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

Practicing a D/s diet

Hi y’all, it’s getting toward the end of the summer, and back-to-school adverts have already started. After working so hard to create a swimsuit body—cough-cough, yeah, right—it would be shame to gorge on carbs as the nights grow shorter. In the June, 2017 issue of GQ, there is an article called How to Fast: A guide for the Hungry Man. The author lays out two types of fasts. The 16:8 diet and the 5:2.

How It Works: the 16:8 plan. For an eight hour window a day, you eat however you normally do. For the other 16, fast. You can drink water, black coffee, and herbal tea. That’s it. You’re giving your body time to digest.

How It Works: the 5:2 plan. For five days a week, eat normally. For the other two, “fast” by limiting yourself to 600 calories a day. (And yes, booze counts.) A typical breakfast: a slice of ham and two scrambled eggs. Dinner is a protein-packed chicken salad.

By Jeff Vrabel: If you somehow stick with it, you’ll join a lineage of fasters dating back to Aristotle and Plato, who proved that even humanity’s deepest philosophers sweat their beach bodies. Fasting may actually put us closer to our natural state; some experts think humans aren’t designed for three squares a day and that we mistakenly regard mild hunger as an emergency. Which is why, although our loinclothed ancestors only ate when they brought down a mastodon, we invented Doritos Locos Tacos.

Naturally, this got me wondering, what if D/s wasn’t 24/7, but restricted to either one of these fasts? As a Dom, you could only be in charge for eight hours a day. If you decide that sleep is not part of the hours, then that would leave you roughly eight out of sixteen awake hours to dominate your submissive. It could be breakfast to mid-afternoon; mid-morning to dinner; or mid-afternoon to bedtime. With only eight consecutive hours of D/s a day, how would you work around work? Use text and calls and pass on the physical for a day? It’s not so farfetched when you consider that if you take away sleep and work time, most people only have a 4 to 6 hour window in any case. Toss in a family, and that time slivers to minutes. Would a scheduled time work better?

The other plan, 5:2, is what I think most D/s couples+ would likely choose. Work is no longer M-F 9-to-5, but skipping all D/s twice a week, doesn’t sound all that bad when you consider that some days nothing happens anyway. This would take the pressure off in terms of feeling let down that there was no play time or spanking. The downside is deciding whether to take a two-day break, with five on, or some pattern where the breaks are further apart. Constantly starting and stopping may seem a hardship at first, but it may also ratchet up the intensity knowing that if time is wasted, then the wait will make the next on day feel more precious. So, any takers for a D/s diet?

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 8)

His stern countenance made me tremble. “Very well, Ruby. Over the desk.” The smooth oak felt so sensuous under my aroused bosom. Tight nipples aching to be squeezed pressed into the grain, thighs flexing as I felt the instant moisture pool on my quim. Fingertips gripped the walnut trim on the far side, toes rose en pointe, bottom presented to his will. Yesterday’s soreness roared to life with the hard blows of leather wrapped maple striking my proffered flesh. I yelped once, settling into a pattern of rapid puffs, breathing through the delicious pain. Take me! I’m a wanton slut!

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 7)

I curtsied, and reflexively removed my uniform. My courses were due any day now; I made a mental note to ask for linens. “Sir? If I may, do you wish to give my daily spanking now?” Pen flying over ledger, he did not look up when he spoke. “I am rather in a lather at the moment, I do not wish you to suffer you the consequences.” I patted my full tummy and discretely burped. “If I may be so bold, Sir, if there is the slightest chance I have caused your temperament to be disagreeable, then punishment is due.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 6)

“I could not, and did not have means to resist my fiancé in exercising his soon-to-be conjugal rights. I thought that was the entire point of the exercise, that men require a female to be subjugated and spanked before sexual congress takes place. Am I incorrect, Sir? I have done everything asked of me, and do not understand your upset.” His fulsome mustache quivered and his eyes bulged. With visible effort, he controlled his flexing hands and leaned forward on bunched fists. “Rest assured, Ruby, I shall get to the bottom of the situation. In the meantime, you may clean.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 5)

Such were my tumbled thoughts when I reported to his study. I was still on probation, subject to regular whippings, but after my virginity vanished, I was only planning my wedding, not trying to upset the social order. “Ruby! What the devil are you about?” I blinked in confusion. “Sir?” His lordship slapped a paper on his desk, apparently annoyed with something I’d done. “This states you allowed Mr. Jones-Smyth to pluck your bud yesterday! I did not give you permission to seduce him!” I was dumbfounded. “Sir. Mrs. Cleanknockers will vouchsafe I was tied to the horse and caned.”

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

Put your money where the butt is

If you had the cachet, and if you’d received an engraved R.S.V.P. invitation on heavyweight cream bond via special courier; and if you drooled over a Vintage Art item in the accompanying full color glossy catalogue, then you would find yourself prior to the appointed time here, looking up at the gleaming ebony door and polished gold lion’s head knocker of 37 Birch Trace Run.

Upon entry, coats and electronic devices surrendered to the charming hostess, who in return for your custom and deposit, hands you a black leather paddle the size of two hands cupped together; embossed with raised numerals ranging from one to twenty-five, in various colors comprised of lacquered brass studs; the handles stamped with the words The SafeworD/s Club in crimson gilt italic.

The main lounge is two stories high, a balcony runs around three sides overlooking numerous plush chairs and sofas; the fourth wall forms the backing to the long mahogany bar: a mirror bursts forth into a painted mural above the shelves stocked with malted beverages and distilled spirits dispensed by staff in neat uniforms.

A closed oval railing fills the middle of the room surrounding the elevated platform and dais, the oak top wide enough for resting elbows, and cocktail napkins soaking with beaded perspiration on cut crystal tumblers filled with amber liquid and ice rocks; goblets and wine glasses contain rare and expensive vintages from discreet vineyards labeled with hand drawn Châteaux.

The houselights dim, then blink twice; murmuring conversations gradually give way to anticipation and the clumps of watchers coalesce along the rail as the auctioneer’s assistants place the first item on the easel, the platform rotating slowly so that all patrons can admire Lot #1, and prepare for the bidding to benefit various charitable organizations.

A symphony of metallic rattles is heard over the soft jazz playing from hidden speakers as half the audience is shackled by wrist and ankle cuffs to eyelets screwed into the rail and the brass footrest that curves along the base; there is a dress code of course, Doms in formal black, subs at a minimum bare bottomed, up to completely nude per the choices made before arrival.

