We put our clothes back on and exchanged contented, relaxed pleasantries for half an hour before George pulled her green coat back on and wished us goodnight. I excused myself to the bathroom, to examine the damage. I ran my hand over my ass, reveling in each bump and bruise, and eventually I took my hand mirror out of its drawer, stood on the toilet so my uncovered ass was facing the sink, and peered at George’s handiwork.
George had drawn a cartoon of herself on all fours, ass in the air, with the words NEXT TIME written beside it.
I’M GOING TO GRAB YOUR HAIR
N. T. Morley
You’ve been asking for it, you need it, and you’re about to get it. I’m going to grab your hair and bend you over and lift your skirt way up over your ass.
You’ll squirm, I’m sure. You’ll wriggle and writhe and whimper and maybe even plead a little bit, which will make my cock go hard against the heaving flesh of your tits and your thighs and your belly. You’ll feel it, and that’ll make you squirm harder, plead more, because you know what every proper spanking leads to—a proper fuck.
Then I’m going to grip your hair tight and tell you to hold your skirt. You won’t need to hold it, really; it’ll be so fucking tight, cinched around the swell of your perfect round hips. But I like telling you to hold your skirt up, because it’s such a dirty thing to do. Holding your skirt up to be spanked is like begging for it, as if you aren’t always begging for it with the wiggle of your hips and the poise of your body and the way you wave that perfect ass in front of me in those impossibly tiny skirts, so fucking short how could I be expected to do anything except bend you over my knee? Plus holding your skirt up takes your flailing hands out of commission; it’ll give them something to do while I’ve got you bent over and spread and hungry for it.
If you hesitate when I tell you to hold your skirt, I’ll tighten my hand and pull your hair a little and bend down low and growl at you that you’re going to do everything I say and then some, that you’re holding your skirt up so that I can strip and spank and finger you. That’ll make you do what I say—it always does, when I pull and grope and growl, because when you hear my voice all hard and nasty you always know it’s your place to be over my knee, open and stripped and spread.
I’ll slide my hand between your spread legs. If you’ve got on one of those slutty little thongs that make you so wet to wear, you’ll feel my cock get harder against you, and you’ll feel that warm thrill that makes you even wetter as you remember how much I fucking love them, those skimpy tiny things that just broadcast what a slut you are. I love pulling them to the side and stroking or fucking or fingering you, which is what I’ll do—finger, that is, a firm caress up your juicy slit, a stroke across your clit, two fingers into your tight dripping flesh, and you go wet and writhing all over my lap. But I’ll have dirtier things in mind, which is why I’m going to pull your hair tight and tell you to remain very still while I get the slim knife off my belt.
You’ll hold still, then, you’ll stop squirming, because you hear the click of the blade. I’m going to pull your panties down over your ass so I can get at the waistband. I’ll gently shave the sharp edge across your pert perfect ass and nudge the long slim stiletto under the fabric. First one side, then the other will go tight then limp with barely a whisper—I always keep my knife very sharp. With two easy slices I’ll reduce your slut thong to a strip of moist fabric, leaving the crotch intact. If it’s wet, which it will be, I’ll reach over and force your mouth open and stick in your ruined panties so you can smell and taste your own mounting arousal and know how bad you’ve been. And you’ve been bad, baby, you always are, and you’re about to be much, much worse. Grabbed and bent over and stripped with a knife; spread and about to be spanked like a helpless little slut, and all you can do is whimper and writhe and drip and beg for it with the pumping wriggle of your hips and thighs and ass. That’s a bad, a very, very bad girl. You have only yourself to blame for this, darling—but I’ll still expect you to thank me later.
