The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 23)

My ass was throbbing. The cane welts were raised and so very tender. Discretion was needed. I fetched a bucket of soapy water, and scrubbed the baseboards out of direct sight. The men’s conversations combined with the sloshing suds, lulled me in an altered state. With my bottom high, I slid the coarse brush forward and back, wringing out the dirty water with rags. The luncheon gong caught me by surprise. It took five minutes or so to finish the section I was cleaning, and several more to dump the filthy residue on the kitchen midden. I donned my uniform.

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 22)

“Is there trout for luncheon?” SMACK! “Suck… his… cock!” SMACK! “Now!” I slithered off the desk, and on my knees, waddled the short distance to Mr. Edwards. He made no verbal objection to my burrowing hands as I fished out his tumescence. I couldn’t help crooning, “Come to mama,” as I gulped down his rigid length. Still with little practical experience, I’m afraid I was rather sloppy: nor did it help matters when the groaning man exploded in my mouth within a few minutes. His hands were bare; I felt empathy realizing he had no wife to sexually service him.

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.



If you would like more information about me as a writer, Ina Morata has written two posts about my work. This first was posted on Febuary, 5th 2017, and titled My Favourite Spanking Authors (Part 2) and includes an excerpt from a novel in progress. The second post is an interview I did recently with her and includes some upcoming work to be published. It can be found here, August 17th, 2017 and is called Author Interview: Byron Cane (aka Lurv Spanking).

Coincidently, this latest interview is at the one-year anniversary when Ina first popped round to offer a cuppa to the new kid on the block, along with beta reading and editing my meager [at the time] trove of fiction. During the ensuing twelve months, Ina has been a source of inspiration, dedication, publishing and we’ve become partners both professionally and personally. I can’t wait for the next year to see where the spanking journey takes us.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 21)

“Now, Mr. Edwards, do you think you can concentrate on the estate ledgers, or do you need relief first?” He continued spanking me as he spoke. “I… I am sure, Sir, that… umm… I can, we can, continue… Sir.” His Lordship let me thump to the floor, my legs shook and had his hand not cupped my pubis and steadied me, I surely would have fell. He stroked me, two fingers entered my puss; his thumb forced my arsehole to dilate. “Ruby, you will fellate Mr. Edwards as recompense for your lewd exhibition.” I asked in puzzlement, “Fellate him, Sir?”

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

In case of an emergency…

… apply liberally.

Off High Street, down a narrow twisted cobbled alley barely wide enough for a pony trap, a turquoise door propped open beckoned the footsore weary tourist with the promise of an adventure. Gleaming in the late afternoon rays, the gaily painted easel with the large red arrows pointed the way to Curio & Osities Antiques.

“Daddy? Do we have time to go shopping there?”
Erik Jorgensen gave his new bride Lisle an indulgent smile. “I thought my little girl wanted an ice cream?”
“I do, Daddy, pistachio and caramel sea salt, but I wanna see what cool stuff they have. Please?”
“Alright, but you still owe me ten spanks for going over your stuffie budget. Money isn’t mined by dwarves you know.”
Lisle made a disgruntled face. “I know that! Everyone knows that money is farmed by unicorns!” She squealed and raced down the alley after he playfully swatted the back of her frilly purple skirt.
Following at a more leisurely pace, Erik couldn’t help laughing at his little girl’s antics. The honeymoon thus far had been a wondrous romp between amazing sex, scintillating history and more discipline than he could ever have believed possible. While Lisle was a thoroughly modern professional woman who enjoyed a good stiff drink and a cigar after work, little girl loved nothing more than laying over her Daddy’s knee being soundly spanked.
Bratty or obedient, it didn’t matter, little girl took great pains in plotting her next session. Erik certainly had no objections, and in fact, allowed her to fill the toy chest with carefully curated implements. For her, spanking wasn’t a black and white issue for punishing misdeeds, but so enjoyable, she insisted on bending over at every opportunity. Her favorite saying was: ‘Daddy, if it’s not pink, don’t stop to think.’
By the time he wandered into the brightly lit shop with that indefinable odor of old stuff, little girl was already out of right; although he could hear her sighs and excited exclamations. Examining a bin of etchings, he didn’t bat an eye when she came rushing up at full tilt, blond ponytail snapping behind her.
“Daddy, Daddy! Look what I found? Look. Look.”
Seeing the quirky expression on the proprietress’ face, Erick sent her a short nod and gave full attention to his wife. “What did Daddy say about inside voices, little girl?”
Scuffing her shoe, she pouted very briefly then held out the object she was clutching. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I got so excited I forgot.”
“I accept your apology, however that will be ten more spanks for your total.”
“Okay,” She shrugged. “See?”
He plucked the item from her hand and turned it over several times admiring the craftsmanship. He addressed the owner who was clearly fascinated by the conversation. “What can you tell me about this piece?”
Visibly collected herself, she replied without hesitation, “That is an early 19th-century ebony and ivory hairbrush from Spain. The bristles are boar and was likely part of a bridal trousseau. It’s quite unique having the ivory inlays in the handle. Most brushes are either one or the other.”
Erik smacked lightly upon his palm. “It has a nice heft and impact.”
Lisle tugged on his jacket sleeve and whispered in his ear.
“Pardon me. My little girl would like to know if there is somewhere more private we can test before purchasing.” He smiled at his blushing bride of one week and lowered his voice. “She’s very picky about spanking implements.”
With noticeable concern, the woman asked Lisle if she was okay. Color suffused her face as well, when the reply was a forthright and blunt, “I am fine, thank you. I need to know how the brush feels on my bare bottom first, before Daddy buys it for me.”
Bemused and bit bewildered, the owner nevertheless didn’t want to lose the sale, so she led them to her back office, and closed the door once they were inside. Erik and Lisle listened for her footsteps to fade.
“What do you bet she’ll sneak back to listen, Daddy?”
“Your ass.”
Giggling with happiness, little girl draped herself over his lap, and fidgeted while he raised up her skirt and drew down her sparkly heart panties. “There will be twenty spanks now. If you like this brush, it’s way over budget, it will be one hundred and fifty later at the hotel before dinner.”
“Yes, Daddy. You may fire when ready.”
The smooth patina of the ebony wood impacted little girl’s bare bottom with a loud ‘splat’. Erik laid the first ten down the right buttock, from crown to crease. “How does that feel?”
“Good. It smarts a lot though.”
“Excellent. The last ten will be harder.”
And they were. Crisp cracks, unmistakable for anything other than a spanking, rang out in the room. The brush sank in the buttery flesh and bounced back with a soft recoil.
“I want it, Daddy. I’ll gladly pay the price tonight. One hundred and fifty strokes as hard as the last one.”
After purchasing the brush, and and watching the owner lick her lips when little girl told her ‘it’s not polite to eavesdrop’, Erik towed Lisle out of the shop before anything more was said… or done.
“She needed a spanking, Daddy.”
“Do you want me to go back?”
Lisle pondered for a moment and then said with a thoughtful expression, “As much as I think she deserves it, I want you all to myself. For now.”
A very happy little girl skipped back up the stone alley hand-in-hand with the bestest Daddy ever.

