N is for Naughty

There are certain word pairs in the English language that automatically go together. Bacon and eggs, milk and cookies, fish and chips… it seems that many of them are food. But the pair I’m thinking about is:

Naughty and giggles.

Think about it. Say ‘naughty’ out loud. Are you grinning? Smirking at least? There is something so satisfying about doing something, or simply being, well, naughty. The fact that naughty boys and girls get spanked by their Doms and Dommes is merely icing on the cake for the kinky spankos of the world.

Being naughty is also how most — if not all — of us got interested in BDSM. Looking up spanking in the dictionary. Playing with dolls or soldiers and punishing them for various nefarious deeds. Realizing that rope is useful for far more than skipping or that a spatula creates a lingering sting. Discovering that secret and furtive masturbation is much more explosive when fantasizing about being taken-in-hand, or taking the hand to a supple bottom, or two or three. ‘Don’t be naughty!’ is one of the first phrases we learn to obey when young, and depending on the upbringing, one that can sink deep hooks into our psyche.

When it comes to D/s, any conversation that brings it up, not matter how obliquely, is likely to result in stammers and blushes. After all, is there anything more naughty than sitting with friends discussing sex and spanking? How embarrassing to know that your family and/or friends now know you’re a submissive, and that your Significant Other is fully empowered to discipline you at any time. Why, they probably think you’ve got a flaming sore bottom right at this moment! How… Naughty!

But you see, I like to spank my Naughty Girl, not because I can [of course I want to as often as possible] but because she wants me to spank her. And if she’s honest, she’d admit, even if only to herself, that she needs to be spanked. So even though adult spanking can be done because somebody was naughty and needs a sharp lesson in behavior, it also can be done as foreplay, or even spanking to orgasm. So when your naughty submissive starts giggling, it’s past time to put them over your knee and treat their bottom to some loving, albeit naughty smacking.

D/s is a true partnership between equals who find things that both enjoy in a loving, respectful and most importantly, with honesty in a relationship with full knowledge, consent and trust.

Byron Cane

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 11 (Part 7)

Crawling beneath him, I nursed his weeping cock to life. With his slimy and tasty organ firmly ensconced in my mouth, I practiced my throating technique. For once unencumbered by supervision, my free hand succored my pussy. The scents, the sounds, the pure uninhibited lust brought me to a rolling boil, my essence squirting copiously and continuously. Mr. Steedstiff’s cloying spend I savored before swallowing with eagerness for more. I will say this in closing: From that moment forward, I ceased to play the role of hapless victim and was drawn into the many plots being woven all around me.

Rather than read each individual drabble, you can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters. For easier reading, once I have posted all 30 drabbles, I repost the entire chapter in 3,000 words.

It’s the romance of the thing

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is Page 69. “Take one sentence from page 69 of the book you are currently reading and use it to write a story of your own.” The thing with me though, is that I’m never reading just one book. Currently I am in the process of reading five books and several magazines. It’s rare I find a book that I read in one sitting. Most don’t keep my attention. Anyway, the book I took a sentence from page 69 is, Six Degrees of Scandal by Caroline Linden. It’s a Historical Romance, set just after the Regency era in England, circa 1822. This genre runs the gamut from chaste love to all-out erotic descriptions. I enjoy reading romances in many different styles, because some of the best contemporary writers can be found plying their trade behind silly looking covers.

Page 69: “There was something about Olivia’s face that changed when she smiled; it was the spark of humor in her eyes, or perhaps the endearing little quirk to the left corner of her mouth, or even the way her chin went down a bit.”

“What are you smirking about, Olivia?” Annamarie glanced up from her phone at her wife’s snigger, her tone one of idle interest, not commanding. “You’ve got that smile again.”
“This romance I’m reading.” Olivia knew better than to dismiss her Mistress’ question with a casual ‘nothing’. Interested or not, Annamarie had a low tolerance for half-truths and mumbled conversations. “The heroine is in trouble — again — and insists on doing things her way instead on relying upon the tall, dark, handsome light-skinned hetero man she used to love long ago.” She smiled again, wider with a bright twinkle that caught the soft diffused LED lamps. “Sound familiar?”
Annamarie’s response was a throaty laugh; part growl and part purr as she raised up out of her chair with feline grace and intent. Sitting on the far end of the couch, she lifted Olivia’s legs and draped them over her lap. Delicately removing each wool sock in turn, Annamarie pressed her thumbs into Olivia’s bare arches. “Your feet are tense, KittyKat. Did my little puss-puss have a hard day at work?”
Groaning with pleasure, Olivia set the paperback, splayed open at the spine, across the jersey sweatshirt stretched over her slightly rounded tummy.
“Work was fine, Mistress. I was very productive and my boss even said I was glowing.” Olivia gasped as Annamarie’s finger slid under her loose pants and squeezed her calves. “Hmmmmmmmmm.”
“That calls for a celebration. Don’t you think, KittyKat?”
“Yes please.” Olivia’s answer was accompanied by a long moan as her Mistress’ hands reached her lower thighs.

Spinning like a rotisserie until her blushing cheek rested against the buttery leather surface on the cushion, Olivia lifted her rump while Annamarie tugged her pants and underwear down just enough to reveal a bare bottom to the warm air of the popping fire. The hand that caressed her plump globes was gentle, although Olivia knew it could also be stern and harsh when she disobeyed.
“I’m going to spank you, KittyKat, until your bottom turns that lovely shade of pink you love so much.”
Olivia couldn’t help wiggling her tail with excitement. “Thank you, Mistress! Your KittyKat adores your spankings.”
Annamaire couldn’t quite see Olivia’s expression, but as she raised her hand, and then spanked her palm firmly upon her submissive wife’s buttocks, she knew the ripples of the impact went straight to Olivia’s mouth and pussy. “Will you properly thank your benevolent Mistress after she finishes spanking your bottom?”
SMACK
“Oh yes, Mistress!”
SMACK
“On your knees?”
SMACK
“With my wrists cuffed behind my back and blindfolded.”
SMACK
“Feeling kinky tonight, are we?”
SMACK
“Yes, Mistress. I need to service you. Please?”
SMACK
“Very well, KittyKat. I will grant your request.”
SMACK
“Thank you, Mis—”
SMACK SMACK SMACK
“I wasn’t finished.”
SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK
“You may service me with your tongue and lips. However, should you fail to give me the number of orgasms I’m thinking of, you will be bound over the whipping table and caned until I deem your apology is sincere.”
SMACK
“Yes, Mistress. I will service you until you are satisfied. If I fail, please cane your unworthy submissive until she is contrite.”
SMACK
Olivia couldn’t see Annamarie’s expression, but she knew her Mistress’ mind after ten years together. While she didn’t want to fail, Olivia understood she had a chance to succeed and not receive the caning. A slim chance, but a real one nevertheless. Her Mistress wasn’t cruel, but both got what they wanted out of their marriage. Love, spanking and pain.

They smiled together, the smiles of lovers synced in D/s.

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

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]

Shivering due to an epiphany

I missed last week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt—foreigner—due to having no power after Hurricane Irma. Even if I had written something before the electricity was lost at 11pm Sunday night, I wouldn’t have been able to link to the prompt in time. What I found fascinating about the etymology of ‘foreign’ is that it comes from Latin meaning ‘outside’.

ORIGIN Middle English foren, forein, from Old French forein, forain, based on Latin foras, foris ‘outside,’ from fores ‘door.’ The current spelling arose in the 16th cent., by association with sovereign.

I don’t think when people talk about immigration as being an open-door policy, or closing the door on illegals, they are aware of the literary link to the past.

The current week’s prompt, eavesdropping, has an even more interesting origin. Eavesdrop is an literal word created to represent one specific action.

ORIGIN early 17th cent.: back-formation from eavesdropper (late Middle English)‘a person who listens from under the eaves,’ from the obsolete noun eavesdrop ‘the ground onto which water drips from the eaves,’ probably from Old Norse upsardropi, from ups ‘eaves’ + dropi ‘a drop.’

When you link the two prompts together you get this: Outside the door, the ground onto which water drips from the eaves was churned to muddy paste where the foreigner was eavesdropping.

As an aside, in The Fellowship Of The Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien uses this bit of dialogue quite adroitly.
‘Well, well, bless my beard!’ said Gandalf. ‘Sam Gamgee is it? Now what may you be doing?’
‘Lor bless you, Mr. Gandalf, sir!’ said Sam. ‘Nothing! Leastways I was just trimming the grass-border under the window, if you follow me.’ He picked up his shears and exhibited them as evidence.
‘I don’t,’ said Gandalf grimly. ‘It is some time since I last heard the sound of your shears. How long have you been eavesdropping?’
‘Eavesdropping, sir?’ I don’t follow you, begging your pardon. There ain’t no eaves at Bag End, and that’s a fact.’



He calls me—I am positive he thinks it’s a clever endearment—’a drowned rat’ whenever I return from my run; rain soaked. He’s never understood my passion for exercise (an obsession, is his term when he’s being nice). He’s never tried—never even asked—why it is I seek to flee and only reluctantly return. As I toweled off in the mudroom, for once, my shivers were not from being wet. It was not the runner’s high that caused the silly grin; no, it was my foolish whim to follow the strange rhythmic smacking I heard over the sound of the pelting rain and pounding footsteps of my shoes. I eavesdropped: first with caution, then shame and at the last, unabashed curiosity that led me back here, outside the door, hand raised to knock, hoping they will understand my need that seems so foreign to me.

A week prior:

“Are we clear on why you’re being spanked?”
“Yes, Sir!”
The smacking noise that had drawn me like a butterfly to pollen had ceased. I eavesdropped instead on the scolding lecture and the teary replies. His voice; stern and uncompromising, yet I heard no anger in his leading questions. Exasperation—that I sensed—but with an underlying respect and determination to teach his woman a lesson. Her voice; wheedling and needy, yet also resigned to taking her punishment like a big girl.
This big girl huddled against the building, collar upturned and hood drawn against the steady gush of water through downspouts. To those passing on the sidewalk—not that anybody else was crazy enough to run in a monsoon—would have assumed the figure in the bright yellow slicker was simply seeking rough shelter from the storm. The window above my head was open, the overhang sufficient protection from the elements; although, at the time I did not think it was odd that the drawn blinds allowed sound to radiate.
The smacking sounds resumed. I sagged against the damp brick and squatted in the puddles amidst the bundled yellow-red leaves of autumn. I folded my arms tight against the sudden twinge deep in my stomach. I felt sick, not with anguish at hearing a fellow female being spanked, but sick with envy. Her yelps and cries, her sobs and pleas; all settled in a soulful place that had never known this craving was possible. Spanking wasn’t possible; not in my current relationship, never, never, ever would I allow ‘him’ to spank me.
When the hard slaps finally ended, and the noises now competing with the splashing raindrops turned to a rhythm of a more primal nature; I crept silently away from temptation: for now. I knew then I would be back.

At present:

Laughter spills from their windows. Music, modern hits, flows out into the twilight bringing visions of a party in motion. I hesitate at the threshold. ‘He’ was gone, sent packing with no regrets, the apartment both emptier and freer without his snarky presence. I wanted answers to questions I couldn’t articulate. I had no expectations. I was naive; but willing, oh so willing to find out for myself how it felt.
So, I knock.
The laughter eases. Muffled conversation ends on a rising note of query. The door opens; warm light rushes out like puppies seeking freedom to gambol amongst the vibrant chrysanthemums; tearing off the multi-petaled heads and spreading fragmented jewels across the green carpet.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
I shiver once more.
A distant cry. “Honey? Who is it?”
A louder roar. “I don’t know! It’s a woman!”
“A woman?”
Rapid tapping of heels arrive in a whoosh of Estée Lauder. “Hi. Whatever it is you’re selling, we’re not interested, dear. Honey, we need to leave soon.”
She spins to leave. I call out with a desperate croak. “I heard you!” She pauses looking back over her shoulder. I clear my throat. My eyes never stray from her knowing expression. “Last week, during the storm, I was jogging, and I heard you. I heard you both.” My gaze slides to his. “You, sir, were… were…”
“Spanking my wife?”
I swallow hard at the flaring heat in his response. I don’t notice her return until her arm slips possessively around his waist.
“You were eavesdropping, dear? How very naughty of you.”
“But your window was open!” I protest in a vain attempt to explain my guilt.
That excuse doesn’t work for me, dear, and I suspect you don’t expect a free pass either.” I catch her smirk as she peers up at her husband. “It seems we may be a wee bit tardy to the concert, honey. I do believe this woman owes us an apology.”
“Well?” he states with a demanding tilt of his head. “We’re waiting.”
“I’m sorry I listened to your private… erm, session. I’ll never do it again.”
She quickly steps forward and seizes my hands. “That’s not how apologies are given around here… as I’m sure you can guess. If you are truly sincere and wish repentance, then you know what is required, else you’d not be here tonight on our doorstep asking for punishment.”
She tugs lightly. I submit, as I knew I would, and allow myself to be drawn past the door, and deep inside their world of discipline and painful pleasure.

