Bottoms Up Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  A THOUSAND WORDS

  THE HARDEST PART

  A FIRM UNDERSTANDING

  PRIME TIME

  ASS WORSHIP

  THE PURPLE BALLOON

  SORORITY SISTER

  DAYS

  BOSSY

  OSCAR AND HOLLY

  LONNIE’S LICKS

  THE SWINGING SPANKERS CLUB

  REENACTMENT

  CONFESSOR

  THE SPANKING MACHINE

  STUFFING THE BALLOT BOX

  TEASE FOR TWO

  I’M GOING TO GRAB YOUR HAIR

  FLAMING

  HELPING THOSE IN NEED

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  INTRODUCTION: GETTING SPANKED AGAIN (AND AGAIN)

  This being my fourth book on the subject, by now it should be clear that I love spanking: giving, receiving, fantasizing about, and watching it.

  So what’s different about this collection? For one thing, there are more male authors represented, a trend I fully support. For another, the tales are more imaginative; yes, there are first-timers and dedicated spankophiles, but there are also swingers and Renaissance Fair attendees living out long-held fantasies in highly unusual ways (see Tess Danesi’s “The Purple Balloon” for details). There are spankings here that aren’t all good or all bad, just as ones in real life don’t always conform so easily. Is the narrator of Dominique Dunbar’s “Sorority Sister” grateful for the spanking she got from Claire Spencer back in the day? Was that a pleasurable experience or one that teetered on confusion? Dunbar mixes things up so we’re not totally sure.

  Alison Tyler also alludes to the push/pull of spanking, even for the most die-hard fan. “But now that I’m here, I’d rather be anywhere else. Name the place, and I’d rather be there: in line at the DMV; waiting in the doctor’s office; sitting at the back of coach on a packed flight. I’m scared, more scared than usual, because he’s taking his time…” She perfectly captures the way many submissives want what they know will hurt, want it and don’t want it at the very same time—something that good tops play into.

  The same thing happens in Teresa Noelle Roberts’s kinky math nerd tale, “Prime Time,” in which the narrator finds herself tongue-tied as she’s given a challenging assignment. “My stomach flip-flopped. The bedroom spun. My heart raced in panic that I couldn’t convince myself was pointless. I fought back the urge to cry, fought it so hard that I started trembling.” You might think, upon reading that sentence, that she doesn’t really want to be spanked, that she doesn’t fantasize and obsess over her need, but you’d be wrong.

  I’m also very glad this book has a fairly even mix of spankers and spankees, though of course some people can manage to be both at different times. The rush of delivering a spanking to one who wants and needs it is explored here in many scenarios, from Simon Sheppard’s wistful “Days” to the age-variant relationship in Bill Kte’pi’s intriguing “Oscar and Holly.” And in Maddy Stuart’s “Tease for Two,” two women get off on sharing the power of delivery, and learning from each other, as well as mutual delight in a job well done: “George’s technique was that of someone who had spanked a thousand exposed asses, but the overflowing smile and the sparkle in her eyes belonged to someone who was discovering it for the first time.”

  Whatever kind of spankings you’re into—even if, like the characters in Donna George Storey’s “A Thousand Words” and Jerry Arthur’s “Ass Worship,” you’re not sure what you’re into—I hope you’ll find it within these pages.

  And spank you very much for reading.

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  New York City

  A THOUSAND WORDS

  Donna George Storey

  He frowned when he saw it: a girlish pink envelope tucked into his suitcase between his dress shirts. He certainly hadn’t packed it.

  He picked up the envelope, still frowning. Both front and back were blank, but he figured it had to be from Tamara. She liked surprises, both giving and receiving, and she’d probably slipped this into his luggage while he was taking a shower that morning. He’d needed that shower to wake him up. They’d spent most of the night fucking to tide them over for the five days he’d be in San Diego for a conference.

