Emily's Morning #SatSpanks

I hope Saturday Spankers will continue to indulge me with the Victorian pastiche! EXPLORATIONS: Emily's Morning came out this week (Book 25, if you're keeping score). This snippet comes from an over-the-lap session Victorian Emily has to undergo in the Punishment Room at Mrs. Smith's establishment, after she succumbs to temptation upon waking the morning after her bath (described of course in last week's selection, Emily's Bath).

Mrs. Smith was very expert with her right hand. With variations of force and rhythm that responded to the signs she saw in the contractions of my squirming bottom and heard in the cries that eventually became, as they always do, the low, labored breathing of the punished wanton, she kept me for a quarter-hour on the utmost verge of satisfaction, utterly silent herself. Finally, the spanking ceased. 

“Kneel at my feet, my dear, and lay your head on my knee,” she bid. Still gasping with frustration, I obeyed. With the first two fingers of her right hand, she stroked my tear-streaked cheek, very gently. I looked up into her face, and found it kindly once again. 

“Dearest Miss Orn,” she said, “do you understand a little more of the great drama than you did when you awoke this morning?”

Here's the blurb (buy the book here):

I have set out to tell my tale in complete honesty; I shall not avert my gaze from any part of my conduct. You will think it quite natural, I suppose, that my right hand, with a will almost of its own, found its way to the region Mrs. Smith’s razor had attended. I blush to disclose (if the blush surprises you, you have not understood me about the nature of the great drama, wherein blushes are prized beyond rubies), however, that my left hand found its way almost immediately to my breast (ignored, you will recall, by Mrs. Smith), with whose little acorns on their little hills my fingers would not cease to toy. 

And now my right hand found it could not rest, though it had long since verified the smoothness of the furrow it had so innocently sought out. 

The 25th book of Explorations finds fantasy-Emily having the stern final portion of her punishment for self-abuse, while in the old notebook she has been so naughtily reading, Victorian Emily finds herself in disciplinary trouble for much the same crime. Mrs. Smith, trainer of young brides, is forced to administer a chastisement that she hopes will finally teach her newest pupil something important about her life as a submissive wife. 

This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, Ff, FFFf, anal, spanking, watersports. It's intended for over-18 audiences who, like me, are interested in exploring the lines between pleasure and pain, dominance and submission, and fantasy and reality. All characters depicted are consenting adults.

Read all the Saturday Spankings! 

Anal training in public (continuing the spanking stories)

(We're continuing from here.)

We settled on a schedule, of sorts. Training happened once a week: Saturday afternoons, usually, unless we had a social obligation. Often it happened then even if we did have a social obligation, and there would be a sort of Pygmalion/My Fair Lady component, wherein I, Eliza-Doolittle-like, would have to display some particular, emblematic behavior in front of the world to demonstrate my progress.

In the stage I'm describing now, the stage that was nearly exclusively about my anus, I would invariably have to wear a butt-plug harness, usually under a skirt, or dress, with no panties. Putting on such a device in which to go out to dinner, or over to a friend's house for drinks, was an experience almost too delicious to describe--though of course I'll attempt a description.

First there was the insertion of the plug itself (not of course my "big trainer," but a much smaller one; as you'll see in a future episode, I couldn't walk without crying out when my big trainer was in my ass, not to mention that in the early days I had as yet managed to receive only about a quarter of it, and the remainder, remaining outside, would have been [understatement of the century] extremely awkward in any social situation, not to mention the car-ride to such a social situation). 

(I should say that Charles was, as you'll see in a moment, more than willing to make me endure smaller, but still excruciating, moments of awkwardness in connection with my anal-training.)

I would shower, and get the plug, and the lube. With Charles standing, watching me, wearing his best Cheshire Cat grin, I would climb onto our bed and get on all fours. The plug I was usually assigned was a purple silicone one, of the standard elongated diamond shape. I would lube it up, and then lube myself. Then I would insert it, trying not to groan or whimper, so as not to give Charles the satisfaction. On the rare occasions that Charles was busy elsewhere, I would generally give myself a quick, furtive orgasm at this point. I think he caught me only once (and great was the resulting spanking!), though of course being caught was the point. More frequently, I was able to insert the plug in an alluring enough way that my husband couldn't resist climbing onto the bed himself and taking advantage of me. Sex with a butt-plug inserted isn't something I crave--it's just too much of a good thing, really--but knowing that I'm having it (that I'm being taken) because my husband couldn't resist the sight of me putting my butt-plug in is one of my top-ten favorite erotic things.

Then there was the harness, made of black leather. I'm such a white-lace sort of girl that having my pretty panties replaced by leather straps is always jarring. Charles spent a long time tracking down something that approximates what O wears at Roissy--the most important feature of which is the chains (straps, in my case) that run along the creases of the thighs, leaving the pudenda accessible to a Master's hand beneath the skirt.

Before we left the house, Charles would always bend me over the arm of the sofa, and lift my skirt. Almost always, he said, as he laid his hand on the flange of the plug, and pushed or pulled a bit to make me moan, "Charming." Often he would take a picture.

Once we were out in public, the various emblematic behaviors I would have to enact were all variations on the central theme of "My ass belongs to Master." There were things for me to do, and things for me to say. By the third such outing, the ritual was pretty well set: as soon as we were in the car (I was commanded to bring a towel to sit on, the very feel of which under my naked-but-for-the-harness bottom made me grow warm between my thighs at the shame of having to sit on a towel so as not to ruin the seat-leather of my husband's car with my arousal [and what if a friend noticed the towel?!]), I had to lift my skirt to my waist, and spread my knees, raising the right one so that Charles could move his hand from the gear-shift to my pussy and the butt-plug whenever he wanted to.

So he would edge me, on the way to wherever we were going. When we arrived, if we weren't late, he would park, and then, humiliatingly, bring me off there in the car, as I had to repeat "Natis mea tibi est, Domine," (My bottom is yours, Sir) three times as I came.

During whatever social activity we were engaged in, Charles, in the role of my trainer, would at any moment he chose move next to me and pat my bottom right where he knew the base of my butt-plug was concealed by my skirt or dress. Not only, with many dresses, did this clearly outline the back strap of my harness for all to see, but it also invariably made me gasp--sometimes in the middle of a conversation with, say, a friend of my Mom's.

When my trainer had patted me there, I was required to turn to him and whisper into his ear "Natis mea futuenda" (My bottom needs fucking).

Also, whenever Charles caught my eye and nodded slightly, it meant he was telling me to smooth my skirt behind me and thus to make the flange of my butt-plug momentarily visible in outline beneath it. I still have no idea whether anyone noticed--with the single exception of a high-school friend whom I would never have guessed to be kinky but who came up to me one night at the country club and whispered "Nice butt-plug, Emily; I'll have to show you mine some time."

