The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 18)

Miss Frothinglips preceded Mr. Jones-Smyth; her head dipped like a sunflower, turned towards the heated and attentive regard of an interested male. Her hand trailed behind, leaving little ripples on his sleeve. I felt shabby. My borrowed finery hung like a sack in comparison to one who’d grown up in luxury wearing clothing that skimmed like a second skin over rich curves. Combined with her effortless posture and spotless diction, Miss Frothinglips epitomized the virginal English rose of polite high society. No wonder he seemed transfixed. Before he noticed me, she blocked his view and gave me a sly smile.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 17)

Déjà vu. Two days prior, I’d trembled in shame and confusion as Mrs. Cleanknockers stripped me of both pride and pretense, scouring my soul clean of expectations. The Infirmary: A subtle name to the bright and cheerful room I now eagerly entered for my salvation. Surrendering my privacy for good, I stood tall, patiently awaiting the arrival of my presumed husband-to-be. Mrs. Cleanknockers bustled preparing the stage for my performance. Their voices arrived first. A jealous foreboding flashed. The light laughing and the deeper rumbling caused fists to clench and my thighs to throb. Evidently I’d not yet sufficiently atoned.

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

Flashback Friday: “Spanking a willing woman”

This week’s Flashback Friday, originally posted Nov 24th, 2009.

Laura always looked forward to the annual family holiday gathering at her parent’s house. This also happened to be the very first time she’d be bringing a ‘date’. Josh had agreed to meet the folks and they were giddy their ‘little girl’ was finally seeing someone. Laura knew her mother was probably already planning the wedding, but she and Josh planned to wait until after they both graduated and decided on career paths. They’d both seen too many relationships founder over jobs and kids. There was time.

Josh wasn’t too happy about sleeping apart, but her parents were rather old-fashioned. No ring, no sex in the house. They’d thought about a hotel, but decided a long weekend apart during the night would be good for them. Besides, there was always the backseat if they got desperate. There was one thing though Laura was going to miss: Her nightly spanking. When Josh first mentioned spanking, Laura was thrilled and the reality far exceeded her fantasies. He was firm, no-nonsense and kept her in place until he decided she’d had enough.

It shocked Laura—hours after the first night’s dinner—when her parents asked Josh to join them in the den for a friendly chat. They asked him quite bluntly if he was in charge of their daughter. He coolly replied that he was, and said he understood the reasons for sleeping apart, however, he would appreciate some time alone before bed in order to stress to Laura who was in charge of their relationship. Laura blushed bright red when her mother asked curiously how Josh stressed that to her daughter and he casually said ‘I spank her every night’.

Her father cleared his throat and nodded to Josh before agreeing that Laura definitely needed a firm hand at her tiller in order to keep her level. He launched into several tales of misadventures Josh hadn’t heard before and raising an eyebrow, he looked over at Laura in surprise. She refused to look at Josh until he spoke sharply. At that point, her mother suggested they leave them alone in the den to ‘discuss’ the situation. ‘Take your time, Josh. Laura can be quite stubborn and it takes an effort to get the lesson across.’

Before Laura could object, Josh patted his thigh and as her parents hugged her and slipped out the door, all Laura thought about was having everyone in the family hear her getting spanked. She wanted to sink through the floor, but she didn’t hesitate to lie over his knees and made no objection when Josh raised her skirt and lowered her panties. Bare bottomed she waited for her lover’s hand to descend on her needy skin. The only thing better—admitted only in the privacy of her mind—would be to be bent over the family couch watched by all her relatives as she was severely thrashed with Josh’s belt.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 16)

Evidently my buttocks were still red, for there were soft gasps and giggles, swiftly doused by Mrs. Cleanknocker’s glare. Proudly I met their stares: My body was as good as anyone’s, experienced or not, I would yield to no one, but my betters. One by one, I was dressed in the finest clothing I’d ever worn. Stockings, drawers, chemise and corset; all topped by a fine muslin frock and kid slippers. Louisa served as my looking glass, the adoration and lust in her gaze caused my loins to clench in anticipation of the overnight delights. Pride goeth before the fall.

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

Take this woman

Next Monday, June 1st I meant May 1st, I will be posting my first monthly Spanking Newsletter, at my other blog Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction. I can’t believe I skipped the entire month of May, thinking it was June next week.

I almost missed,“The Wedding”, not because I was late, but rather, I didn’t want to be there at all. My parents played the family card—easy to do when still living at home at age twenty—not to mention, they were paying for a table. Don’t ask. I have to also say, I was not drunk, nor coerced. Maybe I overreacted, but I have no regrets.

My second cousin Sophia, the bride, told me on more than one occasion, that I carried my virginity like a shroud, doomed to don sackcloth and ashes should I ever yield to temptation and lay with a man before marriage. Her pack of hyena bridesmaids looked hideous in their bilious orange dresses: Fitting I suppose, in warped retribution for all sorts of mortal sins. Chief among them, I doubted any girl at the altar taking the Sacrament was in possession of virgo intacta. The men now… that’s when I noticed the wheat-blond and chestnut-brown heads bent close together at the end of the groomsmen row.

Zing! Went my lady parts. And when they faced the applauding throng on the way out? Let’s just say, it was a good thing I wasn’t seated on the center aisle pew, or else there would have been an embarrassing incident. I saved that for the reception.

Fast forward through the meal, the toasts, the first dance—if it wasn’t for a case of raging lust, I would have cadged a ride with my older brother, who split after the garter toss, muttering as he left, “As if I’d choose anyone here to cross-pollinate with. It’s an excuse to keep the money local and among relatives. One big circle jerk.” I pretended not to hear him.

It was while the bridesmaids were making fools of themselves performing a choreographed dance-off they thought was clever and sophisticated, when they suavely made their move. I nearly spewed my soda when they sidled up and whispered in my innocent ears, “Do you like sandwiches?” Innuendo is pointless if it goes right over your head.

