winner spank the loser
I’ve played out the word riven about as much as I can. Yet I have to say, the term definitely comes in handy when you’re itching for a spanking. Yearning. Craving. Wanting. Needing. Hell, they’re all fine. But being "riven with need"?
That’s just about the most perfect description I can think of for the way I'm feeling right now.
And why am I, um, riven like this?
It’s all Sophia’s fault, as far as I can tell. I mean, her comment circled lazily through my mind all day long. In case rubber isn’t your speed, in case you didn’t think to click comments, or in case you’re like me and want another taste, here is just what can happen when tequila and Ping-Pong mix.
During one summer break in college, I worked as a camp counselor. It was enjoyable, but the real fun happened during the last few days of August when only the adult counselors were left on premises. There was no one left to supervise and little work to do. We spent those days eyeing each other, searching for the opportunity to act on the attractions that had been simmering for the past twelve weeks.
On one of those sultry nights, I was hanging out in the rec room with another girl who was my age—we were both headed into our senior year. We were playing Ping-Pong, each round punctuated by tequila shots. I found myself staring at her butt each time she bent over to retrieve an errant ball. Her low-rise short-shorts hugged her ass in a really sexy way, and the top of her tiny thong poked out of her waistband every time she moved.
After the first game, we started making bets: the loser had to finish the other’s paperwork or carry her luggage to the bus—things like that. But as the night wore on, I was having trouble coming up with chaste suggestions. Swinging that red-rubber coated paddle was giving me some seriously dirty ideas.
From the way she was looking me over, I got the idea that she was thinking the same naughty thoughts. So when it was my turn to call the stakes again, I suggested that the winner spank the loser. She quickly agreed. In the end, I won. I’m not entirely sure she didn’t throw the match, but as soon as she lowered those shorts and wiggled her butt at me, I didn’t care. She encouraged me to spank her hard, and I did, enjoying the sound of the rubber slapping against her skin until we were both so turned on that we fucked each other up against the green plywood table.
I’ll never look at a Ping-Pong paddle the same way again…
Today, I’m giving away a copy of Naughty Spanking Stories from A to Z edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. This book is a definite must-have for any spanking enthusiast and I’m not just saying that because I’m the publisher. I’m saying that because it’s fucking hot.What do you have to do to win? Oh, you can guess, can’t you? Drop trou and share a spanking story with me. Made up? Real? A fantasy? A future reality? Extra points for creativity. Don't make me wait too long. I'm pretty riven right now.
XXX,
Alison
P.S. Yes, I really will be giving away at least one book a day for at least 30 days. Or until I can close the door on my porn closet once more.
Labels: On one of those sultry nights...
posted by Alison Tyler at 6:20 AM
7 Comments:
Well, this one's a bit strange....but somebody gets spanked, so there you go!
******************
In the courtyard, a scarlet macaw is prancing in his cage. He bobs his head and cocks himself slightly, his golden eye glowing, his expression knowing.
A reflecting pool cools the night. Lit candles and enormous glowing white bromeliads float atop the black still water.
On heels of gold, I carry myself up the tower steps, each one tiled with a scene of ancient Mayan desire.
Everything about me is dark. I am cocoa and coca. I am stone and earth. I am rubbed smooth and glossy, shining like the heat-forged skin of a coffee bean, seeping oil and aroma. My hair is the night sky spun on the wheel of the Gods out of pure black silk.
My sin-stained crimson cunt breathes fire, greedily demanding. My skin is molten chocolate, glistening in the light of flickering oil lamps.
On the balcony of the tower suite, the vast jungle calls to me in the form of primal howls and cries of invisible beasts. I retreat inside and look up, unbelieving, at my reflection caught in hundreds of tiny gilded mirrors suspended from the ceiling.
A thousand luminous eyes framed by feathery black lashes look down at me with longing. My dark breasts rise upward into the thick air, as full and ripe as a fertility goddess, hot and wet with lust, rising and falling with my quickening breaths, my chocolate dipped nipples straining towards my mouth. Exotic crimson feather cuffs encircle my neck and wrists, the tips of the feathers pleasuring the tops of my breasts. Slowly, I spin and sway into my image, my selves gracefully coordinated in an ancient dance.
I strut across the floor, seduced by my own sensuous image, my soft hands sliding across my hot, sweet molten skin, gliding, slipping, seeking.
Back on the balcony, I bend to the rail and slide my fingers up and down my smooth chocolate cunt, the heat pulling my fingers deeper and deeper. The jungle night is closing in as I slip my breasts over the wrought iron and moan as fire drips down my thighs.
I pinch a chocolate dipped nipple between my fingers and rub myself shamelessly. I am about to let greed take me when I feel his hands on my hips, pulling me urgently towards him as a howler monkey screams out of the blackness. I am no sacrificial virgin – only sacrificial. I have most certainly angered the Gods with my selfishness. For that I will be punished.
He clips my feathered wrists together with a silver chain and wraps it tightly around the rail. His hands are in my hair, across my back, on my thighs and ass. He is trembling, breathing deeply through his nose. Molten heat is sliding down my inner thighs. The first slap comes as a shock, pushing me hard into the railing.
