The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 29)

Head down, I heard her snort. “Humble? You? Ruby, you are anything but humble. You are vexing and incapable of knowing when not to stir up trouble. What am I to do with you?” I peered up through glistening eyes. “Spank me and fuck me?” For an instant, I thought I’d gone too far. Mrs. Cleanknockers’ shoulders began to quiver and she cupped her mouth with both hands. Bright bubbling laughter slipped through her fingers like a meadow brook in springtime. She gracefully knelt down and, still chuckling, raised my lips to her mouth, kissing me with a fierce intensity.

Rather than read each individual drabble, you can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters. For easier reading, once I have posted all 30 drabbles, I repost the entire chapter in 3,000 words.

Spanking With The Stars

Definition of celebrity: ORIGIN late Middle English (in the sense ‘solemn ceremony’): from Old French celebrite or Latin celebritas, from celeber, celebr- ‘frequented or honored.’

Source Wikipedia: Athletes in Ancient Greece were welcomed home as heroes, had songs and poems written in their honor, and received free food and gifts from those seeking celebrity endorsement. Ancient Rome similarly lauded actors and notorious gladiators, and Julius Caesar appeared on a coin in his own lifetime (a departure from the usual depiction of battles and divine lineage).

In the early 12th century, Thomas Becket became famous following his murder. He was promoted by the Christian Church as a martyr and images of him and scenes from his life became widespread in just a few years. In a pattern often repeated, what started out as an explosion of popularity (often referred to with the suffix ‘mania’) turned into a long-lasting fame: pilgrimages to Canterbury Cathedral where he was killed became instantly fashionable and the fascination with his life and death have inspired plays and films.

The cult of personality (particularly in the west) can be traced back to the Romantics in the 18th Century, whose livelihood as artists and poets depended on the currency of their reputation. The establishment of cultural hot-spots became an important factor in the process of generating fame: for example, London and Paris in the 18th and 19th Centuries. Newspapers started including gossip columns and certain clubs and events became places to be seen in order to receive publicity.

“What’s the Fall lineup looking like?”
“Pretty bad. Those streaming sites are eating our lunch.”
“Guys, we need some original content here.”
“Well…”
“Go on, spit it out. It can’t be any worse than your last idea.”
Spanking With The Stars.”
“Okay… I was wrong.”
“No! It’s a great idea!”
“Really? This isn’t cable you know, the FCC is still stuck in the last century when it comes to kink.”
“Listen guys! Look, if HBO can do GOT and STARZ can do the Outlander, we can show spanking. It’s 50 shades of whatever, and it’s about time we seized the initiative.”
“I can’t see how we could possibly round up enough celebs—even C-list—to even make a pilot. It’s a dumb idea.”
“Remember the Battle of the Network Stars back in the ’70s? We combine DWTS with Survivor, throw in a little Lost with Naked and Afraid, and we make a reality spanking show where the challenges are all BDSM themed. Hey, if Christian Grey can sell hundreds of millions of books and, make movies despite insipid acting and lame discipline, we can make a television show work.”
“She’s got a point, boss. Throw enough cash and social media follows, there are plenty of celebrities out there who’d put their butts on the line for a shiny trophy and Instagram pics.”
“So who gets spanked? Joe the Plumber and Doris the Housewife, or the used-to-be-famous-until-they-snorted-their-residuals?”
“I say both. I think Taylor Swift would make an awesome dominatrix! And the Rock? Sign me up to fail if he’s swinging the paddle!”
“I’d like to give Bieber a good caning.”
“How about a Kardashian?”
“How about the entire clan?”
“They’re probably already into that.”
“Hey, there’s this website called Chross that lists spankos.”
“Check it out! Madonna and Katy Perry! I know we can get those two as judges.”
“Alright, alright, it sounds viable. Start making some calls and shake the bushes. No, not shrubbery, the Bushes. As in Presidents Bushes. And while you’re at it, ring up the Palace. If anyone’s into kinky sex, it’s Will and Kate.”

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

Transgender ban versus science

The ban on transgender individuals serving in the United States military was reinstated on August 25th, by the current President. This was not a surprise given the rhetoric during the campaign and the promises made to the winning electoral base. Given the plethora of ‘fake news’ accusations being hurled by ‘both sides’, I wanted to contrast the decision to sign the ban, with a trio of recent articles in magazines.

Before I link to the information, I wanted to state for the record that, although I do not identify as LGBTQ or any of the currently more than 50 ‘labels’ for gender’; I do understand what it’s like to exist with different genders and orientations inside. As a multiple personality who is male by birth, has an incredibly vibrant and compassionate woman as the strongest other, and who himself is several personalities removed from the original boy: I know from first-hand knowledge that gender is not genitals, but centered in the mind.

The January 2017 issue of National Geographic Magazine, featured a transgender girl on the cover. The article title, How Science Is Helping Us Understand Gender, leads into an exploration of how the mind and hormones determine gender. I doubt very much if the issue changed many minds, but it certainly solidified my support for transgender rights.

National Geographic, by Robin Marantz Henig: Many of us learned in high school biology that sex chromosomes determine a baby’s sex, full stop: XX means it’s a girl; XY means it’s a boy. But on occasion, XX and XY don’t tell the whole story.