  His groin tightened. Tired as he was from his long day, he wouldn’t mind being with Tamara now, coaxing her thighs open, licking her slit until she was as juicy as a ripe melon. He could almost hear her voice, choked with lust, begging him to stick it in.

  The tightness twitched into an all-out hard-on.

  Smiling now, he tore open the flap. Perhaps she’d written him a sexy note? Something he could think about while he jerked off before sleep?

  Inside were just two photographs. There was nothing else, no note, not even a Post-it. This was another surprise, although he had to admit what he saw would be more effective for his evening plans.

  The first picture was of a woman in a corset. For a moment he wasn’t quite sure who it was. There was no face, just a slender, arched neck and plump breasts spilling over the crimson satin. The photographer had been standing above the woman, giving a probing view of the shadowed cleavage. Upon closer examination he was certain it was Tamara. She had lovely breasts, but he’d never seen them look quite so extravagantly voluptuous. The constricted demi-globes reminded him more of her generous ass.

  His penis strained against his briefs. He closed his eyes.

  He had a good imagination when it came to these things, and it was no trouble at all to conjure up a hot scene. He saw himself squirting lube on his hand, fingers burrowing into that moist, female valley to make a slicker, slippery canal. In real life, positioning might be tricky, but the woman in the picture had no head to get in the way. He could twist the torso like a plastic doll and sink his cock deep into the makeshift cunt, thrusting in and out as he pleased until he filled her with his cream. In his mind’s eye, he even saw the semen seeping through the satin, a growing stain of dark over the ribbing.

  The photographs slipped from his hand. He glanced down at the bed where they’d fallen; the second photograph was now exposed to view. This one was even more provocative. He was pretty sure it was Tamara, although again there was no face. The picture was dominated by a perfectly shaped ass clad in silky black panties. A lean torso curved to the left, two thighs flowed to the right like a river of flesh meandering through a meadow—a green bedspread, perhaps? These panties he’d definitely seen before. He’d touched them, too, stroked them, eased them over her hips slowly, yanked them to her ankles in his urgency.

  He stretched out on the bed, his hand on his fly.

  Then it struck him. Although there were no words, this was clearly an invitation to talk. They’d planned a call anyway and no doubt she wanted to hear his reaction to her surprise. He wouldn’t mind a little phone sex—Tamara’s pictures had definitely put him in the mood.

  He flipped open his cell phone. She picked up on the first ring.

  “Hey, Aaron,” she purred into his ear. “It hasn’t even been a day and I miss you like fuck.”

  “I miss you, too. I got your present.”

  She paused. “Oh, yes. My surprise.”

  “A great surprise. By the way, who took the pictures?” Oddly, the question had only just occurred to him. The photographs seemed so direct, so personal, as if he’d merely been peeking at her through her window without the mediation of a camera’s glassy eye.

  Tamara laughed. “A friend. She did a good job, didn’t she? Very arty.”

  “Sexy, too,” he said in a low voice. “They got me thinking about what I’d like to do to you.”

  “Oh, yeah? I guess that m
eans you’re not mad.”

  “Mad?”

  “You don’t think I’m a naughty girl posing for pictures without my clothes on and putting them in your suitcase without your permission?”

  For a moment he was speechless. Why should he be anything but happy—and hard?

  Another voice sliced through the silence. “Tamara, stop yacking with your boyfriend and let’s go. We have to meet Ryan at the club at ten.”

  “Who’s that?” he asked, feeling off balance yet again.

  “Diana, the aforementioned brilliant porn photographer. She came over for dinner and now we’re going to hear her friend play saxophone. I have to do something to stop from going crazy without you.”

  He exhaled into the phone.

  “Now you are mad, aren’t you? You should have called earlier, you know. I was waiting all evening.”

  “I had to go to dinner with some clients,” he protested.

  “I know.” Her voice softened. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t talk now. And I’ll probably be back late. But you’ll call me tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. Good night.”

  He pressed the disconnect button. It was a rather surly good-bye, but suddenly he wasn’t in the mood for any more words.

