Start young and never look back

I’ve read three very interesting books recently that created this essay. I’ve been focusing more on my writing these past twelve months, but it has yet to reach a level of consuming passion. I may never get there, but after finishing the trio of books, I feel much less of a failure.

I picked up a copy of Kevin Ashton’s How to Fly A Horse on a whim, but I’m glad I did. His premise is that the creative process is a myth, and that every single person is creative; but what makes a successful inventor, discoverer or artist, is simply hard work and doing it over and over again. Writer’s block, among many other concepts, doesn’t exist. Kevin is also the creator of the phrase Internet of Things. The title refers to the Wright Brothers.

Kevin: The creativity myth implies that few people can be creative, that any successful creator will experience dramatic flashes of insight, and that creating is more like magic than work. A rare few have what it takes, and for them it comes easy. Anybody else’s creative efforts are doomed.

He goes on to use examples both ancient and modern to bolster his thesis. Along the way, he shows through studies and clinical trials, that as the number of participants goes up, creativity goes down. In fact, Kevin claims that creative cooperation peaks in kindergarten. I, like many of you, will agree with this premise. Anybody who has suffered through production meetings, brainstorming sessions and forced teamwork can readily attest to the fact that one person creating alone is the most successful. He closes the book with this:

Kevin: The chain of creation is many links longs, and every link—each one person creating—is essential. All stories of creators tell the same truth: that creating is extraordinary but creators are human; that everything right with us can fix anything wrong with us; and that progress is not an inevitable consequence but an individual choice. Necessity is not the mother of invention. You are.

Two autobiographies picked up on this theme: Yanni in Words, and Tom Jones Over The Top And Back. I found striking similarities in both men’s accounts of their artistic struggle to creative success. One similarity was passion for music, Yanni writing and Tom singing, and  another was the way that success drew sexual attention. The road is a soul crushing grind that never seems to end, but both of them used the creative and sexual fire to fuel their success.

Yanni: If you are the music, you can write the music. If you’re not the music, you’re outside, judging it. Judgment and creativity are opposites. Both are valid, but they can’t exist in the same place at the same time. To create, you have to become one with your creation and let it flow freely. You have to be in the zone. For me, I have to become one with the music. The instant I begin judging my creation, I find myself outside looking in, and the creative moment is gone.

Tom: But I was out, getting up in front of people and singing and, really for the first time, properly seeing the effect that my voice could have on a room full of people—noting how excited people and how that, in turn, excited me. I realized, with a new, even clearer urgency, how badly I wanted to do this and nothing else, as remote as the possibility of that still seemed. Let’s face it, the music business [in 1962] wasn’t exactly rushing to the valleys to sign up any Welsh pop group… The music business seemed to have plenty on its plate already. But you could dream, couldn’t you?

Both Yanni and Tom detail the long, arduous and sometimes dangerous trip to ‘overnight’ success from an upbringing of poverty. Both had loving and supportive parents, but the reality was, that their success was a steady roller-coaster of highs and lows and the only person who created the opportunities that brought them critical acclaim, was themselves. Both men had the unshakeable belief they were the best at their craft, and if only the right venue opened up, they would prove it to the world. This dogged ethic allowed them to fight and claw their way until the vision they saw as their due came to fruition.

The second connection I found in their words, was the early—and often—sexual relations with thousands of women. For Yanni, he states his first time was in a local bordello next door to his school in Kalamata, Greece. He was thirteen and a half.

Tom was sixteen when he impregnated his fifteen-year old girlfriend—wife at eight months, and stayed married until she passed in 2016. Tom never comes out and states he had sex with groupies—other publications have said so—but numerous anecdotes certainly imply that was the case. Yanni writes that one-night stands were his preferred method until he met Linda Evans. It is no surprise that the music industry, along with sports and film, have always been synonymous with sex and drugs. Most seem to cite the relentless pressure and grind of the creative process, along with the pursuit by willing females determined for a taste of the bright lights.

Tom: Bam! I’m on the pavement under a pile of screaming girls—taken down with a pace and efficiency that a pack of rugby forwards would have been proud to pull off. The people making the commotion outside the pub window were making that noise for me, and I didn’t know it.