Today we know that the various elements of what we consider “male” and “female” don’t always line up neatly, with all the XXs—complete with ovaries, vagina, estrogen, female gender identity, and feminine behavior—on one side and all the XYs—testes, penis, testosterone, male gender identity, and masculine behavior—on the other. It’s possible to be XX and mostly male in terms of anatomy, physiology, and psychology, just as it’s possible to be XY and mostly female.

Each embryo starts out with a pair of primitive organs, the proto-gonads, that develop into male or female gonads at about six to eight weeks. Sex differentiation is usually set in motion by a gene on the Y chromosome, the SRY gene, that makes the proto-gonads turn into testes. The testes then secrete testosterone and other male hormones (collectively called androgens), and the fetus develops a prostate, scrotum, and penis. Without the SRY gene, the proto-gonads become ovaries that secrete estrogen, and the fetus develops female anatomy (uterus, vagina, and clitoris).

But the SRY gene’s function isn’t always straightforward. The gene might be missing or dysfunctional, leading to an XY embryo that fails to develop male anatomy and is identified at birth as a girl. Or it might show up on the X chromosome, leading to an XX embryo that does develop male anatomy and is identified at birth as a boy.

Genetic variations can occur that are unrelated to the SRY gene, such as complete androgen insensitivity syndrome (CAIS), in which an XY embryo’s cells respond minimally, if at all, to the signals of male hormones. Even though the proto-gonads become testes and the fetus produces androgens, male genitals don’t develop. The baby looks female, with a clitoris and vagina, and in most cases will grow up feeling herself to be a girl.

Which is this baby, then? Is she the girl she believes herself to be? Or, because of her XY chromosomes—not to mention the testes in her abdomen—is she “really” male?

Continuing the gender wars, Vogue magazine weighs into the fight with two articles in the August 2017 edition. This first tackles the fashion industry with the quote “You see boys wearing makeup, girls buying menswear—they are not afraid to be who they are. This category or that category—who cares? They want to define themselves.” The essay itself leads off linking Virginia Woolf with Tumbler.

Vogue Magazine by Maya Singer: Midway through Virginia Woolf’s novel Orlando, a startling transformation takes place: Our hero, Duke Orlando, awakens from a seven-day slumber to find that he has switched genders. “Orlando had become a woman,” Woolf writes, “but in every other respect, Orlando remained precisely as he had been. The change of sex, though it altered their future, did nothing whatever to alter their identity.”

He becomes they. The pronouns shift, but the person remains the same. Woolf’s words, written in 1928, could easily be mistaken for a manifesto posted yesterday on Tumblr, the preferred platform for the growing cohort of “fluid” young people who, like Orlando, breezily crisscross the XX/XY divide. Fashion, of course, has taken note of the movement, which is sufficiently evolved to boast its own pinups, including Jaden Smith, recently the star of a Louis Vuitton womenswear campaign, and androgynous Chinese pop star (and Riccardo Tisci muse) Chris Lee. But where, exactly, is someone neither entirely he nor she meant to shop? And how, exactly, is such a person to be defined?

This new blasé attitude toward gender codes marks a radical break.

“I have a friend who identifies as ‘all boy, all girl, all male, all female,’” says Gypsy Sport designer Rio Uribe, who is known for his party-like fashion shows cast with pals from all along the gender spectrum. “It’s like—what is that? But it doesn’t matter what it is.” Eluding the labels, constructing an identity apart—for Uribe, that’s “a clapback to a society that wants to define you.”

For a demographic so keenly attuned to being looked at, style serves as a convenient means of liberation. And so it’s always been, as Marc Jacobs points out.

“These kids—I’m not sure they’re any different from the people I saw at Danceteria or Mudd Club in the eighties,” Jacobs says. “The difference is that back then, the expression—extreme looks, cross-dressing, what have you—was hidden away in a speakeasy or a club. Today, thanks to the Internet, that culture is widely exposed.”

The second article builds upon the National Geographic story, by interviewing parents and their transgender children. How the Parents of Trans Teens Are Fighting for Their Kids’ Lives, shows how love and acceptance can be a powerful force for change when faced with an often hostile school system, medical and insurance industries in denial, and the suicide provoking pressures of a judgemental society bent on ridiculing those with differences.

Vogue Magazine by Rebecca Johnson: Almost a decade ago, Judy Caplan Peters’s four-year-old made an announcement that would shake their family’s values to its core. “Mommy,” the little one said, hand on chest as if to recite the pledge of allegiance, “I’m a boy.”

A simple enough statement except that, up until that moment, her child had been raised a girl. Sander*, as he’s known now, had been born with a girl’s anatomy, went by a girl’s name, and dressed in girls’ clothes.

His mother did not try to argue him out of it. She’d seen the signs, beginning with the phone calls from school advising that her child refused to sit with the girls when the students were divided by gender. Or saying that Sander had a headache, a stomachache, or just wasn’t feeling well and wanted to come home. She knew Sander was not happy on some fundamental level, which, for her, meant she did not have a choice in the matter. “You either love your child for who they are,” she says, “or you don’t. It’s that simple.”

Simple but not easy. “I had to go through a grieving process,” Caplan Peters admits, “because I was losing my daughter, but then you realize that your child is not dead or sick or lost, which, God forbid, some parents have to deal with. Your child is healthy. There is nothing wrong with them. This is how they were born.”