“Lot #1. We have an Art Deco natural pink pearl choker with silver clasp. Who will start the bidding at one thousand? Do I have one thousand? Do I have seven-fifty? Who will give five hundred?”

WHACK!

“Five hundred it is. Do I have six hundred?”

WHACK!

“Thank you, ma’am. Six hundred is bid. Do I have seven hundred?”

WHACK!

“Seven hundred! How about eight?”

WHACK!

“Eight. Nine?”

WHACK!

“I have nine from the gentleman with paddle 15. Can I have one thousand?”

WHACK!

“Thank you, sir. One thousand is bid. Who will give fifteen hundred? Do I have fifteen hundred; fifteen hundred for this stunning Art Deco pink pearl necklace? Fifteen hund—”

WHACK!

“Fifteen hundred is bid! Do I have two thousand? Two thousand give me two thousand.”

WHACK!

“Thank you ma’am. Two thousand to paddle number twenty-three, two thousand is bid! Who will give three? Three thousand three thousand. Who will give three thousand? Three thousand three thousand. Yes, sir? Two thousand five hundred is bid!”

WHACK!

“I have two thousand five hundred, two thousand five hundred is bid. Who gives two seven fifty? Two seven fifty, two seven fifty, two seven fifty, two seven fifty. Two thousand five hundred going once! Two thousand five hun—“

WHACK!

“Two thousand seven hundred and fifty! Sir, you are out. I need three, give me three and it’s all yours. Three, three, going once. Two thousand sev—“

WHACK!

“Three thousand is bid to paddle number 15. Three thousand, do I have four! Four, four, anyone for four thousand? Three thousand five hundred, I’ll take three thousand five hundred. Three thousand going once…. three thousand going twice…”

BANG

“Sold to paddle 15. Lot #1 sold for three thousand. Thank you, sir. Our next item, Lot #2, a landscape oil painting dated 1871 in the Hudson Valley School style by Richard Barnhart. Start the bidding at five thousand, who will give five thousand?”

WHACK!

By the end of the evening, every exposed bottom was nicely red with the Dom’s number imprinted every time their submissive placed a bid. Some of the items drew frenzied competition, the resounding WHACKS echoing off the bar mirror as numerous subs—wanting to prove they could take the most whacks—ran up the price in rapid fire paddling while they could naught but wiggle and shuffle in their steel bondage. All in all, a very successful fundraising and hundreds of Vintage Art items found loving homes purchased with warm leather on hot flesh. Topping from the bottom never felt so good.

The high bidder pays dearly. Kalidwen.©

Drawing provided by Kalidwen: contact via blog if interested in commissioning work.

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

Breaking the martyr inside

Most of my recent essays have been triggered by magazine articles—the paper kind no less. The March 2017 edition of Real Simple, had an article entitled, How to Conquer the Martyr Complex. The author Ingela Ratledge begins her essay with the following statement: Some highlighted quotations follow, but I recommend reading the entire article for the parallels between D/s and martyrdom.

Overdo. Complain. Repeat. Sounds like the worst motivational slogan ever, right? Welcome to how I roll. Biting off more than I can chew is standard procedure for me. (“Sure, I can volunteer for the spring carnival and make a résumé for my niece and cook multiple options for dinner!”) And so is feeling fried and resentful later on. I’ll corner my husband for a thorough debriefing on my saintliness, hoping he’ll be overcome by a powerful mix of gratitude and admiration (gradmiration, anyone?). Instead, he typically says, “Oh, you didn’t have to do all that.”
Of course, he’s right. In addition to juggling life’s many nonnegotiables, I’m taking on tons of extra-credit assignments—and accomplishing them through gritted teeth. I’m being…the M-word.
I have plenty of company. We’re surrounded by folks who perpetually sacrifice themselves and then kvetch about their lot. The question is, to what end? I get zero thrills from playing this unwinnable game of whack-a-mole. I’m weary of holding a grudge against those who swan around unburdened by phantom obligations.

“The concept of self-sacrifice can be found across all religions and cultures,” says Candida Moss, PhD, professor of theology at the University of Notre Dame and author of The Myth of Persecution. “If you live in the Western world, you are still influenced by the social values that mattered thousands of years ago.” Yep, she adds, even if you’re an atheist: “Dating back to ancient times, martyrs were regarded as brave, virtuous, and strong.” The critical difference is that historical martyrs, like Joan of Arc—as well as more modern martyrs, like Gandhi and Nelson Mandela—had higher goals. “Real martyrs stood for something,” says behavioral science expert David Emerald, cofounder of the Bainbridge Leadership Center. “For them, the suffering was not the point—it was secondary to their fight, and that’s been misplaced in current culture.”

But why are some of us more susceptible to this messaging than others? Much of it boils down to basic issues of self-worth. “Typically, martyrs don’t know how to validate and love themselves very well,” says Sharon Martin, a psychotherapist in San Jose, California. “They feel that their value is in serving others—so if they stop doing that, they will have no value.” Alas, altruism and ulterior motives make strange bedfellows, which is why bending over backward doesn’t offer a golden ticket to the promised land. Says Martin, “Martyrs don’t get a lot of warm feelings from doing good deeds.” So what’s keeping us in this racket? Partly it’s a matter of control. “Martyrs think that if they don’t do something, it won’t get done,” says Mazer. Or at least not properly. “The martyr operates on the assumption that he or she knows best and has the answer rather than an answer,” says Emerald, because the alternative—that our contributions aren’t actually essential—is downright destabilizing. “It’s a stab to the ego to admit that the world does not depend on you,” explains Emerald. Also, funneling the bulk of your energy into external situations provides a handy distraction: It gives you a pass on addressing your own vulnerabilities, goals, and shortcomings. How could you possibly be expected to finish that master’s, quit a job you despise, or make it to the gym when you’re so busy taking care of everything else?” “As a martyr, you don’t have to take personal responsibility,” says Mazer. “You can project your unhappiness and blame outward.” You may be trying to cover up the fact, says Garcy, “that you have no clue how to get from where you are to where you want to be.”

I will raise my hand and admit freely that I am a martyr of long-standing suffering both in my personal and professional life. I have always thought of myself as worthless, and have never been able to love who am I. I’m the worker bee/drone who does everything without asking, follows the rules, and then stews volcanic-like inside when nobody else gives a shit and I wind up mopping the floor of someone else’s mess. It has taken being out of work for the past 19 months to realize that I’m only responsible for my own actions and ethics.