I’ve never regretted a single moment of eavesdropping.

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In case of an emergency…

… apply liberally.

Off High Street, down a narrow twisted cobbled alley barely wide enough for a pony trap, a turquoise door propped open beckoned the footsore weary tourist with the promise of an adventure. Gleaming in the late afternoon rays, the gaily painted easel with the large red arrows pointed the way to Curio & Osities Antiques.

“Daddy? Do we have time to go shopping there?”
Erik Jorgensen gave his new bride Lisle an indulgent smile. “I thought my little girl wanted an ice cream?”
“I do, Daddy, pistachio and caramel sea salt, but I wanna see what cool stuff they have. Please?”
“Alright, but you still owe me ten spanks for going over your stuffie budget. Money isn’t mined by dwarves you know.”
Lisle made a disgruntled face. “I know that! Everyone knows that money is farmed by unicorns!” She squealed and raced down the alley after he playfully swatted the back of her frilly purple skirt.
Following at a more leisurely pace, Erik couldn’t help laughing at his little girl’s antics. The honeymoon thus far had been a wondrous romp between amazing sex, scintillating history and more discipline than he could ever have believed possible. While Lisle was a thoroughly modern professional woman who enjoyed a good stiff drink and a cigar after work, little girl loved nothing more than laying over her Daddy’s knee being soundly spanked.
Bratty or obedient, it didn’t matter, little girl took great pains in plotting her next session. Erik certainly had no objections, and in fact, allowed her to fill the toy chest with carefully curated implements. For her, spanking wasn’t a black and white issue for punishing misdeeds, but so enjoyable, she insisted on bending over at every opportunity. Her favorite saying was: ‘Daddy, if it’s not pink, don’t stop to think.’
By the time he wandered into the brightly lit shop with that indefinable odor of old stuff, little girl was already out of right; although he could hear her sighs and excited exclamations. Examining a bin of etchings, he didn’t bat an eye when she came rushing up at full tilt, blond ponytail snapping behind her.
“Daddy, Daddy! Look what I found? Look. Look.”
Seeing the quirky expression on the proprietress’ face, Erick sent her a short nod and gave full attention to his wife. “What did Daddy say about inside voices, little girl?”
Scuffing her shoe, she pouted very briefly then held out the object she was clutching. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I got so excited I forgot.”
“I accept your apology, however that will be ten more spanks for your total.”
“Okay,” She shrugged. “See?”
He plucked the item from her hand and turned it over several times admiring the craftsmanship. He addressed the owner who was clearly fascinated by the conversation. “What can you tell me about this piece?”
Visibly collecting herself, she replied without hesitation, “That is an early 19th-century ebony and ivory hairbrush from Spain. The bristles are boar and was likely part of a bridal trousseau. It’s quite unique having the ivory inlays in the handle. Most brushes are either one or the other.”
Erik smacked lightly upon his palm. “It has a nice heft and impact.”
Lisle tugged on his jacket sleeve and whispered in his ear.
“Pardon me. My little girl would like to know if there is somewhere more private we can test before purchasing.” He smiled at his blushing bride of one week and lowered his voice. “She’s very picky about spanking implements.”
With noticeable concern, the woman asked Lisle if she was okay. Color suffused her face as well, when the reply was a forthright and blunt, “I am fine, thank you. I need to know how the brush feels on my bare bottom first, before Daddy buys it for me.”
Bemused and bit bewildered, the owner nevertheless didn’t want to lose the sale, so she led them to her back office, and closed the door once they were inside. Erik and Lisle listened for her footsteps to fade.
“What do you bet she’ll sneak back to listen, Daddy?”
“Your ass.”
Giggling with happiness, little girl draped herself over his lap, and fidgeted while he raised up her skirt and drew down her sparkly heart panties. “There will be twenty spanks now. If you like this brush, it’s way over budget, it will be one hundred and fifty later at the hotel before dinner.”
“Yes, Daddy. You may fire when ready.”
The smooth patina of the ebony wood impacted little girl’s bare bottom with a loud ‘splat’. Erik laid the first ten down the right buttock, from crown to crease. “How does that feel?”
“Good. It smarts a lot though.”
“Excellent. The last ten will be harder.”
And they were. Crisp cracks, unmistakable for anything other than a spanking, rang out in the room. The brush sank in the buttery flesh and bounced back with a soft recoil.
“I want it, Daddy. I’ll gladly pay the price tonight. One hundred and fifty strokes as hard as the last one.”
After purchasing the brush, and watching the owner lick her lips when little girl told her ‘it’s not polite to eavesdrop’, Erik towed Lisle out of the shop before anything more was said… or done.
“She needed a spanking, Daddy.”
“Do you want me to go back?”
Lisle pondered for a moment and then said with a thoughtful expression, “As much as I think she deserves it, I want you all to myself. For now.”
A very happy little girl skipped back up the stone alley hand-in-hand with the bestest Daddy ever.

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Justify my shame

We all have addictive personalities to some extent. It used to be thought that addiction was a moral failing found most often in the lower classes. Abuse of alcohol and drugs were the reasons that the poor stayed poor and uneducated due to bad blood. Studies have found though that addiction is 50% genetic and 50% poor coping skills. Because of the social stigma attached to addiction, most people don’t seek help until it’s too late. Even if assistance is available, the shame that is drilled into us by parents, teachers and religious institutions, make the guilt so overwhelming that most addicts believe they deserve to suffer.

Addiction vulnerability is the genetic, physiological, or psychological predisposition to engage in addictive behaviors. Source: Wikipedia

For a long time, too long, I considered my need for D/s and spanking to be an addiction; thus shameful and the ultimate source of my guilt. I justified that need by saying to myself, I could stop at any time, it was only words and pictures. It wasn’t like I was actually hurting anyone.

That all started to change twelve years ago when I crawled up out of my self-imposed and self-created oubliette. When I began blogging—for non-D/s reasons—I gradually connected with many others who enjoyed spanking and BDSM and weren’t shy about stating their interest.

I discovered healthier ways of coping with my needs and today, I can finally state with conviction, that my need to spank and dominate is not shameful or weak or perverted. I am not addicted to D/s: D/s makes me a better person by holding myself accountable for my actions towards others.

I can give respect to all my readers and friends, because I can now be respectful towards my own desires. I want to spank. I want to be a Dom. There is no longer any reason to justify my shame.

Practicing a D/s diet

Hi y’all, it’s getting toward the end of the summer, and back-to-school adverts have already started. After working so hard to create a swimsuit body—cough-cough, yeah, right—it would be shame to gorge on carbs as the nights grow shorter. In the June, 2017 issue of GQ, there is an article called How to Fast: A guide for the Hungry Man. The author lays out two types of fasts. The 16:8 diet and the 5:2.

How It Works: the 16:8 plan. For an eight hour window a day, you eat however you normally do. For the other 16, fast. You can drink water, black coffee, and herbal tea. That’s it. You’re giving your body time to digest.

How It Works: the 5:2 plan. For five days a week, eat normally. For the other two, “fast” by limiting yourself to 600 calories a day. (And yes, booze counts.) A typical breakfast: a slice of ham and two scrambled eggs. Dinner is a protein-packed chicken salad.

By Jeff Vrabel: If you somehow stick with it, you’ll join a lineage of fasters dating back to Aristotle and Plato, who proved that even humanity’s deepest philosophers sweat their beach bodies. Fasting may actually put us closer to our natural state; some experts think humans aren’t designed for three squares a day and that we mistakenly regard mild hunger as an emergency. Which is why, although our loinclothed ancestors only ate when they brought down a mastodon, we invented Doritos Locos Tacos.

Naturally, this got me wondering, what if D/s wasn’t 24/7, but restricted to either one of these fasts? As a Dom, you could only be in charge for eight hours a day. If you decide that sleep is not part of the hours, then that would leave you roughly eight out of sixteen awake hours to dominate your submissive. It could be breakfast to mid-afternoon; mid-morning to dinner; or mid-afternoon to bedtime. With only eight consecutive hours of D/s a day, how would you work around work? Use text and calls and pass on the physical for a day? It’s not so farfetched when you consider that if you take away sleep and work time, most people only have a 4 to 6 hour window in any case. Toss in a family, and that time slivers to minutes. Would a scheduled time work better?

The other plan, 5:2, is what I think most D/s couples+ would likely choose. Work is no longer M-F 9-to-5, but skipping all D/s twice a week, doesn’t sound all that bad when you consider that some days nothing happens anyway. This would take the pressure off in terms of feeling let down that there was no play time or spanking. The downside is deciding whether to take a two-day break, with five on, or some pattern where the breaks are further apart. Constantly starting and stopping may seem a hardship at first, but it may also ratchet up the intensity knowing that if time is wasted, then the wait will make the next on day feel more precious. So, any takers for a D/s diet?

Put your money where the butt is

If you had the cachet, and if you’d received an engraved R.S.V.P. invitation on heavyweight cream bond via special courier; and if you drooled over a Vintage Art item in the accompanying full color glossy catalogue, then you would find yourself prior to the appointed time here, looking up at the gleaming ebony door and polished gold lion’s head knocker of 37 Birch Trace Run.

Upon entry, coats and electronic devices surrendered to the charming hostess, who in return for your custom and deposit, hands you a black leather paddle the size of two hands cupped together; embossed with raised numerals ranging from one to twenty-five, in various colors comprised of lacquered brass studs; the handles stamped with the words The SafeworD/s Club in crimson gilt italic.

The main lounge is two stories high, a balcony runs around three sides overlooking numerous plush chairs and sofas; the fourth wall forms the backing to the long mahogany bar: a mirror bursts forth into a painted mural above the shelves stocked with malted beverages and distilled spirits dispensed by staff in neat uniforms.

A closed oval railing fills the middle of the room surrounding the elevated platform and dais, the oak top wide enough for resting elbows, and cocktail napkins soaking with beaded perspiration on cut crystal tumblers filled with amber liquid and ice rocks; goblets and wine glasses contain rare and expensive vintages from discreet vineyards labeled with hand drawn Châteaux.

The houselights dim, then blink twice; murmuring conversations gradually give way to anticipation and the clumps of watchers coalesce along the rail as the auctioneer’s assistants place the first item on the easel, the platform rotating slowly so that all patrons can admire Lot #1, and prepare for the bidding to benefit various charitable organizations.

A symphony of metallic rattles is heard over the soft jazz playing from hidden speakers as half the audience is shackled by wrist and ankle cuffs to eyelets screwed into the rail and the brass footrest that curves along the base; there is a dress code of course, Doms in formal black, subs at a minimum bare bottomed, up to completely nude per the choices made before arrival.

“Lot #1. We have an Art Deco natural pink pearl choker with silver clasp. Who will start the bidding at one thousand? Do I have one thousand? Do I have seven-fifty? Who will give five hundred?”

WHACK!

“Five hundred it is. Do I have six hundred?”

WHACK!

“Thank you, ma’am. Six hundred is bid. Do I have seven hundred?”

WHACK!

“Seven hundred! How about eight?”

WHACK!

“Eight. Nine?”

WHACK!

“I have nine from the gentleman with paddle 15. Can I have one thousand?”

WHACK!

“Thank you, sir. One thousand is bid. Who will give fifteen hundred? Do I have fifteen hundred; fifteen hundred for this stunning Art Deco pink pearl necklace? Fifteen hund—”

WHACK!

“Fifteen hundred is bid! Do I have two thousand? Two thousand give me two thousand.”

WHACK!

“Thank you ma’am. Two thousand to paddle number twenty-three, two thousand is bid! Who will give three? Three thousand three thousand. Who will give three thousand? Three thousand three thousand. Yes, sir? Two thousand five hundred is bid!”

WHACK!

“I have two thousand five hundred, two thousand five hundred is bid. Who gives two seven fifty? Two seven fifty, two seven fifty, two seven fifty, two seven fifty. Two thousand five hundred going once! Two thousand five hun—“

WHACK!