Seeing me blush, they apologized and introduced themselves as younger brothers of the groom. Only slightly older than I, nevertheless, I was out their league. Seeing the raucous party setting up games of balloons and chairs, the paired off couples and hordes of children underfoot, I felt daring and suddenly tired of my shroud; so turned to my comrades and replied, “Yes, I do like sandwiches, with firm meat and mayo slathered on a toasted bun. Is there somewhere we can all eat our fill?”

What’s better than a handsome man in a tuxedo? Two handsome men bursting out of their tuxedos.

The live band chased us through the back passageways of the banquet hall, the notes spurring on our reckless flight, my purse an anchor to my previous life. We found a storage room. Chair wedged under door handle, round table legs erected in a flash, me, trembling body lifted, a man under each arm, firm bottom plopped on tabletop. Mike leaned in for a kiss; I shied at the first gate. “Sorry, I’ve not much practice.”

Patrick caressed my exposed nylon covered knee. “Are you a virgin then?”
I bit my lip and whispered ‘yes’.
Expecting high-fives and crude remarks, they shocked me by cupping my face and stroking my hot cheeks with their thick thumbs. “In that case, if you still mean yes, we’ll take care of you and make your first time special.”
The band played on: YMCA. I shifted between the hooded eyes; their expressions were at once frightening but needy. No… they were compassionate yet demanding. I channeled my inner fantasies. “Do you take this woman before you, and make her yours?”
Feather light lips brushed against mine, each in turn murmured, ‘yes’: So I surrendered. “Yes, Mike and Patrick, I want you both to make love to me.”

Ten fingers teased my curves while my mouth was plundered by two tongues rotating between kissing and nibbling my bare shoulders. Cool silk rustled as it eased down, the top of my breasts exposed, nipples suckled through the white cotton cups. Squeezed, teased, my moans of surprise swallowed by urgent mouth; my scruff held immobile. Half-naked now, each man locked onto a nipple, my hands tousling soft strands, imagining twins of my own: longing clenched hard.

‘I believe someone requested a toasted bun?’ The question slithered through my arousal. My eyelids felt heavy. Raw hunger blazed from their faces. The expressions ripped my reticence away. Unsteady, I stood up, helping hands tucked under my elbows; I turned, and bent over the table. I hissed as my rigid nipples brushed the laminate surface, a hand between my shoulders pressed me firmly down, breasts flattened. I writhed. Unbidden, my dress bunched at my waist, I raised my hips and presented my bottom.

The dual smacks caught me off guard. The instant sting had me shimmying. Again they struck; this time, one then the other, a rhythm they continued as I squirmed on the cool surface. Steady spanking over silk, they warmed my bottom and fired my passion. Lifting my dress, the wet thong no protection, the impact of flesh-on-flesh was both louder and more exciting; the knowledge that once they peeled away the skimpy fabric, they’d see what no man had ever tasted.

Hot, I was so hot. The sudden silence had me begging for more. Instead, brought vertical, my shoes discarded like my morals, the dress soon followed, and I was kneeling on their folded jackets, face-to-face with two pulsing penises. “What should I do?” asked in a tremulous tone, brought forth deep growls of ‘stroke and suck’ from my captors. My thighs widened as I grasped the warm appendages in each fist. My first reaction was sheer amazement that this was tucked away behind every pair of jeans. Then, the silky softness registered, followed by the give of the surface skin. Clear liquid seeped from the vertical slits in the helmet shaped tips. Delicately, I lapped.

Fingers twisted in my hair. I could feel the restrained trembling. I hollowed my cheeks and inhaled. Sweet and sour, the musky aroma watered my mouth: I switched, similar, yet distinct, each cock felt and tasted different in my mouth and hands. Hearing the groans and gasps from above me, I smiled with feminine delight as they tutored me on the esoteric art of the blowjob. I was a quick study.

My turn. On my back, head over the edge, cock thrusting in and out; my hips wide, tongue licking my pussy. No fantasy could ever have prepared me for the sheer decadence of oral sex. My muffled climatic scream vibrated around a leaking cock as two fingers probed inside me, and my erect clit was lashed to orgasm.

Soft conversation: A metallic ringing of coin on concrete. Pants hitting the tabletop, followed by shirts and underwear. Dazed, I could only watch as Mike sheathed himself with a condom and settled between my soaked thighs. Patrick lifted and cradled my shoulders so I could see the moment I willingly—eagerly—gave him my innocence. A fist gripped and guided, the other fingers pressed my left knee further open. Thick flesh wedged inward, stopped by my barrier. Soothing touch kissed my skittering pulse as it raced through my neck. I met his eyes: I closed mine.

Hands fondled hips and pulled me under, the sharp sting of breached virginity forced a yelp; the reluctant inner muscles yielding to masculine determination drew a groan of disbelieving astonishment when his rough hairs met mine. I wiggled and spread as wide as I could, the sensation of tight fullness felt perfect. Patrick supported my head as I dangled—once more sucking his cock, this time with reckless passion as Mike withdrew and then eased back inside. Each time was quicker and deeper, my lovers playing my flesh like a guitar, strumming my emotions and riffing on my body.

They switched: my empty pussy aching to be filled again. This time, I was rolled over, feet on the floor, bottom uppermost. Thumbs pried open my crack, teased my pucker: I flinched, then relaxed as the next covered cock slid into my wet depths. The hard tube in my mouth was not so gentle this time, rough hand lifting my chin up, the swollen head touching my tonsils. My coughs and sputters seeming to accelerate their fucking. A slapping noise. Stinging heat in my ass, repeated blows firing lust. The thrusts more ragged, the groans louder, breaths panting; a reprieve, only the slick tip held on my outstretched tongue, blurred fingers pumping. Me, up on my elbows, waiting for the nectar. An orgasm rippled around the embedded flesh touching my cervix.

My eyes crossed, suddenly there were two cocks stretching the corners of my mouth. My bottom burned, my pussy needed another come; I reached down and stroked my hard pearl. Who came first I did not know, but my mouth filled with hot, viscous fluid that tasted of home cooked pasta and pesto. The other added more flavor—the tangy spice of sex. I rolled the thick substance around my cheeks and molars. I came violently, my hips slamming the edge of the table as I shook. In order to breathe, I swallowed. Once, twice: I gasped for air—and cried when the tight grip of propriety was wiped away along with my virgin’s blood.

