Kismet of Submission: Episode 16

‘That was good. I’m stuffed.’

Sir catches Cindy’s attention. ‘Could I get the rest of my pizza to go?’ Seeing Tamara’s expression, he shuffles the plates into a neat stack. ‘Cold pizza is one of the culinary highlights of life.’

She tilts her head and raises both palms in a silent ‘whatever’ gesture. All of her meal is gone and she sighs with contentment. ‘I’m going to be spoiled you know with all this rich food. That, plus gain a few sizes.’

Danger, Will Robinson! Sir wipes his greasy fingers and ponders his response. A. Say her current size is perfect. B. Say she could use a few pounds. C. Curves are sexy. D. Excuse yourself. ‘Excuse me, Tamara, but I need to wash my hands before we leave. Here’s my credit card if Cindy comes back with the bill first.’ Sliding out of the booth he scans the walls looking for the restrooms.

Watching him stride away with a casual lope, Tamara jabs the few remaining ice cubes with her straw. The sharp clinking noise triggers memories of cocktail shakers behind the bar, when she was younger and prettier, and men shoved tips in her jar quoting Billy Joel. Where did my life go?

‘Do you need to go?’

‘I should.’

Sir watches her carefully walk away, her head on a swivel and hands loosely clenched at her sides. He signs the bill with the house pen. Tucking the Visa back in his supple wallet triggers memories of corporate three-martini lunches back when he had money to burn.

‘Ready?’ Tamara slings her purse over her shoulder.

The night has settled in like an abstract painting; all jagged lines of garish colors splashed against a canvas of blackest thoughts. The headlights slash shadowed objects in two as he pulls back onto the thoroughfare, joining the teens cruising for dominance.

‘Do you ever check your phone, Sir?’

‘Why? Did you IM me?’

‘No, I don’t have your number. I was only wondering if your career meant being online a lot.’

‘That’s a fair question. I don’t like checking when I’m with someone. I think it’s rude. Calls? Sure, if it’s important, but I access my blog and business accounts at night via my laptop. Of course, I use a VPN when using public Wi-Fi.’

‘VPN?’

‘Virtual Private Network, it hides your IP address and allows private browsing when on an unencrypted public Wi-Fi. Otherwise, anybody can snoop on your activity and potentially steal your information.’

‘I did not know that.’

‘Nothing’s perfect, but going online without VPN is like having sex without a condom.’

‘Hmmmm.’ Tamara finally notices they aren’t back at the hotel. An instant flash of panic: She grabs the door handle without even noticing.

‘I need to take a stroll through the mall and settle my dinner; otherwise I get heartburn.’

Sir finds a spot near the multiplex entrance and unbuckles. Glancing over, he notices the tension in her arms. ‘Are you okay?’

Tamara shoots him a tight smile. ‘I’m fine.’

There are lies of omission, and lies of expedience. We sense Tamara’s “I’m fine” is both. Her mind is in turmoil. The instant reaction to being trapped in a vehicle with a male is something she can’t control. The garish marquee, featuring the latest cinematic blockbusters, casts red and yellow pools onto the pavement swirling with people choosing their entertainment. Through the windshield we peer in, Tamara’s face is washed out and pale; Sir’s is wary and concerned. He wonders what to say, what not to do. The choices seem to be bad and worse. He clenches the steering wheel and stares at the mall entrance. Would lying to her help?

‘I changed my mind. We can go back to the hotel.’

Like a robot in some dystopian future film, her head swivels forty-five degrees and locks on his face as if scanning into memory banks. Her voice is atonal, mechanical: ‘I said I’m fine. Go. Walk. I will wait here.’

Sir holds his breath as she pivots back and resumes her scrutiny, watchful as a sentry on duty. He pulls out his wallet, removes a card and sets it on the shifter console. The rental keys go on top. ‘I’ll be back, Tamara. My cell number is on the card. If you need to leave, for whatever reason, I’m leaving the car keys with you.’

Before he changes his mind, or gives her a chance to respond, he’s out the drivers’ door. It closes with a soft thud.

She watches, again, as he lopes away: A confident man in a dangerous world, who cuts through the crowd like a shark.

The locks engage with a beep. She jingles the keys in her hand. It’s an old-fashioned ignition switch. The temptation is strong.

