Writing for fun and [hopeful] profit

As you know, as Byron Cane, I am participating in Smut Marathon 2018. Until March 10th — next Saturday — you can vote at this link here for the top three stories you like best. What I did was copied and pasted the 62 stories into a Word docx. and by condensing, printed out 15 pages to read later. The results of Round 2 will be announced on Sunday, March 11th along with the names of the 40 writers to advance to Rounds 3 and 4. Please vote, we had a very light turnout last time.

Smut Marathon 2018 Participant

This coming Thursday, March 8th, is International Women’s Day. In honor of that, Sexy Little Pages is publishing their latest anthology, Corrupted. I have the honor of having a short story accepted called, Ghosting Past Emily. You can read more about the story at my other blog with this link. The anthology is currently available for pre-orders through a number of online retail stores via this link here.

If you haven’t explored my blog, there is a page titled: Published fiction available for purchase as Byron Cane. You can follow the links to Amazon and purchase ebook copies of my works.

The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie

The Case of the Disciplined Valentine

Coming soon will be another novella, The Witch of Olympus Hollow. I’ll provide links when it is published.

The Witch of Olympus Hollow

Voting for Smut Marathon 2018 #1 is now open

From Sunday, Feb 11th until Saturday, Feb 17th, voting is now open at this link for Round 1 of Smut Marathon 2018. There are 75 entries to read, all a maximum of 30 words. Each reader gets to vote once for the top three that best meets the assignment criteria. Please also consider leaving feedback for the authors, your comments will be posted after the polls close as to not influence other voters.

Writer’s Assignment Round 1: Write an Erotic Metaphor
Specific requirements:
– only one sentence
– give your text a one-word title
– your text with the metaphor is a maximum of 30 words (excluding title)

Writers are not allowed to tell anyone which entry they have written!
You can only vote once.
The voting round closes on 17 February 2018 at 23.00 CET
Results of the voting round will be published on this site on 18 February 2018 and then I [The Smut Master, Marie Rebelle] will announce the author of each metaphor.

Sir Fang is now (a)live on Amazon

For a very limited number of days this week, my novella, The Case of the Disciplined Valentine, is available for FREE on Amazon for ereader devices. As you can see from the screen shot below, it’s currently doing quite well.

Screen Shot 2018-02-06 at 7.37.52 AM

Disclaimer: The Case of the Disciplined Valentine, with minor changes, is the same novella as previously published in the Lust in Lace anthology, as Sir MacRath Thrashes his Valentine. If you have already purchased the anthology in ebook or audio book, then there is no need to purchase it again… unless you want to financially support me. 🙂

To purchase, The Case of the Disciplined Valentine, click the picture.

A comedy of Victorian manners mixed with delicious spankings and sexual encounters guaranteed to raise even a vampire’s blood pressure. Byron Cane sets a torrid pace in his historical paranormal erotic novella.

It is 1854 in steampunk London, and Sir Nachton MacRath is warily returning to his home isle after decades abroad. He has good reasons to steer clear of the Royal Family, but is immediately snared by the Queen herself, who anoints him, Her Chastiser of Loose Morals, complete with elevation to the upper reaches of the aristocracy. Rather than a quiet existence as a vampire, he is now a Peer uneasily rubbing shoulders with the most powerful men in the Empire.

Phoebe Hayward is a lady of good breeding, but like all her contemporaries, longs for some excitement and romance. Valentine’s Day is only weeks away, when their paths cross with a bump. Despite later discovering the man ordered to discipline her is actually a vampire, she can’t help falling in love. The more encounters with Sir MacRath she has, the more her body yearns to know what it is to submit to his vampiric touch. When he reluctantly agrees to be her Valentine, thus begins a Domination and discipline the likes of which she’s never dreamed.

MacRath doesn’t feel he deserves Phoebe’s love, and attempts to push her away by taking her deeper into sexual submission. She surprises him — and herself — by eagerly submitting to his every desire. Together, they explore the sensual heights that a woman and a man — a vampire — can reach. But politics and conflict are never far away, and the Valentine’s Day deadline comes all too soon.

xx

Prologue

For the first time in ten days, the steady ‘thump-thump’ of the engines and boiling thrashing of the magnificent side-mounted paddle wheels fell silent. The harbor pilot called down to the tug.Thus began the ancient and primal ballet of man versus water as seasoned hands strove to bring the steamer from America into safe mooring. As it docked, heavy hemp hawsers and thick bollards were tossed over the side to waiting stevedores. The shrill triumphant shriek of the steam whistle echoed among the emigration sheds where the starving poor sought passage to a new life in the former colonies. Vast clouds of slate gray and white gulls took flight as the noise reduced the raucous calls of workers to pantomime.

The blast faded and the flocks swooped to await handouts from the new arrivals. A crowd had gathered to meet the arriving ship. Touts held up placards bearing names of lodging and dining establishments. Open steam carriages emblazoned with coats-of-arms and commercial enterprises chuffed impatiently quayside, uniformed chauffeurs chatting amiably with gloved hands held over barrels of flame. A late arrival coasted silently to a stop along the quay. The pennants on the front bumper proudly waved the Three Lions of the House of Hanover. Eyebrows rose: no Royal had been listed on the telegraphed manifest.

At the gangplank’s head, Sir Nachton MacRath waited to debark, nose wrinkled in protest. The tide had reached slack, raw sewage and industrial offal collecting in rotted mats along the banks of the River Mersey. After eighteen years away, on this fifteenth day of January, in the Year of Our Lord 1854, he prepared to once again set foot on his native soil. Well, to be precise, tarred oak planks covered with guano and rubbish. Six months removed from San Francisco, he was glad to be finally back, although unsure of his welcome. He had run afoul of the Regent in late 1835 and, despite repeated assurances from the Queen in the following decades, he had decided instead to tour the Near East and China.

By fortuitous timing, MacRath had sailed from the Sandwich Islands to the sparsely populated lands of Northern California (still Mexican, for a short while longer) in 1848. The subsequent fortune he’d created during the Gold Rush was not from water blasting the hillsides, but from parlaying the exotic nature of his Scottish title into land and mercantile trade for the arriving miners.

Want a teaser to rev your libido?

As Byron Cane, I run my other blog, Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction, to highlight my published fiction. This recent post about my latest ebook, The Case of the Disciplined Valentine, also includes an extract and a link to obtaining a free copy of the first several thousand words of the novella, courtesy of Instafreebie. The entire novella will be available for purchase around Feb 5th, 2018. Subscribe and follow Byron Cane for more updates.

The Case of the Disciplined Valentine

A Sir Fang Story

If you would like to see the book cover and a few details about my latest to-be-published-very-soon ebook, click here for a preview at my other blog, Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction. Subscribe/follow to be informed when and where you can purchase, The Case of the Disciplined Valentine at a special price.

Inexhaustible Smorgasbord

The sharp cracks had faded to muted rumbles; the late summer storm trundled to the east, trailing an ebony cloak glazed with jagged streaks of abstract white. At my feet, the dull granite setts slowly slaked a thirst; the detritus of tourists swirling into the gaping sewers leaving behind deceptively safe and clean shiny streets. Historic Old Town, painstakingly resurrected—twice—from the ashes of pitiless warfare, brooded in the sweet morning air. The western skies pulsed with urgency, delayed flights flung themselves recklessly at the obscured stars, hastening to meet global schedules grounded by adverse conditions.

I cupped my left hand. Had any been able to observe, the brief orange flare would have revealed a deep weary cynicism. I puffed the harsh tobacco, blew out a stream of fragrant smoke that lingered close as if terrified by the surroundings. I ignored the warning, watching instead the CCTV camera as it whirred atop the light pole. The police drones had departed with the onset of rain. This was pass through area for visitors by day; small shops catering in information and deceit. By night, contraband slipped past the law with practiced ease.

A vibration shook the front right pocket of my black linen trousers. If a phone could sound impatient the summons snarled at my unruffled savoir faire. The cigarette tumbled like an acrobat without a net: I stubbed it out with a faint hiss as it splattered on the damp pavement. Finally moving forward, the crepe soles of my shoes were silent as a grave.

The night wavered. Lean shadows peeled from brick façades and dropped from pockets of mist hovering above. To those without the Sight, nothing had changed. My escort surrounded me. Lethal, immortal, they were not here to help—they weren’t allowed where I was expected—but to ensure I fulfilled my oath. If thoughts could kill…

Jutting phallicly with a hostile and arrogant contempt at the ragged edge of tradition [reclaimed] and gentrification, the Cashmere Tower was the tallest building in the city. Money fountained like arterial blood from the professional tenants, none of it staying for long; sophisticated programs laundered the stains through shell companies and numbered accounts. Standard procedures for corrupt businesses protected by slick lawyers and bought politicians. My target was higher up the ladder—literally—the top ten floors pandered to a different type of cash flow.

Vice was timeless. Nubile flesh an inflation proof currency. Educated agents were shopping for fresh victims that wouldn’t be missed.

By mistake or deliberate malice—the first understandable, the latter an apocalyptic possibility—the procurers had lured the wrong one. Whatever the alchemy of designer drugs and DJ mixed trance that had created the circumstances of the snatch, it had not removed the clear traces of her passage.

I was their emissary.

The elevator was smooth and quiet.

Rows and rows of glittering females arranged as if waxed produce in bins filled the luxurious rooms. The buyers with their tablets snapped pictures, and fired off messages that raced around the world. The auction started later, but I was not shopping. My steel attaché was not filled with clean dollars or euros or yen, but a single jewel that pulsed with all the suppressed fury at the unrelenting humanistic devouring of magic.

I carried a portal strong enough to suck the entire building into the Outerlands were it not tuned to ‘rescue’ my target. If the dead-eyed brokers knew what their exotic captive actually was, they’d run screaming into the night; not that fleeing was a viable option should she choose to destroy rather than drink in the essence of fear and despair coating the dungeon walls.

Why I was chosen to interrupt the pain slut as she writhed in her bondage, driving her price higher with every blow of the whip: that is a story best told later. For when the Queen commands retrieval of her wayward daughter: who better to mount an escape, than the Princess’ estranged human husband.

That would be me.

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

Black Market Night by Kalidwen.©

The spanking illustration provided by the talented Kalidwen over at Kalidwen’s little spankings: Musings & fessées.

Flashback Friday: “Over the Top”

This week’s Flashback Friday, was originally posted April 11th, 2010. This will be the next to last Flashback Friday, as I have plucked the best of my past writings of 2009-2010 from the archives. After next week’s final posting, I will be changing the posting schedule. My plans are to continue posting the Victorian novel, The Bumhampton Chronicles, in 100-word drabbles on Thurs, Fri, Sat and Sun. Every Monday, a new non-fiction essay of 500-1,000 words about D/s, based on various prompts I find in the vanilla world. On Tuesdays, I will be starting a new serial novel called, Kismet of Submission, with 1,000 word episodes. The first two have already been posted for past Wicked Wednesday prompts, but I will be reposting them before moving on to new episodes. Lastly of course, there is the weekly Wicked Wednesday. Still in progress is my follow up Sir Fang novel, The Case of The Scarlet Paddle. Speaking of beta readers, if you are interested in helping me by reading drafts of current fiction, please don’t hesitate to drop me a line via email, either to Lurv Spanking, or Byron Cane.

The blue spruces shuddered violently. Lightning danced rapidly from menacing flannel clouds approaching the homestead. Heather Parks wrung her hands thinking of her husband Josh driving home in this terrifying weather. He’d been gone a week this time on business and despite nightly calls she constantly worried about his health. Her concern was a constant source of friction. Josh hated being ‘babied’ and Heather had fled in tears after many an argument. If only he would see what she needed, what she craved: he was oblivious to her! As the storm grew harsher so did Heather’s thoughts until the crashing thunder shook dust from the rafters.

“Mom! Where’s my yellow shirt?”

“It’s in the wash! I’m trying to write, have Daddy help you!” Corrine Campos grimaced hearing the horde descending upon her unsuspecting husband. Carmelo was warm and loving, except when it came to women’s work. Old-fashioned to the extreme he would never even consider lifting a finger to help around the house. He supported Corrine and their three children by running his own consulting business and that was enough for him and his mother. She’d found his masculinity overwhelming when they were dating but after ten years of marriage the resentments were reaching the breaking point. When her phone rang; well, Corrine snapped out without checking ID.

“What!”
“My, my, Corrine. Testy today?”
“Sorry, Roxy. Bad day.”
“I understand. Hate to rain on your parade but ‘Over the top’ needs work, lots of work.”
“I know, I know, I know. I’m editing now, Roxy, please give me a little more time.”
“I’m sorry, Corrine, but the deadline is Wednesday and if you don’t have a publishable draft by tomorrow the magazine is going to cancel. There’s nothing more I can do. Give me something to sell and I’ll go to the mat for you.”
“Okay, Roxy. Tomorrow, I promise. Gotta go, hubby is pounding on the door.”

