Training

I pressed the intercom button. “Myra, Sir, how may I help you?” answered a not-yet-familiar voice.

“A small Bushmill’s, neat, in the library please.”

“Right away, Sir.”

A few minutes passed, then the door opened. Myra slipped in carrying a silver tray with a glass, and a small plate with a selection of cheeses and breads. I was impressed, and said so. “Your own idea?”

“Yes, Sir,” she replied, with a slight blush. “I thought, if you weren’t in the mood, there would be no harm in putting them back away later.”

I smiled at her. “I do appreciate initiative, my dear.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“It’s 5:20, Myra. Why have you not changed from your afternoon to your evening uniform?”

She glanced down at herself. A fitted dark-grey dress; a white lace waist-to-hem apron more for style than efficacy; high black heels, sheer black stockings, garter straps; lace in her hair and around her wrists. And, befitting her status as a new trainee, a short narrow leather paddle hanging from her belt. “I — I’m sorry, Sir. I’ve been so busy, and there just wasn’t time to — ”

“Busy with what?”

“Dusting, Sir. Sandy gave me a list of rooms that needed to be done over.”

“Sandy is your mentor?” She nodded.

“Wait here, please.” I tapped the intercom again and waited through one buzz.

“Kelly, Sir, how may I help you?”

“Find Sandy and send her to the library right away, please.”

“Of course, Sir. On her way.”

The wait was of a few minutes only. Sandy entered the library, properly attired — which is to say barely at all — for evening service. I saw her sizing up the situation, and then a little bit of a defeated slump of the shoulders. “Myra,” I addressed the apprentice maid, “You’ve made a few mistakes this afternoon and evening, and so instead of giving you the evening shift off, I would like you to work it. Go to your room, look up the evening service dress code in your manual, prepare accordingly, and return here. Take your time and get it right.”

“Yes, Sir; thank you, Sir,” she replied.

“Before you go —” She turned back to me. “Leave your daytime panties with me.” Without hesitation, Myra reached up under her brief skirt and tugged her panties down and off, dropping them into my outstretched hand. Then she left to take care of her instructions.

I turned my attention to Sandy. “Strip to heels,” I ordered, and she hurried to comply. I took my feet off the ottoman and with a gesture indicated that Sandy should stretch across it. She had enough experience to position her bare bottom on its right edge. I wadded up Myra’s used panties and stuffed them into Sandy’s mouth.

“As you know, your job is to help the new girls find their way. To guide them into good behavior, to call their attention to things that might be overlooked, to suggest and remind them of ways to offer superior service.” As I spoke, I rummaged through the drawer of the end table, finally selecting a wide two-tail tawse. “It is most definitely not your task to lead your charges into trouble, misbehavior, or poor performance. Remember, you are not competing with each other for a position here. I train servants for other households. Everyone will be most satisfied if everyone is performing up to her abilities.” Without further lecture or fuss, I began to strap the defenseless, naked, offered-up bottom before me, meting out a reminder of good behavior in very full measure indeed.

Myra returned, my evening servant for the next few hours, in time to see the last few minutes of Sandy’s first episode. There would, of course, be others through the evening. Something for Myra to call to mind some day in the future, when a skittish and easily confused new lass was put into her hands for special guidance.

It is true that, for the most part, I train to a professional level and then meet the needs of other households. Rarely, but occasionally, I do keep a girl for my own staff. I sipped my drink, watched the play of pinks shifting on Sandy’s bare ass, and thought that perhaps I might take Myra to bed with me. There are some talents that must be evaluated and developed personally.

— Frenulum

News

She had won the bet, and it was time for the pay-off.

She wore a cream-colored blouse and a light blue blazer. A modest string of pearls adorned her neck.

Her hair was perfect; her makeup was perfect. People saw to that sort of thing.

She sat behind her desk. Nobody could see that she was naked from the waist down — except for her heels, of course: no sane woman loses that advantage.

The crew knew, and there were plenty of smirks and smiles and wisecracks, but the execs did not and the viewers would never guess.

The director said, “People! On air in six, five, four, three.” The last two seconds were counted with hand gestures.

Lights blazed. The director pointed.

“Good evening, I’m Jenna Jenkins for Chanel 44 News. My partner Steve Sommers has the night off. We’ll have breaking weather news in five minutes. First, city police have answered several related calls in a downtown neighborhood with a history of…”

She was poised and professional and calm. The more the crew had to struggle to contain themselves, the steadier she got.

Below the desk, out of sight, co-anchor Steve ate Jenna’s pussy. He had lost the bet.

On purpose.

— Frenulum

Schadenfreude

Only thing better than having the Evil Empire swept in the postseason?

Watching it happen with $114,000,000 of no-trade-clause sitting on the bench.

Thanks, A-Roid, you made the season enjoyable after all.

Passing grade

“You got an A in phyics.”

“Yeah?”

“So now, Mom and Dad expect me to get an A in physics.”

“Ok, so… study hard or something.”

“Oh, knock it off. How did you even pass? It’s hard.”

“Well… is Morrison still teaching it?”

“Yeah. The strictest, meanest bastard in the whole stupid place.”

“You can get an A, then, if it’s him.”

“How?”

“Come into my room, I’ll show you.”

“Oh my god, what’s that?”

“Take your clothes off.”

“What? Are you — you are, you’re serious.”

“Strip. Get on the bed on all fours.”

“But, but — I…”

“Naked, on the bed, on elbows and knees, right now, and I’ll show you how to get an A in physics.”

“I, um — what’s that?”

“Lube.”

“Lube?”

“Yeah. So this will fit in your asshole.”

“My — my —”

“Trust me, little sister. You want an A? This is how I got mine.”

“Oh god stop stop stop that hurts!”

“This? This is nothing. This is just a little toy cock. This is nothing compared to Mr. Morrison. He is fucking huge.”

“Aaaaaaa!!!!”

“Oh, by the way? You’ll need to pay up in advance for every grade. Before every quiz, midterm, final, lab project…”

“There's — aaaaaaa!! a quiz — aaaaaa! every week! Oh god would you get that thing out of my bottom?”

“I know, little sis. I said you could get an A. I did not say an ‘easy A’.”

A concentration of linguistic peeves

They are not pet peeves, mind you. If there is a sense of “pet” that means the ones that really, really make one see red — and I am not sure there is — then these three are not pets. But they came up in close proximity, and so I choose to gripe aloud.

Wait. Not aloud. What’s the blog equivalent of aloud? Hmm. Does anyone out there have a screen-reader so I don’t have to think about this?

Anyway…

Three peeves from one trip to a restaurant. First:

“How many?”

“Three.”

“Awesome. This way.”

“Awesome? Really? Awesome? No. The aurora borealis is awesome. The Lockheed SR-71 is awesome. A child acquiring language is awesome. The so-called “dark matter” in DNA is awesome. The submission of a strong capable powerful independent self-reliant brilliant woman to one and only one man is awesome. Seating three people for dinner is routine, mundane, uninteresting, perhaps even tedious. If that’s your definition of awe, give up now.

Second:

“Are you guys ready to order?”

Well, first of all, obviously by inspection, we are not guys. I might be a “guy” if you knew me better, which you don’t, so that’s rather an impolite address to begin with, but in any case that won’t work for the other two-thirds of the party.

In English, the second-person singular is you, and the second-person plural is you. It really is not that hard. “Are you ready to order?”

An exemption for certain parts of the southern United States: the second-person singular is you, the second-person plural is y’all, and the second person comprehensive — everybody — is all y’all. But none of those blatantly push the women in the group into a male-slang box.

Third:

“Are you still working on that?”

