“Hello, how are you doing?”

“Pretty well, I guess.”

“What brings you to see me?”

“I, uh, I have this… kind of a localized inflammation. It’s — not painful, exactly, but uncomfortable.”

“Let’s take a look… Yes, I see. Is this tender or sensitive?”

“Definitely sensitive.”

“Ok, nothing to be worried about. This is not an abnormal condition, and we should be able to treat it and give you some relief.”

“Oh, good, that’s good to hear.”

“The inflammation is caused because these blood vessels… here…and here… have constricted, so that there’s more blood flowing into the area than out of it. That causes the swelling, and your sensitivity is a side effect.”

“I see. You’re not — I mean, you don’t have to let the blood out or anything like that, do you?”

“No. Generally we like to use a combination of heat, moisture, compression, and massage. Given time, that will cause a certain tension crisis, after which the constricted vessels relax and allow the swelling to decrease.”

“How long will that take?”

“Usually ten to twenty minutes, but I think in your case we should see results in five minutes or less.”

“Oh, that’s great. When can you start the procedure?”

“Right away.”

“And, um, this… what did you call it… tension crisis? Will that be —”

“All over my face, please, Sir.”

“My favorite outcome.”

“Mmmhmmmmm. Mmmine ath welww.”

“Ahhhhhh… that feels better already…”

— Frenulum



There were a hundred celebrities at the party; another, slightly larger cohort of B-list stars stuck close in the hopes of a meeting, a photo op, or the chance to trade sex for opportunities. The Host had arranged the party on a pretext but none of the guests cared: they attended because the Host had that kind of influence. If you were somebody, you showed up.

An hour into the affair, the Buyer and the Host stood in the otherwise empty library. “Let’s begin,” said the Buyer, and the Host simply flipped a switch on what looked like a common wireless router, although its antennae were rather long. “It won’t take long,” said the Host, and the two made their way back to the main part of the mansion.

The first indication was two largely unknown ingenues kissing with apparent passion, in the midst of a crowd, seemingly oblivious to being noticed. While that alone might have gone unremarked, it was just half a minute later when a famous but slightly expired actress stood on a table and began to dance sensuously, running her hands over her hips and ass and lab-made breasts. When her evening gown fell around her ankles, there were a few appreciative whistles and a great many catty comments.

A popular comedienne put her legs up over the arms of a chair and vigorously frigged her quim, breathing heavily, eyes on the other guests, defying anyone to comment. Overcome by the spectacle, a girl of suspiciously few years dropped to her knees and substituted her tongue for the woman’s busy fingers.

Two singers, performers in different genres, both known for long, perfect legs, towering spike heels, and ultra-mini skirts, were engaged in earnest tribadism on a couch, glorious gams glistening with girl-goo as they raced each other to orgasm. That they kept their Louboutins and Blahniks but wore nothing else contributed greatly to the eroticism of the scene.

A few ladies had found cocks to ride, or suck, but for the most part they were collecting in pairs or groups and pleasuring each other with Sapphic arts. One superstar athlete tried to stop his supermodel wife from feeding pussy to a pair of eager starlets, and got slapped hard for his efforts.

Before long, every woman at the party was engaged in something sexual, whether alone, with a man, or with other women; none of them were dressed and none of them appeared to possess any modesty at all.

The men, puzzled, astonished, aroused, and helpless, either tried with little success to participate, or just watched, or shot opportunistic videos.

The Buyer said, “I must admit to being impressed. And it’s only the women?”

“Yes,” replied the Host, “The brain structures are quite different, and we haven’t yet worked out the male solution.”

“No matter. I will take what you have. One hundred million.”

The Host considered for only a moment. “Two fifty.”

“Two hundred,” said the Buyer, “I’m sure you are recording this… think of the price you’ll get just for Ari—”

“No names.”

“Just for two very pretty, naked, sexy, incidentally famous girls tribbing — did I mention naked and wildly popular with teenage girls?”

The Host evaluated the offer. “Done,” he said. He pulled out his mobile and tapped a few times on the screen.

The first “Oh my god!” sounded just seconds later. Groups broke apart, gasping and crying and questioning; women searched frantically for discarded clothes; men sheepishly sought their partners to offer belated help, feigning sincere sympathy with the ease of repeated practice.

“You throw a good party,” said the Buyer. “Did you, um, invent this device?”

“Oh, no,” replied the Host, “I have no idea how to deal with hardware and software and brain mapping and all of that.”

He surveyed the post-orgy chaos before him.

“I only manipulate people.”

