Hanky Panky
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Hanky Panky free porn video
Hanky Panky
By Cal Y. Pygia
Like many women, Daphne Cole admired men's asses. Not just any man's
ass, of course. She was discriminating in regard to which butts she
found admirable as opposed to appalling. She liked firm, compact
buttocks, and they had to be sleek. Any hair eliminated them from her
consideration, as did a pimple or any other blemish. She also wanted
buoyancy in her man's bottom, but not at the cost of firmness. A small,
tight pair of ass cheeks that were shapely without being feminine were
what she looked for in a man, as she discretely ogled their rear ends
through their jeans.
When she spied a likely bottom, she'd drop the proverbial hanky, and
when her Prince Charming retrieved it for her, she'd thank him with a
smile and a pat on the butt. The latter gesture was more than a little
forward, she knew, but no man had ever complained, and no real man, she
felt confident, ever would do so.
The pat was a means of displaying her fetish for men's asses, but it was
also a way to further assess the density, smoothness, and firmness of
his bottom. If she liked what she'd seen (and felt), Daphne would take
matters a step further. "I'm a photographer," she'd tell her quarry,
"and I'm doing a series for Bottoms Up, a soft porn magazine devoted to
a man's best asset--his ass. Would you be interested in posing?"
Invariably, the men were interested, even after she made it clear that
"the magazine offers no remuneration; payment is in copies only, upon
publication."
Her statement was only half true: she was a professional photographer,
all right, but Bottoms Up didn't exist and, therefore, there would be no
remuneration, even in the form of future free copies of the publication.
By the time her mark realized her deceit, however, she'd have moved on--
to find her next mark.
She lied by way of omission, too, refraining from mentioning that her
imaginary photo shoot was to feature both her spanking of his ass and
her pegging of him with a strap-on dildo. A girl, she told herself, had
to have a few secrets. A man might readily agree to be photographed in
the nude, but some men would draw the line at being spanked, and even
more would refuse to take an artificial cock up his ass. A man had to
be persuaded gradually, one step at a time.
In Daphne's experience, though, which was extensive, most men eventually
did surrender their asses, both to be spanked and to be fucked. Indeed,
just as some men contended all women liked to be ravished, she believed
that most (maybe all) men, regardless of how masculine or macho they
might be, enjoyed submitting to a woman, liked being spanked, and
enjoyed being fucked in the ass by a woman who wore a latex prick that
was thicker, longer, and firmer by far than many of its fleshly
counterparts would prove to be.
Occasionally, Daphne shot her subjects outdoors, in a forest, in a
meadow, beside a river, or under a highway overpass. Most of the time,
though, she photographed them indoors, in a hotel suite's bedroom,
living room, or kitchen. Sometimes, she made a man wear a frilly pink
or lavender apron, adding a feather duster (handheld or inserted into
his ass) as a prop.
A feminized man was a handsome man, she thought. She found gender
bending erotic, especially when it was she who played the mistress and
her subject had an especially superb ass. Other times, she strove
simply to capture the highly charged juxtaposition of empowered
femininity, represented by herself, and subjugated masculinity,
represented by her male model and his spanked or impaled bottom.
The first thing she did was to get her session's subject to sign a
contract. It looked all proper and legal, of course, but it was
fraudulent, because Daphne, who signed the papers with an assumed name,
had no intention of executing the terms set forth by the agreement. The
papers were simply a prop, designed to make the photo shoot seem
authentic. It was a nice touch, she thought, and helped to set her
mark's mind at rest concerning the legitimacy and even the
respectability, perhaps, of what he was doing.
Signing the papers also had the effect of putting him in the frame of
mind of a professional model, which made him more willing to follow her
directions without questions and with enthusiasm. "Although this
session is unpaid," Daphne would often tell the men, "your appearance in
Bottoms Up could lead to a modeling career or even to a career in
television or the movies, as it has for some of the men who've appeared
in the magazine."
After asking her "model" whether he had any questions (most did not),
Daphne invited him to remove his clothing. After he'd done so, she
would shoot a hundred or so pictures of him, in various poses. She made
sure that she took some photos of him on his elbows and knees, legs
spread, with his balls dangling between his sinewy thighs. The sight of
a man's testicles suspended between his legs always got her pussy wet.
