In which Emily does the full Victorian #SatSpanks

If you know me at all, you know I love this stuff--maybe more than any other mode or genre. Please be warned: it's NOT Victorian ageplay. This is real Victorian erotica, only the tiniest (legalizing) step away from such classics as "Sub-Umbra, or Sport Among the She-Noodles" and "My Grandmother's Tale, or May's Introduction to the Art of Love." It's got some medical elements, but it's old-fashioned medical. I present to you Innocence Examined.

In this scene, Sir Gerald Carruthers' enjoyment of Anne, his mistress, has just been interrupted by the intrusion of his ward, Caroline Hollins. Anne has expressed her displeasure, but Sir Gerald will not put up with any nonsense.

He bounced Anne's bottom upon his cock, making her cry out in discomfort, and said, "Quiet, Anne, or I shall have to birch you as well for this spiteful conduct. Miss Caroline is a gentleman's daughter, and you are a trollop who wears fine dresses because you know your place, which is right… here…" He bounced her again as he spoke, making her scream. Anne had, in truth, sprung from the middle-class, but Sir Gerald never missed an opportunity to degrade her, in the throes of passion, seeing as to do so stoked the flames of passion in both of them.

Caroline said, seeming to evince real concern, "Are you hurting her, Sir Gerald?"

"No…" gasped Anne, "He's… not hurting me… really, you silly girl." Caroline's eyes grew even wider at the sight of Anne going up and down on Sir Gerald's cock, though the actual motions still of course lay hidden behind the veil of Anne's shift.

"Go away, Caroline, or I shall have to birch you right now--and in the morning."

Caroline's face crumpled into sorrow. "No one tells me anything," she sobbed, and ran from the room.

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Summer of mythic anal love: EXPLORATIONS files

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

-----

Charles kicked his own roommate out, more or less (guys deal with that more sanely than girls, I think [there's no way I could have done it to my roommate], but despite the transaction being relatively businesslike I have to admit to feeling rather stimulated by the urgency with which my betrothed lord went about making sure I would be in his bed every night, to the point of really being a bit unfeeling for the displaced roommate--yet another paradox of hotness, I guess, for he clearly felt it, too: when the door closed behind the roommate and the roommate's stuff, Charles turned me around, my face to the door, lifted my skirt, lowered my panties, and entered me, hard, so that I cried out in a way that the roommate must have recognized), and I moved in with him. 

I ended up as a summer associate in New York, which put a small crimp in what we later called our summer of anal love, but, because the firms want you to give them your heart and soul after you graduate, it wasn't too much of a burden in the end (heh). 

We experimented in every way we could think of. Various systems of domestic discipline reigned at various times. I was frequently deprived of my panties when going out; I frequently was made to walk around the apartment naked, my butt-plug firmly in place. It was heaven. 

This was when we started playing stories from Greek myths, as reflected in Emily, Ravished by Porn. As I mention there, my favorite was Pasiphae, even though Charles often broke the immersion of the scene by talking despite being a bull. 

("Goddammit, Charles, you're a bull! Shut up!" I'd say, and he'd sweetly oblige and bellow, unless he decided he wanted to spank me for impertinence instead, though once he said "Oh but what you don't realize is that Pasiphae is telepathic with animals--I'm not talking, you're just hearing my taurine thoughts"; and, scene, because I was laughing too hard. It was one of my worst topping from the bottom habits, trying to dramaturge those stories--I mean, if master wants to be a talking bull, I guess master should be a talking bull.)

The number of myths that can be played as BDSM scenes is practically endless, actually. 
I've been Europa (Pasiphae's mother-in-law, in fact), kidnapped and ravished by another bull (the nice thing about the Europa myth is that at least in the Ovid version she thinks she's got this sweet pet bull, but then he swims off with her to Crete. . . and when they get there she finds out her pet bull wants more from her. . . and, at least as played by us, her heart quails at the sight of the bull-cock that's going to ravish her in every way). 

I've been Semele, demanding to feel the full power of Zeus, with all his "lightning-bolts" attached (Charles likes that one because it lets him be rough with me as part of the story; too often, most of the time, he's too gentle with me for my taste because he loves me, the dear--it's not that he doesn't get turned on by fucking me hard, he says--it's just that it feels false to him to do it as Charles; he needs to be Zeus in all his thunderous panoply). 

But there's something about Pasiphae's insatiability that I find most moving, in that Réagean sense; pretending that Charles was a bull who needed to be persuaded to do something as unnatural as fucking a queen, persuading him with various displays, and touches, and then finally having him fuck me wildly and bestially over the piano-stool that stood in for Daedalus' cow. . . it tended to release the day's tensions.

Visually inspired: a well-placed thumb

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

"That's the third time this month you've gone over the data limit."

"I'm sorry--it won't happen again. I promise."

"I think," said Stephen, "you're in need of an attitude adjustment. Take off your clothes. Everything but your stockings."

"Stephen, no--"

"Do you really think it's wise to disobey me, sweetheart?"

Gloria flushed, and reached behind her back to unzip her dress.

"Answer me, Gloria. Do you think it's wise to disobey me?" She looked into his eyes, and saw the answer, there.

"No, sir."

He would spank her, of course, but she knew that before he did he would adjust her attitude the way he knew she needed, with his fingers inside her bottom, and his other hand in her hair. Ashamed, but, as always, terribly aroused, she let her dress drop to the floor, then unhooked her bra and shrugged it off.

"Panties, too, Gloria," he said, when he saw her seem to hesitate. Unable to look at him, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the black lace thong, and bent to tug it down.

"Stand up and let me look at you," Stephen said. "Hands behind your head." She complied, blushing, and waited while he ran his eyes up and down her, lingering on the place between her legs that he had ordered her to keep bare, so that her little slit would have no covering when he wanted to look at it.

"Over my lap, now," he said.

