Lust in Spring Anthology: Published

A note about formatting on this post. WordPress does not support a Word type formatting, thus the lack of indents. Yes, I could add spaces before each paragraph, but I’m not. It’s not that bad. My novella, The Witch of Olympus Hollow, is told in first person and the excerpt below is the Prologue and part of Chapter One. The anthology in total, is Lust in Spring. The story itself has erotic passages with the spanking as discipline only. The style is a memoir based upon diary entries, and set in 1952, except for the Prologue and Epilogue which are set in present day. If I had to place my novella in a genre, it would be: Green Mythological Erotica.

Just a reminder, if you would like to read and write a review for your blog, Goodreads and/or Amazon, please contact me and I will send you a free copy of my novella as a Word .docx in exchange for your honest review. The entire anthology is a free download if you have Kindle Unlimited, or 99 cents for a limited time with regular Kindle. Please see Amazon for details.

What do a wealthy divorcee, a gay college student, five men trapped in a cottage, and a college graduate in the 1950s have in common? Each has a date with the supernatural. In Lust in Spring, the sixth volume in the Lust series, Spring is a time of renewal and desire. Gods, goddesses, incubi and the Fae will seduce and beguile their mortal lovers. But the price for pleasure must be paid.

Click picture to go to Amazon

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.

In JD Carabella’s Milady’s Command, Juliet has wasted fifteen years on a loveless marriage. She’s a beautiful, sexual woman, and she needs a man who will surrender to her lust. Will her secret fantasy of power and control drive away the man worthy of her attention? Juliet’s dream can come true, if she’s willing to pay the price.

In Emma Jaye’s Incubus Spring, university student Finn has a dilemma: which man to pick? His current boyfriend, Charlie, is the take-charge type Finn wants. Problem is, Charlie is more interested in managing Finn’s budget than his body. Then there’s Ezra. It’s tough to resist when the sexy owner of an adult toy store offers hands-on demonstrations. Torn between loyalty and lust, the unwitting prey in a seductive game of cat and mouse, Finn’s decision will shape his destiny.

One goddess. Five men. In Ina Morata’s The Greenwood Goddess, it’s Beltane, and five men have been taken prisoner by Gaia. They’ve been set a quest: compete for the goddess’ favor with the best erotic story. As captivated as the rest, Ben is desperate to win, not least because in this strange and magical place, losing has serious consequences. But if he wins… will the prize be what it seems?

************************************************************

The Witch of Olympus Hollow

Prologue

As the title says, people round these parts think I’m a witch: these parts being Olympus Hollow. There you go; I repeated the title for y’all. No applause needed, we’re good. Or as the saying goes: word.

My name is Gale Johnson, of the Johnsons of Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, on the Main Line. How I ended up in the far southern reaches of Appalachia, that story is the fault of my mother: harsh but true. I was angry with her for a long time, besides being a stuck-up bitch when I arrived.

I believe I was likely manic-depressive or bi-polar back then, but that doesn’t excuse rudeness. All that’s long past now. I’m eighty-five, or will be next April 1st, the joke’s on me, right?

Leastwise you think I’m a bitter old woman, nothing could be further from the truth. The tale I shall shortly relate here shall only be released upon my death. Ergo, I am currently deceased—with several mitigating circumstances.

I’m not trying to be lawyerly here. As you’ll discover at the end of my memoir, the situation was not exactly cut and dried. In all honesty, I’m probably confusing you—I like to talk—so rather than work backwards in a logical manner, I will instead start at the beginning.

It’s a good thing I kept up my diaries all these years. I’d forgotten I’d written them in first person, present tense back then. The conceit of a recent college graduate I’m afraid, trying to be grownup and sophisticated.

I decided to share excerpts within the prose to highlight my state of mind. I apologize if my lack of empathy shines through my journal entries of those days in 1952, but I will not censor to meet modern sensibilities. I’m too damn old to be PC.

I was young and sheltered: a northern white girl dropped into the segregated South. I did not know of course, that Pennsylvania and the other states of the Union were just as divided as any Confederate state. I had always naively assumed people lived within racial and ethnic boundaries because they wanted to by choice.

So many changes in my lifetime, including the internet and access to a world of information. It’s a lot easier these days to write your thoughts and store them in the cloud.

I do enjoy the spanking blogs; I’m a connoisseur you might say, although my experiences would beat the pants off most of the fiction. Just sayin’: not braggin’.

I’m rambling again, my apologies.

I’m sure you saw the snarky tweets from Clear Cut Resort LLC? The ones where they bitched and whined in 140 characters about the fabulous luxury vacation homes and world-class golf course they wanted to build, but were denied? Or maybe you viewed their lovely Facebook page, with the glossy retouched digital pictures and the CGI video of happy families bathing in the hot spring, frolicking in the natural pool and riding horses through the manicured forest.

I told their Armani wearing lawyers to shove it on more than one occasion. That is our land the fuckers wanted, and they will never get it.

The following is an excerpt of an audio recording by the late Gale Johnson.
Transcript begins:

Is this thing on? Damn technology. Used to just push a button.
~snort~
I got it. Chill, dude.
Well, if you’re hearing this, I’m dead. Nothing like my beyond-the-grave voice in stereo, is there? My lawyer, don’t start, insists that I express my wishes verbally, due to the salacious contents I intend to have published.
So here goes.
Like I said, I’m not worried about Olympus Hollow.
I left the land in good hands, very good hands.
~witchy cackle~
What do you mean you want a will and last testament?
Fine! You’re all a bunch of blood-sucking parasites.
Being of sound mind and body, I hereby bequeath all my knowledge and worldly goods to my anointed successor as per the agreement with the principles notated in my memoirs.
Everything you are about to read actually happened to me.
I personally vouch for the authenticity of my interactions with every named person.
All mortal persons, mentioned in the main body of work, are now deceased.
Any persons named in the epilogue, have signed affidavits allowing their likenesses to be utilized in print.
All proceeds from the sale of my memoirs, and any profits from future visual media productions, shall accrue to the Olympus Hollow Charitable Foundation, Inc.

End transcript.