“Two thousand seven hundred and fifty! Sir, you are out. I need three, give me three and it’s all yours. Three, three, going once. Two thousand sev—“

WHACK!

“Three thousand is bid to paddle number 15. Three thousand, do I have four! Four, four, anyone for four thousand? Three thousand five hundred, I’ll take three thousand five hundred. Three thousand going once…. three thousand going twice…”

BANG

“Sold to paddle 15. Lot #1 sold for three thousand. Thank you, sir. Our next item, Lot #2, a landscape oil painting dated 1871 in the Hudson Valley School style by Richard Barnhart. Start the bidding at five thousand, who will give five thousand?”

WHACK!

By the end of the evening, every exposed bottom was nicely red with the Dom’s number imprinted every time their submissive placed a bid. Some of the items drew frenzied competition, the resounding WHACKS echoing off the bar mirror as numerous subs—wanting to prove they could take the most whacks—ran up the price in rapid fire paddling while they could naught but wiggle and shuffle in their steel bondage. All in all, a very successful fundraising and hundreds of Vintage Art items found loving homes purchased with warm leather on hot flesh. Topping from the bottom never felt so good.

The high bidder pays dearly. Kalidwen.©

Drawing provided by Kalidwen: contact via blog if interested in commissioning work.

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

Breaking the martyr inside

Most of my recent essays have been triggered by magazine articles—the paper kind no less. The March 2017 edition of Real Simple, had an article entitled, How to Conquer the Martyr Complex. The author Ingela Ratledge begins her essay with the following statement: Some highlighted quotations follow, but I recommend reading the entire article for the parallels between D/s and martyrdom.

Overdo. Complain. Repeat. Sounds like the worst motivational slogan ever, right? Welcome to how I roll. Biting off more than I can chew is standard procedure for me. (“Sure, I can volunteer for the spring carnival and make a résumé for my niece and cook multiple options for dinner!”) And so is feeling fried and resentful later on. I’ll corner my husband for a thorough debriefing on my saintliness, hoping he’ll be overcome by a powerful mix of gratitude and admiration (gradmiration, anyone?). Instead, he typically says, “Oh, you didn’t have to do all that.”
Of course, he’s right. In addition to juggling life’s many nonnegotiables, I’m taking on tons of extra-credit assignments—and accomplishing them through gritted teeth. I’m being…the M-word.
I have plenty of company. We’re surrounded by folks who perpetually sacrifice themselves and then kvetch about their lot. The question is, to what end? I get zero thrills from playing this unwinnable game of whack-a-mole. I’m weary of holding a grudge against those who swan around unburdened by phantom obligations.

“The concept of self-sacrifice can be found across all religions and cultures,” says Candida Moss, PhD, professor of theology at the University of Notre Dame and author of The Myth of Persecution. “If you live in the Western world, you are still influenced by the social values that mattered thousands of years ago.” Yep, she adds, even if you’re an atheist: “Dating back to ancient times, martyrs were regarded as brave, virtuous, and strong.” The critical difference is that historical martyrs, like Joan of Arc—as well as more modern martyrs, like Gandhi and Nelson Mandela—had higher goals. “Real martyrs stood for something,” says behavioral science expert David Emerald, cofounder of the Bainbridge Leadership Center. “For them, the suffering was not the point—it was secondary to their fight, and that’s been misplaced in current culture.”

But why are some of us more susceptible to this messaging than others? Much of it boils down to basic issues of self-worth. “Typically, martyrs don’t know how to validate and love themselves very well,” says Sharon Martin, a psychotherapist in San Jose, California. “They feel that their value is in serving others—so if they stop doing that, they will have no value.” Alas, altruism and ulterior motives make strange bedfellows, which is why bending over backward doesn’t offer a golden ticket to the promised land. Says Martin, “Martyrs don’t get a lot of warm feelings from doing good deeds.” So what’s keeping us in this racket? Partly it’s a matter of control. “Martyrs think that if they don’t do something, it won’t get done,” says Mazer. Or at least not properly. “The martyr operates on the assumption that he or she knows best and has the answer rather than an answer,” says Emerald, because the alternative—that our contributions aren’t actually essential—is downright destabilizing. “It’s a stab to the ego to admit that the world does not depend on you,” explains Emerald. Also, funneling the bulk of your energy into external situations provides a handy distraction: It gives you a pass on addressing your own vulnerabilities, goals, and shortcomings. How could you possibly be expected to finish that master’s, quit a job you despise, or make it to the gym when you’re so busy taking care of everything else?” “As a martyr, you don’t have to take personal responsibility,” says Mazer. “You can project your unhappiness and blame outward.” You may be trying to cover up the fact, says Garcy, “that you have no clue how to get from where you are to where you want to be.”

I will raise my hand and admit freely that I am a martyr of long-standing suffering both in my personal and professional life. I have always thought of myself as worthless, and have never been able to love who am I. I’m the worker bee/drone who does everything without asking, follows the rules, and then stews volcanic-like inside when nobody else gives a shit and I wind up mopping the floor of someone else’s mess. It has taken being out of work for the past 19 months to realize that I’m only responsible for my own actions and ethics.

Tomorrow is our 30th wedding anniversary, and for the entire time—plus the nearly two years we were dating—my wife has been ill, sometimes critically. For the past 19 months, I have been her 24/7 caretaker at home. The specific reasons and medical issues are not important, but she has been near death at least a dozen times since we’ve been together. In fact, when she was seven-years old, her parents and she were told she wouldn’t survive to adulthood. She’s now 53. Ironically, having been nursed by me, she’s in better health now, than at any time in the past. Going to the hospital only makes her sicker. The next hurdle is the possible amputation of her left leg below the knee: She goes back and forth on her decision; but it is her decision, not mine and not her doctors’. I fully support her no matter what happens.

What I took from the article in terms of similarities to D/s, is the way both Doms and subs struggle with doing it ‘right’ even more so than perfectly. Self-worth, and the lack thereof through depression, plays an outsize role in submission. The opposite, arrogance, leads many Doms down blind alleys where they abandon their subs for not being good enough for them. Whether you’re a Top or bottom, if you don’t realize that the world not only isn’t going to stop for you, but could care less about your accomplishments, then you’ll continue to be disappointed and upset when the people in your life don’t constantly pat you on the back. A simple thank you should suffice… or a good spanking.

Probably the most positive aspect of D/s though, is when both partners drop the resentment of martyrdom and make the effort to do things not for praise, but because caring for the other is the right thing to do. If both the Dom and sub take responsibility for themselves, instead of waiting to be rescued, and from a position of personal strength, use that self-confident energy to prioritize their partner’s needs, then both will want to keep caring instead of keeping score and holding grudges. Didn’t get spanked last night? It’s not a crisis. Forgot to take the trash out? The next pickup is fine. Didn’t notice the kitchen floor was waxed? Likely a rough day at the office.

Partners doesn’t mean clones. Men and women are different. Doms and subs are different. We all have different parents, different upbringings, different beliefs, different desires: We are each of us unique. The weaknesses and strengths are different as well. Have you ever given a gift without expecting something in return? Remember how good that felt? Maybe you paid for someones meal, or helped someone to cross the street. I know I’ve given directions hundreds of times before for the sheer pleasure of getting a smile of relief in return. I have to keep reminding myself that I don’t need to jump up and down waving ‘look at me, look at me’ every time I do something good.

Being a martyr leads to bad choices. Life is crappy for most people most of the time. We martyrs ruin the few happy moments by obsessing over what we should have done differently, said more eloquently, reacted more politely; instead of moving on, we squirrel away the slights—both real and imaginary—until our blood pressure nearly bursts our poor hearts. In a D/s situation, this doesn’t happen [shouldn’t happen] because there are protocols in place to prevent an escalation of emotions. Many times, an instant swat on the backside will serve as a placeholder until time is available for a real spanking. To be submissive means that martyrdom is no longer allowed and ranks right up there with back-talking, sulking and other forms of verbal and non-verbal communications that disrespect the D/s compact.

Note: I did not say disrespect the Dom. Being a martyr is not directed at others, it is aimed solely at self. The self that believes they will never be good enough, and are constantly letting others down by not working harder and better. When a submissive says to their Dom; ‘I’m a burden’, ‘I’ll never be what you want’, ‘I don’t know why you stay with me’, ‘I hate myself for feeling this way’. Those are all spanking violations. Write ’em a ticket, flip up the skirt, yank down the knickers, and give your sub a nice, long spanking for disrespect. How hard is up to you, but in this case, actions speak louder than words, although re-enforcing the discipline with loving praise will help to overcome the desire for self-harm.

Hi, my name is Lurv Spanking. I’m a recovering martyr. It’s been one year since I last hated myself.

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.

Driving in my car

One of the many things I love about the D/s blogging community is finding new bloggers to enjoy. Last week I came across a new website called, Kalidwen’s little spankings, Musings & fessées: that’s French for spankings. The first blog post is entitled, And so it begins, and explains why the blog was created. What drew my praise and attention was the exquisite drawings of women being spanked, accompanied by wonderful short stories of spankings. I asked Kalidwen to draw a picture of a spanking for this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt of, The Back Seat. The drawing that was sent to me far exceeded my expectations. I hope all of my readers find the blog as fascinating as I do, and follow Kalidwen on the journey of submission. Contact via comment at Kalidwen’s little spankings, if you would like to commission illustrations for commercial work.

The Back Seat Spanking by Kalidwen.©

“Turn up the radio, Daddy! I can’t hear over the rain!”
Goofing off in the back seat with Cassidy seemed like a fun idea at the time. Whacking each other with stuffies and making silly faces, was not calculated to make their Daddy Doms mad, but was because they were bored.
“Are we there yet?” the pair of bratty wives whined in petulant chorus.
The thunderous drumming upon the metal roof wasn’t loud enough to drown out the simultaneous ‘Girls!’ and deep growls from the front seats. Delilah shivered, ducked her head and peered through her fringe at her bestest friend in the whole wide world. They couldn’t resist mischievously smirking, and carefully returned Mortimer Bear and Stanley Pony to the middle, tucking the stuffies safely behind the latched seat belt.
“I saw that look, Delilah. You promised you’d behave today!”
“Yes, Daddy.” A long freighted pause. “But I’m bored! You promised I’d have a really, really fun 30th birthday party, not be swept away like Noah’s Ark!”
“And has Daddy ever not done what he promised?”
She crossed her arms and pouted. “No,” she sulkily muttered. “You’re perfect in every way.”
“Before we get to the party—if it ever stops pouring—your Daddy promises to give you a well-earned reminder to behave.”
“That’s not fair! It’s my birthday!”
“And what do naughty little girls get from their loving Daddies on their birthdays?”
Cassidy clapped her hands with excitement. “Ooh, ooh, I know, I know! They get spankings! Yeah!”
“Shut up! Daddy wasn’t talking to you!”
“Don’t be such a brat, Delilah! I was only trying to help!”
“GIRLS!”
Wiggling on their tushes, the girls chimed in unison, “Sorry, Daddy.”
“I was going to say, Delilah, that nice birthday girls get yummy spankings and cummies. However,” he said sternly, capturing her attention in the rear view mirror, “you obviously need my help getting out of your bad mood. Isn’t that right?”
Delilah’s hand crept into Cassidy’s comforting grip during the lecture. She didn’t want a spanking in front of her friend, but it wouldn’t be the first time they’d run afoul of the rules. Neither Daddy had the least compunction about turning their little girl over a knee at the first sign of trouble, whether alone or not.
She sighed. “Yes, Daddy. I’ll be good now.” Delilah stared out the water smeared side window. It seemed to be lightening up.
“Ah!” her Daddy exclaimed. “Exactly what I was looking for.”

The SUV smoothly swung into the layby with a loud splash through the puddles. The rain had now slackened to a light mist. Like two synchronized robots, both Daddies exited the front with feral grace, opened the rear doors, and lifted out their charges with a gentle assist.
Delilah’s Daddy swiftly slid across the leather bench seat to the middle, dislodging the stuffies as he went. Blushing profusely when he patted his lap, she awkwardly crawled back inside until only her lower legs dangled over the wet sill.
“Don’t let them watch, Daddy!” she cried out when she felt him unbutton and tug her trousers down. “It’s too embarrassing! I’ll never be able to look at them again!”
Picking up Mortimer Bear and Stanley Pony, he reached forward and set them softly, facing backwards, in the front passenger seat. “There. They can’t see you now.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” she whispered and rested her cheek on the warm leather where Cassidy had sat.
The spanking was only a few minutes, but very hard; his firm hand covering all the plump bottom exposed by the skimpy thong he’d allowed her to wear. Delilah peered back over her shoulder through blurry eyes at Cassidy and her Daddy, who were avidly watching her punishment, huddled together under an umbrella.

