Naughty cupid erotica contest

Butt du Jour

By Jake Indiana

Butt Du Jour by Jake Indiana

It is a truth universally acknowledged, though seldom discussed, that it is difficult to make small talk with someone whose face you have grown accustomed to masturbating to.

Less acknowledged, though equally worthy of discussion, is that this truth is doubly felt if the face belongs to someone you are meeting for the first time. Certain subtleties crucial to a successful introductory chat – such as forming words, listening, or the general ability to communicate – are all but impossible to convey when your speaking partner is a porn star. That is, when your speaking partner is the star of a series of tasteful art-pornos on regular rotation in the streaming queue of your spank bank. Even I, a person whose greatest talents lie in the art of conversation (assuming we don’t consider ‘spending money’ or ‘getting high’ traditional talents), found this sort of situation almost too difficult to bear. There I was, spectacularly vomiting word salads all over a face I had last seen dripping with someone’s load, and I was unable to express anything beyond a flustered titter or two. Contrary to what one might wish for in the heat of the moment, suddenly bumping into one of your screen crushes in the flesh is not much of a fun, sexy time.

It also didn’t help that he was French, had a fastidiously trimmed moustache, and was unbelievably attractive. Any one of these character traits are fine qualities to have, but a person who wields all three is dangerous. This lethal combo had reduced me to a wad of horny, gooey putty in his beautifully manicured Parisian hands.

Still, I persisted, and eventually persevered, in making something resembling a conversation. At least I must have, for my next memory is of saying goodbye. “Hope to see you around,” he said, a word of parting innocent enough were it not for his hand resting upon my hip, a hair’s breadth away from stroking my ass. I zeroed in on the centre of his moustache, hoping a laser-focused gaze at those auburn bristles would prevent me from melting to the floor.

Thinking back to it, I was, of course, hot and bothered, but not just erotically. Something about this exchange perturbed me at a level far beyond the surface layer of social anxiety of meeting a jerk-off fantasy and flubbing it. There was a sense of guilt mucking around down there; it seemed unfair that I had an intimate history with this person before I had even met him, and that I projected this history onto him and in doing so objectified him, preventing me from behaving like a real person. Maybe I was being hard on myself – I mean how often do you expect to bump into a person you’ve gotten used to seeing as a ghost offering semen-related services from the spirit world in a haunted attic? Surely just completing an interaction with that sort of baggage is an accomplishment in itself?

Meeting him on these terms shifted a balance in my favor; I held the upper hand in having a great deal of knowledge about my speaking partner while he, presumably, had none about me. But when we met next, this dynamic would be emphatically reversed, and it would carry profound consequences for me and for my sex life.


“This is the first time we’ve ever run through Alexanderplatz while not wearing pants!” panted Fábio, cigarette flailing wildly along the edge of their mouth. “Isn’t it amazing?!”

It was a bitter cold night in March, and we were indeed cantering at a hectic pace through an icy, isolated Alexanderplatz without pants. Or underpants, really; all that I was wearing between my socks and my Regency-era chocolate brown blazer was a blazing red custom jockstrap, designed and created by Fábio for one of their collections. The only thing shrouding my bare butt cheeks from the world was a comically large fur coat, though even this did not protect me from the cold air below. We were searching for eggs, the element most crucial to Fábio’s impending performance and, naturally, the one thing on our to-do list we forgot to bring to the party. Though we had only been huffing and puffing for a few minutes, the search was starting to seem utterly futile; there are, after all, only so many places one can buy eggs in at 3:00 in the morning.

Scanning row upon row of darkened storefronts, we judged the best course of action was to hop in a cab and drive until we came upon the first available source of eggs. Once found, it was I who ran inside to sniff them out. In spite of the mild rush we were in to get back, I perused the cramped, overflowing shelves of the späti, fur coat clenched tightly around me to prevent public indecency, with a savoured slowness, letting the waves of an ecstasy high lap up to my waking mind and numb the mild unease I had about entering such an explicitly sexual space. Though getting fucked in a club was one of the decisive experiences which informed my move to Berlin, it’s a dicier prospect once you actually live here. The strangers and dark shapes affording you pleasure in a darkroom frequently turn out to be future friends or colleagues, and the social ramifications of sleeping with a friend of a friend is a complex web to navigate.

Add this to any preexisting conditions of questioning your gender and/or sexuality and the societal nightlife custom of intense sex at parties has the potential to be downright traumatic. The night of this particular gathering, I was deep in such psychic trenches, balancing the conflicting urges of wanting to fuck and feeling too self-conscious to have anyone see or know about it. Wanting to be sexualised like everyone else I knew, yet proudly conducting myself as unapproachable. Likewise, I wanted to be at a party where the opportunity to have sex could arise at any moment, but I dreaded being surrounded by it.

