The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 12 (Part 3)

It is said the sensual and spiritual cannot co-exist, yet, unrepentant sinner that I am, I do not feel my prayers vanish unheard into the void. Unheeded perhaps: but not unremarked. By the time I trudged back, in silent company with those who had joined in raising voice in hymn, my entreaties seemed to have had an effect. Coyly peering around sullen ranks of stern, grey clouds, frowning in displeasure at Sabbath activities, was the welcome disk of golden sun bathing me in warm benediction. One must seize signs when they occur. To do otherwise mires the soul in hopelessness.

If this is your first exposure to Ruby’s adventures, 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 12 (Part 2)

Church services were not mandatory, but I’ve always found the liturgy soothing and the sermons to be comforting. Peacock House had a family chapel, but the village of Lower Bumhampton was within easy walking distance. My boots were soiled, my soul in mortal peril, but my heart danced on rainbows. I was going riding with my lovers; my mind turned wicked envisioning the possibilities of three enclosed in private carriage. I searched my conscience, but found no jealousy at the thought of Chester fucking Louisa. I am sure having wet drawers in church is a sin, but how can love?

If this is your first exposure to Ruby’s adventures, 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 12 (Part 1)

Gentle Reader: Sunday erupted with a flourish of cornets and thunder of timpani. The birds were chirping sweet melodies as I shook a grumbling Louisa awake. “It’s time to get up! Our chariot awaits.” Alas for poor Ruby. In truth it was pouring. Typical dank English weather and the roads would be a quagmire for coaches. No matter: if we stiff upper-lipped Britains cowered at the sight of mere liquid from the skies, we’d never have ruled such a vast Empire. “Forward Louisa! Once more unto the breach.” She whacked me with her pillow. I yanked her off the cot.

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 cruelty of nostalgia’s whip

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is Time Travel and, despite the plethora of fictional treatments, is something that is impossible. Without getting into the mathematical formulae that deal with the one-way arrow of time — nor the multiverse concept spawned by quantum mechanics — the oft-used example goes thusly: “If time travel were possible, then why are we not overrun by future iterations of advanced lifeforms either enslaving or lecturing us about what pathetic beings we are?”

But missy wrote about a type of time travel we all practice in her recent post, “Blame it on the Boots”, where she explains about her passionate {if not kinky} love affair with boots. In her post she travels back in time as she writes this passage: “The first time we visited Italy together, we drank too much wine and found ourselves in a lovely leather shop in Montepulciano. Here we bought my first pair of summer boots, beautifully soft, handmade, with leather soles.”

In our minds, the arrow of time does not exist. Memory serves as an instant reminder and flagellator of all the mistakes we’ve ever made. It takes an effort to realize there were many more good times than bad. Which brings me to the photograph below that was taken in the summer of 1981, in Como, Italy, through the narrow wooden doors opening upon the public street.

Como, Italy 1981

It was a long time ago and, someone else, another personality who took the picture. I see my past through their eyes and it makes me wonder about the impermanence of nostalgia. Memory is fickle and not to be trusted; the only path forward is to exist one moment at a time and revel in the sharp sting of leather upon flesh.

boots drum under whip
the cobbler would know the sound
cypress sway gossip
pink cheeks suffused by lover
Tyrrhenian Sea glistens

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Complete Chapter 11

If you like The Bumhampton Chronicles, and its Victorian-era atmosphere, then you may be interested my novella, The Case of the Disciplined Valentine.

To purchase, The Case of the Disciplined Valentine, click the picture.

Gentle Reader: I would surmise by this portion of my smutty tale, you believe nothing at Peacock House would shake me. That would be an incorrect assumption. In my era, even the most cloistered girl living under the strictest spiritual discipline, did not have to be taught a female’s place was under the male. That the roles could be reversed — that was beyond my comprehension. Yet here I was, once more on my knees, preparing for debauchery unlike anything I’d previously witnessed. Of course, with my wanton nature, simply watching was never going to work. I was ready and willing.

After I pulled the straps tight between Miss Frothinglips’ thighs, up through her crack and snuggly around her waspish waist, I felt certain I was to be dismissed and, even rose unbidden to my feet to depart rather than be privy to my betters’ sinful intercourse. I should have known better: I did know better. Miss Frothinglips’ donned a figurative top hat, and commenced snapping out orders with all the crispness of a whip-wielding circus ringmaster. Albeit, one with an artificial phallus jutting aggressively above a soaking quim and bare bosom exposing hard nipples. “Ruby! Quit dawdling and prepare Sebastian.”

At my blank look, she rolled her eyes and repeated with exaggerated pronunciation and gestures as if I was the town’s witless fool, “Strip. Him. Naked. Now!” I could hear the lash in her voice, but having never before in my entire life encountered male garments still on the male, I made a right hash of things. Mr. Steedstiff resorted, through self-preservation I assume, to removing articles himself. No matter, in short order he was as naked as Adam — sans fig leaf — trumpeting a tremendous erection. A prodigious expanse of greenery would have been required for cover. I covetously stroked.

“Finally,” Miss Frothinglips huffed. “Suckle and make it wet.” I sank to my knees and used both hands to grasp his bobbing prick. Opening my mouth to engulf the wet, shiny tip peeping from its sheath, she stepped closer and yanked my head away. “Not his cock, you dolt. Mine!” She slapped my face with her leather appliance for good measure. “Spit shine my knob, Ruby, before I plunder his arse.” She poked my lips and jabbed inside with remorseless pressure. I fear to say, she used me ill then. I choked and slobbered as she thrust into my throat.

For all the often brutality of males, when given the chance, it was females who serviced me the harsher every time. No matter, I thrived on such treatment and, in any case, she was too eager to wait much longer. After a few more pokes, while I held my breath, she withdrew from my drenched mouth. Her voice dropped an octave, the cool soprano thrill deepening into a rough gutter patois. “Suck his arsehole, Ruby. Use that talented tongue to pry open his bum for my weapon of ass destruction.” I helped him bend over, fist tight round his cock.

By now, I was the billiard ball to their cues; caroming from cushions to pockets with each strike. My tongue furry with his funk, she bade me grasp her dildo and guide the way into his tight fundament. His rod softened under her assault: I became superfluous to their lust. Each spoke as if on stage, actors reciting memorized lines flung out to mesmerized audiences night after night. I did not care to record the banter. Indeed, I felt a tad sorry for Mr. Steedstiff — who winced every time Miss Frothinglips drove her thick prick home with a loud slap.

Crawling beneath him, I nursed his weeping cock to life. With his slimy and tasty organ firmly ensconced in my mouth, I practiced my throating technique. For once unencumbered by supervision, my free hand succored my pussy. The scents, the sounds, the pure uninhibited lust brought me to a rolling boil, my essence squirting copiously and continuously. Mr. Steedstiff’s cloying spend I savored before swallowing with eagerness for more. I will say this in closing: From that moment forward, I ceased to play the role of hapless victim and was drawn into the many plots being woven all around me.

After I drained Mr. Steedstiff’s family jewels and Miss Frothinglips fully satiated her carnal appetites, I was finally released from service. My reward: to take the soiled dildo away to be cleaned — by me. I left the two furtive lovers to their devices; they commenced a game of ring-around-the-rosie, each lashing whips as they frolicked starkers. There were always rumors floating around amongst the hoi polloi about the ‘Great Houses’, but to witness firsthand the ways and means of aristocratic stress relief was rather disconcerting. As I scrubbed the used dildo in hot, soapy water I pondered why that was.

It’s a myth that only the upper classes strove to maintain the separation and status quo. Each rung of the servant ladder was fiercely contested as a matter of pride and place. The ruthless rulers of the “downstairs” — such as Mrs. Cleanknockers and Alastair the Butler — were as rigid about propriety as the stuffiest dowager or crusty titled lord. I know, I know, considering the sexual hijinks at Peacock House, it’s rather ironic. Speaking of the butler, I’d yet to make his acquaintance — in a naked way — a fact soon to change, for Saturday night was bathing time for staff.

