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.

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

It wasn’t called Willendorf back then

This week’s prompt for Wicked Wednesday is, Venus in Furs after the erotic novel published in 1870. I don’t recall ever reading it—if I did, it left no impact—and besides that, it wasn’t the first thing that popped in my head when I read the prompt. This was:

Venus of Willendorf

From Wikipedia: The Venus of Willendorf is an 11.1-centimetre-high (4.4 in) Venus figurine estimated to have been made between about 28,000 and 25,000 BCE.[1] It was found in 1908 by a workman named Johann Veran[2] or Josef Veram[3] during excavations conducted by archaeologists Josef Szombathy, Hugo Obermaier and Josef Bayer at a paleolithic site near Willendorf, a village in Lower Austria near the town of Krems.[4][5] It is carved from an oolitic limestone that is not local to the area, and tinted with red ochre. The figurine is now in the Naturhistorisches Museum in Vienna, Austria.

My next reaction to the prompt was Lupercalia and the ancient concept of whipping to chase away evil spirits or to ensure fertility. There were and still are many cultures and places that have some variation of spring festivals echoing much older rituals of blood and appeasement to stern gods. [See Czech Easter whipping or Dominican Mardi Gras]

So imagine if you will, the above Venus as the leader of her tribe; perhaps a medicine woman, or mate to the strongest warrior. Now, it is nearing the solstice, winter has been harsh, some have died; the oldest and youngest: the shamans seek migrating herds in the spirit world while the remaining food is portioned out for the survival of all. They have fire, a large stack of dead-fall saved for this occasion when the snow has melted off the lowlands and green shoots are pushing up through fertile soil. The flames roar into the night sky, distant green and yellow eyes glow as the predators slink away hungry. The drums beating a steady pulse of rumbling noise, the flutes whistling while dancers stamp around the crackling pine boughs. Suddenly, the eerie moaning of flat bone on a string whirled above by spinning arms heralds the arrival of Venus in furs…

She appeared—as she had for the last fifteen springs—in a billowing cloud of red ochre tossed down by acolytes from the overhanging granite that loomed out over the winter camp. It drifted like snow, whirling in the heat of the bonfire and settling as ash upon the dancers, soon turning to scarlet streaks as the sweat mingled with the sacred powder. It fell too, on the smooth limestone slab supported by mammoth feet and centered within four large tusks at the cardinal points; the tips meeting above and lashed together with leather thongs. The carved ivory glowed deep orange.

Helga raised her arms to the stars above, the heavy cave bear pelt spilling off like a dark waterfall; her head covered by the furry mask of an ursine face snarling with bared teeth. The music built to a crescendo as she prayed out loud to the gods of her people, then slowly ebbed as the frenzy eased: there was silence by the time she’d finished chanting. She walked with slow, deliberate tread towards the altar, her cloak rippling leaving behind a wake of flesh tingling power that raised hairs on bare limbs.

Blessing each tusk in turn by grasping with powdered fingers and a firm kiss, she then poured hot water over the limestone and slid her palms in an intricate pattern until the surface turned red. She turned towards her dwelling and beckoned with upraised hands. All but her, knelt on one knee and bowed heads as the two bound figures were brought forth into the wavering light. Helga knew from her teachings that in the not-too-distant past, the slab would have been drenched with blood, instead of ochre dug from the earth. These were enlightened times, compared to the savage ancestors they still revered, but did not always follow.

The young man and woman were at their peak of physical perfection. Selected the previous autumn by contests of skill and prowess, they’d been given the best of provisions and pampered through the long, cold winter months. Now it was their time to give back to the community through sacrifice in hopes of a fertile summer of plenty. Naked, they’d been oiled and shaved completely bare, then painted with elaborate tribal markings and secret tattoos that would send the shaman’s messages, when activated, directly to the spirit world. Helga was responsible for the activation. She carried out her duty via a multi-thong whip created with soft strips of leather from every type of animal killed and consumed the prior year.

Led to the altar, the man and woman were secured facing each other with wrists high at the top of curved tusks, while ankles were spread and wrapped around the base where the ivory posts sank deep into the soil. Helga tugged on each rope making sure the pair could not escape or slump to the ground. She checked each and every mark to make sure all were correct. When she finished her inspection, she once more raised her arms and chanted, this time joined by all present. The music started again when they finished. Dancers began to circle the sacrifices, each pounding the earth with a branch cut off at a wide base. The vibrations shivered through their soles. Her acolytes solemnly removed her cave bear cape and handed her the whip, the wooden handle freshly coated with red ochre. She drew back her arm—and struck on the beat.

