Kismet of Submission: Episode 3

To those of us observing this couple, the reactions vary from disgust and outrage to curiosity and envy. Spanking—despite a long literary provenance—cannot shake the dust of kink from adult desires: Likely because of the uncomfortable bridge between childish punishment and legal sexuality.

He raises his hand, and swings down with practiced ease. The impact on her mom jeans is surprisingly loud considering the casual way the arm moves. He could be painting the kitchen for all the drama the motion creates. The climate control fan is on high—a trick he learned long ago; the white noise masks repetitive sounds.

The sound of spanking: it’s unique and distinctive, even over clothing. He muses as he scatters spanks in a seemingly random pattern at the beat of two per second: How many women has he seen bottom up, submitting to his discipline? Not as many as he would have liked. The trials and tribulations of a spanker who is always seeking the next partner—too many strings attached these days. To borrow a phrase from the horror genre: Too squicky for most.

He’s never considered spanking to be violent, not like a punch or kick, or the cutting words of an abusive parent. To him, spanking a woman is as natural as breathing, but the politics of correctness have taken the shine off the hunt. He finishes with a quick flurry of smacks to the junction of her thighs, pats gently in a quick double-tap and then tells her he is finished.

Tamara discovers, much to her surprise, that being over his knee is actually… pleasant is the wrong word, so is safe, so she settles for comfortable: for the moment. The hand resting on the small of her back makes small circles, like a dog preparing for sleep. The heat spreads up her spine. She exhales with deep sigh: The carpet is out of focus.

The first spank jolts her, not from the pain—there is none—but from the instant comparison of all the times she’s been beaten before. She tenses and waits for the next blow. Instead, his right hand rests on her crests. A gentle squeeze, a pat, she consciously forces her muscles to relax. The ‘good girl’ is said softly, but the praise is clear in his tone. Her unseen smile is wry. The absurdity of the situation is beyond her ability at present to cope. Trust me; is the single hardest sentence in English to accept.

She wiggles slightly, letting him know she is okay and wants to continue. The second spank is on the opposite cheek. Then back and forth he goes, she tries to count, but the steadily increasing heat in her bottom is a distraction. It’s… divine is the wrong word. Searching her vocabulary, she settles on cool: lame perhaps, but it’s actually kinda cool to be getting a spanking in a stranger’s—a strange man’s hotel room.

The final volley of twenty are deliberately placed low and inside. She feels the spanks; oh does she feel them. Traitorous pussy she grumbles to herself. You’re not having sex today. The internal dialogue is rapid and angry. Too many times before has she let her genitals have control: it never ends well. When she hears the silence and his statement of closure, what she feels is disappointment. What she wants is to be bare-bottomed and spanked again from the top.

So what does he want? Can this patty-cake spanking be satisfying for either of them? A handshake or fist bump certainly doesn’t rise to the level of rapture, so why would we expect fireworks from a simple one-minute over the knee session? Have we as readers lost the capability to enjoy a slow consummation unfolding? The electronic pacifiers damage more relationships than they create.

This time, he helps her stand with an arm around her waist. He keeps his hands away from unacceptable places and pulls out the single chair from the desk-cum-workstation for her to sit. Perched on the corner of the bed, he studies her posture and expressions. She doesn’t quite meet his gaze; it’s centered somewhere on his forehead. He recognizes the look as one of the many varied and nuanced survivor stares. Asking about how she feels would likely provoke flight.

When he was younger, brash and filled with conceit, he’d have pressed for feedback to stroke his fragile ego—and lost the girl. Concern is the primary focus now. ‘That snack earlier didn’t fill me up. What would you like to eat, Tamara? The restaurant next door appears interesting; if you like Mexican.’

‘I should go.’

‘The afternoon workshops should be fun. Plus tomorrow is the wrap up luncheon, you can assist me in flogging my oeuvre beforehand.’

‘I… don’t know what to do.’

‘Then let’s start with lunch, Tamara. Allow someone else to serve you for a change.’

‘I quit my job!’

‘Good for you.’

‘I can’t afford to stay overnight. My bus leaves at six.’

‘You can sleep on the side facing the door. I’m warning you though, hands off the TV remote. It’s mine.’

We see a genuine smile illuminate her face, for a brief instant something shines beneath. Craning our necks, the bright joy slowly fades; the haggard lines reappear. Are they shallower? Can anyone truly lift the veil of depression from somebody? It is very easy to criticize choices made in extremis, when doing so deflects from our own faults. In order to really empathize, we must purge the blind devotion to our perceived greatness. Respect is built upon a foundation of communication: Non-verbal cues are often missed.

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 2

Originally posted as What makes a spanko tick, for Wicked Wednesday on April 12th, 2017.

We see him driving, the concrete unspooling like an endless carpet in the world’s largest casino; gray and stained with sweat and unrequited hopes. The vastness of America catches the unwary—not vast like Siberia or Africa—but the green demarcations of exits and mileage remaining to safe haven, become a life raft you impatiently watch bob up over the horizon.