“What are you doing? Your children are driving me crazy!”
“I’m sorry, Carmelo. I was talking to a friend. I’ll be right there.”

Corrine put her computer to sleep and wasted two hours caring for her children before foisting them off on her sister for the rest of the day. Carmelo had left, to go and do who knew what, but Corrine was quite happy to see his BMW squealing out of the gate. Finally: Peace and quiet.

The blue spruces shuddered violently as if in the throes of orgasm. Lightning danced rapidly from the menacing flannel clouds approaching the homestead intent on rape. Heather Parks wrung her hands thinking of her horny husband Josh driving home in this terrifying weather. He’d been gone a week this time on business and despite nightly calls she constantly worried about the health of his penis. Her concern was a constant source of friction. Josh hated being ‘babied’ and Heather had fled in tears after many a blowjob. If only he would see what she needed, what she craved: he was oblivious to her! As the storm grew harsher so did Heather’s thoughts until the crashing thunder shook dust from the rafters. What if she never got a chance to suck on his hard cock ever again?

Josh pulled into the garage amidst hail as large as fists and rain so thick the wipers failed to keep up. He was trembling with fatigue and looked forward to a long, hot soapy shower – by himself. Heather was so needy lately! What was her problem? He was less than pleased to open the door and find Heather on her knees, warm mouth open and blue eyes pleading for his cock. He finally snapped. Grabbing her long blond hair in his calloused fingers he dragged her into the living room and threw her over the back of the couch. Whipping out his belt he proceeded to beat his wife on her rounded quivering bottom while she cried and begged the entire time. When her ass was covered with weals he threw down the belt, stalked to her head, yanked up her head and shoved his cock down her throat.

Heather was in shock. Where was the loving gentle man she’d married? Why was he doing this? Her ass was on fire and while it hurt, the pain was nothing compared to her broken heart. When he pulled out of her mouth she protested again but then he began to pound her pussy each thrust slapping her sore bottom. Heather felt her climax building, the storm continuing unabated, neither one noticing the lights failing or glass shattering. Rain driven by violent winds soaked them as Josh fucked Heather as hard as he could: not caring a whit for her needs. She screamed again, pain was creating pleasure and her soaking wet cunt flooded the cushions. She moaned and writhed until she felt Josh shooting his spunk deep inside.

“What the fuck? What the hell are you doing?”
“Carmelo! Stop that! You have no right! This is private!”
“The hell it is! No wife of mine is going to read this filth!”
“It’s not filth, Carmelo! I wrote this for publication, for money!”
“You wrote this perverted trash for money? Money? You whore!”
Corrine slapped her angry husband. “How dare you call me a whore? I am the mother of your children and if I’m a whore then you’re a pimp!”
“You’ve gone too far this time, Corrine. I’m the man in this house and I decide what my wife does.”
“Bullshit! I don’t have to take this crap from you! Let me go! I’ll call the police.”
“Fine, Corrine, call, but first, I’m going to teach you some long overdue manners!”

Corrine felt herself rapidly thrown over her furious husband’s knees, dress tossed over her head and panties thrown on the floor. Carmelo’s large hand descended in rapid-fire order on her naked bottom punctuated by his stern lecture on proper behavior. Corrine squealed and bucked but her husband had little problems keeping her in her place. “I should have done this on our wedding night! You will obey me, Corrine, or I’ll spank you every day, twice a day for the rest of your life! Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!” Corrine choked out.

After more than half an hour of spanking, Carmelo threw his weeping wife on their bed and stalked out slamming the door behind him. Corrine reached back and gasped as she felt the heat pouring off her battered ass. Gingerly rolling over she swayed to the bathroom to observe the damage.

“Roxy? It’s, Corrine. Don’t bother with ‘Over the top’. I’ve got a new story to write: ‘Disobedient and beaten wife’. Yeah, it’s personal, very personal.”

Flashback Friday: “Fear of pain”

The week’s Flashback Friday, was originally posted Nov 11th, 2009.

She tensed, winced, squirmed. His hand was so hard and her bottom so tender. She wanted a spanking, asked for a spanking, needed a spanking, but the pain was unexpected. She almost told him to stop… then… the pain became confusing. It hurt, it stung, his hand battered her cheeks and turned her insides to mush. Without thought, her hips rose, legs spread, aching for the ache to continue, to intensify. When he slowed, she whimpered, when he went faster, she moaned, when he hit her hard on her sit spot she screamed. A lap dance in reverse, her motions were fluid and random, seeking an elusive peak. When the paddle replaced his hand, she held her breath in shock. The pain was scary – scary good – and she never wanted him to stop beating her ass. The fear of pain made the high exquisitely beautiful. A floating, soaring, diving pain: roiling her blood and wetting his pants. Her loss of control extended her discipline beyond her perceived limits. Crashing through the barrier of fear, she found her soul deep within the safety of his strong hand punishing her hard.

Flashback Friday: “Do spankings improve your complexion?”

This week’s Flashback Friday story, was originally posted on Oct. 15th, 2009.

Such strange thoughts chase through your mind when bent over waiting for the first blow. No matter how many times your butt has been blistered, every spanking is different. Whether a good girl, maintenance, discipline, punishment, role-play, therapy or any other type of spanking, the mental aspect determines the effectiveness. Sure it’s your bottom *baring* the swats, but it’s your Dom toying with your mind that makes the scene fly.

[I mean scene as in personal scene not professional scene.]

Thus the questions in a submissive mind long before the spanking actually begins. Sure a spanking hurts, most of the time very badly, but the mental torture lovingly applied by a cruel Master is so delicious. It makes the nerves jangle, the adrenaline pump and when the bottom is bared to the implement of correction, the mind has become numb. Except for those pesky questions.

Do spankings improve your complexion?
How often do birds eat?
If we had roast last night, how many sandwiches can I make?
How long to teach that damned pig to fly?
OUCH!

Flashback Friday: “Exchanging Spanking Vows”

This week for Flashback Friday, the following post, originally posted Oct 10th, 2009, is my personal favorite out of all the hundreds of posts I’ve written. I hope you enjoy reading.

Angelique waited for her new husband to whisk her away from the reception. It had been a traditional wedding, complete with vows, although without the ‘obey’. Angelique fully intended to obey Henri in all things, but her modern friends did not understand her need to willingly submit to her Master. She’d tried, but been ridiculed and mocked when she revealed her love of discipline. The Story of ‘A’ she’d been dubbed and most of her now former friends were long gone from her life.

It was a very special place, an isolated wind swept bluff overlooking the river far below. The land had been in Henri’s family for centuries. Here, over a convenient stump, Angelique received her very first spanking from Henri and had fallen in love with his commanding ways. Now they returned to exchange a second set of vows, vows meaning so much more to them both.

I, Henri Montague, do take Angelique Montague née Molyneux to be my cherished submissive. I promise to love her, to guide her, to support her dreams and to provide discipline whenever needed. She is mine and I will use her freely as I see fit. I promise to listen and to understand her special needs. I will honor her parents and kin. I will respect her body as a temple of Eros and strive to make her sexually satisfied. As Angelique’s Master it is my solemn duty to protect, shield her from harm and spank her firmly when she errs. I swear before God I will keep her heart safe and her soul warm.

I, Angelique Montague née Molyneux, do accept Henri Montague as my cherished Master. I promise to obey him, to love him, to support his dreams and submit to his stern discipline. I am his and I will freely submit to his every desire. I promise to listen and understand his special needs. I will honor his parents and kin. I will respect his body as a shrine of Eros and use all my orifices to keep him sexually satisfied. As Henri’s submissive it is my solemn duty to anticipate, shield him from worry and accept punishment when I err. I swear before God I will keep his heart safe and his soul warm.

“Lust in Spring” nearing publication

The newest published anthology from Paranormal Erotica Romance—aka PNRLust—is scheduled on Amazon Kindle and Kindle Unlimited, this March 30th, 2017. As you know, or should know, I am writing my fiction for publication under the pen name, Byron Cane. My novella is called The Witch of Olympus Hollow and is a different spin on ‘green’ erotica. If you would like an Advance Review Copy of my novella as a Word .docx, please contact me via lurvspanking@gmail.com. In return for the free copy of my novella, I would request an honest review posted on your blog, and/or on Amazon or Goodreads once the Lust in Spring anthology goes live on March 30th, 2017.

What do a wealthy divorcee, a gay college student, five men trapped in a cottage, and a college graduate in the 1950s have in common? Each has a date with the supernatural. In Lust in Spring, the sixth volume in the Lust series, Spring is a time of renewal and desire. Gods, goddesses, incubi and the Fae will seduce and beguile their mortal lovers. But the price for pleasure must be paid.
——–
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.

In JD Carabella’s Milady’s Command, Juliet has wasted fifteen years on a loveless marriage. She’s a beautiful, sexual woman, and she needs a man who will surrender to her lust. Will her secret fantasy of power and control drive away the man worthy of her attention? Juliet’s dream can come true, if she’s willing to pay the price.

In Emma Jaye’s Incubus Spring, university student Finn has a dilemma: which man to pick? His current boyfriend, Charlie, is the take-charge type Finn wants. Problem is, Charlie is more interested in managing Finn’s budget than his body. Then there’s Ezra. It’s tough to resist when the sexy owner of an adult toy store offers hands-on demonstrations. Torn between loyalty and lust, the unwitting prey in a seductive game of cat and mouse, Finn’s decision will shape his destiny.

One goddess. Five men. In Ina Morata’s The Greenwood Goddess, it’s Beltane, and five men have been taken prisoner by Gaia. They’ve been set a quest: compete for the goddess’ favor with the best erotic story. As captivated as the rest, Ben is desperate to win, not least because in this strange and magical place, losing has serious consequences. But if he wins…will the prize be what it seems?

Dating before emojis

A dating profile for Wicked Wednesday. Not much wickedness here, maybe a little satire. 🙂

SDBRF seeking AG/AI/AT/AL/ADR for KISSGBDSMSPNKMEHARD

Single desperate but realistic female seeking any gender, any income, any transportation, any lodging, any dietary restriction for kinky invasive sex, spanking, gaming, brooding, drinking, social misfit, shopping partner, nudist, knowledgeable, mega ego handy, adventurous, rebellious, daring.

Intellectuals need not contact, have standards, you know.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(20)

Scooping out a generous dollop of the thick paste, I smeared the unguent around on both her cheeks. Louisa sighed and settled into the coarse ticking. As I rubbed her beaten buttocks, I subconsciously rocked my soaking cunt on her back. Subtle movements at first, as I shifted down in order to reach the crease at her thighs, I left behind a trail of cream. Limber enough to bend at the waist without lifting my aching puss, I buried my flaring nostrils in her damp crack. The odor caused me to growl. “I have to lick you, to drink you.”

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

Promises, promises

There is something obscene about the modern meeting; the bribes of artery clogging pastries and bitter office coffee calculated to stupefy the unwilling participants with an overload of surgery carbohydrates and caffeine.

What a fucking waste of time!
Veronica tried to keep her temper from unleashing her tongue, but if she was late one more time, her ass would be as red as the raspberry filling in the glazed donuts. Her eyes glazed as her boss droned on about policies and figures that were accessible with a swipe of the touch-pad to every single person in the building!
The only reason we’re cooped up in here is because certain assholes can’t stay off Facebook for more than a few minutes!

“What’s the matter, Roni, got ants in your pants?”

Speaking of assholes!
She glared at the cretin to her left. She’d file a sexual harassment complaint with HR against George, but even a third-grader could tell he wasn’t malicious, simply too imbecilic to realize he was offensive. Not deigning to respond, she checked her watch; covering the movement with a scratch of her scalp.
Five-fucking-thirty. I am so fucked.

The unproductive meeting broke up fifteen minutes later and Veronica scurried out before anyone else could latch onto her—”Doing anything this Friday night?”—except George. “Yes. I have a boyfriend,—A Master actually—as I’ve told you a jillian times before. Goodnight.”

Although the club was only thirty minutes away, she had promised to be there by five and it was now pushing six-thirty. Nearly careening on two wheels, she skidded to a stop and jumped out of her car. Nodding at the bouncer, she slipped inside and ran downstairs into the dungeon. Out of breath and out of time, her eyes sought her Master, but instead, saw twenty people all sitting and quietly chatting in a half-circle around the stage.

None of them looked over their shoulders as she walked, heels tapping loudly on the tile, towards the object in the spotlight.
This was supposed to be private!
All thoughts vanished when He stepped out from behind the curtain. Veronica’s mouth went dry as her pussy flooded. His chest and torso were bare and gleaming with oil. Leather cuffs with steel spikes encircled his wrists. Leather pants with a codpiece made of crisscrossing thongs highlighted the bulging muscles. Boots clicked.

She dared to meet his gaze, and instantly wished she’d not been so bold.

