I’ve never had to use a safeword before, and most of the time, I’ve barely even had one I could use. I trust my lovers implicitly and have never felt the need for one. Buried within that trust, though, is a safety net I’m not sure I any longer want, a safety net that suddenly feels altogether too constricting. I’ve never liked the word play used to describe kink, or at least, my kink. There’s nothing playful about it, even though I know all about safe, sane and consensual, and that I can stop at any time. I can top from below with the best of them, but something in me has finally rebelled at this topsy-turvy state of masochistic affairs. I’m ready for the real thing, and am finally strong enough to take it, and Evan is just the man to grant me my wish.
If we were the marrying kind, I’d have a nice, shiny rock to flash around to all and sundry. We’re not, so I don’t expect that, but I married him in my heart a month after we met. He had his cock inside me, was fucking me doggie-style, and I moved, just slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Don’t move, Denise. Don’t ever move. Stay with me forever,” he said. I could’ve dismissed it as pillow talk – most women would have – but somehow I knew he meant it. We’ve had our ups and downs in the year we’ve been together, but I’ve always known that he was the one. Not the One, the mystical, magical, phantom lover meant to fulfill a woman’s every need and fantasy before she can even think of them. Not that One, but this one, my special one, the one who makes my heart beat like we’re on a crashing airplane, who makes me smile when he wakes me in the middle of the night with a particularly loud snore, the one whose eyes and cock compete for best feature. The one who’s made me relearn what submission is all about.
Yet even after a year of me naked over his knee, or up against the wall, or bent over holding my ankles, or any number of other positions we’ve tried to perfect our spanking regimen, we still haven’t reached the heights, or depths, I know we could. I haven’t cracked the surface of his sadism, haven’t pushed him to bring out the truly mean top I know lurks inside, haven’t let myself sink into the glory of sub space so fully I wonder if I’ll ever come out. My fantasies have gotten more and more twisted, perverse, unreal. But I don’t want an army of lovers or community-wide kink; I want Evan, just Evan. It’s through no fault of his, or mine, that we haven’t gone there, I’ve just always surrendered to the lure of his cock when the pressure seemed unbearable, right before I went over the edge I’m afraid I’ll never return from. What if after this I want him to make me cry all the time? What if he takes that as a sign I need therapy? What if we become one of those couples where the man gets off on fucking his wife but not in the way that makes him rush home to her? What if he thinks I’m crying because I’m sad or in pain or don’t love him anymore? I have no answers or crystal ball, I only know that the tears are demanding an exit, and won’t take no for an answer. They aren’t tears of sadness, that much I know for sure; what these tears signify I don’t yet know, but I am convinced Evan can help me understand.
He grabs me by the scruff of my neck, and I whimper, just like I have before, but there’s something different in his eyes. They’re feral, wild with a kind of desire I’ve never seen before, and that sight unleashes a wave of want inside me. My entire body goes tight, then limp. “Be careful what you wish for, Dee,” he says. “Very, very careful.” When I make a move to open my mouth, he shuts my lips, pressing them between his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t speak until we’re done. You’ll know when we’re done. You can make noise, scream all you want, but no talking, unless you need to safeword. Your safeword is emergency. But I don’t think you’re going to come anywhere close to using it.” He let’s go of my lips, then just stands there staring at me. At an even six feet, he’s got a good five inches on me so I’m looking up at him, my face just as serious as his.
Then, in a flash, he’s grabbed me and moved us over so he can slam me against the wall. This is no gentle crash in which I’m just as complicit; he slams me, and it hurts, but I like the pain. A lot. My face smashes into the familiar white space, his hand against the side of my head. I’ve been up against countless walls since I met him, but never so close, where it’s like I’m inhaling the paint. I’ve murmured, prayed even, into wood and brick and paint. But now my lips aren’t so much touching the wall as merged with it. My body goes on red alert as he smears me into the wall. My pussy is pounding, demanding attention in much the same way my heart is thudding. “Stay there, whore.” He knows that word sets me off, but this time, his voice is gruffer; it’s not a playful term of endearment, and I almost feel like one. I wonder what I’d do if I really were a whore with a client who wanted to treat me like this. I focus on the plaster against my skin, on his hand that has just stabbed me in the lower back. Okay, not stabbed, but the pressure there is exquisite, his palm digging into the spot where my back curves, his thumb resting against my anus.
Then his hand booms down against my right buttcheek. I’d thought I couldn’t sink farther into the wall, but I’d been wrong, because somehow, I become one with it. It hurts, and not in the way my ass does. My facial pain isn’t quite the sweet, stinging, arousing pain that spanking brings, but this pain still manages to feel good in it’s own way, reminding me what I’m capable of in the name of getting off. I know my face will be red later, probably my breasts, too. His hand keeps coming down against me, spanking me furiously in a way that surely has to singe his palm as much as it does my bottom. Then his teeth are sinking into the back of my neck and his four fingers are turning the backs of my thighs red. “Denise, now’s as good a time as any to tell you. It’s over.” He’s spanking me hard the whole time he speaks, and the smacks are so loud I almost can’t make out what he’s saying. “I didn’t know how to break it to you, but I’m moving out. I’ve found my own place, over on Larch. I’ve got two more weeks here, and I’ll try to be as discreet as I can. I was waiting for the right time to tell you, but now’s as good as any, wouldn’t you say?” He’s talking like we’re having some kind of adult conversation, while meanwhile my entire stomach has dropped, yet my pussy is still on fire.