Flyover country—sneeringly patronized by those perched on couches in front of bi-coastal cameras. He feels the thump-thump of synthetic rubber trailing microns behind with every revolution.

His words still reverberate in the diner, a catalyst that goads a wounded soul to action.

Tamara shows up Saturday morning, her disguise of frumpy hausfrau unsurprisingly mundane. Most attendees could be her clones, all searching for a spark, dog-eared tablets clutched to chest, the ereader explosion replacing the autograph book. Some seek to rekindle first love from a time when cynicism was the fiercely guarded territory of mysterious elders.

They are now the elders. Their childhoods returned threefold.

She is not here for that. It’s not in her nature to be a fangirl. In fact, she isn’t quite sure why she quit her job and rode a bus for three hours, on the off chance the man with the rental car really meant what he didn’t say.

Observe her enter the room, she hugs the wall in loving embrace, chooses a chair, near the back, half-hidden by teased bouffant creations and Estee Lauder clouds. She holds the crinkled brochure over her nose, eyes peep mouse-like; if she had whiskers, they would be madly twitching.

He knows she’s there. There is time for action and time for seduction. It is the latter.

He speaks, introduces the panel, and talks about the causal link between feminism and submission: Freedom from drudgery allows empowerment to offer body as equals. The undercurrents in the audience are both subtle and treacherous. It’s easy for a white man to spout entitlement as if spraying sperm on the front row. Fertilization after all has many different meanings.

For Tamara—a Latina/Native American/Italian mongrel—the dangers of choosing the wrong partner[s][s][s] have left scars in every dimension. She listens to him moderate the discussion; most of the esoteric arguments are dandelion tufts seeking colonies in more fertile minds than hers. She watches the others mostly; their blatant flirtations and copulatory signals bounce away as if he doesn’t sense them.

Does he even notice? Is he gay? Is that why he invited her?

Her random thoughts prick like soap bubbles in the sun. Her self-defense mechanisms—always gleaming and rust free—close shutters and prime weapons. This time, she’s not going down without a fight.

What she doesn’t know is that he’s already in her control room and her defenses recognize him as safe.

You would suppose, after we witness his skillful extraction from the smiling crowd of pheromone emitting females; he has no interest in a companion, or two. That—in fact—is a slippery slope. Seduction to consummation is a yawning chasm for one who prefers conversation to a random tumble. Besides, he already knows whom he wants. We watch as he leads Tamara away as if they were a bonded pair already. Sustenance, and explanations—beckon us onward. Shall we follow?

She picks at her food—the diner was far superior fare—mostly because she studies the man across the plastic table. Tamara has to, must know why he selected her before she can consider the consequences. ‘What makes a spanko tick?’

Caught in mid-bite, he finishes chewing, sips his soda and, after wiping his fingers, reaches across and takes her in hand. ‘For me, it’s in my nature to desire a woman over my knee. Not to subjugate necessarily, although, please don’t misunderstand, punishment is not something I shy away from: No, it’s because all the attraction I feel for a woman begins with her bottom and ends with her mind. Everything else in between is the glorious territory of love and respect.’

‘So spanking for you is like… foreplay?’

‘No, Tamara, more like a handshake. A friendly greeting, much as a hug or peck on the cheek.’

She is rattled: the violence inherent in the submissive posture his words have offered, strikes too close to home in memories of fists and booted feet. The familiar adrenaline blanches her olive skin, her mind retreats to the safe room. I’m here for you. A gentle whisper, she turns inside out and sees him waiting there, patiently smiling. She allows his guidance as they leave the convention: for her, all convention flew away long ago. But now, sunlight floods the dark spaces of her soul. Sprouts of emotions buried for survival’s sake, unfurl in the warmth of his regard. She cannot think. Nor, does she wish to.

Wow! Cries the reader. No way! Life doesn’t happen that way. Fine, maybe there are good guys out there, but good guys don’t go around telling woman they want to spank them! Do they?

A mile down the road is the hotel. He calls it GWC—Generic World Clone. He swipes the card at the side entrance, no need to parade his captive through the lobby. The elevator to the fourth floor, right turn; fifteen doors down on the left is room 425. A queen size bed awaits, maid service come and gone for the day.

He perches at the foot of the bed, after draping his jacket over the back of the chair. The water runs in the compact bathroom; on purpose he left the room door ajar, resting on the safety latch. If she runs, he will not chase.

In the mirror, a worn woman appears ghostly in the harsh artificial light. What happened to the carefree girl I never had a chance to be? His words have warmed her as none have ever done before. She makes an easy decision: The solid thump of the closing door is followed by the sharp clack of deadbolt and clink of latch.

‘Are you right-handed?’

‘Yes.’

She takes a deep breath and exhales loudly. Then another. She stands at attention, right angle to his seated thighs. ‘Hi. My name is Tamara. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

Awkwardly—for he does not touch her at all—she bends forward and lies down over his knees. Her hands press the sheared carpet, her shoes slip until she digs in.

