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