The VERY LAST! Kismet of Submission: Episode 25

Today’s episode marks the end of this story… on this blog. By the coming weekend, I’ll be pulling down all the episodes except the first two. Over the next months, I will be reworking the flash fiction draft into a more workable novel format. Once that is done, I will continue writing Kismet as a full-length novel. If you have enjoyed this story, and want to be able to keep reading, I am seeking beta readers who would be willing to offer feedback similar to comments. If you would be interested, please leave a comment or send me an email. I wouldn’t want anyone to suffer by going cold turkey from Kismet.

Susan laughs and smiles. ‘Well, I can tell you this much, Tamara. If I ever rushed off and barfed because I was jealous at the attention Mistress was receiving, I’d be spending some quality time in the dungeon getting my attitude readjusted.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ Tamara states with agitation. ‘How can you, or anybody, give in and let themselves be controlled and beaten for having normal emotions?’

‘It’s what I want.’ Susan’s face is guileless. ‘Mistress owns me, Tamara, because I chose to hand over my body, my life and my soul to her keeping. Whatever Her decisions are, they are always correct for the circumstances.’

‘But what if she makes a mistake?’

‘Then She apologizes, I accept, and the matter is closed — after a spanking of course.’

‘Hers?’

‘No. Mine.’

Tamara’s mouth drops open. ‘Why? … that’s not fair.’

‘Fairness has nothing to do with it, Tamara. She is always fair in Her judgments. If anything, she scrupulously gives me too much wiggle room. If there was an error, it was the result of something I didn’t do and, therefore, worthy of disciplinary measures. I never challenge Her will. Why would I?’

Shaking her hands in the hot air under the blowing dryer, Tamara can’t get around the roadblock of abuse versus submission. She likes Susan, but her ‘slavery’ is such a foreign concept to a survivor. ‘So, Susan, in reality, you are actually a slave.’

Slavery: The bogey monster of BDSM. The actual reality is that slavery, although outlawed nearly everywhere, exists today in every single country. There are likely slaves in your neighborhood at this moment. They may be prostitutes, drug mules, contract labor or domestic servants. We only have Susan’s word that she is willing, but that may be a case of Stockholm Syndrome rather than submission. In any case, there are actual slaves in BDSM, complete with chains, cages and branding, but it is still a vast gulf between consensual D/s and forced slavery.

Susan’s tone is curious. ‘Is that what you see, Tamara, when you look at me?’

‘I need to get out of here.’ Tamara storms past, back out onto the concourse. The line hasn’t dwindled at Sir’s table and, ignoring his ‘come here’ wave, she strides off in the opposite direction. To her annoyance, Susan shadows her. ‘Are you going to stalk me everywhere, Susan?’

The reply is not reassuring. ‘Only until I am satisfied you are not going to harm yourself.’

Tamara sneers. ‘Maybe you should be more worried I’ll harm you.’

‘Very good, Tamara!’ Susan claps once then continues sotto-voice behind the back of her hand. ‘You need some more practice to play the heavy.’

‘Why are you following me?’ Tamara comes to an abrupt halt and lifts her palms up with shrugged shoulders. ‘I’m nobody. Always have and always will be.’

‘Sir doesn’t believe that.’

Deep inhalations. ‘Susan.’ Tamara resumes normal breathing. ‘I can’t compete with… his fans… with, anybody else he could want. It doesn’t make any sense that a man who looks like that, who obviously writes extremely popular stories and enjoys spanking as much as he does, to want to be burdened with a crazed lunatic like me.’

Walking over to a nearby bench, Susan sits down and motions Tamara to join her. With clear reluctance, Tamara sits as well, but as far away as possible. They watch the foot traffic steadily increase. Nobody pays the slightest attention to the two women.

‘Tamara, have you ever asked Sir what his motivations are?’

Clasping her hands together, Tamara looks down at the worn patches on the carpet where thousands of feet have scuffed. ‘Not really. Every time I say something about how fu-messed up I am, he spanks me. It’s like he’s trying to mold me into someone more sedate and demure.’

