(Parts of this post appear in Emily's Naughty Classmate. I hope that makes you want to buy that book!)
Then. Then there was "Sarah." I've spent a really long time thinking about why I became fixated on her in the time just around my wedding. She was my maid of honor, and it had been a while since we'd gotten to spend any time together. She's a producer for network TV in New York, and whenever we're together I feel five times cooler and ten times smarter than I do at any other time. I was also floating on a cloud of erotic energy, and constantly thinking about possible new ways to play, because Charles' and my Saturdays had started to assume a recognizable pattern--one that I loved, but which, as a pattern, seemed to be putting us in danger of staleness, down the road.
It was under those circumstances that I started to fantasize about Sarah in a way I never had before. I added the material about her that's now part of the first three books of EXPLORATIONS. Then I started writing the stuff that became Emily's Best Friend, Emily's Naughty Classmate, and Emily's Sister-Wife. The hotness of that material frightened me, frankly. (Charles loved it, I knew, from the way he would read over my shoulder every night, but I think he could tell that I was troubled by what was flowing from my keyboard. So he was guarded in the way he responded to that material in our play. For example, if I threw out "Please, Sir, tell me how you'd fuck Sarah," to see how it felt, he'd hem and haw, and say something like "I'd fuck her really hard?" [I suppose the question-mark is a bit unfair to him, but only a bit.])
The fantasies about Sarah may be the only time ethics really got in the way of my fantasy-life since the day I read Story of O and really started to work on the problem. I pride myself--absolutely pride myself, at this point--on being able to justify every fantasy I actually act on, whether to play with myself to it or to play it out with Charles as a piece of fiction that produces a kind of erotic catharsis. If, in a worst case scenario, I can't stop thinking about some horrific mass-rape, I transform it, usually through the very same lewd keyboard I'm using for this account of myself right now, into something defensible.
(Two techniques for that are my standbys. Either: 1) it's all about me, and I'm the victim of the sex crimes, taking upon myself the sexual aggression of the men of the world, and triumphing over it or, in truly Réagean fashion, succumbing to it and undergoing annihilation in the end [the first time I fantasized my death was jarring, but so was the first time I fantasized eating shit]; or 2) everybody's been through an extensive BDSM selection process à la "Anne Rice writing as AN Roquelaure" [or à la my own Prophettown--see especially Emily and the Lusts of Prophettown]. The latter is easier, but it gets old after a while.)
But having fantasies about someone you love to whom you can never confess those fantasies doesn't really get softened by changing her name. It was particularly strange because I'd never been fixated on any real person at all before in an erotic (as opposed to a romantic "I want him to be my boyfriend/knight-in-shining-armor" way), except Charles in the months when we were dating, before our trip to New York. In some strange and utterly unexpected way, I had fallen in love with Sarah.
Did it have something to do with Jacqueline in Story of O? Jacqueline is a glamorous, top-tier model while O is a second-tier (or so I read it) photographer. Sarah was a New York TV producer while I was a currently unemployed, and really never to be glamorously employed, baby lawyer. O eventually is more than happy to deliver Jacqueline up to René and her sister Natalie to Sir Stephen. I was becoming more than happy to abuse myself while thinking of having Sarah over my knee, over the pillows, grabbing her ankles, while I held the paddle--or while Charles did, and I watched, and then. . .
Whether I was right to see the link or not, the possibility had started to direct my fantasies, and I was fantasizing Sarah as my junior training-partner and, worse, junior-wife. And that's how we got to the scene I narrate at the end of Emily's Naughty Classmate (though I'm getting just a bit ahead of myself here):
It was under those circumstances that I started to fantasize about Sarah in a way I never had before. I added the material about her that's now part of the first three books of EXPLORATIONS. Then I started writing the stuff that became Emily's Best Friend, Emily's Naughty Classmate, and Emily's Sister-Wife. The hotness of that material frightened me, frankly. (Charles loved it, I knew, from the way he would read over my shoulder every night, but I think he could tell that I was troubled by what was flowing from my keyboard. So he was guarded in the way he responded to that material in our play. For example, if I threw out "Please, Sir, tell me how you'd fuck Sarah," to see how it felt, he'd hem and haw, and say something like "I'd fuck her really hard?" [I suppose the question-mark is a bit unfair to him, but only a bit.])