Chapter One

Dear Diary,
April 1st, 1952
Happy Birthday to me! Today I turn 21 and only three weeks to graduation! My sorority sisters fooled me again and made a BIG deal out of my birthday. That’s why I’m standing at the moment. The paddles are no fun, even though I should be used to them after four years.
I made a wish, of course I did! Chance is so dreamy. He promised me a very special surprise for our date this weekend.
***
Dear Diary,
April 23rd, 1952
Thank God I got my monthly! Chance is beastly! I never should have believed him. Thankfully Mother will never find out or else her hairbrush would be worn out on my hiney. Sabrina says you can’t get knocked up French kissing or heavy mouth petting but I’m glad anyway. I never knew keeping my knees together would be so difficult in the heat of the moment.
***
Dear Diary,
May 3rd, 1952
Guess what! Great-Aunt Abigail—my namesake I’m told, although I’ve never even heard of her—has invited me to her home! I’m very excited! NOT! An urgent family matter says my dear mother.
Mother says I’m to obey my aunt in all manners. I argued that I’m a college graduate and a grown up, but she packed my hairbrush anyway and even said that G-A.A—aka Great-Aunt Abigail—knew I needed an occasional good dose of discipline! I am so EMBARRASSED!
My beloved parent told me I’d be standing on the train ride to Washington if I didn’t zip it. Daddy only grunted and refused to take my side. He never takes my side!
***
Dear Diary,
May 9th, 1952
And so it comes to this. A present for my college degree, the sharp Buick Roadmaster Riviera coupe in Olympic Blue, is sitting outside in the rain back home. While I, after three separate train rides, followed by an ancient bus that trundled up into wild Injun country in far western North Carolina, have finally arrived at the thriving metropolis of Olympus Hollow, population 243.
This is my stop; the driver is calling.
***

“You mussa be Miss Gale.”

I glanced around in distaste. The bus stop was not a proper station with water fountains and lavatories but merely a wide spot in the road. Wild chickens and feral dogs kicked up dust, while several old white men in denim overalls and seed caps rocked in chairs on the porch of Jebediah’s General Store and spat long streams of brown juice into the dusty gravel parking area.

The speaker was a Negro and his mode of transportation a mule wagon. I was evidently on another planet. This was most defiantly not Cavalcade of Stars with Jackie Gleason. There was no sophisticated sketch comedy in these characters.

I had no congress with the Negro in Bryn Mawr—there were none—although there were plenty to be seen in Philadelphia. Unsure of how to respond, I stuck to politeness.

“Yes, I am Gale Johnson. I am here at the invitation of my Great-Aunt Abigail to spend the month. I was told she would pick me up.”

“Isa be yur ride, Miss Gale. Miss Abigail, she beein’ a touch unda da weatha.” He hopped down and placed my luggage in the back of the wagon. “Ifin ya’ have a seat, Miss, I’lla havin’ ya’ up da mountain ri’ quick.”

“You be careful now, boy, ya here?” one of the white men called out. “Dat be pree-shee-us cargo you be haulin’. Miss Abigail liken to give ya boils iffen ‘er niece ruffles ‘er purty dress. Ain’t that right, sweet thang?”

“Yes, sar, Massa Bohannon.” My driver clucked to his mule and we lurched forward.

I could feel my cheeks flame and stared stiffly ahead while the men guffawed and slapped their thighs and whistled. The harsh ammonia smell of sweat and the sharp scent of fresh dung assaulted my pampered nostrils. We were not moving fast enough to ward off the black flies and soon my hands were in near constant motion in a futile effort to remain pest free.

Then we turned off the narrow highway onto an even narrower track and it was as though we entered another land.

As far into the distance as I could see were rafts of azaleas, rhododendrons and flowering trees and shrubs of every description in a riotous explosion of reds, pinks and whites. The flies and the offensive odors vanished. A shiver ran through me as if were dunked in ice water. An electric current sizzled in the air and my hairs stood up on end.

We passed a large quartz granite marker set off to the right. I heard a loud crack as if thunder had come to the smoky blue sky.
“Did you hear that?” I yelped and clapped my hands over my ears in reflexive protection. “Is there a storm coming?”

“No, Miss Gale, it be a fine day. Isa don’ heard nothin’ but da birds and da bees iffen ya please.”

I looked at him suspiciously but since all I could hear now was the creak of the wheels and the mule’s labored breath, I let it go, and lost myself in the incredible display of vernal color. I’d been annually to the Philadelphia Flower Show as long as I could remember, but this natural extravaganza was beyond anything I had ever seen.

I noticed too, the gravel drive was smooth and the grass verge was neatly mowed. Certainly, a motor vehicle would have no problems ascending the slight grade. Which begged the question, why the mule and driver?

I snuck another peek at the Negro on my left. I felt uneasy. My social upbringing and schooling did not address this situation. I took the easy way out and decided to let Great-Aunt Abigail perform the introduction to her servant.
***
Dear Diary,
May 9th, 1952
The Negro’s name is Leroy. G-A.A. explained he and his family live a mile away and farm the land for produce and raise livestock for meat. They are neighbors, not sharecroppers nor employees. I sensed there was much more to the situation but I at least loosened my tongue enough to speak coherent sentences to Leroy.
I felt diminished by my reticence and got the impression Leroy was not awed with my whiteness but would tolerate my ignorance unless I proved malicious.
It was near lunchtime and G-A.A. had prepared ham, cornbread, green beans and either sweet tea or lemonade. After we finished eating she gave me a quick tour.
***
“This isn’t what I was expecting, Great-Aunt Abigail,” I said as I studied the modern Kenmore kitchen under the glow of electric lights.

“Well,” she admitted, “if you saw some of the folk round here, your preconceptions of dirt floor hovels, outhouses and candles would not be remiss. I do what I can to support the local crafters, like purchasing furniture and linens and labor. I’d like to do more, but these are proud people, Gale—black, white and red—and don’t take kindly to charity. This was Cherokee territory. The Scotch-Irish who eventually settled here cling to Old World traditions and Indian heritage through pure cussedness.”