So is my ass, where he’s still spanking me. I’ve had my hands up above me on the wall, but they start to drop. All I want now is to curl into a ball, wrapped around myself. Fuck spanking. I think, about to whisper, “Emergency,” when he presses his entire body against mine, lifting my hands back above me and pressing his palms to the backs of my hands, hard. “Keep those there, Dee. I said two more weeks, and don’t think I’m not gonna get the most pussy out of you I can before then. I don’t want to forget this ass,” he says as he pinches the skin there.
I’m not crying; I’m numb inside. Did I bring this on? This wasn’t what I wanted. I keep my hands above me just to spite him. Now I won’t cry, just to show him. “Stay right fucking there. Whore,” he says, and despite myself, I feel a shudder. He knows why it triggers me so – I used to be one, at least the worst kind of one, one who gave it away to anyone who so much as looked my way, succumbing to the word I’d been called since sprouting 38Ds in my senior year of high school – yet it also thrills a deep, secret place inside me. I was a slut who was so far gone she thought of herself as a whore, and even got off on the blasé way I could pick a guy up, bring him home, and chuck him out the door. But that nameless blur of men and cocks was nothing compared to the power I tapped into with Evan. Even the good guys, the ones trained in the art of BDSM, who worshipped my ass as much as they punished it, couldn’t come close to what we have. Had. I don’t know anymore. His hands are everywhere at once, firing off blows that make my whole body light up in recognition of my place, my role in this apocalyptic scene. I briefly wonder if he’ll offer me money that I have to take from him with my teeth, as one guy did when I did a brief stint stripping. Yet even with his horrific words ringing in my ear, the image makes me wet. I picture him shoving dollar bills into my cunt, into my mouth, gluing them to my body, marking me as a whore once and for all.
My mind goes a little quieter as he slips the blindfold over
my eyes. “Get over here,” he says, grabbing me by my nipple, pinching it as he pulls me across the room. The point where our bodies touch stings, but a soothing, familiar heat travels lower. I’ve asked for this, I want this, we’ll deal with the aftermath later, I think, as I feel him bend me over the spanking bench we bought in our first heady, kinky weeks together. Who will spank me on it when he leaves? I wonder as he settles me over it so my ass is perfectly poised. I expect the spanking to start up again immediately, and perhaps because of that, it doesn’t. I can’t see, but I can hear him moving around, the flick of a lighter, the sharp inhale of a cigarette. I don’t approve, but I gave up lecturing him long ago.
“You’ll be rid of this smell soon enough,” he says, as if reading my mind. He blows hot smoke against my ass, and I tremble. I’m waiting, patiently, if you ask me, but he just strokes my ass cheeks with the tips of his fingers, tickling me more than anything else. “I’ll miss this ass, Denise. I hope you believe me. It just has to be this way.”
“Is it Monique?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
“Does that fucking matter, Denise?” he snarls, this time pounding me so hard my stomach feels like it’s colliding against the seat of the bench, even though they’re already connected. He’s smoking and spanking, somehow, as if he has all the time in the world, as if he isn’t providing more than the tears I asked for, countless more.
“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I sob, wanting to rewind to the start of this scene. I try to let my mind go black, especially when he moves around to kiss me hard, his breath smoky. He pulls back and I see him draw the cigarette right under my lips, close enough that I can feel the orange flame, before he moves aside and puts it out right on our bedside table. This is a mean side of him I’ve never seen before, something beyond sadistic, like he wants to hurt me all the way through, not just make my ass quake and smolder.
“Well it’s none of your business. Not anymore,” he says, and turns his back to me. He hasn’t shackled me, yet I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. The bench is my savior, my companion, my safety net. I keep thinking he’s going to bust out some exquisite new toy, a wooden panel, a ruler, a cane. He likes to make me scream and flinch, to mark me, render me as his fully and completely. He likes that I’m into spanking, but always finds ways to make me feel like an amateur spankee who hasn’t quite reached the levels of masochism his latest toy warrants. But this time, he goes back to that trusty favorite: his hand. He has ways of curving that body part that turn it into the sickest instrument around.
“Don’t say a word, Denise. For once, just keep your fucking mouth shut.” He sounds like someone else entirely; he’s put on an accent to go with his words, Queens blue collar instead of his usual clipped, cultured, Westchester doctor voice. Yes, he loves playing doctor with me, another thing that’ll have to end now, I suppose. “Good. I’m going to spank you until you’re all cried out, and I’ll be the judge of that.”
Strangely, even though he starts with hardly any warm-up, just raises his hand like a whip and strikes me smartly across my cheeks, I can’t cry just yet. I clamp my eyes shut, breathe through my nose, and focus on the pain. This I can process, this I can deal with, this I think I want. My pussy is getting wet and yet somehow I hardly feel it. “This not hard enough for you?” he asks, then digs his short but strong nails into my ass after one particularly rough blow.
