In the darkness – both literal and in the more figurative sense of his act, he moved his errant and sinful hand faster and faster in fervent anticipation of that moment when his seed would burst forth like the eruption of Vesuvius and cover the inside of his bed linens with its telltale milky and glutinous fluid.

So enraptured was he of this shameful act, my dear reader, that he was unaware of the door to his room opening and a silent and dark figure that glided to the side of bed.

Unaware, that is, until the mistress of the house – for that is who the shadowy figure was of course, looking on her young charge now so rapturously occupied by his sinful act of self pollution – pulled, with a great and righteous flourish his bed coverings off of him, exposing his shame. There it bobbed in the air, a pale, venous and throbbing agent of the Beast himself. A viscous and clear liquid covered the head, glistening in the light of her lamp. She knew, from years of dealing with obstinate and uncouth youth, exactly what the young man had been doing and the passions that moved him. Still this knowledge this did not temper her fury – if anything, it added to it. This boy would learn, as all the others had, the penalty for such contemptible and disgusting pursuits of fleshy pleasure. The flesh would most certainly pay a terrible price.

“You horrible, vile boy. What do you think you are doing?” she cried.

The young man could only stammer in terrified response, but pity for him, his unyielding and florid Peter was articulate only in the language of its carnal appetites and it took this most inopportune time to speak. You see, the images of boobies with their bright pink nipples had so taken the imagination of the lad and he was so far along on his path to perdition and ruin that, even as he removed his naughty hand, his Peter twitched once and the slit eye opened and sent a voluminous quantity of the nectar of his loins high into the air. Oh, as cruel fate would have it, the ejecta found its apogee and like Icarus of old, began its fall to earth crashing not to ruin upon the ground, but upon the lace that covered the left breast of the mistress.

A preternatural calm overtook the mistress and time ceased its incessant running, coming to a stop, standing still in the quiet of the room. It was quite the tableau: the shamed and frightened young man, his hardness jutting into the air and the stained woman, standing as quietly as a bust in a mausoleum as a fearsome fury radiated from her. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. Perhaps, she was, my dear reader, speaking only for her own benefit.

“I see. For you, my dear boy, for you, it shall be the mustard. Yes, the mustard.”

She then smiled the most cruel of smiles and in a louder voice said, “Wait here. In your present, shameful state. I shall return. I shall return with the mustard.”

The mustard poultice. Now, lest you not be schooled in the ways of this frightful and terrible chastisement, pray let me enlighten you. Let me tell you of the preparations the mistress took while the poor boy awaited his punishment.

For this punishment, this distasteful yet necessary chore, the mistress of the house was compelled to call upon the services of kitchen maid. This servant was startled to be awoken from the grip of Morpheus, but complied with the commands of the mistress of the house without question or complaint. A young maiden, the kitchen maid was a step above a scullery maid and was in her nineteenth year, with dark hair and eyes not yet dulled by the vagrancies of advanced years.

We next find the two women in the kitchen of the house, as the ingredients of the young man’s punishment were thus:

Several ounces of bran, a spoonful of salt and a generous spoonful of Doctor Robert’s flower of mustard seed. With respect to the culinary provenance of these items, it did make a certain sense that the kitchen maid would be called to service. But beyond this merely functional matter, the mistress of the house knew the young man’s shame would be increased ten-fold by the presence of the lovely specimen of weaker sex. But, dear reader, it was his weakness that she must deal with now.

The kitchen maid put a kettle to boil as the mistress visited the laundry. From the linen closet she procured several pieces of flannel, some calico and a piece fine muslin cloth. She then cut several strips of a thick canvas so that she might bind the miscreant to his bed of shame. He must be immobilized to receive the full corrective measure of his chastisement! And receive it he shall.

Before returning to the kitchen she went to the bedroom and tied the now shaking and naked young man with the canvas, securing him as though a trussed bird in a butcher’s shop. Still the serpent bobbed erect, jutting upward in all of its obscene glory. In the silence, the mistress knelt on the bed, bent over and gently took it into her mouth, tasting the lust of youth. It was over in a moment and shortly she returned to the preparations in the kitchen.

Upon the instructions of the mistress, the kitchen maid prepared the poultice that would soon be applied to the offending young man.

She put the bran atop a pan of boiling water such that it absorbed the heat. The mistress opened the stove and added another stick to the fire and the maid stirred the salt into the now very hot bran. She then, using a wooden spatula, spread the scalding and thick mixture over a piece of calico, to a depth of an inch or so. Once this was done, she wrapped the calico into a neat, disciplined package slightly larger than the young man’s genitals. Oh, how hot it was. The kitchen maid was surprised at the touch that burned her fingers.

