Bare Assed (2 page)

She raised her hand high above her head and brought the strap down on his awaiting ass. Steadily and soundly, she spanked him.

Priscilla struck George with the strap until sweat sprang from her temples. She struck him until the sight between his legs caused her to stop.

All this time, Priscilla had been sure George was thinking about something else, something, anything, other than her spanking him. She was sure he was thinking about all the tits and ass he had been feasting his eyes upon, since usually, after only three strikes, his cock would rise.

But now Priscilla knew. She knew why George was always so hesitant to turn around when she was done. As if he couldn't face her, couldn't bear to associate his hard-on with her punishment.

And while pleasing George had never been Priscilla's intention, she became wet at the sight of his rigid cock.

“Turn around, George. Let me get a good view of what you've got there,” she said.

George obeyed. His hard-on extended out in front of him.

“Interesting,” Priscilla said. “Now, however did that happen? I mean, surely you weren't thinking of those girls in the magazine when you were getting your ass spanked?”

She didn't wait for an answer.

“Go on. You can finish now,” she said, holding the cup in front of him.

And when George rose up on his feet and his face and ass flushed rosy pink and he filled the cup to the line, Priscilla knew that some indulgences were, sometimes, worth allowing.

N. T. Morley

 

 

 

Y
ou've been asking for it, you need it, and you're about to get it. I'm going to grab your hair and bend you over and lift your skirt way up over your ass.

You'll squirm, I'm sure. You'll wriggle and writhe and whimper and maybe even plead a little bit, which will make my cock go hard against the heaving flesh of your tits and your thighs and your belly. You'll feel it, and that'll make you squirm harder, plead more, because you know what every proper spanking leads to—a proper fuck.

Then I'm going to grip your hair tight and tell you to hold your skirt. You won't need to hold it, really; it'll be so fucking tight, cinched around the swell of your perfect round hips. But I like telling you to hold your skirt up, because it's such a dirty thing to do. Holding your skirt up to be spanked is like begging for it, as if you aren't always begging for it with the wiggle of your hips
and the poise of your body and the way you wave that perfect ass in front of me in those impossibly tiny skirts, so fucking short how could I be expected to do anything
except
bend you over my knee? Plus holding your skirt up takes your flailing hands out of commission; it'll give them something to do while I've got you bent over and spread and hungry for it.

If you hesitate when I tell you to hold your skirt, I'll tighten my hand and pull your hair a little and bend down low and growl at you that you're going to do everything I say and then some, that you're holding your skirt up so that I can strip and spank and finger you. That'll make you do what I say—it always does, when I pull and grope and growl, because when you hear my voice all hard and nasty you always know it's your place to be over my knee, open and stripped and spread.

I'll slide my hand between your spread legs. If you've got on one of those slutty little thongs that make you so wet to wear, you'll feel my cock get harder against you, and you'll feel that warm thrill that makes you even wetter as you remember how much I fucking love them, those skimpy tiny things that just broadcast what a slut you are. I love pulling them to the side and stroking or fucking or fingering you, which is what I'll do—finger, that is, a firm caress up your juicy slit, a stroke across your clit, two fingers into your tight dripping flesh, and you go wet and writhing all over my lap. But I'll have dirtier things in mind, which is why I'm going to pull your hair tight and tell you to remain very still while I
get the slim knife off my belt.

You'll hold still, then, you'll stop squirming, because you hear the click of the blade. I'm going to pull your panties down over your ass so I can get at the waistband. I'll gently shave the sharp edge across your pert perfect ass and nudge the long slim stiletto under the fabric. First one side, then the other will go tight then limp with barely a whisper—I always keep my knife very sharp. With two easy slices I'll reduce your slut thong to a strip of moist fabric, leaving the crotch intact. If it's wet, which it will be, I'll reach over and force your mouth open and stick in your ruined panties so you can smell and taste your own mounting arousal and know how bad you've been. And you've been bad, baby, you always are, and you're about to be much, much worse. Grabbed and bent over and stripped with a knife; spread and about to be spanked like a helpless little slut, and all you can do is whimper and writhe and drip and beg for it with the pumping wriggle of your hips and thighs and ass. That's a bad, a very, very bad girl. You have only yourself to blame for this, darling—but I'll still expect you to thank me later.