‘That’s conjecture, not fact,’ Susan points out.

‘Is it?’ Tamara’s voice is both bitter and disillusioned. ‘If he liked me, if he cared about me, he wouldn’t be so set on forcing me to change and submit.’

‘That puzzles me, Tamara. He didn’t strike me as someone willing to use force on an unwilling person. Am I wrong?’

A desultory shrug is Tamara’s answer. ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not sticking around to find out.’ She pushes to her feet and sticks out her hand to shake. ‘I guess this is it, Susan. It was nice to meet you.’

We watch, extremely worried as Tamara strolls further and further away from the still seated Susan until disappearing around a distant corner. Torn three ways now, we don’t know what to do. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Tamara has her phone, but her bags are back at Sir’s table, including her purse with money. Not much, but enough to change her unused bus ticket into a destination far from here. Decision made, we flit after Tamara, hoping it’s not too late.

Slumped against a wall, next to an emergency exit, at the far reaches of the convention center, Tamara has reached a dead-end, both literally and mentally. She cries silently into her cupped hands, bent over her tented knees. The emotions of the past two days have overwhelmed her and she doesn’t know how she’s going to survive.

Pivoting, we notice Sir’s arrival before Tamara does. She stiffens, but remains on the floor. Sir doesn’t pause, doesn’t speak; only sits down cross-legged next to her, reaches over and bodily drags an unresisting Tamara onto his lap. His hug is fierce. He rocks side-to-side in a gentle motion: whatever noises he is making are too soft to hear. Her crying is barely audible as heart-wrenching sobs from deep in her soul. We turn our backs. It’s too raw and intimate; too much pain to witness. As we move out of sight, perhaps for some of you reading, you’ve been there, in a hopeless seeming situation. Did someone cuddle you? Offer you unconditional comfort? It’s so rare to see, no wonder Tamara is having a breakdown. All her life, the only constant has been abuse. Can Sir really make a difference and release Tamara from the shackles of her slavery? A howl of pure anguish guts our souls like a filleting knife.

‘IT HURTS SO BAD!’

‘I know, baby, I know.’

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

The 400 Club

This week I received the 400th follower to this blog. I don’t have anything special to offer though. No sweepstakes, no cruise for two, no lifetime supply of dark chocolate. Sorry. 🙂

However, I do get this warm fuzzy feeling whenever I get a notification of a new reader. You’d think that after all these years, I’d be more jaded, but I’m not. I am so thrilled that even one person likes what I write, never mind hundreds.

Speaking of writing, I know I’ll never be the most popular, or the most eloquent and, since I rarely write anything personal about myself, certainly won’t have millions of people waiting for my next tweet. Which I don’t: Tweet. I don’t have any social media accounts; I don’t consider blogging to be social media, although when it started, it was. Since been eclipsed by other platforms.

I’m not a tormented author; I don’t huddle in bed bemoaning lack of progress or rend my clothes shrieking when the perfect prose eludes my grasp. Writing for me is fun. Primarily because the fiction I write; I write because it interests me. I know from reading other blogs, that my stories are often pale imitations of the ‘real’ deal when it comes to sex and discipline. But that’s okay, I prefer delving into the mental and emotional aspects of characters rather than intimate details of pieces and parts.

Will I ever post pictures here? No. Will I ever reveal my sexual history? No. Will I ever meet any of you in person? Maybe.