Oh. You consider that eating the food served in this establishment is onerous? You seek to relieve me of the burden of lifting yet another forkful of barely not poisonous slop to my mouth? Really? I thought I was here to enjoy eating, as a pleasure. Work? Sit down and let me tell you what my work is until you face-plant into the table from insufferable boredom. And no, by the way, you cant’t turn the table yet, I still have a little wine left, not that it’s all that good.

Whew.

I get these moods sometimes. Thank you for bearing with me.

— Frenulum

A serious note

I learned today that a regular reader, and occasional contributor to this blog, is facing cancer surgery in the coming days. The prognosis is good but the ordeal, as usual, is scary and uncomfortable and — well, all of the things that surgery tends to be. She has held on to her usual great sense of humor throughout.

Whatever your philosophy of the universe might be, if you could take a minute to send thoughts, prayers, good karma, hugs, supportive vibes, double rainbows, or whatever you can manage to Nancy, I will be in your debt.

Thank you.

— Frenulum

“Yes, Sir.”

I ran across an internet poster the other day: you know, one of those images with a clever caption photoshopped across it. (Aside: Adobe must just be driven mad by the non-trademark uses of "photoshop.") It was attempting to make a striking statement about the kind of relationship often characterized as “dominant/submissive.”

It said, as best I can recall: It’s simple. I tell you what to do, and you answer “Yes, Sir.”

That is just so wrong.

Exercise for the reader: why is it that the rarest words for a good submissive girl to utter are “Yes, Sir”?

Anyone care to comment?

— Frenulum

p

Exactly

Sports appreciation

If your husband or boyfriend seems unusually interested in the coming Olympic Games, it’s probably just that whole guys-love-sports thing going on. Nothing to worry about.

Video: 100-meter Hurdles

Although odds are he’s not really paying all that much attention to the Table Tennis :o)

— Frenulum

Monday

My belovèd and I are off on a little vacation for a while.

We have been planning for quite some time to start the adventure off with a spanking, and after the successful experiment last time with a leather strap, she didn’t even have to ask if I was giving it room in my bag.

But I also threw in a surprise: a two-tail double tawse called The Angel Maker that I ordered from cane-iac (I have no affiliation with the store other than as a satisfied two-time customer). The implication, of course, it that it can turn even a dreadfully naughty girl into an angel of behavior; I figured it would be effective on my very good girl just as well.

She had described the simple strap as delivering “a thousand wasp stings” with every smack. The Angel Maker, she says, has no apt analogy, but packs “exponentially” more sting.

I am not in the product endorsement business nor do I know what’s good for you and yours, but it might not hurt to take a peek. Well, it might hurt one of you quite a bit :o)

— Frenulum

Observation

She came into the living room, where she knew he was waiting. She wore a simple but flattering black cocktail dress, sheer black stockings, and high spike heels. Her short brown hair was brushed to a shine, long gold earrings dangled from her lobes; her gamine’s face was lovely, her lips glossy and inviting.

“Are you ready to go right now?” he asked. Stern overtones remained in his voice, and his face was no more relaxed than hers.

“Yes.”

“Hands against the wall.”

She put her clutch purse aside, faced the wall, and bent forward, bracing herself on her arms. He lifted her dress; when its tightness no longer restrained her legs she spread them wide. Her black lace thong panties accented crimson buns above burning upper thighs.

He pulled her panties down until they stretched tautly between her beautiful legs.

He picked up the short, heavy leather strap. “I am refreshing your spanking to emphasize the topic we spoke about. I’ll be concentrating on your sit-spot, to make sure I know where your attention is for the rest of the evening.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He began to ply the strap: its sharp sounds rang loud. Crack! Crack! Crack! Every smack stung like a thousand wasps. Yelping was permitted, kicking prohibited; so she yelped and stood still.

He paused. “Three more, each side, extremely hard.” The last strokes found the tenderized junctures of thighs and bottom, with terrible precision.

“Fix your clothes,” he said, putting the strap down. He turned to the living room couch, where their 16-year-old baby-sitter sat, trembling and wide-eyed, unable to turn away. “Take good care of Jamie, please,” he said to her. “We’ll be back by midnight for sure.”

— Frenulum

Something to think about

“Should is going to kill you.”

Spectacle

The thunder was continuous; silence banished, almost hard to recall. It was as if a hundred aspiring thunder gods were competing for ascendancy, hurling their most terrible winds at each other from every corner of the sky.

Lightning, too, was not a matter of a flash here or a bolt there; rather an aurora-like shimmer of varying intensities, the brightest spots hurtling around the horizon but no place ever dim.

The clouds were a photographer’s soft-box for the lightning, so that when a backyard tree became an x-ray of a tree, it was limned against pure, bright white, intense and sky-filling, throwing each wind-whipped leaf into the sharpest imaginable relief.

There was rain as well, but hard and insistent as it was, it was pitiful against the majesty and violence of the noise and brilliance.

A good night to sit up, neglect sleep, and marvel.

— Frenulum

A walk in the park

As I walked the long path toward the beach, young men — teens and twenties — hurried the opposite way, toward the parking lot. Some looked confused, clutching their towels and coolers and toys; they all looked determined.

When I turned the last curve and saw the beach area, the sight was familiar. On the beach proper: families with tots and toddlers. Mostly moms, a few dads. Pails and float toys, picnics and squeals of laughter and excitement. On the opposite side of the path, on the grass: bikini-clad sunbathers stretched on towels, a menu for an appreciative man. Just girls, now, the boys having fled.

The families focused toward the shore. None turned around to see the events on the grass.

It’s funny how a certain style comes to adhere to every lake. At this one, bikinis are string-sided, with bare skin showing from ankle to bra strap. Quite delightful.

I sat on a picnic bench, my back to the table, and contemplated the menu. Girls turned over from time to time to toast the other side; they tended to do so in unison per cluster, which I have always found endearing.

Then the first one approached me, walking toward the bench with an appealing twitch in her hips. “Hi,” she said, “My name is Brooke.” She reached behind her back, and untied her top. When it was free, she put it on the picnic table, leaning over me and brushing one bare breast against my cheek. She straightened up and untied the bottom of her suit. “I have been with one boyfriend, and we’ve done vaginal and oral sex,” she continued, tossing the swimsuit panties on the table. “Well… I’ve sucked him — he hasn’t done me, yet. I wish he would.” With a formal curtsey she turned and went back to her blanket.

“Hi. I’m Christie. I’m a virgin,“ said the next girl, as she stripped out of her tiny suit and tossed it over my shoulder onto the table. A cutie indeed, petite and perky, with her pussy bare just as I like.

“Hello, my name is Allison. I’ve had three lovers, and except for anal I’ve tried everything.” One girl after another followed, giving me an introduction, a sexual history, and a strip show; each returned to her spot to sun in the nude, as the bikinis piled high on the picnic table.

When they were all arrayed before me, I chose two of the virgins. Unfortunately, it’s the only way to protect against disease. Reading minds can pick out the ones who know they are carriers, but not the ones who are unaware. It would be a nice change to enjoy some experience, but I can’t risk it. The two selected girls gathered up their clothes, purses, and so on, and walked with me to the car. To get things started, I had them stop every now and then for a kiss.

As we pulled away, I released my hold on the park. Even from such a distance, the astonished screams and squeals of the naked sunbathers put a smile on my face. One of these days I think I’ll just stick around, sitting at the table full of mixed-up bikinis, and watch.

— Frenulum

Tabitha’s turn

(A sequel to Another Step)

“Caro, could I…”

“What?”

“No — never mind.”

“What?” Carolyn insisted.