THWACK!

The sound of the leather flogger striking the leather horse ricocheted around the room. All conversations ceased. Veronica flinched.

The man spoke. “We are gathered here tonight in judgement of the slave, formally known as Veronica. As was witnessed at our last session, she swore an oath, in her own words, ‘I will be on-time or I pledge to accept whatever punishment my Master deems suitable.’ What time is it slave?”

Veronica mumbled, “Six-thirty pm, Sir.”

“How late are you for this meeting?”

“An hour and a half, Sir!”

“Did you not request an absence from work as ordered?”

“No, Sir, I did not.”

The man turned to the members. “Fellow practitioners of the arcane art of discipline, how do you vote? Shall my slave be punished for disobedience?”

Veronica watched as all twenty of her friends slowly, and emphatically turned thumbs down towards her. She released a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and bowed in acceptance to her sentence. The group rose and gently, yet firmly, took turns stripping her naked, then picked her up bodily, and tightly secured her arms and legs, leaving her face-down over the padded horse. A gag went between her lips and a blindfold over her eyes.

“Let all observe the punishment of ninety blows by this flogger. One for each minute late.”

The tears were already flowing behind her blindfold. Not with pain, but with shame. She had brought this on herself, this naked public display where previously she’d remained covered. Too shy to fully participate, she had goaded her Master into taking away her choice. She thought of what the others could now see, and despite the constraining ropes, she shuddered with a mini-orgasm. That too, was shameful, and the knowledge fueled her arousal. Even more so when He spoke: “I told you my slave was a slut. Look at her gushing already. I bet she’ll come at least three more times while I’m whipping her. She loves pain but is so ashamed of her wantonness.”

The flogger whistled through the air and lashed Veronica’s pristine bottom, the thongs splaying out to cover the fullness of needy flesh.

“Isn’t that right, slave? Pain makes you come.”

The appreciative, and discerning audience, sat back down and listened as her Master brought Veronica higher and higher to crest the climatic peak, then ease back, only to drive her up again to her increasingly wet culmination. The bottom and thighs became redder and redder while the muffled squeals rose in pitch with each hard strike. By the time the full allotment of ninety was given over a period of thirty minutes, Veronica had come a total of five times.

She wasn’t aware at first the punishment was over, until nimble fingers unbuckled straps and she felt His arms lift her limp form to his hot chest. She sensed him walking away as her friend’s conversations grew dimmer and then ceased at the sound of a door closing. With only her hearing as a guide, the creak of his leather pants as he sat down seemed overly loud. She could feel his large erection beneath her sore bottom as he cuddled her in the circle of his slick arms.

“You have pleased me, slave, with your submission and passion. Your Master is proud of your willingness. Was this fantasy all that you expected?”

Still gagged, Veronica pressed her check to his sweaty chest, gripped his torso as tight as she could, and nodded several times.

“Good. Then next time, I will fuck you in front of them as well.”

Veronica mewled and felt another orgasm rise.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 Part(14)

Once ensconced in my room for the evening, I washed and undressed for bed. I lay there, with fingers laced behind my head, and relived my day. Tantalizing glimpses of sexual possibilities and combinations I’d never before considered. My thighs parted to let the heat escape. My hands slid down to grasp the nightgown’s hem. By now, my center was a molten forge; my head rang in a maelstrom of sparks and slick passion. A light tapping noise gradually penetrated my awareness. I withdrew my sticky fingers and blinked in confusion. “Ruby?” a soft voice whispered. “Are you still awake?”

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

Flashback Friday: “There’s always a reason for spanking”

Originally posted, Oct 6th, 2009.

“Honey? What’s a word beginning with ‘S’ that’s eight letters?”

“What’s the clue?”

“A repetitive motion that creates heat.”

“Hmmmmm. Perhaps a demonstration would jog your memory.”

“OUCH, OUCH, OUCH, OUCH.”

“That’s four letters, my dear, try again.”

Some times, that’s all it takes

The windows faced west, not that they provided a scenic vista of sweeping beauty. Neat rows of gas pumps under a flat canopy that would topple in a strong wind: beyond them, the four lanes of asphalt connecting the freeway with town.

Over there, near the cash register, a middle-aged woman polishes the stainless steel counter and mops the tile floor. The breakfast crowd has cleared out, one booth for four nurses coffees and argues politics. She is the quintessential diner waitress. Even without her salmon uniform dress or sea foam green name badge, she has the thousand-yard service stare that makes patrons feel both acknowledged and uncomfortable.

Her story—unfortunately—is all too familiar, even if unknown to anyone in town. An abusive home begat teen pregnancy, begat reluctant marriage, begat domestic violence until the divorce, the restraining order until her ex killed resisting arrest. Her daughter got a college scholarship, her mother sold everything, and left her memories behind.

She does what she has to do in order to survive, even if being numb is a normal state of being. Do you believe in fate? She doesn’t.

He does.

She watches a nondescript four-door sedan pull up to the pumps. The driver gets out, stretches and presses his hands into the small of his back. He stares at the nozzles, then the vehicle. Shaking his head, he gets back in and reverses direction so the filler cap faces the right way. The fresh coffee is brewed, so she tops off the foursome and trades jokes all the while her peripheral vision monitors the man at the pumps.

He’s done. The vehicle turns around again and moves fifty feet to park in front of the diner. When he comes inside, he briefly brings the growling and barking of tractor-trailers rotating from the truck stop. He veers to the restroom, presumably to wash gasoline off his hands.

The counter stools are covered in checkerboard to match her colors. In fact, the entire diner is a tribute to the pastel age. Strangely enough, the laminated menus don’t match. She slaps one down with a practiced twist and asks, ‘would you like some coffee?’

You see the man now tilt his head and study her. It’s not easy being a survivor. She’s always thought she’s worn a neon sign stamped on her high forehead. He too, recognizes a kindred spirit, so he makes—to us—a seemingly impulsive decision.

‘No, no coffee, water is fine.’

He studies the menu now. He’s not hungry, peckish maybe, but it’s still two hours to his destination.

‘I’ll have two scrambled eggs and rye toast.’

He watches her spin and yell through the window to the short order cook. He notices her bottom. He’s an ass man, always has been, which, given his vocation, is a good thing.

She notices. She always notices; which, for a paranoid survivor is a good thing. His eyes though, they’re not flat and hungry like most of the truckers or the husbands stopping in for the luncheon special and some flirting. His eyes are open, smiling; his mouth follows through with a wry crook, his shoulders shrug in apology. For once, she doesn’t feel cornered.

To cover her unease, she resumes her interrupted cleaning then busses the booth after the town workers punch back in to spend more taxpayer dollars. She kneels on the bench, calf-length skirt rising to the back of knee. She knows he’s watching.

He can see her. Not by spinning around on the stool and ogling with cocky elbow on the Formica. The mirror that runs along the cornice is sufficient. Her nylons have a run. The shoes need new soles.

The ding and ‘order up!’ elicits Pavlovian responses.

The eggs are quickly consumed. The toast—buttered—slathered with one packet of jam each, blueberry and strawberry, the marmalade, as always, looks disgusting.

‘Anything else?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Passing through?’

‘Conference in the city this weekend.’

‘Sales?’

‘I’m a writer.’

Her gaze slides to his transportation. His follows.

‘It’s a rental.’

‘Ah.’

‘I don’t like flying.’

‘What kind of writing do you do?’

It’s at this point we wonder how to reconcile the internal dialogue in order to make a believable story. After all, as the reader, we have preconceived expectations of how people behave. As a writer, however, the internal becomes external, and the reader has to decide to follow or quit.

‘I write erotica. Specifically, erotica with some type of spanking as the focal point.’

Like falling dominoes, his words coalesce around his actions, and her mind concocts multiple scenarios in a blink of the eye. Which hers do multiple times.

‘Are you famous?’

A genuine smile of delight makes his eyes sparkle. His white teeth are only marred by a piece of toast stuck in one corner. Her eyes dart there. She watches as his tongue swishes and sucks. He bares his teeth. She nods.

‘Thanks. What is famous? Is my penname known? Sure, but my face isn’t. Besides, who needs the hassles? I like being anonymous.’

‘Why spanking?’

‘I like it. I like to spank, be spanked, read about spanking and write about spanking. It’s fun and easy to fantasize.’

‘This conference, is it open to the public?’

‘Sure. Gotta brochure right here. If you want to go, here’s a comp ticket as well. I’ll circle the seminars I’m involved with and the ones I plan to attend.’

He watches as she gnaws her lower lip. She wants to go, he can tell, but pushing will result in being shoved away.

‘Sometimes, Tamara, you can clearly see the choice offered. Whether you accept or not, don’t regret your decision.’

He leaves a twenty and taps the counter with his fingers.

‘Keep the change. See you there tomorrow.’

As he pulls away, back to the highway, she smooths out the glossy paper, her finger underlining his name. There is no sense of panic, only rightness.

Sometimes, all it takes is one man to start the healing process.

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

This post has been renamed as Kismet of Submission: Episode 1. You can read all the episodes by clicking here for Kismet of Submission.

There is no one right path

Nina squirmed restlessly in Ike’s arms. They were cuddling on the couch, on the screened in front porch, watching the vibrant sunset and listening to the frogs serenading the approaching night. Ever since she made her reflexive decision, she was having second thoughts.

She felt her husband tighten his grip: normally something she welcomed because it made her feel safe, tonight the embrace ratcheted up her irritation. She tapped his forearm and when he didn’t respond, spoke up.
“Honey, you’re choking me.”
“Sorry, Nina, I thought you wanted more.”
Nina hated, hated the whiny tone in her voice, but sometimes, it just burst out. “Just let me go, I’m not feeling well.”

She bolted inside, the panic causing her skin to flush with cold shivers and the lightheadedness left her grabbing the kitchen table for support. When the screen door closed a second time and she heard Ike’s footsteps, his large hands on her shoulders led to instant tears.

Before she could react, she was sitting sideways on his lap, her face buried in his chest, and clutching his shirt with clenched fists. The cotton polo quickly became wet as Nina sobbed.

“It’s okay, baby, let it out, I’m here for you.”

Nina heard the soothing words and felt the soft strokes on her hair. The random kisses on her crown, the pats on the backs accompanied by gentle swirls helped to ease the confusion. She slowly regained control. The whispered ‘thanks’ when a box of tissues was offered was tinged with shame.

“Sorry, am I too heavy for you?”
“No, Nina, you’re never too heavy for me. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
She picked at the logo, her cheek nestled below his collarbone. “I don’t know what I want, Ike, I thought I did, but now…”
“But now?”
She tilted her head back to look at his face. “Why can’t I make up my mind? Why is this so difficult?”
“Ahhhh. Having second thoughts?”
She gave a little puffy snort. “More like fifth and sixth thoughts. The more I learn about it, the more confused I get. It seemed so simple when we found out what Jose and Aiko were doing, maybe my reaction wasn’t disgust after all, but jealousy. When I said there was no way I’ve ever let you spank me, I thought I was making the right choice for me.”
Nina watched as her husband nodded with his thoughtful expression that always preceded a complex and convoluted explanation. She tensed involuntarily, a lecture was not what she needed right now.
Instead, he patted her thighs and said, “Get up.”
She popped off his lap and finished wiping her face.
“I think you do know what you want, Nina. I’m going upstairs now, I’ll give you five minutes to join me. If you do, then the decision is made.”
His kiss was firm without being demanding. His fingers cupping her chin were strong without being overbearing. His eyes were stern without being frightening. “I love you, Nina, no matter what, because I only want to do what is best for you. Whether I spank you or not, our marriage will be strong. Five minutes, Nina, but no more second thoughts.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 4 Part (25)

Her pussy was still wet inside, the soft opening yielded to my hunger. Seized by a desire to draw down a spending, I hunted for her button and upon locating the tender morsel, attempted to coordinate my lips and fingers to a pleasing harmony. She rocked as I worked, when I sensed her enthusiasm flagging, I pinched her sore bottom. “You will come for me, Louisa, or I will thrash you myself for disobedience.” That speech got a reaction, as her hand slipped down to join with mine. I let her take over her clit, and then her heated pussy.

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 4 Part (24)

Louisa gave a queer moan that sounded part fear and part passion. She dipped her back and rested her forehead on the saddle. A muffled ‘yes’ was all the permission I needed. Perhaps I was not quite so forgiving as I intended, for I was not gentle: although it was mostly lust that spurred me to be greedy in my exploration. I knew her bottom must have been painful, but I ignored her pained yips and forcefully spread her cheeks like an artichoke. Tilting my head back, I stuck out my tongue and swiped upwards across her opened red petals.

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

Flashback Friday: “Discipline is needed”

Originally posted Sept. 28th, 2009 here.

