Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica, page 7
“We have a client for you!” the queeniest of them sings.
Tough Girl and I size each other up.
She is wearing jeans so skinny they are practically tights, a black bustier, and an oversized leather jacket. It’s the perfect combination of “Look at me!” and “Fuck you for looking at me!” Her eyeliner and hair have seen the effects of the evening.
“Don’t you feel bad about taking the hard-earned money of drunken queers?” she sneers.
“No,” I answer levelly. I have been asked this question before. “If I wasn’t the recipient, then the bar, or the corner store, or the man selling onion-stuffed bacon-wrapped sausages on the street would be.”
She stands slack-jawed. Perhaps she is used to being the intimidator with little resistance. Perhaps it has made her soft.
I actually offer her quite a chance to think of a clever reply before sipping my scotch and continuing.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from years of hustling, it’s that people enjoy parting with their money even more than they enjoy earning it. They don’t care where it’s going as long as they feel satisfied in the moment that there is an equal exchange of quality and quantity. It gives them a perverse sense of losing control.”
“What this bitch needs is a good spanking!” Queenie mercifully interrupts me, shutting my mouth by producing a bill.
“Well! Giving people a perverse sense of losing control is my trade, actually. And if people are gonna throw money at a vacuum, I might as well be there with a trash bag to catch the discarded pieces of paper.”
I nod at Jeremy, who relieves the boy of his cash in a way that already makes him feel it was well spent.
“What is your name?” I ask Tough Girl.
The boys try to be helpful.
“Beth!” they sing.
“I am going to murder all of you!” she sneers with clenched fists. Yet no one is holding her there. She does not stomp for the door.
“Beth,” I ask, “would you like to be spanked?”
She whirls back to face me, crossing her arms over her ample chest.
“Yeah, I guess so, why not?”
“Good. Consent is very sexy. Now. You think that because this is your friends’ idea, you are absolved of the stigma of your desire.”
Our eyes are locked now.
“You are not fooling me, oh no. I knows desire when I sees it.”
I have a bench arranged for the dabblers, the people who want the sensation of being spanked but are neither prepared nor inclined toward the deeper humiliation or fantasy subsumation of a true OTK. For that latter purpose, however, I have appropriated one of the bar’s armless chairs.
Honestly, why chairs ever have arms on them is beyond me.
I take Beth’s left hand and stare up at her. My knees are crossed, and I am turned ever so slightly to my right to face her. Ordinarily the power dynamics are best realized when the sadist places herself above the masochist. However, when you have cultivated palpable dominance, it is even preferable to be in an unexpected position. It throws them off, says all bets are off.
“Have you ever been spanked before?” I ask with the dispassionate curiosity of a tattoo artist about to give an eighteen-year-old her first tramp stamp.
“No!” she snorts, breaking eye contact.
See what I mean? She could be twice my size and I would still tower over her.
“Liar! Slut! Harlot!” comes the protestation of her entourage.
“Is this true?” I uncross my leg coolly. I guide her body slowly down to my level, holding her fast with my eyes and my firm grasp, until she is squatting.
“Are you lying to me?”
Beth squirms.
“I…I mean…I’ve been spanked, during…you know…”
“Sex?”
The follies shriek, fluttering their black and neon fingernails.
“Doggy style!” they offer.
“No, no, she’s talking about when she takes it in the butt!”
“I do not take it—” Beth begins to stand, to turn her head in protest.
“Beth,” I coo. “Pay them no mind.”
She turns her eyes slowly back to mine.
“Do you get off on pain?”
“Yes,” she answers without hesitation. Then after a pause, “Why did I tell you that?”
“I have a good ability to get the truth out of people,” I reply.
We stare at each other.
I got a live one! I think. The room is thinking the same thing, no doubt.
“You will stop being defiant now. You will address me as Ma’am. You will only speak when spoken to unless it is to use your safeword. Your safewords are yellow and red. Are you familiar with the meaning of those colors?”
“Yeah, like a traffic light, right? I get it.”
Before she can blink, I have her by the hair at the nape of the neck with my left hand. I pull her across me, expertly guiding the seat of her pants over my lap.
She makes a delightful noise of abandon, something like, “Whaaaarpm!”
I apply a dozen healthy hard spanks to the outside of her jeans as her black-and-white sneakers kick indignantly in the air.
“I get it what?” I inquire firmly.
“Wu-what?”
Firing off another dozen punitive smacks, knowing they aren’t doing much damage besides getting my point across, I consider what an excellent method a pants-on spanking is for forming denim to a body.
“She wants you to call her ma’am,” a helpful friend chimes in.
Disoriented and flustered, Beth acquiesces.
“Oh! Jesus Christ. Yes ma’am.”
“Good girl! Now we’re getting somewhere.” I massage my damage. This admission of authority always puts me in a cheery mood.
“Let’s get a look at how you’ve colored from those initial spanks.”
I begin to pull down her jeans, and she throws her hands back to hold them in place.
“It’s not okay that I take your pants down?” I ask with genuine respect.
“N-no! I want you to. It’s just that…”
“What is it, girl?”