The tribe triumphantly cried out as one as the ‘splat’ cracked in the cool night air. Helga alternated between the man and woman, each blow precise, starting at the shoulders and steadily working all the way down to the calves. Each turn around the limestone slab was slightly quicker until she was trotting, her heavy breasts wobbling, and feet kicking up puffs as she whipped past the writhing and groaning figures. The dancers too ran in a wide circle, the noise a loud roar as they witnessed the artistic designs dissolved by sweat and the remorseless whip being swung with ever increasing force upon the reddened naked backs and bottoms of the male and female. Helga stopped: the drums settled into a steady beat as the dancers slowed and then swayed in place gasping for air.

The man and woman were turned in place so that their decorated fronts now faced the whip. Helga changed the pattern. Starting with the female, she lashed the firm breasts, powder exploding in colorful poofs as the thongs impacted. Moving down, she whipped in a crisscross pattern across the abdomen, pelvis and thighs. With an upward motion, the last hard strike was between the wide stretched open thighs as the wet leather slapped against the red outlined vulva. The woman screamed as the force of the blow broke open the deer intestine capsule that had been glued in place. Blood spurted and splattered on the churned soil. Moving to the opposite side, Helga repeated her actions on the male, only this time, when the whip lashed his exposed genitals, the breaking capsule glued to his testes, gushed warm sperm in a parody of fertilization.

Their ordeal was not over yet; released from bondage, the woman was laid on her back, the damp limestone providing only slight relief to the raised welts. The man was placed on top, his flaccid penis rubbed and stroked by Helga until it became fully erect. At her command, he entered the oiled vagina with a deep thrust, the whip fell once more upon his red bottom. After twenty strokes, the entwined couple reversed and it was the woman’s turn to be lashed adding yet more red lines to her buttocks. The final position was from behind, mimicking how all the animals they observed mated. Bodies scoured, passions inflamed, nearly the entire tribe fell on each other in a massive celebratory orgy releasing the lust built by up the whipping.

Helga calmly stepped away and walked back to her abode: alone. She needed to travel deep into the spirit world to guide the tribes’ sexual energy to the proper place.

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

Bursting in mid-thought

Barbara Baxter—Bubbles to her friends, including her husband—was an effervescent blonde; the type of person who instantly drew both avid admiration and calmed many a sticky situation. Stylish, without being snobbish, accomplished—with an ‘aw shucks’ self-effacing grin—and the life of any party; despite likely catering, cleaning and washing up, Bubbles seemed to float through social situations with an enviable iridescent charm.

Behind the serene visage framed by lacquered wispy blond curls and punctuated by plush scarlet lips, her limpid blue eyes concealed a secret so vile that Bubbles hid her vice behind layers of passwords and private browsing. It likely never would have popped had not her adoring hubby forgotten a vital document that morning. Kissing him goodbye, she hustled out on the morning school run—three children in opposite directions—with GPS ruthlessly laying waste to her fellow moms with a ferocity that would have made Sherman proud.

When he pulled back in the painted driveway—her taillights disappearing around the corner—hopped out and disarmed the security; what he found on the kitchen table were dirty breakfast dishes—not a sin—and Bubbles’ laptop still running. In shock at what he saw, he neglected to retrieve the paperwork he’d returned for, and thus had a really, really bad day at work. By late afternoon, he girded his loins for “The Talk” by practicing out loud while half-listening to mellow jazz rather than political chat.

Had any of their far-flung social net been polled as to the compatibility of Bubbles and Wand [he had a rep for making problems vanish] the overwhelming vote would have been ‘perfect’. Thus do we confuse complacency for communication in the pristine prism of couples.

I hate to burst your bubble, darling, but hiding your kinky yen for a good hiding was a very bad idea.
And then Sir smacked the back of the heavy hairbrush right across her bare bottom, peppering the saucy flesh with a fusillade of hard cracks.

Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble by Kalidwen.©

The spanking illustration provided by the very talented Kalidwen over at Kalidwen’s little spankings: Musings & fessées. [Note the laptop picture is of their blog. Very neat.]

