Spanking Newsletter #3

Cut through the noise.

At no point in human history has it been both easier to publish yet harder to be noticed. Through 99% of the past, literacy has been the barrier separating the elite—including organized religion—and those simply trying to survive day-to-day. Up until Johannes Gutenberg brought the printing press to Europe, the primary means of communication were sermons and plays. It was very easy to control oral information for the authorities. A severed tongue stilled treason.

Between Gutenberg’s Bible and the rapid explosion of the World Wide Web, books became more and more common and difficult to stamp out. Censorship no longer could solely focus on bards and troubadours, but fought a steadily losing battle against underground pamphlets and other scurrilous publications. Contrary to modern thinking, porn—both visual and written—has existed for as long as humans have interacted.

What is new, are the many e-publishers who have taken the erotic story off the dingy back room shelves, boldly cast off the raincoat and openly called upon writers to submit their best smut. I answered that call, and submitted to four different prompts over the course of several months. The first three were rejected. Not a surprise, because I don’t really write what editors are looking for. I prefer to write quirky.

If I had to pick one genre of fiction I gravitate to the most, it would be science fiction. I do realize that there are as many distinctions in sci-fi as there are in romance, but I tend towards hard science if I had a choice. This is a segue into one of the submission calls I entered for an erotic take on gluttony; more specifically in terms of a Deadly Sin. The setting is in a future where humans have settled other planets.

The story is long, at 4,000 words, and is graphic and disturbing for those that like a nice, neat stroke story. This is not one of those. After the story, I will have a brief explanation as to the reasons I wrote as I did.

The Black Feast

The self-styled Baroness Susanna cracked a wide smile of desperate relief upon spying the host holding court among the copulating crowd. Her grimace though, was also filled with hate and loathing for the overseer who had both saved and ruined her life.
“John,” she screamed over the thumping electronic music blaring from dangled speakers. “John! I need a ride home after the feast!”
The huge black man—grotesque in fact—pressed a button on an old-fashioned keyboard. An opaque privacy dome formed over his travel chair hiding them both.
“What’s this about a ride, darling?” he growled through his throat box. “Was there another incident?”
He languorously raised a fat-fingered hand, each digit tightly squeezed by an ornate ring of precious metal studded with priceless Old Earth gems. The wealth on his fingers alone would feed tens of thousands for years: if he’d had the slightest altruistic inclinations.
He nodded and accepted Susanna’s obsequiousness as the tall, skinny bronze-toned woman humbly suckled off the grease from his latest meal.
“Oh, it was horrible, sir! Why can’t anything be done about those wretched street creatures?”
“I had almost given up on you.”
Susanna raised her face with a not entirely faked look of fright. “No, sir! I was delayed!”
“I take it—since you are here—you made it through in one piece?”
She swiftly knelt and wormed her way under his loose silk tunic until she was able to grasp his hidden prick. She heard him grunt as the servos slid the seat forward and spread his thighs so her head could fit.
“No thanks to my sniveling driver!” was the last coherent noise as she applied her fear to sucking his aromatic cock.
Still seething at the recent trauma, Susanna’s fawning mask of arousal slipped. Careless with her teeth at first, she fought the temptation to chomp down. Several hard slaps to her face and hair yanked firmly, refocused her attention on proper technique.
Cheeks hollowed, throat plugged, she concentrated on lavishing the clammy organ between her lips as if it was her last meal.

If she didn’t succeed tonight, it could very well be her last meal. Based upon psychological profiles, every individual present performed a sexual favor calculated to cause the greatest distress. It was simply the price of admission.
The man currently having his cock swallowed, ruled over the Palace of Gluttony with strict discipline. His ebony skin was in sharp contrast to the varied paler shades of his subjects.
On the planet of Afrans, the rulers were all dark hued, the rest of Earth’s genetic legacy, whether Caucasian, Hispanic, Asian or mulatto of any blend, were lumped together as colored slaves of varying castes.

“I’ve been saving my load for you, Baroness, knowing you love my taste so much.”
He gripped her skull and fucked her as she gagged and spit.
Despite the degradation, because of her years of perverse sexual training, Susanna felt her thighs grow wet beneath her translucent sheath. For the first time, she’d drawn the monthly black this week—the centerpiece of debauched entertainment—and was in for a long, painful evening.
She felt her gorge rise, but forced it down with ruthless control and iron will that had driven her ascension from immigrant gutter rat, to slave-dictator of ten square miles of city center.
To hasten his ejaculation, she made loud ‘gurk-gurk’ and ‘glub-glub’ noises and allowed tears to smear her cosmetics. A docile doll on the surface, she held her aching jaw open and let the cock hammer away until a large quantity of tacky, rank sperm filled her sore mouth to the brim.
Susanna dutifully opened wide and displayed. He patted her head. She gulped then stuck out her clean tongue with eyes downcast.
Some day, fat man, I will laugh as feral pigs consume your corpse.
“So, why do you need a ride, pet?” John asked, returning to the original conversation.
Her voice was hoarse. “My driver refused to keep moving when a pack of scum blocked my passage. I ordered him to accelerate and he dared show compassion! I engaged the override and went right through the mob.”
“Interesting,” John mused. “I didn’t think you had the balls. Were there any killed?”
She waved impatiently. “I don’t know, nor do I care. The point is, those creatures damaged my vehicle! Worse, the enforcers impounded it once I arrived! I dismissed my driver on the spot and informed my broker to sell his family to the mines.”
Susanna got to her feet. “It doesn’t matter anyway. After being the black tonight, I doubt I’ll be in any shape to drive.”
“Very well, darling, I will grant you safe transportation in the morning.”
“Thank you, Sir. I will repay my debt in the manner of your choosing.”
“Yes, you will.”
He smiled.
She shivered.

John watched thoughtfully as the Baroness moved off towards the presentation arena. She had surprised him tonight: he was sure his diversion of the mob combined with the subordination of the driver would have forced her late arrival and subsequent forfeiture.
The enforcers were not at the Palace by accident. Their absence at the scene, however, would be noted at court. If the Emperor demanded an explanation…
He shrugged his massive shoulders.
As tempting as it was to arrange her death by fucking tonight, there would be other opportunities to thwart Susanna’s planned attack. The fearful slave girl disguise had worn thin of late.
He laughed, overtaken by a sudden thrill, realizing it had been too long since he had been challenged. The irony of his secret protégé now threatening a lifetime of work: it was such sweet pleasure.
John’s amplified voice boomed. The music cut off in mid crescendo, semi-clothed bodies abruptly ceased whatever activity was happening.
Wet cocks pulled out of orifices, whips froze in backswings, mouths hastily finished swallowing and groups suddenly became individuals once more.
“Welcome, my friends, to the Palace of Gluttony. I trust all admission fees have been paid?”
John studied the heads-up display for compliance. All present, indeed all inhabitants of the Emperor’s domain wore chips. Easily hacked with enough credits, they served little purpose as the criminally inclined circumvented the parameters. Since only the top 1% had sufficient credits, ipso facto, everyone present was a criminal.
He, however, possessed a backdoor code.
Speaking of backdoor.
“Simon Says! You have not paid your fee! You were warned last time!”
Two massive nude Nubians—or at least that’s what legends called them—seized the unresisting mocha skinned man and dragged him to the nearest platform.
Their large breasts bobbed freely as Simon was strapped face down, bent over with feet lifted above the padded floor. One moved to his head pressing an erection to his mouth; the other hermaphrodite took aim at the prisoner’s anus with her cock.
As he watched his guards fuck Simon in both ends, rotating cunt licking every so often, a niggling suspicion arose that he was being played. Certainly the short male, half the size of those who plugged him, seemed in little distress.
He changed Simon’s standing invitation from anal intercourse by a male, to oral service of a female. He wrinkled his brows; it was getting more and more difficult to match up psychoses.
Perhaps it was time to change the format to celibacy.
John’s explosive mirth at the thought was spontaneous and, given his reputation for creative cruelty, the crowd moved back slightly.
“Guards! Cease fucking and bring the prisoner to the arena!”
The crowd roared its approval. John was gratified to note Simon was no longer passive but displayed a look of fear. This was going to be a night to remember: the credits for the live stream were already nearing a record.

