It’s not a moral failing

Two personal posts in a row, it must be something in the air! Actually, this week’s prompt, Sad, for Wicked Wednesday, is very apropos. Even since the clocks moved forward an hour 10 days ago, I’ve been struggling with depression.

There are two definitions of ‘Sad’. ORIGIN: Old English sæd ‘sated, weary,’ also ‘weighty, dense,’ of Germanic origin; related to Dutch zat and German satt, from an Indo-European root shared by Latin satis ‘enough.’ The original meaning was replaced in Middle English by the senses ‘steadfast, firm’ and ‘serious, sober,’ and later ‘sorrowful.’ It also is an abbreviation for “seasonal affective disorder”, which is something many people who grew up in northern latitudes suffer.

For me though, being depressed doesn’t mean sadness. It’s more feeling empty; no emotion, no desire, no cares. Strangely enough though, it doesn’t impact me when I’m working, only when I’m at home; but that is when I have time to write. Which I am not. Writing.

The best expression of how depression feels is in this poem I wrote over a decade ago.

“D is for Depression”

it’s called the blues
not the music
but the soul
crushing despair
despair that grabs hold
and lingers
like a fungus
that grows on the tiles
in the bathroom of hell
you try bleach
you try scrubbing
til your fingers bleed
but it keeps
coming
back
over and over again
it’s called the blues

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

Now a Major Motion Picture: The Wedding Games

From Vladivostok they came
to play a wedding game
a case of vodka the prize
with competitive eyes
they rushed
and they popped
when to everyone’s surprise
up flipped their skirts
the groomsmen smirked
so the bride declared a tie
and ordered them birched
so all they got
for bursting their balloons
was to forfeit the knickers
and abstain from the liquor
but the boyfriends did rise
[to the occasion]
and after the toasts
made the most of the roast
that their girlfriend’s behinds had become

so let that be a lesson
when playing silly games
if the camera is rolling
keep your underwear from showing
and never
ever
piss off the bride

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

The cruelty of nostalgia’s whip

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is Time Travel and, despite the plethora of fictional treatments, is something that is impossible. Without getting into the mathematical formulae that deal with the one-way arrow of time — nor the multiverse concept spawned by quantum mechanics — the oft-used example goes thusly: “If time travel were possible, then why are we not overrun by future iterations of advanced lifeforms either enslaving or lecturing us about what pathetic beings we are?”

But missy wrote about a type of time travel we all practice in her recent post, “Blame it on the Boots”, where she explains about her passionate {if not kinky} love affair with boots. In her post she travels back in time as she writes this passage: “The first time we visited Italy together, we drank too much wine and found ourselves in a lovely leather shop in Montepulciano. Here we bought my first pair of summer boots, beautifully soft, handmade, with leather soles.”

In our minds, the arrow of time does not exist. Memory serves as an instant reminder and flagellator of all the mistakes we’ve ever made. It takes an effort to realize there were many more good times than bad. Which brings me to the photograph below that was taken in the summer of 1981, in Como, Italy, through the narrow wooden doors opening upon the public street.

Como, Italy 1981

It was a long time ago and, someone else, another personality who took the picture. I see my past through their eyes and it makes me wonder about the impermanence of nostalgia. Memory is fickle and not to be trusted; the only path forward is to exist one moment at a time and revel in the sharp sting of leather upon flesh.

boots drum under whip
the cobbler would know the sound
cypress sway gossip
pink cheeks suffused by lover
Tyrrhenian Sea glistens

