by Rachel Heath
Again she slapped. “Oh,” I whispered. Pause.
Slap. “Oh!” I exclaimed, squirming my hips. “It hurts!”
Clarice slapped again, harder. The hard swats came down fast as I “ouched” and “ohhed.”
I pressed my inner thighs together sharply aware of the stinging slaps as well as the pulse in my sex. I started grinding my hips like I do when I’m masturbating or making love.
Clarice stopped spanking. “Your butt must sting, doesn’t it?” she asked maliciously. After a pause, she said: “Answer me when I speak to you, darling.”
“Uh... y-yes,” I replied.
“It sure is nice and pink,” she observed.
I was wondering if the spanking was over when she said with relish: “Now, I think I’ll make it red. You’re ready for a good session with the wooden paddle.”
“Ahhh... “ I gasped.
“Do you have any objection? Don’t you think you deserve a thorough punishment after two-timing your faithful lover?”
I recalled the safe-word. No, I decided, at least not yet.
“Well?” she asked impatiently.
“It so happens I’ve got the paddle in the bottom left drawer of my desk. It’s on top of the papers and stuff so you can’t say you didn’t find it, my naughty girl. Now go fetch the paddle for me, Jane.”
I got to my feet and turned toward the desk.
“Wait!” Clarice tugged at my arm. “On your hands and knees, sweetheart. Crawl to get the paddle. And when you get it, bring it to me in you mouth.”
I got down on all fours like a baby. I crawled on the thick carpet, my panties still down around my thighs and the weird excitement like electricity inside me.
“Don’t let your skirt fall over your beautiful bottom,” Clarice cried. “Pull it up so I can see your butt.”
I pulled the skirt up out of the way so my ass was exposed. I crawled to Clarice’s desk and opened the drawer. Sure enough: a round wooden paddle. I put it between my teeth and turned around awkwardly. My skirt slipped and I pulled it up over my waist again.
Clarice snickered. “Atta girl! You’re learning, you little devil!”
I crawled back to Clarice who took the paddle out of my mouth and said, “Now kiss it to give it luck.”
I kissed the paddle. I noticed I left a tiny dot of pink lipstick. Then I put myself back across Clarice’s knees.
“Oh, your bottom is so pretty! Especially with that pretty pink blush. Why your cheeks remind me of a virgin on her first date.” She paused before bringing the paddle down.
I hissed through my teeth, for though the swat wasn’t hard, wood has a special bite.
Swat.
“Ouch!” I cried. That swat was hard.
Swat.
“Oww!” I squirmed automatically.
“It stings, doesn’t it?” Clarice asked, bringing the paddle down harder.
“Yes! Ow!”
“Well, it’s supposed to. It wouldn’t be much of a punishment if it didn’t. But anyway, Jane, I want you to take your medicine like a woman, not like a spoiled child.”
“Huh?”
“Stop wriggling! Lie still so I can see my pretty target.”
Swat. “Oh!” Swat. “Oooo!”
I tried to make myself keep still. I remembered the safe-word again but instead I said: “Oh!... Oh!... oh, Clarice isn’t that enough? Isn’t it enough punishment, please?”
She paused. “Not quite, little two-timer,” she said. “But I’ll tell you what. Only ten more swats.”
“OK,” I agreed with relief.
“Under one condition, sweetheart.”
I craned my neck around. My clit was so hard it ached. “What’s that?”
“You have to give me your bottom for each swat.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you must relax the muscles in your ass. If your muscles are tense the swat doesn’t sting as much and you’re not completely submitting to it, so that spank won’t count. I’ll only count a swat delivered to a soft, relaxed, completely submissive fanny.”
I tried to relax the muscles in my bottom. “Like this?” I asked in a frail voice.
“Just like that.” Swat.
“Ouch!”
“See what I mean? That’s One.”
Swat.
“Oh!”
“Two.” Swat.
“Ow!”
“That one doesn’t count, we have to take it over again. Relax your cheeks now, Jane... I said ‘relax.’“
“I’m trying,” I said plaintively.
