Tease, and news: Emily's Victorian Bridal Chamber

The tease, which is significantly meatier than the naughty thing I did on Saturday, is below. How else could I get you to read the ultra-significant news about EXPLORATIONS?

And that news is big. After high-level talks with trusted advisors, I've decided to try reconfiguring the project along not one, not two, but three different, new tracks. I'll be opening the first of those tracks in my next release, after Emily's Victorian Bridal Chamber (buy it here!), so this is, I suppose, the amazing title-reveal:

THE FIRST NOTEBOOK OF 
EMILY ORN WILKES, 
SECRET COUNTESS OF WESSULK

My spanking romance colleagues have said kind things about the Victorian material, and made me wonder whether a release of the first part of it, on its own, might be a better fit for some readers. Worth trying, at least! Watch this space for further teases and reveals, of course.

And here's the tease for Emily's Victorian Bridal Chamber (buy it here!). This excerpt comes from much later in the book than the bit I dangled Saturday. Emily's new husband has just told her that he wooed her because he had heard the story of her severe chastisement for "debauching" her best friend.

Here at last was an explanation of certain things that had remained until then mysterious in the relationship between Mr. Wilkes and Mrs. Smith. But at that moment the coach stopped; we were arrived at our new home. The servants, who met us of course in the front hall, were all very kind in their congratulations, and I was quite unable to tell which, if any, of them, were party to the great drama. I remembered Polly, and suddenly wondered whether she might be hired away from Smith’s. The thought did nothing to decrease the intensity of sensation I was experiencing from the aide-mari, now that the time of my finally learning what it meant to be deflowered approached. 

“Mrs. Ramsay, we will be retiring, now. Would you please show Mrs. Wilkes her chamber, and in the absence of her maid would you assist her there? The wooden case is to be placed on her coffee-table. Mr. Ramsay, would you see that supper is ready to be served in Mrs. Wilkes’ sitting-room at 10 o’clock?” 

No explanation nor excuse was given for a bride to be put to bed at four in the afternoon. Neither house-keeper nor butler showed any sign of knowledge of what was now to take place—that the new mistress would no longer be a maid when supper was brought to her sitting-room, and that however she might struggle her bridegroom was now to take his pleasure of her maidenhead at his leisure and for as long as he chose.

And, of course, the blurb: 

"This last condition may seem strange, but it is absolutely essential that we have such evidence before we begin to plan for your visit, as the ostensible reason for your presence in Prophettown will be that you have applied to have Mrs. Smith fulfill the role of the Whore of the Nations in the yearly festival of the Angel of Love. We will explain further if we are able to reach an agreement, and you are on your way to Prophettown, but in brief the role of the whore is forbidden to the women of Prophettown, and so men from the outside world, who own submissives, apply (with a large fee, which we will of course waive in your case) for their submissives to play the part, because the owner of the girl who plays the whore is given his own special, highly-coveted, role in the festival. As you have no doubt already guessed, the role of the whore involves polyandrous service; in order to allow you passage to Prophettown, Mrs. Smith will have to be prepared to play it, and I will have to have the same sort of audition-video for her that I have for the other candidates. 

"Please let me know as soon as possible whether you agree to these conditions. Once you do, we can begin to plan your passage, which will have to take place very soon, since the festival occurs at midsummer, less than three weeks from now. 

"I am yours, sincerely, 

"Marcion, Prophet Richards" 

In the 27th book of Explorations, as the story of fantasy-Emily's connection with Prophettown gathers a frightening sort of momentum, the story of Victorian Emily's wedding-night also comes to its crisis point. 

This book of EXPLORATIONS contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Ff, Mf, ageplay, pseudoincest, diaperplay, spanking. 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 Victorian Bridal Chamber #SatSpanks

The climax at last. . . or is it? When it's an Emily Tilton wedding-night (how many of these have I written? Four so far--and every one a snowflake!), it enjoys the same favor Athena gives to the reunion-sex of Odysseus and Penelope. Or, you might say, it goes on forever. At any rate, Emily's Victorian Bridal Chamber (buy it here!) definitely presents the beginning, the same way, all those months ago, Emily's Submissive Wedding-Night presented the beginning of my very first one. (If you want to read Emily's Submissive Wedding-Night, download EXPLORATIONS: Books 1-5 for free here!)

Victorian Emily does not play with herself on the morning of her wedding-day, but:

After she had taken the breakfast things, Polly returned. My heart sank (and skipped a beat) when I saw her close the door firmly behind her. 

“It’s time, Miss.” She went to the closet and returned with the little case. I stood and waited. She waited, as well. “Miss,” she finally said, “you must remove your night-dress.”

Shall I give you the eighth sentence? I think not--next week, dear reader!

Blurb (the excerpt at the top comes from the fantasy-Emily stuff about Prophettown--see EXPLORATIONS 101 for more on that) (buy it here!):

"This last condition may seem strange, but it is absolutely essential that we have such evidence before we begin to plan for your visit, as the ostensible reason for your presence in Prophettown will be that you have applied to have Mrs. Smith fulfill the role of the Whore of the Nations in the yearly festival of the Angel of Love. We will explain further if we are able to reach an agreement, and you are on your way to Prophettown, but in brief the role of the whore is forbidden to the women of Prophettown, and so men from the outside world, who own submissives, apply (with a large fee, which we will of course waive in your case) for their submissives to play the part, because the owner of the girl who plays the whore is given his own special, highly-coveted, role in the festival. As you have no doubt already guessed, the role of the whore involves polyandrous service; in order to allow you passage to Prophettown, Mrs. Smith will have to be prepared to play it, and I will have to have the same sort of audition-video for her that I have for the other candidates. 

"Please let me know as soon as possible whether you agree to these conditions. Once you do, we can begin to plan your passage, which will have to take place very soon, since the festival occurs at midsummer, less than three weeks from now. 

