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Spanking A to Z — D is for Discipline #SpankA2Z

June 6, 2014 By Trent Evans

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D is for Discipline

That is one of the more interesting words in the English language, isn’t it? Whether a noun, or an verb, or even an adjective, it always gets my attention, my mind keying in on it like a compass snapping to true North. Sure, most of the time it’s used in a non-sexual connotation, but for pervs like me? It always makes me think of one of my favorite subjects;)

Spanking is itself a form of discipline, so to me it seemed a no-brainer to make Discipline the word for the letter D. Spanking is (obviously) but one of a myriad forms of physical discipline. In one of my earlier books, I took a little heat from some who objected — sometimes vociferously — to the idea that in some cases anal sex itself could be used as a form of “discipline”. [Read more…]

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Filed Under: Spanking A-Z Blog Challenge Tagged With: bdsm erotica, BDSM fiction excerpt, books, D/s marriage, domestic discipline, Maintenance Night, spanking

Spanking A to Z — B is for Breasts

June 3, 2014 By Trent Evans

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I suppose this particular subject would be inevitable coming from one of the few dudes participating in this hop. Hmm, breasts. I could talk about how they’re the giver of life, the totem of femininity, the symbol of sexuality. Basically, you can probably already imagine what I’m going to write … before I even write it.

Just because I’m a giver, I’ll just leave this right here: http://www.memecenter.com/fun/155453/did-you-checkout-my-breast

Rest assured, spankos and pervs, though I am a guy, I’m not going to be … that guy. I shall simply say, to the surprise of nobody, I love them:)

But rather than wax rhapsodic (believe me, I could) on one of my favorite parts of the female anatomy, I’ll just include a scene from the still-a-work-in-progress sequel to What She’s Looking For. I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions as to what it has to do with this post’s theme:)

* * * *

Parker sat on the cedar deck sipping a whiskey, watching her as she mowed the lawn in the July heat. He’d made sure to wait until mid-afternoon when it was hottest, before telling her she needed to start her chores. He’d flipped his head toward the back deck as he’d said it. She knew what that meant. Lawn mowing.

So he’d sat down under the shade of the awning, after pouring himself two fingers of whiskey, a couple of cubes of ice clinking into the glass. He liked watching her — a lot.

It didn’t matter what it was, from working on paperwork, to cooking, to (mortifyingly) sitting on the toilet, he could – and sometimes did — watch her.

He owned a nice John Deere tractor mower complete with cup holder for his beer, but he’d bought an old Honda pushstyle mower for her to use, once he’d alighted on the idea of assigning her chores. Her mower was powered too, but he made her mow with the transmission in neutral, so that she had to push it, making it that much harder for her. So, he’d sit and watch her pull start the thing, no doubt enjoying the wild swinging of her unfettered breasts as she pulled.

She was dressed in just a pair of short cutoffs and a black tank. No bra or panties allowed of course. She had her hair tied back to keep it out of her face as she worked. She’d been mowing for thirty minutes or so, the huge lawn not even halfway done. Parker made her start at the far edge of the yard, so that she would gradually get closer and closer to the house as she crossed back and forth over the lawn. All the better for Parker to watch her sweat.

Ashley knew he loved to make her sweat, whether it was between the sheets, on a morning run, or toiling in the heat of the day at her “chores.”

She made a turn, dragging the mower around 180 degrees to begin the next run across the wide expanse of grass. She glanced over at the deck to see if she was still being supervised.

Drake, a bottle of beer in one hand, was standing next to the seated Parker, talking to him about something.

She was pouring sweat. She wiped the heel of her hand across her forehead, trying to keep the sting of it out of her eyes. The black tank top was soaked through. She could feel her shorts were wet at the small of her back. Damn, it was blazing outside!

Parker waved a hand at her – get on with it. She leaned forward against the mower again, beginning another course across the lush grass. When she reached the other side, she turned the mower back around.

Drake was standing right there, towering over her.

His white dress shirt stretched across the breadth of his powerful shoulders, the dark hunter green tie emphasizing the musculature of his neck, the power of his chest. She found herself envious of the girls at his office, for the time they got with him on weekdays. She was sure they spent all day ogling and fantasizing about him. It’s what she would do if she were one of those girls.

Jesus Ash, what more do you want? He practically owns you. You can’t spare him at the office for a few hours a day?

No, she really didn’t want to. What did that mean?

He stepped close to her, and she froze, dropping her gaze to the ground, knowing what was expected of her. If one of them stood close to her, it usually meant he intended to inspect his property.