Finally, towards the end of the party, or the dinner, or whatever, my trainer, at a moment when he was across the table or the room from me, would catch my eye, and raise his index finger, and give me a cuing gesture, as if to say, "You're on." Under penalty of the paddle, I had to put my hands on my bottom (even if I was sitting down, which always drew thrillingly embarrassing looks) and look into his eyes, and mouth the words, "Emilia tua cupit te natem suam futuere" (Your Emily wants you to fuck her bottom).

And then we would go home, and I would get my wish.

If you liked this little story, I'm pretty sure you'll LOVE the EXPLORATIONS Omnibus. Here's a taste:

"Now, I'm sure you know how to kiss a sister-wife, girls. Let's try again." With tears wetting our faces, we kissed again, managing to put on at least a bit of the girl/girl show the masked men seemed to be looking for. Then I felt the bed take the weight of first one, then the other, of the men. "Oh!" said Sarah, and I heard the wet sound of lube--and then I gasped as I felt myself getting the same treatment. 

"She's nice and tight," said the talker, about me, I thought with a flash of pride. 

"This one's looser--you can tell Smith uses her here pretty often." Oh, no. Sarah was the tight one--I was the ass-wife. 

Visual spanking stories analysis: blue lace and chocolate

(This analysis is about this post from yesterday.)

This one was an interesting challenge, because it took me a while to figure out why I had my initial arousal response when I first glimpsed it. I like blue in general (in fact it's really my favorite color for just about everything except lingerie) but blue lace panties aren't a big turn on for me in and of themselves. Something about the combination of the chocolates and the slightly contorted arrangement of the female stomach, hips, and thighs, in combination with the lace, though, was strongly arresting.

There also is no obvious BDSM element in the photo (no leather, no chains). Indeed I think that it's actually the subtlety of the placement of the chocolate casually on either side of the panties, some on the stomach, some on the thigh, that constitutes the essential hotness here, which I then tried to elaborate in the little story: the implication that comes through to me is of a Master who uses his submissive's body to set off his chocolates, rather than using his chocolates to set off his submissive's body. That is, the girl is being treated like a plate, and her panties like a doily.

That led me on into thinking about where a Master might choose to make such a display, and the public element of the cocktail party came naturally. Being displayed as a sort of minor ornament is a strange little fantasy that goes deep to my erotic core. In the fantasy, I'm not the main attraction, but my Master has decided that I might as well be put on show naked, since it's that kind of occasion.

Some might wonder "Why the spanking?" since I've just arguned that the essential hotness is elsewhere, in the relationship between the panties and the chocolate. My answer is really simply that for something to be really, really hot for me, it just always has to involve a spanking. As most spankos would agree, I think, for us spanking is a kind of sine qua non of eroticism. If my character Anna were going to be as aroused as necessary for the display I envisaged to be complete, she was going to have to be spanked.

Visual inspirations for spanking stories: blue lace and chocolate

(See here for an explanation of this series)

James handed her the slim box, and watched silently as she opened it, and looked at the blue lace panties. Anna had never been given lingerie by any man before, let alone one she had just met ten minutes before at a cocktail party. She couldn't deny that there was something about him that had drawn her to him, when he had approached and said "Come with me," but the way he had steered her into this bedroom was becoming a little more scary than it was sexy. 

"Put them on, now," he said, softly. 

"What?" Anna asked, in shock. 

"You heard me. Put them on right now, or get a spanking, Anna." 

"How do you know my name?" 

"Our host told me you would be perfect for my special display." 

Anna just looked at him, unable to think of anything but the threat of a spanking if she refused to strip and put on the beautiful panties right there in front of him. The idea of a "display" hadn't even registered, nor, really, had the idea of the host of the party giving her to this stranger in some way. True, she was desperate for a job at the man's restaurant, but. . . 

Then James moved quickly, and before she knew what was happening Anna was over the bed, with her skirt up, and her demure white cotton panties down around her knees. 

"I know you want this, Anna, so I'm giving it to you," he said, and began to spank her. 

In the beautiful blue lace panties, ten minutes later, now soaking wet from the orgasm James had forced her to once she had finally pulled them up over her punished bottom, she lay as he had arranged her, upon the table at the center of the party, while he placed his stock-in-trade, fabulous chocolates, upon her stomach and thigh. 

"They will smell you through the lace as they sample the chocolates; it is a great delicacy, and the reason the restaurant needs someone just like you, Anna."

Pars prima magni obturamenti in nate mea (The first part of a big plug in my bottom--continuing the spanking stories)

(We're continuing on from here. Lest you be confused, Charles is playing both my trainer and my husband.)

(If you like this ongoing narrative, I hope you'll start at the beginning, with the Companion, Volume 1! Buy it here!)

The next phase of my training involved specific and shameful ways of conducting myself when my husband's cock was exposed or inside me, so as to demonstrate the proper respect and to give him as much pleasure as my body was capable of providing to him. This unit was divided into several segments, with respect broadly to the area of my person my trainer was interested in enjoying with his cock.

To my surprise and delight, we began with my ass.

"There are various theories of training, Miss Tilton," said my trainer. I was lying in my uniform (black garter-belt and stockings) over his lap, where he sat on the straight-backed "training-chair"--chosen of course for its convenience in this precise regard, since a girl placed over a trainer's lap while he was sitting on it was upended in the undignified and submissive way peculiar to such chairs, and might be instructed to position herself in various ways whether for punishment or for education. Currently, I had been ordered to grasp the chair-legs at the bottom and to raise my ass and spread my knees, so that my bottom might be offered fully to my trainer's eyes and fingers. He had left his dressing-gown open so that I could feel his cock, arrogantly rising and threatening my naked loins from beneath, reminding me what my body was for, and why I was in training.

With one hand on my bottom and the other on the back of my head, he urged me further forward, to give my ass to him, until my head was hanging down almost to the living-room carpet and I could feel that my bottom was fully presented for training, framed in the black garter-belt and stockings. As many times as I had given my ass to him in submission, I felt then that I had never put it so completely at his disposal as I did now. God bless training.

"Many trainers would begin with your mouth, it is true, or even your pretty little breasts."

"Oh!" I said, for he had started to fondle me between my thighs, almost idly, just stroking the lips lightly and possessively, so that it began to be hard to hold my position without trying to move against his hand.

"They might teach you to display your breasts shamelessly, and to use them to give pleasure to your husband's cock, or they might use various vegetables and fruits--and dildos, of course--to ensure that you knew how to take a man's cock deep in your throat.

"Here at Smith's, though, we believe that a girl's natural proclivities are always our best guide. And I don't think there's any doubt about what your natural proclivities are, Miss Tilton." He laid his hand, cupping, there, across both cheeks.

"No, Sir," was all I could say, with a little moan at the feel of his hand.