"I am yours, sincerely, 

"Marcion, Prophet Richards" 

In the 27th book of Explorations, as the story of fantasy-Emily's connection with Prophettown gathers a frightening sort of momentum, the story of Victorian Emily's wedding-night also comes to its crisis point. 

This book of EXPLORATIONS contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Ff, Mf, ageplay, pseudoincest, diaperplay, spanking. 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!

Emily's Victorian Bridal Chamber COVER REVEAL

Evocative, no? It's from Waterhouse's St. Eulalia. I'm a wicked girl, I know, but sex and religion go hand in hand for me, and most sorts of legendary martyrdom are unbearably erotic as far as I'm concerned.

Blurbage:

"This last condition may seem strange, but it is absolutely essential that we have such evidence before we begin to plan for your visit, as the ostensible reason for your presence in Prophettown will be that you have applied to have Mrs. Smith fulfill the role of the Whore of the Nations in the yearly festival of the Angel of Love. We will explain further if we are able to reach an agreement, and you are on your way to Prophettown, but in brief the role of the whore is forbidden to the women of Prophettown, and so men from the outside world, who own submissives, apply (with a large fee, which we will of course waive in your case) for their submissives to play the part, because the owner of the girl who plays the whore is given his own special, highly-coveted, role in the festival. As you have no doubt already guessed, the role of the whore involves polyandrous service; in order to allow you passage to Prophettown, Mrs. Smith will have to be prepared to play it, and I will have to have the same sort of audition-video for her that I have for the other candidates. 

"Please let me know as soon as possible whether you agree to these conditions. Once you do, we can begin to plan your passage, which will have to take place very soon, since the festival occurs at midsummer, less than three weeks from now. 

"I am yours, sincerely, 

"Marcion, Prophet Richards" 

In the 27th book of Explorations, as the story of fantasy-Emily's connection with Prophettown gathers a frightening sort of momentum, the story of Victorian Emily's wedding-night also comes to its crisis point. 

This book of EXPLORATIONS contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Ff, Mf, ageplay, pseudoincest, diaperplay, spanking. 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.

Visual spanking stories analysis: fishnet

(This analysis concerns yesterday's story.)

It's the look in her eyes. How could it be anything else? It's a look of defiance that could be directed at the hunk who's about to spank her (hard, if his musculature is anything to go by), or at the viewer who has intruded. The hunk and the fishnets put it over the edge for me, but only after I realized that there was an implied third party: she's not looking at the guy who's spanking her; she's looking at whoever has dared to watch her getting spanked.

Who would the hottest possible viewer be? There might be several answers, but the heat gets turned up for me at least, if the viewer is in some way the same person who decided she should be spanked by the hunk. Marriage is kind of the go to for me, in that regard, but I can imagine an equally hot FMf version of the scene, in which a dominant partner in an Ff relationship has decided to punish her sub with a kind of ultimate humiliation in having a burly guy do it.

Fishnets are just fishnets; cf. lace: anything that covers but doesn't really cover has the double hotness of shaming the sub who's wearing it and providing the Dominant with the voyeuristic pleasure of looking at the sub's shameful bits.

Visual inspiration for spanking stories: fishnet

(See here for an explanation of this series.)

Carl looked at Greta, where she lay over the lap of the anonymous trainer. The look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know: it was a challenge to him, to try to master her the way this demigod was demonstrating she should be mastered.

At his wits' end with her refusal even to admit that everything was not as it should be in their bedroom, he had answered the cryptic ad: "Wives trained; demonstrations given." According to the arrangement made by email, when he had pulled up at the address, three burly men had been there to pull Greta from the car and bring her inside. Carl had followed, hardly believing what was happening.

Upstairs, through the door marked "Training Room #3," he found that Greta had been given fishnet tights, and told to put them on. Looking defiantly at him, she was complying. One of the three men had introduced himself, after removing all his clothes, as "Trainer 5." He was massive in every way, and Carl watched Greta respond to the appearance of his manhood with visible trepidation.

As he watched Trainer 5 pull Greta over his powerful lap, he knew he would do whatever it took to answer the challenge in his wife's eyes. The trainer gave Greta a forceful, shameful hand-spanking. As he did so, he did not neglect to caress her degradingly from time to time, to provoke wild cries of compulsory pleasure, and to demonstrate to Carl just how to get the submissive response he wanted.

That day Carl learned exactly how such a challenge should be answered.

Photo via the wonderful Marie Berrios.

Panty training, concluded

(The story continues from here.)

Charles gave me a moment to compose myself; then he took the hanger with the lilac thong and the matching bra in his right hand, while with his left he took my hand to lead me deeper into the store.

We were in the section with the teddies, now. A reasonably demure teddy with lace accents ranks just below a lace thong in my hierarchy of hotness, but the mannequin in front of which Charles stopped was wearing something that was not demure--not even reasonably. The bottom of it was thrillingly narrow, like a thong extended upward both front and back, to the bodice (if it could be called that), which was really just a very scanty lace bra. The shameful, wonderful, lacy thing was black.

Charles positioned me in front of him, facing the mannequin, and pulled me gently back until I could feel, against my lower back, through my cotton blouse, the unmistakable pressure of his erect cock. He put the hanger with the lilac stuff on top of the rack over which the mannequin stood, so that his right hand was free; then he put that hand down in front of my skirt, and began to trace, upwards, with his fingertips, the line where the teddy would make the boundary between clothed and naked.

I thought of the moment at the very end of Story of O when O, exhibited naked except for her owl mask, listens as a young man tells a girl, using O as an illustration, exactly how is he going to prepare her, and train her. Charles was using the mannequin the same way.

"I am going to dress you in this, tomorrow night, Miss Tilton," he said.

"Oh, um," I said.

"This garment will make you look submissive. Will it make you feel submissive, do you think?"

"Yes, Sir," I said.

"You're quite smooth down there today, aren't you?"

