Oh, those former Navy SEAL bodyguards: what Emily is up to

I'm incredibly excited to be starting a new book almost at New Year's--my first foray into what I think of as the "spanking bodyguard" genre!

It was worse than the death-threat. It was worse, because Charity knew it was her fault, for sneaking out, and because she knew there was no way she was going to avoid it: former Navy SEAL Ryan Bedford was about to spank spoiled socialite activist Charity Phillips.

"Please do it over my clothes," Charity squeaked, looking up at him, not even knowing what she was saying.

"Bad girls don't get to say how they're punished, Charity," Ryan replied. He had gotten to within a foot of the sofa.

"With my panties on, please? Please?"

Ryan shook his head, and reached out his long arms. Charity felt herself freeze up completely. "Alright," she whispered, her teeth chattering in fear so that she could hardly speak. "I'll… I'll…"

She had meant to say, "I'll get over your lap," but Ryan didn't let her finish the sentence, which Charity wasn't even sure she would have been able to make good on, so frightened was she by his huge form, looming over her. She felt his hands take hold of her, one at her shoulder and the other around her waist, and then he was turning her, upending her, putting her face-down over the arm of the sofa.

At first Charity was so shocked, in her slightly tipsy state, that he had actually taken bodily hold of her, that she put up no resistance, but when she felt Ryan reach around to the front of her jeans and start to unbutton them, she started to yell, and to kick.

"No! You can forget about this, asshole!" At least she had made it impossible for him to take her jeans down, for the moment. He had to use his left arm to hold her down over the padded arm of the green sofa.


"You, Charity, can forget about me not doing this," he said, still in that infuriatingly calm voice. She wondered suddenly whether she would ever be able to get him to lose his temper, and to her astonishment she found that even here and now, clearly unable to avoid getting a spanking from him in his calm state, she wanted to try to make him angry. Stupid, stupid, stupid! shouted a part of her mind, while another said, If he thinks he can make me obey him, he hasn't seen disobedience yet.

Big Joe isn't the type to wait to take Lori-Anne #Taboo2sday

The whole story so far can be found here.

"What?" Lori-Anne whispered. "What is Joe going to do?"

"Well," Kay said, as Yolanda studiously pretended not to hear her. The salon-owner was now starting in on Lori-Anne's long copper-blonde hair, piling it higher and higher with pins and hairspray. Kay seemed to hesitate, as if she knew how her news would distress Lori-Anne. "Honey, Joe isn't going to want to wait through the whole reception to… take you, for the first time. He's been waiting months and months, you know."


Lori-Anne felt her face flush. In the mirror she could see the color even through the foundation Yolanda had put on her cheeks.

Keep exploring past the boundaries!

Sweet, yes, but also very hot: Old-Fashioned Values

Ounce for ounce, Old-Fashioned Values is probably the sweetest book I've ever written. That definitely doesn't stop me from bringing the heat, however, as I hope this excerpt shows.

“Lay yourself down,” he said softly, “for your spanking.”

Sally looked up at him uncertainly, and then she said, “Hold me first? Just for a moment?”

Instantly Mark put his arms around her, treasuring the feeling of her soft bare skin against his arms still covered in the fabric of his shirt, and the sight of the contrast between her bare legs and his grey-flannel-covered ones.

“Oh, Mark, I love you so much.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart.”

She looked up at him, trembling slightly though the room was very warm. “Okay,” she said, “I’m ready, sir.”

“Lie down on your tummy, over the side of the bed, with your feet on the floor. I’m going to spank you. That lingerie was very naughty. From now on, I will be the one to decide what kind of underwear you wear.”

“Seriously?” she whispered with a giggle.

“Seriously,” Mark said. “I’ll make a spreadsheet for you.” Then he couldn’t keep a straight face and laughed.

Sally thought for a moment, and then she said softly, “Actually, I really, really like that idea. I want you always to know that I’m wearing the panties you chose.”

“I should warn you,” Mark said, “that some days you won’t be wearing panties at all.”

“What?”

Mark nodded. “It’s important that you understand that you’re only allowed to wear underwear when I let you.”

“Oh, sir,” Sally said, seeming almost overcome with arousal at the thought.

Mark ended the hug and said, “Alright, young lady. That’s enough delay. Get your impudent bottom over the side of the bed for me.”


Sally took a deep breath, and then she moved so that she stood at the foot of the bed, facing the head, ready to put herself in position. “Lay yourself down now,” Mark said. “On your elbows, like when you got your whipping. But I want to see those knees spread, too. You need to learn that a girl who wears immodest underwear gets her pussy put on display.”

Click here to buy it on Amazon!

The beginning of something new, and old: Old-Fashioned Values #SatSpanks

This one just came out yesterday, and I'm really excited because it explores one of my favorite themes--the line between domestic dicipline and Dominance-and-submission. This is how that exploration starts.

Now she was at college, though, free from her parents' supervision, eighteen and ready to start figuring out what kind of life she wanted. That freedom had its challenges, though: Sally sometimes seemed helpless to stop herself from adopting personae that, though they went against her old-fashioned grain, at least made her feel like she had something grown-up to say. Her roommates Rachel and Cassandra were much more up-to-date, that way: they were always swearing, always talking about sex.  

To be precise, Sally had found that she very often felt like she didn't really know how to act in this new collegiate world she had entered a little more than two months before. When she felt that way, sometimes without even meaning to she would try to pretend to be like her roommates, and say things like "fuck him." 

That phase of Sally's life ended that very instant, however.  

