Ultimate Spanking

by Miranda Forbes

  ‘How much, Serena?’ he said, inching closer, close enough so he could casually slip his hand down my skirt, toying with my thong by tugging it upward so it cut into my pussy lips, making me squirm. ‘How much would you like it? What would you do for me in return?’ He let my thong slap back against my skin, then dipped his fingers into the area approaching my crack.

  ‘Whatever you want,’ I whispered, my face hot, sure that even though we were alone in his home, everyone in our small town was somehow listening in and now knew exactly how slutty and submissive and spankable I truly was.

  ‘Whatever I want?’ he asked, his voice suddenly rising into a tone that was light, almost festive. ‘Even if I want to tape you being spanked and show it to all my friends so they can jerk off to you? Even if I want to blindfold you and gag you and use all my favorite toys on you? Even if I want to make you suck another man’s cock while I spank you very, very hard? That would be okay?’ His voice had returned to its previous fervour, and I could tell he was dying to touch me more intimately.

  I thought about each potential scenario he’d just spun, visualizing them in my head. I thought about a camera being trained on me, recording the shifting of my ass from pale to pink, thought about him shoving a gag between my lips, thought about the effort of giving a blowjob while getting smacked where it counted. All of those would be more than okay. It suddenly hit me that Christine knew about each of our penchants for spanking, and that had been why she’d known we’d get along.

  I nodded, letting a tear stream down my face. He stared at me intently, and I wasn’t sure if Oliver would gently wipe or lick away the tear, or rip my clothes off and get us started on our spanking journey. What he did was this: he wrapped one hand gently around my throat, his thumb pressing against the tender point in the centre, and with his other hand, he slapped my face. Gently, at first, but enough to make me tremble, inside and out. My breath roared through my nose, then back out, and he slapped me again. ‘You like to get spanked all over, don’t you, Serena? Don’t pretend,’ he said, then slapped my face again. I couldn’t deny it: the slaps made my pussy tight and wet, my cheek braced for the next blow, anticipating it even as I feared it, each sensation feeding off the other.

  Then he pushed up my shirt, hardly glancing at the luxury push-up bra I’d purchased earlier in the day in his haste to peel down the cups. He then slapped my breasts in turn, while I sat there and took it. Okay, I didn’t just sit there, and I didn’t just take it. I liked it, craved it, wanted it. I hummed, then moaned in arousal as his hand struck each nipple directly, over and over again, before he leaned down and bit one while twisting the other. My pussy was starting to hurt, making me wonder if I was having the female equivalent of blue balls. It felt almost too good. When my hands threaded through his hair, urging him on, Oliver pulled up.

  ‘Did I say you could put your hands on me? You don’t touch me without permission, little girl, and you know that,’ he said. No, technically I didn’t know it, but I want to learn, wanted to be his student, his slut, his sub. ‘Get up,’ he snapped, then pulled me up by one nipple. My purple skirt rippled to my ankles. Out of his pocket, he drew a Swiss army knife, unleashing the blade. My eyes went wide, and I trembled this time with a touch of real fear. He smiled at me wickedly as he flashed the blade at me. ‘Oh, you won’t get this against your skin until you’ve earned it. I’m using this to get rid of your pesky clothes,’ he said, before slicing through my blouse, then the $100 bra, then the long skirt, even though it was already almost off, followed by my black silk panties. Those were pretty much worthless by then anyway, soaked through as they were. My clothing fell to the floor, and I almost did too. He tossed the knife on the table, then turned me around. ‘Raise your arms above your head,’ he said, and I did, standing there in only my heels, necklace and earrings. ‘Shut your eyes; I’ll be right back.’

  I wouldn’t have considered ignoring his order. This was the best first date I’d ever been on, one that, even if we never hooked up again, had already given me practically endless fodder for future orgasms. I heard him return and tried to stand straighter, my calves feeling the strain of the position. First, he slipped a blindfold over my eyes, a blessed relief. I didn’t want to see, only to feel. Then a collar that he fastened tightly around my neck, tugging on it and making my juices dribble down my thighs. But then he fastened cuffs to my arms, and must have climbed onto the chair to fasten them to the ceiling. I hadn’t noticed a hook, but, then again, I hadn’t been looking. The heels were the only thing saving this position from being truly uncomfortable, giving me just the needed height. ‘Now you’re ready,’ he said, slipping his hand between my legs. I thought maybe he was going to offer me some relief: ram them deep into my core, let me clench around him rather than clench uselessly. But no. All I got was a light stroke, barely a tickle, against my wet sex. ‘Spread your legs.’

