Visually inspired: leash

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

On her 18th birthday, Mariko's fiancé took her to dinner at a fancy hotel restaurant. As they were finishing dessert, he took out a box, and handed it to her, wordlessly. Inside the box were two cuffs, a collar, and a leash, along with a room key.

"Go upstairs," he said, "to that room, and take off your skirt and panties. Unbutton your shirt. Then put on your new things. I will be up to spank you in a few minutes."

Mariko's face grew hot with shame. "But. . . why?" she whispered, as her heart beat faster and faster.

"Because it is time for you to begin to learn about what pleases me. After you have spent the next two days serving me, wearing your new things, and I have trained you to obey me as you should, you may not get spanked quite as often, but tonight your bottom is going to pay for how long I've had to wait to enjoy you the way I'm going to enjoy you tonight."

Back to the BDSM future: what Emily is up to

I'm really excited to have started up a new sci-fi title. I think this one's got a lot of satiric potential, somewhat along the lines of Assigned a Guardian. The working title is The Girls of Athena.

Martin Lourcy didn't think he would buy Gretchen, but he certainly didn't mind buying the right to spank her. As he pulled up her sweet little green dress to expose the pert ovals of her bottom cheeks, though, he wondered—perhaps, he would admit, in part because of how very prim they looked, and yet how invitingly round—whether the rebellious streak she had just shown them, in trying to avoid the taking, might actually make her a better "wife" for him than some other, more docile relict girl. She wore no underwear, of course; nor would she, if he bought her, except perhaps on special occasions.

The most important thing now, though, whether or not he decided to bid on Gretchen in the auction, lay in keeping his intentions veiled—above all from Heather and Diana, who almost certainly already suspected that Martin had forbidden notions about family-structure. Even with the inviting prospect of Gretchen's little bottom over his knee, he gave an inward sigh at the sheer idiocy of the attitudes held by so many of his fellow elites and the vicious tenacity with which they held onto those attitudes, seeking to punish not just anyone who questioned them but also anyone who appeared not to hold them himself.

It wouldn't bother Martin if every other elite on Athena kept his or her relict girls like slaves, whether for procreation or for pleasure. And Martin couldn't deny, either, that he hoped to buy a relict girl who could provide to him both those things, as he saw fit. But to declare any attempt to establish an ongoing partnership with a girl to care, with her, for one's own children illegal seemed to Martin the same kind of fascism the Athena colonists had tried so hard to abolish, three hundred years before, when there had been five thousand of them on Athena and the basic law had prohibited cohabitation because of the dual need to inculcate the new Athenian culture in their children and to give women the freedom they needed to work as full citizens.

Now, with fewer than a thousand Athenians aboard the station and the birth-rate finally growing again thanks to the drastic step of establishing the taking, it seemed to Martin that the ideas of the men who had been prosecuted two years before—the so-called Cohabitant Three—made a great deal more sense than any of his fellow Athenians wanted to admit. At the very least, Martin wanted to try, despite the fate of the Cohabitant Three, expelled back to Earth with their wives and children remaining on Athena, the children in school and the wives auctioned to others.

Martin supported the taking, of course. He had just come of age in time to vote in the referendum and, like everyone he knew, he had voted Yes. What choice did the Athenians have? The only way to continue civilization and the human race itself remained locked within the bodies of young women. By the time of the referendum, Athena had doomed itself to genetic non-viability through the impossibility of forcing elite women to bear children. The population at that point had already fallen so low that the number of genetically allowable mates for each Athenian was sometimes zero. Martin himself had grown up knowing that there were only two women on Athena with whom he might reproduce. Without new DNA—without girls who could be made to bear children—the space station whose citizens justifiably, Martin thought, viewed themselves as the only hope of the human race, would soon become a dying orbital hulk.

I'm guessing at a release-date in June.

Lori-Anne meets the preacher #Taboo2sday

The whole story so far can be found here.

Reverend White rose from his walnut desk in the little study when Joe and Lori-Anne stepped through the door. The preacher had a big, toothy smile, but something about the way he looked at her made Lori-Anne think he might not be as nice a man as he first appeared.

"Well, Lori-Anne!" he said in his pleasant drawl. "It's such a pleasure. I've been waitin' so long to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you, reverend," Lori-Anne said tentatively.

