Bottoms Up

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I have learned much while watching Ceyenne get spanked anonymously over the course of these evenings. I’ve come to understand the way she likes to be spanked and how she responds. I now believe every couple interested in keeping their relationship alive and vital should have the experience of one of them being spanked by someone else. So much is revealed that you never see when you’re involved. I’ve watched Ceyenne grind her clit into the couch as she’s been pressed down and comprehensively beaten by a true connoisseur of the spanking arts. I’ve watched her dish it out, too, especially when she is on the hunt for a particular individual she fancies. I’ve come to learn the signs of which mood she is in, and that has made our sex life and life in general more blissful, yet paradoxically more exciting.

  Besides that, what do I get out of facilitating these grand evenings that I’m convinced would make an awesome reality TV show? (Anyone interested? I have the script all written—it’s called “Turn the Other Cheek.”) Seriously, my reward comes later, when all the couples are paired off but one woman remains. She is my prize, the one whose identity has remained hidden. As all the other couples are off enjoying the spoils of the games, I march up behind her. I lift her skirt and caress her ass. I squeeze her cheeks, lifting them up and apart. I wrap my hands under her legs and lift her from the ground, walking her forward as I climb under her, sliding into position sitting on the couch with her ass in my face. She reaches under for my cock, arching her back so she can slide it into her mouth. She holds it there, stationary, caressing my shaft with the softness of her tongue.

  I spank her ass with my mouth, delivering love bites on her cheeks with slaps of my tongue, faster and faster, from one cheek to the other, sliding my tongue across her budding little asshole until her entire ass is damp. Then I spank her with my hands, both cheeks at the same time, in an echo of that first night of discovery, sending ripples of painful pleasure down her body and into my cock. I come, lifting her ass into my face, and I tongue her pussy until she knows release, and then we can relax. I take her for my fucktoy, and as we’re lying amongst the pillows fucking and spanking each other to the sound of four other couples similarly fucking and spanking each other, I can’t help but think that I’m certainly not bored with swinging anymore.

  And judging by the sound of Ceyenne’s latest orgasm, neither is she.

  REENACTMENT

  Zille Defeu

  The rough bark scraped my face, a unique and not particularly pleasant sensation, but with the headspace I was in, it only added a titillating layer of reality to the situation. I felt Darien’s presence behind me, the heat of her sexual excitement almost palpable. And then heat was made real as her large, calloused hand slammed into my ass—not the most sophisticated of spanks, but this really wasn’t the time or place for refined manners.

  The pain and energy of the first blow sent a shock rushing through me, as though I was suddenly awake and realizing how strange and ridiculous this situation was. How had I come to be here, in the forest, my skirts lifted to expose my naked bottom, my virtue being taken advantage of by an evil knight dressed in black?

  Darien had no urge to join the SCA. She’d never even heard of it, and so I had to explain to her that the Society for Creative Anachronism was this really cool group who dressed up in ancient costume and then reenacted medieval fantasies of knights and maidens and kings and queens, with bards singing and feasts on the groaning board, and much quaffing of beer. She did like the idea of the feasts, and especially the beer, but she was hesitant until I’d convinced her to attend one of their weekly sword-fighting practices. She had gone, gotten to whack some guys around with a rattan stick, and she suddenly was even more excited about living in the past then I was!

  While she went to twice-weekly practices, I joined my friend Amy—who in the SCA is called “Ysabeau de la Pymontoise”—and together we sewed period clothing for Darien and me, and discussed our campsite for the upcoming event, the finer points of buying wooden bowls and metal goblets, and how to address the Queen if she so happened to pass you by.

  During this time I was also enjoying the surprising benefits of Darien’s biweekly exploration of the arts of war: she came home sweaty and horny. The smell of an honest sweat on a woman—not the kind from stress or anxiety, but the kind you work up to with a good long session at the gym, or during some butchly manual labor—well, I can’t be held responsible for my actions when I smell that. To me, that’s the smell of sex, and it’s guaranteed to get me in the mood. Now, when arriving home from practice, Darien was already in the mood, so good, rough sex was guaranteed at least biweekly.