Previous generations of transgender people look at the children taking hormone-blocking drugs in awe. When the writer Andrew Solomon attended a gender conference to gather research for his groundbreaking book Far from the Tree: Parents, Children and the Search for Identity, he met trans people who openly wept when they encountered young people who would never have to go through what they had: puberty as the wrong sex. “It’s fantastic,” says novelist and trans activist Jennifer Finney Boylan about hormone treatment. “I was OK with my androgynous body as a child, but when puberty hit and the girls started going one way and I had to go with the brutes, I thought, Oh, no, this is going to be bad.” Thirty years later she transitioned to female, becoming one of the movement’s earliest and most articulate voices.

We in the BDSM community attract unwelcome attention and scorn for our chosen lifestyle, even though D/s and spanking is more mainstream than ever before. But being more visible doesn’t translate to being accepted. I grew up in a liberal/progressive big city, but even there, hetero marriage with a white picket fence was the ideal. I don’t ever recall a conversation or dialogue about sex outside the norm of male enters female and reproduces, and fluid gender was about as remote as watching live events on a mobile phone.

To give you a reference point, when I was a senior in high school, Bruce Jenner came for an assembly that was held at the track field. There was no way anybody in the audience of thousands, could have ever envisioned a day when he, would transition to she, and be known as Caitlyn. I was four years old when biracial marriage was declared legal in the United States, and six years old when the Stonewall riots happened in Greenwich Village.

I watched Star Wars seventeen times in the theater when I was thirteen, and ESPN launched just before I turned sixteen. When CNN started broadcasting the following year, I watched the first 24-hours without a break; enthralled that the world was now only a satellite linkup away. I don’t remember what year I got my first email account and scrolled through the World Wide Web via a dial-up modem, but back then, LGBTQ and BDSM information was very hard to find.

Every generation lays claim to the title of ‘Most Changes’, but for Baby Boomers such as myself, the sheer speed of social change playing out in live streaming color, belies the fact that—as Virginia Woolf wrote—fluid gender has always been a part of human existence. The acceptance of others who are different than us, is up to each individual. Who would have guessed that starting a blog eleven years ago would have led to discovering my true identity? But here I am, a straight Dom male, with a bi switch female always hovering around peering over my shoulder. I accept who we are.

So does she.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 28)

It was tedious but the lemony fumes compensated. Engrossed in my chores, I shrieked in surprise when I turned around to see Mrs. Cleanknockers standing with her arms folded, back to the door. “I’m sorry, ma’am! You startled me.” I bobbed and nervously nibbled my lip when I sensed she was angry. “It seems I owe you an apology, Ruby, for what transpired yesterday.” Yes, she was angry. Whether solely at me, it did not matter. “Ma’am. Permission to speak freely?” She nodded minutely. I crossed the floor, kneeling at her feet. “I am your humble slave, ma’am. No apologies.”

Rather than read each individual drabble, you can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters. For easier reading, once I have posted all 30 drabbles, I repost the entire chapter in 3,000 words.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 27)

I decided not to take chances and stepped into the sanitary belt. Pulling it up between my thighs, Louisa exclaimed as my bottom hove into view. “Ruby! What did you do to deserve such harsh treatment?” I ruefully rubbed. “The usual sass I’m afraid. Don’t worry, my love, you can apply some salve tonight. Your sticky fingers will feel so nice up my sore bum.” We stole some kisses with sucking tongues before we reluctantly parted with outstretched fingers being the last to slip away. A maid’s work is never done. Polishing and waxing the Gun Room floor awaited me.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 26)

Still, I winced when I sat on the rough wooden bench. Louisa asked me in a whisper what was wrong. I replied in the same fashion that cramps from my pending cycle were increasing. Conversation wasn’t forbidden during meals, but most of us concentrated on assuaging our hunger. The entire staff couldn’t fit all at one go, so we were split into two half hour shifts. Unless needed for an urgent task, the upstairs/downstairs served as a natural demarcation. When we’d scraped the bowls and plates clean, Louisa pulled me aside and directed me to the storage cupboard of supplies.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 25)

His Lordship’s voice was caustic and uncompromising. It was their turn to be called on the carpet. The firm thud and clunk of the door being locked cut off the lecture in mid-song. I shuddered. Somehow I knew I’d wind up paying for whatever punishment was dished out to the trio of my betters. I can’t say I was all that worried. It took extraordinary willpower on my part to not push Mr. Edwards into the Gun Room and have my way with him. By the time we reached the dining area, the sharp pain from the caning had faded.

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

chalk beneath my feet

how many before me have sat here
and elsewhere
sore bottom and tender thighs
seed even now
~hopefully~
taking root in my eager womb
arms wrapped around knees
hem madly flapping as my heart
aches to watch wake riding waves
dispersed upon upwelling tide
cold air scaling white cliffs
to send gulls flying
hurtling inland to build squalls
to match my wet cheeks
hoping he will return
knowing that many will not
two months mine
the others given to the sea
a harsh mistress
offering naught but death
and wealth
for the fortunate few
who ride her swells
as he rode mine
willingly did I open wide
submit to his cock
that glorious and sole
redeeming aspect of being
a sailor’s love
who with calloused hands
spanked the calendar away
drawing red lines across
the needy surface
the sails fill and his ship
is flying over the
feathering sea
away from me
again
my hand waves
over the edge of the world
she falls
down
down
into the briny depths
we turn our backs
from Land’s End
and stroll arm-in-arm
widows of the deep blue ocean
with chalk beneath our feet

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

Attention!