This goes on for thirty-seven minutes. I know because he tells me; he’s been looking at the clock, must want to get this over with already. I’m wondering why he doesn’t just use a paddle or something already when I feel his hand hit me and then a burning sensation. He’s added something to his palm that makes it sting like hell. Next he shoves what I’m sure is our metal dildo into my cunt. He plunges it in without any hesitation, then goes right on with the searing smacks that really feel like he’s added chili pepper or something to his hand. It burns, and hurts, but I still open for him to fuck me with the toy, or rather, my pussy does. My head is still locked on what he’s just revealed.
When an hour has passed and only one lone tear has dribbled down my cheek, he stands me up and then has me kneel before him. He takes off the blindfold. I want to look into his eyes, but I don’t. I stare down at the ground, hardly knowing who he is anymore. Then he strikes me across the face. This isn’t a loving tap or even a sexual smack. He hits me, just once, across my right cheek. He’s a left, so it stings real good. “I got her a spanking machine. The one you always wanted. It’s spanking her right now, warming up her ass just for me.” He reaches for my nipple again, twisting it until I cry out. I wonder why he’s telling me these things, why he’s being so mean. I wonder if I’ll have to move to avoid seeing the two of them around.
I picture her, then, her ass, a good one third the size of mine, raised up on that sweet machine while it pummels her over and over and over again. Evan and I had gotten off watching women being spanked by those machines, and I’d been angling for one for months. Monique’s new in town, was, I thought, a new friend. He’s known her less than two months and already she’s usurped my place. That’s when the tears start, first a few on one side then a few on the other, weak little rivulets of saltwater. That’s when Evan takes me across his lap, my favorite. He used to do it before bed sometimes, telling me he loved me while using the meanest wooden paddle we owned. Now he does it and I just let the tears fall onto the ground. At first I put my arm in my mouth to stifle my sobs, but then I just let loose. His smacks are no harder than before, but they feel harder, somehow. We both lose track of time as the spanking seems to go on forever, my cries only ending when he shoves four fat fingers into my pussy and smacks my ass some more. Finally, I’m all done. I’ve come in a quick, almost rebellious burst. I don’t want to give him that satisfaction, but I can’t resist his touch. I look up at him through the haze of tears, searching his eyes for an answer as my throbbing ass welcomes the cool air from the window.
When it’s over, I try to sneak off to the bathroom, my face streaked with tears, my body seeming to sag under it’s own weight. I want to be alone, to curl up in the bath and merge into the bubbles. But he grabs me again, roughly, hugging me so tightly that at first I don’t realize he has tears in his eyes, too, tears that are slowly sliding down his face. “What are you crying about?” I ask bitterly, selfishly liking the comfort of his solid strength.
“Dee, my sweet Dee. I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours. Forever, remember? But you wanted me to make you cry, and I knew I had to go far, far down to somewhere foreign and scary to really make you scared. You’re a tough woman to crack, even though you don’t always realize it.”
I stare at him in disbelief, wondering whether he’s an evil genius or a truly sick bastard. I guess part of why I love him is that I’ll never truly have the answer to that, I just have to keep lowering myself to the depths of despair, and seeing if I make it through.
Sex Scenes: “Detention”
Polly Frost & Ray Sawhill
NATHAN: [to audience] What surprised me was all the pastel. Pink walls. Light-green floors. And the lightness. The sun was pouring through skylights and windows. The female guard who walked me to the visitation room told me that the light and the pastel colors help keep the female inmates cheerful. Women really care about all that mood stuff.
The guard showed me into the visitation room, sauntered over to the corner, a big ring of keys clanking by her side, and sat down in a plastic chair.
I’d chosen a Tuesday afternoon for my visit hoping it wouldn’t be busy, and I was right. The visitation room was like an abandoned set off Law and Order. Linoleum floor. Fluorescent lights. A row of carrels almost like at the library at Oklahoma City Community College, only with Plexiglas at the center.
De-bore-aaah – she didn’t pronounce her name the usual way “Deborah” but De-bore-aaah – Kibbel was waiting for me at one of the carrels on the other side of the Plexiglas. At Turpin High School Ms. Kibbel had been the hottest teacher, bar none. When she’d been photo
graphed and hauled off to jail, the photos and footage in the media hadn’t done her justice. They almost made her look dowdy.
Now, here in jail, to be honest she looked almost frumpy. The orange jumpsuit clashed with her pink lipstick. Her blonde hair was showing it’s dark roots.
I wondered if they forbade hair coloring in jail. The tan she was always so proud of even in the middle of an Oklahoma winter had faded.
It had been six weeks since the frenzy had erupted. “Local English Teacher Arrested for Affair with Fifteen-Year-Old Sophomore.”
I picked up the phone handset.
NATHAN: [ to Deborah] Hello, Ms. Kibbel.
DEBORAH: Hello, Nathan Moffitt. I was having a hard time placing the name when I was notified you were coming. But now that you’re here, I do recognize you, I think. From church.
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