Trafficked across the veil: Curtains for Betsy ~ 1

This story was originally posted for Wicked Wednesday on June 28th, 2017 as Inexhaustible Smorgasbord, a one-off story. There are two versions below. The first is the unchanged flash fiction repost, followed by an edited version that expands upon the original writing into a draft for longer fiction. I’m still not sure about the concept. Even with the rewrite, it’s not what my vision is. I may or may not continue this, or do something else.

The sharp cracks had faded to muted rumbles; the late summer storm trundled to the east, trailing an ebony cloak glazed with jagged streaks of abstract white. At my feet, the dull granite setts slowly slaked a thirst; the detritus of tourists swirling into the gaping sewers leaving behind deceptively safe and clean shiny streets. Historic Old Town, painstakingly resurrected—twice—from the ashes of pitiless warfare, brooded in the sweet morning air. The western skies pulsed with urgency, delayed flights flung themselves recklessly at the obscured stars, hastening to meet global schedules grounded by adverse conditions.

I cupped my left hand. Had any been able to observe, the brief orange flare would have revealed a deep weary cynicism. I puffed the harsh tobacco, blew out a stream of fragrant smoke that lingered close as if terrified by the surroundings. I ignored the warning, watching instead the CCTV camera as it whirred atop the light pole. The police drones had departed with the onset of rain. This was pass through area for visitors by day; small shops catering in information and deceit. By night, contraband slipped past the law with practiced ease.

A vibration shook the front right pocket of my black linen trousers. If a phone could sound impatient the summons snarled at my unruffled savoir faire. The cigarette tumbled like an acrobat without a net: I stubbed it out with a faint hiss as it splattered on the damp pavement. Finally moving forward, the crepe soles of my shoes were silent as a grave.

The night wavered. Lean shadows peeled from brick façades and dropped from pockets of mist hovering above. To those without the Sight, nothing had changed. My escort surrounded me. Lethal, immortal, they were not here to help—they weren’t allowed where I was expected—but to ensure I fulfilled my oath. If thoughts could kill…

Jutting phallicly with a hostile and arrogant contempt at the ragged edge of tradition [reclaimed] and gentrification, the Cashmere Tower was the tallest building in the city. Money fountained like arterial blood from the professional tenants, none of it staying for long; sophisticated programs laundered the stains through shell companies and numbered accounts. Standard procedures for corrupt businesses protected by slick lawyers and bought politicians. My target was higher up the ladder—literally—the top ten floors pandered to a different type of cash flow.

Vice was timeless. Nubile flesh an inflation proof currency. Educated agents were shopping for fresh victims that wouldn’t be missed.

By mistake or deliberate malice—the first understandable, the latter an apocalyptic possibility—the procurers had lured the wrong one. Whatever the alchemy of designer drugs and DJ mixed trance that had created the circumstances of the snatch, it had not removed the clear traces of her passage.

I was their emissary.

The elevator was smooth and quiet.

Rows and rows of glittering females arranged as if waxed produce in bins filled the luxurious rooms. The buyers with their tablets snapped pictures, and fired off messages that raced around the world. The auction started later, but I was not shopping. My steel attaché was not filled with clean dollars or euros or yen, but a single jewel that pulsed with all the suppressed fury at the unrelenting humanistic devouring of magic.

I carried a portal strong enough to suck the entire building into the Outerlands were it not tuned to ‘rescue’ my target. If the dead-eyed brokers knew what their exotic captive actually was, they’d run screaming into the night; not that fleeing was a viable option should she choose to destroy rather than drink in the essence of fear and despair coating the dungeon walls.

Why I was chosen to interrupt the pain slut as she writhed in her bondage, driving her price higher with every blow of the whip: that is a story best told later. For when the Queen commands retrieval of her wayward daughter: who better to mount an escape, than the Princess’ estranged human husband.

That would be me.







Trafficked across the veil: Curtains for Betsy

They came from someplace else; that much the physicists and theologians agreed upon. From there, matters took a turn for the worse: much worse.

 

 

The part in where the hero attempts to reclaim his past.

 

The sharp piercing cracks had finally faded to muted rumbles. The late summer storm trundled to the east, insolently trailing an ebony cloak glazed with jagged streaks of abstract white. At my feet, the dull granite setts slowly slaked an endless thirst: the detritus of tourists swirling into the gaping sewers. Left behind were the deceptively safe and clean shiny streets.

Historic Old Town, painstakingly resurrected — twice — from the ashes of pitiless warfare, brooded in the sweet morning air, waiting for the sun to warm brick and cement. To the west, beyond the huddled slabs of public housing and abandoned factories, the sky pulsed with urgency, delayed flights flinging themselves recklessly at the obscured stars, hastening to meet global schedules grounded by adverse conditions.

I cupped my left hand. Had any been able to observe, the brief orange flare would have revealed a deep weary cynicism. I puffed the harsh tobacco — no ecigs for me — blowing out a stream of fragrant smoke that lingered close as if terrified by the surroundings.

