Fic: Beshrew My Heart
So, I just committed porn. BDSM porn. Shakespearean BDSM porn.
Be warned.
The original prompt was this one, from the Obscure & British fest again:
Shakespea-ReTold, Taming of the Shrew, Katherine/Petruchio, secretary kink
I'm not familiar with Shakespea-ReTold, which is apparently a fully modern-era version of four of the plays. But the prompt got its claws into me (very nice claws, too), and I am familiar with Shakespeare (and with BDSM), so . . . there's also a movie that's pretty well-known amongst kinksters, titled Secretary, which can be cited as an influence here.
So, TAKE THE WARNINGS SERIOUSLY HERE.
Herein be: BDSM (consensual), hard-core wordplay, heavy puns, double entendre and innuendo, nudity, spanking, impact play, mild humiliation play, roleplay, sexual situations
The actual rating is probably PG-13. Shakespeare makes it wonderfully easy to be smutty without being graphic!
Beshrew My Heart
Enter Petruchio and Katherina, bearing luggage.
Petruchio.
Home sweet home at last!
Our travels finished, fortunes doubly made,
And sweet domestic normalcy awaits.
They both double over with hysterical laughter.
Katherina.
Didst see the look upon my sister’s face
When I bade her to meeken up
And kiss her puling husband’s flabby arse?
Petr.
I truly thought her goggling eyes would burst.
A masterful performance, Kate my dear.
But now, I hope, we’ll turn our double backs
On all such loathsome posturings and airs
And turn back to our rightful, best-loved ways.
How best shall we begin?
Kath.
Fetch my writing-case; I’ll coin some fresh advice.
She considers.
I’ll bid Bianca chew her husband’s meat
Lest he may crack a tooth.
Petr.
Brings Kate’s writing-case.
Has her husband any meat to chew?
Kath.
I fancy he has some old sausage, stuff’d in his drawer.
Petr.
You fancy his sausage?
Kath.
I fancy it stuff’d. And mounted for a trophy. Fie on thee! She cuffs him.
Thy sausage I’ll mount, and make fine stuff of it.
He sits at the desk, prepares a pen and makes ready to write.
Kath. [dictates]
‘My dear Bianca’ - what’s this? She looks over his shoulder.
Call you that a letter? Tis a fright, a fatch,
A most blighted, botched and bungled blot. She cuffs him again at each word.
Petr.
Mistress, I but do my best.
Kath.
Mistress? I’ll mistress thee. Methought you were a secretary.
For tuppence I’ll fold and spindle thee. She yanks his hair.
Petr.
O, I am mutilated!
Kath.
First you scrawl above thy station, now you run before the event.
Mutilation? ‘Tis for dessert, and we are only at the appetizer.
She considers him, shaking her head in disapproval.
Petruchio, that shirt becomes you not:
Off with that offal. Throw it underfoot.
He does so.
Faith, now what is this? Hast cast thy laundry on the floor
Like some slattern? On thy fours and pick it up.
Petruchio goes to pick up the shirt.
With thy teeth.
As he does so, she yanks down his breeches.
I say, it is a moon that shines so bright.
She spanks him hard. He yelps.
Indeed, it is the fine round moon full-swell’d, and the dogs howl at it.
She spanks more. His yells are muffled by the shirt in his teeth.
Up, sirrah, and look to thy Ps and Qs.
Petr.
I’d sooner look to thy Ts and As. Or Bs and Cs. He stands up, kicks his clothes aside and leers at her.
Kath.
Fie, thy letters are marr’d in every stroke.
Must I chastise thee further?
Lay thy erring hands flat on the desk. Move them not!
Cast thine eyes close upon thy scrawls, and consider how better to form them.
He stoops over the desk and places his hands flat on its surface. She takes the quill from his hand and tickles his nose. He sneezes.
Kath.
Fie, hast caught a cold?
Petr.
Nay, I have caught a wasp, and dread its sting.
Kath.
Recall you where the wasp doth wear its sting? In its tail.
She produces a singletail whip from inside the writing-case.
Now sir, as promised: thy tongue on my tail.
She holds the whip as he kisses and licks it.
Ho, dog, thou waggest thy tongue right well.
Petr.
Verily, I am but a wag. He waggles his ass.
Kath.
Thou art but a bitch.
Does my tail wag thy dog?
She smacks his ass lightly with the whip. He yelps.
Fie, what howling!
Petr.