Drake didn’t disappoint her.

She watched his thick fingers trace the slope of her breast, following the neckline of the low cut tank top (she was allowed no other kind), slicking through the beads of sweat standing on her skin. Her breath hitched, as he rubbed his knuckles, once and again, across a rock hard nipple highlighted by the wet fabric. An unhurried, possessive exploring.

He put the bottle to her lips and she drank, greedily. She was starting to like beer, and as she stood out there under the relentless sun, the cold bitter liquid actually tasted quite good. He pulled the bottle away, wiping a bit of foam from her swollen lips with a gentle touch of his thumb.

His fingers combed through a few stray strands of hair that had come loose, moving them away from her eyes. She gasped as he laid the cold, wet bottle against her temple.

“Oh, thank you!” she breathed, chancing a glance up at him.

His smile made her pussy clench. God, she loved that smile. He made a small movement with his head, an almost imperceptible shake, and she dropped her gaze again. Her eyes traveled down his magnificent torso, noting the pleasing bulge of his genitals that nicely cut dress slacks were so adept at highlighting in men. Apparently, judging by the size of his no doubt throbbing erection, Drake enjoyed watching her sweat too.

He took a step back, and she put her hands back up on the handle, preparing to start mowing again, apparently passing her inspection. Then he was back in front of her again, brushing her hands from the handle, and killing the mower’s motor.

In the blessed silence, he pushed at her upper arm, and she clasped her hands behind her lower back, the sweat soaked tank top wet against her sun warmed forearms. This simple signal — ‘put your hands behind your back’ — was something else she’d been taught. Drake greatly enjoyed non-verbal communication, and took great pleasure in talking to her through touch. She generally loved it, except when those big hands were laying down harsh effective communication across her tender buttocks.

Her dripping pussy betrayed that notion though; part of her evidently didn’t mind that kind of communication either.

She watched as he pulled at the bottom of her tank top with one hand, struggling momentarily with the way it stuck to her sweat slick flesh. He stepped to her side and lay the bottle against her clasped hands. She jumped at the coldness, then clutched the bottle, realizing he meant for her to hold his beer for him.

Make yourself useful, slut. Are you really this person, Ashley?

Yes, yes she was. She smiled.

He rucked the tank top up, shaking her a bit as he handled her. She stood docile, eyes downcast, as he bared her breasts to his gaze and the hot sun. He pushed the fabric up further bunching it at her underarms, just under her collar bones.

He stood and stared at her for several long, quiet moments. She stood obediently still, feeling the warmth of the blush at her cheeks.

If someone had told her six months ago that someday she’d find herself standing in the backyard of some house, her tits bare to the world in broad daylight, while two gorgeous men drank it all in, she’d have told that someone to put down the pipe. Yet there she was.

But Drake wasn’t done. Her abdominals clenched as Drake’s fingers played along the waistband of her cut-offs. She glanced over at the porch. Parker sat forward, glass clasped in both hands, his gaze smoldering.

Drake unsnapped the top button of her cut-offs, spreading it open as much as the button fly allowed, pushing the shorts down her hips a bit, until her pubic hair was well exposed. She blushed scarlet, as his fingers played through her dark, moist curls, twirling and gently tugging at them.

“Mmm, this was a good choice, I think,” he growled.

She seriously weighed whether or not it would be worth the painful spanking she’d be sure to get if she begged him to touch her clit. Just one touch.

Please God.

She remembered standing at attention at their breakfast table, her pajama bottoms pushed to her knees, her hands clasped behind her head. They’d calmly told her to stand there while they decided what to do. Erik had argued vociferously for shaving her cunt bald, extolling the virtues of the look and the fact that it would make her even more sensitive to their touch.

Parker and Drake had overruled him, Drake saying as long as it was kept neat, he’d prefer her to keep her pelt. She remembered her face burning as he used that exact word. They discussed her as if she wasn’t even there, and it turned her on in a new, dark way. It was toward the beginning of her journey, exploring her submissive urges and fantasies. The little things like that sometimes were the most devastating — and exciting.

His finger traced the tracks of sweat running down her belly. She inhaled sharply, as he lifted her heavy breasts in his palms, the pads of his thumbs whispering over the bumps of her rosy areolae. She sighed as he squeezed her breasts firmly. She was struck once again, by the tenderness and kindness of his touch. His touch was capable of bringing her to sobbing tears at a moment’s notice, but right then she thought she’d happily stand there forever while he squeezed her breasts in those strong hands.