The sky wasn’t the only thing crying that day.

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

Verily I say to thou, pluck thy mote from thine eyes

Taylor lay on her back, Madison’s cheek resting on her dewy breast, fingers entwined on her pubis; galloping pulses from their first loving gradually slowing as quick breathes eased beneath the five-bladed ceiling fan rattling endlessly through the deepening twilight.
“Can I ask you something, Taylor?”
“Sure, love.”
Tentatively tracing of the scar marring the otherwise satin skin of Taylor’s right thigh. “How did this happen?”

‘Are you so blinded by your piety that you’d cast off your only child?’
‘She is not my daughter! Filthy deviant sodomite! Begone from my sight and my house!’

“Sounds like a preacher man.”
“He was. All hellfire and brimstone: Eternal damnation to those that strayed from the path of righteousness. Ruthless to sinners.”
“You don’t have to tell me, Taylor. It’s okay.”
“I don’t mind, Madison. The irony of it all, or God’s will if you’re a believer, the month after my father kicked me out for fornicating with a girl—while my mother stood by wringing her hands—he was caught with a man from church in a convenience store bathroom.”
“No. Way!”
“Yes way, Madison. Cock sucker and all that.”
“So what happened? Was there a whole family reunion and redemption bit?”

‘Are you Taylor Watson?’
‘Yes, officer.’
‘I’m sorry, miss. Your parents are both dead.’

“Oh, Taylor!”
“I was sixteen and now an orphan. I’d been staying with friends, non-church members; the congregation had collectively turned their backs on me. And then, after his arrest for public indecency… the neighbors said they heard a loud argument, then two gunshots. After that, not even my lover would take me in.”
“What about relatives? Or foster care? Didn’t the state step in?”
“They did at first, but the entire town—“
“—Blamed you.”
“Exactly.”
“Fuckers.”
“It’s alright, Madison. Being a runaway wasn’t great, but I found a family on the streets that kept me safe. All for a price of course.”

‘Leave me alone! You got what you wanted!’
‘I’m sorry. A girl’s never thrown up afterwards before.’
‘Go. Tell Mark you did the deed and we’re square.’

“Did you… were you—”
“—Raped?”
“I’m so sorry I asked about the scar.”
Taylor slid out from underneath Madison, propped her back up against the shams lining the headboard, and patted her thighs. “Over my lap. You know the rules.”
“Never use the word sorry when it’s unnecessary,” Madison chanted as she draped her lithe body over Taylor’s thighs.
Running her hand over Madison’s pert bottom, she grinned in the now dark bedroom. “That’s okay, sweetie, you meant well. I’ll not punish you… this time, just give you a nice, long gentle spanking and see if I can coax an orgasm out of you.” Hearing the moan, she teased, “Would you like that, little girl?”
“Yes, please! It’s been too long since you spanked me.”
“It was this morning, wench!”
“Exactly!” Madison said, lifting her rear in supplication to her mistress.
As Taylor began spanking her submissive—finally lover—she had one last thing to say before getting down to the serious business at hand. “I admit I was blinded by rage and hate for far too long. Until I found you in fact, and that fortuitous meeting is something I will never be sorry for. You’ve given me back something I’d thought lost forever. The power to forgive.”

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

Bring me a unicorn!

This post was triggered by something I read in the June, 2017 edition of Cosmopolitan Magazine. Dated May 9th, the letter to the editor written by Channing Tatum, stated his desire that when his daughter is older: “I don’t want her looking to the outside world for answers.” Two paragraphs stood out to me in particular.

Channing Tatum: “We all know that every one of us is different and has a unique road map to our heart. We learn how to navigate it by leaping into love with both feet and giving our full selves without expecting anything in return. So I guess if there’s one thing that I think men wish women knew, it’s just that they alone are enough. When more women start to truly feel this power in themselves, the world will become so magical, it makes my head hurt.”

Channing Tatum: “We live in a society that has trained men and women to play certain kinds of roles for a long time, and the beauty of this amazing moment we’re living in is that we’re finally starting to break free from those roles. Women, especially, are realizing that they no longer have to conform to certain standards of social and sexual behavior, and this changes what they need from men and the role of men in general.”

Now, I’m not a regular reader of Cosmo, although back in the day—before internet—it was one of the few mainstream sources of sexual information. I find Cosmo’s coy euphemisms for genitalia and sexual acts to be annoying, and although the magazine embraced non-vanilla long before the general public did, the support as always struck me as ‘kink-lite’: low caloric and leaving you hungry for more.

Like some publications aimed at women, the double standard of positive articles empowering women to be independent, successful, strong willed and sexually [but not in a skanky way] free, are then submerged by an advertising tidal wave of rail thin girls modeling un-affordable fashions in size zero made by impoverished females in dangerous sweat shops.

The specific observation I thought of to this letter, was would he be so supporting of his daughter’s choice if she decides to be submissive to another? The gap between spanking as a means of injecting kink into a vanilla relationship, and the conscious choice to be spanked by a Dominant partner still seems a step too far for many. In some ways this mirrors and echoes the disdain that many feel for women who choose to be a housewife and stay-at-home mother. Or even worse, a working mother with kids in daycare.

You’re doing what to yourself?

There are so many more perceived roles for women and men in the post-industrial world, yet a lot of people aren’t comfortable with gender-neutral jobs. What if someone doesn’t want to break free from tradition? What if a man wants to be a plumber? What a woman wants to be a nurse? What if they got married? What if the nurse wanted to be spanked by her plumber? What if she decided that he was the Head-Of-Household and had the final say in all matters? What if she chose punishment as a means to allow him control of her actions? What if she freely gave up all rights to her body and allowed her Dom to use her without restrictions?

Is that the kind of freedom Channing Tatum was talking about? To voluntarily submit into a role that millions of women around the world have forced upon them by tradition? How is that good thing?

Doesn’t it follow though, that if men and women are free to choose roles that are non-traditional for themselves, then choosing to be traditional is also okay? If a modern, educated, self-aware, confident woman has the right to look to herself instead of the outside world for what turns her on and brings her happiness, why is submission even an issue? If being a spanked submissive is the role she chooses to play, then why keep searching for that unicorn?

A Unicorn can refer to a man or a woman and is often used to describe the perfect catch or perfect partner. A Unicorn is a mythical creature, someone amazing who is hard to catch or simply a very rare find.

Unicorn: A bisexual person, usually though not always female, who is willing to join an existing couple, often with the presumption that this person will date and become sexually involved with both members of that couple, and not demand anything or do anything which might cause problems or inconvenience to that couple.

In the venture capital industry, a unicorn refers to any tech startup company that reaches a $1 billion dollar market value as determined by private or public investment. The term was originally coined by Aileen Lee, founder of Cowboy Ventures. A unicorn [also] refers to a phenomenon that occurs in human resources when those who are responsible for hiring candidates have impossible expectations. This stems from a mismatch between the expectations of the employers and who is available for hire. In other words, human resources is looking for a mythical candidate (i.e. a unicorn), rather than facing reality.

Flashback Friday: When spanking meets the green-eyed monster

This is the last Flashback Friday, as I have plucked the best of my past writings of 2009-2010 from the archives. Originally posted on Sept 27th, 2010. My plans are to continue posting the Victorian novel, The Bumhampton Chronicles, in 100-word drabbles on Thurs, Fri, Sat and Sun. Every Monday, a new non-fiction essay of 500-1,000 words about D/s, based on various prompts I find in the vanilla world. On Tuesdays, I will be starting a new serial novel called, Kismet of Submission, with 1,000 word episodes. The first two have already been posted for past Wicked Wednesday prompts, but I will be reposting them before moving on to new episodes. Lastly of course, there is the weekly Wicked Wednesday. Still in progress is my follow up Sir Fang novel, The Case of The Scarlet Paddle. Speaking of beta readers, if you are interested in helping me by reading drafts of current fiction, please don’t hesitate to drop me a line via email, either to Lurv Spanking, or Byron Cane.

If you would like to read my spanking newsletters at my other blog, Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction, the June, 2017 newsletter #2 is now posted at this link.

The neighborhood had changed; not gradually, but cataclysmically. Lauren had had to leave. Abandoning her husband, running from the birthday party for her best friend: driving aimlessly, yet urgently she fled. Her cell chirped and vibrated frantically. Lauren had withstood the temptation to fling it out the driver’s window. She was in shock, intellectually she understood her flight was problematic, yet, the primitive woman roared and snarled, demanding satisfaction.

Yes, it had been Ashleigh’s party, her twenty-fifth birthday. Yes, the alcohol had flowed. Yes, Lauren knew Ashleigh liked kinky sex. Yes, Ashleigh had bent over, her ‘spank me’ panties flashing the guests. OK, Lauren admitted, she’d swatted her best friend more times than she could remember. It was a birthday party, they were all adults and clothes had stayed on. But, stumbling down the hall seeking the bathroom, hearing the smacks, opening the door to see her husband spanking the very naked Ashleigh, other guests patiently waiting their turn at the scarlet ass of her best friend: it was an earthquake.

Somehow, she’d left, driving drunk, streets empty and dark, now, out of gas, out of range, red and blue lights quickly bathed her ashen face in pulsing color. When the officer tapped on the glass, Lauren was numb. Following her instructions, Lauren surrendered her identification, her cell and her dignity. At the station, Lauren was booked on charges of DUI and held upon payment of bail and arrival of her husband.

Waking in the morning to the frantic urgings of her bladder, the smell of stale urine and vomit caused Lauren to add her contribution to the detox cell. Dirty, tired and more miserable than she’d ever been in her life, when the matron called her name, Lauren shuffled to the door and was brought to a private room. Cuffed and seated on a steel chair bolted to the floor, Lauren stared at her chipped nails and dirty fingers. Tears fell unhindered. Images flashed untethered. When, finally, her husband and his lawyer arrived, the silence was thunderous. Lauren heard her husband dismiss the lawyer with details of her release: the clang of the heavy lock made her flinch.

Unwilling to meet his eyes, she instead stared at his waist. The thick black leather belt, the holster, the chrome handcuffs; how often had they played bad cop and hard hooker. Lauren was terrified. She saw his legs move around the table, his arms yanking her to her feet then throwing her body across the hard surface. Restrained wrists dangling, Lauren murmured a feeble protest. He ignored her, pulling the jail issued pants down, followed by her soiled panties; he made a noise of utter disgust. That sound was quickly eclipsed by the harsh snap of leather meeting flesh. This was between her and him. Some of his brothers and sisters in blue may not have agreed with the actual punishment, but neither did they watch with cameras or eyes. By the time he was done strapping Lauren, her bottom was verging on purple and her throat hoarse from screaming.

Lying on her stomach, in her own bed, the jail lingering no matter the hour spent scrubbing under the hot shower, Lauren cried when she moved, cried when she remembered the silence after the spanking was done, cried when her apologies were ignored, cried and cried and cried until she fell asleep. Slowly waking to calloused hands gently rubbing her deep bruises, Lauren started violently, but a ‘shhhhh, let me take care of you’ allowed her to relax. His thick fingers kneaded, probed and tormented her until the events of the last twenty-four hours burst and Lauren commenced deep, guilty sobs. Heedless of her aching bottom, she squirmed over and fairly leapt into her husband’s embrace. He kissed her softly, but as her hands fumbled with his belt, he stood, quickly shedding his work uniform and entered her in one slamming thrust. Jealously had torn them apart, but thanks to their commitment to discipline, they could find the way back.

Break a Little

“Cause every time I see your face
I break a little”
And every single night you stay
you take a little”

These lyrics are to the song, “Break a Little” by Kirstin Maldonado who is a member of Pentatonix. This song is from her debut solo EP.

In missy’s recent post Being Nothing, she talks about being broken into nothingness.

So I suppose that I don’t actually want to be nothing. I just want to be none of the conscious me and I want to become something that is the other me – the unknown, the undeveloped, the restricted, the reserved and the held-back. I want to let go completely and go even further than I have gone with that before.

I do realise what it will take of course. It will take for me to be completely broken. I don’t think that for me this will come through pain, or for that fact through pleasure, although we have come close. I believe that for me the answer will lie in humiliation. I think that to break me, Sir will have to reduce me to even less than he has before.