I am naught but a hound dog.
Whither is thy cat?
Kath.
‘Tis in the toy chest. Shall the cat chase thee, dog?
List, and you may hear it waving its nine tails.
Petr.
Must I list them? I know not their names.
Kath.
What, my secretary forgets the names of my boon companions?
Must I refresh your memory?
She brandishes a cat o’ nine tails.
Nine names, mind you! Tell them out!
She flogs him. He gasps out a name with each blow.
Petr.
Ow! - that’s Tom, and - ow! - Tib - and - ow!! - Gyb - OW!
Kath.
Thou speakest well; flag not.
Petr.
Thy cat speaks loudly. It must be Glib.
Kath.
Hast held thy count?
Petr.
Yea, four cats. Pray continue, mistress, ere I have kittens.
Ow - Moggy - and ow! - um - Mopsy - mm -
Kath.
Ah, have I found the sweet spot?
Petr.
Mistress, lightning strikes not in one place, though storms may rage
and bruisèd clouds show where the bolt has struck.
Why must thou?
Kath.
‘Tis the same damned spot, say you? Another blow.
Petr.
Ow!! Out, damned spot!
Kath.
Name it!
Petr.
That’s Greymalkin - a foul witch’s cat, indeed. Another blow.
A happy blow! It must be Felix.
Eight cats are counted, mistress.
Kath.
That’s one more than St. Ives. A final blow.
Petr.
A kingly blow; that’s Leo. I mark him well.
Kath.
He marks thee well. There shall be a storm of bruises on the morrow. She pats his ass.
Thou hast profited well by thy good exercise.
She reaches around him from behind and grasps firmly.
Petr. [gasping]
No profit grows where is no pleasure taken.
An it please you, I’ll be whip’d at the high cross every morning.
Kath. [squeezing]
Chastisement suits thee well. E’en now thou leap’st out of thyself for joy.
Petr. [shuddering]
Both our inventions meet and jump in one.
Kath. [murmurs into his ear]
My hand is ready. May it do you ease.
~ fin ~
I'll probably put together some author's notes for the purpose, but for now -- anyone who wants to play What's My Line in the comments, you get a Shiny Point for identifying the actual lines (some from The Taming of the Shrew, some from other plays) that I used and abused in this effort.
Be warned.
The original prompt was this one, from the Obscure & British fest again:
Shakespea-ReTold, Taming of the Shrew, Katherine/Petruchio, secretary kink
I'm not familiar with Shakespea-ReTold, which is apparently a fully modern-era version of four of the plays. But the prompt got its claws into me (very nice claws, too), and I am familiar with Shakespeare (and with BDSM), so . . . there's also a movie that's pretty well-known amongst kinksters, titled Secretary, which can be cited as an influence here.
So, TAKE THE WARNINGS SERIOUSLY HERE.
Herein be: BDSM (consensual), hard-core wordplay, heavy puns, double entendre and innuendo, nudity, spanking, impact play, mild humiliation play, roleplay, sexual situations
The actual rating is probably PG-13. Shakespeare makes it wonderfully easy to be smutty without being graphic!
Beshrew My Heart
Enter Petruchio and Katherina, bearing luggage.
Petruchio.
Home sweet home at last!
Our travels finished, fortunes doubly made,
And sweet domestic normalcy awaits.
They both double over with hysterical laughter.
Katherina.
Didst see the look upon my sister’s face
When I bade her to meeken up
And kiss her puling husband’s flabby arse?
Petr.
I truly thought her goggling eyes would burst.
A masterful performance, Kate my dear.
But now, I hope, we’ll turn our double backs
On all such loathsome posturings and airs
And turn back to our rightful, best-loved ways.
How best shall we begin?
Kath.
Fetch my writing-case; I’ll coin some fresh advice.
She considers.
I’ll bid Bianca chew her husband’s meat
Lest he may crack a tooth.
Petr.
Brings Kate’s writing-case.
Has her husband any meat to chew?
Kath.
I fancy he has some old sausage, stuff’d in his drawer.
Petr.
You fancy his sausage?
Kath.
I fancy it stuff’d. And mounted for a trophy. Fie on thee! She cuffs him.
Thy sausage I’ll mount, and make fine stuff of it.
He sits at the desk, prepares a pen and makes ready to write.
Kath. [dictates]
‘My dear Bianca’ - what’s this? She looks over his shoulder.
