Trafficked across the veil: Curtains for Betsy ~ 1

This story was originally posted for Wicked Wednesday on June 28th, 2017 as Inexhaustible Smorgasbord, a one-off story. There are two versions below. The first is the unchanged flash fiction repost, followed by an edited version that expands upon the original writing into a draft for longer fiction. I’m still not sure about the concept. Even with the rewrite, it’s not what my vision is. I may or may not continue this, or do something else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was their emissary.

The elevator was smooth and quiet.

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

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

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

That would be me.







Trafficked across the veil: Curtains for Betsy

They came from someplace else; that much the physicists and theologians agreed upon. From there, matters took a turn for the worse: much worse.

 

 

The part in where the hero attempts to reclaim his past.

 

The sharp piercing cracks had finally faded to muted rumbles. The late summer storm trundled to the east, insolently trailing an ebony cloak glazed with jagged streaks of abstract white. At my feet, the dull granite setts slowly slaked an endless thirst: the detritus of tourists swirling into the gaping sewers. Left behind were the deceptively safe and clean shiny streets.

Historic Old Town, painstakingly resurrected — twice — from the ashes of pitiless warfare, brooded in the sweet morning air, waiting for the sun to warm brick and cement. To the west, beyond the huddled slabs of public housing and abandoned factories, the sky pulsed with urgency, delayed flights flinging themselves recklessly at the obscured stars, hastening to meet global schedules grounded by adverse conditions.

I cupped my left hand. Had any been able to observe, the brief orange flare would have revealed a deep weary cynicism. I puffed the harsh tobacco — no ecigs for me — blowing out a stream of fragrant smoke that lingered close as if terrified by the surroundings.

Ignoring the warning implied by the carcinogenic swirls, I watched instead the CCTV camera as it whirred atop the nearest light pole. The police drones had departed with the onset of rain, the flatfoots sheltered in the all-night café, gossiping about the newest policewoman’s tits. This was pass-through area for visitors by day, the small shops catering in information and deceit. By night, contraband slipped past the law with practiced ease abetted by greased palms and greasier ethics.

A vibration shook the front right pocket of my black linen trousers. If a smartphone could sound impatient, its summons snarled at my weary savoir-faire and ennui. The cigarette tumbled to its death like an acrobat without a net: I stubbed it out with a faint hiss as it splattered on the damp pavement. Stepping forward off the curb, the crepe soles of my shoes were silent as a grave. Not mine: not this night at least.

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

They didn’t like me: the feeling was mutual. Ritual snarls and posturing. I was suddenly exhausted by the drama. If not for my desire for revenge, I’d have pulled the trigger and exited this plane with a bang.

I often lied to myself. Lust played an oversized role in this operation.

Any one of the warriors at my side would have gladly seized the prize. Too bad for them I got there first.

Jutting phallically with hostile and arrogant contempt at the ragged edge of tradition [nostalgically reclaimed] and gentrification, the Cashmere Tower was the tallest building in the city. Money fountained like arterial blood from the quasi-professional tenants, none of it staying for long; sophisticated programs laundered the stains through shell companies and offshore numbered accounts. Despite the repeated hacks and journalistic exposures, it was all standard procedures for corrupt businesses protected by slick lawyers and bought politicians.

My target was higher up the ladder — literally — the top ten floors pandered to a different type of cash flow. Vice was timeless. Nubile flesh an inflation proof currency. Educated agents were shopping for fresh victims that wouldn’t be missed.

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

I was their emissary.

The elevator was smooth and quiet.

What lay beyond the locked and guarded entrance was not.

Tears flowed. The fear filled the cold air with an intoxicating mélange of the most titillating scent of all: Fresh money.

Rows and rows of glittering females arranged as if waxed produce in bins filled the luxurious rooms. The buyers with their tablets snapped countless pictures, and fired off encrypted messages that raced around the world in an instant. No throttling of speed for this crowd. They owned the conduits on behalf of the 1%. Meat was meat — human livestock for consumption by those who could afford the very best.

The auction started later, but I was not bidding. My steel attaché with electronic lock was not filled with clean dollars or euros or yen, but a single jewel that pulsed with all the suppressed fury at the unrelenting humanistic devouring of magic.

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

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

That would be me.

You too can own Stephanie for your own

Hope everyone — in America — survived Thanksgiving and Black Friday. Today is Cyber Monday, and what better way to celebrate the occasion with a purchase of, The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie, for yourself or a loved one. That’s right, Stephanie, the complete novella, is now available to purchase for your ereader device.

Find Stephanie at Books 2 Read with links to online booksellers and ereaders, including Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, 24S and Angus & Robertson.

Click Picture to go to Books2Read.com for links to your favorite bookseller.

If you already have an Amazon account, then click this link to go directly to Stephanie’s page in your country.

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.

Click picture to purchase: The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie

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

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

On a personal note, I want to offer my thanks to Ina Morata, owner, editor and publisher of Clarian Press. Without her expertise in editing, Stephanie wouldn’t be the quality book it is now. When I wrote the first episode back in July, 2016 for Wicked Wednesday, I never imagined that the flash fiction post would wind up being a novella. So you thank you, Ina, and thank you readers for your loyalty and support.

