Bottoms Up

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  As usual, she has intuited what I need, the perfect meal, the perfect environment, the perfect look, the perfect dessert. There’s no need for me to ask.

  Her soft English accent is music: Rs rendered softer than snowfall, Os stretched and breathy. “I worked especially hard on this, love. I hope you will be pleased.” She reads my face. I need not tell her how magnificent it is.

  But I never forget my responsibilities. I’m a terrible cook, but I’m very thorough at cleaning.

  Every night after dinner, even on a Friday like this one, I sequester myself in the kitchen. She takes the free time to relax in the living room in the glow of the plasma TV screen. When I arrive at her side, she curls her knees into my lap and kisses my ear gently. “Thank you, love.”

  Most every night, that is.

  Tonight I move about the kitchen slowly, luxuriating as I ponder what the night may bring when the lights go down and the candles go up in our bedroom, where I’ll be surrounded by inspired erotic art, inhaling Jayne’s musk among carefully crafted blends of incense and fragrant oils.

  Shall we revisit a few old favorites from the Kama Sutra? Perhaps master a few of the more complicated positions?

  It could be that the race of blood to my groin while I ponder that saps my ears. I don’t even hear the door open. Suddenly I hear the clack of high heels very close. I’m surprised to see Jayne hover. Her gown has been replaced by a dark gray suit with a bright-red silk blouse. A jet black choker with a queenly cameo in the center incises her long, slim neck. She draws her glasses down to the tip of her nose and assesses the room.

  “So, this seems to be taking quite a time.” Her voice is beginning to transform, become nasal. Consonants crackle and hiss, vowels become curt. “You missed that bit.” She pats my butt gently then points to a pot that remains on the stove. I didn’t even see this coming!

  “I—I’ll get to—”

  Her hand slaps my ass.

  Why, Lady Jayne? What did I do? She grabs my face in her talon hand and stares in my eyes.

  “Right away, my Lady!” As I scrub the pot, her stare burrows a hole through me. She extends her hand demandingly.

  I quickly remove my belt and hand it to her. I return to the pot. I grunt from the sting of my belt across the back of my pants.

  She holds out her hand again. Her foot taps impatiently.

  “Yes, Mistress.” I unbutton my shirt and take it off. She drapes it on the butcher block.

  I hesitate, and again the belt slashes my butt. “Don’t be a fool, you know what is required.”

  I strip the last of my clothes and stand before her, my hands folded in front of my groin. “But Lady Jayne, I really haven’t—”

  The belt licks my ass like a playful wet towel. “Don’t toy with me!”

  “But really, I’ve been very—”

  The belt slashes my bare butt so hard that I yelp. “Yes, my Lady!”

  I’m sure I’ve made good as Jayne examines the kitchen. A job so thorough it would pass military inspection. Her full red lips curl into a tight smile. At first I’m relieved, but then I read her eyes. Her chest rises and falls steadily, deeply, and she turns her head to one side, her focus never leaving my face. She nods softly.

  “You’ve been especially bad, haven’t you? To the office, lad.”

  The office. My heart pounds harder. “Really, Jayne, I haven’t—” Her knuckles turn white, veins pop on her fist that encircles the buckle of my belt. Her lips part around clenched teeth.

  “Yes, Mistress!” I open the door to the basement and take the large key ring with a single key on it from the peg at the top of the stairs. I feel the thrust of my blood up my throat as I descend the stairs quickly, then wait at the door.

  The slow metronome clack of her heels descends the stairs as I slide the key into the lock; I do not dare turn it. I lower my gaze to the ground as she closes in. The keys sing like evil wind chimes and she opens the door.

  The great mahogany desk looms dead center with two leather wing chairs facing on one side and a posh swivel leather chair on the other. The desk is free of clutter but sports a small layer of dust. A large nameplate declares: MS. JAYNE FELDER, CEO. I try to read Jayne’s eyes but feel the sharp sting of my belt. “There’s filth on that desk.”

  “But Mistress, you insist the office remain locked—”

  “Insolence!” Jayne’s clear soft voice has transformed to a death-metal guitar. She shoves me deep into the room. Amazing how 105 pounds of woman can so easily heft 220 pounds of man. I brace against the desk. She approaches deliberately, and pats my butt playfully.