— Frenulum


Wet Dreams 6

(Sequel to Wet Dreams 5)

Every night for weeks the dream came to me, ending with either sex or spanking just about to happen, ending when the pictures in my head became too fuzzy about things I don’t know. Every night I woke up soaked. I had to wash my own panties and sheets so Mom wouldn’t find out. She thought I was being responsible but I was embarrassed. Then last night everything changed. It was the spanking dream. My Sir had taken my nightie off, slowly, touching and handling my body, and then He crouched down to pull down my panties, with His eyes right on my pussy, and when I stepped out of my panties I got down on my knees as He stood up straight, in His grey suit and white shirt and tie like every night, and I told Him that I needed my Sir to give me a long hard painful awful serious spanking, that I wanted to be red and sore and sobbing for Him, to give Him my tears as a gift. And I had to say very carefully that I hate being spanked and I’m afraid of pain and that the only only thing I wanted more than not being spanked was to lie across His lap and offer up my bare bottom and take my spanking from my Sir — the only thing in the whole universe better than no spanking at all. So He helped me up and over His lap and He put His beautiful warm hard heavy kind fierce hand on my bottom, which was just like the dream always goes. But last night… last night His hand slid over my bottom and down between my legs and His finger touched my pussy and then He stroked me. His finger was so thick compared to mine and He pressed more firmly than I do, and He said you’re so wet — it isn’t the spanking, it’s feeling my authority, obeying me, knowing that you will always please me even when it’s difficult — that excites you sexually — that’s what makes your pussy wet. And my face burned hot as I understood the truth and His finger felt wonderful touching and rubbing and stroking my pussy while He looked at my naked body and felt my wetness and knew my thoughts and He was inside my head and feeling my juice and I woke up, shaking and moaning and tight all over, with my fingers inside my panties inside my pussy rubbing like He did in the dream, pressing hard, and I had this amazing electric shuddery wave of pleasure rushing all through my body, and it was all I could do to keep from shouting. I know what that was. It was an orgasm, my first orgasm, and oh my god I want more and more and more. My Sir gave me an orgasm in my bed last night. I love Him. I need Him.

— Frenulum


Wet Dreams 5

(Sequel to Wet Dreams 4)

From then on the dream had two forms. It always started with Him taking off my nightie and my panties, with His hands brushing softly against my skin all over, and then when I was naked I would kneel right in front of Him and look up at Him and find Him watching me closely. Then in one version of the dream, the original one, I would ask Him, beg Him, plead with Him to spank me until I wept, until I was red and sore and aching, until I couldn’t even imagine sitting down. And He would put me over His lap, and rest His large warm heavy hand on my bare bottom, and wait, and then He would start to spank me but I always woke up just before the first one landed, because I can’t dream what I’ve never felt. In the other version I’m kneeling for Him and instead of begging to be spanked I beg to give Himsex, with my mouth, because it turns out that that really is a thing. It’s called oral sex. I got a chance to use a computer that wasn’t mine and I looked it up and it’s true, and I even saw some pictures of it. Oh my god I never knew that a penis got so huge. The girls I saw had to stretch to fit it. So in my dream I beg Sir for it until He says yes, and then I open His pants and take it out, and it’s hard and big and scary-looking like the pictures I saw, and then I open my mouth and lean forward and… wake up, because I can’t dream what I’ve never felt. When I wake up it’s always with my hand on my… on my pussy, I learned that too, and my panties soaked and my sheets soaked and juice all over my hand and my legs. So I think now I have to find my dream Sir in real life somehow, and get Him to spank me and to let me suck Him otherwise I’ll be trapped in this dream forever, night after night, waking up at just the wrong time. But I don’t know any man who’s old enough.

— Frenulum


Wet Dreams 4

(Sequel to Wet Dreams 3)