Mark said, "I won't tolerate language like that from my girlfriend. If we're going to keep dating, Sally, you're going to have to show respect to your professors, and to me. I know you well enough already to tell that you're a well-mannered, ladylike girl--it's something that drew me to you. I think I need to show you how serious I am about that. I'm going to spank you after dinner, in my room."

Click here to buy it at Amazon! And read all the Saturday Spankings! 

Just out! Loving discipline in a young relationship: Old-Fashioned Values

This one's from the heart. I hope you love these characters as much as I do!

When Mark Weaver takes eighteen-year-old Sally Lanchester out on a second date and tells her afterwards that she’s earned a spanking for her disrespectful language, Sally is mortified… but another part of her can’t help but accept her punishment. After Mark spanks her bare bottom, Sally feels like her life has been changed forever. Is it possible that Mark could really offer her something she never thought possible in the twenty-first century: a man who will take her in hand, guide her, and even discipline her when he feels it necessary? 

Her friends are shocked that she’s fallen so quickly for Mark and horrified that instead of being the independent, headstrong woman her parents tried to raise, she actually wants to submit to a man. But despite her friends’ approbation, Sally is soon falling deeply in love with Mark as he begins to teach her, slowly and gently, what it means to offer her body to a dominant man both for punishment and for pleasure. 

When Sally’s best friend seeks to explore her own growing need for dominance and discipline, Mark introduces her to his friend and mentor and the two hit it off quickly. But when the girls’ rich parents find out that their daughters are dating men who are not afraid to spank them, they threaten to ruin the men’s careers. Will this threat bring an end to their relationships, or will the girls—and their firm-handed men—stand up and defend their old-fashioned values? 

Publisher’s Note: Old-Fashioned Values is an erotic romance novel that includes spankings, sexual scenes, anal play, elements of BDSM, and more. If such material offends you, please don’t buy this book.

Click here to buy it on Amazon!

The Waldorf, anally: EXPLORATIONS files

I'm re-running the stories that serve as deep background for EXPLORATIONS. The story continues from this post, last week.

-----

We walked from Grand Central to the Waldorf. I felt like I wasn't walking but rather floating on a cloud of arousal, even though we couldn't really hold hands very much because we were both pulling roller suitcases full of our secrets. (As is mythologized especially in Emily's Dark Gift and Emily's Little Trainer notable contents of mine included my butt-plug and a stash of porn not because I felt like I was going to need to play with myself but because I had in mind precisely the scene you find in Emily's Dark Gift, where I get what I deserve for bringing porn on my "honeymoon." Also, of course, a lot of lingerie, in particular my absolute favorite white lace thong, featured in EXPLORATIONS: Books 1-5, and the blue pajamas featured in Emily's First Caning.)

It was the first time I'd ever checked into a hotel with a man, and that was fun all by itself, if you enjoy full body blushes. It was at that moment, as I was checking in, with Charles a discreet distance behind me in the lobby, that I heard one of my Mom's best friends say "Charles Smith! What the heck are you doing here?" I left the second key at the desk, with instructions to deliver it to Charles, and fled to the room.

In the end, it proved perfect not only in the thrilling shame of potential discovery but in the way it let us both prepare out of sight of one another.

Which is how I ended up in the bathroom in my thong and only my thong, masturbating, unable to wait for my "bridegroom" to ravish me, pretty much as depicted in Emily's Submissive Wedding Night. I had heard him come in, through the bathroom door, and imagined him reading the note I had left on the bed: "You know what to do. xoxo Em." I had taken a little time with the note, because part of me wanted to write "Master, please forgive me for fleeing the lobby. I know I must be punished for it, but I beg you to be gentle with me. Your love-slave, Emily." Then I thought about what would happen if for some reason it was housekeeping who came in, next, and while that thought was itself a little hot, it was mostly not.

And thus I emerged to find him, as specified, in a dressing gown and nothing else.

In the first five books of EXPLORATIONS I weave the next few hours into a completely continuous narrative. In reality, the first spanking and first sex were so intense that we needed to take a break from the D/s for an hour, to order room service (he hid in the bathroom when I answered the door), and to talk about what had just happened, before we could proceed to the events of Emily's Second Submission and Emily's Dark Gift. As I mention in the italics in Emily's Dark Gift, we had to talk through our first anal really extensively before we played that scene, because I was dead-set on it being a ravishment if I could possibly get him to go along.

The coda of A2M depicted there is largely accurate, though--that was our first improvised negotiation, really, and it established a pattern for negotiation on the fly that's served us faithfully ever since. This was also when we chose "Pineapple" as our safeword, but though a safeword is of course a very good thing, it's a blunt instrument. Negotiating the boundaries of arousal so that everybody gets off requires a lot more finesse than saying or not saying "Pineapple," and it's been Charles' and my great good fortune that not only do our fantasies align very nicely but we're also both interested in playing things out experimentally to find what will keep them aligned. Maybe it's not a coincidence that our very first memories of one another are from our third-grade play at Greenwich Country Day.

Visually inspired: too soon again

(See here for an explanation of this series and here for an index to it.)

Ella crept downstairs. It was only 1am, but she had been checking every fifteen minutes to see if her husband had put her present under the tree yet, before he left for his night-shift at the hospital. He had made her promise to wait until he was back in the morning to open it, but she wasn't going to take it out of its box--she just wanted to see what it was.

Yes. It was there! A big white box with a red bow. She hurried over to the bushy green spruce with the pretty red bow-and-bulb ornaments, and sank quickly to her knees. She started to untie the red ribbon.

"Young lady," came a deep voice behind her, startling her half to death. She didn't even think to drop the ribbons, as she turned around and saw. . . white beard, check. . . red suit, check. . . jolly old elf--well, old elf, check; jolly, not very.

