She stood so her body was perfectly framed by the window, centered, and stood with her legs apart. She felt powerful this way. Showcased. She rolled her shoulders back and looked down at her breasts and belly, each protruding with a curve meant to fill a hand, or two hands, or more. Protruding roundnesses, like the trembling, near-bursting water balloon that rested so tentatively inside her throbbing vagina.
She gathered up the skirt of her dress and pulled it over her head. She reached high, high enough to feel a long, delicious, aching stretch in her arms. She tossed the dress to the floor.
Her hips were tilted back, setting her ass at a high angle, and she could feel him getting an eyeful of her plain white cotton panties.
Suddenly she had the urge to feel her own ass cheeks naked to the air. She knew that even if he wasn’t there to watch her, even if he walked away, she’d still need to feel her ass bare, now—with her window wide and gaping at the brick of his building, at the rows of other windows, at the sly grin of the crescent moon. She slipped her palms into her panties and stroked her own velvet flesh before pulling them down. Not off, but down, to gather just under the fullest part of her rear end, suggesting themselves so close to her weeping, wanting opening.
In the mirror, the man straightened his back and continued to watch.
Casual, like a body that had known only perfection, sauntering back and forth across a locker room and stirring envy. Terese reached behind her back and began to unhook her bra but pivoted with faux innocence so he could see her breasts from the side as they sprung from her falling bra. She ran her fingertips along the smiling curve of them, then circled her nipples with her thumbs. She imagined him suddenly a fourteen-year-old boy, wondering, Are they supposed to do that? Does it feel good? Is that one of those girl things, from health class? She laughed a little.
Terese continued to circle her nipples, as though with a sense of purpose. As though it was something to be done. A sort of sexual maintenance. She tipped her head back slightly and let her mouth drop open, to show she enjoyed it. To show how easily she could invoke this pleasure, how ripe and young and ready she was. This touching, this release—it was something a girl needed to do.
Terese opened her eyes, and her attention landed on her desk chair. It was an armless swivel chair with rough, burlaplike, gray upholstery. She moved toward it, stood above it.
She pulled her panties down her legs and tossed them off with one foot. Then she straddled the chair backward, balanced on her forefeet, and lowered herself over it.
The pink flesh between her legs was slack and moist and hypersensitive. She detected every raised nub in the fabric, every tiny corkscrew fiber rising from the surface. She pressed her weight downward through the floor of her pelvis, staining the seat cushion with her moisture. She rocked her hips forward and back, delighted by the smoothness of her own movements. The weight and roundness of her own bottom charmed her, the cheeks spreading and lifting, again and again, as she rocked. In her head, she heard a voice, startlingly similar to her own, moaning, Oh, how I love this ass.
The chair became the face of a man with late-day stubble. She teased it, brushing it lightly, then hovering, torturing him—or torturing her? Then she ground herself into it, deliciously rough and yet forgiving, supportive yet surrendering to her own contours.
Terese arched her back and felt the peculiar kiss of the air, hot and present, against her erect nipples. Like a mouth, she thought. The temperature difference was subtle. Summer air making itself known to her breasts, like twin mouths open wide and round, O, lowering themselves wet and toothless over her rosy nipples. She let go a sound, Oohh.
She sensed his eyes rolling over her curves, hungrily memorizing the succulent quiver of her breasts. She wanted something inside. So, so badly.
She rose from the chair. She walked to her dresser and leaned over with her hand on the edge, legs spread wide, bent deep at the waist. She watched him in the mirror now without averting her eyes.
The rigidity of his body was a tonic to Terese. He was captivated. Overcome. Unable to be torn from the sight of her. The building might crumble around him and he’d remain riveted on her form, panting. She noticed the shadow of his Adam’s apple rising and falling on his neck. His attention scorched her skin like a nearing inferno. It was a phantom arm that reached up inside of her and stroked and beckoned.
