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He's on Top: Erotic Stories of Male Dominance and Female Submission

She's on Top: Erotic Stories of Female Dominance and Male Submission

Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Caught Looking

Caught Looking


From now through July 31st, buy either He's on Top or She's on Top from Amazon.com and you get a FREE copy of my anthology Naughty Spanking Stories from A to Z 2 from me. Just forward your Amazon.com receipt to rachelkramerbussel at gmail.com with "Amazon" in the subject line, and if you want your book inscribed, let me know. If you want the book sent to a different address than your Amazon order, please state that in your email.

Add She’s on Top as your MySpace friend!

Link to: http://www.myspace.com/shesontop

Interviews about He’s on Top and She’s on Top

Lust Bites interview

Cleis Press interview

Zulkey.com interview


Good Vibrations loves He's on Top and She's on Top!

Good Vibrations on She's on Top

There's something about a strong, powerful woman who knows what she wants and how to get it…don't you agree? If you get off on dominant women and submissive men, you're going to get down on your knees for this hot collection! She's on Top is all about the top and bottom dance—fantasies about taking and giving up power. With stories that include strap-ons, metal cinches, affairs with bosses and sexy married couples, you'll enjoy the engaging writing and varying degrees of edginess in these pages. Heterosexual focus. 2007, 208 pp.

Good Vibrations on He's on Top

Editor Rachel Kramer Bussel, a GV favorite, took great care to create a collection about male dominance that is about exchanging power, not taking power. Storylines include tested limits, uncharted territories, personal struggles and strong-willed women. So, if it's rough and tough men, pain, pleasure and control that get you off, you'll find the kinky stories of your dreams inside these pages. Heterosexual focus. 2007, 192 pp.

Penthouse Forum, July 2007

Celebrating sexual power is what it's all about in two separate books from Cleis Press: She's on Top and He's on Top. Edited by the acclaimed Lusty Lady herself, Rachel Kramer Bussel, each book explores what it truly means to be in charge when it comes to sex; those who know how to give and receive ultimate sexual pleasure through domination are the stars in these steamy tales of master and mistress, slave and submissive. We suggest buying them together to get the ultimate view from the top.

Cleansheets review:

Rachel Kramer Bussel's done it again; brought us a delightful collection of slightly twisted, but always hot little stories. These companion books delve into the shadows of Dominance and submission from both a male and female point of view…
Part of living these types of lifestyles is admitting to yourself that you want it, then accepting the role you choose; blissful submission or the responsibility of controlling the scene. Whether you're exploring, confirming, or expanding your interest in Domination and submission, you will find that Rachel Kramer Bussel has assembled quite the collection of pieces from some very well-known and downright dirty authors.

Jane’s Guide reviews He’s on Top

The stories in He’s On Top run the gamut from sweet to ferocious. There’s “Confession,” in which an unhappily married couple reinvent their marriage in the harsh language of dominance and submission, and “On the Twelfth Day…” wherein a pair of lovers determines how deeply into the lifestyle they can bear to explore. Those stories read as gritty and hot, quickly giving me a girlie-wood with their excellently-written sex. “Yes” lets us watch a man directing his partner to service his friend, and “Boardroom Etiquette” examines the punishment meted out for a slip-up in a relationship that exists both in the business world and the bedroom.

Jane’s Guide reviews She’s on Top :

Rachel Kramer Bussel does an excellent job in selecting hot, unique stories with oomph. By “oomph,” I mean that these are the kinds of stories that you will remember after you finish reading them. You’ll remember them after you’ve removed your slippery fingers from your own personal panties (or shorts), put away your toys and gone back to your lives. These are sex-stories that you’ll keep thinking about long after the orgasm has passed.

Erotica Revealed on He’s on Top and She’s on Top:

Lisabet Sarai’s “Incurable Romantic” carries away top honors for entering the male head successfully and winnowing out how the hero rethinks and comes to understand the meaning of loyalty and trust as he thrashes back and forth between his beloved’s bottom and his lover’s rear end. When you are beating two behinds, what are the rules of fidelity? What sort of vote do those getting thwacked have in this case? Ms. Sarai has thought this out carefully and renders her answer with very plausible tenderness. She is one of the best in the field of erotica without question...
City Lights” by Kathleen Bradean is the story most like conventional femdom fiction. As such, it is guaranteed not to disappoint. A dominant woman spanks and canes her ultra handsome, successful man with voracious abandon after a hard day at the office. The story is far more than that though because it captures how much she also loves and depends on him in the peculiar ways of their relationship. She does not “wear the pants” in the family. She doesn’t need to because she decides when the pants get taken down.
The husband is presented as both an eager submissive and still a fully realized, if dumbly pretty, self-involved, male. That seems to be part of what she loves in him. He is her trophy boy toy, but that is only as a part of a larger, more complex and subtle relationship. Nonetheless her spankings are sincere, traditional, and enthusiastically executed. She genuinely takes charge and so her authority rings as genuine.

Erotica Readers & Writers Association on He’s on Top:

Mike Kimera, "Christmas with Suzy and Mary," shows a perfect example of the way male domination can be consensual, intellectual and still remain powerfully erotic. Not all the characters in Mike’s story know what they want, but they’re enjoying the journey more than most. With "In Control," M Christian narrates a tale that blossoms from a chatroom fantasy and flourishes into a harsh physical reality. Chris’s story lets a dominant male discover who really has the upper hand in their relationship. And, in "Schoolgirl and Angel," Thomas S Roche reveals that even when a dominant man doubts his own abilities, he can always rely on the help of a submissive woman who knows her own mind.

Erotica Readers & Writers Association on She’s on Top:

She’s on Top, Rachel Kramer Bussel's latest collection of 18 tantalising tales, introduces the reader to women who wield, damsels who dominate and babes who were born to bully.
Donna George Storey, "Suit and Tie," begins the anthology with her trademark brand of hard-hitting panache and style. A single-minded protagonist; an easily manipulated boss; and a story that’s hot enough to melt icecaps. Debra Hyde, "By a Firm Hand," gives a gloriously gratuitous glimpse into the marital bliss that can only come when a committed disciplinarian weds a not-too reluctant sub. Saskia Walker, as stimulating and wicked as always with "Inner Vixen," shows how one woman discovers her dominant nature and learns to use it to best effect.
The quality of writing, as in all Rachel’s anthologies, is second to none. Rachel has recruited some of erotica’s top talent and produced a compilation of stories that can’t fail to arouse.

For the Girls review of He’s on Top

He's On Top does make for excellent women's erotica because – essentially – it's all about female pleasure. Yes, the guys are in control, but the dominant men in these stories make it their business to pleasure their female partners, albeit in a variety of ways. Her experience is always the focus, be it pain or ecstasy, and the woman is always an eager participant in each scenario. And a major part of the man's pleasure is seeing the woman get off.

Kinky Book Tour – see what the sex blogosphere has to say about these two collections


She's on Top: Erotic Stories of Female Dominance and Male Submission

edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Introduction: The Perfect Power Trip by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Suit and Tie by Donna George Storey

By a Firm Hand by Debra Hyde

The Mistress Meets Her Match by Kristina Wright

Waiting for Me by MinaRose

The Inner Vixen by Saskia Walker

Victoria's Hand by Lisette Ashton

Mark of Ownership by Teresa Noelle Roberts

Pinch by Tara Alton

His Just Rewards by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Why Can't I Be You? by Alison Tyler

Room 2201 by N. T. Morley

Working Late by Andrea Dale

Ottoman Empress by Noelle Keely

City Lights by Kathleen Bradean

Feeder by Adelaide Clark

Penelope the Punisher by Stan Kent

Shades of Red by Lisabet Sarai

The Queening Chair by Kate Dominic


Introduction: The Perfect Power Trip

The image of a strong, powerful woman hovering over a cowering man is enough to stop us in our tracks. Turning the tables on traditional gender roles, women who seize control over their adoring male subjects claim a power that threatens to knock us all down a notch. When a woman gets on top, whether literally or figuratively, she exudes an alluring confidence, an Amazonian stature that can make even the fiercest of men long to submit. Getting a man to willingly cede control and offer his body up to her becomes her goal, and she will do anything to get it. He, by contrast, is grateful for the chance to shed some of the macho mask he must wear day in and day out, to snivel and quake and proffer himself to her, whether to earn praise and a pat on the head or a powerful spanking or heavenly beating. He wants her to tie him up, shove her breasts in his face, and tease his cock until he's ready to explode. He longs to kneel at her feet, lick her boots, and worship her in every sense of the word, but he keeps quiet; she will decide when and how she wants to have her way with him.

I know from my own experiences that male submission can be a beautiful thing. It can suffuse the woman in charge with the kind of power that she can only experience within this ritualistic dynamic—power freely given, all to her. It's extravaluable because, in their daily lives, these women may not have all that much actual power, but can play with it and feel the thrill of overtaking a man in such an all-consuming way. The women of She's on Top don't take their power trips lightly. They know exactly what they're doing, taking the gift of their male followers and turning it into something overwhelmingly erotic. Whether it's the temp who puts her boss in his place in Donna George Storey's "Suit and Tie" or the "firm hand" employed by Debra Hyde's protagonist, there's a wink-wink quality to their naughty play. In MinaRose's "Waiting for Me," the vision of the protagonist's docile husband clamoring to be punished is enough to get her through the day. Kate Dominic summons up her character's regal poise as she sits in "The Queening Chair" and gets serviced by three men while her husband listens in.

