Oct 022008
 

“You have a hole in your heart.”

Micheal’s Grandma always had a way with words. She said that to him last year when she came over to the States to visit. He didn’t ask her to explain herself. He knew it was true. He was a twenty-five year old second generation Chinese-American in Atlanta, Georgia. It’s bad enough being a minority in America, but Georgia? That just plain sucked. Still, it wasn’t why Michael was depressed.

It wasn’t because he lived with and worked for his parents. It wasn’t because his job was delivering pseudo Chinese food to rednecks. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was failing college. All of those things were trivial.

Michael Yan was depressed because he was a pervert. All he ever wanted to do was spank asses. Round asses, flat asses, white asses, black asses, or Chinese asses it didn’t matter. As long as they were girl asses, he wanted to spank them.

At the age of seven, Michael has his first erection in first grade. Susan Bradshaw had acted up in class and their teacher, Mrs. Campell had bent Susan over and spanked her bottom. Poor Michael had felt his pants grow tight along with a sense of loss that he could never figure out. For some reason, he felt like it should have been him spanking Susan’s ass.

When he was sixteen, he got to second base with his neighbor, Carrie Cho. Holy shit, she had giant breasts she inherited from her American mother but Michael could care less. He sucked on her nipples because it was the only time she didn’t mind him grabbing her ass.

Michael was foolish enough to strike her bottom. He meant to do a gentle tap but instead some strange force seized his hand and he smacked the bejesus out of Carrie’s bottom. She screamed. When she slapped him across the face, Michael couldn’t help notice how poorly the slap was done. Her wrists were limp and her arm was crooked.

She broke up with him, the first in a long line of girlfriends who were disappointed in him. Michael loved women but he loved spanking them even more. Some girls were happy to be spanked a little for foreplay, but to Michael it was the only play. Groping, blowjobs and even penetration was just teasing. Spanking is what Michael craved.

The feel of a hot ass.

The sound of hand meeting bottom.

The sight of an ass clenching right before the strike.

Atlanta had a kinky scene but Michael couldn’t even let himself think about it. What would his parents think of they knew he went to one of those clubs? For that matter, Michael couldn’t imagine himself going to one of those places. He hoped that maybe if he ignored his special cravings, maybe they would just go away.

Michael Yan had a hole in his heart. What he didn’t know was that halfway across the planet, the missing piece of his heart was in the shape of a beautiful concubine’s ass.

 Fiction, Spanking  Comments Off on Fiction: Master of Spanking Part Two
Oct 012008
 

Wu Han, Master of Spanking, passed away one night after spanking his Sixty-six concubines. An autopsy revealed that he suffered a fatal heart attack while spanking his fifty-third concubine but Wei Hao kept spanking. Only when he had finished spanking his favorite concubine, the delicate Mei Rou, did he allow his body to die. Such is the willpower of the Master of Spanking.

The hour of his death was marked in the great scrolls and the monks went out into the world to search for his rebirth. For the Master of Spanking so loved the asses of the world that he choose not to go to Nirvana, but to stay here on the mortal plane where the bottoms are warm and soft.

Villages were searched. Great cities were examined. Astrologists were consulted. Finally, six months after the death of the Wei Hao, the monks heard of a baby who laughed when he was spanked. The villagers said the baby laughed in a mocking tone as if utterly unimpressed with the punishment he was given. The baby’s name was Shi Da.

The monks traveled to the small village and tested the baby. First, they laid out sixty six paddles that belonged to the Master. Shi Da with bright eyes crawled to a worn purple paddle with an ivory grip. The monks smiled for this was the Master’s favorite paddle.

Next, the monks placed the baby on a spanking bench with uneven legs. The baby wobbled for a moment on the narrow beam but he kept his balance. Back and forth the baby crawled and never did he fall off. The monks were pleased.

Finally, the Master’s sixty-six concubines were brought to the village. They kneeled on the ground and placed their heads on the ground. They lifted their bare asses towards the baby. Shi Da was let go and he crawled around, giggling. When he reached the supple ass of Mei Rou, did he stop. The baby stood on it’s two shaking legs and slapped Mei Rou’s ass. One, two three time with his tiny hands.

The monks rejoiced. They gave the parents a wagon full of gold and took the baby back to their monastery. There they trained him in the Hundred Palm Slap, the Seven Cryptic Canes and the Eighty-Two ways to compliment an ass. Shi Da was taught all of the mysteries of the art of spanking and as well as the terrible secret reason the art was so important to the safety of the world.

It would be twenty-five years before the monks realized they had the wrong baby.

To be continued,

Mar 282008
 

She lays flat on her belly. Her arms tucked under her head with her legs together. The curve of her ass is just begging for my hand.

I start slow. Light light light taps. I’m bouncing my hand off her ass. I remember being a kid and learning how to dribble a basketball. It’s that same touch. It’s not about power or force as much as it is letting the motion work itself.

My hand moves left to right. I bounce off one cheek and then the other. The speed picks up. My palm tingles and I slow down. Light and easy.