“Well… would it be ok if, um…” Tabitha paused, blushed, swallowed. “If I — only if it’s totally ok with you — um… looked at you? Like, a little bit more carefully?”

“Look at me?” asked Carolyn, momentarily perplexed.

“At, like, your… pussy?”

Carolyn regarded her best friend for a few quiet seconds. Then, in answer, she rose to her knees, unfastened her uniform kilt, pulled it off, and dropped it on the floor by the bed, joining her panties. Watching Tabitha’s face, she stretched out on her back, and finally spread her legs apart.

On elbows and knees, Tabitha crept closer, until her head was between Carolyn's parted thighs. Carolyn felt breath, soft and warm, caressing her.

"Um. Could, um… could you, like, show me kind of, more inside?" Tabitha asked, with a tremor in her voice.

"You do it."

"Oh," said Tabitha. Carolyn’s sudden confidence — even boldness — was difficult to adapt to. With uncertain fingers she reached out, touched her best friend forever, and opened her.

“Oh god,” Tabitha whispered. “It’s… if the pictures in the textbook were good, I would have —”

“What?”

“You’re so… interesting. And pretty. Is this where…”

“I pee.”

“Yes. It’s so tiny. I can hardly see it. Caro, can I ask you something like, super lame and stupid?”

“Yes.” Carolyn put all of her reassurance into her voice.

“How big is a penis?” asked Tabitha.

“I don’t know exactly. But…” Carolyn made a circle with her fingers. “Something like this, I think.”

"Yeah but," said Tabitha. "But… I mean, I thought so too, but… you're just like…"

“That’s the virgin thing,” said Carolyn. “How it has to stretch the first time, or tear even. That’s what the first-time-hurts deal is all about.”

“Oh. Am I…”

“Just like me,” Carolyn said.

“Oh. Ok. I guess… ok, I get that.”

Tabitha looked intently at her friend, opened up in front of her eyes, prettier than a textbook and far more intimate, close, personal. A treasure.

“Can I do that to you?”

“What?” Carolyn asked, but she knew.

“The same. Make you… like you did for me… you know.”

“Please,” said Carolyn.

— Frenulum

Another step

(A sequel to Study Group)

Carolyn sat up on the bed. Tabitha lay panting, trembling, with her eyes closed; Carolyn watched her fondly, her initial shyness gone. She looked between Tabby’s wide-spread legs at the feminine flower she had just come to know so well, admiring the glistening folds of her lips and the swollen bud of her clitoris. Tabitha’s hymen fascinated her: so much a topic of hushed talk and rumor amongst the tartlets, but never confronted so clearly and boldly. It looked more robust than fragile, a more daunting barrier than the stories suggested; Carolyn wanted to touch it with her fingers as her tongue had just done.

Minutes passed until Tabitha’s eyes fluttered open. When she caught Carolyn’s gaze her face flushed deep pink. She grabbed a corner of a sheet, to pull it over her nudity, but it was caught, and eventually she stopped trying. “Thanks, Caro,” Tabby said. “I know that… I mean, it wasn’t easy, I know, to… well, help me so much.”

“I liked it,” Carolyn said simply. And mustering a last scrap of courage added, “I liked licking your pussy.” When the words were out she blushed, but her gaze held Tabitha’s eyes.

Tabitha’s face grew suddenly serious. “It’s a sin, isn’t it?” she asked. “A mortal sin — sex except with your husband, right?” She propped herself up on her elbows, paying no attention to her parted legs or wet, open pussy. “We both have to go to Confession this Saturday.”

“Won’t help,” Carolyn replied.

“Why?”

“’Cause to confess you have to be sorry,” Carolyn answered. “I’m not sorry. I don’t regret anything. I’m happy I sucked you, and I liked it, and if you let me I’ll do it again. If that’s a sin then… I don’t care.”

Tabitha bit her lip and studied her friend’s resolute expression.

She leaned forward, took Carolyn’s head in her hands. Drew her close.

They kissed.

Neither girl had given or received a serious kiss. For a few seconds, it was awkward. After a few seconds, it was normal, natural, intense, delicious, essential, vital.

When they came up for air, Tabitha said, “Um… this is… kinda… practice for having boyfriends, right?”

Carolyn kissed her again. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I’m… a little confused — a lot confused and not ready and — and… I don’t know. We’ll see.” Their next kiss was longer, deeper, and not at all uncertain.

— Frenulum

You know you›ve reached a certain age…

…when you find yourself steering for the curb cuts at street corners…

…while out on a walk.

— Frenulum

What will the neighbors think?

Her moans and screams and exclamations had been growing louder and less restrained, minute by minute, stroke after plunging stroke.

“Fuck me, Sir!!!” she cried, loud and clear. Since I was already doing exactly that, molto con brio, I interpreted the words as: don’t slow down, I’m so close to cumming.

But the words were distinct, her cry visceral and urgent.

A little bit later, while we were panting and cooling down, I glanced at the bedroom windows. Yup. Open.

The block party next Sunday is going to be a little bit interesting.

— Frenulum

Art appreciation

If you were the woman at the garden party on Wednesday afternoon, with well-tanned skin, wearing white bikini panties under a light-weight white cotton sundress, and standing with full sunlight shining directly upon you like an x-ray spotlight…

Thank you very much.

— Frenulum

Steam

The mechanism of the reclining airline seat hasn’t changed since I was flying Constellations in the early 1960s. In fact, even the form-factor and feel of the push-button hasn’t changed a bit, a remarkable consistency in the face of so much technological change.

What has changed, though, is the economics of the industry. One response by the airlines has been to order cabin floor plans with the rows closer, and closer, and closer together.

What once was a means to relax and enjoy a long flight has now become nothing short of an assault on the stranger behind you. Reclining a seat is an arrogant, selfish claim of importance and precedence. You are an insufferable moron if you attempt it.

Yes, 24C, I’m talking to you and all your insensitive self-centered ignorant kind. The reason you had so much trouble is that my femurs are exactly the distance between my seat and yours. And I have those old-fashioned non-telescoping kind. Jerk.

— Frenulum

P.S. I never call moronic insensitive jerks “assholes” because I quite admire assholes. Many are pretty and all are useful. Unlike, in both respects, 24C.

Study group

(A sequel to Once begun)

The hardest part for Carolyn…

The first hardest part had been meeting Tabitha after school, tacitly agreeing to help her. She could barely make eye contact with her best friend, let alone talk with her. Just by standing together in the hallway, Carolyn had yielded so much of her privacy and innocence.

The hardest part — well, the next hardest part — had been taking her panties off in Tabitha’s bedroom. She left her kilt on, in fact all of the rest of her uniform; not that it offered any coverage, but she felt less bare. Still: spreading her legs, and knowing that Tabitha could see her… her… Carolyn knew the proper words from Biology class, but she had always just thought of it vaguely: “down there” or “my parts.” Tabitha called it her “pussy” and nearly sent Carolyn running from the room, though she had heard the word before.

The hardest part for Carolyn was spreading her legs, with Tabitha watching closely, and masturbating, the afternoon after the night she had touched herself for the first time. Knowing how closely her intimate act was being watched.

The really hardest part was forcing her eyes to look at Tabitha’s…oh god… pussy… while her friend tried to copy the motions of her fingers. It felt so invasive, far too intimate despite their long friendship. “I shouldn’t know what she looks like there,” Carolyn thought, even as her attention and her gaze grew more steady.

Tabitha tried to mimic what Carolyn did. But as Carolyn started to breathe harder, to close her eyes, to rock her head back, Tabitha said “It’s just not working. Help me.”

