Cheeky Spanking Stories by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Author:Rachel Kramer Bussel [Bussel, Rachel Kramer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cleis Press
Published: 2018-09-25T16:00:00+00:00

WRITER’S BLOCK

Evan Mora

Parker is my patron, my lover and my muse. I live with Parker in her beautiful three-story century home downtown. I sit at her antique desk, with the laptop she bought me, and I write her stories. Dirty stories. Because that’s what Parker likes. Sometimes I write about Daddies and their little girls, dirty little girls who like to be fucked. Sometimes I write about rock-hard butches in low-slung jeans and pouty femmes with short skirts and bright red lipstick. Sometimes, there’s even romance. I write about dominance and submission and bondage and pain. Because Parker is a sadistic fuck, and because you have to write what you know.

I want them to be perfect, these stories I’m weaving, these pictures I’m painting with my words. I want every word to bind seamlessly together and be precisely the right one. I want sentences and paragraphs to create images so vivid that Parker’s eyes go from smoky gray to nearly black with desire. But sometimes the words don’t do what I want them to do. In fact, sometimes the words don’t come at all. Anger and frustration quietly amass somewhere deep in my belly, roiling and churning and slowly rising until their taste is like bitter acid at the back of my throat. And when I erupt, when I snap—because it happens, how can it not?—I snap at Parker. And I shouldn’t. It’s never anything she’s done.

She catches my chin between thumb and forefinger, studying my face with those all-seeing eyes. I bristle, I chafe; I want to tell her to get her damn hands off me. I open my mouth to do precisely that, knowing—still knowing—that it’s not her I’m angry at, but she beats me to speech with a cold clipped: “Get your things. We’re leaving in ten—” and my mouth snaps shut with enough force to make my jaw ache.

We’re off to a place far from big-city lights. Our cabin in the woods. Our lake house. Does it matter that it’s the middle of the week? It might, if Parker wasn’t so very, very good at what she does, or if she or I had anyone to answer to other than her. But she is, and we don’t, so we get in the car, her sleek black machine, and head north, where the sounds of the city can’t find us.

I hate the drive. I hate everything right now. The waiting, the silence, my own stupidity, the anger that beats at me so fiercely that I want to cry. I know what’s coming, and I hate it, too. Even knowing that at some distant point on the other side of this I’ll be grateful, transformed, weeping with joy—even knowing that, I’m angry. I hate that she’s right, that she’s always right, at least about this. About what I need.

And she’s so damn calm that I want to scream. A primal, animal, ripped-from-my-bowels kind of scream. Anything to shake her up. To make her fight. Perversely, as much as

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