Uncle Ar, the Disciplinarian

 

"When asked in numerous interviews on podcasts, blogs, and whatnot, or in private conversations with fellow spankers, what are the qualities he looks for in women bottoms, Arlin James, or Uncle Ar as he was known to the most, had one unwavering response: willing."

Uncle Ar, the older English gentleman that Izzie met at the bar, is getting his own story. It's work in progress, and the paragraph above is an opening sentence. Yay or nay??

And of course, the character was originally based on Devlin O'Neill (may he rest in peace), lovingly called Uncle Dev by many.  I know very little about him, except that he was well known in the community as a disciplinarian and the author of many books, you can find them on Amazon, and a famous blog that sadly disappeared, the domain name wasn't renewed after he passed away.

In any case, I consider this new upcoming story as a tribute to him. If any of you reading this knew Devlin, please share some details in the comments, and I will try to weave them into the story.

For those of you who never heard of him, here is my old post about his vanished website: PSA: Devlin O'Neill's old blog

Birching Bordello is LIVE on Amazon!!!

 

EDIT: fixed the link

Birching Bordello on Amazon

Izzie likes to play. Nick likes to oblige. Yet, for the love of all things pain and pleasure, he can’t recall what she had planned for tonight. Until he sees her dress, plus the thornless rose, which suspiciously resembles a cane, and will sting on her bare bottom “like the dickens”.

Birching Bordello is a short story about one night of Victorian roleplay, a calling card for my upcoming full-length novel. Hush, it's a secret!

For the full list of accoutrements, consult your local adult store. Regard this as your blanket warning.

* * *

Kicking and screaming, Izzie dragged Nick into her world. Not only metaphorically, they had to soundproof this room for their loud shenanigans. Never in a thousand years did he imagine meeting a new love, he was not seeking one, and that his beloved would demand this unbearable amount of pain brought upon her in the most humiliating manner. Alpha male of the boardrooms and town halls, Nick preferred to lay back in the bedroom, his time to get away from the intensity of his real world, but not with Izzie. She handed him the reins, which he took, hesitant at first. No baby steps—it was all or nothing, and through horrendous mistakes and burning bridges, they survived and built this, which no label could encompass. His hand became firm and unwavering, but his heart raced each time, and his mind waited for reassurance, which she never hesitated to provide.

* * *

P.S. My lovely readers, without you, those stories would never see the light of day.

Your reviews will be the best form of support and greatly appreciated.

Book cover reveal for Birching Bordello

 

EDIT: It's now LIVE - Birching Bordello on Amazon

Sounds familiar?? Yep, I put together all the Birching Bordello stories, worked my magic, and made it into a book. My very very very first book with my very very very own book cover. Isn't it amazing? Aren't you all proud of me?

I clicked on the Publish button and nothing happened. Now I'm waiting while it's in review, but as you can tell, I'm overflowing with excitement. I will post the link here as soon as it will become available on Amazon.

Pinky promise, it has new content and way more fun than before. Here is the new snippet for you:

                                                        ***

“I expected a blank canvas,” Nick smirks.

Izzie’s hands fly up to cover her face while her cheeks turn the same vivid pink as her bottom. “Forgive me, milord, I had another... visitor... earlier this evening.” 

“Pray tell, was his name Duke of Brush or Viscount Spoon?” He caresses the telltale round red marks on her bum. 

“Duke of Brush, I’m sorry, I had to take the edge off,” she falters, lapsing into the present. “Why is it always so bright here?”

“Do you want me to dim the lights?” Nick motions at the switch on the opposite wall.

“No, you need the light for better aim.” And Izzie squeals into the sheets.

Nick is too familiar with this sound of embarrassment, usually accompanied by Izzie biting her lip, right after she blurted out what she shouldn’t and quite literally bit her tongue. She calls it “topping from the bottom”, and he’s not supposed to let it slide.

I tell stories, naughty or not

 

I dance

I sing

I tell stories, naughty or not

I write poems, naughty or not, rhymed or not

I lied on the beach, letting the sun to crisscross my body with tan lines,

Only pale triangles, all that's left of old me

Care to add more colour?

