novel

A Free Offer and a Poetry Surprise

lurvspanking4 Comments

Welcome my spanko friends. First of all, I’d like to thank all of you who commented on my post last December and offered condolences for my wife’s death. It’s has been three months now and I am coping okay. This past weekend I went down to Sanibel Island, Florida to scatter some of her ashes on the beach where we vacationed this past August. Today, March 1st, is her birthday and I wrote a poem for her. I posted it along with pictures on my blog.

Not this one. No, not that one either.
Not a blog that any of you know about, well, with two exceptions.
Before I get into that, y’all need a bit of history. So kick back, relax in your leggings/fleece/flannel or nothing at all, while I try to wrap this up in under a thousand words. 😉

I started blogging in 2006 focusing on women’s rights, abuse, rape, mental health; all the negative things that happen in our societies worldwide. I wanted to shine the light on abhorrent behavior through ‘Truth is Freedom’. I gradually built an audience, started posting poems and fiction as well as essays, and found myself posting every single day. In fact, I kept a 30-day buffer of completed daily posts so that I had time to write my first novel at work. But I consider myself a poet first and foremost. A fiction writer second. And I’m a damn good poet.

1. The first blog. 02/2006 to 02/2012. 450 posts. Now private because I was getting thousands of spam comments every day.
2. The next blog. 09/2006 to 02/2012. 130 posts. Public but not mine.*
3. The next blog. 10/2006 to 02/2012. 007 posts. Now private. Contains most of my poetry at 1000+ poems in seven folders.
4. The next blog. 07/2009 to 01/2017. 020 posts. Public but not mine.*
5. The next blog. 09/2009 to present. 620 posts. This very spanking blog you are reading.
6. The next blog. 07/2010 to 01/2012. 013 posts. Now private. About my poly phase.
7. The next blog. 07/2016 to present. 580 posts. Public, under my real first name, with poetry and fiction.
8. The next blog. 05/2017 to present. 030 posts. Public as Byron Cane, erotica author.

As you can see, I’ve been blogging for 15 years – with many breaks – but have kept my fictional spanking life walled off from my real life. Until now.

*This is the exception. The two starred* blogs don’t belong to me, but her, Dewy Knickers, who also blogs as Bawdy Wench, who is Rose, who is part of us as multiple personalities. She’s not linking, but will see how it goes with me first. She is on the poetry blog however if you dig on the sidebar. She wants you to have to work to find her and her book.

And as an aside, I’m proud to be a multiple personality, and damn proud of Rose. She’s fucking amazing, as a writer, a poet, a woman and as my friend.

And we could fucking care less about trolls… other than diced and fried for breakfast.

The poem is “My Wife’s Ashes’ and is posted on my other writing blog, There Are More Poets Than Stars in The Firmament. Please click the highlighted title of the poem and you will be taken to the post. If you feel moved to comment, but don’t want to link your D/s blog to my vanilla blog, then feel free to comment on this post instead. Thank you and please take some time if you can to explore my other writing. There are quick link pages at the top of the blog and categories in the sidebar.

Now to the FREE OFFER!!!!
Interested?
Well, it’s not here. Not there.
It’s right here instead..

Happy Reading my spanko friends.

Stay safe, stay healthy, stay strong.

Back writing

lurvspanking6 Comments

Four years ago I finished my novel, Breaking Grace, and then set it aside intending to let it marinate and edit it… again… for the umpteenth time. I went on to other projects, including the next novel, Kismet, and of course, my faux Victorian opus, The Bumhampton Chronicles. There were also submissions for open calls and anthologies.

But life got in the way and I lost interest in writing; again, and I’m sure not for the last time. But, on this past Monday, I looked at the two-inch thick stack of paper that is the Grace Manuscript, and I felt a stirring. No! Not that kind of stirring, you perverts. Although, if I do say so myself, those who have read the entire draft have told me it’s very hot. So, I fired up Word and started a new blank document. I changed the title, and, also the start, because what brought this stirring on was thinking up a new beginning to the novel.