Next, they prepared the irritant. The kitchen maid soaked a piece of the flannel in the boiling water and covered it with a thick coating of the mustard flower. This was then covered by the fine muslin from the laundry.

The kitchen made looked at her mistress and asked a question. “Will this hurt the young master?”

“Yes my dear. It will hurt him very, very much. He will think he is dying.”

A sense joy filled the young woman as she put the steaming poultice and hot mustard soaked cloth onto a china plate.

The two women returned to the young man bearing their evil gifts of chastisement. His eyes opened wide at the sight of the comely young maiden and her steaming plate. He did not have long to wonder of his fate.

The mistress went about her obligations with a startling efficiency. First she stretched his still erect penis against his young and sinful body. Next, she covered the root of his evil with his scrotal sac and then wrapped the mustard flannel, gauze side down, around the shamed boy’s genitals. This was then covered by the hot poultice – the bran having retained the heat of the boiling water – and everything was wrapped in tidy package as though she had just put a nappy on an infant.

The heat of the poultice agitated and activated the mustard.

Whereupon commenced upon the fleshy shroud covering young man’s testes and his proud phallus a burning….an inferno like that of the very fires of Hades itself. The evil of his transgression was being burned out of the very essence of his sin. It was being burned out of his once-proud Peter.

His stoic demeanor gave way almost immediately to cries of anguish. Far too soon for the pleasure of the mistress. She frowned in displeasure and scolded him, “Sacrifices to Venus such as yours will lead you straight in to the mad-house my boy!”

The kitchen maid tried not to smile. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from doing so.

The face of the young miscreant twisted and bloomed red in pain.

He screamed. It was fire and true to the word of the mistress to the kitchen maid he thought, or rather wished, for death to take him from his suffering.

The mistress continued her verbal corrections, contempt and moral fury filling her voice, “Moreover, your wanton and lascivious onanism is nothing but a filthy and sinful habit and I shall not have your bestiality in my house.”

Her words were distant such was the young man’s agony. She touched the stain upon her breast before continuing.

“Wretched, wretched boy! I daresay you will feel the cane before I am done with you,” the mistress said looking down at her suffering charge.

In normal circumstances, such a pronouncement would have filled the young man with dread, but all of his thoughts were consumed by the burning pain caused by the evil mustard. Oh, how his Peter throbbed in an adamantine conflagration of abject misery and contrition. Never again would he allow the urges of his baser self to overrule the angels of his higher nature. This he promised to all that was holy and good. He would be pure in deed, body and spirit. Pure in deed, body and spirit.

He did not realize he was crying these words aloud, screaming them in point of fact, until he saw, through his red and tearing eyes, the mistress smile.

“Pure in deed, body in spirit!” continuing to yell, he pulled against his bonds, attempting to be the Phoenix rising from the ashes, attempting to fly out of pain into purity.

“Yes, to be sure,” she said, “the cane tomorrow, in front of the entire household.”

The Phoenix did not hear her.

Had he the power of clairvoyance to see beyond the starched white apron of the kitchen maid, the lad might have noticed the flush of her bosom, and the two pink rosebuds, the crowning glory of her womanly breasts, harden into little nubbins of desire and lust.

The mistress felt a warm trickle, a tear of Venus herself, slide down her thigh.

She took the kitchen maid in hand saying, “We shall take our leave now and return it the morrow. At that point, you shall be released from your bounds and the mustard poultice shall be removed from your penis and testes.”

And with the passing of her sentence, she reached down and grabbed the wet and hot cloth covering the preparation that had so agonized the poor fellow. She reached around such that she was holding the entirety of his maleness in her two hands and squeezed with all of her strength and might.

“That, my dear boy is for my nightshirt,” she whispered.

Later that night as the poor boy lay bound to his bed, she made her way from her small cot in the servant’s quarters and up the back stair to his room. He tossed and turned in his bed, the mustard poultice still wrapped in place, his arms and legs still bound. She crawled into the small bed. Lying next to the young master of the house in the dark, her small, feminine fingers, callused from the chopping of beats, carrots and the work of the kitchen, make their way down to her tiny wet cunny. The kitchen maid wanted him to hear her soft moans of pleasure as the embers about his loins smoldered.

END

Note: the genesis of this story comes from a fun and kinky site (and who here doesn’t like that) out of the UK. It’s URL is:

http://ecstagony.com/eng/info/arttec.htm

It had a name in its native Polynesian, but for him it would always be Tongue Island. Not the most romantic of names he supposed, at least for him, but it was descriptive enough. Nor, he reflected, did the name accurately reflect the hedonistic and wonton qualities of this small, out of the way bit of paradise. Maybe something like Juice-Dripping-Down-Her-Shaking-Thighs Island or Orgasm Island or simply Her Island. For it was her island. She owned it, having purchased it from the proceeds of one best seller or another.