Yanni: When I was on the road other girls would invariably show up, willing to share themselves for the night in very creative ways. If you’re young and away from home for two or three weeks at a time, it’s hard to resist walking into temptation. Mostly I didn’t.

Tom: It happens for the first time on one of those nights in the Copa [in NYC] in 1969. I’m drenched with sweat. Just occasionally someone on a table near the stage will reach out with a white linen napkin for me. I’ll dab at my brow with it and then hand it back. Not this one woman, though. She stands, flips her dress up, steps out of her panties and hands them up to me.
What I do with the panties is, I dab my brow with them. And then I say, ‘You want to watch you don’t catch cold.’

Yanni: I just wanted to have fun and I was honest about it. ‘I’m not looking for a relationship, and I hope you’re not. I don’t owe you anything and you don’t owe me anything. If we do this, it’s what is for tonight. If it continues tomorrow, okay, but if it doesn’t, don’t come to me and say I’ve used you.’

Tom: There was sex in the [Vegas] shows, and there was sex around the shows. The air seemed to crackle with it.
Same thing at those big seventies tour dates. Best clothes. Perfume in the air. People getting revved up. A willingness to cut loose and let go. A general horniness in the crowd. The atmosphere alive with the possibility of sex—in a way that was definitely going to play out to the advantage of the band, the crew and beyond.
As somebody once said, I was the Pied Piper of pussy.

Yanni: I liked to choose my companions rather than the other way around.
The seduction had already taken place while she watched me play. She knew I liked her because I approached her, and most of the time she’d come with me. If I got turned down it didn’t make any difference because there were so many other possibilities. But I was never a pest; you could get rid of me easily.
There were more girls than any of us could possibly be with, sometimes five times as many as there were guys.
It was rock ‘n’ roll.

Tom: So I’ve got the singer-on-a-stage thing going for me, and then television comes along and adds a whole other layer. Never underestimate the extent to which people want to have sex with people who are on television.
I was going over as some kind of love god, and I was going over so strongly that occasionally I was even persuaded of it myself. The road will set temptations in front of you that are hard to resist.

Yanni: In each town I had a girlfriend or two. Not real girlfriends, just girls I knew. Or someone I’d just met. I didn’t mind having sex with a woman I’d known less than an hour. I was young, they looked good. Nothing else to do. Let’s have some fun. There was no judgment, and I never felt guilty. You’re just driving down the highway and you’re lonely; you meet someone who eases the boredom a little bit for the night. And the next day you get up and do it again.

Tom: I think he [Wyclef Jean] was wondering, what’s it like to be out and about with Tom Jones? What goes on? So the next time [late 2001] we were both in London, I took him to the Metropolitan Hotel in Park Lane, home of the Met Bar and Nobu and a regular stop-off for me. The place was crowded, as it often is, and we sat out in the foyer having drinks—
Pretty soon, a girl came over, and she wanted to introduce herself and say hello.
‘It’s very nice to meet you,’ I said.
And then, without further ado, right there at the table, she whipped up her dress and showed me the piercing on her clitoris.
‘Well, thank you very much for that,’ I said. And then she went away.
That was it. My legend with Wyclef was sealed. ‘Man, you go out with Tom Jones, girls show you their pussy!’ He told everybody he knew, meaning that my reputation preceded me, whenever I went with him.

In closing, I wanted to include a few more quotes about creativity from them both. And also a music video of Sir Tom Jones, at age 77, crushing the song ‘You Can Leave Your Hat On’ The Voice UK 2017′. In the end, what Kevin and Yanni and Tom have showed, is that creativity is simply a vision of what you want your life to be. It’s all up to you to get to work and create.

Tom: And through all of this, Ethan’s [Johns] message has essentially been simple and the same: just sing. And it might seem strange that a singer needs to hear that, but it’s a fact. Everyone who has had success is asking themselves: what’s my next success? What do I do next? It eats at you like that, until it’s actually eating into your voice.

Yanni: When I was younger I got in my own way by asking myself questions like, How long does a piece need to be? What kind of music should I write? The answer is to write what you like. The piece is going to be as long as it keeps you interested. If it bores you, cut it.
Society does everything it can to fill you with a distrust of yourself and others. We grow up in an environment where we’re laughed at or criticized for thinking that what we create could profoundly affect people and maybe make a difference in their lives—or be worth doing for nobody but ourselves.