Willing reluctant feet to move, she raised a quivering hand to rap on the sturdy oak door. The gruff ‘Enter!’ nearly sent her fleeing back to her room. Reluctantly she opened the door, sweaty hands clutching the document. Seating behind his desk, her father raised an eyebrow at his twenty-year old daughter’s attire. Dressed as a schoolgirl, pleated skirt, crisp blouse and his regimental tie she appeared much younger and very nervous.
“Good morning, Sir.”
Confused, her father said, “Since when am I, ‘Sir’, to you, Princess?”
Before she completely lost her nerve, his trembling daughter confessed her innermost desires.
“You never spanked me as a child, Sir, and I appreciate your compassion and understanding of my willful ways. It would have been easy to punish me with blows. I know I deserved a good thrashing on many occasions. I also know you spank mother and have for as long as I can remember.”
Her father stirred uncomfortably in his leather chair, the conversation taking a disturbing turn. He was about to dismiss his clearly overwrought daughter when the door swung open to reveal his smiling wife.
“Have you told him yet, darling?”
Her daughter shook her head, but with courage bolstered by her mother’s support, continued.
“You told me, Sir, when I reached the age of twenty I could ask for any single thing of you and if it was within your power, you would grant my boon. This document I have in my hand is my latest Uni transcript.”
Her father read the paper, all top marks and glowing reviews.
“I fail to see any grounds for discipline, Princess. I am very, very proud of you.”
His daughter basked in his love and praise. She felt her mother squeeze her hand in support.
“I thank you, Sir. I thank you both for raising me to be the young woman I am today. My boon, Sir, is that you teach me to be as my mother. I wish to submit to my husband and have the marriage of respect you share. As a reward for my marks I crave you give me six of the best and begin my journey into adulthood.”
He stood, paced round to the two most important women in his life; kissed his wife soundly on the mouth and his daughter on her brow.
“I would be honored, Princess, to guide you into proper submission. We both are honored you have chosen your parents as your role models. Assume the position, Princess, raise your skirt and lower your knickers to your knees. You will receive six of the best with your mother’s own special cane and you will count and thank me for each and every one.”
She complied, no longer nervous, no longer a child, but poised on the cusp of her new life as a contented and taken woman.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 4 Part (16)

Mrs. Cleanknockers tossed the ivory plugs into a bucket along with the rubber phallus I’d been sucking. “Ruby, take a clean towel and wipe down Louisa’s hindquarters, front to back.” I mumbled around my gag and plucked a cloth off the shelf. While Mrs. Cleanknockers removed the many bindings, I rubbed and dried everywhere I could reach. Up close, the feminine scent was intoxicating. I wanted my tongue around the pink folds and drilled into the slack rear portal. I made a frustrated groan when Louisa slid sideways off the pommel. Her legs shook: her nails bit the soft surface.

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

Flashback Friday: “All-American Football Star”

Something a bit different today. Originally published Sept. 23rd, 2009.

JayCee couldn’t wait to surprise her husband Terrence. He didn’t expect her until this evening, but she’d caught an earlier flight. Letting herself in the gate and the front door, the mansion was silent. She set her bags down and went searching for him. He wasn’t in the game room or the media center and since she wanted to sneak up on him quietly, she didn’t yell out or call his cell. She finally heard faint moaning from behind the master bedroom and her blood ran cold when she heard him groan. “Yeah, just that like, baby. Take it deeper, that feels soooo good.”

JayCee slowly opened the doors in a trance expecting the worst. What she saw was so incomprehensible she shrieked. Her 6’5″, 265 ripped pounds of stud wide receiver, All-American, Pro-Bowler and Super Bowl star was face down on their king size bed, naked and writhing with – as far as she could tell – her pink vibrator shoved up his ass!

“JayCee! You’re home!”
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I can explain, baby, I can explain!”
“No! Leave it in and tell me what the hell you are doing with my Rabbit plunged up your chocolate starfish!”
“Baby, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I… I don’t know, baby. I missed you and I saw your toy… I was…”
“Gay? Are you queer? Is this some fucking locker room thing?”
“No, baby. I ain’t no fag.”
“What would your mama say if she saw you like this? I know she didn’t raise her man to be no sissy boy. I’ll bet she’d whip your ass from one side of the house to the other.”
“I’m sorry…”
“Why didn’t you just jerk off? I don’t get it! What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing, baby, nothing’s wrong with you. Please believe me. I love you and you’re so hot.”
“Humph. I’ll bet you say that to all the groupies. Hoes and sluts probably line up and bend over in formation for you.”
“I’ve never cheated on you, baby. Never!”
“You don’t call this cheating?”
“No, of course not.”
“You did start without me.”
“What?”
“Stay there, don’t move and don’t you dare take that vibrator outta your fine ass.”

JayCee raced down to the trophy room and lifted Terrence’s fraternity paddle off the wall. “This is going to be so much fun,” she chortled as she hurried back to his side.

“Listen to me, sissy boy, and listen good. You wanna get back into my good graces, I’m going blister your ass until I feel you’ve learned your lesson! Now put your tight end nice and high in the air and let me knock some sense into you.”

JayCee drooled seeing the sight of those chiseled thighs, the meaty calves and the tight buttocks, parted in the middle with a shocking pink vibrator sticking out. Even better was his flaccid cock and loose balls dangling straight down. Ten inches of man-meat awaited her attention after she spanked the hell outta his naughty ass. She swung the paddle hard and popped his flesh repeatedly, his squeals and groans sending a flood of heat to her twat. She didn’t want to stop, but feeling the raging heat on his skin turned her into an animal. She shoved him sideways and then on his back. She dove on his cock, semi-hard now and sucked and sucked until it was at full length. She grabbed the end of the vibrator and begin moving it in and out.

“Does this feel like I’m fucking your ass? Don’t you wish I had a real cock right now to sodomize you hard and deep like you do to me? Make you scream like I do when you plunge fast to the hilt?”

She resumed her blowjob determined to milk his sperm. When he finally blew his load, she took it all over her face and rubbed her fingers in the sticky mess, licking and preening like a panther. He winced when she yanked the vibrator out. “I’m gonna take this ass just as soon as I can order me a strap-on. You wanna be my sissy boy and get fucked by your wife?”
“Yeah, baby, I do. Go deep, go long and hit me when I’m open.”
“She scores!!!!!!!!!!”

Purchase Lust in Lace on Amazon Kindle. Click picture to go to Amazon.

A friendly reminder, the Lust in Lace anthology, is still 99 cents on Kindle ereader until the end of January. If you like werewolves and frost giants, ghosts and goddesses, or steampunk vampires, then for Valentine’s Day treat yourself or your loved one(s) to a sexy collection of erotic novellas. As Byron Cane, my submission is called Sir MacRath Thrashes his Valentine.

Flashback Friday: “You may now spank the bride”

Originally published Sept, 19th 2009. This post, “You may now spank the bride”, has the dubious distinction of being my most ‘popular’ post. It’s been viewed 2,600 times. Not dare I say it for artistic merit, but because more people search for variations of ‘bride spanking’, than anything else. Kinda explains the divorce rate.

In the year of our Lord 1273, marriage was for the nobility. The serfs, peasants and general workers who comprised the majority of the population were left to their own devices even if a priest was available. Various rituals existed in many cultures to bond two young people together for the sake of the children usually already on the way. In the tiny hamlet of Whipping-Hollow-On-Butterbum-Reach however, there was a very different ritual performed on the rare occasion of Holy Matrimony betwixt and blushing maiden and an untried boy. Here in this place the bride was given away by the groom’s parents; the groom by the bride’s parents. [*If unavailable due to plague, war, malnutrition or general misfortune then appropriate substitutes would be arranged.]

Perhaps thrashed away would be a better term. The morning of the wedding, the respective parents* would arrive at the hovels of the soon-to-be-in-laws and request permission to enter. This was done simultaneously and the bride/groom would politely bade their new parents* to enter the dwelling. Once inside, what the parents* found would be a nude groom/bride standing next to wedding finery. This was done, the nudity, to ensure there were no malformations in the bodies of the engaged. For the bride, she was also subjected to a physical exam to insure an intact hymen [unless a certificate of prior breakage was notarized and signed by thirteen male witnesses] and proper function of mouth, nipples and anus. If satisfied, the bride’s new in-laws would then bathe her thoroughly but lovingly as a new daughter and dress her in preparation to join their household.

The groom was also inspected and his new mother-in-law would ensure he possessed a proper and suitable cock stand for their daughter being given away in the hovel down the lane. The foreskin was carefully washed and then the groom’s father-in-law would direct the groom in the proper manner to use a woman’s mouth and throat. After spending his large load in his mother-in-law’s mouth [he had abstained from solitary vice for a month] she would then solemnly reveal her vagina and anus to her son-in-law and give general instructions on the proper usage of both holes. He would be ordered to rigorously use all three orifices of their daughter that afternoon and into the early morning hours. Both were told to be ready to offer proofs the following day. The groom was then also bathed and clothed and the respective parties then left the hovels and made their way through the hamlet to the center green for the ceremony.

The procession wended its way past each dwelling and stopped in turn. For in the tiny hamlet of Whipping-Hollow-On-Butterbum-Reach, the bride and groom were fully clothed, except for the opening in the back that framed the entire surface of the bare bottom. This bare bottom was given a single stroke with a willow cane at every hovel by the respective parents*. Thus by the time the moist-eyed bride and groom reached the green, they each sported thirty red stripes on formally pristine bottom cheeks. Once at the green, the bride and groom knelt side-by-side and leaned forward, thus prettily presenting themselves for further spanking.

The priest would begin the ceremony and when he asked who it was who gave away the bride, this was the cue for her new in-laws to strike her bottom hard with a thick leather strap created for this day. She received as many strokes as her age – thus providing a reason for parents to delay a daughter’s marriage – and after each one, she thanked God for her humbling chastisement. The groom received exactly the same, except his blows were delivered with a paddle also made special for the day. When the vows were exchanged, the parents* switched sides and implements and delivered ten spanks to their own children for the last time as single individuals. After the ring and the pronouncement by the priest of, “You may now spank the bride”, there was one last test for the painfully suffering and newly minted crying wife. Over her new husband’s knee she willingly went, he sitting on his sore bottom and with loving scrupulousness he used both the strap and paddle – gifts to the newlyweds – until he was completely satisfied the meaning of ‘Honor and Obey!’ had been imprinted on her swollen buttocks.

There of course was still the deflowering to occur and most couples at this point decided it was too far and too painful to walk to their new home and thus consummated their marriage right then on the green in front of the rapt inhabitants of the tiny hamlet of Whipping-Hollow-On-Butterbum-Reach. She would bend over her scarlet ass reaching for the clouds and he with his rampant prick plunging hard into virgin womb, that pain unnoticed in the scorching flames as her husband’s torso spanked her over and over again until he flooded her no longer virgin vagina with his impregnating sperm for the first of many times in succession.

The Lust in Lace anthology is now available with my novella. In Byron Cane’s Sir MacRath Thrashes his Valentine, MacRath is a centuries-old vampire returning home after decades of absence. It is 1854 in steampunk London, and Her Majesty has appointed MacRath Her Chastiser of Loose Morals. Phoebe Hayward is a lady of good breeding, but quite a handful. Despite discovering the man ordered to discipline her is actually a vampire, she can’t help falling in love. MacRath will ensure she is well punished and dominated in all ways as befits his naughty Valentine.

Purchase Lust in Lace on Amazon Kindle. Click picture to go to Amazon.

“Lust in Lace” PNR Anthology now available on Amazon

I am very pleased and excited to announce that Lust in Lace, a Paranormal Romantic Lust anthology is now available on Amazon Kindle eReader, and with the free Kindle app, on any device. You can click any Lust in Lace link on this page, or the picture, to go to Amazon. Talk about time travel!

I have the great honor of being invited to join the PNR co-op by, Ina Morata, who writes wonderfully inventive erotica. Along with, Devi Ansevi, the editor and publisher of four previous PNR anthologies, the three of us have joined together to offer a lustful Valentine’s Day treat called Lust in Lace.

Purchase Lust in Lace on Amazon Kindle. Click picture to go to Amazon.

Publisher’s Note: Lust in Lace is a paranormal erotic anthology that includes adult language and situations and some darker content. If such material offends you, please don’t buy this book.

In Devi Ansevi’s Fur and Fury, Liz is the Pack’s Enforcer, and Benton is a professional bounty hunter. They’ve been ordered to retrieve a couple of runaways by Valentine’s Day. Trouble is, Liz’s wolf may think he’s delicious, but her human side is still pissed that Benton ran out on her a year ago. Hell hath no fury like a female shifter near the Full Moon. A couple of days together will either give them time to overcome their differences…or kill each other.