After she had obeyed, there was a long pause, as he ran his hands over her back, her bottom, her thighs still in their sheer stockings. Then, suddenly, one of his hands was in her hair, pulling, not hard but authoritatively, and the other, as always, was upon her bottom, taking her right cheek in his grasping fingers, and working his thumb into the valley between the cheeks.

"Next time you get the warning about the data-plan," Stephen murmured, "what are you going to think about?"

Gloria gasped, as the thumb quested inward. "Your thumb, sir!"

"And my paddle," Stephen said grimly, and reached for it.

The spirits and the demons and the sages: what Emily is up to

Work continues on this fantasy book, which I'm now thinking of calling "Her Knight's Mastery." It should be done soon!

She startled him, by seeming to read his thoughts, when he broke the kiss and Hala said, "So you must punish me for letting you kiss me? My friend Dera got a terrible spanking from her father, because she let my brother kiss her, and then Dera's mother brought her to the sisters' hall, and they whipped her there, too, on her bare bottom. Is it like when my mother whipped me for touching myself?"

Wake smiled, very unsure of how to answer. Again, Hala's curiosity overwhelmed him with that warm feeling for her--he must be falling in love with her, he realized with a shock of recognition. Knights did not fall in love, or they were taught thus. Falling love was for the village-folk.

"Sage Hazeran would say that that was it," he said slowly. "I suppose he would say that the spanking and the whipping drove the demons from your friend's cunny, while your fire was just too high. He might say that Dera's husband should keep a very close watch upon her, and whip her, for her wickedness, and enjoy her every day, almost as if she were a castle girl and he her knight."

Hala fell silent at that, dropping her eyes from Wake's and looking down at his doublet. Wake looked down at her, trying to read her thoughts as she seemed to be able to read his.

Finally, Hala whispered, "Will you do that to me, now? I am so very wicked. I let you kiss me, and… back at the castle… I kissed Jas, too, even though mistress said we must not, and we would be whipped if we did."

Wake could not help replying, "Yes, I will do that. I will whip you, and I will fuck you, and teach you to please my cock."

Hala gasped at the harsh, masculine words. "Oh spirits," she murmured. "Oh, spirits."

Then, looking at her, Wake knew at last the beginning of the answer to the whole mystery. "But," he said, "though I may punish you someday, if I must truly teach you a lesson, when I master you today it will not be because you are wicked, for you are not wicked."

"What?" Hala asked, looking back up at him with wide eyes. "That is like what mistress said, that I am a good girl. But… Lord Jetal said, and the sages say…"

"Sage Hazeran said that," Wake replied. "But do you remember what Sage Gader says about the indoor garden?"

Hala shook her head. "Sister Margra just said that we didn't have to learn that part of the book, because it was for the king's court."

Wake smiled wryly. "That's the way they've always interpreted it. He says, 'Make a garden in a warm room, and let the windows' light shine upon your little rose. Trick your rose to think it is spring, and she will blossom. Tell her that she is tarnished, and must be plucked, and she will love your lashing hand'."

Hala looked terribly puzzled. "But what does it mean?"

"No one ever pays it much attention--people have always thought it means that the girls of the king's court should learn their lessons well, because they should not let themselves be tricked, since the court is so important. Some even say it means that the court girls should be whipped more regularly than other girls. But right after Gader writes that, he says, 'A true, untricked rose will give herself for plucking, gracefully, and thence shall come salvation for the Rising'."

The crease in Hala's brow seemed to deepen.

"It's you, Hala," Wake said. "It's you and I."

"What?" she shook her head. "A true, untricked rose?"

Wake chuckled. "Let's ride down to the castle and find a place to hide ourselves, and I will explain," he said. "Once we have that, my own Hala, I shall show you what I mean."


He put all his knightly authority in his last words, looking with lustful sternness upon the girl he now knew belonged to him by right of the spirits' blessing. He narrowed his eyes at her, in order that she understand that the showing of his meaning would involve his claiming her with whip and cock at last.

Joe won't care about Lori-Anne's bra #Taboo2sday

The whole story so far can be found here.

The part about the panties was done quickly, thank goodness. Lori-Anne donned the lacy thong, and if she stood just the right way she couldn't even see in the mirror that her clit was bigger than it should be.

"We'll have to wax you down there, of course," said Kay as she stood next to Lori-Anne and looked appraisingly at the image in the mirror. "But I think Joe will like what he sees. Enough to put you over the pillows and give that Lori-Anne pussy of yours what it deserves, anyway."

Lori-Anne blushed. "What about the bra?" she asked tentatively. The bra couldn't be as lacy as Lori-Anne really would have wanted, because it had to hold the padding to make her bosom look the way it should, but it did have lovely scalloped edges.

"Now Lori-Anne," said Kay, "don't be silly. Do you think that Joe would be marrying you if he cared about tits?"

"No," Lori-Anne whispered.

Read more taboo, too!

A submissive imprinting ceremony: Stolen by Her Master

The idea for this book came from a fun "what-if": What if it were possible to breed submissives to love their masters, and only their masters? In this scene, my hero watches a video of an imprinting ceremony.

The screen showed a small but elegant room, where an older woman sat in an armchair, in front of an artificial but very realistic-looking fire that blazed on an antique stone hearth.

“Imprinting is a beautiful, erotic experience for a Yeg girl and for her new master,” the woman said. “While the exact course of the ceremony can be easily adapted to your wishes as your girl’s owner, there are certain elements that must make up part of any imprinting ceremony, and we have recommendations as to the rest of the events. In this video, we’ll be following the story of a real imprinting: you will see what happened when a girl named Heidi imprinted on her new owner right here in this room, which we call the imprinting chamber.”

The camera panned around the room, showing that it contained an enormous, elegant modern bed and what could only be some kind of spanking bench, suited to restraining a girl for punishment. The shot dissolved to the same room, lit slightly differently, and now apparently empty. On the bed now was something that could only be the masturbation saddle Harris had mentioned.

The door opened, and a dark-haired, fair-skinned young woman entered in her blue-striped briefs and halter. She looked very nervous, but also wore a hopeful expression, as if she didn’t know what would happen now, but she thought it would be good.