She found such a sight one of the most erotic she'd ever seen, and, as
she took picture after picture of him in this position, to keep as
souvenirs, she imagined herself, kneeling between his muscular calves, a
dildo strapped to her groin, ready to penetrate him anally. Her cunt
would usually flood at such visions, her juices pouring, rather than
merely trickling, down her thighs. Down, girl! she would reprimand
herself, adding the assurance that the act she'd just imagined would
happen, because she'd make it happen, but all in good time.
After she had taken pictures of him on his tummy, ass flat or elevated;
pictures from behind, of him squatting; pictures of his ass in profile;
pictures of his buttocks foreshortened by her photographing them from
the floor, as she lay upon her back; and as many other pictures of his
glorious backside, from as many other angles and in as many other
positions as she could envision, Daphne would advise him that the set of
photos she was shooting was to include pictures of him being spanked--by
her.
Sometimes, this announcement would be met with questions or mild
protests; in the end, though, the "model" invariably complied with the
requirement, and Daphne would enter the frame, having already set up a
tripod-mounted camera across the room that she could operate by remote
control. In addition, she filmed the spanking session with a video
camera that she'd set up in secret.
She usually started with the man over her knee, his firm, but buoyant,
smooth bottom facing the camera as she delivered twelve quick, hard
slaps to either buttock to redden the pale flesh, putting blossoms in
his cheeks. She loved to watch the flattened palm of her hand collide
with the firm-soft cushions of his buttocks, flattening one and then the
other cheek as her hand fell hard across his backside, leaving its pink
imprint upon his astonished flesh.
She loved the sharp report, loud in the otherwise silent environment.
She loved the way he would lurch forward, but to no avail, the front of
his thighs trapped against the side of her own upper leg. She also
enjoyed, tremendously, the soft groan he would emit on occasion as she
fanned his fanny. Most of all, though, she was delighted by the
spectacle of his helplessness and of her dominance.
Spanking a man who was taller and stronger than she made her feel bigger
and more powerful, not only than she actually was, but also bigger and
more powerful than the male whom she'd forced to submit to her
authority. Each pink or red discoloration of his pale buttocks proved
her dominance, and each imprint of her dainty hand upon his squirming
bottom demonstrated her superiority.
After having delivered the two dozen slaps across his ass with her palm,
Daphne, ordering her subject to remain in place, took a paddle in hand,
and delivered twice this number of strokes, hard and fast, to his
quivering buttocks. The man would writhe and twist, moan and groan, and
begin to plead for mercy by the time she neared the completion of this
portion of his punishment, but Daphne was without mercy.
She had no doubt that pain was a fire in his trembling bottom, that his
cries of anguish were real, and that his pleas for mercy were sincere.
However, she was just as convinced that, on a deeper level, he enjoyed
the physical pain and suffering, just as he delighted in the emotional
misery that his humiliation inspired. At heart, she was persuaded, all
men were pussies. They wanted to be controlled, even beaten, by women.
They wanted to be humiliated and shamed and reduced to quivering,
whimpering crybabies.
The paddle rose and fell in a blur, striking first one cheek and then
the other, alternating back and forth so that neither buttock was
favored (or spared), and his bottom became red where it was not pink and
purple where it was not red. A few slight contusions added a
satisfyingly rich, ripe purple to his ass, as if, among the strawberries
and cherries, a few plump plums had been added to the mix.
Halfway through the paddling, Daphne changed tactics, concentrating the
impacts of the paddle's wooden blade upon the same cheek, as she
delivered ten or twelve resounding blows to the same battered buttock.
In the silence of the environment, the cracks of wood against muscle and
flesh sounded like gunshots. Her "model" lurched and leaped, cajoled
and begged, whined and whimpered, each of his cries and entreaties music
to his punisher's ears.
They did not elicit mercy from Daphne, though. Quite the contrary! She
redoubled her efforts as she spanked his other ass cheek, striking the
red-and-purple buttock with rapid, forceful blows that, at last,
elicited not only sniffs, but sobs, from the unfortunate male who lay
across her lap, his cock thick and stiff with undisguised arousal from
the pummeling that his buttocks were receiving and, Daphne had no doubt,
by the welter of conflicting emotions--passion, humiliation, shame,
lust, helplessness, vulnerability, and adoration--that filled his
mortified and anguished soul.
"Get up!" she ordered.
