Asking a favor about the book I'm most proud of and giving you a free open marriage erotica story as my thanks

TL: DR, I'm shamelessly asking you to review my latest book and giving you my free open marriage erotica story below as my way of saying thanks. Read on if you want to find out why I'm asking.



I am shifting a lot of things in my life, and over the past few years, have downsized the number of anthologies I edit per year. I'd rather put out one or two that are amazing and as brilliant as I can possibly make them (which, of course, is not entirely or even largely my doing, but the doing of the authors who are willing to submit their work to me) than the six to eight I used to a few years ago, which meant that I barely had time to focus on one before I was moving on to the next.

In the case of what I consider my editorial crowning achievement, Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 1, I also feel I can best devote myself to getting the word out, on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook and Tumblr and wherever else I happen to be, online or off, if I take the time to truly focus on what I'm doing promotion-wise, whether that means visiting every bookstore I can get to that I know has the book, Tweeting about the others, or securing an audiobook deal with my favorite narrator.

Will it be "enough?" Will it sell as many copies as I'd like it to? Will I feel like all this was worth it? Time shall tell. For now, I am keeping my fingers crossed and, while also going about my regular writing gigs, really trying to reach as many potential readers as I can. No matter what the total tally is, I want to know that I gave it my heart and soul, because this book in particular deserves that.

One way to help reach those readers who will never read my blog because they've never heard of me is through Amazon reviews (yes, I know Amazon isn't the only bookselling game in town, but they are a major one). Why are they important? I'll let Tall Poppy Writers explain in visual form (although I personally think that "I liked it" or "I didn't like it" without giving a reason why really doesn't make for a good review, even if it "counts" according to this, but I will share more on that later):



Amazon's algorithms are notoriously secret, so I don't know if every detail here is correct. But I can tell you that my books with the most Amazon reviews, The Big Book of Orgasms and Gotta Have It, have been among the ones that sold the best. I don't know for sure, but I don't think it's a coincidence.

Right now I don't have any contracts for more anthologies beyond the ones already slated to come out, including Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 2, which I'm reading very sexy stories for this month. My dream would be to get to keep on editing the series for a good long time, maybe a decade, long enough to publish hundreds of authors in it (I'm publishing new authors in each volume). No clue if that is even remotely in the realm of possibility, but that's my dream (dream part two: the series does phenomenally well so I can afford to bump up author payment from $100 to $200).

Whether it comes true or not largely comes down to how this first one does. Reviews don't guarantee sales, but they certainly help get the book in front of readers might like, say, some of the authors in the book, like Tiffany Reisz and L. Marie Adeline, and might think, This looks like something I'm willing to take a chance on. So if you want to do me a short favor to help me further that dream, I'd love it if you'd take a minute (okay, it might take two or three minutes but doesn't require more than that) to leave a review on Amazon. You can share which stories is your favorite. You can share what you liked or didn't like about the book. (You can read lots of free excerpts linked at bweoftheyear.com). My goal is to get to 50 reviews, and as of this posting, I'm 9 away.

Whether you post a review or not, I thank you for reading. As a little reward for getting through my musings, I'm giving you the entirety of my story in the book, "Flying Solo," about a couple in an open marriage where a woman is encouraged to seduce another person on a solo trip, to read. If you like it, don't comment here: let Amazon and Goodreads know.

Flying Solo
by Rachel Kramer Bussel from Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 1

I’ve made sure my camera has plenty of battery left for this trip, because you’re not here to watch me. I wish you were, but life sometimes keeps us apart. You didn’t ask me to, but I want to send you photos of me naked, turned on, wet for you. Even though you’re not talking up a storm as you usually are when we travel, I feel you with me as I pass through security, and especially as I head to the gate and start casually, quietly, discreetly looking around, the way we did on our honeymoon. Has it really been four years? They’ve flown by.

I’ll never forget sitting with you and hearing you whisper, “Find someone to take back to our hotel room with us.” You didn’t specify if it should be a man or a woman, and although I’d never considered it before, the idea of being pressed between you and another man made me so excited I almost spilled the medium coffee I’d just purchased. You took it from my hand and blew through the small opening in the plastic top for me, raising your eyebrows. I giggled, then started looking. I reached for your hand for support; you squeezed it but then let me go. I fiddled with my wedding ring, twisting around the new gold band over and over, afraid I looked like a kid in a candy store. You’d whispered to me again. “I’m just so madly in love with you, and I think this should be a new tradition; when we travel, we find someone to join us. Just for fun, no strings attached.” I’d spent the entire time before we boarded perusing every adult sitting around us, mentally undressing them, wondering who had piercings or tattoos, who was kinky, who was the best kisser. I pictured the tall man in a suit, speaking rapidly in Spanish on the phone, with his cock in your mouth. I pictured the short, curvy redhead with her head buried between my legs while you entered her from behind.

“Well?” you’d asked, as they started to board the plane.

