It’s the romance of the thing

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is Page 69. “Take one sentence from page 69 of the book you are currently reading and use it to write a story of your own.” The thing with me though, is that I’m never reading just one book. Currently I am in the process of reading five books and several magazines. It’s rare I find a book that I read in one sitting. Most don’t keep my attention. Anyway, the book I took a sentence from page 69 is, Six Degrees of Scandal by Caroline Linden. It’s a Historical Romance, set just after the Regency era in England, circa 1822. This genre runs the gamut from chaste love to all-out erotic descriptions. I enjoy reading romances in many different styles, because some of the best contemporary writers can be found plying their trade behind silly looking covers.

Page 69: “There was something about Olivia’s face that changed when she smiled; it was the spark of humor in her eyes, or perhaps the endearing little quirk to the left corner of her mouth, or even the way her chin went down a bit.”

“What are you smirking about, Olivia?” Annamarie glanced up from her phone at her wife’s snigger, her tone one of idle interest, not commanding. “You’ve got that smile again.”
“This romance I’m reading.” Olivia knew better than to dismiss her Mistress’ question with a casual ‘nothing’. Interested or not, Annamarie had a low tolerance for half-truths and mumbled conversations. “The heroine is in trouble — again — and insists on doing things her way instead on relying upon the tall, dark, handsome light-skinned hetero man she used to love long ago.” She smiled again, wider with a bright twinkle that caught the soft diffused LED lamps. “Sound familiar?”
Annamarie’s response was a throaty laugh; part growl and part purr as she raised up out of her chair with feline grace and intent. Sitting on the far end of the couch, she lifted Olivia’s legs and draped them over her lap. Delicately removing each wool sock in turn, Annamarie pressed her thumbs into Olivia’s bare arches. “Your feet are tense, KittyKat. Did my little puss-puss have a hard day at work?”
Groaning with pleasure, Olivia set the paperback, splayed open at the spine, across the jersey sweatshirt stretched over her slightly rounded tummy.
“Work was fine, Mistress. I was very productive and my boss even said I was glowing.” Olivia gasped as Annamarie’s finger slid under her loose pants and squeezed her calves. “Hmmmmmmmmm.”
“That calls for a celebration. Don’t you think, KittyKat?”
“Yes please.” Olivia’s answer was accompanied by a long moan as her Mistress’ hands reached her lower thighs.

Spinning like a rotisserie until her blushing cheek rested against the buttery leather surface on the cushion, Olivia lifted her rump while Annamarie tugged her pants and underwear down just enough to reveal a bare bottom to the warm air of the popping fire. The hand that caressed her plump globes was gentle, although Olivia knew it could also be stern and harsh when she disobeyed.
“I’m going to spank you, KittyKat, until your bottom turns that lovely shade of pink you love so much.”
Olivia couldn’t help wiggling her tail with excitement. “Thank you, Mistress! Your KittyKat adores your spankings.”
Annamaire couldn’t quite see Olivia’s expression, but as she raised her hand, and then spanked her palm firmly upon her submissive wife’s buttocks, she knew the ripples of the impact went straight to Olivia’s mouth and pussy. “Will you properly thank your benevolent Mistress after she finishes spanking your bottom?”
“Oh yes, Mistress!”
“On your knees?”
“With my wrists cuffed behind my back and blindfolded.”
“Feeling kinky tonight, are we?”
“Yes, Mistress. I need to service you. Please?”
“Very well, KittyKat. I will grant your request.”
“Thank you, Mis—”
“I wasn’t finished.”
“You may service me with your tongue and lips. However, should you fail to give me the number of orgasms I’m thinking of, you will be bound over the whipping table and caned until I deem your apology is sincere.”
“Yes, Mistress. I will service you until you are satisfied. If I fail, please cane your unworthy submissive until she is contrite.”
Olivia couldn’t see Annamarie’s expression, but she knew her Mistress’ mind after ten years together. While she didn’t want to fail, Olivia understood she had a chance to succeed and not receive the caning. A slim chance, but a real one nevertheless. Her Mistress wasn’t cruel, but both got what they wanted out of their marriage. Love, spanking and pain.

