The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 16)

“Stand up, Ruby, we’re going to try something different.” Clearing a chaise arm, my head dangled freely. Cupping the back of my neck, upside down, I watched his cock approach. My throat felt more open and with his cock poised halfway in, he said, “Deep breath, on the count of three. One… tw—” He quickly shoved right through my gag reflex. My hands flailed at his thighs as his pubic hairs tickled my nostrils. Panic flared. He held for only seconds—it felt interminable—and when he pulled out, I twisted my head, coughing and spitting phlegm. His prick returned.

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 9 (Part 15)

He was much gentler, but I couldn’t stop gagging every time he stoked deep. Switching back yet again, Mr. Steedstiff reached down and, with gestures, had me lick his wet base as he moved in and out of Louisa with long sweeps. When it was my turn again, I tried forcing my throat to open. I growled as I failed. “Why can’t I do this?” He held me back and asked, “Do you truly want my cock deeper?” I sucked him back in and jabbed forward: I felt his large hands pull my skull closer. I heaved, but quickly swallowed.

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 9 (Part 14)

When it was Louisa’s turn again, she smoothly took nearly the entire length of Mr. Steedstiff’s cock into her throat. I could clearly see the bulge it made, and he fucked her mouth as if it was her pussy. “Have you been practicing how not to gag, Louisa?” I asked, remembering how she’d struggled as well. She shrugged. “I’ve never had that problem. Just lucky I guess.” Her tone was slightly bitter. “Oh, but I thought—.” She grimaced just before he thrust. “I lied.” I couldn’t help hugging her one-armed as he switched back to me. I stole a kiss.

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 Eagle and the Rose

 

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is a word I have no experience with personally. I do not have a tattoo, have no wish to get a tattoo, and have never had a lover with a tattoo. There are of course, several meanings for the word.
ORIGIN mid 17th cent. (originally as tap-too): from Dutch taptoe!, literally ‘close the tap (of the cask)!’ Meaning a rhythmic tapping or drumming. Can also mean military recall or performance.
ORIGIN mid 18th cent.: from Tahitian, Tongan, and Samoan ta-tau or Marquesan ta-tu. Both a verb [to tattoo] or noun [a tattoo]. The word was brought to Europe in 1769 after Captain Cook’s first voyage to Tahiti. Tattoos have likely been part of human society from the very first shaman.

Tamara trades places and sets her palms flat against the slick plastic surface opposite the showerhead. In the cramped tub, there is insufficient room to ‘assume the position’, but she juts her bottom up to meet Sir’s questing hands.
‘That’s an interesting tattoo.’
‘You mean my tramp stamp?’
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Sir beats out a rapid tattoo on Tamara’s glistening bottom. ‘You’re not a tramp.’
‘But that’s what everyone calls it!’
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Tamara lifts on tiptoes as his fingers trace the outline of her colorful tattoo sliding down into her soapy crack, pressing lightly against her tight anus. ‘I assume there is a backstory ‘behind’ the eagle and rose?’
She squirms when the end of his thumb rubs harder against her virgin puckered rose. ‘Yes, Sir! I was young and dumb and hopelessly in love.’
Sir feels the rubbery orifice clamp hard around his thumb’s knuckle as it slides inward. ‘And the rest of your artistic decorations?’



This snippet today will be part of next Tuesday’s Kismet of Submission: Episode 18. If you want to read more of the before and after, or to read all the Kismet of Submission episodes in order from the beginning, please go to this page for individual links.

