Kismet of Submission: Episode 19

Domestic rituals are so fascinating to observe. Electric or manual: Squeeze the toothpaste tube from the bottom or the top? Wash hands with liquid or bar soap: Toilet seat up or down? So many nuances; an anthropologist could spend a lifetime in the urban jungle decoding the strata of upbringing manifesting in the adult personal hygiene taboos. Advertisers would have you believe that civilization would collapse overnight without proper flossing or deodorizing our stinky bits with aromatic artificial scents. Yet somehow, human beings have survived and thrived not being overly obsessed with cleanliness until very recently. True, history is replete with descriptions of rancid unwashed masses and potpourri sachets liberally doused with floral perfumes, while bathing has waxed and waned depending on the level of cultural stigmas. But man and woman still managed to consummate and reproduce with alarming frequency. Not all olfactory experiences are horrific. For example: on a hot summer’s day, there is nothing sweeter than the smell of hot asphalt.

Tamara remains swaddled in the plush hotel towels, even though Sir is striding unabashedly naked in and out of the bathroom. She watches—out the corner of her eye—his flaccid cock and dangling balls swinging to some unheard show tune. When he glances in the mirror, she scowls and scrubs harder on her molars.

‘You know, you’ll wear away the enamel and gums if you scrub too hard.’

She spits in the sink. With foaming mouth she retorts, ‘Are you the fifth dentist?’

‘No. Just someone who has spent waaaay too much time and money reclined in the dental chair. I take care of my teeth now. It’s never too late to start.’

‘Well. I left my four-out-of five dentist recommended state-of-the-art combination electric toothbrush/juicer back at my apartment, so this manual brush you bought me, will have to suffice. I guess I don’t rate that highly after all.’

Rinsing out, she spits again, and flicks her tongue scraping the upper surface with her front teeth. ‘What?’ noticing his glare in the mirror. ‘Just saying, Sir, I’m fairly high maintenance. You’ll need to step up your game.’

‘Is that so?’ Sir drawls softly but with clear undertones of menace.

Coolly—even though her pulse is racing as if doing hot yoga or more aptly, as if being spanked again—Tamara sniffs haughtily and saunters past him towards the bed.

Sir watches her go. Her oiled behind twitches under the white towel. Excessively.

The hum of his sonic cleaner fills his mouth and digs out the bits of dinner lingering after the cinnamon flavored floss had passed through. Two minutes in total, thirty seconds per quadrant: a ritual that provided a clean separation between the working day, and bedtime.

I can’t believe it’s been that long since I last had a female companion at bedtime. The perils of wanting something more than quick rumpty-tumpty after drinks and a movie.

Rinsing the sink and wiping down the counter he tosses the soiled towels in the corner. His bath towel goes over the shower bar to dry by morning.

‘Where’re your towels, Tamara?’ he calls out from the bathroom.

‘I’m still drying off!’

‘Well, take them off and bring them in here so I can hang them up!’

She cringes at his exasperated tone. ‘But… what am I supposed to wear?’

‘Um… nothing?’

‘I always wear something to bed, Sir.’

‘Not tonight you’re not. I want you naked; in bed; in my arms; in that order.’

She shivers at his demanding tone. ‘You’re a hard master, Master.’

‘It’s about time you realized that, Tamara. About time.’

It’s fully dark and Sir rearranges the curtains so that minimal light seeps through from the parking lot lamps. Dragging a chair over to the wall, he climbs up and drapes a hand towel over the steady bright green glare of the smoke detector. Flicking off the switch, he waits for several minutes until his eyes adjust and grunts softly.

OCD much? We can’t see a blasted thing and can only listen to their banter.

‘Sir? Don’t take this the wrong way… but are you OCD?’ Tamara feels the mattress give slightly under his weight and tugs the sheet and blanket tighter around her neck. She shouldn’t feel embarrassed, not after showering together, but she doesn’t know what to do.

‘No, but I need a dark room in order to sleep as well as some white noise. Is the fan too loud?’

‘No. It’s okay.’

‘You’re not embarrassed, are you?’

‘A little.’

‘We’re not going to have sex tonight.’

‘We’re not? But—’

‘Being naked in bed doesn’t automatically equate to intercourse. Cuddling and touching will be sufficient for now.’

‘Cuddling? You want to cuddle? Isn’t that rather… teenageish?’

‘Roll on your side and face the door, Tamara.’

We hear the rustle of linen and soft slither of flesh. Vague shadows flap as the blanket and bedspread are maneuvered. Tamara giggles and for a brief moment, we are swept away to childhood and tents constructed of sheets flowing over the dining room table. Flashlights and picture books: Growly snuffles as Daddy Bear prowls: Mama Bear scolding and passing hot chocolate with marshmallows through the authorized entrance to the intrepid explorers. Innocence has a sound all to its own.

Tamara can’t help the tiniest of flinches when Sir’s long, nude torso snuggles up to her back. She feels tiny and vulnerable. His left arm wraps around her hip and his hand winds up at rest in her cleavage. When nothing else happens, no groping, no dry humping, just a soft kiss on her temple, she allows her breath out in a long controlled sigh.

‘Good night, Tamara.’

‘Good night, Sir.’

Somewhere down the hall, a door thuds. Footsteps tramp by. A car alarm sounds before being squashed mid-beep.

‘You’re very hot, Sir.’

‘Too hot?’

Tamara wiggles her bottom into his cock. ‘No, Sir, you’re just right.’

‘This isn’t a fairytale about porridge.’

‘I know… but to me, this all seems like a dream come true.’

‘I’m not perfect, Tamara. Don’t put me up on a pedestal.’

‘You mean you don’t want to be worshiped?’

‘Brat!’

‘You never did punish me, Sir, for running away.’

‘Do you need to be punished?’

We almost can’t hear her strained response.

‘Yes.’

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

In case you are not on the mailing list, Clarian Press is now live and will be publishing very soon. I have the honor and privilege of having a novella, The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie, being published next month under my pen name Byron Cane. It will be the first of several novellas followed by at least one novel in 2018 to be published by Clarian Press. One of the things I am most excited about, is that there will be an option of printed copies available for selected titles. Stay tuned for more information including cover reveals and ordering information. 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.