The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 28)

“By the time I could walk, I’d been passed around like a rotten turnip to so many relatives, I didn’t want to be with any of them. Our home burned to the ground, my father with it, when I was fifteen. He was an angry drunkard who beat me whenever he could. So I got good at running and hiding.” I lay back down and threw my arm across her breasts. “How did you end up here?” Louisa sighed. “My mother’s second cousin knew His lordship, whether he knew the extent of the depravity that occurs here I don’t know.”

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 9 (Part 27)

My legs trembled as if I’d run miles to escape my past. Damp cloths wiped sensitive skin and finally, when we lay on our backs, lamp extinguished and skittering pulses normal, we held hands and dreamed about the life we wanted to have. “Do you want children, Ruby?” My reply, ‘Doesn’t every woman?’ elicited a sardonic sounding snort. “Not this woman. Being rutted upon, swelling up like a melon, then likely dying nine months later is not something I crave.” I turned on my elbow to face her. “Not every mother dies in childbirth.” Her voice was flat. “Mine did.”

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.

Not pining for the old days

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

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

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


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

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

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 20

Don’t you love the expression “crack of dawn”? Or daybreak? There is something ancient in our DNA that longs for sunlight and celebrates each morning rise as if it was the first time. When the dark night—unless a full moon or for most of us, light pollution that washes out the stars—gradually gives way to pastel streamers racing with giddy abandon over the eastern horizon, our hearts beat a little quicker and our souls rejoice. There was however, no rejoicing in room 425, at least from Tamara’s side of the bed.

‘What time is it?’ comes a gruff growl from under the covers.

‘Quarter to five.’

‘In the morning?’ comes an incredulous query muffled by a pillow.

‘In my experience, Tamara, morning often follows night.’

‘It’s still dark outside!’ comes a petulant wail now unencumbered by fabric.

‘I know. I apologize. I neglected to tell you that I have to be at the venue by seven thirty to set up my meet-and-greet stall. It’s from nine until noon, and I have to stop for breakfast first. I’ve already showered again—sorry for waking you.’

‘You were going to leave me here?’ comes the upset voice in a face turned visible by the bedside lamp. ‘Just walk out on me without asking what I wanted?’


‘No! No, Sir.’ Tamara swings her legs out of bed and stands up, briefly forgetting that she’s naked. Reflexively she hunches, covering her chest and pubis, but dropping her arms when realizing she can’t argue without gesticulating. ‘Did you decide suddenly that I’m a liability: A whack job too unstable to trust? Was I going to at least get a parting gift? Maybe some cold, hard cash in a tidy envelope as thanks for services rendered? Well? Well?’ By this time, red-faced and strident, Tamara is right up in his business giving him what for.

Sir gently captures her accusatory fingers jabbing his chest and pulls her into a firm embrace. ‘Shhh… listen to me, Tamara. I was on my way to the lobby to get some coffee and pastries. I figured you’d need caffeine and sugar in order to get going this morning. After I got back—then I was going to explain the schedule and offer you the choice of helping me, or letting you have the car to spend some time on your own. Nothing nefarious nothing devious; I didn’t and don’t want you to feel coerced into staying with me, either today or next week.’

‘Oh.’ Tamara’s voice is remorseful and quickly turns tearful. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I ruined everything… again. I’m hopeless and such a complete fuck-up. I don’t understand why you’re so patient with me, if I were you, I’d beat the crap out of me and toss me into the hallway on my ass. I don’t deserve you, Sir. I never will.’

‘Much as I’d like to discuss how very, very wrong you are, now is not the time for another lesson in submission.’ Kissing her forehead he orders her into the bathroom. ‘Go. Wash up. I’ll be back in a jiffy and I expect you to be on your best behavior. I’ll deal with your misconception before we leave… but, Tamara, we will leave… together… and I don’t want to hear anymore BS about what a horrible person you are. Clear?’

Very softly Tamara agrees. ‘Yes, Sir.’


