I open this newsletter issue with an ask: Please consider leaving a review for Filthy Morsels on Amazon or Goodreads, and following my author profile on Amazon. Thank you! Developing my author page on Amazon is very helpful, so following me there (and leaving reviews) directly supports my writing.
Thank you to all the readers of Filthy Morsels! My heart is full from the early reader response. This month broke my monthly sales record since I began publishing my work and that feels both really special and encouraging.
New announcement: Soon I will begin using the Substack Chat feature. You might need a Substack profile (free) or be a newsletter subscriber (also free) to participate. Some topics I am considering include a conversation around publishing (ask me any questions about my own limited experience), recommendations for BDSM-mood or themed songs (see this issue’s “what I’m listening to” below), or perhaps an interactive story unfolding in real time. Leave a comment on this issue if there are specific questions or topics you’d like to engage in conversation with me about.
What I’m working on: Switching between Wicked Bites and Sweet Tidbits. These two are, at present, the closest to a “complete” draft that can move onto the editing stage. Wicked Bites could be out within a year if I can maintain this level of progress. It’s at 76,083 words right now. It doesn’t need more stories at this stage. It needs finishing for many of the stories and a thorough editing. There are more fragmented pieces in this one, much shorter pieces. Unlike Filthy Morsels, not all of these selections are as obvious in needing expansion.
If Wishes Were Horses [M/f]
He had been gone for almost a week, and up until yesterday, she had been diligent about maintaining his outlined schedule for her. But yesterday she skipped her morning and afternoon riding sessions, choosing instead to lounge at home and watch re-runs of a favorite show. Half of her hoped he wouldn’t notice. The other half of her waited for his punishment.
He called in the evening to tell her his business was done and he would be arriving early tomorrow morning.
“From what I hear from George, you might be getting out of practice?” he asked silkily.
She had shivered and clutched at the phone, pressing it tighter, and played dumb. Damn George! Thank God for George. “George, Sir?”
“Are you losing interest in riding,” he continued conversationally.
“No, Sir, I’m not,” she said earnestly. “I rode for a long time yesterday, and I was sore this morning so I thought I’d rest.”
“Sore, huh?” He sounded like he was smiling. “Well, you can show up tomorrow morning and I’ll supervise your training myself.”
She couldn’t quite contain her pleasure as she said eagerly, “Yes, Master.”
He casually warned, “Don't expect to enjoy tomorrow's session, my dear.”
He told her to show up at the stables at 6:30 a.m., adding that she should expect a surprise, which should have been warning enough.
That night she lay in her bed, fingers delving between her thighs to touch her shorn pussy, imagining what punishment he would give her. Would he hang her from a beam in the stables and whip her? The crop? Both? Let the stablehands use her? Put the Y-clamps on her, cram a butt plug in her ass and have her muck out the stalls? Maybe he would cage her in the kennels. One never knew with him. She removed her fingers before she climaxed; she wasn’t that far gone. Disobeying him and skipping a couple riding sessions was one thing. Climaxing without permission was a whole other ball game. She stuck her slick fingers in her mouth, sucking slowly as she drifted off to sleep.
But whatever she dreamed of, it wasn't anything that could have warned her of this.
She was blindfolded as he led her outside, stumbling a few times.
“Up,” he said cheerfully, releasing her elbow and adding helpfully, “There are three steps.”
From what she could discern, she was standing on a mounting block for beginning or short riders. When she had been waiting for him inside the stables, she had closed her eyes and inhaled the hay, leather, and horses. It was much cooler inside the stables; the walk outside had caused sweat to bead across her skin, even though the sun hadn’t even fully risen. She heard the clinking sound of buckles moving—equipment for the horses? Or punishments for her?—and she shifted uneasily, remembering the last time he had brought her for a punishment. She heard soft whinnies that sounded as nervous as she felt.
