Thursday, October 31, 2013

Visual spanking stories analysis: a master's hand


(This analysis concerns yesterday's story.)

I hope that if you're following along with this series you enjoyed the contrast between the rather explicit pic last week, with so much spelled out, and this wonderful, subtle pic. Last week's said a lot with its specific, nearly verbal details; this one says just as much with its own subtle ones. The woman's wonderful hair, almost arranged; the pearls; the lipstick and the rouge; above all the smock, at odds with the elegance of the rest, and falling off the shoulder either in the haste of her gesture or in seduction; his passive hand, clearly attached to a man elegantly dressed; the desperation of her expression--entreating for what? mercy? love? chastisement? The freckled shoulder that seems to speak of experience, over the course of a life lived in the opulence of such hairstyles and pearls, and yet, in its exposure, reflects a vulnerability at odds with that very experience.

There is something wrong, the photo seems to say; she hopes, perhaps forlornly and even impossibly, that her submission will mend it.

I hope that the story I wrote burns with the same slow heat as the photograph, and works its way into the reader's consciousness via similar modes of imaginative elaboration. Last week, the sex was there on the surface: here it waits in the darkness by which the figures are so exquisitely framed.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Visual inspirations for spanking stories: a master's hand

(See here for an explanation of this series.)

Claudette knelt, and took Bernard's hand, and brought her lips to it. Would he know? Would he understand why, although she had made up her face, and put her hair into its chignon, and fastened the pearls around her neck, she was not dressed--not ready to go to the reception?

Bernard was startled. After saying, "My dear, you must hurry; the car will be here in ten minutes," he had distractedly turned to leave the room when she had darted down from the chair in front of her dressing table, and taken his hand by the wrist. He turned to look down at her, and saw the look of desperate submission in her eyes, and he knew: her flirtation with the French ambassador had gone too far.

"My love," she said, looking up into his eyes. "I am so sorry--I cannot face him tonight."

"What, then?" he asked. "What shall we do?" Truly he did not mind not attending the reception; he had at any rate been sure until a moment ago that she would be indiscreet with the French ambassador.

"I. . ." Claudette began. She began to despair--he had known, but he had not known what was truly necessary.

Bernard studied her face for a long moment, and suddenly awareness rushed in upon him--the tremendous, exultant knowledge of what she needed, and what he needed, and what would finally bridge the distance between them.

He withdrew his hand and, as she watched in shock--that he would do this, that he would at last do this thing for which she had been yearning for so long--, he removed his dinner-jacket, and then his belt, still looking into her eyes. Wordlessly, he rolled up his right sleeve, and doubled the belt in his right hand.

"On the bed, my dear. Your bottom bare, and over the bolster, ready for the spanking I'm about to give you. I will put an end to these indiscretions, even if I have to beat you once a day for the next ten years."

"Bernard," she said, rising and moving towards the bed in thrilled but frightened fascination, "even if you promise only to beat me every once in a while, I suspect you will never have to fear the indiscretions again."

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Rocking-horse training, concluded

(We're continuing from here.)

(WARNING: this episode has VERY intense ageplay.)

(I mean, seriously, if you thought it was intense before. . .)

(Just don't hate me for the third paragraph, OK? The purpose of EXPLORATIONS is to explore the dark regions, right?)

It was a bit-gag, with reins. Like all the best training devices, my first reaction was "Never!" and my second reaction was "Ohmygod always." Charles pulled out of my ass, leaving me with that lovely forlorn feeling that I always get when I know there's more to come, and came around to the side of the bed, and patted my head (stroked my mane), as he put it in. "Good little pony," he said. I thought the heat in my pussy was going to incinerate me.

Maybe there needs to be a new word to describe this kind of thing, some sort of portmanteau of "wrong" and "hot": aeschroerotic (that's Greek) or stupramorous (Latin), or shamesexy. Let me see if I can capture how it felt in a single thought: at one and the same time, I wanted to make sure that no one ever know that my husband, pretending to be my Daddy, had bridled me and then ridden my ass like an, I don't know, ass-jockey--wanted it even to be erased from our own memories, and sent wherever terrible experiences go to be forever lost--and I was trying as hard as a girl with a bit in her mouth can try to communicate that Charles had to take a picture, and that that picture had to be framed and then hung in some secret room where we could go and look at it while we were having sex, and that that picture had to be kept so that I could look at it and play with myself whenever I wanted between now and the end of space-time itself.

For the moment, I had to settle for risking Daddy's displeasure by jumping off the horse and getting down from the bed, and pointing violently at the mirror, and mewing pleadingly around my bit, then pointing at the horse, and twirling my finger, then clasping my hands in front of me, to say "Please, Daddy, would you turn the horse around so I can see you riding my little bottom like a Daddy should ride a little girl's bottom because even though it's wrong her little bottom is so pretty that her Daddy can't resist, and Daddies' pleasure comes first, and so if a Daddy wants to put a bit and bridle on his little girl, she has to let him, because if she didn't he would spank her very hard, until she was a good little girl, and let him take his pleasure in her bottom, the way a Daddy is always entitled to take his pleasure, because a little girl's bottom-flower is for her Daddy to put his big thing inside."

And, miraculously, my Daddy understood my Proustian silent plea, and turned the horse around, but then he put me back on it, and said, "Emily, I'm afraid I have to spank you now, because you got off your horse without permission." I hung my head, but Daddy took my reins and pulled my head up, and then he started to beat me. Eventually, he had a riding crop that he used on these occasions, so I'll just conflate that in here, too.

"Little ponies sometimes need very severe lessons, don't they?" he asked, as he covered my bottom-cheeks with precise, stinging slaps of the keeper at the end of the crop. My head was reined in by his left hand, so I could only jerk my chin a bit in respectful assent. My eyes were watering, and the saliva was dripping down my chin onto the bed, and I could see it all in the mirror. I was in sub-heaven.

