Stripped Down (8 page)

“I like to cook,” she had said.

“And I like to eat,” I answered before pushing her down on the bed.

When we were finished with the lasagna, we moved into the living room where we sat on separate parts of her sectional couch to watch the DVD. It doesn't matter what the movie was, and I can't remember it one bit. But I found myself trying to figure out a way to smoothly move myself onto her section of the couch. Maybe if I stretched out far enough, I would touch her leg. I tried this several times but couldn't completely work it. The last time I sat on this couch with her, she lay across my knee as I smacked her fleshy cheeks with a paddle. I'd worked it into a good rhythm, moving from one red-welted cheek to another with an intensity that almost scared me.

“Baby, I don't think I can take anymore,” Kate cried.

“Oh, you're going to take it.” I picked up the rhythm.

“It feels so good,” she acquiesced.

“I bet it does.” I continued smacking.

But that night I kept my distance as she didn't seem too interested in crossing over onto my area of the couch.

Following the movie, we stood in her doorway for the goodbye.

“It's late,” I said, looking at the clock on the wall.

“What do you mean by that?” she asked cautiously.

I reached out and touched her hand—I couldn't help myself. When she touched me back, it was obvious we were both under the spell of the familiar.

“I mean it's past midnight,” I offered.

“Does that mean you want to stay over?” Kate asked.

“Do you want me to?”

“If you want to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it's too late. The bus is weird now.”

“I can sleep on the couch.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Kate handed me my favorite red flannel pajamas. The ones I'd always worn when I stayed over during our two year relationship. They were soft and warm and as soon as they were in my hands, I realized how much I'd missed them. Or perhaps I'd just missed her. I went into the bathroom to change. Just a few months prior, I would have disrobed right in the middle of the living room, but since we were broken up I felt self-conscious. I was surprised that she had even kept the pajamas; I was even more surprised to find my pink toothbrush waiting for me in her medicine cabinet in the same spot I had always kept it. But then her toothbrush was still in my cabinet, too. I didn't want to throw it out. “Lesbian couples never really break up,” someone said to me years ago, “they just find new ways to be co-dependent.” I never thought that was true. I'm not one of those people who could be friends with my exes, so this was new territory for me.

Kate's new girl made her presence known in the bathroom as well. There was an unfamiliar hair product sitting out on the sink next to expensive loose powder. On the shelf above were two tacky hair accessories with long strands of blonde hair still attached. I picked up one of the barrettes and studied the specimen. I could tell by the way the hair caught the light that the other girl was a natural blonde. Kate always told me she didn't like blondes, she only liked brunettes, like me. My ex-boyfriend told me he didn't like women with large breasts, he only liked women with smaller chests, like me. You can
imagine where that went when we broke up.

By the time I got ready, Kate was already in bed, tucked up to her chin, journal in hand. I didn't know what to expect. Was this really just a friendly sleepover? Were we going to get it on? Even worse, I didn't know what I wanted to have happen. I got into the bed and she stopped writing, ending the entry with an exaggerated flourish of her pen. She put the journal on her nightstand, and I realized that I'd never seen her write in a journal before. Was this a new thing? So much can happen in two months, I thought as I ducked down under the covers.

She shut off the light and moved closer to me, placing her arm around my waist. I didn't know whether to burst out crying or kiss her desperately. Either way, the weight of our separation was apparent, and we melted into each other as if nothing had happened, as if we'd never broken up.

I rolled on top of her and held down her arms. She was my prisoner.

“I'm your prisoner,” Kate said playfully.

“Oh, yes you are.” I reached over the side of her bed and felt around for her wrist restraints. They were still attached to the bed frame, one on each side. It was nice to see my girl hadn't lost her lust for pervery. I turned her around, belly down, bottom up and tightly fastened each wrist.

“Stick your pretty ass in the air,” I whispered in her ear.

She did as I told her, pushing her ass out in exaggeration. I pulled her satin blindfold off the bedpost, fastened it around her head.

“Oh no!” she cried.

