So as a modern, liberated woman, I decided to take a particularly American approach to the problem, and buy my pleasure in the form of a spanking machine. If that sounds ridiculous, go online and Google those words; you’ll find several models suited to various needs. The more I researched, the more excited I became. After all, I had a collection of powerful vibrators to fuck myself with when there was no one else around (and sometimes even when there was), so why couldn’t a mechanical device help me get my ass-smacking on?
I opted for the Robospanker, because it offered the most intense, hard spanking. I loved the fact that it wouldn’t let up until I told it to, giving me the chance to top from below, which is what I tend to do anyway. Spanking is one of those activities that you just can’t provide for yourself, even with your own hand. So I was willing to set the scene, as long as the machine did the work of making me whimper, making my ass burn, making my pussy throb in the way that only a good spanking can do.
For a moment, as my finger hovered over the PURCHASE NOW button, I had my doubts. It might be 2009, but what would a new lover say if he came over and saw that this machine was his competition? Men are squeamish enough about vibrators, even the battery-operated kind, and this wasn’t the kind of toy I could shove into any drawer or closet, and since I live in Manhattan, I don’t exactly have much by way of storage space. I pictured the scene: a stud and I hot to trot, then he sees this contraption. I could say it was an exercise bench, I supposed. And then I slipped my fingers into my frilly white panties and pictured my olive-colored ass turned a dusky rose, making the contrast against these very same panties even more intense. Tears sprang to my eyes as I tried to recall when I’d last gotten spanked. Oh, yes, Raphael; he’d gotten tired of my constant lateness and hurled me across his lap, ripped my fishnets and panties, and pounded my bottom with his hand until I banged against the floor with my fists, until I almost couldn’t take it anymore, flirting on the edge of giving up. My cunt danced with excitement as I recalled his anger, and I pressed the button, setting the transaction in motion. Of course, a machine wasn’t going to get angry with me, but that part I could supply for myself.
Waiting for it was like having a long-distance lover and pining for his arrival. Every day without it felt shallow and empty to the point that even my clients noticed. “Claire, I think you need to get laid,” one of the most famous actresses in the world said to me, and I knew she was right; she just didn’t know how right. The day the machine was set to arrive, I called in sick and waited anxiously. I couldn’t risk my new master being misdelivered or, heaven forbid, the doorman peering too closely at the box and wondering what exactly it contained. Even though I’m sure the neighbors in my upscale high-rise have heard plenty of moaning, yelling, and spanking coming from behind my door, I’ve never out and out admitted that I’m the girl in twelve-D who likes to get spanked, who likes to role-play, who lets her lovers use and abuse all her orifices after a good, hard smackdown; who loves to wince the next day as she sits down in her skirt suits, wondering if the men who sit across from her at meetings or lunches, the reporters who press her for details, know exactly what’s caused the expression on her face. What I do inside the confines of my well-upholstered apartment is my business.
For the special day, I wore my favorite jeans and a loose white top, leaving the pearly buttons undone to the center of my bra. I went online and read story after story of naughty girls who needed to be spanked. Some of them horrified me; I mean, I’m a middle-aged businesswoman, and I was getting off on the idea of girls half my age getting paddled by their former teachers right after they’d graduated? Well, yes, I was. All those pretty young things in their schoolgirl skirts made me long to be eighteen or nineteen again, innocent and carefree. How I’d wasted my early years, content to do it in the dark, under the covers, missionary or, if I was lucky, on top.
Marco hadn’t even let me suck his cock, telling me that such behavior was unbecoming of a young lady like myself. Of course, when he wasn’t around, I’d spent copious solo masturbation time fantasizing about a man who didn’t give a shit what was ladylike or even what I would be into; he’d take from me exactly what he needed, pulling my hair, slapping my ass, and “forcing” me to suck his cock. Those fantasies got me through countless boring classes, solo expeditions, and even a few sessions with Marco.
And now, perhaps, I was simply doing what I was destined to do: take the spanking that rightly belonged to me. That’s right; this was all about empowerment. I jolted in my seat, feeling heat rising to my cheeks as my doorbell rang, and wondering if I had a just-been-fucked flush on my skin. I buttoned my jeans back up and gave myself a once-over in the mirror, then raced to the door and flung it open. It should say a lot that I barely glanced at the muscular young man before me. He looked like a college student; way too young for me, but that had never stopped me before.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said, almost killing my sex buzz. “Where shall I put this?” I’d pondered and pondered that question, but had opted for the only real space I had available: my living room. The bedroom would’ve been more discreet, but it also would’ve swallowed it. Besides, I live alone and I have the right to get off in any room I damn well please. I’d certainly spent plenty of nights sprawled on my couch with my vibrator pressed against my clit while watching a dirty movie.
I watched him put the box down, then wipe his brow with a handkerchief. “Would you like something to drink?” I asked, more out of rote politeness than any real desire to delay him. I wasn’t looking to seduce him, or even flirt, which was new for me; usually men like him were a challenge to me, a pleasant distraction from the rush of my daily business dealings.
