[No cats were harmed in the making of this blog. They all love to be spanked.] Exploring the psychology 'behind' spanking through fiction and poetry. Because, nothing says 'I love you' better than a red, sore, bare bottom. Comments welcome and discussion encouraged. I believe spanking between consenting adults leads to closer and more intimate relationships. Spanking is not a kink, not a fetish, not a lifestyle, but rather, a healthy and honest means of communication. Let your mind free and respect will follow. Contact me lurvspanking@gmail.com
Definition of celebrity: ORIGIN late Middle English (in the sense ‘solemn ceremony’): from Old French celebrite or Latin celebritas, from celeber, celebr- ‘frequented or honored.’
Source Wikipedia: Athletes in Ancient Greece were welcomed home as heroes, had songs and poems written in their honor, and received free food and gifts from those seeking celebrity endorsement. Ancient Rome similarly lauded actors and notorious gladiators, and Julius Caesar appeared on a coin in his own lifetime (a departure from the usual depiction of battles and divine lineage).
In the early 12th century, Thomas Becket became famous following his murder. He was promoted by the Christian Church as a martyr and images of him and scenes from his life became widespread in just a few years. In a pattern often repeated, what started out as an explosion of popularity (often referred to with the suffix ‘mania’) turned into a long-lasting fame: pilgrimages to Canterbury Cathedral where he was killed became instantly fashionable and the fascination with his life and death have inspired plays and films.
The cult of personality (particularly in the west) can be traced back to the Romantics in the 18th Century, whose livelihood as artists and poets depended on the currency of their reputation. The establishment of cultural hot-spots became an important factor in the process of generating fame: for example, London and Paris in the 18th and 19th Centuries. Newspapers started including gossip columns and certain clubs and events became places to be seen in order to receive publicity.
“What’s the Fall lineup looking like?”
“Pretty bad. Those streaming sites are eating our lunch.”
“Guys, we need some original content here.”
“Well…”
“Go on, spit it out. It can’t be any worse than your last idea.”
“Spanking With The Stars.”
“Okay… I was wrong.”
“No! It’s a great idea!”
“Really? This isn’t cable you know, the FCC is still stuck in the last century when it comes to kink.”
“Listen guys! Look, if HBO can do GOT and STARZ can do the Outlander, we can show spanking. It’s 50 shades of whatever, and it’s about time we seized the initiative.”
“I can’t see how we could possibly round up enough celebs—even C-list—to even make a pilot. It’s a dumb idea.”
“Remember the Battle of the Network Stars back in the ’70s? We combine DWTS with Survivor, throw in a little Lost with Naked and Afraid, and we make a reality spanking show where the challenges are all BDSM themed. Hey, if Christian Grey can sell hundreds of millions of books and, make movies despite insipid acting and lame discipline, we can make a television show work.”
“She’s got a point, boss. Throw enough cash and social media follows, there are plenty of celebrities out there who’d put their butts on the line for a shiny trophy and Instagram pics.”
“So who gets spanked? Joe the Plumber and Doris the Housewife, or the used-to-be-famous-until-they-snorted-their-residuals?”
“I say both. I think Taylor Swift would make an awesome dominatrix! And the Rock? Sign me up to fail if he’s swinging the paddle!”
“I’d like to give Bieber a good caning.”
“How about a Kardashian?”
“How about the entire clan?”
“They’re probably already into that.”
“Hey, there’s this website called Chross that lists spankos.”
“Check it out! Madonna and Katy Perry! I know we can get those two as judges.”
“Alright, alright, it sounds viable. Start making some calls and shake the bushes. No, not shrubbery, the Bushes. As in Presidents Bushes. And while you’re at it, ring up the Palace. If anyone’s into kinky sex, it’s Will and Kate.”
This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is, ‘The Dentist’. I will state that going to the dentist is not my favorite thing, and I have no sexual inclinations whatsoever towards the vocation. This story started as a complete outline in my mind—which rarely happens—and morphed into 1,800 freehand words. I typed it all in, made a few deletions, and here it is for your enjoyment.
“Easy Dental. This is Elise. How may I help you?”
“An emergency? I do have a cancellation tomorrow morning at ten. Are you a current patient?”
“No? I’m sorry. Dr. Brandeis doesn’t do house calls. Excuse me? He’s currently with clients until late this afternoon. Certainly I’ll give him the message as soon as he’s free. You’re welcome.”
It was over an hour later before Elise was able to hand over the note along with a brief explanation of the phone call. “It was like she expected you to drop everything and rush to the rescue!”
“A house call?” I furrowed my brow in confusion and wormed a piece of granola bar out from between the first and second lower jaw bicuspids. “Why would someone request that of a dentist?”
“I don’t know, doctor, she was adamant you return her call a.s.a.p.”
“Her? Is she a patient? Not Mrs. Larson!”
“No, but she said you’d remember her incisors.”
I read the scribbled message for the first time. My molars ground as the name Kayla Castana leaped out at me in a flurry of memories. Flowing black silken hair, olive skin flushed with passion and a fiery temper to match emerald eyes. Oh yes, I remember the tempestuous siren; who tried—and failed—to lure me away to the coast. We broke up for good when after my degree, I bought out the practice in my small hometown.
My palm twitched. Her bottom had felt my displeasure on numerous occasions. Her claws and teeth returned the favor.
I shook off the past. “Thanks, Elsie, I’ll take care of it.”
Somehow, come half past five, I found myself driving, not home to prepare for a often postponed date with my current girlfriend, but out into the boonies towards a set of GPS coordinates set deep in the middle of the state wilderness. To my knowledge, there was nothing out there, but Kayla had insisted it was a legitimate emergency. My ears were still ringing from Taylor’s complaints about the cancellation, but the promised fee of fifteen-grand assuaged my guilt and peaked my curiosity. ‘Turn right in one mile.’
The sun had gone behind the tall trees crowding the narrow two-lane blacktop road, and the headlights reflected off a white sign now visible around the bend. I tapped the brakes and coasted up as the GPS told me to ‘turn right now’.
The gold letters spelled out, Spots & Stripes Sanctuary, as I swept onto the gravel surface. The navigation showed 5 miles to my destination.
The forest closed in. My tires crunched over the white aggregate and the exterior temperature steadily dropped. My phone flashed, ‘No Service’. I wiped my hands on my slacks and gulped. It probably didn’t help I was listening to Stephen King’s latest audio book. I thought it was Kayla’s voice, but what if…?
Four miles in, a red and white gate loomed up out of the misty twilight. A uniformed guard leaned out the half-door of the small hut to the left.
“Good evening.”
“Sir.”
“My name is Dr. Brandeis. Kayla Castana is expecting me.”
“I.D. please, doctor.”
I fumbled with my wallet and extracted the license. The guard compared the picture to my face then consulted a piece of paper. There was a soft tearing noise and he handed back my identification along with printed directions and a laminate tag with a clip.
“Wear this badge at all times. Follow the directions to Building #Seven, you will be met there by your guide. Have a good evening.”
The barrier lifted silently and I put my AWD Volvo back into drive. Whatever this place was, I had gone way past concern straight into paranoia. ‘You have reached your destination.’
“I don’t think so.” ‘Recalculating.’
Three very long miles later, concrete replaced gravel, and the tight trail through the dense woods flared out into a circular drive that made a wide loop around a three story lodge that looked like a log cabin hotel. Building #Seven was three-quarters of the way around. I swung into a parking space and shut off the engine.
Peering through the windshield, the front door and windows were filled with friendly light. Kayla stood on the walkway and waved hello.
I waved back.
“You’re looking good, Doctor.”
I gave her a fist bump. “Thank you, you as well.”
“Please come in. I truly appreciate coming all this way out here. Our regular dentist is on vacation.”
“Well. I hope it’s worth it. My girlfriend isn’t very happy with me right now.”
Kayla held out a fat manila envelope. “Your fee, a cash fee. Maybe that will soothe her temper.”
I gave a wry smile, tucking the crinkly payment in my jacket pocket and followed Kayla as she briskly walked deeper inside towards an elevator. We went down: Two levels and soon reached a heavy door with keypad.
She swiped a card, entered a code, and we were buzzed in. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled as the unidentifiable odor wafted through my nasal passages. Kayla didn’t notice—or ignored—my reaction and unlocked the fifth door on the right.
I poked my head in and gave a low whistle. I was looking at a state-of-the-art dental suite. “Okay. Where’s the patient?”
Kayla was on my heels and gave an exasperated groan. “Dammit! I can’t believe she snuck out again! I’ll be right back.”