Tomorrow is our 30th wedding anniversary, and for the entire time—plus the nearly two years we were dating—my wife has been ill, sometimes critically. For the past 19 months, I have been her 24/7 caretaker at home. The specific reasons and medical issues are not important, but she has been near death at least a dozen times since we’ve been together. In fact, when she was seven-years old, her parents and she were told she wouldn’t survive to adulthood. She’s now 53. Ironically, having been nursed by me, she’s in better health now, than at any time in the past. Going to the hospital only makes her sicker. The next hurdle is the possible amputation of her left leg below the knee: She goes back and forth on her decision; but it is her decision, not mine and not her doctors’. I fully support her no matter what happens.

What I took from the article in terms of similarities to D/s, is the way both Doms and subs struggle with doing it ‘right’ even more so than perfectly. Self-worth, and the lack thereof through depression, plays an outsize role in submission. The opposite, arrogance, leads many Doms down blind alleys where they abandon their subs for not being good enough for them. Whether you’re a Top or bottom, if you don’t realize that the world not only isn’t going to stop for you, but could care less about your accomplishments, then you’ll continue to be disappointed and upset when the people in your life don’t constantly pat you on the back. A simple thank you should suffice… or a good spanking.

Probably the most positive aspect of D/s though, is when both partners drop the resentment of martyrdom and make the effort to do things not for praise, but because caring for the other is the right thing to do. If both the Dom and sub take responsibility for themselves, instead of waiting to be rescued, and from a position of personal strength, use that self-confident energy to prioritize their partner’s needs, then both will want to keep caring instead of keeping score and holding grudges. Didn’t get spanked last night? It’s not a crisis. Forgot to take the trash out? The next pickup is fine. Didn’t notice the kitchen floor was waxed? Likely a rough day at the office.

Partners doesn’t mean clones. Men and women are different. Doms and subs are different. We all have different parents, different upbringings, different beliefs, different desires: We are each of us unique. The weaknesses and strengths are different as well. Have you ever given a gift without expecting something in return? Remember how good that felt? Maybe you paid for someones meal, or helped someone to cross the street. I know I’ve given directions hundreds of times before for the sheer pleasure of getting a smile of relief in return. I have to keep reminding myself that I don’t need to jump up and down waving ‘look at me, look at me’ every time I do something good.

Being a martyr leads to bad choices. Life is crappy for most people most of the time. We martyrs ruin the few happy moments by obsessing over what we should have done differently, said more eloquently, reacted more politely; instead of moving on, we squirrel away the slights—both real and imaginary—until our blood pressure nearly bursts our poor hearts. In a D/s situation, this doesn’t happen [shouldn’t happen] because there are protocols in place to prevent an escalation of emotions. Many times, an instant swat on the backside will serve as a placeholder until time is available for a real spanking. To be submissive means that martyrdom is no longer allowed and ranks right up there with back-talking, sulking and other forms of verbal and non-verbal communications that disrespect the D/s compact.

Note: I did not say disrespect the Dom. Being a martyr is not directed at others, it is aimed solely at self. The self that believes they will never be good enough, and are constantly letting others down by not working harder and better. When a submissive says to their Dom; ‘I’m a burden’, ‘I’ll never be what you want’, ‘I don’t know why you stay with me’, ‘I hate myself for feeling this way’. Those are all spanking violations. Write ’em a ticket, flip up the skirt, yank down the knickers, and give your sub a nice, long spanking for disrespect. How hard is up to you, but in this case, actions speak louder than words, although re-enforcing the discipline with loving praise will help to overcome the desire for self-harm.

Hi, my name is Lurv Spanking. I’m a recovering martyr. It’s been one year since I last hated myself.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 4)

There may have been envious glances cast my way, but hunger was the great leveler. His lordship did not stint, even if the true delicacies were reserved for dining in Hall. None of us belonged in that exalted company; the rigid castes of British society may have been bent at Peacock House, but the liberal application of the rod kept everyone in their place. Truly, it was a pity. Every soul dwelling in that place was a prisoner of convention, from the youngest boot boy, all the way to the Master himself. Sex and discipline burst forth, blatantly, yet elegantly.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 3)

Humming happily, I skipped to breakfast, my toes tapping a brisk jig across the runner in servant’s hall leading to the dining area off the kitchen. Curbing my enthusiasm, I genially greeted my fellow maids. Tony—of anal fame—shot me a quick wink when the under-butler turned his back. Other than Louisa, who sat next to me, I had no other friends among the staff. It was not a complaint, simply an observation that my training allowed little time to socialize. The oatmeal was filling the bacon crisp and all present bowed their heads for grace. I was content.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 2)

I was whacked with her pillow for my pains. Speaking of pains, aside from an internal twinge, little trace remained of my defloration. I hummed as completed my toilette: such a dainty word to dance politely around the evacuation of bowel and emptying of bladder. Such was the life of a housemaid in 1865 before indoor plumbing took cholera and dysentery away. Not that the medical field gave credence to scientific evidence, miasma and sullen lower orders were to blame. Mrs. Cleanknockers believed that filth was a mortal enemy. Saturday evenings were communal bath times. Females and males separated, naturally.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 1)

Gentle Reader: I am certain you commiserate with me, when upon waking, Louisa curled into my side as kittens in a sunbeam, all that had passed yesterday rushed over my body like a mill pond race. The froth of my thoughts churned away, the excitement I felt knowing I was his, must have been heard throughout the house. Giddily I twirled the ring around my finger. Out of bed I sprang like a phaeton bowling along the Post Road behind matching blacks. The faint tendrils of dawn’s earliest caresses peeked through the pane. I shook Louisa. “It’s a glorious day!”

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

It wasn’t called Willendorf back then

This week’s prompt for Wicked Wednesday is, Venus in Furs after the erotic novel published in 1870. I don’t recall ever reading it—if I did, it left no impact—and besides that, it wasn’t the first thing that popped in my head when I read the prompt. This was:

Venus of Willendorf

From Wikipedia: The Venus of Willendorf is an 11.1-centimetre-high (4.4 in) Venus figurine estimated to have been made between about 28,000 and 25,000 BCE.[1] It was found in 1908 by a workman named Johann Veran[2] or Josef Veram[3] during excavations conducted by archaeologists Josef Szombathy, Hugo Obermaier and Josef Bayer at a paleolithic site near Willendorf, a village in Lower Austria near the town of Krems.[4][5] It is carved from an oolitic limestone that is not local to the area, and tinted with red ochre. The figurine is now in the Naturhistorisches Museum in Vienna, Austria.

