F is for Fragility

“Move fast and break things” was quoted in Business Insider, October 1, 2009 during an interview with Mark Zuckerberg. The full quote is actually: “Unless you are breaking stuff, you are not moving fast enough.”

Time has shown the fallacy of that business model. [Not let it be said from a profitability standpoint]; but from the collateral damage to trust, truth and the overall well-being of the public. In fact, if there is one quote that can confidently be shown as the antithesis of how BDSM should work, it is Zuckerberg’s infamous mantra.

People are fragile, you need not but read the latest tragedy to realize that fact. Physical weakness aside though, it is in relationships where the worst cracks can appear caused by careless words and deeds. The care and feeding of D/s does not prosper when moving fast and breaking hearts.

On the other hand, fragility is not an ordained state of being for a submissive. One of the oft stated phrases might even be, “Go ahead, spank me harder, I won’t break.” And that brings up the key point in all this. Living a D/s lifestyle does not equate to tip-toeing around the fact that we’re fragile creatures. It requires an honest assessment of when and how fast to move so that the needs of all participants are being met. For the fragility of Doms is a truth often overlooked, and that is something that many are loath to admit.

Fragile: late 15th cent. (in the sense ‘morally weak’): from Latin fragilis, from frangere ‘to break.’ The sense ‘liable to break’ dates from the mid 16th cent.

D/s is a true partnership between equals who find things that both enjoy in a loving, respectful and most importantly, with honesty in a relationship with full knowledge, consent and trust.

Byron Cane

E is for Enraged

It’s been written that the English language has a word for everything. What doesn’t exist, is simply borrowed from another culture. The root of the most common words and phrases is Latin; that ‘dead’ language of science, medicine and diplomacy. Consider the following statement:

“The enraged supporters of _____ rave about _____ glowing pronouncements while foaming at the mouth with rabid vitriol directed upon those in opposition to their hero.”

Enrage: late 15th cent. (formerly also as inrage): from French enrager, from en– ‘into’ + rage ‘rage, anger.’

Rage: Middle English (also in the sense ‘madness’): from Old French rage (noun), rager (verb), from a variant of Latin rabies [late 16th cent.: from rabere ‘rave.’]

As the etymology above shows, enraged, rabid and rave, all stem from the same source. “Foaming at the mouth” is a physical description of a symptom of rabies, and as a descriptive phrase, means someone or someones caught in the grip of a maddening and uncontrollable rage.

Ignorance is bliss, comes from the poet Thomas Gray, who in 1742, wrote the poem, “Ode On A Distant Prospect Of Eton College“. The final two lines read:
No more; where ignorance is bliss,
‘Tis folly to be wise.

‘Twould be folly indeed to discount the enraged diatribes of wise elders. Except of course, when those fulminations are directed at oneself. We are, after all, enraged too.

While BDSM attracts its share of abuse, nothing — not the economy, religion, sports, politics — raises the ire of so many, as same-sex relationships. Spanking is now seen as a ‘safe’ kink, as is the mild bondage represented by furry handcuffs. Cosplay has made it to the mainstream thanks to video games and superheros. But while girl-on-girl action is a revered meme of pornography, IRL [in-real-life], lesbians are considered a threat to the moral fabric of society. There is nothing worse than two women in a sexual tryst, especially when they have the gall to get married!

“The evil that was unleashed in the Garden Of Eden has reached its deepest depravity in the travesty of perversity of so-called women’s emancipation.”

What’s that you say? There is worse than sapphic lust? Men? Together? In a non-binary opposing gender state? Gay?

Thus do the torches kindle, and banners unfurl, and marchers chant slogans of rage and violence towards those deemed enemies of the natural order. We all have a choice in how we react to the day’s events. While being enraged may feed the beast within, it seldom ends well for those infected with rabid hatred.

D/s is a true partnership between equals who find things that both enjoy in a loving, respectful and most importantly, with honesty in a relationship with full knowledge, consent and trust.