The way these authors describe their characters' dominance demonstrates the many reasons that women enter into such relationships. Sometimes they don't even realize quite how much pleasure they derive from their position, perhaps having been conditioned to think that dominance doesn't belong in their most intimate encounters. What Saskia Walker calls "The Inner Vixen" can feel like a calling, a special pleasure these women are predestined to enjoy, once they get around to figuring out their true desire. Kristina Wright's professional dominatrix "meets her match" in a man who bares his body to give her the high she can only get from topping, one she thought she'd left at the dungeon but that has become a part of her very soul. In Teresa Noelle Roberts's bittersweet "Mark of Ownership," a cutting is a symbolic and deeply felt ritual between two lovers about to part, one in which each derives so much more than an erotic thrill. Their entire dynamic feeds off her control over him, which she exerts in a final gift of mercy by setting him free. Pushing men right up to and sometimes beyond their limits, testing and tormenting them, having the satisfaction of knowing what they want before even they do—are all the tasks of a good domme. For Caroline, the mistress in N. T. Morley's "Room 2201," this means directing a bisexual encounter that's as much for her pleasure as it is her virginal male sub's. And in Lisabet Sarai's "Shades of Red," a young visitor to Amsterdam makes good use of the city's red-light district to test out her whip hand, and see just how brave she is when it comes to realizing her kinky fantasy.

Another role of a good top is to be prepared, setting the stage for a scene that they're both desperate to play out, even though both players may know it's a game. The wife in Andrea Dale's "Working Late" doesn't want her husband to get fired, but if he thinks he might be breaking the rules, it adds a rush to his on-demand office wanking. The reverence these dommes show for their underlings lets you know just how much love and affection they share while enacting these kinky scenes. "Oh, is he sweet. He is my angel. My lover. My sweet young thing in a floral dress and tie-up espadrilles, so ready and willing to get fucked against some back-alley wall," writes Alison Tyler in "Why Can't I Be You?" Her narrator demonstrates perfectly what the real meaning of penis envy is, and the rewards are great for her and her lover as they trade places for one night.

She's on Top, along with its companion volume, He's on Top, is not about seizing power by any means necessary. It's about the erotic dance between top and bottom, between one who gets off on controlling another and one whose greatest fantasy is to give it up to a powerful other. The look of awe and adoration in a sub's eyes as he gazes up at his mistress, "like a devotee," in Walker's words, ready to do whatever is asked - or ordered - of him, can provoke a high like no other. The beauty of that interplay shines from these pages, in which you'll find demanding mistresses, powerful wives, first-time dominants feeling out their newfound roles, and other bitch goddesses who reign supreme over their dominions. These women not only enjoy the ultimate of power trips; they also give their men, like the lucky fiancé in "Victoria's Hand," exactly what they most desire.

Whether you're a woman who already wields the whip (or the paddle or hairbrush or wooden spoon) in your household, a man who caters to a beautiful domme's every wish, or someone who simply gets off on seeing a woman step out of her frilly femininity to claim womanpower of another kind, you're in for a treat with this kinky, edgy, daring collection. Make that eighteen of them - and make sure you pay homage to the woman on top in your life when you're done.

Rachel Kramer Bussel

New York City

August 2006

He's on Top: Erotic Stories of Male Dominance and Female Submission

edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel


Introduction: Tender Tops and Sensual Sadism

Not Until Dawn by N. T. Morley

Incurable Romantic by Lisabet Sarai

Seizing Monica by Debra Hyde

Confession by Gwen Masters

Yes by Donna George Storey

In Control by M. Christian

A Good Reference by Mackenzie Cross

Boardroom Etiquette by Lee Ash

The Sun Is an Ordinary Star by Shanna Germain

On the Twelfth Day… by Andrea Dale

Thrill Ride by Matt Conklin

Catherine When She Begs by Jason Rubis

Brianna's Fire by Amanda Earl

Christmas with Suzy and Mary by Mike Kimera

Reclaiming by Teresa Noelle Roberts

Late for a Spanking by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Schoolgirl and Angel by Thomas Roche

Introduction: Tender Tops and Sensual Sadism

Dominant men get a bad rap in our society, being lumped in with so many scary, dangerous examples of male lust gone awry that there's little space for the ones who, like James Spader's character in Secretary, simply get off on having a hot girl submit to their will. When I conceived of He's on Top and its companion volume, She's on Top, I wanted to pay homage to the power—physical, mental, and emotional—that goes into being a true top. Not one who's simply going through the motions, but one who cares about the context of their kinky actions.

I wanted to see creative kinksters devising scenes that would challenge their participants. I wanted to go beyond simple name-calling and into a place where power exchange matters, where the interaction between top and bottom could be treated with all the reverence and complexity it deserved. I wanted to show vanilla readers that S/M isn't all about whips and chains (though those can be plenty of fun, too), but also about mind games that truly fuck with your head. I wanted kinky readers to see themselves reflected in these pages, to feel that same thrill they do when a luscious bottom bends over, bows, offers their wrists to be bound, scurries to do your bidding. I wanted these stories to embody all that it means to be a top, whether a full-time one or an occasional visitor to dom(me)landia.

Perhaps not surprisingly, putting together He's on Top was altogether a more challenging prospect than assembling She's on Top. For one thing, though I've been a top and a bottom, I've never been a man, and I wanted this volume to do justice to dominant men in all their glory. For another, many of the submissions I received started out with some variation on the theme of "Get over here, bitch," betraying a sexism that was the complete opposite of the spirit of this book. I was dismayed to see that some people interpreted "man on top" as somehow condoning cruelty or meanness, because that's not what I consider to be sexy in any way.

Thankfully, the fabulous writers collected here, both male and female, show a more nuanced, and infinitely sexier, version of BDSM. They understand that erotic power play is not about taking power from someone, but rather about exchanging and exulting in power that's freely given. These tops get off on watching their women writhe, moan, and beg as they get spanked, teased, taunted, and tied up. They know what they like, and have found ways to incorporate it into their erotic scenes to enhance their pleasure, and that of their partners. One without the other simply cannot exist. These men need to play, need to top, need to control, just as much as their women need to submit, surrender, and obey. These powerful guys understand the true gift they're being given every time a woman offers herself up for their perusal or makes herself into an object for them to command and control.

Mike Kimera explores this phenomenon brilliantly in his tag-team topping story "Christmas with Suzy and Mary," in which his protagonist proclaims , "The first time I hit Mary, I was in a kind of trance. She was bent over a chair, naked, butt in the air, an improvised gag in her mouth, and she wanted me to hurt her.… It was as if I'd jumped off a cliff, and instead of falling, had discovered I could fly. I felt powerful and purposeful and connected to Mary more intimately than I would have thought possible." Exactly. Without Mary's wanting it, his joy would have dissipated.

It's this exquisite erotic thrill that you'll find time and again in this anthology, as masters, doms, tops, and other manly men find ways to make the women in their lives surrender not only their bodies, but some other part of themselves, as well. Often these are strong-willed, powerful women, such as Kirsty in Lee Ash's "Boardroom Etiquette," who's torn between her innate submissive nature and her willful personality. Both collide as she tangles with her coworker in a feisty match between equals.

What surprised me is how proficient female authors are in the art of writing about male dominance. They rose to the occasion and produced stories that get deep inside the male mind. Some of the stories you'll read in He's on Top, such as Shanna Germains's "The Sun Is an Ordinary Star," powerfully capture the ways in which dominance and masculine identity intertwine. Her hero's struggle to express his love for his wife is challenged by a pair of nipple clamps, as well as by the idea that, for her, submission and masochism are a way out of the other kinds of pain she's experiencing. He feels guilty for wanting her in that stubbornly sadistic way he still does, and yet he cannot stop. "Although he tried to think of other things, his mind was all Stella, Stella in nipple clamps, her ass beneath the flat of his hand." Thankfully, he doesn't have to relinquish BDSM, and their dance of dominance and submission relieves both of them of some of the stress they each carry around.

Other female authors show us that these tops want to rocket their subs off into space, then soothe them back down to Earth. There's a tender mercy to their sadism; being always on the lookout for her pleasure, they know it's the key to unlocking their own. As Donna George Storey writes in "Yes," "You can push her over the edge and catch her at the bottom, soft and safe in your arms. You can watch her dance and be inside her all at the same time, because you are the music she's dancing to now, faster and faster." As she explores a man offering his lover to a visiting friend, watching and overhearing, waiting to see what will happen, she gives a glimpse into a relationship charged with the intensity of two partners bent on exploring their deepest fantasies with one another, giving and taking, forging a life together that neither could achieve apart. It's this intimately twisted dance, where one step forward by the top necessitates a step back by the bottom, that flows through her tale. And in Lisabet Sarai's "Incurable Romantic," a top who from the outside might appear to be dominance incarnated lets us in on his own fears and doubts, offering up a touching vision that will make you question who's really got the other wrapped around their finger. Because even though these are tops' tales, the pleasure and needs of their bottoms are never far behind.

Please join me, and these authors, on the journey these men take to get to the top. While their paths are varied, they all share the desire to give equal parts pain and pleasure, to control even as their lust threatens to undo them, to master even as they become beholden to their wily, naughty, bratty, beautiful bottoms. Seeing how they get there—and what they do once they arrive—is enough to leave me breathless, and I hope these stories do the same for you.

Rachel Kramer Bussel

New York City

August 2006

Story samples

She’s on Top: Erotic Stories of Female Dominance and Male Submission


by Adelaide Clark

They say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but what the mysterious “they” don’t know is that the way to my pussy is also through a man’s stomach. Just so we’re clear—I get off on watching guys eat. Not just any guys, and not just any food, but my boyfriend, under my direct supervision. You could say it’s part of my housewife fetish, but really, it’s a lot more than that. Men’s lips are the opposite of their cocks—soft and yielding, curving and delicate. When I’m stroking my boyfriend Ron’s cock, I always like to stick my finger in my mouth and then trace it over his lips. I make him wait before slipping the finger inside. His mouth always opens for me, lets me enter, take over. It’s wet and warm and soft and alive, kind of like my own sex, so maybe that’s why I like it.