They smiled together, the smiles of lovers synced in D/s.

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

The VERY LAST! Kismet of Submission: Episode 25

Today’s episode marks the end of this story… on this blog. By the coming weekend, I’ll be pulling down all the episodes except the first two. Over the next months, I will be reworking the flash fiction draft into a more workable novel format. Once that is done, I will continue writing Kismet as a full-length novel. If you have enjoyed this story, and want to be able to keep reading, I am seeking beta readers who would be willing to offer feedback similar to comments. If you would be interested, please leave a comment or send me an email. I wouldn’t want anyone to suffer by going cold turkey from Kismet.

Susan laughs and smiles. ‘Well, I can tell you this much, Tamara. If I ever rushed off and barfed because I was jealous at the attention Mistress was receiving, I’d be spending some quality time in the dungeon getting my attitude readjusted.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ Tamara states with agitation. ‘How can you, or anybody, give in and let themselves be controlled and beaten for having normal emotions?’

‘It’s what I want.’ Susan’s face is guileless. ‘Mistress owns me, Tamara, because I chose to hand over my body, my life and my soul to her keeping. Whatever Her decisions are, they are always correct for the circumstances.’

‘But what if she makes a mistake?’

‘Then She apologizes, I accept, and the matter is closed — after a spanking of course.’


‘No. Mine.’

Tamara’s mouth drops open. ‘Why? … that’s not fair.’

‘Fairness has nothing to do with it, Tamara. She is always fair in Her judgments. If anything, she scrupulously gives me too much wiggle room. If there was an error, it was the result of something I didn’t do and, therefore, worthy of disciplinary measures. I never challenge Her will. Why would I?’

Shaking her hands in the hot air under the blowing dryer, Tamara can’t get around the roadblock of abuse versus submission. She likes Susan, but her ‘slavery’ is such a foreign concept to a survivor. ‘So, Susan, in reality, you are actually a slave.’

Slavery: The bogey monster of BDSM. The actual reality is that slavery, although outlawed nearly everywhere, exists today in every single country. There are likely slaves in your neighborhood at this moment. They may be prostitutes, drug mules, contract labor or domestic servants. We only have Susan’s word that she is willing, but that may be a case of Stockholm Syndrome rather than submission. In any case, there are actual slaves in BDSM, complete with chains, cages and branding, but it is still a vast gulf between consensual D/s and forced slavery.

Susan’s tone is curious. ‘Is that what you see, Tamara, when you look at me?’

‘I need to get out of here.’ Tamara storms past, back out onto the concourse. The line hasn’t dwindled at Sir’s table and, ignoring his ‘come here’ wave, she strides off in the opposite direction. To her annoyance, Susan shadows her. ‘Are you going to stalk me everywhere, Susan?’

The reply is not reassuring. ‘Only until I am satisfied you are not going to harm yourself.’

Tamara sneers. ‘Maybe you should be more worried I’ll harm you.’

‘Very good, Tamara!’ Susan claps once then continues sotto-voice behind the back of her hand. ‘You need some more practice to play the heavy.’

‘Why are you following me?’ Tamara comes to an abrupt halt and lifts her palms up with shrugged shoulders. ‘I’m nobody. Always have and always will be.’

‘Sir doesn’t believe that.’

Deep inhalations. ‘Susan.’ Tamara resumes normal breathing. ‘I can’t compete with… his fans… with, anybody else he could want. It doesn’t make any sense that a man who looks like that, who obviously writes extremely popular stories and enjoys spanking as much as he does, to want to be burdened with a crazed lunatic like me.’

Walking over to a nearby bench, Susan sits down and motions Tamara to join her. With clear reluctance, Tamara sits as well, but as far away as possible. They watch the foot traffic steadily increase. Nobody pays the slightest attention to the two women.