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

It wasn’t always like this

I wonder if you saw me
the ex
in the queue at school
salt-hazed vehicles
lumbering through the drop-off zone
waved forward by paddle wielding tyrants
or did you speed by
oblivious
perhaps texting

are you still married to your job instead of a spouse

clouds of polar bear killing exhaust
coat the sooty snow
except those under-powered electrics
slipping through the slush
tires spinning
spray thwacking brightly colored rubber boots
rendering tropical flashes against the salted ice
the parents — sorry — the mommies pretending not to notice the elementary children carbon-shaming them
my personal failure to be environmentally pious enough
was one — of many — reasons we split possessions
I admit for years I seethed

would you be horrified to learn my butt’s sore this morning

just the memory of the hard spanking I got
before I buckled in the sprogs
and started the meter
makes me grin at the teachers
with a maniacal expression
it wasn’t your fault
until I met someone who wouldn’t put up with my shit
I never knew how unhappy I was
at being in control
so you see
the person who needed forgiveness
was myself
not you
because without you
I wouldn’t be here
in my happy place
wiggling with desire
knowing the kids will be gone for the weekend
and I’ll be royally fucked
and whipped by Monday

don’t you wish you’d tied me up and taken out your frustrations on my body

so thank you
for letting me go
if I say I saw you today
it will be the cane
or the belt
hopefully both
over and over again

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

nights together

crystalline flakes gust
damp swollen red leaves flutter
release sounds like owl

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

For Wicked Wednesday prompt, ‘Whispers’.

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

Why do I need my Dom to spank me?

because…
it makes me feel safe, loved, wanted
cherished
it lets me escape the kids, the boss, the overdue bills, but
being honest
[he requires that of me… the beast]
because…
I surrendered that choice to you willingly
my pain is now yours to bestow
whenever you feel the need
to own me
and make the during
as deliciously humiliating as possible
until I beg for it to be over
and you stop
every time
right before my safe word tumbles to the floor
and shatters our understanding
that it’s the before
before the act of spanking
when
I tingle
I shiver
I gush
because…
I’m happiest when you growl
threaten
order me to submit… there is no ‘or else’
only promises kept
and my bottom thrust nice and high
I’m seldom dry
when you lecture
and scold
I’ll pay any price to lift
the disappointed shadow
in your eye
so
over I go
heeding your mastery
your skill at spanking
your naughty submissive
until she cries
with relief
words of forgiveness
wordless echoes of respect and love
ring louder than
the spanks now stopped
and after
after the canes and paddles and brushes
are put away… temporarily
your humbled sub needs
the very best part of spanking
as the heat transmogrifies
to aching soreness
your punishing hand
soothes reddened flesh
and reinforces why
I ignore those
who send me links
and toll-free numbers
and question my femininity
with ever more strident
disbelief
but
because… I trust you
and know I’m a better woman
when you dominate me
that is why
I need to be spanked

[Preferably every morning, lunchtime when possible, and every single night so that all my tension and doubts and fears are washed away by your determination to keep me safe from myself]

Desires al fresco

clinging leaves stubborn
punished cheeks glowing crimson
falling sun parts crests

“But Master! You know everything!”

Do I? Is that what your training has led you to?
Come.
Where are we going?
To the walls.
Why?
You wish to know where cravings start?
Yes. You never have cravings. I want to know your secret.
That question is easy, little one. Climb.
Is this a metaphor? Climbing to heaven? Each step representing knowledge and wisdom?
Wisdom is knowing when to save your breath and when to scream.
I do not understand, Master.
Every relationship is unequal. That is why you chatter needlessly instead of observing the Beloved’s hand in every action.
All I see is endless lifeless desert below and infinite stars above. How does that relate to craving?

Do you not crave the sweet flesh of ripe melon?
The zest of pomegranate?
The rich savory fig?
You,
who have never seen the succulent treasure between a woman’s thighs,
fail to make the correlation between craving and living.

And you have?
What you see out there, beyond the high brick walls of the sultan’s citadel, you transpose upon your Master, I, who have nothing but a long existence trailing behind me like the gauzy scarf of your admirer flapping in the harsh winds of crimson summer.
She does not see me.
She sees you. A boy, pouting for a treat of forbidden honey wine. Beware the sting.
What do you know of being a boy!
I know.

I know what wakes in the early morning before dawn’s first blush.
I know the rising sap that stiffens green wood and burns hotter than the sun.
I know the rampant mind that weaves elaborate mirages luring even the most stalwart of men to spill their seed upon infertile soil.
I know.

