The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 13)

When she opened her mouth, and he pressed the large head between her lips, I moaned softly. When, after several minutes of audible wet sucking, he withdrew a hard shaft the diameter of my wrist and longer than my hand, I took an eager step forward. When he looked at me and said, ‘Kneel’, I fairly dove to my knees next to Louisa. Stretching my mouth until my jaw popped, I stuck out my tongue and waggled the tip. Mr. Steedstiff obliged. I had wanted a rematch from my embarrassing performance in the Gun Room several days prior. Eyes watered.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 12)

With downcast heads and wretched expressions, we humbly apologized. I knew he was correct. No other master I had ever heard of before made a point of educating staff, never mind useless females—in society’s eyes. I swore to him I would redouble my efforts and never pass notes in class again. When I at last dared look at him, his eyes appeared to twinkle even though his mouth was a thin line. “Louisa, come here and kneel. You know what to do.” She glanced at me, before going to her knees, opening his trouser front then removing his cock.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 11)

Every fifteen minutes, for the remainder of the session, he caned us twice where we stood, for a total of eight strokes. I at least had been tenderized throughout the day, but poor Louisa had to take Mr. Steedstiff’s whippy blows on cold skin. After he dismissed the rest of the class for bedtime, he ordered us into his adjacent study. My pulse pounded, remembering what other girls apparently were ‘forced’ to do. “Girls. I am very disappointed you both decided gossiping is more important than expanding your knowledge. His lordship goes to great time and expense on your behalf.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 10)

By dinner bell, I was starved, and I attacked my meal with carnivorous ferocity: Daintily, of course. Up to the schoolroom I flew on wings of romantic fancy. To my delight, Louisa was already present, and we squealed as if parted for months rather than minutes. We tried, honest, to behave with decorum and concentrate on our studies, but—we were very, very naughty I’m afraid. Unbeknownst to us, Mr. Steedstiff had received specific instructions in case of misbehavior. Caught passing notes, the other maids giggled as we were made to stand, uniforms drawn up in back, in opposing corners.

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

Shivering due to an epiphany

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

A week prior:

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

At present:

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

I’ve never regretted a single moment of eavesdropping.

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 16

‘That was good. I’m stuffed.’

Sir catches Cindy’s attention. ‘Could I get the rest of my pizza to go?’ Seeing Tamara’s expression, he shuffles the plates into a neat stack. ‘Cold pizza is one of the culinary highlights of life.’

She tilts her head and raises both palms in a silent ‘whatever’ gesture. All of her meal is gone and she sighs with contentment. ‘I’m going to be spoiled you know with all this rich food. That, plus gain a few sizes.’

Danger, Will Robinson! Sir wipes his greasy fingers and ponders his response. A. Say her current size is perfect. B. Say she could use a few pounds. C. Curves are sexy. D. Excuse yourself. ‘Excuse me, Tamara, but I need to wash my hands before we leave. Here’s my credit card if Cindy comes back with the bill first.’ Sliding out of the booth he scans the walls looking for the restrooms.

Watching him stride away with a casual lope, Tamara jabs the few remaining ice cubes with her straw. The sharp clinking noise triggers memories of cocktail shakers behind the bar, when she was younger and prettier, and men shoved tips in her jar quoting Billy Joel. Where did my life go?

‘Do you need to go?’

‘I should.’

Sir watches her carefully walk away, her head on a swivel and hands loosely clenched at her sides. He signs the bill with the house pen. Tucking the Visa back in his supple wallet triggers memories of corporate three-martini lunches back when he had money to burn.

‘Ready?’ Tamara slings her purse over her shoulder.

The night has settled in like an abstract painting; all jagged lines of garish colors splashed against a canvas of blackest thoughts. The headlights slash shadowed objects in two as he pulls back onto the thoroughfare, joining the teens cruising for dominance.

‘Do you ever check your phone, Sir?’

‘Why? Did you IM me?’

‘No, I don’t have your number. I was only wondering if your career meant being online a lot.’

‘That’s a fair question. I don’t like checking when I’m with someone. I think it’s rude. Calls? Sure, if it’s important, but I access my blog and business accounts at night via my laptop. Of course, I use a VPN when using public Wi-Fi.’

‘VPN?’