It’s 108,000 words and 242 pages single-spaced, and although the beginning is very strong and I’m keeping that chapter intact, it never really flowed out of the gate with the punch I wanted. I’d gone back and forth between 3rd person past and 1st person present, but though I thought the latter was the best, it didn’t work as a prologue. At all. Too confusing and needed a backstory or commentary and so, I just left it hanging until something better came along. Which it did.

So Tuesday when I started fresh, I started off as 3rd person past in chapter 1 with 750 brand new, never before seen, full warranty, fresh out of the box, words. I then stayed with the past tense in chapter two and three, and then moved the former prologue to chapter four as 1st person past, but set in the present ‘as told to’ narrative. I also pulled about a thousand words from the middle of the old chapter 10 and inserted [you people’s minds are in the gutter] them near the beginning of chapter two. Comprende?

So the new word count so far is 6,445. As I rewrite, I don’t anticipate shuffling much more around, but there is a series of chapters that borrows from Domestic Discipline, Jenny Style, that I may not keep, or at least will modify heavily. Jenny gave me permission years ago to use the excerpt, but I think I’ll use a more fictionalized version of her contract, so that any future conflicts with publishing are avoided.

So what is this novel all about?

Well, it has spanking, BDSM, D/s, D/D, polyamory, Christianity, LGBTQIA, abuse, violence, and takes an unflinching look at the way corruption intersects with juvenile justice. There is lots more than that: the narrative device is two timelines eight years apart that come together with plots that go spinning off in all directions, affluenza leading to wasted lives and people finding love in all the wrong places. It is not an easy read, and it will piss a lot people off.

But at the heart, it’s a romance about the devastation of abuse inflicted by adults upon children and the power of faith and redemption to bring healing to broken survivors. 

 

Kismet of Submission: Episode 2

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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.’

Kismet of Submission: Episode 1

lurvspanking14 Comments

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.

Any interest if I start a monthly newsletter?

lurvspanking6 Comments

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

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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)

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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

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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.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 4 Part (20)

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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.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 Part (30)

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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.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 Part (29)

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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.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 Part (28)

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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 (23)

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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.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 Part (22)

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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?”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 Part (21)

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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!”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 Part (20)

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“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.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 Part (19)

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“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.

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The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 18)

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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: 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 will undergo much schooling before she is a suitable companion for you or any man. If you are indeed interested in young Ruby sir, then you may commit such funds needed to involve yourself in her curriculum.” He nodded decisively. “I do wish so.”

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The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 17)

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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.

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The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 16)

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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.”

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The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 15)

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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.”

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The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 14)

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“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.

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The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 13)

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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.”

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The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 12)

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“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.

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The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 11)

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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.

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The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 9)

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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.

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Sir Fang and other biting tails

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This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is Victorian and happens to be an era I am currently immersed in. There are several, three to be exact, story lines I am currently writing.

#1: My tribute serial novel The Bumhampton Chronicles is a send-up of sorts of the great Victorian Age of Erotica, where orifices were plundered and bottoms were whacked. The Venerable Lord Caneshard the Omnipresent of Lower Bumhampton, his housekeeper Mrs. Cleanknockers, his ward Miss Frothinglips and the mysterious Mr. Steedstiff all conspire to bring the virginal and virtuous Ruby Slapumcheecks to great heights of wicked, wanton pleasure. It is not intended to be factual either in place, the year 1865, nor in terms of language and dress and circumstances. The Bumhampton Chronicles is currently being posted as 100-word drabbles 4 to 5 times a week. Click the link above to scroll back to the beginning of the story.

#2: The short story The Bloody Merry Book Club was posted for Halloween 2016 and is a contemporary spanking story that was a one-off. As so often happens, the short story yielded a character who demanded a novel. The Bloody Merry Book Club has now become the prologue for a new novel called “The Case of the Scarlet Paddle” starring Sir Nachton MacRath, Peer of the Realm, immortal vampire, lover of many and anointed Chastiser for the Queen! Sir Fang, as someone dubbed him, is a Scottish Highlander Vampire Steampunk Regency Pirate who solves the coldest of cases for the Crown. Obviously tongue-in-cheek, but the novel itself has turned out to be rather serious. It, like the Bumhampton Chronicles, is set in Victorian England of 1865, but is an alternative universe where steam technology has led to airships and other advances. This novel will not be posted online.