You might think your slutty little skirt is too cute and sexy to ruin, especially since you put it on my credit card. But you’ll be wrong. When I grab your hair tighter and put the knife in my mouth so I can slide my right hand between your legs and feel how fucking wet you’ll be getting, I’ll decide you’re about to be stripped. I’ll feel it, your cunt, smooth, shaved, spread, slick. That’s a girl who needs to be stripped, I’ll decide, and take the knife back into my hand and growl at you to remain still. You will, or try to. But you’ll be breathing so hard with arousal that your tits heave against my thighs. You’ll feel the pressure against the sides of your tiny skirt: a neat slice through the stretchy bunched fabric and it comes off in a strip. You’ll still be holding it high for me when it disintegrates in your hands. Next will come your top: one shoulder strap an easy slice, neck-line to midback another, then a quick pull with my hand and it will turn to shreds. Your bra I could unclasp, but why would I? It’ll be gone in an instant, neatly placed slashes leaving the straps ruined. I’ll close the knife and put it in my pocket and clear the whole mess of ruined clothing away, pulling it off your wriggling and writhing body and throwing it on the floor in a pile.
Muffled moaning will come from your mouth as you see your clothes in front of you. You’ll hear the snap of the cuff holder on my belt, feel me seize your wrist and gently guide your arm behind you. You’ll hear the click clack click of the cuff, feel it cold around your wrist. Your other arm will be limp and compliant as I finish cuffing you, leaving you suspended over my knee, helpless. It’s always a hard decision with you: cuff your wrists behind you or feel you grip my leg as I punish you over my knee? This time, I’ll cuff your wrists because I want you helpless, because you’ve been asking for it, and if I let you forget you’re under my control, you might be just too damn pleased with yourself at getting what you want. That’s always a danger with a woman like you, but it’s so easily remedied with a simple pair of police cuffs.
You’ll be naked, then, except for those red shoes you bought specifically to tempt me, Jennifer. The hot red fuck-me pumps that I always think of as spank-me pumps. They do things to your legs, baby; they do things to your ass—how could I be expected to do anything except take you over my lap and spank you? No way in hell, baby, no way in hell.
Feeling yourself naked over my lap—helpless, horny, dripping—you won’t surrender, then, but you just might give up.
I’ll caress your ass, feel the swell, test the texture of the sweet spot with a pinch, a harder pinch, and finally the hardest pinch of all, at last seizing the muffled gasp I want from behind your panties. You’ll tense as I raise my hand; I’ll pause, you’ll relax, and I’ll hit you.
Your ass will surge up to meet my blow, but don’t worry, baby, I’ve spanked enough perfect female derrieres to know how to compensate, and the first blow will land right where it’s supposed to. What surprises you the most, though, will be how hard I hit you—haven’t I ever heard of a warm-up? No, baby, no I haven’t. When I feel your body shuddering, I’ll grip your hair harder, pull it tight to hold you in place, lean down so you can feel the pressure of my body against you. Then I’ll strike you again, my hand open and slightly cupped against the flawless curve of your asscheek, making a loud slapping sound that I’m sure will make your pussy gush, if it isn’t already.
The panties will have slipped from your mouth, soaked with spit, ruined and wet atop your pile of shredded clothes. I’ll thrust my fingers into your mouth and feel you licking and sucking at them as I punish you. Then I’ll slide them out, glistening, and put my hand into your hair again, gripping its thick lushness tight, pulling it, holding you in place. I’ll hold you there hand-in-hair, my eyes locked on yours, so that when I feel how wet you’ve gotten I can enjoy the look on your face. Then two fingers will go in, easy as pie since you’re gushing slick around them, and your eyes will roll back. I’ll work them deep, spreading your lips; I’ll fuck you with three, four, five, maybe six or eight thrusts, the pads of
my fingers feeling the swell of you as your arousal grows; then pull them out and feel the wetness all around your clit, feel how swollen it’s gotten. You won’t be moaning now, just hungry gasps of air as I begin to fuck and rub you rhythmically, pushing you closer every second to orgasm.
It’s when you’re close that I’ll make you work; I’ll raise my hand without warning and bring it down hard. Not on your ass this time, but on your pussy.
