the librarian

This is a fiction piece, a short story, I wrote some months ago. I’ll post it here and also in my fiction tab. It’s a bit slow to develop, but stay with it.


“Long ago there lived a King and Queen who said every day, “If only we had a child!” But for a long time they had none.”

It is Saturday morning, and I am in the Mayhurst Public Library reading Sleeping Beauty to the children. Eleven precious souls form a semi-circle before me in the reading room. I sit on a stool in my June Cleaver shirt dress and high heels, a retro look I just have fun with (perhaps my little wink at our small town), and a touch of dress-up to make the reading hour special for the children.

“‘Nay, your daughter shall not die, but instead shall fall into a deep sleep that will last one hundred years’ . . . “

I also work at the library during the week as head librarian. Some wonder why I volunteer on my day off, but I love the library, being around books any day of the week, and this simple joy of reading to children. They call me “Miss Becca.” Most are regulars and I know them by name and character, as well as their parents, who are endlessly grateful for the opportunity to leave their kids with me while they run errands downtown.

The children are sometimes fidgety, depending on the story, but I summon all my college theater experience to bear on the dramatic reading. Usually I have their rapt attention. The kids seem to love my readings and get excitedly involved in the stories, often shrieking and gasping and laughing. It makes me happy. This morning they’re hanging on my every word:

“At that moment she fell upon the bed which was standing near and lay still in a deep sleep.”

So here’s the thing: I may be a devoted librarian, but once reading time is done and the children are reunited with their parents, the rest of my day is me time — self-servingly, gloriously, all about me.

And so it is that at 11:30 Saturday morning I exit the library and stroll downtown, my shirt dress swishing breezily and my heels clicking smartly. Time now for my Saturday afternoon ritual, and then my weekly trek to my special place.


I have a standing appointment at noon with my hair stylist, Stacy. Doing this every week is a luxury, but one of my little indulgences. Stacy knows my chestnut hair better than I do, and she always brings out the depth of my natural color brilliantly. She also scolds me about my love life — or lack of it — and apparently I need that kind of therapy on a regular basis.

“I’m thirty-five,” I say, as if that explains everything.

“Perfect age,” Stacy says. “A lot of young bucks are rutting for their Mrs. Robinson. And some sugar daddy stallions out there are certainly in heat for a woman like you.”

I wince. “Sounds like I should admit myself to a zoo.”

“Funny. But I’m serious,” she says. ”You have opportunities.”

“To the contrary, I think twenty-somethings are intimidated by my age and older men actually want someone younger. Besides, Mayhurst is a small town. It’s not like there are a lot of young bucks and stallions anyway. It’s a limited universe.”

Just then a line from Sleeping Beauty floats up in my mind: “From time to time Princes came and tried to force their way through the hedge and into the castle. But they found it impossible for the thorns, as though they were alive, grabbed at them and would not let them through.”

“You’re beautiful, Rebecca,” Stacy says, “all this gorgeous hair. And a great body. But you hide it too much.”

“You don’t like this dress?”

“I love it. Fun. The red heels set if off nicely. Very Judy Garland. And you fill it out on top nicely.”

“And I’m wearing stockings, garter belt.”

“Get out. Show me.”

I lift my dress up to my upper thighs, revealing the tops of my taupe stockings and the white rubber clasps of my vintage garter belt holding them up.

“Aren’t you a bundle of surprises.”

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”

“Maybe, but you’re making my point. This is a sexy outfit, Rebecca, but sexy to you. No one else knows you underneath. You dress in a you-can’t-ever-have-me sort of way. Sexy stockings and garter belt, girl, but no one would ever know. You need to sell yourself more.”

“Stacy, keep in mind we’re in Mayhurst, not Vegas. Besides this outfit is for me. It becomes my private pleasure. This day is for me. It too is for my pleasure. I think if I am happy with myself, everything else will work out.”

“I can’t disagree with that,” Stacy says. “Just sayin’, you could show more skin.”


An hour later, I pay Stacy and give her a sizable tip for making me beautiful and for all the counseling. I walk out of the salon with full curls of golden-brown and reddish waves cascading over my shoulders. I feel pretty. Oh so pretty. It is a very fine day.

It’s mid-afternoon, and, as usual, I stop at Simm’s for a light salad and white wine on their outside patio. Ashley Morris walks by. She’s Joseph’s mom and brings him to the library every Saturday morning.

Today she’s frazzled.

“I need a day off,” she says. “No, make that a year. I need something else. I need an adventure. Everything’s just ordinary.”

“If you need me to take Joseph…” I start to say, “but for a full year, Josh might object.”

“Well, he wouldn’t object to you, that’s for sure. These days, he’d love to swap me out. And I wouldn’t mind either, as long as I got a year in the Caribbean out of it. You’d be good for him.”

I smile. “We’ll we’re not going there. Probably wouldn’t settle well with the townsfolk. The thing is you guys are just so busy. Hey, you want to sit, chat, order a Chardonnay?”

“Can’t, church choir rehearsal. Why does it have to be Saturday afternoons?”

She takes Joseph’s hand and strolls on.

“Bye, Joseph,” I say.

He turns to me with the cutest smile. “Bye, Miss Becca.


One more stop on my way out of town to my special place. The third entry in my trilogy of pampering.

Mayhurst is a small town, but we share a shopping mall with Daviston ten miles west. I drive there and spend a couple hours at the Dillards makeup counter, where I sit across from Kristen, my twenty-two-year-old makeup consultant-slash-cashier. She does my concealer and foundation and blush and eyeshadow and lipstick for free, although I always buy something to make it legit.

“Hair is beautiful today, Rebecca.” Kristen says.

“Thank you. Stacy just did it.”

“She does a fabulous job. So, we don’t have anything new at the counter this week. Nothing new to try. What will it be?”

Most every week I say the same thing: understated, natural blush and shadow, paired with a bright lipstick. “Nothing too out there.” She suggests a burgundy shade which matches the reddish tones in my hair. I suggest we go a little brighter, to match my ruby red high heels. I think we always land on this same lipstick, but we go through the process nonetheless.

“Going up to the mountains again?” Kristen asks.

“Yes. It’s beautiful up there. Peaceful.”

I paint my lips with the L’Oreal, then press them together. I nod my approval.

“Where exactly is this place?”

Kristen has started asking me this question each time, and I have gotten creative in misleading her without lying. I don’t want her and her friends finding my special place and hanging out there. “An hour beyond Daviston. Off of 56, then the directions get complicated.”

“Sounds like a nice getaway. You know, I’d do anything to leave Mayhurst.”

“It’s a little confining, isn’t it.”

“A lot.” Kristen sighs.

“Mayhurst has its charms, though. I like it. But I know what you mean. You probably feel the need to flex your wings.”

Kristen nods, then moves on: “So, lingerie has a new line of bras for in-between sizes. Sort of custom fitting but off the rack.” She’s giving me an option to purchase something for her time and free makeup. “What size are you?”

“Well, we never really know, right? I’m a 34DD in a Warner bra. Yes, I’m kind of in-between.”

“You might check that out.”

“You know, Kristen, I’m running a little late. Why don’t you ring me up for this lipstick this time. I’ll buy it.”


Actually, my special place is a full two hours away from Mayhurst and a circuitous drive into the mountains. I love the drive, as the woods are so beautiful, especially in summer, and the distance makes for a separation from my daily life into the silence and quiet of the wilderness.

Driving is a transition for me mentally and emotionally. And in other ways too. My happiness all day turns into a deeper satisfaction in anticipation of my evening to come. And my body starts to tingle and flush. What I feel isn’t nervousness but desire.

I have timed it right, hitting the turnoff onto the mountain road a half hour before dusk. There would be another twenty minutes of the hardened, waterboarded backwoods lane, landing me at my special place right before dark. Tonight there’s a full moon which will aid my final walk.

It was originally a small community theater run by an aging stage director who brought in amateur theater troupes to put on plays and simple musical reviews. Even when it was active, the attendance was meager. It was just too out of the way. Still, the old man kept the theater alive for a number of years.