The fantasies about Sarah may be the only time ethics really got in the way of my fantasy-life since the day I read Story of O and really started to work on the problem. I pride myself--absolutely pride myself, at this point--on being able to justify every fantasy I actually act on, whether to play with myself to it or to play it out with Charles as a piece of fiction that produces a kind of erotic catharsis. If, in a worst case scenario, I can't stop thinking about some horrific mass-rape, I transform it, usually through the very same lewd keyboard I'm using for this account of myself right now, into something defensible.
(Two techniques for that are my standbys. Either: 1) it's all about me, and I'm the victim of the sex crimes, taking upon myself the sexual aggression of the men of the world, and triumphing over it or, in truly Réagean fashion, succumbing to it and undergoing annihilation in the end [the first time I fantasized my death was jarring, but so was the first time I fantasized eating shit]; or 2) everybody's been through an extensive BDSM selection process à la "Anne Rice writing as AN Roquelaure" [or à la my own Prophettown--see especially Emily and the Lusts of Prophettown]. The latter is easier, but it gets old after a while.)
But having fantasies about someone you love to whom you can never confess those fantasies doesn't really get softened by changing her name. It was particularly strange because I'd never been fixated on any real person at all before in an erotic (as opposed to a romantic "I want him to be my boyfriend/knight-in-shining-armor" way), except Charles in the months when we were dating, before our trip to New York. In some strange and utterly unexpected way, I had fallen in love with Sarah.
Did it have something to do with Jacqueline in Story of O? Jacqueline is a glamorous, top-tier model while O is a second-tier (or so I read it) photographer. Sarah was a New York TV producer while I was a currently unemployed, and really never to be glamorously employed, baby lawyer. O eventually is more than happy to deliver Jacqueline up to René and her sister Natalie to Sir Stephen. I was becoming more than happy to abuse myself while thinking of having Sarah over my knee, over the pillows, grabbing her ankles, while I held the paddle--or while Charles did, and I watched, and then. . .
Whether I was right to see the link or not, the possibility had started to direct my fantasies, and I was fantasizing Sarah as my junior training-partner and, worse, junior-wife. And that's how we got to the scene I narrate at the end of Emily's Naughty Classmate (though I'm getting just a bit ahead of myself here):
Finally, one night, I went tearfully and knelt in front of Charles, where he was reading in his throne. "Sir?" I asked. "I want to confess." It's a very good way to say that I want to improvise a scene, of course, and has that lovely hint of the sacred, too. I had put on my most schoolgirlish outfit: blue skirt, white blouse, white cotton panties, black thigh-highs, and flats. Really it's nearly the same outfit you'll see Sarah and me in in the next book.
Charles had been so absorbed in his book that he hadn't noticed me disappearing or what I had come back in wearing, so when he looked up to find a tearful schoolgirl at his knee, his distracted expression quickly changed to surprise and, then, interest. I've learned that calling him "Sir" has just about the same lubricious effect on him that his calling me "ass-wife" has on me, so his interest was already rising higher, as it were, presumably at the thought that the schoolgirl's bottom would soon be bare, and subject to his authority.
He put his hand out to stroke my hair, in that wonderfully degrading way, a way fit for dogs, that drives me wild. Truthfully, I didn't know what exactly I was looking for except a hard, hard spanking for writing my best friend and me into the position in which we find ourselves at the end of this book. Part of me thought that I shouldn't be aroused; that part was distressed at the ache in my loins to which Charles' stroking my hair had given rise. Another part of me thought that the only way to put some kind of boundary on these fantasies was to frame them inside my play with Charles, and to let Charles' sexual discipline of me for them, and for my elaborating them in writing, somehow transmute them into a healthy part of our sex life--or at least as healthy as any part of a sex life so twisted as ours can ever be.
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