Reverend White looked at Joe. "Isn't that sweet?" he said. "She talks just like a Christian girl."

"I told you you'd love her, reverend," Joe said, shaking the preacher's hand.

"Joe," said Reverend White, "why don't you just have a walk? I'll be a little while examining your pretty bride, if you know what I mean."

Read all the Taboo Tuesday posts! 

Bulfinch's mythology, as edited by the Duke of Panton

In The Duke's School for Young Ladies, I have a little more of my usual fun with Greek mythology.

“Please take out your edited Bulfinch, girls. Anne, you will find the book in your desk.” She watched the thirteen girls open the desks and take out the book, printed at the duke’s own expense for the use of his girls only the previous year. Until then Clarissa had had to teach the ‘ancients’ lesson, as she called it, using a translation of Ovid that the girls found very difficult to follow and even boring—an unpardonable sin, Clarissa thought, in view of the material.

But when a new compilation of mythological tales had appeared in America five years previous and the duke, an avid student of all things fabulous—if inclined to pursue the more voluptuous sort of tale to the exclusion of the more conventionally edifying sort—had given her a copy with the inscription, “To my dearest Clarissa, my prick’s schoolmistress,” Clarissa had seen an opportunity. She encouraged the duke himself to produce an edited version of Bulfinch’s The Age of Fable, to include elaborations of parts of stories that the duke himself would like to think of his girls reading.

Bulfinch’s own work, of course, was on its own even less suitable than Ovid’s, for the duke’s favorite stories—the ones he also hoped might become his girls’ favorites as well—received no mention at all. In The Age of Fable, one found for example not even a mild version of the story of Pasiphae and her beloved bull, the duke’s very favorite tale of Greek antiquity.

But the duke had taken instantly to the idea of producing an edition embellished by means of his own fertile imagination, as Clarissa had expected he might. They had spent many a pleasant evening working on it together. Clarissa, who had done a great deal of editing in her life, had never edited under the constraint that she not wear a stitch of clothing as she wielded her pencil. Nor had she ever had to answer for any passages she had stricken from a manuscript with the strap applied to her bare bottom and the prick applied to her fundament: the whole process had been diverting in the extreme.

“Miss Solmes, as our newest girl,” Clarissa said, after she had sat at her desk and observed that every one of her pupils had her book before her, “you have the honor to read to us first. Please, girls, turn to page thirty-seven. Miss Solmes, you will stand and read out the story of Cassandra, if you please.”

Bulfinch’s version of the story of Cassandra read as follows, in its entirety:

Queen Hecuba and her daughter Cassandra were carried captives to Greece. Cassandra had been loved by Apollo, and he gave her the gift of prophecy; but afterwards offended with her, he rendered the gift unavailing by ordaining that her predictions should never be believed.

Anne Solmes, newest pupil of Miss Halton’s Preparatory Academy for Girls, read in a fine, clear voice, having stood up with only a moment’s hesitation from her desk, “Queen Hecuba and her daughter Cassandra were carried captives to Greece, after the Achaeans had sacked their city, Troy.” (One of the duke’s more pedestrian tasks had been to ensure that each of the stories into which he divided his version of The Age of Fable could stand on its own for a morning’s lesson.)

Anne looked up with a shy but eager expression, surely to see if Clarissa approved. Clarissa gave her a smile and a nod, and she continued, with an adorable little blush, “Cassandra had attracted the favorable attention of the god Apollo, when she had come of age. He would sit atop a mountain near Troy and watch her with his keen eye, and every time he saw her going about her maidenly business, whether carrying water or working at the loom, he would consider the many things he would like to do with her, could he only carry her away to a secluded spot among his craggy peaks.”

Anne’s voice faltered a little as she began to understand that her textbook, despite having the appearance of a very upright and moral sort of a tome, nevertheless contained immodesties much grosser than even the tawdriest of the latest novels. Clarissa thought she could see Anne’s awareness of how she looked in her lovely uniform—sheer drawers that showed the beauty of her thighs and sheer chemise that displayed her adorable nipples—creep across her face, then.

