Bare Assed (3 page)

Lana Fox

 

 

 

T
he Baron first set eyes on me during my burlesque, in which I slow-danced in a corset with a garter belt and stockings. I enjoyed swinging my hips within the tight, boned basque, its sleek red silk stretched taut. Apart from my costume, I had only a wooden chair, which awaited my arrival on the limelit stage. Leaning forward, I'd raise my knee and place my heeled sandal upon the seat, smoothing a stocking along my thigh, my red lips pouting, my eyes heavily kohled. I used my body, arching my spine so my breasts pushed up against the strapless bodice, as if at any moment, in their buoyancy, they'd spring from the fabric. There, as the music played, I'd slowly gyrate, making love to the men with my stare. Not that I could see them—they were lost in the shadows—but I could feel their desire burning my flesh, could hear their throaty cries.

But this was just the prelude; I was famous for the
wooden chair. A member of the audience would be led to the stage where I'd take his hand, and his dewy vulnerability never failed to affect me. As he sat in the chair, I knelt at his feet clutching his knees, fingers covered with rings and bangles—before I unbuttoned his flies.

There with quiet moans rising from our audience, I'd take the man's sex in my hands and with my tongue, my mouth, my slick-glossed lips, I would bestow my pleasure. Velvet Tongue, they called me, for that's how I worked: with my breasts rising inside my corset, and the garter-straps digging into my thighs, and my dark curls tumbling, I'd lick and suck, rub and tease, my own sex growing wetter, until I'd feel him clutching at his seat with trembling, white knuckles.

I'd somehow know exactly what each man craved the most.

He'd yell out, bucking into my mouth, crying wildly as he filled my throat—thrusting over and over, he'd often fill me so fully that the fluid would seep from the corners of my mouth. At other times, when he reached the point of no return, I'd know to pull back, allowing the first flash of my oil-rubbed breasts to catch his coming. The pale stream would streak across my cleavage and down the boned bodice; the moans of approval from the audience made me long to touch myself. The man would gratefully collapse. Whoever he was, he'd ask me out on a date.

I always told them no.

Until I met the Baron.

Whenever I returned backstage, I'd lock the door to my dressing room, and there on the chair I'd brought from my act, I would slide two fingers inside my slick lace and rub myself quickly, the fluid still warm on my nipples, arching as I came. Thus, before I met the Baron, I never had to be close to a man. Sex for me was either public or terribly alone.

I didn't know how miserable I was.

Well, you will hear dastardly things said of the Baron, and most of them are true. How he held sleeping girls in his bed and touched himself without their knowing; how he fucked his wives then left them, robbing them of their money, counting on the fact that they'd be too high from his loving to report his hasty crimes. Though the rank of baron is the lowest of the nobles, he still had money and the manners of a lord—could hide his true nature beneath a decorous mask. But as with all rogues, he was also a liberator.

I, you see, was a little like the Baron.

The night he arrived, it was raining outside. I'd just returned from the stage, the chair in my arms, and I entered my dressing room to find him standing at the window smoking a clove cigarette, elegantly slouched to one side. He was wearing a red velvet jacket, which matched my corset, and his black hair glinted in the light from old-style lamp I'd set on my dressing table. He turned, his face lascivious, as if he knew all my ills, and I noticed his tiny moustache like that of a classic villain.

I asked what he was doing there.

He told me to put down the chair.

I challenged him: “Why?”

He said, “I'll take you over my knee.”

I threw back my head and laughed, but no sooner had I done so than he was grabbing the chair and throwing it down on the boards. He kicked the door shut behind us, clasped me by the arm, sat in the chair and pulled me across his lap. I gasped out, astonished, before I felt him spanking me, each strike making a slapping noise against my lace-clasped buttocks. I could smell his cologne rising from his flesh. Aroused as I was from the man I'd just pleasured onstage, each spank made me more wanting and hot. I parted my thighs a little, hoping he'd touch my sex, but he kept to my buttocks, talking as he struck: “You are talented, Anita. But you must learn to relent. You won't achieve true heights unless you accept your nature.” His spanking grew fiercer, tugging at the lace of my knickers—the rough material plucked at the lips of my pussy and I begged him for more.

