Stripped caning, sex, stage | free spanking story

On the day after he spanks me, Robert always takes me out to dinner. Last night’s was particularly bad, so we go to an extra nice restaurant. Maybe it’s his way of making sure I know he’ll still be sweet to me. Maybe he just likes to see me squirm as I sit on my sore bottom. Regardless, I like it. I try to wear a short dress so that he’ll look at my voraciously as we eat.

“Want to go somewhere you’ve never been before?” Robert asks as we’re driving home. Robert and I have only been going out a month and he’s still full of surprises.

“Okay,” I say.

Robert takes an exit off the freeway that I’ve never noticed before. I’m sure we don’t drive for long, but it seems like it takes forever because I don’t know where we’re going. We’re in an area I don’t recognize. It’s industrial and ugly. There are warehouses and a place where you can rent a backhoe or a big tent. It’s nearly dark outside and I see a neon sign flashing a little ways off the main road. We make a right towards the sign and suddenly I realize where we’re going: “Bottoms Up.”

You can tell it’s a strip club by the neon girl who bends over thousands of times a day, accompanied by the buzzes and tics of the pink glass tubes.

“Oh, my God,” I say. I’ve never been to any place like this before and suddenly feel inexplicably prude. I know I’m hardly one to talk, but my first impulse is to object to Robert’s surprise destination.

“But...”

“But what, honey?”

My imagination begins to spin out of control. It’ll be dingy and degrading. My worst suspicions of men will be confirmed. They'll be drooling animals, so obviously incapable of dealing with a woman as anything more than tits, ass and pussy that I might as well just give up on the spot. What if Robert is no better than them? How will I feel, seeing a stage full of perfect bodies with fake tits, waxed crotches and no cellulite? Will Robert be too busy gawking at snatch to notice me? Will the dancers see me as an impediment to tips or as competition for the men's attention? The list of things that might go wrong is endless.

I’m embarrassed that we’re going to a place like this, but at the same time I’m embarrassed that I’ve never been to a place like this before. I’m too shy to ask just how naked they really are.

The outside looks totally disreputable. A wooden fence surrounds the parking lot to shelter the middle-aged men from view as they nervously scurry in and out. It's a windowless, stucco rectangle of a building. Its only distinguishing feature is a hyper-curvy girl silhouetted on the door, like the kind on truckers' mud flaps. Robert and I laugh nervously when we ring the doorbell and the bouncer lets us in. It's $20 for Robert. I get in free. The giant bouncer in his cheap tux holds the door for me and asks if the lady would care for a drink. So tacky and so sweet, I can't help but like it.

Walking in, it's like entering another universe. There are completely naked women everywhere. I feel an unexpected shock at their nudity. It's so public and so complete. The dancers move around on elevated stages surrounded by chairs where a few men sit, looking up with rapt attention and boyish delight. The stages are like well-lit dance floors with mirrors and colored spotlights and disco balls that sparkle the room with light. A DJ sits in a booth in the back. There are two bars and three pool tables. The male employees are huge and wear tuxes, giving the place a chintzy elegance. The women are mostly young. The dancers double as waitresses. The bartenders are the only older, fully dressed, female employees. Everyone is excessively friendly and polite to me, as if to correct against any appearance of licentiousness. The male staff seems a little gawky and awkward around me. They only recover their poise by becoming positively mannered. Ma'am this. Lady that. I've suddenly become royalty.

Is this a temple of woman-worship, an altar for supplication before the great gyno-goddess of snatch? The men are in what can only be called a trance.

“The pussy trance,” Robert christens it.

They sit and stare, their eyes following the gyrations of the dancer's hips hypnotically. You are feeling very, very sleepy. The men's eyelids seem to droop. At the end of the dance, they reach down to the pile of bills in front of them and emerge from their trance long enough to smile sheepishly while they slip a dollar into the dancer's garter.

Before me is a dancer with dark pink labia that hang down like flaps. They could easily pass for a turkey wattle. The make-up can’t hide the places where the skin on her inner thighs is dimpled and red where the hairs have been removed.

"I always thought guys found that disgusting," I whisper to Robert.

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She squats in front of me and leans back on one hand, running the fingers of her other hand on either side of labia, pulling the skin apart and spreading herself open as she goes. I wonder if they’re not allowed to put their fingers inside.