Quickly, her subject rose, and she saw what, a moment ago, she had been
able only to feel: his cock was thick and rigid, his balls high and
tight within the smooth pouch of his risen scrotum. On some level
deeper than that of physical pain, he was enjoying his plight. She
smiled at his erection, which was proof positive of his visceral and
emotional enjoyment of his status as a mere thing subject to her will,
to her authority, to her power. His cock, impressive as it was, was
merely flesh, though, she thought; soon enough, he would feel a much
firmer, more resolute, if artificial, version of his own manhood
buggering his ass.
First, though, he should taste the strap, she thought.
"Kneel, facing the couch," she commanded.
Sniffing and trying to control the flow of tears that threatened their
release, he obeyed.
"Bend forward," she demanded, "as far as you can."
When he'd followed her directions, she seized his genitals, tugging them
backward and down, so that both his cock and his balls hung between his
massive, muscular thighs, like ornaments, the way she liked them.
She exchanged her paddle for a razor strop. Raising the leather band
high overhead, she brought it down, in a swift and merciless arc, across
his enflamed buttocks, and her subject screamed as he tried to fling
himself forward, half-turning as if he were intent upon avoiding more of
the same.
"Move again," she warned, "and a dozen strokes shall be added to the
number you're already destined to receive."
Destined? he thought. That was an odd word. He wasn't destined to
receive any--
--the next lash of the strop obliterated his thought in a blinding flash
of searing pain. He screamed again, but managed, through an extreme
exercise of will, to refrain from twisting aside.
The leather came at his bottom with a great whooshing sound behind it,
stinging his ass anew, and the pain flashed through his beleaguered
bottom as if it would consume him, instantly and completely.
Again, the strop flashed forward and down, across his bottom, the cheeks
of which were decorated now with a flurry of bruises which, Daphne
thought, looked beautiful among the red and purple patches of his
discolored backside. She struck him again and again, each rapid lash of
the leather furrowing the cheeks of his ass. His buttocks, however,
retained their resilience, even after a dozen of the cruel strokes,
bouncing back to fullness so that the next vicious impact--and the next
and the next--could again part the stinging flesh before it.
After another dozen lashes, Daphne set the razor strop aside, admiring
his bruised flesh, decorated with welts and angry red ridges. There
were even a couple of lacerations, from which beads of blood seeped, to
adorn his backside, as if they were rubies wrought of his anguish.
"Back onto the carpet," she ordered, "on your elbows and knees, legs
spread wide."
He complied with her order, and she smiled at the sight of his battered
and bruised buttocks, testaments, both, of her superior status, of her
power and authority, of her dominance and control over him, her subject.
Her cunt was a river.
"For the next set of photographs," she announced, "I will require some
special equipment. Remain where you are while I retrieve it."
What was coming next? he wondered. A riding crop? A bamboo cane? A
bullwhip? He never should have agreed to model for these photographs.
He never should have signed the contract. A modeling career--hell, even
a career in television or film--wasn't worth the pain and the
humiliation he'd already endured, and, even if it was, he wasn't sure
that he could handle any more punishment.
His heart, like his cock and balls, however, disagreed with his brain.
Just as Daphne believed, on a level much deeper than rationality, he
found that he was excited by being dominated by a woman and that he
actually enjoyed being humiliated and spanked and told what to do by a
member of the supposedly weaker and gentler sex.
It remained to be seen as to whether he would take pleasure in whatever
additional cruelty Daphne had in store for him next, though, he thought.
He felt queasy. There were butterflies in his stomach and, more
tellingly, in his groin. His testicles seemed alive with buzzing
activity within, and his scrotum seemed to crawl with invisible insects.
It was trepidation, he realized, as his penis began to shrink and
dwindle and his scrotum to loosen. He was afraid--afraid of a woman!
Afraid, he realized, of what she might do to him next--no, not "might
do," but would do.
He'd had enough. He wouldn't endure any more punishment or torment. He
wouldn't--but he would. He would keep his mouth shut, and he'd do as he
was told, regardless of what was required of him, whether submission to
a riding crop, a bamboo cane, or a bullwhip. If she wanted him to eat
her pussy or suck her ass, he'd be more than happy to comply. If she
wanted to sit on his face and smother him with her--
"I'm wearing a strap-on dildo, bitch," she informed him as she returned.
"According to the manufacturer, it's eight inches of 'blistering pink. .
. power on a belt,' a 'solid jelly,' artificial erection with a
perfectly molded head, complete with vein-etched shaft and pendulous
balls. It juts from my groin at just the right location and is held
securely in place by a ring attached to the front of its leather
harness, which straps between my legs and around my waist. I'm going to
fuck you in the ass with my woman's cock until you can't take it
anymore, bitch, and then I'm going to fuck you some more, harder and
faster, without mercy.."
