I wasn’t a virgin, though my idea of sex was more obviously touchy-feely, foreplay and finger orientated. The best compromise so far with guys had been handjobs, because I got to feel a cock where I was most responsive; the subtle tremors and powerful judders as he came between my palms was beyond anything I’d experience if he were just plainly, essence a la vanilla, inside me. To hold it, grip it, jerk it off until my fingers were covered in his hot clingy cum was orgasm to me. Then I’d lick it off them, sucking and slurping round my acutely keen knuckles, sensually savouring his sticky spunk. Sometimes the guy would lick and suck it from my palms and fingers too, which multiplied my pleasures.
Dylan was as forceful with his fucking as he was with his hand-play. I would entwine my fingers with his, and let him hold me down as he pounded around inside my twat with hammerish abandon. He got the wrong idea, changing to my wrists, until I managed to wrap our hands together again. The difference between hands and wrists may not have seemed much to him, but to me it was like any other girl having her cunt or g-spot just missed, or like a guy shagging her thigh or muff instead of where it counted.
As he came, his fingers closed into mine. My fingers were almost crushed in climax, my palms pure with pleasure as my hands were pressed into the sheets. Tears streamed from my eyes as our nails dug into backs of each other’s hands. Tears of pain but also of joy; the most delightful, enjoyous, hand hump ever.
‘Sorry, did I hurt you?’ he asked after, wiping my tears, stroking my face.
I caressed his face as well, my extremities glowing post-orgasmically, and even more delicate now and feeling the prickle of his stubble, every hair, each pore of his skin, ‘No.’ Meaning yes, but in the most wonderful way imaginable.
Dylan needed a pee, so as he scampered off naked to his loo. I lay on my front, crossed arms under rested chin, letting them smart nicely in post-fuck bliss. I must have started to doze off dreamily, relishing the impression of the strength of his own hands against mine, grappling and grinding, when he woke me with a slap across my bare bum cheek.
Ouch!
The temptation was there to start the face-slappy thing, but remembering what happened with Scott I thought better of it, for now.
‘You like that?’ he enquired.
Well, no actually, since he asked. But I was slightly jealous, wondering how much his hand felt doing that. I rolled on my back, pulled him onto the bed beside me, deciding a bit of give and take was needed here.
‘Maybe,’ I purred. I rolled him on to his front, knelt up, and spanked him hard across his firm butt. Hand to hand had this hardness, the bones underneath making things somewhat brutal. But this was unique: the solid curvy flab of his arse under my palm, and the slap shockwaving out like ripples in jelly. A bouncy waterbed which the sensitivity of my palm and fingers found astonishingly sensual. Having brought my hand sharply away, I now returned it to soothe the carpet cover of fluffy hairs. Tender under my touch. More so with the brand new, bright red mark of my hand shining on it.
‘Mmm,’ Dylan hummed appreciatively. He liked it. Really loved it. Perhaps this was what the girls meant by k-i-n-k-y.
Now I’m no dominatrix, and I’d hardly call Dylan submissive, but for us this slightly sado-masochistic approach could have mutual benefits. The physical side of our relationship ramped up dramatically. Naked, I sat in the small of his bare back and started with my old ‘Pat-A-Cake’ game. But it wasn’t quite the same; it was way too girly for him. Then he dug through his CDs and found one he thought might work. And to the neo-tribal tunes of an obscure Euro grunge band he followed, I got into the rhythm and slapped away with my head tossing back and forth wildly, energetically spanking out their beats on his bum like it was a pair of bongo drums.
Whacka slappa whakka spankity spank spank!
Until he got close to the edge and I jumped off, rolled him over and wanked him until he came in my sore, sensitive hands like a sexy soap dispenser.
Adopting our position again, I piled a dollop of cum on each cheek and spanked that spunk under each palm. Well, it was more like a splat! Little white globs splashed everywhere. I massaged the rest into his fuzzy skin like balm, and squished it through my fingers as if I was rubbing shampoo through my hair. Then off-on with the slap beat until he came again, and again, and my hands had their own raw orgasm. By the time we’d finished, his arse was an abstracted criss-cross pattern of red finger marks and purply blue bruises, highlighted with small sparkly white pearls of semen. I’d like clothes with that design on, and I took some digi-cam pics for a friend on the textiles course to oblige. Spank fash’, FTW.