"Here at Smith's," he continued, "much of what we do by way of training involves training you to various important disciplinary devices. One of the reasons we will begin with your bottom is that you have on your own already initiated this process there, using what you have taken to calling your 'little trainer' or sometimes just 'it.' Is this not so?"

I nodded, fearful of what was coming. Charles took hold of my ponytail, though, and pulled my head up to tell me my response was inadequate. "Yes, Sir," I said, melting at his dominance so that I could feel my stickiness on his thigh, "that's so."

I felt him turn to reach for something to his right, and heard a drawer being slid open. I got the fluttery feeling I always get when I wait to find out what one of his surprises is. Then there was the familiar snapping of the top of the lube bottle--was it just going to be lube tonight? That was a little dis. . .

My thought broke off mid-word, the way it tends to when Charles puts something there, between my bottom-cheeks. And it was most assuredly not his finger he had there now. Whatever it was (OK, fine, I knew exactly what it was, but I've got an innocence/ageplay thing going on, and little girls shouldn't know what big butt-plugs feel like), it was firm--firmer than Charles' cock--and round, and big.

"This is not your little trainer," said Charles, redundantly. "This is your big trainer." My heart skipped a beat.

"How big?" I managed to whisper.

"Very big, Emily." He pressed it, just a little, into my anus.

"Ah! How. . . how--how very big?"

"Very, very big, sweetheart."

"Ah, oh, please. . . Sir. . ." The pressure eased.

"When I train a girl this way, Emily, I find that it's best to spare her the sight of the big trainer, much as a merciful executioner spares his victim the sight of the axe or, conversely, as a torturer often elicits a confession by the simple showing of his implements."

Pressure, again. "Oh, fuck, Charles," I groaned. "I can't."

"You will, sweetheart, you will. You will because it pleases me."

More immodest, unladylike sounds emerged from deep in my throat. My pulse pounded in my ears and the blood seemed to be heating my cheeks and forehead, hanging almost to the floor, to the boiling point.

"Shh. Shh, Emily. Give yourself. Give your bottom to me to train and to enjoy. You know how."

"B--but. . ."

The pressure eased, then returned, more firmly. I pushed, and cried out, and yielded, and received into my bottom what to my surprise was really not all that big a protuberance, feeling, with pride, that I had taken it.

"There. You've taken the first part."

"The first part?" I asked weakly. His response was to begin, ever so gently, to push the second part in.

I screamed. He stopped pushing.

"I won't make you take the second part tonight, Emily."

"How many. . .?"

"You'll have to wait and see." I gave a little sob of frustration. "Because, despite appearances, the essential part of our training here at Smith's is intellectual, and not physical--though the physical, to be sure, is also of interest--your reception of each part of your big trainer will be accompanied with a special thing for you to say. Next time, you will say this as you take the first part. For now, repeat after me: nates parvae meae uxori meo sunt." (My little bottom-cheeks belong to my husband.)

"Nates. . . parvae meae. . . oh, no, please" (for Charles was moving the butt-plug inside me, gently but insistently, pulling the first part out a little, then re-seating it inside me).

"Dic, Emilia mea, aniconiunx, verba illa quae iussi!" (Say, my Emily, ass-wife, the words which I have ordered!)

"Nates parvae meae. . . uxori meo sunt!"

Cover Reveal: The door is closed on Emily's Morning

"The door to what?!" you naturally ask. I fear I cannot tell you. 

Oh, alright. 

It's Mrs. Smith's PUNISHMENT ROOM!

Herewith, blurbosity (buy the book here!):

I have set out to tell my tale in complete honesty; I shall not avert my gaze from any part of my conduct. You will think it quite natural, I suppose, that my right hand, with a will almost of its own, found its way to the region Mrs. Smith’s razor had attended. I blush to disclose (if the blush surprises you, you have not understood me about the nature of the great drama, wherein blushes are prized beyond rubies), however, that my left hand found its way almost immediately to my breast (ignored, you will recall, by Mrs. Smith), with whose little acorns on their little hills my fingers would not cease to toy. 

And now my right hand found it could not rest, though it had long since verified the smoothness of the furrow it had so innocently sought out. 

The 25th book of Explorations finds fantasy-Emily having the stern final portion of her punishment for self-abuse, while in the old notebook she has been so naughtily reading, Victorian Emily finds herself in disciplinary trouble for much the same crime. Mrs. Smith, trainer of young brides, is forced to administer a chastisement that she hopes will finally teach her newest pupil something important about her life as a submissive wife. 

This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, Ff, FFFf, anal, spanking, watersports. It's intended for over-18 audiences who, like me, are interested in exploring the lines between pleasure and pain, dominance and submission, and fantasy and reality. All characters depicted are consenting adults.

Emily's Bath #SatSpanks

I've just released Book 24 of EXPLORATIONS, Emily's Bath. This week's snippet comes from the moment before the bath itself, when Mrs. Smith (trainer of brides) is explaining how she'll be preparing Victorian Emily to wear the aide-mari (think lace thong) her bridegroom has chosen.

“Many a house-guest has been honored of a winter’s night with the sight of a young wife’s charms; this sort of display is a fundamental part of the Great Drama. Imagine the scene: two easy chairs by the fire, two gentlemen with cigars and brandy; between them you stand, Miss Orn, undressed to your aide-mari. 

“To the guest, whose envious eyes you can see centered on your carefully prepared charms, so delicately covered, the sight conveys other stirring images as well, especially the tableau of the charms’ preparation: did you resist? had you to be beaten before you submitted to the shameful ceremony? what sort of naughtiness made part of the proceedings? did your maid’s touch linger longer than was strictly necessary, and did you sigh? did you beg your maid to serve in any immodest way? did the maid consent, but on condition that you yourself serve in like capacity? were you detected by the master, and did he, cane in hand, place you side by side over a bolster? in the firelight, can the cane’s lovely traces be discerned around the edges of the aide-mari?” 

Through her long series of imaginary questions I tried desperately to remain motionless, though my hands and my knees struggled against me; at her last words, though, my right knee won the battle and bent ever so slightly. The effect of this motion in the region under discussion was such that a sound escaped my mouth, an “Oh” that must have been satisfying in the extreme to Mrs. Smith.

Here's the blurb (buy the book here):

"I very much regret to say that I may not answer the pressing question you have just asked me," said Mrs. Smith. "By the most ancient custom it is a bridegroom’s privilege to enlighten his bride in the principal matters of the matrimonial act. But I do know, and very well, what you are feeling, Miss Orn. I know because I have sat where you are sitting now. As a young bride I too had my initiation into my new condition. I know what it is to have another seated where I am seated, and yet to be ignorant of this terrible secret, the unknown act that is to come only a few days from now. You know what the other--what I--can see and what I will do, that under my hands and eyes I have, here and now, that most tender, most private place--that which you have been taught to think your virtue, for which now you have begun to fear you-know-not-what--and that I know what your lovely young virtue will undergo, but will not tell, even as I prepare it for your bridegroom's use."