And then, at last, he rode me in earnest, his little ass-pony, holding my reins so tight that the tension in my neck travelled down my torso and into my flanks, and produced a sensation so painful and pleasurable that my face in the mirror, distended by my bit, looked like I were undergoing some horrendous torture at the hands of a sadist from Nazi Germany, or Mars, or something. And yet it was just my Daddy, who was riding his little girl because that makes Daddies' things feel so good, and they can't help what they do to their little girls, and their little girls love them for letting their little girls give them so much Daddy-pleasure.

"Oh, Emily. . ." Daddy grunted, "You. . . you don't know. . ."

There is nothing in the world to compare to the sight of the man you love taking pleasure beyond speech, beyond comprehension, in you. I don't care if you're staring up adoringly at him while he makes love to you tenderly in missionary position, a look of sweet vanilla pleasure on both your faces, or you've got a bit in your mouth and you're calling him Daddy and your Daddy is pounding your ass like a pseudoincestuous, pseudopederastic jackhammer: the look that comes just before an orgasm is incommensurable with any other phenomenon I can think of.

". . . what you do. . . to--oh, God--to your Daddy."

I throw my literary hands up. The word "thermonuclear" occurs to me as a way to describe his orgasm in my little bottom, but you'd never catch me using that kind of metaphor.

He came. He liked it. I liked it.

Monday, October 28, 2013

Made an incentive for three of Charles' colleagues--Emily, Bedded Cover Reveal

The Waterhouse St. Eulalia cover is back for another go!

This volume of EXPLORATIONS has two separate strands--the "gangbang strand" (not to put too fine a point on it) and the "Victorian BDSM defloration strand"--, both of which I (of course!) find incredibly hot. If your mileage varies on that, remember that the Victorian stuff will be collected into the Second Notebook in a few months. Also, there will be the "Emily, Spanked" version of the "incentive for junior colleagues" thing (aka the gangbang strand). See this page for a guide to all my plans for EXPLORATIONS to suit every taste!

What's a cover reveal without a teasing excerpt?
I was wearing the red lace panties with the bow in the front, because I was Charles' gift to his top-performing brokers. I was gagged, because they didn't want to hear my opinion on how they should use me. 
The ball-gag was just big enough in my mouth to make me always, always aware that I was gagged. The cuffs on my wrists that bound them to my belt were soft, but unyielding. 
I was kneeling in the playroom. Charles had led me in, and told me to kneel. The three men, in black bathrobes, were seated comfortably in the arm-chairs in front of me, so they had a fine view of my little breasts with their pink nipples.
And a blurb? (Buy the book here!)
Now another scene took shape within my fancy: an invitation was sent out: Mr. Edmund Wilkes requests the pleasure of your company at the display, enjoyment, and chastisement of his bride for immodesty. In a private theatre, all of London society turned out in evening clothes; I, clad only in my aide-mari, was led blind-folded onto the stage, was bent over a bar and tied, with my bottom to the audience. Mr. Wilkes approached, dressed in a sort of ceremonial version of his dressing gown. 
The 28th book of Explorations tells, in parallel, the stories of the narrator's ancestress' defloration at the hands of her dominant husband and of the beginning of the narrator's fantasy-avatar's night with three of her husband's junior-colleagues, as a prize awarded for exemplary performance. 
This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, MMMf (no sex among the M's), 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. 

Friday, October 25, 2013

The first origin of Prophettown, as told by Emily Orn Wilkes in a document found in the Prophettown archives #SpankorTreat

Announcing the rules of Spank or Treat!
  1. Visit each blog (links below my story) between Friday, October 25th and Sunday, October 27th to read the posted stories and excerpts.
  2. Leave a comment answering the story question on each blog. You will receive one entry per blog for the grand prize drawing. You will also be automatically entered in that author’s individual contest, if she has one.
  3. If you have visited all of the blogs, visit Ana’s blog to sign up for FIVE bonus entries to the grand prize.
  4. Deadline is midnight EDT (UTC -4) on October 27th!!
  5. If you successfully completed the Spankee Doodle, Love Spanks, or last year’s Spank or Treat 2012 challenge, you may add “VIP” to your comments. You will earn THREE bonus entries toward the grand prize. (Yes, we will be doing this again. Yes, if you successfully complete the Spank or Treat challenge you can become a VIP for our next activity!)
  6. Visit any of the participating blogs on Thursday, October 31st to find out the lucky winners. Will it be you?


Here's something I wrote for Charles just a year or so ago (as opposed to most of EXPLORATIONS, which originates from material first drafted ten years ago, in the year after we got married). As with many of the texts of EXPLORATIONS, it was written as an extra "punishment" that arose out of one of our spanking scenes.

The kids were in bed on a Saturday night, and I was on my laptop at the kitchen table looking at my Fetlife.com feed (link goes to my Fetlife profile--feel free to befriend me!). I saw a beautiful picture of a very large cock. Charles and I play a sort of game in which he monitors my Fetlife activity for spankable offenses. Loving (the Fetlife equivalent of "Liking" on Facebook) pictures of cocks is just about my easiest way to a spanking. If I want a severe one, I make a comment, like the one I made that night, on this picture: "Can I come over?" (Reader, I don't know if you've spent much time on Fetlife, but, if not, I should probably mention that writing "Can I come over?" as a comment on a picture of some random guy's cock is like saying "How are you?" on someone's Facebook status about the weather.)

I glanced over to where Charles was sitting watching the Yankees, with his own laptop open in front of him on the coffee-table. I watched him glance at the screen, then click. Loving him more each second, I saw him smile, and shake his head slightly, and then type.


I looked at my own screen, and read the message that had just arrived: "You are in serious trouble." Some of my favorite words in the universe. He looked over at me, and I did my best schoolgirl quail, hunching my shoulders a bit and lowering my eyes to the carpet. When I looked up, he was pointing to the door of his office (soundproofed vis-à-vis the kids' rooms).

Five minutes later I was in there over the arm of the couch with my pajama pants around my ankles, yelping as my leather paddle struck my bottom. "Five!" I said. "I'm so sorry, sir."

