Storm

The thunderstorm was at its peak, as if its epicenter were directly above the house. Thunderclaps came one after the other; lightning flashed so often and so brightly that, even through the curtains, the room seemed illuminated by powerful strobe lights.

She was being spanked, for cause. His love and hope for her outweighed his reluctance to cause her pain. Perhaps a better description would be: he was generously giving her a spanking, an opportunity for atonement, absolution, and redemption.

She was in his study, bent over his desk, wearing high heels and, around her knees, panties. Her legs were parted, and her bottom was a patchwork in shades of red. She sobbed, and clutched the far edge of the desktop.

Two very different things, a thunderstorm and a spanking, with quite a bit in common.

The regular sound of his hand striking her bottom, so hard that the SMACK echoed off the walls, was the spanking’s thunder.

The flashes of pain on her ass, bright, crisp, compelling, setting fires where they struck, were the spanking’s lightning.

The tears that coursed from her eyes, and the pendant drips of arousal from her flooding pussy, were the spanking’s rain.

And, just as wind would, in time, blow the thunderstorm away, her transgression would be dispelled by the spanking, forgiven and erased from memory. The air would be clean and clear and fresh again.

— Frenulum

(With thanks, as always, to my beautiful Muse)

Change of Life

The chauffeur opens the back door. She emerges. She wears a bespoke suit, sheer hose, a soie-de-chine blouse, with jewelry tastefully abundant and entirely genuine. Her stiletto heels are so tall that her feet are nearly en pointe; she is so accustomed to them that her stride is long and confident. She exemplifies a template: debutante, sorority sister, socialite, trophy.

He waits at the front door, watching her approach. She holds his eyes until they are close, then drops her gaze. He stands back to let her in.

He grips her hair and pulls downward; she sinks to her knees. He strokes her face and, when her mouth opens in response, puts three fingers inside her, stroking her tongue as she struggles against reflexes.

He says: “Welcome. Your room is on the third floor. Turn left at the top of the stairs, and look for the door with a bow on it. Your uniform of the day is laid out on your bed. You may have an hour to freshen up and change.

“I do not expect to hear your voice until I ask you a direct question, or cause you to cry out. You may go.”

He watches her as she ascends the stairs to her new life.

— Frenulum

Decorated

There was plenty of sparkle evident at the Christmas party. Sequined dresses, jewelry in silver and gold, gems everywhere: in hair, around necks and wrists, dangling from ears. Even the normally dull men sported an ornament or two, including one kitschy light-up necktie, one diamond-studded earlobe, and one pair of reindeer antlers.

But my lovely wife drew the most attention, or at least the most comments and curiosity. She wore a simple, classic cocktail dress, with no jewelry but her wedding ring. It was her face that provided the sparkle.

Red and green glitter adorned it, from hairline to chin, in swirling, abstract, painterly patterns of stripes, curls, and tittles; some pure red or green, some a gradient from one to the other. Finally, a single stripe of gold glitter adorned her dark brown hair.

The comments were compliments. The curiosity came down to: how did you do that? To which her only reply was a smile. Finally another woman, an amateur actress, declared that the secret was spirit gum: “We use it to stick on things like false mustaches.” Her pronouncement was taken as dispositive, curiosity faded, and only admiration remained.

Earlier…

As she panted in the aftermath of a double orgasm, I pulled my cock from my wife’s snug, slippery cunt. Quickly, I scooted up the bed to straddle her with my cock abover her face. The first spurt of creamy praise arced into her hair; with somewhat diminished force, the rest began spraying over her face, decorating her in unpredictable, beautiful patterns. For a change, I made sure to avoid her eyes.

When my fluid adoration was spent, I quickly grabbed the glitter shakers from the nightstand. “Close your eyes,” I warned, and began to turn her cum-splattered face into a Christmas ornament. A touch of gold along the stripe in her hair, and all we had to do was wait a while for everything to set.

I passed the time by eating her pussy. She passed the time by cumming again.

— Frenulum

Perfect Praise

She kneels between my legs. She is wearing high heels and panties. The heels are in their customary place, and the panties pulled down to just above her knees.

The look of pure joy on her face is profoundly more moving to me, more significant, more thrilling, than the orgasm she just gave me.

Praise adorns her face and hair. Liquid praise, unforgeable evidence that she has served me beautifully. It is “good girl,” spelled out in cum.

Two bright white stripes lie atop her dark brown hair, like a tiara for a Princess. Drops and splashes sparkle on her cheeks, lips, and chin. A few droplets have fallen from her face to be caught by her panties far below.

But the bulk of my praise rests on her forehead, between hairline and eyebrows. Great globs of hot, sticky adoration. My attention is there, because gravity, viscosity, surface tension, and geometry are combining now in a fascinating and unpredictable fluid dynamic dance.

She beams her good-girl grin my way, watching my eyes watch her face.

