You so titanic girl—

—you go down easier than scotch on rocks!

I earned my knee pads the old-fashioned way: by gobbling cocks whenever and wherever I could. It wasn’t my fault. The compulsion was in the locked collar around my neck. Everyone thought I was somebody’s slave: they were correct, but that wasn’t even the worst part.

This was:
“Hey Ti! You’re cell is hopping around the room! What kinda fuckin’ battery you got in that thing?”
Ti—short for Titania—that’s me; couldn’t answer the call, or speak for that matter, cause I had a hard prick down my gullet and the frat boy wasn’t about to let me up for air. Not that I needed to breathe or anything. *sarcasm* I shoved a finger up his ass, my manicured nail scraping as I tweaked his prostate. Finally! He shot his wad, and I pushed him aside, ignoring the rug burns on my tits as I dove for my phone.
“What?!”
“I said I’d be there! Taking a fucking chill! I’ve got two hours!”
“And who’s fault is that?”
“Thought so.”
“Well, next time you pork a chick, use a fucking condom!”
“Whatever.”
I punched ‘end call’ wishing it was my fist to his face. Jackass. I popped to my feet and gathered my clothing—little of it as there was—and surveyed the six guys staring at me in confusion mixed with lust. I smirked and pulled my T-shirt over my head and the miniskirt up my legs.
“It’s been fun boys, but I gotta run. Daddy is getting impatient. Wouldn’t want lightning bolts to hit the frat house, now would we?”
I wiggled my fingers as I left. The spell dusted the room and their faces become slack and sleepy.
“One down… one to go,” I muttered before shivering in the cool early morning/late night air. I wished I’d brought a jacket, but I hadn’t expected to stay this late. Flashing through my messages, and pulling up the ride-share app, I was about to summon a driver when a sleek, low-slung little number eased to the curb with a restrained crackle of suppressed exhaust.
“Need a lift, little lady?”
In the dark shadows beyond the LED streetlamps, the voice couldn’t see my smile, but the sugar sweet drawl I affected slipped into his brain like a stiletto. “That depends where you’re headed.”
“I’d say it was wherever you needed to go.”
Sauntering over to the open window, I placed my forearms on the sill and tugged my shirt lower so that my boobs peeked out. I saw his eyes drop to my puckered nipples and slowly travel up to the braided gold choker with the platinum lock around my neck. Naturally, it chose that moment to shock me with a quick flash of pale bluish light and a soft buzz. I winced: I always did. I sensed the moment when realization caught up with his arousal.
Pointing at my neck, he asked with wary eyes, “Your Master?”
“No,” I said with unfeigned weariness, “My father.”
“What kind of sick monster would do that to his own kid?”
“S.O.P. for Zeus.”
“Zeus?”
“Yup.”
“As in the Zeus?”
I shuddered again as the biting shocks from my collar came stronger and closer together. “Look. I’d love to shoot the breeze ’til the cows come home, but I need a favor. Usually I have someone picked out for this, but I ran long at the frat house. I need you to spank me.”
“Spank you?”
“Yes, spank me. Trust me, this fucking collar is a helluva lot more painful than anything you could dish out on my ass.”
“Why—”
“Because Zeus is an evil controlling sadist. He wants me home permanently, so when I refused his version of parental visitation, he welded an irremovable compulsion collar that zaps me whenever I go too long without sex and spanking. He’s trying to slut shame me into moving back in with him and my half-siblings.”
“Sounds like a routine night on campus to me,” he snorted.
“Yeah, well, Daddy dearest, for all his power, doesn’t get out much. He can’t use anything electronic without frying the circuits, so he’s stuck in the newspaper dark age.”
“Poor guy… not!”
“He’s still a mother fucker—literally. He’s got bastards sprayed all over the cosmos. So, again, it’s nice to chit-chat, but you need to get all busy up on my butt.”
I spread ’em, just like in the cop shows, yanking up my mini waiting to get frisked with my palms down on the rear sheet metal. Hissing as I got shocked again, I yelped, “Hurry up, dammit!”
“Why are telling me all this?”
“Because you won’t remember any of this! Now spank me!”
“Hmmmm,” he replied, fondling my perfect curvaceous bubble butt.
Expecting the normal half-assed effort, instead, from the very first smack, his hard hand did a beat down on my bare arse that was crisp and proficient. It hurt so good, but needed to be much harder in order to reset the collar. “Harder. You need to hit me harder.”
Pressing my willing shoulders down, he slid an arm around my waist, tucked a knee under and hoisted my bottom at an acute angle. The contrast of cold air sweeping up between my wet parted thighs and the heat shimmering off my ass as he pounded away brought me to the teetering edge of orgasm.
“Next time I’ll make sure I have a paddle. How often do you have to do this?”
I gasped as a shock hit once more. “Every day! Except tomorrow, because I’ll be home for my monthly summons and hectoring.”
“Then I’ll see you the day after.” He was silent again as he concentrated on basting my sit spots. Pausing to blow on his palms, he asked, slightly out of breath, “Are we close?”
Panting as well, I said, “Close. A couple of minutes super fast and hard should turn off the shocks. Don’t hold back… please!”
True to form, my collar flashed purple after a short barrage of heavy impacts on my burning hot butt. I slumped in relief as his hand stopped spanking and turned to caressing. I checked the time—I still had twenty minutes—noting he deserved a reward for his diligent efforts. Lifting up my hips, I waggled and opened my thighs even wider trying to entice his fingers, then his erection I knew was aching to slide inside.
Instead though, he put me on my feet, pulled down my skirt and enfolded me in a tight hug. Very confused, his warm exhalations stirred my wispy hair.
“You okay?” he whispered.
Involuntary tears sprang up and I could only nod.
“I’d like to see you again.”
“You won’t remember.”
“Why?”
“I have to erase your memories.”
“Is that part of the curse?”
“No… it’s just easier for me to deal.”
“What’s your name?”
“Titania.”
“Nice.”
“I got to go.”
“Okay. See you around.”
His sports car started with a deep snarl, and slowly pulled away down the street, the bright red taillights flaring as he braked at the stop sign, then disappeared as he turned right. I raised my arm, not to release the spell, but to wave au revoir. For the first time in centuries, I smiled with genuine affection. “See you soon… George. Bring your paddle and your stamina. It’s going to be a titanic date.”

