World 12

(This is the final entry in a series of twelve posts, introduced here. They will make no sense at all unless read in sequence (in numbered order of posting, that is, not top to bottom on the page before you), no sense without the introduction, and for all I know no sense anyway.)

…Her bottom was suddenly cool, as her skirt rose and her panties were pulled down to her knees. In an instant, cool gave way to heat, as Ted delivered the first blistering smacks.

Patrick edged around until he had a good view between her parted legs, the little jerk.

Through tear-filled eyes, she saw the rest of them watching. Liz looked particularly, nastily, pleased. Nora tried not to cry out loud, but failed.

The awful spanking went on and on. Nora's cries and the rhythmic slaps were the room’s only sounds.

Finally, Ted was finished. Nora rose from his lap and shuffled, hampered by her lowered panties, to her father. He stood up, and Nora, knowing his preference, bent over and grabbed her ankles, tautening her buns. Her dad gave her a quick dozen smacks, more for form’s sake than for real effect.

She stood up, the cheeks of her face flushed pink, a paler imitation of the cheeks of her ass. Her panties slipped to the floor.

Ted looked around the room. Patrick: not old enough yet. Jerry: their eyes met, and Jerry just shook his head “no.” He didn’t feel he’d been part of the family for long enough, and in truth hadn’t really been offended by Nora’s language — though of course it was Ted’s standards that mattered. Gene: spoke up.

“Over my lap, Nora, and let me make sure that sit-spot gets a proper seeing-to,” he said.

She had taken just one panties-tangled step toward him, when Ted said, “No.”

“What?” blurted Liz.

Gene looked surprised, but just inquired “No?”

“Nora’s behavior is my responsibility, and correcting her is my painful duty. Out of respect for her family and traditions, I accept that they have a right to contribute. But that’s as far as it —”

“We are practically family!” Liz interrupted. “Gene has every bit as much business —”

“No, he’s right,” said Gene. “Family-friends isn’t the same as family-proper. That’s Ted’s call if he wants to see it that way.”

Liz turned angrily to her husband. “Gene, don’t be stupid. That girl needs a good — just look at that ass, she’s barely been touched. I want to see it crimson and I want to hear her yelp every time she sits down for a week; now you just take charge here and get some real spanking into that naughty bottom!” She stopped when she read the look in her husband’s face.

Ted held out a hand to Nora, and the couple headed upstairs so that she could thank him properly and in private. Before they reached the top step, they heard the first heavy smack of Gene’s hand on Liz’s bare bottom… on the way to turning it the exact shade of crimson she had had in mind.

Nora turned her tear-stained face to Ted and gave him a sweet smile.

“Oh good,” she said. “It will be so fun to listen while I suck your cock.”

World 11

For a moment after she spoke, Nora felt triumphant — that she had made her point. Then the words she used in the heat of the moment sank in. A glance at her father’s disappointed face, and her mother’s slowly shaking head, confirmed her fears. Before she could turn to Ted to begin to apologize, she felt his hands on her body, tugging her into position over his lap.

Her bottom was suddenly cool, as her skirt rose and her panties were pulled down to her knees. In an instant, cool gave way to heat, as the first blistering smacks began to fall.

Patrick edged around until he had a good view between her parted legs, the little jerk.

Through tear-filled eyes, she saw the rest of them watching. Liz looked particularly, nastily, happy. Nora tried not to cry out loud, but failed.

World 10

…With the humiliating examinations over with, Nora looked to her beloved for a final word.

“Corner time until dinner’s ready,” he ordered.

He took her blouse, bra, and skirt, and led her in heels and pearls to the corner of the living room, where she stood facing the walls. Her red bottom and thighs were the subject of many interested looks as the pre-dinner conversation slowly got back to normal.

Nora could only guess at what each person was thinking.

World 9

(See this post for background.)

…Nora endured the indignity of a careful appraisal. Then she felt her mother’s hands on her scorched, tender ass, evaluating color and heat and her reaction to touch. She gasped at the pain of the contact, but was careful not to try to get away.

And so she was taken around the room, each person receiving her apology and each one given a chance to handle her flaming bottom, making sure that Ted had done a thorough job.

“Aunt” Liz was fifth. She took her own sweet time pawing at Nora’s bare bottom. Liz looked up at Ted, and with every appearance of sadness, shook her head from side to side.

“Too easy on her, Ted. She’ll never learn. Upstairs for as much again.”

Weeping, Nora followed her husband back upstairs.

World 8

…Her mother nodded acceptance, and Ted turned Nora around. He lifted her skirt — her panties were somewhere upstairs — and Nora endured the indignity of a careful appraisal. “That’s fine,” her mother said. Ted walked her to her father.

“Daddy, I’m sorry about how I spoke just now. I’ve been carefully disciplined, and it won’t happen again.” Ted turned her and lifted her skirt, exposing her bare ass.

“Good job, Ted,” her father said.

And so she was taken around the room, to apologize to and be exhibited to all. Liz — to Nora it had always seemed like she had a bit of a mean streak — took her own sweet time looking at Nora’s bare, bright-red bottom, before giving Ted a nod of assent.

After that, being exposed to her little brother hardly mattered.

World 7

Nora descended the stairs…

Ted held her hand and led her into the living room. Conversation stopped. He took her to where her mother sat, and gave her a small nod.

“Mother, I’m very sorry for the language I used earlier. Ted has punished me for it, and you can be sure of my ladylike speech in the future." Her mother nodded acceptance, and Ted walked her to her father.

“Daddy, I’m sorry about how I spoke just now. I’ve been carefully disciplined, and it won’t happen again.”

“I’m sure it won’t, honey,” he replied lovingly.

And so she was taken around the room, to apologize even to her little brother, telling each one of her contrition, spanking, and absolution.

It was harder than the time over her beloved’s knee.

World 6

(See this post for background.)

Nora descended the stairs…

“Sounded like a scorcher,” Gene observed.

Nora blushed, embarrassed to have them all looking at her, even more discomfited by her honorary-uncle’s inquisitiveness. When she didn’t answer, he persisted.

“What was that, couple hundred on the bare ass?” He turned to Ted. “You paddled her well and truly on the sit spot, I hope.”

Ted only nodded, not willing to make his bride blush any harder.

“Here, Nora, have a seat,” offered Opal, gesturing toward the only unpadded chair in the room.

“Hah, she won’t sit for a week, sounded like to me,” piped in Jerry.

Little brother Patrick snuck up behind her and grabbed Nora’s ass, causing her to yelp and pull away. “Two weeks, I betcha!”

World 5

Nora descended the stairs…

Her loved ones stopped chatting and looked up at her and at Ted. Her dad searched her face for any signs that she had been less than perfectly handled; finding none, he gave Ted an approving nod.