My next reaction to the prompt was Lupercalia and the ancient concept of whipping to chase away evil spirits or to ensure fertility. There were and still are many cultures and places that have some variation of spring festivals echoing much older rituals of blood and appeasement to stern gods. [See Czech Easter whipping or Dominican Mardi Gras]

So imagine if you will, the above Venus as the leader of her tribe; perhaps a medicine woman, or mate to the strongest warrior. Now, it is nearing the solstice, winter has been harsh, some have died; the oldest and youngest: the shamans seek migrating herds in the spirit world while the remaining food is portioned out for the survival of all. They have fire, a large stack of dead-fall saved for this occasion when the snow has melted off the lowlands and green shoots are pushing up through fertile soil. The flames roar into the night sky, distant green and yellow eyes glow as the predators slink away hungry. The drums beating a steady pulse of rumbling noise, the flutes whistling while dancers stamp around the crackling pine boughs. Suddenly, the eerie moaning of flat bone on a string whirled above by spinning arms heralds the arrival of Venus in furs…

She appeared—as she had for the last fifteen springs—in a billowing cloud of red ochre tossed down by acolytes from the overhanging granite that loomed out over the winter camp. It drifted like snow, whirling in the heat of the bonfire and settling as ash upon the dancers, soon turning to scarlet streaks as the sweat mingled with the sacred powder. It fell too, on the smooth limestone slab supported by mammoth feet and centered within four large tusks at the cardinal points; the tips meeting above and lashed together with leather thongs. The carved ivory glowed deep orange.

Helga raised her arms to the stars above, the heavy cave bear pelt spilling off like a dark waterfall; her head covered by the furry mask of an ursine face snarling with bared teeth. The music built to a crescendo as she prayed out loud to the gods of her people, then slowly ebbed as the frenzy eased: there was silence by the time she’d finished chanting. She walked with slow, deliberate tread towards the altar, her cloak rippling leaving behind a wake of flesh tingling power that raised hairs on bare limbs.

Blessing each tusk in turn by grasping with powdered fingers and a firm kiss, she then poured hot water over the limestone and slid her palms in an intricate pattern until the surface turned red. She turned towards her dwelling and beckoned with upraised hands. All but her, knelt on one knee and bowed heads as the two bound figures were brought forth into the wavering light. Helga knew from her teachings that in the not-too-distant past, the slab would have been drenched with blood, instead of ochre dug from the earth. These were enlightened times, compared to the savage ancestors they still revered, but did not always follow.

The young man and woman were at their peak of physical perfection. Selected the previous autumn by contests of skill and prowess, they’d been given the best of provisions and pampered through the long, cold winter months. Now it was their time to give back to the community through sacrifice in hopes of a fertile summer of plenty. Naked, they’d been oiled and shaved completely bare, then painted with elaborate tribal markings and secret tattoos that would send the shaman’s messages, when activated, directly to the spirit world. Helga was responsible for the activation. She carried out her duty via a multi-thong whip created with soft strips of leather from every type of animal killed and consumed the prior year.

Led to the altar, the man and woman were secured facing each other with wrists high at the top of curved tusks, while ankles were spread and wrapped around the base where the ivory posts sank deep into the soil. Helga tugged on each rope making sure the pair could not escape or slump to the ground. She checked each and every mark to make sure all were correct. When she finished her inspection, she once more raised her arms and chanted, this time joined by all present. The music started again when they finished. Dancers began to circle the sacrifices, each pounding the earth with a branch cut off at a wide base. The vibrations shivered through their soles. Her acolytes solemnly removed her cave bear cape and handed her the whip, the wooden handle freshly coated with red ochre. She drew back her arm—and struck on the beat.

The tribe triumphantly cried out as one as the ‘splat’ cracked in the cool night air. Helga alternated between the man and woman, each blow precise, starting at the shoulders and steadily working all the way down to the calves. Each turn around the limestone slab was slightly quicker until she was trotting, her heavy breasts wobbling, and feet kicking up puffs as she whipped past the writhing and groaning figures. The dancers too ran in a wide circle, the noise a loud roar as they witnessed the artistic designs dissolved by sweat and the remorseless whip being swung with ever increasing force upon the reddened naked backs and bottoms of the male and female. Helga stopped: the drums settled into a steady beat as the dancers slowed and then swayed in place gasping for air.

The man and woman were turned in place so that their decorated fronts now faced the whip. Helga changed the pattern. Starting with the female, she lashed the firm breasts, powder exploding in colorful poofs as the thongs impacted. Moving down, she whipped in a crisscross pattern across the abdomen, pelvis and thighs. With an upward motion, the last hard strike was between the wide stretched open thighs as the wet leather slapped against the red outlined vulva. The woman screamed as the force of the blow broke open the deer intestine capsule that had been glued in place. Blood spurted and splattered on the churned soil. Moving to the opposite side, Helga repeated her actions on the male, only this time, when the whip lashed his exposed genitals, the breaking capsule glued to his testes, gushed warm sperm in a parody of fertilization.

Their ordeal was not over yet; released from bondage, the woman was laid on her back, the damp limestone providing only slight relief to the raised welts. The man was placed on top, his flaccid penis rubbed and stroked by Helga until it became fully erect. At her command, he entered the oiled vagina with a deep thrust, the whip fell once more upon his red bottom. After twenty strokes, the entwined couple reversed and it was the woman’s turn to be lashed adding yet more red lines to her buttocks. The final position was from behind, mimicking how all the animals they observed mated. Bodies scoured, passions inflamed, nearly the entire tribe fell on each other in a massive celebratory orgy releasing the lust built by up the whipping.

