Flashback Friday: “Sometimes I doubt my sanity”

This week’s Flashback Friday was originally posted, March 23rd, 2010.

Listening to Pink is a mistake: when you’re in a bar at closing time. What she can sing about is not what I should say when I’ve been drinking since ten the previous night. Why drink? Hell, it’s not like I like the taste. But the freedom it offers. Haven’t you always wanted to say whatever the fuck you wanted to whomever you wanted whenever you wanted? Like it’s the buzz, the release of that nattering nanny – aka Mommy Dearest – who is always telling you to keep your knees together and your underwear clean. Hey bitch! I don’t wear underwear anymore! So there! I drink because I’m a powerful modern woman who takes no prisoners. Gurls rock! I LOVE YOU PINK! OK. Hangovers suck. Especially since all my BFFs have betrayed the code and gotten married to “He’s so sweet and nice and so romantic.” Fuck you! I don’t need you to hold my hair back. Rubber bands work just fine. I don’t need romance and flowers and hearts carved in trees. If I want sex, I take it. No man has ever turned me down I’ll have you know. I use them and toss them back into that cesspool known as dating. I don’t date. I fuck. I fuck in the day, at night; whenever and wherever I want. I can’t believe they busted me for public indecency! Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve blown over half the cops in this crappy town and now they suddenly get all righteous on my ass? WTF? Hey! I got a great ass if I do say so myself and I do say so myself even if it’s currently parked in the slammer between a hooker and a druggie. Excuse me? Alcohol is legal and so is sex: the last time I checked it was still a free country. Everyone has sex but everyone acts like the biggest frigging prudish hypocrite when they actually see something sexual going down. Did I mention I like going down? Please. Like any guy would turn down a blow job from a smoking hot chick like moi. That’s french for ‘me’ in case you were wondering. I am an international woman of mystery. But I wouldn’t blow Austin Powers on a dare. Five hundred? Maybe. Fine. I’m picky, so sue me. It’s not like I’m desperate or anything. We are way off the beaten path in this podunk excuse for a community, but there are still enough guys, married or otherwise to go around. Believe you me, they get around, I have the pictures to prove it. Did someone say pictures? I meant memories. I would never stoop to shooting a porno flick. I mean I could, I am a dynamic sex goddess even if my name isn’t Crystal Kneepads, but you know, making money off my body doesn’t seem right. Food and drinks are good, jewelry and gift cards are better, but straight cash seems tawdry and cheap. Sorry if that pisses you off honey but I like to choose my partners. Really? Judge Myers? He does what? That pervert! I can’t believe it! What? It beats a couple of years upstate? How many times have you… that many? Why do you keep coming back? You like it? WTF? Why would anyone like to be spanked? Cause it feels good? OK. If you say so. Damn. I have got to get outta here. Stuck in jail with bimbos who like to get spanked by a judge in lieu of prison time. That’s french for ‘you’re fucked so bend over and take what’s coming to you’. Oh well. I guess it’s better than being some dykes bitch. Maybe Judge Myers would accept a blow job instead. Haven’t done him yet. Always thought he was kinda creepy. Who knew?

Flashback Friday: “What is the perfect bottom type?”

This week’s Flashback Friday, originally posted, October 10th, 2009.

Theresa handed me a flyer. “I think you need this, Clara.”
She was my best friend, and I’d known her since grade school, but we hadn’t seen each other since the wedding two years ago. Now spending the week at our house, I’d thought she was having a great time. I read the flyer in shock.

Domestic Violence Hotline
1-800-xxx-xxxx

“What’s this?”
She patted my back gently. “I know you’re in denial, Clara. I heard what that brute of your husband did to you last night. I could hear you screaming and begging, but he didn’t stop! I was about to call the police but I wanted to talk to you first.”
I couldn’t help it; I burst out laughing. Theresa looked hurt and confused when I crumpled up the flyer and tossed it away.
“Thanks for the concern, but Kurt doesn’t abuse me. He was only spanking me last night.”
“SPANKING! You’re husband SPANKS you? That… that is barbaric!”

I spent the next several hours explaining our marriage and the rules I followed with the consequences for misbehavior. Theresa grew more agitated with every detail until I was afraid she would pack up and leave. Luckily, Kurt came home unexpectedly early and walked in on her strident denunciation of him. Not even pausing for breath, she laid into my husband calling him ‘wife-beater’ and ‘misogynist asshole’ among the nicest oaths.

“Are you finished, Theresa?”
“NO!”
“Well, what my wife and I do in the privacy of our home and marriage in none of your concern. I appreciate your loyalty to my wife and I realize you’ve known her for a long time. But that knowledge should be with the understanding that Clara is a strong woman and would never tolerate abuse from me.”
“It’s barbaric, Kurt! How can you even think of spanking your wife?”

Kurt sat down on the couch, patted his lap and I immediately lay across his knees in the very comforting position. Before Theresa could even leave the room, Kurt flipped up my skirt, tugged down my panties and gave me a very firm and very fast hand spanking on my still sore bottom. When he finished—for now—he glanced up at the slack-jawed Theresa and said without a hint of irony, “I spank my wife because she has the perfect bottom type. It’s bare, and over my knees.”

Outlaw in leather

Haylee Anna Cummings had never outgrown her tomboy antics, but, by middle school, her fists had settled the issue of her name for good. After graduation, legally emancipated by age, the foster care system washed its hands. She straddled her motorcycle and lit out on a Wanderjahr. Her short hair ruffled, goggles over her eyes and a pistol in her saddlebag, she traveled the country, not so much searching, as simply living day-to-day. To paraphrase the sentiment—wine, women and song—she liked rough whiskey, rougher men and heavy metal.