Her fingers twitched behind her back, linked together by the soft cuffs on her wrists, and rubbed against the newly raw skin there. When she arrived, the Lazy Z was already alive and bustling. She had quickly shed her clothes just inside the house and dropped to her hands and knees to crawl off in search of him. She founding him and a thrashing waiting for her in the kitchen. A “warm up spanking,” he called it, before he had ordered her to put on her riding boots and blindfolding her.
His hand was now on her ankle, lifting her leg. “Up you go,” he said, guiding her. “And sit still, or you’ll have an unpleasant fall.”
As she had somewhat expected ever since he stood her on the stepping block, he was settling her down over a horse, she realized as she was lowered down onto a cool leather saddle that was quickly becoming coated with her eager wetness. As she sank down too fast, however, she squealed painfully and attempted to rocket back up, swiveling her head blindly towards him in surprise. All that earned her was two hard whacks on her ass and his hands on her hips, inexorably pushing her back down.
She gasped a breathless “oh” before clamping her mouth shut again and having to settle for whimpering. Oh, God. He was going to split her ass open.
As he helped her find her seat, he spoke conversationally, “You mentioned “riding too long” made you sore. The trick is getting used to it.”
Two greased dildos affixed to the saddle fitted inside her, just large enough to touch on the side of uncomfortable. He diligently wound rope around her ankles, binding her feet to the stirrups. She could hear him moving around the horse, tightening belts and buckles at her knees and thighs, tying her inexorably down to the saddle and the horse until she couldn’t stand in the stirrups, much less raise herself and ease the filling inside. Her breathing quickened, and she tried to calm her nervousness; her breathing already shortened from the wide belt that cinched in her waist. Her toes cramped within the stiff leather boots.
He stroked her flank and promised in a voice of silken threat, “By the end of your riding session today, I guarantee you won’t feel the soreness when you ride a horse anymore.”
She swayed unsteadily in her seat, squirming a bit as she felt the fullness within her. The horse shied sideways a bit, and she bit back a groan as she felt the movement deep inside.
She felt a cold pole behind her back, heard the sound of it being screwed into place, and she envisioned that she was riding a horse with a saddle like one on carousels. Much later, she would see the whole set up before he unsaddled the horse, and he would smile at her and tell her she would make the prettiest figurine on any carousel.
He tied her hands at the wrist behind the pole so her fingers brushed her ass, and bound her elbows as well so that she thrust her breasts out, presenting them to him. With her arms behind her, she was completely focused on keeping her seat, her thighs clenching convulsively against the horse, who felt even more massive between her legs as he moved forward, interpreting the pressure as direction to move. The horse seemed to heave upwards, forcing the dildos up higher into her.
Sir brought the horse quickly back to hand, slapping her breasts in chastisement as he warned her to be patient.
“Almost done,” he murmured, tweaking her nipple.
She felt his fingers pulling and twisting her nipples and sighed inwardly. As expected, the nipple clamps were snapped on, weighted by the full, brassy sound of bells. So he had chosen those clamps, she thought. He had a number of them. This pair was the “festive ones,” with large round bells that typically decorated Christmas trees. He liked the sight of them on her, as well as the sound. She wore them often, not that she had a choice in the matter, and he was quickly training her to accept and need that bite on her sensitive nipples. Soon, he’d told her, she wouldn’t be able to come without asking for some pain to be inflicted on those rose-pink buds.
He stuck a ball-gag in her mouth and stepped back. She whined through her nose at him. Too much. Stuffed too full. Senses on overload.
“Let’s go for a run, shall we?” he said, whipping off the blindfold.
He took her out into one of the empty pens, holding a long whip. She was twisting and grinding herself down further onto the dildos before they reached the pen, the horse’s uneven gait across the contoured ground sending jolts to her clit.
“Rascal’s already warmed up,” he told her. “So we can get straight to the galloping.”
She moaned in response, blinking sweat from her eyes.
