No story segment

Illness precludes a story this Saturday. I will try to post something during the week.

I am surprised with the paucity of comments concerning Amazon's clumsy yet disturbing censorship efforts. Thought that readers here would express more frustration/concern about subordinating their reading tastes to pimply faced nerds and illiterate geeks with clever software.

Censoring what we so furtively enjoy is so politically correct after all. Who is to object?

Keep in mind the famous quote of Martin Niemoller, German clergyman and early backer of Hitler. He was later jailed for not being enthusiastic enough about the Nazi movement...

    First they came for the communists,
    and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist.

    Then they came for the socialists,
    and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a socialist.

    Then they came for the trade unionists,
    and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist.

    Then they came for the Jews,
    and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew.

    Then they came for the Catholics,
    and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Catholic.

    Then they came for me,
    and there was no one left to speak for me.


               

Censorship

Since you readers presumably enjoy smut... quality smut... you should be aware that one of the most respected companies in the U.S. (according to various business publications), engages in censorship.

See... 

http://pinkflamingopublications.blogspot.com/2013/07/an-evil-that-shall-remain-nameless.html

Amazing to think that what made Amazon (yes, I will name them) so unique and spurred incredibly rapid growth, with the click of the mouse offering the consumer anything and everything quickly and at reasonable cost, will be their undoing (in my opinion).

They now offer anything and everything as long as it conforms to what they think you should be reading. 

So, as Fiona suggests in the referenced blog, don't let Amazon be your only source for quality smut. There are other outlets. And I have never yet been contacted by Lulu or Smashwords concerning my stuff published there, which as you are well aware often encroaches on the taboo genres of erotica (underage, incest, bestiality).  

Comments anyone?

Midnight - Segment XXVII

Catharsis

I have Midnight mounted on the cleansing table, ankles secured, yoke attached to the stanchions.

She rests, buttocks ablaze, the huge globes so tender to the touch that I cannot yet apply unguent without bringing further agony. I count twelve stripes on each hillock, evenly spaced, precisely parallel. Victoria caned with the exacting rigor of a surgeon.

I believe it was stroke eight when Midnight’s ability to control her filled bladder ceded, excretions splattering, soaking the plank and eventually gushing to the bucket... most of it. Victoria chided. I was impressed, Midnight otherwise maintaining her position... legs, buttocks and lower back able to keep tension off the nose loop and protect her pink vaginal opening from the gruff grains of the plank.

This brought a pause, Victoria letting the psyche absorb the ignominy of having uncontrollably urinated like a toddler. Then she resumed of course, even more enthused in forcing such humiliation on our well tethered pony girl.

Buttocks completely adorned, Victoria has retreated to the house. For her, a post caning brew seems to be part of the ritual. This leaves me to offer care... and catharsis, our huge, well muscled pony girl reduced to blubbering into her penis gag. 

I lower a cord from above, hooking Midnight’s nose loop... not tight but certainly not loose. Mercy has never been a significant aspect of our relationship. Midnight is owned... to be used... to be enjoyed. She serves. And the care I offer is akin to maintaining a car, antique rifle or some other valuable device. So I clean, ensure everything functions, and in Midnight’s case exercise daily to demand top performance.

I slip out the penis gag... so long... so cruelly aggravating.

Midnight coughs, clearing a well stuffed throat.

“You wife is a bitch. Master,” her words bringing a wane smile.

“But she did not break the skin. Your buttocks remain comely,” I offer in reflection.

I have Midnight kneeling in the standard cleansing position, thighs well parted but yoke and head not lowered. I let her rest, stepping to her rear. A proximate hand dares not touch the well excoriated flesh yet senses the intense radiating heat. A lusty male mind suggests that I take her anally. The thought of feeling the welts of her torrid flesh greet my pubes with every deep penetrating thrust brings arousal. And with the searing pain, she would be sure to resist, perhaps delightfully clenching to challenge, enhancing the male’s need to conquer.   

“You cane well,” my words a compliment.

And Midnight accepts as such.

“Thank you, sir. But I would rather serve you. Run for you. Feel your crop hand. Taste you.”

“Yes, of course you would. It is ingrained in your psyche. But you will entertain and perform for Victoria as well. And Douglas. Have you tasted him?” knowing that at some point in time, my hormone laden son will indulge.  

“His trousers bulge, when he handles me. But in silence, I cannot encourage.”

Ah, a dilemma. I so often recall Midnight’s simple beseeching words in those halcyon days... when Mother trained her... and me as a groom. ‘May I suck your penis, sir?’ The words still both thrill and comfort. But in mandating silence, the ears of young Douglas shall not be so treated.  

I must give consideration.

I hear a car, the annoying roar of a modified exhaust system, young Douglas, as with most teens, deciding the neighbors should be aware of his comings and goings.