"To men," Robert explains, "It's sublime. Spells, potions, wands and elixirs...they amount to nothing compared to the magic between a woman's legs. We spend two-thirds of our lives thinking about it.”

"But what about all those stinky fish jokes?" I ask.

"Do men do this for stinky fish?" Robert gestures at the men around us.

Touche. Still, I can't quite suspend my disbelief.

"But they have stretch marks and droopy boobs and sagging asses," I protest.

They aren't bad looking, but none is perfect. Some have stringy, heavy metal groupie bodies, others are plump, especially the Latina ones. A few have a spectacular sex appeal, but most are more modest. The good ones bring a sense of fun to the stage. They wink and smile and add touches of irony, even as there are few things less ironic than a guy leaning over to get closer to the ass spread wide in front of his face. It's like it has its own gravitational pull.

"You girls hold yourselves to a higher standard than us guys do," Robert opines without taking his eyes off the white-trash-y girl in her Harley thong on stage. She winks at him and he blushes. That’s right—a man who paddled his girlfriend black and blue last night blushes when a stripper winks at him. Oh, if only she knew.

We watch for a while and the dancers become familiar to us. They’re look to me like the kind of girls who are shy when you talk to them but who would do just about anything on a dare. Cinnamon is Latina and curvy to the point of where the folds of flesh on her belly overlap. She has big, shiny lips and long hair. Ginger gets into her stage name by having “S.S. Minnow” emblazoned on the seat of her hot pants. Sage is the last of the spice trio. She looks Indian, with short hair, a pierced belly button and a dark Celtic tattoo between the dimples at the base of her spine. Melanie sports a "Got Milk?" mini-t that’s so short it only covers half her breasts, and Tina has a bear’s paw tattooed on her ass. There’s Candi the schoolgirl with pigtails, tartan skirt and saddle shoes and Ms. Gwen the librarian with reading glasses and a book pressed coyly to her otherwise bare chest.

"You can see everything," I say, amazed at the view I'm getting as Melanie dances for me. Nothing is off limits. Every pose, every angle and every orifice is in play. Melanie is on her hands and knees, back arched and ass high in the air. I think of the men who've seen this view of me. I wonder if her ass has ever been bruised like mine is. Melanie stands up and waits in front of me, smiling and not moving. Suddenly I realize I'm supposed to put a dollar in her garter. I'm surprised to be included in the stripper-audience social contract. Robert hands me a dollar bill. I tentatively reach for her garter, but she thinks of something else. She takes the dollar out of my hand and slips it between my lips. I realize I'm supposed to hold it in my mouth. Then she takes her large breasts in her hands, leans forward and grabs the dollar in her cleavage. Oh, my. She and Robert laugh. I can feel the warmth of her smooth skin on my cheeks for several long seconds afterwards.

Tina, with her bear's paw ass, is next. After prancing about and shedding whatever clothes she came on stage with, she raises herself and leans forward, bracing her outstretched hands on a pole and bouncing on her toes. This makes her ass jiggle wildly, so that the flesh of her buttocks oscillates in waves. It's like there's some invisible man spanking her or fucking her hard from behind at supersonic speeds, making her flesh ripple each time he crashes into her. She slides her hands down the pole and lowers herself all the way down to all fours, ass never ceasing to jiggle.

"How does she do that?" I ask Robert, amazed by how she kept doing it even when she was on all fours. When she's finished her stage show, she walks towards our table.

She says it's nice to dance for a girl. I smile and am secretly happy to be appreciated. I screw up my courage and ask her how she gets her ass to jiggle like that.

“When you’re standing up, it’s all in the toes, but when you’re on your knees, it’s more in the hips.”

"I always thought jiggling meant you were fat," I say, "I always try to hide my jiggling."

"I used to, too!" Tina says, "But the guys here love it."

"It's how your ass looks when I spank you," Robert chimes in.

I blush for what seems like the millionth time.

"That's what my boyfriend says, too," Tina says, breaking the mortifying silence with the sweetest smile.

Oh, my God. Does everyone do it? What’s wrong with the world!

We talk some more. She's a college student, a real, live English major. No kidding—it’s not just some get-up for guys who want to see a co-ed naked. She’s my age, but she seems somehow purer, even though she’s the one prancing around naked on stage and I’m the one who’s blushing every time I look around. We ask her if being a stripper has changed her at all. She says that she's not as scared of men as she used to be. She’s seen that their hunger is really just loneliness. Men pay money to come here and be less lonely.