He was bound to her chair. The special chair she had made by a special shop in London. His head and neck supported below the padded hole, he had perfect access to her. He could – and had on several occasions over the past few days – spent hours here, his tongue working furiously.

She owned him too, he thought. Or at least the most important parts of him. Not in any sort of master-slave way, filled with elaborate protocols and ritual. No, it was more basic than that. More unsaid. More real. His submission and servitude was something they both understood and – perhaps more she than he – enjoyed for their mutual benefit. Hell, he was the one who asked to be put in this place. In his place. She was only too kind to help, to spread her thighs and drink her coconut milk as he lapped at her folds, drinking in her musk.

The deal they had struck had been simple – one hundred orgasms for her, followed by one for him. If she desired it of him at that point, of course. If he had earned it and had refrained from too much complaint. If he had been proper in his attentions.

He hoped he was pleasing her sufficiently. He remembered the cane. He licked with more urgency. She moaned.

She was a good girl. You’d look at her and think “pink.” Even if she weren’t wearing something pink (and this would be unusual, because she almost always wore something in that shade – a fuzzy pink top, a skirt with pink polka dots, pink nail polish) you’d still think it of her. Let’s look at the way she was good. She recycled. She was the first to bring the ice cream when you finally left your jerk boyfriend and needed some convincing that he was in fact a jerk. She was nice to small children and helped lost puppies. She told the truth. She voted Democrat. She rode her bike. She didn’t eat tuna.

She was good. She didn’t own a black bra. A black bra with lace on it. A black bra that was ever so sheer and treated her nipples not as two sisters to be squashed and repressed into non-sexual glands, but rather treated them as a lover would. Teasing them into hard little targets of desire and want, flaunting, poking through the black fabric, saying to the world, “Look at us, goddamn it! Don’t you want a taste?” No, she didn’t have a bra like that. A black bra.

This lack in the lingerie drawer almost made sense (she did, after all have half-a-dozen pink bras), and may not seem like a big deal, but it would be her key to open a door that she so desperately wanted to open. It’s not what you might expect. She didn’t want to be a bad girl. Not really. Not fundamentally. We are who we are and she knew that. She also was smart enough to know that a black bra, in and of itself, wouldn’t make a nice, pink girl into a bad girl. The red leather jacket did not make James Dean. It was the actions of James Dean that made James Dean, and it would be her actions and the resulting consequences of those actions that would make her who she was and would be.

The bra was the key. It opened a door. Behind that door was the little girl who stole the package of M&Ms at the 7-11. The little girl who found herself skirt up, panties down, bottom over the knee of her father later that night. The little girl who learned a lesson about being good. About character. About who she was. Fundamentally. The next day, her bottom still smarting and pink (ironic, isn’t it?) the little girl went back to the 7-11 and paid for the M&M’s. Those M&Ms became not “a” package of M&Ms; but “the” package of M&Ms. Years later, the little girl was gone. Closed and locked behind a door of the good girl’s making. A door of shouldn’ts, couldn’ts and wouldn’ts, slammed tight with all a force of will that would impress a German philosopher. Until tonight.

Tonight she’s getting ready. The good girl hooks the bra. Her fingers shake. She twists it around her waist, pulls it up, and adjusts it over her breasts. These breasts celebrate. There is a sinking feeling in her stomach that doesn’t stop until it gets to her sex. She rubs as she pulls on her panties. A plaid skirt follows. Then she puts on a thin, white blouse. The bra, being black, is more than a simple fashion statement. It is declaration.

The waiters notice. The people at the restaurant notice. He notices. The little girl pokes her head around the open door and gulps. There’s that sinking feeling again. For the first time, the little girl notices the hard nipples. She feels good. She feels bad. She feels nasty. They skip dessert and go to his place. The little girl – as much as she loves all things chocolate with the exception of M&Ms – doesn’t mind. The little girl is well past the door.

Afterwards. Still wearing the bra.

He looked at her anew. “That was amazing.”

She can only moan.

“No, really, really, like mind-blowing amazing.”

She stops moaning to say the only thing that makes sense, “We fucked. We didn’t make love. We fucked.”

“Yes, my dear, we did,” he laughs.

She closes her eyes, reliving the moment and little girl speaks up. “It was the bra, it’s black.”

He’d noticed, of course, but now, since it’s been pointed out, he’s conscious of it. Of not just how new it is, and how sexy it is, and how strange it was she insisted she keep it on as he was pulling this bit of clothing and that bit off of her, but how it seems to have changed her. “It’s nice. Is it new?”