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

Does pain have a color?

when memory of words
hurled to wound
burst along the never healed scar
does pain have a color
why then
does some pain
feel good
when face-to-face with fear
past never far
haunting every action
stealing moments
moments that turn into a lifetime
a lifetime passes
with no resolution
when intoxicants
no longer work
the world reduced to gray mist
sleeping
wishing to never wake
some
some few
some few find pain does have a color
red
pink
blue
the color of discipline
and love given
one spank at a time
for those fortunate
the few who experience
the bliss of over-the-knee
they know pain
does have a color
it’s whatever shade
your Dominant chooses
to bestow
a color that wipes away
agony
of words hurled to wound
it may sound strange
the smack of flesh
the cries
and pleas
expressing love through
spanking
but color
can be healing
too

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 13)

When she opened her mouth, and he pressed the large head between her lips, I moaned softly. When, after several minutes of audible wet sucking, he withdrew a hard shaft the diameter of my wrist and longer than my hand, I took an eager step forward. When he looked at me and said, ‘Kneel’, I fairly dove to my knees next to Louisa. Stretching my mouth until my jaw popped, I stuck out my tongue and waggled the tip. Mr. Steedstiff obliged. I had wanted a rematch from my embarrassing performance in the Gun Room several days prior. Eyes watered.

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 9 (Part 12)

With downcast heads and wretched expressions, we humbly apologized. I knew he was correct. No other master I had ever heard of before made a point of educating staff, never mind useless females—in society’s eyes. I swore to him I would redouble my efforts and never pass notes in class again. When I at last dared look at him, his eyes appeared to twinkle even though his mouth was a thin line. “Louisa, come here and kneel. You know what to do.” She glanced at me, before going to her knees, opening his trouser front then removing his cock.

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 9 (Part 11)

Every fifteen minutes, for the remainder of the session, he caned us twice where we stood, for a total of eight strokes. I at least had been tenderized throughout the day, but poor Louisa had to take Mr. Steedstiff’s whippy blows on cold skin. After he dismissed the rest of the class for bedtime, he ordered us into his adjacent study. My pulse pounded, remembering what other girls apparently were ‘forced’ to do. “Girls. I am very disappointed you both decided gossiping is more important than expanding your knowledge. His lordship goes to great time and expense on your behalf.”

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 9 (Part 10)

By dinner bell, I was starved, and I attacked my meal with carnivorous ferocity: Daintily, of course. Up to the schoolroom I flew on wings of romantic fancy. To my delight, Louisa was already present, and we squealed as if parted for months rather than minutes. We tried, honest, to behave with decorum and concentrate on our studies, but—we were very, very naughty I’m afraid. Unbeknownst to us, Mr. Steedstiff had received specific instructions in case of misbehavior. Caught passing notes, the other maids giggled as we were made to stand, uniforms drawn up in back, in opposing corners.

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.

Shivering due to an epiphany

I missed last week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt—foreigner—due to having no power after Hurricane Irma. Even if I had written something before the electricity was lost at 11pm Sunday night, I wouldn’t have been able to link to the prompt in time. What I found fascinating about the etymology of ‘foreign’ is that it comes from Latin meaning ‘outside’.

ORIGIN Middle English foren, forein, from Old French forein, forain, based on Latin foras, foris ‘outside,’ from fores ‘door.’ The current spelling arose in the 16th cent., by association with sovereign.

I don’t think when people talk about immigration as being an open-door policy, or closing the door on illegals, they are aware of the literary link to the past.

The current week’s prompt, eavesdropping, has an even more interesting origin. Eavesdrop is an literal word created to represent one specific action.

ORIGIN early 17th cent.: back-formation from eavesdropper (late Middle English)‘a person who listens from under the eaves,’ from the obsolete noun eavesdrop ‘the ground onto which water drips from the eaves,’ probably from Old Norse upsardropi, from ups ‘eaves’ + dropi ‘a drop.’

When you link the two prompts together you get this: Outside the door, the ground onto which water drips from the eaves was churned to muddy paste where the foreigner was eavesdropping.

