Experimenting for Science

Monday afternoon, half an hour after the end of the school day. Quiet had already descended on the building, when four seniors emerged from the places they had waited inconspicuously, assuring departing teachers that they were about to leave and could let themselves out. Jen in the orchestra library, filing a stack of parts, Kelly at the computer in the yearbook office, Madison in the weight room tidying equipment away, Lexi studying in the main library. They made their separate ways to the Science floor and met at the door of room 313, Mr. Green’s classroom for Biology, AP Biology, and Anatomy. Kelly opened the door a crack and checked the room, then waved everyone in. She hit the bank of switches by the door, and the overhead lights came on.

“Everything ok?” she asked her friends.

“I checked the faculty parking lot five minutes ago,” Jen answered. “It’s empty.”

“There are two cars in Senior parking,” Lexi added. “One’s mine.”

“The other one’s mine,” said Kelly. “Okay, then, I think we’re good to go.” She looked at each of her friends in turn, seeing excitement and embarrassment blended on each face. They all knew what the gathering was for, but Kelly reviewed it regardless.

“When my sister took Anatomy, and they got to Reproduction, there was all this talk about orgasms,” she began. “And the girls who didn’t know what that meant felt really left out and stupid, which really sucked because the girls who knew were, like, all superior and snobby. So we’re not going to be the stupid ones this year.”

There were nods all around. Each of the girls had overcome her doubts about the extracurricular studies; the two others who had been invited had been unable to overcome their apprehension and begged off, with a vow of secrecy.

“Ok, let’s get started,” Kelly said. As the source of all sex-related information for the group, thanks to the advantages of a big sister rather than any personal experience, she was the group’s natural leader. “Grab a seat, get comfortable.” As the four girls found places to perch, one desktop for each, Kelly continued. “So, orgasms. Orgasms are what happens when you have sex, and it’s the part that feels good. But it doesn’t happen right away, you have to be, like, excited, and, um, you have to do the sex for a while before it happens.”

“But you don’t have to have sex, right?” Lexi piped up, fairly sure but wanting one last reassurance.

“Right. You can have the orgasm by yourself without losing your virginity.”

“But if you do it yourself, that’s against the Bible, isn’t it?” Jen asked.

Kelly had that answer ready. “No. My sister thought the same thing, but she told me it’s ok unless you stop wanting to, like, get married and have kids and the other stuff about sex. It’s not a sin to practice first, and that’s all we’re doing.”

“Just so we know about orgasms in class,” Madison added. “Not because we’re sluts.”

“We’re not sluts!” Jen exclaimed.

“No, I know, that’s what I’m sayin’. We’re not having sex all over the place, we’re just… getting ready for Repro next month.”

“Can somebody tell me what sex really means?” Lexi blurted. She blushed brightly as soon as the words were out.

“We’ll get the whole scoop in Anatomy,” Kelly assured her. “But it’s basically when you get with a boy and his, um, you know, he, um, puts his penis inside you.”

“Inside?” Lexi looked disbelieving. “What, right inside, not just close?”

“Pretty sure inside,” said Jen. Kelly nodded in agreement and, seeing that, Madison joined in.

“Oh. My. God,” Lexi said. “It’s worse than I thought. I mean, I knew you had to take your clothes off and lie real close and rub around, they show that on TV… but… inside, really?” The others confirmed this terrifying fact.

“Anyway.” Kelly tried to resume the original conversation. “We’re here to try to have orgasms, and learn what it feels like, for science class. And nobody’s a slut and nobody’s having sex and nobody’s losing her cherry.”


“Virginity. Your first time — this doesn’t count as a time, so we’ll all still be virgins. Also, it won’t hurt, it’ll just feel good.” She gathered looks from her friends. “Ok, so, ready?” Kelly pulled her feet up on to the table. Sitting with her knees up, her tartan kilt didn’t offer her any modesty; the other girls all had a clear view of Kelly’s panties, stretched over her private parts. “So, what you have to do is… put one hand in your panties, like this.”

Kelly slid one hand under the waistband of her panties. Her friends could easily see the outline of her fingers as her hand slipped over her mons and onto her labia. “Come on, I’m not going to be the only one.”

With varying degrees of trepidation, the other teens followed suit. Legs up, legs parted, one hand slowly venturing between soft cloth and secret, private, forbidden flesh. The quartet of blushes looked like a floral bouquet. Lexi, Jen, and Madison carefully avoided looking at each other, but they did steal glances at Kelly to see what they should do.

“So you can try different things,” Kelly instructed. “Rub with your fingers on the outside, or you can put one inside and touch like that, or you can even, like, hold your pussy open —”

“What does that mean?” Jen interrupted. “Pussy?”

“Your private parts. Your vagina and lips and everything. That’s just a word people use for all the girl stuff,” Kelly explained. She looked between Jen’s parted thighs and saw where her hand was. “Jen, you gotta go farther down in your panties — you’re not really touching your… your pussy yet.”

Jen’s blush deepened. “What, like, down where I pee?”

“Yeah. On the lips, the parts that open.”

“I don’t feel anything special,” Madison piped up. “I must not be doing it right. Kelly, I can’t see what you’re doing.”

