by Cole Riley
“Of course, but what if every time you had an urge for my dick, you got a sound smack on your ass?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, Lonnie. I guess I’d have to experience it.”
He eased me off of him, stood up and said, “Then bend over.”
“Bend over?”
Lonnie was a spontaneous fellow, always creative and interesting in his fucking, but this threw me for a loop.
“Yes, right here, over the sofa.”
I did as I was instructed. I walked behind the sofa and leaned over. I poked my ass out and gave it a little shake in case he’d want to throw this whole spanking thing out the window and fuck me instead.
But Lonnie was nothing if not determined.
He pulled his hand back and brought it forward in a matter of seconds. I lost my footing, taken aback by the feel of his large palm on my bare ass. I quickly regained my composure and awaited his next move.
The second strike was playful. It barely even stung. The third made me grit my teeth. Then his licks became firmer, more forceful, until I felt a burning in my cheeks. By the time he gave me the last lick, I was biting my bottom lip, and…
Coming.
I came so intensely that my legs tensed and my stomach cramped.
Hoping that he hadn’t noticed, I hurried Lonnie away, feigning a deadline. I crawled up under my covers, my ass tender and my cunt wet, and slept for what seemed like a hundred years.
The next day, Lonnie called.
I was curled up on the sofa, twisting the telephone cord in my fingers.
He asked, “So, what did you think?”
I couldn’t let him know the truth. So I said, “Frankly, Lonnie, I don’t really see the appeal. I mean, you’d have to be really screwed up to enjoy something like that.”
“You think so? So, that means you didn’t enjoy it?”
“Well, I found it sort of degrading, and it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.”
I believe Lonnie’s psych professor would have called this reverse psychology.
“We don’t have to do it anymore.” Lonnie sounded almost apologetic.
And I could see my newfound pleasure slipping right through my fingers. So I said, “Well, it wasn’t that bad. Professionally speaking, I respect your methods, and I appreciate that you want to, you know, help me with my problem. I mean, I’ve barely written a word since I started fucking you. Clearly, I need help.”
“So I’ll help you, then.”
But I didn’t wait for Lonnie to decide when our next session would be. I showed up at his door two days later in my favorite jeans and most flattering top, bearing a gift.
When he pulled the brown leather belt out of the box, he half smiled, flipped it over in his hands and said, “This is really nice, Stacey, but I don’t really need a belt.”
I frowned. “That wasn’t really the point. The thing is, I have a confession. I thought about your dick today. I tried not to, but I got sort of bored this afternoon and it just crept in. And I do have integrity and I can take my punishment like a woman.”
So he spread me across his bed. It was good for a different kind of sensation, he said.
It was a different kind of sensation indeed. I tensed at every lick. I clenched my thighs and arched my back so that my pussy pressed into his crumpled sheets.
I grabbed one of his pillows and held it to my mouth to stifle my moans. I gripped a handful of his sheets and pulled them to me. I felt the lashes all over my ass, on the backs of my thighs and in the small of my back.
“Are you still thinking of my dick?” Lonnie inquired between lickings.
I shook my head. It was true. I wasn’t thinking of his dick at all. I was thinking of his spanking. I was thinking of the many painfully sweet licks he was giving me as I lay naked across his bed.
He ceased shortly after I came, slowly and silently.
A satisfied smile on his face, he folded the belt in his hand, left me shivering on his bed and walked out of the room.
I felt Lonnie’s last licks for three days after. I began to long for the pain. I loved how tender my ass felt when my hand brushed against it.
In the mirror, I admired my purple ass. Throughout the day, I thought of Lonnie’s licks and became warm all over.
So it was a pleasant surprise when one afternoon Lonnie showed up at my door.
“How’s the recovery coming?” he asked. “Thinking about my dick much?”
I saw the suspicion in his eyes, but I gave it a go anyway. “I fantasized about it today in the coffee shop, as a matter of fact,” I said.
Lonnie cocked his head and held his bearded chin in his hand. “Really?”
“Yes, really. I was having a double latte and out of nowhere, all I could think about was kneeling down in front of you, and taking you in my mouth.”
Lonnie dropped his hands at his side. “So, why don’t you?”
And then he unzipped his jeans and whipped it out. I looked down at his dick, in all of its solid, dark glory.
And there was nothing.
No spontaneous shivers.
No sudden gush of wetness between my legs.
Lonnie chuckled and shook his head. “This isn’t exactly what you’re after anymore, is it, Stacey?”
I hung my head because he was right. His dick was no longer the focus of my attention.
I said, “Damn it, Lonnie, it’s all your fault. You and those sweet fucking licks of yours.”
Lonnie shrugged. “I suppose it is my fault. It was good while it lasted, though.”
He turned to leave. He reached for the doorknob.
I grabbed his arm. “Before you go, Lonnie, would you mind, I mean, if it’s not too much trouble, could you…just a little?” I brought his hands around to cup my still-tender ass.
Lonnie seemed to ponder the unspoken request. Then he shook his head. “No, Stacey. I don’t think that would be wise.”