In atypical fashion, procedures were inverted. Mrs. Cleanknockers bathed first, assisted by the head footman all the way down to the scullery boy. Alastair went next, the harem of giggling maids washing him with exuberance. Once the principals were nattily attired in dressing gowns and slippers, Mrs. Cleanknockers supervised the male servants in rank order. [Not rank odor] After they were clean — a hands-on inspection by her — fresh hot water filled the copper tubs and Alastair did similar close checking of all the nude female servants to the last in line. That was I, the newest and only bleeding member.

By then, everyone had left to enjoy an early evening without chores — other than the basic needs of any large establishment. The water was cool and dirty, but Alastair didn’t shirk, scrubbing and soaping my body from head to toes. I must admit to enjoying the process, his hands rubbed all the right spots. I wasn’t at Peacock House long enough to move more than a few rungs higher in priority, so I greatly enjoyed getting the chance to suck his cock once a week while it lasted. I hadn’t planned to do so, but I wanted to thank him.

After all, fondling and probing several dozen wet, naked females would make even the most uptight vicar stand up and point. He definitely seemed surprised when, after wrapping me in a fresh dry towel, I knelt on the damp rug and smoothly parted his gown at the waist. Having slightly more experience now in the ‘sizing up’ department, his cock was a nice squat five-incher. Perfect for swallowing whole. Alastair was stiff — in stance, not only genitalia — as I swirled my tongue and bobbed to and fro; my nose buried in his clean curlies while I savored with hollowed cheeks.

I couldn’t help but compare cock sucking with cunt lapping. It really drove home — as I stretched my throat — the differences between the sexes. I can honestly state I had no preference. Each time, with each different person was a completely new experience; one that I almost always enjoyed. And I most deliciously enjoyed Alastair’s copious spunk, the thickest volume I’d yet received as tribute. Evidently he seldom cleaned his pipes. I told him I’d gladly service him after the weekly washing. “It will be our little secret.” I wiped him off, tucked it back inside and closed the sash.

“Mrs. Cleanknockers would like a word with you, Ruby, posthaste.” His cool restrained tone would have seemed abnormal in most circumstances — never mind just after holding his jetting tumescence firmly in my mouth — but an English butler never loses his composure: even when he just, ‘did it’. It’s an awesome thing to witness and well worth the price of admission. So — like the dutiful demure maid I was — I gave him a saucy wink and trotted off to see my Mistress, wondering what she had in store for me. Hopefully some cruelly inventive punishment: having my period sucked donkey’s balls.

Firing off a crisp salute, I reported my status. “Ruby Slapumcheeks, present as requested, Ma’am! Ready and willing to serve your every whim.” Mrs. Cleanknockers made a sound. It was part sigh — akin to exasperation — and part involuntary giggle [like when someone farts in church]. “Sit down, Ruby.” Her attempt at being stern was slightly compromised by her failure to fully corral her smile. I did not press the issue. What! I can be good… when someone has something I want… or need. I desperately needed to be humiliated. Like an opium eater, I craved the feelings of being dominated.

At the time, I did not closely examine my desires. All I knew was that being punished and used sexually — the more callously the better — calmed my mind and set my body afire. It took months for the conflagration to reduce to a smolder and, for the rest of my life it took but a look or a threat to spark the beast back to roaring flames. Please understand; the process was not without guilt and tragedy. After the initial euphoria inevitably wore away under the pressure of routine life and events, it was years before I recaptured the thrill.

But enough cryptic rambling, Mrs. Cleanknockers had an agenda. “I am concerned about tomorrow’s outing with Mr. Jones-Smyth.” I scowled and crossed my arms. “Do not pout, Ruby, I am responsible for your well-being. I have raised my concerns with his Lordship, but he assures me the man has been fully vetted. However…” Her voice trailed off as her gaze slid past me into some infinite vista. Troubled by her demeanor, I attempted to coax forth the reasons behind her misgivings. “Does your perturbation stem from the other day, when he took my virginity?” She winced but fleetingly. “No, Ruby.”

“I admit I was, still am, upset that he savagely ravaged you—.” Under my breath I interrupted, “I’m not.” as she continued, “without our consent.” [Meaning his Lordship, the aristocratic ‘We’ implied] “However, from the very first time, months before you arrived, something about Mr. Jones-Smyth has rubbed me raw.” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, intrigued despite my infatuation with and instinctive determination to defend my future spouse. “You have aroused my curiosity, Ma’am, for I admit to primarily having a physical reaction to him, not an intellectual response. I hope to have that opportunity tomorrow; weather permitting.”

“I will not rescind my permission, Ruby, I assure you. Please be… both you and Louisa… careful and vigilant.” Mrs. Cleanknockers seemed genuinely distressed on our behalves and I was moved to grasp her hands with a comforting gesture. “I will. We will. I promise.” Our tableau held for a long moment as she searched my expression for sincerity. “Thank you, Ruby. I must admit to being relieved by your comprehension of my anxiety.” She withdrew her fingers and straightened up, instantly regaining the superior position in our relationship. “Now that we’ve settled the outing, there is another important topic.”

Mentally rubbing my palms, I kept my face still but curious. “We have concluded, that your training has been much too strenuous and therefore are letting you go—” I did not hear the rest of her sentence, lost in the overwhelming terror of being turned out. My loud howl was a desperate ‘NO!’ and I flung myself at her feet, weeping hysterically and begging for another chance. The fear I felt was real. The worst possible outcome for someone in service was to be dismissed without reference. Nothing penetrated my anguish until Mrs. Cleanknockers shook me hard by the shoulders.

“RUBY!” She yelled. “Cease your caterwauling at once!” It took several minutes, but eventually I stopped wailing and was able to gulp back my tears. My wet face was efficiently blotted and I blew my nose into her sturdy linen handkerchief. I don’t believe she quite understood my distress until she looked me in the eye. “Did you think I meant you were being turned out?” Her voice was one of astonishment. Mutely I nodded. “Oh, Ruby.” Her arms opened wide with compassion. “Come here, you poor thing.” I crawled upon her ample lap, burying my face at her breast.

As she patted and stroked my back, her explanation picked up where I had lost the thread. “What you apparently did not hear was that we are letting you go slower in your training. Ordinarily, most new servants take at least a month to reach your level of engagement, but from the first, your enthusiasm and cheekiness have spurred us to be too harsh in our discipline.” I did not agree, but how was I to make my desires clear? Certainly Miss Frothinglips and Mr. Steedstiff had no qualms about venting their lust upon my tongue. That was a pun.

“Mrs. Cleanknockers? May I speak truly?” I sat up, slid to the floor and gazed imploringly at my mistress. “Do not think I am seeking to rise above my station, but I cannot but let you understand, that I do not believe the discipline I’ve so deservedly earned, has been too harsh. On the contrary, I’ve come to realize it’s what’s been missing in my life. I have gratefully shed my past like an over-patched coat and wish — no, need — to be taken deeper in submission to you, his Lordship and whomever else is directed to further my libidinous education.”

Her reaction to my impassioned speech was thoughtful regard. “You are unique, Ruby. Never have I met such a forthright creature as you. It is refreshing and yet, at the same time, quite vexing.” I grinned. “Then spank me.” Her returning smile was regretful. “Sadly, I must wait.” I pouted. “It’s not fair. A hand spanking shouldn’t be against the rules just because it’s that time of the month.” Her smile turned harder. “You do make an excellent argument. The Empire could use you in Parliament.” I giggled at the thought of me asking ‘The Question’ of the Prime Minister.

“I’d cause an apoplexy epidemic were that to happen! Besides, the Queen will never countenance woman’s suffrage.” I continued to press for an answer. “Does that mean you’ll take me over your knee and spank my vexing bottom hard?” She glanced at the clock on her mantle. Her lips pursed. “Perhaps… Come with me, Ruby.” She threw on a heavier wrap and exchanged slippers for shoes. Unlocking the Gun Room, she lit the nearest lamp. I scurried behind her, pulse racing in anticipation. What she took out of a drawer I’d yet to explore, was not a paddle or cane.

