|
Stripped by Brooke Stern, caning, sex
She's not too pleased with Robert when he takes her to a strip
club, that is... until she imagines a caning fantasy with the
sexy dancers that leaves her hot and ready for sex.
Copyright (c) 2004 all rights reserved
On the day after he
spanks me, Robert always takes me out to dinner. Last night’s
was particularly bad, so we go to an extra nice restaurant.
Maybe it’s his way of making sure I know he’ll still be sweet to
me. Maybe he just likes to see me squirm as I sit on my sore
bottom. Regardless, I like it. I try to wear a short dress so
that he’ll look at my voraciously as we eat.
“Want to
go somewhere you’ve never been before?” Robert asks as we’re
driving home. Robert and I have only been going out a month and
he’s still full of surprises.
“Okay,” I
say.
Robert
takes an exit off the freeway that I’ve never noticed before.
I’m sure we don’t drive for long, but it seems like it takes
forever because I don’t know where we’re going. We’re in an
area I don’t recognize. It’s industrial and ugly. There are
warehouses and a place where you can rent a backhoe or a big
tent. It’s nearly dark outside and I see a neon sign flashing a
little ways off the main road. We make a right towards the sign
and suddenly I realize where we’re going: “Bottoms Up.”
You can tell it’s a
strip club by the neon girl who bends over thousands of times a
day, accompanied by the buzzes and tics of the pink glass
tubes.
“Oh, my
God,” I say. I’ve never been to any place like this before and
suddenly feel inexplicably prude. I know I’m hardly one to
talk, but my first impulse is to object to Robert’s surprise
destination.
“But...”
“But
what, honey?”
My
imagination begins to spin out of control. It’ll be dingy and
degrading. My worst suspicions of men will be confirmed.
They'll be drooling animals, so obviously incapable of dealing
with a woman as anything more than tits, ass and pussy that I
might as well just give up on the spot. What if Robert is no
better than them? How will I feel, seeing a stage full of
perfect bodies with fake tits, waxed crotches and no cellulite?
Will Robert be too busy gawking at snatch to notice me? Will
the dancers see me as an impediment to tips or as competition
for the men's attention? The list of things that might go wrong
is endless.
I’m
embarrassed that we’re going to a place like this, but at the
same time I’m embarrassed that I’ve never been to a place like
this before. I’m too shy to ask just how naked they really are.
The
outside looks totally disreputable. A wooden fence surrounds
the parking lot to shelter the middle-aged men from view as they
nervously scurry in and out. It's a windowless, stucco
rectangle of a building. Its only distinguishing feature is a
hyper-curvy girl silhouetted on the door, like the kind on
truckers' mud flaps. Robert and I laugh nervously when we ring
the doorbell and the bouncer lets us in. It's $20 for Robert.
I get in free. The giant bouncer in his cheap tux holds the
door for me and asks if the lady would care for a drink. So
tacky and so sweet, I can't help but like it.
Walking
in, it's like entering another universe. There are completely
naked women everywhere. I feel an unexpected shock at their
nudity. It's so public and so complete. The dancers move
around on elevated stages surrounded by chairs where a few men
sit, looking up with rapt attention and boyish delight. The
stages are like well-lit dance floors with mirrors and colored
spotlights and disco balls that sparkle the room with light. A
DJ sits in a booth in the back. There are two bars and three
pool tables. The male employees are huge and wear tuxes, giving
the place a chintzy elegance. The women are mostly young. The
dancers double as waitresses. The bartenders are the only
older, fully dressed, female employees. Everyone is excessively
friendly and polite to me, as if to correct against any
appearance of licentiousness. The male staff seems a little
gawky and awkward around me. They only recover their poise by
becoming positively mannered. Ma'am this. Lady that. I've
suddenly become royalty.
Is this a
temple of woman-worship, an altar for supplication before the
great gyno-goddess of snatch? The men are in what can only be
called a trance.
“The
pussy trance,” Robert christens it.