He died five years ago. The place fell into disuse and ill-repair. My library research revealed it was foreclosed on by the bank, and that’s where it remained. It had no worth, and the old theater just sat there.

My car comes to the fork, and I steer onto the left path, even narrower and more overgrown than the right. This will lead me toward the back of the old theater. One more mile.

I discovered it by accident three years ago. I had been driving, exploring some mountain roads, then got lost. I meandered, somehow, toward the area, and stumbled onto the old theater. Doors were open and I was able to walk inside. It was very small with a semi-circular stage and a narrow apron jutting forward.

That summer I returned to the old theater often, then most every week. It became a place where I could think, read, talk to myself. Clear my mind. Pretend I was still doing theater. I borrowed a pickup truck and dragged an easy chair into the place. I found an old chaise lounge at a garage sale, and trucked that up there as well. I brought clean sheets to drape over the old furniture when I came. The place had no running water, but it did still somehow have electricity. I brought an old garage-sale floor lamp, and later some other lights.

This is my special place. It is spiritual for me. Good for my soul. It is where I can think through the stories in my head, what has become my writing. And my life.


I park my car at my usual place, still a half mile from the back side of the old theater. It’s the last point on the overgrown path where I can turn around. Dusk has settled in, but the moon is nearly full and bright. I climb out of the car and stretch, sighing deeply in the clear air, now cooler after the day’s heat.

My body is different now, buzzing and alive. It’s been contained all day, slowly teasing me about the evening ahead. I open the door to the back seat, where two empty hangers dangle from the clothes hook.

There in the country lane I begin to unbutton my shirt dress. Despite my excitement, I take my time. This is for me.

Button by button, the top of my dress separates in front. I feel the mountain air rush in against my skin. I unfasten the fabric belt of the dress, then continue unbuttoning down, down to the hem, until my entire dress is open in front. I pull it off of my shoulders, then it comes free. I hang it on a hanger and hook the hanger on the clothes hook in the car.

It is as if I can feel the moonlight on my body, filtered through the trees, and caressing my bra and midriff and thighs like fingers from heaven. The cooling summer air flows across my bared back, under my arms, and between my legs, accentuating my feeling of nakedness before the audience of nature. These are moments I love.

I reach in back and unclasp my bra. I am always taken with how at times a soft and perfect bra is just the best thing, holding me, containing me, like arms stretching around me and hands cupping me safely. And then there are times when my sex needs to be freed, released, and allowed to roam wild. I need both. I love Mayhurst. But I need my special place.

My bra comes off and my breasts fall out, jutting forward and hanging slightly from their own weight, dappled by the light of the moon. My nipples swell and harden and point. My chest flushes, proud to be free. It’s not that I can take credit for them: I was born with the right DNA. But more to the point, in Mayhurst I need to keep them buttoned up. I know that as chaste as I dress, my ampleness is nonetheless apparent, but in a stuffed way, like a gift box crammed and bulging with two sweaters instead of one. Even so, I know some men notice. Ashley’s husband Josh notices. But even apart from any sexual intention, it seems unfortunate that my breasts can never be seen and appreciated. Tonight they breathe again.

I will leave my garter belt and stockings and heels on. It is perhaps my way of distinguishing this time from some other summer night in which I’d run naked down to the pond for a skinny-dip. This isn’t a teenage dare. This is about me feeling my own sensuality and sexuality in my own special place. It is what I do.

The white fabric of my garter belt, framing my waist and hips, also presents my other secret of the day. From the time I walked out of the house this morning, I haven’t worn panties. Reading to the children Sleeping Beauty, my legs together and covered across my knees by my shirt dress, I had been careful to sit with the back of my dress not under me but draping the back of the stool. I felt the seat against my bare ass and the tufted fabric of the stool gracing my pussy. At the salon when Stacy asked to see my stockings, I daringly raised my dress to the very top of my thighs, inches from my bare vulva. And talking with Ashley at Simm’s, while I sat at the bistro table on the patio and she talked distantly about her husband Josh and me, I could feel my desire oozing and wetting the upper inches of my thighs. The social network of Mayhurst might keep my breasts packed away, but they can’t stop me from enjoying my sex down below.

And now a wisp of cool mountain air swirls and kisses my open, bared pussy.

I begin my walk along this overgrown country path to the old theater, perfectly nude in the wooded night. It’s flat territory, so no climb, although the path is rough and I have to be slow and careful in my heels. My breasts bounce slightly as I walk. I feel my labia grow moist from my hot anticipation, then cool in the breeze as my wetness evaporates.

This is my ritual. My worship. And my being worshiped. Nature making love to me.

The old theater, dark and squatting and old, looms before me. But it isn’t scary or fearful. It has become my friend, my savior. I enter the open doorway, its actual door long gone. I flip the light switch and a single light bulb casts a dim glow along the back walk behind the stage. I click-clack my heels along the wooden floor, remembering the place where a floorboard is missing.

My body is thrumming. Just walking through the old theater’s mustiness feels like foreplay, stroking me. My breasts are heavy in their gentle sway. My nipples are already engorged, the air flowing around them like hot breath. I am wet between my legs, my thighs now slick from my creaming pussy.

I make my way to what used to be a dressing room, actually an open area with curtains. There I sit in a wooden chair before an old dressing table. But there are no lights, just shadows from the solitary bulb hanging over the back walk. At the edge of the dressing table are a stack of bedsheets I bought a time ago. I take the top one.

With a deep breath, I stand and make my way through the wing. I step onto the stage. I make out the shadows of the floor lamp beside the chaise lounge — they are right where I’d left them. I shake out the bedsheet and float it, letting it drape the chaise. I prefer the dark, so I don’t turn on the lamp as I sit. Swiveling, I lean back onto the chair bed, and stretch my legs. Then I take another breath, my moment, and pull my left foot, still high-heeled, forward onto the chaise so my knee is bent. My right leg I plant squarely on the floor.

This opens me, opens my crevice, my sex.

I let my hands go to my breasts, cupping them, fondling them. My head falls back as I start to make love to myself. I sigh. My thumb nudges each of my nipples, full and turgid. I moan, a whispered ohh. And gradually my hands slide down from my breasts, along my midriff and tummy, and close to the shaven soft skin above my pubis.

My finger reaches slowly for my clitoris.

In that moment, a bank of stage lights turns on, bright Kluge spots bathing me in hot arrays.


I never stop, my fingers tracing my labia thick with my goo, now warming under the Kluges, which I knew would be switched on.

Although the spots are pointed at me, my eyes gradually adjust, and I begin to make out the rows of audience members in front and on both sides. They remained hushed, watching, awaiting me.

My sex is open and spread for all of them to see. It is humiliating and exhilarating at the same time, the alchemy of both feelings combining into a smolten wantonness that now oozes inside me. My finger creases my vulva, prompting the flow of my juice over my labia and onto the sheet beneath. I am wetting the bed with my desire. Several dozen viewers watch it glisten in the spotlights.

My finger drives into my vagina, which sucks it greedily. I arch my back at my self-fucking, wanting more. And when my second finger pushes into my cunt as well, I shriek with pleasure. Now with two fingers I pump myself like a piston, my breathing becoming quick and loud and halting as it grabs for short gasps.

My public humiliation fuels my body’s response like a booster rocket. And my launched sexual arousal fuels the audience’s experience of me — which I feel palpably even while drunk in my own lustful stupor. Round and round, my public exposure spins me to higher and higher heights.

I intend to last longer, for myself not the crowd, but on one of my fingers’ pumpings, I catch my swollen clit straight on. I simply explode. My whole body jerks up from the chaise. I scream and shudder, my breasts jiggling in short tremors and my pussy sex climaxing in spasms.

My orgasm lasts and lasts. I’ve lost track of time. Smaller convulsions continue for minutes after. I rest back on the chaise, close my eyes, and let my body spasm again. I can hear the audience start to breath again. People again feel free to shift in their seats, cough, clear throats, whisper — the activities of a crowd after, well, a climax.