“This is Heidi,” said the same woman’s voice. “She’s been brought to the imprinting chamber because her new owner has decided to purchase her contract.”

Heidi went to the bed, a little uncertainly, and sat upon it.

“Heidi has been told to prepare herself by pleasuring herself nearly to a climax. She has been told that her master is watching, and that she will be punished for any faults she shows in demonstrating how much she wishes to please him. This is of course a difficult assignment for Heidi, because she has never seen a man’s cock, and does not understand about how sex really works; she must use the submissive instincts bred into her.”

On the screen, Heidi took off her halter and briefs and climbed onto the bed, crouching atop the little saddle, which seemed to be a very firm cushion with a plush surface except where it touched Heidi’s pussy; there the saddle seemed to have a bumpy, shiny ridge, made perhaps of plastic, for a girl to rub her clit and pussy-lips on.

“One of the true requirements is that a girl be aroused when she imprints, and so this ride atop the pleasure saddle is an unchangeable feature of the ceremony,” the narrator went on as on the vid Heidi rode the masturbation saddle with her eyes closed, supporting herself on her elbows and biting her lips as she posted lewdly up and down. In close-up, the screen showed her slippery cunt rising and falling, rubbing back and forth over the lewd saddle. Hend wished he had seen the option in the menu; right now he desperately wanted to watch Leka doing exactly that. “We find that the first days of a girl’s service to her new master tend to go more smoothly if she associates his manhood with her own arousal from the very beginning.”

Heidi’s passion for the saddle grew and grew, and she began to cry out, “Oh, sir… oh, sir…”

The door opened again, and a man entered, wearing a red bathrobe. Heidi whirled atop the saddle, eyes and mouth wide in startlement, face blushing furiously.

“Heidi has never seen a man in the flesh before,” the narrator intoned. “But watch how she reacts, aroused as she is and knowing that he is her master.”

Heidi moved like a cat, getting off the bed in an instant and kneeling before her master, with her eyes downcast. Hend found that even watching the scene on video, his own pulse was pounding. Heidi’s owner, a tall, reasonably handsome man with ash blond hair, said nothing, but untied the belt of his robe and shrugged it from his shoulders, to reveal his erect cock, which pointed toward Heidi’s face as he grasped it arrogantly in his right hand.

“Here is what I have for you,” he said in a deep voice then, with a very strong Germanic accent. “Look at it, Heidi.”

Almost against her will, it seemed, because of the shame of being seen riding the masturbation saddle so passionately, Heidi looked up. She gasped at the sight of the erect cock of her new owner.

He said something that was either in a different language, or consisted of nonsense syllables. Hend had no idea what it was, but it sounded like “Yerquo yertin mawet pezben.”

A radiant smile spread across Heidi’s face. “Oh, sir,” she whispered, without taking her eyes off her master’s cock. “Oh, it feels… it feels so wonderful. May I… touch it?”

“Not yet,” Heidi’s owner said. “Get on the spanking bench now. I’m going to punish you for the first time.”

“Yes, sir,” Heidi said. “Thank you, sir.”

As Heidi moved to rise and obey, the narrator said, “Heidi’s master learned the four-word phrase from his girl’s trainer, just before he entered the room. As you just saw, as soon as Heidi heard that phrase, which had been designed into her very DNA to make her imprint, her master’s cock became the most important thing in the universe to her.”

Heidi’s master began by spanking her with his hand. “You belong to me, now,” he said, and gave her five spanks on the milk-white ovals of her shapely bottom-cheeks, alternating sides as he went. “And your little pussy belongs to me.” He gave her five more spanks, and she yelped at each one.

“Again,” said the narrator, “a punishment at this point is not absolutely necessary, but we have found it to be very beneficial for the girl, and pleasurable for the master. As you’ll see, Heidi’s master chooses to awaken her right there on the spanking bench, a course that many men enjoy.”

“Do you know what your pussy is?”

“No, sir!”

“It’s this part,” said Heidi’s master, putting his hand there, where Heidi was easily accessible because of the way her knees were spread to either side of the spanking bench.

“Oh, sir… I’m sorry…” Heidi gasped, as her master fondled her. “But they told me…”

“I know,” he said softly. “It’s alright. It’s alright.”

Heidi moaned now, and tried desperately to ride her master’s hand the way she had ridden the saddle on the bed. But her master took his hand away, and went around to Heidi’s face, brandishing his cock. “This is my cock,” he said. “How do you feel about my cock, Heidi?”

“I love your cock, sir,” Heidi said without hesitation.

“I’m going to put it in your little pussy now, Heidi.”

“Oh, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“It’s going to hurt, at first.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But after that, it will feel good.”

“I know it will, sir. Somehow I just know that.”

Heidi’s master went around to her bottom again. With a little grunt of satisfaction, he found the place where Heidi’s cunt opened to the sheath he clearly could not wait to have around his cock. Heidi cried out as he pushed, and he put his hands around her hips and drove in forcefully.

Heidi screamed, and her face became a mask of woe for a moment, but then she whispered, “Sir… I love you,” Heidi said. “Thank you for putting your cock in me… I love it so much.”


As Heidi’s master began to fuck his new girl vigorously, the scene dissolved back to the older woman in the chair. “As you can see,” she said, “the imprinting process makes for remarkable results. When you purchase your girl’s contract, we will take great pleasure, ourselves, in helping you plan your own special version of what you just saw. All you need do is call the concierge when you are ready. As soon as your funds clear, we’ll schedule your imprinting ceremony.”

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Corner time for two #SatSpanks

What makes it even better is that they're on a spaceship. Think Millennium Falcon if you need a specific reference.

“You may rub, girls,” Hend said. Gratefully, Leka, put her hands down to her bottom and rubbed, soothing away a little of the agony. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Alder do the same. “I’m going to put things to rights here in the cockpit, and then we’ll go inside and talk.” 

