Sara's first spanking from her new daddy #SatSpanks

I loved writing this book with Abbie Adams!

Without letting go of her, he reached for what he had put on the dresser that morning, before he had gone to Trace's house to pick Sara up. He held it up in front of his new little girl. 

"Do you see this, Sara? This is your paddle." It was made of pink leather, three thicknesses stitched around its oval edge. 

"Oh, Daddy, no," she pleaded. 

"This is for when you are bad, and you are going to get it right now." 

He sat, and pulled her over his lap.

Cruel eight-sentence rule! You'll just have to buy the book now, by clicking here, won't you? :D

Life in the pre-Story of O period

Really not very hot. Very few boyfriends; no penetration until late senior year. Lots of reading, lots of self-abuse.

The narrative mechanics of fantasy-Emily's life in EXPLORATIONS shorten this period to a few months: my conceit there is that fantasy-Emily was an anal-submissive powder-keg that finally went off a few months before her wedding to fantasy-Charles; that she'd had the fantasies, and masturbated to them, but that she had never come across erotic material (ha!) until she caught her first glimpse of a lace thong in a Victoria's Secret window. That thong produced, for fantasy-Emily, I elaborate in Emily's First Submission, a sort of pornographic cascade effect.

Here--I'll let her tell you in her own words.

I don't know how I managed to avoid seeing things like my bridal panties until I was 18; all I know is that suddenly the world seemed to be full of all these pictures, and pieces of clothing, and websites, and books that corresponded to the shameful things I'd imagined in my bed at night and sometimes (for I'd been told that touching myself was wicked) couldn't resist playing with my young, virginal pussy while I thought about, and even putting a hand under my bottom and touching my bottomhole. 

After the thong came the porn: lots of it. And then, finally, Story of O. I had thrown all the moral lessons of my first eighteen years to the wind; I was masturbating anally four or five times a day or more; I ordered a butt-plug; I seduced my best friend and shaved her pussy; and that's how I got into the shameful situation in which you see me at the start of Emily's Submissive Wedding Night, abusing myself in the bathroom of my honeymoon suite when I should have been going to please my bridegroom. Thank goodness for Charles and his dominance and willingness to discipline me!

Not strictly believable, I suppose, but given that so many of my D/s fantasies revolve around innocence, and there's so little innocence left in the world today, it works for me.

This (high-school and most of college) was the epoch when the terrible books, as I think of them, the ones like Aphrodizzia, dominated my fantasy-life. So, as a passage in one of those books literally (I'm pretty sure) reads, "Bottom, bottom, bottom, bottom" (if I recall correctly, some authority figure is landing cuts of a cane on, you guessed it, a schoolgirl bottom).

Visual inspirations for spanking stories: ritual rope, reviewed

(See here for an index to this series.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Analysis

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

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

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

The outlaw's daughter asks the wrong question in a native American village: What Emily is up to

This one's almost done, and, Lord, has it been fun.

At the summons of Running Elk, all the people in the camp had assembled for the feast, around a big fire--twenty-five or thirty Utes, maybe. Travis asked Half-Moon Shadow, "Many people leave?" 

"Yes," the man replied, gravely. "Many leave. Go setting sun. Horse soldiers say 'Go setting sun, over mountains. Land for you'." 

Travis shook his head, and took Maggie's hand. "Dammit," he said. "Makes me ashamed to call myself American. We fought the war so that people could be equal, and here we are treatin' these folks just as bad as the rebs treated their slaves." 

Maggie felt so sad that she just had to do something to lighten the mood. First she thought she might ask whether these Indians had been the ones to burn down Fort Pueblo. Then she worried that if she asked that, Travis might think it disrespectful. Then she wondered if he would spank her if she said something disrespectful--and then she almost said it, because Travis hadn't spanked her in more than a week, and, well, she kind of wanted to feel his belt on her backside, telling her that he wouldn't tolerate any nonsense or disrespectful talk from his betrothed. 

That made her think along other lines, and got her more and more curious, until, finally, she blurted out, to Half-Moon Shadow, "Do you spank your women?" 

Travis guffawed at that. "Maggie!" he said. "What kind of a question is that?" 

She turned to him, grinning, "The kind you'll spank me for, maybe?" 

Half-Moon Shadow, his brow furrowed in puzzlement, looked from Travis to Maggie. "Spank?" he said, as if he wasn't sure he had got the pronunciation right. 

Travis had a huge smile on his own face now. "Here," he said to Half-Moon Shadow, "I'll show you." 

"What?" Maggie exclaimed. 

"Did you ask for this, or did you not ask for this, Maggie Curtin? I'm responsible for your behavior now that we're gettin' hitched. Get your sweet backside over my knee, and count yourself lucky that I'm not gonna take down your britches in front of these nice folks and whip you with my belt."

The altering, in the ageplay program #Taboo2sday

When Abbie Adams asked if I'd like to co-write the third book in her "Little" series, I said "Yesyesyes." The reason, above all, was the special shots, which bring about what Abbie, with incredible hotness, calls "the altering."

He reached down, and at last he touched her there, and rubbed gently. Sara gave an unladylike moan. "Naughty," Mark said. "Very naughty." She moaned again, her eyes still closed.  