I finished a book last week—I read at least a dozen books a week—called, Fighter Pilot: The Memoirs Of Legendary Ace Robin Olds. If you’re interested in the history of fighter pilots in WWII or Vietnam from an American perspective, then I can recommend this non-fiction book. This essay however, is not about any of the details of war, nor about Robin’s lifelong battle against the military hierarchy and political stupidity he blamed for losing Vietnam and costing countless lives, but about discipline.

From December 1967, to January 1971, he served as Commandant of Cadets at the United States Air Force Academy. On page 358 [the softback edition] is the following paragraph:

Some people saw a paradox in the notion of a maverick fighter pilot instilling discipline in the Corp of Cadets. Many thought fighter pilots were probably the most unruly, undisciplined bunch of people in the military. Complete nonsense, of course. Every aspect of a fighter pilot’s life demands strict discipline. Flying itself takes discipline. It is, in fact, both the end result of highly disciplined training and the constant application, through self-discipline, of the lessons of that training. I have a pet definition of discipline: It’s what makes a person do the right and proper thing under many different circumstances. That doesn’t mean by sheer instinct or innate ability, it means through knowledge gained by life experience, training and learned judgement. If discipline were instinctive, I wouldn’t be needed as commandant. To do the right thing moment to moment, a person needs to analyze and judge a situation correctly, make the right decision for the proper course of action, and then take that action. All these steps require discipline and training.

Now obviously Robin wasn’t taking about D/s, but his definition works quite well in terms of BDSM and all the various ways we interact in relationships. Doms and subs have to learn discipline, together and separate, so that each time life seems to throw the D/s off-course, there is a base of ever expanding knowledge to draw upon.
Many different posts from many different Doms and subs I’ve read recently, have a common theme of feeling lost, or overwhelmed by forces outside of their control. Not to be trite or make light of reality, but life sucks some of the time for everyone. I don’t claim to have any answers to any metaphysical questions D/s may raise, but I do know this: Love and respect go a long way when discipline becomes a matter of personal intimacy.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 24)

I returned to the study and curtsied to both men, receiving smirking stares at my now clothed person. “Thank you for disciplining me, Sir, Mister. Is there naught else you require of me at this time?” At a brusque nod, Mr. Edwards hastily arose and gathered his precious books. “That will be all, Ruby. Mr. Edwards, you may provide escort and partake of luncheon.” We made our escape in fine order, but at a loud knock, there arrived His Lordship’s meal on covered silver platter accompanied by Miss Frothinglips, Mrs. Cleanknockers and Mr. Jones-Smyth. “So! Perhaps an explanation is due?”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 23)

My ass was throbbing. The cane welts were raised and so very tender. Discretion was needed. I fetched a bucket of soapy water, and scrubbed the baseboards out of direct sight. The men’s conversations combined with the sloshing suds, lulled me in an altered state. With my bottom high, I slid the coarse brush forward and back, wringing out the dirty water with rags. The luncheon gong caught me by surprise. It took five minutes or so to finish the section I was cleaning, and several more to dump the filthy residue on the kitchen midden. I donned my uniform.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 22)

“Is there trout for luncheon?” SMACK! “Suck… his… cock!” SMACK! “Now!” I slithered off the desk, and on my knees, waddled the short distance to Mr. Edwards. He made no verbal objection to my burrowing hands as I fished out his tumescence. I couldn’t help crooning, “Come to mama,” as I gulped down his rigid length. Still with little practical experience, I’m afraid I was rather sloppy: nor did it help matters when the groaning man exploded in my mouth within a few minutes. His hands were bare; I felt empathy realizing he had no wife to sexually service him.

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



If you would like more information about me as a writer, Ina Morata has written two posts about my work. This first was posted on Febuary, 5th 2017, and titled My Favourite Spanking Authors (Part 2) and includes an excerpt from a novel in progress. The second post is an interview I did recently with her and includes some upcoming work to be published. It can be found here, August 17th, 2017 and is called Author Interview: Byron Cane (aka Lurv Spanking).

Coincidently, this latest interview is at the one-year anniversary when Ina first popped round to offer a cuppa to the new kid on the block, along with beta reading and editing my meager [at the time] trove of fiction. During the ensuing twelve months, Ina has been a source of inspiration, dedication, publishing and we’ve become partners both professionally and personally. I can’t wait for the next year to see where the spanking journey takes us.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 21)

“Now, Mr. Edwards, do you think you can concentrate on the estate ledgers, or do you need relief first?” He continued spanking me as he spoke. “I… I am sure, Sir, that… umm… I can, we can, continue… Sir.” His Lordship let me thump to the floor, my legs shook and had his hand not cupped my pubis and steadied me, I surely would have fell. He stroked me, two fingers entered my puss; his thumb forced my arsehole to dilate. “Ruby, you will fellate Mr. Edwards as recompense for your lewd exhibition.” I asked in puzzlement, “Fellate him, Sir?”

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

In case of an emergency…

… apply liberally.

Off High Street, down a narrow twisted cobbled alley barely wide enough for a pony trap, a turquoise door propped open beckoned the footsore weary tourist with the promise of an adventure. Gleaming in the late afternoon rays, the gaily painted easel with the large red arrows pointed the way to Curio & Osities Antiques.

