The VERY LAST! Kismet of Submission: Episode 25

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

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

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

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

‘But what if she makes a mistake?’

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

‘Hers?’

‘No. Mine.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sir doesn’t believe that.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘IT HURTS SO BAD!’

‘I know, baby, I know.’

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

The 400 Club

This week I received the 400th follower to this blog. I don’t have anything special to offer though. No sweepstakes, no cruise for two, no lifetime supply of dark chocolate. Sorry. 🙂

However, I do get this warm fuzzy feeling whenever I get a notification of a new reader. You’d think that after all these years, I’d be more jaded, but I’m not. I am so thrilled that even one person likes what I write, never mind hundreds.

Speaking of writing, I know I’ll never be the most popular, or the most eloquent and, since I rarely write anything personal about myself, certainly won’t have millions of people waiting for my next tweet. Which I don’t: Tweet. I don’t have any social media accounts; I don’t consider blogging to be social media, although when it started, it was. Since been eclipsed by other platforms.

I’m not a tormented author; I don’t huddle in bed bemoaning lack of progress or rend my clothes shrieking when the perfect prose eludes my grasp. Writing for me is fun. Primarily because the fiction I write; I write because it interests me. I know from reading other blogs, that my stories are often pale imitations of the ‘real’ deal when it comes to sex and discipline. But that’s okay, I prefer delving into the mental and emotional aspects of characters rather than intimate details of pieces and parts.

Will I ever post pictures here? No. Will I ever reveal my sexual history? No. Will I ever meet any of you in person? Maybe.

What I will do is keep writing fiction and poetry about spanking and sex from the submissive female perspective — with a little dominance thrown in for good measure. I mean, Byron Cane is a large pen name to live up to. He creates an image of sage wisdom, pithy advice and a keen eye for the feminine posterior. Of course, I could just be blowing smoke up your asses. Only time will tell. 🙂

 





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For a limited time only, you may click this link to Instafreebie and claim your very own FREE copy of the first 5 Chapters of The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie. The entire novella will be available for download to your ereader November 27th, 2017. If you are a book reviewer or would like to receive an advance copy in order to publicize Stephanie on your social platforms, please contact Ina Morata [Owner, Editor, Publisher of Clarian Press] at this contact link to send an email of query.

I guess I did have something for joining the 400 Club after all. Have a happy day and good reading.

Kismet of Submission: Episode 24

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

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

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

‘M_ A_?’

Even in her mind, Tamara censors his name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘He’s such a—’

‘Man?’

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

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

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

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

‘He’s working.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You’re not my Dom either!’

‘No, but I am submissive.’

‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean!’

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

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

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

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

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

Stephanie gets spanked and exposed

Last week I shared the beginning pages of The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie over on my other blog, Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction. The post is called WIP it Wednesday: A date with Stephanie. I will be sharing a longer excerpt tomorrow there, but today I wanted to share a couple of snippets here. [It will make more sense if you read last week’s post first, but it’s not mandatory.] Only a fortnight to go! That’s two weeks or fourteen days. My publisher, Clarian Press, calls The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie “An updated modern-day fairy tale romance with spanking.”

The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie

Excerpt #1. [On the way to work]

Once more the heavy wooden brush spanked her quivering buttocks. Mr. Johnson hit much harder; the smacks and distressed cries echoed loudly in the enclosed space.
Unfortunately for the sniffling Stephanie, the elevator stopped at every floor going down. She blushed in humiliation as she explained to each new potential passenger that she was being a naughty girl… again. All of them smiled, waved to her neighbors, and said they’d wait for the next elevator. By the time the lobby was reached, her bottom under the peek-a-boo silk panties was a bright gleaming pink.
She composed herself as Mrs. Garcia congratulated Mr. Johnson for a ‘job well done’. After one final loud spank on her bottom, Stephanie fidgeted when they complimented the pretty color of her cheeks, and sighed when they finished with a close-up inspection and check of warmth by hand.

