2017/08/08

Vows

Processional.

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

2017/03/01

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.”

“Sorry.”

“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?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“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.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Umm… Olivia Wilde and Yvonne Strahovski.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

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

“Mmm-hmm.”

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

“Yeah.”

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

“I know, I know. But…”

“What?”

“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?”

“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…”

“Oooh.”

“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.”

“Pffpgkafffgfa.”

“Good girl. Don’t stop.”

— Frenulum

2016/12/30

Diplomacy

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

2016/12/08

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

2016/10/27

A walk in the park

They went for a walk in the park, as on every clement evening.

Many similarly inclined regulars smiled or nodded in passing, accustomed to seeing them. There were strangers, too: some stared, some looked fixedly away, some were oblivious.

She lagged behind a bit. He held firmly to one end of her leash, which drew taut, immediately quickening her pace. The other end was hidden beneath her skirt.

— Frenulum

2016/09/16

Excuses, Excuses

He was on his way out when she stopped him for one last hug.

“Call me ‘Traffic’,” she said, tucked under his chin and wrapped in his embrace.

“What? I don’t —”

“Just say it. Like it’s my name.”

He was puzzled but willing to please. “Um… Bye, Traffic. I love you, Traffic. See you tonight, Traffic.”

She looked up at him, beaming. “Perfect.”

She took his briefcase, set it down, then sank to her knees. Practiced fingers began to work at his trousers.

“If anyone asks you why you’re late to work,” she said, tugging his undershorts down, “Just tell them that Traffic sucked.”

— Frenulum

2016/07/30

New stories

After a long silent period, I'm happy to announce that I have published two new short stories.

A First for Jessica is the tale of a somewhat reserved sixteen-year-old girl who breaks out of her shell by wearing a very revealing bikini. A number of first-time experiences arise in consequence.

Coffee and Cream is a magical fantasy in which the fabled three wishes are granted to our protagonist. If you had to decide fast — right now! — what would you wish for?

Both stories are available at the usual place. As always, the only compensation I ask for is that you send me your thoughts about them. There are forms and instructions at the end of each story.

Enjoy!

— Frenulum

2015/09/25

Fame

It wasn’t clear what had disturbed them — the creaks and clicks of a strange house, or the lightning and thunder that flashed and rumbled outside — but Jenna had left the spare bed, Dana the air mattress, and Katie her sleeping bag, all to congregate in the bed of Carrie, their sleepover hostess. The lights were turned on as a scary-proofing measure.

It wasn’t clear what had happened to Jenna’s sports bra, Katie’s tank top, or the camisoles as pajama tops that Dana and Carrie had worn, but at some point they had been discarded, and eight proud nipples adorned eight bare and bouncy breasts, from Carrie’s barely-there bumps (she secretly envied Jenna’s) to Jenna’s quite opulent treasures (she secretly envied Carrie’s).

It wasn’t clear, in all the talk of boyfriend candidates and boyfriends some day and “boyfriends, desirable qualities of” how exactly it came up, but one of the girls brought up kissing, and that she hadn’t kissed or been kissed in any serious way, and where did the noses go anyway, and was it true about sticking your tongue right inside?

It wasn’t clear who had the idea of experimenting or practicing, but all of a sudden there was Katie with her hands on Dana’s head, soft lips pressing, noses somehow magically not an issue, as Carrie and Jenna watched, rapt and eager.

It wasn’t clear how one demonstration turned into a group session of “practicing for boyfriends,” but the four friends cast inhibitions aside and formed pairs and kissed and held and parted and found someone else, and kissed and tasted; before long their tongues were busy and their breathing ragged and their faces flushed and their nipples erect — and there might have been other, even more private symptoms. And if perhaps one girl stopped thinking about boys at all…

It wasn’t clear who had left a cell phone camera on record, or where it sat, but somehow the whole episode of private, intimate, erotic experimentation was captured.

It wasn’t clear if the video was sent to just one friend — promise not to show anyone! — who sent it to just one other — you have to promise! — who sent it to just one other who had a different idea of trust — or if it went straight from phone to social media. But there it was, on a well known video sharing web site, by the next morning.

What was clear was that, given fifty thousand views and the number growing by the minute, Monday morning at school was going to be a very interesting time indeed.

— Frenulum

2015/07/26

Wings

The window was open only a few inches, but Eri and Isa glided through easily. Once inside the bedroom, a few quick wingbeats found them hovering near the ceiling, looking down at the sleeping Man.

“Did not I tell you, Isa,” said Eri, in what would have been far fainter than a whisper to human ears, “How beautiful is this Man?”

“Truth,” Isa replied, “But the measure of a Man is not his beauty, nor his size, but how he Provides.”