#3: This novel has in turned spawned another Victorian novella set in 1854 when Sir Nachton MacRath has returned to England after being banished by the Regent 18 years before. The Steampunk aspect has just begun to gather steam, so to speak, and he finds himself being drawn to a mortal woman. The novella is for an unnamed as of yet Valentine’s Day anthology for the Paranormal Erotic Romance Lust anthology series. This prequel is filled with historical figures, lots of spankings and erotic play. It is scheduled to be released Jan, 11th 2017 on Amazon as an ebook. Check the PNR website for updates.

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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The following excerpt is from “The Case of the Scarlet Paddle” and describes Sir Nachton MacRath’s duty as official Chastiser.

Sir Nachton MacRath pulled into the mews off Hill Street in Mayfair and cut the switch for the boiler. The new Avon steamer was fresh off the factory floor, his factory floor in fact, but that was more secret than his vampire status. The stable boys crowded around in admiration and he obliged them with a slew of technical specs. “If any of you have mechanical aptitude I know an agent who’s always in need of sharp young lads to learn the steam business.” MacRath slipped off his goggles and driving gloves. He sniffed and grimaced. “The Thames is a right cesspool this fine winter’s afternoon.” There was a chorus of agreements and inquiries as to when the Southwick Sewer Plant was to become operational. “Soon boys, very soon.” He assigned someone to watch over the carriage and strode briskly to the front door.

“Lord Flintdowns,” he said and handed his embossed card to the butler. “Lady Stanton is expecting me.”

“Yes my lord. If you will wait in the front parlor I will enquire if she is receiving.”

MacRath peered out the window. The sun was soon to set, the weather mild for late November of 1865. He never liked Her Majesty being involved in these cases, but a Royal command was not to be ignored. Even secluded in Windsor, her tentacles spread throughout the ton. He begrudged the time away from Lady Joyce. Her expertise, book learned to be sure, had been invaluable in the hunt for the mystery of the scarlet paddle. His lips curved in a half smile, half smirk. She had taken to his discipline like a duck to water.

“Lord Flintdowns,” a feminine voice called out, “thank you for answering so promptly.”

“Lady Stanton,” MacRath bowed and kissed her hand. “I will not say this is a pleasure, although your lovely countenance outshines the noonday sun.”

“La sir, you are quite the rogue,” Lady Stanton scolded and blushed.

“I am a slave to my nature m’lady.” He held a hand to his breast and touched his badge of office. The Three Lions with crossed cane and birch rod glowed in the last light of day. “If you may, reiterate the incident to me so that appropriate measures can be weighed.”

Lady Stanton pursed her lips, every inch the stern patrician matriarch. “My daughter Libby was seen in Hyde Park yesterday with a known rake despite my express forbiddance. She foisted off her maid and arranged the clandestine affair. Her father is aware, but has removed to White’s for the evening.”

“If it does not distress Lady Stanton, when you state Libby was seen, does that mean other than a public promenade?”

“I will be frank Lord Flintdowns as your reputation for discrete chastisement proceeds you. A single kiss on a darkened terrace during a rout is one thing, but a day dress stained with grass and bits of bark on the bustle, along with ripped petticoats is quite beyond the pale. I will not tolerate wanton behavior from any of my daughters.” Lady Stanton nostrils flared and her corseted bosom heaved like the tides as she fulminated.

“Thank you my Lady for the clarification. I indeed commiserate with your agitation. May I inquire as to Libby’s whereabouts at this time?”

“She is confined to my sitting room. I am sure you can see the impropriety in her being seen to in her own chambers.”

“Then I am to understand you will be present?”

Lady Stanton frowned. “Not only present my Lord, I will decide when the punishment is complete.”

“Yes my Lady.”