“Daddy? Do we have time to go shopping there?”
Erik Jorgensen gave his new bride Lisle an indulgent smile. “I thought my little girl wanted an ice cream?”
“I do, Daddy, pistachio and caramel sea salt, but I wanna see what cool stuff they have. Please?”
“Alright, but you still owe me ten spanks for going over your stuffie budget. Money isn’t mined by dwarves you know.”
Lisle made a disgruntled face. “I know that! Everyone knows that money is farmed by unicorns!” She squealed and raced down the alley after he playfully swatted the back of her frilly purple skirt.
Following at a more leisurely pace, Erik couldn’t help laughing at his little girl’s antics. The honeymoon thus far had been a wondrous romp between amazing sex, scintillating history and more discipline than he could ever have believed possible. While Lisle was a thoroughly modern professional woman who enjoyed a good stiff drink and a cigar after work, little girl loved nothing more than laying over her Daddy’s knee being soundly spanked.
Bratty or obedient, it didn’t matter, little girl took great pains in plotting her next session. Erik certainly had no objections, and in fact, allowed her to fill the toy chest with carefully curated implements. For her, spanking wasn’t a black and white issue for punishing misdeeds, but so enjoyable, she insisted on bending over at every opportunity. Her favorite saying was: ‘Daddy, if it’s not pink, don’t stop to think.’
By the time he wandered into the brightly lit shop with that indefinable odor of old stuff, little girl was already out of right; although he could hear her sighs and excited exclamations. Examining a bin of etchings, he didn’t bat an eye when she came rushing up at full tilt, blond ponytail snapping behind her.
“Daddy, Daddy! Look what I found? Look. Look.”
Seeing the quirky expression on the proprietress’ face, Erick sent her a short nod and gave full attention to his wife. “What did Daddy say about inside voices, little girl?”
Scuffing her shoe, she pouted very briefly then held out the object she was clutching. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I got so excited I forgot.”
“I accept your apology, however that will be ten more spanks for your total.”
“Okay,” She shrugged. “See?”
He plucked the item from her hand and turned it over several times admiring the craftsmanship. He addressed the owner who was clearly fascinated by the conversation. “What can you tell me about this piece?”
Visibly collecting herself, she replied without hesitation, “That is an early 19th-century ebony and ivory hairbrush from Spain. The bristles are boar and was likely part of a bridal trousseau. It’s quite unique having the ivory inlays in the handle. Most brushes are either one or the other.”
Erik smacked lightly upon his palm. “It has a nice heft and impact.”
Lisle tugged on his jacket sleeve and whispered in his ear.
“Pardon me. My little girl would like to know if there is somewhere more private we can test before purchasing.” He smiled at his blushing bride of one week and lowered his voice. “She’s very picky about spanking implements.”
With noticeable concern, the woman asked Lisle if she was okay. Color suffused her face as well, when the reply was a forthright and blunt, “I am fine, thank you. I need to know how the brush feels on my bare bottom first, before Daddy buys it for me.”
Bemused and bit bewildered, the owner nevertheless didn’t want to lose the sale, so she led them to her back office, and closed the door once they were inside. Erik and Lisle listened for her footsteps to fade.
“What do you bet she’ll sneak back to listen, Daddy?”
“Your ass.”
Giggling with happiness, little girl draped herself over his lap, and fidgeted while he raised up her skirt and drew down her sparkly heart panties. “There will be twenty spanks now. If you like this brush, it’s way over budget, it will be one hundred and fifty later at the hotel before dinner.”
“Yes, Daddy. You may fire when ready.”
The smooth patina of the ebony wood impacted little girl’s bare bottom with a loud ‘splat’. Erik laid the first ten down the right buttock, from crown to crease. “How does that feel?”
“Good. It smarts a lot though.”
“Excellent. The last ten will be harder.”
And they were. Crisp cracks, unmistakable for anything other than a spanking, rang out in the room. The brush sank in the buttery flesh and bounced back with a soft recoil.
“I want it, Daddy. I’ll gladly pay the price tonight. One hundred and fifty strokes as hard as the last one.”
After purchasing the brush, and watching the owner lick her lips when little girl told her ‘it’s not polite to eavesdrop’, Erik towed Lisle out of the shop before anything more was said… or done.
“She needed a spanking, Daddy.”
“Do you want me to go back?”
Lisle pondered for a moment and then said with a thoughtful expression, “As much as I think she deserves it, I want you all to myself. For now.”
A very happy little girl skipped back up the stone alley hand-in-hand with the bestest Daddy ever.

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

Justify my shame

We all have addictive personalities to some extent. It used to be thought that addiction was a moral failing found most often in the lower classes. Abuse of alcohol and drugs were the reasons that the poor stayed poor and uneducated due to bad blood. Studies have found though that addiction is 50% genetic and 50% poor coping skills. Because of the social stigma attached to addiction, most people don’t seek help until it’s too late. Even if assistance is available, the shame that is drilled into us by parents, teachers and religious institutions, make the guilt so overwhelming that most addicts believe they deserve to suffer.

Addiction vulnerability is the genetic, physiological, or psychological predisposition to engage in addictive behaviors. Source: Wikipedia

For a long time, too long, I considered my need for D/s and spanking to be an addiction; thus shameful and the ultimate source of my guilt. I justified that need by saying to myself, I could stop at any time, it was only words and pictures. It wasn’t like I was actually hurting anyone.

