Naughty or Nice?

by Alison Tyler

  “Moist and delicious, huh? I’ll show you moist and delicious!”

  The fruitcake comes pounding down, and you yelp as it strikes your buttocks. Rather than the satisfying slap! I’m used to, it makes a dull thudding sound. It makes you giggle.

  “You’re being difficult,” you say sharply, fighting through the giggles. “Stop spanking me with my grandmother’s fruitcake!”

  “You’re the difficult one,” I say.“Put your ass in the air and take your spanking like a good girl!”

  That brings another giggle, and you snuggle deeper into my lap and lift your ass. I bring the fruitcake down, harder this time, and the thud comes firmly enough to make you gasp. Your ass wriggles as you push it higher.You always did prefer thud to sting, and this is the thuddiest implement of all, its hard-baked exterior hitting hard while its thick, gooey insides provide the weight.

  I spank you several more times with the fruitcake, and you’re not struggling any more. Now my hand is tangled in your hair, holding your face down against the pillow as I hit your ass repeatedly. I can feel my cock growing, pressing against your breasts. You can feel it, too, and you squirm a little, rubbing it. I spank you three more times in rapid succession, bringing soft moans from your lips. The New Yorker falls neglected to the carpet in a flurry of glossy paper. Five more spanks, fast and hard, you whimpering and pushing your ass up to greet my blows.The fruitcake leaves oily stains on your white cotton panties.

  “Take them off,” I tell you.

  This time you don’t argue, don’t struggle, don’t even whimper.You squirm in my lap as you pull down your panties to your ankles and kick them across the room.

  “The shirt, too,” I tell you firmly.

  You pull your arms into the stretched-out armholes and wriggle the shirt up to your head, casting it across the pillow. Now you’re naked, your bare bottom red and gorgeous in the slanted morning sunlight.

  You gasp as I bring the fruitcake down on your naked behind. You push your ass up into the air again, begging for more. You start whimpering as I strike you faster, my cock surging against your breasts. I feel your hand around it, tucked under your body as you slowly stroke me. You moan, your hand tightening on my cock.Your legs slip open wider, your pussy exposed. I turn the fruitcake sideways and strike your pussy with the narrow edge, bringing a shriek and then a long, low moan of pleasure. I hit it more lightly, the edge striking your clit. It’s begun to soften with the repeated abuse, and it’s just the right texture for your pussy.

  You’re gasping now, rubbing my cock as you wag your ass back and forth. I hit your pussy rhythmically, knowing just the right timing to bring you close—but not bring you off.You adjust yourself, bending your waist sharply so you can leave your ass high in the air, and move your face to my cock.You take it into your mouth, bent at an improbable angle as you start sucking my cock. Each stroke of your tongue brings a harder spank, and I alternate between your pussy and your ass. Both are now shiny with sticky sugar, moist and delicious.

  The fruitcake breaks open, falling into a half-dozen pieces on the bed. You barely notice, consumed by your desire for my cock. I push you off me and onto your belly, and your ass rises high into the air as I take my place between your thighs.

  I scoop up a pulpy mass of the fruitcake’s moist insides and reach around to your face, pushing it into your mouth. You accept it hungrily, chewing and savoring the spicy taste as my cockhead finds your entrance and I push swiftly in, feeling you wet.You’re so wet, in fact, that I can feel a dribble leaking onto my balls as I slide all the way into you, and I know you’re very close to coming.

  Another mass of pulpy flesh finds its way into your mouth, and you lick my fingers as I reach under you with my other hand.To make you come hard in this position, my cock has to work slowly, deliberately, each thrust firm and deep, pressing down and into your G-spot. And my fingers, still sticky and oozing with fruitcake mess, have to press hard on your clit. Your ass works back and forth, pushing you onto me rhythmically, telling me I’ve found exactly the right spot, exactly the right cadence.You’re close. I grab a wad of fruitcake and use the mush to cushion my fingers so I can press harder on your clit, the way I might use a pillow.

  You lick the pulp from my fingers, biting down almost hard enough to hurt me as you start to come.