‘Tamara, have you ever asked Sir what his motivations are?’

Clasping her hands together, Tamara looks down at the worn patches on the carpet where thousands of feet have scuffed. ‘Not really. Every time I say something about how fu-messed up I am, he spanks me. It’s like he’s trying to mold me into someone more sedate and demure.’

‘That’s conjecture, not fact,’ Susan points out.

‘Is it?’ Tamara’s voice is both bitter and disillusioned. ‘If he liked me, if he cared about me, he wouldn’t be so set on forcing me to change and submit.’

‘That puzzles me, Tamara. He didn’t strike me as someone willing to use force on an unwilling person. Am I wrong?’

A desultory shrug is Tamara’s answer. ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not sticking around to find out.’ She pushes to her feet and sticks out her hand to shake. ‘I guess this is it, Susan. It was nice to meet you.’

We watch, extremely worried as Tamara strolls further and further away from the still seated Susan until disappearing around a distant corner. Torn three ways now, we don’t know what to do. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Tamara has her phone, but her bags are back at Sir’s table, including her purse with money. Not much, but enough to change her unused bus ticket into a destination far from here. Decision made, we flit after Tamara, hoping it’s not too late.

Slumped against a wall, next to an emergency exit, at the far reaches of the convention center, Tamara has reached a dead-end, both literally and mentally. She cries silently into her cupped hands, bent over her tented knees. The emotions of the past two days have overwhelmed her and she doesn’t know how she’s going to survive.

Pivoting, we notice Sir’s arrival before Tamara does. She stiffens, but remains on the floor. Sir doesn’t pause, doesn’t speak; only sits down cross-legged next to her, reaches over and bodily drags an unresisting Tamara onto his lap. His hug is fierce. He rocks side-to-side in a gentle motion: whatever noises he is making are too soft to hear. Her crying is barely audible as heart-wrenching sobs from deep in her soul. We turn our backs. It’s too raw and intimate; too much pain to witness. As we move out of sight, perhaps for some of you reading, you’ve been there, in a hopeless seeming situation. Did someone cuddle you? Offer you unconditional comfort? It’s so rare to see, no wonder Tamara is having a breakdown. All her life, the only constant has been abuse. Can Sir really make a difference and release Tamara from the shackles of her slavery? A howl of pure anguish guts our souls like a filleting knife.


‘I know, baby, I know.’

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 24

The white backdrop provided by the venue, is now covered with posters of Sir’s book covers, tacked in place with red pushpins. Tamara’s eyes keep skittering to his penname in big, bold black letters. She’s so used to calling him Sir the name feels unnatural. She also realizes, with a jolt, she doesn’t know his real name, nor has she told him her surname. Uneasy feelings start their deadly slither from her psyche.

Matters don’t improve when the ballroom doors are thrust wide open and a rush of fans steam into the author’s area. There are about thirty booths of varying sophistication — Sir’s is on the lower end of the scale she notes with disapproval. He needs a woman’s touch. Her alarm at the thought is fleeting. The first breathless females toting adoration and not-so-hidden desires have arrived.

Tamara fades — by choice — while a steady stream of women pour out confessions and tears; laughing as Sir signs books, clothing and the occasional flesh while posing with a social smile for selfies. He’s jovial, sympathetic and the man of-a-thousand-faces. He’s also completely unrecognizable as the man she’s starting to get a serious case of the likes for. A familiar voice slices through Tamara’s mounting misery.

‘M_ A_?’

Even in her mind, Tamara censors his name.

‘I love your books! I had no idea who you were in my lecture yesterday.’

Sir leans over the table and gives Susan a quick hug.

‘Hi, Tamara! How are you, my dear?’ she says with a giddy distracted wave. Digging in her cloth shopping bag from a local supermarket, Susan pulls out a paperback copy of every book containing Sir’s work ever published. ‘I’m your biggest fan, M_. This is so exciting.’ Her animated features as she chats with other waiting fans are in stark contrast to Tamara, who appears about to throw up.