“I can’t decide. And I certainly can’t go up to any of these people. What am I going to say? ‘I just got married and my husband wants to have a threesome?’” Yet even saying those unspeakable words made me wet, made my mind and heart race. I’d told you that I was bisexual after our third date, wanting to make sure you wouldn’t have that awful, frat-boy, “That’s hot!” reaction that even most seemingly sophisticated men busted out once I revealed I went both ways. You just nodded and let me tell you all about Simone, the gorgeous woman with the smoky voice and beautiful, curvy body I’d most recently bedded.

I’d fallen in love with you in part because you let me tell you anything, and in turn revealed some of your fantasies. We’d tried out many of them—bondage, strap-ons, hot wax. We’d talked about threesomes and orgies but in a fantasy way, until that trip. For whatever reason, you’d never mentioned wanting to be with another man, but I liked learning new things about you just when I thought I knew it all. “Let’s wait until we’re on the plane,” I’d said, and lucky me: my dream girl, the one whose face I kept returning to, was sitting next to me on the plane. You’d pretended to sleep while I made small talk with her, all the while working up the courage to say what I most wanted to. As it turned out, she’d been the one to whisper in my ear, “I wish I could be alone with you for an hour. I want to kiss you all over.”

I’d stared right back at her, barely hearing the screaming infant behind us, or the blaring music from the woman’s headphones in front of us. I just saw her, Katia, her ripe, naturally pink lips, her jet-black hair, the tiny diamond glinting from her lightly freckled nose. When I reached up and traced her lips, you’d stirred, gently knocking my knee with yours. “You can. Well, not alone, exactly. I’m with him,” I’d whispered, getting close enough to make sure my lips grazed her earlobe. “It’s our honeymoon, but he wants me to bring someone home for us to share.”

“I’m good at sharing,” she’d whispered back, and she’d proven exactly how good once we were settled into our suite. Fresh from a hot shower we’d shared, our kisses making me tingle all over, Katia had gotten you and me on our backs and eased her mouth from one to the other until I was absolutely dripping wet, desperate for more. “You get on top of him,” she’d instructed, in the sweetest, silkiest voice possible. It was an order, but a gentle one. If I’d had a better plan I’m sure she’d have gone along with it, but there was nothing I wanted more than your cock inside me, my body primed from her hot, hungry tongue. She eased you inside me and just as I moaned and thought I might come right then and there, her tongue was back, lapping between the cheeks she held open with those soft, delicate hands. Her tongue pressed against my rosebud, making me groan.

“She’s licking me,” I’d whispered frantically before burying my face in your neck. She worked me into a frenzy, one that your hard, driving cock only made more frantic. When Katia’s fingers reached around me to circle my clit, I came, trembling against both of you, then biting your neck when her fingers didn’t stop dancing against my hard bud. She raised her head, only to nip at the soft flesh of my ass while she coaxed another climax from me. But it wasn’t until she lifted me off of you, pressed three fingers deep inside me, then eased them out and put them in your mouth that I really lost it. The look of sheer ecstasy on your face had me slamming down on top of you, fucking you harder than I ever had. You looked right at me while you sucked her fingers, and I came for the third time, something I’d also never done.

“Can I taste him?” she’d asked, and no sooner were the words out of her mouth than I was climbing off of you, wrapping my hand around the base of your cock, and feeding it to her. She didn’t swallow the whole thing greedily like I would have. Instead, Katia was like a cat with a bowl of milk, her tongue slowly licking up the cream at the tip, one long stroke at a time. I’d never seen a woman give a blow job up close like that, and I didn’t even think about what I did next, I just leaned forward and joined her, my tongue on one side of the ridged crown, hers on the other. Soon we were taking turns putting the head in our mouths, but I let her do the honors when you started to buck your hips up and down. I was too blissed out to give you the proper care and devotion you deserved, but Katia certainly wasn’t. I saw her saliva glinting off the length of your shaft as she rose all the way up, opened those beautiful brown eyes to stare at me, then, keeping her gaze locked on mine, moved all the way down. When I reached out to stroke her hair, you grabbed my hand and we both put just a little pressure on her head, enough to make her moan. Soon you were fucking her face—there’s no other way to describe it. She was grunting like an animal and you were lost in the feel of her mouth.

If someone had told me I’d spend the first night of my honeymoon watching another woman giving my husband head—and liking it—a few years before, or even a few weeks before, I’d have thought they were crazy. But in the moment, it was the hottest thing ever. There was no separation between us; we were all connected by our desire, our yearning to give and get pleasure all at the same time. When you came, I could tell instantly, even though Katia expertly sucked down every drop. “I think you should let Katia sit on your face,” you told me. Oh my goodness. Of course. I lay back and soon she was on top of me, not writhing wildly, but slowly pressing herself against my mouth, enveloping my senses with her perfume. You got between my legs and ate me while I ate her, and even though your tongue distracted me from what I was doing, nobody minded. Eventually her languid movements weren’t enough for me, and I pulled her tight against me, loving how wet she was getting, loving it even more when she came. She repeated her clit stroking as you kept your mouth on me, so I got to experience a fourth orgasm that knocked me out. Katia was gone by the time I woke up, but what she left us with was an insatiable sense of sexual adventure.

