Vegas

We enter the living room, and you notice that I have a Middle Eastern music CD in the CD player, so you know that I will be playing music for you to strip by. This is a source of pleasure to me, to see your body swaying provocatively and becoming slowly more revealed to me as the clothes drop off. You have mixed feelings about it because you enjoy knowing that you are arousing me with your body, but you have never felt at ease with your body - it just doesn't look good enough to satisfy you. You fret about the size of the breasts, slight swells in the hips and legs, things that I have repeatedly and sometimes exasperatedly told you don't matter. "And if they don't matter to me, to your man, love," I had said, "Why should they matter at all? Your body serves only two purposes sexually - to please me and to please you. If it pleases me, you are the only obstacle to your own happiness. Learn to enjoy your own body as much as I do." I have even given you disciplinary spankings when I have caught you disappointed in your body, for I do not want criticism of you. Still you do not feel happy with your physical being.

I grin at you, a grin containing nothing but lust and enjoyment, and start up the CD player. Exotic music, with plenty of strings, fills the room and you kick off your shoes and begin to dance to it. Your arms snake about, twining over your head as your body slowly gyrates and your hips flex. You look at me and slowly bring your tongue across your lips as your hands snake downwards and undo your top blouse button. You bring your hands down to your sides and continue swaying. Your hands slowly rise and undo another button. You enjoy this part of the dance, when you can sense the slow pace of the music, the dance, and your strip challenging the eagerness you know so well in me. It is a small challenge of wills, one which you will win because you control the pace of the action, you are the slow one here. You finish the last blouse button and the blouse flaps, alternating open then closed as you move, your bra playing a game of peekaboo with me. There is something that seems Middle Eastern to you in wearing your blouse as an open vest.

Leaving your blouse hanging from your shoulders, you slide your hands down your sides sinuously and hook the thumbs under your skirt. You slowly push your thumbs down and wriggle the skirt down off your hips, enjoying the feeling you have of being sexy, synchronizing your movements to the chords of the sensual music. You sneak a sidelong peek at me and are gratified to see how rapt my attention is to your dancing, "almost like a ravenous wolf", you think smilingly. The skirt drops to your feet and you snag it with your foot and kick it to a corner of the room. You turn to face me and shimmy your shoulders until the blouse falls as well. You snag your blouse with your other foot and kick it across the room as well. You are now wearing nothing but bra and panties.

Suddenly, the dreaded wave of self consciousness attacks you. You know that I enjoy your body and become angry when you don't feel comfortable with it. Yet, from beyond your control, the negative body feelings rush in, voices you can't suppress: "hips and thighs getting flabby", "breasts not round enough", "thick legs". You remember all the times that you compared yourself with the pinup girls, with the Playboy pictures, with the cheerleaders and the... The music stops, abruptly.

I am looking at you, but my expression is angry, not one of rapt attention now. After turning off the CD, I stride rapidly towards you. You cannot meet my eyes and look at the floor. I hold you under your chin and force you to face me, to see the exasperation in my eyes. You feel ashamed, you know that you are responsible for breaking the mood...

"What's wrong? Are you feeling ashamed of your body again?" Feeling broken, you nod your head tearfully, even as I hold your chin. There are times when your thoughts cannot be private, almost like I can see into your mind, and this is one of them. "Damn it, I keep telling you what a wonderful body you have, what an instrument of pleasure it is to me!" I take my hand from your chin and with two hands unclasp your bra and fling it open so that it hangs limply from your shoulders. "Look at these breasts," I shout, grasping one in each hand and squeezing. "They are beautiful, perfect globes!" As I squeeze, you welcome the pain, feeling that you deserve the shouting and the physical punishment you are getting. "Look at these lovely nipples, pure pleasure to pinch, suck, and kiss" - hard pinch of each one. I release the tender breasts and drop my hands to your panties and rip them off you, tearing the fabric.

"Look at your womanhood," and a hard smack there makes you jump, "soft and slick inside whenever I enter you. Look at that rump," and my hand cracks onto it, sounding like a rifle shot. "Don't you notice the looks it gets when you walk down the street? Firm and round, a dream to spank." Five more rapid-fire smacks pepper your bottom, each one sending a strong message to you. Then, suddenly, the storm seems over for the moment. You raise your eyes to look at me and I look tired, as though something's left me. You feel awful, knowing that the yawning gulf between us has widened and that it has depleted me...