“Me either,” Lexi added.

“Oh, for — ok, ok, I don’t care who sees what,” Kelly replied. She pulled her hand out of her panties, then used both hands to slip them over her hips, down her legs, and off. For good measure, she unfastened her kilt and let it fall onto the desk behind her. “There, everyone have a good view now?”

Stunned at Kelly’s boldness, the other girls could only mumble assent. They stared, transfixed, at their friend’s bare pussy, so much clearer than the illustrations in the Anatomy textbook — at which they had all peeked at the beginning of the term. They were even more attentive when Kelly reached down and used her fingers to spread her labia apart.

“Ok, this is my pussy, see? That’s the vagina right there. That’s where the penis goes inside you when you really do sex, Lexi, ok? And here’s the hole for peeing —”

“I don’t see anything,” Madison interrupted.

“It’s tiny. Then these are, like, another set of lips, which are usually hidden inside.”

“Mine aren’t,” Jen said, and blushed even harder.

“What do you mean?”

Jen looked around at the other girls, seeing their puzzlement and interest. Her three best friends forever, close and trusted and safe. She hopped off the desk, took her kilt off, pushed her panties down, stepped out of them, and resumed her seat and her open-legged position. “See?” She pointed. “Mine aren’t hidden inside. They stick out all the time.” Struck with a sudden fear that this was abnormal, Jen looked anxiously from one girl to the next.

“I didn’t know that could be different,” Kelly admitted.

“I’m kind of in between,” said Madison. Then she too stripped off skirt and panties to let everyone see her personal anatomy. “Not hidden away like yours, but not so sticky-out as yours.”

Suddenly, Jen found herself the focus of three gazes. “I don’t know!” she exclaimed hurriedly. “I never looked at myself.” Nobody reacted. “Oh, ok, fine,” Jen pouted, as she joined the others in stripping herself bare. Everyone looked.

“Like Kelly,” Madison said.

“You have hair,” Jen observed. “I thought you were supposed to shave that off.”

“You are,” said Kelly, “My sister told me. My mom told me about pits and legs, but my sister had to tell me about shaving my pussy. Or you can get it waxed, but not ’til you’re eighteen.”

“Everybody on the swim team is bare,” Madison offered. “That’s how I knew to do it.”

“Well nobody told me,” Lexi said, defensively. “Now I know, ok? So don’t make a big deal about it.”

Kelly took over the lesson once more. “Ok, so, anyway, up here where the inside lips meet? That’s your clitoris. That’s the spot that feels best when you rub it, but not too hard, ok? You have to start slowly, like this.” Kelly masturbated as the others watched, sliding her fingers slowly up and down, stroking gently. “Or this.” She moved her hand in small circles.

“You’re getting shiny,” Madison observed.

“Yes. Getting wet. That’s supposed to happen.”

“Really?” said Lexi.

“Yeah. When you do sex for real it makes you slippery so the penis can go inside. But it happens anyway when you’re by yourself.” Kelly looked at the others, all of whom were watching her with fascination on their faces. “Come on, you guys, you’re supposed to do this too. You’re not going to know what orgasms are if you don’t try yourself.”

Jen, Lexi, and Madison began to frig their virgin pussies, copying Kelly’s motions. In the brightly lit classroom, each girl had three outstanding examples to watch as she manipulated her own quim.

“I still don’t feel anything special,” Madison said after a few minutes of silent exploration.

“You have to be in the right mood,” Kelly replied. “Think about a boy you like — think about kissing him, or being in bed with him, or… feeling him touch you on your pussy.” That startling idea actually caused Madison and Lexi to cool off a bit. Jen, on the other hand, responded to the fantasy, albeit with a slight change. She pictured herself in bed with Kelly, feeling Kelly’s touch on her private parts.

“I’m getting wet now too,” Jen announced. Everyone looked.

Four frigging teenage girls played and watched and learned and drifted into fantasies, feeling various degrees of pleasure from their studies.

“Kelly, are you ok?” Madison asked suddenly. Kelly was breathing hard, and her bare bottom was squirming against the desktop. In lieu of an answer, she moaned, squeezed her eyes shut, and climaxed.

The other girls forgot to masturbate as they watched Kelly’s body spasm, fingers flying on her quim, hips lifting and falling, face flushed, head back, calling out wordlessly. In time her tremors subsided and her breathing calmed.

“That’s an orgasm,” Kelly informed her classmates. “I think it was. Pretty sure. Oh, god, that was so good.”

“Nobody else did one, though,” Jen complained. “We all need to do it.”

Madison looked up at the clock. “It’s getting late. Can everyone meet here tomorrow, just like today?” All agreed.

“It gets easier the more you practice,” Kelly asserted, relying once more on sisterly advice. “Maybe tomorrow it’ll work for someone else.”

“We can keep studying until everyone knows about orgasms,” Madison said. “Nobody gets left out.”

The girls slipped into their panties, wrapped themselves in their uniform kilts, turned off the lights, and left the classroom. Lexi drove herself home, and Kelly took the others.

Lexi thought: I have to shave my parts when I get home, so they don’t think I’m a freak.