“I’m sorry, Alder,” Leka said softly. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” 

Alder said nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, Leka saw a pensive expression on the other girl’s face, as if she couldn’t figure out what to make of this strange creature Hend had brought to her planet.

Buy the book on Amazon by clicking here! Read all the Saturday Spankings! 

A BDSM couple, hors de combat: EXPLORATIONS files

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

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So, as I intimate in Emily's First Caning, we had a very frustrating period for several weeks after that. Even when our respective apartment-mates were out (the things we wanted to do to one another were loud enough that shutting the door just wasn't sufficient), the moment Charles got hard he opened up the sore on his cock, and while for the first few days, before we started worrying about infection, he didn't object to me going down on him, the pleasure being so much greater than the pain, which I did more than once a day over the course of three or four days, sometimes in very questionable locations (the library twice, I think), which was gratifying for both of us in its way (I was in a constant state of frustration because of my own bladder infection), we finally decided that we had to refrain from anything that would even arouse us.

So we were like an old married couple through, I think, all of March and most of April. I nearly managed to get caught up on my reading, at least. And Charles had time to buy me an engagement ring.

Our parents were astonished. The match had been a joke among them when we were eight, but they certainly hadn't noticed us having the Pisistratus butt-fucking conversation at the club, and Charles hadn't told his parents that he had chosen to head to New Haven in part because he knew I would be there. We took the short drive to Greenwich in early April, and told them, and there was much rejoicing. Words can't describe how much I wanted Charles to fuck me in my childhood bed, but we were still in medical crisis mode, and he slept at his own house, and I in that bed, un-chastely--I had at least recovered from my bladder infection, so self-abuse was available, and I availed myself of it, extensively.

The best part was telling them that Charles had proposed at Mass at St. Thomas. I actually caught my Dad rolling his eyes at my Mom, as if to say "I told you she was going to turn out to be a holier-than-thou religious nut." Charles' parents, ancestral Methodists, also had a stricken look on their faces. If they had only known that we had gone to Mass that morning almost entirely because their son's cock was too sore from fucking my ass, and my ass was too sore from having it fucked therewith, to engage in the activity we had gone to New York to engage in, their look. . . well, it might have been stricken, but for a different reason.

We set the wedding for more than a year away--April, 2002, right before I would graduate from law school. Both sets of parents were enlightened, more or less, so the question of how long we could wait before we had sex (or even before we lived together) didn't enter the picture, though I did have the feeling that all four (Charles' still married parents, my steadfastly single Mom and my currently single Dad) were taken aback by how little we were displaying our affection in front of them. My Mom actually sat me down at the kitchen table for the "Do you really love him?" talk (my family is significantly less wealthy than Charles'). If only they'd known. 

It was only a few days after that that Charles announced, over pizza (It's New Haven, for God's sake; I promise you, we had more pizza than I'm letting on, but pizza just doesn't set the right tone. This memory, though, is so vivid and sacred that it feels wrong to transfer it to our sushi place.) that he was pretty sure he'd healed. By that time I was so desperate to have him inside me, hard, over and over, for days on end, that I, paradoxically, wasn't ready to take it at face value, and I said something like, "Should we wait a few more days just to be sure?" 

He said, quietly, but insistently, urgently, dominantly, "Emily Tilton, bride of my heart, you are going to get up, and go back to your apartment, and go to your room, and remove all your clothing. You are going to get your lube, and get into bed, and prepare your asshole for fucking, and wait for me." 

I said "Yes, Sir," my panties already flooding, and put down my pizza crust, and did as my master had ordered. 


He was careful, in the end (heh), not to over-do it that night, and thus we, white-hot BDSM couple of the century, returned to action. He opened the door, stepped through it, and closed it discreetly so that I was sure my roommate couldn't see my ass presented high and open for my betrothed bridegroom upon my bed and thus perilously close to the door of my small room. Then he took my ass like Sir Stephen, with authority. (I'm pretty sure that's the first time he gagged me with my panties, too, which probably deserves mention, since it became a staple of our scenes and, as I mention in EXPLORATIONS, it was one of the few things I hadn't really thought about, and Charles' making me do it therefore really felt degrading in a special way that's pretty rare when you're as highly BDSM-literate as I am. In my apartment it was a necessity [or, I suppose, some kind of a gag was, and my lingerie was the most convenient thing], my roommate being decidedly present just outside the door.)

Visually inspired: exhibition

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

The placard on the post by the entryway that led into the gallery said "Please take one." It referred, as far as Natalie could tell, to a basket of beautifully-crafted, long-handled wooden paddles that sat next to the post.

Natalie looked at the placard and the basket in confusion for a long moment before she noticed that the gallery beyond was not entirely empty, as it had appeared at first. She felt herself growing faint before she even realized that she had gasped so deeply that she had forgotten to breathe again. There was a girl in there, and she was. . . she didn't. . .

"Do you like my piece?" asked a warm, feminine voice, in a French accent, from just above and behind her. Natalie felt the woman's hand on her shoulder, and she shuddered, suddenly wanting so much that she simply had never let herself imagine before.

"Um," said Natalie, blushing to the roots of her brown hair.

"Aren't you going to take a paddle?" the woman asked, in Natalie's ear. Natalie smelled lovely perfume, and her faintness seemed to increase. "The piece is meant to be a sort of simple drama: you are the heroine."

Natalie reached down, and grasped the smooth maple handle of a slender one, almost as small as a wooden spoon, wishing. . .

"Of course," said the artist, "if you would rather not take a paddle, but would instead like to go join Jacqueline, there, you may also do that, and become part of the piece yourself."

Natalie let go the wooden handle and, telling herself not to think, but simply to act--no, rather, to submit--she walked into the gallery.

The mastering chambers: what Emily is up to

Well, I always have fun, whatever my readers make of it. This scene bears a distinct debt to a book of which I can't seem to rid my fantasies, Birch in the Boudoir, and to the many spin-offs of it I've read, one-handed, over the years.

"M-mistress," Jas said, "I do not understand."