titanic: of exceptional strength, size, or power.
ORIGIN mid 17th cent. (in the sense ‘relating to the sun’): from Greek titanikos, from Titan (see Titan)
Titan: 1 Greek Mythology any of the older gods who preceded the Olympians and were the children of Uranus (Heaven) and Gaia (Earth). Led by Cronus, they overthrew Uranus; Cronus’ son, Zeus, then rebelled against his father and eventually defeated the Titans.
• (as noun, usu. a titan) a person or thing of very great strength, intellect, or importance: a titan of American industry.

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 8

As she stumbles out of the room, we can see Tamara appears to be dazed. The graphic and clinical lecture about safe anal, glossed over the emotional aspects of an act that for many is taboo. Informative—yes—but neither of the panelists offered an explanation as to why someone would want to be fucked up the ass in the first place. If we could read Tamara’s mind—which as omnipresent narrators we can—her thoughts are circling this very central thought. Mechanics and preparation aside, very little about anal sex is titillating to her. In her fantasy, Sir has spanked her again, and is mounting her from behind in her wet pussy. The metal process is tricky: we can’t experience pain in dreams, but the emotions lash us all the same. Tamara’s primary emotion is confusion. She’s certainly intelligent enough to realize that under the right circumstances, she might find herself acquiescing to his cock in her rectum; but the reasons why remain elusive. Being taken passively versus participating in your own ravishment would make her complicit in her own debauchment. That; is a terrifying realization and she quickly shunts the observation into a strongbox labeled, anal; and shoves it in the overflowing closet of ‘things to resolve later’.

He waits for her in the hall after taking a quick pit stop, and they purchase drinks at a nearby kiosk. He refuses to give back her bags, and instead offers his free elbow for her to hold. She gives him an up-and-under glance with the slightest of headshakes and hooks her left forearm through the gap.

As they walk—his stride shortened—she continues to ponder about anal. ‘If I said yes, and that’s a big if, what would you do first?’

‘To anal?’ At her jerky nod, he frowns. ‘Well, it depends on the situation. Is it after a spanking, during vaginal sex, or a standalone experiment? If the latter, then a hot shower, likely a drink to relax the nerves, lots of touching and kissing, followed by prep and slow and cautious penetration.’

