by Alison Tyler
“Yeah,” he said softly as he took things up a notch, pulling and twisting at the same time. She began to pant, quick outbursts of breath that helped her deal with the pain. She felt a trickle of wetness running down her leg. When he finally let go, even though she was relieved, she wished he’d kept doing it. “Put your hands behind your back, and keep them there,” he said. She was still facing him, her nipples recovering from the brief torture session.
“You wanted more, didn’t you, Kelly? You’re not as innocent as you look, are you?” he asked, pinching her cheek with all the roughness he’d used on her nipple. That hurt, too, but in a different way, like he was trying to let her know that he was in control of every part of her body and could touch her any way he wanted to.
“Yes, Cliff,” she said, then moaned when she was rewarded with a smack across her left breast. His free hand clutched her short hair, barely able to grasp her there, while he moved so that he was perpendicular to her, then hit her breast head-on. Cliff pulled Kelly’s head back and then struck her other breast. This was something she hadn’t thought about beforehand, hadn’t imagined anyone doing, but she liked it. A lot. She liked the way his strokes hit her nipples but also the rest of each breast. He alternated those big, open-handed smacks with flicks of his middle finger against her nubs, a constant barrage of pain that seemed to blend into heat and pleasure almost immediately.
She’d begun breathing through her nose—deep, shuddering breaths, her eyes closed—while Cliff spanked her breasts. She’d have laughed if someone had told her a year ago she’d be submitting to this, and laughed even harder at the idea that it was making her unbearably wet. She finally opened her eyes, staring up at his wall of kink, just before the last blow landed. Kelly looked down at her breasts only to find her normally pale, milky skin adorned with flashes of red, a few spots of purple. She furrowed her brow, looking up at him with shock as she realized she wanted even more. Kelly didn’t know how to say it, exactly, but when Cliff leaned down and sucked each nipple between his teeth, slapping his tongue against one while pinching the other, then switching, she knew he understood.
“Lift up your skirt for me,” he said after a few minutes of suckling. He knelt on the ground in front of her, his back against his bed, while Kelly stood there, feeling red rise to her cheeks. It was one thing for him to spank her, even her breasts, but to stare like that, so close-up, at her shaved pussy, made her burn. “Now put your hand here,” he said, indicating the area just above her clit. “Pull it tight.” She didn’t question his orders, didn’t question anything that was happening because every word from his lips was music to her cunt. She pulled, feeling the stretch of her skin down there just as she felt the corresponding ache deep inside. That’s when he spanked her. There. Right on her pussy lips. Hard. Kelly was holding her skirt up with one hand and her cunt tight with the other, and she wished she had something to lean on.
The smacks kept coming, right on her most sensitive area. They hurt, but the moment they were done she found herself wanting more of them, liking that she could take that kind of intensity. She wanted his fingers to shift a little, go inside, fuck her after he’d smacked her, but Cliff didn’t do that. “How old are you, Kelly?” he asked her, instead.
“Twenty-one,” she answered automatically, telling the truth without thinking about the consequences.
“A fine age. You’re going to count that high for me while I spank you,” he said, moving her around so she was bent over a chair that was flush against his bed. Her arms lay across the mattress, while the head of the chair pressed against her lower belly. He pulled her pussy lips apart, pinching her labia for a moment before letting go. “I’ll even give you a choice. I’ll spank your ass or your pussy. Which will it be, Kelly?” She moaned, totally unsure which to pick. She hadn’t really planned for this, even though she thought she had. She thought she’d done her research; she’d read and talked and fantasized plenty. But the reality of Cliff’s hands on her, his voice drilling through her in the small room, him looming over her like this, was infinitely more exciting than anything she could’ve envisioned.
“My ass,” she finally said, wanting to see how that would feel.
“Good choice,” he said. “But since you took those smacks to your pussy so well, I’m going to have to use this paddle on you. I’ll let you look at it first.” He took a rounded black paddle off the wall. It looked like a Ping-Pong paddle to her, but was coated with black leather. He held it in front of her face, then closer. “Kiss it,” Cliff said, tapping it against her lips, which she dutifully pursed. “You have a very beautiful ass,” Cliff told her.