By the time she turned twenty-one, the rear view mirror had gotten old, but she wasn’t ready to settle down into domestic bliss. Then, he crossed her path.

She first met Lance DuBois at the dive out on Highway 50 halfway to nowhere. Too seedy to be called a honky-tonk, Kribbs was so rundown, even the alkies stayed closer to town. The local bikers kept going rather than risk hepatitis—or worse—by setting boots inside the place. The scuttlebutt around Spar Creek was that the bar had been built on top of an ancient burial ground. Supposedly the spirits of dead shamans possessed those who dared drink too much firewater.

“Helloooo! Anybody here?”

The buzzing neon signs, of brands both famous and obscure, gave off less radiation than Haylee Anna’s scorched hormones when Lance ambled out from the back room.

“What’s your poison?”
“A hard cock. What’s yours?”
“A paddle.”
“Good thing I’m wearing jeans.”
“Bare bottom only, lady.”
“Fuck…”
“That too.”
“I’m in love.”
“No you’re not.”
Lance reached under the counter and slapped an oak plank on the bar top.
“Most bartenders keep a bat or a shotgun, not a paddle.”
“I’m not most bartenders.”
“I get that impression.” She glanced around at the empty room, the jukebox and television silent. “Are you even open?”
He didn’t answer right away; instead, he sauntered to the front door, locked it and then flicked the sign over to ‘closed’. Never looking away from her lazy smile, he came back, slid his butt on the stool next to her and drawled softly, “Not now.”
“So I see. Should I be worried?”
Lance smirked and set his elbow on the polished surface. “So? What’ll it be?”
She hefted the wood and tapped it on her palm. “You got experience with this thing?”
“Honey, I wrote the book on paddling.”
“Well, in that case, stud, I’ve a hankering for a shot or two of the best you got.”

Haylee Anna spun the stool around and hopped down onto the tacky floor. Her stiletto boots clacked as she sashayed over to the scarred pool table. The zipper made a loud rasp as her leather jacket came off to be tossed on the green felt. Her braless nipples pressed the thin tank top into puckered peaks. The heavy belt buckle clanked as she shimmied her boot cut jeans down over her hips. The red silk panty shone like a siren in the dim light. Slowly, she turned her back to Lance, and placing her hands on the soft surface, slid her palms forward until her waist touched the rail.

“Nice thong.”
“Thanks.”
“Nicer ass.”
“You’re welcome.”
“It’s not bare though.”
“Oh? You want a peek of my pink too?”
“That would be nice.”
“Well, a man’s gotta do what he promised. I guess you’ll just have to take ’em down nice and easy.”

Lance tucked the paddle under one arm, and hooked his thumbs into the strings at her hipbones. As he tugged the soft fabric, she arched her bottom and widened her stance. He left them tautly stretched between her muscular thighs.

“Think you can take fifty, sweet cheeks?”
“Think you can fuck for fifty minutes, honey buns?”

SMACK!

“Oh yeah, baby, give it to me nice and hard.”

SMACK!

“Fuck! I’ve missed this.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“Damn, that burns like a thirty-year-old scotch.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“Keep ’em coming barkeep, this girl needs a fire down below.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“Halfway there, darling, you sure you can handle what I can dish out?”

SMACK! SMACK!

“Ain’t never been a man that can handle this chick.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“You can rev her up and ride her hard into the sunset, but she’ll out-fuck and out-drink you and then break your heart with a smile.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“Good thing I don’t have one then.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“Every man’s a mama’s boy inside. They can run their mouths longer than they can fuck a real woman.”

SMACK! SMACK!

“Sounds like a challenge.”

SMACK!

“You up for it?”

SMACK!

“Last one.”

SMACK!

“Got a condom? Or are you like most men, a whiny bitch afraid to cover her meat?”

Lance threw the paddle onto the pool table and unbuttoned his jeans. He ripped open the package and rolled the sheath over his cock. He grabbed her hips, pulling the flaming hot buttocks up to his waist probing for her opening.

“Hope you don’t need an instruction manual, cause if you don’t fuck my pussy better than you spanked my ass, I’m going to be really pissed.”
“I’m gonna shoot my eight-ball in your pocket, bitch, after I run your fucking table.”
“This, I gotta see. Give it your best shot, motherfucker, either way, I’m outta here in fifty-minutes.”

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

Flashback Friday: “Ask me once, ask me twice…”

“… and don’t spare the rod”

This week’s Flashback Friday, was orginally posted Oct 10th, 2009.

Anna could have simply asked for a spanking. Leo was, if anything, more than willing to indulge her passion for a sore bottom. But asking was too easy. So was dropping coy hints or licking frosting off a wooden spoon. Printed panties: not very subtle. So what did Anna decide?

Well, each day of the week had a special word. When Anna used that special word, Leo could spank her. To make things interesting, Leo only had thirty minutes to begin the spanking or else he forfeited the chance to spank Anna until the following day.

Anna took advantage of that twist by using the special spanking code word in the most inappropriate places. Having dinner with the in-laws, sitting in church, driving on the interstate just after passing a rest area, Anna was quite creative with her timing.

Leo however rose to the occasion every single time and Anna always had a red, sore bottom when returning to the dinner table, the church pew or the passenger seat of the car. The more awkward the timing, the harder Leo would spank. Anna’s ultimate goal was to be spanked in a place she was sure Leo couldn’t carry out the deed.

Turns out the captain of the aircraft was a spanko and when he asked for a vote over the intercom, the majority of the passengers wanted to see and hear Leo do the deed. Anna didn’t know the captain was a college frat buddy of Leo. It was a very long flight for Anna, four hours sitting, minus the thirty-minute spanking observed by all on the plane.