‘And the first two scenarios?’

He gives her a dominant smile. ‘Part of spanking is punishing the anus. A few sharp slaps that sting, and thumb and fingers rotating and spreading you open. As with intercourse, the next thing you’d feel would be my tongue licking and twirling across your wet pucker. Being turned on makes the thought of kissing your ass that much hotter.’

‘So… you… wouldn’t clean first?’

He leans closer and whispers in her ear. ‘No, Tamara, in the middle of sex, my mouth waters at the thought of suckling your tight, bitterly sweet earthy tangy butthole. I only wish my tongue was six inches long so that I fuck inside your ass with my mouth and lick you clean.’

Tamara shudders and her panties dampen at the raw erotic vision of her ass up with Sir’s face burrowing between her red-hot cheeks. If that’s being submissive, it’s a whole ‘nother level of kink she’s never considered. She clenches deep inside when she flips the script and realizes the distance between a blowjob and servicing her Dom’s ass is razor thin. Oh my God! What have I gotten myself into!

Squeezing her arm against his side, he chuckles quietly. ‘Long, slow, wet sweeps burrowing inside you. Just think, I’m very curious to find out how your pussy tastes too.’ He holds her up as she misses a step. ‘Oh look. Here we are. “Submission: not just for doormats anymore.”’

Tamara breaths out, the wetness and tingling between her thighs growing with every sordid image his words create. She can’t even focus on the woman standing at the door welcoming her guests.

‘By the way, you may not be a submissive—yet—but you are, and never were a doormat. No woman is.’

‘Welcome, my friends!’ the woman calls out. ‘Are you here for my little performance?’

We do a classic double take. So tuned into the lures cast upon the waters by Sir, only now do we take in the full impact of the woman. Hippy-chic is our first visceral reaction. A shade under six feet, gray hair tied back in a long ponytail falling to mid-back, she’s wearing a peasant blouse in turquoise and an ankle length pleated dress in rich canary yellow; cinched at the waist with a wide cinnamon braided sash. Her smile… it lights up the hall: We—and they—feel as if she’s a friend known for our entire lives. She radiates peace and goodwill with outstretched hands.

Her touch sends sparks through Tamara’s palms. ‘Yes,’ she stammers. ‘We are here for your lecture. Sir wanted to attend.’

‘Wonderful. It is always lovely to have audience input from established couples.’

He raises her knuckles to his lips, placing a light kiss. ‘Thank you, for the gracious welcome, Susan. This beautiful woman is Tamara. We are… negotiating, at present, and are not yet a couple. I am a Dom, whether she is a submissive, never mind my submissive, is in progress. I hope your lecture will be informative for her.’

‘My, my, aren’t you a polished one.’

‘I do my best.’

‘I am sure you do. Please, enter and pick out a seat. I will explain the gift box when all have arrived.’

More people are here than at the previous lecture, and the few pairs of seats left, are all in the front row. He leads Tamara by her wrist, his raised eyebrow at her quizzical expression the only other overt representation of his dominance. Picking up the beribboned four inch square silver and gold wrapped boxes on the seats, he waits until she sits before handing over one. They can’t resist shaking them and exchange silly grins.

‘Thank you all for attending, “Submission: not just for doormats anymore.” You may have noticed the gift boxes.’ Susan laughs along with her audience. ‘The reason is very simple. Please remove the tops and take out the contents.’

There is a sustained soft rustle, followed by low confused murmurs.

Submission… is a gift. Given and received freely. On each of the three sticky notes, please write a word or phrase representing what submission means to you. When you are done, please come forward and place them on this whiteboard.’

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

Put your money where the butt is

If you had the cachet, and if you’d received an engraved R.S.V.P. invitation on heavyweight cream bond via special courier; and if you drooled over a Vintage Art item in the accompanying full color glossy catalogue, then you would find yourself prior to the appointed time here, looking up at the gleaming ebony door and polished gold lion’s head knocker of 37 Birch Trace Run.

Upon entry, coats and electronic devices surrendered to the charming hostess, who in return for your custom and deposit, hands you a black leather paddle the size of two hands cupped together; embossed with raised numerals ranging from one to twenty-five, in various colors comprised of lacquered brass studs; the handles stamped with the words The SafeworD/s Club in crimson gilt italic.