P.S. As the author, I’ve probably read Stephanie dozens of times. Yet, the ending chapters always make me cry in happiness. I love, love this story and am extremely proud to offer this novella to you.

The 400 Club

This week I received the 400th follower to this blog. I don’t have anything special to offer though. No sweepstakes, no cruise for two, no lifetime supply of dark chocolate. Sorry. 🙂

However, I do get this warm fuzzy feeling whenever I get a notification of a new reader. You’d think that after all these years, I’d be more jaded, but I’m not. I am so thrilled that even one person likes what I write, never mind hundreds.

Speaking of writing, I know I’ll never be the most popular, or the most eloquent and, since I rarely write anything personal about myself, certainly won’t have millions of people waiting for my next tweet. Which I don’t: Tweet. I don’t have any social media accounts; I don’t consider blogging to be social media, although when it started, it was. Since been eclipsed by other platforms.

I’m not a tormented author; I don’t huddle in bed bemoaning lack of progress or rend my clothes shrieking when the perfect prose eludes my grasp. Writing for me is fun. Primarily because the fiction I write; I write because it interests me. I know from reading other blogs, that my stories are often pale imitations of the ‘real’ deal when it comes to sex and discipline. But that’s okay, I prefer delving into the mental and emotional aspects of characters rather than intimate details of pieces and parts.

Will I ever post pictures here? No. Will I ever reveal my sexual history? No. Will I ever meet any of you in person? Maybe.

What I will do is keep writing fiction and poetry about spanking and sex from the submissive female perspective — with a little dominance thrown in for good measure. I mean, Byron Cane is a large pen name to live up to. He creates an image of sage wisdom, pithy advice and a keen eye for the feminine posterior. Of course, I could just be blowing smoke up your asses. Only time will tell. 🙂

 





Breaking NEWS!!!!!!! Stop the presses!!!!!! Hold the phones!!!!!!! Alert the feeds!!!!!!!!!

FREE Stephanie Chapter 1 to 5

For a limited time only, you may click this link to Instafreebie and claim your very own FREE copy of the first 5 Chapters of The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie. The entire novella will be available for download to your ereader November 27th, 2017. If you are a book reviewer or would like to receive an advance copy in order to publicize Stephanie on your social platforms, please contact Ina Morata [Owner, Editor, Publisher of Clarian Press] at this contact link to send an email of query.

I guess I did have something for joining the 400 Club after all. Have a happy day and good reading.

Inexhaustible Smorgasbord

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was their emissary.

The elevator was smooth and quiet.

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

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

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

That would be me.

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

Black Market Night by Kalidwen.©

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

An arresting figure

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is ‘the arrest’. Corporal punishment and arrests have a long turbulent history that continues even today in many countries. The meme of a spanking by an officer of the law is a staple of spanking fiction. I’ve written several myself. The Perfect Costume is an erotic role play at Halloween that I posted Nov 1st, 2009. Another one is called Submission is about trust and was posted Sept 25th, 2009. The last one was When spanking meets the green-eyed monster posted on Sept 27th, 2009. The problem is for me, does writing about this topic validate the abuse of power that occurs all too frequently by law enforcement on a worldwide basis?

An interesting sidebar: I am currently reading How The Post Office Created America, and in chapter two, the author describes the penalties for stealing mail. The Post Office Act of 1792, imposed the death penalty for stealing mail, and was modified in 1799 to a sentence of forty lashes and imprisonment, but only for the first offense. The current penalty is fines and up to five years in prison.

The Sheriff of Nottingham was an unhappy soul. Robin Red Arse and his merry band of spankos were wreaking havoc on the King’s Men. Not content to best them in feats-of-arms, Robin insisted each defeated soldier was thrashed before being sent back to base in disgrace. Truth be told, he didn’t care about the knights and foot sloggers; nor about the fat clerics relieved of their butter dispensations, but this latest outrage was, well, an outrage. To think of the fate awaiting the fair Maid Marion. The scrumptious, delectable, alluring Marion—he swiped the drool from his lips. Presumably kidnapped—how else could such a delicious morsel of sweet curvaceous delight simply vanish? Even for Robin, this was a flog too far.

Disguised as a peasant, the Sheriff cut a surprisingly authentic one, he made his way through Nottingham Forest—picking up odd jobs, and intelligence along the ways. Slipping into the role of drovers’ assistant, he obtained entry to Robin’s encampment as the bawling oxen—likely ‘liberated’ from a nearby estate—were corralled for roasting later. The monthly fair was underway, but instead of puppet shows and wrestling, the centerpiece of entertainment was none other than the bodacious Marion.

Actually, her outrageous arse was. There was a sign above the whipping post—although pointless as the vast majority couldn’t read—that said in bold print, ‘Spank the maiden and feed a hungry child‘. What was shocking though, was not the bewitchingly nude Marion, hands shackled above her kerchief covered head, writhing while trying unsuccessfully to hide her abundant charms: It was the small troop of heavily armed King’s Guard who protected the personage of the duc d’Brittany. He was seated at a long table tabulating men and women as they passed, each time, writing in a ledger and amiably passing a silver bar to a laughing Robin next to him.