  “You think you can hide things from me?”

  “Really, Mistress, I’ve been very goo—” The belt slashes yet again.

  “We both know better. Get me a martini. Make it good.” She sits in the swivel chair and points to the cabinet on one side of the room. The cabinet: a paddle, riding crop, handcuffs, and manacles all sway in time as I open the door. I prepare the martini carefully, just as she instructed me in our last session, and bring it to her. She takes a sip. She turns the glasses up toward me and studies me like a kid with a magnifying glass over an anthill on a sunny day.

  Her slim nose crinkles and she rises from her chair. “Lemon?”

  “Yes, Mistress, you said—”

  “You put lemon in my martini?”

  “But—Mistress—”

  “Forearms flat on the desk.”

  “But—”

  She shoves me over the desk and I brace. Her grip hand shoves between my thighs and grips my tight nuts. My throat closes under the pressure. Really, I have been good, it’s been months since I— I swallow hard as she gets her favorite, a cricket bat, the one with holes I lovingly drilled all over it to her specifications, from the cabinet. I remain frozen in position like one of her works as she walks back to me. “Mistress, please, I’ll—”

  “Shut it!” The first snapping thud of the paddle across my butt echoes through the room, then the second and the third. She starts a swing and checks so close I feel the breeze on my butt. I flinch, then allow a deep, relaxing breath. Suddenly she pops me so hard that my cock is bent to the side of the desk like it might break.

  She rubs my buttcheeks, keeps me pressed to the desk. The leather smoothing of her calloused hands is sweet against my throbbing, ultrasensitive flesh. My fear ferments and a forbidden orgasm effervesces in my balls. “It’s as easy to reward as punish. Now tell me what happened this week?”

  “Really, I’ve been very good, Mistress.”

  Her splayed hand connects. This focused sting turns to a strange tickle as she rubs and pats the spot. My cock begins to twitch.

  She grabs the base of my cock like it’s a chisel. “Don’t you dare release!” I draw air like a triathlete at the end of the third leg and try to think of anything but the wonderful sensation of Jayne’s hand coiled around the base of my cock. After a moment, I’m able to open my eyes. The tingling is still there, but it doesn’t feel like I’ll explode down the side of the mahogany desk.

  “Tell the truth.” She strokes my butt gently again.

  “Nothing happened, I’ve been very good, Mistress.”

  Four hard spanks alternate between my cheeks. My cock springs over the lip of the desk and a dollop of come shoots across the leather insert on the desktop. Oh, shit! I fight to rein in any further release.

  A sweet smile trembles on her lips. Her eyes glisten. I know what she expects, but I cannot confess; I’m sure I’m in the right. She walks to the cabinet in torturous, measured steps. Her hand traces the huge, vein-covered black dildo that sits on the shelf between the crystal decanters of vodka and gin. She picks up the dildo and walks around behind me. “You lick that up.” I bend down and lick up my come. She steps between my legs and kicks each out until I’m sprawled so wide I could be a gymnast.

  “Mistress, please—please don’t.”

  I hear the gush of lube. “What happened this week? Come clean.”

  �
��Mistress, really, I’ve been good!” I gulp as lube rims my ass. I exhale. “Please—UNH!”

  The filling sensation splits me as the cold rod deepens with each stroke. “You know better than to lie to me.”

  “Unh—of—course—unh—Miss—Mistress.” Each word escapes when she pulls the long rod nearly completely from me. I choke as it is shoved to full length again. My cock is so hard it pokes my stomach. Precome gushes from the tip, cooling down the long vein. Her free hand slops the juice down my shaft. She pushes at my abdomen as she continues to drive into me as if pumping for oil. The combination of pleasure and pain is too much, and I again feel an orgasm swell.

  “Don’t you dare! You save every drop of that for me!”

  “I—unh—can’t—stop—Mistress—please—I—” I try to collect myself.

  Any man who thinks he is powerful can easily find how powerless he truly is. I’m not talking about the belt, and I’m not talking about the paddle. I’m not even talking about taking a huge, cold splitting dildo, like a Thanksgiving turkey being stuffed.

  True power, or lack of it, can be found in the locomotive might of an orgasm. It’s easier to stop laughing when a most ticklish spot is being relentlessly goaded. It’s easier for an alcoholic to resist a bottle of booze after three days involuntarily dry. Orgasm is a powerful reflex, and the power of its pleasure magnifies this.