According to my Great-Aunt, the dwelling was cozy: warm in the winter and cool in the summer. The house sat on a small knoll and faced southwest. The outside foundation to three feet up was constructed of weathered fieldstone held together by gravity. The remainder of the exterior to the eaves was American chestnut, harvested when the blight swept through the Eastern part of the country in the early part of the 20th century. The wide porch was laid with Longleaf Pine planks that matched the interior floors.

At her urging, I took time to wash off the travel grime with hot running water and then laid down for a short nap.
***

Flashback Friday: “Why can’t a woman get a hard spanking?”

No, you aren’t hallucinating, this is Thursday, not Friday. However, we are still waiting for Lust in Spring, to be published on Amazon, so I am flipping the schedule. You may now resume your normal week.

This week’s Flashback Friday, was originally posted Oct 10th, 2009.

Alison was fed up with feeling sorry for herself. The more blogs she read, the more chat rooms she entered, the angrier she became. What was the matter with those assholes?
‘ALL I WANT IS A HARD SPANKING. NO FRILLS, NO SEX AND NO FUCKING BLOWJOBS! GET OVER YOUR SORRY ASSES AND GET A FUCKING LIFE!’
Creeps and perverts, creeps and perverts: that’s all I get. Where are all the good men?

*POOF*

“Hi dearie, you called me?”
“Who the fuck are you? How did you get in here? I’m warning you, I have a black belt.”
“Oh I know, Allie, your belt collection is kicking! Sorry, I’m your Fairy Spanking Queen and I’m here for your makeover!”
“Makeover? Damn, I knew I should’ve snorted less blow.”
“Thanks, Allie, but I only let men blow me. I am a Queen.”
“I noticed. Why are you here? Wait: Don’t tell me… my makeover. I’ll bite”
“Oooh you are kinky, Allie. We’re gonna get along famously! As your Fairy Spanking Queen, it’s my task to turn you into a Dom magnet. All those strong, ripped, hard men will be panting to get your panties down and blister your butt. Is it hot in here or is it just me? Does this dress make me look fat? I’ve never liked ruffles, but, union dress code and all that.”
“This is too bizarre. How exactly are you going to make me over into a Dom magnet? Haven’t all the good ones already got their hands full?”
“Sadly, Allie, you are correct. They do have their hands and whips and paddles full dealing with all the bratty girls. That’s why, we are making you over into a power woman.”
“A power woman? Padded shoulders and pouffy hair? No thanks.”
“No, silly Allie. A power woman! A woman who can stride up to the chosen Dom, tell him you need a long hard spanking; then turn and walk away. Any Dom worth the title will follow you anywhere.”
“And then…”
“And then, thanks to your makeover, pour moi cherie, you lead him back here, perform a strip tease, ending with being bent over this chair. Implements readily at hand.”
“No sex?”
“No sex Allie, but lots of swats. My guarantee.”
“Where do I sign up?”

cry myself to sleep

“What the fuck do you want?” “Can’t I even sleep without your ugly mug haunting me?” “Isn’t it enough that you threw me over for some plastic kewpie doll you fucked at work while I was in bed with the flu?” “That’s rich. That’s not my recollection of the events.” “Seems to me if you’d kept your pecker in your pants instead of her mouth, I wouldn’t be all alone.” “So? It’s a fucking bottle! That don’t mean I stuff it up my waxed twat like that bimbo you married does to your syphilitic cock.” “Hey! So I like a drink or two. It’s not my fault you cheated on me.” “Yeah? Real funny asswipe. I don’t need no whisky lullabies to cry myself to sleep.”

“Did you ever stop to think, that the spanking was what kept me from drinking?” “That maybe what I needed was to be bottoms up instead of being yelled at?” “Not your fault?” “Not your fucking fault?” “How dare you say I checked out first!” “A bottle of vodka a day is hardly a drunk!” “Oh, so now your recollection is that it was three bottles a day.” “Fine! Here’s another one, motherfucker!”

CRASH!

“Hi, my name is Sarah.”
“Hi, Sarah!”
“I’m here tonight because…”
“There’s no judgement here, Sarah.”
“Because I’m an alcoholic. It’s been one week since I last had a drink. I… I ruined my marriage and my life. I don’t know why, but it’s my fault.”

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

An original composition by Janet Devlin, who also sings this song in Gaelic. She’s an amazing talent. The song goes along with the story. When I read the Wicked Wednesday prompt, ‘Recollection’, her cover of ‘Ordinary World’, was running through my mind. My Muse recommended ‘Whisky Lullabies’ instead, and the entire story quickly played out behind my eyes exactly as written. My advice to other writers: Do not ignore your Muse.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(28)

I slid a finger into Louisa’s pulsating treacle pouch. She hissed as I twirled inside and withdrew to pop the tangy digit in my needy mouth. “I’m a little sore, Ruby.” I rested my chin on her pubis. “Do you want me to stop?” She laid a hand on my cheek. “No, darling, for you, any soreness I feel is worth the pleasure you give me.” Her torso gleamed in a slice of moonbeam. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “No one has ever cared for me before like you do. I don’t know how I’ll ever overcome my shame.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(27)

In the darkness, I imaged Louisa’s bosom to be marked with my teeth, all red and throbbing. Frantic, my blood suffused with fiery humors, I threw my lumpy pillow on the floor, knelt, and yanked her hips to the edge. Like fresh bread crust cracked open, Louisa’s soft and steamy center wafted satisfying scent to my loins. Feminine arousal was the most intoxicating aroma I’d ever experienced. The taste sent me into raptures. Her pussy yielded under pressure, unfurling as an eager flower greets a butterfly, nectar offered in return for sticky stimulation. Her sweet moans guided my exploratory tonguing.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(26)

My passionate nature, no longer flash frozen in fear, melted in a torrent of lust for this girl in my arms. No matter the sword descending at dawn, all I cared now was to slake my desires. In slow motion, we fell to the horizontal, mouths pressing, molding saliva slicked tongues and plump lips. Palms naturally clasped firm buttocks, upper legs scissoring open as heated moisture freely flowed together. The walls of my tiny room bulged outwards with the sounds of sex. Like a babe, I suckled ruched teats, squeezing ripe mounds together and forcing my mouth to inhale deep.

