Condensed

She took the golden box in her hands and knelt. There was no reason to kneel except that she was thinking of him, which was enough. Sometimes, when she saw him in public, her knees just started to bend, and she had to catch herself.

She opened the lid. She drew breath, concentrated, meditated, centered her thoughts.

“My lover,” she said, breathing into the box, starting with the simpler words. “My mate. My partner.” Each word drifted into the box; of course, it was not the breath, or the articulation, but the idea that settled down. The concepts began to blend as she added them.

“My best friend,” she added with heartfelt simplicity. “My sex.” Moisture grew in her pussy, and her nipples began to stiffen. “My belovèd. My soulmate. My equal. My perfect match. My mirror. My one.” Her words fell into the swirling mix of thoughts in the golden box, causing the blended ideas to spin and intertwine, each one coloring the others.

Her thighs glistened, and her voice, though soft, was deliberate and emphatic. “My lord,” she spoke. “Law. King. Liege. Center. Rule.” The turbulence of mingled ideas in the box was beautiful and entrancing. “Universe. Purpose. Reason. Everything.” Her quim flooded, nipples strained, body trembled. The pace of her words grew slower. “Teacher. Daddy. Authority. Guide. Fixer. Mentor. Trainer. Commander. My path. My life.“

The box was full to the edge, wisps of ideas starting to curl over the edges; she gently herded them back inside. She leaned closer, her lips almost touching the glowing storm of thoughts.

“Master,” she whispered. As the word flew into the box the mixture roiled and it was all she could do to keep it confined. “Owner,” she added, and quickly, with all her might, closed the lid on the burgeoning brilliance inside.

The pressure of meaning strove to burst the confines of the box. She held it closed with her hands and then, fearing her strength was not enough, sat on the box. Against her bare bottom it was fiercely hot, welcome, remindful.

After a time, the box cooled and the pressure against the lid faded. She rose, knelt again, and took up the box in her hands. Carefully, she opened it. She bent her head to the box, and inhaled the single thing it now contained.

She stood, and went to find him, so that she might speak his name.

“Sir.”

— Frenulum

From and for my belovèd.

Prevalence

Suppose we could somehow filter out most explicit images on the net (and boy-oh-boy there are sure some people who want to).

Eliminate all professional photography. Yikes! All hard-core. All couples.

Banish any photo in lingerie or costumes or swimsuits.

Rule out bedroom and kitchen and living-room scenes; forbid outdoor photography.

Suppose there were no postings left except: naked teens-and-twenties girls alone in cluttered, messy bathrooms, snapping their own mirror reflections with digital cameras and cell phones.

I believe there would still be more images posted every day than any one person could ever get through.

— Frenulum

Magic

The student wizard surveyed with great satisfaction the three naked girls kneeling before him. Their sexual hunger was evident in their faces, eyes following his every move. Any fourth-year could make a powerful love potion; he had trebled the lust-producing ingredients, and the effect on the girls was clear in their quivering bodies and honey-wet thighs.

The girl to his left was his daily companion, almost annoyingly self-confident, saved by her true genius. In the middle, a slim Chinese import with an incongruous but fetching north-country accent. To his right, his best mate’s sister, naïve but excited. Two of them were virgins, and seemed the most eager of the three.

He had used the Alopeciatus spell to remove the pussy hair from two of the girls, and their bare lips pouted and glistened. He had left a ginger exclamation mark on the third girl’s mons as a pretty, distinctive ornament.

One last spell. It was forbidden to practice self-altering magic, because of the inherent risk, but rules had never stopped him. He pointed the wand down at his own body. Erecto equinus! he cried. The girls’ widening eyes reflected the impressive result.

Power corrupts. Time to feed the witches.

— Frenulum

Note: I’ve never been interested in fanfic. I respect other authors’ ideas, and have enough voices in my own head not to care about borrowing someone else’s. However, this scene popped whole into my head last Saturday, and I thought I might as well write it down. My apologies to the creator.