"Young lady, I believe you made your husband a promise."

"Um. . . I. . ."

"Did you or didn't you?"

Ella felt her face crumple. "Yes, Santa, I did. I'm so sorry."

"He and I made a deal tonight: he's going to put out the presents at the hospital, and I brought your present here. Do you think he deserves to have you breaking your promise while he's out working?"

"No, Santa." A tear rolled down Ella's face.

"What do you think would happen if he saw you himself?"

"Oh, no," she said, picturing it.

"He would spank you, wouldn't he? Don't lie, or you'll be on the naughty list next year!"

"Yes, Santa."

"Then since he and I have our bargain tonight, I believe I need to teach you your lesson."

Santa brought the little stool over to the tree, and sat upon it, looking decidely jollier. He patted his lap, and Ella, still holding the ribbons of the forbidden present, went over it.

"You'll tell your husband in the morning that you need a spanking, but you don't have to tell him why. I think it will brighten his day, especially if you're as delighted by your gift as I think you will be, Ella."

Santa flipped up the little green skirt to reveal scandalously configured underwear. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," he said, as he began to administer the sort of sound spanking that only he can give. "Sometimes naughty and nice are the same, aren't they?"

(Photo via Casey McKay, from the Busy Bee blog of Cari Bee. Thanks, Casey!)

A very naughty Victorian Christmas Eve: what Emily is up to

I feel very naughty posting this today, but I do, thanks to Charles Dickens I think, associate the Victorian period with Christmas. Mary is Anne and Charlotte's lady's maid.

"This evening," Anne said, "I am afraid, Mary, that you will receive a much more thorough lesson in the ways of Mr. Vance and Sir Gerald than you had even in that alley, and in the pantry when you sucked Sir Gerald's cock."

Charlotte released Mary from her arms, and Mary looked with wide eyes, but more composure, at Anne. "What do you mean, miss?"

"I fear," Anne said, "that after dinner you are to be bound upon the special divan in the drawing room and shared by Sir Gerald and Mr. Vance."

"Shared, miss?" Mary's voice quavered terribly.

"With their cocks, Mary," Charlotte whispered, the words almost a tiny sob. "And we are to be your attendants, to prepare you and to assist in this wicked deed."

"B-but… Miss Anne," Mary stammered, "how can a girl be 'shared' like that?"

Anne could read in the girl's face that she had an inkling, but refused to allow herself to understand that she had guessed correctly.

"You will see, Mary," Anne said, as gently as she could.

"But I won't," Mary replied, attempting defiance. "I won't do it. I shall leave this house."

"No," Charlotte said, weeping now herself. "You shall not. If you refuse, you are to be thrashed until you consent."

"You wouldn't, Miss Charlotte!" Mary cried. "You are too good! You will help me escape!"

"No," Anne said, "she will not. Even if perhaps she had the inclination to help you thus, Mary, she would have me to reckon with. If you were to escape, Miss Charlotte's and my lives would end, for you would take the guineas, and sell the story."

"I wouldn't!"


"You do not think you would; I can easily believe that," Anne said, her own masterful streak coming out and drowing her guilt in its flood of lubricious heat. "But I know the realities of this world. You will not escape this house, Mary. You must choose to go over the divan as a willing victim with your bottom ungraced by the marks of the cane, or as a slightly less willing victim with as many of those terrible stripes as is required to render you amenable to the cocks of our gentlemen."

Coming soon, in The Innocent Observer!

Big Joe's plans for before Lori-Anne's reception #Taboo2sday

The whole story so far can be found here.

"But," said Lori-Anne, "that will be after the reception, so I'll need to look perfect until then, won't I?" She looked anxiously at Kay, who stood with her back to the counter, watching Yolanda work on Lori-Anne's face, applying a layer of foundation so smooth that Kay could hardly believe she wasn't looking at Lori-Anne's own skin. "He'll have hours to look at my hair, and my dress, and my makeup."

Yolanda glanced at Kay. The beauty-salon owner knew Joe almost as well as Kay herself did--and both of them knew him better than Lori-Anne.

"Well," Kay said slowly, "if I know Big Joe…"


Lori-Anne's eyes opened wide, in alarm. Kay could see that her future sister-in-law knew Joe well enough that any time Kay brought up something about him that made him stand out from other bridegrooms, it couldn't bode well for her dreams of playing the treasured princess.

Don't stop your taboo adventure there!

The strip shooting contest, and what follows: The Outlaw's Daughter

I really love this book, and I think you might, too! It's full of trains and brothels, and cowboys and Indians--everything that makes a Western fun, in my book. Heh.

She could tell he was trying to get her riled up so that she wouldn’t shoot straight, and that made her even madder. She turned sideways, sighted along the revolver at one of the biggest branches, cocked and fired.

“What?” she said in disbelief. She had missed. She had probably missed by a mile.

“There goes your hat,” said Travis matter-of-factly. “The kick’s completely different when you don’t have your shoulder to take it, through the rifle stock.”

Maggie cocked and fired again.

“Right boot,” said Travis. “That one was closer. Try it with both hands.”

“I won’t, dammit.” She fired.

“Left boot. Stop and take ‘em off, honey.”

Maggie glared at him. Then she handed him the revolver. Still glaring, she took off her hat and tossed it to the side. She stooped and took off her right, and then her left boot. Travis was unbuckling his gun belt as she removed the boots. To her surprise, he put it around her waist. She blushed as he buckled it in front, thinking about the way he had touched her through the fabric of her britches on the train, but he did nothing of the kind now.