Clarissa remembered Mrs. Fayerweather’s reaction to the duke’s edition of Bulfinch. “You are a clever girl, aren’t you?” the older woman had hissed, holding the printed volume up before her. Then she threw the book down upon Clarissa’s desk so hard that the thump must have been audible to the girls who had just departed the schoolroom for luncheon. “I cannot even whip you for this, can I? For you have made the duke think the idea was his own. But I promise I shall find reason to punish you, you shameless hussy, before long, and I wish you to understand that when I do, I will truly be whipping you for this wicked book.”

Click here to buy it on Amazon! If you're interested in more of my naughty takes on Greek myth, check out Bred by the Spartans! 

Mrs. Fayerweather's justice #SatSpanks

Mrs. Fayerweather, from The Duke's School for Young Ladies, is one of my favorite villains ever. I'm a little worried about how much I enjoyed writing her.

“Miss Solmes,” Miss Halton said, “this is Mrs. Fayerweather, the academy’s housekeeper, and its doyenne.”

Automatically, taught from girlhood to treat servants with a certain disdain, Anne said, “I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Fayerweather,” but without a curtsey, and without extending her hand.

Mrs. Fayerweather’s hand flashed out and slapped Anne upon the left cheek. Anne instinctually raised her left hand from covering her private part to feel the fiery agony of her face, which felt very warm to the touch, so hard had the woman slapped her there. Her mouth and her eyes opened wide, and a sob rose in her throat as her tears began to flow.

For a moment she stood like that, looking at the servant who had slapped her, a proper young lady. Never in her life had anything like that happened. It seemed, in that instant, far, far worse than undressing for Miss Halton in the carriage.

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

My BDSM wedding: EXPLORATIONS files

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

_____

It was time, soon enough, for our "real" wedding.

As you may have noticed, Charles and I, individually and together, have made the decision that despite our erotic proclivities and the way such proclivities are usually regarded by the people most people associate with the word "Christian," our hereditary Christianity is important to us. Charles was more than happy to leave the Methodism of his childhood and adopt a (shall we say?) stricter regime--which is how we ended up at St. Thomas Fifth Avenue the Sunday he proposed to me.

If you've been reading this blog for a while, reader, you also know that I don't hesitate to mix the sacred with the profane (see for example my new one, The Duke's School for Young Ladies!); indeed, you have probably been able to discern that in fact I delight in that mixture almost above all things.

Our real wedding took place at the little episcopal church where I had sung in the choir as a girl. I brought my own Anglo-Catholic priest, a man I've always suspected of being a sub himself, whom I found in college.

This may be the right place to say that at the height of my religious struggle with my BDSM orientation, junior year in college, I tried to confess my erotic habits to this same Anglo-Catholic priest, but the language I used was so vague that I'm not sure he even understood what I was talking about. Certainly when he talked kindly to me about my confession, before giving me penance (a few rosaries) and pronouncing absolution, he didn't mention it.

Although confession is one of the hottest things imaginable in my book (a heartfelt thank you to Selena Kitt for exploring the theme so well in Under Mr. Nolan's Bed, as well as to the particular Anonymous who wrote The Autobiography of a Flea), the sacrament of penance and, reconciliation, as it evolved in the medieval church, doesn't work for me. That confession to the nice priest who eventually married us was my last formal confession, though I have had some wonderful relationships with spiritual directors over the years since.

The reason confession doesn't work for me is very relevant in the context of my wedding, as well, because it has everything to do with how I can continue to be a religious person despite shamelessly indulging the profane fantasies you find in my EXPLORATIONS, both by writing and by self-abuse, and also by countless acts that might make the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah blush.

My problem with sacramental confession is similar to the basic quarrel of protestantism with the sacramental priesthood, but more complex, and confined to confession: Father Tom, Dick, or Harry (or even, since I of course support gender equality in holy orders, Mother Tanya, Doris, or Harriet) doesn't share my understanding of what sin even is; the notion that he or she can magically absolve me from my sins makes for a veneer of falseness that vitiates what might otherwise be at least a beneficial ritual from an emotional standpoint--talking about the things that make us feel broken with a person who specializes in trying to help people deal with the brokenness of human existence. I don't have a problem with that same Father or Mother being the one who celebrates the Eucharist and marries me to my husband and baptizes my children, because I understand his or her consecration as a useful and moving symbol of professionalization. It's when the church's historical bureaucracy turns the idea of repentance, so dependent on our unknowable inner states, into something only a priest can help with, that things go South for me.