I opened the bottom drawer of her night stand, where she kept the supplies and felt around for her riding crop. It was at
the bottom. Did this mean she hadn't used it in a while? Was blondie not into spanking?

I spread her knees farther apart and fastened each ankle in its restraint.

“Don't move,” I told her and smacked her ass hard with my hand just to emphasize the seriousness of the situation.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Ma'am,” she answered. This was all part of our game, and I was ecstatic to hear that she hadn't forgotten the dialogue. Then I picked up the riding crop, got off the bed, and walked a few feet back to regard the situation; my little domestic butch prisoner was waving her ample ass in the air just waiting for it. No one else had ever done this to me—turned me into such a dirty foul-mouthed bitch with a bad attitude and a steady, sadistic hand. Before Kate I was not particularly interested in much outside the typical fucking and sucking that had been part of my existence as a bisexual woman. But something about her just brought out my femme top.

She was really begging for it now, waving her bottom in the air.

“You better smack my ass soon, or else,” she implored, barely able to move any part of her body except her ass which was thrusting wildly. I could see her pussy slick and glistening from behind.

“Or else what?” I laughed, my own juices bubbling over inside my panties. “What are you going to do to me? You're all tied up.”

“I'll smack your ass,” she said defiantly. She knew that was never going to happen.

“You're going to smack my ass?”

“Yes, I'm going to smack your ass if you don't start smacking mine. Please, please don't make me wait any longer.”

I stepped closer to the bed. She whimpered in anticipation. I ran my implement across her cheeks, down her crack, and separated her soaking wet lips with the tip of the riding crop. She began to tremble all over, practically falling over on one side, her ass falling toward the bed.

“Get up. Put your ass back in the air,” I said, lightly smacking her bottom with the palm of my hand.

“Yes, Ma'am!” she said. She was shaking but she got back up and once again assumed the position.

I continued to play with her pussy lips and rub her clit with the riding crop. The black leather skated easily over the deep red folds of wet flesh. I wanted to reach down and taste her but managed to focus on the task at hand. I backed away, raised my arm over my head, and brought the riding crop down on the fleshy bosom of her left butt cheek. She gasped, then moaned.

I watched as the skin rose, forming a perfect red welt. I raised my arm even farther above and came down on the right side. I thought about the blonde, leaving her hair all over the place and staking her claim in the bathroom. I imagined her paws all over Kate; the bitch had probably even worn my pajamas! My favorite pajamas! I bore down on Kate's ass with a fierce velocity.

With each break on her ass, I thought about “The Break” we had taken in our relationship. What a brilliant idea that was! I thought. “Breaks” never work out; they're just ways to belabor the “Breaking Up” process, throw another wrench into the already gut-wrenching mix, which then just spins around and hits you in the head. I noticed a long blond hair
on the sheet by Kate's knee. I thought about the guy I'd been with since “The Break”—as bland as a bowl of vanilla ice cream and even less satisfying—no one will ever bring out his inner pervert.

He has no inner pervert; some people are just like that and you have to accept it. But I keep going back because I don't know what else to do. It's hard to meet people in this city, and I've never been one to be alone.

I'd heard from a good friend that Kate was crazy about the blonde and as I stood there, lovingly beating her ass to a fuschia-tinted pulp, I was filled with an incredible sadness. And I somehow knew, that no matter how much we wanted each other that night, we would never be together again. When Kate yelled for me to stop, I collapsed on top of her, both of us crying like we did when we first fell in love. Her ass was warm against the front of my flannel pajamas, and we both fell face down on a bed that could no longer contain us.

THE PLOW POSE

Sinclair Sexsmith

 

 

 

 

The room was hot. And I mean sticky, sweat pouring, tongue swelling, palms slipping, steam rising, tropical jungle hot. Robin insisted this would better open up our muscles and let us sink deeper into the poses. There was certainly something I wanted to sink deeper into, but I can tell you right now: it wasn't my hip joints.