Byron Cane

D is for Disgusting

Disgust dates from the late 16th cent.: from early modern French desgoust or Italian disgusto, from Latin dis– (expressing reversal) + gustus ‘taste.’

Reversal of taste. An interesting concept. What is taste? Foremost it is the ability to discern food and beverages that are pleasing to the palate — which is itself a derivation of taste. When we say someone has ‘good taste’, we are not talking about a specific item to eat, but more of a sophisticated and civilized style of life. Someone who is glamorous, elegant, discerning. Someone who thinks IKEA is beyond the pale. To whom farm-to-table involves helicopters and couriers.

So how does this relate to BDSM?

“That’s disgusting!”
“What a disgusting habit!”
“You’re the most disgusting person!”
“Why do you read those disgusting blogs?”

I doubt anybody anywhere has ever said to someone involved in a D/s relationship that they have good taste. Outside the community that is. I’m talking about parents, relatives, co-workers; people that may equate fetishes to disgusting. Male penis in female vagina is normal: anything else is disgusting. But who decides what is in good taste? Community standards? Whose community?

To say something/someone is disgusting actually states that it is dangerous; dangerous in the way lack of taste can cause illness and even death through food poisoning. We instinctively know when food has gone off and through our upbringing and indoctrination, have expanded that wariness to all things that don’t fit the societal norm. The fact that we can’t detect someone else’s cultural norms, doesn’t even register in our minds.

“How can you eat that disgusting thing?”

D/s is a true partnership between equals who find things that both enjoy in a loving, respectful and most importantly, with honesty in a relationship with full knowledge, consent and trust.

Byron Cane

C is for Capitulation

Definition: The action of surrendering or ceasing to resist an opponent or demand.

To many people in the modern world, capitulation is the very essence of what has gone wrong. The Borg may have droned: “Resistance is futile”, but to the angry masses, bread and circuses no longer work. The fact that political and monetary power have solidified in the hands of fewer than ever before [on a per capita basis, not absolute] makes the unwillingness to negotiate for crumbs even more pressing. The stark fact that to outsiders capitulation appears to be at the heart of BDSM: that does not make submission appear to be an attractive lifestyle.

For a female, submission is intrinsically linked to surrender. The ceasing of struggling against forces that are more powerful than the individual.

“Always keep your knees together.”
“Boys don’t make passes at girls with glasses.”
“No one wants a brainiac.”
“Sex is for marriage.”
“She’s a slut.”
“Did you see what she was wearing?”
“Everything online is perfect: you suck.”

Is it any wonder so many girls are lost?

It certainly seems counter-intuitive to claim that D/s can help a woman reclaim her power through willing capitulation, but the anecdotal evidence is compelling. What people don’t understand — both within and without the BDSM community — is that the opponent is not the Dom, it’s the Id. The part of you that reacts to stimuli and strives to blend in with the tribe you follow on Instagram. Your Dom is not demanding your surrender in order to ravage, but in order to help free the person you were before society’s mores forced an unwilling capitulation upon you.

D/s is a true partnership between equals who find things that both enjoy in a loving, respectful and most importantly, with honesty in a relationship with full knowledge, consent and trust.

Byron Cane

B is for Beaten

It is possible that some people believe the ‘B’ in BDSM, stands for ‘Beaten’. It is indubitably a harsher word than spanking, but on par with whipping, flogging, caning, scourging, and all the other delightful words humans have created to describe the act of physical chastisement. In D/s however, being beaten can describe an intricate and intimate dance. An artistic performance if you will.

“Why would you let him/her/they beat you? Are you crazy?”

No, actually. I’m quite sane.
Thank you for asking.

Beating — in whatever format it takes place — can be fun. It can be pleasurable. Or painful. For many, humiliation plays a vital role in intensifying the endorphin high. For some partner(s), being beaten is punishment. Punishment requested, often demanded, by the submissive. Being beaten cleanses the palate, clears the guilt and shame from wrong-doing. No matter what role it plays, playing a role in which beating takes center stage, allows the trust to become ever deeper.