"Yes, Sir. I shaved yesterday."

"A bare vulva will look very nice in your new teddy, won't it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You're going to get very wet as soon as you put it on, of course, so I'm going to have to punish you severely, with your paddle. Then I think I'll want to use your mouth. I'm going to sit in my throne, and you're going to kneel between my legs. I'll let you use your hands to start, while my own enjoy your bottom in its lovely new giftwrap. I'm going to pull hard on that lace, I'm afraid: this mannequin, as you can see, apparently has no pussy-lips, but I happen to know that you do have pussy-lips, and I want them to feel that little strip of black lace working its way inside them."

"Oh, god. . ."

"You will raise your bottom, and continue to suckle my cock, as I remind you how important it is to me that your mouth be obedient, by beating you with the flogger--just hard enough so that you make those nice noises around my cock that you always seem to make when you're being beaten."

Why is it that certain turns of phrase can just unstring my sinews and make me feel floaty, and make my husband's erection pushing against the small of my back seem like some kind of burning brand of mastery with the assistance of which I would happily immolate myself? "When you're being beaten": most importantly perhaps, the grammar itself presumes that I am a girl who is beaten. Emily Tilton makes submissive sounds when she is beaten. Obviously, not "if"--because there's nothing conditional about it; Emily's condition is submissive: her husband beats her, because that is what any competent husband would do, when confronted with a case like Emily's.

"With a firm grip on the lace with my left hand, and the flogger in my right, I will make you unlearn your mistaken notion that lingerie is somehow your own, sacred thing."

Uh-oh.

Charles' left hand found my throat, and exerted a gentle, but sufficient (oh, God, was it sufficient) pressure.

"I have for far too long allowed you to think that your underwear is somehow a matter that does not concern me."

"But. . ." He tightened his fingers on my throat ever so slightly, making me stop speaking, instantly.

"Your lingerie is mine, as you are mine, Emily." My hands, which had been nervously fluttering by my sides for the last few minutes, suddenly flew out, towards the rack, in an attempt to steady myself against the flood of erotic sensations that Charles' hands and words were arousing in me. "You will not forget that again."

Now he flipped up my skirt with his right hand, and sought me out with his fingertips.

"So that I can be sure you have learned your lesson, you are going to come now," he murmured.

And I did, there, in Victoria's Secret, with one of his hands under my skirt and the other over my mouth.

Forthcoming: Emily's Victorian Bridal Chamber

Is this part called the BLURB REVEAL! maybe?

At any rate, everybody's being so nice about the Victorian stuff that I'm starting to feel bad that it's couched in all this (for me totally hot) black-helicopter Dan-Brown-esque bullshit about Prophettown, featuring every taboo thing most people could dream of (see the blurb if you're wondering). 

I guess that means that someday I can release some kind of "remix," the way the real authors do: THE NOTEBOOKS OF EMILY ORN WILKES, SECRET COUNTESS OF WESSULK. Then, you know, I can entice a publisher into putting out a "facsimile" edition, and I can go to the last remaining brick-and-mortar bookstore on earth (I'm wagering it'll be in Portland, or maybe Seattle; wait, will it be the gift-shop of "The Amazon.com Museum of American Reading Culture"?) and walk by it and maybe run a surreptitious hand over its leatherette cover.

Anyway, here's the blurb for the amazing 27th book (buy the book here!):

"This last condition may seem strange, but it is absolutely essential that we have such evidence before we begin to plan for your visit, as the ostensible reason for your presence in Prophettown will be that you have applied to have Mrs. Smith fulfill the role of the Whore of the Nations in the yearly festival of the Angel of Love. We will explain further if we are able to reach an agreement, and you are on your way to Prophettown, but in brief the role of the whore is forbidden to the women of Prophettown, and so men from the outside world, who own submissives, apply (with a large fee, which we will of course waive in your case) for their submissives to play the part, because the owner of the girl who plays the whore is given his own special, highly-coveted, role in the festival. As you have no doubt already guessed, the role of the whore involves polyandrous service; in order to allow you passage to Prophettown, Mrs. Smith will have to be prepared to play it, and I will have to have the same sort of audition-video for her that I have for the other candidates. 

"Please let me know as soon as possible whether you agree to these conditions. Once you do, we can begin to plan your passage, which will have to take place very soon, since the festival occurs at midsummer, less than three weeks from now. 

"I am yours, sincerely, 

"Marcion, Prophet Richards" 

In the 27th book of Explorations, as the story of fantasy-Emily's connection with Prophettown gathers a frightening sort of momentum, the story of Victorian Emily's wedding-night also comes to its crisis point. 

This book of EXPLORATIONS contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Ff, Mf, ageplay, pseudoincest, diaperplay, spanking. 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.

The style of this post is intended as an homage to the fiercely independent Sheri Savill. 

More Emily's Fitting #SatSpanks

I'm sure everyone wants to know what happens after the snippet in last week's post! Could Victorian Emily resist the temptation to abuse herself on the morning of her wedding-day?

Well, since the dénouement of that scene is postponed until Emily's Victorian Wedding-Night, due out in two weeks, I'll hang onto it until next time, and instead give you a snippet from the fitting-scene that gives the book its title. Some very naughty photographs are being taken, for the enjoyment of Mr. Wilkes, Victorian Emily's bridegroom.