She wasn’t expecting a compliment, and beamed as if he’d told her she’d won the school talent show. “But wait, I think I need to cuff your wrists first. You look like you might just try to move and escape, or fidget just enough to throw me off.” Kelly moaned as he reached over to the far side of the wall for a pair of padded handcuffs that he proceeded to fasten around her wrists. She watched as he bound her, just as she’d dreamed about, and felt her body sink into the sweet bliss of immobilization when he was done. She kept testing the cuffs, not to see if she could escape, but to ensure that she couldn’t. Now she really was his, her ass front and center, ready for him. As if reading her mind, he said, “Those pretty cheeks are going to be even more beautiful when I’m done with them. I want you to count, and start with, ‘One, thank you, Cliff.’ If you miss one, we’ll have to start over.”
“Okay,” she said, sure she could follow this simple rule twenty-one times. The first blow sent her body digging into the chair, the slap ringing through the room. The paddle was harsh, stinging her skin, but she focused not on the pain, but the counting. Whereas before Kelly had been absorbing every aspect of his smacks to try to fully recreate them later in her journal, now she had to focus on spitting out those four words, rapid-fire, because his blows were coming one after the other. “Thirteen, thank you, Cliff,” she said breathlessly, rewarded instantly with another hard smack landing equally upon both asscheeks. The next made her ass jiggle in a way that shook her cunt, too. She heard the paddle whiz through the air, the sound one that was only audible if the room was completely still and quiet, and she flinched when it landed on the bed next to her. Cliff put his hand on the small of her back, right above her tailbone, then beat out the final seven blows.
Kelly surprised herself by not missing the count at all. When he stepped away, her ass was hot, hurting even more, seemingly, than it had while he was doing it. Cliff stared down at her. “Well, Kelly, you’ve been very good. I think this should give you something to think about when you get home.” He untied her and tossed the torn tank top back at her. “I didn’t have to gag you with this; maybe next time I’ll get some screams out of you that will necessitate shutting those pretty lips.” He spoke like she was almost not even there, as if he could plan everything out without her cooperation, and she liked that. For some reason, she knew that if she truly objected, he’d stop whatever he was doing in an instant. Knowing this not only turned her on, but made her long to sink deeper into his debt, offer herself up more fully next time. She glanced down and saw his erection bulging in his pants.
She wanted to ask about it, wanted to ask why he wasn’t shoving her down to the ground and making her suck it, or making her bend over again and slamming it into her pussy. She’d have gladly done either one, and in fact, both her mouth and cunt pouted in arousal. “You want this, don’t you, Kelly?” he asked, taking her hand and placing it on his hardness.
She nodded, gripping his erection tightly between her fingers as she held the tatters of her shirt in her hand. Now she really wanted it.
“Too bad. One of the first things you need to learn in the kinky world is that you can’t always get what you want. And sometimes it’s good for you not to. Sometimes it’s good for you to go home with a wet pussy and some marks on you,” he said, tracing the bruises on her chest while running his fingers along her slit.
“You have to work your way up to having my cock. Maybe if you come over again I’ll let you watch me fuck a girl who’s earned that privilege. You can watch me bend her over and fuck her so hard she cries.” Now all Kelly wanted was to touch herself. She was practically ready to come right then thinking about what Cliff had just described.
“I want you to wait one week, and if you’re still wet like this, you can call me, and maybe we can have another lesson. I want to make sure you have enough time to think about what you’re doing.” Again she nodded, mesmerized by his mastery. “Oh, and Kelly? No touching yourself until you call. If I want you to come, I’ll either make it happen myself or I’ll tell you it’s okay. This way I’ll find out just how devoted you are to me, how close you are to deserving some of this,” he said, whipping out his cock. He wrapped his fist around it and stroked it slowly, making her quiver.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said, steering her toward the door even though she had just the torn shirt to cover her reddened breasts and nothing to hide her very wet cunt from any breezes that might hike up her skirt. She scrambled to put the shirt on over her head, her body coming down slightly off its high. He practically shoved her out the door and she walked home in a daze, hardly noticing the stares and catcalls, her ears filled with the sounds of his smacks, his voice.