  The second I feel your pussy spasming, the instant I know you’re over the edge, I start fucking you rapidly, the way you love. You’re still coming when I reach my own completion, my muscles tensing as I spurt inside you, mingling my come with your grandmother’s fruitcake. Your pumping ass goes slack, easing down until you’re lying flat on the bed, fruitcake crushed beneath your hips, with me on top of you in an irregular bed of spicy breadstuff with crispy, dried-out edges.

  “No fruitcake under the tree this year,” I say sadly.

  You turn your head so I can kiss you, and I taste the spice of Grandma’s fruitcake.

  “Mmm,” I say. “Moist and delicious.”

  “I got your moist and delicious right here,” you say and reach for me.

  Tagged

  Sharon Wachsler

  I have two rules about tag sales: Always test it out first, and never pay more than ten dollars—for anything. Even if it’s a fabulous antique dresser with original patina and mirror. Even if it’s a vintage black cocktail dress with hand-beaded hem and feather boa neckline. Even if it’s—and yes, God once graced me with this find—an entire Cuisinart set, including not only the food processor with every blade, but bread maker, mixer, and juicer. I got them all, because bottom line—only desperate people hold tag sales. They’re stressed about having too much crap, about moving or leaving a relationship or facing bankruptcy, so any bucks are good bucks, and anything they don’t have to move lightens their load. Not that they give in happily.

  For instance, the bitter divorcé who hawked the Cuisinart extravaganza scowled at my ten-dollar bid before agreeing with a surly,“Yeah, whatever, just get the bitch’s crap outta here.”

  When I told him I’d need an electric outlet to make sure each appliance worked, I thought he might take a swing at me. Through teeth clenched like fists he said, “Extension cord. In driveway,” and turned away. Each gadget whirred and whizzed to my satisfaction, and I’ve been making sage bread and banana daiquiris and hot, fresh salsa ever since. All of which Dana is happy to gobble down and none of which has changed her attitude about what I do on Saturday mornings.

  I grew up among a dedicated pack of weekend-morning yard-sale prowlers.That’s what we called them—yard sales or tag sales. My lover, Dana, calls them garage sales, when she’s in an unusually good mood. Most of the time she calls them “garbage sales.”

  Needless to say, Dana stays home during my excursions and usually grumbles at every new find I bring back to our nest. I end up feeling like a cat proudly presenting its owner with a dead mouse: no matter how often it happens, I always hope for praise and almost always hear groans, instead. It is rare indeed when I receive a “Now that might actually be useful” (cordless drill and complete set of bits, four dollars). Useful, my ass. Power tools turn Dana on—that’s the only reason I buy them. Sure as hell I never use them, and I’ve yet to see Dana do more than take them out, shine them, and search longingly for something to drill, saw, or sandblast. But the day I surprised Dana with the drill set, she threw me down on the kitchen floor and made love to me like she meant it.

  However, there were no mechanics’ wet-dream machines on display this cool autumn morning. I wondered at my decision to come out today as I scoured racks of toys and outgrown children’s clothes and piles of trashy novels, mismatched dishes, and mugs that said things like WORLD’S GREATEST DAD. Dana was probably home whacking off and watching a football game, snuggled deep in the comforter on the couch. And here I was, like an idiot, searching for a present for my lover for a holiday I don’t even celebrate.

  You see, I’m Jewish, so Christmas doesn’t mean much to me. But Dana gets melancholy if she doesn’t
at least have a tree and a couple of gifts on Christmas morning. Our compromise is that we call the tree a “Hanukkah bush” and that I don’t have to deal with the crazy lights-and-Santas-everywhere and “Jingle Bells”-blasting-from-every-speaker atmosphere of the mall. I get to find her presents doing what I like best—bargain-hunting on some stranger’s lawn.

  Now, three months before Christmas, I was scanning the detritus, thinking, “WWSB”—“What would Santa buy?” However, neither the skies nor the wares looked promising as I pulled my windbreaker tighter around my sweater and blew on my hands to warm them. A gang of unruly children raced among the tables and boxes, shooting water from plastic guns at each other and calling, “You’re dead!”

  “No, you are! I got you first!”