But there is another definition more commonly utilized that explains why describing an over-the-knee, skirt up, panties down beating creates such a visceral reaction in relation to D/s. It is the zero-sum game we call competition. Humans are naturally competitive, but we all too often reduce that to a life-or-death equation. There can be only one winner in a contest between individuals, institutions, businesses, teams or nations.

I/we win. You lose. Nah-nah.

D/s is not a zero-sum game. (And no, I’m not talking about abuse and domestic violence.) D/s is about… well, whatever you want. Foreplay or role-play, a hobby or a lifestyle, it can be whatever you need so that all participants win.

Gold medals for everyone!

P.S. Just a thought for you: Why are male Doms viewed with suspicion, but female Dominatrices revered?

D/s is a true partnership between equals who find things that both enjoy in a loving, respectful and most importantly, with honesty in a relationship with full knowledge, consent and trust.

Byron Cane

A is for Adversary

“One’s opponent in a contest, conflict, or dispute.”

With every passing day, BDSM — consensual violence — becomes both more intriguing and controversial. To those in the so-called mainstream, BDSM is simply an excuse for patriarchal oppression cloaking hatred of women in a media-friendly guise of ritualistic violence. Certainly the top-rated streaming television shows and some movies of recent times offer up plenty of female nudity, torture and rape, all in the name of artistic prose. There is certainly no excuse for the revelations brought forth by #Metoo, nor for the feeble defense offered by those in political and legal power. Yet, the abuse and exploitation of the weaker by the stronger is a story older than human civilization. Men have always been adversaries of women.

Or have they?

Are women fragile creatures in constant need of protection and guidance? Are men ravenous beasts always seeking another hole to plunder? Is BDSM all about male pleasure and cowering females?

Those are the wrong questions. The notion that everyone is identical with identical motivations and desires is bullshit. That doesn’t stop politicians and marketers [Is there a difference?] from exploiting the fears of the unwashed masses by goading them into turning on those not of their tribe. [Tribe being a loosely defined term based on all sorts of factors.] The freaks usually get the brunt of that anger.

Even within the BDSM community, tribal boundaries make uneasy bed-fellows of participants. While it’s true that BDSM may stand stalwart at the barricades against the thunderbolts cast by vanilla hysteria, the gulf between those that enjoy spanking as foreplay and those using knives as an erotic boost is as vast as religious wars. Hyperbole? We are all guilty at times of mocking those who choose a different lifestyle.

Our fetish is normal, those other people…? Yuck!

But what if we weren’t adversaries? What if we didn’t troll someone by sneering “You’re not doing it right” or “What do you mean you’ve never tried spanking?”. What if we sought to understand each other? What if instead of turning away from our differences, we made an effort to communicate and listen? Men and women don’t have to be adversaries, anymore than ethnicity should divide neighbors into ‘us’ and ‘them’.

D/s is a true partnership between equals who find things that both enjoy in a loving, respectful and most importantly, with honesty in a relationship with full knowledge, consent and trust.

Byron Cane

The Bumhampton Chronicles: The Complete Chapter 12

Gentle Reader: Sunday erupted with a flourish of cornets and thunder of timpani. The birds were chirping sweet melodies as I shook a grumbling Louisa awake. “It’s time to get up! Our chariot awaits.” Alas for poor Ruby. In truth it was pouring. Typical dank English weather and the roads would be a quagmire for coaches. No matter: if we stiff upper-lipped Britains cowered at the sight of mere liquid from the skies, we’d never have ruled such a vast Empire. “Forward Louisa! Once more unto the breach.” She whacked me with her pillow. I yanked her off the cot.

Church services were not mandatory, but I’ve always found the liturgy soothing and the sermons to be comforting. Peacock House had a family chapel, but the village of Lower Bumhampton was within easy walking distance. My boots were soiled, my soul in mortal peril, but my heart danced on rainbows. I was going riding with my lovers; my mind turned wicked envisioning the possibilities of three enclosed in private carriage. I searched my conscience, but found no jealousy at the thought of Chester fucking Louisa. I am sure having wet drawers in church is a sin, but how can love?

