Sunday, August 24, 2014

Ginger Peach Popping

It was over ninety degrees, rare in Portland. Our thighs were sticky and our thoughts were dirty as we drove around running errands. The plan began simply, with the intent to go home and get naked and lie on the bed in front of the fan while the little window air conditioner worked on cooling the room. We talked about running ice cubes over each other’s bodies. Mr. W thought pressing an ice-cube to my ass then spanking my wet, cold bottom would be a good idea.  I took it further. “What about popsicles?” I said.

At first we envisioned something of an ice dildo. Mr. W could ice any part of me he wanted and lick me down as my body melted the ice. Then I began to think about making the popsicles out of fresh juice – it would be a welcome change from the kale and cucumber juices I’d been making for breakfast with my new juicer. “What about fresh peach juice?” I suggested. “With… I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud… ginger mixed in? For that little bit of ouch?”

The next thing I knew, we were on a frantic hunt for popsicle molds. We tried Safeway, Walgreens, even Target. No one had what we were looking for. Finally, we stopped at Kitchen Kaboodle, and we found popsicle mold paradise. We could make rocket pops, otter pops,  long, thick, overwhelming-for-icicle-ass-fucking pops. Then the ideal mold came into view. It could make nine small oval-shaped popsicles. Perfect little melting, stinging, delicious icy miniature butt plugs. For sixteen dollars, we could easily fulfill our sudden summer fantasy.

We stopped at Safeway for a second time on the way home to pick up fresh peaches and ginger root. I was wet the whole time. Mr. W took a sticker from a soft avocado and placed it on my bottom: “Ripe.” We couldn’t stop giggling.

At home I juiced five peaches and about two inches of ginger. I tasted for flavor – it was both spicy and sweet, exactly how I’d want my bottom to taste. I poured the juice, put the mold into the freezer, and began the long wait.

After an afternoon of trying to pass the time while periodically checking on the firmness of our pops, they were finally frozen. “Leave them for now,” said Mr. W as he took my hand and led me to the bedroom. “I need to warm you up first.”

“It’s nearly a hundred degrees today! I’m plenty warm,” I pleaded.

“Not in the right places,” he replied, taking a seat on the corner of the bed and patting his right thigh. “If you’re so hot, we can begin with you naked.”

I whimpered and fussed as I removed my clothes, playfully embracing the character of a girl who doesn’t want a spanking even though I was ready to dive over his lap.

He grinned. “Being difficult, are we?” He tilted his head towards my nightstand. “You can bring me the leather paddle before I take you over my knee.”

Now naked, I found the paddle he wanted in the drawer. Nearly half an inch thick, the oval boudoir paddle we’d bought for each other almost seven years ago was one of his favorites, though I found its sting overwhelming at times. “Not too hard please?” I pleaded as I handed it to him and straddled his right knee, resting my torso on the bed and reaching for a pillow should I need to bite down or muffle my whimpers or cries.

He set the paddle down and caressed my bare backside. “However I want,” he retorted. He began hand spanking me with sharp slaps to the curve of my bottom, sending each cheek jiggling upwards in quick succession. I squirmed but stayed in place, squeaking rather than squealing into my pillow. The day of planning and talking and teasing had made me more than ready, and when he took a break from the spanking to slide his finger between my thighs, I knew without a doubt what kind of wetness he’d find there. “You’re dripping on my knee,” he admonished me, returning to the spanking. I giggled, earning me the harder swats I’d been craving. “At least you’re turning a nice pink for my troubles.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I answered. “I like to turn pink for you.”

The slight pause that came after I spoke was my cue that he had picked up the paddle. He rubbed it in circles on the spots he’d spanked hardest, soothing me with the smooth leather. Then it lifted from my skin and landed harder than I had expected, hard enough that I gasped rather than made any outward sound of pain. “Five more just like that,” he informed me. “Quietly, young lady.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and clutched the pillow to my face, otherwise remaining still so he would know I was ready. The paddle strokes came quickly, alternating cheeks, and though it wasn’t many, I could feel my bottom heating up. “Am I warm, Sir?” I asked.

He touched me experimentally here and there, making “hmm” sounds as he explored, as if I was a science experiment. I knew he was doing it to tease me so I waited patiently, relishing the pause between the spanking I’d already received and whatever was to come next. At last he came to the expected conclusion: “You could be much, much warmer.”

He tapped my left cheek with the paddle. “Up, up,” he instructed. “Stand facing the bed and put your forearms on the mattress.” I did so, keeping my legs pressed together. Moments later, the paddle was being pushed between my thighs and wiggled back and forth. “Apart,” he said, slapping my inner thighs as I spread my legs. “Further apart, further.” As more space opened up, the harder the slaps were. “That’s good, that’s right,” he finally decided.