They sit
and stare, their eyes following the gyrations of the dancer's
hips hypnotically. You are feeling very, very sleepy. The
men's eyelids seem to droop. At the end of the dance, they
reach down to the pile of bills in front of them and emerge from
their trance long enough to smile sheepishly while they slip a
dollar into the dancer's garter.
Before me
is a dancer with dark pink labia that hang down like flaps.
They could easily pass for a turkey wattle. The make-up can’t
hide the places where the skin on her inner thighs is dimpled
and red where the hairs have been removed.
"I always thought
guys found that disgusting," I whisper to Robert.
She squats in front
of me and leans back on one hand, running the fingers of her
other hand on either side of labia, pulling the skin apart and
spreading herself open as she goes. I wonder if they’re not
allowed to put their fingers inside.
"To men,"
Robert explains, "It's sublime. Spells, potions, wands and
elixirs...they amount to nothing compared to the magic between a
woman's legs. We spend two-thirds of our lives thinking about
it.”
"But what
about all those stinky fish jokes?" I ask.
"Do men
do this for stinky fish?" Robert gestures at the men around us.
Touché.
Still, I can't quite suspend my disbelief.
"But they
have stretch marks and droopy boobs and sagging asses," I
protest.
They aren't bad
looking, but none is perfect. Some have stringy, heavy metal
groupie bodies, others are plump, especially the Latina ones.
A few have a spectacular sex appeal, but most are more modest.
The good ones bring a sense of fun to the stage. They wink and
smile and add touches of irony, even as there are few things
less ironic than a guy leaning over to get closer to the ass
spread wide in front of his face. It's like it has its own
gravitational pull.
"You
girls hold yourselves to a higher standard than us guys do,"
Robert opines without taking his eyes off the white-trash-y girl
in her Harley thong on stage. She winks at him and he blushes.
That’s right—a man who paddled his girlfriend black and blue
last night blushes when a stripper winks at him. Oh, if only
she knew.
We watch for a while and the dancers become familiar
to us. They’re look to me like the kind of girls who are shy
when you talk to them but who would do just about anything on a
dare. Cinnamon is Latina and curvy to the point of where the
folds of flesh on her belly overlap. She has big, shiny lips
and long hair. Ginger gets into her stage name by having “S.S.
Minnow” emblazoned on the seat of her hot pants. Sage is the
last of the spice trio. She looks Indian, with short hair, a
pierced belly button and a dark Celtic tattoo between the
dimples at the base of her spine. Melanie sports a "Got Milk?"
mini-t that’s so short it only covers half her breasts, and Tina
has a bear’s paw tattooed on her ass. There’s Candi the
schoolgirl with pigtails, tartan skirt and saddle shoes and Ms.
Gwen the librarian with reading glasses and a book pressed coyly
to her otherwise bare chest.
"You can
see everything," I say, amazed at the view I'm getting as
Melanie dances for me. Nothing is off limits. Every pose,
every angle and every orifice is in play. Melanie is on her
hands and knees, back arched and ass high in the air. I think
of the men who've seen this view of me. I wonder if her ass has
ever been bruised like mine is. Melanie stands up and waits in
front of me, smiling and not moving. Suddenly I realize I'm
supposed to put a dollar in her garter. I'm surprised to be
included in the stripper-audience social contract. Robert hands
me a dollar bill. I tentatively reach for her garter, but she
thinks of something else. She takes the dollar out of my hand
and slips it between my lips. I realize I'm supposed to hold it
in my mouth. Then she takes her large breasts in her hands,
leans forward and grabs the dollar in her cleavage. Oh, my.
She and Robert laugh. I can feel the warmth of her smooth skin
on my cheeks for several long seconds afterwards.
Tina,
with her bear's paw ass, is next. After prancing about and
shedding whatever clothes she came on stage with, she raises
herself and leans forward, bracing her outstretched hands on a
pole and bouncing on her toes. This makes her ass jiggle
wildly, so that the flesh of her buttocks oscillates in waves.
It's like there's some invisible man spanking her or fucking her
hard from behind at supersonic speeds, making her flesh ripple
each time he crashes into her. She slides her hands down the
pole and lowers herself all the way down to all fours, ass never
ceasing to jiggle.
