Guilty as Charged

This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is, the year 2517. Last week’s story, Black Holes Tango, could very well be set in 2517. I wanted to write about something else this week though. It’s about the timeless themes of sex and spanking. No matter where the human race is in 500 years, I am confident that some things will never change. The photo belongs to Jillian Marks at The Deluge in a Paper Cup.

Photograph provided by and used with the permission of Jillian Marks

It taunts me. My eyes can’t stay away. I squirm; uncomfortable, the thin cushion on the kitchen chair brings no relief. I switch back, the blank white screen replaces the woman in the process of climaxing.

Typing the title, I smirk, guilty is something I know all too well. Gnawing on my lower lip, my free hand slips off the desk and drops to my jittery thigh. The dark growl stops me.
‘No touching. Hands where I can see them.’
I hunch my shoulders and make faces at the computer. I’m stubborn, but not stupid: He can’t see through my back. I think I’m beginning to regret awakening his dominance; although—I squirm again and sigh. I wish I’d kept my mouth shut, and hadn’t had that last glass of wine.

But damn it! How did he know to come back right then? I was this close to getting away with it. Another few minutes… I mean, come on, cheating on a bet that I couldn’t go 48-hours without masturbating isn’t the end of the world. Right? He was the one who suggested a spanking as forfeit. It’s all his fault. He knew I’d never had a real spanking before, and he knows full well that I can never resist tweaking the rules to suit me. It was a setup I tell you.

I denied everything of course. Even pulled out the feminine itch card, but, he showed me the video clip on his cell. Unzipped shorts, hand shoved deep inside, the wet squelching and breathy moans: Fine, guilty as charged.

The worst part wasn’t getting caught sticky-fingered. No, it was when he made a huge production of fetching a chair, sitting down and ordering me—ordering me, me—to lay over his knees and ask for my punishment!

He had the gall to write out a script and put it on the floor right in front of my nose, saying as he did so, he’d written it out yesterday! He patted my bottom, stroked my back, but refused to spank me until I read it out loud and begged.

‘Dear, Sir. I’m sorry I was a bad girl for masturbating without your permission. I agreed my orgasms belonged to you for 48-hours, and I was very naughty for trying to welsh on my wager. Per our agreement, my penalty is to be spanked over your knee. Please, Sir, spank your disobedient girl very hard, very long and make her sorry she challenged your authority. My bare bottom begs for your strong hand to teach it a lesson. Spank me hard, and turn my saucy bottom red and contrite.’

I was so humiliated—and turned on. I wanted to come before the spanking, and right afterwards. But he said I still had twelve hours to go. And, if I didn’t honestly write down everything I was feeling during my punishment, then the 48-hour denial of orgasm would start over at zero.

I didn’t want to cry: But I did. I didn’t want to acknowledge his right to discipline me: But I did. I can’t believe sitting on my sore butt hurts so much, but it feels so fucking good when I squirm.

I don’t want to reveal my true emotions in print. I don’t want to give him that kind of control. I don’t trust myself.

I flip back to my portrait. I love my expression. I grimace and want to pound my fists. I was this close!
What I really want is another spanking.
I wish I’d done this years ago.

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

Black Holes Tango

out past the halo
where the comets
do roam
out past the halo
where the cold
froze your bones
radiation will fry you
when the light
fades away
so come through the door
take your helmet
off here

so raise your glass high boys
for black holes
and beer
raise your glass high
for a ship
called desire
drink down that liquor
before you return
to that ship
called desire
and the black holes
of home

out past the belt
where the rocks
do tumble
out past the belt
where the ice
breaks in shards
gravity will grab you
when the asteroids
spin by
so come through the door
take your helmet
off here

so raise your glass high boys
for black holes
and beer
raise your glass high
for a ship
called desire
drink down that liquor
before you return
to that ship
called desire
and the black holes
of home

Lolo Black raised her tankard high, enthusiastically belting out the lyrics to Black Holes and a Ship called Desire—the unofficial anthem of the space station Delphi Blue. The stark filtered light from the gas giant Atlas cut a wide beam through O’Mara’s Pub. She took a long pull of the spicy ale. Alcohol was the third most important thing she missed while on a run to the asteroid belt.

Her cargo of ores sold and off-loaded, she’d docked several hours ago after six months mining in the absolute desolation of space. A room, a shower, clean jumpersuit; the first need taken care of, she was hunting for the second of her priorities. After wearing her fingers out watching porn holos, her body craved real skin wrapped around deep inside. Lolo had five weeks to kill: mandatory rest for licensed pilots, enforced through regular medical exams and strict exercise programs.

“How’s my favorite intersex employee doing?”
“I’m not your employee,” she replied with rote indifference to the ritual pitch.
Sven, all seven feet of ebony muscle, straddled the other chair at her small table. “Just say the word, babe, and I’ll sign you up with a brand new Mark Twelve freighter and even take your tub in trade.”
The Satin Rose is not for sale, Sven. All I want from you is a good hard fucking.”
“You know I never mix business with pleasure,” he regretfully said.
“I don’t regret turning you down… again. I’ll never work for that asshole Atlas. It’s bad enough he named the planet after himself, but his wife Delphi swans around as if she’s Queen and we’re peasants.”

