But despite the explicit nature of that work, Vlad himself had always seemed somewhat asexual to me, like sex was something he observed but didn’t ever really participate in, even when he was, technically, doing it. We knew he had a few girls who doted on him, and there was a rumor once about an older man, but he wasn’t the type to engage in locker-room talk. Suffice it to say, I wasn’t expecting to be confronted with, well, perversion, kink, nudity that held no pretensions of metaphor or obfuscation. This new collection of photographs was there for one purpose only: to turn people on, to suck us into the photographer’s lair, seduce us with body parts that were clearly overripe, hard, wet, round—begging, really.
I’d worn what I’d thought were artfully ripped jeans and a pale blue shirt with brown loafers, but I was no match for the designer jeans and slinky dresses all around me, or for the occasional woman with a studded collar around her neck or man in a skintight latex top with visible nipple piercings. The pervs and the art snobs were out in full force, while I was trying to do my best not to blush as I looked at “Ass Worship,” which didn’t, in fact, feature anyone performing or receiving analingus. Instead, the massive photo, as I said, featured a woman’s bottom crisscrossed with stripes, fine lines that in Vlad’s rendering could be individually dissected. That was all we got to see, not the look on the woman’s face or the position of her arms or the implements that were used on her. Each photo stood alone, so there was no series, no progression from innocent taps to full-on, butt-blistering smacks.
It was like watching a porn film in an upscale XXX theater, except there the purpose would be to get off; here, it being New York and the opening of the show, everyone was trying to look so fucking cool that you’d think we were seeing random landscapes or city street scenes instead of full-on BDSM with a spanking theme. There was a woman with talon-sharp red nails holding a snakeskin whip; it practically vibrated in the photo, zigzagging in motion, about to be used on someone who was off camera, presumably ready for what the domme was going to dish out. Then there was one of a paddle that had landed smack on a man’s buttcheek, the one to its left having already received the same treatment.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked a woman next to me as we stared at another woman’s ass, this one with a purple flogger having just made contact with it. The woman’s back was visible, her brown hair wild and messy, a brief glimpse of pink between her legs, but the focus was the flogger; there was a hint of a man’s hand with its hairy knuckles holding it.
“Uh, yes,” I said, trying to sound knowledgeable. I’d seen a few dirty magazines in my time, and had had a girlfriend or two want to do it “rough,” but nothing like this; nothing that would ever take us from the realm of sex into this other world, where cocks and pussies were actually secondary to the power of pain, the art of making someone scream in the special way those who eroticize power play do, a scream for someone to stop and keep going simultaneously.
“Have you ever done it? Spanked a woman? Or been on the other side?” she asked. From her, it didn’t sound nosy, just curious. I turned to look at her. She looked like any woman you might see walking down Prince Street, browsing boutiques and galleries, all chic and full of herself, except her eyes were genuinely interested in what I had to say, her smile almost sweet. She had long brown hair that swung to her hips, one side pinned back with a sparkly clip. Her lips were lightly glossed, her eyes only adorned with enough makeup to make them look wider. She had a tan you can’t get from a bottle or salon, even though it was December, and her black and white sweater dress set off her skin beautifully. Her shoes were tall and black, with skinny, sharp heels that had to be at least five inches and made us almost equal in height, but I felt immediately outclassed.
As a man, I’m used to taking charge when I’m with women, but immediately, this one made me lose whatever my usual mojo is. It’s not that I’m Mr. Macho, but I tend to plan my dates, and I’ve always been the one to make the first move in the bedroom. I wanted to tell her that I knew exactly what was going on, that I was around this type of kinkiness all the time, but the way she looked at me, I couldn’t lie. “Actually, no. Well, once, but not like that. Not the real thing.” I somehow got the words out, my heart pounding, then chugged the rest of my wine. I’d thought about it, sure, and seen enough porn to know it appealed to me, but this crowd was a whole different level. These were seasoned professionals, or at least highly skilled amateurs, judging from the knowing glances, sensual attire, and whispered commands around me.
Her laugh was as rich as our surroundings. She stepped closer, then grabbed my ass. “Would you like to see what it’s all about? I could give you a little lesson.”
“You’d do that? For me?” I sounded like a teenage virgin, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t used to older women—or any women, really—hitting on me. I’m not bad looking, but the first person ladies go for is usually one of my buddies. And the girls who liked me were rarely so direct. They were waiting for me to ask them out, while I was contemplating whether I’d die of embarrassment if they said no; I had to push past that to find my courage and act like I fully expected them to say yes. Vlad was the only guy I knew well who didn’t seem to have this problem of getting tongue tied, but then again, he could woo women with his artwork, with the seductiveness of being an artist. Saying you’re a computer programmer just doesn’t have the same kind of sex appeal. This left me at a distinct disadvantage as I contemplated exactly what this stranger was asking me.
“Maybe. It’s interesting. I just don’t know if I could take…all that,” I said, gesturing to the photos all around us. This wasn’t just a little game of slap-ass; this was true pain, true punishment.
“I bet you’d like it…or I’d make you like it,” she said. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sent a shiver up my spine.
