The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 9)

Rough palms caressed my hot cheeks. I pressed back into his touch, waggling my naughty hips; spreading my thighs with silent entreaty. His boots kicked my ankles even wider. I dipped my hips and groaned as his thick fingers probed my now open channel. I adjusted my grip on the far edge of the desk. His heavy cock pressed past my puckered portal into my pulsating pouch: thumbs resting either side of my ridged spine, his fingers wrapped under my somersaulting stomach. He began to move out then back in with majestic sweeps like an Oxford crew on the Thames.

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

Kismet of Submission: Episode 8

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

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

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

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

‘And the first two scenarios?’

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

‘So… you… wouldn’t clean first?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘My, my, aren’t you a polished one.’

‘I do my best.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 8)

His stern countenance made me tremble. “Very well, Ruby. Over the desk.” The smooth oak felt so sensuous under my aroused bosom. Tight nipples aching to be squeezed pressed into the grain, thighs flexing as I felt the instant moisture pool on my quim. Fingertips gripped the walnut trim on the far side, toes rose en pointe, bottom presented to his will. Yesterday’s soreness roared to life with the hard blows of leather wrapped maple striking my proffered flesh. I yelped once, settling into a pattern of rapid puffs, breathing through the delicious pain. Take me! I’m a wanton slut!

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 7)

I curtsied, and reflexively removed my uniform. My courses were due any day now; I made a mental note to ask for linens. “Sir? If I may, do you wish to give my daily spanking now?” Pen flying over ledger, he did not look up when he spoke. “I am rather in a lather at the moment, I do not wish you to suffer you the consequences.” I patted my full tummy and discretely burped. “If I may be so bold, Sir, if there is the slightest chance I have caused your temperament to be disagreeable, then punishment is due.”

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 6)

“I could not, and did not have means to resist my fiancé in exercising his soon-to-be conjugal rights. I thought that was the entire point of the exercise, that men require a female to be subjugated and spanked before sexual congress takes place. Am I incorrect, Sir? I have done everything asked of me, and do not understand your upset.” His fulsome mustache quivered and his eyes bulged. With visible effort, he controlled his flexing hands and leaned forward on bunched fists. “Rest assured, Ruby, I shall get to the bottom of the situation. In the meantime, you may clean.”

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

The Bumhampton Chronicles: Chapter 8 (Part 5)

Such were my tumbled thoughts when I reported to his study. I was still on probation, subject to regular whippings, but after my virginity vanished, I was only planning my wedding, not trying to upset the social order. “Ruby! What the devil are you about?” I blinked in confusion. “Sir?” His lordship slapped a paper on his desk, apparently annoyed with something I’d done. “This states you allowed Mr. Jones-Smyth to pluck your bud yesterday! I did not give you permission to seduce him!” I was dumbfounded. “Sir. Mrs. Cleanknockers will vouchsafe I was tied to the horse and caned.”

You can go to this page which has links to all the complete previous chapters.

Put your money where the butt is

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHACK!

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

WHACK!

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

WHACK!

“Seven hundred! How about eight?”

WHACK!

“Eight. Nine?”

WHACK!

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

WHACK!

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

WHACK!

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

WHACK!

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

WHACK!

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

WHACK!

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

WHACK!

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

BANG

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

WHACK!

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

The high bidder pays dearly. Kalidwen.©

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

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