The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 4)

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?”

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

Daddy’s Playboy March 1965

A drabble of exactly 100 words.

Monthly Friday Flash based on the picture below

vintage playboy

Miss March 1965

“What’s that honey?”

“It’s Daddy’s Playboy from March 1965. The issue when I learned I was attracted to women… and when you spanked me for stealing and sneaking into your bedroom.”

“I remember now. You were one unhappy young lady for the next month.”

“I never could decide which was worse; your hairbrush or his belt.”

“Are you ready to get your wife?”

“In a minute. I want to add the magazine.”

Mother and daughter closed the door leaving behind a Purple Heart, a Silver Star, the Playboy and a beloved father and husband in his satin lined oak coffin.

 

 

Up up and away spanking

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Monthly prompt for Friday Flash #7 ‘Wonder Wheel’ based on this picture for writing flash fiction.

“Let me rub your tummy.”

“It hurts!”

“Didn’t Daddy tell you not to eat that corn dog?”

“But it looked so good!”

“I’m sure it did, but after the cotton candy and fried dough and tempura veggies you know my little girl gets a rumbly tumbly.”

Caroline pouted and stomped her foot. “I wanted to ride the Wonder Wheel!”

Jim sighed at his thirty-five year old wife’s childish antics. Every time they went to the fair Caroline reverted to a petulant brat stuffing her face and then whining the rest of the night. Luckily for him, not so much for her, their DD/lg marriage was tailor made for situations like this.

If, strolling the Midway with your main squeeze during that sultry summer night, you cast your gaze up, up and away, you might have caught a glimpse of a distraught crying face in the window of the uppermost car. And maybe, over the raucous organ music and excited shrieking, you might have heard a rhythmic slapping of a hard hand on a bare bottom and abject sobbing as Daddy taught Little Caroline a valuable dietary lesson one spank at a time.

 

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Ruined for Billy Joel

Friday Flash #6 monthly prompt ‘Leaving an Italian restaurant’ based on this picture

IMG_4762

He had an appartamento near the docks where he worked as a stivatore, run by the Mafia, slipping cargo past customs, cigarettes and girls from the Balkans. He met her there, an investigatore rescuing slaves, ben educato, he illiterate, but sly. The gutters defined him, grab what you can before it washes downstream. Muscled the waterfront, never saw anything kept his banconota in battered olive oil tins. She sought him out. Informazioni per favore. sì. In exchange, what he wanted. Her posteriore. Laughter, she left him, always leaving and coming back for more. Over the table, plates pushed aside. Thick leather pulled from loops, doubled and swung. Always raised buttocks meeting lash, driving and parted: a yowling aria, neighbors silenzio! Sometimes inside, after the spanking. Belt, hand. Red welts and blue bruises. Orgasmo he’d eat sometimes, southern dishes, fiery passione before frozen ghiaccio stole his breath. Slipped away, dirty dishes, wine dripping, dripping spreading: Vergine Maria in vino! Miracolo! Miracolo! He would be famous. No, it is only Mussolini. It was upside down hanging meat. Last time beating leaving for Napoli, Vesuvius he was. She leaves, his camera too late, striding away, always away never his, no amore, no Romeo. She was never his, only used for her desires, the contani spilling from olive oil tins, gifts always the gifts, never her pulsing heart. If she had one at all. So he’s here, to forget, our Italian restaurant, a bottle of red, a bottle of white…

He hated that song. Chianti bottle empty even turned upside down, drops hovering above white linen bleeding, always bleeding the craving to pulverize silica and why the stupid candles? What’s with the fucking candles!? Do you see her? The sepia legs once enveloped, mounted and rode pink glistening notes shattering goblets that once held pale nectar drunk toasts of forever. Took the image, here on the threshold, granite steps when ascended pesto and garlic, men in dark silk suits women: don’t forget the women. Sweeping dress a gift, bag gift, bracelet gift, shoes a gift, gift, gift! Always giving… always weeping. She was spaghetti alle vongole, a hot sirocco, sand abrading flesh, slithering and writhing, doused with rosé; she liked rosé the color of her bottom after, always after the session. Walked away, every… single…time she walked away! Bicep, you see? Feel. Hard, strong, hand of steel. He hated that song. She’d call, weeks months, she’d always call, again, another round. Drop the bag, the bracelets, slip the shoes, dress flung to floor, pulsed artery in neck. Empty, even upside down, denim thighs bulging lifting bales of Egyptian cotton watered by Hapi: empty as hand turned pale Riesling to purple Burgundy. She loved wine, spanking… she walked away. Used, recycled glass, maybe this one: empty Chianti bleeding on white linen. She wanted – craved – desired – used by laborer, sweaty, strong you doubt? Took that image, on the wall. Momento last time. Cutting shards, fingers tease print from frame. Mine, always mine. Polizia here, lire soak up the blood.

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