As an aside, in The Fellowship Of The Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien uses this bit of dialogue quite adroitly.
‘Well, well, bless my beard!’ said Gandalf. ‘Sam Gamgee is it? Now what may you be doing?’
‘Lor bless you, Mr. Gandalf, sir!’ said Sam. ‘Nothing! Leastways I was just trimming the grass-border under the window, if you follow me.’ He picked up his shears and exhibited them as evidence.
‘I don’t,’ said Gandalf grimly. ‘It is some time since I last heard the sound of your shears. How long have you been eavesdropping?’
‘Eavesdropping, sir?’ I don’t follow you, begging your pardon. There ain’t no eaves at Bag End, and that’s a fact.’



He calls me—I am positive he thinks it’s a clever endearment—’a drowned rat’ whenever I return from my run; rain soaked. He’s never understood my passion for exercise (an obsession, is his term when he’s being nice). He’s never tried—never even asked—why it is I seek to flee and only reluctantly return. As I toweled off in the mudroom, for once, my shivers were not from being wet. It was not the runner’s high that caused the silly grin; no, it was my foolish whim to follow the strange rhythmic smacking I heard over the sound of the pelting rain and pounding footsteps of my shoes. I eavesdropped: first with caution, then shame and at the last, unabashed curiosity that led me back here, outside the door, hand raised to knock, hoping they will understand my need that seems so foreign to me.

A week prior:

“Are we clear on why you’re being spanked?”
“Yes, Sir!”
The smacking noise that had drawn me like a butterfly to pollen had ceased. I eavesdropped instead on the scolding lecture and the teary replies. His voice; stern and uncompromising, yet I heard no anger in his leading questions. Exasperation—that I sensed—but with an underlying respect and determination to teach his woman a lesson. Her voice; wheedling and needy, yet also resigned to taking her punishment like a big girl.
This big girl huddled against the building, collar upturned and hood drawn against the steady gush of water through downspouts. To those passing on the sidewalk—not that anybody else was crazy enough to run in a monsoon—would have assumed the figure in the bright yellow slicker was simply seeking rough shelter from the storm. The window above my head was open, the overhang sufficient protection from the elements; although, at the time I did not think it was odd that the drawn blinds allowed sound to radiate.
The smacking sounds resumed. I sagged against the damp brick and squatted in the puddles amidst the bundled yellow-red leaves of autumn. I folded my arms tight against the sudden twinge deep in my stomach. I felt sick, not with anguish at hearing a fellow female being spanked, but sick with envy. Her yelps and cries, her sobs and pleas; all settled in a soulful place that had never known this craving was possible. Spanking wasn’t possible; not in my current relationship, never, never, ever would I allow ‘him’ to spank me.
When the hard slaps finally ended, and the noises now competing with the splashing raindrops turned to a rhythm of a more primal nature; I crept silently away from temptation: for now. I knew then I would be back.

At present:

Laughter spills from their windows. Music, modern hits, flows out into the twilight bringing visions of a party in motion. I hesitate at the threshold. ‘He’ was gone, sent packing with no regrets, the apartment both emptier and freer without his snarky presence. I wanted answers to questions I couldn’t articulate. I had no expectations. I was naive; but willing, oh so willing to find out for myself how it felt.
So, I knock.
The laughter eases. Muffled conversation ends on a rising note of query. The door opens; warm light rushes out like puppies seeking freedom to gambol amongst the vibrant chrysanthemums; tearing off the multi-petaled heads and spreading fragmented jewels across the green carpet.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
I shiver once more.
A distant cry. “Honey? Who is it?”
A louder roar. “I don’t know! It’s a woman!”
“A woman?”
Rapid tapping of heels arrive in a whoosh of Estée Lauder. “Hi. Whatever it is you’re selling, we’re not interested, dear. Honey, we need to leave soon.”
She spins to leave. I call out with a desperate croak. “I heard you!” She pauses looking back over her shoulder. I clear my throat. My eyes never stray from her knowing expression. “Last week, during the storm, I was jogging, and I heard you. I heard you both.” My gaze slides to his. “You, sir, were… were…”
“Spanking my wife?”
I swallow hard at the flaring heat in his response. I don’t notice her return until her arm slips possessively around his waist.
“You were eavesdropping, dear? How very naughty of you.”
“But your window was open!” I protest in a vain attempt to explain my guilt.
That excuse doesn’t work for me, dear, and I suspect you don’t expect a free pass either.” I catch her smirk as she peers up at her husband. “It seems we may be a wee bit tardy to the concert, honey. I do believe this woman owes us an apology.”
“Well?” he states with a demanding tilt of his head. “We’re waiting.”
“I’m sorry I listened to your private… erm, session. I’ll never do it again.”
She quickly steps forward and seizes my hands. “That’s not how apologies are given around here… as I’m sure you can guess. If you are truly sincere and wish repentance, then you know what is required, else you’d not be here tonight on our doorstep asking for punishment.”
She tugs lightly. I submit, as I knew I would, and allow myself to be drawn past the door, and deep inside their world of discipline and painful pleasure.