I shrugged as her rapid footsteps quickly faded. Donning a surgical gown, I set up my tools of the trade, all hermetically sealed and in order. I’d been assured everything I could possibly need would be waiting, and the specific emergency would be made clear.
A deep rumbling snarl slashed the room. Dropping a pick from suddenly nerveless fingers, I spun around and thumped into the back wall with a hard thud.
The noise was emanating from the throat of a medium sized gold and black spotted feline. As in a wild cat, it was smaller than a leopard, but much larger than the average domestic breed.
“This is completely unacceptable, Nessa! You have to get your teeth fixed!”
Despite my panic, I did notice a wide collar and a leash being held in Kayla’s hand as she scolded the cat. I swallowed hard and managed to croak, “Um… I think you need a veterinarian and some sedatives. I don’t do animal dentistry.”
The animal in question stared at me with gold-flecked eyes and thrashed her puffy tail against the tile floor. The low growling continued unabated.
“Nessa…” Kayla’s menacing voice growled right back. “Do NOT push your luck!” Her command was punctuated by a sharp tug of the leash.
I continued to sidle along the far wall but they were between me and the exit. Before I made a rash dash for the door, the clearly annoyed feline tossed her head at me and suddenly the air shimmered as if I’d gone cross-eyed.
My mouth dropped open.
Instead of a pissed off cat, a nude woman crouched in its place. The empty collar and leash dangled from Kayla’s fingers. “I’m only going to say this once more, Nessa. Get in the chair.” She lashed the woman’s bare bottom twice with the leather leash leaving two red stripes behind.
Nessa leapt with feral grace into the chair. Kayla swiftly attached cuffs to both ankles and wrists and engaged the mechanism to raise and tilt the woman until the former cat was lying nearly horizontal.
I watched as her breasts heaved up and down and her tethered limbs quivered. I realized she was terrified. Cautiously approaching, I held my hands up as if to say, ‘this wasn’t my idea’, and drew the stool close to her side. I sat down and said, “Hello, Nessa. My name is Dr. Brandeis. Kayla asked me to attend to you this evening. I want you to know I will do everything in my power to make this as painless as possible. Will you please tell and show me what is the concern you are experiencing at present?”
When she finally spoke, Nessa’s voice flowed over me like melted chocolate: Dark, rich, and filled with the promise of a good time.
“You don’t seem surprised, doctor.”
“I read a lot of paranormal fiction. I assume you, and Kayla are werecats of some kind.” I glanced over at Kayla and held her gaze. “Now that I think about the past, it makes sense.” She coolly returned my regard and I refocused on my patient.
“I’m a margay,” Nessa replied, “and I hate going to the dentist.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing I came to you. May I look in your mouth?”
She glared at Kayla one last time and reluctantly opened wide. I manipulated the overhead lamp and, after masking, peered in inside. “I see. Molars 14, 15 and 17 are cracked and you have signs of infection. How long ago did this happen?”
“Two weeks,” Nessa mumbled.
I patted her slick shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix you up and put you on a course of antibiotics.” I addressed Kayla. “I assume you have were-suitable medications?” When she nodded in the affirmative, I turned back to Nessa. “I’m going to take some x-rays first to make sure the root is intact, then give you some local anesthesia, clean out the infection and repair the cracks. I am very hopeful I can salvage your teeth.”
When Nessa started crying, Kayla leaned in with a hug and whispered in her ear during the time I was prepping the x-ray machine and films. When I heard soft buzzing, I looked back to see Kayla’s arm up between Nessa’s nude thighs holding what appeared to be a slim wand.
I cleared my throat, but Kayla merely winked at me and started an in-and-out motion. Nessa squirmed, but because her ankles were secured to the sides of the chair, could only raise her hips slightly. “An orgasm, or two, will calm her down.”
At this point, I was so far beyond the norm, my only option was to proceed as professionally as possible on my patient. It was ‘hard’ to do considering the sounds and scents swirling through my senses. The musk of two aroused females made me earn every penny of that fifteen thousand.
All I’ll say is this: I arrived home after midnight, all fingers—and virtue—still intact. Although later on, Taylor decided my vague explanations were the final straw to our relationship and we parted with some harsh words.
I did though have a lucrative new cash flow, minus bulk purchases of catnip, for when Nessa came prowling after dark seeking her favorite chew toy and dentist.
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.
This week’s prompt for Wicked Wednesday is, Venus in Furs after the erotic novel published in 1870. I don’t recall ever reading it—if I did, it left no impact—and besides that, it wasn’t the first thing that popped in my head when I read the prompt. This was:
Venus of Willendorf
From Wikipedia: The Venus of Willendorf is an 11.1-centimetre-high (4.4 in) Venus figurine estimated to have been made between about 28,000 and 25,000 BCE.[1] It was found in 1908 by a workman named Johann Veran[2] or Josef Veram[3] during excavations conducted by archaeologists Josef Szombathy, Hugo Obermaier and Josef Bayer at a paleolithic site near Willendorf, a village in Lower Austria near the town of Krems.[4][5] It is carved from an oolitic limestone that is not local to the area, and tinted with red ochre. The figurine is now in the Naturhistorisches Museum in Vienna, Austria.
My next reaction to the prompt was Lupercalia and the ancient concept of whipping to chase away evil spirits or to ensure fertility. There were and still are many cultures and places that have some variation of spring festivals echoing much older rituals of blood and appeasement to stern gods. [See Czech Easter whipping or Dominican Mardi Gras]
So imagine if you will, the above Venus as the leader of her tribe; perhaps a medicine woman, or mate to the strongest warrior. Now, it is nearing the solstice, winter has been harsh, some have died; the oldest and youngest: the shamans seek migrating herds in the spirit world while the remaining food is portioned out for the survival of all. They have fire, a large stack of dead-fall saved for this occasion when the snow has melted off the lowlands and green shoots are pushing up through fertile soil. The flames roar into the night sky, distant green and yellow eyes glow as the predators slink away hungry. The drums beating a steady pulse of rumbling noise, the flutes whistling while dancers stamp around the crackling pine boughs. Suddenly, the eerie moaning of flat bone on a string whirled above by spinning arms heralds the arrival of Venus in furs…
She appeared—as she had for the last fifteen springs—in a billowing cloud of red ochre tossed down by acolytes from the overhanging granite that loomed out over the winter camp. It drifted like snow, whirling in the heat of the bonfire and settling as ash upon the dancers, soon turning to scarlet streaks as the sweat mingled with the sacred powder. It fell too, on the smooth limestone slab supported by mammoth feet and centered within four large tusks at the cardinal points; the tips meeting above and lashed together with leather thongs. The carved ivory glowed deep orange.
Helga raised her arms to the stars above, the heavy cave bear pelt spilling off like a dark waterfall; her head covered by the furry mask of an ursine face snarling with bared teeth. The music built to a crescendo as she prayed out loud to the gods of her people, then slowly ebbed as the frenzy eased: there was silence by the time she’d finished chanting. She walked with slow, deliberate tread towards the altar, her cloak rippling leaving behind a wake of flesh tingling power that raised hairs on bare limbs.
Blessing each tusk in turn by grasping with powdered fingers and a firm kiss, she then poured hot water over the limestone and slid her palms in an intricate pattern until the surface turned red. She turned towards her dwelling and beckoned with upraised hands. All but her, knelt on one knee and bowed heads as the two bound figures were brought forth into the wavering light. Helga knew from her teachings that in the not-too-distant past, the slab would have been drenched with blood, instead of ochre dug from the earth. These were enlightened times, compared to the savage ancestors they still revered, but did not always follow.
The young man and woman were at their peak of physical perfection. Selected the previous autumn by contests of skill and prowess, they’d been given the best of provisions and pampered through the long, cold winter months. Now it was their time to give back to the community through sacrifice in hopes of a fertile summer of plenty. Naked, they’d been oiled and shaved completely bare, then painted with elaborate tribal markings and secret tattoos that would send the shaman’s messages, when activated, directly to the spirit world. Helga was responsible for the activation. She carried out her duty via a multi-thong whip created with soft strips of leather from every type of animal killed and consumed the prior year.
Led to the altar, the man and woman were secured facing each other with wrists high at the top of curved tusks, while ankles were spread and wrapped around the base where the ivory posts sank deep into the soil. Helga tugged on each rope making sure the pair could not escape or slump to the ground. She checked each and every mark to make sure all were correct. When she finished her inspection, she once more raised her arms and chanted, this time joined by all present. The music started again when they finished. Dancers began to circle the sacrifices, each pounding the earth with a branch cut off at a wide base. The vibrations shivered through their soles. Her acolytes solemnly removed her cave bear cape and handed her the whip, the wooden handle freshly coated with red ochre. She drew back her arm—and struck on the beat.