There was no need, of course, for my participation in the imaginary scene embodied in my pose. But the basic structure of the pose called ‘the maiden flower’ conforms to an absolutely fundamental element of the bride’s, and wife’s, condition: so fundamental that it was not possible that day, nor is it ever possible when one submits to that position or any similar one (of which similars there are in fact many), to think of something else while one’s charms are being enjoyed, even if the enjoyment is purely visual. I could not stop myself from imagining Mr. Wilkes admiring the photograph, when Mrs. Smith would present it to him that evening (as I was sure she would; and in the event I was correct). I imagined him putting his cigarette between his lips to take the print in both hands and holding it up to a lamp, to see how fine was the detail. “Lovely, really lovely, Mrs. Smith,” he might say. “Did she protest much when you opened up the aide-mari? No? The little wanton! And so well brought up, too! I wager I can make her remember to protest when someone unwraps her little treasure. Look at that! You can see everything a bridegroom likes to see. She’ll spend a long time like this tomorrow, I can assure you; there’s a sofa in her room that I picked out for just this purpose. And then. . . well, you know—though she don’t!” and in my imagination he laughed at his urbane uncouthness, and I quailed at my terrible ignorance.

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

“Good morning, Miss Orn,” Mrs. Harrah said. Her voice was high, but pleasant, and confidential. “If you will come to stand here in front of me, we may begin. . . . Mrs. Smith, would you do the part of her maid?” 

“Of course, Mrs. Harrah. Miss Orn, your deportment during this fitting is subject to one very important rule: you must watch closely in the mirror. If I see you look away, you will feel my paddle upon your naked bottom yet again.” 

Mrs. Harrah spoke again. “Mrs. Smith, am I correct that we will be fitting only the aide-mari this morning? And Miss Orn will be returning for the petit-maître after the bride-night?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Harrah. Those are Mr. Wilkes’ wishes.” The petit-maître. The other article Edmund had requested under the term ‘instrument of discipline’. I feared and burned to know. 

“Very well. Miss Orn, please raise your hands and place them behind your head—it will be most comfortable for you if you lace your fingers together.” 

In the 26th book of Explorations, fantasy-Emily, now with her husband's permission (provided she can keep herself from auto-erotic temptation) continues to read of her great-great-grandmother's initiation as a submissive bride into a Great Drama of BDSM in Victorian England. 

This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, Ff, anal, spanking. 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!

Visual spanking stories analysis: ritual rope

(This analysis concerns yesterday's story.)

As frequently, the confluence of two elements--in which it always seems one element is the essential, the other the supplementary--make up the arresting hotness of this photo for me. The primary element is the classic submissive pose in which the area of the Dominant's principal interest is presented for sex and discipline at one and same time, giving a visual existence to the the ineluctable association of the two in the imaginations of us who are lucky enough to be kinky.

The second element is of course the beautiful rope-work, by which this fundamental posture is enforced. Not only does the rope add imaginary resonance from the world of shibari, but the enforcement itself carries a powerful charge, as if the Dominant partner in the scene were saying "Yes, she's in her proper submissive pose, but she is so in need of discipline that she must be held there, so that I can give her everything she has coming, whether she can take it or not." (This is the fantasy, you understand! In fantasy, SSC can be discarded, and, at least in my imagination, almost always is.)

Add to that the hint of the tattoo under the garter-belt, the lingerie itself with its absolutely classic framing of the submissive charms, and the ambiguous rusticness of the space with its menacing gags and weights hanging to the right, and the scene as a whole rises to that special level where not to narrate seems like a crime.

Visual inspiration for spanking stories: ritual rope

(See here for an explanation of this series.)

After the tattoo placed by her owner on her backside had healed, Anne's real training began. In her garter-belt and stockings, she was brought to the training shed that stood, well-hidden, in the woods behind the manor, well out of the earshot of anyone who did not know that Jacob Burns had bought himself a new sex-slave.

Taking his time, because he intended to take photos that he hoped he could sell, and he thus wanted to make sure the rope-work was as perfect as it could be, Jacob trussed Anne's arms up to the post that loomed over her prostrate form.

"You'll be here a long while, pet," said Jacob. "It's not too uncomfortable, I hope?"

"No, Sir," replied Anne, who was already terribly warm between her thighs just at the tension of her posture and the feel of the rope.

Jacob began with the paddle, enjoying at leisure the way his new girl's bottom-cheeks squirmed as they grew rosier and rosier and the way her cries and moans rose and fell. He saved the cane for after his first ride inside her rear, which he enforced on her with vigor. When it was time for the rattan, though, Jacob's favorite implement, he administered her chastisement slowly and ritualistically, instructing her as he did in the ways of pleasing him, and telling her exactly how lovely her bottom looked, with its new stripes under the tattoo with his initials.

Between Anne's thighs, the moisture flowed ever warmer, it seemed to her, even as she cried out in pain at each new stripe. When at last, after the caning, Jacob rewarded her, ritually, with his hand, the ritual rope made her climax something she had never dreamed she could feel.

Photo via the marvelous Magdy Love.

More panty training

(The series is continuing from here.)

Once we were inside Victoria's Secret, Charles led me straight to my very favorite rack--the one with the lace thongs. "I realize," he said, "that you already have at least one example of nearly everything on this rack at home in your underwear drawer. This rack is by no means the principal stop on our training visit today. But there's a sort of experimental lesson I have in mind that this particular location will be perfect for."

He took a lovely thing--a lilac bra and panty set--off the rack, and held it up in front of him, scanning. I began to grasp his meaning, as I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, and to lower regions.

"Charles!" I said, involuntarily. "Put that back!"

He laughed. "I can tell we have some work to do, Miss Tilton." He raised the hanger a bit higher.

"Oh, Sir." I looked to see if the sales-ladies had noticed. Not yet.

But then he took a step forward, and held the lingerie against my stomach, so that the panties were where panties go, hanging right in front of my crotch.

"Am I right that you have these in white, sweetheart?" he asked, loud enough to be heard.

"Charles!" I hissed. That got me the 'you just earned a spanking' look. I looked back at him, pleading. What was he doing? What kind of lesson was he trying to teach me?

The sales-lady came over. This was terrible. I suddenly imagined him saying "My wife here needs something that looks nice when she's being spanked--do you think this will do the trick?" and my thighs started to feel a little slippery when I shifted my weight from foot to foot in discomfort at my humiliation.

"Can I help you folks find anything?" she asked.