Call you that a letter? Tis a fright, a fatch,
A most blighted, botched and bungled blot. She cuffs him again at each word.
Petr.
Mistress, I but do my best.
Kath.
Mistress? I’ll mistress thee. Methought you were a secretary.
For tuppence I’ll fold and spindle thee. She yanks his hair.
Petr.
O, I am mutilated!
Kath.
First you scrawl above thy station, now you run before the event.
Mutilation? ‘Tis for dessert, and we are only at the appetizer.
She considers him, shaking her head in disapproval.
Petruchio, that shirt becomes you not:
Off with that offal. Throw it underfoot.
He does so.
Faith, now what is this? Hast cast thy laundry on the floor
Like some slattern? On thy fours and pick it up.
Petruchio goes to pick up the shirt.
With thy teeth.
As he does so, she yanks down his breeches.
I say, it is a moon that shines so bright.
She spanks him hard. He yelps.
Indeed, it is the fine round moon full-swell’d, and the dogs howl at it.
She spanks more. His yells are muffled by the shirt in his teeth.
Up, sirrah, and look to thy Ps and Qs.
Petr.
I’d sooner look to thy Ts and As. Or Bs and Cs. He stands up, kicks his clothes aside and leers at her.
Kath.
Fie, thy letters are marr’d in every stroke.
Must I chastise thee further?
Lay thy erring hands flat on the desk. Move them not!
Cast thine eyes close upon thy scrawls, and consider how better to form them.
He stoops over the desk and places his hands flat on its surface. She takes the quill from his hand and tickles his nose. He sneezes.
Kath.
Fie, hast caught a cold?
Petr.
Nay, I have caught a wasp, and dread its sting.
Kath.
Recall you where the wasp doth wear its sting? In its tail.
She produces a singletail whip from inside the writing-case.
Now sir, as promised: thy tongue on my tail.
She holds the whip as he kisses and licks it.
Ho, dog, thou waggest thy tongue right well.
Petr.
Verily, I am but a wag. He waggles his ass.
Kath.
Thou art but a bitch.
Does my tail wag thy dog?
She smacks his ass lightly with the whip. He yelps.
Fie, what howling!
Petr.
I am naught but a hound dog.
Whither is thy cat?
Kath.
‘Tis in the toy chest. Shall the cat chase thee, dog?
List, and you may hear it waving its nine tails.
Petr.
Must I list them? I know not their names.
Kath.
What, my secretary forgets the names of my boon companions?
Must I refresh your memory?
She brandishes a cat o’ nine tails.
Nine names, mind you! Tell them out!
She flogs him. He gasps out a name with each blow.
Petr.
Ow! - that’s Tom, and - ow! - Tib - and - ow!! - Gyb - OW!
Kath.
Thou speakest well; flag not.
Petr.
Thy cat speaks loudly. It must be Glib.
Kath.
Hast held thy count?
Petr.
Yea, four cats. Pray continue, mistress, ere I have kittens.
Ow - Moggy - and ow! - um - Mopsy - mm -
Kath.
Ah, have I found the sweet spot?
Petr.
Mistress, lightning strikes not in one place, though storms may rage
and bruisèd clouds show where the bolt has struck.
Why must thou?
Kath.
‘Tis the same damned spot, say you? Another blow.
Petr.
Ow!! Out, damned spot!
Kath.
Name it!
Petr.
That’s Greymalkin - a foul witch’s cat, indeed. Another blow.
A happy blow! It must be Felix.
Eight cats are counted, mistress.
Kath.
That’s one more than St. Ives. A final blow.
Petr.
A kingly blow; that’s Leo. I mark him well.
Kath.
He marks thee well. There shall be a storm of bruises on the morrow. She pats his ass.
Thou hast profited well by thy good exercise.
She reaches around him from behind and grasps firmly.
Petr. [gasping]
No profit grows where is no pleasure taken.
An it please you, I’ll be whip’d at the high cross every morning.
Kath. [squeezing]
Chastisement suits thee well. E’en now thou leap’st out of thyself for joy.
Petr. [shuddering]
Both our inventions meet and jump in one.
Kath. [murmurs into his ear]
My hand is ready. May it do you ease.
~ fin ~
I'll probably put together some author's notes for the purpose, but for now -- anyone who wants to play What's My Line in the comments, you get a Shiny Point for identifying the actual lines (some from The Taming of the Shrew, some from other plays) that I used and abused in this effort.