“Besides, it’s pretty fun. I like the guys and they like me. I’d definitely come here if I were a guy.”

She looks at Robert and smiles. She’s anything but the strung-out, world-weary sex workers I’ve heard about. It all seems strangely wholesome, like being able to talk to someone after you've stared at their naked body allows for a whole new level of honesty and frankness. She doesn't seem to get off on her job, but she loves it that I like to look at her naked. She says some girlfriends come with their boyfriends and get mad, like the dancers are trying to steal their man away. I turn to Robert and tell him not to get any bright ideas.

She looks up at the stage and realizes it's just about her turn again. "I'll be right back," she says and scampers off. It’s as if she has to go get a pie out of the oven, not get on stage and spread her ass cheeks for a line of strange men waiting patiently with their dollar bills. No one will believe me if I tell them how sweet it all seems.

I look at Robert and love what I see. We enjoy a couple of more dancers and then we leave. The girls are quite enough to distract me from the tender state of my ass for a while, but the longer we sit, the more I fidget or get up to go to the bathroom. On the way out, several dancers stop me and tell me they’re glad I came.

It’s not exactly like I’m soaking wet and wanting to jump Robert the instant we get to the car. When we kiss, I feel his crotch press against me and check if he’s hard. He’s not. But there’s a deeper arousal, the sum of an hour of naked women and naked thoughts. I’m reminded of how they say a tsunami is barely a ripple on the surface of the deep ocean and yet it ravages a coastline when forced upward by the rising sea floor. Our arousal now is barely a ripple, but the drive is long and it gives me time to think. The ripple begins to grow. I’m feeling naughty and hungering for something more. I can’t stop thinking about all that flesh, exposed and on display. I can’t stop thinking of the details: the puckered asshole that the dancer clenched when she pulled her cheeks apart, the way her pussy peered out the back when she arches her back just so, or the way the bulge grew in Robert’s pants when she wagged her ass in his face. I know what he was thinking about.

I was relieved that it wasn’t sleazy, sinister or gross, that the women weren’t addicts earning crack money or whores on a thinly disguised auction block. They talked like me. They looked like me. They needed money like me. I even thought that if it weren’t for Robert I might just… Well, it looked like it beat waitressing.

I wonder what it is about them that makes me want to be like them. Maybe it’s because they seem so comfortable and brash, like nothing in the world could shame them. But maybe I’m drawn to them because underneath the see-no-evil veneer, they still feel sleazy and dirty, like me. It reminds me of my fantasies of being humiliated and on display. I find myself wondering about what might embarrass the dancers. What if they peed their panties like I did? What if they had to dance with something sticking out of their ass? What if they were tied up and you could touch them any way you wanted to? What if they were spanked? When I think of these things, I imagine I’m the dancer and try to feel what it would be like to be them. The truth is obvious: I would feel like I deserved whatever I got because of how shamelessly I showed my ass and pussy to men. I wonder if they do.

Are they really like me? Does their apparent comfort with their nudity hide something still deeper? Can they really bury the discomfort away? Maybe they hunger for things like I do. Maybe they wish deep down that someone might just force them on stage with something in their ass or tie them to that pole. I know I would. Does the thought of a gangbang—of all those men, all that fucking, all those cocks—enter their minds before they have a chance to chase it away? They’d get righteous if anyone suggested this to them—I know how important it is for them to insist that they’re normal. I do that, too. But who the hell really feels normal?

The girls profess to feel safe—the bouncers say they love them like little sisters. I know they claim to feel liberated and empowered, freely expressing their sexuality and providing entertainment because it’s what they want to do. I know I’d say the same things. But I wouldn’t mean it. I’d be up there, feeling like an outcast, wondering why I couldn’t get a normal job, wondering why I always got nervous and a little wet when I was around the guys whose eyelids drooped like they didn’t give a shit, the ones who’d probably smack me around a bit and call me bitch if it weren’t for the bouncers. I’d know I wasn’t like the stand-up comedians who perform at a comedy club or the dancers who put on performance events in small theatres at my old university. No, I was some girl exposing my body to men, pretending to be cool and nonplussed, all the while wondering what was wrong with me. I know I’d dig my fingernails into my ass hard enough to leave marks when I spread my cheeks in some man’s face, clenching and unclenching, hoping that he might see the real me, the me that feels as base as a throbbing asshole and the me that wishes someone would take me and make me stop.

