Bottoms Up

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  The sergeant picked up the plimsoll once more, slapping it against his palm. “Back in position, boy.” He gave Stephen a moment to bend over once more and prepare himself for what was to come. How though, I wondered, could you really prepare for that unforgiving strip of rubber slapping hard onto your bare flesh? If it hurt through the shorts, as clearly it had, how much worse would it be now?

  I didn’t have too long to ponder this, as the first of the six strokes landed. This time I could see the mark as the plimsoll left it, blossoming red on Stephen’s buttock. The sergeant’s hand smoothed over the sore place, as though admiring a work of art. He repeated this action after each one, stringing out the punishment and at the same time soothing it away. Stephen was taking the punishment as stoically as he could, though his grunts and hard exhalations of breath told me how difficult that was for him.

  I was finding it harder to concentrate on Stephen’s reactions, as my finger strummed my clit and my body moved closer and closer to orgasm. Sergeant Sterne’s next action, however, caused me to pause in what I was doing. The proscribed dozen strokes completed, he presented the plimsoll to Stephen’s lips. “Kiss it and thank me,” he commanded.

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” Stephen responded immediately, pressing his mouth to the elderly gym shoe.

  We had both been expecting that to be the end of the punishment, and I found myself regretting that I hadn’t been able to match my climax to Stephen’s delicious act of supplication. But it seemed that Sergeant Sterne still hadn’t finished. “Now, stand straight, hands behind your head.” Stephen obediently linked his fingers and waited for whatever was to come. Again, the sergeant took hold of his cock, his other hand cupping his balls. This time, he gave no words of encouragement; he merely began to work Stephen with slow, methodical strokes, his thumb smearing the juices that leaked from its tip over the smooth red head and down its length. I had never dreamed I might see my husband being wanked by an older, dominant man, and the sight made me hornier than I had thought possible. He had passed the test with flying colors, and now he was being rewarded—and so was I.

  Stephen groaned and surrendered to the pleasure he was being given; it took very little of this treatment, as judiciously applied as his punishment had been, before his seed was oozing out over the sergeant’s fist. I plunged a couple of fingers deep into my pussy and came, too, biting the soft flesh on the inside of my arm to muffle my cries.

  By the time my breathing had slowed to something approaching normal, Stephen was stuffing the hem of his T-shirt into his too-small shorts and Sergeant Sterne was handing the plimsolls back to him. “Next time,” he said, an amused expression on his face for the first time since Stephen and I had let him take charge of the scene, “try to turn up in something that fits you better.”

  No one, I realized as we walked down the drive, had argued with the fact that there was going to be a next time. In the car, I watched Stephen wince as his tender arse made contact with the passenger seat.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll run you a nice, hot bath when we get in. You deserve to be pampered. And then tomorrow we can go shopping and find some decent shorts for you to wear. Though I did love the way you looked in the ones you’ve got on now.”

  “Yeah, about that,” Stephen began, and for one heart-stopping moment, I thought he was going to tell me that now he’d satisfied my fantasy it was all over, and we wouldn’t, in fact, be making a return visit to Lawrence’s home. Then he continued, “Next time, I don’t think you should be allowed to play with yourself while I’m being punished. I think you ought to have your wrists fastened together while you’re watching, so I get to decide when you come. If I let you, that is…”

  And as he launched into a description of how he’d like to have me restrained, with my legs held apart by a spreader bar so I would be sitting there, wet, open, and completely frustrated while Sergeant Sterne put him through his paces, I realized that my gorgeous husband had a few highly imaginative fantasies of his own and that we were going to have so much fun exploring them all.

  PRIME TIME

  Teresa Noelle Roberts

  Jay smacked my tender ass, creating delicious shock waves that radiated out from his hand to tease at my pussy and tantalize my clit. The blow jarred me as I lay across his lap, making my nipples rub against the coarse upholstery of the “spanking settee,” a wonderful torment. I’d hated that damn undersized, nubbly upholstered couch until we’d moved it upstairs. Now it gave a whole new meaning to the term love seat.

  “Sixty-six,” I said, not even hesitating. Jay was making me count backward from two hundred.

