The Wedding of the Century: Virtually

“The Four Horsemen Give Up And Retire” blared a satirical editorial supporting their decision and mocking the thundering sermons and condemnation from those warning the ‘End is Nigh’. Other platforms, especially those who existed only online, put up a spirited defense with phrases like: “Forget Mars! Webnauts are the future of humankind”. That was another debate that raged in forums and vlogs: What to call them? Besides webnauts; other popular names included netdivers, interspacers and haboob. The later an acronym taken from the Arabic name for a dust storm.

Not since the election had the web been so consumed with shouting an opinion, which was ironic [irony having passed away with the inexorable rise of social media] considering that the individuals who were being called—Human.Avatars.Blogging.Openly.Online.Bodiless—were in fact completely unknown. Some claimed they were constructs of the Deep State created as Artificial Intelligence to wrest the internet from the fingertips of the free citizens of the world. Still others pointed the blame at tech companies, or aliens, or any number of hostile governments depending on who was actually writing the post. In private chat rooms, science fiction writers smugly congratulated themselves on their perspicacity and simultaneously bemoaned the lack of comprehension by policymakers and brainstormed ways to cash in on the frenzy.

They2.0, which is how ‘they’ always referred to each other, claimed to be post-racial, post-gender and post-dirt humans. Despite the best attempts of hackers, both freelance and government sponsored, no one found any evidence to contradict ‘their’ claim ‘they’d’ uploaded ‘their’ sentience into the Cloud and then had ‘their’ bodies destroyed. And thus, on October 29th, in front of a worldwide audience watching live-streamed video on multiple platforms, two hologram avatars exchanged vows and were duly married by a flesh-and-blood minister. After the ceremony, ‘they’ invited selected journalists back to ‘their’ VR home via interactive headsets.

As one prominent reporter later said off-the-record, “It was the craziest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, but damn if it didn’t make me jealous to see the world ‘they’d’ created. ‘They’ll’ always be remembered for being the first to go, but I doubt ‘they’ll’ be alone for long.”

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 18

Despite the hot steam billowing the shower curtain, and water cascading down her back, Tamara’s body flashes with cold chills at the words “cavity search”. Her face must show her distress, because Sir pulls her into a comforting embrace.

‘I’m guessing I found a trigger.’ He feels her trembles. ‘We can try something else. There’s no rush.’

‘Ibecameaddicted,’ the words gush in a seamless confessional torrent, ‘toopioidsafterIwasinacaraccidentandhadbacksurgery.’

‘It’s an epidemic and unfortunately, there aren’t enough—or any—treatment facilities or political willingness to treat instead of incarcerate. Is that what happened to you?’

‘I spent ten months in jail. You never get over the dehumanization you’re subjected to by the system through strip and cavity searches. There’s a constant threat of violence from other inmates and exploitive guards offering preferential treatment for sex. I never hurt anybody, Sir. I wasn’t a threat. I was sick and in chronic pain, but once the insurance settlement money ran out, I started buying pills on the street.’

‘How old was your daughter?’

‘She was twelve. Luckily my brother and his wife agreed to take her in otherwise the state would have put her in foster care. I’ve been clean for six years, Sir.’

‘I understand the craving, Tamara. The only difference between us is that my drug of choice was marijuana, and I never got caught driving under the influence.’

‘Pretty ironic, Sir, that pot is now legal in some states and is prescribed for pain.’ Tamara’s sighs and looks up at his face. ‘Now that the mood is completely killed—and before the hot water runs out—do want to scrub me down?’

He squeezes her butt cheeks in response. ‘Actually… if you’re willing… I’d still like to… probe you—in a non-dehumanizing manner.’

A brief interruption: In case you haven’t noticed, Sir is very, very kinky and likes to role-play. Tamara is a creation of a lifetime of trauma and has never initiated a sexual encounter: until now.

‘Sir? Is that a choice? I mean, a real choice?’

‘Is that a no?’

‘Is it my choice?’

The steady splashing of water gurgling down the drain is the only sound for what seems an interminable moment. Neither looks away.

‘Yes.’

