Why?

I have been instructed by my most dear and loving husband to write an essay titled Why Am I An Ass Slut? I’m not entirely certain if this is for his edification or to keep my fingers occupied and my head between my legs (at least figuratively) but either way I’m sure to enjoy it as long as I pretend no one will read it but him.

And then there’s a real dilemma – I could answer that question in four words or forty thousand words. He didn’t specify how detailed I’m expected to be, though I’ll guess somewhere in the lower thousands*. Nor did he say how many slightly mortifying admissions I’m to make. Nor did he mention how many humiliating secrets I’d have to reveal.

He did say I had to write about ass fucking. Specifically, he said I was to write about my ass fuckings.

But for those readers who only want the four word answer? (That’s all of you, right?) Why am I an ass slut? Stories. Fantasies. Playtime. Fucking.

There you are. Read no farther. Thank you.

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It’s not my stories that make me an ass slut. It’s how I feel when I read other stories about bottoms. There’s this wiggly feeling in my bottom, following by a slight squirm that rubs my thighs and groin against my pants and then the chair. My stomach clenches, my breath gets just a little shorter and shallower, and my ears get warm. I shiver a bit.

My breasts – clothed or not – swell and I bit my lower lip and stare wide-eyed at the words.

What sorts of stories are most effective?

Truthfully, I’m a snotty reader. I ain’t a read some thing who knows nuthin about them their English letters. A typo here or a missed apostrophe doesn’t kill it, but obvious and pervasive grammatical errors are distracting. It’s difficult to focus on my imagination when I have to concentrate simply on comprehension.

But once that decent composer is discovered? What do I like in my stories? Oh glory be – the naughtier and more forbidden it is, the more I like it. Tear-streaked women, begging women, proud women. Skirts hitched up in back. Naked. Wearing nothing but an apron or a pair of socks. Blackmailed. Guilty. At the mercy of a strict sadist. Innocent but eager. Long hair, short hair, big-breasted, svelte, wide-hipped, fleshy, parts of her pink. Bent over. Kneeling. Feet up. Prone. Face down on a bed. Displayed in a swing. Legs spread. Bound – leather, rope, tape, metal. Caged. Touched. Clipped. Blindfolded. Clamped. Coddled. Cuddled. Probed. Washed. Sucked. Felt up in public. Talked about. Gagged. Spanked. Humiliated. Photographed. Scolded. Fondled. Plugged. Belted. Loved. Conquered. Controlled. Tested but not destroyed. Whipped. Scrubbed. Fingered. Tickled. Fucked.

You get the idea.

There are any variety of stories which create these reactions. In the golden days of my youth (i.e. in college), there were several authors who could send me into a tailspin easily. Indeed, I have 206 text files in a folder on my computer that I collected during the six years of college and grad school – and those don’t count the ones I deleted in a fit of moral high-handedness early in my junior year. I can think now of several specific ones that make my heart race just from memory: Lord Robert & Lady Annabel by domino (Part 1 here, Part 2 here, Part 3 here), Jenifer and her Professory by firmly2 (Part 1 here, Part 2 here), Love ... and Love Intensely by ms_girl23 (Part 1 here, Part 2 here, Part 3 here), Future X-Man by Patrician (Part 1 here, Part 2 here)…

[Pause.]

Ah yes.

Well, then, there’s this John Benson story called Getting Into Trouble. (Er, this one might be significantly newer than those ones found during college.) And Eve Howard’s Robert and Hazel (she's from ShadowLane, I can't find this story freely available). I think I need to close that folder or this part of the entry will never get finished.

Anyway, reading makes me ache. It makes my hips squirm.

It takes my head into a world of fantasies that are not written down. Images spin through my mind. Story lines – some possible, some not – crowd into my head. And my imaginary friend – Lady X or Mr. Y – takes me by the ear and leads me toward the bedroom. Helpless. Achy. And desperate to be touched.

Fantasies are strange creatures. On the one hand they can be sweet and simple. But on the other hand they can be complex and involved and lengthy and painful.

There is that stern father or husband figure – maybe an uncle – who shakes his head sadly and says you will have to be punished. And he takes you by the hand, puts his other on your shoulder, and directs you into a room where he shuts the door and gently tells you that you’ll have to undress.

It’s not until you’re nude and over his thigh, your breasts rubbing against the nubby upholstery of his library sofa, that you realize he’s not spanking you. No, his hands are on your bottom and he’s spreading your cheeks to examine that rosy pink hole of which you are so ashamed.

And when you object? What does he do by simply tell you to hush, trap your legs between his and probe gently there with his fingers.

Your stomach lurches and you groan. “I don’t feel well,” you say and you mean it.

“You’re sick?” he questions, not pausing at all but reaching down to press his fingers against your warm labia. “Let me just check and see if you have a fever,” he says, and then there is a heavy arm across your back, a shuffling in a drawer beside the couch, and something cold and gel-like against that precious place.