  “Are you sure?” His voice dripped sexy evil as much as my pussy dripped honey, and for a second I wasn’t sure.

  But I nodded yes anyway. I knew I’d kept count. I’d made myself focus on those damn numbers.

  “Really?”

  I was aroused enough to be blurry around the edges, but thanks to keeping count, my brain was working well enough to grasp he wanted me to doubt, wanted me to recant that sixty-six.

  That most likely meant I was right. If I tried to change the count and I’d been right in the first place, he’d stop spanking me—or doing anything else that might make me come. Oh, he’d get back to it, but only when he was good and ready—usually after I’d sucked him off, or maybe if he was feeling really perverse, after I’d sucked him off and we’d, say, gone out to dinner.

  He loved this game. I could never decide if I hated it, loved it, or both. I hated the distraction of the counting; it meant I didn’t dare float away on the rhythm of the spanking until pain blurred into pleasure, bruising into bliss, helplessness into heaven, and I’d lie across his lap coming and coming so hard I’d simultaneously giggle uncontrollably and weep tears of joy like a mystic seeing the face of God in the clouds.

  And of course I hated the frustration if I screwed up.

  But I loved it when I did well. The rewards were so very worth it. I never knew beforehand what the reward for counting properly would be, but it was always hot. Sometimes he would use his tongue until I was boneless and babbling and begging for mercy because my clit was too sensitive to take any more orgasms. Sometimes it was the Hitachi and a nice fat dildo. Sometimes it was just an old-fashioned hard fuck. Sometimes I got more spanking, but this time alternating with caresses on my swollen clit, letting me reach that place of spanking bliss even faster.

  All of this was good incentive, in other words, not to let myself go and try to steal a spank-gasm or two before he caught on.

  “Are you sure it’s sixty-six?” Jay asked again, digging his fingernails into my tender butt, creating delicious little half-moons of sharp pain in contrast to the more diffused throbbing.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Damn.” He ran his hand gently down my spine as he said that, softening the curse. “You’ve gotten too good at this. I don’t think you’re even concentrating that hard.”

  Damn indeed. He’d noticed. I couldn’t yet keep count and still slip all the way into that mindless Zen spanking place, but I was getting close.

  “I think it’s time to start a new game. From now on, you’ll count in prime numbers.”

  “I hate you,” I said, followed quickly by, “I mean I love you, but right now I hate you. I don’t even remember what a prime number is!”

  Did I mention that Jay’s a math professor? Maybe it explains his obsession with counting.

  I couldn’t see much of him other than his lap, but I could imagine him putting on his teaching face, the wise half-smile that makes him look older than he is and hot in a distant way, like that teacher all the girls drooled over in high school. “A prime number,” he said, in a tone of voice that told me he’d explained it way too often to his classes, “is a number greater than one that’s divisible only by itself and by one. I’ll give you a hint: Two, three, and five are the first three. You’re on your own from there.”

  I groaned.

  I’m no math whiz like
Jay, but I’m not daunted by numbers either. I balance my checkbook, and do my own taxes, and I have no problem calculating tips and “30 percent off the marked price” sales in my head. But there’s math, and then there’s math while being thoroughly distracted. In that case, I’ll paraphrase Barbie: “Math is hard. Let’s have sex.”

  “If you do a good job,” Jay said, “I’ll fill you up with my cock and fuck you hard and maybe spank you some more while I’m inside you. But if you don’t…”

  He let his voice trail off, the sudden silence hinting at dire consequences.

  I know Jay doesn’t do consequences any more dire than teasing me relentlessly before I get to come. Maybe, depending on his mood, he’ll whack me a few times with a tawse or a paddle, which always makes me jump and yelp and protest, but also makes me wet and turned-on and eager for more despite my protests. He’s into fun, albeit occasionally painful fun, not punishment.

  At least when I’m rational I know all that.

  But I wasn’t at my most rational, naked across Jay’s denim-clad lap, my ass and pussy equally throbbing, my nipples so sensitive they felt raw, my head muddled from pleasure and pain and the effort to count, one of Jay’s strong hands gripping the back of my neck to hold me down, the other pinching at my delightfully sore buttcheeks. I felt small, vulnerable, at his mercy; just a toy for his amusement. And who knows what could happen to a helpless toy?