I’ve never regretted a single moment of eavesdropping.

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

Living with extreme weather

Weather is what makes Earth inhabitable. Solar rays heat the tropics year-round. As the planet spins at 1,000 miles an hour at the equator, low pressure causes rising moist air to spread out and move north and south. Ocean currents are similar in that they transfer surface heat into the sub-tropical and temperate zones. Dense cold air sinks from the polar regions and is drawn in by pressure differentials to replace the sun churned heated air. Seasons changes through the axial tilt of the planet.

All this simply means that for most people, the places we live are where crops are grown and animals farmed. Cities became possible only when agriculture could replace hunting-gathering as a means of supporting an expanding population. Food and potable water determines the suitability of settlements: technology has made it possible to inhabit nearly every climate zone safely, if not in comfort.

Living in areas that used to be marginal—such as floodplains, ocean-sides etc—is often a choice not a necessity in the developed world. Not so for the poor, who are most often the victims of extreme weather. Lack of zoning and political oversight is often blamed, along with cheap insurance, for allowing people to build structures and live in places that are repeatedly damaged by storms. This is true; however, there is no place safe from extreme weather.

Should everyone evacuate from the coasts? From all islands? Everywhere there is a chance of a blizzard or sub-zero temps? Away from rivers and lakes that flood? What about deserts? We can’t control the weather. We can control how we plan for disasters such as Hurricane Irma.

As the aftermath has shown, Florida is largely habitable because of air conditioning and insect control. Without both, there would be a mass exodus back north into cooler climes. But I grew up in Wisconsin, summers there are even hotter than Florida. Why? Because hot air from the Gulf of Mexico flows all the way into Canada during the summer months. It’s not hot all the time like it is in the semi-tropics, but it gets really, really hot without any chance of rain.

The Midwest suffers from another problem though; tornadoes. Should people be forced to leave Texas, Oklahoma and the rest of ‘Tornado Alley’ because it costs too much to repair property year after year? Well, Europe has their share of extreme tornadoes. In fact, in England, one of the strongest tornadoes ever struck London on October 23rd, 1091. There were only about 18,000 people living in London at that time. Maybe the tens of millions of people who live there now, should all leave in case it happens again.

My point is, weather happens; extreme weather happens, and no matter how much or little you prepare, you can’t control the outcome. Yes, you need to have non-perishable food, gallons of water and maybe a generator, but no plan is perfect. We live in a just-in-time consumer society, and as Texas and Florida have shown, there is not enough fuel, batteries, water, plywood and other storm supplies in stores, when millions of people try to purchase in volumes that normally would last for months. Not to mention that evacuation routes can’t possibly handle everyone trying to leave at once.