"Nor will you,entirely," Qual replied brusquely, "until Senday. And even then some of the truth of the mystery will be hidden from you. But I have just shown you the beginning: the fire-table resonates with your wicked pleasures and your lustful thoughts, when I touch you. On Senday, it will be a knight with you upon the fire-table in the mastering chamber, as it is called, where I leave you to await your plucking."

"A knight?" Hala whispered.

"Will the knight…" Jas asked in alarm. "Will he… touch me? The way… the way that Sir Wake did?"

Qual decided to play, a little bit, at her own show of innocence. "What way was that, sweetling?" she asked.

"Oh… well, he… I mean, I would shame myself! And… tarnish m-my rose." Jas looked up at her with wide blue eyes. Thank the spirits for the modesty of such girls as these, Qual thought.

"When your knight comes to master you, as I just said, he will certainly make you shame yourself." Jas eyes went even wider, and she bit her lower lip. "Indeed, the pleasure of a knight comes from shaming you, and when he masters you it is truly your shame that he masters."

Qual looked at Hala. The dark-haired girl's mouth hung open with many questions, and Qual had the sudden urge to try to answer them. She had never felt the fire-table vibrate like that when spilling fire and without a knight present, and now she wondered whether it might be the safer course to try to explain things to Hala, in hope of tempering her wanton fire so that Lord Jetal did not feel so challenged by the poor girl when he went in to her.

But to invent a new way of preparing girls on the spot was beyond Qual's capabilities--which, she thought with pride, meant that it was beyond anyone in the realm's capabilities. And there was Jas to think about--the red-haired girl must be prepared in the traditional way: explanations would only confuse her, even if Hala might benefit from them.

So Qual went on, according to her well-worn plan, "Get up, now, girls. Help each other fasten your castle-belts, and then put your cloaks back on. We are going to go to watch a mastering."

* * *

Every one of the ten mastering chambers had slits cut in the door, so that the discipline and fucking inside could be observed, whether for training purposes or for supervision. They had all been occupied that morning, and there had been mastering going on in the girls' hall itself, over the divans, such as usually only occurred on high festivals.


Now, only one chamber was occupied, from the sound of it. Qual checked the chambering register that sat on its pedestal by the entry to the little corridor off which the mastering chambers opened. Sir Loke had borrowed Altin from Sir Gentan, it appeared. The noises coming from the third chamber seemed to indicate that he was punishing her severely for some reason, and indeed the register said, in Sir Loke's cramped handwriting, "Altin, fifty lashes for gossiping."

Lori-Anne's need for big panties #Taboo2sday

The whole story so far can be found here.

Then came the embarrassing part, of course. Kay believed very strongly in the need to humiliate Lori-Anne, because she knew that her brother Big Joe liked to see his bride blush as much as Kay did. When the saleslady peeked in, Kay put her arm around Lori-Anne's shoulders, and turned her to face the woman.

Lori-Anne covered her bosom with her right arm and her privates, where she had squeezed out of sight the ungainly, useless parts that belonged to the self Big Joe would soon take her away from, with her left hand. She hoped desperately that despite the awkward bent-kneed posture she must hold in order to make herself look feminine the saleslady, an elegant dark-haired girl in her late 20s, wouldn't think anything might be amiss.


But Kay--as Lori-Anne should have anticipated--had other plans. "Can you go get us some white lace lingerie, sweetie?" she said to the saleslady. "As you can see--" (here she gestured at the lower half of poor, blushing Lori-Anne's body) "--the panties should be pretty big."

Keep the taboo going!

The tawse he left behind—did she get rid of it, or not?

In the course of writing Stolen by Her Master I met a character named Alder Johansson. I hope you like her as much as I do—and my two main characters do!

The comm panel blinked green to show that he was being contacted on a trusted frequency. He punched the button to dial the link in.

“Royal Serpent, why the fuck are you waking me up? It’s 0200 here. I thought I told you that visiting hours are 1100 to 1105 on alternate Tuesdays.”

Hend smiled. “Sorry, Alder,” he said. “Remember when you said you owe me a favor?”

“Never said that, Hend.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I believe I said, ‘Look me up some time.’”

Hend laughed. “Same thing.”

“Well, I won’t ask if you’re in trouble, because there’s no way you’d be here otherwise, and… holy shit, Hend, what did you do? My panel’s lit up with alerts like the galactic center. Oh, my… Yeg? That’s a mistake, right? You didn’t rob YSS, because only an idiot with his head up his ass would rob YSS.”

Hend felt his smile changed to a grimace. “I can explain?”

“I can’t wait. Permission to land. Lighting the beacon now.” Alder’s voice had been jocular, even welcoming. Now it was somewhere between furious and murderous.

“Leka, we’re going to land now,” he called back to her, after punching the channel closed.

“Okay,” she called back. “Um, should I call you ‘sir’?”

Hend shook his head incredulously at the emotions the words raised. The last woman to call him ‘sir’ was the one down there on the surface of this planet, which he had named Alder in her honor. “No, that’s alright. Just call me Hend.” Why was he reluctant to say that? Alright, yes, he wanted Leka to call him ‘sir’—really, ‘my lord’ would have been his true preference. That didn’t mean anything, though, he told himself; just that Hend was a dominant and would be happy if every pretty girl in the galaxy called him ‘sir.’

Alder’s beacon led him to a nondescript outcropping of rock on the northern of the two landmasses of the uninhabited—except for Alder and any guest she might allow to land—planet. Hend hovered the Royal Serpent and the rock slid back, revealing Alder’s tiny spaceport, where two nearly identical ships—to one another and to the Serpent—were parked. Seeing the Rat Bastard (named after Hend) and the Pirate Queen (named after Alder) made him a little wistful, but the wistfulness vanished when Alder stormed aboard the instant the hatch opened and the gangway descended.