Quite a bargain

She went shopping with a friend on her lunch hour. She found the skirt on clearance, a pleated plaid mini unlike anything in her wardrobe. She held it up for appraisal.

“Where would you wear that?” the friend asked, instead of coming right out and saying it was far too short.

“I don’t know. Nowhere, really. I just think it’s cute.” And it was $9.96, practically free. She bought it.

At home that night, she slipped out of her suit coat, skirt, and heels. It was a stay-home night: jeans and a tee would be about right. She dug out denims and tossed them on the bed, then sat there and pulled on some plain white ankle socks.

She was starting to unbutton her white dress blouse when she heard the front door. “Oh, I’ll show him my new skirt,” she thought, and reached for the bag.

---

His first glimpse of her was in the bedroom, where in a white blouse, a kilt of barely more than bun length, and anklets, she was bent over a dresser drawer.

Twenty years fell away in a heartbeat. Junior year of high school, first day. The new transfer student. Her uniform kilt far too short for the rules (the staff would promptly see to that).

Bending at the waist to put something on the floor of her locker.

White panties taut across what had theretofore been only a rumor of a dream of a mystery.

The image branded on his mind, fuel for every session alone in the bathroom all that year.

Senior year. Spring. Asking her to the Prom while his three closest friends peeked around the corner at them, making side bets on whether or not he could speak to her at all.

---

She lay on her back, sweat-soaked, breathing hard. Hair was stuck to her face and neck and shoulders. The bed was a soggy wreck.

She was dazed, and in-a-good-way sore in certain places, and happy.

“What got into you?” she asked.

“I know what got into you,” he replied with an exagerated wiggle of the eyebrows.

“No, really.”

“Oh…” he said. “I was just thinking about… love at first sight.”

— Frenulum

A curse

To the parent pushing the double-wide two-passenger six-cup-holder WiFi-hot-spot-enabled off-road-capable armor-plated eight-wheel stroller through the narrow aisles of a museum exhibit:

May your children be disappointments, move back into the basement of your cookie-cutter suburban big-box, eat all your Cheetos, and completely neglect you when the premature dementia that clearly already infects your meager excuse for brains finally takes hold and leaves you drooling and uncomprehending. And may you dimly remember running into me with your me-first behemoth and wonder if it all started going downhill then.

— Frenulum

Y’all

A follow-up to my comment on “you guys” and “y’all” in A concentration of linguistic peeves.

I was in the Southern U.S. a few days ago, and heard a variant on “y’all” that was new to me — it quite made sense, given the structure of the language, but I just hadn’t heard it before.

A police officer said: “Y’all enjoy y’all-selves today!”

<grin>

I love language.

— Frenulum

Urban rose

Without warning, he held out his hand. “Give me your panties.”

Shocked, she hesitated. “What, here? Right now? But I —” She glanced at the rear-view mirror, and caught the cabbie watching her.

His hand never wavered, but he said nothing more.

Blushing, cautious of exposure, she reached under her skirt and slowly worked her panties down her legs. When they came into view, she checked the mirror again and blushed harder. Finally, she slipped her panties past her heels and, after a second’s pause, placed them in his open hand.

He regarded the morsel of pink cotton and white lace for a moment; he opened the side window and tossed her panties out of the cab.

Before she could react with surprise, he spoke. “Orders are to be obeyed. Don’t hesitate, don’t evaluate, don’t wonder. Just act, instantly.”

Meekly: “Yes, Sir.”

“You’ll have to handle the Directors’ presentation today without your panties. I hope the lesson was worth the price.”

The cab sped on, the driver watching the back seat from time to time.

An hour later, a grey-haired gentleman on his morning walk spied the pretty pink panties lying on the curb. “Ah, those were the days,” he thought, and smiled.

— Frenulum

(Inspired by an actual such observation, as interpreted by my belovèd.)

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.