When it comes to surviving a storm, luck matters as much as preparation. Where you live only changes what the threat may be. If not hurricanes, then wildfires. If not tornadoes, then flash floods. If not droughts, then avalanches. We have more information than ever before, but sometimes too much knowledge makes the right decision even harder.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 9)

I beamed with delight. “Chester! I would adore a ramble through the countryside with you at my side.” Mrs. Cleanknockers cleared her throat softly. “With proper escort, of course.” Her tone brooked no nonsense. “Louisa shall accompany you and the three of you will return within two hours.” Mr. Jones-Smyth readily agreed and he departed much less apprehensive that he’d arrived. “I should return to waxing the floor, Ma’am.” She gave me a tight smile and left as well. I stood there for a brief spell of time until, sinking to my knees, attempted to scrub Chester from my thoughts.

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 9 (Part 8)

Her expression was inscrutable and, without guidance, I spoke from my heart. “Mr. Jones-Smyth, I have no intention of crying off, and accept your apology. I would wish we move on from the incident in question and resolve to press forward together with a clearer intent.” He was clearly both surprised and relieved with my forthright statement. He gave me a slight bow, and reached out to kiss the back of my hand. “In that case, dear Ruby, it would give me the greatest pleasure if you would honor me with a carriage drive in the country this Sunday afternoon.”

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.

Power back on from Irma

Hi everyone, just wanted to thank you in advance for all your thoughts and prayers. We lost power during Hurricane Irma at 11pm on Sunday night, before the worst of the weather hit. We just got power back at 5pm Friday, so were out almost five days.

We had no damage to our house, no trees down. There was extensive flooding in nearby ponds and lakes, but very minor property damage. I haven’t seen much news other than the daily paper, so I am very behind.

First priority is go out and purchase food to replace all that was thrown out as spoiled. My wife is doing good, we managed despite the 90 to 100 degree inside our house all week.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 7)

Mr. Jones-Smyth was shortly ushered in by my apparent chaperone. (That horse had already bolted) Mrs. Cleanknockers was composed and dignified as only a plenipotentiary chatelaine could present. “Good afternoon, Mister. May I enquire as to your mission?” He was anything but in control as he shifted from side-to-side and spun the brim of his hat through crushing fingertips. Not quite meeting my startled eyes, he begged my pardon for his unconscionable actions of yesterday. “I have no excuse for my unbecoming behavior, and will completely understand if you wish to cry off our engagement” I glanced at Mrs. Cleanknockers.

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 9 (Part 6)

I, being still rather ignorant, asked Mrs. Cleanknockers if aversion to monthly bleeding was a normal male reaction. As she returned the paddle to its velvet cradle, she replied, “In my experience, it has been the norm that men find women’s courses, and the attendant heightened emotions, to be at best, an inconvenience, and at worst, something to be feared and loathed.” Having grown up poor, surrounded by females working before dawn till after dark trying to survive, I was woefully unprepared for the nuances of male companionship. The rap on the door startled me: Mrs. Cleanknockers loitered on purpose.

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.

Waiting for Hurricane Irma

Update 3:30pm: We are doing okay so far. We’ve had light to moderate rain off-and-on all day; a total of 3 inches so far. I expect we’ll get 6-10 more inches by Monday afternoon. There have been no winds, storms or tornadoes yet. All the severe weather has been along the east coast from Miami all the way north to Daytona. Hurricane Irma made an initial landfall between Key West and Big Pine at 9:10am. The second landfall took place at 3:15pm on Marco Island and then north to Naples within the next two hours. The extended forecast in my area has the peak winds between 2 and 6am with 84mph gusts. Still have power, but expect to lose that sometime overnight. Don’t have a smartphone, do have a laptop, but the battery only lasts for an hour or so. Will update this post later this evening.

As I write this Sunday morning, the eye-wall of Category 4 Hurricane Irma is closing in with 130mph maximum sustained winds just east of Key West, moving northwest towards the Gulf of Mexico. We live in north-central Florida and will get the worst of the winds and rain beginning around 6pm tonight, until 4pm Monday.

The winds will likely have gusts between 75-90mph, but the sustained winds will depend on how close the center of Irma gets. The forecast from 48 hours ago, had the eye moving very close to our location. This morning, that track has gradually shifted over 60 miles west. Many people who evacuated from the Miami area, wound up in Tampa. They are now bracing for the possibility of a direct landfall.