“You’re working for him?” she demanded as soon as he had his chair turned around. Alder’s thick brown hair was gathered into an unkempt, working ponytail. Her piercing blue eyes were full of disbelieving fury, and her cheeks were pink. The imposing impression was marred a bit by the pink pajamas, covered in the Earth-leather bomber jacket in which she had arrived from the Bridge Cluster, and which she had worn—when Hend allowed her to wear it, rather than lace, or nothing, back in the days when Alder belonged to him—ever since he had known her. The style might, on balance, be the most classic thing in the galaxy, Hend found himself thinking.

Thinking about Alder’s jacket, though, just represented an attempt not to think about her question.

“Alder Johansson, meet Leka,” he said, mustering as much calm as he could.

Alder turned and saw Leka in the berth. Then she whirled to face Hend again. “You’re kidding. She’s, like, a hologram, right? This is just the most elaborate practical joke you’ve ever played, right? Just please tell me you didn’t steal a Yeg girl.”

Hend felt his dominant anger rising. “Alder, do you remember the last time I spanked you?”

Alder’s face went even redder. “Of course I do, jackass.”

Hend turned to Leka, who was looking from one to the other of them with wide eyes.

“Do you really want another one like that?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hend. We broke up five years ago, and if you think you’re going to spank me now, when you’re the one who should be getting the spanking…”

Hend unbuckled his seat harness. “Come here, Alder,” he said calmly, but letting a little of his anger show through.

“Fuck you,” Alder replied. But she still stood there, looking at him.

“Alder Johansson, whether you’re my girl or not, right now, you’re going to get your disrespectful backside over my knee this instant, or I’m going to take you inside and go through your closet until I find the tawse I left here and use that on you.”

“I got rid of it.”

“No, you didn’t,” Hend said. “Never forget how well we know each other, young lady.”

“Dammit.” There were tears in Alder’s eyes now. “Dammit, Hend. How can you do this to me? Put me in so much danger, this way, and then tell me I have to be respectful?”

“You’re not in any danger, Alder. You know that.”

“Alright, then, massive fucking inconvenience.”


“Alder,” Hend said warningly, “keep a civil tongue in your head, please. And get over here for your spanking right now.”

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A demo at Yeg Submissive Services, in the far future #SatSpanks

My new book features a corporation called YSS--Yeg Submissive Services. There, they breed submissive girls for the wealthiest men in the galaxy. The book opens with a YSS demo: a submissive girl named Grace is put through her paces by her master and a tour-guide named Rena. Here, the pleasure of spanking Grace for illicit self-pleasure has just been awarded to some of the men on the tour.

The body-stocking, as the view-screen now showed, was made so as so make chastising--and, Hend, thought, shifting in his leather-covered seat to try to make his erection a little less uncomfortable--enjoying the girl who wore it very convenient: a cut-out outlined the perfect little apples of Grace's bottom delightfully. When she went over the lap of the first man in line, a handsome but rather prissy looking fellow with a purple skin mod that was much less tasteful than Rena's candy-stripe, he had no impediment at all to his enjoyment of giving her sharp smacks upon her bare backside. The viewscreen showed the naughty bottom in close-up, its sweet little cheeks squirming most deliciously under their punishment. Grace squealed as she felt justice delivered for her disobedience.


"Thank you, sir," she said when the purple man told her, with clear reluctance, to go get her next spanking. After the spanking, of course, it was time for what was clearly the most important part of the demonstration: Grace's master placed her on all fours on the low display-table at the front of the room and demonstrated just how convenient the cut-out at the back of the body-stocking was, and how much Grace adored his cock. When he entered her, she cried out as if thunderstruck, and Hend watched in amazement as the man, without seeming to expend much effort, still less to comport himself like some sort of sex god, fucked Grace to at least five screaming and (Hend thought, at least--from some experience) unquestionably authentic orgasms.

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Betrothal coda: EXPLORATIONS files

I'm re-running the stories that serve as deep background for EXPLORATIONS. The story continues from this post, last week.
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It was about then (it couldn't have been later than 10pm, I think, since our "night of nights" had started around 5, before the sun had even gone down if I recall correctly) that we fell asleep. Before I drifted off, I enjoined on Charles something that I haven't yet found a way to get into EXPLORATIONS--that he fuck me awake, if he woke up first. Even if I woke up first myself, my plan was to lie there pretending to be asleep until he did wake up and ravish me out of sleep. That probably would have been much better, but Charles has always been an early riser.

I wanted, you see, to feel that magical, pure constellation of desire behind so many ravishment fantasies: "He loves me, wants me, so much that he doesn't care whether I'm awake or not, ready or not, aroused or not." It was my birthday, too, so it felt like it would be just the right way to wake up with my new master.

It turned out to be the only time in our entire relationship thus far that I've used our safeword, because it was just too confusing and painful, in real life, to come out of sleep into what amounted to a sharp pain in the vagina, despite Charles having used something like half a tube of lube, both on himself and on me, in a vain effort to wake me up a little before he did the thing I'd told him he must do and that he was, truth to tell, pretty turned on by. The analogue to "He wants me so much he refuses to wait" is "She's asking for it, and I'm going to give it to her" as far as I can tell, and I'd almost literally told Charles "I'm asking for it, and you're going to give it to me."

Wow, was that a complicated conversation, afterward--one that I had brought entirely on myself, and that I was at first much too sleepy to engage in properly. It ended happily, though, because I finally woke up sufficiently to show him what my promiscuity, and research, had taught me, with respect at least to fellatio, and by the time he exploded helplessly down my throat, seated in the most throne-like chair in our little room at the Waldorf, we had managed to spin it into a lovely little D/s scene in which I was the naughty bride who had refused to be fucked awake and needed to make amends with her mouth. That's what I mean about the improvisatory negotiation, by the way.

(Also, in the years since then we've developed a protocol for sex-waking, as we call it. The trick is really just taking it very slowly.)

After that was breakfast in bed, feeling like one of those Georgian/Victorian/Edwardian brides who's presumed not to be able to get out of bed because her repressed husband has taken out 25 years or so of sexual frustration on her virgin quim in the course of a night. The real situation was not entirely different, though the soreness was compounded by the bride and groom having taken those years out on each other, and the region affected including a hitherto mostly virginal bottom (I guess I lost my chance really to feel anal ravishment by using my butt-plug so extensively on my own in my early 20's; probably a good thing). 