He looked down at her pussy, where his fingers were fondling so very gently. Trace had told him about the effect of the altering, and now he could feel it for himself, as he ever so tenderly began to work his middle finger inside the tunnel of her sweet little cunt.  

Sara cried out in discomfort. "Please, Daddy, no!" Her pussy was tighter than any he'd ever felt before, but the thought only made him harder.

Click here to buy it on Amazon! 

The ageplay "program" par excellence: A Little Twist, with Abbie Adams

This one has been in the works for a very long time. Writing with Abbie has been a hoot! This excerpt is from my part of the book, which tells the story of Sara, one of Abbie's wonderful characters from the series up to this point, A Little Training and A Little Trouble.

"All right, Sara," he said, when his little girl and her one suitcase were standing in the big foyer, "why don't we get your things up to your room?" 

"I have my own room?" 

Mark laughed. "Of course, sweetheart." Carrying her suitcase, he led her up the stairs, to the little room right next to his own master-suite. 

"I don't get to sleep in there with you?" Sara asked, pointing at the master-suite and standing outside the door of her own pink-bedecked bedroom. The petulance was getting a little more noticeable. Mark wondered whether she had any control over it, or whether it just came out. 

"Well," he said, looking at her seriously, "when Daddy brings you to his bed, you'll sleep there sometimes. But your room is where you'll sleep most nights." 

"Will you... bring me there tonight?" 

"I probably will, Sara, if you're good for me today. Daddy has been looking forward to having a little girl for a long time, and he wants to have big-girl time with you as soon as he can." 

Sara blushed, and he thought for a moment she actually seemed happy, but then suddenly a look of defiance seemed to take hold of her face, and she narrowed her eyes and looked at him with hostility. "What if I don't want to?" she said. 

Mark looked back at her levelly. "We're going to have big-girl time tonight whether you want it or not, Sara. Daddy can make big-girl time nice for you, or he can just have his way, and it won't be fun for you at all. I think you know that, don't you?" 

Sara's delicate blush crept across her face, but she said nothing. 

"I think you need to go into your room and lie down and think about the way you're acting right now, Sara," Mark said, sternly. This wasn't the way he had hoped it would go, but he had realized that some such situation might unfold, and he had prepared himself mentally for what he knew he would almost certainly have to do. 

"No," she said, calmly. 

"Last chance, sweetheart," Mark said. "I think you know what's going to happen if you don't do as I tell you." 

"No," Sara said again. 

Calmly, but quickly, Mark reached out, and took her by her upper left arm. When she struggled, he gripped more firmly, but only so as to immobilize her, and not so as to hurt her. He pulled her into her bedroom, where there was a big high-backed chair he had bought for exactly this purpose. 

"Daddy!" Sara screamed, "I meant I don't know. I'll lie down! I'll do it." 

"Nice try, young lady," Mark said. "I know exactly what you meant. I'm going to spank you so hard now that you won't be sitting down this evening. You need to understand that I expect obedience from you."

Click here to buy A Little Twist on Amazon! 

The kind of for-her-own good spanking that gets me hot and bothered #SatSpanks

I'm not sure I really know why this sort of scene is so very hot, but this book has several of them!

“Edera,” Ranin said, looking down at her lovely round bottom, free of the tail and so beautiful that he wondered yet again, as he had been wondering all night, whether he could actually do the terrible thing he had decided he must do, after that afternoon’s disaster in the ring. A few moments before, he had said that he thought he should have given her a spanking a long time ago, and he had meant it—even if the words had welled up inside him, unpremeditated. Perhaps if Auner had told him to take Princess Edera over his knee when she threatened to do something foolish, everything might have turned out different. 

But actually to do it now, although he knew he had to, seemed impossible, just as it had seemed impossible to ‘soothe’ her three months before at the emperor’s command, and touch her between her legs upon her sweet little cunt. He had no choice: he must remember that he had no choice. Master Morqan had said in the morning, quietly, in Ranin’s ear, that the emperor, watching from his balcony the previous afternoon, had noticed that Edera’s training was not coming along. That the emperor enjoyed the little torture he had bestowed on them by making Ranin train Edera, but that Comnar had plans for Edera—plans to make a special show of her, in the arena, soon—and if Ranin could not train her, Edera would be taken away from him and he would be sent into slavery like all the knights of the honor guard except for Lennar, who waited in the dungeon for a show that Ranin had heard the emperor was planning, though no one to whom he talked could tell him what that show might be, or whether it were the same show the emperor planned for Edera.

Buy the book on Amazon! Click here! 

A first spanking

The epochs of my erotic life

In case it's helpful.

1. Before The Pearl
2. From The Pearl to Story of O
3. From Story of O to Charles
4. Charles

My last post of this series concerned events early in epoch 2--namely, the finding of Aphrodizzia. The post before that concerned the transition from epoch 1 to epoch 2.

I am fascinated by epoch 1, perhaps because it is the part of my journey I have the least access to, in my imagination. I remember for example that the fantasies of that time involved spanking, almost exclusively, despite the fact that I myself was never spanked, except once by a babysitter, in an incident I go into below.