MacRath waited in the hall while Lady Stanton dismissed the maid and began to lecture her wayward daughter. There was much protest from Libby all to no avail. He was bade enter and got his first look at the miscreant. She was taller than her mother, slender with flame red hair piled carefully on her head. The deep navy dress was of the latest fashion. There was no doubt she recognized him for her face turned sallow and her eyes distraught. More entreaties ensued until Lady Stanton issued her ultimatum. “Either you accept your punishment from Her Majesty’s chastiser or you shall be confined to your room for the next six weeks. That brought silence at last along with tears. Lady Stanton said coldly, “Save your waterworks daughter. You will soon have a real reason to cry.”

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The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 8)

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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.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 6)

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“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.

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The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 5)

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“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.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 4)

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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?”

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The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 3)

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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.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 2)

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Today is Love Our Lurkers Day 11th Edition. As an aside, today’s episode sets up the next eight. There is reason for my words.

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.

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The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 1)

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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.

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The Bumhampton Chronicles Chapter 2 Complete

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Before I start posting Chapter 3 in 100-word drabble format, I am posting the entire 3,000 word Chapter 2 as a recap for easier reading. As you can readily tell this isn’t even a first draft, more like half a draft. As a further note, thanks to the enthusiastic response to “The Bloody Merry Book Club” I posted on Halloween, I decided to turn it into a novel. Both “The Bumhampton Chronicles” and the renamed “Case of the Scarlet Paddle” are set in Victorian England of 1865. However, unlike Bumhampton which is a send-up of classic Victorian erotica, the Scarlet Paddle is set in an alternate Steampunk universe with Sir Nachton MacRath the vampire, facing off against Joyce the housewife. I’ve already written nearly 20,000 words covering the first 24-hours so it has been interesting. I am very grateful to the internet in having so much information about the Victorian era. The Scarlet Paddle will not be posted online but is available if you would like to lend your expertise as a beta reader. I also want to thank all my readers here and especially the friends I have met since I started writing again three months ago. Your help and love has been priceless. I wouldn’t be writing these novels without your encouragement.

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Chapter 2

Dressed in my new black and white uniform, Mrs. Cleanknockers led me to the kitchen, introduced Cook, and fed me lunch with the downstairs staff. As the new girl the maids and footmen scrutinized me closely for signs of moral failure. Clearly I was not welcome and the slights were not long in manifesting. I ate my meal in silence while Mrs. Cleanknockers grilled her underlings and assigned the afternoon roster. I was exempt: I had an appointment with Lord Caneshard. The sly grins and elbows did not go unnoticed. “Emily and Louisa. Report to the Gun Room at 2.”

The dark oak walls were lined with stuffed animals heads and stuffier ancestral portraits. I giggled nervously as naughty thoughts of mounted Lords filled my mind. My mirth was doused by the stern glare I received from Mrs. Cleanknockers. “This is the Gun Room Ruby,” said icily, “where you will be trained and chastised.” We passed by the locked door. There was no sign that stated ‘Abandon all hope’ but it was implied in her tone. She knocked on m’lord’s office and we entered. “Ruby sir.” I curtsied and when prodded, approached the desk. “You’ve been willful I understand. Excellent!”

Mrs. Cleanknockers handed over a thin folder. “Ruby’s intake m’lord.” She paused. “If I may be so bold m’lord, I believe that she would suit Mr. Jones-Smyth admirably.” I felt Lord Caneshard’s intense scrutiny on my bowed skull. “You state she’s untutored.” My mind raced in panic: had I been deceived? Had I fallen into the evil and depraved clutches of White Slavers? “Untutored yes m’lord, but very responsive.” I felt Mrs. Cleanknockers gloved hand raise my frightened chin. “Obey His Lordship Ruby and you will prosper.” She pressed her moist lips firmly to mine and swept out the door.