‘Hello, Tamara, likewise, it is a great pleasure to meet you. You may call me… Sir.’

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 1

Originally posted as Some times, that’s all it takes, for Wicked Wednesday on March 1st, 2017. After I posted this story, there were some readers who wanted to continue. I did so, with a direct followup six weeks later. By the time I started the third 1,000-word addition, I decided to turn the story into a serial. My plan is to post an episode of Kismet of Submission once a week, as long as I have ideas.

Tamara meets a man at her place of work. He tells her he’s a spanko. For reasons that are unclear to her—considering her abusive past—she decides to follow him. This story, of undetermined length, will cover topics such as spanking, submission, dominance, politics, religion, abusive pasts, drug and alcohol use, sex, and anything else that pops up. The story will be told from three perspectives: His, Hers and Omnipresent. The episodes will be around 1,000 words and will be sequential.

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 a 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.

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

Any interest if I start a monthly newsletter?

Before I get into the subject of a newsletter, I wanted to share a link to a post and my comment in response to Jen’s post about vulnerability, in which she talks about respect vs love.

This is my comment as written:

I find the link between work and home interesting, so I’m going to take a tangent here.
You might think, “how hard can it be to order your wife to lick the asshole of his girlfriend?” = Brown nosing. Been in plenty of workplaces where the common theme is “How did he/she get that position?” Well, it comes from being submissive to the boss(es) and licking and sucking up to get the job. It’s not a healthy situation for anyone, but a reality I have witnessed all too often. This leads to people in leadership positions that shouldn’t be there, and who use fear and intimidation to force false submission.

“It ties into something I read somewhere that, if given a choice between respect or love, most men choose respect and most women choose love.” Respect is the most difficult thing to both give and earn, not only in a personal relationship, but in the workplace. The entire concept of employment by others is a type of D/s relationship. The boss gives the orders, and the employees are expected to obey. Without respect, those orders are often ignored, sabotaged or otherwise mangled so that the boss looks bad. It’s not surprising that Mike has become more dominant at work based on his home life.

The idea of love in the workplace should not be confused with romantic love: [See below] but with the concept of affection towards co-workers and even bosses. A platonic friendship must include love and respect to have any chance of being real.

Although there are many parallels between D/D and D/s at home, and the corporate management tree, the sexual aspect gets all tangled up with power and authority. It doesn’t take much thought to recall sexual scandals in the workplace, at church, in schools and in politics, to realize that respect and love can be quickly corrupted by stupidity and cruelty.

Which leads into the last observation: Vulnerability. In the workplace, the employee has no power, except to quit if the boss is an asshole. Unlike D/s however, it’s easier to find another job, than another Dom or life partner. People write all the time about abusive Doms, but rarely complain about abusive bosses. Why? Because employees are vulnerable. HR either doesn’t care, or does not have the power to enforce harassment laws. It’s safer to accept a paycheck, than hope for a favorable court judgement. For those not in a D/s relationship, the submissive may seem to be powerless, but anyone reading this blog, or many others, quickly realizes that it is not the case.

The transition from hard-shelled, numb employee, to open vulnerable submissive, is a junction fraught with danger. I feel many D/s relationships founder on this very shoal for the lack of love and respect for the process of communicating in an honest and vulnerable manner.

About a newsletter, I have noticed that authors offer newsletters on their websites. I only have the two Lust anthologies published at the moment, but have several novels and short stories either finished, or working. There would be several possible items to include in a newsletter:

1. WIP: Work in progress, not whipping you deviant perverts! Although, all of my WIP has spanking of some sort. The purpose of showcasing my WIP, would be to garner feedback and beta reads before submitting for either calls or publication.
2. General talk about spanking and D/s, in line with the discussion above. I don’t blog many essays here, because I normally utilize other bloggers’ posts to write comments. There is certainly a need for sane and safe discussion rather than more fiction.
3. Write book reviews about my personal favorites. I have calculated—conservatively—that I have read over 20,000 books and an equal number of magazines and newspapers in my life. I have many books, new and old, that I consider worth reading.
4. Write about my writing process. How do I create characters? Why do I choose the place and time? How often do I write? Why does all my fiction revolve around spanking? [If you have to ask…]
5. Go in depth into the Lust novellas. Talk about how the outline grew into 24,000 words, and how the beta editing process changed the stories.
6. Discuss how BDSM and spanking has crept into mainstream romance. Did you know that almost all best-selling romance is now sexually explicit, and at the very least, mentions spankings as a threat directed at the female lead? Is this the influence of the editors? The paddle wagging the bottom? Or are readers more interested in kink than ever before?

So, in a comment or email, would you be interested in a monthly newsletter from me? You’d not be wrong in thinking I could simply start another blog, but, in the past, I got carried away and had eight blogs at one time. Not to mention, having 30 days of posts pre-written. I’m envisioning a once-monthly newsletter that builds upon my writing here, by discussing items such as the above.