After a couple of minutes of fondling her charms, his hands dropped her breasts. She felt a twinge of disappointment at the loss of his touch. Her pussy screamed for more, anything.

Just touch me, please!

He took a half step back, obviously enjoying her nudity. She felt even more exposed than if she’d been completely nude, like a side of beef for his inspection. She didn’t care though, as long as he kept touching her. She thought she’d do just about anything to feel him again.

Slut.

After another minute of silently staring at her, while the sun beat down on her naked flesh, he reached around her for his beer. He laid his hand along her cheek, raising her eyes to his.

“So beautiful,” he growled, his thumb stroking the corner of her mouth. He glanced down, stroking the back of his hand over her belly, then pointing at the grass.

“Missed a spot,” he whispered.

Then he sauntered back to the deck. She heard the faint sound of his beer bottle tapped against Parker’s raised glass as he walked by.

* * * *

Thanks for stopping by. Please take some time to visit some of the other stops on this hop. There are over 50 participating blogs now!

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Filed Under: Spanking A-Z Blog Challenge Tagged With: BDSM fiction excerpt, breasts, totem of femininity, Trent's favorites

#Dungeon Crawl — 05/21/14

May 20, 2014 By Trent Evans

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Greetings fellow travelers in depravity:)

I’ll pick up where I left off last week in my WIP, a sci-fi bit of dark erotica called Bristol’s Rebellion.

The fetching maid Olivia has received a late-night summons from the Master. When she arrives, she finds it’s not just the handsome Master awaiting her…

* * *

“Come closer, dear,” her Master said, a nod of his head beckoning.

Olivia complied, reluctantly, moving to stand just to the right and behind the kneeling contafina. She was distinctly uncomfortable being so close to the pair, but at the same time she felt an electricity between the two that could not be denied, and it made Olivia’s pulse quicken. She wasn’t sure where to look, so she kept her gaze up deferentially.

“Olivia, look at her. She’s beautiful, is she not? She’s my ward, and as such she’s here to be admired,” he said, smiling. “Don’t be afraid.”

The contafina’s fingers fluttered at the small of her back.

Olivia allowed herself a look at the slave, her gaze traveling down the pale, narrow back to the slim corset-trained waist, the restless fingers of the slave’s bound hands continuing their dance. The waist, adorned with two dimples than any woman would envy, swelled out dramatically, the hips emphasized by the slave’s submissive position. The broad, fleshy buttocks bloomed above the kneeling slave’s bare heels, her bottom’s considerable breadth a pleasing contrast to so petite a waist. The round contours of the slave’s buttocks were enhance by the darkness of the deep cleft. The girl’s bottom was almost a uniform deep pink, with what looked like telltale handprints in a darker red at the edges of the hips and toward the top of the crevice of her buttocks. Standing out in stark relief from the pink cheeks, were two tramlines, their deep, swollen lengths interrupted by the cleft. The strokes, evidently from a cane, were spread evenly at the top of the buttock cheeks, just below the bewitching dimples.

Olivia tried to show an impassive face, but couldn’t help clenching her own ass cheeks sympathetically, knowing the pain the slave must have been feeling at so harsh a punishment.

The Master watched the maid take the sight in, his smile broad, a mischievous glee dancing in his eyes.

“As you can see, there is something amiss, my dear Olivia. I was in the midst of administering a nice thorough evening caning to my ward here, “ he said, smacking Malina’s cheek with his cock before laying it back down upon her proffered tongue. “I decided that since she’d not been seen to all day, that a salutary caning might be rather nice.”

He rubbed the head of his cock against the corner of the slave’s open mouth. The girl kissed the head lovingly, caressing it with her plump rose lips. He allowed the slave this for a moment, gazing fondly down upon her, before looking back up at Olivia, continuing.

“Well, as you may have noticed, two strokes does hardly a caning make. It’s merely a tickle, really.”

He looked down again, pulling his swollen member away from the slave’s devoted lips. “That’s enough, girl. Let’s have that tongue out again.” He gave a slight twist to the fisftul of her hair he clenched in his hand. His ward winced, complying at once.

“Farther, girl. That’s it,” he said, satisfied, his cock once more tapping the tongue stud.

The abject obedience of the girl to his whims, stunned Olivia anew.

“On the second stroke, I noticed a different sound. It wasn’t as solid as usual, and I’ve caned this girl’s big bottom enough times to know how it’s supposed to sound.”

Olivia swallowed. The two strokes the slave had received were now a livid purple, well laid on, and stinging hot no doubt.