Helga calmly stepped away and walked back to her abode: alone. She needed to travel deep into the spirit world to guide the tribes’ sexual energy to the proper place.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 Complete

Once again, it is time for a recap of The Bumhampton Chronicles. This post is the complete Chapter 7 of 3,000 words for easier reading and to refresh your memory before I launch into Chapter 8 in 100-word drabbles. If you wish to read from the beginning, then click this link to the Bumhampton Page. The story so far has reached 21,500 words. Since I posted the complete Chapter 6, I’ve had 47 new followers. Thank you very much both new and old for your continued patronage with likes and comments. If you are unfamiliar with some of the other choices on this blog, there are other stories you may enjoy. Another serial that I am posting every Tuesday, are 1,000 word episodes of Kismet of Submission: click to access individual links. I also have a new short story every Wicked Wednesday that works spanking into a word prompt. Another page is complete with links to all my best stories, poetry and essays. Long form essays about a variety of topics are posted nearly every Monday, and you can scroll back through them by clicking the essay category here. And lastly, at my other blog, I post on the first of every month, a spanking newsletter with fiction and commentary.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

“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.

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 arm 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.

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.

Taking a spanking takes practice. This was my first serious thrashing, and by the time she had laid ten searing stripes upon my hindquarters, I was grateful to be securely tied. Having very limited movement I was forced to focus on the ever increasing burn spreading like blistering, bubbling batter on a hot griddle. I fancied I could hear the sizzle, but my arse was not cast iron. Remembering now, Louisa in this very position, wanting to replace her, needing to be flogged and broken. From the outset of my adventure at Peacock House, I knew something special awaited me.

Taking a spanking is crazy. It’s not the pain you recall later, it’s the humiliation: The delicious, helpless vulnerability in giving up your very soul to someone else’s keeping. Craving each hard belt across your flaming backside. Panting, gasping, crying out at each branding strike. Hating the pain yet begging silently, for another, and then another no matter the protests and teary pleas to the contrary. Each blow simultaneously tearing down your arrogance and self-doubt and building up your esteem and pride, knowing your acquiescence is pleasing to your chastiser. Mrs. Cleanknockers kept whipping me hard. Time ceased to matter.

Pride may be a sin, but for the submissive personality, voluntarily raising your scorched bottom in exchange for honest praise, is a feeling nearly indescribable akin to the greatest joy possible. Awareness narrowed to the sharp snap of leather loudly impacting flesh. Regular explosions, my body tensed and relaxed with the crisp rhythm. The murmurs of voices vaguely heard, but was unable to differentiate the individuals. The tide was running out, sweeping me swiftly away from reality, the only constant, my thumping heart; sinking, sinking into the pain, the wonderful punishment soaking deep into me needy core. I tasted salt.

There was something missing. The absence of sound made my ears ring. I floated in a sea of sensation, more alive than I’d ever felt before. My mind became aware the strapping had ceased. A sudden in welling rush of feeling left me sprawled on the sands of my emotions. I could not help a heartfelt cry and flowing tears as the cutting pain ceased and turned to a deep and sore throbbing ache. Fingers stroked my hot bottom, pulling and squeezing as I breathed with shuddering gasps. Warm thumbs wiped my cool wet cheeks. Lips pressed a tender kiss.

“Well done, Ruby, you have pleased me greatly.” I seized Mr. Jones-Smyth’s words as a life raft. “Thank you, Sir. Am I forgiven?” He smiled and kissed me again. “Yes, my dear, you are forgiven.” I slumped as best I could, and flexed my cuffed wrists. My relief was short lived. “However, I wish to test your limits further. I’m told Mrs. Cleanknockers is an expert wielder of the cane.” It was the most confounding duality. Stark fear and deepest craving combined in my mind. A challenge then, a gauntlet tossed in my face. Pride rose like a burnt phoenix.

“As you wish, Sir.” Had I been free of my shackles, I would have raised my chin haughtily and imitated an upper-class accent and issued a command. Luckily for me, I squelched my inner voice quite firmly and adopted a soulful entreaty. “Mrs. Cleanknockers, if you would be so kind as to demonstrate your superior skill with the cane upon my deserving backside?” I could not resist a goad. “My fiancé has expressed doubts as to your competence.” Above my head I sensed messages whizzing between them. “A baker’s dozen then, sir?” At Mrs. Cleanknockers’ words, the stasis was broken.

Another kiss. Mr. Jones-Smyth kissed me as well; then slid the cane handle first, down my naked back. Miss Frothinglips—forgotten ‘til now—deftly retrieved my betrothed’s semi-hard cock from his trousers. Under her clever fingers, it rose in salute. A stool under his feet, and the rampant snake was brushed over my cheek. The sharp CRACK of rattan was paired with instant pain drawn in a line across the most bulbous part of my rearward anatomy. My opened mouth exclamation; swiftly silenced with the hot head of a swollen prick. I did not hesitate, but suckled as if teething.

“Again,” came his voice, and again I wanted to cry out. The strokes were merciless: Swift, with a twist at impact, so that the tip stabbed. The supple flesh rippled in my mouth, my plaintive mews swallowed by aggressive thrusts. No sooner did the pain ebb and turn to soreness, did she whip in the next blow slightly lower, not quite overlapping. My mind’s eye conjured the lines, red, puffy, bisected the entire length by a corrugated weal slowly turning the color of an aubergine. I huffed like a steam locomotive through my nose, his seeping salty shaft sunk deeper.

I was not, could not count the strokes, only ride my leather pommel, lashed fore and aft by harsh taskmasters. Soaring on the slick surface, I slobbered his sausage and shook my hips like a can-can dancer. Truly I was wanton: I loved every bit of it. I protested when he withdrew from my mouth. “No! I want it all!” Like a petulant child denied her dolly, I flapped my tongue and panted for his cock to return. “There is someplace else I wish to enter, Ruby, and your present enflamed state will ease my passage.” We were now alone.
I hissed on an inhalation when Mr. Jones-Smyth ran his stubby thumbnail the length of my cane welts one at a time. I swelled with pride at his appreciative remarks. “You look magnificent, Ruby, with purple grid imprinted on scarlet arse. A man would have to be carved from marble not to be enflamed by your succulent thatch.” I beamed. “And are you such a man, Sir?” In response, I felt his satin charger nuzzle my quivering garden of delight. Like fresh dew on rose petals, my cherry unfurled to greet the rampant desire of stiffened rod. My barrier sundered.

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.

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.

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.

The sparkle caught my eye. Green stone, gold loop, 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.

The Gun Room had ceased to be intimidating. The menacing shackles and many implements designed only to inflict pain, were no longer items to be feared; but embraced. I shook off the vague and troubling pricks of discomfort and applied rigorous attention to polishing the brass. My uniform felt comfortable, the exposure now normal. I pretended I had an audience. Bending from the waist, bare buttocks and wet slit mesmerized my admirers. I simpered and fluttered my eyelashes. Feeling daring, I ran the feather duster handle between my soaked folds then licked off my cream. I dried the floor; again.