I turn my head against the seat back of the chaise, closing my eyes. I drift then, my exhaustion sending me to sleep. It would be short, as always. No worries. The audience isn’t going anywhere.


My sleep lasts maybe four, five minutes. I remain where I’ve been — on the chaise lounge, now curled up into myself. I am distantly aware of the room, the audience, but my body is deep in slumber.

Minutes later, I smell some sort of cologne cutting through the old theater’s musk. I feel movement near me, a movement that has some weight and mass.

The Prince finally reached the room where the beautiful Princess lay fast asleep.

I feel warm lips at my breast and a kiss of my nipple.

At that kiss, the princess quickly opened her eyes, and wakening from her long long sleep, seeing the Prince beside her, murmured: “Oh, you have come at last!”

My eyes open. A man is kneeling beside me. He has a scar on his cheek, not unsightly, actually appealing in a strange way, emblematic of a man who has experienced something dangerous in the world.

He is completely nude, his physique trim and strong but not excessively muscular. He has short dark hair and brown eyes.

I have never seen this man before in my life.

He stands and his cock unfolds semi-erect, inches before my face. I hear a woman in the audience sigh. Seats creak as people lean forward. The old theater now feels hot. Probably the lights, or maybe it’s just me. A man with a scar and his meaty cock have me warm and salivating, both my mouth and my cunt.

The man pushes in toward me until his cock, visibly growing, is touching my cheek. I turn my head so that his tip is against my lips. I kiss it. And kiss it again, as if the cock itself were my Prince Charming. I take it past my lips, up to its ridge, letting my tongue feel its soft velvet. It’s soon enveloped by my thirsty saliva.

There is a breeze from somewhere, and I feel it sweep across my breasts, past my nipples, now hard again and sensitive, and through my legs and over my shaven pussy.
It is overwhelming, the sexual intensity and arousal and sheer lust I experience in every possible way: being naked and laid open in my special place, being watched by an audience, and now being touched and had by a man with a scarface whose heavy cock lies inches away. I am on the edge again, and I feel I can climax without even being touched — but this man winds up in my mouth, and that’s always distracting. In the best possible way.

He is across my tongue, and I close my lips around his shaft and suck him. There is something about the weight and fullness of a man in my mouth that feels so extraordinary, especially like this moment when I can feel the man’s cock palpably lengthening and hardening and growing inside me. I begin to slide up and down on his shaft, pulling back to its head then pushing back over its veined ridges to the base. He isn’t extreme in length, thank god, so I can take him in that far, but he is thick, making him a delightful mouthful.

The man continues to stand next to the chaise at the height of my face. I am lying on my side. The audience can see everything.

He makes his home in my mouth. I make him feel welcome, like a wife receiving her husband at the front door after a long day. I close my eyes, simply enjoying his presence and how, in this particular way, he is filling my life. At one point he slips out, and I grab his shaft with my hand and hungrily feed him back inside. I am wanton, selfish to fill my own appetite. And now I suddenly feel an urgency to have his balls in my mouth, and I crane my face over and lower and suck each of his testicles between my lips, bathing them with my thirst. But soon enough his cock is bedded across my tongue once again. Whether minutes or the better part of an hour, I don’t know, but I continue to fellate him on and on.

He pulls back and out, and I sigh regretfully. He kneels down to me, coming close, kissing me on my lips. It is a surprisingly sweet, even romantic thing, as it seems to truly be for me not for the audience. My hand comes to the side of his face, I trace his scar with my finger, then hold him there in our kiss for a moment. My thank you.

He stands. Swinging his leg over and around, he straddles the chaise, and me. He now towers above. I pull my knees up and place my feet on the floor on either side, spreading myself and opening my pussy wide for him and the audience. My prince positions himself lower, then lower again, his erect cock now reaching for my cunt. Its head slowly pushes between my labia, and I moan. Feeling how wet and ready I am, he doesn’t wait but pushes his shaft deep into my vagina.

I become light-headed, swooning and coming at the same time. My whole body shudders. My scar-faced prince keeps pumping me, his cock thrusting in and out of my dripping cunt. The audience can see me lost in my orgasm and helplessly impaled by my public intercourse.

He adjusts his height just slightly, and he can not have known, can not have calculated it, but this shift of just millimeters aligns the bulging vein along the top of his shaft to scrape against my clitoris. It is like his bow is drawing repeatedly across my violin string, making me vibrate. Playing me softly, he sends me soaring. I feel myself rising again, yet again, higher and higher, till I am right at the edge, once again.
Another thrust, and I scream. I clench, my hands slapping the sides of the chaise, my breathing frantic and short and gasping. My breath catches, and I shudder, my flesh shaking and jiggling in waves.

He never stops. I grow numb everywhere in my body except in my precious place where every nerve ending feels electrified. And now he quickens his pace. As fast as his thrusts are, each time he pulls back feels like an enormous emptiness both sexually and emotionally. Each cycle fills me with a sense of loss followed quickly by a giddy feeling of being utterly, satisfyingly filled.

He takes to thrusting hard, now leaving himself in me for extra seconds, and it feels like heaven. I realize he is trying to prolong himself, but maybe losing the battle. I put my hands on his hips, look up into his eyes, and say, “It’s OK.”

He slows way, way down, and manages to hold himself back. I am now in a different space, soft, mellow, and filled with emotion. I have tears in my eyes.

And then he simply explodes in me. I feel his cum spurt deep inside, warming and slicking the walls of my vagina. His body grows rigid and tense, and he ejaculates a second time. Finally a third contraction finishes him.

He stays inside me for a wonderful time afterward. Maybe it is just seconds or maybe a minute, but he allows us to be joined in the after. I hold him close to me. He kisses me again.

In time, he pushes himself away from me and pulls himself out, getting his feet under him. Then he kneels beside me and gives me one more kiss before walking out of the spotlights into the dark recess of backstage.

There is applause. Movement of chairs.

I close my eyes. His cum pushes out of my cunt into a puddle on the sheet. I fall into a half-coma of semi-sleep, exhausted and spent.

Just then, the spell was broken… Everybody rose to their feet and they all stared round in amazement, wondering what had happened.

The lights on the stage fade and the single house light goes on, dimly illuminating the audience seats. The spectators stand, leaving quietly, as if walking out of a church sanctuary, though I can hear them talking as they reach the outer lobby.

I fall asleep, later awakening in the lonely dark, still stretched out on the chaise. Later I gradually retrace my steps backstage, turning out the last light in the old theater, walking out the back door. I do not wipe off the man’s cum, but allow it to drip out of me and slick my thighs. I walk naked back to my car in the full moonlight and slowly, reluctantly put on my clothes once again.

As is true every time, I wonder who the man was, where he came from, and how he was found and selected.

I drive back home in the middle of the night, leaving my special world where no one knows me, where I can explore and express the woman I truly am. Two hours later, I re-enter the proper world of Mayhurst, and re-assume my respectability and my important duties as the town librarian.


Thursday that next week, I am enjoying lunch at Simm’s with Ashley Morris. They have a spinach salad to die for, and I make it a point once a week to have it. Ashley orders the same, along with glasses of Viognier for the two of us.

She is talking about Josh and how they had a wonderful talk and things were good between them again. Apparently my would-be affair with her husband that never was going to happen is actually, really never going to happen. I smile, say I am happy for her, and I truly am.

Ashley leans over to me and says in a low voice, “I’ve never seen him here before.”

I look up and over to the table she is indicating. Sitting there is a man in a T-shirt and jeans.

He has a very familiar scar on his cheek.


This is a fiction piece I wrote a short while ago. Also posted in my fiction section.

A dark woods. A large oak, felled, halved, then sanded and varnished smooth. Prepared for me.

My bed. Naked atop it, I am on my back.

A full moon, sometimes hidden by clouds, now shines through the trees, casting beams like long fingers across my pale thighs and breasts.