“We need to get you used to drawing, too. I want you to draw, put both hands on the handle, and set your feet the way you would if you were firing your Winchester. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Maggie said, because she did truly feel humbled at having missed three times. It had been many years she’d missed twice in a row with her rifle.

“Just practice drawing for now, alright?”

So Maggie drew. It was a lot harder than it looked. She drew ten times, and then twenty, and then, finally, she had it. It was just teaching your hand how to move.

“Alright,” Travis said. “Now show me how you’re going to set your feet. Don’t fire, just draw and set for me.”

So she did that, and it only took three tries before Travis said, “Alright—fire next time.”

The branch exploded, and Maggie gave a yell of triumph.

“There you go, honey,” he said. He handed her a box of bullets, and let her reload as he went to set up more branches.

After that, Maggie hit six out of six shots, with two hands on the gun, and Travis hit six of six standing in profile.

“You’re gettin’ the hang of it, honey,” he said.

“I coulda hit Mason,” she said bitterly, “if I’d practiced.”

“We’ll get him,” Travis said. “Let’s try one-handed.”

Maggie drew, and missed.

“There go your britches,” Travis said, chuckling, firing from the hip and hitting a branch as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

She tried again.

“And your shirt.”

Not knowing how she could possibly feel ashamed to be without her pants in front of him now, Maggie nevertheless turned away to unbuckle the gun belt so that she could take off the rest of her clothes.

“Put the gun belt back on, when the rest of you is bare. You’re gonna lose it last.”

Something in the way he spoke made Maggie smile, but also sent a lightning bolt of heat to her pussy. Won’t be long now, something inside her said.

She turned back to him, now wearing only his own gun belt. The look she saw in his eyes made her smile even wider, and then despite her frustration at her lack of skill, she giggled.

“Maggie Curtin, I can’t rightly say why, but the sight of you in nothin’ but my gun belt is the most beautiful thing I ever saw.”

“Are you hard, Travis?” she asked softly.

“Very, very hard, honey. Hard for you.”

“Are you gonna fuck me, Travis Quill?” From bashful to brazen, in a moment, but it felt so right. “Are you gonna be the first man who ever fucked me?”

A strange, hard look came into Travis’ eyes, but it didn’t take away the tenderness that remained in his voice as he pulled her close, put his hand possessively on her naked bottom, and kissed her. Then he said very softly, “I am gonna fuck you so good and hard that you never forget this shootin’ lesson, Maggie. Now hurry up and miss your next shot so I can give you the whuppin’ you got comin’.”


Maggie laughed, stepped away, and hit three branches in a row. Travis’ smile was broader each time she looked over at him. Through his eyes, she saw the naked farm girl on the river bank, earning her right to learn all those things about pleasing a man that she’d always wanted to know.

Click here to buy it on Amazon!

What happens to girls who won't learn to cook, on planet Draco #SatSpanks

This scene, with its mix of outlandish sci fi context and its relation to real modern life, was a lot of fun to write.

At first, as she shouted at Patrick, “You think you can make me get married!” she thought that the little-girl stuff had somehow driven her mildly insane. 

But then, as she turned to run toward her room, she realized that it was not like that at all. The little-girl stuff had allowed a part of her that was hurting—that had been hurting for a very long time—to come to the surface. As she felt Patrick grab her around the waist and pick her up to bring her to the living room, as she kicked and screamed, she understood that part of her was happy to be dressed in overalls and pink underwear, and happy to be throwing a tantrum about the cooking lesson, and even happy to know that she was bare under her pink panties. 

Before Kayla knew it, Patrick had unsnapped the fastenings along the legs of the overalls, which were there so that a little girl’s diaper could be changed, pulled the pink panties down to Kayla’s knees, and upended her over his lap as he sat in his big comfy chair. Kayla was still kicking and screaming, but Patrick started spanking her anyway. 

“Kayla Lourcy,” he said as he delivered smack after smack to the middle of her bottom, which was still quite sore from the strapping Joe had given it, “this is not acceptable behavior. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I think this is exactly the kind of thing that we need to make sure you can deal with without throwing a tantrum.”

Click here to buy the book at Amazon! And read all the Saturday Spankings!

Lascivious train-ride to NYC: EXPLORATIONS files

I'm re-running the stories that serve as deep background for EXPLORATIONS. The story continues from this post, last week.

-----
The next day I didn't chicken out, but instead told him what time he needed to pick me up to go to the train station. I told him to bring anything he might be interested in playing with, and hinted that I would be doing the same.

Friday night, the first Friday in March (the night before my birthday, actually), was going to be the night. If I had ever thought of going the corporate route, I probably would have lost millions of dollars over my lifetime by my utter failure to get any reading done that week. Lord forgive me, I was thinking of it as a wedding night; I had intimated as much to Charles on the phone, saying I think (I had stiffened my resolve with several glasses of wine before making this call), "One last question, Mr. Smith: are you prepared to deflower a virgin anus?"; "Oh. . . um. . . sweet Jesus, Emily, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" was his reply, which did indeed sound weak, as if he were having a cardiac episode, at which I broke down into giggles, unfortunately. At any rate, I was not going to lose the chance to indulge my thing for white lace thongs.

We agreed that we wanted to concentrate on getting the scene right, so we wouldn't try to have dinner beforehand (well, he agreed when I said that was what we should do). We would just take the train down to New York, and go straight to the hotel room I had reserved. (Yes, it was the Waldorf; why the fuck not, I thought. It was not the bridal suite, as it's allegorized in EXPLORATIONS: Books 1-5; I'm a very fortunate girl, with respect to my socioeconomic background, but I'm not that fortunate.) This is probably the time when you're realizing, reader, that I'm terrible about topping from the bottom. I'm very lucky, though, that most of the time that's exactly what Charles needs: I made all the arrangements, even told him what he was going to wear. Hearing his breathing become labored over the phone when I told him these details was. . . exciting.