  It was always rough sex. It was that distaste for gentle, sensual sex that had brought Darien and me together. I had met her at the local lesbian strip night eight months before. I was still recovering from a nasty breakup, the kind that takes a year and even after you are able to admit it’s over, you’re still disentangling pieces of your life together and crying over every little thing that reminds you of her. I had actually cried in the supermarket when a Muzak version of “our song” came on while I was in aisle ten, buying my comfort food: chocolate fudge brownie soy ice cream. I bought five pints.

  So when I went out to the “Lesbotronic” night at the club, I wasn’t looking for love. I was looking for flirting, for the serious lust that drives all your blood down to your pussy, so that you can’t think, only react. I was looking for someone so hot that I’d forget, at least for a little while, about my ex. When Darien got up on stage, I knew I’d found her.

  Darien is tall, dark, and handsome, and built, as they say, like a brick shit-house. She is thick with muscle, from her strong calves to her vein-popping forearms. Her huge hands have nails cut down to the quick. Huge hands are what I look for in a lover. Not only do they make fisting into a challenge like climbing Mount Everest, but I love the feel of strong fingers grabbing me, digging into my skin. I love when huge strong hands spank me or slap my face during sex. It makes me feel small and fragile, and literally “in her hands”—at her mercy. That’s what I need.

  When the host of the event called for several single women who were looking for action to be the contestants in a lesbian dating game, with the winner to be sent on an all-expenses-paid dinner with Darien, I was onstage practically before she finished talking. I proceeded to give the most outrageous answers to every question, and offered up a smoldering lap dance that, honestly, surprised even me.

  Darien had made it clear that she was not looking for love, either, at the start of the contest. “Only interested in a hot fuck,” was the quote the host read, and I knew I’d found my woman. Despite being blindfolded, Darien could tell—could the lap dance have given it away?—that she had found her woman, too. I don’t think anyone was surprised, not the audience, host, nor other contestants, when Darien chose me.

  We eventually went on the expenses-paid date. But by then we’d already fucked five times; the first time being that very night, in the club, behind the stage.

  Perhaps surprisingly, the date went very well. Unsurprisingly, it ended in us having our sixth intense sexual encounter. (I can safely recommend the spices in Thai food as being an aphrodisiac. Not that we needed any.)

  The joke about a lesbian second date involving a U-Haul is perhaps not always true, and lord knows we tried to fight it. But sooner than either of us had anticipated, we were ready to give up fighting it and move in together—it did make the booty calls easier!

  Life with Darien is really good—she is mellow, laconic, despises emotional drama—and does, with enjoyment, all the butchly chores around the house. But what makes the relationship great is the sex: we slam each other against walls and down to the floor as she subdues me; we’ve broken a lamp, a vase (it was ugly anyway), and once even knocked the A/C unit out of the window. It’s a good thing she can do the studly handy-woman fix-it thing, because we’ve needed some pretty serious postsex home repair.

  Darien didn’t spank me at first. She was just happy enough to pin my
wriggling body down and fuck me. But one day, after I’d led her on a chase through the house (resulting in the demise of said ugly vase), she’d grabbed me, turned me over her knee, and started walloping my bottom, as she said (between trying to catch her breath), “You fucking can’t ever make this easy, can you, slut?”

  “No, and you’d get bored if I did,” I responded, in between moans of pain mingled with ever-increasing pleasure. She ramped up the spanking on account of my talking back, and shortly after that I came all over her leg.

  That orgasm was just the start of sex that day, and it was certainly the start of a new phase of our sex life…

  WHAM! The second slap reverberated through me and the woodland around us, shoving my face harder against the coarse bark, and I held on to the tree for dear life. Darien was entirely into her role as the evil knight, and I certainly felt like a helpless maiden as my legs were turned to jelly by the sudden and extreme sensations she was inflicting on me.