I wear wrist cuffs, shackled by chains to eye hooks on either side of the half oak. The metal collar I wear is likewise bolted to the tree, holding my neck tightly in place.

I am bent at the knees, my ankles pulled tight against the back of my thighs. My ankle cuffs are shackled taut to eye hooks on the side of the tree, spreading me open.

I cannot move.

My vulva is bald and wet and waiting.

They will come.

There are sounds a forest makes during a sacrifice. Crackles and rustles and the voices of creatures at the edges. People too, trying to keep silent behind trees, heard only for the occasional cough or clearing of a throat.


After a time, there are steps. Heavy footfalls. I strain to look, I cannot help myself, but my neck and head are fixed tight and I can only see straight up to heaven.

I hear the unbuckling of a belt, the unzipping of pants, the rustle of clothes. Then the breathing of a man, the whiff of a spiced cologne. And the initial touch — his hand pushing my knees farther apart.

I feel him sliding close, his girth occupying my private spaces, and then his erect penis pushing hard into me.

I gasp. It has begun.

He pushes deep inside me, then slides back. Forward and back. My vagina grips him tightly, against my will as I would rather expel him from my body. But this is what I must do. This is what I am for.

He is slow, too slow, and I yell for him to finish. “Come, please come!” I scream aloud.

He doesn’t. He continues to impale me, over and over, and soon a vein along the top length of his cock slides directly against my clitoris, like a bow against the catgut string of a viola. I scream.

And now he grunts, tenses, and ejaculates. It happens just as my instrument breaks, and

I explode into shudders.

He shoots his sin inside me. My orgasm is a sign. He is forgiven.


I’ve lost track of time, but they approach, randomly, in steady succession,

Another walks up beside me. A man. I hear him first, then feel his exposed, turgid cock slapping my breast. He uses his organ like a crop, whipping my tit. My nipples harden, against my will.

His slapping continues, gets faster. And harder. He is bruising me.

And then he stops, groans. And his hot icing spurts across my breasts in stripes, as if decorating cake rounds with the word “Atonement.”

One hand massages his sin into my skin, spreading the frosting into an even layer all over my breast. And then he does the same, reaching over, to my other breast. I am coated.

He walks away.


Another approaches. I smell lilac. Soap or perfume. A woman.

She climbs atop my oak bed, straddling me over my tummy.

I hear a rustling sound. It is her skirt, I think, lifted. Within moments she releases and pisses her anger over my middle, her urine pooling in my navel.

It’s hot with rage and steams in the cool air.

She sneers at me: “Cunt!.” Then dismounts.


A man approaches. He has blindfold glasses and puts them on me.

I feel him climbing atop, him straddling my neck, his knees tight against my shoulders.

His balls flatten against my chin, as his cock finds my mouth. He feeds it to me, and I suck him, suck his shame, suck his evil.

His member bangs against the back of my throat, again and again. I choke, but he does not stop. I somehow control my responses, and continue this forced fellatio.

Soon, he stops, spasms, and fills my mouth with his thick come.

I swallow his sin.


It goes on and on.

A woman whips my pussy with a thorned fern, her rage against a business that wronged her. I am scratched and scraped, but my clit swells and feels the swipe of a frond. I jerk and come.

A man writes “Whore” in lipstick across my breasts, and I wear his anger against his wife.

There are others. Men, I lost count, mounting me, fucking me, injecting me with their affairs, a kind of reenactment of their sinful deeds.

I receive their guilt, again and again and again. It becomes a flood inside me, some oozing out, semen smearing my pussy and my thighs like a glaze, but much more collecting deep within, a co-mingled cocktail of man-lust impregnating me.

I climax, each time cursing myself for the pleasure, and then again. And again.

They are all forgiven.


The night grows dark. The moon hides behind clouds as if ashamed.

It starts raining, washing lipstick and come and piss off my body. But nothing cleans what’s left inside.

I fall asleep.


I hear birds chirping. My eyes open. There is light. The beginnings of dawn. My shackles have been unlocked. I can stand and leave.

But I am not free.

I will walk through town, naked, bruised and Jizz-dappled, and they will look at me with judgment and pity.

And also with gratitude.

For now I am the slut-whore that saved them.

summer (fiction)

The following is one scene from a novella I’m writing. It’s a rough draft still, and there’s much to be done on it, but I thought I’d post it anyway. Some of this is autobiographical, but the characters, other than myself, are fictional.  (Will post this also in my fiction section.)

I meet Summer in the Sheraton parking lot on Wednesday afternoon.

I am eager —OK, I am helplessly eager for her — so I arrive at 1:00, and I take time in the car to retouch my makeup and re-fix my hair. I tell myself to calm down, that it’s not my wedding for fucking sake, but I nonetheless am acting like it is, and I can’t help myself. I’ve been waiting for a week. I am a mess, but I’d like to be a mess with good hair.

Summer pulls up at 1:25, parks next to me. She gets out, walks to where I am standing, pushes me hard against my car and leans into me. I feel her breasts push against mine, and I sigh as she places her lips on mine. We kiss, and I think it must be a couple minutes later before we pull apart.

“I brought you something,” Summer says. She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a leather collar, studded, in a dark red, Merlot, perhaps. I see it and it’s like electricity sparks through my body. “Oh, my god,” I say, and Summer knows the mere sight of it has me creaming.

She wraps it around my neck, buckling it in back, then steps back to look at me. “I’ve wondered all along what was missing. You were made for this.”

“I know,” I reply. “Thank you.”

“Your skirt is perfect, by the way,” she says. “Your top is delicious. And I love your hair. Gorgeous. You’re frickin’ beautiful.”

I’m about to cry.

“So, now,” Summer says, “ I’m going to humiliate you.”

She reaches into her handbag again and pulls out a long leash. She attaches it to my collar.

She knows how it makes me feel — kept like a precious pet, contained, controlled — how that is her love for me. She knows what this is, what I am.

“I’m in love with you,” I blurt out.

“Yeah, I know,” she says. “Now follow me.”

She leads me by leash into the Sheraton. She walks me to the front desk and a gawking man in a suit. “I have a reservation. Summer Jackson.”

The desk clerk looks it up in the system and fumbles around for a plastic key card. “One or two keys,” he asks.

“One,” she says. “She’s not going anywhere.”

He nods because he doesn’t know what else to say. He has Summer run her credit card, and it takes a long moment to go through, during which he musters his resolve to look at me in the — boobs — and get his eyeful, then go through his perfunctory speech about the free breakfast in the morning, then with some extra seconds, looking to my eyes in a way that conveys a smirk, some judgment or pity, and some superiority. All at the same time.

I blush.

Summer senses it all and says to him roughly, “Are we done here?”

He collects himself and says, “Yes, of course, Ms. Malone. Here are your keys. I hope you have a nice stay,”

She collects her credit card and the plastic key card, and leads me away by leash. “They can lust over you all they want, but they don’t get to judge you.”

And somehow I am the proudest girl in the hotel.

She leads me by leash into the hotel bar and our friend Michael. There is another man at the bar itself, but no one at any of the tables. She seats us at one end of the bar.

“She’ll have a pinot noir,” she tells Michael. “I want a bourbon, neat.”

“Good to see you two again,” he says.

“Likewise,” she says. “It’ll be a Wednesday thing here, unless it gets too hot for us. Then we’ll need to relocate.”

“I can keep the temperature down,” Michael says.

“Appreciated. Who’s the dude at the end?”

“Businessman. He comes every other week for a couple of days. He flies in mornings.

Juices up here in the afternoons, then, I suppose, has business dinners somewhere.”

“Good,” she says.

Michael goes to prep the drinks. Summer looks over at me, tells me to straddle the bar seat. I obey.

I am aware that my sheer blouse, for Summer’s visual pleasure, has become Michael’s visual pleasure as well. My blouse’s pale sheer green is lost in a landscape of my full breasts, pink areolae, and erect nipples — all drawing greater attention. My eyes are seeking Summer’s but I can see the businessman’s gaze from the opposite end.