It is said the sensual and spiritual cannot co-exist, yet, unrepentant sinner that I am, I do not feel my prayers vanish unheard into the void. Unheeded perhaps: but not unremarked. By the time I trudged back, in silent company with those who had joined in raising voice in hymn, my entreaties seemed to have had an effect. Coyly peering around sullen ranks of stern, grey clouds, frowning in displeasure at Sabbath activities, was the welcome disk of golden sun bathing me in warm benediction. One must seize signs when they occur. To do otherwise mires the soul in hopelessness.

After luncheon I changed my padding. Thankfully I was only lightly flowing and had only minor symptoms from the assortment of ailments the woman’s curse brought each double fortnight. I resolved not to mention my courses to Chester, unless his hands strayed toward my southern hemispheres. I fretted over what to wear — or not to wear. We only had two hours together. I didn’t want to be seen as a frivolous, vacuous female; but I cared about my appearance. My wages had yet to be paid for the first week: at month’s end thirty pieces of silver creased my palm.

I was loath to ask for an advance, and the few shillings I brought with me to Peacock House wouldn’t even purchase a yard of ribbon, never mind fabric for a new frock. Louisa attempted to soothe my fret as I paced our room, oft-darned shift twitching with every impatient spin. “I don’t have anything to wear!” My plaintive wail was so unlike my normal disposition a part of me mockingly chided my immaturity. “Ruby, Mr. Jones-Smyth won’t give a fig about your attire. Look at me! Compared to you, I’m a drab hen in the shadow of your plumage.”

I paused to glare at her. There was no heat in my expression. Pouting in the small mirror, my voice was sulky. “I want him proud to be seen with me.” I spun back to face Louisa, pleading for her understanding. “A man of his social stature needs a helpmeet of impeccable grooming and manners.” Her response was a derisive snort of mocking laughter. “Will the introductions take place before or after he’s whipped and fucked you into submission?” I raised my hand. She was spared a good bare-bottomed beating over my knee by a timid knock on the door.

Nearly lost beneath a puffy mound of silk and lace, was Miss Frothinglips’ personal maid, Ellie. “My mistress sent me with this loan of a gown.” Any trepidation over her possible motive instantly turned to greed. In a trice, Louisa and Ellie had me trussed into stays — Miss Frothinglips’ sylphlike figure was several magnitudes thinner than mine — multiple petticoats and even silk stockings with frilly garters. With my hair piled high into an elaborate twist, the girl now staring wide-eyed in the mirror, bore only a passing resemblance to the orphaned waif of the prior week. “That’s me?” I marveled.

Internally though, I was wracked with nervous doubt. Louisa — bless her deviant heart — had the perfect cure for my jitters. Ordering me to place my unshod foot upon the ticking, Ellie then supported my lower torso. My hems were lifted. Sinking to her knees, Louisa burrowed under my borrowed finery. The first touch of her calloused fingers on the backs of my thighs made me start. Ellie tightened her grip as my head lolled onto her shoulder. I felt a brief twinge of embarrassment when Louisa lowered first my drawers, then my girdled padding. “What are you doing? I’m ble—”

Lowering my voice, I hissed with mixed emotions. “I’m bleeding!” A matter-of-fact, “So?” was all Louisa said as her nimble tongue followed the righteous path blazed by her sturdy hands. Soon they were working me over in tandem. Muffled snuffles made me giggle, but two slender digits slipping into my slippery pussy made me gasp with surprise. Whatever shame I still felt was soon swept aside by rising lust. This was not a leisurely poke on a lazy afternoon; Louisa was determined to frig me off in a hurry. My clit hardened. My nipples engorged. Tangy musk permeated the room.