Then why does the Beloved torment us so?

Because, little one, above all else, She creates a craving for union of bodies and souls so that we may worship with joyful hearts and willingly submit to discipline.

I was wrong.
Where are you going?
You don’t know anything! Master! I’m leaving and I won’t be back!

Ah! Little One, your Master has never claimed to know everything.
In fact, the older he becomes, the less he knows.
As in the beginning,
when as infants we crave our mother’s milk
so to at the end,
we crave reunion with the Source.

Without our cravings
we are not alive

If it’s the first day of the month, then there is a new newsletter at my other blog, Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction.

Does pain have a color?

when memory of words
hurled to wound
burst along the never healed scar
does pain have a color
why then
does some pain
feel good
when face-to-face with fear
past never far
haunting every action
stealing moments
moments that turn into a lifetime
a lifetime passes
with no resolution
when intoxicants
no longer work
the world reduced to gray mist
sleeping
wishing to never wake
some
some few
some few find pain does have a color
red
pink
blue
the color of discipline
and love given
one spank at a time
for those fortunate
the few who experience
the bliss of over-the-knee
they know pain
does have a color
it’s whatever shade
your Dominant chooses
to bestow
a color that wipes away
agony
of words hurled to wound
it may sound strange
the smack of flesh
the cries
and pleas
expressing love through
spanking
but color
can be healing
too

chalk beneath my feet

how many before me have sat here
and elsewhere
sore bottom and tender thighs
seed even now
~hopefully~
taking root in my eager womb
arms wrapped around knees
hem madly flapping as my heart
aches to watch wake riding waves
dispersed upon upwelling tide
cold air scaling white cliffs
to send gulls flying
hurtling inland to build squalls
to match my wet cheeks
hoping he will return
knowing that many will not
two months mine
the others given to the sea
a harsh mistress
offering naught but death
and wealth
for the fortunate few
who ride her swells
as he rode mine
willingly did I open wide
submit to his cock
that glorious and sole
redeeming aspect of being
a sailor’s love
who with calloused hands
spanked the calendar away
drawing red lines across
the needy surface
the sails fill and his ship
is flying over the
feathering sea
away from me
again
my hand waves
over the edge of the world
she falls
down
down
into the briny depths
we turn our backs
from Land’s End
and stroll arm-in-arm
widows of the deep blue ocean
with chalk beneath our feet

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

Sundae snacking

fingering wet silk
submissive white lace shivers
snow capped tart cherries

Tied to my faults

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is ‘Bond’ after the quartet of the same name playing ‘Victory’ from the year 2000. I have that album Born on CD. Likely I purchased it because it featured four women in tight dresses with lovely bums. I do enjoy their music as well, to be fair. The other Bond, James Bond, uses sex and sizzle too; although I’d like to see a Jane Bond at some point.

The origin of bond, is rather interesting. The ultimate root source is bind: ORIGIN Old English bindan, of Germanic origin; related to Dutch and German binden, from an Indo-European root shared by Sanskrit bandh.

This changed to band, as in: #4 archaic ‘a thing that restrains, binds, or unites.’ ORIGIN late Old English (sense 4 of the noun), from Old Norse, reinforced in late Middle English by Old French bande, of Germanic origin; related to bind.

In turn, this lead to bonds: physical restraints used to hold someone or something prisoner, esp. ropes or chains. ORIGIN Middle English: variant of band1.

The surname Bond, comes from Old English bonda, bunda, reinforced by Old Norse bóndi, which in the Old Norse meant farmer or husbandman, as well as a personal name.