When she used the special code word the next day while sunning at the resort pool, Leo simply rolled her over and ‘touched’ up the parts he’d missed the day before. Her thong bikini matched the color perfectly. ‘Red Bottom Baby’ by Leo.

“A Disciplined Model”

“S’il vous plaît, Renée, be still and do not smile!”
“I am trying, Pierre, but my arm is asleep!”
“A few more minutes, I must capture your face before the light fades.”
“That’s what you said a half an hour ago!”
“I knew I should have hired Angelique for this commission.”
“Angelique! She is but a common whore.”
“She does not pout, Renée! She is obedient and demure as a model should be!”
“Does she suck you off? Are her titons as big as mine?”
“Titons?”
“Yes, my bosom, you cretin. Do you not like them when I shake my shoulders?”
“The word is les tétons, mademoiselle, and you must be STILL!”
“Bah, Pierre, you are no more French than I am, no one cares.”
“Except my clients, who incidentally, allow me to pay you.”
“Rich and stupid Americans, here for their Grand Tour and forged antiques.”
“And the Exposition of 1900 as well, don’t forget.”
“Oh yes, the wonders of progress designed to fleece the workers of hard earned francs.”
“Don’t roll your eyes!”
“How about my hips instead?”
“That’s it, Renée! You’re an incorrigible brat! Angelique will replace you.”
“No, Pierre! I am sorry. Do not dismiss me. I’ll behave, I promise.”
“It’s too late. Get dressed and get out. We’re through.”
“Please, monsieur, give me another chance. See? You like my bottom.”
“So?”
“So. I’ve been very naughty. I deserve a good whipping, not dismissal.”
“I don’t care.”
“Please, Pierre. I am bent over for you. You can see everything. I don’t mind.”
If, I whip you, Renée, that is only a small down payment for my wasted time.”
“Yes, yes, I agree, punish me, Pierre, make me behave.”
“What shall I use? I must not damage my hands.”
“Do you still have the props?”
“Of course! The martinet is even properly French. Here it is.”
“Hurry, Pierre. I feel very excited and wet for you.”
“Who’s the whore now?”
“I am, Pierre. I am your whore. Whip me. Beat me. Use me hard!”
“Like that, you slut? And that? Across your broad, naked rump like that, you brazen hussy.”
“Oui! Oui! I am nothing but a wanton for you! Harder, Pierre, do it harder!”
“I should have flogged you the first time you caused trouble.”
“Oui! Harder, faster. Let me feel the leather thongs rake my naughty arse.”
“I suppose I should whip you before every session as a reminder.”
“Oui, Pierre! Every day and every night, make me red and striped.”
“The red lines on your dusky skin are so striking.”
“Oh, like that, and again, and again, I am getting so close.”
“Careful of your fingers in your pussy, I don’t want to strike them.”
“Then strike my wicked pussy instead! Swing up from below.”
“Like that?”
“OUI! Oh mon Dieu, do it again!”
“I didn’t know whipping there was even possible.”
“I’m coming!”
“So I see, Renée. A few more blows there, and there, and there.”
“Fuck me, Pierre! My pussy hurts, I want it to hurt even more.”
“Later.”
“Later? I must have your cock now!”
“Don’t move, Renée. The sun angle highlights all your red stripes. I must paint quickly.”

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

Flashback Friday: “The Blind Date”

This week for Flashback Friday, I offer a tail about a blind date that leads to a discovery. Originally published, Sept. 17th, 2009.

Mary woke the morning after the night she never wanted to end. Robert – the blind date – had arrived precisely at 7:30 pm and she, being a woman, was not ready. It was her prerogative she told him politely. All I need is a little freshening up and we can leave. Robert put his foot down. It is my prerogative to deal with your lateness so it does not become habitual. Mary suddenly found herself spun round, bent over and a hard hand swiftly spanking her bottom through her pleated wool skirt. Ten smacks later, upright and in shock, Robert told her he was leaving in five minutes, with or without her.

Three minutes and twenty-five seconds later, Mary was on Robert’s arm. The only freshening up she managed to do was a change of knickers. Plain, wet white ones for a black, lace thong… plus several spares in case he spanked her again… or not. Robert opened the passenger door to his gleaming Lexus and told her to wait. Squeezing her chin in his hand he dictated the evening’s schedule. Rather than bridling at his dominance, Mary returned his gaze boldly and said yes, sir. Robert smirked, good girl. That remains to be seen thought Mary. As if hearing her willful thoughts, Robert watched her carefully as she slid into the car, legs together as a lady ought. Nodding with approval, he drove off into the sunset towards their destiny.

It was a restaurant called Sunset Destiny.

The valet opened the doors and waited for Robert to escort his lady inside. Mary bit her lip and ever so daringly flashed just the hint of black lace as her long legs swung to the pavement. The valet jumped in the driver’s seat and Robert told him to wait. Mary, he ordered, turn around and place your hands on the boot and thrust your bottom out. Mary obeyed, blushing to her roots and locked eyes with the stunned valet. Fifteen harder smacks later, the car was gone and so was Mary’s heart.

The food was excellent, the service was impeccable and one glass of wine turned into two and then three. Robert made no demands, no observations and no threats: only witty and broad conversation, lots of smoldering glances and some daring footsie under the table. Mary was determined to push all Robert’s buttons: baiting a bear be damned, Robert was hers no matter the price. For someone who’d never been spanked prior to this evening, his mastery was flaming a conflagration that threatened to consume her soul. It was all she could do not to climb on the table and beg for his cock. She fanned her face and excused herself. The spare knickers were calling urgently.