I looked into Charles' eyes imploringly.

"That's alright, thanks," he said, smoothly. "My wife's an expert--I'm just hoping to learn a bit from her."

The sales-lady laughed, and a wave of gratitude flooded me, though I'd known--of course--that he would never have said anything that might be embarrassing. It wasn't gratitude to him, actually, I think, but rather gratitude to the universe that we were such well-matched training-partners.

"Well, let me know if I can help," she said, and wandered off.

Charles said, more softly, "Answer the question, please. Do you have these in white?"

"Yes," I whispered, submissively.

"I'd like to spank you in the lilac ones."

I couldn't help whimpering at that. I understood, now. This training-exercise was about Charles, my trainer-husband, my Master, dominating a part of my erotic imagination that I had kept to myself.

"Which would you rather be spanked in, tonight?"

The wave of arousal that swept over then me took me entirely by surprise. I grabbed his arm--the one holding the hanger--with my left hand, to steady myself, because I had actually grown a little faint, thinking about being over my spanking stool wearing these panties, the ones Charles was holding.

"Oh, Sir," I said. My right hand drifted down to the front of my skirt. I saw Charles see me just put a little pressure there, to take the edge off.

"Emily Tilton," he whispered, "you may just be the naughtiest girl in the world." He put the hanger back on the rack, turning it so that it was still outside the array of hangers, and the lilac bra and panties were still there, in front of my eyes. He put his left arm around my shoulders, and turned me so that I was facing the rack, with the front of my body towards the wall.

"Lift your skirt," he murmured into my ear.

Nearly slumping against him, I complied.

"Look at the lilac panties I'm going to spank you in tonight." Then his marvelous, knowing fingertips touched me.

"Oh, no," I said. "Charles, I'm going to. . ."

He brought his left hand from my shoulder to cover my mouth, gently but firmly enough that I wouldn't be able to scream, at any rate. I thought with relief (though also with hideous, thrilling embarrassment) that he was going to bring me off, there in Victoria's Secret, while I shamefully held my skirt up to expose my unpantied pussy for my trainer's attentions, but then he whispered, "Don't you dare, or I'll put you over my knee right here and these nice sales-ladies will see that you're not wearing any lingerie at all, as you get your first spanking. Then you'll bring the lilac ones up to the counter and say 'My husband is going to cane me when we get home, and he's chosen these for me to wear when I'm punished.'"

The image made me cry out into his hand, as he explored me for one brief moment more, so that I began to slump a little against him. Then the fingers deserted me, and he said "Lower your skirt, slut," as if I had been at fault in the shameless raising of it.

Emily's Fitting: COVER REVEAL

So this cover reveal turns out to be much more dramatic than I thought it would be! Seriously, because rather than, say, a chintz curtain, I present to you an entirely new direction in Emily Tilton covers. I call it "Fuzzy details of public domain paintings that may or may not foreshadow stuff." This one is from Sir Frederic Leighton's The King and the Beggar-Maid.

The real reason for this shocking, unforeseen transformation is of course that I ran out of home furnishings of which I wanted to take pictures. Anyway, here's the blurb! (Buy the book here!)

“Good morning, Miss Orn,” Mrs. Harrah said. Her voice was high, but pleasant, and confidential. “If you will come to stand here in front of me, we may begin. . . . Mrs. Smith, would you do the part of her maid?” 

“Of course, Mrs. Harrah. Miss Orn, your deportment during this fitting is subject to one very important rule: you must watch closely in the mirror. If I see you look away, you will feel my paddle upon your naked bottom yet again.” 

Mrs. Harrah spoke again. “Mrs. Smith, am I correct that we will be fitting only the aide-mari this morning? And Miss Orn will be returning for the petit-maître after the bride-night?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Harrah. Those are Mr. Wilkes’ wishes.” The petit-maître. The other article Edmund had requested under the term ‘instrument of discipline’. I feared and burned to know. 

“Very well. Miss Orn, please raise your hands and place them behind your head—it will be most comfortable for you if you lace your fingers together.” 

In the 26th book of Explorations, fantasy-Emily, now with her husband's permission (provided she can keep herself from auto-erotic temptation) continues to read of her great-great-grandmother's initiation as a submissive bride into a Great Drama of BDSM in Victorian England. 

This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, Ff, anal, spanking. 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 Fitting #SatSpanks

The next book in EXPLORATIONS, Book 26, is Emily's Fitting, due out soon. I haven't chosen the home-furnishing for its cover yet--suggestions are most welcome!

I don't think any set-up is necessary, for a change--this bit comes from the very beginning of the Victorian section of the book.

Brightly dawned my wedding day, the fourth day of June, 1872. I have already told you, in the first part of my narrative, some of my waking thoughts upon that morning, when I contrasted those thoughts to what passed through my fancy on waking at Smith’s the previous day: how (on the morning of my wedding day) I was at first surprised to be wearing a night-dress, and then even more surprised to find in my heart a deep gratitude to Mrs. Smith; I shall not bore you with a lengthy reprise, but rather proceed with my tale in the more or less chronological fashion I have employed hitherto.

Polly, one of Mrs. Smith’s strapping young women, was still asleep on her cot at the foot of my bed. As I looked down my bed to her sleeping form, I will confess that I wondered for a moment whether she might be a sound enough sleeper that I could quench the fire in whose grip I had once again awoken. Surely, thought I, if I pulled my night-dress up, it would sound only like the rustle of bed-clothes. . . and if I bit down hard enough on my collar, I could keep quiet. . .

Visions of what Polly might do—the gagging, the cane I knew was in the special trousseau inside her valise now stored away in my own closet—did not help soothe the ache I felt. But as I began, oh, so slowly to pull at my lap and so to raise the hem of my night-dress, and felt the thin cotton begin to move so teasingly over my bare charms, I suddenly stopped. Where my governess’ hair-brush and the family cane had been utterly unable to prevent me in my lewd pursuits, Mrs. Smith’s razor and her hand had worked the seemingly impossible.