I’m lying to myself. If I can’t control an innocent car ride, how am I going to stay calm when we sleep in the same bed? I can’t do this. Sir is too good for me. I don’t deserve his… anything. I’m worthless. Stupid. A fucked up whore who deserved every beating she got. I. AM. SO. FUCKING. PATHETIC! I can’t do this. I can’t. I bet he regrets ever meeting me. I bet he’s thinking he was so stupid to pay for my meals and invite me to the freak show because now he’s the one running away. He didn’t even ask me what was wrong! He just hopped out and left me all by myself in a fucking parking lot! How dare he! He left me the keys? FINE! If that’s what he wants, fine.

After his brisk walk around the mall concourse, Sir is feeling better. Until he notices that his car is missing: along with Tamara. He paces back and forth for a while wondering if she’s idling somewhere along the distant perimeter, watching and waiting. His phone is silent. No messages; no missed calls.

Summoning the nearest rideshare, the driver takes him back to the hotel. It’s a quiet trip.

He watches television and waits for her call.

To read all the Kismet of Submission episodes in order, please go to this page for individual links.

Kismet of Submission: Episode 15

The rental isn’t cozy either. Not with Sir suddenly silent. Tamara gnaws her lip and watches him from the corner of her eye. She hopes he’s not upset with her, but can’t figure out a way to ask without rehashing the entire scene. She shifts in her seat; the stiff padding’s not helping the soreness in her butt. With the afterglow fading, she feels shame—a familiar emotion—creeping back to the fore.

To cover her unease, she pretends to study the urban commercial sprawl passing by her side window. Block after block of businesses; pharmacies, gas stations, bank branches and fast food franchises as far as the eye can see. Interspersed are nail salons, tax offices and auto repair shops. The contrast between national chains and mom-and-pop storefronts struggling for attention is striking. The strip mall housing the pizza joint is typical: Vacant stores and rain-washed broken glass glinting under the lights.

‘Looks okay to me.’

Tamara glances at Sir. It’s the first words he’s spoken since the hotel. ‘I wouldn’t come here on my own.’

Sir reaches over and gives her hand a squeeze. ‘You’re not alone.’

‘For now.’

‘For as long as you like.’

She squeezes back and unbuckles her seatbelt. The opening his declaration provides is too tempting to pass up. ‘I thought maybe it was too much—earlier. You know. My emotional outburst.’

The look he gives her is what her daughter calls ‘crazy face’. ‘Emotional? Tamara, if you were any less emotional you’d be a statue. You’ve done nothing to make me consider rescinding my offer. In fact, I’ll tell you now, that I would like you to think about coming with me when I leave tomorrow after the luncheon.’

We watch as her mouth drops open and his smirks. Hopping out, he walks around the rear of the vehicle and helps her out. He locks the doors and taking her by the hand as if they’ve been together for years, guides her over the curb to the restaurant. It’s about half-full, but it’s still early: Mostly families with a few couples and even fewer singles scattered around. It smells Italian. Basal, oregano and tomato as the high notes: baked cheese and grease rumbling underneath. The hostess—obviously one of the family’s daughters—chirps politely, ‘booth or table?’ then leads them to a waiting booth with fresh carnations in a glass and a tea candle floating in a shallow bowl. The menu is basic: Small, medium and large pizzas, two toppings included with a list of thirty-odd additional possibilities. Spaghetti and homemade meatballs, calzones, various pastas with animal protein and sauces fill the center of the menu, with salads and children’s portions the rest. The back cover lists beverages—the footer is an advert for a local insurance agent. The waitress swings by with a tray of food and a stand; she calls out as she passes, ‘I’ll be right there’. Tamara feels like she should jump up and help serve. Waitressing is hard work for little pay: harassment is ever a possibility. At least tonight no one is going to slap her ass.

She laughs out loud as the incongruity strikes her funny bone. At his curious look, she mouths ‘later’ and smiles up at the waitress. ‘Hi, Cindy, I like your brooch.’

‘Thanks, honey. I made it myself.’

‘Really? That’s cool. Do you sell them?’

‘I do, but the owners don’t like it when I peddle my wares here.’

Sir interjects with a request that she slip her business card in with the bill. ‘I’m ready to order if you are, Tamara.’

‘I’d like the ziti carbonara and a side salad with ranch dressing. I’ll have water with lemon and a diet coke.’

‘And you, sir?’

Tamara can’t help giggling.