Excerpt #2. [Later that same day after work]

“I want you to lay on your back then scoot your bottom up high in air so that your tailbone rests on the arm of the couch. I’m going to put the pillow and towel underneath as you pull your legs back to your chest.” Stephanie made a small sound of protest at Mrs. Garcia’s instructions. “No, darling, I’m not going to spank you, although the diaper position is very effective in getting the point across. I’m going to oil your bottom with aloe and vitamin E like I always do.”
Stephanie had never felt so humiliated before. Thank goodness it wasn’t Mr. Johnson peering down at her wet, curly haired pussy and tiny puckered anus! She let out a long sigh though when the cooling lotion was rubbed into her tender skin.
Stephanie couldn’t help but feel tingly when Mrs. Garcia’s strong fingers spread her thighs even further apart and moved closer to all her moist, flushed nooks and crannies. She blushed and put her arm across her face when Mrs. Garcia teased, “Seems like a certain naughty girl is enjoying her treatment. I wonder if she is thinking about being spanked some more?”

Kismet of Submission: Episode 23

Tamara doesn’t exactly feel neglected as Sir demolishes his waffles, eggs and strawberry yogurt with fruit; but his methodical refueling is timed to perfection. Check prepaid, Sir makes a quick dash to the lavatory to wash syrup off his fingers while Tamara stacks the plates and wipes down the table. Her half-eaten food is offered to go, but she declines.

Back in the car, it’s only a few minutes to the convention center and Sir continues to concentrate in silence. He does however, while waiting at a light to cross the divided highway leading to the parking garage, reach over, take her hand and gently massage her tense fingers.

Just before the light turns green, he gives her a long look with an ever-widening smile and a sharp laugh at the end.

Tamara feels a jolt at the junction of her thighs. Her hot bottom has turned into a deep muscle soreness that has worked its way around front. She’s not sure how to interpret his gestures and expression, but her pussy has made up its mind. It wants Sir in the worst way and it intends to get him.

No matter how many decades have passed since the Sexual Revolution, or magazines devoted to female empowerment; dating apps that allow women to swipe and hookup on a moment’s notice, an aroused woman who seduces a man is still labeled “Slut”. Too many women feel that to ask — to demand — sexual satisfaction, is somehow playing the whore and, although roleplaying can unlock the libido, at least temporarily, guilt often comes rushing back in after the comes have faded. Tamara is being whipsawed by her past: the memories harsh and accusatory. Nothing good will ever come of spreading your legs, girl, you’ll always be trash.

‘Sir? You don’t have to answer this right now, but I wanted to know if you thought I was submissive.’

He nods in acknowledgement. Pulling into a vacant slot on the lower level, he pops the trunk and jerks his head at her to join him at the rear.

‘These are my supplies for the meet-and-greet.’ He hands her the lightest bag, slams the deck lid, and locks the car. ‘Ready?’

‘I guess so. What do you want me to do,’ she asks as she hustles to keep up with his long strides.

He gives her another one of his shit-eating grins. ‘I told you. You’re eye candy.’

Tamara rolls her eyes at his smug masculinity.

Sir quickly transfers several bags to his left arm, and using his now unencumbered right hand, swats her twice on her butt.

‘Ouch!’ She skips ahead out of the reach of his stinging palm. ‘Are you going to do that all the time?’

He swiftly catches up and grabs her ass right between her thighs, her skirt bunching in his fist and riding up.

‘Sir! Somebody will see.’ Tamara almost orgasms feeling his fingers probing through the cotton fabric seeking her bare wet pussy.

‘I like you commando, Tamara,’ Sir chuckles with wicked glee.

Her reply is grumpy. ‘You would, since you’re obviously a pervert. I bet you have a raincoat to flash with in your car.’

He gives her one last lingering pat as he bursts out laughing. ‘And you have to ask whether or not I think you are submissive?’

‘It’s a fair question, Sir,’ she shoots back with noticeable heat. ‘I need to know what I’m in for if I decide to give in to your demands.’

The elevator ride up to the main floor is swift, not so Sir’s answer. His face is very serious. ‘Tamara, discussing submission and dominance takes a lifetime and is constantly changing. At its core, either you can submit or dominate, or you are submissive or dominant.’ The doors slide open and they walk towards the display area. Despite the early hour — it’s barely past seven a.m., there is a sustained caffeine-fueled buzz emanating from the scores of vendors, authors and maintenance personnel scurrying about. ‘Being submissive does not mean giving in.’

‘Then what does it mean, Sir,’ Tamara interrupts with a frustrated scowl.

