Bare Assed

Table of Contents

 

 

 

W
hy is it that the pleasures of spanking usually focus on the lucky person receiving the licks? Humiliation, submission, intense sensation, and punishment are just the beginning of the many delights that being bent over the knee can bring. But what about the trusted tops wielding the crop or swinging the paddle? Their gratification in fulfilling a partner's fantasy makes them as much a slave to their desires as any submissive assuming the position.

Each of these six stories paints a picture of spanking that is drastically different from the rest. N. T. Morley's “I'm Going to Grab Your Hair” offers us the play-by-play narration of what a man will do when he's driven by lust on a night with the perfect submissive. In “I, Anita,” Lana Fox shows us what happens when a burlesque queen leaves behind a long line of suitors and finally meets her match, a man known only as the
Baron. The skillful lover in Rachel Kramer Bussel's “Belted” uses an everyday object for his lustful lashes, keeping his girlfriend in anticipation every time they meet. In “Sunday in the Study,” Justine Elyot's heroine dreads the cane as much as she loves it during her punishment for a week of misdeeds.

Additionally, this anthology places men on the receiving end of the leather strap and ruler. In Vida Bailey's “Torn,” a tutor drowns in a deluge of pleasure while disciplining a twenty-year-old male student. And finally, “Indulgences,” by Tenille Brown, follows a wife more than ready to punish her husband, much to his delight. The tingle you'll get from these stories will last long after they are over—just like the bright pink memories of a firm spanking.

 

Alex Algren

Tenille Brown

 

 

 

G
eorge had been caught, literally, red-handed, and he stood there, magazine in hand, red
cock
in hand, staring at Priscilla as if he had never seen her before in his life.

It wasn't that George wasn't allowed to touch himself. It was
his
cock, after all, but they had agreed,
he
had agreed, that he would keep his hands to himself. He would keep them to himself, that was, unless they were on her.

She had only gone to the store. She had spent five minutes at the fucking 7-11 getting a soda and already George had stuffed his hands down his pants and become reacquainted with his cock as if she had been gone for weeks.

Calmly, Priscilla licked her lips. She removed the magazine from George's shaky hands and flipped it open.

There it was, tits and ass everywhere, page after page of breasts and rear ends.

It was typical, typical that George would be drooling after something he already had. As if he didn't live with tits and ass, as if he didn't have complete access to tits and ass every single day.

And like she knew it would, there it came, the pathetic stammering of an explanation.

“I was just having a look and—”

Priscilla placed her hands on her hips. “Yes, George, you were just having a look at the shiny magazine and your hand somehow found its way into your underwear and landed directly on your cock.”

She didn't expect a reply. She expected just what he gave her. Shame across his face, chin tucked into his chest, lips folded in embarrassment.

Priscilla didn't waste any time proceeding.

“Well, George,” she said. “You've gone and done it. I guess you know what happens now.”

And he did. George knew the routine so well that his hands automatically went to the bathroom counter and gripped the edge of the double sink. His long, toned body automatically leaned forward, putting a bend at his waist. He stepped out of the jeans that were already gathered at his ankles and kicked them aside.

George was ready, ass poised, head bent. He was waiting to suffer his repercussions.

Priscilla left him there and went to their bedroom. She shook her head as she flung open her closet door.

It was the seventh time, the seventh time this month she had caught him jerking off. It was the seventh time she'd had to walk to the back of her closet and pull out her leather strap.

She slapped it against her palm now as she headed back toward the bathroom.

Priscilla didn't think she was being unreasonable. Unreasonable would be denying George orgasms, turning her back on him when he reached for her in the middle of the night. But she did none of that. George could come as many times as he wanted.

The deal was, he wouldn't waste any of those times. He wouldn't rub and jerk into his hands what could be, what rightfully
should
be inside of her.

And it wasn't that he didn't fuck her, that he preferred the palm of his hand to the inside of her cunt. He fucked her regularly and he fucked her well.

The thing was, Priscilla was thirty-eight and she didn't have the time to waste for George to be coming inside his boxers like some horny teenager.

A deal was a deal. Still, George had given in to this indulgence of his, and since
he
had indulged,
she
would indulge.

But Priscilla's indulgence didn't involve flipping open a magazine and touching herself. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom, she cleared her throat. Yes, Priscilla's indulgence involved touching George.

She approached him, stopping only when she stood a few steps behind him.

Her arm drawn back, hand high over her head, Priscilla gave her final words: “I certainly hope it was worth it, George.”