They cuddled me. The band played on. Our hearts slowed. I traced patterns on their slick chests. “Thank you.”

When we returned, I was shocked to see that everything looked the same. Something this momentous deserved a memorial toast. I had some wedding cake instead.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 15)

I picked at my food; it was the carnal I was starving for, so when Mrs. Cleanknockers swept in with even more severity than usual, I jumped to my feet. The staff still eating fell silent as they watched my finely calculated humbling. “Louisa.” she snapped. “Assist Ruby with her toilette.” Confused, I looked to see Louisa, her eyes sparkling with mischief, reach for my hem and begin to lift my uniform up. “Hush, Ruby,” she whispered. “Obey, and all will be well.” I meekly raised my arms and bowed my head as again stripped naked for all to ogle.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 14)

Shortly thereafter, I was cleaning the books once more. Thankfully, there was no need of the ladder; I could not have mounted in any case. Heavy throbbing in my hot arse, each pulse reminding me, each twist of my torso fresh incentive to behave. Hotter still was my twat (thanks Louisa for that word); liquid sluggishly flowed, yet quicker than my mind. Eyes would not focus, constant twitching of shoulders; I watched my hands clean and rinse as if under malevolent influence. I was: but it was my own treacherous nature. I wondered if harsh discipline would ever be enough.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 13)

My hands dove into my whipped cunt; heedless of audience, I frantically rubbed the stinging lines. My cruel punishers grabbed my arms, yanking me upright, spun me dizzily, bent me over. Mrs. Cleanknockers stuffed me betwixt her thighs; fingers gouged my breasts, pinched nipples trapped. My defenseless bottom now targeted for Lord Caneshard’s wrath. The harsh leather strap reignited the scalding burn. I yowled, muffled in her skirts, and danced on tiptop like a puppet. Quick, steady, decisive, he punished my insolence and drove the cocky attitude before him to market. Silence then, only my sobbing heard. What heavenly heat.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 12)

“No, I do not agree, your lordship,” Mrs. Cleanknockers pronounced stiffly. “Ruby has not earned the delights of constant climaxes. After luncheon, you will send Mr. Jones-Smyth to the infirmary—without explanation—and should he accede to your protocol, then, and only then, shall we retire to the Gun Room, where Ruby will be put to the pestle.” Her entire lecture was accompanied by the soft moist sound of cane gently swatting my creamy pussy. I was going out of my mind needing to come. “Hold still, Ruby!” His lordship warned. SNAP! SNAP! I screamed. Fire bit both nether lips.

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

See??????, not just fiction here.

Flashback Friday: “Fear of pain”

The week’s Flashback Friday, was originally posted Nov 11th, 2009.

She tensed, winced, squirmed. His hand was so hard and her bottom so tender. She wanted a spanking, asked for a spanking, needed a spanking, but the pain was unexpected. She almost told him to stop… then… the pain became confusing. It hurt, it stung, his hand battered her cheeks and turned her insides to mush. Without thought, her hips rose, legs spread, aching for the ache to continue, to intensify. When he slowed, she whimpered, when he went faster, she moaned, when he hit her hard on her sit spot she screamed. A lap dance in reverse, her motions were fluid and random, seeking an elusive peak. When the paddle replaced his hand, she held her breath in shock. The pain was scary – scary good – and she never wanted him to stop beating her ass. The fear of pain made the high exquisitely beautiful. A floating, soaring, diving pain: roiling her blood and wetting his pants. Her loss of control extended her discipline beyond her perceived limits. Crashing through the barrier of fear, she found her soul deep within the safety of his strong hand punishing her hard.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 11)

A masterstroke of the cane makes a whistle before impact; forgotten in the searing brand lanced across flesh already basted. Worn nails scrabbled for purchase as they belabored my bottom. Compared to my first day caning, the thrice thrashed times two I received from them both, was bearable on already spanked surface. Quite the lewd display I offered, hips pumping, buttocks clenching, wet cunny squelching; lost in my agony, could not overhear the murmured consultation far above my prone body. When I felt the tip of cane poke at my wanton portal of Venus, I shimmied, and lifted my arse.

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

Mosh pit equations

they were strangers, when next I saw them again,
DJ ripping disco night in shreds, punk/dupstep slices of audio porn, frenzied fingers entering willing orifices, each had retained me, unbeknownst to the other, teetering on the brink of divorce, dragged kicking and screaming over the Rubicon of fifty, years wasted in silent combat,
strangers asleep in the same bed, slick with secretions, dreaming of wasted opportunities passed over in guilt, no wonder religions banned dancing, bare asses flashed everywhere, skirts worn as belts, the sickly smell of sweat and vomit, subsumed by sexual heat and enlightenment achieved through X and trance bass tracks thrumming in pagan souls, if a club could bottle the air, Lauren would implode the economy with sales to baby boomers who used colored pills to reclaim youth,
watching the hole develop, even the Sufi whirled away, the thermonuclear passion glowed between them, the gut wrenching arousal pureed with hate and ennui, my clients fucked each other over in plain sight, lit by strobes, danger building, hardcore ravers jolted out of apathy and faux transcendence by the real thing, decades of saved ammo, fired off for my benefit, nothing more savage than domestic contempt fueled by alcohol and mob anonymity,
jaded as I was, even I almost fell for the drama, hands spanking exposed bottom, teeth nipping swollen lips, designer gashes ripped even further, junk erect, trying to shatter stasis of middle-age, varicose leg thrown over arthritic hip, penetrative consummation ringed by youth desperate to capture elusive high, a heartbeat away from overdose, the awareness of time stalking as the apex predator, none to escape the pitiless scythe, best turn your back and twerk for an upload, inhibitions exchanged for the inflated cover charge, the damned dancing into a future filled with heartache, broken promises and prescriptions,
strangers all, inside silicon shells, the only thing they owned, were their orgasms, splashed recklessly into the seething pool of pheromones, my camera flashed, files for the lawyers, if they ever decided to pull the trigger.