“I’m such a freak!”
“No you’re not.”
“I’m sure you hate me right now.”
“No, not hate. Upset that you’ve hid this from me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I think it’s past time that you stop pretending everything is fine, Bubbles. Clearly you have needs that are not being met. Not, may I point out, by neglect on my part, but by deceit and evasion on yours.”
“I’m really, really very sorry, Wand. What can I do to make it up to you?”
“How about you start by firing up your computer and showing me one of your favorite stories.”
“I’m so embarrassed.”
“In fact, I think ‘bare-assed’ would be an appropriate state for you right about now. Put the laptop on the bed, strip, and lay over my lap. We’re going to play a version of ‘Pin The Hairbrush on the Bottom’. You are going to read the story out loud to me. At the end of every sentence I will pin the hairbrush on your bare butt twice. If I feel you are not telling the story with enough enthusiasm, I will spank you even harder. Is that clear, Bubbles?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You may begin.”

Bubbles had never felt so humiliated before. As far back as she could recall, spanking had played an oversize role in her fantasy life. Her dolls and stuffed animals were the best behaved on the entire block, but family discipline had never included physical chastisement. Dating and sex in high school through college, was mostly casual, crammed in between studying and part-time work. Falling in love, getting married, launching a business after three children; did not leave much room for intimacy, never mind kink. The day she’d tumbled across the first D/s blog was both a blessing and a curse. If only I’d been honest from the beginning!

“You know, Bubbles, if you’d only been honest from the beginning, I could have spanked you on our honeymoon.”
“I know, Sir. Please forgive me.”
“Is that the only thing you want?”
“Oooooooooooooh. You beast!”

As she began reading the fictional story, Bubbles fell deep into the starring role as she always did. She squirmed as Wand spanked her bare bottom, trying to keep her composure as she read aloud the arousing passages of punishment. Her normally soft voice climbed the register as the heat seared her skin, each loud SMACK echoing off the walls and pulling a squeal from her pouting mouth. The girl in the story became her. The stern boss, the strict headmaster, the mysterious stranger; they all morphed into characters with her husband’s face. She started punctuating the narrative with personal entreaties.

“Wand told the naughty girl to spread her legs wider as she lay over his lap. She felt herself swelling at the thought of her boss seeing the wet proof she was a wicked, wicked girl. As she hesitated, he didn’t, and swung the hard hairbrush even harder onto her already sore and flaming cheeks. She cried out as the pain snaked like lightning through her trembling body. He scolded her loudly, over the loud SMACKS ringing in his corner office. Through teary eyes, she could no longer see the words on the computer screen, but she knew them by heart. Kicking off her tangled panties, she hunched up scalded bottom in penance.”

‘Spank your naughty Bubbles, Sir! Spank her very, very hard for holding out these past ten years. She’s a greedy, selfish girl for masturbating all that time to literary spankings, when she could have had your strong hand whipping the sass right out of her! Spank me until I’m sobbing, then shut me up with your hard cock. I don’t deserve your magic shaft in my pussy, drill my ass instead and spank me until you come deep inside my virgin bum.’

“The contrite girl knelt on the office carpet, messy mascara face swallowing her boss’ cock to the root, while her hot throbbing bottom rested on her heels. When he was satisfied with her oral ministrations, he lifted her up, spun her around, and forced her shoulders to the desktop. Cold lube drizzled down upon her cringing asshole. Her anal cherry was about to be popped. Underneath her wet chin was the proposal she’d typed up, the red lines through all the errors reminded her of all the time she had wasted hiding her desires. When she got home, her husband was going to see a new woman. Sex and spanking and sore bottom every day was his right.”

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

Inexhaustible Smorgasbord

The sharp cracks had faded to muted rumbles; the late summer storm trundled to the east, trailing an ebony cloak glazed with jagged streaks of abstract white. At my feet, the dull granite setts slowly slaked a thirst; the detritus of tourists swirling into the gaping sewers leaving behind deceptively safe and clean shiny streets. Historic Old Town, painstakingly resurrected—twice—from the ashes of pitiless warfare, brooded in the sweet morning air. The western skies pulsed with urgency, delayed flights flung themselves recklessly at the obscured stars, hastening to meet global schedules grounded by adverse conditions.

I cupped my left hand. Had any been able to observe, the brief orange flare would have revealed a deep weary cynicism. I puffed the harsh tobacco, blew out a stream of fragrant smoke that lingered close as if terrified by the surroundings. I ignored the warning, watching instead the CCTV camera as it whirred atop the light pole. The police drones had departed with the onset of rain. This was pass through area for visitors by day; small shops catering in information and deceit. By night, contraband slipped past the law with practiced ease.

A vibration shook the front right pocket of my black linen trousers. If a phone could sound impatient the summons snarled at my unruffled savoir faire. The cigarette tumbled like an acrobat without a net: I stubbed it out with a faint hiss as it splattered on the damp pavement. Finally moving forward, the crepe soles of my shoes were silent as a grave.

