When I was satisfied, I lifted my skirt and moved away from my slave. I put my flogger down on the nearby table and picked up my empty glass to get the cocktail napkin beneath it. I handed the small paper square to Jacob and told him he could come. Then I watched as he jerked off with one hand, the other holding the napkin steady beneath his dick. When he came after only a few strokes, he made sure to catch every drop in the paper napkin.
We headed back to our hotel after that, and Jacob was on his best behavior for the rest of the trip. After his punishment, it even seemed like he had a spring in his step. He was so good, in fact, that I’m already making plans for our next trip.
—Ms. Stacey L., Via Email
Every Day Brings a New Kind of Spanking
When you’re as into spanking as much as my husband, Evan, and I are, you have to get creative so that each day will bring a new kind of kinky excitement. We figured out early on that spanking is a key component of our relationship—that is, Evan spanking me. To me, spanking can be foreplay or the main event, but one thing I must have in my life is a daily spanking. Without it, I just don’t feel like myself, in the way that some girls have to wear their favorite lipstick in order to feel complete.
So rather than simply draping myself across his lap and taking a hand-spanking every day, we both decided to spice things up, because my ass can handle a lot more than a hand! We have a large collection of implements, though we also vary our kinky play in other ways. Sometimes he makes me pick a number, and while that is the number of smacks I’ll receive, that also means I’ll have to perform a task that many times. So if I pick “sixty” when I’m feeling especially horny, I may have to do sixty jumping jacks before he takes me over his knee. Or if I choose “three,” I might have to give him three blowjobs to completion before I get three strokes of the cane. Whatever I choose—or rather, whatever Evan chooses based upon what he knows I’m willing to try—he makes me work for my spanking.
Sometimes I wish we could go back to the days when I could muse aloud, “Gosh, I really need to get paddled,” and he’d be there moments later with our black leather paddle in hand. But I know from experience how boring that can get, and we’re in it for the long term, so I wait to see which implement he’ll choose and what kind of role I’ll be playing. Sometimes we’ll pretend that I’ve been flirting with other guys, sometimes I’m the naughty schoolgirl—complete with short plaid skirt, pigtails, and knee socks—sometimes I’m a willful brat, or sometimes I’m the wife who’s burned dinner.
My favorite role to play is that of the brat, a girl who’s so wild she has to be restrained. I can tell that even though we are playing, he delights in imagining me actually misbehaving and driving him to the point of distraction. That’s when Evan breaks out the paddles and floggers—and sometimes even the rope and a ball gag—to truly shut me up and teach me a lesson.
Whenever I see the gag, I start to salivate. It’s not fear; it’s more like nervous anticipation. I love to scream and depriving me of that is its own sort of torment, but it’s the kind that makes my pussy wet. Knowing that his smacks will echo loudly in the air while my shouts will be muffled is exciting and gives him even more control over me, something which I find incredibly arousing.
My most memorable spanking involved me messing up an important task I’d been entrusted with: buying our car. We had a slate-gray car picked out, and I came home with the same model—in candy-apple red.
“I couldn’t help it,” I said, giggling and hoping that he could see the appeal of a red car.
“But that’s not what we agreed on. You can’t do whatever you want without consequences. Being in a relationship is about compromise—something you still haven’t learned.” His tone was serious, and I knew he was actually annoyed. He was right, after all. We’d gone back and forth, looking at car colors, debating the pros and cons. I’d had every intention of bringing home the car we’d selected, but when the salesman asked me if I wanted to take a peek at what else he had to offer, I couldn’t resist. What’s the harm? I’d thought. Except the red one seemed to call to me, and once I got in it—even though logically I knew it was the exact same car, but with a different outside—I was sold. I got so many admiring glances while I drove it. It was like when you buy a new dress and it feels like you’ve gotten a new body to go along with it.
But trying to explain that to Evan was impossible. I trembled before him; I could already tell where this was leading, and knowing that I wasn’t really contrite would add to the severity of the spanking. Well, Evan gave me even more than I was expecting: He dragged me outside.