Lust in Spring Anthology: Published

A note about formatting on this post. WordPress does not support a Word type formatting, thus the lack of indents. Yes, I could add spaces before each paragraph, but I’m not. It’s not that bad. My novella, The Witch of Olympus Hollow, is told in first person and the excerpt below is the Prologue and part of Chapter One. The anthology in total, is Lust in Spring. The story itself has erotic passages with the spanking as discipline only. The style is a memoir based upon diary entries, and set in 1952, except for the Prologue and Epilogue which are set in present day. If I had to place my novella in a genre, it would be: Green Mythological Erotica.

Just a reminder, if you would like to read and write a review for your blog, Goodreads and/or Amazon, please contact me and I will send you a free copy of my novella as a Word .docx in exchange for your honest review. The entire anthology is a free download if you have Kindle Unlimited, or 99 cents for a limited time with regular Kindle. Please see Amazon for details.

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.

Click picture to go to Amazon

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?

************************************************************

The Witch of Olympus Hollow

Prologue

As the title says, people round these parts think I’m a witch: these parts being Olympus Hollow. There you go; I repeated the title for y’all. No applause needed, we’re good. Or as the saying goes: word.

My name is Gale Johnson, of the Johnsons of Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, on the Main Line. How I ended up in the far southern reaches of Appalachia, that story is the fault of my mother: harsh but true. I was angry with her for a long time, besides being a stuck-up bitch when I arrived.

I believe I was likely manic-depressive or bi-polar back then, but that doesn’t excuse rudeness. All that’s long past now. I’m eighty-five, or will be next April 1st, the joke’s on me, right?

Leastwise you think I’m a bitter old woman, nothing could be further from the truth. The tale I shall shortly relate here shall only be released upon my death. Ergo, I am currently deceased—with several mitigating circumstances.

I’m not trying to be lawyerly here. As you’ll discover at the end of my memoir, the situation was not exactly cut and dried. In all honesty, I’m probably confusing you—I like to talk—so rather than work backwards in a logical manner, I will instead start at the beginning.

It’s a good thing I kept up my diaries all these years. I’d forgotten I’d written them in first person, present tense back then. The conceit of a recent college graduate I’m afraid, trying to be grownup and sophisticated.

I decided to share excerpts within the prose to highlight my state of mind. I apologize if my lack of empathy shines through my journal entries of those days in 1952, but I will not censor to meet modern sensibilities. I’m too damn old to be PC.

I was young and sheltered: a northern white girl dropped into the segregated South. I did not know of course, that Pennsylvania and the other states of the Union were just as divided as any Confederate state. I had always naively assumed people lived within racial and ethnic boundaries because they wanted to by choice.

So many changes in my lifetime, including the internet and access to a world of information. It’s a lot easier these days to write your thoughts and store them in the cloud.

I do enjoy the spanking blogs; I’m a connoisseur you might say, although my experiences would beat the pants off most of the fiction. Just sayin’: not braggin’.

I’m rambling again, my apologies.

I’m sure you saw the snarky tweets from Clear Cut Resort LLC? The ones where they bitched and whined in 140 characters about the fabulous luxury vacation homes and world-class golf course they wanted to build, but were denied? Or maybe you viewed their lovely Facebook page, with the glossy retouched digital pictures and the CGI video of happy families bathing in the hot spring, frolicking in the natural pool and riding horses through the manicured forest.

I told their Armani wearing lawyers to shove it on more than one occasion. That is our land the fuckers wanted, and they will never get it.

The following is an excerpt of an audio recording by the late Gale Johnson.
Transcript begins:

Is this thing on? Damn technology. Used to just push a button.
~snort~
I got it. Chill, dude.
Well, if you’re hearing this, I’m dead. Nothing like my beyond-the-grave voice in stereo, is there? My lawyer, don’t start, insists that I express my wishes verbally, due to the salacious contents I intend to have published.
So here goes.
Like I said, I’m not worried about Olympus Hollow.
I left the land in good hands, very good hands.
~witchy cackle~
What do you mean you want a will and last testament?
Fine! You’re all a bunch of blood-sucking parasites.
Being of sound mind and body, I hereby bequeath all my knowledge and worldly goods to my anointed successor as per the agreement with the principles notated in my memoirs.
Everything you are about to read actually happened to me.
I personally vouch for the authenticity of my interactions with every named person.
All mortal persons, mentioned in the main body of work, are now deceased.
Any persons named in the epilogue, have signed affidavits allowing their likenesses to be utilized in print.
All proceeds from the sale of my memoirs, and any profits from future visual media productions, shall accrue to the Olympus Hollow Charitable Foundation, Inc.

End transcript.