Whatever Sven would have said in response was lost in the low rumble of hackles raised by the rough spacers guarding their turf.
Lolo didn’t snarl, only because she was too shocked by the temerity of the intruder. “What the fuck is a Sector 8 cop doing in O’Mara’s?”
Sven swiveled giving an amused snort. “That’s Crandall Memphis, Atlas’ nephew and troubleshooter: Emphasis on shooter. He’s here with a squad of Greenies hunting pirates jacking comets.”
She finished off her ale with a gulp, the dregs burning her tongue. “I was going to hook up with Crazy Pete, but I do like the cut of Crandall’s… epaulets.”
“Lolo…” Sven growled. “Don’t fuck with Atlas. I like you. You’re the best miner in this parsec, but there are limits to even my protection.”
She leaned across and kissed his forehead. “Thanks for the warning, grandpa, but I can handle my liquor and my sex partners.”

“There you are, Crandall,” Lolo cut through the tension like an arclaze, deftly slipping her arm around the cop’s waist and squeezing with warning. The other miners reluctantly eased back a fraction. She bent her head down and playfully nipped his left ear while hissing softly beneath the implied threats. “I’m sure your body armor can repel a needler, but a shiv to the throat will kill you just the same.
“I’m missed you so much! I can’t believe you came all this way for me!” Lolo kissed him with apparent enthusiasm, swiftly extracting him from danger.

Once safely into the crowd on Concourse J, she blasted him for his stupidity. “What the fuck were you doing, going solo into that place? Didn’t they teach you anything in cop school?”
“I had the situation under control, miss…”
“Name’s Lolo. Lolo Black. And pardon my attitude, but you’re full of shit. Those boys and girls back there would have had you out an airlock before your uncle could sneeze a credit. There are places on this station police don’t go, unless it’s been exposed to hard vacuum for a cycle first; and even then, they go in powered.”

Crandall stumbled as the directional station jets made a minute adjustment.
“Great,” Lolo snarled. “Dirtside cop no less. Let me guess. First time away from mommy’s tit.”
He snarled back. “Watch your mouth, Lolo, or I’ll toss you in the brig with the rest of the users.”
She grabbed his utility belt and mashed up against his stocky frame. “I doubt you have the balls to even frisk me. Too scared you might get bit.” She kissed him again, this time forcing her tongue between his angry lips and sliding one hand around to fondle his broad butt.
Crandall gave it right back, dueling for supremacy like two characters in a low budget space opera. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily as he said, “I don’t know what your game is, Lolo, but I’m on duty.”
“My game? It’s simple. You’re seeking information on pirate activity, and I’m horny. You figure out how to scratch my itch and I’ll give it up. You do know how to conduct an interrogation, don’t you?”
She saw a smug grin as he crossed his arms. “In your case, I’m going to start with a body search. A very thorough and deep search.”
Lolo instantly shivered, placing her hands behind her back. “My room is 3854-V Deck 12, officer. I’m sorry I sassed you. Please don’t cuff me and take me in, I’ll do anything you say, just don’t hurt me.”
The buzz of the active manacles around her crossed wrists caused her cock to stiffen and pussy to flood. When he threatened to punish her disobedient ass with a hard spanking, her nipples almost punched through her skintight clothing.

He maneuvered her into the closest alcove activating the opaque security field. “You must really think I’m stupid, if you expect me to traipse off to your room without checking you for weapons first.”
“No, sir, you’re not stupid. You’re a hard, mean bastard who likes to abuse his prisoners.”
“You got a really smart mouth, don’t you?” He punctuated the sneering remark with two hard smacks to her bottom. When she yelped in surprise, he gripped her nape and firmly pressed her forehead to the wall. “I can think of a better use for your tongue, but for now, spread ‘em nice and wide, Lolo. I’ll show you how a real cop frisks his prisoner.”
She moaned as she thrust her hips out and widened her stance into a Y-shape. Her fantasy was about to come true. He started with her boots, pulling them off and tossing aside with a double thud. He used his right hand to slid up each leg to the upper thigh while the left was anchored in the small of her back. Skipping her waist—for now—he ran his fingers through her buzz cut, then around the collar, shoulders and each cuffed arm down to the fingernails.
Lolo wiggled when she felt his engorged groin against her ass. “Please, sir, I’m not hiding anything. Don’t use your probe on me, I’ll be good.”
“The thing is,” he said, placing both hands on her stomach and slowly moving them upwards, “I was in the bar because I heard scuttlebutt that a certain miner was involved in illegal activities.” He cupped her loose breasts and squeezed gently, then pinched both nipples. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“What? I’m clean! That filthy Atlas is behind it I guarantee! You outta bust him!”
“Settle down, Lolo, I didn’t say I believed them—or my uncle.” He increased the pressure with his thumbs and forefingers until she gasped and struggled to stand upright.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
“Not so fast!” Crandall warned, releasing her tight nipples and swiftly spanking her again.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
“I need to finish frisking you.” He slipped his hands between her thighs and prodded everywhere. “Wet and hard. I must have won the lottery.” He laughed as she arched her back and lifted her rump to his teasing fingers. “No weapons that I can feel, Lolo, but I’m taking you to your room anyway for a cavity search. Pirates can’t be trusted.”
She nearly came at his words. Completely humiliated, she did come as he escorted her, still cuffed and barefooted, through the public halls to her lodging.

