Read Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica Online
Authors: Sinclair Sexsmith,Miriam Zoila Perez,Wendi Kali,Rachel Kramer Bussel,Gigi Frost,BB Rydell,Amelia Thornton,Dilo Keith,Vie La Guerre,Anna Watson
Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica (9 page)
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I found my coordination and was able to stroke myself in time to each thrust. I was so close, right on the edge, when hy paused. For a moment I thought hy was stopping, that this was a cruel tease, but then hy pushed in deeper than before with a growl, shudder, and moan that told me hy’d just finished in me. Hys final thrust and moan sent me over the edge and I began coming around hys cock, in my hand, shuddering beneath hym.
We lay together for a few minutes, panting. I felt the sweat run off hys forearms onto my back and the sticky warmth of hys shirt against my ass. I opened my eyes and discovered that at some point the blindfold had come off; the room was disheveled and poorly lit. I rolled over and kissed hym deeply when I heard a buzzing beside my head. Hys phone, dropped earlier on the nightstand, was vibrating. Rolling off me, hy picked it up and scrolled through a text message.
“The girls are wondering where we went, I better get back,” hy muttered, tucking hys cock back into hys jeans and running a comb through hys hair. I scrambled to pull on my pants, not believing that after all this hy was going back to the club, going back for the femmes we’d ditched earlier. Hy tactfully went to the bathroom to give me time to bind again. When hy returned, I was sitting on the edge of hys bed.
“I’m ready to go,” I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling.
“Not quite,” hy growled, pressing my black hanky into my hand. “You earned this, boi,” he said, and then motioned I should follow hym back through the dark house and out to hys truck.
SPANKING BOOTH
Dusty Horn
“
I
f you think all it takes to run a successful sexy fund-raiser is a good-looking person under a sign that says ‘Kinky Kissing Booth,’ you are sorely mistaken.” My colleague Lisa grins, gently guiding a little blonde thing off my lap and handing him a glass of water.
I
f you think all it takes to run a successful sexy fund-raiser is a good-looking person under a sign that says ‘Kinky Kissing Booth,’ you are sorely mistaken.” My colleague Lisa grins, gently guiding a little blonde thing off my lap and handing him a glass of water.
Lisa is a bombshell high-femme transsexual, 6’2” in stilettos, and thus the perfect maternal figure for endorphin-befuddled spankees.
“How do you pull it off so well?” this satisfied customer asks dreamily, pulling his rubber skirt down with some effort and rubbing the smarting bottom beneath.
I field this one. I am feeling quite pleased with myself and perhaps a little top-drunk at all the fresh, no-strings-attached meat this gig gets me.
“A spanking booth requires a hustler of the highest order, preferably a team of slick hustlers with a relaxed but firm hierarchy of command.”
It’s 1:15 a.m. on a Saturday night, and I am running one such well-oiled machine at a leather destination in the SOMA district of San Francisco. I’ve assembled a half dozen foxy tops plus a few delectable switches and bottoms of varying genders to appeal to every conceivable unassuming queer to darken the doors of the bar tonight.
“It’s just like flirting,” I continue pontificating to no one in particular. “You have to be available without coming on too strong. You have to make the bottom think it was their idea all along.”
We are raising money for some sex-positive organization; I can’t remember if they even told me which one it is this time. Regardless, if there are two skills I am happy to volunteer for the cause of my community, it’s my superb kinky talents and my capacity to work a crowded room.
My cohorts and I have had a wildly successful night, of course. We offer penetrating kisses, ruthless tit torture, face slapping, verbal humiliation, and for the more adventurous, flogging, caning, and strap-on sucking.
Although I delight in dishing out all of these activities, my personal specialty is spanking.
I am sitting in the room’s place of power—the James Bond seat, I like to call it. From this chair, I can clock the movements and motivations of everyone in the room while keeping my back up against the wall. No one surprises me, and I keep an eye on everyone who is even considering working up the courage to approach us and ask for what they need.
