by Alison Tyler
“That’s bullshit, Sarah. She’s fantasized about this spanking her whole life. You’re just too scared to go that deep inside her. You’re too cowardly to find out what it’s like.”
His words stung. They hit home with Sarah—she had been called “too scared” before—and she did the only thing she knew to prove him wrong. She took off her skirt and lowered her panties so that the elastic waistband cut into her thighs. Cowardly? Go to hell.
“I’m ready. Show me what it’s like.”
The bravery was an act, a fuck-you to Alex’s arrogant judgment. Who was he to tell her what her problem was? He didn’t even know her.
But he did. He was right: she had wanted this her whole life, and she had run away last year because she was scared to go this deep and the only thing left for her to do was this.
Like fastening her seat belt before the roller coaster ride, bending over Alex’s lap was the last act that Sarah would do of her own volition. It was an irreversible commitment. It was her last move. She felt him grip her firmly—having obviously learned his lesson last year—and she recognized that she had passed the point of no return.
The intellectual realization was one thing, but the physical sensation of Alex’s hand landing on her bare flesh was another. The way that patch of pale, tender skin stung changed everything. It felt as if her ass, so long the object of fantasy spankings, had come to be the center of her being. Now all she felt was the agonizing fire that raged as the spanking continued. The pain quickly made her frantic. She squirmed, wriggled, and kicked—anything to slow down the rain of slaps, anything to protect the raw skin where his last blow had just landed.
But even though she was struggling, she wasn’t trying to run away. Something about this was right. This was where she was meant to be. She wanted desperately for the pain to stop, but there was something compelling about the sensation. The pain focused her completely. It was clean, like sharp glass, and cut through all the confusion that clouded her head. She could forget about all the negotiations and compromises, all the speculation and guesswork that went into human relations. Typically, the complexity of it all burdened her and took her away from the here and now. Typically, the present only revealed past mistakes or informed future decisions, so that she was always straddling the present, thinking more about the should-have-dones and the must-dos than what she was actually doing.
The spanking demanded she forget all that. The future and past collapsed into the stinging intensity of the present. Even her worries about how she would stand the rest of the spanking were beaten out of her, literally. She could only think of one thing: the pain.
Everything else was so complicated. This was simple.
For Alex, her spanking was an unexpectedly reflective time. He had questions about the spanking. Should he hit the same spot again and again or vary his target, working his way up and down each cheek from her thigh to the top of her crack? How many spanks should he deliver to one cheek before he switched to the other? How often should he take breaks? What was a fair punishment? Was he trying to make it hurt more or not hurt too much?
In typical Alex fashion, he placed his faith in the golden mean and basically split the difference whenever possible.
He found so many aspects of the spanking arousing. Sarah’s ass was spectacular, and the view of further treasures between her legs was even better. The shades of red and blotches of emerging bruises were as thrilling to watch as her gasps, moans, and sighs were to hear. He liked the squealing, pleading, and crying, but they diminished as the spanking progressed, and somehow he understood that Sarah was too deep inside herself to make a big display of her feelings, no matter how intense.
More than anything, though, Alex was struck by how well the director-actress game had fit. It was a spur-of-the-moment invention, and he had worried that it would feel too contrived. He worried, too, that it would be a cop-out, a way to avoid owning up to his responsibility for this. But that’s not how it felt at all.
A good director breathes life into a scene, and that was what Alex was doing. The role-playing had answered the question of how a bunch of scripted lines—“You’ve been a very naughty girl,” “You need a spanking,” “No, please don’t spank me on the bare bottom”—could feel anything but hackneyed and clichéd. It had allowed him to deliver lines like these without feeling ridiculous, without feeling like a sleazy pervert or a Victorian headmaster wannabe.
Yes, it was a game, but the old acting adage felt true: sometimes you can only be yourself when you’re playing. This was where Sarah and Alex could be themselves. Alex was the man bringing his hand down hard on her exposed ass, while Sarah, beyond herself with pain, felt as urgent a need for this to continue as she felt for it to end. When it ended, this part of them would be forced to recede into the deep places in their heads where it lived, secretly, stowed away in their otherwise normal lives. Neither of them wanted to return to their normal lives.