“And you’d stop if I wanted to stop?” I asked, knowing that I’d say yes at this point no matter what, but still nervous.
She stepped closer to me, whispering in my ear. “Yes. It’s called a safeword, and it means that the moment you say it, I stop. Though I have to tell you, one of the best parts of taking a good, hard spanking is not saying it. You might think it, you might tell yourself you want it to stop, you might even tell the person spanking you, because on one level you do. But the next slap forces that idea right out of your pretty head, because it feels so damn good. Like you know that Peaches song, ‘Fuck the Pain Away?’ ” It was clearly a rhetorical question, and I didn’t know it at all, but I smiled and nodded. “It’s like that, but you spank the pain away. Let me put it another way; is your dick hard right now from me talking about this? Because this discussion is certainly making me wet,” she said. “Oh, and by the way, I’m Sharon.”
She stepped back a little and held out her hand as if we were in a business meeting or something, all formal, even though she’d been rubbing up against me as she whispered in my ear, enough so the sleeve of her dress had tickled my arm. “Bruce,” I said. I shifted, then looked around, wondering if anyone had overheard our conversation. Everyone else seemed to be intent on the art, observing in that studious, individualistic way New Yorkers do so well, giving no clue as to what they were thinking. I didn’t see any jaws hanging open or visible erections, though I had to stick my hands back in my pockets just so in order to hide mine.
I was ready to follow her but could barely speak, my breath caught somewhere between my balls and my throat. I’m not the most impulsive kind of guy, but this felt like a fait accompli, like all my sexual experience up until now had been leading up to bending over for Sharon. We’d just met but she knew something essential about me, something I barely knew myself.
We left quickly, as I wondered how many other hookups were happening as a result of Vlad’s work. I wondered if he knew that in addition to becoming a bona fide part of the New York art world, he was also becoming something of a sexual provocateur. There’d be plenty of time to tell him later. Sharon was pulling me out the door, her steps strong and assur
ed. I tried to mimic her surety, but I was trembling, which I realized when she asked me to hold her car keys while she searched for a cigarette. She handed me a lighter, and I was glad I had plenty of practice as I flicked it open. Right away I sussed out that this was about much more than a simple spanking. It was about me learning my place, about earning my right to get spanked by her powerful hand. She had seen something in me that had made her pick me out of that crowd, and I wanted to prove myself worthy, to see what she had in store.
I held the flame to the tip of her cigarette, making sure it caught. She didn’t thank me, simply blew a plume of smoke into the air and kept walking. My dick certainly was aware of her actions; it was insistently hard, pressing against the front of my pants, fully prepared to offer up my ass for a beating. We arrived at a dark blue Mini Cooper, and since I still held the keys, I went to open the door for her. She threw her smoke on the ground and ground her heel into it in what I can only describe as a sensual way, twisting her foot back and forth, as if doing an intimate dance. I eased by her to open her door and she grabbed my butt, pinching it through my pants, before sliding her fingers between my legs, against my balls. I paused, too shocked and excited to move. This aggressiveness was new to me—new, but welcome. I looked up to find a guy my age staring right at us, and I looked away.
Her hand disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and I slid the key in the lock, grateful when she stepped around me to enter the car. I’d grown up driving, but hadn’t been behind the wheel since I’d moved to the city seven years ago, and I didn’t think I could handle that much newness all at once.
I hurried to my side and got in, as Sharon started the car. “So if you’ve never been spanked before, why are you coming home with me?” she asked, getting right to the point. Maybe this was how kinky people did things, straight up.
“I’m not sure, except that I liked what I saw in there. I liked that first photo; it was like her ass was speaking to us, telling a story, like it knew a secret that I wanted to hear too. I’ve never been the more…submissive one before,” I said more quietly, my voice faltering. My dick settled down as well; I was still aroused, but no longer sure exactly what I’d signed on for. What if she tied me up and hit me so hard I bled? What if all it did was hurt, and nothing more? What if…the nerve-wracking possibilities were endless.
“Everyone has to start somewhere, you know,” she said, her long nails tapping against the steering wheel.
It probably wasn’t proper to ask the woman who was about to spank you, but I went ahead anyway. “How did you get started?”
Sharon looked at me, those dark eyes again drilling into my head. “I had a lover, an older man. Much older. He liked to have me dress up for him, reclaiming his youth, he called it. I felt a little silly, especially when he asked me not to wear panties, but I did it. And he made it worth my while, in every way.” Her face took on a dreamy quality, one I wasn’t sure she allowed herself to access anymore. She looked a good ten years younger as she told me all about why she’d enjoyed her own turn being bent over.
“But now you’re all about being the top?” I wanted to know what had changed.
“Most of the time, yes. With the right person, I’m willing to go under, but I discovered that watching someone squirm, especially a man like you, one who could easily lift me in the air and toss me on the bed, got me going in a whole different way. The first time I found myself not just spanking a man because he craved it, but because I did, with the voice in my head taking over his cries, I knew I’d found my calling. It’s hard to explain, because it’s very different from the rush of having someone hit you, but it takes over in a different way. It makes me feel complete. That’s it; it completes me in a way that getting spanked doesn’t.”