Sir shakes his head and sighs. ‘Sorry, Cindy, she’s being naughty tonight. I’ll have a medium pepperoni pizza with mushrooms and spinach. No salad, but I would like a side of the garlic knots. Oh, water for me as well with a ginger ale. Thanks.’

The chatter of customers punctuated with occasional clangs from the kitchen fills the spaces between their watchful stares. ‘This feels like a date, Sir.’

‘Not very glamorous in that case.’

‘That’s okay. The company makes up for it.’

‘I agree.’

‘Thanks.’

Cindy sets their drinks on the table. ‘Food will be up soon, folks.’

Popping the straw on the surface, Tamara plops the end in her soda, and takes a long pull of spicy cola. The bite soothes her throat. ‘What’s the schedule for tomorrow?’

He balls up his wrapper and takes a sip of dry ginger before speaking. ‘The author meet-and-greet is from 9 to 11, followed by the closing luncheon from 11:30 to 1 in the afternoon. I have some print-on-demand hardcopies, but I mostly rely on e-sales.’

‘What can I do?’

‘Oh. That’s easy. You’ll be my eye candy.’

Tamara excitedly claps her hands. ‘Maybe to boost sales even further, we can act out some scenes. I haven’t read any of your work, but I assume there’s lots of spanking involved.’

Sir chuckles as he spots Cindy bringing their dinner. He leans closer and whispers, ‘I don’t think they’ll allow a live model, but I’ll ask tomorrow.’

‘Here you are, dears. Zita and salad for you, pizza and knots for you and do you need refills?’ She hustles off at the affirmative nods and by the time they have taken the first mouthfuls, she brings another round along with some extra napkins. ‘Anything else, just flag me down.’

‘Thanks,’ Sir and Tamara mumble around the hot food.

Watching them eat isn’t very interesting; it only spurs us to set the book aside and head to the fridge. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been interested in food porn. The slick photos on social media feeds always seem to veer between desperation and gloating. Food is fuel: If it tastes good, that’s a bonus. A companion who shares your interests makes the meal satisfying.

 

To read all the Kismet of Submission episodes in order, please go to this page for individual links.

The Astounding Amaryllis

‘Always make eye contact with the punters’, was the first—and only—advice given me upon the occasion of my arrival and hiring by Mr. Tompkins of the Majestic Palace.

I’d not run away from marriage to a distant neighboring widow more than twice my age with grown daughters eager to breed sons and willing to barter with livestock and land. I’d simply left on the local train to Memphis rather than return with the monthly dry goods.

Brave? Reckless? Comely girls were a useless surplus to many farmers: My mother grew too old before she passed.

So, after some excitement, and fending off of roving hands, Mrs. O’Malley’s Boarding House become my residence of record. My meager savings would not last long in the hurly-burly atmosphere of the big city.

Alas, swine lasses and milkmaids were not in high—or even low—demand, except on their backs. Dressed in my Sunday best, toes pinched by third-hand shoes, I tromped all over the business district seeking honest employment. I admit my eyes were opened. Vice was everywhere. Men undressed me with blatant leers and tawdry phrases. I was not innocent—country girls started young—but a quick tumble in a hay rick felt pure and wholesome compared to the awful dregs lounging on every street corner.

The Palace was barely twenty years old; older than I, so I lied. My big break came when Foster and Lawrence—a vaudeville trio reduced to duo when their assistant ran off with Samson the Strongman—hired me. The role required the wearing of short frilly bloomers, a corset that plumped up my average charms and a blouse evidently salvaged from a sleeveless low-cut gown.

Thus the admonishment: Keep your eyes smiling at the men in the seats.

I can tell you I was shocked during my first ‘performance’, when I realized the focus of the act was me… well, my bottom in fact. Foster and Lawrence were a comedy team that revolved around a shapely damsel [that would be me] getting herself into naughty situations that could only be resolved by repeated spankings during the thirty-minute act. Mock blows they were not, and it took little time for me to race around the stage for real, pursued by swinging switches. I needed the money though; so, after a short chase, I ‘allowed’ myself to be caught, bent over under a perspiring armpit with thinly covered butt thrust at the cheering audience and chastised for my own good.

I was a trooper though: I peered back between my legs and kept eye contact with the punters.

