Bare Assed

by Alex Algren

  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.

  I, ANITA

  Lana Fox

  The Baron first set eyes on me during my burlesque, in which I slow-danced in a corset with a garter belt and stockings. I enjoyed swinging my hips within the tight, boned basque, its sleek red silk stretched taut. Apart from my costume, I had only a wooden chair, which awaited my arrival on the limelit stage. Leaning forward, I’d raise my knee and place my heeled sandal upon the seat, smoothing a stocking along my thigh, my red lips pouting, my eyes heavily kohled. I used my body, arching my spine so my breasts pushed up against the strapless bodice, as if at any moment, in their buoyancy, they’d spring from the fabric. There, as the music played, I’d slowly gyrate, making love to the men with my stare. Not that I could see them—they were lost in the shadows—but I could feel their desire burning my flesh, could hear their throaty cries.

  But this was just the prelude; I was famous for the wooden chair. A member of the audience would be led to the stage where I’d take his hand, and his dewy vulnerability never failed to affect me. As he sat in the chair, I knelt at his feet clutching his knees, fingers covered with rings and bangles—before I unbuttoned his flies.

  There with quiet moans rising from our audience, I’d take the man’s sex in my hands and with my tongue, my mouth, my slick-glossed lips, I would bestow my pleasure. Velvet Tongue, they called me, for that’s how I worked: with my breasts rising inside my corset, and the garter-straps digging into my thighs, and my dark curls tumbling, I’d lick and suck, rub and tease, my own sex growing wetter, until I’d feel him cl
utching at his seat with trembling, white knuckles.

  I’d somehow know exactly what each man craved the most.

  He’d yell out, bucking into my mouth, crying wildly as he filled my throat—thrusting over and over, he’d often fill me so fully that the fluid would seep from the corners of my mouth. At other times, when he reached the point of no return, I’d know to pull back, allowing the first flash of my oil-rubbed breasts to catch his coming. The pale stream would streak across my cleavage and down the boned bodice; the moans of approval from the audience made me long to touch myself. The man would gratefully collapse. Whoever he was, he’d ask me out on a date.

  I always told them no.

  Until I met the Baron.

  Whenever I returned backstage, I’d lock the door to my dressing room, and there on the chair I’d brought from my act, I would slide two fingers inside my slick lace and rub myself quickly, the fluid still warm on my nipples, arching as I came. Thus, before I met the Baron, I never had to be close to a man. Sex for me was either public or terribly alone.

  I didn’t know how miserable I was.

  Well, you will hear dastardly things said of the Baron, and most of them are true. How he held sleeping girls in his bed and touched himself without their knowing; how he fucked his wives then left them, robbing them of their money, counting on the fact that they’d be too high from his loving to report his hasty crimes. Though the rank of baron is the lowest of the nobles, he still had money and the manners of a lord—could hide his true nature beneath a decorous mask. But as with all rogues, he was also a liberator.

  I, you see, was a little like the Baron.

  The night he arrived, it was raining outside. I’d just returned from the stage, the chair in my arms, and I entered my dressing room to find him standing at the window smoking a clove cigarette, elegantly slouched to one side. He was wearing a red velvet jacket, which matched my corset, and his black hair glinted in the light from old-style lamp I’d set on my dressing table. He turned, his face lascivious, as if he knew all my ills, and I noticed his tiny moustache like that of a classic villain.

  I asked what he was doing there.

  He told me to put down the chair.

  I challenged him: “Why?”

  He said, “I’ll take you over my knee.”

  I threw back my head and laughed, but no sooner had I done so than he was grabbing the chair and throwing it down on the boards. He kicked the door shut behind us, clasped me by the arm, sat in the chair and pulled me across his lap. I gasped out, astonished, before I felt him spanking me, each strike making a slapping noise against my lace-clasped buttocks. I could smell his cologne rising from his flesh. Aroused as I was from the man I’d just pleasured onstage, each spank made me more wanting and hot. I parted my thighs a little, hoping he’d touch my sex, but he kept to my buttocks, talking as he struck: “You are talented, Anita. But you must learn to relent. You won’t achieve true heights unless you accept your nature.” His spanking grew fiercer, tugging at the lace of my knickers—the rough material plucked at the lips of my pussy and I begged him for more.

  It was true I had always kept up my guard. As a girl, I’d been so quiet, giving nothing I couldn’t control. Even my secrets weren’t quite true—when you lie you’re rarely vulnerable. I was raised by my uncle, who once called me a woman of wax. There was a distance in his eyes as he said it, and we were eating rabbit stew. “But no,” he said, “wax melts.” I reminded him that he’d never once hugged me. When I said that was unnatural, he called me slut.

  The Baron paused and told me to get up.

  I found I was quivering.

