Date first Posted 02 Feb 2001

                        DISCLAIMER

This is a piece of fiction. Its characters have not even
begun to contemplate such things, mostly because said
characters do not exist.  Any imagined resemblance to people
living or deceased is either the result of dementia on the
reader's part or that the reader is, in fact, a character
this story.  None of these are conditions to be proud of,
and it would not be wise to draw attention to one's self by
claiming any similarity.

It is assumed that readers of this story have the permission
of the state, mom, dad, and the pastor and are able to fully
tell the difference between real and make-believe.  If not,
"go away little girl, go away little girl..."  Furthermore,
the writer is aware that he is bound for hell, but welcomes
both praise or/and well thoughts out, humourous insults on
his writing skill or lack there of. Note: he already knows
he cannot spell warth shet.

The events and descriptions of this story are the sole
property of Kenny N Gamera and should not be recorded,
reposted, or profited from in anyway without express written
permission of the person hiding behind that pen name.
Reposting and free archiving may be tolerated given the
writer's name and address remains attached.  Archiving by
Deja.Com, and ASSTR/ASSM is assumed and encouraged.

Thank You and Good Day,
Kenny N Gamera
turtlemeat69@hotmail.com


                   Bottoming from the Top
                             by
                       Kenny N Gamera

Samantha "Sam" Wassermann sat at her table impatiently
twitching her leg.  She also smoked a cancer stick while she
stared at the clock.  To shake things up, she would stare at
the clock while she smoked a cancer stick.

Her cigarette was a thinner than the standard type, much as
she wasn't.  Your write is not implying that Sam was
overweight.  Only a typical guy would think that.  Her
figure would match that of any other woman who took
reasonable care of herself, rather than starve in the name
of fitting into a smaller cocktail dress.

Her long blonde confessed its true nature by the faint
darker roots, a condition just at the beginnings of being
sexy rather than crass.  Red paint covered her artificial
nails, which extended length of her fingers again to the
point of attraction.  Her makeup, further, complimented her
appearance, a sign of definite skill at the craft.

Her tight black leather outfit just topped off her look.

It was a simple ensemble.  The boots reached to her midthigh
and were a tad loose around the upper leg rather than the
super tight style that would zip up the side.  Her slightly
too large for her frame tits strained against the slight
restriction of her bra, a simple device of three leather
straps and two triangles on soft glove leather.  Each had
the circle above the nipple removed to allow access to the
sensitive skin beneath.  The bottom was a simple pair of
panties.

The effect was that of a leather bathing suit.  As accent
pieces she wore studded cuffs around her wrists with a
matching collar.  A D-ring hung from the collar.

As we had ogled her, Sam had finished her smoke.  As her
hand reached toward the pack next to her ashtray, she heard
the sound of a key struggling with a lock and a hand
fighting and uppity knob.  She quickly ran to the door as
fast as her four inch heels would let her.  She thus had a
moment to settle into a kneeling position with her head held
down and arms relaxed to her sides.

A man entered the house.  He was about a head shorter than
the prostrated woman would have stood in her boots.  He held
a briefcase and wore a brown suit in need of a light steam
press.  With his free hand, Milton J Wassermann, AKA Wass,
combed his thinning, graying hair back with its fingers.  He
stood and surveyed his not that bad looking wife and sex-
slave.  He put down his briefcase by releasing the handle
and letting it fall to the floor.

"You're late, master." Sam told her husband.

"Sorry, dear."

"It is play night, master.  This pitiful excuse for a woman
is your slave not your dear, master."

"Sorry, my slave."

With this the woman stood up and took Wass's hand.  With her
head still down she took him into the dinning room.  The
lights were down low and candles burned brightly on the
table.  Already, there was a covered plate in front of the
single place sitting.

"I have already eaten, master," explained Sam as Wass took
his seat in front of his meal.  "I had it ready for you when
you were suppose to be home.  I wanted it ready for you when
you were suppose to arrive."

Wass lifted the lid to dinner, as Sam knelt next to him to
beg for a treat or two.  He silently ate his dinner as she
talked about her day, which had consisted mostly of oiling
whips and preparing the dungeon for the evenings activities.
When he had started to push away his plate, she stopped him.

"Eat your Brussel sprouts, master.  You know that Dr. Spin
told you needed to eat more vegetables, master."

"Yes, my slave," replied Wass in a monotone as he brought
his plate back in front of him.

Once his veggies were all bye-bye, and the plate safely
pushed away, Wass shoved back his chair and stood up.

"Master, I laid out your things in the bedroom.  I will meet
you downstairs."

"Yes, my slave."

A short moment later, Wass slouched into the
basement/dungeon wearing black, leather pants and a white
shirt with buttons removed from the navel and up.  Each step
fell onto the wooden steps with a thump, followed by another
thump.  At the bottom of the steps, Sam knelt waiting for
him.

