Now Lawrence says the whole thing was my doing, but he's wrong. I know the limits of my powers.
Yes, I arranged the chairs in the living room of the cottage in a congenial circle that might be construed as a sort of theatre-in-the-round. I was definitely guilty of filling the room with candle-lit lanterns, the perfect lighting to bring a golden burnish to bare flesh. And I won't deny I provided several bottles of an easy-drinking Malbec that was guaranteed to loosen the inhibitions, if not the zippers, of my guests. That was all just part of being a good hostess, right?
So perhaps it was a bit provocative to show off the naughty book I'd discovered at the antique store a few miles north of our vacation retreat. But what was wrong with giving our guests something to laugh over as the evening wore on?
"
Blushing Bottoms
. You don't pass around a book with a title like that unless you're angling for something to happen," Lawrence argues.
"We met these people less than a week ago," I reply. "I didn't have the faintest idea they'd be so willing to drop their pants and whack each other's behinds."
Of course he's right that by the time Joel had Wendy bent over the footstool with her butt in the air, I didn't do anything to stop him. Because the truth is, by then I did want it to happen. I wanted to hear the smack of his palm against her runner's tight buttocks, wanted to see the blush creep over the pale, exposed skin. I wanted to watch the expression on her face, the faint grimace when she took the blow followed by a slackening of the mouth that looked like something very close to ecstasy.
Our other guests seemed equally enthralled. Charlotte's eyes twinkled like fairy lights as she watched, and strong, silent Curt stepped behind the armchair, probably so we couldn't see that lump in his pants. And my own husband? I didn't even have to turn in his direction to know his gaze was riveted on Wendy's naked ass and Joel's hand above it, poised to strike.
If I
had
planned it, I would have been happy with the outcome, but I was as surprised as anyone at the wild things that happened that night.
When I invited Wendy and Joel over for a glass of wine that first afternoon at the lake, I was merely trying to be friendly to our temporary neighbors. I didn't know that Joel would be so clever in the offbeat way Lawrence and I both liked or that Wendy was a wedding photographer with such amusing stories to tell about her clients. It was only natural for them to return the invitation the next day and ask the couple renting the next cottage over to join us, and before I knew it, the six of us were meeting for happy hour every evening.
Charlotte and Curt might not have been the world's most fascinating conversationalists, but they did add a certain sexual magnetism to our parties. Curt was a hunk, with pecs and delts to die for, and Charlotte was a curvy blonde straight from a men's magazine. I'm not bi, except in my fantasies, but as our gatherings continued through the week, I couldn't seem to keep my gaze from Charlotte's incredible butt. It was full and round and it jiggled ever so slightly when she walked. It didn't help matters that she favored skimpy cut-offs which showed off as much of that miraculous flesh as was legal.
My fingers itched to touch it to see if it was real.
I will confess, too, that by the time Saturday night rolled around, I'd imagined them all naked. In my lazy, summer vacation daydreams, I crept into Wendy and Joel's bedroom to spy as they fucked doggie-style: Wendy on all fours, her face contorted in a grimace of pleasure as her sinewy husband plowed into her from behind. Then I'd slip into Curt and Charlotte's bedroom to watch as she mounted him and began to ride. I pictured his big hands reaching around to cup her voluptuous ass—squeezing, squeezing—while the lather of their coupling frothed down over his balls.
But these were fantasies, not plans.
"Yes, but your fantasies have a strange way of coming true," Lawrence says. "Not that I'm complaining."
"But there's a problem with your argument, darling," I reply. "I bought the spanking book on Saturday afternoon, right before the wine party. I wouldn't have had time to plan anything."
Lawrence cocks his head, remembering, no doubt, the apple-cheeked grandma at the antique store. I was lingering over a book of racy "French" postcards when she sidled up and suggested I might find some items of interest in her collection for special clients. His jaw dropped as much as mine when she guided us into a back room, done up like a proper Victorian parlor, except for the etchings of copulating couples on the walls and the collection of vintage vibrators on the sideboard. Flustered, I reached for the bookshelf. A book seemed like the safest thing at the time.
Little did I know how wrong I was.
I pulled out a small, slim volume, the first one my fingers touched. Only then did I glance down at the faded red cover.
Blushing Bottoms
.
I felt my cheeks go hot.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the shopkeeper watching me carefully. I could feel the wordless challenge in her eyes brush my flesh like a caress:
Look inside.
I opened the cover.
The contents shouldn't have been a surprise. There were old-tyme engravings of mustachioed gentlemen chastising girls' plump derrieres with feather dusters and riding crops. Madams in bustles and pompadours punishing what looked like the same gentlemen, except this time their trousers were down around their knees and their buttocks bore a telltale cross-hatched flush. Soon my eyes were dancing with obscene images: cocks jutting stiffly from dark swirls of pubic hair, bosoms spilling from corsets, domineering leers and pouts of submission. I suddenly felt naughty and vaguely ashamed, as if I'd been caught peeping through a keyhole back through a hundred years of depravity and lust. My cheeks burned hotter and my buttocks began to tingle.
Blushing Bottoms
indeed.
This is a gem, my dear
, the shopkeeper said softly.
A rare find
.
I murmured a polite yes. Part of me wanted to put the book back on the shelf, but my hands gripped it possessively, as if they had a will of their own.
I want my special things to have a good home. You strike me as a young lady who would make proper use of it. I'd be willing to give it to you at a special price
.
"Buying the damned thing seemed the easiest way to get out of there," I tell Lawrence. "It's the truth."
With a nod, he grants me that point at least. "But then, why were you so quick to read out the rules for that kinky game in the back?"
"I turned to that page by accident."
Lawrence gives me his Freud-says-there's-no-such-thing-as-an-accident smirk.
I've just about decided it's hopeless to argue with him anymore when he begins to recite from memory: "'Heads and Tails: a Parlor Game of Chance for Naughty Ladies and Gentlemen.' Flip heads and you spank, tails you get spanked. Heads you keep your clothes on; tails you take it bare. Heads, you may use an implement like a crop or a hairbrush; tails is a naked palm. Heads and the strokes come down as lightly as a feather; tails, they come down hard. Heads you take your punishment silently; tails means begging and pleading allowed, indeed encouraged."
I smile. "I see my purchase has made an impression on you. But remember, it was Joel who suggested we actually play the game."
