Bottoms Up

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “You are indeed a very nasty girl, Kate. Spread out for me like a little tramp and enjoying it, too. I can see how wet you are. Wet like only a true slut would be. I can see just how desperately you need to be punished.”

  She got up from her chair and stood peering down at me for a moment before extending her hand to me and helping me, on trembling legs, to my feet. She led me around to the back of the desk, and bent me over at the very corner so that my groin was pressed right up against the worn old wood edge. I wanted to press myself into it, I was so desperate to come I thought I would die, but I didn’t dare. My pulse quickened, knowing I was seconds away from having her spank me, spank me while telling me how bad I was, how I needed a firm hand.

  “I’m going to begin now,” she started, “with my hand. You’ll get ten strokes. I expect you to stay completely still for those. There will be plenty of time for you to writhe about when we advance to the other instruments. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I said, having fallen comfortably into this way of addressing her.

  The first time her hand made contact with my pert, round ass, it was almost gentle. I felt her open palm and splayed fingers distributing the soft impact. I sighed in relief and I held still as she commanded. The next was in the same spot, again a light touch. It didn’t hurt; it smarted. It became more and more difficult to remain still with each progressive stroke, but I did and it filled me with an odd sense of accomplishment. Each of those first ten strokes were in exactly the same place, each successively harder until it did hurt, but the harsher slaps made my cunt grind harder into the corner of the desk, filling me with the sensation of pain and pleasure all at once, making me know I would lose my mind if I couldn’t come. Then she began again on the other cheek until I felt as though the heat radiating from my crimson ass was warming the entire room. But that was only the beginning.

  “For a nasty slut like you, Kate, I think something much more severe than my hand is called for, don’t you? You choose, Kate. The belt or the paddle. Which is it to be?”

  This was not in the plan. I had to choose? Did I need to be even more complicit in my degradation? As long as all I had to say was “Yes, Ma’am,” I was fine, but now she wanted more words and the horror of it made me even wetter.

  “The b-b-b-belt, Ma’am,” I said.

  Then more words, these even harder to form and vocalize, were demanded.

  “Tell me you deserve it, Kate. Tell me how harshly you need it, dirty girl.”

  “I need to be punished, Ma’am. I deserve it for being so…so slutty. Hard, Ma’am. Harder than before.”

  She wasn’t gentle then like she had been with her hand. Each ensuing stroke made me jump and bite hard into my lip to keep from screaming until finally I was screaming and begging her to stop. But she didn’t stop; instead, she told me how she was doing it for my own good, how she knew I needed this, how if there was a repeat of this incident my punishment would be even harder and perhaps in front of the roommate I had offended who, after all, had the right to see me suffer for my sins, didn’t I think?

  My ass was on fire when she finally laid the belt on the table. My face was pressed to the desk and my chest heaved as I tried to compose myself. She again offered me her hand to steady me as I straightened up. I realized my face was soaked with tears only when she looked into my eyes and slowly snaked an elegant finger down my cheek and past my lips into my mouth.

  “Over my knee now, Kate, we’re nearly done.”

  She sat in the large plush chair and pulled her skirt up, revealing firm, supple thighs, then motioned for me to lie across her lap. I was so molten it felt that I flowed over onto her. Her thighs, cool as alabaster, soothed my overheated legs. She felt soft and hard at the same time. She stroked my hair, which had somehow fallen loose from its former ponytail, and then locked her ankles around mine before scratching her fingernails in cruel patterns on my abused bottom. My cunt pressed into her knee and I began to grind myself against it, desperate to come, desperate for this final release, desperate for this to end, knowing once it was over it wouldn’t be long before I was equally desperate for it to begin anew.

  She started spanking me again as I ground myself against her knee. She didn’t stop spanking me when I started to come. I lost all sense of who I was, where I was, as I screamed and convulsed in her lap. There were contractions so strong in my cunt, thighs and belly I knew not only would my bottom be aching tomorrow, my entire body would feel the effect for days after. It was easily the strongest orgasm of my life.