Ignoring the warning implied by the carcinogenic swirls, I watched instead the CCTV camera as it whirred atop the nearest light pole. The police drones had departed with the onset of rain, the flatfoots sheltered in the all-night café, gossiping about the newest policewoman’s tits. This was pass-through area for visitors by day, the small shops catering in information and deceit. By night, contraband slipped past the law with practiced ease abetted by greased palms and greasier ethics.

A vibration shook the front right pocket of my black linen trousers. If a smartphone could sound impatient, its summons snarled at my weary savoir-faire and ennui. The cigarette tumbled to its death like an acrobat without a net: I stubbed it out with a faint hiss as it splattered on the damp pavement. Stepping forward off the curb, the crepe soles of my shoes were silent as a grave. Not mine: not this night at least.

If you were attuned, the pre-dawn wavered. Lean shadows peeled from brick façades and dropped from pockets of mist hovering above. To those without the Sight, nothing had changed. My escort surrounded me. Lethal, immortal, they were not here to help — they weren’t allowed where I was expected — but to ensure I fulfilled my oath. If thoughts could kill…

They didn’t like me: the feeling was mutual. Ritual snarls and posturing. I was suddenly exhausted by the drama. If not for my desire for revenge, I’d have pulled the trigger and exited this plane with a bang.

I often lied to myself. Lust played an oversized role in this operation.

Any one of the warriors at my side would have gladly seized the prize. Too bad for them I got there first.

Jutting phallically with hostile and arrogant contempt at the ragged edge of tradition [nostalgically reclaimed] and gentrification, the Cashmere Tower was the tallest building in the city. Money fountained like arterial blood from the quasi-professional tenants, none of it staying for long; sophisticated programs laundered the stains through shell companies and offshore numbered accounts. Despite the repeated hacks and journalistic exposures, it was all standard procedures for corrupt businesses protected by slick lawyers and bought politicians.

My target was higher up the ladder — literally — the top ten floors pandered to a different type of cash flow. Vice was timeless. Nubile flesh an inflation proof currency. Educated agents were shopping for fresh victims that wouldn’t be missed.

By mistake or deliberate malice — the first understandable, the latter an apocalyptic possibility — the procurers had lured the wrong one. Whatever the alchemy of designer drugs and DJ mixed trance that had created the circumstances of the snatch, it had not removed the clear traces of her passage.

I was their emissary.

The elevator was smooth and quiet.

What lay beyond the locked and guarded entrance was not.

Tears flowed. The fear filled the cold air with an intoxicating mélange of the most titillating scent of all: Fresh money.

Rows and rows of glittering females arranged as if waxed produce in bins filled the luxurious rooms. The buyers with their tablets snapped countless pictures, and fired off encrypted messages that raced around the world in an instant. No throttling of speed for this crowd. They owned the conduits on behalf of the 1%. Meat was meat — human livestock for consumption by those who could afford the very best.

The auction started later, but I was not bidding. My steel attaché with electronic lock was not filled with clean dollars or euros or yen, but a single jewel that pulsed with all the suppressed fury at the unrelenting humanistic devouring of magic.

I carried a portal strong enough to suck the entire building into the Outerlands were it not tuned to ‘rescue’ my target. If the dead-eyed brokers knew what their exotic captive actually was, they’d run screaming into the night; not that fleeing was a viable option should she choose to destroy rather than drink in the essence of pain and despair coating the dungeon walls.

Why I was chosen to interrupt the pain slut as she writhed in her bondage, driving her price higher with every blow of the whip: that is a story best told later. For when the Queen commands retrieval of her wayward daughter: who better to mount an escape, than the Princess’ estranged human husband.

That would be me.

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?”
SMACK
“Oh yes, Mistress!”
SMACK
“On your knees?”
SMACK
“With my wrists cuffed behind my back and blindfolded.”
SMACK
“Feeling kinky tonight, are we?”
SMACK
“Yes, Mistress. I need to service you. Please?”
SMACK
“Very well, KittyKat. I will grant your request.”
SMACK
“Thank you, Mis—”
SMACK SMACK SMACK
“I wasn’t finished.”
SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK
“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.”
SMACK
“Yes, Mistress. I will service you until you are satisfied. If I fail, please cane your unworthy submissive until she is contrite.”
SMACK
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

Here be Dragons!

beneath the down, warm slick ridges yield to pressure, fingers tracing the lines written with rattan
curving up the slope, straining for the summit, plunging off the crest deep into the shadowed depths
the geography of your body is a cartographer’s dream, all thoroughly explored by disciplined surveying

paper crackles when I step
an old Esso map
creases worn thin
a souvenir of our last road trip, back when we had few responsibilities and fewer cares, our only goals to fuck
then fuck some more

sliding under the covers, morning cock crowing, driving forward between the parted hillocks
remembering the first time we plunged into Terra Incognita, the dark tunnel resisting eager efforts
the hiss you make now, reminds me of the hot springs, a memory of long ago when a map still excited us

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

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.”
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
“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.
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
“August brings taut bodies.”
The steel teeth bit her right nipple.
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
“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.
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
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.
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
“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.
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
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

A shock to the system

Daniel was a quarter of the way to work, when he realized he’d forgotten his lunch on the kitchen counter. Rather than call his wife and ask for a ‘nooner’ delivery [a tempting thought] after scanning the roads for cops, he pulled an illegal U-turn and raced back home.