The same valet rushed Robert’s car to the entrance, received his fifty-dollar tip and waited eagerly for a repeat performance. He was not disappointed. Mary, slightly tipsy, carelessly flopped into the passenger seat revealing to Robert’s disapproving eyes, a flash of pink. Wet, glistening pink. Mary smiled guilelessly. Robert hauled her out and flung her over the warm bonnet. Her bottom was suddenly exposed to the cool evening air and any who chanced to look. Twenty very hard spanks rang out in the silent courtyard. The sound of flesh on flesh ringing off the stone walls drew the intense interest of every patron.

Where are your knickers? In my purse… several dry pairs. Robert reached in and grabbed a pair. Mary remained bent over and nude from the waist down. She felt him squat down, she shivered, the impulse to submit was now overwhelming. She didn’t care about the audience, she didn’t care about the juices running down her thighs, she wanted to be taken, branded by her newfound master. Robert touched an ankle, she raised a foot and he slid the knickers over one and then the other. Raising them to calf level, he ordered her to pull them up. No, stay bent over and don’t you dare drop your skirt while you apologize to all who witnessed your disgrace.

At her apartment, she asked him in: for a ‘nightcap’. She offered herself. Begged and pleaded. Robert informed her he did not have sex on a first date. However, he was very displeased with her behavior. I know, said Mary. What must I do to atone? Strip naked and bend over the arm of your leather couch. Mary shed her clothes like rain in a desert and presented her faintly marked hindquarters in a classic pose. Forty extremely hard spanks rocked her naughty backside and when it was over, to Mary’s sorrow, Robert bade her stand, hands behind her head. He looked her up and down, noting her arousal in her face, neck, breasts and genitals.

I will pick you up at 7:00 pm tomorrow. You will be dressed and waiting for me: on your knees, in the foyer. While you service me and swallow my seed, I expect you to be remembering this evening. Is that all, sir? No dear, Mary. I wish a full report, in writing, of your masturbatory exploits whence I depart soon. I demand at least six orgasms from you this evening or you will face the wrath of my cane. Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!

Of course, you’ll be caned either way.

Robert kissed Mary firmly on her quivering lips, his hands finally roaming freely over her back and tender bottom. He slipped a finger over her anus and into her sopping slit. She came in a shattering wave of pleasure. That doesn’t count, darling. Good night and sleep well.

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

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

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

“Beating up my inner feminist”

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

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

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

Flashback Friday: Looking but not touching

A new feature I am going to highlight is Flashback Friday. This happens to be the very first post on Lurv Spanking from Sept. 6th, 2009. It’s about power exchange and the modern office. It stops before the actual spanking begins.

“An Office Thrashing”

