Gods, this was fun to write.
After they had prepared Thaleia in the little room, dressing her in a white chiton with golden pins at her shoulders, which came down only to the middle of Thaleia's thighs, and gathering her hair with a jewelled comb, so that it flowed down over her left shoulder, the Graces led her through the entrance room into the great hall of Aphrodite.
As a rosy glow had suffused the air of the entrance room, it became to clear to Thaleia that the red, flickering glow that she had seen through the doorway suffused the air of this enormous chamber, whose walls to either side and at the far end Thaleia could not even see.
Now also was answered at last the mystery of where the scene she had heard unfolding between lord Hephaestus and Lady Aphrodite had taken place. In the center of the hall stood a raised platform, reached by three steps and lit by twelve torches, which made it stand out as the only truly bright place in the entire chamber. Upon that platform three Desires, cousins of the Graces, were tying a girl to a frame of wood. Next to the frame stood Aphrodite herself, her lash in her hand.
As the Graces led Thaleia forward, she watched with horrified fascination as Aphrodite brought her whip down upon the lovely upraised bottom of the girl, which was all Thaleia could see of her. The sound of the lash, and the cry of the victim, echoed through the hall and, Thaleia realized, must be carried to the colonnade, and the Olympic avenue, above.
"Who is it?" she could not help whispering.
"That's Erato," the red-haired Grace whispered back. "The Muses play a game with lord Apollo: he takes one of them to his bed every week, but he has her whipped first."
"What? Why?"
"You'll see. Calliope is the only one who doesn't admit that she loves it, but that's only because she thinks it's beneath her dignity."
Aphrodite whipped Erato's bottom again, and then she put her hand down between the Muse's thighs. "Wet again, Erato, of course. Naughty girl." The whip fell once more. Thaleia felt faint. Suddenly she knew that she wanted to be in Erato's place.
Buy the book at Amazon by clicking here! Here's the blurb:
When the beautiful young goddess Thaleia spurns Zeus’ attentions, he has her thoroughly and shamefully punished and then casts her down from Olympus to walk the earth as a mortal woman. Worse still, he places a curse upon her which will overcome any man who sees her with the desire to claim her in the most humiliating ways possible. Her only hope lies in an ancient power stronger even than the gods… Destiny has decreed that if, in spite of the curse, two men can make her confess that she yearns to be theirs, then she will find a happiness beyond her fate.
After Thaleia’s sister throws herself at the feet of Apollo in desperation and begs for his aid, Apollo appears in a dream to Leontes and Theoleon, two of the bravest warriors of Sparta, and commands them to rescue Thaleia. When the men wake and find the girl naked and distressed, they are torn by two equally powerful instincts: to take her long and hard and make her blush with shame, and to love and protect her as their own.
The three journey to the Oracle at Delphi, who gives them Apollo’s prophecy—that the descendant of two Spartan warriors and a goddess will one day save all Greece from its enemies. But if Thaleia bears the son Apollo has foretold and Zeus relents and allows her to return to Olympus, will her love for her two Spartans be greater than her desire for immortality?
Optional question: who's your favorite Muse? Does she need a spanking? Should she give you one?
Keep crawling!
My latest book, Bred by the Spartans, opens with a series of chapters that pose the problem that's answered by the appearance of the two mighty Spartan warriors who rescue Thaleia from the worst effects of the curse that's on her: when you're cursed in such a way that every man who sees you wants to take you in the most humiliating way possible, things can go south quickly.
Clemaeus had not had a good morning. His mother had grumbled him awake before the sun, to take the fattened swine to the priests at Olympia. The priests had given him less than half of what the swine were worth. Now he faced the prospect of returning to his mother with a sum that would make her grumble all the rest of the day.
When he saw the naked girl, though, the new sun seemed to brighten around him, with his mood. Leaning against the column like a return-gift from Zeus himself to his faithful servants--such men as raised the pigs that were sacrificed to him from time to time, like Clemaeus--her red hair in beautiful disarray, was the most beautiful young woman he had ever seen, entirely naked and waiting, it seemed just for him.
Clemaeus could scarcely tell why, but the urge to have her immediately, to show her that even if he he could not get a good price for his pigs, Clemaeus of Olympia knew how to fuck a beautiful young woman, came irresistibly upon him.
Buy the book at Amazon by clicking here! Here's the blurb:
When the beautiful young goddess Thaleia spurns Zeus’ attentions, he has her thoroughly and shamefully punished and then casts her down from Olympus to walk the earth as a mortal woman. Worse still, he places a curse upon her which will overcome any man who sees her with the desire to claim her in the most humiliating ways possible. Her only hope lies in an ancient power stronger even than the gods… Destiny has decreed that if, in spite of the curse, two men can make her confess that she yearns to be theirs, then she will find a happiness beyond her fate.
After Thaleia’s sister throws herself at the feet of Apollo in desperation and begs for his aid, Apollo appears in a dream to Leontes and Theoleon, two of the bravest warriors of Sparta, and commands them to rescue Thaleia. When the men wake and find the girl naked and distressed, they are torn by two equally powerful instincts: to take her long and hard and make her blush with shame, and to love and protect her as their own.
The three journey to the Oracle at Delphi, who gives them Apollo’s prophecy—that the descendant of two Spartan warriors and a goddess will one day save all Greece from its enemies. But if Thaleia bears the son Apollo has foretold and Zeus relents and allows her to return to Olympus, will her love for her two Spartans be greater than her desire for immortality?
Optional questions: 1) do you fantasize about stranger sex? 2) if you do, could you ever imagine actually doing it? (My answers: yes, and NO)
More wonderful, taboo delights below!