  As I lay there across her lap, coming back to earth, to my body, to my self, I wondered, How do I go back, how do I go back to regular sex? Here was this woman who had not touched me sexually, her fingers had never plunged into my depths nor fondled my breasts, she hadn’t kissed me or whispered endearments in my ears, and somehow she had given me the most intense sexual experience of my life.

  Madeline let her hand fall into my hair again and smoothed it absently. When she stopped, I knew it was time to get up, get dressed, and get back to my life.

  I also knew one more thing when she walked me to the door and leaned in to kiss my cheek as if we were old friends. I knew this wouldn’t be my last visit to her. I knew this was a step in another direction, one I’d been pointing toward for nearly my entire life.

  SORORITY SISTER

  Dominique Dunbar

  There is usually a defining moment when you can clearly say to yourself, “Yes, that spanking experience made a believer out of me.” Well, this moment revealed itself to me in an epiphany years after I became a convert. Honestly, I didn’t realize my spanking “fetish” was a fetish at all until this one particular evening. Craig decided he needed a little background information on one of my routine requests before we continued fucking. This request involved my being paddled on my bottom firmly and repeatedly, until it produced a sensation of fiery numbness. The end result would leave an impression that should resemble the color of a tropical sunset on the vast expanse that was my behind. Now, sometimes achieving this sensation and visual would take a while, and the effort would wear my darling husband out. For Craig, having to swing at his adoring target before he could actually have it the way he wanted was challenging at times. For me, it was important that his efforts create the feeling of pure, unadulterated euphoria in order to lull me into welcoming his cock and anything else he had in mind into the sea of my ass. And I wouldn’t let him do anything remotely related to ass sex, which meant no plunging, poking, fingering, licking, sucking, biting, worshipping, or roughing up until he’d spanked me properly.

  So on this particular evening, we lay in our bed, blissed out in ecstatic anticipation of a night filled with lusty lovemaking. But for some reason, he was holding out on the spanking.

  “Come on, Lauren. You know I think a little spanking is hot, baby. I’m down with it. But with you? It’s required. Now there’s got to be something more to it. I wanna know what it is. What’s up?” The look on his face was sweet but inquisitive. We share everything, as couples do. There were no secrets between us. But the truth of the matter was, he wanted me to verbalize something I didn’t fully understand myself. Honestly, I’d never felt that I needed to understand why I liked being spanked. I didn’t demand an explanation for his obsession with anal sex, but hey, once married, you’re suppose to be more open and understanding of each other’s proclivities.

  “I don’t know why,” I confessed. “I just like it. Can I just like it without you making me justify it? It feels nice. It makes me feel connected to you. And isn’t our sex even better after spanking? Come on, Craig! Why psychoanalyze something so incredible?”

  For a moment, I wasn’t sure if he had bought it. This big, beautiful man with arms almost as big as my thighs smiled down at me and in one quick movement, turned me over and pulled me onto all fours. Steadying himself, he warmed the palms of his hands by rubbing them with purpose on my cheeks before commencing to smack my ass in a staccato of steady, repet
itious smacks that made my heart soar, my ass sore, and my soul quiver.

  Since Craig seemed to be concerned, I had to ask myself, why was the spanking really necessary in the first place? For the longest time I couldn’t come up with even a clue to what it all meant until one fateful afternoon during a visit to Barney’s. That’s the day I ran into an old sorority sister, Claire Spencer.

  I was in the shoe department trying on a pair of sexy as hell, overpriced Jimmy Choos. I knew that Craig would absolutely love them on me, but it would be an all-out war once he noticed the six-hundred-dollar credit card charge on our account. But I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to at least see how divine they made my ass and calves look. So I was in my own world, walking back and forth in front of the three-way mirror, admiring myself. As I was doing this I felt the heat of a stare at the back of my neck; someone was sharing my moment.