Carolyn drifted back into focus. “Um… ok… I — how?”

“I don’t know,” Tabitha whined.

“Here… let me… I’ll…” Carolyn sat up, abandoning her own efforts, and her kilt fell back into place to offer a scrap of modesty. She leaned forward. “Can I… touch your hand?” She looked into her friend’s eyes.

“Um. Ok,” said Tabitha, not without nervousness.

Carolyn reached out, and placed her fingers gently on top of the ones that covered her friend’s vulva. ”Let me…” she said, beginning to move Tabitha’s fingers with her own. There was, inevitably, contact between Carolyn’s hand and Tabitha’s intimate treasures, and both girls blushed fiercely — but did not stop.

After a while: “It’s better,” Tabitha said, somewhat breathless. “I think I get it.”

“Good. Keep going.”

Carolyn watched her friend for a while, discomfort almost gone. “You are so pretty,” she blurted.

Tabitha colored even more. “You mean…”

“Yeah. I never… I mean, I never even looked at mine, really.”

“Yeah. Me either.” Tabitha closed her eyes. “Thank you.” A few minutes passed. “Oh, Caro, it’s so nice, but it’s still not working!”

Carolyn was thoughtful. Eighteen hours after her first sexual experience, alone in her bedroom, it seemed far too abrupt. But. But.

“Well…” she said.

“What?”

“There’s… I mean, I don’t really know, it’s just… Something I’ve heard about.”

“What?” asked Tabitha, searching Carolyn’s face.

“Just close your eyes for a minute.”

“Why?”

“Just close them, Tabby,” Carolyn said, softly but firmly.

Tabitha was curious, but they had a long foundation of trust. She closed her eyes and sank back against the pillows. Carolyn leaned closer.

New to the art, Carolyn had to learn as she went along But her friend’s strange taste became familiar quickly, and soon her tongue was dancing on Tabitha’s sensitive clit.

“Oh… oh… don’t stop… don’t stop… oh my… oh…”

“Mmmmmm”

“Oh Carolyn what are you doing to me?!?!?!? Oh — Oh Carolyn — it… it’s WORKING!!!”

“Mmmmmmmmmmmm”

“Oh oh OH OH AaaaaaahhhAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaah!!!”

“Mmmhmm.” Carolyn raised her head. “It’s like that,” she said, and licked her lips.

— Frenulum

Once begun...

(A sequel to Beginning)

Carolyn had no sooner been dropped off at school than she was accosted by her dear friend Tabitha, who grabbed her by the arm and pulled her far away from the crowd of arriving schoolgirls.

“So,” said Tabitha sotto voce. “Did you… you know?”

“Did I what?” Carolyn replied.

“After Mr. C. said it wasn’t wrong —”

Carolyn caught on, and her face flushed pink. “Tabby! You can’t ask stuff like that! Oh my god! That’s so private.”

Tabitha grinned. “You did try it.” Her friend’s deepening blush confirmed the conclusion. Tabitha glanced around once more to make sure they had privacy.

“Did it… work?”

“What do —”

“You know… climax.” Tabitha whispered.

Carolyn paused for a beat before nodding her head, admitting all.

“Was it as good as people say?”

“Oh, Tabby. It’s like… like nothing else at all. Wonderful and intense and… it rushes through you, it…” She trailed off, remembering dreamily. Then: “You never…”

It was Tabitha’s turn to blush. “I tried last night, too. And… it was nice, but it didn’t… work. I gotta know what it feels like. So, you need to help me.”

“What?” gasped Carolyn.

“Come home with me after school, and show me how. You could maybe do it and I can watch you and copy. Or… maybe you could do it for me once.”

“F-f-f-for you?” stammered Carolyn.

“Yeah, like, your fingers, on my —

The morning bell interrupted. “Think about it!” called Tabitha as she ran for the door. “See you in Bio!” Then, from a distance: “I helped you with math homework. You can help me with Biology!”

Think about it? Carolyn though of nothing else. Until the day’s closing bell sounded.

— Frenulum

Beginning

Carolyn finished her homework, said goodnight to her parents, and headed upstairs. She had been quiet and thoughtful all evening, but nobody had remarked on it.

She washed up, brushed her teeth, went into her bedroom, and closed the door. Slowly, distracted, she took off her shoes, socks, blouse, bra, and skirt. She got a nightie from the dresser and wiggled into it.

Earlier that day in Biology class, during a lesson on reproduction, her friend Ashley — not nearly as shy as Carolyn — had asked “Is it wrong to touch yourself?” At which many girls blushed or hid their faces, Carolyn included. But their teacher, Mr. Curtis, had explained that it was normal and natural and healthy, and even beneficial in certain ways. Carolyn had learned over the years to trust him.

With a little shiver, she reached under her nightie and slipped her panties off. She climbed into bed, and turned off the light.

“Natural and healthy,” Carolyn whispered softly. Then, under the covers, she pulled her nightie up to her waist, and began to learn about herself.

It was so good.

— Frenulum

Waiting

Her creativity is boundless. Her dedication thorough. Her ability to surprise me… still surprising.

I might wander in, hear ordinary domestic sounds from the kitchen, investigate and find her still in the skirt and blouse from her professional attire (and heels and stockings and garter and lacy panties, yum, just for me underneath), with an apron on, baking something.

Or I might find her right inside the front door. Kneeling, hands bound, eyes lowered, waiting to be taken.

Or up in our bedroom. In heels and panties, facing the corner. Something I need to hear about and fix.

Or on the dining room table, prostrate, surrounded by… a variety of suggestive toys. And my camera.

Or… someplace new, some new pose, a different outfit, another notion.

The point is not that she surprises me, although it’s true every day.

The point is, that as I travel homeward, the plane of the universe tilts. The point is that I know, in that last twenty minutes of the bus ride, that she is waiting, with nothing more important in her universe than that we will be merged again in a little while. The point is to be thought about and valued and desired. There is nothing in the world sexier than that.

— Frenulum

Wednesday

One last time on my lap, by hand.

It was hard — the hardest all day.

Then the heart pain was gone; the bottom pain began its long fade. Atonement complete, absolution granted, gratitude all that remained.

My gratitude for her trust and submission: for the gift of her Self that I strive to earn every day all over again.

Her gratitude that I can show her my love even in the difficult ways we have found to suit us. For being care-ful of her.

The rest of the morning was for gratitude, and it was, as I can also say of my belovèd, very, very good.

— Frenulum

Wednesday: Strap

There were more episodes. More pauses. All careful, thoughtful, deliberate; good for both of us.

She had mentioned several times, over the years, that friends had a strong preference for leather over wood. I paid attention.

I reminded her of that as she stretched across my lap, the spatula discarded and rejected.

The strap was a surprise: I had not announced buying it, and I had not shown it to her in advance. Short, it was meant to be used in close quarters, over the knee. A bit like a belt doubled over, with a portion fastened tight as a handle. Stiff leather, heavy, but flexible.

It worked. Very… extremely… effectively.

Sting, yes, to be sure. I had tested that on myself ahead of time: I knew how it would feel, and was confident I could use it responsibly. But also… more than sting. The out-loud crack of the doubled leather. The very idea of being strapped. An edge for me; for both of us, as it turned out. Effective: in more than the obvious sense.

After a while, it was time for my belovèd to return to corner. She chose, for the first time ever, to stand with her arms crossed against the wall, leaning forward against it, with her bottom presented to me. Submissively, deliberately offered. She was, as we had discussed, “red, sore, crying.”

Standing behind her, I was still holding the strap.

