by Violet Blue
I quit smoking that week, but I retained enough attitude to ensure that I was in for many more spankings, both planned and unplanned. Yet although he’s continually given me what I crave, we’d never played like this before. He’d punished me, yes, in public and at home. But it had taken me curling up in bed next to him, and whispering my most secret fantasies, to bring us to this erotic point.
“I need—” I’d started.
“What do you need, baby doll?”
“I need a father figure—” I murmured, blushing, hoping he’d figure out exactly what I was asking for. I shouldn’t have doubted him for a second. James seems to read my desires before I fully understand them.
Now, his hand smacks fiercely against my bare skin and I cry out, even though I’m not anywhere close to my pain threshold yet. It takes a lot to make real tears come. But I am close to my pleasure threshold. And so is he. I feel the insistent pressure of his cock straining up at me from underneath. I think about all the careful choreographing that went into this morning’s encounter. We drove separately: him arriving first; me coming in late and sitting across the room, ordering my standard breakfast fare of black coffee and well-buttered wheat toast. The flirtatious looks that I sent him were pure concoction on my part, an impish way that I tested his will.
Now, I’m a bad little girl and Daddy’s punishing me.
As he does, he taunts me with his words, knowing exactly how much I get off by the way he talks to me. “What did you think would happen to you?” he asks.
I say nothing, because that will get me extra-heated spanks.
“When you act like a royal brat, you get treated like a brat,” he continues. “And in my book, your behavior requires the sternest form of punishment.”
“Your book,” I repeat, my head turned to face the rear of the car. My cheek rests on the smooth seat, and I breathe in the smell of well-cared-for leather. I know I should just bite down on my full bottom lip to keep silent, but for some reason, I can’t. I want to talk, want to bring down his wrath down upon me. For every stroke of his hand on my ass, my pussy will flood over with an undeniable pleasure. “Your book,” I say again. “Did you write that, too?” I ask. “Along with all those other chauvinistic rules?”
“Oh, baby girl,” James sighs, as if deeply saddened by my sorry state. “You really do need it today, don’t you? You’re craving a punishment that you’ll be able to remember later. When you walk. When you try to sit down. Whenever you move.”
My pussy clenches at his words, and I kick out again, just to see what he’ll do. “Girl,” Daddy says, “Don’t make me take off my belt.”
Oh, I will—and he knows I will. I’ll make him take it off. Make my daddy put me over the seat and punish me with his oily black leather belt. I’ll make him spank me until my skin is a hot, rosy blush. And then I’ll make him fuck me. Because I know my daddy understands. He’ll make it all better with a few steady caresses, and then he’ll push me up, so that I can sit on his cock, and he’ll bounce me to the outer limits of pleasure that erase every wash of pain.
But to get there, I have to push him just a little bit further.
“You think you can make me cry—” I dare, and that’s all it takes. James is instantly in motion, pushing me roughly onto the seat. He stands next to the car looking in at me as he slides his belt free from the loops. My heart thrums at an insane speed as I watch every move.
Still without a care that people might see us, he hauls me over the back end of his car and begins to wield the belt with the graceful finesse of a true sadist. He knows how to hit the mark, how to make me shift from one foot to the other. When he admonishes me, I realize that I’m honestly trying to stay in place for him, but unable. Pain blooms with each stripe of the belt. The sensation spreads throughout my body, radiating. Images before me seem clearer, as if suddenly the world has come into sharp focus: the smooth lines of the Cadillac, the rough gray gravel beneath my feet, the ruby-red neon sign of TJ’s. Pain is clarifying. James knows.
He makes sure to land the belt on the roundest part of my ass, striping me there. Then he lines up the next stroke above and the next stroke below. I hold onto the car, searching for purchase. I lower my head and grit my teeth. And I feel the tears start to fall, heavy drops that splatter on the rocks and on my polished patent leather high-heeled Mary Janes.
The rest of this has just been a game. The teasing. The misbehavior. Tolerating the pain of the hand-spanking…but this is real.
