Read an Excerpt
From "The Spanking Machine" by Rachel Kramer Bussel
So as a modern, liberated woman, I decided to take a particularly American approach to the problem, and buy my pleasure in the form of a spanking machine. If that sounds ridiculous, go online and Google those words; you’ll find several models suited to various needs. The more I researched, the more excited I became. After all, I had a collection of powerful vibrators to fuck myself with when there was no one else around (and sometimes even when there was), so why couldn’t a mechanical device help me get my ass-smacking on?
I opted for the Robospanker, because it offered the most intense, hard spanking. I loved the fact that it wouldn’t let up until I told it to, giving me the chance to top from below, which is what I tend to do anyway. Spanking is one of those activities that you just can’t provide for yourself, even with your own hand. So I was willing to set the scene, as long as the machine did the work of making me whimper, making my ass burn, making my pussy throb in the way that only a good spanking can do.
For a moment, as my finger hovered over the PURCHASE NOW button, I had my doubts. It might be 2009, but what would a new lover say if he came over and saw that this machine was his competition? Men are squeamish enough about vibrators, even the battery-operated kind, and this wasn’t the kind of toy I could shove into any drawer or closet, and since I live in Manhattan, I don’t exactly have much by way of storage space. I pictured the scene: a stud and I hot to trot, then he sees this contraption. I could say it was an exercise bench, I supposed. And then I slipped my fingers into my frilly white panties and pictured my olive-colored ass turned a dusky rose, making the contrast against these very same panties even more intense. Tears sprang to my eyes as I tried to recall when I’d last gotten spanked. Oh, yes, Raphael; he’d gotten tired of my constant lateness and hurled me across his lap, ripped my fishnets and panties, and pounded my bottom with his hand until I banged against the floor with my fists, until I almost couldn’t take it anymore, flirting on the edge of giving up. My cunt danced with excitement as I recalled his anger, and I pressed the button, setting the transaction in motion. Of course, a machine wasn’t going to get angry with me, but that part I could supply for myself.
Waiting for it was like having a long-distance lover and pining for his arrival. Every day without it felt shallow and empty to the point that even my clients noticed. “Claire, I think you need to get laid,” one of the most famous actresses in the world said to me, and I knew she was right; she just didn’t know how right. The day the machine was set to arrive, I called in sick and waited anxiously. I couldn’t risk my new master being misdelivered or, heaven forbid, the doorman peering too closely at the box and wondering what exactly it contained. Even though I’m sure the neighbors in my upscale highrise have heard plenty of moaning, yelling, and spanking coming from behind my door, I’ve never out and out admitted that I’m the girl in twelve-D who likes to get spanked, who likes to role-play, who lets her lovers use and abuse all her orifices after a good, hard smackdown; who loves to wince the next day as she sits down in her skirt suits, wondering if the men who sit across from her at meetings or lunches, the reporters who press her for details, know exactly what’s caused the expression on her face. What I do inside the confines of my well-upholstered apartment is my business.
For the special day, I wore my favorite jeans and a loose white top, leaving the pearly buttons undone to the center of my bra. I went online and read story after story of naughty girls who needed to be spanked. Some of them horrified me; I mean, I’m a middle-aged businesswoman, and I was getting off on the idea of girls half my age getting paddled by their former teachers right after they’d graduated? Well, yes, I was. All those pretty young things in their schoolgirl skirts made me long to be eighteen or nineteen again, innocent and carefree. How I’d wasted my early years, content to do it in the dark, under the covers, missionary or, if I was lucky, on top.
Marco hadn’t even let me suck his cock, telling me that such behavior was unbecoming of a young lady like myself. Of course, when he wasn’t around, I’d spent copious solo masturbation time fantasizing about a man who didn’t give a shit what was ladylike or even what I would be into; he’d take from me exactly what he needed, pulling my hair, slapping my ass, and “forcing” me to suck his cock. Those fantasies got me through countless boring classes, solo expeditions, and even a few sessions with Marco.
And now, perhaps, I was simply doing what I was destined to do: take the spanking that rightly belonged to me. That’s right; this was all about empowerment. I jolted in my seat, feeling heat rising to my cheeks as my doorbell rang, and wondering if I had a just-been-fucked flush on my skin. I buttoned my jeans back up and gave myself a once-over in the mirror, then raced to the door and flung it open. It should say a lot that I barely glanced at the muscular young man before me. He looked like a college student; way too young for me, but that had never stopped me before.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said, almost killing my sex buzz. “Where shall I put this?” I’d pondered and pondered that question, but had opted for the only real space I had available: my living room. The bedroom would’ve been more discreet, but it also would’ve swallowed it. Besides, I live alone and I have the right to get off in any room I damn well please. I’d certainly spent plenty of nights sprawled on my couch with my vibrator pressed against my clit while watching a dirty movie.
I watched him put the box down, then wipe his brow with a handkerchief. “Would you like something to drink?” I asked, more out of rote politeness than any real desire to delay him. I wasn’t looking to seduce him, or even flirt, which was new for me; usually men like him were a challenge to me, a pleasant distraction from the rush of my daily business dealings.
But I’d just plunked down a very healthy amount of cash for something that would distract me any time I wanted, so when he asked for a beer, I just smiled and went to get it. I took one for myself as well, cracking them open and feeling the wetness in my panties as I walked back to him. “Feel free to sit down,” I said, my fingers itching to open the box but willing myself to wait.
“Do you need any...help?” he asked. It was only when the red splotches sprang up on his cheeks that I realized he might have a clue as to the contents of my very special box.
“What kind of help did you have in mind?”
I wasn’t embarrassed, though I was surprised that my secret had somehow been revealed. I truly hoped the company was discreet enough to leave the word spanking off their packaging. “Well, I just...it was pretty heavy, and maybe you need some help assembling... whatever’s inside.” He turned his mouth to the rim of his beer bottle and sucked hard, avoiding my eyes.
“Do you have some special expertise in assembling...machinery?” I asked, making sure he noticed my eyes drop from his face to his crotch.
“Not special, exactly, but I’m handy,” he said after another long sip from the bottle.
“Handy. Hmm...well, maybe you can be of service,” I said, draining my own bottle, then walking over to the box. I slipped my Swiss army knife out of my pocket and neatly sliced through the box. He stood and walked over to me, and I felt that familiar electricity crackle between us, the kind where all you have to be is one person in a room with another and suddenly, no matter their age or sex or anything else, your body reacts in a way that means you want to fuck this person as soon as possible. I would’ve groaned, but I was too intent on getting my machine set up.
He didn’t speak then, just put his hands on the box and slid it away so the spanking machine was revealed, although it didn’t quite look like the BDSM fantasy sex toy of my dreams so much as it really did appear to be an exercise bench. When all the parts were on my living room floor, I just stared at it. It really was going to be up to me to take the reins, to top from below, because the machine wasn’t going to start itself!
“Do you need any help...ma’am?” he asked tentatively. Even though he wasn’t my type—too short, and not take-charge enough to light my subby soul on fire—I paused for a moment as I wondered whether I did, in fact, want his help; want him to watch me bend over, orchestrate my own submission to a machine made for just such a purpose. Ultimately, I declined, putting a tip in his hand and giving him what I hoped was a mysterious smile. I like to think that he had an inkling what my machine was all about, and went home and jerked off to the image of me getting my bottom smacked again and again.
