Coffee Klatch was never like this

This is part 2 of The Dastardly Dom’s story for Wicked Wednesday. Last week’s post is called: The care and feeding of submissiveness. It will make more sense to read part 1 first, since it is a direct continuation, but this flash fiction also works alone.

Vittoria’s screamed plea still rang in Dominic’s ears. Tolling like an iron bell, her emotional outburst combined with her tears broke open a part of his psyche that always made him uncomfortable. The part that liked to hurt her. Even now, even with the anger still bubbling and sensing the compassion with which he held his sobbing wife; even now, he wanted to bend her over and whip her ass. To see and hear the tears flow faster. “I’ll do something,” he murmured. “I promise.” He rocked her gently back-and-forth, crooning a wordless lullaby as she very gradually relaxed with shuddering gasps.

“I’m sorry, Dominic. I didn’t mean to fall apart like that.” Vittoria smiled tremulously, wiping her wet lashes. “Forgive me?”
“Of course I forgive you, honey.” Dominic leaned in, giving her a deep kiss. “That is, if you make me some fresh coffee.”
She reared back, suddenly confused. “Coffee? At this time of night?”
A slow smile creased his cheeks. A cruel grin in fact. “Are you hard of hearing, Miss Caparelli? I do believe I gave you an order.”

She shuddered, conflicted. The raw memories merged with Dominic’s sneering words. What stayed her biting response though, was a spurt of dampness in her knickers. Closing her eyes, she fought for control.

“Don’t fight me, Miss Caparelli, you’ll regret it.”
“I wasn—” her startled gaze meeting his narrowed stare.
“And don’t lie, or you’ll discover why the secretarial pool calls me The Dastardly Dom.”
Awkwardly, she clambered to her feet, straightening her crumpled jogging pants and brushing out the creases. “Yes, sir. I’ll bring your coffee as quick as I can.” As she left the room, he called out, “And change your clothing, Miss Caparelli, into something more appropriate — and revealing. I like my women sexy and easy.” Her pussy clenched. His misogynistic and leering tone was turning her on. Her shame grew even deeper.

She discarded the pod, watching sightlessly as the brown fluid streamed into the ceramic mug. Like an escalator, her thoughts ran ceaselessly; going up, then down. A cycle of self-recrimination and hatred. The soft beep startled her. The acid churned. She swallowed hard and walked, shuffled back to her husband. Tears sprang anew. How he must loath me now.

Dominic heard her coming, reluctance in every step. How I love her. He put his hands behind his head, the chair reclining as she approached his desk, carefully setting the steaming brew on the blotter.
“Your coffee, sir. Will there be…” He waited as she blinked furiously. “Be anything else?”
He took a sip, watching as she rubbed her hands in apparent nervousness. “Yes, there is.” He kept drinking, expression impassive as he drew out the moment until the tension in her frame seemed ready to snap. “You know I’ve always admired your work, Miss Caparelli.”
“You have?” Vittoria blurted out, then covered her open mouth with both hands.
“Oh yes. I admire a great number of things about your work. You’re punctual, always willing to be a team player and, most importantly…” He set the mug down with a gentle thump.
She bit her lip, eyes peering sideways. “Importantly? Sir?”
He rose to his feet, moving around the desk, perching on the corner. “Most importantly, Miss Caparelli, is your grooming. Impeccable.” Dominic lifted a strand of her long, brunette hair, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger. “You always look good enough to eat.”
“Coffee, tea or me?” Vittoria couldn’t help but giggle.
“Precisely.” He motioned for her to spin.
She felt her heart thump as she obeyed, the pleated hem swishing around her lower thighs, nipples tightening as his eyes caressed her chest.
“So glad to ‘see’ the new dress code leads to perky attitudes.” Dominic stood, going behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I believe this is where we left off, Miss Caparelli.” He squeezed tighter, slipping his fingers onto her upper arms. “I’m sure we can find some mutually satisfying means in which you can compensate for your careless actions… that cost this company money. Do you remember that part?”
She tried not lean back into his embrace, but to play the role of frightened employee desperate to keep her job. “I sorry, sir. I was going it pay it back! I am going to pay it back. I only needed medicine for my sick little brother.”
Fighting back a laugh at her dramatic improv, Dominic reached lower and cupped her breasts over her shirt. “You will pay, Miss Caparelli, believe me.” He gave a throaty chuckle. “Over and over again, you will pay.”