Swat. “Three. Only seven more to go. Relax those muscles, my dear cheater. They’re not relaxed ... ”
Swat. “Ow!”
“Four.” She paused so I’d have a second to soften my ass up. Swat.
“Five.”
“Ohhh ... ”
“Jane, you’re trying my patience. We have to do that one again.”
“Ohhhh ... ” I waited.
“You’re not relaxed. If I spank you now it won’t count.”
“I ... ” My voice trailed off.
Swat. “Owwww!”
“Five.”
Swat. “Six.”
“Oh!”
Swat.
“Ooo.”
“Seven.”
“Oh!”
“Only three more to go,” Clarice said sweetly. Swat. “Eight.”
“Oh!”
Swat. “Nine.”
“Ouch!”
Swat. Ten, Clarice pronounced with satisfaction. “There, you’ve had your comeuppance, you naughty little slut.”
I rose up, onto the count, moaning. She kissed me on the face then on the mouth. We had a long French kiss during which Clarice easily slid a finger, then two fingers into my vagina.
“Ooo,” she moaned, holding up her fishy-flavored slithery fingers. “You’re wet, my little naughty one! Wet and---” she put the moist fingers into her mouth, sucked on them, then pulled them out--”Hot! Hot like a furnace. What a horny one, you must be, eh, Jane?”
I giggled and felt warm on my face, warm on my bottom, warm inside.
“Answer me when I speak to you,” Clarice said in a velvety tone.
I looked down. My grin was big. “Yes,” I told her.
Clarice’s fingers quickly slid back into me. We hugged and laughed. I was grinding my hips, moving my ass side-to-side, up and down, on her hand, coming soon and loud and wildly.
“Now I’ll rub my pube on my well-punished lover,” Clarice said. “Turn around. I want to make love to your beautiful red bottom. It deserves a different sort of attention now.”
And it got it. Yes indeed it did.
Chapter Three
Making Us Lesbianese
“A woman who loves another woman brings neither dishonor to her father’s head nor a swelling to her own belly.” Saying of Saudi Arabian women quoted in Sisterhood is Global.
“Islam teaches that men should be men and women should be women. Homosexuality deprives a man of his manhood and a woman of her womanhood,” Dr. Muzammil Siddiqi, The Islamic Society of North America.
“Mommy, do we serve Lesbianese food?” I asked.
“No!” she shouted, a look of horror crossing her pretty face and widening her almond-shaped brown eyes. “It’s Lebanese. We are a Lebanese restaurant, Aliya. Don’t use that other word.”
I was in elementary school and I recognized a “bad word” when I saw a grown-up react the way Mom did to “lesbian.”
Then I got mad. That kid who said my parents ran a “Lesbianese” restaurant had been making fun of us! I was never ashamed of being a Muslim and Arab American but I did try to blend in. Usually, that wasn’t hard because with my pale skin, hazel eyes, and chestnut brown hair I don’t look stereotypically Arab. Like my Mom and sisters, I always dressed “American.”
My background was not that much of a problem. I did pretty well in school, especially in things I enjoy like math.
“Aliya, you should tutor
me,” you told me. “Math is my worst subject and I’ve got to pass an Algebra II.”
“Oh, Khadija, I’ll be happy to help,” I replied, as we walked the halls of a college building.
You looked like a tiny piece of the Arab world popped into America with your ankle-length traditionally Arab dresses and the headscarf you constantly adjusted and re-adjusted. Petite and delicately boned, with skin like mocha chocolate, and bright dark eyes that were almost black, you did something to me the first time I saw you. It was not something I could understand but I had a warm feeling plus a sense of excitement.
It was an excitement I couldn’t put a word to. Or maybe just didn’t want to.
When we first met I thought that you were a foreign student, probably from one of the Gulf states. I was surprised but not shocked to learn you were born in California and your parents came from Iraq and that you had decided to wear traditional dress because you wanted “to look modest without looking sloppy and loose-fitting jeans and shirts just don’t feel right.”
I told you my “Lesbianese” story and you laughed so hard your whole body shook. “I’ve got to tell my sisters about that,” you said. “They’ll die.”
