Why do I need my Dom to spank me?

because…
it makes me feel safe, loved, wanted
cherished
it lets me escape the kids, the boss, the overdue bills, but
being honest
[he requires that of me… the beast]
because…
I surrendered that choice to you willingly
my pain is now yours to bestow
whenever you feel the need
to own me
and make the during
as deliciously humiliating as possible
until I beg for it to be over
and you stop
every time
right before my safe word tumbles to the floor
and shatters our understanding
that it’s the before
before the act of spanking
when
I tingle
I shiver
I gush
because…
I’m happiest when you growl
threaten
order me to submit… there is no ‘or else’
only promises kept
and my bottom thrust nice and high
I’m seldom dry
when you lecture
and scold
I’ll pay any price to lift
the disappointed shadow
in your eye
so
over I go
heeding your mastery
your skill at spanking
your naughty submissive
until she cries
with relief
words of forgiveness
wordless echoes of respect and love
ring louder than
the spanks now stopped
and after
after the canes and paddles and brushes
are put away… temporarily
your humbled sub needs
the very best part of spanking
as the heat transmogrifies
to aching soreness
your punishing hand
soothes reddened flesh
and reinforces why
I ignore those
who send me links
and toll-free numbers
and question my femininity
with ever more strident
disbelief
but
because… I trust you
and know I’m a better woman
when you dominate me
that is why
I need to be spanked

[Preferably every morning, lunchtime when possible, and every single night so that all my tension and doubts and fears are washed away by your determination to keep me safe from myself]

It wasn’t called Willendorf back then

This week’s prompt for Wicked Wednesday is, Venus in Furs after the erotic novel published in 1870. I don’t recall ever reading it—if I did, it left no impact—and besides that, it wasn’t the first thing that popped in my head when I read the prompt. This was:

Venus of Willendorf

From Wikipedia: The Venus of Willendorf is an 11.1-centimetre-high (4.4 in) Venus figurine estimated to have been made between about 28,000 and 25,000 BCE.[1] It was found in 1908 by a workman named Johann Veran[2] or Josef Veram[3] during excavations conducted by archaeologists Josef Szombathy, Hugo Obermaier and Josef Bayer at a paleolithic site near Willendorf, a village in Lower Austria near the town of Krems.[4][5] It is carved from an oolitic limestone that is not local to the area, and tinted with red ochre. The figurine is now in the Naturhistorisches Museum in Vienna, Austria.

My next reaction to the prompt was Lupercalia and the ancient concept of whipping to chase away evil spirits or to ensure fertility. There were and still are many cultures and places that have some variation of spring festivals echoing much older rituals of blood and appeasement to stern gods. [See Czech Easter whipping or Dominican Mardi Gras]

So imagine if you will, the above Venus as the leader of her tribe; perhaps a medicine woman, or mate to the strongest warrior. Now, it is nearing the solstice, winter has been harsh, some have died; the oldest and youngest: the shamans seek migrating herds in the spirit world while the remaining food is portioned out for the survival of all. They have fire, a large stack of dead-fall saved for this occasion when the snow has melted off the lowlands and green shoots are pushing up through fertile soil. The flames roar into the night sky, distant green and yellow eyes glow as the predators slink away hungry. The drums beating a steady pulse of rumbling noise, the flutes whistling while dancers stamp around the crackling pine boughs. Suddenly, the eerie moaning of flat bone on a string whirled above by spinning arms heralds the arrival of Venus in furs…

She appeared—as she had for the last fifteen springs—in a billowing cloud of red ochre tossed down by acolytes from the overhanging granite that loomed out over the winter camp. It drifted like snow, whirling in the heat of the bonfire and settling as ash upon the dancers, soon turning to scarlet streaks as the sweat mingled with the sacred powder. It fell too, on the smooth limestone slab supported by mammoth feet and centered within four large tusks at the cardinal points; the tips meeting above and lashed together with leather thongs. The carved ivory glowed deep orange.

Helga raised her arms to the stars above, the heavy cave bear pelt spilling off like a dark waterfall; her head covered by the furry mask of an ursine face snarling with bared teeth. The music built to a crescendo as she prayed out loud to the gods of her people, then slowly ebbed as the frenzy eased: there was silence by the time she’d finished chanting. She walked with slow, deliberate tread towards the altar, her cloak rippling leaving behind a wake of flesh tingling power that raised hairs on bare limbs.