“What is that?” Mrs. Cleanknockers held up the object in question. “This is what I like to call, ‘The Bosom Buster’.” Placing it my hands while she turned and rummaged in the drawer once more, I examined the fiendish device. Constructed of two thin planks of wood, both ends of the narrow boards were secured with dual brass grommets and long threaded screws with winged heads. Curious, I turned one of the flanges; the boards squeezed closer at that end. Realization dawned. I flushed. I gushed. “What a wonderful idea. Clamping the titties like a washing wringer! I love it!”

“Then you’ll like these even better.” From Mrs. Cleanknockers’ fingers dangled what looked like thumbscrews from Her Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress of the Tower of London. “Oooooh,” I cooed. “Are those for my nips?” Her grin this time would have sent strong warriors fleeing for their lives. Silly men. Pain was pleasure. What need of the vote, when we had breasts to punish? “You’ve been a very, very naughty maid, Ruby. I’m afraid your demerits have given me no choice but to discipline you most severely.” I shivered, not in fear — not wholly — but needing to feel her domination.

With those few words, spoken firmly with a touch of regret, she sent my mind spiraling into a place that yearned for chastisement. Others through the years have asked me to quantify why it is I love submission so much. I cannot tell you. I don’t think a submissive really can explain the joy and pleasure found in surrendering to someone who takes what they want of your body, giving you peace in exchange. For me, and others of my ilk, [We have a private club and name] the quiet mind is a result of, not a preface of discipline.

When Mrs. Cleanknockers ordered me onto the padded table, crouching as a bovine, udders swinging freely, teats erect; my anxious lowing was not feigned. The vise slowly closed, one twist of her thumb and forefinger inexorably squeezing my breasts like fresh dough. Her running commentary, scolding and alluring, alternated between scathing putdowns and complementary observations. When she attached the serrated clamps to my engorged nipples, I screamed. It’s that lightning flash of pain — the searing nervous heat that parboils away the scar tissue of life. It wasn’t enough. I wanted to be whipped. I wanted to be fucked. I wanted.

Louisa soothed my bruised bosom as we lay in our cots, quietly talking about the upcoming ramble with Mr. Jones-Smyth. To her — and only her — I freely expressed my fears. “I’m not good enough for him,” I fretted. “What have I to offer someone like that? I’m nobody from nowhere, without an education, a smart mouth and a promiscuous soul. He could do so much better.” She wrestled me over, pinning my hands with little effort. “Ruby, that’s your flow talking. Mr. Jones-Smyth seems like a very pleasant fellow, if a bit awkward. I’m sure he’ll be up to scratch.”

If this is your first exposure to Ruby’s adventures, 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 11 (Part 30)

Louisa soothed my bruised bosom as we lay in our cots, quietly talking about the upcoming ramble with Mr. Jones-Smyth. To her — and only her — I freely expressed my fears. “I’m not good enough for him,” I fretted. “What have I to offer someone like that? I’m nobody from nowhere, without an education, a smart mouth and a promiscuous soul. He could do so much better.” She wrestled me over, pinning my hands with little effort. “Ruby, that’s your flow talking. Mr. Jones-Smyth seems like a very pleasant fellow, if a bit awkward. I’m sure he’ll be up to scratch.”

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 11 (Part 29)

When Mrs. Cleanknockers ordered me onto the padded table, crouching as a bovine, udders swinging freely, teats erect; my anxious lowing was not feigned. The vise slowly closed, one twist of her thumb and forefinger inexorably squeezing my breasts like fresh dough. Her running commentary, scolding and alluring, alternated between scathing putdowns and complementary observations. When she attached the serrated clamps to my engorged nipples, I screamed. It’s that lightning flash of pain — the searing nervous heat that parboils away the scar tissue of life. It wasn’t enough. I wanted to be whipped. I wanted to be fucked. I wanted.

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 colors of submission

As a blogger, I write what I want. Fiction for the most part, some poetry and the odd essay tossed in. I never write about myself or past exploits and relationships. As a writer — for publication — I choose characters that challenge the reader and portray fantasies that seem slightly quirky. One of the unpleasant facts about erotica and BDSM, is that there is a level of censorship not given to “mainstream” fiction. It’s perfectly alright to maim, torture and murder; but, try a caning that bleeds or a flogging that bruises, and the algorithms that rule the world, bury your book at the bottom of a landfill.

One thing I do know though, is that D/s produces a rainbow of colors. Red, blue, yellow; the infinite palette of hue that is a natural, and desired, byproduct of consensual discipline. When was the last time you got spanked? Didn’t you — at the first opportunity — rush to the nearest mirror, twist your head and admire the splotchy pattern your Dom created on your butt? Wishing it was more colorful?

Did you say: “Oh my God! Look what my Dom did to me!” not with horror, but with a contented purr; proud that your Dom is so talented and knows a spanking without a bruise or two is a wasted effort? For many submissives, marks are something you wear with honor. They are visual proofs of your Dom’s devotion to your personal well-being. Why else would they take the time to stamp their dominance upon your body, if not for love?

For those not in D/s, it always comes as a shock to realize that some people crave the outward bonds that physical play often creates. To them, D/s is about degradation, anger, violence and people in need of rescue from an abusive situation. Marking someone is evil: it’s black and white.

For those of us chasing the rainbow though, the waiting — impatiently — for the colors to fade and heal; so that we can do it again, that’s the real challenge. Scars on the soul linger: bruises fade.

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

Sir Fang is now (a)live on Amazon

For a very limited number of days this week, my novella, The Case of the Disciplined Valentine, is available for FREE on Amazon for ereader devices. As you can see from the screen shot below, it’s currently doing quite well.

Screen Shot 2018-02-06 at 7.37.52 AM

Disclaimer: The Case of the Disciplined Valentine, with minor changes, is the same novella as previously published in the Lust in Lace anthology, as Sir MacRath Thrashes his Valentine. If you have already purchased the anthology in ebook or audio book, then there is no need to purchase it again… unless you want to financially support me. 🙂

To purchase, The Case of the Disciplined Valentine, click the picture.

A comedy of Victorian manners mixed with delicious spankings and sexual encounters guaranteed to raise even a vampire’s blood pressure. Byron Cane sets a torrid pace in his historical paranormal erotic novella.

It is 1854 in steampunk London, and Sir Nachton MacRath is warily returning to his home isle after decades abroad. He has good reasons to steer clear of the Royal Family, but is immediately snared by the Queen herself, who anoints him, Her Chastiser of Loose Morals, complete with elevation to the upper reaches of the aristocracy. Rather than a quiet existence as a vampire, he is now a Peer uneasily rubbing shoulders with the most powerful men in the Empire.

Phoebe Hayward is a lady of good breeding, but like all her contemporaries, longs for some excitement and romance. Valentine’s Day is only weeks away, when their paths cross with a bump. Despite later discovering the man ordered to discipline her is actually a vampire, she can’t help falling in love. The more encounters with Sir MacRath she has, the more her body yearns to know what it is to submit to his vampiric touch. When he reluctantly agrees to be her Valentine, thus begins a Domination and discipline the likes of which she’s never dreamed.

MacRath doesn’t feel he deserves Phoebe’s love, and attempts to push her away by taking her deeper into sexual submission. She surprises him — and herself — by eagerly submitting to his every desire. Together, they explore the sensual heights that a woman and a man — a vampire — can reach. But politics and conflict are never far away, and the Valentine’s Day deadline comes all too soon.

xx

Prologue

For the first time in ten days, the steady ‘thump-thump’ of the engines and boiling thrashing of the magnificent side-mounted paddle wheels fell silent. The harbor pilot called down to the tug.Thus began the ancient and primal ballet of man versus water as seasoned hands strove to bring the steamer from America into safe mooring. As it docked, heavy hemp hawsers and thick bollards were tossed over the side to waiting stevedores. The shrill triumphant shriek of the steam whistle echoed among the emigration sheds where the starving poor sought passage to a new life in the former colonies. Vast clouds of slate gray and white gulls took flight as the noise reduced the raucous calls of workers to pantomime.

