Kismet of Submission: Episode 20

Don’t you love the expression “crack of dawn”? Or daybreak? There is something ancient in our DNA that longs for sunlight and celebrates each morning rise as if it was the first time. When the dark night—unless a full moon or for most of us, light pollution that washes out the stars—gradually gives way to pastel streamers racing with giddy abandon over the eastern horizon, our hearts beat a little quicker and our souls rejoice. There was however, no rejoicing in room 425, at least from Tamara’s side of the bed.

‘What time is it?’ came a gruff growl from under the covers.

‘Quarter to five.’

‘In the morning?’ came an incredulous query muffled by a pillow.

‘In my experience, Tamara, morning often follows night.’

‘It’s still dark outside!’ came a petulant wail unencumbered by fabric.

‘I know. I apologize. I neglected to tell you that I have to be at the venue by seven thirty to set up my meet-and-greet stall. It’s from nine until noon, and I have to stop for breakfast first. I’ve already showered again—sorry for waking you.’

‘You were going to leave me here?’ came the upset voice turned visible by the bedside lamp. ‘Just walk out on me without asking what I wanted?’

‘I—’

‘No! No, Sir.’ Tamara swings her legs out of bed and stands up, briefly forgetting that she’s naked. Reflexively she hunches, covering her chest and pubis, but dropping her arms when realizing she can’t argue without gesticulating. ‘Did you decide suddenly that I’m a liability: A whack job too unstable to trust? Was I going to at least get a parting gift? Maybe some cold, hard cash in a tidy envelope as thanks for services rendered? Well? Well?’ By this time, red-faced and strident, Tamara is right up in his business giving him what for.

Sir gently captures her accusatory fingers jabbing his chest and pulls her into a firm embrace. ‘Shhh… listen to me, Tamara. I was on my way to the lobby to get some coffee and pastries. I figured you’d need caffeine and sugar in order to get going this morning. After I got back—then I was going to explain the schedule and offer you the choice of helping me, or letting you have the car to spend some time on your own. Nothing nefarious nothing devious; I didn’t and don’t want you to feel coerced into staying with me, either today or next week.’

‘Oh.’ Tamara’s voice is remorseful and quickly turns tearful. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I ruined everything… again. I’m hopeless and such a complete fuck-up. I don’t understand why you’re so patient with me, if I were you, I’d beat the crap out of me and toss me into the hallway on my ass. I don’t deserve you, Sir. I never will.’

‘Much as I’d like to discuss how very, very wrong you are, now is not the time for another lesson in submission.’ Kissing her forehead he orders her into the bathroom. ‘Go. Wash up. I’ll be back in a jiffy and I expect you to be on your best behavior. I’ll deal with your misconception before we leave… but, Tamara, we will leave… together… and I don’t want to hear anymore BS about what a horrible person you are. Clear?’

Very softly Tamara agrees. ‘Yes, Sir.’

SMACK! SMACK!

‘An infinitesimal down payment on the punishment you owe from last night and this morning. Be prepared for a very sore bottom, young lady, when Sir returns. Is that clear?’

‘YES, SIR!’ she barks out. Saluting, she marches towards the door, pivots on her heel and stomps into the bathroom. Standing at attention, two red handprints on her butt, she waits until Sir says, ‘at ease, soldier’ then bends over to turn on the taps.

She takes the faster shower in history—peeing in the tub to speed things along—and brushes her teeth like a weed-whacker gone berserk. Unsure if Sir wants her dressed, she snips the tags off the shortest skirt she bought yesterday, and pulls a plain black T-shirt over her damp hair. The dirty bra and panties she tosses in the bag. Going commando always revs her libido.

The cardkey clicks and the handle rotates. Without hesitation, Tamara sinks to her knees and bows her head.

What we see—and she can’t—is Sir’s expression of amazement. Whether it’s the fact that he’s only been gone ten minutes, or her submissive posture, we’re not sure. What is clear though, is the unsubtle change in his demeanor. Up until now, he’s been very gentle and accommodating with her foibles. It’s time for the Dom to take charge.

Sir collects his thoughts and rearranges the schedule. The tray with breakfast is set aside. The packed suitcase is unzipped, the paddle retrieved. ‘Stand up, Tamara.’

She complies, head still bowed.

‘Turn around, bend over the chair and place your palms flat on the seat.’

After she’s in position, Sir tells her to look up. ‘Do you see the coffee and pastries?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Do you deserve them?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Why not?’

Tamara’s throat swells with shame. ‘Because I’m a bad girl, Sir. I stole your car and yelled at you.’

‘So you deserve punishment for your actions?’

She can barely choke out the words. ‘Yes, Sir.’