She moans. It’s a good moan. It is the moan you do when you slip into a hot bath. It is the moan of chocolate. It is the moan of stretching after sex. This feels good.

I remember when I used to make women do a different kind of moan. I spanked to terrorize. I spanked to spoil only myself. I spanked to hurt, to make them wince and to make them fucking notice I was there. I spanked like a bastard. I spanked like an angry teacher. I spanked to make them scream.

Now a days I only spank her. I spank because it makes her feel good. My precise blows are now a form of impact massage. My hand and all those cruel paddles are now just instruments of relaxation. When it starts to sting, I slow down. When it she starts to squirm, I strike gently.

I used to make fun of people like me. I called them spanking slaves. I rolled my eyes at the bottom who would make requests and I snickered at the tops who listened. Where was the terror? Where was the fear? What was the point if you’re not making them tremble?

But now I get it. I don’t have a wife who criticizes me non stop. I don’t feel like the only time I get respect is when I wield a paddle. I don’t have to justify every decision I make under the context that I am a sex obsessed goofball. I am a sex obsessed goofball but it’s a fucking asset thank you very much. I’m not angry, I’m not tense, I’m not unhappy and swinging a paddle to somehow spank my way back into self respect.

I don’t have to spank a beautiful ass to feel good about myself. I spank a beautiful ass because it makes her shoulders unclench, it makes her sleep better and some days but not always, she rolls over and begs me to fuck her. I spank her because it makes her happy and I am glad to be a part of that.

It doesn’t hurt that it is such a beautiful ass.

Nov 152007
 

1. Pulling her pants down. This is something I really like to do myself. The act of unbuttoning is the BDSM equivalent of unwrapping a gift. Which I guess it is.

2. Grabbing the hair. You know, when you grab someone’s hair, you have their attention. If you are wailing on their ass while doing it, then you have split their attention in two places. Besides, good hair was meant to be pulled.

3. When the ass is bright red and hot to the touch, I like to lean down and bite. I like the feel of hot skin between my teeth while the person I am biting either squeals, moans or shivers. I like to bite right where their cunt is inches from my nose. If I am doing a good job of spanking, I can smell just how good I’m doing. When the skin I am biting is no longer blistering hot, I know it’s time to go back to the spanking.

Feel free to add to the list.

Jul 052007
 

So I was spanking Beth last night. It had been a long 4th of July, made longer by the air conditioning dying. I had wanted to spank her all day long but it was just too hot and sticky. Around 10 at night, it had cooled down enough to actually enjoy some skin on skin contact.

Thirty minutes of butt-whooping later, her ass was baby blanket pink. Beth was bent over her bed, her wrists bound behind her back with my purple cuffs. Her hair was a tangled mess because I kept pulling it. She was grinding against the bed, partially because I told her to and partially because her hips had their own commands. Her knees shook a little during the last series of spanks I gave her so I gave her a moment to recover.

I grab her hair and lifted her face off the bed. “Want me to keep going?” I asked.

“Yes,” she purred.

“Then ask for it,” I said.

It was like pulling the cork out of a bottle. Words spilled out with a rush of emotion. Beth begged me to keep going. She pleaded with me to hurt her. She called me by name to do terrible things to her ass. It all came out in a torrent of desire, subservience and masochism. The last thing in the world she wanted was for me to stop, and the thing she wanted most was for me to be the one to do it to her.

I shoved her face back down into the bed. My knees were shaking now. Her words ricocheted inside my head, setting off so many good feelings I couldn’t keep track of them all. I felt mean, I felt good, I felt powerful, I felt sexy, I felt benevolent, I felt skilled, I felt adored, I felt feared and I felt alive. Her begging was better than any orgasm could have been.

I picked up the mean black paddle and gave her exactly what she deserved.

May 022007
 

Cathy was crying. My best friend since middle school was sobbing on my shoulder, and I couldn’t understand why. She had lost her wallet, and I had come over to help look, but that couldn’t explain why she was almost wailing in sadness. This is the girl who’d refused to cry when she broke her ankle in track, refused to cry when her grandmother died and hadn’t shed a single tear when her husband asked for a divorce. Tears were what I did, not Cathy.

“It’s OK,” I said, not feeling OK in the least. “Let’s make a list of what was in your wallet and then we’ll report all the credit cards and figure out what needs to be replaced.”

Cathy cried more loudly.

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What’s the matter?” I asked in my most comforting voice. Cathy wouldn’t say.

I held Cathy as she cried. Instead of thinking about what could possibly be bothering her, I thought about the weirdness of her not telling me. We were buddies. We were best friends. We told each other everything. She knew I was part of a kinky bondage community, although that sort of thing seemed silly to her. I knew the approximate cock size of every man she had ever been with. She knew I got a hard-on every time I heard a Stevie Nicks song, while I knew she liked to masturbate to football games. We had no secrets or shame anymore, but here she was, crying about something I couldn’t understand.

She said something, but I couldn’t hear her. I peeled her tear-stained face from my wet shirt and made her look at me.

