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.

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

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.