  In fact, she was right. He was mad.

  Tamara once told him anger was a message, a sign you should change something in your life. She was always reading those get-in-touch-with-your-inner-self books, but what she had said made sense this time. Maybe this week’s separation was a good thing, a chance to breathe. In the last three months they’d gotten so close, they were practically welded together.

  His dick seemed to agree, and for now it drooped lazily against his groin. With a shrug he got up, undressed, and brushed his teeth. He’d make a point of putting Tamara out of his mind for the next few days, get a little space in his life. If she wanted to talk, she could call him.

  Braced by his new indifference, he pulled down the covers, got into bed, and reached over to switch off the light.

  He paused, his hand floating above the nightstand. There it was again—that picture of Tamara’s ass.

  And it was one hell of an ass, too.

  He picked up the photograph, his eyes fixed on the rich curves of her hips. The silky fabric of the panties shimmered, the paper itself seemed to soften in his hands. The real Tamara might be off at a club, flirting with some guy named Ryan, but he had her best asset right here in bed with him.

  What the fuck, jerking off always made him sleep better anyway.

  Still staring at the picture, he slipped imaginary fingers under the elastic and slowly peeled the panties down, inch by inch. The black silk receded to reveal Tamara’s creamy flesh, the shadow of another female furrow. He’d licked her there, for the first time, last night. His tongue prickled with the memory of the flavor: spicy, exotic, forbidden.

  He closed his fist around his cock and began to tug.

  Meanwhile his other set of hands pulled the panties all the way down to her knees and over her ankles off the edge of the picture, where they fell in a heap on the floor. He squinted at the picture. Tamara was completely naked now, just the way he liked her. Then, to his surprise, her hips began to undulate, beckoning. He could even smell her fragrance, yeast and warmth, like walking past a bakery in the morning.

  He was good at this.

  A picture might be worth a thousand words, but what about a movie? It was time for action. In another blink, he grabbed Tamara’s hips and coaxed her up on her knees. He had to pause for a moment to admire that view: her magnificent posterior tapering into a slim waist, curving out again to her smooth shoulders. Her back was flushed now. She panted softly. And although she said not a word, he could hear the question swirling in her head.

  What are you going to do to me now?

  What indeed?

  There were so many choices. He could lick her ass again, tongue the tight little ring of her hole until she wept with longing. He could fuck her from behind, of course, or take her the back way. They hadn’t done that yet. Or maybe—the thought made him catch his breath—he could push this new exhibitionist streak in her and snap a few more pictures for his collection: Tamara offering him her naked ass; Tamara’s hand between her legs, strumming her clit, her vulva plump and glistening.

  He pumped his cock faster.

  Yes, why not make the little show-off go all the way? She’d proven herself brazen enough to pose provocatively, flaunted her goods for that obnoxious friend of hers. He’d met Diane once and found her abrasive, almost butch. Suddenly an unwanted image flashed into his head: Diane with her camera, grinning, as her thick, phallic lens edged closer to Tamara’s willing body; Tamara giggling to hide her arousal, or perhaps not hiding it at all? What had happened off camera on that green bedspread?

  He scowled at the photograph, but this time anger only fueled his desire, his cock stiffening further until it throbbed. There was only one thing to do. He had to teach Tamara a lesson.

  He pulled his hand back and landed a smarting blow right on that plump ass.

  The next part came in slow motion, the prickling warmth spreading over his palm, the answering jiggle of her flesh; Tamara’s yelp of surprise followed by a lingering sigh.

  And then came a jolt of hot shame. He was a pervert, wasn’t he? The next thing he knew he’d be dressing her up in a too-tight Girl Scout uniform and donning a minister’s collar himself. You were a naughty girl, Tamara, selling your cookies in church without permission. I must punish you now…

  Tamara would never stand for it, even to indulge his kinky side. She proudly called herself a feminist. She often took control in bed and other places, too. She’d never consent to bend over and have her ass spanked. And yet wasn’t she the one who had put these thoughts in his head?