The tribe triumphantly cried out as one as the ‘splat’ cracked in the cool night air. Helga alternated between the man and woman, each blow precise, starting at the shoulders and steadily working all the way down to the calves. Each turn around the limestone slab was slightly quicker until she was trotting, her heavy breasts wobbling, and feet kicking up puffs as she whipped past the writhing and groaning figures. The dancers too ran in a wide circle, the noise a loud roar as they witnessed the artistic designs dissolved by sweat and the remorseless whip being swung with ever increasing force upon the reddened naked backs and bottoms of the male and female. Helga stopped: the drums settled into a steady beat as the dancers slowed and then swayed in place gasping for air.
The man and woman were turned in place so that their decorated fronts now faced the whip. Helga changed the pattern. Starting with the female, she lashed the firm breasts, powder exploding in colorful poofs as the thongs impacted. Moving down, she whipped in a crisscross pattern across the abdomen, pelvis and thighs. With an upward motion, the last hard strike was between the wide stretched open thighs as the wet leather slapped against the red outlined vulva. The woman screamed as the force of the blow broke open the deer intestine capsule that had been glued in place. Blood spurted and splattered on the churned soil. Moving to the opposite side, Helga repeated her actions on the male, only this time, when the whip lashed his exposed genitals, the breaking capsule glued to his testes, gushed warm sperm in a parody of fertilization.
Their ordeal was not over yet; released from bondage, the woman was laid on her back, the damp limestone providing only slight relief to the raised welts. The man was placed on top, his flaccid penis rubbed and stroked by Helga until it became fully erect. At her command, he entered the oiled vagina with a deep thrust, the whip fell once more upon his red bottom. After twenty strokes, the entwined couple reversed and it was the woman’s turn to be lashed adding yet more red lines to her buttocks. The final position was from behind, mimicking how all the animals they observed mated. Bodies scoured, passions inflamed, nearly the entire tribe fell on each other in a massive celebratory orgy releasing the lust built by up the whipping.
Helga calmly stepped away and walked back to her abode: alone. She needed to travel deep into the spirit world to guide the tribes’ sexual energy to the proper place.
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.
“I don’t understand any of this!”
“What’s the matter, Frank?”
“Why is called breaking camp? Or for that matter, dawn broke? How can you break the sun?”
“Don’t be such a dickweed, it’s a figure of speech.”
“Fuck you, Tabbart, I was asking George.”
“Guys. Take a chill—no, don’t make me uncoil my orc-hide whip before coffee. Frank, it’s called breaking camp because you literally ‘break’ apart whatever structure or space you utilized. As for the sun, I haven’t a fucking clue. Ask a nature mage when we get to Breedsopolis.”
“And that’s another thing—” Tabbart and George groaned in unison as Frank launched into his well-practiced diatribe. “—Why do we have to be the trio sent to retrieve the magic crown and kiss some Royal ass? I mean—I like rimming as much as the next guy, but it’s a pure human Princess for crying out loud! Doesn’t anybody read the damn union regs? We’re gay weres. We don’t do females—any way shape or format.”
George coughed over his remark, “Says you,” before forcefully speaking up. “That’s enough croaking, Frank—and don’t flap your gills either, Tabbart. The bosses put me in charge, and I’m tired of you both butting heads. The next frog, or toad, that cheeps out of line, gets my whip and my head up your ass for a fucking you won’t soon forget. Now! Break camp and let’s hop on out of here before the sun drives us underwater!”
“But—”
Frank’s whiny complaint was cut off when Tabbart flipped him over his knee and began—what by now had become a daily ritual—spanking the croaking were. “Why are you such a brat every morning?”
“Ow! Not so hard!”
“Why can’t you just drink coffee like George does?”
“Cause only a spanking gets me wired?”
“Smart ass! I’ll show you a smarting ass, Frank!” Tabbart punctuated his scolding with rapid flutters of his leathery webbed hands. The green skin of Frank’s wiggly-jiggly bottom gradually took on a pale yellow tinge as the hard spanks accumulated. It wasn’t the only hard thing in camp, and Frank atoned to his lover with his mouth after Tabbart was finally satisfied with the punishment.
Twenty minutes later, the fearless—if feckless trio—resumed the much delayed, and debated, journey from Rephibton. They’d set out two weeks past, but thanks to the ongoing drought, were forced to seek frequent water breaks. Even in an upright bipedal shape, the most charitable of observers would have called them, ‘strong in characteristics but handsomely challenged’. There wasn’t normally much traffic along the forest track, but they didn’t seek out company either. It was a secret mission after all.
On the other webbed foot, orcs were always fair game. When waves of slavers had burst forth from hidden tunnels, the warriors had sprung into action and smashed the raid; thus earning them the gratitude of an entire nearby village impressed with their martial prowess. Until they found out that is, the doughty men preferred the muscular militia instead of the blushing maidens. It could have gotten ugly. Thankfully, the Local 369 smoothed things over with an increased share of the gold gleaned from the battlefield.
That was yet another thing Frank bitched about. He was trying to save for a deluxe pad to get away from his sister’s tadpoles. Being a werefrog wasn’t all that great when the exotic lands the recruiter promised, were, for the most part, human hovels and rogue were hideouts. Then, to top it all off, George, a lowly weregecko, was promoted to major and given the assignment instead of the traditional Frogmaster. Fine, Frank had acknowledged, both he and Tabbart were only enlisted corporals, but still! The warts festered until they broke in a torrent of complaints.
“Travel! Booty! Free beer! I can’t believe I fell for that spiel,” Frank whined.
“He wasn’t lying about the combat part,” Tabbart replied.
“True dat.” Frank puffed out his throat pouch—strangely attractive in his humanoid guise. “I kicked that one orc right over a tree, and stomped the rest to paste.”
Tabbart batted his eyes and crooned, “Oh… My hero!”
“Knock it off, you know I’ll always belong to you.”
“Maybe you can prove it to me later, big boy,” Tabbart crooned.
George slid between them and linked arms. “You know, before this quest, I never considered taking a werefrog or weretoad as a lover. I would have sooner if I’d realized what a pair of kinky fucks you are.”
Frank and Tabbart shivered in unison. “Does that mean you’ll whip us? And spank us? And make us suck cock and be ass fucked?” Frank asked with an eager expression.
The taller and more slender weregecko, wrapped his arms around the broad shouldered soldiers, and squeezed with deceptive strength. His long and narrow sticky tongue flicked across their lips; quickly joined by the rounded, blunt tongues of both the other men. George sprang straight into the air, did a double forward tuck, and landed on all fours in front of Tabbart and Frank.
“I’ve a better idea, boys, why don’t you whip out your cocks, and I’ll show you how a weregecko swallows.”
Two cocks, one a green spade, the other a gold scepter; rose in unison seeking the fresh air and dappled shade drifting through the dense forest canopy. The loose tunics were brushed aside as they freed the thick erect flesh.
Stroking with his hands, George licked back and forth between the rounded heads then pressed them together. Unhinged his lower jaw, he guided both cocks into his salivating mouth and down his vibrating gullet.
Frank and Tabbart made a simultaneous, “Gurk!” and slipped their arms around each other’s waists for support. Their muscular thighs quivered like waves in a bog as the weregecko used sonic gargles to massage and suck the cocks in his throat.
Despite having come earlier, Tabbart felt the rising sap ready to boil over, while Frank—always quick on the trigger—clenched his butt as his cock started to pulse and eject fluid.
George pulled back as the first waves of cum splashed and pumped the swelled organs with his curled fists.
Their suddenly weak legs gave way and the two corporals slumped to the ground, drained of both sperm and conflict.
“That, my mighty warriors, is how a real were disciplines his subordinates.”
“Oh my! Bravo I say! Bravo!”
The echoes from the unfamiliar high-pitched voice hadn’t yet faded by the time the weres showed why they were such fearsome fighters.
From lethargic post-orgasmic haze, to dual arrows shot from crossbows took but an instant. In the next blink, Frank was a seven-foot tall frog bounding into the woods as the strange voice yelled out, “Ffffffffuck!” and fell through a nearby tree with a great crashing of limbs and leaves.
The clang of steel on steel rang out, and a short slender figure dressed in a subtle brown and green weave raced through the clearing, pursued by the sword wielding frog.
A sharp crack and George’s orc-hide whip snacked around the fleeing assailant’s ankles bringing it down with a thump and puff of detritus. A single tug of the whip handle brought the captive sprawling at his feet.
George casually kicked the long knife away. “Well, well,” he laughed, “they make spies younger each year!”