  I tightened, a lump of panic in my throat. My belly fluttered. It felt like fear; it felt like arousal; it was a crazy mixture of both that excited me more than something less ambiguous would have. I’d been wet already, but I swear Jay could have slid his whole hand inside me after that threat. And the only reason I didn’t beg him to was that it would make it trickier for him to keep spanking me.

  “Ready?”

  I groaned again, but it was the good kind of groan, and Jay knew the difference.

  The way I raised my ass and wiggled it probably clued him in as well.

  The first spank wasn’t as hard as I’d braced myself for—it was the kind of light, playful smack that you might give your lover in passing. But with my ass pre-tenderized, it felt amazingly good, both powerful and pleasurable.

  “One,” I said instinctively. “No, two.”

  Another flash of erotic panic.

  He stroked my hair. “It’s not easy, is it? We’ll let that one slide.” Then his fingers tightened in my hair, tugging my head up so I could see his face, his sly smile, and amused eyes. The hair-pulling hurt in the same way a tawse did, the way that made me melt and try to get away at the same time. “But I won’t tolerate any more mistakes.”

  Gulp.

  Clench.

  I clenched some more when he released my hair, then feathered down my spine, dipping his fingers between my legs to test my wetness.

  As he chuckled at the slickness he found, I tried desperately to do math in my head before things got too foggy. What he was doing with his fingers was definitely not helping.

  “Not fair.”

  “Would you want me to be?”

  The answer was no—what fun would that be?—but he didn’t give me time to say it.

  The next thing I said was “Three,” followed by “Five.” Probably there was a gasp in there too. I know I squirmed and opened my legs wider and tried to angle my hips so I could grind against him.

  “Hips up,” he ordered, “or I won’t spank you anymore.”

  Damn, caught!

  I arched back to the position he wanted.

  Seven, eleven, thirteen, seventeen, and nineteen were easy enough, although I’d reached the breathless-giggle point and that made it hard to get the words out.

  After that it got trickier. He took his time between blows, giving me space to think—but also to lose a little of the endorphin-rush so the next smack stung even more.

  Of course the extra sting turned me on too, as did his chuck-ling at my mental struggles and the time it took me to calculate the count.

  Thinking was getting distinctly challenging. But I was determined to win this game. I wanted his cock inside me, and I wanted to enjoy the spanking as much as I could in case I didn’t get that fucking after all.

  If only my high school math teachers had found such interesting motivational techniques, I might have ended up as a mathematician myself. (Then again, my high school math teachers weren’t anywhere near as sexy as Jay.) I was stunned by how well I was doing, but I doubted I could keep it up much longer. The numbers were getting bigger, my ass was getting more and more tender, and my need to come was getting more and more urgent, threatening to wipe out any other thought in my head.

  “Forty-one. Forty-three. Oh, please Jay, fuck me. Aren’t I doing well?”

  “Just a little while longer.”

  Deep breath. “Forty-seven. Fifty-one. Please, please…uh, fifty-three…please…”

  He hit me again and two things happened.

  The good one was that I came, as gloriously and explosively as if the Fourth of July was being celebrated in my pussy.

  The bad one was that my mind went blank, washed clean by waves of ecstasy. I don’t think I could have remembered that fifty-four came after fifty-three, let alone calculate the next prime.

  A long silence.

  Jay said, “Well?”

  I tried to think. Honestly, I did. But my pleasure-hungry pussy was overriding all my higher functions, throbbing and aching and telling me that one orgasm wasn’t going to be enough. It wanted cock, and it wanted it now.

  And I wasn’t going to get it unless I could figure out the next prime number.

  “Sixty-one?” I guessed wildly.

  “That’s a prime, sweetie—but not the next one.”

  “Oh, no! Please…give me time. I’ll get it.”

  “No. Game’s over for now.”

  My stomach flip-flopped. The bedroom spun. My heart raced in panic that I couldn’t convince myself was pointless. I fought back the urge to cry, fought it so hard that I started trembling.