“I didn’t know anyone would be seeing my panties tonight. Tomorrow is laundry day, and these are my boring panties.”
I throw my head up and laugh uproariously.
“Don’t you know it’s not your panties I want? It’s what’s inside them,” I declare as I unbuckle her brown leather belt and start to work the jeans over her hips. It’s easier said than done.
“Honestly, I think this trend of skintight jeans was invented to infuriate tops,” Lisa cracks, for the benefit of the rowdy room.
The denizens of the bar are watching with increased interest.
Beth assists me on more than one level by wriggling out of her pants. It is a truly delicious ass that pops, liberated, to attention. She wasn’t kidding; her underwear is cotton, formerly white, washer-worn. But it just makes me feel more like I am imposing my will on something that wasn’t expecting me.
I like this feeling.
I will spank anyone who wants a spanking from me. But it takes the right kind of ass for me to enjoy myself, to awaken the sadist in me.
Tonight’s my lucky night.
I bend over slightly and hiss in her ear. “I haven’t had an ass this fine across my lap in a while, girl.”
She murmurs gleefully. I haven’t met a bottom yet who doesn’t love to be praised, even the ones who crave humiliation.
The warmup for a spanking sounds like an orchestra tuning up in an empty cavernous concert hall. It smells like a teenage football team stretching in the locker room before the big homecoming game. Soon there will be a harmonic cacophony, expertly executed strategic force.
For those of us in it for the long haul, we must prepare ourselves.
Without her denim to pad the blows, every touch of my hand speaks to Beth more clearly. Still, her panties soak up the sting. She feels much more exposed than when her pants protected her, but she still has a fortress of cotton between her precious skin and my advancing forces.
Balanced tenuously between mortification at her present exposure and relief at this last vestige of dignity that is her panties, Beth is slowly becoming mine.
I start to lull her into more complacency with a steady rhythm and intensity. First one cheek, then the other gets two loose flicks of my wrist. The first is a momentary massage, followed closely by a solid thwack. She has just enough time to experience pain in one cheek before her attention is redirected to the soothing touch on the other. She is getting about thirty smacks and thirty rubs per minute, a nice droning pace designed to isolate both of us from the bar’s stimulation.
“Are you ready for your panties to come down?”
Our cunts are very close together, if a bit askew, and our evident mutual enjoyment is generating quite a lot of heat. We both feel it, and our sympathy for one another grows. Through the sleek leather of my pants I sense her relaxing, allowing herself to be held and used and guided. She senses my control, and trusts me.
“Yes ma’am.”
I make a big show for my growing audience of peeling the panties down, leaving them just below the cheeks to frame her luscious pinkness.
“Aaaand they’re off!” Lisa narrates, producing a cheer from the crowd.
I take great mounds of her ass in both hands and squeeze the flesh like I am prepping some precious material for some obscure art project. Released, these handfuls bounce back into place, vibrating ever so slightly as they settle.
I am meticulous about covering all my territory. I set about creating a symmetrical coloration for my visual pleasure and even sensation for hers.
“There is a target on every ass,” I narrate for my captivated voyeurs. “Right here.” I trace three concentric circles in the middle of each cheek, punctuating them with a bull’s-eye smack that makes my victim howl and the audience cheer.
“But the ass has so much more to offer. You have to spread the blood around…” I demonstrate rapid tapping around the side of each cheek and play the cleavage of her heart shape like perfect bongo drums.
“And of course there’s the tender insides. You have to be prudent here; it’s much more sensitive, especially when they are aroused…”
“I am not turned on by this!” Beth protests, arching her back.
My hand reacts instinctively to bratty behavior such as this. It snakes between her legs and pries them open, landing five perfectly placed windmill blows at a difficult angle: the sideways curve of the lady’s ass into her cunt.
She squeals but before she knows what is happening, the pain and vulnerability of this recourse has subdued her further. Then she merely melts and whimpers.
“This inner spot is for punishing insolent behavior and reinforcing roles.”
The crowd laps it up. Queers do so love a good drama.
I stroke the pinkening skin and raise goose bumps down her back with the fingernails of my non-opposable hand.
“Jeremy, will you oblige me?” Without taking my eyes off my prize, I indicate the crumpled pants on the ground.
Knowing exactly what I have in mind, Jeremy whistles through his teeth and stoops to extract Beth’s belt from its loops. He does it quickly, demonstrating the belt’s whip-like potential. Always a showman, he folds it in half and produces a satisfying crack that strikes fear and lust into the heart of every bottom in the room.
“I find it extra humiliating to be beaten with one’s own belt,” I say as Jeremy hands me Beth’s.
This little distraction snaps her out of her complacency somewhat. She begins to squirm.
“Now, when I send you home you will wear the weapon I used against you. Every time you wrap it around your waist, you will think of its potential. And you will think of me.”
I hold the buckle in my palm and wrap the leather slowly around my hand, familiarizing myself with its weight and texture. When only about a foot’s length is left, I hold out my other hand and test its strength on my forearm.
It bites like a bitch, leaving a red tab on my skin.
“Are you ready to taste your own belt, little girl?” I ask, teasing her with the soft flap, the result of the leather molding to the appropriate loop of that sexy waist.