Waiting beneath the sand floor of the arena, Susanna heard the muted savagery of the mob. For three years she had escaped the black, the person selected at random to represent the monthly culmination of gluttonous weekly feasts.
She had always enjoyed the carefully choreographed pleasures, punishments and pornographic displays the overseer demanded. She also grudgingly admitted it was a clever way of controlling the designated rulers of John’s territories within the rotting Empire.
As bad as it would be—Susanna had been equally savage every month—a good thing about being chosen was the six-month exemption from the Emperor’s lottery. Those picked entered the imperial compound and disappeared. Any price was worth lifting the terror caused by middle of the night knocking.
She gave a pugnacious tilt of her chin to the watching guards. At least she had a choice now; not much of one—the wild-fringe clans didn’t even pretend to be civilized—but she had enough power to run if her nerve failed.
“Black! Black! Black!” The chant rang out overhead and Susanna’s knuckles whitened on the platform stanchions.
Her blood thrummed with indoctrinated excitement. Being forced to sexually perform in public dredged up horrifying memories, but Susanna vowed to play her role to perfection.
You can’t break me, fat man.
She schooled her features into a blasé pout. The elevator rose silently as John’s voice rang out, “Tonight’s mystery black, for your exclusive use, is the one and only, Baroness Susanna!”
The frenzied cheering from the auditorium bowl that enclosed the stage felt like a punch to her chest. The hundreds of men, women, hermaphrodites and those with no gender at all, were all standing and yelling down at her.
From an elevated dais that jutted out above the audience, John gave her a salute. She bowed deeply and correctly to him and then raised both hands, middle fingers extended to her jeering peers. That gesture had survived the millenniums intact.
The noise rose and then petered off as she showed her rage.
“You think you fuckers are tough? You got nothing!”
She spat on the sand and crossed her arms with a scowl.
Shocked eyes turned to John at this unprecedented display of bravado.

In the anticipatory silence, John let the tension stretch. Mixed with his anger was pride, and although he could not allow her to continue her defiance, he was now glad his earlier plot had failed. Perhaps she could be more useful as an ally than an enemy.
He gave a sub-vocal command. Another platform rose next to Susanna. The crowd buzzed seeing the man; two surprises and the night had barely begun.
Simon was restrained, ready for service in a queening apparatus.
John stared at Susanna as he spoke. “As you can see, Simon has been a bad boy in not paying his dues. During the first part of the ceremony, he will be orally used, or ELSE!”
The shouted word lashed the arena like a whip.
His voice was a growl of deep menace. “And if you value your life, Baroness, you will surrender your petulance and willingly serve tonight as MY black!”
He could see her jaw clench, but she fell to her knees and bowed her forehead to the sand.
“You will mount the prisoner, and ride his face, until I am satisfied both of you understand the true meaning of submission!”
Susanna swung onto the chair, her bottom settled into the open seat, as the crowd muttered in anticipation. She faced Simon’s head so that his mouth was firmly embedded into her pussy.
“Get to work, Simon. Lick the Baroness’ wet cunt nice and deep. You see,” he turned his attention back to the audience. “If he doesn’t give her an orgasm within a specified—but unknown—time limit, he’ll be shocked by the electrified probe in his rectum. She, on the other hand, is not allowed to climax, and if she does, they will change places and repeat the exercise.”
Cruel laughter and applause rained down on the linked pair.
“While they amuse us, I now have the pleasure of revealing the theme to this month’s event.”
A roll of drums and flourish of trumpets: John believed in tradition.
“Thanks to the beautiful weather, and our beloved Emperor’s creative means of persuasion, the recent harvest has been the best in recorded history. Rather than let the excess go to waste, or worse yet, increase the slaves’ rations, he has generously donated the crops to the overseers, to dispose of as they see fit.”
John rested his hands across his distended belly.
“As you may note, I have eaten my fill already.”
There were nervous titters here and there, but most gossiped quietly as they saw Simon’s body arch in his bondage.
“Ah, the Baroness is still holding out. Poor Simon got shocked.” He manipulated some controls on his view screen. The whispered conversations abruptly turned to screams and exclamations.
His hands gleefully slapped his fleshly thighs with a thud as they ducked and cowered under hail from above. It was so much fun to torment his slaves.
The last of the objects bounced off someone’s head onto the sand floor. “As you can see, the Emperor’s manna of fruits and vegetables has truly blessed us this evening. And, you may ask, what shall we do with his munificence? Why use it of course.”
Spotlights shone brightly. “There are two tempting targets right down there. A little preoccupied perhaps. The Baroness herself successfully reduced the population by a dozen useless mouths while driving here tonight.”
All around the arena, people were brushing off the rotten produce from splattered clothing. The more intelligent ones, as well as the sadists, were sifting through the piles and hefting the heaviest and juiciest of projectiles.
John purred out his command. “You may fire when ready. To the one who dismounts the black, a vacation on my private island, but remember, no broken bones.”