When they finally reached her domicile, he asked, “I’m curious. Are you a natural intersex, or a genmod?”
Lolo gave Crandall an incredulous stare. “Are you insane?”
He shrugged. “Hey, I am conducting a serious interrogation here. The question is germane considering it’s thought to be stabilizing in deep space pilots.”
“I thought this was only role play sex?”
“Then let me ask you. If this was a date, finding out in mid-grope wouldn’t be very polite, not to mention dangerous, now wouldn’t it?”
She nodded reluctantly.
“And, not to kill the mood entirely, I’m deadly serious about tracking pirates, so if you have relevant information, I’m willing to deal fairly.”
Leaning against the bulkhead, Lolo pondered his offer then flapped her hands and jerked her head. “I can’t deactivate the palm lock with my hands behind my back.”
“Are you going to behave if I release you?”
“That depends. What will you do if I cause trouble?”
He lightly tapped her chin. “I’ll strip you naked, put you over my knee, spank you hard until you’re bright red, then spread you open on my lap and conduct a deep cavity search for contraband.”
Lolo shuddered and whispered through a suddenly dry throat. “Sounds fair to me.” She spun around and flexed her restrained wrists.
Waiting a heartbeat or two, he buzzed the release. The cuffs unlocked and retracted into the magnetic control wand.
“Thanks.”
Placing her left palm on the pad and staring straight ahead at the optical scanner, it was only a moment before the light durasteel panel slid sideways and she stepped through the opening. She sensed him following, and once the door closed, pivoted as if to say something. She threw a punch instead.
Crandall wasn’t fooled for an instant. He blocked her attempt and hooking her foot, turned and threw her over his shoulder onto the bed. She bounced once, quickly regaining her equilibrium, but before she could resume hand-to-hand combat Crandall asked, “Best two out of three falls?”
Growling, her response was to launch herself like a plasma jet at the smirking cop. He met her head-on and smoothly danced her around and off the sparse furniture until pinning her face down and ass up on the floor.
“Do you yield and accept your punishment?”
She grunted and strained but he only tightened his clasp. “Yes, I yield, you bastard.”
“That’s Sir Bastard, if you please.” He released her and backed away, and in a no-nonsense tone ordered, “Strip.”
A shivery shudder racked her entire body. Slowing standing, she toyed with front fastener at her cleavage. Biting her lip, she had the audacity to say, “Do I at least get music for my striptease?”
Crandall quirked his brow: She took that as a yes and activated the player. The thumping club mix raised her pulse even higher and she started swaying and twirling as her jumpersuit fell open down to her crotch. Shrugging out of the long sleeves, she shimmied her hips and with a deft flick of her foot, kicked the garment straight at Crandall. Catching it cleanly, he smiled and carefully folded it up, setting it aside.
Lolo was naked underneath: she hated wearing undergarments on station. Six months of confining survival gear made her want to go nude constantly. Still dancing, she let her erection lead the way.
Snuggling up to him, she traced his uniform with her fingertips, eventually cupping his tumescence. “I can’t wait to have this bad boy inside me,” she crooned. “I bet mine is bigger though. I got the best when I had it implanted—though, I love my pussy too.”
“Later, Lolo,” he said, rubbing her bottom. “But first, this has a date over my knee.”
“Do I have to?” she pouted, nibbling his neck.
“Yes, I’m not done with your interrogation.”
“Meanie.”
“I’m an amoral abusive dirtside cop remember?”
“Sorry.”
“You will be.”

She was. Dangling over his knees, ass on fire as Crandall did a beat down to the rhythm of the staccato syncopation blaring from the speakers, Lolo wanted the spanking to be harder and faster. Pain was a pilot’s constant companion and this was more cleansing than punishing. She did a lap dance, grinding her tummy and twerking her hips as his hard hand rained slaps on her tenderized flesh. When he finally stopped, she finally unclenched her glutes and slumped limply. She felt her nerves pulsing, the surface sting subsiding and the muscle soreness building. A couple of more minutes and she knew she’d climax under his spanking.
Coaxing her into a different posture, she blushed as bright as she presumed her butt must look. “What are you doing now?”
“This, my naughty pirate, is called the wheelbarrow position. Something us grubby dirtsiders use on our farms. It’s time,” the loud snap of gloves being donned. “For your cavity search.”
Lolo moaned as if she was being tortured. “No! I’ll come if you probe me. Please fuck me instead. I’m sorry I sassed you.”
Crandall didn’t respond, instead, running his slick protected fingers around her labia then wedging his thumbs between her stretched thighs and prying open her soaked entrance. “I see you enjoyed being spanked,” as he let go and grabbed Lolo’s hard cock. Giving it a quick wank, he rubbed the tip as clear fluid seeped. “Must be a trip to come both ways.”
Lolo thought he sounded wistful, but all pretense of control fled when he slowly, carefully, slipped two fingers into her pulsating vagina: all the while maintaining a steady pumping of her cock. “You’re going to make me come!”
He withdrew his wet fingers and slapped her twice on her brick red bottom. “Don’t you dare come without permission or I’ll whip you with my belt!”
Wailing in protest, she tried to control her urges, but his thick, nimble fingers pressed wide and twirled inside. She felt a spasm in her testes, and he clamped down hard on her shaft.
“Don’t… come…”
Panting now as he edged her over and over, she lost all track of time; the pending climax stretched out as if nearing light speed. Only dimly did she hear him say, ‘last orifice’ and the snap of a fresh glove. Her pussy felt empty, but not for long, as he let go of her cock and placed his thumb on her clit.
A faint, guttural, inhuman tone she didn’t recognize as emanating from her mouth, occurred as one, and then two fingers slid inexorably through her anus. She clenched her rectum, hard, and let out a strangled scream as they rotated and scraped the flexible inner walls.
Lolo stopped breathing entirely as Crandall jabbed back into her vagina and made a sandwich of his hands, the fingers rubbing against each other through the thin membrane separating her passages.
“I can’t stop….” screaming hoarsely and bucking violently as the long denied orgasm ruptured her senses.
Crandall yanked his fingers out of her ass, shed the glove and while she was still convulsing in the throes of climax, briskly milked her cock. It wasn’t long until Lolo ejaculated and shot all over the floor.