Bitch! Again, she had used that word to describe him, to feminize him,
to unman him verbally, just as she would feminize and unman him
physically and sexually in a moment, reducing him to an androgynous
creature who, despite his cock and balls and no matter how often or
copiously he ejaculated semen filled with sperm, would forever after be
as much a woman as he was a man, as much feminine as he was masculine.
In part, he was horrified concerning the transformation that was about
to take place, but he was also delighted--and, yes, aroused--by it as
well. He found that he wanted this new status, this new existence, this
new twilight, half-and-half life as a man who was also a woman.
Something cold and clammy was rubbed between his buttocks and over--and
into--his asshole, a lubricating cream or lotion, he guessed, and,
inwardly, he cringed, knowing that she was preparing to penetrate him.
He wondered whether she would also lubricate the shaft of the artificial
penis before she entered him with it. Probably, she would, he thought,
but he found that his uncertainty with regard to this matter upset him;
it was disquieting.
The sleek flesh of her firm outer thighs brushed past his inner thighs
as she knelt behind him on the floor. There was a moment's pause, and
then something cool and utterly smooth, something cylindrical and firm,
slid between his bruised and battered buttocks, parting the red-and-
purple cheeks as it advanced, its rounded tip pressing resolutely
against the tiny, tight opening to his rectum. Involuntarily, his
buttocks compressed, and she dealt him a viscous slap. "Don't fucking
resist me, bitch!" she ordered.
He relaxed his buttocks, and he felt the artificial cock force open his
anus. It slid through the ring of muscle, inch after inch of its smooth
cylindrical length penetrating him until, at last, all eight inches of
the dildo having vanished within his rectum, he felt the cool, firm,
fake, but realistic, testicles press against his perineum through the
slightly wrinkled contours of their molded scrotum.
She was in, all the way in, possessing him as a man took ownership of a
woman he'd penetrated. It felt glorious he thought, to lose his
masculinity to her, to surrender his manhood to her, to be conquered by
a woman who used him as if he were a female who had been created but to
be penetrated, to be occupied, and to be assaulted. "Fuck me!" he
wanted to cry, but he knew better, sensing that he must remain silent,
enduring what she administered without question, complaint, protest, or
even exultation. She had reduced him to a mere object--or objects--
cock, balls, anus, rectum--to use and abuse as she saw fit, and objects
did not praise or celebrate, any more than they criticized or condemned,
the use or abuse to which they were put.
Having been penetrated, his impaled anus began to flex, contracting
violently about the invading dildo. His asshole fluttered frantically,
as if in a desperate, but vain, effort to expel the trespassing "organ."
He was mortified beyond simple shame; he felt as if his soul had been
wrung out by Daphne's piercing of his buttocks with her artificial cock.
He felt as if his manhood had been denied, even destroyed, by this
simple act of phallic penetration. He mourned the loss of his virility,
of his masculinity, of his maleness.
At the same time, though, he welcomed this outrageous usurpation of his
manliness, this feminization of his person, this unmanning of himself,
for Daphne, in treating him as if he were a woman, had, in some real and
enduring sense, actually accomplished this transformation of him, making
him, if not fully a woman, something that was also less than a man. He
was a new creature, somewhere between the two extremes of sex, a
hermaphrodite, androgynous and genderless, a member of neither the
masculine nor the feminine, but of the neuter, gender. The fluttering
of his anus subsided as his body, like his mind, accepted his fate.
The lubricant she'd applied to his ass and anus (and, he hoped, to her
phallus) eased the way of the massive dildo, but its utterly smooth
surface and its cylindrical shape also made penetration and intercourse
fairly easy, he realized, as the dildo slid back, through his anus,
before plunging home again, penetrating him anew as she drove the
artificial cock deep into his rectum.
His own cock was only six inches, erect; hers was eight! The way the
dildo spread his anus to many times its actual--or, at least, its
original--size also suggested that her prick was much thicker than his
own fleshly penis. Even though her cock was artificial and his was
real, the idea that her phallus was bigger than his penis embarrassed
him, and he felt a flush of shame across his face at the thought that he
was being buggered by a woman with a bigger cock--and bigger balls--than
his own. The size differential made him feel less manly, even impotent.
His cock, which had stiffened and swelled again when she'd first
penetrated him, now began to soften and dwindle again, as he bemoaned
his unmanliness before this phallic woman.
