Evening

He sits in the living room in a wing-back chair. To his right is a small table, upon which is a glass of red wine. There is a book open on his lap; whether he is reading or not is unclear. He wears a suit, conservative, with a tie, too colorful for business.

To his left, she waits, kneeling, facing toward him. She wears shoes she can barely walk in: heel trainers that will, after much practice, make a four-inch spike feel like running shoes.

Her head is bowed. Her long hair is held back at the sides by blow-job clips, known to the unenlightened as bobby pins. They ensure that her face is visible despite her posture.

She waits, motionless, without even a hint of impatience or discomfort, for if he wants her kneeling and silent, soft and small, then what thrills her most of anything imaginable is to serve as he wishes. Her obedience alone makes her drip, and she can feel trickles of her honey cooling on her thighs.

She wants to be in his lap, wants him to hold her, wants him to read to her, to give her sips of wine, to stroke her back, to toy with her nipples, to talk to her with the most erotic voice in the universe. But above all else, miles and miles above, she wants to be a good girl for him, for that is the essence of her being. She kneels in joy, serves with pride.

He puts a finger under her chin, lifting gently, and she tips her head up until she meets his eyes.

He smiles and nods. She swallows.

— Frenulum

Let It Snow

Some girls like the snow for downhill skiing. Speed and adrenaline, danger and success.

Some girls like the snow for cross-country, instead. Crossing a drifted lake just after sunrise, warm from the effort, surrounded by beauty.

Some girls like the snow for snowshoe hikes. Following trails through chiaroscuro forests, quiet as a rabbit, spotting a fox, hearing birdsong.

Some girls like the snow for the way it softens. Landscape edges become curves, sounds are blunted, all seems slower, calmer.

Some girls like the snow for the sparkle. Cities and parks and shops are coated with crystal glitter, reminders of past holidays, celebrations, and families.

Me? I like the snow for the way it drifts in my back yard. When I have been given — it is a gift — a long, severe, needed spanking, I can dash outside and sit on my custom-fitted winter throne, letting it numb the pain without diminishing the effect.

I wonder what the neighbors think.

— Frenulum

Two Not Sleeping

One Christmas break. Ten senior girls. One overnight party. Two parents retiring early due to noise fatigue. Ten smartphone cameras for hundreds of candids, poses, and selfies. Six varieties of pizza to choose from; seven soft drink flavors; two kinds of cupcakes, creating laugh-until-it-hurts frosting mustaches (more photos).

Ninety minutes from “It’s late, we should pro’ly go to sleep” until all ten girls were tucked in, in one fashion or another, and the lights were turned off. The interval had been spent in shedding clothes and donning sleepwear, in brushing and braiding and otherwise fiddling with each other’s hair, in renewed bursts of laughter as reminders of the evening were voiced.

Living room furniture pushed to the walls. Emptied space filled with sleepers. Two with sleeping bags, eight content with blankets and pillows.

Zero girls in shamefully un-cool purpose-made sleepwear such as pajamas or nightgowns. Ten girls in various assortments of panties and shirts — three tees, seven tanks — four with shorts and six content just in panties.

Two hours of deep breathing, gentle snorts, and sporadic somniloquy.

Nine girls asleep.

Maddie among them. Erica not. One slow, silent approach.

One gradual realization of being touched — no, more like caressed. One gentle “Shhhh” with a finger crossing two lips. Once sure, a hand moving to stroke a face.

One idea. One unexpected flush of… of what, exactly, Maddie wondered. Something new.

Two breasts never touched by another. Two lips, ending that. More boldness from silent Erica. More acceptance from softly moaning Maddie.

Oh. My. God. There? Really?

One clock on the mantel, ticking softly.

One slow retreat in the absolute darkness. One girl feeling triumph and promise. One girl dizzy from epiphany, yearning for more, baffled both by darkness and by the similarity to the touch of the other nine.

One girl, Erica, thinking: “How can I tell her?”

One girl, Maddie, thinking: “How can I find her?”

Night time. Quiet. Peaceful… for eight.

— Frenulum