Tamara trades places and sets her palms flat against the slick plastic surface opposite the showerhead. In the cramped tub, there is insufficient room to “assume the position”, but she juts her bottom up to meet Sir’s questing hands.

‘That’s an interesting tattoo.’

‘You mean my tramp stamp?’

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Sir beats out a rapid tattoo on Tamara’s glistening bottom. ‘You’re not a tramp.’

‘But that’s what everyone calls it!’

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Tamara lifts on tiptoes as his fingers trace the outline of her colorful tattoo sliding down into her soapy crack and pressing lightly against her tight anus. ‘I assume there is a backstory ‘behind’ the eagle and rose?’

She squirms when the end of his thumb rubs harder against her virgin puckered rose. ‘Yes, Sir! I was young and dumb and hopelessly in love.’

Sir feels the rubbery orifice clamp hard around his thumb’s knuckle as it slides inward. ‘And the rest of your artistic decorations?’

She squeaks before answering. ‘Tattoos are like potato chips, Sir, you can’t stop at just one!’

‘You’re very tight back here.’

‘Thank you?’ she winces when he wiggles his thumb inside her rectum.

He chuckles. ‘No…thank you, it feels good.’

‘Glad you find my ass amusing.’ She hisses loudly. ‘OH! MY! I don’t have any contraband, Sir. I promise.’

‘Just making sure you’re paying attention.’

‘I am! I am!’

‘Good. Let me scrub my hands and I’ll spread the search a little wider.’

‘Not my pussy! I’ve been a model inmate, sir. You don’t need to search me.’

‘I’m only following procedures. Don’t make me spank you for disobeying orders. The more you cooperate with the guards, the quicker this will take. I don’t enjoy this anymore than you do, inmate.’

Tamara giggles at his obvious lie. Peeking at his erection tells the real story. She continues a pro-forma protest but offers no resistance. In fact, she expedites the procedure by raising her left leg and pushing the curtain back with her foot until her toes grasp the outer lip of the tub. ‘Is this okay, sir? Am I being helpful and docile?’

‘Yes, prisoner, you are being very obedient. Now hold still while I probe.’

The duality of abuse is that it runs on an endless loop of action and reaction without conscious input. Tamara can no more stop the onset of memory than halt the rising sun. But this time, the fingers are not gloved; this time, the motions are not impersonal and brusque: this time, it’s languid fondling as his fingers flutter firmly on her folds. This time, she feels not shame, but arousal. A glimmer of comprehension flashes across synapses before the message is overwhelmed by the sensation of slow, sensual penetration.

Her forehead thunks the wall and her arms drop to the side for balance. The third eye vision is gradually being overwritten with new information. Her invitation is non-verbal. Her hips open in desire instead of clenching with fear.

Sir’s “good girl” is less heard than felt through his steady thrusting of hand. It’s been a long, strange day; and Tamara has teetered on the edge of meltdown more than once. To be taken: To be forced. To be forcibly given an orgasm…

‘Oooooooh.’

‘Feels good?’

‘No—’

‘No?’

‘No! I mean yes… ooooooooh, don’t stop!’

‘Like this?’

‘Oh. My. God!’

Right before Tamara let the pulsing pleasure crash over her, she managed to stammer out what she meant to say. ‘This is what yo-you meant… by su-submission.’

Whatever Sir said was lost in the pounding surf as his four fingered fucking caused the most cataclysmic climax of her life.

We heard what he said though. “And I didn’t even touch your clit.”

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

Kismet of Submission: Episode 14

‘It’s not punishment for being abused, Tamara. That wasn’t your fault. It’s discipline that allows you to overcome and replace those memories and conditioned responses, with reactions that are more beneficial and realistic. Submitting to me, willingly and without pretense, will result in daily spankings, plus extra spankings when I decide you are not being either truthful, or causing harm to yourself.’

Tamara carefully disengages from his grasp and sits upright against the padded headboard. Rubbing her goose-pimpled arms and studiously ignoring his gaze, she stares out at the bright parking lot lights. ‘Looks like it’s letting up, are you hungry?’

He notes her diversionary segue is a pretty good transition. ‘I could eat.’