“Are you listening, Olivia?” An edge had crept into the tone of his voice.

“Yes, Master. Sorry, Sir,” she said, her gaze snapping back to his.

“As I was saying, the sound wasn’t right. So I checked the cane, and I found it to be cracked. Cracked!”

Olivia blanched, sure of what was to come.

“Now, Olivia. What would I do if the cane were to actually break while servicing the lovely nates of this girl? Why it might splinter. She could be cut to the blood, by God!”

Though Olivia was truly frightened now, she could not help but recall the piercing of the slave’s nipples. While the girl had sobbed away, he’d calmly collected several drops of her blood on his fingers, licking them off as if they were a delicacy.

He’d not seemed particularly concerned with shedding her blood that day!

“Olivia, you’ve been with us what, eight months? Long enough to know how my house is run, no?”

Her mouth had suddenly become dry as a desert, her heart racing.

“So it pains me to find that someone who has been with us so much longer would let something like this happen,” he said, with a resigned shake of his head.

“Victoria was assigned to polish the canes last week. She should have spotted the crack, if she were doing her job correctly.” His expression darkened. “There is no excuse.”

He looked down at his ward once more. “Just the head now, girl. Let’s give your little tongue a rest.”

The slave began a slow kissing of the plum colored head of his penis, the swollen, crimson lips bestowing soft kisses, and mouthing the hard crown. Since she did not have use of her hands, the Master held his cock to her lips for her, allowing the obedient slave to express her devotion to the broad head of his penis.

“Nothing for it tonight, I’m afraid Olivia. It is getting rather late. But I want you to tell Victoria that I wish to see her blonde head in my study tomorrow evening at seven. You shall need her help preparing for our guest, so I won’t tie her up until later.”

Olivia, with a chill, wondered if the Master’s pun was intentional.

He gazed intently at his slave, murmuring to her. At his urging, she clamped her plump lips around the head of his penis and slowly sank down the thick, veined length of the shaft.

“We’ll just add the remaining tally of tonight’s strokes to tomorrow’s whipping. A few more strokes than usual won’t be too much for Malina here to take,” he said, glancing up at Olivia again, a wry grin on his rugged face. “You may leave now, girl. Go back to your duties.”

Olivia, her heart soaring, redemption at hand, curtsied thankfully, barely aware and beyond caring that her sex again flashed into view from below the brief shift. She walked to the door, opening it.

“Olivia, I shall require you to accompany Miss Victoria in my study tomorrow evening,” the Master’s voice intoned from behind her.

“Y-yes, Sir,” she said, her voice tremulous, so crushing was the realization of what was to come for the miserable maid.

A visit to the Master’s study never boded well for any girl.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed this little snippet from the story. Perhaps I’ll post more next week?

In the meantime, please visit the other stops on this week’s hop. Thanks for reading!

Trent

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Filed Under: Dungeon Crawl Blog Hop Tagged With: bdsm erotica, BDSM fiction excerpt, erotica excerpt, Master/slave, sexual slavery

A slave’s stroll in the fields… #Dungeon Crawl — 04/09/14

April 8, 2014 By Trent Evans

 

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Hello my fellow pervs,

This week I’m returning to more from my epic fantasy erotic novel, A Lady and a Maid. Sophie’s predicament gets worse by the day at Westwood Manor , and as we join the story, her miserable day is just beginning…

 * * * *

House Westwood

Sophie awoke to the sound of the lock turning.

She never in her wildest dreams imagined such an innocuous thing would elicit such dread — and something else. She could hear it as if time had slowed to a crawl: the tumblers moving, the barely audible scree of metal on metal. Then the air pressure in the dark cell that passed for her sleeping quarters changed; a rush of cooler, fresh air to mix with the humid closeness that had surrounded her all night.

“Up, girl. We’ve work to do today.”

She’d come to hate his voice, the overseer. She hated his whip more, but his voice every morning was the first confirmation to her that this really wasn’t just a nightmare.

This existence, this horror, was actually happening.

He kicked at her bunk. “I said, up. Don’t make me get you up.”

How she’d like to claw out his eyes, shove that hated whip down his throat.

She stumbled out onto the cold stone floor, her toes curling. Her wrists were sweaty and itchy under the leather of the cuffs, and she tried in vain to scratch under them, even with her wrists bound together in front of her. The overseer grabbed her by her bare upper arm, and marched her down the narrow central corridor of the servant’s quarters. She could hear some of the other servants still sleeping soundly through the barred windows of their cell doors.

