Even as he spoke he’d done it, peeling the tiny scrap of cotton down over my bum cheeks, and not just a little way either, but all the way, turning them inside out around my thighs.
I felt the cool air on my pussy and knew I was showing from behind, my bum hole too, because my bottom was well raised and my cheeks were fully open. That was as it should be, as it always was in my imagination: every rude detail bare for the inspection of the man who was spanking me, and for anybody who happened to be looking on.
It was then that the real shame hit me, even before the spanking had begun: a choking sense of humiliation so strong it was a physical pain and made far, far worse an instant later as he began to actually spank me.
Then it really hurt: powerful, stinging slaps delivered full across my cheeks to set my flesh bouncing and my legs kicking wildly in my half-lowered panties. I couldn’t speak, but only yelp and gasp, with my hair tossing in my pain and my hands thumping on the soil beneath my face.
I’d asked for it and I got it: a hard, bare-bottom spanking across a man’s lap. Every bit as painful and humiliating as I’d imagined, only it wasn’t horrible at all. For the first few smacks I thought it was going to be, but then the most extraordinary sensation had begun to well up inside me. My feelings of exposure, the heat of my smacked cheeks and a new sensation of utter helplessness all coming together to create the most delicious sense of arousal I had ever experienced short of orgasm itself. I realised what I’d done immediately. Uncle James was right. At the realisation of how completely I’d betrayed myself, I burst into tears and he stopped immediately. But it was too late. Some girls do like being spanked, and I was one of them.
After that there was no stopping me. I introduced Connor to the pleasures of punishing me and he took to it like a duck to water. But even that wasn’t enough, and when Uncle James came to visit me he’d take me into the woods and I’d have my bottom smacked before we went for lunch. I loved every second of it, and yet I never lost that lingering sense of resentment for the Spanking Man.
It was nearly a year before I saw him again, not in the bar, but walking along the towpath by the canal. There were other people about but nobody close, providing me with the perfect opportunity to tell him what I thought of him, and I’d put a lot of thought into my words.
‘Do you recognise me?’
He looked surprised.
‘Um … no. I’m afraid not. Should I?’
‘Yes, you should. I’m a student and I work in the Cricketer’s during the evenings. About a year ago you made an inappropriate comment to me.’
‘I assure you I did not.’
‘Oh yes you did, you little pervert. Instead of saying “Thank you very much” you said “Spank you very much”, and if you think that spanking women is –’
‘I’m sorry, but I said no such thing. As a matter of fact I’m against all forms of corporal punishment, and would never make such an inappropriate remark in any case. You must have misheard me.’
I tried one last, feeble sally .‘But you winked at me!’
‘Perhaps, in a friendly way, but I can assure you …’
He carried on, but I wasn’t listening. There was no guilt in his face, no sly glint in his eyes, just honest outrage. He was telling the truth. My mouth came slowly open as the reality of the situation sank in. I’d spent months agonising over what I’d thought he wanted to do to me, and he didn’t. I’d had myself spanked by my own uncle, and I needn’t have. I’d got myself hooked on a dirty slutty kink, and I had only myself to blame. There was no Spanking Man, only a spanked girl, me.
Perfect Bound
by Shanna Germain
It’s the librarian look that gets them. They walk into my little erotic bookstore expecting – what? – I don’t really know. Not me. Not this tall woman behind the checkout counter in her twin set, glasses hanging by their silver chain, swinging into that laced space between her breasts each time she moves. They’re not expecting this dark pile of hair, these swept-to-the side bangs that half-hide my dark eyes. Or the long black skirt, slit so that it seems to promise a glimpse of thigh, of more, if only they could see behind the counter. They’re not expecting this cliché, this proverbial boy’s wet dream. Not expecting me.
I can tell by the way they move their eyes toward me, and then away, like I’m just another book on the shelf. I’ve seen boys look at porn with the same denial of fervour.