After dinner, and before I went to my studies in the schoolroom with Mr. Steedstiff, there was one other stop I’d been ordered to make. Knocking on the door, Miss Frothinglips opened it and bade me enter the Gun Room once more. My eyes shot open: Four footmen, tall, broad-shouldered, and devilishly handsome, stood at attention. Well, their cocks stood at attention. I was surprised. The variety of penises on display was very enlightening. Miss Frothinglips’ explanation even more so. “Before I make ready for this evening’s ball, Ruby, I wish you to observe how the male staff are handled.”

“For those that have not accrued further demerits following the prior day’s punishment, they are milked thusly.” Putting actions to words, Miss Frothinglips stroked three cocks in turn with gloved hand, until they ejaculated into a linen kerchief. They seemed even quicker to spend than Mr. Jones-Smyth had inside me. Perhaps all men come quickly. My mused thoughts were set aside when the first three footmen buttoned their trousers and departed. “What of Tony then?” I said, pointing at the remaining swollen cock. Her reply was cool and haughty. “A month without discipline, and the male may tup my arse.”

A roaring filled my ears. Tony’s prick visibly hardened. Miss Frothinglips knelt on the overstuffed armchair and tossed her skirts over her back. I noted she was without drawers. Between her bared cheeks, her corrugated orifice gleamed with sticky salve. Without touching her, other than his throbbing cock, nor speaking, with a tremendous thrust of his hips, in an instant, his buttoned jacket smacked her bottom firmly. She did not utter a word. Not a breath. Not a whimper. I was astounded at her composure. Tony did not waste time, but viciously sawed in and out like a demented carpenter.

I crept closer and watched with glazed eyes the hard buggery. His prick glistened with lubricant. Hands locked behind his back, he used every bulging muscle outlined beneath his tight trousers to vigorously plow Miss Frothinglips’ distended anus. My mouth watered. I licked my lips. I wanted his cock in my mouth. I wanted my tongue shoved inside her ass. I got neither. Seeing how Tony looked as his face distorted, tendons engorged on his neck as he came inside her; I knew how Mr. Jones-Smyth must have appeared. It wasn’t flattering. Not at all how a writhing female climaxed.

Dismissed with a curt hand gesture, Miss Frothinglips waited until he left to lower her clothing. I pouted when the red and puffy gapes were lost to my sight. “A lady, Ruby, never allows males the upper hand. He exists solely for servicing and once drained, will be fairly docile for a nonce. Never acknowledge he has pleased you. True pleasure is to be found among the discerning, discriminating females of your class.” Puzzlement must have shown for she continued. “Do not fret, Ruby. We women know instinctively that we require both stern discipline and regular discharges of feminine humors.”

As I climbed the stairs to Mr. Steedstiff’s domain, her words chased through my mind like a hound after his tail. Every day brought new mysteries. Each step rekindled the soreness between my thighs. I focused on my lessons. Remedial in scope, I did not complain, only concentrated on learning quickly and well. There were only two of us present; Amy was a new scullery maid who didn’t even know her letters. I paid no mind to their interactions, other than marveling at his patience, and his lordship’s willingness to teach his employees. Her light spanking afterwards seemed a reward.

After Mr. Steedstiff’s tutoring—no discipline given me—I washed up and I allowed myself to relive my defloration and the sodomy I’d witnessed. I had concerns—perhaps too strong a word—maybe confusion would be a better term for what had happened. The moon was hidden behind clouds, rain splattered the single window, Louisa snuggled to my bosom and we talked quietly while fingers lazily probed. Any lingering soreness vanished under her skilled touch. My orgasm was swift in erupting. She took several more before I begged for mercy. I wanted to reciprocate, but sleep dragged me under first.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 30)

After Mr. Steedstiff’s tutoring—no discipline given me—I washed up and I allowed myself to relive my defloration and the sodomy I’d witnessed. I had concerns—perhaps too strong a word—maybe confusion would be a better term for what had happened. The moon was hidden behind clouds, rain splattered the single window, Louisa snuggled to my bosom and we talked quietly while fingers lazily probed. Any lingering soreness vanished under her skilled touch. My orgasm was swift in erupting. She took several more before I begged for mercy. I wanted to reciprocate, but sleep dragged me under first.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 29)

As I climbed the stairs to Mr. Steedstiff’s domain, her words chased through my mind like a hound after his tail. Every day brought new mysteries. Each step rekindled the soreness between my thighs. I focused on my lessons. Remedial in scope, I did not complain, only concentrated on learning quickly and well. There were only two of us present; Amy was a new scullery maid who didn’t even know her letters. I paid no mind to their interactions, other than marveling at his patience, and his lordship’s willingness to teach his employees. Her light spanking afterwards seemed a reward.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 28)

Dismissed with a curt hand gesture, Miss Frothinglips waited until he left, to lower her clothing. I pouted when the red and puffy gapes were lost to my sight. “A lady, Ruby, never allows males the upper hand. He exists solely for servicing and once drained, will be fairly docile for a nonce. Never acknowledge he has pleased you. True pleasure is to be found among the discerning and discriminating females of your class.” Puzzlement must have shown for she continued. “Do not fret. We women know instinctively that we require both stern discipline and regular discharges of feminine humors.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 27)

I crept closer and watched with glazed eyes the hard buggery. His prick glistened with lubricant. Hands locked behind his back, he used every bulging muscle outlined beneath his tight trousers to vigorously plow Miss Frothinglips’ distended anus. My mouth watered. I licked my lips. I wanted his cock in my mouth. I wanted my tongue shoved inside her ass. I got neither. Seeing how Tony looked as his face distorted, tendons engorged on his neck as he came inside her; I knew how Mr. Jones-Smyth must have appeared. It wasn’t flattering. Not at all how a writhing female climaxed.

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

Bursting in mid-thought

Barbara Baxter—Bubbles to her friends, including her husband—was an effervescent blonde; the type of person who instantly drew both avid admiration and calmed many a sticky situation. Stylish, without being snobbish, accomplished—with an ‘aw shucks’ self-effacing grin—and the life of any party; despite likely catering, cleaning and washing up, Bubbles seemed to float through social situations with an enviable iridescent charm.

