Fame

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— Frenulum

Wings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let us begin,” invited Eri.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So much!” Isa exclaimed in wonder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— Frenulum

Most illuminating

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

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

“Oh, too bad.”

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

“Mmm. Wow — another flashlight?”

“Not this time.”

“Feels like a D-cell.”

“Keep that up and it just might be.”

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

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

“Oh… that sounds really good. Sir?”

“Yes?”

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

— Frenulum

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

Substitute

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

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

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

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

— Frenulum

Perpetual motion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I allowed myself the smallest of unnoticeable smiles.

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

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

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

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

“But that’ll take months and —”

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

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

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

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

— Frenulum

Caution

Sorry, I haven't any indication of the source or author.

Number, Please

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— Frenulum

RIP

Sir Terry Pratchett died today.

He was one of my favorite authors and greatest inspirations.

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

More details from the BBC.

:o(


Addendum: see also this 2009 interview.

Good grief

From google:

Dear Blogger User,
This week, you received an email telling you about some changes we were making to the Blogger Content Policy. In that email, we announced a change to Blogger's porn policy stating that blogs that distributed sexually explicit images or graphic nudity would be made private.

We've received lots of feedback about making a policy change that impacts longstanding blogs and the negative impact on individuals who post sexually explicit content to express their identities.We appreciate the feedback. Instead of making this change, we will be maintaining our existing policies...

So apparently I trashed all the images here for nothing. And of course there's no option to revert the changes. As Charlie Brown would say: “Aaarrrgghhh.”

— Frenulum

Hide your sensitive eyes

I have been notified by Google that they will no longer allow sexually explicit images on blogger.com, and that blogs not in compliance (mine) will be blocked.

This explains why you now see

everywhere there used to be a beautiful photograph of people doing what loving people actually do in their normal healthy consensual adult relationships. (Or panties. I had lots of pictures of panties.)

May the precious little snowflakes at Google sleep peacefully now. As for me, I'm going to go watch some religious beheadings on youtube (a Google company).

— Frenulum