In the 24th book of Explorations, fantasy-Emily's punishment at the hands of her husband Charles continues in the modern story, while in the Victorian notebook of Emily's great-great-grandmother, Victorian Emily is prepared by Mrs. Smith to wear the very special undergarment her bridegroom has chosen for her.

This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, Ff, MMf, anal, caning, spanking, watersports. It's intended for over-18 audiences who, like me, are interested in exploring the lines between pleasure and pain, dominance and submission, and fantasy and reality. All characters depicted are consenting adults.

Read all the Saturday Spankings! 

In the shameful saddle (another of the spanking stories)

(We're continuing from this post.)

He came around the horse, towards me, and released my cuffed wrists from the chain above, then linked my cuffs behind my back. Standing behind me, but apart from me by an inch or so, he looked into my eyes in the mirror, and slowly brought his right hand around my waist. I closed my eyes, knowing what he would do, but, out of some sudden almost maidenly shame, not wanting to see it.

"Open your eyes, slut," he growled in my ear, and in surprise and obedience I did. "Watch yourself submit to me." Then he did do it: in the mirror I watched his fingers claim me, watched my mouth open in a gasp, then again in a little mewling sound.

"Look me in the eyes, slut," he said. "You are going to go for a long ride, now. Hopefully, this ride will teach you a little modesty, for as you ride, you will be spanked, so that you understand the price of your shameful behavior."

"Glug," I said.

"I'm not stupid, Emily--I know you will enjoy the ride. But it is the way you enjoy it that interests me. You will enjoy because I have commanded it, and I have commanded that this horse's cock will be the only one you are allowed to have inside you tonight."

His hand left my loins, and came around to give my right bottom-cheek a stinging slap that made me catch my breath.

"Straddle the horse, ass-wife," he said, and spanked me again, just a tiny bit lower and further in.

"Sir," I said, "Should I. . ."

"Not yet, slut. Just throw your leg over. I'll tell you when it's time to mount completely." I whimpered very softly at the thought, but with mingled shame and arousal moved to comply.

"Move your feet and bend your knees so that the tip of my dildo is right where it should be." When I obeyed, he came to my side, with a bottle of lube, and, as I sighed, and then cried out uncontrollably, anointed his dildo, and me. My hands were still cuffed behind me, and I nearly toppled over with the ecstatic trembling that shot through my hips and down my legs, but finally all was prepared. 

He put down the lube, and rested his right hand lightly atop my bottom, while with the left he held me open, but also held me up, so that I couldn't do what I longed to do, and fill myself with his silicone vicar. Then, very slowly, he eased me down so that just the tip of the dildo came inside my inside lips. 

"Slut, there may be girls who really are modest, but I think we both know that while you can pretend very effectively, when you need to, you are not one of them."

"No, Sir," I gasped, for he was still fondling me, his fingers slippery with lube, and with me, around and beside the dildo. I was in serious danger of coming, but I knew that he knew me so well that my climax really was at his command. If he wanted me to come, I would come. If he wanted to edge me, I would be edged.

"So there is no use in trying to make you modest." He pushed me down, and I groaned from what felt like the soles of my feet. I had been looking down at the purple, suede-like surface of the horse, but I suddenly realized that he had rearranged the mirrors slightly, so that when I raised my eyes I was looking straight back into my own gaze. The sight of the girl in the black garter-belt, with the shaved pussy taking the black dildo, her pale skin flushed to a nearly incandescent red--almost as red as her hair, which fell in a pony-tail now draped over her right shoulder, made me moan with a thrill of mortification. Why did mirrors always make me feel like my father was watching? That thought made the shame even that much more thrilling, and I closed my eyes, unable for the moment to bear the sight.

"I wondered when you'd notice that," said Charles, sardonically. "Open your eyes, Emily. Look well. You are going to watch yourself come, now."

"Oh, Sir, please--no."

In response, he gave me a tremendous spank in the sweetest spot, across the bottom of my bottom, and reinforced it with his miraculous standby, the firm circle on my lust's central bud with his middle two fingers.

I obeyed, and watched myself come, utterly possessed by my husband/master/trainer's hands and his devices, twisting and shuddering and moaning. All the while, Charles eased me further and further down, into the shameful saddle, until I thought my nervous system would simply give out, and I would be unconscious when (if!) my bottom ever felt the plush of the horse's back.

"No, no, no," I kept saying, helplessly, as the orgasm released me. But at the end of it, there I was, on the horse of my dreams.

"This is my horse, Emily. You will ride it when I say you will ride it. You will never ride it unless I command it. If I find that you have even tried to locate my horse in the house--if there are signs of a search for anything larger than a remote control--you will have such a ride upon it as you will never forget."

(Probably redundant to write "glug" here.)

"I wish to emphasize my ownership of it to you, because otherwise I don't think you will understand the purpose of this exercise, as a part of your training regimen. As I said, there would be no point in trying to teach you to be modest. You are a wanton slut."

"Yes, Sir." I moved, just a little, on the horse, and moaned, just to show him how very right he was.

"But the question of to whom it falls to make use of your wantonness, and to violate such modesty as you have. . . that is one in which I and my horse have a significant interest. You may begin your ride."

Each time I posted up, he made me hold my pose until he had delivered two spanks with my paddle, one on each side. Then I had to say, "Sir, may I lower my little cunt onto your big dildo?" before I was allowed to come to rest upon the horse's back again. 

"What are you learning?" he asked, then, over and over.

"That I belong to you," I had to reply, every time, my words less and less distinguishable from a sob, until finally he held my burning bottom and worked a finger, covered in lube, in there, and said, softly, "Wank yourself now, ass-wife," and I did, and made another of those sounds that are so tedious to try to render, but so delicious to make, and to hear. Then he helped me off his horse, and led me upstairs, and helped me out of the garter-belt and stockings, and into a nightgown, and put me gently to bed.

(If you like the stuff here on my blog, you'll probably love my books. EXPLORATIONS: Books 1-5 is now FREE at Smashwords!)

Visual spanking stories analysis: the corset

BREAKING NEWS: EXPLORATIONS Books 1-5 now FREE at Smashwords!

(Today's analysis is about this post from yesterday.)

The corset by itself is a hotness that I think many BDSM folk recognize. Constriction and adornment in a single strip of cloth, whalebone, and laces. Add in all the wonderful shame-laden mores of a bygone time where, as my character Emily Orn Wilkes (Victorian bride) puts it, the corset was like a woman's breastplate--a strong bulwark against dishonor--, and you have the most paradoxically sexy piece of lingerie ever imagined.

(As opposed, say, to my very favorite lingerie, the lace thong, which is I think much more straightforward--though in the color white, which is my favorite for it, it is obviously the play at innocence that adds that final frisson.)