Like so many people, you couldn’t understand math or people who like it. “Just all those numbers,” you said, squishing up your aquiline nose, “it’s so boring.”
“To me it’s like a puzzle,” I said. “Like a game.”
You made that skeptical face that the math phobic always make when I say that.
“I can’t understand people who like to read novels,” I told you. “It’s so much easier to just watch a movie and get the story that way.”
“Oh, Aliya!” you said. “You miss so much! I mean, I love film but the book is always so much richer and deeper. You get into the characters’ minds and follow their thoughts.”
I shrugged as we got to your dorm to work on some algebra.
It was not too long before the two of us were close friends. Sometimes we would hold hands or kiss on the mouth. The time you showed me the A- on your math quiz, I was so thrilled, I squealed with delight and grabbed you in a bear hug. You kissed my neck, leaving a little wet spot behind that I didn’t want to wipe off.
I took away a warmth from those little things that would last me until I was alone and whether it was a sin or not I would put my fingers down to my pussy. I couldn’t help myself. But I always thanked Allah that I hadn’t been born to parents who believed in cutting off girls’ genitals.
I fantasized about making love to you but I always made my mind pretend I was a man and your husband. That way it was not me since I am feminine and wear make-up and jewelry.
Together with Mom, Dad, my brother Hashin, and my sister Leila, I was in our living room watching the horror of September 11, 2001, on TV when you phoned.
You were sobbing. I didn’t have to ask what it was about. “How can they do this?” you wailed. “They make Islam look barbaric. It’s a disgrace.”
“I know. I know,” I said. “I only hope other Americans don’t take it out on all of us.”
“Aliya, can I see you? I need to be with you.”
I felt exactly the same.
When I got to your place, the TV was on and you were still watching and shaking your head. We held each other, comforting each other, as the news reporters went on about the destruction, the thousands of people killed and showed the picture of that awful Mohammed Atta. His picture shook me up especially because my Dad looks like an older version of him. I put my fingers through your long, silky, dark brown hair (you don’t have to wear your scarf if there are no men around).
“Oh, I can’t stand to watch anymore,” you said. “It’s too terrible.” You picked up the remote and clicked off the TV.
We continued holding each other and kissing and I wiped your tears away.
Then it happened. What I thought would never happen. What I myself could never had done.
You put your tongue in my mouth.
My heart stopped, then thundered as if I’d leapt across a mountain. I closed my eyes and for that moment the entire rest of the world melted away. A gust of heat swept over my body, causing my nipples to knot and burn. I felt a slow, deep throb in my pussy and knew that my panties were wet with desire for you.
Our first wet kiss seemed to go on forever.
When we pulled apart and I looked into the limpid darkness of your eyes, I knew we would go farther. You put your hand under my t-shirt and I gratefully kissed down your neck, slowly, slowly, as the passion built like a furnace inside of me.
I pulled up your blouse and undid your bra and saw your small, firm, lovely breasts, the size of lemons, then loved them with my mouth, sucking greedily on the tiny, almost black nipples that were so diamond-like hard even as I felt my own engorged nipples burn like fire.
You pulled your skirt up from your ankles onto your waist, bunched up as my hands sought your buttocks. I grabbed your ass cheeks in my two hands, cupping them with an awe-filled reverence, then slowly squeezing and kneading. We kissed again and while we were kissing I began rubbing my pubis on your thigh, rubbing down hard. My pussy lips were taut, my clitoris painfully stiffened, and my pussy hole dripping with desire. I rubbed up and down on you, up and down and side to side and up and down again as my breathing sped up and the passion surged, then subsided just very slightly, then surged again in rolls of heat.
“I love you,” you rasped and then I came, came with the force of a crack of lightning shaking my body from the top of my head to the soles of my feet.
There was only one way to thank you. My tongue went slowly yet urgently down your lovely, flat, brown belly. You opened your slim legs for me and I pulled your panties down past your thighs, then stared into the dark, reddish draperies of your womanhood. I kissed on the insides of your thighs as you gasped and your chest heaved. Then I put my tongue right on your pussy, smelling deeply of the pungent, salty aroma of sex, as I licked up and down your pussy lips and onto your sweet, dark, pea-sized clitoris.