We had talked about the Metropolitan, or the Cloisters, but we spent the entirety of my 25th birthday in bed. By the afternoon, it had become completely cliché in the "Your body is a wonderland" style, but we were the last people to care, and I had brought a lot of lingerie. The final sexual acts of those amazing 36 hours from the moment I put his hand in my panties on the train to the moment he came in my ass at about midnight the second night in the Waldorf, were pure, animal stuff; at some point it went from finely wrought BDSM to sheer libertine-inflected debauchery ("Oh, Sir Charles, you make me feel so strange in my tender little private part; no, please don't raise my nightdress; oh, I am lost") à la Les Liaisons Dangereuses or even Justine, I suppose. 

Charles' surprise for me was the leather paddle he pulled out of his suitcase in the early evening of Saturday, which provided the beginning of the events transformed in Emily's First Caning and Emily's Little Trainer--it was my first really explicit punishment for masturbation, and as such it felt like long-delayed justice. (And it was a birthday spanking, too!) Charles did find it so arousing that he couldn't hold himself back, and I did ask him to get my butt-plug; although he had had my ass with his cock the evening before there was something about him putting in the butt-plug that felt even more intimate, and led to the reflections I try to outline in Emily's Little Trainer on what D/s might really all be about. In case I forget to mention it elsewhere, that paddle became our stand-in for the sacred schoolhouse implement--the cane--, since, as I discuss in EXPLORATIONS, the real cane just never worked for us, though we experimented with it a few times. 

When we awoke, we wanted to do it again, but the consequences had begun, and we could literally not touch each other erotically without the touched person wincing. 

We went to Mass at St. Thomas Fifth Avenue. We held hands. The choir sang the Byrd Mass for Five Voices. We both wept at that moment in the Credo. Either you know the moment or you don't; there's no use me trying to tell you about it. We each held the other's hand very tightly. Charles turned to me when they started to sing "Et resurrexit," and I turned to meet his eyes, felt them searching me out, appraising me--now, at last appropriating me as his own. 

"Emily Tilton, will you marry me?" he whispered. 

"Yes," I whispered back. 

Good boy-choirs. Is there anything they can't do?

Space opera BDSM! Stolen by Her Master

My first release of the new year!

Leka is the perfect result of her planet’s gene manipulation program: the beautiful young woman’s only desire is to be bought by the man who will become her master and to serve his pleasure. But Leka’s dreams for her future are shattered when Hend, a mysterious space-captain, steals her and brings her to another world in the hope that studying her will aid his cause. Certain that he is not her true master, she defies him, but when she ends up over his knee for a bare-bottom spanking Leka finds to her distress that her body responds to his chastisement. 

Ashamed at her lack of control, she resolves to resist him all the more stubbornly, but Hend is not a man to be tested and he quickly proves more than ready to make her yield. Despite her best efforts, Leka soon finds herself not only submitting to Hend’s will but even craving his dominance. But when she discovers the true reason her new master claimed her, will she stay willingly by his side? 


Publisher’s Note: Stolen by Her Master is an erotic romance novel that includes spankings, sexual scenes, anal play, elements of BDSM, exhibitionism, and more. If such material offends you, please don’t buy this book.

Visually inspired: a rope around the ankles

(See here for an index to this series.)

Robert met Maggie at the door with the rope in his hand. "You're late," he said, without anger.

"Only five minutes!" Maggie protested.

Robert looked at his watch. "Seven, to be precise, but if I'm not mistaken we agreed that you would suffer the consequences if you were home even a second after eight. Am I wrong?"

"No, Sir." Maggie hung her head. "There was traffic." Her voice was sullen, but it concealed a thrill of fear, and another of arousal, that went through her at the thought of the consequences they had agreed to.

"You should have anticipated the traffic, shouldn't you?" She looked down at his burgundy loafers. "Answer me." Casually, he reached his hand out and slapped her cheek.

Oh, no. Her hand flew to her face, and tears formed in her eyes--but, of course, other moisture began to seep in other places.

"Yes, Sir."

He slapped her again, on the other cheek. "You are mine, now, until dawn, as we agreed." Another slap.

Her mind began to spin out of control. Why had she agreed? Why hadn't she anticipated the traffic? Why, of all things, had she, able to get home on time, stopped to buy a magazine?

She turned to flee down the stairs, but Robert grabbed her easily around the waist, and hauled her inside, and slammed the door behind her. He threw her over a big chair in his living-room, and went to work with his rope.

What had he said he was going to do, if she were late and had to suffer the consequences? What did being his for the night mean, again? Her thoughts raced to remember the list of things that had horrified her even as they had fascinated her.

He was going to spank her, first. That's what he had said. With the big leather paddle he had shown her. He would not harm her clothing as he was removing it, he had said, except that he had promised that he was going to cut her panties off her with his penknife. . . but he wouldn't really, would he?. . . cut them off so that he could gag her with them, and then spank her bare bottom the way she deserved. Then he was going to teach her about his pleasures, and, he had said, she should make no mistake: those pleasures would involve possessing her everywhere her body could afford him an avenue of enjoyment. If she were late, she should give up any idea of having her modesty respected, for to be his meant that he would use her every way a man can use a woman.

But first he was going to tie her up, so that she couldn't get any silly notions about escaping.

She felt the rope winding round and round her ankles, and she realized that all the consequences were going to take place: Robert was going to give her exactly what she had asked for.

Submissive sorcery: what Emily is up to

My new project, tentatively entitled Dominion's Enchantment, envisions a fantasy-world where submission unleashes elemental powers of magic.

Qual picked up the skirts of her blue silk gown, and walked quickly toward the wagon, and then around it, until she could step on the running board, and pull back the flap.

