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  “I just want you to know…” the shorter woman said, walking her and Kathy to her low couch. “…what is about to happen will turn me on as much as it will you.”

  Realization suddenly hit Kathy as Anne sat below her. Anne lifted her skirt to mid thigh and pressed her pretty bare knees tight.

  “I want you over my lap,” the mistress of the house said, beaming up at her friend.

  Kathy gulped, searching Anne’s pretty pale face and deep blue eyes. Seconds ticked by like hours as each woman waited, poised and perfect, nervous and excited.

  “You don’t…”

  “I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do,” Anne interrupted. “I know you want to be spanked. I have thought of nothing else the last two weeks anyway, and when you admitted everything yesterday, I was thinking, why not, I should spank you, see if I like doing it as much as I think I will…or as much as you want to be.”

  “Lord Anne,” Kathy said, hugging her big chest once again as she stared down at the pretty thin knees of her friend. “I was pretty drunk yesterday; it was more the drinks talking than…”

  “…I doubt that,” Anne interrupted, cocking her head and fixing her friend with a kind, yet knowing, stare.

  At that magnesium flash flicker of a moment, both women knew the spanking was going to happen. Kathy could have easily just spun out of the room and Anne’s house, or at the very least, laughed aloud, pressed the point about being drunk, how Cosmos always went right to her head. She could have simply skittered out of the living room to go get some iced tea, chuckling at her friend’s assumptions. For her part, Anne held her breath, poised as she was, trying to show a confidence she certainly did not feel, fearing any second she’d jump up and tell Kathy she had been kidding. Wet as she was, she was nervous too; Kathy could diffuse the entire escapade if she balked or even downright refused.

  “You…you want me to just, just get over?”

  “Sure, why not?” Anne replied, sitting back on the yielding floral couch.

  “We can’t just do this,” Kathy sighed, her eyes not lifted from her friend’s lap.

  “Why not?” Anne asked. “Didn’t you say you missed playing the bad girl?”

  “Oh Lord,” Kathy said, her chin dipped as her big chest began to rise and fall rapidly again.

  Words like “bad girl,” “slut,” “my bitch,” when spoken in the context of being scolded when spanked—nothing made Kathy crazier. A hundred memories flooded her then, of way-back-when sexual encounters when she was called any number of naughty names as she lay across a lap or sat with a hand sneaking up her short skirt. She was getting so wet just standing there; would she come the minute she got into position?

  For Anne, to sit there, playing the waiting dominant, dressed sexy like that, about to do something she had never done to anyone, let alone a woman, was maddening to say the least…but oh so hot. She almost didn’t want to look up at Kathy, just breath slow and will it all to happen. Would she ever be able to look at Kathy again and not think of this moment?

  “Get across,” she said.

  Kathy took a step and came to stand at Anne’s right side, neither saying a word. The friends locked eyes then, took a breath in concert, and then Kathy began to bend across the high pretty lap below her. Both ladies shuttered, wiggled, and sighed into their respective positions as Kathy gingerly lay down across Anne’s lap and Anne scooted under her friend to support her.

  That there had been a background to these proceedings, that desires had been discussed, particulars of their private pasts weighed and considered, made this all a lot less threatening. It was as if the context of the spanking negated all other possible considerations of propriety; Anne’s marriage, Kathy’s usual shyness, their shared resolute heterosexuality wasn’t even considered with this most unusual happenstance. Both women had their minds wrapped around the procedures and positions of the spanking because of what they had experienced recently and what they had discussed because of it. This moment, for both, planned as it had been by Anne, sprung upon Kathy, would be nothing more than the spanking.

  “I mean, this is not really sexual, right?” Anne continued as Kathy scooted her ass dead center on her lap. “It’s more a curiosity.”

  “Well, it’s still hot,” Kathy said. She lay across Anne fully and placed her hands out before her, her long legs draped down off the other end.

  “Yeah…you’re right,” Anne agreed feeling the heat of Kathy against her and her own little squishiness increasing.

  “Just getting into this position…” Kathy moaned to Anne’s feet and Anne reached back as quickly as she dared and SMAT, she connected her thin right palm dead center to Kathy’s ass.