"How does she do
that?" I ask Robert, amazed by how she kept doing it even when
she was on all fours. When she's finished her stage show, she
walks towards our table.
She says
it's nice to dance for a girl. I smile and am secretly happy to
be appreciated. I screw up my courage and ask her how she gets
her ass to jiggle like that.
“When
you’re standing up, it’s all in the toes, but when you’re on
your knees, it’s more in the hips.”
"I always
thought jiggling meant you were fat," I say, "I always try to
hide my jiggling."
"I used
to, too!" Tina says, "But the guys here love it."
"It's how
your ass looks when I spank you," Robert chimes in.
I blush for what
seems like the millionth time.
"That's what my
boyfriend says, too," Tina says, breaking the mortifying silence
with the sweetest smile.
Oh, my God. Does
everyone do it? What’s wrong with the world!
We talk
some more. She's a college student, a real, live English
major. No kidding—it’s not just some get-up for guys who want
to see a co-ed naked. She’s my age, but she seems somehow
purer, even though she’s the one prancing around naked on stage
and I’m the one who’s blushing every time I look around. We ask
her if being a stripper has changed her at all. She says that
she's not as scared of men as she used to be. She’s seen that
their hunger is really just loneliness. Men pay money to come
here and be less lonely.
“Besides,
it’s pretty fun. I like the guys and they like me. I’d
definitely come here if I were a guy.”
She looks
at Robert and smiles. She’s anything but the strung-out,
world-weary sex workers I’ve heard about. It all seems
strangely wholesome, like being able to talk to someone after
you've stared at their naked body allows for a whole new level
of honesty and frankness. She doesn't seem to get off on her
job, but she loves it that I like to look at her naked. She
says some girlfriends come with their boyfriends and get mad,
like the dancers are trying to steal their man away. I turn to
Robert and tell him not to get any bright ideas.
She looks
up at the stage and realizes it's just about her turn again.
"I'll be right back," she says and scampers off. It’s as if she
has to go get a pie out of the oven, not get on stage and spread
her ass cheeks for a line of strange men waiting patiently with
their dollar bills. No one will believe me if I tell them how
sweet it all seems.
I look at
Robert and love what I see. We enjoy a couple of more dancers
and then we leave. The girls are quite enough to distract me
from the tender state of my ass for a while, but the longer we
sit, the more I fidget or get up to go to the bathroom. On the
way out, several dancers stop me and tell me they’re glad I
came.
It’s not
exactly like I’m soaking wet and wanting to jump Robert the
instant we get to the car. When we kiss, I feel his crotch
press against me and check if he’s hard. He’s not. But there’s
a deeper arousal, the sum of an hour of naked women and naked
thoughts. I’m reminded of how they say a tsunami is barely a
ripple on the surface of the deep ocean and yet it ravages a
coastline when forced upward by the rising sea floor. Our
arousal now is barely a ripple, but the drive is long and it
gives me time to think. The ripple begins to grow. I’m feeling
naughty and hungering for something more. I can’t stop thinking
about all that flesh, exposed and on display. I can’t stop
thinking of the details: the puckered asshole that the dancer
clenched when she pulled her cheeks apart, the way her pussy
peered out the back when she arches her back just so, or the way
the bulge grew in Robert’s pants when she wagged her ass in his
face. I know what he was thinking about.
I was relieved that
it wasn’t sleazy, sinister or gross, that the women weren’t
addicts earning crack money or whores on a thinly disguised
auction block. They talked like me. They looked like me. They
needed money like me. I even thought that if it weren’t for
Robert I might just… Well, it looked like it beat waitressing.
I wonder what it is
about them that makes me want to be like them. Maybe it’s
because they seem so comfortable and brash, like nothing in the
world could shame them. But maybe I’m drawn to them because
underneath the see-no-evil veneer, they still feel sleazy and
dirty, like me. It reminds me of my fantasies of being
humiliated and on display. I find myself wondering about what
might embarrass the dancers. What if they peed their panties
like I did? What if they had to dance with something sticking
out of their ass? What if they were tied up and you could touch
them any way you wanted to? What if they were spanked? When I
think of these things, I imagine I’m the dancer and try to feel
what it would be like to be them. The truth is obvious: I would
feel like I deserved whatever I got because of how shamelessly I
showed my ass and pussy to men. I wonder if they do.
