Retro Lesbia Spank

The very first time Ayla spanked Atrocious… from the book Over Witch’s Knee, and the ongoing Lesbia Chronicles series.

“Are you always in the habit of spying on people?”

“Sometimes?” Atrocious answered the question with a question as her eyes darted around the room. She was looking for a way out, but Ayla was blocking her way fairly effectively. Sure she could have maybe pushed past her or applied a little more physical force if necessary but Atrocious was not given to outright aggression in most instances, and certainly not against beautiful ladies she’d recently seen in compromising situations. There was also the magic to consider, oh, and the fact that Ayla was bigger than she was. None of those things would help if worst came to worst.

“Someone should teach you a lesson,” Ayla purred, reaching out towards Atrocious with her fingers splayed. “A lesson in when to look and when not to look.”

“Listen, I…” Atrocious began to apologize, but before she could finish the sentence her vision went black. She uttered a shriek of fear, afraid that Ayla might have killed her and that she was looking into the void of her own non-existence, but a hand on her knee and a voice that was quickly becoming familiar spoke.

“Calm down.”

“Calm down?” Atrocious pawed at her eyes, trying to pry away whatever was preventing her from seeing. “I can’t see! I’m blind!”

An amused chuckle floated to her as the hand patted her knee. “It’s just a spell. It will wear off after a time.”

Atrocious could hear a smile in the woman’s voice. It did not make her feel any better about her situation. She took a deep breath. She was clearly dealing with a mad witch of one description or another. She was just going to have to play along until she got her sight back, then run like hell.

“Now, what shall we do to teach you a lesson?” Ayla asked. “You’re filthy you know. What have you been up to?” It was a rhetorical question hardly requiring an answer and the mud didn’t seem to dissuade Ayla as she slowly slid her hand up from Atrocious’s knee to her inner thigh.

Atrocious gulped. The outcome of this little interlude appeared to be all too clear as her body instinctively responded to Ayla’s touch. The pulsing arousal between her legs returned with a vengeance, reliance on her other senses heightened by her inability to see. She parted her legs slightly and moaned happily when Ayla slid her fingers all the way up and pressed her fingertips gently against Atrocious’ core for a moment.

Unfortunately the pleasant sensation was short lived. The fingers withdrew and the next thing Atrocious felt was a quick slap across her face. It was not hard enough to be truly aggressive, more like the swatting motion of a cat toying with its prey. Caught between desire and fear, Atrocious growled in response.

“Naughty,” Ayla noted in the darkness. “Very naughty.”

Before Atrocious could curse, the fingers returned between her legs. Ayla stroked through her britches, petting her pussy with a massaging motion that elicited soft moans. It was hard for Atrocious to stay angry when she felt so good, it was hard to be afraid when her hips were lifting off the chair and her mind was consumed with the desire to remove her pants.

Boldly, Atrocious reached down and shoved at the waistband of her britches, forcing them down over her behind. She was forced to clamp her thighs together a motion that ejected Ayla’s fingers, but it was the work of a moment to kick her muddied pants off and when she was done she spread her legs hopefully once more.

A delighted burst of laughter met the action. “A miscreant that takes her own pants down, fancy that.” Atrocious felt Ayla come closer, her breath soft on her ear. “I’d love to take you my dear, but first…” Atrocious cringed, expecting pain and recrimination. Maybe she was about to be beaten, or perhaps forced into hard labor. What Ayla actually said was worse. “You need a bath.”

Guided up from the chair still in a pronounced state of blindness, Atrocious was forced to listen to Ayla chide her over and over about all her sins.

“Such a filthy little wretch,” Ayla said, tugging Atrocious’ pants the rest of the way down her legs. “I can’t imagine how you got into such a state. You were up to no good, I’ll wager.