  “Oh, ho, hrmm,” both women sang.

  SMAT. SMAT. Anne answered Kathy’s exclamation with two more hits, again dead center.

  “Anne,” Kathy mewed to the floor and Anne lifted her arm, wiggled on the couch and began a succession of ten smacks, five to each of Kathy’s cheeks.

  SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.

  “Lordee!”

  Anne answered Kathy, repeating with five hits to her left cheek.

  SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.

  “Fucking hot, right?” Anne replied as Kathy straightened out again after the assault. Anne caught Kathy clenching and unclenching her cheeks through her jeans.

  Her friend really did have the roundest ass, Anne noticed.

  “You ok?” she asked.

  “Yeah…yeah,” Kathy sighed.

  Lying as loose as she could again, she tried to ease her breathing and still her big tits rising and falling as she lay there inverted over Anne’s knee. She was really wet now, but trying like all hell not to rub even the slightest bit against Anne’s thigh. Anne felt the warmth, not sure if it was Kathy’s or her own…and not caring one bit.

  “So?” Anne asked.

  “So?” Kathy repeated.

  Seconds ticked by, both women stayed in position—Anne fearful of what she was about to request, Kathy sensing the question and aching for it to be asked.

  “Gonna take your pants down?”

  “Oh Lord, Anne.”

  “I mean, we’re doing this, might as well go all the way, right?”

  “I...”

  Again there passed that snippet of slow motion decision both women knew would end in a positive outcome. Anne had known when she had formulated this plan in the shower the night before, as the water from her shower massager tickled her engorged lips and she grew ever more heated with the prospect of what she’d propose this day, that there would be no feeling of completion for her unless she bared Kathy’s ass, smacked her bare hand to bare cheek.

  Kathy only ever wanted to be spanked bare-assed. She had never been spanked any other way and the minute she lay across Anne’s lap she was thinking of nothing more than how these swats would feel when, or if, Anne finally suggested she take down her pants. All these years without this particular kink answered, she was more than ready to bare her ass and plop it over her friend’s legs for the swatting of her life.

  Kathy stood, wiggled, maneuvering quickly so she was on her feet and standing to Anne’s side in seconds.

  “I really didn’t wear the right panties for this,” she said, looking down at her best friend. Unsnapping, and then unzipping her tight jeans, the voluptuous redhead shucked her pants down her thick thighs.

  “Well, aren’t they coming down too?” Anne asked and Kathy smiled as did Anne...and then peeled her tight white panties down her long legs. She stood there, her trim thin crimson path of hair slightly matted, her eyes downcast as she dipped her chin to her chest once again.

  “Don’t give me the contrite schoolgirl,” Anne said and both women chuckled. “Or maybe you should.”

  With this, Anne sat back, Kathy scooted round to her side again, and Anne placed her hand on Kathy’s lower back. Both women felt that instant magical rush when Kathy lay down again, her bare pelvis meeting Anne’s bare knee, Kathy’s bare butt hi
gh and ready.

  “You’re already a little red,” Anne said rubbing her hand across Kathy’s right cheek.

  “Oh,” Kathy squealed, trying to settle herself.

  “You have such a beautifully round ass,” Anne said, tickling her friend’s bottom, running her fingers across Kathy’s pale right cheek, and then her left. “Really, really round Kath.”

  “Fuck Anne,” Kathy said, not even trying to hide her undulations then.

  Not that either could know it, but neither woman had ever been with another woman sexually. Sure Kathy had been close a few times in college, but other than a few drunk late nights cuddling next to her roommates, and save for those fleeting thoughts Anne coddled over Angelina Jolie, this was the first foray either woman had taken in the world of homosexual encounters.

  “This is gonna be good,” Anne said and took her hand off her friend.

  Anne and Kathy sighed in unison as they tried to calm themselves from what had just passed between them and for what was to come.

  “Not too hard,” Kathy said. “Remember my ass is bare.”

  “Like I’d forget,” Anne chided, smiled, and raised her hand. “You gonna watch or are you gonna brace yourself?”