Blessing each tusk in turn by grasping with powdered fingers and a firm kiss, she then poured hot water over the limestone and slid her palms in an intricate pattern until the surface turned red. She turned towards her dwelling and beckoned with upraised hands. All but her, knelt on one knee and bowed heads as the two bound figures were brought forth into the wavering light. Helga knew from her teachings that in the not-too-distant past, the slab would have been drenched with blood, instead of ochre dug from the earth. These were enlightened times, compared to the savage ancestors they still revered, but did not always follow.

The young man and woman were at their peak of physical perfection. Selected the previous autumn by contests of skill and prowess, they’d been given the best of provisions and pampered through the long, cold winter months. Now it was their time to give back to the community through sacrifice in hopes of a fertile summer of plenty. Naked, they’d been oiled and shaved completely bare, then painted with elaborate tribal markings and secret tattoos that would send the shaman’s messages, when activated, directly to the spirit world. Helga was responsible for the activation. She carried out her duty via a multi-thong whip created with soft strips of leather from every type of animal killed and consumed the prior year.

Led to the altar, the man and woman were secured facing each other with wrists high at the top of curved tusks, while ankles were spread and wrapped around the base where the ivory posts sank deep into the soil. Helga tugged on each rope making sure the pair could not escape or slump to the ground. She checked each and every mark to make sure all were correct. When she finished her inspection, she once more raised her arms and chanted, this time joined by all present. The music started again when they finished. Dancers began to circle the sacrifices, each pounding the earth with a branch cut off at a wide base. The vibrations shivered through their soles. Her acolytes solemnly removed her cave bear cape and handed her the whip, the wooden handle freshly coated with red ochre. She drew back her arm—and struck on the beat.

The tribe triumphantly cried out as one as the ‘splat’ cracked in the cool night air. Helga alternated between the man and woman, each blow precise, starting at the shoulders and steadily working all the way down to the calves. Each turn around the limestone slab was slightly quicker until she was trotting, her heavy breasts wobbling, and feet kicking up puffs as she whipped past the writhing and groaning figures. The dancers too ran in a wide circle, the noise a loud roar as they witnessed the artistic designs dissolved by sweat and the remorseless whip being swung with ever increasing force upon the reddened naked backs and bottoms of the male and female. Helga stopped: the drums settled into a steady beat as the dancers slowed and then swayed in place gasping for air.

The man and woman were turned in place so that their decorated fronts now faced the whip. Helga changed the pattern. Starting with the female, she lashed the firm breasts, powder exploding in colorful poofs as the thongs impacted. Moving down, she whipped in a crisscross pattern across the abdomen, pelvis and thighs. With an upward motion, the last hard strike was between the wide stretched open thighs as the wet leather slapped against the red outlined vulva. The woman screamed as the force of the blow broke open the deer intestine capsule that had been glued in place. Blood spurted and splattered on the churned soil. Moving to the opposite side, Helga repeated her actions on the male, only this time, when the whip lashed his exposed genitals, the breaking capsule glued to his testes, gushed warm sperm in a parody of fertilization.

Their ordeal was not over yet; released from bondage, the woman was laid on her back, the damp limestone providing only slight relief to the raised welts. The man was placed on top, his flaccid penis rubbed and stroked by Helga until it became fully erect. At her command, he entered the oiled vagina with a deep thrust, the whip fell once more upon his red bottom. After twenty strokes, the entwined couple reversed and it was the woman’s turn to be lashed adding yet more red lines to her buttocks. The final position was from behind, mimicking how all the animals they observed mated. Bodies scoured, passions inflamed, nearly the entire tribe fell on each other in a massive celebratory orgy releasing the lust built by up the whipping.

Helga calmly stepped away and walked back to her abode: alone. She needed to travel deep into the spirit world to guide the tribes’ sexual energy to the proper place.

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

Bursting in mid-thought

Barbara Baxter—Bubbles to her friends, including her husband—was an effervescent blonde; the type of person who instantly drew both avid admiration and calmed many a sticky situation. Stylish, without being snobbish, accomplished—with an ‘aw shucks’ self-effacing grin—and the life of any party; despite likely catering, cleaning and washing up, Bubbles seemed to float through social situations with an enviable iridescent charm.