Kismet of Submission: Episode 3

To those of us observing this couple, the reactions vary from disgust and outrage to curiosity and envy. Spanking—despite a long literary provenance—cannot shake the dust of kink from adult desires: Likely because of the uncomfortable bridge between childish punishment and legal sexuality.

He raises his hand, and swings down with practiced ease. The impact on her mom jeans is surprisingly loud considering the casual way the arm moves. He could be painting the kitchen for all the drama the motion creates. The climate control fan is on high—a trick he learned long ago; the white noise masks repetitive sounds.

The sound of spanking: it’s unique and distinctive, even over clothing. He muses as he scatters spanks in a seemingly random pattern at the beat of two per second: How many women has he seen bottom up, submitting to his discipline? Not as many as he would have liked. The trials and tribulations of a spanker who is always seeking the next partner—too many strings attached these days. To borrow a phrase from the horror genre: Too squicky for most.

He’s never considered spanking to be violent, not like a punch or kick, or the cutting words of an abusive parent. To him, spanking a woman is as natural as breathing, but the politics of correctness have taken the shine off the hunt. He finishes with a quick flurry of smacks to the junction of her thighs, pats gently in a quick double-tap and then tells her he is finished.

Tamara discovers, much to her surprise, that being over his knee is actually… pleasant is the wrong word, so is safe, so she settles for comfortable: for the moment. The hand resting on the small of her back makes small circles, like a dog preparing for sleep. The heat spreads up her spine. She exhales with deep sigh: The carpet is out of focus.

The first spank jolts her, not from the pain—there is none—but from the instant comparison of all the times she’s been beaten before. She tenses and waits for the next blow. Instead, his right hand rests on her crests. A gentle squeeze, a pat, she consciously forces her muscles to relax. The ‘good girl’ is said softly, but the praise is clear in his tone. Her unseen smile is wry. The absurdity of the situation is beyond her ability at present to cope. Trust me; is the single hardest sentence in English to accept.

She wiggles slightly, letting him know she is okay and wants to continue. The second spank is on the opposite cheek. Then back and forth he goes, she tries to count, but the steadily increasing heat in her bottom is a distraction. It’s… divine is the wrong word. Searching her vocabulary, she settles on cool: lame perhaps, but it’s actually kinda cool to be getting a spanking in a stranger’s—a strange man’s hotel room.

The final volley of twenty are deliberately placed low and inside. She feels the spanks; oh does she feel them. Traitorous pussy she grumbles to herself. You’re not having sex today. The internal dialogue is rapid and angry. Too many times before has she let her genitals have control: it never ends well. When she hears the silence and his statement of closure, what she feels is disappointment. What she wants is to be bare-bottomed and spanked again from the top.

So what does he want? Can this patty-cake spanking be satisfying for either of them? A handshake or fist bump certainly doesn’t rise to the level of rapture, so why would we expect fireworks from a simple one-minute over the knee session? Have we as readers lost the capability to enjoy a slow consummation unfolding? The electronic pacifiers damage more relationships than they create.

This time, he helps her stand with an arm around her waist. He keeps his hands away from unacceptable places and pulls out the single chair from the desk-cum-workstation for her to sit. Perched on the corner of the bed, he studies her posture and expressions. She doesn’t quite meet his gaze; it’s centered somewhere on his forehead. He recognizes the look as one of the many varied and nuanced survivor stares. Asking about how she feels would likely provoke flight.

When he was younger, brash and filled with conceit, he’d have pressed for feedback to stroke his fragile ego—and lost the girl. Concern is the primary focus now. ‘That snack earlier didn’t fill me up. What would you like to eat, Tamara? The restaurant next door appears interesting; if you like Mexican.’

‘I should go.’

‘The afternoon workshops should be fun. Plus tomorrow is the wrap up luncheon, you can assist me in flogging my oeuvre beforehand.’

‘I… don’t know what to do.’

‘Then let’s start with lunch, Tamara. Allow someone else to serve you for a change.’

‘I quit my job!’

‘Good for you.’

‘I can’t afford to stay overnight. My bus leaves at six.’

‘You can sleep on the side facing the door. I’m warning you though, hands off the TV remote. It’s mine.’