Chapter One

Dear Diary,
April 1st, 1952
Happy Birthday to me! Today I turn 21 and only three weeks to graduation! My sorority sisters fooled me again and made a BIG deal out of my birthday. That’s why I’m standing at the moment. The paddles are no fun, even though I should be used to them after four years.
I made a wish, of course I did! Chance is so dreamy. He promised me a very special surprise for our date this weekend.
***
Dear Diary,
April 23rd, 1952
Thank God I got my monthly! Chance is beastly! I never should have believed him. Thankfully Mother will never find out or else her hairbrush would be worn out on my hiney. Sabrina says you can’t get knocked up French kissing or heavy mouth petting but I’m glad anyway. I never knew keeping my knees together would be so difficult in the heat of the moment.
***
Dear Diary,
May 3rd, 1952
Guess what! Great-Aunt Abigail—my namesake I’m told, although I’ve never even heard of her—has invited me to her home! I’m very excited! NOT! An urgent family matter says my dear mother.
Mother says I’m to obey my aunt in all manners. I argued that I’m a college graduate and a grown up, but she packed my hairbrush anyway and even said that G-A.A—aka Great-Aunt Abigail—knew I needed an occasional good dose of discipline! I am so EMBARRASSED!
My beloved parent told me I’d be standing on the train ride to Washington if I didn’t zip it. Daddy only grunted and refused to take my side. He never takes my side!
***
Dear Diary,
May 9th, 1952
And so it comes to this. A present for my college degree, the sharp Buick Roadmaster Riviera coupe in Olympic Blue, is sitting outside in the rain back home. While I, after three separate train rides, followed by an ancient bus that trundled up into wild Injun country in far western North Carolina, have finally arrived at the thriving metropolis of Olympus Hollow, population 243.
This is my stop; the driver is calling.
***

“You mussa be Miss Gale.”

I glanced around in distaste. The bus stop was not a proper station with water fountains and lavatories but merely a wide spot in the road. Wild chickens and feral dogs kicked up dust, while several old white men in denim overalls and seed caps rocked in chairs on the porch of Jebediah’s General Store and spat long streams of brown juice into the dusty gravel parking area.

The speaker was a Negro and his mode of transportation a mule wagon. I was evidently on another planet. This was most defiantly not Cavalcade of Stars with Jackie Gleason. There was no sophisticated sketch comedy in these characters.

I had no congress with the Negro in Bryn Mawr—there were none—although there were plenty to be seen in Philadelphia. Unsure of how to respond, I stuck to politeness.

“Yes, I am Gale Johnson. I am here at the invitation of my Great-Aunt Abigail to spend the month. I was told she would pick me up.”

“Isa be yur ride, Miss Gale. Miss Abigail, she beein’ a touch unda da weatha.” He hopped down and placed my luggage in the back of the wagon. “Ifin ya’ have a seat, Miss, I’lla havin’ ya’ up da mountain ri’ quick.”

“You be careful now, boy, ya here?” one of the white men called out. “Dat be pree-shee-us cargo you be haulin’. Miss Abigail liken to give ya boils iffen ‘er niece ruffles ‘er purty dress. Ain’t that right, sweet thang?”

“Yes, sar, Massa Bohannon.” My driver clucked to his mule and we lurched forward.

I could feel my cheeks flame and stared stiffly ahead while the men guffawed and slapped their thighs and whistled. The harsh ammonia smell of sweat and the sharp scent of fresh dung assaulted my pampered nostrils. We were not moving fast enough to ward off the black flies and soon my hands were in near constant motion in a futile effort to remain pest free.

Then we turned off the narrow highway onto an even narrower track and it was as though we entered another land.

As far into the distance as I could see were rafts of azaleas, rhododendrons and flowering trees and shrubs of every description in a riotous explosion of reds, pinks and whites. The flies and the offensive odors vanished. A shiver ran through me as if were dunked in ice water. An electric current sizzled in the air and my hairs stood up on end.

We passed a large quartz granite marker set off to the right. I heard a loud crack as if thunder had come to the smoky blue sky.
“Did you hear that?” I yelped and clapped my hands over my ears in reflexive protection. “Is there a storm coming?”

“No, Miss Gale, it be a fine day. Isa don’ heard nothin’ but da birds and da bees iffen ya please.”

I looked at him suspiciously but since all I could hear now was the creak of the wheels and the mule’s labored breath, I let it go, and lost myself in the incredible display of vernal color. I’d been annually to the Philadelphia Flower Show as long as I could remember, but this natural extravaganza was beyond anything I had ever seen.

I noticed too, the gravel drive was smooth and the grass verge was neatly mowed. Certainly, a motor vehicle would have no problems ascending the slight grade. Which begged the question, why the mule and driver?