Kelly was surprised to see that only two hours had passed since she’d left. It felt like days. She lay down on her bed, on her stomach, her hands above her head. The position was familiar, yet totally new, and her body was burning in places she had never expected it to.
It’s going to be a long week, she thought, smiling into her pillow as she spread her legs and dreamed of Cliff.
MY FAVORITE UNCLE
TSAURAH LITZKY
KING OF THE TENOR SAXOPHONE” was how my favorite Uncle Irving was known during his long and illustrious career. He was world famous and worked with all the great old-time dance bands. Not really my uncle, he was my father’s best friend. Now he is over eighty, and I’m the only family he’s got.
For the past few years he has been confined to a wheelchair and living in the Home for Aged and Indigent Gentlemen Musicians in Sayreville, Long Island. Once a month, I ride out to visit him on the Long Island Railroad. I always bring him a bottle of Canadian Club secreted at the bottom of a big bag of popcorn because liquor is forbidden inside the home. If I have had a new erotic story anthologized, I bring him one of my author’s copies. Uncle Irv loves my stories. He says that since there are no women residents in the home and the nurses are foolishly impervious to his charms, my stories are all the sex he gets. This time I do have a new book for him; a collection titled Kinks and Winks just out from Make Nice Press.
It’s a beautiful summer day. I walk the few blocks from the station to the home in what was once a fine old Victorian mansion. I’m glad Uncle is spending his old age in such a serene setting.
The common room isn’t crowded. A few ancients are playing cards at a table near the door. Uncle Irving is seated in his wheelchair next to a big armchair. His smile when he sees me is huge. He is completely bald and is wearing an immaculate white shirt and one of the bow ties from his giant collection. Today it is a peach one with purple polka dots, maybe because he knows peach is my favorite color.
“Hi, Trixie,” my uncle greets me. He often calls me Trixie, after his longtime girlfriend, Trixie Coyle, now deceased nine years. She was a showgirl he met at the Copacabana. Sometimes I think Uncle may even think I am Trixie, because suddenly while we are talking he will put his hand above my knee on my thigh and leave it there. I don’t mind.
“You look so pretty,” Uncle says, “like a daffodil in that yellow dress. How is my niece, the famous writer?”
“I’m not famous yet,” I say. I kiss him on his shiny pate and sit down in the armchair.
“You will be famous if you keep writing those naughty stories. Did you bring me one today? Did you bring me my popcorn?”
“Absolutely,” I tell him. “Your popcorn is right here and I also have a new book.” I open my tote bag and pull out Kinks and Winks.
“What’s with this kinks?” Uncle Irving wants to know. “Kinky is hair, all frizzy, snarled up like steel wool.” I tell him that’s true, “But,” I continue, “kink is also what you do when you play let’s pretend while you are doing it. It’s a way of making it especially hot. You can use costumes and stuff, you and your partner make it into a play or a wacky game.”
He looks pensive, then he says, “You mean like when the husband wants the wife to wear high heels to bed or if I tied one of the nurses to the toilet in the bathroom with bandages and then had my way with her? I’ve always had a thing for nurses.”
“Correct,” I answer.
“I see,” he says and he opens Kinks and Winks and flips to the index. “Here’s your story, ‘Triangle Titillation.’ What’s that one about?” I tell him it’s about a fictional me doing the horizontal mambo with a boyfriend and the boyfriend’s best friend. “Fictional?” says my uncle, raising an eyebrow. I tell him I only wish such a thing would happen. “You are so naughty,” he teases me.
“ ‘Yellow Rain over Babbling Brook’ by Rod Rushing; what kind of a kink is this?” he wants to know.
