Were Warriors Lusty Quest

So—a toad, a frog and a gecko hop into a tavern.

“I don’t understand any of this!”
“What’s the matter, Frank?”
“Why is called breaking camp? Or for that matter, dawn broke? How can you break the sun?”
“Don’t be such a dickweed, it’s a figure of speech.”
“Fuck you, Tabbart, I was asking George.”
“Guys. Take a chill—no, don’t make me uncoil my orc-hide whip before coffee. Frank, it’s called breaking camp because you literally ‘break’ apart whatever structure or space you utilized. As for the sun, I haven’t a fucking clue. Ask a nature mage when we get to Breedsopolis.”
“And that’s another thing—” Tabbart and George groaned in unison as Frank launched into his well-practiced diatribe. “—Why do we have to be the trio sent to retrieve the magic crown and kiss some Royal ass? I mean—I like rimming as much as the next guy, but it’s a pure human Princess for crying out loud! Doesn’t anybody read the damn union regs? We’re gay weres. We don’t do females—any way shape or format.”
George coughed over his remark, “Says you,” before forcefully speaking up. “That’s enough croaking, Frank—and don’t flap your gills either, Tabbart. The bosses put me in charge, and I’m tired of you both butting heads. The next frog, or toad, that cheeps out of line, gets my whip and my head up your ass for a fucking you won’t soon forget. Now! Break camp and let’s hop on out of here before the sun drives us underwater!”
“But—”
Frank’s whiny complaint was cut off when Tabbart flipped him over his knee and began—what by now had become a daily ritual—spanking the croaking were. “Why are you such a brat every morning?”
“Ow! Not so hard!”
“Why can’t you just drink coffee like George does?”
“Cause only a spanking gets me wired?”
“Smart ass! I’ll show you a smarting ass, Frank!” Tabbart punctuated his scolding with rapid flutters of his leathery webbed hands. The green skin of Frank’s wiggly-jiggly bottom gradually took on a pale yellow tinge as the hard spanks accumulated. It wasn’t the only hard thing in camp, and Frank atoned to his lover with his mouth after Tabbart was finally satisfied with the punishment.

Twenty minutes later, the fearless—if feckless trio—resumed the much delayed, and debated, journey from Rephibton. They’d set out two weeks past, but thanks to the ongoing drought, were forced to seek frequent water breaks. Even in an upright bipedal shape, the most charitable of observers would have called them, ‘strong in characteristics but handsomely challenged’. There wasn’t normally much traffic along the forest track, but they didn’t seek out company either. It was a secret mission after all.

On the other webbed foot, orcs were always fair game. When waves of slavers had burst forth from hidden tunnels, the warriors had sprung into action and smashed the raid; thus earning them the gratitude of an entire nearby village impressed with their martial prowess. Until they found out that is, the doughty men preferred the muscular militia instead of the blushing maidens. It could have gotten ugly. Thankfully, the Local 369 smoothed things over with an increased share of the gold gleaned from the battlefield.

That was yet another thing Frank bitched about. He was trying to save for a deluxe pad to get away from his sister’s tadpoles. Being a werefrog wasn’t all that great when the exotic lands the recruiter promised, were, for the most part, human hovels and rogue were hideouts. Then, to top it all off, George, a lowly weregecko, was promoted to major and given the assignment instead of the traditional Frogmaster. Fine, Frank had acknowledged, both he and Tabbart were only enlisted corporals, but still! The warts festered until they broke in a torrent of complaints.
“Travel! Booty! Free beer! I can’t believe I fell for that spiel,” Frank whined.
“He wasn’t lying about the combat part,” Tabbart replied.
“True dat.” Frank puffed out his throat pouch—strangely attractive in his humanoid guise. “I kicked that one orc right over a tree, and stomped the rest to paste.”
Tabbart batted his eyes and crooned, “Oh… My hero!”
“Knock it off, you know I’ll always belong to you.”
“Maybe you can prove it to me later, big boy,” Tabbart crooned.
George slid between them and linked arms. “You know, before this quest, I never considered taking a werefrog or weretoad as a lover. I would have sooner if I’d realized what a pair of kinky fucks you are.”
Frank and Tabbart shivered in unison. “Does that mean you’ll whip us? And spank us? And make us suck cock and be ass fucked?” Frank asked with an eager expression.
The taller and more slender weregecko, wrapped his arms around the broad shouldered soldiers, and squeezed with deceptive strength. His long and narrow sticky tongue flicked across their lips; quickly joined by the rounded, blunt tongues of both the other men. George sprang straight into the air, did a double forward tuck, and landed on all fours in front of Tabbart and Frank.
“I’ve a better idea, boys, why don’t you whip out your cocks, and I’ll show you how a weregecko swallows.”
Two cocks, one a green spade, the other a gold scepter; rose in unison seeking the fresh air and dappled shade drifting through the dense forest canopy. The loose tunics were brushed aside as they freed the thick erect flesh.
Stroking with his hands, George licked back and forth between the rounded heads then pressed them together. Unhinged his lower jaw, he guided both cocks into his salivating mouth and down his vibrating gullet.
Frank and Tabbart made a simultaneous, “Gurk!” and slipped their arms around each other’s waists for support. Their muscular thighs quivered like waves in a bog as the weregecko used sonic gargles to massage and suck the cocks in his throat.
Despite having come earlier, Tabbart felt the rising sap ready to boil over, while Frank—always quick on the trigger—clenched his butt as his cock started to pulse and eject fluid.
George pulled back as the first waves of cum splashed and pumped the swelled organs with his curled fists.
Their suddenly weak legs gave way and the two corporals slumped to the ground, drained of both sperm and conflict.
That, my mighty warriors, is how a real were disciplines his subordinates.”

“Oh my! Bravo I say! Bravo!”
The echoes from the unfamiliar high-pitched voice hadn’t yet faded by the time the weres showed why they were such fearsome fighters.
From lethargic post-orgasmic haze, to dual arrows shot from crossbows took but an instant. In the next blink, Frank was a seven-foot tall frog bounding into the woods as the strange voice yelled out, “Ffffffffuck!” and fell through a nearby tree with a great crashing of limbs and leaves.
The clang of steel on steel rang out, and a short slender figure dressed in a subtle brown and green weave raced through the clearing, pursued by the sword wielding frog.
A sharp crack and George’s orc-hide whip snacked around the fleeing assailant’s ankles bringing it down with a thump and puff of detritus. A single tug of the whip handle brought the captive sprawling at his feet.
George casually kicked the long knife away. “Well, well,” he laughed, “they make spies younger each year!”
“I am not a spy!” the cloaked figure glared up at him. “I was simply minding my own business when the three of you decided to go all kinky. You didn’t even check your perimeter first! I could have been an orc, or… or a cave troll!”
“Look, kid.”
“I’m not a kid! I’m 234 in elvish years. Let me go! Or I’ll… I’ll put a spell on you and you’ll be stuck as humans!”
“What do you want to do, boss?” Tabbart asked with a worried frown. “I’ve heard elves can hypnotize you and make you bark like a dog.”
“As if I’d waste my time on you toad face. You better let me go before the rest of my squad gets here. They’ll turn you into pincushions.”
George stroked his chin for a moment then jerked up on the slack whip.
Squawking as the forceful yank spun it around several times clear of the ground, the elf let out an ‘oof’ as it landed on its stomach. Spitting dirt, the elf said, “Very funny.” Standing up and brushing off leaves and twigs, the next request surprised all of the weres. “So, can I go with you?”
“What?” Rang three shocked voices.
“You’re obviously trying to be incognito, and who better to serve as a native guide than an elf? I’ll only charge a gold crown a day. I’m feeling magnanimous and will accept your apology for attacking me.”
“Kid—we’re on a holy mission. We form the sacred triangle—”
“—isn’t that triumvirate?” Frank interrupted.
“—of power essential to all quests,” George smoothly finished. “Adding you to the alchemy would create a quad—”
“—you mean quartet,” Tabbart insisted.
“—and everyone knows,” George glared at his soldiers, “four of anything is unstable and verboten. Besides, a quartet is a mini-musicale (I hear humans are batty for that kind of stuff). A quad is Will-O’-Wisp Magic. Very dangerous stuff.”
“I can cook, and clean, and transcribe your epic Saga in real-time, and even darn your socks!”
“What a minute! That’s women’s work.”
“Is not! I’m fully qualified as a trans elf identifying as male for purposes of the centennial census. I’m traveling to Breedsopolis to have hippo-suction and meet with a Gender Wizard to pick new genitalia from the Guild’s Catalogue of Unusual Organs.”
“I don’t understand any of this.”
“Frank!”
“Well I don’t. What’s the difference between a wizard, a mage, a sorcerer, a warlock, a magician and how many other types there are? And aren’t sexes fixed at birth?”
“Are you pulling the gender card of wands on me, frog face? I’m twice the elf you are—or will be. I don’t know what you funky bastards get up to out there in the dismal swamps, but here in civilized climes, people don’t go around making waves about gender orientation and ethnicity. Capisce?”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 8)