Those fantasies, however, did not involve sex, even though from an early age my enlightened mother made sure I knew how human reproduction works. It was only with the hormonal shifts of puberty, I'm sure, that I became ready for "the moment of The Pearl," if that phrase makes sense.

Epoch 1 was also for some of its course the time before I knew that masturbation was something to be ashamed of, though I had learned from my mother the word for what I did in bed every night. I'll leave this lead-in to epoch 1 with a humiliating true story: asking my parents, loudly, at a table in a fancy restaurant "Can I masturbate tonight?"

My real first spanking

This, as I said, is from epoch 1. My poor mother, divorced and trying to start a career as a lawyer, had very little choice when it came to childcare. There was a family living next door with several adolescent children, and they became, nearly by default, my babysitters.

Truthfully, I've completely forgotten their names, but they all (in my memory, this includes both parents) had flaming red hair, of (I'm not making this up) the Heat Miser shade. In general, since they were older, I looked up to them, though to the extent that I can now remember, they didn't deserve to be looked up to in any way. Among other things, they were apparently obsessed with rug-hooking, and I look back with disbelief on how dedicated I was, for months and months, to learning to rug-hook.

They must themselves have been disciplined with their father's belt. I can't think of another reason why, on some minor pretext (not coming when I was called, maybe?) the older girl (let's call her "Alice") told me to lie on my bed on my stomach, because I was going to get a whipping.

The extraordinary thing about this memory is that I can remember thinking "Isn't this what I think about when I'm touching myself?" in disbelief even as I was in abject terror at what Alice was going to do. In retrospect, the memory is incredibly arousing for me; at the time, I was just scared.

In the event, Alice only hit me very lightly, three or four times, with her belt, over my jeans. The most vivid part of the whole scene in my recollection is the look on her face, which I distinctly remember not understanding. In my reconstruction of it, of course, it's a look of arousal, but I don't think I can trust my memory that far: it could well have been a look of ethical distress and deep confusion at what she had done--a thing that I'm proud to say I would never do, and would prosecute, if I could, anyone who did do.

And there, reader, is the central paradox I want to elaborate in EXPLORATIONS: how is it possible for me, ethical Emily Tilton, to find something so heinous so arousing? Why, as long as I can assure myself that it's fiction, or even just that the victim is OK, as I was OK (and better than OK), is it possible for me to get off over and over to the cries of a young woman who is being spanked, when the first time I really did make those cries myself, I was anything but aroused?

Visual inspirations for spanking stories: two more before the fire

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

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

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

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

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

Analysis

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

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

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

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

Yep, that outlaw's daughter turned out to be a spanko: what Emily is up to

Who woulda thunk it? Just for fun, and hotness, these are literally the current final words of my manuscript.

"Oh!" Maggie said, breaking the kiss. "I'm… I mean, something's happening… in my pussy." 

"Are you getting wet?" Travis asked softly. 

"Mm-hmm," she replied looking up into his eyes with that trusting expression that had made him kiss her, because it didn't seem like another choice existed for him. "What is it?" 

Travis shook his head in wonder. Of all the things he thought that bounty hunting might bring him, an innocent, naughty girl like Maggie Curtin sitting his lap and telling him her pussy was wet because of a whipping he had given her and his telling her about his cock, and kissing her… well, the thought had never occurred to him. Maybe the idea of making her show him her pussy, to teach her about modesty, hadn't been exactly the best one he'd ever had. 

Or, from another perspective of course, perhaps it had been. 

"It means you're ready to fuck, Maggie," he said, very gently. 

"What?"

So it's a little out there, at the end. But this is me we're talking about. 

Jenna's sex lesson gets even more taboo #Taboo2sday

Well, that was fun, last week. Let's keep going. Remember that Phil is Jenna's stepfather, and that it's Jenna's 18th birthday.

Wasting no time, Phil worked his left hand inside the stretch cotton of Jenna's boy-short pajama bottoms. Really he wasn't in all that big a hurry to get the pajamas off her, because he liked to play with a girl's lingerie a bit first--especially if the girl were inexperienced, like Jenna. 

"Daddy, that tickles," she protested, as his fingers began to play with her virignal cunt. 

"Shh, baby. Daddy just wants to make his birthday girl feel good." 

"But it feels so funny!" 

"I know, Jenna, but you're going to get used to it. We're going to do this a lot. Every morning and every night." 

"Why, daddy?" 

"Daddy needs to teach you how to please him."

If you like that, you may want to check out The Sunset Harbor School for Naughty Girls.

When pony play meets domestic discipline…

you get this book. Here's a taste:

Lord Ranin’s face held sorrow, it seemed to her, but also determination. He did not want to punish her, she knew, and that was the problem—the true problem. The reason she did not perform the way she should, as an imperial filly, lay in the way her trainer refused to punish her properly. Now it appeared that would change, right here in her stall. 

Lord Ranin did not say another word, but turned to his right and set the stool down. Then he sat upon it and looked up at Edera. “Come here, filly Edera,” he said, “and get over my knee. I am going to spank you, as perhaps I should have spanked you a long time ago.” 