Atrocious kept her mouth shut, ignoring Ayla’s wagers. She was being undressed piece by piece, her defenses stripped away. Before long she was entirely naked before Ayla, who took casual advantage of the situation, running her hands over Atrocious’ body, cupping her breasts and squeezing her nipples. When Atrocious made a sound of complaint, Ayla responded with a quick slap to her bottom.

“Don’t whine, dear,” she said, squeezing Atrocious’s cheeks.

Atrocious blushed, she was being betrayed by her arousal, that’s what was going on. Ordinarily she would have never stood for being treated in such a casual, sexual way. Atrocious had long ago decided that she was the master of her own destiny and all attempts to dominate her since then had failed. But being blind and inordinately aroused was leaving her completely vulnerable to Ayla’s will in a way that made her feel prickly and uncomfortable. There was no way of even beginning to pretend that she was in control of the situation.

“You need a nice hot bath,” Ayla said. “But first I think you need a nice hot bottom.”

Atrocious had no idea what Ayla was talking about. There was the sound of a chair scraping back, then she felt herself being guided over Ayla’s skirts. Quite befuddled, she lay there naked as the day she was born and still streaked with mud, feeling the soft fabric of Ayla’s apron under her belly.

“So naughty,” Ayla said, patting her bottom. “You’ve not been spanked enough.”

“What?” Atrocious turned her heat towards Ayla even though the movement was useless to her. “No!”

But it was too late. Ayla had her where she wanted her and Atricious found herself pinned in place quite neatly indeed by Ayla’s strong arm. The spanking began gently with Ayla slapping Atrocious’s bare cheeks lightly, stinging her bottom but not really hurting her.

Atrocious squirmed in place over Ayla’s lap. She had expected a cruel beating, not this caressing warmth that tickled and stung and made her lower belly fizz with excitement and need. She found herself spreading her legs and Ayla immediately took advantage, tickling Atrocious’ pussy with the tips of her fingers in between slaps. Atrocious lifted her hips up to the sensation and before long, a searching finger was penetrating her, rubbing between her lips and slipping deep inside.

“This is a nice little cunt you have,” Ayla said. “It’s a pity you’re such a naughty little wench who needs a sore behind.”

With those words, Ayla began spanking a great deal harder. The sounds of her palm meeting Atrocious’ bare bottom echoed off the walls of the little cottage and Atrocious herself was forced to grab onto the leg of the chair and hang on for dear life as every hard slap threatened to send her sliding forward over Ayla’s lap. She was no longer enjoying herself in any way, it hurt, it really hurt and Ayla seemed to be enjoying that fact.

“You won’t peep in more windows, will you?” Alya lectured, vigorously laying her palm against Atrocious’ vulnerable bare bottom with punitive gusto.

Atrocious did not reply at first, she was far too busy yelping and squealing to form words. The only bright spot on the horizon was the fact that as the spanking went on, her sight slowly began to return. First the dark fog lifted a little, then, as her bottom pulsed with the thudding slaps, she began to make out objects in the room. She could see again! She could see!

Annnnnd break!

I’m going on a hiatus, taking a break from writing in order to do some reading and renew associations with family members and friends, take part in some culturally sanctioned group ceremonies, and generally spend a little more time out out of the cyber space.

Lokirenard.com will continue to update with relevant information re: book releases as and where appropriate.

I recommend The Doors of Perception, by Aldous Huxley, a lengthy essay about mescalin, psychotherapy, art and the chairness of chairs. The man is really impressed with just how chair-y a chair can be.

“The legs, for example, of that chair–how miraculous their tubularity, how supernatural their polished smoothness! I spent several minutes–or was it several centuries?–not merely gazing at those bamboo legs, but actually being them—or rather being myself in them; or, to be still more accurate (for “I” was not involved in the case, nor in a certain sense were “they”) being my Not-self in the Not-self which was the chair.”

You can find The Doors of Perception, which is really quite a treatise on the importance of art and suchness, here.

