Body Politics by Cara Bristol

chicken that she was, she couldn’t do it. How did a warrior ask for a spanking?
    “What are you cooking?” She watched him peel and chop an onion.
    He glanced at her and smiled. “Crab cakes.”
    “You remembered what I told you.” She’d mentioned in passing several days ago that she loved crab cakes but hadn’t had them in a while.
    “Of course I remembered.” He added the onion to the bowl, cut the lime in half and squeezed it into the mixture, then added a large dollop of mayo. He stirred with a wooden spoon but then set it aside. “Sometimes fingers work best.” He stuck his hand in the bowl.
    Stephanie slid off the stool, sidled up to him, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Thank you. You’re so good to me.” Good for me too.
    She hugged him, enjoying the rock hardness of his muscled back against her breasts, the ripples of his abdomen beneath her fingers, his toned ass against her stomach. Before she’d been introduced to spanking, she’d never given much thought to buttocks, her own or men’s. But since then she’d come to appreciate the roundness, the firmness of Mark’s. She shamelessly ogled his backside when he got out of the shower or walked naked around the bedroom.
    But she had to admit, the frontal view was her favorite. His cock was a work of art. She loved him in tight jeans; the color faded over his bulge. He always seemed to have one. But then khakis, like he was wearing now, were good too.
    Because she could do this . She slipped her hands into his pockets and reached for his penis. “You’re hard!”
    “I’m always hard around you. And often when I’m not.”
    She stroked his cock through the fabric of his pockets while rubbing her breasts against his broad back. He stilled his hand in the crab-cake mixture.
    “Keep working.” She squeezed him. Solid. A hydraulic marvel.
    She pulled out of his pockets and tugged at his belt buckle.
    “What are you doing?” His voice rumbled with suspicion.
    She inched down the zipper.
    “I can’t touch you.” He held up his right hand, coated with the shellfish mixture.
    She grinned. “I know. You’re at my mercy.”
    He growled. “Let me wash up.”
    Ignoring him, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of his pants and briefs. He pressed his hips against the counter to prevent her from pulling them down. She grabbed a fresh wooden spoon from the holder and stung his ass twice. “Behave.”
    A delicious, threatening aura descended on the room. “Oh kitten, you so don’t want to do that,” he said quietly.
    Her heart hid at the base of her throat, but her pussy moistened even more. “Really?” she said. “I think I do.” She smacked him two more times.
    When he shifted for the faucet, she yanked on his pants and undershorts. He half turned toward her, and she fixated on his cock. Men generally thought entirely too much of their penises, but his deserved not only study but also worship. The crown, reddened and slick with fluid, capped an arrow-straight shaft as impressively thick as it was long. A crinkle of dark hair nested at the base, curling atop his balls.
    She stared, enjoying the awesomeness.
    He stood, one hand raised and covered with food, his pants in a heap around his ankles, and he’d never looked sexier. She dropped to her knees and grasped his hips, shifting him to face her.
    “Stephanie…”
    She brushed her lips over his ball sac, the wisps of hair tickling her nose. Watching his face, she licked his balls, moving her head from side to side. Then she opened wide, drew one testicle into her mouth, and sucked.
    The cabinet door banged as Mark slumped against it. He waved his messy hand and curled the other into her hair, then pulled gently. “Let me clean up.”
    She shook her head and peered up at him. He tugged harder. She scraped her teeth over the puckering skin.
    In his gaze, frustration gave way to resignation but promised retribution. For now, she held the cards. Beginning at the base of his