The main lounge is two stories high, a balcony runs around three sides overlooking numerous plush chairs and sofas; the fourth wall forms the backing to the long mahogany bar: a mirror bursts forth into a painted mural above the shelves stocked with malted beverages and distilled spirits dispensed by staff in neat uniforms.

A closed oval railing fills the middle of the room surrounding the elevated platform and dais, the oak top wide enough for resting elbows, and cocktail napkins soaking with beaded perspiration on cut crystal tumblers filled with amber liquid and ice rocks; goblets and wine glasses contain rare and expensive vintages from discreet vineyards labeled with hand drawn Châteaux.

The houselights dim, then blink twice; murmuring conversations gradually give way to anticipation and the clumps of watchers coalesce along the rail as the auctioneer’s assistants place the first item on the easel, the platform rotating slowly so that all patrons can admire Lot #1, and prepare for the bidding to benefit various charitable organizations.

A symphony of metallic rattles is heard over the soft jazz playing from hidden speakers as half the audience is shackled by wrist and ankle cuffs to eyelets screwed into the rail and the brass footrest that curves along the base; there is a dress code of course, Doms in formal black, subs at a minimum bare bottomed, up to completely nude per the choices made before arrival.

“Lot #1. We have an Art Deco natural pink pearl choker with silver clasp. Who will start the bidding at one thousand? Do I have one thousand? Do I have seven-fifty? Who will give five hundred?”

WHACK!

“Five hundred it is. Do I have six hundred?”

WHACK!

“Thank you, ma’am. Six hundred is bid. Do I have seven hundred?”

WHACK!

“Seven hundred! How about eight?”

WHACK!

“Eight. Nine?”

WHACK!

“I have nine from the gentleman with paddle 15. Can I have one thousand?”

WHACK!

“Thank you, sir. One thousand is bid. Who will give fifteen hundred? Do I have fifteen hundred; fifteen hundred for this stunning Art Deco pink pearl necklace? Fifteen hund—”

WHACK!

“Fifteen hundred is bid! Do I have two thousand? Two thousand give me two thousand.”

WHACK!

“Thank you ma’am. Two thousand to paddle number twenty-three, two thousand is bid! Who will give three? Three thousand three thousand. Who will give three thousand? Three thousand three thousand. Yes, sir? Two thousand five hundred is bid!”

WHACK!

“I have two thousand five hundred, two thousand five hundred is bid. Who gives two seven fifty? Two seven fifty, two seven fifty, two seven fifty, two seven fifty. Two thousand five hundred going once! Two thousand five hun—“

WHACK!

“Two thousand seven hundred and fifty! Sir, you are out. I need three, give me three and it’s all yours. Three, three, going once. Two thousand sev—“

WHACK!

“Three thousand is bid to paddle number 15. Three thousand, do I have four! Four, four, anyone for four thousand? Three thousand five hundred, I’ll take three thousand five hundred. Three thousand going once…. three thousand going twice…”

BANG

“Sold to paddle 15. Lot #1 sold for three thousand. Thank you, sir. Our next item, Lot #2, a landscape oil painting dated 1871 in the Hudson Valley School style by Richard Barnhart. Start the bidding at five thousand, who will give five thousand?”

WHACK!

By the end of the evening, every exposed bottom was nicely red with the Dom’s number imprinted every time their submissive placed a bid. Some of the items drew frenzied competition, the resounding WHACKS echoing off the bar mirror as numerous subs—wanting to prove they could take the most whacks—ran up the price in rapid fire paddling while they could naught but wiggle and shuffle in their steel bondage. All in all, a very successful fundraising and hundreds of Vintage Art items found loving homes purchased with warm leather on hot flesh. Topping from the bottom never felt so good.

The high bidder pays dearly. Kalidwen.©

Drawing provided by Kalidwen: contact via blog if interested in commissioning work.