A voice, languid and without care answers, “I stole it.” It is the little girl, post-coital, awash in her newfound sexuality. “I was at that boutique on Maiden Lane and I saw it and I wanted it and I just put it into my purse and just left.”

She opens her eyes and there’s that sinking feeling again, now only stronger and she wants nothing so much as to spread her legs once again and let him take her but she does something else that surprised her more than it did him. She gets on her knees and making her way over to where he rests, his back against the headboard, settles face-down over his lap. She raises her ass, inviting. Holding her breath. She wants it so badly.

Slap.

She breathes out. “I stole it.”

Slap. This one not so tentative.

SLAP!

She moans.

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!

“Please.”

He stays his hand. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No. Please more.”

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!

“More, more, more, more, more….”

He settles into a steady rhythm. Soon his hand is smarting, but he doesn’t stop.

SLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAP. Her nipples harden, kissing the black bra in gratitude.

SLAP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! She wet. She is dripping on his leg, she is moaning. The little girl is gone. The good girl is gone. She is all that remains – she, herself, the woman – and he stops spanking and rolls her onto her back and enters her.

END

Her initial email to this chosen one was to the point: “Can you be at my place by 6:30 this evening? I am hungry.” She then listed her city and signed it “Y.”

Fifteen minutes later, she checked her email – his reply had arrived. The message in her inbox was short and courteous: “Yes ma’am. If I may be so bold as to ask a question – why “Y”? On your earlier emails to me you had signed them “J”. I am, of course, your servant and look forward to satisfying any an all appetites you may have this evening.” He signed his name and left a little smiley face

She read the message twice and the hunger squealed in delight. “You will arrive at my home at 6:30,” she typed. “Also, when was the last time you had an orgasm? Please tell me the truth.” She then followed with her address.

“Yes ma’am. My last orgasm was last Friday.” He replied.

She wrote back: “Thank you. I will see you at 6:30. Please bring me flowers….roses. And the Y is something you’ll find out about in due time.”

He knocked on her door at 6:30. He wasn’t late. He wasn’t early. She was pleased. Until she opened the door and saw him – he was shorter than she. He looked up at her, straight in the eye for the shortest of moments and then dropped his gaze in what she found a subtle, yet pleasing, act of servitude. She considered shutting the door right there and then. Perhaps the next time she tried this, she’s specify how tall applicants must be.

“I am here ma’am.” He handed her the roses. A beautiful bouquet. She inhaled deeply, their aroma filling her.

“Enter. Remove all of your clothes and give them to me.” She commanded.

She shut the door behind him and watched as he bared himself. The hunger inside jumped up and down and clapped. She felt the moistening among the folds of her labia. He folded everything and handed it to her. His underwear – black boxer-briefs. His socks charcoal grey and knit.

She set the flowers atop a hall table and on impulse leaned in and bit his nipple. Hard. It surprised her. The hunger was now in control. “You won’t be needing these,” she said referring to the clothing in her arms, “I’ll be right back. Wait.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The taste and feel of his nipple was still on her tongue as she shoved his clothes to the back of her closet. She stopped at her lingerie drawer and removed a blindfold. When she returned, his penis jutted straight out. She slapped it. Once. Twice. A third time. He winced. It bobbed up and down, red. She watched it for a moment and put the blindfold over his brown, now-wide eyes.

As she took him by the hand and led him into her “throne” room she explained. “I will be naked as well this evening, and you will be undressing me, as this is my wish.”

She paused as she opened the door to what was still her home office, “but you have not yet earned the privilege of seeing me. Do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Do you wish to see me naked?”

“Very much so ma’am.”

She smiled. “Too bad, then, huh?”

He began in typical sub fashion, as if reading from a script, “It is your wish ma’am. It is not my place –“

“No, tell me the truth – I really want to know.” She interrupted.

“Yes then, well it is too bad. I would love to see your body.”

She steadied him in place, set the roses on the floor beside her “throne” and turned to face him. The computer sat on her desk – off. “Undress me.”

His fumbling fingers worked at the buttons on her blouse.

She slapped his balls as hard as she could. He groaned in agony.

“I simply want to let you know the consequences of touching me inappropriately as you take off my clothes. I also want you to know I have a cane in this room, along with several other unpleasant things, should you – or your wandering hands – disobey me.”

Still in pain, he barely got out a ‘yes ma’am’ through gritted teeth.

He struggled a bit with the hooks on her bra. She laughed and was pleased to see him smile. “My nipples are so hard…too bad you can’t see them,” she teased.

When he – on his knees – removed her panties, they were damp. The hunger took the panties from his hands and rubbed the cotton crotch and her scent on his nose. “This is the woman who now rules you.” Her voice was low.

He didn’t reply, just breathed deeply, falling further.