From the first instant Susanna rode her steed, she knew there was no possibility she’d orgasm via Simon’s efforts. To state he was inept would be a kindness. No woman would ever be turned on by such desperate slobbering. To be on the safe side, she sank deeper inside, letting all her emotions turn to ice and her responses rote.
Thus the storm of produce and the pronouncement she’d killed twelve by vehicular homicide made little impact on her outward appearing equanimity. There’d be a price to pay—later—there always was. Someday she’d be unable to outrun her personal demons.
The first projectile missed; not because the throw was poorly aimed, rather the conjoined target was no longer immobile. The abrupt lurch nearly unseated Susanna, who clutched the frame at the last second. Yet another surprise: the devices in the arena had never moved before.
Earth origin fruits and vegetables pelted down in a rainbow cascade of filth. Marksmanship was a necessary by-product of social climbing on Afrans, and the eager audience soon adjusted to the random darts and jukes.
Susanna didn’t attempt to duck, as a cowering target would only incite the mob’s hunger. In rapid succession, numerous loud splats coated her torso with purple, orange and red pith. Green squash burst in a disgusting mass of slimy entrails-like goop.
During all the preprogrammed maneuvering, she managed to maintain contact with Simon’s mouth. Compared to the wet, stinking biomass dripping from her dress, the oral fluttery was an annoying gnat. Several large peeled citrus struck the back of her head.
Those hurt!
Emboldened by the hard hits, most redoubled their efforts to smash her from her perch. There were plenty with scores to settle. Susanna hung on grimly; she’d taken worse punishment in gladiatorial combat after all.
There were many others though, that sat back and watched the show, piles of carefully selected produce stacked at their feet. They withheld attacking targets in the stands until they were sure it was within the evening’s guidelines.
After sending discrete pings to John, and receiving clearance, the trajectory of hurled organic objects shifted as rivals in the tiered seating let loose with a barrage. While some still fired at Susanna and Simon, even those were soon forced into defensive postures by stray rounds.
There was no finesse, and whatever strategy existed at first, soon degenerated into a free-for-all food fight. Shouts and warnings flew in laughing tandem with oozing pears, squishy bananas and overripe tomatoes.
The chair ceased gyrating and Susanna took advantage of the respite to wipe the mess from her face. She kept her head on a swivel but no one took another potshot at her.
“Good grief, Simon! Are you gnawing on my pussy?”
“Please, Baroness, please come, I can’t take another sho—”
Susanna grimaced as the hapless man’s body was contorted into rigidity by the electrical current emanating in his ass. She glanced up at John. He was chortling and clapping his hands at the spectacle. When his gaze drifted her way, she raised an eyebrow, looked down and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, ‘now what?’

John tallied the number of Simon’s shocks, noted Susanna’s elevated but non-aroused vitals, and made his decision. A stubby finger jabbed the big red button. From the ceiling, a cascade of warm water sluiced, drenching the combatants.
Clothes were quickly shed. Glistening clean limbs soon emerged from beneath the rotted mess. The torrent quickly swept all evidence of combat away, leaving behind scores of naked people.
Once the deluge had stopped, shackled janitors were marched into the arena to rake the sand clear. Susanna dismounted to strip and wash. Guards removed Simon from the queening chair and yanked the rectal probe out.
The floor rose smoothly until level with the lowest ring of seats. Around the circumference, a horseshoe shaped pit opened. Sand drained over the edges with a steady hiss. From the depths, a wide, clear Lucite table filled the entire gap, base sealing tight with an audible click. Down its center was a narrow rail, with an elevated platform at the end nearest John.
A sigh echoed round the amphitheater. Platter after platter of real food sent waves of scents to salivating mouths. John leaned back on his throne and smirked. Like all his colored slaves, they only ate synthetized protein cubes and drank carbohydrate shakes.
The weekly feasts were an epicurean orgy of rare wines, real meats and fresh fish along with unblemished produce and cooked grains. Many had fasted in order to consume as much as possible. The excess was dumped on the sand to feed the Nubian’s war dogs.
“Take your seats everyone and gorge freely. Susanna, you will mount the platform. Simon, as you failed in your assignment, in fact, I doubt she even noticed you were down there,” jeers filled the arena, “you will practice your oral skills by crawling under the table from the far end.”
He raised a solid gold goblet. “The Black Feast has begun!”

Susanna knew the drill. Each diner was allocated at least five minutes of playtime. She crouched on all fours, the platform cleverly placed so that each pair of participants had to stop eating in order to use her sexually.
Any intercourse—front or back—required a delicate balancing act standing on the chair seat. Corporal punishment dictated the high-backed chair be removed entirely to facilitate room to swing.
She was relieved when the first dozen or so diners rushed through perfunctorily, seemingly much more interested in gorging on the rich food than in fucking. In any event, the privileged seats at the center were always the dangerous ones. There, time was doubled to ten minutes each, and by then, the first pangs of hunger were assuaged. Listening to some of the toasts sent her way, deviant minds high on aphrodisiacs were plotting her torment.
Thus far the sex had been disappointing: lots of poking and prodding and spanking and fondling. Routine and boring, but she noticed the next segment contained a cluster of ten neuters. She couldn’t help but smile, knowing the genetically engineered caste was highly sought after. Lacking hair and genitalia, they were trained solely to give pleasure and pain. She could rarely afford their services.
“Good evening, friends.” Susanna bowed from her kneeling position. There were rumors neuters were telepaths, it never hurt to address them as a bloc.
The music changed to an orchestral work, a masterpiece by Bach, and the first pair of neuters used Susanna’s body like an instrument. Her breasts, until now largely ignored, were drizzled with a thick honey sauce. Nimble hands massaged the sticky fluid into a smooth layer. Seaweed was wrapped tightly around the base of both her breasts and tied off in bows. Nipples were strummed and plucked until distended and sore, encircled with pineapple rings, then clamped with serrated teeth.
The other partner probed her rectum with slick, oily fingers. A large, shaved ginger root was held up for Susanna’s inspection. Thrust through her opened anus, the rhizome was moved in and out, coating her anal walls until finally seated deep inside.
The spiced oil reacted to the ginger, and fire lanced her bowels. She clenched her jaw, refusing to whimper and moved to the next couple. Directed to kneel upright, the neuters smeared fresh berries over her torso. They used soft leather floggers to whip the pulp off her shoulders and bottom then lashed her sticky, juicy breasts and previously unmarked lower abdomen.
Five minutes later, she was crisscrossed with bright red lines. The middle pair was next, and a light cane danced welts across her buttocks while she swayed to the tempo on her knees. Her hips snapped forward with every stinging blow. A fist-sized clump of banana was shoved into her pussy. A vibrator hummed away at her swollen clit and wet folds.
The next-to-last last couple poured hot, viscous white cream sauce over her bottom and thighs. They used a studded paddle and a wire loop to whip her clean. The loud splats speckled the punishers. By the time the twenty-minute session of punishment was complete, Susanna was nearing her first orgasm.
The final neuters wore thick, studded dildos at their waists. In a choreographed smooth motion, they sat crablike on the platform between Susanna’s spread legs, so that the oiled fake phalluses jutted side-by-side. Susanna slowly lowered her torso—the ginger root removed—and fed the shafts into her ass and pussy. Banana oozed out.
Chafed tissues protested both the ribbed width and the spiced lubricant. She balanced on her palms and pressed down to the hilt. The couple beneath her flexed their hips in unison and lifted the impaled woman up until they formed a bridge with Susanna perched in the middle.
For the rest of the allocated time, they jounced her up and down while Susanna clung tight with knees to chest. The repeated slapping of her sore bottom combined with the burning double penetration brought her to the edge of climaxing.
The other eight neuters slapped sticky pasta, squeezed ripe fruit, or poured cold liquid over Susanna’s messy body. Red wine washed her hair.
She rapidly rubbed her clit with one hand.
“Soooooo close! Faster! Fuck me faster! I’m commming!”