Are they really like
me? Does their apparent comfort with their nudity hide
something still deeper? Can they really bury the discomfort
away? Maybe they hunger for things like I do. Maybe they wish
deep down that someone might just force them on stage with
something in their ass or tie them to that pole. I know I
would. Does the thought of a gangbang—of all those men, all
that fucking, all those cocks—enter their minds before they have
a chance to chase it away? They’d get righteous if anyone
suggested this to them—I know how important it is for them to
insist that they’re normal. I do that, too. But who the hell
really feels normal?
The girls profess to
feel safe—the bouncers say they love them like little sisters.
I know they claim to feel liberated and empowered, freely
expressing their sexuality and providing entertainment because
it’s what they want to do. I know I’d say the same things. But
I wouldn’t mean it. I’d be up there, feeling like an outcast,
wondering why I couldn’t get a normal job, wondering why I
always got nervous and a little wet when I was around the guys
whose eyelids drooped like they didn’t give a shit, the ones
who’d probably smack me around a bit and call me bitch if it
weren’t for the bouncers. I’d know I wasn’t like the stand-up
comedians who perform at a comedy club or the dancers who put on
performance events in small theatres at my old university. No,
I was some girl exposing my body to men, pretending to be cool
and nonplussed, all the while wondering what was wrong with me.
I know I’d dig my fingernails into my ass hard enough to leave
marks when I spread my cheeks in some man’s face, clenching and
unclenching, hoping that he might see the real me, the me that
feels as base as a throbbing asshole and the me that wishes
someone would take me and make me stop.
Thinking
about it makes me remember what it felt like before Robert began
spanking me; before I met him or knew what I needed to feel
okay; before I even knew I could feel okay. I wonder whether
the strippers know.
I’m drenching
Robert’s car seat, my wetness soaking my panties so thoroughly
that when I squeeze my thighs together, it feels like I’m
wringing out a washcloth in my crotch. I’m thinking of Robert
and me; Ginger, Sage and Cinnamon; and Candy, Melanie, Tina and
Ms. Gwen. I’m thinking that they’re naughty like me. I’m
thinking of Robert spanking them like he spanks me. I’m
thinking of being naked with them, helping Robert spank them.
They’re all standing
naked, facing the wall, and I’m sitting on a chair in the middle
of the stage. I’m naked, but I’m on Robert’s side. My body is
exposed like theirs, but my ass won’t be the one getting it.
Not tonight. Robert calls Tina over first. A dozen strokes, he
says. He has a cane, and Tina can’t keep her eyes off of it.
She tries to keep her composure, but the sight of him flexing
the cane’s whippy shaft is too much for her. She pleads but all
he does is order her to bend over, facing the chair where I’m
sitting and holding on to it for support. She won’t do it by
herself, so I grab her hands in mine and pull her towards me.
She grips the chair beside my bare hips, and her head rests
right above my thighs. Her hair falls between my legs, tickling
my pussy and sticking to me where my wetness is leaking out.
I’m sure she can smell how aroused I am by her punishment. I
wonder if she’s angry with me for taking pleasure in her pain.
She’s facing me, but
I can see her ass in the mirror on the wall opposite. It’s
gorgeous—curvy and full, with porcelain white skin inside the
faint tan lines left by what must be a tiny bikini bottom. I
strain my eyes to see if I can make out anything between her
legs, but it’s pretty dark. I press my hand, gently but firmly,
on her lower back, causing her hips to tilt and the view between
her legs to open up. That’s better. I look at Robert and he’s
pleased, to. He likes the active role I’m taking in the
process. Plus he’s glad for the improved view and the enhanced
prominence of his target.
