I'm re-running the stories that serve as deep background for EXPLORATIONS. The story continues from this post, last week.
If the spanking and doggy-style sex were intense, the suite of oral-anal-A2M was shattering; I really felt like I was left in pieces, lying there in my first real bondage (of course I'd played around by myself with towels and things, but it's not, obviously, a solo activity) with Charles' come all over my face, and this look in his eyes begging for forgiveness for having wanted to do to me what I'd demanded he do to me. He released my hands, and wiped my face.
I, for my part, was laughing, nearly hysterically. My laughter eventually infected Charles, and we were both helpless with it for a while.
"I. . . kind of know," he choked out, "why we're laughing" (gasp) "but I'm not sure?"
The laughter finally subsided. He lay down next to me on the bed, and I, as I always have and I hope always will, clung to him, and buried my face in his tastefully-hirsute chest (not too much, not too little). (He does have back-hair, unfortunately, but a girl can't have everything.) I kissed it (his chest, that is), for a while, just because I loved him, and I knew it. He waited patiently for an answer.
"We fucking did it," I said, simply, turning my now de-spermed face up to his.
He looked at me suspiciously. "Am I supposed to wash your mouth out with soap, now?" he asked.
I giggled. "Yuck. You can count on me never, ever to put that in a scene. Is it a turn-on for you, though?"
It was his turn to laugh. "No. I can safely say we don't ever have to research the hygienic consequences of ingesting soap."
"You mean the way I investigated A2M, I suppose?"
Charles nodded. This had been a key feature in the negotiation that preceded the coda. I chose not to elaborate that bit in Emily's Dark Gift. The technical aspects of ingesting one's own intestinal flora aren't arousing even for me.
"You don't know how much research I've done, Sir." I giggled again. I seriously can't think of another time in my life when I was happier than I was right then. When you have kids, your happiness scales to that point go out the window, of course, but that moment, in bed with Charles at the Waldorf, knowing that he knew about me, and that he loved me anyway, and wanted me anyway, and wanted to try to make me happy anyway. . . pure, simple, kinky joy. Your real wedding-night isn't like that, because real weddings are just fucking stressful.
Everyone should have a fake wedding-night, I think, in whatever style they want--or, several, if they like white lace thongs. But maybe that's just me, and there aren't really that many people out there who get wet or hard thinking about tens of thousands of years of institutionally-sanctioned D/s focused on ripping a girl's innocence away and making sure she takes cock the way she should.
Think about all those wonderful 18th and 19th Century novels in which marriage is the ultimate, well, consummation of societal good! Don't tell me that Samuel Richardson didn't jerk off thinking about Pamela finally getting deflowered by Mr. B, and all the shameful things that libertine must have made her do, now that society said she had to obey him! (OK, so maybe I'm just admitting that I've come many a time thinking about Pamela's reaction when Mr. B tells her to get over the bolster and spread her bottom-cheeks for him.)
From an ethical point of view, the traditional wedding-night is something we should be very glad most of Western Culture has done away with. Yes. But from a BDSM fantasy standpoint, it's a desert-island thing for me--maybe the desert-island fantasy, if the groom brings lube and a cane.