Flashback Friday: “Sometimes I doubt my sanity”

This week’s Flashback Friday was originally posted, March 23rd, 2010.

Listening to Pink is a mistake: when you’re in a bar at closing time. What she can sing about is not what I should say when I’ve been drinking since ten the previous night. Why drink? Hell, it’s not like I like the taste. But the freedom it offers. Haven’t you always wanted to say whatever the fuck you wanted to whomever you wanted whenever you wanted? Like it’s the buzz, the release of that nattering nanny – aka Mommy Dearest – who is always telling you to keep your knees together and your underwear clean. Hey bitch! I don’t wear underwear anymore! So there! I drink because I’m a powerful modern woman who takes no prisoners. Gurls rock! I LOVE YOU PINK! OK. Hangovers suck. Especially since all my BFFs have betrayed the code and gotten married to “He’s so sweet and nice and so romantic.” Fuck you! I don’t need you to hold my hair back. Rubber bands work just fine. I don’t need romance and flowers and hearts carved in trees. If I want sex, I take it. No man has ever turned me down I’ll have you know. I use them and toss them back into that cesspool known as dating. I don’t date. I fuck. I fuck in the day, at night; whenever and wherever I want. I can’t believe they busted me for public indecency! Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve blown over half the cops in this crappy town and now they suddenly get all righteous on my ass? WTF? Hey! I got a great ass if I do say so myself and I do say so myself even if it’s currently parked in the slammer between a hooker and a druggie. Excuse me? Alcohol is legal and so is sex: the last time I checked it was still a free country. Everyone has sex but everyone acts like the biggest frigging prudish hypocrite when they actually see something sexual going down. Did I mention I like going down? Please. Like any guy would turn down a blow job from a smoking hot chick like moi. That’s french for ‘me’ in case you were wondering. I am an international woman of mystery. But I wouldn’t blow Austin Powers on a dare. Five hundred? Maybe. Fine. I’m picky, so sue me. It’s not like I’m desperate or anything. We are way off the beaten path in this podunk excuse for a community, but there are still enough guys, married or otherwise to go around. Believe you me, they get around, I have the pictures to prove it. Did someone say pictures? I meant memories. I would never stoop to shooting a porno flick. I mean I could, I am a dynamic sex goddess even if my name isn’t Crystal Kneepads, but you know, making money off my body doesn’t seem right. Food and drinks are good, jewelry and gift cards are better, but straight cash seems tawdry and cheap. Sorry if that pisses you off honey but I like to choose my partners. Really? Judge Myers? He does what? That pervert! I can’t believe it! What? It beats a couple of years upstate? How many times have you… that many? Why do you keep coming back? You like it? WTF? Why would anyone like to be spanked? Cause it feels good? OK. If you say so. Damn. I have got to get outta here. Stuck in jail with bimbos who like to get spanked by a judge in lieu of prison time. That’s french for ‘you’re fucked so bend over and take what’s coming to you’. Oh well. I guess it’s better than being some dykes bitch. Maybe Judge Myers would accept a blow job instead. Haven’t done him yet. Always thought he was kinda creepy. Who knew?

Flashback Friday: “What is the perfect bottom type?”

This week’s Flashback Friday, originally posted, October 10th, 2009.

Theresa handed me a flyer. “I think you need this, Clara.”
She was my best friend, and I’d known her since grade school, but we hadn’t seen each other since the wedding two years ago. Now spending the week at our house, I’d thought she was having a great time. I read the flyer in shock.

Domestic Violence Hotline
1-800-xxx-xxxx

“What’s this?”
She patted my back gently. “I know you’re in denial, Clara. I heard what that brute of your husband did to you last night. I could hear you screaming and begging, but he didn’t stop! I was about to call the police but I wanted to talk to you first.”
I couldn’t help it; I burst out laughing. Theresa looked hurt and confused when I crumpled up the flyer and tossed it away.
“Thanks for the concern, but Kurt doesn’t abuse me. He was only spanking me last night.”
“SPANKING! You’re husband SPANKS you? That… that is barbaric!”

I spent the next several hours explaining our marriage and the rules I followed with the consequences for misbehavior. Theresa grew more agitated with every detail until I was afraid she would pack up and leave. Luckily, Kurt came home unexpectedly early and walked in on her strident denunciation of him. Not even pausing for breath, she laid into my husband calling him ‘wife-beater’ and ‘misogynist asshole’ among the nicest oaths.