Then I look in the
other direction and scan the line of naked women, assessing
their asses for size and shape. I wonder if padding or width
makes any difference as to how much it hurts. They have their
hands nervously by their sides; some unconsciously stroke their
hips and even their ass. I know how they feel, though I’ve
never had to wait as long as they have to. I’ve never had to
witness a preview to my own punishment or have my own punishment
witnessed by others. Just thinking about the anticipation makes
me flush and breathless. There’s something so exquisite about
the spectacle. It’s easier to enjoy when my ass isn’t going to
be the one beaten.
“Are you okay?”
Robert whispers in my ear.
I’m moved by his
concern, but I don’t want him to have second thoughts.
“Yeah.”
Robert kisses me
softly on the lips. He looks me in the eyes and mouths that he
loves me. Then he lines up his first stroke. I know Tina can
feel the cane tapping her ass as he takes aim. I feel her
flinch each time it does. I remember her asshole from her
floorshow and wonder if she’s puckering it the same way now—not
for show this time but out of fear. Robert brings his arm back
and then swings the cane hard down on the middle of her ass. I
see her flesh jiggle in the mirror and feel her every muscle
tense up. She squeezes the chair hard and gasps.
“Oh, shit. No,” she
whispers. I can hear her but Robert can’t.
The others can’t help
but peek over their shoulders. I watch with them as the stripe
on her ass changes from white to red and back to white again
when the flesh all around it begins to redden. Her head falls
into my lap in despair. Her soft cheek feels warm and flush
against my leg. I can feel her hot breath as she pants with the
urgent pain. Her eyelids tickle my thigh when she closes her
eyes and awaits the second stroke.
Some of the others
look away, but even they can hear the cane whistle before the
second stroke lands an inch lower down her buttocks. I feel
Tina’s face contort on my leg, and it’s several long seconds
before she begins to breathe again. This stripe cuts across the
field of red that had radiated out from the first. By the time
Robert is lining up his third, the first line across her ass is
a dramatically raised welt that’s already turning dark blue.
She’s cursing under her breath. The third hits her even further
down than the second, and I can see where Robert is headed. I
see the little bumps and the crease at the bottom of her
buttocks where they meet her thighs, and I know the next stroke
will land there. After that, he’ll cane her across the top of
her thighs, where, if the cane sinks deep enough into her flesh,
it will touch her in the recess between her legs. I’ll make
sure she has her hips tilted to give Robert a clearer shot. I
can see a hint of flesh that is frighteningly exposed for the
cane to whip into.
Her impudent flesh,
her naughty, English major, co-ed cunt, is right there. It’s
the same one she displays, the one she shows to men who think
about doing the most awful things to it. But the truth is, Tina
thinks about men doing awful things to it, too. Fucking it,
licking it, fisting it, piercing it, biting it, whipping it and,
yes, caning it. This is what Tina thinks about. This is what
Tina wants. It’s for treatment like this that Tina goes out,
night after night, having a life she keeps secret from her
sorority sisters, from her boyfriends, and even from her boss at
Bottoms Up, for she doesn’t dare tell him that she goes to
hotels with some clients, especially the ones who look mean and
rich.
It’s for all this
that she’s getting caned. This is why I can’t wait for Robert’s
cane to slice deep between her legs and into her pussy. This is
why I know she’s like me and I’m like her. They all need this,
just like I needed this. They’re all naughty. As they face the
caning, they have to face the feelings deep inside. Their
nudity on stage isn’t complete; only Robert’s cane can force
them out from the act that they hide behind. Exposed like
they’ve never been before, they’ll be stripped of the
nonchalance that covers over the shame and hunger; they’ll be
denied the guise of brazenness that covers over their shyness.
That’s why I hear some of them crying quietly as they wait.
They’re not crying because of the pain that will sear their
asses but because of the pain that burns in their heads.
The pain
Tina feels, though, is by now something quite different. The
cane hits her poor, deserving bottom again. She’s done
ruminating on the struggle between her inner shame and her inner
slut. All she can think of now is the wicked, cringing pain
that can’t fade quickly enough to keep her from whimpering. She
tries to keep it inaudible, burying her lips in my legs. The
bruises cross her bottom like shadows in well-defined lines.