When she came to, Crandall was washing his hands and face and quietly speaking on his com. “I’ll be there in a few. Secure the scene.”
Groggily, Lolo was able to ask, “Where the hell are you going? Aren’t we having sex?”
“I’ll be back in three hours, or so.”
“What?”
“I told you. I’m on duty.”
He tossed her a salute and left.

The sound of her boots hitting the door was probably heard in outer space.

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

In case you were wondering, yes, I did write the song at the beginning. Nine years and a few weeks ago to be precise, but I never had a story to match until this prompt. In addition, the title is not a typo: Holes is correct. You may interpret that in any way you’d like. This story is a lot longer than I planned, and is not flash fiction since I took three days to write and edited quite a bit. It’s closer to what I would write for a submission call or novella concept than a blog post. I’d call it a rough quasi-draft at this point.

Falling shards of Memory

we fell,
like ripe plums the color of a bruised heart left to rot
in resentment
thirty years since
we tumbled
into lust with the hubris of youth stoked with weed
the only sentient beings ever to discover
parts fit perfectly
until we blew apart like a super heated nova
of jealousy and grade point averages
all around people swirl like bees
dancing in a hive
come and go hauling wobbly pieces of themselves
from gate to plane back to reality
shining livery adorned with emerald and ruby
jewels winking in the soft summer air
of remembrance and recognition
the lope and the bounce
mind recoils seeing the bodies and faces
of long lost friends
lined with life like a faded treasure map
of retired pirates
not unlike the expressions ignored daily
in the mirror of time
we embrace
her first the taut curves softened yet hands
provide tactile memory of bottom over knee
reddened flesh bouncing under brush
gentle social hug ignites fire kept banked
his body next wider somehow shorter but still tight
the quirked lip and sparkled eyes unchanged
like tissue paper boats
the intervening years dissolve to when we girls
compared marks and orgasms
slaves to his devious dominance
we chat
introduce my husband pulse racing his gaze both
knowing and concerned tinged with hurt
it was supposed to be simple
but meeting old flames threatened to undo me
so
I surrendered
after dinner explained to him who they were and
why after three decades the pull was still strong
they met and talked while we nattered about
our kids and menopause and gravity
summoned to their room
two strong men awaited
grim demanding explanations
we stammered
they laughed and slapped each others backs
then ordered us to our knees
online for years planned our submission
and discipline in secret
devious Doms are the worst
and the best
we sucked
hard cocks jutting from jeans
arms behind our backs
cuffed and swapped
groaning as our hair fisted
and mouths filled with thick cream
ass up as they flog me
my tongue buried in familiar pussy
the taste makes me cry for wasted years
they hug me
we fuck
in every combination that four can conjure
the steady roar of jets slowly fade as the world sleeps
decide to blow off the reunion
in favor of room service and debauched sex
of willing slaves
we grin

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

An arresting figure

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is ‘the arrest’. Corporal punishment and arrests have a long turbulent history that continues even today in many countries. The meme of a spanking by an officer of the law is a staple of spanking fiction. I’ve written several myself. The Perfect Costume is an erotic role play at Halloween that I posted Nov 1st, 2009. Another one is called Submission is about trust and was posted Sept 25th, 2009. The last one was When spanking meets the green-eyed monster posted on Sept 27th, 2009. The problem is for me, does writing about this topic validate the abuse of power that occurs all too frequently by law enforcement on a worldwide basis?

An interesting sidebar: I am currently reading How The Post Office Created America, and in chapter two, the author describes the penalties for stealing mail. The Post Office Act of 1792, imposed the death penalty for stealing mail, and was modified in 1799 to a sentence of forty lashes and imprisonment, but only for the first offense. The current penalty is fines and up to five years in prison.

The Sheriff of Nottingham was an unhappy soul. Robin Red Arse and his merry band of spankos were wreaking havoc on the King’s Men. Not content to best them in feats-of-arms, Robin insisted each defeated soldier was thrashed before being sent back to base in disgrace. Truth be told, he didn’t care about the knights and foot sloggers; nor about the fat clerics relieved of their butter dispensations, but this latest outrage was, well, an outrage. To think of the fate awaiting the fair Maid Marion. The scrumptious, delectable, alluring Marion—he swiped the drool from his lips. Presumably kidnapped—how else could such a delicious morsel of sweet curvaceous delight simply vanish? Even for Robin, this was a flog too far.

