Independence Day

On their tenth or perhaps eleventh date, he took her to the Capitol lawn to watch the fireworks.

They spread out a blanket among thousands of others; enjoyed their picnic and their wine, and waited for the sky to darken. As it got cooler, they sat close together, enjoying the warmth and touch.

When the first rocket exploded, they clapped along with everyone, and then joined in chorus after chorus of appreciative “Oooh” and “Aaah.” The Capitol made a beautiful foreground for the display, and one could almost forget the steady assault on liberty, rights, and dignity perpetrated beneath its golden dome on every day but this one.

As they walked slowly through dense crowds back to his car, she found a bolder, more explicit voice than she had hitherto.

“People liken orgasms to fireworks,” she said, blushing unseen in the darkness. “For me it’s more like being near a cozy fire — warm and comfortable, not so dramatic or explosive.”

He was silent for a few steps. She had grown used to his quiet thoughtfulness, and no longer thought him distant for it.

“Perhaps,” he said, “You should come home with me tonight.” He squeezed her hand a little harder. It was a decision, not a question, and she felt her panties grow instantly damp.

Later, it was clear to her. It had been like a blue chrysanthemum burst — Oooooh! — turning suddenly into a gold one bursting so hard that it filled the sky from edge to edge — Aaaaaah! — and then at the end, each of a hundred long golden streamers had flared into an explosion — Ohhhhh! Ohhhhh! Ohhhhh! — so bright it almost hurt to look at, the sky a halo of brilliance and noise, overwhelming and awesome.

When her breathing was normal and her body stopped shaking, she said, “I want to do something for you I’ve never done.”

Later, she thought it was like the smell of gunpowder that hung over the Capitol lawn: spicy and bitter, lingering, adult, not-quite-pleasant but oh, so desirable.

With shining strands stretching between her lips, she said, “Your cum tastes like fireworks.”

— Frenulum

Generations

The young man sat on the edge of his grandfather’s bed, listening with the respect owed to age and rank.

“…but my grandfather,” the old man was saying, “Had more than one hundred wives. A hundred! Can you believe it?”

“Truly, that is an astonishing number,” said his grandson, his tone giving nothing of belief or disbelief away. His deference to his grandfather was at the very least courteous, and perhaps more than that.

“He had two wives with long fingernails,” the elder recalled, “So that when he wanted his back scratched, he could have it done by twenty fingers.”

“Indeed?”

“And four wives whose fingers were pampered and softened every day, so that such a pleasure could be followed by the soothing caress of eight delicate hands.”

“I see.”

The old man’s eyes sparkled with a memory of youth. “And he had three beautiful wives whose mouths were like — like oiled silk, he used to say, who together would cause the most astonishing…” His voice trailed to quietness as his eyes closed.

His grandson watched with affection for a while, and then stole away. His thoughts were on a girl named Fatima, whose lively, challenging eyes, sweet face, and modest bearing had captivated him. When his time came to rule, he would have her brought to dance the hrahm-zheht for him, and if her body were as pleasing as her face, he would take her to wife. His only wife, for he felt that one was all a man might need.

Lying against his pillows, the sovereign called for his twenty-third and latest bride. A certain thing she did with her little sharp teeth could make a man… He dozed, waiting for her to come to him.

— Frenulum

Trademark

She always wears a bow in her hair. A big one, high against her crown — not absurdly so, not little-girlish or floppy, but visible from the front, adorning neatly drawn-back locks.

In her office or the courtroom, subdued and professional, coordinated with her suit much as her colleagues might choose a necktie.

On the weekends, more playful: a rainbow or a spray of polka-dots or simply a bright, happy pink.

Always a proud declaration of her femininity, no matter the circumstances, no matter how serious her mien.

A collection of such quirks is eccentricity. A single one, such as hers, is a trademark.

I allow her to keep her trademark bow whenever I take from her what I demand. With a nice pair of heels it makes a lovely outfit.

— Frenulum

Thought

Each test well-ordered.
Invading scanners aimed
With with careful skill:
Blood and dye; flesh turned beacon
Narrowcasting to the expert eye.

Each word well-reasoned,
With kindness seasoned or not,
As is the giver’s wont. Spoken
Quietly in the dark, or with ringing
Magnet, hammer, tremor, spark.

A draught, a bolus, another prick
Adding or drawing. A cocktail
Of a nature unsought. Panel,
Figure, score; abnormal: out of range.
White council, gathered as for war.

Each diagnosis,
Each trial,
Each guess,
Each given drop
Another thread high-arcing,
Settling. Tightening.
Singly, soft and light:
Bearable. But:

Together, as I am aground,
Leaving me
Gulliver, helpless bound.

— Frenulum

Well, that’s what he said

As she walked through the hallways, a murmur followed her, growing stronger with each passing second. It was composed of gasps, cries of astonishment, and whispered speculation.

She blushed a little bit, but she had made her mind up before leaving for school.

As she gathered her books at her locker, she could hear the background noise. She could sense other girls gathering at the intersections to peek down her hallway, to see if the rumors were true.

When a friend dared to approach, a question clear on her face, she dismissed her with a look.

By the time all the students were settled into their seats in Calc II, everyone had heard. Even the teachers.

Mr. Daniels faced the class. “Miss Anderson?” he began.

She rose and stood beside her desk; she met his questioning, accusing gaze.

“Would you tell me, please, why you have chosen to disrupt the school today by parading about in your panties?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “My father saw me headed out the door this morning. And he said ‘Angela! You are not going to school in that skirt!’” There were some muffled giggles from the class. “And I was carefully raised, sir, to be a perfectly dutiful daughter.”

— Frenulum

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