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  Finally, naked and erect, Dan lay over her. His hot mouth closed over her nipple as his cock teased at her clit. Ripples of sensation ranged from her breast and her sex, meeting, she thought dimly, somewhere around her heart and filling that, too, with heat and need. She bent one knee, pushed up against the teasing, tempting hardness of his cock. “Not yet,” he said, his mouth still full of her nipple, and pushed her thigh until she straightened her knee again.

  He suckled at her until her head swam, brushed at her clit and the opening of her cunt until she was squirming and begging in a language that predated English by millennia, something so primal she figured a caveman would understand it—although he might do exactly what Dan was doing and pretend not to hear it.

  When she reached the point that her attempts at speech degenerated into laughing and sobbing simultaneously, Dan poised his cock inside her pussy. He pushed in just enough to let her know how empty she was and remind her how well he could fill her. She tried to raise her hips, but there was only so far she could get without moving her legs and she couldn’t move her legs. She could feel the restraints on her ankles, almost as real as the silk around her wrists. But she needed… she needed.

  She couldn’t plead, couldn’t touch the man who teased her, couldn’t do anything but receive the tormenting pleasure. She was a prisoner, and she couldn’t remember why she might want not to be one. Waves of sensation crashed over her, dizzying, tormenting, magical.

  Dan thrust deep into her. “Now,” he roared, “now!”

  She shattered, sobbing, into a million pieces. Dan’s weight, his heat and the rhythm of his cock driving into her kept pushing her higher and higher, but the silk kept her safe, kept her from flying away altogether, and getting lost.

  “Your legs are free, love,” he said, his voice sounding almost as shattered by lust as he felt. “I want to feel them around me.” So she slinked one leg over Dan’s hips and bent the other so she could push against him, meeting thrust with thrust. The movement tugged at the silk ties at her wrists, and that in turn tugged at her clit. She convulsed again, screaming Dan’s name. Her cunt tightened, clasped at him.

  Dan started to say something, but it came out as a wild roar. He thrust harder, deeper, three more times, then collapsed. “Sorry,” he grunted. “A little quick.”

  “Silly man,” she whispered into his hair, surprised she could talk even that much. “Hard and fast was perfect.”

  With his last bit of focus, Dan untied her wrists from the bedpost. When he went to unwrap the scarves from around her wrists, though, Jessie just shook her head and said, “Leave them.”

  Let her sleep in that silken bondage overnight. They might want to play again in the morning, and Dan would keep his captive safe.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY—

  SPANKING

  I do quite naughty things now. I do like to be a bit sexy.

  —KYLIE MINOGUE

  Spanking is a fetish in and of itself. Yes, the theme can slide sensually into a story with bondage or blindfolds or role-playing. But spanking is so enjoyable, the act deserves to be paddled—I mean, punished—I mean, praised singularly. Spanking is a concept dear to my heart (as well as other regions of my anatomy), and I have dedicated more stories than I can easily tally to the concept. I do tend to lose count when the strokes begin to fly.

  If the subject makes you sit on the edge of your seat—whether as the potential spanker or the spankee—be sure to proceed with care. Safe words come in handy when “no” or “stop” lose their meaning. (And over a lover’s knee, many words lose power.)

  But how do you start? Of all the fetishes I’ve written about, spanking is one of the most erotic to watch on video. Check out the different sexy movies dedicated to the theme to give yourself an idea of the multitude of ways to incorporate spankings into your world. You may find that you like the views from the rear, or the images of a tearful receiver. Then page through these spanking snippets to see if any leave you either craving a well-paddled bottom, or a bottom to paddle.

  If you do decide to spank your way to pleasure, pay attention to small details, like the knickers in my short story called “The Prize”:

  I did what he said, bending over the edge of his desk, holding my body steady on my straight-locked arms. Charlie stood behind me. He lifted my skirt. He saw my panties. He touched them. Silky and pretty and red.

  He pulled them down himself. Dragged them down my thighs. Let them fall around my ankles. And then he started to spank me. Hard. His hand meeting my naked skin to the rhythm of whatever music was playing in the bar. Something fast.

