We had been married for three years and I knew her weaknesses all too well. For example, she liked to dress very sexy and often showed more than would be considered proper. She would never dare to be unfaithful to me because she knew it would have bad consequences for her. But it did her good when men looked at her and when we were at a party, she flirted for all she was worth, while at the same time playing the unapproachable girl who was in steady hands and didn’t want to change that.

However, as her alcohol consumption increased, her behavior deteriorated noticeably and I had to stay close to her to at least avert the biggest embarrassments. Afterwards, we would regularly get into a heated argument and it would end anything but lightly for her. A woman like her was a woman you could enjoy. But you always had to keep an eye on her. You had to keep her on a tight leash. And you had to make her feel it when she overstepped her boundaries again.

Like the other day when we were invited to this charity ball. It was organized by the dance school where we had taken dancing lessons a few years ago and was considered one of the big social events here in the city. She had bought a dress especially for the evening, a red ball gown that was tailor-made for her. One of those feminine garments that left no doubt about the anatomy underneath and revealed a calculated hint too much of what was on show. The looks on the faces of the men in attendance vacillated between open appreciation and secret desire, while the ladies turned the corners of their mouths in disapproval and hurried to get their companions out of reach. Admittedly, it did me good to know that I was at the side of such a desirable woman. That’s why I tolerated her little permissiveness, even though I was well aware that she was also trying to test her limits.

Of course, she was also asked to dance by one gentleman or another and she took full advantage of these opportunities, while I watched her with apparent disinterest from the edge of the dance floor and became intoxicated by the playfulness of her movements. She seemed to have a keen sense of my tolerance, because every time I showed the first signs of discomfort, it wasn’t long before she joined me to keep me company, help herself to the waiting Riesling and make herself available for the next round of dancing.

I had known Salina almost since the sandpit and somehow fate had it that we had never lost sight of each other over the years. She had already been extremely pretty back then and most of my school friends hadn’t even dared to approach her because they were convinced they would just flash off with such beauty. But she wasn’t actually arrogant or conceited. But beauty makes a woman seem unapproachable and only a few have the courage to approach her anyway.

For me, however, she had remained the same carefree girl with whom I had played many a prank in my early years. She was usually the one who got caught and received a good spanking from her father that evening. Afterwards, I had to comfort her and with every tear we shed, we became even closer friends.

It was almost in the nature of things that we also had our first sexual experiences together. I was the first man to kiss her and, of course, I was also the first man she had ever felt inside her. Even if, I must honestly admit, this process was still carried out rather clumsily back then. For the others, however, it was always clear: Salina was mine and anyone who wanted to change that would have to fight it out with me. As a result, the others were able to boast about numerous amorous adventures, but Salina remained mine alone for the whole of her time at school. I think she was aware that something terrible would happen if she ever thought about getting seriously involved with another boy.
But for all her loyalty, my Salina also liked to play with fire. And she had a weakness for alcohol, which threatened to escalate especially when we were in company. Or at a ball like this one, where there was not only exuberant dancing, but wine and champagne were also readily available.

As always, I had the impression that her dances became a little more daring with every glass of champagne and that her behavior prompted many a dance partner to occupy his hands with her body a little more than was absolutely necessary. More than once, therefore, I had rushed into her vicinity, seemingly by chance, to issue a warning simply by my presence, which was usually correctly understood by the man in question, while she played the innocent little girl who was unaware of any wrongdoing.

The later the evening went on, the more often I felt compelled to discreetly whisper to her that she was gradually leaving the realm of decency and should tone it down. But the alcohol had probably already played too big a part in her behavior, so my admonitions only had a brief effect and my warning glances no longer attracted the necessary attention.

Sometime around midnight, her ability to move around the dance floor in a coordinated manner to the beat of the relentlessly playing band had diminished alarmingly. Increasingly, she left it to me or one of her many other dance partners to disguise her increasingly imperfect steps and guide her through a dance in such a way that her precarious state was not too noticeable in the crowd.

As always, of course, she couldn’t find an end to it and was determined to delay her presence in the ballroom until the morning hours. After all, she had realized that she was no longer capable of visiting the dance floor. But there was still the bar to hang out at. And there was me to lean on to hide the embarrassing effects of the excessive alcohol to some extent. I, in turn, let her be, because I knew all too well that there would come a time when she would no longer be aware that she was still alive. The moment when she would allow herself to be directed towards the exit without resistance. When that time finally came, I hooked her under and used my male muscle power to give her body the support it was no longer capable of. I maneuvered her into the underground car park and pushed her will-less body into the passenger seat, where she slumped down exhausted and sank into the fog of her wine, champagne and cocktail intoxication.