It was early. It was always early.

Arnaud, the overseer, seemed to take great delight in rousing her first, so that Sophie would know the others still slept peacefully while she began her daily toil.

He dragged her through the common dining area and out into the chill morning air of the yard. She felt her breasts moving under the threadbare mockery of her sleeveless shift as he dragged her stumbling form along at a brisk pace. She was thankful she’d not been hobbled, which would have made keeping up with his long strides all but impossible.

She shuddered at the bite of the cold, and he chuckled. “Buck up, girl, you’ll have something to warm you up soon.” His grin was crooked, cruel eyes peering at her from dark, sunken hollows, his black hair was cropped close to his skull. She thought he might once have been a handsome man, but the ravages of time and the corruption of his soul seemed to her to have twisted his features; it had wrung out any warmth, leaving only cold, hard edges.

Peering up at the battlements above, she could see the occasional guard leaning over the stone of the inner rampart, looking down upon them. The sun had only just risen, the grass of the inner courtyard still laced with tendrils of smoky mists. She heard the neighing and grunting of the horses from the stable block, wondering who could be stirring them this early.

Arnaud stopped by the well, pointed to the trough set out nearby. “Get in, girl. Mistress wants you cleaned up.” He unlocked her hands but left the leather cuffs on her wrists. The rectangular trough, constructed of rough-hewn timber was half-filled with water.
He didn’t really expect her to …

“Come on, get on with it. Mistress will be ready in a few minutes. Don’t make her wait.” He shoved at her shoulder, his other hand fingering the leather tail of his whip.

“Sir — it’s too cold.” She looked up pointedly, lowering her voice. “Everyone will — see.”

Arnaud burst out in a peal of laughter so hardy she heard it echo off the interior courtyard walls. “Girl, we’ve seen all you have to offer before. You’re really still bashful about this?” His eyebrows were raised, the mockery and satisfaction in his gaze all too evident.

Cheeks flushing, she lowered her eyes. He stood close to her, the handle of his whip raising her chin so that he could gaze into her eyes. “If you aren’t in that tub in the next ten seconds, you’ll find yourself going in with a tight dozen. Which is it to be, girl?”
Her fingers flew to the buttons of her shift, and she shed the garment, trying to ignore the murmuring she heard from the watchers above as her erect nipples were exposed to the morning light.

She would get through this, as she’d gotten through every other day in this horrid place. One day, one minute, one second at a time.
Thoughts of Owen helped her during the darkest times. She wondering what he was doing at that very moment, wondering if he thought of her, longed for her as she did for him. She thought about how he’d see her now though. Would he see her as damaged, defiled even? Would he still desire her after the hell she’d been put through in this nest of perversion?

But there was more than that wasn’t there? More than she wanted to contemplate. It had to be the influence of this place; her demonic Mistress and her depraved friend the Countess. It had changed her somehow, perhaps in much the same way she thought Arnaud had been changed.

She yelped, violently shaking as she lowered her naked form into the frigid water. She washed herself as fast as she could, the cold seeping deeper into her with every second, stabbing into her skin like daggers. She stood to wash between her legs, her nipples so hard they ached, the icy water running in chilling rivulets down her skin. She flushed crimson at the clapping she heard from the soldiers on the wall. It sounded like there were more of them now, but she didn’t have the heart to look up at them.

Arnaud paced just a few feet from the trough, watching her the whole time. The cold of the water was soon too much, and she scrambled out of the trough, the water sloshing over the side to splash her ankles. She clutched her arms over her breasts, bent over in an effort to preserve what warmth was left in her blood.

Arnaud merely looked down on her a moment, pleasure in his gaze. She couldn’t fathom how he found such joy in her misery, how a soul could be deadened to such an extent? She wanted to feel pity for him, knew she should, but instead, she nursed a burning rage, held tightly in check. Sophie wanted to make him pay for her humiliation, even if he was just a pawn in Lady Westwood’s games. Arnaud was her daily torment, the source of the now routine humiliations that had almost numbed her. He may have only been following orders, but he didn’t need to take such pleasure in doing it. He didn’t need to relish her degradation.

“Please, Sir. I — n-need … ”

He threw a cloth at her. It was merely a swatch of thick cotton, really, but it would have to do. She vigorously scrubbed the icy water from her skin, trying to ignore the fact that she stood naked in a courtyard in broad daylight, the avid gaze of dozens of men upon her. She would cry her shame out later, alone. Now though, she wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction.

