Betty’s Black and Blue Bottom
by
Louis Kahn Nin
Smashwords
2012
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copyright © 2012 by Louis Kahn Nin
All rights reserved.
Cover photo by DarkTraces. Used with permission.
I knew Betty from the blogosphere. I knew she was 29, lived in L.A., was into pain, worked as a submissive in a dungeon, and constantly craved a Jamba Juice.
One time she wrote in her blog: If anyone out there brings me a Jamba Juice to work, they’ll get something special.
I wrote: If I lived in L.A., I’d bring you one every day.
Her user handle was SoozyQ, Betty was her pro name, and Elaine (apparently) her true name. She seemed obsessed with images of women in Nazi outfits and pictures of Edward Norton in American History X. For several months we exchanged blog posts about sex and drugs and loneliness. She kept late hours until sunrise like I did. One night she wrote she was upset because an ex-boyfriend had posted pictures of his dick entering her cunt on the Internet, and she gave me the link. She told me how she loved crystal meth because it made her horny and kept her thin, but she had to stay away from the addictive drug; I certainly could relate to that. She told me how the one night someone gave her what she thought was XTC but was actually acid and she had to work in that state of mind. I told her about the massive amount of shrooms I’d been taking lately and she said she didn’t like shrooms “because they make me see witches.” When asked what was the nicest gift anyone could give her, she replied: “A family and a home.”
That was a good answer.
Ever since joining the blog universe, I’ve struck up about a dozen on-line “relationships” with women all over the country, from ages 17 to 47, varying in degrees of flirtatious emails, cybersex on Instant Messenger, late night phone calls when their husbands, boyfriends or parents are asleep, to some of them flying, driving or taking the Amtrak into San Diego for a weekend to see if there is any chemistry “in the meat world,” as they say in the vernacular. Usually, it’s awkward and doesn’t work out…so with this, I often suggest, before they make the trip, that we immediately jump into a quick, hard fuck. Why not? That’s why they’re coming to see me, and sex will be on our minds the whole time—you know, who should make the first move, will a move be made, will there be sex, will the sex be good? If the sex is taken care of right away, then there won’t be all that tension and anticipation and we’ll both know if the sex is good and if we should continue with the visit as friends or mere tricks.
So I was a little nervous about meeting Betty in L.A. and she said she was too, but I wondered about that since our pre-arranged get-together was going to be brief and contrived; she was a professional, after all, and I was going to pay her for the time at the going rate plus a tip; and I knew there wasn’t going to be any actual “sex” involved.
This was also going to be a new experience for me, dropping into an S/M dungeon; I felt better that I was going to be with a woman whom I’d at least communicated with and knew a little bit about, rather than a complete stranger.
I’ve never been into the BDSM or D/s scene much; the “lifestyle” fascinates me and I like the clothing and gear and attitude in an academic sort of way, but it simply doesn’t turn me on, nor is it something I pursue with the kind of passion that many in “the scene” do with almost religious fervor and intent.
I set up a Sunday appointment with Betty at 1:30 p.m. The dungeon was located across the street from LAX in a warehouse zone on South La Cienega Boulevard. If you didn’t have the address and didn’t know what it was, you’d never know such a place of business was among the rows of bland, cookie-cut rectangular buildings that look like they were erected in the 1950s. The windows were tinted and there was an American flag in front of the place in question. I was told there was a “discreet” back entrance for clients who didn’t want to be seen going in or out but I didn’t care; I pressed the intercom and said I had an appointment and was buzzed inside.
The lobby was appropriately dark; a fat, greasy man in a pastel shirt who looked like the clichéd smut peddler sat behind a wooden desk. He looked me up and down and seemed bored. On a leather couch to my left was a woman with short hair, wearing a teddy and chewing gum; at the desk to my right sat a short blonde woman who was on a computer, doing something on the Internet—I knew this was Betty; she was often on-line at work and I recognized her from some photos I’d seen: long, thick curly hair, round face, slightly chubby body, big breasts and innocent-appearing blue eyes.
I had two Jamba Juices with me, orange and a berry flavor. She chose the orange and I had the berry.
She was shy and had a soft, high-pitched voice like a ten-year-old girl. She didn’t look me in the eye when we shook hands, nor when she gave me a tour of the facility. But maybe this is what submissives are supposed to act like, what did I know.
This dungeon was a 7,000 square foot warehouse split up into various themed rooms. The Bastille Room a jail cell with a rack; the Elizabethan Room a soft and pink and good for tickling; the “O” Room minimal with plain white walls and some hardcore torturing devices; the Mae West Room for clients who like to cross-dress and that door was closed; Windsor Hall was a classroom setting with half a dozen student chairs, a teacher’s desk and a chalkboard; the Interrogation Room for some hardcore action and has quite the fascist feel; Windsor Stables was the “pony training” area and the biggest—it was like a studio sound stage or small theater.
“Movies could be made here,” I said.
“Oh, there have been a few that have,” Betty said, looking at the floor.
“What kind?”
“What do you think?”
“S&M, I guess.”
“And some porn.”
I chose the Marquis de Sade Room, second biggest to Windsor Stables; everything in it was black or purple and there was a rack, cross, shackles, torture tower and a suspended cage connected to the ceiling and tracks, so it could be pushed from one side of the room to the other. I chose this room because it had a large, comfy couch with pillows. I would have wanted the classroom if Betty had been wearing a schoolgirl outfit (she was in white lace) and I could be the perverted teacher and she the naughty nymph co-ed.