We see a genuine smile illuminate her face, for a brief instant something shines beneath. Craning our necks, the bright joy slowly fades; the haggard lines reappear. Are they shallower? Can anyone truly lift the veil of depression from somebody? It is very easy to criticize choices made in extremis, when doing so deflects from our own faults. In order to really empathize, we must purge the blind devotion to our perceived greatness. Respect is built upon a foundation of communication: Non-verbal cues are often missed.

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 2

Originally posted as What makes a spanko tick, for Wicked Wednesday on April 12th, 2017.

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 bi-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 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 colonies in 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. Sustenance, 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 bottom and ends with her mind. 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.

Wow! Cries the reader. No way! Life doesn’t happen that way. Fine, maybe there are good guys out there, but good guys don’t go around telling woman 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 bed 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 room 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.’

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 1

Originally posted as Some times, that’s all it takes, for Wicked Wednesday on March 1st, 2017. After I posted this story, there were some readers who wanted to continue. I did so, with a direct followup six weeks later. By the time I started the third 1,000-word addition, I decided to turn the story into a serial. My plan is to post an episode of Kismet of Submission once a week, as long as I have ideas.

Tamara meets a man at her place of work. He tells her he’s a spanko. For reasons that are unclear to her—considering her abusive past—she decides to follow him. This story, of undetermined length, will cover topics such as spanking, submission, dominance, politics, religion, abusive pasts, drug and alcohol use, sex, and anything else that pops up. The story will be told from three perspectives: His, Hers and Omnipresent. The episodes will be around 1,000 words and will be sequential.

The windows faced west, not that they provided a scenic vista of sweeping beauty. Neat rows of gas pumps under a flat canopy that would topple in a strong wind: beyond them, the four lanes of asphalt connecting the freeway with town.

Over there, near the cash register, a middle-aged woman polishes the stainless steel counter and mops the tile floor. The breakfast crowd has cleared out; one booth for four nurses coffees and argues politics. She is the quintessential diner waitress. Even without her salmon uniform dress or sea foam green name badge, she has the thousand-yard service stare that makes patrons feel both acknowledged and uncomfortable.

Her story—unfortunately—is all too familiar, even if unknown to anyone in town. An abusive home begat teen pregnancy, begat reluctant marriage, begat domestic violence until the divorce, the restraining order until her ex killed resisting arrest. Her daughter got a college scholarship, her mother sold everything, and left her memories behind.

She does what she has to do in order to survive, even if being numb is a normal state of being. Do you believe in fate? She doesn’t.

He does.

She watches a nondescript four-door sedan pull up to the pumps. The driver gets out, stretches and presses his hands into the small of his back. He stares at the nozzles, then the vehicle. Shaking his head, he gets back in and reverses direction so the filler cap faces the right way. The fresh coffee is brewed, so she tops off the foursome and trades jokes all the while her peripheral vision monitors the man at the pumps.

He’s done. The vehicle turns around again and moves fifty feet to park in front of the diner. When he comes inside, he briefly brings the growling and barking of tractor-trailers rotating from the truck stop. He veers to the restroom, presumably to wash gasoline off his hands.

The counter stools are covered in checkerboard to match her colors. In fact, the entire diner is a tribute to the pastel age. Strangely enough, the laminated menus don’t match. She slaps one down with a practiced twist and asks, ‘would you like some coffee?’

You see the man now tilt his head and study her. It’s not easy being a survivor. She’s always thought she’s worn a neon sign stamped on her high forehead. He too, recognizes a kindred spirit, so he makes—to us—a seemingly impulsive decision.

‘No, no coffee, water is fine.’

He studies the menu now. He’s not hungry, peckish maybe, but it’s still two hours to his destination.

‘I’ll have two scrambled eggs and rye toast.’

He watches her spin and yell through the window to the short order cook. He notices her bottom. He’s an ass man, always has been, which, given his vocation, is a good thing.

She notices. She always notices; which, for a paranoid survivor is a good thing. His eyes though, they’re not flat and hungry like most of the truckers or the husbands stopping in for the luncheon special and some flirting. His eyes are open, smiling; his mouth follows through with a wry crook, his shoulders shrug in apology. For once, she doesn’t feel cornered.

To cover her unease, she resumes her interrupted cleaning then busses the booth after the town workers punch back in to spend more taxpayer dollars. She kneels on the bench, calf-length skirt rising to the back of knee. She knows he’s watching.