A puddle breaks past the barrier of her right eyebrow. Cum follows the breach and flows in a cascade down to her cheekbone; the dripping bridge passes in front of her eye, stretching from lashes to cheek.

She brings her open eye closer to the tip of my still stiff cock. The glans pushes at the bridge of semen. She leans closer, and the cum-slick head of my cock feels the gentle pressure of her cornea. When she gently withdraws, three slim, silky strands stretch out between eye and cock, barely bending under their weight. Her smile grows broader when the webs are long enough for her to see.

Her left eye suddenly fills from a pool of cum that has tumbled in by way of her nose. Vigorous deep cocksucking has filled her eyes with good-girl tears; sperm flows easily into the wetness. As she feels her left eye beginning to overflow, she wipes up the spillage with my cock and touches its sticky head right to the lens; once again, she forms gossamer bridges between her body and mine.

She continues to play, cock and cum and face, until I begin to soften in her hand.

She climbs up onto my lap, snuggling in my arms, her head on my shoulder. The cum will grow clear, then dry on her face and in her hair, as she rests with me. But even as a thin, crackled, sticky film, it is still praise. It is still love.

— Frenulum

Six of the Best

Having won the lacrosse game against their arch-rival high school, the girls were in high spirits on the bus back to the hotel. One of the chaperones had already checked in, so there was no wait as keys were distributed. The girls headed up to drop off their bags, then gathered again in the lobby. A private room at the hotel restaurant accommodated players, coaches, and volunteer adult chaperones — teachers and parents — and with the door closed they could chatter and laugh and squeal without inhibition as they celebrated the victory and inhaled their supper.

Then back up to their rooms, three girls sharing each, with a strict order that lights-out was 10:00 and not a minute later.

The adults accompanying the team waited until then, checked that the rooms were quiet and there was nobody running around the halls, and then gathered at the hotel bar for some hard-won R&R.

At 10:30, Coach Myers excused himself to head upstairs for a “look and listen.” In only a few minutes he returned, looking troubled and stern, and asked two of the women to join him. As they rode up in the elevator, he outlined his suspicions.

His colleagues soon shared them. Not only was a chorus of voices audible through one hotel-room door, but all agreed that the scent of marijuana was unmistakable.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said, handing over the master key-card. “I don’t want any talk about an adult man in a student bedroom.”

Mrs. Frasier, another teacher, took the card and held it up to the RFID scanner. The LED glowed green and the lock clicked. She opened the door and the women entered. An instant later, Emma, attacking winger, squirted through the doorway at a run, clad in tee-shirt and panties and clutching the key to her assigned room. She ran straight into the restraining arm of Coach Myers, who promptly pushed her back into the room and pulled the door closed behind her, standing sentinel lest any other girl attempt an escape.

---

The next morning, six dejected, chastened, anxious tartlets sat in the waiting area for Room Six, which was the dominion of Mr. Ross, the school disciplinarian. One of them, Danielle, had been sent there more than once; for five, it would be a new experience. Whether familiarity or ignorance caused greater dread is open to debate.

Mr. Ross opened the inner door and motioned the tartlets inside.

“Catherine. Amelia. Faith. Danielle, I’m sorry to see you again. Brittney. Emma. Stand at the table, three to a side.” He indicated a conference table from which the chairs had been removed. When they had found places, he simply said “Kilts and panties.”

Six kilts were unwrapped. Six girls hesitated. Six pairs of panties were pushed over hips, down thighs, over feet.

“Bend over the table and hold hands with the girl opposite,” Ross ordered, as he circled the table collecting kilts and panties from the floor. He dropped the pile of clothing on a desk chair.

Catherine and Faith held hands across the table. Next to them, in the middle spot, Danielle and Emma did the same. At the opposite end, Brittney and Amelia held on to each other as a lifeline.

Mr. Ross addressed the exposed, humiliated, abashed, and fearful assembly of co-miscreants.

“Violation of your curfew would have been enough to bring you here. But this matter is made far more serious by the possession and use of an illegal drug. That is a criminal offense, a police matter, and those charges could put your plans, your career, your life, in terrible trouble. As of now, no police report has been made. The administration is meeting this morning to determine whether or not to do that.”

Catherine, terrified, fought back the urge to be sick, and stared wide-eyed at Faith, who also looked despairing and distressed. They made one of three matching pairs.

“In addition, some of you were found in a state of undress suggestive of sexual activity. That in itself is not a school matter, but as you are all under age, that too might be of interest to the authorities.”

“But we weren’t —” cried Brittney.

“It makes no difference here this morning,” Ross interrupted. “You’re being punished for an after-hours party and for drug use. Feet apart, now.”

The tartlets obeyed instantly, placing their feet far apart, spreading their legs and exposing their secret spots. Mr. Ross walked slowly around the table, inspecting the girls for compliance. And, though he was strictly committed to his job, he did enjoy a connoisseur’s pleasure at the sight of six bare, smooth, open teenage quims, six puckered assholes, and twelve firm, curvy, defenseless buns. A less principled man would have been imagining which girl to fuck first.