It was true I had always kept up my guard. As a girl, I'd been so quiet, giving nothing I couldn't control. Even my secrets weren't quite true—when you lie you're rarely vulnerable. I was raised by my uncle, who once called me a woman of wax. There was a distance in his eyes as he said it, and we were eating rabbit stew. “But no,” he said, “wax melts.” I reminded him that he'd never once hugged me. When I said that was unnatural, he called me slut.

The Baron paused and told me to get up.

I found I was quivering.

Hearing him unzip, I looked down to see his cock pale and hard in his hand—it was longer and sleeker than any I'd seen: a beautiful sex, a perfect sex, and oh, how firm. Longing to lick and pleasure him, I began to sink to my knees, but he grabbed me by the hair. “No, Anita.” Raising me by the curls, he stretched me back. I had to relent. He glanced down at my corset, streaked with the remnants of another's pleasure, and with his lips curling back against his teeth and a wildness in the blacks of his eyes, he cupped my slippery breast.

“You need this,” I said to him.

His smile curled up at one corner, and I caught a drift of the scent on his neck. Suddenly, he thrust me back so I pressed against the dresser, my pot of cold cream crashing to the floor, and he was on me in a second, pushing me back against the mirror, which thumped, collapsing, so my back stuck to the glass. He thrust his hands deep between my thighs, and at my ear, hissed, “I want you, Anita.” I cried out. His sex ground mine, and he tore through the lace. He filled me from shaft to tip. I jolted on the dresser so the mirror thudded behind me and a bottle crashed and broke, sending out a rosy scent. I was so wet that his thrusts were smooth as oil, and my sex, unused to the shape of a man, tingled and stretched. Through his teeth, he said my slit was tight as a virgin's.

I'd never heard it called that—a
slit.

He said to call him Papa, but instead I cried, “Oh,
Uncle…” and thought I could cry it forever.

There, plowing his sex into mine, with the dressing table shunting at the wall, I glanced into the angled mirror that stood in the corner. And with my stockinged thighs wrapped around the thrusting Baron, my heeled sandals glinting and my red lips stretched apart, I, Anita, exotic dancer, released an ecstatic yell and finally learned to give way.

For seven weeks, the Baron watched my act and came to me afterward to force my compliance. As I pleasured the men onstage, I felt I could sense his stare, and I knew, unlike the others who cried out and groaned, the Baron would be sitting still, patiently blazing. I'd always find him in my dressing room, where he'd sometimes bind my wrists and fuck me from behind or make me suck him while calling him “Uncle,” or come across my bosom so my cleavage dripped not only with his fluid but that of a stranger. But though it was savage, it was also kind. I'd walk from the theater with a lightness of step I'd never experienced before. I ate keenly; food had new flavor. Champagne bubbles now danced on my tongue. I'd grow drunk more quickly than before. When new shoes pinched me, I reveled in the pain.

Then, one evening, he didn't turn up.

I'd always known he'd leave. I mourned on the stool by my dressing table, dabbing my streaked mascara with a cotton ball, staring emptily into the mirror that had cracked from tumbling so often. Even then, I guessed, he was forcing a different woman to relent; one who,
like me, had been cut off from the world. But something about that knowledge made me reach for my clit and touch myself afresh.

“Uncle, Uncle!” I began to cry.

I never really stopped.

Vida Bailey

 

 

 

J
en had been tutoring Marcus for about a year. He was just twenty. She was nearing the end of that decade and lonely. The lessons were no hardship for Jen. In the absence of a boyfriend, she had grown to look forward to their weekly hour together as she would a date. Her initial observation that he was extremely attractive had grown into something more urgent. She found subtle excuses to touch him.

As the hour of his arrival approached, Jen would pass the hall window, hoping to catch an extra glance at him as he walked up her drive. She took pleasure in opening the door of her house to him, and welcoming him in.

Just before his exams they'd had an encounter. It was a quick Shake 'n' Bake of a tryst, a spank and wank, if you will. On his way into the study he had bent to talk to her terrier.