I actually prefer the strap, not because it’s more or less painful than a cane or wooden paddle, but because the aroma of tanned leather suffused with sweat and tears is intoxicating. My aching puss seeps whenever a whiff wafts near. Awkward in polite society but then again, most of our circle know me quite intimately. SMACK! The first swipe echoed like a shotgun blast from a blind. SMACK! The second drove the held breath from my lungs. Mrs. Cleanknockers was in no hurry; ever the professional, she seemed determined to wring every last wicked thought from my naughty bottom.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 7)

There is a reason that stubbornness is not listed as a virtue. Many a night since then, have I slept on my stomach; Chester with his arms across my shoulders. That was later. For now, Sir continued his pompous lecture. “In order to become the wife I desire, and require, Ruby must be trained as a sensual and vibrant creature that attracts both men and women with her sweet wares.” I watched as Mrs. Cleanknockers selected a stout leather strap from the wall. “Kiss it, Ruby, and ask me for your discipline.” Pursing my lips I reverently kissed the implement.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 6)

“As you can see, Ruby earned a punishment with her insistence that she is a whore for enjoying sexual congress, despite the fact she is yet a virgin. I am entrusting in you, Mrs. Cleanknockers, that you will break her from her distressing lack of self-confidence. Modesty is all well and good, but she must learn the skills that I require in our marriage. I wish, in honor of our betrothal, to witness a demonstration of your disciplinary powers. Let it be long, and harsh, but not cruel.” I scowled as the three of them poked and prodded my rump.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 5)

Congratulations were given. Although, there was a sense: a mere hint—my new social standing had been raised uncomfortably high. Certainly not in the position to question my good fortune, I still felt something chilly in the room. It occurred to me, I knew nothing of my intended’s background. Trade was still verboten for the idle rich, but not for third plus sons. As was my wont, I could not turn off my speculations and spun wilder and wilder fantasies. I was jolted from my reverie when Mr. Jones-Smyth, Sir, stroked my exposed backside as if soothing a fractious horse.

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

Flashback Friday: “Over the Top”

This week’s Flashback Friday, was originally posted April 11th, 2010. This will be the next to last Flashback Friday, as I have plucked the best of my past writings of 2009-2010 from the archives. After next week’s final posting, I will be changing the posting schedule. My plans are to continue posting the Victorian novel, The Bumhampton Chronicles, in 100-word drabbles on Thurs, Fri, Sat and Sun. Every Monday, a new non-fiction essay of 500-1,000 words about D/s, based on various prompts I find in the vanilla world. On Tuesdays, I will be starting a new serial novel called, Kismet of Submission, with 1,000 word episodes. The first two have already been posted for past Wicked Wednesday prompts, but I will be reposting them before moving on to new episodes. Lastly of course, there is the weekly Wicked Wednesday. Still in progress is my follow up Sir Fang novel, The Case of The Scarlet Paddle. Speaking of beta readers, if you are interested in helping me by reading drafts of current fiction, please don’t hesitate to drop me a line via email, either to Lurv Spanking, or Byron Cane.

The blue spruces shuddered violently. Lightning danced rapidly from menacing flannel clouds approaching the homestead. Heather Parks wrung her hands thinking of her husband Josh driving home in this terrifying weather. He’d been gone a week this time on business and despite nightly calls she constantly worried about his health. Her concern was a constant source of friction. Josh hated being ‘babied’ and Heather had fled in tears after many an argument. If only he would see what she needed, what she craved: he was oblivious to her! As the storm grew harsher so did Heather’s thoughts until the crashing thunder shook dust from the rafters.

“Mom! Where’s my yellow shirt?”

“It’s in the wash! I’m trying to write, have Daddy help you!” Corrine Campos grimaced hearing the horde descending upon her unsuspecting husband. Carmelo was warm and loving, except when it came to women’s work. Old-fashioned to the extreme he would never even consider lifting a finger to help around the house. He supported Corrine and their three children by running his own consulting business and that was enough for him and his mother. She’d found his masculinity overwhelming when they were dating but after ten years of marriage the resentments were reaching the breaking point. When her phone rang; well, Corrine snapped out without checking ID.

“What!”
“My, my, Corrine. Testy today?”
“Sorry, Roxy. Bad day.”
“I understand. Hate to rain on your parade but ‘Over the top’ needs work, lots of work.”
“I know, I know, I know. I’m editing now, Roxy, please give me a little more time.”
“I’m sorry, Corrine, but the deadline is Wednesday and if you don’t have a publishable draft by tomorrow the magazine is going to cancel. There’s nothing more I can do. Give me something to sell and I’ll go to the mat for you.”
“Okay, Roxy. Tomorrow, I promise. Gotta go, hubby is pounding on the door.”

“What are you doing? Your children are driving me crazy!”
“I’m sorry, Carmelo. I was talking to a friend. I’ll be right there.”

Corrine put her computer to sleep and wasted two hours caring for her children before foisting them off on her sister for the rest of the day. Carmelo had left, to go and do who knew what, but Corrine was quite happy to see his BMW squealing out of the gate. Finally: Peace and quiet.

The blue spruces shuddered violently as if in the throes of orgasm. Lightning danced rapidly from the menacing flannel clouds approaching the homestead intent on rape. Heather Parks wrung her hands thinking of her horny husband Josh driving home in this terrifying weather. He’d been gone a week this time on business and despite nightly calls she constantly worried about the health of his penis. Her concern was a constant source of friction. Josh hated being ‘babied’ and Heather had fled in tears after many a blowjob. If only he would see what she needed, what she craved: he was oblivious to her! As the storm grew harsher so did Heather’s thoughts until the crashing thunder shook dust from the rafters. What if she never got a chance to suck on his hard cock ever again?

Josh pulled into the garage amidst hail as large as fists and rain so thick the wipers failed to keep up. He was trembling with fatigue and looked forward to a long, hot soapy shower – by himself. Heather was so needy lately! What was her problem? He was less than pleased to open the door and find Heather on her knees, warm mouth open and blue eyes pleading for his cock. He finally snapped. Grabbing her long blond hair in his calloused fingers he dragged her into the living room and threw her over the back of the couch. Whipping out his belt he proceeded to beat his wife on her rounded quivering bottom while she cried and begged the entire time. When her ass was covered with weals he threw down the belt, stalked to her head, yanked up her head and shoved his cock down her throat.

Heather was in shock. Where was the loving gentle man she’d married? Why was he doing this? Her ass was on fire and while it hurt, the pain was nothing compared to her broken heart. When he pulled out of her mouth she protested again but then he began to pound her pussy each thrust slapping her sore bottom. Heather felt her climax building, the storm continuing unabated, neither one noticing the lights failing or glass shattering. Rain driven by violent winds soaked them as Josh fucked Heather as hard as he could: not caring a whit for her needs. She screamed again, pain was creating pleasure and her soaking wet cunt flooded the cushions. She moaned and writhed until she felt Josh shooting his spunk deep inside.

“What the fuck? What the hell are you doing?”
“Carmelo! Stop that! You have no right! This is private!”
“The hell it is! No wife of mine is going to read this filth!”
“It’s not filth, Carmelo! I wrote this for publication, for money!”
“You wrote this perverted trash for money? Money? You whore!”
Corrine slapped her angry husband. “How dare you call me a whore? I am the mother of your children and if I’m a whore then you’re a pimp!”
“You’ve gone too far this time, Corrine. I’m the man in this house and I decide what my wife does.”
“Bullshit! I don’t have to take this crap from you! Let me go! I’ll call the police.”
“Fine, Corrine, call, but first, I’m going to teach you some long overdue manners!”

Corrine felt herself rapidly thrown over her furious husband’s knees, dress tossed over her head and panties thrown on the floor. Carmelo’s large hand descended in rapid-fire order on her naked bottom punctuated by his stern lecture on proper behavior. Corrine squealed and bucked but her husband had little problems keeping her in her place. “I should have done this on our wedding night! You will obey me, Corrine, or I’ll spank you every day, twice a day for the rest of your life! Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!” Corrine choked out.

After more than half an hour of spanking, Carmelo threw his weeping wife on their bed and stalked out slamming the door behind him. Corrine reached back and gasped as she felt the heat pouring off her battered ass. Gingerly rolling over she swayed to the bathroom to observe the damage.