The central idea for Bred by the Spartans, my new book, is that Thaleia, a minor goddess of waters (call her a water nymph, if you like--same thing, really), gets sent down from Mount Olympus as a mortal because she refuses Zeus' advances. My biggest challenge in writing the book was that in real Greek myth, it just doesn't make sense that any female, goddess or mortal, could resist Zeus, since what we can call, politely, ravishment was simply part of ancient Greek culture, when done by a man of higher status to a woman (or a man) of lower status.
Since Zeus' status is of course higher than anybody else's, the idea of Zeus needing anyone's--even a goddess'--consent before he enjoyed her (or him--a prince named Ganymede is one of Zeus' most notable ravishments) is, from the point of view of real Greek myth, ridiculous. I had to come up with something new, and I think it worked. Note that this excerpt includes the little snippet I posted on Saturday--so faithful readers of this blog will have some of their curiosity answered!
"And now it's your turn, Thaleia," Zeus said. "Take off your chiton and get on that couch next to Clea, and I'll show you how good the deeds of Eros feel."
But Thaleia's mind rebelled. She had only taken a dare from Argeia; she just wanted to go back to her father's palace and play knucklebones the way Argeia had said they would, if Thaleia took the dare and ran through Zeus' palace.
She looked at the mighty god standing before her, his face growing stern as he saw that Thaleia was hesitating. His manhood. . . was even bigger than Poseidon's. And he wanted to put it inside her and do that thing that looked so violent, that he had been doing to Clea.
"Thaleia," said Zeus, "you must stop this coy pretense of innocence. When the father of gods and men wants to enjoy you, you would be well served to obey him. Now get yourself over the couch, or your backside is going to pay a heavy price before I have you at last."
"Oh, my lord. . . please. . . can't I wait? . . I'm only nineteen."
"Thaleia," Zeus said, "it appears that you still do not understand the order of things on Olympus. I do the deeds of Eros with whatever girl I choose, whenever I choose, and, like Clea here, that girl understands, when I choose her, that in truth she yearns for me just as I yearn for her. Do you mean to say that, seeing me uncovered before you, and ready for you, you do not yearn to submit to my will?"
How could Thaleia express what she felt at Zeus' words, and at the sight of his divine manhood there before her? She looked at Clea's face as lord Poseidon, his own face transfigured with godly pleasure, pushed into her over and over. Clea had her head down, and her eyes closed, and suddenly Thaleia realized that she wanted to be in Clea's place, wanted Zeus' enormous manhood to do to her what Poseidon's was doing to Clea, but that Thaleia could never admit to that feeling, for she found that her pride and honor would not allow it.
Zeus looked at her sternly. "The consequences of resistance are great, Thaleia."
The air began to push at her again, and a terrible gust of wind ripped her chiton right off her body. She cried out to be naked, confronted by Zeus and his enormous masculinity.
"This is your last chance to avoid a thrashing before I ravish you, sweet Thaleia," Zeus said. "Get on that couch and push out your bottom for a fucking, or I'm going to spank you first and ravish you after."
Thaleia thought of Maia, mother of Zeus' son Hermes, now an Olympian himself. She had never until now understood the story she had heard in hushed whispers, of how Zeus had come for her on the mountainside, and kept her inside a cave while he took his pleasure for nine days and nights. Of how Maia had barely survived the ordeal, and was not allowed now ever to come to Olympus for fear of Hera.
A blast of wind pushed Thaleia over to the couch where Poseidon was by this time vigorously thrusting into Clea, holding the girl's wrists behind her, as Clea cried out under the sea god's massive member. The wind pushed Thaleia down until she was kneeling next to the couch with her hands out in front of her, and her face in the cushion.
Zeus chuckled. "I like the ones with a little spirit," he said. "They tend to make the mightiest heroes."
He gave her a spank on her little bottom, and another. Thaleia whimpered. "Please, lord Zeus! Ow! Please!" she cried.
"Quiet, girl," he said. "You're fortunate I'm not using my whip. Girls who get the whip don't enjoy the deeds of Eros quite as much afterward. Should I get my whip?"
"No! Oh, lord. . . please. . ."
Thaleia thought about the whip of Zeus, and knew that she wanted to feel it striking her bottom. She thought about his enormous manhood, and knew that she wanted to be made to take it everywhere, along every avenue of pleasure the sky-god might find.
But she also knew, with crystalline clarity, that she could never say so.
"You must break me," she said to the cushion.
"What did you say?" she heard Zeus ask, behind her.
Zeus stopped spanking Thaleia. "You are going to pay a very severe price for balking me, Thaleia, you foolish girl. You will wish that you had simply done the deeds of Eros with me and had your little hero."
Buy the book at Amazon by clicking here! Here's the blurb:
When the beautiful young goddess Thaleia spurns Zeus’ attentions, he has her thoroughly and shamefully punished and then casts her down from Olympus to walk the earth as a mortal woman. Worse still, he places a curse upon her which will overcome any man who sees her with the desire to claim her in the most humiliating ways possible. Her only hope lies in an ancient power stronger even than the gods… Destiny has decreed that if, in spite of the curse, two men can make her confess that she yearns to be theirs, then she will find a happiness beyond her fate.
After Thaleia’s sister throws herself at the feet of Apollo in desperation and begs for his aid, Apollo appears in a dream to Leontes and Theoleon, two of the bravest warriors of Sparta, and commands them to rescue Thaleia. When the men wake and find the girl naked and distressed, they are torn by two equally powerful instincts: to take her long and hard and make her blush with shame, and to love and protect her as their own.
The three journey to the Oracle at Delphi, who gives them Apollo’s prophecy—that the descendant of two Spartan warriors and a goddess will one day save all Greece from its enemies. But if Thaleia bears the son Apollo has foretold and Zeus relents and allows her to return to Olympus, will her love for her two Spartans be greater than her desire for immortality?
OK, fess up. Are you like me? Have you fantasized about being a mortal woman ravished by Zeus? Say, Leda?