The night wavered. Lean shadows peeled from brick façades and dropped from pockets of mist hovering above. To those without the Sight, nothing had changed. My escort surrounded me. Lethal, immortal, they were not here to help—they weren’t allowed where I was expected—but to ensure I fulfilled my oath. If thoughts could kill…

Jutting phallicly with a hostile and arrogant contempt at the ragged edge of tradition [reclaimed] and gentrification, the Cashmere Tower was the tallest building in the city. Money fountained like arterial blood from the professional tenants, none of it staying for long; sophisticated programs laundered the stains through shell companies and numbered accounts. Standard procedures for corrupt businesses protected by slick lawyers and bought politicians. My target was higher up the ladder—literally—the top ten floors pandered to a different type of cash flow.

Vice was timeless. Nubile flesh an inflation proof currency. Educated agents were shopping for fresh victims that wouldn’t be missed.

By mistake or deliberate malice—the first understandable, the latter an apocalyptic possibility—the procurers had lured the wrong one. Whatever the alchemy of designer drugs and DJ mixed trance that had created the circumstances of the snatch, it had not removed the clear traces of her passage.

I was their emissary.

The elevator was smooth and quiet.

Rows and rows of glittering females arranged as if waxed produce in bins filled the luxurious rooms. The buyers with their tablets snapped pictures, and fired off messages that raced around the world. The auction started later, but I was not shopping. My steel attaché was not filled with clean dollars or euros or yen, but a single jewel that pulsed with all the suppressed fury at the unrelenting humanistic devouring of magic.

I carried a portal strong enough to suck the entire building into the Outerlands were it not tuned to ‘rescue’ my target. If the dead-eyed brokers knew what their exotic captive actually was, they’d run screaming into the night; not that fleeing was a viable option should she choose to destroy rather than drink in the essence of fear and despair coating the dungeon walls.

Why I was chosen to interrupt the pain slut as she writhed in her bondage, driving her price higher with every blow of the whip: that is a story best told later. For when the Queen commands retrieval of her wayward daughter: who better to mount an escape, than the Princess’ estranged human husband.

That would be me.

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

Black Market Night by Kalidwen.©

The spanking illustration provided by the talented Kalidwen over at Kalidwen’s little spankings: Musings & fessées.

Too late when night falls

Another wonderful spanking drawing from Kalidwen over at Kalidwen’s little spankings: Musings & fessées. This week I requested/suggested a specific concept based on the Wicked Wednesday prompt. As you read this very dark and somber tale of horror, the ending will match the drawing. You’ve been warned.

When she said ‘spank the muffin’, it wasn’t baking she had in mind. © Kalidwen

I’m having a nightmare. I know this because I’m screaming. The smoke, or mist—I can’t tell without a scent—is billowing around the bedroom. Through the open window, where normally the drone of night insects puts me to sleep, I hear guttural voices chanting in what sounds like Latin.

I’m running now: the endless hallway, alternating between locked doors and mirrors. It’s dark. My voice is swallowed, limbs sluggish, I can’t turn my head around to see what is following me. Abruptly I fall, the corridor vanishes and I land on the cool grass of our front lawn. The blades cut my hands. I hold them up. The moon turns bright red.

Empty robes walk counterclockwise around a pyre. Faggots stacked high, all our implements and toys serving as kindling. Their leader, his robe is scarlet while his minions wear black, seizes a torch, thrusts it to the blank sky, then slowly lowers it until the flame shoots directly at me. Open mouthed I fall backwards but hover in midair. My naked flesh scoured by tiny whips.

He speaks: Thou art a deviant wench. Your unnatural perversions must be purged in the purity of holy heat.

I am grabbed by scores of skeletal hands, the sleeves rolled back on nothingness. I fight to no avail. Bent over the slab, the stake looming in my narrowed vision, the paddle at my fingertips is picked up and removed from my sight then run down my spine with chilling ruthlessness.

I see the scene from above, the full-bodied swings impacting on the tender skin of my bottom. Pinned down, the black robes pile on one after another, each garment collapsing in a flutter of velvet as it makes contact with me, until only the deep rose of spanked globes are visible. I can’t breathe.

My head yanked up by my ponytail; the scarlet leader grips the front of his cowl with silver fingers and slowly reveals his face. I scream silently. It’s my husband. His sneering voice booms inside my mind.

Wicked creature! That was your final spanking before I cast you to the flame. No longer shall you work your spell on me. Suffer not the submissive to live!

