My full, free kinky face-slapping story "Manners" from Gotta Have It: 69 Stories of Sudden Sex

I'm sure you would much rather read a dirty story than my blathering about not being able to find my phone. Well, I would. And Gotta Have It will be in stores any day now. It'll be in a few specific ones next week - Good Vibrations Berkeley, Booksmith in San Francisco and Coco de Mer in LA where you can get signed copies! And next month comes such a huge honor - my book Surrender, with a cover photo by the one and only Barbara Nitke (make sure to check her out).

Without further ado, a kinky little story I wrote, and there are 68 more, most not so kinky, but some are. There really is something for everyone in this book and I may be wrong, but I really hope people who don't otherwise buy or read erotica pick it up. Watch the video of me reading it here. Book trailer coming soon, hopefully next week, and hopefully best one yet!

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Cleis Press



Manners
by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Sheila sighed, then shuddered in complete contentment after Max’s hand connected with the apple of her cheek. Connected, meaning slapped. Struck. Smacked. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she’d have bit her lip…if she didn’t have his cock in her mouth already. She braced herself for him to do it again; that moment couldn’t come too soon. She busied herself swallowing more of him, saliva filling her mouth as she endeavored to take all of it. Nothing filled her with a greater sense of pride. But she felt the tip broach the back of her throat and another slap wasn’t forthcoming.

“Aren’t you going to say thank you?” he asked. His tone wasn’t teasing or light, and it wasn’t a rhetorical question. It was a demand with a question mark at the end of it, a tone bordering on something sinister, a register lower than his usual.

“Thank you, Max,” Sheila panted as she parted her lips from his hardness, and was rewarded with another blow across the same cheek, a harder one. His hand was big enough to cover the side of her face, a fact she knew well from the many times he simply held it there, intimating what he might do, or caressed her from just below her ear on over to her chin. His hands knew every inch of her face as intimately, if not more so, than they knew her pussy. They’d traced her lips, pinched her nose shut, pried open her mouth. On plenty of occasions one hand had held a cheek while the other whipped against the other side, and if she dared close her eyes, he’d squeeze her neck until she opened them.

She liked that she never knew quite what to expect from his sadism, liked that he could always read her desire for more but only sometimes gave in to her whims. As she said the words again--“Thank you, Max”æbefore pressing back down, her mouth drawn to his cock like a magnet, Sheila shivered. He slapped her again and she mumbled the words around his flesh.

She discovered that even more than she liked to be slapped, even more than she liked the sudden, stinging rush of pain to her skin, she liked to have to ask for it; beg for it. She was humbled by having to thank him and therefore having to admit that he wasn’t actually doing this to her; she was having him do this to her. She was the one so depraved as to want him to hurt her like this, depraved in the best possible sense of the word. His hands moved to her neck, tightening as she traced her tongue along the length of his shaft. She sank into the pressure, succumbed to it, even as she wondered whether Max could feel the tightness from the outside in. She hoped so, hoped her throat was constricting around his cock. She took a shuddery breath in through her nose, and he in turn tightened his hold for just a moment before letting go. It was their ongoing dance: two steps forward, one step back.

She looked up at him through the film of tears, hoping he wasn’t watching her just at that moment. She liked to be watched, liked to think of his eyes on her when she had him in her mouth. But she wasn’t sure she was ready to look at him head on. She looked back down but somehow he’d caught the uncertainty, caught the way it made her heart trip its way through her chest, loud, insistent. “Look at me, Sheila.” He was still hard, the heat of his erection, its very presence, commanding her to touch it. But for once, he didn’t want that. “Look at me, I said,” he growled, and she did, this time biting her lip as if she’d done something wrong.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to have done something wrong, if she wanted to be punished and have to apologize. But that would be too easy for a man like Max. He didn’t want to play games with her, he never had. He liked direct, honest answers. “You like being tied up, don’t you?” She could never get away with just a nod or a “Yeah.” It had to be, “Yes, Max,” or “Yes, sir.”

This time was no different. “I want you to watch me when I hit you. Don’t flinch, or I might think you don’t really like it. I might think you don’t want me to slap you, and I don’t want to do anything to you that you don’t really like. I want to know that my girl is as big a pain slut as I think she is.” All the while he spoke, his hand held her jaw in place. She couldn’t turn her head, could only choose to cast her eyes down or aside or shut them. She looked back at him, half recognizing the man before her, the big brown eyes, the smooth brown forehead, the razor-sharp teeth almost hidden behind his lips.

She kept staring as he raised his hand, far enough that she could see it as it aimed for her cheek. He used to take her over his lap, spank her ass and pull her hair, but that seemed like child’s play compared to what they both liked to do now. She still bent over for him, still wanted him to spank her, by hand or paddle or belt, but they were in too deep to turn back. He slapped her face again while keeping his eyes trained on hers. “Thank you, Max,” she said, and couldn’t stop the two tears that trickled down her cheek, surely falling over the freckles that dotted her skin.

“Good girl,” he said, his voice a little more purr than growl, before slapping her again. She was so tempted to shut her eyes; to focus solely on that one sense, touch; but he wouldn’t let her, or rather, she wouldn’t let herself. She kept looking at him as her left cheek bore the brunt of his smacks; he liked to use his dominant hand, to get the most out of their play.

The tears flowed faster and each “Thank you” took on greater import as she realized how many things she was thanking him for. There were the slaps, of course, but there was so much more than that. There was the tenderness with which he stroked the tears into her skin, the way he pressed his meager nails into her collarbone, the way he grabbed her long black hair and pulled her face back to get the last few blows in. Then there was the way he bit her lower lip, hard enough that she thought he might draw blood. Soon his knee was between her legs, pressing against her wetness. His tongue dove into her mouth, strangling her for a moment, his lips so big, wide, open. She shut her eyes then, whether she was allowed to or not. She opened them when they finally parted.

“Please,” she murmured. “Please.” She was shaking by then, trembling, broken in some powerful way only he could fix. She wasn’t sure what she was asking for, exactly, but she knew he’d know. He always did.