“Are you finished, Theresa?”
“NO!”
“Well, what my wife and I do in the privacy of our home and marriage in none of your concern. I appreciate your loyalty to my wife and I realize you’ve known her for a long time. But that knowledge should be with the understanding that Clara is a strong woman and would never tolerate abuse from me.”
“It’s barbaric, Kurt! How can you even think of spanking your wife?”

Kurt sat down on the couch, patted his lap and I immediately lay across his knees in the very comforting position. Before Theresa could even leave the room, Kurt flipped up my skirt, tugged down my panties and gave me a very firm and very fast hand spanking on my still sore bottom. When he finished—for now—he glanced up at the slack-jawed Theresa and said without a hint of irony, “I spank my wife because she has the perfect bottom type. It’s bare, and over my knees.”

Outlaw in leather

Haylee Anna Cummings had never outgrown her tomboy antics, but, by middle school, her fists had settled the issue of her name for good. After graduation, legally emancipated by age, the foster care system washed its hands. She straddled her motorcycle and lit out on a Wanderjahr. Her short hair ruffled, goggles over her eyes and a pistol in her saddlebag, she traveled the country, not so much searching, as simply living day-to-day. To paraphrase the sentiment—wine, women and song—she liked rough whiskey, rougher men and heavy metal.

By the time she turned twenty-one, the rear view mirror had gotten old, but she wasn’t ready to settle down into domestic bliss. Then, he crossed her path.

She first met Lance DuBois at the dive out on Highway 50 halfway to nowhere. Too seedy to be called a honky-tonk, Kribbs was so rundown, even the alkies stayed closer to town. The local bikers kept going rather than risk hepatitis—or worse—by setting boots inside the place. The scuttlebutt around Spar Creek was that the bar had been built on top of an ancient burial ground. Supposedly the spirits of dead shamans possessed those who dared drink too much firewater.

“Helloooo! Anybody here?”

The buzzing neon signs, of brands both famous and obscure, gave off less radiation than Haylee Anna’s scorched hormones when Lance ambled out from the back room.

“What’s your poison?”
“A hard cock. What’s yours?”
“A paddle.”
“Good thing I’m wearing jeans.”
“Bare bottom only, lady.”
“Fuck…”
“That too.”
“I’m in love.”
“No you’re not.”
Lance reached under the counter and slapped an oak plank on the bar top.
“Most bartenders keep a bat or a shotgun, not a paddle.”
“I’m not most bartenders.”
“I get that impression.” She glanced around at the empty room, the jukebox and television silent. “Are you even open?”
He didn’t answer right away; instead, he sauntered to the front door, locked it and then flicked the sign over to ‘closed’. Never looking away from her lazy smile, he came back, slid his butt on the stool next to her and drawled softly, “Not now.”
“So I see. Should I be worried?”
Lance smirked and set his elbow on the polished surface. “So? What’ll it be?”
She hefted the wood and tapped it on her palm. “You got experience with this thing?”
“Honey, I wrote the book on paddling.”
“Well, in that case, stud, I’ve a hankering for a shot or two of the best you got.”

Haylee Anna spun the stool around and hopped down onto the tacky floor. Her stiletto boots clacked as she sashayed over to the scarred pool table. The zipper made a loud rasp as her leather jacket came off to be tossed on the green felt. Her braless nipples pressed the thin tank top into puckered peaks. The heavy belt buckle clanked as she shimmied her boot cut jeans down over her hips. The red silk panty shone like a siren in the dim light. Slowly, she turned her back to Lance, and placing her hands on the soft surface, slid her palms forward until her waist touched the rail.

“Nice thong.”
“Thanks.”
“Nicer ass.”
“You’re welcome.”
“It’s not bare though.”
“Oh? You want a peek of my pink too?”
“That would be nice.”
“Well, a man’s gotta do what he promised. I guess you’ll just have to take ’em down nice and easy.”

Lance tucked the paddle under one arm, and hooked his thumbs into the strings at her hipbones. As he tugged the soft fabric, she arched her bottom and widened her stance. He left them tautly stretched between her muscular thighs.

“Think you can take fifty, sweet cheeks?”
“Think you can fuck for fifty minutes, honey buns?”

SMACK!

“Oh yeah, baby, give it to me nice and hard.”

SMACK!

“Fuck! I’ve missed this.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“Damn, that burns like a thirty-year-old scotch.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“Keep ’em coming barkeep, this girl needs a fire down below.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“Halfway there, darling, you sure you can handle what I can dish out?”

SMACK! SMACK!