“No,” you squeal, but the thermometer slips in without resistance and his hands cup your ass and hold you still.

It’s like that – gentle but firm and unstoppable. And even if he asks the impossible, he does so with every expectation of obedience. “Now then, you’ll have to stand there for ten minutes or so,” he says deliberately, patting your bottom as you face the mirror, nipples against the cold glass and your nose holding a dime within a circle he’s drawn on the mirror with lipstick. “Remember, don’t smear that hot pink color,” he warns considerately, and watches as you stand just off the floor trying to hold it in place. “There’s another hairbrushing for you otherwise,” he adds, rubbing my tush gently.

But not everyone has such a demeanor. The visiting Lady (or nanny) certainly doesn’t. “Bend over right now, young lady,” she declares briskly, pushing me over the end of the couch when I hesitate even a moment. My skirt is thrown up over my head and my hands gripped behind my back and against my anus a heavy plastic plug is already probing.

“No,” I sob, by my protest is ignored and she pushes it in firmly.

Only when it is deep inside my ass and she traces the outer edge around my ass with her nail does she respond.

“You will not tell me no, you will not fuss, you will not fight, do you understand me?” Her hand smacks against my ass. “You’re getting a spanking for that behavior right now. And for the rest of this week, consider yourself in training, miss.”

“Wh-what-t?” I manage.

“Training. By the time I leave, when someone tells you it’s time for a pacifier in your ass, you’ll bend over, put your hands on your bottom and hold it open. And you’ll do it willingly, for any reason at any time and for any plug. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, yes ma’am,” I gasp, already feeling the leather paddle tapping against my bottom.

Not that my momentary acquiescence makes a bit of difference to her. The paddling is hard and painful and if I am gasping and choking and whimpering when it is over, she enjoyed it even more. And then the back of the skirt is pinned high above the middle of my back, my hands are cuffed behind me with tight leather cuffs, and she helps me to stand, reaches around me with both hands to fondle my nipples and sits me down on a stool in the middle of the room. “Just sit right there,” she says. “And think about your ass. And, think about how it will feel to have something in your bottom at least twice a day during my stay.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I whisper. Because that’s what I do – I think about my ass.

I think about Chris, about what we do. About what I imagine we might do. Sometimes I think about what I really don’t want him to do, and even those possibilities and occasional realities make me squirmy and anxious.

There are a few things we’ve never done. There are fetishes we’ve never even discussed – whether we should or not is irrelevant. If we will, we will, you know? We talk a lot, so it’s possible that they’ll come up. When we were first together, anal sex was on the outer spectrum for me, but now it’s one of the important themes in our sexual relationship.

But we do play, too. In addition to our body parts, there are sex toys – a vibrating dildo, anal plug(s), vibrators, nipple clamps, several types of cuffs, spreader bar, gloves, spanking implements of nearly every size and shape (but not canes), a thermometer. There’s been ginger. Soap. Lube. Condoms. A butt plug harness (FYI, it’s not as easy as it looks in pictures or sounds in stories). And yes, toys do come out fairly regularly, but not every time we frolic together.

[Lubricant – that’s one thing that’s not really sexy, you know. “Wait a second, honey, let me stop and spread some of this cold cream on your butt?” just doesn’t have quite the right ring to it, you know? But it’s so damn important if I’m to enjoy it! However, if the stated purpose is for it all to be uncomfortable, to demonstrate his dominance and my submission, then fine. My own arousal works well enough to make it possible and acceptable, if not exactly enthralling.]

I’m rambling because I’m getting close to the point where I actually have to say something relevant about what we do. And I’m getting nervous. And I don’t want to.

So there.

[Deep breath.]

In short, concise sentences, then.

We fuck. Often. About half the time it can accurately be described as buggery, as his cock is inside my ass. Or rather, goes in and out of my ass.

Did I say that?

I sometimes enjoy it. But not always. I have frequent orgasms (with permission) anyway, and sometimes by the time the actual coitus occurs, I’m frankly finished. Worn out. So I lie there quite limply – relaxed even – while Chris enjoys himself.

More often I’m not quite so exhausted. I’m desperately aroused and I want to be fucked. In other words, the four orgasms from the earlier two hours weren’t enough and I’m so eager to feel him inside of me . . . anywhere inside of me. And Chris, of course, is just as eager. He does so love to tease me, to draw out the minutes, to watch me in throes of eagerness and on the edge of orgasm, baited to beg. But if you met me on the street, I can guarantee you would not imagine me nearly sobbing the words, “Please, please just fuck me. I need you inside me.”

And if you did look at me on the street as if you knew I was saying that, I’d probably smack you silly and tell you to mind your own business.

Thank you for minding my business.

I think.


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* word count = 1990