But I’d just plunked down a very healthy amount of cash for something that would distract me any time I wanted, so when he asked for a beer, I just smiled and went to get it. I took one for myself as well, cracking them open and feeling the wetness in my panties as I walked back to him. “Feel free to sit down,” I said, my fingers itching to open the box but willing myself to wait.
“Do you need any…help?” he asked. It was only when the red splotches sprang up on his cheeks that I realized he might have a clue as to the contents of my very special box.
“What kind of help did you have in mind?”
I wasn’t embarrassed, though I was surprised that my secret had somehow been revealed. I truly hoped the company was discreet enough to leave the word spanking off their packaging. “Well, I just…it was pretty heavy, and maybe you need some help assembling…whatever’s inside.” He turned his mouth to the rim of his beer bottle and sucked hard, avoiding my eyes.
“Do you have some special expertise in assembling… machinery?” I asked, making sure he noticed my eyes drop from his face to his crotch.
“Not special, exactly, but I’m handy,” he said after another long sip from the bottle.
“Handy. Hmm…well, maybe you can be of service,” I said, draining my own bottle, then walking over to the box. I slipped my Swiss army knife out of my pocket and neatly sliced through the box. He stood and walked over to me, and I felt that familiar electricity crackle between us, the kind where all you have to be is one person in a room with another and suddenly, no matter their age or sex or anything else, your body reacts in a way that means you want to fuck this person as soon as possible. I would’ve groaned, but I was too intent on getting my machine set up.
He didn’t speak then, just put his hands on the box and slid it away so the spanking machine was revealed, although it didn’t quite look like the BDSM fantasy sex toy of my dreams so much as it really did appear to be an exercise bench. When all the parts were on my living room floor, I just stared at it. It really was going to be up to me to take the reins, to top from below, because the machine wasn’t going to start itself!
“Do you need any help…ma’am?” he asked tentatively. Even though he wasn’t my type—too short, and not take-charge enough to light my subby soul on fire—I paused for a moment as I won
dered whether I did, in fact, want his help; want him to watch me bend over, orchestrate my own submission to a machine made for just such a purpose. Ultimately, I declined, putting a tip in his hand and giving him what I hoped was a mysterious smile. I like to think that he had an inkling what my machine was all about, and went home and jerked off to the image of me getting my bottom smacked again and again.
But I had more important things to worry about. This behemoth in my modest living room was, effectively, my new lover. I had to name him—and yes, it had to be a him. I stroked my hands over the metal, then the spanking implement, the one that would presumably hit me hard enough to make me see stars, the good kind, that would smack every bit of doubt or confusion or depression out of me and leave me simply tingling. I settled on “Hulk,” a beefy, macho name, one that no real man would ever possess. I planned to have a long relationship with Hulk and I worried that if I named him, say, Jerry, I’d someday meet a man with the same name and my fantasies would get muddled.
So I put Madonna on the stereo, opened a bottle of wine, spread out the instructions, and started assembling. The process didn’t take long, but I was nervous about making everything right. There’s nothing worse than being primed for a spanking and then not getting it. After an hour of screwing pieces into place, I had to admit that Hulk looked exactly like he had on the website and in the brochure. I got naked, dropping my clothes on the floor, simply because I could. I changed the CD so that “Hanky-Spanky” was playing. Then I settled myself upon Hulk, my bare pussy meeting the leather of the cushion as my breasts mashed against the upper part of the seat.
I kissed Hulk for good measure, then secured my arms into the slots for them, a simulacrum of bondage since I could, of course, escape. Then, holding the remote control in my hand, I pressed it, and down came the mechanical arm to smack my right cheek. “Yes,” I hissed to myself, as the familiar feel of being spanked echoed through my body. It didn’t matter that the only human involved in the process was me. I love submission, yes, but I also love the pure physical joy of getting spanked good and hard, and I had started out not at the lowest level, but one of the middle settings.
I squirmed excitedly as Hulk’s next blow landed. I shut my eyes and cleared my mind as best I could. The smacks continued at a steady clip, and soon I was lost in the same sweet spanking sensations I’d been craving. It didn’t matter that they weren’t coming from a human hand; in a way, it was even better, because unless I’m with someone truly wicked, in the back of my mind there’s often that niggling concern that they’re getting bored or their hand is stinging or they’ll be expecting something from me. All the Hulk expected was my bare bottom. I kissed the seat and spread my legs, relishing the wetness as I turned the dial to get the machine to spank me harder.
It really kicked into gear and I whimpered, the pain shooting through my lower half. I held on tight, lifting my ass slightly to make the whacks come even faster. While of course the machine could never rival a human in disciplinary tactics, it seemed to make up for it with the stern, even whacks it doled out. Yes, I had the ultimate power to stop it, but I didn’t want to. It was like the machine was testing me, and I was testing the machine; who would win? I wanted to hold out as long as possible, at least, until I couldn’t anymore.