‘Do you want to go back out?’

‘We could get delivery.’ He points to the desk. ‘There’s a navy binder with local restaurants.’

She bounces off the bed as if catapulted, the sudden movement refocusing her attention down below and round back. Hooking her fingers together, she manages to keep from giving her sore butt a good rubdown. Nonchalantly flipping the pages of the guide as she stands, she tosses out suggestions. ‘We did Mexican, so there’s a couple of pizza places, Chinese, Indian and the assorted American style chains.’ Finally looking at him, she asks, ‘What are you in the mood for?’ ending in a breathless squeak when she reads his desire.

‘I’ll eat… just about anything that’s offered. How about a nice, hot slice of pie… Italian style.’

With a wide-eyed gasp, she nods, ‘Okay.’

It’s a fallacy of fiction that characters spring fully actualized from the imagination of the author. Stories don’t write themselves, even with elaborate plots and flowcharts. We know some of Tamara’s past because we were allowed a peek inside at the beginning of the novel. We know nothing of Sir’s past, not because the narrator is withholding information as an artistic device, but rather that Sir is simply very reticent to share. Why, we don’t know. Is it shyness? Unlikely, but then again, as readers we are at the mercy of the characters. No matter how the author attempts to chivy them along, each person in a story has their own agenda, biases and sometimes; what seems logical and pre-ordained, turns out to be a rotting red herring washed up on the beach. What I’m trying to say is; I have no idea where the narrative is going, but I plan to have lots of fun getting there.

‘We can get a toothbrush in the lobby. I have everything else you might need here, except tampons.’

See what I mean?

Tamara’s mouth drops open. ‘What?’

‘Funny, I don’t recall you being hard of hearing before.’

‘Stop doing that!’

‘Doing what?’

‘Playing with my emotions!’

With restrained strength, he uncoils from his lounging posture on the bed and swings his socked feet onto the carpet. Pushing upright, he prowls towards her, his expression one of exasperated amusement.

Tamara trembles with a feeling of helpless anticipation she’s never experienced before with any man. When she retreats and bumps against the unyielding wall, she lets out a hiss with a slight wince as her bottom flares with delicious soreness.

THUD

The impact of his palms as they slap either side of her head against the painted surface makes her jump. Trapped by his taller and broader stance, she instinctively presses her hands to his firm chest to ward him off.

She can’t quite meet his eyes. Underneath her fingertips, his pulse beats a steady rhythm, while hers is racing towards a distant unseen finish line.

He moves no closer, so they are frozen in wanting, each waiting for the other to crack first.

Easing her hands down, Tamara ducks and sidles sideways under his raised right arm until she’s free of his cage. Her gaze skitters around the room, lighting upon the few objects, but never coming to rest until she closes her eyes and cups her face.

‘I’m sorry, Tamara, I didn’t mean to trigger your fear.’

Snapping her head back and staring at the ceiling, she blows out in a lip vibrating flutter of sound. ‘I can’t keep up with you, Sir.’

‘I’m not asking you to.’

Tamara squares her shoulders and huffs again. ‘I’m sorry for overreacting. It’s instinctive when I’m uncomfortable with what I’m feeling, so I lash out or change the subject. I don’t need tampons at this time, but a toothbrush would be welcome.’

She walks closer and gently sets her palms on crossed forearms. Tipping her face, she rises up on her toes and gives him a brief kiss on his lips. ‘Thanks for the wonderful spanking. You were correct, it was just what I needed.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘And, it wasn’t fear you triggered, but arousal, and that is even scarier for me.’

‘I understand.’

She squeezes his shoulders and nods thoughtfully. ‘You know, I actually believe that you do understand.’ Letting go and stepping back, she continues, ‘Not that it makes me more comfortable. In fact, your compassion and empathy makes fleeing all the more likely.’