  WHUP! The next smack was more stinging than the first two. She was now angling her hand a bit, getting into the flow of the spanking. The sound was covered up by the tourney over at the campground, as other knights, lacking maidens to ravish in woods, hacked at each other.

  WHACK! I had calmed down enough to hear the jingle of her armor every time she hit me, so that the sound was more: whack-thunk-rattle-rattle. I tried not to giggle. Every recipient of a spanking learns to never, ever giggle during a spanking, because then it’s all over—you’ll come out of the resulting spanking bruised for weeks!

  My previous bruises had faded just in time for this event, so that when Darien lifted my skirts, my bottom looked as virginal as the character I was playing. In the months before, that had rarely been the case, as I barely had time to recover from one spanking session before Darien would come home from fighting practice fired-up and ready for house-damaging sex. She herself was covered in bruises from fighting practice, so we joked that she was just sharing them with me.

  We did sharing well. It was a bit hard to tell her about my fantasy, despite the fact that she knew my dirty mind quite well already. It just seemed so cheesy: maiden abducted by villain and used and abused most foully. In my mind there was no hero to come to the rescue: the hero was unwanted and unneeded. The hero was actually the villain, doing the things I’d always longed to have done to me; the hero was actually Darien, making my dreams come true.

  But Darien had really gone for it, getting so hot about it that my embarrassment was washed away in the rush of planning and the excitement of talking about realizing a fantasy; it was like the planning was the foreplay.

  SMACK! And at this moment we were consummating this: my fantasy and now hers as well. We’d been so excited to come to this event, not only because we would be making new friends, and Darien would be fighting in a tourney for the first time, and there would be the long-awaited feasting and quaffing. No, we were just biding time until she could get me alone in the woods by the site, and the enacting of our desires could begin.

  She had chased me as I fled from her through the woods—not too far, in deference to the armor and chain mail she was wearing, but far enough to get the fear of the hunted pumping through my veins. In truth I couldn’t run far in those long skirts either: they caught around my feet, even though I tried to lift them up and out of the way.

  I sank into my character, my heart pounding with the terror she would have felt, as the unfamiliar clothing became what I, a lady and virginal maiden, was used to feeling swirling around my legs, and the long elegant sleeves fluttering as I ran only reinforced this.

  The lord pursuing me claimed I had been leading him on with glances and private signals. It wasn’t true—but if I didn’t get away from him now, that would be moot, because once he’d had me, I’d have to marry him.

  He caught up with me as I stumbled, and metal-shod fingers pushed me against the tree, the rough bark scraping my face. I felt Darien’s—the villain’s—presence behind me, and I didn’t dare to look around. Gauntlets were thrown to the ground, and I gasped as my skirt was lifted. My head was spinning with the excitement of living in my fantasy.

  The spanking rained down on my ass, blow after blow roasting my skin, as Darien, in her gruffest growl, told me I had teased her—him—too long, and now I’d pay for my wanton promises. Now, he would teach me a lesson I’d never forget, and it would make me an obedient wife in the future.

  I was so swallowed up in the storyline that I began to cry in fear. My ass was on fire, the nerve endings unsure of how to handle this barrage of blows, with no rest in between to process the hurting. I just clung to the tree and bawled, as he overwhelmed me with stinging words and throbbing pain.

  When he stopped, I was too caught up in the intensity to fully take in the change. The sensations still poured from my ass into the rest of my body, and my mind was still spinning. But the sounds of armor and clothing being shed brought me to myself. It was time for the final part of the fantasy, although I was too far gone to think of it that way.

  The hard head of the cock brushed against my pussy. I had a moment of realization: Darien had not brought any lube, I felt quite sure, but she wasn’t really going to need it—and anyway, it would be out of character. I wanted this pain.

  Or at least, I had when I’d fantasized about it. Now, deep in headspace, terrified and ashamed and out of control of the situation, I was deeply scared. I let go of my death grip on the tree, and started trying to escape.