Vittoria whimpered.
Dominic swelled.

With a flourish, he swept the desktop clear — not the half-filled coffee cup, rest assured. “Your recompense, Miss Caparelli, will begin — note; only begin — with a sound spanking. Where we go from there will depend on your compliance to my demands.” He barked, “Is that clear?”
“A spanking?” She smacked her cheeks in wide-eyed horror. “I’ve never been spanked before, sir! I couldn’t possibly bend over your desk!” She belied her protestations by doing just that. “Like this, sir?” looking over her shoulder with brimming eyes.
He hissed softly, adjusted his tight pants, wanting nothing more than to whip up her skirt, yank down her knickers and ram his aching cock deep into her wet depths. The more his wife submitted, the more his beast growled with delight. “Reach back and raise your skirt, Miss Caparelli.”
The tight lace was slowly revealed, molding the toned flesh that called to his hand. “You are such a tease.”
“No I’m not!” she protested. “I’m a good girl! You’re forcing me to do this.”
SMACK! His palm made contact with her bottom. SMACK! “Yes you are.” SMACK! “You’re a tease. Always flaunting your body around me, fucking me with your eyes. I know what bad girls like you need.” SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
She cried out as the slaps grew harder and quicker. “Stop! Why are you doing this to me? I don’t want this.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! “Really? All you have to do is say, red, and I’ll stop.” SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! “But I bet you don’t want me to stop, because deep down, you’re actually a slut.” SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! “Am I right?”
“Noooooo,” she wailed as he kept whaling. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! “I don’t like this.”
Dominic grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled her head back as he rubbed her red bottom with the other. “Shall we find out then? Pull your knickers down, Miss Caparelli.” He nipped the base of her neck. “If they’re dry, I’ll let you go, unmolested.”
She moaned as his teeth clamped, sending quivers down her spine. “And if not?”
“If they’re not…” He ran his tongue in a long swipe up to the corner of her mouth. “If — as I suspect — they are sopping wet — you’ll let me whip you with my belt, followed by sucking my cock and then begging for me to take your innocence.” He released her head, pushing it down until her cheek rested on the desk. “Do we have a deal?”

As The Dastardly Dom’s belt belt lashed her jutting buttocks, Vittoria’s hand was a blur as she frigged her swollen clit and wet folds. This was one memory of her boss she’d relive over and over again, this time without shame.

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

The care and feeding of submissiveness

“I’m in here, honey!” Dominic called out to his wife as the front door closed with rather emphatic force. He resumed stirring the mixed vegetables, tossing in a pinch of sea salt as he deftly tossed the skillet’s contents.
“You do that so well.”
“All in wrist, Vittoria, all in the wrist.”
She kissed him carefully as he kept one eye on the gas burner. “Sounds like something, The Dastardly Dom, would utter.”
“Portentously, of course.”
Vittoria took a deep ragged breath. “Smells good. What else?”
“I have some grilled small potatoes, mashed with a garlic cream sauce, and wild salmon seared with grape seed oil and citrus peel.”
He flicked off the burner and set the pan to one side. “Go ahead and get changed, Vittoria. I’ll have dinner ready in thirty minutes.”
“I can wait.”
He put his hands on his hips and glared. “That wasn’t a request.” With a stern expression he pointed towards the stairs. “Change.” He smacked a wooden spoon in his palm. “Now, young lady, or there will be further consequences beyond those already earned.”
With a cocky grin, she flounced upstairs, turning at the last to stuck out her tongue. She giggled loudly when he growled.

After dinner, it was Dominic’s turn to change; not clothing, but demeanor. His wife’s attitude was verging on bratty, and he knew from experience — albeit very little — that she’d had a bad day at the office. Until they had started dabbling in role play, the most likely consequence of questioning her mood, would have led to raised voices and pouty silences. Not at all conducive to romance.