Not yet.
Impact is to spanking as friction is to sex. Anyone who thinks that a hand spanking is the mild cousin of canes, paddles, and belts has never felt the truly cruel sting that only skin on skin can deliver. It was a loud spanking. Alex had resigned himself to the fact that those in the neighboring hotel rooms or passersby in the hallway outside would most definitely hear the cracking report of each spank. But this wasn’t a time to worry about what other people thought. Nor was this a time to accommodate the needs of others. He did enough of that in his life. This was time for him to demand similar respect. How dare she? How dare she leave without a word? How dare she make him feel like she did, make him worry that he had done something horrible?
Sarah couldn’t know what was going through his head, but every time she thought the spanking couldn’t get any worse, it did. Was this a just punishment, the equivalent in physical pain of the emotional pain that her leaving had caused, or was this just the satisfaction of that desire that had laid in wait, deep inside them, for as long as they could remember? What sort of calculus figured the amount of corporal punishment that equaled noncorporal pain? How big a debt had she incurred that she was now paying off in the currency of her own agony? Whatever it was, this wasn’t what she had imagined. This was too much. This was too, too much.
She couldn’t take it; she had to take it. These two feelings together had caused an initial panic but had subsequently settled into a feeling of deep resignation. She could rail against it in her head, but she did nothing about it. He spanked her again and again. It would go on forever, and each time she felt the vicious impact—each one worse than the last—she just struggled to breathe and make it to the next one. And the next one and the next one.
She was surprised when he stopped without warning. Was he done? Had she made it? Was that all there was to it?
“What’s it like, Sarah?”
After remaining mostly dry-eyed through the vicious beating, Sarah heard the question and began to sob. Her tears came from a part of herself that she never let out. These were feelings—despair, weakness, hopelessness—that had to be kept inside or it would all fall apart. But the searing pain had defeated her, and she could hold it together no longer.
“This is what it’s like,” she managed from between her sobs. “This is what it’s always like.”
Alex was moved by the effort it took to say the words twice and knew that it was the first time she had been able to tell anyone the truth in a long time. He helped her off his lap, and she curled up on the hotel bed without pulling up her panties. He lay next to her and held her as she cried.
After a while, she faded into a deep fatigue, lying still, unconcerned about her state of undress or where she was or who she was with. This was unusual for Sarah, who typically worried about everything, and it came as a welcome relief. She would sleep well tonight, even without the pills. First, though, she had one question for Alex.
“Did I get the role?”
“Of course, my dear. Of course.”
ALISON TYLER
THE GAME
GUESS WE’RE THE LAST ONES TO GET HERE,” Angel said, as we pulled up into the driveway of Deleen DeMarco’s Hollywood Hills estate. “That’s good. You’ll get to know everyone in about five seconds flat—then you can stop trembling and enjoy yourself.” I nodded and gripped her hand.
It was, without a doubt, a trial by fire having to meet the entire band at one time. But, honestly, I preferred it that way, plunged into the group without a chance to step back, to move away from the flames.
Still, I was scared. I tried to control my nerves as I slid off her Harley, then waited while she set her gloves and helmet on the rack. We parked her bike in the circular driveway, already filled with other, more decadent bikes, and walked past them to the front of the house.
As a model, you’d think I’d be used to meeting celebrities—especially since I’m considered one myself. But I was fairly new on the scene. And meeting the members of Objects—the band with the most number one hits in recent history—was disconcerting, regardless of how many fashion shoots I’d done.
Angel pulled me along behind her, whispering assurances to me: “You’ll do fine. They’ll love you.” We brushed past the multicolored balloons that filled the entryway, lolling against the molded doorways and fluttering softly up to the ceiling.