She reached down and inserted four fingers inside and began to reach, reach, reach for that place he had touched from a distance. At the depths, she began to smart in the most delicious way. She whimpered. Inside she imagined a trampoline, scarlet as a tart’s lipstick. It was littered with little girls, landing hard and jumping with all their might, getting flung upward again. They chanted: Higher! Higher! Higher! Their skirts flew high above their heads, obscuring their faces, revealing rose-print underpants with a satin rosette at the waistline.
This was something a girl had to do. With one leg balanced awkwardly on the edge of a drawer, it was both curious and necessary.
Terese came hard. Moisture cascaded over her hand; a droplet traced a slow path around her wrist. She choked from her deepest throat. She seethed and sputtered. Every breath was a hot blast of wind. A perfume bottle fell on its side. The lace table runner slipped and hung limply off the dresser.
She stood now, bent and exhausted, still gripping the furniture.
She looked into the mirror, past the snakelike strands of her hair sticking to her dewy face, past her flushed cheeks and white shoulders and softening nipples.
Yes, he was still there. But standing this time. Standing, and close to his window screen.
Terese ran her palms slowly down the sides of her torso, following a fascinating road over the swell of her hips. Her full thighs touched one another and were sugary-sticky.
Then she turned to face the window.
She looked right at him.
With slow surety, she approached the window, hands dangling, relaxed at her sides.
His undershirt and boxers were gone now. His face was more apparent here, a little closer to her, and the light from above was less direct. He was ordinary-looking. Inoffensive. The kind of man your mom might want you to meet.
Terese did her best to connect with his gaze.
He reached down and took himself in his hands.
Big Girls Do Cry
BY RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL
You would not believe the number of men who think that just because I’m a big girl—a voluptuous size 16 who isn’t afraid to show off all my assets—that what I’m put on this earth for is to beat their bottoms silly. I’m sure there are plenty of women who get off on that—because I’ve seen them in action and heard plenty of stories—but having a naked, eager, collared man at my feet just isn’t for me. I’m not offended by it or anything; it just doesn’t turn me on, just like some people prefer rocky road and some prefer vanilla. I like my road to be rocky—as long as someone else is doing the rocking.
I prefer to be the one on the floor, stripped bare, eagerly waiting for whatever the perfect, sexy, handsome, smart, mindfucking, sadistic dom of my dreams wants me to do. I’ve been like this for as long as I can remember; the rush of having a lover give me even the merest instruction, kinky or not—from “kiss my hand” to “show me your panties”—is enough to turn me into a puddle of mush. When I get like that, all hot and liquid, my body feels, in a way, weightless. Not literally, of course, and a size 0 is not something I aspire to; I mean a more ethereal kind of weightless, like I’m floating and then being brought back down to earth with a loud, painful, delicious smack on my ass.
Yet for all my desires, it’s only happened twice. Only two men have been able to see exactly how I want to be treated and have been capable of delivering it. I get that dominance isn’t for everyone—if it were, my attempts to shimmy into a corset and latex skirt and slash a whip in the air would’ve by now led me either to a devoted husband or to a career as a dominatrix. But for the most part, I’ve spent my time in the kinky world watching and
waiting. I’ve always believed that good things come to those who wait, as facile as that might sound. I’m twenty-four, and I’ve been waiting long enough—observing, staring, lusting after those women lucky enough to get taken over a man’s knee, to be tied up to a cross, to have a gag shoved in their mouths while they thrash around, knowing that they can’t escape until everyone gets what they need.
I know what I want—to cry, to scream, to struggle, to surrender, to be “forced” into all manner of degrading scenarios—but I don’t just want it from anyone. That’s why those two brief dalliances were just that—something about what we were doing didn’t feel quite right. The motions were there, sure, but the men seemed to be either taking out some latent anger on me or simply going through the motions. I want a man who means it. I don’t want it from men who hold a lurking undercurrent of misogyny, who think the scene is a place to let that loose. I don’t want men who’ll try to “order” me to lose weight and think that’s okay because they’re the top and whatever they say goes. I don’t want a man who doesn’t respect every inch of my womanhood, but rather one who wants to top me, torture me, and tie me up because he respects my every curvy pound.