My days were normal, school and friends and goofing around and homework, but always in the back of my mind were the dreams that came almost every night. Dreams of Him, old, formal, demanding and strict but kind and good to me, the Sir who knew me naked and begging and sobbing and who kissed me with tenderness and authority. I knew how His suit coat felt when I held Him and how His large warm hands felt when He cupped my face and kissed me until I trembled. I think I was normal, nobody said anything, nobody seemed to notice or asked why are you acting weird, but no matter how busy I was or who I was talking to I always felt my Sir close to me, and the dream was never more than hours away. I tried to think of who I could talk to and I thought of one science teacher, the other girls said he was the best one for straight answers about things like sex that make parents freak out, but I went to his room one day after school and looked in and he was wearing a grey suit and I lost it and ran away. Then last night I had the dream again, almost the same, but after we kissed and kissed and kissed instead of taking my own nightie and panties off, I felt Him reach down and pull my nightie up, up, up over my head, and I lifted my arms high to help. And then he crouched to pull my panties down, and as I felt His fingers touch my skin I realized that His face was right in front of my… girl parts, that He would be looking right there when my panties came off, and I blushed so hard my face burned but I stood still and felt Him slide my panties down to my ankles, while His eyes were right there, close. So I stepped out of my panties and it was time for me to kneel in front of Him, naked, asking, begging, pleading for the hard, hard spanking that I did not want, that I oh so desperately needed for Him to give me. Please Sir please. Suddenly I realized that just like when He pulled my panties down I had my face right in front of… that under His pants there were private parts too, and I couldn’t really picture it well because I don’t know that much but I remembered some friends saying there was a way for a girl to do sex in… in… in her mouth, which was unbelievable at the time but there I was with my face right in front of HisHispenis and my mouth so close and what if it’s true? What if I could… kiss Himthere? And that’s when I woke up, soaked, flooded, juicy, rubbing myself. I didn’t even get to the spanking part. Oh god how much more can there be?

— Frenulum


Wet Dreams 3

(Sequel to Wet Dreams 2)

The dream didn’t happen two nights ago but last night it came back. He was the same but He didn’t ask me questions about being a virgin and not knowing much about sex. Instead He kissed me. He was in his grey suit and white shirt and tie and I was in my nightie and panties, and we were standing up in my bedroom, and He held me in His arms and kissed me and soon I kissed Him back. I’ve never been kissed, not for real, but I can at least imagine it and so in my dream it was beautiful and sweet and loving. Then I took my nightie off, and my panties, so He could see all of me, but I felt proud instead of embarrassed. I went down on my knees and looked up at His beautiful face and I begged Him for a spanking, like I always do now. And I remember He said you don’t want a spanking and I answered no, I really really don’t, but I do want You to spank me. And He understood, and put me over His lap, and He touched my bare bottom, and then His hand lifted away and I woke up — in a giant wet spot, with my hand inside my soaked panties. There is nobody I can talk to about this. I have so many questions. I think I must be broken but the dreams make me feel so good.

— Frenulum


Wet Dreams 2

(Sequel to Wet Dreams)

I had the dream again last night. But this time I had the definite feeling that He had watched me playing with myself, that He had seen me put my hand in my panties and touch and rub and feel so good… He didn’t need to ask me about it but it was a million times more embarrassing to think that He had seen me. Then at the end He didn’t tell me I was a good girl or a naughty girl, so I had to say that I needed Him to spank me, but this time that wasn’t enough, just to have to say it out loud. I had to beg. I had to beg Him for the spanking I need, please Sir please spank my bare bottom hard, please Sir make my bottom sore and red and hot and aching, please oh please oh please Sir make me cry out loud with every swat, I want to cry for you Sir, oh please. And finally I convinced him with wide eyes and blushing and begging but I woke up like I always do, just when his hand was coming down. Oh, god, what do I do? How am I going to find Him for real? I’m not even allowed to go on a date yet.

— Frenulum


Wet Dreams

In my dream there’s a man about my Dad’s age, but not my Dad, someone I just dream of, and he has grey hair and wears a grey suit and a white shirt and a tie, and he has glasses. And he asks me questions, really embarrassing ones, sex questions: are you a virgin? Have you made out with a boy? Do you even know how big an erection is, have you ever seen one? I have to answer and I can’t lie and I have to use sentences, like Yes, Sir, I am a virgin. I blush and want to look away but I’m not allowed to, I have to look right at him while I answer: Yes, Sir, I touch myself in bed at night. Yes I masturbate. Yes I play with my clit, Sir, almost every night, Sir. Each dream has different questions but I always have to confess about masturbating while I look him straight in the eyes and blush. Then the dream ends in one of three ways. He tells me I’m a naughty girl and he needs to give me a spanking. Or he tells me I’m a good girl and he needs to give me a spanking. Or he just waits until I blurt out that I need him to spank me hard, which is my least favorite ending but the one that happens most. Then I have to take off my nightie and my panties and he can see all of me naked, and then I lie across his lap with my bottom bare and he lifts his hand… and I wake up then, because I’ve never had a spanking so I don’t know how to dream one. I wake up, night after night, with the sheets soggy from my juice. I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. I hope it doesn’t stop.

— Frenulum


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