Marianne shrugged her shoulders. “Well, it depends on what we feel like. Our hands, of course, brushes, paddles, rolled-up newspapers and magazines, dildos –”
“Dildos?”
She nodded. “Why don’t I just show you our collection of disciplinary devices?”
“Why don’t you?” I almost shouted, my face turning red and my body hot as I had a mental flash of beautiful Marianne savagely spanking hunky Roger’s bare bum with a dildo. Roger is a big, blond, macho type of guy, and the thought of him getting disciplined with a plastic cock by his petite, polite wife left me light-headed and tingling all over, and wondering if Marianne wasn’t on to something here.
“Follow me,” she said, pushing back and gracefully sliding out of her chair. She winked at me and then strolled out of the kitchen and down the hall, her hips swaying suggestively under her shark-coloured dress.
I slammed my coffee cup down in its saucer, cracking both, and hurried after her, the two of us colliding just inside her bedroom door. She laughed and steadied me, her smooth, slender hands cool on my hot, sun-burnished skin, and then she guided me over to an antique dresser that crouched against a wall in the tastefully appointed room. She pulled the top drawer open, and we stood there, bare shoulder to bare shoulder, looking down at a neatly arrayed collection of butt-warming tools: switches, yardsticks, steel batons, paddles, hair brushes, a riding crop, and, yes, dildos.
“Wow!” I exhaled. “How long have you and Roger been doing this? Spanking each other, I mean?”
“Oh, about a year now, I suppose.”
I picked up a monstrous, blue-black double-dong and held it in my hand, marvelling at its length and thickness, its heft. Then I whispered, as if I was holding a sacred object in a place of worship, “How does getting whipped with this thing feel?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Marianne replied matter-of-factly.
I jerked my head sideways and gaped at her. “Huh? Oh, no . . . I couldn’t . . . I –”
“You want to reclaim your sex life, or not?” she said bluntly, her soft, sweet voice grown decidedly harsher. Her eyes were hard and intimidating, her full lips parted slightly as if she was having trouble breathing.
I was having trouble breathing. I dropped the heavy-duty, two-pronged dildo and took a step backwards. “I guess maybe I better get –”
“You’re not going anywhere!” Marianne barked, scooping up the lewd sex toy and roughly grabbing my elbow.
I glanced anxiously from her hand to her face, and her expression of unbending determination told me that I’d better play along. Plus, my own blossoming desire to find out just what that dildo did feel like kept me rooted to the ground. “Okay, okay. I-I’m willing to give it a try,” I stammered. No risk, no reward, right?
“Good,” Marianne replied crisply. She let go of my arm and walked over to the large canopy bed that dominated the room, sat down stiffly on the side of it. She held the wicked-looking cock-substitute in her right hand and patted her tiny lap with her left. “Come over here and accept your punishment. Now!”
Sweat grew on my forehead and the palms of my hands, and my legs turned into two overcooked noodles. My whole body was numb and my head was spinning, but somehow I managed to stagger over to Marianne. I stood in front of her like a nervous schoolgirl, my hands trembling, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
“You’ve been a bad girl, haven’t you!?” she rebuked me, slapping the giant dildo hard across the palm of her small, delicate hand.
The warm, caring woman I had known only moments before was gone, replaced by a cold, aggressive, and aroused dominatrix (I could clearly see her rigid nipples indenting the thin fabric of her dress). I suspected, as well, that her pussy was probably as wet as mine. She grabbed my hand and pulled me down onto her lap, bent me over her knees as if I was a ten year-old girl who’d just been caught smoking.
“This is for your own good,” she declared, and then smacked my bottom with the rubber hose.
“God!” I shrieked, instantly amazed at the intensity of my reaction. It hadn’t really hurt, but everything, every feeling, every action and reaction, seemed incredibly magnified in the crackling, sexually tense atmosphere of that bedroom. I was wearing only a flimsy summer dress and a pair of panties, and the thin fabric of those two garments provided sweet little cushioning for my bottom against Marianne’s wicked love-stick.