  I did, enough to feel the air greet my cunt lips. ‘I take it you’ve been spanked before, Serena,’ he said, pausing while I nodded and murmured something I hoped sounded like yes. ‘Good, because I don’t believe in going easy on bratty girls like you. Not only don’t you deserve it easy, you won’t like it. I know you. I know that you will rise to the occasion. Say ‘orange’ if you need me to slow down, ‘red’ if you want me to stop.’ I nodded again. ‘But, Serena? I’ll be very disappointed if you have to safeword.’ I swallowed, wondering just what he was planning to do to me. I didn’t want to disappoint him, already, that early, didn’t want to jinx what could be a very pleasant future. He leaned down and kissed me, then bit my lower lip, enough to make it sting. I tried to kiss him back, but he spat in my mouth, making me rush to swallow. ‘Oh, and how could I forget?’ he asked the air, before sliding clamps around my nipples and fastening them tight.

  ‘Do you need to be gagged?’ he asked me. It felt like a trick question. I’m a screamer, a loud one. Did he want to hear me scream? Did I? Or did he want me quiet and compliant?

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, playing it safe, figuring he could always gag me later.

  ‘Good. Now you’re ready.’ His voice was at once a bit scary and soothing, letting me know he did, indeed, plan to hurt me, but that he’d be there to take care of me afterward. I heard all that in his voice, and had trusted him from the moment we’d met, not because of Christine, but because of him. I’m good with people, can almost always tell at the start if they’re trustworthy. I can’t predict the future or if a relationship will last, but I can tell if someone is worthy of giving over my body, my mind, my soul, as I was about to do. I’d never been wrong.

  He started hitting me with a paddle, not too hard, but enough to make me shake in my bonds. My toes curled downward in a desperate attempt to keep me in place as the smacks got harder. I wasn’t sure which part of my perversion process I should be focusing on, since all the torments were working together: the bonds around my wrists, the blindfold keeping me from seeing, the collar tight on my throat, the metal pinching my nipples, the feet secured in place or the blows against my ass. He struck me harder, as if to let me know: my focus should be on my bottom. This was about getting spanked; the rest was just extra.

  My instinct was to thrust my ass back at him, make it a better target, but I couldn’t, not like this. He managed just fine, though, whacking me in the sweet spot where my cheeks met, then compounding the effect by raking his short nails along my tender, sore skin. Then his smacks increased in intensity as he brought volley after volley down against one cheek, followed by a barrage against the other. I’d been quiet up until then, absorbing the sweet pain into my body, focusing on the heat over the pain, focusing on how it made my pussy even wetter, so much so I was probably dripping onto the floor.

  Then he started in with a flogger. Oliver didn’t talk much while he did it, his heavy breathing speaking for him. This was work, of a sort, almost a sport; instead of table tennis, it was living room spanking. The soft suede of the flogger struck my back with a thud that reverberated through
my body. I’ve long known my back is one of the most sensitive parts of my body, and Oliver made sure to see that it got its due before moving it to the front of me. The flogger only brushed against my tits, but that’s all I needed to cry out, with the clamps seeming to get tighter as the flogger jostled them. ‘Scream for me, Serena, let me hear that pretty voice. Tell me what you want,’ he said in a rush as he then moved lower, flogging my pussy and making me squirm. My arms were getting tired, but the rest of me was wide awake.

  ‘Aaaahhhh.’ I let out a power yell, followed by biting my lip as he pinched my clit with his fingers, hard and then harder. How did he know I’d wanted this? How did he know my body could take this much? I had never been sure, going only by fantasy as I’d pressed my vibrator to my pussy and dreamed of being overpowered, taken, spanked – used and abused.