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

It wasn’t called Willendorf back then

This week’s prompt for Wicked Wednesday is, Venus in Furs after the erotic novel published in 1870. I don’t recall ever reading it—if I did, it left no impact—and besides that, it wasn’t the first thing that popped in my head when I read the prompt. This was:

Venus of Willendorf

From Wikipedia: The Venus of Willendorf is an 11.1-centimetre-high (4.4 in) Venus figurine estimated to have been made between about 28,000 and 25,000 BCE.[1] It was found in 1908 by a workman named Johann Veran[2] or Josef Veram[3] during excavations conducted by archaeologists Josef Szombathy, Hugo Obermaier and Josef Bayer at a paleolithic site near Willendorf, a village in Lower Austria near the town of Krems.[4][5] It is carved from an oolitic limestone that is not local to the area, and tinted with red ochre. The figurine is now in the Naturhistorisches Museum in Vienna, Austria.

My next reaction to the prompt was Lupercalia and the ancient concept of whipping to chase away evil spirits or to ensure fertility. There were and still are many cultures and places that have some variation of spring festivals echoing much older rituals of blood and appeasement to stern gods. [See Czech Easter whipping or Dominican Mardi Gras]

So imagine if you will, the above Venus as the leader of her tribe; perhaps a medicine woman, or mate to the strongest warrior. Now, it is nearing the solstice, winter has been harsh, some have died; the oldest and youngest: the shamans seek migrating herds in the spirit world while the remaining food is portioned out for the survival of all. They have fire, a large stack of dead-fall saved for this occasion when the snow has melted off the lowlands and green shoots are pushing up through fertile soil. The flames roar into the night sky, distant green and yellow eyes glow as the predators slink away hungry. The drums beating a steady pulse of rumbling noise, the flutes whistling while dancers stamp around the crackling pine boughs. Suddenly, the eerie moaning of flat bone on a string whirled above by spinning arms heralds the arrival of Venus in furs…

She appeared—as she had for the last fifteen springs—in a billowing cloud of red ochre tossed down by acolytes from the overhanging granite that loomed out over the winter camp. It drifted like snow, whirling in the heat of the bonfire and settling as ash upon the dancers, soon turning to scarlet streaks as the sweat mingled with the sacred powder. It fell too, on the smooth limestone slab supported by mammoth feet and centered within four large tusks at the cardinal points; the tips meeting above and lashed together with leather thongs. The carved ivory glowed deep orange.

Helga raised her arms to the stars above, the heavy cave bear pelt spilling off like a dark waterfall; her head covered by the furry mask of an ursine face snarling with bared teeth. The music built to a crescendo as she prayed out loud to the gods of her people, then slowly ebbed as the frenzy eased: there was silence by the time she’d finished chanting. She walked with slow, deliberate tread towards the altar, her cloak rippling leaving behind a wake of flesh tingling power that raised hairs on bare limbs.

Blessing each tusk in turn by grasping with powdered fingers and a firm kiss, she then poured hot water over the limestone and slid her palms in an intricate pattern until the surface turned red. She turned towards her dwelling and beckoned with upraised hands. All but her, knelt on one knee and bowed heads as the two bound figures were brought forth into the wavering light. Helga knew from her teachings that in the not-too-distant past, the slab would have been drenched with blood, instead of ochre dug from the earth. These were enlightened times, compared to the savage ancestors they still revered, but did not always follow.

The young man and woman were at their peak of physical perfection. Selected the previous autumn by contests of skill and prowess, they’d been given the best of provisions and pampered through the long, cold winter months. Now it was their time to give back to the community through sacrifice in hopes of a fertile summer of plenty. Naked, they’d been oiled and shaved completely bare, then painted with elaborate tribal markings and secret tattoos that would send the shaman’s messages, when activated, directly to the spirit world. Helga was responsible for the activation. She carried out her duty via a multi-thong whip created with soft strips of leather from every type of animal killed and consumed the prior year.

Led to the altar, the man and woman were secured facing each other with wrists high at the top of curved tusks, while ankles were spread and wrapped around the base where the ivory posts sank deep into the soil. Helga tugged on each rope making sure the pair could not escape or slump to the ground. She checked each and every mark to make sure all were correct. When she finished her inspection, she once more raised her arms and chanted, this time joined by all present. The music started again when they finished. Dancers began to circle the sacrifices, each pounding the earth with a branch cut off at a wide base. The vibrations shivered through their soles. Her acolytes solemnly removed her cave bear cape and handed her the whip, the wooden handle freshly coated with red ochre. She drew back her arm—and struck on the beat.