Disguised as a peasant, the Sheriff cut a surprisingly authentic one, he made his way through Nottingham Forest—picking up odd jobs, and intelligence along the ways. Slipping into the role of drovers’ assistant, he obtained entry to Robin’s encampment as the bawling oxen—likely ‘liberated’ from a nearby estate—were corralled for roasting later. The monthly fair was underway, but instead of puppet shows and wrestling, the centerpiece of entertainment was none other than the bodacious Marion.

Actually, her outrageous arse was. There was a sign above the whipping post—although pointless as the vast majority couldn’t read—that said in bold print, ‘Spank the maiden and feed a hungry child‘. What was shocking though, was not the bewitchingly nude Marion, hands shackled above her kerchief covered head, writhing while trying unsuccessfully to hide her abundant charms: It was the small troop of heavily armed King’s Guard who protected the personage of the duc d’Brittany. He was seated at a long table tabulating men and women as they passed, each time, writing in a ledger and amiably passing a silver bar to a laughing Robin next to him.

Seeing Friar Tuck tap a bung on a cask of ale, the Sheriff sidled up and asked—in his best Anglo-Saxon slang—what the fuck is going on? The rotund friar pulled a draft and snorted. “It seems fair Maid Marion was betrothed by the King’s command and she spurned the poxed whelp. ‘Tis rumored she rashly spoke of her devotion to young Robin Red Arse and stated she’d rather be arrested, gaoled and publicly flogged than to marry any but her one true love. The King agreed to her wager. One hundred pounds of raw silver bars* to be her Royal dowry, if she withstands the doubled number of blows given by the good people of the Forest.”
“And the duc?”
“The official witness of course. It’s said the King has no wish for the defiant Marion to be whipped to a bloody pulp, but, if anyone pulls their strikes, they will be flogged afterwards.”
“It seems so… unseemly.”

A shrill feminine squeal stilled the clamorous unwashed mass. All eyes turned towards the red line that bloomed across the succulent prodigious expanse of sweet white globes.

“That’s one!” The crowd roared its approval of Robin’s pronouncement. “Only one-hundred and ninety-nine to go, my one true love! Whip her good boys and girls. I want her loins on fire for after Friar Tuck pronounces us man and wife. I’ll likely need to mount her from behind!” Another shrill squeal. “That’s two!”

A lively jig was struck, and those waiting their turn started to dance to the music and cheer with every harsh snap of the strap. Loud applause greeted a particularly hard blow that had Marion jutting and wiggling her bottom in time to the music.

“And so it begins… aren’t you going to enter the lists… Sheriff? After all, this is the closest you’ll ever get to arresting the attention of the fair Maid Marion with your truncated tool of office.”

*Dowry roughly equivalent to 480,000 pounds today, or 570,000 euros or 621,000 dollars.
Source: According to Regia.org, a pound/372g of silver [by weight] was worth in current currency] approximately 4,800 pounds/5,700 euros/6,210 dollars, whereas one Saxon silver penny was worth 20 pounds in current money. A silver penny would buy 15 chickens or a cow’s eye. A pound/372g of silver [by weight] would buy 120 acres of land, the King’s lap dog or trained hunting dog, or a fledged Peregrine Falcon. Interestingly enough, a horse was less expensive as were slaves at ‘only’ 306g of silver. However, the fine for seducing a free woman was 465g of silver [6,000 pounds/7,111 euros/7,700 dollars] whereas raping a female slave was set higher at 504g of silver [6,500 pounds/7,703 euros/8,398 dollars]. Higher still was the fine for a priest working on Sunday at 930g of silver [12,000 pounds/14,222 euros/15,501 dollars].

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

Take this woman

Next Monday, June 1st I meant May 1st, I will be posting my first monthly Spanking Newsletter, at my other blog Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction. I can’t believe I skipped the entire month of May, thinking it was June next week.

I almost missed,“The Wedding”, not because I was late, but rather, I didn’t want to be there at all. My parents played the family card—easy to do when still living at home at age twenty—not to mention, they were paying for a table. Don’t ask. I have to also say, I was not drunk, nor coerced. Maybe I overreacted, but I have no regrets.

My second cousin Sophia, the bride, told me on more than one occasion, that I carried my virginity like a shroud, doomed to don sackcloth and ashes should I ever yield to temptation and lay with a man before marriage. Her pack of hyena bridesmaids looked hideous in their bilious orange dresses: Fitting I suppose, in warped retribution for all sorts of mortal sins. Chief among them, I doubted any girl at the altar taking the Sacrament was in possession of virgo intacta. The men now… that’s when I noticed the wheat-blond and chestnut-brown heads bent close together at the end of the groomsmen row.

Zing! Went my lady parts. And when they faced the applauding throng on the way out? Let’s just say, it was a good thing I wasn’t seated on the center aisle pew, or else there would have been an embarrassing incident. I saved that for the reception.