I threw my hands up. “Well, why not? It could sort of be like ‘one for the road,’ you know?”
Lonnie nodded. “I know. But don’t all addicts say that? It’s like, ‘I’m gonna smoke this last cigarette and then I’ll quit’ or, ‘Just one more hit and I’ll go clean.’ Well, you know what the trick is?”
I didn’t really want to know, but I obliged him. “What’s the trick?”
“The trick is, you never have that last cigarette, you don’t take that last hit.”
And Lonnie turned the knob and walked out of my apartment. I stood at my sliding doors and watched him walk across the street to his own place. He wasn’t even inside his door before I felt the cold sweat, and the tremors began to take over my body.
HUNG
Zetta Brown
Number Nine is mighty fine.
Nola Vernier couldn’t stop her mind from wandering. After sitting around the huge conference table for the last five hours, her large backside was almost as numb as her mind. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. They’d been sequestered for three days and he was the only member of the jury still bothering to wear a suit—or at least dress pants and a collar shirt.
He still took the task seriously. Not that everybody else didn’t, they just couldn’t be bothered with dressing any more uncomfortably than the situation warranted. She relished her choice of a lightweight summer dress that clung to her curvaceous frame, but the matching overshirt added the right amount of professionalism. Unfortunately, no neckline, however modest, would prevent her ample bosom from looking anything less than inviting.
Taking in what she could see of him, she noted that Number Nine’s crisp, white shirt accented his dark chocolate skin while containing the firm muscles of his arms and chest. His close-cut hair complemented the shape of his head the same way his neatly trimmed moustache and goatee framed his square jaw.
For eight weeks, she had been observing Number Nine and she knew he had been watching her, too. Nola couldn’t help but stand out. Standing just less than six feet tall, she was stacked and packed, and her plump, c
reamy toffee-colored skin made her a tempting treat. Men who saw Nola Vernier couldn’t help but want to eat her up.
Tyrell couldn’t wait. He grabbed both of her ankles and hoisted them up toward her head and from there, he commenced to pile drive into her.
Nola raised her hips and gritted her teeth. If she hadn’t known better, she could’ve sworn he’d busted through to her cervix. She didn’t care. He could fuck a tunnel to her brain stem and she’d still grasp on to his ass, to urge him deeper as she was doing now. He leaned forward and put his lips next to her ear.
“I’m gonna fill you up and drink you dry,” he growled.
“Pussy tickler,” she murmured.
“What was that?” asked Number Ten. He’d been elected foreperson on day one. He was possibly the oldest member of the jury but the only one who appeared comfortable enough to mingle with everyone else without suffering from the awkwardness that comes with getting to know a person.
Nola blinked. “Wha—? Sorry. I didn’t say anything.”
“Oh. Forgive me, I thought you did.”
“It doesn’t matter what was administered, when it was administered, or by whom. The outcome remains the same. Madison Daytona is dead.”
Nola let out a pent-up breath when everyone took their eyes off her to look at Number Three, who had just spoken. She was an attractive woman who Nola thought resembled a den mother, but she didn’t know of many den mothers with a Celtic band tattoo going around their wrist. Nola couldn’t decide if the woman had gotten the tattoo as a result of her true personality, or if it was a manifestation of midlife crisis or a desperate attempt for a spot on some boy’s MILF list. Perhaps it was all of the above.
Nola didn’t like judging people, yet that was the specific task before her. For eight weeks, she and eleven others had listened to evidence in the mysterious and sudden death of mega A-list actress Madison Daytona, who had dropped dead on the set of her latest film, Death of a Comeback Queen.
Never had a film been more aptly named, in Nola’s opinion. Personally, she hadn’t thought much of the deceased and she was still unimpressed. In a career that spanned thirty of her thirty-four years, Madison Daytona had more ups and down than a crack-house whore—and if any of the rumors were to be believed, Madison wasn’t any better except for the fact that she had a staff who could get her whatever she wanted whenever she wanted. You didn’t say no to Madison Daytona.
Now it was the job of Nola and eleven others to decide if Madison’s personal physician, Dr. Paul Birger, was the person behind her death. His medical credentials were questionable, at best, and his character and lifestyle made him an easy prime suspect.
Serving on this jury was forcing Nola to confront her stereotypes and prejudices while at the same time, trying to dismiss them.
“Isn’t that the point of our being here?” asked Number Seven. “We have to determine these things in order to decide if Birger is guilty or innocent.” Seven was also Nola’s roommate. Nola liked Seven. She reminded Nola of her first-grade teacher: a plump, white woman who always wore her hair in a bun and had a melodious voice. Seven had told some pretty bawdy stories in their hotel room even though she never said anything stronger than “darn” or “fudge.”
Rooming with Seven was fun, and convenient considering Seven slept like a log, eye mask and earplugs included. “Forty years of marriage to a man with a deviated septum,” she explained.
The city had them staying in a nice, high-rise hotel consisting almost entirely of suites. The rooms were large and comfortably furnished. Each person had his own walk-in closet. That first night, Nola discovered their room had an adjoining door to the next room inside her closet. She debated whether or not to bring it to the attention of the court representative. Surely they had vetted these rooms before picking the hotel or assigning the rooms.