  I tried to block out the noise. But it wasn’t just the kids causing the ruckus. The sale was packed—SUVs, old Volvos, and pickup trucks were parked end to end on both sides of the street. It was a mob scene—the kind of sale where people clutched their finds to their chests lest they put something down and have it snatched up by another greedy lawn prowler. The harried woman in a blue house dress and pink change apron in the middle of the chaos looked as if she were about to fly apart from trying to keep track of her kids, the strangers in her yard, her money, and all the stuff that must go-go-go.

  I was turning to leave, rubbing my arms to increase the circulation, when I saw a black cord trailing from a shoe box near the garage. Thinking it might be something the Christmas Fairy’s butch sister had left behind, possibly earning me a power-tool-and-eggnog-induced very merry fuck, I went to explore. I pulled from the box a gray plastic thingy that vaguely resembled a smooth, mini-version of an elephant’s trunk, with suction cups on the side and an on/off switch at the base. I was about to ask pink-apron-lady when I realized what it was: a home-Jacuzzi adapter.You set the thing on the edge of your tub and it makes bubbles. It even had an adjustable light and a heater so you could switch off the bathroom lights and get all warm and frothy in a dim, steamy glow. I’d seen one in a catalog once. I’d pointed it out to Dana, raising my eyebrows with a suggestive wink-wink, nudge-nudge expression, but she’d grunted, “I bet it doesn’t even work,” and waved the page away.

  “It says, ‘Money-back guarantee,’” I pointed out.

  “Well, how are we both supposed to fit in the tub at once? We’d be all squinched up. How much fun would that be?”

  “Maybe one of us could Jacuzzi while the other gives her a massage, and then we could switch. It could be very romantic.”

  Dana rolled her eyes. “Or it could be a waste of money and water and time. Besides, what do we need romance for? We’ve been together eight years.”

  That’s exactly why we need romance, I’d thought as I’d returned to my catalog. A quickie on the couch every month or so during half-time was not exactly fulfilling my womanly needs, and I was going to get carpal tunnel syndrome from the vibrator if things kept going the way they were.

  Now, standing in the driveway with brown leaves around my feet, I looked at the strange device. I don’t care what Dana thinks, I grumbled to myself, this could be fun. It might even be good for her arthritic knee. She wouldn’t be bitching then. I was so sick of hearing about her goddamn knee. If she’d just go to a physical therapist or a chiropractor or something, maybe she’d get some relief. Instead she chose complaint therapy, with me as her unpaid therapist. This Jacuzzi thing would make an excellent gift if it helped her knee. I could even pair it with one of those miniature TVs so she could watch the game and soak her pain away at the same time.

  There weren’t any instructions and I didn’t see its original box, so I tucked it under my arm and approached the frazzled homeowner.

  “This turns your bath into a hot tub, right?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she nodded, “And I’ve only ever used it once. Christmas present. Nice thought, but who has the time?” She wheeled to bellow at a blond kid. “Christopher, put that down! That is not a toy!”

  “Sorry,” she said, turning back to me. “Anyway, like I said, it’s like new. Do you want it?”

  I looked at the red dot on the black power cord.“$18” was scrawled in magic marker. I took in her unkempt hair straggling from its scrunchy, her eyes that constantly skipped to check this child or that, her rumpled change purse. I was sure I could talk her down to ten, maybe even five.

  “Well…” I drew out the word,“I’d need to test it out first, make sure it works.”

  She sighed, “Of course,” then shouted to a girl of twelve or thirteen. “Liz! Liz, for goodness sake, pay attention! Get over here.” Then, when the girl was at her side, she pointed at me. “Take this lady to the bathroom. She wants to test this out.” The woman added in a low voice with stern eyes,“And stay with her. Make sure she doesn’t get lost.”

  We all knew what that meant—make sure she’s just testing out the Jacuzzi device, not lifting the silver or casing the joint. The stringy girl shrugged her shoulders and muttered a sulky, “C’mon.”

  We walked in through the garage, and the teen pointed at a door down a hallway. “There,” she said and wandered off.

  Well, so much for keeping me from stealing the entertainment system.The girl stomped into what I presumed was her bedroom and slammed the door. The next minute, I heard a loud screeching that I assumed was what was passing for music with today’s youth.