Are we the only ones who see Tamara’s distress? Her posture is slumped on the chair, her face is blank and she won’t make eye contact or acknowledge anybody. Her thoughts — her thoughts are—

‘Excuse me,’ she manages to say before clamping her mouth with her hand, making a beeline to the closest ladies restroom.

Seconds later, Susan, through a non-verbal request from Sir, briskly pursues Tamara. Sir resumes his meeting and greeting with an affable grin to the next supplicant.

Are you angry with Sir? For all the smooth talk about submission and guidance, he didn’t waste any time sucking up to his adoring public and ignoring Tamara. It would be nice to have his thoughts on this matter, but his attention appears to be solely focused on the hot young thing cooing her availability with a barely there crop top and low slung ripped jeans. Abandoning his table, we check on the drama unfolding in the bathroom.

‘Don’t you have suck up to him some more, Susan? Why not crawl under the table and give him a hummer as well, maybe he’ll autograph your ass while you’re going down.’ Tamara has vomited her breakfast and is lashing out at the nearest target.

Unfazed by her anger, Susan offers Tamara a wet paper towel and a sealed bottle of water with a dry chuckle. ‘No, thanks, I gave up sucking dicks after I got married — each time. Blowjobs are for dating.’

‘He’s such a—’


Tamara shoots Susan a narrowed-eyed scowl that would warn most people to take a wide path around. She rips the top off the bottle with a savage twist, gargles and spits in the sink. ‘Yeah, just like a typical man, full of bluster and arrogance and nothing else.’

Susan leans against the wall next to the hand dryer as Tamara finishes washing the acid bile from her mouth. Her next statement is a calculated risk, but Susan is gambling that the anger stems from fear rather than hate. ‘Or, your nausea is the result of your non-existent self-confidence exacerbated by the constant parade of fawning girls who are all younger, prettier, with rocking bods and wet pussies, who would eagerly bend over for Sir if he would so much as crook a finger in their direction.’ She holds up a hand to forestall Tamara’s presumably blistering response. ‘Not to mention not a single one of them has ever had a day of hardship in their entire lives, and their empty little brains can’t handle anything more serious than the latest Instagram update. Of course Sir would prefer a meaningless fuck instead of a real relationship with a woman of nuance and substance such as your self. He’s just a man after all, nothing but a walking cock.’

Throughout the quiet but intense lecture, Tamara’s face is getting redder. Whether from anger, shame or holding her breath, when she finally lets go, it’s with an outburst of tears, not words. An instant later, she’s enfolded in Susan’s arms while she bitterly weeps.

Through her sobbing, Tamara wails, ‘I don’t know why he was ignoring me! I thought I meant something to him.’

‘He’s working.’

‘But I should come first.’ She doesn’t stamp her foot, but the sentiment is clear.

‘Aaaaaah,’ Susan’s voice is wise and filled with understanding.

‘What?’ Tamara’s questioning tone is demanding.

‘Here, clean your face and blow your nose.’

‘You’re not my mother,’ said with a pout.

‘No, I’m not.’ Susan very calmly turns Tamara back to the sinks. ‘If I were, your bratty bottom would be getting spanked right about now.’

‘You’re not my Dom either!’

‘No, but I am submissive.’

‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean!’

‘A submissive always puts their Dom’s needs first. I get punished by Mistress when I slip and selfishly put myself before her.’

‘That’s…’ Tamara sputters and searches for a word. ‘Mean.’

‘No,’ Susan gently corrects her. ‘That’s my deepest desire. By focusing all my thoughts and actions to Mistress’ comfort and well-being, my willing service frees her to guide me to my goals.’

Tamara mutters, ‘Sir said something similar.’ She finally makes eye contact in the mirror. ‘Susan? I still can’t figure out what it is I’m supposed to be doing in terms of submitting.’