‘Virtual Private Network, it hides your IP address and allows private browsing when on an unencrypted public Wi-Fi. Otherwise, anybody can snoop on your activity and potentially steal your information.’

‘I did not know that.’

‘Nothing’s perfect, but going online without VPN is like having sex without a condom.’

‘Hmmmm.’ Tamara finally notices they aren’t back at the hotel. An instant flash of panic: She grabs the door handle without even noticing.

‘I need to take a stroll through the mall and settle my dinner; otherwise I get heartburn.’

Sir finds a spot near the multiplex entrance and unbuckles. Glancing over, he notices the tension in her arms. ‘Are you okay?’

Tamara shoots him a tight smile. ‘I’m fine.’

There are lies of omission, and lies of expedience. We sense Tamara’s “I’m fine” is both. Her mind is in turmoil. The instant reaction to being trapped in a vehicle with a male is something she can’t control. The garish marquee, featuring the latest cinematic blockbusters, casts red and yellow pools onto the pavement swirling with people choosing their entertainment. Through the windshield we peer in, Tamara’s face is washed out and pale; Sir’s is wary and concerned. He wonders what to say, what not to do. The choices seem to be bad and worse. He clenches the steering wheel and stares at the mall entrance. Would lying to her help?

‘I changed my mind. We can go back to the hotel.’

Like a robot in some dystopian future film, her head swivels forty-five degrees and locks on his face as if scanning into memory banks. Her voice is atonal, mechanical: ‘I said I’m fine. Go. Walk. I will wait here.’

Sir holds his breath as she pivots back and resumes her scrutiny, watchful as a sentry on duty. He pulls out his wallet, removes a card and sets it on the shifter console. The rental keys go on top. ‘I’ll be back, Tamara. My cell number is on the card. If you need to leave, for whatever reason, I’m leaving the car keys with you.’

Before he changes his mind, or gives her a chance to respond, he’s out the drivers’ door. It closes with a soft thud.

She watches, again, as he lopes away: A confident man in a dangerous world, who cuts through the crowd like a shark.

The locks engage with a beep. She jingles the keys in her hand. It’s an old-fashioned ignition switch. The temptation is strong.

I’m lying to myself. If I can’t control an innocent car ride, how am I going to stay calm when we sleep in the same bed? I can’t do this. Sir is too good for me. I don’t deserve his… anything. I’m worthless. Stupid. A fucked up whore who deserved every beating she got. I. AM. SO. FUCKING. PATHETIC! I can’t do this. I can’t. I bet he regrets ever meeting me. I bet he’s thinking he was so stupid to pay for my meals and invite me to the freak show because now he’s the one running away. He didn’t even ask me what was wrong! He just hopped out and left me all by myself in a fucking parking lot! How dare he! He left me the keys? FINE! If that’s what he wants, fine.

After his brisk walk around the mall concourse, Sir is feeling better. Until he notices that his car is missing: along with Tamara. He paces back and forth for a while wondering if she’s idling somewhere along the distant perimeter, watching and waiting. His phone is silent. No messages; no missed calls.

Summoning the nearest rideshare, the driver takes him back to the hotel. It’s a quiet trip.

He watches television and waits for her call.

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 15

The rental isn’t cozy either. Not with Sir suddenly silent. Tamara gnaws her lip and watches him from the corner of her eye. She hopes he’s not upset with her, but can’t figure out a way to ask without rehashing the entire scene. She shifts in her seat; the stiff padding’s not helping the soreness in her butt. With the afterglow fading, she feels shame—a familiar emotion—creeping back to the fore.

To cover her unease, she pretends to study the urban commercial sprawl passing by her side window. Block after block of businesses; pharmacies, gas stations, bank branches and fast food franchises as far as the eye can see. Interspersed are nail salons, tax offices and auto repair shops. The contrast between national chains and mom-and-pop storefronts struggling for attention is striking. The strip mall housing the pizza joint is typical: Vacant stores and rain-washed broken glass glinting under the lights.

‘Looks okay to me.’

Tamara glances at Sir. It’s the first words he’s spoken since the hotel. ‘I wouldn’t come here on my own.’

Sir reaches over and gives her hand a squeeze. ‘You’re not alone.’

‘For now.’

‘For as long as you like.’