Since then we’ve bedded men, women and couples—only while traveling, never back home. Today will be a first, though, and I not only don’t want to let you down, I’m curious what it’ll be like. Though I’ve had more partners than most of my married friends, when I’m with you, it always feels like married sex, no matter how many people are in the room. This time, it’s just me, and I have to imagine you watching, you whispering to me, you encouraging me. I still get nervous, as you well know, but I’ve loved every single one of our encounters, both in the moment, and how they spur us on later when we’re alone.

I text you a quick hello along with a photo of me, and just as I’m finished sending it, I see a man watching me. His head is shaved, and he towers over my five-two frame. I can tell he’s muscular from how his suit doesn’t quite fit him, even though he looks amazing. He’s taller and wider and probably stronger than you, but again, I know that if you were here you wouldn’t be threatened. Remember that pro football player we picked up, the one who not only bent me over and, with my head buried in the sheets, fucked me so well I squirted, but also fucked you? I think about that when I’m alone sometimes. It was one of the hottest things we’ve ever done. I wonder if Mr. Muscles would ever want to be with a man like you. Instantly, I blush; I can never hide that.

You’ve told me that’s one of the things you love about me—how easily I blush, how readily you can tell when I’m thinking something dirty. The muscle guy walks over. “Hi,” he says, his voice deep yet somehow boyish. “You busy?”

“Just waiting for my plane. Going on a business trip,” I say.

“Me too. Meetings, but not till three tomorrow.” Our flight’s at seven and is only an hour and a half, which means we both have a whole night free. “Look, I don’t want to bother you if you aren’t interested”—he nods at my wedding ring, which I only take off when I shower—“but I couldn’t help noticing you.”

“I’m interested,” I say quietly. I’ve had this conversation dozens of times, but it’s never easy to tell a stranger you’re in an open marriage, and it’s even more challenging without you by my side to help ease things along. “I’m…available. Tonight, anyway,” I say with a laugh.

“Tonight works for me,” he says. I motion to the seat next to me and we sit in companionable silence. I have an urge to lean my head on his shoulder, so I do. He strokes my hair, a seemingly gentle touch, but one that sends shivers running through my body. I picture you on my other side, and me snug between two men, one who sets me on edge and one who makes me feel safe—and sexy too. That’s what you do, if you didn’t know; I feel like I could take on the world in every way, knowing you’re there for me.

I don’t say any of this, though; it’s too intimate to share with a stranger. It’s just for you. I give the stranger a look after a few minutes, one of pure desire, conveyed through my lowered lashes. I don’t need to talk dirty just yet; in fact, the silence makes our gaze all the more powerful. He puts his hand on my cheek, cupping my face toward him, but instead of kissing me, he runs his thumb along my lower lip, folding it back against my chin before pinching it. Tears rush to my eyes and I’m utterly lost in his touch. I still feel your silent, unspoken presence near me, but it’s starting to recede just slightly—forgive me—as this man works his magic on me.

“I only need one night,” he says, then pinches my lip even harder before moving it aside, reaching into his bag and pulling out a notepad and pen. “Write down how you’re going to suck my cock,” he whispers, his voice as prim and proper as his words are not.

If his command is meant to shock me, it fails completely. Instead, it thrills me. I picture you watching me as I write, you who know so well exactly how I suck your cock—and how I love it. I write down what I think I will do, what makes me most excited about this most intimate act, but I also know that sex is the most unpredictable act ever invented. Just when you think you know what to expect, someone or something or some emotion comes along to make you feel as giddy as a virgin again. It’s like that with you, anyway, and I’ve given you at least a thousand blow jobs, by my estimate. My cheeks do grow hot, which means they burn red, as I write down my oral plans, passing the note to him and then looking away.

“Your husband is a lucky man,” the stranger whispers in my ear as we board the plane. My nipples get so hard it’s almost painful. As luck would have it, our seats are next to each other. Once we're seated, I look out the window—toward you, my version of you. I wish you were here, not because I need you to be, but because I want you to be. I want you to smile with pride when I take him in my mouth, to tell him naughty facts about me while I swallow him whole.

I manage to make it through landing, though my panties are drenched by the end. I don’t tell the man because he has to know by now. I’ve been tightening and releasing, taking deep breaths, alternating between thinking about him and you. “Ready?” he asks as the flight attendant tells us we are free to go.

Am I? Not exactly, but I’m ready as I’ll ever be. I touch my phone in my purse and think about texting you, giving you a heads-up, letting you follow my actions vicariously. But I don’t. I’m not sure why, except that maybe I’d rather tell you later and try to be in the moment. Instead, I nod and then impulsively take out the camera I’d so carefully loaded, and give it to my new lover. “Show him how lucky he is,” I say with a wink. My exaggerated flirting is silly, but he rolls with it.

