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.