“I have visited thrice already,” said Eri. “Do not you recall the feasts those days?”

Isa ignored the question. Her eyes were fixed on the Man and on his Provider, which even asleep was frightening in size. “You ask my help because…” She did understand, but timid Isa sought a last-minute change of heart.

“There is enough for two,” explained Eri, not for the first time. “Is not wasting wrongful?”

There was no answer to that. Eri flitted downward on softly fluttering wings, and after a moment’s pause for courage, Isa descended to join her.

They stood on the Man, one on either side of the great Provider. The surface of the Man slowly rose and fell, in the accustomed way. Had he awakened, had he seen them, their form would not have been strange to him, for humans and Fairies had branched from the same root, one to grow huge, coarse, slow, and meant to Provide, the other to grow small, delicate, agile, and destined to feast. But for their wings, the Fairies could have been taken for human girls writ in miniature perfection, bodies bare and hair bound high.

“Let us begin,” invited Eri.

She and her sister bent over the Provider, and began to kiss it, with silken tongues and parted lips and dewdrops of wetness.

A Fairy’s kiss is the second most erotic sensation a Man ever feels, if he is so favored.

Almost immediately the sleeping Provider began to stir; Isa flew off and, trembling, watched it, while Eri stayed on the Man and kept up her kissing, licking, lapping, nibbling, and nuzzling. Isa watched the first stages of the wakening with a shudder.

It was accepted that the Provider must wake before Providing, but the transformation was frightening. This one would be twice Isa’s height, and fifty times her weight, once fully wakened. Were it to move suddenly it could fling her across the room; one jump and it could pin her, crush her, or, worse than death, break her wing. The legends were terrible, and most Fairies felt the fear. That is why, by tradition and habit, they sought only adolescents — but that was tricky, for the Man must be old enough to Provide, yet not so old that the Provider itself was such a massive beast.

Only Eri, of all their sisters, had never felt the fear. The other Fairies thought her strange, and whispered about her; they feasted from her harvest nonetheless.

The Provider was fully wakened. Isa kissed and licked its tip, and she could begin to scent and taste Man as in his sleep he responded. Eri straddled the enormous shaft, spreading her delicate legs as much as she could, settling down upon it with her nether lips spread wide, clinging to one of the ridges of blue that throbbed on the surface. The pulsing of blood through the Provider beat against Eri’s most delicate bud, and she moaned with the pleasure of it. She had sometimes watched, hiding in the darkness, as a female Man took the whole of a great Provider fully within her lips, and had marveled at it, and wondered, and dreamed again and again. The Fairies had not had males since the dawn of time, and without truly knowing what she longed for, Eri ached.

Isa paused in her kissing. A look of distaste flashed across her features as she beheld Eri, riding the Provider, rocking on it, rubbing herself on it, her eyes closed, head thrown back, mouth open, lost in sensation. “Eri!” she called sharply.

Eri’s eyes opened and she looked back at her sister, from her perch atop the great Provider; she was unashamed, and continued to rub her delicate petals across the gnarled and dreadful surface of the massive shaft, her expression daring Isa to remark.

“It is time,” Isa urged. “The Man will Provide. Bring it forth.”

Eri rose into the air with a quick beat of her wings. A spot of nectar marked the spot where she had pleased herself. She turned around to face away from the Provider’s tip, and settled back down on it, carefully placing herself just below the most sensitive spot where the tremendous shaft met the bulbous head. She leaned backward, and began to beat her wings.

A thousand times, ten thousand times more erotic than a Fairy’s kiss, the most exciting and beautiful and effective sensation a Man ever feels, is the brush of a Fairy’s wings: more delicate than the flick of an eyelash, silkier than a passing lock of hair, softer than a breath, no heavier than a moonbeam.

The Man moaned. The sound was too low for Fairy ears to hear, but they felt the vibrations in his body. The Provider twitched, breaking away from Isa’s kisses and lifting Eri upward; she clamped it firmly with her wide-spread legs and rode it, never ceasing to flutter her beautiful wings against the giant staff.

It settled back with a thud that shook both sisters. Eri sped the beating of her wings, caressing the Provider over and over again with the most beautiful of all sensations. Isa crept toward the tip again, slowly, wary of movement. She exclaimed “It begins!” as a clear drop of liquid appeared, a drop so small to Man but already enough to sate Isa or any one of her sisters. Eri redoubled her effort, fanning her wings, holding tight to the shaft, and, helpless to control herself, once more rocking her own flower against the Man, distracted, lost in her own pleasure and the fog of fantasy.

