0 comments/ 12837 views/ 0 favorites Lysistrata Revisited By: Cal Y. Pygia "So," Sarah asked Frank, "did you enjoy Lysistrata?" He shrugged. "It was all right, I guess." "You didn't like it," she interpreted his answer. "No, it was okay." "Really?" He nodded. Sarah raised herself onto her elbow, interested, suddenly, in their conversation. "You actually read it?" He was looking at her tits, rather than into her eyes. She wondered whether he had an inkling as to how rude and annoying his behavior toward her could be. Probably not, she decided. "Sure," he said. "The whole thing?" She'd loved Aristophanes' comedy, and she'd given him a copy, illustrated by Aubrey Beardsley, for his birthday. He'd promised to read it, although he hadn't liked the artist's sketches, thinking Beardsley's figures rather effeminate in appearance and manner. Now, he was claiming to have read the book--all of it--which was doubtful. Frank abhorred literature, although, to Sarah's mind, reading a bit of it would improve his mind and, maybe, eventually, his boorish behavior. That had been her hope, anyway, in sharing Lysistrata with him. Now, she decided to give him an impromptu quiz, to see whether he'd read any of the play. "What did you think about The Lioness of the Cheese Grater?" she asked him. "Too decorative." "What do you mean?" "It might be okay, for ancient Egyptians, to decorate their cheese graters with lions," he ventured. "I mean, they already had those lions with the human faces--" "Sphinxes?" "Whatever. But you know I'm not crazy about cheese, anyway, unless, maybe, it's on a pizza." The Lioness of the Cheese Grater was, as one of the footnotes to the text clearly indicated, a sexual position, not an actual cheese grater, and the play, which was set in Athens, had absolutely nothing to do with Egypt or Egyptians or, for that matter, Sphinxes. Maybe, Sarah thought, Frank had missed that part of the play. The reference to The Lioness of the Cheese Grater was sort of buried in the long, detailed oath that the women swore at Lysistrata's request. She'd better test him further. "What did you think of the magistrate's characterization of women?" Sarah asked. "Wasn't it right on target?" "Yeah," Frank agreed. From having actually read the play herself, as she was beginning to surmise her boyfriend had not, Sarah knew that the sexist, chauvinistic magistrate had described women as hysterical, drunken sluts who were given to superstition and in need of strong-willed men to discipline and control them. She felt anger rise inside her like a bolt of lightning. However, she controlled herself, wanting to see just much Frank was willing to lie in his effort to convince her that he'd actually read the play. "What did you think of the men's means of getting the women to stop nagging them all the time?" He was still looking at her breasts, Sarah noticed, and she felt her cheeks flush with anger. He could at least do her the courtesy of looking her in the eye when she was talking to her, she thought. He brayed, like the jackass he was, and said, "That was the best part of the whole thing." "It was, wasn't it, the way the men spanked their wives," Sarah said, giggling. "You know it!" She sat up, glowering at him. "I know nothing of the kind," she thundered, her voice trembling, "and neither do you, because that's not what happens in the play. It's the women who gain the upper hand over the men, making them end the Peloponnesian War between the Athenians and the Spartans." Frank shrugged. "So I didn't read the stupid play," he admitted. "Sue me." She climbed out of bed. "Where are you going?" he demanded. He had a perfectly good erection, which he didn't want to go to waste. She didn't answer. Instead, she went into the walk-in closet they shared. He heard her fiddling around with something, and, in a moment, she returned, a thick, wide paddle in hand--the one he'd bought a month ago, having planned to use on her. She'd refused to let him spank her, though, and they'd had another argument--or a whole series of arguments--over her refusal. "You wouldn't let me spank you," she'd declared during one of their spats, and he'd agreed that he would not. "Then why the hell should I let you spank me?" she'd demanded, and he'd had the temerity to say, "I'm the man; you're the woman." He smiled when he saw the paddle. "So, you changed your mind, huh, Sarah? I knew you would, sooner or later." "You're the one who's getting paddled," she announced, "not me." He frowned. "The hell you say!" "Turn over, onto your stomach," she ordered him, "now!" Instead of obeying her, he laughed in her face. "Why should I?" "If you'd read Lysistrata, you'd know why," she said, "but since you didn't, I'll tell you why. If you don't, I'm going to do the same thing Lysistrata and the other women in the play did." "What's that?" he asked, laughing. "Paddle me?" "I'm going to cut you off," she said. His eyes widened, and he looked sick. She knew her threat had hit him where he lived, in his cock and balls, and she added, "That's right, lover: no sex." "You're joking!" "Am I? Want to find out?" He laughed again, but, this time, without the confidence--or arrogance--he'd exhibited before. "What if I force you?" "I'll do the same thing the women in Lysistrata said they'd do--be totally unresponsive, lying there like a rag doll--and, afterward, I'd do something they wouldn't have done--something that they, in their day, wouldn't have been able to do: I'll call the cops and have you arrested for rape." "You don't mean it," he said, but, now, he didn't seem in any way confident. He seemed, in fact, quite the opposite. "How long do you think you can hold out without sex--and I mean sex of any kind--a week? A month? A year?" A year without sex? Frank panicked. He couldn't go a month without pussy or, at the very least, a blowjob. Hell, he might not even be able to go without sex for a week. "You're serious?" "Try me, and you'll be sorry, Frank." "You paddle me, and all's well?" She laughed. "No, that's just for starters." He looked at her, and, this time, he was looking her in the eye, not gazing at her boobs. "What else do you have in mind?" "I spank you whenever I want, for any reason, or for no reason, if I want." He gulped. "Okay." "You read Lysistrata," she added. "The whole play, all the way through, from cover to cover." Again, he nodded. "And, after I'm through paddling your ass, you eat my pussy until I climax." He tried to smile, because this was the only one of her terms that he liked, but he succeeded in