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 14

‘It’s not punishment for being abused, Tamara. That wasn’t your fault. It’s discipline that allows you to overcome and replace those memories and conditioned responses, with reactions that are more beneficial and realistic. Submitting to me, willingly and without pretense, will result in daily spankings, plus extra spankings when I decide you are not being either truthful, or causing harm to yourself.’

Tamara carefully disengages from his grasp and sits upright against the padded headboard. Rubbing her goose-pimpled arms and studiously ignoring his gaze, she stares out at the bright parking lot lights. ‘Looks like it’s letting up, are you hungry?’

He notes her diversionary segue is a pretty good transition. ‘I could eat.’

‘Do you want to go back out?’

‘We could get delivery.’ He points to the desk. ‘There’s a navy binder with local restaurants.’

She bounces off the bed as if catapulted, the sudden movement refocusing her attention down below and round back. Hooking her fingers together, she manages to keep from giving her sore butt a good rubdown. Nonchalantly flipping the pages of the guide as she stands, she tosses out suggestions. ‘We did Mexican, so there’s a couple of pizza places, Chinese, Indian and the assorted American style chains.’ Finally looking at him, she asks, ‘What are you in the mood for?’ ending in a breathless squeak when she reads his desire.

‘I’ll eat… just about anything that’s offered. How about a nice, hot slice of pie… Italian style.’

With a wide-eyed gasp, she nods, ‘Okay.’

It’s a fallacy of fiction that characters spring fully actualized from the imagination of the author. Stories don’t write themselves, even with elaborate plots and flowcharts. We know some of Tamara’s past because we were allowed a peek inside at the beginning of the novel. We know nothing of Sir’s past, not because the narrator is withholding information as an artistic device, but rather that Sir is simply very reticent to share. Why, we don’t know. Is it shyness? Unlikely, but then again, as readers we are at the mercy of the characters. No matter how the author attempts to chivy them along, each person in a story has their own agenda, biases and sometimes; what seems logical and pre-ordained, turns out to be a rotting red herring washed up on the beach. What I’m trying to say is; I have no idea where the narrative is going, but I plan to have lots of fun getting there.

‘We can get a toothbrush in the lobby. I have everything else you might need here, except tampons.’

See what I mean?

Tamara’s mouth drops open. ‘What?’

‘Funny, I don’t recall you being hard of hearing before.’

‘Stop doing that!’

‘Doing what?’

‘Playing with my emotions!’

With restrained strength, he uncoils from his lounging posture on the bed and swings his socked feet onto the carpet. Pushing upright, he prowls towards her, his expression one of exasperated amusement.

Tamara trembles with a feeling of helpless anticipation she’s never experienced before with any man. When she retreats and bumps against the unyielding wall, she lets out a hiss with a slight wince as her bottom flares with delicious soreness.

THUD

The impact of his palms as they slap either side of her head against the painted surface makes her jump. Trapped by his taller and broader stance, she instinctively presses her hands to his firm chest to ward him off.

She can’t quite meet his eyes. Underneath her fingertips, his pulse beats a steady rhythm, while hers is racing towards a distant unseen finish line.

He moves no closer, so they are frozen in wanting, each waiting for the other to crack first.

Easing her hands down, Tamara ducks and sidles sideways under his raised right arm until she’s free of his cage. Her gaze skitters around the room, lighting upon the few objects, but never coming to rest until she closes her eyes and cups her face.

‘I’m sorry, Tamara, I didn’t mean to trigger your fear.’

Snapping her head back and staring at the ceiling, she blows out in a lip vibrating flutter of sound. ‘I can’t keep up with you, Sir.’

‘I’m not asking you to.’

Tamara squares her shoulders and huffs again. ‘I’m sorry for overreacting. It’s instinctive when I’m uncomfortable with what I’m feeling, so I lash out or change the subject. I don’t need tampons at this time, but a toothbrush would be welcome.’

She walks closer and gently sets her palms on crossed forearms. Tipping her face, she rises up on her toes and gives him a brief kiss on his lips. ‘Thanks for the wonderful spanking. You were correct, it was just what I needed.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘And, it wasn’t fear you triggered, but arousal, and that is even scarier for me.’

‘I understand.’

She squeezes his shoulders and nods thoughtfully. ‘You know, I actually believe that you do understand.’ Letting go and stepping back, she continues, ‘Not that it makes me more comfortable. In fact, your compassion and empathy makes fleeing all the more likely.’