Dodging the toys in the front hallway, he scooped up his lunch and was almost back out the front door when he heard a strange noise from the rec room in the basement. Frowning — his wife had told him she was having her hair done this morning — he walked softly to the stairs and cautiously cracked open the door.
“Ouch! Come on! Keep up for crying out loud! What do you mean no score? You stupid fucking machine!”
Tip-toeing down the carpeted treads, Daniel peered around the corner to see a shocking sight. His wife, his naked wife, in front of the big screen TV swinging a kitchen spatula against her backside in time to action on the screen. “What do you think you are doing?”
She screamed and spun around with her hands to her face. “Daniel! What are doing here?”
He wordlessly held up his lunch bag.
“Oh… I…”
“Is that a Wii program? A spanking program?”
Her shoulders slumped and she pressed the off button. “Yes, it is. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t even know they made such a thing.”
“I saw it online and I had to order it.”
“Because…?”
“Because it looked like fun. You’re supposed to mirror the spanking in the video. It’s set for solo action or multiple partners up to eight in total.”
“I see. I guess I don’t spank you enough, is that it? Am I inadequate?”
“No! No, Daniel, you’re a wonderful spanker.”
“But…”
“I like to self-spank, okay? I’ve been doing it since I was a little girl. It feels good and gets me off. I’m sorry.”
“Show me.”
“What?”
“Show me. It’s the least you can do.”
“I ca—”
“What’s your favorite position? Your favorite fantasy? Favorite tool?”
“You’re going to be late for work!”
“Hi, Sherry. I’m running a bit late. What? No, I’ll be in soon. Just a domestic crisis that requires my expertise. Wouldn’t you like to know! Bye.”
“How is, Sherrrrry. Still a bimbo?”
“More or less… but still unspanked.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Hardly. This is a threat. Turn the program back on, pick up your paddle off the floor, and spank yourself until you’re bright red.”
“Or else?”
“Or else I’ll invite your book club over for a demonstration on how a real romantic hero controls his wayward wife.”
“Daniel!”
“I don’t see any spanking in the mirror.”

Twenty minutes later, when he was back driving into work, he couldn’t stop smiling in the rear view mirror at the vision of his red-bottomed wife coming as she paddled her butt harder and harder. He shifted in his seat — speaking of hard — and wondered what to do next. “I think we need to have a long talk about some things. Siri? Find spanking blogs.”

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

Not pining for the old days

I was curious about this week’s Wicked Wednesday’s prompt of car keys, being in the automotive service department for 12 years. I dealt with car keys every day; lost, stolen, replacements, additions and trying to explain to customers why their expensive remote fob stopped working. “You mean there are batteries in this thing?”

From an erotic aspect, there is the backseat—everybody’s got a story or two about that—and the staple of urban legends, the key party for swingers. Interesting thing though, if you asked for the car keys before 1949, people would have handed you a door key. It was in that year when the Chrysler Corp became the first manufacturer to install an ignition switch/starter assembly. One of many details that can trip up a historical fiction writer.

“Grandpa! Grandpa!” came the eager chorus from a dozen young throats. “What are these?”
He leaned forward in his recliner and plucked the ring of keys from his grandchildren. “You mean all these keys that were stored away in a drawer to keep them safe from little snoops?”
“Sorry,” rang out from the boys and girls ranging in age from four to fourteen.
“Well,” he said, after laying the keys on his lap, “it is Christmas and I suppose I could tell you a story about these.”
“Yeah!”
The shrill shrieks finally attracted the attention of the parents—his children and in-laws—but he gave a benign wave as he lorded over the kids now sitting in a semi-circle around his fuzzy slippers.
“All these keys are from vehicles that Grandma and I used to own. Not all the vehicles though.”
“Why not?”
“Because in the olden days, cars didn’t have keys to start, they had push buttons.”
“Just like today!”
“That’s right. Back when we had to dodge dinosaurs in the streets, we pushed buttons too.”
“Did you have screens to watch movies too?”
“Yep. It wasn’t called a screen though, it was a window you cranked open by hand and watched the scenery go by.”
“Sounds boring. Come on, let’s go back to the attic and find more stuff!”

***

After all the presents had been opened, dinner eaten, naps taken and all the hulking vehicles loaded with loot and sleepy grandchildren; he kissed and hugged his six children. Each one reiterated their offer to house him rather than continuing to live alone. He waved off their concerns and waved goodbye. He took the keys to bed. To his surprise, he didn’t feel the stabbing grief as he fondled each key in turn. Instead, he smiled with remembrance at how his wife had always insisted they make love in the backseat of each new vehicle as soon as possible. She also liked being spanked over the hood. ‘Just to make sure the engine keeps running’ was what she would say.

“Ah, Gisèle, such times we had. You’d have enjoyed this evening and insisted on dancing in front of the fireplace. I remember so well the first time I saw you at the USO dinner in liberated Paris. This song reminds me of you, of us, when we were young.”

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

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