“So, Miss Caparelli,” he began in a sneering tone. “You have finally deigned to answer my summons. Please, come in.” He waved impatiently at her reluctance to enter the office. “I insist. You do wish to remain employed, do you not?”
Vittoria made her way to the chair in front of the desk. Ordinarily, she enjoyed their scenes, but tonight, the naughty secretary and lecherous boss they’d discussed was not having the desired effect. In fact, the wonderful food he’d cooked was churning in her stomach. She kept her head down, trying to hide her reactions to his words. When he caressed her shoulders, speaking, “I’m sure we can find some mutually satisfying means in which you can compensate for your careless actions… that cost this company money,” she flinched, blurting out, “Three hundred!”
Dominic rocked back. “Three hundred?”
“Yes. That’s how many men have now been accused of sexual harassment.” She still couldn’t meet his gaze.
“I’m confused. I thought you wanted to try this.”
“Me too.”
“Okay. That’s good, right?”
“No, Dominic.” She finally looked up. She heard his breath catch when he noticed the shimmer in her damp eyes. “Me too. As in, hashtag-Me-Too.”
He sank to his haunches and hugged his wife. “Oh, Vittoria. I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I-I couldn’t… Before. You know. This.”
This was silly then, there’s no need to go any further, honey.”
“NO!” Vittoria panted and held up her hands, fingers stretched. “No. I need this. I’ve been carrying around this shame and guilt for so long now. I can’t let him,” she spat the word, “control me anymore.”
He stroked her flushed cheek. “How long?”
She shuddered, her voice barely a whisper. “Since I was sixteen.”
Dominic fought the rage coursing through his veins. How he kept from snapping the arm off the chair, he didn’t know, but he managed to speak calmly and rationally. “You want me to rub him out?” he snarled.
“No,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “It wouldn’t take away what happened.”
“Then what can I do?”
She replied with a firm declaration. “You can be yourself — or rather — The Dastardly Dom. It was all my fault.”
“Is that what the fucker said? That you were a tease? You had it coming?”
“He was my boss.”
Dominic leapt to his feet, storming around the room, hurling expletives like lightning bolts. Gradually, through the red haze of his fury, he heard her calling out: “Dominic! DOMINIC!” His anger was doused by the fear he saw. “I’m sorry, Vittoria.” He raised his shoulders on an inhale, then relaxed. “I’m good. I’m good.”

There was a long period of silence while they tried to assimilate what this revelation meant for them, and their budding interest in TTWD. For Vittoria, it felt like an anvil had been lifted off her soul. Even without the details, Dominic was concerned exploring spanking and kinky sex had triggered something awful.

“What?” They both spoke simultaneously. She gestured for him to go first. “What do you want me to do? Tonight, here and now. Specifically.”
She didn’t hesitate. “He told me I was pretty.” She held up her palm to stop his retort.”Let me finish.” She clenched her fingers together, the engagement ring sparkling in the light. “He said he needed to speak to me, after work, about something very important. I was excited. He’d always treated me with respect, praising my efforts and showering me with flattering compliments.” Vittoria paused for a minute, visibly trembling. “After it was over…” She stumbled to halt. “I never went back there. I never told anyone.” She looked at Dominic, anguish written on her body. “Make it go away. Please. You’re The Dastardly Dom, do something!”

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

Per repeated requests in the comments on last week’s post, The Dastardly Dom has returned. I wasn’t planning to make this a long episode, but the characters decided they wanted a bigger stage. Part 2 is posted, Coffee Klatch was never like this, at this link here.

The Dastardly Dom sails the High Seas

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is ‘Pirates’. The title character comes from a conversation I had recently, in which the term, ‘Dastardly Dom’ came up in a cheeky way. 🙂

“Dominic?” Vittoria called out. “Are you almost ready?” She fussed in the mirror, adjusting her mask and tugging at her short — very short — hem. The length of leg exposed was disconcerting, but the party was not only for adults, but between a small group of friends exploring the ‘lifestyle’. She reached round and tugged the wedgie out of her crack. “I hate thongs,” she muttered, then carefully applied lip liner. “Dominic! We’re going to be late!”

Heavy tread clumped down the stairs. “What are doing weari…” Vittoria sucked in her breath as all the air seemingly vanished from the foyer. “Dominic?” she said with a soft squeak.

“You there, wench, fetch my cloak from yonder chest. The Dastardly Dom wishes to hoist the anchor.” As she gaped at her husband, he scowled and slapped his thick leather gauntlets across his palms. “Are thoust deaf, wench. Move your arse lest you feel the wrath of my scurvy temper on your backside!”

Vittoria quashed an incipient giggle at his attempted archaic pirate dialog, for she was feeling very light-headed and awed at his costume. She scurried to do his bidding, opening the closet door and blinking at the black wool cape that hadn’t been there in the morning. She felt the overwhelming urge to curtsy as she presented the garment to her pirate lord and master. They may have barely dipped their toes into role playing, but Vittoria felt extremely submissive already. She tipped over the edge when he barked his next command.