It’s like watching a tennis match. Back and forth the words are lobbed, neither going for the point, but instead wanting the rally to continue without choosing a winner. Tamara doesn’t see it yet, but Sir is not as equanimous as he appears. What started as a random choice a little more than twenty-fours ago, has reached the point of realization that sleeping together in chaste embrace is going to be extremely difficult. She reminds him of someone very special who slipped away when her demons took control for the last time. He thought his grief was spent, but Tamara’s responses and extremely evident scars are shredding his control with every passing moment. A little too late, he now understands that a weekend is simultaneously not enough and far too much for comfort.

‘Thanks for explaining, Tamara. How about we both flee for some pizza. Suddenly, this room doesn’t feel cozy anymore.’

 

To read all the Kismet of Submission episodes in order, please go to this page for individual links.

Kismet of Submission: Episode 13

Smack. Smack. Smack.

Sir continues to layer the paddle pops in a quasi-random pattern, focusing on the area covered by Tamara’s panties; which by now, have crept up and inwards revealing the dark pink rounded edges of her buttocks.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

‘Oh…’ A long drawn out hiss of surprised pleasure as the spanking shifts to the virgin territory of uppermost thigh and plump crease now accessible due to her arched posture.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

‘Lift up a bit. A bit more.’

Smack. Smack. Smack.

‘Waggle your naughty bottom if you want more.’

Without hesitation she obeys and even widens her stance by shifting backwards and thrusting her hot skin higher.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

The rapid sharp smacks on dusky olive flesh sink into her submissive posture and she pants as she clenches and releases. She can’t help wiggling her hips, acutely aware, even in the midst of the floating sensation that’s overtaken her nerves, what a view Sir must have. I want my panties yanked down! Please! Touch me!

Smack. Smack. Smack.

A hand caresses. She instinctively arches even higher, her toes straining with rigid knees locked straight. The hand, slowly, ever so slowly, passes over her spanked bottom. She can feel the heat pouring off. His hand rubs ever so slightly over the warmed fabric.

Tamara whines under her breath.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

‘I heard that.’

‘Please… Sir!’

Smack. Smack. Smack.

His hand now slips lower onto the bare portion and down her thighs: But not towards the wet center.

‘Not yet, not now.’

Tamara whines louder when Sir’s finger slip under the lace seam and tug her cotton underwear back to the original position.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

When her dress follows suit by dropping to her knees, she pouts.

‘Last three. They’ll be very hard.’

SMACK.

SMACK.

SMACK.

She bites her lip, hard, and chokes off a scream as the blows nearly take her over the edge. As she writhes and frantically rotates her pelvis on the pillow, she hears him zip up his suitcase. The television shuts off. The bed dips near her head and Tamara lets out a prolonged sigh when his fingers run through her hair.

‘Time for that cuddle.’

‘I’d rather have a come.’

‘Later.’ He leans over and kisses the crown of her head. ‘Later.’

We too let out our breath with a shivery shake of the shoulders. For many of us, we’re reminiscing about giving or receiving a spanking. For some, it’s been too long—or never, and the yearning Tamara has discovered under discipline is something we crave deep in our souls. But yet, there are questions that have been raised. Did this paddling have the desired effect on her? Why didn’t Sir touch her or at least take down her panties to expose her pussy? She clearly wanted that, although his masterful technique was quite striking. The way he kept a steady tempo, slowly increasing strength and varying location until the entire target area was a solid carnation color. And those last three. No way could Tamara have taken an entire punishment padding at that severity. We’d be talking fire engine red with bruises. A sudden gust of wind slaps the window and immediately the external view turns blurry. A flash: A loud crack of thunder. Tamara jumps in his arms that automatically tighten in response.

‘Don’t like storms?’

‘Not my favorite.’

‘Keep your cheek on my chest. It’ll be fine.’

As the rain slashes against the glass and lightning strobes through the dark sky, she winces every time the growling claps rumble their stentorian bellows. Ever since she was a little girl, she’s been frightened of thunderstorms.

Later, it was the looming figures creeping into her bedroom and slipping beneath her covers while she lay there and pretended it was only a nightmare. The two eventually became intertwined when the pervasive abuse often coincided with inclement weather.

She burrows into Sir. It’s different. It’s different. We’re safe.