You’ll gasp and your body will surge against me as I spank your sex. I’ll spank it slow at first, ten or twenty blows, building the sensation, then faster, hitting hard, making sure the ball of my middle finger lands exactly on your clit. I’ll see the sensation washing over you. You won’t be sure you can take it at first, but I’ll know you can—or will, which is just about the same thing, Jennifer, and infinitely more delicious. I’ll feel your body tensing. I’ll spank your cunt faster. I’ll feel you approaching. I’ll hear the cry from your lips. I’ll grip your hair hard and hold you bent over and spank your pussy until you come. The moans coming from you will be crazed, rapturous; the undulating movements of your body unmistakably those of female orgasm. You could never fake this, not that you’d need to.
You’ll still be moaning and whimpering, not even in afterglow mode, still coming, when I hold you firmly in my arms and guide you onto your knees. You’ll be kneeling naked in front of me before you’ve come to your senses; you’ll hear the sound of my buckle and my zipper and you’ll smell the scent of my cock. It’ll be time to thank me for giving you what you need, baby, and you’ll thank me in the only way that makes sense.
Your mouth will be open and wet and drooling and hungry; eagerly, desperately compliant. When I slide my cock into your softness it’ll get suddenly firmer as you obediently suck. I’ll relax into the chair as you surge forward onto me. Your head will bob up and down rhythmically; you’ll want me to come. You’ll want me to come fast, not to get it over with, but because spanking you always makes you like this—hungry. It’s always so much harder without your hands, baby, isn’t it? When you’re sucking cock free range, you always wrap your hand around my shaft and stroke it like an expert so you can control the exact moment I come—and you’re so fucking good at it you can get me off in seconds when you want to. Now, though, you’ll have to use your mouth. The glow in your eyes as you look up at me will be equal parts savoring the experience and frustration with having to wait for my come. But the picture of you kneeling and naked, your hands straining against the cuffs, will be way too pretty for me to ever consider releasing you.
Besides, you’re the best fucking cocksucker who ever walked the earth, and if your supple tongue and full tight lips aren’t enough to bring me over the edge fast, the sound of little whimpers coming from deep in your throat will do it in a heartbeat.
I’ll wait until the exact moment I know you’ve brought me off. Then I’ll snake my fingers back into your hair, both hands this time, and I’ll hold you in place with my cock just deep enough, as you let out a squeal of delight. I’ll come in your mouth with a sigh or a grunt or a shudder, maybe all three at once, and you’ll look up at me as your eyes water with the heat and taste and texture of it gliding down your throat.
Since I’ll be holding your hair, pulling it, you’ll finish me with nothing more than the undulating pressure of your hungry tongue, the suction of your lips tight around my cockhead. When my fingers go soft in your hair, your head will bob again, this time until I gasp; then you’ll laugh wickedly like the little slut you are, give me a last long succulent lick, and lower your face into my lap.
I’ll mewl a bit; maybe I’ll be panting. I’ll caress you, stroke your face, run my fingers over your shoulder as you kneel with your face in my lap. You’ll be utterly relaxed, moaning softly in satisfaction. You’ll feel my hands all over you, gently stroking your shoulders and your neck while I relax and rest and recover.
But it won’t be long, baby, it won’t be long. It never is, when you’re nude and cuffed and kneeling, your face in my crotch. No, it won’t be long at all. You’ll feel me stirring, feel a pressure against your lips. You’ll give a little whimper of excitement. You’ll probably laugh, because you know the night’s not over. You’ll kiss me and stroke me with your tongue; you’ll feel me get fully hard again, and you’ll look up at me with those big eyes of yours as if to say, “Please?”
And then, baby, I’m going to grab your hair.
FLAMING
Jean Roberta
Lorne studied his canvas as intently as another man would study a drunk who had just insulted him in a bar. He had tried to sketch a raging goddess, but the pencil outline on the white background didn’t match the vision in his head.
The moody young man stood close to his front-room window, as usual, so that he could add colors to the canvas by natural light. He had no idea that someone he knew was studying his long nose, his intense dark eyes, his messy brown hair, and his sculpted body from the short distance between two of the apartment buildings in University Row.
Lorne was a perfectionist who was never satisfied with himself. At twenty, he had the cynicism of a gifted child who has always been disappointed by the limitations of the adult role models in his life, and sometimes by his own human failings.