  Hearing him unzip, I looked down to see his cock pale and hard in his hand—it was longer and sleeker than any I’d seen: a beautiful sex, a perfect sex, and oh, how firm. Longing to lick and pleasure him, I began to sink to my knees, but he grabbed me by the hair. “No, Anita.” Raising me by the curls, he stretched me back. I had to relent. He glanced down at my corset, streaked with the remnants of another’s pleasure, and with his lips curling back against his teeth and a wildness in the blacks of his eyes, he cupped my slippery breast.

  “You need this,” I said to him.

  His smile curled up at one corner, and I caught a drift of the scent on his neck. Suddenly, he thrust me back so I pressed against the dresser, my pot of cold cream crashing to the floor, and he was on me in a second, pushing me back against the mirror, which thumped, collapsing, so my back stuck to the glass. He thrust his hands deep between my thighs, and at my ear, hissed, “I want you, Anita.” I cried out. His sex ground mine, and he tore through the lace. He filled me from shaft to tip. I jolted on the dresser so the mirror thudded behind me and a bottle crashed and broke, sending out a rosy scent. I was so wet that his thrusts were smooth as oil, and my sex, unused to the shape of a man, tingled and stretched. Through his teeth, he said my slit was tight as a virgin’s.

  I’d never heard it called that—a slit.

  He said to call him Papa, but instead I cried, “Oh, Uncle…” and thought I could cry it forever.

  There, plowing his sex into mine, with the dressing table shunting at the wall, I glanced into the angled mirror that stood in the corner. And with my stockinged thighs wrapped around the thrusting Baron, my heeled sandals glinting and my red lips stretched apart, I, Anita, exotic dancer, released an ecstatic yell and finally learned to give way.

  For seven weeks, the Baron watched my act and came to me afterward to force my compliance. As I pleasured the men onstage, I felt I could sense his stare, and I knew, unlike the others who cried out and groaned, the Baron would be sitting still, patiently blazing. I’d always find him in my dressing room, where he’d sometimes bind my wrists and fuck me from behind or make me suck him while calling him “Uncle,” or come across my bosom so my cleavage dripped not only with his fluid but that of a stranger. But though it was savage, it was also kind. I’d walk from the theater with a lightness of step I’d never experienced before. I ate keenly; food had new flavor. Champagne bubbles now danced on my tongue. I’d grow drunk more quickly than before. When new shoes pinched me, I reveled in the pain.

  Then, one evening, he didn’t turn up.

  I’d always known he’d leave. I mourned on the stool by my dressing table, dabbing my streaked mascara with a cotton ball, staring emptily into the mirror that had cracked from tumbling so often. Even then, I guessed, he was forcing a different woman to relent; one who, like me, had been cut off from the world. But something about that knowledge made me reach for my clit and touch myself afresh.

  “Uncle, Uncle!” I began to cry.

  I never really stopped.

  TORN

  Vida Bailey

  Jen had been tutoring Marcus for about a year. He was just twenty. She was nearing the end of that decade and lonely. The lessons were no hardship for Jen. In the absence of a boyfriend, she had grown to look forward to their weekly hour together as she would a date. Her initial observation that he was extremely attractive had grown into something more urgent. She found subtle excuses to touch him.

  As the hour of his arrival approached, Jen would pass the hall window, hoping to catch an extra glance at him as he walked up her drive. She took pleasure in opening the door of her house to him, and welcoming him in.

  Just before his exams they’d had an encounter. It was a quick Shake ’n’ Bake of a tryst, a spank and wank, if you will. On his way into the study he had bent to talk to her terrier.

  “Hey, Rags, hey little dude. How are ya?” His combats rode down to reveal the band of his tighty whities and a tattoo above that, an intricate pattern spreading out from the base of his spine. Jen had to clutch the door frame, weak-kneed. But his homework was less impressive.

  “So did you get to do the essay plan we discussed?”

  His usual excuses surfaced again. “I just didn’t get time, I’ll have it next week, I will.”

  Frustration replaced the wave of desire. “Do you want to get into University, Marcus?
”

  A shrug. “I can’t really deal with the thought of another four years of school.” Yet here he was. Trying to do the right thing, but scared to try in case he failed.

  “It looks like we’re wasting each other’s time, then. And you’re wasting your mother’s money.”

  “I hear enough of that from her.” His light voice grew testy. She tried a different tack. Hand on hip, she risked a joke.

  “Get it together, Marcus. I’m not your mother. Don’t talk to me like that. I’d swear you were looking for a spanking.”

  To her astonishment, he had turned to her, eyes bright, and his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. “If you think it will help.” He arched an eyebrow.

  Jen’s armpits prickled and she felt her pulse begin to drum. Where was self-preservation when she needed it? The little demon on her shoulder pushed her better judgment firmly out of the way. Her internal struggle ended when she ordered him to bend over the desk.

  “Trousers down, Marcus, we may as well do this properly.”

  He’d obeyed quickly enough, eager fingers unbuckling his belt. He shivered when she rested her hand lightly on his ass, giving him time to back out, to laugh it off. When he turned and locked eyes with her, she read only excitement there.