But anyway, my favorite form of foreplay is to make an extra special meal and then feed it to Ron in slow, sensual bites. I don’t do it all the time, or he’d be thin as a reed, because these snacks aren’t so much about his nourishment as his submission. Sometimes I bind his arms behind his back with rope, so all I see before me, under his floppy brow of jet-black hair and those piercing blue eyes, are his open mouth, pink tongue slightly visible, and cock straining against his pants. I’ll be stirring something over the stove and he’ll come up behind me, nuzzling my neck, his hands going around my waist, most often trying to get beneath my apron. All I have to do is tsk he gives me his puppy-dog look of contrition. I wouldn’t really say I’m a cook, and am just as happy eating cold cereal or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but cooking for Ron brings out a whole other side of me.

He’s the kind of guy who frequents five-star restaurants for work, since his job as a publicist requires him to schmooze with editors all day long. I know that sometimes he heads over to Peter Luger’s and indulges in a thick, juicy steak with his friends. I’m not always perfect about it, but I try to avoid red meat myself. Still, that hasn’t stopped me from jerking off on those nights when he’s all suited and tied, hair slicked back just so, or from picturing him cutting into that red, oozing slab of flesh, his hands slicing it into tiny bites like a child, then lifting each one to those precious lips. I picture things I can’t see, like the meat once it’s placed inside his mouth, getting masticated into tiny pieces.

I slip my own fingers into my mouth and suck on them, hard, while plunging my other hand into my panties, as I wish I were there to watch, or supervise, to observe two men doing something men all over the world must do every day—enjoy a meal together, savor what’s on their plates in ways that are so troubling for women that we rarely indulge in that ultimate sensual pleasure with quite so much vigor. If it were just Ron and me, alone, I’d make him cut his meat with my bulging breasts right in front of his face, trying to distract him. Then I’d take each almost-raw (his favorite) piece and put it into his mouth myself, feel it slip from my fingers onto his tongue, maybe rub it in for good measure, then let go, letting my meaty fingertips linger under his nose for a moment. I’d watch him swallow, his eyes wide, fixed on me, the pleasure of eating converted into a different type of pleasure entirely as he does it under my gaze.

Watching him deal with the mixture of uncertainty and arousal gets me even wetter. I know that, as much as he loves me, Ron still thinks I’m more than a little weird, but he knows he is, too, because he gets off on my feeding fetish just as much as I do. It doesn’t even really matter what I make. It could be a salad, could be stir-fry, could be even humble macaroni and cheese (believe me, I have a cookbook full of recipes for my favorite comfort food, and none of them are humble). Whatever it is, I still get off on mastering those pretty lips of his.

Last night, I decided to try a new recipe I’d found in a magazine. It was a simple recipe, but still a little more complicated than my usual fare—miso-seared salmon with edamame sauce, and a pumpkin and raspberry tart for dessert. I started out by giving Ron my voluminous shopping list, throwing in a few extra items just to add to his subservience—after all, my housewife fantasy only goes so far, and it works as a fantasy only because I don’t take it literally. I watched his cute ass head out the door, and began getting out the various pots I needed, whistling as I did so. I made the bed, and even vacuumed the living room rug, doing the few chores that I actually enjoy. When I knew he was about to return, I stripped out of my sundress, leaving my body totally naked, and wedged my feet into my favorite stripper shoes.

I’ve never been a stripper, and have never worn these shoes out of the house, but they serve their purpose well. They’re made of shiny-black patent leather, with a five-inch heel, and are so narrow that I literally have to shove my feet into them. The first time I tried them on, I was sure they wouldn’t fit—I’ve never had narrow feet, by any stretch of the imagination. But, as if a gift from some naughty deity, my feet slid right in, and the shoes felt only slightly pinched, a discomfort that was more than outweighed by the way my red toenails peeked out from the small holes at the tips, the way my feet arched perfectly, the way I suddenly gained enough height to adopt the haughty poise I’d felt accustomed to all my life. Plus, they were just plain slutty, clearly s-e-x disguised in the form of a shoe; I bought them on the spot.

Now, when I want to go the extra mile, I wear the shoes, and only the shoes, as I cook. I heard Ron’s key in the door and hobbled over to the kitchen—not to help him, but just to watch him lumber in with bag after bag filled with the ingredients I’d requested—salmon fillets, miso, edamame, tofu, cloves of garlic, vegetable broth, lemons, and butter, flour, sugar, pumpkin filling, blueberries, eggs, and honey for the dessert. Truth be known, we have some sugar in the cabinet, but we can always use more, and the sight of his straining muscles had my pussy clenching already. I grabbed for the miso and took out a bottle of soy sauce and began combining them, handing Ron the recipe so he’d know which items I needed when. I beckoned him over with a curled finger, and practically melted at the sight of his rumpled T-shirt and the eager look on his face. I slipped my finger into the salty mixture and held it out to him, watching as his lips fastened around my outstretched tip, delicately suckling on my offering, his tongue stroking my digit even after that single drop was gone. I pulled my finger out and pointed to the floor, where he dutifully knelt, waiting for his next treat.

I coated the salmon in the miso, then put it in the fridge and began sautéing garlic. When the oil was popping slightly, I made Ron stand over it, knowing that tiny licks of flaming oil would strike his arms, almost infinitesimal drops that he’d barely notice before they disappeared. I let him sauté for just a minute as I prepared the tart ingredients, whisking the flour, sugar, and salt for the pastry dough, one eye on the recipe and one eye on him as my naked body moved about our small kitchen swiftly and efficiently. The faster I cooked, the sooner I could hand feed my gorgeous stud slave. I got the pastry dough ready and rolled it out into the pan. As I reached for the blueberries to wash them, I crushed a few between my fingers, watching the indigo juice sluice down my palm.

Ron was kneeling again, his face peacefully blissed-out; I think these cooking sessions are like meditation for him. His T-shirt was one of those simple ones that come in a three-pack, so I took my blueberry-smeared hand and wiped it from his cheek down his neck and across his shirt, leaving him a sticky mess. He whimpered as I towered over him in my heels, and I shoved three fingers into his mouth, knowing he wasn’t quite prepared for that. When I want to, I can get my whole fist in there (small hand, big jaw), but I just wanted to tease him. He’s a bulky guy, but he looks so much smaller when I’m in my heels. I took pity on him and pulled my fingers out, then leaned forward, pushing my breasts together with my hands and letting him suck on my nipples. His tongue immediately started flicking, and my pussy tightened in response. Part of me wanted to plant my legs on either side of his face and have that be his dinner and dessert, but I held off. By the time he was done eating, his fat cock would be more than ready to fuck me into oblivion.

I returned to the stove, getting the tart in the oven, blending the edamame, garlic, and seasonings, and finally it was time to take the salmon out of the fridge. I did, then poured the oil into my skillet, watching it drizzle out like lube. When I had enough, I dropped each fillet into the oil, then added the glaze. Four minutes and they were perfectly sizzled, the air permeated with their delicious scent. I slid them out of the pan and onto one plate, then carried it over to the dinner table as I turned the oven off, letting the tart stay until we were ready. I have a special beanbag chair I bought Ron for our first anniversary, which I dragged over from its corner to the space below my seat. I planted my bare ass down in my seat, then covered my lap with a cloth napkin—no need to skimp on propriety just because I was naked and my boyfriend was splattered with blueberry.

“Are you hungry, baby?” I asked, as I lifted my first forkful of salmon to my mouth. It tasted divine, perfectly savory, the fish practically sliding down my throat. “Hmmm,” I said, cutting another piece for myself. I had both fillets on my plate and could have handily finished them off, but this was about more than the hunger rumbling through my stomach. I patted my lips, then turned my chair slightly and spread my legs so he could see my other lips. I left my napkin on the table, watching his eyes move from my pussy to my face to my plate, trying to figure out which one he wanted the most.

I made the decision for him. “Open wide,” I said, and brought my salmon-filled fork to his mouth. His body seemed to melt against the tines as he let me penetrate his lips with my offering. He was dainty and polite, almost girlish, as he delicately took the morsel of food from the fork, sliding it over the metal spikes and into his mouth. I pulled the fork back but left the sharp edges hovering right next to his lips, leaving just the briefest of spaces between his soft, wet, pink lips and the hard stainless steel. He chewed, a rapturous look on his face that I inhaled in my own way, my pussy clenching as I watched those lips move, watched him savor every bite. All the diet books say that when you’re eating, you should only be eating, taking the time to fully taste and savor every bite. Well, in our household, we don’t need anyone to tell us that. It’s our standard MO, and I bet there’d be a lot more thin men in the world if their wives or girlfriends chose to feed them this way once a week.

The whole ritual took about a minute, from my hand leaving my plate to his final swallow, his eyes peering back at me, radiating the unique kind of lust between one who knows he’s thoroughly beholden to his true love, and one who takes that responsibility quite seriously. Suddenly, I was done with the salmon myself, and pinched off pieces of the warm, pink meat between my fingers and gave them to my boyfriend. Sometimes I left them in the palm of my hand and made him lap them up like a cat. By the time the last bite was gone from my plate and he’d dutifully licked it clean, my chair was almost in need of some dry cleaning—yes, that’s how wet feeding Ron makes me.

I didn’t even bother with the tart. I was staring down at my dessert as I took the sole of my shoe and pressed it lightly against Ron’s crotch, the heel digging into the beanbag. “Adelaide,” he moaned, my name coming out deep and husky, shooting right into me. I slipped off the chair and onto the floor, reaching for his zipper. Our lips met and I tasted the tangy remnants of our dinner on his breath, the traces of lemon, the hint of garlic, the flavor of salmon. I shoved my tongue deeper into his mouth, licking his teeth, tangling with his tongue. I was the ravenous one now. While only minutes earlier I’d wanted him to fuck me, now I needed to taste his cock. I yanked down his zipper and pulled out his dick, which looked even bigger than usual, full and hard and warm. I leaned down and took him into my mouth in one smooth stroke. I didn’t have time for playing games, for waiting any longer, and I pushed my lips down his shaft until they brushed against the wiry hair poking out from the base. I gagged, in the good way, knowing I’d done my job right.