The arena doors slammed open, the booming noise silenced all conversation and froze all activity. Hooded enforcers marched down the aisles.
“By the order of the Emperor, John Doe will attend Me immediately upon receipt of this message.”
All present looked up at their overseer.
“By the order of the Emperor, Baroness Susanna will attend Me immediately upon receipt of this message.”
Gazes swiveled to the entwined threesome.
The arena was deathly still as the enforcers collected their targets. All heads bowed with eyes averted, the rich food and drink now souring in terrified stomachs. After the squad left, the party swiftly broke up, as self-preservation caused a mass flight for the exits. Only Nubian guards remained at their posts. If John vanished, a new owner would soon be in charge of the Palace of Gluttony and the colored chattel.

John and Susanna would never return.

But the Empire had other places requiring an amoral pair of ruthless killers.

As written, this short story could serve as the beginning, the middle, or the end of a novella or novel. I wanted something gritty. Something disturbing. Even so, it’s a lot tamer than it could be.

The title as always came first, but the Black, does not refer to skin color, but the history behind the shade. Black has always meant evil, and foreboding deeds in sinister towers. Sable was a heraldic term, and besides, it’s also a marten, and wouldn’t make sense tied to Feast, while ebony is fine if you’re a piece of furniture.

A staple trope of sci-fi is planets settled by either religious or ethnic groups—with the odd evil corporation tossed in—seeking a harmonious paradise untainted by ‘them’: All the while blithely forgetting that Old Earth had always been riven by sectarian strife and wars of purity.

[The major problem with outsourcing Earth’s excesses to the stars, is that there is a net increase of at least 83 million people each year. Assuming a cold sleep ark could carry 10,000 passengers, then each and every year 8,300 ships would have to leave just to break even. That’s one ship almost every hour-on-the-hour. At that’s at the current population level of 7 billion+. Sci-fi writers sidestep this conundrum by killing off most of the population first with handy plagues, wars or aliens. Sometimes all three combined.]

Anyway, my presumption is that Africa rose to preeminence and left in a massive surge leaving behind the ‘coloreds’ to their fates. They took with them slaves, and allowed immigration to the Empire. Gluttony in this case is not only food, but an entire culture bent on gorging in every way possible to wipe out the past.

Erotica to me does not automatically mean sex. The setting, the tone, the genders; all of these factors make the story work. The sex should feel organic: within the flow of plot, and not a jarring action. But then again, that’s just another label for something that people do every day—even in outer space.

Hope you enjoyed this newsletter and see you next month here, or get your daily spanking, at Spank Me Hard… Please?.

Byron Cane

Spanking Newsletter #2

“Once upon a time…”

Have you ever wondered who the first hominid was that used this phrase—or something similar? A Homo erectus hunter, explaining about the lion that ate his grandfather? Or maybe a Neanderthal shaman telling the youngsters, that mammoths used to migrate through the valley. When did Homo sapiens sapiens begin to view time as linear? To start creating vocabulary separating the moment that is, from the time that was and the potential that might be?

Memory is fluid. The conflict between what we remember and what we fail to perceive makes us human. Our brains censor the optic inputs and makes us believe life is only the sum of our experiences.

Physicists of all stripes will tell you—quite bluntly—that time is an illusion created by humans who cannot grasp the infinite. Past, present, future are simply constructs of the mind. We base clocks on our planetary rotation and our calendars on the seasonal orbiting of the sun. But every planet, every solar system, every single galaxy in the universe uses a different standard of measuring time.

This matters, because as fiction writers, our brains are genetically wired to the 24-hour/365—plus a fraction—day cycle a year. We can not truly imagine a world of 28-hour days or 18-hour days or 100-day years: it’s not possible because we physically react to time, not just mentally. Every ‘time’ we carve out a place for a character, the genetic—and more importantly, the societal biases we carry, influence the story in thousands of unseen ways, even if we are striving for objectivity.

The portly man—already a suspect—walked with his wire-haired terrier across the viaduct, both hunching slightly under the glowering clouds and occasional spats of moisture; tweed jackets obscured by fluorescent slickers, striped golf umbrella buffeted by swirling gusts, the dog at least, knew to mark his territory.

jsomt nddeit alxkoir kjaoe lho gagm ffos ggqpq hhblsbp ds gk akktp.

Which of the above sentences are fiction? I would argue, neither of them, nor, has anything ever written or ever will be written, actually fictional.

If time and space are infinite, then it must follow, that every single possibility exists somewhere/someplace. If you subscribe to the fanciful notion that: ‘Give a monkey a typewriter, and eventually it will create Shakespeare’, then the corollary is: ‘Give a writer a computer, and every single time, they will describe an actual event.’ This becomes a certainty when quantum mechanics are included—with the theory that for every single instant, from the perspective of every single person, there is the possibility of infinite alternate universes spinning off with every non-choice made.

At the level of quantum foam, everything and nothing is real—yet. Life itself, the universal actions of particles can be dreamed as a perpetual collapsing quantum standing wave of probabilities. Fate, karma, serendipity, chance, luck; throughout recorded human history, one of the strongest shared themes of sagas and journals, is the sheer randomness of life. Coupled at times with a healthy sense of deja vu.

This doesn’t even begin to take into account quantum entanglement, or the persistent belief we all live inside either God’s dreams, or a computer simulation of virtual reality.

That’s why, when we see or hear the words, “Once upon a time…”, we already have set parameters and expectations for the story that follows, based upon our own personal self-created fictional universe.

Mistress Time is cruel: Or so says my Muse, although she is actually my second wife, not linearly, but simultaneously in all aspects. If you get my drift.

So what does any of the above ramblings have to do with spanking or writing? Nothing—and everything. Are we simply an organic-chemical machine with intelligence that is a constantly updating sum of all our actions: Or are we free-flowing souls encased in a shell of free will and water? In other words; do I choose to write because I did so before, or because I will after?

If you are in a D/s or DD relationship of any definition, then at every quantum moment, you either choose to remain, or cease. The bell curve of probabilities states you will choose the action most closely aligned to both entropy and inertia. It takes energy—lots of energy per Newtonian physics—to move into a different orbit. If the Dom is always the one supplying that energy, the D/s or DD relationship will likely fail. A submissive who is a black hole, will only succeed in destroying everything they touch.


My second novella for the Paranormal Erotic Romance group, was called The Witch of Olympus Hollow, part of the Lust in Spring anthology.

This was—except for one chapter—a relatively easy and straightforward story to write. The title came first, then the concept of using diary excerpts, followed by the decision to write in first person from the perspective of the narrator. The Olympus in the title led to Greek mythology and the Spring theme to Gaia. The last part was to place the prologue and epilogue in the present and the bulk of the novella in the past. The location was even easier; far western North Carolina.

Although the novella already had a ‘green’ tinge to it simply by the theme and characters, it wasn’t until I settled on both a god and goddess, that the eco-organic arc of the plot became the driving force for the protagonist. By the time the novella wraps up all the loose ends, Olympus Hollow had morphed into a symbol of sustainability.