  He spanked me until I could feel the heat in my skin, and the wetness between my thighs. Spanked me to that steady beat of rock ’n’ roll music. I stared at the clutter on his desk, saw the whiteness of the papers, but the red of the pens. Only red pens. Saw the picture on the wall behind his desk. Red.

  “The Last Goodbye” is a spanking story I wrote that takes an over-the-knees position:

  “Over my legs, girl,” he hissed. “Now.”

  I bent myself into the proper position, felt his warm hand lifting my tiny skirt, felt him watching me. He pressed the paddle against my panty-clad ass, letting me feel the weight of it, before he landed the first blow. I sucked in my breath, but remained silent. It was different from the belt, but not worse. He began spanking me more rapidly, pausing only to pull my black satin bikinis down my thighs, leaving them on me, but baring my ass. The pain intensified immediately, and tears wet my eyes, but I still didn’t cry out. I wasn’t trying to test him. This wasn’t a game. I didn’t know how to do what he wanted. Not without sounding phony. Not without being fake.

  In my story “OTK,” the Dom understands the sub’s boundaries, and pushes on them:

  Jack was a master. Plain and simple. He knew how to create a rhythm in which I was momentarily lulled into believing I could handle the punishment. And then he would land a startling blow, wringing a gasp or cry from me, making me lift up slightly before catching myself and lowering my body back into the proper position.

  I didn’t count. He didn’t ask me to. He simply paddled me until he got what he wanted. First, I held my body as still as possible. And then, I squirmed, unable to stop, and he kept me in place easily, gripping my sore wrists in one hand and pinning them in place at the small of my back. And finally, he won the tears of submission, when I simply pressed my face against the cool leather sofa, and cried.

  Make the most of spanking sex. Dress for the event like the character in “Spring Cleaning” by Samantha Mallery:

  When we have spanking nights (which usually come when we’re cleaning the kitchen because of the plentiful wooden spoon paddles), I know to put on a pair of my sweet, lace-edged panties.

  Play with different implements. Here’s a scene with a belt by Xan West from “Nervous Boy”:

  I slowly take off my belt, knowing his ears are attuned to the sound of the buckle being released, of leather pulled through denim. I fold the belt in half, twice, and snap it, watching him twitch.

  The leather bites into him. The belt brings me to a ravenous place. I want to open him up. I want to rip him apart. I want to be inside him. Now. I never take out my belt unless I’m sure I’m going to fuck, because it does this to me every time.

  “Take it boy. Yeah that’s it. Scream for me. Just keep taking it. I know you can do it. Show me how strong you can be.”

  Each hit ramps it up. Each welt a badge of strength. He rides on it, grounded in pride, sure of himself now. I growl as I concentrate on one spot. I want to ram into him so hard. I claim him with the belt instead, striking out with the bite of it, waiting for the moment when I allow myself to fuck him. We both grunt with the last blow.

  Vida Bailey takes us up a notch with a fantasy about a cane from “Favorite,” written expressly for me:

  “What’s your favorite one?”

  He’s sitting at his desk, chair pushed out. I’m standing at the door, blu
shing.

  “You know the one.”

  “Hmm?” He raises an eyebrow. He knows the one. He loves this. I sigh and his brows knit in a slight frown.

  “The one when I’m over your lap in your study.”

  “This study?”

  “Yes.” He nods for me to go on.

  “The one where I’ve been bad. And you spank me. You spank my ass red.”

  “And then what happens?”

  I blush deeper and hide my face against the doorway. He waits.

  “Then you tell me to reach into the drawer. And take out the lube, and the plug. And you part my cheeks and…lubeupmyassandpushtheplugin.” My heart is beating in my cunt.

  “What happens then?” I’m drowning in my pulse, it’s roaring in my ears.

  “Then I bend over your desk and hold on.”

  “And?”

  “And the cane.”

  “Ah, the cane. With the plug in. And how do you feel about that, Lucy?”

  I hate it, it terrifies me, it hurts too much. And sometimes I sweat and dream about it, but I’m always too scared to ask you for it. But you always know when I need it. I shake my head.

  “Sir.” My breath is a whisper. He smiles.

  “And after the cane?”

  “You take the plug out and you fuck my sore, red, spanked, caned ass, Sir.”