My arms and legs are thrashing, but the robes are all twisted into knots. My skin is wet with fear. My entire body is shaking. The pyre flashes to life with a gout of light.

“Wake up! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare.”

I bolt upright, gasping for air, my heart is pounding, the sheets all tangled around my slick torso. My husband holds me, pats my back and softly croons in my ear. When I recover my wits, I leap out of bed and drop to my knees in front of the chest. My fingers shake as I turn the key. The lid opens with the normal groan, in my heightened anxiety it sounds like thunder. I pick up the first item I see: a wood paddle he gave me the night I was first collared.

I’m still shaky, so I crawl across the carpet and onto the bed: face down, I thrust my bottom up high and spread my legs. I push the paddle with my nose towards his side of the bed. I wait and don’t say anything.

The table lamp is extinguished.
The mattress shifts.
The window is pushed open.
The cool breeze rushes in.

Orange glows behind my closed eyelids.
I hear chanting.
Then…
Dark laughter.

I look back over my shoulder… my husband is a disembodied skull with a crown of torches.

“Wake up! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare.”

I pour out the nightmare in a vomit of tumbling words. He listens and cocks his head as if deeply confused.

“Why would I spank you?”
“What?”
“I mean. Paddles and whips? A collar? What do mean ‘submissive’?”
“But… you’re my Dom! We’ve been D/s for a year now! The chest!”
“What chest?”

I point to the far corner: the empty corner. It’s then I wake and remember the truth. We never had that discussion about muffins before he died in a car accident.

Some nightmares happen when you are wide-awake.

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

Driving in my car

One of the many things I love about the D/s blogging community is finding new bloggers to enjoy. Last week I came across a new website called, Kalidwen’s little spankings, Musings & fessées: that’s French for spankings. The first blog post is entitled, And so it begins, and explains why the blog was created. What drew my praise and attention was the exquisite drawings of women being spanked, accompanied by wonderful short stories of spankings. I asked Kalidwen to draw a picture of a spanking for this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt of, The Back Seat. The drawing that was sent to me far exceeded my expectations. I hope all of my readers find the blog as fascinating as I do, and follow Kalidwen on the journey of submission. Contact via comment at Kalidwen’s little spankings, if you would like to commission illustrations for commercial work.

The Back Seat Spanking by Kalidwen.©

“Turn up the radio, Daddy! I can’t hear over the rain!”
Goofing off in the back seat with Cassidy seemed like a fun idea at the time. Whacking each other with stuffies and making silly faces, was not calculated to make their Daddy Doms mad, but was because they were bored.
“Are we there yet?” the pair of bratty wives whined in petulant chorus.
The thunderous drumming upon the metal roof wasn’t loud enough to drown out the simultaneous ‘Girls!’ and deep growls from the front seats. Delilah shivered, ducked her head and peered through her fringe at her bestest friend in the whole wide world. They couldn’t resist mischievously smirking, and carefully returned Mortimer Bear and Stanley Pony to the middle, tucking the stuffies safely behind the latched seat belt.
“I saw that look, Delilah. You promised you’d behave today!”
“Yes, Daddy.” A long freighted pause. “But I’m bored! You promised I’d have a really, really fun 30th birthday party, not be swept away like Noah’s Ark!”
“And has Daddy ever not done what he promised?”
She crossed her arms and pouted. “No,” she sulkily muttered. “You’re perfect in every way.”
“Before we get to the party—if it ever stops pouring—your Daddy promises to give you a well-earned reminder to behave.”
“That’s not fair! It’s my birthday!”
“And what do naughty little girls get from their loving Daddies on their birthdays?”
Cassidy clapped her hands with excitement. “Ooh, ooh, I know, I know! They get spankings! Yeah!”
“Shut up! Daddy wasn’t talking to you!”
“Don’t be such a brat, Delilah! I was only trying to help!”
“GIRLS!”
Wiggling on their tushes, the girls chimed in unison, “Sorry, Daddy.”
“I was going to say, Delilah, that nice birthday girls get yummy spankings and cummies. However,” he said sternly, capturing her attention in the rear view mirror, “you obviously need my help getting out of your bad mood. Isn’t that right?”
Delilah’s hand crept into Cassidy’s comforting grip during the lecture. She didn’t want a spanking in front of her friend, but it wouldn’t be the first time they’d run afoul of the rules. Neither Daddy had the least compunction about turning their little girl over a knee at the first sign of trouble, whether alone or not.
She sighed. “Yes, Daddy. I’ll be good now.” Delilah stared out the water smeared side window. It seemed to be lightening up.
“Ah!” her Daddy exclaimed. “Exactly what I was looking for.”