He can see her. Not by spinning around on the stool and ogling with cocky elbow on the Formica. The mirror that runs along the cornice is sufficient. Her nylons have a run. The shoes need new soles.

The ding and ‘order up!’ elicits Pavlovian responses.

The eggs are quickly consumed. The toast—buttered—slathered with one packet of jam each, blueberry and strawberry, the marmalade, as always, looks disgusting.

‘Anything else?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Passing through?’

‘Conference in the city this weekend.’

‘Sales?’

‘I’m a writer.’

Her gaze slides to his transportation. His follows.

‘It’s a rental.’

‘Ah.’

‘I don’t like flying.’

‘What kind of writing do you do?’

It’s at this point we wonder how to reconcile the internal dialogue in order to make a believable story. After all, as the reader, we have preconceived expectations of how people behave. As a writer, however, the internal becomes external, and the reader has to decide to follow or quit.

‘I write erotica. Specifically, erotica with some type of spanking as the focal point.’

Like falling dominoes, his words coalesce around his actions, and her mind concocts multiple scenarios in a blink of the eye. Which hers do multiple times.

‘Are you famous?’

A genuine smile of delight makes his eyes sparkle. His white teeth are only marred by a piece of toast stuck in one corner. Her eyes dart there. She watches as his tongue swishes and sucks. He bares his teeth. She nods.

‘Thanks. What is famous? Is my penname known? Sure, but my face isn’t. Besides, who needs the hassles? I like being anonymous.’

‘Why spanking?’

‘I like it. I like to spank, be spanked, read about spanking and write about spanking. It’s fun and easy to fantasize.’

‘This conference, is it open to the public?’

‘Sure. Gotta a brochure right here. If you want to go, here’s a comp ticket as well. I’ll circle the seminars I’m involved with and the ones I plan to attend.’

He watches as she gnaws her lower lip. She wants to go, he can tell, but pushing will result in being shoved away.

‘Sometimes, Tamara, you can clearly see the choice offered. Whether you accept or not, don’t regret your decision.’

He leaves a twenty and taps the counter with his fingers.

‘Keep the change. See you there tomorrow.’

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.

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

Flashback Friday: “Over the Top”

This week’s Flashback Friday, was originally posted April 11th, 2010. This will be the next to last Flashback Friday, as I have plucked the best of my past writings of 2009-2010 from the archives. After next week’s final posting, I will be changing the posting schedule. My plans are to continue posting the Victorian novel, The Bumhampton Chronicles, in 100-word drabbles on Thurs, Fri, Sat and Sun. Every Monday, a new non-fiction essay of 500-1,000 words about D/s, based on various prompts I find in the vanilla world. On Tuesdays, I will be starting a new serial novel called, Kismet of Submission, with 1,000 word episodes. The first two have already been posted for past Wicked Wednesday prompts, but I will be reposting them before moving on to new episodes. Lastly of course, there is the weekly Wicked Wednesday. Still in progress is my follow up Sir Fang novel, The Case of The Scarlet Paddle. Speaking of beta readers, if you are interested in helping me by reading drafts of current fiction, please don’t hesitate to drop me a line via email, either to Lurv Spanking, or Byron Cane.

The blue spruces shuddered violently. Lightning danced rapidly from menacing flannel clouds approaching the homestead. Heather Parks wrung her hands thinking of her husband Josh driving home in this terrifying weather. He’d been gone a week this time on business and despite nightly calls she constantly worried about his health. Her concern was a constant source of friction. Josh hated being ‘babied’ and Heather had fled in tears after many an argument. If only he would see what she needed, what she craved: he was oblivious to her! As the storm grew harsher so did Heather’s thoughts until the crashing thunder shook dust from the rafters.

“Mom! Where’s my yellow shirt?”

“It’s in the wash! I’m trying to write, have Daddy help you!” Corrine Campos grimaced hearing the horde descending upon her unsuspecting husband. Carmelo was warm and loving, except when it came to women’s work. Old-fashioned to the extreme he would never even consider lifting a finger to help around the house. He supported Corrine and their three children by running his own consulting business and that was enough for him and his mother. She’d found his masculinity overwhelming when they were dating but after ten years of marriage the resentments were reaching the breaking point. When her phone rang; well, Corrine snapped out without checking ID.

