Don’t forget to laugh

If there is one 52-second video that sums up what Lurv Spanking is all about, it’s this one.

This week’s essay is inspired by this article: 4 Signs That You Are Your Own Worst Enemy, in the August, 2017 issue of Oprah Magazine. I wanted to pull two paragraphs from Martha Beck’s essay that summed up the focus for me.

“Take the spotlight off yourself by learning the 20-40-60 rule. It’s a bit of folk wisdom that goes like this: At age 20, you’re sure everyone’s thinking about you. By the time you’re 40, you’re starting to care less that people are thinking about you. And when you hit 60, you realize the truth: No one was ever thinking about you. People are generally so busy being their own worst enemy that they don’t even notice your flaws.”

“A war against yourself can never be won; the only true victory happens when you lay down your arms and befriend the enemy. And if you can make peace with yourself, you’ll find the whole world becomes a kinder, gentler place.”

This a continuation of sorts from my previous essay “Breaking the martyr inside”, where I talked about the ways we harm ourselves with the best of intentions. Martha writes about how we are constantly warring with all those flaws—external and internal—that most people never even notice. It quickly becomes both a habit and self-filling prophecy to beat up ourselves for all our perceived shortcomings.

There is a difference of course, between those things we despise because we don’t have a perfect ass being bounced upon by a cute kitty, and genuinely harmful behaviors we should change or outgrow. Having a caring Dom can go a long way towards disarming the verbal hand grenades we lob at inopportune times, but unlike in real life, our ammunition called self-loathing, never runs out.

So laugh my friends. None of us are perfect. No matter how obedient and docile we appear on the outside, no amount of spanking and discipline can erase decades of mistakes; unless, and until, you open up that storage container and make love to your inner humanity.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 12)

I put my head down, no longer able—nay, not capable of maintaining my posture. “Was not there someone watching?” I pushed back when he bottomed out and held still fully rooted. “No, we were alone. He proposed to me and I accepted. He took me from behind, as you are doing.” He growled lowly and withdrew with a soft slurp. Thinking it was done, I willed my shaky arms to press up. Instead, I was effortlessly lifted, turned and plopped back down. I hissed when my spanked bottom hit the edge of the desk. “Lean back, on your elbows.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 11)

His scowl returned. Smack, smack, smack, smack: His pelvis impacted my rear with ever increasing velocity and power—evidence of his dissatisfaction. “He took no precautions against planting a babe in your belly?” I gasped as the force of his thrusts began rocking my body to and fro across the varnished desktop. “I don’t know! I had no choice!” His snarl lit the fuse of my lust. “Oh, Sir! Fuck me harder!” Wet slaps. Pulse racing. This was no amateur traveling host playing for provincials for pennies. This was a master at work. I melted beneath his prowess and virility.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 10)

He muttered, evidentially after checking the time, “Good, twenty minutes until he arrives.” I strained my head around. “Twenty minutes, Sir?” Asked with quite the astonished tone. “Is that even possible?” For the first time ever I witnessed a genuine smile of amusement overtake his normally taciturn features. He even chuckled quietly as he gently plumbed the depths of my silken purse. “I take it young Chester was rather quick off the mark?” I snorted and replied tartly, “It must have been less than a minute before he filled me to the brim.” His mirth vanished like an English summer.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 9)

Rough palms caressed my hot cheeks. I pressed back into his touch, waggling my naughty hips; spreading my thighs with silent entreaty. His boots kicked my ankles even wider. I dipped my hips and groaned as his thick fingers probed my now open channel. I adjusted my grip on the far edge of the desk. His heavy cock pressed past my puckered portal into my pulsating pouch: thumbs resting either side of my ridged spine, his fingers wrapped under my somersaulting stomach. He began to move out then back in with majestic sweeps like an Oxford crew on the Thames.

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

You so titanic girl—

—you go down easier than scotch on rocks!

I earned my knee pads the old-fashioned way: by gobbling cocks whenever and wherever I could. It wasn’t my fault. The compulsion was in the locked collar around my neck. Everyone thought I was somebody’s slave: they were correct, but that wasn’t even the worst part.

