Yes." His breath went short. "I crave it. I've been craving it. I want us to do this. I want you in charge."

She shifted closer, one knee pressing into the cushion between his thighs, close enough that he could smell her skin under the lingering rosemary. "Look at me, Trent." He did. "If I take your throat, you tap my wrist twice if you need air or if you want me to stop. If I spank you and it's too much, you say yellow to ease off and red to end it. Otherwise I decide when, how hard, and how often. You don't get a schedule. You get what I give you."

"I understand," he said, and the relief of saying it out loud made him almost dizzy. "I want that. I want you to want it too."

Her smile was slow and sharp. "Oh, I want it." She dragged her thumb along his jaw, then lower, settling her fingers lightly against the pulse in his neck. "I've been waiting for you to ask. Watching you jump when I swat you in passing. Watching your cock strain your pants like a needy little thing. Tonight you're going to beg me for the rough treatment you love, and I'm going to give it to you until you can't think."

Trent's breath shuddered out. "Please."

"Not yet," Yolanda said, eyes black with hunger. "First you're going to stand up and let me start."

He stood because she told him to. The living room lamp threw their shadows long across the wall. Yolanda rose after him, shorter by a few inches and somehow taking up more space, and she walked him backward until his shoulder blades met cool paint. Her body pressed in, breasts against his chest, one thigh slotted between his. She didn't kiss him. She looked at his mouth as if she might, and then her hand came down on the seat of his pants, a light smack that was almost playful.

The sound was small. The jolt was not. Heat flashed through his ass and straight into his cock.

"There," she murmured. "Clothed. We'll start easy." Another tap, a little sharper, on the other cheek. "You feel that?"

"Yeah." His hands hovered, unsure where she wanted them. "Yolanda—"

"Hands on the wall. Palms flat." He obeyed. She smoothed her hand over the denim, possessive, then cracked her palm across him again without warning, harder than the first two. He gasped. She laughed under her breath, filthy and pleased. "God, you jump so pretty. Look at you. Already breathing like I fucked you."

She did it again, then waited. The waiting was worse. Trent's cock throbbed against his zipper, trapped and aching, and he couldn't predict the next one. A soft pat. A sting that made his hips jerk forward into her. Nothing. Then a sharp, sporadic smack high on one cheek that rang through the quiet apartment and pulled a broken sound out of his throat.

"That's it," she whispered, filthy encouragement warm against his ear. "Take it. You wanted sudden. You wanted me mean about it. Your ass is going to wear my handprint through these pants before I even strip you, and you're going to thank me for every slap you don't see coming."

"Thank you," he said, shaky, meaning it.

She pressed closer, grinding her thigh against the hard line of his cock, and slid her other hand up his chest to his throat. Her fingers fit there as if she had measured him in her sleep. She squeezed, not a full choke yet, just enough pressure at the sides to make his pulse thunder and his vision edge bright. Air still moved. Thought didn't. His cock kicked so hard he groaned, the sound trapped under her palm.

"Oh," Yolanda said, delighted and dark. "There he is. Look at that. One squeeze and you're throbbing like a slut who lives for my hand." She tightened a fraction, held it, and while he was floating on the pressure she smacked his ass again, sudden and sharp, the sting blooming under denim. He jolted. She loosened her grip just enough for him to drag in a breath, then squeezed again, rhythmic and controlled, whispering against his jaw. "You like being choked by your girlfriend. Say it."

"I like it," he rasped. "I like you choking me. I like when you smack my ass and I can't brace. Please. Yolanda, please, I need more. I need you to give me the rough treatment. Please don't stop. Please take me to bed and do it harder."

Her eyes burned. She kissed him then, deep and claiming, her hand still loose around his throat, and when she pulled back her smile was all hunger. "Begging already. Good. Bedroom. Now. Clothes off when I tell you, not before."

She walked him down the hall with her hand at the back of his neck, not choking, just steering, and every few steps her other palm found his ass in a quick, unpredictable crack that made him stumble and moan. By the time they reached the bedroom his skin was hot under the denim and his cock was leaking into his briefs. Yolanda shut the door, turned on the bedside lamp, and looked him over like a design she intended to ruin on purpose.

"Strip," she said.

He pulled his shirt over his head, kicked off his pants and briefs, and stood bare for her, cock flushed and heavy, ass already pink where the fabric had failed to dull her hand. She circled him once, fully dressed, and landed a bare-handed smack on naked skin that cracked loud in the small room. He cried out, hips bucking, the sting bright and perfect.

"On the bed. On your back. Hands above your head unless I move them."

He went. The sheets were cool. Yolanda stripped without hurry, tank top, jeans, panties, until she was naked and gleaming in the lamplight, curves he knew and a look on her face he was only beginning to learn. She climbed over him, straddled his hips, and sank down onto his cock in one slow, devastating slide. Wet heat closed around him. He swore. She seated herself fully, palms braced on his chest, and rolled her hips once, testing, owning.

"Eyes on me," she said. "You come when I say. Not before."

Then she started to ride.