— Frenulum

Wednesday: Spatula

In time I had my belovèd return to corner. You may wonder at the odd omission of the definite article before corner: but I use the phrase to represent a traditional time of thoughtful waiting, not a location or a specific architecture. Sometimes I choose; sometimes she is free to, within limits that she understands. If memory serves, no actual corner has ever been involved.

I let her have her thoughts: about who we are together, and what we were accomplishing that morning. I needed time for mine as well. Nothing of this is routine or casual for us.

I told her to hold her hands out, palms up. I placed the bamboo spatula on them. And we waited together, quietly. When the time was right, I called her to bring it to me.

There was concern in her eyes as she placed the spatula in my hand. Perhaps part of it was for what her already-tender bottom was about to experience, but most was for me, and my “no implements” edge. Despite all our discussion, her chief worry was that I would push myself too far. Think about that.

I placed her prostrate at the foot of the bed, and began slowly and lightly.

---

When the smacks grew stronger, I grew more doubtful. When the business end landed absolutely flat, it lived up to potential: tons of sharp sting, next to no thud, and good surface color. But that “absolutely” is the problem. Any slight twist or tilt of my hand, or just a tiny bit off in the descending arc, caused the thin blade to land with a leading edge; being so thin, those edges were almost sharp. I didn't care for the way her skin was marking along those impact lines, and stopped quite soon. I released her; sent her back to corner, on her knees that time.

I do not like the bamboo spatula. My belovèd agrees. It is officially retired after one episode. May it enjoy the rest of its life as a kitchen tool.

— Frenulum

Wednesday

To talk about pleasure I have to acknowledge pain.

I do not want to cause my belovèd pain — my purpose is her joy. She does not enjoy pain; has never wanted it despite life-long spanking fantasies.

But being spanked is the most submissive act she knows. Submission is sexual and therefore being spanked is the most sensual, arousing, sexual, satisfying act she knows. Similarly, dominance carried out in such an unmistakable, direct, emphatic way arouses and satisfies my nature.

The want/don’t-want tension is constant. Ultimately, if rarely, the former trumps the latter for both of us.

But on Wednesday, there was cause, meaning that pain was already present. Heart pain, the pain of not meeting a standard, of not correcting an issue, of falling short of who she wants to be for me and for her own self-measure. Heart pain lingers and worsens, as I have written elsewhere. It can be transmuted into bottom pain, whence it can fade away.

So… let us focus on the pleasures.

One, very strong for me, is to watch her wait for my word, come over to me from corner when I call her, wait for the silent hand signal to lie across my lap — and to obey without hesitation. Her face is such a beautiful amalgam of apprehension and anticipation, of anguish and desire: but it always bears trust as well, and the need, need, NEED to submit to her Sir. Because Wednesday consisted of a number of cycles of waiting and spanking, I was able to enjoy and appreciate variations on this lovely moment many times.

I will mention as well a pleasure strong for her. Submission is sex to a natural submissive, and there are very welcome, expected, and exciting manifestations of that truth over the course of a long morning. I do not find it concerning or distracting at all to let spanking and arousal and satisfaction blend freely; indeed, I think we would both say that spanking is a kind of love-making, and that the distinction is empty.

She settled over my lap. I adjusted her; I waited for her to get a good strong clutch of the bedclothes in both hands; I waited for her to settle. Then we began.

— Frenulum

Wednesday

Heels and panties.

That is, in my book, the canonical “Waiting for a spanking” outfit. Others may have other preferences, and I don’t claim there is universal appeal or a reason for it, but it’s the dress I require.

Heels. Because, I suppose, insofar as parts make a difference to me, I could be called a leg-and-ass man, and I like the shape and emphasis that heels impart. But also for formality, grace, elegance, movement, and femininity, all of which appeal to me more than the pretty curve of a gastrocnemius muscle.

Panties. Because of this: there is nothing more emphatic about the non-equivalence of our relationship than that I can, without asking, without permission, without negotiation, without a moment’s doubt or hesitation, reach out, take hold of my belovèd’s panties, tug them down her legs, and bare her as I please. It is as true for lovemaking as for spanking — if there is a difference.

In heels and panties, standing, facing the window, she waited. She interlaced her fingers atop her head. I told her that she need not: that hands relaxed at her side would be fine. She replied that it was easier in that pose not to fret and fidget. Perhaps that is why it is such a classic.

Always, when I lower her panties that signals that the spanking has begun, with all of my rules of proper behavior in effect. Her friends who are spanked — and yes, dear reader, this is not the least unusual, despite the public hush shrouding the fact — deem me to be particularly exigent in that respect. Which does not relax my standards.

I wore a coat and tie for the occasion. We both find the marked contrast wonderfully sexy.

We waited, quietly, together. Edges beckoned. As it does every day anew, her gift of Self stunned and moved me with its incomparable, precious beauty.

— Frenulum

Wednesday

Although we never anticipated it, there came a time for discipline for cause. To address a certain behavior, to allow for atonement, to provide for absolution. I will not provide details: those are private; and in any case the issue is closed and forgotten now.

Of course we talked. One thing I am rarely accused of is impulsiveness :o|

I have chronicled here already the notion that good girls sometimes deserve spankings — that it isn’t fair that misbehavior can earn one, but that a flawlessly devoted submissive girl can’t have the handling she craves. That’s an idea I am — we are — still processing.

But this was not such a time.

She said: “Red, sore, crying.” She said: “Very, very hard.”

An edge for her: protracted, episodic spanking. Sent to corner repeatedly between events, their duration, spacing, and number not to be disclosed beforehand. I can’t spank harder than I do, so longer was my only option.

An edge for me: not just my hand. After I won’t say how many decades of nothing but.

I told her: “You will have to bring me the spatula and put it in my hands.” She gulped and nodded.

Which brings us to Wednesday morning.

Wednesday

A couple of years ago, I was in a sort of international bazaar — a collection of small, mom-and-pop importers — just browsing among the varied wares. At one shop I found a pretty case for my sunglasses, embroidered by a Hmong craftswoman. And they also had…

Kitchen utensils made of bamboo.

A spatula.

Thin. Springy. Light-weight. With a broad, square business end.

Cooking was the furthest thing from my thoughts.

“I will use only my hand.”

A bamboo spatula. Sting.

I tried it on myself. Sting!

And I put it away. For a couple of years.

— Frenulum

Wednesday

“I will use only my hand,” I had often reassured her.

A hand can provide both of the sensations that make up a spanking, often described as sting and thud. Physical sensations, I mean: obviously there are other stimuli of mind and emotion, other aspects of the experience that contribute to it, including catharsis, absolution, and gratitude.

A hand carries a built-in safety measure: it feels the impact of every spank also. Not to the same degree by any means, but a tired, sore palm is a valuable gauge.

A hand doesn’t cut or cause welts, which to me are terribly unattractive.

A hand has a lifetime of proprioception to guide it with decent accuracy.

And most of all, my hand is me. When my belovèd is over my lap, I think she deserves the intimacy of touch. Not being spanked by a thing, but by her loving, care-filled Sir.

We looked at photos, sometimes, of paddles, canes, floggers, straps — and sore, pretty bottoms. Some of them arousing, some not. But always: “I will use only my hand.”

One of an owner’s responsibilities is to guide his belovèd up to, along, and occasionally across one of her edges, holding her safe as she explores. It is quite common.

And from time to time, she helps him across one of his.

— Frenulum

Confidential

Yes, N., high heels in bed. Indeed. Sexy to look at, and convenient handles when needed. Besides, a girl always looks more undressed if she keeps something on.