“Roxy? It’s, Corrine. Don’t bother with ‘Over the top’. I’ve got a new story to write: ‘Disobedient and beaten wife’. Yeah, it’s personal, very personal.”

Domination in Lycra

My favorite professional sport to watch is cycling. What does that have to do with spanking? Says the curious reader.

It you don’t follow sports, then you may be unaware of the link between Dominance/submission and athletics. Headlines such as: Yankees spank Red Sox in the rubber match; Chelsea whip Manchester United in the rain; The Patriots take the Giants to the woodshed. In cycling, a common phrase is: Stamped his authority over the peloton.

The Giro d’Italia—the first of three Grand Tours, the third being the Vuelta a España, finishes this weekend. My favorite event of all is the second Grand Tour, the Tour de France in July. They all run for three weeks, and have two overall themes: Great racing and amazing aerial photography. The organizers use the races as one giant tourism campaign.

Cycling is the ultimate team sport. In each race there is a designated GC—General Classification—rider who wears the number 1, 11, 21, 31, etc, and is supported by the other riders in order to finish as high as possible in each stage and overall. The actual leader of the team though, is the directeur sportif who follows behind in a vehicle constantly monitoring the race and directing the strategy. A rider can win and be successful through sheer talent, training and discipline, but without a strong team who can protect and guide their GC rider, breakaway and/or designated sprinter day after day, victory will be elusive.

There have been a lot of posts recently from many different bloggers writing about the nuances and the struggles of D/s in daily life. In an individual cycling race there can be only one winner, but as in relationships, the strongest team will always be more successful. The trophies and the colored jerseys may go to individuals, but it is the team that celebrates together at the end of the day.

The Dominant in a D/s relationship is the leader; the road captain, the one to whom homage is paid in champagne toasts, but who also has the complete responsibility for the success of D/s. A submissive cannot fail. They are simply following the direction of the Dom, and if a wrong road is taken, if there is a crash, if insufficient energy is supplied and attention not paid to details; it falls upon the Dom to accept responsibility for the failure to communicate and lead the way to safety.

During a 150k-200k stage race, the average professional cyclist burns 1,000 calories per hour, for a race that takes 4-6 painful hours to complete. The body though can only process an average of 1,500 calories during that time, so in order to maintain weight, they need to consume, on average, 8,000 calories a day. Hydration is even more important, with an average of 1 Liter of fluid every hour of racing. The monitoring of proper nutrition is the ultimate responsibility of the directeur sportif, who uses the radio, feed zones, domestiques and soigneurs to direct a mobile dining service and support staff that is moving at 40k an hour on the flat, and up to 80k downhill.

If we equate a D/s relationship to a team race, then the more control the Dom exerts, the less likely mistakes will be made in terms of feeding the power exchange. The submissive role is as a domestique. They are the ones who ride at the front, providing shelter from the wind and other riders, fetching bidons and food from the the team car, pacing their leader around road furniture, over long flat roads and up steep hills and snow capped mountains. The domestiques sacrifice their own ambitions, energy, even their own bikes if needed, in order to support their leader and give him/her the best chance to win. One-by-one they ride, until they can barely pedal another stroke, the entire team keeping their leader at the front, dropping off when spent.

Sounds kind of one-sided doesn’t it?

Sort of how most people view the entire concept of Dominance and submission. All about foot rubs and peeled grapes: lounging around while your frightened servant scurries to meet your every deviant whim and dark desire. Demanding obscene sexual favors constantly, and then, when not satisfied with the effort, spanking and punishing until the submissive is broken and left at the side of the road while the Dom cruises arrogantly past in cushy splendor and comfort.

In any human endeavor you will find people who abuse their authority, who punish unjustly, who only care about themselves and even seek to destroy for the sheer joy of inflicting terror upon the innocent. I will never justify D/s that is all about gratifying the Dom’s desires and ignoring the submissive’s needs.

That is not being a team leader. That is not winning. That is not about celebrating the tight bonds of love and respect developed over time through hard work and constant training. Like in cycling, or another sport, or writing a novel, there is no substitute for effort. Nothing in life comes easy, least of all an intimate relationship built around the bottom and the willing heart.

A D/s relationship lasts a lot longer than three weeks, and takes an incredible amount of energy to get through each and every day. We may quail at the thought of being responsible for another person who gives us their complete trust, but when we agree to act as a team, to selflessly support the other partner, to see to their comfort first and ride together against the world; then that steep mountain pass doesn’t seem so daunting after all.

Guilty as Charged

This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is, the year 2517. Last week’s story, Black Holes Tango, could very well be set in 2517. I wanted to write about something else this week though. It’s about the timeless themes of sex and spanking. No matter where the human race is in 500 years, I am confident that some things will never change. The photo belongs to Jillian Marks at The Deluge in a Paper Cup.

Photograph provided by and used with the permission of Jillian Marks

It taunts me. My eyes can’t stay away. I squirm; uncomfortable, the thin cushion on the kitchen chair brings no relief. I switch back, the blank white screen replaces the woman in the process of climaxing.

Typing the title, I smirk, guilty is something I know all too well. Gnawing on my lower lip, my free hand slips off the desk and drops to my jittery thigh. The dark growl stops me.
‘No touching. Hands where I can see them.’
I hunch my shoulders and make faces at the computer. I’m stubborn, but not stupid: He can’t see through my back. I think I’m beginning to regret awakening his dominance; although—I squirm again and sigh. I wish I’d kept my mouth shut, and hadn’t had that last glass of wine.

But damn it! How did he know to come back right then? I was this close to getting away with it. Another few minutes… I mean, come on, cheating on a bet that I couldn’t go 48-hours without masturbating isn’t the end of the world. Right? He was the one who suggested a spanking as forfeit. It’s all his fault. He knew I’d never had a real spanking before, and he knows full well that I can never resist tweaking the rules to suit me. It was a setup I tell you.

I denied everything of course. Even pulled out the feminine itch card, but, he showed me the video clip on his cell. Unzipped shorts, hand shoved deep inside, the wet squelching and breathy moans: Fine, guilty as charged.

The worst part wasn’t getting caught sticky-fingered. No, it was when he made a huge production of fetching a chair, sitting down and ordering me—ordering me, me—to lay over his knees and ask for my punishment!

He had the gall to write out a script and put it on the floor right in front of my nose, saying as he did so, he’d written it out yesterday! He patted my bottom, stroked my back, but refused to spank me until I read it out loud and begged.

‘Dear, Sir. I’m sorry I was a bad girl for masturbating without your permission. I agreed my orgasms belonged to you for 48-hours, and I was very naughty for trying to welsh on my wager. Per our agreement, my penalty is to be spanked over your knee. Please, Sir, spank your disobedient girl very hard, very long and make her sorry she challenged your authority. My bare bottom begs for your strong hand to teach it a lesson. Spank me hard, and turn my saucy bottom red and contrite.’

I was so humiliated—and turned on. I wanted to come before the spanking, and right afterwards. But he said I still had twelve hours to go. And, if I didn’t honestly write down everything I was feeling during my punishment, then the 48-hour denial of orgasm would start over at zero.

I didn’t want to cry: But I did. I didn’t want to acknowledge his right to discipline me: But I did. I can’t believe sitting on my sore butt hurts so much, but it feels so fucking good when I squirm.

I don’t want to reveal my true emotions in print. I don’t want to give him that kind of control. I don’t trust myself.

I flip back to my portrait. I love my expression. I grimace and want to pound my fists. I was this close!
What I really want is another spanking.
I wish I’d done this years ago.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 4)

His powerful kiss was filled with promise. I felt a cool band of metal slipped over my left ring finger, assuming it was a token of our engagement and not some trick. I could not in fact see my hands from my restrained posture. “You may call me, Sir, in public; my Christian name is Chester. I give you leave to address me as such in private moments.” As I celebrated my swift ascension from desperate orphan to a wealthy wife-to-be, my future husband was announcing the news to Mrs. Cleanknockers and Miss Frothinglips. A shadow lay upon their smiles.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 3)

Mr. Jones-Smyth seized my chin forcing my dry eyes to meet his no-nonsense glare. “Ruby, whether you will or won’t play the whore, you are not such a creature in my esteem. My offer is legitimate and comes with generous settlements for both you and our children. I will not tolerate a poor attitude towards self and will swiftly punish you when you err. Obedience brings pleasure: nor will I neglect your desire for pain. I await your answer.” I’d undergone a sea change since arriving at Peacock House. “Yes, I will be your wife—gladly will I obey you.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 2)

I discovered that afternoon he was an accomplished whip. The tufted end snapped my bare buttocks with stinging kisses. Cracking with sharp explosive power, the leather tip danced a painful random path all around while I apologized for my stupidity. I screeched, as for the finale, he laid a searing line of fire down the center of my crack, the final whipping placed as a direct bulls-eye upon my pooched bunghole. I momentarily lost my breath at the cut—it quickly turned to a numb ache. As best I good I rotated my hips and waggled my tail for more.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 1)

Gentle Reader: My head was topsy-turvy: Of course, since I was trussed as a plucked holiday fowl for carving, the rushing sensation was likely blood draining from my extremities. You would be excused for thinking that—sans an apple in my mouth—my nude form resembled a basted porcine instead of a goose, but my mind was razor sharp. So, I stammered a bit and insulted Mr. Jones-Smyth by questioning his sincerity. “You what? I mean… how… why? Are you sure? I thought you bought me… to use and be trained as a whore?” He demonstrated his displeasure quite succinctly.