I moved my body to the side, so that I was perpendicular to him, on my knees, so he could reach my cunt. He knew what to do, and immediately slammed three wide fingers into my aching slit. I gobbled him up, my own private dick-feast, not caring how much saliva dripped down my chin or how I looked, I just wanted as much of him inside me as I could get. This is the other side of my domme act, my inner slutty housewife emerging from beneath the veneer of control. Because with us, it’s a two-way street. Neither truly controls the other, unless you count the sheer, overpowering desire we each have for the other’s body.

I grabbed his blueberry-stained T-shirt in my hand, caressing the soft fabric, bunching it between my fingers as my other hand circled the base of his dick while he pushed and stroked exactly where I needed him. I groaned against his cock, practically gargling, my mouth was so wet, as I challenged myself to take even more of him. I slowly moved up and down along his saliva-soaked dick while he did, indeed, fuck me senseless, plunging his fingers in and out of my hole relentlessly until from both ends I was a dripping, sloppy, greedy mess. I needed his fingers in my cunt as much as I needed his cock in my mouth, and my boyfriend gave me both, our bodies perfectly in sync as I spasmed against his fingers, coming so uncontrollably I had to pull my mouth off his cock. I used my hand to jerk him off against my tongue, letting his dick slap against my lips and tongue until he fed me a treat of my very own—his piping-hot come, erupting all over my mouth as I scrambled to swallow it all.

After, my body was spent, my pussy still trembling just enough that I could feel the tiny shivers along my lips as I lay on the floor, head on my arm, looking over at Ron. We exchanged silent smiles, “feeder” and “feedee” turned feedee and feeder, two hungry mouths and horny bodies and swollen hearts. He lifted the T-shirt over his head, turned it inside out, and nestled it under my head as a pillow. Only much, much later did I slide the cooled-off tart out of the oven, spooning one bite to me, and one to him, over and over, until our appetites were finally sated.

“His Just Rewards”

by Rachel Kramer Bussel


“Good, I’m glad you’re home. I’m coming over in five minutes. Turn off your TV or computer or whatever else you have on. When I get there, I want you to be completely naked and ready for me. I’ll let you know what to do when I get there. Okay?” I snap this out in my best commanding tone, never letting on that I’m shaking and nervous. I say this as if I talk this way all the time, even though so far I’ve only hinted at what a bitch I can be. I have a clear sense of direction and purpose, have summoned all my power for one final, explosive encounter that will only work if I play it cool.

I arrive a few minutes later and knock briskly on the door. He opens it naked but with sandals on. I march right in, pushing past him, pulling Karla into the room after me, daring him to ask me who she is or what she’s doing here. Maybe he knows, maybe he doesn’t, but it’s not my problem.

“What are those doing on your feet?” I ask disdainfully, pointing at the sandals. I don’t wait for him to respond before continuing, “Take those things off and get down on your knees.” Anticipating his protests about the dusty floor, I bark, “Don’t argue, just do it!”

I hand Karla the bag and signal to her to fish out the riding crop I’ve packed specifically for this occasion. I feel much bigger than my 5'2" height, and not only because of the severe black heels I’m wearing. This is good, because he’s big and strapping and I need all my willpower to go through with it. When he’s on the floor, I nudge him with my foot, tapping his ass and telling him to start crawling. We follow him as he leads us to his office. “Now get up.”

He keeps looking at me with those puppy-dog eyes that beg me to pet and kiss and coddle him, to give him a hint of the affection he’s come to crave from me. But affection isn’t a one-sided transaction, and I have only so much attention to give without getting what I require in return. I’ve been waiting for his side of the bargain, his compliance with my very simple demand, a question in search of an answer, and so far he hasn’t come close. It’s time to teach him a lesson.

He sits in the chair, and I secure his ankles to the chair’s legs, then wrap bondage tape around his chest and knees, in enough places so that I’m confident that he’s secured. I want to bind both his wrists with rope but settle for only one, leaving the other free, not because I want him to use it, but to tempt him into committing acts I’ll have to punish him for later. Karla senses that I don’t need her help and goes off to the adjoining bedroom to wait for me.

“Even though I know you want to be the best little boy you can be and obey all my commands to the letter, I’m a little worried that you’re going to try to talk to me or scream or make noise that will distract me from fucking Karla. So I’m just going to have to tape your mouth to prevent you from even attempting anything like that.”

I pull off a length of the shiny red tape and fasten it over his mouth. I slap his cheeks lightly, one and then the other, and then, because it feels so good, again. His cheeks take on a rosy tone. “You look good like that. Don’t you agree?” I ask in a babying tone as I pinch one cheek, hard. He nods, and I smile in response.

As I step back to survey my handiwork, he looks at me beseechingly. I bring my hand forward and caress his cheek. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you, all alone out here with only a video to keep you company, turned around so you can’t see us all naked and fucking each other? Have you ever seen two girls together? I bet you haven’t, but the thought of it turns you on. I bet you’d like to watch, like to see her sucking on my nipples and me licking her pussy, like to see me lay her across my lap and spank her.”

I look down and notice his cock twisting from his restrained lap, and I can’t resist a brief stroke over his hardness. “Not that I know for sure what you’re into, since you’ve been a bit reticent with that information, haven’t you? But on this count I know I’m right. You would like that a lot, wouldn’t you?”

He nods.

“Well, you’ll just have to guess what we’re doing, though if you’re lucky you might get to hear her scream a little bit. But you’re not gonna see any of it. I did bring this video to keep you company, and I selected it especially for you.”

As I put the cassette in the VCR and queue it up, I’m reminded of my babysitting days, when a cartoon was all it took to pacify a screaming, whiny child. This video is for adults only, but I hope it will have the same effect. “Now, I’m going to get you settled in here and leave you with this video, and I want you to be good and quiet and pay attention. There’ll be no stroking your cock. Like I said, I picked this video especially for you because I think there are some good lessons you can learn about what it means to be a good boy and respond to orders, and you’ll see in it what happens when you don’t. I want you to watch carefully what kinds of punishments these mean mistresses dish out, because that should give you a little taste of what’s in store for you when I get back.”

I watch as his eyes fixate on the image of a large man strung upside down from the ceiling of a dungeon, while two scantily clad, sexy women beat and torture him. A quick glance at his cock shows me that it at least is reacting positively to the images on the screen. I don’t dare give away the fact that the video actresses are much stricter than I could ever be, even in my imagination, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try my best. I pull a clothespin out of my pocket and present it to him. “There’s a reason I left your hand free, and it’s not so you can play with your cock. It’s for this. You can put it anywhere on your body that you want to, but when I come back I want to see it attached to you, somewhere. Otherwise I’ll have the pleasure of clamping it somewhere very painful myself. Got that?”

I stand in front of him, blocking his view, daring him to try to twist to watch the TV around me, or otherwise stare right at my bulging breasts. My eyes bore into his, wondering if he can even appreciate the emotions underlying my actions. Yes, I know he’s been craving some sort of abuse from me, but he’s also pissed me off to the extreme. I have to watch myself that I don’t go overboard, don’t take too much of my anger out on his willing skin. The babysitting image returns when I think of how childishly he’s been acting lately, wanting all the fun and none of the responsibilities of a real relationship. My questions go repeatedly unanswered, even though I find it hard to believe that a grown man doesn’t have a response, can’t articulate in words what gets him hard, what turns him on, what he wants. Women are supposed to be the mysterious, hard-to-read creatures, men as easy as saying, “Fuck me.” But it doesn’t actually work that way in the real world.

I wonder if I can hurt him enough that he’ll give me the verbal contact that I crave, the communication that has been missing since the earliest days of our relationship. I wonder if there will come a day where I can ask him to spin me a fantasy, to let me into his head, even if only for a moment. Sadly, I don’t think that’s in the cards for us, so I’ll take what I can get from him and move on.

“Now, watch your video like a good little boy. I’m not giving you a pen to take notes, but I hope you’ll remember what you’ve seen because I’m gonna ask you about it. I’ll be in the other room, but don’t expect me back until I’m good and ready. And don’t even think about trying to escape. When the video is over, you can sit there and play with your clothespin, but you’re not to touch yourself and certainly not to come under any circumstance. Believe me, I’ll know if you do. Got that?”

He nods again, and I walk away, filed with an energy that bursts through my whole body. I enter the bedroom and see Karla lying there, leafing through a magazine, and wonder if she’s heard what exactly went on in the office. The sight of her fills me with an irresistible urge to touch her, taste her, to have her and never let her go. I forget any potential awkwardness over the fact that I’ve been naked in here with him, as well. Now it’s only about me and her, nobody else. I have a brief urge to close the door, even though I know that there’s no way he can come in here to watch. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Whenever I’m with her—whether we’re in a private bedroom or on a public dance floor—it seems as if we’re completely alone. I can melt into her, close my eyes, and all of a sudden the other people surrounding us disappear. We’re the only ones in existence, and she’s the only one occupying my attention.

The immature man I’ve just teased and taunted is nothing compared to her.

She glances up as I walk in, a slightly sheepish look on her face. Neither of us says anything, but a spark of understanding and desire fills the air. I pull her close to me and quickly undo her pants, then slide them down her thin legs. She’s so small that sometimes I feel as if I’m with a doll, an otherworldly creature who is tender and delicate. And while she can be those things, she’s shown me her strength and passion and vulnerability. I don’t have to treat her like a soft flower.

“What have you been doing in here? Have you been good? Were you listening to what I said to him?”

She nods, a slightly contrite look on her face tinged with a hint of mischief. “Did you like that, Karla? Hmmm? Did you like the way I talked to him?” By now her pants are all the way off and I press the back of my hand against her panties, finding them wet and warm. “I think you did. I think you liked hearing me tease him and yell at him, didn’t you?” I slide her panties to the side and stroke her, already so wet I want to plunge right in. Every time I touch her it’s new and beautiful; I could get lost in her pussy and never return to the real world. I press more firmly, stroking only the outside of her wet slit even as I feel her pushing up against me.