Behind the serene visage framed by lacquered wispy blond curls and punctuated by plush scarlet lips, her limpid blue eyes concealed a secret so vile that Bubbles hid her vice behind layers of passwords and private browsing. It likely never would have popped had not her adoring hubby forgotten a vital document that morning. Kissing him goodbye, she hustled out on the morning school run—three children in opposite directions—with GPS ruthlessly laying waste to her fellow moms with a ferocity that would have made Sherman proud.

When he pulled back in the painted driveway—her taillights disappearing around the corner—hopped out and disarmed the security; what he found on the kitchen table were dirty breakfast dishes—not a sin—and Bubbles’ laptop still running. In shock at what he saw, he neglected to retrieve the paperwork he’d returned for, and thus had a really, really bad day at work. By late afternoon, he girded his loins for “The Talk” by practicing out loud while half-listening to mellow jazz rather than political chat.

Had any of their far-flung social net been polled as to the compatibility of Bubbles and Wand [he had a rep for making problems vanish] the overwhelming vote would have been ‘perfect’. Thus do we confuse complacency for communication in the pristine prism of couples.

I hate to burst your bubble, darling, but hiding your kinky yen for a good hiding was a very bad idea.
And then Sir smacked the back of the heavy hairbrush right across her bare bottom, peppering the saucy flesh with a fusillade of hard cracks.

Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble by Kalidwen.©

The spanking illustration provided by the very talented Kalidwen over at Kalidwen’s little spankings: Musings & fessées. [Note the laptop picture is of their blog. Very neat.]

“I’m such a freak!”
“No you’re not.”
“I’m sure you hate me right now.”
“No, not hate. Upset that you’ve hid this from me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I think it’s past time that you stop pretending everything is fine, Bubbles. Clearly you have needs that are not being met. Not, may I point out, by neglect on my part, but by deceit and evasion on yours.”
“I’m really, really very sorry, Wand. What can I do to make it up to you?”
“How about you start by firing up your computer and showing me one of your favorite stories.”
“I’m so embarrassed.”
“In fact, I think ‘bare-assed’ would be an appropriate state for you right about now. Put the laptop on the bed, strip, and lay over my lap. We’re going to play a version of ‘Pin The Hairbrush on the Bottom’. You are going to read the story out loud to me. At the end of every sentence I will pin the hairbrush on your bare butt twice. If I feel you are not telling the story with enough enthusiasm, I will spank you even harder. Is that clear, Bubbles?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You may begin.”

Bubbles had never felt so humiliated before. As far back as she could recall, spanking had played an oversize role in her fantasy life. Her dolls and stuffed animals were the best behaved on the entire block, but family discipline had never included physical chastisement. Dating and sex in high school through college, was mostly casual, crammed in between studying and part-time work. Falling in love, getting married, launching a business after three children; did not leave much room for intimacy, never mind kink. The day she’d tumbled across the first D/s blog was both a blessing and a curse. If only I’d been honest from the beginning!

“You know, Bubbles, if you’d only been honest from the beginning, I could have spanked you on our honeymoon.”
“I know, Sir. Please forgive me.”
“Is that the only thing you want?”
“Oooooooooooooh. You beast!”

As she began reading the fictional story, Bubbles fell deep into the starring role as she always did. She squirmed as Wand spanked her bare bottom, trying to keep her composure as she read aloud the arousing passages of punishment. Her normally soft voice climbed the register as the heat seared her skin, each loud SMACK echoing off the walls and pulling a squeal from her pouting mouth. The girl in the story became her. The stern boss, the strict headmaster, the mysterious stranger; they all morphed into characters with her husband’s face. She started punctuating the narrative with personal entreaties.

“Wand told the naughty girl to spread her legs wider as she lay over his lap. She felt herself swelling at the thought of her boss seeing the wet proof she was a wicked, wicked girl. As she hesitated, he didn’t, and swung the hard hairbrush even harder onto her already sore and flaming cheeks. She cried out as the pain snaked like lightning through her trembling body. He scolded her loudly, over the loud SMACKS ringing in his corner office. Through teary eyes, she could no longer see the words on the computer screen, but she knew them by heart. Kicking off her tangled panties, she hunched up scalded bottom in penance.”

‘Spank your naughty Bubbles, Sir! Spank her very, very hard for holding out these past ten years. She’s a greedy, selfish girl for masturbating all that time to literary spankings, when she could have had your strong hand whipping the sass right out of her! Spank me until I’m sobbing, then shut me up with your hard cock. I don’t deserve your magic shaft in my pussy, drill my ass instead and spank me until you come deep inside my virgin bum.’

“The contrite girl knelt on the office carpet, messy mascara face swallowing her boss’ cock to the root, while her hot throbbing bottom rested on her heels. When he was satisfied with her oral ministrations, he lifted her up, spun her around, and forced her shoulders to the desktop. Cold lube drizzled down upon her cringing asshole. Her anal cherry was about to be popped. Underneath her wet chin was the proposal she’d typed up, the red lines through all the errors reminded her of all the time she had wasted hiding her desires. When she got home, her husband was going to see a new woman. Sex and spanking and sore bottom every day was his right.”

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

The Submissive Mindset: What is it and how to reach it.

Seek a Zen-like state. Be the void where thoughts are soap bubbles drifting in morning mist. Your being is not manipulated by unwanted thoughts.

 

‘When does a submissive reach her goal?’
‘When her ego returns the starfish to the sea.’

 

The above was a comment I left on nora’s blog recently. She was bemoaning the fact that it is so hard to get into and stay in a submissive mindset when having been a take-charge dominant woman for so long. She’s not the only person struggling with maintaining the deep submissive posture that she craves. What today’s woman seeks is a calm oasis in the vast landscape of modern society. In the past, being submissive had different connotations.

I finished reading The Signature of All Things, by Elizabeth Gilbert last week. The blurb reads as follows:

Elizabeth Gilbert’s first novel in twelve years is an extraordinary story of botany, exploration and desire, spanning across much of the 19th century. The novel follows the fortunes of the brilliant Alma Whittaker (daughter of a bold and charismatic botanical explorer) as she comes into her own within the world of plants and science. As Alma’s careful studies of moss take her deeper into the mysteries of evolution, the man she loves draws her in the opposite direction—into the realm of the spiritual, the divine and the magical. Alma is a clear-minded scientist; Ambrose is a Utopian artist. But what unites this couple is a shared passion for knowing—a desperate need to understand the workings of this world, and the mechanism behind of all life.