Give it a try… and let me know if K. objects :o)

— Frenulum

Trifecta

I have had a back-of-the-brain fantasy or desire for quite some time. I think it has been fueled mainly by the occasional photo crossing my desktop. The setting is this: a man, typically in a business suit, seated in a comfortable chair; a woman, nude or clad in some enticing bits of lingerie — certainly with heels, we couldn’t possibly do without that vital erotic touch — kneeling between his legs; his cock in her mouth; a snifter of Cognac in his hand.

Sometimes it’s a glass of wine. But usually brandy. Low lighting. Kind of an end-of-the-day feel to it. A brandy and a blow job. It always seemed to me like a combination that would suit me very well.

And then, to shift gears completely: I have long wanted to enjoy some oral attention while watching a baseball game. The major league average game was 2 hours 46 minutes last time I looked it up, which I admit is a trifle long for fellatio, but a few innings worth at least has always seemed like an attractive proposition. Enjoyment for the mind, enjoyment for the body.

I am happy — make that delighted — to report that there is nothing incompatible in these desires.

Brandy, baseball, blow job.

It just works. Marvelous.

Play!

— Frenulum

Triumph

I keep pretty quiet about my intimate activities with my belovèd, both to respect her privacy (and mine) and in recognition of the fact that you’re not reading this blog for such details.

But a certain triumphant moment deserves to be shared with an appreciative audience — especially those of you who have enjoyed Cocksucking Considered as One of the Fine Arts.

During our get-away trip this week, my belovèd proudly reached a milestone we have both been patiently pursuing, with much happily dedicated practice and training.

She is a petite woman and… I am not petite, so there was always the possibility to be considered that this achievement would not be physically possible. I am happy to report a delightful, successful outcome.

I will just say: there is no longer any unconquered territory.

Thank you for sharing in my pride in her, and our joy.

— Frenulum

Reset and recharge

Photo style

Imagine a photographer, a specialist in the subject of nudes. He has a shoot today, with a model of stunning beauty and elegant form. The studio is prepared, and the lighting arranged to his satisfaction.

The model arrives. The stylist sees to every detail of her hair and makeup. Little scraps of hide-nothing lingerie are selected and fitted and adjusted; the properly dramatic heels are slipped on.

The photographer guides her to her first pose. She is breathtaking, sensual, sexy, beautiful.

And he says to her:

Scowl. snap! A little more discontent, please. snap! Good, good! Spread your legs a little more… ok, give me boredom. snap! Great! More — like you’d rather be anywhere else. snap! Beautiful. Cup your breasts in your hands… Sneer. snap! Super! Can I get that look that says you’re so far out of my league I shouldn’t even come near you? snap! Beautiful, beautiful. Lift your hair like this. Show me hauteur, contempt snap! aloof snap! snap! Arch your back… Can I get some of that runway petulance? snap! Oh, you’re doing great!

I seems ludicrous, written out like that. But I swear about one photo in four that I run across has been produced like this.

Advice to photographers: beauty is not in styling or shape, but in happiness, desire, and engagement. IMHO.

— Frenulum

Absence

Dear readers,

I apologize for posting so little recently. As usual, it’s a matter of allocating time to a cascade of priorities in which writing fiction and essays and blog posts falls regrettably low.

Next week, my belovèd and I are taking a few days away from ordinary demands, to reset and recharge. In the past, such adventures have been inspirational. I hope for more of the same.

And who knows… she has mentioned wanting to spend some time “helping me write” :o) If you’ve been following along, you will know what that means.

Thank you for your patience as always.

— Frenulum

Adage

“You can’t judge a book by its cover”

I ran into that old adage in a newspaper article yesterday. It has always struck me as one of the silliest things ever said.

Oh, I understand the intent. Don’t look at a woman’s hairstyle or hemline and think you can place her; don’t take a man’s handshake or skin color as hallmarks of his character. Fine.

But of all the ways to suggest that the superficial is not the essential, the worst analogy of all must be book covers and books. Because book covers are expressly designed to convey a sense of the contents.

A gold police badge, with a black mourning band; a backdrop of a cityscape, fire-red and smoking. Romance novel? Cookbook? Police thriller?

A lemon yellow cover with a cartoon wedding cake, a knife plunged into it oozing red icing. Auto-maintenance how-to? Civil War history? Village mystery with a woman sleuth and a few recipes tossed in?

A black background with two slanted, glowing green eyes; raised silver lettering. Belles lettres? Comedy of errors? Horror?

A beautiful woman in a torn dress on a windy tor at sunset, tattered cloth exposing an ample bosom and supple thighs… sorry, lost my train of thought there. But you get the point.

The message is valuable. The adage is bewildering.

— Frenulum

Expensive

One periodically sees on the net a ranking of the most expensive commodities: name brand perfume, plutonium, gasoline, what have you. Usually the aim of such articles is to point out the absurd price of ink-jet printer ink.

But it’s not really absurd. It makes economic sense along the lines of the razor/razor-blade model. Give away, at a terrible loss, a printer for $50, and more than make up the hit by selling $29 ink cartridges with a few ml of ink in each.

But… to return to my original theme… what do you suppose is the most expensive commodity available? Inkjet ink? Chanel #5? Gold?…

I don’t have the means in text to hold you in suspense, but think about it, if you will.

The answer is… (no, really, think about it first)…

Anti-matter. USD$62.5 Trillion per gram.

That’s right: $62,500,000,000,000 per gram.

And then… good luck figuring out where to keep it :o)

— Frenulum

Wilderness

Turing, as a 23-year-old graduate student, derived the principles of modern computation more or less by accident — as a byproduct of his interest in something called the Entscheidungsproblem, or Decision Problem. It can be stated as: Is there a formula or mechanical process that can decide whether a string of symbols is logically provable or not? Turing’s answer was no. He restated the answer in computational terms by showing that there’s no systematic way to tell in advance what a given code is going to do. You can’t predict how software will behave by inspecting it. The only way you can tell is to actually run it. And this fundamental unpredictability means you can never have a complete digital dictatorship with one government or company controlling our digital lives — not because of politics but because of mathematics. There will always be codes that do unpredictable things. This is why the digital universe will never be a national park; it will always be an undomesticated, unpredictable wilderness. And that should be reassuring to us.

— George Dyson

Holiday

Lindsey met Ashley at her locker amidst the din of four hundred excited girls banging locker doors, slamming books into backpacks, and talking, talking, talking.

“Hey, Ashley,” said Lindsey, glancing around the too-crowded hallway. “C’mere for a minute.” She led the way to an empty classroom, and the girls slipped inside, closing the door behind them.

“What’s up?” Ashley asked, recognizing a certain look on her friend’s face as portending mischief.

“Monday’s Presidents’ Day,” Lindsey replied.

“No duh. I’ve been dreaming of the long weekend all month.”

“Well, listen. My parents don’t get the day off.”

“So?”

“So… the house to myself for about eight hours and the ’rents all the way in the City.”

Ashley caught her drift and grinned. “So you’re planning somethin’. What?”

Lindsey bent over and whispered in Ashley’s ear. “I was thinking… some cuddling and kissing… some petting… some… nice, slow, undressing. And then…” Her voice got even softer. “Lots and lots of… oral sex.”

Ashley pulled away, shocked. “Oh my god! I — I had no idea — you… you and Jeremy were so… y’know… um, advanced.”

Lindsey smiled sweetly. “Oh, I’m not inviting Jeremy. I’m inviting you.”

— Frenulum

Spike

She slid one hand slowly, slowly, slowly down her leg, enjoying the smoothness of her skin and the way my eyes burned as I watched her.

She reached her shoe, a six-inch spike-heeled pump we call “trainers,” because they’re too tall to walk in without help. She slipped it off.

