Drying Off A Derrière

by the Crimson Kid

(All rights reserved. This is a modern-day story—June 2010.)

On working days, my newlywed husband and I shower separately before meeting afterward in the master bedroom’s vanity area. (It’s one indicator of relative status that I shower conveniently in the master bathroom while he uses the one down the hallway.) That’s when we take turns drying off one another’s nude derrières—although via quite different methods.

My sweet bumcheeks get serviced first, with Colin kneeling behind me and gently patting them dry with a fleecy-soft towel; I always leave them moist for this.

“Kissing time, sweetheart,” I tell him with a wiggle of my buns, “Show me how much you love me.” Then I feel his lips gently peppering my trim tushie while his hands lightly grip my hips for balance. “Longer contact,” I instruct, pushing my posterior backward, “Worship my womanly hemispheres like you mean it.”

“Thank you, darling,” I say after several minutes, “Now it’s your turn. Oh boy, I’m going to sting you really good today.” Standing quickly, I turn around with my right hand open to receive the handle of the wooden bath brush that Colin places there. “Bend over the sink and stick your wet behind way up high, it has to be dried off and I’m just the girl for that job.”

I’m grinning gleefully at this point, gloating openly that my lover’s derrière-drying process will be thoroughly enjoyable for me but highly strenuous for him. “On your tippy-toes, sweetie, lift your undercheeks up so I can get at those tender spots at the bottom of your bottom.” His quivering buttcheeks are glistening with moisture, which will diabolically make my paddywhacks hurt considerably more—much to my gratification and his dismay.

Then I’m swinging away, steadily cracking the spanking brush’s smooth back against Colin’s openly-exposed buttocks, which are muscularly toned yet fully rounded—“designed by Mother Nature to be walloped by your loving woman,” I frequently claim. He gets two dozen blistering-hard swats—by the time those finish landing he’s squealing and squirming, much to my domineering amusement, but I’m hardly finished.

“Carrying on so childishly,” I chide him playfully while wiping a damp washcloth across his rosy asscheeks. “Oh dear, I’ve accidentally soaked your chubby caboose, darling, stay put while I dry it off again.” He groans, but I resume his paddling and deliver another twenty-four stinging smacks; teardrops are trickling down his face, his glutes are positively glowing.

Since he’ll be sitting in meetings virtually all day, I decide to make this session a memorable one and administer four additional sets of extremely emphatic paddywhacks, moistening his derrière between each, before finally concluding by kissing his tearstreaked facial cheeks.

“I simply adore making you cry for me,” I remark tauntingly. “Knowing you’ll be reminded who rules our roost whenever you sit down, that’s such a turn-on.” (His co-workers suspect that Colin has chronic hemorrhoids, I often threaten to enlighten his female colleagues regarding the “ants in his pants.”)

Haplessly blubbering, he smiles ruefully. “Fuh-For m-me tah-too, Beth…”

{The End}