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

“Good morning, Miss Orn,” Mrs. Harrah said. Her voice was high, but pleasant, and confidential. “If you will come to stand here in front of me, we may begin. . . . Mrs. Smith, would you do the part of her maid?” 

“Of course, Mrs. Harrah. Miss Orn, your deportment during this fitting is subject to one very important rule: you must watch closely in the mirror. If I see you look away, you will feel my paddle upon your naked bottom yet again.” 

Mrs. Harrah spoke again. “Mrs. Smith, am I correct that we will be fitting only the aide-mari this morning? And Miss Orn will be returning for the petit-maître after the bride-night?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Harrah. Those are Mr. Wilkes’ wishes.” The petit-maître. The other article Edmund had requested under the term ‘instrument of discipline’. I feared and burned to know. 

“Very well. Miss Orn, please raise your hands and place them behind your head—it will be most comfortable for you if you lace your fingers together.” 

In the 26th book of Explorations, fantasy-Emily, now with her husband's permission (provided she can keep herself from auto-erotic temptation) continues to read of her great-great-grandmother's initiation as a submissive bride into a Great Drama of BDSM in Victorian England. 

This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, Ff, anal, spanking. 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! 

Panty training

(The series is continuing from here.)

"Now that your bottom seems well on the way to true submission, Miss Tilton, I have decided on the shape of the next phase of your training."

To my surprise, Charles delivered this declaration at the mall, where we had gone, ostensibly, because we desperately needed a good trowel (according to Charles, who likes to garden). I had at first resisted the notion of accompanying him on his trowel expedition (our shopping styles are fundamentally incompatible, and I really didn't need anything), but he had given me a meaningful look and said, in his best Domestic Discipline voice, "Sweetheart, I want you to come with me."

At first, I thought he was joking, and I'd laughed, and said, "So what do you want for dinner tonight?" But he had replied, "Emily, are you going to disobey me?"

And I had gotten the look. I have to confess to loving the look, ever since Charles and I worked out the "DD in the bedroom, equal rights in the living-room, unless Emily is naked" rule (never formally ratified, to be sure, but present in our relationship since the winter of 2002).

"No, Sir," I had replied, and gone to get my purse.

Now, when I responded to his declaration with an uncomprehending, "Sir?" he took me gently by the shoulders, and turned me about 120 degrees to the left.

I couldn't help snorting. I was looking at the storefront of a Victoria's Secret. "Sweetie, do you really think I need training in the lingerie department?" escaped me, despite myself.

I could tell he was pleased at the thought, because, I'm sure, images of me in various configurations of lingerie (above all, in various sets of bras and panties--panties, above all) were flashing before his eyes.

"Ah," he said. "I see your point, but I don't believe you've considered very thoroughly, if at all, that your lingerie obsession is an area in which you actually have not submitted to me."

That stopped me in my tracks. He was right. As I've indicated before, lingerie was something I did for me, with reference to a Him who hadn't yet arrived. Charles was playing the role of that Him very effectively, but he'd already proven with the garter-belt uniform that there was some hot ground to cover in the bending of me to acknowledge him, Charles, to be Him, the lord of my lingerie-drawer.

"Alright," I said. "What do you have in mind, Sir?" I couldn't help the tiniest hint of sarcasm in the "Sir." It wasn't easy giving up the idea that lingerie was an area over which I had the final say.

"I'm going to start by taking away your underwear privileges for a week."

"What?" Of course. Of course I knew what he meant, and, well. . . the panties I took off would bear the evidence that the thought moved me greatly.

"I'm pretty sure you can figure it out, Emily. But let me help you by saying, simply, that I want you to go to the ladies' room right now and take off your panties, then come back here and give them to me."

"Sir. . . you know that you're not allowed to try things on there. . ."

"Naked. Yes, I know. You won't be trying anything on, though, because you've just lost your underwear privileges. I have something else in mind, so unless you want a bare-bottom spanking right here in the mall, you had better do as I've asked."

Would he have? I doubt it, but the magic of D/s is sometimes in convincing yourself that your Master would do something that he probably wouldn't do. I went to the ladies' room, and shut myself in a stall. I am incurable: rather than primly removing my panties, I lifted my pink summer dress and put my right hand inside them, while I brought my left forearm across my mouth and gagged myself with it. I just needed to. . . I didn't mean to come, I really didn't.

But when I returned, with my black lace balled up in my fist, and put the fist into Charles' pocket and deposited the panties there, I couldn't meet his eyes. He took my right hand and brought it up to his nose and inhaled. He smiled.

"Look at me, sweetie," he said, without dropping my hand.

I grimaced, and looked up into his eyes. "Were you naughty in the bathroom?"

"Yes, Sir," I whispered.

"We'll discuss this when we get home." He caught my index and middle fingers, the ones he knew well by then are my naughtiest fingers of all, between his lips, and suckled them, gently.

"Oh, Charles," I said, my knees weakening. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Please take me home and fuck me," I managed to breathe.

He released the fingers, and let my hand drop, though he still held it. "In due time, Emily."

He led me by the hand towards the store that always seems to beckon to me with the sheer (of course) extremity of its pinkness and goldness.

Analysis of visual spanking stories: two before the fire

(This analysis concerns yesterday's story.)

What I can't quite figure out about me and Story of O is whether Réage's fantasies were so similar to my own that it only seems like 90% of my fantasies are found in their most essential forms in that book, and I actually had those fantasies before I ever picked it up, or whether Story of O actually did take over my imagination so thoroughly that I can't write a story about two mostly naked females standing in a room that seems to be elegantly French without it borrowing its most basic tropes from Réage.

I suppose there's a third alternative--that this particular image wouldn't have struck me in that characteristic "You must masturbate NOW!" way if Story of O weren't the formative work it is for me. I'll go with that for now--as I look at the image, it really is a very Réagean sort of affair.