The following excerpt was originally posted on my other blog, and can be read there as well. It is the prologue plus a portion of the first chapter.

“Once upon a time…”


The Witch of Olympus Hollow


As the title says, people round these parts think I’m a witch: these parts being Olympus Hollow. There you go; I repeated the title for y’all. No applause needed, we’re good. Or as the saying goes: word.

My name is Gale Johnson, of the Johnsons of Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, on the Main Line. How I ended up in the far southern reaches of Appalachia, that story is the fault of my mother: harsh but true. I was angry with her for a long time, besides being a stuck-up bitch when I arrived.

I believe I was likely manic-depressive or bi-polar back then, but that doesn’t excuse rudeness. All that’s long past now. I’m eighty-five, or will be next April 1st, the joke’s on me, right?

Leastwise you think I’m a bitter old woman, nothing could be further from the truth. The tale I shall shortly relate here shall only be released upon my death. Ergo, I am currently deceased—with several mitigating circumstances.

I’m not trying to be lawyerly here. As you’ll discover at the end of my memoir, the situation was not exactly cut and dried. In all honesty, I’m probably confusing you—I like to talk—so rather than work backwards in a logical manner, I will instead start at the beginning.

It’s a good thing I kept up my diaries all these years. I’d forgotten I’d written them in first person, present tense back then. The conceit of a recent college graduate I’m afraid, trying to be grownup and sophisticated.

I decided to share excerpts within the prose to highlight my state of mind. I apologize if my lack of empathy shines through my journal entries of those days in 1952, but I will not censor to meet modern sensibilities. I’m too damn old to be PC.

I was young and sheltered: a northern white girl dropped into the segregated South. I did not know of course, that Pennsylvania and the other states of the Union were just as divided as any Confederate state. I had always naively assumed people lived within racial and ethnic boundaries because they wanted to by choice.

So many changes in my lifetime, including the internet and access to a world of information. It’s a lot easier these days to write your thoughts and store them in the cloud.

I do enjoy the spanking blogs; I’m a connoisseur you might say, although my experiences would beat the pants off most of the fiction. Just sayin’: not braggin’.

I’m rambling again, my apologies.

I’m sure you saw the snarky tweets from Clear Cut Resort LLC? The ones where they bitched and whined in 140 characters about the fabulous luxury vacation homes and world-class golf course they wanted to build, but were denied? Or maybe you viewed their lovely Facebook page, with the glossy retouched digital pictures and the CGI video of happy families bathing in the hot spring, frolicking in the natural pool and riding horses through the manicured forest.

I told their Armani wearing lawyers to shove it on more than one occasion. That is our land the fuckers wanted, and they will never get it.

The following is an excerpt of an audio recording by the late Gale Johnson.
Transcript begins:

Is this thing on? Damn technology. Used to just push a button.
I got it. Chill, dude.
Well, if you’re hearing this, I’m dead. Nothing like my beyond-the-grave voice in stereo, is there? My lawyer, don’t start, insists that I express my wishes verbally, due to the salacious contents I intend to have published.
So here goes.
Like I said, I’m not worried about Olympus Hollow.
I left the land in good hands, very good hands.
~witchy cackle~
What do you mean you want a will and last testament?
Fine! You’re all a bunch of blood-sucking parasites.
Being of sound mind and body, I hereby bequeath all my knowledge and worldly goods to my anointed successor as per the agreement with the principles notated in my memoirs.
Everything you are about to read actually happened to me.
I personally vouch for the authenticity of my interactions with every named person.
All mortal persons, mentioned in the main body of work, are now deceased.
Any persons named in the epilogue, have signed affidavits allowing their likenesses to be utilized in print.
All proceeds from the sale of my memoirs, and any profits from future visual media productions, shall accrue to the Olympus Hollow Charitable Foundation, Inc.

End transcript.

Chapter One

Dear Diary,
April 1st, 1952
Happy Birthday to me! Today I turn 21 and only three weeks to graduation! My sorority sisters fooled me again and made a BIG deal out of my birthday. That’s why I’m standing at the moment. The paddles are no fun, even though I should be used to them after four years.
I made a wish, of course I did! Chance is so dreamy. He promised me a very special surprise for our date this weekend.
Dear Diary,
April 23rd, 1952
Thank God I got my monthly! Chance is beastly! I never should have believed him. Thankfully Mother will never find out or else her hairbrush would be worn out on my hiney. Sabrina says you can’t get knocked up French kissing or heavy mouth petting but I’m glad anyway. I never knew keeping my knees together would be so difficult in the heat of the moment.
Dear Diary,
May 3rd, 1952
Guess what! Great-Aunt Abigail—my namesake I’m told, although I’ve never even heard of her—has invited me to her home! I’m very excited! NOT! An urgent family matter says my dear mother.
Mother says I’m to obey my aunt in all manners. I argued that I’m a college graduate and a grown up, but she packed my hairbrush anyway and even said that G-A.A—aka Great-Aunt Abigail—knew I needed an occasional good dose of discipline! I am so EMBARRASSED!
My beloved parent told me I’d be standing on the train ride to Washington if I didn’t zip it. Daddy only grunted and refused to take my side. He never takes my side!
Dear Diary,
May 9th, 1952
And so it comes to this. A present for my college degree, the sharp Buick Roadmaster Riviera coupe in Olympic Blue, is sitting outside in the rain back home. While I, after three separate train rides, followed by an ancient bus that trundled up into wild Injun country in far western North Carolina, have finally arrived at the thriving metropolis of Olympus Hollow, population 243.
This is my stop; the driver is calling.

“You mussa be Miss Gale.”

I glanced around in distaste. The bus stop was not a proper station with water fountains and lavatories but merely a wide spot in the road. Wild chickens and feral dogs kicked up dust, while several old white men in denim overalls and seed caps rocked in chairs on the porch of Jebediah’s General Store and spat long streams of brown juice into the dusty gravel parking area.

The speaker was a Negro and his mode of transportation a mule wagon. I was evidently on another planet. This was most defiantly not Cavalcade of Stars with Jackie Gleason. There was no sophisticated sketch comedy in these characters.

I had no congress with the Negro in Bryn Mawr—there were none—although there were plenty to be seen in Philadelphia. Unsure of how to respond, I stuck to politeness.

“Yes, I am Gale Johnson. I am here at the invitation of my Great-Aunt Abigail to spend the month. I was told she would pick me up.”

“Isa be yur ride, Miss Gale. Miss Abigail, she beein’ a touch unda da weatha.” He hopped down and placed my luggage in the back of the wagon. “Ifin ya’ have a seat, Miss, I’lla havin’ ya’ up da mountain ri’ quick.”

“You be careful now, boy, ya here?” one of the white men called out. “Dat be pree-shee-us cargo you be haulin’. Miss Abigail liken to give ya boils iffen ‘er niece ruffles ‘er purty dress. Ain’t that right, sweet thang?”

“Yes, sar, Massa Bohannon.” My driver clucked to his mule and we lurched forward.