A poster of the new album, Objects of Desire, was taped to one wall. It showed Angel, Deleen, Beauty, and Arianna totally nude with Keith Haring–style arrows pointing to their breasts and cunts. Lola, the cherub of the group with her blonde ringlets and innocent smile, sat naked in her wheelchair, staring up at the rest of the group.
As I looked at the picture, I realized how each band member derived power through individuality. Angel’s tattoos were starkly severe in the black-and-white photo, as if they’d been carved into her body. Arianna had painted stars and stripes on her breasts to make them more patriotic. Deleen was like a mad sorceress. She winked at the camera with an almost evil smirk and rubbed her hands together with glee. Beauty, who’s half German and half Native American, had braided her thick, black hair into a solid rope—it made her look dangerous and mean. She stood sideways between Deleen and Arianna, and her braid hung down her back, past her shoulder blades, almost to her waist.
“That’s the uncensored version,” Angel told me. “The public receives a model with black Xs covering the indecent parts.”
I stared, fascinated by the curves and dips of the women’s bodies, their unique shapes, but Angel pulled on my hand, leading me into the sprawling living room. The lights were dimmed, and I almost stumbled over a white cat walking up to greet us.
“Hey, Shazzam.” Angel picked up the kitty. “I’d like you to meet Katrina.”
I shook a fuzzy paw, and Beauty, lying on a red sofa said, “Where are your manners, Angel? You introduce your lady to a pussy before us?”
Angela shrugged, set Shazzam gently on the ground, and said, “Everyone, I’d like you to meet Katrina. Katrina, this is everyone.” She looked around the room, “Well, almost everyone. Where are the hosts?”
Arianna, reclining on a matching red-leather chaise longue with her girlfriend said, “Somewhere in the kitchen.” She was covered by a petite Asian beauty named Sara, draped casually over her like a shawl.
“You should check out the spread,” Beauty told us. “Tessa got the Sleeping Buddha to cater.”
Angel and I turned as Tessa appeared in the doorway, caught beneath the iridescent light filtering through a gathering of balloons. Tess is a true Irish redhead, her ivory skin sprinkled with millions of freckles like golden confetti. They seemed to sparkle across her nose and shoulders and over her cleavage, and I wondered if they covered her entire body, then blushed at the thought.
Deleen came up behind her, carrying a glass of champagne in each hand.
“Hey, Angel. Who’s the babe?”
“Deleen, really,” Tessa admonished. “You’re frightening her.”
“This is Katrina,” Angela said, her arm behind me, pushing me toward them. I shook hands with Tessa. Deleen, passing the champagne on to Arianna and Sara, took one of my hands in both of hers and kissed my fingertips.
“Charmed,” she smiled.
“Help yourself to food,” Tessa said, ignoring her flirtatious lover. “We’ve got a feast spread out in the dining room, buffet style.”
Angel and I piled up plates, then walked back into the main room and settled onto the floor against a flood of satin pillows. Tessa came to sit by my side. She had on a strapless dress with a black bodice and a short skirt of fluffy lace. Her slender waist was accentuated with a wide velvet ribbon. I complimented her on the look, and she said, “Thanks. Easy on, easy off,” and then leaned across me to ask Angel a question, rubbing her breasts slightly against my knees.
I wondered if she’d done it on purpose, and then looked at her as she startled me with a question.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Do you know Lola?”
“No. I know of her, but we haven’t met.”
“She should be here later,” Tessa said, looking at Angel to include her in the conversation. “Lo was meeting with a publisher in New York about doing a book of photos. They say she’s the next Herb Ritz.” She paused, as an idea came to her. “You know, she ought to take some of you.”
“The two of you together,” Deleen interrupted. “Now, that would be a picture.”
I saw Angel nodding in agreement, then I turned when Arianna leaned up on the sofa, Sara moving with her lover’s body as if she were another limb.
“Add Sara, too,” Arianna insisted.
“And, um,” Beauty fumbled as a gorgeous strawberry blonde strolled in from the kitchen holding a bottle of mineral water. She walked up to Beauty and snuggled against her.