In Ina Morata’s The Chocolatier: Daemon of Hearts and Souls, it’s 1920s post-war London, and Edward is a chocolatier tormented by dreams of possessing Ixcacao, the chocolate goddess. When a delicious new patron offers his darkest wish, he is delighted to allow Lilith to teach him all the sexy ways to get it. But fulfilling his desires come at a price. What, and who, does he have to sacrifice to get the love—and lust—of his life? And what will happen if he does?

In Byron Cane’s Sir MacRath Thrashes his Valentine, MacRath is a centuries-old vampire returning home after decades of absence. It is 1854 in steampunk London, and Her Majesty has appointed MacRath Her Chastiser of Loose Morals. Phoebe Hayward is a lady of good breeding, but quite a handful. Despite discovering the man ordered to discipline her is actually a vampire, she can’t help falling in love. MacRath will ensure she is well punished and dominated in all ways as befits his naughty Valentine.

I mentioned in this previous post, that this novella is a prequel to the novel The Case of the Scarlet Paddle, which in turn, is a direct follow-up to The Bloody Merry Book Club which was posted for Halloween, 2016.

I am also participating in the Lust in Spring anthology with a novella called, The Witch of Olympus Hollow, that will be published March, 20th 2017, on the Spring Solstice. This novella for spring is set in western North Carolina in May, 1952, with the beginning and ending set in 2015.

For the purposes of publishing on Amazon, for these two anthologies, I have decided to use the pen name, Byron Cane, rather than just Lurv Spanking.

If you do not have an Kindle ereader – full disclosure, I do not have an ereader because I prefer the printed word – then you may contact me via email and request a Word docx copy. I would request in return for the free novella, that you consider writing a review at least for the Amazon Lust in Lace page, and post a link on your blog to the anthology.

If you wish to write a review for the entire Lust in Lace anthology, there are a limited number of free copies available in an, epub, mobi, or pdf file. Contact me via email and I will send you the link for a free review copy while supplies last, then share your thoughts about this volume with other readers with a review on Amazon or Goodreads!

Reviews matter. They create visibility on Amazon, and help readers discover new authors to love. When you post a review, tweet the link to @PNRLust, or email the link to deviansevi@gmail.com, to receive a complimentary Lust volume of your choice, with our sincere appreciation for your honest review.

The following is an excerpt from Sir MacRath Thrashes his Valentine, available on Amazon Kindle. It is the prologue of the Lust in Lace novella. The setting is in an alternate steampunk Victorian-era England. The historical characters, other than the main protagonists, were real people and hew to the actual history and tenor of the times.

Being fiction however, there are two rather large deviations from the timeline we knew. Steam and spanking. I also moved the timeline forward for other things, such as the international telegraph.
I hope you enjoy the entire Lust in Lace anthology. I welcome all reviews and reblogging posts. Thank you for your loyal readership.

lust-in-lace-cover-final
Sir MacRath Thrashes his Valentine

Prologue

For the first time in ten days, the steady thump-thump of the engines and the boiling splash of the magnificent side-mounted paddle wheels fell silent. The harbor pilot called down to the tug. Thus began the ancient and primal ballet of man versus water as seasoned hands strove to bring the steamer from America into safe mooring.

As it docked, heavy hemp hawsers and thick bollards were tossed over the side to waiting stevedores. The shrill triumphant shriek of the steam whistle echoed among the emigration sheds where the starving poor sought passage to a new life in the former colonies.

Vast clouds of slate gray and white gulls took flight as the noise reduced the raucous calls of workers to pantomime. The blast faded and the flocks swooped to await handouts from the new arrivals. A crowd had gathered to meet the arriving ship. Touts held up placards bearing names of lodging and dining establishments. Open steam carriages emblazoned with coats-of-arms and commercial enterprises chuffed impatiently quayside, chauffeurs chatting amiably with gloved hands held over barrels of flame.

A late arrival coasted silently to a stop along the quay. The pennants on the front bumper proudly waved the Three Lions of the House of Hanover. Eyebrows rose: no Royal had been listed on the telegraphed manifest.

Sir Nachton MacRath waited at the gangplank to debark, nose wrinkled in protest. The tide had reached slack, raw sewage and industrial offal collecting in rotted mats along the banks of the River Mersey.

After eighteen years away, on this fifteenth day of January, in the Year of Our Lord 1854, he prepared to once again set foot on his native soil. Well, to be precise, tarred oak planks covered with bird droppings and rubbish. Six months removed from San Francisco, he was glad to be finally back, although unsure of his welcome. He had run afoul of the Regent in late 1835, and despite repeated assurances from the Queen in the following decades, he had decided instead to tour the Near East and China.

By fortuitous timing, MacRath had sailed from the Sandwich Islands to the sparsely populated lands of Northern California in 1848. The subsequent fortune he’d created during the Gold Rush was not from digging in the hillsides, but from parlaying his Scottish title into land and mercantile trade for the arriving miners.

His idle titled peers despised trade; all the while pretending their agrarian paradise was not being steadily washed away by the rising tides of industrial steam technology.

Certainly the Bank of England had no qualms with his large deposits of specie, notes and bullion.

No longer caring for the fading Empire and the cut direct he would receive for being a man of business, he had finally returned to claim his birthright.

He doffed his top hat to his fellow female passengers as they disembarked first. The ladies acknowledged his courtesy with nods and wistful smiles. From the vantage point of the rail he sought his confidential agent amidst the throngs on the wharf. A quick wave and he hefted his travel valise striding down the gangplank resplendent in the latest New York style: a tailored suit coat in black with slate vest, shirt and matched trousers with paisley print and yellow braid stripes down the sides. He was intercepted before he got too far by several beefy individuals in plainclothes.

“Sir MacRath?” That one spoke with a distinct upper class accent.
“I am he. May I assist you in some manner?”
“My name is Trent. If you would please accompany us, sir, there is someone who wishes to speak with you.”
“My luggage?” MacRath noticed his agent was detained next to the Royal vehicle. His primitive instincts, never far below the posh surface, flared to life. His voice, now deliberately American in tone, calmly drawled, “My man there needs my instructions. I am unaware of a prior engagement with anyone unless notification crossed paths somewhere in the wilderness.”

He did not resist their request. In any case, his escort was exactingly polite rather than threatening, allowing MacRath to hand over his list to the agent.

He and the two men entered the enclosed steam carriage, the rear bench seat barely wide enough to fit his lean frame between the rather bulkier individuals to either side. As the driver wended his way through the thick port traffic, MacRath spoke. “May I ask where you are taking me?”
“Liverpool Lime Street Station,” Trent replied shortly. No further information was forthcoming during the five-minute drive.

Once in front of the ornate stone building, MacRath was escorted to the far platform where a string of railway carriages stood ready to depart.
“May I at least inquire as to why I am to meet Her Majesty?”
“You may indeed enquire, sir.”

That terse reply was all the response he received. He was barely on board when the Royal Train lurched and slowly headed up Edge Hill. Shown to his quarters as the train gathered momentum, he was informed the Queen would send for him shortly. He managed to glean from the steward this was a scheduled trip and just happened to coincide with the steamer’s arrival.

Sir Nachton MacRath, a minor Scottish Baron of dubious lineage, stewed for nearly an hour before his audience commenced. While he waited, he thought of many possible explanations. None matched the reality of what shortly transpired.

Her Majesty informed him he was soon to be the Earl of Flintdowns, Chastiser for the Queen. In this role, he would be granted full authority to investigate and punish those members of the ton deemed to have demonstrated unseemly behavior.

“We have decided the Empire suffers from a lack of morals,” Her Majesty explained. “Men shall pay for transgressions through fines, and women by the time honored tradition of private corporal punishment. We will speak later at length.”

He had yet to recover from the shock of his elevation in status when the Queen dismissed her councilors. Once alone, she handed him a sealed package.
“You will return this file to Us upon arrival in London,” she said.

MacRath bowed and returned to his carriage in a daze, whereupon he opened the envelope and discovered the worst possible news for a creature of his ilk determined to hide in plain sight.

Stamped across the top of the file in large red capital letters was the word VAMPIRE.

There is comfort in anticipation

A little over six months ago, I started writing again after a 5 and 1/2 year break. Since that time I have written around 200,000 words. That includes all the new posts here, plus the second half of a novel, the first quarter of another novel, and three novellas.

Almost two months ago, I was invited to join the Paranormal Erotic Romance writers co-op, by my good friend, Ina Morata, who writes wonderfully inventive erotica on her website and in published works. The editor and publisher of the anthologies, Devi Ansevi, who also writes erotica, has taught me much about editing. I am in a state of nervous anticipation for my first published spanking erotica this January, 11th 2017.

If you are a constant reader here, then you know that my style of writing is very eclectic. I write in all points-of-view and tenses, and even dialogue without quotation marks. My fiction for publication – hopeful publication – is more literary and intense than my flash fiction I post here. In anticipation of the Lust in Lace anthology, I would like to offer you something in the style of my long fiction. This story is new, not an excerpt, and serves as an illustration of my focus when writing a novella or novel.

I will be posting another post with all the links, information and an excerpt after the Lust in Lace anthology goes live for purchase. There will be more details and information then about the next novella to be published for Lust in Spring, on March 20th, 2017.

Active Submission

A cool downdraft catches the burgundy-wine curtains. The sudden snap of cotton makes me jump. Through the open window of our bedroom, I can see lightning arcing in the dark sky. Too far still for thunder, the sound I hear is my heart pounding in anticipation.

Crack-snap, the fabric billows as the humid air rushes westwards: sucked into the storm’s base and thrust upwards with ferocious velocity, only to succumb to gravity’s embrace and return as gentle rain or harsh hail. Crack-snap. The steady whipping reminds me of why I am here, in the corner, like a naughty girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Soon, I will hear his heavy tread on the staircase, the scent of his cologne will send tingles to my pussy and his hot breath on the back of my neck will weaken my knees. Crack-snap. Crack-snap. The pace intensifies, my bottom clenches and relaxes in harmony with the noise. It soothes me. It awakes my passion.

Several generations ago, the scene would have been cornstalks to beyond the vanishing point, our 1850’s farmhouse surrounded by arable land instead of by cookie cutter subdivisions filled with unhappy wives and distant husbands. My husband, Bradley, had recognized in me, what the farmer knew instinctively to expect from his little woman. Obedience and respect in return for protection and support.

Crack-snap. Our bedroom is a masculine statement of dominance, creamy oak four-post king size bed, original pine floors, the walls, maple wainscoting with forest green and silver paper above. The covers are a cool cotton to match the drapes. Pillows and bolsters in rich jewel tones will be tossed aside to sleep. When I am bent over the bed with a sham under my hips, my toes barely graze the throw rug.

Each time, every time I am spanked, it only reinforces our bond, and reassures me I’ve made the correct decision. I shiver, the cooling breeze caresses me, strokes my heated pussy, teases my puckered nipples; I wiggle, trying to catch the proper angle.

Crack-snap. Crack-snap. Crack-snap.

How I wish the noise was the result of the flogger instead of the drapes. He is diabolical in the way he pushes my buttons through words and deeds. I have done nothing to deserve this, and yet, have done everything.

A typical evening, home from work, catching up with social media, when he speaks. A low, husky drawl, filled with meaning and purpose: his voice slips through my barriers as if they were gossamer. I have no defense against his wiles: my feminine wariness of the male predator purrs instead of snarls. He is mine, she says every time, and rolls over in submission.

When he says, go upstairs and prepare, my mouth foolishly asks why. A raised eyebrow speaks volumes. I stand on shaky legs. He reminds me once more of my choice, discipline is his alone to decide time and place.

In my corner, arms behind my back, nude but for my collar, I am the freest I have ever been. My submission is a gift, not to him, but to me. I crave the anticipation of knowing that the pain he will give me, helps to shatter the paralysis in my soul. Each paddle blow heals, each swipe of the cane removes another layer of deadened emotions, each leather strand that scourers my back, tears away the sticks and stones of childhood misery.

When he whips me: crack-snap, I find my happy place is that much closer to becoming permanent.

The thunder is nearly constant now. The searing strobes of atmospheric electrical discharges flashes in the darkened room. In between beats, his steps come closer, I hear the knob turn, the door thumps against the stopper. My breath seizes with love and longing.

He runs his forefinger down my spine. I shudder out an exhale.

He kisses my nape. Tears spring to my eyes.

And when he firmly grips my buttocks and asks who owns you, I sigh, and reply, you do, sir.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 4 Part (6)

Mrs. Cleanknockers released my hair with a contemptuous flick. “Mr. Steedstiff. You heard the young lady. I trust you capable of breaking this spirited filly to bridle?” His cock fell out of Louisa’s mouth with a loud ‘plop’ accompanied by much hacking and wheezing. I felt a bit stung by Mrs. Cleanknockers disdain and my pride rose to the occasion. Heedless of the treacherous currents that swirled between our two tormentors, I asked, “Mr. Steedstiff. I wish to learn the proper technique of throating. If you would be so kind as to instruct me, I would be ever so grateful.”