For a long time, I hated this need and tried to subvert it, going out with vanilla boys who were perfectly sweet and sweetly perfect. And therein lay the problem. They were too sweet, too soft, and they treated me too tenderly. Or they somehow fetishized my size, turning me into a woman to put on a pedestal and cower under. If it wasn’t men building me up to an inflated size and importance, like in René Magritte’s painting The Giantess, they were considering me a cuddly teddy bear of a girl, someone whose cleavage they could nuzzle up to, someone they could stroke and fondle, someone who could mommy them in a sexual way, but someone they would never slap and sting. That would offend their principles. I say fuck principles, fuck propriety. What’s a hot-blooded kinky girl to do with her desire to bend over?
The answer, apparently, was “wait.” Patience is a virtue and all that, though I don’t consider myself particularly virtuous. I don’t believe in knights in shining armor, or sleek leather, or anything like that, but I have to tell you, when I met Todd, everything just clicked.
We were standing in line at a concert—Adele, if you want to know. I was there by myself, because her music is so beautiful, I knew I’d cry, and I didn’t want to do that in front of even my closest friends. Sometimes the best music is enough to fill you up, and her voice struck me in the center of my chest.
I was smashed into the middle of the crowd and only had eyes for Adele. When she sang “Someone Like You,” I let the tears flow. I’d never lost a man like the girl in the song, but I’d dreamt about the man who’d give me all of himself in return for all of me. It wasn’t until the encore that Todd and I made eyes. He smiled, an almost shy smile. He was tall, with shaggy brown hair, and wore a black T-shirt and well-worn pale blue jeans, which hung loosely from his lanky frame. He wasn’t exactly my type. This big girl goes for even bigger guys—ones who look like James Gandolfini when I want a bad boy and John Goodman when I don’t. But it was Todd’s face that drew me in.
He wasn’t crying, but he looked like he’d been sucker-punched by the music just as much as I had. We stepped slightly closer as Adele sang her final songs and bid us goodbye, and I just stood there, not wanting to leave and ruin the magic. “Beautiful, isn’t she?” he asked softly. I looked up at him and noticed his long eyelashes. There was something girly about him, which made what happened afterward so ironic.
“Yeah,” I said. “I could’ve stayed here all night.”
“Want to maybe get a drink, see if we can find her on a jukebox somewhere?”
One drink turned into three, followed by two sodas. We ended up shutting down the bar (which turned out not to have a jukebox). We’d started out sitting across from each other in a booth, and then gradually, I’d moved next to him, inching closer and closer. He was smart and funny and sweet, but not all sweet. There was a glint of something dark in those gorgeous hazel eyes that made me tingle all over.
“So, what now?” he asked, leaving it up to me. I was sitting on the side of the booth closest to the exit, and I stood. As I lifted my purse onto my shoulder, he stood, and his hand brushed against my ass. The heat from his touch traveled all the way through me. I shifted back toward him, hoping, despite my earlier tiredness, that the electricity sparking through my dress and panties directly into my skin meant what I thought it did. He stayed still, and I pressed farther back, until his fingers cupped my skin just so, giving me a squeeze that was gentle but firm enough to make me moan.
He leaned over and blew on the back of my neck, and tendrils of hair that had strayed from my ponytail tickled against my skin.
“Amy,” he said. “Turn around.”
I did, and we stood face to face, his arm wrapped around me, still cupping my face. I was close enough to feel how hard he was. “Tell me what you want.” His words were soft, almost like the time I went to a hypnotist. But he wanted to hear me, wanted me to share exactly what I was thinking.
I had to shut my eyes, the heat rushing to my cheeks as I took a deep breath and said, “I want you to spank me. No panties. Over your knee. I want you to make me scream.” I opened my eyes, which were now wet with tears of desire; I hadn’t realized how arousing it would be to say those words, an arousal directly in proportion to my fear.
“Have you ever been spanked like that before, Amy?”
“No, not like that, just a few slaps. Taps, really. They weren’t enough.” It got a little easier to say the words; that time, I looked at him.
“You want the pain, don’t you, Amy?” he asked, tightening his hold on my ass.