Behind the serene visage framed by lacquered wispy blond curls and punctuated by plush scarlet lips, her limpid blue eyes concealed a secret so vile that Bubbles hid her vice behind layers of passwords and private browsing. It likely never would have popped had not her adoring hubby forgotten a vital document that morning. Kissing him goodbye, she hustled out on the morning school run—three children in opposite directions—with GPS ruthlessly laying waste to her fellow moms with a ferocity that would have made Sherman proud.

When he pulled back in the painted driveway—her taillights disappearing around the corner—hopped out and disarmed the security; what he found on the kitchen table were dirty breakfast dishes—not a sin—and Bubbles’ laptop still running. In shock at what he saw, he neglected to retrieve the paperwork he’d returned for, and thus had a really, really bad day at work. By late afternoon, he girded his loins for “The Talk” by practicing out loud while half-listening to mellow jazz rather than political chat.

Had any of their far-flung social net been polled as to the compatibility of Bubbles and Wand [he had a rep for making problems vanish] the overwhelming vote would have been ‘perfect’. Thus do we confuse complacency for communication in the pristine prism of couples.

I hate to burst your bubble, darling, but hiding your kinky yen for a good hiding was a very bad idea.
And then Sir smacked the back of the heavy hairbrush right across her bare bottom, peppering the saucy flesh with a fusillade of hard cracks.

Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble by Kalidwen.©

The spanking illustration provided by the very talented Kalidwen over at Kalidwen’s little spankings: Musings & fessées. [Note the laptop picture is of their blog. Very neat.]

“I’m such a freak!”
“No you’re not.”
“I’m sure you hate me right now.”
“No, not hate. Upset that you’ve hid this from me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I think it’s past time that you stop pretending everything is fine, Bubbles. Clearly you have needs that are not being met. Not, may I point out, by neglect on my part, but by deceit and evasion on yours.”
“I’m really, really very sorry, Wand. What can I do to make it up to you?”
“How about you start by firing up your computer and showing me one of your favorite stories.”
“I’m so embarrassed.”
“In fact, I think ‘bare-assed’ would be an appropriate state for you right about now. Put the laptop on the bed, strip, and lay over my lap. We’re going to play a version of ‘Pin The Hairbrush on the Bottom’. You are going to read the story out loud to me. At the end of every sentence I will pin the hairbrush on your bare butt twice. If I feel you are not telling the story with enough enthusiasm, I will spank you even harder. Is that clear, Bubbles?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You may begin.”

Bubbles had never felt so humiliated before. As far back as she could recall, spanking had played an oversize role in her fantasy life. Her dolls and stuffed animals were the best behaved on the entire block, but family discipline had never included physical chastisement. Dating and sex in high school through college, was mostly casual, crammed in between studying and part-time work. Falling in love, getting married, launching a business after three children; did not leave much room for intimacy, never mind kink. The day she’d tumbled across the first D/s blog was both a blessing and a curse. If only I’d been honest from the beginning!

“You know, Bubbles, if you’d only been honest from the beginning, I could have spanked you on our honeymoon.”
“I know, Sir. Please forgive me.”
“Is that the only thing you want?”
“Oooooooooooooh. You beast!”

As she began reading the fictional story, Bubbles fell deep into the starring role as she always did. She squirmed as Wand spanked her bare bottom, trying to keep her composure as she read aloud the arousing passages of punishment. Her normally soft voice climbed the register as the heat seared her skin, each loud SMACK echoing off the walls and pulling a squeal from her pouting mouth. The girl in the story became her. The stern boss, the strict headmaster, the mysterious stranger; they all morphed into characters with her husband’s face. She started punctuating the narrative with personal entreaties.

“Wand told the naughty girl to spread her legs wider as she lay over his lap. She felt herself swelling at the thought of her boss seeing the wet proof she was a wicked, wicked girl. As she hesitated, he didn’t, and swung the hard hairbrush even harder onto her already sore and flaming cheeks. She cried out as the pain snaked like lightning through her trembling body. He scolded her loudly, over the loud SMACKS ringing in his corner office. Through teary eyes, she could no longer see the words on the computer screen, but she knew them by heart. Kicking off her tangled panties, she hunched up scalded bottom in penance.”

‘Spank your naughty Bubbles, Sir! Spank her very, very hard for holding out these past ten years. She’s a greedy, selfish girl for masturbating all that time to literary spankings, when she could have had your strong hand whipping the sass right out of her! Spank me until I’m sobbing, then shut me up with your hard cock. I don’t deserve your magic shaft in my pussy, drill my ass instead and spank me until you come deep inside my virgin bum.’

