Bottoms Up

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I tilted my head to look up at her, but what could I say? What I wanted from her wasn’t something I could ask for; otherwise, it wouldn’t count, kind of like paying a woman to fuck you. I wanted her to breathe as hard as I was, to be putting as much of herself into this kinky endeavor as I was. Maybe my “No” came out a little sullen, or maybe Sharon was just the kind of woman who had to actually be a little angry to do justice to her spanking. All I know is, she did something that made each swat practically topple me. She wasn’t just spanking my ass, but all of me. She was getting back at me for all the guys who’d ever wronged her, and the best part was, I wanted her to do it. I liked that she felt enough for me to do more than go through the motions. She went back to using her hand, but this time, I gasped out loud with every stroke.

  To put it simply, I got it. I got the whole reason people devoted so much time and energy to finding someone to hurt them like this, why a piece of art like Vlad’s could arrest viewers like it had. It wasn’t about being shocking or outrageous or offensive, but about drawing on something deep within myself and giving it over to her. She was spanking me, yes, but I was giving her a piece of me with each slap, giving her the gift of my submission. She grabbed my cheeks and pulled them apart, then clawed her nails down my back, marking me, before finishing up with so many slaps layered atop each other, both hands at once, coming and going simultaneously, it seemed, that I stopped trying to figure anything out. I just knew that I would get through it, and I would like it, even if there were moments during that final round when I wanted to stop, pause, reconsider. I knew that to do so would be fatal, not literally, but to the rhythm of our session. I breathed deeply through my nose, pictured her hands striking me, her nails digging into my flesh, her chest swelling with each of the deep breaths I heard her take. And then it was over. She kissed each buttcheek and massaged my ass and my back lightly, before letting me sit up.

  I was lightheaded, a little dizzy, but invigorated. I thought she was going to kiss me, from the way she peered deeply into my eyes, her lips so close, but she simply stroked my cheek and smiled, a bit sadly. “You did very well. Impressive. Your friend would be proud.”

  Then I blushed, because there was no way I was going to tell Vlad about what had just transpired. She left me alone to get dressed, her perfume lingering in the air. I was grateful to be alone, but also sorry to see her leave, the spell she’d put me under finally broken. We didn’t say much more, and she slipped me a photo as she ushered me out. I didn’t look at it just then.

  It was only after I got home and looked at my ass, reached behind me and felt the welts, the bumps, the heat, that I realized I wasn’t sure exactly who was getting their ass worshipped in Vlad’s photo, or in my real-life encounter. Can a spanking be a form of worship? Maybe it didn’t matter, I concluded, as I looked at the Polaroid she’d handed me, her number scrawled across the bottom. There was my ass, a bright, blistering red, taken as I’d thought I couldn’t take any more. But I did. I craved it, and still did, despite the throbbing in my bottom. The pain had been pain, for sure, but it had been so much more: pleasure, arousal, devotion, submission. I didn’t know if worship was the right word for it, but I was more than eager to come back for more.

  THE PURPLE BALLOON

  Tess Danesi

  Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god, I repeated to myself. What am I doing? What have I gotten myself into now?

  These same thoughts had been echoing in my head since I woke up that morning—actually, since I first made the call to Mistress Madeline a week ago, growing in volume and frequency each ensuing day. I thought they’d reached a fever pitch this morning as I dropped Geoffrey off at day care and found myself speeding along the Henry Hudson Parkway in my hated silver Mercedes SUV, the one Rob gave me as a gift (safety first, his new motto) when we brought Geoffrey home from the hospital. I never had the heart to tell him just how much I, used to zipping around in tiny sports cars, despised driving that thing. I tried to distract myself by focusing on the views of Manhattan on my left and the river and the Palisades on my right. It helped for a few short moments until the reality that yes, I was doing this, came crashing over me. I felt like I wasn’t driving alongside the river anymore but as though I was submerged under it, thousands of pounds of pressure crushing my chest.