For nora however, in her post about resolving conflict, she carries forward her theme that what she wants from her Daddy is to be broken of her bad habits.

Prior to D/s, we typically did not handle conflict well. My approach to conflict was to just “solve” everything myself. If I couldn’t solve it, then I would blame my husband for whatever it was, because surely it was his fault (please sense my sarcasm here). My husband’s approach to conflict, and to my style in approaching conflict, was to avoid it. He used humor a lot to try to lighten the situation, which drove me nuts and produced even more conflict between us. There were periods in our marriage where we fought, and engaged in conflict, a lot and we were both very dissatisfied with the results.

I am happy to report that in five months we’ve had one fight. That fight was one of those stupid fights, over something inconsequential. I was so wound up and was refusing to submit to my husband in the moment. Believe me, my bottom paid the price the next day. But, if my husband needs to soundly spank me in order for me to behave like a rational adult, then so be it. It works for us and we are so much happier.

Breaking a mirror equals seven years of bad luck, breaking bone is painful, breaking up—as the song above says—takes a little bit every time. Breaking a promise or vow leads to disappointment and regret. But breaking is not all bad. After all, to get an omelette you have to whip up some broken eggs.

There are lots of broken people in the world: I doubt anyone is free of pain, I’m certainly not. Some people need discipline in order to thrive. For those in D/s relationships, spanking sits front and center as the means to break through old hurts, to change patterns and behaviors that are harmful to self and others and break down the barriers we learn to erect as broken children.

“Cause every time I see your face
I break a little”
And every single night you stay
you take a little”

To someone in a stable, loving, respectful D/s relationship, those lyrics are empowering, not fragile glass that shatters at a glance. For a submissive they mean that every time they see their Dom’s face, a little piece of self-hatred breaks away. Every single night the Dom stays focused and determined to rise above the past shame and pain of broken souls, a little bit more self-doubt is taken away.

For women like missy and nora, breaking a little more each day has lead them to peace and happiness and joy.

If you would like to read my spanking newsletters at my other blog, Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction, the June, 2017 newsletter #2 is now posted at this link.

Flashback Friday: “Over the Top”

This week’s Flashback Friday, was originally posted April 11th, 2010. This will be the next to last Flashback Friday, as I have plucked the best of my past writings of 2009-2010 from the archives. After next week’s final posting, I will be changing the posting schedule. My plans are to continue posting the Victorian novel, The Bumhampton Chronicles, in 100-word drabbles on Thurs, Fri, Sat and Sun. Every Monday, a new non-fiction essay of 500-1,000 words about D/s, based on various prompts I find in the vanilla world. On Tuesdays, I will be starting a new serial novel called, Kismet of Submission, with 1,000 word episodes. The first two have already been posted for past Wicked Wednesday prompts, but I will be reposting them before moving on to new episodes. Lastly of course, there is the weekly Wicked Wednesday. Still in progress is my follow up Sir Fang novel, The Case of The Scarlet Paddle. Speaking of beta readers, if you are interested in helping me by reading drafts of current fiction, please don’t hesitate to drop me a line via email, either to Lurv Spanking, or Byron Cane.

The blue spruces shuddered violently. Lightning danced rapidly from menacing flannel clouds approaching the homestead. Heather Parks wrung her hands thinking of her husband Josh driving home in this terrifying weather. He’d been gone a week this time on business and despite nightly calls she constantly worried about his health. Her concern was a constant source of friction. Josh hated being ‘babied’ and Heather had fled in tears after many an argument. If only he would see what she needed, what she craved: he was oblivious to her! As the storm grew harsher so did Heather’s thoughts until the crashing thunder shook dust from the rafters.

“Mom! Where’s my yellow shirt?”

“It’s in the wash! I’m trying to write, have Daddy help you!” Corrine Campos grimaced hearing the horde descending upon her unsuspecting husband. Carmelo was warm and loving, except when it came to women’s work. Old-fashioned to the extreme he would never even consider lifting a finger to help around the house. He supported Corrine and their three children by running his own consulting business and that was enough for him and his mother. She’d found his masculinity overwhelming when they were dating but after ten years of marriage the resentments were reaching the breaking point. When her phone rang; well, Corrine snapped out without checking ID.

“What!”
“My, my, Corrine. Testy today?”
“Sorry, Roxy. Bad day.”
“I understand. Hate to rain on your parade but ‘Over the top’ needs work, lots of work.”
“I know, I know, I know. I’m editing now, Roxy, please give me a little more time.”
“I’m sorry, Corrine, but the deadline is Wednesday and if you don’t have a publishable draft by tomorrow the magazine is going to cancel. There’s nothing more I can do. Give me something to sell and I’ll go to the mat for you.”
“Okay, Roxy. Tomorrow, I promise. Gotta go, hubby is pounding on the door.”

“What are you doing? Your children are driving me crazy!”
“I’m sorry, Carmelo. I was talking to a friend. I’ll be right there.”

Corrine put her computer to sleep and wasted two hours caring for her children before foisting them off on her sister for the rest of the day. Carmelo had left, to go and do who knew what, but Corrine was quite happy to see his BMW squealing out of the gate. Finally: Peace and quiet.

The blue spruces shuddered violently as if in the throes of orgasm. Lightning danced rapidly from the menacing flannel clouds approaching the homestead intent on rape. Heather Parks wrung her hands thinking of her horny husband Josh driving home in this terrifying weather. He’d been gone a week this time on business and despite nightly calls she constantly worried about the health of his penis. Her concern was a constant source of friction. Josh hated being ‘babied’ and Heather had fled in tears after many a blowjob. If only he would see what she needed, what she craved: he was oblivious to her! As the storm grew harsher so did Heather’s thoughts until the crashing thunder shook dust from the rafters. What if she never got a chance to suck on his hard cock ever again?

Josh pulled into the garage amidst hail as large as fists and rain so thick the wipers failed to keep up. He was trembling with fatigue and looked forward to a long, hot soapy shower – by himself. Heather was so needy lately! What was her problem? He was less than pleased to open the door and find Heather on her knees, warm mouth open and blue eyes pleading for his cock. He finally snapped. Grabbing her long blond hair in his calloused fingers he dragged her into the living room and threw her over the back of the couch. Whipping out his belt he proceeded to beat his wife on her rounded quivering bottom while she cried and begged the entire time. When her ass was covered with weals he threw down the belt, stalked to her head, yanked up her head and shoved his cock down her throat.

Heather was in shock. Where was the loving gentle man she’d married? Why was he doing this? Her ass was on fire and while it hurt, the pain was nothing compared to her broken heart. When he pulled out of her mouth she protested again but then he began to pound her pussy each thrust slapping her sore bottom. Heather felt her climax building, the storm continuing unabated, neither one noticing the lights failing or glass shattering. Rain driven by violent winds soaked them as Josh fucked Heather as hard as he could: not caring a whit for her needs. She screamed again, pain was creating pleasure and her soaking wet cunt flooded the cushions. She moaned and writhed until she felt Josh shooting his spunk deep inside.

“What the fuck? What the hell are you doing?”
“Carmelo! Stop that! You have no right! This is private!”
“The hell it is! No wife of mine is going to read this filth!”
“It’s not filth, Carmelo! I wrote this for publication, for money!”
“You wrote this perverted trash for money? Money? You whore!”
Corrine slapped her angry husband. “How dare you call me a whore? I am the mother of your children and if I’m a whore then you’re a pimp!”
“You’ve gone too far this time, Corrine. I’m the man in this house and I decide what my wife does.”
“Bullshit! I don’t have to take this crap from you! Let me go! I’ll call the police.”
“Fine, Corrine, call, but first, I’m going to teach you some long overdue manners!”

Corrine felt herself rapidly thrown over her furious husband’s knees, dress tossed over her head and panties thrown on the floor. Carmelo’s large hand descended in rapid-fire order on her naked bottom punctuated by his stern lecture on proper behavior. Corrine squealed and bucked but her husband had little problems keeping her in her place. “I should have done this on our wedding night! You will obey me, Corrine, or I’ll spank you every day, twice a day for the rest of your life! Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!” Corrine choked out.

After more than half an hour of spanking, Carmelo threw his weeping wife on their bed and stalked out slamming the door behind him. Corrine reached back and gasped as she felt the heat pouring off her battered ass. Gingerly rolling over she swayed to the bathroom to observe the damage.

“Roxy? It’s, Corrine. Don’t bother with ‘Over the top’. I’ve got a new story to write: ‘Disobedient and beaten wife’. Yeah, it’s personal, very personal.”

Domination in Lycra

My favorite professional sport to watch is cycling. What does that have to do with spanking? Says the curious reader.

It you don’t follow sports, then you may be unaware of the link between Dominance/submission and athletics. Headlines such as: Yankees spank Red Sox in the rubber match; Chelsea whip Manchester United in the rain; The Patriots take the Giants to the woodshed. In cycling, a common phrase is: Stamped his authority over the peloton.

The Giro d’Italia—the first of three Grand Tours, the third being the Vuelta a España, finishes this weekend. My favorite event of all is the second Grand Tour, the Tour de France in July. They all run for three weeks, and have two overall themes: Great racing and amazing aerial photography. The organizers use the races as one giant tourism campaign.

Cycling is the ultimate team sport. In each race there is a designated GC—General Classification—rider who wears the number 1, 11, 21, 31, etc, and is supported by the other riders in order to finish as high as possible in each stage and overall. The actual leader of the team though, is the directeur sportif who follows behind in a vehicle constantly monitoring the race and directing the strategy. A rider can win and be successful through sheer talent, training and discipline, but without a strong team who can protect and guide their GC rider, breakaway and/or designated sprinter day after day, victory will be elusive.

There have been a lot of posts recently from many different bloggers writing about the nuances and the struggles of D/s in daily life. In an individual cycling race there can be only one winner, but as in relationships, the strongest team will always be more successful. The trophies and the colored jerseys may go to individuals, but it is the team that celebrates together at the end of the day.

The Dominant in a D/s relationship is the leader; the road captain, the one to whom homage is paid in champagne toasts, but who also has the complete responsibility for the success of D/s. A submissive cannot fail. They are simply following the direction of the Dom, and if a wrong road is taken, if there is a crash, if insufficient energy is supplied and attention not paid to details; it falls upon the Dom to accept responsibility for the failure to communicate and lead the way to safety.

During a 150k-200k stage race, the average professional cyclist burns 1,000 calories per hour, for a race that takes 4-6 painful hours to complete. The body though can only process an average of 1,500 calories during that time, so in order to maintain weight, they need to consume, on average, 8,000 calories a day. Hydration is even more important, with an average of 1 Liter of fluid every hour of racing. The monitoring of proper nutrition is the ultimate responsibility of the directeur sportif, who uses the radio, feed zones, domestiques and soigneurs to direct a mobile dining service and support staff that is moving at 40k an hour on the flat, and up to 80k downhill.

If we equate a D/s relationship to a team race, then the more control the Dom exerts, the less likely mistakes will be made in terms of feeding the power exchange. The submissive role is as a domestique. They are the ones who ride at the front, providing shelter from the wind and other riders, fetching bidons and food from the the team car, pacing their leader around road furniture, over long flat roads and up steep hills and snow capped mountains. The domestiques sacrifice their own ambitions, energy, even their own bikes if needed, in order to support their leader and give him/her the best chance to win. One-by-one they ride, until they can barely pedal another stroke, the entire team keeping their leader at the front, dropping off when spent.

Sounds kind of one-sided doesn’t it?

Sort of how most people view the entire concept of Dominance and submission. All about foot rubs and peeled grapes: lounging around while your frightened servant scurries to meet your every deviant whim and dark desire. Demanding obscene sexual favors constantly, and then, when not satisfied with the effort, spanking and punishing until the submissive is broken and left at the side of the road while the Dom cruises arrogantly past in cushy splendor and comfort.

In any human endeavor you will find people who abuse their authority, who punish unjustly, who only care about themselves and even seek to destroy for the sheer joy of inflicting terror upon the innocent. I will never justify D/s that is all about gratifying the Dom’s desires and ignoring the submissive’s needs.

That is not being a team leader. That is not winning. That is not about celebrating the tight bonds of love and respect developed over time through hard work and constant training. Like in cycling, or another sport, or writing a novel, there is no substitute for effort. Nothing in life comes easy, least of all an intimate relationship built around the bottom and the willing heart.