“The contrite girl knelt on the office carpet, messy mascara face swallowing her boss’ cock to the root, while her hot throbbing bottom rested on her heels. When he was satisfied with her oral ministrations, he lifted her up, spun her around, and forced her shoulders to the desktop. Cold lube drizzled down upon her cringing asshole. Her anal cherry was about to be popped. Underneath her wet chin was the proposal she’d typed up, the red lines through all the errors reminded her of all the time she had wasted hiding her desires. When she got home, her husband was going to see a new woman. Sex and spanking and sore bottom every day was his right.”

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

The Submissive Mindset: What is it and how to reach it.

Seek a Zen-like state. Be the void where thoughts are soap bubbles drifting in morning mist. Your being is not manipulated by unwanted thoughts.

 

‘When does a submissive reach her goal?’
‘When her ego returns the starfish to the sea.’

 

The above was a comment I left on nora’s blog recently. She was bemoaning the fact that it is so hard to get into and stay in a submissive mindset when having been a take-charge dominant woman for so long. She’s not the only person struggling with maintaining the deep submissive posture that she craves. What today’s woman seeks is a calm oasis in the vast landscape of modern society. In the past, being submissive had different connotations.

I finished reading The Signature of All Things, by Elizabeth Gilbert last week. The blurb reads as follows:

Elizabeth Gilbert’s first novel in twelve years is an extraordinary story of botany, exploration and desire, spanning across much of the 19th century. The novel follows the fortunes of the brilliant Alma Whittaker (daughter of a bold and charismatic botanical explorer) as she comes into her own within the world of plants and science. As Alma’s careful studies of moss take her deeper into the mysteries of evolution, the man she loves draws her in the opposite direction—into the realm of the spiritual, the divine and the magical. Alma is a clear-minded scientist; Ambrose is a Utopian artist. But what unites this couple is a shared passion for knowing—a desperate need to understand the workings of this world, and the mechanism behind of all life.

The novel is a very ambitious fictional biography, and I will admit to enjoying the prose much more than the weak plot and shallow characters. The author weaves an undercurrent of sexuality throughout the novel by creating a mechanism whereby Alma Whittaker can explore masturbation through erotic books accidentally obtained in bulk library purchases by her wealthy father. The only detailed manuscript named in the novel is Cum Grano Salis [With a Grain of Salt] and is apparently a literary construct by the author. It is an erotic treatise; purportedly being the memoirs of a man exploring the many and nuanced pleasures to be found in “marvelous bodily pricks and holes”. On page 92, Elizabeth Gilbert writes the following excerpt from the book that her protagonist Alma is reading:

I have come to believe that there are some people who benefit both in body and mind by regular beatings to the naked posterior. Many times, I have seen this practice lift the spirits of both men and women, and I suspect it may be the most salubrious treatment we have at our disposal for melancholia and other diseases of the mind. For two years, I kept company with the most delightful maid, a milliner’s girl, whose innocent and even angelic orbs became firm and strong with repeated flagellation, and whose sorrows were routinely erased by the taste of the whip. As I have described earlier in these pages, I once kept in my offices an elaborate couch, made for me by a fine London upholsterer, specially fitted with winches and ropes. This maid liked nothing more than to be tied securely upon that couch, where she would hold my member in her mouth, sucking me as a child enjoys a stick of sugar, whilst a companion—

Sounds a bit like Ruby’s adventures in The Bumhampton Chronicles, doesn’t it? This is the only reference to corporal punishment in the entire novel, unless you count slavery and asylums as implied instances: or British sailors under the lash. In any event, submission is never directly stated or acted upon, but rather assumed to be the natural order of the Universe. God first, white Protestant males next—or Royalty if not American—followed by the wealthy; then white middle-class women and the unfortunate white poor who toiled dawn-to-dusk for survival lumped beneath. Catholics, Jews, African slaves and Natives of all areas around the globe, were not to be mentioned in polite society beyond scholarly publications created to cement the white man’s place at the top.

So is the author herself a spanko? That is unknown, however, the snippet she created in Cum Grano Salis and a few pages later, shows an interest in flagellation.

