Bottoms Up

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “I think I should stop you. I think I should just take my dick away, cold turkey.”

  That hurt. It hurt more than I thought it would.

  I guess some would call it dramatic. But his dick really was that magnificent.

  Luckily for me, along with an addictive personality, I had a penchant for playing with fire.

  So, I said, “Okay, so take it away then.”

  And suddenly there was a shiver in my stomach and a lump in my chest that made it hard to breathe when I thought Lonnie might call my bluff. I looked at him and waited.

  He seemed to think it over for a moment.

  “Not so fast,” he said. “We’re going over something right now in my psych class. It’s called aversion therapy.”

  I leaned in. “Tell me more.”

  “Well, the trick is, when you have those addictive thoughts, say, thoughts about beer for an alcoholic, you need to redirect your feelings.”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  “Can you imagine if every time you got the craving for some of my goods, you got this little shock, sort of like you stuck your finger in a socket or something?”

  I scoffed. “I don’t really want to imagine that, Lonnie.”

  “Of course, but what if every time you had an urge for my dick, you got a sound smack on your ass?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, Lonnie. I guess I’d have to experience it.”

  He eased me off of him, stood up and said, “Then bend over.”

  “Bend over?”

  Lonnie was a spontaneous fellow, always creative and interesting in his fucking, but this threw me for a loop.

  “Yes, right here, over the sofa.”

  I did as I was instructed. I walked behind the sofa and leaned over. I poked my ass out and gave it a little shake in case he’d want to throw this whole spanking thing out the window and fuck me instead.

  But Lonnie was nothing if not determined.

  He pulled his hand back and brought it forward in a matter of seconds. I lost my footing, taken aback by the feel of his large palm on my bare ass. I quickly regained my composure and awaited his next move.

  The second strike was playful. It barely even stung. The third made me grit my teeth. Then his licks became firmer, more forceful, until I felt a burning in my cheeks. By the time he gave me the last lick, I was biting my bottom lip, and…

  Coming.

  I came so intensely that my legs tensed and my stomach cramped.

  Hoping that he hadn’t noticed, I hurried Lonnie away, feigning a deadline. I crawled up under my covers, my ass tender and my cunt wet, and slept for what seemed like a hundred years.

  The next day, Lonnie called.

  I was curled up on the sofa, twisting the telephone cord in my fingers.

  He asked, “So, what did you think?”

  I couldn’t let him know the truth. So I said, “Frankly, Lonnie, I don’t really see the appeal. I mean, you’d have to be really screwed up to enjoy something like that.”

  “You think so? So, that means you didn’t enjoy it?”

  “Well, I found it sort of degrading, and it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.”

  I believe Lonnie’s psych professor would have called this reverse psychology.

  “We don’t have to do it anymore.” Lonnie sounded almost apologetic.

  And I could see my newfound pleasure slipping right through my fingers. So I said, “Well, it wasn’t that bad. Professionally speaking, I respect your methods, and I appreciate that you want to, you know, help me with my problem. I mean, I’ve barely written a word since I started fucking you. Clearly, I need help.”

  “So I’ll help you, then.”

  But I didn’t wait for Lonnie to decide when our next session would be. I showed up at his door two days later in my favorite jeans and most flattering top, bearing a gift.

  When he pulled the brown leather belt out of the box, he half smiled, flipped it over in his hands and said, “This is really nice, Stacey, but I don’t really need a belt.”

  I frowned. “That wasn’t really the point. The thing is, I have a confession. I thought about your dick today. I tried not to, but I got sort of bored this afternoon and it just crept in. And I do have integrity and I can take my punishment like a woman.”

  So he spread me across his bed. It was good for a different kind of sensation, he said.

  It was a different kind of sensation indeed. I tensed at every lick. I clenched my thighs and arched my back so that my pussy pressed into his crumpled sheets.

  I grabbed one of his pillows and held it to my mouth to stifle my moans. I gripped a handful of his sheets and pulled them to me. I felt the lashes all over my ass, on the backs of my thighs, and in the small of my back.