Through thick fringe I covertly watched as m’lord rose and walked to a tall wardrobe. The doors were swung open and he pulled a tray outwards. I saw hundreds if not thousands of vertical folders in varying thicknesses. “Ruby, luscious Ruby,” m’lord muttered softly and placed my fate into a vacant slot. “Please m’lord,” I beseeched, “I’ll do whatever you say, but don’t sell me to a brothel!” M’lord spun around. “What on earth?” His mouth gaped. “I heard Mrs. Cleanknockers sir!” I could not prevent the tears. “Ruby! Cease your caterwauling at once! This is not a Penny Dreadful!”

I gulped back sobs as His Lordship shut the wardrobe. “I was going to strap you later after you’ve dusted, but based on your hysterical overwrought theatrics you’ve now earned twice daily discipline for the next week.” He touched my tear stained cheeks and smiled affectionately. “You are not going to be ‘sold’ you silly chit: all my girls are offered the opportunity of marriage to established men of the mercantile class. We will train you in the social and amorous arts and provide you with ample funds. Now! Bend over my desk Ruby and prepare to be soundly strapped.”

Gentle Reader, I have not yet mentioned the uniforms: even today, worn for my husband’s pleasure allows a blush. The Ladies Journals with engravings of floor length modest dresses: we maids were not allowed such protections and, except during our delicate time of the month, no undergarments. Unaware, until m’lord reached behind me, there was a drawstring, when pulled and hooked to a button at my lace collar, raised the flounced hem in back as a curtain at a bawdy play. My entire nether cheeks were exposed to a male gaze for the first time. M’Lord traced the cane welts.

“Mrs. Cleanknockers is an artist with the stick,” m’lord said with approval. He squeezed firmly. I was determined to take my punishment in silence. I learned something that day: the male fingers are nothing like the female touch. The leather strap lay cool and slick on my bare hindquarters. The first blow is always a shock. The sharp snap rings in your ears. The bite on your flesh stings, there is a delayed reaction as the mind tries to reconcile sound and burning sensation. The second blow compounds the confusion. The third and the fourth: you hiss. “Lift up Ruby.”

I obeyed. SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! I lifted my buttocks higher to meet the swung leather. SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! M’Lord was also an artisan of the corporal trade. On the soft and yielding canvas of my nubile body he painted a solid red overlay; the cane tramlines submerged as if a fevered dream forgotten. I broke my promise: I cried out and stamped, begged for forgiveness. Well presented for correction, naïve as I was, I knew there existed more. Mrs. Cleanknockers had gently primed my pump: m’lord drew down the liquid treat with masculine authority. Short, stubby, his digits penetrated.

Where trimmed feminine fingers had coaxed, now, tribute was demanded. Hastened by shallow strokes as thumb rubbed dry tissues, I felt dampness seep from my wicked core. After only one such cataclysmic event I had fallen into depravity worthy of the most wanton Covent Garden light skirt. I didn’t care. “Your report states you had never before experienced le petit mort Ruby.” I gasped as m’lord grazed my erect nub. Lightning flashed to my mouth. “I don’t speak French sir, I’m a nobody turned shameless whore.” SMACK! SMACK! The loud retorts of hand on buttocks resounded. “That word is forbidden.”

M’lord spanked me hard and fast over skin already scalded and sensitized. To my consternation, my secretions flowed ever faster at his masterful treatment. As he punished he lectured, “Vulgarity has a time and a place Ruby, my study, under my hand, is neither.” He plunged one finger deep inside my womanly passage. I lay down my head: heated cheek on the cool wood surface while my hips danced his saucy tune. “The little death, an orgasm, a spend, a cum; do you wish a repeat of Mrs. Cleanknocker’s gift?” His thick thumb probed rear portal still tender and slack.

As I recall, I moaned, dipped my knees and widened my stance at his firm touch. Licentious hussy, I was now a slave to passion. M’lord chuckled, not unkindly, but with knowing anticipation of my journey about to commence. He rubbed harder between my folds. “At Peacock House, everything is earned. Knowledge, income, pain and…” he pinched my ‘spot’ tightly “pleasure.” I squealed. “Stand up and turn round.” My legs shook: my upper thighs were wet. “Your assignment for the coming week is to clean this room daily. If…by half past four you have performed well, I will reward you.”