We’re in the baggage claim area now, waiting for our luggage. I pose suggestively for the camera—for you, but also for this man, who, when the conveyer belt starts to rumble, pulls me close and gives me a deep, sensual kiss. I can feel other passengers’ eyes on me, but I don’t care. I like that they have no idea what we really are to each other, no idea that my lips are right here, my body now curving toward this man, but part of me is with you. We break apart and I am hot all over. Thankfully our bags arrive shortly. I was going to take the subway, but he pulls me toward the taxi stand.

He beckons me toward him in the backseat as we’re whisked toward Manhattan. He asks where I want to go and I say his hotel; my room is just for me—and you, of course. I unbutton my coat and toss my long red hair all around, grateful it’s still sleek and straight after the plane ride. He takes photo after photo, which makes me want to share more of myself. I flash him my breasts in their lacy, hot-pink bra, laughing as I throw my head back.

Soon we’ve arrived, and I people-watch while he checks in, smiling as I ogle a six-foot-tall woman I know you’d love to bend over for. She notices me watching her, and I smile. If you were here, maybe I’d do more than that. Instead, I follow the man upstairs, aware of how hard my nipples are. He slips the key card in the door and once it’s shut, says, “You’ve had my dick hard the whole flight. I almost jerked off in the bathroom, but I wanted to save it for you. Show me those gorgeous breasts again.” I drop my coat right on the carpet and unbutton my blouse until it hangs wide open. I peel down the cups of my bra and show him my breasts. This time, the camera stays in his bag while he moves toward me, hunger on his face.

He pulls me close and sucks my nipples one at a time, using not just teeth, tongue or lips, but a combination of all three. It goes on and on and on until I want to buckle under him. When I reach for his cock, he holds me back, though. “Call him,” he says, whipping out his phone. “I want him to hear you come.” I freeze. This might be too much for you; it borders on being more intimate than you’d like me to be without you. Yet am I really without you if you’re listening, maybe even touching yourself?

Hesitantly, I dial you. “Hey, baby,” you say as I adjust the setting to speakerphone. “What’s up? Where are you?”

“In a hotel room,” I say. I turn around for a modicum of privacy, but I can still hear him taking off his pants. “I’m with someone I met on the plane. A man.”

“Are you?” you say teasingly.

“Yes. He wanted me to call you.” I pause until the silence is more unbearable than my next words. “He wants you to hear me come.”

“Oh my goodness, Sunny,” he says. Now the man knows my name, but I don’t care because I can hear how aroused you are. “Let me talk to him.”

I hand him the phone, but he adjusts the settings so I can’t hear anything except “Got it,” and “Will do.” He puts the phone back down, and you say to me, “Be a good girl for him, baby. I’m listening.”

Instead of pressure, though, all I hear is permission—to be myself, my best self, with you by proxy. He picks me up and throws me onto the bed, and in a few quick moves has my clothes off and my wrists tied above my head with my bra. I squirm, turned on in the way only bondage can make me. He fishes out the camera and snaps a photo, then says, “Spread those pretty legs for me, Sunny.” I blush at his use of my name, and at exposing myself so blatantly, but I do it. “And open your eyes,” he adds.

I stare back at him until he finally gets his fix then kneels next to me to show me his cock. “Your husband wants me to fuck you nice and hard, said that’s what you like, so that’s what I’m going to do.” He gets a condom out of his bag and rolls it on while I wait for him. Normally I’d touch my clit before penetration, but I can’t at the moment. He rubs the head of his cock against my clit for me, then the wetness along my slit, but when I start to thrust and urge him inside, he pulls back. “I was warned that you can be greedy,” he says, pinching my clit instead. “Roll over. Now you have to wait for my cock.”

No sooner have I managed to roll over, arms still bound with my bra, than he lifts me up and positions me across his lap. He spanks me hard, way harder than would normally happen the first time I’m with a new partner. You must have said something about how much I can take. The smacks are sharp and perfectly placed, my bound wrists hanging in front of me. He gives me two fingers to suck, and I am grateful for the distraction as the whacks get even harder. I whimper against his fingers, but not in protest. After a round of blows so intense they make me wonder if I need to ask for a break, he finally touches me. I’m dripping wet, so the three fingers sink inside fast. “You were right. She responded very well to her spanking,” he says to you in a loud, exaggerated voice, making me even wetter.

Then he slides the bra off my wrists, settles me on my hands and knees, ass in the air, and enters me. With only a few thrusts, I’m coming, my moans filling the air. “I love hearing you like that,” you say, and I smile. Maybe this isn’t so different from you watching up close and personal. “I want him to come on your tits and send me a photo. You’ll do that for me, won’t you?”

“Of course,” I tell you. And of course, it’s not just for you; I am a glutton for a man showering me with come. Yours is my favorite, but after the way this man just fucked me, I am ready to feel him give it to me.