The most difficult part of the whole thing (if you except the welcome difficulty of taking Charles' cock in my ass for the first time) turned out to be not having sex on the train. I had already discovered my tendency, which continues to this day, to cling to him, physically at least. I clung to him on the train, and I put his coat over us, and I took his hand and put it under my skirt. That was when he actually discovered that I had shaved down there. I hope I never forget the look on his face.

"Tell me how naughty I am," I murmured. He looked around nervously, and then gave in.

"You are a very, very bad girl, Emily Tilton," he murmured back. I realized that I was in danger not just of soaking through what I was thinking of as my "warm-up" panties (white lace mesh), worn in case Charles decided to change the script, haul me into the train bathroom, and take me, but of leaving a stain on a nice blue skirt that I'd worn for the subtle schoolgirl effect. The thought made the problem even worse. "You're going to get a spanking tonight."

He made a circle around my clit with his forefinger at that moment, and I came, to his and my delight, astonishment, and mortification, because I had made a sound somewhere between a shout and a grunt, and even biting the collar of his coat hadn't muffled it much. Also, I undoubtedly looked like I was having a seizure of some kind and had, I believe, turned bright red. Heads turned.

"Oh my God, Charles," I said. "This is. . . new." I put my hand on his lap and felt something so, well, authoritative, that at first I drew my hand back in something like alarm. He, though, took my hand and put it back on his cock.

"This is for you," he said. "But you're not going to get it until I'm ready to give it to you, you naughty little slut."

"Oh. No," was all I could say, because the problem--the warm, wet, aching problem--had begun all over again. And then, I couldn't help it. . . I said "I love you, Charles."


And he said, not missing a beat, "I love you, too."

Visually inspired: to kiss his hand

(See here for an index to this series.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The wicked pleasures of Victorian gentlemen: what Emily is up to

My current work-in-progress falls rather farther to the naughty side of the spectrum than the last few have fallen. I'm hoping that Sunset Harbor fans will enjoy it.

Miss Charlotte shrieked, and screamed, from the first cut of the cane. Caroline looked at Mr. Vance, who stood leaning against the mantle-piece, and saw a smile on his face as he nodded at each stroke his girl got from Sir Gerald. She thought about his pestle-thing… his cock… and suddenly she had an urge to go and kneel before him and ask to learn how to be a good cocksucker. Only her grip on Miss Charlotte's hands, and the responsibility she felt to comfort her as Mr. Vance had told her to, seemed to prevent the wicked thing from happening.

The caning went on forever, it seemed to Caroline, as she had to change sides, and with each dozen it seemed that her strange urges only grew and multiplied. At last, though, it ended, and Mr. Vance told Caroline to go get the salve from Miss Anne's and Miss Charlotte's room.

When she had brought it down, Sir Gerald and Mr. Vance watched while Caroline applied it to the bottoms of the well-punished girls.

"Are you sure that's wise?" Sir Gerald had asked, in his usual ready-to-be-persuaded style.

"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Vance, and so Caroline, panting with the excitement that had by this time made her thighs damp with the wetness of her little cleft, rubbed the pretty bottoms, thoroughly and agonzingly chastised now, with the oily balsam. Miss Anne and Miss Charlotte made noises that fell somewhere between sobs and moans, and each of them said, more than once, "Oh, Caroline, please."

Caroline could tell, though of course she knew she mustn't say anything of it, that the feeling she evoked with her soothing touch, must have an element in it that gave Miss Anne and Miss Charlotte a pleasure far beyond the simple relief from the pain of their cane-weals. She wondered if she could see the same wetness glistening by the lamplight upon the thighs of Miss Charlotte that she knew would glisten upon her own, if she should be similarly positioned. 

That thought, to her distress, led to imagining what it would be like to be the third girl with her face in the cushion, and of what might happen then. So it was a relief when Sir Gerald at last said, "You may go, child. And remain in your bed, if you please. None of your stealing about, do you hear me?"


"Yes, sir," Caroline said, and left the parlor. But to her shame she could not forbear standing outside the parlor door after she had closed it, and crouching down to look in at the keyhole. What she saw, though, made her face so hot and her breathing so labored that she ran up the stairs on the instant: Sir Gerald and Mr. Vance, their trousers down and their cocks out, standing with bent knees behind their girls' bottoms, bringing the cocks ever closer, as if to… what? When Caroline lay snug in her bed, she instantly regretted the decision not to stay, and see. Her little cleft burned between her thighs, and no amount of squeezing seemed to help. Suddenly she didn't care how nasty Dr. Brown would be: she would make him tell her how to get Sir Gerald and Mr. Vance to use their cocks upon her.

The working title is The Innocent Observer.

Lori-Anne at the salon #Taboo2sday

I've gathered the story so far on this page.

The beauty-parlor came first. It was a very special establishment, which Kay had actually had a hand in financing and, like Lori-Anne herself, the salon was her pride and joy. 

There, the make-up Lori-Anne had put on herself was removed, and her long hair was washed with the skillful hands of Yolanda, the owner of the salon. Lori-Anne blushed deeply, of course, to have the evidence revealed that she was not everything she wished she were, but Kay reassured her. 

"Don't you worry, sweetheart. Joe understands that it's going to take a lot of work to make you into the girl he sees inside you." 

Yolanda, who lived for Kay's transformational work, and loved to contemplate all the various facets of it, said, "We'll be sure your special little pussy looks just the way your groom wants it sweetheart. He's really not going to care about a tiny bit of stubble on your legs when he turns you over and has you spread your cheeks for him."