  I didn’t get more than a couple of inches before my whole body met the inflexible, abrasive trunk again, as strong arms shoved me back, and rough fingers grabbed me cruelly. He dug those fingers into the burning flesh of my ass, eliciting first a gasp from me, and then a moan as I processed the pain. “There will be no getting away,” he snarled. His huge hand swung back and slammed against my ass again, and I stifled a scream.

  “Now I make you mine,” he said, the dark passion in his voice sending shivers down my spine, and his cock thrust inside me. Even wet as I was, I could have sworn my hymen had grown back and was now being ripped apart…

  I came. I’m sure Darien could tell, but she kept muttering harsh words as she pounded into me. I’m not sure how I kept upright, clinging to the tree, while orgasms surged throughout my body by the same pathways the pain had just used, but somehow I did. At that moment Darien’s strap-on was a real cock, for both her and me, and once the initial discomfort faded, I loved the feel of it as much as she loved slamming it into me.

  I can’t tell you how many orgasms I had, but I knew when she came because the thrusting was suddenly frenzied, she made a strangled moan, and then she collapsed over me, and I could almost feel the contractions inside her as her body curled tightly against mine, shoving me even harder against that damn tree.

  It was a relief when she let me decouple from the tree, and together we sank to the forest floor. She kissed the back of my neck, and then when she saw the red marks on my left cheek, she kissed all over my face, and I held her with gratitude and awe, making my body feel light, as if we weren’t even touching the ground.

  When we made our way back to the feast, which was now in progress, Amy—I mean to say Ysabeau—gave us a very knowing look, and brought me a cool wet cloth for my face, and a huge metal stein of beer for Darien.

  Much feasting and quaffing happened, Darien shouting out with laughter as she and her fighting buddies enjoyed the ages-old tradition of getting drunk after a battle. I smiled, and made small talk with some people, but mostly I listened, and watched the fire as the evening darkened into night, feeling like I was living centuries and centuries ago, and deeply content to be there.

  Later that night, Darien, smelling sweaty and malty, held me in her arms in the sleeping bag inside the tent. Ysabeau was already asleep, breathing deeply. I was almost asleep, too, when Darien whispered wickedly in my ear, “Now, my little maiden, you’ve had your knight. Next time, I’ll be a dragon…!”

  CONFESSOR

  Crai
g J. Sorensen

  I fix my eyes on the two silver-framed photos at the corner of my antique executive desk. After a week like this, I need an escape. Jayne’s round glasses echo the shape of her face. Her deep brown eyes with buds of flame red are amplified by a series of ruby studs in her left ear framed by her orderly short golden hair. Her smile is soft, honest, and sweet, but her artistic intensity burns through. There is a prim, proper curl of her glossy full lips in this perfect formal portrait.

  The other photo is an action shot. Not a spot of makeup, Jayne in threadbare jeans rendered so pale they nearly match her tank top except for defiant blue along the seams. A hammer in one hand, a chisel in the other, her slim torso supports defined, compact muscles as she shapes a huge chunk of marble. Her lower lip is pinched by large front teeth as she focuses on a nude man’s body that emerges from the stone.

  There is little more that I can do at the office now. The faces of my employees, working late on this Friday, turn purposefully away as I pass through the hush toward the elevator.

  Now I can allow the first feeling of joy I’ve had in days.

  Trust me on this: every executive needs a Jayne, or in some cases, a James.

  I lift the loaded dessert fork but linger to admire the presentation.

  Jayne tilts her head and bites her bright-red lower lip expectantly. She always goes all out on Friday night. Though she works so hard all week, Friday night she dedicates to me.

  Gourmet meals are presented across the long formal dining room table that would otherwise have been rendered a sculpture like something in her studio. Tonight she is dressed in a long, black silk gown that clings to her body. The buds around her stiff nipples cast tiny shadows. Her shapely leg, covered in a velvet dark silk stocking, extends from a long, revealing slit.