That all started to change twelve years ago when I crawled up out of my self-imposed and self-created oubliette. When I began blogging—for non-D/s reasons—I gradually connected with many others who enjoyed spanking and BDSM and weren’t shy about stating their interest.

I discovered healthier ways of coping with my needs and today, I can finally state with conviction, that my need to spank and dominate is not shameful or weak or perverted. I am not addicted to D/s: D/s makes me a better person by holding myself accountable for my actions towards others.

I can give respect to all my readers and friends, because I can now be respectful towards my own desires. I want to spank. I want to be a Dom. There is no longer any reason to justify my shame.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 20)

WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! Fire lanced in branded lines that danced roughshod over my puckish attitude. His Lordship seized my waist and hoisted me one-handed off the floor. His dominant hand beat me, spanking hard and fast along the welted lanes paved by the rattan cane. My feet paddled in mid-air, unable to duck the blows raining down on my hot flesh. I bit my knuckles and allowed tears to stain the blotter. I wanted to be good, truly I did, but some mischievous imp drove me to frequent feckless folly. Then again, I wanted this thorough thrashing.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 19)

As his Lordship strode across the study to the punishment closet, I sneaked a peak and saw his manager tugging at his collar and mopping his perspiring brow. I, being of low morals and wicked disposition, unsubtly gave him a wide-angle view of my soaked snatch. “Ruby!” The whistling hiss was all the warning I needed to brace myself. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! Three stingers seared my bare buttocks. I didn’t flinch, only thrust upwards on tiptoes. My challenge was accepted. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! The fatty tissue underneath my bulbs caught the wrath. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! My upper thighs burned next.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 18)

Being Friday, his Lordship’s appointment was with the estate manager, whom I had yet to meet. His bulging countenance appeared carp-like as he gawped at my nudity. I flirted—of course—and was scolded. When the poor man was unable to concentrate on the figures, captivated instead by mine flitting through his peripheral vision, I was ordered back to the desk. “Since you seem intent on wreaking havoc with every male who crosses your path, Ruby, you force me to put you in your place.” Roughly, I was bent over the desk, red bottom directly in front of the manager.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 17)

I was no Eve, but I knew now why so many people pursued sex with such reckless abandon. “Thank you, Sir. I’ll begin my tasks now.” There was only silence. Daringly, I placed my palm on his sharp elbow; I felt the slightest of tremors. “Sir, I am yours, whenever and wherever you choose. You were magnificent. I have never felt better. Please do not cast me out for being forward.” At last a stern response, “Ruby, you are contracted to me for a year, regardless of your betrothal. Only a fool would cast you aside. I am no fool.”

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

Open wide: I’ll come inside

This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is, ‘The Dentist’. I will state that going to the dentist is not my favorite thing, and I have no sexual inclinations whatsoever towards the vocation. This story started as a complete outline in my mind—which rarely happens—and morphed into 1,800 freehand words. I typed it all in, made a few deletions, and here it is for your enjoyment.

“Easy Dental. This is Elise. How may I help you?”
“An emergency? I do have a cancellation tomorrow morning at ten. Are you a current patient?”
“No? I’m sorry. Dr. Brandeis doesn’t do house calls. Excuse me? He’s currently with clients until late this afternoon. Certainly I’ll give him the message as soon as he’s free. You’re welcome.”
It was over an hour later before Elise was able to hand over the note along with a brief explanation of the phone call. “It was like she expected you to drop everything and rush to the rescue!”
“A house call?” I furrowed my brow in confusion and wormed a piece of granola bar out from between the first and second lower jaw bicuspids. “Why would someone request that of a dentist?”
“I don’t know, doctor, she was adamant you return her call a.s.a.p.”
“Her? Is she a patient? Not Mrs. Larson!”
“No, but she said you’d remember her incisors.”
I read the scribbled message for the first time. My molars ground as the name Kayla Castana leaped out at me in a flurry of memories. Flowing black silken hair, olive skin flushed with passion and a fiery temper to match emerald eyes. Oh yes, I remember the tempestuous siren; who tried—and failed—to lure me away to the coast. We broke up for good when after my degree, I bought out the practice in my small hometown.
My palm twitched. Her bottom had felt my displeasure on numerous occasions. Her claws and teeth returned the favor.
I shook off the past. “Thanks, Elsie, I’ll take care of it.”