Kelly thought: as soon as I’m in bed tonight I’m gonna have another one.

Madison thought: it’s so cool to have a secret and some good friends who are in on it.

Jen thought: maybe tomorrow, I’ll ask Kelly to show me what to do, with her fingers.

Mr. Green, teacher of Biology, AP Biology, and Anatomy, liked to organize his thoughts by making lists. He sat at his desk in his tiny office, adjacent to the science classroom, and took out a clean sheet of paper.

“Video equipment,” he wrote. “Hands-free cameras, 2. Hand-held camera, 1.” He looked out through the observation window at the classroom, considering where to place a couple of GoPro camcorders inconspicuously. They could take in the general view, while he shot hand-held through the window and zoomed in on the hottest shots. With the lights off in the office, and the classroom brightly lit, he knew the observation window was essentially one-way. All he had to do was keep quiet and lock the door.

“Uber,” was his next entry. Then, “Call body shop.” His car was in for repairs and was supposed to be ready mid-week, but he would Uber in to work again for as long as the study group continued. It had been good to overhear that the girls checked the parking lot for safety.

Finally, he wrote four names down. “Jen. Kelly. Lexi. Madison.” When they were done with their after-school trysts, he would risk showing the recordings to one girl, and explaining that exposure and humiliation and shame could be spared for the small price of one fresh teenage maidenhead. But only one girl, and he would have to decide which one was least likely to turn him in. He considered the four names. Four personalities. Four attitudes toward sex. Four quite different bodies, each girl appealing in her own ways. Four unique faces. Four fantasies to occupy his imagination.

He pondered the list for several minutes. Then Mr. Green circled a name.

— Frenulum

[This story was inspired by this image, the origins of which I do not know]


Paddle in Plaid

Gwen Marsden was preparing dinner. Her eyes were on the cutting board, her hands busy with the knife and a row of fresh veggies. She stood at the kitchen counter, an apron covering her dress, her hair pinned up, apparently absorbed in the work.

But her thoughts were entirely with her daughter, Virginia. Ginny was deviating from her normal after-school routine. For one thing, she was still in her school uniform — what she derisively called the “Clone Costume” — instead of in soft and roomy fleece. Changing was usually the top after-school priority. For another, she was hanging around the kitchen rather than disappearing to her private bedroom and the enticing secret world of social media. It was evident to Gwen that Ginny had something on her mind; she chopped carrots and was patient.

Ginny got a glass of water from the fridge, then wandered over to her mother’s side. “What’s for dinner?” she asked.

“Wild rice soup with turkey, and some bread I made this morning.” Gwen replied. “If you’re hungry now, a roll could go missing and nobody would complain.”

“Not now.” Ginny leaned back against the counter where her mother was working, not making eye contact. “Hey, Mom?”


“How come you have a spatula that matches my kilt?”

“This one, you mean?” Gwen asked, extracting the right one from the jar of kitchen implements.

“Yeah. That’s the same plaid, right?”

“Mmm-hmm. The Saint Catherine’s tartan.”

“Ummm…” Ginny hesitated, but found the courage to continue. “Where did you get it?”

Gwen smiled, finally understanding what subject was on her daughter’s mind. She dried her hands on her apron and turned to take in Ginny’s deep blush and averted eyes. She considered her options briefly, but her usual policy was to answer even difficult questions honestly, and there was no reason to make an exception.

“Well, when I was at Saint Kate’s, back in the age of dinosaurs —”

“Oh, Mom.”

“Two of my friends and I got into a bit of trouble one day.”

“What did you do?” Ginny exclaimed, finally looking her mother in the face.

“We… hmm, let’s say, we coöperated with each other during a Chemistry quiz.”

“You cheated?”

“We… pooled our resources. Let’s leave it at that. Anyway, we were found out, and got sent to the Vice Principal’s office.” Gwen’s eyes looked back over the years. “Mr. Fischer. Just a young man at the time — though of course we girls thought anyone in a suit and tie was the same age as our parents — very handsome, and there were a few students who might have had a little crush.”

“Did you?”

“No, not really. Anyway, each of us got turned over for a good hard spanking, by hand at first but winding up with the St. Catherine’s tartan spatula.”


“And at the end, Mr. Fischer gave us each one to take home ‘to remind your parents how to deal with bad behavior’ — and I’ve had it ever since.”

Ginny took the rubber paddle from her mother’s hand. “This is — you got a spanking at school, with this exact thing?”

“That’s right.” Gwen smiled softly at her daughter’s stunned expression. “It was the only time, but I have to admit it helped me get serious about school.”

“Did you — did he — were… did you have to, um, y’know…” Ginny’s blushing returned with a fury. She fingered the hem of her kilt.

Gwen caught on. “Lift our kilts and drop our panties? Yes, indeed we did. Panties around our ankles and bent over a desk.”

“Weren’t you embarrassed?” Ginny gasped.

“Oh good lord yes. Mortified. Bare my butt for a teacher? A man? I can’t even tell you — the spanking hurt a lot, Ginny, but being exposed like that was the truly awful part of the punishment.”