  He walks over to me and takes my face in his hands.

  “Oh, I do.”

  Red comes in so many shades. So do spankings. Experiment. Lift the paddle. Bend over the sofa. Count the blows. Take the fantasy where you need it to go.

  TANTALIZING TIPS

  •Submit to reading a book of sizzling spanking stories, such as Rachel Kramer Bussel’s Cheeky Spanking Stories and Bottoms Up: Spanking Good Stories (Cleis Press).

  •Employ household items rather than traditional paddles. There’s nothing like the smack of a wooden spoon, the crack of a leather belt, or the sting of a hard-backed brush for a spontaneous spanking.

  •Have a spank test (rather than a taste test). Gather up a variety of implements to see which ones make your spanko heart go pitter-pat.

  FICTION: SPANKING

  BENEATH THE SURFACE

  SOMMER MARSDEN

  I think you need to let me put it in you for a minute.” He says this to me with a wry grin and I want to appear affronted. Offended. Shocked.

  I’m not. My body betrays me by sending out a rush of arousal. Nipples spike, stomach dips, pussy grows wet. I swear I can feel my eyes dilating and my pulse jumping like a cornered rabbit in my throat. My fingers are clutching cut-up vegetables, my mind is on measurements and the final head count. I’m frustrated, anxious and frazzled. I stare.

  “I know you’re busy, though, so just for a moment.”

  “I’m not…ready,” I lie. Why do I always do this to myself when he surprises me this way? Why do I never just say, Yes, dear fucking all that is holy yes! Fuck me now. I’m ready. No preamble is fine. Why do I always insist on the buildup?

  Derrick reaches out to capture my hard nipple through my worn-out UCLA tee. He pinches hard enough that my tongue roams over my lips to lick away the dryness. Pleasure and pain tangle, grapple, fight to the death and on that final bit of pressure pleasure wins. My pussy goes from wet to soaked; my need to have him now has become overwhelming. That fast. That easy. I drop my clutched vegetables on a pretty crystal plate because my hands are shaking.

  What he just did to me—so simply and so expertly—is why. I want the dance of warring emotions. I want the teasing and the torture. I want the blips of pain that slither beneath my skin, dark needs swimming in vibrant want. Like eels beneath the surface of a sunny pond.

  “Just a moment,” I gasp. “But I’m not wet—”

  “If you say you’re not wet enough, Fiona, I’ll have to spank you. Because it isn’t just a lie. It’s whatever lies beyond a lie.”

  Something twists deep inside of me; rippling waves of fear and excitement radiate out from my center. My body seems to be humming with electricity. I chew my lip as if considering and then blurt, “But, I’m not wet enough.”

  “Lie,” he reminds me, smiling.

  He is absolutely right. We both know it. It is a big. Fat. Lie. But one I need to tell.

  “See,” Derrick whispers pushing his big hand slowly past the meager barrier of my ratty old sweatpants. I’m catering an event. I’m up to my eyeballs in batter and flour and small delicate cheese twists and fruit and that ever-loving fucking veggie platter. I am dressed like a castoff or a college student. My dark hair is twisted up like a madwoman’s. But I can feel my pulse slamming in my temples and my cheeks blushing a hot, slatternly red.

  I watch his hand disappear inch by inch until he’s turned his palm to me, cupping my mound, long thick finger nudging between my nether lips to brush rudely over my clit. Too short, that touch was too damn short. But then he’s plunging a finger into me and my eyes are sliding shut. I’m so wet I can hear him sink a second finger into my willing cunt.

  “Feels pretty wet to me,” he says. His free hand yanks my sweats down around my knees, and I gasp. It’s always a surprise when taunting turns to rough. And when rough turns to welcome it’s even better.

  “Let’s see what we can do about that. I think you could be even wetter.” He turns me roughly, and his broad hand connects with my ass. It makes a sharp crack that hurts my ears and fills our tiny kitchen. It sounds like someone snapping a green willow branch. I clench my teeth at the flood of pain and how it seems to curl and dance over my tender skin.

  “Ouch,” I whisper.