After a moment, she continued. “You asked me about the Y. It stands for ‘yin’ and that is me. You are ‘yang’ this evening.”

She positioned him down on the floor and rolled him on to his back. She then moved his head under what she called her throne, a rather simple queening stool a friend had created for her. It had a comfortable seat with a hole cut in it, exposing her sex to anyone bound below. His mouth was under that hole. She then pulled his hands up to the legs of the stool and bound them there, up near his head.

She sat on the throne.

Once comfortable, she went on, “The pleasure I receive this evening will be perfectly balanced by your pain. My satisfaction,” she gave the word special emphasis, “will be balanced by your frustration – and I want you to know, your frustration will be great because my satisfaction will be great. My hunger demands it.”

She paused a moment and then smiled though he could not see it, “and it’s ‘Y’ also because that’s where you’ll be eating tonight.” She laughed. “I’m hungry, but your mouth is going to be doing all the work.”

He lay silent under the throne, his mouth almost touching her wetness.

She picked up a rose, took a deep breath from the bud and let the essence of the flower enter her, take her over, sate the hunger. She then turned the flower over in her hand, and removed a petal, and let it drop, and as it hit the ground she whipped his erect cock with the stem. Another petal followed. She whipped him again. There were many petals that would fall this evening.

“Lick.”

END

It was not always so.

In the spring of the year that did not seem to have a summer or fall, he found himself bent over the wooden kitchen chair in one of these houses. The child that is no more was, at that point, very much a child, very much unaware of his future of houses foreclosed and cars repossessed and of loves found and misplaced.

Small fingers grip the chair’s seat.

She stands behind him, holding the wooden spoon. The woman feels his pain, deep inside her. It is a mother’s pain, a dull ache in a place where once the child had floated, sleeping in perfect oblivion.

Fingers again. The fingers of a man claw at the black rubberized sheet.

The cane whistles and strikes.

The pain purifies.

The child cries.

And the wooden spoon falls again. Strikes again. He cries out. She takes on his pain and holds it deep inside once again.

The leaves rustle in the wind.

“What do you want to do today?”

The two-hundred dollars sit on the battered table.

“I want you to cane me.”

END

“Oh crap,” thought June. “Oh crap, crap, crap.” Foul language for her, this word “crap”, and she felt the warm tendrils of shame rising up her neck, coloring her face. She glanced to her left – her husband had not heard her. The offensive language had remained safely trapped behind her pursed red lips.

She gripped her handbag in her right hand, looked down at the pavement and attempted to hurry her husband along by walking a bit faster and pulling his hand. “We really must hurry dear, or we’ll be late. The store might close.”

He smiled, and brown eyes took in his bride attempting to pull him along, “What’s the hurry, June? It’s Saturday. The store will be open until five.”

“We mustn’t dally, for as the poet says, ‘Time waits for no man’ and nor may I add, does a good white sale.” She tugged some more. Without lifting her head, she glanced up at the tall man making his way towards them. A few more steps and she’d be free. Maybe he wouldn’t see them – one foot after the other, one foot after the other, one foot….

“Dr. Schwartz! Fancy meeting you here!” June’s heart sunk. It was her husband cordially addressing the tall, blond man: David Schwartz, Doctor of Dental Surgery, June’s dentist.

“Oh, hello there, Bob. June. So nice to run into you two. Out for a stroll?”

June looked at a crack in the sidewalk as her husband answered. “White sale. June here is dragging me along. Quite literally, I might add.”

“Poor fellow.” The two men laughed and June felt her hope rise ever so slightly, buoyed on the currents of their levity. Perhaps feminine wiles would work – she looked up from the crack.

“Yes, and I really must insist that we be on our way. We women can be very cutthroat when it comes to a good white sale. Oh, you men may think we’re all sweetness and light, but a good duvet cover can make the claws come out.”

Dr. Schwartz let out a chuckle, “I don’t even know what a duvet cover is Bob, but you’d better not argue with the little lady. Might find yourself in the doghouse without any sheets whatsoever.”

The two men laughed some more. June let out the smallest sigh of relief – she was going to be home free. She smiled at the dentist.

He smiled back, “Oh, and June, won’t you ring my receptionist and make an appointment? I haven’t seen you in awhile.”

June stopped smiling and her husband stopped laughing. “She doesn’t need to do that, do you June?”

Suddenly the crack in the sidewalk took on great significance for June.

The dentist answered for her, “Well, Bob, in my professional opinion, I think it would be a good idea – it has, after all been over a year since I’ve seen your wife, and it’s important to –

June’s husband shook his head. “Over a year?” he interrupted.

“Something like that,” the dentist replied.

“No, that can’t be right. June just saw you last week, didn’t you June? Isn’t that what you told me? That you had gone in to see Doctor Schwartz as we had discussed you would?”