In Modern English, bond is also used in chemistry, the law, building and financial trades and in terms of relationships. It’s interesting that the word bondage, originally comes from an agricultural background: ORIGIN Middle English: from Anglo-Latin bondagium, from Middle English bond ‘serf’ (earlier ‘peasant, householder’), from Old Norse bóndi ‘tiller of the soil,’ based on búa ‘dwell’; influenced in sense by bond.
The BDSM meaning of bondage was first recorded in 1966.

the fertile soil of my phobia ridden mind
yields a paltry harvest of habitual faults
with plow and mattock blistered hands seek
redemption for numerous errors in judgement

the sun cannot scorch hotter than the whips
that keep me entangled in familial bondage

there was a time when I ran naked through
open fields of imagination and possibility
when the bond of life had yet to be cashed
and bitterness sank to the bottom of the mug

the toasts and songs mean nothing to me now
that she has traveled where I am yet to go

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

I realize this is not very wicked this week, but when the Muse wants a gloomy poem… I can but obey.

Falling shards of Memory

we fell,
like ripe plums the color of a bruised heart left to rot
in resentment
thirty years since
we tumbled
into lust with the hubris of youth stoked with weed
the only sentient beings ever to discover
parts fit perfectly
until we blew apart like a super heated nova
of jealousy and grade point averages
all around people swirl like bees
dancing in a hive
come and go hauling wobbly pieces of themselves
from gate to plane back to reality
shining livery adorned with emerald and ruby
jewels winking in the soft summer air
of remembrance and recognition
the lope and the bounce
mind recoils seeing the bodies and faces
of long lost friends
lined with life like a faded treasure map
of retired pirates
not unlike the expressions ignored daily
in the mirror of time
we embrace
her first the taut curves softened yet hands
provide tactile memory of bottom over knee
reddened flesh bouncing under brush
gentle social hug ignites fire kept banked
his body next wider somehow shorter but still tight
the quirked lip and sparkled eyes unchanged
like tissue paper boats
the intervening years dissolve to when we girls
compared marks and orgasms
slaves to his devious dominance
we chat
introduce my husband pulse racing his gaze both
knowing and concerned tinged with hurt
it was supposed to be simple
but meeting old flames threatened to undo me
so
I surrendered
after dinner explained to him who they were and
why after three decades the pull was still strong
they met and talked while we nattered about
our kids and menopause and gravity
summoned to their room
two strong men awaited
grim demanding explanations
we stammered
they laughed and slapped each others backs
then ordered us to our knees
online for years planned our submission
and discipline in secret
devious Doms are the worst
and the best
we sucked
hard cocks jutting from jeans
arms behind our backs
cuffed and swapped
groaning as our hair fisted
and mouths filled with thick cream
ass up as they flog me
my tongue buried in familiar pussy
the taste makes me cry for wasted years
they hug me
we fuck
in every combination that four can conjure
the steady roar of jets slowly fade as the world sleeps
decide to blow off the reunion
in favor of room service and debauched sex
of willing slaves
we grin

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

Mosh pit equations

they were strangers, when next I saw them again,
DJ ripping disco night in shreds, punk/dupstep slices of audio porn, frenzied fingers entering willing orifices, each had retained me, unbeknownst to the other, teetering on the brink of divorce, dragged kicking and screaming over the Rubicon of fifty, years wasted in silent combat,
strangers asleep in the same bed, slick with secretions, dreaming of wasted opportunities passed over in guilt, no wonder religions banned dancing, bare asses flashed everywhere, skirts worn as belts, the sickly smell of sweat and vomit, subsumed by sexual heat and enlightenment achieved through X and trance bass tracks thrumming in pagan souls, if a club could bottle the air, Lauren would implode the economy with sales to baby boomers who used colored pills to reclaim youth,
watching the hole develop, even the Sufi whirled away, the thermonuclear passion glowed between them, the gut wrenching arousal pureed with hate and ennui, my clients fucked each other over in plain sight, lit by strobes, danger building, hardcore ravers jolted out of apathy and faux transcendence by the real thing, decades of saved ammo, fired off for my benefit, nothing more savage than domestic contempt fueled by alcohol and mob anonymity,
jaded as I was, even I almost fell for the drama, hands spanking exposed bottom, teeth nipping swollen lips, designer gashes ripped even further, junk erect, trying to shatter stasis of middle-age, varicose leg thrown over arthritic hip, penetrative consummation ringed by youth desperate to capture elusive high, a heartbeat away from overdose, the awareness of time stalking as the apex predator, none to escape the pitiless scythe, best turn your back and twerk for an upload, inhibitions exchanged for the inflated cover charge, the damned dancing into a future filled with heartache, broken promises and prescriptions,
strangers all, inside silicon shells, the only thing they owned, were their orgasms, splashed recklessly into the seething pool of pheromones, my camera flashed, files for the lawyers, if they ever decided to pull the trigger.