Inside she saw two naked girls, bound side by side to the bench on the right side of the wagon. They wore identical expressions of surprise and alarm, but it was instantly clear to Qual which one had the capacity that presented such a challenge even as it promised greatness for Castle Jey and for Lord Jetal in the future.

Qual wished she could risk taking back her imagination's cock, just so she could confirm what her eyes told her so strongly, but without the texture she could not help craving even as she saw its danger: this girl's submission--the blush that came to her pale cheeks beneath her startled green eyes--had an enchantment Qual had never seen before.

The other girl seemed pretty enough, and submissive enough: her sizable breasts heaved nicely, but Qual's eyes, even in the first few seconds she had ever seen these two, could not keep themselves anywhere but upon the body of the smaller, black-haired girl, who moved her hands now to her breasts, in a modesty that Qual thought must be driving the knights in the tower wild.

"Aler," she called, behind her. "Are you there?"

"Yes, mistress," she heard, from the other side of the wagon.

"Go tell Lord Kesin that the knights are all to go in to girls, right away."

"But mistress…"

"Yes, Aler, I know how much power it will spill. But I don't think even the bar on that door could keep this girl from being ravished before I prepare her. I imagine Kesin already knows this, but tell him that I promise to repay that spilled power fivefold at the new girls' first mastering."

"Yes, mistress," Aler said dutifully. Qual heard her footsteps receding. Then she heard the servers outside raise the bar and open the door to the little handmaid.

Qual waited until the heavy door had been closed again, and the bar replaced, before she turned back to the girls in the wagon, whose expressions of fear had begun to recede a little as they became familiar with this new stage of their journey.


"What are your names, girls?" Qual asked gently.

Lori-Anne in the dressing-room #Taboo2sday

The whole story so far can be found here.

Once Kay had Lori-Anne in the dressing-room--which was absolutely sumptuous, with champagne for the bride-to-be, and canapés, and catalogue after catalogue full of the most beautiful and elegant gowns imaginable--she closed the door against the salesladies and said, "Everything off, now, Lori-Anne, and don't make a fuss."

Lori-Anne's courage failed her. She whispered, "But, Kay, they'll see my… my things."

"Not after we get you into your bridal lingerie, sweetie," said Kay. "Take off all your clothes, and make sure you keep that big clit of yours hidden between your legs. Once we have some nice lacy panties on you, it will get easier."

So, trembling, Lori-Anne took off her top, and her padded bra, and her skirt, and the everyday panties Joe liked her to wear. She didn't like to look in the mirror, but Kay came and put her arm around Lori-Anne's shoulders, and turned her firmly so that she had to look at herself. There stood Lori-Anne in her beautiful make-up, with her beautiful hair. Really, when she arranged herself properly, and hid her things down between her legs, she felt like the bride she had always wanted to be.

Keep the taboo going!

Loving discipline: the heart of the matter

This will probably be my last excerpt from Old-Fashioned Values for the foreseeable future, since with any luck Stolen by Her Master, a very different sort of book (space opera BDSM) will be out in a few days. To mark the occasion, I've chosen a rather talky bit that nevertheless seems to me the closest I came in the book to stating flat-out what I was trying to get at in telling this story.

“Well, I suppose technically,” Mark said calmly. “I should call your dad and have him come spank you.”

“What?” Sally felt her face turn crimson.

“But I can tell, if you have a mouth like that, that you haven’t been spanked before. So even though I agree that it’s irregular, and a sort of modern adaptation of the traditional way of doing things, I’m going to accept the responsibility, and if we do go on with our courtship I’ll be the one to keep you in line.”

“In line?” Something about those words, or maybe about them coming out casually at this late point in the strangest conversation ever, struck Sally as the most extreme thing Mark had said yet.

“I think that’s a fair way to put it.”

“Fair?” Why wouldn’t her brain work? Sally knew herself to be a very intelligent woman, but Mark Weaver’s determined expression of this antique doctrine of loving discipline, as adapted by him to the necessities of his modern life, left her feeling completely bewildered. Not that it didn’t make sense. It just made too much sense for her to comprehend it, since it seemed so distant from anything she had ever known.

He wasn’t saying that he thought he had the right to spank any woman, just because women need spanking. He was saying that the woman with whom he chose to spend his life, whom he asked, in turn, to choose him to spend her life with, needed to understand that bare-bottom spankings would be part of that life henceforth, at her boyfriend’s discretion.

Sally definitely didn’t want a bare-bottom spanking, or any kind of spanking—with Mark’s hand, with Mark’s belt, or with anything else. So why did the thought that this guy who had expressed an interest in being her boyfriend planned to spank her regularly make that guy seem so attractive? Was she the crazy one here? Were they both crazy?

“Yes. Fair. To keep you in line with the way I want our lives to go.”

“Because you’re a guy and I’m a girl?”

“No—because I’m the guy I am, and, if you accept this spanking like a good girl, you’ll be my good girl.”

Good girl. When he said that, Sally knew that she would go back to his room and have a spanking.

Silently, he paid the check in cash, fixing Sally with his eyes through the whole process. Sally looked back as steadily as she could, her lips compressed into a tight line. Mark didn’t ask if she was coming, and she didn’t say she would, but when he put his arm around her waist as they left the burger joint, she snuggled into his chest and said softly, “Will it hurt a lot?”

Mark stopped walking, on a sidewalk slick from a chilly autumn fog, and turned Sally to face him. “When I punish you, Sally, it will hurt. Sometimes it will hurt a lot. But I promise that I will never harm you, or let anyone else harm you. Your bottom’s going to be sore tonight, but you’ll think twice before you use foul language again, won’t you?”

Sally felt her eyes grow wide. “Yes,” she whispered. Then a thought she couldn’t stop came to her, and she blurted out, “How many girls have you spanked before?”

“Well,” he replied, putting his arms around her waist. “That’s rather a long story.”

“Really?” Sally said in amazement. “Like, more than two?”

Mark laughed, hugged her for a moment, and then turned her around and began their progress toward his dorm again.

“No, you’re the first.”

“Oh. Then… um, how is it a long story?”

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