My latest book is for any spanko who loved D'Aulaires Book of Greek Myths as a kid--or any spanko who just loves myth in general. It's also for anyone who wanted more sex and spankings in 300. The title and the blurb say it all, really. Enjoy.
Thaleia thought about the whip of Zeus, and knew that she wanted to feel it striking her bottom. She thought about his enormous manhood, and knew that she wanted to be made to take it everywhere, along every avenue of pleasure the sky-god might find.
But she also knew, with crystalline clarity, that she could never say so.
"You must break me," she said to the cushion.
"What did you say?" she heard Zeus ask, behind her.
Zeus stopped spanking Thaleia. "You are going to pay a very severe price for balking me, Thaleia, you foolish girl. You will wish that you had simply done the deeds of Eros with me and had your little hero."
Buy Bred by the Spartans at Amazon by clicking here! Here's the blurb:
When the beautiful young goddess Thaleia spurns Zeus’ attentions, he has her thoroughly and shamefully punished and then casts her down from Olympus to walk the earth as a mortal woman. Worse still, he places a curse upon her which will overcome any man who sees her with the desire to claim her in the most humiliating ways possible. Her only hope lies in an ancient power stronger even than the gods… Destiny has decreed that if, in spite of the curse, two men can make her confess that she yearns to be theirs, then she will find a happiness beyond her fate.
After Thaleia’s sister throws herself at the feet of Apollo in desperation and begs for his aid, Apollo appears in a dream to Leontes and Theoleon, two of the bravest warriors of Sparta, and commands them to rescue Thaleia. When the men wake and find the girl naked and distressed, they are torn by two equally powerful instincts: to take her long and hard and make her blush with shame, and to love and protect her as their own.
The three journey to the Oracle at Delphi, who gives them Apollo’s prophecy—that the descendant of two Spartan warriors and a goddess will one day save all Greece from its enemies. But if Thaleia bears the son Apollo has foretold and Zeus relents and allows her to return to Olympus, will her love for her two Spartans be greater than her desire for immortality?
Read all the Saturday Spankings!
(This analysis concerns yesterday's story.)
I'm really proud of this story, because not only did it come out ultra-hot (as far as I'm concerned) without anything explicit at all, but it also celebrates both the power of art in general and the specific erotic power art can have when we catch sight of something that plays into our fantasies, transformed in a work of aesthetic beauty like this drawing by Patty.
So many of the photos I elaborate in this series have that same power, but I've never elaborated a work that foregrounds its creation the way only one of the media we think of as the traditional plastic ones do. You'll never find me arguing that photography doesn't belong in that category, too, but photography's aesthetic almost always involves obscuring the fact that it's mimetic, and not transparent--that's why we have the strange but powerful word "photorealistic," after all.
A dominant figure wishing to have a work created that captures his passion for his beloved submissive has always been high on my list of thermemes, so I'm going to call the central hotness here as the drawing itself. If you're interested in more from me on this theme, my Victorian notebooks might be worth the time you spend exploring them. . .
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
"Eliza," Martin said, "an artist is coming today to start that special drawing we talked about."
"But Daddy!" said the 22-year-old Eliza to her ageplay-partner and loving husband, "That was a joke!"
"Well, after we laughed about it, I couldn't seem to get the idea out of my mind, and I looked on the internet and I found a wonderful artist by the name of Patty. She was glad to get the commission to make the drawing I want for the wall of my study."
"But you were joking!" Eliza wailed, blushing furiously. How could her husband be serious? Martin couldn't really intend to make her look at a drawing of herself getting a spanking every time he called her to his study for a talk--or even for punishment--, could he? Even worse, she began to imagine Martin's colleagues, over for a meeting, looking curiously at the drawing and asking him whether the girl might be Eliza, and whether Eliza really did get spanked over Martin's knee with her bottom bared.
"I was joking, but now I'm not," Eliza's daddy said sternly. "I can't think of anything I'd rather have on my wall than a reminder of how much joy it brings me to give my sweet Eliza what she needs when she's naughty."
"Daddy! Please!"
"Do you want your bottom to be red already when the artist arrives to take the pictures she'll be working from?"
"Pictures?! Oh, no. . . Martin, please!"
"That's it, sweetheart," Martin said in his daddy-voice. He sat on the couch. "I guess we're going to have to practice right now. Take off your panties, and give them to me."
Biting her lips, Eliza obeyed. Martin put the little garment in his pocket.
"Now get yourself over my lap this instant," he said, sternly.
Eliza did as she was told, putting her face over the couch cushions and her feet on the floor, feeling as always like a real, naughty little girl. When she felt Martin pulling up her skirt to bare her backside, and then take firm hold of her hip, she thought about the drawing, and about how truly she had been a little disappointed that it had seemed only a joke, when Martin had said "You know, sweetheart, I wish I had a lovely drawing of me spanking you--it's the most beautiful sight I know."
Now Martin's hand fell sharply on Eliza's bottom, over and over, calling little gasps from her alongside the warmth of the arousal in her loins. As she gave herself over to her daddy's firm hand, with its insistent rhythm of chastisement, teaching her to be a better, more respectful girl for him, Eliza imagined all the secret happiness, as well as all the blushes, the sight of the drawing would give her through the years of love to come.
(Drawing by the wonderful spanking artist Patty. It came to my attention via the equally wonderful MarQe Smith.)
You know you've done something right, I guess, when you look at a passage you wrote and think, "I can't post that can I?"
As Perry had promised, after I had kissed each of their cocks in greeting, he put the ring-gag on me. He then swiftly availed himself of my distended mouth while Joe cheered him on ("Yeah, baby! Ride it good!") and Sam simply said "Wow," several times--mostly when Perry had held himself balls-deep as I gagged, and "Um" once when Perry, close to his climax, had brought me near my limit--making my face turn almost purple, I imagine.
"Shut up, Sam," Perry said. "I know what I'm doing. Spank that ass, Joe."