June opened her mouth, and for the first time in a long while, no words came out.

“Bob….I don’t know what to say….June hasn’t been to the office for quite awhile. Certainly not last week.”

“There’s a crack in the sidewalk.” Those weren’t the words she was hoping for.

Her husband let go her hand, and lifted her face so that their eyes met.

“Tell me, June. Did you go to see Dr. Schwartz?”

“No.”

“No what, June.”

“No, I didn’t go see him last week.”

“You lied to me. You deliberately disobeyed me.”

“Yes.” It came out as a whisper. Why wasn’t she crawling into that crack? She felt small enough to do it.

She felt him let go her face as he turned to the dentist. “David, I really hate to impose, and I realize it’s your Saturday afternoon, but would it be possible for you to see June now?”

“Well, of course, Bob. I can certainly open up the office,” the dentist said as a knowing look passed between the two men, “but drinks at the clubhouse will be on you next week.”

“Yes, it seems as though I do owe you one, David.”

“Two, I think.” The dentist looked at June, “Well, let’s go, it’s never too late for good oral hygiene and my office is just down Oak a couple of blocks. Shall we?”

She felt her husband’s large hand through the silk of her panties and the muslin of her skirt, “I do believe you know the way, June – why don’t you lead?”

The next four blocks felt like four miles for June. She trudged in front of the two men, leaden feet taking one step after another. Oh, how she hated the going to the dentist.

The dentist’s key in the lock sounded like a judge’s gavel. As they entered the small anteroom, her husband looked at Doctor Schwartz “David, would it be possible for me to have a few moments alone with my wife before you begin her exam?”

“Absolutely, Bob. I’ll wait out here. The exam room is right through that door.”

“Thank you.” He turned to his wife, “June, are you ready?”

“Yes, dear.”

He took her hand and led her into the exam room. A tray of instruments– bright, shining, polished, pokey and scrappy- filled her vision. Next to this tray of unpleasantness there was a large dental chair. And waiting for them, sitting in the center of the chair was something coiled, dark and thick. It was her husband’s belt.

He let go her hand and closed the door behind them.

“Lift your skirt. Remove your undergarments. Lay face down over the chair and straddle it with your legs.”

He picked up the belt, folded it over and hefted it in his hand. “I was wondering where I left this.”

By the tenth time the belt touched her nakedness, she was whimpering. By the twenty-seventh, she was crying out loud, oblivious to the presence of the dentist in the room beyond. When her husband was finished, the dentist’s chair was wet with her tears.

She felt his lips graze her cheek. “You did very well, little one. Please, do not lie to me again. Pull down your skirt and get presentable. Doctor Schwartz will be in soon for your dentist appointment.”

Later, Doctor David Schwartz looked down and had a question for the recalcitrant patient squirming in his chair. “Sitting comfortably, June?”

Yet again, she lifted her hips in a vain attempt to get some relief from the fire that was burning across her scarlet globes. With a moan of resignation and pain, she gingerly settled back down.

“Well then, I suggest that next time your husband tells you to visit the dentist you do so.”

END

Kali (a.k.a. the bitch) was locked in place by my wife 12 minutes after we got home from our morning run to The Java Joint. And I’ll say right now, it’s unfair and it wasn’t my fault and really I’m innocent. But I guess you can be the judge of that.

There we were in the Odyssey, waiting in line with the other cars to get our daily caffeine and pastry fix. A double tall for me and a double grande mocha for my lovely wife. The Java Joint – perhaps by design and perhaps just by chance – employs a number of comely young women. Just past high school, they a testament to both the magnificence of youth and the melancholy of the opportunities of youth missed and forever gone.

In my defense, I’m going to say it outright – her breasts were enormous. Even my wife noticed this fact. It’s indisputable. Just as indisputable was the tight, white tee-shirt with the flower appliqué that she was wearing. The one that barely contained the aforementioned mammary glands which were like – pardon the poor cliché – two helium filled balloons struggling to escape their cotton confinement.

“Do you think they’re real?”

Those were the six words that sealed my fate with Kali although I didn’t know it at the time.

“I don’t know,” my wife answered watching the girl walk back to the little hut that presumably made up the “joint” part of Java Joint.

The rest of the coffee run was uneventful. Ms Big Boobs (hey, I can call her that – I’m being punished for no real good reason, so I might as well get in some real, grade-A male chauvinism for my troubles) returned with our drink order, we paid her and I swear I didn’t mentally shove my cock in between her lovely pillows of flesh and pound away. (Really in point of fact, I didn’t – again that peevishness at the unfairness of all of this coming out. I think I was wondering about the how’s and why’s of a 19 year-old getting a boob job).

