Reighn Chatterly’s Blog and Books

I don’t often recommend other authors but I would be disingenuous to say that this author is a personal friend of mine and writes with a raw sexuality that is disarming when coming from a female voice.  Reighn Chatterly may sound like the moniker of every other romance writer around.  Yet her blog and fiction is full of steaming erotic power that lends itself to the ground breaking writing of Harold Robbins and Xavier Hollander.  I was taken aback by the sexual ferocity of her most recent blog entry here on WordPress.  I highly recommend it for late night reading.  I don’t write in that genre but the idea of such depraved thoughts coming from such a pristine source is as shocking as it is thrilling.  Truly the Madonna/Whore complex.

Ms. Chatterly’s latest works are a series about a reality show where the contestants are asked to release their own significant other into the sexual arms of what the show’s producers consider their “Perfect Match”.  Reighn spares no expense at stretching every sexual convention she can think of and she is going through an entire series on the show.  She has just published book three in the series which is available on Amazon Kindle Direct.

This author humbly recommends her as does his wife Margie.

https://reighnchatterlyauthor.wordpress.com/

Thank You for Reading….

It didn’t go unnoticed that I had my busiest weekend on record for this blog.  A week after Valentine’s Day and it looks like many of you needed a good spanking.  I appreciate all of you looking in on me.  Please take the time to comment and follow me.  I will reciprocate and communicate with everyone who does take the time to comment.  I also spend time writing on Scribophile.com so check me out.

Motus Nocturnus

—-This story was written for Scribophile and was one that was well received.  I hope you enjoy it as we start out the new year.

I don’t know how we came to be together.  I was skinny, but only because I was really too tall for my young age.  Not strong enough to play sports and too ungainly because of my awkward dimensions, I was an invisible, unknown person.  Except to her.

 

We’ve driven down past Lee Hall Rd.  At the end, it becomes a dirt road that past  winds past rolling Virginia cornfields.  The humidity of the Tidewater summer, has  driven us out.  It’s  the perfect opportunity to drive fast with the ragtop roof of my beat up 1960 Impala pulled down.  It was as unlovely as me, with just primer on the hood, the fin-tailed beast was the only car I could afford.  As we pass through the corn field road, dust blows up behind us into the dulled light of dusk, I look next to me and see her long straight black hair billowing back.  She released it from the conventional hair band that she had on while spending the day with her grandmother.  Though her features were serious, she had the look of one just freed from prison.  I suddenly realize that while my car was no longer renown, it had a purpose and she joined me in the emancipation it provides.

 

Her brown eyes were so dark that it was difficult to discern the pupils especially when she gazed with the sleepy look she gave me.  We moved from the corn fields to the forest roads of Gloucester where the woods were so thick as to provide a wealth of privacy. From the moment  she climbed into the front seat, she  morphed from the sweet Virginia southern belle that her Grandparents loved bringing to their beautiful York River shore home in Clay Bank, into the audacious and uninhibited 18 year old she wanted to be.Like Grace Slick on my recent record purchase, she exuded provocation and non conformity.

 

I was just bored: bored with my life, bored with being an outcast, bored with the eyes that wondered why I wasn’t enlisted, bored with the casualty counts that Walter Cronkite reticently reported every night.  She was bored with her own life and the expectations that were apparently saddled onto a Virginia debutante.  By the time we were into the woods, she had gotten her brassiere off, hair loosed, and shed her jeans and deck shoes, so that she could recline and hang her bare feet outside the car.   I tried to focus on the road, though my attention was turned to her nearly perfect breasts that, freed from the bra’s confines, nonetheless still jutted firm and upward.  Her bikini underwear seemed to disappear into the curvy folds of her thighs, which looked more voluptuous in that position.

Clay Bank was no more than a scattering of houses that pressed up against the north bank of the York River with a grand total of 40 or 50 people in residence there, swelling to 60 or 70 in the summer as the riverside rentals filled.  I had seen her past summers and when we finally struck up conversation, there seemed to be gravity in every word we spoke though we never really knew each other.  It was a mystery as to what even brought us together. We became friendly out of necessity.

 

When she prompted me to take her for the drive to our destination,  I should have been surprised to be in her sensual company. The casual ease that she asked never made me feel like she was out of my league.  I didn’t have to come up with a campaign for wooing her. There were no awkward moments mounting her in the spacious back seat, the request she made before we left, still sweetly resonating on my memory.