The Provider erupted. Isa knew well enough to be safely aside the direct path, else the powerful jet would have sent her flying. Eri shouted wordlessly in the midst of her own climax, loud only to Isa’s ears. Another spurt issued forth, a jet the width of a Isa’s arm and twice her length; splattering onto the Man’s skin it joined the first. One last dangerous emission, and then the Provider calmed, issuing its treasure forth in less fearsome gouts, one pulsing after the other.

Eri alit next to Isa. The two of them tumbled into the growing lake.

“So much!” Isa exclaimed in wonder.

“Did not I promise such?” replied Eri, and then could speak no more, for her face was plunged into the warm, spicy, fragrant, swirling pool of Provision, immersed to her ears.

The sisters rolled and played and giggled — they were young, with not a hundred children between them — and dipped and splashed and feasted until they could drink no more. Then Eri reached up to her head, and unbound her hair, leaning forward as she did.

In rolling waves her locks untwisted, tumbled, cascaded across her neck and over her shoulders, past the mounds of her breasts, past her flower, on beyond her knees and feet until, fully unfurled, Eri’s height and half again, it spread before her. Eri began to sweep her head from side to side, dragging her locks through the Provision, collecting it much as the hairs on a honeybee collect pollen from flowers.

Isa followed suit, also careful that her hair should fall forward and not foul her delicate wings. She too collected what she could: in the long tresses made for the purpose, of course, but also by dipping into the Provision and coating her face and body as much as she could. Every surface could carry Provision to her sisters, except for wings, on which it would not gather.

The Man was stirring. Some part of his mind was trying to wake him, to alert him that something was afoot. The Provider, in contrast, was starting to go back to sleep, diminishing and retreating from the Fairies even as it continued to ooze and drip.

There was more than they could carry. Eri was coated, glistening, laden with sodden, heavy, hair, full of the bounty they had earned; Isa was her twin. It pained them both to leave Provision behind, but any more and they could not get aloft.

With powerful, effortful wingbeats they rose. Flying erratically under such a burden, they made their way to the window; neither could manage a gliding exit, so they perched on the sill, climbed through the opening, and took off into the night.

They would be welcomed at home. Hundreds of their sisters would surround them, mouths eager and hungry, and kiss the Provision from Eri’s and Isa’s bodies. They flew toward that greeting with growing excitement. For the most erotic sensation a Fairy ever feels is the kiss of another.

And with this much Provision to go around, there would in due time be babies aplenty, each one to learn from her sisters how to seek and harvest the food of the Fairies.


He woke slowly, grudgingly, groping for his cell phone in the dark. Without opening his eyes he stroked the alarm into temporary silence, then dropped the phone on the bed and sighed. Morning? Already?

He scratched absently at an itchy spot. His fingers felt something dry and flaky; before he had fully grasped this they wandered farther and ran into a spot still wet and sticky.

He opened his eyes; snapped on a light; looked down. He groaned.

Another wet dream? What a mess. All over the place: on him, on the sheets. This was, what, four times in the last month? And all of a sudden, too, twenty years after such coming-of-age signs should have been behind him.

He sat up, blinking. He could not recall the night’s dream, nor any of the ones before. He had an impression, dim and unformed, of sex so good that it made his actual experience almost unpleasant by comparison. But of course that wasn’t possible.

“You need a girlfriend,” the Man said aloud, chiding himself at the mess.

He then forgot about it, busy with his day, until that night as he prepared for bed.

Maybe I just need more fresh air, he thought, and opened his bedroom window wide.

— Frenulum

2015/07/12

Most illuminating

“Ooh. Is that a flashlight in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

“Well, uh… it is a flashlight, actually.”

“Oh, too bad.”

“But that’s not all I’m carrying. Keep looking.”

“Mmm. Wow — another flashlight?”

“Not this time.”

“Feels like a D-cell.”

“Keep that up and it just might be.”

“Think you can teach me how to… turn it on?”

“If you’re attentive to your lessons and obey your teacher.”

“Oh… that sounds really good. Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Let’s go find a dark room to play in.”

— Frenulum

P.S. Yes, I do always carry a flashlight in my pants pocket.

2015/07/02

Substitute

A student came into the nurse’s office complaining of headache, nausea, and abdominal cramps. I told her to undress, and as she did I asked about the usual suspects: a period due, a food reaction, and so on. Nothing seemed to fit.

I got her up on the examination table, naked, and proceded to give her a thorough going-over. At some of the more intimate probing she blushed with embarrassment, but I kept up a light-hearted banter, and eventually won a smile. I thought her braces made her face even cuter.

When there was nothing left to check, I had her lie down, covered her with a blanket, and told her to rest and see how she felt in a few minutes. Then I left.

I saw the nurse, at the far end of the hall, heading toward her office, but I didn’t bother mentioning the waiting patient. After all, as the school’s IT guy, I had already done everything I could.

