January 24, 2008
A Star-Spangled Booty


There is not much better than sex on a national holiday. The national holiday hangs low, and the air itself feels heavy and quiet; lassitudinous and torpid is the feel of a national holiday. It lends itself to fucking, this weighty and still air; it seems to press itself upon you and force you into bed like the firm hand of a knowing lover. It gives you the tacit permission to fuck off and fuck. The banks are closed. Stores are shuttered. People stroll with nowhere to go, but bed. Fucking on a national holiday is almost an obligation like paying your taxes or voting.

The last national holiday, I went to my lover’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 my cunt. It was time to fuck.

“What would you like?” my lover asked, naked in the orange light of the sun setting.

I want you to spank me, I said.

“What would you like me to spank you with? The new spanker? My hand? The flogger?”

It’s up to you, I said, and laid prone on the bed, my bare ass raised on a dais of pillows; I imagined its good-natured spread like twin generous helpings of ice cream pooling on the bed.

“Good answer,” my lover said and retrieved the new spanker from the top drawer. The new spanker has been sitting there, unused, bereft and lonely, quiet as an unread Trollope novel, since I bought it last 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 my lover 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.

My lover kneeled on the bed beside me and slowly drew the edge of the spanker down my spine, across the dale of my lower back, up and around the swelling hills of my ass. Curving and swirling the toy across my skin, the spanker moved like it was writing on me in invisible ink, like it was skating across the landscape of my body, like it was authoring my anticipation, which is no simile.

And then, predictably, it struck me unpredictably, returning 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. Smack! Smack! Smack!

“Too hard?” my lover asked.

No, I said. It wasn’t. And it was. It felt 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 popped a melting white flash in my brain, this invisible heat that built with each wanted and feared strike. My lover tells me that the spanker leaves 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! My lover 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. She put the spanker down and tells me to turn over; she pulled me to the side of the bed, props one of my feet on a chair and the other on a chest and buried her pervert’s mouth and pointy tongue in my pussy. She pressed one finger and then two into my pussy, licking each one with a loud ssschluck before each insertion. I rode her mouth and her fingers, willed her to suck my clit like a lemon drop and gave silent gratitude when she did so.


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