I snuck another peek at the Negro on my left. I felt uneasy. My social upbringing and schooling did not address this situation. I took the easy way out and decided to let Great-Aunt Abigail perform the introduction to her servant.
***
Dear Diary,
May 9th, 1952
The Negro’s name is Leroy. G-A.A. explained he and his family live a mile away and farm the land for produce and raise livestock for meat. They are neighbors, not sharecroppers nor employees. I sensed there was much more to the situation but I at least loosened my tongue enough to speak coherent sentences to Leroy.
I felt diminished by my reticence and got the impression Leroy was not awed with my whiteness but would tolerate my ignorance unless I proved malicious.
It was near lunchtime and G-A.A. had prepared ham, cornbread, green beans and either sweet tea or lemonade. After we finished eating she gave me a quick tour.
***
“This isn’t what I was expecting, Great-Aunt Abigail,” I said as I studied the modern Kenmore kitchen under the glow of electric lights.

“Well,” she admitted, “if you saw some of the folk round here, your preconceptions of dirt floor hovels, outhouses and candles would not be remiss. I do what I can to support the local crafters, like purchasing furniture and linens and labor. I’d like to do more, but these are proud people, Gale—black, white and red—and don’t take kindly to charity. This was Cherokee territory. The Scotch-Irish who eventually settled here cling to Old World traditions and Indian heritage through pure cussedness.”

According to my Great-Aunt, the dwelling was cozy: warm in the winter and cool in the summer. The house sat on a small knoll and faced southwest. The outside foundation to three feet up was constructed of weathered fieldstone held together by gravity. The remainder of the exterior to the eaves was American chestnut, harvested when the blight swept through the Eastern part of the country in the early part of the 20th century. The wide porch was laid with Longleaf Pine planks that matched the interior floors.

At her urging, I took time to wash off the travel grime with hot running water and then laid down for a short nap.
***

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 5 (Part 1)

Gentle Reader: as I begin this chapter, I realize I have been remiss in providing physical descriptions of the personages populating my prose. This of course, is deliberate, thus allowing your imagination to supply features and characteristics. After all, large is another person’s small, and pheromones do not emanate from letters arranged on printed page. Perhaps you would prefer sexual and discipline scenes without extraneous folderol, but punishment sans context is simply brutality. Every spanking I relate at Peacock House was given for a reason. Memory is a wicked beast, insisting upon innocence, whilst robbing the vault behind our backs.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Complete Chapter 4

As is customary, I am posting the entire 3,000 word chapter 4 of the Bumhampton Chronicles before diving into chapter 5. If you wish to read the first three chapters, I have created a page here with links to each complete chapter. Chapter 4 veered off in many different directions with various plot lines. Whether I continue all of them or only some, I will continue to post in 100-word drabbles. I only write a thousand words in advance, or roughly two weeks of drabbles, so I never really know what twists and turns the next segment will take. I wanted to take the time as well to thank all my loyal readers who have expressed such enthusiasm for The Bumhampton Chronicles.

Our heroine, the vivacious and impudent Ruby Slapumcheeks. His Lordship Caneshard of Lower Bumhampton, who runs a tight house with a whippy cane. Mrs. Cleanknockers, the housekeeper with a firm hand and a roving eye. Mr. Steedstiff, mysterious trainer of the female staff. Miss Frothinglips, the ward of Peacock House, proper upper class diction, with a talented mouth. Louisa Sweetcunny, fellow maid of discipline.

“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.”

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.

Before it vanished like morning dew in the hot sun, for a brief moment, her face held a mixture of loathing, bitterness and anger directed at Mr. Steedstiff. From where I knelt I felt caught between two adversaries intent on besting one another in feats-of-arms. The moment passed and Mrs. Cleanknockers regained her typical hauteur. “To answer your impertinent question, Ruby, all girls must learn to throat their partners. I’m told men find cock swallowing to be amongst the Seven Wonders of the World.” Her bright voice held a brittle edge. “Isn’t that correct, Mr. Steedstiff.” He smirked and winked.

“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.

“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.”

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 tormenters, 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.”

In my peripheral vision I could see Louisa’s disbelief: behind me a loud ‘harrumph’ from Mrs. Cleanknockers. I bravely opened my mouth and braced my palms on the floor for the coming assault. Soaked with Louisa’s saliva, his cock loomed large as his hands firmly gripped my nape. It seemed to have grown and I was hard-pressed to relax my jaw enough to allow entry. Mr. Steedstiff kept up a steady patter as he stroked in and out. “Mind the teeth. Stick out your tongue. Swallow. Fight your gag reflux.” That last was when I nearly cast up my accounts.

Try as I could, his cock would not enter my unwilling throat. He settled for a lengthy dissertation on the proper style of sucking complete with admonishments and exhortations. “Hollow your cheeks. Pucker up and blow. Suck and swallow. Waggle your tongue.” My jaw ached. I was very disappointed with my failure, doubly so when Mr. Steedstiff praised my efforts as being adequate for a first-timer. Mrs. Cleanknockers was not so forthcoming. “Ruby,” she snapped. “In the drawer with yellow tassel is a selection of India rubber dildos. While he finishes off inside Louisa’s throat you will practice with one.”