We went up front and told the fat man which room. “How long?” he asked me. I said half an hour and he said, “$100.” I already knew what the prices were going to be; an hour went for $160 and I almost took that but this was my first time, what if I got bored?
I gave the guy a $100 bill and Betty took me to the equipment room, where I had the choice of dozens of whips, paddles, leather masks, and so on. I had no idea what to do so I went for the obvious: handcuffs. Then I grabbed some clothespins because I remembered a blog post of Betty’s about how she liked them clamped on her nipples. Then I randomly grabbed a paddle. “Ohhh,” said Betty, “that one’s the worst. It’s so hard.”
It was a pretty heavy paddle and looked like it was made of walnut.
In the room, I said, “Okay, look, I told you I’m pretty cherry to all this so I have to say, I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, it’s all about fantasy,” Betty said.
“But what are the dos and don’ts?”
“There’s no nudity, you can’t touch me on my private parts underneath my bra and panties, and there’s no exchange of bodily fluids.”
“Let’s keep it simple,” I said, “what if I gave you a spanking?”
“Okay. Where?”
“The couch.”
I sat on the couch and she stood in front of me, looking quite demure.
“And I want you to call me Daddy the whole time,” I told her.
“Daddy,” she said, “lift up my skirt.”
I did. She was wearing white thongs. She lay down across my lap. Her hair smelled like shampoo and I could also smell her pussy.
“Daddy, I’ve been so bad.”
“Yes,” I said, “you have,” and I began to spank her, first on the left ass cheek and then on the right; back and forth like that, soft at first because I knew enough that you did this lightly and built your way up. Her ass was big and round and pink and her flesh jiggled.
I’ve had plenty of girlfriends who liked the occasional spanking—a smack on the rear while I fucked them in the ass or some playful stuff to get them excited, but I’d never done a “session” like this before.
As I spanked her harder, my hand began to hurt so I switched to the paddle. The hard wood against her butt made a reverberating sound in the de Sade Room. When I took my first hard swing, she tensed up and hissed and I saw that her ass cheek was bright red.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “too hard?”
“Not at all, Daddy.”
“Harder?”
“If you wish, Daddy. Hurt me good, Daddy.”
So I did…and I got into it. It took me maybe fifteen minutes to get into what this was all about, and when I did, I loved it. Her butt was turning black and blue and she was crying out and squealing and sometimes her body went completely stiff and she’d shudder. But in my mind, she was no longer a woman I knew from the Internet whom I was paying to do this to; she was Tara, my ex-girlfriend who had walked out of my life four months ago, who’d abandoned me and our cats and left me with the full rent and utilities to pay, who’d left me alone and never wanted to see or talk to me—yes, she was Tara and I was punishing Betty (Tara) for what Tara had done, for hurting me: I was hurting her back. “You bitch,” I said (in my mind, not out loud) as I slammed the paddle down, “you cunt, you piece of worthless shit,” and I guess I got too carried away because Betty said, “Okay, okay, that’s too hard, not that hard, Daddy.”
Her ass was completely red with several black and blue spots. Her body was shaking and covered in sweat. I was hot and sweating too. I felt bad that maybe I’d gone too far, so I rubbed her back and stroked her hair and ran my fingers up and down her legs; my hand moved between her legs, keeping above the thong panties, and she was wet—I could feel it, see it and smell it. She was enjoying this, I guess. She said, “Give me some more, Daddy.”
So I did, but not too hard and I couldn’t get back into the fantasy that I was punishing Tara; I pretended I was her evil Daddy and she was my daughter and she was a bad girl and I was going to have incest with her all night long. I told her this and she said, “Oh yes Daddy I want you to fuck me tonight, I want my Daddy’s dick inside me because I’m such a bad little slut.”
“You are bad,” I said and began to use the paddle harder to keep my mind off the hard-on I had that was pressing against her stomach and that she knew was there because she began to grind her torso into my crotch.
The buzzer went off, our half an hour was up. I could have gone for another thirty minutes but this was good enough. Betty stood up; her make-up was smeared and there were tears down her bright pink face.
“Okay?” I asked.
She smiled. “I would’ve been more verbal but I was just trying to survive that paddle. Oh man,” and she lifted her skirt and looked at her backside in the mirror on the wall, “my ass is gonna to be a mess tomorrow.”
I got up and we both grabbed some cheap motel style towels to wipe off sweat and tears. We stopped and looked at each other and then hugged.
I gave her a $50 bill as a tip, hoping it was a good tip.
I then gave her a kiss and she closed her eyes and smiled.
“Thanks for the new experience,” I said.
“Come back again when you’re in L.A.”
“I will.”
“Maybe get a second girl, double your fun.”
The other girl was asleep on the couch in the lobby. The fat man nodded at me. I walked out of the dungeon like I was being released from county jail and the sun was very bright. I didn’t feel dirty like I thought I would. I felt—fuck if I know—cleansed in a way. I felt less angry. I may have even been a little happy.
***
I was worried I’d crossed the line with her, that I damaged her flesh beyond $100 and a $50 tip. I emailed her about it and she replied: Not at all. If you had gone too far I would have TOLD YOU. Oh, my ass is really black and blue, YOU. It’s beyond my skin and muscle, it’s a bruise right down to the bone. It hurts to sit. That’s so COOL-IO!
I had dreams about our half an hour. I told her this. In public, I began looking at women’s asses and desired to spank those round behinds, every one of them.
Online, I told Betty this.
She wrote back: Seems like you need to come back.
---Yes, I do.
When?
---Soon.
Not soon enough.