“Sounded like a scorcher,” Gene observed.

“Ted is nothing if not thorough,” Nora said with a rueful smile.

“Need an extra cushion?” Patrick asked. He always looked out for his big sister.

“Probably three,” laughed Nora.

“I do hope my daughter thanked you properly,” Nora’s mom said to her son-in-law.

“Oh, yes indeed,” Ted replied. “You taught her very well.”

World 4

Nora descended the stairs…

Her mother stood up and said brightly, “Oh, good, Nora, you’re just in time to give me a hand in the kitchen.” Nora was thankful for the diversion: she didn’t feel like being the center of attention for a while. Just as they were about to leave, Opal popped out of her chair, looked closely at her sister’s face, and then reached out to give her cheek a wipe with a quickly-produced hankie.

“Little splooge on your cheek,” she whispered. “You’re good to go now.”

World 3

(See this post for background.)

Nora descended the stairs hand in hand with her husband Ted, after a well-deserved and very thorough spanking, and after showing him her gratitude for his loving care. Those enjoying a pre-dinner libation in the living room included her parents, their friends and honorary family Liz and Gene, her sister Opal and her husband Jerry, and her brother Patrick.

There was a brief hush as everyone looked up to take the couple’s measure. Everyone was too polite to say anything, but all eyes were on Nora and she knew they were all contemplating two things: the recent sound of hard swats landing on bare buns, and the even more recent, but well-understood, period of silence.

Nobody said a word until Nora sat on the couch, and let out an unmistakeable “Eeep” as tender bottom met firm surface. Liz snorted: a laugh she tried and failed to muffle.

Then Opal laughed as much at Liz as at her sister. “You silly girl,” she choked out, “What on Earth possessed you to try to sit down already?” The guys were smiling but trying to hide it, discipline being a serious… a serious… then they joined in. Relief after tension will take people that way.

World 2

Nora descended the stairs hand in hand with her husband Ted, after a well-deserved and very thorough spanking, and after showing him her gratitude for his loving care. Those enjoying a pre-dinner libation in the living room included her parents, their friends and honorary family Liz and Gene, her sister Opal and her husband Jerry, and her brother Patrick.

Nobody really made any fuss about Nora’s reappearance. There was a slight lull in the chatter, just for a second or two, before it resumed as before. Nora caught her mother’s loving glance and blushed, seeing an understanding smile in return. After contemplating her glass for a while, she dared a longer look around. Opal was chewing on her bottom lip and darting worried glances at Jerry — perhaps she had concerns for her own ass. Gene, her dad, and Ted shared knowing but sympathetic looks: a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, after all. Stupid Patrick was grinning at her, enjoying her difficulty in finding a comfortable way to sit. He was never going to get a girlfriend at that rate.

As usual, nobody came right out and said anything — respect for privacy was the rule, after all — but she knew despite the chatter that they were all thinking about her.

World 1

Nora descended the stairs hand in hand with her husband Ted, after a well-deserved and very thorough spanking, and after showing him her gratitude for his loving care. Those enjoying a pre-dinner libation in the living room included her parents, their friends and honorary family Liz and Gene, her sister Opal and her husband Jerry, and her brother Patrick.

Nobody really made any fuss about Nora’s reappearance: the talk continued, drinks were sipped, nibblies were nibbled. With a pained gasp she couldn’t suppress, Nora resumed her former seat, with Ted beside her. Everyone knew how much Ted cared for her, and would have been aghast if he had let her misbehavior go uncorrected.

“Gouda?” asked Gene, passing a plate.

“Thank you,” Nora replied, and took a sip of her wine.

Twelve worlds

Over the past few months, I have been exploring an idea with a few friends: that of observed or otherwise not-quite-private discipline.

What if one is taken away to a private spot to be spanked, and others can hear? What if they can’t hear but know anyway, from circumstances? What is it like to return to the group? What if they watch? How does one feel, and how do others react? Some of my correspondents have been generous enough to share personal experiences and fantasies along these lines.

One theme that keeps emerging is how much it matters who those observers are. Are they strangers, family, friends, intimates? Do they ignore, comment, laugh, tease, or turn cruel?

And what is the society and its norms? Is spanking someone for misbehavior a shocking, incredible act — or is it a ho-hum of daily existence, hardly worth notice?

As a byproduct of these conversations, I wrote twelve vignettes for one friend. Each is essentially the same story, but set in twelve slightly varying worlds — societies with, as the stories are ordered, a decreasing level of privacy and dignity for the protagonist. Although these were meant as private illustrations (the question being: where do they stop being arousing and start being awful), my friend has encouraged me to share them.

I will do that. But please keep in mind that these are not polished efforts — merely sketches.

Twelve worlds coming up forthwith.

— Frenulum

Decision time

I almost stumbled as I came in the door over three pairs of shoes: black loafers, plain, brown loafers, tasseled, glossy black Mary-Janes with a bit of a heel.

There were three plaid uniform jumpers, more or less neatly folded, piled at the end of the couch.

There were two white blouses draped over the arm. No sign of a third. And one bra on the coffee table, which sat at an odd angle from the couch as if someone had kicked it.

One pair of baby-blue cotton bikini panties, size S, on the newel post at the foot of the stairs. Still warm, and, it seemed to me, rather moist. Another pair, white with pink flowers, eight stairs up.

The bedroom door was ajar. I heard voices, one well-known, two familiar but hard to pin down.

I was home hours early.

I contemplated my next step.

— Frenulum

December

I apologize to readers for being absent during December. End-of-year work deadlines have obliterated my free time.

Thank you for your patience in checking, from time to time, to see if there is something new here.

Allow me to take the opportunity, during a time of year when many people celebrate many things (let’s not go into all of those permutations), to offer my wish that you have contentment and happiness. Your visits here, and your support of my writing, certainly contribute to mine.

— Frenulum

Peeking (2)

Seriously, I wonder sometimes how you ladies ever get out of the house in the morning. I would be so tempted, were I possessed of such a beautiful gem, such an artwork in flesh.
Oh, just one more little peek. Just for a minute or two before I finish dressing. Oh, my, so pretty! That is just… two more minutes, what could that hurt? I’ll just look. I won’t touch… won’t touch, not even a little… just looking for a bit and — oh! Oh my! Oh that feels so — Ahhhhhh yessssssss…
And once again, an hour late and on the day’s second pair of panties already.

The first Peeking post offers more of the same if, like me, you can’t get enough.
— Frenulum

Escape from the cesspool?