Gwen turned back to the counter and resumed her work. “So tell me, Ginny, why the sudden interest?”

Ginny walked over to the table where she had shed her backpack. She unzipped the pack and reached inside. When she turned back to face her mother, she was holding a spatula, its blade matching the colors and pattern of her kilt. “Mr. Fischer is still at the school,” she said, avoiding her mother’s eyes, “And he still gives these out when he spanks girls for the first time.”

“Oh, Virginia.” Gwen’s face was full of sympathy as she abandoned her cooking and went to give her daughter a hug.

Ginny’s self-control vanished and tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry. It was just supposed to be… I don’t know, funny or fun or… I didn’t mean…”

“Shh… There, there. What in the world did you get up to?”

Ginny sniffled. “Y’know how all the grades are on line? Well… I kind of… I hacked in and I — I changed all the grades for everybody to A-plus.”

Feeling an inappropriate grin about to bloom, Gwen forced herself to look concerned. “You hacked in? I didn’t know you could do that kind of thing.”

“Well — it’s not really hacking, it’s just that the admin password is TEACHER123, which is so lame it’s practically an invitation, and so… Oh, Mom, I just thought it would be funny, but it turns out that the older teachers still keep real grade books but the newer ones just trusted the computer, so for a lot of classes there’s no way to figure out what the real grades used to be, so the teachers are super pis— super angry at me, so I got sent to Mr. Fischer, and… maybe tomorrow I’ll think that pulling my panties down for him was the worst part but right this minute I think the worst part is how much it hurt.”

More tears welled up and ran down Ginny’s cheeks. “And now I have to give you this to remind you how to deal with me, and I don’t know if that means now you’re going to start spanking me too, or Daddy, or what, and I’m scared and I’m sorry Mom, I didn’t mean to make you mad at me and all the teachers and all the other girls and everybody and I’m really sorry…”

Then her sobs grew wordless, as she buried her face against her mother’s shoulder. Gwen stroked her daughter’s hair and held her close while she calmed.

“What happens now?” Ginny asked, her face still hidden.

“When your father gets home we’ll talk, and he’ll decide if you’ve learned from your mistake or if you need some… extra help at home. I promise he would never spank you unless he absolutely had to. So there’s no point in getting all worked up right now. Why don’t you go wash your face and change out of your school clothes — you can get your homework started or help me with dinner.”

“Okay,” Ginny murmured. She disengaged herself from her mother’s arms, grabbed her backpack, and headed up to her bedroom. Gwen stood for a moment, lost in thought, then bestirred herself and put Ginny’s tartan spatula in the jar with her own girlhood memento.

A few minutes later, Ginny returned, in sweats and ponytail, looking fresh and pretty. “Hey, Mom?”

“Yes, dear.”

“How come you keep your St. Kate’s spatula? You could’ve thrown it away a long time ago.”

Gwen smiled. “Oh… your father likes to use it from time to time.”

“Daddy? Daddy never bakes, why would he —” Ginny stopped suddenly. Her eyes grew wide. “Oh. Mom. Mom, really?”

Gwen’s smile broadened. “Even mothers make mistakes and need help now and then,” she said, to Ginny’s continued astonishment. “Now how about if you get the rice started? Your father will be home in an hour.”

— Frenulum

(Inspired by spotting a variety of tartan-patterned spatulas in a Williams-Sonoma store. The tale sprang to mind in an instant.)


I am beautiful

My hair is snarled and tangled and sticky, from the hard grip of his hands, from my head being driven into the mattress, from sweat, from the cunt-cream he rubbed through it. My face is tracked with tears, from the vigorous throat fucking, from the harsh sting of his cum in my eyes, from the joy of serving him; I don’t wear that much makeup but what there was of eyeliner and mascara has followed the twin rivers and stained my cheeks. My lips are swollen, from stretching to fit around him, from the relentless friction of his thrusts. My chin is slobbery from gagging and sucking; the torrents of drool have coated my breasts and below. My eyelashes are sticky and clumped into points, from the jets of praise that coated my face and filled my eyes. My bottom and thighs are covered in lines and stripes and blotches and handprints of red and crimson and purple, from… from how this all started.

He tells me that, when I look like this, I am at my most beautiful. It took me a while to see through his eyes, but I now know that to be the perfect truth.

— Frenulum


The price of advancement

“Stacy. Can you give me a hand for a minute?”

Stacy kept typing, her eyes on her copy stand. “Sure, one sec.” The keys continued to fly, until Stacy raised her left hand and slapped the carriage return lever twice. She looked up. “What can I do for you, Rose?”

“I have my performance appraisal at ten,” Rose replied. “I could use your help for a few minutes to…” The comely young stenographer blushed. “Um, you know, get ready for it.”

“Sure,” said Stacy, standing up. “Annual review time. Need me to give you an enema?”

“If you wouldn’t mind — it’s hard for me to do it myself. And I’m really hoping Mr. Gardner will give me a raise this year.”

— Frenulum


Odd jobs

Stopped at a red light one day last week, I observed a bus stop, with a bench for passengers, with a local business advertisement on the back of the bench — all quite familiar — and an orange panel van, with a worker in a safety vest extracting a new bus-bench advertisement from a collection in the back.

