Inexhaustible Smorgasbord

The sharp cracks had faded to muted rumbles; the late summer storm trundled to the east, trailing an ebony cloak glazed with jagged streaks of abstract white. At my feet, the dull granite setts slowly slaked a thirst; the detritus of tourists swirling into the gaping sewers leaving behind deceptively safe and clean shiny streets. Historic Old Town, painstakingly resurrected—twice—from the ashes of pitiless warfare, brooded in the sweet morning air. The western skies pulsed with urgency, delayed flights flung themselves recklessly at the obscured stars, hastening to meet global schedules grounded by adverse conditions.

I cupped my left hand. Had any been able to observe, the brief orange flare would have revealed a deep weary cynicism. I puffed the harsh tobacco, blew out a stream of fragrant smoke that lingered close as if terrified by the surroundings. I ignored the warning, watching instead the CCTV camera as it whirred atop the light pole. The police drones had departed with the onset of rain. This was pass through area for visitors by day; small shops catering in information and deceit. By night, contraband slipped past the law with practiced ease.

A vibration shook the front right pocket of my black linen trousers. If a phone could sound impatient the summons snarled at my unruffled savoir faire. The cigarette tumbled like an acrobat without a net: I stubbed it out with a faint hiss as it splattered on the damp pavement. Finally moving forward, the crepe soles of my shoes were silent as a grave.

The night wavered. Lean shadows peeled from brick façades and dropped from pockets of mist hovering above. To those without the Sight, nothing had changed. My escort surrounded me. Lethal, immortal, they were not here to help—they weren’t allowed where I was expected—but to ensure I fulfilled my oath. If thoughts could kill…

Jutting phallicly with a hostile and arrogant contempt at the edge of tradition [reclaimed] and gentrification, the Cashmere Tower was the tallest building in the city. Money fountained like arterial blood from the professional tenants, none of it staying for long; sophisticated programs laundered the stains through shell companies and numbered accounts. Standard procedures for corrupt businesses protected by slick lawyers and bought politicians. My target was higher up the ladder—literally—the top ten floors pandered to a different type of cash flow.

Vice was timeless. Nubile flesh an inflation proof currency. Educated agents were shopping for fresh victims that wouldn’t be missed.

By mistake or deliberate malice—the first understandable, the latter an apocalyptic possibility—the procurers had lured the wrong one. Whatever the alchemy of designer drugs and DJ mixed trance that had created the circumstances of the snatch, it had not removed the clear traces of her passage.

I was their emissary.

The elevator was smooth and quiet.

Rows and rows of glittering females arranged as if waxed produce in bins filled the luxurious rooms. The buyers with their tablets snapped pictures, and fired off messages that raced around the world. The auction started later, but I was not shopping. My steel attaché was not filled with clean dollars or euros or yen, but a single jewel that pulsed with all the suppressed fury at the unrelenting humanistic devouring of magic.

I carried a portal strong enough to suck the entire building into the Outerlands were it not tuned to ‘rescue’ my target. If the dead-eyed brokers knew what their exotic captive actually was, they’d run screaming into the night; not that fleeing was a viable option should she choose to destroy rather than drink in the essence of fear and despair coating the dungeon walls.

Why I was chosen to interrupt the pain slut as she writhed in her bondage, driving her price higher with every blow of the whip: that is a story best told later. For when the Queen commands retrieval of her wayward daughter: who better to mount an escape, than the Princess’ estranged human husband.

That would be me.

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

Black Market Night
by Kalidwen.©

The spanking illustration provided by the talented Kalidwen over at Kalidwen’s little spankings: Musings & fessées.

Kismet of Submission: Episode 4

Tamara still is hesitant. Sleeping with a man has always meant having sex, whether wanted or not. Drunk or sober never seemed to make a difference, she was expected to put out and the few times she didn’t—rape is an ugly word. She’s never met a woman who hasn’t been raped. The anger at self is the most common theme. What did you expect? Boys will be boys. So much for female solidarity: her mother’s contempt still rings in her ears.