“Oh, THANK you Mr. Eggman! Thank you!” cooed Fábio as I tumbled back into the cab (for as the gospel of John Waters, book of Pink Flamingos, teaches us, ‘when life gives you eggs, give thanks to the Eggman’). We clutched the eggs like precious gems and cackled maniacally, already self-mythologising ‘The Tale of the Midnight Pantless Egg Run’. It seemed like a positive omen for the evening ahead, and – combined with the devil-may-care attitude inherent in going bare ass at a party – I decided I was more frisky than fearful.


Fábio’s performance went well; it was certainly invigorating. It was the second iteration in a series titled ‘OMNIPRESENT’, which finds the artist presenting intimate but confrontational multimedia performances making jarring use of outside objects. The object this go-round was eggs, and in an evocation of the medieval religious practice of self-flagellation, they were smashed, splattered and flagellated across the artist’s back. Responses were mostly positive, though one partygoer was incensed about a bit of gooey egg white which flew into the waiting clutches of her hair. It demonstrated the essential aspect of the piece: the audacity to bring eggs (let alone to break eggs) into the sphere of the club in the first place.

I peeled away afterward, immersed in my thoughts and strolling listlessly through the club’s damp passages. During my last visit to this party, I had seen the first boy I had fucked upon moving to the city getting spit roasted by two hulking shadows. I was blasted on ketamine and coming upon that scene stirred things deep inside me, a strange channeling of emotions I couldn’t completely describe. It was an indelicate reminder of my own inability to find such abandon starring an ill-remembered figure from my recent past. The sense of being exposed overwhelmed me – my lust crushed under the knowledge that every foray would be witnessed en masse and instantly inscribed in the public record.

This feeling puzzled me, not least because it was incongruous with the very fabric of my personality. As a lifelong performer and well-mannered shit-stirrer, gaining and holding the attention of others is as instinctive as breathing. Making a fool of myself is a competitive sport, and my opinions are spouted loud and proud to ensure maximum impact. That these same elements were fully negated in my sex life was not only frustrating but completely impractical for getting laid.

I had successfully worked myself into a formidable pout eyeing the bevy of beautiful men who didn’t want to introduce me to their penises and was ready to storm home in a gorgeously emotional wreck when – he – suddenly emerged before me. Swimming out of a darkened hallway in a pool of red light, he was directly facing me, catching my eye with an impish smirk and the faintest whisper of a wink. Garbed in leather and sporting gloves, a peaked cap, and wielding a riding crop tied neatly around his wrist, the totality of his sudden appearance came over me like a feverish, Mapplehthorpe-ian wet dream.

This time I was ready, and my small talk was exquisite. The banter that was served and swatted with the precision of a ping-pong match gave way to open flirtation almost instantaneously. I suspect this is one of the advantages of incorporating a riding crop into your club look; it will always provide a source of discussion and it will almost always be a discussion of an overtly sexual nature.

“That’s a lovely riding crop you have there,” I said admiringly.

By way of reply, he smacked it idly against his bare leg, continuing to stare and smirking at me.

“If you need to spank anyone with it, let me know,” I continued, and just in case I was being too subtle, I turned and displayed my bare ass, sumptuously puckered between strips of corded red fabric.

“Really?” he asked, shifting his expression while maintaining his stare.

Incredulous at my own unexpected surge of confidence, I nodded, nudging my ass ever so slightly toward him. In one swift motion he extended the riding crop and held me in front of him, his hand lightly resting on my shoulder. He looked me up and down a few times, calculating his position while the riding crop began to probe and lick the underside of my butt. Almost imperceptibly these probings began to prod with more force, gradually obtaining a rhythm and increasing in velocity. When the first proper ‘thwack’ landed, I was practically begging for it.

Immediately after delivering the first proper blow, he paused to peer into my face, wordlessly awaiting my consent before continuing. It was a simple act of consideration that further consolidated my want to bend (literally) to his every whim. If I was reduced to a wad of horny, gooey putty when we first met, I had now sunk to a primordial puddle of horny ooze, incapable of congealing into anything but a sexual sludge.

He raised the riding crop for another smack but hesitated, stooping back down to look me in the face instead. Something implicitly clear passed between us, even if I was incapable of recognising what it was.

“Come,” he said, standing up and offering me a gloved hand, the riding crop falling limply back to his side.

It was only after straightening up and accepting his hand that I became aware of his group of friends watching us intently, bemusedly enjoying a ritualised, leather-bound courtship that was, so far, surprisingly gentle and sweet. This meant that somehow, I had been oblivious to the world around me while indulging in my sexual needs. I would have enjoyed a moment of self-congratulations but without so much as a word to me or his friends he was off, pulling me through the throng of people with great purposeful strides into the damp darkness before us.