"All right, let's get this punishment over with, " I snap, and sit down on the couch, in the middle. You obediently sit at my right and then lie face down over my lap. You miss the feel of my hand guiding you, caressing you as it holds you between your shoulder blades and pushes you gently down, but you know there will be none of that in a punishment spanking. The hard smacks begin, cracking off your cheeks, bringing the pain and the flame out instantly, not slowly and gently like you love. You cry with the pain and the hurt and the feeling of having let both of us down, tears leaving shining paths down your cheeks and roll into your open, bawling mouth, making bad, salty-tasting memories. Through the haze of pain and hurt and guilt and my anger, you feel your breasts and pussy longing for the teasing and touching they would get in a playful spanking, your entire self longing to swallow my cock and please me, knowing there will be none of that now... When I let you up, I tell you that we will discuss this more tomorrow. You know that your torrid bottom will remind you all day...

When I come home next day, you have made an elegant dinner and dressed in a low-cut evening gown. Slow, romantic music fills the house. For some reason, although it has never worked yet, you hope that the ambience will make me forget my commitment to punish you further. It doesn't work this time either, although you notice me casting an appreciative glance at your exposed cleavage. You expect a peremptory order to get a paddle, but instead I toss two round-trip airline tickets to Las Vegas on the table. I hold you by your shoulders and look you directly in the eyes and explain to you that I have made a few phone calls and secured a performance for you as a stripper in a Vegas show. "If you won't take my word for what a desirable woman you are, perhaps you'll take the word of several hundred men in the audience," I tell you.

When we leave McCarran Airport several days later and head to downtown Las Vegas, you feel like a child again and realize that it's been too long since our last vacation. However, you know that tonight you will be performing, dancing naked in front of hundreds of strangers. Your persistently glowing bottom reminds you of this - last night I gave you another punishment spanking to ensure that all day today you would remember the true reason of our trip. We tour the Strip and see the erupting volcano, the Barbary Coast pirates, the knight jousts at Excalibur, and the continuous acts at Circus Circus. We eat at a dinner buffet and you select several desserts at the end of your meal, but feel a sharp smack on the back of your hand. "Remember to stay in shape, you perform tonight," is all I say, but it's enough - you leave all your desserts but one at the table.

I had allotted thirty dollars for each of us to gamble with. We go to the slot machines and play. After thirty minutes, I have lost all my money and you now have fifty-four dollars. You decide to quit while you're ahead, and we just go outside on the Strip to walk and inhale the cool night air and see the flashing neon of Las Vegas. We watch the punks, the con artists, the hookers, and it seems to you that everybody has a plan, a scam, a hustle - except for us: we're just enjoying our time before...

I look at my watch. "We need to get to the club," I say. "Only thirty minutes before you need to be in your dressing room." Instantly you feel less mobile, more draggy. It is just like when you were a little child going to the doctor's for a shot, and it was other people's wills that moved you. In a daze, you follow me to the club and leadenly walk into the dressing room.

There are several other women already there, putting on makeup and getting into their costumes. You think they look like tropical birds putting on feathers. You don't feel a part of them and their colorful chatter at all - they seem so bright, so animated. Plus, the rebellious thought stirs in your brain that they are much prettier than you - you push the thought down and tell it that it's already caused you enough trouble. You toy with the idea of putting on bright cheerful makeup as a mask to deny yourself but decide that it's not your style, so you content yourself with just putting on your costume. When the chirping birds around you file out, you move along with them.

You watch with me from the backstage as one by one they go through their moves and their routines. The girls are athletic but the routines seem canned and stale. You do have to admit that they have gorgeous bodies, but somehow they no longer seem in another class from your own. The thing that frightens you is the audience - you can't see them through the bright lights, but you know they are there. What will they be like? What kind of ravening beasts will they be? Will they be loud, hostile, and drunk? Will they be angry and disappointed with your looks? Will they get aroused out of control and rush the stage and assault and gang-rape you? Will they just be so hopped up on drugs that they ignore you altogether?

The last girl leaves us to go out and strip for the crowds. You stare at her so hard that your eyeballs ache, seeing her proudly flaunting her body before the strange men. The bizarre thought pops into your head, "I could NEVER do that" - what timing for that thought! She struts about, arching her back to display her breasts to the crowd. She faces away from them and waggles her rear at them and caresses it with her hands. She slowly peels her panties down, still waggling, and then steps out of them, totally nude. Then she gyrates about, and you can tell that she's aroused at being completely naked before a crowd. The crowd roars and then she steps off...

You feel a huge weight take control of you so that you cannot move. You know that you have to, but motion is denied you. You feel the huge size of the backstage swallowing you, you are so small there as to not be worth noticing, there is a buzzing around you and in your ears. You see me be part of the buzzing, my mouth open and angry. Still you cannot move and stand there blankly.