From a cabinet he chose a punishment strap, twelve inches of double-folded leather with a stout handle.

Faith was the girl nearest to him. Without further preamble, Mr. Ross raised the strap and brought it down with authority to strike the center of her ass, crossing both cheeks. At the crack of the strap every girl jumped, but only Faith released a cry of pain.

He stayed with her, plying the strap repeatedly, working rapidly, covering the sobbing girl’s buns, sit-spots, and thighs with broad red stripes.

Leaving Faith without a word, Ross moved to his right. The next blow fell on Emma’s bare butt, and in moments Faith’s endless sobbing was joined by Emma’s yelps of agony. When Emma’s rear was sufficiently scarlet, Ross moved right again, and began Amelia’s punishment. Two girls crying, one screaming.

Across the table, Brittney, Danielle, and Catherine felt the agonized grip of her partner’s hands, and waited in dread for their turns.

Those turns came to each of them, as Mr. Ross completed his orbit of the conference table. In time, six voices contributed sobs, cries, and moans to the general din.

Standing behind Catherine, the sixth girl, Mr. Ross addressed the group again. “Now, I have one question. Who brought the weed?” The teammates remained silent.

He kept watch on the three faces opposite: Faith, Emma, and Amelia. He saw no movement of eyes, which meant that the dope had come from one of them. He crossed to stand behind the three, and said “I will only ask this once more: who brought the weed?”

He watched faces again. Brittney looked straight ahead, but Danielle and Catherine each glanced quickly to her left. Amelia, then.

Ross’s second circuit of the table, strap flying without mercy, renewed the sobs, the crimson striping, and the agony of six very repentant girls.

“Catherine, Danielle, Brittney, Faith, and Emma, you may return to class. Stop back after dismissal to collect your panties and kilts.” Five simultaneous gasps erupted as the girls realized that their scorched bottoms would be an object lesson for their classmates for the rest of the day. But, eager to escape the scene of their torture, they fled.

“Amelia.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You and I need some more time together this morning.”

“I understand,” she replied, eyes downcast.

Mr. Ross went back to the cabinet to select another, fiercer instrument. But first, as a bit of self-indulgence, he decided an episode of bare-hand over-the-knee spanking would be appropriate and traditional. “Come here, Amelia,” he ordered.

— Frenulum

Friends++

Isabelle and Rose were idling away a Saturday afternoon in Izzy’s bedroom. The Best Friends Forever were no strangers to the purposeless passage of hours together.

Rose sat in Isabelle’s desk chair, swiveling back and forth much as an oldster might occupy a front-porch rocking chair. Izzy lay supine on her bed, toying mindlessly with her hair and staring at the ceiling.

The sixteen-year-olds were classmates, teammates, confidantes, friends since babyhood; continually hanging out together, almost twin-like in their inseparability.

Rose broke a lengthy silence. “What are you gonna wear to the dance next Saturday?”

“I got a new dress for it,” Isabelle replied.

“You bought a dress without taking me shopping?”

“I was out with my mom when I saw it, and they only had one in size 2, so she bought it on the spot.”

“Can I see it?” asked Rose, halting her swivel-chair oscillations.

“In the closet,” said Isabelle lazily, “On the left. Midnight blue.”

Rose hopped down from the chair and went to the closet for a look. She reached in, grabbed a hanger, and pulled Isabelle’s new dress out into the sunlit bedroom. She held it up, admiringly; turned it front to back to check out the cut and ornamentation; turned it back to front again.

“Let me see it on you,” Rose suggested.

Isabelle didn’t really feel like stirring from her bed. “You try it on.”

“Really?”

“Why not? It should fit us about the same.” This was true, as the two girls were much the same size and shape, right down to the so-called vital statistics.

Rose draped the dress over the chair. She unbuttoned her denim short-shorts and wiggled them past her hips. As they fell to the floor she pulled her tank top up and over her head. She turned to pick up the dress, not noticing that Isabelle had stopped fiddling with her hair and was no longer staring at the ceiling.

Isabelle, in fact, was staring at Rose, who stood in panties and camisole as she unzipped the dress and removed the hanger.

In a slightly strained voice, Isabelle said, “Not over your cami. You won’t appreciate the neckline.”

Rose heard the faint undercurrent in her best friend’s voice. They had seen each other in underwear, dressing for events together, and in bikinis at pool parties and the beach, but Isabelle’s suggestion would mean crossing that line, and it had not sounded entirely casual.

Rose put the dress down again. “Like this, Izzy?” she asked, and directly facing the bed, slowly pulled her camisole upward, revealing her waist, her navel, and the undercurve of her breasts. She paused there, locked eyes with Isabelle, and pulled her camisole up over her breasts, baring them, and then over her head. As her hair fell back into place, Rose tossed her head to swing it back over her shoulders.

Isabelle’s eyes darted from Rose’s face, to her breasts, to the lacy panties covering her private parts, then reversed the trip. “Try the dress now,” she whispered.