The paddling resumed, the strokes not as hard, but not letting up either. I was no longer giggling as the paddle continued to build layers of heat upon my backside. I tried not to cry out, instead pressing my lips together to keep my sounds to myself, but soon I was biting my lower lip and a quiet keening began to accompany the steady sound of my flesh being smacked left, right, and back again with the stiff leather paddle.

He stopped to stroke my now well-spanked bottom and bent to kiss the spots that were most sore. He licked me and blew on the moisture, cooling me. Then he leaned forward and put his head next to mine. He kissed my cheek, then with a voice rough and low, he softly said, “Put your knees on the edge of the bed. Otherwise stay where you are. I’m going to ice-fuck your ass now.”

Without letting me reply, he left the room. I got into the required position, my legs still wide open. When he returned, he pressed the ice-pop to the top of the cleft between my cheeks. “Ohmygosh,” I gasped in reaction to the cold. He lifted the pop from my skin and asked if I was ready. We’d played with both ginger and ice before, though never together, and I wasn’t sure that I was ready for the combination after all, but I wanted to give him this new experience. I nodded. “I hope so,” I said.

He returned the pop to where he’d started and ran it down the cleft, then back up and down once more. I shivered, but it didn’t sting. “Your bottom is so hot, the ice is melting already,” he whispered as he licked the wet trail he’d left down the middle of my ass. “I’m going to press it against your asshole now.” He returned the pop to my flesh, nestling it between my checks just above his intended target. “Deep breath.”

Because of the position I was in and the play he’d given my bottom, I was already a little open to the advance. The ice quickly shocked me closed again. He pulled the pop away then pressed it to me once more, using the thumb and forefinger of his other hand to spread my cheeks apart. He spun the pop, sending shivers and the first shock of sting through my body as the ginger juice reached more sensitive flesh. “I feel it,” I murmured as I exhaled.

“Does it sting?” he asked.

“A little. It’s cold. But a little, yes.” I began to bite my lip again, nervous at the thought of the spicy ice melting and flooding me as he continued to press onward.

I had hoped the ice would numb me from the sensation of the ginger as he worked it inside me, but as he made my ass open around the pop, the cold only highlighted the burning of the ginger. Suddenly I felt like I was naked and on fire in the Antarctic. “Too much, too much,” I moaned. In seconds his tongue was against the burning flesh, lapping the juice but not extinguishing the flames I felt dancing on my skin. I took a long, slow breath, then another, pressing my ass back against his mouth. “Okay,” I said after another moment. “I want to try again.”

He stood up. “Your ass is so spicy,” he said, the grin apparent in his voice. He pressed the melting popsicle to my asshole again. “Are you going to take it?” he asked. I nodded. “Alright. Take it, my little ginger slut.”

Slowly, more cautiously than his words implied, he pressed what was left of the ginger peach pop into my ass. He didn’t press it so far that it was left inside me to melt; instead, he tugged at it gently, fucking me, burning me, freezing me, overwhelming me. He interspersed this with sucking the melted juice from me, trying to catch it before it dripped down into my pussy and onto my thighs.  Just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, that the cross of sensations would spread throughout my body and overcome me, he removed what was left of the pop – now just clinging bits of frozen juice on the small plastic stick that came with the mold – and set it in a cup on the nightstand.

“I should leave you like this, stinging, dripping, open and anxious.” He gave me one last slow lick from my clit to the top of my ass. “But I want you too much.” He touched my asshole gently. “Should I fuck you here?” I shook my head vehemently. He slid his finger down to where my body had joined its own juices to the stickiness of the popsicle juice. “Here?”

My pussy was so ready for him that his finger slipped inside me without any pressure. I was so open, so ready, and still so very much on fire. “Please,” I begged. “Please, Sir. Please fuck me.” He paused, allowing me to continue desperately. “Please, please Sir. I can’t. I can’t wait. Please.”

He didn’t make me wait any longer. He took me hard and immediately I was in glorious pain. The lips of my pussy were tingling with the ginger juice that had dripped down and I was so sensitive that his cock felt like it would split me open as he pounded into me hard enough that I wasn’t sure I could stay up on my knees. His pelvis slammed into my paddled bottom, reminding me with each thrust that the spanking had surely left me bruised. Tears came to my eyes as the chill of the ice faded and my asshole was left was an intense sting. When he suddenly forced two fingers into me without missing a thrust, I screamed and came simultaneously. He pushed his fingers deeper into me and I could feel his cock somehow get even harder inside me as he told me, “Come again, or I’m going to get the ginger we didn’t use and make you take it all.” Shuddering and moaning, my body now fully his toy, I followed his directions.

