Bottoms Up

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  “Do you need a special invitation? I SAID BEND OVER!” she shouted. The tone of her voice shook us, and in one movement all of us managed to bend over, laying our upper torsos on the table top. Big Sister Keisha pulled our arms across the table, ensuring that we had a firm grip on the table’s edge while Big Sister Evelyn yanked down our panties, freeing our naked asses to the thin air.

  “That’s what I’m talking about! Now I want you to tell me just how much you want it. How badly do you bitches want to go over? I want to hear it loud and clear. Like you mean it. And your eyes are not to leave mine. Because for every reminder, every warning, you will add two additional strikes to your repertoire.”

  I was thankful that I wasn’t first on the receiving line because Big Sister Evelyn was doing all of the paddling. At six two, weighing one hundred and seventy-five pounds and a member of both the field hockey and basketball teams, she was voted most likely not to get a date either because of her size or maybe something else. But her parents were huge Hurston benefactors, and thus she loomed large within the sorority. So this chick was strong. When a pledge’s declaration of undying love and devotion wasn’t good enough for Claire, Evelyn’s paddling grew more aggressive, making the slaps of wood against smooth, wet thighs louder, and the pledges’ grunts and yelps more pronounced. Accompanied by Claire’s demands to “Look at me,” it was enough to make you lose your mind as you stood there, punchy from tequila, bent over with your naked business exposed, waiting your turn.

  When my turn came, my eyes locked on Claire’s. She smiled, motioning Sister Evelyn to her side. Claire whispered something in Evelyn’s ear before taking the paddle from Evelyn, holding it firmly between her little hands, and walking behind me. Evelyn grinned at me with this evil grimace, holding my gaze, and without warning, Claire spanked me so hard with the paddle that my entire body popped up and slammed back down against the table, the paddle meeting my naked flesh, flattening my ass, stinging my labia and the tip of my clit with a whack so hard I swore the paddle split into two. The sensation left me wondering if the only remedy for the flash of pain was another whack against my ass. I swore I blushed afterward. Evelyn had to have seen my response because her index finger gently lifted my chin up to meet her eyes, almost as a confirmation. Then she pointed very deliberately toward her eyes, warning me to not to remove my gaze from hers.

  Suddenly I felt Claire leaning behind me, pressing herself on top of me—dare I say it—as if mounting me. So close, I remember never having felt anyone so close to me except, of course, the obvious: my boyfriend.

  “You like it.” It wasn’t a question and Claire whispered it deep in my ear. It was both creepy and arousing at the same time and this pissed me off.

  “No, Big Sister Almighty Claire. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.” I stared back at Evelyn with much concentration. And before I could take another breath, another whack landed across my ass, this one harder than the first, but landing more fully on the meatiest part of my ass. I felt the hair on my body stand. Squeezing my thighs together, I asked myself, why was I becoming turned on by this obvious abuse? I had never felt so conflicted before in my life.

  “Don’t lie to me. Liars don’t go over. You know you like this, bitch. You know you like the way this makes you feel, you little masochist. You little freak. You think you can take it, huh, little girl. Well, how about this?” All the while Claire was giving me this special speech, I felt the other pledges staring at me, probably wondering if this was out of the ordinary. Renee was next to me, and I could feel her arm graze mine ever so slightly. I wasn’t sure if this was a sign of support or her telling me to go with it. Evelyn walked around from in front of the table, retrieved her own paddle, and both she and Claire took turns paddling me until they reached some magical number in their heads they both seemed to be satisfied with. I never knew what that number was because I remember being so lost in the spanking; with each swing, the numbers stringing along, merging into each other, I told myself this was bad, not good. I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience, the sensation of floating to the ceiling while staring down at these two women exacting the type of punishment on me that triggered a divinely painful type of desire. What I struggled with most was being unable to decide whether or not I wanted the spanking to stop or continue. Was I moist from my own sweat or from something I probably really didn’t want to know? Evelyn continued to strike my very raw ass until it was stinging, almost burning, as if on fire.