I’ve seen bus-stop bench ads for my whole life. I had never seen one being changed.

Now of course, if anyone had asked, I might have guessed that there were people who drove around and took off old signs and installed new ones as called for by various contracts. Certainly I would not have imagined that the signs changed themselves, or that professional artists wandered by in the dead of night to paint new ones by hand. But no such question arose, either in life or in my own mind.

Huh. Bus-stop-bench-back-sign-changing is a job. People do that. Hundreds of people do that! Do they do other things as well, or is bus-bench sign maintenance a full-time profession?

As with the designing of panties (see Too Late Wise), this is obvious — as of one second after the thought first hits.

The main difference being: after seeing the bus-stop-bench-back-sign-changing fellow, I was not suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling that I had misspent my life.

— Frenulum



Esther, Erin, Adrianna, and Kylie sat side by side on the bench outside Room Six; for the most part they were absorbed in their own dread, or searching through their personal galleries of excuses and ploys, looking for some escape.

“I prob’ly shouldn’t have said ‘stupid fucking B’,” Erin said glumly. “That’s when she got the pink slip out.”

All four miscreants pondered and compared that thought. “I thought I was convincing her,” observed Kylie, “But then I said something like: my parents pay your salary and if I want an A you’ll give me an A.” She sighed. “That wasn’t exactly brilliant, was it?”

Niether Esther nor Adrianna spoke up, but their faces were similarly regretful.

Mr. Foster opened the door, and glanced out at the waiting tartlets. “Adrianna,” he said, and waited while she rose and, with halting steps, passed through the doorway. “Take your kilt off and put it…” the others heard before the door closed.

Erin, shocked, looked at her classmates. “Did he say… her kilt…”

“Yeah,” Kylie replied mournfully. “Spanking on the bare bottom. No kilt, no panties. That’s the deal.”

“It’s worse,” Esther moaned. “At least for me… see?” She held out her pink slip for inspection. “If there’s an X in this box, it means spanking. But mine is marked here instead — that’s something even worse, I don’t know what.”

Erin and Kylie examined their own punishment orders. Their hearts sank as they found them to be marked in the same way. Just at that moment, an explosive SMACK and Adrianna’s first cry of pain filtered through the closed door.

Erin paled. “I can’t take off my kilt! I’m not… I wore…” Speechless, she lifted her short uniform skirt so her friends could see: peach lace thong panties instead of the regulation cotton briefs. “I’m in so much trouble!” Tears overflowed and began to roll down her cheeks.

“Wear mine,” Esther offered, standing and tugging her own panties down her legs.

“No, mine,” said Kylie, echoing the motion. She stepped out of her plain white cotton panties. “If he takes us in order then I can change back while he’s busy with Esther.”

While they stood there, panties in hand, arguing about the best way to avoid further punishment, the door to Room Six opened and Adrianna emerged: tear stained, disheveled, half naked, with the fiery crimson lines of a vigorous strapping adorning her bottom and thighs.

Mr. Foster surveyed the scene, looking from one girl to another. He lifted the lace panties from Erin’s unresisting fingers. “Yours?”

“Yes, sir,” Erin whispered.

“I’ll have you next, then. Come in.”

The door closed behind them. Adrianna wept, face in hands, oblivious to her exposure.

A “B” is a pretty good grade, after all.

— Frenulum


Not Asleep

(A sequel to Sleep-over)

The girls froze into silence at the sound of footsteps in the hall. A soft knock followed, knuckles rolled gently over the door.

“Everything ok?” asked Liv’s father, through the closed door.

“We’re fine, Dad,” Liv called.

“I heard a noise. Need any help?”

“No,” the girls chorused.

“That was me, Dad, I just had a bad dream,” added Liv.

The doorknob turned, and a crack of light from the hallway appeared. Two highly concerned teens hid desperately under the bedclothes: being found naked in bed together would not be easily explained. But Liv’s father was content with the narrow gap to talk through, and didn’t open the door enough to see them.

“Sure you’re ok now?”

“I’m fine, Dad.”


“Yeah, we’re good.”

“Ok. You know where to find me if I can do anything for you.” The door closed. Footsteps receded. Liv and Riley held their breaths and looked at each other wide-eyed, waiting to be sure that the interruption was over.

“What were you thinking, screaming like that?” Riley whispered.

“I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t really know I made a sound. I was just — taken by surprise.”

“Yeah. My first time, I didn’t know what to expect either. Just that it was supposed to feel good.”

“It felt amazing,” Liv whispered, “But also… it almost hurt, it was so… I don’t know, just… wow, all through me.”

As the girls cuddled together, Riley softly stroked Liv’s hair. Liv, more tentatively, returned the caress with a hand on her friend’s back.



“Can you do that to me again?”

Riley leaned forward and kissed Liv on the mouth. Her tongue, slipping inside, fed Liv her first-ever taste of herself.

“I can, if you promise not to scream again,” she replied. “But first, I’m going to teach you how to do it for me.”