Thinking about it makes me remember what it felt like before Robert began spanking me; before I met him or knew what I needed to feel okay; before I even knew I could feel okay. I wonder whether the strippers know.

I’m drenching Robert’s car seat, my wetness soaking my panties so thoroughly that when I squeeze my thighs together, it feels like I’m wringing out a washcloth in my crotch. I’m thinking of Robert and me; Ginger, Sage and Cinnamon; and Candy, Melanie, Tina and Ms. Gwen. I’m thinking that they’re naughty like me. I’m thinking of Robert spanking them like he spanks me. I’m thinking of being naked with them, helping Robert spank them.

They’re all standing naked, facing the wall, and I’m sitting on a chair in the middle of the stage. I’m naked, but I’m on Robert’s side. My body is exposed like theirs, but my ass won’t be the one getting it. Not tonight. Robert calls Tina over first. A dozen strokes, he says. He has a cane, and Tina can’t keep her eyes off of it. She tries to keep her composure, but the sight of him flexing the cane’s whippy shaft is too much for her. She pleads but all he does is order her to bend over, facing the chair where I’m sitting and holding on to it for support. She won’t do it by herself, so I grab her hands in mine and pull her towards me. She grips the chair beside my bare hips, and her head rests right above my thighs. Her hair falls between my legs, tickling my pussy and sticking to me where my wetness is leaking out. I’m sure she can smell how aroused I am by her punishment. I wonder if she’s angry with me for taking pleasure in her pain.

She’s facing me, but I can see her ass in the mirror on the wall opposite. It’s gorgeous—curvy and full, with porcelain white skin inside the faint tan lines left by what must be a tiny bikini bottom. I strain my eyes to see if I can make out anything between her legs, but it’s pretty dark. I press my hand, gently but firmly, on her lower back, causing her hips to tilt and the view between her legs to open up. That’s better. I look at Robert and he’s pleased, to. He likes the active role I’m taking in the process. Plus he’s glad for the improved view and the enhanced prominence of his target.

Then I look in the other direction and scan the line of naked women, assessing their asses for size and shape. I wonder if padding or width makes any difference as to how much it hurts. They have their hands nervously by their sides; some unconsciously stroke their hips and even their ass. I know how they feel, though I’ve never had to wait as long as they have to. I’ve never had to witness a preview to my own punishment or have my own punishment witnessed by others. Just thinking about the anticipation makes me flush and breathless. There’s something so exquisite about the spectacle. It’s easier to enjoy when my ass isn’t going to be the one beaten.

“Are you okay?” Robert whispers in my ear.

I’m moved by his concern, but I don’t want him to have second thoughts.

“Yeah.”

Robert kisses me softly on the lips. He looks me in the eyes and mouths that he loves me. Then he lines up his first stroke. I know Tina can feel the cane tapping her ass as he takes aim. I feel her flinch each time it does. I remember her asshole from her floorshow and wonder if she’s puckering it the same way now—not for show this time but out of fear. Robert brings his arm back and then swings the cane hard down on the middle of her ass. I see her flesh jiggle in the mirror and feel her every muscle tense up. She squeezes the chair hard and gasps.

“Oh, shit. No,” she whispers. I can hear her but Robert can’t.

The others can’t help but peek over their shoulders. I watch with them as the stripe on her ass changes from white to red and back to white again when the flesh all around it begins to redden. Her head falls into my lap in despair. Her soft cheek feels warm and flush against my leg. I can feel her hot breath as she pants with the urgent pain. Her eyelids tickle my thigh when she closes her eyes and awaits the second stroke.

Some of the others look away, but even they can hear the cane whistle before the second stroke lands an inch lower down her buttocks. I feel Tina’s face contort on my leg, and it’s several long seconds before she begins to breathe again. This stripe cuts across the field of red that had radiated out from the first. By the time Robert is lining up his third, the first line across her ass is a dramatically raised welt that’s already turning dark blue. She’s cursing under her breath. The third hits her even further down than the second, and I can see where Robert is headed. I see the little bumps and the crease at the bottom of her buttocks where they meet her thighs, and I know the next stroke will land there. After that, he’ll cane her across the top of her thighs, where, if the cane sinks deep enough into her flesh, it will touch her in the recess between her legs. I’ll make sure she has her hips tilted to give Robert a clearer shot. I can see a hint of flesh that is frighteningly exposed for the cane to whip into.