I could feel my cheeks flame and stared stiffly ahead while the men guffawed and slapped their thighs and whistled. The harsh ammonia smell of sweat and the sharp scent of fresh dung assaulted my pampered nostrils. We were not moving fast enough to ward off the black flies and soon my hands were in near constant motion in a futile effort to remain pest free.

Then we turned off the narrow highway onto an even narrower track and it was as though we entered another land.

As far into the distance as I could see were rafts of azaleas, rhododendrons and flowering trees and shrubs of every description in a riotous explosion of reds, pinks and whites. The flies and the offensive odors vanished. A shiver ran through me as if were dunked in ice water. An electric current sizzled in the air and my hairs stood up on end.

We passed a large quartz granite marker set off to the right. I heard a loud crack as if thunder had come to the smoky blue sky.
“Did you hear that?” I yelped and clapped my hands over my ears in reflexive protection. “Is there a storm coming?”

“No, Miss Gale, it be a fine day. Isa don’ heard nothin’ but da birds and da bees iffen ya please.”

I looked at him suspiciously but since all I could hear now was the creak of the wheels and the mule’s labored breath, I let it go, and lost myself in the incredible display of vernal color. I’d been annually to the Philadelphia Flower Show as long as I could remember, but this natural extravaganza was beyond anything I had ever seen.

I noticed too, the gravel drive was smooth and the grass verge was neatly mowed. Certainly, a motor vehicle would have no problems ascending the slight grade. Which begged the question, why the mule and driver?

I snuck another peek at the Negro on my left. I felt uneasy. My social upbringing and schooling did not address this situation. I took the easy way out and decided to let Great-Aunt Abigail perform the introduction to her servant.
Dear Diary,
May 9th, 1952
The Negro’s name is Leroy. G-A.A. explained he and his family live a mile away and farm the land for produce and raise livestock for meat. They are neighbors, not sharecroppers nor employees. I sensed there was much more to the situation but I at least loosened my tongue enough to speak coherent sentences to Leroy.
I felt diminished by my reticence and got the impression Leroy was not awed with my whiteness but would tolerate my ignorance unless I proved malicious.
It was near lunchtime and G-A.A. had prepared ham, cornbread, green beans and either sweet tea or lemonade. After we finished eating she gave me a quick tour.
“This isn’t what I was expecting, Great-Aunt Abigail,” I said as I studied the modern Kenmore kitchen under the glow of electric lights.

“Well,” she admitted, “if you saw some of the folk round here, your preconceptions of dirt floor hovels, outhouses and candles would not be remiss. I do what I can to support the local crafters, like purchasing furniture and linens and labor. I’d like to do more, but these are proud people, Gale—black, white and red—and don’t take kindly to charity. This was Cherokee territory. The Scotch-Irish who eventually settled here cling to Old World traditions and Indian heritage through pure cussedness.”

According to my Great-Aunt, the dwelling was cozy: warm in the winter and cool in the summer. The house sat on a small knoll and faced southwest. The outside foundation to three feet up was constructed of weathered fieldstone held together by gravity. The remainder of the exterior to the eaves was American chestnut, harvested when the blight swept through the Eastern part of the country in the early part of the 20th century. The wide porch was laid with Longleaf Pine planks that matched the interior floors.

At her urging, I took time to wash off the travel grime with hot running water and then laid down for a short nap.

This beginning highlights many possible angles: Mental illness, racism, classism, corporate control and even spanking. It also demonstrates the malleability of time. For Gale Johnson, writing her memoirs sixty years after the events recorded in diaries, it showed that what her mind remembered wasn’t always what actually happened.

The spanking in this novella is primarily between Gale and her Great-Aunt Abigail as was quite common in 1950’s America as an accepted/expected form of discipline. There is also a scene between Gale and the Greek god she meets. As she stated in the prologue though, she implied there was constant spanking going on that was likely erotic and submissive in nature, but I ran out of words.


To my disappointment, he had not come again in my mouth. I was puzzled when instead he leaned over the ledge and raised his buttocks above the surface of the water. It was shallow enough for me to stand so I moved next to him and asked what he was doing.
“Since I am the cause of your next punishment,” he said, “I offer myself in recompense for your future suffering.”
“But how will Miss Abby know?” I complained with a pout.
He twisted his torso to pin me with glowing emerald eyes. “Because you will tell Abigail the truth. You will always tell the truth, Gale, it is required of the Guardian.”
He faced away once more. “Spank me, Gale.”
I bit my lip in consternation. His buttocks were round and taut as a pair of ripe cantaloupes. I gave a tentative tap, and light bloomed for an instant at the point of impact. I slapped his cheeks again and again. Colors flared. He encouraged me to strike harder so I did. I spanked as hard as I could. On his solid backside, iridescent shimmers darted like a school of silver minnows.
“Ow!” I cried out and shook the sting from my wrist.
“Try slightly less strength and keep your arm loose,” he recommended. “Keep a steady pace and vary the location. After all, you’ve been on the receiving end often enough, Gale, to know how it works.”
My eyes narrowed at his flippant remark. I tried it his way. It worked.
I spanked his luscious bottom hard. The silver sparks grew deeper in tone until the entire surface turned a pale blue phosphorescence that offered hints of deep ocean currents.
Every blow echoed in my mind. Emotional memories flooded: silent tears rolled down my face. I kept going faster and faster as bitter anger from past punishments was purged from a place I’d unknowingly locked away.
I stopped abruptly.
I was drained.
I was free.


Hope you enjoyed this newsletter and see you next month here, or get your daily spanking, at Spank Me Hard… Please?.

Byron Cane

Spanking Newsletter #1

Welcome to my first [hopefully of many] monthly newsletter about writing. I started reading at a very young age, and by the time I was in middle-school, was reading at least three books daily. Like all youngsters, I devoured the classic young adult section. This was in the 1970’s, and many people thought the Golden Age of Literature lay in the misty distant nostalgic past. Some still do.

Without getting into a graduate level dissertation, that perspective has some merit. Some would argue that civilization peaked in Ancient Greece or India, and has gone downhill ever since. Certainly in term of great Sagas, there is nothing to match in modern times. The few tropes that humans can connect with leave us, thousands of years away, limited to more and more outrageous fiction.

But then again, can any fiction, of any genre, compare with reality? If you read non-fiction history, as I do, then following up with any fictional rendition of the events, will likely leave a flat disappointment behind. Yet, as the cliche goes [Too real for Hollywood], there is a place for fiction in our lives. I read because I want to be taken away to someplace new. To meet a person I’ll never know in real life. To be moved.

One of the first recommendations a budding author receives, is to ‘write what you know’. So? Do I know spanking? Compared to…? Yes, I’ve spanked and been spanked, but am I an expert? Hell no. Nor do I claim to be. In reality, my spanking fiction is more about setting the stage than in describing the physical act. I would rather write something atmospheric than blow-by-blow.


I first created the character of Sir Nachton MacRath —click his name to read the entire story at my other blog—for a short story prompt during Halloween 2016 called, The Bloody Merry Book Club.