“Like this?” I asked.
“Yeah,” you answered with a soft moan.
Up and down, up and down, up and down I licked with your inner thighs hugging my face and your hips grinding sensuously.
“Like that,” you said. “Right there... yeah... on the clit... oh... oh! Please!” You gasped and a great shudder rolled through your body as your legs tightened about me, hugging, squeezing with your orgasm.
I put my fingers up your hot love hole and pulled out thick white juice that reminded me of jelly. Smiling at you, I put it in my mouth.
“Is that Lesbianese food?” you asked with a wry smile.
I nodded. “Tastes good, too,” I said.
Chapter Four
The Hoosier Whoremongers
If I hadn’t been partnered, and play-enslaved, with RJ, I never would have dared accept a date with Leaf. She had such a reputation as a heartbreak butch. There was even a famous incident of a couple years ago when her lover had tried to kill her, shooting Leaf in the leg, because of Leaf’s fooling around on her.
Having a leg winged hadn’t slowed Leaf down any.
Of average height, Leaf looked deceptively tall because she was rangy and given to elevator boots. She was the type of butch I went for: tanned, a boyishly slim figure usually in jeans and a loose-fitting t-shirt so she often got a said-in-respect “sir” by those who didn’t notice the plum-sized titties. Her dishwater blond hair was worn like RJ’s coal black hair (RJ is half Native American and half “Norwegian-Irish-German-Whatever”), parted down the middle, straight, just over her ears. She wasn’t given to tattoos or piercings but I don’t particularly react to those things one way or another, although I love the way RJ’s tongue ring rubs against my clit.
I’m a high-femme or “femme to the max” as RJ says. Baby pink is my favorite color (something in common with Dennis Rodman!) and it’s usually on me as eye shadow, lipstick, blouse, and/or skirt. High heels, hose, bracelets and necklaces, dyed
blonde hair and elaborate hairdos: that’s me. I’d fit right in at a hookers’ convention or a Total Woman’s meeting.
On the afternoon after my first lovemaking with Leaf, I was not wearing pink except in lipstick, on my fingernails (kept short although well polished), and as one layer of eye shadow. Rather, I had on a tight dress of powder blue with lace around the cuffs and lace around my low-cut, cleavage flaunting V-neckline, complimented by dark pantyhose and white, high-heeled pumps with little bows across the tops of them. I wore earrings that dangled with three little pearls on three tiny gold colored chains from each, together with a Y-necklace of red colored glass, and a charm bracelet on my right wrist.
“They called RJ a ‘whore’ when she told them she was a lez,” I said as Leaf drove me home. RJ comes from a hard-core Fundamentalist Christian type of family. My folks are conservative but not fanatic homophobes. “Can you imagine? A ‘whore.’ And she told her Mom, ‘I’m not a whore. I’m a whoremonger.’“
Leaf threw her head back and laughed. “‘Indiana whoremongers,’“ Leaf said slowly, trying the words out. Her dark blue eyes twinkled. She had on a white t-shirt with Gertrude Stein’s head in profile on the front of it, a pair of deliberately ragged pale blue jeans, and dirt brown cowboy boots.
“No. ‘Hoosier whoremongers,’“ I suggested. “That sounds better.”
“It sounds like the name of a rock group,” Leaf mused as she parked her jeep in front of RJ’s and my mobile home. The venetian blinds were pulled halfway up and RJ’s brick red pick-up was in the driveway beside my second-hand white Chevy Impala. Silently, I reminded myself that I had to get the auto insurance payment in the mail.
“Maybe a skit for Saturday Night Live or something,” I suggested. My hand brushed against Leaf’s.
She picked up the cue -- and my hand, kissing it like a classical French gentleman straight out of an old black and white movie.
I felt a familiar, warm and pleasurable tingle start in the pit of my stomach. She gazed intently at me. We kissed and her tongue rubbed deliciously against my teeth and gums.
“I gotta go now,” I said.
“Sure,” Leaf replied. “I return you to your woman. And whatever... “