They’re not going to go away for quite some time, and I wonder
how she’ll dance. She emits a small cry, and I feel for her.
“It’s
okay, Tina,” I say, speaking for the first time. Robert smiles
at me and I continue. “It’ll be over soon. You’ll feel better
afterwards. You’ll be glad he caned you severely. You’ll be
glad he didn’t stop.”
I know I’m just
saying what Robert says to me, but it’s so true. Even during
the worst throbbing agony, I know it’s true. I make her arch
her back again so that she won’t miss any of the pain.
As I
expect, the cane lands across her thighs this time, and she
can’t suppress her squeal. The angry welts multiply to six,
seven and eight. The sobs of a little girl rock Tina’s hot,
womanly body. I know exactly how it feels. I squeeze her hand
and stroke her hair and whisper encouragement to her. Yet I’m
also incredibly excited. My wetness has completely coated the
chair. This isn’t like when I’m getting spanked at all. I wish
I could touch myself right now. I stare at Tina’s ass, and I
want to run my finger across every one of the raised lines that
stripe it. I even think that if my hand were on her ass I’d
find it impossible not to give her flesh a hard squeeze, digging
my fingernails into her fiery skin just to express the intensity
of my own hunger.
The ninth is across
her thighs, and she struggles a bit. I press down on her head
and hold her hands in place. She kicks her feet and raises
herself onto her toes. She shakes her head no, no, no, dragging
her soft hair across me. My skin is electric and sensitive to
the slightest touch. Her tears flow between my legs and remind
me of pee running down my thighs. On the tenth, I can feel her
mouth contort. Her body bounces with sobs. From experience, I
know that Robert will try to land the final two right on top of
the last, using the newest welt as a target to sear the final
two into her. I can feel her breathless desperation, and I
whisper to her to hold on, that it’s almost over. But another
part of me is disappointed. I wish it would go on, and, in lieu
of it continuing, I find myself hoping these last two are extra
hard. I comfort myself by looking at the other dancers lined up
for theirs.
In my fantasy, I’ve
turned Tina the bold, defiant, happy stripper into Tina the
dirty whore, the naughty ingénue, who needs strict discipline
and severe punishing. She’s crying out and begging, smearing
her make-up and her tears in my lap. She tries to lift up again
with the eleventh stroke, and I hold her in place more firmly.
When she can’t raise her body, she tries to put her hands on her
fiery ass, but I hold them tight, too. Robert can see that I’m
holding as she struggles, and he takes extra time preparing the
last one. None of the other dancers can restrain their
curiosity. Everyone is watching now, terrified and aroused,
touching the unmarked skin of their asses, wondering how it will
feel when their asses look Tina’s. A few fingers wander between
their legs, too. They can’t help it. They’re as bad as I am.
Finally, there’s a
whistle and the crack, right on top of the previous two, and
Tina lets out a horrible howl before collapsing into my lap and
crying while I stroke her hair and tell her it’s all over.
Goose bumps cover her bruised, swollen ass. The skin is striped
black and blue in a way I’ve only ever seen in pictures on the
Internet. If her tears and the ginger way she touches her own
ass are any indication, it’s still burning badly even after a
couple of minutes. She wants to rub the aching flesh with her
fingers, but it’s too tender to even touch. Robert strokes her
backside gently and reassures her that it’s over. He tells her
he’s proud of her and that she should feel very good about
herself now and to remember how this feels when she needs help
being good.
She
doesn’t seem so assured or confident anymore. She seems to be a
woman like me, one who needs help sometimes, who’s ashamed
sometimes, and who needs a man who will punish her. When I bend
over her body and stroke her horribly marked ass, running my
hands down to the marks on her thighs and between her legs, I
realize she’s a woman like me in another way, too. She’s
soaking wet.
I keep my hand there, feeling her pink, tight
asshole quiver when I touch it and running my fingers in between
her slick labia. Her hair is soft and blond, so pure and
feminine compared to mine, which is dark and coarse. She’s
still in my lap, barely noting the liberty my fingers have
taken. I feel the rush of her exposure and my appetite. I can
touch her anywhere. I want to touch her everywhere.