You might think your slutty little skirt is too cute and sexy to ruin, especially since you put it on my credit card. But you'll be wrong. When I grab your hair tighter and put the knife in my mouth so I can slide my right hand between your legs and feel how fucking wet you'll be getting, I'll decide you're about to be stripped. I'll feel it, your cunt, smooth, shaved, spread, slick. That's a girl
who needs to be stripped, I'll decide, and take the knife back into my hand and growl at you to remain still. You will, or try to. But you'll be breathing so hard with arousal that your tits heave against my thighs. You'll feel the pressure against the sides of your tiny skirt: a neat slice through the stretchy bunched fabric and it comes off in a strip. You'll still be holding it high for me when it disintegrates in your hands. Next will come your top: one shoulder strap an easy slice, neckline to midback another, then a quick pull with my hand and it will turn to shreds. Your bra I could unclasp, but why would I? It'll be gone in an instant, neatly placed slashes leaving the straps ruined. I'll close the knife and put it in my pocket and clear the whole mess of ruined clothing away, pulling it off your wriggling and writhing body and throwing it on the floor in a pile.

Muffled moaning will come from your mouth as you see your clothes in front of you. You'll hear the snap of the cuff holder on my belt, feel me seize your wrist and gently guide your arm behind you. You'll hear the
click clack click
of the cuff, feel it cold around your wrist. Your other arm will be limp and compliant as I finish cuffing you, leaving you suspended over my knee, helpless. It's always a hard decision with you: cuff your wrists behind you or feel you grip my leg as I punish you over my knee? This time, I'll cuff your wrists because I want you helpless, because you've been asking for it, and if I let you forget you're under my control, you might be just too damn pleased with yourself at getting
what you want. That's always a danger with a woman like you, but it's so easily remedied with a simple pair of police cuffs.

You'll be naked, then, except for those red shoes you bought specifically to tempt me, Jennifer. The hot red fuck-me pumps that I always think of as spank-me pumps. They do things to your legs, baby; they do things to your ass—how could I be expected to do anything except take you over my lap and spank you? No way in hell, baby, no way in hell.

Feeling yourself naked over my lap—helpless, horny, dripping—you won't surrender, then, but you just might give up.

I'll caress your ass, feel the swell, test the texture of the sweet spot with a pinch, a harder pinch, and finally the hardest pinch of all, at last seizing the muffled gasp I want from behind your panties. You'll tense as I raise my hand; I'll pause, you'll relax, and I'll hit you.

Your ass will surge up to meet my blow, but don't worry, baby, I've spanked enough perfect female derrieres to know how to compensate, and the first blow will land right where it's supposed to. What surprises you the most, though, will be how hard I hit you—haven't I ever heard of a warm-up? No, baby, no I haven't. When I feel your body shuddering, I'll grip your hair harder, pull it tight to hold you in place, lean down so you can feel the pressure of my body against you. Then I'll strike you again, my hand open and slightly cupped against the flawless curve of your asscheek, making a loud
slapping sound that I'm sure will make your pussy gush, if it isn't already.

The panties will have slipped from your mouth, soaked with spit, ruined and wet atop your pile of shredded clothes. I'll thrust my fingers into your mouth and feel you licking and sucking at them as I punish you. Then I'll slide them out, glistening, and put my hand into your hair again, gripping its thick lushness tight, pulling it, holding you in place. I'll hold you there hand-in-hair, my eyes locked on yours, so that when I feel how wet you've gotten I can enjoy the look on your face. Then two fingers will go in, easy as pie since you're gushing slick around them, and your eyes will roll back. I'll work them deep, spreading your lips; I'll fuck you with three, four, five, maybe six or eight thrusts, the pads of my fingers feeling the swell of you as your arousal grows; then pull them out and feel the wetness all around your clit, feel how swollen it's gotten. You won't be moaning now, just hungry gasps of air as I begin to fuck and rub you rhythmically, pushing you closer every second to orgasm.