Somehow, come half past five, I found myself driving, not home to prepare for a often postponed date with my current girlfriend, but out into the boonies towards a set of GPS coordinates set deep in the middle of the state wilderness. To my knowledge, there was nothing out there, but Kayla had insisted it was a legitimate emergency. My ears were still ringing from Taylor’s complaints about the cancellation, but the promised fee of fifteen-grand assuaged my guilt and peaked my curiosity.
‘Turn right in one mile.’
The sun had gone behind the tall trees crowding the narrow two-lane blacktop road, and the headlights reflected off a white sign now visible around the bend. I tapped the brakes and coasted up as the GPS told me to ‘turn right now’.
The gold letters spelled out, Spots & Stripes Sanctuary, as I swept onto the gravel surface. The navigation showed 5 miles to my destination.
The forest closed in. My tires crunched over the white aggregate and the exterior temperature steadily dropped. My phone flashed, ‘No Service’. I wiped my hands on my slacks and gulped. It probably didn’t help I was listening to Stephen King’s latest audio book. I thought it was Kayla’s voice, but what if…?
Four miles in, a red and white gate loomed up out of the misty twilight. A uniformed guard leaned out the half-door of the small hut to the left.
“Good evening.”
“Sir.”
“My name is Dr. Brandeis. Kayla Castana is expecting me.”
“I.D. please, doctor.”
I fumbled with my wallet and extracted the license. The guard compared the picture to my face then consulted a piece of paper. There was a soft tearing noise and he handed back my identification along with printed directions and a laminate tag with a clip.
“Wear this badge at all times. Follow the directions to Building #Seven, you will be met there by your guide. Have a good evening.”
The barrier lifted silently and I put my AWD Volvo back into drive. Whatever this place was, I had gone way past concern straight into paranoia.
‘You have reached your destination.’
“I don’t think so.”
‘Recalculating.’
Three very long miles later, concrete replaced gravel, and the tight trail through the dense woods flared out into a circular drive that made a wide loop around a three story lodge that looked like a log cabin hotel. Building #Seven was three-quarters of the way around. I swung into a parking space and shut off the engine.
Peering through the windshield, the front door and windows were filled with friendly light. Kayla stood on the walkway and waved hello.
I waved back.
“You’re looking good, Doctor.”
I gave her a fist bump. “Thank you, you as well.”
“Please come in. I truly appreciate coming all this way out here. Our regular dentist is on vacation.”
“Well. I hope it’s worth it. My girlfriend isn’t very happy with me right now.”
Kayla held out a fat manila envelope. “Your fee, a cash fee. Maybe that will soothe her temper.”
I gave a wry smile, tucking the crinkly payment in my jacket pocket and followed Kayla as she briskly walked deeper inside towards an elevator. We went down: Two levels and soon reached a heavy door with keypad.
She swiped a card, entered a code, and we were buzzed in. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled as the unidentifiable odor wafted through my nasal passages. Kayla didn’t notice—or ignored—my reaction and unlocked the fifth door on the right.
I poked my head in and gave a low whistle. I was looking at a state-of-the-art dental suite. “Okay. Where’s the patient?”
Kayla was on my heels and gave an exasperated groan. “Dammit! I can’t believe she snuck out again! I’ll be right back.”
I shrugged as her rapid footsteps quickly faded. Donning a surgical gown, I set up my tools of the trade, all hermetically sealed and in order. I’d been assured everything I could possibly need would be waiting, and the specific emergency would be made clear.
A deep rumbling snarl slashed the room. Dropping a pick from suddenly nerveless fingers, I spun around and thumped into the back wall with a hard thud.
The noise was emanating from the throat of a medium sized gold and black spotted feline. As in a wild cat, it was smaller than a leopard, but much larger than the average domestic breed.
“This is completely unacceptable, Nessa! You have to get your teeth fixed!”
Despite my panic, I did notice a wide collar and a leash being held in Kayla’s hand as she scolded the cat. I swallowed hard and managed to croak, “Um… I think you need a veterinarian and some sedatives. I don’t do animal dentistry.”
The animal in question stared at me with gold-flecked eyes and thrashed her puffy tail against the tile floor. The low growling continued unabated.
“Nessa…” Kayla’s menacing voice growled right back. “Do NOT push your luck!” Her command was punctuated by a sharp tug of the leash.
I continued to sidle along the far wall but they were between me and the exit. Before I made a rash dash for the door, the clearly annoyed feline tossed her head at me and suddenly the air shimmered as if I’d gone cross-eyed.
My mouth dropped open.
Instead of a pissed off cat, a nude woman crouched in its place. The empty collar and leash dangled from Kayla’s fingers. “I’m only going to say this once more, Nessa. Get in the chair.” She lashed the woman’s bare bottom twice with the leather leash leaving two red stripes behind.
Nessa leapt with feral grace into the chair. Kayla swiftly attached cuffs to both ankles and wrists and engaged the mechanism to raise and tilt the woman until the former cat was lying nearly horizontal.
I watched as her breasts heaved up and down and her tethered limbs quivered. I realized she was terrified. Cautiously approaching, I held my hands up as if to say, ‘this wasn’t my idea’, and drew the stool close to her side. I sat down and said, “Hello, Nessa. My name is Dr. Brandeis. Kayla asked me to attend to you this evening. I want you to know I will do everything in my power to make this as painless as possible. Will you please tell and show me what is the concern you are experiencing at present?”
When she finally spoke, Nessa’s voice flowed over me like melted chocolate: Dark, rich, and filled with the promise of a good time.
“You don’t seem surprised, doctor.”
“I read a lot of paranormal fiction. I assume you, and Kayla are werecats of some kind.” I glanced over at Kayla and held her gaze. “Now that I think about the past, it makes sense.” She coolly returned my regard and I refocused on my patient.
“I’m a margay,” Nessa replied, “and I hate going to the dentist.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing I came to you. May I look in your mouth?”
She glared at Kayla one last time and reluctantly opened wide. I manipulated the overhead lamp and, after masking, peered in inside. “I see. Molars 14, 15 and 17 are cracked and you have signs of infection. How long ago did this happen?”
“Two weeks,” Nessa mumbled.
I patted her slick shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix you up and put you on a course of antibiotics.” I addressed Kayla. “I assume you have were-suitable medications?” When she nodded in the affirmative, I turned back to Nessa. “I’m going to take some x-rays first to make sure the root is intact, then give you some local anesthesia, clean out the infection and repair the cracks. I am very hopeful I can salvage your teeth.”
When Nessa started crying, Kayla leaned in with a hug and whispered in her ear during the time I was prepping the x-ray machine and films. When I heard soft buzzing, I looked back to see Kayla’s arm up between Nessa’s nude thighs holding what appeared to be a slim wand.
I cleared my throat, but Kayla merely winked at me and started an in-and-out motion. Nessa squirmed, but because her ankles were secured to the sides of the chair, could only raise her hips slightly. “An orgasm, or two, will calm her down.”
At this point, I was so far beyond the norm, my only option was to proceed as professionally as possible on my patient. It was ‘hard’ to do considering the sounds and scents swirling through my senses. The musk of two aroused females made me earn every penny of that fifteen thousand.

