3F#22: excerpt from tentatively titled "Whitelight"

The words to use in this week's Flash Fiction Friday were matrix, air conditioner, and steganographer. Somehow, having to use these words enabled me to pull together elements of a story I've been trying to figure out all summer. If I keep writing it, this will be just a small scene in a much larger story.

When the elevator doors opened to reveal the second basement, I could actually feel my eyes widen in shock. "These," said Ledger, "are the Matrixes."

The room was round and empty but for two narrow beds upon a low dais in the center. Each bed was occupied by a naked woman. The woman on the right was asleep. Her straight black hair looked like it had been combed across her pillow while she slept. Her skin, darker than mine, seemed to glow. The woman on the left was awake and lying on her side. She was pale, blond, and luminescent. She appeared to be the main source of light in the room.

Ledger touched my shoulder, encouraging me to step forward. As I entered the chamber, the blond smiled at me, then winced. A young man knelt behind her, applying a salve to her thighs and buttocks. I was led around the dais to see why. Across her flesh, deep scarlet welts, some wetly gleaming with salve or blood or both, were set close together. The striping was so dense that her skin was barely visible at the fullest part of her backside and at the very tops of her thighs. The skin I could see was starting to bloom into patches of deep violet bruises. The sight of it all was starting to make me nauseous. She winced again, her entire body going rigid, then shivering.

"It's cold," I said questioningly. It wasn't the most important question I had, but it was the one I could form into words. Everything else was, for now, incomprehensible.

"We keep the air conditioner set to fifty-eight degrees. It's not cold, just colder than your normal comfort level. When the Matrixes are," he paused to search for the right word, "active, a great amount of heat is generated. The cooler temperature helps keep them from premature release."

I knew my brow had furrowed when he nodded and told me it would make sense later.

We continued around the dais until we were standing in front of the blond again. I raised my hand in awkward greeting and tried to return her smile. She nodded as if she understood. I supposed she did. After all, she must have once stood in my place, wondering how she'd stumbled into this torture chamber of happy prisoners.

I turned away from her so that wouldn't hear what I was about to whisper. "Look, I'm no goody-two-shoes, but I'm no steganographer, either. I don't see the secret code in that woman's poor flesh that tells me how her suffering is beneficial to anyone but the sadist who did that to her."

She heard me anyway, which I realized when she and Ledger both laughed simultaneously. I turned back to her, feeling tears starting to form. Everything was suddenly so confusing. She reached out her hand and I stepped up onto the dais to take it. She squeezed. "Look at me," she said quietly. Her voice was steadier than I'd expected and, looking into her eyes, I realized she was at least a decade older than I'd originally thought. "No." She shook her head. "Not my face."

My own grip tightened as I craned my head to tentatively look over her hip. A pink the color of cotton candy lined the areas that were bleeding just minutes before. Her entire backside and much of her thighs were tinged yellow. I inhaled in surprise. It was the yellow that marks the last trace of a dark bruise. Even as I watched, her skin lightened until it matched the rest of her body. The pink stripes remained a few moments longer, then they too faded and were gone.

I looked back into her eyes. "Is it magic?" I asked, my amazement whelming up in my chest. It had become difficult to breathe.

"No, not magic," she answered, her smile now just a little bit proud. "It's me."

What's That Got To Do With the Price of Fetish Fettuccine?

While reading this list of the top 20 most bizarre Craigslist ads, I became fascinated by a listing searching for a "Woman to sit in my bathtub full of noodles, wearing a bathing suit." It reads:

• I will pay you $1 USD to sit in my bathtub full of noodles while you wear a one piece bathing suit.
• I will not be home, nor will anyone else while you do this.
• I will leave the key for you, and you will sit at your leisure.
• I will require at least a 5 minutes stay.
• A neighbor will watch the front door from across the street and using a supplied stopwatch, will time your entry and departure.
• Please supply your own footwear.
• The noodles will be cooked, and therefore slippery.
• DO NOT bring any sauce. I will season the pasta after I return home prior to dinner.