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 4 Part (5)

“I’d like to try throating, ma’am. It looks like fun to me.” As an attempt to draw fire, my ill-advised witticism was wildly successful. Not so much my first attempt, although with practice, I did become good enough to earn grudging praise. That was months in the future, for now, I paid the price for my stupidity. Mrs. Cleanknockers grabbed my knotted hair and pulled back until I had an upside-down view of her stern face. “Dear, Ruby. Let me congratulate you on being the first girl I’ve ever trained to volunteer for cock sucking. I will grant your wish.”

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 4 Part (4)

“I certainly enjoy it, Mrs. Cleanknockers, as you well know,” Mr Steedstiff replied with an energetic thrust of his hips. Louise sputtered and tensed in her bondage. A particularly loud retch drew Mrs. Cleanknockers ire. “I see you have been neglecting your exercises, Louisa,” she barked at the hapless girl. “I will so inform his lordship of your inept performance.” Being as she couldn’t speak with a mouthful of cock, only I, in close proximity to the action, could see the distress on her visage. A pang of sympathy smote my conscience. Once more I rashly spoke out of turn.

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

Never too late to take the plunge

Resolutions never seemed to work. An arbitrary date in any event, the ritual of adding another year was often depressing. When was the last time they stayed up until midnight? There was a good reason no rock band was called ‘The Ravages of Time’.
Deborah Cantel – Deb to her friends – and sweetie to her husband, avoided mirrors on general principles.
“No today, Deb, today is a new start.”
In the full-length closet mirror she tried her best to see what her husband adored.
“Face? Meh. Tits – saggy, tummmy – wobbly, bum – plump; all-in-all, Deb, you need help, girl.”
She picked up the sheet of paper and went over her list one last time. “I sure hope Josh understands this.” She grimaced at her reflection and tossed off a mock salute.

Josh Cantel was concerned. The holidays were always stressful for them both, but his wife Deb normally carried the bulk of the responsibilities in terms of family logistics. The year however, between the crazy work schedules and school breaks, he’d decided that the usual trip to his parents for Christmas, would instead be a kid’s only extended New Year’s visit. If it went well, and so far all reports were good, then Deb’s parents would host next year.
The house was amazingly quiet the past few days, the normal exhaustion after serving in retail hell from 8 to 6, was tempered by the knowledge they didn’t have to sneak in a quickie and keep a lid on the noise.
But Deb had been subdued. She claimed she missed the kids. To Josh, she was unusually preoccupied and spent excessive time online. Not that she turned down his overtures, but… her responses seemed feigned at times.

If there was one constant emotion Deb had felt – did feel – throughout all their dating and marriage, it was guilt. Josh deserved a better woman, a better wife and a better lover unburdened by self-doubt and loathing. His compliments bounced right off her thick internal walls.
“How’s the game?”
“It’s alright.”
Deb watched silently until the next commercial break.
“Honey? Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. What’s up, sweetie?”
“Without the sound please.”
Josh pressed the mute button.
“I made some resolutions this year, again, and based on past efforts, I doubt I’ll reach February without giving up.”
They watched an annoying dancing elf pitch the latest sale.
“I hate that guy,” Josh muttered.
“I don’t know, honey, I thought you looked kinda cute dressed up as the company spokes-elf.”
“Watch it, Deb,” he growled.
Deb shivered, “I like it when you’re all stern and gruff with me.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “It makes me believe you find me attractive.”
“I do find you attractive, sweetie. You know that.”
She shrugged. “It’s me, not you. I hate my body.”
“Come on, not that again. We’ve talked about this how many times? You’re a beautiful, sexy, smart woman and I love you even more today than ever.”
She sniffled. “Thanks, honey. I just wish I could believe it.”
Josh shook his head. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Maybe that’s the problem. It’s not what you say, it’s what you don’t do.”
He stared blankly at the television screen.
“Honey?” She got off the couch and knelt at his knees. “I need your help to meet my goals, not by cheerleading and hugs, but by leading and holding me accountable. Josh, what I’m trying to say is that I want, I need you to spank me when I, when you, think I’m slacking off and need discipline.”
Josh pressed the off button.
“What?” His astonished voice filled the den.
“I can’t do this on my own and words, whether written or spoken, just don’t motivate me. I’m hoping actions will jolt me out of my funk.”
“You want me to spank you? For real? As in punishment?”
“Sometimes, yes. Discipline too and maybe a reward for a job well done.”
“And if you don’t like it? What happens then? Do I get blamed and the cold shoulder?”
“All I know, Josh, is that I want to try spanking when I don’t do what I have promised to myself. I made a list. Are you willing to help me make a new start?”
“You really want me to spank you, Deb?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
He nodded and thoughtfully stroked his chin. “OK, I’m in. Take your pants down and lay over my lap. I’ll give it my best shot.”
“Now?”
“Are you back-talking me already, girl?”
“No, sir!”
“I changed my mind. Strip naked first, then I’ll warm your ass.”
“Thank you, sir.”

Josh ran his hand over his wife’s plump curves. “How hard and for how long?”
“You’re in charge, sir. I know I need a good cry though, so don’t stop just because I say no, only if I say red.”
“Red as in stop?”
“Yes, sir. It’s a safe word in case I can’t take anymore.”
“Then you are actually in charge, not me.”
“No…! I mean… what if?”
“What if? What if I decide to beat you unmercifully?”
“No, you wouldn’t do that to me.”
“Do you trust me, Deb? Do you trust me to spank you as you need?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you may say red, but it will mean pause, not end. The end is when I say so.”
“Yes, sir.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 4 Part (2)

She firmly gripped the crown of my head and twisted it slightly so that my vantage point shifted to Louisa’s throat. “Note the bulge in her throat as his cock goes deep.” Under her hand I nodded. Enthralled as I was, I belatedly realized that this ‘throating’ was likely part of my upcoming training. The way Louisa’s eyes were watering and her mouth drooling, this did not appear to be an activity the female enjoyed. “Ma’am?” I began, forcing her hand off my head by turning my beseeching gaze upon her. “Will I…?” My thoughts were arrested by her expression.

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 4 Part (1)

“Where did it go?” I repeated with avid astonishment worthy of a conjuror’s trick at a marketplace performance. I watched with wide eyes and slack jaw as Mr. Steedstiff’s glistening cock slowly reappeared from Louisa’s mouth. He paused with the head pursed by her lips, then slowly pressed forward once again. Mesmerized, I convulsively swallowed as his slender shaft gradually became shorter and shorter until her nose snuffled amongst his chestnut curlies. Mrs. Cleanknockers stepped around the saddle Louisa’s punishment postponed temporarily and stroked my scalp as if I were a favored hound or pantry mouser. “It’s called throating, Ruby.”

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

The Bumhampton Chronicles Chapter Three Complete

Before I start posting Chapter 4 in 100-word drabble format, I am posting the entire 3,000 word Chapter 3 as a recap for easier reading. If you need to catch up from the beginning, then the complete Chapter 1 is here and the complete Chapter 2 is here for easier reading. Happy New Years everyone and may 2017 be filled with wonderful experiences.

By dinnertime my first night at Peacock House, the rumors had swept through the staff as a wildfire that I was Mrs. Cleanknockers newest ‘Pet’. Evidently the near constant discipline and semi-nudity had jaded everyone to the point of indifference. The juicy beef was mush in my mouth, the creamy potatoes dry and crunchy bread stale. The chatter flowed around me as if I were a ghost: I felt bile rise. I was granted my excuse and fled to my attic room. I was weepy and lonely. Self-pity rose in darkling shroud and Morpheus dragged me under. Dreams were sweet.

First light was not near when I awoke. Mouth dry, clothes stiff, neck cramped but oh, the smile on my countenance would have lit the morn’s dew had it been seen. The thin wool blanket was upon the floor as soon too were my feet. Weekly bath night was three days hence, no matter, my cleanse yesterday was still fresh: I filled the chamber pot with my piss. Brief cold water rinse and I trotted downstairs to dump my load. The bird’s arias filled the sweet air – perhaps to leeward reach – the latrines loomed nearer as did a slender shadow.

A sibilant frustrated inarticulate whisper of hate was my only warning before the shadow struck. The chamber pot dashed to ground: contents splashed on my frock and shoes. Steps fled in haste, in the flash of light from opened door, a profile: Louisa. I was not surprised. Hazing was part and parcel of service life. If she, or any others thought to break me with childish pranks, they knew not my strength of character. The sun peeped over the distant elms, a bedraggled urchin caught in the unblinking eye. The nearby pump gushed cold water as I rinsed and squeezed.

I squelched into the kitchen for breakfast, glared at Louisa and her smirking criminal compatriot Emily. I wondered why they were kept on: perhaps their bottoms were used for demonstrations. My backside was dry as I ruminated over breakfast. I was peripherally aware of Mrs. Cleanknockers conversing with Cook but concentrated on my porridge. Therefore, I jumped when her voice boomed loudly. “Ruby! Why is your uniform wet?” I swallowed hard. “I dropped my chamber pot outside ma’am.” The breathless silence was broken by sniggers. “Be quiet!” she bellowed. In the fraught tension I felt her presence hover. “Clumsy today?”

“Yes ma’am,” was the only safe response. She touched my shoulder. “Stand up Ruby.” I stood, my shoes squeaked. “Step over the bench.” I obeyed. The far wall receded. I swayed; she steadied me. “Bend over and place your hands on the table.” As I did, Mrs. Cleanknockers spoke in a voice cold as an icicle, “Let this be a lesson to you all.” I felt the lash on my bottom, the fabric no protection against her fury. She whipped me hard for a minute, it seemed like an hour, then grabbed me by the collar and yanked me upright.

“Remove your uniform!” My fingers shook, buttons seemed to be made of grease and when my dress slid off my shoulders to the floor, there was an audible indrawn hiss from the gathered maids, footmen and cooks. Naked I stooped and collected my garment, shoes for good measure. “March to the laundry young lady! I am not finished with your punishment!” I marched: but as I did, the expected expressions of gloat did not appear on my tormentor’s faces. Stricken they were as Mrs. Cleanknockers swung her strap across the backs of my thighs all the way to the washroom.

Tears pooled in my eyes as I washed and rinsed my soiled smock. I felt her hands on my hot skin, a cool salve rubbed deep. “I’m sorry Ruby for being so harsh,” Mrs. Cleanknockers whispered in my ear. “I know what actually happened and the true culprit. Rest assured I will deal with her in due time.” Her fingers strayed deeper. “Lean forward my sweet and spread your thighs.” Her fingers slipped inside, the scent of heated roses trickled down, my climax slammed up my spine. My head lolled back. My mouth enslaved by her lips. “Spank me more.”

In the throes on my second spend Mrs. Cleanknockers nibbled my ear. “I will precious Ruby. I will spank you until your bottom is the color of ripe plums and then thrash you some more. My darling love slave, I cannot wait to put you to display.” My third crisis engulfed me, her fingers withdrew; I licked them clean. “Enough frivolity Ruby, His Lordship awaits you in his study.” When I blinked in confusion, she waved her hands. “Shoo! I will finish your uniform.” Barefoot I traipsed the halls, my naked form a curiosity. “Good morning Your Lordship.” I curtsied.

He grunted absently absorbed in his ledgers. “Tis Ruby sir. I’m here for my discipline and cleaning duties.” He glanced up, a classic double take and rose to his feet. “I presume there is an explanation for your lack of attire?” I demurely clasped hands at my waist. “Mrs. Cleanknockers directed that I perform my duties here and in the Gun Room sans clothing sir.” Lord Caneshard fairly bounded over his desk to my side. “You are a right handful,” he declared then led me to an armless chair. “Over my knee girl.” I straddled his leg, red bottom uppermost.

Gentle Reader, I can attest that Lord Caneshard could also spank hard. My tender cheeks flared anew as the rapid cadence of palm beat on the surface. The smacking noise filled the study, my pitiful yelps drowned by the hard echoes. A final brutal flurry, his scolding grunts excited me. His hands pried me open, the cool air a balm on my flushed lips. I wiggled. His cock was rigid beneath me. He chuckled. “Not yet sweetness. Not yet.” He walloped me twice more for good measure then put me to work. Another shelf of books: another parade of visitors.

I once saw an organ grinder with a monkey a reminder as I scampered up and down the ladder. All I lacked was a prehensile tail: my red bottom certainly matched. To my surprise I was happy to bring cleanliness out of filth, my late mother had often punished me when I neglected my chores. Here at Peacock House, the promised sensual rewards drove me to perfection. “Ah, welcome Mr. Jones-Smyth. I trust your journey to Wales was productive?” My ears perked up. Was this the man Mrs. Cleanknockers had thought I suited admirably? I listened intently to the conversation.