Something didn’t add up—I tipped the hatcheck girl—sticky soles wiped on only slightly less filthy curb
sirens wailed—the skyscrapers mostly dark—the miasma rising from the sewers swirling around off-duty taxis
I lit a smoke—exhaled—the life of a PI was fucking great—sarcasm at three am wasted on the confident rats

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 10)

Unceremoniously dumped to the floor, my hands clenched scorched bottom. “Ruby!” Mrs. Cleanknockers admonished. “Remove your fingers at once! We are not done punishing you.” I am not ashamed to admit wailing for mercy. I received none: I wanted none. She ordered me to crawl, like a beast of the fields; I did so, naked as Eve, dragged by my hair to the snake. A low footstool—mounted—legs akimbo, scalded hemispheres jutting like sunrise kissed peaks, a red cave yawning open at its base, dripping with moisture. Tap-tap, went the cane, as did my sanity. Roaring filled my ears.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 9)

“No!” I shrieked as, jostled like a sack of turnips, once more my hips squashed between tom and queen. In unison, came a loud crack of metal on epidermis. “OUCH!” I screamed as they spanked each buttock with hairbrushes. Solid silver, as it turned out: They turned my bottom to mush. In no hurry were they, two beats a second, a steady cadence marching down and then back up the naughty landscape of my fulsome flesh. They spanked my flanks, I yowled in heat; they whipped my thighs, I cried, the flailing legs not longer feigned, reacting to glorious pain.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 8)

“My word!” his lordship exclaimed. “Did this randy piece just spend?” For a moment there was silence. I broke with a weepy, “Pleeeeease! Don’t stop!” Fully shifted over Mrs. Cleanknockers’ lap, I arched, I begged with spread legs for her touch. Do not tell me, that man is the crueler sex; nay, the female—as I admit to be—is the evil tormentor of flesh. She teased me, a whisper of touch on flaming skin, a finger pad run down humid crack, pressed against desperate flower, then lower still, roaming dewed petals seeking stamen to plunder deep. “Yes, I submit!”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part7)

The village of Lower Bumhampton had a band of sorts. Misses of gentry breeding played instruments, while farm boys rapped tattoos with more verve than skill. Wizened veterans fired antique muskets and his lordship let off volleys from his gilded Hamilton & Askew shotgun. The impact of their hands striking my needy arse: the sound and fury reminded me of a parade around the greensward. I climaxed to the fantasy of being driven naked before the mob, carriage whip licking my back and thighs: Lord Caneshard at the reins, Mrs. Cleanknockers tormenting my bosom. The stocks awaited my nude body.

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

Flashback Friday: “Honey Dew”

This week’s Flashback Friday, originally posted Oct 25th, 2009 for Oral Worship Day.

“Honey Dew”

red lips pout
glistening with slick dew
thighs flex
aimlessly she gasps
tongue lapping
inhaling her scent
unique
musky
passionate flows of nectar
coat my taste buds
swallowing her lust
pinned
her arms trapped by my weight
pausing to suck her clit
then
spanking
wet smacks
on wetter folds
red becomes redder
gasps become screams
wet becomes a torrent
I bend my head
to torment her some more
she cries
I smile
she’s mine

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 6)

“Oh yes, Sir, more than anything, I want Mr. Jones-Smyth to witness my humiliation.” In a trance, hands removed my uniform; unresisting, I bent forward over two laps so my stomach was wedged between them. They sat on facing chairs, knees touching, while my bared bottom rudely thrust up like a scone to four hands roaming. I rested my cheek on my forearms as they commenced my richly deserved spanking. Oh, I mewled most prettily for my chastisers, writhing my hips, fluttering my dainty ankles in faux distress. Have you ever wanted to be spanked all-day? I melted from within.

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

What makes a spanko tick?

Before I get into this week’s Wicked Wednesday story, I wanted to let all of you know that instead of a newsletter, I’ve decided to spin-off another blog that will be solely for my published fiction and talking about writing, spanking, erotica and anything at all. The new blog can be followed at Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction, where I intend to post at the beginning of each month, starting in June. Should I post bi-monthly, then it will be the 1st and 15th. Special bulletins—if/when I am accepted for publication—may happen at any time.

The following story is a direct continuation to, Some times, that’s all it takes, which was posted March 1st, 2017 for Wicked Wednesday. I strongly recommend you read the 1,000 word post before reading the 1,000 word sequel. I will likely write another episode later on. To refresh your memory, these are the final paragraphs of the previous story:

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.

We see him driving, the concrete unspooling like an endless carpet in the world’s largest casino; gray and stained with sweat and unrequited hopes. The vastness of America catches the unwary—not vast like Siberia or Africa—but the green demarcations of exits and mileage remaining to safe haven, become a life raft you impatiently watch bob up over the horizon.

Flyover country—sneeringly patronized by those perched on couches in front of coastal cameras. He feels the thump-thump of synthetic rubber trailing microns behind with every revolution.

His words still reverberate in the diner, a catalyst that goads a wounded soul to action.

Tamara shows up Saturday morning, her disguise of frumpy hausfrau unsurprisingly mundane. Most attendees could be her clones, all searching for a spark, dog-eared tablets clutched to chest, the ereader explosion replacing the autograph book. Some seek to rekindle first love from a time when cynicism was the fiercely guarded territory of mysterious elders.

They are now the elders. Their childhoods returned threefold.

She is not here for that. It’s not in her nature to be a fangirl. In fact, she isn’t quite sure why she quit her job, and rode a bus for three hours, on the off chance the man with the rental car really meant what he didn’t say.

Observe her enter the room, she hugs the wall in loving embrace, chooses a chair, near the back, half-hidden by teased bouffant creations and Estee Lauder clouds. She holds the crinkled brochure over her nose, eyes peep mouse-like; if she had whiskers, they would be madly twitching.
He knows she’s there. There is time for action and a time for seduction. It is the latter.