How Dylan could still sit through classes I don’t know. Mind you, typing up my essays I was suffering quite a bit too. If he was mincing when walking, I was doing the keyboarding equivalent. My arms ached from all the spanking, and it percolated through the rest of me in a giddy haze of delightful discomfort. I wore the glazed smirk of someone high on blissing out. My friends must have thought I was on drugs or something, and blamed Dylan.
But masochists have their limits, even Dylan, bless his poor bruised bum. Soon, lying on his front was all he could do in bed; wiggling his agonised arse at me, the tease! I was always tempted to let my horny hands have him, and to spank him until he begged for mercy. But I’m not one to inflict pain by choice, simply by need.
Arms dropping off or no, there was one evening when I was there and needy. And Dylan could tell. Was there anywhere else he could be spanked perhaps? He lay on his side and looked at me beside him; naked, full of anticipation and expectation.
D.I.Y.?’ he suggested. Frigging doesn’t really do it for me, not in the sense I suspect he means.
Dylan indicated I should sit up against the pillow, heft my thighs up and pin my legs under my knees with my forearms. Then he drew the flat of his hand back and …
Thwack!
Right across my pussy, over my clit. Now that should really have hurt. But compared to my hands, I’m not quite as sensitive down there. There’s a vague memory of seeing girls slapping their bits, probably in a porn film an ex had. It hadn’t really clicked before, but it did then. Thighs spread, knees lowered, I raised my hand and watched Dylan for a reaction. He nodded, like he now understood what turned me on, and brought my own hand down hard, flat, slap, spank, on my exposed pussy.
That sharp contact – the spark of pangs – flatlined to an awakening throb. Up my arm, inside my gut too. I responded to myself better than him doing that.
Because it was my erogenous zones nerves connecting and exciting all my other senses; a domino reaction. Gentle fiddling hadn’t done it until then, like that; the aftermath of all that spanking.
And so I lay there, propped up, spanking my pussy as powerfully and passionately as I could into the purest of pleasures, complementing the heavenly hurt of my exhausted hands.
But when my arms got tired, Dylan took turns – well it gave his battered bum a rest – and I found that wasn’t so bad either. I could even get to like that too, and then let him fuck me the old fashioned way, later …
Smarting and aches are joy for me and you!
Reading Between the Lines
by Izzie French
Relieved, Sophia closed the bookshop. Her heels clicked loudly as she walked to the back of the shop, and headed upstairs. The morning had been quiet, the silence broken only once by a disorientated tourist. The Internet was knocking her trade. She needed lunch and a little light relief. Slipping the key from under the edge of the carpet, Sophia unlocked the room above the shop. The walls were lined with books of a different nature to those lining the shelves downstairs. No textbooks aimed at students from the university here. No, this room housed her late father’s collection of erotica.
Sophia gulped a sandwich and reached for a book. An old favourite: Fanny Hill. Settling herself in the ancient leather swivel armchair, she flicked to the chapter in which Fanny and Charles fuck for the first time. That always pleased her. Wriggling, Sophia hoisted her skirt up ove
r her hips. It was a tight fit. Nominally demure, Sophia dressed to please herself. The more discerning customer might be intrigued by the hip-skimming pencil skirt; the wide patent belt, cinched in to accentuate her waist; the white shirt, long-sleeved, crisply ironed, top three buttons open, hint of a lace bra underneath. Her hair was tied up into a slick pony tail, and she just wore a smudge of mascara and a slick of lip gloss. Superficially simple. She had created a carefully controlled image. The fully trained eye would know she wore stockings, notice that the balconette bra just skimmed her nipples, and would imagine her panties were silk. They could only begin to guess what pleased her, though. She smiled at the stupidity of those who surreptitiously watched Sophia in the fish-eyed mirror. Didn’t they realise that she could see them open their flies, pull on their cocks for a couple of minutes, leaving without purchasing anything? But then it would surprise even the savvy to be told that Sophia loved being watched. And watching in return.