— Frenulum

2015/05/07

Perpetual motion

Her hair was soft gold, her eyes deep brown, her skin toasted tan from summer vacation sun. Her teeth were perfect and glossy, her lips a natural rose. Matte black smears marked her cheeks: mascara deltas from twin rivers of hot tears. Her bottom, bare and framed by pulled-down panties in pale pink lace, was a motley of crimsons, still showing the placement of my last few handprints in fiery outline.

But the color that kept catching my eye was the bubblegum pink of the detention slips I held.

Kelsey stood, unheeding her half-nakedness, snuffling back sobs as she watched me shuffle through them one by one. In my long professional career I had only encountered three girls like her: so thoroughly dishonest, manipulative, sneaky, and uncaring that there seemed to be no way to redeem her. At seventeen years old she could look you in the eye and fake sincerity as well as the most accomplished grifter. Hence the sheaf of spanking orders, one from each of her fed-up teachers.

I signed one of the slips and handed it to Kelsey. “Give that to Mrs. Hartley,” I said. “To show that you have been punished for missing your exam. I will see you in here tomorrow, at the third period bell, for your next spanking.”

Kelsey tried to look unmoved, but a fresh surge of tears gave her away. I took a pad of detention slips from my desk and began to fill one out.

“What —” She had to stop and clear her throat. “What’s that for?”

I coninued to write. “You were absent from your fourth period History class today,” I replied. “Which is grounds for another disciplinary session: in my office, over my knee, bottom bared, and spanked thoroughly.” I tore the top slip off the pad, and added it to the stack of Kelsey’s pending ordeals.

“But— but—” she stammered. “Fourth period… that’s… that’s now! I mean, I, I, I only missed History because I was sent to your office instead!”

I allowed myself the smallest of unnoticeable smiles.

“Yes, that would normally be an excused absence. But in your case, Kelsey, the staff has decided not to grant that privilege.”

She stared, open mouthed, while that idea sunk in. I let my eyes drift to her cute little pussy, wondering if she had already traded access for some essential favors. That she knew the bargaining value of her body was not in doubt.

“But then,” she wailed, “I’ll always have another spanking coming because of the class I miss for being—” She broke off, hands rising to her flushed face.

“You do have free periods,” I said. “If a spanking happens to coincide with one of them, then you’ll reduce the queue by one.”

“But that’ll take months and —”

“Yes. It will. Several months of daily spankings. Of course, that assumes no more implausible excuses, sudden test-day illnesses, homework lost, disrespect to teachers, and so on. As the saying goes, if you find yourself in a hole, step one is to stop digging.”

I could almost see her riffling through her mental stack of ruses, looking for a way out. But there was none.

I went back to my desk, and busied myself while Kelsey slowly came to her senses, realized her embarrassing nudity, and bent to pull up her panties. She handled them quite gingerly as the lace slid across her burning buns.

In general, it pains me to spank our girls, and I do it only reluctantly. But, every now and then in a teacher’s career, one encounters a most exceptional student.

— Frenulum

2015/04/05

2015/04/02

Number, Please

How it started is foggy: a dare, or a bet, or just challenging each other the way we do. But once upon a time we checked into a hotel room and I got spanked, counting up to the room number. Room 315, I think it was, with 315 hard smacks on my bare bottom.

Then somehow it turned into a tradition. “We always.” Whenever we took a vacation together, the trip began right after check-in with a room number spanking. It was the sort of ritual that a girl like me can love and anticipate and dread in that delightful, shiver-inducing, want but don't want mixture.

And since we travel on a budget, and that means lower floors closer to the noises of lobby, restaurant, and pool, it was always a good start to our private time. Just enough to remind me of who I am for him, of who we are together.

I thought about this while he checked in, my bottom cheeks clenching in anticipation and my panties growing more and more soaked, clinging to my heated pussy. I watched him talk to the desk clerk, saw her flirt with him a little bit, noticed his usual oblivion with a smile and a bit of pride. Then another woman joined them, a manager, and there was further talk. I was both in a hurry to get to our room — what number this time? — and more than content to postpone that moment indefinitely.

Finally, he came across the lobby to me. His face was a little hard to read.

“They didn’t have the room we reserved,” he said, as we crossed to the elevators. He pressed the up-button. “But the manager remembered that we come here pretty often, so she gave us a suite instead. No extra charge.”

The doors slid open. We entered the car and I held his arm with both hands.

“I imagine the view will be nice,” he said, and pushed the button for the twenty-eighth floor.

— Frenulum

2015/03/12

RIP

Sir Terry Pratchett died today.

He was one of my favorite authors and greatest inspirations.

A reader once compared my writing to his, which is among the most treasured compliments I've had in my life.

More details from the BBC.

:o(


Addendum: see also this 2009 interview.