I will likely lose power later on today or tomorrow morning, so I have scheduled my posts for the next week starting on Tuesday. I will update this post Sunday and Monday, as long as I have power and our house is safe.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 5)

CRACK! The impact rocked my torso forward, and I grabbed my ankles to prevent falling on my face. CRACK! “There is a ledger I maintain in which each female staff member is monitored.” CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! I didn’t know why I was being spanked, and quite frankly, could care less. The painful stinging over my welts and bruises was driving me mad with desire. CRACK! “Stand up and face me, Ruby!” I spun round so fast I felt dizzy. She gave me a wry smile. “His lordship… is not fond of menstrual blood, and checks the updated status each afternoon.”

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 9 (Part 4)

“What have we here?” I peered back at Mrs. Cleanknockers. “His lordship thrashed me for insubordination this morning.” I thrust my bottom up when she traced the lines of the caning. “I can see that, Ruby, but what I was referring to, was your sanitary belt.” I made to straighten up, but desisted when she pressed my shoulders down. “I am due my cycle soon. Louisa showed me the supplies. Besides wearing my uniform at all times, is there anything else required?” I watched her open a drawer and withdraw a paddle. Tapping my bottom, she raised her arm high.

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 9 (Part 3)

Mrs. Cleanknockers gracefully rose to her feet, and with both hands, lifted me—rather less elegantly—until we stood with arms wrapped in close embrace. She licked my lips and danced her tongue inside my mouth. In between kisses, she murmured, “Very naughty… wanting pain… red whipped bottom… wet pussy… naughty rosebud hole… glistening salve… cheeks spread open… hard cock… harder dildo… taking you… in your hot arse… over and over… your tears… spur our cruelty…” I wanted—needed to be brought to culmination frequently: I didn’t care who supplied the fuel to my flames. I tossed up my skirts.

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 9 (Part 2)

“So, Ruby, you are eager to be sodomized?” I ferociously hugged Mrs. Cleanknockers to my breast in my enthusiasm to sway her thoughts. “Yes, Ma’am! Will it hurt?” She tucked stray wisps of hair back into my bun. “That depends on the skill of the sodomizer and the desires of the recipient. Do your enemas hurt with the large nozzle?” I shook my head. “No.” I felt the familiar—if new—tingle in my loins. Arousal. Once ignited, it burned like wildfire, scorching everything in its path. “But I want it, I want it to hurt. Is that being naughty?”

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 Astounding Amaryllis

‘Always make eye contact with the punters’, was the first—and only—advice given me upon the occasion of my arrival and hiring by Mr. Tompkins of the Majestic Palace.

I’d not run away from marriage to a distant neighboring widow more than twice my age with grown daughters eager to breed sons and willing to barter with livestock and land. I’d simply left on the local train to Memphis rather than return with the monthly dry goods.

Brave? Reckless? Comely girls were a useless surplus to many farmers: My mother grew too old before she passed.

So, after some excitement, and fending off of roving hands, Mrs. O’Malley’s Boarding House become my residence of record. My meager savings would not last long in the hurly-burly atmosphere of the big city.

Alas, swine lasses and milkmaids were not in high—or even low—demand, except on their backs. Dressed in my Sunday best, toes pinched by third-hand shoes, I tromped all over the business district seeking honest employment. I admit my eyes were opened. Vice was everywhere. Men undressed me with blatant leers and tawdry phrases. I was not innocent—country girls started young—but a quick tumble in a hay rick felt pure and wholesome compared to the awful dregs lounging on every street corner.

The Palace was barely twenty years old; older than I, so I lied. My big break came when Foster and Lawrence—a vaudeville trio reduced to duo when their assistant ran off with Samson the Strongman—hired me. The role required the wearing of short frilly bloomers, a corset that plumped up my average charms and a blouse evidently salvaged from a sleeveless low-cut gown.