I love how much it reads like Reed’s experiences on Blue Lady, though she is admittedly far less preoccupied with mundane furniture (and yes, this is a segue into reminding you that there’s lots of Lesbia to read, not a genuine comparison with Aldous Huxley’s work, which would be like taking that Popsicle stick house I made once to the Taj Mahal and pointing out the similarities):

A warm sensation started spreading across Reed’s body, starting in her stomach. The lady was bestowing her touch. It bought euphoria, a sense of corporeal disconnection. Reed was keenly aware that she was not her body any more than she was the wall, or the tree or the grass. She was something else. She was something inhabiting the world, piloting her meat suit about the place for the duration of its lifespan.

She laughed at the silliness of it all, quietly at first, but soon she was roaring with laughter, caught up in the mirth of the cosmic giggle.

“Who goes there!” The rough shout of a guard came from below. Reed felt the guard’s separateness. She felt the guard’s mundanity.

“Nobody! Everybody! You! Me!” Reed shouted the words in quick order.

“Come down from there!”

Reed seriously contemplated obeying the order, but she couldn’t work out how. “There is no here, don’t you see!?” She rolled over and stuck her head over the Clitera City side of the wall. The wall was not nearly so tall on that side. The drop was a much more manageable hundred feet or so. “Your here is my there. How can I go there when I will always be here?”

“It’s not safe! That wall is due for maintenance.”

The shiny tin head of the guard spoke in angry staccato. Reed saw the words rising out of the woman’s head. Little black dots floated up, up, up into the sky. Then two thick black baubles rose up to Reed. For long seconds they hung before her eyes. Curious, Reed reached out with a finger and poked one. They both burst in her face, expelling their words.

“Bloody idiot!”

(From Lesbia, Clitera City Trials)

Hunter S Thompson on setting goals…

To put our faith in tangible goals would seem to be, at best, unwise. So we do not strive to be firemen, we do not strive to be bankers, nor policemen, nor doctors. WE STRIVE TO BE OURSELVES.

But don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean that we can’t BE firemen, bankers, or doctors—but that we must make the goal conform to the individual, rather than make the individual conform to the goal. In every man, heredity and environment have combined to produce a creature of certain abilities and desires—including a deeply ingrained need to function in such a way that his life will be MEANINGFUL. A man has to BE something; he has to matter.

As I see it then, the formula runs something like this: a man must choose a path which will let his ABILITIES function at maximum efficiency toward the gratification of his DESIRES. In doing this, he is fulfilling a need (giving himself identity by functioning in a set pattern toward a set goal) he avoids frustrating his potential (choosing a path which puts no limit on his self-development), and he avoids the terror of seeing his goal wilt or lose its charm as he draws closer to it (rather than bending himself to meet the demands of that which he seeks, he has bent his goal to conform to his own abilities and desires).

In short, he has not dedicated his life to reaching a pre-defined goal, but he has rather chosen a way of life he KNOWS he will enjoy. The goal is absolutely secondary: it is the functioning toward the goal which is important. And it seems almost ridiculous to say that a man MUST function in a pattern of his own choosing; for to let another man define your own goals is to give up one of the most meaningful aspects of life — the definitive act of will which makes a man an individual.

Sauce.

Lady Islands

We live together, we act on, and react to, one another; but always and in all circumstances we are by ourselves. The martyrs go hand in hand into the arena; they are crucified alone. Embraced, the lovers desperately try to fuse their insulated ecstasies into a single self-transcendence; in vain.

By its very nature, every embedded spirit is doomed to suffer and enjoy in solitude. Sensations, feelings, insights, fancies – these are all private and, except through symbols and at second hand, incommunicable. We can pool information about experiences, but never the experiences themselves. From family to nation, every human group is a society of island universes.

– Aldous Huxely, The Doors of Perception.