It wasn’t until after dinner that first night, when the jurors were being escorted to their rooms as an entire group that she found out who one of her neighbors would be.
Perhaps the adjoining doors didn’t matter after all.
“No soul is innocent,” said Number Eleven.
“Oh, dear god, please keep religion out of this!” Number Eight slammed her pen on the table in disgust.
Despite the attempt for neutrality, there seemed to be enough religious fervor in the room to make Nola wonder if separation of church and state would be possible in this case. In the previous year, Madison Daytona’s messy divorce revealed that the marriage was a sham to cover her lesbianism, and it was rumored that Dr. Birger had a preference for young men.
And the trial taking place in a state where the idea of gay marriage was an open, bitter dispute, just added more powder to the keg.
“Tyrell, if the court really wanted to protect us, our names would be sealed and not available for any hack to come knocking on our door for an ‘exclusive’ story. We wouldn’t have to worry about some deranged Madison Daytona fan stalking us because he didn’t like our verdict.”
“That’s a pretty cynical attitude coming from a woman like you, Nola.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Do you teach your Sunday School class to be so distrustful of people?”
To prove her point, she suddenly trapped as much of his cock inside her mouth as she could and sucked hard before letting it slide out with a wet pop!
“I’m sure there are things you wouldn’t tell your buddies at the office.”
He forced his cock back between her glistening lips and began to thrust. She closed her eyes and moaned.
“I don’t know, girl. The world deserves to know about your mouth….”
Too fine, she thought, and resumed sucking on the straw from her now-empty juice box. But the straw was a sad substitute compared to the firm, juicy piece of manmeat she had in her mouth the night before.
Nola suppressed a smile as best as she could. The court tried to come up with the most diverse and nonbiased jury possible. The jury consisted of six men and six women, and while half of the jury was white, the other was comprised of two Hispanics, one Asian, one Native-American, and two blacks—herself and Number Nine.
It wasn’t like Nola didn’t know the names of her fellow jurors. But it wasn’t until halfway through the first day of deliberations that names were revealed, and by that time, Nola already had faces assigned to numbers and they stuck. She preferred to keep it that way, at least in her mind. Everyone deserved a right to privacy, and if she couldn’t maintain that belief in her head where no one had access, there was no hope for the world.
Besides, she liked to pretend she was part of a collective. In this case, she was Four of Twelve.
This whole trial was making Nola sick. Eight weeks in court, three days sequestered. At first, her digestion turned against her until she thought she would become addicted to antacids. Now, her head constantly throbbed. It was from all the built-up tension and frustration. It needed an outlet. She needed an outlet.
And she wasn’t the only one.
Nola rolled over and let Tyrell mount her from behind.
“Ride me, motherfucker…ride me!”
Tyrell soon found his pace and proceeded to split her from a new angle. His strong fingers clasped her hip bones, holding her in position. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees and looked over her shoulder. She saw his feet digging into the high-traffic carpeting of the hotel room floor and anchored for purchase the same way a runner’s foot was anchored in starting blocks. His efforts had the desired effect as Nola sensed his cock pounding harder, deeper.
The sound of a mattress creaking and a gentle snore made her lover stop only briefly.
Number Seven had rolled over on her back, still asleep.
“You would think that after fucking up—sorry—screwing up so many high-profile cases, the prosecution in this city would finally get their act together,” said Number Two.
“Come on, everybody,” the jury foreman said. “It’s getting late. Let’s vote. Those who think
Paul Birger is guilty…?”
Hands rose. Eight to four in favor. Some groaned and others rocked their heads on the table.
“Okay,” he sighed. “I think it’s time we all take a break.”
They lay sprawled on the floor. Nola smirked. Whoever assigned them their numbers must have seen Tyrell coming. Otherwise, how could they have known his size? She didn’t make a habit of sleeping with men, considering the only men she encountered were at work or at church. But that didn’t mean she was ignorant of a good fuck.
Outside in the hallway, the jurors wandered aimlessly, stretching their legs or their bodies. No one thought twice when Number One and Number Eight started doing wind sprints up and down the hall. They just got out of their way. All the jurors had found a way of letting off steam without resorting to snide remarks and insults…at least so far. But the politeness was getting more strained and starting to feel more forced.
Nola watched Number Nine insert coins into the vending machine, enjoying how his long, thick fingers punched the number of his choice and how he stood and waited for the machine to disperse his selection.
She walked over and stood beside him. Their eyes met in their reflection of the machine’s glass. If she could, she would have said something.
Number Nine moved aside but not without giving her the tiniest wink she had even seen in her life. In fact, she didn’t know if it was a wink; it was just the slightest dip of one eyelid.
After another hour, Number Ten stood.
“Vote. Those in favor?”
Ten to two.
“I can’t say I’m entirely convinced the charge suits the crime,” said Number Five. “That’s the right thing, ‘charge,’ isn’t it? We’re supposed to determine Birger’s guilt for the crime of murder. Why not manslaughter or culpable homicide or…or something?”