He turns me over, removes the condom, and stands over me, cock in hand. He’s going to make it rain down on me. “Do you want to taste it?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, panting. He strokes himself, while I stare up at him in awe. I can hear you doing the same thing. When he sinks down onto the bed next to me, his hardness mere inches from my mouth, I know it’s time. I open wide, and soon he’s spraying my breasts and face with his hot cream, his shout echoing in the room. We hear your frantic breathing and then the long exhale of release. The man runs his fingers from my breast up my chest and neck, pushing some of his seed into my mouth as I greedily swallow it, a little bit of extended bliss.

“Get his card, baby. Maybe next time we can all get together,” you say before hanging up. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

Once again, here's where to leave your review. Read more from the book via the excerpts posted at bweoftheyear.com. And here's my smile plus a little cleavage to let you know just how grateful I am:

A brand new free erotica story that I'm glad got rejected the first time

I'll be writing more about how to handle writing rejection and turn it into a positive step for your career soon, but today I want to highlight one example. My story "Spitting Image" is up today at Tamsin Flowers' Supererotica Advent calendar. I recommend reading all the entries; you can start with day 1, which features "Fallen" by Tamsin Flowers.



She's asking readers to donate to these charities, if you're so inclined: Crisis, The Albert Kennedy Trust or Coalition for the Homeless.

I'm thrilled to have a new, original story free for you to read, because most of my writing lately has been nonfiction, with my only new erotic fiction stories appearing in my recent and upcoming anthologies such as Come Again, Dirty Dates and Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 1.

What's especially gratifying for me about this particular story is that I had submitted it to an anthology and gotten good feedback on it, only to later have it be rejected. Of course, I was disappointed. I wondered: What's wrong with my oral sex sensuous spit story? Was I foolish to expect it to make the cut? Am I bad at the male POV?

But then I smartly shook my head, drew up my shoulders, and decided to send my little tale out in the world. I was proud of it and didn't need to take one person's no for an answer. So I sent it to Tamsin and she loved it! Now, I'm not saying it's "good" because someone else approved of it; I don't believe in that. "Good" is by and large subjective—and yes, I say that as someone who teaches erotica writing classes and does believe anyone, certainly including myself, can improve and deepen their writing. But at the end of the day, you can't make someone like your work. You can't insist they read it or appreciate it. You can only work to find what Jennifer Lee calls in Building Your Business the Right-Brain Way your "right peeps." Tamsin is one of my right peeps, and I'm thrilled she chose my story for her project.

No matter what form it takes, rejection isn't fun. I'm actually already dreading having to do it for my next call for submissions, which I hope to have posted in the next few weeks (yes, it's awful to be on the side doing the rejecting too). But it's also part of writing (and dare I say, also part of life), and is why I recommended the podcast Behind the Prose with Keysha Whitaker, because in one episode I listened to, she said, "Getting rejected is part of the process. If you're not getting rejected, that means you're not writing." Sorry, I can't remember the exact episode, but what's great about her podcast is she opens by talking about her writing acceptances and rejections. She normalizes rejection, which is good because she's absolutely right: whether you're talking about fiction or nonfiction, rejection is part and parcel of the process of sending out your work.

The only way to never get rejected is to never submit anything, which is also a valid choice, and not one I mean to malign, but if your goal is to be read by a wide audience, unless you're building that audience via self-publishing or a blog or podcast or some other means, you will need to risk your work being rejected by someone. Once, I was determined to break into a certain online literary journal. I thought that doing so would mean I'd "made it," that I was smart and cool and as good a writer as someone I was desperately jealous of. I submitted three times (and this is one that charges a small fee to submit) before I realized I was doing it for the wrong reasons. I didn't stop submitting because I was afraid of rejection, which had already happened, but because that particular quest was pointless and the rejections were hitting me way too hard (so hard that one led to one of the worst and craziest decisions of my life, which is also a story for another day, but let's just say something illegal was involved in my post-rejection stupor).

I made the leap of risking rejection with this story, "Spitting Image," twice; once my story got the boot, and once it got a thumbs up. It's still the same story, and it's not a "better" or "sexier" story because someone said yes to it. What it is is available for you to read for free. I hope you like it!

Free spanking erotica story and another one for you if I get to 150 likes for Cheeky Spanking Stoires

Here's a totally free spanking erotica story, my story "The Depths of Despair" from Spanked: Red-Cheeked Erotica. The "cost" is that I'm asking that if you like it, you head on over to my brand-new out-this-month anthology Cheeky Spanking Stories page on Amazon and click "like" - if I get to 150 likes, I will post the entirety of my story "Marks," about a couple at a nude hotel which pushes the boundaries of public displays of kinkiness. Click here for a sneak peek of "Marks." And for those who want your spanking erotica right now, below is purchasing information for my current collections Spanked and Bottoms Up. I will be in Dubai when Cheeky Spanking Stories goes on sale, but am very excited about its release and this amazing cover! Postcards will go out in early October, so if you're in the US and you want one, email eroticspankingantho at gmail.com with "Postcard" in the subject and your name and mailing address in the body and I'll send those as soon as I can.