“Remember your place, slattern, is to please me…” he leaned closer and hissed, “or else.”

She bit her lip, not in fear or mirth, but because she was on the verge of throwing herself at his feet and begging to be ravished. “Yes, Sir. I understand.” She dared to glance at his stern face, gasping at the unbridled lust she saw in his eyes. Gabbling for something coherent to say, she stammered, “Doe-does m-my attire please The Dastardly Dom?”

He stroked his goatee, brows furrowed and impatiently motioned her to twirl. “Faster, and keep your arms outstretched.”

She shivered, feeling the cool air flowing over her bare cheeks and wet knickers as she spun.

“I am satisfied, very satisfied,” he purred, clear evidence tenting his tight trousers. “Except…” From beneath his scarlet cummerbund, he retrieved a short leather strap. “Thou art too pale in the posterior for my tastes. I prefer a red-bottomed lass in me bunk. Assume the position, the crew deserves a good showing of pirate law.”

As the strap rose and fell on her smarting buttocks, Vittoria thought, “I could get used to rum, sodomy and the lash.”

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

The why of the reaction eludes us

“So? How did it go?”

Chemistry, don’t pick me
Can’t believe, chemistry
Go away please
This girl is out of your league.”

“Why do you always sing fake lyrics?”
“They’re not fake… they’re alternative.”
“Fine. I take it your date didn’t go well then.”
“Chem—”
“DON’T SING!”
*Sigh* “Okay. It sucked. There, you happy?”
“You’ll find someone… someday.”
“Over a rainbow, way up h—”
“ARRGH!”
“Come on, I’ll treat you to a latte.”

~~~

“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Do you mind if I sit?”
“Take a load off, Fanny. Take a load for free.”
“Thanks. I thought it was ‘Take a load off Annie?'”
“Nope. And my name’s not Annie.”
“You’re a funny girl. I like that.”
“Just don’t call me Barbara either.”
“I’m Jeb. What should I call you?”
“You can call her weird. You’re in my seat.”
“Sorry. It was nice to meet you — not Annie or Barbara. You’ve got a very nice voice. Take care.”
“Why did you do that? He seemed like a nice guy.”
“You’re so… weird!”
“You already said that. Hey! Mister Jeb!”
“Yes?”
“Wanna dance with somebody?”
“In a coffee shop?”
“Why not?”
“I guess it beats dancing with myself.”
“Or on the ceiling.”
*Laughter* “I’m in.”
“See you later, I’m outta of here.”
“Is your friend always so grouchy, not Annie or Barbara?”
“She hasn’t gotten laid in awhile. Makes her cranky.”
“And you?”
“Me what?”
“Are you looking to get laid?”
“That’s awful forward of you.”
“Well, you feel like a woman. Besides, don’t you feel the spark?”
“The spark?”
“Chemistry, it’s for real
Between us, chemistry
Come dance with me
Never gonna leave my bed.”
“That last line isn’t from Valerie.”
“But it should be.”
“That’s a bold declaration, Jeb.”
“It ain’t bragging, if you can do it… all night long, all night long.”
“Well, Jeb, lucky for you, I got a blank space, baby, and I’ll write your name.”
“Not Annie or Barbara, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 11 (Part 24)

Her reaction to my impassioned speech was thoughtful regard. “You are unique, Ruby. Never have I met such a forthright creature as you. It is refreshing and yet, at the same time, quite vexing.” I grinned. “Then spank me.” Her returning smile was regretful. “Sadly, I must wait.” I pouted. “It’s not fair. A hand spanking shouldn’t be against the rules just because it’s that time of the month.” Her smile turned harder. “You do make an excellent argument. The Empire could use you in Parliament.” I giggled at the thought of me asking ‘The Question’ of the Prime Minister.

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.

Not all baggage is bad

I found it in the back corner of an antique shop on the Left Bank. I was in Paris for a week, backpacking around Europe while I staved off maturity and the perceived death of all my dreams.

It was leather, dusty, the color of faded deep chestnut; where it wasn’t covered with labels from exotic hotels and resorts. The lock was broken, but the brass hinges stubbornly held the old suitcase together.

I was not blind to the metaphor: baggage older than my parents when most days one meal was all I could afford. My wistful sigh must have carried through the shop, because the proprietor — all haughty élan as only a French woman can project — offered me a choice.

La valise en échange pour une performance.” My stomach grumbled. “Et un repas.” Her smile was knowing on so many levels.

“What kind of performance?”

