by Alex Algren
“I do need a spanking, Jen.”
So she had obliged, landing smack after firm smack on his buttocks as he braced himself against the desk. She’d finished the spanking by grabbing a light wooden ruler and rubbing it against his hot cheeks.
“Have you learned your lesson?”
“I…yes, I…” She could see he wasn’t sure how to answer; the ruler sliding to and fro on the cotton of his pants was distracting him, as was his erection, straining his waistband. He rubbed himself on the edge of the desk and closed his eyes. She marveled that he was so into this. She brought the ruler down on his ass, snapping it in a fast series of little slaps that she knew would sting his tenderized skin. When she stopped, he straightened and reached back to rub his rear. It was her turn to raise her eyebrows.
“Well?”
“I’m sorry I snapped. And I’m sorry about this.” He grinned and gestured to his cock. “I can’t go home like this.”
He was right. He couldn’t. She’d crossed the line when she made him undress. But she tried, she paid lip service to common sense. “You know I can’t. This isn’t—it’s too much to ask of you. If I were in your place, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself telling my friend I just got it on with a teacher. And then he’d tell his mother, and she’d tell your mother. And I’d be in the papers.”
But it was too late. It was like putting the ice cream back in the freezer when she knew she was going to eat it all in half an hour.
“I know, Jen, Jesus, I won’t. I wouldn’t tell.” Ignoring her inner warning voice, her hand reached into his briefs to encircle silky skin and it didn’t take long to help him find his pleasure. She watched him come across the notes spread on the table, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. The image would continue to flare in her mind for days.
Before he left, his “Thanks, Jen” had been a little more heartfelt than usual. She wasn’t sure if he understood the import of his promises of silence. She prayed that he did.
She pictured his body bent over the table where they worked, her palm connecting with his tight white briefs, the slight tremble in his athlete’s thighs. Closing her eyes, she could feel the rove and squeeze of her hand on his buttock, the smooth skin of his back. What got to her most were his arms, strong and lithe. She thought the T-shirt tan line made the flesh of his bicep seem more vulnerable, smooth as it was. His bitten nails matched her own and reminded her that there was insecurity buried beneath his cocky demeanor.
What she wanted most was to be enfolded in the protective circle of those arms, to feel his heartbeat against her cheek through his chest. To cheer at the side of the pitch as he competed, or watch him laze on the grass, one knee cocked, in the sunshine, smiling a smile that was just for her. In truth, she wanted to be young again, just out of school and cherished. She slapped the nostalgic fantasy away. She was something else entirely, a teacher, an older woman, a disciplinarian. She was grateful to have this boy in her life at all.
She wondered if he would come back again the next week and was almost surprised when he appeared, loping up the drive with his shoulders tensed, the way he always did. He was sulky and sullen. He wouldn’t concentrate.
“Did you have a good week, then?”
“Yeah.”
“So what are we working on today?”
“Whatever.”
Jen persevered. “Marcus, will you look at me? You need to back that point up with a solid quote if it’s going to hold up.”
“All right! I know! I’m doing it!” Amused, Jen had an insight into what it would feel like to be his mother: a mixture of fierce pride and screaming frustration. Then she realized what he was doing.
“Well, Marcus, we have two choices here. Either you can go home and work on your own, or you can go upstairs to the bedroom, take off your shirt and put your hands on the wall above your head and wait for me.”
She stood, hand on hip. He didn’t look at her as he left the room, his books lying askew on the table.
She left him to wait a little. The idea of him standing, hands planted on the wall in her room, was tantalizing. After gathering a few things, she entered and drank in the sight of his slim torso, naked to the waist. Each vertebra was visible on his smooth, pale back. The tattoo stood out starkly against his skin. It was again framed by the white of the underwear that peeked above the top of his low-slung jeans. She traced his backbone with a finger, from hairline to tat, and delighted in his shivered response.