My leather pants are skintight but comfortable, and my white tank top clings to my torso with just the right amount of sweaty exertion. Many people think of soiled boots as sacrilege, but mine stomp too much dirt, kick too much shit to stay clean for long. When you see me filthy, you know I mean it. While others devote time to moisturizing their leather, I have my hands full beating twice as much ass. But hey, there’s no accounting for taste.
Speaking of taste, from my vantage point I can see a clutch of tacky little twinks causing a commotion.
“What do you think that ruckus is about?” asks my colleague Jeremy, a barrel-chested bear who will tweak your nipples like it’s going out of style.
“Based on the time of night…”
“Morning!” he corrects me with a grin and wet-lipped swig of foamy beer.
“Duly noted. The time of morning and the pitch of their squawks makes me think: peer pressure.”
“No doubt.” We laugh together.
Our laughter turns to wry amusement when the boys drag over the object of their pressure, and it turns out to be:
A very sexy, very ambivalent-looking tough girl.
Years of experience have given me a good sense of whether butch or femme presentation indicates a cisgendered, transgendered, or genderqueer person. Not that it makes any particular difference to me; we all have asses, after all.
From this femme’s lack of Adam’s apple, and her apparent fag-haggery, I would peg her for the pussy-having variety.
Of course, I am never unhappy to be proven wrong.
Her faggot friends have all the attractive attributes of well-trained dolphins. They are sharp and sleek, but also eager to please and susceptible to suggestion.
“We have a client for you!” the queeniest of them sings.
Tough Girl and I size each other up.
She is wearing jeans so skinny they are practically tights, a black bustier, and an oversized leather jacket. It’s the perfect combination of “Look at me!” and “Fuck you for looking at me!” Her eyeliner and hair have seen the effects of the evening.
“Don’t you feel bad about taking the hard-earned money of drunken queers?” she sneers.
“No,” I answer levelly. I have been asked this question before. “If I wasn’t the recipient, then the bar, or the corner store, or the man selling onion-stuffed bacon-wrapped sausages on the street would be.”
She stands slack-jawed. Perhaps she is used to being the intimidator with little resistance. Perhaps it has made her soft.
I actually offer her quite a chance to think of a clever reply before sipping my scotch and continuing.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from years of hustling, it’s that people enjoy parting with their money even more than they enjoy earning it. They don’t care
where
it’s going as long as they feel satisfied in the moment that there is an equal exchange of quality and quantity. It gives them a perverse sense of losing control.”
where
it’s going as long as they feel satisfied in the moment that there is an equal exchange of quality and quantity. It gives them a perverse sense of losing control.”
“What this bitch needs is a good spanking!” Queenie mercifully interrupts me, shutting my mouth by producing a bill.
“Well! Giving people a perverse sense of losing control is my trade, actually. And if people are gonna throw money at a vacuum, I might as well be there with a trash bag to catch the discarded pieces of paper.”
I nod at Jeremy, who relieves the boy of his cash in a way that already makes him feel it was well spent.
“What is your name?” I ask Tough Girl.
The boys try to be helpful.
“Beth!” they sing.
“I am going to
murder
all of you!” she sneers with clenched fists. Yet no one is holding her there. She does not stomp for the door.
murder
all of you!” she sneers with clenched fists. Yet no one is holding her there. She does not stomp for the door.
“Beth,” I ask, “would you like to be spanked?”
She whirls back to face me, crossing her arms over her ample chest.
“Yeah, I guess so, why not?”
“Good. Consent is very sexy. Now. You think that because this is your friends’ idea, you are absolved of the stigma of your desire.”
Our eyes are locked now.
“You are not fooling me, oh no. I knows desire when I sees it.”
I have a bench arranged for the dabblers, the people who want the sensation of being spanked but are neither prepared nor inclined toward the deeper humiliation or fantasy subsumation of a true OTK. For that latter purpose, however, I have appropriated one of the bar’s armless chairs.