As I watched with the utmost intensity, she raised it slowly to her face. Our eyes were locked.

She held it close and licked her way slowly up the heel, inch by inch, as if loving the leather and the shape. She took her time, her tongue playing gently and urgently over the surface. That it was a promise, a surrogate for my cock, there was not the slightest hint of a misunderstanding.

That pretty much set the tone for the rest of the evening.

— Frenulum

Dance

My parents danced together, her head on his chest. Both had their eyes closed. They seemed so perfectly content. If you can find someone like that, someone you can hold and close your eyes to the world with, then you’re lucky. Even if it only lasts for a minute or a day. The image of them gently swaying to the music is how I picture love in my mind, even after all these years.

—Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

Extra-curricular activities

“Karla! Maryanne! What on earth are you two squalling about?” The rest of the cheerleading squad looked on, keeping some distance from their angry teammates.

Karla thrust out an accusing finger. “She’s not wearing maroon spankies! They’re bluuuue!”

“It’s practice, you moron, not a game,“ Maryanne spat back. “Who gives a crap what color practice spankies anybody wears?”

“It’s called a uniform for a reason, loser!”

Maryanne lifted her cheerleading skirt to show off. “You’re just jealous that I have sparkly blue practice spankies and you only have that dumb old maroon. Moron.” She added another epithet, but under her breath.

Both girls turned to Coach, fists on their hips, confident of a favorable ruling.

“Maryanne, take off your spankies.” Coach held out a hand for them, clearly not going to listen to argument. Karla looked smug and satisfied until she heard, “And Karla, I’ll take yours also.”

Two girls with deep-pink faces tugged their tight spankies off and reluctantly placed them in Coach’s unwavering outstretched hand.

“All right! Let’s hit the field everyone! We’re already late!“

“With — with no —”

“But — but Coach. We — we can’t —”

“Get moving, you two. Or I would be happy to remind you how spankies got that name.”

Bonded by the sudden sisterhood of mutual mortification, the girls scurried off. It turned out to be a very fascinating practice — for Karla and Maryanne were flyers.

— Frenulum

P.S.: practice spankies, practice spankies, practice spankies :o)

Law

They only had seconds to react to the flashers, but by the time an inquisitive flashlight beam swept the back seat, they were sitting up straight, on opposite sides of the car. Jimmy, squinting at the bright light, cranked the window down.

“License and registration, son,” said the deep voice behind the light. He took the cards and examined them, giving the teens some respite. The cop handed back the papers and looked at the far end of the back seat. “And who’s your friend?”

“It’s me, Sergeant Mason,” piped the girl in the corner. "Emma."

“Emma Grant? Well, I’ll be. You surely done growed a bit. Your momma know you’re parkin’ at the quarry?”

“We’re not parking… we’re just, like, talking.”

“I may not know much about girls’ fashion, Miss Emma, but I’m pretty sure the panties still go under the dress.” The flashlight beam picked out a pair of pink bikini panties on the floor by her feet. “Well, you two best run along now, hear?”

The Sergeant watched the teens scramble into the front seat and drive away. He walked back to the cruiser, climbed in, and killed the flashers. “Now where were we, Patrolwoman Lee?” he said, opening his trousers.

“Suckin’ some superior dick, I do believe.” She bent over from the passenger seat and got busy.

“Damn fool kids,” muttered the Sergeant, “Occupyin’ our spot.”

— Frenulum

Debate

Want. Don’t want.

I do not like pain. I don’t get off on it. I dread it.

I do like being spanked, which is painful in the extreme. I do get off on it. I melt just thinking about it. I play with my pussy, thinking about it.

I am a submissive. Submission is sex. Spankings are the most intense and powerful instances of my submission: therefore, the most intense and powerful sexual experience I can have.

I hate to make him do it. I know how truly he wants never to cause me pain.

But I know how directly it satisfies his dominance, which is his sexuality.

Oh… Don't want. Want. Need. A question that may never be:

Resolved.

— Frenulum

Civics

“I want to make love with you in every room of the house.”

“I vote yes!”

“I want to wake you up in the morning by sucking your cock.”

“I vote yes!”

“I want to take walks with you and hold your hand and come home and fuck like bunnies.”

“I vote yes!”

“I want you to cum in my pussy and my ass and my mouth, and on my face and in my hair and between my breasts and…”

“I vote yes!”

“I want to act like a bad girl and get away with it, without things like corner time and spankings.“

“Hmm… I’ll have to vote no on that one.”

“Well, then. Looks like every vote was unanimous.”

— Frenulum

Biology

(Thanks to my belovèd for the inspiration.)

He comes to the school for lunch every Wednesday. Lunch, meaning: I lock my office door and we do… whatever he wants. But I do usually end up getting fed, if you catch my drift.

Today he granted me a rare privilege: using my hands. I had my soft brown hair wrapped around his cock, and I was stroking it after a long time of loving him with my mouth.

Everything was fine but… we kind of lost track. And he… came in my hair. That’s ok, I love that because he thinks it’s so sexy, but… it was about three minutes before my next class.

With no time to spare, I grabbed handfuls of tangled, creamy hair and wrapped it into a tight bun on the crown of my head. Hoping like crazy all that cum wouldn’t show. I kissed him, and raced to my lab.

Just try teaching Bio with drizzles of cum oozing out of your sticky hair and trickling down your neck — with hyper-attentive schoolgirls watching everything.

Kristin told me privately after class that I had left some conditioner in my hair and that it had dripped onto my suit collar. A thoughtful girl, trying to be helpful.

Oh, if only they knew.

— Frenulum

Penmanship

Abby got up from her desk and skipped to the front of the classroom, her too-short kilt swirling around her bare thighs and her ponytail bouncing. With a triumphant gesture, she put the papers on my desk.

“There you go, Mr. Franklin,” she chirped. “Five hundred lines.” She sounded awfully cheerful for a girl who had been kept late at the high school, and given lines to write as punishment for misbehavior.

She turned to leave. When she was half way to the classroom door, I stopped her.

“Abby. Come back here, please.”

She walked back to stand in front of my desk. “What is it, Mr. Franklin?” she asked, with every appearance of innocence.

“The line I assigned you to write was: ‘I will not touch myself inappropriately in class.’”

“That’s what I wrote!” she protested.

“That’s how you started,” I replied. “Then half way down the first page, ‘touch myself inappropriately’ turned into ‘touch my panties.’”

“Well… that’s what you meant, right?”

I gave her a stern look. “By the end of page one, you were writing ‘touch my pussy’… here, it morphs into ‘play with my pussy’… and by the last page, ‘play with my hot, wet, needy pussy.’”

“Well… it’s just as clear, isn’t it?” She gave me a smoldering look that no 17-year-old had any business knowing. “You always tell us that clarity is important.”

“Finally, Abby,” I continued, trying to ignore the come-on look, “You forgot the word not in every single line.”

She put a foot up on the edge of my desk. My view up her kilt was unimpeded as she began to stroke her pussy through snug white panties. “I didn’t forget,” she said in a whisper. “Because I’m not going to stop. Because… you don’t really mind seeing me do it — not one little bit.”

She put her foot down, grabbed her books, and turned again to leave as I sat there, speechless. Then she stopped, turned to face me, and added, “But tomorrow in class, I might forget something. Like… my panties.” With a wave she skipped away, looking quite pleased with herself.

— Frenulum

Economics

Jessica brought the coffee to the table; she served Cait and took her seat. The wince and the sharp gasp as she sat down did not go unnoticed.

“Oh, my! Looks like somebody got a spanking,” Cait said with a sympathetic smile.