I dutifully retrieved the shortest and slenderest of the rubber dildos and resumed my kneeling position at Louisa’s head. “Observe the way it should be done, Ruby,” Mrs. Cleanknockers advised. We gagged in unison. I could only manage one failed attempt for every three deep thrusts she endured. My respect for her grew. I no longer cared about the piss-pot. I wanted to belong. I wanted to be admired. I wanted a husband who would enjoy having his cock sucked the correct way. As I coughed and spat on the floor, Mr. Steedstiff was now rapidly jabbing with short strokes.

Louisa’s lips pouted red around his cock. I noticed his breath labored in pants and huffs until his thighs suddenly went rigid. Mr. Steedstiff’s mouth hung open and his face twisted in a rictus akin to pain. Only the head of his cock remained inside her mouth. His shaft made pulsing motions along the length. He breathed out a long exhale of relief. “Do not swallow yet, Louisa,” Mrs. Cleanknockers ordered. “Ruby, as he withdraws, open your mouth and clean the seed off his cock, gently, men are so sensitive right after they spend.” I detected a whiff of sarcasm.

Gentle Reader: do not be alarmed by salacious sexual sceneries; be aroused, for surely I was every time in the Gun Room. There was pain of course, but that is part of life for everyone. To have the opportunity for pleasure, to revel in hedonistic congress – as my mentor Mrs. Cleanknockers would say – with hard cocks and wet cunts: those were truly marvelous days of innocent exploration. I do not want you to feel sorrow for the young girl I was, there was little else a poor orphan could expect, and his lordship truly had my best interests in mind.

Before Mr. Steedstiff departed, I was reminded of my place. He commanded Louisa to dribble his seed onto an ivory ball and then placed it in my mouth. A leather thong threaded through the bit was tied behind my head. He bridled Louisa next, she swallowed first, and I waited for instructions while his cloying scent coated my tongue. Mrs. Cleanknockers took a deep, shuddering breath when the door softly closed in his wake. I was convinced they disliked each other intensely. I could only hope to stay out of the crossfire. “Louisa, an appointment with the strap is next.”

“Ruby, remove your uniform and commence your cleaning duties.” This was my first time witnessing a punishment: both appalled and entranced, I tried to polish the knobs. Eventually though, I abandoned all pretense and sat on the floor behind Mrs. Cleanknockers. I had never realized how resilient the bottom was. Each time the oiled leather slammed onto Louisa’s buttocks; the impact compressed the flesh and sent ripples in every direction. Because she was gagged, only faint mews escaped her lips. I mewed in sympathy at a particular loud slap. That was the other thing: the noise was much louder watching.

The sting, the heat, the searing pain when being spanked, tended to draw attention away from the actual sound of punishment. Seeing the results up close, hearing each stroke, set off fireworks in my cunt. My hand slowly rubbed. Without turning her head, Mrs. Cleanknockers told me, “Ruby, if you don’t stop frigging your quim and get back to work, you’ll replace Louisa when I’m done with her.” That of course, only made things worse. I couldn’t come right out and state, ‘yes, please, yes, please’ although I am sure she knew what I desired. I wanted to be displayed.

It was not to be – not yet – and I reluctantly returned to my duties, difficult as that was. Somewhere around one hundred blows, the sudden absence of noise made my ears ring. I studiously scrubbed the baseboards: mere coincidence offered a clear view of Louisa’s red, plugged, mottled backside. Mrs. Cleanknockers yanked out the bottom stuffing horn with a swift tug and a toot. My eyes popped to mirror the gape revealed. The cunt horn was unlatched from the rod; though hard to tell from my perspective, she appeared to be wet from more than the oil. My pelvis clenched.

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.

Our ivory ball gags were removed and joined the other soiled objects in the bucket. I noticed Louisa’s breathing was loud and harsh, her eyes unfocused. The leather saddle was damp to the touch with her sweat. A knock on the door, it opened, and Miss Frothinglips sailed in as a clipper under full canvas. She ignored us both and whispered to Mrs. Cleanknockers. A sharp swivel of the head and her shoulders stiffened. With nary a backwards glance, Mrs. Cleanknockers strode out the door: Miss Frothinglips, after handing Louisa a clean uniform, followed swiftly. Left alone with my nemesis.

Louisa faced me with a blank face. “Thank you, Ruby, for trying to suck his cock. You didn’t have to.” I was stunned at her words and a bit wary. “Do you really mean that?” She smiled crookedly and instead of pulling on her dress, hung it off the highest drawer knob. “Yes, I do. I’m sorry for what I did and for the punishment you received.” She bit her lip and continued. “I was jealous of the attention you were getting and Emily egged me into being stupid again.” I had to admit to being curious at this point.

“I take it you’ve pulled this sort of stunt before?” Before she explained, she took the bucket over to the sink. Hot running water was still a novelty to me. She used a bar of soap and scrubbed each item as she talked. Her background was not much different than mine. A pretty orphan, left to fend for herself, except with the de rigueur villainous cousin who sought to profit from her virginity. “How did you escape?” I wanted to know. “Lord Caneshard and Peacock House are well known in certain quarters. After overhearing, I packed a satchel and left.”