The blast faded and the flocks swooped to await handouts from the new arrivals. A crowd had gathered to meet the arriving ship. Touts held up placards bearing names of lodging and dining establishments. Open steam carriages emblazoned with coats-of-arms and commercial enterprises chuffed impatiently quayside, uniformed chauffeurs chatting amiably with gloved hands held over barrels of flame. A late arrival coasted silently to a stop along the quay. The pennants on the front bumper proudly waved the Three Lions of the House of Hanover. Eyebrows rose: no Royal had been listed on the telegraphed manifest.

At the gangplank’s head, Sir Nachton MacRath waited to debark, nose wrinkled in protest. The tide had reached slack, raw sewage and industrial offal collecting in rotted mats along the banks of the River Mersey. After eighteen years away, on this fifteenth day of January, in the Year of Our Lord 1854, he prepared to once again set foot on his native soil. Well, to be precise, tarred oak planks covered with guano and rubbish. Six months removed from San Francisco, he was glad to be finally back, although unsure of his welcome. He had run afoul of the Regent in late 1835 and, despite repeated assurances from the Queen in the following decades, he had decided instead to tour the Near East and China.

By fortuitous timing, MacRath had sailed from the Sandwich Islands to the sparsely populated lands of Northern California (still Mexican, for a short while longer) in 1848. The subsequent fortune he’d created during the Gold Rush was not from water blasting the hillsides, but from parlaying the exotic nature of his Scottish title into land and mercantile trade for the arriving miners.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 11 (Part 28)

With those few words, spoken firmly with a touch of regret, she sent my mind spiraling into a place that yearned for chastisement. Others through the years have asked me to quantify why it is I love submission so much. I cannot tell you. I don’t think a submissive really can explain the joy and pleasure found in surrendering to someone who takes what they want of your body, giving you peace in exchange. For me, and others of my ilk, [We have a private club and name] the quiet mind is a result of, not a preface of discipline.

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 11 (Part 27)

“Then you’ll like these even better.” From Mrs. Cleanknockers’ fingers dangled what looked like thumbscrews from Her Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress of the Tower of London. “Oooooh,” I cooed. “Are those for my nips?” Her grin this time would have sent strong warriors fleeing for their lives. Silly men. Pain was pleasure. What need of the vote, when we had breasts to punish? “You’ve been a very, very naughty maid, Ruby. I’m afraid your demerits have given me no choice but to discipline you most severely.” I shivered, not in fear — not wholly — but needing to feel her domination.

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 11 (Part 26)

“What is that?” Mrs. Cleanknockers held up the object in question. “This is what I like to call, ‘The Bosom Buster’.” Placing it my hands while she turned and rummaged in the drawer once more, I examined the fiendish device. Constructed of two thin planks of wood, both ends of the narrow boards were secured with dual brass grommets and long threaded screws with winged heads. Curious, I turned one of the flanges; the boards squeezed closer at that end. Realization dawned. I flushed. I gushed. “What a wonderful idea. Clamping the titties like a washing wringer! I love it!”

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 11 (Part 25)

“I’d cause an apoplexy epidemic were that to happen! Besides, the Queen will never countenance women’s suffrage.” I continued to press for an answer. “Does that mean you’ll take me over your knee and spank my vexing bottom hard?” She glanced at the clock on her mantle. Her lips pursed. “Perhaps… Come with me, Ruby.” She threw on a heavier wrap and exchanged slippers for shoes. Unlocking the Gun Room, she lit the nearest lamp. I scurried behind her, pulse racing in anticipation. What she took out of a drawer I’d yet to explore, was not a paddle or cane.

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 11 (Part 23)

“Mrs. Cleanknockers? May I speak truly?” I sat up, slid to the floor and gazed imploringly at my mistress. “Do not think I am seeking to rise above my station, but I cannot but let you understand, that I do not believe the discipline I’ve so deservedly earned, has been too harsh. On the contrary, I’ve come to realize it’s what’s been missing in my life. I have gratefully shed my past like an over-patched coat and wish — no, need — to be taken deeper in submission to you, his Lordship and whomever else is directed to further my libidinous education.”

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 11 (Part 22)

As she patted and stroked my back, her explanation picked up where I had lost the thread. “What you apparently did not hear was that we are letting you go slower in your training. Ordinarily, most new servants take at least a month to reach your level of engagement, but from the first, your enthusiasm and cheekiness have spurred us to be too harsh in our discipline.” I did not agree, but how was I to make my desires clear? Certainly Miss Frothinglips and Mr. Steedstiff had no qualms about venting their lust upon my tongue. That was a pun.

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 11 (Part 21)

“RUBY!” She yelled. “Cease your caterwauling at once!” It took several minutes, but eventually I stopped wailing and was able to gulp back my tears. My wet face was efficiently blotted and I blew my nose into her sturdy linen handkerchief. I don’t believe she quite understood my distress until she looked me in the eye. “Did you think I meant you were being turned out?” Her voice was one of astonishment. Mutely I nodded. “Oh, Ruby.” Her arms opened wide with compassion. “Come here, you poor thing.” I crawled upon her ample lap, burying my face at her breast.

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 all baggage is bad

I found it in the back corner of an antique shop on the Left Bank. I was in Paris for a week, backpacking around Europe while I staved off maturity and the perceived death of all my dreams.

It was leather, dusty, the color of faded deep chestnut; where it wasn’t covered with labels from exotic hotels and resorts. The lock was broken, but the brass hinges stubbornly held the old suitcase together.

I was not blind to the metaphor: baggage older than my parents when most days one meal was all I could afford. My wistful sigh must have carried through the shop, because the proprietor — all haughty élan as only a French woman can project — offered me a choice.

La valise en échange pour une performance.” My stomach grumbled. “Et un repas.” Her smile was knowing on so many levels.

“What kind of performance?”

With a casual flick of her manicured finger, she flipped the sign from OUVRIR to FERMÉE, then beckoned me upstairs. The scent of food lured me as much as the twitching of her pert derrière in tight wool skirt. I expected sex of some kind; bodies were barter in the world of student travel.

I watched dusk fall behind the Eiffel Tower, the apartment balcony fit a small table and two chairs, in painted wrought iron of deep burgundy. I felt no compulsion to move as I digested, the sodium-yellow lamps created a playground out of hard stone and narrow streets.

Es-tu prêt?

Oui.

She’d turned off all the lights, except for one spot, the straight-backed chair sinister in its singularity. In the dark reaches of the room I heard whispers and rustlings from an unseen audience. It was then I noticed what coiled innocently on the embroidered seat. A martinet.

I balked.

She held out her hand, palm up, shimmering in elbow length black silk glove, the pearl and gold bracelet an iridescent gleam matched by her sparkling eyes. I clutched as if drowning.

Tu ne vas pas être blessé.

The nuance of hurt versus harm challenged me, but I nodded my acceptance. A unnamed frisson ran through the gathering. She presented me to whomever lurked in the shadows. Falling into my role, I curtsied. Whispers of appreciation in many languages. Obediently, I bent forward over the ornate gilt top rail of the chair, damp palms interlaced with the thongs of the whip. A red scarf — Hermès — folded and drawn gently over my eyes, my head bowed to allow the knot tied at my neck.

The martinet drawn away, soft leather strands caressed my cheeks, rested on my lips. I kissed. Another sigh moved like amber larches in autumn. The handle traced my spine, at the small of my back, it pressed down in unmistakable command. I dipped, presented my bottom.

Faint footsteps, muffled by the thick carpet. Hands, many hands slowly lifted my peasant skirt, carefully folding until I felt the cool evening air tease my bare thighs. Ashamed now of my plain white underwear, worn thin through repeated hand-washes in hostel sinks, I stepped out as they were drawn down over trembling calves.

The handle tapped my inner thighs. I widened my stance. Wider, wider urged the whip: straddle the chair and show everything. Humiliated, yet seized by a determination not to be weak, I displayed my parted buttocks and hairy pussy to the voyeurs.

Scratchy music filled the apartment. Caruso sang of love and loss, of hatred and fury. The whip dangled through my crack and teased my holes. I tensed. She rubbed. I sighed and relaxed.

