Kismet of Submission: Episode 20

Don’t you love the expression “crack of dawn”? Or daybreak? There is something ancient in our DNA that longs for sunlight and celebrates each morning rise as if it was the first time. When the dark night—unless a full moon or for most of us, light pollution that washes out the stars—gradually gives way to pastel streamers racing with giddy abandon over the eastern horizon, our hearts beat a little quicker and our souls rejoice. There was however, no rejoicing in room 425, at least from Tamara’s side of the bed.

‘What time is it?’ came a gruff growl from under the covers.

‘Quarter to five.’

‘In the morning?’ came an incredulous query muffled by a pillow.

‘In my experience, Tamara, morning often follows night.’

‘It’s still dark outside!’ came a petulant wail unencumbered by fabric.

‘I know. I apologize. I neglected to tell you that I have to be at the venue by seven thirty to set up my meet-and-greet stall. It’s from nine until noon, and I have to stop for breakfast first. I’ve already showered again—sorry for waking you.’

‘You were going to leave me here?’ came the upset voice turned visible by the bedside lamp. ‘Just walk out on me without asking what I wanted?’


‘No! No, Sir.’ Tamara swings her legs out of bed and stands up, briefly forgetting that she’s naked. Reflexively she hunches, covering her chest and pubis, but dropping her arms when realizing she can’t argue without gesticulating. ‘Did you decide suddenly that I’m a liability: A whack job too unstable to trust? Was I going to at least get a parting gift? Maybe some cold, hard cash in a tidy envelope as thanks for services rendered? Well? Well?’ By this time, red-faced and strident, Tamara is right up in his business giving him what for.

Sir gently captures her accusatory fingers jabbing his chest and pulls her into a firm embrace. ‘Shhh… listen to me, Tamara. I was on my way to the lobby to get some coffee and pastries. I figured you’d need caffeine and sugar in order to get going this morning. After I got back—then I was going to explain the schedule and offer you the choice of helping me, or letting you have the car to spend some time on your own. Nothing nefarious nothing devious; I didn’t and don’t want you to feel coerced into staying with me, either today or next week.’

‘Oh.’ Tamara’s voice is remorseful and quickly turns tearful. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I ruined everything… again. I’m hopeless and such a complete fuck-up. I don’t understand why you’re so patient with me, if I were you, I’d beat the crap out of me and toss me into the hallway on my ass. I don’t deserve you, Sir. I never will.’

‘Much as I’d like to discuss how very, very wrong you are, now is not the time for another lesson in submission.’ Kissing her forehead he orders her into the bathroom. ‘Go. Wash up. I’ll be back in a jiffy and I expect you to be on your best behavior. I’ll deal with your misconception before we leave… but, Tamara, we will leave… together… and I don’t want to hear anymore BS about what a horrible person you are. Clear?’

Very softly Tamara agrees. ‘Yes, Sir.’


‘An infinitesimal down payment on the punishment you owe from last night and this morning. Be prepared for a very sore bottom, young lady, when Sir returns. Is that clear?’

‘YES, SIR!’ she barks out. Saluting, she marches towards the door, pivots on her heel and stomps into the bathroom. Standing at attention, two red handprints on her butt, she waits until Sir says, ‘at ease, soldier’ then bends over to turn on the taps.

She takes the faster shower in history—peeing in the tub to speed things along—and brushes her teeth like a weed-whacker gone berserk. Unsure if Sir wants her dressed, she snips the tags off the shortest skirt she bought yesterday, and pulls a plain black T-shirt over her damp hair. The dirty bra and panties she tosses in the bag. Going commando always revs her libido.

The cardkey clicks and the handle rotates. Without hesitation, Tamara sinks to her knees and bows her head.

What we see—and she can’t—is Sir’s expression of amazement. Whether it’s the fact that he’s only been gone ten minutes, or her submissive posture, we’re not sure. What is clear though, is the unsubtle change in his demeanor. Up until now, he’s been very gentle and accommodating with her foibles. It’s time for the Dom to take charge.

Sir collects his thoughts and rearranges the schedule. The tray with breakfast is set aside. The packed suitcase is unzipped, the paddle retrieved. ‘Stand up, Tamara.’

She complies, head still bowed.

‘Turn around, bend over the chair and place your palms flat on the seat.’

After she’s in position, Sir tells her to look up. ‘Do you see the coffee and pastries?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Do you deserve them?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Why not?’

Tamara’s throat swells with shame. ‘Because I’m a bad girl, Sir. I stole your car and yelled at you.’

‘So you deserve punishment for your actions?’

She can barely choke out the words. ‘Yes, Sir.’

‘I see.’ There is a long pause as he raises her skirt—and his eyebrows—revealing her bare bottom. ‘I see. It seems you wish forgiveness.’

Crying now, she manages to stammer, ‘Y-yes, Sir. Please forgive me.’

He notices her flinch when he rests the cool paddle on her backside. ‘Remember, Tamara, use the word red if it’s too difficult to take.’ He pulls back his arm, and before he strikes, adds an admonishment. ‘And, darling, it’s not me who needs to forgive, it’s you who needs to forgive yourself for believing you have no worth.’

To read all the Kismet of Submission episodes in order from the beginning, please go to this page for individual links. As an FYI, this series, Kismet of Submission, will conclude by the end of the year. I will be pulling the posts at that time, and then continuing to write a full-length novel starring Sir and Tamara for publication in either 2018 or 2019.