Rose turned to retrieve it, revealing to Isabelle that her panties were thong-cut and her buns were as bare as her breasts. Her friend’s gasp at the sight was not lost on her.

She slipped the dress over her head, adjusted its position, and reached back to fasten the zipper. She walked back to the closet and shut its door, to use the full-length mirror mounted on it.

“Oh my god, Izzy, almost half my boobs are showing!”

“I’m going to wear a push-up.”

“You want to flash the whole school?”

“I tried it. My nipples don’t show.”

“But, still.”

“Yeah, ok, I want people to notice me. I want attention. Is that so crazy?”

“Jeez, Izzy! You aren’t exactly unknown, Miss Student Council, Miss Top Ten.”

“Exactly. It’s always because I’m smart and work hard and stay out of trouble. I want to be pretty, Rose. I want the boys to notice. I want to make their little dicks hard.”

“Isabelle!” Rose exclaimed, blushing. “Don’t talk like that!”

“I’m just being honest with you. And by the way, since when do you wear fancy lace panties with your butt hanging out? Is that what you wear to school?”

Rose blushed again. “Not with those short kilts, not on your life. No… just… on weekends, sometimes, I like to… feel a little more grown up, even if it’s a secret to everyone else.”

“Take the dress off.” Isabelle turned Rose around and pulled the zipper down. Rose complied. Isabelle took it and tossed it aside. As Rose began to turn back to face her, Isabelle put her hands on Rose’s bare shoulders and stopped her.

“What are you doing,” Rose asked.

“Looking at your panties. Doesn’t it feel weird to have the thong stuck in your crack?”

“I got used to it pretty soon.”

“That would drive me crazy.”

Rose hesitated, biting back the words that had sprung to mind. But… was it really such a big deal? Weren’t they as close and open as two people could be? Hadn’t she already crossed the boundary?

“Try them yourself,” she offered.

“Try… your…”

“Here,” Rose said, slipping her panties down and off. She turned to face Isabelle and offered her panties in an outstretched hand. Her eyes were full of challenge.

“I… I don’t…”

“You’ll never know without trying,” said Rose.

In a daze, suffused with unprecedented thoughts and new, enticing sights, Isabelle hooked her thumbs inside the waistband of her track shorts and panties, and pushed them down her legs together. She took the panties from Rose’s hand. As she stepped into them, she was conscious that her parted legs exposed her privates, and that Rose was watching intently. At the same time, bent over to pull up the panties, she was staring directly at Rose’s girl parts, though Rose’s legs being together meant that there was little to investigate.

Isabelle pulled Rose’s panties into place, covering her mons and offering the slightest relief from exposure. It was Rose’s cue to turn Isabelle around. She knelt behind her friend and tugged the back of the panties up just a bit more firmly.

“How does that feel?” Rose asked.

“Like there’s something stuck in my butt. Like my bikini has crept up and I should reach back and pull it down. Like you’re staring at my ass from an inch away and I’m not sure how to feel about that.”

“You were interested in seeing my body.”

“I looked, sure. It’s not like I planned it.”

“Oh, really?” Rose said, “And whose idea was it for me to try on your dress?”

“I was just being lazy!”

“And who told me I couldn’t appreciate the neckline without bare boobs?”

“I… well, it’s true!” Isabelle protested.

“Take your top off,” Rose whispered, rising to her feet and turning her friend to face her. “I want to see you, too.”

“Oh, Rose, I —”

“C’mon now. Fair’s fair.” Without waiting for Isabelle to react, Rose began unbuttoning her shirt for her.

“Rose?”

“Let’s get this off. There. Now the bra. Good. Wow, are we like identical twins or what?”

They turned to the mirror, taking in the sight of their mirror-image figures. Isabelle felt heat, shivers, excitement, embarrassment, fear, anticipation, and sensations without name washing through her body. She felt, and saw in the mirror, her nipples grow erect.

She turned toward Rose to say something, but Rose’s face was already close and they were kissing, each for the first time ever. Isabelle raised her arms to place her hands on Rose’s back, but Rose reached down to grab Isabelle’s bottom. Their kiss deepened, and one of the girls slipped her tongue into the other’s mouth.

In time, they made their way to Isabelle’s bed, and Rose’s panties, soaking wet, were tossed aside. Neither girl knew what to do, nor what to expect, nor anything else but the immediacy, excitement, desire, and passion of the moment.

Mouths found breasts. Hands found asses. Legs entwined. Fingers found pussies. Pussies were opened so eyes could explore. And inevitably, lips and tongues were drawn to open pussies to feast on secret pink flesh and flowing girl-cream.

The first one to cum did so keening and squealing, crying out in ecstasy and gratitude. The noises drowned out all other sounds.

So when Isabelle’s father appeared in the bedroom doorway, it was a complete surprise.

— Frenulum

Spooning

“Sir? Are you awake?”

“Mmm, apparently.”