A D/s relationship lasts a lot longer than three weeks, and takes an incredible amount of energy to get through each and every day. We may quail at the thought of being responsible for another person who gives us their complete trust, but when we agree to act as a team, to selflessly support the other partner, to see to their comfort first and ride together against the world; then that steep mountain pass doesn’t seem so daunting after all.

Guilty as Charged

This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is, the year 2517. Last week’s story, Black Holes Tango, could very well be set in 2517. I wanted to write about something else this week though. It’s about the timeless themes of sex and spanking. No matter where the human race is in 500 years, I am confident that some things will never change. The photo belongs to Jillian Marks at The Deluge in a Paper Cup.

Photograph provided by and used with the permission of Jillian Marks

It taunts me. My eyes can’t stay away. I squirm; uncomfortable, the thin cushion on the kitchen chair brings no relief. I switch back, the blank white screen replaces the woman in the process of climaxing.

Typing the title, I smirk, guilty is something I know all too well. Gnawing on my lower lip, my free hand slips off the desk and drops to my jittery thigh. The dark growl stops me.
‘No touching. Hands where I can see them.’
I hunch my shoulders and make faces at the computer. I’m stubborn, but not stupid: He can’t see through my back. I think I’m beginning to regret awakening his dominance; although—I squirm again and sigh. I wish I’d kept my mouth shut, and hadn’t had that last glass of wine.

But damn it! How did he know to come back right then? I was this close to getting away with it. Another few minutes… I mean, come on, cheating on a bet that I couldn’t go 48-hours without masturbating isn’t the end of the world. Right? He was the one who suggested a spanking as forfeit. It’s all his fault. He knew I’d never had a real spanking before, and he knows full well that I can never resist tweaking the rules to suit me. It was a setup I tell you.

I denied everything of course. Even pulled out the feminine itch card, but, he showed me the video clip on his cell. Unzipped shorts, hand shoved deep inside, the wet squelching and breathy moans: Fine, guilty as charged.

The worst part wasn’t getting caught sticky-fingered. No, it was when he made a huge production of fetching a chair, sitting down and ordering me—ordering me, me—to lay over his knees and ask for my punishment!

He had the gall to write out a script and put it on the floor right in front of my nose, saying as he did so, he’d written it out yesterday! He patted my bottom, stroked my back, but refused to spank me until I read it out loud and begged.

‘Dear, Sir. I’m sorry I was a bad girl for masturbating without your permission. I agreed my orgasms belonged to you for 48-hours, and I was very naughty for trying to welsh on my wager. Per our agreement, my penalty is to be spanked over your knee. Please, Sir, spank your disobedient girl very hard, very long and make her sorry she challenged your authority. My bare bottom begs for your strong hand to teach it a lesson. Spank me hard, and turn my saucy bottom red and contrite.’

I was so humiliated—and turned on. I wanted to come before the spanking, and right afterwards. But he said I still had twelve hours to go. And, if I didn’t honestly write down everything I was feeling during my punishment, then the 48-hour denial of orgasm would start over at zero.

I didn’t want to cry: But I did. I didn’t want to acknowledge his right to discipline me: But I did. I can’t believe sitting on my sore butt hurts so much, but it feels so fucking good when I squirm.

I don’t want to reveal my true emotions in print. I don’t want to give him that kind of control. I don’t trust myself.

I flip back to my portrait. I love my expression. I grimace and want to pound my fists. I was this close!
What I really want is another spanking.
I wish I’d done this years ago.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 3)

Mr. Jones-Smyth seized my chin forcing my dry eyes to meet his no-nonsense glare. “Ruby, whether you will or won’t play the whore, you are not such a creature in my esteem. My offer is legitimate and comes with generous settlements for both you and our children. I will not tolerate a poor attitude towards self and will swiftly punish you when you err. Obedience brings pleasure: nor will I neglect your desire for pain. I await your answer.” I’d undergone a sea change since arriving at Peacock House. “Yes, I will be your wife—gladly will I obey you.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 7 (Part 2)

I discovered that afternoon he was an accomplished whip. The tufted end snapped my bare buttocks with stinging kisses. Cracking with sharp explosive power, the leather tip danced a painful random path all around while I apologized for my stupidity. I screeched, as for the finale, he laid a searing line of fire down the center of my crack, the final whipping placed as a direct bulls-eye upon my pooched bunghole. I momentarily lost my breath at the cut—it quickly turned to a numb ache. As best I good I rotated my hips and waggled my tail for more.

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

Flashback Friday: “Perhaps a spanking wouldn’t be the worst thing…”

This week’s Flashback Friday, originally posted Jan 15th, 2010.

Not that she really wanted a spanking. They hurt, especially the paddle when swung with purpose from behind by a stern man determined to enforce the rules on her bare bottom. Rules she’d suggested, rules she bent, twisted, spindled and ignored whenever she knew he wasn’t aware. Somehow though, his naughty radar always found out her transgressions and very shortly afterwords, she would be bent over, naked from the waist down and be punished until he decided the redness fit the crime. It wasn’t a crime to smoke, or cuss, or be late, or… any of the hundreds of rules both significant and petty she’d drawn up over a period of weeks in a fit of determination followed by frantic backsliding. Too bad he wouldn’t budge, not an inch, not one single stroke pulled in the name of mercy. She wanted spanking, she demanded spanking: Far be it for him to go back on his word. She knew his word was bond, but did he have to be so perfect? Couldn’t a girl mess up just once without a sore bottom the result? Evidently not.

Forgetting the mail was one thing, forgetting to pick up the kids after school was not acceptable. Before dinner, the children doing the normal electronic immersion it was off to the woodshed and a date with the following: A padded sawhorse, leather restraints, rubber bit and a three-tailed tawse due to impact one hundred times. Still… when she’d realized she’d forgotten and rushed off to the school only to find her children gone, her terror and shame were more painful than any spanking he could ever inflict. The look in eyes when he’d brought them home: She wanted to crawl away and hide. Strapped face down, completely nude, nipples clamped and butt plugged, she looked forward to the scorching stripes about to decorate her bottom. Maybe, just maybe, this time ‘it’ would finally kick in and she’d change for good. If not… well, there was always the cane.

Falling shards of Memory

we fell,
like ripe plums the color of a bruised heart left to rot
in resentment
thirty years since
we tumbled
into lust with the hubris of youth stoked with weed
the only sentient beings ever to discover
parts fit perfectly
until we blew apart like a super heated nova
of jealousy and grade point averages
all around people swirl like bees
dancing in a hive
come and go hauling wobbly pieces of themselves
from gate to plane back to reality
shining livery adorned with emerald and ruby
jewels winking in the soft summer air
of remembrance and recognition
the lope and the bounce
mind recoils seeing the bodies and faces
of long lost friends
lined with life like a faded treasure map
of retired pirates
not unlike the expressions ignored daily
in the mirror of time
we embrace
her first the taut curves softened yet hands
provide tactile memory of bottom over knee
reddened flesh bouncing under brush
gentle social hug ignites fire kept banked
his body next wider somehow shorter but still tight
the quirked lip and sparkled eyes unchanged
like tissue paper boats
the intervening years dissolve to when we girls
compared marks and orgasms
slaves to his devious dominance
we chat
introduce my husband pulse racing his gaze both
knowing and concerned tinged with hurt
it was supposed to be simple
but meeting old flames threatened to undo me
so
I surrendered
after dinner explained to him who they were and
why after three decades the pull was still strong
they met and talked while we nattered about
our kids and menopause and gravity
summoned to their room
two strong men awaited
grim demanding explanations
we stammered
they laughed and slapped each others backs
then ordered us to our knees
online for years planned our submission
and discipline in secret
devious Doms are the worst
and the best
we sucked
hard cocks jutting from jeans
arms behind our backs
cuffed and swapped
groaning as our hair fisted
and mouths filled with thick cream
ass up as they flog me
my tongue buried in familiar pussy
the taste makes me cry for wasted years
they hug me
we fuck
in every combination that four can conjure
the steady roar of jets slowly fade as the world sleeps
decide to blow off the reunion
in favor of room service and debauched sex
of willing slaves
we grin

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

Flashback Friday: “Spanking a willing woman”

This week’s Flashback Friday, originally posted Nov 24th, 2009.

Laura always looked forward to the annual family holiday gathering at her parent’s house. This also happened to be the very first time she’d be bringing a ‘date’. Josh had agreed to meet the folks and they were giddy their ‘little girl’ was finally seeing someone. Laura knew her mother was probably already planning the wedding, but she and Josh planned to wait until after they both graduated and decided on career paths. They’d both seen too many relationships founder over jobs and kids. There was time.

Josh wasn’t too happy about sleeping apart, but her parents were rather old-fashioned. No ring, no sex in the house. They’d thought about a hotel, but decided a long weekend apart during the night would be good for them. Besides, there was always the backseat if they got desperate. There was one thing though Laura was going to miss: Her nightly spanking. When Josh first mentioned spanking, Laura was thrilled and the reality far exceeded her fantasies. He was firm, no-nonsense and kept her in place until he decided she’d had enough.

It shocked Laura—hours after the first night’s dinner—when her parents asked Josh to join them in the den for a friendly chat. They asked him quite bluntly if he was in charge of their daughter. He coolly replied that he was, and said he understood the reasons for sleeping apart, however, he would appreciate some time alone before bed in order to stress to Laura who was in charge of their relationship. Laura blushed bright red when her mother asked curiously how Josh stressed that to her daughter and he casually said ‘I spank her every night’.

Her father cleared his throat and nodded to Josh before agreeing that Laura definitely needed a firm hand at her tiller in order to keep her level. He launched into several tales of misadventures Josh hadn’t heard before and raising an eyebrow, he looked over at Laura in surprise. She refused to look at Josh until he spoke sharply. At that point, her mother suggested they leave them alone in the den to ‘discuss’ the situation. ‘Take your time, Josh. Laura can be quite stubborn and it takes an effort to get the lesson across.’

Before Laura could object, Josh patted his thigh and as her parents hugged her and slipped out the door, all Laura thought about was having everyone in the family hear her getting spanked. She wanted to sink through the floor, but she didn’t hesitate to lie over his knees and made no objection when Josh raised her skirt and lowered her panties. Bare bottomed she waited for her lover’s hand to descend on her needy skin. The only thing better—admitted only in the privacy of her mind—would be to be bent over the family couch watched by all her relatives as she was severely thrashed with Josh’s belt.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 6 (Part7)

The village of Lower Bumhampton had a band of sorts. Misses of gentry breeding played instruments, while farm boys rapped tattoos with more verve than skill. Wizened veterans fired antique muskets and his lordship let off volleys from his gilded Hamilton & Askew shotgun. The impact of their hands striking my needy arse: the sound and fury reminded me of a parade around the greensward. I climaxed to the fantasy of being driven naked before the mob, carriage whip licking my back and thighs: Lord Caneshard at the reins, Mrs. Cleanknockers tormenting my bosom. The stocks awaited my nude body.

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

Flashback Friday: “Do spankings improve your complexion?”

This week’s Flashback Friday story, was originally posted on Oct. 15th, 2009.

Such strange thoughts chase through your mind when bent over waiting for the first blow. No matter how many times your butt has been blistered, every spanking is different. Whether a good girl, maintenance, discipline, punishment, role-play, therapy or any other type of spanking, the mental aspect determines the effectiveness. Sure it’s your bottom *baring* the swats, but it’s your Dom toying with your mind that makes the scene fly.

[I mean scene as in personal scene not professional scene.]

Thus the questions in a submissive mind long before the spanking actually begins. Sure a spanking hurts, most of the time very badly, but the mental torture lovingly applied by a cruel Master is so delicious. It makes the nerves jangle, the adrenaline pump and when the bottom is bared to the implement of correction, the mind has become numb. Except for those pesky questions.

Do spankings improve your complexion?
How often do birds eat?
If we had roast last night, how many sandwiches can I make?
How long to teach that damned pig to fly?
OUCH!

Flashback Friday: “Exchanging Spanking Vows”

This week for Flashback Friday, the following post, originally posted Oct 10th, 2009, is my personal favorite out of all the hundreds of posts I’ve written. I hope you enjoy reading.

Angelique waited for her new husband to whisk her away from the reception. It had been a traditional wedding, complete with vows, although without the ‘obey’. Angelique fully intended to obey Henri in all things, but her modern friends did not understand her need to willingly submit to her Master. She’d tried, but been ridiculed and mocked when she revealed her love of discipline. The Story of ‘A’ she’d been dubbed and most of her now former friends were long gone from her life.