"Not sorry enough, apparently. I can see how wet that picture got you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"I am, sir! Ow! Six!"

"Can you come over?"

"Ah! Seven!"

"I have a mind to have you write, 'Sorry I can't come over because I just got spanked by my husband, and now I'm going to be cuffed to my bed and punished anally all night, so by the morning my perspective on your cock will be quite different, since I will have realized that my husband's cock is the only one I should be loving'!"

"Eight! Nine! Owww! Ten!"

Neither of us remarked on the fact that if the intent was to humiliate me, posting that on Fetlife was probably not the best way to do it, since I would undoubtedly receive dozens, perhaps hundreds, of congratulatory messages. But the thought of what it would be like if I had to put such a message up on any normal social media site got us both going.

"Oh, please, sir--ah! Eleven!" He was laying them on very hard, and my bottom was really stinging now.

"Actually, though. . ."

"Twelve. . ." He stopped at this sacred number. I made some of my little whimpers, hoping to interest him in taking advantage of my spread knees to enjoy me with his own lovely cock. Instead, I heard him open a drawer, and turned my head to try to see what he was getting.

"Face to the cushion, sweetheart," he said, and I obeyed, blushing at the shame of knowing what I was about to undergo.


The snap of the lube bottle. The cool of it on his fingers, ungentle with my bottom tonight, and then on the big plug--the one I think of as the punishment plug, and always feel my pulse increase when I so name it to myself.

And then his voice, "I think I want a story, Emily."

"Um, wh--what kind of. . . oh, no, not so--ow."

"I want a story about a wife who saw a picture of another man's cock, and loved it too much, and paid the penalty. If it's a good story, I may reward you." He gave me, as he usually does, a tiny, tantalizing indication of what sort of reward he meant.

Here's the story I told, refined into one of my EXPLORATIONS. Some exposition: Prophettown is a polygamous pseudo-religious BDSM community; it turns out that my avatar fantasy-Emily (that's who's talking in the first paragraph Roman type below) is descended from the people (Emily Orn Wilkes, who's talking for the rest of the story, after that first paragraph, and her husband Edmund) who founded Prophettown, for reasons and by processes as yet unknown.


When I was in Prophettown visiting Sarah, I spent a great deal of time in the public library archives, where they keep the earliest records of the community. I wanted of course to learn everything I could about my great-great-grandmother's relationship to the place, and though the nature of Prophettown meant that many of the origins of the community were purposely obscured so as to hide it from authorities who might meddle (and, in the early days, would almost certainly have shut it down and confiscated the enormous sums of money allocated to its foundation and maintenance), I did come across one precious document, written in my ancestress' own hand, that seemed to give the essence of the matter.


The American project, now called Prophettown, began in a punishment my husband Edmund Wilkes, now the Earl of Wessulk, meted out to me for a minor indiscretion I committed in the gallery of Lord F---- at Castle L----. That gallery had some very fine paintings, many of them commissioned secretly from the greatest painters of Europe, and I was particularly enchanted by a series of scenes from Greek myth, and above all by a large canvas by none other than Raphael depicting Jove coming to Semele in his panoply.


Raphael, I thought, must have had the same thoughts I blush to confess to having had about the erotic meaning of the story, viz. that the lightning-bolt that slays the girl must be that of Jove's loins, the one which he uses upon Juno so infrequently, but upon other, minor, goddesses with, apparently, very great frequency, for in this painting, Jove, stiffly ready to give Semele what she has so foolishly requested, is endowed far beyond mortal men. He is so greatly endowed, and so stiffly ready, that I feared for my tender cleft just gazing at the deity uncovered in the painting. Well I could imagine that Jove would slay poor Semele with that mighty sceptre, and, to the immediate detriment of my posterior (for Edmund was fond of summary chastisement in public) but also to the lasting benefit, I hope, of the people of Prophettown, I whispered, with a giggle, to Lady F----, "I wouldn't mind dying so much, if that yard were fucking me."


Edmund was closer behind me than I thought, as we stood and gazed at the painting. He called to a footman, "You there--would you be so good as to summon Lady Wessulk's lady's maid? Please tell her to bring her ladyship's chastiser to me."


(Think leather paddle.)


"Oh, Edmund, no!" I said.


Lord F---- laughed. To another footman, he said, "Joseph, bring the block, please."


The block was set in the middle of the gallery, and I was made to kneel upon it, and over it, as Jenkins, at Edmund's command, lifted my skirts and pinned them up. I was never permitted drawers in those days, but I was in my aide-mari--that thin strip of silk and lace that tightly bound my charms front and back, but had clasps at my waist, the right one of which Edmund proceeded to unfasten. Bare-bottomed public chastisement was a staple of the great drama, but I never became inured to its humiliation: to know that the servants of Castle L----, as well as Lord F----, had seen the shameful aide-mari, and now were watching my husband pull it down my left thigh, to hang uselessly at my knee, made the blood rush to my face even as I felt the still more humiliating wetness begin in my loins. Now, I knew, they were admiring my charms bare of covering and framed by my stockings and my petticoats.


"I have half a mind, Emily," Edmund said in his firmest tone, "to ask Lord F---- to fetch his largest punishment dildo, so that your punishment will truly fit your crime, and you will feel how Semele was rewarded for her lack of faith in the father of the gods."


"Oh. . . please. . ."


Abruptly, he began to spank me with the chastiser. In a mirror at the end of the gallery I could see him standing at my side as I lay over the block, his left hand upon my waist and his right swinging the chastiser vigorously, over and over. I could not see my bottom, but I could imagine it squirming and quivering, and growing redder and redder.


"Whose yard is the lord of your person, Emily?" he asked, not stopping the spanking, which was becoming exquisitely painful, as he was with his practised hand repeatedly finding the same spots.


"Yours, sir," I sobbed.


"Whose yard is the only one Lady Wessulk should want to be fucked by?"


"Lord Wessulk's, sir. Oh, Edmund, please stop!"


"Who is your Jove, Emily?"