He absentmindedly traces Mobius loops across her quivering back. Random kisses on her temple. Wordless croons in her ear. His left hand settles on her hip. Patting gently, he hoists her even closer as the storm rages—inside and out.

‘Why did you… why didn’t you go any further?’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you said.’

Tamara lifts her face and repeats. ‘I said, why didn’t you… you know… go even further?’

He cups her chin and meets her scared eyes. She flinches at an extra loud crack. He carefully enunciates, ‘Because you hadn’t given permission to go any further, no matter what your body responses were saying.’

Relaxing a bit in his gentle but firm grip, she blinks and manages a small smile. ‘Even though I was begging you to be ridden like a two-bit whore?’

The air seems to freeze momentarily. She gives a reflexive gulp when Sir’s expression turns statue stern. His voice is calm but the tone is unyielding. ‘Unless we are role-playing, or in the throes of passion, I never want to hear such self-denigrating words from your mouth. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ her response is barely a whisper.

He squeezes her jaw and then shocks her with a broad impish grin. ‘Too Domish for you?’

She shakes her head as much as possible given the tight grip. ‘No, you didn’t frighten me, Sir. I have a lot of bad habits that I’m not proud of admitting.’

‘Everyone does, Tamara, including me.’ He turns his fingers loose and strokes her cheeks softly. ‘I don’t want to ever frighten you, even when the things I say or do may seem harsh or unsympathetic. I understand there are likely bad things in your past and I don’t demand or need to hear them: but, the longer you remain with me, the more likely that trauma will begin to bubble out from the dark spaces inside. D/s can help mitigate the consequences of learned behavior.’

‘That seems… weird, Sir. I can understand if I drank too much or wanted to quit smoking; but why would I want or need to be spanked for something someone else forced upon me without my consent?’

To read all the Kismet of Submission episodes in order, please go to this page for individual links.

Kismet of Submission: Episode 12

She looks towards him with an indecipherable expression while the word ‘spanking’ ricochets around her aching head. Tamara wants to deny his statement in the strongest terms, but when she opens her mouth, this comes out instead. ‘Do you really think it will help?’

‘Honestly?’ At her tiny head-bob, he firmly states, ‘Yes. It will.’

‘Okay.’

Standing up, he picks her bottle up off the carpet and hands it back. She downs the rest of contents in one long swallowing motion. ‘I’m ready. Lets do this.’

‘Lay over the bed, I want to check something.’

She obeys, but scrambles off when she feels his hands touching the backs of her legs.

‘I need to lift your skirt.’

‘What?’

‘That wasn’t a request.’

She backs away, bumping into the wall.

He frowns at her antics. ‘If I don’t lift your skirt, then you, don’t get a spanking.’

Tamara blinks with confusion. ‘You won’t spank me unless I lift my skirt?’

‘No. I’ll only spank you if I lift your skirt.’

‘I’m utterly lost here, Sir.’

‘It’s very simple, Tamara. I don’t need to spank you. You need to be spanked. As in, you want to be spanked. It’s my gift to you as thanks for a wonderful and surprising day together.’

Tamara’s not the only one lost in a logic maze. We haven’t a clue as to what Sir is up to. Well, maybe some of you can follow the bouncing ball. One thing is clear though studying their postures; Tamara isn’t frightened. Confused—as she admitted—but much more curious than scared. As for Sir, his face is inscrutable and his pose relaxed. He makes no effort to drag her back, but merely leans against the wall beneath the set still blaring overhyped sports highlights. It’s another one of those crossroads that seem to be popping up with disconcerting regularity for Tamara. Choices. She’s been in charge of her life for so long now that the most terrifying aspect is being willing to let go and allow someone else to take care of her needs. She doesn’t trust Sir; at least not yet, not because he’s unworthy of trust, but rather, he’s cracked open her shell without even seeming to try.

‘Don’t try to tell me you get nothing out of spanking, Sir. I know better than that!’

‘I will agree with your supposition and not deny I find spanking to be arousing, however, this is not about my needs. I am completely serious when stating that my offer to spank you, over your panties, is a gift and not punishment. I’m asking for your trust. You need this, more than you can possible know.’

Tamara mutters, ‘I can’t believe I’m even considering this!’

Sir gives her a short bow, pushes off the wall, walks over and rearranges the three pillows across the foot of the bed. Authoritatively thumping the stack, he motions as if her table is ready.