As she continued to fuck him, however, thrusting ever faster and more
forcefully into the depths of his bowels with the massive member secured
to her groin, and he felt the insistent, quick push and pull of the
phallus within his gaping anus, his cock stirred, twitched, lurched,
swelled, and stood, regaining the full glory of its erection once more,
and his balls seemed to shrink inside the tightening, rising pouch of
his scrotum.
He had learned, he supposed, to enjoy the disparity between his smaller
and less robust organ and her larger, more powerful, if artificial,
counterpart. To be denied, whether with regard to gender, sex, or
genital superiority, was as exciting, in its own way--or maybe more
exciting--than to experience success or fulfillment in these areas. To
be rendered genderless and sexless, to be made into a psychological
eunuch, was arousing and delightful. It was fun, even fulfilling, to be
unmanned, especially by a woman. To give up dominance in favor of
submission, power in exchange for powerlessness, and to become willingly
weak rather than strong was a heady experience. No wonder his cock was
stiffer than it had ever been before and his balls felt as if, any
moment, they must explode!
Again and again, each time he felt the smooth cylinder rush past the
inward-curving cheeks of his buttocks' sleek cleavage and through his
ravaged asshole, to plunge into his depths, and each time he felt his
buttocks flattening before the leather harness that covered his
ravisher's groin, he was reminded of his submissiveness, his passivity,
his compliance, his acceptance of being penetrated, filled, and
ravished. He was reminded of his having been unmanned by a woman and of
his own acceptance, and, indeed, delight, in having been castrated
sexually and emotionally.
She slammed him again and again, mercilessly and savagely, cramming her
blistering pink dildo up his ass. She would pause, occasionally, to
grind her leather-girded loins into his backside, crushing flat the
buoyant mounds of his derriere, to let him feel her presence more fully,
before withdrawing her prick to ram him again, harder, faster, and
deeper. Her pussy flowed an endless, copious stream of juices,
inundating her thighs. The carpet below them was saturated with her
fluids and with the dissolved lubricant with which she'd smeared both
her target's ass and her own artificial cock.
After her third orgasm, she finally pulled the massive member free of
his impaled buttocks, telling him that he could get dressed and get out.
When he'd pleaded to be allowed to return for another session, she'd
curtly, and rather cruelly, replied, "I wouldn't waste any more film on
you, bitch; you're not worth it."
* * *
Daphne loved men's asses; she just hated the men themselves who were
attached to these magnificent assets, and she used her own beauty as a
sexy young seductress and her own talents as a professional photographer
to avenge herself--and her sisters--upon the boorish, crude, cruel, and
heartless males of the species. Her father, who'd never done her mother
the common courtesy of marrying her, had abandoned Daphne and her mother
shortly after Daphne's birth.
Neither of them had ever seen him again, although they'd learned,
through a third party, that the son of a bitch had done the same thing
to three other women and their daughters, leaving them without the love
of a father or a husband, the girls to grow up, abandoned and rejected,
in abject poverty. The bastard refused to pay child support or even to
call his daughters on their birthdays or to remember them with presents
at Christmas. Such conduct was cruel and unforgivable, and, even after
her mother's death at an early age, Daphne made it a point to remember
her father's callous, loveless, indifferent treatment of her and of the
other girls and women whom he'd left behind, brokenhearted and discarded
as if they were but so much trash.
The men whom Daphne approached were handsome, and they had gorgeous
bottoms that she would punish with her own hand, with a paddle, and with
a razor strop. They had magnificent buttocks and tight anuses that she
would penetrate and impale with a cock that was likely longer, thicker,
and more rigid than their own, unmanning them so as to cripple them
sexually and emotionally, the way that her father had crippled her, so
that, as psychological eunuchs and genderless hermaphrodites, they might
know the true power, strength, and superiority of a dominant woman who
herself was both unloved and unloving.
A splendidly handsome man with dark hair and dark eyes saw her ogling
him--or his buttocks, which looked wonderful, she had to admit, if only
to herself, inside the tight jeans he wore--and he smiled at her. He
was sexy and virile, manly and robust, the way her mother had said her
father had been, when she'd first set eyes on him, and just the way that
Daphne herself liked her men, and she returned his smile, managing to
drop her handkerchief on her way past him.
"Miss?" he called, and when she turned, he'd held her hanky aloft. "You
dropped this."
She thanked him with a smile and a pat on the butt.
He didn't complain.
They never did.
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