— Frenulum


Oh yes it could

I figured it couldn’t hurt to leave the dishes in the sink until I got back from lunch with my girlfriends.

But lunch ran long, and by the time I got home, I found that he had washed and dried everything and put it all away.

Or so I thought — until I found a spatula, a pancake turner, and two wooden spoons lying on our bed.

— Frenulum



Liv and Riley had been friends since the beginning of high school, but this was their first sleep-over: Riley’s parents were away and didn’t want her to be alone. The girls were up late, the last ones awake in the house, lying side by side on Liv’s bed, whispering and giggling; both were clad in tank tops and panties, ready for sleeping but not the least sleepy. Only a desk lamp remained on, casting soft light across the bed.

“Have you had sex?” Riley asked, apropos of nothing at all.

Liv snorted. “You kidding? I’m not even allowed to date yet.”

“Well duh, I know you don’t have a boyfriend. I meant, like, with a girl.” Riley rolled onto her side to get a look at Liv’s face.

“No. Good grief. No! I’m not… you know…” A blush bloomed in Liv’s cheeks.



“So you haven’t had sex,” Riley persisted.

“No. Cut it out, Ri.”

There was quiet for a moment. Riley rolled back onto her back. Her body touched her friend’s at shoulder and hip. Both of them noticed.

“It’s not gay if you’re, y’know, just playing around with friends,” she offered.

“Yes it is,” Liv protested.

“Well, what I mean is, it doesn’t make you gay just to try stuff that you would do if you were.”


Riley sighed. “You can fool around, y’know, just for fun, and still be… well, regular.”

“Says who?”

Riley debated her answer for a few seconds, and then decided to take a chance. “I’ve played with another girl, and it didn’t make me into a lez.”

Liv rolled to face Riley and Riley copied the motion. The girls lay face to face, almost touching.

“Who?” demanded Liv.

“Not telling.”


“Yes, really. A few times.”

Liv searched her friend’s face, and found no deceit. “And it was fun?”

“Yes. Fun and… I’ve had an orgasm, now — I know what that’s like.”

“As good as people—”

“Better,” Riley interrupted. “Wait and see.”

Liv’s eyes widened. “You think I would orgasm, too?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Riley reached out and gently laid a tentative hand on Liv’s bare shoulder. “So… whaddaya say?”

Liv felt her body responding in unfamiliar ways: with heat, with tremor, with a quickened pulse. “I… I don’t even know what girls do,” she whispered.

“We kiss. And then other things,” Riley whispered back. Her hand slipped down from Liv’s shoulder to her hip, coming to rest above her panties. “I’ll show you.”

“I never even—” Liv began, and then Riley’s lips silenced her.

— Frenulum


The Next Edge to Cross

“C’mere, kitten. Take a look at this photo.”

“Oh. Oh, my!”

“Doesn’t that look exciting?”


“I think it’s time I tried this with you. Would you like that?”

“Um… no, Sir. I don’t think so. That looks...”

“Looks what, kitten?”

“Maybe not so much fun? And, um... scary?”

“Really? You don’t think this couple is enjoying each other? Look at her face.”

“Yes but... it’s not her face that he’s — I don’t think so, Sir.”

“This picture doesn’t excite you?”

“No, not really.”

“I think this would be just the thing for us to play with next. Just think, if she were you and he were me... doing that with you... that doesn’t turn you on?”

“No. I think it would be difficult. And embarrassing.”

“But you know that I like to introduce you to difficult things.”

“Yes, but...”

“And I would help you.”

“Yes, but I don’t think... I’m not... It’s too...”

“You’re sure you don’t want this?”

“No — I mean, yes, I’m sure.”

“Not even a little bit arousing?”

“No, Sir.”

“Pull your panties down.”

“I —”

“And spread your legs.”


“Put your hand on my pussy... and put one finger inside, in between your lips. That’s right. Good girl. Now, put that finger in my mouth.”

“I —”

“Mmmmmm. Juicy. Wet. Delicious. That’s the taste of a very excited girl.”

“But, Sir —”

“Spread my pussy open, let me look. Two hands, wide open. Oh, kitten, you’re positively gushing.”


“So you are aroused, and excited, and turned on, thinking about doing what this couple is doing.”

“Ohhhhhhhh... yes, Sir.”

“You weren’t completely honest and open with me a minute ago, were you?”

“I... I was just... I guess I...”


“No, Sir.”

“Which means...”

“You’ll give me a spanking right away, to correct my poor behavior and remind me how important it is to be open, always.”

“A long, hard —”

“Bare-bottom spanking, that I earned and deserve and need from you, Sir, please.”

“Good girl. You may lie across my lap now. And, after your long, hard, well-deserved spanking, what comes next, kitten?”

“We’ll do that other thing, that scares me and excites me and makes me tremble and leak, and you’ll love me and keep me safe always.”

“That’s my good girl. Ready?”

“Always, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”


— Frenulum



It was not the first time that I deserved a spanking.

It was not the first time that my husband decided to take care of me. He loves me, he sets my boundaries, he expects my good behavior, and he fixes everything when I go astray.