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

Flashback Friday: “Sometimes I doubt my sanity”

This week’s Flashback Friday was originally posted, March 23rd, 2010.

Listening to Pink is a mistake: when you’re in a bar at closing time. What she can sing about is not what I should say when I’ve been drinking since ten the previous night. Why drink? Hell, it’s not like I like the taste. But the freedom it offers. Haven’t you always wanted to say whatever the fuck you wanted to whomever you wanted whenever you wanted? Like it’s the buzz, the release of that nattering nanny – aka Mommy Dearest – who is always telling you to keep your knees together and your underwear clean. Hey bitch! I don’t wear underwear anymore! So there! I drink because I’m a powerful modern woman who takes no prisoners. Gurls rock! I LOVE YOU PINK! OK. Hangovers suck. Especially since all my BFFs have betrayed the code and gotten married to “He’s so sweet and nice and so romantic.” Fuck you! I don’t need you to hold my hair back. Rubber bands work just fine. I don’t need romance and flowers and hearts carved in trees. If I want sex, I take it. No man has ever turned me down I’ll have you know. I use them and toss them back into that cesspool known as dating. I don’t date. I fuck. I fuck in the day, at night; whenever and wherever I want. I can’t believe they busted me for public indecency! Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve blown over half the cops in this crappy town and now they suddenly get all righteous on my ass? WTF? Hey! I got a great ass if I do say so myself and I do say so myself even if it’s currently parked in the slammer between a hooker and a druggie. Excuse me? Alcohol is legal and so is sex: the last time I checked it was still a free country. Everyone has sex but everyone acts like the biggest frigging prudish hypocrite when they actually see something sexual going down. Did I mention I like going down? Please. Like any guy would turn down a blow job from a smoking hot chick like moi. That’s french for ‘me’ in case you were wondering. I am an international woman of mystery. But I wouldn’t blow Austin Powers on a dare. Five hundred? Maybe. Fine. I’m picky, so sue me. It’s not like I’m desperate or anything. We are way off the beaten path in this podunk excuse for a community, but there are still enough guys, married or otherwise to go around. Believe you me, they get around, I have the pictures to prove it. Did someone say pictures? I meant memories. I would never stoop to shooting a porno flick. I mean I could, I am a dynamic sex goddess even if my name isn’t Crystal Kneepads, but you know, making money off my body doesn’t seem right. Food and drinks are good, jewelry and gift cards are better, but straight cash seems tawdry and cheap. Sorry if that pisses you off honey but I like to choose my partners. Really? Judge Myers? He does what? That pervert! I can’t believe it! What? It beats a couple of years upstate? How many times have you… that many? Why do you keep coming back? You like it? WTF? Why would anyone like to be spanked? Cause it feels good? OK. If you say so. Damn. I have got to get outta here. Stuck in jail with bimbos who like to get spanked by a judge in lieu of prison time. That’s french for ‘you’re fucked so bend over and take what’s coming to you’. Oh well. I guess it’s better than being some dykes bitch. Maybe Judge Myers would accept a blow job instead. Haven’t done him yet. Always thought he was kinda creepy. Who knew?

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 Complete

After the cliffhanger at the end of this 3,000 word post, the next thrilling chapter seven will commence shortly. In the meantime, click the link for the Bumhampton Chronicles, to be transported back in time and the beginning of Ruby’s erotic adventures: All 18,854 words. Just a reminder that my next spanking newsletter will be posted June 1st at Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction.

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.

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.

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 throbbed. “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.”

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.”

“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.

“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.

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.

“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 cruel 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!”

“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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

My blood boiled, but Miss Frothinglips coyly winked at me and stood aside. “Ruby!” Mr. Jones-Smyth crossed the floor with a bound and took my gloved hands. “You look splendid!” Startled by her wink and his enthusiasm, my emotions underwent a rapid metamorphosis. I could not help but relax and smile in return when he kissed my fingers. “Are you going out?” His face was open and honest. I would have spoken had not Mrs. Cleanknockers raised the curtain and lit the footlights. “Good afternoon, sir, may I presume you’ve concluded your negotiations with his lordship?” A fraught silence ensued.

She gave a ‘significant’ stare towards me when he balked. “May I see the contract, sir?” Noticing his hesitation, I smiled with an encouraging nod. A very thoughtful mien appeared after he finally noticed all the various apparatuses visible, then, at the three women who surrounded him like hounds baying at a fox. Focusing his honey-gold orbs upon my flushed cheeks, he asked in a stern voice, “Ruby? What mischief have you been up to?” I lowered my head in demure fashion. “I’d rather not say, sir.” He harrumphed at my reticence. “That, Ruby, I do not believe.” Paper rustled.

“Our contract, ma’am.” A brief hiatus while they conferred. Miss Frothinglips took advantage by whispering in my ear. “He is quite handsome, despite being in trade. I’ll bet he’s a great fuck.” We clashed. Unspoken words sliced as sharpest steel. Gauntlets and hilts locked in upright stances; she leaned in and kissed me firmly, whispering once more. “Louisa is not the only trained girl here, Ruby.” My world spun. I no longer could pretend I understood the many interlocking relationships at Peacock House. Everything existed on another plane. “Very well, sir, all is in order,” Mrs. Cleanknockers broke our combat.

“This room, Mr. Jones-Smyth, serves as our infirmary and intake for new hires.” Mrs. Cleanknockers gestured at each area. “Ruby has already been processed, two days ago, but insisted she needed to capture your attention—” He interrupted, “—She already has.” I fell instantly in love. “Be that as it may: Ruby is in need of severe training. She thought it instructive, for you, to witness her chastisement. Miss Frothinglips will assist me. Please, make yourself comfortable, sir.” So, my denouement began once more. I was already wet and swollen. No resistance from me, as they removed my garments.

I could not match the heat in his gaze as my raiment fell like amber leaves in a storm. He’d seen me nude in his lordship’s library, but being stripped for his pleasure felt decadent and wicked beyond belief. I desperately yearned for his approval and, unbidden, locked hands behind my head when silky drawers pooled around my feet like fresh fallen snow. From a distance, I heard Mrs. Cleanknockers invite him forward. His large calloused hands lifted my chin: thumbs stroked my dry lips and tugged my mouth open. He peered at my teeth; I stuck out my tongue.

“As you see, Mr. Jones-Smyth,” Mrs. Cleanknocker’s stated as he ran his fingers down my flanks, “Ruby is healthy and sound of both limb and mind.” I breathed out heavily when he lifted my bosom and plucked the taut nipples with a thoughtful expression. “Has she had any breast training yet? No? I wish to elongate her teats so that she is able to wear pierced ornaments.” I shivered—not from cold. After I finished displaying my dexterity, I sat on the examination table and eagerly lay back spreading my knees wide. “As you can plainly see, lubrication is copious.”

My lips were pulled apart by two sets of feminine fingers. “As certified in your contract, sir, you have purchased a virgin for your exclusive use. You may share her at your discretion: please be advised, Ruby has a taste for quims.” My hips squirmed as I felt his thick finger slide inside, his thumb rubbing my hard clit. “I plan to cultivate Ruby’s wanton nature—both in Sapphic terms and in cock stands—so that she will be an asset to my business.” I lifted my head and stared open-mouthed at him. “Yes, Ruby, I have need of you.”

Now on my stomach, my buttocks were massaged and teased until I could not help but lift up and present in mounting position. An oiled digit penetrated my rosette. “This entrance shall be reserved for me, Mrs. Cleanknockers,” Mr. Jones-Smyth ordered. “After she is broken to saddle, I may allow artificial female stimulation, but the only cock to bugger her, will be mine.” I clenched his finger. In response, he probed deeper and twirled as if seeking an oracle reading. “Make a note: Daily enemas.” While Mrs. Cleanknockers prepared the first sudsy solution, she conferred with him in low tones.