Seeing Friar Tuck tap a bung on a cask of ale, the Sheriff sidled up and asked—in his best Anglo-Saxon slang—what the fuck is going on? The rotund friar pulled a draft and snorted. “It seems fair Maid Marion was betrothed by the King’s command and she spurned the poxed whelp. ‘Tis rumored she rashly spoke of her devotion to young Robin Red Arse and stated she’d rather be arrested, gaoled and publicly flogged than to marry any but her one true love. The King agreed to her wager. One hundred pounds of raw silver bars* to be her Royal dowry, if she withstands the doubled number of blows given by the good people of the Forest.”
“And the duc?”
“The official witness of course. It’s said the King has no wish for the defiant Marion to be whipped to a bloody pulp, but, if anyone pulls their strikes, they will be flogged afterwards.”
“It seems so… unseemly.”

A shrill feminine squeal stilled the clamorous unwashed mass. All eyes turned towards the red line that bloomed across the succulent prodigious expanse of sweet white globes.

“That’s one!” The crowd roared its approval of Robin’s pronouncement. “Only one-hundred and ninety-nine to go, my one true love! Whip her good boys and girls. I want her loins on fire for after Friar Tuck pronounces us man and wife. I’ll likely need to mount her from behind!” Another shrill squeal. “That’s two!”

A lively jig was struck, and those waiting their turn started to dance to the music and cheer with every harsh snap of the strap. Loud applause greeted a particularly hard blow that had Marion jutting and wiggling her bottom in time to the music.

“And so it begins… aren’t you going to enter the lists… Sheriff? After all, this is the closest you’ll ever get to arresting the attention of the fair Maid Marion with your truncated tool of office.”

*Dowry roughly equivalent to 480,000 pounds today, or 570,000 euros or 621,000 dollars.
Source: According to Regia.org, a pound/372g of silver [by weight] was worth in current currency] approximately 4,800 pounds/5,700 euros/6,210 dollars, whereas one Saxon silver penny was worth 20 pounds in current money. A silver penny would buy 15 chickens or a cow’s eye. A pound/372g of silver [by weight] would buy 120 acres of land, the King’s lap dog or trained hunting dog, or a fledged Peregrine Falcon. Interestingly enough, a horse was less expensive as were slaves at ‘only’ 306g of silver. However, the fine for seducing a free woman was 465g of silver [6,000 pounds/7,111 euros/7,700 dollars] whereas raping a female slave was set higher at 504g of silver [6,500 pounds/7,703 euros/8,398 dollars]. Higher still was the fine for a priest working on Sunday at 930g of silver [12,000 pounds/14,222 euros/15,501 dollars].

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

Jousting for the Golden Paddle and the hand of the fair Princess

A spanking fairy tale poem. I am the original author written and posted elsewhere 7/31/08

“The Princess and the Paddle”

the banners waved all over town
proclaiming the duel about to go down
dressed in their finest with nary a frown
all shoved and hit to see her fine gown
in truth none really cared
it was the knights who dared
and if they weren’t prepared
to be snared
oh well, they still stared
to see such virile hunks of men
riding by again and again
jousting and prancing
many a matron thought of dancing
comparing her spouse
who frankly was a mouse
in bed
lust in her head
bulging thighs
what splendid guys
soft cries
deep sighs
if only we had what the princess will get
a strong, faithful, fairly tasty bit
ours ain’t worth spit
we’ll admit
but don’t ask and don’t tell
he never makes me yell
just yawn
look at that brawn
mine’s all bluster
my what luster
when he’s done he snores
off to my chores
face it ladies, we married bores
loud cheers there’s a winner
if only we were thinner
look at the prize he’s claiming
that’s something needs taming
a paddle made of gold
to have and to hold
my he’s so cold
a blush to behold
if later from the tower
within her royal bower
from a window not shut
hear loud smacks on bare butt
then a mighty shriek
do not cheat and peek
it’s not what you think
all quivering and pink
for the knights who were bold
had never been told
that the Golden Paddle
and the lap to straddle
was not theirs, no indeed
not to mislead
or allow him to plead
but the Princess had a need
to do the deed
with all due speed
to proceed
and thrash
not bash
or slash
but spank that tight ass
it’s not made of glass
so she’ll make it last
until it’s bright red
and his legs nice and spread
then we’ll be wed
and you may plow me instead
make sure I’m bred
what say you fine knight can you think ahead
down came his britches
my, what riches
off with his shirt
oh my, you I want to hurt
good thing I’m a pervert
naked he stood
this will be good
do you agree
to lay over my knee
and be spanked by your bride
can you give up your pride
the knight gave a bow
said this I do allow
for now
for I vow
although I am brave
and promise to behave
to be your willing slave
I too crave
the crack of the paddle
lying over a saddle
I’ll turn the tables
over in the stables
alone together
scent of leather
bent over my knee
for pleasure you’ll plea
it’s the crop I decree
thus she was gushing
and without rushing
gave the first spanking of many
both received plenty
*
*
*
and they lived happily ever after.

  • 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.

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