Anyway. In the Anglican Communion, there's a wonderful saying about confession: "All may, none must, some should." That means that since I no longer consider myself to be one of the some who should, having come (like a good, reasoning Anglican) to my own understanding of what sin is, I got to have the wedding I was looking for, with the incense and the elevation bells and the choir singing, of course, the Byrd Mass for Five Voices. My dress was simple except for the lace ornaments, which of course matched the white lace thong I at last wore more or less appropriately, at least according to my understanding of that most sacred of garments. I also insisted on a full veil, with a gorgeous lace border, which insistence made my mother, I thought, look at me like I was crazy (it turned out later that I had been misinterpreting these looks of hers for years, but that's another story).

Because this post is turning out to be the least hot post ever for this blog, let me add that during our wedding--specifically while the choir was singing the Sanctus--I imagined that instead of the Eucharist, my ass would be the sacrifice for that nuptial liturgy. Charles would lead me to the altar (which is really, in most churches, including that one, the perfect height, though late medieval and renaissance traditional altars set into a reredos would be too narrow to lay even the most petite bride over), and I would gracefully drape myself over it, stretching my arms out so that the priest could bind my wrists together and tie them to the ring set in the stone paving hundreds of years before for just this purpose. (Reader, I suppose you never spent long parts of Sunday mornings wondering what all the little fixtures in an old church are for. More's the pity, but I can assure you that a ring for putting brides in bondage wouldn't look out of place.)

(I thought idly about whether anyone had actually ever been fucked over the altar of that church, and about how many people must have been fucked over altars, Christian or otherwise, over the course of human history. Hundreds? Thousands? Surely the temptation of the sex/violence metaphor is too great for it to be fewer than a thousand, even if I knew no cult-practices that actually require it. . . [so few people understand that an altar is a place where you kill animals, though. It takes a classicist.])

(It's a very long Sanctus.)

Charles would lift my skirts, and the guests would gasp at the sight of my lace thong, worn over the suspenders of my garter-belt. The priest would come and sprinkle my backside with holy water, and make the sign of the cross over it. He would put incense on the charcoal in the thurible, and I would hear that lovely sacred sound of the top of the thurible going up, and then going down, and then I would hear the chains, as the priest swung it, 3 times 3, around my ass, and I would feel the heat as the thurible almost touched my bottom-cheeks. The holy smoke would consecrate my pudenda, and my rectum, and I would feel blessed, and very, very warm, as the scent of my arousal mingled with the indescribable scent of the pure frankincense I had ordered specially for the wedding Mass.

The priest would say, "I pronounce this wife's ass to be the property of her man. You may fuck the bottom."

The holy oil of lube in hand, Charles would approach. . . "All glory be to thee, almighty God our heavenly father. . ." said my nice priest. Thankfully, like a good Anglo-Catholic celebrant, he was facing away from us and couldn't see me blushing.

Visually inspired: hussy

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

"I suppose you actually went into a shop to buy these disgraceful. . . things." Anne's mother's voice was like ice.

"No! He gave them to me!"

"Do you think that makes it better, you hussy? I only wish I had given you this paddling years ago. Perhaps then you might understand what a man means when he dresses a young woman up this way!"

"I know what he means! He loves me!"

Her mother laughed, ruefully. "And he's going to leave his rich wife for you. Of course."

"Yes! She never pleases him the way I do!"

"The way you do?!" She heard the horror in her mother's voice. "What do you let him do to you, when you put on these slutty things?"

Anne stayed silent.

"I suppose you suck his cock with those red lips of yours, don't you?" Anne blushed, remembering how she had done just that in the hotel room the day before. "And, looking at this impudent backside in these wicked panties, I'm sure he can't resist making you take him there, can he?"

Her blush grew deeper, but she kept silent, still.

"Well, Miss Anne, it's time to learn the price of your behavior."

(Picture from Mister Lamour Photography.)