Something didn’t add up—I tipped the hatcheck girl—sticky soles wiped on only slightly less filthy curb
sirens wailed—the skyscrapers mostly dark—the miasma rising from the sewers swirling around off-duty taxis
I lit a smoke—exhaled—the life of a PI was fucking great—sarcasm at three am wasted on the confident rats

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

Flashback Friday: “Honey Dew”

This week’s Flashback Friday, originally posted Oct 25th, 2009 for Oral Worship Day.

“Honey Dew”

red lips pout
glistening with slick dew
thighs flex
aimlessly she gasps
tongue lapping
inhaling her scent
unique
musky
passionate flows of nectar
coat my taste buds
swallowing her lust
pinned
her arms trapped by my weight
pausing to suck her clit
then
spanking
wet smacks
on wetter folds
red becomes redder
gasps become screams
wet becomes a torrent
I bend my head
to torment her some more
she cries
I smile
she’s mine

Tear me a new one

I bask in your respect
admire the flowers you buy
giggle at the itchy lace
and waxy chocolate once
a year in February
my heart thumps when
you load the dishwasher
or take the kids for pizza
so that I can bubble
and pretend still single
we fight about money
who doesn’t do that
however you’ve taught me
—and our daughters—
that our actual strength
is between our ears
—not our legs—
and feminism isn’t a
curse word or weapon
I know we’re tired
and weekly sex is fine
yet sometimes it’s
necessary for you…

…to grab my throat
call me slut, throw
me on the bed, pin
me down, take my
wrists in your strong
calloused palms and
molest my curves
when I struggle and
whine, flip me like
a pancake and spank
my ass until I cry,
not only in pain,
pleasure is too tame
for what I feel when
you fist my thong,
rip it clean off,
the scorching heat
in my cunt
—I said it—
cunt, weeping for
your thick cock, yes,
we make love, it’s
wonderful, but what
I want sometimes
is a good fucking,
hard, deep, fast,
make it hurt, treat
me with rough contempt
when you yank my
head back and use
me like your private
whore, not a beloved
wife…

…you don’t even
have to pay me, just
finish by reaming my
ass and spraying your
hot sperm on my back

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

twisted path through sexual maze

admonished to follow your heart, young girl grew up with silver screen
princesses, dainty fair-skinned beauties, only purpose in life to ensnare
a handsome prince, a rich toad would do in a pinch, the bad guys always
redeemed, meanwhile in real life, leather jacket and cigarettes replaced
ball gown and tiara, what’s a girl to do, woman grown realizing vanilla is
not her flavor, blowjobs no fun unless coerced, pussy gets wet when called
out as slut, and forget about anal to savor, most men are wimpy poseurs,
all concerned and tender, of course it’s supposed to hurt you stupid wanker
you call that a spanking, my palsied aunt hits harder than that, just get
out, don’t come back, find yourself someone who thinks footsie is daring,
I’ll follow my heart, find the man of my dreams, he’s willing to drink down
my darkness, and after he licks my foam off his lips, takes my throat in his
hand, says that he loves me just as I am, then collars and fucks his toy, as
twisted as he can, so when I scream for mercy saying it’s enough for now,
he laughs at my lies, takes me harder and higher beyond the sexual maze.