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Hotel room

She:

Selects fresh hand towel. Folds it in half and lays it beside the sink. Removes toiletries from suitcase, arranging them on the towel by function: nails here, eyes over here, lotions in this place, medicines in that. Rearranges by time of day and order of use. Rearranges with taller items in back, shorter in front. Rearranges by function within time of day. Clears off towel, moves it to the opposite side of the sink; rearranges toiletries on towel. Satisfied, goes to hang up clothes and arrange lingerie neatly in drawers. Places empty suitcase in closet behind shoes.

He:

Drops suitcase on chair. Removes Dopp kit (that’s sponge bag for those of you East of the pond) from suitcase, places beside sink. Thinks deeply about settling in for the length of the stay: finally commits to unzipping kit. Satisfied, turns on ESPN; plans to hang shirt near the shower in the morning in case there are any really bad wrinkles.

— Frenulum (based on a few recent observations)

In Trouble

She came in to my office, stood in front of my desk, handed me a note, and waited.

“Mrs. Hawthorne says that you are in violation of the dress code,” I said.

“Yes, sir.”

I stood and walked around my desk. I gave her a careful look. “Your heels are high enough: I don’t need to get the ruler out. It’s clear at a glance that your kilt is short enough. That’s a standard uniform blouse. Everything is clean. Your hair is done properly.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, not quite suppressing a mischievous smile.

Then it hit me. Some of the girls, skittish about the brevity of their uniform kilts, had recently tried adding an illegal pair of bike shorts underneath. “Lift your kilt, please,” I instructed.

Her smile got even more saucy. She grabbed the hem and raised it high, revealing nothing beneath it but bare schoolgirl pussy.

It took me a moment to react, as I gazed at that beautiful flower. “What— How— Why are you not wearing panties, Miss?” I demanded.

She held her skirt high as she raised one foot to plant it on the seat of a chair; her glistening labia parted with a juicy squick. She reached down with a finger and began slowly to circle her clit. “I know I’m only a Junior,” she said in sultry tones. “But I thought being this naughty might convince you to give me a Senior girl’s punishment.”

— Frenulum

Quiet?

Last night found me, traveling for business, in a little Midwestern (USA) town — flyover country, to the coasties. It was my first visit, but I had heard of it from time to time over the years from a friend who grew up here: a sleepy, four-stoplight town that woke up only a few days a year for its annual flower festival.

What I found instead, venturing out for dinner, was a vibrant, active, youthful place teeming with energy. Every restaurant was packed, music spilled from every door, the sidewalks were busy and full of “Where to next?” excitement.

On a Wednesday night. The desk clerk at the hotel said things really pick up on the weekends.

It reminded me of a long-ago warning that was given to a girl I was seeing, by one of her friends. “Careful,” she advised, “It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.”

From the road,

— Frenulum

Perhaps

Perhaps he is small, short, reedy, weak. Perhaps he wears thick glasses that need to be pushed up the nose every now and then. Perhaps he keeps folded papers with tiny writing in his dress-shirt pocket, and a couple of pens of different colors to update them. Perhaps his book-bag is almost more than he can carry.

Perhaps she is different, not part of the social set. Perhaps she is absolutely gorgeous but doesn’t seem aware of it or to care about it. Perhaps she does too well on tests, or reads too many books, or speaks too strangely for her friends to understand. Perhaps her maturity is daunting, her concentration and foresight too mysterious to deal with. Perhaps it is easier to label her as odd and go plan the sock-hop.

Perhaps the teachers seem a little different with them, in ways that are hard to interpret — smiling, strangely, in an undecipherable way.

Perhaps they see each other across a busy classroom.

Perhaps a note leads to a meeting.

Perhaps a meeting leads to a lifetime.

Perhaps it is paradise.

— Frenulum

Anatomy

Tragus and Anti-tragus, Helix and Anti-Helix, Fossa Triangularis, Concha, Lobule, Scapha…

So many familiar places, touched or kissed or tongued or just admired for their beauty. So many names unknown, unlearned, mysterious.

I think I need a good anatomy course. I have a friend who teaches the subject — perhaps one year I might audit the class. (Though I don’t think I would look particularly fetching in a tartan mini-kilt, I could at least offer some insights during Reproduction. Oops, I think I just killed my chances of admission.)

— Frenulum

Up late

…Dealing with the discomforts that accumulated years bring; reading When the Thrill is Gone by Walter Mosley, noir detective master.

The protagonist, Leonid McGill, is providing a home, bed, and nursing to a dying friend. Mosley writes for him:

If stomach cancer was a man I’d’ve slit his throat, tossed him in the Hudson, and then gone out for a rare steak and red, red wine.

Oh, to write that clearly, emphatically, directly… I aspire to it.

Peeking

Of all the many wonderful things there are about being a girl, one is surely this: whenever you want to see one of the most breathtakingly beautiful wonders of the natural world, all you have to do is look down and peek.

— Frenulum

Four Bars

My latest short story, Four Bars, is now available at asstr.org.

I hope you enjoy it! (And do please keep in mind that your comments are my only compensation.)

— Frenulum

ὀνοματοποιία

Those who pursue erotica on the net are most likely familiar with the word squick and its derivatives (squicky, squicked, etc.).

As typically used, the word refers to subjects or images that cause an instant, visceral reaction of repulsion; it implies not a moral judgment (“Oh, that is so wrong, how disgusting”) but simply a personal reaction (“Eww, I can’t read this”).

For example, my index entry for More Than a Mouthful says: “…if cum play is squicky for you, skip this one.” Some readers may be quite at ease with the idea that men have orgasms involving certain side-effects, but very uncomfortable with a story’s extended focus on semen itself.

All of which I find very unfortunate.

Not because the concept doesn’t need a word to express it, but because squick needs to be available for a much more delightful meaning.

To me, squick is the perfect word for the sound of wet labia parting.

I paused to assess the condition of her heated bottom, gauging the color and testing her reaction to touch. I pulled her near leg closer to me, spreading her wider, and the squick from her soggy pussy told me that, despite her muted sobs, she was as always intensely aroused.

I can go with the majority here and use the word as a warning when I think one of my stories might cross a line for some readers. But in private, squick is going to be a happy word for me: the sound of arousal and readiness.

— Frenulum

Anthem

I don’t listen to country music and don’t know its stars. So the name, career, and reputation of Jack Ingram are mysteries to me.

I will say this: his rendition of The Star Spangled Banner before game six of the 2011 ALCS was sweet, delightful, unaffected, heartfelt, and delivered almost with the sense of a lullaby. His question about whether the flag was still aloft seemed genuine, as it might have been asked by a fallen soldier who was out of sight of the standard under which he had fought.

I found it intensely moving, and from this vast distance thank the man who performed it.