I figured I’d take her word for it. Now I was more curious than anything else. The way she talked, spanking, for her, was like getting high, or going off to another space, one where she could lose herself. Getting high I could understand, but doing so through sex, or kink, was new to me. Sex had always been enjoyable for me, of course, but not necessarily of the “earth moving” variety. Maybe that’s because it so often came with its fair share of game-playing, of teasing, of push-pull that by the time I finally got a girl home, I was so caught up in having won her over I simply wanted to get inside her as quickly as possible.
When we pulled up in front of Sharon’s apartment, I was lost in thought. I wasn’t scared, but I didn’t know what to expect. Well, that’s not entirely true. I figured I’d either love it or hate it. It would either become something that fulfilled me on a deeper level than I’d ever gone before, or would leave me cold (on the inside at least). “Bruce,” Sharon whispered in my ear, slipping a cool hand up to my neck. “You’re thinking too much. You just have to surrender to the sensation. It’ll be much better that way. Trust me.” Her voice was so soft and seductive, more of a catlike purr than a human utterance, and as she massaged my neck, I started to understand. She was lulling me in, but as her fingers pressed into exactly the places that hurt, I started to melt, started to give myself to her. Those fingers made their way down my back until they hovered at my hips. Still in the car, she reached down into my jeans and squeezed one buttcheek, cupping my flesh in her palm. “Ready?”
“Yes,” I said, and she eased her hand out, disappointing me in the process. I knew we’d have to part if I were to proceed with this kinky mission—she wasn’t about to spank me in the car—but still, in a very short time, I’d become entranced by her, hungry for her, needy.
This was nothing like a date, not just because there was none of the small talk; there were also none of the more subtle sexual negotiations that go on when dating regular girls. By entering her home, I was giving her some part of myself—not just my ass, but my dignity as well—and in return I was getting…something. I still wasn’t sure exactly what. I soon found out. “Why don’t you start by getting undressed?” Sharon didn’t wait to ask me this question that wasn’t really a question; she spoke the words as soon as her front door was closed.
“Here?”
“Why not?” She smiled, and any hint of vulnerability disappeared.
The tables had turned so quickly that I had to either leave then or go through with it, and I wasn’t about to back down. I blushed as I removed my clothes, feeling her appraisal as each piece came off. When I was done, she stood right in front of me, so close her breasts practically touched my chest, except she was still dressed. She ran her finger down my face, then pinched my lower lip before doing the same to both my nipples. “Smile,” she said, like a photographer talking to a child.
I did, even though the more natural response would be a grimace. She grazed her hand across my cock. “Nice,” she said. “Now follow me.”
She turned and I followed her into her bedroom, listening to her heels clicking along the wood floors. I hadn’t been sure if I’d be bent over against the wall or what, but what she had in mind was something more intimate. She sat down and placed a towel across her lap, then beckoned me over. I swallowed, my throat dry, nerves and arousal battling inside me. “Wait a minute, actually,” she said, then stood. “You wait here.” She pointed to the bed, and I sat gingerly on the towel and shut my eyes, breathing deeply.
She returned with a ruler, a belt, and a black paddle. I shivered and she smiled again, that knowing, cynical, smile bordering on a grin. “Up,” she said. She sat and again placed the towel across her lap and I spread myself across her, my hands and feet on the bed. She picked up her hand and smacked my right cheek, the one closest to her. My breath whooshed out of me and she did it again, not asking me what I thought, so I didn’t tell her. But what I felt was like I was a new man. Each swat—and they were coming faster and faster—seemed to race through my body. I had expected it to be all about my ass, but it was about my entire body, which seemed to be vibrating with each slap.
Then Sharon took out the ruler. “I think you should show some respect and give this a kiss.” She hadn�
�t so much as hinted that she wanted to kiss my lips, which was an unusual progression for me, but I did kiss the ruler. It didn’t bend one bit, but I pressed my lips against it anyway. Then I shut my eyes and steeled myself. “Relax, sweetheart.” That endearment was wasted because then she rapped the ruler against my cheeks, both at once. It was nothing like her hand. I settled into her lap and let her take over. What I felt like, if I can be so blunt, is like a girl, like a girl who’s giving it up to her man. My nipples, which normally aren’t all that responsive, were hard and aching. But something was missing. Sharon kept striking my ass but she wasn’t speaking to me at all, so even though the slow heat of the ruler was turning me into someone I had never thought I’d be, it was as if it could be anyone doing the spanking.
The woman I’d become intrigued by at the gallery, then smitten with in the car, who I knew would be on my mind as I whacked off for months to come, wasn’t giving me anything of herself except her arm. I longed for to run her fingers through my hair, rake her nails down my back, whisper into my ear, but I didn’t know how to ask for it, so I was silent as she spanked me. Then she brought out the paddle, not making me kiss it first. The paddle didn’t pull any punches. It slammed against each cheek with a powerful force that made me suck the air in through my teeth. She kept going and soon I was panting like a dog, tears springing to my eyes. “Is something wrong, Bruce?” she asked, digging her claws into my left cheek while smacking the right.
Bottoms Up Page 4