He answered that himself, ceasing to paddle me, lowering his britches, and possessing me right there, in front of my best friend and her cruel husband and their servants, while I cried out in shame and discomfort.


"John," he said conversationally as he continued to thrust into my immodestly lubricious private part, "don't you think that the life of Jove has a great deal to recommend it?"


"Indeed," said Lord F----. "What man of the drama wouldn't rather fuck a harem of nymphs than a single wife?"


Edmund spent then, holding my punished bottom tight against his hips as he shot his essence into my well-plowed furrow, and leaving me, of course, unrelieved of my own amorous arousal.


"You will remain there, wife, for an hour, on display, as a lesson in modesty both to yourself and to others," he said.


"No, Lord Wessulk, you mustn't!" said Lady F----. "That's simply too shameful!"


"Do you want to be next to her, Susan?" asked Lord F---- sharply. "I can have Halton cane you, if you like."


Poor Susan--she would have endured any beating if only her husband were giving it--but he refused to have anything to do with her of an amorous nature except to take her once a week in the matrimonial position, for the purpose of getting an heir. It was torture for her of a completely different kind to the cane's, for her nature was as submissive as mine, and she longed for the sorts of punishment and amorous ordeals I underwent on a daily basis at Edmund's hands (and other features).


I think she probably would have taken the caning out of fellow-feeling with me, but I said, "No, Susan, you mustn't."


Strangely enough, that was when the idea of Prophettown struck me. What, I thought, if Susan and I were both married to Edmund? Does not Plato recommend holding wives in common? Is the custom not honored throughout the world, and even accepted in the Old Testament? Had not Edmund just said that men wish to have the harem of Jove?


After I was allowed to rise, I said to my husband, "Edmund, dear, I've just had an idea for something we might do with the land you bought in that new American state. . ."


Question: How do you think Charles rewarded me for my story?


Check out The First Notebook of Emily Orn Wilkes, Secret Countess of Wessulk, if you like the Victorian stuff, and the rest of my books if you like the modern stuff too!




Read all the Spank or Treat stories, and answer the questions for a chance to win fabulous prizes!









Thursday, October 24, 2013

Visual spanking stories analysis: disciplined

(This post concerns yesterday's story.)

Frankly, this may be the hottest photograph I've ever seen. If it's not, it's certainly in my top 10. Let me just list, beginning with the essential hotness.
  • Panties half-up, as if her Master wanted to make sure she realizes that panties are for his convenience, and not for hers, after what was clearly an intense discpline session.
  • Belt on the back, to indicate to her that from her Master's perspective, she exists to be beaten. Master may of course pick up the belt any time he wishes, and beat her the way she deserves.
  • Tied, spread, face-down, making her available at the convenience of her Master and relieving him of the tiresome need of seeing her face, when he is really only interested in her backside.
  • Lace trim around the panties, indicating the part of her anatomy that should always be nicely adorned, even on such functional underwear: these may be day-to-day grey panties, but her Master is entitled to have her bottom look pretty for him.
  • The little anal vibrator, left negligently lying there after her Master bestowed some anal discipline on her earlier, yanking her panties down for it, before strapping her with the belt, and finally, demeaningly, tugging the panties back up just a bit. His intention is of course that when he feels like it, he will come back to repeat the cycle and make sure the lesson he is teaching gets learned.
Finally, the element that works like a firebrand on my imagination, despite (I think) really being only ancillary to the core eroticism:
  • The wet-spot on the panties, indicating that her Master wanted to teach her a special kind of lesson, not just about his authority to beat her, but about her wanton nature, and what it means for his Mastery of her: how much she needs it, and how willing he is to give her exactly what she deserves, even to the point of her current exhaustion, should he wish.
I go back and forth on whether the meaning of "hot" and "sexy" is "fit for objectification" for everyone, or just for me and my ilk. I tend to think it's universal; I've never seen the words used in a context where it didn't seem reducible to the bestower of one of those adjectives wanting to objectify the person or scene (objectifying a scene like the one in the photo always comes down in the end to objectifying a person, in my judgment) to which s/he applied the word, even--perhaps especially--in the case of describing oneself, e.g. "I feel sexy" or "that thong makes me feel sexy." Worth discussing in the comments, maybe?

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Visual inspirations for spanking stories: disciplined

(See here for an explanation of this series.)

Jack's favorite way to discipline Esme was designed to ensure that she developed the deepest possible appreciation of her own wanton, slutty nature. Jack believed that only by making Esme feel erotic pleasure against her will, in the course of punishing her for faults in her conduct like the parking ticket she had received the day before simply because she had been too lazy to feed the meter, could he truly instruct her in the ways of his Dominance, and her submission.

For Esme, the hardest part was spreading her arms and legs on the bed, for Jack to bind her the way he knew she needed to be bound. It was impossible, no matter how many times she had been disciplined this way, clad only in her panties, face to the sheets, limbs stretched so that when the belt came down upon her bottom over and over, the way it did when Jack really wanted to teach her a lesson, she had no way to avoid it. 

From the moment she felt the straps go around her wrists, she knew that her discipline-session was going to unfold the way Jack wanted it to unfold: her panties pulled down, the little vibrator used in her most private place, Jack's fingers coaxing degrading screams of pleasure from her, and then the vibrator removed and the belt coming down hard, and again--and then the pleasing, tormenting hand once again inside her panties, and Jack's voice saying, "A bad girl needs to understand that her master will always make sure she behaves responsibly." 

The belt again. "Do you understand?" Softly--never in anger, for how could he be angry at the little girl whose panties were now so wet that anyone could see the spot of moisture there?

"Yes, Sir."

The fingers again, on the outside of the panties, working her as she moaned, low at first and then with rising pitch and volume, until at last she lay exhausted there, and he rolled up the belt, as he always liked to do, and set it on her back, to remind her that if he chose he could discipline her further--as much as he liked--always as much as he liked.

(I am once again deeply in the debt of Marie Berrios, for this amazing image; I don't know how she does it.)

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Rocking-horse training, part 2

(We're continuing from here.)