My whipping started slowly and softly. Light flicks barely grazing the skin. As the lamento grew in scope and power, the leather bit deeper and faster. There was no pattern: she struck everywhere and yet it seemed always in an untouched spot. Moans escaped as I writhed. My bottom rising and falling with the operatic vocalizations of legends long deceased.

But, I was alive. In pain yes, but oh so alive. It was not unbearable; if anything, my first ever spanking was shattering inhibitions I never knew I possessed. I strained on tiptoe, with eyes blind, I begged for more. Loud ‘splats’ as she swung hard. I imagined her in pressed Lacoste tennis whites, coolly smashing a forehand winner down the line with genteel grace.

Minutes passed. Five, ten, thirty; I knew not how long the set lasted, but as Caruso reached for the climatic solo, she shifted her target. Up between my widely stretched legs sang the whip. The impact drove a shriek from my mouth. Again she followed through, the sound a wet ‘smack’. My lips stung. The burning heat in my bottom was now secondary to the sharp pinching on my pussy.

Softer, then harder, she varied the rhythm, urging me to give in, to concede the point, give way to her dominant will.

I surrendered. She flogged my throbbing clit. “Un.” A pause as I panted. “Deux.” My thighs clenched. “Vous serez orgasme sur trois.”

Through my tears, I begged, “S’il vous plaît!

Trois.”

I came.