Her impudent flesh, her naughty, English major, co-ed cunt, is right there. It’s the same one she displays, the one she shows to men who think about doing the most awful things to it. But the truth is, Tina thinks about men doing awful things to it, too. Fucking it, licking it, fisting it, piercing it, biting it, whipping it and, yes, caning it. This is what Tina thinks about. This is what Tina wants. It’s for treatment like this that Tina goes out, night after night, having a life she keeps secret from her sorority sisters, from her boyfriends, and even from her boss at Bottoms Up, for she doesn’t dare tell him that she goes to hotels with some clients, especially the ones who look mean and rich.

It’s for all this that she’s getting caned. This is why I can’t wait for Robert’s cane to slice deep between her legs and into her pussy. This is why I know she’s like me and I’m like her. They all need this, just like I needed this. They’re all naughty. As they face the caning, they have to face the feelings deep inside. Their nudity on stage isn’t complete; only Robert’s cane can force them out from the act that they hide behind. Exposed like they’ve never been before, they’ll be stripped of the nonchalance that covers over the shame and hunger; they’ll be denied the guise of brazenness that covers over their shyness. That’s why I hear some of them crying quietly as they wait. They’re not crying because of the pain that will sear their asses but because of the pain that burns in their heads.

The pain Tina feels, though, is by now something quite different. The cane hits her poor, deserving bottom again. She’s done ruminating on the struggle between her inner shame and her inner slut. All she can think of now is the wicked, cringing pain that can’t fade quickly enough to keep her from whimpering. She tries to keep it inaudible, burying her lips in my legs. The bruises cross her bottom like shadows in well-defined lines. They’re not going to go away for quite some time, and I wonder how she’ll dance. She emits a small cry, and I feel for her.

“It’s okay, Tina,” I say, speaking for the first time. Robert smiles at me and I continue. “It’ll be over soon. You’ll feel better afterwards. You’ll be glad he caned you severely. You’ll be glad he didn’t stop.”

I know I’m just saying what Robert says to me, but it’s so true. Even during the worst throbbing agony, I know it’s true. I make her arch her back again so that she won’t miss any of the pain.

As I expect, the cane lands across her thighs this time, and she can’t suppress her squeal. The angry welts multiply to six, seven and eight. The sobs of a little girl rock Tina’s hot, womanly body. I know exactly how it feels. I squeeze her hand and stroke her hair and whisper encouragement to her. Yet I’m also incredibly excited. My wetness has completely coated the chair. This isn’t like when I’m getting spanked at all. I wish I could touch myself right now. I stare at Tina’s ass, and I want to run my finger across every one of the raised lines that stripe it. I even think that if my hand were on her ass I’d find it impossible not to give her flesh a hard squeeze, digging my fingernails into her fiery skin just to express the intensity of my own hunger.

The ninth is across her thighs, and she struggles a bit. I press down on her head and hold her hands in place. She kicks her feet and raises herself onto her toes. She shakes her head no, no, no, dragging her soft hair across me. My skin is electric and sensitive to the slightest touch. Her tears flow between my legs and remind me of pee running down my thighs. On the tenth, I can feel her mouth contort. Her body bounces with sobs. From experience, I know that Robert will try to land the final two right on top of the last, using the newest welt as a target to sear the final two into her. I can feel her breathless desperation, and I whisper to her to hold on, that it’s almost over. But another part of me is disappointed. I wish it would go on, and, in lieu of it continuing, I find myself hoping these last two are extra hard. I comfort myself by looking at the other dancers lined up for theirs.

In my fantasy, I’ve turned Tina the bold, defiant, happy stripper into Tina the dirty whore, the naughty ingenue, who needs strict discipline and severe punishing. She’s crying out and begging, smearing her make-up and her tears in my lap. She tries to lift up again with the eleventh stroke, and I hold her in place more firmly. When she can’t raise her body, she tries to put her hands on her fiery ass, but I hold them tight, too. Robert can see that I’m holding as she struggles, and he takes extra time preparing the last one. None of the other dancers can restrain their curiosity. Everyone is watching now, terrified and aroused, touching the unmarked skin of their asses, wondering how it will feel when their asses look Tina’s. A few fingers wander between their legs, too. They can’t help it. They’re as bad as I am.