Leaving behind the novel, is there even such a thing as the submissive mindset? I wrote the Zen koan posted at the beginning of this essay, because the closest parallel I have experienced to a submissive mindset myself, is during intense zazen—meditation—when all the cares and worries and emotions that beset the waking mind, drifted away into a place of empty contentment. Religion has always been protective, sometimes violently so, towards meditation/prayer as a means of enforcing submission towards the Divine. Anything that smacks of secular interference into the mysteries of the Universe has always been ruthlessly suppressed. Medicine, literature, science, sexuality; all forms of free-expression continue to run afoul of the strict tenets of faith. Religions demand submission: on their terms; or else.

“It’s a dichotomy though that the more you want to be submissive in your thoughts, the harder it becomes to quiet the chattering mind.”

The above comment I wrote for missy’s blog on one of her frequent posts about desiring a more submissive mindset. For missy and nora, among many other women in D/s relationships, they want their Doms to impose their will and demand submission through actions and words. This is in fact, how religion, and other organizations including the military, create institutions that thrive with the mindset of obedience through rote training, intimidation and fear. That mindset though is diametrically opposite to how a successful D/s relationship operates through willing cooperation and respect.

In Gilbert’s novel, Alma’s father Henry is a tyrant, created thusly by the circumstances of birth, and an early life at sea as a cabin boy. In order to carve out a life for himself, all beneath him are submissive to his needs, and any defiance is dealt with harshly. All within his orbit fear him and his temper. Henry is not a Dom. He’s a bully who’s only goal is to be richer than anyone else. Money is a vehicle with which he transcends his past and allows him to collect everything but love and an heir.

So yes, you can as a Dom, force submission through pain and fear, and render someone meek and broken to your needs. Or, you can, through selective dominance, allow—yes, allow—your submissive to tap into the well that already exists. Instead of thinking of your submissive as a tabula rasa you then write your desires upon their willing soul, instead treat them as intelligent beings who want your guidance in becoming better versions of themselves. After all, what is the difference between kneeling in a church praying, and kneeling naked in corner reflecting on inappropriate behavior?

There is of course, no real definition of what makes a submissive mindset. In this case, it seems to be an oxymoron when what makes thoughts disappear is active action, not passively waiting to be dominated. Actively seeking out actions that re-enforce the submissive bond; actively asking for a spanking when stress or melancholia rear up like the Garden’s serpent. When real-life work, family and the ever looming emergencies strike, chanting a mantra that you’ve created at your Doms behest. Having rituals that bond and release you from being in charge; even if only for awhile.

Remembering that ‘this too shall pass’, and that by taking care of your Dom first, your submissive mindset reminds them, that through service and discipline, the more they put into helping you quiet the chattering mind, the stronger and more confident you become in maintaining your submissive mindset to the enrichment of you both.

Too late when night falls

Another wonderful spanking drawing from Kalidwen over at Kalidwen’s little spankings: Musings & fessées. This week I requested/suggested a specific concept based on the Wicked Wednesday prompt. As you read this very dark and somber tale of horror, the ending will match the drawing. You’ve been warned.

When she said ‘spank the muffin’, it wasn’t baking she had in mind. © Kalidwen

I’m having a nightmare. I know this because I’m screaming. The smoke, or mist—I can’t tell without a scent—is billowing around the bedroom. Through the open window, where normally the drone of night insects puts me to sleep, I hear guttural voices chanting in what sounds like Latin.

I’m running now: the endless hallway, alternating between locked doors and mirrors. It’s dark. My voice is swallowed, limbs sluggish, I can’t turn my head around to see what is following me. Abruptly I fall, the corridor vanishes and I land on the cool grass of our front lawn. The blades cut my hands. I hold them up. The moon turns bright red.

Empty robes walk counterclockwise around a pyre. Faggots stacked high, all our implements and toys serving as kindling. Their leader, his robe is scarlet while his minions wear black, seizes a torch, thrusts it to the blank sky, then slowly lowers it until the flame shoots directly at me. Open mouthed I fall backwards but hover in midair. My naked flesh scoured by tiny whips.

He speaks: Thou art a deviant wench. Your unnatural perversions must be purged in the purity of holy heat.

I am grabbed by scores of skeletal hands, the sleeves rolled back on nothingness. I fight to no avail. Bent over the slab, the stake looming in my narrowed vision, the paddle at my fingertips is picked up and removed from my sight then run down my spine with chilling ruthlessness.

