abby. ninenteen. jack kennedys real wife. lana del rey. taylor swift. kennedy encyclopedia. thought daughter. ralph lauren. blue hydrangeas. audrey hepburn. vintage chanel. pretty when i cry.

john f. kennedy

backseat secrets what happens in the backseat stays in the backseat.

robert f. kennedy

notes. i can't stop thinking about this man. sorry jack, i think my frontal lobe is developing.

bobby doesn't like to spank you. in fact, before meeting you, the thought of doing such a thing had never once crossed his mind — not with any of his previous lovers. but you’re endless provoking pushes him past the point of any other effective solution. 

he’s tried other things, but none of them are quite as effective as literally knocking some sense back into you. and although he doesn’t like it, he gets some kind of depraved pleasure from disciplining you in such a way. whether you're giving him an insolent attitude, doing something he explicitly told you not to, or something that especially irks him, swearing, bobby has absolutely no problem taking you over his knee, flipping up your skirt, and whacking at your ass until it’s bright red.  

and despite years spent at catholic school, where swearing was strictly prohibited and would result in an immediate strike across the knuckles, there are a few occasions where an expletive forcefully falls from your lips. burning your hand on the stove, missing your exit on the highway, or when your husband is thrusting into you, hitting the spongy spot inside of you that you didn’t know existed before meeting him.

your hands and knees are digging into the plush comforter as bobby quickens his pace from behind you, his hands tightening their grip on the plush skin of your hips. you let your head fall onto your clasped hands, held together tightly like they are every night before you get into bed. 

it comes out after a particularly hard thrust. a soft ‘fuck’ that’s partly muffled by the comforter, but it doesn’t escape the ears of your husband. his hand cracks down onto your ass without a missing beat, like he was waiting for you to slip up. the smack sends a jolt up and down your body, your back arching slightly, daring him to do it again. “language,” he chastises you in his tone that makes you want to hide inside yourself, but also makes you impossibly slicker around his cock. you whine, which is also partially muffled, and it earns you little sympathy. 

the hand that dealt the blow is cradling your reddened behind with a stark softness, thumb rubbing back and forth like it can possibly soothe the sweltering skin. his other hand comes up to your neck, lifting your face from your drool-covered hands and the subsequently dampening comforter, holding it with more forcefulness than just a gentle cradle. 

suddenly, you feel the unmistakable tickle of his chest hair against your back. it’s slick with sweat, and probably slightly matted down with dampness. you try to turn your head, to see him, but his grip on your neck tightens, holding you in place.

his breath is hot against the back of your skull, coming out in hard puffs of exertion as he continues his relentless pace. both of your thighs are now drenched with your wetness, the smacking of your skin echoing shamefully throughout the room. his thumb snakes its way up from your neck to your bottom lip, dragging it down until he feels the silky inside. “don’t make me wash out this mouth.”