  I went into the bathroom—which was decorated in blue pastels and strewn with a lot of child-related stuff—and shut the door. Good God, I couldn’t believe how cold it was outside, even for October. My fingers were white and frozen. It felt good to be inside, if only for a moment.

  I was about to turn on the sink taps to test out the device and heat up my hands when I glanced at the tub to my right. I turned nervously to the door and was reassured by feeling hip-hop or death metal or whatever it was vibrating the little house. What could be the harm? After all, if I really wanted to know if it worked I should test it for real—and warm up at the same time.

  I locked the door and turned on the tub’s hot-water faucet full blast. I added a bit of cold so I wouldn’t sear my skin off, plugged in the Jacuzzinator, and hung it on the porcelain side. Then I quickly whipped off my sneakers, socks, windbreaker, sweater, jeans, bra, and panties. Just the act of stripping naked in a stranger’s house was giving me an unexpected thrill. Usually I was such a “good girl.” I looked at myself in the full-length mirror on the door, my breasts hanging heavy, and ran my hands up my sides, caressing myself until my nipples got hard and rosy. I rubbed them in circles, then lifted one to my mouth so I could see myself sucking on my tit in the mirror. It was a party trick I’d learned in college, and I liked the way I looked doing it.

  Nobody knows I’m in here doing this, I thought, and felt a zing shoot down to my cunt.

  I’d shaved my legs just that morning, so I posed à la Betty Grable, leaning over to run my hands up my smooth legs, further turning myself on. I really did look good. Damn, why didn’t Dana see it? I let my hands stray further, tickling my pubic hair, delighting in how quickly I became moist. I gave the mirror a sultry stare as I let an index finger slide into my slit. I shivered.

  Okay, don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. You’re not a twenty-year-old stripper, you’re a forty-one-year-old social worker with a pot belly. Get to business. Test the damn thing, see if it would make a good Christmas present for Dana, go home.

  Despite my little lecture to myself, I was still turned on. I could smell my wetness rising up from between my legs. Maybe my own amorousness would be enough to actually get my lover to tear her eyes from the screen and do me right. At least I’d be all clean and shiny, I thought, turning to the bath.

  How had the tub filled so fast? I turned off the taps and slid in.

  Ah, I exhaled, it felt great to be warm. I examined the gray plastic device and tentatively pressed a button. Immediately hot water shot out of two tubes near the bottom. One was squirting directly into my face. Sputtering,
I groped around, found the tube, and twisted it down. Now it was shooting warm, bubbling water against my submerged thigh. That was nice. I fiddled around and discovered that the tubes could be rotated side to side, as well as up and down.

  I was still horny from my earlier self-lovin’ striptease. The further trespass of stealing into a foreign tub and soaking—in my own juices, as it were—was just increasing my high. I hung my leg over the side of the tub. Experimentally, I rotated one tube until it was spraying at my submerged clit.Then I set the other one to shoot a hot stream into my cunt.

  The bubbles acted like a warm vibrator against my clit. No, I decided, it was better—I didn’t have to hold anything, and even if I hadn’t been prelubed already, the water would’ve taken care of that.The heat, the bubbles, the simultaneous feeling of pressure on my clit and driving fullness in my cunt was exquisite. I sank further into the tub and wiggled myself closer to the jets. I could feel my clit swelling, my hole opening, the liquid sensation of sexual delirium flowing down my legs, making my toes tingle. I leaned back, rolling my nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, whimpering blissfully.

  The dual streams—their steady momentum against my engorged pussy so much more consistent and luxurious than any lover’s manual ministrations could be and more powerful than any tongue—urged me irresistibly forward. I met the water’s thrust with my own, lifting and bucking my hips toward the Jacuzzi’s mouths. I felt my orgasm rolling in. Knowing that I couldn’t scream the way I wanted to made it all the more delicious. With a great gasp that I tried to smother, I came in wave after wave, one hand gripping the tub’s side, the other grabbing the soap dish handle.

  I leaned back with a groan and turned the jets so they massaged my tummy and bottom. I knew it was ridiculous, but I felt warm and cared for by this inanimate thing. I was luxuriating in the afterglow until I suddenly realized how bad it would look if Liz ever came to check up on me.