Maybe pink, maybe red, your choice

Thin lines to crisscross the pale triangles

Later I will give you proper thanks 

For creating a splash of colour on my monochromatic body

For morphing my body into art 

For letting it sing together with yours

For having it dance under your restless hands

For making it yours

I write poems, naughty or not

I tell stories, naughty or not, real or not

#3RHwriting

Anyone out there?? Yes, I know, I haven't been posting in a while. 

I'm on a verge of something big but first i want to publish a few short stories. Any publishing advice? Please drop me a line.

-- Sore/3RH

Z is for Zero

“My pretty zebra likes her orange zest.” Nick comments on my eating habits, as I bite the zest off the last candied orange slice before finishing the rest. “Not too much sugar for a nightcap? Or tea, for that matter?” 

He picks an empty teacup from my hand and gestures for me to scoot over from his lap. No glass in bed is our strictest rule. He walks over to the door to deposit the empty plates on the credenza, turns around, and pauses, in all his jaw-dropping glory. 

“Eyes up here,” the bastard even smirks. Nope, nothing can stop me from staring at my favorite distraction.

Veni, vidi, vici. I came, I saw, I conquered. Or in Nick’s case, I saw, I conquered, but I didn’t come yet. And he is not in a hurry with the ‘yet’ part.

“Aren’t you going to ask why I called you a pretty zebra?” Nick yanks the orange blanket off me to pinch my butt.

“I’m always pretty.” I get a literal slap on the wrist for trying to touch my favorite toy.

“Ask first.” He is standing so close, dangling the carrot, I can smell it.

“Pretty please, can I take it in my mouth?” 

“It fits in your mouth, fortunately, so you surely can. Which does not necessarily mean that you may.” 

“You and your grammar lessons,” I pout. “May I?”

“You may not, it’s showtime.” Nick bites into my lower lip and pinches my nipple at the same time. “Get on all four.”

Whatever Nicky wants, Nicky gets. And now the song is stuck in my head. I climb on the bed and assume the position: head down, ass up in the air, knees wide apart. 

“Can you take some more?” Nick rubs my ass in no hurry. I’m sure I have more stripes today than any zebra.

I blush and nod. Whatever Nicky wants, Nicky gets.

Smack! “Say it.” So bossy, so stern now.

“Yes, sir.” I reach back to rub the assaulted spot, but Nick catches my hand. “May I have some more?”

“Keep your hands away, or I will restrain you.” Nick picks me up by the waist to squeeze a big pillow underneath. 

“Yes, sir.” I shiver in anticipation. A pillow underneath means belt, my favorite. I thought we were done, but if he wants more, I will gladly take more.

“This is for me, not for you. You need to earn your stripes.” Nick chuckles at his own dad joke, his voice coming from another side of the room. And then the sound of the belt buckle against the wooden floor. “I want you to count down to zero.”

I don’t ask, I wait for the number. But instead of a number comes the first strike, across both cheeks. Oww!

“Five,” he says.

“Five,” I exhale. Five, I can manage. Even as hard as this one.

Strike two comes down on my almost virginal upper thighs, that’s so not fair. “Four!”

The next one lands on the left cheek only. I wallow in my pain and yearn for his cock. “Three!”

And another one on the right one. “Two!”

Again, across both cheeks, not as hard. “One.”

“Open up,” he taps on my crack, and I pull the cheeks apart and hold them open for a vertical strike. Please, please, just one more, and he will finally fuck me. I can’t wait for him to claim my ass.

“Zero!”

Y is for Yin and Yang

 Should I rhapsodize about yellow a bit more? I’m getting yellow nails this week, Nick chose my shellac nail polish color. Yes, you heard me right: Nick chooses a color for me every five weeks, and with pleasure. Sometimes he asks me if I have any preference, and I try to veer him away from the once I dislike. But once he chose the color, no more arguing. This time, he orders a warm yellow. I bow my head and yield.