  Jay drew me up so I was sitting on his lap like a child, his arms around me. I buried my face against his neck, let him stroke me and mutter reassurances that I didn’t comprehend any more than a dog would. All I could hear was my heart pounding and the love in his voice.

  Finally I collected myself enough to say, “I’m sorry.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry, Sir.” He didn’t usually expect me to call him Sir, not unless we were messing around with role-play and I was the naughty schoolgirl or the clumsy maid. But to my rattled brain, that was the only possible translation for that questioning “What?”

  My sexual frustration kept talking even though my brain wasn’t fully back online. “Please, may I at least suck you? Even though I lost…”

  “Lost? You did great! You got a lot farther than I expected. I figured you’d make it to maybe twenty-three before you had to give up. I was doing my best to distract you and you held out really well. You deserve a reward.”

  “But…” What he was saying finally sunk in. “You’re not going to make me wait?”

  “Not this time.” He stood with me still in his arms, carrying me to the bed, where he deposited me long enough to undress. The bedspread, usually soft, felt wonderfully rough yet cool against my butt. “But I expect you to do better next time—and I need to do better myself.”

  It was my turn to say, “What?”

  Naked now, and hard, and beautiful, Jay lay down next to me. No kinky stuff for the moment, just a man wrapping himself around a woman. “I made a mistake too. You said fifty-one was a prime number. It’s not—seventeen times three is fifty-one—but I missed it. You distracted me that much with your beautiful red ass and your hot little body squirming against me and the way you were smelling more like sex every second. And with a PhD in mathematics, I’m supposed to know this stuff cold, so my mistake really should count double…but I don’t want to wait to fuck you so I’m saying our mistakes canceled each other out this time.”r />
  He rolled me on top of him so I could straddle his hips and rub my hungry pussy against his equally hungry cock. “Watch out,” I said as I poised myself over him, letting his cockhead rub against my clit. “I’ll be studying my prime numbers for next time.”

  “Don’t get too good,” he said, smacking my ass as he pushed me down onto his hardness, “or I’ll have to try the Fibonacci series.”

  ASS WORSHIP

  Jerry Arthur

  Ass Worship, $2,000

  That’s what the tag read on the photo staring down at us from the wall, the one of a formerly pale-white, decidedly female bottom now blazing red, streaked with tiny welts popping up from the surface. Unlike a painting, this wasn’t simulated or imagined; no touching up could have replicated the vibrancy of this butt, which took up a huge amount of gallery space, the lone piece of art on this particular wall, as if it couldn’t be bothered with having to share the spotlight, or perhaps to give the many congregants room to fully consider its implications. It was clearly an ass that had been beaten for a good while, and while it was up to the viewer to interpret what that meant, my old friend Vlad clearly meant it to convey pleasure—or at least, the kind of pain that’s worth whatever you have to go through to get it.

  Vlad had done well for himself. This was no out-of-the-way art show in some neglected part of town that required a long subway ride from Avenue C to Brooklyn, followed by a walk down a deserted side street, but a real gallery in Chelsea, with not just wine and cheese, but a whole fruit platter, gourmet cheese selection, cold cuts, crudités, pastries, and champagne. Oh, and art that cost more than my monthly rent.

  The invitation had arrived in my inbox with a note that said anyone who might be offended by explicit images might want to skip this one. None of us had seen much of Vlad recently, and we weren’t sure whether he’d been working in his darkroom or gotten an out-of-town assignment. While we were all tech nerds who stayed up late into the night playing video games and IMing with each other about the latest iPhone apps, and updated our blogs at least five times a day, Vlad was more secretive, preferring to work in private and then unveil his photos when the time was right. He might give a very esoteric hint, but I’d learned long ago that these were mostly red herrings designed to make him sound more mysterious than he was. He felt that the more you talked about what you were doing, the more you took away from its magic. Most of his work had a political bent, focusing on the environment, with big slabs of beef juxtaposed over fields of grass, or an American flag with a giant cock in red, white, and blue on it—he’d also done a pussy version, and gotten some underground attention for his efforts.