“Move over, Marcus,” she breathed, maneuvering him to stand beneath a bracket fixed on the wall. Slowly she ran her hand up his side, catching his wrist in a cuff that dangled from a bracket on the wall. She did the same for the other arm, running her fingers up his side, rib by rib, causing him to break out in goose bumps. She stopped just above his armpit and floated his other arm up to join the first.
Jen stepped in close and sucked a kiss onto Marcus’s shoulder. She snaked one arm round his chest and pinched his nipple. His skin was softer than she expected, and warm. One finger followed the gentle fuzz of pubic hair down to the top button of his jeans. She listened to his breathing deepen with each button, heard him catch his breath as she released the last one. His jeans slid away without resistance and she paused to absorb the glorious picture of him, stripped to his underwear and bound to her wall.
She reached into the leg of his briefs, stroking the smooth skin and letting the elastic snap back into place. Sliding her fingers through the valley of his taut buttocks, she reached beneath him to cup his balls and rub. He braced himself and swallowed, his muscles tense. She could imagine his Adam’s apple moving as his head dipped forward. A noise escaped his lips, half sigh, half groan. It sounded delightful, so light, heralding such desperate pleasure. Sweet boy.
“Spread, Marcus, nice and wide,” she ordered, slapping his inner thigh. He obediently moved into position, his muscles standing out. Without any warning, she smacked his ass with the flat of her hand, moving from one side to the other on the fleshiest part of his buttocks, feeling the heat, the sting in her own palm. Caught off guard, he gasped and twisted, as if trying to avoid the blows without really moving. She stopped when a rose blush crept past the sides of his underwear, working its way to his upper thighs. She rubbed his ass, easing the sting, then pressed herself to him.
“Will this help you work harder, Marcus?” she whispered in his ear. The heat from his spanked buttocks seeped into her crotch. She pushed against him a little more firmly, reaching to twist his nipple sharply.
She could hear him fight to keep his voice low and steady.
“Yes! Yes.”
She thought about the stubble on his jaw that shone golden in the light and wanted to turn him around, stroke it. Not yet.
Jen inched his briefs down over his ass, loving the contrast of the red flush against his milky skin. She could see him feel her gaze, the sweat breaking out under his arms, on his back. She licked at his shoulder, spreading lube on her fingers while his attention was on her tongue, her hot mouth kissing the sweat away. She pushed his legs apart again and rimmed his asshole with a light touch, waiting until he relaxed. Then she pulled away so his ass would have to follow. He begged for more with the press of his pelvis into her hand. Her finger slipped into his heat, and the thrill of possessing him and his gasp of “Oh god!” made her dizzy.
With a groan, he pumped his hips and his head fell back. She eased her finger out of him and cradled his balls again, her thumb against his hole.
“Jen…”
“What, Marcus?”
“Don’t stop. Please…”
“Don’t stop what, pretty boy?”
He took a breath.
“Your fingers, Jen, in me. Don’t stop.”
She reached up and stroked his bobbing Adam’s apple, then rasped her left thumb over his cheek. He sighed as she returned her finger to his loosened ass, and then added another, slowly. Marcus stayed quiet, but his breath grew ragged.
She stepped back and away, quickly squirting l
ube on the plug she had ready for him. It was cold. He stiffened and pulled away, scared. Jen tisked and picked up her wide black hairbrush.
“I thought you were asking for this, Marcus. You’ve let me tie you up, you’re naked in my room. Are you just messing with me again, just wasting my time, again?” She touched his cock for the first time, gripping it, finding it hard despite his nerves. At the same time she slapped the brush down several times, right over his asshole. “This is all about you behaving, Marcus. Don’t disappoint me further,” she whispered in his ear. He shook his head, disoriented and overwhelmed.
“No, Jen. Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” His voice was rough, the pain showed in it. She might have been moved by it if it hadn’t been for the insistent throbbing in her crotch.
“Do you trust me, Marcus?” He nodded. Smack. “Do you trust me?”
“I trust you.”