“Hey, Rags, hey little dude. How are ya?” His combats rode down to reveal the band of his tighty whities and a tattoo above that, an intricate pattern spreading out from the base of his spine. Jen had to clutch the door frame, weak-kneed. But his homework was less impressive.

“So did you get to do the essay plan we discussed?”

His usual excuses surfaced again. “I just didn't get time, I'll have it next week, I will.”

Frustration replaced the wave of desire. “Do you want to get into University, Marcus?”

A shrug. “I can't really deal with the thought of another four years of school.” Yet here he was. Trying to do the right thing, but scared to try in case he failed.

“It looks like we're wasting each other's time, then. And you're wasting your mother's money.”

“I hear enough of that from her.” His light voice grew testy. She tried a different tack. Hand on hip, she risked a joke.

“Get it together, Marcus. I'm not your mother. Don't talk to me like that. I'd swear you were looking for a spanking.”

To her astonishment, he had turned to her, eyes bright, and his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. “If you think it will help.” He arched an eyebrow.

Jen's armpits prickled and she felt her pulse begin to drum. Where was self-preservation when she needed it? The little demon on her shoulder pushed her better judgment firmly out of the way. Her internal struggle ended
when she ordered him to bend over the desk.

“Trousers down, Marcus, we may as well do this properly.”

He'd obeyed quickly enough, eager fingers unbuckling his belt. He shivered when she rested her hand lightly on his ass, giving him time to back out, to laugh it off. When he turned and locked eyes with her, she read only excitement there.

“I
do
need a spanking, Jen.”

So she had obliged, landing smack after firm smack on his buttocks as he braced himself against the desk. She'd finished the spanking by grabbing a light wooden ruler and rubbing it against his hot cheeks.

“Have you learned your lesson?”

“I…yes, I…” She could see he wasn't sure how to answer; the ruler sliding to and fro on the cotton of his pants was distracting him, as was his erection, straining his waistband. He rubbed himself on the edge of the desk and closed his eyes. She marveled that he was so into this. She brought the ruler down on his ass, snapping it in a fast series of little slaps that she knew would sting his tenderized skin. When she stopped, he straightened and reached back to rub his rear. It was her turn to raise her eyebrows.

“Well?”

“I'm sorry I snapped. And I'm sorry about this.” He grinned and gestured to his cock. “I can't go home like this.”

He was right. He couldn't. She'd crossed the
line when she made him undress. But she tried, she paid lip service to common sense. “You know I can't. This isn't—it's too much to ask of you. If I were in your place, I wouldn't be able to stop myself telling my friend I just got it on with a teacher. And then he'd tell his mother, and she'd tell your mother. And I'd be in the papers.”

But it was too late. It was like putting the ice cream back in the freezer when she knew she was going to eat it all in half an hour.

“I know, Jen, Jesus, I won't. I wouldn't tell.” Ignoring her inner warning voice, her hand reached into his briefs to encircle silky skin and it didn't take long to help him find his pleasure. She watched him come across the notes spread on the table, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. The image would continue to flare in her mind for days.

Before he left, his “Thanks, Jen” had been a little more heartfelt than usual. She wasn't sure if he understood the import of his promises of silence. She prayed that he did.

She pictured his body bent over the table where they worked, her palm connecting with his tight white briefs, the slight tremble in his athlete's thighs. Closing her eyes, she could feel the rove and squeeze of her hand on his buttock, the smooth skin of his back. What got to her most were his arms, strong and lithe. She thought the T-shirt tan line made the flesh of his bicep seem more vulnerable, smooth as it was. His bitten nails matched her own and reminded her that there was insecurity
buried beneath his cocky demeanor.

What she wanted most was to be enfolded in the protective circle of those arms, to feel his heartbeat against her cheek through his chest. To cheer at the side of the pitch as he competed, or watch him laze on the grass, one knee cocked, in the sunshine, smiling a smile that was just for her. In truth, she wanted to be young again, just out of school and cherished. She slapped the nostalgic fantasy away. She was something else entirely, a teacher, an older woman, a disciplinarian. She was grateful to have this boy in her life at all.