  Oliver finished off that round of erotic torture by twisting his fingers inside me, not enough to get me off, but enough to make me cry out once again. ‘I need a kiss,’ he said, pressing his lips softly to mine. His touch was soft, almost too much so, feather-light, utterly unexpected. I should have known that what would come next would rock my world, would make me scream louder than I had on the Cyclone roller coaster. Next time, I would know this was his m.o., but, that first time, I was clueless, blissfully so. He blew a breath against my lips, and when I puckered up again, I found something hard against them. No, not his cock, but a piece of wood. ‘It’s a cane,’ he said. ‘My favourite one. I’m only going to strike you ten times, but it’s going to hurt, Serena. A lot. It’s going to make you scream, and probably cry. It might make you hate me and never want to see me again, but that’s a risk I have to take, because I need to hear what this does to you. Now, kiss it.’

  I knew what caning was, at least, as much as my Internet research had yielded. I’d seen videos of men and women being caned, the bright red stripes across their skin, the looks of pain and pleasure yielding to one another in nanoseconds as their faces contorted. I wasn’t totally sure I was ready, but I did what he said anyway. ‘Okay,’ I whispered. This date had already gone so much farther than I’d ever expected or hoped it could, I wasn’t going to back down now.

  He tapped the cane against my bottom at first, as if to get me used to its direction, its heft. It was heavy, solid, different from what had come before. I was ready … or so I thought. Because when the first stroke of the cane landed, I thought I was going to fall over. If my arms had been free, I’d have scrambled for purchase. As it was, I curled my fingers, twisted them as much as I could, prayed my legs stayed in place as tears gushed forth. The pain was exquisite, a whole other universe than the spankings that had come before. The next blow was quite similar, and built on the one before. The cane seemed inordinately powerful; after all, it was just a skinny stick, wasn’t it? And yet, no, it wasn’t, it was a weapon in his hands, not one of destruction, but instruction. He was teaching me, stinging, intense, soul-changing stroke after stroke. Oliver was teaching me what it would take to be his, and what I needed to know to own my own power. My mind went blank even as my body blazed, and by the end, I knew I’d crossed some irreversible line. I could never go back to my vanilla life, the random smacks, the small-time play.

  Even as the tears streamed down my face while he tenderly unclamped, unbound, and decollared me before taking me into his arms, I knew he had given me a gift. I didn’t just get through it, I’d gotten It; gotten the thrill of going somewhere else, of letting my body and, more importantly, my master, guide me. Maybe the reason no man had ever taken ownership of me like that was they knew I wouldn’t let them; knew that as much as I might have looked like I was asking for it, there was a tiny part inside me that was holding back, selfishly storing my desire for myself, keeping it in reserve. With Oliver, I’d given him everything, risking him tossing it back at me, humiliating me.

  He pulled me down onto the couch and soon I was riding him, his pants pushed down, his cock inside me. I was actually too spent to do much more than cling to him, and that was okay. He wrapped his arms around me and we held each other and hugged and fucked.

  ‘I guess now I know how you feel about spanking,’ he said later, laughing, as he fed me cheese and crackers and champagne, not minding when some of the sweet liquid spilled all over me. I waited until the next afternoon to call Christine and thank her ¾ after Oliver had bought me my very own collar, one he later got personalized. Now I can’t imagine having ever been anything other than a full-fledged pervert, and even have a tattoo that says ‘His’ to prove my loyalty. Spankings are a daily occurrence, and yes, we’ve tested out all those fantasies he mentioned that first night, and many more, though what the future holds, I don’t know. That’s for Oliver to decide, and me to bend over and obey.

  Bitch

  by Ashley Hind

  Few people can be defined by a single word but I can: that word is bitch. It is all I am now. The title has been conferred upon me and I must live up to it if my heart’s desire is to be gained. It makes no difference that I am still a partner and chief Arts Advisor for a London interior design firm, or that I am wealthy and beautiful. It is immaterial that I used to be confident and brimming with self-belief, and could trample over another’s emotions to get what I wanted. For all my strength I had a weakness, and she used it. So everything I am I have to yield now, because I am full of her. She crams my thoughts and swells my heart and bubbles in my veins. I would shout her name from the rooftops, if only I knew it.