Take this boy. Not a boy, really. Twenty-five if he’s a day. Tight black jeans over his skinny legs and ass. Torn grey T-shirt that says Getting Lucky in Nebraska. A small silver piercing rests just under his thin, pale lips. He’d be emo – I keep up on these things, make it my job to know – if not for the naturally blonde hair.
He’s been here before, but only to browse. Today, it’s different. He’s looking for something. I wonder which of his friends clued him in. He circles around the checkout counter for a while, picking up books and looking at them without looking at them. Opening them wherever the pages fall. Cracking spines. Smudging ink with his thumb.
I keep doing the thing that I’m doing. It looks like paperwork, but really it’s just little squiggles on paper, something that lets me keep my eyes busy. Something that lets me lick the end of the pencil, tongue the lead just a little.
He makes smaller circles, like a cub playing at predator. Instinctual. Clumsy. Big feet and his smell on the wind.
I look up from my squiggles and tuck my pencil into my hair.
‘Can I help you find something?’ I have my dark red lipstick on. The colour that says open me. Take a peek inside.
‘Oh, just looking,’ he says. Looking as he says it. Brave boy. Big blue eyes.
I lick my teeth, show the flash of white against the dark. I reach into my hair for my pencil, pull out one long, loose curl that falls down against my neck.
‘Well, if you don’t need anything …’
‘Wait.’
‘Yes?’
He lowers his eyes and picks up a book from the counter in front of me. It’s the Art of Spanking. Milo Manara. The boy’s palm covers the illustration on the front cover. He flips the book sideways and runs his finger down the spine.
Now comes the break point. Will he ask, or will he leave here with only a book to tide him – and me – over?
The boy swallows. I can hear the sound as loud as if it was my own throat. He slides the book across the counter toward me. His fingers tap-tap the book’s cover.
‘I hear you specialize in … binding,’ he says. ‘Printing.’
The word he’s looking for is imprinting, but I let it slide. ‘I do. Do you have something you need … bound?’ I give him back the pause he’s given me. The emphasis.
‘Please,’ he says. Something so soft in his voice, so painful in his need. Even his body sags with the letting go, the asking. His shoulders soften.
I reach across the counter, touch one of his fingers as it covers the book. ‘Something in particular?’
He bites his bottom lip, making an indent in the pink curves. There is a space of time, two or three seconds where he can still back out. Buy the book instead. I wait.
‘Me,’ he says, finally. ‘Me.’
I smile at him with my dark lips and my white teeth. I pull the pencil from my hair, and the barrette with it, and a layer of dark curls falls down around my face.
‘Flip the sign then,’ I say. ‘I charge by the hour.’
He shakes his head, and his hair shifts across his brow. ‘I don’t …’
‘You can come in and sort books.’ I think of how many boys I already have sorting books. And dusting. I have a pretty dark-haired boy who does my books – in the monetary sense – and one who does my taxes. ‘Or something.’ I point at the door with my pencil. ‘Flip the sign.’
While the boy – I’ll have to ask his name at some point – flips the sign in the door from Open to Shut, I open the drawer in front of me. It’s filled with rows of old typewriter ribbon. I have a man who buys them for me
wherever he can find them – auction houses, garage sales, estates. He sends them to me by the boxload. I pay him for his costs and shipping and I bind him and bend him over my knee whenever he comes into town.
I like the ones on spools, with nylon ribbons. Black. No lift-off tape or coloured ink. And they have to be truly old. Not just replicas. A bit of ink gets on my fingers as I find the one I want.
The boy is back. I shake loose the rest of my curls with ink-smudged fingers. His eyes follow the movement. I take the typewriter ribbon in one hand and the book he’s chosen in the other.
‘C’mon back,’ I say.
The chair in the back room is the one I like best. It’s antique, I think, with an ornate back and a red velvet cushion as a seat cover. Taller than most chairs today and no arms – that’s the important part.
I sit. When I cross my legs, the fabric of the skirt slides open. His eyes follow that movement too.
‘Have you done this before?’ I ask.
‘N-no. No.’
‘You understand what happens here? You understand that once we start, we don’t stop?’
