last one. There are also some references to Emily, Victorian Bride and Emily in the School for Wives [forthcoming in ten days or so], in which a Mrs. Smith takes charge of "my" great-great-grandmother as a trainee before her BDSM marriage to a Mr. Wilkes.)
"Well, Sir," I said, "I'm afraid you're going to have be Mrs. Smith for me, as well as Mr. Wilkes. The first thing Mrs. Smith does is to make Emily take off her clothes."
This is the essence of training, in BDSM. Charles had ripped my clothes off countless times; he had commanded me to strip for him countless more times; but no time had been like this, for they had not been the beginning of a regime of dominance and submission--or, to be more precise, they had each been discrete regimes, which we had not thought to connect in a larger, continuing power-structure like, for example, a domestic-discipline marriage.
It was at this point that our marriage became recognizable as our own kind of domestic discipline (DD). It was really very unlike most of the relationships that go by that name--though to be sure the variety is already endless--because standard DD generally isn't egalitarian; indeed, complementarianism is at its core: one partner is the HoH (head of household) and the other is TiH (taken in hand), with respect to absolutely everything in their domestic arrangements, from the dinner table to the dungeon, if they have one.
The problem was that that that was what we wanted--but only in the dungeon. Or, I suppose, also the bedroom, when I was being fucked or beaten there. Or even the dinner table, if Charles ordered me to drape myself over it among the dishes, and raised my skirt. . . The problem was that we wanted sexual DD, but not "real" DD.
Our real marriage was not like my fantasy-Emily's through-composed BDSM opera of a marriage to fantasy-Charles. For that reason, we had not been able yet to develop any kind of build, any program. Suddenly, with this idea of training, coming from my Victorian tale of my great-great-grandmother, there was one.
"Miss Tilton," he said. "Please stand up and go to the living-room, and stand in the center of the rug, and wait for me. So we are clear, when I join you, you will be removing these slutty clothes you are wearing, so that your training may begin."
Yes, exactly. Nipples stiff and tingly, bad-girl thong slipping with dampness, I stood, blushing, and with downcast eyes went to the living-room. I folded my hands in front of my solar plexus like a good girl and stood, waiting, thinking about my clothes and my soon-to-be naked body, and what "training" was going to mean, while Charles cleaned up the dinner things.
Charles entered, and sat, in his throne (really, it's just a comfortable arm-chair that's good for blow-jobs, but calling it his throne still turns me on after all these years). I turned to face him, hands still clasped at my midriff.
"You may begin with your T-shirt," he said. "I want you to remove it, however, by crossing your wrists, and grasping the hem of the shirt."
I knew what he was going to tell me to do next, and I said, involuntarily, "But. . ."
"Miss Tilton," he said. "I am surprised at how much training it is turning out that you need. Are you unable to obey even a request so simple as this one?"
"No. . . Sir," I said, and did as he had bid me, thrillingly unable to look him in the eyes, face hot with the shame of the command that was coming.
"Now, if you please, lift the hem of your shirt above your head."
At least he couldn't see how red my face was, then, with my arms bound by the shirt, over my head, and my tiny red lace bra exposed to his gaze.
"Ah." Charles said. He improvised, "I think you know, Miss Tilton, that the regulation color of undergarments in my establishment is white. Am I correct in that?"
"Yes, Sir," I said, my voice muffled in the T-shirt.
"And yet you have arrived here for training in the red underthings of a harlot."
I gasped, and my knees trembled.
"Perhaps you do not know, then, what the penalty in this house is for wearing non-regulation undergarments that I have not specifically bid you wear."
"I shall enlighten you on that matter shortly, Miss Tilton, and in a manner that I hope will ensure you remember to wear appropriate underthings. For now, please remove your shirt completely, fold it, and put it on the coffee-table."
He was so very, very good at this, now.