Excerpt #1:

“We need to shake things up this year!” The speaker was Joyce as she addressed the other nine members of the monthly Bloody Merry Book Club. The name was selected due to two factors: the love of alcohol and murder. “We’ve done the classics, the cooks, the cats – the many, many cats – the widows and the creatures. It’s Halloween girls! Do we really want to spend the night trick-or-treating again? Let our menfolk take the kids for once.”

Excerpt #2:

“This ladies is the selection for the coming month. Rather than discuss last month’s novel I wanted to introduce a new author to us.” Joyce paused and raised her book so that embossed figure on the glossy paper glittered in the candle’s glow. “Lysander Stanopolis has created a character that thrives in the dark corners of twisted souls. Sir Nachton MacRath is a Scottish Highlander Vampire Steampunk Regency Pirate who solves the coldest of cases for the Crown.” All eyes were on Joyce as she continued dramatically, “Ladies of the Bloody Merry Book Club! It is with great pleasure that I introduce to you, the immortal Sir Nachton MacRath!”

Excerpt #3:

Sir Nachton MacRath, a Scottish Highlander Vampire Steampunk Regency Pirate who solved the coldest of cases for the Crown was there to catch her before she landed on top of her now silent phone. “Do not fear, Lady Joyce. I always take care of my own.” The emergency exit slowly swung shut behind a tall sable figure with a limp female tenderly cradled in his arms.

If, on that fateful night of All Hallows’ Eve, around about midnight, as the revelers cheered the ticking clock into November, if you would have glanced out a window at the back lawn a strange apparition may have been spotted. There was a puff-puff of smoke and stately rose, running lanterns on, a steam powered airship piloted by Sir Nachton MacRath as he steered towards a vertical slit of orange light in the moonless night sky. A bright iridescent flare erupted as the airship parted the veil at the stroke of midnight and vanished from our world for all time.

This was intended to be a one-off spanking horror satire story with a grisly ending. Like many of my short stories under 3,000 words however, this touched a chord with certain readers, and they demanded that I write something further. So I did. The first decision I made, was to take The Bloody Merry Book Club and place it as the prologue of a new novel called, The Case of The Scarlet Paddle. Which by some strange cosmic coincidence is exactly the title of the book that Joyce selected for the club. Amazing!

Only problem, Joyce is from present day America. Sir Nachton MacRath takes her, all the books and his trusty sidekick back through the portal to Victorian England—Steampunk version—where the date is November 1st, 1865. The excerpt that follows is from the novel, the end of Chapter Two, about 9,000 words in, which is where the prologue converges with the main story line.

Just then, light flashed through the propped open basement door. They could hear the sounds of footsteps and women’s voices. “The game commences!” MacRath said as he stealthily hovered at the bottom step and waited for his cue. The detailed note had explained that Sir Nachton MacRath was an honored guest and would be reading an excerpt from his latest novel. The paddle was an incentive, Lady Joyce had written, and that she wanted a dramatic entrance in full costume. At last, he heard his name being announced. “Wait here, Duncan.” He donned a mask, yanked the door wide and vaulted inside. The door swung closed behind him.
Duncan sat, then got up and paced nervously. He could hear nothing from the basement, only the faint strains of mysterious music from somewhere inside the mansion proper. He checked his timepiece repeatedly: half three in the morning England time. He jumped when the door abruptly banged open and MacRath wafted up the steps cradling an unconscious female in an outlandishly risqué outfit.
“Ye knocked a strumpet out?”
“Calm yourself, Duncan. Lady Joyce swooned when I revealed my comely visage. Evidently the men of this time are hideous in appearance and she could not take the strain of my vivid features.”
“Aye, Yer Lordship, and I’ve got me a bridge over the Thames to sell ye for a fair price.”
“Now is the time for haste not mirth, Duncan. Inside on the tables are a number of books. Gather them all, there is a box to carry them and also fetch the paddle. Bring them quickly.” As Duncan hopped down the steps MacRath called out, “There is a mechanical speaking device that Lady Joyce dropped at the door. Bring that as well.”

They arrived back at the airship a little past four in the morning. Walker and Chief raised eyebrows at the sight of the woman but said nothing out loud. MacRath tucked Lady Joyce into the remaining empty chair and checked her vitals. He suspected she was awake but shamming sleep. When he clicked the belts around her shoulders and waist her eyes popped wide open with fright. MacRath placed a finger over her mouth. “Do not scream, Lady Joyce. I mean you no harm.” He focused his sight on her and said, “Sleep now. You are safe. Sleep now.”

Her eyelids drooped and her head lolled to one side. Satisfied he had enthralled her MacRath turned his back and went forward to direct the liftoff. Once back in England, presuming safe transit, he informed the crew they would set down back at the River Brue and load enough water to return to Oakdell Hall.

Airborne again, this time with running lights on, Walker steered a reciprocal heading as the paddle urgently flashed. At midnight, the orange rift appeared and MacRath took the Coventina through accompanied by a strident triumphant blast of song from the scarlet paddle. The crew knew instinctively they were back home in England and soon landed to refuel. The routine completed, they launched again as the sun began to rise over the eastern woods. There were quiet congratulations as the familiar landscape of Oakdell Hall hove into view. The sentry roused the ground crew and soon the airship was moored safely on the pad. MacRath relaxed at the mission accomplished. He would have been less sanguine had he realized Lady Joyce had watched through slitted eyes the entire flight.

I’ve written 21,000 words so far as a first draft. Setting the novel in an alternate history gives me latitude with characters and technology. Thankfully the internet has extensive archives of Victorian historical facts, so the research—both topical and geographical—has given me a sense of the times. I decided to place the novel in 1865 so that any research I do, can also be used for The Bumhampton Chronicles. [Minus the Steampunk, magic, vampires, airships and a few other minor details.]


I got sidetracked in November, 2016, when Ina Morata, a fellow erotica author and very good friend, wrangled me an invitation to join the Paranormal Erotic Romance group. After the initial shock [and after she talked me off the ledge—authors you know] I plunged headlong into writing a 24,000 word novella due for beta reading in one month!

Up until this point I had never written anything paranormal—not strictly true, since I self-published a novel under my complete real name in 2007. But that novel was not erotica, a paranormal romance, yes. However, since at present I am still keeping the spanking/erotica separate from my real life… Anyway—I read lots of werewolf and vampire stories, but this was for Valentine’s Day! What could I use? Well, all my stories are spanking themed: I have a vampire in Sir Nachton MacRath; he’s already spanked Lady Joyce… The novel wasn’t going to work because of the Erotic Romance part of the Paranormal. I’d already decided that the novel wasn’t going to be erotica, but a Steampunk Mystery/Thriller with spanking.

So I had to come up with a different concept. Enter, the ‘Prequel’! When in doubt, go backwards and write something completely different. The result of course, was Sir MacRath Thrashes his Valentine, part of the Lust in Lace Anthology, available on Amazon Kindle Unlimited for free. The following excerpt is part of the prologue that that can read in it’s entirety on my other blog.