A different kind of Institute book: what Emily is up to

I honestly didn't know that the Institute would be part of this book until I got a few thousand words in, and I don't think I'll market the book as being part of the series, since the the Institute is tangential. But having as a narrative resource the idea of a place where a person could train as a data-driven BDSM expert helped me greatly in figuring out where this story was going!

Mary had written that article on an assignment from the Institute, the place where she had spent some of her time after leaving Ohio, and she took a great deal of pride in it. 

When Your Girlfriend Needs a Spanking: Getting Started with Loving Discipline 

A publication of the Institute's Extreme Marriage program

If you're reading this article, you've probably been given it by someone who thinks your girlfriend needs a spanking. We here at the Institute have come to the conclusion, based on extensive, rigorous research, that there are a great many young women (and older women, too!) who could benefit from their boyfriends' getting a clue where discipline is concerned, not to put too fine a point on it. 

Mary's assignment, from Hayden Gifford, the head of the Extreme Marriage program, had included the words, "Make it fun, and snappy, but keep the high tone." Mary always smiled when she thought of how pleased Hayden had been with her work. 

For several years our research has suggested that most dominant men—the ones you'll sometimes see referred to as alphas—don't develop enough comfort with their dominance until well into their thirties for them to express their desires to the women they love and may eventually wish to marry. The same is true of women, with regard to submission and submissive fantasies, but because the power-exchange dynamic of a dominant/submissive relationship requires by its very nature that the dominant take on a more active role, any intervention, like this little article, we at the Institute might do should, we think, be directed at young, dominant men whose girlfriends may well need spanking. So we offer this article to you as a way of helping you to come along more quickly than you might otherwise to full enjoyment of your dominant eroticism and full realization of the leadership role in your relationship that suits your nature. In the process, we think you may well also realize the fantasies that your girlfriend may not be able to admit she has, even to herself. 

You're probably rather mystified at this point, so let's get to it. Consider the following questions:

is your girlfriend sometimes rude for no reason you can see?

Does she seem to go from behaving like an old fashion related to disrespecting you and questioning your decisions unreasonably?

To put it very simply, is your girlfriend sometimes a brat?

Our research suggests that if the answers to these questions are yes, your girlfriend quite possibly needs a spanking. Now you have to ask yourself whether you want to give her that spanking. If you are a dominant, you already know the answer.

But you also probably think that the way you feel about spanking her—or to put it more bluntly, how hard you get when you think about spanking her—should make you not try to fulfill that fantasy. Most dominant men in their twenties, we have found, have serious guilt with regard to their fantasies of power-exchange. 

If you do feel such guilt, the first thing we want you to know is that there's nothing wrong with you. No one knows why some men's erotic orientation depends on arousal through power-exchange, but our research suggests that it is innate. More importantly, having the dominant fantasies you have, of spanking, whipping, and flogging, of dominant sex, of taboo sex, and even of nonconsensual sex, does not in any way mean that your nature will compel you to try to fulfill those fantasies in an unethical way. You are not an abuser or a rapist, because your fantasies do not rule your will. 

The second thing we want to tell you is that there are many, many women who fantasize about submitting to a man like you, and making your fantasies come true. If the answer to the questions we asked was Yes, there's a good chance that your girlfriend is one of these women. We want to urge you, for your sake and hers, to give her the spanking she needs. 

Here's how. Find a time and place where you and your girlfriend will be undisturbed for a while. Tell her that she's going to have a spanking. Many women will confess at this point that they have been hoping you would spank them. These women tend to be older, and thus to have had more time both to grow comfortable with their submissive fantasies and to feel the longing to have those fantasies fulfilled which grows greater and greater as dominants and submissives age. 

Other women, and younger women in particular, may not even realize that they have submissive fantasies, because they have only experienced them as vague impressions and have not allowed themselves to explore them. Submissive fantasies can seem so shameful that younger girls repress them for many years. If this is true of your girlfriend, you will have to force the issue. 

Proceed with great care, but do proceed. Our research has demonstrated that you, as a dominant, will be able easily to tell, as soon as you begin to use force, that your girlfriend unconsciously wishes you to discipline her. If your girlfriend is actually not a submissive, you will feel it in the way she struggles and you will see it in her eyes. But our research suggests that if you have advanced to this stage, there is a 99% chance that she will display, in the way her struggles and her eyes both reflect the desire to be conquered, her need for your firm hand. 