She didn't wait for him to respond before she brought her hand down with such force that the strap caused a whipping sound in the air. Shortly after came the crack of leather making contact with flesh.

The pink skin on George's ass rippled with the first strike. His muscular thighs clenched. Priscilla knew without looking that he was gritting his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut.

Priscilla spoke. “Now, tell me again, George, why we don't jerk off all willy-nilly around here.”

Strike
.

George rose up on the balls of his feet, his toes gripping the carpet.

His voice was a throaty whisper. “Because, Priscilla, there is a plan.”

Priscilla nodded. She whacked him again with less intensity, but still hard enough for him to throw his head back in agony.

She said, “And that plan is?”

She stopped long enough to await his answer.

Breathless, George said, “To give you a…so that we can have…”

Priscilla grew impatient. “To get me knocked up, right?”

George nodded. “Right.” He tucked his chin, and Priscilla couldn't tell if he were wincing or smiling.

Nevertheless, Priscilla knew she had done enough. She walked out of the bathroom and put her strap away.

It was probably a waste, anyway. After all, who knew how many times George
didn't
get caught, how many times he had whacked off and finished just seconds before Priscilla walked through the door? She was being easy on him, really, giving him the benefit of the doubt, issuing punishment for only crimes she had witnessed with her own eyes.

Yet somehow it calmed her, this indulgence of hers, made her feel better that she could control at least some aspect of her life. And with that comfort, she left George to replace his clothing and went to the kitchen to pour her soda over ice.

 

It shouldn't have surprised her, the news. That was her shitty luck, after all.

Now, safely inside her front door, Priscilla pulled the cup out of her purse, the plastic, medicinal cup that would measure her husband's juice and count up the chances she would have of ever having a baby.

George walked into the living room, already dressed for work.

“You left early,” he said.

Priscilla shrugged, tossing her long, dark hair across her shoulder. “Had to be there early.”

George's eyes fell on the cup. “Whatcha got there?”

Priscilla slid it over to him. “It's your new best friend,” she said.

He cocked his head. “Excuse me?”

“That's right. It's your come catcher. They want to count your boys down at the clinic.”

George began his familiar nervous stutter. “I can't do that…not in that.”

Priscilla rolled her eyes. “I had a feeling you might say that. So, I stopped by the store on my way home.”

She pulled the glossy magazine out of her purse and tossed it onto the coffee table.

She watched for George's reaction, waited to see in his eyes what she saw every time she walked into the bathroom and caught him gripping his cock.

When George remained silent, Priscilla spoke. “Now you listen to me. This is the only time I will allow this. This is the only time this will be acceptable, until after, well, you know.”

She pushed the magazine in George's direction.

George shook his head. “And I'm just supposed to do it, just like that?”

Priscilla threw up her hands. “You do it all the time, George, what's the difference?”

He tucked his lips and furrowed his brow.

“Look,” she said. “There's nothing to be embarrassed about. Just go on in the bathroom like you normally do. Close the door and act like I'm not even here. Just give me a shout when you're done, and I'll run it back up to the office.”

George nodded. Slowly, he picked up the cup and tucked the magazine under his arm. He disappeared
around the corner.

Priscilla sat on the couch and watched the morning news for the next fifteen minutes. When twenty minutes passed, she rose. George could have finished twice by now.

She tapped softly on the bathroom door before she pushed it open.

“Everything okay in here?” she asked.

George held the still empty cup in his hands. His fly was undone; his cock was exposed and flaccid.

“It isn't working,” George said. “It never works unless I know you're close by.”

Priscilla folded her arms. “But I'm ten steps away.”

George shook his head. “That's not what I mean. I need for you to…well, I want…”

And then, just like that, it became clear as a bell.

Priscilla's voice was soft, almost a whisper. “You need for me to
catch
you, George?”

George nodded, as if giving voice to the notion would validate it as ridiculous.

Priscilla nodded slowly, exhaling.

She left the room. She waited five minutes and returned.

And, like clockwork, George's face was red when she opened the door, the magazine was in front of him, and his cock was hard in his hand.

Priscilla leaned against the doorframe.

“Well, George,” she said. “It looks like, once again, I've caught you. But, I'm going to be nice about it this
time. I'm going to let you finish.” Priscilla tilted her head toward the cup.

George hung his head. “I can't,” he said.

Priscilla raised her eyebrows. “You
still
can't?”

“No, I can't finish, until you…” His voice drifted off.

And with the snap of sudden realization, Priscilla stood up straight. Without a word, she went to their bedroom, entered her closet and retrieved her favorite leather strap.

George was in position when she returned.