  And then before I knew it, I was standing there in a long, narrow foyer, waiting. The area seemed innocuous enough, but I was sure the rooms beyond would be anything but. Images of red rooms filled with dark wooden fantastical furniture embedded with heavy iron rings and lined with rows of whips, canes, and crops filled my head. With palms dampened by nerves, my money clung to my hand when I paid the receptionist—who knew dungeons even had receptionists?—and she called Madeline to let her know I was there. I only hoped my face, which I struggled to keep placid, didn’t betray my anxiety.

  There wasn’t much time to fret about how I looked. I was a typical suburban soccer mom with my blonde, expensively highlighted hair swept back into a ponytail, green eyed and petite, my tan Burberry trench coat cinched tightly to emphasize the waist I worked so hard to regain after the birth of my son, Geoffrey, four years ago. Then Madeline entered the foyer.

  The frenzied voices finally quieted when I saw her. I was so shocked at her quiet beauty; her pictures, while lovely, hadn’t done her justice. Her deep auburn hair was held in place with two red bead-tipped sticks and swept into an elegant chignon that showed off her long, slender neck. Her face was creamy-smooth and flawless; it made me want to glide my palm over her cheek just to have the sensation of stroking warm velvet. She allowed me only a moment to take her in and acknowledge that her outfit—slim skirt, white and blue striped button-down shirt, and high-heeled pumps—was almost exactly what I’d envisioned in my fantasy.

  “Hello, Kate,” she said, forcing me to shift my gaze up to her hazel eyes and away from her shoes. “Please follow me. I’ve secured the office for our scene. I think you’ll find it more than satisfactory.”

  I swallowed hard to dislodge the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat and pulled the belt of my coat even tighter, making myself gasp a bit for breath as I followed her, still not believing I was really there.

  Five months before, when my husband gave me a laptop for Christmas, I would never have imagined myself in this situation. It wasn’t that I was innocent to the world of the Internet before, but with our desktop computer located in my husband Rob’s office, I rarely had the luxury of exploring, especially with a very active little man to chase after at home. After Rob gave me my beloved little Dell and had the house wired for Wi-Fi, every night, once Geoffrey was tucked into bed and Rob was watching his favorite true-crime shows on Court TV, I’d sit on the sofa with my feet in Rob’s lap as he absently rubbed them, clicking away.

  That’s how I discovered Mistress Madeline’s blog. One evening my surfing somehow landed me there, and I began to read with fascination about her life as a professional dominatrix. This wasn’t a website offering her services—though she had a link that would take you there—it was the story of her world. It was painfully honest. Her writing was beautiful and heartfelt and witty, I could tell she had a sense of humor, and it seemed she usually liked or at least respected her clients. And, maybe most important of all, she seemed to actually relish her job. Being privy to the details of her personal life in this odd way made me feel I knew her, even though I was wary of buying into that illusion completely. At least it made me feel that I could trust her. I had to be able to trust her if I was going to be able to reveal the fantasy that had simultaneously filled me with shame so intense that I could feel the color rising in my cheeks anytime it came to mind and arousal so profound that I had to push it out of my thoughts whenever Rob and I had sex lest I come too fast.

  Seeing Madeline’s site, realizing I actually had the means to make my fantasy come true, albeit for a price, made it nearly impossible for me to get it out of my mind. I was in this state of constant, heightened arousal for months. Even mundan
e chores like grocery shopping turned into full-fledged erotic experiences as I would squeeze my thighs tightly together and shut my eyes for as long as I dared while waiting for my number to be called in the deli line. By the time I’d get my bags loaded into the back of my SUV, I’d find myself unable to resist sliding my hand under my skirt and impaling my throbbing sex with greedy, insistent fingers until my breath became merely a series of short, rapid pants and my ass clenched tightly as I rose up off the leather seat, sending my hips crashing into the steering wheel with such force that I bruised myself.

  Though Rob and I have a pretty satisfying sexual relationship, I know I could never reveal this fantasy to him. He’s too close; perhaps I’m afraid he’ll judge me harshly, think me a pervert. There are times I’ve thought of confessing it but then the physical manifestations of panic—rapid heartbeat, nausea, sweatiness—always kidnap my body and prevent me from doing so. If it was just the spanking part, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Lots of people (or so it seems from my Internet explorations) enjoy spanking, but no, it’s the way the balloon comes into play, the ever-present purple balloon, and that sense of shame that is so intrinsic to it all and leaves me blushing and drenched, that makes me think I must be deranged.