The whip touched her ass. “Oops,” he said flatly, “missed the horse. Might as well have fun.”
He striped her breasts, and then concentrated on hitting the nipples. She screamed behind the gag, needing more, just more, and as her eyes slammed shut, he touched the whip lightly to the horse. Rascal leapt forward and when he slammed into the ground again, the shock going straight up her cunt and anus, she came violently, helped by the fiery lick of the whip on a nipple.
He kept the horse going in wide circles around the pen in an easy gallop, and each leap and slam into the ground drove the dildos deep inside her. The heavy bells attached to the clamps swung wildly every which way, jerking on her nipples. He whipped her much harder than he worked the horse, she thought ironically.
As he worked woman and horse, he gave instructions.
“Grip with your knees, my lovely Slut. Tighter.”
“Raise your seat when he rocks. These are basic forms for horseback riding.”
“Keep your balance. If you can ride with your hands tied behind your back, you can damn well ride a sight better when you have use of your hands.”
"Don't you fucking slouch. I want to see those tits bounce. Get your back up and jiggle those tits for me."
Each lesson was driven home by the lash of the whip.
By the time he halted the exercise, she was more lathered than the horse and panting hard. The sun was high in the air, and the hot, dusty heat coated her skin. Her hair stuck to her neck and back. She didn’t even have the energy to wince as he walked the horse, cooling the animal down, the monsters inside her shifting with every step, which had begun to feel unbearably punishing inside her sensitive skin an hour ago. She sagged in her seat.
Inside the stables, the sudden escape from the brightness outside dazed her even more, and she blinked, trying to see through the black spots. He worked around her, unstrapping her from the horse, removing the clamps, the gag. As he lifted her down, her arms wrapped around him, he forced a hard his mouth down across hers, tongue sweeping in.
He dropped her at his feet where she lay limply, legs splayed open, before he prodded her into position with the toe of his boot. It was a struggle for her to kneel up. Her thighs felt like they would never close again.
Still half blind from the sunlight, she could still make out his fingers unbuckling his belt and unzipping his jeans. He removed the ball-gag and the clamps, and her scream came out as a groan.
“Hey, hey. Focus here.” Taking cock in hand, he slapped her face with the heavy stalk. She submitted to the stinging slaps, feeling pieces of hay dig into her knees, her sweat burning in her eyes. He brushed the cock head over her face, painting her features with pre-cum.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair and wound it around his hand, yanking her face-first into his groin. Her lips opened and his cock stabbed in just as they heard bootsteps drawing near them.
“Hey, Morgan. You said you’d be done by 10:30? We need that practice arena.”
“Yeah,” he rasped, his hips thrusting forward. “Slut and I just finished.”
A low chuckle. “Sure. Hiya, Slut. You sure look pretty this morning.”
She was sweating, drooling, and cum was leaking from her mouth. She did not appreciate the cowboy’s humor.
The denim of his jeans was abrasive against the sides of her face. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to require any technique on her part, just an open fuck-hole to use. Still, she sucked gratefully as best she could to show her appreciation.
“In the afternoon,” he grunted, driving deeper so she gagged around his cock, “we’ll see to your jumps.”
What I’m listening to: “Under My Thumb” by The Rolling Stones. This song. With lines like It’s down to me / The difference in the clothes she wears and The way she does just what she's told and Under my thumb / is a Siamese cat of a girl / Under my thumb / She’s the sweetest pet in the world and It’s down to me / the way she talks when she's spoken to. The power exchange and sexual submission in this song are explicit. The tune is on the jaunty side. I’d like a stripped down, moody version.
What I’m reading: Fetish illustrator Loviante’s Twitter account. This artist’s illustrations are stunning. The soft brush strokes render searing scenes of strict bondage and cruel dominance. The world that is hinted at with each successive piece just begs for a series of stories. I am in awe of this artist’s imagination.
What I’m wondering: Choose a kink, any kink. Vote in the poll!