"It took you long enough, master."

"Sorry, my slave."

"Well, hurry up and tie me up," she commanded as she stood
and went to the table in the middle of the moody room.  "We
haven't got all night, and I have been a naughty girl.  I
need to be punished."

"Yes, my slave."

Wass went to a cabinet and open it taking out several
lengths of rope, while his wife stood next to the table.  He
used on of the longer lengths to tie a quick harness around
the woman as she commented on the skill of the dom in
fashioning the binding.  First, he took the rope around the
back of neck and brought it around through the D-ring.  He
tied a hitch into the rope and left a loose loop around her
neck.

Once anchored, his practiced hands twisted the two ends
together down to the standing woman's crotch.  Each of the
strands went to the sides of her swollen vulva, and around
the outside perimeter of her buttock.  He brought them back
together just above the ass crack. Then, he began to tie
loops into them as it went up her back.  Again, the rope was
brought over her shoulders and gently tied to the collar's
D-ring.

"Shall I lay down, master?"

"Yes, my slave."

The woman lay down on the table, so her back was exposed.
Carefully, he used separate ropes to tie each side of the
harness and her arms to the table.  A third rope secured her
legs down as well.

"Give me the lash, master."

"Yes, my slave," agreed Wass as went back to the cabinet and
brought out a small, homemade cat-o'nine-tails with ten inch
long whips at the business end.  He carried it to the table
and presented it to the bound woman.

"No, not that one. The big one, master."  She growled at
him.  "I have been very naughty."

"Sorry, my slave."

A moment later, he presented another cat-o'nail-tails to his
captive which she announced her approval of.  After she
kissed the top of the handle, he pulled it away from her and
walked behind her.  Slowly, he brought the leather lashed
against her back near one and then another of her shoulder
blades.

For a few moments, Sam quietly squirmed beneath the falling
whip, held mostly in place however by the bindings.
Finally, she cried out, "Damn it, master.  Will you put some
backbone into it.  I'm not made of porcelain, you know."

"Sorry, dear."

"And I'm not your dear right now; I'm your sex slave.  Could
you please remember that, master."

"Yes, my slave," replied Wass as he began to quicken the
pacing and harden the strengths of blows.  "Sorry, my
slave."

"And move down my back, master.  At least use a little
imagination with what you are doing.  I can guess where each
of your blows are going to land."

"Yes, my slave."

A moment passed with only the sound of leather against skin.
Or sometimes against leather, as the whip landed on the
panties covering the slave's ass.  Then, two moments passed
as the lashing moved to her thighs.  Finally, the silence
was broken.

"Is that as hard as you can hit me, master?"

"No, my slave."

"Well, damn it master, hit me harder.  I'm almost there."

The sounds of each strike became louder with that.  Sam's
moans after them became audible, as well.  Wass just
silently stood as the whip came down against his woman.  His
expression just numb.

"Beat me, master.  Beat me.  You know where, master.  Beat
me there; I'm about to cum!" Sam shouted at the top of her
lungs.  Wass moved his aim to the spot on the leather
panties right where the thighs met.  He brought down one
stroke.  And then another.  And still another.

Finally, one more blow struck the woman against her sex,
with only a few millimeters of glove leather to armour the
against the sting.  With that blow she began to shriek in
pleasure.  The ropes fought bravely against the thrashing of
her body as it lost control to its pleasure.

Wass stood and watched, impassively.

At last, Sam held still.  She took her breaths in panting
gulps.  Sweat ran across her turned forehead.  With effort
she turned her head from one side, to lay her cheek against
the other side of the table, so as to get a better look at
her husband.

"That was good, master.  Did you enjoy it."

"Yes, my slave."

"Would you like a blow job as a reward."

"Yes, my slave."

"Come here," said Sam with a smile.

She shifted so her chin rested on the table.  Wass moved in
front of her and lowered his pants.  Sam's tongue reached
out and began to lick at his flaccid member.  It began to
rise with her efforts and at last grew to a stiff five
inches.

"Fuck my mouth, master."

"Yes, my slave."

Wass began to pump at her mouth and in twenty-two strokes
dibbles on water fluid began to pool in Sam's mouth.  She
swallowed with the appropriate yummy noises as Wass pulled
away and brought the zipper up.

"Are you ready for bed now, master."

"Yes, my slave."

"So am I.  Untie me master and let's go upstairs."

"Yes, my slave."

"I love you, Wass. Do you love me?"

"Yes, dear."



Note:  Sam is a SAM, which is short for a Smart Ass
Masochist.  Well, Wass (rhymes with sauce) is a was (again
rhymes with sauce) or a weak ass sadist.