The Depths of Despair by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Evan is staring at me intently, waiting for the answer to his question, “What do you want?” whispered directly into my ear. Such a short sentence for the very complex response it opens up in me. I want a hundred million things from him, but at this moment, I want something I’m not totally sure either of us can handle.

“I want you to make me cry,” I tell him. I have to whisper it because the words, and the realization, are so intense I’m not sure I can own up to them. But it’s true; every time I think about his hands crashing down on me, his words berating me, his power keeping me in my lowly place, things we’ve done hundreds of times but that I still clamor for, I realize I don’t want something light and easy, something we can laugh about later. I don’t even want compliments like, “God, you can take a lot.” It’s not a competition for me; I know what my body can do, but I want to see what we can do together, if we can take spanking somewhere it’s never gone before, if we can make it propel us into a new place where we lose ourselves only to find people we’ve always wanted to be. I’ve wanted this forever, I realize, as I say the words, but had never felt close enough with a lover to go there before him. I want something altogether different from every other spanking I’ve ever gotten, the ones that were hot and kinky and nasty, but that shied away from even approaching the edge of oblivion. Only with Evan can I dare to approach that dividing line that could topple our over-the-knee pleasures forever, or consecrate spanking as the centerpiece of our relationship.

I’ve never had to use a safeword before, and most of the time, I’ve barely even had one I could use. I trust my lovers implicitly and have never felt the need for one. Buried within that trust, though, is a safety net I’m not sure I any longer want, a safety net that suddenly feels altogether too constricting. I’ve never liked the word play used to describe kink, or at least, my kink. There’s nothing playful about it, even though I know all about safe, sane and consensual, and that I can stop at any time. I can top from below with the best of them, but something in me has finally rebelled at this topsy-turvy state of masochistic affairs. I’m ready for the real thing, and am finally strong enough to take it, and Evan is just the man to grant me my wish.

If we were the marrying kind, I’d have a nice, shiny rock to flash around to all and sundry. We’re not, so I don’t expect that, but I married him in my heart a month after we met. He had his cock inside me, was fucking me doggie-style, and I moved, just slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Don’t move, Denise. Don’t ever move. Stay with me forever,” he said. I could’ve dismissed it as pillow talk⎯most women would have⎯but somehow I knew he meant it. We’ve had our ups and downs in the year we’ve been together, but I’ve always known that he was the one. Not the One, the mystical, magical, phantom lover meant to fulfill a woman’s every need and fantasy before she can even think of them. Not that One, but this one, my special one, the one who makes my heart beat like we’re on a crashing airplane, who makes me smile when he wakes me in the middle of the night with a particularly loud snore, the one whose eyes and cock compete for best feature. The one who’s made me relearn what submission is all about.

Yet even after a year of me naked over his knee, or up against the wall, or bent over holding my ankles, or any number of other positions we’ve tried to perfect our spanking regimen, we still haven’t reached the heights, or depths, I know we could. I haven’t cracked the surface of his sadism, haven’t pushed him to bring out the truly mean top I know lurks inside, haven’t let myself sink into the glory of sub space so fully I wonder if I’ll ever come out. My fantasies have gotten more and more twisted, perverse, unreal. But I don’t want an army of lovers or community-wide kink; I want Evan, just Evan. It’s through no fault of his, or mine, that we haven’t gone there, I’ve just always surrendered to the lure of his cock when the pressure seemed unbearable, right before I went over the edge I’m afraid I’ll never return from. What if after this I want him to make me cry all the time? What if he takes that as a sign I need therapy? What if we become one of those couples where the man gets off on fucking his wife but not in the way that makes him rush home to her? What if he thinks I’m crying because I’m sad or in pain or don’t love him anymore? I have no answers or crystal ball, I only know that the tears are demanding an exit, and won’t take no for an answer. They aren’t tears of sadness, that much I know for sure; what these tears signify I don’t yet know, but I am convinced Evan can help me understand. He grabs me by the scruff of my neck, and I whimper, just like I have before, but there’s something different in his eyes. They’re feral, wild with a kind of desire I’ve never seen before, and that sight unleashes a wave of want inside me. My entire body goes tight, then limp. “Be careful what you wish for, Dee,” he says. “Very, very careful.” When I make a move to open my mouth, he shuts my lips, pressing them between his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t speak until we’re done. You’ll know when we’re done. You can make noise, scream all you want, but no talking, unless you need to safeword. Your safeword is emergency. But I don’t think you’re going to come anywhere close to using it.” He lets go of my lips, then just stands there staring at me. At an even six feet, he’s got a good five inches on me so I’m looking at up him, my face just as serious as his.