— Frenulum

Taking notes

My belovèd and I went out for lunch Thursday. The conversation turned to a story idea I have been developing that seems quite promising. It happens to involve many elements in which she has expertise and I do not; so she was filling me in on lots of details to lend verisimilitude to the story, and we were tossing ideas back and forth.

There were so many interesting details and plot points to remember that I knew I wasn’t up to the task. “Let’s go home after lunch so I can write this down before I forget,” I said. “Maybe you can help, and make sure I haven’t missed anything.”

I saw a sly smile on her face. For years, she has been asking to help me write by finding a place under my desk and tending to anything that… comes up as a result of the erotic subject matter. I have always replied that I thought it would be too distracting.

“Are you thinking…”

“Yup! Just talk as you type, and I’ll chime in with anything you’ve forgotten.”

I thought about it for a minute. “Ok — as an experiment. This doesn’t mean it’s the new policy.”

We ended up on our bed instead. I had my laptop on a pillow by my side, and my belovèd between my legs. I started writing notes. She started… supporting my avocation.

“It’s awkward to type at this angle,” I said after a few minutes.

I highly recommend the experience of inducing paroxysms of laughter in a deeply engaged fellatrix. The sensations are more than interesting.

Finally she lifted her head. “Do you realize what you just said?” she asked, shaking with mirth. “Can you imagine any other man in the world, in the middle of a blow-job, complaining about how hard it is to type?” I joined her laughter, enjoying the absurdity.

For the record, it was a more successful experiment than I imagined. I got the notes done, with occasional prompting as needed (though they are full of typos, not surprisingly). And it did take a long time, because of frequent breaks from looking at the screen (that is so good for the eyes). Perhaps we will try again. I have a terribly difficult time writing the sex scenes in my stories, and wonder if doing so while making love would help or hinder.

— Frenulum

Thank you, Tigers

And all the sweeter for A-R*d’s three Ks.

Four Bars — preview edition

I want to reward the people who take the time to visit me here. I know how much competition there is for a few minutes of free time at the computer, and I am very much sensible of the honor of your visits.

My newest short story, Four Bars, is ready for publication. I am going to withhold it from asstr for a while, and release it as a private edition to any blog reader who would like it early.

Here is the index entry:

Four Bars «~» It’s not about a pub crawl, a cell-phone signal, a 2mg Xanax tablet, or the epaulets of a U.S. Navy Captain. It’s about wanting to be a good girl always; about impulsiveness, misbehavior, discipline, absolution, and gratitude.

[CONS] [MF] [Rom] [Sp] [Cum] [Fac]

I should probably mention that there is anal play in the story, so if that is squicky for you, you might want to take a pass.

I tried to devise an automated system by which you could acquire copies, but gmail’s auto-reply feature specifically prohibits attachments. So here’s the deal: just drop me a quick (even empty) letter and mention Four Bars in the subject, and as soon as I have a chance I will reply with a copy for you to read. Please be patient with me.

Thank you again for your support and interest. I hope you enjoy the new tale.

— Frenulum

Cocksucking Considered as One of the Fine Arts (2)

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Out of the box

When a story is inspired by or written for a particular person, it is my habit, when I feel it to be ready for publication, to send a private copy to that person as a gift. He or she is allowed to hold on to it for private enjoyment for a while. It seems only right.

Four Bars turned out to be in reasonably decent shape, so the editing process was not as lengthy as I anticipated. That story is now out of its box and in the hands of she to whom it is dedicated.

While she enjoys her exclusive position, I am experimenting with ways I might make the story available to the next tier of customers, my loyal blog readers, before it gets released into the general maelström of asstr. My first attempt to set up something automated didn’t work — perhaps the first instance ever in which gmail failed to offer a feature I want. I will keep working at this.

Of course, it might be a bad idea at that. I might find out there are only six of you here :o)

Stay tuned.

— Frenulum

To-do

Cocksucking Considered as One of the Fine Arts is the most-read post here. I should definitely get to Part 2. Thanks for your patience. Thanks especially to the girl who first wrote and asked for help and persuaded me to write something!

In the mean time: “Good Girls Give Sloppy Head.” Coming to a bumper sticker near you :o)

— Frenulum

Mentor

The young man, standing, asked, “How will I know, how can I tell, that I am owning her… as I should? Responsibly. Doing it well — perfectly for her?”

The old man, seated, spoke at length: about gauging her pride, her delight, her joy. About learning to tell what was in her open mind. About focused consideration; care for her body; care for her spirit. About making her so safe that she could look at the edges that fascinated her. About seeing to her comfort, her discipline, her excitement, her need, her flowering, and her exaltation. About adoration, devotion, respect, and love.

The young woman, kneeling at the young man’s feet, naked but for her collar, looked up at him and saw the passion and determination and resolve in his face. Her heart beat fast and full, and she was wet, and she knew she was home.

— Frenulum

Do the math

I was looking this evening at a photo blog I like. The fellow who maintains it posts some really fine images. A few couples, rarely anything very graphic; mostly artistic nudes or fancy dresses or lingerie (his taste in a fine pair of panties definitely fits with my own).

The women are stunning. I mean: if you passed one on the street you would stop dead and turn and watch, careless of being noticed, abandoning the social convention of not gaping slack-jawed in public, lest you miss one second.

Granted: I know nothing of their inner beauty, nothing of their worth as people. I can only know anything about the packaging.

But just do the math with me. This one blog adds, oh, 50 images a day — individual photos, not sets, so that’s 50 women. I have on my list of interesting photo blogs some 90 sites (I can usually make it to one or two a day). Round up and discard overlap (there is a little) and that comes to 5,000 photos a day of women one never sees in real life.

And the percentage of the net that I touch has to be minuscule. A tiny fraction of a percent?

And we are just talking about the realm of fine-art nudes, principally black-and-white.

Every time I try to work the numbers I come to the conclusion that the planet must be nearly overrun with eye-popping models, with elegant faces and warm inviting suggestive expressions and curvy bodies and very appealing taste in dress (or undress).

It seems inescapable.

Then I look around my workplace, and it’s like getting the sideline bucket of ice water over the head.

Where are they all?

— Frenulum

The boots that will not die

Fashion trends come and go. The industry depends on this: that people will discard serviceable garments and buy replacements because the style has changed. That that look is so last year.

Fine, no problem.

But please, someone give me hope. When will the unnecessary weather-is-fine ridiculous masculine ugly obscuring clunky awkward tall leather boots just go away?

The style lives on like the undead; nobody can find the garlic or cross or stake or silver bullet.

I just saw it again this afternoon. With a heat index of 98°F, a pretty girl with apparently nice legs and a short skirt, clomping around in leather up to her knees. “Miss? You seem to have lost your horse!” Or your phalanx of storm-troopers or your three feet of snow, or whatever.