  Especially when one is not worthy of pleasure.

  The dildo plies my prostate. I fight the undeniable, unyielding urge as the pressure grows and grows. I cannot let it go. No, I don’t deserve it! My submerged guilt surfaces like a drowning man’s last gasp. “I admit it! I lost control, I blew up at my employees! I was in the wrong!”

  The dildo pops from my ass like a champagne cork. I clamp my eyes tight and focus on the warmth of the desk lamp on my face. Cannot release. Must. Regain. Control.

  I open my eyes after a time to see Jayne in her executive chair, high heels crossed on the top of the desk, the hem of her skirt slicing across her knees. Her fingers drum the arm of the chair. “You could have saved us this trouble by telling me straight-away. We could be making love right now, but you have to be stubborn.”

  “Yes, Mistress. How can I make it up to you?”

  “No reason I should suffer for your transgressions.” She points commandingly under the desk.

  I crawl like a scolded dog into his little house, then turn and face Jayne’s knees. She lifts her butt slightly, and I reach carefully under her skirt, taking care to touch her legs only minimally as I release her garters then grip the sides of her panties between thumb and forefinger. Delicately, I remove the panties, then push the hem of her skirt up her thighs. She eases forward on the chair and spreads her legs just enough for me to do her bidding.

  Her pubic hair is sopping wet when I lean in and taste her. There is a bit of quiver in her legs and hips, and her pussy is softly pliable, but shrinks to my middle finger as I ease it in. She allows my other hand to ascend up her jacket so that I can reach her abdomen.

  I find the magic bud inside the front of her pussy, and I alternate pressing it with my finger as my tongue circles and flicks her hard clit, then abandons it for brief taunts. My hand roams up her blouse. “No, I didn’t—oh—permission—ohh—” I stroke her nipple, then pinch it. “Ohh—” I tug the other nipple “Oh, yes, love!”

  At any other time, in any other room, the word damn from Jayne’s mouth would be more shocking than a Chris Rock diatribe before rabid fundamentalist Christians. Now her voice gets louder and echoes in the cavernous room. “Oh, fuck yes, suck me harder. Please ah—hard—oh, harder!” I draw her clit between the split in my teeth. I insert a second finger and gang up on her G-spot. “Fuck—OH, FUCK!”

  Jayne’s hips pump into me convulsively. A hundred miles away, a man watching a seismograph will jump back while a blast of Jayne’s hot juice, distilled mead from Mount Olympus, squeezes around my fingers, splashes my face. Her hands lace around my skull and force me so tight that I’ll need braces to get my teeth back in place. Her waist shudders, and her pussy pumps in violent waves.

  Her butt collapses, and her arms drain down the sides of the huge chair. She pulls long, deep breaths, then slowly opens her eyes. The tenderness of her smile is back, and her face looks as peaceful as it does when she sleeps in on a weekend. Her face becomes long. The bittersweet moment has arrived.

  My butt remains in delicious, bitter pain. My arms and face are sweetly sore from servicing her. My cock remains painfully stiff as I carefully replace her panties and clip her garters to her stockings. I complete my chores and clean up Jayne’s office from top to bottom, still obediently in the nude.

  She presents me with a soft robe. “You are released, but I remind you that you must remain in firm control of yourself. But if you should not, never try to hide the truth from me.”

  I nod softly. Even in the back of my mind now, having been broken by Jayne again, I know how hard it is to admit I’m wrong.

  Late Sunday night, I still have been denied an orgasm, but not because of Jayne’s insistence. I have savored every moment of the weekend, sleeping nude next to her. I’ve stroked her back and shoulders, like those of a statue of Aphrodite. I’ve brought her to orgasm with my fingers and a vibrator. I have served her coffee in bed, brought her the morning paper, watched her eyes dance in REM with her head lying across my chest deep in the night while my cock throbbed desperately.

  She applied a fragrant balm to my sore butt, and it cooled like an ice compress. She rubbed my sore muscles and offered me every inch of her body again and again.