As she bent to dry her legs, Arnaud laid her shift over her shoulder, flicking a dripping nipple as he did so. “Meet me in the stables, girl,” he said, walking away, twirling the deadly length of his whip.

Dread uncoiled in her insides; nothing good happened in the dark stable block. She had enough memories of her torment there to last a lifetime. Still, she knew she’d be the worse for it if she didn’t obey. She’d learned it paid to be obedient; it meant less pain, less humiliation.

So Sophie righted her shift as best she could, her eyes downcast to avoid meeting the gaze of the guards, and made her way to the gloom of the stable block.

As a young girl, she’d loved horses, the atmosphere of stables always engendering feelings of excitement and adventure in her. What could be better than bounding onto your strong steed to fly like the wind across the countryside?

Now, she fought the sick dread that sank in her belly that merely setting foot in the stable elicited. She walked down the dim corridor that ran down the center of the building, looking into each stall as she passed. She found Arnaud in the large open room that served as the tack and harnessing area for the draft horses.

She froze when she realized he wasn’t alone.

“Ah, there is our charge,” Lady Westwood said, just climbing up onto the saddle of her favored horse, Osiric. “Care to take a stroll this fine morning, my dear?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Sophie whispered, every ounce of her being wanting something, anything, other than that.

“Splendid! Unfortunately, your new admirer the Countess won’t be joining us. She asked me to bid you a fond goodbye though.” The Lady turned to Arnaud. “The Countess — and Sophie — will be accompanying us on the fall retreat to Farrier’s stead, though. They will have a happy reunion then, I’m sure.”

Arnaud grinned, enjoying Sophie’s discomfiture.

Sophie dared a glance up at the Lady. The noblewoman was dressed in a deep tan colored jacket, the collar lined with fur. The jacket buttoned up to the base of her slender throat, and was attractively form fitting, highlighting the elegant curves of the woman’s body. Her ivory jodhpurs, tucked into the gleaming black leather of riding boots, seemed nearly skin tight. Her rich chocolate tresses were tied back into a thick braid. As was the case the first time Sophie had encountered her, the Lady was armed with a short sword, the elaborately decorated scabbard crossing her hip. She held the reins in one gloved hand, the terrifying length of a riding crop in the other. Her brilliant smile, on any other person, would have been dazzling. Sophie found it chillingly predatory; the cat finally spying her chosen victim.

Arnaud approached her with a coil of rope in his hand, and Sophie’s heart began to gallop. He manacled her wrist cuffs together, affixing the rope to the cuffs in several knots. He finished by using the rope to yank hard on her wrists, ensuring she was securely bound. He smiled at her, patting her cheek. She suppressed the urge to bite his hand.

Arnaud handed the length of rope attached to Sophie up to the Lady. She wrapped the rope around the pommel of her saddle, pulling on it to seat it well. Arnaud made sure the Lady’s saddle was secure, then climbed up on his own horse, a black brute that dwarfed the Lady’s swift-footed steed.

“Let’s have a walk,” the Lady said, winking at Sophie and shaking the reins. “I’ve something to show you.”

The horse moved out of the stables, the rope hauling on Sophie’s arms. The leather of the cuffs bit into her wrists harshly, and she chewed into her cheek to prevent crying out. In order to keep up she was nearly running, walking just wasn’t fast enough. Determined not to be a victim — or at the very least not appear to be a victim — Sophie raised her chin, intent on preserving what little dignity she had left. She consoled herself with the fact they’d at least allowed her clothing!

The two riders moved out across the now bright courtyard, and passed through the main gate. Sophie kept her chin firm, but couldn’t help but lower her eyes as she passed some of the guards. She felt their heated gazes crawling all over her, especially her traitorous bouncing under her shift. The cursed rope raised her arms too high to allow her to shield the globes, and now their languid movement was there for all to admire. The injustice of her treatment, as it had countless times before, galled her, and she had to swallow down the bilious unfairness of it all. She wasn’t sure how things could get worse for her, dragged along behind a horse like some mangy dog.

She soon found out how wrong she was.

The Lady and Arnaud moved their horses to a slow trot, and Sophie had no choice but to run after them, terrified she might her footing and be dragged through the dirt by the merciless rope. Soon her lungs were burning, and she was breathing hard, sweat pouring from her body under the early morning sun. The riders took to one of the dirt tracks that led out from the central manor like spokes on a wheel. Cropland stretched out in all directions as far as the eye could see. Here and there were the simple, thatched or sod-roofed huts that the bonded farmers lived in. Pens for various livestock were attached to the huts, and occasionally she saw farmhands, wearing their distinctive broad straw hats.