  I am utterly obsessed by the female bottom, and that is my weakness. I have seduced hundreds of girls over the years in a vain quest to find the perfect example, becoming more particular and frustrated as my search continued. I love my own body to the point of narcissism. I have an effortless hourglass figure and my backside is delectable. It is full but shapely with a fine apple curve, the pale cheeks parted by a narrow but deep split that hides its secrets. The skin is pale and pristine and flawless. All traces of the jet black hairs in my crease and on my mound have been removed by electrolysis. It is almost perfect, only not quite full enough.

  Antique mirrors line every wall and surface of my bedroom and cheval-glass stands cluster in the corners, all pointing towards my bed. There is not a single angle that is not covered, or a part of me that cannot be seen as I pose naked and fuck myself. I despondently used to think that my own bottom would be as close as I would get to my ideal and that I would never get to experience the bliss of loving its equal. I had only ever seen a better one on a statue in a nearby gallery. I went there often to view its perfection and dream that the stone figure could become real flesh so that I could take her and make her mine. But better still she came, and she took me instead.

  The statue I adore is of Erato, muse of love and erotic poetry. She stands with the cherub Eros clutching at her legs. He looks up at her, his face seemingly a mask of innocence. Yet you can see how tightly he pulls at her, and while she holds aloft an open book in one hand, the other hand is held across her chest, trying to keep her loose gown in place to cover her modesty. But mischievous Eros has already scored a victory, because she is unable to secure all of her gown and his downward pull has exposed her glorious bottom in all its white marble glory.

  The artist has spared her the side dimples in the buttocks that afflict most Greek figures, and given her a very full rump indifferent to the forces of gravity. He somehow managed to give the impression of a deep cleft, scoring into the stone with absolute precision to leave a heavy shadow at the top where her cheeks met the base of her spine. But the crack itself was wonderfully narrow, the buttocks huddling together to keep the gap closed and secret. Their surface was creamy with an opaque shine and absolutely smooth, without a single blemish or imperfection in the marble.

  One day I simply had to touch it. I had often felt the urge but had never before allowed myself. Her back arches slightly and her rump is pushed out invitingly, so I reached out and stroked it, just lightly, with the backs of my fingers. I was surprised when I found it
cold. It was so life-like I had expected the warm give of real flesh. I tried to pull my hand away but it hovered above the surface and turned palm-in as if to grab one ample cheek. I managed to arrest this impulse but stroked her again. Her surface was absolutely even, there were no pimples or pocks or hairs to distract the sensation on my fingertips. My breath was hard and faltering, and my heart was racing.

  I must have been caressing her in wonder for all of a minute when other senses broke through and alerted me to the fact that I was being watched. I suddenly registered the form in my periphery and turned to see her staring at me. My fingers jumped ashamed from Erato’s bottom and I blushed for the first time in what must have been a lifetime. The watcher’s expression was not one of scorn or censure, or even of mocking amusement. She just inspected me calmly, taking me in. I wanted to look her up and down, to see her body beneath the tight black clothes so similar to mine, but I just couldn’t break her gaze.

  Her mouth was wide and pouting, the top lip ever so slightly bee-stung under the dark red gloss. Her eyes were almond-shaped and as brown as mine, but set further apart. Her forehead was high beneath her fringe and her hair was sleek and straight, raven like my own, but probably dyed. Her skin was pale and flawless, her cheeks cut by a blush of applied red to show angular, high cheekbones. My first thought was that she was German, or maybe eastern European. But this frittered to inconsequence when my second thought pushed through: that she was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen.

  I could feel myself melting, my legs actually shaking as we regarded each other, some ten feet apart. Trepidation was alien ground for me – usually any girl I looked at for this length of time was already under my spell, whether gay or just curious. I tried to think of something to say, a plausible excuse for why I was stupidly stroking a statue’s arse so lovingly. But my mouth was dry and frozen, and she did nothing to relieve my tension. She just stood, patiently and wordlessly waiting to reel me in. I recognised her technique for seduction so well: it was exactly the same as mine.