Master Morqan did sometimes use this kind of spanking on a filly, but only rarely. Edera had seen through a stall window once, as Lord Ranin walked her past to take her out for evening exercise, that the big stable master had one of his favorite fillies, a light-skinned Northern girl named Kari with ice-blue eyes and hair so light in color that it looked nearly white, over his knee. He had taken out her tail, and he was spanking her hard with his enormous open hand, and talking to her softly as he did it—so softly that Edera couldn’t make out any of the words. 

A stab of envy that she could not explain had gone through her at the sight. Beatings from the quirt—real beatings, as opposed to the occasional flick all the fillies got many times a day—like the one the emperor had given Melisan held a fascination for Edera; after three months as an imperial filly, she could not deny it. She had not received one, and Melisan would certainly be terribly resentful if she knew with what rapt attention Edera had listened to her cries and, later, looked surreptitiously at the tracery of red that covered her ample bottom cheeks. 

But the sight of Master Morqan spanking Kari had made her suddenly want to beg Lord Ranin to spank her, and Edera had not been able to decide why. Now, looking into his stern face—the same expression he had worn when he told her that she must not go to the parley with Emperor Comnar—and watching him spread his legs in the leather breeches and pat his left thigh, over which Edera knew she must now go for her spanking, she suddenly understood, and it made her start to cry. 

Lord Ranin, understandably mistaking the reason for her tears, said, “Come now, filly Edera, it is not so bad as that. Take your punishment like a good girl and learn your lesson.”

Click here to buy it at Amazon!

When an emperor spanks his new filly #SatSpanks

I love this book. It's a departure for me, and yet also not a departure. Pony play is really funny in that it means so many different things to different people despite being such a very specific kind of activity. See what you think of this.

"Girls," the emperor said, "I hope that after you have seen me punish the little filly on my lap, you will not be so slow to obey. I assure you, though, that I can use the lap-quirt gladly on every one of your pretty bottoms before we put you in the filly-wagon for the journey to Maq." 

Now Edera heard whimpers and sobs, as her ladies-in-waiting, surely, obeyed and came to stand behind her to see the way Comnar had opened her secret cleft, covered in the soft fur that Edera sometimes naughtily stroked in front of the mirror, admiring how charming she looked. 

Then without warning the emperor began to whip her right on that bare bottom. It was the most painful thing Edera had ever felt, and she screamed in shame and agony from the first blow. Comnar struck her three times with the little horsewhip on her right bottom-cheek, and then he said, conversationally, "Look at her little rump squirm. I have something for that, too."

Click here to buy it on Amazon! 

The advent of O

Story of O was my downfall. Or my uplift, if you prefer.

Thus I write at the start of Emily's Submissive Wedding Night. It was the same for the realer me: reading it for the first time among the shelves of a perfectly proper academic bookstore in New Haven, though it corresponded in its outlines with the terrible, slender books with the awful covers and the young schoolgirls (aged younger than I could age them) having their bottoms fucked--indeed though it was itself a slender book (with, thank God, a plain white cover)--I knew there was hope.

That hope didn't materialize into flesh (rigid flesh [heh]) for three years, however, and in that time I began really to explore. That was the time of the first butt-plug, and the first sexy lingerie, bought just for me to, er, explore in. It was also the only time in my life that I was promiscuous, as will come to light as this "real" story continues: in addition to my solo explorations, I also lost my virginity and slept with a total of five guys (including that first one), really I think in an effort to feel like I was living the way I thought I should be living and not because I was looking for anyone to play BDSM with, since I still thought of that as something completely private, even if with the help of Réage I now thought there was hope for me in that area.

But I'm getting ahead of myself: there's still several years' ground to cover between The Pearl on the ferry to Nova Scotia and Histoire d'O in New Haven.

The next thing that happened was that I found a copy of the first terrible, slender book I ever saw, Aphrodizzia, in my best friend's father's desk (this is the friend called "Sarah Cleveland" in EXPLORATIONS). Discovering The Pearl had led to series of deductions about the way the erotic world worked, including the insight that has never since played me false, that there are more people who are into BDSM than you'd ever think. Until I finally developed the courage to acquire erotica for myself (senior year in college--though even that development was still marred by the periodic purifications I would carry out, putting all my porn into an opaque bag, putting that bag in another opaque bag, and finding a dumpster to throw the package into) this insight made me a really awful snoop, for which I'm thoroughly ashamed. That copy of Aphrodizzia was my greatest find, but there were many, many others.

I did not steal it. I did take every possible opportunity to read it, over the course of a few weeks, to the point that I committed much of it to memory. Standing there in Sarah's Dad's office, with my back turned to the door so that no one could see that my hand was inside my jeans, I would read furiously, melting. The first time I came in Sarah's Dad's office I was so ashamed that it was months before I dared open the desk-drawer again. The book was gone.

Schoolgirl bottoms, and the things a schoolmaster and schoolmistress might do to them: I suppose you might say they have been from that time my submissive Alpha and my anal Omega.