“Where are we going?” I asked, but then I shut my mouth, realizing that was a stupid question. We were going wherever Evan deemed it appropriate to punish me.
As it turned out, he wanted to go to the scene of the crime, so to speak: Evan pulled me over to the gleaming red car. “Get in,” he ordered, directing me into the backseat, and even though his voice was gruff, what someone else might’ve called “angry,” I knew his dick had to be rock-hard because he was about to spank me. I scrambled inside, my skirt lifting up as I rushed, and he followed me into the car. We live on a pretty secluded street, and I knew at least one set of neighbors was on vacation, but the possibility that anyone could walk by and see, or at least surmise, what was going on added to my excitement. I’d received plenty of spankings, but never where anyone else could see us.
Evan kept making me tell him why I was getting spanked, and the repetition, like a student being made to write the same thing on a chalkboard, drilled into my head that he didn’t want a red car. Similarly, his hard smacks drilled into my bottom the fact that he was upset with me. Except, well, if this was my “punishment,” it wasn’t going to be much of a deterrent to future misbehavior, because his spankings, though they stung, stung in a good way. They always do. I couldn’t really pretend that I completely disliked spankings, and he knew it, because he kept hitting me in the sweet spot in the center of my ass cheeks—the spot that made my pussy sing.
The sound of the slaps was loud, and I wondered if someone else might hear it. The windows of the car were closed, but I still worried. At first, Evan kept my panties on. He likes the contrast with my white cotton panties (the only kind I wear unless he’s not around) when my skin becomes tinged with pink—or better yet, reddened. Yet when he peeled my panties down so that he could view my pussy, I didn’t protest. While I was a little nervous, I also trusted Evan to make sure that even if someone passed by, he’d pull out some explanation for what we were doing. Additionally, I couldn’t really think when I knew he was admiring my wet, pink pussy lips, shaven bare the way he likes them. He was also admiring the skin he’d just been smacking, and the way he whistled made me proud to have such a firm ass, one that continued to delight him. He stroked my pussy lips, and then pinched them lightly. I moaned, then wiggled around, trying to get him to push his fingers inside me, even a little.
But my husband didn’t comply with my silent request, even though I could feel his erection beneath me. Instead, he increased the ferocity of his slaps, as he made sure I learned my lesson. “What color car should you have come home with, Sasha?” he asked. “I want you to repeat that after each of the next thirty slaps.”
The moment I felt his hand connect with my bare bottom, I said the short, simple, loaded word: “gray.” I kept repeating it, even when the blows landed one on top of another. I was so wet I was desperate to unleash his cock and sink down onto his dick, but I knew Evan would never allow that until I’d been thoroughly spanked. I tried my best to enjoy each sensuous smack, even though my pussy was demanding immediate attention.
By the time he was done punishing me, I was almost breathless. Evan whipped out his cock but continued to deny my cunt, making me take him deep into my throat. Of course, that only made me more turned on, and I greedily swallowed his dick. Finally, when I thought I could bear it no longer, he lifted me up and shoved my pussy down onto his pole, keeping his hands locked on my
hips to guide my motions. Within a few thrusts, I came—long, loud, and hard.
“I want you to return this car, Sasha, and come back with the one we’d selected,” he said, his voice sounding serious.
“But…” I started to object. After all, we’d just fucked in the backseat. I looked down, indicating that, as if he could forget.
“That’s your problem, Sasha. You return this car, or else I’m going to take out my belt.” I moaned out loud, thinking that red was definitely my color—and that my ass was soon going to match my new car perfectly.