 

“Will you take me some place and fuck me?”

~~~

Our lives that summer were reduced to the lowest common denominator: our orgasms and our quest to achieve them.  It was like we were convinced that if we could come better than the previous time, we could ascend a summit of pleasure so rarefied that we might die from falling off that last precipice.

At the drive in, she would straddle me, wearing the polyester mini skirt she had shopped with her grandmother in, filling the car with her repeated exclamation that fogged the window. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!”

 

She reciprocated with her mouth often and with impromptu; driving around, ducking behind a tree next to the road, public restrooms.  I was never sure when the delight of the next lightning strike of pleasure would come.

 

It became our nightly ritual.  Her grandparents were convinced that I was a good, harmless boy. They had known of me for a while so I seemed safe to them.  The woods and the drive-in were frequent destinations.  However, as our urgency increased, we would resort to much more high risk locations to fuck.  A couple of times we found an alley in Gloucester that was fairly reliable for its infrequency of traffic, though a barfly from the building we were fucking behind, stumbled out and paused for a moment to watch.  Occasionally, we stole away into a backroom at the local library but only on the nights that it was open late.  Every night, was a new pursuit of the lightning.

 

What we had was not love.  It was more immediate and demanding, and we used each other’s body as implements to achieve our single-minded goal. Because of our insatiable sexual heat, neither of us was put off by the obvious selfish motives we both came to our couplings with.  Paradoxically, what we did seemed a supreme act of selfless generosity since both of us knew that only in fully giving ourselves over were we going to find the thunder that followed the lightning.

~~~

My wife only shifted slightly but the distant sound of a storm brewing woke me, the rumbling arching through the house as if we lived under a bowling alley.  There was a distant flash of lightning.  One one thousand; two one thousand; three one thousand.  There was another cacophony of thunder, sounding distant and then seeming to move closer.  Three miles away.  I only woke when the thunder caused the storm windows to shudder.  I got up and went into the kitchen, never completely over my childhood fear of lightning strikes and the sudden claps of thunder it produced.  I hummed the song that I always did every time a storm comes on.  In my head, the Four Seasons’ Sherry was in perfect pitch.

She had told me one night in the back seat as we were watching a summer squall build up, that it was her favorite song because it had her name in it.  She couldn’t tell everyone that she liked it though because it wasn’t hip or cool that summer.  That was an uncommon, dark summer and the music was angry, psychedelic, and dystopian.  Sherry was  a chaste song in comparison.  It was an irony that we smiled at between bouts of fucking.

 

Like me, she was married now.  Ironically, she wound up marrying a Naval officer, a hero of the Vietnam War, and a pastor. Before moving back to my bed, I stood at the bedroom’s threshold and stared at my wife sleeping.

I was working two jobs and our kids needed orthodontics.  My wife and I were well intentioned but quarreled often.  That part of life, the struggle to provide, to love, to lead, seemed never ending.  Everything could be lost if I didn’t fulfill the role I’d assumed to have drawn.

 

It was funny; those nights in the woods, naked in the backseat with Sherry, seemed to be over before they began.  I came out of that summer irrevocably changed.  However, if asked to elaborate, the elements of that transition would escape me.  I lay back down and, with bittersweet fondness, wish that I could feel the lightning again.  But the lightning comes in the heat of the summer.  Now Autumn was upon me and my sweet wife.  It was a dry season with more temperate weather, not conducive to the violent nature of lightning.  The lightning is gone from my life and from Sherry’s.  The only thing left was the echo of the thunder long since resounded.

My New Novel

While it may not cater to the specific tastes of those who value this blog, I did want to make known and share the prologue of my latest project called The Lamentable Life of Jonathan Curse.  The prologue shows the people who have been affected by the protagonist as they gather after his funeral.  What follows is the story of a boy with an amazing talent that he misuses for years until he has a redemption of the heart.  He only learns that his gift is no less a burden even when purposed for good. Below is the prologue:

The Lamentable Life of Jonathan Curse

Prologue

There were five of us in the room.  I wished that I didn’t know why we were there but I saw it in their eyes; the guilt, the self loathing, the lack of control, the secrets.  I didn’t admit it just as they weren’t willing to come forward with their own complicity.  Complicity with what?  Even sequestered together, we all knew that Jonathan Warren Curse was the focal point of our being brought together.  That unspoken acknowledgement caused my heart to speed up and my breath to shallow.  I was sure that their tongues tasted like tin as well.