I was tousled incessantly by the turgid streams of sweaty ravers, bumping into their bare flesh as I was dragged deeper and deeper down into the belly of the club, a dumbfounded grin plastered across my face. I began to question the reality of this scenario; here I was, facing the prospect of being the whipping boy of my sexual fantasy on an evening that had so far been dictated by feeling too anxious to fuck. I was either hallucinating or claiming a rich karmic reward for months of gender dysphoria-based ennui. All signs were pointing to the latter, but it still seemed too fantastic to be true.

A jerk of his hand indicated that we had arrived at our destination, a nondescript alcove which led to an inner cell, just big enough for two to hump comfortably in total darkness. As fate would have it, the outer alcove was recently used as the proscenium for a certain egg-shattering performance, and the hardened stickiness of dried egg-whites greeted the bottom of my soiled sneakers, clinging to them with surprising strength.

“Face the wall,” he hissed into my ear. Who I had imagined to be a mild-mannered Frenchman had slipped into the shoes, er, combat boots, of a stern dom with sublime ease, made all the more attractive by the unspoken knowledge that his menacing demeanour would only exist for as long as we willed it to. Once again, I assumed the position, but this time he planted himself directly behind me, guiding my hands to press into the wall in front of me. With his other hand he reached down and took his first handful of my supple ass, squeezing it roughly and lazily rapping his knuckles against it, the way one might select a kiwifruit.

“Do you want me to punish you?” he rasped; his voice muffled by the nape of my neck. The rush of his hot breath sent shivers down my spine. I leaned further into the wall, extending my rear to nestle into his groin. “Yes,” I panted, staring into the inky splotches I made out to be the floor. He stood to the side and resumed the flickering dance of the riding crop against my ass, returning his free hand to firmly grasp my shoulder in place.

The first blow fell hard and fast, a searing sting that held some bite before vanishing with a whimper. Another fell on the opposite cheek.

“Is it okay for you?” he asked, stroking his hand up and down my shoulder. “Yes,” I panted again, blinded by sheer desire. That my fantasy man would be so thoroughly preoccupied with gauging my consent was almost too much for my poor crotch to bear; the front of my jockstrap was now unbearably tight.

Again, the crop smacked down, the first parry of what soon became a full volley. He spared no inch of my butt, whipping at a forceful, clipped pace, breathing heavily as he tore into me.

Now, under no circumstances would I have ever considered myself a person who could withstand a lot of (or any) physical pain. I am, what some would classically refer to as, a wimp. But I have on two distinct occasions proven to myself that, in the right sexual scenario, I have a remarkable proclivity for taking it like a champ. The first occasion was when my former intern took me home from a karaoke party and gave me my first fisting. Now, I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is ‘no,’ he was not my intern at the time of the fisting.

The second occasion was with him, the French fantasy, in that dungeon of a darkroom, transforming myself into a whipping post for him to savage like a frenzied jockey. I felt pain sure, but it was not unbearable, cruel pain. It was a dramatic narrative of physical touch, a journey which crescendoed and evolved and was difficult to discern from one moment to the next. My ass became numb and the sensation of every blow was intermingled with his hand caressing my back and neck as it held me steady.

“Good,” he softly purred, striking me a bit harder and encouraging my moaning. “But now, we rest.” The riding crop fell back to his side and I slowly worked my way up. I had no idea how long we spent in the cell but judging by the way my ass felt – or rather, how much I didn’t feel it – I supposed he was right.

I started to mutter some words of thanks, but he silenced me with a tap of his fingers. “We are not done yet,” he said, again offering me his hand.


“So, you have no boyfriend, no?” he asked with concern, gazing at me while reassuringly stroking my legs.

“No, but you do, yes?” I replied. We may not have had sex in the penetrative sense (or even shared a kiss), but the erotic tension we exchanged was powerful enough to now warrant some good old fashioned pillow talk, splayed in a hammock in one of the lounge areas gazing at each other.

“Yes.” His eyes glazed over for a few seconds before he resumed. “Have you ever been hit before?”

“Like this?” I clarified. He nodded, tapping his finger against my thigh. “No, never. Not even anything close to this.”

He smiled with warm satisfaction. “Do you like it?”

I said “Yes,” but I had yet to figure out if I actually enjoyed getting used and objectified this fiercely or if I just felt this way because a porno fantasy stepped out of my laptop to rub my leg and beat my butt.

“Good, then come.” He loped up and was reaching for me to accompany him before I had moved an inch, but I was surprised to find once I joined him that we weren’t rushing off to our dark corner. He was standing resolutely with his chest pumped out, surveying the room before us in a slow, panoramic crawl. “Bend over,” he commanded curtly.