—Ms. Sasha T., Eugene, Oregon
Dominant Professor Has Her Pick of Hot Young Freshmen to Be Her Personal Semester Slave
Every semester, there is always one student who stands out for me, who sets himself apart not by his stellar test scores or academic abilities, but by his aptitude for submission. I teach college freshmen, and though at age thirty I’m only twelve years older than most of them, I seem ancient to all but the most adventurous. I didn’t set out to seduce college boys—after all, I can bed plenty of men my own age—but during my third year teaching, one student practically begged me to top him. Bobby started acting up and then groveling before my desk during office hours, all of which resulted in him ultimately massaging my feet and pledging his loyalty.
Later, we progressed to him licking my pussy to orgasm, cleaning my apartment, and generally doing whatever I wanted. Our kinky friendship with benefits extended even after he left my classroom, and from then on, I’ve been able to pick out the one male student who’d make the perfect slave for a semester.
My method is to look for a student who isn’t quite so forthright, one who is a little shy yet seems to have a hint of defiance lurking alongside his submissive potential. If you ask me, there is such a thing as being too submissive, and I want a young man who will challenge me just a little, if only so that I can punish him more. I want someone smart and brainy, with a little sexual experience, but not too much. He should be trainable and interested in kink, while allowing me to be his guide.
I usually base my search on intuition; there is a certain way submissives address me as a professor—combined with their demeanor—that allows me to figure out which freshman hottie is secretly craving a place at my feet. I let him make the first move; he usually requests office hours and then grovels for a way he can get extra credit.
Take Josh, my most recent boy toy. He came in one day, looking for extra assignments, and said, “I’ll do anything. I love your class.” I teach English, and while it’s plausible that he may just be that into Charlotte Brontë and Charles Dickens, I detected something more in his tone.
“Thank you, Josh,” I said, trying to sound imperious. He simply stood there, waiting for me to continue.
“Well, I don’t normally offer extra credit in this class, but you seem like you might like this,” I said, handing him a book from my own personal collection: Story of O by Pauline Réage. “It’s more erotic than the works we normally read in class. Give me a five-page book review.” I’d deliberately chosen something in which the female is the submissive, to see whether he’d be drawn to that or would long for a woman to take charge. Giving him the latter setup would’ve been too simple.
I told him to get back to me within the next month, knowing he had a heavy workload. That was a Thursday, and by Monday morning I had the paper in my inbox. It was an intelligent critique and, as I’d suspected it might, had a cautious addendum saying that while he thought the writing was top quality, he’d have preferred to see a woman taking charge at least at some point in the book. I instructed him to come near the end of my office hours that day and felt a frisson of arousal, hoping I’d wind up taking him home with me.
“Hello, Josh,” I said when I greeted him that evening. I’d worn leather pants that day and a bold red blouse that was sheer enough to see through—if you looked closely enough. I was hoping Josh would.
He smiled at me, looking a little nervous as I shut and locked the door. “First of all, I’m giving you the extra credit. You’re on track to get an A+ in my class. So what I want to discuss with you today is beyond the scope of our student/teacher relationship.” I took a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. Then I moved from behind my desk, picked up a wooden ruler, and, while I tapped it against my hand, continued. “I have a feeling that you wrote what you did because at heart you have submissive leanings yourself. As it happens, I’m a dominant woman and am looking for a young man to train, kind of like what happened in the book, but on a more casual basis. If you feel you might be able to fill that role, I’d like you to come back to my place with me, and I will show you the kind of service I expect from you. This position could last one semester, two, or possibly years, depending on what else we have going on in our lives. You would be free to go whenever you desired, but while in my home, you’d obey my rules.”
I looked directly at him to gauge his reaction. He was no longer trembling, though I could see that his dick had gotten hard and was straining against the front of his gray slacks. “I’d be honored to serve you in that way, Professor,” he said.
“In that case, you will call me ma’am when we are alone.” I said. “Now follow me—and carry this bag.” I thrust an oversize bag toward him, which was filled with books, and then I unlocked the door and strode out, sure he’d follow. Indeed, he did, and I smiled to myself, looking forward to training another new recruit in what I liked to think of as my personal kinky army.