  Claire reappeared before me front and center, staring down at me with something I can only describe as lust—but I would never admit to it. She was so proud of her handiwork. I believe this might have very well been the defining moment. How could I ever forget it?

  Poor Renee Reynolds didn’t make it, but I went over just fine to become a full member of the sorority. As far as I was concerned, I had fulfilled my familial obligation. But I was so turned off by the pledge experience that I became a soror in name only, going on to becoming involved in a host of other extracurricular activities at Hurston with too full a schedule to be an active big sister. Whenever I would see Claire around campus, all she had for me was a curt smile and frankly, that was enough. I was virtually invisible during hazing week every year. Just the sound of paddles at work had a Pavlovian affect on me.

  “So, what are you up to? Just shopping? Love the shoes. You know you have to have them.” As I took off the Jimmy Choos, placing them back in the box where they belonged, I was thinking that Claire’s inflection was just as vain and self-important as I remembered.

  “I’m running a few errands and meeting up with Craig for dinner later on,” I responded, hoping to curb any ideas she might have had about extending this social coincidence any further.

  “Yes. You married Craig Wright. Mr. Wright! And how has that been?” Claire tipped the champagne glass to her lips, taking a tiny sip.

  “Um, great actually. Nine years and counting. Never been happier.” Peeking at us both as we stood together in the three-way mirror, I decided that the arresting Miss Claire, in all her plastic, heavily painted, overly couture glory, could probably purchase just about anything she wanted in that store without flinching. I wondered if she was happy.

  “What about you? I heard you married again,” I inquired, pretending to be interested in the obligatory small talk.

  “Yes. Rick and I determined that what we created had run its course. Besides, marrying a professional athlete is everything you would imagine, a tedious, arduous, thrill-less union with a man obsessed with his own unsophisticated version of masculinity. Connor, on the other hand, has a way of intellectualizing his masculinity that I find incredibly sexy. He’s a hedge fund manager but he does a lot of micro financing ventures on the side—you know, just because. This one’s a keeper. Why don’t you join me for lunch, Lauren. Let’s catch up!” And when her eyes narrowed on me, I automatically thought of my Craig, my lovely UPS supervisor, and couldn’t wait to get home to him so that I could feel his big, hard, hand spank me into a blissful oblivion.

  “Thanks, girl, but I’ve got a lot going on right now. It was really great seeing you, Claire.” I opened my arms for a hug into which Claire readily stepped.

  Claire smiled her Cheshire grin. “Yes. Great bumping into you. Take care, Lauren.” I smiled back warmly as we separated.

  Walking away I felt it, the unmistakable slap on my ass. It was light but deliberate, with great aim. I turned around to see Claire’s face beaming at me.

  “I couldn’t resist.” She laughed mockingly.

  DAYS

  Simon Sheppard

  Thank you for the days.

  Those endless days. Well, a couple of semi-endless days, anyway.

  Thank you for asking me what I was doing after the movie. It was, yes, one of those “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Is he really talking to me?” moments. My incredulity raced with my hard-on; hard-on won.

  “Taking you home with me,” I think I replied. At least, that’s
what I should have said, and after all, I’m the one telling this story. You definitely did kiss me, though, right there on the sidewalk in front of the theater, and my hard dick got even harder. That I recall. That’s the truth.

  You were so much younger than I was, which kinda made me your mercy fuck. Thank you for letting me be your mercy fuck. You were cuter, too. That smile. Jesus Christ Almighty, that smile of yours. It could have melted the polar glaciers, if they hadn’t already been melting. Your body was far from perfect, though, and I was grateful for that, as well. Maybe I’m hopeless, sorry, but flaws turn me on. Your furry little overhang of a belly, your fleshy chest, your soft ass…it was all so desirable. And your cock: medium sized, cut, pretty enough. The most spectacular thing about it, though, was that it was yours.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  There was that first kiss. I’m queer for kissing, and with you, mouth-to-mouth was a fine art. And you kissed me hard right there in the street. Okay, it was in front of the Castro Theater, but still…

  Still.