I froze, not out of fear but out of genuine confusion. My insides were sending each other conflicting directions and letting me know that something was not computing. I was still in the grip of a surreal lust for this man and for the revelations he was engendering, but he was about to make a true performance of spanking my bare ass in this room full of chit-chatters and drug-snorters, a crowd that included one of my coworkers along with a smattering of acquaintances. He flicked the riding crop into his hands and tapped it against his leg patiently, glancing at me quizzically to confirm that whatever came next was entirely my decision.

I remained frozen. I was unspeakably nervous at the thought of giving an office colleague a front-row seat to the opening night of ‘Jake Discovers S&M: The Musical Spectacular,’ but on the other hand, I felt compelled to go further down this rabbit hole – things were indeed getting curiouser and curiouser. And we had an intangible contract, he and I; I knew that if I gave him this, I would be rewarded for it.

So, I did what I was told and bent over, and we gave the people of the lounge one hell of a show.

Truthfully, I can scarcely recall if there was any reaction to a hairy ass getting spanked by a young Frenchman in leather – it is a dreadfully common sight in Berlin, and it is doubtful it would leave an impression on anyone not taking part. Nonetheless, it shocked me to see how immensely the act of being seen, of being seen and being used, now filled me with a chasm of pleasure. This was not sloppily hitting on men I’d be forced to make small talk with for the next few years, this was real, raw, respectful carnality, a sort that should be showcased and celebrated in these types of spaces, as a matter of aesthetics if nothing else.

As he pulled me up and began to march us out, I tripped and traipsed around feeling even more dumbfounded than before. Elated, pensive, and violently aroused, I began to wonder if sitting down was going to be possible in the week ahead, with my butt turning slowly but surely into one giant bruise.


The lounge turned out to be the first stop on a spanking safari that would last until the party ended. We were zealously devoted to the ritual he had devised in the lounge: get comfortable in a new area filled with people, chit chat for a bit, brutally spank me in front of everyone, leave for a new room, and repeat. This became our sole contact with the outside world; neither of us bothered to find the friends we arrived with, nor did we bother to acknowledge anyone else.

By the second or third of these performances, I realised I was genuinely enjoying myself. The shock and awe one inspires in a group of strangers when suddenly turning round to get your ass whipped is not unlike the shock and awe one inspires in their audience when performing, and the familiarity of this structure meant that I was soon subbing for the crowd like I was born for it.

From the highly entertained staff of the garderobe to the indifferent couples plowing away in the darkroom, our spanking revue was seen far and wide. But as the party began to empty we had exhausted nearly every venue available to us; when he offered his hand to lead me back downstairs, turning away from the coming of the dawn, I knew exactly where we were headed.

In the egg-spattered cell where it all began, we stepped into the position knowing this was our last dance. He stood behind me once more, breathing heavily and pressing his face into the back of my neck.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” he said suddenly, his voice ragged.

“What?” I stammered, more convinced in this moment than at any other point of the evening that it all had, in fact, been a dream or a K-hole.

“Do you know you are beautiful?” he repeated stubbornly, grabbing a fistful of my bum and pushing me toward the wall.

I was flabbergasted as to how to respond. This man truly seemed too good to be true. Luckily, I did not have to respond at all, as I was promptly seized and passionately flogged.

When he had finished, my ass felt like it was from another planet. I was past the point of feeling pain hours ago, but it was beginning to trickle its way back in. Every move I made was accompanied by a hot, prickly, stinging flush of some kind.

Neither of us seemed capable of leaving our cell. I held the wall while he delicately massaged my ass. We stood in silence, the insistent drone of the dance floor hummed through the now empty halls and buzzed around our heads.

“A picture!” he cried suddenly. “We must take a picture, you must see.”

I fetched my phone and handed it to him. He crouched down behind me and squatted, the flash of my phone illuminating the thick cake of sludge, shattered beer bottles, and the faintest hint of dried egg-whites coating the floor around us.

“Here,” he said with triumph. “Now you have this to remember.”

The picture he took of my ass is shocking. Or rather, it is shocking to be directly confronted with the possibility of an ass looking like that. Redder than a week-long sunburn, redder than ripening cherries, my ass had been rendered so red as to be virtually indistinguishable from the scarlet jockstrap still clinging to my aching legs. He gave it a big, sloppy kiss, stood up, leaned in close to my face, exhaled a feather-light laugh, and walked out.


“Do you know how beautiful you are?” he had asked. At the time, no, I did not. But the fateful evening of kink and eggs opened the floodgates and unleashed untapped wellsprings of sexual dynamism within me. In being dominated, humiliated, and objectified, I found myself imbued with a sense of agency I had never come close to grasping before. That I should learn this from a longstanding sexual fantasy was but a red, red cherry on the sundae of self-worth.