“Wanna spoon?”

“I’ll be outside spoon.”

“Mmmmmm. You’re so warm.”

“I was about to say that to you.”

“I love this feeling, touching you all at once.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Sir?”

“Mmm?”

“There’s something, um, well, lodged between my cheeks.”

“Oh, that? That’s a bit of safety equipment, to keep you from rolling over and falling out of bed.”

“I see. It feels like it’s… throbbing.”

“It’s hydraulic. That’s normal.”

“So it’s keeping me safe?”

“Well, safer than nothing. If you really want to feel secure, I can switch it to docked mode.”

“Docked?”

“Right… here.”

“Ohhhhhhhhh. That’s even safer?”

“Guaranteed.”

“Then… I would like that, please, Sir.”

“Ok… I’ll just… Align things like this… And…”

“Sir! It doesn’t fit! Ahhhh!”

“I promise it will… just need a little more pressure…”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!”

“There. See?”

“Ohhhhhhhhh. I’m sure I can’t roll off the bed now!”

“This particular bit of safety equipment also has an oscillating mode.”

“Would you like that?”

“Definitely.”

“Whatever you decide is best for me, my Sir.”

“It works like… this…”

“Oh! Ohhhhh! Oh oh oh SIR! I’m so glad you were awake!”

“And I’m so glad… that I have the joy of taking care of you."

— Frenulum

Dreams

A light drumming of fingers on the door wakes him. He is not a “light sleeper,” he is a fragile sleeper, disturbed by anything. Perhaps he was already awake.

The door opens. It is Belle. Not all that long ago, he had the staff rotations in his head, and would know which girl to expect. Lately, though, the days have become confused, and he could not have predicted who would appear first.

Once upon a time the girls had had uniforms, but he changed the rules to let them decide what to wear. Variety made for interest. Belle wears black T-strap sandals with a five-inch heel, over white ankle socks with an eyelet lace collar. Fuck-me shoes and little-girl socks, always a spicy combo. She wears a mini-apron, white, also lacy, just enough to cover her pussy and a bit of leg. Her black collar matches the gloss of her heels; the white lace cuffs at her wrists match her socks. On the prominent nipples of her small breasts there are clips, and a delicate chain hangs from one to the other.

In her hair is the lace headband of a maidservant, the only ornament that remains of the compulsory uniform.

Belle draws back the bed-covers, kneels between his legs, and begins to suck. As he stiffens and grows, she does not back down. He is an exceptionally endowed man, and Belle is the only girl on staff who can take him all the way into her throat. She does so, with enthusiasm, and he moans in pleasure.

She throats him, hard and deep, without hands of course, stroking him with her plunging face. When he explodes, his cum coats her throat and flows into her stomach. She won’t taste him until she lifts back and holds his oozing cock in her mouth, coaxing out the last drops with her tongue.

There is another pro-forma knock at the bedroom door, and Kitty comes in, pushing the breakfast cart. She kisses him first, and then kisses Belle, at length, so he can watch. Kitty sets up the breakfast tray and moves dishes to it from the cart. The scent of coffee fills the air.

Kitty is wearing sheer black stockings, suspended by a lacy black garter belt, and Barbie-pink platform pumps. Her balconette bra is in matching pink, and her generous breasts are proudly presented, nipples erect. She wears the servant’s lace headband, and as usual her kitten-tail butt-plug. If she were to omit that fetching accessory, she would feel a great deal of pain when he used her asshole. The stretching helps, at least a little bit.

As he breakfasts, Kitty and Belle share his cock and balls, with plenty of girl-girl kissing for visual appeal. It won’t be much longer before he recovers, ready for more attention.

Robin enters. She wears red ankle-strap heels and a red ribbon tied in a bow around her neck, with the obligatory headdress. She has brought a tawse and a paddle in case the morning girls have misbehaved in any way, or in case they’ve been perfect but he’s in the mood. Finding no room to add her face to the suck-fest, she contents herself with finger-fucking her colleagues.

He is fully erect again, and considers the nine-hole menu in his bedroom. What pleasure shall he choose? All of the options are promising. Perhaps…

---

“Nurse Robins.”

“Doctor Katz, Doctor Bell.” Professionally courteous, the three of them.

“Any developments?”

“No. It’s been a week since he opened his eyes. The morphine is maxed.”

“Not much else we can do.”

“No. Is he responding to any stimulus?”

“Not as far as we can tell. He gets an erection now and then, that’s about it.”

“Must be good dreams.”

“Let’s hope so. Ok, page me if there’s any change.”

“Of course, Doctor.”

They leave him to his last dreams.

— Frenulum

Glass Ceiling, Part 2

The doors to the CEO’s suite opened silently. A moment later, Cassie emerged into the spacious reception room, crawling on her hands and knees. As the doors began to swing shut behind her, she rose unsteadily to a kneeling position. Then, grabbing the arm of a chair for balance, she stood.