And Joe had picked up the strap and complied, which made Perry come, holding my head and spraying his semen on my face and chest, while I (without even thinking about it, and in fact to my astonishment) did an imitation of the slutty little movements that porn actresses do when a guy is coming on them. I'd never done it before, and I think I did it then because I wanted to reassure Sam that Perry did indeed know what he was doing, and I was indeed a little whore who needed mastering by men such as they.
Buy it at Amazon by clicking here! Blurb:
Emily's Shameful Ride: In the 29th book of Explorations, Victorian Emily's ultimate defloration occurs atop her husband's bride-saddle, while fantasy-Emily continues her shameful service to her husband's junior colleagues.
Emily's Return to Smith's: The 30th book of Explorations tells in parallel the stories of the middle of fantasy-Emily's night as a performance reward for three of her husband's junior colleagues and the much sweeter tale of Victorian Emily's return to the establishment of Mrs. Smith, trainer of submissive brides.
Emily's Victorian Honeymoon: The 31st book of Explorations finishes the stories of fantasy-Emily's multiple-man night, and of Victorian Emily's return to Smith's. Mf, MMMf (no sex among the M's), Ff, Fff, anal, spanking, watersports.
Emily's Victorian Wedding Trip: The 32nd book of Explorations tells of fantasy-Charles and fantasy-Emily's ageplay preparations to go to Prophettown, by way of France, while Victorian Emily, herself in France, is inducted into the way of the BDSM great drama.
This collection brings the story of fantasy-Emily and fantasy-Charles nearly to the point of their journey to Prophettown, and the story of Victorian Emily to the midsummer festival. Mf, MMMf (no sex among Ms), Ff, Fff, anal, spanking, diaperplay, watersports.
Keep crawling!
I'm so excited finally to be able to feature the one part of my fantasy life that really, definitely falls under the taboo heading.
Reading this, Charles could bear it no longer. He switched on the monitor and speakers of the computer that was recording the video-feeds from the playroom and the attached bathroom.
His wife Emily was being pissed on, and she wore a look he knew very well indeed, which he thought of as her look of submissive rapture. They were in the big bathroom, and Emily, naked but for her red lace panties hanging around one thigh (one of the men had presumably ripped, or cut, them away from her other thigh) was kneeling with her back to them, but her face to the hidden camera, with her hands bound in front of her. Charles noticed distractedly that one of the three cocksmen must be a very skilled shibari artist, for the tie around Emily's forearms was simply gorgeous; the belt she had been wearing, with the rings to clip her cuffs to, had been taken off her at some point, it seemed, and for reasons he didn't quite understand, that little fact pained Charles almost physically. Emily's hair was completely dishevelled, and her face was streaked with tears, but the look on her face was pure, brutal, involuntary arousal: the kind of arousal Charles loved to win from her.
Joe was saying, "Who's pissing on you now, Miss High-and-Mighty?" It happened to be Perry, who was languidly moving a pale golden stream across Emily's bottom, holding his cock lightly in his right hand to direct the spray.
Buy it at Amazon by clicking here! Blurb:
Emily's Shameful Ride: In the 29th book of Explorations, Victorian Emily's ultimate defloration occurs atop her husband's bride-saddle, while fantasy-Emily continues her shameful service to her husband's junior colleagues.
Emily's Return to Smith's: The 30th book of Explorations tells in parallel the stories of the middle of fantasy-Emily's night as a performance reward for three of her husband's junior colleagues and the much sweeter tale of Victorian Emily's return to the establishment of Mrs. Smith, trainer of submissive brides.
Emily's Victorian Honeymoon: The 31st book of Explorations finishes the stories of fantasy-Emily's multiple-man night, and of Victorian Emily's return to Smith's. Mf, MMMf (no sex among the M's), Ff, Fff, anal, spanking, watersports.
Emily's Victorian Wedding Trip: The 32nd book of Explorations tells of fantasy-Charles and fantasy-Emily's ageplay preparations to go to Prophettown, by way of France, while Victorian Emily, herself in France, is inducted into the way of the BDSM great drama.
This collection brings the story of fantasy-Emily and fantasy-Charles nearly to the point of their journey to Prophettown, and the story of Victorian Emily to the midsummer festival. Mf, MMMf (no sex among Ms), Ff, Fff, anal, spanking, diaperplay, watersports.
More wonderful, taboo delights below!
In the books that make up the collection I just released, EXPLORATIONS: Books 29-32, the modern happenings in the lives of fantasy-Emily and fantasy-Charles are dominated by what I call the "multiple-man night"--call it a gangbang fantasy, if you need to be coarse about it. Anyway, it was fun to write, but it was also a little harrowing trying to walk the line between arousal and squick.
As Joe slowly lowered the red lace to the middle of my thighs, I heard Sam gasp, presumably at the sight of my shaved pussy. God, how naughty it made me feel to think that I was the one to initiate Sam into these Dominant delights and that my submission was turning him on this way! I knew it would go ill with me in certain ways because of it, and I thought of O, given to the young man who had never tasted Dominant pleasure before--and who is described as being of exceptional size and rigidity, just as Sam was--and of the way that young man brings O back to his room and takes her frantically both fore and aft, over and over. I knew that Perry and Joe would encourage Sam to use me hard, and that he probably would, but that thought itself made me wet.
I wanted to look at his face and see his reaction, but I knew Perry would beat me savagely with the strap he was holding if I did, since he had instructed that I was to look only at their cocks, so, at last, I leaned in, and with lips as soft as I could make them, kissed the tender skin of the head of Sam's penis, and heard as reward a soft little sound at the back of his throat.
Then he retreated a step, conscious, I supposed, of Perry's outline of events, and of his right to have my lips on his cock next. Perry came around from where he had been standing to beat me, the strap still in his right hand. On the fingers of his left, he brandished his penis, thrusting forth from a nest of wiry gold hair.