It was not the first time that I waited for him in our living room, bent over the back of the sofa, wearing nothing but my heels, with my legs spread and my pussy on display and my bottom ready for hand, strap, paddle, belt, or anything he thinks will help me.

It was not the first time that he made me wait, and wait, and wait, thinking about how I disappointed him and resolving to be a better girl in the future.

But it was the first time I heard him open our front door, and say “Please come in.”

— Frenulum




Bridesmaids and groomsmen face the aisle. Friends and family rise. The bride, petite, nude, blushing; towering white heels and floral lace veil. Appreciative murmurs, bright smiles. Taking the groom’s offered hand the bride kneels before him. Bridesmaids kneel, supporting her choice.

Words of tradition, hope, commitment, community. Bride’s eyes lowered, back straight, nipples hard. Groom tunnel-focused: only his beloved.

Bridesmaids remove the veil. Best Man hands the collar.

Collar around her neck, his hands warm. Questions, old as time. She answers: “I do. I will. I am.” Click the collar becomes a closed circle forever.

Maid of honor produces the leash, gives it to her dearest friend. More words. The bride gives the clip-end to her Sir, Owner, Center, Leige, Soulmate. Click attached to her collar.

The bride holds the strap of her own leash. All of the power is hers. All control. All freedom. Her own master, one last moment.

Raises eyes full of love, desire, passion, decision. Gives him the leash, and her life.

Recessional. Applause, tears, smiles. Together.

The leash never grows taut. She knows where he will lead her, and is already there for him.

— Frenulum


Wakin’ up next to you

“Good morning.”

“Mmm. Mornin’.”

“Sleep well?”

“Guess so. You didn’t.”

“I didn’t?”

“No, you were tossing around a lot… ’bout two or three o’clock, maybe.”


“No, s’ok, didn’t keep me awake. You were having a dream, prob’ly.”

“Dream… Yeah, I did.”

“Oh… You’re smiling — one of your famous sandwich dreams?”


“Guessed that from the hard-on you kept pokin’ me with. Who this time?”

“Who what?”

“Oh c’mon. You know what I mean. Who was the bread in the sandwich?”

“Doesn’t really matter. Always the same dream, pretty much.”

“Tell me anyway.”



“Umm… Olivia Wilde and Yvonne Strahovski.”



“Those two were the bread and you were the filling.”


“Darling, I love you, truly and forever, but you must realize that either one of those girls is out of your league.”


“Both of ’em at once? Out of your… I dunno, home planet.”

“I know, I know. But…”


“But you’re out of my league. Way out. I should be worshiping you from afar, hopeless, sighing, pining for a glance. Envying the guys who get near you.”

“Well… This is true.”

“And yet here we are.”

“This is because I have great perspic— perspicaiety? — perspicularity? — I am extremely wise and sensitive, and have detected your hidden qualities.”

“You’re good at that.”

Very well hidden qualities, beneath that befuddled Clark Kent persona you present to the world.”

“So anyway if you’re out of my league and yet here you are warm and naked and snuggly in my arms, what dreams then can be deemed impossible?”

“Awwww. You’re sweet.”

“I’m conscious of my great fortune.”

“Of course you are. Smart man.”

“Smart enough to know that the only place I’ll ever get a double-header is in my dreams.”

“You got that right. Regrets?”

“Nope. You give me everything I need or want — more than I can handle, really.”

“But still the fantasy.”

“Sometimes. Harmless, though.”

“Yes. And fun, some of them. Y’know what?”


“I have a peasant blouse somewhere. Puffy short sleeves and a square neckline.”

“Oh? Kinda lacy?”

“Yup. And I could shop for a red calico skirt. And those milkmaid pigtails would be no problem.”

“You’re thinking…”

“Agent Sarah Walker, undercover?”

“That sounds… how about that little waist-cinchy thing?”

“The corset too. And if you wore a white shirt and a tie…”


“Yeah. What I was thinkin’: oooh. Lights, camera, action.”

“Y’know, with you in pigtails, I would want —”

“I certainly hope so.”

“C’mere, you.”

“Mmmmm. ‘Perspicacity,’ that’s the word.”

“Dare you to say that now.”


“Good girl. Don’t stop.”

— Frenulum



Light blazed from every window of the Kropanian Embassy. The orchestra could be heard from the driveway, where limo after limo discharged distinguished guests. Once inside the front door, the ocean roar of voices predominated, each one of hundreds vying for attention, exclusivity, or control.

The men were attired identically and dully, with the occasional exception of a colorful sash or glittering medal. The women were as varied as fabric-making arts allowed: some sparkling, some furred or feathered, some iridescent, some understated with the degree of simplicity that becomes elegance.

The early gossip had settled almost universally on a single target: the companion of the Norgistani Minister of State. She looked as if the last significant event of her life had been puberty — whether it had quite come to a close was a matter of some debate — and wore a gown so figure-hugging that convex and concave were equally well-defined, the precise contours of bottom cleft (alluring) and nipples (remarkably erect) clear to all observers. She was young enough to be the Minister’s grand-daughter; from the way she moved with and looked at him it was apparent that their relationship was not familial.

