Chelsea Girl had some downtime on Memorial Day. So what did she do?
Why, she got a spanking, of course!
Yesterday, Memorial Day, I went to Donny’s apartment late in the afternoon. I had taken the dog to the dog run, I had washed my floors and cleaned the cat’s box. I had showered and eaten and brushed my teeth, I had sent a few emails. I had done a bit of duty to others and to self, and then it was time for me to do my duty to my country and to my cunt. It was time to fuck my boyfriend.
“What would you like?” Donny asks, naked in the orange light of the sun setting.
I want you to spank me, I say.
“What would you like me to spank you with?” He asks. “The new spanker? My hand? The flogger?”
It’s up to you, I say, and I lay prone on his bed, my bare ass raised on a dais of pillows; I imagine its good-natured spread like twin generous helpings of ice cream pooling on the bed.
“Good answer,” Donny says and retrieves the new spanker from his drawer. The new spanker has been sitting in his drawer, unused, bereft and lonely, quiet as an unread Trollope novel, since I bought it for him in April. Made of braided leather cording, it’s a sweet, stingy little whippy thing, just about 10” in length and shaped like an old-fashioned carpet beater. I bought it because I thought that Donny wouldn’t be able to resist its Celtic knotted charm and because I thought it would leave interesting whorls and lines on my vanilla cupcake ass.
Donny kneels on the bed beside me and slowly draws the edge of the spanker down my spine, across the dale of my lower back, up and around the swelling hills of my ass. He curves and swirls the toy across my skin, like he is writing on me in invisible ink, like he is skating across the landscape of my body, like he is authoring my anticipation, which unlike the previous phrases is no simile.
And then, predictably, he strikes me unpredictably,only to return once more to the leather-weight precise pleasure of the spanker’s edge on my skin, drawing lazily, sketching his whim and my desire in freehand on my flesh. He punctuates his work: Smack! Smack! Smack!
“Too hard?” he asks.
No, I said. It isn’t. And it is. It feels like the quintessence of a study in contrasts, this hurtful act of love that gave pleasured pain, this tension between waiting and dread, this starry smack that pops a melting white flash in my brain, this invisible heat that builds with each wanted and feared strike. He tells me that the spanker left whorled red lines, like firecrackers have been caught exploding and held still in time on the white vista of my ass.
Smack! smack!-smack!-smack!-Smack! Donny strikes a series of blows on a small parcel of outer assflesh, each one more stinging than the last. My breath hisses like a punctured tire. He puts the spanker down and tells me to turn over; he pulls me to the side of the bed, props one of my feet on a chair and the other on a chest, and buries his pervert’s mouth and pointy tongue in my pussy. He presses one finger and then two into my pussy, licking each one with a loud ssschluck before each insertion. I ride his mouth and his fingers, willing him to suck my clit like a lemon drop and giving silent gratitude when he does so.