It’s like watching a tennis match. Back and forth the words are lobbed, neither going for the point, but instead wanting the rally to continue without choosing a winner. Tamara doesn’t see it yet, but Sir is not as equanimous as he appears. What started as a random choice a little more than twenty-fours ago, has reached the point of realization that sleeping together in chaste embrace is going to be extremely difficult. She reminds him of someone very special who slipped away when her demons took control for the last time. He thought his grief was spent, but Tamara’s responses and extremely evident scars are shredding his control with every passing moment. A little too late, he now understands that a weekend is simultaneously not enough and far too much for comfort.

‘Thanks for explaining, Tamara. How about we both flee for some pizza. Suddenly, this room doesn’t feel cozy anymore.’

 

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

Open wide: I’ll come inside

This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is, ‘The Dentist’. I will state that going to the dentist is not my favorite thing, and I have no sexual inclinations whatsoever towards the vocation. This story started as a complete outline in my mind—which rarely happens—and morphed into 1,800 freehand words. I typed it all in, made a few deletions, and here it is for your enjoyment.

“Easy Dental. This is Elise. How may I help you?”
“An emergency? I do have a cancellation tomorrow morning at ten. Are you a current patient?”
“No? I’m sorry. Dr. Brandeis doesn’t do house calls. Excuse me? He’s currently with clients until late this afternoon. Certainly I’ll give him the message as soon as he’s free. You’re welcome.”
It was over an hour later before Elise was able to hand over the note along with a brief explanation of the phone call. “It was like she expected you to drop everything and rush to the rescue!”
“A house call?” I furrowed my brow in confusion and wormed a piece of granola bar out from between the first and second lower jaw bicuspids. “Why would someone request that of a dentist?”
“I don’t know, doctor, she was adamant you return her call a.s.a.p.”
“Her? Is she a patient? Not Mrs. Larson!”
“No, but she said you’d remember her incisors.”
I read the scribbled message for the first time. My molars ground as the name Kayla Castana leaped out at me in a flurry of memories. Flowing black silken hair, olive skin flushed with passion and a fiery temper to match emerald eyes. Oh yes, I remember the tempestuous siren; who tried—and failed—to lure me away to the coast. We broke up for good when after my degree, I bought out the practice in my small hometown.
My palm twitched. Her bottom had felt my displeasure on numerous occasions. Her claws and teeth returned the favor.
I shook off the past. “Thanks, Elsie, I’ll take care of it.”