‘Yes.’ Surer this time.
I unspool the end of the typewriter ribbon so that it falls to the floor like curls.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Stephen, with a p-h.’
‘Well, Stephen with a p-h, how did you get here?’
‘I just live around the –’
I sigh. Boys. Sometimes they’re the perfect thing in the world. Other times …
‘No, who told you about me?’
He sticks his thumbs in his belt loops. ‘My friend Anthony.’
Of course. Anthony. He’s one of my window washers. Pretty, pretty boy with cocoa skin and a piercing fetish. Comes by once a week or so. I have a brief delightful image of getting the two of them together, under my thumb, so to speak. Getting ahead of myself though. We’ll have to see how this session goes first.
‘Get undressed.’
This is the moment when some boys hesitate. Some ask questions. Some go home. Stephen with a ph just starts to undo his belt. All of his nervous energy is transformed into the process of taking off his clothes. He does it carefully, the belt through its buckle and the slide out of his jeans. I’m not a sub, but, if I was, that movement, that sound, would be enough to get me wet. I wonder if he knows this, if he’s played that way before or if it’s just something that comes naturally to some people.
I unspool the black ribbon all the way while he undresses. By the time I’m done, the ribbon covers the floor around me and he’s standing before me. All lean white body. Only his chest and cock have any colour in them, rosy red, both.
‘Come closer.’ I shift my legs again, let the skirt’s slit slide higher.
I’m tempted to start at his cock – it juts out at me, asking to be touched – but I’m afraid it will send him over the edge too soon. Instead, I wind the ribbon around his thin waist, replacing his studded belt with this thin black line. Around and around his waist, just below his belly button, down toward the brown hairs that rise up his belly, down toward the place where his torso meets his thighs. I work around his cock, never touching it, pretending it isn’t there between us.
When his waist is wrapped, I snip a short piece of ribbon off and reach to his wrists. I put them in front of his body, loop them together and tie them off.
He is so obedient that I wonder if he’s paying attention, if he really understands what’s happening. His eyes are closed, and the tip of his tongue plays softly at the corner of his lips. I run the sharp edge of my nail up between his thighs, and he takes a sharp, quick inhale. Fully here then. That’s good.
I cup his balls in my palm. They feel full and solid, like living Ben-Wa balls in there. I roll them softly, watching his cock pop each time the pad of my thumb hits the underside. He’s a sigher, sending soft exhales of air, so quiet that they’re hardly hearable. I wonder what he’ll sound like when I really get started. Will he stay quiet? Or can I break the noise from him?
I make the first loop of ribbon around his balls, and he opens his eyes. The wet pink of his tongue finds the corner of his lips again. I wrap him all the way up, from the soft curves of his balls to the wide base and finally all the way to the small flared tip. There’s so much ribbon that I have to double-wrap in places.
When I let go, he looks down at himself. No words. His cock jumps again; the head is shiny and slick. I know it won’t be long before he starts leaking onto the ribbon, before he wets it enough that it will mark his body with its ink. I wear black skirts for a reason.
‘Lay down.’ I’d pat my lap, but he’s already moving. He puts his bound hands over his head, without me having to tell him, and then he lays himself across my legs.
He weighs less than I expected and I didn’t expect much. His cock presses into my thighs. And he’s got a great ass, full and curved, despite his lean build. The black ribbon around his waist accentuates the white globes of his cheeks. I run my palm across the pale skin, finger the space between his cheeks. I can’t hear his sighs, but I can feel them, in the push of his ribs and belly against my legs.
I draw back my hand and lower it on the fleshy part. Not hard. Just testing. A little smack, a little pink against that pale. And again. Still no sound. No movement from him. His cock doesn’t change against my lap. Either he’s in over his head, or he’s ready for more. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.
I cup the curve of his ass in my palm again. I love that place, the curve of skin and muscle. Those little dimples that only boys seem to have. His body relaxes against mine. Sighs into relief. That’s my cue to start again, my hand coming down hard and fast, so fast that my palm stings. He wiggles, pressing his cock harder into my thigh, trying to escape the blows, trying to move closer to them. Above his head, his bound hands close on the air.