I curtseyed: my rear remained exposed. “After chastisement all members of my staff are left bare as a reminder.” I must have looked stricken. He patted my cheek my secretions still glistened then ran his damp forefinger slowly over my pouted lips. “Ruby you will see many a nude female and male posterior during your sojourn under my care. All will be red and marked. Later in the Gun Room, all those thusly disciplined will be brought to culmination under the tutelage of Miss Frothinglips and Mr. Steedstiff. Pleasure is only for those who atone.” My tongue tasted my cunny.

My fingers traced the gold gilt on the leather bindings. Never before had I seen more than a dozen books in one place. M’lord had thousands, many in languages unknown. Per instructions, I removed each one, dusted and cleaned the shelf, then moved to the next. I was on the penultimate step of a rolling ladder. A pail swung from a hook. My hips swung, my buttocks visible, my front thatch peeped: I continued to weep arousal. Voices from below, tenors and bass, alto and sopranos, I stared forward and worked without cessation. I wanted a hand… betwixt my thighs.

The slanted beams of thick rich light struck the brass railing as I cleaned the last of the uppermost books. All afternoon steady commerce flowed through m’lord’s hands: I’d listened with uncomprehending ear to the litany of complaints, compliments and conclusions. On occasion, male hands had grasped the ladder sides and carefully maneuvered me further along the shelves. I’d murmured my thanks. They’d taken recompense by avid examinations of my revealed charms safely out of reach. A mechanical cough heralded the deep bong of half past from the mantel clock. “Ah, Miss Frothinglips, assist Ruby as she dismounts the ladder.”

She was the epitome of aristocratic womanhood sprung whole from oil paintings of old. Of medium height, with walnut tresses coiled atop softly rounded serene hazel-green eyes, her pale complexion gazed with utmost confidence of her station. Miss Frothinglips was Lord Caneshard’s ward, social hostess and, with supercilious hauteur, regularly drained the footman of inferior seed. All this, and perfect diction. I hated her. I tucked the pail in my crook and with careful steps made my way near the floor. Chilled silken palms lightly slid over my ankles, up my calves and near my dampened thighs. “You are aroused.”

“May I m’lord?” Miss Frothinglips’ gentle dulcet vowels contrasted sharply with her strong thumbs as they dug into my rear crease. Her nails bit. My knuckles slowly whitened. The pail rattled against the stile. “Jut your buttocks outward Ruby,” His Lordship commanded. He clasped my hands where they clenched the rungs: the vertical lean barely accommodated his bulk. I dipped my knees and squatted, by sore bottom mooned rudely. Eight dainty digits peeled my peach, I felt warm puffs of air; her thumbs prodded my soaked purse, a forefinger pressed my rosebud. “Mr. Steedstiff will appreciate this naughty one m’lord.”

I was released of a sudden and directed to set my shod feet upon the oak floor. I was so combustible I feared the act of walking to the storage closet would cause an explosion. “Before Miss Frothinglips escorts you to dinner, there is the slight matter of discipline and reward.” I was not so subtly nudged towards a red leather wingback chair. She bade me straddle backwards, knees balanced on padded arms, pushed my upper torso down until bodice and arms dangled over the top. My skirt was yanked even further wide and tucked beneath waist. “Twenty more Ruby.”

Streaks of flame lanced my bulge. Miss Frothinglips stood close before me. She allowed my arms around her corseted waist, wrists locked at small of her back. Her hands combed my hair: lawn handkerchief caught my tears. The pain from the leather strap radiated, one stroke only absorbed before the next burned ever hotter. M’lord did not hold back, twas not his style, but beat me hard all the while I writhed and cried for Miss Frothinglips’ pleasure. Still, shameful treatment as it was, my sex throbbed and oozed with each searing blow. At the last excruciating swipe I screamed.

“Poor show Ruby, I expected better from you,” His Lordship remonstrated. “I do not wish to hear such pathetic bleating again. Perhaps a long session with Mrs. Cleanknockers will teach you proper forbearance.” I could not stem my copious tears. “M’lord,” Miss Frothinglips wiped my cheeks dry, “have pity, it is after all her first day at Peacock House. She did a splendid work upon your tomes: the gilt fairly gleams.” Head bowed I did not see my tormentors pass wicked thoughts. “Very well,” m’lord grumped. I flinched when he once more touched my hot dry flesh above: wet below.