Somehow, come half past five, I found myself driving, not home to prepare for a often postponed date with my current girlfriend, but out into the boonies towards a set of GPS coordinates set deep in the middle of the state wilderness. To my knowledge, there was nothing out there, but Kayla had insisted it was a legitimate emergency. My ears were still ringing from Taylor’s complaints about the cancellation, but the promised fee of fifteen-grand assuaged my guilt and peaked my curiosity.
‘Turn right in one mile.’
The sun had gone behind the tall trees crowding the narrow two-lane blacktop road, and the headlights reflected off a white sign now visible around the bend. I tapped the brakes and coasted up as the GPS told me to ‘turn right now’.
The gold letters spelled out, Spots & Stripes Sanctuary, as I swept onto the gravel surface. The navigation showed 5 miles to my destination.
The forest closed in. My tires crunched over the white aggregate and the exterior temperature steadily dropped. My phone flashed, ‘No Service’. I wiped my hands on my slacks and gulped. It probably didn’t help I was listening to Stephen King’s latest audio book. I thought it was Kayla’s voice, but what if…?
Four miles in, a red and white gate loomed up out of the misty twilight. A uniformed guard leaned out the half-door of the small hut to the left.
“Good evening.”
“Sir.”
“My name is Dr. Brandeis. Kayla Castana is expecting me.”
“I.D. please, doctor.”
I fumbled with my wallet and extracted the license. The guard compared the picture to my face then consulted a piece of paper. There was a soft tearing noise and he handed back my identification along with printed directions and a laminate tag with a clip.
“Wear this badge at all times. Follow the directions to Building #Seven, you will be met there by your guide. Have a good evening.”
The barrier lifted silently and I put my AWD Volvo back into drive. Whatever this place was, I had gone way past concern straight into paranoia.
‘You have reached your destination.’
“I don’t think so.”
‘Recalculating.’
Three very long miles later, concrete replaced gravel, and the tight trail through the dense woods flared out into a circular drive that made a wide loop around a three story lodge that looked like a log cabin hotel. Building #Seven was three-quarters of the way around. I swung into a parking space and shut off the engine.
Peering through the windshield, the front door and windows were filled with friendly light. Kayla stood on the walkway and waved hello.
I waved back.
“You’re looking good, Doctor.”
I gave her a fist bump. “Thank you, you as well.”
“Please come in. I truly appreciate coming all this way out here. Our regular dentist is on vacation.”
“Well. I hope it’s worth it. My girlfriend isn’t very happy with me right now.”
Kayla held out a fat manila envelope. “Your fee, a cash fee. Maybe that will soothe her temper.”
I gave a wry smile, tucking the crinkly payment in my jacket pocket and followed Kayla as she briskly walked deeper inside towards an elevator. We went down: Two levels and soon reached a heavy door with keypad.
She swiped a card, entered a code, and we were buzzed in. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled as the unidentifiable odor wafted through my nasal passages. Kayla didn’t notice—or ignored—my reaction and unlocked the fifth door on the right.
I poked my head in and gave a low whistle. I was looking at a state-of-the-art dental suite. “Okay. Where’s the patient?”
Kayla was on my heels and gave an exasperated groan. “Dammit! I can’t believe she snuck out again! I’ll be right back.”
I shrugged as her rapid footsteps quickly faded. Donning a surgical gown, I set up my tools of the trade, all hermetically sealed and in order. I’d been assured everything I could possibly need would be waiting, and the specific emergency would be made clear.
A deep rumbling snarl slashed the room. Dropping a pick from suddenly nerveless fingers, I spun around and thumped into the back wall with a hard thud.
The noise was emanating from the throat of a medium sized gold and black spotted feline. As in a wild cat, it was smaller than a leopard, but much larger than the average domestic breed.
“This is completely unacceptable, Nessa! You have to get your teeth fixed!”
Despite my panic, I did notice a wide collar and a leash being held in Kayla’s hand as she scolded the cat. I swallowed hard and managed to croak, “Um… I think you need a veterinarian and some sedatives. I don’t do animal dentistry.”
The animal in question stared at me with gold-flecked eyes and thrashed her puffy tail against the tile floor. The low growling continued unabated.
“Nessa…” Kayla’s menacing voice growled right back. “Do NOT push your luck!” Her command was punctuated by a sharp tug of the leash.
I continued to sidle along the far wall but they were between me and the exit. Before I made a rash dash for the door, the clearly annoyed feline tossed her head at me and suddenly the air shimmered as if I’d gone cross-eyed.
My mouth dropped open.
Instead of a pissed off cat, a nude woman crouched in its place. The empty collar and leash dangled from Kayla’s fingers. “I’m only going to say this once more, Nessa. Get in the chair.” She lashed the woman’s bare bottom twice with the leather leash leaving two red stripes behind.
Nessa leapt with feral grace into the chair. Kayla swiftly attached cuffs to both ankles and wrists and engaged the mechanism to raise and tilt the woman until the former cat was lying nearly horizontal.
I watched as her breasts heaved up and down and her tethered limbs quivered. I realized she was terrified. Cautiously approaching, I held my hands up as if to say, ‘this wasn’t my idea’, and drew the stool close to her side. I sat down and said, “Hello, Nessa. My name is Dr. Brandeis. Kayla asked me to attend to you this evening. I want you to know I will do everything in my power to make this as painless as possible. Will you please tell and show me what is the concern you are experiencing at present?”
When she finally spoke, Nessa’s voice flowed over me like melted chocolate: Dark, rich, and filled with the promise of a good time.
“You don’t seem surprised, doctor.”
“I read a lot of paranormal fiction. I assume you, and Kayla are werecats of some kind.” I glanced over at Kayla and held her gaze. “Now that I think about the past, it makes sense.” She coolly returned my regard and I refocused on my patient.
“I’m a margay,” Nessa replied, “and I hate going to the dentist.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing I came to you. May I look in your mouth?”
She glared at Kayla one last time and reluctantly opened wide. I manipulated the overhead lamp and, after masking, peered in inside. “I see. Molars 14, 15 and 17 are cracked and you have signs of infection. How long ago did this happen?”
“Two weeks,” Nessa mumbled.
I patted her slick shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix you up and put you on a course of antibiotics.” I addressed Kayla. “I assume you have were-suitable medications?” When she nodded in the affirmative, I turned back to Nessa. “I’m going to take some x-rays first to make sure the root is intact, then give you some local anesthesia, clean out the infection and repair the cracks. I am very hopeful I can salvage your teeth.”
When Nessa started crying, Kayla leaned in with a hug and whispered in her ear during the time I was prepping the x-ray machine and films. When I heard soft buzzing, I looked back to see Kayla’s arm up between Nessa’s nude thighs holding what appeared to be a slim wand.
I cleared my throat, but Kayla merely winked at me and started an in-and-out motion. Nessa squirmed, but because her ankles were secured to the sides of the chair, could only raise her hips slightly. “An orgasm, or two, will calm her down.”
At this point, I was so far beyond the norm, my only option was to proceed as professionally as possible on my patient. It was ‘hard’ to do considering the sounds and scents swirling through my senses. The musk of two aroused females made me earn every penny of that fifteen thousand.