Don't stop your taboo delight there! 

How you get to be classified 1A, on the planet Draco

By medical examination, of course!

“I’m afraid this is part of my job,” the doctor said. He turned to Lydia. “Solid ten on contraction,” he said. She made a little note on her tablet.

“What does that mean?” Kayla asked desperately.

“It means your vagina is healthy,” the doctor said reassuringly. “When it’s time for you to have sex, you and your partner are going to enjoy yourselves greatly. To put it another way, from the administration’s perspective, you’re a catch. Now do please answer Lydia’s question.”

He reached for something in a drawer behind him, and Kayla saw the shape of it. “What’s that?” she asked in a panic.

“I’m afraid it’s just what you think it is, honey,” Lydia said. The doctor pressed a button, and the air was filled with a faint hum.

“You’re going to have an orgasm for me now, Kayla,” he said. “We need to make sure your arousal cycle completes properly, and we need to determine how far along you are toward multi-orgasm.”

“Have you had multiple orgasms, ever?” Lydia asked sympathetically.

Kayla shook her head.

Lydia smiled. “Best part of the Basic Law,” she said.

Kayla had focused on the vibrator, with its long part and its short part. She had only ever tried a vibrator once, and had found herself too embarrassed to do it again, even in private, but she still remembered the strength of the orgasm she had had.

The doctor laughed and gently rubbed the long part of the buzzing vibrator up and down Kayla’s pussy-lips, so that she cried out. “What? What’s… the best part?”

“The administration promotes multi-orgasm as a social policy,” Lydia said. “Why don’t you tell me about your first intercourse, now?”

Now the doctor had the toy—instrument, whatever—inside her, and the little part came up against her clit, and the words came out in a rush. “College… got fancy… fancy hotel room for—oh, God—me and boyfriend…”

“And how old were you?”

“Ah! Nineteen! Oh, please…”
“Did it hurt?”

“N-not very much. Oh, God, doctor, please, please…”

“What position?”

“Just, um, regular… missionary… but then… ah… he had me get on top…” At the memory, the lovely memory of Michael Fulton in the room at the Ritz, of riding his cock to the first sex-induced orgasm of her life, Kayla came.

And the way the doctor knew how to use that infernal vibrator, or maybe some effect of the weakness in her muscles from the cryo, made the orgasm so incredibly powerful that Kayla screamed in pleasure as she had never screamed before—though Michael had fondly designated her a screamer after they had made love at the Ritz.

And then he didn’t take the vibrator away, though she begged, “Oh, it… it happened… please…”

Lydia said, “We want to see if it will happen again, Kayla. Have you had anal sex?”

Just the question, the silly, shameful question, made Kayla come again. “No!” she shouted, gasping, in the midst of her climax.

“But you fantasize about it?”

The shudders began to leave her. “Yes,” she moaned.

The doctor shut off the vibrator. “Solid ten there, too,” he said. Lydia made a note. Kayla felt like she could barely even see them, her body was still shaking so violently from the two orgasms.

“I never…”

“I know,” the doctor said. “That’s why we do this exam. You can expect to have a lot of suitors, Kayla.”

“Wh-what does that mean?”

The doctor replied matter-of-factly, “You’re in the top tenth when it comes to sexual responsiveness. A lot of men with high testosterone levels are looking for that.”

Kayla’s jaw dropped. “But how will they know?”

“Your scores will be posted, completely anonymously, along with an outline of your interests, and you’ll screen the suitors with the help of your guardian. You’ll only meet the ones you think you might like.”

Kayla felt her cognitive function returning, under the stimulus of this horrifying, fascinating information. “So… it’s like a marriage market?” Her eyes felt as wide as saucers.

“I suppose you could call it that,” Lydia conceded. “But even the administration won’t be able to link these results with your name—only the suitors you select will ever know who you are.”


The doctor took out a plastic speculum. “I’m going to finish up your exam now, while Lydia takes the rest of your sexual history.”

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That feeling when you've come 18 lightyears to get a paddling #SatSpanks

I think of this book as my first "hard" sci-fi story. Like a lot of hard sci fi, it plays with social conventions. Kayla Lourcy has just woken up from cryo-sleep to find that her new home, the planet Draco, has some regulations she didn't expect.

Now Kayla was nearly shouting, with vocal cords that ached with the effort, after having been idle so long. "I want to talk to Patrick McDowell. You're not going to do this, so you had better just calm the fuck down with your corporal punishment bullshit." 

Marjorie remained utterly, maddeningly calm. "We learned the hard way here on Draco that order and discipline are much more important things when you're fighting the environment for your very survival than they are when you're just making money off your rich daddy's business." 

"How dare you?! My father drove himself to an early grave…" 

Marjorie nodded to Sandra. Kayla's voice trailed away at the sight of that nod. Sandra, who Kayla now noted was a very sizable woman of twenty or so, reached out and grabbed Kayla, spun her around, and twisted her arm behind her back.

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Read all the Saturday Spankings!

Planning for submission: EXPLORATIONS files

I'm re-running the stories that serve as deep background for EXPLORATIONS. The story continues from this post, two weeks ago.

-----

The last things we said to one another before the lingering kiss (I did not catch his cold; in his defense he tried to stop me from kissing him and I finally had to take him by surprise, since among his cheekbones, the beer, and him telling me he was a top he was not escaping unkissed) and the walking away with a chest full of hope and joy were:

CHARLES: So. . . what do we do now.

EMILY: We should, um, plan something. (Beat) I'll call you tomorrow.

CHARLES: You mean. . . really plan. . . something. . . (Not a question)

Emily nods, and kisses him (lingeringly), and walks away.