  But I waited until now to accept. We share a tender, long kiss, arms intertwined. Our tongues introduce like snakes in a mating dance. We curl into a perfect ball; her hands massage my back while my needy cock slowly fills her. I take long strokes in the simplest missionary position. Our bodies move in this slow supple dance. Jayne’s sweet voice softly echoes in the brightly lit room. I kiss her deeply as her vagina begins to pulse. I rise up and study her face crushed in a welling orgasm; her mouth gapes, and that scream, a blend of muse and fury, projects from her. Her feel, her smell, her look, her song all trigger my long-held release. I force my eyes to stay open and lock into Jayne’s dilated gaze as the orgasm explodes from my hard, aching balls into her powerful body.

  We lie intertwined between the satin sheets and catch our breaths.

  She whispers, “Thanks for doing the kitchen, love.”

  “My pleasure. Thank you for the fine meals—and—well, you know.”

  The slightest hint of a wolf’s stare just as quickly drains to an innocent glimmer.

  On Monday, Jayne sips the coffee I brought her while I finish dressing for work. She jumps from bed as I put on my pin-striped jacket. Her nude body collapses to me and colors my suit with the aroma of fresh morning sex and her sweat and the essence of faded lilac perfume. She whispers in my ear, “Be a good boy, love.”

  At work, I apologize to the staff for my unjustified, counterproductive tirades of the previous week. I resolve to calmly help find a solution to the current challenges our company faces. One of my new employees is kind enough not only to accept the apology, but to thank me for being a good boss. I’m embarrassed while he itemizes: “Firm but yielding, decisive but democratic.” He probably thinks it random when I mention Jayne in the conversation.

  But older employees can remember back to my early days as CEO. They remember the tyrant, whose tirades were the rule, not the exception.

  They recall that, shortly after my marriage to a sweet, free-spirited English sculptor, a dramatic change took place. They recall that an arrogant, relentless, and unappreciative boss somehow, somewhere, found the will to bend.

  They forgive when I backslide from time to time.

  Thankfully, Jayne never will.

  Yes, my Lady knows what I need, sometimes better than I do. Every executive needs a Jayne, or in some cases, a James.

  Find your own, this one’s taken.

>   THE SPANKING MACHINE

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  What’s a girl to do when she longs to get spanked by a powerful hand but can never seem to find a man who’ll commit? As a high-powered publicist to celebrities, I’m a bit too butch for most men. Maybe it’s the short blonde hair (do gentleman only prefer generous yellow curls or long straight glossy pale tresses?), or the sharp New York sense of humor, or the fact that I make close to half a million dollars a year. Maybe it’s that I don’t tolerate fools, even ones who know where to land a smack. They might do for a night, but that’s about it. The others say they want a woman who’s a handful, but really that’s the quality they look for in a pair of tits; they’re not looking for a full-fledged actual woman, one with thoughts and opinions.

  At forty-five, I can’t just prowl the bars, and the fetish clubs are a little too intense for me. I want a man who both loves me and loves to make me beg and moan, but until I find him (if I ever find him), I ask again, what’s a kinky girl to do to satisfy her urge to be smacked, spanked, and struck with force? Well, she could go gay, but having a live-in girlfriend isn’t really my thing, much as I love to strap one on now and then or fondle a gorgeous pair of breasts. I believe women can deliver spankings as powerful as those from men—I’ve felt plenty of ’em—but that wasn’t what I was looking for on a permanent basis. I could hire a professional, or likely even hire myself out, a slutty, spankable bottom for hire (in disguise—I do have a reputation to protect), but to me, playing with a partner is only fun if you’re both into each other. What if I wound up with someone I couldn’t stand; would I lower my standards, not to mention my drawers, for a man who repulsed me simply so I could get the paddling I craved?

  There were too many variables in human nature for me to rely on it for my daily quota of spanking, as I’d learned over many long years of kinky deprivation. So, for my pleasure, I’ve taken my fondness for sex toys to a whole new level. You see, more than any other fetish, more than sweet kisses or a hard cock pounding me or anything else, I love to get spanked. Hard. I like to get spanked so firmly that my ass tingles for days on end, so it’s hard to sit down, so I have to think about my bottom every moment of the day. I’m greedy about my spankings; I crave them in a way that’s tough for most of the partners I’ve had to keep up with. Only the kinkiest of souls have managed to give me exactly what I wanted, and they often got tired of keeping up with my increasingly naughty need for degradation.