“What was that, baby? Is there something you want from me? If there is, you’re gonna have to tell me what it is. You should know that, especially after all I’ve been through with that one out there not letting me in on his secrets. I’ll move closer so you can whisper in my ear.” I pick her up and position her so she’s across my lap face up, her face next to my ear and her pussy within arm’s reach.

As much as I want to think that things with each of them are totally separate, that I’ve been conducting two equivalent relationships operating in separate spheres, inside, they have overlapped. The charge I got from tying him up, from knowing that I could do whatever I wanted to him, has bled over into my time with her. I’m surprised that after all these years being told what to do, and liking it, the other side of the equation seems to fit me perfectly. My breathing quickens as she rubs up against me, her ass pressing into my lap and her face nuzzling my neck. I cup my hand over her pussy and leave it there, willing her to sit still. She does. The squirming stops and there is only silence and stillness, searching and sweet anticipation. I feel myself getting wetter as I realize that whatever is about to happen is under my control; I can go in whatever direction I want.

Just like that, with a split-second realization of power, I’m gushing. I push two fingers into her pussy, knowing that she’s ready so I don’t need to warn her. I press deeper and feel her arch up against me, her head lolling back as she tries to take me in and stay in control, but she can’t. I push as far as I can go, then ease out of her. She grabs my wrist and tries to push me back inside her.

“Soon, baby, soon, don’t worry,” I whisper in her ear.

She whimpers and tosses her head back and it’s a sight to behold, my Karla spread out before me as my personal plaything.

“Spread your legs for me, baby. There, that’s good,” I tell her as her legs widen and I can see all her pretty pinkness. I have no idea whether her other lovers talked to her like this. I am now getting used to figuring out what she wants and how I can give it to her.

I bring my hand upward and then down on her pussy, softly at first, then with my fingers I keep going—tap, tap, tap—against her, knocking lightly at first, then harder as I see that she likes it. As if something inside me has taken over, and I’m in a trance, I bring my hand back and forth again and again, gaining in intensity each time. I pause for a moment, afraid that I’m going to get swept away in my actions and hurt her, but she begs me to continue. I do, slapping her cunt and then once more slipping first two and then three fingers inside her, all with an urgency that we can both feel; I must fuck her right now or it will be too late. I push my fingers inside her, feeling for the most sensitive areas, pressing up and then to the side and almost wanting to cry with the magic of being so close to her center.

I let her lean back onto the bed and with my other hand press on her stomach and then slide lower, massaging her clit while pressing against her, covering her in my touch until she cries out and I feel her squeeze my fingers with a fierce intensity. I slowly pull out, awed by what has just happened, so fast and so furious. Awed but not shocked because it’s like this every time we’re together, with everything so new and raw and fresh I feel both like a wide-eyed virgin and like an old woman, full of power and wisdom. I pull her toward me and hold her, get lost in her for another spell of time as we recover.

When we finally emerge, I’ve lost track of time. I’m sure the video is long over. I wonder if he’ll have his eyes closed, or be playing with his dick, or trying to escape. But when I come out, pulling a naked Karla along behind me, he’s sitting there looking very angelic, his free hand dangling by his side, appearing so casual you’d think he could almost have strung himself up because he was bored.

“So, how was the video? Did it bore you? Is that why you’re just sitting there? Where’s the clothespin?” I say this louder than I need to, because I can, because I like the sound of my voice and want to startle him, and because I know that for once nobody is going to tell me to lower my voice.

He produces the clothespin with his free hand.

“Why didn’t you put I somewhere? If I’d known you were going to not follow my instructions, again, I’d have tied up both your wrists.”

His face reddens.

“What I think I’m gonna do is give it to Karla to put on you.”

I slap his face for emphasis and present the pin to Karla. I know she won’t do too much damage to him, thinking she’ll try a finger or other easy spot, but she surprises me and zeroes in on his right nipple. I give him a look to silence any potential protests. There are so many delicious possibilities of what I can do with him now that I wonder how I’ll manage to choose only one. I bend down and loosen his ankles from their bonds, knowing what I want, at least at this moment. With that extra bit of freedom, there has to be a tradeoff, and I secure his free arm behind his back since he won’t be needing it right now. He looks up at me, a challenging expression on his face, as if he’s ready to duel even though it’s clear that with my ammunition I’ll win easily. But since that’s what he ultimately wants, I guess he wins, too. That kind of win/lose thinking is too confusing for me, so I shut everything else out of my mind except how this scene will end. It’s the last time I’ll see him, ever, so I have to make the most of it.

“I did that for a reason. Now, spread those legs for me. That’s good,” I say soothingly, buttering him up before I take him down. I raise the crop from the desk and hold it in my hand, surveying my subject. I still don’t know if he understands why I’m really angry, but this isn’t about my anger anymore, it’s about something much deeper and darker than that. It’s sad that we won’t get to play like this again, but I don’t have enough time to waste on immature men who think a top’s job is to guess their fetish. I step forward so I’m again standing before him and lean down. I know he thinks I’m going to suck his cock, like I’ve done so many other times, but instead I go farther, licking my way along his thighs before sinking my teeth into his flesh. I bite without care for how it will feel for him, only knowing when to stop the moment I feel my teeth sink into tender skin, then keep going.

I pause, sucking on his thigh, wondering if this will give him a hickey. I continue on to the other thigh, and feel him try to thrash against the chair.

I stand and motion to Karla to come join me. She walks toward us and presses her naked body against my back. I reach behind me and fondle her wherever I can, wanting to kiss her and hold her, but knowing there’ll be plenty of time for that later. For now, this brief contact will have to do. I lead her to a chair and have her sit and observe. Then I take the crop and slide its tip down his body, from his head down his cheek, over his chest, tapping it lightly against the clothespin for a moment before continuing. It reaches his cock and I see his arms jerk, trying to move forward to protect his precious jewels, but there’s nothing he can do. I bat at him lightly, watch as his cock turns even pinker.

“Spread your legs wider,” I instruct him, and he does. I raise the crop and then let loose, tapping and then hitting, harder and harder, along his inner thighs. He winces and tries to move, attempts to bring his legs together, but I work my knee between them, pressing gently against his balls as a reminder that I’m the one in charge. I continue this torment until I have the urge to form something stronger; I only have a little room to work with between his legs. I throw the crop onto the floor and straddle him, rubbing my pussy up and down along his cock. It feels good, no doubt, and for an instant I’m truly tempted to see what he would do with his cock if he could, but it’s too late for that.

How many chances did he have to fuck me, and didn’t? And now he wants it, for some strange reason. I want to leave him tied up here but sense that he needs something more. I get out my pocket knife and swiftly slice through the bondage tape and remaining ropes. I like the way the knife feels in my hand, the implicit threat that I would never use, though he doesn’t need to know that. There’s so much that he doesn’t need to know, will never know, now.

I push him roughly off the chair, and even though he outweighs me by a good eighty pounds, he staggers and has to catch himself from falling off.

“Get up against the wall,” I tell him, motioning where I want him to go. While he positions himself, I get a few more implements out of my bag, holding the firm leather of the paddle in my hand and feeling a calmness overtake me. I am about to settle a score, make us both even, give him the beating he’s been secretly craving, fulfill the fantasy he’s been too afraid to tell me he wanted to do. And for that silence, ultimately, he will lose me. Ironic, actually, but meant to be. I shake my head lest I stand here too much longer regretting what might have been.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, Miss,” he says quietly. He’s had enough time, perhaps too much, to prepare himself. I close my eyes for a moment and focus on what I want, then open them and step over to him. If I were taller, I could simply lean forward and whisper in his ear, but suddenly I’m glad I’m not. There’s no need to pretend that we share a false intimacy. This is simply a quid pro quo transaction that will give each of us something we’ve been craving, but also leave both of us needing more.

“I’m going to spank you with this paddle, once for every year of your age. You’re going to count the strokes for me, and when I’m done you’re going to stand there until we leave. Do you understand?” I allow no emotion to enter my voice.

“Yes, Miss.”

I start off sharp and strong, then ease off a little—not the usual way to do it, but this is a special occasion, the first and last time for this particular configuration, and I will do it my way. After ten strokes, I pause and place my hand over his reddened skin, kneading the warmth I feel there. With each squeeze, I feel him wriggle and I press my entire body up against his. I’ve chosen his age for the number of whacks as a symbol of all that he should know by now and doesn’t, and also because I need a stopping point or we could be here forever. As I massage his ass, I know that there’s a part of me that will regret leaving, despite all our differences; that will regret not going further. I wonder if it’s my own fear, too, that has contributed to this détente, but even if it is, there’s no going back. Before taking the next swing, I look over at the naked and sublime Karla, who is sitting and watching silently. I have no idea what she thinks, or whether she understands, but I hope that she does. I keep up a solid, even pace, with well-placed blows that land as harshly as I intended them. He tries not to make any noise, but I can hear the changes in his breathing, see the way his ass moves ever so slightly as it eagerly awaits my strokes. For the last three, I turn the paddle over so that the mean indentations on the other side—the one I’ve never dared use before—are facing him.

I step closer and say, “These last strokes are really going to hurt, so get ready.” I say the words gently, tenderly, almost as if I want to protect him from myself, which in its own way is the truth. Suddenly, I want to step back, put the paddle down, leave. I don’t know if I can finish the job, or if I care enough to expend the energy, but I must somehow, because after a deep breath I lift my arm again.

The three of us hear the loud smack as the paddle connects with his ass, and his hand hits the wall with a thud as he tries to process the pain. I don’t let that stop me, and again repeat the motion on the other cheek. Before the final blow, the room is crackling with tension. Karla is standing now, staring, rapt as I take a quick glance at her and then back at him. He is tall, big, strong, and yet vulnerable here. I feel tears prick my eyes at how much I sense that he would give me, if only he knew how. I feel forgiveness settle into my body, knowing that he has not deliberately hurt me, only done the best that he could do. Alas, that was not enough for my needs, but maybe he will find someone for whom it will be.