In the event, the planning had to wait six months, during which we were, I guess, technically dating. That was because I chickened out when I called him the next day, and merely told him how great a time I'd had. That set up a strange situation in which we were both like, I don't know, old-fashioned cartoon-pirate-bombs with long, slow-burning fuses. We knew we were going to go off (and, of course, get off) some time, but we were both 1) nervous and 2) fucking slammed with academic work.

I think from September through February we probably had dinner five times, each of them on a night when one of us had to be in bed early because of some academic responsibility the next morning. Intimacy achieved; the funny thing was that it didn't feel like an achievement, because it had already really happened so effortlessly that night in September, under the most adverse conditions. Neither of us mentioned what was on both our minds--the idea of planning. . . something. We kissed at the end of each date, but when I, on I think two occasions, boldly tried to put my hand between his legs, he seized my wrist firmly, and twisted it gently behind my back, saying "Wait. We're going to plan something, right?"

He could have had me, of course, right then, right there, when he did that, so badly did I crave submission. But instinctively (or so he claims, for he says that he categorically refused to let himself believe that it would actually happen, while nevertheless [he says, the darling] jerking off, every night, thinking about spanking me), both times he kissed me, getting me so aroused that I feared I might develop a wet spot on my jeans, then let my wrist go, and walked away. He was hoping, he says now, that I would start the planning on my own, since he was so nervous about getting it wrong.

Finally, the last Saturday in February, he said, at the end of a dinner, at the same sushi place where we'd had our first date, "Do you think. . . it's time to plan something?"

"Yes," I said, looking steadily into his eyes and thinking about the place between his legs that I had never yet been allowed to touch. (I kind of wish, from a fantasy standpoint, he had said "It's time to plan something," rather than asking, or even just said "Take off your panties"; but as I keep saying that stuff is good in one's head, and really generally not in real life.)

At the end of that date, standing in front of my apartment building, I said, "Alright, this is it. When I call you tomorrow, we're going to make the plan. We're going to take the train down to New York on Friday, and stay in a fancy hotel, and we're going to give this a shot."

"What?" he asked, coyly.

I felt my face flush, but I also felt brazen. "You topping me," I said, resolutely. I hesitated a moment, then leaned in to whisper up into his ear, "You giving me what I have coming, because I've been very, very naughty. I've been playing with myself, thinking about you. Thinking about your cock, in my ass."

He emitted a groan that sounded like it was coming from the bottom of his soul. I clung to his shoulders, and moved my hips to bring myself up against his upper thigh, desperately and wantonly, and whimpered. Then, frankly afraid of what might happen there, on the street, if that particular scene went any farther, I tilted my face up and kissed him as hard as I could from below, and turned and went into my building, without looking back.

Visually inspired: disciplined, just as he likes

(See here for an explanation of this series.)

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Sir."

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

Assigned a Guardian: new insterstellar ageplay, now available

It's here!

When twenty-five-year-old Kayla Lourcy boards a spaceship with her late father’s colleague, Patrick McDowell, she is glad to leave Earth and its political squabbles far behind. But when she awakens from cryo-sleep on the planet Draco, she is shocked to learn that the planet has undergone major changes. The government in power on Draco has adopted laws that require women to live under the care of either a husband or a guardian, and since she is not married, she will be assigned a guardian. 

Kayla is not the type of woman to be easily controlled, and she jumps at the chance to organize a rebellion, but she is immediately thwarted and then firmly chastised. Afterwards, Patrick informs her that he will be stepping in to act as her guardian, and he will be employing a unique form of discipline Draco reserves for the most stubborn of women. Kayla will be treated like a naughty little girl, and any further unruly behavior will result in punishments far more humiliating than just a spanking. 

Not truly believing that Patrick will implement his plan, Kayla defies him, and to her horror he bares her bottom, spanks her soundly, and then puts her in a diaper. But soon enough, when she’s seated at Patrick’s feet, coloring, with her new stuffed bear nearby, her thoughts about her place on Draco begin to change. As she grows closer to Patrick, will she be able to make the best of her situation and accept her guardian’s love and care? 

Publisher’s Note: Assigned a Guardian is an erotic novel that includes spankings, sexual scenes, age play, diaper play, medical play, elements of BDSM, and more. If such material offends you, please don’t buy this book.

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Space opera, with c-whipping and pleasure-saddles: what Emily is up to

I'm not sure I can go back, after writing two sci-fi books. You just get to make up the most wonderful things.

So Leka should have been, if Hend understood how her breeding and education worked together, resistant to being claimed, but then submissive to Hend fucking her. Something more lay inside Leka's psyche, though, with regard to Hend: he knew it was there, but he couldn't put his finger on it, or name it. Some bond existed from Leka to him, mirroring the bond he felt from himself to her, the bond of care that he had felt on Yeg, even as he had watched her masturbate for him, on the other side of the window. That bond, the feeling that he must keep Leka safe and make her as happy as he could, had grown so strong now that it was almost physically painful to him to tell her that he would whip her cunt. 

But he had done it, because it seemed to him that that fear lay very close to the center of her emotional and erotic being. And when he had said it, she had responded with the question about her pleasure-saddle. The way she asked that questioned revealed that far from a frivolous sex-toy, that saddle had a very special meaning for her, and that that meaning had everything to do with the desire she felt to be a good girl for Hend--exactly the desire he would have thought her breeding made it impossible for her to feel, since she was supposed to a good girl only for her true master. 

Cunt-whipping and pleasure-saddles, Hend thought. Two sides of the same riddle?

Big Joe's sister, Lori-Anne's emasculator #Taboo2sday

The saga continues from here.

