How it really happened was like this.
EMILY: Ugh. These whitepapers are just killing me. I may be losing my love of writing.
CHARLES: Hmm. Sounds like you need to do some fun writing, for variety.
EMILY: (gets a notion and arches her eyebrow) Like what?
CHARLES: (catching on, up for it) Like the salacious story you should have written for me a long time ago.
EMILY: I'm sorry, Sir, I don't know what story you mean.
CHARLES: My goodness, Emily. Surely it should go without saying that you are to devote your skills to my needs. You write very well, and I like to read salacious stories. So write one for me, right now, or prepare yourself for a spanking. . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.
I'm just going to let fantasy-Emily pick this right back up.
After Charles had had my bottom in the disciplinary style he always used when he took it after a whipping, bestriding me and from time to time putting his hand on the back of my head to remind me I was being mastered, he took me in his arms at last and stroked my punished cheeks tenderly to let me know my session was over.
"Now, sweetheart, what did you want to tell me?"
I answered, timidly, "Sir, I think if I'm ever going to be a good girl, I need to understand my wantonness."
"That's right, darling. That's why I have you in training." . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.
So probably the next thing worth mentioning is the shape of our early married lives, after I'd graduated and Charles had started teaching again, and we'd moved, yes, back to Greenwich. These were the days of the drawer, as depicted in Emily, Ravished by Porn. They soon also became the days of my own first erotic writings.
I had decided not to try for a corporate job; my goal was to work for a foundation that gave grants to human rights NGO's, and Greenwich was a practically ideal place to start looking, in addition to being a place where I now had a great many wealthy contacts through my new parents-in-law.
I was at home writing white-paperish sorts of things just to have something to say at any interview I might get. I refused to go shopping (really shopping, I mean: clothes, shoes, furniture) more than once a week, though Charles was always telling me that I was being ridiculous and depriving myself of enjoyment for no reason. Commanding me to go shopping, under penalty of the paddle, was outside his brief, though, as master. . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.
(I don't usually do this, but this one works best if you begin at the beginning, here. Then read this, this, this, this, and this--and then come back for the finale! I realize it's vain, but this post is the end of a sequence, and I want you, dear reader, to have all the hotness.)
"Get that ass up, girl," my husband said, in his most dominant tone, the voice that seems to work a wire running straight from my ears to my pussy. Of course, tied as I was, I couldn't obey him the way I usually did in bed at home, but that was the point--my master was giving me a command he knew I couldn't obey. He yanked my hips up, roughly, and rearranged the pillows under me, to get my bottom to the angle at which he liked to fuck it. "Don't you dare rub that slutty cunt against these pillows, wife," he growled. "Don't think that there won't be time between your butt-fuckings for some good old-fashioned domestic discipline, if you need it." . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.
I'm sorely tempted to do a Princess Bride thing here: "In the history of the world, there have been many great butt-fuckings, but this butt-fucking surpassed them all."
It was indeed unique in our experience because of the leisurely way he went about it. Having me tied to the bed seemed to give Charles a certain freedom to take his time. To my surprise, this freedom resulted in a great deal of attention being paid to arousing me--not, it turned out, for my benefit, but for his own; even better, according to the paradox of submission.
He nuzzled my pussy where it lay, tied over the pillows, his to enjoy. He tormented me with pleasure. He knew my body's language so well now that I had no chance of sneaking an orgasm by him: when he felt my thighs start to clench the way they always do, he suddenly stopped, and drew back his head. . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.
He managed to get me through the door without slamming my head into anything, and then turned around so that I, still over his shoulder, could see what he had done to prepare. In the room, on the low table in front of the couch in the little sitting area, there was an enormous spread of sushi.
"Oh, Charles," I said, thinking of our first date, and desperate for some hamachi.
But he threw me on the bed, over pre-laid pillows, where I could see there was some honest-to-god nylon cord awaiting me. I had a sudden urge to use the safeword, so badly did I want that hamachi. He's not an expert with ropes, but before too long my wrists were bound out before me and my ankles to the corners of the foot of the bed. . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.
I giggled for a moment at the thought of going for long without an orgasm, given how horny I was--it seemed like such a tall order. In fact I had almost come right that moment, at the sound of "Mrs. Smith," combined with the aftershocks from our brief ocean-fuck, and I was feeling giddy at the thought of what he had planned for me.
He became serious, even ritual. "I have claimed your womb, now, Mrs. Charles Smith" (again I nearly swooned at the erotic negation in the old-fashioned phraseology) "but before this night is over I am going to claim you completely. I was fortunate to find you here in the water before some other man saw your wantonness and realized that it meant you were for anyone who wanted a slut to use; now you shall come with me, and I will be the one to use you. I shall bring you to my bed and you shall serve me there." . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.
I was forbidden to turn around, forbidden to call out to the approaching stranger. I was Brünnhilde, on her rock, and the fearless hero had penetrated my wall of fire--soon to penetrate much more than that. I was Eve, having tasted the forbidden fruit, knowing my sin and awaiting my partner in it; I was Mary, afraid of Gabriel, wondering what manner of salutation his might be. In those moments, hearing the water move around the stranger's powerful legs, I was a virgin again.
When his hand came across my mouth, I could not cry out, so firm was his stifling grasp, but I shuddered as deeply as I think it's possible for a person to shudder, and lost my balance, and fell back against him. He was naked himself, I realized, and his cock, enormous and hard, was against my back. His other hand was arrogantly between my thighs, under the water, moving possessively and caressingly, making me whimper into the hand across my mouth. . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.