All coherent poise fled on downy wings as his hard finger pads grabbed my quim. Palm and thumb rubbed: I fell into the abyss of sin once more. If not anchored firmly on both ends, the chair and I would have splattered. His Lordship forced two crises. I panted, sloe-eyes lidded, in my mouth his wet hand replaced hers, as a mongrel bitch in heat, I lapped and suckled digits, my carnal appetite apparently insatiable. Two hard feminine slaps. I unsteadily clambered off the chair. My uniform restored, hem to mid-shin, eyes downcast, cheeks marked. Miss Frothinglips led me away.

“Thank you miss,” I murmured. “Do not thank me Ruby,” Miss Frothinglips said stiffly, “I will collect my due.” I shivered…not completely in fear. There were tea and pastries laid out in the kitchen: a steady rotation of maids came and went. Two of the footmen strode in: I blushed and hastily averted my gaze. Their trousers were buttoned down in the back, the open flap exposed red striped flesh. Emily and Louisa shuffled by, eyes downcast and skirts rucked up: their bottoms were bruised and scarlet. I gasped involuntarily. The narrowed sideways glances promised retribution at my clothed appearance.

“There you are Ruby,” Mrs. Cleanknockers swept in with the force of a November gale. “His Lordship informs me he is finished using you today.” She drank a cup of tea and nibbled a scone while studying me thoughtfully. “The evening meal will be at eight. Until then…” She tapped her foot. “Come with me Ruby.” I followed dutifully in her formidable wake. Lifting a key on her chatelaine she unlocked the stout door I vaguely remembered from earlier. “I traditionally assign the Gun Room cleaning duties to the newest maid. I expect with your temperament you’ll be here often.”

Gentle Reader: do not be alarmed. The description I am about to reveal was not gleaned in one visit but rather a compilation over my year at Peacock House. Contrary to the bestowed title, there were no guns stored inside: only instruments of discipline and for arousal. Interspersed with oils of hunting hounds and stately homes were canes, strops, paddles, chains and clamps hung from tarnished brass hooks. Other items as well, leather wrapped tubes, ivory horns, plugs of India rubber and other esoteric artifacts in chestnut cedar-lined drawers. Padded tables and chairs sat against walls papered with ancient Rome.

I peered closer at the walls and gasped in outrage. “Something wrong Ruby?” Mrs. Cleanknockers sounded amused. “Permission to speak freely ma’am.” At her curt nod I launched into a diatribe. “This is offensive! How can this be possible? All this filth!” She laughed and patted my head as if a lapdog. “It’s only a few orgy scenes although I will allow the positions are artistic license. You could drive a wagon up her snatch and no trouser serpent I’ve ever handled has had that girth. Or is it the whips you fear?” I shot her a look of scorn.

“I am not afraid ma’am. You’ve stripped me, cleansed me, punished and rewarded me. I care not what you and His Lordship do to me, nor do I care about some moldy pagan sex rituals plastered on these walls. You cannot break me no matter the volume of tears wrung from my eyes or orgasms grabbed from my pussy. I accept my lowly position under your whip: if that is prideful, so be it, I will submit to chastisement. I am however offended by this room. Look ma’am at the tarnish! The dust on the wainscoting, the dull scuffed floors!”

Mrs. Cleanknockers stood over me with mouth agape. I continued my verbal assault. “His Lordship’s study was a mess! All those books covered with dust and I noticed – when bent over for the strap – his desk had no smell of beeswax. Does no one clean Peacock House? Is there no pride in work? Force me to prance naked ma’am and I will, but I refuse to be held responsible for such slovenly rooms.” I folded my arms and waited to be slapped. Instead, her hands clasped my cheeks and her lips hovered close. “Do you truly submit to me Ruby?”