I was startled, when after filled with warm water in my rectum, a greased plug was inserted and he lifted my left leg. I was shocked, when Miss Frothinglips knelt beside the table and pressed her lips to my soaked pussy. I came in an instant. She licked and sucked, tongue delving and teeth nibbling as orgasm after orgasm washed as my tummy gurgled and cramped. Gritting my teeth, I stumbled to the loo: Poised over the bowl, Mrs. Cleanknockers tugged the plug. I gushed. Upon my return, Miss Frothinglips was still kneeling—Mr. Jones-Smyth’s cock was down her throat.

Conventional propriety would have me flying and rending her coiffure in jealous rage. In truth, I felt pride at his mastery of such a well-bred female brought down to my level. Lying on my side, as the second enema was administered I watched with avid admiration as his cock was daintily swallowed by the prim Miss Frothinglips. “Promise me you will teach me how,” I asked all present. She paused for breath. “I am but priming your man’s charger, Ruby.” I touched her arm. “I am not upset, Miss Frothinglips, but in fact, in awe of your decorum and skill.”

We decamped from the Infirmary, and traipsed naked—me only—through the bustling halls to the Gun Room. Unsure of what to do, I was surprised by Mr. Jones-Smyth’s embrace and passionate kisses. I returned his ardor in equal measure, rising on tiptoe when his hands gripped my ample buttocks. “Your steed awaits,” Mrs. Cleanknockers said with a sweeping gesture, when we at last unlocked our lips. He gallantly escorted me to the pommel, and tenderly helped me as I clumsily mounted for the first time. Each restraint was carefully explained, and both of them helped him bind me securely.

“Before you—we—commence flogging Ruby,” he said with grave intent, “I wish a moment of privacy.” Both Mrs. Cleanknockers and Miss Frothinglips acquiesced and departed. The soft thud of the tufted leather paneled door seemed portentous. I craned my head. “Do not strain, dear one.” Mr. Jones-Smyth knelt on a knee so that our eyes were level. “I would understand your confusion, Ruby, and we have much to discuss, but I crave you listen.” I widened my eyes and nodded. “We have only short acquaintance, yet I feel such comfort and respect for you. Ruby, will you marry me?”

Black Holes Tango

out past the halo
where the comets
do roam
out past the halo
where the cold
froze your bones
radiation will fry you
when the light
fades away
so come through the door
take your helmet
off here

so raise your glass high boys
for black holes
and beer
raise your glass high
for a ship
called desire
drink down that liquor
before you return
to that ship
called desire
and the black holes
of home

out past the belt
where the rocks
do tumble
out past the belt
where the ice
breaks in shards
gravity will grab you
when the asteroids
spin by
so come through the door
take your helmet
off here

so raise your glass high boys
for black holes
and beer
raise your glass high
for a ship
called desire
drink down that liquor
before you return
to that ship
called desire
and the black holes
of home

Lolo Black raised her tankard high, enthusiastically belting out the lyrics to Black Holes and a Ship called Desire—the unofficial anthem of the space station Delphi Blue. The stark filtered light from the gas giant Atlas cut a wide beam through O’Mara’s Pub. She took a long pull of the spicy ale. Alcohol was the third most important thing she missed while on a run to the asteroid belt.

Her cargo of ores sold and off-loaded, she’d docked several hours ago after six months mining in the absolute desolation of space. A room, a shower, clean jumpersuit; the first need taken care of, she was hunting for the second of her priorities. After wearing her fingers out watching porn holos, her body craved real skin wrapped around deep inside. Lolo had five weeks to kill: mandatory rest for licensed pilots, enforced through regular medical exams and strict exercise programs.

“How’s my favorite intersex employee doing?”
“I’m not your employee,” she replied with rote indifference to the ritual pitch.
Sven, all seven feet of ebony muscle, straddled the other chair at her small table. “Just say the word, babe, and I’ll sign you up with a brand new Mark Twelve freighter and even take your tub in trade.”
The Satin Rose is not for sale, Sven. All I want from you is a good hard fucking.”
“You know I never mix business with pleasure,” he regretfully said.
“I don’t regret turning you down… again. I’ll never work for that asshole Atlas. It’s bad enough he named the planet after himself, but his wife Delphi swans around as if she’s Queen and we’re peasants.”

Whatever Sven would have said in response was lost in the low rumble of hackles raised by the rough spacers guarding their turf.
Lolo didn’t snarl, only because she was too shocked by the temerity of the intruder. “What the fuck is a Sector 8 cop doing in O’Mara’s?”
Sven swiveled giving an amused snort. “That’s Crandall Memphis, Atlas’ nephew and troubleshooter: Emphasis on shooter. He’s here with a squad of Greenies hunting pirates jacking comets.”
She finished off her ale with a gulp, the dregs burning her tongue. “I was going to hook up with Crazy Pete, but I do like the cut of Crandall’s… epaulets.”
“Lolo…” Sven growled. “Don’t fuck with Atlas. I like you. You’re the best miner in this parsec, but there are limits to even my protection.”
She leaned across and kissed his forehead. “Thanks for the warning, grandpa, but I can handle my liquor and my sex partners.”

“There you are, Crandall,” Lolo cut through the tension like an arclaze, deftly slipping her arm around the cop’s waist and squeezing with warning. The other miners reluctantly eased back a fraction. She bent her head down and playfully nipped his left ear while hissing softly beneath the implied threats. “I’m sure your body armor can repel a needler, but a shiv to the throat will kill you just the same.
“I’m missed you so much! I can’t believe you came all this way for me!” Lolo kissed him with apparent enthusiasm, swiftly extracting him from danger.

Once safely into the crowd on Concourse J, she blasted him for his stupidity. “What the fuck were you doing, going solo into that place? Didn’t they teach you anything in cop school?”
“I had the situation under control, miss…”
“Name’s Lolo. Lolo Black. And pardon my attitude, but you’re full of shit. Those boys and girls back there would have had you out an airlock before your uncle could sneeze a credit. There are places on this station police don’t go, unless it’s been exposed to hard vacuum for a cycle first; and even then, they go in powered.”

Crandall stumbled as the directional station jets made a minute adjustment.
“Great,” Lolo snarled. “Dirtside cop no less. Let me guess. First time away from mommy’s tit.”
He snarled back. “Watch your mouth, Lolo, or I’ll toss you in the brig with the rest of the users.”
She grabbed his utility belt and mashed up against his stocky frame. “I doubt you have the balls to even frisk me. Too scared you might get bit.” She kissed him again, this time forcing her tongue between his angry lips and sliding one hand around to fondle his broad butt.
Crandall gave it right back, dueling for supremacy like two characters in a low budget space opera. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily as he said, “I don’t know what your game is, Lolo, but I’m on duty.”
“My game? It’s simple. You’re seeking information on pirate activity, and I’m horny. You figure out how to scratch my itch and I’ll give it up. You do know how to conduct an interrogation, don’t you?”
She saw a smug grin as he crossed his arms. “In your case, I’m going to start with a body search. A very thorough and deep search.”
Lolo instantly shivered, placing her hands behind her back. “My room is 3854-V Deck 12, officer. I’m sorry I sassed you. Please don’t cuff me and take me in, I’ll do anything you say, just don’t hurt me.”
The buzz of the active manacles around her crossed wrists caused her cock to stiffen and pussy to flood. When he threatened to punish her disobedient ass with a hard spanking, her nipples almost punched through her skintight clothing.

He maneuvered her into the closest alcove activating the opaque security field. “You must really think I’m stupid, if you expect me to traipse off to your room without checking you for weapons first.”
“No, sir, you’re not stupid. You’re a hard, mean bastard who likes to abuse his prisoners.”
“You got a really smart mouth, don’t you?” He punctuated the sneering remark with two hard smacks to her bottom. When she yelped in surprise, he gripped her nape and firmly pressed her forehead to the wall. “I can think of a better use for your tongue, but for now, spread ‘em nice and wide, Lolo. I’ll show you how a real cop frisks his prisoner.”
She moaned as she thrust her hips out and widened her stance into a Y-shape. Her fantasy was about to come true. He started with her boots, pulling them off and tossing aside with a double thud. He used his right hand to slid up each leg to the upper thigh while the left was anchored in the small of her back. Skipping her waist—for now—he ran his fingers through her buzz cut, then around the collar, shoulders and each cuffed arm down to the fingernails.
Lolo wiggled when she felt his engorged groin against her ass. “Please, sir, I’m not hiding anything. Don’t use your probe on me, I’ll be good.”
“The thing is,” he said, placing both hands on her stomach and slowly moving them upwards, “I was in the bar because I heard scuttlebutt that a certain miner was involved in illegal activities.” He cupped her loose breasts and squeezed gently, then pinched both nipples. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“What? I’m clean! That filthy Atlas is behind it I guarantee! You outta bust him!”
“Settle down, Lolo, I didn’t say I believed them—or my uncle.” He increased the pressure with his thumbs and forefingers until she gasped and struggled to stand upright.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
“Not so fast!” Crandall warned, releasing her tight nipples and swiftly spanking her again.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
“I need to finish frisking you.” He slipped his hands between her thighs and prodded everywhere. “Wet and hard. I must have won the lottery.” He laughed as she arched her back and lifted her rump to his teasing fingers. “No weapons that I can feel, Lolo, but I’m taking you to your room anyway for a cavity search. Pirates can’t be trusted.”
She nearly came at his words. Completely humiliated, she did come as he escorted her, still cuffed and barefooted, through the public halls to her lodging.