When I recovered my senses, and removed my blindfold, the room was brightly lit once more; and empty. My panties were neatly folded on top of the now polished suitcase. My fingers shook as I pulled the nylon over red flesh, I winced and cried out when I sat down. The suitcase was heavy. It required both hands to carry as I stumbled out into the night.

~~~

I realize now I was naive and very fortunate in my rash choice. But — as I tell my husband whenever he asks why I keep the battered chestnut leather stored in my closet — sometimes life is a suitcase: until you open it, you can never begin your journey.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 11 (Part 20)

Mentally rubbing my palms, I kept my face still but curious. “We have concluded, that your training has been much too strenuous and therefore are letting you go—” I did not hear the rest of her sentence, lost in the overwhelming terror of being turned out. My loud howl was a desperate ‘NO!’ and I flung myself at her feet, weeping hysterically and begging for another chance. The fear I felt was real. The worst possible outcome for someone in service was to be dismissed without reference. Nothing penetrated my anguish until Mrs. Cleanknockers shook me hard by the shoulders.

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 11 (Part 19)

“I will not rescind my permission, Ruby, I assure you. Please be… both you and Louisa… careful and vigilant.” Mrs. Cleanknockers seemed genuinely distressed on our behalves and I was moved to grasp her hands with a comforting gesture. “I will. We will. I promise.” Our tableau held for a long moment as she searched my expression for sincerity. “Thank you, Ruby. I must admit to being relieved by your comprehension of my anxiety.” She withdrew her fingers and straightened up, instantly regaining the superior position in our relationship. “Now that we’ve settled the outing, there is another important topic.”

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 11 (Part 18)

“I admit I was — still am — upset that he savagely ravaged you—” Under my breath I mumbled, “I’m not.” as she continued, “without our consent.” [Meaning his Lordship, the aristocratic ‘We’ implied] “However, from the very first time — months before you arrived — something about Mr. Jones-Smyth has rubbed me raw.” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, intrigued despite my infatuation with and instinctive determination to defend my future spouse. “You have aroused my curiosity, Ma’am, for I admit to primarily having a physical reaction to him, not an intellectual response. I hope to have that opportunity tomorrow; weather permitting.”

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 11 (Part 17)

But enough cryptic rambling, Mrs. Cleanknockers had an agenda. “I am concerned about tomorrow’s outing with Mr. Jones-Smyth.” I scowled and crossed my arms. “Do not pout, Ruby, I am responsible for your well-being. I have raised my concerns with his Lordship, but he assures me the man has been fully vetted. However…” Her voice trailed off as her gaze slid past me into some infinite vista. Troubled by her demeanor, I attempted to coax forth the reasons behind her misgivings. “Does your perturbation stem from the other day, when he took my virginity?” She winced but fleetingly. “No, Ruby.”

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.

You hear the one about the caned wife?

“Go on! Count them! See what the brute did to me. Twenty-one times!”

She’d burst into my office like a fuzzy gin; all rounded and bristling like a hedgehog, throwing her elbows on my desk; her puppies gamboling out of cornflower silk lace brassiere begging for a lick and a promise. I leaned back: she climbed on top. Not that I mind a good cowgirl ride, but usually there are adult beverages involved before a broad holds her nose long enough to forget my mug.

She crouched like a cougar, reaching back to ruck up her miniskirt; all the while wailing her distress. ‘Look, look,’ she said, pointing over her shoulder in the direction of her ass. I, being the consummate gentlemen — even when consummating a transaction consummated in a dark and smoky dive — heaved my walrus-like bulk out of my recliner and waddled around to peek at her goodies.

“See?”

I saw. I saw a dame who did Pilates; probably a spinner too and hot yoga. I saw matching panties, the lace snugged up tight over her mons and biting deep into her tangy valley. What I didn’t see was the alleged brutality to her posterior. I said as much, and added, “If this is a case of abuse, call the fuzz.”

The look she gave me would have lowered my I.Q. into the negative realm had she not rolled her eyes and her knickers down her thighs. My eyes rolled too. Luckily I’m a jaded hard-ass who’s seen it all. That didn’t mean my one-eyed salami wasn’t salivating for a side of sauerkraut and white cream dressing. “Now… I see.”

There were multiple lines tracing—

“Count them!”

There were at least—

“I thought you were a dick? Use your fingers, moron!”

I used my thumb. Starting at the crests of her pillowy hillocks, I firmly pressed each welt from end-to-end. As I got lower, she got higher: her plump buttocks reaching for the sky, the tight fabric stretched taut between her tense thighs threatening to tear in twain. Her musk filled my blood, my cock screamed for air. By the time both thumbs were prying her crease open like a can of mustard sardines, my tongue was only inches away from s—

“Aren’t you going to take pictures?”

Mesmerized by her pink lips, I mewled like a brokenhearted calf when she slid off my desk, her rump scent marking my groin as she wiggled her cornflower blue panties up and her red miniskirt down.

“I guess not. So, will you take the case?”

Too stiff to sit just yet, I suavely perched on the corner and offered her a menthol. I flicked my Bic, she blew smoke rings around my libido. “What case?”

“My husband is—”

“I don’t do divorce, sweet cheeks.”

“Listen you imbecile, I don’t want a divorce, I don’t want the flatfeet involved, all I want is you to find out where his chippy lives.”

“Okay.” I must have redeemed myself, because she started spewing like Niagara Falls right before they turn it off at night. It seems they were in a D/s relationship and things were peachy right up until he started a new job with long hours and overnight trips. The spankings were coming less and less frequent, like the number 24 bus on a Friday night when the college kids were on break. The final straw was the twenty-one stroke caning. Which is when she stormed out of their house like a banshee looking for an agave grove to quench her fire and fury.

“So you see, I have a contract! I demand he lives up to his responsibilities!”

“So… it was too much?”

“Are you a fucking idiot? NO! It was supposed to be fifty with the cane and an ass reaming!”

I waited until Vesuvius stopped erupting. “Well… I can give you the rest, if you want.”

The setting sun was obscured by the cloud of tire smoke like from an all-you-can-eat barbecue when she peeled her Ferrari out of the parking lot. I rubbed the mark on my face. For a sweet piece of tail, she sure could swing a racket. I leaned back in my chair, took a swig of Jack and a couple of Tums. It’s tough being a P.I.

I guess dinner wouldn’t be forthcoming tonight. I dialed for takeout and waited for her return.

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 11 (Part 16)

At the time, I did not closely examine my desires. All I knew was that being punished and used sexually — the more callously the better — calmed my mind and set my body afire. It took months for the conflagration to reduce to a smolder and, for the rest of my life it took but a look or a threat to spark the beast back to roaring flames. Please understand; the process was not without guilt and tragedy. After the initial euphoria inevitably wore away under the pressure of routine life and events, it was years before I recaptured the thrill.

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 11 (Part 15)

Firing off a crisp salute, I reported my status. “Ruby Slapumcheeks, present as requested, Ma’am! Ready and willing to serve your every whim.” Mrs. Cleanknockers made a sound. It was part sigh — akin to exasperation — and part involuntary giggle [like when someone farts in church]. “Sit down, Ruby.” Her attempt at being stern was slightly compromised by her failure to fully corral her smile. I did not press the issue. What! I can be good… when someone has something I want… or need. I desperately needed to be humiliated. Like an opium eater, I craved the feelings of being dominated.

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 11 (Part 14)

“Mrs. Cleanknockers would like a word with you, Ruby, posthaste.” His cool restrained tone would have seemed abnormal in most circumstances — never mind just after holding his jetting tumescence firmly in my mouth — but an English butler never loses his composure: even when he just, ‘did it’. It’s an awesome thing to witness and well worth the price of admission. So — like the dutiful demure maid I was — I gave him a saucy wink and trotted off to see my Mistress, wondering what she had in store for me. Hopefully some cruelly inventive punishment: having my period sucked donkey’s balls.

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 11 (Part 13)

I couldn’t help but compare cock sucking with cunt lapping. It really drove home — as I stretched my throat — the differences between the sexes. I can honestly state I had no preference. Each time, with each different person was a completely new experience; one that I almost always enjoyed. And I most deliciously enjoyed Alastair’s copious spunk, the thickest volume I’d yet received as tribute. Evidently he seldom cleaned his pipes. I told him I’d gladly service him after the weekly washing. “It will be our little secret.” I wiped him off, tucked it back inside and closed the sash.

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 11 (Part 12)

After all, fondling and probing several dozen wet, naked females would make even the most uptight vicar stand up and point. He definitely seemed surprised when, after wrapping me in a fresh dry towel, I knelt on the damp rug and smoothly parted his gown at the waist. Having slightly more experience now in the ‘sizing up’ department, his cock was a nice squat five-incher. Perfect for swallowing whole. Alastair was stiff — in stance, not only genitalia — as I swirled my tongue and bobbed to and fro; my nose buried in his clean curlies while I savored with hollowed cheeks.

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 11 (Part 11)

By then, everyone had left to enjoy an early evening without chores — other than the basic needs of any large establishment. The water was cool and dirty, but Alastair didn’t shirk, scrubbing and soaping my body from head to toes. I must admit to enjoying the process, his hands rubbed all the right spots. I wasn’t at Peacock House long enough to move more than a few rungs higher in priority, so I greatly enjoyed getting the chance to suck his cock once a week while it lasted. I hadn’t planned to do so, but I wanted to thank him.

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 11 (Part 10)

In atypical fashion, procedures were inverted. Mrs. Cleanknockers bathed first, assisted by the head footman all the way down to the scullery boy. Alastair went next, the harem of giggling maids washing him with exuberance. Once the principals were nattily attired in dressing gowns and slippers, Mrs. Cleanknockers supervised the male servants in rank order. [Not rank odor] After they were clean — a hands-on inspection by her — fresh hot water filled the copper tubs and Alastair did similar close checking of all the nude female servants to the last in line. That was I, the newest and only bleeding member.

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 11 (Part 9)

