Mario was looking at his worn out face in the mirror of his recently renovated bathroom. The spot light was merciless in showing him the aging of his spirit, broken to some extent, it had become almost lazy.
He had a relative good night sleep, but a good physical rest wasn't given him enthusiasm. His wife of 15 years was getting some coffee ready for a liquid breakfast. He could hear her in the kitchen, smashing pots and slamming cabinet doors. The sounds of marriage in the morning were not that appealing anymore. He remember the beginnings, when mornings could have the surprise of sensual and hungry sex, preparing breakfast together, running late for work but with a smile on their faces. The last 5 years had been boring, too settled, too focused on paying mortgage. Having kids was something they had given up on. Not enough time as it was, and the money they made was supposed to take them to exotic holidays. There was nothing exotic about their marriage anyway, so the places didn't matter either. Mario's favourite place was inside his head, his mind wondering, his fantasies about having passionate sex with a co worker, or the shop assistant at the supermarket, or the female bus driver. Really, any female willing enough to smile at him would do the trick, a natural slut who would enjoy his cock endlessly.
He got dressed and joined his wife in the kitchen. She was all over the place, as usual, tight face, her shoulders crunched to her neck. He helped himself to coffee. She began the complaints without even greeting him. First it was about the hard day that was awaiting her at the agency, then the reminder again that some bills were due for payment. What Mario hated the most was not that she mentioned those daily obligations, but that she would elaborate on her frustration. Her complaints usually turned personal and into attacks. To Mario, it felt like she complained about other things just as a warming up before targeting him. Celia started usually with his lack of tidiness, then his lack of consideration, his disrespect for her mother when she was visiting, his lack of initiative, his bad eating habits, his snoring, his toilet manners, the list was endless. Mario did his best every time Celia's mother came to visit, which it was often and unannounced. If he knew she was coming, or that she would be sitting in the living room when he got home, at least he could have adjusted his mind to the idea of spending the evening with Celia AND her mother. But it was all too abrupt, the punch and the surprise.
He listened, as usual, saying nothing. His silence reinforced Celia's idea that her husband had no back bone, a doormat that she could walk all over. Mario didn't know if Celia ever remembered their first years together, as he did. The passion and the sex had been great, but they reached a point of routine and repetition that could have only been overcome by mutually agreed explorations. Of course, exploration didn't happen, and the routine became a sedative to their libido, or so he thought. Mario still experienced hardons when looking at women. Not only by looking and visually touching their bodies, but imagining how he would undress them, sometimes violently, sometimes by seducing their minds and prompting them to surrender to his demands. And by now, his demands made a very long list of unsatisfied sexual indulgences. But Mario didn't have the courage to even try picking up a woman. It was not about being faithful anymore, as much as it was about feeling powerless. So masturbation was his technique. Sometimes he would start massaging his cock while in bed, next to Celia, waiting for her to fall asleep. Quietly and very slowly, he rubbed till his cock was hard and dripping. He would play with his head, his rim, patting with his fingers, while his hand pretended to be a wet vagina engulfing his manhood.
At work he was the boss, assertive and in control. He was a trouble shooter, very much climbing the corporate ladder with the enthusiasm that he lacked in his personal life. He thought that his boring and discouraging marriage gave him, somehow, the fuel to achieve and win in his profession. That day he faced a couple of challenges at work with some hostile parties. He came on top, decisively, with no hesitation. That made him feel so good, and the compliments from his subordinates and peers got to his head, literally. One of his managers praised him sincerely for his performance. He said to Mario that it seemed nothing could stop him from achieving his goals, and he could only imagine how popular Mario could be with the ladies. That comment, about his personal life rather than his professional one, put a sad smile on Mario's face, but made him think, hard and long. Then his cock followed his mind. His mind and his cock became both angry. Angry at his marriage, at his whinging wife, at his mother in law, but mostly, angry with himself.
That evening he arrived home with an energy that had become foreign to him. He was still pumped up by his day at the office; his libido was wild as his professional performance. Suddenly he felt integrated as a man. He so much wanted to hold on to that feeling!
His wife saw him rushing to the living room to fix himself a glass of whiskey. And then she started, criticising him for drinking before dinner, then she continued with complains about her mother calling her and how he would have to go to fix her lawn mower on Saturday instead of playing golf. She kept on going about how the bitches at work gave her a hard time, and that she wished she didn't have to work for a while.
Mario was getting tired of her wife's background noise, and headed to the bedroom, intending to get undressed and cool himself down with a long shower.