One of curious characteristics of a spanko is the slow and somewhat creepy way the desire becomes an obsession. For Miles Franklin that desire used to be the usual blowjob under the desk by a hot secretary giving dictation but lately, that fantasy had added a dark twist. Whenever Sarah or Madison or Tiffenee or any other of the very hot, very under dressed and very married women on the 27th floor strode purposely past his corner office, the urge to leap out and grab her by the hair, drag her kicking and squealing face down on his desk and proceed to spank her until she moaned for more: his cock was rigid thinking about the designer wool skirt hiked up around her waist and the silk thong corded around squirming thighs. Sometimes the blowjob came first; sometimes afterwards, sometimes… it went right to fucking.
He sighed. That’s why the last untold numbers of relationships had foundered. No matter how adventurous the modern girl was in bed – very adventurous in fact – they all freaked out when he’d oh so politely broached the subject of spanking. Disgust, anger and threats of lawyers were the various responses. No girl, excuse me, no woman in her right mind ever wanted to be spanked. ‘Beaten? What are you? Some kind of pervert? What’s next? Schoolgirl outfit and whips? I am out of here… Jerk!’
“Mr. Franklin?”
“Yes, Joan?”
“A Mr. Stanmore to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment but he states it is very urgent.”
“Alright, send him in.”
Miles adjusted himself: one good thing about briefs, a hard cock could be shoved and bent easier than with boxers… or commando. A business smile graced his rather ordinary features and hands rested quietly on the leather blotter.
“Mr. Stanmore, sir.”
“Thank you, Joan. Pleasure to meet you. Please, have a seat, Mr. Stanmore.”
“Please, call me George. I apologize for barging in on you unexpectedly, but I have some rather disturbing news for you.”
Miles raised an eyebrow inquisitively. “In what matter?”
George took a deep breath. “You know my wife… Ellen, she works here in Accounting.”
“Ellen Stanmore? I don’t recollect ever meeting her.”
“I’m sorry. I should have said Ellen McCrannock, she kept her family name when we got married three years ago. She’s rather headstrong that way… and… in other things.” George trailed off uncertainly.
“I’m puzzled now, George. I have no oversight over Accounting and have only seen your wife at company functions. As far as I know, we’ve never spoken beyond casual greetings. How is this my business?”
“Sir, I realize you are very busy but this can’t wait. Would you mind having your receptionist call Ellen and ask her come down to your office?”
Miles sat back in his chair, clearly confused, but George looked desperate and even a little scared, so he did as requested and the two men waited for ten minutes in awkward silence until Ellen knocked quietly on Miles’ door. They both rose and George went to greet his very surprised wife and escort her to his vacated chair. As she sat down and swiveled to look at her husband, he drew the blinds closed on all the windows and discreetly locked the door. Returning to his wife’s side, he said, “You might want to hold your calls.”
“What’s going on, George? Why am I here? I’ve never had anything to do with Mr. Franklin. I have work to do!”
“Ellen. Be quiet!” George pressed both hands firmly on his wife’s shoulders, pinning her in the chair. “I asked Mr. Franklin to meet you because of what we discussed last weekend.”
Ellen gasped in horror. “No! You can’t possibly mean that! I’ll never…”
The sound of a slap echoed in the room as George smacked his angry wife’s face. “I said, be quiet. You know what you did, you know the penalty and you know that I, not you, have the final say in the punishment. Not… one… more… word, or it will be doubled. Is that clear?”
Tears welled up in Ellen’s green eyes and her lips quivered as she gazed helplessly up at her stern husband. He shook her slightly and she broke out into open sobs of despair.
“Pftttt. You’d think she’d never been punished before the way she’s carrying on!” He glanced at Miles, “May I call you Miles? Thank you. Here’s the deal. Ellen broke the rules, her rules, not mine and due to… well, let’s just say ‘past indiscretions’ and leave it at that, she agreed that I would decide how, when and where she would be punished.”
Miles put his hands up and leaned away. “You can’t mean…”
“Yes, right here, right now.”
“Fine George… and Ellen… I’ll just leave and let you, er, get on with the punishment then.”
“No, Miles. I’d like you, no, I demand you punish my naughty wife.”
A simultaneous intake of outrage, fear and a good deal of excitement from Miles and Ellen. She shook her head and avoided any eye contact. Miles shook his head and felt his mouth hanging open in shock. “Bluh… bluh…”
“Let me explain Miles. Ellen and I have a D/D marriage that includes other people and other… things. Strictly consensual on both our parts of course and the reason I chose you is because Ellen wanted to be spanked by you.” She hunched over in mortification and hid behind her trembling hands. George gently stroked her brunette curls and continued. “She asked around the office and all the girls said emphatically that you’d never touched them or treated them with anything less than professional courtesy. Even when they sashayed past your office in tight miniskirts you never said anything, just undressed them with hungry eyes. There are quite a few spankos on this floor, but none of them have understanding husbands. You see Miles, nothing gets me hotter than watching another man – or woman – using and abusing my lovely wife. And she: she sheds her stuffy accountant attitude faster than her clothes when a tough guy yanks her chain.” He grabbed the back of her head and twisted Ellen’s face so she was staring at Miles. “Isn’t that right, slut?”
Miles saw the varied expressions flit across Ellen’s damp cheeks and the handprint George had left. Hunger and desire were the most prominent. He stood up, walked around the corner of his desk, then perched his buttocks on the edge in front of Ellen. George rolled her back slightly, still holding her firmly at the nape. Her eyes went straight to the bulge of Miles’ slacks. George hissed, “You like what you see?”
Ellen moaned deeply.
George opened his mouth to speak again but Miles cut him off sharply. “I’ll take care of this naughty girl George, you go have a seat on the couch. I think it’s time someone taught this tease it’s not nice to arouse a hard man.”

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 6)

“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.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 5)

“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)

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

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 3)

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)

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.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 3 (Part 1)

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.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles Chapter 2 Complete

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.

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

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)

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.

Armistice Day


I wanted to share this post again that I wrote back in 2009 for Armistice Day known now as Veteran’s Day in the United States.

On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month in the year 1918 World War I came to an end with an armistice involving nearly all the warring parties. For Mrs. Jensen she felt the deadly chill thawing when she began to hope she’d see her husband again. For two long years she’d lived in dread of the Western Union boy. Refusing to read the papers or the periodicals, she’d even walked out of the cinema to avoid the patriotic newsreels.

Three weeks later, a letter from the Army, her husband had been discharged and would be home in two weeks. For her sanity, Mrs. Jenson did nothing different, not even mark the calendar. She honestly couldn’t remember the feel of his arms around her or even the deep penetration when they made love. The other things, those she recalled with clarity.

The chuff-chuff of the special troop train gradually quieted only to be replaced by loud cheers and the local brass band playing triumphant airs. The orderly crowd quickly broke into a frenzy of yells, tears and ecstatic families finally reunited. Craning her neck, Mrs. Jenson thought she saw her husband, but waited patiently away from the maddened crush. Then, he was holding her, his lips trembling as she wept happy tears of relief.

After dinner, a repast he likened to the finest ambrosia, he took her hand and led her to their bedroom. He poured out two years of horror, despair and brutality on her acquiescent body. She found, to her surprise, responding enthusiastically to his advances. Even trying things she’d refused to do before the war as being unladylike. There was one thing she needed however.

Before they slept from passion temporarily satiated, she retrieved his leather strop, hanging where he had left it and oiled regularly by Mrs. Jenson in his absence. She removed her nightgown, another first, and eagerly bent over the bolsters. Rising once more, her husband took her again as she moaned wantonly. There was no armistice in the Jenson household. The strop rose and fell harshly on her bottom, steadily turning two years of neglect into a flaming red rear.

When he finished, she was so aroused. Needing another go, she dropped to her knees. Only on her wedding night had she allowed him to put his male part in her mouth, but Mrs. Jenson was so hot, so aflame with lust, she had to succor him: taste her essence and draw him close, draining all his nightmares while awake. When he plunged back in, close to spending, she begged for him to use her mouth when he was ready. The cold they both had lived for two years was now hot as the viscous fluid pouring down her throat.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 29)

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)

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)

“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.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 26)

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?”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 25)

“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!”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 24)

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.