Ouch. Kali is biting. Harder. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Just breathe. Think about balancing the checkbook. Think about the color grey. Think about her areolas…I wonder how big they are. What it would be like to lick them and the nipples, hardening as I….Kali chomps down, her warning nibbles now a full-fledged scream about the inappropriateness of my thoughts. I grab at my offending crotch and will my erection away. Kali helps.

Where was I? Can I just tell you how much my cock hurts right now? Totally unfair. Oh, at home  we are – we’d just gotten back from Java Joint, back from the girl with the huge rack. An aside: I love breasts. Do you women realize how lucky you really are? The power they give you? Damn it!  Kali is doing reprimanding me. Just because I’m picturing you, dear reader – if you’re of the female of our species – sans shirt and bra. Your lovely breasts, boobs, ta-ta’s, tits….Dear Lord that hurts. My apologies. Kali is right. I am wrong. Oh fuck that hurts. Back to the story.

So anyways, we’d just gotten home, I was finishing up my double tall and my wife was working away at her computer. She paused a moment and a troubled look crossed her face. At first I thought it had something to do with the program she was working on. Then she got up, walked over and without saying a word took my hand and led me into the bedroom.

At this point, I’m feeling pretty good. The coffee is in me and who knows? I might get lucky.  Course, that was not the case and I knew it as soon as I saw her open her lingerie drawer and remove “our good friend Kali”.

“Pull down you pants. Now.”

I stammer but do as she commands.

Kali is hinged on the back side. Opening her, my wife reaches for my flaccid penis. I see a dozen or so rows of sharp little spikes – Kali’s famed and oh-so-cruel dental work. Slipping Kali over me, my wife closes her and reaches for a small padlock. At this point in time, don’t feel much discomfort, only the weight of the metal and plastic. It’s only when I get hard that Kali asserts herself.

My wife pronounces sentence: “Kali will stay on for the next 24 hours. Enjoy her.”

“But…but…why…?”

My wife shakes her head in disappointment. ”‘Do you think they’re real?’” She mimics as slides the small padlock into place.

CLICK.

So I ask you, how unfair is that?

End.

There were about 45 parents in the room when I took my seat next to my wife. I knew most of them from the playground and the potlucks and the pick-ups and drop-offs that are a part of life when you’re the parent of a preschooler. The principle of the school where most of our kids would be attending school next year as kindergarteners was droning on about the state of California and requirements for immunizations and birth certificates. Honestly, it’s not my fault I couldn’t pay attention. I looked around the room and Karen was breastfeeding her baby Zoe.

In retrospect, I will admit that what happened next was my fault. I stared. Pathetic, isn’t it?
Thankfully, women using their breasts for what nature intended is a pretty common thing in Southern California – while we may be the world capital for boob jobs, we’re also pretty high up there for La Leche League attendance. But I wasn’t thinking about the many benefits of breastfeeding when I was taking in Karen’s left boob, admiring the soft and gentle curve of the underside, desperately wishing to glimpse a brown nipple as Zoe pulled away. Even at the time, I felt some remorse. Not because what they were doing was an inherently private act, but because I was turning it into a sexual one – at least for me. Maybe it was an occupational hazard – too many years working in a town that seemed dedicated to little beyond celebrating a hyper-sexualized version of womanhood. But I’m rationalizing. Karen looked up and caught my eye. As she pulled down her shirt, I quickly turned my attention back to the principle.

Later, after the bit about Diphtheria, Measles and Mumps, we were all mingling and eating whole-wheat crackers with dried out jack cheese when Karen came up to me.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a minute? In private?”

She must have given Zoe to her husband, for the baby was nowhere in sight.

“Uhh…Sure. “

She led me out of the room in to the adjoining kitchen and closed the door.

She flipped on the light and turned to look at me.

“I noticed you…umm…looking rather intently at me when I was feeding Zoe. What was that about?”

“I…ummm….nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. I’m not. Not sure that is. I mean it was more than nothing.” I took a breath. “I was trying to get a look at your breast.”

“At this?” Her hand brushed over the top of her shirt. “It’s not very sexy at the moment.”

“I know. I don’t know what I was doing or thinking, I was….I was just doing. I’m sorry.”

She considered me for a moment, looking up and down, “Are you?”

I nodded.

“Do you want to feel better about it?”

Another nod.

“OK. Stay there”

She went over to the sink, rummaged around under the sink and came back wearing a pair of yellow rubber gloves. “Pull down your pants.”

I hesitated from both surprise and mortification.

“Go ahead. Do it. “

My hands began unbuttoning my jeans and then stopped.

“NOW,” This last one was a mother’s voice talking. “Underpants, too.”

Karen held out her gloved hands. “Spit.”

I spat.