Thus the admonishment: Keep your eyes smiling at the men in the seats.

I can tell you I was shocked during my first ‘performance’, when I realized the focus of the act was me… well, my bottom in fact. Foster and Lawrence were a comedy team that revolved around a shapely damsel [that would be me] getting herself into naughty situations that could only be resolved by repeated spankings during the thirty-minute act. Mock blows they were not, and it took little time for me to race around the stage for real, pursued by swinging switches. I needed the money though; so, after a short chase, I ‘allowed’ myself to be caught, bent over under a perspiring armpit with thinly covered butt thrust at the cheering audience and chastised for my own good.

I was a trooper though: I peered back between my legs and kept eye contact with the punters.

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

Don’t forget the SPF69

The next frontier for adventurous—yet discerning—travelers? Vacationing in the buff. At least that’s what a growing string of nude resorts are betting on as they fancy things up to lure a well-heeled clientele. Davy Rothbart ditched his drawers to find out whether there’s actually such a thing as high-class nudity.

Thus begins an article called, Inside the Clothing-Optional Resort of Your Swinging Dreams, in the August 2017 edition of GQ Magazine. The author travels to Cancún, Mexico and checks into the Desire Pearl, a clothing optional rather than nudist resort. As he states:

The free spirits flocking to Desire Riviera Maya Pearl Resort, I figured, had to be a different sort. With nightly rates during high season of $700 to $1,500, this place wasn’t for hippies. So, then, who was coming? And how was it that Desire Pearl and a string of establishments like it were booked solid for months at a time?

Within a few hours, Davy makes his way to the pool area, complete with bar and cabanas. The Desire Pearl caters to those seeking more than simply getting a suntan in the buff. After meeting a first-time couple, married with three children, they quickly discover that inhibitions have been shed along with swimsuits.

In that moment, a murmur swept across the Jacuzzi. Half the folks in the water turned their attention toward one of the six cabanas that ring the oversize tub. There, a tall, young, freckled woman was giving her boyfriend a sensual blow job, her ass waving in the air behind her. Rob’s and Laura’s eyes went wide. I have to admit, no matter how much sex you’ve seen in movies or on bookmarked sites on your laptop, it feels crazy to watch real people go at it, just yards away.

Sure, I’d prepared myself to see some amorous behavior, but I’d imagined it’d be fleeting and discreet. Swinging, I had deduced before arriving, was a fact of life at Desire Pearl—and the possibility of a little public sex (perhaps with someone new) must have been a draw for some couples. I knew all that. But even when the trailhead signs warn about bears and rattlesnakes, you’re still a little surprised when you see them.

Although it may be a key attraction for some, the prospect of sex with strangers isn’t explicitly advertised by Desire Pearl. There’s talk, on the resort’s website, of the “erotic,” “sensual,” “open-minded atmosphere” but almost no explicit mention of swinging. Why all this coded language? According to Daniel, one of two Americans who work at Desire Pearl selling vacation packages, the obfuscation allows for a level of discretion, even deniability. If your colleagues or acquaintances from church start Googling around about your vacation, they’re not going to learn too much.

Of course, as Daniel notes, not everybody is here for sex—you’ve got plenty of standard-issue nudists, and also people just drawn by the edgy atmosphere. “Only some are swingers,” he told me. “Others like the freedom of hanging in the pool naked.” The appeal is pretty broad, actually: It’s a tranquil destination where you can step outside of everyday life. There’s an open bar all day and night and a slew of naked people you can flirt with and maybe have sex with. Think of it as Vegas on HGH, a place to let your id off the leash. “The demand is large and growing,” one longtime Desire Pearl staffer told me. “People want ultimate freedom. We provide it.”

The article goes on to explain all the rules about nudity not being allowed in the restaurants, sex only in the cabanas or the ‘Sin Room’ and absolutely no harassment of staff or fellow guests. It paints a picture of safe hedonism far from the grubby club scene. By the end of their stay, the couple he first met winds up swinging with an experienced pair after a late night of partying.