Summer asks me if I’m OK.

I nod yes. I am more than OK. I am in swoonland, kept, loved, and dominated. I am well aware that I am being displayed and used and humiliated. It is not without shame. I am embarrassed like this, and feel every ounce of my exposure. It is also, however, experienced with desire and love and utter submission.

Michael sets our drinks before us.

“What’s new?” he asks.

“Same old, same old,” Summer says. “Just trying to find some excitement in middle earth.”

“I get ya,” he replies. “I remember your name. Summer, I think.”

“That’s right.”

“I forget hers.”

“Her name is a bit under discussion. Not sure what to call her. Maura is her given name.”

“Doesn’t seem quite right, does it.”

“No. What would you name her?”

“Not sure. Let me think about it.”

“Drink your wine,” she orders me.

I take my glass and sip the pinot noir.

Summer reaches over to my lap and slips my skirt higher up my thighs, revealing the lace tops of my taupe stockings.

“Very nice,” Michael says.

“I think she has pretty thighs,” Summer says, “and the lace tops show them off nicely. Problem is, she’s so covered up most of the time. She needs to be seen.”


I am flushed as the two talk about me. I am embarrassed to be exposed, thrilled to have Summer say my thighs are beautiful, and thrumming in my state of being collared and leashed.

“May I have another sip?” I ask Summer. I am playing into the scene she is creating.

She smiles at me, and I warm. “How do you address me?” she demands.

We haven’t talked about this. I have called her “my goddess” on occasion, but that’s for play and it’s meant in love. In front of others here, it would sound taunting and fake, I think. I settle on something else.

“Ma’am, may I have another sip?”

“You may.”

As I reach for my wine, Summer hands my leash to Michael. “Don’t let her get away,” she says casually. She walks down to the other end of the bar and talks with the lone businessman sitting there. After a couple minutes, I realize she’s inviting him to sit with us. My body flushes.

He takes his drink and walks toward us. He’s got light hair and a square jaw. He’s trim and attractive, sporting a good fit in his Perry Ellis suit.

“This is Mr. Jay Donovan,” she says, introducing him. Summer has him sit next to me on the right and she takes the seat on my left. “So,” she continues, “we are trying to come up with a name for my slave girl here. Jay, her given name is Maura, but we all agree that isn’t so good. So what else might we call her?”

“Pretty thing,” he says, immediately playing along, trying to get into the flow of the scene.

He might not mean “Pretty Thing” as a candidate for my name, just as a description, as he scans my breasts veiled through my top and drinks in the sight of my bared thighs sheathed in lace.

But Summer takes it as a suggestion. “I like that,” she says. “’Pretty thing.’” She rummages through her handbag and pulls out paper and pen. She’s really doing this.

“’Toy,’” Michael says. Both men are getting into Summer’s improvisation. “Or ‘Plaything.’”

“Both good,” Summer says, adding them to her list. “Let’s try that one.”

She turns to me and says, “Plaything, hold out your wrists.”

I obey, stretching my arms in front of me.

Summer reaches into her bag and pulls out a pair of leather wrist shackles, wine red, just like my collar. She attaches one to my left wrist, then reaches over and puts on the right one. “Plaything,” she says, “does that hurt?”

“No,” I reply.

Summer looks up to the men, watching intently. “I like that name ‘Plaything’,” she says.

“She seems to respond well to it,” Jay observes.

I realize I’m being addressed in the third person, the inanimate object on a bar stool.

“Plaything,” Summer says, “put your hands behind you.”

I obey, and Summer aligns my wrists in back, hooking them together with a spring clamp.

“I like that name,” Summer says, “but let’s keep being creative. Plaything is my slave, she obeys me in everything, and I own her. Gentlemen, what else shall we call her?”

“Fuck toy” says Jay.

“Might be too much wishful thinking on your part, Jay,” Summer says, “but we’ll put it on the list.”

I sit, my legs straddling the bar stool, my skirt hiked up above my thighs, and my arms shackled behind my back, as I listen to these men and the love of my life consider humiliating names for me. I am blushing, ashamed, incredibly turned on, and then ashamed all the more that I am so aroused.

“Maybe we should see a little more of her, gentlemen.” Summer says. She takes the hem of my hiked up skirt and pulls it up around my waist, revealing my bare pussy.

I breathe in sharply and look down away. I cannot bear to see the men staring at me.

“Plaything,” Summer says sternly, “look up at these fine men. Look at how they see you. Or else I’ll let you become a fuck thing. Right here, right now.”

I slowly lift my head and stare ahead.

“I suppose we could call her ‘Pussy’,” Michael says.

“That’s the name of the Bond girl,” Edward quips.

“That’s Pussy Galore. We could call this one just Pussy.”

“I’ll write that down,” Summer says.

“She has nice lips,” Michael observes.

“Kind of full and puffy,” Edward adds.

“Puffy Lips might be a name,” Michael says.

Summer writes it down. She places her pen and notebook on the bar. She walks behind me, standing behind my right shoulder, and leans over, kissing me on my cheek. “So,” she says, “let’s see.”

She reaches between my legs and her fingers stretch along my naked labia.

I flinch and start to close my legs. Summer raises her hand and brings it down hard against my inner thighs in a loud, sharp slap.

I screech and jump. Summer holds me in place, then whispers in my ear: “You want me to own you, so let me do this to you.”

I nod. “Yes, ma’am,” I reply.

She starts again on my pussy. I am wet, have been wet, and now am even more wet.

“She’s sloppy,” Jay says. “There you go: Sloppy Jo is another name.”

Michael has gone to the doors to the bar, closing them.

Summer massages my labia lips and I start to moan. Her other arm comes around and her hand cups my breast, squeezing it. I sigh loudly. Summer’s finger dips between my labia where my juice has pooled, and she scoops a thick dollop on her pinky.

Michael has returned behind the bar and he groans, “Oh my God,” as he sees Summer lift her pinky to my mouth, feeding it to me. I lick her finger clean tasting my own desire, sweet and tangy.

My vulva has become engorged from her fondling, my labia have swollen and gotten red. My vagina has opened more, now gaping, starting to spasm.

Summer now strengthens her fondling, stroking my cunt harder, her finger grazing my skin between the bottom of my pussy and my anus. She pushes harder against my pussy lips, then a finger pushes hard between them, inside my vagina, fully penetrating me.
I gasp loudly. “Ohhh, Gawd!” I say, bucking once, my bottom coming off the bar stool. “Ohhh. Yes!”

Whether it’s a week of desire and deprivation, my extraordinary lust for Summer, or the intense experience of being watched by two male strangers, I am flowing quickly into an orgasm.

My head falls back, and my breathing is coming faster. Loudly too, as I am wheezing for air with each quick breath.

Summer is pumping her finger in and out of me as I build to climax. Michael is leaning over the bar and has his head pushed down a mere foot from my pulsing cunt. Jay is kneeling now to my right, also peering close at the sight of my developing sex.

Summer’s finger is now making sucking sounds as it drives into me then pulls out. My vagina is contracting each time, trying to hold on to what is impaling it.

“Oh. My. God!” I yell again. I am loud and shameless and have nothing left for restraint or propriety. I want Summer, her fingers and fondling hands and sweet lips, and I start to beg her for it. For all of it. “Please,” I say, my voice suddenly weak and plaintive.

“You want it now?”

“Yes, please, ma’am. Please.”

“Thank these fine men for their help in naming you.” Her finger continues to fuck me.

“Thank you, sirs — “

“Individually, by name,” Summer interrupts.

“Thank you, Mr. Jay,” I start to say, my desperate gasps stopping me, momentarily, “for naming me.”

“Welcome,” he replies.

My hands are rocking behind me and my body is starting to shake. “Thank you, Mr. Michael, for your help in naming me.” My last words trail off into a whisper.

“You are welcome,” he says.

“Are you ready?” Summer asks me.

“Yes, ma’am, I am ready. Please. Yes.”