  “Oh Lord,” Kathy said, lying back down, her head dipped to Anne’s calves.

  “Let’s start with an easy ten.”

  Neither woman said a word as Anne bounced her hand off Kathy’s ass, again five high hard swats a side, but this time cheek-to-cheek. The rolling and hip shucking, the skin-on-skin retort, the heat and the musky scent, it was all heady stuff indeed. At the tenth swat, when Anne reluctantly stopped, she was trying with all her might to roll her hips closer to Kathy’s side and Kathy was clutching both cheeks, pushing down hard into her friend’s knees.

  “Holy mother of fuck!” Anne shouted.

  “Anne. Anne,” Kathy sighed.

  Still as they could make themselves, each woman teetered there on the brink of furthering this encounter, traipsing into an area well beyond just a good-natured, friendly answering of a curiosity. Kathy knew that Anne knew that given a few more well-placed swats she would most likely orgasm right there against Anne’s knee. And Anne knew fully well that Kathy could feel her rolling ever closer while she smacked, trying to get her skirt pulled up even more so she might get some relief by pushing her pelvis into Kathy’s side.

  A silent half-minute passed as Anne stilled her hand on Kathy’s heated right cheek and Kathy slowed her breathing and released her cheeks. The unspoken accord, the muted arousal enveloping the two, even the fall sunshine slanting through Anne’s high living room windows—all these elements infused this encounter with a metered, cautious eroticism. When Anne and Kathy moved, they charged the very atmosphere around them; when they stayed still like this, it was almost as if Kathy was draped across Anne’s lap in a non-erotic way, stillness seeming to hold the charged possibility of all of this at bay.

  And the longer Anne and Kathy stayed still, silent, released, and relaxed, the longer they could avoid the question of should they continue.

  Anne reached to her side then, stretching across Kathy. Kathy rose up to see what her friend could possibly be reaching for, but in her wildest dreams she never would have dreamed she’d see what Anne suddenly plucked from behind an 8x11 framed photo of Bill and the kids.

  Worse than any implement she could have produced (and Anne wasn’t sure she wanted to use anything on Kathy except her open hand) Anne extended her baby monitor as far as its chord would allow.

  “Now, we continue,” the mistress of the house said, flicked the monitor to hissing life, placed it down once again, and lifted her hand to continue swatting Kathy for whomever cared to listen.

  The Corpse Washer

  By

  Jan Vander Laenen

  “Classic is healthy, Romantic is sick.”

  - Goethe

  Well, if one were to take this saying by the greatest German genius of all time to the letter, then I am a rather sickly being, because the more I advance in age, the more I catch myself to be a real, incurable romantic.

  And yet, I have really tried to keep this romantic side of me hidden, perhaps because, in our cynical age, “romantic” is considered nearly synonymous with “ridiculous,” and there is nothing that people nowadays worry about and indeed fear more than coming across as weak or, even worse, ludicrous. Furthermore, the term romantic is often still construed to refer to Death and ideas of death – ideas that are not exactly appreciated in contemporary society where we want to give the impression we are eternal and sickness and dying can be stopped and swept under the carpet... Oh, yes…

  And so, I have had my frivolous rococo period, a period during which I plunged into the most diverse eighteenth century writers, and especially the writings of the Marquis de Sade and Dangerous Liaisons by Choderlos de Laclos, and well, sometimes, I perversely and falsely tried to pose as the character of Madame de Merteuil, or imagined myself to be even more sexually deviant than the aforementioned Marquis. Regrettably enough, with the help of my psychiatrist, I have had to come to the conclusion that manipulating, deriding, and lying are not really part of my character – no – on the contrary, I have been the one that has been swindled by others and driven in a tight spot – and that my sexual tastes could be called rather normal, or even sunny, never based on little power games, in other words, or with the danger of suffering permanent injuries, but just with the intention of giving and receiving healthy pleasure – with as many men as possible that, naturally, Don Giovanni was a precursor of the Romantic movement…

  What I have retained from my “Enlightenment” period, is a life-long, total reverence for its music, and in particular that of Mozart, then, more naturally, a little flat which, in all its simplicity, seems to be done up like a miniature version of Versailles or Caserta or Amaliënborg.