  “Nice choice, Lauren.”

  I turned around and there was Claire, sitting in a club chair in the middle of the floor as if it was her throne. Ten years older, but not looking a day over twenty-one, her tanned cheekbones were poised above her infamous Cheshire grin. Her long, honey-colored legs were crossed seductively, as if intentionally posing. She was almost too elegantly dressed, wearing some short, flowy slip dress thing that revealed soft shoulders and long thin limbs; a delicate, well-manicured hand balanced a flute of champagne. A personal shopper was scattering about collecting various boxes of shoes for her, laying them at her feet.

  Being the staunch heterosexual that I know I am, why on earth did I feel myself getting slightly moist at the sight and sound of this woman? It startled me. I managed to pull it together to respond to her.

  “Claire Spencer. Is that you?”

  “In the flesh.” Claire stood up slowly, making sure to give me the full-on view of herself before she strolled over to me. Unapologetically, she glanced at me from head to toe to head again and I became even more aware of how coiffed she was, from top to bottom. It was apparent that she was overly groomed, peeled, scraped, and touched up all in one complete, expensively kept package of a woman.

  “Sister Soror! Life is obviously treating you well. But then, you always had great taste.” I felt myself tremble a little from her compliment. Claire was standing so close to me that I could smell the champagne on her breath. The air around her was saturated with French perfume. It almost felt like I was beginning to drown in her.

  “Well, you epitomized taste and sophistication back in college, Claire. You were the model we all followed. I’m sure you remember that. Looks like you’ve done fairly well for yourself too.” I sent it back her way, glancing down at my jeans and tight T-shirt, both on the pricey side, but I still felt, well, let’s just say underdressed.

  “Surprised?” she asked, taking hold of my hands inside hers, lifting our arms upward as she spun around underneath mine before gently forming our secret sorority handshake. Then she let go. Why did this give me the chills?

  I consider myself a free spirit, my own person. So joining clubs, groups, sororities, even participating in team sports, was never my thing. In fact, the only reason I joined the sorority was the same reason why I attended Hurston; because my mom was second generation alum and soror and my grandmother, first generation. So third generation was my involuntary birthright. Not that I had anything against attending an all-black, all-girl college. It’s just that I made it a point of avoiding any acts of tradition to maintain my own individuality. However, if it meant the difference between attending a co-ed liberal arts college in New England and accruing a mountain of student loan debt or an all-expenses-paid education at Hurston, courtesy of my traditionally boring parents, I chose the latter. I figured I could exert my individuality and free thinking during grad school.

  Claire was a stunner and probably one of the most beautiful women on campus: tall, with sandy brown hair; doelike, innocent-looking eyes, and the kind of physically stacked sensuality that was the envy of both the smaller- and larger-sized girls at Hurston. Rumors circulated that she came from a family with a long history of “passing.”

  I first noticed her in my Economics class. All the cool girls would ogle her because they wanted to be her. But Claire was unconcerned with the ogling and shero worship. In class, she always had all the right answers and actively participated in discussions with brilliance and clarity. Her GPA was above average. This made all the instructors think highly of her too.

  Rush season had begun. If you’re not familiar with the concept of pledging within Greek organizations, basically, as a pledge you have to run a gauntlet of controversial behavior at the instruction of the big sisters (senior members of the group) in order to be accepted within a particular sorority. So imagine my surprise when I found out that Claire was the president of the sorority in which I was to “go on line.” It was then that my image of her was completely shattered. In meetings, every word out of her mouth amounted to some form of profanity and the other big sisters blindly deferred to her. My being a third generation pledge simply prompted my acceptance for going “on line” but it bore no reflection in my treatment. Cleaning Claire’s room daily, sanitizing the bathrooms, doing laundry, doing dishes, shining her shoes, and running little errands for her quad wasn’t the worst of it. Although not a natural-born follower, I was highly competitive by nature when necessary. Because I got quite good at completing errands for all the big sisters, I was personally appointed to be in charge of Claire’s hair and nails, which meant that I was to be her shampoo “girl” along with being responsible for her biweekly manicures and pedicures. Oh, joy.

