The colors of submission

As a blogger, I write what I want. Fiction for the most part, some poetry and the odd essay tossed in. I never write about myself or past exploits and relationships. As a writer — for publication — I choose characters that challenge the reader and portray fantasies that seem slightly quirky. One of the unpleasant facts about erotica and BDSM, is that there is a level of censorship not given to “mainstream” fiction. It’s perfectly alright to maim, torture and murder; but, try a caning that bleeds or a flogging that bruises, and the algorithms that rule the world, bury your book at the bottom of a landfill.

One thing I do know though, is that D/s produces a rainbow of colors. Red, blue, yellow; the infinite palette of hue that is a natural, and desired, byproduct of consensual discipline. When was the last time you got spanked? Didn’t you — at the first opportunity — rush to the nearest mirror, twist your head and admire the splotchy pattern your Dom created on your butt? Wishing it was more colorful?

Did you say: “Oh my God! Look what my Dom did to me!” not with horror, but with a contented purr; proud that your Dom is so talented and knows a spanking without a bruise or two is a wasted effort? For many submissives, marks are something you wear with honor. They are visual proofs of your Dom’s devotion to your personal well-being. Why else would they take the time to stamp their dominance upon your body, if not for love?

For those not in D/s, it always comes as a shock to realize that some people crave the outward bonds that physical play often creates. To them, D/s is about degradation, anger, violence and people in need of rescue from an abusive situation. Marking someone is evil: it’s black and white.

For those of us chasing the rainbow though, the waiting — impatiently — for the colors to fade and heal; so that we can do it again, that’s the real challenge. Scars on the soul linger: bruises fade.

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

The shoot at Memory Lane

This post is over the suggested word limit for Wicked Wednesday, but I hope Rebel won’t mind.

I first met missy in August, 2016, a month after she started blogging as Submissy. What attracted me to her was not so much the topic(s) discussed, but rather the erudite style of her essays and the pithy wit displayed when dissecting the tribulations of balancing D/s with a very full family life. Her posts have inspired many a response — both essays and fictional — from me and, when we have a chance to chat — which isn’t often enough, my bad — we talk about everything except D/s. A recent series of posts about dark desires, submissive triggers and the moving goal posts that is kinky behavior, led to my comment suggesting His Lordship should produce a calendar called, Twelve Months Of missy. She was properly horrified, but knowing her writings, undoubtably turned on by thought of millions of people admiring her nude body. This is for you, missy, my friend.

When missy arrived home from school and went upstairs, there was a note and a change of clothes on the bed. All were garments she wore regularly, except the underwear — a deep iridescent purple verging on black. The note read:
Tonight, one of our darkest and twisted desires shall come true. You belong to me, missy, and it is time others celebrated that fact. You have fifteen minutes to change and meet your Sir in the garage.

“My mind’s made up, missy. We’re doing this. The time for discussion is over,” His Lordship intoned as they pulled around the back of a nondescript brick building at the back block of Memory Lane Industrial Park. Pulling up to corrugated steel door and after putting the vehicle in park, he twisted his torso in the driver’s seat and tugged his submissive closer by grasping her chin. “I love you. I love your body. And I love the idea of showing you off to others. You deserve to be on display, missy, not only because you are beautiful and I am proud to be your owner, but because your dark desire for kink is even more twisted than your thick glass anal plug.”

She shivered and moaned as He firmly nipped the base of her neck where it met the shoulder. The waves of desire, panic, excitement washed over her mind and brought dampness to her core.

The door rolled up with a clatter. His Lordship drove forward into a lift. As they went down, missy’s fingernails dug into the armrest of the passenger’s side door. She jumped when the lift came to a jarring halt. The inner door opened vertically. The headlights shone into a vast dark cavern. As His Lordship slowly drove the vehicle into the open space, in the distance, could be seen a faint reflection.

She leaned against her seat belt, watching as the redness resolved into an elevated platform; carpeted steps led up to where furniture could now be clearly seen in the headlights. There was a couch in rich velvet, a leather ottoman, a wood table and a metal T-bar rack with clothes hangers. Her heart was pounding. Nothing else was visible.

His Lordship turned off the vehicle — the lights stayed on — and got out: missy heard him open the boot. It slammed shut. Her door opened, he helped her stand on her three-inch stilettos. He handed her a silver platter. She gasped seeing the cane, paddle, lube, clamps and plug. “Take this tray up the steps, missy, set in on the table, and wait for my instructions.”

Her hands were shaking. The contents rattled. The headlights went out as she placed the tray down. Utter darkness for what seemed like an eternity. Then, a single spotlight, then another until a total of four pinned her like a specimen spread-eagle under glass.

His Lordship’s amplified voice boomed and echoed. “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for accepting my invitation to my submissive’s photo shoot for my calendar, Twelve Months of missy. Please feel free to comment and applaud, but do not approach the platform.”