looking only more miserable. "Okay," he said. "Turn over, then," she said, and he was surprised at the ice in her voice, just as he'd been surprised by the steel in her spine. He glanced at the paddle. He'd seen the iron resolve in her eye, and he found that he was afraid to turn over; he was afraid of her, the compliant girlfriend he'd always controlled. He hesitated. "Now!" she screamed at him. Frank plopped onto his belly, and, even before he'd settled into place, he felt the paddle crash into his buttocks, and he shrieked, astonished at the pain that filled the compact globes of his bottom. It would have been fine, he'd thought, to paddle Sarah's ass, turning it pink and red and, hell, maybe even black and blue, but he sure as hell had never intended to be on the receiving end of the terrible instrument she wielded. Whack! The paddle smashed into his ass again, and Frank howled. Instinctively, he reached behind himself, rubbing his smarting buttocks. "Move your hands!" she ordered. He did as he was told, leaving his bare bottom defenseless. Crack! The thick, heavy blade crashed into his butt again, and he whimpered, writhing on the bed, hating himself for signaling his pain, his helplessness, and his fear to his girlfriend. His cock was rock hard between his belly and the mattress, and he feared he'd ejaculate if she continued, much longer, to paddle his ass. There was no way, no way in hell, that he'd want her to see any evidence that, on some level, despite the pain that spread like fire through his butt, her paddling him had aroused him, that he found being spanked by her exciting and sexy. "I'm tired of your insolence!" she announced, and the paddle landed hard across his reddening bottom, sounding as if a gun had been fired. His ass was on fire, and he couldn't help but to moan, to whimper, and to squirm. Tears gathered in his eyes, and he sniffed. "The way you look at my breasts, instead of my face, when I talk to you is exceedingly rude!" The paddle, again, whacked him, and he sobbed out loud, tears spilling from his eyes. "I buy you a book for your birthday, to improve your mind, and you lie to me, saying you read the whole play when you haven't read past the first scene, if that far!" The paddle collided against Frank's ass, even harder, and he sobbed again--and kept sobbing, his hips rolling back and forth on the bed, and his cock, stiffer and longer and thicker than it had ever been, twitched and lurched, straining beneath him. His tears came thick and fast now, and his face was wet. Mucus had collected upon his upper lip as well, and his face shone in the overhead light, wet with the lubricants of his tear ducts and his nasal membranes. Sarah raised her hand as high as she could, standing upon the tips of her toes, and, with a leap, brought the paddle down, swift and hard, in a blurred arc, against her boyfriend's derriere, eliciting from him a howl of agony mingled with fear. "Please," he begged, between sobs, "don't hit me again, please, please, please--ah!" The inevitable had happened, Frank was dimly aware. An astonishing orgasm had erupted inside him, seizing him, and his convulsive cock had spewed thick jets of his viscid semen between his belly and the mattress, but his pain was so intense that neither the orgasm nor his ejaculation, the most intense he'd ever experienced, registered on his consciousness except in the faintest way. She hit him again, and again, and again, a third time, with the heavy paddle, in quick succession, the smacks bruising his red-purple ass cheeks. A welt rose, angry and red, among the contusions, and a second weal swelled beside it. "You don't order me!" she screamed at him. "Understand?" He hadn't been ordering her; he'd been imploring her, but he doubted that she was in any mood to debate the point. "Yes, ma'am," he said. She repressed a smile, pleased that he'd used such a title of respect--and of his own volition. It was amazing, she thought, what courtesy a paddle could wring from even as boorish a lout as Frank. She supposed he'd had enough, for now, of the paddle, and she set it aside. "Turn over!" she demanded, "onto your back." She watched him as, slowly and gingerly, wincing and grimacing, he obeyed her instruction. She grinned at the evidence of his pleasure, noting the syrupy goo of his cum, sticky in the matted hair of his pubes and glistening along his stomach and even over his hard, chiseled pecs. His eyes had a haunted look, his face a pained expression, and his attitude a fearful and humble aspect she'd never seen before, but liked instantly. She climbed back onto the bed, straddling his face, and positioned her cunt, which was already overflowing, directly above his mouth. "Eat my pussy!" she commanded. He complied, opening his mouth to drink the thick, warm juices that flowed from her mount, to lick the drenched and sodden fissure between her slick, wet labia, and to stroke the hard bud of her clitoris, lavishing attention upon her as if she were a queen and he existed merely and solely to pleasure her. Her pussy poured out the libations of her womanhood, and he drank of the thick, rich fluids, swallowing the copious nectar of her loins. Again and again, his tongue lashed and flicked and licked and stroked her clitoris, lapped the furrow of her wet sex, licked the petal-soft folds of her labia, and enjoyed the tender red fruit of her cunt, all the while swallowing and swallowing so as not to miss a drop of her liquid essence. Astride his face, she came and came and came again, three times enjoying orgasm, whereas, before she'd revisited Lysistrata, she'd seldom experienced even one short, mild spasm of sexual bliss. When she was, at last, satisfied, Frank's face, the pillow, and much of the bed was drenched with her sex. She rose, took the paddle in hand, and said, "You have two days to read Lysistrata, carefully, footnotes and all. Thereafter, you shall be given a quiz concerning the text, and I pity your poor ass if you score anything less than a hundred percent." Looking not at her breasts, the nipples of which were erect, but at her face and into her eyes, he nodded. "Yes, ma'am." Sarah turned, leaving him, and put her paddle back in the closet, until next time, whenever that should be, and smiled, feeling, she was certain, a bit of the same exhilaration and self-assurance, centuries later, and in reality, that the fictional Lysistrata would surely have experienced in ancient Greece, had she been more than the mere figment of the brilliant Aristophanes' superb imagination.