Everything else changes. I have been told that the boot fad has died a deservedly horrible death in other parts of the country. Why not here? Why not now?

— Frenulum

Thanks for reading

Thank you to all of you who have visited here more often in August than in July, more in July than in June, and more in June than in May. I am grateful for your interest and attention and hope you feel your time spent has been worthwhile.

— Frenulum

Finished (well…)

I have finished Four Bars.

Those of you who are fans enough to see this will know how far from finished — ready to publish — that is. What I mean is that I am satisfied that the whole story is in place, and that it says what I want it to say. Now remains the long and self-critical task of fretting over every word a few dozen times.

I thought you might like to know something of how this story came about, as its history differs from others.

Originally, Four Bars was a little sliver of flash fiction. I have the original still: 150 words, 13 sentences, 5 paragraphs. As is my custom, I selected one of my trusted reviewers and sent the story to her, asking for her opinion of it.

The response came back in an unprecedented format: her report of the two orgasms it had induced, or perhaps it would be fairer to say assisted with.

In a subsequent conversation, she encouraged me to develop the story more fully. Its present form is the result. The kernel of the flash fiction is there unchanged.

Anyway, it should be out soon, for some indefinite value of “soon.” Thank you in advance for your patience.

— Frenulum

That sucks

When did suck acquire a pejorative sense?

I just grabbed the nearest paper dictionary, Random House College 1972, not my favorite of the dozen dictionaries in the house but it will do for now, and under suck there is not the least notion of: my job sucks, our shortstop sucks, that movie really sucked.

But it is undeniably common now, that sense of disgust and failure. How did it arise?

Think about sucking. A baby at the nipple, exchanging nurture and nourishment, love and grateful satiation. Purely pleasurable. (Yeah, I get the teething thing, but grant me the generalities, ok?, it’s late.) An eager lady kneeling at her partner’s feet, mouth busy, active, engaged, eager, agile, trained or in training, thrilling herself with how much she delights him, thrilling him with how — spurt spurt spurt spurt — oh, my, that was good.

Where does the anger come from? The disdain? The… dismissal?

If a fellow comes back from a date, and a roommate asks: how did it go? Is the answer: “She sucked” a boast or a complaint?

This is not facetious, I really want to know what happened here. Anyone? Where did the word lose its beauty?

— Frenulum

Thanks, Plum

The day had some emotionally taxing moments, some for me and some for my belovèd, which means all of it jointly, so in the quiet of the late night I settled into the well-yclept Stressless Recliner and fired up some re-re-re-re-read P. G. Wodehouse on the Kindle.

It does not of course take long for Sir Pelham to find the playful, ironic, romantic, silly strands of his readers’ minds. A turn of phrase here or there, and we are grinning or ROFLing or LOLing or just shaking our heads in sympathy right along at the oft predictable but oh-so-brilliantly-phrased insanity.

Such talent can only inspire as it is so many miles out of reach.

— Frenulum

Beautiful

The setting looks delicious and I-want-to-be-there-on-vacation. The model is graceful and elegant and formal: a lady through-and-through. The gown is gorgeous; the implication of its form is erotic.

Can any reader please tell me:

• What this garment is called, if it has a name of its own?
• A vendor, bricks or pixels, that might carry such a thing?
• The source for a sewing pattern?

I would be thankful for any lead.
— Frenulum

Secondary effects

An incandescent light bulb is a pretty darn good heater. It consumes electricity and emanates heat and does a decent job of it. It is not quite perfectly efficient, however: some of the energy used, albeit a small fraction, is wasted as photons. [*]

Interestingly, it is the secondary effect of waste light that is used to market, package, and promote the use of the bulbs. [**]

I contend that window-mounted, floor-standing, and portable fans are similarly promoted according to secondary effects. As an afterthought, they induce air currents. But their primary function, if you ask me, is to pump tremendous amounts of white noise into the environment, at precisely those few remaining frequencies where a middle-aged man’s hearing still has, or had, a fighting chance. In other words, they are deafness engines.

There are eight currently operating in my house. Not counting the compressors in the refrigerator and dehumidifier.

It would take a supercomputer and room full of fluid-dynamics PhD’s to figure out the net effect of all of them with respect to currents and cooling.

In the mean time: What? What?

— Frenulum

[*] By the way: when the idiotic nanny-state no-incandescent federal laws take hold, I will actually start to use more energy, because my hazmat CFL lights won’t produce the heat I rely on, and I will have to crank the furnace higher. Make sense to you? No, me either.

Didn’t mean to rant here, but really.

[**] Unless you buy an Easy-Bake oven, that is.

Free country

Just ran across this. Still, and elsewhere, relevant.

After all, the great characteristic of this country is that it is a free country, and by a free country I mean a country where people are allowed, so long as they do not hurt their neighbours, to do as they like. I do not mean a country where six men may make five men do exactly as they like. That is not my notion of freedom.

—Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, 1883, then Leader of the Opposition, later Prime Minister of Britain

A mystery solved

I read pretty widely, but if I just want a relaxing diversion my go-to genres are mysteries and police procedurals.

I have been puzzling over a mystery related to this blog for a few weeks. Let me give you the clues and see if you can solve it.

Now, to do this, I need to put a word in your mind without writing it down, for if I did that, it would skew any experiment you might want to try. So: many people, particularly light-skinned ones, most famously redheads, have small dots of pigment on their skin. In describing such a person one might say that he or she has... a word for a sprinkling of pigmented dots. And you might refer to one such dot as a… ok, remember that word.

The web service hosting this blog gives me tons of statistics about how people arrive here and where they come from (still trying to figure out my popularity in Egypt). If they follow a link from my story site, that gets counted. If they do a search and follow up a result, I get told what phrase they searched for.

And the most popular search term is…

that word porn

That startled me, since I don’t think of that word porn as an apt description of what I post here. But even stranger: use the site search option to search for that word, and there are no matches.

It doesn’t seem to make any sense at all. A mystery. To make matters even more perplexing: I tried a google search for the phrase, and my patience wore out on result page 25 — no link to here.

Well, just a minute ago, I figured it out — and it does make sense, ultimately.

Any detection fan out there want to try your hand at the case? I will publish the answer in a day or two.

— Frenulum

A reader?

I like to imagine people enjoying my stories.

— Frenulum

Peek inside

In commenting on a recent post, one reader used the phrase “peek inside” and, as words have the amazing power to do, sent my thoughts down an entirely divergent path.

Of course, at the time I was thinking about a physical manifestation of the phrase. If your imaginations can’t supply details I am afraid I will have to disappoint you… but then, my readers are unlikely to be so challenged. :o)

But it has a more significant meaning.

In the owner/submissive relationship as I define it (I just typoed ass instead of as — an avocational hazard?) the submissive gives her Self: body, mind, and will, to her owner.

