Beth – Shon Richards || Erotiterrorist

“So does your job get any break times?” she asked.

“Not really.” I said. “Working from home, you just work till the work is gone. I do sometimes take an hour for lunch.”

“Cool, maybe we can do something.”

“Beth, are you offering to be my lunch?”

She giggled. “I would love to be your lunch.”

Which meant a delicious 40 minutes of spanking followed by 20 minutes of eating. Sandwiches people, a man has to eat. I did however call her ‘lunch’ during the entire spanking and gave her a reminder of the occasion.

Beth is a HUGE Harry Potter fan. She makes costumes, she collects the souvenirs and she is passionate about the books like I am about bottoms. Beth’s plan for the last Harry Potter book coming out this friday at midnight is simple: she’s locking herself in her room, avoiding the internet and reading the damn thing straight through before anyone can spoil it for her.

Alas, her plan failed. She read a spoiler on a fan site. Apparently in Germany, they have the book already and someone posted pictures and a damn death count list of who dies. Beth was devastated.

I investigated. I am not that big of a Potter fan. Let’s leave it at that and all be friends, okay? I decided to go brave the scary internet and see if in fact, Beth’s spoilers were true. What I found were fascinating examples of how people are more interesting than fiction.

The first spoiler I came across was apparently from a Leet Hacker for Christ who was spoiling the book as a blow against Neo-Paganism. Let that roll around in your head for a moment. Imagine what the counter-strike would be: Potter fans spoiling the Bible on the Internet.

OMG, Jesus DIESSSSS!!! But its cool yo because Jesus gets back up and is fine three days later. Judas dies though.

Anyhoo, Leet Hacker for Christ says Hermione dies. You know what? The cynical non-Potter fan in me got really sad when I read that. I didn’t want it to be true. Not the girl. Kill the other friend, Ron. It’ll make him famous, but leave my geeky girl alone.

So with heavy heart, I went looking to see if anyone has debunked Leet Hacker for Christ. Lo and behold, what I found was another spoiler from another source! Holy crap, the forces of evil are working over time. Strangely enough, these people leaked what seemed to be another book as this time, Ron dies.

Whew.

Wait a minute . . .

I found a few other spoilers too, but they ran along the same theme. Ron dies, or Hermione dies. Quite frankly that’s a given, isn’t it? I mean that’s like spoiling that tomorrow will be sunny. It stands a good chance of it, but that doesn’t mean you have inside knowledge. It’s like a giant guessing game except some people put in way too much work into faking their evidence.

For me, I get fascinated by what motivates people to even come up with imaginary spoilers. Some people are assholes, and probably hoped they made a few people like beth really upset. I can almost understand that mentality but dude, there is something really sad about how much work asshole put into making someone else cry. I came across a 250 odd page fake excerpt. At that point, making a fangirl cry just makes you the bigger nerd.

Part of me wonders how much of the spoiling drive is for net traffic. Think about it. You could raise massive traffic with your fake story and get people who would never come by in a million years to check out your site. In a way, I wonder if you could piggyback someone else’s success by faking spoilers to their success.

In that same vein, could you maliciously hurt another company that way? Let’s say I was launching my new book, ‘Mary Sue and Magic MacGuffin’ that same week, and I wanted to kick my main competitor in the nuts. Would a company engage in a little spoiler attack to hurt enthusiasm. Goddess, it makes me wish I was still writing ‘Thigh Vs Thigh’. That would be hilarious.

Amy would totally be a Hermione fan, while Bethany would identify with Cho. Otto of course would be hot for McGonagall.

Ahem.

I love hoaxes. It is the ultimate form of fiction making, to create a lie believable enough for people to suspend disbelief enough to think it is true. I just can’t wrap my head around doing a hoax that is going to be disproven literally in three days.

For the record, this is my spoiler thought- Harry will not die but I bet he gets depowered. If he loses his ability to make magic then you have a nice metaphor about how growing up removes you from the magic of childhood. That’s how I would do it, which if Hollywood has taught me anything, it is that what will actually happen is Harry will die, Hermione will die and Ron will whine about how unfair it is that he doesn’t get a heroic death.

So I was spanking Beth last night. It had been a long 4th of July, made longer by the air conditioning dying. I had wanted to spank her all day long but it was just too hot and sticky. Around 10 at night, it had cooled down enough to actually enjoy some skin on skin contact.

Thirty minutes of butt-whooping later, her ass was baby blanket pink. Beth was bent over her bed, her wrists bound behind her back with my purple cuffs. Her hair was a tangled mess because I kept pulling it. She was grinding against the bed, partially because I told her to and partially because her hips had their own commands. Her knees shook a little during the last series of spanks I gave her so I gave her a moment to recover.

I grab her hair and lifted her face off the bed. “Want me to keep going?” I asked.

“Yes,” she purred.

“Then ask for it,” I said.

It was like pulling the cork out of a bottle. Words spilled out with a rush of emotion. Beth begged me to keep going. She pleaded with me to hurt her. She called me by name to do terrible things to her ass. It all came out in a torrent of desire, subservience and masochism. The last thing in the world she wanted was for me to stop, and the thing she wanted most was for me to be the one to do it to her.