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

A warm welcome—and spanking—to all my new readers

Thank you, one and all, for following my little blog. There are millions of choices online and off, so for every person who takes the time to read, to like or to comment on one of my posts, I say thank you. A very special thank you goes to all those who choose to follow me. I am truly humbled that there are people out there who enjoy and support my writing.

If you are fairly new, or only use a reader and thus don’t come to my actual blog, I wanted to highlight several links. First is my profile, with a brief {and vague} description. A different profile is located at PNRLust. Astute readers will by now have figured out that I only post fiction, nothing personal, and certainly no pictures or video. I started this blog back in 2009 as anonymous Lurv Spanking, solely to have somewhere to post spanking stories that didn’t fit on any of the other seven blogs I was curating.

Another link goes to a highly selective sampling of the best of my fiction, poetry and essays.

I am also currently serializing The Bumhampton Chronicles, by posting 4-5 times a week in 100-word drabble format. The page has separate links to each chapter thus far. If you like Victorian-era erotica, then I hope this satirical story pleases you.

Last, but certainly not least, is The naughty fairy captured by a swamp troll, which a very graphic erotic fairy tale. If you like your fairies well spanked and fucked, then this ‘tail’ is for you.

Coming up soon, on March 30th, is the publication of Lust in Spring, an anthology of Paranormal Erotic Romance with my included novella. I will be posting all the links and information then, along with an excerpt. For now, Good Reads has more information.

In closing, I also wanted to state, that if you like and/or comment on one of my posts, unless your blog is a spanking/erotic blog, or you blog about adult themes, I will not like or comment on your blog. If you wish me to do so, then please ask. I have no desire to out anyone by barging into a conversation that is not adult orientated, by blathering on about spanking.

Flashback Friday: “Do spankings improve your complexion?”

This week’s Flashback Friday story, was originally posted on Oct. 15th, 2009.

Such strange thoughts chase through your mind when bent over waiting for the first blow. No matter how many times your butt has been blistered, every spanking is different. Whether a good girl, maintenance, discipline, punishment, role-play, therapy or any other type of spanking, the mental aspect determines the effectiveness. Sure it’s your bottom *baring* the swats, but it’s your Dom toying with your mind that makes the scene fly.

[I mean scene as in personal scene not professional scene.]

Thus the questions in a submissive mind long before the spanking actually begins. Sure a spanking hurts, most of the time very badly, but the mental torture lovingly applied by a cruel Master is so delicious. It makes the nerves jangle, the adrenaline pump and when the bottom is bared to the implement of correction, the mind has become numb. Except for those pesky questions.

Do spankings improve your complexion?
How often do birds eat?
If we had roast last night, how many sandwiches can I make?
How long to teach that damned pig to fly?
OUCH!

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(25)

“As for you, Louisa,” Mrs. Cleanknockers continued with icy diction, “give Ruby what comfort you may, and stay with her all night. Never let it be said, I would refuse the condemned her last request.” With those ominous words, she departed. My legs gave out and I blindly groped for my cot. Louisa lent me her arm and we heavily sat down together, hips bumping and heads touching in joint misery. “What have I done?” I said with teary voice. “A very brave thing, dear Ruby.” Louisa cupped my face and pressed her lips to mine. “A very brave thing.”

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

Tear me a new one

I bask in your respect
admire the flowers you buy
giggle at the itchy lace
and waxy chocolate once
a year in February
my heart thumps when
you load the dishwasher
or take the kids for pizza
so that I can bubble
and pretend still single
we fight about money
who doesn’t do that
however you’ve taught me
—and our daughters—
that our actual strength
is between our ears
—not our legs—
and feminism isn’t a
curse word or weapon
I know we’re tired
and weekly sex is fine
yet sometimes it’s
necessary for you…

…to grab my throat
call me slut, throw
me on the bed, pin
me down, take my
wrists in your strong
calloused palms and
molest my curves
when I struggle and
whine, flip me like
a pancake and spank
my ass until I cry,
not only in pain,
pleasure is too tame
for what I feel when
you fist my thong,
rip it clean off,
the scorching heat
in my cunt
—I said it—
cunt, weeping for
your thick cock, yes,
we make love, it’s
wonderful, but what
I want sometimes
is a good fucking,
hard, deep, fast,
make it hurt, treat
me with rough contempt
when you yank my
head back and use
me like your private
whore, not a beloved
wife…

…you don’t even
have to pay me, just
finish by reaming my
ass and spraying your
hot sperm on my back

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(24)

We were mute. Carved puppets of ash, or perhaps soapstone, we danced for our betters’ amusement. The oh-so-familiar resentment washed over me. I glanced sidelong at Louisa. “Why is love forbidden, ma’am? Why must we, who have no recourse, be expected to toil for our board, perform sexual feats daily, yet be denied the comfort of close companionship in the night?” I heard the synchronous soft intakes of snake-like hisses. I fully expected to be tossed bottom-up over Mrs. Cleanknockers’ knees; instead, she exhaled several deep breaths. “You will report to the Gun Room, Ruby, tomorrow morning, after your discipline.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(23)

My skin erupted into a pimpled landscape that mapped my fear through erect hairs and tingling shivers. I was sure I’d finally gone too far and would be cast out into the dark. Mrs. Cleanknockers spoke. “I came to tell you, Ruby, that you need not fear Emily’s corrosive malignancy any longer. His Lordship has seen to her placement as the ward of a friend of his who specializes in molding malicious spirits. It seems someone though has wasted no time in transferring her puckish loyalty. Had I known you were so easy, Louisa, I would have licked you myself.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(22)

“See?” Louisa coaxed. “I lick you and you lick me: soixante-neuf.” As the meaning became clear, I said ‘Ah, I get it now’ as an oil lamp flared. We froze in shock as the seemingly sun-bright lamp chased the shadows and lust from the room. “Well, well, well,” Mrs. Cleanknockers drawled. “What does my wandering eye spy, but two very, very, bad little girls engaging in very, very naughty games?” We sprang off my cot, limbs tumbling and colliding in our haste to stand at attention. Our breath was short and my heart, at least, was pounding in my chest.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(21)

“Let me roll over on my back, Ruby, so we can soixante-neuf,” Louisa growled in return. “What does that mean?” I asked, baffled by the unfamiliar term. “It means sixty-nine, for the shapes when laid on the side and on top of each other.” She struggled under me and I dismounted and stood up. She quickly turned over and clasped my hand. Tugging, she said, “Now, climb back as you were, with your face down there, and with your pussy above my face.” I clambered over her and crouched on all fours. I felt her tongue lick my wet thighs.