The fact that the man of the house was quick with a cold beer, and even quicker with his feet and fists, seems to have been okay with most adults growing up. Tamara was the bad girl, the slut; the whore who got knocked up on purpose by the town’s Golden Son who could do no wrong. He was the first of several who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

The daughter they had together three months after the wedding, only made things worse. He always blamed them for having to give up his dreams. Ten years later, he was in his grave, the police finally doing what no one else could. Justice delayed, was justice ice cold in hate.

That hate drove them from her hometown, constantly on the move, always searching for the mythical safe harbor. Tamara poured all her efforts into keeping her daughter stable.

‘You’re safe with me, Tamara.’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’

‘I understand. But it’s the truth. Now, how about that lunch?’

‘Fine. I’ll decide after we eat.’

‘No pressure.’

She collects her purse and snorts.

‘Something funny?’

‘No, sir, it’s that men don’t have to worry about “The Walk of Shame.”’

‘I see.’

‘I doubt it. I expected to stay the day, not the night, so I have no clothes or toiletries.’

‘I could buy you some.’

At this naïve pronouncement, Tamara sags against the wall and bursts out laughing. ‘That makes it even worse! Don’t you know anything about women?’

‘I know that I respect them and fall in love with their uniquenesses.’

‘You’re a strange man.’

‘It’s been said before. Doesn’t bother me. In fact, it’s kinda my trademark.’

Body language is fascinating. As they walk down the hallway to the elevator, they are clearly not a couple, yet we wonder at their apparent ease with which they converse. He’s the one who presses the down arrow. He holds the door motioning her in first. He pushes the L button. His head bops to the music. They don’t talk in the car—elevator etiquette, and he waves her out second. ‘Such a polite young man’, says the granny as she hobbles out first, ‘You should hang onto him, good men are hard to find.’ We readers can picture this scene quite well because it’s happened to all of us at one time. Mistaken identity and intent. Most of the time, a pro forma protest is lodged.

‘Thank you, ma’am, I find he’s growing on me.’

Out into the bright sunshine of a hot summer’s day, the glare off the windshields is blinding. Heat rises through their soles. The inevitable panic flares.

‘You do like Mexican? Is that okay? I mean we can go someplace else if you like.’

‘I’m supposed to be the nervous one here! Mexican is fine.’

The cold air hits them with a sharp slap when he opens the front entrance for her. He always holds the door for ladies and the elderly. Not once has he ever been chastised for being old-fashioned. In his worldview, being polite has never gone out of style.

‘Table for two, please, booth if you have it.’

He looks around the restaurant; moderately busy, blue-collar guys on break nudge each other and check out Tamara. He rests his hand on her lower back, guiding her past harried families. The married couples are building matching forts out of sugar substitutes and hot sauce. The guys he ignores, he knows the type, worked with them for decades; crude, crass, foul-mouthed, misogynistic; but not in a threatening predatory manner, more of a bonding pack mentality before going home and kissing their wives and daughters.

‘Ah! Fresh tortilla chips. All you need to know about how good a Mexican restaurant will be, is if the chips and salsa are homemade.’

‘Interesting concept. Of course, having worked in restaurants, I’m pretty jaded to the whole process. The stories I could tell you.’

‘My mama always said, “Eat a peck of dirt before you die.”’

‘This is a lot worse than dirt, sir.’

‘You don’t have to keep calling me sir, Tamara. My real name is M—’

‘No! No, don’t tell me, your pen name is fine. Besides, sir is more impersonal. I’ve always hated it when customers call me Tamara as if I’m their best friend. I’m slinging slop and you’re paying, I don’t need your life story and I certainly won’t fuck you for a lousy tip.’

‘I totally agree. People see a nametag, and automatically think you’re their bitch. I ain’t in service, honey, this is a trade. I give you something and you pay. That’s it. Have a nice day and take your attitude somewhere else.’