Fast forward through the meal, the toasts, the first dance—if it wasn’t for a case of raging lust, I would have cadged a ride with my older brother, who split after the garter toss, muttering as he left, “As if I’d choose anyone here to cross-pollinate with. It’s an excuse to keep the money local and among relatives. One big circle jerk.” I pretended not to hear him.

It was while the bridesmaids were making fools of themselves performing a choreographed dance-off they thought was clever and sophisticated, when they suavely made their move. I nearly spewed my soda when they sidled up and whispered in my innocent ears, “Do you like sandwiches?” Innuendo is pointless if it goes right over your head.

Seeing me blush, they apologized and introduced themselves as younger brothers of the groom. Only slightly older than I, nevertheless, I was out their league. Seeing the raucous party setting up games of balloons and chairs, the paired off couples and hordes of children underfoot, I felt daring and suddenly tired of my shroud; so turned to my comrades and replied, “Yes, I do like sandwiches, with firm meat and mayo slathered on a toasted bun. Is there somewhere we can all eat our fill?”

What’s better than a handsome man in a tuxedo? Two handsome men bursting out of their tuxedos.

The live band chased us through the back passageways of the banquet hall, the notes spurring on our reckless flight, my purse an anchor to my previous life. We found a storage room. Chair wedged under door handle, round table legs erected in a flash, me, trembling body lifted, a man under each arm, firm bottom plopped on tabletop. Mike leaned in for a kiss; I shied at the first gate. “Sorry, I’ve not much practice.”

Patrick caressed my exposed nylon covered knee. “Are you a virgin then?”
I bit my lip and whispered ‘yes’.
Expecting high-fives and crude remarks, they shocked me by cupping my face and stroking my hot cheeks with their thick thumbs. “In that case, if you still mean yes, we’ll take care of you and make your first time special.”
The band played on: YMCA. I shifted between the hooded eyes; their expressions were at once frightening but needy. No… they were compassionate yet demanding. I channeled my inner fantasies. “Do you take this woman before you, and make her yours?”
Feather light lips brushed against mine, each in turn murmured, ‘yes’: So I surrendered. “Yes, Mike and Patrick, I want you both to make love to me.”

Ten fingers teased my curves while my mouth was plundered by two tongues rotating between kissing and nibbling my bare shoulders. Cool silk rustled as it eased down, the top of my breasts exposed, nipples suckled through the white cotton cups. Squeezed, teased, my moans of surprise swallowed by urgent mouth; my scruff held immobile. Half-naked now, each man locked onto a nipple, my hands tousling soft strands, imagining twins of my own: longing clenched hard.

‘I believe someone requested a toasted bun?’ The question slithered through my arousal. My eyelids felt heavy. Raw hunger blazed from their faces. The expressions ripped my reticence away. Unsteady, I stood up, helping hands tucked under my elbows; I turned, and bent over the table. I hissed as my rigid nipples brushed the laminate surface, a hand between my shoulders pressed me firmly down, breasts flattened. I writhed. Unbidden, my dress bunched at my waist, I raised my hips and presented my bottom.

The dual smacks caught me off guard. The instant sting had me shimmying. Again they struck; this time, one then the other, a rhythm they continued as I squirmed on the cool surface. Steady spanking over silk, they warmed my bottom and fired my passion. Lifting my dress, the wet thong no protection, the impact of flesh-on-flesh was both louder and more exciting; the knowledge that once they peeled away the skimpy fabric, they’d see what no man had ever tasted.

Hot, I was so hot. The sudden silence had me begging for more. Instead, brought vertical, my shoes discarded like my morals, the dress soon followed, and I was kneeling on their folded jackets, face-to-face with two pulsing penises. “What should I do?” asked in a tremulous tone, brought forth deep growls of ‘stroke and suck’ from my captors. My thighs widened as I grasped the warm appendages in each fist. My first reaction was sheer amazement that this was tucked away behind every pair of jeans. Then, the silky softness registered, followed by the give of the surface skin. Clear liquid seeped from the vertical slits in the helmet shaped tips. Delicately, I lapped.

Fingers twisted in my hair. I could feel the restrained trembling. I hollowed my cheeks and inhaled. Sweet and sour, the musky aroma watered my mouth: I switched, similar, yet distinct, each cock felt and tasted different in my mouth and hands. Hearing the groans and gasps from above me, I smiled with feminine delight as they tutored me on the esoteric art of the blowjob. I was a quick study.

My turn. On my back, head over the edge, cock thrusting in and out; my hips wide, tongue licking my pussy. No fantasy could ever have prepared me for the sheer decadence of oral sex. My muffled climatic scream vibrated around a leaking cock as two fingers probed inside me, and my erect clit was lashed to orgasm.

Soft conversation: A metallic ringing of coin on concrete. Pants hitting the tabletop, followed by shirts and underwear. Dazed, I could only watch as Mike sheathed himself with a condom and settled between my soaked thighs. Patrick lifted and cradled my shoulders so I could see the moment I willingly—eagerly—gave him my innocence. A fist gripped and guided, the other fingers pressed my left knee further open. Thick flesh wedged inward, stopped by my barrier. Soothing touch kissed my skittering pulse as it raced through my neck. I met his eyes: I closed mine.