“I used to lose my wallet all the time,” she said. “My parents called it ‘pulling a Cathy.’ ”

She went back to crying. Just saying it made it seem worse. I didn’t ask her to explain because there was nothing more to explain. See, one reason we’d become best friends was that both of our fathers were alcoholics. We understood the terror of never knowing if it would be the good father who’d come home from the bar or the bad, wicked father who would seem to hate your guts. In this case, though, Cathy was thinking of the insecure father who was angry that his daughter might have more self-esteem than he did. That bastard father who created little insults and running jokes that have one punchline- Cathy’s a fuck-up, so there’s no reason for her to judge him for hitting mom last night.

“Cathy, it’s OK,” I said again, but this time I thought I knew the right tack to take. “All kids lose their wallets or their purses at first. Your dad just had to be an ass about it. So you lost your wallet today; big deal. At your age, your dad was driving cars into ditches.”

“I know,” she whimpered. “But I still feel like I did something wrong. I feel like I have screwed up and I deserve everything my father is going to say about it.”

My mind raced along on various tracks. I wanted to fix her somehow, although I knew there were no magic words. I wanted to take away her shame. I wanted to go back in time and kill her father.

A solution occurred to me. In normal times, I wouldn’t even have entertained it. But these were not normal times. Cathy was crying, and I had to fix it.

“Your dad never spanked you, did he?” I asked.

She shook her head. Of course, he hadn’t. Drunks like our dads liked to bruise with words. They used guilt and shame instead of their hands. They piled on doubt and self-loathing in between times of sobriety.

“Come here,” I said. I walked her over to my couch and sat down. When she tried to sit down with me, I grabbed her by the hips and faced her against my knees.

“Over,” I said. Maybe it was my tone. Maybe it was just her distraught state of mind. Whatever the reason, Cathy bent across my knees and didn’t resist as I positioned her legs and pulled down her pants. I was tempted to leave her blue panties there, but they came down, too. There had to be no protection for her bottom tonight.

I placed one hand on her back. “Cathy, losing your wallet was a bad thing. You’ll need to get your driver’s license redone, and you’re going to have a mess of phone calls to cancel all of your credit cards. It was careless to lose your wallet, and you should have been more aware of where it was instead of realizing it was gone a day later. I’m going to punish you now for what you have done. Do you understand?”

Cathy didn’t say anything, but she did nod her head.

“You have to understand that once you have been punished, what you did wrong has been forgiven. It will never be brought up again, and there is nothing more for you to do. You have paid for your crime, and it will never be held against you. Do you understand?”

She nodded her head again.

Spanking can be slow, sensuous and very pleasant. That’s not what Cathy needed. She needed the other way. She needed it fast, cruel and painful. Because I am her friend, I gave it to her.

My hand came down on her bottom with a boom. Her whole body shook, and her ass checks squeezed together. I thought the sound had been worse than the hit, but the way Cathy sucked in her breath told me the hit had been just fine.

I smacked her ass again. As soon as her back arched from the hit, I smacked her ass again. Her hands clenched my thigh, and a pitiful sob whimpered from her lips. This was no fun for Cathy at all. It was no fun for me either, but sometimes, this is what friends do. They give each other what their families neglected to do. Today, I was giving Cathy the gift of atonement.

I spanked her. With each swing of my hand, I forgot every little tip I had ever been taught. Instead of caressing her bottom after each hit, I only swung again harder. Instead of a gentle building rhythm of swings, I gave her the escalating volley of relentless spanks that only the wicked deserve. Instead of whispering encouragement, I only gave Cathy stern silence. This was discipline; logical, ruthless and so much needed.

Cathy endured her punishment. Sometimes, my blows would come too fast, and she would squirm on my lap. Sometimes, her feet would kick and her hands would squeeze my thigh painfully in protest. And sometimes, she would shriek as the pain became too intense.

She never asked me to stop.

My arm grew tired. I pushed myself. I drew from my own relationship with my father. I thought of his snide comments. I thought of how he’d emasculated me during my childhood. I thought of the bastard and how he would have raised Cathy if she were his daughter. I tapped into my anger and a little of my own grief. No matter how sore I was getting, I kept going. Cathy deserved no less.

My hand was tingling from all the spanks when the dam broke inside Cathy. Deep within her, something released, and her crying exploded into full-blown grief. Her body hung limp on my lap except for the racking sobs. The shame her father had given her was pushed out by the cleansing sensation of a burning ass. When you’ve held shame that long, sometimes the only way out is through tears. I spanked my best friend till every tear, whimper and wail was exorcised from her body and soul.

The crying stopped. As the crying dying down, so did my spanking. My hand was sore as hell, but I knew Cathy’s ass was in far worse shape. I helped her stand up and then I insisted she pull her panties and pants back up. There would be no lotion or balm for her. She had to keep the pain. She needed to suffer for her transgression so she could alleviate the shame that she had been trained to feel.

“Oh, God, I am never losing my wallet again,” she said.

I laughed. “And if you do, I’ll help you find it.”

Cathy hugged me.

“I know.”

The end.