My patience cracks and I sit down on a chair and haul you over my lap once more. This focuses you again, and the buzzing subsides and the room shrinks to its proper proportions. You can hear me angrily telling you that you will get out on that stage and do it post haste. Then I spank you hard, cracking shots that reverberate throughout the backstage. Some of the girls who have returned from their dances, stand by to watch and giggle as the swats set ablaze your already well-warmed rear. After thirty very hard smacks I push you off my lap and push you out on the stage. You blink once or twice at the bright lights and see some grinning men through the haze of light. Their grins tell you that they must have heard some of your spanking prior to your entrance. You focus away from them, on the music.

Then an amazing thing happens. A strong young girl takes shape within you, and she takes over for you. She's proud of your body, and wants to show it to me, and to all the other men if that's my wish. She moves your body around, swaying to the music, smiling at the audience. She and you come together and you come alive, showing your body off more proudly than any of the girls before you. You smirk sexily at the men in the audience and you can see them appreciate your confidence in your body, your dancing style. You shimmer out of your outer clothing and take your time, teasing the men, enjoying the feeling of power that this wonderful girl has bestowed upon you. You strip down to your bra and panties, just like you have done for me, and instead of the old fears and negative feelings, a sexy fresh confidence wells up in you and you actually look forward to showing your body off. You hear whistles and hoots, and luxuriate in the approval they convey. You dimly realize that the approval is having an effect on you, that you are getting wet...

You now control the tempo, the scene, and hundreds of men are rapt in their seats, longing to love with their eyeballs the body that you alone can yield to them. You slowly slide one bra strap off your shoulder and then slyly replace it there before lowering it for good. Then you copy that motion with the other strap. You shimmy, knowing that all eyes are on you and you alone, and the bra comes tantalizingly close to dropping but it barely stays on. Then you turn your back to the audience and, snakelike, sway slowly and let the bra fall. Facing away from the crowd, you see me in the backstage and see my look of pure pleasure and pride and feel a warm golden glow throughout you, one you have not felt since you felt the doubts assail you during your strip for me a scant few days ago. I smile at you and nod approvingly, and you know that the approval is for your performance, for your body, and for your deservedly proud attitude. It makes you feel glowing and good inside.

You place your hands over your nude breasts, and turn to face the audience, now watching you breathless. You flap the hands just a little, teasing the men, and then slowly let them drop. A collective hush falls over your voyeurs, a moment of appreciation for those pretty breasts. You gyrate sensuously, the breasts dancing their own dance, and everything in that little world is centered upon you. Your wetness increases and somehow solidifies your confidence. You hook your thumbs into the waistline of your panties, and slide the thumbs around, teasing and making promises to your audience. You can feel their tension throughout the air, how their wait is almost painful as you control and delay their visual gratification. You work the waistline down until it is between the bottom of your belly and the top of your mound, and sense the crowd's ache as you do so. This exposes the top half of your rear, and you know that the flaming redness will be visible to them when you turn around. But you realize that the spanking evidence is as much a part of you now as your body itself is, and you will be sharing that with the audience.

You turn around, facing away from your hundreds of admirers, and wiggle for them. They can see the flame now, and you wriggle out of the panties, showing them the full evidence of my concern for you and my punishment. The surprised men go quiet, except for a long, slow whistle for your crimson rear. Then suddenly, the audience roars and stamps its feet, and you feel buoyed along by their enthusiasm and acceptance of your submissive nature. You turn around and face the audience entirely nude, basking in their approval and feeling like you are riding a powerful crest and are invincible. You kick the dampened panties into the crowd and exult in the scuffle that breaks out over them.

Totally exposed, you have the audience entirely at your command and give them what they need, showing your breasts swaying, your hips grinding, your sex glistening with the reflected footlight glare, your back proudly erect, dancing to the music of Las Vegas. The audience's roaring comes in waves, and you feel each wave as though it were pounding into you sexually. Your dance takes on a wilder note as the thrusts come into you, the hundreds of men's voices and whistles and footstamps coalesces into a throbbing thrust pushing into you, stroking you hard. You feel the familiar buildup and know that you are climbing that hill towards orgasm. You know that you are performing for hundreds of men and cannot leave them now. You gasp and begin to cry out, and the roars thunder louder and rend the air of Las Vegas. Sweat flings off your body as it twists and squirms, a new note added to the dance. You come with a shrill scream that pierces the audience's roar.

Suddenly it's a sweaty silence. You and the audience look at each other, eyes locked. You have been completely exposed to them - they have seen your nude body, your spanking history, and finally your orgasm on the stage before them. You feel there is nothing left to show them, and so... you bow out to deafening applause and head to the backstage where I am waiting for you...