“Right. No more nonsense then.” She patted him, spread his cheeks again, shifted her left hand back to his balls and slowly pushed the plug up into him.
“Good boy. That’s it.” He breathed deeply, adjusting to the fullness, the pressure. She tapped the plug’s base and spoke into his ear again.
“Now Marcus, I want to give you something to remember this lesson by. I want you to feel this sting as you sit and study, and let it remind you to focus, to do the work for me.”
The chain clicked as she pulled the cuffs from the hook. He meekly followed her to the bed and knelt at her command. She relocked his wrists behind him. She stepped away from him and pulled the belt from his discarded jeans.
“On your face.” Her voice was harsh. The chain left just enough slack for him to kneel with his face in the pillows. She doubled the strap and pushed his cheeks apart, slapping at the plug with gentle strokes, working up to harder swings on the cleft of his ass. She slapped stripes across his already crimson cheeks, the tops of his thighs. But she returned each time to the plug.
“Please, Jen…” She heard a soft plea, tears in his voice. But he hadn’t moved, other than to writhe and thrust away from the slaps of the leather. Not stopping the strokes, she reached under him to rub the head of his cock between a light finger and thumb. She played the belt against the plug base, knowing how the smacks were vibrating through him. She felt his cock surge, saw his hips begin to pump and then, taking one last slap, he covered her hand in his come, his voice incoherent in release. She let him breathe a minute, then ordered him to the floor. He knelt, his wet eyes cast down. When she pressed her hand to his lips he licked it clean. She thumbed the tears from under his lashes, unable to resist kissing his mouth, pressing her lips to the salt of tears and come.
Jen stood in front of him as he knelt, his wrists bound behind him, pulling his shoulders back. The position revealed the interlocked curves inked onto the pale underside of his arm. Slowly, he let his head rest on her hip bone, exhausted and nuzzling. His forehead was warm against her, damp with sweat.
She had been going to send him home. She couldn’t, not now. She stepped back, raised her skirt inch by inch and then reached for the back of his head. It made so much sense to guide his face to her cunt. She held him there while he kissed the cotton of her wet panties. Impatient, she pulled them off and pressed his mouth to her. She put one foot on the bed frame and he pushed his tongue into her, licking, eyes closed. His tongue felt muscular and agile as he pressed further in, his breath warm against her. She angled her pelvis down and he licked her clitoris in strong sweeps, no tickling teasing, just the forceful push of his tongue over and over.
“Marcus…” She was about to tell him to suck her but he needed no instruction. Fettered as he was, his lips closed over her clit and pulled fiercely, drinking her. She felt the scrape of his perfect white teeth grazing her clit, his hungry mouth raising the burn and slam of a searing orgasm. He didn’t stop until her cries had died away. She pulled him back by the hair, fist locked at the nape of his neck. The fingers of her other hand petted his face. She fell to her knees, thighs pressed together, and reached up to kiss him, his mouth slick with his come and her own taste.
His cock was coming up again. Jesus. That brought her back to her college boyfriends. She pushed the thought of really having him away. Marcus was never going to be hers, she didn’t get to have him. She wanted him, so badly she could taste it—his arm thrown over her in sleep, her feet dipping into his bath, his cock stretching and driving her. No, Jen. What he had to give would not be enough. But tenderly she kissed him, leaning into him. Her lips and tongue-tip tested until her mouth locked over his, and her head swirled. In his aura, in the heat of him, she felt secure, right. She pulled back and reached behind him to release his arms. She stood abruptly, her skirt swishing back into place. She picked up his underwear, tucked it into the pocket of his jeans.
“You can go home without wearing these, and feel every thread of your jeans against those tender parts of yours. With every little chafe you’ll remember your lesson.”
She slapped his hands on the chest of drawers and pulled the plug from him, ignoring his sudden exhalation and the way his ass clenched on its emptiness. She walked out, leaving him to dress and return to his books.
Jen made it to the hall downstairs. She leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. She rested her chin on her knees and fiddled with her earring. She thought of her orgasm and a searing physical memory flashed through her. Shit. What was she going to do?