“It was my lord. The mines are flourishing and I was able to acquire the leases to three more.” There was a rustle of papers. Perched on the upper portion of the ladder I stretched out to the last book on the shelf. I felt eyes on me and I peeped under my arm. The stranger was fixated on my bottom. I looked away and smiled naughtily. I placed both hands one rung lower and dipped my back as if to ease a kink. Another casual glance around. His mouth was slightly open but his expression was stern and foreboding.

My cunt tingled and grew hot and tight. I leaned forward so my hard peaked nipples rubbed the wood step. “My lord,” he said as he kept his hawk like gaze locked on my partially turned face, “I do not recall nude maids on any previous visits.” His Lordship twisted and looked up at me. “Ah, Ruby,” he said with obvious affection. “This is only her second day. It seems the harsher the discipline the harder she works.” He stood up, walked over the ladder, reached up and stroked my calf. “Mrs. Cleanknockers thought she fit the profile you submitted.”

“Would be interested in a closer look?” I heard a chair scrape then a shiver pulsed through the ladder. I gasped and grabbed the shelf. “Easy girl,” Mr. Jones-Smyth said sharply. “I only wish to see you on the floor rather than the sky. Although, the view from down here is quite scenic.” My toes tapped the steps carefully as his hands slid up my legs, over my bottom and past my flanks to my shoulders. He spun me round gently; my eyes fell level with his clean-shaven chin. I’d noticed his curly chestnut hair. My breasts were inches away.

Lord Caneshard performed introductions and Mr. Jones-Smyth thoroughly scrutinized me from head to feet as if I was a filly at Tattersalls. I did not flinch and managed a smile. He had questions for me about my family, my circumstances and to my surprise, my goals. “I would seek to be a wife and mother with a husband who loves me. I wish to be better read and to learn accounts. Perhaps even some small business of my own. I am told My Lord will provide me with such funds as to enable an independent life should I so choose.”

I met his hazel eyes firmly. “I do not pretend to understand how a person of your means would seek a maid such as I, nude and punished in public.” He stepped back for another full-length view. “Does it bother you then Ruby?” I spared His Lordship a quick glance. “By the standards of society I am a woman of loose morals fit only for the streets despite having no choice but to submit to my betters.” I crossed my arms defiantly. “I have discovered Mr. Jones-Smyth that my nature is wanton and desires congress with both males and females.”

His Lordship interrupted me. “Ruby! You were warned not to degrade and demean your desires.” I curtsied and bent over his desk. “Mr. Jones-Smyth, would you care to do the honors? Six with the cane shall suffice.” His blows were tentative and though they stung, he was clearly untutored in the esoteric art of discipline. When I rose to face him, to my surprise he seemed more embarrassed than I. I did not mock. “Thank you sir for punishing me. If you wish to practice further upon my person I shall not think less of you.” He smiled with relief.

Evidently my acceptance pleased him for he said, “It would please me would you call me Timothy and allow me to address you as Ruby.” I blushed now at the courtesy and he cupped my check. “I shall strive to please you Timothy.” His Lordship cleared his throat at our affection. “Ruby is as yet untrained and undergo much schooling before she is a suitable companion for you or any man. If you indeed interested Mr. Jones-Smyth in young Ruby then you may commit such funds needed to involve yourself in her curriculum.” He nodded decisively. “I do wish so.”

“You may call tomorrow afternoon if you remain amiable to claiming her training schedule.” The entire time His Lordship spoke I listened as my future was traded as if a marbled slab of beef. The phrase companion was not further defined, I knew not if I was to be a wife or a whore, and in short order Timothy took his leave. I mounted the ladder once more. Despite my troubled thoughts I was able to finish a shelf and a half in the allocated time before lunch. I was quite shocked at what transpired the rest of the day.

“My Lord, Mrs. Cleanknockers sent me.” My head spun like a poltergeist to see Louisa rise from a curtsy, covered tray in her hands. “That was kind of her; I am hungry.” Even from a distance I could see her gulp. “Pardon my lord, but this meal is for Ruby. I am to serve her.” I climbed off the ladder and moved closer. “Mrs. Cleanknockers states I am due punishment after lunch for this morning’s incident.” Lord Caneshard shrewdly glanced back and forth between us. “This incident Ruby, is it related to your nudity?” Louisa stared down at her shoes.

I firmed my chin and spoke forthrightly. “Yes m’lord. I dropped my chamber pot and splashed my uniform.” His Lordship’s head swiveled to Louisa. “Is this true?” Her eyes flicked to mine before she answered. “Yes m’lord, it is true.” She took a deep breath. “Ruby did indeed drop the pot because I pushed it out of her arms. Sir.” He crossed his arms and said with deep disapproval. “I suppose it was Emily that goaded you again.” There was no response other than a gnawed lip. “I will not tolerate pranks in my house as you are fully aware!”

I foolishly opened my mouth. “It was outside m’lord and it was dark.” No sooner had I finished my rash statement than I was upended over his raised knee and my sore bottom received a quick volley of hard spanks. He seized my cheeks – the facial ones – and said with a calm yet determined voice, “Never speak out of turn Ruby or I shall thrash you until you forget your name.” He shoved me away, not roughly, and turned his outrage on Louisa. “After Mrs. Cleanknockers deals with your punishment you will report to me after dinner. Is that clear?”

Tears pricked and she said with a choked voice, “Yes m’lord, ‘tis clear.” He locked his papers in his desk, but before he left, Louisa had one more refinement to her humiliation. “I’m sorry Ruby. I have your clean uniform to wear while you eat.” She set the tray down, pulled her garment over her head and handed it to me. I drew it on, her body heat felt strange on my flesh. She stood at attention while His Lordship glared. SMACK. SMACK. Two handprints bloomed on her bottom. He gripped her neck and hissed, “Tonight you pay in full.”

I was uncharacteristically silent as a naked Louisa served me lunch. I offered her a wedge of cheese; she shook her head in negation. When we’d finished, she led me to the Gun Room. There was a cane on the outer hook. “That means a punishment session is ready,” Louisa said. She tapped on the door. When we entered, Mrs. Cleanknockers was rubbing a damp cloth over the large leather apparatus in the center of the room. Without prompting, Louisa handed over the cane, climbed a short step and straddled the saddle shaped padded horse. Her bottom mooned rudely up.

“As you can see, Ruby,” Mrs. Cleanknockers lectured, “the penitent is completely exposed for correction.” She lifted Louisa’s feet. One at a time she placed them on a thick adjustable peg. “I use canvas straps to secure the legs, then a longer strap goes over the waist and is buckled tightly to prevent a fall.” She moved to the front and continued trussing. “The arms are folded and wrapped down low. As you can see a female’s breasts dangle freely. The chin is propped on this padded support and a final strap goes over just below the shoulders. Safety first.”

“Ruby, open the drawer with the red tassel. Hand me the third dildo to the right.” I picked up the thick ivory horn. “Excellent. Now in the blue tassel drawer, I need the second from the right along with the glass vial.” This second ivory horn was tapered. “Notice the notch and flared base, Ruby.” I nodded and handed over the objects. “I want you to pay close attention, so that when you are in this position, Ruby, as you will be, you will understand what is expected from you.” She oiled the tapered horn. It pressed firmly inside Louisa.

Louisa hissed as the horn slid up her bottom hole until the flared base snuggled betwixt her cheeks. Mrs. Cleanknockers then oiled the thicker horn. “This little beauty goes up her cunt. Isn’t that right Louisa?” She said, “Yes ma’am.” I saw her thighs flex as the ivory jabbed in tiny thrusts until only the tip penetrated. “For pleasure I like to tease. For punishment…” She rammed it home as Louisa cried out in protest. A hinged arm was locked in place: a wooden screw fit into a hole at the base of the dildo. It would not fall out.

The door opened. “Ah! Mr. Steedstiff. Right on time.” This was my first encounter with the gentleman who would oversee my training. I curtsied. Louisa was in no position to comply. Mrs. Cleanknockers introduced us. “Ruby, unbutton his falls and lift out his cock.” I blinked in astonishment. I yelped as the cane seared my backside. “Obey,” was all she said. I knelt and fumbled with the buttons. I could feel something alive behind the wool. I reached in and removed a real cock. It flopped heavily and twitched. I was mesmerized. “You will feed his cock to Louisa’s mouth.”

Mr. Steedstiff waited in front of Louisa. “Make him hard first, Ruby.” Mrs. Cleanknockers’ eyes gleamed in the gaslight. “How?” I asked. “Use your hand or your mouth. Whichever you prefer.” He thickened to my tentative touch. I wrapped around, his hand clasped mine and stroked back and forth. “Thank you, sir. Would you prefer my mouth?” He pressed down on the top of my scalp in an unmistakable request. I knelt once more and brought the cock to my lips. “Pretend it is a candy stick,” he said. “Do not use your teeth.” I drew the musky tip inside.

My hand dropped away. He rocked gently back and forth until half his length was inside my salivating mouth. I suckled. “That’s enough for now, Ruby,” Mrs. Cleanknockers said. “Now put his cock in her.” I trembled a bit as I carefully fed the end of his cock into Louisa’s open mouth. “You are being punished Louisa. You know what that means.” She managed a nod. I could hear her take a deep breath. “Ruby,” Mrs. Cleanknockers next instructed. “Stand behind Mr. Steedstiff and push against his lower back.” I was puzzled but complied. I gasped, “Where did it go?”

Purchase Lust in Lace on Amazon Kindle. Click picture to go to Amazon.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 Part (30)

My hand dropped away. He rocked gently back and forth until half his length was inside my salivating mouth. I suckled. “That’s enough for now, Ruby,” Mrs. Cleanknockers said. “Now put his cock in her.” I trembled a bit as I carefully fed the end of his cock into Louisa’s open mouth. “You are being punished Louisa. You know what that means.” She managed a nod. I could hear her take a deep breath. “Ruby,” Mrs. Cleanknockers next instructed. “Stand behind Mr. Steedstiff and push against his lower back.” I was puzzled but complied. I gasped, “Where did it go?”

This link goes to The Bumhampton Chronicles category so you can catch up at any time.

Flashback Friday: “I’m gonna whip your ass until I can cook bacon”*

This week’s Flashback Friday was originally posted September, 15th 2009. The title came from a post the day before.

*For my Jewish readers: “I’m gonna whip your ass until I can smoke lox”
*For my Muslim readers: “I’m gonna whip your ass until I can roast lamb”
*For my Hindu readers: “I’m gonna whip your ass until I can fry nan”

“Beating up my inner feminist”

I suppose y’all think I’m a beaten down, trailer trash, crack smoking barefoot and pregnant whore for wanting to be whipped, but I ain’t. I blame my daddy – God rest his soul – for my peccadilloes: and don’t think for one cotton-pickin’ minute I don’t know what that word means. Daddy used to whup my ass every Sunday before church, just so’s I would pay attention to the preacher. Lord I miss my daddy. He raised me right, tried to beat the sass outta me – and failed – but I know he loved me. Told me to stay in school or else; the principal damn near wore out the paddle on my naughty butt and momma made sure I paid with blisters for every C I brought home.

Thing is, that’s what I want from a man, a real man that is. Not the lowlife cretins covered with sores and staggering drunk before noon. No, a blue-collar man: with grease under his fingernails, a hunting license and a big dick that I can suck until the cows come home. With a good job, a home and a 4×4 with a light bar and monster tires. Now that honey, is a real man and when he fingers his belt, and growls at my back talking, I don’t want a lecture, I don’t want reason, I don’t want some pansy assed college boy telling me how a lady should behave: I want a good whipping that makes my cheeks flaming red and my feminist snatch drippin’ wet and horny! There ain’t no real men left in this world. Too interested in spa treatments for crying out loud. The only crying in my house is when the leather meets the sassy, big-bottomed, feminist who needs a good spanking to put a smile on her face. So cowboy up and get busy with your little woman: she’ll be ever so grateful.

There was a brief silence and then gasps from her audience. “Oh! That is so nasty and dirty, Florence Lee! Bravo! That is your best story yet!”
“Why thank you kindly, Clara Sue. Do have some of my watercress and cheese canapé. Emma made them this morning.”
“Emma is a treasure, Florence Lee. Are you sure you can’t see your way clear to part with her?”
“Not on your life, Betty Jo. You keep away from my domestics if you know what’s good for you.”
“Ooh, that sounds like a threat.”
“I’ll mention to Jensen what you were up to last Saturday night, Betty Jo.”
“You wouldn’t you dare.”
“Watch me.”
“Now ladies. Simmer down. We’re all friends here and no need to be dragging our husbands into our… business. I for one don’t need a red bottom again.”
“Who are you kidding, Clara Sue! Bo Billing has spanking elbow from the amount of punishment you make him dish out. Tart!”
“Is that so, Florence Lee? This story of yours you read to us, it wouldn’t have anything to do with the new mechanic down at Pee-Wees? I did see you there yesterday on the way to Susan’s to have my hair done.”
“Well…”
“I thought so. What happened?”
“I forget my purse and since I couldn’t pay… I asked for credit.”
“And Mr. Blue Collar said?”
You’re lucky you’re not my woman, Mrs. Thompson. Trying to slide out from paying for a lube job deserves a dress up, bent over, stick your naughty bottom up high, panties down good old-fashioned switching with willow branches.
“I must take my car in tomorrow!”
“Me too! You can’t have all the fun, Florence Lee.”