“Yes,” I whispered held in her gaze. What followed was my first kiss. Fragrant moist lips pressed against mine, her tongue traced my mouth’s seam. “Open,” she breathed as light as thistledown. I obeyed and was consumed by her passion. I fumbled but swiftly matched her thrusting tangled rhythm. Her arms around my back, one palm pressed firmly at my nape. I was an apt pupil. My nipples stood tall. My quim quivered once more. What if…? My knees buckled. She wrenched her mouth away. I could not match the heat in her stare and knelt at her booted feet.

A benediction. Her hand rested on my scalp. Seven hours ago I had first met His Lordship and now was ensnared by erotic longings I knew not I had. “Dear Ruby. I promise to cherish your willing submission and train you to run your own household.” She bade me rise and select a cane from the wall. “For the next week whilst bringing your assigned rooms up to your exacting standards, you will be naked so that your uniform remains pristine.” She tapped the cane on her palm and quirked a brow. I neatly removed my smock and bent over.

My bottom was still red and marked from his strap, but Mrs. Cleanknockers sliced my nates eight times in quick succession. I gritted my teeth and endured. I felt sure she’d drawn blood this time but when I ran a shaky palm over the welts, they were raised but dry. “Disappointed?” I winced. “No ma’am. Thank you ma’am.” She chuckled at my martyred expression. “One of these days I will give you a real caning; enjoy your howls for mercy and then put your brash clever mouth to work elsewhere.” She hung the cane back up. “See you for dinner.”

I scoured and scrubbed, rubbed and polished. Very shortly I was grateful for the freedom of movement and ceased to be self-conscious over my nudity. I had ample proof that Mrs. Cleanknockers was attracted to my rounded charms. I was in love with her dominance and longed for the opportunity to prove my worthiness. I was on all fours, back to the door when it swung open. The tap of boots: Miss Frothinglips spoke, “I am here to collect my due. Do not move.” She lashed me hard. A crop I found out later. I wet the floor with desire.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 30)

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I scoured and scrubbed, rubbed and polished. Very shortly I was grateful for the freedom of movement and ceased to be self-conscious over my nudity. I had ample proof that Mrs. Cleanknockers was attracted to my rounded charms. I was in love with her dominance and longed for the opportunity to prove my worthiness. I was on all fours, back to the door when it swung open. The tap of boots: Miss Frothinglips spoke, “I am here to collect my due. Do not move.” She lashed me hard. A crop I found out later. I wet the floor with desire.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 29)

lurvspankingLeave a comment

My bottom was still red and marked from his strap, but Mrs. Cleanknockers neatly sliced my nates eight times in quick succession. I gritted my teeth and endured. I felt sure she’d drawn blood this time but when I ran a shaky palm over the welts, they were raised but dry. “Disappointed?” I winced. “No ma’am. Thank you ma’am.” She chuckled at my martyred expression. “One of these days I will give you a real caning; enjoy your howls for mercy and then put your clever mouth to work elsewhere.” She hung the cane back up. “See you for dinner.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 28)

lurvspankingLeave a comment

A benediction. Her hand rested on my scalp. Seven hours ago I had first met His Lordship and now was ensnared by erotic longings I knew not I had. “Dear Ruby. I promise to cherish your willing submission and train you to run your own household.” She bade me rise and select a cane from the wall. “For the next week whilst bringing your assigned rooms up to your exacting standards, you will be naked so that your uniform remains pristine.” She tapped the cane on her palm and quirked a brow. I neatly removed my smock and bent over.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 27)

lurvspankingLeave a comment

“Yes,” I whispered held in her gaze. What followed was my first kiss. Fragrant moist lips pressed against mine, her tongue traced my mouth’s seam. “Open,” she breathed as light as thistledown. I obeyed and was consumed by her passion. I fumbled but swiftly matched her thrusting tangled rhythm. Her arms around my back, one palm pressed firmly at my nape. I was an apt pupil. My nipples stood tall. My quim quivered once more. What if…? My knees buckled. She wrenched her mouth away. I could not match the heat in her stare and knelt at her booted feet.

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