The SUV smoothly swung into the layby with a loud splash through the puddles. The rain had now slackened to a light mist. Like two synchronized robots, both Daddies exited the front with feral grace, opened the rear doors, and lifted out their charges with a gentle assist.
Delilah’s Daddy swiftly slid across the leather bench seat to the middle, dislodging the stuffies as he went. Blushing profusely when he patted his lap, she awkwardly crawled back inside until only her lower legs dangled over the wet sill.
“Don’t let them watch, Daddy!” she cried out when she felt him unbutton and tug her trousers down. “It’s too embarrassing! I’ll never be able to look at them again!”
Picking up Mortimer Bear and Stanley Pony, he reached forward and set them softly, facing backwards, in the front passenger seat. “There. They can’t see you now.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” she whispered and rested her cheek on the warm leather where Cassidy had sat.
The spanking was only a few minutes, but very hard; his firm hand covering all the plump bottom exposed by the skimpy thong he’d allowed her to wear. Delilah peered back over her shoulder through blurry eyes at Cassidy and her Daddy, who were avidly watching her punishment, huddled together under an umbrella.

The sky wasn’t the only thing crying that day.

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

Verily I say to thou, pluck thy mote from thine eyes

Taylor lay on her back, Madison’s cheek resting on her dewy breast, fingers entwined on her pubis; galloping pulses from their first loving gradually slowing as quick breathes eased beneath the five-bladed ceiling fan rattling endlessly through the deepening twilight.
“Can I ask you something, Taylor?”
“Sure, love.”
Tentatively tracing of the scar marring the otherwise satin skin of Taylor’s right thigh. “How did this happen?”

‘Are you so blinded by your piety that you’d cast off your only child?’
‘She is not my daughter! Filthy deviant sodomite! Begone from my sight and my house!’

“Sounds like a preacher man.”
“He was. All hellfire and brimstone: Eternal damnation to those that strayed from the path of righteousness. Ruthless to sinners.”
“You don’t have to tell me, Taylor. It’s okay.”
“I don’t mind, Madison. The irony of it all, or God’s will if you’re a believer, the month after my father kicked me out for fornicating with a girl—while my mother stood by wringing her hands—he was caught with a man from church in a convenience store bathroom.”
“No. Way!”
“Yes way, Madison. Cock sucker and all that.”
“So what happened? Was there a whole family reunion and redemption bit?”

‘Are you Taylor Watson?’
‘Yes, officer.’
‘I’m sorry, miss. Your parents are both dead.’

“Oh, Taylor!”
“I was sixteen and now an orphan. I’d been staying with friends, non-church members; the congregation had collectively turned their backs on me. And then, after his arrest for public indecency… the neighbors said they heard a loud argument, then two gunshots. After that, not even my lover would take me in.”
“What about relatives? Or foster care? Didn’t the state step in?”
“They did at first, but the entire town—“
“—Blamed you.”
“Exactly.”
“Fuckers.”
“It’s alright, Madison. Being a runaway wasn’t great, but I found a family on the streets that kept me safe. All for a price of course.”

‘Leave me alone! You got what you wanted!’
‘I’m sorry. A girl’s never thrown up afterwards before.’
‘Go. Tell Mark you did the deed and we’re square.’

“Did you… were you—”
“—Raped?”
“I’m so sorry I asked about the scar.”
Taylor slid out from underneath Madison, propped her back up against the shams lining the headboard, and patted her thighs. “Over my lap. You know the rules.”
“Never use the word sorry when it’s unnecessary,” Madison chanted as she draped her lithe body over Taylor’s thighs.
Running her hand over Madison’s pert bottom, she grinned in the now dark bedroom. “That’s okay, sweetie, you meant well. I’ll not punish you… this time, just give you a nice, long gentle spanking and see if I can coax an orgasm out of you.” Hearing the moan, she teased, “Would you like that, little girl?”
“Yes, please! It’s been too long since you spanked me.”
“It was this morning, wench!”
“Exactly!” Madison said, lifting her rear in supplication to her mistress.
As Taylor began spanking her submissive—finally lover—she had one last thing to say before getting down to the serious business at hand. “I admit I was blinded by rage and hate for far too long. Until I found you in fact, and that fortuitous meeting is something I will never be sorry for. You’ve given me back something I’d thought lost forever. The power to forgive.”

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