In the picture that inspired yesterday's little story, the corset itself is combined with no fewer than seven other elements to produce that moment where I suddenly grab my desk as if to keep myself either from fainting with arousal or from putting that hand farther down. Those elements: 1) the indeterminate blue garment on the left side, which the character has clearly just removed; 2) the bent head, indicating submission or penitence; 3) the unseen hands, which must, given the appearance of the shoulders, be held together in some way, in front of the character; 4) the hair, swept down over the right shoulder to give an unobstructed view of the back, made submissive by the implication of bound hands; 5) the pearls, which for reasons I'll probably try to investigate in a future post, somehow always seems to convey submission (the most obvious resonance is with the well-known trope of the "pearl necklace" of semen that the successful fellatrix sometimes receives, but I'm convinced that there's much more to pearls than that); 6) the absence of any other garment besides the corset, implying that the character has been forbidden them, and that she has been prepared for punishment, or for sex; 7) the laces, in back (so that she herself can't easily reach them) and hanging down so that her Master, should he wish, can hold them as he rides.

The perfection of this photograph is clearly, then, in the way it elaborates the central element of the corset itself into a constellation that focuses the corset's essential BDSM hotness into a kind of searing flame of submission. Each of those six elements occurs on its own in countless photographs, but the achievement what I think of as breathtaking hotness seems to happen when a single trope (here, the corset) is elaborated, visually, into other supporting elements.

That elaboration, in turn, makes me want to elaborate myself, in my own familiar way: that is, narratively. 

Why is she wearing the corset? Because her Master (the pearls and the notional age--judging from the back--of mid-20's to mid-30's make "husband" the natural choice for the role) commanded it, of course.

Why only the corset? Because her Master likes it that way, so that he can enjoy her, taking the long, dangling laces in his right hand, like reins.

Why are her hands bound and her head bowed? Because she's going to be punished.

Why the pearls? Because she went to a party where, of course, her offense was committed.

How did her hair get over her right shoulder? Master put it there. Why? So he could see her back while she had "penitent time."

Some girls might wonder why we cry when Antigone kills herself; I wonder why I can't keep my hand away from my lap when I think about why a girl in a corset's head is bowed. (OK, I wonder about both things, but this blog is dedicated to the pursuit of the latter question.)

Visual inspirations for spanking stories: the corset

(See this post for an explanation of the series.)

When Mary wore the corset John had ordered from the special shop, she was not allowed to wear any other undergarment. Whenever--usually on a Saturday--John said "I want you in your corset tonight," she would shower, then wait for him in the bedroom, where she would lay the corset out ready on the bed.

When John came in, he would do the laces, as she, in proper 19th century style, grasped the headboard and tried to breathe. Then she would put on what John picked out. Usually it was something fitted, but not always.

This evening it had been pearls and a sundress: the blue one she had just taken off and laid beside her on the special bench, covered with the pink cloth, where she had to sit to wait for John when she was going to be punished. For as soon as they had gotten into the car to come home from the party, John had said in an even, quiet, furious voice, "When we get home, you will go to the punishment room, and take off your dress, and wait for me on the bench."

The evening had started off so well--when John told her to wear the corset, it always meant he wanted to make love to her, later, and she had been feeling so sexy. Maybe that was why she had spoken so thoughtlessly at the party: she had been thinking of his way of stripping off her dress with one motion, and taking her bottom in his enormous right hand, so powerfully that it took her breath--already constricted in the corset--quite away. And that feeling, of being caught between his hand and the corset he had put her in, to make her his plaything. . . remembering that feeling tended to make her forget other matters.

She heard John come into the punishment room, behind her (she must always wait with her back to the door, to show her submission). He came around to face her, and she saw he had a rope in his hands. She looked into his dark eyes, pleading, but, silently, he proceeded to tie her wrists in front of her.

"Please, John," Mary said.

"No, darling. I'm afraid I'm going to have to punish you severely for what you did tonight at the party."

"But I just--"

"You just started a rumor that's going to spread like wildfire."

"But it's true! She did sleep with him!"

"It was twenty years ago. This discussion is over, and you just earned yourself a much worse spanking than you were going to get a minute ago."

"Oh, no!"

"Yes." He moved back around behind her, and pulled her hair so that it was over her right shoulder, then put his hand on the top of her head and firmly bent it forward.

"You're going to stay in this position for ten minutes to think about how sorry you are, and how sorry you're going to be. Then you're going to get on top of this bench, with your face down and your bottom up, and your bound hands in front of you, and I'm going to paddle you until you can't sit down."

Photo credit: Benini photography, courtesy of the wonderful Sir Dušan G.

This is the way the gentlemen ride (more of the spanking stories)

(We're continuing from here. Remember, my husband Charles is here playing as my "trainer.")

He was sitting on the stool again, and thus could see what was happening to my pussy as a result of the spanking.

"Very interesting." He sniffed the air. "As I thought, Miss Tilton, your case is a very difficult one. You need hardly be told, I'm sure, that the contractions I can observe here" (he put his finger there, for emphasis, making me groan, shamelessly) "are a sign of an extremely wanton nature. If for example, your husband were to apply his mouth to the problematic area. . ." He illustrated, as I sagged from the chain above me, bending my knees disgracefully to yield my cunt up to his lips and tongue. He kissed me, gently and tenderly, right on my clit, so that I sighed, then ran his tongue up and down and up again, until I was making the shameful grunting sounds that I think best reveal my inner slut.

"Please. . . sir," I moaned, for he was teasing me now.

"Please what, Miss Tilton?"

"The. . ." I saw that it was in his hand. He switched it on, and the sound itself seemed to make me wetter.

"I think," my trainer said, standing up suddenly, "that the most effective exercise might be for you to have a clear picture of exactly how immodest you are. He bent his head, almost idly, and ran the tip of his tongue around my right nipple, producing a very immodest sound from me. Then he touched the magic wand to my clit for just an instant, making my body buck and writhe, and the immodest sound to come from me again, loudly. Then he put his left hand behind my head and kissed me, hard and long, and pulled his face back, and looked into my eyes, almost in wonder, it seemed to me, at how right this felt.

Then the real exercise began. My trainer stood behind me, and he did something my husband had never done. He brought his left hand around, and grasped my throat, very gently but also very possessively. He put his right hand down, under, and split my bottom with four fingers, the middle one working its way just the tiniest bit into my rectum. At least at that moment, I felt like I had never been made so submissive. He had opened his robe, so his rigid penis was against my ribs, lowered six inches or so, my legs being spread and slightly bent.

"Look at yourself in the mirror," he said. His face, with its skin so much darker than mine, was above my pale one, and just to the right, above my auburn hair in its french braid. "Look at that pretty ass-wife in her garter-belt and stockings, with her slutty green eyes and her pert little pink breasts. Look at that wet little cunt she's showing to the mirror, with her legs spread. And I have to admit that I want to fuck this luscious little ass I'm holding, but that's what you want, isn't it?"