Finally, there’s a whistle and the crack, right on top of the previous two, and Tina lets out a horrible howl before collapsing into my lap and crying while I stroke her hair and tell her it’s all over. Goose bumps cover her bruised, swollen ass. The skin is striped black and blue in a way I’ve only ever seen in pictures on the Internet. If her tears and the ginger way she touches her own ass are any indication, it’s still burning badly even after a couple of minutes. She wants to rub the aching flesh with her fingers, but it’s too tender to even touch. Robert strokes her backside gently and reassures her that it’s over. He tells her he’s proud of her and that she should feel very good about herself now and to remember how this feels when she needs help being good.

She doesn’t seem so assured or confident anymore. She seems to be a woman like me, one who needs help sometimes, who’s ashamed sometimes, and who needs a man who will punish her. When I bend over her body and stroke her horribly marked ass, running my hands down to the marks on her thighs and between her legs, I realize she’s a woman like me in another way, too. She’s soaking wet.

I keep my hand there, feeling her pink, tight asshole quiver when I touch it and running my fingers in between her slick labia. Her hair is soft and blond, so pure and feminine compared to mine, which is dark and coarse. She’s still in my lap, barely noting the liberty my fingers have taken. I feel the rush of her exposure and my appetite. I can touch her anywhere. I want to touch her everywhere.

Then I look at Robert and want him horribly, here, now.

I’m still sitting in the car seat next to Robert, imagining him doing the dirtiest things while he drives me home. I want him in my fantasy and in real life. I lean over and unzip his fly, rubbing him to life in no time at all. I slip my fingers through in his pants and tug his cock free of his fly. I wrap my fingers around him and run them up and down the length of his solid shaft, tightening my grip when he moans. Oh, if he only knew what I was thinking about! I lean over and take him in my mouth, still using my hand to pump away as my lips and tongue run the length of him. I guide him into the back of my throat and out again, over and over. I wonder if he’ll ever cane me.

All the while, I’m back in Bottoms Up…

The other girls, the ones awaiting their caning with dread, turn around now and pretend that they weren’t watching Tina, Robert and me. I slip out from underneath Tina’s head, lowering it gently and letting it rest on the chair where I was sitting. It must smell strongly of my pussy. Her cheeks, wet with tears, rest on the wet seat. I reach over her head and run my fingers over her delicate, burning skin. Then I bend over the opposite side of the chair, using the back of the chair to brace my hands and sticking my ass out for Robert. He knows what I want and I feel him approaching me from behind. I hear him unbuckle his belt. The sound makes my ass tingle with memories. He’s already hard and I’m soaking. I arch my back so that he can enter me better deeper. When he does, his cock stretches me and I clench involuntarily around it.

At the thought of it, I squeeze my lips around him, being careful with my teeth and imagining him inside me, fucking me hard. I’m gasping with each thrust, which I drive uncomfortably far into my mouth. I manage to get my other hand down my pants and am grinding my clit with an urgency I’ve rarely felt. I have my eyes closed, imagining the magic intensity of the cane landing on Tina’s ass…

I’m surprised by the feeling of lips brushing mine. Tina, her tear-stained, reddened face no longer resting on the chair, is right in front of mine. She kisses me again. I taste tears with her saliva, and her silent passion feels deep, like it comes from depths that only her punishment can evoke. I’m a moving target for her kisses, rocking back and forth with Robert’s thrusts. Robert speeds up and is about to come. I bet the girls against the wall are watching us—I think our show is better than theirs.

I come with Robert, except really he’s throbbing in my mouth, filling me so that I have to swallow fast. He’s moaning while trying to negotiate the traffic, and I’m coming, too.

“Who’s next?” Robert asks me when he’s done fucking me.

I look over at the line of women. At one end of the line is Tina’s brutalized ass, her face wet with tears and darkened by smeared mascara. Soon they’ll all look like that. Some of the women look at me. I feel like a teacher, surveying a class of terrified students, debating who I should call on while they tremble with fear. Candi the schoolgirl and Ms. Gwen the librarian are too delicious. I’ll save them for last. Melanie was the first to dance for me. She’ll go next.