“Your ass will be on fire when I’m done,” my daddy says, “so don’t bother squirming. I’m not going to stop until I know you’re truly done.”
I try to tell myself to give in. To let it all just happen, wash over me, wash through me. But because I’m a defiant one, all the way to the core, I feel myself start to stand upright, and James is right on me, pushing me back over the car. Holding me in place while he lands the last few sizzling strokes. And then he’s behind me, his pants open, his cock out, and he’s fucking me against the rear of his car. I feel how hard he is, feel how aroused he is when he reaches one hand up under my white blouse to stroke my breasts.
“You need to be a good girl,” he hisses, mouth against my ear as he drives his cock on home. “You need to behave for Daddy.” I sigh and close my eyes, feeling the wealth of bliss start to unravel within me. Filaments of pure white-hot pleasure slip through my body, and I half-sob, half-sigh as I sense the climax emerging.
I called him lucky. But maybe I was wrong.
Maybe it’s me who’s the lucky one, after all.
The Real, Real World
ALEXANDRA MICHAELS
“The Real World,” Loren snorts when he catches me watching my favorite MTV series. I’m a decade out of high school, but still I’m addicted to the teenybopper show. I don’t even bother to look up as Loren sits on the edge of our raspberry-colored velvet couch and critiques the very concept of the popular program. “They consider that the real world?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Being put up rent-free in some fabulous loft in one of the coolest cities in the world while cameras film their every move. Yeah,” he sneers, voice drenched in sarcasm, “that’s what real life is all about.”
“Sounds pretty good to me,” I say, not paying much attention to his rants. I don’t want to miss even one minute of the show. I adore the soap opera-level drama of the kids’ lives, love losing a bit of my daily routine in the fantasy of their world.
“But it’s not real.”
“Doesn’t make the show any less fun to watch,” I tell him. “In fact,” I continue, finally looking over at my dark-haired, dark-eyed husband, “it’s the fantasy aspect of the whole concept that I like.”
After another moment, he leaves the room, and then I hear a series of odd noises from the bedroom closet. Although curious, I wait for a commercial break before padding barefoot down the hall after him. The emerald-green ’70s-style shag carpet tickles the bottoms of my feet.
The door to our bedroom is shut, which is strange. We are an open couple with no secrets between us. I don’t bother closing the bathroom door when I do my magical makeup routines, when I highlight my hair, or even when I floss. Loren doesn’t shut me out when he’s writing his screenplay, or cutting his toenails, or jerking off.
For some reason I find myself knocking on the whitewashed wood rather than rudely flinging the thing open.
“Come on in, Tyra,” he says. “I’m just about ready—”
“Ready for what?” I ask as I open the door.
“Your close-up,” he says with a grin, and I see that he’s set our video camera up on a tripod, and the lens is aimed in my direction.
“No way,” I say, but he just stares at me, so I have to add. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“This is the real world,” he explains, pointing to me, then back to the camera, then to himself. “This is what real life is like.” Although I hear the sounds of the show coming back on in the other room, I’ve suddenly
lost all interest.
“Filming your wife in the bedroom is the real world?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I just mean that this—” and now he spreads his arms wide in a dramatic gesture to indicate the whole apartment. As he does, one of our heavy-set upstairs neighbors clomps across the floor. It sounds as if she’s wearing clogs. “This is the real world. Where the neighbors are inconsiderate slobs who can’t keep the noise down. Where people actually work and pay rent and do their laundry at the Spin ’n Dry and sleep and eat and—”
“Fuck—” I interrupt.
He laughs softly, and I notice the camera has a red light on. “Yeah,” he says, pulling his navy-blue T-shirt over his head to reveal his fantastic physique. “And fuck.”