It’s a myth that only the upper classes strove to maintain the separation and status quo. Each rung of the servant ladder was fiercely contested as a matter of pride and place. The ruthless rulers of the “downstairs” — such as Mrs. Cleanknockers and Alastair the Butler — were as rigid about propriety as the stuffiest dowager or crusty titled lord. I know, I know, considering the sexual hijinks at Peacock House, it’s rather ironic. Speaking of the butler, I’d yet to make his acquaintance — in a naked way — a fact soon to change, for Saturday night was bathing time for staff.

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.

But can you exchange it for a sweater?

CRACK!
“What on earth are they cheering about?”
CRACK!
“All I know is Daryell refuses to let me in his workshop.”
CRACK!
“Is he making a sexbot?”
CRACK!
“Doesn’t sound like it, and besides, why would he insist on having Franklin and Tyrone help him ‘put the finishing touches on’?”
CRACK!
“Beats me, but it sure sounds like a paddle to me.”
“I got a text. ‘Come on down to the basement, ladies, and meet The Three Gadgeteers and their latest creation.'”
“Oh, Lord, they done did it again.”
“What do you bet they’ve built a spanking bench.”
“I thought he was joking!”
“At least he didn’t get you a riding mower like I got.”
“Or season tickets to indoor lacrosse.”
“One of these days he’s gonna find a gadget where the sun don’t shine.”
CRACK!
“Sure sounds like they’re having a good ol’ time reliving their frat days.”
“Be a shame to interrupt.”
“Frozen margaritas?”
“Let’s go. Rock, paper, scissors for who gets to drink virgin.”

gadget |ˈgajit|
noun
a small mechanical device or tool, esp. an ingenious or novel one: a state-of-the-art kitchen with every conceivable gadget.
DERIVATIVES
gadgeteer |ˌgajiˈti(ə)r|noun,
gadgetry |-trē|noun,
gadgety adjective
ORIGIN late 19th cent. (originally in nautical use): probably from French gâchette ‘lock mechanism’ or from the French dialect word gagée ‘tool.’

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 11 (Part 8)

After I drained Mr. Steedstiff’s family jewels and Miss Frothinglips fully satiated her carnal appetites, I was finally released from service. My reward: to take the soiled dildo away to be cleaned — by me. I left the two furtive lovers to their devices; they commenced a game of ring-around-the-rosie, each lashing whips as they frolicked starkers. There were always rumors floating around amongst the hoi polloi about the ‘Great Houses’, but to witness firsthand the ways and means of aristocratic stress relief was rather disconcerting. As I scrubbed the used dildo in hot, soapy water I pondered why that was.

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 11 (Part 7)

Crawling beneath him, I nursed his weeping cock to life. With his slimy and tasty organ firmly ensconced in my mouth, I practiced my throating technique. For once unencumbered by supervision, my free hand succored my pussy. The scents, the sounds, the pure uninhibited lust brought me to a rolling boil, my essence squirting copiously and continuously. Mr. Steedstiff’s cloying spend I savored before swallowing with eagerness for more. I will say this in closing: From that moment forward, I ceased to play the role of hapless victim and was drawn into the many plots being woven all around me.

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 11 (Part 6)

By now, I was the billiard ball to their cues; caroming from cushions to pockets with each strike. My tongue furry with his funk, she bade me grasp her dildo and guide the way into his tight fundament. His rod softened under her assault: I became superfluous to their lust. Each spoke as if on stage, actors reciting memorized lines flung out to mesmerized audiences night after night. I did not care to record the banter. Indeed, I felt a tad sorry for Mr. Steedstiff — who winced every time Miss Frothinglips drove her thick prick home with a loud slap.

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 11 (Part 5)

For all the often brutality of males, when given the chance, it was females who serviced me the harsher every time. No matter, I thrived on such treatment and, in any case, she was too eager to wait much longer. After a few more pokes, while I held my breath, she withdrew from my drenched mouth. Her voice dropped an octave, the cool soprano thrill deepening into a rough gutter patois. “Suck his arsehole, Ruby. Use that talented tongue to pry open his bum for my weapon of ass destruction.” I helped him bend over, fist tight round his cock.

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 11 (Part 4)

“Finally,” Miss Frothinglips huffed. “Suckle and make it wet.” I sank to my knees and used both hands to grasp his bobbing prick. Opening my mouth to engulf the wet, shiny tip peeping from its sheath, she stepped closer and yanked my head away. “Not his cock, you dolt. Mine!” She slapped my face with her leather appliance for good measure. “Spit shine my knob, Ruby, before I plunder his arse.” She poked my lips and jabbed inside with remorseless pressure. I fear to say, she used me ill then. I choked and slobbered as she thrust into my throat.

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 11 (Part 3)

At my blank look, she rolled her eyes and repeated with exaggerated pronunciation and gestures as if I was the town’s witless fool, “Strip. Him. Naked. Now!” I could hear the lash in her voice, but having never before in my entire life encountered male garments still on the male, I made a right hash of things. Mr. Steedstiff resorted, through self-preservation I assume, to removing articles himself. No matter, in short order he was as naked as Adam — sans fig leaf — trumpeting a tremendous erection. A prodigious expanse of greenery would have been required for cover. I covetously stroked.

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 11 (Part 2)

After I pulled the straps tight between Miss Frothinglips’ thighs, up through her crack and snugly around her waspish waist, I felt certain I was to be dismissed and, even rose unbidden to my feet to depart rather than be privy to my betters’ sinful intercourse. I should have known better: I did know better. Miss Frothinglips’ donned a figurative top hat, and commenced snapping out orders with all the crispness of a whip-wielding circus ringmaster. Albeit, one with an artificial phallus jutting aggressively above a soaking quim and bare bosom exposing hard nipples. “Ruby! Quit dawdling and prepare Sebastian.”

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 11 (Part 1)

Gentle Reader: I would surmise by this portion of my smutty tale, you believe nothing at Peacock House would shake me. That would be an incorrect assumption. In my era, even the most cloistered girl living under the strictest spiritual discipline, did not have to be taught a female’s place was under the male. That the roles could be reversed — that was beyond my comprehension. Yet here I was, once more on my knees, preparing for debauchery unlike anything I’d previously witnessed. Of course, with my wanton nature, simply watching was never going to work. I was ready and willing.

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: Complete Chapter 10

Hello everyone. If you are reading this now [as opposed to some years in the future which would be a weird paradox] then you are undoubtably knees-deep in holiday preparations; thus, I will not trouble you with an extensive monologue, other than to state I hope to post more stories in January, 2018. What follows here is the Complete Chapter 10 of The Bumhampton Chronicles. I have already written the 3,000 word Chapter 11 and will commence posting drabbles on a Thurs-Sun schedule next week. Stay safe and enjoy the festivities.

Gentle Reader: One of the [many] disadvantages of being a woman is the monthly. If you wish to showcase your education, using ‘menstruation’ in polite mixed company will invoke instant silence. Romances never mention feminine bleeding cycles — unless the fair heroine is breathlessly counting days to verify she’s increasing — one reason being that no sane female authoress would drag down suspenseful prose with cramps, bloating and general moodiness. Cinderella never broke out in facial blemishes. Which is why a man could never write from a womanly perspective about reproduction. They are too squeamish despite projecting an aura of virile bravado.

I woke with a throbbing headache. I’d neglected to bring spare padding to my — our — room, but Louisa had thoughtfully provided extras. The soiled rag went to the laundry: I dropped them on my way to emptying the chamber pot. Let the self-satisfied curates preach of rewards everlasting for those not straying into sinful ways. For those of us fortunate to serve in a good home, the daily realities of piss, shit, vomit and blood, was reminder enough of the frailty of human bodies. There is no point fearing Death when it walks at your side and shares your meals.

If anything, I pity Death, for it can only stare like the beggar at the feast never partaking of the living. Why I was here, on the earth, alive and thinking, I could not say. My soul was my own concern —then and now — and despite having no philosophical bent, I feel confident stating in this memoir, that the only times life made any sense at all, was when I touched someone I loved. All else was dross. Morbid? Perhaps. But to those reading this in some utopian future, you need to understand that survival was not an abstract concept.

My fifth day in service was markedly different. It was exceedingly bizarre to not only be wearing a uniform at all times, but an undergarment girdling my loins. The fabric chaffed my tender nipples. The loss of freedom through lack of nudity felt like a day in gaol. Thus does one quickly become accustomed to circumstances even when some would label them beyond the pale. The roster was shuffled. Louisa and I swapped duties for the next three days. I much preferred scrubbing floors and being spanked, to her tasks of cleaning grates and oil lamps. I was very dirty.

I did not like deferred punishments. During a maid’s cycle, canings and whippings accrued to be given all at once when sexual servitude recommenced: An incentive to behave with extra circumspection and diligence. I of course, being an incorrigible termagant, piled up demerits like windblown orange leaves against a fence. That was later though. Firstly came Saturday afternoon and an assignment to Miss Frothinglips. Was ever a surname more appropriate, I never encountered. “Enter.” I brushed my damp palms down my brushed out skirt. There were still smudges on my apron. Nervous, I pushed open the door to her suite.

This was my first time in her domain, and although we’d interacted — to salacious results at times — there was an unbreachable bastion between us. I would never be more than servant class, no matter how wealthy and influential my husband night be. She was aristocracy, and her blood was deemed better than mine. I did not mind. Ambition was tolerated — if not encouraged — but I had no desire for a glass slipper or a prince’s kiss. The gilded life seemed glamorous from the outside, but it was a cage nevertheless. “Good afternoon, Miss Frothinglips. I was told to report here.”

At her dressing table, in careless déshabillé, she beckoned me forward. I did not meet her gaze in the mirror, but could sense her intense regard despite her seemingly casual posture and partial nudity. “Do you know why you are here?” I shook my head. “We had a meeting last night — your principle trainers. You puzzle us, Ruby. Did you know that?” Miss Frothinglips’ tone made it clear she expected a thoughtful response. “No, miss. I am but a humble maid and have sought only to do what I was told.” Her smile was predatory. “Lies will not avail you.”

I bit my lip, hard. Protesting my innocence would only serve to deepen the apparent rift that had opened overnight. “Nothing else to say, Ruby?” My eyes finally clashed with her reflection. She was angry. Why, I could not fathom. “I apologize if I’ve given you offense, miss, for I know of no action of mine that would have caused your apparent disfavor of my presence here.” She spun, slowly, the top of the stool silently rotating until she was square to me as I stood at a respectable distance. Her forefinger curled, beckoning me closer. “I require your expertise.”