“I am not a spy!” the cloaked figure glared up at him. “I was simply minding my own business when the three of you decided to go all kinky. You didn’t even check your perimeter first! I could have been an orc, or… or a cave troll!”
“Look, kid.”
“I’m not a kid! I’m 234 in elvish years. Let me go! Or I’ll… I’ll put a spell on you and you’ll be stuck as humans!”
“What do you want to do, boss?” Tabbart asked with a worried frown. “I’ve heard elves can hypnotize you and make you bark like a dog.”
“As if I’d waste my time on you toad face. You better let me go before the rest of my squad gets here. They’ll turn you into pincushions.”
George stroked his chin for a moment then jerked up on the slack whip.
Squawking as the forceful yank spun it around several times clear of the ground, the elf let out an ‘oof’ as it landed on its stomach. Spitting dirt, the elf said, “Very funny.” Standing up and brushing off leaves and twigs, the next request surprised all of the weres. “So, can I go with you?”
“What?” Rang three shocked voices.
“You’re obviously trying to be incognito, and who better to serve as a native guide than an elf? I’ll only charge a gold crown a day. I’m feeling magnanimous and will accept your apology for attacking me.”
“Kid—we’re on a holy mission. We form the sacred triangle—”
“—isn’t that triumvirate?” Frank interrupted.
“—of power essential to all quests,” George smoothly finished. “Adding you to the alchemy would create a quad—”
“—you mean quartet,” Tabbart insisted.
“—and everyone knows,” George glared at his soldiers, “four of anything is unstable and verboten. Besides, a quartet is a mini-musicale (I hear humans are batty for that kind of stuff). A quad is Will-O’-Wisp Magic. Very dangerous stuff.”
“I can cook, and clean, and transcribe your epic Saga in real-time, and even darn your socks!”
“What a minute! That’s women’s work.”
“Is not! I’m fully qualified as a trans elf identifying as male for purposes of the centennial census. I’m traveling to Breedsopolis to have hippo-suction and meet with a Gender Wizard to pick new genitalia from the Guild’s Catalogue of Unusual Organs.”
“I don’t understand any of this.”
“Frank!”
“Well I don’t. What’s the difference between a wizard, a mage, a sorcerer, a warlock, a magician and how many other types there are? And aren’t sexes fixed at birth?”
“Are you pulling the gender card of wands on me, frog face? I’m twice the elf you are—or will be. I don’t know what you funky bastards get up to out there in the dismal swamps, but here in civilized climes, people don’t go around making waves about gender orientation and ethnicity. Capisce?”
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.
out past the halo
where the comets
do roam
out past the halo
where the cold
froze your bones
radiation will fry you
when the light
fades away
so come through the door
take your helmet
off here
so raise your glass high boys
for black holes
and beer
raise your glass high
for a ship
called desire
drink down that liquor
before you return
to that ship
called desire
and the black holes
of home
out past the belt
where the rocks
do tumble
out past the belt
where the ice
breaks in shards
gravity will grab you
when the asteroids
spin by
so come through the door
take your helmet
off here
so raise your glass high boys
for black holes
and beer
raise your glass high
for a ship
called desire
drink down that liquor
before you return
to that ship
called desire
and the black holes
of home
Lolo Black raised her tankard high, enthusiastically belting out the lyrics to Black Holes and a Ship called Desire—the unofficial anthem of the space station Delphi Blue. The stark filtered light from the gas giant Atlas cut a wide beam through O’Mara’s Pub. She took a long pull of the spicy ale. Alcohol was the third most important thing she missed while on a run to the asteroid belt.
Her cargo of ores sold and off-loaded, she’d docked several hours ago after six months mining in the absolute desolation of space. A room, a shower, clean jumpersuit; the first need taken care of, she was hunting for the second of her priorities. After wearing her fingers out watching porn holos, her body craved real skin wrapped around deep inside. Lolo had five weeks to kill: mandatory rest for licensed pilots, enforced through regular medical exams and strict exercise programs.
“How’s my favorite intersex employee doing?”
“I’m not your employee,” she replied with rote indifference to the ritual pitch.
Sven, all seven feet of ebony muscle, straddled the other chair at her small table. “Just say the word, babe, and I’ll sign you up with a brand new Mark Twelve freighter and even take your tub in trade.”
“The Satin Rose is not for sale, Sven. All I want from you is a good hard fucking.”
“You know I never mix business with pleasure,” he regretfully said.
“I don’t regret turning you down… again. I’ll never work for that asshole Atlas. It’s bad enough he named the planet after himself, but his wife Delphi swans around as if she’s Queen and we’re peasants.”
Whatever Sven would have said in response was lost in the low rumble of hackles raised by the rough spacers guarding their turf.
Lolo didn’t snarl, only because she was too shocked by the temerity of the intruder. “What the fuck is a Sector 8 cop doing in O’Mara’s?”
Sven swiveled giving an amused snort. “That’s Crandall Memphis, Atlas’ nephew and troubleshooter: Emphasis on shooter. He’s here with a squad of Greenies hunting pirates jacking comets.”
She finished off her ale with a gulp, the dregs burning her tongue. “I was going to hook up with Crazy Pete, but I do like the cut of Crandall’s… epaulets.”
“Lolo…” Sven growled. “Don’t fuck with Atlas. I like you. You’re the best miner in this parsec, but there are limits to even my protection.”
She leaned across and kissed his forehead. “Thanks for the warning, grandpa, but I can handle my liquor and my sex partners.”
“There you are, Crandall,” Lolo cut through the tension like an arclaze, deftly slipping her arm around the cop’s waist and squeezing with warning. The other miners reluctantly eased back a fraction. She bent her head down and playfully nipped his left ear while hissing softly beneath the implied threats. “I’m sure your body armor can repel a needler, but a shiv to the throat will kill you just the same.
“I’m missed you so much! I can’t believe you came all this way for me!” Lolo kissed him with apparent enthusiasm, swiftly extracting him from danger.
Once safely into the crowd on Concourse J, she blasted him for his stupidity. “What the fuck were you doing, going solo into that place? Didn’t they teach you anything in cop school?”
“I had the situation under control, miss…”
“Name’s Lolo. Lolo Black. And pardon my attitude, but you’re full of shit. Those boys and girls back there would have had you out an airlock before your uncle could sneeze a credit. There are places on this station police don’t go, unless it’s been exposed to hard vacuum for a cycle first; and even then, they go in powered.”
Crandall stumbled as the directional station jets made a minute adjustment.
“Great,” Lolo snarled. “Dirtside cop no less. Let me guess. First time away from mommy’s tit.”
He snarled back. “Watch your mouth, Lolo, or I’ll toss you in the brig with the rest of the users.”
She grabbed his utility belt and mashed up against his stocky frame. “I doubt you have the balls to even frisk me. Too scared you might get bit.” She kissed him again, this time forcing her tongue between his angry lips and sliding one hand around to fondle his broad butt.
Crandall gave it right back, dueling for supremacy like two characters in a low budget space opera. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily as he said, “I don’t know what your game is, Lolo, but I’m on duty.”
“My game? It’s simple. You’re seeking information on pirate activity, and I’m horny. You figure out how to scratch my itch and I’ll give it up. You do know how to conduct an interrogation, don’t you?”
She saw a smug grin as he crossed his arms. “In your case, I’m going to start with a body search. A very thorough and deep search.”
Lolo instantly shivered, placing her hands behind her back. “My room is 3854-V Deck 12, officer. I’m sorry I sassed you. Please don’t cuff me and take me in, I’ll do anything you say, just don’t hurt me.”
The buzz of the active manacles around her crossed wrists caused her cock to stiffen and pussy to flood. When he threatened to punish her disobedient ass with a hard spanking, her nipples almost punched through her skintight clothing.
He maneuvered her into the closest alcove activating the opaque security field. “You must really think I’m stupid, if you expect me to traipse off to your room without checking you for weapons first.”
“No, sir, you’re not stupid. You’re a hard, mean bastard who likes to abuse his prisoners.”
“You got a really smart mouth, don’t you?” He punctuated the sneering remark with two hard smacks to her bottom. When she yelped in surprise, he gripped her nape and firmly pressed her forehead to the wall. “I can think of a better use for your tongue, but for now, spread ‘em nice and wide, Lolo. I’ll show you how a real cop frisks his prisoner.”
She moaned as she thrust her hips out and widened her stance into a Y-shape. Her fantasy was about to come true. He started with her boots, pulling them off and tossing aside with a double thud. He used his right hand to slid up each leg to the upper thigh while the left was anchored in the small of her back. Skipping her waist—for now—he ran his fingers through her buzz cut, then around the collar, shoulders and each cuffed arm down to the fingernails.