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

Flashback Friday: “Exchanging Spanking Vows”

This week for Flashback Friday, the following post, originally posted Oct 10th, 2009, is my personal favorite out of all the hundreds of posts I’ve written. I hope you enjoy reading.

Angelique waited for her new husband to whisk her away from the reception. It had been a traditional wedding, complete with vows, although without the ‘obey’. Angelique fully intended to obey Henri in all things, but her modern friends did not understand her need to willingly submit to her Master. She’d tried, but been ridiculed and mocked when she revealed her love of discipline. The Story of ‘A’ she’d been dubbed and most of her now former friends were long gone from her life.

It was a very special place, an isolated wind swept bluff overlooking the river far below. The land had been in Henri’s family for centuries. Here, over a convenient stump, Angelique received her very first spanking from Henri and had fallen in love with his commanding ways. Now they returned to exchange a second set of vows, vows meaning so much more to them both.

I, Henri Montague, do take Angelique Montague née Molyneux to be my cherished submissive. I promise to love her, to guide her, to support her dreams and to provide discipline whenever needed. She is mine and I will use her freely as I see fit. I promise to listen and to understand her special needs. I will honor her parents and kin. I will respect her body as a temple of Eros and strive to make her sexually satisfied. As Angelique’s Master it is my solemn duty to protect, shield her from harm and spank her firmly when she errs. I swear before God I will keep her heart safe and her soul warm.

I, Angelique Montague née Molyneux, do accept Henri Montague as my cherished Master. I promise to obey him, to love him, to support his dreams and submit to his stern discipline. I am his and I will freely submit to his every desire. I promise to listen and understand his special needs. I will honor his parents and kin. I will respect his body as a shrine of Eros and use all my orifices to keep him sexually satisfied. As Henri’s submissive it is my solemn duty to anticipate, shield him from worry and accept punishment when I err. I swear before God I will keep his heart safe and his soul warm.

“Lust in Spring” nearing publication

The newest published anthology from Paranormal Erotica Romance—aka PNRLust—is scheduled on Amazon Kindle and Kindle Unlimited, this March 30th, 2017. As you know, or should know, I am writing my fiction for publication under the pen name, Byron Cane. My novella is called The Witch of Olympus Hollow and is a different spin on ‘green’ erotica. If you would like an Advance Review Copy of my novella as a Word .docx, please contact me via lurvspanking@gmail.com. In return for the free copy of my novella, I would request an honest review posted on your blog, and/or on Amazon or Goodreads once the Lust in Spring anthology goes live on March 30th, 2017.

What do a wealthy divorcee, a gay college student, five men trapped in a cottage, and a college graduate in the 1950s have in common? Each has a date with the supernatural. In Lust in Spring, the sixth volume in the Lust series, Spring is a time of renewal and desire. Gods, goddesses, incubi and the Fae will seduce and beguile their mortal lovers. But the price for pleasure must be paid.
——–
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.

In JD Carabella’s Milady’s Command, Juliet has wasted fifteen years on a loveless marriage. She’s a beautiful, sexual woman, and she needs a man who will surrender to her lust. Will her secret fantasy of power and control drive away the man worthy of her attention? Juliet’s dream can come true, if she’s willing to pay the price.

In Emma Jaye’s Incubus Spring, university student Finn has a dilemma: which man to pick? His current boyfriend, Charlie, is the take-charge type Finn wants. Problem is, Charlie is more interested in managing Finn’s budget than his body. Then there’s Ezra. It’s tough to resist when the sexy owner of an adult toy store offers hands-on demonstrations. Torn between loyalty and lust, the unwitting prey in a seductive game of cat and mouse, Finn’s decision will shape his destiny.

One goddess. Five men. In Ina Morata’s The Greenwood Goddess, it’s Beltane, and five men have been taken prisoner by Gaia. They’ve been set a quest: compete for the goddess’ favor with the best erotic story. As captivated as the rest, Ben is desperate to win, not least because in this strange and magical place, losing has serious consequences. But if he wins…will the prize be what it seems?

Dating before emojis

A dating profile for Wicked Wednesday. Not much wickedness here, maybe a little satire. 🙂

SDBRF seeking AG/AI/AT/AL/ADR for KISSGBDSMSPNKMEHARD

Single desperate but realistic female seeking any gender, any income, any transportation, any lodging, any dietary restriction for kinky invasive sex, spanking, gaming, brooding, drinking, social misfit, shopping partner, nudist, knowledgeable, mega ego handy, adventurous, rebellious, daring.

Intellectuals need not contact, have standards, you know.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(20)

Scooping out a generous dollop of the thick paste, I smeared the unguent around on both her cheeks. Louisa sighed and settled into the coarse ticking. As I rubbed her beaten buttocks, I subconsciously rocked my soaking cunt on her back. Subtle movements at first, as I shifted down in order to reach the crease at her thighs, I left behind a trail of cream. Limber enough to bend at the waist without lifting my aching puss, I buried my flaring nostrils in her damp crack. The odor caused me to growl. “I have to lick you, to drink you.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(19)

My tongue flickered in and out of my mouth, teeth scraping the surface, eyes squinting as the tangy-sour flavor of his seed coated my unprepared taste buds. I made a gagging sound and Louisa burst out laughing. “It’s not that bad! You’ll be swallowing by the bucket full soon, so you might as well get used to the flavor.” I was still trying to get rid of the taste and, at first, didn’t fully comprehend her statement. “Huh? Buckets?” She wriggled beneath me. “Are you going to rub me or not?” I cracked the lid of the tin; roses bloomed.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(18)