What I will do is keep writing fiction and poetry about spanking and sex from the submissive female perspective — with a little dominance thrown in for good measure. I mean, Byron Cane is a large pen name to live up to. He creates an image of sage wisdom, pithy advice and a keen eye for the feminine posterior. Of course, I could just be blowing smoke up your asses. Only time will tell. 🙂

 





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I guess I did have something for joining the 400 Club after all. Have a happy day and good reading.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 10 (Part 15)

My pride stinging more than my cheeks, I gazed at her silk slippers and braced myself for more abuse. She growled; like a spoiled lap dog to a suitor. Surprised, I raised my chin daring her to hit me again. Fingers reached out, stroked my jaw and then her mouth crushed my lips, tongue slithering past my teeth and subduing my anger. I thought I understood her confusion, so meekly submitted as she sought to reestablish her dominance. When she released me—with reluctance it seemed—she was once more the distant and haughty Miss Frothinglips. The afternoon became stranger.

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 10 (Part 14)

While she presumably cleaned, I did the same, wiping dry the floor and the stool. When I finished, I brushed off my uniform, stood at attention and waited. Wearing a long dressing gown trimmed with satin ribbons and floral embroidery, she strode, not towards her vanity to finish her daily ritual, but instead, without any warning, reached out and slapped me across my unsuspecting cheek. “Do not presume, Ruby, to seek liberties where none are offered.” Shocked at the vehemence more than the blow across my face, I must have expressed my inner smugness. SLAP! My head rocked once more.

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 10 (Part 13)

Forcing her surrender had consequences, but even though in her frenzy she shoved me backwards arse-over-teakettle, inside I was smirking at her loss of control. Perhaps you believe I was naively being exploited, but I assure you, even then I knew my sensual prowess and submissiveness were the keys to a secure future. It was only fickle fortune that I loved every sexual aspect of unbridled lust. While awareness seeped back into her eyes, I remained seated on the floor awaiting her next desire. I pretended to notice neither her unsteady gait nor her destination of the enclosed water closet.

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 10 (Part 12)

I felt the ripples of her climax. She sprayed my face. A trembling hand clamped my skull. My open mouth forced to drink. My tongue delved deeper. Her pert bottom rose. I jabbed two fingers to replace my thumb lifting in unison with her gyrations. If she was still quiet, at least her body was not quiescent. Her writhing limbs, her rapid breath, the clenching of internal muscles all betrayed her lustful nature. How many consecutive orgasms I wrung from her oh-so-sophisticated aristocratic cunt, I do not now remember, but it was Miss Frothinglips who conceded the amatory field first.

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.

Here be Dragons!

beneath the down, warm slick ridges yield to pressure, fingers tracing the lines written with rattan
curving up the slope, straining for the summit, plunging off the crest deep into the shadowed depths
the geography of your body is a cartographer’s dream, all thoroughly explored by disciplined surveying

paper crackles when I step
an old Esso map
creases worn thin
a souvenir of our last road trip, back when we had few responsibilities and fewer cares, our only goals to fuck
then fuck some more

sliding under the covers, morning cock crowing, driving forward between the parted hillocks
remembering the first time we plunged into Terra Incognita, the dark tunnel resisting eager efforts
the hiss you make now, reminds me of the hot springs, a memory of long ago when a map still excited us

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

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    The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie, began as a modern updated tribute to The Perils of Pauline. It is a slightly satirical send up of both the contemporary spanking scene, and popular culture’s fascination with kink through the guise of both D/s and D/D. The novella is meant to be funny, corny, sprinkled with numerous touchstones and sly wordplay, while simultaneously weaving a constant serious spanking story line that turns romantic and erotic with a HEA ending.

    The first part of the novella details the spankings Stephanie receives in various settings by her neighbors and boss. These are not always graphically described, but are rather the result of Stephanie’s hapless bumbling into situations requiring discipline. A third of the way through the novella, she meets Ross at a restaurant party hosted by her boss. The sparks (and spanks) fly between them, and Ross finds himself scrambling to keep up with the vivacious and mischievous Stephanie. Before the week is out, through both discipline and erotic spankings, they fall deeply in love with each other, and Ross’ firm hand. Each chapter builds upon the previous story line as various supporting characters reveal their own kinky backgrounds. In the end, everyone is satisfied, and Ross sexually claims Stephanie for his own.

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    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.
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