The knees of her stockings were gone, and they were laddered extensively in other spots. Two of the garter straps had torn free. Cassie’s ass cheeks, sit spots, and upper thighs were a deep crimson, patterned with strokes from at least a tawse and a crop, perhaps more. The color looked all the deeper in contrast to the fluffy white bunny-tail plugged into her asshole.

Cassie’s hair was a tangled mess, sticky with drying cum, glued to her face in several gooey spots. Her cheeks were streaked with trails of eye makeup; her lipstick was gone and her lips were swollen.

The receptionist, prim, neat, dressed, and calm, said “It appears you were able to plead your case.”

Cassie nodded without really processing the remark. She looked around the room dazedly, her eyes wandering aimlessly from place to place. “What happened to — where’s my suit? My underwear, where’s my blouse?”

“I have no idea,” replied the receptionist. “I’m afraid I’m far too busy to keep track of other people’s belongings.”

“But. But I. I can’t go back to my desk like this!”

“You certainly can’t stay here,” the receptionist answered, as if Cassie had proposed something indecent or, worse, contrary to company policy.

As Cassie stood in the office, nude, bedraggled, embarrassed, and buns on fire, one outer door to the reception area was pulled open, and another employee entered from the elevator lobby. Like Cassie, she was nude, sporting only a pair of high platform heels and a pink polka-dot bow around each of her long blonde pigtails. Unlike Cassie she was fresh, perky, and smiling. She was tall even without the heels, long-legged, and displayed the toned body of an athlete — perhaps, given the fresh-faced blonde-haired stereotype, a cheerleader.

“Hello, Mrs. Bartlet!” she chirped; then noticing her colleague, “Hey, Cassie! What a nice surprise!”

“Laurel,” Cassie answered, “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I was looking at the company org chart? And I noticed there was a blank box above you? So I thought maybe I should apply!”

“But — you’re just an intern! You haven’t even finished college!” Cassie protested.

“I haven’t even started college,” Laurel said with a giggle. “But I just turned eighteen? So if I fuck an old man it’s legal? So I just figured what the heck, give it a shot, right?” She turned her attention away from the sputtering, speechless Cassie. “Mrs. Bartlet, is he ready for me?”

“Mr. Biggles just finished another interview, so I think we had best wait a bit, dear,” said the receptionist, with a kindness Cassie had never heard in her voice. “Are you all prepared?”

The pretty blonde turned around, swinging her pigtails, bent over at the waist, and reached back to spread her buns. “Cleaned out and lubed up, Mrs. Bartlet!” she chirped, as Cassie looked on, dumbfounded. Laurel stood up and turned back, grinning.

“Remember, dear,” said the receptionist. “It’s not only acceptable to cry a little bit, it will work to your advantage.”

“Yes, ma’am! I’ve practiced lots. Oh, Sir, your cock is so big, and my virgin asshole is so tiny, I don’t think you’ll fit! Sir, please be gentle, that really hurts, you’re stretching me, oh please, you’re so deep!” Tears welled up in the girl’s eyes — which she blinked away as a smile returned to her face. “Pretty good, huh?”

“Excellent, my dear. Now, just relax for a bit until I call you.” The receptionist turned back to Cassie with a sudden frown. “You were dismissed,” she said, acerbically.

“You can’t — ” stammered Cassie, “She can’t — she’s just a kid, she’s been here for three weeks, you can’t seriously think —” She broke off, unable to utter the thought of reporting to a no-experience airheaded teenager. Then another thought occurred. “And anyway, why have you been so nice to her compared to me?”

Mrs. Bartlet finally treated Cassie to a smile. “When Laurel made her appointment — in advance, I might add — her request was made with skill and enthusiasm, and repeated often.” She began slowly to slide the hem of dress upwards. “Would you care to try to improve? No? Then pull that tail out of your ass and get back to work.”

Cassie fled, with sounds of laughter behind her. In the elevator lobby, a nude, chastised, cum-coated mess, she pressed the Down button.

— Frenulum

Glass Ceiling, Part 1

Cassie paused at the doors to the CEO’s office. They were twelve feet tall, wide, heavy, and imposing. She put her hand on one handle, took a deep breath, reminded herself of her mission, and pulled.

She found herself not in the presence of the Chief Executive, but in an opulently furnished reception room, at the far end of which was another pair of massive doors.

Cassie wore her best business suit, finely tailored navy blue wool over a cream silk shell. Feminine but business-appropriate heels, hose, and pearl stud earrings completed her outfit. She was every bit a match for her surroundings; still, her stomach twisted as she caught the gaze of the receptionist, seated at a mahogany desk to her right.

The receptionist was a mature woman with a careful up-do, a grey wool dress, and spectacles hanging from a cord around her neck, resting upon her substantial bosom. She eyed Cassie critically before asking “May I help you?”

Cassie gave her name, and asked to see Mr. Biggles, the CEO.

“On what subject?”