“You know,” Summer says slowly, “I think you ought to ask each of these fine men for permission to come.”

“Oh, no,” I say to her. “Pleeease!”

“Did you say no to me?!” Summer says. She spanks my inner thigh, and I yelp and jump.

“No. I mean, yes,” I say. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Summer’s finger is back inside me, and I am stinging from her spank and throbbing at my core, and now oozing profusely.

“So?” Summer prompts.

My breathing almost keeps me from speaking. “Sir. Mr. Michael, Sir, may I please have your permission to come? Please?”

“I kind of don’t want this to end,” he says.

“Please, I beg you.”

“I suppose,” he relents. “Yes.”

I moan loudly and throw my head back again. “Mr. Jay, Sir?” I gulp for air. I moan, as Summer’s finger drives a bit deeper. “May I come, Sir?”

He deliberately waits to answer.

“Please. I am begging you…”

“OK,” he says, laughing at me. “Yes.”

“Are you ready?” Summer asks again.

“God yes.” It comes out as a breathless yelp.

Her hand starts to slide back and forth over my pussy very fast, as she inserts her middle finger into my vagina every few seconds. In a hot moment she moves her hand farther up, and her hand flicks start to graze my clitoris.

“Ah!” I exclaim, “oh god.”

She continues and I am shaking hard now.

“Please don’t stop,” I beg her.

And… she stops. Completely.

“Ohhh,” I cry.

“Gentlemen,” Summer says, “I want you to look closely.”

“I believe I have been,” Jay jokes.

“Look at this,” she says. Her fingers splay me open wider and pull up on my labia, stretching my hood, and revealing my clitoris. “Look at that, gentlemen.”

“That’s really large, swollen.” Michael says.

“A lot of pleasure in that bulging pebble,” Summer says.

I feel like I’m going to cry. “Please,” I beg again, but my voice is wispy and dying.

“Another name,” Jay says. “Pleasure pebble. Or sex pebble.”

Summer starts her hand on me again, right where she left off. She brings me to the brink again, my breathing fast and quick, my body shaking, my nipples hard and achingly pointed through my sheer blouse. Her hand brushes my clit over and over, and my eyes close, and I drift away into another space.

My body stops bucking and bouncing and instead it starts to shudder in place, coming in rolling spasms.

Summer’s finger enters me one last time, then as she pulls it out, she slides it directly against my clit, like a sword pulled out of a scabbard, sparking as it slides against it.

I am gone. I yell. I scream. I swear. I stop breathing momentarily as my consciousness and body soar and leave and then return to earth, back to reality, spread-eagled on a bar stool in a hotel and sitting soaked in my own cum juices in front of two gentleman strangers and the love of my life, Summer.

“Welcome back,” she says. She kisses me.

Summer leaves my side and goes to sit on the bar stool to my left. She picks up her wine glass and sips it.

The men continue to watch me, my naked vagina still contracting in spasms, my head turned to the side in deep pleasure and deeper shame.

“Anything else exciting going on, guys?” Summer asks.


Now also posted in my Fiction section.

Even though she’d been here before, the warehouse annex made Leigh Ann nervous. It was a dirt-road extension of the industrial park on the west end of town. Here were no streets or sidewalks. No boundaries. No structure. It was unsettling. Yet its very formlessness fronted a system of justice. It was why she came.

She braked her SUV in a semblance of a lot a hundred yards down, another dirt area among many, defined as parking only by a handful of cars left there, helter skelter.

Dressed in a pleated black skirt, blue blouse, black blazer, Leigh Ann walked across the dirt expanse to Warehouse 19, having to tread carefully in the rutted road. She came to a side door, pressed the button, and was buzzed in.

Inside was a small reception area. At a desk was a woman in her thirties, blonde and smoking a cigarette. As before, Leigh Ann wondered why she was allowed to smoke in a business office. There had to be rules against that.

“Hello, Miss Jennings,” the woman said. “Good to see you again.”

“Hi, Dana.”

“Time for another session,” Dana said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. I’m afraid so.”

“I hope it won’t be too demanding.”

Leigh Ann nodded.

“You can take room 3.” Dana held out a key.

“Thank you.”

Leigh Ann was buzzed through the reception room door, walked down a hallway, and came to a T that opened up to a bank of meeting rooms. She unlocked the door to room #3.

Inside: a clothes rack with hangers, a wooden straight back chair, and a small table. Across from the entry door: another door. On the floor: a pair of high heels, five-inch, in scarlet red. On the table a burnished metal collar, two inches wide, with an O-ring in front.

Leigh Ann unbuttoned her blouse, then her skirt in back. She slipped out of both, hanging each on a hanger on the clothes rack. She gripped the waistband of her panties and slid them down, stepping out of them, then reached behind her back, unclasped her bra, and peeled it off.

Leigh Ann’s breasts were full and fleshy. She was shaved below, smooth, bare, pale.

She slipped out of her kitten heels and slid into the tall heels of scarlet. She walked around the dressing room to get accustomed to them. Finally, Leigh Ann picked up the silver metal collar and fit it around her neck, fastening it in back with the snap of the clasp, positioning the O-ring in front.

She stood there waiting, breathing deeply.


Leigh Ann opened the far door, which opened to the outside. Naked, high-heeled, now bathed in sunlight, she stood before a man waiting. He was in a sweaty T-shirt, jeans, and old tennis shoes. She’d never seen him before.

He looked at her nude flesh, letting his eyes feast on her large breasts. He nodded. Leigh Ann looked down and to the side.

The man held a long length of steel chain such as would be used on a dog run and hooked one end to Leigh Ann’s metal collar. He started walking, the length of chain dragging on the ground between them.

Ahead thirty yards, two warehouses sat side-by-side. Leigh Ann knew one was empty and the other was operational, teeming with workers. She prayed she would be led through the empty building, as had happened before. Yet she didn’t know the rules, the reasons.

The man walked quickly toward the buildings. Leigh Ann’s collar tugged, and she stumbled forward, trying to navigate the rutted road without falling, trying to keep up.

He stopped once, seeing her struggle, took up some slack, then slowed his pace.

They proceeded into the warehouse on the left. Filled with storage racks all the way to the ceiling, the building was empty of people.

Leigh Ann breathed a small sigh of relief, though she knew how much still awaited. She struggled to keep up with the man, who walked briskly. Her heels allowed only short strides, forcing jolting steps that made her breasts bounce and judder.

At the far end of the warehouse appeared an exit, and suddenly they were outside in sunlight again.


Fifty yards down a dirt road was their destination — a low, long prefab unit, office space.

The man kept walking her on the chain leash. In the distance Leigh Ann heard the hydraulic brakes of semi-trucks and the beep-beeping of a truck backing up. She was naked and exposed under high heaven, in the heart of a dirt-baked blue collar city.

Unsteady on the ruts and ridges, she nearly fell, but righted herself. She vowed to herself to keep up, to make sure there was always slack in the chain, else she would topple.

Eventually the two came to the side door of the office building.

Leigh Ann was led into a room twenty feet square. A tall thick man waited there, dressed in black, wearing black leather gloves. He eyed her naked body, staring at her large blushing breasts and white shaven pubis.

“Tinto,” he said, nodding to the man in the T-shirt.

Tinto handed him the leash, then opened a box, pulling out two pair of leather cuffs. He wrapped them around Leigh Ann’s ankles and wrists, buckling them closed. His fingers grazed her skin as each cuff was installed, and Leigh Ann tensed.

Tinto stood, looking at his partner. The two men said nothing, but took time to ogle Leigh Ann’s body for what felt to her like minutes. Tinto walked around her, staring at her breasts then her ass and her pussy.

Eventually the man in black spoke: “Why are you here?”

Leigh Ann nodded, expecting the question. “I have sinned.” Her voice cracked.

The man in black nodded and stood aside.

Behind him, in the middle of the room was a large bondage horse.

“Climb up,” he ordered.