She squeezes back and unbuckles her seatbelt. The opening his declaration provides is too tempting to pass up. ‘I thought maybe it was too much—earlier. You know. My emotional outburst.’

The look he gives her is what her daughter calls ‘crazy face’. ‘Emotional? Tamara, if you were any less emotional you’d be a statue. You’ve done nothing to make me consider rescinding my offer. In fact, I’ll tell you now, that I would like you to think about coming with me when I leave tomorrow after the luncheon.’

We watch as her mouth drops open and his smirks. Hopping out, he walks around the rear of the vehicle and helps her out. He locks the doors and taking her by the hand as if they’ve been together for years, guides her over the curb to the restaurant. It’s about half-full, but it’s still early: Mostly families with a few couples and even fewer singles scattered around. It smells Italian. Basal, oregano and tomato as the high notes: baked cheese and grease rumbling underneath. The hostess—obviously one of the family’s daughters—chirps politely, ‘booth or table?’ then leads them to a waiting booth with fresh carnations in a glass and a tea candle floating in a shallow bowl. The menu is basic: Small, medium and large pizzas, two toppings included with a list of thirty-odd additional possibilities. Spaghetti and homemade meatballs, calzones, various pastas with animal protein and sauces fill the center of the menu, with salads and children’s portions the rest. The back cover lists beverages—the footer is an advert for a local insurance agent. The waitress swings by with a tray of food and a stand; she calls out as she passes, ‘I’ll be right there’. Tamara feels like she should jump up and help serve. Waitressing is hard work for little pay: harassment is ever a possibility. At least tonight no one is going to slap her ass.

She laughs out loud as the incongruity strikes her funny bone. At his curious look, she mouths ‘later’ and smiles up at the waitress. ‘Hi, Cindy, I like your brooch.’

‘Thanks, honey. I made it myself.’

‘Really? That’s cool. Do you sell them?’

‘I do, but the owners don’t like it when I peddle my wares here.’

Sir interjects with a request that she slip her business card in with the bill. ‘I’m ready to order if you are, Tamara.’

‘I’d like the ziti carbonara and a side salad with ranch dressing. I’ll have water with lemon and a diet coke.’

‘And you, sir?’

Tamara can’t help giggling.

Sir shakes his head and sighs. ‘Sorry, Cindy, she’s being naughty tonight. I’ll have a medium pepperoni pizza with mushrooms and spinach. No salad, but I would like a side of the garlic knots. Oh, water for me as well with a ginger ale. Thanks.’

The chatter of customers punctuated with occasional clangs from the kitchen fills the spaces between their watchful stares. ‘This feels like a date, Sir.’

‘Not very glamorous in that case.’

‘That’s okay. The company makes up for it.’

‘I agree.’

‘Thanks.’

Cindy sets their drinks on the table. ‘Food will be up soon, folks.’

Popping the straw on the surface, Tamara plops the end in her soda, and takes a long pull of spicy cola. The bite soothes her throat. ‘What’s the schedule for tomorrow?’

He balls up his wrapper and takes a sip of dry ginger before speaking. ‘The author meet-and-greet is from 9 to 11, followed by the closing luncheon from 11:30 to 1 in the afternoon. I have some print-on-demand hardcopies, but I mostly rely on e-sales.’

‘What can I do?’

‘Oh. That’s easy. You’ll be my eye candy.’

Tamara excitedly claps her hands. ‘Maybe to boost sales even further, we can act out some scenes. I haven’t read any of your work, but I assume there’s lots of spanking involved.’

Sir chuckles as he spots Cindy bringing their dinner. He leans closer and whispers, ‘I don’t think they’ll allow a live model, but I’ll ask tomorrow.’

‘Here you are, dears. Zita and salad for you, pizza and knots for you and do you need refills?’ She hustles off at the affirmative nods and by the time they have taken the first mouthfuls, she brings another round along with some extra napkins. ‘Anything else, just flag me down.’

‘Thanks,’ Sir and Tamara mumble around the hot food.

Watching them eat isn’t very interesting; it only spurs us to set the book aside and head to the fridge. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been interested in food porn. The slick photos on social media feeds always seem to veer between desperation and gloating. Food is fuel: If it tastes good, that’s a bonus. A companion who shares your interests makes the meal satisfying.

 

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