Gripping her elbows, missy stared out into the blackness, unable to see anything. Her eyes were wide and panicked, randomly darting in every direction.
“missy,” His Lordship spoke, “remove your jacket and hang it on the rack.”
For a long moment, missy couldn’t move. Biting her lip, she forced her numb fingers to unbutton and hang up the jacket.
“Bend over, place your palms on the table.”
When she obeyed, she sensed Him appear behind her. Feeling the paddle tap, she arched her bottom instinctively. SMACK!
A bright strobe caught her expression the instant after the paddle landed.
“That’s for January, missy. Now, take off your sweater.”
She felt a deep rush of humiliation knowing what would be exposed. Still, she didn’t hesitate; his voice and commands were gradually forcing her submission.
“Stand at the back of the couch and thrust your chest forward. Show everyone your gorgeous breasts.”
The translucent blouse did nothing to hide the black bustier pushing up. The tight fit drew the eye to her erect nipples poking out an inch, tenting the white silk. SMACK! SMACK!
“February is for lovers.” This time the picture showed missy with slack mouth, tongue peeping between teeth and a strained expression of longing. “Remove the blouse, missy, then kneel on the couch and lay your bared breasts on the top edge for all to admire.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! The camera captured her head tossed back as the hard blows snapped against her skirt.
“March can cause very puckered nipples, don’t you agree, missy?” There was laughter from the darkness beyond the stage as missy blushed nearly as red as the couch.
“Skirt. Off. Straddle the ottoman and flash your wet knickers to the voyeurs.” His Lordship paused as she tugged the zipper down. “They are wet, aren’t they, missy?”
The metal hangers rattled as she placed the skirt on the rack.
SMACK! “Answer the question!”
“Yes.” Her voice was a whisper.
SMACK! “They can’t hear you.”
“YES! My knickers are wet.”
Applause rang out.
She had to squat slightly in order to spread her knees either side of the leather ottoman. All she now wore was a black bustier, seamed black stockings, her fuck-me shoes and lace hipsters. Oh, and a purple satin ribbon in her hair.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! “April leads to warmer weather, and as you can clearly see, less clothing.” This month’s picture showed her from the side, breasts and buttocks quivering under the blows.
“Now then, you have two more items to remove. I think…” His Lordship tapped the paddle against his thigh as he pondered while missy’s thighs quavered with the strain of holding her position. “Bustier. Let’s free those mammary glands, shall we?”

missy felt the intent regard of — to her — hundreds of eyes watching her striptease.