He also chooses my panties once a week for an entire week and lays them out in order. Odd for such a busy man, innit? They say busy people avoid making unnecessary choices, the most classic example being Steve Jobs and his famous gray turtlenecks. The keyword being ‘unnecessary’, because I’m anything but that to Nick. Above all else, he said to me once, I yearn for you above all else. And he lives by these words in the tiny slivers of time he carves out for us. 

When I lie across his knees, he yearns me all the same, if not more. I am on the same pedestal he put me on, when he uttered the words: above all else. Everything he does to me, feeds us both. His urge to inflict pain, and mine to feel it from his hand.

It’s unexplainable to others, but deep within, we crave to be understood and accepted for what we are. As two parts of one circle, I am the dark feminine yin to his white masculine yang. I can be passive, introspective, and quiet. Soft and slow under his hand. He’s loud, rigid, expressive. Hot, hard, and fast. These are the actual words associated with yin and yang. Hard and fast were not invented yesterday; they’ve been there all along. Hard and fast against the pliable and willing, completing each other as only yin and yang can.

Small white and yellow flowers in my jasmine tea smell of faraway East and exotic sun. The hot liquid burns my fingers through the thin English China of yesteryear. I bite from a candied orange slice and sip more tea from the cup, wearing nothing but yellow fluffy socks and an orange blanket around my shoulders. Nick’s balancing me on his lap, being extra careful with the hot tea, waiting for me to come down. A kiss on my temple here, a graze on my earlobe there, he’s awfully patient. 

I know my life is good; I don’t need yellow sunglasses to tell me that.

X is for Xanthopia or Xylophone or X-ray

X is such a tricky letter. Probably the trickiest of the entire alphabet. You want to avoid being an arrogant show-off. Besides, who would believe that I didn’t just Google it, words starting with X, huh? And the word must connect with the story, unless I embark on a new one. Will it be a new adventure or a plausible diversion from the previous story?

X-ray is one of the obvious choices. How can anyone find an X-ray story that is even remotely titillating? And that’s where I will gladly prove you wrong with the help of the brilliant lyrics of The Girl with X-Ray Eyes, one of my most favorite songs written by Noel Gallagher, during his post-Oasis era. From one smut writer to another, an odd confession: it’s extremely hard to write a decent description of a blowjob, to make it tasteful, erotic, and poetic simultaneously. And Mr. Gallagher just nailed it, pardon my unintentional pun. Because it is the most poetic description of a BJ in the history of BJs, bar none.

As she swallowed space and time

We gathered pearls and swine

She shot me to the sun

Like a bullet from the gun

Indeed, words to live by: She swallowed space and time. Good girl!

Xylophone, on the other hand, would be another simple option, given Nick’s choice of the implement, a stingy ruler. He did play me like a xylophone, alternating between both cheeks and upper thighs, crisscrossing the marks for extra ouchiness. Low moans and high-pitched shrieks, prolonged owwws and shorter yikes, repetitive no-no-no’s and sharp ah’s—all the sounds of a very particular pain repertoire, spanned over three octaves or so—all skillfully extracted by his firm hand.

But it’s Xanthopia that has my heart. For Google-deprived and lazy ones, it’s an eye condition that makes you see the world with a yellow tint. Metaphorically, it would be a person who sees the world through yellow sunglasses: sunlit by a warm yellow light, feet drowning in a hot yellow sand, with a cold yellow umbrella drink in hand. When life gives you lemons, you put on a lemon-yellow lingerie set, grab the world by its balls, and squeeze them like lemons.

I had a lemon-yellow set ages ago; it’s still at the bottom of my lingerie drawer: a lace bralette and a thong, two sizes two small now. Who even cares, lingerie isn’t meant to stay on for long enough for anyone to notice if it’s too small. Hell, they won’t even remember the color, unless it’s red or black. And thongs cannot be too small, as they cover nothing, even if they are the right size. There!

I lie across Nick’s lap, laced by a whippy ruler, adjusting my yellow-tinted sunglasses. Life is the way you see it. I open my eyes to take in his face, so close. Oh, I missed him so much for so long, and now he’s here, next to me. Thank you, my wheel of fortune landed on yellow. I open them for long enough for Nick to drop the ruler and, with his magic fingers, to take me a bit further down the yellow brick road of redemption. As I close my eyes again, the whippy ruler flogs me along the same yellow road.