(WARNING: this episode has VERY intense ageplay.)

I began to ride, putting my hands on either side of the end of the horse that faced my headboard. I rubbed, and the heat grew there, so that I had to rub again, and again, travelling back in my mind to the time when I had ridden sofa-arms and pillows, in my panties and then, later, out of them, unable to stop but knowing how shameful it was: knowing I should stop.

I went back further in my imagination and I was the little girl on the big horse, learning how to post up in the saddle, not thinking about why it made me feel so wonderful, and I posted on my husband's horse, and made little sobbing sounds because the wonderful feeling in my private part was somehow wrong, and I shouldn't play with myself, and I shouldn't want a spanking, even though being spanked was just about the only thing in the whole world that I really, really wanted.

After I had made a few shameful posts up and down atop my pony, with his hand rubbing me tenderly so that I wanted to ride faster and faster, Daddy said, "There's another important part of a little girl that her Daddy needs to help her with. Do you know what I mean?"

"My b--bottom, Daddy?"

"Yes, Emily. That's right. Stop riding for a moment. Daddy's going to get on the bed so he can help you with your bottom."

"Are you going to spank my little bottom, Daddy?" I said with a pout.

"Not tonight, sweetheart. Tonight Daddy wants to put something there. It won't feel very good for you this first time, but it will make Daddy feel wonderful, and so you will need to learn to take it."

"Yes, Daddy. Even if it hurts very much, I'll be happy that it makes you feel so wonderful!"

He got up on the bed behind me, and I heard him open the lube. I couldn't believe how aroused I was, by the horse, by Charles playing Daddy, by me playing innocent little girl. When I felt the head of his cock there in my girlish little bottom-flower, I couldn't help myself: I needed to play with the taboo. "Daddy, should a little girl like me have something in my bottom?"

Charles had to think for a moment, but replied, beautifully, "No, Emily, but you're getting bigger, aren't you? It's time for you to start learning how to please your Daddy in new ways. These ways will seem strange at first, but Daddy knows what you need better than you do, and Daddy's pleasure comes first, so you're going to have something there now, so that I can enjoy your bottom as much as I want."

He held my little peaches in his hands as he put his thing inside my flower, and I pushed, to let him in, because perhaps I knew more about such things already than I should, and I groaned as he entered, and began to move in the gentle way in which he always starts, back there.

"Daddy?" I asked.

"Yes, Emily?"

"My front feels funny again, and the horse is very nice, but. . ."

"But you like my hand, don't you, you naughty girl?"

Shamefaced, I turned my chin over my shoulder to see him enraptured by the sight of his thing in my bottom, and nodded.

"Well, if I am very pleased with your bottom, after I take my pleasure perhaps I'll let you ride my hand again, or even something harder and longer. Right now, though, Daddy is going to use your bottom, and go for a little ride of his own. So put your head down and push your backside out for me, Emily."

(It wasn't actually at that first lesson that he brought out his next surprise--it was really a few weeks later, after it was clear that we were both really, really enjoying the riding lessons--but it makes for a better story to put it here.)

After I obeyed, and Daddy had ridden my bottom for a minute or two, very gently but still in a way that made me chew on my lower lip, and whimper in discomfort, he said, "Emily, there's something you're going to wear for Daddy now, because Daddy wants to ride his little girl properly."

"What is it Daddy?"

It was a bit-gag, with reins.

Monday, October 21, 2013

A multiple-man night begins--forthcoming: Emily, Bedded

Things are about to get rather intense for fantasy-Emily. To gain admittance to Prophettown and discover her heritage from Victorian Emily, fantasy-Charles has to make a rather shocking video, of what's going on here:
Perry put his forefinger under my chin, and turned my eyes up from his cock to his face. "Look at me, sweetheart," he said softly and menacingly. "We know about you. We know you're a little slut. Charles has told us all about you--about the porn and about how you get punished all the time for playing with yourself. You're going to get it tonight. Sam and Joe and I are going to have fun, but I'm sorry to say it won't be very fun for you, because I like to make sure my sluts learn a lesson about a man's rights, and about a man's pleasures."
And the blurb is revealed! (Snippet is from the Victorian tale.) (Buy the book here!)
Now another scene took shape within my fancy: an invitation was sent out: Mr. Edmund Wilkes requests the pleasure of your company at the display, enjoyment, and chastisement of his bride for immodesty. In a private theatre, all of London society turned out in evening clothes; I, clad only in my aide-mari, was led blind-folded onto the stage, was bent over a bar and tied, with my bottom to the audience. Mr. Wilkes approached, dressed in a sort of ceremonial version of his dressing gown.
The 28th book of Explorations tells, in parallel, the stories of the narrator's ancestress' defloration at the hands of her dominant husband and of the beginning of the narrator's fantasy-avatar's night with three of her husband's junior-colleagues, as a prize awarded for exemplary performance.
This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, MMMf (no sex among the M's), 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.