She gripped my neck to hold me securely in place, and then whacked my bum again with the dildo, harder this time. I fought to catch my breath and blood rushed to my head and thundered in my ears. She smacked my butt again and again with her heavy spank toy, harder and harder, faster and faster, pounding my arse in an ever-more vicious rhythm.
“Fuck!” I groaned, and twisted my dizzy head around to steal a look at Marianne. Her sky-blue eyes were wide and glassy, her face crimson, her white teeth biting sharply into her pink tongue. I dropped my head back down and stared blindly at the carpet, the searing pain in my ass being fanned into flames by Marianne’s relentless spanking.
She beat me unmercifully with the ebony pussy-plunger, and yet, even as she flailed away at my burning bottom, something clicked in my overwrought brain, and I mentally switched gears and the pain suddenly and unexpectedly began to dissipate. It became something I could control as I realized that Marianne would never really hurt me. I channelled the white-hot anguish from my throbbing bum into my drenched pussy, so that each time she smacked me, a jolt of raw sexual energy blasted my pussy and permeated my body.
“You’re not hurting me!” I screamed defiantly, slobber spilling out of my mouth and onto the carpet, my transformation from victim to spank-vixen complete.
She angrily pushed up my dress and pulled down my panties, her long nails scratching the inflamed surface of my bottom as she frantically sought to expose me to even greater punishment, and pleasure. “This’ll teach you a lesson!” she hissed, her chest heaving, her hands damp and shaking as she roughly adjusted my clothing to give herself the maximum bare target area.
“Yes!” I jeered when she lashed the flexible, two-headed dong across my naked arse with a resounding smack. My plump buttocks trembled, I trembled, as Marianne whaled my behind, raining down blows that blistered me from pink to scarlet.
Then she forced my legs apart and scrubbed my dripping cunt with the two-girl fuck-rod. She alternated between laying a licking on my butt and urgently buffing my pussy. The feeling was incredible and, before I even knew what was happening, my cunny exploded and I was rocked by orgasm. She savaged my bare bottom with stinging wallop after wallop, rubbed my drenched pussy, and a tidal wave of heat churned through my quivering body and consumed me, leaving me devastated in its wake. I came with a pain-induced intensity that I’d never have believed possible, and then lay limp and shattered across Marianne’s knees when she halted her furious beating.
“How did that feel?” she asked after a while, lightly stroking my dewy neck and gently rubbing my swollen bum. “I wasn’t too hard on you, was I?” She had reverted back to the Marianne of old, the Marianne I’d known exclusively before she picked up that black cock-replacement and pummelled my bottom like a woman possessed.
I sucked some humid air into my tortured lungs and wearily shook my head. She helped me regain my footing, and we both stared in awe at the reflection of my brick-red butt in the mirror above the dresser. “That’s gonna leave a mark,” I joked sheepishly, tentatively petting my ravaged behind. There were already white ridges forming where she had applied the dildo extra-hard.
I gingerly pulled up my panties and lowered my dress, then gave Marianne a big, heartfelt hug. “Thanks for all your help,” I said, tears in my eyes.
“Sometimes a little hurt is the best help a friend can give,” she responded, her own eyes glittering.
When Jim finally got home from work later that night, I could hardly wait to show him the visible proof of what I had learned from my good friend Marianne that afternoon. I bared my battered bottom f
or him as he changed out of his suit and into a T-shirt and jeans.
“Holy shit!” he yelped, bending down to get a closer look at my tender, tortured petoot. “Marianne did that to you?”
“She spanked me silly, yup,” I replied.
He pressed a finger against my warm tushy, and shook his head in amazement when the white mark he left behind was quickly swallowed by red. “Christ almighty,” he muttered, then straightened up. “What in hell brought all this on?”
“Oh, one thing sort of led to another,” I remarked casually. “You know, sometimes girls like to play rough.”
“Uh-huh. It looks like it must’ve hurt – a lot.”
I turned around to face him, a mischievous smile spreading across my puffy lips. “It did . . . at first, but once I got into it – really got into it – it didn’t hurt at all; it felt good. Would you like me to demonstrate?”
He retreated a few steps when I drew one of Marianne’s yardsticks out from under our bed and advanced on him. “Hey, wait a minute, Kate! What’d you think you’re going to do with that?” he babbled.