W is for Whuppin’ or Wooden or Warning

“I can’t close my eyes or what?” Bratting and squirming my way through the awkward silence. “I need to know. You know, for science.”

“I’m pretty sure you are capable and, therefore, can close your eyes,” Nick embarks onto a sidetrack lecture on English grammar. “Even more sure that you will close your eyes in due course, but—”

“But I may not?” I interrupt him with more questions. “And then what?” I’m giving Nick an easy way out: to announce the sentence, what he would do to me if I were to close my eyes, and then go back to our little roleplay.

“Uhmm…” Nick didn’t think it through so far. “You will get a whuppin’!” He goes back to his Southern folksy tone. 

“For how long?” I whisper.

“Till the cows come home, of course. Give me some sugah.” He pinches my butt and reaches for a kiss. Even in a dream, his lips smell and taste of strawberries. My summer boy loves strawberries and all things summer. My lavender and sundresses with no panties fit nicely in his realm. Second pinch brings me back to my asked and answered inquiry.

I’m totally whiplashed by all the contradictions. The giver of sugar must know, even in her befuddled state, what were the consequences of closing her eyes whilst being finger-fucked—errr receiving a massage of her nether regions.

“What if the cows are very far from home?” I ask, not sure myself what I mean by that. Am I the proverbial cow, interrupted by this entire conversation, and very far from hitting the home run? Oh God, I’m mixing all my sports metaphors today. Or am I concerned about the length of the aforementioned whuppin’ that so regrettably depends on the whereabouts of the lazy animals and the time they take to march towards their overnight abode? Phew! Wait, am I a cow, because I hold the alpine cowbell? Ugh!

Fortunately for me, Nick’s mind-reading abilities are back on, because he dismisses my concerns with a precise verdict. “Six with the wooden ruler and back to business.”

The evil wooden ruler, another unassuming object, disguised by the company of other office supplies, lives in the drawer of Nick’s nightstand. Light but stingy, will it get evil or not, it all depends on Nick or rather the flick of his wrist. 

“Yep, let’s start with six to get you focused and back in the mood.” Nick taps my butt with the ruler. I was so busy with my cow counting exercise that I didn’t notice when Nick got the ruler out. “No counting.”

Six quick whacks with the whippy ruler sting good and surely grab my attention. With a helper like that, I won’t have any problem with keeping my eyes open. Nick leaves the ruler on the bed, next to my cheek, as a formidable reminder. In the dim light of the Tiffany lamp, the darkness of wood pops against the white sheets. 

Two fingers slip inside me to collect the wetness, and like a light switch, I shut my eyes. 

“Watch out, girl!” Nick clears his throat with a fake sternness to cover the smirk. “Next time, no warning.”

V is for View

My view changes a few times. I first bent over Nick’s knees with my hands on the floor and my head hanging low. I didn’t get to study all the intricate details of the antique Tabriz rug underneath the blue velvet bench, as I didn’t enjoy seeing it so up close. You see, while it’s considered as one of the most popular spanking positions, I must disagree. I get woozy; I start seeing stars, not from the spanking, but from the blood rushing to my head. Not sure if it’s physical or psychological, but I panic in this position, almost right away. 

The cowbell to the rescue; after a brief mumble and a change of position, Nick profusely apologized for my discomfort, then propped my torso on the bed while my bottom remained at his disposal. At first, I twisted my head to the right and saw the edge of the same blue velvet bench, together with Nick’s clothes and my see-through blouse scattered on the floor. But Nick was unhappy with not seeing my face. Why would anyone wish to see the spankee’s face expression? A tough dilemma for most spankers, but not for unpredictable McDreamson. I see his point: it’s not a punishment but a grand finale, with a possible visit to Fairyland. He worked so hard to get me there; he wants to share it with me. Nick didn’t say any of it. He turned my head to the left, so I would face him, and gave me a forehead kiss. 