Kay Weston, big Joe's sister, delighted in serving the perfect complement to her brother, when it came to getting his "girls" ready. She had accepted when they were both still in early adolescence (Kay was five years older than Joe) that Joe's erotic orientation deviated from the norms to which their Baptist parents adhered. Kay herself had her own deviations, and they meshed beautifully with Joe's: Kay liked to put boys in their place, and deprive them of their masculinity, and Joe liked to fuck the girls Kay made for him. 

Lori-Anne had already been Kay's masterpiece, before Joe asked her to marry him. Kay considered that in bringing the two of them to the altar, and in bringing Lori-Anne over into the light from the benighted faith of her birth, she had begun a great and holy work of emasculation. 

Now, picking Lori-Anne up at her little apartment for the wedding-dress expedition, Kay could hardly contain her pride at the how feminine Lori-Anne moved, getting into the car just like a blushing bride should, with her feet tucked under her. Lori-Anne's long, reddish hair was gathered into a pony-tail, and Kay could see that she had applied her make-up very carefully. 

But Kay's method did not involve much praise. "We'll have to wax you much more thoroughly for the wedding, girl," she said. "Joe doesn't want to feel anything but a smooth cheek when he's fucking your face."

Don't stop your taboo delights there!

Taking her belt-whipping like a stoic

It seems like I've got into belts, more and more, over my past few stories. In the upcoming Her Boyfriend's Firm Hand, my heroine has an extended meditation on the subject of the accessory that girds a man's waist being the ever-present reminder of his authority, but here, in The Outlaw's Daughter, it's a little more straightforward.

“Fine,” Maggie said, turning to walk to the hay bale Quill had pointed out. She kept looking over her shoulder at him, showing him just how little effect this so-called lesson was going to have on her. Yesterday had been one thing, with ma’s safety at stake, but today ma was safe, and Maggie was going to go after Mason whether Quill liked it or not, no matter how thoroughly he tanned her hide. 

Fine. To show just how fine it was, Maggie put herself in position over the hay bale, and started to take down her dungarees before Quill could tell her to. The hay felt scratchy on her hand, and even scratchier on the bit of her belly that she had to expose to get the pants down to a point where she was sure Quill wouldn’t tell her to pull them down any further. The whole while she kept looking back at Quill. Though she felt a terrible flutter in that same belly as she watched him take off his gun belt and lay it down on the hay bale where he’d been sitting, and then start to unbuckle the big belt that held his own pants up, she refused to show him that she felt anything but scorn with regard to the whipping that was coming to her. 

Maggie had never worn drawers; it was a battle her mother had finally simply given in on. Now she wished for that thin layer of protection. Even if Quill made her open them up to expose her bottom, it would still would have made it less embarrassing than it was to show him her bare backside over the bunched denim, and maybe it would have made the whipping a less painful prospect. 

She watched him approach, the doubled belt wrapped around his hand. Maggie felt some of the defiance going out of her, not at the sight of the belt, but at the look on Quill’s face. He didn’t want to whip her, but he clearly thought he was right and she was wrong; he really did want to keep her safe. His face wore an expression of stern strength, mixed with regret that he had to punish Maggie like this. 

“I’m gonna whip you now, Maggie,” he said, with a gentleness that took her by surprise. “It’s the only way I can teach you to respect my judgment, I’m thinkin’.” Maggie watched him plant his feet and hold the belt up, looking down at her bottom. Suddenly the embarrassment of having Quill see her bare bottom that way became nearly as strong as the fear of the pain he planned to inflict. Why? She had never cared about any man seeing her naked before—she skinny-dipped all the time, though it scandalized her mother. 

She watched the belt come down and heard the slap of it against her flesh. She gritted her teeth, but she didn’t make a sound, even a grunt, though it stung fiercely. Quill looked into her eyes, and she thought she glimpsed surprise on his face, and maybe even the tiniest bit of respect. She returned it with the meanest expression she could muster, pushing away the thought of a moment ago, that maybe Quill had a point. 

Now she watched him turn his attention to her backside once again, and bring the belt down harder, clearly trying to test her resolve somehow. The sting made her tense her whole body, and she heard the smallest of noises come from her throat, but it was a defiant little noise, and she didn’t think Quill could even hear it. Quill struck again, and again, and again, harder and harder, not looking at her face, only at her bottom, choosing spots that would render her whole backside a flaming mess of pain. 

It hurt terribly, and Maggie felt her bottom-cheeks clenching uncontrollably, trying to ease the agony. Her eyes watered, but she did not cry out. She merely looked at him, forcing her face into the same angry look of resistance. 

What did he want? Did he want to make her cry and sob like a little girl? Was he whipping her harder and harder to have the satisfaction of breaking her that way? Somehow Maggie didn’t think that was it. He did want to break her, that was clear; he wanted her to bury her face in her hands atop the hay bale and show him that he had made her weep because she knew that he was in charge of her. But he didn’t want that for his satisfaction: he wanted it for her. 

He struck again, hard, right in the middle of her bottom, where she must be covered in welts now. Maggie couldn’t help it; now she grunted in pain. But she didn’t stop looking at him, making him see that he was punishing a girl who didn’t accept that she needed or deserved punishment. 

He looked into her eyes. Then he spoke quietly. “Maggie, if you and I were in a gunfight together, and you got shot in the leg, say, do you think you could stay this quiet?” 

Maggie forced her upper lip into an attempt at a sneer, to show that he hadn’t come close to breaking her, no matter how bad her bottom hurt. “I reckon,” she said. 

“Then pull up your britches, and let’s go say goodbye to your ma.”

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