“Kneel on the ottoman, hold both arms straight out and keep your bottom off your heels.” SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Each paddle strike rocked her forward as she fought to stay balanced. The side effect was that her breasts bounced. If anything, her nipples were even longer and thicker. “Exercise in May, people, to go topless on the beach.”
There was a buzz of anticipation; missy could taste the desire rushing the stage. No longer afraid, she wanted to go further. She needed to have her limits pushed — no, smashed — until she could reveal her innermost fantasy made flesh.
“Stand at the edge of the stage, missy. Turn around, spread your legs shoulder-width apart, bend forward and slowly, teasingly, lower your knickers to your ankles.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! The centerfold of the calendar captures the moment when the sixth impact is indenting and rippling missy’s pink bottom. What you can’t see, is her glistening pussy: that view was reserved for the punters.
“June, when nude frolicking is fun.” His Lordship set the paddle down, and picked up the cane from the platter, along with the lube and plug. “As you can see, missy is nude — mostly — and instead of taking off her stockings and heels,” he held up the anal corkscrew plug to a roar, “I am going dress my submissive in some other accouterments. Bend over the arm of the couch, missy, reach back with both hands, and spread your spanked bottom cheeks nice and wide for your favorite glass anal plug.”
The loud hiss and moans from missy’s throat as the long plug was steadily and firmly twisted deep into place, could be clearly heard by all.
“Head up, missy, while I cane you. Pretend you are sucking a cock. I want this month to show how much of an anal slut you are as well.”
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
“July is exploring new places.”
Dual close up views of missy’s bottom; red, lined with darker red, the glass end of the plug pulsing in and then out.
His Lordship reached into his pocket. “Stand up and face me, missy.” He dangled the objects from his fingers. “What are these?”
“My nipple clamps, Sir,” missy’s voice was raspy with lust.
“Lace your fingers and place your hands behind your head.”
The steel teeth bit her left nipple. The photo caught her wince.
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
“August brings taut bodies.”
The steel teeth bit her right nipple.
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
“September can have surprises.”
That month, the camera waited until the cane stopped snapping. Her eyes were closed, but her slack expression showed arousal.
“More clamps, missy, these are new though. Lay on the table, on your back with knees spread, pulled to your chest — just like an exam. Remember last week, missy? How hard you came when we played ‘doctor and naughty patient’?”
There was no mistaking her orgasm when His Lordship clamped a labial lip. Her passionate cries of release were tinged with pain when he placed another clamp on the opposite lip. She shrieked when the third clamp chewed her engorged clit. Those cries turned to yelps when His cane lashed her lower crease and upper thighs.
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
A three-quarter view this time, the photo showed the cane tip wrapping around and sinking in. The glass end of the anal plug winked in the light. The steel clamps gleamed. Her head dangled off the end of the table, long hair flailing; mouth screaming ‘I’m coming!’.
“October, time to harvest the bounty.”
His Lordship ordered her back onto her shaky feet, temporarily. “Kneel, missy, and receive your collar.” He placed it around her neck and secured the latch. “Stand up.” When she did, he took her right wrist and wrapped it around her back, then did the same with the left. “Keep them there.” His Lordship pulled out a slender length of chain from another pocket. Attaching the y-shaped end to each nipple clamp, he drew the other end down, between her legs, to where it clamped the two labial clips together to her clit. “Walk,” he commanded missy.
When she took a step forward, the chain pulled taut between nipple and pussy. She made a little shrieking moan. SNAP!
“Keep walking, missy.” The warning was clear in his tone. With each step, the opposite clamps tugged. With each trembling stride, the cane whipped her on.
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
“Crisp November, when walking for fitness is so important.”
This next-to-last picture captured a full-length side view of the torment mid-stride. The chains were pulled tight; missy’s upper inner thigh was clearly wet.
“Since the final month of the year is all about giving and receiving, missy is going to gift you with her gratitude for watching her performance.” He prodded her with the cane. “Stand on the couch, put your right leg up on the arm.”
In this position, there was no doubt missy was aroused and primed. His Lordship handed her a battery-powered vibrator. “You will come for them, missy, multiple times. Show them all what a greedy and needy slut you are. Give them all something to remember you by, every day they look at your calendar to make an appointment.”
The last twelve cane strokes were slowly paced out as missy pressed the vibrator hard against her swollen and clamped clit. She came four times as His Lordship spurred her deeper into submission.
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
December’s glossy photo was a tight facial exposure of her final ecstatic explosive orgasm. As the bright strobe flared against her closed eyelids, she swooned. His Lordship caught her.

Fade to black.

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

Spanking With The Stars

Definition of celebrity: ORIGIN late Middle English (in the sense ‘solemn ceremony’): from Old French celebrite or Latin celebritas, from celeber, celebr- ‘frequented or honored.’

Source Wikipedia: Athletes in Ancient Greece were welcomed home as heroes, had songs and poems written in their honor, and received free food and gifts from those seeking celebrity endorsement. Ancient Rome similarly lauded actors and notorious gladiators, and Julius Caesar appeared on a coin in his own lifetime (a departure from the usual depiction of battles and divine lineage).

In the early 12th century, Thomas Becket became famous following his murder. He was promoted by the Christian Church as a martyr and images of him and scenes from his life became widespread in just a few years. In a pattern often repeated, what started out as an explosion of popularity (often referred to with the suffix ‘mania’) turned into a long-lasting fame: pilgrimages to Canterbury Cathedral where he was killed became instantly fashionable and the fascination with his life and death have inspired plays and films.

The cult of personality (particularly in the west) can be traced back to the Romantics in the 18th Century, whose livelihood as artists and poets depended on the currency of their reputation. The establishment of cultural hot-spots became an important factor in the process of generating fame: for example, London and Paris in the 18th and 19th Centuries. Newspapers started including gossip columns and certain clubs and events became places to be seen in order to receive publicity.

“What’s the Fall lineup looking like?”
“Pretty bad. Those streaming sites are eating our lunch.”
“Guys, we need some original content here.”
“Well…”
“Go on, spit it out. It can’t be any worse than your last idea.”
Spanking With The Stars.”
“Okay… I was wrong.”
“No! It’s a great idea!”
“Really? This isn’t cable you know, the FCC is still stuck in the last century when it comes to kink.”
“Listen guys! Look, if HBO can do GOT and STARZ can do the Outlander, we can show spanking. It’s 50 shades of whatever, and it’s about time we seized the initiative.”
“I can’t see how we could possibly round up enough celebs—even C-list—to even make a pilot. It’s a dumb idea.”
“Remember the Battle of the Network Stars back in the ’70s? We combine DWTS with Survivor, throw in a little Lost with Naked and Afraid, and we make a reality spanking show where the challenges are all BDSM themed. Hey, if Christian Grey can sell hundreds of millions of books and, make movies despite insipid acting and lame discipline, we can make a television show work.”
“She’s got a point, boss. Throw enough cash and social media follows, there are plenty of celebrities out there who’d put their butts on the line for a shiny trophy and Instagram pics.”
“So who gets spanked? Joe the Plumber and Doris the Housewife, or the used-to-be-famous-until-they-snorted-their-residuals?”
“I say both. I think Taylor Swift would make an awesome dominatrix! And the Rock? Sign me up to fail if he’s swinging the paddle!”
“I’d like to give Bieber a good caning.”
“How about a Kardashian?”
“How about the entire clan?”
“They’re probably already into that.”
“Hey, there’s this website called Chross that lists spankos.”
“Check it out! Madonna and Katy Perry! I know we can get those two as judges.”
“Alright, alright, it sounds viable. Start making some calls and shake the bushes. No, not shrubbery, the Bushes. As in Presidents Bushes. And while you’re at it, ring up the Palace. If anyone’s into kinky sex, it’s Will and Kate.”