It was a very special place, an isolated wind swept bluff overlooking the river far below. The land had been in Henri’s family for centuries. Here, over a convenient stump, Angelique received her very first spanking from Henri and had fallen in love with his commanding ways. Now they returned to exchange a second set of vows, vows meaning so much more to them both.

I, Henri Montague, do take Angelique Montague née Molyneux to be my cherished submissive. I promise to love her, to guide her, to support her dreams and to provide discipline whenever needed. She is mine and I will use her freely as I see fit. I promise to listen and to understand her special needs. I will honor her parents and kin. I will respect her body as a temple of Eros and strive to make her sexually satisfied. As Angelique’s Master it is my solemn duty to protect, shield her from harm and spank her firmly when she errs. I swear before God I will keep her heart safe and her soul warm.

I, Angelique Montague née Molyneux, do accept Henri Montague as my cherished Master. I promise to obey him, to love him, to support his dreams and submit to his stern discipline. I am his and I will freely submit to his every desire. I promise to listen and understand his special needs. I will honor his parents and kin. I will respect his body as a shrine of Eros and use all my orifices to keep him sexually satisfied. As Henri’s submissive it is my solemn duty to anticipate, shield him from worry and accept punishment when I err. I swear before God I will keep his heart safe and his soul warm.

Flashback Friday: “Why do brats get all the spanks?

This week’s Flashback Friday was originally posted Sept, 10th 2009 here.

Madison Sutton was a brat. Every male who crossed her path melted at her sweet innocent charm. Bad grades? No problem, a flutter of eyelashes was all it took. No car? Even easier, a cuddle on daddy’s lap and the keys were hers. No date? Hello! Short skirt, drop purse, bend way over and thrust. Cha-ching!

Now in her mid-twenties Madison was finally hitting her stride. No need for a job, a rotation of wealthy suitors kept her well in the black. As she got older the stakes got higher and the gifts more extravagant until none of her boy toys remained dangling on her string. Looking in the mirror, Madison saw an old woman where once a vivacious child had played.

Her new plan meant a job? Horrors! She quickly discovered her many talents were useless in the real world which demanded productivity and results. She pawned jewels and furs, her car was repossessed and the landlord wanted the back rent. Before Madison got so desperate as to apply for retail – ugh – she gave her wily ways one last frantic try.

The club was downscale, the clientele more so, but the stiff cover charge was merely a ploy. Her last one hundred dollars went to the bouncer and he sneered as she slid past. She flirted, she pouted, she flashed; she teased all to no avail. The other girls were all prettier, better dressed or younger: mostly all three. Tipsy and depressed she barely stirred when the shadow loomed over her drooping head.

A calloused hand grasped her chin and gently forced her eyes to meet his. A cotton blend work shirt with a name decal! Polyester pleated pants! Steel-toed stained boots! OMG! It’s the blue-collar freak show! Madison was effortlessly lifted off the stool and held suspended in mid-air by a pair of bulging biceps. Her slack expression and blank stare turned to indignation when rough whiskers and beery lips kissed her hard.

She squealed with outrage and demanded to be put back in her proper place. Right now! He smiled and obeyed her. He returned her to her proper place, he sat on her vacated stool, and she continued to dangle above the floor. This time it was over his bulging lap, bottom up, short skirt raised and thong pulled down to her knees. Not even the thumping bass of the techno dance beat could drown out the sharp smacking noises and the even louder hollers for help.

Help came at last. One by one, her late boy toys came by to pay their respects, beating the brat out of Madison once and for all. Her bare bottom was scarlet by the time the last had left and the blue-collar freak show added some pops with a wooden serving tray for good measure. When he finished blasting Madison’s fiery ass, he stood up, slung her over his right shoulder, and slowly walked out, his handiwork visible to all.

Reaching his car, he deposited the sobbing former brat in the back seat on her stomach, drove home and brought her upstairs to his bedroom. Vitamin-E lotion, an ice pack and pillows awaited Madison on the bed. She whimpered softly and acquiesced to his tender ministrations soon turned to hard penetration deep in her wicked bottom.

When he came, she sighed and said, “Honey, that was the best fantasy you’ve ever given me! How on earth did you round up all my late lovers?”

“They all bring their cars to me for service. I got to talking with each one and we finally figured out the spoiled brat was you.”

“That was a long time ago. I’m glad I could still fit in my school uniform. Do you think I could get another lube job?”

“If you use your suction hose, I’ll see what I can get up.”

Flashback Friday: “There’s always a reason for spanking”

Originally posted, Oct 6th, 2009.

“Honey? What’s a word beginning with ‘S’ that’s eight letters?”

“What’s the clue?”

“A repetitive motion that creates heat.”

“Hmmmmm. Perhaps a demonstration would jog your memory.”

“OUCH, OUCH, OUCH, OUCH.”

“That’s four letters, my dear, try again.”

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.”

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.

Flashback Friday: “Discipline is needed”

Originally posted Sept. 28th, 2009 here.

Willing reluctant feet to move, she raised a quivering hand to rap on the sturdy oak door. The gruff ‘Enter!’ nearly sent her fleeing back to her room. Reluctantly she opened the door, sweaty hands clutching the document. Seating behind his desk, her father raised an eyebrow at his twenty-year old daughter’s attire. Dressed as a schoolgirl, pleated skirt, crisp blouse and his regimental tie she appeared much younger and very nervous.
“Good morning, Sir.”
Confused, her father said, “Since when am I, ‘Sir’, to you, Princess?”
Before she completely lost her nerve, his trembling daughter confessed her innermost desires.
“You never spanked me as a child, Sir, and I appreciate your compassion and understanding of my willful ways. It would have been easy to punish me with blows. I know I deserved a good thrashing on many occasions. I also know you spank mother and have for as long as I can remember.”
Her father stirred uncomfortably in his leather chair, the conversation taking a disturbing turn. He was about to dismiss his clearly overwrought daughter when the door swung open to reveal his smiling wife.
“Have you told him yet, darling?”
Her daughter shook her head, but with courage bolstered by her mother’s support, continued.
“You told me, Sir, when I reached the age of twenty I could ask for any single thing of you and if it was within your power, you would grant my boon. This document I have in my hand is my latest Uni transcript.”
Her father read the paper, all top marks and glowing reviews.
“I fail to see any grounds for discipline, Princess. I am very, very proud of you.”
His daughter basked in his love and praise. She felt her mother squeeze her hand in support.
“I thank you, Sir. I thank you both for raising me to be the young woman I am today. My boon, Sir, is that you teach me to be as my mother. I wish to submit to my husband and have the marriage of respect you share. As a reward for my marks I crave you give me six of the best and begin my journey into adulthood.”
He stood, paced round to the two most important women in his life; kissed his wife soundly on the mouth and his daughter on her brow.
“I would be honored, Princess, to guide you into proper submission. We both are honored you have chosen your parents as your role models. Assume the position, Princess, raise your skirt and lower your knickers to your knees. You will receive six of the best with your mother’s own special cane and you will count and thank me for each and every one.”
She complied, no longer nervous, no longer a child, but poised on the cusp of her new life as a contented and taken woman.

Flashback Friday: “Too soon, it’s over”

This week for Flashback Friday, a poem originally posted Sept, 26th 2009.

The sound of a spanking
is so delightful
crisp smacks
yelps and welts
harder, faster
slower, longer
the pain hurts
no matter the manner
it hurts
burns
stings
cries and sighs
yet after
when the spanking finally stops
the ache
the need for more
the need for more pain
is it all about the pain
what would be better
a hard, fast beating of five minutes
or a long, gentle spanking
for an hour
over a knee
purring
arching
begging for more
slowly building
the burn
while the timer
clicks away
in front of your pleading eyes
minute by minute
too fast
even for an hour
two would be better
three would be perfect
better yet
spank me forever
so I can feel
the ache
every
single
second
I
breathe
your
name
with
awe

Flashback Friday: “You may now spank the bride”

Originally published Sept, 19th 2009. This post, “You may now spank the bride”, has the dubious distinction of being my most ‘popular’ post. It’s been viewed 2,600 times. Not dare I say it for artistic merit, but because more people search for variations of ‘bride spanking’, than anything else. Kinda explains the divorce rate.

In the year of our Lord 1273, marriage was for the nobility. The serfs, peasants and general workers who comprised the majority of the population were left to their own devices even if a priest was available. Various rituals existed in many cultures to bond two young people together for the sake of the children usually already on the way. In the tiny hamlet of Whipping-Hollow-On-Butterbum-Reach however, there was a very different ritual performed on the rare occasion of Holy Matrimony betwixt and blushing maiden and an untried boy. Here in this place the bride was given away by the groom’s parents; the groom by the bride’s parents. [*If unavailable due to plague, war, malnutrition or general misfortune then appropriate substitutes would be arranged.]

Perhaps thrashed away would be a better term. The morning of the wedding, the respective parents* would arrive at the hovels of the soon-to-be-in-laws and request permission to enter. This was done simultaneously and the bride/groom would politely bade their new parents* to enter the dwelling. Once inside, what the parents* found would be a nude groom/bride standing next to wedding finery. This was done, the nudity, to ensure there were no malformations in the bodies of the engaged. For the bride, she was also subjected to a physical exam to insure an intact hymen [unless a certificate of prior breakage was notarized and signed by thirteen male witnesses] and proper function of mouth, nipples and anus. If satisfied, the bride’s new in-laws would then bathe her thoroughly but lovingly as a new daughter and dress her in preparation to join their household.

The groom was also inspected and his new mother-in-law would ensure he possessed a proper and suitable cock stand for their daughter being given away in the hovel down the lane. The foreskin was carefully washed and then the groom’s father-in-law would direct the groom in the proper manner to use a woman’s mouth and throat. After spending his large load in his mother-in-law’s mouth [he had abstained from solitary vice for a month] she would then solemnly reveal her vagina and anus to her son-in-law and give general instructions on the proper usage of both holes. He would be ordered to rigorously use all three orifices of their daughter that afternoon and into the early morning hours. Both were told to be ready to offer proofs the following day. The groom was then also bathed and clothed and the respective parties then left the hovels and made their way through the hamlet to the center green for the ceremony.

The procession wended its way past each dwelling and stopped in turn. For in the tiny hamlet of Whipping-Hollow-On-Butterbum-Reach, the bride and groom were fully clothed, except for the opening in the back that framed the entire surface of the bare bottom. This bare bottom was given a single stroke with a willow cane at every hovel by the respective parents*. Thus by the time the moist-eyed bride and groom reached the green, they each sported thirty red stripes on formally pristine bottom cheeks. Once at the green, the bride and groom knelt side-by-side and leaned forward, thus prettily presenting themselves for further spanking.

The priest would begin the ceremony and when he asked who it was who gave away the bride, this was the cue for her new in-laws to strike her bottom hard with a thick leather strap created for this day. She received as many strokes as her age – thus providing a reason for parents to delay a daughter’s marriage – and after each one, she thanked God for her humbling chastisement. The groom received exactly the same, except his blows were delivered with a paddle also made special for the day. When the vows were exchanged, the parents* switched sides and implements and delivered ten spanks to their own children for the last time as single individuals. After the ring and the pronouncement by the priest of, “You may now spank the bride”, there was one last test for the painfully suffering and newly minted crying wife. Over her new husband’s knee she willingly went, he sitting on his sore bottom and with loving scrupulousness he used both the strap and paddle – gifts to the newlyweds – until he was completely satisfied the meaning of ‘Honor and Obey!’ had been imprinted on her swollen buttocks.

There of course was still the deflowering to occur and most couples at this point decided it was too far and too painful to walk to their new home and thus consummated their marriage right then on the green in front of the rapt inhabitants of the tiny hamlet of Whipping-Hollow-On-Butterbum-Reach. She would bend over her scarlet ass reaching for the clouds and he with his rampant prick plunging hard into virgin womb, that pain unnoticed in the scorching flames as her husband’s torso spanked her over and over again until he flooded her no longer virgin vagina with his impregnating sperm for the first of many times in succession.

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

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

There is comfort in anticipation

A little over six months ago, I started writing again after a 5 and 1/2 year break. Since that time I have written around 200,000 words. That includes all the new posts here, plus the second half of a novel, the first quarter of another novel, and three novellas.

Almost two months ago, I was invited to join the Paranormal Erotic Romance writers co-op, by my good friend, Ina Morata, who writes wonderfully inventive erotica on her website and in published works. The editor and publisher of the anthologies, Devi Ansevi, who also writes erotica, has taught me much about editing. I am in a state of nervous anticipation for my first published spanking erotica this January, 11th 2017.