Friday, October 18, 2013

The governess' hairbrush #SatSpanks

If you love the Victorian stuff, you're in luck this week! These eight are from Victorian Emily's governess' letter to her future husband, which he uses as evidence that Mrs. Smith has in her a worthy pupil.
“My hair-brush was in my hand already, and I instructed Miss Orn to assume a position I had heard about from another governess, one she used for the worst offenses, in which the offender is made to bend at the waist until she grasps her own ankles, spreading her feet slightly so as to maintain her balance. In this position, which I chose because of the way it exposed the region of Miss Orn’s naughtiness, that maiden furrow still shining a bit with the moisture she had wantonly called into it, to a very shameful degree, I had her stay as I confessed to her my great disappointment, and told her that the sternest correction would now be necessary. Still hoping to touch the keen sense of shame I knew she possessed, I urged her to picture herself as I saw her, naked before her governess and in the position to which her wantonness had brought her, arranged so that her naughty private part was the first thing to greet the eye. Did she wish to be nothing but that part? For if her conduct continued, it would be so. 
“At this I began to apply the hair-brush, and I must admit to having lost count of the exact number of times I applied it, as I was attempting to reinforce reason with chastisement. As I warned Miss Orn in explicit terms of the dangers of the path upon which she was now embarked, I stayed at her side with my left hand upon her waist and my right emphasizing each word with the hair-brush’s office upon a spot so close to the problematic part that I had hope the Miss Orn might gather the gravity of the situation. I narrated to her the typical tale of such a girl: the easiness of her virtue, the advantage taken by the handsome young man, the broken promises of marriage, the rejection of her family, at last the inevitable coming upon the town."
And the blurb (buy the book here!):
Mrs. Smith was suddenly very matter-of-fact. "Very well, Miss Orn. It is my custom to test a new girl’s obedience immediately. Stand up, if you please, and allow me to assist you in removing your clothing. In order that there be no false pretense here, let me warn you that you will be required to remove every garment, including your chemise."  
My conscious mind now rose in open rebellion against the impulse that had had me give my word. How could I obey her? Why had I given my word to do so? Had I had any inkling she would ask such a thing?  
NOTE: This book comprises material previously published in the following books: Emily, Victorian Bride; Emily in the School for Wives; Emily Undressed; Emily's Bath; Emily's Morning; and EXPLORATIONS: Books 21-24. I here present it as a continuous story and without the intrusion of the modern narrative of my fantasy-tale, for readers who might be more interested in this Victorian material.  
In this notebook, imagined as passed down to me from my great-great-grandmother, Emily Orn tells the story of her first initiation into a great drama of BDSM in Victorian England. Under the tutelage of Mrs. Smith, trainer of submissive brides, she learns to know and to love her craving for shameful degradation and erotic submission.   
This book of EXPLORATIONS contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, ff, Ff, spanking, mild 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!


Now available: The First Victorian Notebook

Alright, then. If you're looking for naughty BDSM Victorian pastiche, I've got your weekend reading right here!

Here's another teasing excerpt, from one of the naughtiest bits: the same section I excerpted on Monday, where Emily is chained naked to the floor in the lovely salon.
At any rate, I must try to describe the feeling of the chain. First, the sensation of being bound to the floor, and so to the very foundations of the town-house in which Smith’s was established for so many years. I was new to Smith’s, but already certain that some long, honored tradition lay behind it; to convey the essence of that tradition in so little time was one of Mrs. Smith’s great gifts. The chain signified first and foremost that I must submit not only to my husband, but also, and indeed more importantly, to the drama itself into which he had called me, the drama which was refined and developed (as a symphony’s themes, noble and pathetic, brash and elegant, are developed) here, and in other such great establishments. 
Second, the sensation of an un-freedom so complete that one’s entire world had been shrunk to a very few feet of space—such a small ambit, in fact, that the miscreant could not even stand up should she try. I can at least give you a striking, particular instance of this feeling, from that first morning at Smith’s: I had not waited very long before I urgently needed to relieve myself; I called out, pleaded, wept, sobbed, and finally submitted to my body’s own command. I doubt you can come close to imagining what it felt like for a genteel young lady, raised to respect a home’s furnishings, perhaps even to respect them above anything else, to make water onto a Persian rug. This was the sort of things in recompense of which dogs are whipped, I could not help thinking as, horribly fascinated, I watched the moisture spurt down my thighs and onto the rich, red carpet and felt the marvelous release of those muscles so long held tight, groaning shamelessly aloud.
And, once again, the blurb (buy the book here!):
Mrs. Smith was suddenly very matter-of-fact. "Very well, Miss Orn. It is my custom to test a new girl’s obedience immediately. Stand up, if you please, and allow me to assist you in removing your clothing. In order that there be no false pretense here, let me warn you that you will be required to remove every garment, including your chemise."  
My conscious mind now rose in open rebellion against the impulse that had had me give my word. How could I obey her? Why had I given my word to do so? Had I had any inkling she would ask such a thing?  
NOTE: This book comprises material previously published in the following books: Emily, Victorian Bride; Emily in the School for Wives; Emily Undressed; Emily's Bath; Emily's Morning; and EXPLORATIONS: Books 21-24. I here present it as a continuous story and without the intrusion of the modern narrative of my fantasy-tale, for readers who might be more interested in this Victorian material.  
In this notebook, imagined as passed down to me from my great-great-grandmother, Emily Orn tells the story of her first initiation into a great drama of BDSM in Victorian England. Under the tutelage of Mrs. Smith, trainer of submissive brides, she learns to know and to love her craving for shameful degradation and erotic submission.   
This book of EXPLORATIONS contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, ff, Ff, spanking, mild 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.

Thursday, October 17, 2013

Visual spanking stories analysis: innocent floral

(This analysis concerns yesterday's story.)

My recent inspirations have played with what I suppose might be called more traditional BDSM tropes: ropes and capture (albeit capture of a rather light kind!). For this week I wanted to go with something a little more on the innocent side--or rather on the side of the playful engagement of innocence in the service of finding that erotic rush that always come with its violation.

So, the essential hotness is, strangely enough, the lovely floral pattern. It invokes all sorts of wonderful ageplay dynamics and because in the ongoing narrative of the blog I'm doing an ageplay series right now, it seemed particularly appropriate.

The rest of the image is surprisingly simple, except that I haven't yet managed to figure out why stripped beds, in erotic photography, affect me the way they do. Obviously, they're naked, and the bed's nakedness is a metaphor for the nakedness (or implied soon-to-be-nakedness) of the model lying on it. But I don't think that can be the real source of the erotic effect; if I had to guess I think would theorize that the real source is that licit, vanilla sex happens in made beds; stripped, bare beds are therefore ideal for kink. Just to extend that hypothetical argument, I associate made beds with the natural feminine order of the traditional Western household; a bed without sheets would be where a dominant man would take a submissive girl to use her charms as he pleased.

Finally, there's the look: the evergreen "Please help me deal with these uncontrollable sexual urges I have that girls aren't supposed to have: only you, Dominant Sir, with your specialized, brutal, authoritative equipment can give me the answer I seek to these strange needs I have, that contrast so thoroughly with my innocent floral lingerie."