“I’m overdue for a promotion,” Cassie explained, “And a raise. And I’m not getting anywhere with my manager or H.R. or any of the usual channels. So I decided to go straight to the top to make my case.”

“I see,” said the receptionist. She pushed her chair back from her desk to get a fuller view of the importunate employee. “You feel entitled, and you want Mr. Biggles to attend to you personally.”

“Not entitled,” Cassie insisted. “I worked hard to earn a better position. I’m just frustrated that everyone in charge won’t see that.”

“Mmm-hmm. Poor little thing. Well, if you want to plead your case to the boss, you’re sure not going in dressed like that.”

Cassie was startled. “Like what? This is my best —”

“A girl who wants C-level attention goes through those doors naked and crawling.”

“You — you can’t be serious!”

The receptionist sat quietly.

“This is, this is the twenty-first century! That’s ridiculous! That’s outrageous! I’m calling H.R.,” Cassie sputtered.

“The same department that doesn’t listen to your demands for a promotion?”

Cassie flushed angrily. “Well, they’ll listen to this.”

“It’s been so nice to make your acquaintance,” the receptionist said, and turned her attention back to the monitor on her desktop, dismissing Cassie entirely.

“But. But I came to see — damn it, I need to see Mr. Biggles!”

“So you said. Take your suit off.”

“I will not!”

“As you wish.”

The two women stared at each other, one enraged, one cool and impassive.

“Seriously? Naked? Crawling?”

“Humiliation is currency at this level. As is obedience. Jacket, skirt, blouse. Now.”

Seething, shocked, outraged, and out of options, Cassie slowly complied.

“Bra and panties. Keep the garter belt, the stockings, and those quite ugly heels.”

Biting back a retort, Cassie unhooked her bra and, finally, slid her panties down and stepped out of them.

“So much better,” said the receptionist, “Now let me see you crawl.”

Embarrassed and angry, Cassie got down on her hands and knees and took a few slow paces toward the interior doors.

“Oh, no no no no no,” she heard. She turned her head and saw the receptionist seated in her desk chair, with her dress pulled up to her waist and her legs spread over the arms of the chair. The woman’s pussy was bare, open, and shiny with juices.

“You don’t have an appointment yet.”

— Frenulum

Three girls on the train

Three girls, sixteen or seventeen, on the Red Line heading downtown. All in those itty-bitty silky bun-length track shorts. All with toned, tanned, long legs. That was the first thing that caught my eye: they were sitting facing each other, and their legs were entwined. Not just touching, by happenstance — it was actually an interesting pastime to start at one ankle and try to work up to the corresponding thigh, like solving a maze. Just at that, erotic enough.

I could hear bits of conversation: mostly giggling, but with a phrase or two occasionally discernible.

I heard one: “My butt hurts so bad I can hardly sit down.”

Given my own set of kinks, my mind rushed immediately to two competing scenes, both rife with potential: spanking, or anal sex — first time? I enjoyed letting images of both play through my mind, admiring the pretty girl and wondering what her friends were thinking.

Then I heard her say, “It was even the doctor himself who gave me the shot.”

Of course he did, I thought. Nurse, I will take care of this patient myself. You may go. Now bend over, and lower your panties. You’ll feel a little pinch… hold still…

— Frenulum

True story, BTW

Treatment

“Doctor.”

“Hello, how are you doing?”

“Pretty well, I guess.”

“What brings you to see me?”

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

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

“Definitely sensitive.”

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

“Oh, good, that’s good to hear.”

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

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

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

“How long will that take?”

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

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

“Right away.”

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

“All over my face, please, Sir.”

“My favorite outcome.”

“Mmmhmmmmm. Mmmine ath welww.”

“Ahhhhhh… that feels better already…”

— Frenulum

Wireless

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No names.”

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

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

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

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

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

He surveyed the post-orgy chaos before him.

“I only manipulate people.”

— Frenulum

Wet Dreams 3

(Sequel to Wet Dreams 2)

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

— Frenulum

Wet Dreams 2

(Sequel to Wet Dreams)

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

— Frenulum

Wet Dreams

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

— Frenulum

The price of advancement

“Stacy. Can you give me a hand for a minute?”

Stacy kept typing, her eyes on her copy stand. “Sure, one sec.” The keys continued to fly, until Stacy raised her left hand and slapped the carriage return lever twice. She looked up. “What can I do for you, Rose?”

“I have my performance appraisal at ten,” Rose replied. “I could use your help for a few minutes to…” The comely young stenographer blushed. “Um, you know, get ready for it.”

“Sure,” said Stacy, standing up. “Annual review time. Need me to give you an enema?”

“If you wouldn’t mind — it’s hard for me to do it myself. And I’m really hoping Mr. Gardner will give me a raise this year.”

— Frenulum

Entitlement

Esther, Erin, Adrianna, and Kylie sat side by side on the bench outside Room Six; for the most part they were absorbed in their own dread, or searching through their personal galleries of excuses and ploys, looking for some escape.