With a casual flick of her manicured finger, she flipped the sign from OUVRIR to FERMÉE, then beckoned me upstairs. The scent of food lured me as much as the twitching of her pert derrière in tight wool skirt. I expected sex of some kind; bodies were barter in the world of student travel.

I watched dusk fall behind the Eiffel Tower, the apartment balcony fit a small table and two chairs, in painted wrought iron of deep burgundy. I felt no compulsion to move as I digested, the sodium-yellow lamps created a playground out of hard stone and narrow streets.

Es-tu prêt?

Oui.

She’d turned off all the lights, except for one spot, the straight-backed chair sinister in its singularity. In the dark reaches of the room I heard whispers and rustlings from an unseen audience. It was then I noticed what coiled innocently on the embroidered seat. A martinet.

I balked.

She held out her hand, palm up, shimmering in elbow length black silk glove, the pearl and gold bracelet an iridescent gleam matched by her sparkling eyes. I clutched as if drowning.

Tu ne vas pas être blessé.

The nuance of hurt versus harm challenged me, but I nodded my acceptance. A unnamed frisson ran through the gathering. She presented me to whomever lurked in the shadows. Falling into my role, I curtsied. Whispers of appreciation in many languages. Obediently, I bent forward over the ornate gilt top rail of the chair, damp palms interlaced with the thongs of the whip. A red scarf — Hermès — folded and drawn gently over my eyes, my head bowed to allow the knot tied at my neck.

The martinet drawn away, soft leather strands caressed my cheeks, rested on my lips. I kissed. Another sigh moved like amber larches in autumn. The handle traced my spine, at the small of my back, it pressed down in unmistakable command. I dipped, presented my bottom.

Faint footsteps, muffled by the thick carpet. Hands, many hands slowly lifted my peasant skirt, carefully folding until I felt the cool evening air tease my bare thighs. Ashamed now of my plain white underwear, worn thin through repeated hand-washes in hostel sinks, I stepped out as they were drawn down over trembling calves.

The handle tapped my inner thighs. I widened my stance. Wider, wider urged the whip: straddle the chair and show everything. Humiliated, yet seized by a determination not to be weak, I displayed my parted buttocks and hairy pussy to the voyeurs.

Scratchy music filled the apartment. Caruso sang of love and loss, of hatred and fury. The whip dangled through my crack and teased my holes. I tensed. She rubbed. I sighed and relaxed.

My whipping started slowly and softly. Light flicks barely grazing the skin. As the lamento grew in scope and power, the leather bit deeper and faster. There was no pattern: she struck everywhere and yet it seemed always in an untouched spot. Moans escaped as I writhed. My bottom rising and falling with the operatic vocalizations of legends long deceased.

But, I was alive. In pain yes, but oh so alive. It was not unbearable; if anything, my first ever spanking was shattering inhibitions I never knew I possessed. I strained on tiptoe, with eyes blind, I begged for more. Loud ‘splats’ as she swung hard. I imagined her in pressed Lacoste tennis whites, coolly smashing a forehand winner down the line with genteel grace.

Minutes passed. Five, ten, thirty; I knew not how long the set lasted, but as Caruso reached for the climatic solo, she shifted her target. Up between my widely stretched legs sang the whip. The impact drove a shriek from my mouth. Again she followed through, the sound a wet ‘smack’. My lips stung. The burning heat in my bottom was now secondary to the sharp pinching on my pussy.

Softer, then harder, she varied the rhythm, urging me to give in, to concede the point, give way to her dominant will.

I surrendered. She flogged my throbbing clit. “Un.” A pause as I panted. “Deux.” My thighs clenched. “Vous serez orgasme sur trois.”

Through my tears, I begged, “S’il vous plaît!

Trois.”

I came.

When I recovered my senses, and removed my blindfold, the room was brightly lit once more; and empty. My panties were neatly folded on top of the now polished suitcase. My fingers shook as I pulled the nylon over red flesh, I winced and cried out when I sat down. The suitcase was heavy. It required both hands to carry as I stumbled out into the night.

~~~

I realize now I was naive and very fortunate in my rash choice. But — as I tell my husband whenever he asks why I keep the battered chestnut leather stored in my closet — sometimes life is a suitcase: until you open it, you can never begin your journey.