Jessica sipped coffee, then met her best friend’s eyes.

“Yeah. A long time last night, freshened up this morning before he left for work.”

“Ouch. What for?”

Jessica sighed deeply. “Last night, with his hand, for maxing out a credit card.” She paused, and her eyes began to puddle. “Tonight, with the bamboo spatula, for having a credit card he didn’t even know about in the first place.”

“Oh no!” said Cait, eyes wide.

“Tomorrow night, with the short strap, for trying to lie about it,” Jessica continued, “And Friday night, with I don’t know what, for taking up last night and tonight and tomorrow.”

Cait contemplated her friend. Then she said softly, “And knowing you, just telling me all that has made you completely horny.”

Jessica blushed furiously. “Yes. Um… excuse me for a minute?

Cait grinned. “Sure. Or…”

“Or?”

“Or… like when we were roommates. Do it right here, and let me watch.”

Jessica paused, and then her hands crept to the hem of her skirt. Remembering when they were roommates, she knew that watching would not be enough.

— Frenulum

Spelling

Angelyn let my cock slip from her mouth so she could give Zoë some advice.

“Something you can do to make sure there’s lots of variety, when you’re licking Sir’s balls, is to move your tongue like you’re writing letters… spell something.” Then she swallowed my cock again.

Zoë looked up with a twinkle in her eye. “What should I spell, Sir?”

“Antidisestablishmentarianism,” I replied with an answering grin. She got busy on my nuts right away. A… N… T… Angelyn started laughing, which was particularly pleasant because she had my cock buried to the root down her tight little throat. I enjoyed Zoë’s tonguemanship for a while before I grabbed her by her soft curls and moved her mouth to my asshole.

With her face buried between my cheeks, I told her “Try… pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.” As her pretty tongue got busy in my ass, I wrapped Angelyn’s ponytail around my other hand.

My turn to drive.

— Frenulum

Math

(From a conversation with my belovèd. An episode of fantasy/story-telling, I hasten to add, not something personal.)

He carried her leather paddle, a terribly sting-producing instrument, and an embarrassing one, for the words “For A Naughty Girl” were burned into it.

The memory of the past times he had used it caused her eyes to prickle with hot tears, and she felt two escape down her cheeks.

“Is there any doubt in your mind that this is necessary and earned?” he asked. Redundantly, since their discussion had been quite thorough.

“No, Sir,” she replied, her voice choked.

“I have in mind the number of smacks you deserve in response to your behavior,” he said. “I want you, right now, to tell me how many you think you deserve.

“If your number is higher than mine, I will use it.

“If your number is equal to mine, I will use it.

“If your number is less than mine, I will double mine and add yours.

“Tell me now.”

— Frenulum

Wait for me

I opened the front door, stepped inside, closed it, listened. The house was quiet. Not empty-quiet, waiting-quiet. That’s an appealing, arousing, erotic sound.

I hung up my coat. Left the laptop bag in the hall. Wandered into the kitchen. There was a glass of wine on the counter. I smiled, raised it in a silent thankful toast, and sipped. Deep flavors: blackberry, chocolate, oak. I took another sip.

Quiet. She was waiting for me. Just a matter of hunting for treasure.

I found her in my study. Kneeling, eyes lowered. In heels too high to walk in, stockings, garter belt, and a ribbon around her neck. We call that ribbon a depth gauge.

Her hands were behind her head, with her fingers interlaced. I wondered how long she had been waiting. She was so still.

I took one more sip of wine, put the glass down, and unbuckled my belt.

— Frenulum

Is this a hint?

My belovèd just sent me this image:

Hmm, maybe if I try really hard to read between the lines… :o)
— Frenulum

True that

I may not know how to fly but I know how to read, and that’s almost the same thing.

— Gregory Maguire

Spankies

A lamentable deficiency in my education was remedied by chance this morning. I ran across a posting on line by a former high-school cheerleader, who mentioned that the color-matched uniform panties beneath those delightfully right-sized skirts are known as “spankies.”

I could hardly believe that such a garment, already imbued with so much fantasy potential, could have such a marvelously inspirational name, but a few minutes of grepping around the internet confirmed it. Why, there is even a Spankies R Us store.

Not sufficiently distracted already, I ran across this bit of advice:

“While you may have to stick to plain, solid spankies during competitions and games, the sky’s the limit for practice spankies…”

Practice spankies.

Practice spankies.

Practice spankies.

That does it. My brain is shot for useful things for the rest of the day.

Practice spankies…

— Frenulum

Boundaries

“Eat it,” he said.

I hesitated. I love his cum — in my mouth, on my face, in my hair, wherever. In my pussy, naturally. I love the taste of it: spicy and uniquely him. The texture. The… I don’t know, the naughtiness of it, if that makes sense.

But for the first time, I wasn’t sure.

His voice softened. “Eat my cum, babe,” he said, gently urgent. “Lick it all up. Taste it. You want to.”

I looked. Hesitated one more second. I caught his eye, and his loving gaze. Encouraging me to cross a boundary, as he has so often led me to do.

With a deep breath and a shiver of excitement, I bent over, and began to lap his cum as it oozed from my sister’s cunt.

— Frenulum

Speed

(Based on a conversation with a friend: thank you!)

“Hello?”

“Hi, love! My third-period Seniors just finished their exam, and I have a period free, so I thought I would see how you’re doing. How is working from home going?”

“Well, until a moment ago.”

“Why, what happened?”

“The mail arrived. It contained something quite disappointing, Sherry. Do you know what I mean?”

“<gulp> Um…”

“Were you expecting anything?”

“<gulp> Um… I… Well…”

“Considering that almost every day of the year you are home before I am, and have the first chance to sort through the mail, is this something I would have seen at all?”

“I, um… I…”

“Sherry, was I meant to know about this?”

“Um, well, yes… yes, of course. Of course!”

“I am quite sure that we were home together last Wednesday, the date of the ticket. But I don’t recall a single mention of it. Then, or any day since.”

“Oh. Well. I. Um… I thought…”

“I know very well what you thought. Very well. Listen to me.”

“Yes.”

“Heels and panties, in our room, facing the window, five minutes and not a second more after you get home this afternoon.”

“Yes sir.”

“I expect you at the usual time.”

“<gulp> Yes sir.”

“Sherry. Really? Posted 45, cited for 60, which means probably 65? Really?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I need you. I need you safe. I can’t have you taking chances like — Sherry, there has to be no more of this.”

“No sir.”

“We’ll see to that when you get home. Good luck with your afternoon classes.”

“Thank you. Sir, I love you!”

“I know. I love you. Bye for now.”

Bare and smooth: addendum

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Bare and smooth

It should be no secret to readers of my erotica that I have a strong preference for a hairless pussy. One thing I have wondered for a while is how prevalent shaving/waxing/etc. is in the general population. Certainly among those who model it’s commonplace — but what about the girl next door?

I finally stumbled across the first reputable measure I’ve seen:

Indiana University researchers Debby Herbenick and Vanessa Schick found in a recent study that nearly 60 percent of American women between 18 and 24 are sometimes or always completely bare down there, while almost half of women in the U.S. between 25 and 29 reported similar habits.

Good to know. Though there is quite a bit of wiggle room in “sometimes or always.”

For the record, I don’t think men are exempt. I think it would be ungentlemanly to force something hairy down a lady’s throat, take steps accordingly, and encourage other men to be considerate as well.

By the way, in Neighborly, I mentioned the girls of a high-school swim team going bare, and added in the author’s notes that this was drawn from a true example. I have heard from several people over the years that this is quite a usual girls’ team practice. How very pleasant to contemplate!

— Frenulum