He speaks, introduces the panel, and talks about the causal link between feminism and submission: Freedom from drudgery allows empowerment to offer body as equals. The undercurrents in the audience are both subtle and treacherous. It’s easy for a white man to spout entitlement as if spraying sperm on the front row. Fertilization after all has many different meanings.

For Tamara—a Latina/Native American/Italian mongrel—the dangers of choosing the wrong partner[s][s][s] have left scars in every dimension. She listens to him moderate the discussion; most of the esoteric arguments are dandelion tufts seeking to colonize more fertile minds than hers. She watches the others mostly; their blatant flirtations and copulatory signals bounce away as if he doesn’t sense them.

Does he even notice? Is he gay? Is that why he invited her? Her random thoughts prick like soap bubbles in the sun. Her self-defense mechanisms—always gleaming and rust free—close shutters and prime weapons. This time, she’s not going down without a fight. What she doesn’t know is that he’s already in her control room and her defenses recognize him as safe.

You would suppose, after we witness his skillful extraction from the smiling crowd of pheromone emitting females; he has no interest in a companion, or two. That—in fact—is a slippery slope. Seduction to consummation is a yawning chasm for one who prefers conversation to a random tumble. Besides, he already knows whom he wants. We watch as he leads Tamara away as if they were a bonded pair already. Lunch, and explanations—beckon us onward. Shall we follow?

She picks at her food [the diner was far superior fare] mostly because she studies the man across the plastic table. Tamara has to—must—know why he selected her before she can consider the consequences. “What makes a spanko tick?”

Caught in mid-bite, he finishes chewing, sips his soda and, after wiping his fingers, reaches across and takes her in hand. “For me, it’s in my nature to desire a woman over my knee. Not to subjugate necessarily, although, please don’t misunderstand, punishment is not something I shy away from: No, it’s because all the attraction I feel for a woman begins with her mind and ends with her bottom. Everything else in between is the glorious territory of love and respect.”

“So spanking for you is like… foreplay?”

“No, Tamara; more like a handshake. A friendly greeting, much as a hug or peck on the cheek.”

She is rattled: the violence inherent in the submissive posture his words have offered, strikes too close to home in memories of fists and booted feet. The familiar adrenaline blanches her olive skin, her mind retreats to the safe room. I’m here for you. A gentle whisper, she turns inside out and sees him waiting there, patiently smiling. She allows his guidance as they leave the convention: for her, all convention flew away long ago. But now, sunlight floods the dark spaces of her soul. Sprouts of emotions buried for survival’s sake, unfurl in the warmth of his regard. She cannot think. Nor, does she wish to.

‘Whoa!’ Cries the reader. No way! Life doesn’t happen in that fashion. Fine, maybe there are good guys out there, but good guys don’t go around telling women they want to spank them! Do they?

A mile down the road is the hotel. He calls it GWC—Generic World Clone. He swipes the card at the side entrance, no need to parade his captive through the lobby. The elevator to the fourth floor, right turn; fifteen doors down on the left is room 425. A queen size mattress awaits, maid service come and gone for the day.

He perches at the foot of the bed, after draping his jacket over the back of the chair. The water runs in the compact bathroom; on purpose he left the door ajar, resting on the safety latch. If she runs, he will not chase.

In the mirror, a worn woman appears ghostly in the harsh artificial light. What happened to the carefree girl I never had a chance to be? His words have warmed her as none have ever done before. She makes an easy decision: The solid thump of the closing door is followed by the sharp clack of deadbolt and clink of latch.

“Are you right-handed?”

“Yes.”

She takes a deep breath and exhales loudly. Then another. She stands at attention, right angle to his seated thighs. “Hi. My name is Tamara. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Awkwardly—for he does not touch her at all—she bends forward and lies down over his knees. Her hands press the sheared carpet, her shoes slip until she digs in.

“Hello, Tamara. Likewise, it is a great pleasure to meet you. You may call me… Sir.”

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

This post has been renamed as Kismet of Submission: Episode 2. You can read all the episodes by clicking here for Kismet of Submission.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 5)

“I want, Mrs. Cleanknockers, to show me no favors, and train me most rigorously.” She gave the slightest of smiles. “And Mr. Jones-Smyth?” she enquired. I shivered. “Milord, Ma’am, when my suitor arrives, would it not be enlightening for Mr. Jones-Smyth to witness the intake process from the beginning?” His Lordship chuckled deeply. “Are you volunteering, Ruby, to be stripped, washed, cleansed and examined under his supervision?” The most delicious tingling washed over my skin. I felt a stab of desire low in my abdomen; my hips swiveled, eyes half-closed, and my mouth opened, tongue running over my moist lips.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part4)

I slumped with relief. “Then, as to your questions, no, I am not plotting with gunpowder to overthrow the established order. On the contrary, I feel my exuberant nature needs must be curbed severely, lest I too, fall victim to hubris.” Mrs. Cleanknockers moved at right angles to us both and studied my flushed countenance. But it was his lordship that probed my motivations. “Are you implying, Ruby, that we have been too lenient thus far?” I boldly met his skeptical gaze. “Milord, I wish to learn everything about sex and discipline. I need Mr. Steedstiff forcing my studious compliance.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 3)

Fingers gripped my shoulders. “A fair question, Ruby,” Mrs. Cleanknockers echoed. “Are you an anarchist in disguise?” Despite the tension of feeling, as a mouse trapped between two cruel felines must wont, I had yet but a taste of carnal delights; the sweet confections of pleasure drew my nose to shop pane, my wet purse throbbing. “Milord, Ma’am, I have but one question for you, before I tell of the turmoil in my breast.” At his nod, I asked, “Will Mr. Jones-Smyth be calling upon Peacock House of this afternoon?” His lordship replied, “I’ve had no indication in the negative.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 2)

After ablutions, breakfast, and a short lecture on piety and decorum—for my benefit I am sure—the staff scattered like flushed quail. Unescorted, I reported to Lord Caneshard’s study for what I assumed would be a blistering set-down. No matter, I was still buzzing from my debauched evening and feared no punishment. “So, Ruby, two days and you have set my household on its ear. Have you decided to replace Emily then?” More cautious, I replied, “No, milord.” A heavy pause, I felt the weight of his distrust. “Then do you plan a revolt from within?” Glittering motes swirled.