  So thank you for that day.

  “My name’s Howard,” you said on the way back to my house. “Not a very sexy name, huh?”

  “Well,” I said, finding it hard to take my eyes off you, hoping I wouldn’t trip and fall, “it’s a sexy name to me. I used to see this boy named Howard. I used to tie him up and spank him.” At which point I thought maybe I’d said too much, seeing as how we’d just met a little while ago.

  But after another block or so, you smiled—oh, shit, that smile again—and said softly, “I like what you did to that other Howard.”

  And that’s when I knew I was in trouble; a good kind, maybe, but big, big trouble nonetheless.

  We talked about this, about that. You’d been in town a couple of years. You thought we probably had friends in common, so you wanted me to be discreet. And it turned out you were a queer activist, an additional turn-on for me. I hate to sound politically fussy, and I would certainly spank an apolitical guy, but giving pleasure to a Log Cabin Republican always seemed a bit too transgressive.

  When we finally got to my place—a journey that seemed to take forever, but one I nevertheless hoped would never end—you strolled into my bedroom, gave me another amazingly exciting kiss, and without prompting, stripped down to unexpected blue bikini briefs. I’d already found out, back at the theater, when we’d kissed and hugged, that you were a bit thick around the middle. Now it turned out that you were, for such a young guy, really hairy, too. That’s when I realized how hot, how perfectly imperfect you were—does that make any sense? Does any of this?

  You lay down and waited. Waited for me to take control, though even then, I realized how far out of my hands this was spiraling. But then, the best sex is vertiginous, no?

  I took my cock out and rubbed it on your face. You opened that beautiful mouth and I slid inside. I reached down to your crotch. You were still mostly soft. I kneaded your dick through the fabric, and you started to get harder, but only started.

  “Anything wrong?” I asked.

  You took your mouth off my cock. “It’s just that I’m a little nervous. See, I’ve never actually been spanked.”

  “And that’s what’s going to happen today?” I asked.

  “I sure as fuck hope so,” you replied. For such a cute, innocent-seeming young fellow, you sure had a potty mouth.

  “Turn over,” I told you, and you did, just like that. Your ass looked pale and fleshy against my black bedsheets. I wanted to spank you in order to give you pleasure. I also wanted to hurt you. Those two things danced around each other, forming strange and lovely and scary combinations.

  I swatted you. Not hard, of course. We were just beginning. And then I hit you again.

  Okay, it’s confession time. You were so fucking boyishly appealing that all I wanted to do was to drop to my knees and worship you. And you had, on the way over, told me that your usual mode was top, that you enjoyed dominating twinks. Hell, maybe I wanted to be the one who got hurt. Oh, Howard, if I only could have been a submissive twink for you…

  But I managed, somehow, to keep spanking you, and you moaned in pleasure, which sent me spiraling up and down in my very own little vortex of desire.

  I’m really rather good at spanking, and I tried to do my level best with you. It was so lovely to watch your fleshy ass move with the blows, like little tidal ripples of sex. And you reddened up nicely. I began to lose track, to go so far into myself that the only thing that mattered in the whole wide world was your ass and the palm of my hand. I kinda hate it when people use religious metaphors for S/M—it both seems rather pretentious and gives the game away—but this was becoming a spiritual experience, no doubt about it, at least for me.

  Nirvana or no, I found myself wondering how your dick was doing. I reached around your thigh and took a feel. Your penis was doing fine, mostly hard, if not rock so. God, I thought, life is so sweet.