The tribe triumphantly cried out as one as the ‘splat’ cracked in the cool night air. Helga alternated between the man and woman, each blow precise, starting at the shoulders and steadily working all the way down to the calves. Each turn around the limestone slab was slightly quicker until she was trotting, her heavy breasts wobbling, and feet kicking up puffs as she whipped past the writhing and groaning figures. The dancers too ran in a wide circle, the noise a loud roar as they witnessed the artistic designs dissolved by sweat and the remorseless whip being swung with ever increasing force upon the reddened naked backs and bottoms of the male and female. Helga stopped: the drums settled into a steady beat as the dancers slowed and then swayed in place gasping for air.

The man and woman were turned in place so that their decorated fronts now faced the whip. Helga changed the pattern. Starting with the female, she lashed the firm breasts, powder exploding in colorful poofs as the thongs impacted. Moving down, she whipped in a crisscross pattern across the abdomen, pelvis and thighs. With an upward motion, the last hard strike was between the wide stretched open thighs as the wet leather slapped against the red outlined vulva. The woman screamed as the force of the blow broke open the deer intestine capsule that had been glued in place. Blood spurted and splattered on the churned soil. Moving to the opposite side, Helga repeated her actions on the male, only this time, when the whip lashed his exposed genitals, the breaking capsule glued to his testes, gushed warm sperm in a parody of fertilization.

Their ordeal was not over yet; released from bondage, the woman was laid on her back, the damp limestone providing only slight relief to the raised welts. The man was placed on top, his flaccid penis rubbed and stroked by Helga until it became fully erect. At her command, he entered the oiled vagina with a deep thrust, the whip fell once more upon his red bottom. After twenty strokes, the entwined couple reversed and it was the woman’s turn to be lashed adding yet more red lines to her buttocks. The final position was from behind, mimicking how all the animals they observed mated. Bodies scoured, passions inflamed, nearly the entire tribe fell on each other in a massive celebratory orgy releasing the lust built by up the whipping.

Helga calmly stepped away and walked back to her abode: alone. She needed to travel deep into the spirit world to guide the tribes’ sexual energy to the proper place.

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

Inexhaustible Smorgasbord

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was their emissary.

The elevator was smooth and quiet.

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

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

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

That would be me.

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

Black Market Night by Kalidwen.©

The spanking illustration provided by the talented Kalidwen over at Kalidwen’s little spankings: Musings & fessées.

Take this woman

Next Monday, June 1st I meant May 1st, I will be posting my first monthly Spanking Newsletter, at my other blog Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction. I can’t believe I skipped the entire month of May, thinking it was June next week.

I almost missed,“The Wedding”, not because I was late, but rather, I didn’t want to be there at all. My parents played the family card—easy to do when still living at home at age twenty—not to mention, they were paying for a table. Don’t ask. I have to also say, I was not drunk, nor coerced. Maybe I overreacted, but I have no regrets.

My second cousin Sophia, the bride, told me on more than one occasion, that I carried my virginity like a shroud, doomed to don sackcloth and ashes should I ever yield to temptation and lay with a man before marriage. Her pack of hyena bridesmaids looked hideous in their bilious orange dresses: Fitting I suppose, in warped retribution for all sorts of mortal sins. Chief among them, I doubted any girl at the altar taking the Sacrament was in possession of virgo intacta. The men now… that’s when I noticed the wheat-blond and chestnut-brown heads bent close together at the end of the groomsmen row.

Zing! Went my lady parts. And when they faced the applauding throng on the way out? Let’s just say, it was a good thing I wasn’t seated on the center aisle pew, or else there would have been an embarrassing incident. I saved that for the reception.

Fast forward through the meal, the toasts, the first dance—if it wasn’t for a case of raging lust, I would have cadged a ride with my older brother, who split after the garter toss, muttering as he left, “As if I’d choose anyone here to cross-pollinate with. It’s an excuse to keep the money local and among relatives. One big circle jerk.” I pretended not to hear him.

It was while the bridesmaids were making fools of themselves performing a choreographed dance-off they thought was clever and sophisticated, when they suavely made their move. I nearly spewed my soda when they sidled up and whispered in my innocent ears, “Do you like sandwiches?” Innuendo is pointless if it goes right over your head.