  “Are you still thinking of my dick?” Lonnie inquired between lickings.

  I shook my head. It was true. I wasn’t thinking of his dick at all. I was thinking of his spanking. I was thinking of the many painfully sweet licks he was giving me as I lay naked across his bed.

  He ceased shortly after I came, slowly and silently.

  A satisfied smile on his face, he folded the belt in his hand, left me shivering on his bed, and walked out of the room.

  I felt Lonnie’s last licks for three days after. I began to long for the pain. I loved how tender my ass felt when my hand brushed against it.

  In the mirror, I admired my purple ass. Throughout the day, I thought of Lonnie’s licks and became warm all over.

  So it was a pleasant surprise when one afternoon Lonnie showed up at my door.

  “How’s the recovery coming?” he asked. “Thinking about my dick much?”

  I saw the suspicion in his eyes, but I gave it a go anyway. “I fantasized about it today in the coffee shop, as a matter of fact,” I said.

  Lonnie cocked his head and held his bearded chin in his hand. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. I was having a double latte and out of nowhere, all I could think about was kneeling down in front of you, and taking you in my mouth.”

  Lonnie dropped his hands at his side. “So, why don’t you?”

  And then he unzipped his jeans and whipped it out. I looked down at his dick, in all of its solid, dark glory.

  And there was nothing.

  No spontaneous shivers.

  No sudden gush of wetness between my legs.

  Lonnie chuckled and shook his head. “This isn’t exactly what you’re after anymore, is it, Stacey?”

  I hung my head because he was right. His dick was no longer the focus of my attention.

  I said, “Damn it, Lonnie, it’s all your fault. You and those sweet fucking licks of yours.”

  Lonnie shrugged. “I suppose it is my fault. It was good while it lasted, though.”

  He turned to leave. He reached for the doorknob.

  I grabbed his arm. “Before you go, Lonnie, would you mind, I mean, if it’s not too much trouble, could you…just a little?” I brought his hands around to cup my still-tender ass.

  Lonnie seemed to ponder the unspoken request. Then he shook his head. “No, Stacey. I don’t think that would be wise.”

  I threw my hands up. “Well, why not? It could sort of be like ‘one for the road,’ you know?”

  Lonnie nodded. “I know. But don’t all addicts say that? It’s like, ‘I’m gonna smoke this last cigarette and then I’ll quit’ or, ‘Just one more hit and I’ll go clean.’ Well, you know what the trick is?”

  I didn’t really want to know, but I obliged him. “What’s the trick?”

  “The trick is, you never have that last cigarette, you don’t take that last hit.”

  And Lonnie turned the knob and walked out of my apartment. I stood at my sliding doors and watched him walk across the street to his own place. He wasn’t even inside his door before I felt the cold sweat, and the tremors began to take over my body.

  THE SWINGING SPANKERS CLUB

  Stan Kent

  It might come as a shock to those not experienced in the s
wapping of partners for recreational sex, but swinging can become tedious and frustrating, just like the dating disasters regular vanilla people endure, only more so. A swinging couple is always on the lookout for new partners, because swapping with the same old people becomes just a broader kind of monogamy. That’s why there are websites and organized parties and meet-and-greets at various clubs to facilitate swinger interaction, but on so many nights it turns out that there’s just not another couple available that lights you and your partner’s fuses. Taking one for the team is just not on. So for those who think swinging is free and easy, think again. Look at how difficult it is for two normal nonswinging people to hook up in this modern world. Now double that and suddenly busting out of the monogamy monotony can be a major frustration for the sexually discerning couple looking to score hot short-term sex with other partners.

  My girlfriend and I had been a couple for over seven years and swinging for three. Ceyenne is a natural-born flirt, and I’m a confirmed voyeur, so swinging fulfills many of our libidinous needs. We’re also into spanking and light bondage, but we’d kept that separate from swinging because some people do freak out and run away from a potential tryst combining the two. Despite the image of being wild, many swingers are just not that kinky, and that contributes to the boredom factor. It can feel like you’re in a bad porno movie.