I think the thing I'm most curious about with regard to the development of my orientation is how I could both have felt such terrible shame and guilt about masturbating, and yet still have done it so much. I dramatize the dynamic in EXPLORATIONS by having my 18 year-old avatar fantasy-Emily abstain for much longer than I ever could have, though the stuff about occasionally not masturbating for an entire Lent is true. But the images of schoolgirl bottoms, spanked and ravished--their power has nearly always been too much for me, and the number of nights of my self-aware, pre-Charles life on which I didn't abuse myself (funny how I delight in using that phrase that once made me fear for my eternal soul) was vanishingly small.

The Emperor's New Pony: BDSM, spanking, and, of course, pony-play!

It's here! The remarkable story of a wicked emperor, a good general, and a very frisky filly!

Bound by oath to serve Princess Edera as he once served her father, since the old king’s passing it has been Lord Ranin’s sacred duty to keep the naïve, headstrong eighteen-year-old safe and her realm free. But when Edera ignores his dire warnings and rides out to meet the tyrannical Emperor Comnar on her own, her foolishness has a terrible price. Seizing the opportunity to conquer her lands without a fight, Comnar takes Edera prisoner.  

Ranin sets out to treat with Comnar and bring her home, but the emperor shows no interest in negotiations. Instead, he shows Ranin his stables, filled not with horses but with beautiful women from conquered nations, fillies to be trained and displayed for the emperor’s pleasure. To Ranin’s horror, Edera and her ladies-in-waiting are the newest additions to Comnar’s stables, and like all the other fillies they have been stripped of their clothes and now wear nothing but bridles, harnesses, bits, and horsehair tails.  

To complete the humiliation of his captured enemies, Comnar commands Ranin to personally train Edera for her new role as a filly, informing him that if he does not train the princess himself, a far harsher trainer will be found for her. With no other choice, Ranin sets out to master the princess, training her with a firm hand, as he would a young filly in the royal stables of his homeland where he was once the master of horse.  

Despite her great shame at her treatment, Edera is secretly comforted by Ranin’s control and attention. She soon finds herself longing for her new master to ride her long and hard, and though he struggles against himself, Ranin finds in time that he can no longer resist his little filly’s charms. But when the occasion arrives to perform in front of the emperor and his people, will Edera’s training have been sufficient? And can Ranin ever free Edera from Comnar’s tyranny, or will his princess spend her life in the emperor’s stables?  

Publisher’s Note: The Emperor’s New Pony is an erotic novel that includes extensive pony play, spankings, sexual scenes, anal play, exhibitionism, elements of BDSM, and more. If such material offends you, please don’t buy this book.

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Visual inspirations for spanking stories: black lace around the ankles redux

(See here for an explanation of this series)

"Panties down, and on your knees, now, Marta."

It was horribly embarrassing to hear the words right there in the unfinished cottage, with the carpenters watching from only a few yards away. Josef, unhappy with the way Marta had said "Josef, it's time to go," had called to them "Watch this!" before he had replied to her, and they had turned in surprise to see him put his hand in her hair, and to hear him say it. Despite the humiliation Marta quivered with that mix of shame and arousal she knew so well, because she always knew exactly what was going to be required of her when Josef said "Panties down, and on your knees," and she knew she must always obey, or risk Josef's even greater displeasure, and worse and more shameful punishment.

Trembling, she obeyed. She hiked up the short black skirt she had on, and pulled her panties down all the way, revealing the smooth, prim tip of her sex in front, and her firm cheeks behind. Josef made a little twirling gesture with his finger, and, red-faced, she had to turn around slowly while the carpenters hooted and Josef smiled lustfully. Then, with his hand on her head already, she got to her knees in front of him, waiting to be given permission to uncover him so she could provide him with the pleasure that was his right, whenever he wanted to take it.

The floor was wood, and it hurt to kneel on it, and she knew how stiff she was going to be when Josef finally let her go, but the pain in her knees was the last thing on her mind, because Josef had taken off his belt, and was holding it, doubled, ready to make sure he disciplined her properly, and brought her to the limits of her abilities. Through the pain and the degradation she loved knowing that Josef would never let her get away with not trying to be a better slave for him, that he would always train her up, giving her the belt while with his left hand around the back of her head he moved her mouth on him, until he had released himself into her mouth, and had released her head to let her crumple into a submissive ball, in front of the carpenters, at his feet.

Analysis

For me at least the essential hotness in this one is absolutely clear: the lowering of panties has an almost mystical quality for me, many times. It's very strange to think about how recent a development this close fitting undergarment actually is (less than eighty years old in anything like its present form) and yet how very, very fundamental to so many of my (and, I'm pretty sure others') fantasies.

Panties, in my fantasies, never go around the ankles unless a Master has so decreed. A Master so decrees because he know how it makes his sub feel to have a constant reminder, around her ankles, that she has had to pull her panties down (and of course she has had to pull her panties down because her Master told her to pull them down).

Why did he tell her to pull them down? To enjoy the view; to get access to her backside for discipline, should he wish to discipline her; perhaps more than anything else to make sure she knows that her charms, front and back, belong to him, and that they will be exposed in his presence to signify that she has no right to cover them.

Incidentally, I think that's almost certainly why lace panties in general are my go-to garment for my paricular genre of BDSM fantasy-elaboration: they are a veil that never ceases to show. It's a very small step, given how overdetermined by culture our garments are, to imagining that that false veil has been imposed by an authority-structure (or, in more common and specific terms, a Master): and it's of course that placement of the object (the girl--me) within the authority-structure, her modesty always about-to-be violated, that makes everything hot. As always, it's not the garment; it's what the garment means. (So too with the thong--the covering that isn't a covering.)