I can't really say what started me on the habit of packing to go to my yoga class. It could have been a dare. It could have been that I had somewhere else I was going right after class, so I was just saving time. It could have been my own idea, late one night when my only comfort was my own hand and memories of the perfect curl of her lower back when she moved from cat pose, on all fours,
back arched, head down, to cow, bending her neck back and aiming her eyes toward the ceiling. I hadn't expected it to be all that comfortable, packing and doing yoga at the same time. But after the first time, I was hooked. I stretched my hips differently in order to compensate and use the weight between my legs. Straining against my clit, the cock felt different, like it was no longer separate from me. Maybe it was because yoga pushed me all the way to the edges of my body.

I started out with some little softpack, but as soon as I felt confident that my breathable yoga pants wouldn't give away the swelling at the
V
of my legs, I pulled out the big guns. It isn't as though I pack all the time outside of class. Sometimes, sure—like when I'm going out and trying to impress, or if I expect to request a blow job in the bathroom at a club—but no matter how broken in my leather harness gets, it never quite feels like skin, and there's always some discomfort after a few hours. I don't really recall how exactly I came to packing at yoga class, but it was such a high, such a sensual body experience, I couldn't stop.

Certainly it didn't hurt that I had the hottest yoga teacher in Seattle. Robin had all the things the typical yoga teachers did—a lifetime of dancing, college degrees in kinesthiology, certification in yoga and Pilates instruction—but she had more: she was smokily beautiful, for one. Her hair was dark, nearly black, and streaked with gray. It curled around her jaw and ears softly, often fell into her face when she demonstrated triangle or crane or any forward bends. I doubted she could be more than thirty-five, but then again yoga bodies are deceptive in their aging. Maybe she was as much as forty-three. Her eyes were icy blue, shining bare with scintillant light, always so clear I feared she could see right to the pores of my skin.
And she had the most delicate crow's-feet around her eyes, and just hints of lines at the corners of her mouth. Her mouth, god, I had never seen a mouth like hers: the perfect pink of organs, tender and supple like the fingertip of a child.

I couldn't watch her lips move without having to fight the urge to bring something to her lips—fingers, cock, teeth, anything. Something about the way she was so soft and solid, so pulled together and spiritually in touch with all the Buddhist yoga stuff, made me want to ravage her. What is it about such simple, pure beauty that makes us want to conquer, to take and take, until perhaps we have earned some semblance of the beauty for ourselves?

 

Today, Robin was deliberately torturing us, twisting the thermostat until I thought the dial would crack and we'd leave here with our skin burned. Her Tuesday evening Yoga II class, filled with twenty-three of Robin's devoted addicts, myself included, would weekly attempt to take whatever she challenged us with, and like the good little fans we were, we always tried our best to impress her. Most of the people in my class were here for Robin rather than the yoga, though we would all admit the yoga was a perk we rather enjoyed. Walking out of here with muscles pushed to the limit, breath pulsing, body opened and expanded, I always felt as though she personally had something to do with the afterglow I would feel for days. It didn't hurt that Robin always took a hands-on approach to her teaching, circling the room and never hesitating to glide her hand along our aching muscles to encourage us to bring the elbow just a little straighter, to strengthen the thigh muscle just a little more, to stretch the groin just a little farther.

The class flowed through sun salutations, and as Robin
took us deeper into the
Virabhadrasana
warrior poses, I could feel her watching me.

“
Trikonasana
,” she said, startling me with her closeness, “triangle pose.” I straightened my legs from the lunge of warrior and brought my left hand straight up. “In this pose, you want to have a strong line from your ankle all the way up to your shoulder,” Robin stated, still behind me, bending down to slide her fingers from my ankle up to my hip, where she took hold of my waist and aligned me to her liking. She left one hand at my hip, resting, though with a heavier weight than usual. She encircled my arm with her thumb and forefinger and dragged her hand up my arm to my wrist, pulling it straight up. She paused long enough for me to get a clear picture of her beautiful body above mine, hair falling into my face, restraining my wrists as she rode me.