Transgression (from Anti-Prologue)

 

“I need you to address my last night’s transgression.” I walk out to the back porch with a peace offering: a tall glass of brewed tea with two lemon slices, squeezed first, then buried under a heap of ice, tea poured on top, the spoonful of honey swirling in between the fast-melting ice cubes.

The frosted glass doesn’t cool my sweaty palms. The sour smell of lemon, instead of alleviating my nausea, is making my stomach knot even tighter. Bare feet dig into the dirty porch floor, dusted with sand blown in from the nearby dunes. The sand gets stuck between my toes, wet from sweat, which only adds to the anxiety. Am I digging my heels in, or will I back out at the last minute? My mind spirals into the jittery dread of the inevitable: the addressing of the transgression.

“And what transgression is that?” He stops the porch swing with his foot, laying the book he was reading on the faded pillows, and takes the glass from me for the first quenching gulp. Oh, he hates the heat so much.

Not sure how I lured him into this AC-lacking hell, with only whizzing ceiling fans to fight the scorching heat. Well, the worn-out green velvet couch was the first reason we chose this house. We noticed the green treasure in the picture and looked at each other with identical amusement; we are still in the process of procuring one for ourselves. Reasons two and three: its proximity to the beach, so close we could smell the sea and hear the seagulls, but far enough from the neighbors to hear our daily shenanigans, a rare combination in this neck of the woods. The blue siding outside, a nod to a distant memory, and pink peonies in full bloom were a bonus. So, we booked it and, in our mutual excitement, forgot about this little detail: no AC.

I set the plate with sliced watermelon and feta cheese on the edge of a wooden table, the one and the same I plan to get bent over. Is the sweet and juicy watermelon for my own aftercare? Do I expect it to be so long and hard that I will need the whole shebang? Do I want to be spanked to tears? Is that why I put a clean tissue in my sundress pocket, to wipe my nose? Or to wipe his cum after, when it trickles down my leg. I squeak and press my thighs together; he notices and grins. The art of silent dialogue.

From Anti-Prologue

To get Anti-Prologue, a bonus prequel to Spanks and Moans, absolutely FREE, click HERE

Not a Warm-up (from Spanks and Moans)

Yesterday Becca asked me to spank her as a punishment, under the pretense that she was playing a game on her phone instead of writing. I gave her a half-assed spanking, fucked her brains out, and that was it. Not turned half of her ass bright red, leaving the other cheek pristine pale, but put little thought into it.

We don’t have any rules that lead to punishment. Odd, isn’t it? To each their own. I know it won’t bode well with her in the long run, to get spanked or punished otherwise for her wrongdoings. I definitely don’t want her to get into a habit of asking for one, but I let that one-off slide.

It’s my job to watch her and decide when she needs a spanking. And today she needed a major reset. Restless, jittery, still excited about this new place, noticing all the little details that one day will turn up in one of her stories.

Like a puppy chasing squirrels in the park, all at once, except my puppy wasn’t happy. Becca is happiest when she writes, and I want that gleeful smile back.

We won’t see eye to eye in the process; she will protest and argue and fight me but won’t use her safeword. Not so secretly, that’s exactly what she wants: to fight long enough until she gives in and truly submits, like a good girl. My good girl.

“Bee, come here,” I summoned her from the back porch, using her nickname, as calling her Rebecca Tabitha would be met with stifled snickering.

I don’t need to call her by first and middle name to mean business. She has eyes, and those eyes round into saucers behind thick glasses at the view of a cleared kitchen table, except for a stack of paper with a pen on top, pushed to the far end of the table, and a long wooden spoon in my hand.

“Bend over for a warm-up,” I tap the edge of the table with my free hand.

“Wait please, I can explain. I wasn’t writing because I was doing research. For book marketing. It’s very complicated.” She speeds up, thrown for a loop by the word warm-up. She tilts her head, frozen in her spot, trying to pick through the bedroom door, but I made sure that all she can see is the dark towel, covering the edge of the bed, and nothing else.

“You will explain after the warm-up.” I walk across the floor to shut the bedroom door and back. The place is tiny but suits the purpose: to eat, to spank, to fuck, to write for her and read for me, and to watch the sunsets.

“You always warm me up with your hand. Why the spoon? What did you plan?”

“Did you bring the silicone plug?”

“Yes, I put it in the nightstand drawer. On your side.”

“I don’t see you bent over. Do you want me to replace that plug with fresh ginger I bought this morning? You know, it won’t take me long to carve one piece.“ I motion at the fruit bowl with fresh peaches and a big hand of ginger root, each finger perfectly shaped for figging. My well-timed threat sets her in motion.

“I’m bending, I’m bending!” Becca plops over the edge as she is, in a tank top and green overalls, the shorts just covering her bum, such clothes are more suitable for someone two decades younger, but who am I to complain, the more skin she shows at home the better.

I whack her at the exposed sit spots, and she jolts from pain. “How am I supposed to work with it, huh? I need you naked from the waist down.”

Becca shimmies out of her overalls and the bikini bottoms she wore underneath.

“Prepared for the day on the beach, I see?”

“I can write on the beach,” she says with defiance.

“Sir.” I remind her of a skipped honorific.

“Sir, what?”

“I can write on the beach, sir!” She is still standing, with her clothes pooling around her ankles, but that doesn’t stop me from hitting the back of her thighs.

“Ouch! That’s not a warm-up!” She dances on the spot from the stinging pain.

“Quiet, it’s not a discussion. Bend over and stick your ass out.”

“Yes, sir.” Becca plops back on the table.

A dozen pink imprints on each butt cheek, and she reaches back with her hand. I tie her hands behind her back with a kitchen towel and pause for a brief lecture.

From my latest book Spanks and Moans

My dear friends, loyal readers, and other esteemed members of the spanko community! I'm counting on you.

Pretty please with a cherry-red bottom on top (umm it doesn't make any sense, does it? What if the bottom is stuck out up in the air?) buy my book on Amazon (unless you have a family account, I completely understand) or read it for free on KU. It's not about money making but visibility, and right now my book is pretty much invisible.

If you can't buy it but want to read it, please let me know and I will send you and ARC copy.

Please and thank you!!

Spanks and Moans are OUT!!

 

Ahoy, mateys! Arrrrr ye ready for salmagundi? It’s a pirate feast to celebrate the booty adventures and set sail into its uncharted waters. Expect lots of plot and tons of strict discipline.

Becca, a writer and a squirrel chaser, spends a weekend at a remote cottage to get a long-overdue reset from the firm hands of her more experienced partner and lifestyle mentor, only known as Captain Ray.

Spanks and Moans is a 10,000-word spanking novelette, full of strict discipline, unorthodox writing lines, and a kinky pirate roleplay. 

Spanks and Moans on Amazon for only $0.99, Free on KU

You know what to do. I am counting on you.. As always ARC copies are available, especially for those who cannot buy on Amazon. LMK

EDIT: To get Anti-Prologue, a bonus prequel to Spanks and Moans, absolutely FREE, click HERE