"It's not as big as young Sam's, here," he said, arrogantly, "but I know how to use it on a slut like you. You're not going to enjoy this, sweetie, even if you're as hot for cock as Charles says you are. Kiss it now."
Fear knotted in the pit of my stomach, and I thought about saying "Pineapple" for a moment. Could I really do this? Would Charles even let me safeword, now? Of course he would--but would he, really?
I was thinking again, which was something Perry clearly didn't like. His right hand lashed out, and the lash found my bottom, and I cried out.
"Whoa," said Sam.
"Big guy," said Perry, "you have a lot to learn about how to treat a woman like this. Put your hand down there and feel that little cunt."
"No, please. . ." I said, and shrieked as I was struck again.
Incredulous, Sam stooped down, and I felt his huge fingers, and I moaned, uncontrollably.
"What did I tell you?" asked Perry.
"Let me feel that," said Joe, and he stooped behind me, and forced his hand painfully between my thighs, bound by the red lace panties. He chuckled. "She's like some kind of gusher down there."
"Look at her blush, now," Perry said. "That's the funny thing--she still thinks there's something to be embarrassed about--like we don't know that she's a little whore who gets it in the ass every night from her sugar-daddy husband."
Now the fear and the arousal mingled, as Perry played my submissive nature like a violin. He knew his role--indeed, he was better at it even than Charles. Between Perry and Sam I was going to have a hard time, I thought, keeping from utterly shaming myself on the video that was being made even as I put my lips forward and kissed the cock of my new Master, Perry, never ceasing to loathe and fear him.
Up in his study, he told me later, my true Lord and Master, Charles, was reading my great-great-grandmother's notebook, to keep his mind off what was happening in the playroom. Several cameras were recording footage there; he would edit that footage later, but he didn't want to watch it live for fear he might be tempted stop the scene. This meant of course that I really was at Perry's mercy.
Let me just add, for the sake of tender hearts:
We later learned that Perry was an ultra-experienced (award-winning? Or is that too much? I'll bet there are dungeons that really do give awards, though.) Dom, who was attentive for any sign of non-consent on my part. That night, however, neither Charles nor I knew that about him.
Buy it at Amazon by clicking here! Blurb:
Emily's Shameful Ride: In the 29th book of Explorations, Victorian Emily's ultimate defloration occurs atop her husband's bride-saddle, while fantasy-Emily continues her shameful service to her husband's junior colleagues.
Emily's Return to Smith's: The 30th book of Explorations tells in parallel the stories of the middle of fantasy-Emily's night as a performance reward for three of her husband's junior colleagues and the much sweeter tale of Victorian Emily's return to the establishment of Mrs. Smith, trainer of submissive brides.
Emily's Victorian Honeymoon: The 31st book of Explorations finishes the stories of fantasy-Emily's multiple-man night, and of Victorian Emily's return to Smith's. Mf, MMMf (no sex among the M's), Ff, Fff, anal, spanking, watersports.
Emily's Victorian Wedding Trip: The 32nd book of Explorations tells of fantasy-Charles and fantasy-Emily's ageplay preparations to go to Prophettown, by way of France, while Victorian Emily, herself in France, is inducted into the way of the BDSM great drama.
This collection brings the story of fantasy-Emily and fantasy-Charles nearly to the point of their journey to Prophettown, and the story of Victorian Emily to the midsummer festival. Mf, MMMf (no sex among Ms), Ff, Fff, anal, spanking, diaperplay, watersports.
When I began to think about trying to publish my mix of spanking and rather dark BDSM fantasy fiction, I looked around to see whether anyone had achieved success with that kind of thing. I ran across a book called Judgment, by an author named Denise Hall. Wow--question answered, though I knew I couldn't hope to match the achievement! It was quite a while before I realized (as is stated clearly on Amazon's Denise Hall page--so silly me) that Denise Hall is also known as Maren Smith, whom by that time I had met, virtually. This hot writer of capture fiction was also an incredibly supportive colleague in the magical spanking fiction community, where golden pieces of sage advice from writers like Maren are doled out freely, like breadcrumbs to lead us towards the spankophile promised land, and had written an incredible range of other stuff, too!
Why do you write?
I write because I can’t help it. I always have.
Actually, that’s not true. I started writing my stories down when I was in my teenage years, before that, my sister and I (who shared a room) would tell each other our “books” as bedtime stories. We would spin these epic yarns that went on for weeks, a single story from beginning to inevitable end, and then when we were done it would be the other person’s turn. When we started writing them down, it became an addiction. We had a notebook and pen with us everywhere we were. We wrote while waiting for the movie to start, the waitress to bring our food, the ticket taker to give us our toll change back. If, God forbid, we made it out somewhere without a notebook, we wrote on other things: napkins, the backs of receipts, pizza boxes (full or empty, didn’t matter) and WOE to he or she who threw away that napkin, receipt or box before the note could be transcribed!
These days I write because the scenes play over and over in my mind until I get them down on paper. I think some would drive me crazy if I didn’t get them onto paper so I could move on to something new. Preferably a sex scene. :)
What's your desert-island fantasy? (If you were marooned on a desert-island with only a single fantasy to get off to for the rest of your life, what would you choose?)
Give me a desert island with one of Gena Showalter’s Lords of the Underworld (any one, don’t particularly care) and just don’t come back. I’m good.
Do you think of BDSM and/or spankophilia as a practice or as an orientation, or as something else, and what does your answer mean to you?
To me, it’s an orientation. I know I’ve been this way since I was very, very young and it’s not something I can help any more than I can help being attracted to older men. Not grandfatherly older, although I have met more than a few who were still strong enough, robust enough, and threatening enough to deliver a good Look to hit all of my “squeeeee!” buttons. But to me, there is nothing sexier than a man in his forties and fifties. I know a lot of women go for younger guys, in their sexual prime and with that extra backbone that gives them that rolling hip motion guaranteed to hit all the right places, but give me a man with the age and experience to know if you want a good woman, sometimes you have to deliver a good old-fashioned spanking first.