“I’m going to milk your cunt, Midnight. You’ll feel better.”

“Please masturbate me, Master, to completion.”

“No. No climax. But we’ll stimulate enough endorphins so that you’ll feel better.”

“We?”

“Yes, Douglas has arrived.”

“Please not before him!”

“Before whomever I decide, Midnight. It’s time he learned, reviewed his lesson in female anatomy... put such to good use. And the humiliation will make you feel even better. You know that.”

With that I step to the barn door and signal Douglas, exiting the noisy ten year old Honda. Then I move to the chest of drawers. The speculum rests atop. I rummage about within. It’s poignant to find Midnight’s milking bowl. How many times have I labored to coat its surface with viscous feminine essence?

I also discover the slim probe with the small bulbous tip which formerly penetrated Midnight’s quim, slipping into her anterior fornix to delicately palpate. I find myself somewhat chagrined that in my younger days I reveled in making her squirt, ejaculating in mind numbing climax, over developed muscling turning to jello, her naked form seeming to melt on the cleansing table, head slumping in ecstatic joy.

I do believe Midnight’s vaginal walls will begin to oscillate just looking at the wickedly pleasurable length of smooth stainless steel. Alas, those times are gone. Frustrating chastity is best for those obligated to be tethered and run. It makes them eager to perform. So I return the probe, casting aside adolescent thoughts of indiscriminately anointing a girl with unnecessary pleasure. 

Lastly a feather, so tantalizingly soft and pliable, perfect to tease, yet never to bring utmost fulfillment.

Douglas enters. We both approach the kneeling coal black naked form of Midnight.

“More lessons, Douglas, if you have a few moments.”

I inwardly smile knowing the priapic lad will find a lifetime of moments when tending to Midnight.

“Midnight has been disciplined, something a girl with her propensities requires from time to time.”

I move to Midnight’s head. Douglas of course immediately positions himself to view the buttocks, well spread thighs and genitalia so audaciously exposed under the bright barn ceiling lights.

My son visually examines as I release the nose loop, lowering the stanchions to bring Midnight’s head and face down to the marble surface of the cleansing table. She has this pleading look, knowing not to speak, but also in spying the milking bowl, well aware of the forthcoming slow torment of unending yet incomplete pleasure.

I reconnect the nose loop, noting that with buttocks high, back arched and knees well spread, the evidence of Victoria’s long slow afternoon of torture cannot be veiled.

“Wow Dad, that looks painful!” Douglas noting the 24 evenly spaced horizontal welts.

“It is. That is the intent. Now the problem is applying unguent. Her punishment has ended, so we don’t want to induce more pain. Therefor we’re going to milk her cunt which will promote the flow of endorphins.”

I move to the rear, Douglas at my side. The speculum slips inward with ease, the moist vagina once again evidencing Midnight’s proclivity. I turn the adjusting knob, parting the prongs, splaying her open, the display of bright pink expanding with every twist of my fingers. Midnight moans... in delight?.. in protest?.. it matters not.    

The musky sent of femininity undouched fills the barn, so nicely augmenting the intensity of Midnight’s embarrassment. I push the bowl between her knees, the strips of labial flesh dangling just above, seeming to point the way for juices which will soon be flowing in abundance.

“Now, Douglas,” handing the feather to my energetic hormone laden son, “let’s review the female anatomy. I’ll name some of the most sensitive parts and regions, you point and toy with  the feather. We’ll soon have her purring like cat, her cunny flowing like a dairy cow.”

Midnight so much detests, yet so much craves the attention. With Mother’s training and my many years of experience, I’ll show Douglas how to bring her to the very brink of orgasm... again... and again... and again.

“Show me the urethral opening, Douglas. Just a little feathering there to start....”

Midnight - Segment XXVI

Midnight Suffers Divinely

I have rarely watched wife Victoria work a girl. For her, D/s mode involves being immersed, all focus on torture. Therefor during our courting days, we parted ways while visiting Club Le Femme... me to the bar... Victoria to the bad girls ballroom to have a girl dance for her. 

I am thus amazed at the sound, not only the swish, but the sharp crack as firm bamboo strikes more pliant flesh with noted velocity. As Midnight screams into the deep penis gag, the right buttock flesh ripples downward, the blow applied to the top, precisely horizontal to Midnight’s form. The shimmering black body stirs spastically, an uncontrollable reaction which Midnight must strive to counter, nipples restrained, motion between the thighs bringing the threat of the scabrous plank.

Victoria pauses, good floggings seeming timeless to the flagellant, letting the synaptic message of acute pain crash into the cerebral cortex. Meanwhile I watch in awe as the skin reacts... in protest?.. in surrender?.. by rising in the form of a welt.