All I’ll say is this: I arrived home after midnight, all fingers—and virtue—still intact. Although later on, Taylor decided my vague explanations were the final straw to our relationship and we parted with some harsh words.
I did though have a lucrative new cash flow, minus bulk purchases of catnip, for when Nessa came prowling after dark seeking her favorite chew toy and dentist.

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

Tied to my faults

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is ‘Bond’ after the quartet of the same name playing ‘Victory’ from the year 2000. I have that album Born on CD. Likely I purchased it because it featured four women in tight dresses with lovely bums. I do enjoy their music as well, to be fair. The other Bond, James Bond, uses sex and sizzle too; although I’d like to see a Jane Bond at some point.

The origin of bond, is rather interesting. The ultimate root source is bind: ORIGIN Old English bindan, of Germanic origin; related to Dutch and German binden, from an Indo-European root shared by Sanskrit bandh.

This changed to band, as in: #4 archaic ‘a thing that restrains, binds, or unites.’ ORIGIN late Old English (sense 4 of the noun), from Old Norse, reinforced in late Middle English by Old French bande, of Germanic origin; related to bind.

In turn, this lead to bonds: physical restraints used to hold someone or something prisoner, esp. ropes or chains. ORIGIN Middle English: variant of band1.

The surname Bond, comes from Old English bonda, bunda, reinforced by Old Norse bóndi, which in the Old Norse meant farmer or husbandman, as well as a personal name.

In Modern English, bond is also used in chemistry, the law, building and financial trades and in terms of relationships. It’s interesting that the word bondage, originally comes from an agricultural background: ORIGIN Middle English: from Anglo-Latin bondagium, from Middle English bond ‘serf’ (earlier ‘peasant, householder’), from Old Norse bóndi ‘tiller of the soil,’ based on búa ‘dwell’; influenced in sense by bond.
The BDSM meaning of bondage was first recorded in 1966.

the fertile soil of my phobia ridden mind
yields a paltry harvest of habitual faults
with plow and mattock blistered hands seek
redemption for numerous errors in judgement

the sun cannot scorch hotter than the whips
that keep me entangled in familial bondage

there was a time when I ran naked through
open fields of imagination and possibility
when the bond of life had yet to be cashed
and bitterness sank to the bottom of the mug

the toasts and songs mean nothing to me now
that she has traveled where I am yet to go

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

I realize this is not very wicked this week, but when the Muse wants a gloomy poem… I can but obey.

Don’t forget to laugh

If there is one 52-second video that sums up what Lurv Spanking is all about, it’s this one.

This week’s essay is inspired by this article: 4 Signs That You Are Your Own Worst Enemy, in the August, 2017 issue of Oprah Magazine. I wanted to pull two paragraphs from Martha Beck’s essay that summed up the focus for me.