‘I see.’ There is a long pause as he raises her skirt—and his eyebrows—revealing her bare bottom. ‘I see. It seems you wish forgiveness.’

Crying now, she manages to stammer, ‘Y-yes, Sir. Please forgive me.’

He notices her flinch when he rests the cool paddle on her backside. ‘Remember, Tamara, use the word red if it’s too difficult to take.’ He pulls back his arm, and before he strikes, adds an admonishment. ‘And, darling, it’s not me who needs to forgive, it’s you who needs to forgive yourself for believing you have no worth.’

To read all the Kismet of Submission episodes in order from the beginning, please go to this page for individual links. As an FYI, this series, Kismet of Submission, will conclude by the end of the year. I will be pulling the posts at that time, and then continuing to write a full-length novel starring Sir and Tamara for publication in either 2018 or 2019.

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]

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 24)

Persistently pressing pliable petals with furled tongue, repeated efforts will cause the rubbery exit to yield slightly. Combined with the heady aroma wafting from the adjacent pussy, the scents and tastes drive one mad with lust. Louisa lapped and drilled my virgin anus, while her nose rubbed my clit, and delved inside my wet cunt. By the time she ceased her licking, I’d spent twice and lay there facedown wondering if I’d ever be able move again. Greased palms swirled the paste across my globes from meridian to poles. “Harder,” I whispered, the pressure on my bruises causing deep moans.

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.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 23)

Our lumpy pillows shoved under my hips, I wriggled impatiently as she fetched the ointment tin. Rather than her palm though, I felt the rasp of her tongue tracing the numerous lines and mottled markings all over my backside. Her wet pelvis slapped my shoulders as she straddled my torso. Her deft tongue danced down my crack as she bent over and, with calloused fingers, wrenched my sore cheeks apart. What can say about the act of feuille de rose? The earthy, slick, sometimes bittersweet and tangy oil that can found nestled betwixt the plump hemispheres of the female form.

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.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 22)

Louisa sounded bitter. “I doubt I’ll ever marry. Who would want such a wretch as I?” I seized her hands in mine. “Then you will come with me. We will all live together and you, my beloved, will be my dearest friend, confidante and wanton lover.” She pulled back and vigorously shook her head. “That will never work, Ruby.” I sniffed and said, “Yes, it will. On our Sunday afternoon outing, I will simply tell Chester that you are to be my bosom companion.” Her face remained skeptical: I resumed our interrupted coitus with a reminder my bum needed attention.

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.

Kismet of Submission: Episode 19

Domestic rituals are so fascinating to observe. Electric or manual: Squeeze the toothpaste tube from the bottom or the top? Wash hands with liquid or bar soap: Toilet seat up or down? So many nuances; an anthropologist could spend a lifetime in the urban jungle decoding the strata of upbringing manifesting in the adult personal hygiene taboos. Advertisers would have you believe that civilization would collapse overnight without proper flossing or deodorizing our stinky bits with aromatic artificial scents. Yet somehow, human beings have survived and thrived not being overly obsessed with cleanliness until very recently. True, history is replete with descriptions of rancid unwashed masses and potpourri sachets liberally doused with floral perfumes, while bathing has waxed and waned depending on the level of cultural stigmas. But man and woman still managed to consummate and reproduce with alarming frequency. Not all olfactory experiences are horrific. For example: on a hot summer’s day, there is nothing sweeter than the smell of hot asphalt.

Tamara remains swaddled in the plush hotel towels, even though Sir is striding unabashedly naked in and out of the bathroom. She watches—out the corner of her eye—his flaccid cock and dangling balls swinging to some unheard show tune. When he glances in the mirror, she scowls and scrubs harder on her molars.

‘You know, you’ll wear away the enamel and gums if you scrub too hard.’

She spits in the sink. With foaming mouth she retorts, ‘Are you the fifth dentist?’

‘No. Just someone who has spent waaaay too much time and money reclined in the dental chair. I take care of my teeth now. It’s never too late to start.’

‘Well. I left my four-out-of five dentist recommended state-of-the-art combination electric toothbrush/juicer back at my apartment, so this manual brush you bought me, will have to suffice. I guess I don’t rate that highly after all.’

Rinsing out, she spits again, and flicks her tongue scraping the upper surface with her front teeth. ‘What?’ noticing his glare in the mirror. ‘Just saying, Sir, I’m fairly high maintenance. You’ll need to step up your game.’

‘Is that so?’ Sir drawls softly but with clear undertones of menace.

Coolly—even though her pulse is racing as if doing hot yoga or more aptly, as if being spanked again—Tamara sniffs haughtily and saunters past him towards the bed.

Sir watches her go. Her oiled behind twitches under the white towel. Excessively.