“If you think about the title, you will probably know,” I answer. A blush spreads from the top of his head all the way down to the collar of his shirt.
“People are now writing about these things, things that used to be such big secrets no one would dream of talking about them,” Uncle says.
“Sure, this is the twenty-first century, the third millennium,” I tell him. “It’s a new world.”
Uncle starts to laugh. “Ha, I was a kinkster, already. I didn’t know there was a name for it.”
“You old devil! What were you and Trixie up to?”
“I’ll tell you,” he says, “only it wasn’t Trixie. Come, let’s go to my room.” I know this means he wants us to have our usual cocktail. He wheels himself ahead of me out of the common room and down the long hall to his corner room with the four big windows. The walls are covered with pictures, photos of Trixie, the bands he played with, long dead cousins and uncles and aunts.
Uncle rolls over to the little table next to the bureau. I get the whiskey glasses from the hiding place beneath the socks in his underwear drawer. I sit down beside him in the only chair, extract the Canadian Club from the bag of popcorn in my backpack. I pour us each a solid shot. We click glasses and drink the liquor down. “Delicious,” says Uncle. “This whiskey has no regrets.”
“Now,” I say, “tell me about your kink. Why wasn’t Trixie your kink partner?”
“This was before I even knew Trixie. Back when we were playing the Tutti-Frutti Club in Manhattan, we had a torch singer with the band. Her name was Lucy Loose. She was huge, the guys in the band used to joke about her. Here comes Lucy Loose, big in the front, bigger in the caboose. She had wild black hair. I liked to watch her shake her thing while she was doing her numbers. I began to wonder since she had so much hair on her head did she have so much on her…you know. One night I asked her to have a drink with me when the show was over. After a few martinis at the club bar, I asked her the big question.
“ ‘Miss Lucy, you have such beautiful, thick hair on your head, I can’t stop myself from being curious. Do you have so much hair on your, um…secret place?’
“It took a moment before she answered, it not being a usual question and all. She looked down into her glass, then right back up at me, straight into my eyes. ‘Why, yes, Irv,’ she answered with a grin on her face. ‘Yes, I do.’
“That was when I knew I was in. It took one more martini before I asked her if she liked to play dress-up games. She said yes again. She quickly agreed when I suggested I rent a room at the St. Damian Hotel for next Sunday night when the band had off. I would bring the costume.
“I went to a uniform store and purchased a nurse’s uniform, an extra-large. I reserved a room and told Lucy the room number aft
er our show Saturday night. We were to meet at eight the following evening. You can bet I was there an hour early. I put the lights on dim, put ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ on the record player and ordered a bottle of the best champagne to be sent up from room service. Besides the big double bed, there was a nice couch in the room. I had the bellhop put the champagne on the coffee table in front of the couch. I tipped him twenty for good luck. I got the nurse’s outfit from the bag it was in and set it out neatly on the bed. I sat on the couch waiting for Lucy.
“Finally, there was a knock on the door. I was nervous and my heart was pounding like a kettledrum.
“There was Lucy, towering over me like a giantess. She was wearing a red dress cut so low I could see the top of her nipples. Her magnificent breasts, held high by some kind of intricate corset, just cleared my head. I stood there gaping. Finally she says, ‘Irv, aren’t you going to invite a lady in and offer her a drink?’
“ ‘Sure, sure,’ I say and I beckon her in and lead her to sit down on the sofa. When she sees the nurse’s outfit, she starts to giggle. ‘Oh, are we going to play doctor?’ she wants to know. ‘Not exactly,’ I tell her.
“Pretty soon we are sipping bubbly. It turns out that Miss Lucy loves champagne and it’s not long before I got one of my hands inside her décolletage and she has my other hand up to her mouth. She is sucking my fingers, running her nice pink tongue between them, and from the way Lucy is shifting her hips from side to side I’m thinking maybe she is ready to play. I ask her, ‘Lovely Lucy, are you ready to play a dress-up game?’