The essential hotness in my view isn't, surprisingly enough, the lingerie at all. Rather, it's the hand-holding behind the back, in relation to the clothed man standing behind the chair. I spent some time trying to figure out what's on the chair, but I couldn't make it out; if it were evidence of wrong-doing on the part of the girls, that would be lovely. So, even though I didn't put it in the story since I wasn't sure, feel free to imagine that it's the proof that S climbed into H's bed.

One of the reasons I chose this image, with that essential hotness, is that I'm writing a part of the Victorian Emily story in EXPLORATIONS where Victorian Emily meets her new best friend--the pose of the girls in the photo is one that would be perfect for Emily and Susan, Lady S---- (Victorian Emily is rising meteorically in the world of Victorian BDSM, just as Mrs. Smith predicted!).

Visual inspiration for spanking stories: two before the fire

(See here for an explanation of this series. This story is even more of an homage to Réage than my usual fare.)

H and S, as they were known at the château, stood in front of their Maître. Neither of them had been at the château for a whole week: H had come just the day before, and S only two days before that. H's real name was Hélène, but she was not allowed to tell anyone that, or even to say it to herself; she had had her first flogging for forgetting, and saying "Je m'appelle Hélène" to S, on that terrible first day when she had also been given to all the Maîtres in the great hall. S had turned white, knowing what was coming, and their Maître had instantly taken his whip from his belt, and told H to lay herself over the whipping bench that stood in the room they shared as a never-absent reminder of what happened to girls who broke the rules of the château, or failed to please their Maîtres. Then he had told S to stand behind him and caress his sex while he beat H's poor bare bottom until it was laced with fiery redness all over, and, then, suitably prepared by S (whom he also had prepare H's rear entrance), he had spent his essence inside it, while H (who had never had a man's hardness in there before) sobbed in shame and discomfort.

Thus, H did not know S's real name. As they stood there in front of their Maître, though, she felt love well up in her heart for her new training-partner, who had risked the punishment they were certainly now going to receive to climb into H's bed and try to give her a bit of comfort.

"So, girls," said the Maître. "You decided to have a little fun."

S reached out and took H's hand, and brought it to the small of her back. H was so touched by this gesture of sympathy that she wanted to cry, standing there in the château uniform of stockings, thong, garter-belt, and spiked heels that made her feel always furnished to her Maître, always ready to be enjoyed or punished. How could she be both that château-pucelle, as they were all called, and this sympathetic friend? It seemed somehow both impossible and yet exactly right.

That night they were tied to posts set side-by-side in the great hall, and flogged in front of all the girls, then used by the Maîtres, then finally used by two girls wearing the disciplinary strap-ons the Maîtres made them wear. Through it all, though, H was able to look into S's eyes, and see that they were united not only by the ordeal they underwent, but by the submissive flame they shared.

Photo via the wonderful Marie Berrios

What anal training prepares you for, philosophically speaking

(Part of the series that continues from here.)

The progress of O's training over the course of Story of O is reflected at certain key points directly in the state of her anus. Indeed, I'm reasonably sure, though I've never seen confirmation of it, that Réage named O herself after the tight little ring that is Sir Stephen's preferred way to enjoy her, as well as after the word objet (object).

As I think I've already written somewhere else on this blog, one of my many favorite moments in the book is when Anne-Marie topples O over a table, outside, and verifies without O saying anything that Sir Stephen uses "the narrower passage" with greatest frequency.

Reading that scene, at age 18, still a virgin up front, let alone in back, I had of course grown very wet, blushing furiously there in the bookstore, willing myself to put the book back on the shelf but unable to stop reading. (This was perhaps the fifth time I had returned to that shelf, still unable to face the cashier holding Story of O, with its white cover that pulsed scarlet in my imagination.) The precise nature of my arousal deserves some attention, for I think I can discern in it the beginning of the process so familiar to me now both from my many, many readings of Story of O and from my undertaking a real, corporeal form of it at the hands of my husband.

I flooded my modest blue underwear (probably it was blue; no, of course I don't remember exactly which panties I was wearing that day, but if I recall the make-up of my top drawer at that age correctly, the law of averages favors light blue) reading that scene at the thought that my own anus might someday bear the signs of my Master's use of it. That thought was then, and has continued to be over the years, a nearly perfect crystallization of the condition to which my erotic--not my ethical--self yearns to be called, over and over: every night, in my husband's bed, used for his pleasure and precisely not for my own, degraded but made worthy by that very degradation, marked out most shamefully as his property.

Note: my desire was not to be taken, but to have been taken. When I do lie over the bolster, and yield my ass up to Charles, what's hot about it for me is not actually the feeling of him there, or even the unique, breathtaking fullness that I and other writers seem to return to again and again when we describe the act of anal sex (though certainly that's not without its hotness!). What's really, searing hot about it is the (for me) unbearably arousing fantasy that my Master has by taking me that way transformed me into something new--his ass-wife, who will from henceforth bear the signs of that new status.

The extraordinary paradox of anal training is that it enacts a transformation that, every time you undergo it, is both complete and incomplete. "Training" implies a regime, an ongoing process that progressively prepares you to do something better and better. On one level, anal training only prepares you to undergo more anal training: Emily can take the widest part of her butt-plug now, so it's time to buy a new butt-plug--maybe with ridges, or something.

On a deeper, more important level, though, anal training prepares you to fulfill yourself erotically. To live from the center of your submissive soul. When you have been trained that way by your Master, you bear his signs, but you are also worthy to bear more of them, and better. That's why O is branded at the end of her stay at Samois, Anne-Marie's chateau, and it's why, in another memorable scene there, on the night before O's branding Anne-Marie can't stop fondling the smooth, tender skin on the incurving of O's bottom-cheeks, the places that will receive the brands, and takes dominant delight in showing O the spot in the mirror.