It's when you're close that I'll make you work; I'll raise my hand without warning and bring it down hard. Not on your ass this time, but on your pussy.

You'll gasp and your body will surge against me as I spank your sex. I'll spank it slow at first, ten or twenty blows, building the sensation, then faster, hitting hard, making sure the ball of my middle finger lands exactly on your clit. I'll see the sensation washing over you. You
won't be sure you can take it at first, but I'll know you can—or will, which is just about the same thing, Jennifer, and infinitely more delicious. I'll feel your body tensing. I'll spank your cunt faster. I'll feel you approaching. I'll hear the cry from your lips. I'll grip your hair hard and hold you bent over and spank your pussy until you come. The moans coming from you will be crazed, rapturous; the undulating movements of your body unmistakably those of female orgasm. You could never fake this, not that you'd need to.

You'll still be moaning and whimpering, not even in afterglow mode, still coming, when I hold you firmly in my arms and guide you onto your knees. You'll be kneeling naked in front of me before you've come to your senses; you'll hear the sound of my buckle and my zipper and you'll smell the scent of my cock. It'll be time to thank me for giving you what you need, baby, and you'll thank me in the only way that makes sense.

Your mouth will be open and wet and drooling and hungry; eagerly, desperately compliant. When I slide my cock into your softness it'll get suddenly firmer as you obediently suck. I'll relax into the chair as you surge forward onto me. Your head will bob up and down rhythmically; you'll want me to come. You'll want me to come fast, not to get it over with, but because spanking you always makes you like this—hungry. It's always so much harder without your hands, baby, isn't it? When you're sucking cock free range, you always wrap your hand around my shaft and stroke it like an expert so you can
control the exact moment I come—and you're so fucking good at it you can get me off in seconds when you want to. Now, though, you'll have to use your mouth. The glow in your eyes as you look up at me will be equal parts savoring the experience and frustration with having to wait for my come. But the picture of you kneeling and naked, your hands straining against the cuffs, will be way too pretty for me to ever consider releasing you.

Besides, you're the best fucking cocksucker who ever walked the earth, and if your supple tongue and full tight lips aren't enough to bring me over the edge fast, the sound of little whimpers coming from deep in your throat will do it in a heartbeat.

I'll wait until the exact moment I know you've brought me off. Then I'll snake my fingers back into your hair, both hands this time, and I'll hold you in place with my cock just deep enough, as you let out a squeal of delight. I'll come in your mouth with a sigh or a grunt or a shudder, maybe all three at once, and you'll look up at me as your eyes water with the heat and taste and texture of it gliding down your throat.

Since I'll be holding your hair, pulling it, you'll finish me with nothing more than the undulating pressure of your hungry tongue, the suction of your lips tight around my cockhead. When my fingers go soft in your hair, your head will bob again, this time until I gasp; then you'll laugh wickedly like the little slut you are, give me a last long succulent lick, and lower your face into my lap.

I'll mewl a bit; maybe I'll be panting. I'll caress you, stroke your face, run my fingers over your shoulder as you kneel with your face in my lap. You'll be utterly relaxed, moaning softly in satisfaction. You'll feel my hands all over you, gently stroking your shoulders and your neck while I relax and rest and recover.

But it won't be long, baby, it won't be long. It never is, when you're nude and cuffed and kneeling, your face in my crotch. No, it won't be long at all. You'll feel me stirring, feel a pressure against your lips. You'll give a little whimper of excitement. You'll probably laugh, because you know the night's not over. You'll kiss me and stroke me with your tongue; you'll feel me get fully hard again, and you'll look up at me with those big eyes of yours as if to say, “Please?”

And then, baby, I'm going to grab your hair.