I straddled her shoulders, facing her feet, my wet satin purse and coarse hairs sliding and scratching on soft skin. Leaning forward, my lips kissed her neat waist and swelled hips. Her musky scent was intoxicating with a whiff of the sea. My hands curled around and cupped her sticky bottom. I sniffed closer. “What’s on your bum?” I felt Louisa giggle through my pussy. “His lordship always pulls out before he spends if he’s in a cunny. He says ‘I like to mark my territory’ plus he doesn’t want any bastards toddling around Peacock House.” I took a swipe.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(17)

We swallowed our giddiness with dueling tongues, our nightclothes swiftly discarded, my wanton flame roaring back to furnace strength. Louisa hissed when my roaming hands clasped her bottom. My fingertips traced the raised welts. “Poor, naughty girl. Did his lordship thrash you unmercifully?” She yipped and tried to roll away. “Not so fast,” I scolded and pinched the cane lines. I breathed in her ear. “I need to…examine you…everywhere, and make sure I rub all your marks.” She moaned and I smiled in the darkness. I bade her lay on her stomach; she did so with a sound of relief.

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

Flashback Friday: “Why do brats get all the spanks?

This week’s Flashback Friday was originally posted Sept, 10th 2009 here.

Madison Sutton was a brat. Every male who crossed her path melted at her sweet innocent charm. Bad grades? No problem, a flutter of eyelashes was all it took. No car? Even easier, a cuddle on daddy’s lap and the keys were hers. No date? Hello! Short skirt, drop purse, bend way over and thrust. Cha-ching!

Now in her mid-twenties Madison was finally hitting her stride. No need for a job, a rotation of wealthy suitors kept her well in the black. As she got older the stakes got higher and the gifts more extravagant until none of her boy toys remained dangling on her string. Looking in the mirror, Madison saw an old woman where once a vivacious child had played.

Her new plan meant a job? Horrors! She quickly discovered her many talents were useless in the real world which demanded productivity and results. She pawned jewels and furs, her car was repossessed and the landlord wanted the back rent. Before Madison got so desperate as to apply for retail – ugh – she gave her wily ways one last frantic try.

The club was downscale, the clientele more so, but the stiff cover charge was merely a ploy. Her last one hundred dollars went to the bouncer and he sneered as she slid past. She flirted, she pouted, she flashed; she teased all to no avail. The other girls were all prettier, better dressed or younger: mostly all three. Tipsy and depressed she barely stirred when the shadow loomed over her drooping head.

A calloused hand grasped her chin and gently forced her eyes to meet his. A cotton blend work shirt with a name decal! Polyester pleated pants! Steel-toed stained boots! OMG! It’s the blue-collar freak show! Madison was effortlessly lifted off the stool and held suspended in mid-air by a pair of bulging biceps. Her slack expression and blank stare turned to indignation when rough whiskers and beery lips kissed her hard.

She squealed with outrage and demanded to be put back in her proper place. Right now! He smiled and obeyed her. He returned her to her proper place, he sat on her vacated stool, and she continued to dangle above the floor. This time it was over his bulging lap, bottom up, short skirt raised and thong pulled down to her knees. Not even the thumping bass of the techno dance beat could drown out the sharp smacking noises and the even louder hollers for help.

Help came at last. One by one, her late boy toys came by to pay their respects, beating the brat out of Madison once and for all. Her bare bottom was scarlet by the time the last had left and the blue-collar freak show added some pops with a wooden serving tray for good measure. When he finished blasting Madison’s fiery ass, he stood up, slung her over his right shoulder, and slowly walked out, his handiwork visible to all.

Reaching his car, he deposited the sobbing former brat in the back seat on her stomach, drove home and brought her upstairs to his bedroom. Vitamin-E lotion, an ice pack and pillows awaited Madison on the bed. She whimpered softly and acquiesced to his tender ministrations soon turned to hard penetration deep in her wicked bottom.

When he came, she sighed and said, “Honey, that was the best fantasy you’ve ever given me! How on earth did you round up all my late lovers?”

“They all bring their cars to me for service. I got to talking with each one and we finally figured out the spoiled brat was you.”

“That was a long time ago. I’m glad I could still fit in my school uniform. Do you think I could get another lube job?”

“If you use your suction hose, I’ll see what I can get up.”

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(16)

Coaxing her to lie down, we squeezed together on the narrow bed, her head cradled on my shoulder. “Was it awful?” Louisa drew in and exhaled a shuddering sigh. “No worse than I deserved or expected, Ruby. His lordship is determined to ‘cure’ my moral failings.” I kissed her brow several times before I offered to treat any soreness. “I smuggled some lotion. Why don’t we get naked and I can rub you anywhere you’d like.” That caused her to giggle. “I hope you stole a large tin.” I snickered in return. “You would know all about—large—wouldn’t you?”

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

Promises, promises

There is something obscene about the modern meeting; the bribes of artery clogging pastries and bitter office coffee calculated to stupefy the unwilling participants with an overload of surgery carbohydrates and caffeine.

What a fucking waste of time!
Veronica tried to keep her temper from unleashing her tongue, but if she was late one more time, her ass would be as red as the raspberry filling in the glazed donuts. Her eyes glazed as her boss droned on about policies and figures that were accessible with a swipe of the touch-pad to every single person in the building!
The only reason we’re cooped up in here is because certain assholes can’t stay off Facebook for more than a few minutes!

“What’s the matter, Roni, got ants in your pants?”

Speaking of assholes!
She glared at the cretin to her left. She’d file a sexual harassment complaint with HR against George, but even a third-grader could tell he wasn’t malicious, simply too imbecilic to realize he was offensive. Not deigning to respond, she checked her watch; covering the movement with a scratch of her scalp.
Five-fucking-thirty. I am so fucked.

The unproductive meeting broke up fifteen minutes later and Veronica scurried out before anyone else could latch onto her—”Doing anything this Friday night?”—except George. “Yes. I have a boyfriend,—A Master actually—as I’ve told you a jillian times before. Goodnight.”