  I spanked you a while longer, increasing the intensity, to your evident delight. I was, for a moment, quite overwhelmed, like a grande dame in a Victorian novel who’s been overcome by the vapors. I paused. You looked back over your shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, hoping not to sound the least bit morose. “Go get me that flogger. The lightweight one with blue tails.” I gestured at a hook on the wall. You got up and padded over, your bright pink ass bobbling behind you. I wanted to stick my tongue up there, to see how it tasted. Maybe later.

  When you came back with the flogger, you looked somewhere between “dubious” and “happy,” which is pretty much how I was feeling. I fall in love entirely too easily—a fact I, perhaps mistakenly, told you later—and I suppose I was already beginning to suspect I was getting in over my head.

  Be all that as it may, I got you down in one of my favorite positions, me sitting up, legs spread, you facedown between them, sucking my cock. And then, in a kind of Zen little moment, I hauled off with the flogger and hit your shoulder. You, gratifyingly enough, moaned around my hard-on, in what was clearly pleasure. I couldn’t help but notice how good it was to be alive. I whacked your other shoulder, then built up a rhythm, gathering intensity, and your sucking kept pace.

  I wanted to cry out, “I’m your top, and I’ll do whatever you want me to,” but that, of course, wouldn’t have been suitable. Instead I leaned over and started flogging your ass. It shook even more exquisitely than when I’d spanked you. I thought for a moment, If I ever write about this, I’ll title the story “Howard’s End,” but that notion, fortunately, passed.

  After a while, I started to grow…well, not bored, I could never have been bored with you. Let’s just say I was anxious to explore you more. So I had you take your mouth off my dick—you’d started to gag, anyway, deep-throating not being your forte—and roll over.

  “What are you smiling about?” I think it was supposed to come out as a growl, given the circumstances, but I bet it sounded more like a polite query.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” you smiled, all coy. Your dick was still not hard, not very. Mine, on the other hand, was leaking wet. So I went down on you this time, felt you grow in my mouth, then backed off. I hadn’t seen you fully hard till then, hadn’t see that amazing, prominent vein at the base of what turned out to be a nice, thick erection indeed.

  “It always takes me a long time to come,” you said, somewhere along the line. Whether that was truly true or not I didn’t know, but in any case, you never did shoot that time, not when I stroked you, not when you jacked off. And not when I had you get on all fours, and spanked you while you played with yourself. I still wanted to rim you, too, but you made it clear that your ass was off-limits, even to a fingertip. I wasn’t really disappointed, though I was. You know?

  In any case, I decided not to come, either. And that’s how things ended. If it had been a porn story, we both would have come ecstatically, copiously, exhaustingly. But it wasn’t, and we didn’t.

  Yes, I did, a
fter quite a bit of negotiating, manage to see you a couple more times, and thank you for those. Because you’d told me that you thought I’d have gone harder that first time, in our second session I got quite a bit rougher, spanking you more firmly, using a heavier-weight flogger, slapping your chest, your inner thighs, even, for one rather glorious moment, putting my hands around your throat and squeezing. That time, you did come, and so did I.

  Was that what I wanted from you? Or did I want you to love me forever? Well, yes. That. But since that wasn’t going to happen, I settled for getting in your pants. Life is full of compromises.

  And then, just like our first sex had, things trailed off, came to an indecisive close. You made it clear that you were—well, you tried to put it more nicely—too busy for me. You were right; we did have people in common, so I saw you around, still flashing that dazzling smile. I tried not to sulk.

  And I did, after all, get a story out of our days together. This story. So thank you for those days.

  Even though they’re over.

  Howard’s end.

  BOSSY

  Sommer Marsden

  I met Andrew at the library. He was at the gigantic bank of computers; I was at one of the tables provided for laptop users. I had to force myself to work at the library from time to time for several reasons; number one: a fucking change of scenery. Who can stare at the same four walls morning, noon, and night and not go stark raving mad? Not me. Reason number two: less distraction. No movies to pop into the DVD player or cable to surf or dogs to walk. And when I was on my laptop, I kept the Internet turned off. World’s biggest time eater: the World Wide Web. Seriously.