  I’m not sure that most people can trace the origins of their turn-ons or fetishes, but I can. I was just four years old—I remember because it was the day of my birthday party—and in my room were the remaining balloons that had somehow survived a group of rowdy children. I was getting ready for bed, running around naked as children will, when a big purple balloon drifted to the floor and somehow I found myself rubbing it all over my body until it settled against my tiny clit. It was nothing short of electric. The sensations were not anything I’d ever felt before. In my innocence, I was energetically humping that balloon with all the power in my childish hips, when my mother walked in. Her gasp is what alerted me to her presence and even before she said a word, before she scolded me, called me a bad, bad girl, swatted my miniature bottom and popped my balloons, I knew I was doing something wrong, something that should be kept hidden in the shadows.

  Years later, I was a voracious reader, and found myself drawn to stories of English boarding schools with strict headmistresses who would inflict brutal spankings on errant young women. That’s when my fantasy took its current shape. It’s always the same, though the instrument may change from a hand to a cane to a crop. It starts out with me alone in my dorm room. It’s my roommate’s birthday and she has been sent a bouquet of colorful balloons, balloons that fill our otherwise drab room with brilliant jewel-toned color. The balloons have started to lose helium and a purple one suddenly floats to the floor and bobs in the breeze from the open window. Thinking of how smooth and cool the latex will feel against my swollen, wet folds, I grab the balloon, remove my panties, and lie down on my back. I don’t rush, though I know that this is bad, that I should be careful. I let my palms caress the balloon. Softly cupped hands trace the curves so reminiscent of a woman’s velveteen breast. The static electricity generated allows me, if I close my eyes, to think of it as a real live person.

  In my head, I’d be lying down after having pressed the balloon up against my downy cheek, gliding it down my throat and over my ripe, lush breasts and slightly rounded tummy. My sex would be throbbing in anticipation by the time the balloon hovered over my mons, the static creating its own magnetic field. And then my roommate would walk in. My roommate who despised me for one of those inane reasons girls always find to dislike someone; maybe I wore the wrong PJs or glanced too long at her boyfriend. But hate me she did and seeing me spread and vulnerable and masturbating with her balloon filled her with a near demonic glee.

  “I’m sure Headmistress will enjoy hearing about this,” she’d say, her voice dripping with venom. “Especially when I cry and tell her how horrified I was to find you like this, how I’m sure I’ll never be able to get this perverted image out of my mind.”

  And then she’d run off, leaving me to quickly attempt to dress and pace the room wondering what punishment the Headmistress would inflict upon me and when. It was always immediate and severe.

  When we reached the end of the corridor, Madeline opened a door, revealing a simple, uncluttered office. An old wooden desk dominated the center, with a plush leather chair behind it and two smaller pale wood chairs in front. The top of the desk was bare save for two black leather paddles, one rounded like a Ping-Pong paddle, the other long and narrow; a rolled up, once camel leather belt antiqued to a deep tan color; and a thin, mean-looking cane. I felt my thighs begin to tremble; I was terrified. But why then was my crotch so wet that my panties started to stick to my swelling folds? And then, there on top of one of the tan filing cabinets, I saw it—the purple balloon. My eyes must have grown wide and Madeline, as good at her job as I’d known she would be, noticed.

  She sank into the big chair behind the desk, opened a drawer, and put on a pair of glasses. Hazel eyes peered coolly over the frames at me. “Do you know why you’re here, Kate?” she asked, launching us both right into the scene. I didn’t know whether to be grateful or to tell her to wait, could we just chat first, but her commanding presence (and how it was possible at her young age—I knew from reading her stories that she was twenty-seven, almost ten years my junior—to have such a presence, I had no idea) insured I would not be doing the latter.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I replied. Was it a conscious effort to keep my words short and simple? I don’t know. Ma’am? Had I just called her ‘Ma’am’? It was happening; it was really happening. My throat was so dry I don’t know how I even managed those two small words.