I bring my arm back and release all the hurt, pride, honor, and forgiveness, and I almost feel it all leave me and enter him. The sound this time isn’t quite as loud, but it leaves the room singing with its noise nonetheless. I want to say something, even if it’s only “goodbye,” but I can’t. I press my hand against his back, letting my touch do the speaking for me, before quietly gathering my things. He leans his head against the wall, his eyes closed. Before we leave, I pull Karla close to me and we hug for a long minute. Then I grab our bag, let her dress, and take her hand as we go. We head to the park and sit on a bench and I lean my head on her shoulder, and we sit for a long time. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe there are some things that can be said without words, with bodies and breath and movement. I lean over, bury my head in her neck, and she holds me. I don’t even know what I feel—relief, sadness, hope perhaps. Whatever it is, words are not enough to convey it. I smile at that, knowing that he would understand perfectly.


He’s on Top: Erotic Stories of Male Dominance and Female Submission

“Thrill Ride”

by Matt Conklin

Dylan was a different kind of top, at least with Marie, the girl who'd finally gotten him to settle down after who even knew how many years of bachelorhood. With Dylan, it seemed like he'd been born a single man, a loner who could still manage to pull the hottest chicks, if he wanted to make the effort. When he finally did cast his eyes on a girl, she was his, hook, line, and sinker, and Marie had been reeled in, in a big way. She'd fallen not for his charm, but for his mastery, his ability to read her desires before she could even form them. He was the first guy who could take her to those special places she truly needed to go.

He wasn't the guy you'd find in their suburban S/M club dressed head to toe in leather, holding a whip and trying to look mean while grabbing her by the collar and dragging her around, to the delight of the horny onlookers. He wasn't a rough-and-tumble master insisting that she bow before him and cater to his every whim. He was nothing like the stereotype of dominant men she'd come to believe was not so far from the truth. In fact, Dylan's greatest weapon was his mind, and what a sharply wicked instrument it was, conveniently hidden away, coming out only when he wanted to play.

From the outside, their lives couldn't have looked more normal. They each got up in the morning and commuted from their suburban New Jersey home into Manhattan, taking the bus to Port Authority and then to their jobs as a lawyer (his) and a furniture designer (hers). Neither bore any outward symbols of kinkiness, like some of the people they'd seen at the clubs they'd visited a few times; they never stayed long. She didn't wear a collar, in private or public. There was no secret letter, scarlet or otherwise, to be found anywhere on her body. She wasn't pierced anywhere but her ears, had no special nicknames or code words. In fact, some of her colleagues had been shocked when she'd gotten married; they'd had her pegged for an uptight, asexual bitch.

But that was their dirty little secret. Somehow, Manhattan, with all its decadence and sexual possibility, left them cold. They liked the commute, the escape back into a land where people had lawns and cars and kids, where life didn't revolve around status and money. He didn't want to compete over who had the biggest cock; he knew and liked his just fine, and was grateful that he and Marie had some space to focus on the important things in life -- like his dick, and her worship of it. He wasn't one of those guys who think every girl's mouth is made for blow jobs, but he knew that with Marie, "making" her get on her knees was the magic ticket to getting her ready for whatever he might want to do to her. He'd never seen a girl so wet as she got after he shoved his cock in her face. Even just a whiff, a lick, a taste had her panting, begging, greedy for his touch. He'd already done plenty of kinky things to her, and he had plenty more he wanted to try. He liked to find new and creative ways to make Marie collapse, at least inside, until her pussy was so tight with arousal she thought she might scream. When it came to topping, he was like a fashion maven who doesn't want to be seen in the same outfit twice. Once he'd played out a scene with Marie, his mind was racing to the next challenge, the next way to make her moan and cry out, to make her realize how glad she was to be with him and only him. He got goose bumps every time he managed to take her to that place.

His most recent test did make her scream, many times, some in excitement, some in fear, some in sheer amazement that she was actually doing what she was doing -- all without his even touching her. He thought there should be some kind of medal for that, but he was happy to claim Marie as his prize.

He woke her up on her birthday by jangling a set of keys in her ear, the grating noise making her think of an alarm clock, even though she'd deliberately turned hers off, having taken the day off work. She looked up at him, startled, then felt that same frisson of arousal she experienced every morning since they'd gotten together, that slight hum of alarm and awe that had her soaking wet in seconds, before her brain had even processed that she was officially awake.

"What're those?" she mumbled, rolling over toward him, crashing into his solid, thick, male wall of a body. He felt his cock strain, longing to rub against her, to be inside her, but first she had a very important test to pass -- her driver's test.

"They're keys…to your new car. Happy birthday, baby," he said, grinning from ear to ear. She looked at him as if he were crazy. "But-but-but," she stammered. "It's my birthday, Dylan! Or did you forget that I absolutely hate cars, am petrified of driving, and don't even have a license?" She turned away from him angrily, losing her morning glow, and her arousal.

He climbed on top of her, using his weight to sink her onto her back, his dick nudging between her legs. She looked up at him defiantly, her brows furrowed, hate stamped across every feature. He held the keys in front of her with one hand while a knee slammed against her bare cunt. He'd always loved that she slept naked every night, making it easy for him to know, by sight, smell, and taste, exactly when she was ready for him. His knee told him she was ready, despite her anger, or perhaps because of it.

"We're going for a ride, whether you like it or not, my sweet birthday girl," he said, jangling the keys annoyingly before her eyes. "And guess who's driving?"

The grin was back, and she swallowed hard. She hadn't driven a car since she was twenty, and that was fifteen years ago, when she'd had the accident. All she could remember was two and ten -- and terror. Even before the car rammed her from behind, she'd been skittish, checking over her shoulder so many times she'd wound up having to go to a chiropractor. From then on, she'd told anyone she ever met that she hated cars, hated driving, preferred walking and biking and mass transit. She hid behind the environmental aspect even as she threw her bottles into the garbage, ignoring the recycling bin. For Marie, it was all about the fear.

And that's the kind of top Dylan was, the truly sadistic kind, one who knows how to wield his power as a secret weapon, one that can leap up and surprise even the most solid of relationships. He'd been waiting three years to have the money to buy her the car, one he knew she'd fall in love with, once she got over herself. Driving was too sacred to live forever in fear. But he also knew what fear could do. He'd seen the look in her eyes whenever he'd pushed her to try something she was apprehensive about. He'd seen her shut her eyes and go limp, surrendering as he poured hot wax all over her body, seen her flinch as the first drops hit her skin, then seen her, later, sigh when he'd gone through every candle in the house and had no more to offer. He'd seen her through countless challenges, sexual and otherwise, always pushing her further, for her sake, and his own.

He got up, looking down at his wife, who looked even more beautiful with every passing day. "I'll make us some breakfast. Be down in twenty minutes. Trust me, Marie, it'll be worth it. And it's your birthday, remember?" It wasn't those last words, so much as the way he said them, that made Marie blush. She got his meaning loud and clear: If she wanted her birthday spankings, the special ones he reserved for once a year, delivered with his special sadistic gloves, the ones that hurt like hell, she had to do this. She sighed, burying her head under the pillow, knowing that in truth she had no choice. Her pussy had already betrayed her, pounding a rhythm between her legs that no amount of finger fucking or vibrator play could quell. She could resist him all day, but her sex would be there to reminder her that she liked it when he told her what to do, got off when he fired out orders as if she was some mere underling, spasmed when he grabbed her roughly. Much as the successful city girl in her hated to admit it, she liked when he treated her like a doll, a thing, a toy. Not because she was any of those things -- oh, no -- but because he did it so well. Underneath every commanding word, like the shading of a font on a magazine cover, was love, pure love, the best way he could express it. It was as if she could hear the echo of what he meant beneath what he said. "Suck my cock, my little whore," followed by a fainter, "I love you." She was his little whore, always, forever, just like she'd sworn on her wedding day. And for him, and only for him, she'd do it, or at least would die trying.

She came downstairs in jeans and a T-shirt, her brand-new birthday panties already creamed. She tried to ignore the twin poundings of her heart and her cunt as she swallowed some corn flakes, chugging water to help them go down. He let her be, perusing the paper, waiting, until she looked up at him, her gaze firm and steady. "Okay." They walked outside, where she saw a gleaming red sports car waiting there. If it were Halloween, she'd be unsure if it was a trick or a treat. A chill traveled down her spine, and she looked back at him before walking forward, keys in hand. Part of her was curious, wanting to touch it, pet it, but she wondered if it was like a tiger in the zoo, calm and sweet but just waiting for her to get close before tearing her apart. But she knew Dylan was waiting and watching, that he'd be with her, so she kept going, slipping into the foreign car's driver's seat, looking around, touching each object as if she'd never seen such things before.

He settled himself into the passenger seat, a first in all their years together. She'd told him on their first date about how deathly afraid of cars she was, so he'd designated a crack-of-dawn drive in their sleepy town as the perfect time to get her behind the wheel. He could practically see her heart pounding as she alternately glared at him and stared ahead, steeling herself for what she was about to do. His cock was rock-hard, a fact he tried to hide from her, since she needed total concentration to do the job. Sensing her fear, along with her willingness to push through it -- for him -- got him hornier than he ever could've imagined. "Damn you, Dylan. What the fuck?" she muttered, more to herself than to him as she adjusted the seat. "It's been so long. If we die tragically, it'll be all your fault," she warned. "At least this has an airbag." He watched her like a hawk, trusting her implicitly. He felt a shiver run through him when she turned the key in the ignition. Had she exaggerated her lack of driving skills, the way she often complained about being too fat or some other perceived flaw that never really panned out?