Why do I need my Dom to spank me?

it makes me feel safe, loved, wanted
it lets me escape the kids, the boss, the overdue bills, but
being honest
[he requires that of me… the beast]
I surrendered that choice to you willingly
my pain is now yours to bestow
whenever you feel the need
to own me
and make the during
as deliciously humiliating as possible
until I beg for it to be over
and you stop
every time
right before my safe word tumbles to the floor
and shatters our understanding
that it’s the before
before the act of spanking
I tingle
I shiver
I gush
I’m happiest when you growl
order me to submit… there is no ‘or else’
only promises kept
and my bottom thrust nice and high
I’m seldom dry
when you lecture
and scold
I’ll pay any price to lift
the disappointed shadow
in your eye
over I go
heeding your mastery
your skill at spanking
your naughty submissive
until she cries
with relief
words of forgiveness
wordless echoes of respect and love
ring louder than
the spanks now stopped
and after
after the canes and paddles and brushes
are put away… temporarily
your humbled sub needs
the very best part of spanking
as the heat transmogrifies
to aching soreness
your punishing hand
soothes reddened flesh
and reinforces why
I ignore those
who send me links
and toll-free numbers
and question my femininity
with ever more strident
because… I trust you
and know I’m a better woman
when you dominate me
that is why
I need to be spanked

[Preferably every morning, lunchtime when possible, and every single night so that all my tension and doubts and fears are washed away by your determination to keep me safe from myself]

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 25)

I was a puddle by the time she finished. Urging me on my back, she maneuvered her waist until her furry nest loomed in my blurry vision. Simultaneously, we feasted. My nostrils inhaled her rosebud. My thumb, slick with saliva, wiggled inside her bum. My lips suckled her fleshly folds, teeth gently gnawed and limber tongue stretched deep inside her pussy then mercilessly lashed her clit. She returned the favor as we snuffled like pigs rooting for truffles. My face was soaked with her essence. Her shuddery cries of passion vibrated in my secret garden. We reaped what we sowed.

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 24)

Persistently pressing pliable petals with furled tongue, repeated efforts will cause the rubbery exit to yield slightly. Combined with the heady aroma wafting from the adjacent pussy, the scents and tastes drive one mad with lust. Louisa lapped and drilled my virgin anus, while her nose rubbed my clit, and delved inside my wet cunt. By the time she ceased her licking, I’d spent twice and lay there facedown wondering if I’d ever be able move again. Greased palms swirled the paste across my globes from meridian to poles. “Harder,” I whispered, the pressure on my bruises causing deep moans.

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 23)

Our lumpy pillows shoved under my hips, I wriggled impatiently as she fetched the ointment tin. Rather than her palm though, I felt the rasp of her tongue tracing the numerous lines and mottled markings all over my backside. Her wet pelvis slapped my shoulders as she straddled my torso. Her deft tongue danced down my crack as she bent over and, with calloused fingers, wrenched my sore cheeks apart. What can say about the act of feuille de rose? The earthy, slick, sometimes bittersweet and tangy oil that can found nestled betwixt the plump hemispheres of the female form.

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 22)

Louisa sounded bitter. “I doubt I’ll ever marry. Who would want such a wretch as I?” I seized her hands in mine. “Then you will come with me. We will all live together and you, my beloved, will be my dearest friend, confidante and wanton lover.” She pulled back and vigorously shook her head. “That will never work, Ruby.” I sniffed and said, “Yes, it will. On our Sunday afternoon outing, I will simply tell Chester that you are to be my bosom companion.” Her face remained skeptical: I resumed our interrupted coitus with a reminder my bum needed attention.

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 Wedding of the Century: Virtually

“The Four Horsemen Give Up And Retire” blared a satirical editorial supporting their decision and mocking the thundering sermons and condemnation from those warning the ‘End is Nigh’. Other platforms, especially those who existed only online, put up a spirited defense with phrases like: “Forget Mars! Webnauts are the future of humankind”. That was another debate that raged in forums and vlogs: What to call them? Besides webnauts; other popular names included netdivers, interspacers and haboob. The later an acronym taken from the Arabic name for a dust storm.

Not since the election had the web been so consumed with shouting an opinion, which was ironic [irony having passed away with the inexorable rise of social media] considering that the individuals who were being called—Human.Avatars.Blogging.Openly.Online.Bodiless—were in fact completely unknown. Some claimed they were constructs of the Deep State created as Artificial Intelligence to wrest the internet from the fingertips of the free citizens of the world. Still others pointed the blame at tech companies, or aliens, or any number of hostile governments depending on who was actually writing the post. In private chat rooms, science fiction writers smugly congratulated themselves on their perspicacity and simultaneously bemoaned the lack of comprehension by policymakers and brainstormed ways to cash in on the frenzy.

They2.0, which is how ‘they’ always referred to each other, claimed to be post-racial, post-gender and post-dirt humans. Despite the best attempts of hackers, both freelance and government sponsored, no one found any evidence to contradict ‘their’ claim ‘they’d’ uploaded ‘their’ sentience into the Cloud and then had ‘their’ bodies destroyed. And thus, on October 29th, in front of a worldwide audience watching live-streamed video on multiple platforms, two hologram avatars exchanged vows and were duly married by a flesh-and-blood minister. After the ceremony, ‘they’ invited selected journalists back to ‘their’ VR home via interactive headsets.

As one prominent reporter later said off-the-record, “It was the craziest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, but damn if it didn’t make me jealous to see the world ‘they’d’ created. ‘They’ll’ always be remembered for being the first to go, but I doubt ‘they’ll’ be alone for long.”

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