“Naughty boy!” I said fiercely. “Don’t you know that you’re not supposed to talk back?” After Marianne had helped me ice down my flaming bum, she’d taught me how to use her various instruments of obedience – for maximum enjoyment.
Jim laughed nervously. “C’mon, Kate, there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you –”
“You come on, Jim!” I responded angrily, then moderated my voice. “Do you want to spice up our sex life, or not?”
He mulled that over for a moment, watching me warily as I slid the long, hard, wooden ruler back and forth in my hands. Then he abruptly unbuckled and unzipped his pants, let them fall at his feet. “I’ve been a bad boy,” he said with equal parts contrition and inquiry.
“That’s better. Your underpants, too.” I smacked the measuring stick across my hand.
He stepped out of his jeans and tugged down his Jockeys, never taking his eyes off of me and my spanking device. His thick cock sprung out, already partially inflated. I ordered him to bend over and place his hands on the edge of the bed, and he quickly complied. His big, bare arse presented an excellent target for my erotic anger. He gripped the bedcovers and spread his legs, then had the audacity to wiggle his bum at me.
I smacked his pale arse lightly with the yardstick, giving him a taste. “Don’t get cheeky with me, mister,” I intoned, getting in position on the left side of his exposed bottom.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“What?”
“I’m sorry!”
I swatted his round butt, harder this time, and an inch-wide line of red flashed across his taut buttocks and then winked out. I hit him again, and again and again, the three-foot ruler making a cracking sound as I whacked it against my husband’s ass. He moaned, and began tugging on his now fully engorged cock as he clung to the bed with one hand. He thrust his bottom even higher into the air, begging me to hammer him all the more.
I walloped his jiggling buns repeatedly as he fisted his cock and groaned with a mixture of pain and pleasure. The yardstick whistled through the air and crashed into his derriere over and over, his cute caboose flushing as red as my face. His cries got more and more urgent, telling me that he was close to coming – too close, too soon, in my opinion. “You’re not going to get off that easy!” I yelled at him, and halted my sensual ass abuse. An idea had occurred to me – an extremely nasty, dirty idea.
He twisted his head around and dropped his rock-hard erection, gingerly touched his overheated backside. “Please, Kate,” he whined. “I was almost there.”
“Oh, you’ll get there,” I assured him. “But you’re going to have a little more help.” I tugged open the bottom drawer of my bedstand, rummaged around, and plucked out the eight-inch red dildo that I’d been relying on far too often lately.
Jim stared unbelievingly at me as I slowly and sexily tongued and sucked the big, plastic faux-cock, getting it all nice and wet. Then he squealed with alarm when I suddenly shoved the bulbous head of the spit-slick pussy-pleaser hard against his clenched pucker. “It’s not going to fit, Kate!” he shrieked.
I thumped his ass with the yardstick. “I warned you about talking back,” I sternly warned him again, then laid another hiding on his cooling posterior with the wooden sex toy. Once his ass was violently ablaze again, I retrieved the container of lube Marianne had generously given me, and sprayed some of it on my old faithful, and Jim’s starfish.
“You’re such a baby,” I said contemptuously as he whimpered. Then I prodded the head of the slippery dildo into his arsehole.
He desperately tried to reach back and spread his twitching, tenderized pillows as I relentlessly jammed the unbending cock into him. Inch by hardened inch I slowly sank the dildo into his virgin anus, until all but the base was securely lodged in his chute. I wiggled it around, and he grunted and buried his face in the bedspread.
‘Hold it in your arse!” I commanded, and let go of the preformed prick and took a step back. I whipped the yardstick around in the air a couple of times to limber up my arm again, refresh Jim’s memory, and then slashed it across his beet-red butt cheeks, started flogging him all over again.
“Fuck, yeah!” he screamed, grabbing his enraged dick and pumping it.
I smacked the arse-mounted dildo and his bum at the same time, sending shivers throughout his charged body. He frantically jacked his meat, his hand a blur, his legs shaking as I spanked and spanked his violated arse. Then he bellowed my name and jerked thick ropes of semen out of his pulsating cock.