She pretended to ignore him, but he knew as sure as he knew his name that she had to be dripping wet. He put his seat belt on but remained at the ready, his total focus on her. If she really needed him, he was right there. He could practically hear her heart beating -- or was that his? -- as she pulled out of their driveway, looking both ways before turning. She reminded him not of a teenager with a permit, but of a little kid propped up on phone books, taking a forbidden thrill-ride. He let her go a few blocks on her own, watched her face morph from calm to panic to somewhere in between. Her eyes were darting all around as her feet tried not to twitch as she worked the unfamiliar pedals.

"Turn right here," he said, and she did, albeit jerking the car sharply as she rode the curb, entering an empty bank parking lot. "All the way over there, and park the car," he ordered. It was still early enough that the bank was hours from opening, and they'd only passed two cars on the way. She got the car vaguely into a spot, but precision didn't matter at the moment. She had done it. Marie took the key out of the ignition and then sank back against the seat, shutting her eyes and trembling with relief and amazement, tears pricking at her eyes. The bastard! she thought as she looked over at him, her nipples pressed firmly against her thin tank top. Traitor, she admonished as she looked down at her lap, silently berating her pussy for pulsating the entire ride. She was so turned on she could hardly breathe.

Finally, she looked up at her husband. "How did you…?" she got out, the question asking itself as she looked at him through a film of tears.

"I knew you could do it all along," he said, pulling her close for a hard kiss. "And that's just the start. Soon I'll have you driving into the city for work," he said, only half meaning it; Manhattan traffic was a bitch, even for him. But one stroke of his fingers against the wet denim between her thighs told him all he needed to know. He pressed his knuckles against her dampness.

"You looked so fucking sexy on the road," he groaned as he lifted her out of her seat and over to his. They'd christen the backseat later. For now, he wanted her close as could be. She straddled him, and he slid a hand down the tight back of her jeans, gripping her ass firmly.

"Really?" she asked hesitantly, still not quite believing it. Fifteen years of fear, gone, or at least diminished. She'd done it, she'd driven. A car. On the street. Without crashing. Somehow, her husband had given her the best present of all. Up until that point. She buried her head in his shoulder, unable to look at him any longer, far too overwhelmed with sensation. She'd loved him before, of course, but this-this was different. This was why she'd chosen him, why he made her swoon, why one word from his lips could send her to her knees.

He spanked her through her jeans, simple swats -- there'd be time for the gloves later -- the pain dulled by denim, before pushing them down, unzipping, and plunging inside her right there in the light. By then, they could hear the roar of an occasional car going by, and she knew they risked being caught. It would've been funny, if she'd had time to think about it, if her head, and her pussy, hadn't been stuffed to the brim with his cock, and his power, and his ferocity. She'd necked in cars, even fucked in a few, in high school, when she'd had no place else to go. They had a huge house, but chose to do it in a car, in daylight, hidden but easily exposed should anyone happen by.

She'd demurred on public displays of affection with everyone before Dylan, but he'd gotten her to do all kinds of things she'd always thought were for bad girls. He pushed her, much the way his dick was pushing inside her, always there to catch her should she ever stumble. As she leaned back against the dashboard, he pushed her shirt up, displaying her nipples, giving him access to her clit while she slithered against him, bucking and grinding as she came. He was her top, but he was also a gentleman, and he waited for her climax to peter out before shooting his own come deep inside her, the warm liquid finally calming her racing heart. Looking down on him from her dashboard perch, Marie realized that every day with Dylan was its own thrill ride. When they were done, she handed him the keys, more a symbolic gesture than anything else. She would start driving again, but he was the one who was navigating for both of them, which suited her just fine.

“Late for a Spanking”

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Laura is late. There’s no escaping the fact that the clock tower outside my apartment has just loudly chimed six and my spankee has yet to show. I walk around my bedroom, running my fingers over the implements I’ve set out in preparation. There’s a tiny slapper, a small, patent-leather nothing of a toy, one whose bark will always be worse than its bite. There’s a ruler, an extra-long, coated one, for maximum impact. There’s a shiny black paddle, stern and strong, like me. There’s one with fur on one side, for when I want to soothe her, or just lull her into a false sense of security. There’s a strap, my belt, a wooden paddle. I probably won’t use them all on her, but I like to have them ready, just in case.

I pace around, trying not to get too angry. Our spanking dates are about fun, about mutual enjoyment as she bends herself over my knee or splays herself across my lap. Sometimes I sit in a chair, completely clothed, while she strips before me and then lies down, her long, black hair brushing the floor. I have to wait for her to become totally still; she’s that perfect blend of nervous and excited that makes her body gently hum and quiver.

I pick up the strap and slap it against my hand. The noise and sting bring me back to earth. I look at the clock and see another ten minutes have passed. We’ve talked about this countless times; I’ve tried to instill in her the importance of punctuality, not just when she’s meeting me, but generally. It’s rude to be late, it insults the person you’re meeting by prioritizing your schedule over theirs. She always nods contritely, and I give in to her, even though once I almost sent her home without her dear spanking. My cock was pleading with me to go through with it, though, and I did, though the lesson might’ve sunk in more had I been a stronger man.

My dates with Laura are about spanking and spanking only. You see, even though I’m dominant to the core, I’m in love with a sassy, whipsmart submissive named Evangeline. She knows she’s got me wrapped around one of her tiny, delicate little fingers, and I actually like it that way. On the surface, I call all the shots, telling her when she can and can’t wear panties, supervising her nipple piercings, exerting control whenever and wherever I can. I know it makes her wet when I give even the slightest command. “Spread your legs farther apart,” I’ll whisper in her ear on a crowded subway train. She’ll turn and give me an infuriated, but utterly aroused, grin, as she does it. She’s only playing at being mad because now her panties will be wet, her pussy seething, her mind racing for the rest of the day as she wonders what else I’ll tell her to do later that night.

We have an open relationship, but the door isn’t flung all the way wide. We keep it partly cracked, just ajar enough so other women, like Laura, can get in and get the spankings and punishments they, and I, crave. But, horny as they make me, Evangeline has forbidden me from fucking them. I’ve managed to work that energy and want into my scenes, even though it’s sometimes very hard to resist those wet pussy lips I’m allowed to stroke but not enter. Laura’s the worst of all, the biggest temptation, and sometimes she gets spanked extra hard because otherwise I just don’t know what to do with all the pent-up arousal. Evangeline wins too because when she comes over after I’ve played with Laura, I fuck her so hard she can feel it for days afterward.

I finally sit down on the bed, my hand lightly resting on my crotch. There’s no real way to simulate spanking a pretty, willing, needy girl’s ass when you’re by yourself. Watching videos just doesn’t quite do it for me; I need flesh and blood, I need to her hear beg, I need to look down at her face and see the answers written across her features. At six forty-five, my doorbell finally rings. I have to admit, I've pretty much given up on her ever showing up. Maybe we'll never see each other again, and while I'll be disappointed, what can I do? So I’m partly surprised, partly aroused, and partly annoyed when I open the door to see her standing there blowing her sweaty bangs up off her face, looking contrite and bedraggled but still goddamn sexy. She’s pushing thirty but dresses like a schoolgirl–literally. She has on a pleated plaid skirt, strategically ripped fishnets, big black platform shoes, and a skimpy little white tank top and no bra, letting anyone who cares to look see the twin barbell piercings adorning her nipples. Her hair is in two braids, black eye makeup smeared around her eyes, red lipstick emblazoned across her mouth. Those lips are so tempting, even more than her ass; I’ve had many a fantasy about sinking my cock between them, letting her do what I’m sure she’s brilliant at.

Just the way she makes her sorry face, her mouth open, eyebrows up, hip cocked, makes me want to fuck her. Since I can’t do that, I let my annoyance show. "What took you so long?" I snap, blocking her entrance with my body, even though part of me longs to grab her and give her a hard, solid kiss.

"The train was delayed, and I forgot something in the house . . ." she seems to be making excuses, her voice getting whiny. When she looks up at me, her eyes blaze both apology and defiance. I know she hadn’t been deliberately late so that I’d spank her harder; we don’t need to play those kinds of reverse psychology mind games. She’s genuinely tardy, as Laura often is; she just assumes whoever’s waiting will be patient and forgive her. All her friends have gotten used to it, considering themselves on “Laura time” when they’re meeting her. Even I, for the most part, have adapted, but our spanking dates are special. I’ve made it clear that she’s to treat them with the utmost importance and care, if she’s truly dedicated to our play.

Just because she wasn’t late on purpose, though, doesn’t mean she’s above trying to tease me into going easy on her. She steps forward, pushing me until I relent and let her inside. Then her hand goes automatically to my cock. “Miss me?” she asks with a smirk as she massages my dick. The rules of our relationship are clear; I can spank her, and we can be naked together, but Evangeline doesn’t want me touching her private parts or her mine. We’ve found ways to push the limits of those restrictions, but I take care to abide by them, even though it’s maddening sometimes to watch her pussy get wetter and wetter as I smack her ass and not be able to feel just what I’m doing to her.

I grab her hand and shove it behind her back. She’s a feisty girl, and immediately tries to fight me, plunging us into a mock wrestling match I’m destined to win. “Aren’t you even going to say you’re sorry?” I ask, pinning her down so her hands are raised above her head, her cheeks flushed, her breathing heavy as she surrenders to my superior strength. I know that even that little bit of immobilization has her aching to be spanked–and fucked.

“Maybe,” she says, her voice rising in the sexiest lilt I’ve ever heard. Even if she didn’t have the slamming body and completely masochistic nature she does, her voice could do me in every time.

“Maybe? Oh, I think more like definitely. I’m going to make you say you’re sorry, girl. You were forty-five minutes late! I really should’ve just left, and your punishment would’ve been to go home with your bottom just as pale and bare as it is right now. But I’m going to make you pay, don’t you worry,” I say, my cock stiffening as I speak the stern words. She sticks her tongue out at me, but rolls over quite willingly when I let up on her arms and nudge her over. I decide to start off right there on the floor, pulling off her shoes and tossing them into a far corner, where they land with a thud.