When they finally reached her domicile, he asked, “I’m curious. Are you a natural intersex, or a genmod?”
Lolo gave Crandall an incredulous stare. “Are you insane?”
He shrugged. “Hey, I am conducting a serious interrogation here. The question is germane considering it’s thought to be stabilizing in deep space pilots.”
“I thought this was only role play sex?”
“Then let me ask you. If this was a date, finding out in mid-grope wouldn’t be very polite, not to mention dangerous, now wouldn’t it?”
She nodded reluctantly.
“And, not to kill the mood entirely, I’m deadly serious about tracking pirates, so if you have relevant information, I’m willing to deal fairly.”
Leaning against the bulkhead, Lolo pondered his offer then flapped her hands and jerked her head. “I can’t deactivate the palm lock with my hands behind my back.”
“Are you going to behave if I release you?”
“That depends. What will you do if I cause trouble?”
He lightly tapped her chin. “I’ll strip you naked, put you over my knee, spank you hard until you’re bright red, then spread you open on my lap and conduct a deep cavity search for contraband.”
Lolo shuddered and whispered through a suddenly dry throat. “Sounds fair to me.” She spun around and flexed her restrained wrists.
Waiting a heartbeat or two, he buzzed the release. The cuffs unlocked and retracted into the magnetic control wand.
“Thanks.”
Placing her left palm on the pad and staring straight ahead at the optical scanner, it was only a moment before the light durasteel panel slid sideways and she stepped through the opening. She sensed him following, and once the door closed, pivoted as if to say something. She threw a punch instead.
Crandall wasn’t fooled for an instant. He blocked her attempt and hooking her foot, turned and threw her over his shoulder onto the bed. She bounced once, quickly regaining her equilibrium, but before she could resume hand-to-hand combat Crandall asked, “Best two out of three falls?”
Growling, her response was to launch herself like a plasma jet at the smirking cop. He met her head-on and smoothly danced her around and off the sparse furniture until pinning her face down and ass up on the floor.
“Do you yield and accept your punishment?”
She grunted and strained but he only tightened his clasp. “Yes, I yield, you bastard.”
“That’s Sir Bastard, if you please.” He released her and backed away, and in a no-nonsense tone ordered, “Strip.”
A shivery shudder racked her entire body. Slowing standing, she toyed with front fastener at her cleavage. Biting her lip, she had the audacity to say, “Do I at least get music for my striptease?”
Crandall quirked his brow: She took that as a yes and activated the player. The thumping club mix raised her pulse even higher and she started swaying and twirling as her jumpersuit fell open down to her crotch. Shrugging out of the long sleeves, she shimmied her hips and with a deft flick of her foot, kicked the garment straight at Crandall. Catching it cleanly, he smiled and carefully folded it up, setting it aside.
Lolo was naked underneath: she hated wearing undergarments on station. Six months of confining survival gear made her want to go nude constantly. Still dancing, she let her erection lead the way.
Snuggling up to him, she traced his uniform with her fingertips, eventually cupping his tumescence. “I can’t wait to have this bad boy inside me,” she crooned. “I bet mine is bigger though. I got the best when I had it implanted—though, I love my pussy too.”
“Later, Lolo,” he said, rubbing her bottom. “But first, this has a date over my knee.”
“Do I have to?” she pouted, nibbling his neck.
“Yes, I’m not done with your interrogation.”
“Meanie.”
“I’m an amoral abusive dirtside cop remember?”
“Sorry.”
“You will be.”

She was. Dangling over his knees, ass on fire as Crandall did a beat down to the rhythm of the staccato syncopation blaring from the speakers, Lolo wanted the spanking to be harder and faster. Pain was a pilot’s constant companion and this was more cleansing than punishing. She did a lap dance, grinding her tummy and twerking her hips as his hard hand rained slaps on her tenderized flesh. When he finally stopped, she finally unclenched her glutes and slumped limply. She felt her nerves pulsing, the surface sting subsiding and the muscle soreness building. A couple of more minutes and she knew she’d climax under his spanking.
Coaxing her into a different posture, she blushed as bright as she presumed her butt must look. “What are you doing now?”
“This, my naughty pirate, is called the wheelbarrow position. Something us grubby dirtsiders use on our farms. It’s time,” the loud snap of gloves being donned. “For your cavity search.”
Lolo moaned as if she was being tortured. “No! I’ll come if you probe me. Please fuck me instead. I’m sorry I sassed you.”
Crandall didn’t respond, instead, running his slick protected fingers around her labia then wedging his thumbs between her stretched thighs and prying open her soaked entrance. “I see you enjoyed being spanked,” as he let go and grabbed Lolo’s hard cock. Giving it a quick wank, he rubbed the tip as clear fluid seeped. “Must be a trip to come both ways.”
Lolo thought he sounded wistful, but all pretense of control fled when he slowly, carefully, slipped two fingers into her pulsating vagina: all the while maintaining a steady pumping of her cock. “You’re going to make me come!”
He withdrew his wet fingers and slapped her twice on her brick red bottom. “Don’t you dare come without permission or I’ll whip you with my belt!”
Wailing in protest, she tried to control her urges, but his thick, nimble fingers pressed wide and twirled inside. She felt a spasm in her testes, and he clamped down hard on her shaft.
“Don’t… come…”
Panting now as he edged her over and over, she lost all track of time; the pending climax stretched out as if nearing light speed. Only dimly did she hear him say, ‘last orifice’ and the snap of a fresh glove. Her pussy felt empty, but not for long, as he let go of her cock and placed his thumb on her clit.
A faint, guttural, inhuman tone she didn’t recognize as emanating from her mouth, occurred as one, and then two fingers slid inexorably through her anus. She clenched her rectum, hard, and let out a strangled scream as they rotated and scraped the flexible inner walls.
Lolo stopped breathing entirely as Crandall jabbed back into her vagina and made a sandwich of his hands, the fingers rubbing against each other through the thin membrane separating her passages.
“I can’t stop….” screaming hoarsely and bucking violently as the long denied orgasm ruptured her senses.
Crandall yanked his fingers out of her ass, shed the glove and while she was still convulsing in the throes of climax, briskly milked her cock. It wasn’t long until Lolo ejaculated and shot all over the floor.

When she came to, Crandall was washing his hands and face and quietly speaking on his com. “I’ll be there in a few. Secure the scene.”
Groggily, Lolo was able to ask, “Where the hell are you going? Aren’t we having sex?”
“I’ll be back in three hours, or so.”
“What?”
“I told you. I’m on duty.”
He tossed her a salute and left.

The sound of her boots hitting the door was probably heard in outer space.

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

In case you were wondering, yes, I did write the song at the beginning. Nine years and a few weeks ago to be precise, but I never had a story to match until this prompt. In addition, the title is not a typo: Holes is correct. You may interpret that in any way you’d like. This story is a lot longer than I planned, and is not flash fiction since I took three days to write and edited quite a bit. It’s closer to what I would write for a submission call or novella concept than a blog post. I’d call it a rough quasi-draft at this point.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 30)

“Before you—we—commence flogging Ruby,” he said with grave intent, “I wish a moment of privacy.” Both Mrs. Cleanknockers and Miss Frothinglips acquiesced and departed. The soft thud of the tufted leather paneled door seemed portentous. I craned my head. “Do not strain, dear one.” Mr. Jones-Smyth knelt on a knee so that our eyes were level. “I would understand your confusion, Ruby, and we have much to discuss, but I crave you listen.” I widened my eyes and nodded. “We have only short acquaintance, yet I feel such comfort and respect for you. Ruby, will you marry me?”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 29)

We decamped from the Infirmary, and traipsed naked—me only—through the bustling halls to the Gun Room. Unsure of what to do, I was surprised by Mr. Jones-Smyth’s embrace and passionate kisses. I returned his ardor in equal measure, rising on tiptoe when his hands gripped my ample buttocks. “Your steed awaits,” Mrs. Cleanknockers said with a sweeping gesture, when we at last unlocked our lips. He gallantly escorted me to the pommel, and tenderly helped me as I clumsily mounted for the first time. Each restraint was carefully explained, and both of them helped him bind me securely.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 28)

Conventional propriety would have me flying and rending her coiffure in jealous rage. In truth, I felt pride at his mastery of such a well-bred female brought down to my level. Lying on my side, as the second enema was administered I watched with avid admiration as his cock was daintily swallowed by the prim Miss Frothinglips. “Promise me you will teach me how,” I asked all present. She paused for breath. “I am but priming your man’s charger, Ruby.” I touched her arm. “I am not upset, Miss Frothinglips, but in fact, in awe of your decorum and skill.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 27)

I was startled, when after filled with warm water in my rectum, a greased plug was inserted and he lifted my left leg. I was shocked, when Miss Frothinglips knelt beside the table and pressed her lips to my soaked pussy. I came in an instant. She licked and sucked, tongue delving and teeth nibbling as orgasm after orgasm washed as my tummy gurgled and cramped. Gritting my teeth, I stumbled to the loo: Poised over the bowl, Mrs. Cleanknockers tugged the plug. I gushed. Upon my return, Miss Frothinglips was still kneeling—Mr. Jones-Smyth’s cock was down her throat.