Marcus walked down the stairs. She watched his knees approaching, looked away as his crotch hove into view. He sat down beside her, gingerly, and leaned his head against hers for a second.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice dull. Fatigue robbed her of any interest in continuing the game.
He nodded. “My ass is killing me though.”
She smiled. “Perhaps it will put the agony of studying into perspective.”
“Yeah.”
Her voice became brisk. “Right. How many weeks left? Two? So will I see you next week?” He nodded. “Bring your books, and two essay plans. Time’s running out, Exam Boy.”
They stood, and moved to the door. She rested a light hand on his back as he walked out.
“And Marcus?”
“Yes?”
“If you don’t have your work done next week”—he smirked suggestively but grew serious as she finished—“then there’s nothing more I can do for you.” He stared at her, then nodded. She hadn’t been testing him, but his acceptance stung her nonetheless. She wished he would argue, even just a little bit. But they both got it. There was no room for romance.
After he left she watched his back; his long legs walking down the lane, away. His stride was more careful than the one he had come with. He was tender. Tears rose in her eyes. If she could she would keep him tied, to her bed, to her body, to move within the circle of his warmth and have him smile a smile that was for her only, secret, teasing and possessive.
A tear traced its cold, saline path over her mouth and she pressed her hand to his kiss; felt it lingering, the scrape of his beard, the plush of his lips.
Torn, she was, and yearning.
BELTED
Rachel Kramer Bussel
You’d never know the belt is there by looking at him. It’s lost between his shirt and his pants, tucked away, hidden, pulled close, serving a dual purpose. You’d never know it’s there, unless he made a point of showing you. And he does, often, a hand resting there as a reminder in public, an intimation of what will happen in private. You have no idea how many other girls he makes a point of showing it to, but the reason you keep returning is that when you’re with him, you don’t care about the other girls. There could be hundreds, thousands even; as long as he looks at you the way he does when he unbuckles and unfurls the soft, worn, brown leather, then coils the belt purposefully around his hand, you can let yourself believe he wears it just for you.
This isn’t the first belt that’s been used to strike you. There was the boyfriend in college who had you bend over, skirt around
your ankles, camera flashing and belt lashing against your skin before plunging his oversized cock into your unprepared ass. He was all flash and no finesse.
Your lover is the opposite, or rather, flash and finesse mixed together in a dizzying way, with plenty of substance to back them up. He holds the belt like it belongs in his hand, like it’s an extension of him. He tells you that he thinks about you every day when he loops it through his pants, when he touches the cool metal buckle. Alone in some room or another—never either of your bedrooms—your body reacts before you have time to consider its wisdom when you see him reaching for the buckle. After all, you know from experience that could mean anything—he’s giving you his cock to suck, he’s going to shackle your arms behind your back, he’s going to pull your hair hard and slap your face until you cry, he’s going to beat you until your skin is heated from the outside in. All of these are possibilities, and all of these bring you pleasure, but you hope it’s the latter.
The belt is able to speak in ways that even the both of you, wordsmiths by trade, cannot always do. The belt is not a “toy” for “foreplay” but a separate part of your sex life, one that may appear at any moment. Its presence lurks while you casually sip your drinks at the bar, hidden but powerful; your fingers are itching to stroke it, if only so they can be slapped away. You never know if he will bring it out, how he will use it, how much of the belt and himself he will give you.
You try not to be greedy, but you hope it’ll be a moment like this: You’re sore from having his cock inside you, from him holding you down, from his hand crushing your neck. Sore in a good way, so you almost don’t even miss the belt—almost. You never have much time, can never stay overnight, have to steal hours out of other people’s schedules to accommodate this affair, so you learn to take what you can get. You’re wondering when he will have to leave, when this spell of lust will fade back into real life, when he reaches for the belt from the floor. “Turn over,” he tells you, and you roll onto your stomach, your pale backside before him.