Then, in a flash, he’s grabbed me and moved us over so can slam me against the wall. This is no gentle crash in which I’m just as complicit; he slams me, and it hurts, but I like the pain. A lot. My face smashes into the familiar white space, his hand against the side of my head. I’ve been up against countless walls since I met him, but never so close, where it’s like I’m inhaling the paint. I’ve murmured, prayed even, into wood and brick and paint. But now my lips aren’t so much touching the wall as merged with it. My body goes on red alert as he smears me into the wall. My pussy is pounding, demanding attention in much the same way my heart is thudding. “Stay there, whore.” He knows that word sets me off, but this time, his voice is gruffer; it’s not a playful term of endearment, and I almost feel like one. I wonder what I’d do if I really were a whore with a client who wanted to treat me like this. I focus on the plaster against my skin, on his hand that has just stabbed me in the lower back. Okay, not stabbed, but the pressure there is exquisite, his palm digging into the spot where my back curves, his thumb resting against my anus.

Then his hand booms down against my right buttcheek. I’d thought I couldn’t sink farther into the wall, but I’d been wrong, because somehow, I become one with it. It hurts, and not in the way my ass does. My facial pain isn’t quite the sweet, stinging, arousing pain that spanking brings, but this pain still manages to feel good in its own way, reminding me what I’m capable of in the name of getting off. I know my face will be red later, probably my breasts, too. His hand keeps coming down against me, spanking me furiously in a way that surely has to singe his palm as much as it does my bottom. Then his teeth are sinking into the back of my neck and his four fingers are turning the backs of my thighs red. “Denise, now’s as good a time as any to tell you. It’s over.” He’s spanking me hard the whole time he speaks, and the smacks are so loud I almost can’t make out what he’s saying. “I didn’t know how to break it to you, but I’m moving out. I’ve found my own place, over on Larch. I’ve got two more weeks here, and I’ll try to be as discreet as I can. I was waiting for the right time to tell you, but now’s as good as any, wouldn’t you say?” He’s talking like we’re having some kind of adult conversation, while meanwhile my entire stomach has dropped, yet my pussy is still on fire.

So is my ass, where he’s still spanking me. I’ve had my hands up above me on the wall, but they start to drop. All I want now is to curl into a ball, wrapped around myself. Fuck spanking, I think, about to whisper, “Emergency,” when he presses his entire body against mine, lifting my hands back above me and pressing his palms to the backs of my hands, hard. “Keep those there, Dee. I said two more weeks, and don’t think I’m not gonna get the most pussy out of you I can before then. I don’t want to forget this ass,” he says as he pinches the skin there.

I’m not crying; I’m numb inside. Did I bring this on? This wasn’t what I wanted. I keep my hands above me just to spite him. Now I won’t cry, just to show him. “Stay right fucking there. Whore,” he says, and despite myself, I feel a shudder. He knows why it triggers me so⎯I used to be one, at least the worst kind of one, one who gave it away to anyone who so much as looked my way, succumbing to the word I’d been called since sprouting 38Ds in my senior year of high school⎯yet it also thrills a deep, secret place inside me. I was a slut who was so far gone she thought of herself as a whore, and even got off on the blasé way I could pick a guy up, bring him home, and chuck him out the door. But that nameless blur of men and cocks was nothing compared to the power I tapped into with Evan. Even the good guys, the ones trained in the art of BDSM, who worshipped my ass as much as they punished it, couldn’t come close to what we have. Had. I don’t know anymore. His hands are everywhere at once, firing off blows that make my whole body light up in recognition of my place, my role in this apocalyptic scene. I briefly wonder if he’ll offer me money that I have to take from him with my teeth, as one guy did when I did a brief stint stripping. Yet even with his horrific words ringing in my ear, the image makes me wet. I picture him shoving dollar bills into my cunt, into my mouth, gluing them to my body, marking me as a whore once and for all.

My mind goes a little quieter as he slips the blindfold over my eyes. “Get over here,” he says, grabbing me by my nipple, pinching it as he pulls me across the room. The point where our bodies touch stings, but a soothing, familiar heat travels lower. I’ve asked for this, I want this, we’ll deal with the aftermath later, I think, as I feel him bend me over the spanking bench we bought in our first heady, kinky weeks together. Who will spank me on it when he leaves? I wonder as he settles me over it so my ass is perfectly poised. I expect the spanking to start up again immediately, and perhaps because of that, it doesn’t. I can’t see, but I can hear him moving around, the flick of a lighter, the sharp inhale of a cigarette. I don’t approve, but I gave up lecturing him long ago.

“You’ll be rid of this smell soon enough,” he says, as if reading my mind. He blows hot smoke against my ass, and I tremble. I’m waiting, patiently, if you ask me, but he just strokes my asscheeks with the tips of his fingers, tickling me more than anything else. “I’ll miss this ass, Denise. I hope you believe me. It just has to be this way.”