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

The Bloody Merry Book Club

“We need to shake things up this year!” The speaker was Joyce as she addressed the other nine members of the monthly Bloody Merry Book Club. The name was selected due to two factors: the love of alcohol and murder. “We’ve done the classics, the cooks, the cats – the many, many cats – the widows and the creatures. It’s Halloween girls! Do we really want to spend the night trick-or-treating again? Let our menfolk take the kids for once.”

There was a murmur of support under the cover of clinking glasses. Amber asked, “What do you have in mind?”

“Well! Let me tell you what I’ve been planning,” Joyce answered as she rubbed her hands together. “We’ll meet…”

The historic Wallace Mansion was decorated and illuminated brightly for All Hallows’ Eve. Beginning at noon and ending at 1am there was a steady roster of fun events for all ages. The culmination of the annual festivities was the 40th edition of the Charity Costume Ball: all proceeds donated to local organizations. The cash bar pumped up the coffers. The police gave free rides home.

The club members all arrived by eight in the evening, sugar wired children deposited then watched by the posse of deputized husbands at Carmine’s house; the shrieking sleepover in full swing. Joyce’s spouse was out of town – or so she said – on an emergency company trip. They rendezvoused at the bar. All of them wore masks and the Bloody Merry badge, a shot glass with crossed knives. They ordered drinks and Joyce led them through the back hallways where quiet corners were all filled with revelers as they indulged in naughty fantasies. They dodged and weaved and apologized until Joyce arrived at the door and with a dramatic flourish produced a silver gilt key. “Your attention Ladies! Welcome to the All Hallows’ Eve Bloody Merry party.”

The latch released with strained groans, the hinges protested loudly as the elaborate carved mahogany panel pivoted open and revealed a vast unrelieved darkness. Joyce flicked the switch. A string of bare light bulbs illuminated the spartan interior. The bare pine steps led down into the reputed haunted bowels of the mansion. It was said Spenser Wallace disposed of his first wife during the construction of the concrete foundation. That titillating fact was trumpeted on the front cover of the brochure in the gift shop. True or not, the cleaners demanded double pay to enter the cellar and always worked in large groups. Joyce was granted the room at no charge after she had signed a waiver absolving the Wallace Foundation of all responsibility.

The caretaker had set up several round tables with candles and a separate one with refreshments. The emergency exit, now propped open, had been added during past renovations. It had been pointedly pointed out to Joyce when she’d booked the basement: as was the fact no staff had agreed to partake in serving the party. Joyce had pooh-poohed the ghostly legend and with her normal steamroller antics then ‘persuaded’ her fellow club members to attend a secret party with a special guest.

Joyce clattered down the steps and made a quick perusal of the tables. “All right ladies. You can take your masks off now.” She turned to Laura and Amie. “Help me push these tables closer together.” The scrape of metal legs on concrete grated but was short lived. “Grab something to munch on everyone and let’s get started. Our guest will be here shortly.”

While the ladies topped off their glasses and selected snacks, Joyce opened the cardboard box and removed the contents. She set a book at each place setting and lit the large candles in the center of both tables. As her friends settled in the chairs and exclaimed over the lurid book cover Joyce swiped a drink and canapé for herself. She then retreated to the base of the stairs and turned off the lights at the secondary switch. The room was plunged back into darkness to the excited squeals of eight dimly lit faces.

“This ladies is the selection for the coming month. Rather than discuss last month’s novel I wanted to introduce a new author to us.” Joyce paused and raised her book so that embossed figure on the glossy paper glittered in the candle’s glow. “Lysander Stanopolis has created a character that thrives in the dark corners of twisted souls. Sir Nachton MacRath is a Scottish Highlander Vampire Steampunk Regency Pirate who solves the coldest of cases for the Crown. “All eyes were on Joyce as she continued dramatically said, “Ladies of the Bloody Merry Club! It is with great pleasure that I introduce to you, the immortal Sir Nachton MacRath!”

The emergency door was yanked open and great rush of cold air flooded the basement. It smelled of old blood and wicked corruption not seen since ages past. The women squealed when the heavy draught snuffed out all but one of the wicks. The soft tread of foot drew near. The air grew colder still. The women froze.

Out of the gloom loomed a figure swaddled in sable. An otherworldly nimbus hovered at the edge of a hooded visage. A pale hand reached into the gold circle cast by a single flame. A gleam of steel: a rasp of flint. A warm, luxurious, melodic masculine voice said, “Ladies. Allow me.” The individual candles reignited. The frozen faces thawed. The hood was thrown back to reveal an ornate red and gold full-face mask: pale eyes pierced each woman in turn. His gaze lingered on Joyce.

“Welcome Sir,” she said more than slightly out of breath. “I trust your journey was not too difficult.”

“M’lady.” He placed a hand to his heart and bowed. “I have answered your summons and brought the sacred object.” He flicked back his cloak and removed a long wrapped package from a silver hook at his belt. He laid it across his left forearm and offered the hilt to Joyce. She drew it forth with a slither of silk, raised it high then placed it in the center of the table. There was a simultaneous hiss of shock from eight throats.

“Oh no you didn’t!” Tawanda cried out.

Over the babble of shocked objections Joyce shouted, “Ladies! We talked about this two months ago!” As they quieted down she continued, “We talked about consequences because all of us have been guilty of not reading the assigned book.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Mary retorted, “Robert spanks you all the time!”

“And it works!” Joyce shot back. “Don’t tell me y’all wouldn’t be better in getting your tardy asses in gear with dear ole hubby waiting at home paddle in hand.”

“I agree with Joyce.”

“Olivia!” Paula yelped. “Since when?”

“Since we discussed it. I went to Tom and we agreed to a trial run. He spanks me when I misbehave or fail to do my chores on time. Ladies, it works.”