Who's a favorite character from your own work, and why?
From my spanking books, it’s Kade, from my latest Masters of the Castle. I liked him because he responded to everything with a smile and humor. When he was happy, when he was aroused, and even when he was mad. But Jackson did the same thing, you say, and he bench-pressed small automobiles every morning before indulging his seafood alfredo fetish. No, Jackson pasted on a smile when he had to deal with other people so his size would be less threatening. When he was with Sara or friends, he relaxed and let himself be himself. And while it could be said that Kade also hides behind his smile, it’s more ready and genuine, a permanent part of his personality. And to me it’s a serious turn-on when you’re dealing with a dominant man who is giving you that “You are in a whole world of trouble, little girl” Look and he’s doing it with a smile. He’s also a leather-worker, enjoys making his own straps, paddles and restraints, and has a preference for delivering bad girl spankings with his belt.
From my non-spanking books, it’s Scar from Incubus Moon. He was a bad boy through and through and, although he didn’t spank, he did deliver the occasional swat that said in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t above it.
Who's a favorite character from someone else's work (erotic or non-erotic) and why?
Pick any Lord of the Underworld from Gena Showalter or just about any character at all from Kresley Cole’s books, and I am so there. Those are alpha males. They are powerful and strong, not just physically but in attitude as well, and I find that so damned sexy. The occasional spanking references definitely don’t hurt, either. :)
What's your next book all about?
Sometime this month, my latest Masters of the Castle, Book 5: Chasing Chelsea is going to be released. Here’s the skinny:
Chelsea is out of work, between homes and nearly out of money when, while filling out job applications at a busy bus depot, she find the opportunity of a lifetime simply lying in the trash. It’s a prepaid vacation voucher—room, meals and clothing all included. All she has to do is get on a bus and for the next ten days she’d be sleeping in a bed instead of her car.
Unfortunately, the voucher is for a place called The Castle and no one lives in Granger for long without hearing one or two things about that very adult resort. Still, prepaid is prepaid, and just because she goes to the resort doesn’t mean she has to participate, right?
Then she meets Selena, and suddenly Chelsea’s a slavegirl in a BDSM wedding, an unwilling confidant in a secret Sara can’t bear to tell Jackson, the enigma Master Marshall just can’t figure out…and then there’s Kade. The big bad wolf, Selena calls him. The biggest and baddest the Castle has ever known. Everyone warns her to steer clear of the playboy Master, but right from the very start steering clear is the one thing Chelsea can’t bring herself to do. From the moment he smiles at her—the moment his experienced touch burns into her skin—she’s drawn.
Poor Little Red, she never had a chance.
[In the following scene, Chelsea and the other ladies of the Castle went skinny dipping in a quiet pond. It’s night and they’ve just been caught. An ever-attentive host, Master Marshall brought along a few extra doms so Chelsea could get caught too. She’s running, but that old phrase “Out of the frying pan and into the fire” has never burned more true.]
She’d never run harder or faster in her life. Without looking back, she raced for the alcove with her heart pounding so fiercely it made her chest and her head both hurt, and hovered breathlessly on the verge of laughing the entire way. She heard one of the twins shouting behind her, calling to his brother, the cry of a hunter in pursuit, but he was far behind her. Far enough, anyway. If she could reach the alcove…if she could find a place to hide…
The alcove was blocked by a fence, but when she hit the gate it flew open and she dashed inside. Only two garden lamps lit the darkness here and both were up near the Castle entrance. The entire back half of the garden was blanketed in darkness, but not so much that she couldn’t tell the path from the grass or the bushes from the trees and bricks of the Castle.
It wasn’t empty, either. Three men surrounded a mostly—if not completely, it was too dark to tell—naked woman bent into waist-high stocks. With her head and hands immobilized, it didn’t take much imagination to figure out what the men were doing. Now and then, she thought she saw camera flashes. The only door to the Castle was located at the top of the second-floor stairs and was blocked by the shadow of a man who was sitting on the topmost step, enjoying leisurely puffs on his e-cigarette while he watched the scene below unfold.
She was never going to reach that door before the brothers reached the courtyard, and without the maze to slow them down, they were going to catch her.
Abruptly, Chelsea switched destinations, practically diving headfirst to get into the perimeter bushes. She crouched in the shadows with the cold bricks of the Castle at her back, and wondered what in the world she was going to do now. If she was lucky, maybe the brothers would head straight for that door, giving her a chance to dash back out of the alcove and into the garden without being seen. If she wasn’t lucky, however…if they chose instead to search the area…
The captive woman in the stocks was moaning now, those faint noises of intensifying pleasure accompanied by the wet, slick slapping sounds of sex. Of the skinny-dipping party, Chelsea could hear nothing more at all. But, of her pursuers…
Chelsea cupped both hands across her mouth when the leafy branches to her left suddenly jerked and jostled and a black-clad shadow ducked into the space beside her. She recognized his scent first—the spice of that godly cologne mingling with the fresh scent of cinnamon from his vapor cigarette; it made that stab of lust deep inside her flutter wildly.
“Hello, Red.” Kade grinned, little more than a flash of white teeth in the dark.
“Go away!” she hissed, and even slapped at him but missed by a mile. Her attempt jostled the bushes, making the branches and leaves rustle loudly.
“Ah-ah,” he cautioned, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re going to bring them right to you and then what will you do?”
She had absolutely no idea. Give in was the first wild urge to bounce around inside her, but that was just too wild. Too frivolous and exciting and…and naughty; the kind of thing that fit in beautifully with a place like this and yet which was completely unlike her. She’d never been “wild” before. She’d never been naughty. Her heart was a thundering storm in her chest. She’d never done anything like this. The exhilaration warring inside her began to feel perilously close to panic.