I say in EXPLORATIONS that branding isn't a turn-on for me (it's my rationalizing justification for my watersports material, actually--which is one of the few areas where I actually seem to have fantasies that don't come from Story of O), but the brief scene in Anne-Marie's bed the night before the branding is desperately arousing for me. If I can be forgiven for assimilating O's branding to anal training (and I think I can, because O is branded in the place on her body where she's branded precisely because Sir Stephen has decreed that his favorite path of pleasure be marked that way forever, as his property): both Réage's account of Anne-Marie's cherishing the unmarked, tender spot, and the remarkable piquancy of that moment in the text for me, originate in the very essence of submission, translated to the register of the anus: submissive pleasure arises in the moment of being possessed, whether that possession comes in the form of penetration (of any orifice) or of beating (with any given implement, on any given erogenous zone) or of any of the many other acts of signification a Master might wish to impose (branding, tattooing, certain kinds of jewelry). Here's the strange, important thing, though: The moment of possession bridges the time-gap between the anticipation of being possessed and the state of being possessed; the moment of possession exists only in that bridging--in terms of a spanking-scene (perhaps the easiest and most familiar sort of example) it exists in the bridge between "lay yourself over the [bed, chair, lap, ottoman, etc.]" and corner-time; the delicious, panty-wetting dread of "I'm going to be spanked" and the delicious warmth of "he spanked me, and now I'm his, and he's going to exercise his rights, and now he's exercising his rights, hard, so as to tell me that I am valuable to him in my submission; and now I'm ***COMING***" (caps, bold, stars, because as far as I'm concerned, this is the only fantasy-moment that produces the kind of orgasm that makes me feel like I've touched as much of the hem of God's garment as mortals are allowed to touch). 

The time-gap I mean is really a fantasy-gap--a gap in the imagination that is always open, I think, between innocence and experience, between purity and degradation, and (in the feminine register) between virgin and whore. Being claimed and possessed--that is, being forced from one side of the gap to the other, is the crystalline structure of BDSM, on the submissive side of the coin. We submissives, after all, have always been both virgin and whore: "treat me like a princess and fuck me like a whore" hasn't become the odd sort of rallying cry it has for nothing.

That moment of possession, when it comes in the form of anal training, bridges that gap by demonstrating--sometimes very forcefully demonstrating--that our tiny, innocent rosebuds can be opened, and made experienced, and that we, no matter how hidden those rosebuds are between our bottom-cheeks, yearn to have them opened--that we really are whores, and not virgins. And the way our tiny, innocent rosebuds become all tiny again, and are once more hidden in their secret valleys, and under our panties, and under our skirts--that means that we really are virgins, too.

The gap itself is the pain of the violation. I'm with Réage on that, in a memorable passage where O realizes that she doesn't like being whipped, but she does like waiting to be whipped, and having been whipped. Perhaps I'll write more about that sometime soon, but I think Réage there uncovers something that otherwise might be hard to locate, or describe, because our minds are so very good at putting the layer of fantasy over the reality of what's happening. When my Master is stretching my poor little rosebud around something much too big for it, I don't think I can be alone in really not enjoying the actual sensation of it (in this characteristic, at least for me, anal training is unlike much of the experience of spanking, in which, until the real pain starts, the mild sting of a spank comes through almost as a kind of caress). What I enjoy to distraction, though, and what makes me desperate to touch myself, or squeeze my thighs together, or rub my clit against something, anything, is the fantasy I automatically lay over the sensation: I am being trained for Master; Master is leaving his mark upon me; Master is possessing me.

Tweaking the grand design of my BDSM erotica

As I spew more and more of my, um, idiomatic form of BDSM out here into the digiverse, I'm always experimenting with ways to make the project fun and profitable both for me and for you, reader. I seriously doubt anyone's noticed, but since March I've been putting books out there at a steady pace of one per week. Since my books are short (though they've gotten progressively longer as the series has worn on), and I'm completely unknown and independent, I don't think that was a bad choice, but now that I have a bit of a track record I'm going to tweak my strategy a bit, and start releasing the books of EXPLORATIONS every two weeks, instead.

I'm thinking that will give me more time to see if I can get people interested, and make each new part of the story seem like more of an event. (Must. . . not. . . use. . . word. . . "buzz." Whoops.)

At the very least, it will make things a bit less hectic for me. It takes time to find exactly the home-furnishing or architectural feature I want to use for these covers, and I have to take, like, two pics of each one on my phone so I have a choice of lighting.

Anyway, I don't know if you're ready, reader, for Emily's Fitting, so I think I need to prepare you. I'll give you a snippet here, and then I guess I'll "release" the cover, and the blurb, later in the week? Sound OK? Alright then: alert the social media!

Set-up: fantasy-me didn't tell Charles that I was reading my great-great-grandmother Emily Orn Wilkes' (EOW's) account of her initiation as a submissive bride into a BDSM Great Drama of Victorian England.

Thus, as punishment for my disobedient failure to tell him about EOW's notebooks, Charles spanked me, and then led me to bed. "I want you in the Victorian style tonight," he murmured as we stood next to our beautiful, very Victorian walnut four-poster. He took my face in his hands, and kissed me deeply. 

"Sir?" I asked. 

"Get into your long white nightdress." 

"But, Sir, I don't have. . ." 

"Look in your top drawer."

Sure enough.

"No panties," Charles said, and left the room, like a good Victorian husband, as I donned the beautiful cotton lawn nightdress, with lace at the collar and cuffs. When I was done, I was at a loss for a moment, but only a moment: I slid with the slightest imaginative effort into EOW's thoughts, and slid into bed to await my bridegroom.

Never forget, reader that you can find TONS of EXPLORATIONS on the EXPLORATIONS 101 page. I venture to say you could find enough reading material there to keep you busy until the much-anticipated release of Emily's Fitting!