“Well,” Amber huffed, “if I’d known about this ahead of time Joyce, I would have complained.”

Joyce stood up again and waved her hands for quiet. “Ladies, if you don’t want this, that’s fine. I thought it was settled, obviously I was wrong.”

SMACK! Echoed in the basement followed by a loud OUCH from Joyce.

Dead silence fell.

Sir Nachton MacRath hefted the scarlet cherry wood paddle. It was twelve inches long, three-quarters of an inch thick with a six-inch handle threaded with a leather thong looped around his wrist. The beveled edges were carved with runes and both flat surfaces had been sanded to a high gloss then covered with red lacquer after the club emblem had been burned into the ends.

“Lady Joyce,” the vampire detective purred with a voice centuries old, “am I to understand you were remiss in informing your fellow members of my presence here on this most holy of nights?”

“Yes, no,” she squeaked. “Sorry.”

“Then Lady Joyce, by the regulations you yourself desire, you shall be the first to christen this paddle with your tears of remorse.”

Joyce felt his large hand push her inexorably forward and down until her arms rested on the table surface. There was a scrabble to move the candles away lest her hair catch fire. Fingers roamed and explored her backside freely. “Are all women dressed so outlandishly in this time?”

“It’s All Hallows’ Eve Sir,” Carmine said. “It’s a time for dress up and fantasy.”

“In my day,” Sir Nachton MacRath said, “only wanton trollops dared appear in public thusly adorned. They were often soundly thrashed for loose morals.”

“Just who do you think you are?” Amie protested. “You waltz in here all dark and spooky and threaten to spank us. You have no right!”

Dead silence. The room grew colder as the walls seemed to shrink and squeeze the air from the women’s lungs.

CRACK! “I am Sir Nachton MacRath, Peer of the Realm.” CRACK! “Immortal vampire, lover of many and anointed chastiser for the Queen!” CRACK! “Lady Joyce summoned me across time with dark magic!” CRACK! “She at least owes me her bottom in recompense for my travels!” CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Joyce was confused as the paddle rose and fell on her costumed posterior. This was not what she and her husband had agreed upon. It was supposed to be some lighthearted fun and roleplaying! Pinned to the table by one cold hand at her nape while her bottom was spanked hard was way out of line! “Sir! I’m sorry for bringing here under false pretenses but aren’t you going to read an excerpt from your latest adventure?”

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! “That is true Lady Joyce.” CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! “I did promise a reading for the members.” CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! “Very well. No Lady Joyce, remain as you are, you have not yet atoned for your presumptuous behavior.” The vampire gathered the ladies with his shimmering gaze. “Consider this a test of loyalty. I have found when dealing with the fickle sex, they will betray and malign their friends at the slightest provocation.” CRACK! “I will recite a tale while each of you will choose to either join Lady Joyce and be punished or shall join me in punishing her.” CRACK! “Choose your fate Ladies and be quick, midnight will be here soon enough and I must fly back to my home.”

Tears sprang into Joyce’s eyes when only Olivia bent over by her side. “Girls! How could you do this to me?”

“As I suspected,” the vampire said with relish. “Who would like a turn first?”

“Give me that thing!” Tawnda said harshly. “I hope you’re satisfied for ruining Halloween Joyce. Forget about a reading you creepy vamp wannabe. I’m going to paddle yo’ ass hard girl and then I’m going upstairs to find myself a real party.”

One by one Joyce’s so called friends hit her sore bottom twice while she cried in anger and embarrassment. Some apologized and some spanked softly, but all got their licks in before they too went upstairs. Olivia was not spanked by any of the girls and was left to squeeze Joyce’s hand and whisper reassurances.

“Do you want me to stay?” Olivia asked with concern.

Joyce sobbed and said brokenly, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this! Why did this happen to me?”

The brief sound of loud music wafted down the stairs for the last time as Olivia gently shut the door behind her.

Sir Nachton MacRath raised Joyce to her feet and pressed an embroidered linen handkerchief into her shaken hands. “Dry your eyes little one. You are better off without them.”

“How dare you say that Robert! I knew you never liked my friends but you’ve gone way too far this time!”

“Excuse me Lady Joyce, who is Robert?”

Joyce blew her nose loudly. “Give me break Robert. It’s over and you’ve had your fun. I don’t know how I’m going to face them upstairs… the children! What am I supposed to say when we pick them up at Carmine’s tomorrow?” Joyce shoved the vampire in the chest. “You better fix this buster or you’ll be sleeping on the couch for the rest of your life!”

“You are overwrought m’lady. Let me soothe your bruised flesh and take away all of your pains.”

“Stop already Robert! This isn’t funny.” Joyce stalked over to the emergency exit. “Let me lock up and I’ll turn the key over to the custodian upstairs.”

A frosted steel claw clamped over her wrist. “I cannot allow you to do that Lady Joyce. I have marked you as mine.”

“Let go of me!”

Joyce’s phone rang and shattered the brittle atmosphere. “Very funny, again, Robert.”

“You have a music box in your attire?”

You are the one calling me Robert. It’s your ringtone, ‘Spread’ by OutKast? Duh! Take your other hand out of your cape.”

Sir Nachton MacRath slowly raised both alabaster hands into the air.

Joyce blanched as her eyes were caught in his hypnotic stare. As if in a dream, she reached into her pocket and drew forth the strident phone. “Hello?”

“Hi honey! I am so so sorry I couldn’t make your book club party. I had the costume on and then my phone died, the car wouldn’t start and for some reason no one was home anywhere! It took forever to contact the auto club… I’m on my way. I should be there in about twenty.”