She remembered the times she’d worked alongside the hands at her father’s farm, sharing a much needed drink from their canteens. Owen had always managed to get himself placed nearby, even if it was a broad field being planted by dozens of hands. Soon, she realized it hadn’t been coincidence that kept him near. Eventually, she realized, she wouldn’t have had it any other way, even if she’d never tell him.

How stupid she’d been!

She stumbled, and the rope went taught, pulling on her arms with an aching twinge of pain. A yank much harder than that, and she feared she’d find herself with a dislocated shoulder.

“Pay attention, girl,” Lady Westwood said, twisting around in her seat and smacking a hand onto the taut rope. “Look to your left.”
Arnaud’s chuckle was just audible above the clop of hooves.

Sophie scanned the field to her left. There was nothing planted yet, and she wondered if it might be fallow. Then she spotted something. She tilted her head, ignoring the cruel hauling on her wrists.

“What … ” she whispered.

The riders left turned on to a smaller track that passed between individual plots, drawing her closer to the confusing sight in the field. The Lady and Arnaud slowed their mounts to an ambling walk. Sophie would have been grateful for the comparative respite for her exhausted legs and burning lungs, but what greeted her in the field beyond banished those thoughts from her confused, fearful mind.

There was a woman and a man in that field. The woman was naked, her flesh fair pouring with sweat.

No, she wasn’t entirely naked.

As Sophie drew nearer, she could see that the woman had some sort of harness about her, black leather clasping her tightly round her waist and hips. Her very long, rather pretty hair was tied back with a ribbon of white, the bright color striking against her tanned, sweat-slicked skin and silky black of her hair.

Lady Westwood and Arnaud pulled their horses to a halt, Osiris shaking his head side to side. Sophie lowered her arms as the rope grew slack, sighing with the relaxed tension in her limbs. But the two figures in the field commanded her attention.

Sophie blinked, not quite believing what she was seeing, the mortified shock (and if she were honest with herself, the fascination) making it hard for her to get her mind around what she saw.

The woman was pulling a plow.

Attached to her hips were metal shafts that reached down to a stout length of wood, itself banded in what looked like iron or rusted steel. Three heavy metal wedges encrusted with soil dug into the ground directly behind her, leaving shallow, uneven furrows in her wake. Straps from the woman’s harness ran up and across her torso, framing and squeezing full breasts. Her generous, muscular buttocks flexed and bunched behind her as she struggled with the heavy burden. Her hands gripped the bars tightly, her wrists wrapped in thick cuffs that were chained to the shafts. The slim muscles of her forearms stood out in tense relief against the strain of pulling the plow. Thin leather straps wrapped like snakes around and down the woman’s powerful thighs. Heavy boots covered her feet, ending just below the well defined, bunching calves. A thick black leather collar wrapped around the throat, forcing the woman to keep her chin up. A faint chiming could be heard on the warm breeze.

Sophie swallowed in sympathy when she realized were the sound was coming from. Small shiny bells were clipped neatly to the turgid nipples; the constriction of the clips had turned the tender flesh a dusky, inflamed red.

A deeply tanned man, his arms corded with sinew walked alongside the struggling female, speaking to her in soft tones. He was at least a head taller than the woman, his faded indigo shirt plastered to a broad, sweaty back. The wide straw hat shrouded his face in shadow under the high mid-morning sun.

Arnaud raised a hand. “Escott, come—”

“No, Arnaud,” the Lady said in a low voice. She extended her crop toward Sophie. “Look at the girl. She can’t take her eyes off them.”

Averting her gaze from the toiling woman, Sophie chanced a glance at her cruel Lady. The noblewoman was beaming, mirth dancing in her eyes. Arnaud watched Sophie too, a finger tracing the braided leather of his whip.

Sophie looked back at the farmhand and the harnessed woman, unable to stand the cold regard of her Lady and the hated overseer.
The woman was struggling, bending over almost double, the blades of the plow unmoving in the dirt. She jerked forward once, twice, her buttocks squeezing mightily, but the blades appeared to be stuck fast.

“Ach, girl,” her tall companion said, unclipping a broad piece of flexible leather from his waist. He clasped the girl by her upper arm, his tight grip turning her bronzed flesh white, and stooped down slightly. He tapped the leather against her protuberant buttocks. A warning.