  You don’t think I’m a naughty girl posing for pictures without my clothes on and putting them in your suitcase without your permission?

  He glanced at the photograph. What he saw then seemed too real to be his imagination. Tamara was actually wiggling her butt in invitation. As if she wanted him to do it again.

  He wanted it, too.

  With a scooping motion, his hand sliced through the air and landed on her cheeks with a smack.

  She let out a strangled cry. But then she was back again, with that eager, almost taunting wiggle.

  There was no mistaking it now. He knew her body, saw the signs more eloquent than any words—the rash of arousal creeping over her back, the visible glow of moisture in her cleft. Feminist she might be, but offering her ass up for chastisement was turning her on in a major way.

  He rewarded her with a volley of slaps.

  She groaned and burrowed her face into the pillow.

  He paused, admiring the bloom of pink on her buttocks, a color rather like that envelope she’d slipped into his suitcase.

  “That’s for posing naked, but I owe you more for sneaking around and messing with my personal things. You deserve to be punished for this, don’t you?”

  Tamara whimpered a yes.

  “Open your legs wider. I’m going to spank you right on your asshole.”

  Jesus, where’d he get that idea? But Tamara seemed to like it well enough for she immediately parted her knees, then arched her back so her buttocks were spread wide to accept their due.

  He aimed right for the tender pink skin.

  She let out a cry and her body jerked forward, then bobbed back.

  It was like a game, he thought, X-rated tennis. He’d send off a volley, she’d send it back. Was anything more satisfying than that ping of a ball hitting the racket on the sweet spot? And he was hitting Tamara on her sweet spot all right. She was babbling now, a torrent of words pouring from her lips to mirror the pussy juice oozing down her thighs: Please, again, yes, oh, god, I’m coming, fuck, I’m coming.

  Which is precisely when he shot his wad onto his belly, his own ass rocking into the mattress as he fucked the air.

  When he was finished, he had to
smile. Tamara had gotten him so worked up with those pictures, he’d even forgotten to set aside some tissues for clean up. But this had been a good one, worth the mess; a little kinky maybe, but very hot.

  He’d just gotten back into bed after washing up when his cell phone trilled out Tamara’s ring tone.

  The evening held yet another surprise.

  “Hey, babe. What’s up?”

  “Hi, Aaron. Listen, I decided to come home early. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, I was up. Look, you didn’t have to do that. I do want you to have a good time while I’m gone.”

  “Really? You sounded a little upset.”

  “I’m okay now.” He almost added, More than okay after spanking your sweet ass, but amended it to a safer, “I just miss you.”

  “God, I miss you, too. At the club I couldn’t even hear the music, I just kept thinking of you. I literally couldn’t sit still.”

  “I was thinking about you, too. And looking at your picture.”

  “Oh, really? What were you thinking about?” Her tone turned smoky, seductive.

  He hesitated. Maybe it was best to play it safe—give her some sanitized, vanilla version of what they’d done in his dreams? He glanced over at the picture of Tamara’s ass on the bed beside him. He swore he could see the hips twitch, the cheeks thrusting out in invitation.

  Tamara had taken a risk. He could, too.

  “Actually, I was thinking about what a naughty girl you were and how I’d have to punish you for what you did.”

  She caught her breath. He could hear it through the phone.

  Was it a mistake?

  “How…” She faltered. “How exactly will you punish me?” Her voice was hoarse, breathless.

  He’d made no mistake. His cock sprang to life—the old boy was as ready for act two as he was.

  It would be another long night but he didn’t mind. After all, he owed Tamara for his night’s surprise and he knew just how to repay her. He’d talk her through it, insist she kneel on her bed, buttocks pushed out, waiting for her punishment. He’d make her beg for it; confess how much she liked it, how she was so turned on she had to play with herself while he spanked her. And then he’d make her come, as if he really were smacking her squirmy, rosy ass right through the phone.