Wicked Wednesday: Spank Bank

Written and submitted for Wicked Wednesday Prompt 199.

Spank Bank ©2016 by Devi Ansevi

DrawerThe unbreakable bond between reading erotica and masturbating started in high school.

I read my first Harlequin Romance and shivered with delight at the scene where the hero finally admitted his love and kissed his barely-of-age ward. I went looking for more books, more delicious thrills, and found them on my mother’s bookshelf, in her clutch of bodice rippers. Love’s Tender Fury by Jennifer Wilde. Love’s Wild Desire by Jennifer Blake. These and a host of others captivated me, cast me adrift in a world of passionate embraces, maddeningly enigmatic heroes and the women who gave in to forbidden love.

Each time she caught me reading one of her books, my mother would scold. “You’re too young to read that.” She’d put the book back on her shelf, giving me a “now behave” look. But those books stayed in the living room. I figured, common area means public property. While she worked two jobs to keep food on the table, I worked my way through each book, hair curling and eyebrows raising at all that naughty.

No teenage boy could have measured up to the mature men in these stories. Perhaps those books shaped my lifelong attraction to older men. Or perhaps the compelling need to read them was simply a symptom. I had several boyfriends in high school, but they were just that – boys. None tempted me, none stirred me. I controlled our courtships, intimidated each with erudite vocabulary and an effortless emotional detachment. Fear of a blisteringly articulate smack-down kept my unlucky boyfriends from pushing for blue-ball relief.

Think I’m arrogant? Think I have too high an opinion of myself? Perhaps, you say, I wasn’t an unwittingly dominant femme fatale, and this self-portrait is deeply flawed. I would have agreed with you, once. Into my twenties, I remained an unwitting, unwilling accomplice to my still-intact virginity. So horny I would have fucked any man who figured out how to break down my barriers, a real-life thorny hedge higher than any witch could have raised for Sleeping Beauty.

I moved away for college and only went back to visit the family at holidays. On one such visit, ten years after high school, a stranger accosted me in a store. She recognized me, she said, from a dog-eared photo her husband refused to destroy.  She dressed me down, castigated me for breaking his heart, warned me he belonged to her and I was to stay away. I stood, mute, frozen, listening to this stranger’s strange perceptions.

I asked other people. Two friends from high school, a manager at a college job, a college housemate. Four for four in people who concurred that I gave off a don’t-mess-with-me vibe that turned away would-be Romeos.

Still, I had books. Oh, yes, I had books. Books in which the woman effortlessly climaxed on the fingers, tongue, and phallus of a considerate, experienced lover. I, along for the ride, consumed each syllable, imagined a naughty lover whispering each word, wet my fingers with an ocean of orgasms.

And then one day I saw the profile of a man on a dating site. Erudite, articulate, interesting. Older than me by a few years. Our email correspondence broke down my barriers. Better to say, those barriers dissolved like wet tissue. Weeks later, we went on our first date. It lasted for hours, we talked about any and everything, interspersed with furtive sideways glances. My heart pounded each time his hand brushed mine. We parted without a good-bye kiss. On our second date, we held hands on a walk after dinner. I apologized for my sweaty palm. He gripped my hand tighter.  Seduced me with a chaste goodnight kiss.

On our third date, we made out on the couch. Everything surprised me. The intensity, the heat, the excitement. A memory forever enshrined: him, kneeling on the floor between my legs, my body tilted back on the couch, mind whirling, legs parted, panting, while his hand rhythmically rubbed the seam of my jeans until I came.

After our first time together, I wrote an erotic story for him. Fingers shaking, I tapped the send button, then waited in an agony of spirit for him to laugh, or to be shocked that I would write such things.

Dinner at his place that night started with a long, delicious hug. He lavished my story with praise, whispered in my ear how much it turned him on, how he stroked himself to orgasm while reading. I squirmed, pressing my thighs together, while he cupped my butt and kissed me. Dinner had to wait.

We went to his room and he opened the drawer next to his bed, revealing his spank bank. On top of a pile of classic Penthouse and Playboys lay a somewhat crumpled stack of white paper. My story. He showed me his favorite part, eyes lingering on the words, the bulge in his jeans growing.

My hand covered the bulge. I asked, “Show me how you touch yourself?”

He unbuckled, unzipped, and stripped down in a silence buzzing with sexual tension. By the time his underwear puddled around his jeans, a hard cock curved proudly into the air, balls drawn up tight. He gripped himself and my chest went tight with excitement.

His palm ran down the shaft. I was transfixed by the sight, the pages of my story glimmering in my peripheral vision, spread out on his bed.

“Unbutton your shirt,” he said. Not an order, despite the words. More like a comment on what he’d like. I fumbled every button, not wanting to look away from his lazy, luscious strokes. My palms tingled with the desire to replace his, even as I wanted more than I’ve ever wanted anything to keep watching. To see cum erupt through his clutching fist.

“Take off your bra.”

Nipples spiking into tender points of aroused pain at the words, I pressed both palms over them and rubbed the lacy texture against erect nubs and crinkled areolas, shivering at the sensation.

I unhooked and shrugged off the bra.  His hand sped up.

I cupped both heavy mounds, lifted them for his inspection, thumbs rolling over the nipples. His hand sped up again, the slapping sound drenching my panties.

“Sit on the bed,” he suggested. “I’d love to cum on your titties.”

I got tangled in the clothes around his ankles, in my haste to get onto the bed. We giggled like naughty schoolkids. I got untangled and sat on the edge, naked breasts jiggling, nubs puckered from excitement and the chilly room. The intensity ratcheted. His eyes locked on my stiff nipples, and one hand trailed over my skin, callused fingertip deliciously rough. His other hand sped to a blur.

Then his head went back, the tendons in his neck tightened. I tried to watch everything at once. His closed eyes, corded neck, pistoning fist, straining tendons in strong forearms, pulsing erection, cum jetting onto my chest. Warm, slippery, and incredibly sexy.

My man and I still fuck like bunnies, fifteen years on. And he still has that story in his spank bank.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked


  1. […] Elsewhere on this blog, in flash fiction erotica tagged as semi-autobiographical, I’ve written about having large breasts.  Well, my lovelies, true confession time. I do, indeed, have massive melons. Tremendous ta-tas. A behemoth of a bosom.  Juggernauts, even. […]


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