“Ain’t never been a man that can handle this chick.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“You can rev her up and ride her hard into the sunset, but she’ll out-fuck and out-drink you and then break your heart with a smile.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“Good thing I don’t have one then.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“Every man’s a mama’s boy inside. They can run their mouths longer than they can fuck a real woman.”

SMACK! SMACK!

“Sounds like a challenge.”

SMACK!

“You up for it?”

SMACK!

“Last one.”

SMACK!

“Got a condom? Or are you like most men, a whiny bitch afraid to cover her meat?”

Lance threw the paddle onto the pool table and unbuttoned his jeans. He ripped open the package and rolled the sheath over his cock. He grabbed her hips, pulling the flaming hot buttocks up to his waist probing for her opening.

“Hope you don’t need an instruction manual, cause if you don’t fuck my pussy better than you spanked my ass, I’m going to be really pissed.”
“I’m gonna shoot my eight-ball in your pocket, bitch, after I run your fucking table.”
“This, I gotta see. Give it your best shot, motherfucker, either way, I’m outta here in fifty-minutes.”

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Flashback Friday: “Ask me once, ask me twice…”

“… and don’t spare the rod”

This week’s Flashback Friday, was orginally posted Oct 10th, 2009.

Anna could have simply asked for a spanking. Leo was, if anything, more than willing to indulge her passion for a sore bottom. But asking was too easy. So was dropping coy hints or licking frosting off a wooden spoon. Printed panties: not very subtle. So what did Anna decide?

Well, each day of the week had a special word. When Anna used that special word, Leo could spank her. To make things interesting, Leo only had thirty minutes to begin the spanking or else he forfeited the chance to spank Anna until the following day.

Anna took advantage of that twist by using the special spanking code word in the most inappropriate places. Having dinner with the in-laws, sitting in church, driving on the interstate just after passing a rest area, Anna was quite creative with her timing.

Leo however rose to the occasion every single time and Anna always had a red, sore bottom when returning to the dinner table, the church pew or the passenger seat of the car. The more awkward the timing, the harder Leo would spank. Anna’s ultimate goal was to be spanked in a place she was sure Leo couldn’t carry out the deed.

Turns out the captain of the aircraft was a spanko and when he asked for a vote over the intercom, the majority of the passengers wanted to see and hear Leo do the deed. Anna didn’t know the captain was a college frat buddy of Leo. It was a very long flight for Anna, four hours sitting, minus the thirty-minute spanking observed by all on the plane.

When she used the special code word the next day while sunning at the resort pool, Leo simply rolled her over and ‘touched’ up the parts he’d missed the day before. Her thong bikini matched the color perfectly. ‘Red Bottom Baby’ by Leo.

“A Disciplined Model”

“S’il vous plaît, Renée, be still and do not smile!”
“I am trying, Pierre, but my arm is asleep!”
“A few more minutes, I must capture your face before the light fades.”
“That’s what you said a half an hour ago!”
“I knew I should have hired Angelique for this commission.”
“Angelique! She is but a common whore.”
“She does not pout, Renée! She is obedient and demure as a model should be!”
“Does she suck you off? Are her titons as big as mine?”
“Titons?”
“Yes, my bosom, you cretin. Do you not like them when I shake my shoulders?”
“The word is les tétons, mademoiselle, and you must be STILL!”
“Bah, Pierre, you are no more French than I am, no one cares.”
“Except my clients, who incidentally, allow me to pay you.”
“Rich and stupid Americans, here for their Grand Tour and forged antiques.”
“And the Exposition of 1900 as well, don’t forget.”
“Oh yes, the wonders of progress designed to fleece the workers of hard earned francs.”
“Don’t roll your eyes!”
“How about my hips instead?”
“That’s it, Renée! You’re an incorrigible brat! Angelique will replace you.”
“No, Pierre! I am sorry. Do not dismiss me. I’ll behave, I promise.”
“It’s too late. Get dressed and get out. We’re through.”
“Please, monsieur, give me another chance. See? You like my bottom.”
“So?”
“So. I’ve been very naughty. I deserve a good whipping, not dismissal.”
“I don’t care.”
“Please, Pierre. I am bent over for you. You can see everything. I don’t mind.”
If, I whip you, Renée, that is only a small down payment for my wasted time.”
“Yes, yes, I agree, punish me, Pierre, make me behave.”
“What shall I use? I must not damage my hands.”
“Do you still have the props?”
“Of course! The martinet is even properly French. Here it is.”
“Hurry, Pierre. I feel very excited and wet for you.”
“Who’s the whore now?”
“I am, Pierre. I am your whore. Whip me. Beat me. Use me hard!”
“Like that, you slut? And that? Across your broad, naked rump like that, you brazen hussy.”
“Oui! Oui! I am nothing but a wanton for you! Harder, Pierre, do it harder!”
“I should have flogged you the first time you caused trouble.”
“Oui! Harder, faster. Let me feel the leather thongs rake my naughty arse.”
“I suppose I should whip you before every session as a reminder.”
“Oui, Pierre! Every day and every night, make me red and striped.”
“The red lines on your dusky skin are so striking.”
“Oh, like that, and again, and again, I am getting so close.”
“Careful of your fingers in your pussy, I don’t want to strike them.”
“Then strike my wicked pussy instead! Swing up from below.”
“Like that?”
“OUI! Oh mon Dieu, do it again!”
“I didn’t know whipping there was even possible.”
“I’m coming!”
“So I see, Renée. A few more blows there, and there, and there.”
“Fuck me, Pierre! My pussy hurts, I want it to hurt even more.”
“Later.”
“Later? I must have your cock now!”
“Don’t move, Renée. The sun angle highlights all your red stripes. I must paint quickly.”