Whether she accepts her punishment like a good girl, or she must be held down and spanked, you must follow through on your promise to discipline her with a good, hard spanking. We urge you to bare her bottom for at least part of the punishment. Together with the humiliation of a bare-bottom spanking, you must begin to learn to judge the correction you are administering from the color of her backside. And, of course, you naturally want to spank her naked rear end, as will now be your right and your duty.

I'm guessing this one will be out in late May!

Brought to the preacher #Taboo2sday

The whole story so far can be found here. Last time, Rev. White had just made it clear that if he was to baptize Lori-Anne, he would have to get the chance to examine her thoroughly.


Joe, as a good religious man, swallowed his jealousy at the thought of what the preacher would do with his "girl."

"I'll bring her by Sunday mornin' early," he said.

Sunday morning at 7, he led Lori-Anne down the aisle of the little white church where she would be baptized later that day and then married the following week. Lori-Anne seemed over-awed to be in the sanctuary when it wasn't full of good Christians, and when the organ wasn't playing a good old hymn like "Rock of Ages."

"Joe," she said, "are you sure it's okay? I mean, with the preacher, that I'm here even though I'm not baptized yet?"

Joe smiled. "Darlin'," he said, "I'm pretty sure Reverend White likes it that way, seein' what he's plannin' to do with you in his study this mornin' before your baptism."

Lori-Anne's eyes went very wide. "Wh–what's that?" she asked with obvious trepidation.

"You'll just have to wait and see, and be my good girl, darlin'."

Keep on with the taboo! 

A severe strapping for indecent behavior

Here's the curtain-raiser in The Duke's School for Young Ladies.

The strange future of Anne Solmes was decided in an instant, on the night of October 21, 1864, when her governess Miss Plympton discovered her in the throes of passionate self-pleasure, with her shift raised to her hips and her naughty fingers at play in the little grotto between her thighs that Miss Plympton had often instructed her she must not touch. Anne stood before her mirror, by candlelight, up far past her bedtime. A little cry she could not suppress, as she pushed her fingers in where they must not go, alerted Miss Plympton, reading edifying religious pamphlets in her own room just next to Anne’s, to the necessity of intervention.

If Miss Plympton had been a different sort of person, the discovery of Anne’s lewd practices might not have resulted in such drastic action. But Miss Plympton’s character had a very religious bent. Moreover, Miss Plympton’s parents had beaten into her at an early age the firm precept that the parts of generation constituted a source of unremitting evil. The governess therefore immediately awoke Anne’s parents in their bed, all the while scolding her pupil in a voice loud enough that all the servants could hear, and in such explicit terms that no doubt could exist as to the crime in which their young lady had just been discovered.

“In front of your mirror, no less!” Miss Plympton shouted. “With your wicked hands in the devil’s playground! Looking at what you were doing! I have never even heard of something so lascivious, and I have been a governess these twenty years!”

When Standish and Prudence Solmes awoke, Miss Plympton stood Anne at the end of their bed and commanded, “You just tell your poor parents what I found you doing.” But Anne found herself unable to say a word. She could only shake her head and weep.

At that, Miss Plympton pushed firmly upon the fair-haired Anne’s shoulders, bending her over the foot of the bed until her elbows rested upon it. Her hairbrush was in her hand, and she raised Anne’s shift and began to spank her forcefully and quickly. “That doesn’t feel as nice, does it?” Miss Plympton said, over Anne’s cries and sobs. “There you go, you little hussy! There you go! How do you like the consequences of your voluptuous little performance, miss? Are you going to tell your poor parents what you did?”

“Please!” Anne screamed. “Please don’t make me!”

“What is the meaning of this?” asked the mystified Standish Solmes. He believed very strongly in the maintenance of discipline in his home, and in general he approved heartily of the way Miss Plympton chastised Anne for the slightest infraction with the greatest severity—often including the strap and the cane in addition to her trusty hairbrush. But to be awakened in the middle of the night, and made to watch Miss Plympton punish Anne thus, seemed a little excessive.

“You won’t even give your parents that little bit of respect, girl?” Miss Plympton said sternly. “Mr. Solmes,” she said, ceasing the spanking for the moment. “I am a decent woman, and I am afraid I must submit my resignation.”