This was:
“Hey Ti! You’re cell is hopping around the room! What kinda fuckin’ battery you got in that thing?”
Ti—short for Titania—that’s me; couldn’t answer the call, or speak for that matter, cause I had a hard prick down my gullet and the frat boy wasn’t about to let me up for air. Not that I needed to breathe or anything. *sarcasm* I shoved a finger up his ass, my manicured nail scraping as I tweaked his prostate. Finally! He shot his wad, and I pushed him aside, ignoring the rug burns on my tits as I dove for my phone.
“What?!”
“I said I’d be there! Taking a fucking chill! I’ve got two hours!”
“And who’s fault is that?”
“Thought so.”
“Well, next time you pork a chick, use a fucking condom!”
“Whatever.”
I punched ‘end call’ wishing it was my fist to his face. Jackass. I popped to my feet and gathered my clothing—little of it as there was—and surveyed the six guys staring at me in confusion mixed with lust. I smirked and pulled my T-shirt over my head and the miniskirt up my legs.
“It’s been fun boys, but I gotta run. Daddy is getting impatient. Wouldn’t want lightning bolts to hit the frat house, now would we?”
I wiggled my fingers as I left. The spell dusted the room and their faces become slack and sleepy.
“One down… one to go,” I muttered before shivering in the cool early morning/late night air. I wished I’d brought a jacket, but I hadn’t expected to stay this late. Flashing through my messages, and pulling up the ride-share app, I was about to summon a driver when a sleek, low-slung little number eased to the curb with a restrained crackle of suppressed exhaust.
“Need a lift, little lady?”
In the dark shadows beyond the LED streetlamps, the voice couldn’t see my smile, but the sugar sweet drawl I affected slipped into his brain like a stiletto. “That depends where you’re headed.”
“I’d say it was wherever you needed to go.”
Sauntering over to the open window, I placed my forearms on the sill and tugged my shirt lower so that my boobs peeked out. I saw his eyes drop to my puckered nipples and slowly travel up to the braided gold choker with the platinum lock around my neck. Naturally, it chose that moment to shock me with a quick flash of pale bluish light and a soft buzz. I winced: I always did. I sensed the moment when realization caught up with his arousal.
Pointing at my neck, he asked with wary eyes, “Your Master?”
“No,” I said with unfeigned weariness, “My father.”
“What kind of sick monster would do that to his own kid?”
“S.O.P. for Zeus.”
“Zeus?”
“Yup.”
“As in the Zeus?”
I shuddered again as the biting shocks from my collar came stronger and closer together. “Look. I’d love to shoot the breeze ’til the cows come home, but I need a favor. Usually I have someone picked out for this, but I ran long at the frat house. I need you to spank me.”
“Spank you?”
“Yes, spank me. Trust me, this fucking collar is a helluva lot more painful than anything you could dish out on my ass.”
“Why—”
“Because Zeus is an evil controlling sadist. He wants me home permanently, so when I refused his version of parental visitation, he welded an irremovable compulsion collar that zaps me whenever I go too long without sex and spanking. He’s trying to slut shame me into moving back in with him and my half-siblings.”
“Sounds like a routine night on campus to me,” he snorted.
“Yeah, well, Daddy dearest, for all his power, doesn’t get out much. He can’t use anything electronic without frying the circuits, so he’s stuck in the newspaper dark age.”
“Poor guy… not!”
“He’s still a mother fucker—literally. He’s got bastards sprayed all over the cosmos. So, again, it’s nice to chit-chat, but you need to get all busy up on my butt.”
I spread ’em, just like in the cop shows, yanking up my mini waiting to get frisked with my palms down on the rear sheet metal. Hissing as I got shocked again, I yelped, “Hurry up, dammit!”
“Why are telling me all this?”
“Because you won’t remember any of this! Now spank me!”
“Hmmmm,” he replied, fondling my perfect curvaceous bubble butt.
Expecting the normal half-assed effort, instead, from the very first smack, his hard hand did a beat down on my bare arse that was crisp and proficient. It hurt so good, but needed to be much harder in order to reset the collar. “Harder. You need to hit me harder.”
Pressing my willing shoulders down, he slid an arm around my waist, tucked a knee under and hoisted my bottom at an acute angle. The contrast of cold air sweeping up between my wet parted thighs and the heat shimmering off my ass as he pounded away brought me to the teetering edge of orgasm.
“Next time I’ll make sure I have a paddle. How often do you have to do this?”
I gasped as a shock hit once more. “Every day! Except tomorrow, because I’ll be home for my monthly summons and hectoring.”
“Then I’ll see you the day after.” He was silent again as he concentrated on basting my sit spots. Pausing to blow on his palms, he asked, slightly out of breath, “Are we close?”
Panting as well, I said, “Close. A couple of minutes super fast and hard should turn off the shocks. Don’t hold back… please!”
True to form, my collar flashed purple after a short barrage of heavy impacts on my burning hot butt. I slumped in relief as his hand stopped spanking and turned to caressing. I checked the time—I still had twenty minutes—noting he deserved a reward for his diligent efforts. Lifting up my hips, I waggled and opened my thighs even wider trying to entice his fingers, then his erection I knew was aching to slide inside.
Instead though, he put me on my feet, pulled down my skirt and enfolded me in a tight hug. Very confused, his warm exhalations stirred my wispy hair.
“You okay?” he whispered.
Involuntary tears sprang up and I could only nod.
“I’d like to see you again.”
“You won’t remember.”
“Why?”
“I have to erase your memories.”
“Is that part of the curse?”
“No… it’s just easier for me to deal.”
“What’s your name?”
“Titania.”
“Nice.”
“I got to go.”
“Okay. See you around.”
His sports car started with a deep snarl, and slowly pulled away down the street, the bright red taillights flaring as he braked at the stop sign, then disappeared as he turned right. I raised my arm, not to release the spell, but to wave au revoir. For the first time in centuries, I smiled with genuine affection. “See you soon… George. Bring your paddle and your stamina. It’s going to be a titanic date.”