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Flashback Friday: “The Blind Date”

This week for Flashback Friday, I offer a tail about a blind date that leads to a discovery. Originally published, Sept. 17th, 2009.

Mary woke the morning after the night she never wanted to end. Robert – the blind date – had arrived precisely at 7:30 pm and she, being a woman, was not ready. It was her prerogative she told him politely. All I need is a little freshening up and we can leave. Robert put his foot down. It is my prerogative to deal with your lateness so it does not become habitual. Mary suddenly found herself spun round, bent over and a hard hand swiftly spanking her bottom through her pleated wool skirt. Ten smacks later, upright and in shock, Robert told her he was leaving in five minutes, with or without her.

Three minutes and twenty-five seconds later, Mary was on Robert’s arm. The only freshening up she managed to do was a change of knickers. Plain, wet white ones for a black, lace thong… plus several spares in case he spanked her again… or not. Robert opened the passenger door to his gleaming Lexus and told her to wait. Squeezing her chin in his hand he dictated the evening’s schedule. Rather than bridling at his dominance, Mary returned his gaze boldly and said yes, sir. Robert smirked, good girl. That remains to be seen thought Mary. As if hearing her willful thoughts, Robert watched her carefully as she slid into the car, legs together as a lady ought. Nodding with approval, he drove off into the sunset towards their destiny.

It was a restaurant called Sunset Destiny.

The valet opened the doors and waited for Robert to escort his lady inside. Mary bit her lip and ever so daringly flashed just the hint of black lace as her long legs swung to the pavement. The valet jumped in the driver’s seat and Robert told him to wait. Mary, he ordered, turn around and place your hands on the boot and thrust your bottom out. Mary obeyed, blushing to her roots and locked eyes with the stunned valet. Fifteen harder smacks later, the car was gone and so was Mary’s heart.

The food was excellent, the service was impeccable and one glass of wine turned into two and then three. Robert made no demands, no observations and no threats: only witty and broad conversation, lots of smoldering glances and some daring footsie under the table. Mary was determined to push all Robert’s buttons: baiting a bear be damned, Robert was hers no matter the price. For someone who’d never been spanked prior to this evening, his mastery was flaming a conflagration that threatened to consume her soul. It was all she could do not to climb on the table and beg for his cock. She fanned her face and excused herself. The spare knickers were calling urgently.

The same valet rushed Robert’s car to the entrance, received his fifty-dollar tip and waited eagerly for a repeat performance. He was not disappointed. Mary, slightly tipsy, carelessly flopped into the passenger seat revealing to Robert’s disapproving eyes, a flash of pink. Wet, glistening pink. Mary smiled guilelessly. Robert hauled her out and flung her over the warm bonnet. Her bottom was suddenly exposed to the cool evening air and any who chanced to look. Twenty very hard spanks rang out in the silent courtyard. The sound of flesh on flesh ringing off the stone walls drew the intense interest of every patron.

Where are your knickers? In my purse… several dry pairs. Robert reached in and grabbed a pair. Mary remained bent over and nude from the waist down. She felt him squat down, she shivered, the impulse to submit was now overwhelming. She didn’t care about the audience, she didn’t care about the juices running down her thighs, she wanted to be taken, branded by her newfound master. Robert touched an ankle, she raised a foot and he slid the knickers over one and then the other. Raising them to calf level, he ordered her to pull them up. No, stay bent over and don’t you dare drop your skirt while you apologize to all who witnessed your disgrace.