Even in a dream, Nick smells good, a mixture of his morning aftershave and his own smell. My view is graciously PG-rated, with Nick’s nakedness safely hidden underneath me, but the distinctive smell hits my nostrils every time Nick shifts. And I can still taste him on my tongue. I lick my lips and grin, and Nick returns a knowing smile. One interruption leads to another. My fingers graze the short curly hair on his belly, forgetting why I am seeing them at this peculiar angle, with my head pressed against soft white sheets. I bet Nick’s view is even better, seeing all the pretty marks from our never-ending night’s adventures. He circles my bottom and my thighs with his warm hand, the strop nowhere to be seen or felt. Nick leans over to press his lips against my neck, while his fingers unceremoniously plunge inside me to the tilt. He brings his fingers back to my lips to lick him clean, adding my own smell and taste to the delicious mix. 

“Ladies first?” are Nick’s first words since forever.

Startled, I muffle a single uh-huh into the sheets. Did Nick forget that I already came once, in the dungeon on stage, under the taps of the riding crops, guided only by his voice? He narrated every squirm of my swollen pink lips, every roll of my hips, every drop, every squirt. It seems now like eon years and thousands of miles away, but pussy never lies: I can still feel it. Which doesn’t mean I will turn down another!

I quickly add, “Yes, please.” In case he didn’t hear my uh-huh.

“New rules,” Nick announces, while he falls on the side and settles, propped on his elbow. He boops the tip of my nose with a wet finger that smells like me. “You are not allowed to close your eyes. You will see this mug,” he points at his handsome face, “as you come.”

“What a view to come to!” I quip terrified, because I cannot keep my eyes open when I come, and I am about to find out what the consequences of disobeying his orders might be.

U is for Us

Instantly, Nick changes his mind about killing it and pulls out. Because ‘killing it’ means that the fun would be over for him for a while. One and done for a day, unless a certain pharmaceutical help is involved. We use them occasionally, when we get a chance to sneak away for the weekend for a special us time. What’s happening now is nothing but a dream, remember? It’s most definitely us and more than special. I would give anything, give up on everything, for it to become us.

His cock bounces in front of my face, hard, demanding, glistening from my drool. The botched blowie was an intermission only, a pleasant one, but Nick has a job to finish, and only then he can relax and allow himself to finish too. I sit on the floor in between his legs. That stupid see-through blouse doesn’t conceal much of my heaving braless bosom, crowned with erect nipples. Nick makes a show of unbuttoning and tossing away the last garment off my body. He slides off his own boxer briefs too. Now we are on the even ground, equally naked and quiet. 

I press my hands to my face and feel the heat emanating from my burning cheeks. I don’t know what I want anymore: to jump Nick’s bones and ride him into the sunset, for him to fold me in half and do the same to me, or to continue what we started. The throbbing pain is everywhere; I will tip over in no time. But I don’t want to decide. I want Nick to truly take over and hold the reins, deciding for both of us.

Nick McDreamson reaches for the forgotten barber strop and pats his bare thigh with his free hand. Oh, that perfect invitational patting! The lust widens his pupils so much, his eyes seem black and not the usual honey brown. When I lie across his lap, I will feel every twitch of his persistent cock underneath me. But no, he will not take me until I’m there, delivered to the land of fairies and unicorns and then safely brought back. I stand on my knees, not hesitating, but mesmerized. Nick picks up the cowbell and presses it into my palm.

“Make your exit now or else. The train ain’t gonna stop no more till its final destination,” my train conductor lost his Southern drawl, but not the essence. “Speak up, young lady.” The strop lands on my thigh with an encouraging smack.

“Yes, sir, I’m staying.” My words hurry, and so am I, like a frantic passenger, scared to be left behind at the end of the platform of a godforsaken train station, which most trains disregard the stop and swoosh by. 

“Climb aboard then.” Without taking his eyes off mine, Nick strikes my thigh again, this time with more force, leaving a wide red mark.

Skin on skin, I stretch across his lap. The cowbell clangs inadvertently, hushed by my capped hand. It’s not just him or me anymore, only us.