The open, accessible, available body is easy to imagine, for most people.

The open mind is not. There are no social models for it, no mass media examples, no or precious few rôle models. We guard our minds and thoughts. We are raised and trained and conditioned to do so. Almost everyone you deal with, even loved ones, is masked and guarded for public consumption. It is the normal way to act, even in intimate, loving relationships.

But the open mind is a requirement in the owner/submissive relationship. To take responsibility for her Self, he has to have full access to her thoughts: the ability to peek inside at will. No masks, no hiding, no reservation, no restraint. He has to be able to figure out what she needs, and what is right for her, before she can necessarily articulate or even be aware of those needs.

It is hard to learn, it takes time, and it feels scary and strange at first. But then, giving one’s Self into another’s care is initially scary and strange as well.

Knowing that the result is earthly paradise can make the transition more comfortable. I assert that in my experience, this is indeed the case.

— Frenulum

Comments

Thanks to all of you who commented on the Tuesday series of posts. I appreciate your thoughtful remarks and I am grateful that you took the time to share them.

One thing I hoped for when I impulsively fired up this blog was that there would be a little bit more interaction. I reply to people who send letters about my fiction, but only a few of those email exchanges turn into conversations (though some, I am delighted to say, have turned into friendships).

I hope this recent flurry of contributions is a trend!

Thank you again.

— Frenulum

Tuesday

Afterward, there were three surprises for us.

First, the way she danced and rubbed her bottom. It was an action straight out of pretty much every spanking story she has read, and she surprised herself with how much of a natural impulse it was — even as she laughed at herself for acting out the cliché. I found it cute and endearing to watch her rub her hot pink buns, even though I knew it wasn’t going to be much help. Some of her friends are not allowed to rub, but in my book a spanking is over when the spanking is over, and I very much enjoyed the charming spectacle.

Second, after a short while, she sat without thinking on the edge of the bed. With a startled "Owwie!" she leapt back to her feet so fast it was as if propelled by one of the bedsprings. Good thing it was a nice soft mattress! I reminded her of my story Misery, in which a just-spanked girl contemplates a few hours on a wooden chair. She said, ruefully, “I get that now.”

Third, a surprise for me. It is not the first time that I have discovered something significantly arousing — something I did not know I cared about or would be excited by — because she introduced it to me.

Some girls, when spanked, turn a uniform color. Their bottoms grow from pale to pink to rosy to red, but do so evenly, the effect of each swat blending in. That is all well and good, and certainly not a phenomenon I have ever objected to.

But some girls show handprints, and she is one of them. Lasting handprints, overlapping as the spanking progresses but always with the outline of palm and fingers clear to see.

It turns out that I am unexpectedly pleased by this. Excited by it.

It is certainly not something anyone has control over: physiology is what it is; I would not have been disappointed by an even color, because I had not formed an expectation one way or the other. But now I love it that she shows handprints. And now that I have seen it, I find that it matters to me. I loved being able to fit my hand to a handprint on her heated bottom, and line up my fingers exactly as they once landed.

It was so satisfying to see my belovèd marked by my hand. Marks she wore proudly, joyful to be owned and adored by her Sir.

— Frenulum

Inviting

No matter how hard Google tries to convince you otherwise, invite is still a verb, and it has second-syllable stress (in-VITE). What you give someone when you want to invite (verb) him or her to something is an invitation (noun).

IN-vite sounds to my ears every bit as unwashed as IN-sur-ance.

I was dismayed recently to see that Target stores now label the shelves containing invitations “Invites.” Can it be that nobody in that massive corporate chain of command said: hey, wait a minute, that’s not right?

Sigh. Somebody has to care.

— Frenulum

Tuesday

I have a very small set of firm rules when it comes to spanking.

• Don’t squirm or wiggle or slip out of place.
• Don’t reach a hand back in an attempt at defense.
• Don’t say anything that could be construed as trying to take control: no “Stop!” or “No!” or even “Please!?!” — I will decide when the spanking is over, without assistance or advice.

Of course she knew the rules, since we had talked about spanking so often. That was actually her main concern: not that she would be unable to stand the pain, but that she would impulsively move a hand to save herself, or cry out inadvertently for mercy. I had faith that her behavior would continue to be flawless for me, but she was uncertain.

Panties at half-mast. That is such a powerful symbol to me that when I see a simple glamour photo with the model’s panties pulled down, I can’t help but think she is destined for a long session over the knee, even absent any other cues to suggest that. The erotic appeal of lowered panties is only heightened when a lady so adorned walks in them, her movements slightly hampered by her lacy bonds.

I watched her wait for me, feasting on the sight of her. I could never get my fill, but there came a time when further delay would have been unkind. I rose from my chair, and took a seat on the foot of the bed. I took a moment, then, to evaluate one last time my reasons, intent, and responsibility.

“Come to me,” I said, breaking the extended silence. She turned, and took her hands off her head. I watched her cross the room, sexy and beautiful in heels and lowered panties. Her expression was full of tension and apprehension, but it was also accepting, resolute, and serene.

I did not have to tell her to lie across my lap. I simply sat in the confidence that she would obey me, her submission overpowering with inexorable force all the doubt and fear that she felt.

Then, after a lifetime of it, there was no more waiting.

— Frenulum

Gift

I just have to share this breathtakingly beautiful photo with you.
The owner/submissive relationship begins when the submissive, from a position of strength, independence, self-sufficiency, and informed consent, makes a gift of her Self — body, mind, and will — to her owner.
I just never considered wrapping the present. Would it look like this?
In any case, a very pretty picture to enjoy.

— Frenulum

Twisty mind

It is a cliché of porn that if a woman is wearing a gate-net body suit, the crotch will be ripped open in the early goings. Happens 100% of the time. She never gets to wiggle out of it and save it for another occasion.

Is it wrong that I think of this every time I unwrap a Christmas tree?

— Frenulum, running on fumes in case you couldn’t tell :o)

Tuesday

We had talked about spanking often. About her fantasies, beginning early in her childhood, about youthful experimentation (by both of us), about never finding an intimate partner she could trust with that much vulnerability. Until she gave her Self to me.

We talked about spanking as a definitive symbol and act of submission and ownership, obedience and control. About how much we both desired it on those grounds. But my rule has always been: spanking is earned discipline for deliberate disobedience. To use it as anything else would be a betrayal of my self-regard as a gentle man.

She stopped telling me that she wanted me to spank her; she started to say that she needed me to. I saw truth in her eyes.

As the conversations played out over months and years of her perfect service, we both realized that she would never be disobedient. She has mature self-restraint and full understanding, and simply could not earn a spanking for misbehavior. It was an unsolvable impasse: she unable to disobey me, I unable to discipline her without just cause.

