Our real BDSM wedding-night: the bay

Because of our commitment to leading a spiritual life, of a traditional (though of course not at all in the usual sense!) Christian kind, Charles and I (mostly I) decided that our "real" wedding-night, despite having in an important sense actually occurred more than a year before, that fateful afternoon and evening at the Waldorf, would, on or around our real wedding-day, nevertheless have to be sacramental in some way. It's not that we believed that at our wedding God was going to come down and do something magic that made us one flesh--really, we'd been one flesh for quite a while by that time--but having all our family and friends come together to be happy about our one-fleshiness had its own, real magic, and we wanted to honor that in our beautiful suite at the Ritz on Maui.  . . .

For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.

Our real BDSM wedding

It was time, soon enough, for our "real" wedding.

As you may have noticed, Charles and I, individually and together, have made the decision that despite our erotic proclivities and the way such proclivities are usually regarded by the people most people associate with the word "Christian," our hereditary Christianity is important to us. Charles was more than happy to leave the Methodism of his childhood and adopt a (shall we say?) stricter regime--which is how we ended up at St. Thomas Fifth Avenue the Sunday he proposed to me. . . .

For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.

Is make-up sex hotter for submissives?

So if I'd said "Fuck you" and refused to follow his ironically conventional, totally kinky script for make-up sex that night?

I don't know. The trouble is that despite my superficial doubts, I did know (in my soul, or something) that he loved me for the right reasons, and I knew that I loved him for the right reasons, and that the BDSM flowed from that, and that the love wasn't some illusory downstream effect of the BDSM. So the thought-experiment doesn't even make sense. Even if he'd gone along with my script and given me the spanking of my life--let's say, just for fun, that he'd brought out a riding crop, or a dogwhip, or something (see Emily and the Paradise-Step of Prophettown if you're looking for that kind of thing), and he'd got carried away and opened some horrendous bleeding laceration, and we'd spent the end of the night in the emergency room trying to explain why my ass was covered with bloody welts--we would have ended up at the altar, though perhaps with a few things less completely resolved. . . .

For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.

Riding St. George, as a punishment (one of the spanking stories)

He sat down next to me on the bench, and took me into his arms.

"You're an asshole," I said, quietly and precisely, fighting his embrace half-heartedly, but allowing him to gather me in and put my head on his chest, my cheek against the wool of his pea-coat (it must have been December?).

"I know," he replied. "I called my Dad and said he should be ashamed of himself for giving us oil stock."

"No."

"Yes."

"Ohmygodfuckyou," I said, and burst into tears again. "I love you so much." . . .

For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.

Anal blender?

The absolute core of the problem was that I was worried that maybe I didn't even know whether when he said "Of course I don't think of you that way" (in response to me screaming "That's right--that's right--I'm a hysterical female tree-hugger--there's no reason to care that our world is going to Hell in a handbasket you privileged fuck! You just want me to forget about my ethics and take whatever you and your family are kind enough to give me!") he was lying, or, maybe worse, telling the truth but unable to realize that subconsciously he did think of me as a subservient wife, and the whole fucking me in the ass when I demanded that he fuck me in the ass thing was a sham to cover over an icky traditional man from an icky traditional family. . . .

For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.

Fighting, BDSM style

To be sure, even for two 25 year olds as erotically compatible as we were, the course of true love never did run smooth. If I'm going to get to the bottom (heh) of this thing I call love, I can't leave the fights out of it.

Ten years later, it's impossible to remember what our actual first fight was about, but I'll pretend that it was the one about the trust-fund, since that's the one that's stuck in my memory as the first moment (and, of course, there have been many--we wouldn't be a real couple if there hadn't) I thought I might have made a mistake in pursuing my erotic satisfaction at practically all cost.

Like I've said, Charles' family is wealthier than mine. They're not crazy-rich by Greenwich or New York standards, but they're crazy-rich by practically any other standard. That is, no helicopters, but a couple boats, one of them reasonably big. No house in Palm Beach, but houses on the Vineyard and in Vermont. . . .

For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.

Panty check (one of the spanking stories)

After Charles returned around 4 on Friday, I would usually--for we did vary this sometimes, and if I'd had a difficult week I would sometimes do whatever it took to make him spank me, since sometimes I just need it, for myself--stand him in front of his throne and respectfully and ceremonially undo his belt, and unzip his zipper, and lower first his jeans, then his boxers, to his feet. He confesses that despite the basic ridiculousness of having a third-year law student with more earning potential than any Latin teacher in the universe do this, it was in itself, before I had even touched his cock, one of the biggest turn-ons he had ever known. The deep groan he invariably let out when I took him all the way to the back of my throat seems to me to confirm the truth of the testimony. . . .

For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.

D/s play time

So Friday afternoon to Sunday morning was our play-time. 

When I got home from class at around 3pm Friday, I went to my room (though we were an engaged couple sharing an apartment, it was important to our domestic-disciplinary regime, as well as useful for some of our ageplay scenarios, that I should have my own room) and ceremonially removed whatever I was wearing. I say "ceremonially" because I delighted in treating it as a ceremony, playing at reluctance, playing at shame, taking off each article and laying it in its place and thinking about what taking it off meant, about the way I was making myself ready for Charles to use me. 

 . . .

For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.

Pre-marital domestic discipline

As summer turned to fall, and we both got ready to return to a more realistic academic existence, we agreed on a sort of baseline version of domestic discipline for a top and a bottom who can't get enough of BDSM but who need to finish post-graduate degrees at the same time they're living out their thrilling BDSM fantasies.

I was allowed to wear panties to class, and to the library. Despite the violation of strict Réageanism, within whose confines the sub's cunt and bottomhole must be available for use at all times without exception, I reluctantly realized that the distraction involved in constantly being reminded (which is of course what it's all about, for O) of that availability, and the potential for even more distracting embarrassment as a consequence of that being reminded (friends noticing that the seat I've just gotten up from is wet, for example, because, having been reminded of my availability, I've been unable to keep myself from thinking about what use Charles might want to make of me later), and the worry about that potential embarrassment, all just made the pure Réagean practice impracticable for someone who needed to concentrate on finishing law school. . . .

For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.