Seeing me blush, they apologized and introduced themselves as younger brothers of the groom. Only slightly older than I, nevertheless, I was out their league. Seeing the raucous party setting up games of balloons and chairs, the paired off couples and hordes of children underfoot, I felt daring and suddenly tired of my shroud; so turned to my comrades and replied, “Yes, I do like sandwiches, with firm meat and mayo slathered on a toasted bun. Is there somewhere we can all eat our fill?”

What’s better than a handsome man in a tuxedo? Two handsome men bursting out of their tuxedos.

The live band chased us through the back passageways of the banquet hall, the notes spurring on our reckless flight, my purse an anchor to my previous life. We found a storage room. Chair wedged under door handle, round table legs erected in a flash, me, trembling body lifted, a man under each arm, firm bottom plopped on tabletop. Mike leaned in for a kiss; I shied at the first gate. “Sorry, I’ve not much practice.”

Patrick caressed my exposed nylon covered knee. “Are you a virgin then?”
I bit my lip and whispered ‘yes’.
Expecting high-fives and crude remarks, they shocked me by cupping my face and stroking my hot cheeks with their thick thumbs. “In that case, if you still mean yes, we’ll take care of you and make your first time special.”
The band played on: YMCA. I shifted between the hooded eyes; their expressions were at once frightening but needy. No… they were compassionate yet demanding. I channeled my inner fantasies. “Do you take this woman before you, and make her yours?”
Feather light lips brushed against mine, each in turn murmured, ‘yes’: So I surrendered. “Yes, Mike and Patrick, I want you both to make love to me.”

Ten fingers teased my curves while my mouth was plundered by two tongues rotating between kissing and nibbling my bare shoulders. Cool silk rustled as it eased down, the top of my breasts exposed, nipples suckled through the white cotton cups. Squeezed, teased, my moans of surprise swallowed by urgent mouth; my scruff held immobile. Half-naked now, each man locked onto a nipple, my hands tousling soft strands, imagining twins of my own: longing clenched hard.

‘I believe someone requested a toasted bun?’ The question slithered through my arousal. My eyelids felt heavy. Raw hunger blazed from their faces. The expressions ripped my reticence away. Unsteady, I stood up, helping hands tucked under my elbows; I turned, and bent over the table. I hissed as my rigid nipples brushed the laminate surface, a hand between my shoulders pressed me firmly down, breasts flattened. I writhed. Unbidden, my dress bunched at my waist, I raised my hips and presented my bottom.

The dual smacks caught me off guard. The instant sting had me shimmying. Again they struck; this time, one then the other, a rhythm they continued as I squirmed on the cool surface. Steady spanking over silk, they warmed my bottom and fired my passion. Lifting my dress, the wet thong no protection, the impact of flesh-on-flesh was both louder and more exciting; the knowledge that once they peeled away the skimpy fabric, they’d see what no man had ever tasted.

Hot, I was so hot. The sudden silence had me begging for more. Instead, brought vertical, my shoes discarded like my morals, the dress soon followed, and I was kneeling on their folded jackets, face-to-face with two pulsing penises. “What should I do?” asked in a tremulous tone, brought forth deep growls of ‘stroke and suck’ from my captors. My thighs widened as I grasped the warm appendages in each fist. My first reaction was sheer amazement that this was tucked away behind every pair of jeans. Then, the silky softness registered, followed by the give of the surface skin. Clear liquid seeped from the vertical slits in the helmet shaped tips. Delicately, I lapped.

Fingers twisted in my hair. I could feel the restrained trembling. I hollowed my cheeks and inhaled. Sweet and sour, the musky aroma watered my mouth: I switched, similar, yet distinct, each cock felt and tasted different in my mouth and hands. Hearing the groans and gasps from above me, I smiled with feminine delight as they tutored me on the esoteric art of the blowjob. I was a quick study.

My turn. On my back, head over the edge, cock thrusting in and out; my hips wide, tongue licking my pussy. No fantasy could ever have prepared me for the sheer decadence of oral sex. My muffled climatic scream vibrated around a leaking cock as two fingers probed inside me, and my erect clit was lashed to orgasm.