Hands fondled hips and pulled me under, the sharp sting of breached virginity forced a yelp; the reluctant inner muscles yielding to masculine determination drew a groan of disbelieving astonishment when his rough hairs met mine. I wiggled and spread as wide as I could, the sensation of tight fullness felt perfect. Patrick supported my head as I dangled—once more sucking his cock, this time with reckless passion as Mike withdrew and then eased back inside. Each time was quicker and deeper, my lovers playing my flesh like a guitar, strumming my emotions and riffing on my body.

They switched: my empty pussy aching to be filled again. This time, I was rolled over, feet on the floor, bottom uppermost. Thumbs pried open my crack, teased my pucker: I flinched, then relaxed as the next covered cock slid into my wet depths. The hard tube in my mouth was not so gentle this time, rough hand lifting my chin up, the swollen head touching my tonsils. My coughs and sputters seeming to accelerate their fucking. A slapping noise. Stinging heat in my ass, repeated blows firing lust. The thrusts more ragged, the groans louder, breaths panting; a reprieve, only the slick tip held on my outstretched tongue, blurred fingers pumping. Me, up on my elbows, waiting for the nectar. An orgasm rippled around the embedded flesh touching my cervix.

My eyes crossed, suddenly there were two cocks stretching the corners of my mouth. My bottom burned, my pussy needed another come; I reached down and stroked my hard pearl. Who came first I did not know, but my mouth filled with hot, viscous fluid that tasted of home cooked pasta and pesto. The other added more flavor—the tangy spice of sex. I rolled the thick substance around my cheeks and molars. I came violently, my hips slamming the edge of the table as I shook. In order to breathe, I swallowed. Once, twice: I gasped for air—and cried when the tight grip of propriety was wiped away along with my virgin’s blood.

They cuddled me. The band played on. Our hearts slowed. I traced patterns on their slick chests. “Thank you.”

When we returned, I was shocked to see that everything looked the same. Something this momentous deserved a memorial toast. I had some wedding cake instead.

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

Mosh pit equations

they were strangers, when next I saw them again,
DJ ripping disco night in shreds, punk/dupstep slices of audio porn, frenzied fingers entering willing orifices, each had retained me, unbeknownst to the other, teetering on the brink of divorce, dragged kicking and screaming over the Rubicon of fifty, years wasted in silent combat,
strangers asleep in the same bed, slick with secretions, dreaming of wasted opportunities passed over in guilt, no wonder religions banned dancing, bare asses flashed everywhere, skirts worn as belts, the sickly smell of sweat and vomit, subsumed by sexual heat and enlightenment achieved through X and trance bass tracks thrumming in pagan souls, if a club could bottle the air, Lauren would implode the economy with sales to baby boomers who used colored pills to reclaim youth,
watching the hole develop, even the Sufi whirled away, the thermonuclear passion glowed between them, the gut wrenching arousal pureed with hate and ennui, my clients fucked each other over in plain sight, lit by strobes, danger building, hardcore ravers jolted out of apathy and faux transcendence by the real thing, decades of saved ammo, fired off for my benefit, nothing more savage than domestic contempt fueled by alcohol and mob anonymity,
jaded as I was, even I almost fell for the drama, hands spanking exposed bottom, teeth nipping swollen lips, designer gashes ripped even further, junk erect, trying to shatter stasis of middle-age, varicose leg thrown over arthritic hip, penetrative consummation ringed by youth desperate to capture elusive high, a heartbeat away from overdose, the awareness of time stalking as the apex predator, none to escape the pitiless scythe, best turn your back and twerk for an upload, inhibitions exchanged for the inflated cover charge, the damned dancing into a future filled with heartache, broken promises and prescriptions,
strangers all, inside silicon shells, the only thing they owned, were their orgasms, splashed recklessly into the seething pool of pheromones, my camera flashed, files for the lawyers, if they ever decided to pull the trigger.

Something didn’t add up—I tipped the hatcheck girl—sticky soles wiped on only slightly less filthy curb
sirens wailed—the skyscrapers mostly dark—the miasma rising from the sewers swirling around off-duty taxis
I lit a smoke—exhaled—the life of a PI was fucking great—sarcasm at three am wasted on the confident rats

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

What makes a spanko tick?

Before I get into this week’s Wicked Wednesday story, I wanted to let all of you know that instead of a newsletter, I’ve decided to spin-off another blog that will be solely for my published fiction and talking about writing, spanking, erotica and anything at all. The new blog can be followed at Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction, where I intend to post at the beginning of each month, starting in June. Should I post bi-monthly, then it will be the 1st and 15th. Special bulletins—if/when I am accepted for publication—may happen at any time.

The following story is a direct continuation to, Some times, that’s all it takes, which was posted March 1st, 2017 for Wicked Wednesday. I strongly recommend you read the 1,000 word post before reading the 1,000 word sequel. I will likely write another episode later on. To refresh your memory, these are the final paragraphs of the previous story:

As he pulls away, back to the highway, she smooths out the glossy paper, her finger underlining his name. There is no sense of panic, only rightness.
Sometimes, all it takes is one man to start the healing process.

