Mary 1990

Mary was wearing a green, one piece jumpsuit. I'd never seen it before, never saw it again. We were on the way to LaGuardia airport. She left work for a couple of hours to blow me in a taxicab on my way to some business trip; I would have been fingering her if it wasn't for the damn jumpsuit. These cab rides were often the only place we could get a little nookie without being a closed door away from people in our offices.

Taxis had recently been a place where we moved into some further out action. Don't ask why we thought it was OK to practically get naked and screw with a driver up front. But anyway, I'd taken to slipping off her panties and pinching her rear. Hard. Don't know how that particular piece of unusual business started. Maybe it was because she just swooned when I bit her nipples, wanted me to bite even harder, and when she couldn't take it anymore, orgasm swirled upon her. The biting and her reaction to it had become so intense that I even started spurting. And then it completely stopped when her nipples just couldn't take it anymore. So maybe I started the painful ass pinching to fill the void.

Back on our way to LaGuardia, we were getting so worked up that one of us suggested we detour to an airport hotel for a quickie. Trashy rooms had become part of our games.

Mary was fond of her Pennsylvania Irish "white trash"-ness. It was difficult of me to think of her that way since she was a writer by trade, an intellectual who pursued all the fiction in the Sunday New York Times Book Review. But she turned on talking about the hot pants and stockings she wore to parties in high school, getting buzzed out in the woods, and going home with the hose running like a tramp's. And she creamed telling about a flirtation with one of guys in news who'd told her he wanted to take her to "the cheapest motel in Weehawken." Maybe she was white trash after all. I didn't really mind, it gave us more dirty stories to act out.

So we registered and played grab-ass in the elevator. Somehow the jumpsuit came off, the bed covers ripped off, and we were at it. Tits, cock, suck, blow. Anything we could think of while the clock was counting down to my plane.

At one point, I don't whether I'd put it in yet or not, I got her on her knees with her head down on the bed. I liked seeing her ass in the air. Of course, I like seeing any of a woman's naked parts, and particularly the naked parts of a woman I was in love with, one that would let me do almost anything to the naked parts in question. And seeing something so raw, so dirty, so exposed as a poked up ass, had me imagining all sorts of nonsense.

I probably just stared at it for a minute until she became self-conscious enough to beg for insertion. Maybe I licked at her pussy from behind and got her wiggling. I might have tongued her asshole until it was soaked, which I loved doing, and she loved getting, even though I've heard that lots of men hate it. But Christ, lots of men hate oral sex too, and I probably have gotten a lot of points over the years because I loved burying my head in cunt. Maybe she screamed at me to fuck her.

But somewhere in all this ass action I remember the pinching and the ooze that came from the pinching, and I opened up Pandora's, ah, Box. It was something that I had never understood, something I'd never liked thinking about, something I would never, ever contemplate.

I reached around for my pants, doubled over my belt, and smacked that white, jiggling fanny. Hard.

"What was that?!"

"My belt."

"Again. Harder."

I most likely did, a couple of times, before I grabbed her hips, and invited my dick in from behind. Her pussy was so open and wet it just sloshed around, until I took my hand, and brought it down on the red welts from the belt. Her muscles grabbed around my cock and she started pumping her ass back at my balls, screaming for more spanking.

I missed my plane.

...................................................................

I am telling you, this spanking thing was not my style. I have no childhood thing about it. Never was one to get into fights, didn't need the adrenaline rush to survive. I grew up in a household dominated by a woman's point of view, my mother, had two sisters I love, and have had my closest friendships with women. I was a prototypical Woody Allen/Alan Alda wussy feminist guy. I adore women, adore being in love with them, adore fucking them silly, and have never gotten engorged thinking about swatting their beautiful, round, sashaying behinds.

And when I got to my masturbating years, and I started reading all the dirty, perverted, faked letters calculated to make a young man come, contrary to what you might think, I skipped right over a lot kinks that didn't do it for me. I could not get into the incest stories, for instance. Or the lesbian stuff that seems so popular. Female dominants, men in their wives' underclothes, spanking. Nope, not for me.

So I cannot for the life of me figure out what made me pick up that belt. Or, after I did, why I liked spanking so much. Spanking Mary, that is.

Because, as we investigated this thing further, it was about me spanking her, not the other way around. We tried it a couple of times. She used her hand, my belt, the paddles she bought me. Nothing, for me or for her. Tanning my hide didn't make her wet, didn't make me hard.

It was our second time that made us sure that we were adding it to our repertoire.

I was driving Mary home in my red Mustang convertible, top up, and we pulled around the corner for some making out. Her apartment was way over on the Eastside, near Gracie Mansion, and had one of the only blocks I'd seen in Manhattan where almost no one ever walked or drove by. Perfect. I parked and we went crazy, at least for a couple pushing forty. We weren't about to start fucking in this small car, no matter how quiet it was, but we both knew there was a lot of fondling and orgasming on the way.

Mary unzipped my pants, pulled out my erection, and starting drooling.

Even though I loved the feeling of lips and tongue on my cock, I had always found it tough to actually come from a blow job. Or even from a hand job. I've usually found it more pleasurable to have a woman go down on me, and finish the job with my hand or a fuck. Maybe it was because I really like the feeling of being inside a woman, maybe that most women aren't fantastic at it. I came more often from oral sex with Mary, but it was no doubt because we engaged in hours and hours of verbal foreplay every day, and by the time she even touched me I was ready to erupt.

In any event, here she was, her head in my lap. As her rear end popped up above the window line, I started fondling it. Thank God for skirts, because I guess God liked the idea of me reaching up under a skirt to caress a girl's kitty. Which I also started to do. Soon I was pulling down her panties, and the naughty thought struck me to pull up that skirt, exposing her cheeks in the window. No one was likely to be around, which is why she probably let me do it, but once her buttocks were unveiled, she started pumping my cock harder and streaming from her slit.

The sight of her ass in the window, her mouth on my penis, and her juice pouring out was all too much. I spanked her bare ass. She gagged on my cock and started siphoning it faster, humping my leg in the process. Whack! Whack! Whack! I kept it going, she kept it going, and in what seemed like second we had both come in buckets.

From then on, Mary and I tried all the variations. She draped herself over my lap, and asked to count the spanks. "Slap my bottom until I cry," and I did, and she'd fuck me with tears in her eyes until we came. She'd slowly raise her skirts, and pull down her panties to her knees, lean over and say "Crack each cheek once," and then look at the red hand prints in the mirror while she was on top. I'd fuck her doggy style. "Spank my ass until I suck you up into my hole."

For Christmas that year we met at a restaurant where she insisted on a table even more private than usual. When we exchanged gifts she wanted me to open mine right away. She'd gone to the Pleasure Chest and bought some paddles. One in leather, one with holes in it. She couldn't wait to bend over to try them. Eventually, she realized she only wanted to feel my palms hitting her skin.

And, all of a sudden, those erotic spanking letters didn't seem so hideous after all. To this day, maybe only the ass fucking stories can make me come faster.

For me and Mary, the spanking starting coming to an end inside of a couple of years. Someone else can shrink the reasons a smart, powerful, attractive women wanted her bare butt switched, or why a guy like me hardened at the sight and feel of a spank on a uncovered behind stuck obscenely up in the air. And that same someone can figure out why when her health started to slip, her job started to suck, and our relationship started to wane, why she didn't want it anymore. It was OK, I wanted her to like our sex games. It was the only way I would.

I know I missed it, and no one's wanted it again.