Lolo wiggled when she felt his engorged groin against her ass. “Please, sir, I’m not hiding anything. Don’t use your probe on me, I’ll be good.”
“The thing is,” he said, placing both hands on her stomach and slowly moving them upwards, “I was in the bar because I heard scuttlebutt that a certain miner was involved in illegal activities.” He cupped her loose breasts and squeezed gently, then pinched both nipples. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“What? I’m clean! That filthy Atlas is behind it I guarantee! You outta bust him!”
“Settle down, Lolo, I didn’t say I believed them—or my uncle.” He increased the pressure with his thumbs and forefingers until she gasped and struggled to stand upright.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
“Not so fast!” Crandall warned, releasing her tight nipples and swiftly spanking her again.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
“I need to finish frisking you.” He slipped his hands between her thighs and prodded everywhere. “Wet and hard. I must have won the lottery.” He laughed as she arched her back and lifted her rump to his teasing fingers. “No weapons that I can feel, Lolo, but I’m taking you to your room anyway for a cavity search. Pirates can’t be trusted.”
She nearly came at his words. Completely humiliated, she did come as he escorted her, still cuffed and barefooted, through the public halls to her lodging.
When they finally reached her domicile, he asked, “I’m curious. Are you a natural intersex, or a genmod?”
Lolo gave Crandall an incredulous stare. “Are you insane?”
He shrugged. “Hey, I am conducting a serious interrogation here. The question is germane considering it’s thought to be stabilizing in deep space pilots.”
“I thought this was only role play sex?”
“Then let me ask you. If this was a date, finding out in mid-grope wouldn’t be very polite, not to mention dangerous, now wouldn’t it?”
She nodded reluctantly.
“And, not to kill the mood entirely, I’m deadly serious about tracking pirates, so if you have relevant information, I’m willing to deal fairly.”
Leaning against the bulkhead, Lolo pondered his offer then flapped her hands and jerked her head. “I can’t deactivate the palm lock with my hands behind my back.”
“Are you going to behave if I release you?”
“That depends. What will you do if I cause trouble?”
He lightly tapped her chin. “I’ll strip you naked, put you over my knee, spank you hard until you’re bright red, then spread you open on my lap and conduct a deep cavity search for contraband.”
Lolo shuddered and whispered through a suddenly dry throat. “Sounds fair to me.” She spun around and flexed her restrained wrists.
Waiting a heartbeat or two, he buzzed the release. The cuffs unlocked and retracted into the magnetic control wand.
“Thanks.”
Placing her left palm on the pad and staring straight ahead at the optical scanner, it was only a moment before the light durasteel panel slid sideways and she stepped through the opening. She sensed him following, and once the door closed, pivoted as if to say something. She threw a punch instead.
Crandall wasn’t fooled for an instant. He blocked her attempt and hooking her foot, turned and threw her over his shoulder onto the bed. She bounced once, quickly regaining her equilibrium, but before she could resume hand-to-hand combat Crandall asked, “Best two out of three falls?”
Growling, her response was to launch herself like a plasma jet at the smirking cop. He met her head-on and smoothly danced her around and off the sparse furniture until pinning her face down and ass up on the floor.
“Do you yield and accept your punishment?”
She grunted and strained but he only tightened his clasp. “Yes, I yield, you bastard.”
“That’s Sir Bastard, if you please.” He released her and backed away, and in a no-nonsense tone ordered, “Strip.”
A shivery shudder racked her entire body. Slowing standing, she toyed with front fastener at her cleavage. Biting her lip, she had the audacity to say, “Do I at least get music for my striptease?”
Crandall quirked his brow: She took that as a yes and activated the player. The thumping club mix raised her pulse even higher and she started swaying and twirling as her jumpersuit fell open down to her crotch. Shrugging out of the long sleeves, she shimmied her hips and with a deft flick of her foot, kicked the garment straight at Crandall. Catching it cleanly, he smiled and carefully folded it up, setting it aside.
Lolo was naked underneath: she hated wearing undergarments on station. Six months of confining survival gear made her want to go nude constantly. Still dancing, she let her erection lead the way.
Snuggling up to him, she traced his uniform with her fingertips, eventually cupping his tumescence. “I can’t wait to have this bad boy inside me,” she crooned. “I bet mine is bigger though. I got the best when I had it implanted—though, I love my pussy too.”
“Later, Lolo,” he said, rubbing her bottom. “But first, this has a date over my knee.”
“Do I have to?” she pouted, nibbling his neck.
“Yes, I’m not done with your interrogation.”
“Meanie.”
“I’m an amoral abusive dirtside cop remember?”
“Sorry.”
“You will be.”
She was. Dangling over his knees, ass on fire as Crandall did a beat down to the rhythm of the staccato syncopation blaring from the speakers, Lolo wanted the spanking to be harder and faster. Pain was a pilot’s constant companion and this was more cleansing than punishing. She did a lap dance, grinding her tummy and twerking her hips as his hard hand rained slaps on her tenderized flesh. When he finally stopped, she finally unclenched her glutes and slumped limply. She felt her nerves pulsing, the surface sting subsiding and the muscle soreness building. A couple of more minutes and she knew she’d climax under his spanking.
Coaxing her into a different posture, she blushed as bright as she presumed her butt must look. “What are you doing now?”
“This, my naughty pirate, is called the wheelbarrow position. Something us grubby dirtsiders use on our farms. It’s time,” the loud snap of gloves being donned. “For your cavity search.”
Lolo moaned as if she was being tortured. “No! I’ll come if you probe me. Please fuck me instead. I’m sorry I sassed you.”
Crandall didn’t respond, instead, running his slick protected fingers around her labia then wedging his thumbs between her stretched thighs and prying open her soaked entrance. “I see you enjoyed being spanked,” as he let go and grabbed Lolo’s hard cock. Giving it a quick wank, he rubbed the tip as clear fluid seeped. “Must be a trip to come both ways.”
Lolo thought he sounded wistful, but all pretense of control fled when he slowly, carefully, slipped two fingers into her pulsating vagina: all the while maintaining a steady pumping of her cock. “You’re going to make me come!”
He withdrew his wet fingers and slapped her twice on her brick red bottom. “Don’t you dare come without permission or I’ll whip you with my belt!”
Wailing in protest, she tried to control her urges, but his thick, nimble fingers pressed wide and twirled inside. She felt a spasm in her testes, and he clamped down hard on her shaft.
“Don’t… come…”
Panting now as he edged her over and over, she lost all track of time; the pending climax stretched out as if nearing light speed. Only dimly did she hear him say, ‘last orifice’ and the snap of a fresh glove. Her pussy felt empty, but not for long, as he let go of her cock and placed his thumb on her clit.
A faint, guttural, inhuman tone she didn’t recognize as emanating from her mouth, occurred as one, and then two fingers slid inexorably through her anus. She clenched her rectum, hard, and let out a strangled scream as they rotated and scraped the flexible inner walls.
Lolo stopped breathing entirely as Crandall jabbed back into her vagina and made a sandwich of his hands, the fingers rubbing against each other through the thin membrane separating her passages.
“I can’t stop….” screaming hoarsely and bucking violently as the long denied orgasm ruptured her senses.
Crandall yanked his fingers out of her ass, shed the glove and while she was still convulsing in the throes of climax, briskly milked her cock. It wasn’t long until Lolo ejaculated and shot all over the floor.
When she came to, Crandall was washing his hands and face and quietly speaking on his com. “I’ll be there in a few. Secure the scene.”
Groggily, Lolo was able to ask, “Where the hell are you going? Aren’t we having sex?”
“I’ll be back in three hours, or so.”
“What?”
“I told you. I’m on duty.”
He tossed her a salute and left.
The sound of her boots hitting the door was probably heard in outer space.
In case you were wondering, yes, I did write the song at the beginning. Nine years and a few weeks ago to be precise, but I never had a story to match until this prompt. In addition, the title is not a typo: Holes is correct. You may interpret that in any way you’d like. This story is a lot longer than I planned, and is not flash fiction since I took three days to write and edited quite a bit. It’s closer to what I would write for a submission call or novella concept than a blog post. I’d call it a rough quasi-draft at this point.
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].
Next Monday, June 1st I meant May 1st, I will be posting my first monthly Spanking Newsletter, at my other blog Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction. I can’t believe I skipped the entire month of May, thinking it was June next week.
I almost missed,“The Wedding”, not because I was late, but rather, I didn’t want to be there at all. My parents played the family card—easy to do when still living at home at age twenty—not to mention, they were paying for a table. Don’t ask. I have to also say, I was not drunk, nor coerced. Maybe I overreacted, but I have no regrets.