 

We were all at the funeral.  We could have watched it on television but we were inexorably drawn to the viewing and the procession.  While the masses saw his funeral as an earmark in history, we just wanted… needed… to be near him one last time.  Even as I was clenched inside with ambivalence, having been summoned to the room with four other victims.  I couldn’t call myself anything else.  Even though I felt my own will make all the choices I made in regards to Jonny, I grew to understand that it wasn’t my responsibility anymore.  He told me so.  It didn’t change anything.  I thought about him everyday, especially in those last years, his visage regaling the television so thoroughly.  I obsessed about him because he asked me to.  People would say I was in love with him.  I knew it was more than that.  My husband knew it too, every time that we made love that my distant eyes were remembering him; that every time I was climaxing, I was reenacting the times that Jonny was inside me.

 

I couldn’t imagine that was what brought the odd group together.  There were two men and two women.  We were all similarly aged, one a tired black woman, poorly dressed and clearly the oldest in the room.  She was once a full bodied woman but her frame had lost both its musculature and vitality.  Her face was sad and drawn as I imagined mine looked.  In that thought, I felt a kindredness.  I tried to catch her eye to see how common our experience was, but she seemed almost lost in thought as one might find a resident of a convalescent home littering its halls.

 

The second woman was my age.  Her countenance was clear to me even in its conflict.  Dark haired and obviously wealthy, with her Louis Vuitton bag and Jimmy Choo heels.  Her guise was well considered and controlled.  Still, I could sense a malevolence that resonated from her.  I also felt like she was relieved in no small measure that Jonny was dead.  There was a smugness in her side of the eye glimpses, measuring us with superiority.

 

There were two men there.  One was bulky and somber-eyed, though his face wasn’t fallen from grief.  He was dressed like a bodyguard and everything about him suggested that he was a serious man, not to be trifled with.  He was thick and working on being overweight yet still intimidating.  He instinctively measured each person in the room.  Was he trying decide who was a threat and who was an ally?

 

The other man was more obviously showing our common emotion.  Nearly as recognizable as Jonny was, I knew that he was a New York City celebrity from his youth.  Even in his fifties, he was still diabolically handsome.  He could easily pass for someone in his late thirties, only a little grey flecks that filtered from his temples and his goatee.  Steely grey eyes were bathed in worry and shame.  I wondered why he was here.

 

Our meeting room was as inhospitable as one would expect for an interrogation room, causing my anxiety to to grow exponentially.

Still there was one person missing.  I knew she would come, but there was a certain amount of naivete in some of my compatriots in the room.  Of all the people in the world, she knew Jonathan Warren Curse perhaps better than any soul on earth; even me.  So when she entered the room with her escorts, it shouldn’t have shook me as it did.  We all rose in uncomfortable unison to give her the respect her position demanded.  We all knew that she was every bit as popular as her husband, even as a widow.  She was Marguarite Phillips-Curse, the First Lady of the United States.

