The VERY LAST! Kismet of Submission: Episode 25

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

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

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

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

‘But what if she makes a mistake?’

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


‘No. Mine.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sir doesn’t believe that.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


‘I know, baby, I know.’

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 10 (Part 15)

My pride stinging more than my cheeks, I gazed at her silk slippers and braced myself for more abuse. She growled; like a spoiled lap dog to a suitor. Surprised, I raised my chin daring her to hit me again. Fingers reached out, stroked my jaw and then her mouth crushed my lips, tongue slithering past my teeth and subduing my anger. I thought I understood her confusion, so meekly submitted as she sought to reestablish her dominance. When she released me—with reluctance it seemed—she was once more the distant and haughty Miss Frothinglips. The afternoon became stranger.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 10 (Part 14)

While she presumably cleaned, I did the same, wiping dry the floor and the stool. When I finished, I brushed off my uniform, stood at attention and waited. Wearing a long dressing gown trimmed with satin ribbons and floral embroidery, she strode, not towards her vanity to finish her daily ritual, but instead, without any warning, reached out and slapped me across my unsuspecting cheek. “Do not presume, Ruby, to seek liberties where none are offered.” Shocked at the vehemence more than the blow across my face, I must have expressed my inner smugness. SLAP! My head rocked once more.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 10 (Part 13)

Forcing her surrender had consequences, but even though in her frenzy she shoved me backwards arse-over-teakettle, inside I was smirking at her loss of control. Perhaps you believe I was naively being exploited, but I assure you, even then I knew my sensual prowess and submissiveness were the keys to a secure future. It was only fickle fortune that I loved every sexual aspect of unbridled lust. While awareness seeped back into her eyes, I remained seated on the floor awaiting her next desire. I pretended to notice neither her unsteady gait nor her destination of the enclosed water closet.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 10 (Part 12)

I felt the ripples of her climax. She sprayed my face. A trembling hand clamped my skull. My open mouth forced to drink. My tongue delved deeper. Her pert bottom rose. I jabbed two fingers to replace my thumb lifting in unison with her gyrations. If she was still quiet, at least her body was not quiescent. Her writhing limbs, her rapid breath, the clenching of internal muscles all betrayed her lustful nature. How many consecutive orgasms I wrung from her oh-so-sophisticated aristocratic cunt, I do not now remember, but it was Miss Frothinglips who conceded the amatory field first.

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.

Here be Dragons!

beneath the down, warm slick ridges yield to pressure, fingers tracing the lines written with rattan
curving up the slope, straining for the summit, plunging off the crest deep into the shadowed depths
the geography of your body is a cartographer’s dream, all thoroughly explored by disciplined surveying

paper crackles when I step
an old Esso map
creases worn thin
a souvenir of our last road trip, back when we had few responsibilities and fewer cares, our only goals to fuck
then fuck some more

sliding under the covers, morning cock crowing, driving forward between the parted hillocks
remembering the first time we plunged into Terra Incognita, the dark tunnel resisting eager efforts
the hiss you make now, reminds me of the hot springs, a memory of long ago when a map still excited us

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 24

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

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

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

‘M_ A_?’

Even in her mind, Tamara censors his name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘He’s such a—’


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

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

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

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

‘He’s working.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You’re not my Dom either!’

‘No, but I am submissive.’

‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean!’

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

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

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

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

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

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