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

autumnal spankings

the time for lovers poets claim is spring
flowers buds plucked
pollen laden stamens life bursts at the seams
but spankos know better in fall do bottoms blush
rosy red apples shiny cheeks all ablaze
rounded ripe pears tender flesh squeezed
fuzzy sweet peaches juices so licky-sticky
and of course pumpkins for Hallowe’en carving
deep creases so smooth
bend over in jeans
let your lover whack in the patch
for trick or treat this year
dress up with a smile and
let your wolf know this time
it won’t be the hood that’s bright red

Posted here on AC’s blog for the Halloween Writing Event

Hallowe’en Writing Event

Follow the raven to the Hallowe’en Writing Event at The Cracked Lens View for fiction and poetry by a wide variety of writers including me.

wp-1477070752487

seasons of spanking

“When you find the one…”

in spring meadows, dance with me
budding blossoms, throb with bees
run through orchard, of our youth
make me happy, cut bundled switch
bent over stile, will be in truth
raise floral dress, panties at knees
carve your love, creative red lines
my pussy wet, jet cum inside.

in summer sand, swim with me
gather shells, tossing sea
find sheltered cove, kids away
treasure trove, driftwood staves
on all fours, presented high
remove two-piece suit, ass to sky
impart your love, burning stripes
spread my cheeks, hard anal night

in autumn leaves, wrestle me
piled high, leap with glee
under skirt, deep fingers quick
eager hands, collected sticks
relatives inside, need a rest
nude on my back, knees to chest
whip your love, both ends seep
suck hard cock, swallow deep

in winters drifts, support me
a gentle pace, that’s the key
now in bed, they’ll soon be here
put on the kettle, be a dear
before you go, make a wish
hold me tight, sealed kiss
spank your love, were always mine
make love to me, one last time

A spanking sestina poem

I am the original author posted elsewhere 3/3/08. My first love is poetry. Combined with spanking it turns to lust.

A sestina is a poem of six six-line stanzas and a three-line envoy, originally without rhyme, in which each stanza repeats the end words of the lines of the first stanza, but in different fixed order, the envoy using the six words again, three in the middle of the lines and three at the end.

“Bottoms Up”

walking her wool slacks molded her bottom
setting my wineglass back on the table
stood up to greet her kissed soft cheek
sparkling smile that reaches her eyes
whispers in ear today I was naughty
breath in her hair scent of perfume.

do I smell an expensive perfume
if it is I’ll be spanking that bottom
I didn’t mean to oh why am I naughty
perhaps a lesson bent over this table
in public she cried with fear in her eyes
how else can I punish such cheek.

please sir not here tears on her cheek
all this for a little bottle of perfume
you know the rules no wool in my eyes
over my knee proper place for your bottom
nervously twists ring her hands on the table
I’m taking you home my lover who’s naughty.

remove your clothes my sweet naughty
slowly turn round show me your cheek
stretch yourself out over that table
seen from behind can smell her perfume
my firm hand starts smacking pale bottom
look in the mirror and open your eyes.

reflected in light her misty blue eyes
trembling mouth with a pout looks naughty
hairbrush strokes cracking on pink bottom
timing each blow on her flexing cheek
odor of roses her feminine perfume
an essence that flows onto the table.

writhing her hips grind into table
panting and weeping with unfocused eyes
higher she spirals pulses lusty perfume
she thrusts back begging more I’m naughty
please harder faster all over my cheek
long thorough strapping makes a red bottom.

sprawled on the table you’ve learned not to be naughty.
with pleading eyes looks back rubbing hot sore cheek.
was it worth the perfume to have a well roasted bottom.

P.S. I’d like to take full credit for the feminine silhouette of the poem, but truth is it only happened by accident when I centered the poem on the page. I couldn’t have planned it if I tried.

Because a poem was wanted in the moonlight :)

rising above
if I were there
her full moon
parted eclipse
your taste
remembered now
faintly gleaming
pearlescent shimmer
mixture of lust
falling slowly from
reddened lips
on my back
cheeping
my sticky hand
wrapped
around you
I open my mouth
begging to be fed

Ina-Morata requested a poem as a comment on a post. I chose ‘The Mating of Love Birds’ and this is the response I wrote.