The hum of his sonic cleaner fills his mouth and digs out the bits of dinner lingering after the cinnamon flavored floss had passed through. Two minutes in total, thirty seconds per quadrant: a ritual that provided a clean separation between the working day, and bedtime.

I can’t believe it’s been that long since I last had a female companion at bedtime. The perils of wanting something more than quick rumpty-tumpty after drinks and a movie.

Rinsing the sink and wiping down the counter he tosses the soiled towels in the corner. His bath towel goes over the shower bar to dry by morning.

‘Where’re your towels, Tamara?’ he calls out from the bathroom.

‘I’m still drying off!’

‘Well, take them off and bring them in here so I can hang them up!’

She cringes at his exasperated tone. ‘But… what am I supposed to wear?’

‘Um… nothing?’

‘I always wear something to bed, Sir.’

‘Not tonight you’re not. I want you naked; in bed; in my arms; in that order.’

She shivers at his demanding tone. ‘You’re a hard master, Master.’

‘It’s about time you realized that, Tamara. About time.’

It’s fully dark and Sir rearranges the curtains so that minimal light seeps through from the parking lot lamps. Dragging a chair over to the wall, he climbs up and drapes a hand towel over the steady bright green glare of the smoke detector. Flicking off the switch, he waits for several minutes until his eyes adjust and grunts softly.

OCD much? We can’t see a blasted thing and can only listen to their banter.

‘Sir? Don’t take this the wrong way… but are you OCD?’ Tamara feels the mattress give slightly under his weight and tugs the sheet and blanket tighter around her neck. She shouldn’t feel embarrassed, not after showering together, but she doesn’t know what to do.

‘No, but I need a dark room in order to sleep as well as some white noise. Is the fan too loud?’

‘No. It’s okay.’

‘You’re not embarrassed, are you?’

‘A little.’

‘We’re not going to have sex tonight.’

‘We’re not? But—’

‘Being naked in bed doesn’t automatically equate to intercourse. Cuddling and touching will be sufficient for now.’

‘Cuddling? You want to cuddle? Isn’t that rather… teenageish?’

‘Roll on your side and face the door, Tamara.’

We hear the rustle of linen and soft slither of flesh. Vague shadows flap as the blanket and bedspread are maneuvered. Tamara giggles and for a brief moment, we are swept away to childhood and tents constructed of sheets flowing over the dining room table. Flashlights and picture books: Growly snuffles as Daddy Bear prowls: Mama Bear scolding and passing hot chocolate with marshmallows through the authorized entrance to the intrepid explorers. Innocence has a sound all to its own.

Tamara can’t help the tiniest of flinches when Sir’s long, nude torso snuggles up to her back. She feels tiny and vulnerable. His left arm wraps around her hip and his hand winds up at rest in her cleavage. When nothing else happens, no groping, no dry humping, just a soft kiss on her temple, she allows her breath out in a long controlled sigh.

‘Good night, Tamara.’

‘Good night, Sir.’

Somewhere down the hall, a door thuds. Footsteps tramp by. A car alarm sounds before being squashed mid-beep.

‘You’re very hot, Sir.’

‘Too hot?’

Tamara wiggles her bottom into his cock. ‘No, Sir, you’re just right.’

‘This isn’t a fairytale about porridge.’

‘I know… but to me, this all seems like a dream come true.’

‘I’m not perfect, Tamara. Don’t put me up on a pedestal.’

‘You mean you don’t want to be worshiped?’

‘Brat!’

‘You never did punish me, Sir, for running away.’

‘Do you need to be punished?’

We almost can’t hear her strained response.

‘Yes.’

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

In case you are not on the mailing list, Clarian Press is now live and will be publishing very soon. I have the honor and privilege of having a novella, The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie, being published next month under my pen name Byron Cane. It will be the first of several novellas followed by at least one novel in 2018 to be published by Clarian Press. One of the things I am most excited about, is that there will be an option of printed copies available for selected titles. Stay tuned for more information including cover reveals and ordering information. As an FYI, this series, Kismet of Submission, will conclude by the end of the year. I will be pulling the posts at that time, and then continuing to write a full-length novel starring Sir and Tamara for publication in either 2018 or 2019.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 21)

“Truly, Ruby? You enjoy the sex and beatings?” In the dimness her eyes sparkled and her round mouth reflected her astonishment. “Yes, Louisa, I wish Mrs. Cleanknockers would whip and spank me all day long, as I was tied to the horse and used in all my orifices by the entire staff. I have become a wicked slattern doomed to Hell… but I don’t care.” My tone was defiant. “If my fiancé desires my training to be as asset to his business, and my body the currency with which it prospers, then I will be a dutiful and obedient wife.”

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.