I think about the different X-rated videos we’ve watched together, giggling under the covers like naughty kids who’ve stayed up past their bedtimes. “We’re better than that,” we often promise each other, but we never have acted on this concept in the past. Not even when Loren insisted that he wanted to watch my face while he fucked me doggy-style, the way I like best. “You make these sounds,” he told me afterward one night, “these amazing, dark moaning sounds. I wish I could see your face when you come like that.”
And now, maybe, he will—
“I just thought,” he tells me, “that since you’re addicted to The Real World, perhaps you’d appreciate a starring role in your very own reality show.”
“I would,” I nod, as if agreeing to something deeply serious. “Yes,” I continue, pulling the sparkly pink band from my ponytail, so that my white-blonde hair falls loose past my shoulders. “I think that’s a stellar idea.” As I speak, my hands are busy on my thin white pajama bottoms, and it takes no time at all to peel my pale-blue princess T-shirt over my head.
“Slower,” he says, indicating the lens. “Let’s see you work a little slower—”
No, that’s not right. If this is a reality show, then the camera should catch the real thing, not me doing a faux strip-tease for the hungry eye of the lens. And the real thing is so different from pornos. The real thing is me, pushing my lavender lace panties down my thighs and stepping out of them, then lunging onto the waterbed and making the raucous ripples bounce Loren against the wall.
“Nice,” he says. “Classy—”
“Maybe not,” I grin, “but this is real.”
“So is this—” he says, gesturing to his hard-on, concealed only by a pair of gray flannel boxers. I move my way up the bed until I am situated between his thighs. He looks down at me, strokes my hair gently, then waits. Immediately, I bring my mouth to his cloth-concealed cock and suck him through the material. Myself, I like the way a barrier feels. When Loren goes down on me through my panties, it makes me crazy with yearning. I’m lost between two conflicting sensations. Part of me wants him to keep up the action, while another can’t wait for him to push the fabric aside and let me feel his wet mouth against me.
Loren’s the same way. He arches his hips forward, begging with his body, and I take pity and slide my hands along the waistband and then pull his boxers down and off. Now, we are both naked, and ready. So ready that for a moment, I actually forget that a camera is catching our every move. That’s the wonder of reality shows, after all, isn’t it? The moment when people forget they’re being filmed, and (to steal from MTV’s cult-classic show) start acting real.
“Real” to me and Loren is hard and fast. I climb his body, straddle him with my legs spread wide and my pussy directly on top of his cock. I rub sweetly up and down, up and down, getting his rig wet and slippery with my sex juices. I fuck my vibrating clit with his shaft and he stays still on the bed and lets me work. He knows my favorite ways to do it, and he also knows that I’ll never let him down. I cream my body against his until I just can’t wait another second, and then I grip his rod firmly in one hand, squeezing exactly the right way, and guide him between my legs.
“Oh, Tyra,” he sighs. “Jesus—”
And I buck up and down, using the powerful muscles in my thighs to get the leverage I crave. I want to fuck his brains out. That’s my goal: to fuck him until he comes and then just sit there on his cock until it gets hard enough to fuck again. I don’t know why I’m this hot, this entirely too horny, but I am. Maybe it’s because every few seconds, I remember that we’re being filmed, and I imagine what it will be like when we retreat to our living room to watch our own home-made production.
I can see it easily—the two of us on the floor right in front of the TV set, as close as we can possibly get to the screen and still take in the movie. We’ll watch, critique, pay careful attention, until the action becomes too intense and we have to re-create the scenario a second time. Real life will echo art as we fuck on the green shag carpet. And if we decide to film that round, well, the whole thing will become too complicated to sort out. Where does real life start and fantasy end?
Loren has his own plans, and after a few minutes of letting me ride him, he slips me around in the bed and drives in hard. Missionary-style. His body pulses with electricity. Each time he slides in, it seems as if he fucks me deeper. I’m like a sleeve that perfectly fits his cock, like an elastic band that hugs him tightly with each thrust.
“Jesus,” he says again, when my pussy engulfs him and tries to hold him within me. “You’re so fucking tight.”