Although the club was only thirty minutes away, she had promised to be there by five and it was now pushing six-thirty. Nearly careening on two wheels, she skidded to a stop and jumped out of her car. Nodding at the bouncer, she slipped inside and ran downstairs into the dungeon. Out of breath and out of time, her eyes sought her Master, but instead, saw twenty people all sitting and quietly chatting in a half-circle around the stage.

None of them looked over their shoulders as she walked, heels tapping loudly on the tile, towards the object in the spotlight.
This was supposed to be private!
All thoughts vanished when He stepped out from behind the curtain. Veronica’s mouth went dry as her pussy flooded. His chest and torso were bare and gleaming with oil. Leather cuffs with steel spikes encircled his wrists. Leather pants with a codpiece made of crisscrossing thongs highlighted the bulging muscles. Boots clicked.

She dared to meet his gaze, and instantly wished she’d not been so bold.

THWACK!

The sound of the leather flogger striking the leather horse ricocheted around the room. All conversations ceased. Veronica flinched.

The man spoke. “We are gathered here tonight in judgement of the slave, formally known as Veronica. As was witnessed at our last session, she swore an oath, in her own words, ‘I will be on-time or I pledge to accept whatever punishment my Master deems suitable.’ What time is it slave?”

Veronica mumbled, “Six-thirty pm, Sir.”

“How late are you for this meeting?”

“An hour and a half, Sir!”

“Did you not request an absence from work as ordered?”

“No, Sir, I did not.”

The man turned to the members. “Fellow practitioners of the arcane art of discipline, how do you vote? Shall my slave be punished for disobedience?”

Veronica watched as all twenty of her friends slowly, and emphatically turned thumbs down towards her. She released a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and bowed in acceptance to her sentence. The group rose and gently, yet firmly, took turns stripping her naked, then picked her up bodily, and tightly secured her arms and legs, leaving her face-down over the padded horse. A gag went between her lips and a blindfold over her eyes.

“Let all observe the punishment of ninety blows by this flogger. One for each minute late.”

The tears were already flowing behind her blindfold. Not with pain, but with shame. She had brought this on herself, this naked public display where previously she’d remained covered. Too shy to fully participate, she had goaded her Master into taking away her choice. She thought of what the others could now see, and despite the constraining ropes, she shuddered with a mini-orgasm. That too, was shameful, and the knowledge fueled her arousal. Even more so when He spoke: “I told you my slave was a slut. Look at her gushing already. I bet she’ll come at least three more times while I’m whipping her. She loves pain but is so ashamed of her wantonness.”

The flogger whistled through the air and lashed Veronica’s pristine bottom, the thongs splaying out to cover the fullness of needy flesh.

“Isn’t that right, slave? Pain makes you come.”

The appreciative, and discerning audience, sat back down and listened as her Master brought Veronica higher and higher to crest the climatic peak, then ease back, only to drive her up again to her increasingly wet culmination. The bottom and thighs became redder and redder while the muffled squeals rose in pitch with each hard strike. By the time the full allotment of ninety was given over a period of thirty minutes, Veronica had come a total of five times.

She wasn’t aware at first the punishment was over, until nimble fingers unbuckled straps and she felt His arms lift her limp form to his hot chest. She sensed him walking away as her friend’s conversations grew dimmer and then ceased at the sound of a door closing. With only her hearing as a guide, the creak of his leather pants as he sat down seemed overly loud. She could feel his large erection beneath her sore bottom as he cuddled her in the circle of his slick arms.

“You have pleased me, slave, with your submission and passion. Your Master is proud of your willingness. Was this fantasy all that you expected?”

Still gagged, Veronica pressed her check to his sweaty chest, gripped his torso as tight as she could, and nodded several times.

“Good. Then next time, I will fuck you in front of them as well.”

Veronica mewled and felt another orgasm rise.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(15)

I’d forgotten about Louisa! I cracked the door a smidge, faint light from wall-mounted sconces, revealed a disheveled girl. I poked my head out into the hallway—she was alone—so I drew her inside out of view. Only the pale moon illuminated my cot, it was past lights-out and congress was forbidden. “Are you okay?” I asked her as we stood facing one another. Her voice wobbled. “Could you hold me?” All she said was, “I’m sorry,” over and over again. I patted her back and stroked her hair all the while making soothing noises. “It will be fine.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(14)

Once ensconced in my room for the evening, I washed and undressed for bed. I lay there, with fingers laced behind my head, and relived my day. Tantalizing glimpses of sexual possibilities and combinations I’d never before considered. My thighs parted to let the heat escape. My hands slid down to grasp the nightgown’s hem. By now, my center was a molten forge; my head rang in a maelstrom of sparks and slick passion. A light tapping noise gradually penetrated my awareness. I withdrew my sticky fingers and blinked in confusion. “Ruby?” a soft voice whispered. “Are you still awake?”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(13)

I giggled as a vision of the stern Mrs. Cleanknockers on her knees with a mouthful of cock flashed across my synapses. My mirth quickly changed to gasps as Mr. Steedstiff snapped his heavy palm upon my chubby nates. The spanking was hard and fast, but much too short to slake my ardor. When he finished and was fondling my warm flesh, I tried to entice his fingers lower into my creamy strawberry by waggling my ripe peach. “That, dear Ruby, is reserved for girls who excel academically. Punishment or pleasure will always be your choice through your due diligence.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part (12)

“His Lordship and Mrs. Cleanknockers pride themselves on thrashing in. I, on the other hand, believe a lighter, more sensual whipping yields better results.” At his urging, I widened my stance and dipped my back. My pussy instantly became wet and throbbed when his finger traced the outline of my wrinkled folds. To distract myself, I blurted out, “Is that why you dislike Mrs. Cleanknockers so much?” His hand froze then resumed exploring my curves. Once again, I noticed the difference between the male and female touch. Thicker and longer, yes, but mostly more demanding. “I enjoy her mouth, Ruby.”

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

Flashback Friday: “There’s always a reason for spanking”

Originally posted, Oct 6th, 2009.

“Honey? What’s a word beginning with ‘S’ that’s eight letters?”

“What’s the clue?”