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 11

Tamara receives another hug from Susan, this time in farewell, and Sir nods; then follows back out into the real world of endless possibilities. Her stride is quick and choppy, shoulders hunched as if fighting against a stiff headwind and flaying hail. She senses Sir closing in and panics. ‘Air. I need air.’

Fixated on the glowing green EXIT sign, she plows through the meandering crowds, adrenaline dumping to facilitate her mindless flight goaded by a single word.

Run.

The late afternoon heat slams into chilled body as she bolts through the glass doors out onto the curved concrete concourse. She pivots right and trots past the line of vehicles picking up passengers. A wide pillar beckons. Tamara abruptly stops. Knuckles scrape the rough surface when she covers her face and leans forward.

Over the sound of her thumping pulse, she becomes aware of music: Bollywood dances forth from taxis to her left. She peers over; men in bright shirts, baggy trousers and rubber sandals chain-smoke and passionately converse in rapid Hindi, briefly subsiding whenever a fare arrives.

The urge to get in and flee is so strong; she takes a step toward the first cab at the stand. She hears him, nearby, but not crowding her.

Sir coughs and clears his throat. ‘Would you like your purchases before you leave?’

Tamara grips her elbows and shivers despite the heat. ‘I’m scared.’

‘I know.’

‘I can’t think. I’m… hopeless.’

‘You know what I think, Tamara?’

‘No. What?’

‘I think, you and I, should go back to the hotel bar, get a refreshing ice cold adult beverage, and chill out with a cuddle.’

Tamara lets out a helpless giggle. ‘Oh, Sir.’

Sir holds out his right hand, palm up, and, after a deep sigh and shrug, she allows him to tug her back from the edge of panic. The contact of their entwined fingers is searing.

Drone-like, we fly above his car returning as a homing pigeon to the hotel. Our pulses too, slow, as the sedan idles at red lights and turns into the parking lot. Dusk is fast approaching from the east, while off to the south, dark clouds sail close to the cool wind promising rain later in the evening. We skip past their entry, and slip inside his—their—room to lurk in the corner. We’d like to see some action soon, maybe another spanking or even sex. This emotional stuff is hard to read. The metallic ‘snick’ of the swiped cardkey and they enter.

Sir sets her bags on the quasi-desk/table while Tamara juggles her purse and two bottles of local craft beer.

‘You know, Sir, that this so-called craft beer is actually brewed by one of the conglomerates.’

‘Really?’

‘It used to be a small operation, but the owners sold when a rainmaker made an offer,’ she lowers her voice to gravelly growl and sneers, ‘youz can’t refuze.’

Sir laughs. ‘You do that pretty well.’

‘Thanks. Insomnia and late-night cable.’ She twists the caps off, and hands over his beer.’ Tilting the beverages, they cross brown bottles with a clink and toast. ‘Cheers.’