The thing that turns that essential hotness up a notch for me is the wood floor. Where are they? I thought of several candidates, but I decided to go with the unfinished look of it so that I could add in the carpenters watching. I suppose one could argue that the carpenters aren't implied by the picture (just as the spanking might not have been implied by the lace and chocolate last week), but after some thought it really does seem to me that a key part of the picture's special charm is the way that floor (and the light contributes greatly here as well) seems to speak of a place more rustic and more exposed than where you would expect a girl to be ordered to take her panties down and get to her knees (say, a bedroom or even a living-room). I hope my carpenters bring out that quality.

An outlaw's daughter, future spanko: What Emily is up to

I'm headed back to the 1860's! This time, my heroine is definitely not going to see the value of a spanking for at least the first half of the book. Or maybe the first third. Hard to say. But her very first spanking is going to be completely non-consensual, and I pledge that she won't even wonder afterward about why certain other parts of her feel warm. Nosiree.

That'll be in part because her father recently got shot. I do this very rarely, but I feel like my "What Emily is up to" posts should represent what I'm actually up to, and although it's a rare day that my daily 2000 words don't include ANY sex or D/s, it happened today. So here you go.

Maggie realized that she had clutched her Winchester so tightly that her hands had begun to cramp. She forced herself to remain motionless until the outlaws' horses were out of sight, and then she sprang up and ran towards the house, fighting the urge to cry out "Pa!" as she ran. 

Her father lay on his back in the front hallway. Her mother knelt beside him, cradling his head in her lap. A pool of blood, a terribly big pool of blood, stretched out behind him, in the direction of the farmhouse's natural tilt, the tilt down which Pa had taught her to roll the little wheeled toys he made for her. 

"Shh," Laura Hunter was saying, "Shh, Sonny. Shh. It'll be alright. Maggie will fetch the doctor." 

Maggie closed her eyes. When she opened them, she'd be back in the field, about to shoot the jackrabbit. The last ten minutes would never have happened.

She swallowed the enormous lump in her throat, and opened her eyes, and gave a sob, because of course her father still lay there dead, eyes staring at the ceiling. Of course.

Barely, barely legal #Taboo2sday

I'm getting a little tired of trying to find bits of my books that fit the "taboo" rubric. Today, and maybe for the next few weeks, too, I'm going to enjoy myself a bit more, and draft a tease that might become a story, someday… the kind of story that you have to self-publish… 

On the morning of her 18th birthday, Jenna's step-father Phil came to her room to fuck her for the very first time, and to teach her to please him. Naked, his cock hard as a an iron bar, he slipped into her bed under her pink comforter. 

"Wake up, baby," he said, stroking her arm, left bare by the cute pink top of the lacy babydoll pajamas he had given her at her party the night before, thinking as he watched her open them that now that Jenna had turned eighteen he would be able to take her pajamas off any time he wanted. 

"Oh, daddy," Jenna murmured, as she awoke, "what are you doing?" 

"Daddy's going to give you a lesson now, Jenna." 

"What? What kind of a lesson?" 

"A sex lesson, baby. Let's get these jammies off you."

Feels really good just to put the taboo pedal to the taboo metal, I have to say. By the way, there's a LOT of stuff just like that in the Explorations Omnibus. 

Eleanor of Aquitaine, kinkster

One of my favorite parts of writing Her True Lord's Claim was putting my own spin on Eleanor of Aquitaine's famous courts of love, one of the most important imaginary expressions of what would forever after be known as "courtly love."

In the solar waiting for the queen were Eleanor’s lady-in-waiting, Claire de Lussac, Sophie, the lady of Chauvigny, and Sophie’s own lady-in-waiting, Berenice de Charente. 

“Quite a little court, as you see,” said Eleanor with a gentle smile. “Ladies, I have brought Sir Nele hither because his face betrayed him when my dear boy Richard rallied him about a lady. It appears that Sir Nele has refused the duke a tale of love. We all know Richard, so we all know what sort of story he really seeks of you, Sir Nele, and so I have no doubt that you do right not to tell it. But I also divine that you have some purpose in view—perhaps, if I may judge from your demeanor, a very noble purpose—and you fret yourself that perhaps if you told the duke your story you might achieve it. Do I miss the mark?” 

Nele’s eyes went wide. “No, your majesty. You have found out my worry exactly.” 

Eleanor looked back at the rest of her little court, who were all smiling at Nele. Lady Sophie was a beautiful raven-haired woman of about forty, and the two ladies-in-waiting were in their thirties, and equally lovely. Nele felt a little light-headed. 

The queen turned back to him. “Come then, Sir Nele. In your most elegant terms, if necessary—the terms that would make my son Richard grow wrathful that you did not tell him those wicked things he really wished to know—tell these ladies and me the tale.” 

Nele hesitated for a long moment. Should he reveal to the queen the secrets that he had intended only to disclose to her son? Eleanor had fame for her wisdom, but also for her wrath when crossed. Was the queen then not precisely the woman to help him? For surely she would grow wrathful at Guy de Freche? 