“I prob’ly shouldn’t have said ‘stupid fucking B’,” Erin said glumly. “That’s when she got the pink slip out.”

All four miscreants pondered and compared that thought. “I thought I was convincing her,” observed Kylie, “But then I said something like: my parents pay your salary and if I want an A you’ll give me an A.” She sighed. “That wasn’t exactly brilliant, was it?”

Niether Esther nor Adrianna spoke up, but their faces were similarly regretful.

Mr. Foster opened the door, and glanced out at the waiting tartlets. “Adrianna,” he said, and waited while she rose and, with halting steps, passed through the doorway. “Take your kilt off and put it…” the others heard before the door closed.

Erin, shocked, looked at her classmates. “Did he say… her kilt…”

“Yeah,” Kylie replied mournfully. “Spanking on the bare bottom. No kilt, no panties. That’s the deal.”

“It’s worse,” Esther moaned. “At least for me… see?” She held out her pink slip for inspection. “If there’s an X in this box, it means spanking. But mine is marked here instead — that’s something even worse, I don’t know what.”

Erin and Kylie examined their own punishment orders. Their hearts sank as they found them to be marked in the same way. Just at that moment, an explosive SMACK and Adrianna’s first cry of pain filtered through the closed door.

Erin paled. “I can’t take off my kilt! I’m not… I wore…” Speechless, she lifted her short uniform skirt so her friends could see: peach lace thong panties instead of the regulation cotton briefs. “I’m in so much trouble!” Tears overflowed and began to roll down her cheeks.

“Wear mine,” Esther offered, standing and tugging her own panties down her legs.

“No, mine,” said Kylie, echoing the motion. She stepped out of her plain white cotton panties. “If he takes us in order then I can change back while he’s busy with Esther.”

While they stood there, panties in hand, arguing about the best way to avoid further punishment, the door to Room Six opened and Adrianna emerged: tear stained, disheveled, half naked, with the fiery crimson lines of a vigorous strapping adorning her bottom and thighs.

Mr. Foster surveyed the scene, looking from one girl to another. He lifted the lace panties from Erin’s unresisting fingers. “Yours?”

“Yes, sir,” Erin whispered.

“I’ll have you next, then. Come in.”

The door closed behind them. Adrianna wept, face in hands, oblivious to her exposure.

A “B” is a pretty good grade, after all.

— Frenulum

Oh yes it could

I figured it couldn’t hurt to leave the dishes in the sink until I got back from lunch with my girlfriends.

But lunch ran long, and by the time I got home, I found that he had washed and dried everything and put it all away.

Or so I thought — until I found a spatula, a pancake turner, and two wooden spoons lying on our bed.

— Frenulum

The Next Edge to Cross

“C’mere, kitten. Take a look at this photo.”

“Oh. Oh, my!”

“Doesn’t that look exciting?”

“Sir?”

“I think it’s time I tried this with you. Would you like that?”

“Um… no, Sir. I don’t think so. That looks...”

“Looks what, kitten?”

“Maybe not so much fun? And, um... scary?”

“Really? You don’t think this couple is enjoying each other? Look at her face.”

“Yes but... it’s not her face that he’s — I don’t think so, Sir.”

“This picture doesn’t excite you?”

“No, not really.”

“I think this would be just the thing for us to play with next. Just think, if she were you and he were me... doing that with you... that doesn’t turn you on?”

“No. I think it would be difficult. And embarrassing.”

“But you know that I like to introduce you to difficult things.”

“Yes, but...”

“And I would help you.”

“Yes, but I don’t think... I’m not... It’s too...”

“You’re sure you don’t want this?”

“No — I mean, yes, I’m sure.”

“Not even a little bit arousing?”

“No, Sir.”

“Pull your panties down.”

“I —”

“And spread your legs.”

“Yessir.”

“Put your hand on my pussy... and put one finger inside, in between your lips. That’s right. Good girl. Now, put that finger in my mouth.”

“I —”

“Mmmmmm. Juicy. Wet. Delicious. That’s the taste of a very excited girl.”

“But, Sir —”

“Spread my pussy open, let me look. Two hands, wide open. Oh, kitten, you’re positively gushing.”

“Yes.”

“So you are aroused, and excited, and turned on, thinking about doing what this couple is doing.”

“Ohhhhhhhh... yes, Sir.”

“You weren’t completely honest and open with me a minute ago, were you?”

“I... I was just... I guess I...”

“Hmm?”

“No, Sir.”

“Which means...”

“You’ll give me a spanking right away, to correct my poor behavior and remind me how important it is to be open, always.”

“A long, hard —”

“Bare-bottom spanking, that I earned and deserve and need from you, Sir, please.”

“Good girl. You may lie across my lap now. And, after your long, hard, well-deserved spanking, what comes next, kitten?”

“We’ll do that other thing, that scares me and excites me and makes me tremble and leak, and you’ll love me and keep me safe always.”

“That’s my good girl. Ready?”

“Always, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

— Frenulum