I was proud of my tight purse, the friction growing hotter as she increased her tempo, slamming her palm against my swollen lips with each inward thrust. The slurpy sounds made me aware of how soaked Louisa’s hand must be. For some reason, I felt a brief twinge of embarrassment. That was subsumed with rapture when the straining tips of her nimble fingers rubbed a place deep inside. I instinctively tilted my pelvis, begging as I did so. “Again. Right there. Oh. Oh. Yes. Harder.” Waves of contractions crashed over my nerves, muscles tightened, clamping down as my orgasm crested.

It broke on the shore of hedonism. I gave a strangled scream, choked off with held breath as my climax rolled on and on; the white frothy comber sweeping all thought before its relentless power. It wasn’t until we were walking down the last flight of stairs — me on shaky legs and Louisa still licking her chops — that I realized my borrowed silk drawers were missing. Louisa gave me a wink and a nudge. “He’s only got two hours with you, Ruby, I think he should have easier access, don’t you think?” Despite the padding, my thighs were very damp.

The thought of Chester nuzzling me down there caused a fresh spurt of moisture. I moaned. “What is he going to think of me?” She patted my bustled behind whispering, after she nipping my earlobe, “He’ll think he’s a dashed lucky cove for having such a randy piece for a fiancée.” She gave me a sharp jab, like an angry goose; my bottom awoke and peered round seeking more pinches. What I got was more teasing. “I can’t wait to see you… flat on your back. Knees pinned to your shoulders and Mr. Jones-Smyth pounding your messy quim into meringue.”

I staggered; her words — and my vivid imagination — sent another climax ripping through my pussy. “You won’t be able to walk straight for a week.” Louisa’s laugh was low and evil sounding. “Maybe after he’s done fucking you senseless, I’ll be able to push my entire hand up your creamy cunt and show him how rough you like to be treated.” My groan was pitiful. “Please, Louisa. No more. I’m about to combust.” Saved from likely self-immolation by the dashing bloke himself, who popped to his feet as we entered the front parlor, I managed a wobbly, but credible, curtsy.

The bouquet was lovely. I searched out a vase, my automatic response as servant eliciting a giggle from Louisa and an arched brow from Chester. He deftly inserted conversational remarks about the weather [the geese were happy this morning] my outfit [the colors brought out the highlights in my eyes] Louisa’s ruddy health [such a delightful contrast to fragile porcelain] and with steady social banter, managed to guide both of us to the waiting coach. It was a struggle, but I managed to both keep my feet and wits from stumbling. “Will you be our whip this afternoon?” I blushed.

He laughed at my faux pas, giving us a hand up, each in turn. “No, dearest one, I shall seize the moment to relinquish the reins… and whip, to instead sacrifice the fresh air and drama of driving for the opportunity to ride inside two beautiful ladies of my recent acquaintance.” His double entendre made us titter like choirgirls. I didn’t know much about carriages or horses, but it had four wheels, an enclosure and a driver who was seemingly impatient to get rolling. Thus began my first liaison; complete with a duenna of dubious worth, as events soon proved.

“So, where are we taking us, Chester? Are the roads passable?” I sat across from him, facing forward, Louisa at my side. He smiled and nodded. “Yes, to your latter question and, I thought I would show you one of our — my — factories that is fairly close by.” He nudged the bulging hamper on the floor with his foot. “I’ve taken the liberty of procuring some provisions for a light repast, should you be so inclined.” I smiled too, a little ruefully. “Normally, I’d never turn down tea—” Louisa interrupted, “Or a man offering to take liberties with your person.”

I smacked her arm as I continued, “—al fresco, but this blasted corset has squashed my liver to paste.” Louisa honked in mirth. “And besides…” I hesitated until he encouraged me to explain. I gazed out the window with blushing cheeks. “I’m… I’m having my monthly.” His inscrutable expression reminded me of when my late mother would play cards, late at night, with some friends of hers. I’d watch from my cot, thin blanket pulled tightly around my head, as they gossiped and bluffed the hours away, pretending for a short time that the wolf was at someone else’s door.

