Tag Archives: spanking

Bent over the knee of Mark Zuckerberg

1 Apr

I’m on Facebook, finally. Yeah, I know. My view is that there comes a time when there’s no point struggling any more. You know you’re going to lose. You know it’s going to hurt, and hurt for a long time. So you might as well lie down and take it. It’ll only get worse if you don’t. And there’s a small part of you that thinks that afterwards it might be worth it. It’s not that the actual experience itself is enjoyable, but the effects can be incendiary.

So let’s all set fire to Facebook.

What, did you think I was talking about something else?

more this way

My Latest Thrill: Vanillamom

30 Mar

I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to get round to giving Nilla a blow-job-in-a-post but here it is. She’s been prolific recently, with not one, not five, but eight – that’s EIGHT – story posts in the last week. Amazing. YYTMGK783W9C

It seems that the wee spanking she received is the cause. In which case, I say, go Nilla’s Boss!

What, you want the url? Okay, here it is:

http://vanillamom.wordpress.com/


Shameless self-promotion

29 Mar

I have a new collection of short stories called Payback, which is now available in various places.

Let me know if you like it.

Twitterotica – a FuckMeFriday story: Heat, or getting a spanking from Cheryl and Posh

25 Feb

Aisling Weaver has set up a new Twitterotica writing prompt, and since I like bandwagons, I’m fully signed up. So here is my entry for this week’s edition of #FuckMeFriday, which has the prompt #Heat.

*****

He works in PR, I work in magazines — it’s one of those relationships that works in spite of itself. There are lots of people I know who have it harder, like Jenny and Mark, who both work on the same newspaper, or Mehry, who’s fucking her boss at a travel PR firm and can’t persuade him to leave his wife.

The thing is that I sometimes have to ring up Jeremy and ask him questions about… well, I won’t tell who or what, but let’s just say he works with a lot of famous people. I work for a magazine, a woman’s magazine — please, let me be a little discreet here — and so I write about a lot of famous people. It’s how we met, after all, at a party (isn’t it always like that?) and he heard who I work for and rolled his eyes as if to say “Oh God, not them, she’s going to be a complete bitch”. I get that a lot. You just develop a thick skin, and I rather agree with him as well — I know a lot of hackettes who are complete bitches. The thing is that we’d spoken on the phone a couple of times, but he has a memory like Dear Liza’s bucket — God knows how he’s got so far in his job — and he didn’t know me. I had imagined he’d be a typical PR guy: groomed, gorgeous and gay. Well, I got two of those right. He’s tall, but not too tall, has short dark hair that you want to run your fingers through and the wickedest eyes you’ve ever seen: grey with flecks of green. The Paul Smith suits, shirts from Jermyn Street and shoes from Churches help, too. I’m pretty choosy, and I have excellent taste.

I found out pretty soon afterwards that he also has a fantastic cock.

More smut through here

Erotic News: In the matter of LaChapelle vs RiRi

16 Feb

Rihanna’s pink rubber stockings squeaked against the leather seats of the court bench. Her skin chafed, she needed to pee, and worst of all, that asshole LaChapelle had just come into the courtroom.

Goddamit, why had he wanted to have the case tried in England? There were benefits, sure; the paparazzi had already shot enough pictures of her to cover Big Ben in Rihanna postage stamps, but it was cold, the toilets were dirty and the court usher smelled of stewed cabbage. She was sure she had seen a green strand hanging between his brown teeth.

She shivered, wishing she had worn something more than her pink rubber dress and examined LaChappelle. He looked like he was wearing a naughty Santa outfit — a red cloak, lined with fur, covering what looked like a matching red dress, a strange white bow around his neck and the most ridiculous wig she had ever seen. He caught her looking at him and scowled.

“All rise.” The lawyers, journalists, shorthand writers and clerks all stood up as the judge shuffled into the room. He was wearing another naughty Santa outfit, with an equally hilarious wig. Rihanna smoothed her hair, unconsciously. She had gone for the straightened look and the sight of all those curls made her nervous of a uncontrollable frizz attack.