Then I look at Robert and want him horribly, here,
now.
I’m still sitting in
the car seat next to Robert, imagining him doing the dirtiest
things while he drives me home. I want him in my fantasy and in
real life. I lean over and unzip his fly, rubbing him to life
in no time at all. I slip my fingers through in his pants and
tug his cock free of his fly. I wrap my fingers around him and
run them up and down the length of his solid shaft, tightening
my grip when he moans. Oh, if he only knew what I was thinking
about! I lean over and take him in my mouth, still using my
hand to pump away as my lips and tongue run the length of him.
I guide him into the back of my throat and out again, over and
over. I wonder if he’ll ever cane me.
All the
while, I’m back in Bottoms Up…
The other
girls, the ones awaiting their caning with dread, turn around
now and pretend that they weren’t watching Tina, Robert and me.
I slip out from underneath Tina’s head, lowering it gently and
letting it rest on the chair where I was sitting. It must smell
strongly of my pussy. Her cheeks, wet with tears, rest on the
wet seat. I reach over her head and run my fingers over her
delicate, burning skin. Then I bend over the opposite side of
the chair, using the back of the chair to brace my hands and
sticking my ass out for Robert. He knows what I want and I feel
him approaching me from behind. I hear him unbuckle his belt.
The sound makes my ass tingle with memories. He’s already hard
and I’m soaking. I arch my back so that he can enter me better
deeper. When he does, his cock stretches me and I clench
involuntarily around it.
At the thought of it,
I squeeze my lips around him, being careful with my teeth and
imagining him inside me, fucking me hard. I’m gasping with each
thrust, which I drive uncomfortably far into my mouth. I manage
to get my other hand down my pants and am grinding my clit with
an urgency I’ve rarely felt. I have my eyes closed, imagining
the magic intensity of the cane landing on Tina’s ass…
I’m surprised by the
feeling of lips brushing mine. Tina, her tear-stained, reddened
face no longer resting on the chair, is right in front of mine.
She kisses me again. I taste tears with her saliva, and her
silent passion feels deep, like it comes from depths that only
her punishment can evoke. I’m a moving target for her kisses,
rocking back and forth with Robert’s thrusts. Robert speeds up
and is about to come. I bet the girls against the wall are
watching us—I think our show is better than theirs.
I come with Robert,
except really he’s throbbing in my mouth, filling me so that I
have to swallow fast. He’s moaning while trying to negotiate
the traffic, and I’m coming, too.
“Who’s
next?” Robert asks me when he’s done fucking me.
I look over at the line of women. At one end of
the line is Tina’s brutalized ass, her face wet with tears and
darkened by smeared mascara. Soon they’ll all look like that.
Some of the women look at me. I feel like a teacher, surveying
a class of terrified students, debating who I should call on
while they tremble with fear. Candi the schoolgirl and Ms. Gwen
the librarian are too delicious. I’ll save them for last.
Melanie was the first to dance for me. She’ll go next.
The next time I want to come,
she’s gonna get it. For now, I’m sated. I lay back blissfully
in my seat the rest of the way home, but by the time we get to
his building, we’re crazy for each other again. He chases me
through the parking garage.
“You’re on fire,” he
says.
“It was so dirty, all
those girls. I loved it. They’re so bad.”
“We know what to do
with bad girls, don’t we?”
He winks and grabs my
sore ass cheeks, one in each hand. I jump up and squeal.
We rush into the
apartment building, past the awful doorman, and push on the
elevator button over and over again, trying to make it hurry.
On the ride up to the sixth floor, we jump on each other. When
the elevator stops, we separate ourselves for long enough to run
down the hall to his door. I kiss him while he fumbles to get
the keys in the lock. We crash through the door when he finally
gets it open and stumble down the hall to the bedroom.