When I stop, his breathing – not sighs now, but something heavier, louder – fills the room. I press my finger to one of the pink marks on his skin. He clenches his ass and lets out his first words.
‘Holy fucking shit.’ His voice is filled with both awe and discomfort.
‘Oh, Stephen with a p-h,’ I have to laugh a little. ‘We’ve only just begun.’
I put one hand on the back of his neck, bend him just a little so that his ass rises higher, his cock presses harder. I start at the rounded bottom of his ass, covering the pink marks that are already there. His skin is warming up, or my palm is. With each stroke, he shudders just a little. He tries to give his feet a hold on the floor, but I have him bent so that he can’t quite reach.
The skirt material is thin enough that I can feel the edges of the typewriter ribbon that I’ve wrapped around him. I know it’s chafing him now, rubbing against his skin in a way that is both pleasure and pain. I open my legs a little beneath him, creating a hollow for his cock between my legs. He rubs into the space, tries to settle himself into a rhythm.
I spank the back of his legs, the inside of his cheeks, slow and steady. The sound of my palm against his flesh, the way he wiggles under my blows – is it so bad to say how much I love it? How much I live for moments like these, for boys like these? If I were to slide one finger beneath my skirt right now, I know how wet I’d be, how open. But that’s for later. I don’t want to fuck this boy, I just want to do this, raise my hand to him again and again. I want to imagine him later, when I’m alone, his pinkened skin and his ribbon-wrapped cock. His quiet, submissive desire. I want to see him sorting books later in his skinny black jeans and remember this moment, him squirming and sighing across me.
The book he chose earlier is next to the chair, and I lean over and pick it up. Hard cover. An art book, so it’s heavy and wide. Not as much noise and sting as a soft cover, but a lot of heavy pain. I crack it against the side of his ass first. He inhales sharply, and raises his head to try and look at me.
I push his head back down and grab the ribbon at his waist to hold him steady. Already, the ink has marked his fle
sh, imprinted his struggles on his skin. They’re beautiful, long black strips of ink filled with potential for words and stories. Desire made visible.
The book makes a flat sound against his skin. Nothing like the sharp slap of my palm, but strong in its own way. His sighs get louder, turn to low moans, and then, finally, to soft words. Gods and oohs and fucks that slide out of his mouth as though he can’t help himself. I don’t think he can.
Finally that word that I wait for, the soft whisper. Please. I pretend I don’t hear it – the book is loud against his flesh, getting louder, getting faster. His back is all muscle and tension as he tries to get comfortable, tries to guess where the book might land next. Please, he says it again, even as he’s trying to get loose. His cock makes my skirt wet, his string of please, please, please, makes the rest of me wetter.
I drop the book. I need to get closer to this again, back to the sound of my hand on his ass. Back to marking his skin with the sting of a slap. I’m faster with my hand, more precise.
This time, when his feet dig for a hold, I let him have it. For a second, he’s off-balance, surprised to find himself with any leverage at all. And then he’s fucking my lap, rubbing cock and ribbon against me. He rises up to meet my hand, lowers himself to meet my lap. He does all the work now, and I let him, focusing on placement and speed.
His pleases turn to fuck-fuck-fucks and I know he’s going to come. I wish I could see his cock, wrapped and rubbed a little raw, as he lets go, but it’s enough that I can imagine it. It’s enough that I can see his ass clench tight under my hand. I tighten my grip on the ribbon, use it to help his momentum. I up my spanks, faster and harder, meeting his ass each time it rises, and then giving a sharp hit on his downstroke.
Soon, he comes the way boys do: loud and quick, and drenching the front of my skirt. The room smells instantly like sex and sweat and cum. While his body shivers and pumps, I softly stroke the sore places on his skin. Small bruises – from the book, likely – are beginning to show through the pink. He’s going to feel this every time he sits down for the next week, maybe longer.
Ultimate Spanking Page 2