She grimaces at his visual commands. Her feet shuffle reluctantly but resignedly to her waiting throne. Bending over, her waist compresses the synthetic filled pillows to half the height. She doesn’t know what to do with her arms; flails a bit, until settling for folding them under turned chin.

‘Good girl.’

His quiet praise warms her soul.

‘Relax. Let me take care of you.’

Tamara tries. Closing her eyes, cheek resting on the smooth sheet, bottom up a foot, she steadies her breathing when cold air tingles across now exposed thighs. She senses her knee length skirt being folded over; a tug, she tips her hips allowing her pink cotton knickers to be totally revealed.

Footsteps. A long rasp of a zipper opening: Faint rustles. Her eyebrows rise over sealed lids.

She flinches when a solid object—not his hand—taps her bottom.

‘What’s that?’ squealed an octave higher than normal.

‘A paddle,’ said nonchalantly.

‘You travel with a paddle?’ this time even louder.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

‘Don’t worry. Just getting the range.’

‘Who’s worried?’ Tamara squeaks. ‘It’s definitely not you. It’s my butt in the line of fire. If I was worried; I’d be outta here.’

The smack of leather paddle bouncing off her bottom is sharp but soft. Sir pops the other cheek, then back to the first. ‘Relax. If you keep tensing up, I’ll have to stop. That’s not what you want.’

‘You… you… are soooo—’

‘—Right?’

‘I was going to say… aggravating.’

Smack.

‘Fine.’

Smack.

‘I’ll relax.’

Smack.

‘Relaxing now.’

Sir’s dark, delicious chuckle, pools deep inside. The spanking continues, about as fast as the hand spanking before lunch, but more intense. No, she thinks, not intense—edgy. The blows don’t even hurt, not really; sting, yes, even bite a little, but the kind of sensation that feels really, really good when bodies are slick and words are garbled with lust. She can feel the warmth now, like a spring day when the winter coats have been packed away, and lying by the pool soaking up rays makes up for all the snow days.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

The sound is soothing. The impacts ripple up her spine and down into her vagina. She shakes her arms out, trying to cool the sheen glazing her skin.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

As the spanks mount up, and the heat spreads until it covers the entire surface of her bottom, something, with jerks and lurches, starts uncoiling in her muscles. Tensions she’s be clinging to for so long she’s forgotten how and when they arrived, ease with flashes of buried pain.

She wiggles.

He stops.

Without conscious thought, she bows her back and presses upwards in a silent plea.

A faint whisper tickles her ear. ‘Good girl.’

Smack. Smack. Smack.

Tamara sighs out with a pleased smile and drops her shoulders with relief.

Don’t stop spanking me, Sir.

In her mind, she hears his reply to her unspoken desire.

‘I won’t.’

To read all the Kismet of Submission episodes in order, please go to this page for individual links.

Kismet of Submission: Episode 11

Tamara receives another hug from Susan, this time in farewell, and Sir nods; then follows back out into the real world of endless possibilities. Her stride is quick and choppy, shoulders hunched as if fighting against a stiff headwind and flaying hail. She senses Sir closing in and panics. ‘Air. I need air.’

Fixated on the glowing green EXIT sign, she plows through the meandering crowds, adrenaline dumping to facilitate her mindless flight goaded by a single word.

Run.

The late afternoon heat slams into chilled body as she bolts through the glass doors out onto the curved concrete concourse. She pivots right and trots past the line of vehicles picking up passengers. A wide pillar beckons. Tamara abruptly stops. Knuckles scrape the rough surface when she covers her face and leans forward.

Over the sound of her thumping pulse, she becomes aware of music: Bollywood dances forth from taxis to her left. She peers over; men in bright shirts, baggy trousers and rubber sandals chain-smoke and passionately converse in rapid Hindi, briefly subsiding whenever a fare arrives.

The urge to get in and flee is so strong; she takes a step toward the first cab at the stand. She hears him, nearby, but not crowding her.

Sir coughs and clears his throat. ‘Would you like your purchases before you leave?’

Tamara grips her elbows and shivers despite the heat. ‘I’m scared.’

‘I know.’

‘I can’t think. I’m… hopeless.’

‘You know what I think, Tamara?’

‘No. What?’

‘I think, you and I, should go back to the hotel bar, get a refreshing ice cold adult beverage, and chill out with a cuddle.’