Squeeze and release, squeeze and release—it’s what I do best. What I do, at least, until Loren moves us both again, and I find that I’m on my hands and knees, rocking with the turbulent currents in our waterbed, and he has taken his position behind me. We’re going to do it doggy-style and he’s finally going to get to own the image of what my face looks like when I come.
But I find myself suddenly self-conscious. From this position, I can too easily see the camera. I know that the lens is focused on me, and I can’t get off while that blind eye is staring in my direction. I feel exposed, and I’m unable to shake the urge to perform.
“Relax,” Loren advises. “Let it happen, Tyra.”
“Can’t—” I tell him.
He grips my hips and drives further inside me. I try to concentrate on the way his rod feels when it pushes into me. His skin is warm against mine. The head of his cock rocks within the mouth of my cunt, creating the most delicious form of friction. I work to pay attention to every subtle sensation. The thickness of his cock has a wicked feeling when it swells within me. The head presses right against the back walls of my pussy, then grinds back out again, leaving me breathless. The rhythm of his choosing is mesmerizing. I find myself starting to relax, starting to lose myself, and right then I see the camera and tense up all over again.
Loren recognizes my problem and diagnoses the cure. Softly, he slides one hand along my thigh and under my body, working to find my happily twitching clitoris. He taps that little hummer with his fingertips, knowing from our years of experience how to tease me up to climax. But even with his sweet caresses, I can’t reach the limits with him.
“Forget the camera,” he tries.
“No way.” Because there it is, watching us, and I suddenly wonder if those kids on The Real World ever truly forget about the camera crew. How could they? How could anyone on any of those reality shows every really forget? It would always be a concept in the back of your mind. “Don’t say that. Don’t do that. People are watching.” Maybe Loren’s right to be so cynical. Maybe the entire thing is scripted, from start to finish. Every fight. Every frame.
“Don’t look at the camera, Tyra,” Loren tells me. “Close your eyes and focus on how good you feel.”
I do feel good. The way his cock pulses within my body takes me to a higher level. Takes me almost all the way there. But I know that we’re on film, and I freeze up right at the moment when I should be screaming with release, right at the moment that Loren pulls out and groans as he spreads his come along my naked ass and back. And then he’s pushing me down on the bed, on my stomach, and spreading my asscheeks wide apart. I feel his tic
kling tongue between my legs, flicking from my clit to my ass, bathing that edgy line in sweet heat and wetness.
“Oh, god,” I groan, because that sensation is almost too good to handle. I love the circles that he makes with the tip of his tongue, the way he takes his time, rubbing his face against my skin so that I can feel the sharp sting of his five o’clock shadow.
Then he flips me over so that he can get deeper inside of me with his tongue, and he tells me to put my arms over my head and lock my hands together. I obey automatically, and he rewards me with the magical powers of his knowing tongue. And as he plays endless hide-and-seek games with his tongue in my pussy, I start to lose myself. To really lose myself. The pleasure is too much to deny. My self-conscious act dissolves. I wonder if this is what it’s like for porn stars. Suddenly, you forget you’re on tape. You have to forget. Because the sex is just too damn good. I raise my hips, lower them back again, and start to tremble.
When I come, the bed shakes with my orgasm. Our tempestuous waterbed ripples like the ocean, and I climax in a rush, gripping Loren against my body with my legs. Holding him to me. As I open my eyes again, I see the camera and I realize that I really did lose my knowledge of it. For the wondrous moment that Loren made me come, being filmed was the last thing on my mind.
“You ready?” Loren asks, grinning at me.
“Ready?” I repeat, an echo of our conversation before. “Not for my close-up.”
“No,” he says. “For the viewing.”
“Viewing,” I say, but this isn’t a question.
“First episode ever,” Loren smiles. “You know. Our Real World.”
“The Real, Real World,” I correct him, as he pops the video and heads down the hall to the media center. I follow one beat behind, entirely naked, ready to witness the transformation of life into art. Ready to experience the transformation in myself. Ready to see myself for real.