"Glug."

"You know I'm speaking the truth, you little minx." Minx? "No, you're not going to get to have this cock inside you tonight." The effect of that sentence on me was really extraordinary, and unexpected. How dare he? Wasn't his cock my right? Then, No--it wasn't my right; I was his: I was owned, and he could do with me as he pleased. If he wanted to jerk off instead of fucking me; if he wanted to go find a whore and give his cock to her. . . 

In the mirror, I watched these thoughts pass across my face: anger, then shock at the wave of submission, then, finally, pleading. "Oh, Sir," I said. "Please give me your beautiful cock tonight."

"No, Miss Tilton. You don't deserve it. You have been too immodest: fucking you would only make you think your immodesty is acceptable."

I sobbed. Oh my God.

Then he switched off the magic wand, and walked to the stairs. "You are to hold this position, slut, until I return," he said. Then he walked up the stairs, and turned off the light, and left the basement.

It was not really very dark. The light from the hall came down the stairs enough so that I could make out the shapes of everything down there, especially when my eyes had adjusted.

Nor was he gone for very long. He has always refused to tell me how long he waited, that first time (I think we've probably played this kind of a scene a dozen times in the ten years since; eventually I said I wanted to try it for much longer, and that turned out to be wonderful, but if he'd left me for an hour or even half-an-hour that first time, I almost certainly would have safeworded). My guess is that it was twenty minutes, and that he was waiting (reading, maybe) right outside the basement door so that he could be sure I was OK.

When he switched on the light, he brought downstairs with him a new toy.

I gasped: it was, at last, a real version of the sort of device that I had so often imagined, and that, in my earliest days of self-abuse, I often tried to simulate with pillows, and cushions, and even, most shamefully, with towels over sofa arms and cushions on piano-benches: the lewd rocking-horse. What Charles brought down to the basement didn't look like a horse, really, in any way (it was purple, for starters), but the height, width, and length of it, together with the curvature of its top gave an unmistakable promise: Charles was going to make me go for a shameful ride tonight, and perhaps on many nights to come.

I wanted to get the scene right, so: "Sir?" I asked, I, innocent Emily Tilton, who had never imagined she might have to trot to Boston naked, or to ride the way the gentlemen ride, for a gentleman's pleasure. Still less had innocent Emily once, home from school with a cold, made a pile of sofa cushions on the floor of the living-room, and taken off her pajamas and her panties, and ridden to a hard-won climax, with one hand behind, spanking her own bottom all the while, and then immediately collapsed into sobs of shame. Not she; not I. "What's that?"

"Hush, Emily. You'll find out very soon."

He stood it on the floor in front of me, then removed from his pocket a long, curved black dildo, which he fixed in place atop the device, at the perfect angle. I swallowed hard.

"Emily," he said, from the other side of the horse. "Your immodesty has earned you a ride on my training horse. Someday, if you're a good girl, you may earn the privilege of my cock in your ass as you ride, but tonight you will ride as a punishment."

The terrible tiles of Emily's Bath

Are you ready, readership? That tingly feeling you've been experiencing lately augurs not only whatever you thought it augured, but also the revelation of an Emily Tilton cover in the sub-genre I like to call (not to put too fine a point on it) "Bathroom." I'm not 100% reliable on this, I fear, but I won't disappoint you this time: the tiles you see do indeed constitute a dog-whistle of sorts. That's right, readership: watersports, glorious watersports, are back.

Let me hasten to add that if, you know, urination isn't the intensely erotic experience for you that it is for me, there are plenty of other BDSM delights to enjoy! Just read the blurb! (Buy it here!)

“I very much regret to say that I may not answer the pressing question you have just asked me," said Mrs. Smith. "By the most ancient custom it is a bridegroom’s privilege to enlighten his bride in the principal matters of the matrimonial act. But I do know, and very well, what you are feeling, Miss Orn. I know because I have sat where you are sitting now. As a young bride I too had my initiation into my new condition. I know what it is to have another seated where I am seated, and yet to be ignorant of this terrible secret, the unknown act that is to come only a few days from now. You know what the other--what I--can see and what I will do, that under my hands and eyes I have, here and now, that most tender, most private place--that which you have been taught to think your virtue, for which now you have begun to fear you-know-not-what--and that I know what your lovely young virtue will undergo, but will not tell, even as I prepare it for your bridegroom's use." 

In the 24th book of Explorations, fantasy-Emily's punishment at the hands of her husband Charles continues in the modern story, while in the Victorian notebook of Emily's great-great-grandmother, Victorian Emily is prepared by Mrs. Smith to wear the very special undergarment her bridegroom has chosen for her. 

This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, Ff, MMf, anal, caning, spanking, watersports. It's intended for over-18 audiences who, like me, are interested in exploring the lines between pleasure and pain, dominance and submission, and fantasy and reality. All characters depicted are consenting adults.

Emily Undressed #SatSpanks

Lest you think that fantasy-Emily (as opposed to Victorian Emily) has faded entirely from the picture, this week I present what happens when she becomes rather too immersed in her great-great-grandmother's notebooks, as told in the just-released Emily Undressed:

That was the point at which Charles surprised me by coming home early. He found me on my stomach on my bed, with my jeans and panties around my knees, having pulled them down just a few pages into the story, even though I had promised myself I wouldn't. He found me with my left hand down underneath, its fingers moving rhythmically in my shaved cleft, and my right hand turning the pages. 

He stood in the doorway, and said, "Emily, you're in serious trouble." 

He was not angry, it seemed, but there was a hard note in his voice that made my stomach churn in fear of what was about to happen. To my dismay, he fetched the cane from the top of my dresser. He said, "Get your hand away from your pussy, sweetheart. Close the notebook and turn your face down to the mattress, then put your hands out and hold the slats of your headboard." I complied, and he cuffed my wrists and bound them there. He left my knees bound by my jeans and panties.

Here's the blurb (buy the book here):

Mrs. Smith continued, “The bride may don it by running it between her legs, then fastening one side at a time, but that puts undue stress on the fabric, and the more proper method requires that the bride hold the aide-mari in front of her charms while her maid stoops behind her to reach between the bride’s knees, grasps the garment’s rear, and brings it up behind, so that she can fasten the clasps.”

How terrible the involuntary character of a maiden’s blush! To my great irritation, I could see my cheeks color at her words. “My maid, then, is to know that I am required to wear such things?”

In the 23rd book of Explorations, Victorian Emily's instruction as a submissive bride continues, as modern-day fantasy-Emily can't stop reading, one-handed, the old notebooks she's been hiding from her husband Charles. Unfortunately for fantasy-Emily's backside, though, Charles is about to come home. . . 