“What!”
“My, my, Corrine. Testy today?”
“Sorry, Roxy. Bad day.”
“I understand. Hate to rain on your parade but ‘Over the top’ needs work, lots of work.”
“I know, I know, I know. I’m editing now, Roxy, please give me a little more time.”
“I’m sorry, Corrine, but the deadline is Wednesday and if you don’t have a publishable draft by tomorrow the magazine is going to cancel. There’s nothing more I can do. Give me something to sell and I’ll go to the mat for you.”
“Okay, Roxy. Tomorrow, I promise. Gotta go, hubby is pounding on the door.”

“What are you doing? Your children are driving me crazy!”
“I’m sorry, Carmelo. I was talking to a friend. I’ll be right there.”

Corrine put her computer to sleep and wasted two hours caring for her children before foisting them off on her sister for the rest of the day. Carmelo had left, to go and do who knew what, but Corrine was quite happy to see his BMW squealing out of the gate. Finally: Peace and quiet.

The blue spruces shuddered violently as if in the throes of orgasm. Lightning danced rapidly from the menacing flannel clouds approaching the homestead intent on rape. Heather Parks wrung her hands thinking of her horny husband Josh driving home in this terrifying weather. He’d been gone a week this time on business and despite nightly calls she constantly worried about the health of his penis. Her concern was a constant source of friction. Josh hated being ‘babied’ and Heather had fled in tears after many a blowjob. If only he would see what she needed, what she craved: he was oblivious to her! As the storm grew harsher so did Heather’s thoughts until the crashing thunder shook dust from the rafters. What if she never got a chance to suck on his hard cock ever again?

Josh pulled into the garage amidst hail as large as fists and rain so thick the wipers failed to keep up. He was trembling with fatigue and looked forward to a long, hot soapy shower – by himself. Heather was so needy lately! What was her problem? He was less than pleased to open the door and find Heather on her knees, warm mouth open and blue eyes pleading for his cock. He finally snapped. Grabbing her long blond hair in his calloused fingers he dragged her into the living room and threw her over the back of the couch. Whipping out his belt he proceeded to beat his wife on her rounded quivering bottom while she cried and begged the entire time. When her ass was covered with weals he threw down the belt, stalked to her head, yanked up her head and shoved his cock down her throat.

Heather was in shock. Where was the loving gentle man she’d married? Why was he doing this? Her ass was on fire and while it hurt, the pain was nothing compared to her broken heart. When he pulled out of her mouth she protested again but then he began to pound her pussy each thrust slapping her sore bottom. Heather felt her climax building, the storm continuing unabated, neither one noticing the lights failing or glass shattering. Rain driven by violent winds soaked them as Josh fucked Heather as hard as he could: not caring a whit for her needs. She screamed again, pain was creating pleasure and her soaking wet cunt flooded the cushions. She moaned and writhed until she felt Josh shooting his spunk deep inside.

“What the fuck? What the hell are you doing?”
“Carmelo! Stop that! You have no right! This is private!”
“The hell it is! No wife of mine is going to read this filth!”
“It’s not filth, Carmelo! I wrote this for publication, for money!”
“You wrote this perverted trash for money? Money? You whore!”
Corrine slapped her angry husband. “How dare you call me a whore? I am the mother of your children and if I’m a whore then you’re a pimp!”
“You’ve gone too far this time, Corrine. I’m the man in this house and I decide what my wife does.”
“Bullshit! I don’t have to take this crap from you! Let me go! I’ll call the police.”
“Fine, Corrine, call, but first, I’m going to teach you some long overdue manners!”

Corrine felt herself rapidly thrown over her furious husband’s knees, dress tossed over her head and panties thrown on the floor. Carmelo’s large hand descended in rapid-fire order on her naked bottom punctuated by his stern lecture on proper behavior. Corrine squealed and bucked but her husband had little problems keeping her in her place. “I should have done this on our wedding night! You will obey me, Corrine, or I’ll spank you every day, twice a day for the rest of your life! Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!” Corrine choked out.

After more than half an hour of spanking, Carmelo threw his weeping wife on their bed and stalked out slamming the door behind him. Corrine reached back and gasped as she felt the heat pouring off her battered ass. Gingerly rolling over she swayed to the bathroom to observe the damage.