At this I panicked. I was no ladies maid and knew nothing of the upper-class toilette. With short, even shy shuffling steps I was drawn by her coiling finger: closer and closer until her upraised palm halted me only inches away from her body. Her head, level with my bosom, cocked sideways peering up as I looked down. “Kneel.” There was no ‘please’ in her command. I knelt anyway. It was only as her thighs leisurely parted and her elbows went back to rest upon the table that I realized her intent. As punishments went, licking her cunt seemed benign.

Lifting her pink peignoir, she revealed the dimpled valley and rumpled hillocks of her womanhood. Her rich scent complimented the floral perfume that she habitually daubed from a crystal jar. She did not speak. I did not hesitate. A fleeting thought as my tongue lapped her essence. Perhaps their confusion is due to my eagerness. Her filmy silk garment enclosed my head like dove’s wings as any mental whimsy flitted away under the influence of her dewy flux. As I licked and swallowed her rich crème, I noted she tasted much different then Louisa. Likely a better diet, not breeding.

My jaw began to ache. Other than heightened puffs of breathy inhalations, she made no vocalizations. Determined to provoke a reaction — I was used to Louisa’s earthy vocabulary and uninhibited passion — I slipped a finger into Miss Frothinglips narrow tight frontal passage. Wet heat clamped. I circled her swelled clit with my other thumb. Her thighs quivered. Still she was silent. The thumb moved lower. Her back portal was not virgin, even if her cunt had not been plundered by a prick. I rubbed my probing digits together, only a thin membrane between my tips. She slumped even further down.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Heavy knocking broke the fragile silence. Fraught with entangled emotions, until she infinitesimally raised a plucked brow at my hesitation, I did not move to answer the door. When I did so, Mr. Steedstiff was waiting in the passageway. I nodded; waiting for Miss Frothinglips to bade him enter. Evidently he was expected. “Sebastian, please come in.” I stood aside and began to close the door. “Ruby? Where are you going? I did not dismiss you.” Confused, I stepped back inside her room watching as Mr. Steedstiff — Sebastian — hugged and kissed her with evident passion. His hands gripped her bottom.

Over the suckling sound of their reunion of mouths, I could hear him murmur effusive platitudes such as this: “I’ve missed you, sweet Francine, like the blushing rose misses the damp dew of spring’s kisses.” Even as I winced at his overwrought sentiments, I knew there would be trouble if a gentlemen were discovered in a young lady’s chambers without proper chaperonage. I didn’t qualify and fervently wished for invisibility as I pressed my shoulder blades into the flocked wallpaper. No such luck. He released Miss Frothinglips, retaining possession of her posterior and genially asked, “Have you told her yet?”

To my astonishment, I could clearly see a dark blush suffuse her face and upper chest. “I got distracted, Sebastian.” His back to me, his expression was hidden, but not his actions. A hand slipped around to her front and wiggled up between her closed thighs. Her eyes closed — whether in shame or arousal I could not ascertain — but her reaction to his exploration was much louder than any I’d been able to elicit earlier. “Why, you naughty slut, Francine. Taking advantage of a helpless servant girl to satisfy your greedy quim. Shall I whip you for your wanton wallowing?”

She cried out then, with a girlish lisp, proceeded to blame me. “It’ss all her fffault. Ssshe sshould be whiiped toooo.” Mr. Steedstiff moved aside and spoke over his shoulder, his finger clearly embedded in her wet cunt. “Is that true, Ruby? Did you seduce poor innocent Francine with your low and cunning morality? Part her sweet thighs and steal her sweet naivety with your wicked mouth?” Inwardly I sighed with relief. It was all a game: A game I intended to win at all costs. I pushed away from the wall, walking with an insolent sway in my gait.

Daringly, when I joined their company with a contemptuous sneer on my face, I swung my right arm as hard as I could, and spanked Miss Frothinglips across her bared bottom. The smack was echoed in their shocked expressions. “Yes, yes, yes, to all your accusations. I was thinking about sucking your delicious prick, Sebastian, as I fucked Francine’s cunt with my fingers. Had I known you had a prior claim, I would have brought a dildo from the Gun Room and taken her for my own. It’s obvious to my ‘low and cunning morality’ that she needs regular fucking.”

After a shocked silence that lasted for seemingly minutes, Mr. Steedstiff threw back his head and roared with laughter, drowning out Miss Frothinglips’ sputtering outrage. When he’d regained his composure, and muffled her protests with another searing kiss, he pulled me into an embrace. Still chucking, he clucked my chin. “Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Mrs. Cleanknockers was more correct than even she guessed when she told us last night you were a mischievous imp. His lordship is at sixes and sevens not knowing what to do with you.” I frowned mulishly. “It’s hardly my fault. He set me on this path.”

Miss Frothinglips leaped in his lordship’s defense. “It’s only because you are lowborn and naturally wanton, that you tempt him to sample your base pussy.” I shot back. “At least I don’t pretend to be a chaste virgin but allow huge ‘lowborn’ cocks to ream my ass every week.” Fire in her eyes, she made to slap me again, but Mr. Steedstiff intercepted her hand. “None of that, Francine. No matter your anger at Ruby, none of us here are innocent of lust. I do not intend to let jealousy distract me from the ultimate prize.” Prize? I was mystified.

Not so much though, when he opened the valise he’d brought, pulling out a short whip constructed with braided leather. Running the throngs through his palm with a sensuous expression he flicked it with a snap of the wrist. The hard ‘CRACK’ made both of us females flinch. My fear and longing spilled over into a confession. “I’ve just started my menses, Mr. Steedstiff.” CRACK! “I am well aware of the rules, Ruby, and will defer your discipline to later.” CRACK! “However, Francine is under no such restrictions, are you, my dear?” A look of pure loathing came my way.

Miss Frothinglips sniffed, haughty nose in the air and gave the barest of headshakes to his question. Mr. Steedstiff’s finger made a twirling motion. She took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders before bending over placing her palms down on the stool. He took a long step forward, tucking the whip under his armpit and then raised and folding her dressing gown until it draped over her head. Her sheer peignoir he left alone, in her position, it rode up to mid-thigh. “Feet together, Francine, bottom up and do not rise or the strike will not count. Fifteen in total.”

She adjusted her posture and clearly spoke, “Yes, Sir.” I did not know whether I should look away. My choice was made for me. “Pay attention, Ruby. You will receive twenty for your role in this seduction and, should Francine earn extras, your total extras will be doubled.” If ever there was a time to quit while I was ahead, it was now, as the patent unfairness sunk into my mind. It’s a game. I intend to be a winner no matter what plots they weave. Decision made, easier than I’d ever thought, I knelt again, barely out of range.

I matched Miss Frothinglips’ cool aplomb. “Do your worst, sir. I am well aware of my helplessness in the face of such implacable depravity. I throw myself at your mercy.” I put actions to words and sprawled at his feet with a dramatic ‘thud’. Even she could not prevent a giggle from escaping hearing my histrionics. Mr. Steedstiff made a scolding noise and, not allowing me to move, straddled my prone body and clamped his boot-heels to my ribcage. I’d outsmarted myself: I could no longer see the whipping. I heard it though. The sizzle as the whip flew overhead.

The sharp cracking noise as leather impacted upon flesh shielded only by a thin layer of silk. Miss Frothinglips’ ever increasing distress as I counted silently the number of strikes. Fifteen! I am sure my internal exultation was likely matched in tone by her private relief. “Very well, Francine, you took that whipping quite bravely and only earned one extra.” He moved his boots away from my torso and told me to stand, whereupon he handed me the whip with a short bow. “Ruby, you will administer the final penalty stroke.” Astonished, my jaw fell open. Miss Frothinglips protested vehemently.

He overrode her objections with a sharp rejoinder. “Do you wish more, Francine? Perhaps another two or three or more?” At her whimper he continued, “I thought not. Ruby, please proceed.” As I stepped back, the handle warm from his exertions, I nervously eyed the red stripes decorating her squirming bottom. Mr. Steedstiff placed restraining fingers on my arm. “One last thing, ladies. There will be no retaliation from this and, if you think to pull your blow, Ruby, I will thrash you not twenty-two times next week, but at least twice that. Do not hold back.” Miss Frothinglips moaned.

It was my turn to take deep breaths in order to calm my racing pulse. Wiping my slick palm on my skirt, I panted three times and raised my right arm out wide. Inhaling and holding, I released the air from my lungs with a convulsive exhalation as I swung, eyes fixated on the center of the target bent before me. I didn’t even hear the crack as the leather dug into and rebounded from her mooned posterior. I watched as my blow blossomed into fresh red vines swirling across the previous lines. He did not assist her to rise.

I nodded in sympathy. Miss Frothinglips’ eyes were damp but clear. A feral twitch of her lips made me nervous, but it was not directed at me, rather at Mr. Steedstiff who was rummaging in his valise. Holding up an object, he shook it. “Is that for me?” I blurted out pointing at the straps connected to a long leather dildo. “No,” she fairly snarled. “It’s for me. Isn’t that right, Sebastian?” He bowed deep. “Yes, Mistress. My arse is yours.” Snapping her fingers she said, “Ruby, assist me.” At her behest, I stripped her naked and attached the harness.

  • Corrupted

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  • Purchase: The Case of the Disciplined Valentine

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    Note: The original version of this book was included in the Lust in Lace paranormal romance anthology.

  • Purchase: The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie

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    Pity poor Stephanie: twenty-five years old and still spanked daily. She was intelligent, a college graduate with honors, articulate, a fashionista with a good job and an all-round delightful person with never a cross word and always a genuine smile for everyone. It was to her misfortune that she also exuded an innocent sensual charm, leading both men and women to have one uppermost thought in their minds: spanking Stephanie’s spectacular and epic rounded bottom. It was not her fault; genetics had blessed her with both the ideal rear end and a delightful bewildered submissiveness. It simply never occurred to her to challenge her discipline. If someone needed to spank her, well, obviously she was guilty of some offense and thus deserved to be spanked.
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  • Lust in Spring

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  • Lust in Spring anthology

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    Purchase Lust in Lace on Amazon Kindle. Click picture to go to Amazon.

  • Lust in Lace anthology

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  • Paranormal Erotic Romance

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  • Back writing 6/30/16 short stories and a spanking novel