“Yes,” I gasped as his hand blatantly palmed my cheek before dipping lower.
“Bend over this table then. Show me how much you want it. If you don’t, I won’t believe you truly need it.”
I knew there were a few stragglers left in the bar, and that the staff wanted us to leave, but I couldn’t help it—I bent over. I lay my face directly on the cold, sticky table, my ass sticking up in the air, the outline of my panties surely visible to Todd and possibly others. I like bikinis, which give pretty full coverage, but I could tell they had bunched between my legs, where I was wet and swollen.
Todd stepped behind me and again cupped my cheeks, using both hands. He massaged my ass gently at first, then more firmly, occasionally stroking lightly over my pussy. It was thrilling and unnerving to be so blatantly bent over. He did that for maybe thirty seconds, but they were thirty of the most thrilling seconds of my life.
Finally, he grabbed my ponytail and raised my head up before turning me around and bruising my lips with a rough, beautiful kiss. “You’re going to look so beautiful over my knee,” he whispered against my lips.
Sometimes you just have to go with your gut, which is what I did. Would I recommend going home with strangers you’ve promised your ass to? No. But there was something gentle and old-soul about Todd, even as he said those kinky words. Maybe it was because I’d been waiting for what felt like forever to hear those words, to know that it was safe to surrender to them.
We walked back to his place, which looked like your basic bachelor apartment—a giant TV, a couch, a cat, some beers in the fridge. He offered me one, but I just took a water.
“Take off your dress, Amy,” he said, watching me. I shifted, not used to undressing right out in the open like that. Usually it was a quick shucking of my clothes in the dark. I did it though, grateful that even though my bra and panties didn’t match, they were nice enough—a leopard-print bra and basic black, now soaked, panties. “Now the bra, and then the panties, and look at me while you do it.”
I obeyed him, shivering with arousal, letting my heavy breasts fall in front of me and baring the pubic-hair fuzz at my center. He didn’t seem in a rush to spank me, even though I was aching for it. Todd walked closer, then hoisted me up in his arms like I barely weighed a thing. No man had ever trie
d that before. He tossed me over his shoulder and, with my ass in the air, carried me into his bedroom. He lay me down, then rolled me over. “Put your hands over your head. Your safeword will be ‘Adele,’ but I don’t expect you to need it. You’re very overdue for a spanking, and any guy who can’t see that is a fool.”
I shut my eyes and waited, wondering if he’d take his clothes off, too. Instead he sat, spreading me across his lap, just like I’d dreamed about. “Spread those pretty legs for me just a little.” His voice seemed to take on a southern twang—maybe that was my imagination, but I liked it. I was already loving this, before he’d even struck me. I smiled to myself—and then the first blow landed. It was hard, and I squirmed, still smiling though. He hit me again, the sound of his hand connecting with my ass loud in the room. He didn’t say a word about my size, didn’t try to make light of my weight across his lap or the heft of my ass, he just kept spanking me. Maybe he was waiting for a reaction, I wasn’t sure, but I could only focus on the feel of his hand, striking me over and over.
Finally I did let out a whimper, and he gripped me tighter with the hand that wasn’t spanking me. “That’s it, let go for me, Amy.” He hit me harder and shifted so his hand struck the backs of my thighs. At one point he dipped his fingers between my legs, and I pressed back toward that pressure, much as I had earlier in the evening. “Oh Amy . . . you need something harder than my hand.”
I swallowed hard but didn’t look up. I just lay there and waited as he stood, rummaged around, and returned. “Now this is going to be a bit more painful, but you can take it. It’s okay if you cry, and you know what to do if you want me to stop.”
I bit my lip and raised my ass a little higher in the air, and soon, something strong hit my ass. It felt like a whip, or maybe a belt—whatever it was, it was way harsher than his hand had been. After the first one, I didn’t think I could take another—maybe I’d been overambitious for my first spanking. The second one hurt, too, and so did the third. I can’t lie: They all hurt, but something happened after those first few. The pain morphed into something else, something closer to what I’d dreamed about. It was like there were three of us in the room: Todd, me, and the belt (I peeked).
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