  And yes, I have also had a period during which I posed as an all but militant gay, a little in the American vein, perhaps. And naturally, I have been and shall, on the one hand, remain an ardent proponent of the gay movement and of human rights in general, but I am too well aware that there is still a lot of work to be done, and continue thus to do my little bit for our so-called “community.” And on the other hand? Well, on the other hand, I continue to find that the saying “the world is beautiful because it is diverse” rings true, and would not feel really at home in a gay ghetto. And I naturally did enjoy my stay in the Castro district in San Francisco a number of years ago, but after a week or so, I was glad to be flying back to Europe. Because, well, the men there were naturally drop-dead gorgeous, with their facial hair and piercings and tattoos and their gym bodies; although it was a nice feeling to be able to knock about in a neighbourhood where men were the majority for once, I had missed the surreptitious, mucky, the secretive side, the sort of surreptitiousness, muckiness, and secretiveness that one can still find, in other words, in the stinking public toilets and stations and sex cinemas of European cities such as Brussels, Paris, or Madrid, for instance. Well, perhaps the American way of life is not really something for me…

  ...as was the case for that romantic Edgar Allan Poe for that matter, who may have emerged as the most illustrious representative of American literature, but who did not exactly have a high opinion of his predominantly profit-pursuing countrymen, and who managed to make a name for himself via Baudelaire’s translations into French. Poor, poor Edgar Allan Poe, who saw his mother cough her last breath out when he was only two years old, and who then saw one young woman after another pine away for the rest of his life, so that love and death started to mean nearly the same thing, as can be gauged from the following verses:

  I could not love except where Death

  Was mingling his with Beauty’s breath—

  Death. Death! Have I been confronted with it myself? Oh yes, for I was born in Flanders, a region which, in spite of its Brueghelian reputation, seems to have been losing its joie de vivre more and more, where suicide statistics are not exactly
pretty, and where the government takes pains not to publicise this fact. I was not yet eighteen when a good friend of mine, Rudy, threw himself under a train, for instance. I was not yet eighteen when another good friend, Jan, hanged himself. And I was not eighteen just yet when my then twenty-year-old brother–rich, athletic, intelligent, beautiful, and hairy and virile—ran into a post with his car at a hundred miles an hour. Poor, poor Guy, had you aimed a bit better, then you would have been dead on the spot, and have spared yourself some three weeks in semi-coma. Poor, poor Guy, who was the most beautiful of us and the darling of our parents, who taught me to masturbate, and about whom I may well have cherished incestuous feelings of being in love – how strange I felt when I greeted you for the last time in your brief life: because there I stood, the so-called weakling, towering over you who lay in your sickbed, attached to machines, with the hair on your head seared, your teeth smashed, your left eye torn out, and above all, an amputated lower leg. It did not do me any good to have seen you so felled, and the result of this early confrontation with death is that, as I grew older, I suffered more and more of a syndrome that I have christened “thanatitis,” a rather morbid urge towards death. In other words, a feeling that I am constantly living under Death’s wings, and that every action here on earth – and naturally, making love – could well be my last. “I could not love except where Death / Was mingling his with Beauty’s breat—,” Poe wrote, and given the loss of my brother, perhaps that applies a little to me too.

  So far, so good. The title of this short story is “The Corpse Washer,” and it is in his memory that I have now picked up my pen. In his memory? Yes, in his memory, because a week or so ago, Halal – corpse washer by profession, and an all but drop-dead gorgeous man, of such beauty in fact as to be well nigh fatal for me – dropped dead all of a sudden.

  And yes, I can still remember where and when the likeness of this man graced my retinas… It must have been three months or so ago, on a beautiful September evening, in the Dada Café, a Flemish bar obliquely across my door, where I still go to down a few beers in the evening, usually alone at a table in the back room to apprise the other patrons that I have no wish to engage in conversation with them, and want to spend a nice little hour alone with my musings in my half-drunken stupor.