titanic: of exceptional strength, size, or power.
ORIGIN mid 17th cent. (in the sense ‘relating to the sun’): from Greek titanikos, from Titan (see Titan)
Titan: 1 Greek Mythology any of the older gods who preceded the Olympians and were the children of Uranus (Heaven) and Gaia (Earth). Led by Cronus, they overthrew Uranus; Cronus’ son, Zeus, then rebelled against his father and eventually defeated the Titans.
• (as noun, usu. a titan) a person or thing of very great strength, intellect, or importance: a titan of American industry.

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 8

As she stumbles out of the room, we can see Tamara appears to be dazed. The graphic and clinical lecture about safe anal, glossed over the emotional aspects of an act that for many is taboo. Informative—yes—but neither of the panelists offered an explanation as to why someone would want to be fucked up the ass in the first place. If we could read Tamara’s mind—which as omnipresent narrators we can—her thoughts are circling this very central thought. Mechanics and preparation aside, very little about anal sex is titillating to her. In her fantasy, Sir has spanked her again, and is mounting her from behind in her wet pussy. The metal process is tricky: we can’t experience pain in dreams, but the emotions lash us all the same. Tamara’s primary emotion is confusion. She’s certainly intelligent enough to realize that under the right circumstances, she might find herself acquiescing to his cock in her rectum; but the reasons why remain elusive. Being taken passively versus participating in your own ravishment would make her complicit in her own debauchment. That; is a terrifying realization and she quickly shunts the observation into a strongbox labeled, anal; and shoves it in the overflowing closet of ‘things to resolve later’.

He waits for her in the hall after taking a quick pit stop, and they purchase drinks at a nearby kiosk. He refuses to give back her bags, and instead offers his free elbow for her to hold. She gives him an up-and-under glance with the slightest of headshakes and hooks her left forearm through the gap.

