Free Stripped Down by Tristan Taormino Page B

air,” I said, lightly smacking her bottom with the palm of my hand.
    â€œYes, 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
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    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