“Roxy? It’s, Corrine. Don’t bother with ‘Over the top’. I’ve got a new story to write: ‘Disobedient and beaten wife’. Yeah, it’s personal, very personal.”

Domination in Lycra

My favorite professional sport to watch is cycling. What does that have to do with spanking? Says the curious reader.

It you don’t follow sports, then you may be unaware of the link between Dominance/submission and athletics. Headlines such as: Yankees spank Red Sox in the rubber match; Chelsea whip Manchester United in the rain; The Patriots take the Giants to the woodshed. In cycling, a common phrase is: Stamped his authority over the peloton.

The Giro d’Italia—the first of three Grand Tours, the third being the Vuelta a España, finishes this weekend. My favorite event of all is the second Grand Tour, the Tour de France in July. They all run for three weeks, and have two overall themes: Great racing and amazing aerial photography. The organizers use the races as one giant tourism campaign.

Cycling is the ultimate team sport. In each race there is a designated GC—General Classification—rider who wears the number 1, 11, 21, 31, etc, and is supported by the other riders in order to finish as high as possible in each stage and overall. The actual leader of the team though, is the directeur sportif who follows behind in a vehicle constantly monitoring the race and directing the strategy. A rider can win and be successful through sheer talent, training and discipline, but without a strong team who can protect and guide their GC rider, breakaway and/or designated sprinter day after day, victory will be elusive.

There have been a lot of posts recently from many different bloggers writing about the nuances and the struggles of D/s in daily life. In an individual cycling race there can be only one winner, but as in relationships, the strongest team will always be more successful. The trophies and the colored jerseys may go to individuals, but it is the team that celebrates together at the end of the day.

The Dominant in a D/s relationship is the leader; the road captain, the one to whom homage is paid in champagne toasts, but who also has the complete responsibility for the success of D/s. A submissive cannot fail. They are simply following the direction of the Dom, and if a wrong road is taken, if there is a crash, if insufficient energy is supplied and attention not paid to details; it falls upon the Dom to accept responsibility for the failure to communicate and lead the way to safety.

During a 150k-200k stage race, the average professional cyclist burns 1,000 calories per hour, for a race that takes 4-6 painful hours to complete. The body though can only process an average of 1,500 calories during that time, so in order to maintain weight, they need to consume, on average, 8,000 calories a day. Hydration is even more important, with an average of 1 Liter of fluid every hour of racing. The monitoring of proper nutrition is the ultimate responsibility of the directeur sportif, who uses the radio, feed zones, domestiques and soigneurs to direct a mobile dining service and support staff that is moving at 40k an hour on the flat, and up to 80k downhill.

If we equate a D/s relationship to a team race, then the more control the Dom exerts, the less likely mistakes will be made in terms of feeding the power exchange. The submissive role is as a domestique. They are the ones who ride at the front, providing shelter from the wind and other riders, fetching bidons and food from the the team car, pacing their leader around road furniture, over long flat roads and up steep hills and snow capped mountains. The domestiques sacrifice their own ambitions, energy, even their own bikes if needed, in order to support their leader and give him/her the best chance to win. One-by-one they ride, until they can barely pedal another stroke, the entire team keeping their leader at the front, dropping off when spent.

Sounds kind of one-sided doesn’t it?

Sort of how most people view the entire concept of Dominance and submission. All about foot rubs and peeled grapes: lounging around while your frightened servant scurries to meet your every deviant whim and dark desire. Demanding obscene sexual favors constantly, and then, when not satisfied with the effort, spanking and punishing until the submissive is broken and left at the side of the road while the Dom cruises arrogantly past in cushy splendor and comfort.

In any human endeavor you will find people who abuse their authority, who punish unjustly, who only care about themselves and even seek to destroy for the sheer joy of inflicting terror upon the innocent. I will never justify D/s that is all about gratifying the Dom’s desires and ignoring the submissive’s needs.

That is not being a team leader. That is not winning. That is not about celebrating the tight bonds of love and respect developed over time through hard work and constant training. Like in cycling, or another sport, or writing a novel, there is no substitute for effort. Nothing in life comes easy, least of all an intimate relationship built around the bottom and the willing heart.