I see the scene from above, the full-bodied swings impacting on the tender skin of my bottom. Pinned down, the black robes pile on one after another, each garment collapsing in a flutter of velvet as it makes contact with me, until only the deep rose of spanked globes are visible. I can’t breathe.

My head yanked up by my ponytail; the scarlet leader grips the front of his cowl with silver fingers and slowly reveals his face. I scream silently. It’s my husband. His sneering voice booms inside my mind.

Wicked creature! That was your final spanking before I cast you to the flame. No longer shall you work your spell on me. Suffer not the submissive to live!

My arms and legs are thrashing, but the robes are all twisted into knots. My skin is wet with fear. My entire body is shaking. The pyre flashes to life with a gout of light.

“Wake up! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare.”

I bolt upright, gasping for air, my heart is pounding, the sheets all tangled around my slick torso. My husband holds me, pats my back and softly croons in my ear. When I recover my wits, I leap out of bed and drop to my knees in front of the chest. My fingers shake as I turn the key. The lid opens with the normal groan, in my heightened anxiety it sounds like thunder. I pick up the first item I see: a wood paddle he gave me the night I was first collared.

I’m still shaky, so I crawl across the carpet and onto the bed: face down, I thrust my bottom up high and spread my legs. I push the paddle with my nose towards his side of the bed. I wait and don’t say anything.

The table lamp is extinguished.
The mattress shifts.
The window is pushed open.
The cool breeze rushes in.

Orange glows behind my closed eyelids.
I hear chanting.
Then…
Dark laughter.

I look back over my shoulder… my husband is a disembodied skull with a crown of torches.

“Wake up! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare.”

I pour out the nightmare in a vomit of tumbling words. He listens and cocks his head as if deeply confused.

“Why would I spank you?”
“What?”
“I mean. Paddles and whips? A collar? What do mean ‘submissive’?”
“But… you’re my Dom! We’ve been D/s for a year now! The chest!”
“What chest?”

I point to the far corner: the empty corner. It’s then I wake and remember the truth. We never had that discussion about muffins before he died in a car accident.

Some nightmares happen when you are wide-awake.

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I should go.’

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

‘I… don’t know what to do.’

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

‘I quit my job!’

‘Good for you.’

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

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

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

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 18)

I hissed on an inhalation when Mr. Jones-Smyth ran his stubby thumbnail the length of my cane welts one at a time. I swelled with pride at his appreciative remarks. “You look magnificent, Ruby, with purple grid imprinted on scarlet arse. A man would have to be carved from marble not to be inflamed by your succulent thatch.” I beamed. “And are you such a man, Sir?” In response, I felt his satin charger nuzzle my quivering garden of delight. Like fresh dew on rose petals, my cherry unfurled to greet the rampant desire of stiffened rod. The barrier sundered.

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

  • Click the picture to claim your FREE first 5 pages of Stephanie

    FREE Stephanie Chapter 1 to 5

  • The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie

    Download your ecopy at a special price at Kindle, iBooks, Nook, Kobo and through other digital platforms.November 27th, 2017
    6 days to go.
  • The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie

    Coming soon... "The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie"

  • The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie

    The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie, began as a modern updated tribute to The Perils of Pauline. It is a slightly satirical send up of both the contemporary spanking scene, and popular culture’s fascination with kink through the guise of both D/s and D/D. The novella is meant to be funny, corny, sprinkled with numerous touchstones and sly wordplay, while simultaneously weaving a constant serious spanking story line that turns romantic and erotic with a HEA ending.

    The first part of the novella details the spankings Stephanie receives in various settings by her neighbors and boss. These are not always graphically described, but are rather the result of Stephanie’s hapless bumbling into situations requiring discipline. A third of the way through the novella, she meets Ross at a restaurant party hosted by her boss. The sparks (and spanks) fly between them, and Ross finds himself scrambling to keep up with the vivacious and mischievous Stephanie. Before the week is out, through both discipline and erotic spankings, they fall deeply in love with each other, and Ross’ firm hand. Each chapter builds upon the previous story line as various supporting characters reveal their own kinky backgrounds. In the end, everyone is satisfied, and Ross sexually claims Stephanie for his own.

  • Lust in Spring

    Click picture to go to Lust in Spring Amazon page

  • Lust in Spring anthology

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

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

  • Lust in Lace anthology

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

  • Paranormal Erotic Romance

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

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

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