‘An infinitesimal down payment on the punishment you owe from last night and this morning. Be prepared for a very sore bottom, young lady, when Sir returns. Is that clear?’

‘YES, SIR!’ she barks out. Saluting, she marches towards the door, pivots on her heel and stomps into the bathroom. Standing at attention, two red handprints on her butt, she waits until Sir says, ‘at ease, soldier’ then bends over to turn on the taps.

She takes the faster shower in history—peeing in the tub to speed things along—and brushes her teeth like a weed-whacker gone berserk. Unsure if Sir wants her dressed, she snips the tags off the shortest skirt she bought yesterday, and pulls a plain black T-shirt over her damp hair. The dirty bra and panties she tosses in the bag. Going commando always revs her libido.

The cardkey clicks and the handle rotates. Without hesitation, Tamara sinks to her knees and bows her head.

What we see—and she can’t—is Sir’s expression of amazement. Whether it’s the fact that he’s only been gone ten minutes, or her submissive posture, we’re not sure. What is clear though, is the unsubtle change in his demeanor. Up until now, he’s been very gentle and accommodating with her foibles. It’s time for the Dom to take charge.

Sir collects his thoughts and rearranges the schedule. The tray with breakfast is set aside. The packed suitcase is unzipped, the paddle retrieved. ‘Stand up, Tamara.’

She complies, head still bowed.

‘Turn around, bend over the chair and place your palms flat on the seat.’

After she’s in position, Sir tells her to look up. ‘Do you see the coffee and pastries?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Do you deserve them?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Why not?’

Tamara’s throat swells with shame. ‘Because I’m a bad girl, Sir. I stole your car and yelled at you.’

‘So you deserve punishment for your actions?’

She can barely choke out the words. ‘Yes, Sir.’

‘I see.’ There is a long pause as he raises her skirt—and his eyebrows—revealing her bare bottom. ‘I see. It seems you wish forgiveness.’

Crying now, she manages to stammer, ‘Y-yes, Sir. Please forgive me.’

He notices her flinch when he rests the cool paddle on her backside. ‘Remember, Tamara, use the word red if it’s too difficult to take.’ He pulls back his arm, and before he strikes, adds an admonishment. ‘And, darling, it’s not me who needs to forgive, it’s you who needs to forgive yourself for believing you have no worth.’

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 9 (Part 25)

I was a puddle by the time she finished. Urging me on my back, she maneuvered her waist until her furry nest loomed in my blurry vision. Simultaneously, we feasted. My nostrils inhaled her rosebud. My thumb, slick with saliva, wiggled inside her bum. My lips suckled her fleshly folds, teeth gently gnawed and limber tongue stretched deep inside her pussy then mercilessly lashed her clit. She returned the favor as we snuffled like pigs rooting for truffles. My face was soaked with her essence. Her shuddery cries of passion vibrated in my secret garden. We reaped what we sowed.

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 9 (Part 24)

Persistently pressing pliable petals with furled tongue, repeated efforts will cause the rubbery exit to yield slightly. Combined with the heady aroma wafting from the adjacent pussy, the scents and tastes drive one mad with lust. Louisa lapped and drilled my virgin anus, while her nose rubbed my clit, and delved inside my wet cunt. By the time she ceased her licking, I’d spent twice and lay there facedown wondering if I’d ever be able move again. Greased palms swirled the paste across my globes from meridian to poles. “Harder,” I whispered, the pressure on my bruises causing deep moans.

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 9 (Part 22)

Louisa sounded bitter. “I doubt I’ll ever marry. Who would want such a wretch as I?” I seized her hands in mine. “Then you will come with me. We will all live together and you, my beloved, will be my dearest friend, confidante and wanton lover.” She pulled back and vigorously shook her head. “That will never work, Ruby.” I sniffed and said, “Yes, it will. On our Sunday afternoon outing, I will simply tell Chester that you are to be my bosom companion.” Her face remained skeptical: I resumed our interrupted coitus with a reminder my bum needed attention.

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.