Leigh Ann obeyed, walking forward, stepping onto the short platform, pushing herself up and on the long barrel of the padded horse. Her thighs straddled it, cradling its massive girth. Her knees and ankles rested on leather pads on either side. She leaned forward, her hands together at the front of the barrel as if clutching the mane of a horse.

The man in black assessed her torso length and cranked a lever at the side. The barrel shortened slightly. With his cane, he tapped Leigh Ann’s body backward several inches. Her ass and pussy hung over the back edge of the padded barrel.

He tapped her back, saying, “Down.”

Leigh Ann let her body down across the padded barrel. The leather felt cold to her tummy. Her heavy breasts swung free over the far end of the bondage horse.

Tinto came around to the front and attached chains to her wrist cuffs, then to large eye hooks at the edge of the platform. He adjusted them taut to pull Leigh Ann’s arms forward and down. Her leash, still attached to her collar, was pulled back and attached to a hook dangling from the ceiling. It pulled her head so it faced forward. Then Tinto hooked her ankle cuffs to hooks on the leather pads.

Leigh Ann was now firmly bound in a doggy position, her ass open and high in the air, her pussy splayed open behind. She felt as if she were being absorbed into a mechanical structure, so strapped into the contraption as she was, so vulnerable to its power and its mechanical adjustments imposed on her.

The man in black stood at the front so he could see Leigh Ann’s face and hanging breasts. “Tinto,” he called.

Tinto picked up a flogger from a wall rack and awaited the signal of the man in black.

“What did you do?” the man in black demanded.

“I’ve had an affair with a married man.” Leigh Ann confessed. It felt good to say it, even though she knew the pain that it would compel.

The man in black held his hand up with three fingers extended.

Tinto pulled the flogger to his side, then brought it forward, slapping it across Leigh Ann’s pale ass. She grunted as she felt its weight. In quick succession, Tinto applied two additional thwacks.

Leigh Ann moaned.

The man in black swiveled his uplifted hand side to side, ordering the beating. Tinto swirled the flogger in a circle, letting the leather straps strafe Leigh Ann’s pinkening bottom in a continuing cycle.

The floggings hurt more from the force of the blows than from the bite of the leather straps. The flogs made her ass cheeks jiggle and grow red and warm.

“Did you seduce him?” the man in black demanded sternly.

Leigh Ann hesitated. She was here to pay her price, not to go into detail.

The twirling ended, but the flogger soon landed once more in a heavy, forceful thud.

Leigh Ann’s body jerked from the force. She could sense the man in black watching her breasts, hanging down as they jiggled from the blow. She knew this was his job, exacting penance, but it didn’t stop him from also exacting his personal pleasure. This was one part of the price of confession.

“Did you seduce him?”

Another heavy flog thudded on her bare ass.

This one hurt. “Uhhh,” she groaned.


“He seduced me,” she finally admitted.

“You could have told him no.”

“I could have.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t.”

Another flog landed, making her groan again.

“One more time. Did you seduce him?” The question hung in the air as another thud of the flogger landed.

Leigh Ann groaned again. “He seduced me,” she insisted.

“You’re not telling me the full truth.” The man said.

While he looked like a thug, he was experienced in this, and he had an uncanny intuition.

He signaled and another heavy flog landed.

Leigh Ann yelped.

“Again!” he ordered, and Tinto applied the flogger, which landed with even more force.

“Please!” Leigh Ann cried out. The blows were leaving bruises now, and she felt the dull pain below her ass cheeks.

“Tell me!”

“He seduced me,” Leigh Ann confessed, “he did. But, I seduced him too.”

The man in black put up his hand. Tinto stopped the flogging. The two left the room, going outside.


Leigh Ann smelled cigarette smoke. She knew this was part of the routine, that nothing prevented them smoking in the room and during her flogging. No, this was designed to humiliate and objectify her, to leave her strapped in as she was, helpless, irrelevant to their personal schedule, and looking very much like a cow strapped into a milking pen.

It made her feel all of that.

After a fifteen minute break, the two reentered. This time, Tinto stood at her front with the flogger. The man in black stood at her rear looking at her crimson ass.

“This lover,” the man in black continued. “Did he fuck your cunt?”

Leigh Ann wished he’d just apply the remainder of her punishment and be done with it. She was paying for penance not a counseling session.

“Did he fuck your cunt?” the man repeated.

“I just want to receive my punishment. That’s all.”

The man raised his voice: “Did he fuck your–”


“Yes what?”

“He fucked my — cunt.”

The man in black made a show out of pulling off his leather gloves. He dropped them to the floor, then raised one hand and harshly spanked Leigh Ann’s ass cheek. She winced.

Tinto brought the flogger up underneath to flick Leigh Ann’s breasts. It stung, and she yelped.

In tandem then the two applied her ongoing punishment — bare-handed ass spanks, followed by a snap of the flogger against her hanging breasts. Spank, flick. Spank, flick.

Leigh Ann cried out at every cycle of hits, moaning loudly in between. The process was slow, but the spanking was hard and the flicks of the flogger stung her breasts and nipples like hell. She lost track of how long this went on. She tried to do a mental count, but got lost and distracted after forty. Her breasts began to burn. Her ass throbbed.

But it wasn’t the physical pain she experienced that made its mark. Now she felt the reason she had come — to experience the humiliation of being spanked for her sin. The degradation of being locked onto a bondage horse and flogged for her transgression.

The beatings went on. Tears dripped from her eyes. She was sorry for what she had done, and then again, not sorry. This had been her choice, her doing. Though the punishment had become excessive, she deserved it, and maybe more.


After what felt like an eternity, the men stopped.

Leigh Ann’s heavy, loud breathing slowed and quieted.

The man in black spoke: “There is something more,” he said.

“Please,” she begged. “This is beyond what I paid for.”

The man in black paced to the other side of the room. “There’s more. Confess.”

“I’ve told you. I had an affair with a married man. I deserve my punishment for that.”

“No, there’s more.” The man in black walked back to the bondage horse. He came close to Leigh Ann’s ear. He whispered: “Did he come in your cunt?”

Leigh Ann closed her eyes, squeezing them of tears. Are these details necessary? she thought.

“No,” she admitted.

“Did he fuck your mouth too?”

“Yes.” Leigh Ann had no more energy to resist. It all just had to happen.

“Did he come in your mouth?”

Oh god. Does this have to go there?

“Did he come in your mouth?”


“So that’s what you’re withholding?”


“So you’re a dirty girl.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Tinto, what is the punishment for a dirty girl?”

Tinto went to a pile of magazines and newspapers in the corner. From the bottom he retrieved an old black notebook, worn at the edges. He opened it and leafed through some pages, finding what he wanted.

Leigh Ann knew this was a charade, as if there was some actual definitive punishment for sucking a man’s cock and letting him come in her mouth.

“Twelve spanks,” Tinto reported.

Leigh Ann moaned. Even though the notebook schtick was a sham, the spankings wouldn’t be.

The man in black took off his gloves. He palmed Leigh Ann’s left ass cheek, then her right, letting her anticipate his blows.

Quickly he pulled his hand back and spanked her left cheek then right in succession. The spanks were sharp and stung hard, and Leigh Ann yelped.

“One, two” he said.

Leigh Ann’s body shook, even though it was strapped into the bondage horse contraption. He breasts hanging, rippled.

Each pair of spanks followed — “Three, four” — with increasing intensity — “Five, six.” The man in black was expert in applying the blows, knowing how to flick his fingers at the last minute for stronger stings, and allowing his weight to increase behind each beating.

Her body shuddered each time, as if giving back the orgasm it had enjoyed in the execution of its sin. Her yelps turned into groans and grunts, then became screams.

“Seven, eight.”

Leigh Ann screamed harder now, feeling her ass on fire and her humiliation flooding through her like acid.

“Nine, ten,” the man in black announced, his spanks becoming  thudding punches to her now-scarlet ass.

“Eleven, twelve,” he said finally.

Leigh Ann let loose a blood-curdling yell through the final spanking, falling silent and fully limp in the bondage.