“You should have waited for me.” His voice rumbles against my neck, a deep pulsing tone in delicious contrast to the high screams of the beasts in the night, but trembling slightly, like rumbling deep within an awakened volcano. He pushes his cock between my thighs and pulls my ass into his naked torso, teasing. His tongue is on my ass now, the dangerous tongue of a panther.
“Yes my naughty little bird. You should have waited.”
“I tried,” I whisper, my feathered breasts screaming with desire for his mouth, my chocolate nipples crushed and wanting against the rail. “I was riven with need…riven with lust for you.”
“Soon I will rive you with pain and your lust will be mine.”
Slap! Slap! Slap! Again and again he brings his hand down on my wet ass. I yell out into the night and a howler returns my scream twice as loud like a demon echo.
My entire body is dripping fire now, the heat of need, the heat of pain, the heat of the jungle pressing into and out of every pore, consuming every surging electric impulse, every thought, every reason for existing.
The jungle is closing in, my screams now swaying in the treetops with the howlers, my voice no longer my own.
Slap! I am straining against the chain, no longer human, consumed, desperate for release. Slap! God, I need his cock now.
“Please,” I beg, twisting, trying to press myself against him. Slap!
Suddenly there is silence. A feather is drawn down my back along my spine, across my stinging ass and down my legs. The jungle has gone eerily quiet. There is only the sound of our breathing. I shiver despite the heat as the panther moves in for the kill.
Wow. I can't follow that.
But I was standing at my cooker tonight, boiling spaghetti and broccoli for my daughter, and I started thinking about something to write for this, and the idea of switching and who gets to be on top, and the authority needed to dominate someone much stronger than you, their surrender and restraint. And then I looked down and there was a little spreadeagled man shaped in broccoli florets by the boiling water, limbs bound in loops of spaghetti. I swear to God.
Rorschach Rorschach, eh?
I might come back later with something else.
A friend is staying with me. Her boyfriend is planning to join her, but not for a week or so. She wanders into my bedroom one morning, wearing a short shift dress, and paces. We talk, but her answers come slowly, there's something on her mind. She turns to me, dark eyes intense, biting her lip.
I start to ask her what's wrong, but I can see. I know, by her flushed face, her twisting hands, the urgency of the need she is riven with ;)
I stand, and place my hand on the space between neck and shoulder, turning her. I clear an unpractised throat, trying to find the right voice.
'Against the wall.' She steps in, rests her forehead against it, her hands twitch and creep up, bent at the elbow.
I bunch the raw silk fabric at her waist and inch it up, slowly revealing light blue lace that hugs her ass, the French cut revealing a smooth curve of buttock. A little hypnotized I reach out, stroke, squeeze. She pushes into my hand a little, and it gives me courage.
She pumps her hips a little as I land the first slaps somewhere between lace and silk skin. I marvel at the white outlined handprints, the blossoming pinkness.
In no time, I roll her knickers down, fold by fold, and rest them just below the crease where cheek meets thigh, framing her. I feel the heat of her spanked skin, and my gaze falls on the wide brush on the dressing table. I look around my room at the curtains, the crisply made bed, the woman with the bared ass waiting against the wall... somehow not incongruous. I stroke her inner thighs with the smooth flat of the brush, summon my instincts and push her thighs wider apart.
I start in with the brush, it's so loud, and her moans are quiet under the whopping smacks.
'Like this?' She nods, once. It's an encouragement to slap harder, one cheek and then the other, sending stinging flicks against her skin. I watch as her moans become more urgent, she moves more, I can see her sex and the sheen from it on her thighs.
With a snap, I stop. Her pelvis arches back, rising to meet the next slap that doesn't fall. Instead I glide the brush's spines down her glowing cheeks, press against her cunt. She moans again, her fingers scrape on the wall, and I follow the path of the brush with my fingers, parting her buttocks, gliding through the pool of wetness to her waiting clit.
As my finger presses it her hips pump rhythmically and I move beside her, cupping her mound, lodging my thumb on her clit and pushing my fingers in, bringing the brush down with wide swings against the fullest curve of her pumping bottom. I don't stop until she's cried out her orgasm and slumped against the wall, breathing deeply.
I'm hoping it'll be my turn soon.
That's awesome! Please, please tell me you took a picture of broccoli bondage man!
I bunch the raw silk fabric at her waist and inch it up, slowly revealing light blue lace that hugs her ass, the French cut revealing a smooth curve of buttock. A little hypnotized I reach out, stroke, squeeze. She pushes into my hand a little, and it gives me courage.
OMFG. I wasn't even into spanking until all of this spanking started. Now I need another one. Hey Mr. Man -- see that red silpat Martha Fucking Stewart spatula on the counter next to the bowl of half-baked cookie dough? Get it! NOW!
Why, oh why, did I not take a photo! Perhaps I was scared it was all in my head...
Oops. Two 'revealed's in a couple sentences, I see, looking at that pull quote. :(
Oh well, it's hard to edit when you're writing in a teeny box. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. I've no Word at the moment!
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