At her apartment, she asked him in: for a ‘nightcap’. She offered herself. Begged and pleaded. Robert informed her he did not have sex on a first date. However, he was very displeased with her behavior. I know, said Mary. What must I do to atone? Strip naked and bend over the arm of your leather couch. Mary shed her clothes like rain in a desert and presented her faintly marked hindquarters in a classic pose. Forty extremely hard spanks rocked her naughty backside and when it was over, to Mary’s sorrow, Robert bade her stand, hands behind her head. He looked her up and down, noting her arousal in her face, neck, breasts and genitals.

I will pick you up at 7:00 pm tomorrow. You will be dressed and waiting for me: on your knees, in the foyer. While you service me and swallow my seed, I expect you to be remembering this evening. Is that all, sir? No dear, Mary. I wish a full report, in writing, of your masturbatory exploits whence I depart soon. I demand at least six orgasms from you this evening or you will face the wrath of my cane. Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!

Of course, you’ll be caned either way.

Robert kissed Mary firmly on her quivering lips, his hands finally roaming freely over her back and tender bottom. He slipped a finger over her anus and into her sopping slit. She came in a shattering wave of pleasure. That doesn’t count, darling. Good night and sleep well.

Flashback Friday: “I’m gonna whip your ass until I can cook bacon”*

This week’s Flashback Friday was originally posted September, 15th 2009. The title came from a post the day before.

*For my Jewish readers: “I’m gonna whip your ass until I can smoke lox”
*For my Muslim readers: “I’m gonna whip your ass until I can roast lamb”
*For my Hindu readers: “I’m gonna whip your ass until I can fry nan”

“Beating up my inner feminist”

I suppose y’all think I’m a beaten down, trailer trash, crack smoking barefoot and pregnant whore for wanting to be whipped, but I ain’t. I blame my daddy – God rest his soul – for my peccadilloes: and don’t think for one cotton-pickin’ minute I don’t know what that word means. Daddy used to whup my ass every Sunday before church, just so’s I would pay attention to the preacher. Lord I miss my daddy. He raised me right, tried to beat the sass outta me – and failed – but I know he loved me. Told me to stay in school or else; the principal damn near wore out the paddle on my naughty butt and momma made sure I paid with blisters for every C I brought home.

Thing is, that’s what I want from a man, a real man that is. Not the lowlife cretins covered with sores and staggering drunk before noon. No, a blue-collar man: with grease under his fingernails, a hunting license and a big dick that I can suck until the cows come home. With a good job, a home and a 4×4 with a light bar and monster tires. Now that honey, is a real man and when he fingers his belt, and growls at my back talking, I don’t want a lecture, I don’t want reason, I don’t want some pansy assed college boy telling me how a lady should behave: I want a good whipping that makes my cheeks flaming red and my feminist snatch drippin’ wet and horny! There ain’t no real men left in this world. Too interested in spa treatments for crying out loud. The only crying in my house is when the leather meets the sassy, big-bottomed, feminist who needs a good spanking to put a smile on her face. So cowboy up and get busy with your little woman: she’ll be ever so grateful.

There was a brief silence and then gasps from her audience. “Oh! That is so nasty and dirty, Florence Lee! Bravo! That is your best story yet!”
“Why thank you kindly, Clara Sue. Do have some of my watercress and cheese canapé. Emma made them this morning.”
“Emma is a treasure, Florence Lee. Are you sure you can’t see your way clear to part with her?”
“Not on your life, Betty Jo. You keep away from my domestics if you know what’s good for you.”
“Ooh, that sounds like a threat.”
“I’ll mention to Jensen what you were up to last Saturday night, Betty Jo.”
“You wouldn’t you dare.”
“Watch me.”
“Now ladies. Simmer down. We’re all friends here and no need to be dragging our husbands into our… business. I for one don’t need a red bottom again.”
“Who are you kidding, Clara Sue! Bo Billing has spanking elbow from the amount of punishment you make him dish out. Tart!”
“Is that so, Florence Lee? This story of yours you read to us, it wouldn’t have anything to do with the new mechanic down at Pee-Wees? I did see you there yesterday on the way to Susan’s to have my hair done.”
“Well…”
“I thought so. What happened?”
“I forget my purse and since I couldn’t pay… I asked for credit.”
“And Mr. Blue Collar said?”
You’re lucky you’re not my woman, Mrs. Thompson. Trying to slide out from paying for a lube job deserves a dress up, bent over, stick your naughty bottom up high, panties down good old-fashioned switching with willow branches.
“I must take my car in tomorrow!”
“Me too! You can’t have all the fun, Florence Lee.”