  We just kind of fell into “The Lifestyle,” as swinging is called, when we attended what we thought was a new dance party called Skin. We just wanted a place to dance our asses off, where Ceyenne could wear sexy clothes and be herself—which is hard to do in regular nightclubs where there are so many guys on the prowl who just don’t get her playfulness. At Skin there was some dancing, if not enough to dance our asses off, and there was enough ass grabbing and fondling to make up for that. Dancing was a prelude to heavy flirting and much titillation, where the women controlled the action, choosing the guys they wanted in a reverse of the regular pickup scene. There was also lot of girl-fondling-girl action which seemed to be a way for the women to charge up the men rather than said girls being seriously bisexual. As the night wore down, invites were given to after parties. We didn’t go that night, but our curiosity had been sparked. We talked about it, addressed all the issues involved, and agreed to take baby steps.

  And now look at us. We’ve had some amazing sex with some unusual and interesting couples who have gone on to become friends and occasional sex partners. Ceyenne has taken her fair share of lovers, and I’ve had the pleasure of watching her work her magic. We’re more in love now than we’ve ever been.

  But we were getting bored with swinging.

  It was the monthly Lust Mansion party somewhere in the San Fernando Valley. Holding it at a private house allowed for a crazy, licentious atmosphere where no one had to worry about being politically correct. There was flirting and ogling and some very dirty dancing and no waiting for the after party. All over the house people were fucking and sucking—and there were some very hot people. We said hi to the regulars and went on the prowl, because after three years we had a kind of been-there, done-that ho-hum attitude. Ceyenne scoped out the dance floor and targeted a new couple who looked adventuresome and perhaps willing to try something new. The woman was Asian, complementing Ceyenne, and the guy was a skinny rocker dude somewhat complementing me.

  As the song ended we went upstairs, found some space on a bed, and had no-holes-barred sex. Ceyenne and I started with each other. It is a little ceremony we have; we start the night fucking each other and we end up that way when the sun comes up on the debauchery. Fucking each other as our four-way foreplay quickly gave us the excitement we needed to allow others into the mix. Before long there were other bodies joining us and, yes, we were rolling on E, and it was Picasso sex—limbs and body parts entwined and so many different hands on so many parts. I think my big toes were being used as dildos. I caught glimpses of us on the ceiling mirror; it really did look like the bed was a writhing mass of flesh. It was hypnotizing. I let myself be buffeted and passed around, draping my hands over whatever female flesh I called home.

  You can have too much of a good thing, however, and I needed some water and some air. I looked around for Ceyenne. I thought I saw her dark-haired head bobbing up and down on a large, chocolate cock, but as I got closer I noticed it was the woman we’d started the evening with. I searched and fondled some more and saw a perfectly ovate ass that had to be my girlfriend’s. This gorgeous fundament was all of her body that was visible. The rest of her petite frame was immersed in a sandwich of indeterminate sexes. There was no way she could hear me, so I decided I’d give her our secret signal. It was the code we used between us when we wanted to bail out of a situation and didn’t want to say anything to hurt the other couple’s feelings. It was a circular rubbing of the left asscheek followed by three quick, light spanks.

  I reached over and gave the lovely pert ass the signal.

  No response. The ass and its owner stayed buried in the bodies.

  So I did it again, rubbing harder, spanking harder. I even squeezed the asscheek. No response. So I really let her have it with slaps that left a stinging red mark.

  As the lovely, clear, ringing sound of spanked flesh subsided, I heard a high-pitched “Ouch,” and it obviously didn’t come from Ceyenne. Her voice is sultry and seductive. She doesn’t squeal like a little piggy. This was Barbie-doll high. Out emerged a similarly blonde bombshell, and she was pissed off.