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Visual inspirations for spanking stories: innocent floral

(See here for an explanation of this series.)

It made her blush, but Manuela couldn't deny that the innocent floral sleepwear set, with the brief shirt and the cute panties, had a special effect on her. She was supposed to be doing the laundry; the sheets were off the bed, and she was about to bring them to the washing-machine, but as she was shifting the bundle in her arms she felt the light cotton of the shirt brush across her nipples, and she looked down at herself and was suddenly startled to see how naughty she looked--a grown woman in these little-girlish things.

Her hand, almost of its own accord, found out the front of the cute flowered panties with its fingertips, and she drew a sharp breath when she felt how bare she was under those panties--Raul had told her only the week before that he wanted her to shave between her legs for him, and she wasn't yet used to the feeling.

She dropped the laundry. She was about to give in, and she had pulled her panties down to her knees, and begun to soothe the gathering moisture up and down the tender lips, but then she stopped herself from indulging her naughtiness, just in time, feeling guilty in that obscure way she always did, not wanting to be a bad girl. Instead, frustrated, she pulled her panties up, and stood, hesitating for a few moments, looking at the pile of laundry on the floor, her lower lip caught between her teeth.


She threw herself across the bare mattress, with her hands in front of her, thinking about what Raul liked to do when he found her touching herself, how he was teaching her about her need for discipline, and above all for the feeling of his firm hand on her bottom. She thought of how, after a spanking, he would lay her down just as she was now lying, and, without removing her lingerie--the more innocent the better--enjoy her from behind to his heart's content, all the while murmuring, "Such a good girl. . . such a good girl to let your master do something so grown-up."

The door opened, and, startled, she turned to see Raul entering the room, a broad smile on his face.

(Photo via Carmelita FERN√°NDEZ)

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Rocking-horse training, part 1

(We're continuing from here.)

(WARNING: this episode has VERY intense ageplay.)

The next week found me in the saddle.

"We're going to do some serious ageplay in the next few units, as I've planned them, Emily," said Charles. "I just want to make sure you're OK with that. I mean, I know that ageplay is a big turn-on for you--and it is for me, too--we established that a long time ago."

I blushed. "You mean when I called you 'Daddy' way back at the Waldorf?"

"That is indeed what I was thinking of."

"Oh."

(I fictionalize that moment in
Emily's First Caning as happening on our honeymoon, but it actually did happen at the Waldorf, though I don't describe the moment in detail in my early blog posts about that night. For the "real" story of what happened on our honeymoon, see the post-series that begins here.)

"In fact, I want to see if we can get to the bottom" (miraculously, he kept a straight face as he said this, though I nearly lost it) "of your ageplay needs, with the help of a friend of mine."

There was a dramatic pause. For a moment I really did think he meant a human friend, and the safeword was on the tip of my tongue, but then he said, "My punishment horse."

"Glug," I said.

"If you'll permit me, I want to try to take you way back."

"Um, OK."

"I've seen some pictures of you when you were ten or eleven. . ."

Where was he going with this?

". . . at riding lessons."

I felt the blood rush to my face.

"And your mother has told me that at one time you were quite the equestrian."

I couldn't do anything but nod. I had no idea why I was getting so heated about Charles knowing about my oh-so-standard horsy phase, but there was something about the association of that kind of riding with his punishment horse that made me think of the very, very young Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet, and that scene where she's in bed imagining riding her wonderful, powerful, enormous, dangerous, leg-separating, loins-warming horse (The Pie, OK? The Pie. Yes, I know the name of the horse in National Velvet. Sue me. I even know why that's the name of the horse).

"So," my trainer continued, "I think we'll forego your usual uniform this evening. Please put on your short white nightgown."

We also eschewed the basement-dungeon; training was in my room, aka the guest-room, that night.

As instructed, I sat in my nightgown (and only my nightgown) on my bed. Charles brought in the horse, without an upthrusting dildo attached and thus quite innocent-looking, and placed it on the bed, while I looked wonderingly on. The best part about Charles and me, I think, is how well we play pretend. Years of drama classes let me slip right into my twelve-year-old self, just coming out of my riding days, knowing that the heavenly feeling I had had atop my favorite horse Justin (a gelding) wasn't really about the riding, but that there was something else waiting there.

"Emily, you are to call me Daddy, now."

I swallowed hard. "Yes, Daddy."

"It's time for your riding lesson, Emily. Mount your pony."

I was already so, so hot that I groaned a little when I swung my leg over, and my nether-lips came up against the plush fabric of the horse. Instinctively, I assumed a jumper's crouch--not because I was thinking about my old equestrian training, but because it brought the center of my girlish arousal hard against the firm cushion. I made a little whimper in my throat.

Daddy put his hand on my bottom, over my nightgown, and the whimper happened again. He rubbed, gently. "Oh, Emily," he said, "your riding lessons are becoming more difficult for you, aren't they?"

"Yes, Daddy," I said. Then I tried an improvisation: "I don't know why, riding makes me feel so funny now that I'm getting older."

"How, sweetheart?"

I blushed. "In my. . . between. . ."

"Down here, you mean?" asked Daddy, and put his other hand on the nightgown, over the place that was burning to be touched.

"Oh, God, Charles. . . I don't think I can. . ." It just burst from me, because the heat of the scene was indeed going very, very deep, in every way I could imagine.

"Do you want to stop?" he asked.

"No! It's just so, so wrong. . . but also so right. . ."

With his left hand, in front, he raised the hem of the nightgown, to expose my little vulva.

"Oh, Daddy," I said. "Please. . ."

"Sometimes Daddies have to touch their little girls here to help them feel better," he said, and touched me there.

"Hmmmmmm," I said, or something like that, though the pitch was rather higher than I can suggest with the letter M.

"Does that feel better, Emily?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Would you like to start riding, now?"

"Yes, please."

"Well, then, you may begin."