“Your majesty,” he began. “I am not the son of Hugues de Chail.” 

“Of course you’re not,” said Eleanor impatiently. “You’re the heir of Lourcy and Mercester. I thought that was understood.” As Nele gaped, the queen turned to the other ladies. “He was sent to Chail to protect him from the Freches.” They nodded sagely. Eleanor continued, “And he had to deliver his cousin Anne of Mowton to her abominable, though devilishly handsome, husband, Guy de Freche.” 

“Is he the one…?” asked Sophie, her eyes wide and a strange look upon her face, as if something had both fascinated and horrified her at once. 

“The brothel in Messina, yes.” 

“With the whipping post?” 

“Indeed,” Eleanor said dryly, “that’s the one I mean. Many’s the time I wished Louis had simply taken me there and left me.”

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A notorious brothel for crusaders who like to ply the lash #SatSpanks

My villain in this one has an interesting history.

Hugues had not said so, but the whispers of the messengers had reached Nele’s ears: in Guy de Freche’s establishment, they bound their captured girls to whipping posts, and thrashed them to their hearts’ content, before riding them long and hard—sometimes still tied to the post for all the company to see, and then to share. Nele’s shame at his envious desire to be one of those crusader patrons of Guy’s house in Sicily knew no bounds. 

He rode straight South for Poitiers, unable now as the miles passed beneath his charger’s hooves to keep from thinking about Anne; unable to stop imagining her taken by Guy to his Sicilian brothel. Nele would stride in, in his clanking mail, and choose her from the row of naked girls bound to the wall next to the counter where the arbiter poured out the wine. 

Five—no, ten—beautiful naked girls, of every shade, from darkest black, like the girls Nele had seen once in Provence, come from Africa, to palest white like the Scottish girl he had once bedded in York, and Anne of Mowton the most beautiful of them all, looking at him the way she had when he had found her with her hands upon her cunt, abed in Hawner Castle waiting for him. 

He would approach, pulling off his gloves and tucking them in his belt, he would tell her to spread her legs, and she would obey, for fear of him and also overcome by his lordly air and handsome face. Nele would put his hand upon her sweet, wet cunt, and say in her ear, “Are you so very naughty, little whore?” 

Anne would whisper, “Yes, my lord.” 

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Read all the Saturday Spankings!

The "real" story: a refresher course

I started this blog to do in a more thorough way what I also do in the books of EXPLORATIONS: that is, to provide the "real" version of the events allegorized, avatarized, and elaborated as hotly as I could elaborate them in EXPLORATIONS. The "truth" of these matters has a hotness all its own, I find, when I return there, to my first years with Charles, in my mind these ten or so years later. 

I think I can probably also convey the hotness of my early struggles with my anal-submissive orientation: the repression, the sleepless nights, the sweet agony of the shower, the wild release when at last I gave in and masturbated, whether it was for just a few seconds that brought me to a frustratingly shallow orgasm or for hours on my stomach with my bottom raised and my hand on it, in it, in the quiet of my dark, chaste room, biting the inside of my cheek so that I wouldn't cry out and thinking about my Latin teacher taking my ass, just taking it, just taking it.

Or maybe that's not hot after all. We'll see.

In Emily's Submissive Wedding Night I told fantasy-Emily's version of the story of her awakening by porn to the importance of her anal-submissive orientation. I give a few hints there as to the reality behind it, but I want to tell that story at a bit more length, here, for myself and for anyone else who wants to read it. 

My first memory of erotica was on board a ferry from Maine to Nova Scotia with my family, when I was thirteen. The tiny gift-shop on the ferry had a rack of books, and on the rack was a copy of one of the few editions of The Pearl that have come out over the years (unlike the one I later, finally, bought, only in a fit of guilt to throw away and instantly to regret having thrown away, this edition edited all the stories together into continuous narratives, rather than preserving the original shape of the journal numbers). 

It may be because of the many, many times I subsequently read those same stories, "Lady Pokingham," "Sub-Umbra," "My Grandmother's Tale," and "Miss Coote's Confession," that the memory of the first punishment from "Lady Pokingham" has remained so vivid in my mind. At least in my reconstruction of my erotic life, the moment Beatrice (later to become the eponymous Lady Pokingham, whose new husband Lord Pokingham ravishes her bottom on their wedding night, also a signal moment for me) has her skirts pinned up so that she may be birched upon her bare bottom, was the moment that I knew that the shameful, secret fantasies of my bed, the ones of spanking and, then, ever so slightly more and more until it became dominant, of anal eroticism, were not peculiar to me.

Were I, Emily Tilton, really real, I'm sure I wouldn't disclose it, but the rest of that very long ferry ride was occupied by alternately retreating to our day-cabin to masturbate and returning to the gift-shop to read another story from The Pearl. The memory becomes the signal moment it is when, the ferry about to come into port, the gift-shop lady who had I'm sure been observing me all the while in disgust (these many years later I do wonder whether it was actually disgust or perhaps even sympathy) told me that if I wanted to read the book any more, I'd have to buy it.