My second cousin Sophia, the bride, told me on more than one occasion, that I carried my virginity like a shroud, doomed to don sackcloth and ashes should I ever yield to temptation and lay with a man before marriage. Her pack of hyena bridesmaids looked hideous in their bilious orange dresses: Fitting I suppose, in warped retribution for all sorts of mortal sins. Chief among them, I doubted any girl at the altar taking the Sacrament was in possession of virgo intacta. The men now… that’s when I noticed the wheat-blond and chestnut-brown heads bent close together at the end of the groomsmen row.
Zing! Went my lady parts. And when they faced the applauding throng on the way out? Let’s just say, it was a good thing I wasn’t seated on the center aisle pew, or else there would have been an embarrassing incident. I saved that for the reception.
Fast forward through the meal, the toasts, the first dance—if it wasn’t for a case of raging lust, I would have cadged a ride with my older brother, who split after the garter toss, muttering as he left, “As if I’d choose anyone here to cross-pollinate with. It’s an excuse to keep the money local and among relatives. One big circle jerk.” I pretended not to hear him.
It was while the bridesmaids were making fools of themselves performing a choreographed dance-off they thought was clever and sophisticated, when they suavely made their move. I nearly spewed my soda when they sidled up and whispered in my innocent ears, “Do you like sandwiches?” Innuendo is pointless if it goes right over your head.
Seeing me blush, they apologized and introduced themselves as younger brothers of the groom. Only slightly older than I, nevertheless, I was out their league. Seeing the raucous party setting up games of balloons and chairs, the paired off couples and hordes of children underfoot, I felt daring and suddenly tired of my shroud; so turned to my comrades and replied, “Yes, I do like sandwiches, with firm meat and mayo slathered on a toasted bun. Is there somewhere we can all eat our fill?”
What’s better than a handsome man in a tuxedo? Two handsome men bursting out of their tuxedos.
The live band chased us through the back passageways of the banquet hall, the notes spurring on our reckless flight, my purse an anchor to my previous life. We found a storage room. Chair wedged under door handle, round table legs erected in a flash, me, trembling body lifted, a man under each arm, firm bottom plopped on tabletop. Mike leaned in for a kiss; I shied at the first gate. “Sorry, I’ve not much practice.”
Patrick caressed my exposed nylon covered knee. “Are you a virgin then?”
I bit my lip and whispered ‘yes’.
Expecting high-fives and crude remarks, they shocked me by cupping my face and stroking my hot cheeks with their thick thumbs. “In that case, if you still mean yes, we’ll take care of you and make your first time special.”
The band played on: YMCA. I shifted between the hooded eyes; their expressions were at once frightening but needy. No… they were compassionate yet demanding. I channeled my inner fantasies. “Do you take this woman before you, and make her yours?”
Feather light lips brushed against mine, each in turn murmured, ‘yes’: So I surrendered. “Yes, Mike and Patrick, I want you both to make love to me.”
Ten fingers teased my curves while my mouth was plundered by two tongues rotating between kissing and nibbling my bare shoulders. Cool silk rustled as it eased down, the top of my breasts exposed, nipples suckled through the white cotton cups. Squeezed, teased, my moans of surprise swallowed by urgent mouth; my scruff held immobile. Half-naked now, each man locked onto a nipple, my hands tousling soft strands, imagining twins of my own: longing clenched hard.
‘I believe someone requested a toasted bun?’ The question slithered through my arousal. My eyelids felt heavy. Raw hunger blazed from their faces. The expressions ripped my reticence away. Unsteady, I stood up, helping hands tucked under my elbows; I turned, and bent over the table. I hissed as my rigid nipples brushed the laminate surface, a hand between my shoulders pressed me firmly down, breasts flattened. I writhed. Unbidden, my dress bunched at my waist, I raised my hips and presented my bottom.
The dual smacks caught me off guard. The instant sting had me shimmying. Again they struck; this time, one then the other, a rhythm they continued as I squirmed on the cool surface. Steady spanking over silk, they warmed my bottom and fired my passion. Lifting my dress, the wet thong no protection, the impact of flesh-on-flesh was both louder and more exciting; the knowledge that once they peeled away the skimpy fabric, they’d see what no man had ever tasted.
Hot, I was so hot. The sudden silence had me begging for more. Instead, brought vertical, my shoes discarded like my morals, the dress soon followed, and I was kneeling on their folded jackets, face-to-face with two pulsing penises. “What should I do?” asked in a tremulous tone, brought forth deep growls of ‘stroke and suck’ from my captors. My thighs widened as I grasped the warm appendages in each fist. My first reaction was sheer amazement that this was tucked away behind every pair of jeans. Then, the silky softness registered, followed by the give of the surface skin. Clear liquid seeped from the vertical slits in the helmet shaped tips. Delicately, I lapped.
Fingers twisted in my hair. I could feel the restrained trembling. I hollowed my cheeks and inhaled. Sweet and sour, the musky aroma watered my mouth: I switched, similar, yet distinct, each cock felt and tasted different in my mouth and hands. Hearing the groans and gasps from above me, I smiled with feminine delight as they tutored me on the esoteric art of the blowjob. I was a quick study.
My turn. On my back, head over the edge, cock thrusting in and out; my hips wide, tongue licking my pussy. No fantasy could ever have prepared me for the sheer decadence of oral sex. My muffled climatic scream vibrated around a leaking cock as two fingers probed inside me, and my erect clit was lashed to orgasm.
Soft conversation: A metallic ringing of coin on concrete. Pants hitting the tabletop, followed by shirts and underwear. Dazed, I could only watch as Mike sheathed himself with a condom and settled between my soaked thighs. Patrick lifted and cradled my shoulders so I could see the moment I willingly—eagerly—gave him my innocence. A fist gripped and guided, the other fingers pressed my left knee further open. Thick flesh wedged inward, stopped by my barrier. Soothing touch kissed my skittering pulse as it raced through my neck. I met his eyes: I closed mine.
Hands fondled hips and pulled me under, the sharp sting of breached virginity forced a yelp; the reluctant inner muscles yielding to masculine determination drew a groan of disbelieving astonishment when his rough hairs met mine. I wiggled and spread as wide as I could, the sensation of tight fullness felt perfect. Patrick supported my head as I dangled—once more sucking his cock, this time with reckless passion as Mike withdrew and then eased back inside. Each time was quicker and deeper, my lovers playing my flesh like a guitar, strumming my emotions and riffing on my body.
They switched: my empty pussy aching to be filled again. This time, I was rolled over, feet on the floor, bottom uppermost. Thumbs pried open my crack, teased my pucker: I flinched, then relaxed as the next covered cock slid into my wet depths. The hard tube in my mouth was not so gentle this time, rough hand lifting my chin up, the swollen head touching my tonsils. My coughs and sputters seeming to accelerate their fucking. A slapping noise. Stinging heat in my ass, repeated blows firing lust. The thrusts more ragged, the groans louder, breaths panting; a reprieve, only the slick tip held on my outstretched tongue, blurred fingers pumping. Me, up on my elbows, waiting for the nectar. An orgasm rippled around the embedded flesh touching my cervix.
My eyes crossed, suddenly there were two cocks stretching the corners of my mouth. My bottom burned, my pussy needed another come; I reached down and stroked my hard pearl. Who came first I did not know, but my mouth filled with hot, viscous fluid that tasted of home cooked pasta and pesto. The other added more flavor—the tangy spice of sex. I rolled the thick substance around my cheeks and molars. I came violently, my hips slamming the edge of the table as I shook. In order to breathe, I swallowed. Once, twice: I gasped for air—and cried when the tight grip of propriety was wiped away along with my virgin’s blood.
They cuddled me. The band played on. Our hearts slowed. I traced patterns on their slick chests. “Thank you.”
When we returned, I was shocked to see that everything looked the same. Something this momentous deserved a memorial toast. I had some wedding cake instead.
A note about formatting on this post. WordPress does not support a Word type formatting, thus the lack of indents. Yes, I could add spaces before each paragraph, but I’m not. It’s not that bad. My novella, The Witch of Olympus Hollow, is told in first person and the excerpt below is the Prologue and part of Chapter One. The anthology in total, is Lust in Spring. The story itself has erotic passages with the spanking as discipline only. The style is a memoir based upon diary entries, and set in 1952, except for the Prologue and Epilogue which are set in present day. If I had to place my novella in a genre, it would be: Green Mythological Erotica.
Just a reminder, if you would like to read and write a review for your blog, Goodreads and/or Amazon, please contact me and I will send you a free copy of my novella as a Word .docx in exchange for your honest review. The entire anthology is a free download if you have Kindle Unlimited, or 99 cents for a limited time with regular Kindle. Please see Amazon for details.