The novel is a very ambitious fictional biography, and I will admit to enjoying the prose much more than the weak plot and shallow characters. The author weaves an undercurrent of sexuality throughout the novel by creating a mechanism whereby Alma Whittaker can explore masturbation through erotic books accidentally obtained in bulk library purchases by her wealthy father. The only detailed manuscript named in the novel is Cum Grano Salis [With a Grain of Salt] and is apparently a literary construct by the author. It is an erotic treatise; purportedly being the memoirs of a man exploring the many and nuanced pleasures to be found in “marvelous bodily pricks and holes”. On page 92, Elizabeth Gilbert writes the following excerpt from the book that her protagonist Alma is reading:

I have come to believe that there are some people who benefit both in body and mind by regular beatings to the naked posterior. Many times, I have seen this practice lift the spirits of both men and women, and I suspect it may be the most salubrious treatment we have at our disposal for melancholia and other diseases of the mind. For two years, I kept company with the most delightful maid, a milliner’s girl, whose innocent and even angelic orbs became firm and strong with repeated flagellation, and whose sorrows were routinely erased by the taste of the whip. As I have described earlier in these pages, I once kept in my offices an elaborate couch, made for me by a fine London upholsterer, specially fitted with winches and ropes. This maid liked nothing more than to be tied securely upon that couch, where she would hold my member in her mouth, sucking me as a child enjoys a stick of sugar, whilst a companion—

Sounds a bit like Ruby’s adventures in The Bumhampton Chronicles, doesn’t it? This is the only reference to corporal punishment in the entire novel, unless you count slavery and asylums as implied instances: or British sailors under the lash. In any event, submission is never directly stated or acted upon, but rather assumed to be the natural order of the Universe. God first, white Protestant males next—or Royalty if not American—followed by the wealthy; then white middle-class women and the unfortunate white poor who toiled dawn-to-dusk for survival lumped beneath. Catholics, Jews, African slaves and Natives of all areas around the globe, were not to be mentioned in polite society beyond scholarly publications created to cement the white man’s place at the top.

So is the author herself a spanko? That is unknown, however, the snippet she created in Cum Grano Salis and a few pages later, shows an interest in flagellation.

Leaving behind the novel, is there even such a thing as the submissive mindset? I wrote the Zen koan posted at the beginning of this essay, because the closest parallel I have experienced to a submissive mindset myself, is during intense zazen—meditation—when all the cares and worries and emotions that beset the waking mind, drifted away into a place of empty contentment. Religion has always been protective, sometimes violently so, towards meditation/prayer as a means of enforcing submission towards the Divine. Anything that smacks of secular interference into the mysteries of the Universe has always been ruthlessly suppressed. Medicine, literature, science, sexuality; all forms of free-expression continue to run afoul of the strict tenets of faith. Religions demand submission: on their terms; or else.

“It’s a dichotomy though that the more you want to be submissive in your thoughts, the harder it becomes to quiet the chattering mind.”

The above comment I wrote for missy’s blog on one of her frequent posts about desiring a more submissive mindset. For missy and nora, among many other women in D/s relationships, they want their Doms to impose their will and demand submission through actions and words. This is in fact, how religion, and other organizations including the military, create institutions that thrive with the mindset of obedience through rote training, intimidation and fear. That mindset though is diametrically opposite to how a successful D/s relationship operates through willing cooperation and respect.

In Gilbert’s novel, Alma’s father Henry is a tyrant, created thusly by the circumstances of birth, and an early life at sea as a cabin boy. In order to carve out a life for himself, all beneath him are submissive to his needs, and any defiance is dealt with harshly. All within his orbit fear him and his temper. Henry is not a Dom. He’s a bully who’s only goal is to be richer than anyone else. Money is a vehicle with which he transcends his past and allows him to collect everything but love and an heir.

So yes, you can as a Dom, force submission through pain and fear, and render someone meek and broken to your needs. Or, you can, through selective dominance, allow—yes, allow—your submissive to tap into the well that already exists. Instead of thinking of your submissive as a tabula rasa you then write your desires upon their willing soul, instead treat them as intelligent beings who want your guidance in becoming better versions of themselves. After all, what is the difference between kneeling in a church praying, and kneeling naked in corner reflecting on inappropriate behavior?

There is of course, no real definition of what makes a submissive mindset. In this case, it seems to be an oxymoron when what makes thoughts disappear is active action, not passively waiting to be dominated. Actively seeking out actions that re-enforce the submissive bond; actively asking for a spanking when stress or melancholia rear up like the Garden’s serpent. When real-life work, family and the ever looming emergencies strike, chanting a mantra that you’ve created at your Doms behest. Having rituals that bond and release you from being in charge; even if only for awhile.

Remembering that ‘this too shall pass’, and that by taking care of your Dom first, your submissive mindset reminds them, that through service and discipline, the more they put into helping you quiet the chattering mind, the stronger and more confident you become in maintaining your submissive mindset to the enrichment of you both.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 26)

A roaring filled my ears. Tony’s prick visibly hardened. Miss Frothinglips knelt on the overstuffed armchair and tossed her skirts over her back. I noted she was without drawers. Between her bared cheeks, her corrugated orifice gleamed with sticky salve. Without touching her, other than his throbbing cock, nor speaking, with a tremendous thrust of his hips, in an instant, his buttoned jacket smacked her bottom firmly. She did not utter a word. Not a breath. Not a whimper. I was astounded at her composure. Tony did not waste time, but viciously sawed in and out like a demented carpenter.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 25)

“For those that have not accrued further demerits following the prior day’s punishment, they are milked thusly.” Putting actions to words, Miss Frothinglips stroked three cocks in turn with gloved hand, until they ejaculated into a linen kerchief. They seemed even quicker to spend than Mr. Jones-Smyth had inside me. Perhaps all men come quickly. My mused thoughts were set aside when the first three footmen buttoned their trousers and departed. “What of Tony then?” I said, pointing at the remaining swollen cock. Her reply was cool and haughty. “A month without discipline, and the male may tup my arse.”

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

It’s been another 30 days, so time for another monthly spanking newsletter over at my second blog, Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction. This month’s newsletter includes a previously unpublished 4,000 word short story that I wrote for an erotic submission call about gluttony. So hop on over, read the short story and sign up to follow for updates.

  • 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