B is for Belt

 

Before becoming a senator, he was known as General Arlinus Maximus, a title he cherished very much and considered much more important than any political nonsense. He remained a military man at heart and ran his household with an iron fist, using his sword belt to keep disobedient slaves in line. In fact, despite the current fashion, he always wore his sword belt over the tunic, not only as a soldier’s habit but as a constant reminder for his staff. For all but one: his dear sex slave, Giulia.

He bought Giulia at the slave market in the summer when she turned one and twenty. Dark blonde with a big mouth and narrow hips, captured in Gaul, a recent widow, spared by the soldiers to fetch a better price, and barren. The first part Arlinus could see himself; the rest of the slave merchant’s rap made his mind spin with the possibilities of what would fit and where, and in what sequence. Arlinus was a man of an admirable sex appetite with perversions and a toy chest to match, way ahead of his time.

“What’s her name?”

“She calls herself Jools,” the merchant replied.

“Jules? That’s a man’s name. I will call her Giulia.”

“But Giulia is a noble name, senator.”

“Are you telling me how to call my slave?”

The girl’s eyes darted from one man to another, who were deciding her fate, but they never reached Arlin’s face. Women from Gaul, besides having a lovely accent, received high praise as more refined and adventurous in bed, perhaps in the local brothels, because this one seemed shy and inexperienced. She kept her eyes downcast and blushed at every crude remark. More fun to break her in!

“Spin around and show me her feet,” Arlinus asked.

Feet so dirty, he couldn’t see her toes, speckles of dried-up blood on her legs from walking barefoot, bright red marks on her wrists from the ropes that she kept scratching, when she didn’t rub the matching red marks on her thighs. Quite a leper she was, but a fascinating one. Nothing that hot baths and aromatic oils won’t fix, and then he will add his own welts to mark her. Note to self: to pick up the rose petal oil from Persia, she will smell divine while writhing under him or trying to evade his belt.

“Show me the rest,” requested Arlinus, and the merchant yanked the filthy fabric that covered the young woman’s torso to show off his product.

The woman, unaware of the slave market’s tradition, pulled the fabric back to preserve her modesty, for which the trader reprimanded her with a whip across her ass.

“No,” motioned Arlinus, “don’t touch my property.”

“Not yours yet,” scowled the slave merchant.

“I beg to differ,” smirked Arlinus, as he handed over the leather bag with coins. “Twenty thousand denarii and my belt on her arse say she’s mine.”

With that, he unbuckled his sword belt, upended the befuddled Giulia and bent her over the edge of the platform she had been showcased on a moment ago. Twelve rapid-fire strikes of the belt covered whatever fading whip marks she had with twelve angry crimson stripes.

And thus, the education of Giulia had begun.

A is for Ancient

Ancient. That’s how Arlin felt today, walking the streets of the eternal city. Everything was fine and dandy yesterday: the sun was shining, the famous Roman sandwiches were plentiful and full of truffle cream, children’s laughter didn’t transform into screams, and the hordes of tourists didn’t cross his path.

But today everything rubbed him the wrong way. Must be the weather, the glum skies, and the never-ending rain that reminded him of London, which he hadn’t visited for too long, or that he forgot his trusty umbrella in the hotel, and the abomination, he bought at the first kiosk when the rain started, was twisted inside out by the first blow of wind from Tiber River. What kind of Londoner, even a former Londoner, leaves the hotel without an umbrella on a cloudy day in December, hmm?

Must be the age, Arlin thought. He has never been bothered by the weather before, but today he felt like the oldest living man in Rome. Which could not be true, he reasoned with himself, and by far, as in any European city with its aging population, pushing sixty puts him right on the median or such. Math was never his forte, but music was. After his performing career was over, the esteemed professor settled into teaching piano jazz in a small university town in a lesser-known part of New England, and never felt old, despite being surrounded by youth day and night. Not just taught, he turned gifted kids into geniuses, into the next generation to fill the concert halls of the world with divine sounds followed by loud bravos. Or bravi, if one wishes to be grammatically correct.

But nothing deserved a single bravo today, starting from his morning coffee, served unacceptably warm, or his toast, served exceptionally dry, or butter, improbably cold and impossible to spread. The boutique hotel near Via Margutta, praised for its exceptional service, was having a one-off day, as the chatty receptionist later gossiped to Arlin. The morning cook had a family emergency and left for Tuscany with the first train, and Giulia, his less capable replacement, managed to screw up even the simplest tasks. Oh bother, tsked Arlin over the lukewarm coffee, as he eyed Giulia’s ample arse, bouncing underneath her long floral skirt. That bottom belonged over his knee for all the morning mishaps.