“Liz,” she purred.
“Yeah, and Liz,” Beauty finished, lamely, and the rest of us laughed, transforming an awkward moment into a rather silly one. Liz didn’t seem to mind. She curled her long limbs around Beauty’s, protectively, like an owner.
“I wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were her,” Tessa whispered to me. “Beauty left her last girlfriend on the plane when she met this one.” Tessa nodded at Liz who was now kissing Beauty’s earlobe. “Beauty’s always had a problem with the word commitment.”
Angel excused herself then to get more food, and Tessa took this opportunity to lean even closer to me. Her body pressed against my side so that I could feel her fragile ribs; the warm, bare skin of her upper chest on my arm.
“How long have you two been hiding out?” she asked. “We haven’t seen much of Angel since the recording ended.”
“A month,” I told her, thinking that it was thirty days exactly since she’d come with Melanie to the fashion shoot at Zebra.
“And you met…”
“Through Melanie Samuel.” I waited for the recognition to appear in Tessa’s eyes.
“The journalist?”
I nodded.
“You’re on the cover of Zebra this month, aren’t you?” she said, getting it.
I nodded again, giving her a quick version of the smoldering look they’d had me do for the shoot—the one currently appearing on every newsstand. Lashes lowered, head tilted, lips pouting.
“You seem different in person,” Tessa said, smiling at me. “So much younger.”
“That’s the makeup,” I explained. “But it’s what Angel said, too. It’s what she liked about me, I think, the person beneath the image.”
Angel had said, “Can I talk with you?” And I told her, knees trembling at the thought of talking with Angela McMorrow, lead singer in the hottest band in the country, “Hang out until I get this makeup off.” She’d waited outside the dressing room, chatting with Melanie, who kept yelling for me to hurry up. I came out in a T-shirt and ripped jeans, my normal attire, and Angela looked me over and shook her head.
“You’re younger than all that, aren’t you?” she asked, glancing toward the lights and the fancy dresses hanging fro
m a metal pole in wardrobe. “I’m the same age underneath,” I grinned. “You just have to look beneath the surface.”
Angel had nodded, moving in close to me as Melanie withdrew to answer her cell phone in private. “Yeah, I would like to do just that, Katrina. I would like to see what’s lurking beneath your surface, peel you open, spread you out, learn each of your secrets for myself.”
Then Melanie had returned and things continued as normal—at least until the next time Angel and I were alone. Still, I didn’t say any of these things to Tessa. She would know all about duplicity, twofaced worlds, being the partner of Deleen DeMarco—someone whose little black book contained the number of every “in” person in Hollywood.
Angel came back then, now sitting on Tessa’s side, and she gave me a look over Tessa’s head that I took to mean, “How are you holding out?”
I shrugged back at her and then said, “Please,” as Deleen stopped in front of me with a fresh bottle of champagne. It surprised me at first that there wasn’t any help at the party, but I was glad for it, glad for the low-key atmosphere. I could tell that these people were for real—not needing the constant stroking of fans or media.
The house—mansion, really—was as kickback as they were, set up for comfort, not appearances, although all was stylishly done. There were pillows everywhere, velvet and satin striped, with butter-soft leather sofas. I hoped to decorate my own place in a similar fashion someday, wanting to be able to walk into a room, eyes closed (or blindfolded), and enjoy the surroundings by touch alone.
By my third bubble-filled glass, I was leaning against the cushions, listening to Montage croon on the stereo, drifting in a warm fulfillment. I paid scant attention to Angel and Tessa, who were discussing the promotion for Objects of Desire. I watched as Arianna and Beauty gossiped across the space between their sofas, Sara describing her latest nude centerfold in Planet X magazine, and Liz, a first-class cabin attendant, explaining how Beauty had stolen her heart at 32,000 feet.
I wondered what had happened to the girl Beauty had been with, and I thought about asking Tessa, but she left to fetch a joint. When she returned to the living room, she was tottering on her spangled high heels.