I busied myself wiping down the saddle then applying a fresh coat of oil. “Do you regret your decision, Louisa?” She stopped scrubbing. “I’ve been here ten months. The only thing I regret, Ruby, is being unable to stand up to Emily.” I draped the towel over the pommel and moved behind her. Tentatively, I rested my hand on her shoulder: she stiffened briefly. Her hands ceased washing. I tugged gently, asking without words for her to turn around. She did so, slowly, and kept her head lowered. I emulated Mrs. Cleanknockers and raised her chin. “I forgive you, Louisa.”

“If you’re willing to shift allegiance, Louisa, I’d like to be your friend.” Tears pricked her eyes. I gathered her in my arms, our breasts squashed together. She sobbed. Whether in relief, or delayed reaction to her punishment, I did not know. Without conscious volition, my hands slipped down her back and rested lightly on her hot buttocks. She hiccupped several times, but did not resist or pull away. I gently kneaded. She hissed softly. “Would you like me to apply some cream?” That clearly startled her. My fingers crept lower and teased open her hemispheres. Her eyes grew wider.

Louisa blushed and leaned in, her head rested on my collarbone. I reached down as far as I could, fingertips brushed her rosette, cupped her globes and rubbed lengthwise through her damp thighs. “We’re not supposed to do this, Ruby,” she confessed in a muffled whisper. “We’ll be soundly whipped if we’re caught.” I raised my palm and slapped her bottom. “Then we won’t get caught.” I moved swiftly then, not knowing how long we would be left alone. I pulled her away from the sink explaining what I planned. In case of a sudden return, I staged a tableau.

Louisa, with towel in hand, was braced on the saddle, bottom thrust out, legs spread wide. Me, on the floor, scrub brush and bucket nearby, cheerfully cleaned the aftermath of her punishment. The jar of ointment was hidden under used linen. I scooped a dollop in my palm and dabbed it onto her bottom. I pressed out and up deliberately: each stroke stretched her crack open. My lust built with each peek of her dual charms. I could no longer resist the temptation. “What are you doing, Ruby?” I swallowed hard. “I want to taste you, Louisa. Please say yes.”

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.

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.

I could not resist the temptation her red buttocks offered. “You owe me a spanking, Louisa, for this morning. Mrs. Cleanknockers humiliated me in front of the entire downstairs staff. I don’t know how I will face them at dinner.” Because she could not see me, I did not attempt to hide my sneaky grin. “I’m sorry, Ruby, that she beat you so publicly. I’m so sore already, please have mercy on me.” I slapped each dark cheek in turn with my hand as hard as I could. She shrieked and reached back, palm out to protect her sensitive skin.

“Keep rubbing your slutty cunt, you little tart!” I barked with feigned sternness. “I’m going to spank you because you deserve the punishment!” I retrieved a stout leather paddle and smacked all over her wagging bottom as I scolded her. “You should be ashamed to be so weak that you’d attack an innocent for someone else’s plot.” I was surprised to find genuine anger in my soul and I allowed a brief venting with extra hard blows of the paddle. To Louisa’s credit, she never ceased frigging through her tears and pleas. I soon stopped: puckered lips sought my target.

I dug my nails into her white crack and pulled wide, then wider still. The heat warmed my palms while I stared. Her clenched rose still appeared agape from her discipline session. My mouth, filled with her tart feminine crème, watered anew. Where this fascination with her bottom hole arose, I did not know, but I followed my desires and instincts in claiming it. From the very first lick, I was hooked. The taboo action had me shuddering and copiously weeping from my cunny. How I wished I had three hands. The rubbery texture rolled pleasingly beneath my nimble tongue.

I licked again at her anus. I tasted oil mostly with hints of earthy spice. I stretched my tongue out over my lower lip and pressed inwards. Louisa’s rosette gave way just enough to fire my imagination. I lapped and sucked, pretending I’d penetrated deep inside with forked intent. When I heard the interval between Louisa’s breathy pants grow shorter, I redoubled my efforts. I speared my tongue partly inside her rear and twirled while she clamped down as her orgasm neared. I surrendered to my passion, one hand raced across my clit and the other’s fingers entered her pussy.

As Louisa came, the strong contractions pushed my tongue out from her back passage: I sat back marveling at the sheer physicality of a female orgasm. Forgotten for the moment was my own pleasure as her pelvic muscles tensed and rippled. Fluid sprayed out from between her legs and soaked my arm. I reflexively tasted and licked off the excess cum. Even though the Gun Room was soundproofed, Louisa kept her passionate vocalizations to a mere murmur. In her place, I fancied I’d have screamed. Unbeknownst to me, my lungs would soon give a powerful demonstration to many interested parties.

Today being Valentine’s Day, why not choose something more fitting than flowers or chocolates. 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.

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    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.
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