By the time they order, the tension Tamara feels has dissipated, much like any lingering soreness in her bottom. In fact, despite wiggling on the padded bench, she can’t sense anything to indicate the recent spanking. She can’t help but giggle inside, imagining herself bending over the table, guacamole and fajitas shoved aside, while Sir whales away on her ass. She’s surprised at the ease with which he’s captured her attention. No leers, no come-ons, no innuendoes; just a clothed spanking, an invitation to spend the night sleeping and now a friendly and delicious lunch.

Before she’s even aware, she’s talking about her daughter, and how proud she is of her academic achievements. When she reveals a little bit about her past Tamara is startled by the warm hand reaching across and touching her wrist.

‘I don’t need to know, if it’s too painful.’

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘Some scars always seem like they happened yesterday.’

Their palms meet in silent solidarity.

To read all the Kismet of Submission episodes in order, please go to this page for individual links.

Start young and never look back

I’ve read three very interesting books recently that created this essay. I’ve been focusing more on my writing these past twelve months, but it has yet to reach a level of consuming passion. I may never get there, but after finishing the trio of books, I feel much less of a failure.

I picked up a copy of Kevin Ashton’s How to Fly A Horse on a whim, but I’m glad I did. His premise is that the creative process is a myth, and that every single person is creative; but what makes a successful inventor, discoverer or artist, is simply hard work and doing it over and over again. Writer’s block, among many other concepts, doesn’t exist. Kevin is also the creator of the phrase Internet of Things. The title refers to the Wright Brothers.

Kevin: The creativity myth implies that few people can be creative, that any successful creator will experience dramatic flashes of insight, and that creating is more like magic than work. A rare few have what it takes, and for them it comes easy. Anybody else’s creative efforts are doomed.

He goes on to use examples both ancient and modern to bolster his thesis. Along the way, he shows through studies and clinical trials, that as the number of participants goes up, creativity goes down. In fact, Kevin claims that creative cooperation peaks in kindergarten. I, like many of you, will agree with this premise. Anybody who has suffered through production meetings, brainstorming sessions and forced teamwork can readily attest to the fact that one person creating alone is the most successful. He closes the book with this:

Kevin: The chain of creation is many links longs, and every link—each one person creating—is essential. All stories of creators tell the same truth: that creating is extraordinary but creators are human; that everything right with us can fix anything wrong with us; and that progress is not an inevitable consequence but an individual choice. Necessity is not the mother of invention. You are.

Two autobiographies picked up on this theme: Yanni in Words, and Tom Jones Over The Top And Back. I found striking similarities in both men’s accounts of their artistic struggle to creative success. One similarity was passion for music, Yanni writing and Tom singing, and  another was the way that success drew sexual attention. The road is a soul crushing grind that never seems to end, but both of them used the creative and sexual fire to fuel their success.

Yanni: If you are the music, you can write the music. If you’re not the music, you’re outside, judging it. Judgment and creativity are opposites. Both are valid, but they can’t exist in the same place at the same time. To create, you have to become one with your creation and let it flow freely. You have to be in the zone. For me, I have to become one with the music. The instant I begin judging my creation, I find myself outside looking in, and the creative moment is gone.

Tom: But I was out, getting up in front of people and singing and, really for the first time, properly seeing the effect that my voice could have on a room full of people—noting how excited people and how that, in turn, excited me. I realized, with a new, even clearer urgency, how badly I wanted to do this and nothing else, as remote as the possibility of that still seemed. Let’s face it, the music business [in 1962] wasn’t exactly rushing to the valleys to sign up any Welsh pop group… The music business seemed to have plenty on its plate already. But you could dream, couldn’t you?