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

The shoot at Memory Lane

This post is over the suggested word limit for Wicked Wednesday, but I hope Rebel won’t mind.

I first met missy in August, 2016, a month after she started blogging as Submissy. What attracted me to her was not so much the topic(s) discussed, but rather the erudite style of her essays and the pithy wit displayed when dissecting the tribulations of balancing D/s with a very full family life. Her posts have inspired many a response — both essays and fictional — from me and, when we have a chance to chat — which isn’t often enough, my bad — we talk about everything except D/s. A recent series of posts about dark desires, submissive triggers and the moving goal posts that is kinky behavior, led to my comment suggesting His Lordship should produce a calendar called, Twelve Months Of missy. She was properly horrified, but knowing her writings, undoubtably turned on by thought of millions of people admiring her nude body. This is for you, missy, my friend.

When missy arrived home from school and went upstairs, there was a note and a change of clothes on the bed. All were garments she wore regularly, except the underwear — a deep iridescent purple verging on black. The note read:
Tonight, one of our darkest and twisted desires shall come true. You belong to me, missy, and it is time others celebrated that fact. You have fifteen minutes to change and meet your Sir in the garage.

“My mind’s made up, missy. We’re doing this. The time for discussion is over,” His Lordship intoned as they pulled around the back of a nondescript brick building at the back block of Memory Lane Industrial Park. Pulling up to corrugated steel door and after putting the vehicle in park, he twisted his torso in the driver’s seat and tugged his submissive closer by grasping her chin. “I love you. I love your body. And I love the idea of showing you off to others. You deserve to be on display, missy, not only because you are beautiful and I am proud to be your owner, but because your dark desire for kink is even more twisted than your thick glass anal plug.”

She shivered and moaned as He firmly nipped the base of her neck where it met the shoulder. The waves of desire, panic, excitement washed over her mind and brought dampness to her core.

The door rolled up with a clatter. His Lordship drove forward into a lift. As they went down, missy’s fingernails dug into the armrest of the passenger’s side door. She jumped when the lift came to a jarring halt. The inner door opened vertically. The headlights shone into a vast dark cavern. As His Lordship slowly drove the vehicle into the open space, in the distance, could be seen a faint reflection.

She leaned against her seat belt, watching as the redness resolved into an elevated platform; carpeted steps led up to where furniture could now be clearly seen in the headlights. There was a couch in rich velvet, a leather ottoman, a wood table and a metal T-bar rack with clothes hangers. Her heart was pounding. Nothing else was visible.

His Lordship turned off the vehicle — the lights stayed on — and got out: missy heard him open the boot. It slammed shut. Her door opened, he helped her stand on her three-inch stilettos. He handed her a silver platter. She gasped seeing the cane, paddle, lube, clamps and plug. “Take this tray up the steps, missy, set in on the table, and wait for my instructions.”

Her hands were shaking. The contents rattled. The headlights went out as she placed the tray down. Utter darkness for what seemed like an eternity. Then, a single spotlight, then another until a total of four pinned her like a specimen spread-eagle under glass.

His Lordship’s amplified voice boomed and echoed. “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for accepting my invitation to my submissive’s photo shoot for my calendar, Twelve Months of missy. Please feel free to comment and applaud, but do not approach the platform.”