As they walk—his stride shortened—she continues to ponder about anal. ‘If I said yes, and that’s a big if, what would you do first?’

‘To anal?’ At her jerky nod, he frowns. ‘Well, it depends on the situation. Is it after a spanking, during vaginal sex, or a standalone experiment? If the latter, then a hot shower, likely a drink to relax the nerves, lots of touching and kissing, followed by prep and slow and cautious penetration.’

‘And the first two scenarios?’

He gives her a dominant smile. ‘Part of spanking is punishing the anus. A few sharp slaps that sting, and thumb and fingers rotating and spreading you open. As with intercourse, the next thing you’d feel would be my tongue licking and twirling across your wet pucker. Being turned on makes the thought of kissing your ass that much hotter.’

‘So… you… wouldn’t clean first?’

He leans closer and whispers in her ear. ‘No, Tamara, in the middle of sex, my mouth waters at the thought of suckling your tight, bitterly sweet earthy tangy butthole. I only wish my tongue was six inches long so that I fuck inside your ass with my mouth and lick you clean.’

Tamara shudders and her panties dampen at the raw erotic vision of her ass up with Sir’s face burrowing between her red-hot cheeks. If that’s being submissive, it’s a whole ‘nother level of kink she’s never considered. She clenches deep inside when she flips the script and realizes the distance between a blowjob and servicing her Dom’s ass is razor thin. Oh my God! What have I gotten myself into!

Squeezing her arm against his side, he chuckles quietly. ‘Long, slow, wet sweeps burrowing inside you. Just think, I’m very curious to find out how your pussy tastes too.’ He holds her up as she misses a step. ‘Oh look. Here we are. “Submission: not just for doormats anymore.”’

Tamara breaths out, the wetness and tingling between her thighs growing with every sordid image his words create. She can’t even focus on the woman standing at the door welcoming her guests.

‘By the way, you may not be a submissive—yet—but you are, and never were a doormat. No woman is.’

‘Welcome, my friends!’ the woman calls out. ‘Are you here for my little performance?’

We do a classic double take. So tuned into the lures cast upon the waters by Sir, only now do we take in the full impact of the woman. Hippy-chic is our first visceral reaction. A shade under six feet, gray hair tied back in a long ponytail falling to mid-back, she’s wearing a peasant blouse in turquoise and an ankle length pleated dress in rich canary yellow; cinched at the waist with a wide cinnamon braided sash. Her smile… it lights up the hall: We—and they—feel as if she’s a friend known for our entire lives. She radiates peace and goodwill with outstretched hands.

Her touch sends sparks through Tamara’s palms. ‘Yes,’ she stammers. ‘We are here for your lecture. Sir wanted to attend.’

‘Wonderful. It is always lovely to have audience input from established couples.’

He raises her knuckles to his lips, placing a light kiss. ‘Thank you, for the gracious welcome, Susan. This beautiful woman is Tamara. We are… negotiating, at present, and are not yet a couple. I am a Dom, whether she is a submissive, never mind my submissive, is in progress. I hope your lecture will be informative for her.’

‘My, my, aren’t you a polished one.’

‘I do my best.’

‘I am sure you do. Please, enter and pick out a seat. I will explain the gift box when all have arrived.’

More people are here than at the previous lecture, and the few pairs of seats left, are all in the front row. He leads Tamara by her wrist, his raised eyebrow at her quizzical expression the only other overt representation of his dominance. Picking up the beribboned four inch square silver and gold wrapped boxes on the seats, he waits until she sits before handing over one. They can’t resist shaking them and exchange silly grins.

‘Thank you all for attending, “Submission: not just for doormats anymore.” You may have noticed the gift boxes.’ Susan laughs along with her audience. ‘The reason is very simple. Please remove the tops and take out the contents.’

There is a sustained soft rustle, followed by low confused murmurs.

Submission… is a gift. Given and received freely. On each of the three sticky notes, please write a word or phrase representing what submission means to you. When you are done, please come forward and place them on this whiteboard.’

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