I fled, and my flight then emblematizes my life with my anal-submissive orientation until Charles.

Visual inspirations for spanking stories: blue lace and chocolate redux

(See here for an index to this series)

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

"Put them on, now," he said, softly. 

"What?" Anna asked, in shock. 

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

"How do you know my name?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Analysis

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

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

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

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

The cowboy and the reporter get very, very dirty: What Emily is up to

I'm finishing up my Western non-con ageplay book!

Victoria obeyed him instantly, turning over and crawling towards him until she could sit back on her heels on the edge of the bed, her face only a few inches from Ross' hard cock. 

"What do you think of your new toy, darlin'?" he asked, feeling his mouth twist into a mischievous smile. 

"Oh, daddy," Victoria said with one of her adorable little giggles, "it's so big! Is it all mine?" 

"Well, if you take good care of it," Ross answered. "Can you show me how you can take good care of Daddy's cock?" He hardly knew what had got into him--he had never been this dirty with any other little girl with whom he'd played. He looked down at Victoria's face, framed in her cute raven-black pigtails tied in the pink ribbons, and put out his hand to stroke her cheek, wondering if the even dirtier impulse he had now was something he should let out of his imagination. She looked so innocent, and so little, naked and bare and pigtailed. 

But then her lips twitched naughtily, and Ross couldn't contain his dirty ageplay mind. "Daddy's gonna put his cock in his little lady's mouth, now," he said quietly.

Coming pretty soon, I think! Also, my first two audiobooks (Their Firm Men and Her Doctor's Orders) should appear over the next few weeks!

Claimed a new-fashioned way #Taboo2sday

I hope you don't mind me going to my go-to taboo. . . 

“Oh, heaven…” Anne whispered. “Oh, heaven… it feels… oh, Nele… it cannot be wicked, can it? And yet it must be wicked, must it not, for it feels…” 

All the while, Nele roused her, playing in the soft hair there on her tender cunt, pressing gently at the little bud on top and pushing even more gently inside, where he longed to put the head of his hard cock. He felt lightheaded with the knowledge that he, Nele, was the very first man to touch her there, and no other could ever claim her that way. And though what he had in mind to do—what he felt that despite the enormity of it, he must do—would leave her to be claimed also by her monster of a husband, it would make her his forever, and no one else’s. 

“That is not what I mean by having, Anne,” he said, and as he heard his voice he realized that an authority had come into it, in response to her submission. In that instant he thought he saw that heaven had made them for one another, to give pleasure to one another not just in the court of love, but in every other thing as well. For Anne’s softness made Nele want to render her safe and happy forever, and it seemed to him that his own hardness worked in her the same desire.

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Her first glimpse of a real man

In case you're on the fence about this one because you think I can't do medieval romance, along with all the medieval BDSM. . .

Now the girl who had to go closer and closer to the alien figure was Anne herself, and the distant sounds of metal and squeaking leather that the real men seemed to emit grew closer and closer. Anne could not raise her eyes from the smooth stone of the floor over which Sister Marie led her toward the boots at the other end of the convent’s entrance hall, from which Anne could see that legs rose, but no more unless it were the hint of a red silk surcoat. 

“My lord,” said Sister Marie. “I bring you Anne of Mowton.” 

“I thank you, sister,” said a deep voice—much deeper than Father Boaz’. “Anne of Mowton,” the voice said, and now Anne could not help looking up at its owner, because in the words—in the very pronunciation of Anne’s own name, there seemed to be a world opening up before her. This new realm seemed so strange as to make her heart beat very fast, but it seemed also the first new thing to happen to her in twelve years. 

Anne didn’t count as new the unpleasant realities of the monthly blood that had come upon her late, at fifteen, and the scarcely less troubling, if more gradual, blossoming of her body under the voluminous pupil’s dress that was closer to a sister’s habit than it was to the court traveling gown she now wore. All the older pupils, many of them Anne’s friends, had gone through those same changes before her, and thus they could hardly have seemed very new, even if to have them occur to Anne herself could be said at least to have been different. 

Still less did she count the news of the deaths of her father and brother. Nearly all the pupils had lost relations, very many of them relations as near and dear as the ones Anne had lost. 

No, what happened to Anne then was new. 

Anne saw a face of astonishing beauty—of a beauty astonishing above all because it felt wrong to think of the face’s appearance as beautiful. The long fair hair that fell to the man’s shoulders, which would have seemed lovely or adorable on a girl, seemed in the company of the precise, strong angles of the slightly ruddy face that peered into Anne’s eyes with its own sky-blue ones, to call up in her mind not words like lovely and adorable, but rather words like strong and brave. 

How could it be thus? It could only appear so to her, Anne supposed, because she knew that this was a real man, and the other girls and even the sisters defined what it meant to be a virtuous maiden by reference to what men did to keep virtuous maidens safe and sound, managing their households well and seeing to the pleasant things of life. 

So the effect of the man’s beauty on Anne was to make her blush, as she could not imagine blushing in the presence of something she would have called ‘beautiful,’ like an altar-piece or a statue of a saint, or a pretty friend. She cast her eyes down again just as quickly as she had raised them, and even before he had said, “I am so well pleased to meet you that I can scarcely express it.”

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