Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica (10 page)

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Authors: Sinclair Sexsmith,Miriam Zoila Perez,Wendi Kali,Rachel Kramer Bussel,Gigi Frost,BB Rydell,Amelia Thornton,Dilo Keith,Vie La Guerre,Anna Watson

BOOK: Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica
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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
 
 
 
 
 
 
H
alf 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.
She lets up just enough to reach down, and before I even know what’s happening, shoves Her fingers (how many I’m not exactly sure, at least two, no more than four) deeply into my dripping hole and I can’t help but cry out.
“This. This is mine. Along with everything else under that pretty little skirt of yours. I’ll take whatever I want. Whenever I want. And do with it as I please.” She pulls out and turns me around so that I can look into Her eyes, witness the intent behind them, while She begins to undo just the middle two buttons of Her jeans. I glare back disobediently and so She slaps me across the face—the sting of it biting especially well on my raw, scraped-up cheek. My hand instinctively flies through the air to return the favor, but She’s too quick, anticipating this, and catches me by the wrist. She holds it there, midair, tightly enough to cut off my circulation for a few seconds (seconds that feel like minutes, my gaze locked hard, defiantly, the entire time), while She continues to work Her fly slowly, deliberately. Then, out of nowhere, She’s dragging me even further down the alley. I can barely keep up, let alone see where She’s taking me, as I stumble along and try to keep from falling. No more sweet formalities, She throws me over the side of Her motorcycle and begins to whale on my exposed ass. The blows keep coming, each one harder and faster than the one before. Clearly, there will be no warming up tonight. Even with the sinking of my teeth into my lips, I can only take it briefly before the shrieking betrays me.
She either grows impatient or doesn’t want to chance it with the cops and so She stops just long enough for me to catch half a breath and to roll on a condom before She thrusts Her cock into my cunt so fast I cry out again. A different kind of cry this time—one that tells a story, for those who are in the know—that of a little less pain, slightly more pleasure. I feel Her dick pump brusquely in and out of me a few times and then…nothing, my pussy left wanting, practically begging for more as a whimper escapes me and I begin to squirm against the bike. I can almost feel the corners of Her lips curling up, happy to have left me so vulnerable and needy that it hurts. This makes my need to squirm all the greater, so I attempt to push myself up, pull myself together, anything, to regain a sliver of dignity. Then, without warning, I suddenly stop. Call it female intuition. Or perhaps more like survival instinct. I just know.

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