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

You hear the one about the caned wife?

“Go on! Count them! See what the brute did to me. Twenty-one times!”

She’d burst into my office like a fuzzy gin; all rounded and bristling like a hedgehog, throwing her elbows on my desk; her puppies gamboling out of cornflower silk lace brassiere begging for a lick and a promise. I leaned back: she climbed on top. Not that I mind a good cowgirl ride, but usually there are adult beverages involved before a broad holds her nose long enough to forget my mug.

She crouched like a cougar, reaching back to ruck up her miniskirt; all the while wailing her distress. ‘Look, look,’ she said, pointing over her shoulder in the direction of her ass. I, being the consummate gentlemen — even when consummating a transaction consummated in a dark and smoky dive — heaved my walrus-like bulk out of my recliner and waddled around to peek at her goodies.

“See?”

I saw. I saw a dame who did Pilates; probably a spinner too and hot yoga. I saw matching panties, the lace snugged up tight over her mons and biting deep into her tangy valley. What I didn’t see was the alleged brutality to her posterior. I said as much, and added, “If this is a case of abuse, call the fuzz.”

The look she gave me would have lowered my I.Q. into the negative realm had she not rolled her eyes and her knickers down her thighs. My eyes rolled too. Luckily I’m a jaded hard-ass who’s seen it all. That didn’t mean my one-eyed salami wasn’t salivating for a side of sauerkraut and white cream dressing. “Now… I see.”

There were multiple lines tracing—

“Count them!”

There were at least—

“I thought you were a dick? Use your fingers, moron!”

I used my thumb. Starting at the crests of her pillowy hillocks, I firmly pressed each welt from end-to-end. As I got lower, she got higher: her plump buttocks reaching for the sky, the tight fabric stretched taut between her tense thighs threatening to tear in twain. Her musk filled my blood, my cock screamed for air. By the time both thumbs were prying her crease open like a can of mustard sardines, my tongue was only inches away from s—

“Aren’t you going to take pictures?”

Mesmerized by her pink lips, I mewled like a brokenhearted calf when she slid off my desk, her rump scent marking my groin as she wiggled her cornflower blue panties up and her red miniskirt down.

“I guess not. So, will you take the case?”

Too stiff to sit just yet, I suavely perched on the corner and offered her a menthol. I flicked my Bic, she blew smoke rings around my libido. “What case?”

“My husband is—”

“I don’t do divorce, sweet cheeks.”

“Listen you imbecile, I don’t want a divorce, I don’t want the flatfeet involved, all I want is you to find out where his chippy lives.”

“Okay.” I must have redeemed myself, because she started spewing like Niagara Falls right before they turn it off at night. It seems they were in a D/s relationship and things were peachy right up until he started a new job with long hours and overnight trips. The spankings were coming less and less frequent, like the number 24 bus on a Friday night when the college kids were on break. The final straw was the twenty-one stroke caning. Which is when she stormed out of their house like a banshee looking for an agave grove to quench her fire and fury.

“So you see, I have a contract! I demand he lives up to his responsibilities!”

“So… it was too much?”

“Are you a fucking idiot? NO! It was supposed to be fifty with the cane and an ass reaming!”

I waited until Vesuvius stopped erupting. “Well… I can give you the rest, if you want.”

The setting sun was obscured by the cloud of tire smoke like from an all-you-can-eat barbecue when she peeled her Ferrari out of the parking lot. I rubbed the mark on my face. For a sweet piece of tail, she sure could swing a racket. I leaned back in my chair, took a swig of Jack and a couple of Tums. It’s tough being a P.I.

I guess dinner wouldn’t be forthcoming tonight. I dialed for takeout and waited for her return.

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

  • Corrupted

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  • Ghosting Past Emily — part of the Corrupted anthology

    After Amsterdam and Berlin, Tokyo was her favorite place to explore the latest in technological sexuality. Unlike in Europe though, in Japan she would always be gaijin, and the locals off limits to her needs. On the crowded streets of Ginza she felt the stares and heard the unspoken contempt, Go back to where you came from, which was something it had in common with America. She was too tall, too confident, too yellow and most of all, too female. She channeled the perceived insults into taboo actions.
    It was a tired and bitter Emily that touched down ten hours later in a San Francisco of bone-chilling damp and a watery rising sun. She needed a hard session at the Armory before returning to work on Monday. Her slave had better be ready to grovel and be pussy-whipped.