This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Ff, spanking, watersports. It's intended for over-18 audiences who, like me, are interested in exploring the lines between pleasure and pain, dominance and submission, and fantasy and reality. All characters depicted are consenting adults.

Read all the Saturday Spankings! 

Dark games (one of the spanking stories)

(We're continuing on from this post.)

The next part of my training began a few nights later. Charles had found the vibrator deep in my closet when he was looking for my secret lingerie stash; his initial intention had been to surprise me with something from my own collection as my uniform. The magic wand's capacity to drive a girl practically to the edge of insanity was something he instantly wanted to explore, and so, at the end of our usual sort of take-out dinner, he said, "Miss Tilton, please don your training-uniform, and go to your training-room, and wait for me."

After looking at the state of the feet of my stockings following our first training-session, he had decided that stockings didn't have to have feet, and had ordered some footless stockings. It was an odd feeling, but I had no objection; the alternative was shoes of some kind, and although I like nice shoes, they don't have any role in my erotic life, and I'd much rather play BDSM scenes in bare feet than just about any other way. So I put on what amounted to sheer nylon leg-warmers, and the gorgeous garter-belt, and I went to the dungeon to await my trainer.

He entered in his own uniform--black dressing-gown over nothing. We were a pair: in the dark basement, in dark clothes, playing dark games.

"Raise your hands above your head," he said, softly, and I complied, feeling again the thrill of stretched exposure, of rendering myself completely helpless in my trainer's power. In the mirrors I saw the auburn-haired young woman, shamefully dressed, shamefully exposed: white and pink skin flushed with arousal, small pink nipples standing wantonly at attention on her little breasts, cunny-slit visible to anyone who should happen by, lovely young bottom, seen in the back mirror, inviting stern discipline, both framed in the black lace of garter-belt and stockings like prized possessions whose use my trainer reserved to himself.

He put my cuffs on my wrist, and clipped them to the chain, just high enough that my arms were nearly at full length, and I could hang easily, if I wanted. I realized suddenly that I wanted him to take me further; I wanted to be on tip-toe, straining, like in the books.

"Tonight," he said, "we will be exploring the bounds of your immodesty, much as Mrs. Smith explored the same bounds with your great-great-grandmother."

He drew the low stool up so that it was directly in front of me, only two feet or so away, and sat on it, so that his face was mere inches from my shaved pussy.

"I see you are blushing at what must seem to you the shameful liberty I am taking, to use my power over you to enjoy the sight of your pretty little cunt at my leisure."

Still, after all this time, when Charles uses the c-word, it makes me blush, and it enflames me. Never mind that I've tried to claim its power for myself--when the man who owns you calls your tender cleft that. . . the power is his (as you have willed it to be his).

"Your blush does you credit, and bodes well for the state of your modesty, and for your potential for training in the ways of the pleasing wife.

"I am afraid, though, that my duty to your husband to make you pleasing for him demands that I violate that modesty, for your own good, and, of course, for his."

I had my eyes closed, too terribly aroused by the sight of Charles, as my trainer, examining me so minutely down there, where the heat came unbidden, and the moisture began to flow. Now I opened them, as I felt his hands start to urge my knees apart. Oh, no: this was bad, from a modesty standpoint.

"Ah," I said. "Ah, I. . . hadn't thought of that." He spread my legs slowly, making my feet inch out until they were slightly more than shoulder-width apart. I felt. . . I felt the air moving against parts that the air shouldn't move against, parts that I had shaved, for him, which made them even more sensitive to the moving air.

"That's why your husband pays me the big bucks, Miss Tilton," Charles said, drily.

"Asshole," I said, unhappy at his breaking the scene with humor. For once he didn't let me get away with it: he rose, and strode to the shelf of training implements, and got my paddle.

"Oh, please. . . sir. . . no. . . ah!" He was behind me, and he was paddling me hard--very hard--, alternating quickly between my spread cheeks.

"That sort of language will not be tolerated in training," he said after three strokes to each bottom-cheek, strokes that turned them a fiery red and made them burn so fiercely that I strained at my cuffs with the need to rub the sting away, and whimpered with the pain and the heat that now spread itself forward. . .

Visual spanking stories analysis: episode 1

Yesterday I started into what I'm thinking of as a series that will continue, in which I share some of the narratives that seem to rise without will or warning in my mind when I look at certain images. Besides being fun and interesting in its own right, that series seems like an opportunity to explore in another direction from the main direction of this blog (the main direction of the blog is to tell the story behind the story of the books of EXPLORATIONS).

In yesterday's post, a picture of a girl in a lovely set of babydoll pajamas inspired in me a spanking story about a couple who have been dating for a few weeks; she (I named her Marcie) feels the desperate desire to be spanked that I know so well; he, perhaps initially not inclined to think of such things, suddenly sees the possibilities when she emerges from the bathroom of his apartment wearing the pajamas.

I think the essential hotness--the part that made the image one I wanted to elaborate on in the form of a story (and it seems to me that all the images that have this effect on me have one essential hotness)--is in the combination skirt and panties. At the top of the post I put another version of the same garment, that seems to me to reinforce (at least for me) the basic erotic appeal of the thing itself.


But what is that basic erotic appeal? In the picture that inspired yesterday's post, the model (whose character in the shot I named "Marcie"--though of course that's very unlikely to be the model's real name, and I would be greatly distressed if anyone thought I was talking about her rather than about the character she projects in the shot) seemed to me, probably on the instructions of the cameraperson (a Dominant? see how easily these fantasies spin themselves in my fevered soul?), to have elaborated something important about the panty-skirt in three ways: her position against the wall, her biting her fingernail, and her slightly crossed knees.

Each of these gestures, to me, projects a submissive character, and I built the tiny bit of Marcie that I build in yesterday's post upon that character. (As you can tell from the entire nature of this blog, I find that sort of character very appealing, since I identify with it so strongly!)

But what fascinates me is why the panty-skirt itself would be the essential hotness. Is there anything about putting a little skirt (really, it seems rather funny to dignify that minuscule amount of fabric with the word "skirt," but what else are we to call it?) around a pair of panties that has a submissive element?

Yes, I think. This piece of lingerie (or nightwear, but I think the distinction really ceases to matter when the thing becomes erotic rather than functional) exploits one particular aspect of the skirt: the way it can be lifted, or even simply flipped up, to make a girl's charms available. Skirts--and short skirts above all--always have the potential to convey this message: lifting me reveals the place where Dominant others would like to take their pleasure (and where I, wanton, can't help desiring that Dominant others will want to take their pleasure).

Never mind that in this case, somewhat confusingly, flipping up the little skirt reveals charms still covered by panties: the D/s imagination, as far as I can tell, never worries about such niceties.

There's another way to put it, too, I suppose: this strange, hot panty-skirt is like a perpetual view up a girl's skirt.