“Here they come,” Kade whispered, nodding for her to look behind her. Far down the wall, maybe twenty yards away, the bushes rustled as the vegetation was carefully searched.
“We’re going to find you, beautiful,” one of the twins sang.
“We’re also going to spank you raw,” the other added, and a different section of brush along the Castle wall parted now too. They’d split up, but they were both searching their way toward her. They were going to find her. She didn’t have a chance.
Dread and anticipation mingled, making her lightheaded. Chelsea rose slightly on her haunches, trying to see past Kade, through the branches and leaves and the dark obscuring night to where the light on the alcove steps haloed the only door.
“You’ll never make it.” Kade tsked.
She had already come to that conclusion.
Another searching rustle—not twenty yards behind her now, but eighteen and quickly closing the distance.
“I could call them to you.” Kade’s smile grew, turning the shadows of his lean face positively demonic. “Or would you like to, let’s say, come to other arrangements?”
Another rustle; fifteen yards now. She could hear the snap of branches as one brother, no longer content with parting the brush, stepped through them into the narrow line of space between the plants and the rough stone wall.
“Can you see her?”
“Not yet.”
Their voices drifted closer.
Oh, this was such a bad—terrible, delicious—idea. She looked to Kade.
“Tick tock, Red,” he mused. “Tick tock.”
She was going to regret this and she knew it, and yet reaching for Kade somehow added to her excitement and quelled the panic—backwards of what it ought to be.
“Help me,” she begged, clutching at his vest. The leather felt as warm as his skin, and it smelled so good. It brought that old adage about striking bargains with the devil right to the forefront of her mind. Then he touched her, his warm hands finding her thighs in the darkness and sending that thrill of excitement soaring. His fingers slid down to grip her knees and she actually closed her eyes at how right it felt for his hands to be on her, but she only had a second to enjoy that touch before he yanked, pulling her legs right out from under her.
Squatting, Chelsea only fell a few inches, landing with a bump on her bottom. “What—”
He pushed her flat on her back in the soft dirt, crawling on top of her. Her involuntary gasp became a yelp when he grabbed her miniscule slave dress and ripped it right off her. It tore as if that were its function, coming apart at every seam. What happened to it after that, she had no idea, because that was when Kade lay down heavy and hot on top of her, tucking himself like a lover between her startled legs, positioning his hips to hers and guiding her ankles to wrap back around him.
“Passion, Red,” he whispered, and then he kissed her.
As panicked as she had been just seconds before, Chelsea was now stunned. She couldn’t move. She lay in the cool dirt and leaves, burning in her belly, her breasts, everywhere his body touched hers, positively scalding where his naked flesh came into contact with her skin. She didn’t kiss him back, but she couldn’t bring herself to push him off either. She lay frozen with shock and indecision, and consumed by the most overwhelming need to open her mouth and see if she couldn’t tempt him in.
She heard the clink of his belt buckle and Kade rose slightly. She felt his impatient shoves and jerks and then he was lying on top of her again, only now it was his bare hips that she felt hugged between her thighs. And more, now she could feel…it—thick, hard, stretched already to its full length and scorchingly hot where it pressed across her pubis and nudged at her belly. Her tight, clenching belly, filled to overflowing with an eagerness that felt like living things rolling and tumbling inside her. She shivered with every breath she tried to take, but that only brought their bodies millimeters more into fully fleshed contact with one another.
“Trust me,” Kade murmured against her lips. She could feel his smile. She could taste his dark laughter, and then he was kissing her again. The big, bad wolf… She melted.
In honor of the release of my latest collection of EXPLORATIONS, Books 29-32, I'm going to share a snippet that lets my style really hang out, as it were. I assure you that despite appearances, this excerpt actually does comprise eight sentences. The device under discussion may probably best be imagined as a spanking bench. WARNING: dubious consent.
For this reason, the fundum-prestant is clearly a very different device, though given the way the Russian drama works I cannot but believe it an evolution of that original Roman model. (I am sure I shall have occasion to write of this matter when I come to the time of the unpleasantness with the Ottoman Empire and the fun we had at the Russian Embassy, but I suppose I may anticipate here by saying that any person of a scholarly inclination can see that the Russian drama is derived from the Roman source so tantalizingly but exiguously described in pseudo-Martial, through the Byzantine drama that we should have to construct—were anyone ever to undertake such a thing, which is unlikely in the extreme given that Lady F--- and I seem to have been the only members of our world ever to inquire deeply into these matters, Mrs. Smith’s talents lying in a very different direction—by a comparative study of pseudo-Martial, the fragmentary remains of the five lost Arabian nights, and the living practice of the Russian drama itself, the actual Byzantine sources having been obliterated with that drama’s living tradition beginning in 1453, and thus represents a fascinating alternate evolution of the drama—the Latin to our drama’s Greek, to reverse the analogy deliciously.) In all honesty, however, the possibility cannot be excluded that the fundum-prestant has a completely different origin, in a disciplinary ceremony on country estates that at the start employed no apparatus at all (any knee level support would do, though the girl could obviously simply be made to put her hands on the ground) and evolved from a very primitive device (one imagines a very simple structure, originally designed only to elevate the bottom a foot or so and thus solve the perpetual problem that has dogged this pleasure since the beginning of our race), perhaps with some influence from France, England, or both, into its current form, in which truth to tell it merely resembles the Western European devices.
One conjectures that such a ceremony might occur weekly on those vast Russian country estates, peopled by countless pretty young serfs who one can be sure were often in need of exemplary discipline. The lazy girl chosen out by the overseer, the master dismounting from his steed; the girl's clothing stripped from her, and the instruction to mount the device that had been brought out from its place of honor in the hay-barn, to bend, and grasp the handles. A laughing command to arch her back and furnish her rump properly. The overseer's strap, applied vigorously to that rump, and now the master, with a smile on his face, telling the overseer to get the oil. The girl's woeful face as her rear dimple is roughly readied, and the master's satisfaction when he takes hold of her peasant hips and teaches her to respect the absolute authority of the Russian landowner.