All I’ll say is this: I arrived home after midnight, all fingers—and virtue—still intact. Although later on, Taylor decided my vague explanations were the final straw to our relationship and we parted with some harsh words.
I did though have a lucrative new cash flow, minus bulk purchases of catnip, for when Nessa came prowling after dark seeking her favorite chew toy and dentist.

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

Sundae snacking

fingering wet silk
submissive white lace shivers
snow capped tart cherries

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 16)

I lifted the cloth to my nose and sniffed. A sharp tang of the sea melded with my heavy musk. Woozily blinking my sluggish eyelids, I recalled what Louisa had said about no bastards from his lordship. I gazed down at the light glaze roped around my still erect nipples. My thighs clenched: I’d missed him marking me. Wiping myself with trembling fingers, I lurched upright; grabbing a chair, it made a slight screech as it slid backwards. On still wobbly legs, I crossed the study and stood near him. Naked, I peered out at the trim geometric botanical beds.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 15)

The tidal bore smashed through the dike when his left thumb stroked my precious pearl. The undertow of my third consecutive orgasm swept my consciousness away. I vaguely remember swooning, and shoulders pinning my knees to my chest. Then, hot fluid splattering my skin. The room spun as we waltzed. Velvet tickled my thighs. There was a damp cloth draped across my breasts. The ticking clock sounded overly loud. At one of the floor to ceiling windows, the warm morning light was partially eclipsed by a short man, hands behind his back, staring out at the brick enclosed herb garden.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 14)

Sweat fell from his lordship’s brow, sizzling as it struck my taut tummy. Another wave rose from the cool depths. A leviathan: I stopped breathing as it hit. My hips lifted instinctively, anything to get the phallus tighter to my womb. I shook, hands drummed the blotter, feet flailed; I screamed—and still he fucked on, fast, slow, short, long: his cock was the center of my universe. Nothing else was real. The tiny portion that was left of my sanity marveled at his stamina and skill, pondering if he needed a wife. It—my sanity—fled for higher ground.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 13)

I obeyed. He splayed my legs wide. I watched as his stiff, shiny prick was sucked back into my greedy pink maw. His left hand clasped my upper buttock, right arm snaked around my lower back and, once more, like a watermill hammering grain, he… well, hammered my hot cunt. My eyes slipped to half-mast, my mouth, slack and dried by panting breath, could not contain the upwelling of nervous energy springing from my very center. I exploded like a Covent Garden firework. Internal muscles—untried as they were—clenched and rippled around the marvelous satin poker, poking me deep.

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

Tied to my faults

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is ‘Bond’ after the quartet of the same name playing ‘Victory’ from the year 2000. I have that album Born on CD. Likely I purchased it because it featured four women in tight dresses with lovely bums. I do enjoy their music as well, to be fair. The other Bond, James Bond, uses sex and sizzle too; although I’d like to see a Jane Bond at some point.

The origin of bond, is rather interesting. The ultimate root source is bind: ORIGIN Old English bindan, of Germanic origin; related to Dutch and German binden, from an Indo-European root shared by Sanskrit bandh.

This changed to band, as in: #4 archaic ‘a thing that restrains, binds, or unites.’ ORIGIN late Old English (sense 4 of the noun), from Old Norse, reinforced in late Middle English by Old French bande, of Germanic origin; related to bind.

In turn, this lead to bonds: physical restraints used to hold someone or something prisoner, esp. ropes or chains. ORIGIN Middle English: variant of band1.

The surname Bond, comes from Old English bonda, bunda, reinforced by Old Norse bóndi, which in the Old Norse meant farmer or husbandman, as well as a personal name.

In Modern English, bond is also used in chemistry, the law, building and financial trades and in terms of relationships. It’s interesting that the word bondage, originally comes from an agricultural background: ORIGIN Middle English: from Anglo-Latin bondagium, from Middle English bond ‘serf’ (earlier ‘peasant, householder’), from Old Norse bóndi ‘tiller of the soil,’ based on búa ‘dwell’; influenced in sense by bond.
The BDSM meaning of bondage was first recorded in 1966.

the fertile soil of my phobia ridden mind
yields a paltry harvest of habitual faults
with plow and mattock blistered hands seek
redemption for numerous errors in judgement

the sun cannot scorch hotter than the whips
that keep me entangled in familial bondage

there was a time when I ran naked through
open fields of imagination and possibility
when the bond of life had yet to be cashed
and bitterness sank to the bottom of the mug

the toasts and songs mean nothing to me now
that she has traveled where I am yet to go

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

I realize this is not very wicked this week, but when the Muse wants a gloomy poem… I can but obey.

  • 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