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    Click the picture to purchase, The Case of the Disciplined Valentine.

  • The Case of the Disciplined Valentine

    A comedy of Victorian manners mixed with delicious spankings and sexual encounters guaranteed to raise even a vampire’s blood pressure. Byron Cane sets a torrid pace in his historical paranormal erotic novella.

    It is 1854 in steampunk London, and Sir Nachton MacRath is warily returning to his home isle after decades abroad. He has good reasons to steer clear of the Royal Family, but is immediately snared by the Queen herself, who anoints him, Her Chastiser of Loose Morals, complete with elevation to the upper reaches of the aristocracy. Rather than a quiet existence as a vampire, he is now a Peer uneasily rubbing shoulders with the most powerful men in the Empire.

    Phoebe Hayward is a lady of good breeding, but like all her contemporaries, longs for some excitement and romance. Valentine’s Day is only weeks away, when their paths cross with a bump. Despite later discovering the man ordered to discipline her is actually a vampire, she can’t help falling in love. The more encounters with Sir MacRath she has, the more her body yearns to know what it is to submit to his vampiric touch. When he reluctantly agrees to be her Valentine, thus begins a Domination and discipline the likes of which she’s never dreamed.

    MacRath doesn’t feel he deserves Phoebe’s love, and attempts to push her away by taking her deeper into sexual submission. She surprises him — and herself — by eagerly submitting to his every desire. Together, they explore the sensual heights that a woman and a man — a vampire — can reach. But politics and conflict are never far away, and the Valentine’s Day deadline comes all too soon.

    Note: The original version of this book was included in the Lust in Lace paranormal romance anthology.

  • Purchase: The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie

    Purchase The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie by clicking the picture.

    Pity poor Stephanie: twenty-five years old and still spanked daily. She was intelligent, a college graduate with honors, articulate, a fashionista with a good job and an all-round delightful person with never a cross word and always a genuine smile for everyone. It was to her misfortune that she also exuded an innocent sensual charm, leading both men and women to have one uppermost thought in their minds: spanking Stephanie’s spectacular and epic rounded bottom. It was not her fault; genetics had blessed her with both the ideal rear end and a delightful bewildered submissiveness. It simply never occurred to her to challenge her discipline. If someone needed to spank her, well, obviously she was guilty of some offense and thus deserved to be spanked.
    When Stephanie crashes (quite literally) into the life of Ross, high flying exec in the fashion world and eligible bachelor, she is stupefied he wants her as his. Under Ross’ tutelage, as Brat to his Sir, she learns that she can be spanked for more than just being naughty! And Ross — he discovers there’s much more to Stephanie than just her submissive need to be disciplined, as he falls more and more in love.
    A brilliantly funny, light-hearted, spanking erotic romance novella by Byron Cane, with memorable characters and a beautiful love story interwoven into the sexiness, lending a contemporary twist to the princess fairy tale.

  • Lust in Spring

    Click picture to go to Lust in Spring Amazon page

  • Lust in Spring anthology

    In Byron Cane's, The Witch of Olympus Hollow, it’s 1952, and Gale Johnson is outraged when her parents send her packing to a tiny town in Appalachia to visit the mysterious great aunt she has never met. In the foothills of North Carolina, Gale will discover a wondrous birthright. A lifetime of discipline and sexual satisfaction awaits, but her destiny comes at a cost.
  • Lust in Lace

    Purchase Lust in Lace on Amazon Kindle. Click picture to go to Amazon.

  • Lust in Lace anthology

    In Byron Cane's Sir MacRath Thrashes his Valentine, MacRath is a centuries-old vampire returning home after decades of absence. It is 1854 in steampunk London, and Her Majesty has appointed MacRath Her Chastiser of Loose Morals. Phoebe Hayward is a lady of good breeding, but quite a handful. Despite discovering the man ordered to discipline her is actually a vampire, she can’t help falling in love. MacRath will ensure she is well punished and dominated in all ways as befits his naughty Valentine.
  • PNRLUST

  • Paranormal Erotic Romance

    Come visit the Paranormal Erotic Romance website for information about the Lust anthology series. Read Lust by the Sea, Lust on the Wing, Lust in Tooth and Claw, Lust in Winter and Lust in Lace.

  • ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’ Oops. Does that date me? These are the top posts.

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