One day she said: “It is just so unfair that a good girl can’t get a spanking!”

That really hit home. It occupied my thoughts for weeks, constantly. I realized, eventually, that I had a choice: spank her despite her flawless, devoted submission, and cause a temporary pain in her lovely bottom, or refuse to, and cause the permanent, life-long pain of a desperate, hopeless, unsatisfied need. As her owner, responsible for caring for her and seeing to her joy, I knew what to choose.

And so she stood at the window, her hands on her head, her panties around her knees.

— Frenulum

Smart readers

I like to think of my readers as smart people. That is a little self-indulgent, of course: I hope my writing is good enough that clever people appreciate it. But that aside, the letters I get are by a generous majority well-written, interesting, and full of good observations or sharp questions.

Perhaps you read a couple of news stories in the past week or so. One, widely circulated, described research correlating IQ test results with web browser preference, yielding the result that people who used Internet Explorer were, well, stupid. Which is widely known (either stupid or at the mercy of a stupid IT department), but it was nice to see empirical verification. And the next — I hope it was as widely read — revealing that the first story was an excellently crafted hoax.

I will now pull the rabbit out of the hat and tie those two paragraphs together.

42% of my traffic here comes from Windows systems. Only 6% comes from IE. Ergo, my readers are smart people, QED.

:o)

— Frenulum

Vocabulary

Well, then, here is what I actually meant to write.

There are any number of slang terms for the genitalia of both sexes, and to a writer this is a boon. Were there none, then every (explicit) story would be full of vagina and penis, and the repetition would get tedious. Being able to vary the terms makes the text more interesting.

I tend to use cunt when I specifically mean vagina, and pussy when I mean the vulva generally; I am usually happy with cock but throw a prick in from time to time. Most of the first-name euphemisms — Willie, Peter, Dick and in the UK John Thomas, Percy — strike me as odd. Though I did get a grin when the movie Free Willie was released.

For ladies, there is much more variety, and I am happy to indulge in it. One word in particular strikes my fancy, and I wish that it were more securely seated in the mainstream of private conversation.

Quim.

It is such a pretty word. It is more gentle than cunt, or twat, which I find an unpleasant sound. It has much more a feminine ring to it than snatch or slit or the awful gash; it isn’t silly like cooter or beaver or pink taco. Quim sounds... I don’t know, is genteel too strong a word given the subject matter?

It sounds like a lady at the tea table could say to her friends: “Fred came home at lunch time and gave my quim a good seeing-to!”

Why not give it a try next time?

— Frenulum

Vocabulary

My public language is pristine; no friend or colleague has ever heard me use any of the common taboo words that seem to spill with increasing ease from more and more mouths. I find it terribly rude, for one thing, the verbal equivalent of spitting on the carpet every few seconds; for another, I consider it to be a sort of broadcast IQ test, the verbal tic acting as a gauge of one’s limited imagination and vocabulary.

But mostly I refrain because overuse blunts the words, and they have an exciting place in the bedroom. Words like fuck and pussy and cocksucker are spicy and interesting, playful and arousing, between intimates at intimate times. But if they have been worn to dullness — if the guy who won’t take your dare is a pussy, if the car that merges too close is driven by a cocksucker, if every fucking sentence is fucking full of fucking noise — then there is no vocabulary left for playtime. No chance of a little thrill by whispering something racy and private.

Finally, here is what perplexes me endlessly. Why do women ever date men who talk like this? Many do, you know. It absolutely mystifies me.

— Frenulum

P.S. I typed the title “Vocabulary” and then wrote a completely different post than I intended to. Mystery number two is how my mind works, if “works” is even a fair description of it.

Tuesday

I watched for a while. Waiting is something significant to both of us: the pause that clearly communicates that nothing else matters. Once she found a place for her hands, she was still; I admire that.

In time, I walked silently to her. It was not necessary to speak, because the situation was one we had discussed hundreds of times. With care and respect and a shared sense of all the action meant, I took hold of her panties and lowered them, past her bottom, down her legs.

She is an independent, capable, self-sufficient, strong, decisive, influential, powerful woman. Which gives meaning to her submission. That is the kernel. Weakness cannot submit. Helplessness cannot submit. Only a whole, strong person can give her Self with joy and pride.

She waited for me, bare, vulnerable, exposed, undefended... hopeful. For as long as I needed her to.

— Frenulum

Inspiration

One of my favorites from the eminently quotable Sir Terry Pratchett:

Particles of raw inspiration sleet through the universe all the time. Every once in a while one of them hits a receptive mind, which then invents DNA or the flute sonata form or a way of making light bulbs wear out in half the time. But most of them miss. Most people go through their lives without being hit by even one.

— from Wyrd Sisters, 1980.

Mainstream

The current issue (August 2011) of National Geographic uses, without introduction or explanation, the word fembot.

It was only ten years ago that I published Order, and at the time thought I had broken new ground with the idea of robotic sex partners. The fembot term was already a staple of story codes; I had simply not been aware of it as an established genre.

Still... interesting to find it in a mainstream publication, without a hint of a blush.

— Frenulum

Tuesday

I decided. “Heels and panties,” I said. “Face the curtain and wait for me.”

“Stockings too?” she asked as she undressed, since she was wearing sheer thigh-highs and knows I like them.

“Yes.”

Ready, she waited, standing with her back to me, nervous, apprehensive, wondering. Her hands met behind her back: it is required when she kneels for me, but there was no precedent for this situation. Her fingers twisted and twined, betraying her anxiety. After a while she moved her hands, lacing her fingers together atop her head. I had not demanded that pose, although it is something of a tradition for a girl about to be spanked. She was exquisitely beautiful, waiting for my word.

I watched her, from a chair across the room. Supremely happy with her submission.

Then it was time.

— Frenulum

Good friends

One huge beach towel. Three good friends: Angel, Brittney, Charlotte. Sunning and snoozing and chatting on a hot day at the shore.

They turned as a unit. When one girl felt baked on one side she flipped over; the others always followed suit: synchronized sunbathing.

It was during one such move that one bumped another and the playfulness began. Soon they were rolling over each other like gymnasts, tumbling and tangling and giggling like crazy.

Ass to ass. Breasts to breasts. Front to back. Skin to skin, in string bikinis that hid almost nothing of their trim young bodies. Unconscious of the spectacle, cavorting like puppies in a pile.

Eventually they rested; but for the rest of the afternoon when one or another got the giggle-fits she would roll over the girl next to her, and it would all start again.

That night, Angel and Brittney slept soundly.

Charlotte lay awake in the dark of her bedroom, playing with her virgin pussy, remembering the bodies of her best friends, dreaming of things she barely understood, cumming again and again.