“You’re going to get forty-five whacks–one for every minute you were late. I know, you think that’s nothing, but those won’t all be with my hand, I’m not that dumb,” I say as I push her skirt up. I yank off her fishnets, the tearing sound ringing pleasingly in my ears. Usually she gets totally naked, but her skirt is so short I can practically see her ass, and the image of the tiny garment shoved up above her lower curves, with her white cotton panties around her knees, is too hot to resist.

My dick is pressing upward against her stomach as she does her best to make me come in my pants, wiggling and squirming. I shove my fingers through her mass of sleek back hair and tugged, watching her neck bend backward just so. I tug harder, just enough to make her body ripple in pleasure. “Stay still, Laura; you’ll like this better. You’re going to count for me, and if you mess up, we’ll have to start over, but I know you won’t mess up,” I say somberly. She gazes back at me with a look that wouldd wrecked a lesser man, her moist lips slightly open, her eyes wide and luminous, her nostrils flaring, her need to be spanked, by me, etched as strongly into her skin as a tattoo. Over the course of our relationship, I’ve figured out just what sets her off, and I know how to take her into that magical sub space with just the sound of my voice and a simple tug on her hair or snap of my fingers.

I let go of her hair, catching the gentlest of sighs pass from her lips. Her ass is right there, all mine for the taking, wide and round and pale and perfect. She’s got just enough meat on her bones to make her rump perfect for spanking; girls who are too thin make me worry I might truly be hurting them, and I like asses that are wide enough to cover a range of smacks, ones where I need to hit them a few times to cover the entire cheek. I place my left hand on her lower back, letting my thumb just graze the upper edge of her asshole. I’d love to press it against her sweet puckered hole, but I save that for Evangeline. With Laura, it’s all about hinting, dancing just around the edge of our desire, getting the most bang for our buck, if you will.

I press down against her body, ensuring that she won’t jerk when the first blow lands. Then I raise my hand and bring it crashing down against her right cheek, hearing the boom, seeing her skin go from pale to pink in moments. “One, sir,” she says, her voice loud and direct. It always starts off strong, like she’s trying to show me just how powerful she can be even spread across my lap. By the end, I’ll have her whimpering out her numbers–if I’m doing my job right.

I roll her slightly forward to get the best angle, then do the same to her left cheek. “Two, sir,” she responds dutifully. I keep going until ten, my palm stinging as the heat roars through our flesh. I pause there, rubbing my palm against her curves, ready to take things to the next level.
“Get up,” I tell her, unceremoniously shoving her off of me. My cock is pressing hard against my jeans, and I’m dying to whip it out and touch myself, even for a minute, but I know that could lead to dangerous territory. If her mouth goes anyway near my dick, as besotted as I am with Evangeline, I might not be able to resist, so I keep it in my pants, literally, and work out my arousal another way. She gives me that look again, the one that silently begs for more, the one that tells me, without even looking, how turned on she is. “Bend over the bed,” I tell her, and she hobbles up, knowing I don’t mean for her to change any part of her attire.

Not only do I like to see her bent over, but I also know this means her piercings press against her sensitive nipples, arousing her further. Her skirt has flipped back down to caress the curves of her ass, so I push it back up, noting how already in a few minutes the redness in her cheeks has faded slightly. I pick up the belt, wrapping its sturdy leather around my hand, then running it across her cheeks, tapping lightly. “Hmmm,” she moans, her head turned to the side, her eyes closed, as if lost in her own personal reverie. I need to snap her out of wherever she is right now and bring her back to me.

I push the belt to her lips, startling her eyes open. “Kiss it, then tell me what number’s next,” I demand.

Something breaks open inside me, swelling not just my cock but my insides, puffing me up, when her lips purse immediately. She gave the belt a solid smacker, then says in her most matter-of-fact tone, “Eleven, sir,” as if telling me what she’s made for dinner. Her eyes watch me, this time not so much begging as seeking, staring back at me an equal partner in our game. She knows just how much I like to spank her, and I know how badly she needs it, but both of us go along with this game anyway, adding to the thrill. Actually, making the thrill happen; without me on top and her below, spanking her would be no fun at all, something a machine could do just as well.

“Get ready,” is all I say as I move to the side so I can hover directly over her ass. Something about a woman’s bottom makes it look even hotter when raised the way she has it, so round and firm and tempting, like it was made with just such a kinky purpose, and no other, in mind. I let the belt whiz through the air once, its snap, crackle and pop music to my ears. I strike the air again, right next to her ass, and she squeaks, a high-pitched noise that sounds as beautiful as any melody. Then I strike her for real, slashing the stripe of leather against her flesh, searing her skin in a way my hand simply cannot do. “Eleven,” she chokes out in a robotic voice, as if it were not a number but the normal response when one has been struck dumb, literally. The pain blooms instantly on her skin, a pretty line that makes me want to lean down and kiss it. Taking away her pain is almost as enticing as causing it, but we have thirty four more whacks to go.

I let the belt lash against the area where her ass cheeks meet her upper thighs, that never-never land of sensual flesh that is disproportionately tender. Like when I’m fucking and trying to hold off from coming, I have to think about something else for a moment besides the beauty of her welting curves, her do-me posture, her have-me stance, her I’m-yours body language. Sometimes I wonder if the constraints on our spanking dates aren’t too much for either of us to bear. Evangeline has my heart, plain and simple, but my cock, my hands, my mouth, my power, those I would share with Laura, if I could. Instead, I must convey all that I want to do to her in these strokes, these beatings that take on so much more than their share of emotional energy.

She calls out the numbers as the belt slamms against her ass, spreading her legs just enough to give me a glimpse at what’s between them. I haven’t told her to, but I haven’t told her not to, and for the moment, I let it go, too pleased with the slick pink shine I se there to argue. I drop the belt at twenty-five, picking up the wooden paddle instead. I could insist on the blindfold, but I like the look on her face when she sees what I’m holding–half horror, half need. It’s like the look Evangeline gets right before she comes, like she’s tempted to push me away, to stay teetering on the precipice instead of dropping over the waterfall’s edge. I know my job is to urge her on, for the reward is always so much greater than the risk.

The pain only lasts for a few moments, her ass smarting, but the pleasure will keep Laura going for days. I hold the toy that resembles a ping-pong paddle, only thicker, with holes to let air through, then tilt my wrist and let it fly against her reddened cheek. “Twenty-six,” comes out muffled as she absorbs the blow. I pause, trailing the backs of my fingers along her skin, then pinching a bit between my thumb and forefinger. I kneel down behind her and pull her cheeks apart, staring at the forbidden fruit of her pussy.

I need her to come, but I can’t interrupt the flow of our play. I deliver the final blows with the black leather paddle, the simple yet stern one, its shiny surface too cheerful for the kind of sting it delivers. Her voice rises and falls as my arm does the same, until her ass rivals her lips in terms of redness, even after she’s gnawed on her lower lip while taking her punishment.

If she were Evangeline, I’d simply pull down my zipper, get behind her, and shove my cock deep into her waiting hole. She’d convulse instantly around me, tears of joy filling her eyes but not tipping over, while I marveled at how her heat seemed to travel into my body. I’d try, but fail, to wait, and simply pump my hot lava into her tight tunnel, the explosion truly feeling volcanic. But she’s Laura, my play partner, my standing spanking date, my toy, even though she means no less to me where it counts.

Because it’s her and not my girlfriend, I will wait to jerk off until she leaves. But she can’t wait, and we both know it. “Lie down on your back,” I order. It takes her a few seconds through the haze of arousal to get into position, but I let her have them, knowing the crisp, clean sheets are rubbing against her sore ass. She goes to remove her panties, but I still her hand. “Keep them on,” I say, sliding them down to her ankles and hearing the fabric strain and rip slightly. I don’t care. I stand between her legs, holding her feet apart as she looks up at my towering presence, my erection practically undoing my zipper on its own. She used to be tentative, taking light swipes at her clit, only really indulging in her masturbation ritual until a good half hour had passed.

Now, she gets right into it, shoving three fingers deep inside while her other hand tweaks her nipples into tight, fierce points. “That’s it, fuck yourself for me, Laura. That’s your reward for taking your spanking like a good girl, even though you were late and had no excuse and are really a very bad girl to the core.” I like to punish and reward her at the same time when I can, plant a seed of doubt so she’ll give me some reason to keep on spanking her, besides the obvious. “Picture my cock sliding into your mouth, right now, me climbing on top of you, your wrists tied above your head, your lips open and ready. Your friend Kira is fucking your pussy with a dildo at the same time, and I’m pinning you down with my dick so you can’t move except to enjoy being filled in two holes at once.” I know my words are getting to her from the way she clenches her fingers, the way her face convulses, her eyes fluttering open to look at me, then shutting when the intensity gets to be too much. I wait, feeling triumphant when her climax seems to glide over her, making her curl up into herself. I let her go, let the panties slide off as she does what she needs to do. I’m absolutely turned on, but also wistful, wishing I could touch her and help take her to that higher place.

She gives me her panties as a present, a souvenir to sustain me until next time, a little secret for me to hide away, a compromise between my allegiance to Evangeline and my unquenchable need for Laura, and her sweet ass. “So I’ll see you next week, at six, right?” I ask as she steps into her gargantuan shoes, the height making her look older, wiser, but still just as needy of a spanking. She nods, and I grab her chin, holding her face and gaze steady. “Don’t be late, or you may really get what’s coming to you,” I warn, trying to summon the proper vengeful tone. I can’t quite get there, though, because no matter how late she is, I’ll still want, no, make that need, to spank her, still lust after her and dream about her ass even when I have my girl’s firm curves right before me.

And no matter what I use on Laura when she’s bent over, no matter how firmly I plant my hand upon her skin as she’s asking for it harder and stronger, she knows who really holds the paddle in this relationship. She’s got me exactly where she wants me – on top, looking down at her, my hand raised, my dick hard. And if you want to know the truth, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.