Soft conversation: A metallic ringing of coin on concrete. Pants hitting the tabletop, followed by shirts and underwear. Dazed, I could only watch as Mike sheathed himself with a condom and settled between my soaked thighs. Patrick lifted and cradled my shoulders so I could see the moment I willingly—eagerly—gave him my innocence. A fist gripped and guided, the other fingers pressed my left knee further open. Thick flesh wedged inward, stopped by my barrier. Soothing touch kissed my skittering pulse as it raced through my neck. I met his eyes: I closed mine.

Hands fondled hips and pulled me under, the sharp sting of breached virginity forced a yelp; the reluctant inner muscles yielding to masculine determination drew a groan of disbelieving astonishment when his rough hairs met mine. I wiggled and spread as wide as I could, the sensation of tight fullness felt perfect. Patrick supported my head as I dangled—once more sucking his cock, this time with reckless passion as Mike withdrew and then eased back inside. Each time was quicker and deeper, my lovers playing my flesh like a guitar, strumming my emotions and riffing on my body.

They switched: my empty pussy aching to be filled again. This time, I was rolled over, feet on the floor, bottom uppermost. Thumbs pried open my crack, teased my pucker: I flinched, then relaxed as the next covered cock slid into my wet depths. The hard tube in my mouth was not so gentle this time, rough hand lifting my chin up, the swollen head touching my tonsils. My coughs and sputters seeming to accelerate their fucking. A slapping noise. Stinging heat in my ass, repeated blows firing lust. The thrusts more ragged, the groans louder, breaths panting; a reprieve, only the slick tip held on my outstretched tongue, blurred fingers pumping. Me, up on my elbows, waiting for the nectar. An orgasm rippled around the embedded flesh touching my cervix.

My eyes crossed, suddenly there were two cocks stretching the corners of my mouth. My bottom burned, my pussy needed another come; I reached down and stroked my hard pearl. Who came first I did not know, but my mouth filled with hot, viscous fluid that tasted of home cooked pasta and pesto. The other added more flavor—the tangy spice of sex. I rolled the thick substance around my cheeks and molars. I came violently, my hips slamming the edge of the table as I shook. In order to breathe, I swallowed. Once, twice: I gasped for air—and cried when the tight grip of propriety was wiped away along with my virgin’s blood.

They cuddled me. The band played on. Our hearts slowed. I traced patterns on their slick chests. “Thank you.”

When we returned, I was shocked to see that everything looked the same. Something this momentous deserved a memorial toast. I had some wedding cake instead.

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

Corner of Main and Eternity

They say the house is haunted: They being the old-timers who remember when money meant precious metals and few had any. Some say it was a boarding house, others a bordello. Over stained dominoes and dog-eared cards they argue; each retelling set in marble effigies to a dark past none of them knew firsthand.

All that the tales could agree upon, is it involved a woman. Tall and voluptuous: No, petite and gamin, fair as the west wind; hardly, she was dusky as twilight in late summer. Short hair the color of ripe wheat whispering at sunset; it was walnut ink black and glossy as satin in a coffin.

No portrait existed of this mysterious femme fatale, unless, one was brave enough to spend the night inside the domicile, where, the old men insisted, her apparition lingered in search of new victims. It took buying several rounds though, to pries the ‘real’ tale from their lips. It seems the woman was overly fond of whips.

After a few more libations, the raunchy euphemisms curled like cigarillo smoke, forming lewd patterns on the dingy ceiling tiles. The apathetic fan blades spread the rumors: She was a vampire, a succubus, a man-stealing whore, but strangely enough, never a shrewd businesswoman, giving the punters what they wanted.

Whether or not any of the stories were true, the house on the corner of Main St and Eternity Avenue, was finally bought, renovated and turned into a suite of attorneys offices. Although, for all the lust of billable hours, it didn’t take very long for the house to be vacant early in the evenings. It seemed at least one myth was true.

Every midnight, when the ornate grandfather clock in the lobby ponderously tolled the hour, a loud crack echoed twelve times in synchronization. In the infinite gaps between the dueling sounds, faint background noises could be imagined more than heard. Ragtime piano chords, clicking glasses, loud guffaws and conversation.

Fainter still, was steady slapping, painful cries and ecstatic moans. When the time fell silent once more, the house seemed to exhale, and the walls shimmered as if from gossamer threads spun on a loom of tears and passion. The last noise one would hear, was a soft feminine chuckle as the hairs on the neck were seductively brushed by the past.

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