If you are a constant reader here, then you know that my style of writing is very eclectic. I write in all points-of-view and tenses, and even dialogue without quotation marks. My fiction for publication – hopeful publication – is more literary and intense than my flash fiction I post here. In anticipation of the Lust in Lace anthology, I would like to offer you something in the style of my long fiction. This story is new, not an excerpt, and serves as an illustration of my focus when writing a novella or novel.

I will be posting another post with all the links, information and an excerpt after the Lust in Lace anthology goes live for purchase. There will be more details and information then about the next novella to be published for Lust in Spring, on March 20th, 2017.

Active Submission

A cool downdraft catches the burgundy-wine curtains. The sudden snap of cotton makes me jump. Through the open window of our bedroom, I can see lightning arcing in the dark sky. Too far still for thunder, the sound I hear is my heart pounding in anticipation.

Crack-snap, the fabric billows as the humid air rushes westwards: sucked into the storm’s base and thrust upwards with ferocious velocity, only to succumb to gravity’s embrace and return as gentle rain or harsh hail. Crack-snap. The steady whipping reminds me of why I am here, in the corner, like a naughty girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Soon, I will hear his heavy tread on the staircase, the scent of his cologne will send tingles to my pussy and his hot breath on the back of my neck will weaken my knees. Crack-snap. Crack-snap. The pace intensifies, my bottom clenches and relaxes in harmony with the noise. It soothes me. It awakes my passion.

Several generations ago, the scene would have been cornstalks to beyond the vanishing point, our 1850’s farmhouse surrounded by arable land instead of by cookie cutter subdivisions filled with unhappy wives and distant husbands. My husband, Bradley, had recognized in me, what the farmer knew instinctively to expect from his little woman. Obedience and respect in return for protection and support.

Crack-snap. Our bedroom is a masculine statement of dominance, creamy oak four-post king size bed, original pine floors, the walls, maple wainscoting with forest green and silver paper above. The covers are a cool cotton to match the drapes. Pillows and bolsters in rich jewel tones will be tossed aside to sleep. When I am bent over the bed with a sham under my hips, my toes barely graze the throw rug.

Each time, every time I am spanked, it only reinforces our bond, and reassures me I’ve made the correct decision. I shiver, the cooling breeze caresses me, strokes my heated pussy, teases my puckered nipples; I wiggle, trying to catch the proper angle.

Crack-snap. Crack-snap. Crack-snap.

How I wish the noise was the result of the flogger instead of the drapes. He is diabolical in the way he pushes my buttons through words and deeds. I have done nothing to deserve this, and yet, have done everything.

A typical evening, home from work, catching up with social media, when he speaks. A low, husky drawl, filled with meaning and purpose: his voice slips through my barriers as if they were gossamer. I have no defense against his wiles: my feminine wariness of the male predator purrs instead of snarls. He is mine, she says every time, and rolls over in submission.

When he says, go upstairs and prepare, my mouth foolishly asks why. A raised eyebrow speaks volumes. I stand on shaky legs. He reminds me once more of my choice, discipline is his alone to decide time and place.

In my corner, arms behind my back, nude but for my collar, I am the freest I have ever been. My submission is a gift, not to him, but to me. I crave the anticipation of knowing that the pain he will give me, helps to shatter the paralysis in my soul. Each paddle blow heals, each swipe of the cane removes another layer of deadened emotions, each leather strand that scourers my back, tears away the sticks and stones of childhood misery.

When he whips me: crack-snap, I find my happy place is that much closer to becoming permanent.

The thunder is nearly constant now. The searing strobes of atmospheric electrical discharges flashes in the darkened room. In between beats, his steps come closer, I hear the knob turn, the door thumps against the stopper. My breath seizes with love and longing.

He runs his forefinger down my spine. I shudder out an exhale.

He kisses my nape. Tears spring to my eyes.

And when he firmly grips my buttocks and asks who owns you, I sigh, and reply, you do, sir.

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

Submission without consent or choice is abuse

Three of my friend missy’s recent posts caught my eye.
“A Need for Domination”
“A Need for submission”
“Humiliation”

“People always are fixated on the body and forget that the mind is the ultimate sexual organ.”

That above was my comment on the humiliation post. She points out that for her, being Dominated helps her get into a submissive state, more than simply being submissive and waiting for Dominance.

She also writes about the roles of women in society, and how, in her words, her submissiveness is “letting the side down to others” who feel that being a feminist means never submitting to the patriarchal power of tradition.

My contention has always been that a submissive woman is a feminist because she is able and willing to choose submission on her own terms. It takes a strong and confident woman to ask to be spanked by her partner, male or female, even it she’s shaking and trembling inside with fear of rejection.

The flip side of course, and what gets the spanko community in trouble with the vanilla world, is because in real life, men dominate females everyday in horrific ways. From a wolf whistle on the street, to innuendos and touching in the workplace, to outright rape, violence in the home and murder. Many people cannot separate consensual spanking and domestic discipline with abuse and neglect by predatory males.

There is no simple answer unfortunately, when entire countries and religions are built around the systematic and systemic degradation of human beings who happen to have a vagina instead of a penis. Whether it is female genital mutilation, child marriage, honor killings, lack of education, healthcare, economic and political opportunities; there is a real and global-wide problem with the way women are treated by men.

The fact that I can write this and read missy’s posts about His Lordship dominating and humiliating her with and by her consent, should draw praise, not condemnation from people who should be focused on the real abusive situations, not peeping into the lives of those feminists who choose to submit.

Never too late to take the plunge

Resolutions never seemed to work. An arbitrary date in any event, the ritual of adding another year was often depressing. When was the last time they stayed up until midnight? There was a good reason no rock band was called ‘The Ravages of Time’.
Deborah Cantel – Deb to her friends – and sweetie to her husband, avoided mirrors on general principles.
“No today, Deb, today is a new start.”
In the full-length closet mirror she tried her best to see what her husband adored.
“Face? Meh. Tits – saggy, tummmy – wobbly, bum – plump; all-in-all, Deb, you need help, girl.”
She picked up the sheet of paper and went over her list one last time. “I sure hope Josh understands this.” She grimaced at her reflection and tossed off a mock salute.

Josh Cantel was concerned. The holidays were always stressful for them both, but his wife Deb normally carried the bulk of the responsibilities in terms of family logistics. The year however, between the crazy work schedules and school breaks, he’d decided that the usual trip to his parents for Christmas, would instead be a kid’s only extended New Year’s visit. If it went well, and so far all reports were good, then Deb’s parents would host next year.
The house was amazingly quiet the past few days, the normal exhaustion after serving in retail hell from 8 to 6, was tempered by the knowledge they didn’t have to sneak in a quickie and keep a lid on the noise.
But Deb had been subdued. She claimed she missed the kids. To Josh, she was unusually preoccupied and spent excessive time online. Not that she turned down his overtures, but… her responses seemed feigned at times.

If there was one constant emotion Deb had felt – did feel – throughout all their dating and marriage, it was guilt. Josh deserved a better woman, a better wife and a better lover unburdened by self-doubt and loathing. His compliments bounced right off her thick internal walls.
“How’s the game?”
“It’s alright.”
Deb watched silently until the next commercial break.
“Honey? Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. What’s up, sweetie?”
“Without the sound please.”
Josh pressed the mute button.
“I made some resolutions this year, again, and based on past efforts, I doubt I’ll reach February without giving up.”
They watched an annoying dancing elf pitch the latest sale.
“I hate that guy,” Josh muttered.
“I don’t know, honey, I thought you looked kinda cute dressed up as the company spokes-elf.”
“Watch it, Deb,” he growled.
Deb shivered, “I like it when you’re all stern and gruff with me.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “It makes me believe you find me attractive.”
“I do find you attractive, sweetie. You know that.”
She shrugged. “It’s me, not you. I hate my body.”
“Come on, not that again. We’ve talked about this how many times? You’re a beautiful, sexy, smart woman and I love you even more today than ever.”
She sniffled. “Thanks, honey. I just wish I could believe it.”
Josh shook his head. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Maybe that’s the problem. It’s not what you say, it’s what you don’t do.”
He stared blankly at the television screen.
“Honey?” She got off the couch and knelt at his knees. “I need your help to meet my goals, not by cheerleading and hugs, but by leading and holding me accountable. Josh, what I’m trying to say is that I want, I need you to spank me when I, when you, think I’m slacking off and need discipline.”
Josh pressed the off button.
“What?” His astonished voice filled the den.
“I can’t do this on my own and words, whether written or spoken, just don’t motivate me. I’m hoping actions will jolt me out of my funk.”
“You want me to spank you? For real? As in punishment?”
“Sometimes, yes. Discipline too and maybe a reward for a job well done.”
“And if you don’t like it? What happens then? Do I get blamed and the cold shoulder?”
“All I know, Josh, is that I want to try spanking when I don’t do what I have promised to myself. I made a list. Are you willing to help me make a new start?”
“You really want me to spank you, Deb?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
He nodded and thoughtfully stroked his chin. “OK, I’m in. Take your pants down and lay over my lap. I’ll give it my best shot.”
“Now?”
“Are you back-talking me already, girl?”
“No, sir!”
“I changed my mind. Strip naked first, then I’ll warm your ass.”
“Thank you, sir.”

Josh ran his hand over his wife’s plump curves. “How hard and for how long?”
“You’re in charge, sir. I know I need a good cry though, so don’t stop just because I say no, only if I say red.”
“Red as in stop?”
“Yes, sir. It’s a safe word in case I can’t take anymore.”
“Then you are actually in charge, not me.”
“No…! I mean… what if?”
“What if? What if I decide to beat you unmercifully?”
“No, you wouldn’t do that to me.”
“Do you trust me, Deb? Do you trust me to spank you as you need?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you may say red, but it will mean pause, not end. The end is when I say so.”
“Yes, sir.”

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

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.”

Psychological Preparation for a Spanking

An important part of Dominance is the preparation for scenes. Not only the physical logistics of family, work and life in general, but by helping the submissive in their psychological preparation during the transition to a disciplinary mindset. I wrote a lengthy post called “A guide to giving Therapeutic Spankings for couples” that describes one way to deal with scheduled spankings.

But what about spontaneous spankings for fun and play? I offer three following scenarios, one with long buildup, one medium and one short. Obviously, your partner is willing and able to receive a spanking in the spirit it is delivered, and you both use words/phrases that are personally arousing. The identities have been changed to protect the innocent.

Long Scenario:

“Honey?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Do you know what happens in two hours?”
“Hmmmm, a ball game?”
“No honey. You get a spanking in two hours.”
“But! Why?”
“You know what you did.”
“No I don’t know!”
“Really? Who was prancing around naked this morning?”
“But you told me to! That’s not fair!”
“Oh… so it’s my fault now.”
“Yes, sir. It is.”
“I see. Did I tell you to shake your tits? Bend over and spread your cheeks? Straddle the chair and play with yourself?”
“Well, no… I thought you liked it!”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point! Sir.”
“The point is that if you are going to behave like a slutty little girl, then you’re going to be punished like one with a nice, long, hard, juicy, slutty bare bottomed spanking. Now go set the timer.”
“Yes, sir!”

Medium Scenario:

“I’ve gotta a hankerin’ for sumptin’ woman.”
“A beer? Pizza? Beef jerky?”
“Naw. Sumptin’ a bit more meaty and juicy.”
“You mean like steak?”
“More like rump roast.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me what that means.”
“I… can’t.”
“Say it…”
“I get spanked.”
“Good girl.”
“Right now?”
“Naw. Take a shower first.”
“Is that all, sir.”
“Nope. Get yerself nice and revved up, but don’t you dare come without my permission.”
“And after I’m all hot and bothered, sir?”
“Get in position for inspection.”
“On all fours, sir?”
“Rump nice and high, and you’d better be wet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll give you a seeing to in an hour. I’ll eat after you’re nice and tender red.”
“Thank you, sir.”

Short Scenario:

“Honey? Are you ready yet? We have to leave soon, the party starts in an hour!”
“Good! Then we have enough time.”
“You startled me! Let me straighten your tie.”
“Thanks.”
“Time for what?”
“Lift your dress up.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Okay…”
“Now drop your panties to your knees.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bend over the back of the couch. If your panties fall you get the belt.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Count the paddle strokes. If you’re a good girl and take your spanking without a fuss, you can have your butt plug to hold in my sperm during the party.”
“Please, sir. I’m a very good girl.”

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

  • 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

    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.

  • 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