  “You always say ouch,” Derrick chuckles. When his hand connects again, crisscrossing the original blow, more pain lights up my tender nerve endings, but under that sharp pain is a wet and flexing pleasure. Joy. “And yet, this happens,” he says conversationally, moving his hand between my legs.

  The fingers that are inside me slide against my G-spot. My cunt clenches tight yet riven by his ministrations, his words, the whole damn sex-sneak-attack. He pulls his fingers free of me and reaches from behind to paint my lips with my own juices, and I turn my head to give him better access. I taste honey and spice and lust in my mouth.

  “Seems a lot of naughty arousal for ouch.”

  The hand on my ass connects again and his fingers push past my lips to brush my tongue. I suck at those fingers as if my eagerness can save me. I lick them like it’s his cock. In my mind it is his cock. And I’d lay a hefty wager that in Derrick’s head it’s the same.

  I suck again and he lays another blow on the tingling real estate of my bottom. I shiver and let go. I completely surrender, letting my body hang slack over his arm. “Ouch,” I say again with no real heat.

  “Ouch,” he laughs, stroking his palm over my lower back. His skin whispers as it glides over mine. Goose bumps stud my arms, my legs, and my nipples are nearly painful points inside my tee.

  “Derrick—”

  His mouth comes down my nape making those goose bumps even more pronounced and in addition all the fine hairs on my body come to attention. Energy and want tiptoe over my scalp and I feel electrified. Struck by lightning. Inside out.

  “Please,” I manage.

  “From ouch to please in the blink of an eye. Or should I say in a palm print?”

  He nudges me forward so my forearms hit the sink. A bag of flour hits the floor with a puff and coats my feet in white. All I can do is laugh. It’s all so surreal. Wasn’t I just driving myself mad a few minutes ago over canapés? Now my ass is singing grand opera and I’m parting my legs and presenting my ass for my husband.

  “Look at that,” he says, parting my nether lips and peering at me from behind. I blush at his intrusion, but it adds to the goodness of it. “As red as your cherries and definitely wet. Definitely ready,” he says to me. His voice, almost malicious and yet full of adoration, sneaks up my spine making me flush hotter. Derrick drags his cockhead along my slick opening, pushes teasingly at my ass before driving back
down to push just the tip into my desperate cunt.

  I drive myself back, a little ashamed, but that only adds to the intense pleasure. That mortified feeling licks at my soul as I push my ass back, part my legs more, show him what he’s done to me.

  Another hard blow, this time on my pristine, untouched asscheek and I jump. The sudden snap of pain works through me like a shudder and I sob.

  I repeat myself, completely undone at this point. “Please.”

  “Good girl.” His finger pushes into me where I want his cock. A second finger is added and he’s thrusting so that I hang my head, my untidy hair coming undone and unraveling swiftly into the sink. I sob again as he pushes those fingers—two of them, thick and slippery—into my ass. A cry rips out of me but then it’s all soothed down to silence as his cock slides steadily inside me. He’s stretching me and filling me until I’m full. And then he goes still.

  “Still ouch?”

  “No,” I whisper.

  “Still not wet enough?” He laughs softly.

  “No. I’m wet enough.”

  I want him to move. I want him to thrust. I want him to fuck me for Christ’s sake. But all I can do is wait, my bare toes grasping restlessly at the crimson-colored rag rug beneath my feet. I dare not move. I’ve done that before only to have Derrick withdraw and start again from scratch. This will go by his timetable. No one else’s.

  “Are you sure?” He rotates his hips a bit. Just enough to press the thrumming nerve endings deep inside of me.

  His fingers move in my ass. In-out-in-out, a lazy I-have-all-the-time-in-the-world rhythm as he rolls his hips from side to side making my cunt grasp up tight. He does have all the time in the world. And he’s using it to humble me. Make me crazy, make me beg.

  I give him what he wants as a little cry flies off my lips and I say, “Please, Derrick. Please, please, please.”

  I hear him laugh and his fingers move in and out of my back hole so that I am biting my lip hard enough to taste the coppery kiss of blood. It’s too much, it’s too good. The pressure and the friction and the fact that it’s so taboo and happens to be one of my favorite things in the world. I wish it was his cock there and that thought triggers another galloping flex of my internal muscles.