This is the last Flashback Friday, as I have plucked the best of my past writings of 2009-2010 from the archives. Originally posted on Sept 27th, 2010. My plans are to continue posting the Victorian novel, The Bumhampton Chronicles, in 100-word drabbles on Thurs, Fri, Sat and Sun. Every Monday, a new non-fiction essay of 500-1,000 words about D/s, based on various prompts I find in the vanilla world. On Tuesdays, I will be starting a new serial novel called, Kismet of Submission, with 1,000 word episodes. The first two have already been posted for past Wicked Wednesday prompts, but I will be reposting them before moving on to new episodes. Lastly of course, there is the weekly Wicked Wednesday. Still in progress is my follow up Sir Fang novel, The Case of The Scarlet Paddle. Speaking of beta readers, if you are interested in helping me by reading drafts of current fiction, please don’t hesitate to drop me a line via email, either to Lurv Spanking, or Byron Cane.
The neighborhood had changed; not gradually, but cataclysmically. Lauren had had to leave. Abandoning her husband, running from the birthday party for her best friend: driving aimlessly, yet urgently she fled. Her cell chirped and vibrated frantically. Lauren had withstood the temptation to fling it out the driver’s window. She was in shock, intellectually she understood her flight was problematic, yet, the primitive woman roared and snarled, demanding satisfaction.
Yes, it had been Ashleigh’s party, her twenty-fifth birthday. Yes, the alcohol had flowed. Yes, Lauren knew Ashleigh liked kinky sex. Yes, Ashleigh had bent over, her ‘spank me’ panties flashing the guests. OK, Lauren admitted, she’d swatted her best friend more times than she could remember. It was a birthday party, they were all adults and clothes had stayed on. But, stumbling down the hall seeking the bathroom, hearing the smacks, opening the door to see her husband spanking the very naked Ashleigh, other guests patiently waiting their turn at the scarlet ass of her best friend: it was an earthquake.
Somehow, she’d left, driving drunk, streets empty and dark, now, out of gas, out of range, red and blue lights quickly bathed her ashen face in pulsing color. When the officer tapped on the glass, Lauren was numb. Following her instructions, Lauren surrendered her identification, her cell and her dignity. At the station, Lauren was booked on charges of DUI and held upon payment of bail and arrival of her husband.
Waking in the morning to the frantic urgings of her bladder, the smell of stale urine and vomit caused Lauren to add her contribution to the detox cell. Dirty, tired and more miserable than she’d ever been in her life, when the matron called her name, Lauren shuffled to the door and was brought to a private room. Cuffed and seated on a steel chair bolted to the floor, Lauren stared at her chipped nails and dirty fingers. Tears fell unhindered. Images flashed untethered. When, finally, her husband and his lawyer arrived, the silence was thunderous. Lauren heard her husband dismiss the lawyer with details of her release: the clang of the heavy lock made her flinch.
Unwilling to meet his eyes, she instead stared at his waist. The thick black leather belt, the holster, the chrome handcuffs; how often had they played bad cop and hard hooker. Lauren was terrified. She saw his legs move around the table, his arms yanking her to her feet then throwing her body across the hard surface. Restrained wrists dangling, Lauren murmured a feeble protest. He ignored her, pulling the jail issued pants down, followed by her soiled panties; he made a noise of utter disgust. That sound was quickly eclipsed by the harsh snap of leather meeting flesh. This was between her and him. Some of his brothers and sisters in blue may not have agreed with the actual punishment, but neither did they watch with cameras or eyes. By the time he was done strapping Lauren, her bottom was verging on purple and her throat hoarse from screaming.
Lying on her stomach, in her own bed, the jail lingering no matter the hour spent scrubbing under the hot shower, Lauren cried when she moved, cried when she remembered the silence after the spanking was done, cried when her apologies were ignored, cried and cried and cried until she fell asleep. Slowly waking to calloused hands gently rubbing her deep bruises, Lauren started violently, but a ‘shhhhh, let me take care of you’ allowed her to relax. His thick fingers kneaded, probed and tormented her until the events of the last twenty-four hours burst and Lauren commenced deep, guilty sobs. Heedless of her aching bottom, she squirmed over and fairly leapt into her husband’s embrace. He kissed her softly, but as her hands fumbled with his belt, he stood, quickly shedding his work uniform and entered her in one slamming thrust. Jealously had torn them apart, but thanks to their commitment to discipline, they could find the way back.