The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 10)

By dinner bell, I was starved, and I attacked my meal with carnivorous ferocity: Daintily, of course. Up to the schoolroom I flew on wings of romantic fancy. To my delight, Louisa was already present, and we squealed as if parted for months rather than minutes. We tried, honest, to behave with decorum and concentrate on our studies, but—we were very, very naughty I’m afraid. Unbeknownst to us, Mr. Steedstiff had received specific instructions in case of misbehavior. Caught passing notes, the other maids giggled as we were made to stand, uniforms drawn up in back, in opposing corners.

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.

Shivering due to an epiphany

I missed last week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt—foreigner—due to having no power after Hurricane Irma. Even if I had written something before the electricity was lost at 11pm Sunday night, I wouldn’t have been able to link to the prompt in time. What I found fascinating about the etymology of ‘foreign’ is that it comes from Latin meaning ‘outside’.

ORIGIN Middle English foren, forein, from Old French forein, forain, based on Latin foras, foris ‘outside,’ from fores ‘door.’ The current spelling arose in the 16th cent., by association with sovereign.

I don’t think when people talk about immigration as being an open-door policy, or closing the door on illegals, they are aware of the literary link to the past.

The current week’s prompt, eavesdropping, has an even more interesting origin. Eavesdrop is an literal word created to represent one specific action.

ORIGIN early 17th cent.: back-formation from eavesdropper (late Middle English)‘a person who listens from under the eaves,’ from the obsolete noun eavesdrop ‘the ground onto which water drips from the eaves,’ probably from Old Norse upsardropi, from ups ‘eaves’ + dropi ‘a drop.’

When you link the two prompts together you get this: Outside the door, the ground onto which water drips from the eaves was churned to muddy paste where the foreigner was eavesdropping.

As an aside, in The Fellowship Of The Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien uses this bit of dialogue quite adroitly.
‘Well, well, bless my beard!’ said Gandalf. ‘Sam Gamgee is it? Now what may you be doing?’
‘Lor bless you, Mr. Gandalf, sir!’ said Sam. ‘Nothing! Leastways I was just trimming the grass-border under the window, if you follow me.’ He picked up his shears and exhibited them as evidence.
‘I don’t,’ said Gandalf grimly. ‘It is some time since I last heard the sound of your shears. How long have you been eavesdropping?’
‘Eavesdropping, sir?’ I don’t follow you, begging your pardon. There ain’t no eaves at Bag End, and that’s a fact.’



He calls me—I am positive he thinks it’s a clever endearment—’a drowned rat’ whenever I return from my run; rain soaked. He’s never understood my passion for exercise (an obsession, is his term when he’s being nice). He’s never tried—never even asked—why it is I seek to flee and only reluctantly return. As I toweled off in the mudroom, for once, my shivers were not from being wet. It was not the runner’s high that caused the silly grin; no, it was my foolish whim to follow the strange rhythmic smacking I heard over the sound of the pelting rain and pounding footsteps of my shoes. I eavesdropped: first with caution, then shame and at the last, unabashed curiosity that led me back here, outside the door, hand raised to knock, hoping they will understand my need that seems so foreign to me.

A week prior:

“Are we clear on why you’re being spanked?”
“Yes, Sir!”
The smacking noise that had drawn me like a butterfly to pollen had ceased. I eavesdropped instead on the scolding lecture and the teary replies. His voice; stern and uncompromising, yet I heard no anger in his leading questions. Exasperation—that I sensed—but with an underlying respect and determination to teach his woman a lesson. Her voice; wheedling and needy, yet also resigned to taking her punishment like a big girl.
This big girl huddled against the building, collar upturned and hood drawn against the steady gush of water through downspouts. To those passing on the sidewalk—not that anybody else was crazy enough to run in a monsoon—would have assumed the figure in the bright yellow slicker was simply seeking rough shelter from the storm. The window above my head was open, the overhang sufficient protection from the elements; although, at the time I did not think it was odd that the drawn blinds allowed sound to radiate.
The smacking sounds resumed. I sagged against the damp brick and squatted in the puddles amidst the bundled yellow-red leaves of autumn. I folded my arms tight against the sudden twinge deep in my stomach. I felt sick, not with anguish at hearing a fellow female being spanked, but sick with envy. Her yelps and cries, her sobs and pleas; all settled in a soulful place that had never known this craving was possible. Spanking wasn’t possible; not in my current relationship, never, never, ever would I allow ‘him’ to spank me.
When the hard slaps finally ended, and the noises now competing with the splashing raindrops turned to a rhythm of a more primal nature; I crept silently away from temptation: for now. I knew then I would be back.