A D/s relationship lasts a lot longer than three weeks, and takes an incredible amount of energy to get through each and every day. We may quail at the thought of being responsible for another person who gives us their complete trust, but when we agree to act as a team, to selflessly support the other partner, to see to their comfort first and ride together against the world; then that steep mountain pass doesn’t seem so daunting after all.

Any interest if I start a monthly newsletter?

Before I get into the subject of a newsletter, I wanted to share a link to a post and my comment in response to Jen’s post about vulnerability, in which she talks about respect vs love.

This is my comment as written:

I find the link between work and home interesting, so I’m going to take a tangent here.
You might think, “how hard can it be to order your wife to lick the asshole of his girlfriend?” = Brown nosing. Been in plenty of workplaces where the common theme is “How did he/she get that position?” Well, it comes from being submissive to the boss(es) and licking and sucking up to get the job. It’s not a healthy situation for anyone, but a reality I have witnessed all too often. This leads to people in leadership positions that shouldn’t be there, and who use fear and intimidation to force false submission.

“It ties into something I read somewhere that, if given a choice between respect or love, most men choose respect and most women choose love.” Respect is the most difficult thing to both give and earn, not only in a personal relationship, but in the workplace. The entire concept of employment by others is a type of D/s relationship. The boss gives the orders, and the employees are expected to obey. Without respect, those orders are often ignored, sabotaged or otherwise mangled so that the boss looks bad. It’s not surprising that Mike has become more dominant at work based on his home life.

The idea of love in the workplace should not be confused with romantic love: [See below] but with the concept of affection towards co-workers and even bosses. A platonic friendship must include love and respect to have any chance of being real.

Although there are many parallels between D/D and D/s at home, and the corporate management tree, the sexual aspect gets all tangled up with power and authority. It doesn’t take much thought to recall sexual scandals in the workplace, at church, in schools and in politics, to realize that respect and love can be quickly corrupted by stupidity and cruelty.

Which leads into the last observation: Vulnerability. In the workplace, the employee has no power, except to quit if the boss is an asshole. Unlike D/s however, it’s easier to find another job, than another Dom or life partner. People write all the time about abusive Doms, but rarely complain about abusive bosses. Why? Because employees are vulnerable. HR either doesn’t care, or does not have the power to enforce harassment laws. It’s safer to accept a paycheck, than hope for a favorable court judgement. For those not in a D/s relationship, the submissive may seem to be powerless, but anyone reading this blog, or many others, quickly realizes that it is not the case.

The transition from hard-shelled, numb employee, to open vulnerable submissive, is a junction fraught with danger. I feel many D/s relationships founder on this very shoal for the lack of love and respect for the process of communicating in an honest and vulnerable manner.

About a newsletter, I have noticed that authors offer newsletters on their websites. I only have the two Lust anthologies published at the moment, but have several novels and short stories either finished, or working. There would be several possible items to include in a newsletter:

1. WIP: Work in progress, not whipping you deviant perverts! Although, all of my WIP has spanking of some sort. The purpose of showcasing my WIP, would be to garner feedback and beta reads before submitting for either calls or publication.
2. General talk about spanking and D/s, in line with the discussion above. I don’t blog many essays here, because I normally utilize other bloggers’ posts to write comments. There is certainly a need for sane and safe discussion rather than more fiction.
3. Write book reviews about my personal favorites. I have calculated—conservatively—that I have read over 20,000 books and an equal number of magazines and newspapers in my life. I have many books, new and old, that I consider worth reading.
4. Write about my writing process. How do I create characters? Why do I choose the place and time? How often do I write? Why does all my fiction revolve around spanking? [If you have to ask…]
5. Go in depth into the Lust novellas. Talk about how the outline grew into 24,000 words, and how the beta editing process changed the stories.
6. Discuss how BDSM and spanking has crept into mainstream romance. Did you know that almost all best-selling romance is now sexually explicit, and at the very least, mentions spankings as a threat directed at the female lead? Is this the influence of the editors? The paddle wagging the bottom? Or are readers more interested in kink than ever before?

So, in a comment or email, would you be interested in a monthly newsletter from me? You’d not be wrong in thinking I could simply start another blog, but, in the past, I got carried away and had eight blogs at one time. Not to mention, having 30 days of posts pre-written. I’m envisioning a once-monthly newsletter that builds upon my writing here, by discussing items such as the above.