Excerpt: The Conscription of Elisha Vandermey

I have long considered the life where a submissive girl enters into a preexisting Domestic Discipline relationship which becomes a love relationship for the three persons involved.  I have had some experience in this area and know that it is full of emotional landmines. Having said this, I am not saying that such a relationship couldn’t be both valid and fruitful.  That is what I am trying to capture in this novella.  Below find an excerpt of how the relationship began and stay tuned for publication news to see how it turns out.

~~~~

Chapter One:  The Job Posting

 

It was still warm in the Hudson Valley and there were a few weeks left before the cavalcade of colors began on the trees of Autumn.  My second year at Bard was going to be arduous because I had little desire to study.  I wanted to write and that was it.  I didn’t want to go to class.  I knew that I was a good writer and that I could accomplish what I wanted in life without getting an MFA at a prestigious Eastern school.

I didn’t want to go home to my Aunt, who was now living off of the disaster my life had become over the last four years.  It wasn’t that she was a bad lady.  I liked her well enough.  It was just that she didn’t belong in the role of my guardian.  I appreciated her stepping up to it, even if she had ulterior motives that I didn’t begrudge her for.

Besides, I really liked college life.  I liked the area.  I liked visiting Manhattan on the weekends, attending local artistic events, being involved in the pretentious writers community in Dutchess and Westchester Counties, being guilty of blatant voyeurism with my roommate and her many lovers she would sneak into our dorm.  These were the things that made college fun.  Leisure was my goal for my time at Bard.

Gillian and I had finally gotten relatively settled into our dorm.  I was glad that we could continue to be roommates.  Both of us came from more modest backgrounds than our classmates at America’s most expensive college.  So it was true to form that our dorm room was totally bohemian in nature.  I rebelled most against the trappings of affluence.  Gillian still had some nice clothes for our trips into the city and she spent a lot of money at Sach’s.  My wardrobe was composed from flea markets and the Goodwill outlets.  I was more comfortable being non-descript than Gillian..

Our room was accordingly piecemeal.  I built a loft bunk over my desk made of the simplest wood, totally unfinished.  Gillian’s side of the room was dominated by the a queen-size mattress and box spring laying on the floor.  She had made a nightstand out of a milk crate, and created a desk out of 4 more and a plank that she found at a garage sale in Red Hook.  We covered our walls with whatever excited us at the moment, never taking anything down.  After a full year, our walls began to look like the placard covered telephone poles near the campus.  There was always a pile of laundry that was overflowing out of an insufficiently small basket.

It was Saturday and the windows on our third floor room were open.  I was sitting up in my bed in my underwear in response to the lingering humidity of the late summer.  A squirrel, large, grey and fluffy made his way down the electricity wire to the ledge of our windows, moving in staccato quick motions.  It looked in the opening considering the safety of passage and then seemed to notice me sitting still with my laptop in the corner of my bed.  I cocked my head at the animal and we shared a moment before it moved off to nut gather.

I was bored.  Gillian was having a beach escapade without me.  I was a little tired because I feigned sleep the night before to watch Gillian and her latest trick miserably fail at being quiet during an extended session of sex.  Living vicariously through her sex life has been more than sufficient to fuel my need for release.  Masturbation was mode of sexual expression and we always kept bananas in our room, so my lover was always available.

dorm

This afternoon, I was scrolling through craigslist.  I needed to work because last year there were several weeks where all I was eating was corn flakes and ramen.  Besides,  I enjoyed picking up little freelance writing jobs listed in the gigs section.  That afternoon, I was scrolling idly,  moving into the other gig categories when I saw the ad.

Continue reading Excerpt: The Conscription of Elisha Vandermey

Margie and Blair’s Fall Boot Camp (Warning Explicit Content)

As many of our friends know, as well as many of our readers, Margie and I have been practicing Domestic Discipline Boot Camps for the last three and half years.  This was mostly from reading about them from Chelsea and Clint at LearningDD.com.  Using their experience as a loose template we have been doing them twice a year, faithfully; one in the late Spring and this one that occurs in late Fall.  Both of us are going to give our input about how we feel about them, because we believe that this boot camp was particularly epic and has moved us to another, much needed, level in our Domestic Discipline experience.

One of the things any DD couple struggles with is consistency.  Ironically, despite the fact that boot camps are supposed to help that (which they do and have done), we discovered that our boot camps themselves were becoming less consistent.  We have loved so much the connecting and the love and the joy of the bootcamps that they have become retreats.  Yes we get some good work done, but we felt like we were getting into a rut after our 6th one in May.

We are an experienced couple in DD, so much so that we run a spanking therapy ministry and give talks about our experience with others.  Having said that, we looked at our most recent experience and realized that both of us were afraid to move forward.  While we love Clint and Chelsea and what they do and suggest, we had become too dependent on their advice and our boot camps lacked the intensity they had the first year that we did them.

So in the weeks leading up to this one, we both agreed that we needed to make some radical changes in how we did our Boot Camps.

Hi, this is Margie.  Sir wanted me to comment on what was far and away the toughest, most intense Boot Camp that we have ever done.   Our Boot Camps center around four themes.  All of them are distinct and yet all of them are interwoven.  They are Our Relationship with God, our family life (including a reexamining of the house rules for me and the kids), Sir and I’s sex life, and our DD lifestyle.  Without question, these are the four most important facets of our life and we don’t shrink from them.

praying before a spanking

I am 33 years old and Sir is 40.  Our beliefs, while fairly cemented in our faith in God, have been colored by the ministries we have been involved in and the expectations churches, pastors and denominations have put on us.  Ironically, one of the most Christian things we do, spank as a loving form of family life, is completely shunned by the majority of the Evangelical community.  We aren’t bitter about it, but there were truths that came out at our Boot Camp that were as much shocking as they were liberating to us.  We don’t expect other Christians to even believe what our theology is.  God knows our hearts and He loves us even if we are wrong.  He knows that we are pursuing Him in what we do.

It is important because on this boot camp we prayed and felt released to explore things that wouldn’t necessarily be embraced by the greater Christian community.  These were things that were directly affect the other three facets of our life… sex, family rules, and spanking.

  Continue reading Margie and Blair’s Fall Boot Camp (Warning Explicit Content)