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.

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 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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 16

‘That was good. I’m stuffed.’

Sir catches Cindy’s attention. ‘Could I get the rest of my pizza to go?’ Seeing Tamara’s expression, he shuffles the plates into a neat stack. ‘Cold pizza is one of the culinary highlights of life.’

She tilts her head and raises both palms in a silent ‘whatever’ gesture. All of her meal is gone and she sighs with contentment. ‘I’m going to be spoiled you know with all this rich food. That, plus gain a few sizes.’

Danger, Will Robinson! Sir wipes his greasy fingers and ponders his response. A. Say her current size is perfect. B. Say she could use a few pounds. C. Curves are sexy. D. Excuse yourself. ‘Excuse me, Tamara, but I need to wash my hands before we leave. Here’s my credit card if Cindy comes back with the bill first.’ Sliding out of the booth he scans the walls looking for the restrooms.

Watching him stride away with a casual lope, Tamara jabs the few remaining ice cubes with her straw. The sharp clinking noise triggers memories of cocktail shakers behind the bar, when she was younger and prettier, and men shoved tips in her jar quoting Billy Joel. Where did my life go?

‘Do you need to go?’

‘I should.’

Sir watches her carefully walk away, her head on a swivel and hands loosely clenched at her sides. He signs the bill with the house pen. Tucking the Visa back in his supple wallet triggers memories of corporate three-martini lunches back when he had money to burn.

‘Ready?’ Tamara slings her purse over her shoulder.

The night has settled in like an abstract painting; all jagged lines of garish colors splashed against a canvas of blackest thoughts. The headlights slash shadowed objects in two as he pulls back onto the thoroughfare, joining the teens cruising for dominance.

‘Do you ever check your phone, Sir?’

‘Why? Did you IM me?’

‘No, I don’t have your number. I was only wondering if your career meant being online a lot.’

‘That’s a fair question. I don’t like checking when I’m with someone. I think it’s rude. Calls? Sure, if it’s important, but I access my blog and business accounts at night via my laptop. Of course, I use a VPN when using public Wi-Fi.’

‘VPN?’

‘Virtual Private Network, it hides your IP address and allows private browsing when on an unencrypted public Wi-Fi. Otherwise, anybody can snoop on your activity and potentially steal your information.’

‘I did not know that.’

‘Nothing’s perfect, but going online without VPN is like having sex without a condom.’

‘Hmmmm.’ Tamara finally notices they aren’t back at the hotel. An instant flash of panic: She grabs the door handle without even noticing.

‘I need to take a stroll through the mall and settle my dinner; otherwise I get heartburn.’

Sir finds a spot near the multiplex entrance and unbuckles. Glancing over, he notices the tension in her arms. ‘Are you okay?’

Tamara shoots him a tight smile. ‘I’m fine.’

There are lies of omission, and lies of expedience. We sense Tamara’s “I’m fine” is both. Her mind is in turmoil. The instant reaction to being trapped in a vehicle with a male is something she can’t control. The garish marquee, featuring the latest cinematic blockbusters, casts red and yellow pools onto the pavement swirling with people choosing their entertainment. Through the windshield we peer in, Tamara’s face is washed out and pale; Sir’s is wary and concerned. He wonders what to say, what not to do. The choices seem to be bad and worse. He clenches the steering wheel and stares at the mall entrance. Would lying to her help?

‘I changed my mind. We can go back to the hotel.’

Like a robot in some dystopian future film, her head swivels forty-five degrees and locks on his face as if scanning into memory banks. Her voice is atonal, mechanical: ‘I said I’m fine. Go. Walk. I will wait here.’

Sir holds his breath as she pivots back and resumes her scrutiny, watchful as a sentry on duty. He pulls out his wallet, removes a card and sets it on the shifter console. The rental keys go on top. ‘I’ll be back, Tamara. My cell number is on the card. If you need to leave, for whatever reason, I’m leaving the car keys with you.’

Before he changes his mind, or gives her a chance to respond, he’s out the drivers’ door. It closes with a soft thud.

She watches, again, as he lopes away: A confident man in a dangerous world, who cuts through the crowd like a shark.

The locks engage with a beep. She jingles the keys in her hand. It’s an old-fashioned ignition switch. The temptation is strong.

I’m lying to myself. If I can’t control an innocent car ride, how am I going to stay calm when we sleep in the same bed? I can’t do this. Sir is too good for me. I don’t deserve his… anything. I’m worthless. Stupid. A fucked up whore who deserved every beating she got. I. AM. SO. FUCKING. PATHETIC! I can’t do this. I can’t. I bet he regrets ever meeting me. I bet he’s thinking he was so stupid to pay for my meals and invite me to the freak show because now he’s the one running away. He didn’t even ask me what was wrong! He just hopped out and left me all by myself in a fucking parking lot! How dare he! He left me the keys? FINE! If that’s what he wants, fine.

After his brisk walk around the mall concourse, Sir is feeling better. Until he notices that his car is missing: along with Tamara. He paces back and forth for a while wondering if she’s idling somewhere along the distant perimeter, watching and waiting. His phone is silent. No messages; no missed calls.

Summoning the nearest rideshare, the driver takes him back to the hotel. It’s a quiet trip.

He watches television and waits for her call.

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

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.

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