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

Flashback Friday: “Perhaps a spanking wouldn’t be the worst thing…”

This week’s Flashback Friday, originally posted Jan 15th, 2010.

Not that she really wanted a spanking. They hurt, especially the paddle when swung with purpose from behind by a stern man determined to enforce the rules on her bare bottom. Rules she’d suggested, rules she bent, twisted, spindled and ignored whenever she knew he wasn’t aware. Somehow though, his naughty radar always found out her transgressions and very shortly afterwords, she would be bent over, naked from the waist down and be punished until he decided the redness fit the crime. It wasn’t a crime to smoke, or cuss, or be late, or… any of the hundreds of rules both significant and petty she’d drawn up over a period of weeks in a fit of determination followed by frantic backsliding. Too bad he wouldn’t budge, not an inch, not one single stroke pulled in the name of mercy. She wanted spanking, she demanded spanking: Far be it for him to go back on his word. She knew his word was bond, but did he have to be so perfect? Couldn’t a girl mess up just once without a sore bottom the result? Evidently not.

Forgetting the mail was one thing, forgetting to pick up the kids after school was not acceptable. Before dinner, the children doing the normal electronic immersion it was off to the woodshed and a date with the following: A padded sawhorse, leather restraints, rubber bit and a three-tailed tawse due to impact one hundred times. Still… when she’d realized she’d forgotten and rushed off to the school only to find her children gone, her terror and shame were more painful than any spanking he could ever inflict. The look in eyes when he’d brought them home: She wanted to crawl away and hide. Strapped face down, completely nude, nipples clamped and butt plugged, she looked forward to the scorching stripes about to decorate her bottom. Maybe, just maybe, this time ‘it’ would finally kick in and she’d change for good. If not… well, there was always the cane.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 26)

Now on my stomach, my buttocks were massaged and teased until I could not help but lift up and present in mounting position. An oiled digit penetrated my rosette. “This entrance shall be reserved for me, Mrs. Cleanknockers,” Mr. Jones-Smyth ordered. “After she is broken to saddle, I may allow artificial female stimulation, but the only cock to bugger her, will be mine.” I clenched his finger. In response, he probed deeper and twirled as if seeking an oracle reading. “Make a note: Daily enemas.” While Mrs. Cleanknockers prepared the first sudsy solution, she conferred with him in low tones.

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

Falling shards of Memory

we fell,
like ripe plums the color of a bruised heart left to rot
in resentment
thirty years since
we tumbled
into lust with the hubris of youth stoked with weed
the only sentient beings ever to discover
parts fit perfectly
until we blew apart like a super heated nova
of jealousy and grade point averages
all around people swirl like bees
dancing in a hive
come and go hauling wobbly pieces of themselves
from gate to plane back to reality
shining livery adorned with emerald and ruby
jewels winking in the soft summer air
of remembrance and recognition
the lope and the bounce
mind recoils seeing the bodies and faces
of long lost friends
lined with life like a faded treasure map
of retired pirates
not unlike the expressions ignored daily
in the mirror of time
we embrace
her first the taut curves softened yet hands
provide tactile memory of bottom over knee
reddened flesh bouncing under brush
gentle social hug ignites fire kept banked
his body next wider somehow shorter but still tight
the quirked lip and sparkled eyes unchanged
like tissue paper boats
the intervening years dissolve to when we girls
compared marks and orgasms
slaves to his devious dominance
we chat
introduce my husband pulse racing his gaze both
knowing and concerned tinged with hurt
it was supposed to be simple
but meeting old flames threatened to undo me
so
I surrendered
after dinner explained to him who they were and
why after three decades the pull was still strong
they met and talked while we nattered about
our kids and menopause and gravity
summoned to their room
two strong men awaited
grim demanding explanations
we stammered
they laughed and slapped each others backs
then ordered us to our knees
online for years planned our submission
and discipline in secret
devious Doms are the worst
and the best
we sucked
hard cocks jutting from jeans
arms behind our backs
cuffed and swapped
groaning as our hair fisted
and mouths filled with thick cream
ass up as they flog me
my tongue buried in familiar pussy
the taste makes me cry for wasted years
they hug me
we fuck
in every combination that four can conjure
the steady roar of jets slowly fade as the world sleeps
decide to blow off the reunion
in favor of room service and debauched sex
of willing slaves
we grin

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 25)

My lips were pulled apart by two sets of feminine fingers. “As certified in your contract, sir, you have purchased a virgin for your exclusive use. You may share her at your discretion: please be advised, Ruby has a taste for quims.” My hips squirmed as I felt his thick finger slide inside, his thumb rubbing my hard clit. “I plan to cultivate Ruby’s wanton nature—both in Sapphic terms and in cock stands—so that she will be an asset to my business.” I lifted my head and stared open-mouthed at him. “Yes, Ruby, I have need of you.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 24)

“As you see, Mr. Jones-Smyth,” Mrs. Cleanknocker’s stated as he ran his fingers down my flanks, “Ruby is healthy and sound of both limb and mind.” I breathed out heavily when he lifted my bosom and plucked the taut nipples with a thoughtful expression. “Has she had any breast training yet? No? I wish to elongate her teats so that she is able to wear pierced ornaments.” I shivered—not from cold. After I finished displaying my dexterity, I sat on the examination table and eagerly lay back spreading my knees wide. “As you can plainly see, lubrication is copious.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 23)

I could not match the heat in his gaze as my raiment fell like amber leaves in a storm. He’d seen me nude in his lordship’s library, but being stripped for his pleasure felt decadent and wicked beyond belief. I desperately yearned for his approval and, unbidden, locked hands behind my head when silky drawers pooled around my feet like fresh fallen snow. From a distance, I heard Mrs. Cleanknockers invite him forward. His large calloused hands lifted my chin: thumbs stroked my dry lips and tugged my mouth open. He peered at my teeth; I stuck out my tongue.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 22)

“This room, Mr. Jones-Smyth, serves as our infirmary and intake for new hires.” Mrs. Cleanknockers gestured at each area. “Ruby has already been processed, two days ago, but insisted she needed to capture your attention—” He interrupted, “—She already has.” I fell instantly in love with him. “Be that as it may: Ruby is in need of severe training. She thought it instructive, for you, to witness her chastisement. Miss Frothinglips will assist me. Please, make yourself comfortable, sir.” So, my denouement began once more. I was already wet and swollen. No resistance from me, as they removed my garments.

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

Flashback Friday: “The hand does not make you down”*

This week’s Flashback Friday, was originally posted Nov 29th, 2009.

*An American football term

The CLANG reverberated through the house. Charles glanced up with irritation from his magazine. Tsao was still in a snit over his decision to attend the business conference without her. He’d made no promises when they’d gotten married soon after meeting in Singapore. Returning to London with exotic wife in tow had been met with great surprise, but Tsao soon won over his most jaded companions. Compliant and eager, she was also twenty years younger than him and her drive was based on a modern ethos he had grown rich from, but had never been a part of before.

After seven months together he smiled whenever he thought of her golden skin flushing as she came with wild shudders. But lately; she’d withdrawn subtly. He tried the usual bribes [furs, jewels, cars] to no avail. Even fronting her fashion line failed to tame the widening schism. Tonight the loud noises from the kitchen drew a scowl on his lined face. Enough was enough.

Entering the kitchen fully prepared for a calm adult conversation, he was stunned to see the carnage. Pots, pans, flour covering the granite counter tops: She’d destroyed the ambiance in her fury. “What the fuck is this?”

