Wrong Number

Many people don’t know this, but Thomas Alva Edison, the light bulb guy, also claimed to have been working on, what can only be colloquially called, a ghost telephone.  Historians all seem to agree that no evidence that he did more than talk about the idea exist.  There are no plans, no prototype has even been found, and no patent filed.

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The Language of Flowers

Lady Charlotte’s maid entered the sitting room carrying a small bouquet of flowers.  Lady Charlotte immediately laid aside her novel to receive the flowers.

“Flowers, my lady,” the maid said handing her the bouquet.  There was no card, but the flowers themselves carried the message.  She ran her fingers over the sprigs of rosemary, the herb’s scent crisp and almost astringent scent clinging to her fingers.  So, this will be an assignation that I won’t forget.  She mused, considering the herb’s meaning .

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Caroline’s Final Card

Read the entire series here:

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5]

Or jump in and enjoy the action… 

Caroline remained on the table, still shuddering from her orgasm.

She felt her mistress’s hand on her shoulder and then stroking her hair.  She helped Caroline to sit up on the table.

“That was beautiful, Caroline” her mistress crooned to her.  “You let yourself get completely into the feeling.”

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All Wrapped Up in Work

 Read the entire story here: [Part 1 Working Late]  [Part 2 All Wrapped up in Work] [Part 3: What Vicki Did at the Ritual]  [Part 4: Victoria Finds Her Man… Two of Them]

Victoria turned to leave the chamber.  She’d had her moment, but it was time to tell the professor she’d discovered the hidden room and what she was certain was Pharaoh Djet’s sarcophagus.

She heard stone scraping against stone, followed by something light and wispy brush against her arm. She grinned gritted hey teeth against a scream.  She was still being mocked for screaming at a scorpion in her first week, so she wasn’t going to add spiders to the list.

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Could I Crawl?

I like being on my knees. I love kneeling before a man and taking his cock in my mouth.  I love that he is standing at attention twice.  He stands and sways and fights the weakness his knees.  I love that power, that control.  In that moment, I own him.

But there’s another side of being on my knees.  There’s crawling.  For me, crawling isn’t about power.  Crawling is about humiliation, about desperation.  It brings to my mind a million songs that talk about crawling back, crawling through something dreadful to return. But crawling as a penance…

To be ordered to crawl, to feel the carpet bite into my knees or maybe the hard smooth press of wood or rough drag of concrete.  To be on both hands and knees, not in control but the one controlled.  I want my breasts to hang down heavy and sway with each movement, while I know that my ass is raised and on display. To crawl to make amends, to show devotion, to find transcendence.  Yes, I think I like that idea.

I want to crawl to you, as you sit comfortably on a chair or sofa.  You, sitting at ease, fully clothed.  Perhaps wearing a suit and tie, perhaps wearing some sort of vestment  to preside over me.  

 want you to watch me move slowly, deliberately across the floor.  I want to reach your feet, your legs and finish my penance. Only to be ordered to crawl, to crawl back across the room, out of the room.  To crawl to the toy box and select a paddle or crop.  To carry it back, yes in my mouth, yes, still on my hands and knees.  I want to crawl, not back to you in shame, but through shame.  To return with the tool of my punishment, and to offer it and myself to you, so I may reach transcendence.  To stay on my hands and knees, and with each crack of the paddle feel myself shift forward. To feel my heavy breasts sway and shake with each smack.

I want to stay on my knees, until I feel purged.  Until I have submitted fully and totally…

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 *Edited