Both Yanni and Tom detail the long, arduous and sometimes dangerous trip to ‘overnight’ success from an upbringing of poverty. Both had loving and supportive parents, but the reality was, that their success was a steady roller-coaster of highs and lows and the only person who created the opportunities that brought them critical acclaim, was themselves. Both men had the unshakeable belief they were the best at their craft, and if only the right venue opened up, they would prove it to the world. This dogged ethic allowed them to fight and claw their way until the vision they saw as their due came to fruition.

The second connection I found in their words, was the early—and often—sexual relations with thousands of women. For Yanni, he states his first time was in a local bordello next door to his school in Kalamata, Greece. He was thirteen and a half.

Tom was sixteen when he impregnated his fifteen-year old girlfriend—wife at eight months, and stayed married until she passed in 2016. Tom never comes out and states he had sex with groupies—other publications have said so—but numerous anecdotes certainly imply that was the case. Yanni writes that one-night stands were his preferred method until he met Linda Evans. It is no surprise that the music industry, along with sports and film, have always been synonymous with sex and drugs. Most seem to cite the relentless pressure and grind of the creative process, along with the pursuit by willing females determined for a taste of the bright lights.

Tom: Bam! I’m on the pavement under a pile of screaming girls—taken down with a pace and efficiency that a pack of rugby forwards would have been proud to pull off. The people making the commotion outside the pub window were making that noise for me, and I didn’t know it.

Yanni: When I was on the road other girls would invariably show up, willing to share themselves for the night in very creative ways. If you’re young and away from home for two or three weeks at a time, it’s hard to resist walking into temptation. Mostly I didn’t.

Tom: It happens for the first time on one of those nights in the Copa [in NYC] in 1969. I’m drenched with sweat. Just occasionally someone on a table near the stage will reach out with a white linen napkin for me. I’ll dab at my brow with it and then hand it back. Not this one woman, though. She stands, flips her dress up, steps out of her panties and hands them up to me.
What I do with the panties is, I dab my brow with them. And then I say, ‘You want to watch you don’t catch cold.’

Yanni: I just wanted to have fun and I was honest about it. ‘I’m not looking for a relationship, and I hope you’re not. I don’t owe you anything and you don’t owe me anything. If we do this, it’s what is for tonight. If it continues tomorrow, okay, but if it doesn’t, don’t come to me and say I’ve used you.’

Tom: There was sex in the [Vegas] shows, and there was sex around the shows. The air seemed to crackle with it.
Same thing at those big seventies tour dates. Best clothes. Perfume in the air. People getting revved up. A willingness to cut loose and let go. A general horniness in the crowd. The atmosphere alive with the possibility of sex—in a way that was definitely going to play out to the advantage of the band, the crew and beyond.
As somebody once said, I was the Pied Piper of pussy.

Yanni: I liked to choose my companions rather than the other way around.
The seduction had already taken place while she watched me play. She knew I liked her because I approached her, and most of the time she’d come with me. If I got turned down it didn’t make any difference because there were so many other possibilities. But I was never a pest; you could get rid of me easily.
There were more girls than any of us could possibly be with, sometimes five times as many as there were guys.
It was rock ‘n’ roll.

Tom: So I’ve got the singer-on-a-stage thing going for me, and then television comes along and adds a whole other layer. Never underestimate the extent to which people want to have sex with people who are on television.
I was going over as some kind of love god, and I was going over so strongly that occasionally I was even persuaded of it myself. The road will set temptations in front of you that are hard to resist.

Yanni: In each town I had a girlfriend or two. Not real girlfriends, just girls I knew. Or someone I’d just met. I didn’t mind having sex with a woman I’d known less than an hour. I was young, they looked good. Nothing else to do. Let’s have some fun. There was no judgment, and I never felt guilty. You’re just driving down the highway and you’re lonely; you meet someone who eases the boredom a little bit for the night. And the next day you get up and do it again.