I was yanked from my poignant memory by his serious and thoughtful response. “Rest assured, Ruby, I will not banish you to a red tent every four weeks out of some belief you are unclean. Your cycle is part of the natural order of life.” My heart flipped cartwheels at his declaration. He reached over and clasped my hand. “As my wife, you will be accorded all due respect and courtesy inherent to your position.” The imp perverse couldn’t resist tweaking. “Even when that position is over your knee?” I squawked when he swiftly slung me across his broad lap.

He fumbled with my voluminous skirts then, with an exasperated command, ordered Louisa to assist in baring my bottom. “But I can’t be spanked!” The carriage swayed as it rounded a corner, and his hands reached out to steady us both. “Why ever not, Ruby?” I craned my neck around trying to express my earnestness. “Mrs. Cleanknockers said that no maid is to be disciplined during her time of the month.” I pleaded with Louisa. “Tell him it’s the truth.” Rather petulantly, I thought, she reluctantly corroborated my explanation. “So you see, Chester, you shan’t spank me today.” He pinched.

I squealed. “If you put your glove back on, sir, you’ll be able to give Ruby a right sound thrashing for her impertinence. I certainly won’t rat you out to Mrs. Cleanknockers.” Louisa sounded so sweetly innocent. “Don’t listen to her, Chester, she just wants to see my bottom turn red.” The leather covered hand he stroked across my upturned cheeks felt as soft as silk. “Do you offer an alternative, Ruby?” I waggled said cheeks, impatient for him to probe deeper into the dark dell. “Well…” My voice was triumphant. “I offer you my handmaiden and whipping girl instead!”

“What?” shrieked Louisa, “I shall not be beaten in your place, Ruby! You are a cruel and wicked mistress.” The driver called out, “We’ve arrived, sir,” saving her from imminent defilement. The rocking motion ceased, Chester lifted me to my feet. I shook out my skirts and plumped back down in my original place next to Louisa, who gave me a murderous stare. As he hopped out, reaching in to snatch the hamper, I squeezed her fingers in warning and winked. “This isn’t over, Ruby,” she hissed in annoyance. I whispered just as he offered his hand, “How about sex?”

The buildings were quite impressive. Grimy red brick, ivy growing in wild profusion interspersed with wild roses; the complex stretched along the river and up the hillsides. “This is all yours?” Something fleeting and indecipherable passed over his face before he gave a tight, little smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “This, and multiple others elsewhere in Britain.” I dismissed the shadows in his expression and nattered gaily as we strolled in the copse of above the placid millrace. Reaching a stone outcropping, he snapped out a folded blanket and opened the hamper. We arranged ourselves: a trio of strangers.

Strangers I say, and strangers I meant. We conversed as we nibbled cheese and bread; sipped cider and lemonade. We were awkward; Peacock House hovered over us like the dark storm gathering in the southeast. Before the first splatters of precipitation blew over the manufactory complex, we were snugly settled back in our coach, and headed towards Lower Bumhampton. My earlier rash statement lingered like an overripe pear. “If that’s what want, Ruby, I’ll do it.” Louisa sudden outburst startled both Chester and I. We began to answer, “Wha—”: he deferred to me with studied gesture. I nodded my thanks.

“What do mean, Louisa?” My tone was soft and compassionate. “You know. What you said before. About me being your whipping girl.” I laid my cheek on her rigid shoulder. “Oh, my darling, please forgive me. I was being petulant and naughty.” I kissed her gently. “I did not mean my rash words.” Some of the tension seeped from her frame. “But…” I grasped her face, turning it towards me. “But?” She met my intense gaze briefly, lowering her eyes to speak. “But what if I want it.” She looked back up with a troubled frown. “To be spanked. Fucked.”

The smoldering sensuality never far beneath my skin roared to life at her words. For once, caution held my tongue in check. I tipped her chin to mine: we communicated for long minutes silently until I was satisfied she was sincere. “On your feet, whipping girl.” My harsh voice lashed the placid air. Our conveyance swayed, Louisa teetered and half fell/was assisted over my knees. Her single layer of dress with a thin shift was yanked above her waist; her plump bottom cringed in anticipation. “Sir?” I addressed Chester. “I apologize for my uncouth behavior earlier and offer this recompense.”