I want to
be like those girls. I want to put on a show. I make him lie
back on the bed. In spite of the urgency, I want more than a
quick fuck. I want to perform. He gropes me, but I escape. He
wants to fuck me so badly. He’s already come once, though, and
I’m happy that I get to make him wait. I undress him so I can
see the fruits of my labor. I put something jazzy on the CD
player and start my debut. I slither and gyrate. This is fun.
I untuck and roll down, unbutton and unzip. I can be as naughty
as they are. I run my hands between my legs and press my
breasts together and up. Robert is smiling wide. I’m so happy
to be able to please him. I feel a funny mix of embarrassment
and pride. I think of all the shame I feel during my
punishments—all the ways I’ve been forced to display myself and
all the parts of me he’s seen. I think of how wet it’s gotten
me to be forced. Now I’m doing it by my own free choice, and
his cock is lying across his leg, still sticky from the blowjob
in the car and unmistakably larger than it was just a moment
ago. I turn away from him and pull my panties into my crack,
showing off my bruised cheeks and then lowering my panties so my
bare ass peeks out the top. I turn back to face him, some
black, curly hairs exposed above my waistband. His cock is
standing by itself, and I can tell he wants to touch it. I can
see his pulse in the vein that runs up its side. It grows with
each heartbeat.
I’m
finally naked but in no mood to stop. I’m addicted to the
feeling. I want to go farther and farther. I begin to part my
labia and circle my clit. I pull at my bare nipples and turn
around, lean over and spread my cheeks. I smack my ass and look
at him through my legs. He’s touching himself now. I prance
over to his bed stand and get out the lube. He’s sheepish and
embarrassed when I take his hand and squirt some into it. The
better to stroke yourself with, I tell him. He can’t keep his
hand off his cock for long.
I squeeze
lube into my palm, amazed by my sudden boldness. What happened
to being shy? What happened to girls aren’t supposed to like
these things? I guess the strippers taught me a thing or two
about being raunchy, though none of them did what I’m about to
do. I put one slick finger in my ass, then another. Last time,
he put my fingers in for me. Now I can do it myself, thank you
very much. I’m stretched and I turn so he can see my fingers
disappearing into my crack. I bend over so he can see my
stretched, pink hole. When he’s looking, I manage to fit a
third inside. It hurts, but it’s not nearly as big as what I
want inside me. I can hear the sound of lube as his hand runs
the length of his cock. He quickens his pace. I’m worried
he’ll come without me. Stop that! This is my show.
I squat
over his thighs and take his hand off his cock. I put his slick
fingers up my pussy and begin to lower my ass onto his cock.
The smile on his face is gleeful but fades into moans of
pleasure as his cock presses my tight anus open. I start slowly
but then begin to lift myself up and down on him. It’ll take
longer to make him come after the blowjob in the car. I’ll have
to ride him harder, bearing down so he goes deeper into my ass.
I know it’ll hurt a little more because of it, but I know I’ll
come a little harder because of it, too. My clit is tender from
how I pressed last time, but I’m grinding my fingers on it as
hard as I’m grinding my hips up and down on Robert’s cock. I’m
doing it for him, to show off how I’m his and would do anything
for him, even without him forcing me, but I’m also doing it for
me. I want to be brazen and on top and have him under my
spell. I’m proud of how I am. I think he’s proud of me, too.
“Look
what’s become of me,” I tease him afterwards, still sitting on
his abdomen with his cock softening in my ass.
“I’ve
created a monster.”
“Aaarg,”
I growl, trying to be as monstrous as I can while giggling.
“You’re
the best.”
“So you
say.”
“You’re
proud of yourself. I can tell.”
“You’ve
made me proud of my debasement.”
“You seem
sublime to me.”
I melt at
his words and cuddle up next to him.
About The Author: Brooke Stern
is the pseudonym of an established writer who has master’s
degrees in literature and psychology and whose fiction, essays
and reviews have been translated into eight languages. This
story is adapted from Brooke’s novel, “Suffering the
Consequences” (copyright Chimera Books, 2004), now available at
www.chimerabooks.co.uk and other online booksellers.
Return
to Spanking Stories Main Page
Return to Pink Flamingo Free Stories |