I love this ad, presuming it was genuine, although I realize that is unlikely. Firstly, this person is admitting to an unusual fetish and seeking a way to fulfill it. Secondly, he/she has considered the bathtub sitter's need for privacy, or perhaps has a very specific fantasy of what the woman in the bathtub looks like, and rather than spoil the imagined scene, he/she has decided that just knowing a woman was in the bathtub full of noodles is enough.

Past that, the details have been considered, like loaning a stopwatch to the neighbor (how did that conversation go?). A one piece bathing suit is a must, though I would have also requested full body hair removal and a swimming cap. Also, the diner will be seasoning the pasta, so it is imperative that although the bathtub sitter may be compelled to bring her own sauce, she should NOT do so. If I was the woman in the bathtub, I know I would have wanted to bring my own vodka tomato cream sauce, so it's important to know that the pasta, prior to seasoning, should be woman-flavored only.

The stumbling block in the plan is that the hopeful diner is only willing to pay $1 to the pasta woman. Unless this is her fetish too, why would anyone answer this ad? Is it naive and/or selfish of me to think that people should be willing to pay a premium for having their most secret desires fulfilled? It seems like an entire bathtub of fetish fettucine (or similar) is worth at least $100, even $1000.

There's something interestingly cocky about offering a single dollar. On the one hand, I can't help but feel that it devalues everyone who provides a unique fetish-based service. On the other, the single dollar may indicate that this person believes that a woman in a bathtub full of noodles is either a common occurrence or it's his/her God-given right to be granted such a thing. Isn't that the epitome of confidence that fetish communities aim to inspire? That what we like and want is normal and acceptable and completely within reason as part of our experience as human beings? After all, the woman would sit in the bathtub of her own free will. My brain just can't get to why she would do this for free.

We live in a world where some people will pay good money to see fully-clothed women hug balloons and step on things because that's what turns them on. And that's just on film. If that was my fetish, I wouldn't expect someone to come over to my house and pop balloons or squish fruit with her high heels free of charge, whether I was in the room or not. Maybe that would happen if we were at a fruit squishing convention and we were having a private party, but a house call? I think not, pasta man. I think not.

There's no moral to the story here, no grand statement. I'm not really ranting, I just thought this was funny and I'm enjoying getting back to posting, even if every post can't be super sexy and worthy of repeated reading or viewing. I guess, if I had to make a closing statement, it would be "Don't offer only a dollar for fetish services," but I'd be preaching to the choir. I'm lucky to have a fetish that has such a generous and friendly fanbase. I shudder to think if the subtitle on my blog was "writings on sitting in a bathtub full of noodles, ziti, elbow macaroni..."

3F#21 : Holiday

from Patty's A Creative Spanked Wife. I can't believe it took me this long to find this site. Great artwork! I won't even mind if you go check out her gallery before reading my story. This drawing is called "Pirate Bride." Note the ropes! Fantastic.

It's been a while since I participated in Flash Fiction Friday, so I figured I was due for another go round. This week, the wildcard words were "libretto," "Ophiucus," and "sweat." I exceeded the 250-word limit, but I've been editing out one word at a time for 45 minutes, so at 297 words, this is as close as it's going to get. And yes, the holiday referenced is real and is today. Follow the link!


"Arrr. Would you rather be tied to the mast or walk the plank when we get home, yeh scurvy wench?"

I grinned. "You know I'd rather be tied up than take a walk any day." We were lying on our backs, watching the night sky after picnicking and making out like teenagers. It had been a long time since I felt this happy. Even the mosquitoes, drawn to our sweat on this Indian Summer night, didn't bother me.

"No, no. You're supposed to say it like a pirate. It's September nineteenth!" Will shook his head.

"Now you'll have to be flogged as well."

Giggling, I remembered. "It's Talk Like a Pirate Day! Who came up with that?"

Will pointed at the sky, unusually clear and full of stars. "Those guys."