It was not gentle. Yolanda planted her knees and fucked herself down on him in hard, punishing drops, taking him deep, her ass slapping his thighs, her breasts swaying with each slam. One hand left his chest and closed around his throat. She choked him in rhythm with her hips, squeezing as she rose, holding as she slammed down, loosening just enough for a ragged breath before she took it again. The pressure made his cock throb inside her, made every nerve sing. Pleasure stacked on lack of air and came back doubled when she let him breathe.

Her other hand reached under and back, awkward and perfect, and cracked across his ass every time she slammed down. Not every thrust the same. Sometimes a light sting. Sometimes a full, stinging spank that made him yelp into her grip and buck up into her cunt. Then three thrusts with nothing, just the choke and the wet slap of her riding him, until he started to relax, and she hit him sudden and hard on the underside of one cheek, unpredictable, mean, exactly what he had asked for. The pain flared and melted straight into the heat of being inside her. He moaned, wrecked, and she smiled like she had won something.

"Listen to you," she said, breathless, dominant, filthy. "Gasping on my cock and my hand. Your ass is turning such a pretty color. Every time I smack it you clench around me like you're trying to keep me. Greedy. You love this. You love your girlfriend choking you while she spanks you like you earned it."

"I do," he managed when she eased her fingers. "I love it. Harder. Please. Sporadic. Don't let me know."

She tightened her grip on his throat until his world narrowed to her face, her cunt, the bright crack of her palm. She rode him harder, slamming down, choking him through the peak of each thrust, and the spanks came wild: one, then nothing, then two fast and sharp that made his eyes water, then a long pause while she ground her clit against him and squeezed his neck until his cock pulsed desperately inside her. He was close. She felt it. She slowed just enough to deny him, loosened her hand, and kissed the corner of his gasping mouth.

"Not yet," she said. "On your knees. I want that ass up where I can reach it properly."

She lifted off him. The loss made him whimper. He rolled over, knees wide on the mattress, chest down, ass raised, cock hanging heavy and slick with her. Yolanda knelt behind him, one hand fisting in his hair, the other guiding him back onto her fingers first, two of them, curling, making him shake, before she shifted and pressed her body along his back. She couldn't take him the way he had taken her, but she didn't need to. She reached under and stroked his cock in a tight, ruthless grip while her other hand closed around the front of his throat from behind, choking him as she crowded him forward into the pillows.

"Doggy," she murmured against his ear. "My hand on your neck. My palm on your ass. You stay right here and take every bit of it."

She choked him from behind, forearm snug, fingers precise at the sides of his throat, and her free hand—no, she switched, stroking him with a firm rhythm while the choking hand stayed, then she let his cock go long enough to spank him. The first smack landed square across both cheeks, loud, sudden, and he shouted into the mattress. She went back to stroking, slow, while he trembled. Then nothing but the choke, tighter, her breasts against his back, her breath hot. He thought she might only choke him now. He was wrong. Her palm cracked down on his left cheek with no warning, then again lower, sporadic and stinging, each one landing when he had stopped bracing. Pain and pleasure braided until he couldn't tell them apart. His cock leaked over her fingers. His ass burned. His throat throbbed under her control, air coming in careful sips she allowed.

"Color," she said, easing just enough.

"Green," he gasped. "Green, please, don't stop, I'm so close, Yolanda, please let me—"

"You'll come when the next smack lands and not a second before," she said, voice rough with her own arousal. She stroked him faster, choked him firmer, and waited. He edged, shaking, held on the brink by her command and the absence of the blow he needed. Seconds stretched. His whole body begged. Then her hand left his cock, rose, and cracked across his ass so hard and so sudden that the sting detonated through him.

He came.

It tore out of him in thick, helpless pulses, spilling over her returning fist and onto the sheets, his throat caught in her grip, his ass blazing, every nerve lit. She loosened the choke as he peaked so he could groan through it, and she spanked him once more, lighter, sporadic even in the wreckage, milking the aftershocks while he shuddered and emptied himself under her dominant hand. She stroked him through the last weak spurts, praising him in a low voice, calling him good, calling him hers, until he collapsed forward, spent and shaking, marks hot on his skin.

Yolanda eased him onto his side and pulled him into her arms, his back to her chest, her palm gentle now where it had been cruel. She stroked the flushed handprints she had left, soothing the sting without hiding it, kissing the curve of his shoulder. "You took everything," she murmured. "Every choke. Every sudden slap. You were perfect. My good boy. My engineer who begs so sweetly when I own his throat and his ass."

Trent turned his face and found her mouth. The kiss was slow and tender, salt and warmth, both of them breathing easier, satisfied down to the bone. Her fingers traced a fading print on his skin as if memorizing it.

"Next time," he whispered, already scheming, voice hoarse and happy, "I want you to start in the kitchen. No warning at all. Smack me while I'm doing the dishes, choke me against the counter, and don't tell me when we're going to the bed. Make me wait all evening not knowing which slap is the last one before you really take me."

Yolanda's smile pressed into his neck, hungry again already. "Then that's the plan," she said. "I'll pick the moment. You won't see my hand coming. And when you beg, I'll give you worse than tonight."