“Again.”

She then reached down, grabbed my penis and began to jack me off. Sexy you think? No. She was methodical. She was emotionless. She could have been washing dishes with those gloves. It was that businesslike.

As she pulled up and down she explained. “You will be punished.”

“Huh?”

“I’m going to spank you. I’ve found with my husband that when it comes to something like this – if it’s not some erotic thing – that if it’s for real correction, it’s usually more effective – and painful – after he’s ejaculated. The message just kind of sinks in.”

“What…what…”I was breathing hard, “what if they hear us out there…?”

She looked up a the door. “Shhh….Come on. Let’s go into the next room.” And so penis in yellow, rubber gloved hand, she led me further into the school.

“You and your husband…”

“That’s something you don’t need to know any more about.” She began stroking again. Faster.

Heavy breathing was my only response. I was on the edge.

A few more strokes and

Uhh…UHH…

As semen erupted from my cock, she let go. Big deal you say? Try it sometime with your lover. Sometime when you’re really pissed at him. I thrust my hips in frustration. Absent the continued stimulation of her hand, my climax was staggeringly unsatisfying. In fact, it was downright horrible.

She came back with a several rough paper towels. “Clean up your mess.”

She pointed to the teacher’s desk, “Bend over that.”

I later learned it was a ruler. The first slap took me by surprise. It hurt. A lot. It did not get better from there. Between the stinging blows she lectured me:

“They’re not there for your enjoyment. (SLAP, SLAP, SLAP) They’re not even for my husband to enjoy these days. (SLAP, SLAP, SLAP) They’re there (SLAP) for one (SLAP) reason (SLAP, SLAP!) Can you guess what that reason is?”

She paused spanking. “Answer me.”

“To feed your baby.”

“That’s right. To feed my baby.”

She then resumed the spanking with increased ferocity. After ten minutes or so, I was having a very, very hard time staying still. She stopped spanking and leaned into me, resting her body upon mine.

Breathing hard from her exertions, she whispered into my ear, “Repeat after me: the breasts are there to nourish.”

“The breasts are there to nourish.”

She brought the ruler down again. “Again.”

“The breasts are there to nourish.”

SLAP!

“Again.”

“The breasts are there to nourish.”

SLAP!

“Again.”

“The breasts are there to nourish.”

SLAP!

“Again.”

“The breasts are there to nourish.”

SLAP!

“Again.”

“The breasts are there to nourish.”
SLAP!

“Again.”

“The breasts are there to nourish.”

I hadn’t even realized she had stopped and had put the ruler back down on the desk.

“The breasts are there to nourish. The breasts are there to nourish. The breasts are there to nourish.”

She smiled. “Very good. You may stand up. I think you’ll feel better.”

And I did. “I’m sorry, Karen.”

“I know you are. You’re a good man.” She then lifted her shirt and opened her nursing bra. “Now kiss my breast and thank me.”

END

She is, for all intents and purposes, what I’d call a girlfriend these days. 01gm3v.jpg is one half of relationship, a relationship built upon my needs alone. Since she is of the genus .jpg rather than say .mov or .wmv she doesn’t move and she doesn’t talk and I guess that’s fine with me.

There’s a small birthmark on her back and it’s this that captures my attention, drawing my eyes away from her labia luscious. I think about it – this mark is such a perfect imperfection. I want to kiss it. I want to lie in bed next to her and touch it. I want to spend the better part of an afternoon looking at it. Worshiping it. This birthmark is the most human part of her and it is what makes me feel the most sadness: there’s a disconnect in our relationship, a distance that is both literal and metaphoric and for a moment I have an image of a father touching that birthmark on his baby girl in wonder.

It is far better to think of those lips waiting for me to slide into her. I’ll go in long and slow and reach around, a hand passing over that birthmark on its way to find a breast. I feel the soothes of her skin, the soft downy hairs that line her back, the goosebumps raising on her ass, the hardening of her nipples under my playing fingers. I smell 01gm3v.jpg’s arousal. I bite down on her shoulder and she pushes back into me, the muscles of her womanhood contracting on me – it’s little movements that make the biggest statements. I pull out of her and rub the head of my cock against her outer lips, sliding it forward, attempting to find that hard tiny clit button, teasing in the general vicinity. My move is amateur but 01gm3v.jpg doesn’t seem to mind – her breathing deepens and I can feel a flush coming from her. I enter her once more, this time hard with a violence that surprises me. My right hand lets go of her boob, reaches around her hip and an index finger finds that clit of hers and rubs in tiny circles as I thrust away.

My climax is close and I look down from the screen of my computer, down from 01gm3v.jpg and at my hand, wrapped around my cock, stroking away and closing my eyes, I think about a birthmark.