I’m not one of those people who will reach for a glass in company and the next morning no longer know how the evening actually ended. On the contrary, with an unruly woman like Salina, it’s advisable to stay as sober as possible and keep the situation under control long after midnight. A weak-willed woman can certainly have her advantages. On a night like this, however, a man must show reliability, keep the situation under control and ensure that she gets home safely.

It’s situations like these where I can’t help but react with my own sense of responsibility. But there are also situations in which I find it extremely difficult not to show my annoyance on the spot and react accordingly. Salina had a provocative, provocative manner that had an effect on me. On the one hand, she made my fingers itch and I would have loved to beat her up on the spot. On the other hand, it also triggered a very special kind of lust in me that I could only live out in the seclusion of my bedroom at home. In other words, as I drove the car to our house on the outskirts of the city, I was looking forward to finally giving free rein to my aggression and giving my sweetheart a long-deserved thrashing.

I’m certainly not a hot-tempered thug who regularly gives his wife a black eye only to have to pick her up in hospital days later. On the contrary, I despise men like that. Instead, I believe that women are basically weak vessels who can only survive in life if they have a strong man by their side to protect them and guide them through life’s adversities with a steady hand. They claim to be independent, emancipated and grown-up. But in reality, there is not much more to them than the girl they were at school. They are not looking for the quiet boy who smiles shyly at them and is head over heels in love with them. They go for the cool guy who has the biggest mouth, rides the fastest moped and wears the coolest clothes. Because while the man is said to think with his dick and chase after anyone who wiggles their ass and holds their tits under their nose, the woman’s judgment is suspended because her panties get wet and her hair stands up just because he touches her and looks her in the eye with that I-want-you look.

Women love with their whole selves. They want to give themselves and be taken. They coo contentedly when you caress them. But it is only when they feel the firm grip of a man that their juices flow and all their senses vibrate. I have experienced this with many women who were almost addicted to me just because I had shown them the animal in the man. And I perfected it with Salina, for whom I was the first man she had ever felt and the only one who had ever laid a hand on her in all those years. She knew that I claimed her with skin and hair. And she knew that it was her destiny to remain connected to the man who had touched her body since the first curious doctor games and had never let her go since.

When I had dragged her out of the car, I pushed her in front of me up the stairs that led from the garage to the living area of our house. It was very difficult for her to walk in front of me and climb one step after the other. But I encouraged her in a tangible way to gather all her remaining senses by giving her a rough slap on the bottom from time to time. To my satisfaction, it was right in front of my nose anyway and I could once again see for myself that it was the most beautiful sight a woman could offer.

Once upstairs, I reached under her arms, worried that she would collapse at any moment and sink to the floor to sleep it off on the spot. I led her into the bathroom – a man should never underestimate a woman’s bladder weakness – peeled up the fabric of her evening dress, which was literally sticking to her, and pulled off the tiny thong she was wearing underneath. Her body instantly understood and she emptied herself with a sharp splash until she slumped down, visibly relieved. I pulled her up again, wiped her cunt, which was shaved bald as always, and dragged her towards the bedroom. My cock was now signaling to me more than urgently that it was finally demanding its due satisfaction after all the visual impressions of the evening.

I threw her onto the huge double bed and immediately set about getting her completely naked. Unfortunately, her stockings were beyond saving afterwards. Her thong ended up somewhere under the bed and would probably only reappear weeks later. Her dress looked pretty battered when I finally worked it over her head after unraveling the mysteries of its back closure. She wasn’t wearing a bra, so there was no need to remove it.

After that, I turned my attention to myself. I got rid of my black evening suit, which ended up as an indefinable ball of fabric on a sideboard. I stripped off my shirt, underpants and socks and was soon standing there with my tail erect. I wasn’t completely free of the alcohol fog either, but I was still able to enjoy the sight of the naked woman right in front of me and use the situation to my advantage.

Her bare bottom was already showing a slight reddening caused by my initial blows. I even thought I could see clearly outlined marks from my right hand. It was a sight that encouraged me to continue the game I had already started and to finish off Salina’s ball night with a good spanking. Because that was exactly what she deserved in my eyes and exactly what was about to happen to her.