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

Flashback Friday: “Spanking as stress relief”

This week’s Flashback Friday story, originally posted on Oct 23rd, 2009.

Tracy hated her job. She hated her boss, her co-workers and especially the customers! Four years of college down the drain with the recession along with her former boyfriend. He of the ‘I’ll love you forever’ turned into ‘You cashed out your 401k?’ on the way out her front door. Turns out he was only in love with her six-figure salary. The fucker! I’d downsize his cock if it wasn’t so puny already.

“Excuse me?”
“Yes!”
“Having a bad day?”

Tracy took a good look at the client. Armani suit, Italian loafers, Liberty tie, Hermes shirt with gold cufflinks: salt-and-pepper hair, fuck!

“How can I help you?”
“Well. You can put away your novel, sit up straight and pay attention when I speak.”
“Err…”
“You do work here? In customer service?”
“Yes… unfortunately.”
“Laid-off?”
“Yes. The pricks.”
“Language.”
“Sorry. I tend to have a potty mouth at ‘inappropriate times’. So my ex always said.”
“And what did your ex do about your proclivity to use inappropriate language?”
“Nothing. Why would he?”
The handsome man nodded thoughtfully as he gazed at her. “Are you happy here?”
“FUCK no! Oops.”
“Are you single?”
Now Tracy became wary. “Why?”
“Because I have a proposition.”
“OK…”
“I find myself in need of a wife. Rather urgently actually. I’m flying to Hong Kong this evening and, it’s all rather complicated, I need to be accompanied by my wife. Having never been married, it presents difficulties.”
“And you want me… to pretend to be your wife? We just met two minutes ago and you want me to up and leave everything to fly to Hong Kong tonight?”
“Yes, in five hours to be precise. Minus the time to get married.”
“Can we do that? I mean, just get married?”
“I have some pull I plan on using. So, is that a yes?”
“Hmmm. I didn’t actually get a proposal.”
“I see. Dear… what is your name? Ah, dear Tracy, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“For real?”
“Yes, for real. I do, however, feel compelled to warn you, I have zero tolerance for cursing from partners, among other things. As my wife, you will be expected to behave with proper decorum at all times, whether in public or private. I will compensate you for the trip, say, a million dollars and a divorce upon our return in a month.”
“Behave! You want me to behave? You’ve got some nerve! What will you do to me? Scold me and send me to bed without supper?”
“No, Tracy. For acting the brat, you will be treated like a brat. Hard bare bottom spankings delivered as needed. Other discipline as well, I run a tight ship and demand compliance.”
“Or else?”
“Or else you’ll be sleeping on your stomach often.”
“Well, since you put your proposal so fucking elegantly, yes… what’s your name? Yes, Arthur, I will become your dutiful fucking wife and obey your every fucking whim and cock sucking demands.”
“In that case Tracy, before we leave your former place of employment, bend over your desk, drop your slacks and knickers and accept your punishment for cursing.”
“Yes, Sir! About fucking time!”

Any interest if I start a monthly newsletter?

Before I get into the subject of a newsletter, I wanted to share a link to a post and my comment in response to Jen’s post about vulnerability, in which she talks about respect vs love.

This is my comment as written:

I find the link between work and home interesting, so I’m going to take a tangent here.
You might think, “how hard can it be to order your wife to lick the asshole of his girlfriend?” = Brown nosing. Been in plenty of workplaces where the common theme is “How did he/she get that position?” Well, it comes from being submissive to the boss(es) and licking and sucking up to get the job. It’s not a healthy situation for anyone, but a reality I have witnessed all too often. This leads to people in leadership positions that shouldn’t be there, and who use fear and intimidation to force false submission.

“It ties into something I read somewhere that, if given a choice between respect or love, most men choose respect and most women choose love.” Respect is the most difficult thing to both give and earn, not only in a personal relationship, but in the workplace. The entire concept of employment by others is a type of D/s relationship. The boss gives the orders, and the employees are expected to obey. Without respect, those orders are often ignored, sabotaged or otherwise mangled so that the boss looks bad. It’s not surprising that Mike has become more dominant at work based on his home life.

The idea of love in the workplace should not be confused with romantic love: [See below] but with the concept of affection towards co-workers and even bosses. A platonic friendship must include love and respect to have any chance of being real.

Although there are many parallels between D/D and D/s at home, and the corporate management tree, the sexual aspect gets all tangled up with power and authority. It doesn’t take much thought to recall sexual scandals in the workplace, at church, in schools and in politics, to realize that respect and love can be quickly corrupted by stupidity and cruelty.

Which leads into the last observation: Vulnerability. In the workplace, the employee has no power, except to quit if the boss is an asshole. Unlike D/s however, it’s easier to find another job, than another Dom or life partner. People write all the time about abusive Doms, but rarely complain about abusive bosses. Why? Because employees are vulnerable. HR either doesn’t care, or does not have the power to enforce harassment laws. It’s safer to accept a paycheck, than hope for a favorable court judgement. For those not in a D/s relationship, the submissive may seem to be powerless, but anyone reading this blog, or many others, quickly realizes that it is not the case.

The transition from hard-shelled, numb employee, to open vulnerable submissive, is a junction fraught with danger. I feel many D/s relationships founder on this very shoal for the lack of love and respect for the process of communicating in an honest and vulnerable manner.