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 Part (29)

Mr. Steedstiff waited in front of Louisa. “Make him hard first, Ruby.” Mrs. Cleanknockers’ eyes gleamed in the gaslight. “How?” I asked. “Use your hand or your mouth. Whichever you prefer.” He thickened to my tentative touch. I wrapped around, his hand clasped mine and stroked back and forth. “Thank you, sir. Would you prefer my mouth?” He pressed down on the top of my scalp in an unmistakable request. I knelt once more and brought the cock to my lips. “Pretend it is a candy stick,” he said. “Do not use your teeth.” I drew the musky tip inside.

This link goes to The Bumhampton Chronicles category so you can catch up at any time.

S.A.N.T.A.S. to the rescue

Alex was miserable. Lonely too. Despite the gut-wrenching turmoil Christmas carols wrought on her psyche, she couldn’t stop listening wallowing to them. An entire year had somehow slipped past since the disastrous dinner with Chad. Expecting a ring in her stocking, instead she’d gotten the old heave-ho and we can still be friends speech.
So here it was, Christmas Eve, and where once there would have been a festive tree, presents and friends toasting, now there were empty vodka bottles, pizza boxes and take-out containers. Alex was no longer a hot mess, just a mess.
The sonorous ding-dong of the doorbell jolted her awake. Hungover, bleary-eyed and feeling greasy from days without bathing, Alex stumbled to the front door, unlatched the chain, bolt and lock and recklessly turned the knob.
“Yeah? What do you want?”
“Are you Alex Powell?”
“Who wants to know?”
The man – although Alex wasn’t too sure that was accurate – held up a laminated badge to her bloodshot eyes.
“My name is Fohsallire Elotriskan – that’s what it sounded like – and I’m with Santas.”
Alex clung to the tilted entryway. “Funny, you don’t look like a Santa. Where’s your costume and hat?”
She muttered, “I told the landlord the apartment isn’t level.”
“Not Santas, S.A.N.T.A.S.: spankings accrued naughty transgression adjustment squad.”
All she could say was, “Huh?” before there was a flurry of sparkling multi-colored flakes around her face.
When she regained her senses, she was in her bed, the sheets were clean, her body didn’t reek and she was no longer wearing ratty sweats, but a lacy red negligee. She bolted upright and yelped when she saw the man with the iPad sitting on the end of the bed.
Amazingly, Alex’s head was clear and she felt great. “Who are you again?”
“I’m Forrester Erikson at your service.” He tapped the tablet and said, “You submitted a questionnaire on Santa’s website in which you described your current situation. The pathos moved the Big Guy – who knows why – so you were selected to receive the deluxe S.A.N.T.A.S. treatment. Is that clear enough for you, Alex?”
“Clear as mud, Gump. What the hell is a Santa treatment?”
“Very simple concept, my dear. If you would be so kind as to join me in your living room, I will show you.” He bowed and left.
Alex threw on a cashmere robe and hastened out of her bedroom. Her mouth dropped open in shock. The room was pristine. A large fir tree sat in one corner decorated with lights and ornaments. Presents spilled forth around the skirt. Candles flickered and the scent of cinnamon filled the apartment.
“You are hosting your annual holiday party in two hours, Alex. If this meets your requirements listed in your missive, then in order to claim it, you need only receive the S.A.N.T.A.S. treatment. If not…” He snapped his fingers and scene instantly reverted to the filthy, stinking room it once was.
Alex clutched her head and stomach as the hangover rushed back in.
The festive view returned as did her equilibrium.
“Do I need to demonstrate again?” Forrester asked with poised fingers.
“No! No, that’s fine, I get the point.” Alex slumped on the couch. “Do you mind explaining what it is you want from me?”
“Ah, we don’t want anything from you, we want to give you the gift of a do-over. All you need to do is sign the form and receive your gift. Then all of this,” he waved at the tree, “is yours.”
“And the gift is…?”
“A spanking of course, Alex, for all the transgressions you’ve accrued since Chad dumped you.”
Alex put her head in her hands. “I thought that’s what you said earlier.”
“It’s only a short spanking, Alex, one-time only.”
She crossed her arms. “And how long is the offer good for?”
Forrester grimaced. “About one more minute I’m afraid. I have several more stops, so a simple yes or no will suffice.”
“I can’t believe it got so bad,” she muttered. “OK, where do I sign?”
“Is that a yes, Alex?”
“Yes, it’s a yes, Forrester, yes to the spanking,” she snapped. “Do you have to be so smug about it?”
“Not smug, Alex, I take no pleasure in spanking I’ll have you know.”
“Riiiiiiiight.”
“Well, maybe a little.”
She signed the tablet on all the appropriate pages and then, with bare bottom uppermost, lay over Forrester’s lap.
His iPad starting playing ‘Jingle Bells’. Over the soft pops of leather meeting flesh he explained, “There are ten carols on Alex’s playlist. I will spank you in time to the music. Feel free to sing along.”
Alex did indeed sing along to ‘Jingle Bells’, ‘We Three Kings’, ‘Little Drummer Boy’ and all the rest. Her constant – ouch, ouch, ouch – added a certain je ne sais quoi to the happy tunes as her bottom received the long overdue attention it deserved. By the time it was over, her bottom was a festive candy cane red from top to tip. Forrester provided her with a box of tissues and a copy of the contract sent to her email.
“Merry Christmas, Alex,” were his final words as he placed the leather paddle among the ornaments.
The party was a roaring success, her friends, if they noticed she couldn’t sit down, didn’t say anything about the short leather paddle hanging on the tree. Best of all, the gift from S.A.N.T.A.S. even included a brand new beau, who as it turned out, thought Alex would enjoy a good spanking on their first date as the clock ticked away into the New Year.
He was right and they lived happily ever after.

So that is the tale, boys and girls, of how Alex found herself over the knee of Forrester with the pointed ears, receiving her present for being naughty all year long.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 Part (28)

The door opened. “Ah! Mr. Steedstiff. Right on time.” This was my first encounter with the gentleman who would oversee my training. I curtsied. Louisa was in no position to comply. Mrs. Cleanknockers introduced us. “Ruby, unbutton his falls and lift out his cock.” I blinked in astonishment. I yelped as the cane seared my backside. “Obey,” was all she said. I knelt and fumbled with the buttons. I could feel something alive behind the wool. I reached in and removed a real cock. It flopped heavily and twitched. I was mesmerized. “You will feed his cock to Louisa’s mouth.”

This link goes to The Bumhampton Chronicles category so you can catch up at any time.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 Part (27)

Louisa hissed as the horn slid up her bottom hole until the flared base snuggled betwixt her cheeks. Mrs. Cleanknockers then oiled the thicker horn. “This little beauty goes up her cunt. Isn’t that right Louisa?” She said, “Yes ma’am.” I saw her thighs flex as the ivory jabbed in tiny thrusts until only the tip penetrated. “For pleasure I like to tease. For punishment…” She rammed it home as Louisa cried out in protest. A hinged arm was locked in place: a wooden screw fit into a hole at the base of the dildo. It would not fall out.

This link goes to The Bumhampton Chronicles category so you can catch up at any time.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 Part (26)

“Ruby, open the drawer with the red tassel. Hand me the third dildo to the right.” I picked up the thick ivory horn. “Excellent. Now in the blue tassel drawer, I need the second from the right along with the glass vial.” This second ivory horn was tapered. “Notice the notch and flared base, Ruby.” I nodded and handed over the objects. “I want you to pay close attention, so that when you are in this position, Ruby, as you will be, you will understand what is expected from you.” She oiled the tapered horn. It pressed firmly inside Louisa.

This link goes to The Bumhampton Chronicles category so you can catch up at any time.

  • Corrupted

    Now available, "Corrupted", an anthology from Sexy Little Pages, including my short story, Ghosting Past Emily. Click the picture for ebookstore links.

  • Ghosting Past Emily — part of the Corrupted anthology

    After Amsterdam and Berlin, Tokyo was her favorite place to explore the latest in technological sexuality. Unlike in Europe though, in Japan she would always be gaijin, and the locals off limits to her needs. On the crowded streets of Ginza she felt the stares and heard the unspoken contempt, Go back to where you came from, which was something it had in common with America. She was too tall, too confident, too yellow and most of all, too female. She channeled the perceived insults into taboo actions.
    It was a tired and bitter Emily that touched down ten hours later in a San Francisco of bone-chilling damp and a watery rising sun. She needed a hard session at the Armory before returning to work on Monday. Her slave had better be ready to grovel and be pussy-whipped.

  • Purchase: The Case of the Disciplined Valentine

    Click the picture to purchase, The Case of the Disciplined Valentine.

  • The Case of the Disciplined Valentine

    A comedy of Victorian manners mixed with delicious spankings and sexual encounters guaranteed to raise even a vampire’s blood pressure. Byron Cane sets a torrid pace in his historical paranormal erotic novella.

    It is 1854 in steampunk London, and Sir Nachton MacRath is warily returning to his home isle after decades abroad. He has good reasons to steer clear of the Royal Family, but is immediately snared by the Queen herself, who anoints him, Her Chastiser of Loose Morals, complete with elevation to the upper reaches of the aristocracy. Rather than a quiet existence as a vampire, he is now a Peer uneasily rubbing shoulders with the most powerful men in the Empire.

    Phoebe Hayward is a lady of good breeding, but like all her contemporaries, longs for some excitement and romance. Valentine’s Day is only weeks away, when their paths cross with a bump. Despite later discovering the man ordered to discipline her is actually a vampire, she can’t help falling in love. The more encounters with Sir MacRath she has, the more her body yearns to know what it is to submit to his vampiric touch. When he reluctantly agrees to be her Valentine, thus begins a Domination and discipline the likes of which she’s never dreamed.

    MacRath doesn’t feel he deserves Phoebe’s love, and attempts to push her away by taking her deeper into sexual submission. She surprises him — and herself — by eagerly submitting to his every desire. Together, they explore the sensual heights that a woman and a man — a vampire — can reach. But politics and conflict are never far away, and the Valentine’s Day deadline comes all too soon.

    Note: The original version of this book was included in the Lust in Lace paranormal romance anthology.

  • Purchase: The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie

    Purchase The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie by clicking the picture.

    Pity poor Stephanie: twenty-five years old and still spanked daily. She was intelligent, a college graduate with honors, articulate, a fashionista with a good job and an all-round delightful person with never a cross word and always a genuine smile for everyone. It was to her misfortune that she also exuded an innocent sensual charm, leading both men and women to have one uppermost thought in their minds: spanking Stephanie’s spectacular and epic rounded bottom. It was not her fault; genetics had blessed her with both the ideal rear end and a delightful bewildered submissiveness. It simply never occurred to her to challenge her discipline. If someone needed to spank her, well, obviously she was guilty of some offense and thus deserved to be spanked.
    When Stephanie crashes (quite literally) into the life of Ross, high flying exec in the fashion world and eligible bachelor, she is stupefied he wants her as his. Under Ross’ tutelage, as Brat to his Sir, she learns that she can be spanked for more than just being naughty! And Ross — he discovers there’s much more to Stephanie than just her submissive need to be disciplined, as he falls more and more in love.
    A brilliantly funny, light-hearted, spanking erotic romance novella by Byron Cane, with memorable characters and a beautiful love story interwoven into the sexiness, lending a contemporary twist to the princess fairy tale.

  • Lust in Spring

    Click picture to go to Lust in Spring Amazon page

  • Lust in Spring anthology

    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.
  • Lust in Lace

    Purchase Lust in Lace on Amazon Kindle. Click picture to go to Amazon.

  • Lust in Lace anthology

    In Byron Cane's Sir MacRath Thrashes his Valentine, MacRath is a centuries-old vampire returning home after decades of absence. It is 1854 in steampunk London, and Her Majesty has appointed MacRath Her Chastiser of Loose Morals. Phoebe Hayward is a lady of good breeding, but quite a handful. Despite discovering the man ordered to discipline her is actually a vampire, she can’t help falling in love. MacRath will ensure she is well punished and dominated in all ways as befits his naughty Valentine.
  • PNRLUST

  • Paranormal Erotic Romance

    Come visit the Paranormal Erotic Romance website for information about the Lust anthology series. Read Lust by the Sea, Lust on the Wing, Lust in Tooth and Claw, Lust in Winter and Lust in Lace.

  • ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’ Oops. Does that date me? These are the top posts.

  • Back writing 6/30/16 short stories and a spanking novel