I shoved her face back down into the bed. My knees were shaking now. Her words ricocheted inside my head, setting off so many good feelings I couldn’t keep track of them all. I felt mean, I felt good, I felt powerful, I felt sexy, I felt benevolent, I felt skilled, I felt adored, I felt feared and I felt alive. Her begging was better than any orgasm could have been.

I picked up the mean black paddle and gave her exactly what she deserved.

Oh I know. It’s Thursday. Special week long events don’t start on Thursday, that’s just crazy. Well that’s just how Pirates sail. They do crazy unexpected shit all the time. Here’s a hint; Pirate Week might not even last seven days. It might be short, it might go long. You never know with those crazy bastards.

For those of you landlubbers who were not around for last year’s Pirate Week, let me explain it to you. This is a special time when we give in to the lusty pirate inside us all. We tell authority to walk the plank, we relish the freedom that comes from bad English and we celebrate the inherent sexiness of a class of scoundrel that has captured the imaginations of people for hundreds of years. Instead of ‘Talk Like a Pirate Day’, think of it more as ‘Fuck Like a Pirate Till You Get Tired’. Trust me, it’s more fun.

In these troubled times of endless war tours, rising gas prices, global warming and everyone running your life except YOU, we need to be pirates more than ever. We need to set our own course. We need to defy society and do what really makes us happy. We need to dress in ill-matching but fancy clothes. We need to tell a lovely wench or a pretty lad just exactly what we would like to do with them. Life doesn’t always make us happy, and sometimes it takes thinking like a lawbreaking, morality free spawn of a bitch to get the courage to do the things that make us happy.

Pictured is Beth wearing a very lovely pirate outfit you can’t quite see. You are however getting a closeup of Beth’s mouth and her awesome biting skills. Like any good pirate, Beth knows when and how to bite down on something. She also has a well packed treasure chest. Just look at that smile. She was giggling as she pulled something sharp from her tits. That was one happy pirate. She knows what she wants and I have no doubt that she will one day get it.

What do you want to get?

The wrist belongs to my wife, the rope was braided by Beth. The issues with the lighting is all me.

I had this dream. It was about a friend of mine and she was tied up with very wet hair. She looked sad, but she also looked like she was too aroused to stop what was making her sad. I felt bad for her and at the same time I didn’t want her to be rescued.

I knew I had to take pictures of that.

So on Saturday night me and the friend I dreamed about, Beth, went to work. She brought the rope and I set up the bathtub. In the days since the initial dream, my creativity filled in the blanks that dreams always leave out. I knew I wanted her soaking wet and unhappy in the bathtub. I knew she had to be drenched and bound. I knew she had to be miserable and very horny.

I explained all this to her and she understood my goal. She tied herself up and then we drenched her in hot shower water. With her help, I bound her to the shower bar. She took a moment to imagine the feelings I wanted and then she gave me the perfect little sad and horny face.

I took the picture and said, “Beautiful.”

Her face lit up. The sadness was gone and replaced with a shy pride. The beautiful sadness was gone.

“Get back into character,” I said. She nodded, took a moment, and then she was poor little wet slut again.

“Perfect,” I purred, and then it was gone. An encouraging compliment had wiped the pitiful set of her eyes.

“Back into character,” I said.

Beth was not amused. “I was, but you keep breaking my mood.”

I frowned at her. Really I was frowning at myself because I realized she was right. You would think I would know something about setting a mood and yet I was the one breaking her character. My frown must have been scary because Beth’s face reverted back to sad and scared.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you, I wasn’t being disrespectful or anything.”

What I wanted to do was comfort her and explain that she hadn’t done anything wrong. Her apology was so sincere, I felt like dirt that she had taken any blame when it was I who was screwing everything up. I wanted to explain that, but the writer in me knew what I had to do.

I stepped forward and grabbed her by her throat. I pulled her head to me and looked her in the eye. I didn’t speak. I let my fingers tighten a little and she groaned happily despite the fear in her eyes. There she was again. She was right where I needed her and this time, I was going to keep her there.

The pictures came easily. I didn’t say another word. When she started to slip out of character, a tug on her hair, a squeeze of her throat or a pinch of a nipple put her right back into place. The tension was as strong as any d/s scene I had ever done. The euphoria of creativity was there as she endured every position I wanted her in. She stayed in character, falling deeper and deeper the more ruthless I treated her. I felt like I was writing with my camera.

Afterwards, I was in severe domspace. I was so giddy. I was so sated. There had been no sex but I felt like I had the biggest mental orgasm. I had a gig worth of pictures and the sense of accomplishment that can only come from when I finish something like BDSM Beach.

I don’t remember the images in my dream anymore. They’ve been overwritten by the reality. From dreams, to discussion, to reality to countless moments of sad lust locked forever in jpeg; I can’t shake the feeling that anything is possible now.

BDSM is so misunderstood sometimes. Some treat it like it is one will conquering the other. Others treat it like an extended negotiation that resembles a Hollywood battle for DVD profits. Some argue that submission is a gift while there are days that even I think that it is the domination that is the gift. Romantic, dramatic and practical ideals tangle over one another obscuring what really lies at the core of every BDSM relationship- the fact that it is a relationship.

No amount of chains, leather, contracts or duty can bind two people more than mutual affection. At least that’s been my experience.

The picture is of my hand and the lovely little hands of Beth. Neither of us are in a BDSM relationship, which makes for a lot of introspection.