For the first time in ten days, the steady thump-thump of the engines and the boiling splash of the magnificent side-mounted paddle wheels fell silent. The harbor pilot called down to the tug. Thus began the ancient and primal ballet of man versus water as seasoned hands strove to bring the steamer from America into safe mooring.

As it docked, heavy hemp hawsers and thick bollards were tossed over the side to waiting stevedores. The shrill triumphant shriek of the steam whistle echoed among the emigration sheds where the starving poor sought passage to a new life in the former colonies.

Vast clouds of slate gray and white gulls took flight as the noise reduced the raucous calls of workers to pantomime. The blast faded and the flocks swooped to await handouts from the new arrivals. A crowd had gathered to meet the arriving ship. Touts held up placards bearing names of lodging and dining establishments. Open steam carriages emblazoned with coats-of-arms and commercial enterprises chuffed impatiently quayside, chauffeurs chatting amiably with gloved hands held over barrels of flame.

A late arrival coasted silently to a stop along the quay. The pennants on the front bumper proudly waved the Three Lions of the House of Hanover. Eyebrows rose: no Royal had been listed on the telegraphed manifest.

Sir Nachton MacRath waited at the gangplank to debark, nose wrinkled in protest. The tide had reached slack, raw sewage and industrial offal collecting in rotted mats along the banks of the River Mersey.

After eighteen years away, on this fifteenth day of January, in the Year of Our Lord 1854, he prepared to once again set foot on his native soil. Well, to be precise, tarred oak planks covered with bird droppings and rubbish. Six months removed from San Francisco, he was glad to be finally back, although unsure of his welcome. He had run afoul of the Regent in late 1835, and despite repeated assurances from the Queen in the following decades, he had decided instead to tour the Near East and China.

As you may note, the date is January, 1854, eleven years prior to the events unfolding in The Case of The Scarlet Paddle, thus neatly side-stepping the whole time continuum bit. Clever trick, I must say. 🙂 The blurb that was chosen for Amazon is as follows:

In Byron Cane’s Sir MacRath Thrashes his Valentine, MacRath is a centuries-old vampire returning home after decades of absence. It is 1854 in steampunk London, and Her Majesty has appointed MacRath Her Chastiser of Loose Morals. Phoebe Hayward is a lady of good breeding, but quite a handful. Despite discovering the man ordered to discipline her is actually a vampire, she can’t help falling in love. MacRath will ensure she is well punished and dominated in all ways as befits his naughty Valentine.

One thing that I must mention, was that the Victorians were raving mad about Valentine’s Day, and sending elaborate cards. Thanks to the Penny Post, an entire industry sprang up to support the romantic holiday. Queen Victoria was not amused. The following excerpt is when MacRath first spanks and sexually touches Phoebe, even though he knows he shouldn’t.

MacRath opened the envelope and saw a confection of lace and hearts with a bright red bow wrapped around a chubby Cupid. The text read ‘Be my Valentine’. He glanced at her and saw her face was bright pink. “Would you want this of me?”
Phoebe murmured softly, “I’ve thought of little else since we collided.”
MacRath cupped her warm cheek in his cold palm. She made a squeaky noise akin to a surprised kitten and sagged into his hand.
He felt his instincts flare in warning. A simple touch of her skin, and he felt the need to dominate her overrule centuries of engrained caution.
“Yes, darling Phoebe, I will be your Valentine.” He felt her shiver. “But before pleasure comes pain. I would have you over my knee and exposed for my discipline. Will you submit to your Valentine in all ways?”
She didn’t speak, only nodded. He sensed she was probably too shy, too naïve, too nervous, but she allowed him to carefully draw her limp body down over his lap. She lifted up when commanded and he gathered the hem and folds of her gown and neatly folded the bunched fabric over her back. His hand roamed over her cotton drawers and slowly, very slowly, pulled them down until the cool draft from the window swirled over her bare bottom.
The room was cold. Vampires had no need of warmth, being creatures of the darkest haunts of nightmares. Fluids, on the other hand, flowed freely when warmed. MacRath fully intended to thoroughly warm his Valentine.
Backed by decades of frustrated exile and the power of suppressed lust, his arm moved in a metronomic blur, the sound of impact a sustained fusillade of loud cracks. The faint pink blush of punished flesh became a raging torrent as heated blood swiftly rushed to the surface of Phoebe’s globular bottom in response to the painful stimulus.
His fangs had dropped and saliva pooled by the time her feeble cries penetrated his hazed state. He rested his cool hand on the scorched skin. The shimmer of red glowed brightly in the dim light. His long pointed fingers dipped between her restless thighs.


Phoebe at first thought herself in a familiar position. The hard protuberance under her soft belly though, revealed a difference she’d never before experienced. She knew what ‘it’ was in the abstract, but to be surrounded by and under the firm control of such masculine power caused an interesting reaction in all sorts of unexpected places. Then the punishment began.
Phoebe wailed under the chastising onslaught. Any romantic thoughts of tender spanking quickly vanished when the pain overwhelmed the tentative stirrings of damp arousal.
The quilt was at first cool and dry under her turned cheek, but became hot and wet as the heat built in her backside. She cried out in wordless wonder and anguish. She felt her waist lifted higher, her body jackknifed in midair until only forehead and toes remained in contact with the bed. The very pinnacle of her existence, the essence of her being, was focused solely on the one square foot of flesh where a stern hand pounded a harsh lesson in obedience.
And then it was over. One single minute had changed Phoebe’s life forever. She poured out all her guilt in gasping sobs. Broken pleas for forgiveness, eyes unfocused as adrenaline coursed through her veins. Limbs trembled, held suspended in space and time. She felt nothing but the fiery burn of punishment. Then, like a lighthouse beckoning safe harbor, a sudden conflagration ignited.
She stilled as a cold touch whispered over her curls and swollen folds. Her mouth ceased its pants of pain and softened into moans of surprise. She heard from some distant shore a siren call of pleasure and, like be-spelled mariners of old, she ignored the safe guide-beam of propriety and steered her course deliberately to wreck upon the rocks of fallen souls.
“Phoebe, allow me to comfort you. Soothe your aches, tend to your womanly garden and pluck the thorns from your flesh.”


I’m quite pleased with my contribution to Lust in Lace. I was able to beta read the other authors in the anthology, working with my friend Ina, as well as Emma Jaye, plus the editor and self-publisher, Devi Ansevi, from whom I learned quite a bit about writing and editing.

Writing the novella revealed something that has occurred before every single time I write lengthy fiction. At some point in the process—it varies in each manuscript—the characters begin to take over the narrative. It never happens [so far] in anything less than 5,000 words, and sometimes it will be closer to 20,000 words before they get tired of my fumbling efforts to create, and start dictating instead. When that happens, invariably the characters get together in a room and start reading from scripts as if in a play or soap opera.

I’m not allowed in until they finish rehearsal.

Hey… I’m just the narrator, not the talent.

Hope you enjoyed this newsletter and see you next month here, or get your daily spanking, at Spank Me Hard… Please?.

Byron Cane