Tsao stared defiantly at her husband. “THIS! This is your fault, Charles! You ignore me and treat me as a piece of furniture! I am woman! Not some cheap whore trotted out for your lecherous associates.”

Charles burned with anger. Tsao went too far. Way too far. He lunged across the slick tile floors, grabbing her arm as she slapped at his hand. Dragging her as she shrilled oaths, he seized a wooden paddle off the damaged counter. Sitting down on a tall bar stool, his petite wife was no match for his dominance: Nor were her designer dress and panties any protection from his righteous rage.

This time, the hard smacking noises in the kitchen caused howls of anguish from the trapped woman. Her silken bottom quickly flared red as Charles pounded out his frustrations on her perfect orbs. “I should have done this on our first date!” he growled.

“I never would have come back if you had!” Tsao yelled back.

Charles’ response was a flurry of sharp pops causing high-pitched squeals and rapid kicking of dainty ankles. He didn’t stop spanking his wife until she was sobbing loudly and her bottom was the color of cardinal. Hanging limply, Tsao didn’t answer Charles when he asked her if she’d learned her lesson. He smacked her twice with his hand.

“Yes, Sir! I have learned my lesson. Please don’t spank me anymore.”

Charles picked up the paddle off her back and told her she was getting five more hard swats. She moaned, but didn’t resist his final punishing lesson. Charles was quite content with his actions and the grateful blowjob and sex that followed. Perhaps he would have reconsidered had he seen, later that evening, when in the privacy of the master bathroom, Tsao examined her bruised cheeks with pride. Her triumphant smile was schooled into fake fear when he called.

“Yes, Master. I’m coming.” Tsao winked in the mirror and softly clapped her hands in thanks to her ancestors.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 (Part 21)

“Our contract, ma’am.” A brief hiatus while they conferred. Miss Frothinglips took advantage by whispering in my ear. “He is quite handsome, despite being in trade. I’ll bet he’s a great fuck.” We clashed. Unspoken words sliced as sharpest steel. Gauntlets and hilts locked in upright stances; she leaned in and kissed me firmly, whispering once more. “Louisa is not the only trained girl here, Ruby.” My world spun. I no longer could pretend I understood the many interlocking relationships at Peacock House. Everything existed on another plane. “Very well, sir, all is in order.” Mrs. Cleanknockers broke our combat.

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

An arresting figure

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is ‘the arrest’. Corporal punishment and arrests have a long turbulent history that continues even today in many countries. The meme of a spanking by an officer of the law is a staple of spanking fiction. I’ve written several myself. The Perfect Costume is an erotic role play at Halloween that I posted Nov 1st, 2009. Another one is called Submission is about trust and was posted Sept 25th, 2009. The last one was When spanking meets the green-eyed monster posted on Sept 27th, 2009. The problem is for me, does writing about this topic validate the abuse of power that occurs all too frequently by law enforcement on a worldwide basis?

An interesting sidebar: I am currently reading How The Post Office Created America, and in chapter two, the author describes the penalties for stealing mail. The Post Office Act of 1792, imposed the death penalty for stealing mail, and was modified in 1799 to a sentence of forty lashes and imprisonment, but only for the first offense. The current penalty is fines and up to five years in prison.

The Sheriff of Nottingham was an unhappy soul. Robin Red Arse and his merry band of spankos were wreaking havoc on the King’s Men. Not content to best them in feats-of-arms, Robin insisted each defeated soldier was thrashed before being sent back to base in disgrace. Truth be told, he didn’t care about the knights and foot sloggers; nor about the fat clerics relieved of their butter dispensations, but this latest outrage was, well, an outrage. To think of the fate awaiting the fair Maid Marion. The scrumptious, delectable, alluring Marion—he swiped the drool from his lips. Presumably kidnapped—how else could such a delicious morsel of sweet curvaceous delight simply vanish? Even for Robin, this was a flog too far.

Disguised as a peasant, the Sheriff cut a surprisingly authentic one, he made his way through Nottingham Forest—picking up odd jobs, and intelligence along the ways. Slipping into the role of drovers’ assistant, he obtained entry to Robin’s encampment as the bawling oxen—likely ‘liberated’ from a nearby estate—were corralled for roasting later. The monthly fair was underway, but instead of puppet shows and wrestling, the centerpiece of entertainment was none other than the bodacious Marion.

Actually, her outrageous arse was. There was a sign above the whipping post—although pointless as the vast majority couldn’t read—that said in bold print, ‘Spank the maiden and feed a hungry child‘. What was shocking though, was not the bewitchingly nude Marion, hands shackled above her kerchief covered head, writhing while trying unsuccessfully to hide her abundant charms: It was the small troop of heavily armed King’s Guard who protected the personage of the duc d’Brittany. He was seated at a long table tabulating men and women as they passed, each time, writing in a ledger and amiably passing a silver bar to a laughing Robin next to him.

Seeing Friar Tuck tap a bung on a cask of ale, the Sheriff sidled up and asked—in his best Anglo-Saxon slang—what the fuck is going on? The rotund friar pulled a draft and snorted. “It seems fair Maid Marion was betrothed by the King’s command and she spurned the poxed whelp. ‘Tis rumored she rashly spoke of her devotion to young Robin Red Arse and stated she’d rather be arrested, gaoled and publicly flogged than to marry any but her one true love. The King agreed to her wager. One hundred pounds of raw silver bars* to be her Royal dowry, if she withstands the doubled number of blows given by the good people of the Forest.”
“And the duc?”
“The official witness of course. It’s said the King has no wish for the defiant Marion to be whipped to a bloody pulp, but, if anyone pulls their strikes, they will be flogged afterwards.”
“It seems so… unseemly.”

A shrill feminine squeal stilled the clamorous unwashed mass. All eyes turned towards the red line that bloomed across the succulent prodigious expanse of sweet white globes.

“That’s one!” The crowd roared its approval of Robin’s pronouncement. “Only one-hundred and ninety-nine to go, my one true love! Whip her good boys and girls. I want her loins on fire for after Friar Tuck pronounces us man and wife. I’ll likely need to mount her from behind!” Another shrill squeal. “That’s two!”

A lively jig was struck, and those waiting their turn started to dance to the music and cheer with every harsh snap of the strap. Loud applause greeted a particularly hard blow that had Marion jutting and wiggling her bottom in time to the music.

“And so it begins… aren’t you going to enter the lists… Sheriff? After all, this is the closest you’ll ever get to arresting the attention of the fair Maid Marion with your truncated tool of office.”

*Dowry roughly equivalent to 480,000 pounds today, or 570,000 euros or 621,000 dollars.
Source: According to Regia.org, a pound/372g of silver [by weight] was worth in current currency] approximately 4,800 pounds/5,700 euros/6,210 dollars, whereas one Saxon silver penny was worth 20 pounds in current money. A silver penny would buy 15 chickens or a cow’s eye. A pound/372g of silver [by weight] would buy 120 acres of land, the King’s lap dog or trained hunting dog, or a fledged Peregrine Falcon. Interestingly enough, a horse was less expensive as were slaves at ‘only’ 306g of silver. However, the fine for seducing a free woman was 465g of silver [6,000 pounds/7,111 euros/7,700 dollars] whereas raping a female slave was set higher at 504g of silver [6,500 pounds/7,703 euros/8,398 dollars]. Higher still was the fine for a priest working on Sunday at 930g of silver [12,000 pounds/14,222 euros/15,501 dollars].

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 20)

She gave a ‘significant’ stare towards me when he balked. “May I see the contract, sir?” Noticing his hesitation, I smiled with an encouraging nod. A very thoughtful mien appeared after he finally noticed all the various apparatuses visible, then, at the three women who surrounded him like hounds baying at a fox. Focusing his honey-gold orbs upon my flushed cheeks, he asked in a stern voice, “Ruby? What mischief have you been up to?” I lowered my head in demure fashion. “I’d rather not say, sir.” He harrumphed at my reticence. “That, Ruby, I do not believe.” Paper rustled.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part 19)

After you read today’s Ruby installment, hop on over to my new blog, Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction, to read Spanking Newsletter #1. I plan installments on the first of every month that will touch on my published fiction, as well as WIP and anything else that is on my mind.

My blood boiled, but Miss Frothinglips coyly winked at me and stood aside. “Ruby!” Mr. Jones-Smyth crossed the floor with a bound and took my gloved hands. “You look splendid!” Startled by her wink and his enthusiasm, my emotions underwent a rapid metamorphosis. I could not help but relax and smile in return when he kissed my fingers. “Are you going out?” His face was open and honest. I would have spoken had not Mrs. Cleanknockers raised the curtain and lit the footlights. “Good afternoon, sir, may I presume you’ve concluded your negotiations with his lordship?” A fraught silence ensued.

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