Afterwards, shuddering, still stinging, now throbbing, I remembered we still had eight popsicles left in the freezer and that the weatherman just that morning had predicted an extended heatwave. I wondered how long Mr. W would wait before ginger peach popping me again.

Friday, August 22, 2014

The Last Oregon Spanking

Arizona morning, from my new backyard

My last spanking was over a pair of jean shorts I’d cut to such a risqué degree that they were more like denim panties. The bottom curve of each cheek was visible in a normal standing position and half of my backside was exposed if I bent over or reached forward. Panties were not an option; even a thong would have been visible in certain positions.

They were my moving shorts, for indoor packing only, and only worn on the last day before loading the sixteen-foot truck that Mr. W would haul from our tree-shaded apartment just outside Portland, Oregon to our new desert abode southeast of Phoenix, Arizona. We were moving to a guesthouse attached to a main house that would house five other members of our extended family. Instead of a thousand miles, there would now be about five yards between our back door and that of our relatives. The move was at first an exciting prospect, a chance to change our pace and start anew. But as the long drive and new living situation loomed closer, the short shorts weren’t just an amusing way to dispatch of a pair of worn-out jeans, they were a necessary distraction on a day when our future suddenly felt like a fearsome thing.

I had to change each time I needed to run anything out to the trash or load my car for a final trip to the Goodwill donation center. We’d left too much to do last minute and my continued need to strip my lower half to put on something outdoor appropriate did not make the process any easier. This earned my bottom swats and smacks at each turn – but that was my intention. I made sure to empty the high shelves in the laundry closet when Mr. W was nearby. He came up behind me, pressed his hand against my back, and gently forced my torso to rest atop the washer so he could give me a quick but firm spanking for teasing him with the view. I put a box in the middle of the kitchen floor so that anything I packed inside it required my bending over completely. Both my backside and thighs received the reward for that particular position. In each room, I sought to find a way to bring him to me. He knew the game and was happy to oblige.

That evening, boxes ready and all but two dishes and two forks packed away, he led me to the bedroom for the final Oregon spanking. Emotions were high; I was, in my nervousness, suddenly doubting the move and whether we’d made the right decision. I wanted to cry. I wanted to escape the situation.  Fortunately, there is no better medicine for wanting to cry and mentally escape than a firm, loving spanking. He let me keep my shorts on – they weren’t doing much to protect my backside anyway. He told me to kneel on the bed, lean forward, and bite my pillow. I followed the instructions, tears already in the corners of my eyes, as he gathered a few implements – we had decided all our toys would travel in my car, not in the rental truck, so they were still with my suitcase in my otherwise empty closet.

My cheeks were already warm, but he spanked me with his hand first, his touch comforting me even as I tried to prepare for whatever pain was to come. I hadn’t looked to see what he’d selected, but I figured a cane was somewhere in the mix. I tried to follow the rhythm of his hand, to be a good girl and take my final Oregon spanking bravely, but I was squirming like an unrepentant brat. Maybe it was the denim shorts that made me act so naughtily, maybe it was just the stress of the move, but I could not stay still for him. It was no wonder that the loving hand that was spanking me was soon holding a leather strap.

The strap was biting but not brutal; the quick crimson stripes it left upon me quickly faded back to the overall pink my skin had turned over the course of the day. After a short strapping session, however, my wiggle-worming around the bed was no longer acceptable. I thought I was about to receive a caning, a solid twenty-four or thirty-six strokes before I’d be allowed to call in our traditional post-caning Chinese food – the reason we’d kept out the plates and forks, our dinner was a planned post-final-spanking event, especially considering we were moving to a land of indeterminate-quality Asian cuisine.

Instead of the cane, the birch landed firmly across both of my cheeks. Its nubs and twigs and bitter branches all in one stroke made me cry out in shocked agony. In retrospect, I remember it pricking and welting and shocking my flesh, but I can’t recall the degree of pain or if I just let myself fall into it, howling for the sake of howling, releasing not so much the pain of a birch whipping, but instead letting go of all the fear and anxiety of the move, the regrets of what we would be leaving behind, and the misgivings of what our new living situation would bring.

I can’t say how many strokes I took or at what point Mr. W pushed aside the flimsy strip of denim between my legs and took me fully over the edge of emotion and sensation. I remember lying exhausted afterwards, closing my eyes and drifting, then waking and running my hand over my backside and discovering little swollen bumps where the birch had raised my flesh. I cried out for Mr. W, fearful that I had splinters. He inspected me, then stroked and soothed me, and rubbed lotion into my punished but not broken skin. No splinters were to be found. He held me, then we called in Chinese, and after dinner we slept a final night in the bedroom that had been the scene for our spanking challenges, our playtimes, our loving times, our safety and our place of rest. The following morning, I threw away my moving shorts before we left for Arizona, knowing there would be other shorts and other spankings to come.