I pushed aside the sliding door of the large, wall-filling cupboard and pulled out a shallow, wide drawer. There were several such drawers, in which all the small accessories of a man’s life found their orderly place. One of them only contained belts. Fine, supple leather belts in different widths and all shades between brown and black. I opted for a particularly wide one, which had often come in handy in similar situations, and wrapped the metal-trimmed end around my hand.

Then I approached her.

The first blow hissed through the air and echoed through the room as a loud, muffled clap. Instantly, her body came to life, she shrieked and threw herself to the side. But her thighs were also an excellent target and the next step drew a clearly visible welt across her thighs. I grabbed her energetically by her legs, positioned her on her stomach on the bed and hit her again. My principle was that you should never hit a woman in the face. After all, a woman is a woman because nature has endowed her with particularly wide hips and a correspondingly prominent bottom. For me, this was an invitation to concentrate all my anger on this part of my body and slowly but surely make it glow with an uneven staccato of far-reaching blows.

Salina had two invitingly protruding buttocks to offer for this purpose, which parted provocatively and with each of her uncontrolled movements gave me new insights into the body orifice to which I would devote myself next.

After probably two dozen sharp blows, I threw the belt into a corner and climbed onto the bed. I turned her on her back, grabbed her legs under the backs of her knees with my left arm and bent her back until her bottom lifted out of the bed. In this way, she presented her pussy and her already swollen buttocks and thighs to me in an inviting way. I raised my right hand and gave her a series of heavy blows with the flat of my hand, while my left hand needed all the strength it could muster to restrain her rearing upper body. A belt is good for causing pain. But slapping blows with the flat of the hand have a completely different quality. Girls who grew up with the cane will have some unpleasant memories of their childhood. But those who still lay over their father’s knee as teenagers to feel the punishing effect of his right hand will remember it with mixed feelings for the rest of their lives and have a very special relationship with their father.

She was drunk. But her mind was still awake enough to perceive pain and to grasp what was happening. Whereas before she had screamed out her pain at the top of her lungs, now it was more of a whimper that came from her lips. The whimper of a woman who was aware of her guilt and had learned her lesson.

I let go of her and she instinctively curled up like an embryo to minimize the surface area for further blows. But I had decided to leave it at that for this time. I had punished her enough. Now it was time to have my fun with her.

I turned her onto her stomach again, grabbed her by the hips and bucked her up onto her knees. Then I knelt behind her and gave my member, already swollen to maximum stiffness, the opportunity to finally fulfill its purpose. Her cunt was already glistening and flooded with her lust. It was therefore no problem for me to penetrate her without further stimulation. It will probably never be fully explained why a woman gets wet when she feels the heat of punishment. But it is probably a sign of nature, which wants to make it clear that every punishment also deserves reconciliation and that a woman grants her owner all rights so that he can show her that he still loves and desires her.

So I fucked her like a horny man fucks a woman and rocked her body until she couldn’t help but react to my continued penetration and fall into an unbridled orgasm. Afterwards, we both toppled to one side, exhausted, and lay closely embraced while the heat from our bodies combined to create a cozy warmth of connection.

The next day was a Sunday. So we had all the time in the world to get a good night’s sleep and have a hearty breakfast. Nevertheless, I was awake at nine and shortly afterwards I set off on my bike to the bakery to get freshly baked bread rolls. I then prepared a hearty breakfast, which at this time of day would probably be called a brunch, and sat down in my favorite armchair to pass the time with the latest news while I waited for them. A good hour later, the sound of the shower running could be heard from the bathroom. I went back into the kitchen, put the coffee on, prepared a hearty omelette and squeezed two glasses of fresh orange juice. Next to her glass were two headache tablets, which she would definitely appreciate this morning.

She appeared in a light, semi-transparent kimono. I smiled at her. She smiled back sheepishly. We hugged each other. We kissed each other. We ate breakfast in silence, accompanied only by the sounds of the web radio. Once again, Radio Swiss Jazz had just the right program for a Sunday morning.

Nothing had happened. Nothing out of the ordinary. She now bore the signs of my rebuke on her body. But she knew that I had had every reason to do so. After all, I was responsible for my girl from the sandpit days. And she knew that.