To Victoria, it’s the beginning of a fine piece of artwork, the first stroke of a master’s brush on a canvass which feels. She turns to me and smiles.

“One can feel the muscling attempt to reject the stroke, Oliver. It’s like no other caning. No soft splat. Instead there is challenge. Yet it will succumb, I will decorate as I see fit, but my hand will need to be heavy.”  

With that, Victoria raises her hand higher, the arm drops, the wrist snaps and the amazing sound increases in pitch. Her eye, her aim, are nonpareil. As Midnight’s muffled yet curdling scream reflects from the barn’s walls, a second welt, a second invitation of truce, flag of surrender, rises. A ridge of black forms, perfectly parallel, not more than a centimeter below the first.

An analytic mind quickly projects, the large well muscled globe will easily accommodate some dozen or more strokes of the master’s brush, the lines never to cross. Victoria knows to avoid subjecting any wounded flesh to a second application of agony. Such can break the skin and bring scarring, as noted.

Pony buttocks need to be pretty. Welts are temporary and attractive to those of our ilk. Disfigurement is not.

Another pause, letting resolve return, allowing the cortex recuperate to best welcome the next searing stroke. Meanwhile the divine muscling, struggling on toes, buttocks and lower back relieving tension for the nose leash yet caring not to tug at the tight nipple cord, starts to quake, the stress already beginning to overwhelm.

With Midnight’s bladder full, I know there to be another element of concern, a need for bodily control. As Victoria’s hand rises again, I conclude something will give way. I thus stroll for a bucket. Barn floors are never pristine with cleanliness, but outright messiness is best avoided lest odors accumulate.

A third sharp crack, then I lean to position the bucket. Urinating while riding the wooden pony is not impossible, but it is sloppy.  Still I suspect most excretions can be captured.

While Midnight struggles to calm herself, the slightest motion enhancing the pain and aggravation, Victoria steps close. The fingers of her free left hand toy with the long right labia, profiled against the fibers of the plank.

“She’s amazingly wet, Oliver. The board is soaked. She’s enjoying.”

Oddly, I know she is. And I know as well that there is moisture forming within Victoria’s sex. Such a charming scene, sadist and masochist striving to so fervently to please each other. 

Victoria steps forward to where Midnight’s face is held in place near the wall hook. The left hand extends and smooths over the hairless cranium, slick with oil. She snickers, a womanly expression of haughtiness, Victoria’s coiffure stylish, Midnight’s follicles long ago vanquished to project her bestial prominence.                

I step to the opposite side, surveying Midnight’s look. There is hate, there is awe that a woman can mete such viciousness, but there is respect. She is mastered... despite her size... the years of physical development... possessing the strength of two men... she must ride the wooden pony and absorb... take whatever is offered... a sponge for the dispensed wickedness of her superiors.

A tear forms, with her nose so tightly bound she cannot shake to hasten its travels. I cannot help wonder whether it is prompted by physical duress or emotional... remorse for so humbly having to offer what her sadist master desires.    

“A tear of happiness, no doubt. They all so much want to succumb,” Victoria’s index finger grazing her cheek to capture moisture, the source given to conjecture.

She leans, pressing her smiling, mocking face to Midnight’s, the nose binding mandating our pony girl absorb the sarcastic look.

“All naked and bound... and you cannot make an intelligible sound. It must be so frustrating. So why don’t I vent that frustration from you? Just a dozen or so brisk strokes of rattan should do it, don’t you think?”  

Victoria steps back, returning to position herself for more wickedness. I know to also step away, Midnight’s bladder sure to symbolically vent at some point...

New Book - 'The Blacksmith's Daughter'

Again, counter to thoughts that my fingers are idol, the Erotic Book Network has just released a new effort... 'The Blacksmith's Daughter'.

http://eroticbooknetwork.com/featured-products/the-blacksmiths-daughter.html

Male Dominant, female submissive with some Female Dominant interaction. One of my favorite characters returns, the kindly sadist Dr. Winthrop Samuels, from the 'Suspension Bondage' story. This is not a sequel, the story stands on its own. Dr. Samuels once again condescends to assist a forlorn masochist better understand her needs.

From the Erotic Book Network (though I may have written this, can't recall)...

Dr. Samuels plies his craft with zeal, determined to assuage the needs of the Blacksmith’s Daughter, her deep inner quest for the gothic bondage of iron... black and crude... found to be unending. 

Not a sequel, but for the readers who enjoyed the erudite Dr. Winthrop Samuels, aloof and exacting in his ‘care’ of Sunny Sudenskaya, this second tale is sure to enthuse. 

Bondage, sodomy, caning, incredibly bizarre restraints, will the Blacksmith’s Daughter ever be freed? Aficionados of Chris Bellows think not.