Sophia’s chair faced the window. She kept the wooden blinds half open, the room carefully lit with table lamps. The rear of her shop faced university buildings, inhabited by at least one academic with a penchant for wanking in full view of her room.
Sophia flung her legs over either arm of the chair, expertly holding Fanny Hill open at the relevant spot. Her right hand rubbed over her mound; encased today in a tiny black g-string. This week she was shaven. She tucked her index finger under her g-string, running it over her smooth pussy. A tingling sensation pulsed through her. The smoothness was worth it then. No pain no gain. She kept her touch light – fingering along her lips, savouring the moistness – then parting them with expert fingers. Her clit was waiting for her touch. She shuffled her arse forward a little.
A shadow passed across the window directly opposite. He was in his room. Probably finished a tutorial in which he creamed over some pretty young undergraduate. Sophia remembered those days well. Dirty bastard. He had his back to her, but, by the speed and action of his right arm, she knew exactly what he was doing. And at that rate he would finish long before her.
She circled her clit, increasing the pressure; dropped the book to the floor, threw her head back and closed her eyes. With her left hand she began to open her cunt, the moistness easing her passage. She felt a squeeze around her fingers. A good sign she was well on her way. On days like this she wished for more hands. Her breasts were crying out for attention; her nipples erect, pushing against her bra, begging to be touched and sucked. As her orgasm threatened to overwhelm her she opened her eyes. The academic had turned to face her. She could see him clearly through the slats, and she suspected his view was clear too. She thought he’d come; he still held his cock, but his movements were slow and lazy, as though he was reluctant to get back to his routine. As she met his gaze she came. Juices flowed over her hand as her cunt tensed and relaxed, finally subsiding as she reduced the pressure and speed of her fingers on her clit, just tweaking the last few quivers of her climax from herself.
She loved this time, in this room. It was her secret pleasure. Still stroking her clit she delved into her memories, reluctant to stop altogether for now, like her anonymous academic.
One of the joys of working in a bookshop in a university town was the steady flow of pretty men. One Saturday, five or six years ago, she’d spotted a beautiful blond man browsing in the economics section. Her cunt tensed as he flicked his long hair back from his forehead. His T-shirt was tight, his jeans hung low on his waist, and he rested his hips against the shelf. Gay or straight she wondered? Not that it mattered. He was out of bounds. She didn’t fuck students. Too inexperienced, despite their cockiness. Not that this promise was easy to keep. She thought he was either a mature student, or post-grad, in his mid-twenties. About her age. It was hard not to wonder what he looked like unclothed. He was slim built, and would be lithe no doubt, with little body hair. Taut buttocks, an average-sized cock, she imagined. Then, as she watched, she saw him tuck a textbook underneath his t-shirt, and head for the door.
‘Hey,’ she called, moving quickly. She was used to attempted theft. Making it to the door before him, she quickly turned the key, barring his way.
‘You’ve no right to stop me leaving,’ he protested, attempting to cover the book with crossed arms.
‘I’ve every right. You’ve stolen from me.’
He shrugged, pulled the book from its hiding place and handed it to her, offering a glimpse of a flat stomach and dark pubic hair disappearing into his jeans.
‘Join me upstairs, please.’ Her polite words belied her firm tone. He hesitated, then followed her.
‘You’re not going to call the police, are you?’
Sophia enjoyed the sound of his pleading. She almost felt sorry for him. She didn’t reply. He followed her into her room. Stopping, she turned to face him.
‘Theft is a serious matter.’
‘I’m sorry. And you’ve got your book back. What more do you expect?’
Sophia knew she needed to tread carefully. He was beginning to sound belligerent. Probably needed to get back for a lecture. There was little she could do to stop him leaving. And now she had her book back it would only be her word against his.
‘I expect you to accept your punishment. Like a man.’
‘Of course I will. Bring it on.’