The lawyers were boring, jumping up and down from their seats and using words like ‘circumlocution’ and ‘abut’. The judge peered at them over his glasses and then waved a wrinkled hand.

“Enough. I would like to see the plaintiff and the defendant in my chambers, now.” The who and the what?

Rihanna’s lawyer nudged her. “Just go through that door,” she whispered. The pop star creaked her way across the courtroom and tottered into the chamber.

The judge was fixing three drinks and motioned to them to sit in two enormous Edwardian easy chairs. He handed whiskies to both of them. He grabbed a chair, turned it round, then sat down with his legs astride the seat, leaning on the back. Rihanna couldn’t help noticing that he had bare, hairy legs underneath his gown and was wearing socks with suspender belts at his knee. She gulped at her drink, spilling some of it down her chin, and cursed her clumsiness.

“I have no doubt that this situation is what one would describe as an ‘open and shut’ case.” The judge sounded a little shrill. He cleared his throat. “My only question is what level of compensation to set. But I sense that a pecuniary penalty would not address the core issue here, that Miss Fenty is clearly a saucy little minx who is need of a damned good thrashing.”

Rihanna choked at the words and accidentally gulped down the last of her whisky, provoking a coughing fit. The judge offered no sympathy.

“It is all very well, Miss Fenty, to make a shamelessly derivative pop video with the clumsy use of sadomasochistic props in an effort to — what is the word? — out-Gaga the competition. That in itself is not an offence. If it were then Kylie Minogue would be sitting in my chamber.” The judge paused for a moment, and adjusted his robes. “Ah, yes, where was I? The fact is, Miss Fenty, that I do not believe for a moment that you have ever bitten on a ball gag, or engaged in pup-play, or ever felt the pleasure of a properly constructed hog-tie.”

The judge adjusted his robes again, taking a little more time to do so. He turned his attention to David LaChapelle.

“However, Mr LaChapelle, I am not convinced either that this is a case that can be viewed entirely in black and white — although that is not a world view you are overly familiar with, I would venture.” Rihanna enjoyed watching the photographer squirm. “I cannot bring myself to reward a man who has made his reputation by photographing badly made-up women wearing appalling clothes strike awkward poses in front of the Croydon branch of Tesco.”

LaChapelle grunted.

“So I have a solution which I feel will mean justice is served. Stand up, Miss Fenty.” Rihanna rose. “Now turn around and place your palms flat on the desk.” Her skin gripped the wood. “Bend down so that your elbows touch the surface.” Her bottom stuck out like beacon. “Now, Mr LaChapelle, take this.” She could hear something rustling. “So, Miss Fenty, I would like you to count.”

Rihanna felt a sharp blow to her bottom. It stung, and she turned her head to look. “Face straight ahead,” the judge said. Rihanna looked at the desk. Another blow, harder this time, pushing her against the desk. The fire was still burning when another whack hit her. By fifteen, tears were beginning to well in her eyes; at twenty-two, she was couldn’t help but lift her leg to try to cope with each blow. At thirty-seven, she lost control over her bladder. When the count finally stopped, at fifty, Rihanna was in a haze.

The judge was adjusting his robes, furiously. Rihanna looked at him, her face twisted in anguish at the waves of aftershocks from her beating, and he gave a strangled cry, his own face wrenched in pleasure.

“Ahhh… Miss, um…, yes… Miss Fenty,” he said finally, breathing heavily. “Yes, well, luckily for you, Mr LaChapelle is not entirely blameless and his motivation for plagiarising my costume is at yet unclear. A thorough spanking is required I believe. Your turn, Miss Fenty.”

Rihanna stood upright, gingerly, rubbing her bottom, and felt herself tingle at the sight of LaChapelle with his ass in position. She looked at the judge.

“You may need this, Miss Fenty,” he said, and passed her the umbrella.