"I poured you one too many glasses of grog, didn't I?"

"No, no. The constellations. Hercules, with his powerful palms. Ophiuchus, with his feisty snake. Orion, with his great big belt. They all really like flogging, so they made a holiday for it."
"Talk Like A Pirate Day is actually a holiday for pirate-style spanking?" I was going to get hiccups from laughing so much.

He shrugged. "When we get home, I could dig out the old libretto from my high school production of Pirates of Penzance. We could have a sing-a-long instead."

I turned my head towards him. "Avast, me hearty," I whispered. "You know I can't sing."
He laughed. "Well, blow me down. Let's get that pirate booty in gear."

"Aye, aye, Captain." I sat up to pack the remains of the picnic. My eyes flickered upwards. I had a feeling it wouldn't be the last I saw of firm hands, a feisty snake and a great big belt tonight. I couldn't have been happier.

A Tail of Two Dreams

Dreams Made Flesh, photo by Antonis DCD, found on Flickr.

I thought this photo captured a sense of self-created violence. There seems to be a desperation in the hands of the shadow, but nothing looms behind the figure to indicate threat.

I've had two interesting spanking dreams this week.

Last weekend, I dreamed that a high school friend and I were still in our teens and had gotten into some kind of trouble. We were to be punished by her two uncles, and the punishment was for us to be caned simultaneously. I was bent over, made to put my elbows and forearms on the seat of a straight-backed chair, and told to await my caning. The uncle in charge of my discipline walked away for a brief moment, then came back swishing the cane forcefully through the air, creating that sweet whish of terror and anticipation. After a few more swishes, he brought his arm back then quickly forward, flicking his wrist and... tapped me.

Now, I am no stranger to the cane tap. It marks the place the cane is to strike, or, when Mr. W is toying with me, it marks the place he wants me to think the cane will land, only to raise a weal elsewhere. But in this dream, after a few of these pretend cane strokes ending in taps, I began to rise up on my tiptoes, wiggling my backside in the air, encouraging the uncle to really let me have it. He did not.

Three nights ago, I dreamed that I was part of a rehabilitation program for violent criminals. The goal of the program was to help them learn to divert their rage before it turned into crime, or death. Lucky me, I had been put in charge of the rehab of a serial killer. I asked him why he needed to kill people, and he told me, "I like knowing I'm hurting them." Well, what top doesn't understand that sentiment? (Not to call all you tops out there akin to serial killers.)

My job was to show him how, with the help of a willing and preferably naked woman, he could unleash his violent tendencies and bask in the knowledge of their pain while remaining a decent citizen. He could be violent, create pain, and let the girl get up and walk away. We talked about these concepts at an outdoor wooden picnic table. Then I got up on the table on my hands and knees and told him to try spanking me.

He was afraid to try it. There were guards nearby, and I think he was a bit abashed. "Go ahead," I coaxed him. He stood to the left of me and whacked me with his right hand. The spank was weak, but I told him, "That's it. Try again." After a few more awkward attempts, he got into the swing of things. He began to wrap his left arm around my waist and the guards started towards us. I shook my head at them and let him restrain me. I knew that it was the only way he was going to learn self-control.

The dream then began to flash in and out, as dreams will do. In the next scene I was standing next to him, demonstrating how to use a belt for spankings, and talking about the difference between belts and leather straps. The dream flashed out, for a moment I was bent over the table while he practiced his lesson upon me, and then this particular part of the dream was over.

I don't think any of us are surprised that even in my dreams, my attitude is, "Come on, do it already!" I'm pretty much over the victim fantasies of my youth. I still find punished brats and naughty nieces hella sexy, but the truth is, these days I'm not aroused by the thought of inflicted discipline. I'm more intrigued by my innate physiological erotic response to spanking and by the idea that we do this because it's what we choose to do. I no longer want to see the schoolgirl sent to the headmaster's office for punishment. I want to see her walk in and demand it.