“A repetitive motion that creates heat.”

“Hmmmmm. Perhaps a demonstration would jog your memory.”

“OUCH, OUCH, OUCH, OUCH.”

“That’s four letters, my dear, try again.”

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part (11)

“Your assessment is indeed correct. You are impertinent and prone to speak inappropriately.” I hastily looked down. “Sorry, sir.” His footsteps approached. His hand lifted my chin. “No, Ruby, you are not sorry. Your masochistic nature is quite rare. I intend to carefully nurture that inclination for mutual benefit.” His thumb caressed my dry lips. “I cannot, however, have your wantonness controlling your schooling.” He ordered me to stand up and bend over placing my palms on the vacated seat. I caught my breath as his hands trailed up the backs of my thighs, bringing the dress over my hips.

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

Some times, that’s all it takes

The windows faced west, not that they provided a scenic vista of sweeping beauty. Neat rows of gas pumps under a flat canopy that would topple in a strong wind: beyond them, the four lanes of asphalt connecting the freeway with town.

Over there, near the cash register, a middle-aged woman polishes the stainless steel counter and mops the tile floor. The breakfast crowd has cleared out, one booth for four nurses coffees and argues politics. She is the quintessential diner waitress. Even without her salmon uniform dress or sea foam green name badge, she has the thousand-yard service stare that makes patrons feel both acknowledged and uncomfortable.

Her story—unfortunately—is all too familiar, even if unknown to anyone in town. An abusive home begat teen pregnancy, begat reluctant marriage, begat domestic violence until the divorce, the restraining order until her ex killed resisting arrest. Her daughter got a college scholarship, her mother sold everything, and left her memories behind.

She does what she has to do in order to survive, even if being numb is a normal state of being. Do you believe in fate? She doesn’t.

He does.

She watches a nondescript four-door sedan pull up to the pumps. The driver gets out, stretches and presses his hands into the small of his back. He stares at the nozzles, then the vehicle. Shaking his head, he gets back in and reverses direction so the filler cap faces the right way. The fresh coffee is brewed, so she tops off the foursome and trades jokes all the while her peripheral vision monitors the man at the pumps.

He’s done. The vehicle turns around again and moves fifty feet to park in front of the diner. When he comes inside, he briefly brings the growling and barking of tractor-trailers rotating from the truck stop. He veers to the restroom, presumably to wash gasoline off his hands.

The counter stools are covered in checkerboard to match her colors. In fact, the entire diner is a tribute to the pastel age. Strangely enough, the laminated menus don’t match. She slaps one down with a practiced twist and asks, ‘would you like some coffee?’

You see the man now tilt his head and study her. It’s not easy being a survivor. She’s always thought she’s worn a neon sign stamped on her high forehead. He too, recognizes a kindred spirit, so he makes—to us—a seemingly impulsive decision.

‘No, no coffee, water is fine.’

He studies the menu now. He’s not hungry, peckish maybe, but it’s still two hours to his destination.

‘I’ll have two scrambled eggs and rye toast.’

He watches her spin and yell through the window to the short order cook. He notices her bottom. He’s an ass man, always has been, which, given his vocation, is a good thing.

She notices. She always notices; which, for a paranoid survivor is a good thing. His eyes though, they’re not flat and hungry like most of the truckers or the husbands stopping in for the luncheon special and some flirting. His eyes are open, smiling; his mouth follows through with a wry crook, his shoulders shrug in apology. For once, she doesn’t feel cornered.

To cover her unease, she resumes her interrupted cleaning then busses the booth after the town workers punch back in to spend more taxpayer dollars. She kneels on the bench, calf-length skirt rising to the back of knee. She knows he’s watching.

He can see her. Not by spinning around on the stool and ogling with cocky elbow on the Formica. The mirror that runs along the cornice is sufficient. Her nylons have a run. The shoes need new soles.

The ding and ‘order up!’ elicits Pavlovian responses.

The eggs are quickly consumed. The toast—buttered—slathered with one packet of jam each, blueberry and strawberry, the marmalade, as always, looks disgusting.

‘Anything else?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Passing through?’

‘Conference in the city this weekend.’

‘Sales?’

‘I’m a writer.’

Her gaze slides to his transportation. His follows.

‘It’s a rental.’

‘Ah.’

‘I don’t like flying.’

‘What kind of writing do you do?’

It’s at this point we wonder how to reconcile the internal dialogue in order to make a believable story. After all, as the reader, we have preconceived expectations of how people behave. As a writer, however, the internal becomes external, and the reader has to decide to follow or quit.

‘I write erotica. Specifically, erotica with some type of spanking as the focal point.’

Like falling dominoes, his words coalesce around his actions, and her mind concocts multiple scenarios in a blink of the eye. Which hers do multiple times.

‘Are you famous?’

A genuine smile of delight makes his eyes sparkle. His white teeth are only marred by a piece of toast stuck in one corner. Her eyes dart there. She watches as his tongue swishes and sucks. He bares his teeth. She nods.

‘Thanks. What is famous? Is my penname known? Sure, but my face isn’t. Besides, who needs the hassles? I like being anonymous.’

‘Why spanking?’

‘I like it. I like to spank, be spanked, read about spanking and write about spanking. It’s fun and easy to fantasize.’

‘This conference, is it open to the public?’

‘Sure. Gotta brochure right here. If you want to go, here’s a comp ticket as well. I’ll circle the seminars I’m involved with and the ones I plan to attend.’

He watches as she gnaws her lower lip. She wants to go, he can tell, but pushing will result in being shoved away.

‘Sometimes, Tamara, you can clearly see the choice offered. Whether you accept or not, don’t regret your decision.’

He leaves a twenty and taps the counter with his fingers.

‘Keep the change. See you there tomorrow.’

As he pulls away, back to the highway, she smooths out the glossy paper, her finger underlining his name. There is no sense of panic, only rightness.

Sometimes, all it takes is one man to start the healing process.

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

This post has been renamed as Kismet of Submission: Episode 1. You can read all the episodes by clicking here for Kismet of Submission.

  • 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.
  • PNRLUST

  • 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