Page 40 of Hurts So Good

“Please, Sir. Please use me as you see fit.”

And so I did, for the first time since. I unleashed my sadism into him, grinding my boot into his dick until tears filled his eyes, slamming my boots into his thighs, raining blows into his chest, a whirlwind of pain to hold him still. I bent him over the horse, ripping his clothes open to my fists and teeth, and did not pause until my cock was poised at his asshole, opening him. He was whimpering around the head, trying to take it in, straining for me. It was clear he had never taken someone of my girth, for all his slutting around, and he was struggling with it.

“Take it, boy.”

“I don’t know if I can, Sir.” He was crying, his head shaking back and forth in frustration.

“Take it boy. I know you can take it for me.”

“Yes, Sir,” he whimpered.

I thrust home, forcing him open, making my way inside him. It was a joy to see his body trembling on my cock, feel his ass work to hold me. I went still inside him, watching him push himself to take it.

“That’s it boy. Take my cock in your ass. Give yourself up to me.”

I used him thoroughly that night, jamming my dick into him, mindless of anything but my own pleasure. As he sobbed, I fucked his tight ass, and reveled in my own control. I took his breath again as I came inside him, my cock bursting in what seemed like endless spurts.

I pulled out of his ass, and forced him to kneel on the floor and jack off onto my neglected boot, promising that he would have the opportunity to clean off his own spunk with his tongue. Tears streamed down his face, and after he came I ordered him to rub them into my boot, mix them in with the come.

“This is how you feed my boot, boy. With your come and your tears. Fill it up, and then lick it clean. That’s it boy.”

I kept my boot heel on the back of his neck as he licked the leather clean, feeling life surge through my body in delicious waves. I stroked him as he lay at my feet, softly praising his work. We stayed like that for a long time. Then I tucked a generous tip into his boots, patted him softly on the head, and walked out.

That night I slept well.

For the first time since.

OMEGA TO ALPHA

Diana St. John

His online name was Ellis Dee.

Such audacity in naming appealed to my good-girl-wanna-be-bad nature. He came across as cool, confident, and, most importantly, dominant. Sweet Jesus, the rush of warmth and liquid lust that flowed through me, intoxicating me, as he described in detail just how he would spank me if I were there. I was amazed—I didn’t even have to spill all of my fantasies. He had ideas of his own.

After a few evenings of online chat and a few phone calls, I found myself waiting for the college shuttle just outside the mailroom. I was wearing an autumn-toned little plaid skirt, baby-doll T-shirt, thigh highs and platforms, and feeling quite naughty, deliciously naughty, under the watchful eye of the nun in full habit who directed campus mail delivery.

The shuttle ride to the city bus stop seemed to take an eternity. The bus ride to a seedy apartment complex in Santa Monica was paradoxically fast. I wondered if my purpose was written all over my face. If the hairbrush and leather belt in my bag, my only toys at that point, were obvious to my fellow passengers. Could they tell by looking at me how long I had craved to feel them make impact, again and again, on my helpless, throbbing ass?

When I arrived at the apartment complex, I had a moment of concern for my safety. I hadn’t told anyone where I was going, excited and aroused by the secrecy. I also knew that in my small Catholic women’s college, it would be considered far more normal to get wasted and fucked by some nameless, faceless boy from the local public university’s frat chapters than to be stone-cold sober and indulge in what I was beginning to realize was my spanking fetish.

I knocked on the door, heart racing. He answered and I’m sure there was some small talk, but I can’t remember it. I only recall the current that raced from my stomach to my clit when he crooned in his lovely baritone voice, “So very naughty…skirt so short…brat…” He laughed, murmuring “Such a bad girl needing to be spanked” before guiding me over to the bed. He sat down on the edge and pulled me over his lap.

It was the moment I had been waiting for almost forever, heart pounding, holding my breath for the sound, the feel of skin on skin, the initial impact, and the lovely spread of warmth.

The bastard made me wait as he flipped up my skirt, pulled down the little pink excuse of a pair of panties that were already soaked, and began to rub my rump, telling me what a shame it was to have to punish such a lovely ass. I couldn’t stop grinding into his thighs, surprising myself with the intensity of my desire. He merely laughed, loving how badly I wanted this. Finally, he began.

I heard the crack of a hand coming down on the sweet curve at the bottom of my right cheek and felt the sting melt into a liquid heat that went from my ass to my cunt. Immediately, I was hooked. Again and again his hand descended, and we both realized at once that I was lifting my hips to meet his hand. He began to murmur those utterly sexy threats about how I was obviously hopelessly naughty, about me liking it too much. Then he abruptly stopped. He told me to stand up and show him what I had brought.

As I got to my feet, he flicked my clit and then commented on how aroused I was. I was only aware that in my few experiences with lovers, I’d always needed additional lube, had never been so wet that the juices were running down my thighs. I was mortified—yet relieved—when I realized that I wasn’t frigid, as one of the nice boys from times past had hinted. I just needed sex that was hot, hard, dirty, and nasty.

Pulling out my cocoa-colored leather belt and the white plastic paddle-shaped hairbrush was almost harder than admitting the spanking fetish itself. I fantasized about being spanked every morning as I brushed my long dark brown hair, but this was different. This was real. The wide smile that crossed his face as I tentatively handed over my treasures assuaged my tension, and his instantaneous reaction of pulling me back over his lap could only have been more perfect had he grabbed me by my hair to put me back in my place.

The hairbrush.

Mother of God, the hairbrush!

It had a more resounding quality, a bit more thud and sting than his hand. My writhing in lust was joined by that instinctive desire to cover, and the absolute reality that I was nowhere near wanting to use my safeword. If he had stopped, I would have been as frustrated as if he had denied me an orgasm. He seemed to anticipate my hand’s movement, had waited for it, I’m sure, and pinned my hand at the small of my back, promising in that sexy growl to tie me to the bedframe and use the belt if I tried that again.

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