Sophie noticed that the lower half of the woman’s broad buttocks shone a congested red, unlike the rest of her sun-kissed skin.
The woman strained harder, grunting. Her lips pulled back, exposing the white of clenched teeth. Still, the plow refused to budge.
The leather cracked against the woman’s buttocks, a shiver passing across the flesh of her haunches. She yelped and the cords of her hamstrings stood out starkly as she continued to struggle.

“Come on, Tani. You can do it now” The man’s voice was low, urgent. “Pull.”

“Please,” the girl grunted.

Sophie could see a tear track down the girl’s cheek to catch at the corner of her mouth.

The paddle slashed up again, the sound echoing like a shot across the empty field, lifting the dense flesh of the bottom in its agonizing embrace. The woman keened, her voice gurgling as she threw her head back. Her buttocks clenched tight, loosened, then tightened once more.

Lady Westwood’s white steed blocked her view of the woman and Sophie looked up, squinting against the sun.

“Interest you does it, Sophie? Would you like a term in the fields with our trusty Escott?”

Arnaud laughed, reaching out to stroke his horse’s neck

“No, Mistress,” Sophie whispered, trembling at the very thought of it.

“Then you will listen and obey, won’t you?” She could hear the threat in her Lady’s smooth voice. “But there is something else isn’t there, girl?”

Oh no, please.

The Lady leaned down, her crop stroking Sophie’s cheek, the leather cold and menacing. “If I were to run my fingers through that juicy cunt of yours, I might find a veritable lake there, wouldn’t I?”

Sophie gasped. “No.”

The Lady smiled, the flat end of the crop playing over the tips of Sophie’s breasts. She held her breath, trembling. She felt so helpless with her arms bound to the horse. If she could just get the rope free somehow, she could run. But where would she run to? Home? She didn’t even know where home was. When Miriam had taken her, Sophie had been lashed securely to the rear of her Lady’s saddle as if she were so much cargo, blindfolded and gagged, then hauled away from her beloved farm to the hellish manor. She’d only known in the most general sense where Westwood Manor actually was — but she hadn’t a clue how to get back home from there.

* * * *

There’ll be more to come next week:) Until then, please have a look at the depravity on display at the other blogs this week. Go ahead. I dare you.

Trent

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Filed Under: Dungeon Crawl Blog Hop Tagged With: A Lady and a Maid, abusing the peasants, bdsm erotica, BDSM fiction excerpt, corporal punishment, Dominance and submission, dubious consent, Epic Fantasy Erotica, pony play, sexual slavery, Trent Evans erotica

Saturday Spankings — 03/29/14

March 28, 2014 By Trent Evans

saturday-spankings

 

 

Hello Spankos,

I neglected to sign up for last week’s hop (whoops), but I’m back on my game this week:) Today, I’m continuing with yet more from the upcoming full-length D/s novel “The Change”.

Last week, Kiehl had been invited over to his friend Tom’s home. His friend wants to show Kiehl just how deep the D/s in a marriage can go. Kiehl and Tom have just walked into Tom’s living room — to find Tom’s wife Sharon, naked, bent over their couch. Tom asked Sharon what she was supposed to do upon his arrival home, and she answered that she was to present her ass to him. Tom intends to show Kiehl what happens when Sharon fails to follow directions — in this case forgetting to leave her panties on — and he’s just received her … reluctant, agreement that she should be punished. Tom likes to make sure everyone’s on the same page before the bottom gets scorched. Tom has just produced a cane. I wonder what he plans to do with that? Hmmm… [Read more…]

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Filed Under: Saturday Spankings Tagged With: BDSM erotic romance, BDSM fiction excerpt, Caning, corporal punishment, D/s marriage, domestic discipline, erotic pregnancy, forced exhibitionism, Saturday Spankings Blog Hop, Trent Evans erotica

Saturday Spankings — 03/15/14

March 14, 2014 By Trent Evans

saturday-spankings

 

 

Hello Fellow Spankos,

I’m continuing with more from the upcoming full-length D/s novel “The Change”.

Last week, Kiehl had been invited over to his friend Tom’s home. His friend wants to show Kiehl just how deep the D/s in a marriage can go. Kiehl and Tom have just walked into Tom’s living room — to find Tom’s wife Sharon, naked, bent over their couch. [Read more…]

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Filed Under: Saturday Spankings Tagged With: BDSM erotic romance, BDSM fiction excerpt, Caning, D/s marriage, domestic discipline, erotic pregnancy, forced exhibitionism, Saturday Spankings Blog Hop, spanking, The Change, Trent Evans erotica

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