Gripping her elbows, missy stared out into the blackness, unable to see anything. Her eyes were wide and panicked, randomly darting in every direction.
“missy,” His Lordship spoke, “remove your jacket and hang it on the rack.”
For a long moment, missy couldn’t move. Biting her lip, she forced her numb fingers to unbutton and hang up the jacket.
“Bend over, place your palms on the table.”
When she obeyed, she sensed Him appear behind her. Feeling the paddle tap, she arched her bottom instinctively. SMACK!
A bright strobe caught her expression the instant after the paddle landed.
“That’s for January, missy. Now, take off your sweater.”
She felt a deep rush of humiliation knowing what would be exposed. Still, she didn’t hesitate; his voice and commands were gradually forcing her submission.
“Stand at the back of the couch and thrust your chest forward. Show everyone your gorgeous breasts.”
The translucent blouse did nothing to hide the black bustier pushing up. The tight fit drew the eye to her erect nipples poking out an inch, tenting the white silk. SMACK! SMACK!
“February is for lovers.” This time the picture showed missy with slack mouth, tongue peeping between teeth and a strained expression of longing. “Remove the blouse, missy, then kneel on the couch and lay your bared breasts on the top edge for all to admire.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! The camera captured her head tossed back as the hard blows snapped against her skirt.
“March can cause very puckered nipples, don’t you agree, missy?” There was laughter from the darkness beyond the stage as missy blushed nearly as red as the couch.
“Skirt. Off. Straddle the ottoman and flash your wet knickers to the voyeurs.” His Lordship paused as she tugged the zipper down. “They are wet, aren’t they, missy?”
The metal hangers rattled as she placed the skirt on the rack.
SMACK! “Answer the question!”
“Yes.” Her voice was a whisper.
SMACK! “They can’t hear you.”
“YES! My knickers are wet.”
Applause rang out.
She had to squat slightly in order to spread her knees either side of the leather ottoman. All she now wore was a black bustier, seamed black stockings, her fuck-me shoes and lace hipsters. Oh, and a purple satin ribbon in her hair.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! “April leads to warmer weather, and as you can clearly see, less clothing.” This month’s picture showed her from the side, breasts and buttocks quivering under the blows.
“Now then, you have two more items to remove. I think…” His Lordship tapped the paddle against his thigh as he pondered while missy’s thighs quavered with the strain of holding her position. “Bustier. Let’s free those mammary glands, shall we?”

missy felt the intent regard of — to her — hundreds of eyes watching her striptease.