The next time I want to come, she’s gonna get it. For now, I’m sated. I lay back blissfully in my seat the rest of the way home, but by the time we get to his building, we’re crazy for each other again. He chases me through the parking garage.

“You’re on fire,” he says.

“It was so dirty, all those girls. I loved it. They’re so bad.”

“We know what to do with bad girls, don’t we?”

He winks and grabs my sore ass cheeks, one in each hand. I jump up and squeal.

We rush into the apartment building, past the awful doorman, and push on the elevator button over and over again, trying to make it hurry. On the ride up to the sixth floor, we jump on each other. When the elevator stops, we separate ourselves for long enough to run down the hall to his door. I kiss him while he fumbles to get the keys in the lock. We crash through the door when he finally gets it open and stumble down the hall to the bedroom.

I want to be like those girls. I want to put on a show. I make him lie back on the bed. In spite of the urgency, I want more than a quick fuck. I want to perform. He gropes me, but I escape. He wants to fuck me so badly. He’s already come once, though, and I’m happy that I get to make him wait. I undress him so I can see the fruits of my labor. I put something jazzy on the CD player and start my debut. I slither and gyrate. This is fun. I untuck and roll down, unbutton and unzip. I can be as naughty as they are. I run my hands between my legs and press my breasts together and up. Robert is smiling wide. I’m so happy to be able to please him. I feel a funny mix of embarrassment and pride. I think of all the shame I feel during my punishments—all the ways I’ve been forced to display myself and all the parts of me he’s seen. I think of how wet it’s gotten me to be forced. Now I’m doing it by my own free choice, and his cock is lying across his leg, still sticky from the blowjob in the car and unmistakably larger than it was just a moment ago. I turn away from him and pull my panties into my crack, showing off my bruised cheeks and then lowering my panties so my bare ass peeks out the top. I turn back to face him, some black, curly hairs exposed above my waistband. His cock is standing by itself, and I can tell he wants to touch it. I can see his pulse in the vein that runs up its side. It grows with each heartbeat.

I’m finally naked but in no mood to stop. I’m addicted to the feeling. I want to go farther and farther. I begin to part my labia and circle my clit. I pull at my bare nipples and turn around, lean over and spread my cheeks. I smack my ass and look at him through my legs. He’s touching himself now. I prance over to his bed stand and get out the lube. He’s sheepish and embarrassed when I take his hand and squirt some into it. The better to stroke yourself with, I tell him. He can’t keep his hand off his cock for long.

I squeeze lube into my palm, amazed by my sudden boldness. What happened to being shy? What happened to girls aren’t supposed to like these things? I guess the strippers taught me a thing or two about being raunchy, though none of them did what I’m about to do. I put one slick finger in my ass, then another. Last time, he put my fingers in for me. Now I can do it myself, thank you very much. I’m stretched and I turn so he can see my fingers disappearing into my crack. I bend over so he can see my stretched, pink hole. When he’s looking, I manage to fit a third inside. It hurts, but it’s not nearly as big as what I want inside me. I can hear the sound of lube as his hand runs the length of his cock. He quickens his pace. I’m worried he’ll come without me. Stop that! This is my show.

I squat over his thighs and take his hand off his cock. I put his slick fingers up my pussy and begin to lower my ass onto his cock. The smile on his face is gleeful but fades into moans of pleasure as his cock presses my tight anus open. I start slowly but then begin to lift myself up and down on him. It’ll take longer to make him come after the blowjob in the car. I’ll have to ride him harder, bearing down so he goes deeper into my ass. I know it’ll hurt a little more because of it, but I know I’ll come a little harder because of it, too. My clit is tender from how I pressed last time, but I’m grinding my fingers on it as hard as I’m grinding my hips up and down on Robert’s cock. I’m doing it for him, to show off how I’m his and would do anything for him, even without him forcing me, but I’m also doing it for me. I want to be brazen and on top and have him under my spell. I’m proud of how I am. I think he’s proud of me, too.

“Look what’s become of me,” I tease him afterwards, still sitting on his abdomen with his cock softening in my ass.

“I’ve created a monster.”

“Aaarg,” I growl, trying to be as monstrous as I can while giggling.

“You’re the best.”

“So you say.”

“You’re proud of yourself. I can tell.”

“You’ve made me proud of my debasement.”

“You seem sublime to me.”

I melt at his words and cuddle up next to him.