‘Ah. Here’s our table.’ He sets the bags down, and plucks the one he gave to Tamara off her shoulder. ‘First thing, in that blue tote there is a tablecloth. Take it out, give it a good shake and lay it over the table. We’ll adjust it as needed.’

Tamara immediately dives into the tote and follows his instructions. ‘Pink? With flowers and unicorns?’

‘Almost all my readers are women, and this is a good icebreaker.’ He maneuvers the fabric until it is even; the centerpiece is a reproduction of a painting.

‘What’s that?’ she points at the woman holding a unicorn.

‘That’s Young Woman with Unicorn, by Raphael. He painted it around 1506.’

‘Hmm. What’s next?’

‘There are clips in the blue tote as well. Use those to secure the edges of the tablecloth together.’

She snaps a clip. It makes a sharp ‘cracking’ noise. ‘I can think of a few uses for these.’

Sir gives her a smoldering stare. ‘Me too. You, spread-eagled, nipples and labia clipped, me with a riding crop snapping you all over.’

Tamara almost self-combusts: her upper thighs are soaked. As she squats down to attach the corners, Sir joins her at the side of the table, hidden from the aisle.

He reaches into a red canvas carryall. ‘Luckily for you,’ pressing his hand up under her skirt, ‘I brought a towel.’ He wipes her thighs and strokes her back and forth between her parted legs.

This time, she can’t hold back. Her orgasm rips through her body. She drops the clip in her fingers, and falls forward onto her palms. The carpet is rough beneath her hands. When the towel withdraws, she mourns.

Sir claps his hands. ‘Chop, chop, Tamara, no dawdling now, time is wasting. I am sure they vacuumed down there overnight, but thanks for checking.’

Tamara’s butt is throbbing, her pulse is racing and she mutely obeys Sir’s non-stop commands as he completes the setup. When it’s ready, he nods with satisfied pursued lips and pulls her into a tight hug. ‘Yes, Tamara, I do think you are a submissive. It is up to you whether or not you want to be submissive’

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 10 (Part 7)

At her dressing table, in careless déshabillé, she beckoned me forward. I did not meet her gaze in the mirror, but could sense her intense regard despite her seemingly casual posture and partial nudity. “Do you know why you are here?” I shook my head. “We had a meeting last night — your principle trainers. You puzzle us, Ruby. Did you know that?” Miss Frothinglips’ tone made it clear she expected a thoughtful response. “No, miss. I am but a humble maid and have sought only to do what I was told.” Her smile was predatory. “Lies will not avail you.”

Rather than read each individual drabble, you can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters. For easier reading, once I have posted all 30 drabbles, I repost the entire chapter in 3,000 words.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 10 (Part 6)

This was my first time in her domain, and although we’d interacted—to salacious results at times—there was an unbreachable bastion between us. I would never be more than servant class, no matter how wealthy and influential my husband night be. She was aristocracy, and her blood was deemed better than mine. I did not mind. Ambition was tolerated — if not encouraged — but I had no desire for a glass slipper or a prince’s kiss. The gilded life seemed glamorous from the outside, but it was a cage nevertheless. “Good afternoon, Miss Frothinglips. I was told to report here.”

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.

For those interested in an update about, The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie, click this link to be transported to my other blog.

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  • The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie

    The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie, began as a modern updated tribute to The Perils of Pauline. It is a slightly satirical send up of both the contemporary spanking scene, and popular culture’s fascination with kink through the guise of both D/s and D/D. The novella is meant to be funny, corny, sprinkled with numerous touchstones and sly wordplay, while simultaneously weaving a constant serious spanking story line that turns romantic and erotic with a HEA ending.

    The first part of the novella details the spankings Stephanie receives in various settings by her neighbors and boss. These are not always graphically described, but are rather the result of Stephanie’s hapless bumbling into situations requiring discipline. A third of the way through the novella, she meets Ross at a restaurant party hosted by her boss. The sparks (and spanks) fly between them, and Ross finds himself scrambling to keep up with the vivacious and mischievous Stephanie. Before the week is out, through both discipline and erotic spankings, they fall deeply in love with each other, and Ross’ firm hand. Each chapter builds upon the previous story line as various supporting characters reveal their own kinky backgrounds. In the end, everyone is satisfied, and Ross sexually claims Stephanie for his own.

  • Lust in Spring

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  • 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.
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    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.
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