He scooted forward to the edge of his seat; his boots anchored against our bench for stability. His gloved hands prodded and squeezed the bountiful flesh splayed out for his use. SMACK! SMACK! The first blows made her jump and catch her breath with a short squeak. As he liberally peppered her bared globes, I stroked her hair with one hand and the other resting on her bowed back. I avidly watched the milky skin turn steadily darker, a sunset on a hot summer’s evening, when the vivid colors draw your enraptured gaze heavenward. “So that’s how you spank hard!”

I could tell he was not using his full strength. Even so, it was an impressive display of martial prowess. It was enough to make me forget she was actually across my lap, so focused on her red bottom were we. Chester paused and shook his right hand with a rueful glance. “Even with the leather, it stings my palm.” Louisa shook as well, I think with laughter, for her tone was light. “Stings? Sir, you should see it from my vantage point.” He and I chorused in unison, “We are!” then burst into companionable chuckles. “It looks very painful.”

This time her voice was one of wounded dignity. “That’s because it is painful!” I rubbed her hot skin. “Poor baby. Maybe next time you’ll behave.” She harrumphed and wiggled her rump. “Does that mean you want more?” She pressed her butt higher. “Alright then, Chester, spank her another ten times and make them very hard.” SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Louisa cried out with each one and, when he finished, gave a little hip shimmy as she tried in vain to cast off the sharp sting in her tail. “Let that be a lesson.”

Alas, my whipping girl learned nothing about proper decorum for — no sooner had she rolled upright — she sank to her haunches and freed the lump that had grown in Chester’s trousers. His cock sprang out like Punch, as Judy likely did backstage, she devoured his stiff truncheon whole. Louisa made the most peculiar noises, growling and snuffling as if rooting for truffles. Bobbing up and down with evident enthusiasm, I thought she intended to swallow his seed, but instead — popping off with a loud ‘slurp’ — she spun around to face me, eyes hazed with lust and whipped up her skirts.

“Fuck me!” was all she screamed before clamping her mouth on mine. Three souls linked, I fancied I could taste their mingled juices and feel his cock pounding her from behind like an animal. It was raw, primitive and rough. Jolting through ruts, splashing through mud, the exterior world ceased to exist as the scent of sex drove us home. Frantic, she kissed me, her tongue trying to pull me inside her moaning mouth. As he stammered he was about to spend, in a flourish of lace, we were suddenly side-by-side on the floor, his pulsing cock spraying our faces.

If this is your first exposure to Ruby’s adventures, you can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters. For easier reading, once I have posted all 30 drabbles, I repost the entire chapter in 3,000 words.

  • Corrupted

    Now available, "Corrupted", an anthology from Sexy Little Pages, including my short story, Ghosting Past Emily. Click the picture for ebookstore links.

  • Ghosting Past Emily — part of the Corrupted anthology

    After Amsterdam and Berlin, Tokyo was her favorite place to explore the latest in technological sexuality. Unlike in Europe though, in Japan she would always be gaijin, and the locals off limits to her needs. On the crowded streets of Ginza she felt the stares and heard the unspoken contempt, Go back to where you came from, which was something it had in common with America. She was too tall, too confident, too yellow and most of all, too female. She channeled the perceived insults into taboo actions.
    It was a tired and bitter Emily that touched down ten hours later in a San Francisco of bone-chilling damp and a watery rising sun. She needed a hard session at the Armory before returning to work on Monday. Her slave had better be ready to grovel and be pussy-whipped.

  • Purchase: The Case of the Disciplined Valentine

    Click the picture to purchase, The Case of the Disciplined Valentine.

  • The Case of the Disciplined Valentine

    A comedy of Victorian manners mixed with delicious spankings and sexual encounters guaranteed to raise even a vampire’s blood pressure. Byron Cane sets a torrid pace in his historical paranormal erotic novella.