Shouldn't any girl who would wear such a thing be spanked for her immodesty (provided of course that that's a turn-on for her)?

Visual inspirations for spanking stories: a beginning

There's a thing that I love to do both for its own sake (or, I suppose, just for the sake of auto-eroticism) and for the sake of keeping my fantasies and their elaboration fresh. It also helps me grow in my understanding of my BDSM orientation, and has even been known to make others happy.

I take one of those pictures that takes my breath away (if you're reading this blog, I suspect you know the kind I mean--and I also hope that you're like me in that while these pictures are certainly sometimes explicit, even more frequently they're not explicit at all [though they're almost always obviously sexy in some way]) and I write a little story about it. Sometimes the story is only a sentence or two; sometimes it runs several paragraphs.

So I'm going to try putting a few of these up here. I'm fairly sure that if I simply embed the image from its original location, it's fair-use, but please let me know if you find an image with respect to which you think I'm violating a copyright, and I'll disembed it, and link it instead, immediately (I'm going to use this initial post as the introduction to the series, and link it at the top of future installments).

So, the first image. I'm sure you won't be surprised (if you know me) at the role played in it by lingerie, and in its story:

Told to stand against the wall while her boyfriend got ready to punish her, Marcie began to regret her choice to wear the naughty pink and black babydoll pajamas. As soon as he had seen them, Joe had gotten a strange look in his eye. True, exciting precisely this desire--the desire to punish her--had been exactly why Marcie had bought the slinky camisole with the adorable pink trim (including the irresistible little bow that sat right between Marcie's small breasts now), and the matching pink bottoms with the tiny sheer skirt that didn't cover anything at all really. But if Joe did decide he was going to spank her, and flip up that little skirt, her bottom was in serious trouble.

When she had come out of the bathroom of his apartment wearing the pajamas, which she had so carefully smuggled in in her purse, feeling brazen and sexy, she had had a sudden moment of doubt as he, fully clothed of course, turned to look at her.

The long silence that ensued, as Joe looked her up and down, had nearly made her panic and run back into the bathroom in shame.

"Well," Joe had finally said, "you've been hinting about spanking ever since we started dating. And now I can see how badly you need one. Go stand by the wall while I get ready to punish you for putting on such naughty things without my permission."

As Marcie watched, Joe rearranged the furniture. Her knees crossed and uncrossed nervously. This was what she wanted, wasn't it?

Glorious degradation (one of the spanking stories)

(We're continuing on from here.)

"You, Miss Tilton, have a great deal to learn!" my trainer said, as he beat me. "You are a foul-mouthed slut, and you will be treated as such until you have learned to submit to your husband properly!"

He grabbed my hips from behind. "Oh God," I thought, "please let the angle work." And then he had me on his cock, stretched out as on a rack, feeling as I never had before like I was being broken, and trained. He had spread my knees, and bent his own, his feet inside mine and my ass against his lap. It was magnificent, for about ten seconds, but there was no chance it could last any longer. I was too stretched out, and his thighs weren't sumo grade.

But Charles Smith, my trainer, my husband, my master, my beloved, improvises well (see for example Emily's Naughty Classmate).

"Miss Tilton, I am sorry to say that you are not yet worthy of having me finish in your cunt, or even in your asshole. I will now teach you a lesson by using your luscious bottom cheeks to pleasure myself, and deny you your wanton pleasure."

"Gah!" was my articulate reply as he withdrew, and put me in a more sustainable position, firmly (more or less) on the floor (Jesus, I hoped he had bought a lot of these stockings, because the feet of this pair were already shredded as fuck).

Then I felt his cock in my ass, but not in my ass, the way it was supposed to be. He was jerking himself off in the furrow of my bottom. It was incredibly, deliciously humiliating, to be used like that, and I needed my pussy touched very badly indeed but I had no way at all to accomplish it. Charles held my punished cheeks one in each hand, and moved them around his hardness, and moved his hardness within them. "Yes. . . nice. . ." he said. "It's a nice bottom, Miss Tilton. I'm sure your husband likes to fuck you in this little ass, doesn't he?"

I played reluctance to speak, and as a reply only squirmed back against him. 

"Answer me, Miss Tilton!" he insisted, and gave me one of those demeaning little sex-spanks for emphasis. "Are you an ass-wife?"

"Yes!" I finally responded, after three more spanks.

"And you. . . huh. . . you like it, don't you?"

"No! It's. . . shameful!"

"Yes, you do, Miss Tilton--I know you do. Your husband tells everyone that you're a good piece of ass."

(He knew me so well now--he knew that that phrase was a direct line to my pussy.)

"Dammit, Charles, Sir. . . I. . ." His seed spurted up my back at that point, making me feel so perfectly, disgracefully, achingly dirty I could scarcely believe it. In its naughty frame of garter-belt, suspenders, and stockings my cunt was literally dripping, now: I could see a little pool of my arousal on the basement floor, and the thrill of shame increased.

Charles seemed to have disappeared for a moment, and then I heard a sound--a particular buzzing sound that I knew very well indeed, and that made me, yet again, blush to the roots of my hair. He had found my magic wand at last.

"I. . . I can explain."

"Hush, you bad girl," said my trainer softly. "There will be time for explanations, and for discipline, later. For now, your training regime will benefit most particularly from the use of this indecorous device you seem somehow to have secreted in my establishment. We are going to see, once and for all, just how wanton you are."

Leaving the vibrator on, he came around in front of me. He was carrying a low stool, and he put the vibrator, attached to a very long extension cord, on it. Then he moved to a dark corner, and pulled something out. It was a full-length mirror, which he placed in front of me. The first thing I noticed was that there was also now another mirror, behind me, so that I could see my bright red bottom inside my suspenders, redder even than my braid, and the sperm dripping down the fair skin of my back, in addition to my breasts and bare, glistening pussy, the whole framed in my training uniform of garter-belt and stockings. My arms, stretched above my head and chained to the ceiling, made me look so much like a captive slave that I gasped at the sight.

Charles picked up the magic wand and sat on the low stool.

"Miss Tilton, you are to try as hard as you can to keep your modesty. A good wife, subjected to this treatment by her trainer, is able nonetheless to retain her dignity. I fear, however, that an ass-wife like you may be incurable."

Slowly, so slowly, he brought the vibrator's buzzing massager towards the aching center of my lustful being.

"Oh, no. . . oh, Sir, I don't think I can, oh. . . aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!"

Yes, it's stupid to try to render the sound I made typographically; it's just the least ineffective way to capture a moment that typography just can't render. That is to say, from the moment when I watched, in the mirror, the vibrator touch the tip of my cunt, peeping out lewdly from between my thighs, to the moment when I came, maybe twenty seconds later, I emitted a single continuous (albeit rising and falling at semi-regular intervals) scream of pleasure, pausing only to take air into my lungs so that I could keep screaming.