Video Game Hero

From a game called DAYZ, in which players spawn in a post-apocalyptic zombie filled world with little to no resources. They can loot towns in the hope of finding food, weapons and ammunition – but there are zombies out there, and even worse than zombies – other players. In this clip, one player is about to be robbed by another, when…

Shopping In Socks

I don’t necessarily like shopping. It involves looking at many things and choosing items from among them. This is a process I find inherently confusing. But what I found more confusing today, as I went shopping, was the plethora of people (and by plethora, I mean more than three) who elected to go shopping sans shoes.

They were bare foot in the food court. They were breaking social taboos and stabbing social mores and eating them for second (or maybe third) lunch. That’s what they were doing. But the barefooters had nothing on the truly tasteless – I speak, of course, of those who shopped in their socks.

Socks. It takes quite a lot of effort to go shopping in your socks. The barefoot might simply not have gotten around to their feet at all. Perhaps they forgot they had feet. It happens. But the sock people. They put their socks on and then they thought… I am done. Now. I am done with this putting things on my feet. I will go out into the world. And I will wear socks. That is a thing I will do. This is the decision I have made. Here I stand. In the mall. Without need for shoes. Because I have socks.

Socks.

The Ladies From B.R.A.T

So, I’ve been doing a few things lately aside from taking pictures of kitties – though that has been one of my main pastimes. One is I started a series on SKF called The Ladies from B.R.A.T.

It begins thuserly:

“It’s worse than we expected.” Lieutenant May Livingstone bit her fingernail right down to the quick, then wished she hadn’t.

Colonel Jane West, a robust woman with an auburn bouffant and a penchant for red lipstick, nodded in agreement. It was indeed worse than they had expected. It was also better than they had expected. That was because they had not expected anything at all. The discovery of something where nothing was supposed to be made things simultaneously better and / or worse, depending on how you looked at it. In space, perspective was everything.

Both women wore the simple navy blue uniforms of the Coalition, heavy blue coats buttoned diagonally from left to right across their chests. Colonel West wore the badge of the gold carnation, indicating her rank. Lieutenant Livingstone had two silver daisies pinned to the lengthy lapel under her chin, indicating her relative lack of rank.

Locked firmly in orbit, those aboard the coalition ship Archimedes had an excellent view of the surface of planet Sub-Beta-69. It was supposed to be an uninhabited, albeit potentially life bearing planet suitable for carbon based life forms. It was supposed to be the next port of call in a chain of galaxy wide rest-stops. Once the coalition work teams got down there, there’d be a few convenience stores, a couple of space toilets, some place to recharge the reactors, that sort of thing. Maybe a mall.

But the great stone pyramids clearly visible through the Archimedes’ long range cameras were currently putting paid to that idea. Sitting in the middle of a verdant grassy plane otherwise inhabited by ungulates, three large triangular monoliths rose into the clear sky.

“Patricia,” Colonel West said. “Give me an analysis of those rocks.”

“Calcium oxide. Silicone. Aluminum. Limestone. In other words, concrete. Not rocks.”

The ship’s computer spoke with a bland tone that still managed to be snippy. Patricia, short for PAT, short for Personal Android Thinking Machine, had been designed by the late, great Martha Stalwart. Somehow, no matter how many times PAT was calibrated, she retained a certain snotty quality. Some said PAT was haunted by the spirit of Martha Stalwart herself. Certainly PAT had more opinions on lace doilies than the average ship’s computer, and suggested using pine cones as centerpieces at every single meal time in defiance of the fact that the nearest pine tree was a good four human generations away.

“Concrete,” Colonel West said, tapping long, manicured fingernails against the console. “What does that tell you?”

“An advanced civilization,” May said. “But where are they?”

“Extinct, perhaps.”

“Not extinct,” Patricia cut in.

“Are you reading signs of humanoid life?”

“Negative.”

“What, then?”

“The lawns have been mown recently.”

PAT zoomed in on the strips of grass around the pyramids. Sure enough, there were the tell-tale signs of a well mowed lawn. Sixteen light years away from planet Earth, someone was landscaping.