We see him driving, the concrete unspooling like an endless carpet in the world’s largest casino; gray and stained with sweat and unrequited hopes. The vastness of America catches the unwary—not vast like Siberia or Africa—but the green demarcations of exits and mileage remaining to safe haven, become a life raft you impatiently watch bob up over the horizon.

Flyover country—sneeringly patronized by those perched on couches in front of coastal cameras. He feels the thump-thump of synthetic rubber trailing microns behind with every revolution.

His words still reverberate in the diner, a catalyst that goads a wounded soul to action.

Tamara shows up Saturday morning, her disguise of frumpy hausfrau unsurprisingly mundane. Most attendees could be her clones, all searching for a spark, dog-eared tablets clutched to chest, the ereader explosion replacing the autograph book. Some seek to rekindle first love from a time when cynicism was the fiercely guarded territory of mysterious elders.

They are now the elders. Their childhoods returned threefold.

She is not here for that. It’s not in her nature to be a fangirl. In fact, she isn’t quite sure why she quit her job, and rode a bus for three hours, on the off chance the man with the rental car really meant what he didn’t say.

Observe her enter the room, she hugs the wall in loving embrace, chooses a chair, near the back, half-hidden by teased bouffant creations and Estee Lauder clouds. She holds the crinkled brochure over her nose, eyes peep mouse-like; if she had whiskers, they would be madly twitching.
He knows she’s there. There is time for action and a time for seduction. It is the latter.

He speaks, introduces the panel, and talks about the causal link between feminism and submission: Freedom from drudgery allows empowerment to offer body as equals. The undercurrents in the audience are both subtle and treacherous. It’s easy for a white man to spout entitlement as if spraying sperm on the front row. Fertilization after all has many different meanings.

For Tamara—a Latina/Native American/Italian mongrel—the dangers of choosing the wrong partner[s][s][s] have left scars in every dimension. She listens to him moderate the discussion; most of the esoteric arguments are dandelion tufts seeking to colonize more fertile minds than hers. She watches the others mostly; their blatant flirtations and copulatory signals bounce away as if he doesn’t sense them.

Does he even notice? Is he gay? Is that why he invited her? Her random thoughts prick like soap bubbles in the sun. Her self-defense mechanisms—always gleaming and rust free—close shutters and prime weapons. This time, she’s not going down without a fight. What she doesn’t know is that he’s already in her control room and her defenses recognize him as safe.

You would suppose, after we witness his skillful extraction from the smiling crowd of pheromone emitting females; he has no interest in a companion, or two. That—in fact—is a slippery slope. Seduction to consummation is a yawning chasm for one who prefers conversation to a random tumble. Besides, he already knows whom he wants. We watch as he leads Tamara away as if they were a bonded pair already. Lunch, and explanations—beckon us onward. Shall we follow?

She picks at her food [the diner was far superior fare] mostly because she studies the man across the plastic table. Tamara has to—must—know why he selected her before she can consider the consequences. “What makes a spanko tick?”

Caught in mid-bite, he finishes chewing, sips his soda and, after wiping his fingers, reaches across and takes her in hand. “For me, it’s in my nature to desire a woman over my knee. Not to subjugate necessarily, although, please don’t misunderstand, punishment is not something I shy away from: No, it’s because all the attraction I feel for a woman begins with her mind and ends with her bottom. Everything else in between is the glorious territory of love and respect.”

“So spanking for you is like… foreplay?”

“No, Tamara; more like a handshake. A friendly greeting, much as a hug or peck on the cheek.”

She is rattled: the violence inherent in the submissive posture his words have offered, strikes too close to home in memories of fists and booted feet. The familiar adrenaline blanches her olive skin, her mind retreats to the safe room. I’m here for you. A gentle whisper, she turns inside out and sees him waiting there, patiently smiling. She allows his guidance as they leave the convention: for her, all convention flew away long ago. But now, sunlight floods the dark spaces of her soul. Sprouts of emotions buried for survival’s sake, unfurl in the warmth of his regard. She cannot think. Nor, does she wish to.

‘Whoa!’ Cries the reader. No way! Life doesn’t happen in that fashion. Fine, maybe there are good guys out there, but good guys don’t go around telling women they want to spank them! Do they?

A mile down the road is the hotel. He calls it GWC—Generic World Clone. He swipes the card at the side entrance, no need to parade his captive through the lobby. The elevator to the fourth floor, right turn; fifteen doors down on the left is room 425. A queen size mattress awaits, maid service come and gone for the day.

He perches at the foot of the bed, after draping his jacket over the back of the chair. The water runs in the compact bathroom; on purpose he left the door ajar, resting on the safety latch. If she runs, he will not chase.

In the mirror, a worn woman appears ghostly in the harsh artificial light. What happened to the carefree girl I never had a chance to be? His words have warmed her as none have ever done before. She makes an easy decision: The solid thump of the closing door is followed by the sharp clack of deadbolt and clink of latch.

“Are you right-handed?”

“Yes.”

She takes a deep breath and exhales loudly. Then another. She stands at attention, right angle to his seated thighs. “Hi. My name is Tamara. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Awkwardly—for he does not touch her at all—she bends forward and lies down over his knees. Her hands press the sheared carpet, her shoes slip until she digs in.

“Hello, Tamara. Likewise, it is a great pleasure to meet you. You may call me… Sir.”

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