There’s no D/s or spanking going on, or at least none mentioned, but again, the tone of the reporting is constrained and slightly skeevy. I’m actually getting quite discouraged at reading numerous magazines that focus on the ‘abnormal’ aspects of nudity, sex and kink, instead of saying: “America, get your collective heads out of your asses and start accepting the joy of sex.”

For most people though, a vacation—of any kind—is hard to afford. I guess stay-at-home nudism will have to suffice.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 1)

Gentle Readers: You would be forgiven in the belief that my ramblings seem to be exaggerated. This memoir represents an accurate accounting of my adventures, but there is much sadness as I pen these words. Nearly all the protagonists portrayed have passed on; and now, rediscovering the eager innocent glee with which I gloried in sensual revels, leaves me in melancholy nostalgia for the youthful naiveté I once enjoyed. Maturity comes to us all—eventually—usually upon the heels of tragedy. I’d landed on my feet in a situation I’d dared not dreamed after my mother died. Payment was due.

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 Complete

Before I start posting Chapter 9 [Which I have already written all 30 parts] I am reposting the entire 3,000 word Chapter 8 for both your pleasure and ease of reading. If you are reading The Bumhampton Chronicles for the first time, you can always click here for the page with links to each prior chapter. It is a lot easier to read 3,000 words at a time, then scrolling through 30 individual 100-word drabbles. Thanks to all my readers and their enthusiastic comments to Ruby Slapumcheeks’ adventures at Peacock House.

Also wanted to thank the 32 people who signed up to follow this blog during the month of August, 2017. I wanted to remind everyone who reads this blog through a feed, that on the actual home screen of my blog, there are a number of pages at the top with links to all sorts of story categories from past years. Seeing as Spank Me Hard… Please? now has over 400 active posts and almost 1,900 comments, there is plenty of reading material going back to 2009.

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!”

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.

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.

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.

Such was 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.”

“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.”

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.”

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

“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?”

“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.

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.

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?”

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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 stream in springtime. She gracefully knelt down and, still chuckling, raised my lips to her mouth, kissing me with a fierce intensity.

“Sweet, precious, Ruby, you bring such lightness to Peacock House. Promise me you will never bridle your wit not your lust.” Of such easy promises made in passion, do become heavy chains in the fullness of time. I had every good intention of obeying. The future would come soon enough and smash all our preconceptions. In the interval, there was one specific thing I wanted from Mrs. Cleanknockers. “Ma’am? There is something I want from you, nay, not an apology, for no matter what his Lordship may decree, you did nothing wrong. I am yet a virgin in one place.”

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.



As I wrap up this chapter of The Bumhampton Chronicles, the calendar turns its leaves to September. When I lived up north, or–Up North–this month marked the beginning of fall with the snow and ice not that far behind. This also marks another monthly Spanking Newsletter at my other blog, Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction, where you will find a rather lengthy story. I hope you enjoy it, and click the follow button to be updated in October.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 30)

“Sweet, precious, Ruby, you bring such lightness to Peacock House. Promise me you will never bridle your wit nor your lust.” Of such easy promises made in passion, do become heavy chains in the fullness of time. I had every good intention of obeying. The future would come soon enough and smash all our preconceptions. In the interval, there was one specific thing I wanted from Mrs. Cleanknockers. “Ma’am? There is something I want from you, nay, not an apology, for no matter what his Lordship may decree, you did nothing wrong. I am yet a virgin in one place.”

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.



As I wrap up this chapter of The Bumhampton Chronicles, the calendar turns its leaves to September. When I lived up north, or–Up North–this month marked the beginning of fall with the snow and ice not that far behind. This also marks another monthly Spanking Newsletter at my other blog, Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction, where you will find a rather lengthy story. I hope you enjoy it, and click the follow button to be updated in October.

  • 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