  Three o’clock one morning, the other pledges and I were baking endless batches of cookies for our sorority bake sale. We took turns rolling dough and sleeping in our opened textbooks.

  “Lauren, you are so over!” Renee Reynolds was my roommate. She was a cute poli-sci major with an endless parade of football players from our brother school slipping in and out of our room, and her bed, at night. It never really bothered me. I could sleep through anything. My Craig, who actually graduated from said brother school, insisted Renee didn’t have a reputation. But then, Craig has always been the type of guy who would protect a girl’s dignity, despite knowing some contentious details about her life.

  “Over? You think so? Why?” I asked, looking up from my five-pound textbook, struggling with Nietzsche and his lovely theories. This pledging thing was really getting in the way of my studies, but I had to hold up my end of the deal or I knew I would never hear the end of it from my parents.

  “Why? Girl! Because you’re doing Big Sister Claire’s nails! You’re washing her hair! What does it feel like to be that close to her? Come on! Really!” Renee was totally sounding crazy to me.

  “You can’t be serious. I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.” I answered, not bothering to look up from my reading this time.

  “You are privileged to be in the presence of such greatness. I mean, like, how awesome is that? Like, does she ever let you massage her feet to score points?” Renee kneaded the dough between her fingers as if it was one of the prized feet.

  “Let me massage…? Renee, that sounds like some lesbo stuff right there, okay! I’m pledging. This isn’t a freak show!” Slamming my book shut, I feigned anger while taking a bite of a cookie.

  “Oh, my god, Lauren. Please. To be that intimate with a big sister, especially the president? You need to consider that a privilege. And you need to work it so that you’ll go over easy. Don’t be a fool.”

  I’d heard horror stories of pledges being so desperate to “go over” that they actually had to do things like service the boyfriends and frat brothers of some of the big sisters. I’d even heard stories about pledges having to service big sisters themselves—“service” meaning perform oral sex. With that in mind, I understood what Renee was implying. But I was under the assumption that our particular sorority didn’t have that type of reputation. Besides, Mom and Granny wouldn’t be associated with anything like that! But
the suggestion of a foot massage did cramp my brain just a little, and it forced me to pay more attention to certain scenarios and how they played out.

  We were in the middle of hazing week. Most of us were going through the motions without issue, but there were moments when I thought I wasn’t going to make it. Hand-washing anyone’s undies that were not Vicky Secret’s or better was just plain criminal as far as I was concerned. Yet, I endured. One night we were forced to walk around the entire campus at four in the morning, six times, blindfolded and barefoot in just our bras and panties. Prior to that we were each forced to eat a bowl of raw chili peppers backed by endless shots of cheap tequila. It was one rough night. Dripping wet after being blasted with super soakers for about fifteen minutes, we stood on line in the kitchen in Claire’s quad, all five of the big sisters eyeing us while we shivered, drunk and just plain worn out. Claire was head bitch in charge.

  “Now you low-life bitches have reached the point of no return. There are only five spots we have to fill and since seven of you got this far, two of you won’t be making it. And if you have the miserable misfortune of being either of the two, don’t bother even looking at us next year because if you didn’t make this line, you are obviously not good enough. Comprehend that—you’ve been warned. Right now, each of you are standing next to your competition. Now turn around and bend over!” Claire shouted, her hair pulled back into a ponytail so tight it looked as if she’d had a facelift. We all turned around and faced the long dining room table in front of us. When none of us complied completely, Claire walked to the opposite side of the table, facing us. In her hand was a handsome, honey-colored wooden paddle. The Greek letters of our sorority were carved into its smooth surface. Two ribbons, in our sorority colors, were tied at the end of the paddle. We all stared at it as she rapped it hard on the palm of her hand.