His tone had changed. He was sounding curious now. His stance had changed too. He’d drawn himself up, placed his hands on his hips, as though he was going to resist her in some way. Which she wouldn’t allow. He might not come from the elite, like so many in this city, but he was certainly upper middle-class. His accent and demeanour gave him away. He had confidence, insouciance; an attitude to life that said he was in control, the world was at his feet. She was surprised at how relaxed he seemed, despite his dilemma. Usually she came up against more resistance. Sophia was beginning to have fun. She pulled up a chair, and sat down. He glanced around. There was no seat for him, and she could see he felt at a disadvantage.
‘So, you understand why I need to punish you?’
He shrugged his shoulders. Not willing to divulge everything then. Sophia’s stockings swished as she crossed her legs. His gaze was fixed on them. Her stockings were sheer. Silky. Of the highest quality. Though the business was beginning to show signs of trouble even then, Sophia was reluctant to cut costs on what she purported to be essentials. She guessed he was mentally undressing her. He licked his upper lip, unhooked his arms and ran his hand over the front of his jeans. She could detect a bulge.
‘I can offer you a choice.’ She pointed to a corner of the room. He raised his eyebrows, opening his eyes in surprise. He was shockable then. He turned back to her.
‘Not much of a choice.’
‘Thieves can’t really be choosers.’
‘I guess it’ll be the crop, then.’
‘Good choice.’
Sophia collected an item from a bookshelf. He watched her, still apparently unperturbed.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it,’ she whispered, stroking the crop against the palm of her hand. He nodded. It was. Sophia had crafted it herself from leather and deep red silk velvet, carefully plaiting the two fabrics together, leaving several inches at the end loose. Some of the loose ends had tiny knots in them. The softness of the velvet complemented the harder, rougher leather, although both were of the highest quality.
‘Hold out your hand.’
He obeyed her. He thinks this is it, Sophia thought. And he doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. She placed the crop in his upturned hand. No doubt he was attempting to distract himself; thinking of England, maybe.
‘Try it.’
He grasped the handle and stroked the velvet and leather tip across the palm of his other hand. He handled it with respect. This was going to work. Then he turned to her and touched the tip to her face. She could have relinquished power to him at that moment. Hitched up her skirt, bent over the chair and offered him her bare arse, allowing him to spank her senseless. But she managed to dr
aw herself back, regain control. The punishment was for him. He had attempted to steal from her. She would teach him a lesson.
‘Over there.’
She nodded in the direction of a ladder resting against one of the book-lined walls. She was entirely in control. She could do what she wanted with him.
He turned his back to her and made his way over to the ladder, resting against it, his hands holding on to some upper rungs. She approached him, glancing at a long bevelled mirror that leant against the wall opposite him. He would be able to see his reflection throughout his punishment, and she would be able to watch herself too.
She stood behind him, stroking the crop against the palm of her right hand. His breathing was deep and slow. She stroked his clothed back and legs with the crop.
‘Time to undress,’ she whispered to him. He gave a small nod of assent. Placing the crop on the floor, she reached round, unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his jeans. His breath was more ragged now. She dragged his jeans and boxers over his hips, pushing them to his ankles. His arse was exposed to her. It was smooth and tight. She took some deep breaths. It was important for her to stay disciplined; keep her eye on the task in hand. His thighs were firm, tanned. She wanted to run her hands over his arse, then her tongue; insinuate it between his cheeks, find his arsehole, plunge inside him. Cup his balls in her hands. Tug on his cock. But she wouldn’t, not now. She had a task to carry out. Picking up the crop she ran it over his arse and down the back of his thighs. She knew exactly how this felt. What sensations it would be inducing in him. She was no stranger to the crop. He shuddered. She could see his cock was beginning to harden and rise. Time for her to begin. She stood back slightly and raised her hand, then allowed the crop to fall, softly the first time, across his arse. He remained completely still, obviously determined to show no emotion. Neither fear, nor pleasure or pain. The second blow was less soft. He braced himself slightly. She was displeased to see him glance over his shoulder and smile.
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