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

Inexhaustible Smorgasbord

The sharp cracks had faded to muted rumbles; the late summer storm trundled to the east, trailing an ebony cloak glazed with jagged streaks of abstract white. At my feet, the dull granite setts slowly slaked a thirst; the detritus of tourists swirling into the gaping sewers leaving behind deceptively safe and clean shiny streets. Historic Old Town, painstakingly resurrected—twice—from the ashes of pitiless warfare, brooded in the sweet morning air. The western skies pulsed with urgency, delayed flights flung themselves recklessly at the obscured stars, hastening to meet global schedules grounded by adverse conditions.

I cupped my left hand. Had any been able to observe, the brief orange flare would have revealed a deep weary cynicism. I puffed the harsh tobacco, blew out a stream of fragrant smoke that lingered close as if terrified by the surroundings. I ignored the warning, watching instead the CCTV camera as it whirred atop the light pole. The police drones had departed with the onset of rain. This was pass through area for visitors by day; small shops catering in information and deceit. By night, contraband slipped past the law with practiced ease.

A vibration shook the front right pocket of my black linen trousers. If a phone could sound impatient the summons snarled at my unruffled savoir faire. The cigarette tumbled like an acrobat without a net: I stubbed it out with a faint hiss as it splattered on the damp pavement. Finally moving forward, the crepe soles of my shoes were silent as a grave.

The night wavered. Lean shadows peeled from brick façades and dropped from pockets of mist hovering above. To those without the Sight, nothing had changed. My escort surrounded me. Lethal, immortal, they were not here to help—they weren’t allowed where I was expected—but to ensure I fulfilled my oath. If thoughts could kill…

Jutting phallicly with a hostile and arrogant contempt at the ragged edge of tradition [reclaimed] and gentrification, the Cashmere Tower was the tallest building in the city. Money fountained like arterial blood from the professional tenants, none of it staying for long; sophisticated programs laundered the stains through shell companies and numbered accounts. Standard procedures for corrupt businesses protected by slick lawyers and bought politicians. My target was higher up the ladder—literally—the top ten floors pandered to a different type of cash flow.

Vice was timeless. Nubile flesh an inflation proof currency. Educated agents were shopping for fresh victims that wouldn’t be missed.

By mistake or deliberate malice—the first understandable, the latter an apocalyptic possibility—the procurers had lured the wrong one. Whatever the alchemy of designer drugs and DJ mixed trance that had created the circumstances of the snatch, it had not removed the clear traces of her passage.

I was their emissary.

The elevator was smooth and quiet.

Rows and rows of glittering females arranged as if waxed produce in bins filled the luxurious rooms. The buyers with their tablets snapped pictures, and fired off messages that raced around the world. The auction started later, but I was not shopping. My steel attaché was not filled with clean dollars or euros or yen, but a single jewel that pulsed with all the suppressed fury at the unrelenting humanistic devouring of magic.

I carried a portal strong enough to suck the entire building into the Outerlands were it not tuned to ‘rescue’ my target. If the dead-eyed brokers knew what their exotic captive actually was, they’d run screaming into the night; not that fleeing was a viable option should she choose to destroy rather than drink in the essence of fear and despair coating the dungeon walls.

Why I was chosen to interrupt the pain slut as she writhed in her bondage, driving her price higher with every blow of the whip: that is a story best told later. For when the Queen commands retrieval of her wayward daughter: who better to mount an escape, than the Princess’ estranged human husband.

That would be me.

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

Black Market Night by Kalidwen.©

The spanking illustration provided by the talented Kalidwen over at Kalidwen’s little spankings: Musings & fessées.

  • Corrupted

    Coming soon, on March 8th, 2018; "Corrupted", an anthology from Sexy Little Pages. Click the picture for ebookstore links.

  • 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.

  • Click the picture to claim your FREE preview of, The Case of the Disciplined Valantine

    The Case of the Disciplined Valentine

  • Purchase: The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie

    Purchase The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie by clicking the picture.

    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.

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  • Lust in Spring

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  • 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