“Take the spotlight off yourself by learning the 20-40-60 rule. It’s a bit of folk wisdom that goes like this: At age 20, you’re sure everyone’s thinking about you. By the time you’re 40, you’re starting to care less that people are thinking about you. And when you hit 60, you realize the truth: No one was ever thinking about you. People are generally so busy being their own worst enemy that they don’t even notice your flaws.”

“A war against yourself can never be won; the only true victory happens when you lay down your arms and befriend the enemy. And if you can make peace with yourself, you’ll find the whole world becomes a kinder, gentler place.”

This a continuation of sorts from my previous essay “Breaking the martyr inside”, where I talked about the ways we harm ourselves with the best of intentions. Martha writes about how we are constantly warring with all those flaws—external and internal—that most people never even notice. It quickly becomes both a habit and self-filling prophecy to beat up ourselves for all our perceived shortcomings.

There is a difference of course, between those things we despise because we don’t have a perfect ass being bounced upon by a cute kitty, and genuinely harmful behaviors we should change or outgrow. Having a caring Dom can go a long way towards disarming the verbal hand grenades we lob at inopportune times, but unlike in real life, our ammunition called self-loathing, never runs out.

So laugh my friends. None of us are perfect. No matter how obedient and docile we appear on the outside, no amount of spanking and discipline can erase decades of mistakes; unless, and until, you open up that storage container and make love to your inner humanity.

You so titanic girl—

—you go down easier than scotch on rocks!

I earned my knee pads the old-fashioned way: by gobbling cocks whenever and wherever I could. It wasn’t my fault. The compulsion was in the locked collar around my neck. Everyone thought I was somebody’s slave: they were correct, but that wasn’t even the worst part.

