by Alex Algren
Table of Contents
Title Page
Introduction
INDULGENCES
I’M GOING TO GRAB YOUR HAIR
I, ANITA
TORN
BELTED
SUNDAY IN THE STUDY
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Copyright Page
INTRODUCTION: THE POWER OF THE PADDLE
Why is it that the pleasures of spanking usually focus on the lucky person receiving the licks? Humiliation, submission, intense sensation, and punishment are just the beginning of the many delights that being bent over the knee can bring. But what about the trusted tops wielding the crop or swinging the paddle? Their gratification in fulfilling a partner’s fantasy makes them as much a slave to their desires as any submissive assuming the position.
Each of these six stories paints a picture of spanking that is drastically different from the rest. N. T. Morley’s “I’m Going to Grab Your Hair” offers us the play-by-play narration of what a man will do when he’s driven by lust on a night with the perfect submissive. In “I, Anita,” Lana Fox shows us what happens when a burlesque queen leaves behind a long line of suitors and finally meets her match, a man known only as the Baron. The skillful lover in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s “Belted” uses an everyday object for his lustful lashes, keeping his girlfriend in anticipation every time they meet. In “Sunday in the Study,” Justine Elyot’s heroine dreads the cane as much as she loves it during her punishment for a week of misdeeds.
Additionally, this anthology places men on the receiving end of the leather strap and ruler. In Vida Bailey’s “Torn,” a tutor drowns in a deluge of pleasure while disciplining a twenty-year-old male student. And finally, “Indulgences,” by Tenille Brown, follows a wife more than ready to punish her husband, much to his delight. The tingle you’ll get from these stories will last long after they are over—just like the bright pink memories of a firm spanking.
Alex Algren
INDULGENCES
Tenille Brown
George had been caught, literally, red-handed, and he stood there, magazine in hand, red cock in hand, staring at Priscilla as if he had never seen her before in his life.
It wasn’t that George wasn’t allowed to touch himself. It was his cock, after all, but they had agreed, he had agreed, that he would keep his hands to himself. He would keep them to himself, that was, unless they were on her.
She had only gone to the store. She had spent five minutes at the fucking 7-11 getting a soda and already George had stuffed his hands down his pants and become reacquainted with his cock as if she had been gone for weeks.
Calmly, Priscilla licked her lips. She removed the magazine from George’s shaky hands and flipped it open.
There it was, tits and ass everywhere, page after page of breasts and rear ends.
It was typical, typical that George would be drooling after something he already had. As if he didn’t live with tits and ass, as if he didn’t have complete access to tits and ass every single day.
And like she knew it would, there it came, the pathetic stammering of an explanation.
“I was just having a look and—”
Priscilla placed her hands on her hips. “Yes, George, you were just having a look at the shiny magazine and your hand somehow found its way into your underwear and landed directly on your cock.”
She didn’t expect a reply. She expected just what he gave her. Shame across his face, chin tucked into his chest, lips folded in embarrassment.
Priscilla didn’t waste any time proceeding.
“Well, George,” she said. “You’ve gone and done it. I guess you know what happens now.”
And he did. George knew the routine so well that his hands automatically went to the bathroom counter and gripped the edge of the double sink. His long, toned body automatically leaned forward, putting a bend at his waist. He stepped out of the jeans that were already gathered at his ankles and kicked them aside.
George was ready, ass poised, head bent. He was waiting to suffer his repercussions.
Priscilla left him there and went to their bedroom. She shook her head as she flung open her closet door.
It was the seventh time, the seventh time this month she had caught him jerking off. It was the seventh time she’d had to walk to the back of her closet and pull out her leather strap.
She slapped it against her palm now as she headed back toward the bathroom.
Priscilla didn’t think she was being unreasonable. Unreasonable would be denying George orgasms, turning her back on him when he reached for her in the middle of the night. But she did none of that. George could come as many times as he wanted.
The deal was, he wouldn’t waste any of those times. He wouldn’t rub and jerk into his hands what could be, what rightfully should be inside of her.
And it wasn’t that he didn’t fuck her, that he preferred the palm of his hand to the inside of her cunt. He fucked her regularly and he fucked her well.
The thing was, Priscilla was thirty-eight and she didn’t have the time to waste for George to be coming inside his boxers like some horny teenager.
A deal was a deal. Still, George had given in to this indulgence of his, and since he had indulged, she would indulge.
But Priscilla’s indulgence didn’t involve flipping open a magazine and touching herself. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom, she cleared her throat. Yes, Priscilla’s indulgence involved touching George.
She approached him, stopping only when she stood a few steps behind him.
Her arm drawn back, hand high over her head, Priscilla gave her final words: “I certainly hope it was worth it, George.”
She didn’t wait for him to respond before she brought her hand down with such force that the strap caused a whipping sound in the air. Shortly after came the crack of leather making contact with flesh.
The pink skin on George’s ass rippled with the first strike. His muscular thighs clenched. Priscilla knew without looking that he was gritting his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut.
Priscilla spoke. “Now, tell me again, George, why we don’t jerk off all willy-nilly around here.”
Strike.
George rose up on the balls of his feet, his toes gripping the carpet.
His voice was a throaty whisper. “Because, Priscilla, there is a plan.”