“Yes please, ma’am,” she squeaks.
As the blood rushes to Beth’s cheeks, so the blood rushes more palpably through my heart as I bring the belt down hard on her ass. My head rushes and my cunt throbs. The darkening of the soft pink to a dark red is visible even in the low bar light. I paint her entire ass this color, covering as much ground as possible before doubling back. When the belt retreads over already visited territory, it leaves a ghostly white mark before the red fills in.
Beth does not struggle anymore. After the slow seductive warmup, the belt controls her utterly.
I unleash myself on the bottom that now yearns for more. Soon my blows are both hard and quick. The belt grows from my hand, from my desire, and from hers.
Soon the shrill queens, the hard rock music, the reek of stale booze fade away, and so does every part of her body that isn’t over my lap. There is only my belt and her ass. It has only ever been this way, like the waves crashing on the beach. Our play is a force of nature.
I’m sure she could have taken it forever. But the bartender hollers that fatal cry:
“Last call for alcohol!”
The room comes rushing back, noises and smells first. I uncoil the belt and rapidly rub her ass with it like I am shining a bowling ball. Tossing my instrument on the ground next to the crumpled pants, I proceed to softly stroke her sore bottom.
To my delight, my aftercare elicits sweet murmurs and undulations. We breathe and contract together, grinding and grounding one another.
My hands snake through the hair at the nape of her neck again.
“You are going to stand up. Slowly, and you are going to keep your head down so the blood doesn’t rush to your head.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good girl. If you’re gonna faint on me, it’ll be from pain, not sloppiness.”
She gulps visibly. “Yes ma’am.”
Soon Beth is standing, a happy pulverized mess. I stand too and put my arm around her quivering body.
“May I buy you a drink, my good little girl?”
She nods slowly, gazing at me like she is seeing me for the first time.
“Later this week, with some of the money we earned at the spanking booth, I’ll buy you dinner.”
THE CRUELEST KIND
Kiki DeLovely
Half leading, half dragging me out the back door of the club, She kicks the door exiting into the alleyway and slams me up against the brick wall. Cool against my flushed face for a second, then a flash of hot as She gets too rough with that fistful of hair, scraping my cheek against the prickly texture.
“What the fuck did you think you were doing in there?”
I know there’s no correct response, so I just wait. Calmly. Let Her blood boil just a bit more.
“You little fucking cocktease! You think that’s how it’s going to be?”
I feel just the faintest trickle of blood run down my face and think for a moment it’s the sweat I worked up on the dance floor. As I’m about to wipe it away, it hits me that it’s blood and I’m glad I realized this just in time. In time to leave it there. She’ll like that. And I think back on the events of the evening leading up to this moment… Dancing around all the butches in the club, letting Her dip me here and there, flirting brazenly with Her buddies, twirling away from Her hands whenever they inched too far up my skirt, and once—just once—taking that hand and sliding Her fingertips through my wetness. (There are definite advantages to my occasional no-panty-wearing ways.) Then walking away. To flirt with the most imminent form of trouble: Her best friend.
Just as I approached that danger (the surest type of danger) and smiled (that smile)—not even long enough to bat an eyelash—I felt my head snap back as She helped Herself to a fistful of my hair and locked an uncomfortably firm grip on my wrist, twisting it behind my back. Suddenly I was in the alley. Against this brick wall. Slightly out of breath in anticipation. Knowingly deserving of every second of what’s to come.
“That’s not how it’s going to be—I’ll show you how it’s going to be.” And just as I feel Her gearing up to demonstrate just what’s in store for me, we’re blinded by headlights and She whips me around, growling in my ear, “Kiss me. And make it look good.” Her tongue plunges so quickly into my mouth it takes me a second to catch up, match Her motions, and snake one leg up around Her. After the car passes, She’s back at my ear, hissing, “We don’t want anyone calling the cops on some little slut getting raped in the back alley. Especially when I haven’t even started yet.”
And with that I decide to take the game to a whole new level. I slap Her across the face and take off running, further down into the darkness. It’s not as if I was going to get very far in those heels anyway. Four and a half additional inches added to my already Amazonian stature, the extra elevation dizzies me whenever I falter. The heels She told me to wear tonight. The heels that I’ll only wear for Her. And inevitably regret it the next day.
She catches me in less than ten paces, hurling me up against a chain-link fence. “You stupid little cunt, did you really think you could get away?” She grabs that same fistful of hair, yanking it back far enough away to slap me back—harder—then pushes my face back into the metal. She kicks my legs apart, spreading them as far as they will go and still keep some semblance of balance in those heels. Pressing Her stiff dick up against my ass (I can feel Her hardness through Her jeans—I love it when She packs hard), grinding into me even more forcefully, Her fingers form the beginnings of bruises on my hips as they hold me in a death grip. The chain link cutting into bits of my exposed flesh, my fingers clenched through the holes, I’m hopelessly pinned there. Her strength and weight crushing against me. I’m completely at Her disposal. Just how She likes it. The suffering I incur from this humility pains me much greater than anything physical She’s doled out yet tonight. A deliciously difficult position. And one I know won’t last for long.