  “Good. I see you brought the balloon as instructed,” she said, averting her eyes from me for a moment and directing her gaze upon it. “Take off your coat.” It was a simple command and I obeyed it promptly, folding it over the back of one of the chairs. I remained standing; she hadn’t told me I could sit and so I just stood there, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, looking from the desk to my shoes to the desk again, anywhere but at her face.

  “Now tell me, Kate, tell me why you’re here. And then you can tell me what you think an appropriate punishment would be for such an offense.”

  Those words felt like a punch in the stomach. Why was she going to make me repeat this when she knew from our emails and short phone call how embarrassed and uncomfortable talking about this, hell, thinking about this, made me? But when I finally got the nerve to force my mouth open and the words to come out, I saw why. It became crystal clear that she was enjoying my discomfort. She got off on it. It was one of the reasons she did what she did, because she truly loved being in control and being the instrument of my discomfort.

  “I was masturbating…”

  “Go on, Kate. How were you masturbating?” In total contrast to my halting admission and reddening cheeks, she kept her tone calm and matter-of-fact and her face, except for the cruel glint of expectation in her eye, serene.

  “With the ba…ba…balloon, Ma’am. I was rubbing it between my, my, um, thighs when Julia walked in. She said, she said, she was going to tell you. That I would be sorry.”

  “She was right. You will be very sorry for being such a dirty, slutty little girl, Kate. But first, remove your panties and hand them to me, please.”

  I must have swallowed wrong and gotten saliva in my windpipe, because I started coughing and turning even redder. Madeline just sat there, not saying a word, waiting for my fit to subside. She didn’t repeat herself. She didn’t need to; she knew I was going to do what she asked of me.

  Reaching under my tartan skirt, the only thing in my wardrobe that vaguely resembled a schoolgirl uniform, I pulled my red panties down, stepped out of them, and took a step forward to hand them to her. I stepped back and watched her examine them and then hold them to her nose and sniff.

  “You are supposed to be wearing white underwear, you little slut, and what do I find you wearing? Red! Damp red panties soaked with the scent of your sex,” sh
e said, reaching for the cane and letting it run through her fingers. “I am afraid your punishment will have to be most severe, young lady. But first, I’m not really clear on how you were accomplishing this nasty deed of yours. Take off the rest of your clothes and show me.”

  How was this possible? She hadn’t so much as touched me, not even to guide me down the hallway with a gentle hand on my back, nothing, not one touch, and yet I felt wetness; sticky, beautiful wetness running down my thighs so freely I was afraid I’d be leaving a puddle on the floor. With spastic fingers, I unbuttoned my blouse and removed my bra and skirt. I left the ivory thigh-high stay-up stockings I had worn, because they seemed somewhat schoolgirl-like, on.

  “Get the balloon, Kate. Lie down across my desk, so I can see everything clearly. I want that slutty little pussy of yours right here,” she tapped at the front edge of her desk with the cane, “and spread wide open. Then you can show me just what you were doing.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I whispered, nearly dying with shame as I climbed naked onto the desk, my chest as flushed as my cheeks, knowing my inner thighs must be gleaming with my juices and my clit swollen and standing at attention.

  I began to caress the balloon to my cheek, let it glide down to my hard, dusky nipples and belly the way I had done so many times in my head. It was so close to my sex, to my aching clit and cunt, that I felt the static jump between the thin latex and my few fine blonde pubic hairs. I parted my thighs even farther, losing any self-consciousness for one all too quick moment, as the balloon touched my sensitized clit and I gasped, the sound of my voice bringing me back to the humiliating reality of where I was; naked and splayed and dripping wet in front of a completely dressed stranger; a stranger who I’d paid for the privilege of being humiliated by. I started to close my legs when Madeline’s hand alighted on the warm, dewy skin of my thigh. If I had thought that the balloon generated electricity, her gentle touch and the single word she spoke, “No,” were like a surge in voltage.