Sorry, no snippets or teasers to be offered, the likes of Apple and Amazon do not permit, and such are the 500 pound gorillas of the publishing world. So you will just have to take my word, it's a good effort, and if you enjoyed 'Suspension Bondage', 'The Blacksmith's Daughter' will bring equivalent joy.

Midnight - Segment XXV

Meeting Victoria

Probably better titled, ‘home for mousey, lonely, little understood, masochistic girls,’ the secretive ‘Club Le Femme’ is run by an imposing woman with a whip, her nom de guerre ‘Miss Deville’. For the enjoyment of the members, she welcomes young girls with special needs. On a given Friday or Saturday night some half dozen or more will enter by a special door, strip naked and offer themselves, oddly attempting to douse cold water on the fiery lustful deviant desires, their proclivities bizarre but well embraced by paying members.

No one, especially the members, knows their names, identities completely anonymous. They are bound, examined, whipped, clamped, ‘forced’ into debauchery, in general degraded and humiliated. Yes, the members bring satiation... a narcotic for the addicted.

Thus, so many came back week after week...
 
As stated, my attendance, my needs, were relatively subtle... a simple blow job from some nameless strumpet kneeling at the club bar with wrists well cuffed. Being fellated to the tuneful sounds of swishing leather on naked skin, such as that emanating from the ‘bad girl’s ballroom’, added a certain aberrant appeal. We guys always speculated about the antics of the lesbian and bisexual members who would disappear for hours at a time and return worn and sweaty. Then finally came that Friday night, the conversation while Victoria quaffed her brew.

“You look tired,” my words axiomatic in striking up a conversation.

This white robed beautiful woman with disheveled hair smiled, finally returning her glass to the bar, having half emptied it in one continuous gulp.

“Some of these naughty girls need much convincing to finally acknowledge their needs. Used one cane until it cracked tonight. The second not far behind.”

“Perhaps bastinado?” aware that slight taps to the feet and toes can be a much more efficient use of the flagellatrix’s energy.

Victoria smiles, a sort of ‘nice try’ message, but still pleasant.

“A girl’s got to walk. Miss Deville does not relish having to toss a girl into a cab. The back door entrance is to be kept quiet. Plus I normally enjoy the more physical transference. Exercise the muscles, exorcize some demons. It’s just that this girl tonight was not as hungry as most. But in the end, she ate... and ate... and ate.”

Well, of course her words ignite the fires of the eidetic male mind, blazing to know what was ingested. Why would it require excessive caning to encourage a presumably bisexual girl to partake in feminine flesh?
      
Victoria finishes her brew and I signal the bartender for another, on my tab.

“You trying to pick me up? I doubt we have compatible...” Victoria pausing in search.

“Tastes?” I interject. “Guess it depends on what’s on the menu.”

Victoria’s smile transforms, sheepish yet sly. She waits for the bartender to slip away. Then comes her retort.

“I’m Victoria.”

“Oliver.”

“Well Oliver, I am sure like most members, I come here to blow off some steam, leaving the vanilla world behind for a few hours. Be with those who... well... who don’t make judgements.”

“Not judging anyone... and coming here for about the same. It’s just that we’re all curious... all the guys... about the bad girl’s ballroom.”

“For me, tormenting those with demented penchants is asexual, Oliver. I’m not a lesbian. I just find it easier to convince a girl to satiate my needs. And those little girl tears flow so divinely...”

It is so noble for the sadist to condescend and accommodate, I think but speak not.

“Have you ever had a girl eat excrement for you,” Victoria bluntly inquires, noting all are out of hearing range.

I shake my head, my proclivities more conventional and conveniently fulfilled. She notes I do not blush, cower or find objection with the subject matter and thus continues.

“Well a little girl from cow country just ate some dung... or at least she thinks it was dung. Imagine after all the years she spent growing up on a dairy farm, then coming to the big city and being made to ingest what she so often had to shovel,” laughing wickedly.

I am determined not to show revulsion, desiring to learn more. Victoria leans and whispers.

“Analingus, Oliver. A favorite of mine and so many members and visitors to the bad girl’s ballroom. Convincing a girl it is best to so orally please requires some cane strokes, but once they ingest faux shit, having them lick becomes less repulsive. In fact it becomes most facile... like offering great relief. No more pain, no more dung, just press that pretty face between the cheeks and feast.”

“Faux shit?” I ask somewhat incredulously.

Victoria nods.

“A special concoction of dog food with harmless chemicals added to produce an odor most foul. It’s in the mind, Oliver. And once they’re brought to the level of degradation to eat what they think is excrement, you can make a girl do anything... and thank you for the privilege of serving. The tongue works best when performing with gratitude.”

She returned to the second brew, my turn to speak. Victoria and I thereafter bonded.

A frightening swish of rattan returns my thoughts to Midnight, the barn and the wooden pony...