“Robert?” Joyce said in barely a whisper.

“What Baby? I can’t hear you.”

Robert continued to speak as the phone slid from nerveless fingers and cracked on the concrete floor. Joyce turned around and truly saw for the first time what Sir Nachton MacRath was without his concealing mask. She would have screamed in terror if she had not swooned first.

Sir Nachton MacRath, a Scottish Highlander Vampire Steampunk Regency Pirate who solved the coldest of cases for the Crown was there to catch her before she landed on top of her now silent phone. “Do not fear Lady Joyce. I always take care of my own.” The emergency exit slowly swung shut behind a tall sable figure with a limp female tenderly cradled in his arms.

If, on that fateful night of All Hallows’ Eve, around about midnight, as the revelers cheered the ticking clock into November, if you would have glanced out a window at the back lawn a strange apparition may have been spotted. There was a puff-puff of smoke and stately rose, running lanterns on, a steam powered airship piloted by Sir Nachton MacRath as he steered towards a vertical slit of orange light in the moonless night sky. A bright iridescent flare erupted as the airship parted the veil at the stroke of midnight and vanished from our world for all time.

Posted also here at AC’s Halloween Writing Event where daily entries were posted in 2016.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 23)

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.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 22)

“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.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 21)

“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.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 20)

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.

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

Hallowe’en Writing Event

Follow the raven to the Hallowe’en Writing Event at The Cracked Lens View for fiction and poetry by a wide variety of writers including me.

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The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 18)

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.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 16)

“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.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles Chapter 2: (Part 15)

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.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 14)

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.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 13)

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 twitched, 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.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 12)

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.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 11)

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.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 ( Part 10)

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.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 9)

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.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 2 (Part 8)

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.

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

Fouetté derrière: Kate dances for her Master

Authors note: Now that I’ve finished my spanking novel and novella and writing the Bumhampton Chronicles, this 500-word excerpt is a possible story line for a new novel based on a fellow blogger’s posted information written here with her permission. Feedback on the concept is appreciated. The title is a ballet term literally translated as ‘Whipped Behind’ when the foot is placed in back of the body during a dance position.

Kate was at the barre – that’s not a urban renewal hipster watering hole – exercising her etiré passé and battement fondu when she received the news that caused her life to pirouette into a dizzying life of discipline and submission.

“You are still here.”

“Hello Hazel.” Kate gave her mentor a big hug. For twenty years she’d been dancing for the woman she considered her second mother and had noticed a disturbing lack of energy from her during the summer. Every time Kate had inquired, Hazel had brushed aside the concern and continued with the lessons.

“Thanks Kate. I still remember the day when you toddled in here as a two-year old, all wide-eyed in your pink tutu, white tights and black shoes. I am so proud of you for passing along your passion for dance to the little ones these last four years as a teacher. I know that finishing college is your priority right now but have you given serious thought to owning your own studio?”

“I’d love to,” Kate said wryly, “but I still live at home because I can’t afford to be on my own. Maybe in the future I can give dance and piano lessons part-time, who knows, if a tall, dark handsome man sweeps me off my feet, I’ll have a passel of kids at home soon enough tooting the clarinet.”

Hazel gave a slightly guilty grimace and glanced around at the mirrored walls as if seeing them for the first time. “I’m going to miss this place,” she whispered softly.

Not softly enough. “Hazel?” Kate asked her carefully. “What’s going on? You haven’t been yourself all year. I’m very worried about you. Are you sick? Please tell me.”

While Kate talked, Hazel slowly strolled around the perimeter and ran her hands over the smooth wooden rails tacky with resin and chalk residue left behind from decades of aspiring hopefuls. “Kate… I have something to tell you.” Hazel took a deep breath and faced her favorite student, her friend and someone she admired deeply. “I’ve sold the studio: the entire building actually.”

“You’ve what?” Kate’s mouth dropped open in shock.

“I bought this building over thirty-years ago as an investment for my later years; and those years are here now. To put it bluntly Kate, yes I’m sick and I need the money.”

Kate rushed over and grabbed Hazel in a tight hug. “I’m so sorry. I knew something was wrong. Why didn’t you tell me? What can I do to help?”

Hazel patted Kate’s back and said, “I’ll be alright my darling. I’m moving back to New York to be with my daughter. She’s got room for me and I haven’t seen my grandchildren in too long. I’ll be fine.” Tears flowed freely as they both realized they might never see each other again.

When they had composed themselves slightly, Kate asked, “Will I be able to continue teaching here?”

“That would be up to the new landlord.”

“And who is that?”

A rapid double knock on the door jamb. “That would be me.”

“Ah.” Hazel cleared her throat and wiped her eyes. “Kate, this is your new landlord, Montgomery Jefferson Spencer III. Monty, this is my best student and fellow teacher, Kate Welden.”

 

  • Corrupted

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

  • Ghosting Past Emily — part of the Corrupted anthology

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

  • Purchase: The Case of the Disciplined Valentine

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

  • The Case of the Disciplined Valentine

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

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

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

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

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

  • Purchase: The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie

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

  • Lust in Spring

    Click picture to go to Lust in Spring Amazon page

  • Lust in Spring anthology

    In Byron Cane's, The Witch of Olympus Hollow, it’s 1952, and Gale Johnson is outraged when her parents send her packing to a tiny town in Appalachia to visit the mysterious great aunt she has never met. In the foothills of North Carolina, Gale will discover a wondrous birthright. A lifetime of discipline and sexual satisfaction awaits, but her destiny comes at a cost.
  • Lust in Lace

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

  • Lust in Lace anthology

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

  • Paranormal Erotic Romance

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

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