“Kneel on the ottoman, hold both arms straight out and keep your bottom off your heels.” SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Each paddle strike rocked her forward as she fought to stay balanced. The side effect was that her breasts bounced. If anything, her nipples were even longer and thicker. “Exercise in May, people, to go topless on the beach.”
There was a buzz of anticipation; missy could taste the desire rushing the stage. No longer afraid, she wanted to go further. She needed to have her limits pushed — no, smashed — until she could reveal her innermost fantasy made flesh.
“Stand at the edge of the stage, missy. Turn around, spread your legs shoulder-width apart, bend forward and slowly, teasingly, lower your knickers to your ankles.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! The centerfold of the calendar captures the moment when the sixth impact is indenting and rippling missy’s pink bottom. What you can’t see, is her glistening pussy: that view was reserved for the punters.
“June, when nude frolicking is fun.” His Lordship set the paddle down, and picked up the cane from the platter, along with the lube and plug. “As you can see, missy is nude — mostly — and instead of taking off her stockings and heels,” he held up the anal corkscrew plug to a roar, “I am going dress my submissive in some other accouterments. Bend over the arm of the couch, missy, reach back with both hands, and spread your spanked bottom cheeks nice and wide for your favorite glass anal plug.”
The loud hiss and moans from missy’s throat as the long plug was steadily and firmly twisted deep into place, could be clearly heard by all.
“Head up, missy, while I cane you. Pretend you are sucking a cock. I want this month to show how much of an anal slut you are as well.”
“July is exploring new places.”
Dual close up views of missy’s bottom; red, lined with darker red, the glass end of the plug pulsing in and then out.
His Lordship reached into his pocket. “Stand up and face me, missy.” He dangled the objects from his fingers. “What are these?”
“My nipple clamps, Sir,” missy’s voice was raspy with lust.
“Lace your fingers and place your hands behind your head.”
The steel teeth bit her left nipple. The photo caught her wince.
“August brings taut bodies.”
The steel teeth bit her right nipple.
“September can have surprises.”
That month, the camera waited until the cane stopped snapping. Her eyes were closed, but her slack expression showed arousal.
“More clamps, missy, these are new though. Lay on the table, on your back with knees spread, pulled to your chest — just like an exam. Remember last week, missy? How hard you came when we played ‘doctor and naughty patient’?”
There was no mistaking her orgasm when His Lordship clamped a labial lip. Her passionate cries of release were tinged with pain when he placed another clamp on the opposite lip. She shrieked when the third clamp chewed her engorged clit. Those cries turned to yelps when His cane lashed her lower crease and upper thighs.
A three-quarter view this time, the photo showed the cane tip wrapping around and sinking in. The glass end of the anal plug winked in the light. The steel clamps gleamed. Her head dangled off the end of the table, long hair flailing; mouth screaming ‘I’m coming!’.
“October, time to harvest the bounty.”
His Lordship ordered her back onto her shaky feet, temporarily. “Kneel, missy, and receive your collar.” He placed it around her neck and secured the latch. “Stand up.” When she did, he took her right wrist and wrapped it around her back, then did the same with the left. “Keep them there.” His Lordship pulled out a slender length of chain from another pocket. Attaching the y-shaped end to each nipple clamp, he drew the other end down, between her legs, to where it clamped the two labial clips together to her clit. “Walk,” he commanded missy.
When she took a step forward, the chain pulled taut between nipple and pussy. She made a little shrieking moan. SNAP!
“Keep walking, missy.” The warning was clear in his tone. With each step, the opposite clamps tugged. With each trembling stride, the cane whipped her on.
“Crisp November, when walking for fitness is so important.”
This next-to-last picture captured a full-length side view of the torment mid-stride. The chains were pulled tight; missy’s upper inner thigh was clearly wet.
“Since the final month of the year is all about giving and receiving, missy is going to gift you with her gratitude for watching her performance.” He prodded her with the cane. “Stand on the couch, put your right leg up on the arm.”
In this position, there was no doubt missy was aroused and primed. His Lordship handed her a battery-powered vibrator. “You will come for them, missy, multiple times. Show them all what a greedy and needy slut you are. Give them all something to remember you by, every day they look at your calendar to make an appointment.”
The last twelve cane strokes were slowly paced out as missy pressed the vibrator hard against her swollen and clamped clit. She came four times as His Lordship spurred her deeper into submission.
December’s glossy photo was a tight facial exposure of her final ecstatic explosive orgasm. As the bright strobe flared against her closed eyelids, she swooned. His Lordship caught her.

Fade to black.

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 22

The glow of the spanking has faded — not the soreness but the sense of being taken away from problems that have always been intractable. Tamara sits in his car and waits for Sir to finish the checkout procedure. He has the keys. The parking lot is nearly full, only a few lights show behind curtained windows. She’s beginning to recognize the disquiet she feels is not due to the situation she’s tumbled into, but the physical distance that separates them. It’s very disconcerting to realize she’s become dependent on Sir’s calm and steady demeanor and that without being in his close proximity, all the harmful habits of the past cannot be kept at bay for long.

When he strides through the sliding close doors as they majestically sweep aside as if he’s royalty, Tamara’s heart thumps with joy and relief. Eagerness like she’s never felt before causes a broad happy grin to light up her mood. She even remembers to pop open the locks before he can press the remote.

‘All set, Sir?’ she bubbles after he tosses his luggage in the trunk and buckles his seatbelt.

‘Yep. No problem. I always get a bit paranoid when I check out thinking I’ve left stuff behind in my room, but I doubled checked my bags and made sure I had my laptop… and the paddle.’

‘That would be a tragedy, Sir.’

‘I know. All my manuscripts are on the hard drive, although I have a flash stick at home.’

‘I meant the paddle, Sir.’

‘I see. Grown attached to the little guy?’