What do a wealthy divorcee, a gay college student, five men trapped in a cottage, and a college graduate in the 1950s have in common? Each has a date with the supernatural. In Lust in Spring, the sixth volume in the Lust series, Spring is a time of renewal and desire. Gods, goddesses, incubi and the Fae will seduce and beguile their mortal lovers. But the price for pleasure must be paid.
Click picture to go to Amazon
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.
In JD Carabella’s Milady’s Command, Juliet has wasted fifteen years on a loveless marriage. She’s a beautiful, sexual woman, and she needs a man who will surrender to her lust. Will her secret fantasy of power and control drive away the man worthy of her attention? Juliet’s dream can come true, if she’s willing to pay the price.
In Emma Jaye’s Incubus Spring, university student Finn has a dilemma: which man to pick? His current boyfriend, Charlie, is the take-charge type Finn wants. Problem is, Charlie is more interested in managing Finn’s budget than his body. Then there’s Ezra. It’s tough to resist when the sexy owner of an adult toy store offers hands-on demonstrations. Torn between loyalty and lust, the unwitting prey in a seductive game of cat and mouse, Finn’s decision will shape his destiny.
One goddess. Five men. In Ina Morata’s The Greenwood Goddess, it’s Beltane, and five men have been taken prisoner by Gaia. They’ve been set a quest: compete for the goddess’ favor with the best erotic story. As captivated as the rest, Ben is desperate to win, not least because in this strange and magical place, losing has serious consequences. But if he wins… will the prize be what it seems?
As the title says, people round these parts think I’m a witch: these parts being Olympus Hollow. There you go; I repeated the title for y’all. No applause needed, we’re good. Or as the saying goes: word.
My name is Gale Johnson, of the Johnsons of Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, on the Main Line. How I ended up in the far southern reaches of Appalachia, that story is the fault of my mother: harsh but true. I was angry with her for a long time, besides being a stuck-up bitch when I arrived.
I believe I was likely manic-depressive or bi-polar back then, but that doesn’t excuse rudeness. All that’s long past now. I’m eighty-five, or will be next April 1st, the joke’s on me, right?
Leastwise you think I’m a bitter old woman, nothing could be further from the truth. The tale I shall shortly relate here shall only be released upon my death. Ergo, I am currently deceased—with several mitigating circumstances.
I’m not trying to be lawyerly here. As you’ll discover at the end of my memoir, the situation was not exactly cut and dried. In all honesty, I’m probably confusing you—I like to talk—so rather than work backwards in a logical manner, I will instead start at the beginning.
It’s a good thing I kept up my diaries all these years. I’d forgotten I’d written them in first person, present tense back then. The conceit of a recent college graduate I’m afraid, trying to be grownup and sophisticated.
I decided to share excerpts within the prose to highlight my state of mind. I apologize if my lack of empathy shines through my journal entries of those days in 1952, but I will not censor to meet modern sensibilities. I’m too damn old to be PC.
I was young and sheltered: a northern white girl dropped into the segregated South. I did not know of course, that Pennsylvania and the other states of the Union were just as divided as any Confederate state. I had always naively assumed people lived within racial and ethnic boundaries because they wanted to by choice.
So many changes in my lifetime, including the internet and access to a world of information. It’s a lot easier these days to write your thoughts and store them in the cloud.
I do enjoy the spanking blogs; I’m a connoisseur you might say, although my experiences would beat the pants off most of the fiction. Just sayin’: not braggin’.
I’m rambling again, my apologies.
I’m sure you saw the snarky tweets from Clear Cut Resort LLC? The ones where they bitched and whined in 140 characters about the fabulous luxury vacation homes and world-class golf course they wanted to build, but were denied? Or maybe you viewed their lovely Facebook page, with the glossy retouched digital pictures and the CGI video of happy families bathing in the hot spring, frolicking in the natural pool and riding horses through the manicured forest.
I told their Armani wearing lawyers to shove it on more than one occasion. That is our land the fuckers wanted, and they will never get it.
The following is an excerpt of an audio recording by the late Gale Johnson.
Transcript begins:
Is this thing on? Damn technology. Used to just push a button.
~snort~
I got it. Chill, dude.
Well, if you’re hearing this, I’m dead. Nothing like my beyond-the-grave voice in stereo, is there? My lawyer, don’t start, insists that I express my wishes verbally, due to the salacious contents I intend to have published.
So here goes.
Like I said, I’m not worried about Olympus Hollow.
I left the land in good hands, very good hands.
~witchy cackle~
What do you mean you want a will and last testament?
Fine! You’re all a bunch of blood-sucking parasites.
Being of sound mind and body, I hereby bequeath all my knowledge and worldly goods to my anointed successor as per the agreement with the principles notated in my memoirs.
Everything you are about to read actually happened to me.
I personally vouch for the authenticity of my interactions with every named person.
All mortal persons, mentioned in the main body of work, are now deceased.
Any persons named in the epilogue, have signed affidavits allowing their likenesses to be utilized in print.
All proceeds from the sale of my memoirs, and any profits from future visual media productions, shall accrue to the Olympus Hollow Charitable Foundation, Inc.
End transcript.
Chapter One
Dear Diary,
April 1st, 1952
Happy Birthday to me! Today I turn 21 and only three weeks to graduation! My sorority sisters fooled me again and made a BIG deal out of my birthday. That’s why I’m standing at the moment. The paddles are no fun, even though I should be used to them after four years.
I made a wish, of course I did! Chance is so dreamy. He promised me a very special surprise for our date this weekend.
***
Dear Diary,
April 23rd, 1952
Thank God I got my monthly! Chance is beastly! I never should have believed him. Thankfully Mother will never find out or else her hairbrush would be worn out on my hiney. Sabrina says you can’t get knocked up French kissing or heavy mouth petting but I’m glad anyway. I never knew keeping my knees together would be so difficult in the heat of the moment.
***
Dear Diary,
May 3rd, 1952
Guess what! Great-Aunt Abigail—my namesake I’m told, although I’ve never even heard of her—has invited me to her home! I’m very excited! NOT! An urgent family matter says my dear mother.
Mother says I’m to obey my aunt in all manners. I argued that I’m a college graduate and a grown up, but she packed my hairbrush anyway and even said that G-A.A—aka Great-Aunt Abigail—knew I needed an occasional good dose of discipline! I am so EMBARRASSED!
My beloved parent told me I’d be standing on the train ride to Washington if I didn’t zip it. Daddy only grunted and refused to take my side. He never takes my side!
***
Dear Diary,
May 9th, 1952
And so it comes to this. A present for my college degree, the sharp Buick Roadmaster Riviera coupe in Olympic Blue, is sitting outside in the rain back home. While I, after three separate train rides, followed by an ancient bus that trundled up into wild Injun country in far western North Carolina, have finally arrived at the thriving metropolis of Olympus Hollow, population 243.
This is my stop; the driver is calling.
***
“You mussa be Miss Gale.”
I glanced around in distaste. The bus stop was not a proper station with water fountains and lavatories but merely a wide spot in the road. Wild chickens and feral dogs kicked up dust, while several old white men in denim overalls and seed caps rocked in chairs on the porch of Jebediah’s General Store and spat long streams of brown juice into the dusty gravel parking area.
The speaker was a Negro and his mode of transportation a mule wagon. I was evidently on another planet. This was most defiantly not Cavalcade of Stars with Jackie Gleason. There was no sophisticated sketch comedy in these characters.
I had no congress with the Negro in Bryn Mawr—there were none—although there were plenty to be seen in Philadelphia. Unsure of how to respond, I stuck to politeness.
“Yes, I am Gale Johnson. I am here at the invitation of my Great-Aunt Abigail to spend the month. I was told she would pick me up.”
“Isa be yur ride, Miss Gale. Miss Abigail, she beein’ a touch unda da weatha.” He hopped down and placed my luggage in the back of the wagon. “Ifin ya’ have a seat, Miss, I’lla havin’ ya’ up da mountain ri’ quick.”
“You be careful now, boy, ya here?” one of the white men called out. “Dat be pree-shee-us cargo you be haulin’. Miss Abigail liken to give ya boils iffen ‘er niece ruffles ‘er purty dress. Ain’t that right, sweet thang?”
“Yes, sar, Massa Bohannon.” My driver clucked to his mule and we lurched forward.
I could feel my cheeks flame and stared stiffly ahead while the men guffawed and slapped their thighs and whistled. The harsh ammonia smell of sweat and the sharp scent of fresh dung assaulted my pampered nostrils. We were not moving fast enough to ward off the black flies and soon my hands were in near constant motion in a futile effort to remain pest free.