He had vague plans to finish his first degree in fine arts before moving to a bigger, more interesting city to set the art world on fire. He could imagine flirting coolly with art collectors, dropping double entendres and subtexts on their overprivileged heads before slipping out to the most decadent bars to find shameless playmates to play outrageous games with. He especially wanted to explore the various possibilities of sex with men: athletic types who could be outwitted, queenly types who needed to be treated like girls, Daddy models who secretly wanted to be controlled. But real breasts and womanly hips also intrigued him.
It was clear to Lorne that he couldn’t do any of the things he imagined while living in the same town with his parents, who ran an accounting firm. He felt as if he had been born in the wrong place at the wrong time. He couldn’t sense the desire of his watching admirer, who wanted to kiss every inch of his bare skin.
Lorne stood up to stretch, and the watcher noticed the way his loose cotton yoga pants skimmed over his tight ass and hinted at the shape of his legs. The watcher silently willed Lorne to turn around in a patch of bright sunlight so that his cock and balls would cast shadows inside his pants. Lorne reached over his own head to tug at his other elbow, framing his face with his strong arms. “Beautiful, man,” muttered the watcher.
Lorne paced the floor. His vision of the goddess laughed at him in his mind’s eye, billowing out of the mouth of a volcano in bursts of flame and clouds of smoke, flaunting her shape-shifting, unsubstantial nature, then posing as a voluptuous tawny-skinned woman.
He knew what he needed: a human model. He could see beauty in bodies that were clearly male, clearly female, or a tantalizing combination of both. The goddess in his mind had a masculine aspect. Lorne wanted someone, anyone reasonably attractive, to pose for him.
The buzzer sounded. “Who is it?” Lorne asked the intercom. He sounded resentful.
“Matthew,” answered a hopeful tenor voice. “I’m returning your book.” It had taken Lorne’s classmate several hours of watching to work up the courage to walk over.
“Come in.” Lorne pressed the button to let him into the building.
Matthew scampered down the hallway to Lorne’s door. “Hi,” he told Lorne’s noncommittal face. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“I’m working on a piece for the spring prize,” Lorne explained. He enjoyed inspiring guilt in others, who rarely guessed how much he inflicted on himself. “You could help.” He accepted the art book that Matthew had borrowed and tossed it onto a chair.
“Sure! What can I do for you?” Matthew’s honest, freckled face showed his eagerness to please. He tried to get his breathing under control.
“Have you ever done drag?”
Matthew flushed,
remembering his father’s reaction to his interest in his mother’s clothes when he was a preschooler. He wondered if he were flamingly obvious. “Well, sort of, I mean in drama class, but not, you know—” He took a deep breath. “What do you have in mind?”
“I want to paint the Hawaiian goddess of volcanoes. In oils. She’s a passionate woman with a lot of power and charisma. When she’s pissed off, she bursts into flame. I need to get her facial expression and body language.”
Matthew looked at Lorne, who looked steadily back at him. “Well, dude? Can you the play the role of a goddess, or not? I haven’t got all day.”
Matthew took a deep breath. He hadn’t imagined being given such a challenge, but he didn’t want to see himself reflected as a hopeless loser or a philistine in the eyes of his idol. “D-do you want me to sit or stand?”
Lorne studied Matthew’s pale, thin, graceful body in a faded T-shirt and ripped jeans. “Try crouching behind the big plant there as if you’re in a tropical rain forest. I’ll get something to wrap around you.” Lorne went into his bedroom, where Matthew didn’t dare follow him. Lorne emerged holding a sheer orange curtain with pleats at one end.
Matthew had already kicked off his shoes. He pulled a potted plant with huge leaves to the middle of the room and knelt behind it as though he were trying to hide from a predator.
Lorne groaned. “You’re supposed to be a force of nature, Matt.” Lorne stood behind him, exuding a smell of men’s cologne that went straight to Matthew’s crotch, making him shift uncomfortably. Lorne didn’t help the situation at all when he wrapped the curtain around Matthew’s arms and shoulders.
Bottoms Up Page 15