About a newsletter, I have noticed that authors offer newsletters on their websites. I only have the two Lust anthologies published at the moment, but have several novels and short stories either finished, or working. There would be several possible items to include in a newsletter:

1. WIP: Work in progress, not whipping you deviant perverts! Although, all of my WIP has spanking of some sort. The purpose of showcasing my WIP, would be to garner feedback and beta reads before submitting for either calls or publication.
2. General talk about spanking and D/s, in line with the discussion above. I don’t blog many essays here, because I normally utilize other bloggers’ posts to write comments. There is certainly a need for sane and safe discussion rather than more fiction.
3. Write book reviews about my personal favorites. I have calculated—conservatively—that I have read over 20,000 books and an equal number of magazines and newspapers in my life. I have many books, new and old, that I consider worth reading.
4. Write about my writing process. How do I create characters? Why do I choose the place and time? How often do I write? Why does all my fiction revolve around spanking? [If you have to ask…]
5. Go in depth into the Lust novellas. Talk about how the outline grew into 24,000 words, and how the beta editing process changed the stories.
6. Discuss how BDSM and spanking has crept into mainstream romance. Did you know that almost all best-selling romance is now sexually explicit, and at the very least, mentions spankings as a threat directed at the female lead? Is this the influence of the editors? The paddle wagging the bottom? Or are readers more interested in kink than ever before?

So, in a comment or email, would you be interested in a monthly newsletter from me? You’d not be wrong in thinking I could simply start another blog, but, in the past, I got carried away and had eight blogs at one time. Not to mention, having 30 days of posts pre-written. I’m envisioning a once-monthly newsletter that builds upon my writing here, by discussing items such as the above.

Corner of Main and Eternity

They say the house is haunted: They being the old-timers who remember when money meant precious metals and few had any. Some say it was a boarding house, others a bordello. Over stained dominoes and dog-eared cards they argue; each retelling set in marble effigies to a dark past none of them knew firsthand.

All that the tales could agree upon, is it involved a woman. Tall and voluptuous: No, petite and gamin, fair as the west wind; hardly, she was dusky as twilight in late summer. Short hair the color of ripe wheat whispering at sunset; it was walnut ink black and glossy as satin in a coffin.

No portrait existed of this mysterious femme fatale, unless, one was brave enough to spend the night inside the domicile, where, the old men insisted, her apparition lingered in search of new victims. It took buying several rounds though, to pries the ‘real’ tale from their lips. It seems the woman was overly fond of whips.

After a few more libations, the raunchy euphemisms curled like cigarillo smoke, forming lewd patterns on the dingy ceiling tiles. The apathetic fan blades spread the rumors: She was a vampire, a succubus, a man-stealing whore, but strangely enough, never a shrewd businesswoman, giving the punters what they wanted.

Whether or not any of the stories were true, the house on the corner of Main St and Eternity Avenue, was finally bought, renovated and turned into a suite of attorneys offices. Although, for all the lust of billable hours, it didn’t take very long for the house to be vacant early in the evenings. It seemed at least one myth was true.

Every midnight, when the ornate grandfather clock in the lobby ponderously tolled the hour, a loud crack echoed twelve times in synchronization. In the infinite gaps between the dueling sounds, faint background noises could be imagined more than heard. Ragtime piano chords, clicking glasses, loud guffaws and conversation.

Fainter still, was steady slapping, painful cries and ecstatic moans. When the time fell silent once more, the house seemed to exhale, and the walls shimmered as if from gossamer threads spun on a loom of tears and passion. The last noise one would hear, was a soft feminine chuckle as the hairs on the neck were seductively brushed by the past.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 Part(1)

Gentle Reader: There is nothing I have discovered in my long existence; that equals the thrill of waking entwined with a cherished lover. From the remove of the Great War’s aftermath, the seismic destruction of aristocratic privilege, had been underway for decades, that morning of my third day, when slender tendrils of light coaxed Louisa and I from Morpheus’ embrace. Later generations scoffed at sentimental trysts; denigrated the great poets, and mocked the sonnets proclaiming undying devotion to the battlefields of love. Though in truth, contrary to the sisters Brontë, real sex involved fluidic leakage in copious amounts. We stank.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Complete

Before I get into the Bumhampton Chronicles, I want to point your way to one of the best erotic spanking authors I’ve ever read. This story link is to “Pride and Obedience” at Spanking Theatre, a Tumblr blog. It fits quite nicely with The Bumhampton Chronicles.

Chapter 5 completes Ruby’s second day at Peacock House. It seems much longer of course, because the episodes are only 100-word drabbles. The total novel thus far is a little over 15,500 words. I don’t know how far I will take The Bumhampton Chronicles; at some point I will be novelizing the chapters, although, I am leaning towards the entire book being 100-word drabbles. Also wanted to mention that Chapter 6 has the first 10 drabbles ready to go. Taking a different direction.

Gentle Reader: as I begin this chapter, I realize I have been remiss in providing physical descriptions of the personages populating my prose. This of course, is deliberate, thus allowing your imagination to supply features and characteristics. After all, large is another person’s small, and pheromones do not emanate from letters arranged on printed page. Perhaps you would prefer sexual and discipline scenes without extraneous folderol, but punishment sans context is simple brutality. Every spanking I relate at Peacock House was given for a reason. Memory is a wicked beast, insisting upon innocence, whilst robbing the vault behind our backs.

After I finished driving Louisa to orgasm, we tangled tongues, her intoxicating taste mingled in our mouths. While we were hazed with lust, we still retained some semblance of self-preservation, and resumed cleaning at lightning speed. Just before Mrs. Cleanknockers returned, we arranged for a clandestine rendezvous at bedtime so that I could soothe and pamper the aftereffects of her session with his lordship. I admitted I was curious to see the result of a good rogering. “Well, ladies? Are you quite finished messing about?” We replied in unison, “Yes, Mrs. Cleanknockers.” She stood behind us and squeezed our bottoms.

“One red, one white, naughty bottoms, will be spanked tonight.” We couldn’t help but giggle at Mrs. Cleanknockers cheeky poetry. She responded by cupping our dripping cunnies and sliding her middle fingers inside. She stirred our honeypots. My head went back and rested on her bosom. Lolling to the side, though slitted eyes, I was nose-to-nose with Louisa. Our nether lips parted by strong fingers, our mouths panted the sweetest cries until they met in a scalding kiss. “Good girls,” Mrs. Cleanknockers crooned. “Kiss and make up.” The calloused palm under my cunt began wetly smacking. I felt Louisa groan.