Priscilla nodded. She whacked him again with less intensity, but still hard enough for him to throw his head back in agony.
She said, “And that plan is?”
She stopped long enough to await his answer.
Breathless, George said, “To give you a…so that we can have…”
Priscilla grew impatient. “To get me knocked up, right?”
George nodded. “Right.” He tucked his chin, and Priscilla couldn’t tell if he were wincing or smiling.
Nevertheless, Priscilla knew she had done enough. She walked out of the bathroom and put her strap away.
It was probably a waste, anyway. After all, who knew how many times George didn’t get caught, how many times he had whacked off and finished just seconds before Priscilla walked through the door? She was being easy on him, really, giving him the benefit of the doubt, issuing punishment for only crimes she had witnessed with her own eyes.
Yet somehow it calmed her, this indulgence of hers, made her feel better that she could control at least some aspect of her life. And with that comfort, she left George to replace his clothing and went to the kitchen to pour her soda over ice.
It shouldn’t have surprised her, the news. That was her shitty luck, after all.
Now, safely inside her front door, Priscilla pulled the cup out of her purse, the plastic, medicinal cup that would measure her husband’s juice and count up the chances she would have of ever having
a baby.
George walked into the living room, already dressed for work.
“You left early,” he said.
Priscilla shrugged, tossing her long, dark hair across her shoulder. “Had to be there early.”
George’s eyes fell on the cup. “Whatcha got there?”
Priscilla slid it over to him. “It’s your new best friend,” she said.
He cocked his head. “Excuse me?”
“That’s right. It’s your come catcher. They want to count your boys down at the clinic.”
George began his familiar nervous stutter. “I can’t do that…not in that.”
Priscilla rolled her eyes. “I had a feeling you might say that. So, I stopped by the store on my way home.”
She pulled the glossy magazine out of her purse and tossed it onto the coffee table.
She watched for George’s reaction, waited to see in his eyes what she saw every time she walked into the bathroom and caught him gripping his cock.
When George remained silent, Priscilla spoke. “Now you listen to me. This is the only time I will allow this. This is the only time this will be acceptable, until after, well, you know.”
She pushed the magazine in George’s direction.
George shook his head. “And I’m just supposed to do it, just like that?”
Priscilla threw up her hands. “You do it all the time, George, what’s the difference?”
He tucked his lips and furrowed his brow.
“Look,” she said. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Just go on in the bathroom like you normally do. Close the door and act like I’m not even here. Just give me a shout when you’re done, and I’ll run it back up to the office.”
George nodded. Slowly, he picked up the cup and tucked the magazine under his arm. He disappeared around the corner.
Priscilla sat on the couch and watched the morning news for the next fifteen minutes. When twenty minutes passed, she rose. George could have finished twice by now.
She tapped softly on the bathroom door before she pushed it open.
“Everything okay in here?” she asked.
George held the still empty cup in his hands. His fly was undone; his cock was exposed and flaccid.
“It isn’t working,” George said. “It never works unless I know you’re close by.”
Priscilla folded her arms. “But I’m ten steps away.”
George shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. I need for you to…well, I want…”
And then, just like that, it became clear as a bell.
Priscilla’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. “You need for me to catch you, George?”
George nodded, as if giving voice to the notion would validate it as ridiculous.
Priscilla nodded slowly, exhaling.
She left the room. She waited five minutes and returned.
And, like clockwork, George’s face was red when she opened the door, the magazine was in front of him, and his cock was hard in his hand.
Priscilla leaned against the doorframe.
“Well, George,” she said. “It looks like, once again, I’ve caught you. But, I’m going to be nice about it this time. I’m going to let you finish.” Priscilla tilted her head toward the cup.
George hung his head. “I can’t,” he said.
Priscilla raised her eyebrows. “You still can’t?”
“No, I can’t finish, until you…” His voice drifted off.
And with the snap of sudden realization, Priscilla stood up straight. Without a word, she went to their bedroom, entered her closet and retrieved her favorite leather strap.
George was in position when she returned.
She raised her hand high above her head and brought the strap down on his awaiting ass. Steadily and soundly, she spanked him.
Priscilla struck George with the strap until sweat sprang from her temples. She struck him until the sight between his legs caused her to stop.
All this time, Priscilla had been sure George was thinking about something else, something, anything, other than her spanking him. She was sure he was thinking about all the tits and ass he had been feasting his eyes upon, since usually, after only three strikes, his cock would rise.
But now Priscilla knew. She knew why George was always so hesitant to turn around when she was done. As if he couldn’t face her, couldn’t bear to associate his hard-on with her punishment.
And while pleasing George had never been Priscilla’s intention, she became wet at the sight of his rigid cock.
“Turn around, George. Let me get a good view of what you’ve got there,” she said.
George obeyed. His hard-on extended out in front of him.
“Interesting,” Priscilla said. “Now, however did that happen? I mean, surely you weren’t thinking of those girls in the magazine when you were getting your ass spanked?”
She didn’t wait for an answer.
“Go on. You can finish now,” she said, holding the cup in front of him.
And when George rose up on his feet and his face and ass flushed rosy pink and he filled the cup to the line, Priscilla knew that some indulgences were, sometimes, worth allowing.
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 s
lices 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, neckline 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.