    It is 1854 in steampunk London, and Sir Nachton MacRath is warily returning to his home isle after decades abroad. He has good reasons to steer clear of the Royal Family, but is immediately snared by the Queen herself, who anoints him, Her Chastiser of Loose Morals, complete with elevation to the upper reaches of the aristocracy. Rather than a quiet existence as a vampire, he is now a Peer uneasily rubbing shoulders with the most powerful men in the Empire.

    Phoebe Hayward is a lady of good breeding, but like all her contemporaries, longs for some excitement and romance. Valentine’s Day is only weeks away, when their paths cross with a bump. Despite later discovering the man ordered to discipline her is actually a vampire, she can’t help falling in love. The more encounters with Sir MacRath she has, the more her body yearns to know what it is to submit to his vampiric touch. When he reluctantly agrees to be her Valentine, thus begins a Domination and discipline the likes of which she’s never dreamed.

    MacRath doesn’t feel he deserves Phoebe’s love, and attempts to push her away by taking her deeper into sexual submission. She surprises him — and herself — by eagerly submitting to his every desire. Together, they explore the sensual heights that a woman and a man — a vampire — can reach. But politics and conflict are never far away, and the Valentine’s Day deadline comes all too soon.

    Note: The original version of this book was included in the Lust in Lace paranormal romance anthology.

  • Purchase: The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie

    Purchase The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie by clicking the picture.

    Pity poor Stephanie: twenty-five years old and still spanked daily. She was intelligent, a college graduate with honors, articulate, a fashionista with a good job and an all-round delightful person with never a cross word and always a genuine smile for everyone. It was to her misfortune that she also exuded an innocent sensual charm, leading both men and women to have one uppermost thought in their minds: spanking Stephanie’s spectacular and epic rounded bottom. It was not her fault; genetics had blessed her with both the ideal rear end and a delightful bewildered submissiveness. It simply never occurred to her to challenge her discipline. If someone needed to spank her, well, obviously she was guilty of some offense and thus deserved to be spanked.
    When Stephanie crashes (quite literally) into the life of Ross, high flying exec in the fashion world and eligible bachelor, she is stupefied he wants her as his. Under Ross’ tutelage, as Brat to his Sir, she learns that she can be spanked for more than just being naughty! And Ross — he discovers there’s much more to Stephanie than just her submissive need to be disciplined, as he falls more and more in love.
    A brilliantly funny, light-hearted, spanking erotic romance novella by Byron Cane, with memorable characters and a beautiful love story interwoven into the sexiness, lending a contemporary twist to the princess fairy tale.

  • Lust in Spring

    Click picture to go to Lust in Spring Amazon page

  • Lust in Spring anthology

    In Byron Cane's, The Witch of Olympus Hollow, it’s 1952, and Gale Johnson is outraged when her parents send her packing to a tiny town in Appalachia to visit the mysterious great aunt she has never met. In the foothills of North Carolina, Gale will discover a wondrous birthright. A lifetime of discipline and sexual satisfaction awaits, but her destiny comes at a cost.
  • Lust in Lace

    Purchase Lust in Lace on Amazon Kindle. Click picture to go to Amazon.

  • Lust in Lace anthology

    In Byron Cane's Sir MacRath Thrashes his Valentine, MacRath is a centuries-old vampire returning home after decades of absence. It is 1854 in steampunk London, and Her Majesty has appointed MacRath Her Chastiser of Loose Morals. Phoebe Hayward is a lady of good breeding, but quite a handful. Despite discovering the man ordered to discipline her is actually a vampire, she can’t help falling in love. MacRath will ensure she is well punished and dominated in all ways as befits his naughty Valentine.

  • Paranormal Erotic Romance

    Come visit the Paranormal Erotic Romance website for information about the Lust anthology series. Read Lust by the Sea, Lust on the Wing, Lust in Tooth and Claw, Lust in Winter and Lust in Lace.

  • ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’ Oops. Does that date me? These are the top posts.

  • Back writing 6/30/16 short stories and a spanking novel