All that was holding me upright was Louisa’s tongue and Mrs. Cleanknocker’s hand. My climax buckled my knees, while thighs became soaked with desire. She stopped spanking my pussy and curled an arm around my waist. “Nooooo!” I moaned as Louisa gripped my nape devouring my tongue. “Yes, sweet Ruby, you owe me another spending.” Mrs. Cleanknockers rubbed my clit, gently as first, then firmer and faster, occasionally pinching, as my hips trembled uncontrollably. When I came this time, the emotions of the moment swept me into tears. Both of them cuddled me, stroking my damp skin until I calmed.

After we cleaned—again—it was dinnertime. Louisa picked at her meal and went to her doom with a martyred expression. I was sent to the school wing on the third floor. Every weeknight, Mr. Steedstiff tutored portions of the female staff, the males seen to by Miss Frothinglips. As this marked the end of my second day, I spent the two hours giving answers to a variety of primers. I felt shame at my obvious ignorance of mathematics, geography, history and frankly, nearly every subject beyond reading comprehension and vocabulary. My penmanship was atrocious, attitude truculent. My bottom paid.

There were precious few carrots in the schoolroom, but many sticks. I cannot vouch for Miss Frothinglips technique in exhorting the male to academic prowess, but I can state unequivocally, that Mr. Steedstiff believed in the power of the rod: both rattan and priapic. While I struggled through the beginner’s tests, he conducted an oral examination of the previous lessons. The three little maids were perched on pert derrières behind desks. I was not yet subject to discipline, it was counterproductive Mrs. Cleanknockers had explained, but once a curriculum was established, I would be required to earn a passing grade.

Lily, Sara and Ann correctly answered several questions each, but all failed at least one. Each girl in turn went to the coatrack and selected a cane. Presenting it across both palms to Mr. Steedstiff, once he agreed with her choice and took the implement, she bent over and grasped her ankles. The shortness of our uniforms meant the hem lifted to expose the lower half of the nude buttocks. Sara received two strokes, Ann one, and poor Lilly, four hard and fast red welts on her plump cheeks. After the punishments was quiet study time for the last hour.

Mr. Steedstiff spent most of the hour reviewing my completed primers. He frowned and sighed frequently. My spirits sank lower with each raised eyebrow or shake of the head. At quarter after nine, he whispered in Ann’s ear. She fairly bounced off her chair with a grin and disappeared into an anteroom. He followed shortly and firmly closed the door. Lily and Sara exchanged smirks but kept working through their lessons. As the clocks chimed half past, Ann reemerged, preening as a cat in the creamery. Her tongue swiped the corner of her mouth and she daintily licked her fingertips.

Discretely adjusting his falls, Mr. Steedstiff dismissed the girls to their rooms. He shuffled my test papers then tapped them into a neat stack. “You seem to have a good grasp of the English language, Ruby, but you are sorely lacking in many more basic areas. Were you never schooled?” I clasped my hands tightly. “My mother needed me at home, sir, once I turned ten. I looked after neighbor’s children so they, and my mother, could work. I like to read,” I added hopefully. “You have much to learn, Ruby, in a short time. It will take utmost dedication.”

“I shall consult with his Lordship and Mrs. Cleanknockers as to the schedule.” I was feeling a bit bereft, it must have shown, because Mr. Steedstiff attempted to reassure me. “You seem intelligent, if a bit stubborn. With a studious approach, I am confident your deficiencies will be remedied in short order.” My eyes darted to the canes. “Does that studious approach include caning, sir?” He crossed his arms. “I find red lines to be an inducement to retention of pertinent facts.” I nodded and boldly met his stern gaze. “And other methods of training, are they inducements as well?”

“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 my dress over my hips.

“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.”

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.”

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?”

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.”

Coaxing her to lie down, we squeezed together on the narrow bed, her head cradled on my shoulder. “Was it awful?” Louisa drew in an 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?”

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.

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.

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.

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.”

“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.

“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.

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.”

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.”

“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.”

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.

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.

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.”

I played with her curls, pulling them taut and combing the wet tangle. “Well… perhaps… if…” She raised up on her other elbow. “What? Tell me, Ruby, what you need from me to atone for this morning.” As I pondered, I lapped her crinkled folds, my chin rocking side-to-side and my eyes turned inward. A very wicked thought made me draw back and grin. “I’m thinking tit-for-tat, Louisa. Or, more accurately, a piss for a piss.” I stood up then crawled over her supine form until my knees gripped her shoulders. I gazed down. “Should I use the chamber pot?”

A seminal moment in my time spent at Peacock House. The heady sense of power inherent in the dominant position; it gave me a window on the world of privilege, allowing me to see clearly, and to accept, my place. I vowed to use my disciplinarians as they used me: for pleasure, for pain, for learning how to punish and to praise in equal measure. “Well, Louisa? Will you willingly submit to me and serve as my little slave girl?” She made no verbal response—then—only sealed tight with her mouth. I relaxed and tensed my bladder in spurts.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(30)

A seminal moment in my time spent at Peacock House. The heady sense of power inherent in the dominant position; it gave me a window on the world of privilege, allowing me to see clearly, and to accept, my place. I vowed to use my disciplinarians as they used me: for pleasure, for pain, for learning how to punish and to praise in equal measure. “Well, Louisa? Will you willingly submit to me and serve as my little slave girl?” She made no verbal response—then—only sealed tight with her mouth. I relaxed and tensed my bladder in spurts.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(29)

I played with her curls, pulling them taut and combing the wet tangle. “Well… perhaps… if…” She raised up on her other elbow. “What? Tell me, Ruby, what you need from me to atone for this morning.” As I pondered, I lapped her crinkled folds, my chin rocking side-to-side and my eyes turned inward. A very wicked thought made me draw back and grin. “I’m thinking tit-for-tat, Louisa. Or, more accurately, a piss for a piss.” I stood up then crawled over her supine form until my knees gripped her shoulders. I gazed down. “Should I use the chamber pot?”

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

  • 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