  I raised my hands to apologize. I tried to plead that it was an honest mistake, but she was having none of it. She seemed to think I had laid down some challenge, and her response was to dive on me and spank my ass, or attempt to do so. Most of her blows hit my balls more often than my ass, which was perhaps my fault because I was definitely not a sitting duck. I tried my best to evade the whirling dervish, but this only served to involve more people in the fracas. Then I noticed Ceyenne had emerged from the thicket of bodies and had piled on Barbie and was spanking her. I reached around and spanked the nearest ass to me, and soon the whole bed had turned into a writhing mass of spanking flesh.

  The action grew more intense as pain and pleasure became one. It was often hard to know who was spanking who. A well-endowed Governor Arnold-type was spanking the clit of a widespread pair of legs that I could tell belonged to Ceyenne. I’d know those ankles anywhere. It was ecstatic, fun sex as every ass on the bed turned a rosy pink and spanking gave way to fucking. Ceyenne made her way over to me and sucked my cock as the skinny boy rocker spanked her ass with such ferocity that I felt the spanks all the way up through her tongue. Each sting of his hand on her ass reached my cock and reverberated up my spine. I came and fell into a spanked oblivion, conscious of Ceyenne lying on me, snowballing me as she was done from behind. Just before she came, she whispered in my ear how each of his hard thrustings stung against her well-spanked ass. It seemed a perfect image. I held her tight.

  We weren’t bored anymore.

  Swinging was fun again, all thanks to spanking. Swinging and spanking, who’d have thought? And that’s how the Swinging Spankers Club got started. We enjoyed ourselves so much that night and made so many new friends who shared our love for mixing spanking and sex, Ceyenne and I decided that rather than wait for the larger forum of a swingers party, we’d host up to five spanking aficionado couples at our house on a monthly basis. We fueled the evenings with absinthe and E, because a certain amount of sensory confusion was important to a successful spanking orgy. In the never-ending quest to banish boredom we evolved our swinging spanking sessions into the most decadent of parlor games. Having no inhibitions and a playful sense of humor were the basic requirements for membership. Being a skilled spanker was deemed not essential if someone was willing to learn. We soon found out that the Swinging Spankers Club wasn’t for everyone, but for the few who wanted to blend a love of punishment and obedience with swapping partners, it was a breath of fresh air coming down with the swoosh of a hand into their sexual escapades.

  The women hav
e a uniform. It’s a short pleated black skirt that comes to their upper thighs. They wear white knee-high stockings and black stilettos. They all go topless and panties are left in the drawer. The men wear condoms and nothing else. All are shaved. Such conformity in dress is important to avoid someone’s identity being given away by an item of clothing or bushy bush, for we play the game of having the spanker guess the identity of the spankee. Sounds easy, right? It’s harder than you think because you get no help from the other people in the room. They may even contrive some trickery. If the spanker gets it right, then the spankee gets to be that person’s fuckslave for the evening. If the spanker gets it wrong, he or she takes up the position bent over our plush couch and a new spanker of the opposite sex takes over. And so it goes throughout the evening as couples are paired off.

  When you’re high as a kite, it’s not easy to guess the identity of the ass you’re spanking because there’s one other complication—you’re blindfolded. The men do the honors for the man who is up to spank, and the women make sure the woman is similarly robbed of sight. The spanker relies completely on the feel of the skin, the sound of the impact on flesh, and the responsiveness to certain blows to deduce the owner of the ass in question. We use ball gags to make sure the spankee can’t say anything to give the game away, and the room is illuminated with a few flickering candles to add an otherworldly air of mystery.

  It’s over-the-top erotic to watch, and to orchestrate. It feels like a pagan ritual, channeling something very primal in our beings. I am part host, part lion-tamer, and as such, I keep track of the contestants and often add my hand in encouragement. Of course, I know the identities of all involved, and it is particularly exciting for me when Ceyenne is bent over the couch, her pleated skirt lifted above her ass, her stilettoed feet apart the regulation width, her hands gripping the cushions, her eyes covered, her mouth gagged, as some lucky fellow spanks and fondles her flesh for the chance of making her his plaything for the evening. I enjoy watching the ripple of her buttocks and the press of her small breasts into the couch pillows. It is a delightful sight that fuels our post-spanking fucking with a tremendous passion.