As I let myself go to the highest level of spanking, where the whacks came so fast and furious it was like one continuous smack, I started to go to another place, as if I were looking down on myself. I wasn’t sobbing or whining or begging; I became one with the machine. I plunged my fingers into my pussy with one hand, shifting around so my entire broad bottom could get its spanking fix. When I came, my fingers were drenched, and when I finally got it together to press STOP, the world seemed quiet, like it had stopped entirely in the time it took me to get spanked. I cleaned off the machine, then examined my butt; indeed, its normally pale skin was marked by pink lines and an overall reddish tone. Even better, all that misplaced sexual energy that had been churning through me, looking for a proper kinky outlet, had found it. I felt at peace, truly satisfied, even though I hoped to someday be able to share my machine with a lover.
I plan to write to the company that makes my spanking machine praising them, and suggesting some additions for future models. I hope that with advances in technology, new versions will be able to speak to the user and tell her what a naughty girl she’s been, along with reading her body temperature and movements and sensing when she needs a stronger spanking, even if she’s not quite ready to request it. For now, though, I have a daily date with my spanking machine. I usually use it in the morning, when others are going to the gym to use other, slightly more masochistic machines. I walk out of my building with a grin that has everything to do with my blushing bottom—and being able to afford the best spankings money can buy.
STUFFING THE BALLOT BOX
Andrea Dale
It was one of the biggest moments of her life.
It ranked up there with falling in love with Will, completing her first marathon, graduating law school at the top of her class, and saying “I do.”
It superseded them all except falling in love.
And it had to be perfect.
“Champagne, ma’am?”
“Thank you,” Tabitha said, smiling at the tuxedoed waiter. She’d indulged in only half a glass in the last two hours, and she’d just carry this one for show. She couldn’t allow herself to get the least bit off her form.
Not one misstep.
Which of course is when she noticed that not only was the tray of lobster empanada on the buffet table empty, but someone had knocked over a crystal bowl of cocktail sauce, and a crimson stain soaked into the crisp white linen tablecloth.
They said politics were murder, but that didn’t mean it had to look like it.
She turned to find the waiter, but he’d moved into the crowd.
Before she could do anything else, a hand touched her arm, claiming her attention.
“Congressman Fahringer,” she said. Dammit. “I can’t believe we haven’t had a chance to talk yet.”
She couldn’t be rude and walk away; she needed his support. She resisted the urge to bite her lip, sip champagne, anything that would telegraph her minor panic at the mess on the table which, while it wouldn’t make or break her career, would nonetheless attract negative feedback.
Then Will stepped into view. In one casual movement, he slid a plate of prosciutto-wrapped asparagus over the soiled linen and picked up the empty tray. With his free hand he rearranged a few more dishes so the table didn’t look as though anything was missing. He slipped the tray to a passing waiter, caught Tabitha’s eye, and winked.
Bless him. There was no way she could do this without him, no possible way she could schmooze and campaign and solicit donations without him in the background, somehow seeing to every tiny detail, leaving her free to do what she needed to do.
She chatted with the congressman, and then it was time. She took a deep breath.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Tabitha McAndrews.”
She found Will in the crowd, mouthed “Thank you” at him, and stepped up to the podium.
“So, how does it feel to be an official candidate for the U.S. Senate?” Will asked.
“Terrifying,” Tabitha said. “Exhilarating. Exhausting.”
“You don’t look exhausted,” he commented, leaning back against the pillows. His tie was gone, his shirt open. He had a swimmer’s build, long and lean with sleek muscles. He looked gorgeous.
She was, but she wasn’t. Allowing herself a full glass of wine, she paced the bedroom, pausing only to munch on the extra hors d’oeuvres Will had somehow managed to smuggle into the limo without anyone else noticing. Part of her wanted to collapse from the strain of the past weeks; the other part was so wired that sleep was an alien concept.
“Do you need to relax?” Will asked.
The question seemed innocent. The tone of his voice never changed. But Tabitha stopped in her tracks, and a shiver cou
rsed through her body. Her nipples tingled.
As innocent as it sounded, she knew exactly what he meant.
Outside of the bedroom, they were equals, partners. Each stepped up to the plate to support the other whenever needed.
Inside the bedroom, it was a different story altogether.
Oh, she always had the right of first refusal, could always say, “Not tonight,” and he’d trust her judgment that she needed a full night’s sleep or even another review of an upcoming speech before she turned off the light.
All it took from her was a simple agreement, and the rules changed. The balance shifted.
Tonight, it was definitely what she needed.
“Yes,” she said, and felt a wave of relief with that single word.
He was on his feet in an instant. Behind her, he gently kneaded her tight shoulders. His lips pressed against the side of her neck and she smelled his shampoo. She put down the wine.
“Go get undressed,” he said.
In their walk-in closet, she stripped out of her jacket, skirt, blouse, underwear, and stockings. As she did, she felt some of the tension slip away. She was removing the armor, so to speak. It left her vulnerable, yes, but it also took away some of the burden—a reminder that she didn’t have to be in charge, didn’t have to be “on” anymore.
Bottoms Up Page 13