“Is it Monique?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

“Does that fucking matter, Denise?” he snarls, this time pounding me so hard my stomach feels like it’s colliding against the seat of the bench, even though they’re already connected. He’s smoking and spanking, somehow, as if he has all the time in the world, as if he isn’t providing more than the tears I asked for, countless more. “Yes. No. I don’t know,” I sob, wanting to rewind to the start of this scene. I try to let my mind go black, especially when he moves around to kiss me hard, his breath smoky. He pulls back and I see him draw the cigarette right under my lips, close enough that I can feel the orange flame, before he moves aside and puts it out right on our bedside table. This is a mean side of him I’ve never seen before, something beyond sadistic, like he wants to hurt me all the way through, not just make my ass quake and smolder.

“Well it’s none of your business. Not anymore,” he says, and turns his back to me. He hasn’t shackled me, yet I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. The bench is my savior, my companion, my safety net. I keep thinking he’s going to bust out some exquisite new toy, a wooden panel, a ruler, a cane. He likes to make me scream and flinch, to mark me, render me as his fully and completely. He likes that I’m into spanking, but always finds ways to make me feel like an amateur spankee who hasn’t quite reached the levels of masochism his latest toy warrants. But this time, he goes back to that trusty favorite: his hand. He has ways of curving that body part that turn it into the sickest instrument around.

“Don’t say a word, Denise. For once, just keep your fucking mouth shut.” He sounds like someone else entirely; he’s put on an accent to go with his words, Queens blue collar instead of his usual clipped, cultured, Westchester doctor voice. Yes, he loves playing doctor with me, another thing that’ll have to end now, I suppose. “Good. I’m going to spank you until you’re all cried out, and I’ll be the judge of that.”

Strangely, even though he starts with hardly any warm-up, just raises his hand like a whip and strikes me smartly across my cheeks, I can’t cry just yet. I clamp my eyes shut, breathe through my nose, and focus on the pain. This I can process, this I can deal with, this I think I want. My pussy is getting wet and yet somehow I hardly feel it. “This not hard enough for you?” he asks, then digs his short but strong nails into my ass after one particularly rough blow.

This goes on for thirty-seven minutes. I know because he tells me; he’s been looking at the clock, must want to get this over with already. I’m wondering why he doesn’t just use a paddle or something already when I feel his hand hit me and then a burning sensation. He’s added something to his palm that makes it sting like hell. Next he shoves what I’m sure is our metal dildo into my cunt. He plunges it in without any hesitation, then goes right on with the searing smacks that really feel like he’s added chili pepper or something to his hand. It burns, and hurts, but I still open for him to fuck me with the toy, or rather, my pussy does. My head is still locked on what he’s just revealed.

When an hour has passed and only one lone tear has dribbled down my cheek, he stands me up and then has me kneel before him. He takes off the blindfold. I want to look into his eyes, but I don’t. I stare down at the ground, hardly knowing who he is anymore. Then he strikes me across the face. This isn’t a loving tap or even a sexual smack. He hits me, just once, across my right cheek. He’s a left, so it stings real good. “I got her a spanking machine. The one you always wanted. It’s spanking her right now, warming up her ass just for me.” He reaches for my nipple again, twisting it until I cry out. I wonder why he’s telling me these things, why he’s being so mean. I wonder if I’ll have to move to avoid seeing the two of them around.

I picture her, then, her ass, a good one third the size of mine, raised up on that sweet machine while it pummels her over and over and over again. Evan and I had gotten off watching women being spanked by those machines, and I’d been angling for one for months. Monique’s new in town, was, I thought, a new friend. He’s known her less than two months and already she’s usurped my place. That’s when the tears start, first a few on one side then a few on the other, weak little rivulets of saltwater. That’s when Evan takes me across his lap, my favorite. He used to do it before bed sometimes, telling me he loved me while using the meanest wooden paddle we owned. Now he does it and I just let the tears fall onto the ground. At first I put my arm in my mouth to stifle my sobs, but then I just let loose. His smacks are no harder than before, but they feel harder, somehow. We both lose track of time as the spanking seems to go on forever, my cries only ending when he shoves four fat fingers into my pussy and smacks my ass some more. Finally, I’m all done. I’ve come in a quick, almost rebellious burst. I don’t want to give him that satisfaction, but I can’t resist his touch. I look up at him through the haze of tears, searching his eyes for an answer as my throbbing ass welcomes the cool air from the window.

When it’s over, I try to sneak off to the bathroom, my face streaked with tears, my body seeming to sag under its own weight. I want to be alone, to curl up in the bath and merge into the bubbles. But he grabs me again, roughly, hugging me so tightly that at first I don’t realize he has tears in his eyes, too, tears that are slowly sliding down his face. “What are you crying about?” I ask bitterly, selfishly liking the comfort of his solid strength.

“Dee, my sweet Dee. I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours. Forever, remember? But you wanted me to make you cry, and I knew I had to go far, far down to somewhere foreign and scary to really make you scared. You’re a tough woman to crack, even though you don’t always realize it.”

I stare at him in disbelief, wondering whether he’s an evil genius or a truly sick bastard. I guess part of why I love him is that I’ll never truly have the answer to that, I just have to keep lowering myself to the depths of despair, and seeing if I make it through.

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