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

Too late when night falls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some nightmares happen when you are wide-awake.

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