He slugs down half the malt, and wipes the foam from his lips. Kicking his shoes off, he retrieves the remote, and clicks on the wall-mounted television. The screen pops up to the default setting of hotel advertising and a local business scrawl. He glances at the plastic channel guide.

‘I’m going to freshen up.’

He grunts and drinks, eyes never leaving the rapidly scrolling pictures flashing by as the numbers climb into the double digits.

Tamara rolls her eyes. ‘Men.’

As she opens the bathroom door and heads towards the bed, the familiar theme and the announcement, ‘This is Sportscenter’, causes yet another sigh and slump of the shoulders. She tugs down the corner of the king-size bedspread and fluffs the pillow behind her head. Sipping, as he sets his empty down, she pretends to be engrossed in the afternoon baseball highlights. She sighs again.

‘Bored?’

‘Nope.’

He harrumphs. ‘We could watch something else.’

‘This is fine.’ She rubs the back of her neck and spins the pillow ninety-degrees, then folds it in half. ‘You did say the remote is yours… and… you’re the Dom… sooooo… I’ll just sit here… being quiet… and submissive… don’t mind me… yup… I do love me some double play action… ooooh… a homerun! A dinger! A bleacher burner blast! A round tripper! A base clearer! A—ack!’ She squawks as Sir pounces on her. ‘Don’t spill my beer!’

Sir nips the bottle away, and crouches over her. He notes her breath is fast and her pupils dilated. His hands rest on the fuzzy blanket, close to, but not touching her ribs. ‘Somebody is being bratty.’

‘No, Sir. Everything is fine. I’ll be quiet now.’ With a clenched teeth grin, Tamara looks up at him and nods emphatically.

He reaches down and gently strokes her cheek with the backs of his fingers. ‘Are you sure? That you’re fine?’

Tamara nods again and blinks rapidly as her eyes swell with moisture. As she breaks into halting sobs, Sir scoops her up, cradling her tight against his chest with her hands curled at his pecs. He strokes her back in long sweeps with one hand, rocking ever so slightly with his chin pressed to her temple. He can still smell her shampoo.

The talking heads natter on.

His shirt is wet.

She apologizes, dabbing at the dampness.

He pops up, opens the travel size tissue box and plucks out half the contents with one pull.

‘You don’t know your own strength,’ she says with shaky humor.

‘It’s my superpower. Don’t tell anyone. Next thing you know, I’ll be in bathrooms across America hanging toilet paper, roll’s end facing up.’

‘Everyone knows the end hangs down, Sir!’

Tamara wipes her face and blows her nose. He holds out a palm, she drops the used tissues and he pivots, shooting them towards the wastebasket. It bounces off the rim… and drops in.

‘Nice shot!’

‘Top Ten list for sure.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You know, I was thinking…’

‘Yes…’

‘Well, considering the stress you’re feeling, Tamara, I think—I know—you could benefit right about now from a good spanking.’

To read all the Kismet of Submission episodes in order, please go to this page for individual links.

Justify my shame

We all have addictive personalities to some extent. It used to be thought that addiction was a moral failing found most often in the lower classes. Abuse of alcohol and drugs were the reasons that the poor stayed poor and uneducated due to bad blood. Studies have found though that addiction is 50% genetic and 50% poor coping skills. Because of the social stigma attached to addiction, most people don’t seek help until it’s too late. Even if assistance is available, the shame that is drilled into us by parents, teachers and religious institutions, make the guilt so overwhelming that most addicts believe they deserve to suffer.

Addiction vulnerability is the genetic, physiological, or psychological predisposition to engage in addictive behaviors. Source: Wikipedia

For a long time, too long, I considered my need for D/s and spanking to be an addiction; thus shameful and the ultimate source of my guilt. I justified that need by saying to myself, I could stop at any time, it was only words and pictures. It wasn’t like I was actually hurting anyone.

That all started to change twelve years ago when I crawled up out of my self-imposed and self-created oubliette. When I began blogging—for non-D/s reasons—I gradually connected with many others who enjoyed spanking and BDSM and weren’t shy about stating their interest.

I discovered healthier ways of coping with my needs and today, I can finally state with conviction, that my need to spank and dominate is not shameful or weak or perverted. I am not addicted to D/s: D/s makes me a better person by holding myself accountable for my actions towards others.

I can give respect to all my readers and friends, because I can now be respectful towards my own desires. I want to spank. I want to be a Dom. There is no longer any reason to justify my shame.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 20)

WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! Fire lanced in branded lines that danced roughshod over my puckish attitude. His Lordship seized my waist and hoisted me one-handed off the floor. His dominant hand beat me, spanking hard and fast along the welted lanes paved by the rattan cane. My feet paddled in mid-air, unable to duck the blows raining down on my hot flesh. I bit my knuckles and allowed tears to stain the blotter. I wanted to be good, truly I did, but some mischievous imp drove me to frequent feckless folly. Then again, I wanted this thorough thrashing.

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.