Tom: I think he [Wyclef Jean] was wondering, what’s it like to be out and about with Tom Jones? What goes on? So the next time [late 2001] we were both in London, I took him to the Metropolitan Hotel in Park Lane, home of the Met Bar and Nobu and a regular stop-off for me. The place was crowded, as it often is, and we sat out in the foyer having drinks—
Pretty soon, a girl came over, and she wanted to introduce herself and say hello.
‘It’s very nice to meet you,’ I said.
And then, without further ado, right there at the table, she whipped up her dress and showed me the piercing on her clitoris.
‘Well, thank you very much for that,’ I said. And then she went away.
That was it. My legend with Wyclef was sealed. ‘Man, you go out with Tom Jones, girls show you their pussy!’ He told everybody he knew, meaning that my reputation preceded me, whenever I went with him.

In closing, I wanted to include a few more quotes about creativity from them both. And also a music video of Sir Tom Jones, at age 77, crushing the song ‘You Can Leave Your Hat On’ The Voice UK 2017′. In the end, what Kevin and Yanni and Tom have showed, is that creativity is simply a vision of what you want your life to be. It’s all up to you to get to work and create.

Tom: And through all of this, Ethan’s [Johns] message has essentially been simple and the same: just sing. And it might seem strange that a singer needs to hear that, but it’s a fact. Everyone who has had success is asking themselves: what’s my next success? What do I do next? It eats at you like that, until it’s actually eating into your voice.

Yanni: When I was younger I got in my own way by asking myself questions like, How long does a piece need to be? What kind of music should I write? The answer is to write what you like. The piece is going to be as long as it keeps you interested. If it bores you, cut it.
Society does everything it can to fill you with a distrust of yourself and others. We grow up in an environment where we’re laughed at or criticized for thinking that what we create could profoundly affect people and maybe make a difference in their lives—or be worth doing for nobody but ourselves.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 22)

The sparkle caught my eye. Green stone, gold hoop, the unfamiliar presence of my engagement ring snagged in the rags. I held my left hand out straight and admired the token of his affection. Tiny rainbows danced in the gaslight. My romantic heart was at war with my practical nature. I wanted to know why Mr. Jones-Smyth, Chester, had dashed off as if seeking the retiring room. Surely I was not that repulsive. Perhaps he was also a virgin and shamed of his quick release. I gazed into the gem like a carnival fortuneteller; the unblinking eye had no answer.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 21)

Jets of warm fluid bathed my pussy. Mr. Jones-Smyth slumped over my back, trembling like an ill-used horse, huffing and wheezing. It was nice. I hadn’t reached a pinnacle, I wasn’t sure if it was possible. When he withdrew with a slurp, the cool air soothed my chafed tissues. Runny liquid traced like snails down my legs. A hoarse farewell: ‘I will call upon you tomorrow, Ruby’ then silence. It was Mrs. Cleanknockers and Louisa who cleansed me, undid my bondage and assisted me until I could stand without swaying. Brisk questions, halting answers: I was left alone to clean.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 20)

And he did. Pulling back, my interior flesh clung to his hard shaft as if entreating to never leave. His hands gripped my hips, thumbs rubbing weals, his coarse hairs slamming into my upper thighs; the sensation of him sliding in and out was exquisite. Loud slaps grew wetter, the sound reminded me of doing laundry: his rapid pounding a smith hammering molten iron on an anvil. Our groans intermingled as our bodies were entwined as one. I had no comparison at the time, but even then, when he of a sudden ceased moving, stiffened, and moaned, I wanted more.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 19)

My first time plugged. Oh the joy! The brief sting barely felt, overwhelmed by both the heat pouring off my bruised bottom, and the waves of pulsing untried muscles yielding to the inexorable power of masculine determination. Deeper he plunged; my body opening to his hot cock, my wetness allowing the tight glide home. The nose bumped against my womb. I exulted, ‘Virgin no more!’ How I wished I could see myself mounted; but tied in place over the leather pommel—now slick with my essence—all I could do was clench internally and allow him to fuck me hard.

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