Monday, October 14, 2013

Sneak peek: The First Victorian Notebook

In case you're now completely mystified by all the ins and outs of EXPLORATIONS, I made a special page just for purposes of that wonderful thing called disambiguation: A Guide to the Versions of EXPLORATIONS! And of course if you're just discovering the strange mixture of searing hot BDSM and labyrinthine whimsy that makes me tick, there's also EXPLORATIONS 101.

The matter at hand, however, is something I hope will please some number of readers: the Victorian material by itself, presented as if you were "me," taking it out of the old box your mother gave you and being scandalized just as "I" was. Here's a particularly scandalous bit: Emily has been chained, naked, in a very elegant salon, to await punishment.
Why the chain? Clearly the collar and cuffs (an assembly I later learned to call a ‘virtue-keeper’) were symbolic of the rule I had broken, my hands placed (in an attitude of prayer, even) where they might not transgress the private domain prepared for Mr. Wilkes. At the thought, my loins burned anew. I looked down again at that private domain, smooth and bare, where only the barest hint of my virtue was visible as I knelt on the carpet. Then, unbidden, the aide-mari came into my mind: what would it be like to put it on? to watch my chamber-maid take it from its little case, holding it between thumbs and fore-fingers, as I waited, naked in my dressing-room, my charms carefully shaven so that the little garment might be their only covering? In my mind’s eye I took the front waist-band from May and brought it to my own waist; now the little furrow of my maiden virtue was just covered by the silk and lace, hanging narrowly down in front of my pudenda. May knelt behind me; what would she see, as I must open my thighs to let her reach between them to take the other waist-band? would her fingers brush against my charms as she raised the back panel behind me? And when the clasps were fastened, when I felt my charms enclosed—how could I avoid feeling that my secret places were mine no longer—that they belonged to Mr. Wilkes? And when I felt his hand at my waist, opening the clasps. . . I sat back on my heels, and felt the sting of the strapping young women’s straps anew. The wet began to moisten my calves where they lay below my wanton charms.
And here's the book's blurb (buy the book here!):
Mrs. Smith was suddenly very matter-of-fact. "Very well, Miss Orn. It is my custom to test a new girl’s obedience immediately. Stand up, if you please, and allow me to assist you in removing your clothing. In order that there be no false pretense here, let me warn you that you will be required to remove every garment, including your chemise."  
My conscious mind now rose in open rebellion against the impulse that had had me give my word. How could I obey her? Why had I given my word to do so? Had I had any inkling she would ask such a thing?  
NOTE: This book comprises material previously published in the following books: Emily, Victorian Bride; Emily in the School for Wives; Emily Undressed; Emily's Bath; Emily's Morning; and EXPLORATIONS: Books 21-24. I here present it as a continuous story and without the intrusion of the modern narrative of my fantasy-tale, for readers who might be more interested in this Victorian material.  
In this notebook, imagined as passed down to me from my great-great-grandmother, Emily Orn tells the story of her first initiation into a great drama of BDSM in Victorian England. Under the tutelage of Mrs. Smith, trainer of submissive brides, she learns to know and to love her craving for shameful degradation and erotic submission.   
This book of EXPLORATIONS contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, ff, Ff, spanking, mild 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.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

Announcing Spank or Treat 2013!

I'm thrilled to be part of this year's Spank or Treat!


IF THE BROOMSTICK FITS, RIDE IT!!! 
Do you like spanking stories, prizes, and Halloween? Do you miss the days when kids came to your door asking for candy, or when you were young enough to do the trick-or-treating? You’re in luck! Spank or Treat 2012 was so much fun that we’ve brought you a bigger and better collective short story extravaganza for 2013.  It’s trick-or-treating for adults, and we do mean adults!
Want to become a Spank or Treat ambassador and earn an extra prize entry? See below!
Even better, participation could earn you a GRAND PRIZE!
Plus, all Spank or Treaters are eligible for free books!
  • Holding Hannah, by Maren Smith
    Available to the first 50 participants!

  • Love’s Repriseby Cassandre Dayne, Lucy Felthouse, Olivia Starke, Kate Richards, and Anastasia Vitsky
  • Coming to Termsby Cara Bristol, Jade Cary, Alta Hensley, Celeste Jones, Sue Lyndon, Renee Rose, and Anastasia VitskyAvailable to ALL participants who complete the Spank or Treat 2013 challenge!
Many authors will also be offering a contest on their individual blogs.  Your comment on their blogs automatically enters you in both the main contest and the individual contests!
What’s the catch?  Absolutely nothing!  We love writing for you and want to thank you for your readership.  Perhaps someone might get a spanking or two, but that’s a reward rather than a catch, right?  ;)
Here are the rules:
  1. Visit each blog between the Friday, October 25th and Sunday, October 27th to read the posted stories and excerpts.
  2. Leave a comment answering the story question on each blog.  You will receive one entry per blog for the grand prize drawing.  You will also be automatically entered in that author’s individual contest, if she has one.
  3. If you have visited all of the blogs, visit Ana’s blog to sign up for FIVE bonus entries to the grand prize.
    Deadline is midnight EDT (UTC -4) on October 27th!!
  4. If you successfully completed the Spankee Doodle, Love Spanks, or last year’s Spank or Treat 2012 challenge, you may add “VIP” to your comments.  You will earn THREE bonus entries toward the grand prize.  (Yes, we will be doing this again.  Yes, if you successfully complete the Spank or Treat challenge you can become a VIP for our next activity!)
  5. Visit any of the participating blogs on Thursday, October 31st to find out the lucky winners.  Will it be you?
Like these events? Want to support your friendly spanking fiction authors? Become a Spank or Treat Ambassador! In exchange for promoting this event, you will receive one extra prize entry, AND you are still eligible to participate and win prizes! To find out the details, send an email to ana_stasia2007 at yahoo dot com, with the subject line “Spank or TreatAmbassador”.
For more information, updates, and a list of participating authors, please visit Anastasia Vitsky’s blog.
Tweet #spankortreat on Twitter!