Buy it at Amazon! Blurb:
Emily's Shameful Ride: In the 29th book of Explorations, Victorian Emily's ultimate defloration occurs atop her husband's bride-saddle, while fantasy-Emily continues her shameful service to her husband's junior colleagues.
Emily's Return to Smith's: The 30th book of Explorations tells in parallel the stories of the middle of fantasy-Emily's night as a performance reward for three of her husband's junior colleagues and the much sweeter tale of Victorian Emily's return to the establishment of Mrs. Smith, trainer of submissive brides.
Emily's Victorian Honeymoon: The 31st book of Explorations finishes the stories of fantasy-Emily's multiple-man night, and of Victorian Emily's return to Smith's. Mf, MMMf (no sex among the M's), Ff, Fff, anal, spanking, watersports.
Emily's Victorian Wedding Trip: The 32nd book of Explorations tells of fantasy-Charles and fantasy-Emily's ageplay preparations to go to Prophettown, by way of France, while Victorian Emily, herself in France, is inducted into the way of the BDSM great drama.
This collection brings the story of fantasy-Emily and fantasy-Charles nearly to the point of their journey to Prophettown, and the story of Victorian Emily to the midsummer festival. Mf, MMMf (no sex among Ms), Ff, Fff, anal, spanking, diaperplay, watersports.
Read all the Saturday Spankings!
(this analysis concerns yesterday's story)
The chief hotness here for me was the very interesting arrangement of "Julia's" lingerie. I think the garment that is lying mostly concealed beneath her must be some form of basque, but I'm by no means sure. Whatever it is, when put together with the posture, and the shibari tie, and the generally white-lingerie ambience, the result was a picture that called out to me.
One "lingerie issue" I think about very often is the wonderful process whereby the standard unmentionable of Victorian dress, the corset (of which the basque is a type), has become such a powerfully erotic symnbolic garment now that no one wears it as it used to be worn. Even in Victorian erotica, the corset is not an erotic garment--drawers are far and away the most erotic garment a Victorian girl wore. In a world, though, where restraint is something, it seems often, we don't get enough of, this basic restraining garment serves to embody a world of passion.
(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)
When he had dressed her in the white lace lingerie, Julia had known that it would come off when and how Guillermo chose. She had known that as the lingerie departed from her body, at Guillermo's whim, there would be other things that happened: the spanking, the command to please him with her mouth, the instructions about how to pose for the photographs he loved to take of Julia submitting to him.
Julia had not expected the rope, though, nor the effect it would have on her. And she had not expected the way he would remove her basque. Guillermo ordered Julia to pose wearing the basque, kneeling on the faux-fur blanket that reminded her so much of Story of O, with her bound hands before her.
Without warning, he reached out for her, and put his hand around the back of her neck, and pulled her forward and down, until she rested her weight upon her hands. As Guillermo began to spank her, hard, with his open hand, murmuring as he did so, "So pretty in your white lace. . . so pretty that you need a sound spanking. . ." Julia looked down at the rope binding her hands so beautifully. It seemed to her to mean everything: restraint and symbol of submission, the coils of rope around both her wrists told her that Guillermo loved her, because he had taken such care with the tie, and that Guillermo owned her, because only a man who owns a thing has the right to tie that thing.
That was when, suddenly, he began to unlace the basque, resuming the spanking after he had pulled the long string free from a few holes, until Julia cried out again, and then returning to the work of removing the lovely garment in which he had so lately dressed her. Finally the basque fell of its own weight to the blanket, and Guillermo was caressing her naked breasts from above, whispering in her ear. "Panties next, after I take a few pictures like this."
(Photo via Bobby Lee of the wonderful Sensual BDSM community on Google Plus.)
In Emily's Arrival we at last get to see the source of Prophettown's fabulous wealth: its guest-house.
It's not really relevant to my story, but I suppose I can forgive you, curious reader, for wishing to know what guests of the Prophettown guesthouse could expect. A first time guest who expressed no particular preference when filling out the application materials that he sent to the authorities of Prophettown before he was allowed to book a suite would generally spend his first night sampling the charms of many girls. Without the payment of a steep surcharge, a guest was limited to the enjoyment of five girls in a given twenty-four hour period, but five were almost always enough to exhaust even the most stalwart guest. Just after the guest had settled into his suite, the concierge would come to lead him on a tour through the second floor (the girls of refreshment actually lived on the third, where guests were not allowed to go, although for a very, very steep surcharge, this rule was occasionally violated), to choose the five girls who would wait on him at his first meal. For every two girls there was a sitting-room, or, to put it another way, a display-room, where the guest could familiarize himself with the girls' charms. The concierge encouraged the guest to sample whatever favors he chose, as he made his selection. Attendants could be called at any time to secure the girls in whatever position the guest desired. Only the most jaded first-time guest escaped the first sitting room without spending his manly essence.
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"Indeed it is a comely thing," said the Prophet.
"Let this whore be whipped through the town," said the first man.
"Yea, let her be brought to the place of men's refreshment," said the second.
"Let her be given unto the Sons of Prophecy upon Midsummer Eve," said the third.
"And let her master be rewarded by all the wish-maidens together," said the fourth.
I looked sharply at Charles. Surely this was the reason his part was highly coveted.
In the 34th book of Explorations, fantasy-Emily and fantasy-Charles finally arrive in Prophettown. The reception they receive will fulfill all fantasy-Emily's deeply held visions of public punishment.
This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, MMMMf (no sex between the M's), spanking, ageplay. 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.
Keep crawling!