Fortunately, nobody else was around to observe what we were doing. I wanted Josh to feel relaxed and enjoy our upcoming encounter without anyone else’s interference. When we reached the car, I opened the driver’s-side door for him and then climbed into the passenger seat myself. If things proceeded with our mistress/slave relationship, he’d be the one doing the driving. We didn’t say much on the trip home, but I sensed that he was nervous and excited.
I got confirmation when we entered my apartment, and I led him into my makeshift dungeon/office. The walls were painted black and on them hung handcuffs, floggers, paddles, and cuffs, while my desk was on the far side of the room. His eyes widened as he admired all the kinky implements. “Do those look interesting to you?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said quietly, looking down. I tipped up his chin so he was facing me.
“You’re to look at me when I speak to you, Josh. That’s an order.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said again. “I’ve only seen those kinds of toys on… on the Internet,” he mumbled.
“Which one intrigues you the most?” I asked him.
He looked up and studied them, his face blazing red, which only made him more attractive to me. I had the urge to strip off his clothes, but I wanted to make him do that. When he picked up a pair of cuffs, I was surprised. Most guys chose the paddle or flogger, wanting a powerful, physical thrill. Bondage was about a different kind of submission. “Good choice,” I told him, and he gave me a small smile.
“Now your first task is to help me off with my boots,” I said, snatching the cuffs away from him. “If you do that well, we’ll proceed from there.”
My boots were particularly tight, a pair I had trouble getting into myself, so I knew he had his work cut out for him. Yet Josh moved with a calm ease, finessing each boot off me as if they were silk gloves. “Would you like a foot massage, too, ma’am?” he asked. I assented and was treated to one of the best massages I’ve ever received. His hands were firm and strong, but not too much. I was reluctant to have him stop, except for the fact that my pussy was throbbing in a way it only does when the urge to dominate a man sweeps through me.
“That’s enough,” I snapped at him. He pulled his hands back quickly, as if he’d done something wrong. I liked that; an immediate response is vital in a slave. I pressed my toes against his chest, sliding them lower, to where his firm cock bulged beneath his pants. “I want you naked. Now,” I said, the urgency clear in my voice. To his credit, Josh didn’t hesitate as I’ve seen som
e guys do. He stripped off his clothes and was soon nude, looking much more built than I’d expected.
“Turn around and give me your wrists,” I said. He obeyed, offering up his skinny wrists as he turned around. I fastened cuffs on him; I also have a set of metal handcuffs hanging on the wall, but they’re for show; these were padded black leather ones. I want my subs to enjoy their submission on some level and not to feel the scrape of metal against their skin.
I tickled the backs of his arms after I’d secured the cuffs, laughing as he squirmed. “Bend over,” I told him, and I got exactly what I wanted: his ass in the air. “I’m going to spank you, Josh,” I said, caressing him casually.
“Yes, please, ma’am,” he said, sounding almost breathless.
“But not just yet,” I said, drawing out the teasing and the anticipation. Spanking is one of my favorite things to do to a sub, but I figured that having a naked, bound man in my apartment was worth having a little fun with before I headed toward the finale. Unfortunately, with him bound I couldn’t really ask him to do too many menial chores, so I had to improvise. I realized I had some party invitations waiting to be mailed, and I had him lick the twenty-five envelopes, before undoing his bonds. I knew just trying to act normally while under my command and having a raging erection was a test for him, but he passed.
“Very good, Josh. You show a lot of promise. Now you’ll get your spanking. I’ll even let you pick out which implement you’d like me to use on you,” I said.
I watched him survey his options before choosing a black leather paddle. It was the first kinky toy I’d ever bought, and one I had gotten spanked with plenty of times back when I was a bottom. I didn’t praise him further, though, but simply took the instrument and ordered him to place his hands against the wall and stick out his butt. Then I started whacking Josh, lightly at first, then more firmly. After his pale ass had turned rosy, I ordered him to count and thank me after each stroke. “One—thank you, ma’am,” he began in a loud voice, but by the time we reached twelve, his tone had quieted substantially.
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