Tamara lets out a helpless giggle. ‘Oh, Sir.’

Sir holds out his right hand, palm up, and, after a deep sigh and shrug, she allows him to tug her back from the edge of panic. The contact of their entwined fingers is searing.

Drone-like, we fly above his car returning as a homing pigeon to the hotel. Our pulses too, slow, as the sedan idles at red lights and turns into the parking lot. Dusk is fast approaching from the east, while off to the south, dark clouds sail close to the cool wind promising rain later in the evening. We skip past their entry, and slip inside his—their—room to lurk in the corner. We’d like to see some action soon, maybe another spanking or even sex. This emotional stuff is hard to read. The metallic ‘snick’ of the swiped cardkey and they enter.

Sir sets her bags on the quasi-desk/table while Tamara juggles her purse and two bottles of local craft beer.

‘You know, Sir, that this so-called craft beer is actually brewed by one of the conglomerates.’

‘Really?’

‘It used to be a small operation, but the owners sold when a rainmaker made an offer,’ she lowers her voice to gravelly growl and sneers, ‘youz can’t refuze.’

Sir laughs. ‘You do that pretty well.’

‘Thanks. Insomnia and late-night cable.’ She twists the caps off, and hands over his beer.’ Tilting the beverages, they cross brown bottles with a clink and toast. ‘Cheers.’

He slugs down half the malt, and wipes the foam from his lips. Kicking his shoes off, he retrieves the remote, and clicks on the wall-mounted television. The screen pops up to the default setting of hotel advertising and a local business scrawl. He glances at the plastic channel guide.

‘I’m going to freshen up.’

He grunts and drinks, eyes never leaving the rapidly scrolling pictures flashing by as the numbers climb into the double digits.

Tamara rolls her eyes. ‘Men.’

As she opens the bathroom door and heads towards the bed, the familiar theme and the announcement, ‘This is Sportscenter’, causes yet another sigh and slump of the shoulders. She tugs down the corner of the king-size bedspread and fluffs the pillow behind her head. Sipping, as he sets his empty down, she pretends to be engrossed in the afternoon baseball highlights. She sighs again.

‘Bored?’

‘Nope.’

He harrumphs. ‘We could watch something else.’

‘This is fine.’ She rubs the back of her neck and spins the pillow ninety-degrees, then folds it in half. ‘You did say the remote is yours… and… you’re the Dom… sooooo… I’ll just sit here… being quiet… and submissive… don’t mind me… yup… I do love me some double play action… ooooh… a homerun! A dinger! A bleacher burner blast! A round tripper! A base clearer! A—ack!’ She squawks as Sir pounces on her. ‘Don’t spill my beer!’

Sir nips the bottle away, and crouches over her. He notes her breath is fast and her pupils dilated. His hands rest on the fuzzy blanket, close to, but not touching her ribs. ‘Somebody is being bratty.’

‘No, Sir. Everything is fine. I’ll be quiet now.’ With a clenched teeth grin, Tamara looks up at him and nods emphatically.

He reaches down and gently strokes her cheek with the backs of his fingers. ‘Are you sure? That you’re fine?’

Tamara nods again and blinks rapidly as her eyes swell with moisture. As she breaks into halting sobs, Sir scoops her up, cradling her tight against his chest with her hands curled at his pecs. He strokes her back in long sweeps with one hand, rocking ever so slightly with his chin pressed to her temple. He can still smell her shampoo.

The talking heads natter on.

His shirt is wet.

She apologizes, dabbing at the dampness.

He pops up, opens the travel size tissue box and plucks out half the contents with one pull.

‘You don’t know your own strength,’ she says with shaky humor.

‘It’s my superpower. Don’t tell anyone. Next thing you know, I’ll be in bathrooms across America hanging toilet paper, roll’s end facing up.’

‘Everyone knows the end hangs down, Sir!’

Tamara wipes her face and blows her nose. He holds out a palm, she drops the used tissues and he pivots, shooting them towards the wastebasket. It bounces off the rim… and drops in.

‘Nice shot!’

‘Top Ten list for sure.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You know, I was thinking…’

‘Yes…’

‘Well, considering the stress you’re feeling, Tamara, I think—I know—you could benefit right about now from a good spanking.’

To read all the Kismet of Submission episodes in order, please go to this page for individual links.