The rainy day only dampened his spirits further. Arlin attempted to cheer himself up with a long hot bath and a dinner at the hotel’s restaurant, but the flick of the familiar floral skirt by the kitchen door hinted that the same Giulia, exhausted and frustrated, was working her second shift. Arlin braced himself for the worst and ordered the most classic Spaghetti alla Carbonara. Besides Giulia’s usual problems with the temperature control, the result was finger-licking good, with crunchy and flavorful guanciale and abundant Pecorino Romano. With that, Arlin’s thoughts wandered into a different kind of fantasy: a good girl spanking.

When in Rome, such fantasy called for an original setting: in ancient Rome, a gray-bearded Senator Arlinus Maximus summons his female slave Giulia to strip naked and kneel at his feet, waiting for her evening punishment. By Jupiter, this luscious arse won’t stay pale for long!

It's A to Z time of the year!

 

PSA for those who visit this blog for the very first time. This blog is strictly 18+ and contains plenty of kink/BDSM references and focuses on consensual adult spanking. Consider it a blanket trigger warning.

Hey everyone! Yes, I've been away from here for way too long. But you know what date it is today? It's March 31 or April 1, depending on how long I will be writing this post.

Yes,  I signed up for A to Z blogging challenge yet again. Nothing like a structured challenge to push me and keep me motivated! Reminds you of something else that keeps you on track and motivated? Yep, there will be plenty of those. SPANKINGS.

Long awaited (mostly by me) Uncle Ar spanking story never materialized, so I thought nothing like A to Z to make it happen. Please remember that this story is only dedicated to Uncle Dev but is a work of fiction, through and through.  

I know that I'm competing only with myself, but unfortunately myself delivered quite a tangible work of fiction during the past A to Z's and I set the bar for myself pretty high. Did my writing change since then? It's up for you to tell. From what I see, in the past I heavily relied on dialogue and built everything else around it, while now I really enjoy to wax poetic with no dialogue in sight. 

It will be a multi-chaptered spanking story set in Rome, which happened around Christmas time. Can you imagine? I've been mulling it over since December. That's some serious procrastination! I also blame real life that takes up a lot of my time and energy these days.

Please visit often and cheer me up in comments, writing with no readers is a lonely business. I promise to reciprocate and delurk. Too many of the fellow blogs bit the dust  but there is always hope that seemingly dormant blogs one day will come back to life, just like mine...

And a shameless plug, if you haven't done it yet, please check out my first book Birching Bordello. Yep, I revamped that story and self-published it on Amazon. Link in the top right corner.

In memory of Uncle Devlin

Gentleman, blogger, soldier, and spanker
Generous always, never cantankerous
Uncle to many but father to none
Disciplined all, ​maids, miladies​, ​and nuns

Boisterous smile and romantic at heart
Turned punishing bottoms into an art
Crimson and ​scarlet and cherry and pink
Parallel lines are not painted with ink

​Paddles and strops ​will ​deliver perfection
Wannabe nieces ​f​lock for correction
Stern words that arouse, firm hand that heals
The journey is long but that's the appeal 

Weaving the story or lacing the flesh
Don't mess with ​the count​, or he starts afresh
E​a​ch ​stinging lash ​will speak straight to her soul
Begging won't help, as it's always his call

 
Decades of practice, impeccable aim
​Dispens​ing his kindness through​ dreadful pain
​From naughty girls into chastised young ladies​ 
A story as old as Persephone and Hades
​
Red Riding Hood left her drawers in a hurry
Over his lap to abandon her worries
For unwavering hand, undeniable wit ​
Willing bottoms had sought blue-eyed charming Brit

Spanking on camera, telling his stories
​Filled us​ with ​awe of his grandeur and glory​ 
​Naughty angels​ aren't sinners, who made it to heaven​ 
​Please greet​'em with the soundest​,​ best best of seven​!​ 
​
I added an extra, or is that a crime?
Am I a good girl for making this rhyme?

PS I didn't know Devlin O'Neill, joined the party too late, but you know me, it never stopped me from writing a poem. May his memory lives on!

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.