I’m thrity-one years old. I have been married twice. I have two incredibly gorgeous biological duaghters and three incredibly boyish not biological sons. With my bare hands I have wiped away tears, wiped runny noses, stitched wounds, rescued beads from noses, dug for clams, and saved lives. I am not without reasons to feel okay about myself.

So why is it that when Mama comes to visit I feel like an inept child?

My parents were here with us this weekend. I love when they visit, even if it means that I probably don;t rest the way I should. I like having them here because I don’t get to see them as often as I’d like.

For the most part the weekend was fine. Quiet. Uneventful. Just the way I prefer it. I’m not a big fan of feeling pressured or being on the go from sun up to sun down, even when I had the energy to handle it.

I know my mother means well. I really do. The thing is, sometimes her best intentions miss the mark so completely that you can’t tell anything good was ever supposed to come of it. {I can this and not feel guilty about saying it because sometimes I have the same problem.}

It seemed that every time I asked the kids to do something, she questioned me. Every time I told them no or set a time limit or some other thing, she had something else to add. Even in the middle of a very intense heart to heart talk she had something to interject!

You have to understand that I have discussed this with my mother in great detail. She has always done this. It has always made me crazy. I told her again on Friday night that I want her to be proud of me, etc. but that I don’t believe she is. She says the words and tells me how wonderful I am, what a great woman I’ve become and how very proud she is of me, but it doesn’t ring true. Because she still second guesses and criticizes me.

How is that being proud of me?

No matter what I do. No matter what I say. No matter my age or my survivability. I have to accept that as far as my mother is concerned I will never ever be good enough.

{By the way, for those who have asked why I don’t submit stories to various publications, etc. this is why. My mother says to do what I want, that it’s my life but I know she doesn’t mean it if it means I’m writing erotica. Or posing naked. Or speaking frankly with our kids about sex. I don’t need to do yet one more thing to make my mother ashamed of me.}

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She waited for him in the abandoned hotel, leaning against the front desk. Her blouse fell open to reveal ample cleavage and her pencil skirt hugged her thick hips. She’d torn her fishnet stockings on the way in, stepping over the pieces of wood that had been placed across the door to keep trespassers out. She wasn’t worried about them. She had four more pair in her lingerie drawer at home.

Light filtered in through the cracks in the walls. It smelled of rain and aged wood. As she closed her eyes she inhaled the scent of something faintly floral. Once there was a rumor about the place being used as a brothel and the floral scent almost made her believe it.

Before she saw him she heard his tires on the cracked pavement out front. Any second he would appear before her and relieve her of her clothing burden. Oh she liked the clothes well enough, but what she loved was being naked before him.

As if he knew her thoughts he maneuvered over the wood that had torn her stockings and filled the space in front of her. She licked her lips and moved her eyes to his. An almost imperceptible nod and she began to undress.

She unbuttoned the first button on her blouse, then another. As she worked her way down to button number three she saw his movement out of the corner of her eye. Seconds later her blouse was ripped from her hands, buttons flying and the material hanging in tatters.

A gasp escaped her lips as he continued on. His strong hands unbuttoned her skirt then ripped it to the hem. It landed in a small pile on the floor and she stepped out of it.

The knife appeared out of nowhere and though she knew enough to not be afraid, her heart skipped a beat and her pulse raced. She felt the cold steel of the blade just beneath the swell of her breasts. He traced his way to the center of her bra and worked the tip of the blade beneath the cloth. A quick movement and her breasts were untethered, hanging, barely covered by the cups.

“Get on the counter and don’t say a word. Not one.”

His voice hypnotized her. That was what commanded her. Not the words but the tone of his deep, nearly baritone voice.

She allowed him to help her onto the counter that was covered in dust and cobwebs. Her hair cascaded behind her as her head hung freely off the other side. Her hands pulled the remnants of the bra away from her breasts then moved to pinch her nipples.

He spread her legs then lifted her feet to rest her heels on the edge of the counter. Beneath her bottom a small wet spot had started to form. His mouth met her open pussy as the blade sliced first one thigh then the other. She cried out and the sticky warmth flowed from her center and from the cuts. The blood and secretions mingled in a puddle as he licked her cunt one last time.

“Whatever you do, don’t move.” His voice insisted that she listen so she did. She barely breathed and she swore that the sound of her heartbeat filled the room.

She heard the rustle of his clothing and focused on it. The sound of his coat falling. His tie being undone. His clothes piled neatly to avoid wrinkles. His lug soled shoes landing on the floor. The sounds comforted her and reminded her that she had not yet been left alone.

His hands clamped down on her thighs and she screamed. She felt her back slide across the bar, the edge leaving scrape marks that burned when she was dragged through the puddle of blood and secretions. She screamed again just before his mouth captured hers and his cock impaled her.

Over and over he filled her. Come and blood mingled on their thighs and genitals. Cobwebs clung to her tangled mane. Their breathing slowed and he lowered her to the blanket he had spread on the floor.

With a gentle kiss on her lips he disappeared. The foyer of the old hotel was silent. Once again she had been abandoned.

*This is a work of fiction

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If you’ve been reading here for any length of time you know a few things about me for certain. One is that I love to be spanked. There is something so erotic and so completely sensual about a hand or a belt connecting with my bare bottom that drives me crazy. Two is that I am a major fan of all things Rachel Kramer Bussel. So with those two things in mind, allow me to introduce you to my own little slice of Heaven.

Spanked: Red Cheeked Erotica also has it’s own blog.

When RKB announced on Twitter that she had copies to be reviewed on Amazon, I jumped at the chance. Who wouldn’t, right? So I emailed my address and began waiting with bated breath.

It arrived quickly and for that I was so thankful. I carefully opened the package and slid the book out, loving the scent of it immediately. You know that new book scent I’m talking about. The one that makes a total bibliophile such as myself long for her local Barnes & Noble in ways that probably aren’t natural.

The cover is dark with red and white writing, not that you notice it at first. Instead your eyes are drawn to the bare female bottom sporting slightly reddened cheeks. My fingers lingered a little over the glossy cover but not overly long. While the cover was perfect, it was the inside of the book I couldn’t wait to get to.

{Allow me to pause for a moment to tell you how elated I was to open the book and find a note and a signature from RKB herself. That alone made me very careful as I was reading, so as not to ruin what had just become my prized possession.}

The stories are astounding. I think that RKB shines as an editor with her choices. Everything from retaliation to punishment is covered. Implements and bare hands are seen in a new light. Spanking isn’t just for wayward children anymore. It’s for lovers and haters and for those who fall somewhere in between.

When I read a collection or anthology I always have one story that becomes my favorite. Usually it’s one of the least raved about or the longest piece on the book, but those are the pieces that always speak to me. This time, however, Nobilis agreed with my choice and featured “Depths of Despair” on his show.

I can’t explain why the story resonated with me, but it did. I felt the desire. I felt the fear. I felt the heartache. While those aren’t the only things I felt, I was overwhelmed.

I’ve murmured, prayed even, into wood and brick and paint. But now my lips aren’t so much touching the wall as merged with it. My body goes on red alert as he smears me into the wall. My pussy is pounding, demanding attention in much the same way my heart is thudding. “Stay there, whore.”

How many times I’ve longed to experience those things. How many journal pages are filled with those sentiments, changed only by the hand that wrote them. While they belong completely to RKB, seeing them in print leaves me more bare and exposed than ever.

I encourage you to buy a copy. Read it. Lose yourself in it. Then maybe pass it along to your friends who like some naughty with their nice.

{And Rachel, I promise I’m not a freak. Just a fan.}

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