This was:
“Hey Ti! You’re cell is hopping around the room! What kinda fuckin’ battery you got in that thing?”
Ti—short for Titania—that’s me; couldn’t answer the call, or speak for that matter, cause I had a hard prick down my gullet and the frat boy wasn’t about to let me up for air. Not that I needed to breathe or anything. *sarcasm* I shoved a finger up his ass, my manicured nail scraping as I tweaked his prostate. Finally! He shot his wad, and I pushed him aside, ignoring the rug burns on my tits as I dove for my phone.
“What?!”
“I said I’d be there! Taking a fucking chill! I’ve got two hours!”
“And who’s fault is that?”
“Thought so.”
“Well, next time you pork a chick, use a fucking condom!”
“Whatever.”
I punched ‘end call’ wishing it was my fist to his face. Jackass. I popped to my feet and gathered my clothing—little of it as there was—and surveyed the six guys staring at me in confusion mixed with lust. I smirked and pulled my T-shirt over my head and the miniskirt up my legs.
“It’s been fun boys, but I gotta run. Daddy is getting impatient. Wouldn’t want lightning bolts to hit the frat house, now would we?”
I wiggled my fingers as I left. The spell dusted the room and their faces become slack and sleepy.
“One down… one to go,” I muttered before shivering in the cool early morning/late night air. I wished I’d brought a jacket, but I hadn’t expected to stay this late. Flashing through my messages, and pulling up the ride-share app, I was about to summon a driver when a sleek, low-slung little number eased to the curb with a restrained crackle of suppressed exhaust.
“Need a lift, little lady?”
In the dark shadows beyond the LED streetlamps, the voice couldn’t see my smile, but the sugar sweet drawl I affected slipped into his brain like a stiletto. “That depends where you’re headed.”
“I’d say it was wherever you needed to go.”
Sauntering over to the open window, I placed my forearms on the sill and tugged my shirt lower so that my boobs peeked out. I saw his eyes drop to my puckered nipples and slowly travel up to the braided gold choker with the platinum lock around my neck. Naturally, it chose that moment to shock me with a quick flash of pale bluish light and a soft buzz. I winced: I always did. I sensed the moment when realization caught up with his arousal.
Pointing at my neck, he asked with wary eyes, “Your Master?”
“No,” I said with unfeigned weariness, “My father.”
“What kind of sick monster would do that to his own kid?”
“S.O.P. for Zeus.”
“Zeus?”
“Yup.”
“As in the Zeus?”
I shuddered again as the biting shocks from my collar came stronger and closer together. “Look. I’d love to shoot the breeze ’til the cows come home, but I need a favor. Usually I have someone picked out for this, but I ran long at the frat house. I need you to spank me.”
“Spank you?”
“Yes, spank me. Trust me, this fucking collar is a helluva lot more painful than anything you could dish out on my ass.”
“Why—”
“Because Zeus is an evil controlling sadist. He wants me home permanently, so when I refused his version of parental visitation, he welded an irremovable compulsion collar that zaps me whenever I go too long without sex and spanking. He’s trying to slut shame me into moving back in with him and my half-siblings.”
“Sounds like a routine night on campus to me,” he snorted.
“Yeah, well, Daddy dearest, for all his power, doesn’t get out much. He can’t use anything electronic without frying the circuits, so he’s stuck in the newspaper dark age.”
“Poor guy… not!”
“He’s still a mother fucker—literally. He’s got bastards sprayed all over the cosmos. So, again, it’s nice to chit-chat, but you need to get all busy up on my butt.”
I spread ’em, just like in the cop shows, yanking up my mini waiting to get frisked with my palms down on the rear sheet metal. Hissing as I got shocked again, I yelped, “Hurry up, dammit!”
“Why are telling me all this?”
“Because you won’t remember any of this! Now spank me!”
“Hmmmm,” he replied, fondling my perfect curvaceous bubble butt.
Expecting the normal half-assed effort, instead, from the very first smack, his hard hand did a beat down on my bare arse that was crisp and proficient. It hurt so good, but needed to be much harder in order to reset the collar. “Harder. You need to hit me harder.”
Pressing my willing shoulders down, he slid an arm around my waist, tucked a knee under and hoisted my bottom at an acute angle. The contrast of cold air sweeping up between my wet parted thighs and the heat shimmering off my ass as he pounded away brought me to the teetering edge of orgasm.
“Next time I’ll make sure I have a paddle. How often do you have to do this?”
I gasped as a shock hit once more. “Every day! Except tomorrow, because I’ll be home for my monthly summons and hectoring.”
“Then I’ll see you the day after.” He was silent again as he concentrated on basting my sit spots. Pausing to blow on his palms, he asked, slightly out of breath, “Are we close?”
Panting as well, I said, “Close. A couple of minutes super fast and hard should turn off the shocks. Don’t hold back… please!”
True to form, my collar flashed purple after a short barrage of heavy impacts on my burning hot butt. I slumped in relief as his hand stopped spanking and turned to caressing. I checked the time—I still had twenty minutes—noting he deserved a reward for his diligent efforts. Lifting up my hips, I waggled and opened my thighs even wider trying to entice his fingers, then his erection I knew was aching to slide inside.
Instead though, he put me on my feet, pulled down my skirt and enfolded me in a tight hug. Very confused, his warm exhalations stirred my wispy hair.
“You okay?” he whispered.
Involuntary tears sprang up and I could only nod.
“I’d like to see you again.”
“You won’t remember.”
“Why?”
“I have to erase your memories.”
“Is that part of the curse?”
“No… it’s just easier for me to deal.”
“What’s your name?”
“Titania.”
“Nice.”
“I got to go.”
“Okay. See you around.”
His sports car started with a deep snarl, and slowly pulled away down the street, the bright red taillights flaring as he braked at the stop sign, then disappeared as he turned right. I raised my arm, not to release the spell, but to wave au revoir. For the first time in centuries, I smiled with genuine affection. “See you soon… George. Bring your paddle and your stamina. It’s going to be a titanic date.”

titanic: of exceptional strength, size, or power.
ORIGIN mid 17th cent. (in the sense ‘relating to the sun’): from Greek titanikos, from Titan (see Titan)
Titan: 1 Greek Mythology any of the older gods who preceded the Olympians and were the children of Uranus (Heaven) and Gaia (Earth). Led by Cronus, they overthrew Uranus; Cronus’ son, Zeus, then rebelled against his father and eventually defeated the Titans.
• (as noun, usu. a titan) a person or thing of very great strength, intellect, or importance: a titan of American industry.

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