Honestly, why chairs ever have arms on them is beyond me.
I take Beth’s left hand and stare up at her. My knees are crossed, and I am turned ever so slightly to my right to face her. Ordinarily the power dynamics are best realized when the sadist places herself above the masochist. However, when you have cultivated palpable dominance, it is even preferable to be in an unexpected position. It throws them off, says all bets are off.
“Have you ever been spanked before?” I ask with the dispassionate curiosity of a tattoo artist about to give an eighteen-year-old her first tramp stamp.
“No!” she snorts, breaking eye contact.
See what I mean? She could be twice my size and I would still tower over her.
“Liar! Slut! Harlot!” comes the protestation of her entourage.
“Is this true?” I uncross my leg coolly. I guide her body slowly down to my level, holding her fast with my eyes and my firm grasp, until she is squatting.
“Are you lying to me?”
Beth squirms.
“I…I mean…I’ve been spanked, during…you know…”
“Sex?”
The follies shriek, fluttering their black and neon fingernails.
“Doggy style!” they offer.
“No, no, she’s talking about when she takes it in the
butt
!”
butt
!”
“I do
not
take it—” Beth begins to stand, to turn her head in protest.
not
take it—” Beth begins to stand, to turn her head in protest.
“Beth,” I coo. “Pay them no mind.”
She turns her eyes slowly back to mine.
“Do you get off on pain?”
“Yes,” she answers without hesitation. Then after a pause, “Why did I tell you that?”
“I have a good ability to get the truth out of people,” I reply.
We stare at each other.
I got a live one!
I think. The room is thinking the same thing, no doubt.
I think. The room is thinking the same thing, no doubt.
“You will stop being defiant now. You will address me as Ma’am. You will only speak when spoken to unless it is to use your safeword. Your safewords are yellow and red. Are you familiar with the meaning of those colors?”
“Yeah, like a traffic light, right? I get it.”
Before she can blink, I have her by the hair at the nape of the neck with my left hand. I pull her across me, expertly guiding the seat of her pants over my lap.
She makes a delightful noise of abandon, something like, “Whaaaarpm!”
I apply a dozen healthy hard spanks to the outside of her jeans as her black-and-white sneakers kick indignantly in the air.
“I get it
what
?” I inquire firmly.
what
?” I inquire firmly.
“Wu-what?”
Firing off another dozen punitive smacks, knowing they aren’t doing much damage besides getting my point across, I consider what an excellent method a pants-on spanking is for forming denim to a body.
“She wants you to call her ma’am,” a helpful friend chimes in.
Disoriented and flustered, Beth acquiesces.
“Oh! Jesus Christ. Yes
ma’am.”
ma’am.”
“Good girl! Now we’re getting somewhere.” I massage my damage. This admission of authority always puts me in a cheery mood.
“Let’s get a look at how you’ve colored from those initial spanks.”
I begin to pull down her jeans, and she throws her hands back to hold them in place.
“It’s not okay that I take your pants down?” I ask with genuine respect.
“N-no! I want you to. It’s just that…”
“What is it, girl?”
“I didn’t know anyone would be seeing my panties tonight. Tomorrow is laundry day, and these are my
boring
panties.”
boring
panties.”
I throw my head up and laugh uproariously.
“Don’t you know it’s not your panties I want? It’s what’s inside them,” I declare as I unbuckle her brown leather belt and start to work the jeans over her hips. It’s easier said than done.
“Honestly, I think this trend of skintight jeans was invented to infuriate tops,” Lisa cracks, for the benefit of the rowdy room.
The denizens of the bar are watching with increased interest.
Beth assists me on more than one level by wriggling out of her pants. It is a truly delicious ass that pops, liberated, to attention. She wasn’t kidding; her underwear is cotton, formerly white, washer-worn. But it just makes me feel more like I am imposing my will on something that wasn’t expecting me.
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