Then we turned off the narrow highway onto an even narrower track and it was as though we entered another land.
As far into the distance as I could see were rafts of azaleas, rhododendrons and flowering trees and shrubs of every description in a riotous explosion of reds, pinks and whites. The flies and the offensive odors vanished. A shiver ran through me as if were dunked in ice water. An electric current sizzled in the air and my hairs stood up on end.
We passed a large quartz granite marker set off to the right. I heard a loud crack as if thunder had come to the smoky blue sky.
“Did you hear that?” I yelped and clapped my hands over my ears in reflexive protection. “Is there a storm coming?”
“No, Miss Gale, it be a fine day. Isa don’ heard nothin’ but da birds and da bees iffen ya please.”
I looked at him suspiciously but since all I could hear now was the creak of the wheels and the mule’s labored breath, I let it go, and lost myself in the incredible display of vernal color. I’d been annually to the Philadelphia Flower Show as long as I could remember, but this natural extravaganza was beyond anything I had ever seen.
I noticed too, the gravel drive was smooth and the grass verge was neatly mowed. Certainly, a motor vehicle would have no problems ascending the slight grade. Which begged the question, why the mule and driver?
I snuck another peek at the Negro on my left. I felt uneasy. My social upbringing and schooling did not address this situation. I took the easy way out and decided to let Great-Aunt Abigail perform the introduction to her servant.
***
Dear Diary,
May 9th, 1952
The Negro’s name is Leroy. G-A.A. explained he and his family live a mile away and farm the land for produce and raise livestock for meat. They are neighbors, not sharecroppers nor employees. I sensed there was much more to the situation but I at least loosened my tongue enough to speak coherent sentences to Leroy.
I felt diminished by my reticence and got the impression Leroy was not awed with my whiteness but would tolerate my ignorance unless I proved malicious.
It was near lunchtime and G-A.A. had prepared ham, cornbread, green beans and either sweet tea or lemonade. After we finished eating she gave me a quick tour.
***
“This isn’t what I was expecting, Great-Aunt Abigail,” I said as I studied the modern Kenmore kitchen under the glow of electric lights.
“Well,” she admitted, “if you saw some of the folk round here, your preconceptions of dirt floor hovels, outhouses and candles would not be remiss. I do what I can to support the local crafters, like purchasing furniture and linens and labor. I’d like to do more, but these are proud people, Gale—black, white and red—and don’t take kindly to charity. This was Cherokee territory. The Scotch-Irish who eventually settled here cling to Old World traditions and Indian heritage through pure cussedness.”
According to my Great-Aunt, the dwelling was cozy: warm in the winter and cool in the summer. The house sat on a small knoll and faced southwest. The outside foundation to three feet up was constructed of weathered fieldstone held together by gravity. The remainder of the exterior to the eaves was American chestnut, harvested when the blight swept through the Eastern part of the country in the early part of the 20th century. The wide porch was laid with Longleaf Pine planks that matched the interior floors.
At her urging, I took time to wash off the travel grime with hot running water and then laid down for a short nap.
***
No, you aren’t hallucinating, this is Thursday, not Friday. However, we are still waiting for Lust in Spring, to be published on Amazon, so I am flipping the schedule. You may now resume your normal week.
This week’s Flashback Friday, was originally posted Oct 10th, 2009.
Alison was fed up with feeling sorry for herself. The more blogs she read, the more chat rooms she entered, the angrier she became. What was the matter with those assholes?
‘ALL I WANT IS A HARD SPANKING. NO FRILLS, NO SEX AND NO FUCKING BLOWJOBS! GET OVER YOUR SORRY ASSES AND GET A FUCKING LIFE!’
Creeps and perverts, creeps and perverts: that’s all I get. Where are all the good men?
*POOF*
“Hi dearie, you called me?”
“Who the fuck are you? How did you get in here? I’m warning you, I have a black belt.”
“Oh I know, Allie, your belt collection is kicking! Sorry, I’m your Fairy Spanking Queen and I’m here for your makeover!”
“Makeover? Damn, I knew I should’ve snorted less blow.”
“Thanks, Allie, but I only let men blow me. I am a Queen.”
“I noticed. Why are you here? Wait: Don’t tell me… my makeover. I’ll bite”
“Oooh you are kinky, Allie. We’re gonna get along famously! As your Fairy Spanking Queen, it’s my task to turn you into a Dom magnet. All those strong, ripped, hard men will be panting to get your panties down and blister your butt. Is it hot in here or is it just me? Does this dress make me look fat? I’ve never liked ruffles, but, union dress code and all that.”
“This is too bizarre. How exactly are you going to make me over into a Dom magnet? Haven’t all the good ones already got their hands full?”
“Sadly, Allie, you are correct. They do have their hands and whips and paddles full dealing with all the bratty girls. That’s why, we are making you over into a power woman.”
“A power woman? Padded shoulders and pouffy hair? No thanks.”
“No, silly Allie. A power woman! A woman who can stride up to the chosen Dom, tell him you need a long hard spanking; then turn and walk away. Any Dom worth the title will follow you anywhere.”
“And then…”
“And then, thanks to your makeover, pour moi cherie, you lead him back here, perform a strip tease, ending with being bent over this chair. Implements readily at hand.”
“No sex?”
“No sex Allie, but lots of swats. My guarantee.”
“Where do I sign up?”
I bask in your respect
admire the flowers you buy
giggle at the itchy lace
and waxy chocolate once
a year in February
my heart thumps when
you load the dishwasher
or take the kids for pizza
so that I can bubble
and pretend still single
we fight about money
who doesn’t do that
however you’ve taught me
—and our daughters—
that our actual strength
is between our ears
—not our legs—
and feminism isn’t a
curse word or weapon
I know we’re tired
and weekly sex is fine
yet sometimes it’s necessary for you…
…to grab my throat
call me slut, throw
me on the bed, pin
me down, take my
wrists in your strong
calloused palms and
molest my curves
when I struggle and
whine, flip me like
a pancake and spank
my ass until I cry,
not only in pain,
pleasure is too tame
for what I feel when
you fist my thong,
rip it clean off,
the scorching heat
in my cunt
—I said it—
cunt, weeping for
your thick cock, yes,
we make love, it’s
wonderful, but what
I want sometimes
is a good fucking,
hard, deep, fast,
make it hurt, treat
me with rough contempt
when you yank my
head back and use
me like your private
whore, not a beloved
wife…
…you don’t even
have to pay me, just
finish by reaming my
ass and spraying your
hot sperm on my back
The newest published anthology from Paranormal Erotica Romance—aka PNRLust—is scheduled on Amazon Kindle and Kindle Unlimited, this March 30th, 2017. As you know, or should know, I am writing my fiction for publication under the pen name, Byron Cane. My novella is called The Witch of Olympus Hollow and is a different spin on ‘green’ erotica. If you would like an Advance Review Copy of my novella as a Word .docx, please contact me via lurvspanking@gmail.com. In return for the free copy of my novella, I would request an honest review posted on your blog, and/or on Amazon or Goodreads once the Lust in Spring anthology goes live on March 30th, 2017.
What do a wealthy divorcee, a gay college student, five men trapped in a cottage, and a college graduate in the 1950s have in common? Each has a date with the supernatural. In Lust in Spring, the sixth volume in the Lust series, Spring is a time of renewal and desire. Gods, goddesses, incubi and the Fae will seduce and beguile their mortal lovers. But the price for pleasure must be paid.
——–
In Byron Cane’sThe 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.
In JD Carabella’sMilady’s Command, Juliet has wasted fifteen years on a loveless marriage. She’s a beautiful, sexual woman, and she needs a man who will surrender to her lust. Will her secret fantasy of power and control drive away the man worthy of her attention? Juliet’s dream can come true, if she’s willing to pay the price.
In Emma Jaye’sIncubus Spring, university student Finn has a dilemma: which man to pick? His current boyfriend, Charlie, is the take-charge type Finn wants. Problem is, Charlie is more interested in managing Finn’s budget than his body. Then there’s Ezra. It’s tough to resist when the sexy owner of an adult toy store offers hands-on demonstrations. Torn between loyalty and lust, the unwitting prey in a seductive game of cat and mouse, Finn’s decision will shape his destiny.
One goddess. Five men. In Ina Morata’sThe Greenwood Goddess, it’s Beltane, and five men have been taken prisoner by Gaia. They’ve been set a quest: compete for the goddess’ favor with the best erotic story. As captivated as the rest, Ben is desperate to win, not least because in this strange and magical place, losing has serious consequences. But if he wins…will the prize be what it seems?
Spank Me Hard! ... Please? 