At precisely the appropriate time, the Ambassador from Kropania appeared at the top of the central staircase, accompanied by his life partner. "Wife" would have been an excellent, though imperfect, translation. Like all of the men assembled, the Ambassador wore sober black and white. Unlike any of the women, his partner wore high-heeled shoes, a pendant sapphire the size of a meadowlark’s egg, a few hair ornaments, and nothing else at all — nudity being the traditional, in essence mandatory, formal-dress state of ruling-class Kropanian women.

In Kropania’s distant past — some might aver that the distance was not so great as it was implied to be — the country’s chief instrument of internal politics and international diplomacy had been poison, and its skillful poisoners the female consorts of its statesmen. When Kropania had finally joined the outwardly polite society of nations, its renouncement of traditional methods was exemplified by establishing the formal nudity of its well-placed ladies. Without a way to hide a deadly dose, it was implied, Kropanian women were no longer to be feared as weapons of policy. It was Kropania’s national equivalent of a peacefully extended sword-free hand.

Thus the nudity of the Ambassador’s Lady was conventional, expected, unremarkable, and largely ignored (save for a few catty — read envious — whispers about her excellent figure).

But as the couple descended the staircase with regal pace, those they passed began to lose their fixed, neutral expressions, and soon there was heard a susurration growing to outright whisper. For the grande dame of Kropania’s Embassy was as ruby abaft as she was sapphire afore: her shapely bottom and upper thighs a dreadful, fiery, deep-seated crimson, her skin marked with a multitude of broad-spaced parallel lines in even angrier hues.

Those acquainted with discipline — most of the dignitaries present — easily recognized that the lady had been strapped, severely and recently. Those who were connoisseurs could distinguish the signature of a proper Kropania-style punishment: the mark of the three-tailed Torzassen, an instrument infamous for delivering both a terrible bite and a long-lasting burn.

The nymphet from Norgistan was forgotten as a topic of gossip. Her Ladyship circulated, said the right things to the right influencers, connected the right business or social pairs, and appeared unashamed of her public submissiveness. But her appearance, and the untold story behind it, had a number of consequences.

Some thirty couples soon left the gala, eschewing the formalities of leave-taking in favor of a quick and unimpeded exit. Whether it was the ladies or the gentlemen who had suddenly experienced an urgent change of priorities cannot be said.

A dozen or so invited diplomats, male, found that their opinion of the Kropanian Ambassador had changed: more approving, perhaps, or at least more wary. An equal portion of diplomats, female, experienced a change of opinion as well: an increased respect for the Ambassador, or for his Life Partner, or both; in a few cases some envy from those who longed for firmer handling themselves. It would be impossible to tie the night’s events to the number of trade agreements and treaties signed in the ensuing few months, but the temptation to see connections is a compelling one.

The Cultural Attaché for Kropania, a woman normally overlooked at major gatherings, was approached separately by some twenty dignitaries of both sexes, wondering if it would be possible to obtain an authentic Torzassen — for study, of course, or for a museum display, or for a collection or a friend with a collection or, well, anything but intense personal interest. She was astute enough to emphasize their rarity (false) and costliness (false) in granting these requests, earning considerable good will for her homeland.

As the party came to a close, the Norgistani Minister of State was overheard to tell his consort that she had been "A naughty girl all night, extremely ill-behaved" and that he would "Soon see to her." The girl appeared (right through her gown) quite excited to hear this.

Finally, two days after the gala, a mid-level functionary from the Arano Union was sent home with a severe and unlabeled illness. If anyone noticed that he had been handed champagne by the Kropanian First Lady, or that a tiny bit of the wine glistened on her sapphire pendant and ran down between her charming breasts, such observance has not been recorded.

— Frenulum


Waiting for...

She was waiting for me when I got home. Waiting with eager anticipation, focused on my arrival, yearning to be together, needing to serve and please me. That is almost daily the case, and while I do not take her devotion for granted, it is no surprise.

She was waiting in our bedroom. Lying on the bed with the covers turned down. Naked except for a pair of black ankle-strap spike-heel sandals. Not quite such an everyday occurrence, but not at all unusual. Her body is mine; using her is among my chief delights. Presenting herself to me for my pleasure is her imperative.

Her legs were widespread and her hips angled to give me a direct, open, explicit view of her pussy. Not just naked and available, she was posed to emphasize her sensuality, her availability, her hunger. Not usual at all, as she is somewhat shy at heart. I have to order her to display herself so explicitly, and am rewarded by her blushes when she obeys.

And she was masturbating. Because she is not allowed to cum without permission, because she orgasms quickly and easily from any stimulation, and because I had just arrived home, that was quite unusual indeed. Teasing herself, essentially; risking the harsh consequences of an unauthorized orgasm… I had observed that only rarely.

But she wasn’t using her fingers. She was rubbing her open, wet, glistening quim with the business end of a twelve-inch spanking strap; the handle hung free as she used both hands to press the leather against her clit, sliding the strap in slow circles across her lips, lubricated by her cunt-honey. That was something I had never seen before.

As I began to remove my clothes, I watched my belovèd, who was watching me as she frigged herself with the tawse. I wondered what, exactly, she was waiting for.

— Frenulum