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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 17

The default buzz: He reads the text. “im sorry”

Without hesitation he replies, “The door is still open.”

When Tamara locks the door behind her, cringing in the short foyer like a whipped cur expecting the worst, he rolls sideways propped on an elbow, and softly pats the bed—three times.

She sits down, back to him and slips off her flats. She shivers when his v-splayed pads trace her hunched vertebrae. There is no interrogation forthcoming so she surrenders to the inevitable. ‘It’s okay if you punish me, Sir. I deserve a good hard paddling for running off with your car.’

‘Turn around and face me, Tamara.’

‘I can’t.’ The pause is not lengthy. ‘Sir. You shouldn’t want me. I’m messed up… inside. I see other people—normal people—and I wonder why I had to suffer. Why does God hate me so much? Why did an eight-year old girl have to learn about sex through rape and abuse? I can’t do a relationship, Sir. I don’t know how. All I’ll ever be is a burden to you. A worthless sack you drag behind you.’

‘Tamara? There’s only one question I have for you at this time.’ Stoking her tense back, he sits up and swings around to her side. ‘Will you obey me?’

The pause—this time—is very lengthy.

The response is tremulous but clear. ‘Yes.’

‘Good girl.’ Hugging her with one arm, the other hand flicks the television off, tossing the remote aside as he stands. ‘Come on. We’re going to take a shower—together—and you’re going to receive your first lesson in obedient submission through pleasure and punishment.’

Finally! Some skin: hopefully, some sex. Voyeurs or not, as readers the question that always arises, is whether or not the sex is germane to the prose. Romance can be smooth as silk with metaphoric fireworks bursting in joyous wonder, as the happy virgin succumbs to the rampant rod of the virile, dark, dangerous (yet strangely tender and emphatic even though he’s just run through the dastardly villain with his mighty sword) hero who has rescued the fair maiden—of good breeding in disguise—from her impetuous and rash decisions to balance the scales of justice on her own. Such temerity shall not go unpunished. Erotic ravishing soon follows to restore the natural order of things. Erotica mixes clichés and metaphors with strategic clinical terminology; the plot serving as the device leaping between sensual encounters coming fast and furiously. Smut, aka porn, throws all pretense of style out the window and allows both the author and reader to shamelessly masturbate to outrageous scenarios. So what route will this story take? Pull back the heavy-duty vinyl commercial grade shower curtain and take a peek.

Expecting, at the very least, to be tossed out if not arrested for grand theft auto; the transition from fugitive, to romantic naked shower, is so disorientating Tamara can only flail for what she hopes is an appropriate response. ‘Oh! Sorry about the elbow, Sir.’

‘That’s okay. I didn’t actually need that rib. Hotel tubs aren’t built for two.’

‘Sir? Is it okay to say that you have a great body?’

‘Only if I get to tell you that your body is gorgeous.’

‘Pfft—’

He cuts off her self-disparaging onomatopoeia with a wet palm over her mouth. ‘Be silent, Tamara. Allow my hands to learn your past and show you a better future.’

The enclosure may be cramped, but there is ample space for Sir’s nimble firm fingers to go to work. Tamara flexes her shoulders as the pulsating pressure of the water beats the back of her neck.

‘It’s not the most profound philosophic ponderation,’ Sir apologizes as he massages her right hand, ‘but every woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of viewing nude has, at the ‘bare’ minimum, been dissatisfied with her body. Some even—as I suspect you do—feel outright hostility towards flesh in its natural exuberance. Men, on the other hand,’ switching to the knuckles of her left fingers kneading and pulling out the kinks, ‘are simple creatures. Ruled by our cocks, we have far less stringent standards for beauty.’

‘I can feel your ‘standard’ bumping against my tummy,’ Tamara murmurs as soapy hands stroke her lean arms.

He ignores her pun. ‘Your arms and fingers for instance, tell me you work hard for a living. A waitress? Or—in our PC world—a server of food. Your shoulders are strong; used to carrying burdens without any help. Your face is lined with life lived. Visible scars covered by foundation—here, and here—the secret invisible trauma flashes in your stormy eyes.’

Tamara makes a small sound of disappointment when he steps back. She watches his eyes move lower, lingering on her saggy breasts then burrowing between her thighs. The dampness she feels is not hot water. She clenches her fists and tries to relax. His scrutiny is thorough, but she senses—despite his erection—his lust is firmly under control. His next question reinforces her conviction that she’ll never be able guess his thoughts.

‘Did you breastfeed?’

Her mouth moves without volition. ‘I was fifteen, Sir! I didn’t even know I was pregnant!’ His touch is searing when palms cup and lift, thumbs rotating aureoles and strumming engorged nipples.

‘Your mother?’

‘Died when I was seven.’

‘The father of your daughter?’

‘A shotgun wedding.’

Your father?’

‘An abusive alcoholic.’

‘Sexual?’

‘Not him.’

Tamara gasps as his lips suckle and fingers palpitate.

“Pop”

‘Your husband?’

‘A fucking monster.’

Her eyes close with a primal moan when his tongue flickers and teeth nibble.

“Slurp”

‘Dead?’

‘Police.’

‘Assume the position!’

‘What?’

‘You heard me, Tamara. I’m sure you’ve watched enough cop shows to understand. Turn around, face the wall and assume the position.’

‘What are you going to do, Sir?’ Tamara is unable to keep the quaver from her tone. A potent mixture of arousal, confusion and fear, she needs to know what he plans to do first.

‘What else? It’s time for a cavity search.’

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

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.

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