A story of sex in erotic haiku

A series of erotic haiku depicting a women’s first intercourse, #8 is based on actual events as related to me by a friend. I am the original author, some were posted elsewhere at various times.

Haiku is a Japanese poem of seventeen syllables, in three lines of five, seven, and five, traditionally evoking images of the natural world. English versions are not quite the same.

*
cool breeze nipples taut
twirling tongues kiss frantic dance
clothes fall as ripe fruit

*

black lace wisp teases
hands fondle legs gripping thighs
eyes desire close look

*

an aroused woman
wafting scent making cock hard
warm mouth lapping juice

*
lovely rosy hue
blushing cheeks warming quickly
harder strokes needed
*

tears flow swollen lips
spanking fast pink turns to red
shimmering heat burns

*

licking sweat off cheeks
parted globe pucker winking
beast growls deep in throat

*

fuck me her first time
you man enough to take this
do you need a pill

*
wet flower opens
throbbing clit metal gleaming
hard thrust breaks bondage

*

nails scrape lines down back
penetrated deep thrusting
screaming orgasm

*

bronzed by sun flex arms
red fingernails touching hair
quick strokes sperm arcing

*

Jousting for the Golden Paddle and the hand of the fair Princess

A spanking fairy tale poem. I am the original author written and posted elsewhere 7/31/08

“The Princess and the Paddle”

the banners waved all over town
proclaiming the duel about to go down
dressed in their finest with nary a frown
all shoved and hit to see her fine gown
in truth none really cared
it was the knights who dared
and if they weren’t prepared
to be snared
oh well, they still stared
to see such virile hunks of men
riding by again and again
jousting and prancing
many a matron thought of dancing
comparing her spouse
who frankly was a mouse
in bed
lust in her head
bulging thighs
what splendid guys
soft cries
deep sighs
if only we had what the princess will get
a strong, faithful, fairly tasty bit
ours ain’t worth spit
we’ll admit
but don’t ask and don’t tell
he never makes me yell
just yawn
look at that brawn
mine’s all bluster
my what luster
when he’s done he snores
off to my chores
face it ladies, we married bores
loud cheers there’s a winner
if only we were thinner
look at the prize he’s claiming
that’s something needs taming
a paddle made of gold
to have and to hold
my he’s so cold
a blush to behold
if later from the tower
within her royal bower
from a window not shut
hear loud smacks on bare butt
then a mighty shriek
do not cheat and peek
it’s not what you think
all quivering and pink
for the knights who were bold
had never been told
that the Golden Paddle
and the lap to straddle
was not theirs, no indeed
not to mislead
or allow him to plead
but the Princess had a need
to do the deed
with all due speed
to proceed
and thrash
not bash
or slash
but spank that tight ass
it’s not made of glass
so she’ll make it last
until it’s bright red
and his legs nice and spread
then we’ll be wed
and you may plow me instead
make sure I’m bred
what say you fine knight can you think ahead
down came his britches
my, what riches
off with his shirt
oh my, you I want to hurt
good thing I’m a pervert
naked he stood
this will be good
do you agree
to lay over my knee
and be spanked by your bride
can you give up your pride
the knight gave a bow
said this I do allow
for now
for I vow
although I am brave
and promise to behave
to be your willing slave
I too crave
the crack of the paddle
lying over a saddle
I’ll turn the tables
over in the stables
alone together
scent of leather
bent over my knee
for pleasure you’ll plea
it’s the crop I decree
thus she was gushing
and without rushing
gave the first spanking of many
both received plenty
*
*
*
and they lived happily ever after.

  • Corrupted

    Now available, "Corrupted", an anthology from Sexy Little Pages, including my short story, Ghosting Past Emily. Click the picture for ebookstore links.

  • 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.

  • Purchase: The Case of the Disciplined Valentine

    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