The man in black stopped, walked away. He knew to let the pain and shame settle in.

Leigh Ann was blinded through tears welling in her eyes, tears that crawled down her cheeks and fell in droplets to the floor below.

“There is still something you aren’t telling me,” the man in black said.

Leigh Ann didn’t respond. She was spent emotionally, and had no words.

“I don’t know what it is, but there’s something else.”

Leigh Ann’s eyes squeezed tight, pushing out more tears.

“Ah, yes,” said the man in black. “Do you love him?”

She tried to keep her body from reacting, but she flinched slightly, and her hanging breasts jiggled.

“Do you love him?” the man in black repeated more loudly.

She didn’t respond.

“Hand me the cane.”

Tinto fetched the cane from the wall mount.

“Do you love him?” the man in black yelled.

Still, Leigh Ann remained silent, knowing the fatal outcome.

The man in black raised his arm and brought the cane down hard across Leigh Ann’s crimson burning ass, landing it with a loud thwack.

She screamed. Her body jerked against the restraints. “No!” she yelled. “No!”

“No, what?”

“No, I don’t love him,” she cried breathlessly.

“Ah, so there it is. The truth always comes out.” The man in black tossed the cane back to Tinto, who returned it to the wall mount.

Leigh Ann started sobbing — soft inner cries that shook her raw ass and pendulous breasts.

“You know what that means?” the man in black asked.

Leigh Ann strained against her collar leash and nodded.

“Tell me. What does it mean?”

“That I am a slut,” she whispered.

“I couldn’t hear you.”

“That I am a slut,” she said again, this time in a full voice.

“Tinto,” the man in black said. “What is the definition of a slut like Leigh Ann?”

Again, Leigh Ann knew, as everyone in the room knew. This was the required ritual.

Tinto read from the notebook in a mocking sing-song voice: “a prostitute; harlot; an immoral or dissolute woman; a dirty, slovenly woman; a woman who entices men for sex, not love.”

“And what is the punishment for this Leigh Ann slut?”

Again Tinto read: “To be marked as a slut, to walk naked through the gauntlet of men who see her as the slut she is, and to endure their judgment and shame.”

“No!” Leigh Ann screamed.

“It is what it must be,” the man in black said.

Tinto went into the back room and returned with a can of spray paint. He tested the paint on a sheet of newspaper, then moved to the bondage horse and aimed the can at Leigh Ann’s back.

She felt the paint applied in circular motions. Wet at first, but drying fast, affixing to her skin in a mark.

Tinto finished his work, examined the scarlet red “S” he’d painted, then looked up to the man in black, who nodded approval.


Leigh Ann was led, chained, naked, and now marked, through a side door into the other warehouse. It was filled with large boxes stacked floor to ceiling. It was also filled with workers.

Tinto led her through a side walkway into the larger space of the warehouse. On the left, tall scaffolding supported a trio of workers thirty feet up, building a new stack of storage shelving. Over to the right scurried a cat picker up and down the aisle. Crossing at the apse was a lifter, and farther down were a couple of pallet trucks, each manned by drivers.

As Leigh Ann stepped into the warehouse, someone whistled long and shrill, and workers stopped to look. Leigh Ann’s chain became taught and she was jerked into movement, trying to hobble in heels through the gauntlet. Each step was jerky and awkward, jolting her big breasts into jiggles.

She hung her head in shame, her chin falling onto the chain leash.

Some of the workers whistled. Some said things in droning chatter with co-workers. One said more loudly: “Wild woman walking.” Others laughed.

She was led all too slowly through the warehouse. It felt to her like a snail’s pace and an endless journey. She walked by men just an arm’s length away, and she heard their comments. One said “Slut.” The man next to him laughed and said, “Why she’s here, her slutting around.”

Leigh Ann closed her eyes, squeezing tears down her cheeks.

Groups of workers started a chant of “Slut.” “Slut.” “Slut.”

She passed by a warehouse fan and felt the cool air between her legs, reminding her of her utter nakedness. One worker said simultaneously, “Slick pussy that one.”

Leigh Ann looked up again and focused though wet eyes on the far door of the warehouse, some eighty yards away.


After Leigh Ann had dressed, she exited to the reception room and paid her money.

“I hope it was well for you, Miss Jennings.” Dana said.

“It was… effective,” Leigh Ann replied. “Say, when did the new guy start?”

“Tinto? Oh, about three weeks ago.”

“Just wondering.”

“See you next time, Miss Jennings.”

Leigh Ann made her way to her car, gingerly slid into the driver’s seat and let herself down slowly, wincing when her bottom touched the leather. She breathed deeply, her inhale breaking into sudden sobs. She reached for her purse, tissues.

Minutes later, she drove away from her penance.


Leigh Ann returned to the office at 2:30, positioning herself at the stand-up desk in her cubicle.

Ashley in the cubicle next door popped her head up and asked, “How was mass?”

“Good. It’s always good to do confession,” Leigh Ann replied.

“Yeah, I’ll have to try church sometime. By the way,” Ashley added, “The boss wants to see you.”

Leigh Ann caught her breath. She walked down the hall to the executive office, and knocked lightly on the door.

“Come in.”

She entered. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Carlson? I was a little late from lunch. I’ll make it up.”

“No worries, Ms. Jennings,” he said, still studying papers on his desk. “Shut the door and have a seat.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll stand. Just feel like standing.” She shut the office door, feeling the harsh burn across her ass and the paint curves of the slutmark on her back. It would wash away in the shower that night, and the heat of her beating would fade, but mentally she would feel her penance for days.

“Suit yourself. Just a moment.” Carlson signed at the bottom of one of the papers, then another. Finally, he stood, walking to the front of his desk, sitting on its edge.

“Leigh Ann,” he said, his voice softening, “schedules have changed.”


“I’m not going to Pittsburgh this weekend.”

Leigh Ann’s heart skipped.

“Not going to the conference?”

“Changed my mind about that. Turns out Carol is visiting her mother for the weekend. She leaves Friday morning. Returns Sunday.”

“I see. Had your wife planned this? You hadn’t mentioned it before.”

“Carol said she’d told me. I didn’t remember. Anyway, I thought maybe you could join me at the lake house Friday night. Spend the weekend.”

“James,” she said in a soft voice.

“Leigh Ann.”

“Only I have one problem.”

“Oh, no.”

“My brother is stopping through on Friday night. He has just one night here, but I’m meeting him downtown. He’s at the Westin. We’re doing something that night, don’t know what as yet, but dinner and maybe a show. I don’t see him but a couple times a year, and I can’t very–”

“Of course, no question,” he said, nodding, though clearly disappointed. “You have to do that. No question. But maybe Saturday you could come to the lake house.”

Leigh Ann smiled. “I’d love to, James.”

Carlson reached out, took her hand, and pulled her into his arms. Her lips reached for his, and they kissed.

His hand went behind her back and cupped her ass. Leigh Ann caught her breath from the pain, but it became part of her passion. “James,” she whispered. She pushed her body into his, and her lips sought his lips again and again.

They uncoupled and stepped back. Carlson straightened his tie. Leigh Ann opened the office door, looking at her notebook, and said loudly enough for those in the outer office to hear, “I’ll make those travel changes right now, Mr. Carlson.”

“Thank you, Ms. Jennings.”


Friday night Leigh Ann left work early and drove to the Westin hotel on Madison. She valeted the car and stepped into the lobby, making for the elevators.

She stopped at the sixteenth floor, then walked down the long hallway to room 1643. She knocked.

The door opened. A woman, blonde and beautiful, stood in the entryway, dressed in a thin, short dark blue chemise.

“Carol,” Leigh Ann said with a smile.

“Leigh Ann, my love.” Carol replied. “I have a glass of Viognier chilled for us and a hot bath drawn that I thought we could share.”

“Lovely,” Leigh Ann said.

Carol drew Leigh Ann to her. Leigh Ann’s lips sought Carol’s. They kissed passionately.