At present:

Laughter spills from their windows. Music, modern hits, flows out into the twilight bringing visions of a party in motion. I hesitate at the threshold. ‘He’ was gone, sent packing with no regrets, the apartment both emptier and freer without his snarky presence. I wanted answers to questions I couldn’t articulate. I had no expectations. I was naive; but willing, oh so willing to find out for myself how it felt.
So, I knock.
The laughter eases. Muffled conversation ends on a rising note of query. The door opens; warm light rushes out like puppies seeking freedom to gambol amongst the vibrant chrysanthemums; tearing off the multi-petaled heads and spreading fragmented jewels across the green carpet.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
I shiver once more.
A distant cry. “Honey? Who is it?”
A louder roar. “I don’t know! It’s a woman!”
“A woman?”
Rapid tapping of heels arrive in a whoosh of Estée Lauder. “Hi. Whatever it is you’re selling, we’re not interested, dear. Honey, we need to leave soon.”
She spins to leave. I call out with a desperate croak. “I heard you!” She pauses looking back over her shoulder. I clear my throat. My eyes never stray from her knowing expression. “Last week, during the storm, I was jogging, and I heard you. I heard you both.” My gaze slides to his. “You, sir, were… were…”
“Spanking my wife?”
I swallow hard at the flaring heat in his response. I don’t notice her return until her arm slips possessively around his waist.
“You were eavesdropping, dear? How very naughty of you.”
“But your window was open!” I protest in a vain attempt to explain my guilt.
That excuse doesn’t work for me, dear, and I suspect you don’t expect a free pass either.” I catch her smirk as she peers up at her husband. “It seems we may be a wee bit tardy to the concert, honey. I do believe this woman owes us an apology.”
“Well?” he states with a demanding tilt of his head. “We’re waiting.”
“I’m sorry I listened to your private… erm, session. I’ll never do it again.”
She quickly steps forward and seizes my hands. “That’s not how apologies are given around here… as I’m sure you can guess. If you are truly sincere and wish repentance, then you know what is required, else you’d not be here tonight on our doorstep asking for punishment.”
She tugs lightly. I submit, as I knew I would, and allow myself to be drawn past the door, and deep inside their world of discipline and painful pleasure.

I’ve never regretted a single moment of eavesdropping.

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

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 9 (Part 1)

Gentle Readers: You would be forgiven in the belief that my ramblings seem to be exaggerated. This memoir represents an accurate accounting of my adventures, but there is much sadness as I pen these words. Nearly all the protagonists portrayed have passed on; and now, rediscovering the eager innocent glee with which I gloried in sensual revels, leaves me in melancholy nostalgia for the youthful naiveté I once enjoyed. Maturity comes to us all—eventually—usually upon the heels of tragedy. I’d landed on my feet in a situation I’d dared not dreamed after my mother died. Payment was due.

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 8 (Part 30)

“Sweet, precious, Ruby, you bring such lightness to Peacock House. Promise me you will never bridle your wit nor your lust.” Of such easy promises made in passion, do become heavy chains in the fullness of time. I had every good intention of obeying. The future would come soon enough and smash all our preconceptions. In the interval, there was one specific thing I wanted from Mrs. Cleanknockers. “Ma’am? There is something I want from you, nay, not an apology, for no matter what his Lordship may decree, you did nothing wrong. I am yet a virgin in one place.”

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.



As I wrap up this chapter of The Bumhampton Chronicles, the calendar turns its leaves to September. When I lived up north, or–Up North–this month marked the beginning of fall with the snow and ice not that far behind. This also marks another monthly Spanking Newsletter at my other blog, Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction, where you will find a rather lengthy story. I hope you enjoy it, and click the follow button to be updated in October.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 29)

Head down, I heard her snort. “Humble? You? Ruby, you are anything but humble. You are vexing and incapable of knowing when not to stir up trouble. What am I to do with you?” I peered up through glistening eyes. “Spank me and fuck me?” For an instant, I thought I’d gone too far. Mrs. Cleanknockers’ shoulders began to quiver and she cupped her mouth with both hands. Bright bubbling laughter slipped through her fingers like a meadow brook in springtime. She gracefully knelt down and, still chuckling, raised my lips to her mouth, kissing me with a fierce intensity.

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 8 (Part 28)

It was tedious but the lemony fumes compensated. Engrossed in my chores, I shrieked in surprise when I turned around to see Mrs. Cleanknockers standing with her arms folded, back to the door. “I’m sorry, ma’am! You startled me.” I bobbed and nervously nibbled my lip when I sensed she was angry. “It seems I owe you an apology, Ruby, for what transpired yesterday.” Yes, she was angry. Whether solely at me, it did not matter. “Ma’am. Permission to speak freely?” She nodded minutely. I crossed the floor, kneeling at her feet. “I am your humble slave, ma’am. No apologies.”

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.