Tamara blushes and squirms in her seat; the soreness in her bottom feels so good. She wants another spanking before it fades. Even this brief conversation is enough to dampen her thighs. The lack of underwear is going to be a problem at this rate. ‘I never knew spanking could feel so good.’ She glances out the window at the deserted streets and stores. Sunday morning and they have the city to themselves. ‘You’ve found something in me I didn’t know existed, Sir. I have this desire…’

Waiting at a red light, Sir glances over at Tamara. She’s still staring out the side window apparently deep in thought. ‘I have desires too.’

The light turns green. The restaurant is only a few miles ahead, off the main drag near the convention center. According to the flyer in the hotel guide, it’s an independent breakfast/lunch diner more typical of small-town America. Sir has already mentally placed his order, but is also willing to read the entire menu in case they serve something a bit more exotic than eggs and hash browns.

‘Are your desires… dark?’

‘Most people would consider my desiring to spank women plenty dark. Abusive and misogynistic for starters.’

Tamara turns and studies his profile. She observes his eyes as they flick from side view to rearview mirror and back to the front in a steady pattern. She gets the sense that little escapes his notice. ‘I can see that. Before you sat at my counter and treated me with respect, I assumed all men were jerks — or worse. I guess what I’m trying to say, Sir, is that your ‘attitude?’ — maybe that’s the wrong word, but your confidence and your compassion towards me has unlocked stuff I never imagined wanting.’

‘Dark desires?’

‘Yeah. Very, very dark desires.’

‘You want to talk about it?’

‘Yes… but later, it’s too scary right now to even contemplate.’

‘Well, if it’s any consolation, Tamara, there is a vast difference between having dark desires and actually acting upon those fantasies. Whether or not we ever act upon those needs, or even talk about them, utilizing the darkness to arouse and comfort is not wrong in any way. Honesty and communication — or honest communication  — is one of the cornerstones of D/s.’

Tamara digests this lecture as he pulls the car in front of the restaurant and finds a parking space near the front door. After he shuts the engine down, but before he gets out, she asks one final question. ‘Do you enjoy hurting me, Sir?’

He shifts his torso and looks directly at her. ‘Yes, Tamara, I do.’ He pauses before continuing. ‘But my darkest desire is to hurt you knowing you crave the pain more than anything else.’

Luckily for us there are two booths empty back-to-back. We slip into one as they are sitting down across from each other. Sir mentions they have forty-five minutes: “Should be enough time.” Tamara replies: “Only if the kitchen is efficient.” After they order but before the food comes, Sir checks his phone and Tamara twiddles her thumbs. The darkness is lingering but it’s clear that Sir is not going to follow up with his last comment at this time. While we wait though, the topic of sadism and masochism is not so neat as the acronym BDSM would imply. As readers, we are exposed to far more sadism in prose than submission. One can make the argument — and this narrator does — that the ultimate representation of sadism is the high body counts in mainstream movies. Why killing hundreds in gruesome and graphic detail on film is tolerated and even enjoyed, while sex and authentic D/s is censored and protested is one of the worst aspects of free speech.

‘Did you say something, Sir?’


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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 10 (Part 3)

If anything, I pity Death, for it can only stare like the beggar at the feast never partaking of the living. Why I was here, on the earth, alive and thinking, I could not say. My soul was my own concern—than and now—and despite having no philosophical bent, I feel confident stating in this memoir, that the only times life made any sense at all, was when I touched someone I loved. All else was dross. Morbid? Perhaps. But to those reading this in some utopian future, you need to understand that survival was not an abstract concept.

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 10 (Part 2)

I woke with a throbbing headache. I’d neglected to bring spare padding to my—our—room, but Louisa had thoughtfully provided extras. The soiled rag went to the laundry: I dropped them on my way to emptying the chamber pot. Let the self-satisfied curates preach of rewards everlasting for those that stray into sinful ways. For those of us fortunate to serve in a good home, the daily realities of piss, shit, vomit and blood, was reminder enough of the frailty of human bodies. There is no point fearing Death when it walks at your side and shares your meals.

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.

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