(The story continues from here.)
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?"
"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."
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.