Celia followed him, relentlessly like a chatter box of negativity and put downs.
Mario's head was spinning, but not too much to blind him from what he was about to say:
'Enough! I have had enough! You are a domineering unpleasant piece of work! Do you know what you need? I do. I know what you need is a good relentless fuck. One that comes to you without your permission or comments!"
Celia was taken by his outburst: "What? You moron..."
Mario kept screaming at her, his face turning red, overpowering his wife's attempt to shut him down.
"A good hard and deep fuck, that's what you need. If I fuck you against your will, you bitch, you will accuse me of raping you. And though fucking you would not be a sexual violation as much as it would be your cock therapy, I won't take the chances with a bitter bitch like you."
Celia tried to be heard
"Are you out of your fucking mind? Talking to me like that? Who do you think you are?"
Mario was hearing her, but he wasn't listening to her. Listening to her had proven useless and self defeating. Instead, he followed his instincts, his desires, his need for correcting his marriage dynamic. His needs to become his own master.
"I can't fuck you hard unless you are in the mood too. But I surely don't need your permission to teach you some good manners. As much as a fuck, you need a good spank in your round arse. I don't need your permission for that, do I?"
He was screaming while walking towards her. She was backing off but not as fast as he was approaching her. His motions were fuelled by long time rage and frustration. Hers were surprise and confusion.
He grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him. When her body was against his, he pinched her arse and ask her:
"Are you ready to be disciplined? Are you ready to be satisfied? Do you want to have a real reason for crying and complaining? I am going to take care of that"
Without pause, or waiting for her response, he backed towards the bed, sat on the edge and pull Celia's body over his knees, tugging her forward. She struggled, trying to free herself, but his arm was firmly pushing her down to his knees, across her back. His free hand rose. His hand was wide open, his fingers separated, knowing that he wanted to cover most of her arse. He let his hand fall hard on her arse. She trembled and screamed.
"Stop it you idiot, what are you doing???"
Mario was just beginning to find his rhythm.
"I am doing you, the way you need to be done for now."
His hand rose again, and fell hard again on her arse. She screamed again, but before she could insult him, Mario's hand was raising and falling faster, once, twice, five times hitting her arse, slapping her cheeks, making them bounce. Celia was twisting her body under Mario's firm hold. Her hips trying to avoid the slaps were providing Mario with a view he was beginning to enjoy beyond his intentions. His cock was getting hard. He accommodated his body to allow his cock to expand. Celia felt his hardon on her tummy. She called him psycho. He spanked her harder and faster. She cried and, suddenly, Mario heard a word he didn't know his wife knew. Celia started to beg him. Not an order, but she was begging him to stop. Celia began to feel overpowered to the point of being dominated.
Her pleads didn't lessen Mario's intention. In fact, Celia's begging only made him spanking harder and faster. Then, he stopped, listened to Celia's cries for a few seconds. Celia was still wearing her office clothes. The conservative white blouse and black skirt. She had only got rid of her shoes by then. Mario slid his hand under the skirt and began to lift it, slowly, till it was unevenly rolled up on her waist. Celia thought she was going mad, that her whole world was going mad. Not only her dull husband had taken this radical handling of her, but now she was seeing colours surrounding her, and the awareness was centred on her own arse, burning with life. She heard her own cries like in the background, while her husband's voice began to be the only thing that matter to her. Well, his voice and his hands.
Mario wasn't talking much; his hand was doing all the talk. He meant business, and Celia knew it, felt it. She could almost see her red butt. None of Celia's supplications were distracting Mario from spanking her arse. So far, the only noises that Mario was producing were the smacking sounds. His silence seemed to reinforce the punishment. He only spoke a couple of times, firmly while letting his hand hit her left cheek, to command her to be quiet and shut the fuck up, for once in her life.
Celia was crying and moaning at the same time, confusing Mario, who thought that she was enjoying his punishment. He wished Celia's mother entered the bedroom and saw him disciplining her daughter. Then the punishment would also be humiliation. A payback for all the times Celia had humiliated him in front of her mother. But here he was, now pausing to lift her skirt and pull her undies in between her cheeks, exposing her red cheeks. Her bare bottom had gone from her usual pale pink to furious red, it was round and plump. She had slowed down her wriggling. She wasn't struggling or squirming. He then started caressing the red cheeks and with a soft but very authoritarian voice he started talking again.
"You know why I'm spanking you, don't you? You need to understand some new rules"