I kept right on smacking his inflamed, dildo-stuffed arse with my borrowed tree chunk, as he sprayed a huge load of sperm onto our carpet and bed. He was punished for that, as well.
. . My fantasy friend, Marianne, certainly gave me some good advice that day – and one heck of a help-yourself orgasm as I dreamed about her giving me that advice, my passing that advice onto Jim – but when I actually worked up the nerve to discuss the possibility of spanking with Jim for real, he simply laughed it off. Then he gave me his standard, two-minute, missionary position sexing. That’s led me to conclude that maybe it’s about time I made myself up a sexually open, good-looking, male friend. I’m sure Marianne knows someone.
Encore Performance
Autumn (Porterville, USA)
“All the world’s a stage . . .” I prefer to think of it as a movie. How ideal it would be to create my own reality – to leave the imperfect scenes of my life on the cutting room floor, to be the star in my unfulfilled fantasies, to direct the actions of co-stars of my own acquaintance and choosing engaged with me in the pursuit of my innermost desires.
It’s my personal escape, my frequent fantasies unbound and uncensored by the harsh reality of my entrapment in this suburban ulcer buried in the agricultural belly of California.
So let the curtain rise and let’s light up the silver screen with the projection of a little X-rated version of my “reel life” . . .
My Friday nights had become a social desert, with not even a mirage of a sexual oasis in sight. I had been restless, so restless, with the need to get out and not have to go deaf listening to my thoughts echo throughout the emptiness between these walls. I swigged the last mouthful of wine from my glass – cold wine, chilly as the blood coursing through my veins towards the reheating furnace of my heart – and turned out the lights, locking solitude behind the door as I turned the key.
Downtown, downtown, the drumming in my blood urged me on a four-block stroll to the brick sidewalks and jasmine-trellised walls of the downtown cafes and bars. It was still early in the summer here in central California, hot days melting into balmy nights. I wandered along the pathways, glancing in through plate-glass windows at the lovers holding hands at candlelit tables as they laughed and kissed. I turned away and kept walking westward toward the blazing sunset, its yolk-golden eye winking goodnight to tangerine-and-sloe-gin clouds. Music beckoned from the little bistro on
the next block. As I neared, the trumpets sassed me – are those tears we see, wah-wah-wah – brassy throats muffled with their mutes; and the lone saxophone wrapped its sensual tongue around me and lured me into its moody melody. Come here, baby, you got the blues, you come to the right place . . . them blues, they come to life in this joint . . .
I found a small table off to the side and ordered a Merlot from my favourite waitress. Her name’s Thomasina, but she goes by “Tommi”. She’s a cute little thing, tight arse, big breasts that haven’t had the time yet to go anywhere but forward. This particular night, they strained against her thin shirt, some flimsy knitted material, white with thin red horizontal stripes that magnified those magnificent knockers. Tommi has short hair, dyed red with purply feathers of colour at the ends, and wide, green cat-eyes dripping with dark eyelashes. She lines her eyes with kohl green eyeliner and brushes the lids tin-can rust. She leaned over to deliver my drink and smiled slyly at me as she noticed me watching her cleavage.
“Enjoy,” she whispered in my ear, the heat and puff of breath sending a shiver through me. I watched her arse undulate beneath her black miniskirt, admiring the firmness and musculature of her calves – she’s a hiker, a real mountain girl, and she has the legs to prove it.
The crowd was small for a Friday, all of us drawn in by the pulse of the ensemble resurrecting Charlie Parker and Dinah Washington up on the stage. The lights were low and there was a light haze settling throughout the room. How that room could always be smoky with a “no smoking” ordinance is beyond me, it must be the spirits of the old jazz and blues musicians flowing in with the music.
By my second glass of wine, I was feeling easy and loose, the sax’s wail crying a river into my body, the notes tapping on the nerves of my thighs and my pussy. I surreptitiously slipped a couple of fingers under the hem of my short skirt – I was wet down there and I could feel a thrumming between my nether lips. My nipples, long-neglected by pursed lips, were swelling against the silky blouse I was wearing.
The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies Page 13