— Frenulum

Sequel

I have been asked to write sequels to various stories over the years; I have accepted such requests as genuine compliments and filed them away, but without ever really intending to follow through.

In general, I don’t feel like revisiting characters. Most of them spend years in my mind, and I am happy to let them go have their own lives in your imaginations, if you are so inclined.

But a very persuasive reader has made a stellar case for revisiting one story — interestingly, not one that gets a lot of sequel requests.

Stay tuned for updates!

— Frenulum

Too late wise

I was looking at a photograph today of a girl wearing her panties at half-mast, in preparation for a spanking, and out of the blue I found myself wondering if those who design panties spend any time thinking about how they will look when submissively lowered.

Immediately, another thought hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks: panties are designed! Somewhere in the world there are people who design panties for a living. They select or even commission the fabrics, choose the decorative trim, decide on the shape and form and coverage (or lack thereof), and cut and sew samples. And they put them on models, check the look and fit, and make adjustments as needed. As a job.

Which leads to an inescapable conclusion:

I have terribly misspent my entire working life.

— Frenulum

The Moment of Truth

Many years ago, a wise friend, about ten years my senior, said to me:

The moment of truth comes in an elevator. You find yourself in an elevator with a really beautiful woman. She’s young, she’s gorgeous, she’s unescorted… and she strikes up a conversation with you. Instead of just riding silently, staring at the doors, she starts talking.

Do you know what that means? He asked, shaking his head.

It means you’re safe. You are no threat. You are old enough that there is nothing sexual left about you — no potential, no interest, no basic humanity — there is nothing left of you in her view except that you have expired… and therefore it is safe to have a conversation.

I think I laughed at the time, which now I regret.

I think it was about four or five years later…

I used to work on the 7th floor of an office building that had a modeling agency on the 4th floor. Pretty girls were very much a constant of the trip up. One day, I was about to head up when someone caught the door in the lobby and squeaked in. Six feet tall in heels. Brown hair to mid-back. Flawless makeup. Little black dress at 7:00 in the morning. Figure from a photo-shoot.

She smiled at me and asked if I didn't think it was the nicest day so far of the summer.

And I thought: I have expired.

I was reminded of this story today, when a tartlet at the lunchtime beach chose to plant her bikini-bared bottom about two feet in front of my face while I sat on my usual bench. No notion that the grey-haired rock on the shoreline would take any notice at all.

Fortunately, there is one in my life who knows I am still sentient :o) That makes all the difference.

Continual Improvement

If I go to him and say “I’m ready now,” he’ll spank me. Pain so fierce and deep it’s like a burn. To surrender myself, to bare my own bottom, to beg for it, is almost unthinkable.

Until I do, though, it hangs over my head — it will never just go away. Knowing that I’ve been disobedient, that I disappointed him, that I haven’t yet atoned and been forgiven — it makes my stomach churn and my whole body shake and I can’t even think…

He watches me crawl across the living room. When I get to his chair, I kneel before him, eyes overflowing, and with trembling fingers pull down my panties. “I’m ready now, Sir. Please… please may I have my spanking?”

He glances at his watch. “Six hours,” he says. “You’re doing better every time.”

— Frenulum

I won’t take that lying down

At work today I had the chance... wrong word... duty... no... burden!... not harsh enough... hellish experience of editing some text penned by colleagues.

I will hazard that the most common error (in English) is the unnecessary apostrophe, most commonly seen when it’s is mistakenly substituted for its. Funny, I never see hi’s or her’s, but it’s seems to have a cobra-like fascination.

But for second place in frequency, and first in how irritating I find it, is the persistent confusion of lie and lay.

After fixing a few of those, I recalled an episode from a few years ago. I was talking to a neighbor couple, and the husband kept saying to their golden retriever: “Lay down! Lay down!” Frustrated by the doggie’s noncompliance, he asked his wife why he (the dog) wouldn’t listen. She replied, “Because he speaks better English than you do?”

The only way one can lay down is to glue a coating of little feathers to the floor. I have yet to see it.

Sorry, folks. Venting. Engineers cannot write. Argh.

— Frenulum

It gets harder near the end

Writing, that is. Why, what were you thinking?

I have mentioned elsewhere that I am a pretty tough editor, and that I can’t remember ever re-reading one of my stories without finding something I wanted to change.

This gets to be a problem as a WIP approaches its conclusion — for before I trust myself to add more to it, I feel that I have to read it to synchronize my mental mood and voice, so that the end result will not have obvious seams in it. But in reading I edit, and sometimes (often) find that all the time I allocated to writing has gone to editing.

Frustrating, a little, because Four Bars is so close to finished. I just need one simple blowjob scene. One perfectly ordinary gratitude-soaked submissive artful cocksucking episode with a satisfyingly sticky conclusion. Just need to get to it.

Why oh why does the world insist we have day jobs? :o)

— Frenulum

Mobile

I have enabled, experimentally, a mobile-aware version of the template for this blog. I would be interested in hearing from anyone who browses the site on a mobile device. Do you like that alternate format? Or not?

Thanks!

— Frenulum

Welcome home

My belovèd and I were enjoying this photo together this morning, and though I really don’t want to get picture-centered here (I am a writer after all, in some fashion), it is too marvelous not to share.

Her devotion is so clearly seen. Her face is inside him, or as close as can physically be managed. His care and appreciation are equally evident: the hand on her head is not so much forceful — though we could assume that it would be if necessary — as confident and relaxed. Stroking, admiring, loving her service, appreciative, and grateful.
I love his mirrored hands. I said this morning: I really hope he doesn’t drop the wine glass... but I kinda think he does.
Two more small points to appreciate.
One, her dress is pulled up to reveal her bottom. Is there, perhaps, a cabinet with a glass door behind her? Or a mirror? Either way, it seems evident that she knows what he loves and has arranged to present that beauty to him as best she can.
And two... I have to have those yummy heels. Um... not for me. As a gift :o)
— Frenulum

Fraud

Four of the starting nine on the AL All-Star roster are from the Evil Empire?

Jeter? Really? I mean, come on. Seriously? An indifferent shortstop — who hasn’t even played enough to qualify for a fielding average, but would be in 44th place if he had — ranked 257th in on-base average? REALLY?

<gag>

Six of nine from two AL teams.

Fan voting has to end right now.

— Frenulum

Contrasts

The kitchen floor and the elegant bedroom attire.
The submissive posture and the relaxed, casually crossed ankles.
The cold, square surroundings and the warm, curvy girl.
I’m having a hard time imagining a story to go with this... but I think it’s a beautiful image.
Does it tell a story for you? Help me out. Please comment.
— Frenulum