She brought the hairbrush down again, to punctuate her words. “Your. Daughter’s. Lewd. Conduct does not befit a woman of. The. Town! Let alone a girl of her station.”

“Please, Miss Plympton!” Anne screamed. “I’m sorry!”

Miss Plympton stopped spanking again, but only, apparently, so that she could concentrate on delivering her wrathful message to Standish. “When it gets about what I found her doing, my reputation will be ruined as well, but so great is my love of virtue that I will not hesitate! Any suitor for Miss Solmes’ hand, I can assure you, will have the knowledge that your daughter cannot restrain herself from lewd practices that should send her to a reformatory school, if you will take my advice. A regular, healthy dose of the cane is the only thing for her, but with such a girl one doubts that even daily thrashing will help. Whether they can cure her or not, though, at least she will receive the punishment she deserves for shaming you so!”

Miss Plympton took eighteen-year-old Anne by the ear, then, and began to lead her out of her parents’ bedchamber. “I shall strap her well, now, Mr. Solmes, but that will be the last thing I do as your employee. If you take my advice, you will send for the doctor in the morning, and pack her off to a place where they can whip some modesty into her!”

Standish Solmes looked down at his wife. Prudence’s face wore an expression of terrible apprehension. He could not think of anything to say: there seemed no way to avert the disaster that had fallen upon their family.

From down the hall came the sound of Miss Plympton scolding Anne, and then the crack of the strap upon Anne’s undoubtedly bare backside: the governess always positioned Anne on her belly, atop her bed, for the punishment of greater offenses, so that she could swing the strap downward with the utmost force. Anne began to scream in her pain, and Standish could see in his wife’s eyes that she felt, as he did, that sometimes discipline could go too far.

“Perhaps we should not have engaged Miss Plympton,” Prudence said with a quaver in her voice.

“Do not blame yourself, my dear,” Standish replied. “She came highly recommended.”

“But it was I who pressed you to engage her.”

“True, my dear. But I was the one to encourage her to flog Anne frequently.”

Down the hall, Anne shrieked, “Please! I’ll never do it again!” and Miss Plympton shouted, “I wish I could believe that, you wicked girl,” and the strap’s sharp visit made itself heard again.

“Is she ruined?” Prudence whispered. “Surely other girls… that is to say, I am told…”

“Whether the conduct in which Miss Plympton discovered her is as wicked as Miss Plympton thinks is unfortunately not of any moment, now, Prudence,” Standish said sadly. “Miss Plympton is a respected governess, with the ear of a great many matrons. We must wait and see; perhaps it will blow over.”

Then they lay there, unable to sleep and unable to speak with one another, listening to their daughter receive her terrible reward for her illicit pleasure.

Click here to buy the book on Amazon!

The Duke's School: with chastisement and training, fallen girls may recover their prospects

Just out!

When her governess catches eighteen-year-old Anne Solmes in the act of pleasuring herself, Mr. and Mrs. Solmes conclude that drastic action is required. Anne soon finds herself on her way to Miss Halton’s Preparatory Academy for Girls, a school founded by the famously strict Duke of Panton for the correction of young women of marriageable age. The girls of Miss Halton’s have disgraced themselves, but their future prospects may still be salvaged by means of proper discipline and training. Anne quickly discovers that her new schoolmistress will not tolerate disobedience, and that punishments for misbehavior are both harsh and humiliating. 

Though he samples the pleasures his position offers, the duke does not keep the girls of the academy for himself. It is not long before one of the duke’s associates, a handsome, dominant gentleman in his own right, seems ready to ask for Anne’s hand. But is Anne prepared to spend a lifetime with a man who expects her obedience to his every demand and who will not hesitate to punish and pleasure her as he sees fit, no matter how deeply she might blush at his mastery of her body? 


Publisher’s Note: The Duke’s School for Young Ladies is an erotic novel that includes spankings, sexual scenes, anal play, exhibitionism, elements of BDSM, and more. If such material offends you, please don’t buy this book.

Click here to buy the book on Amazon!

The Amazing Ashe Barker comes to answer Emily's questions!

I'm thrilled to welcome my friend and colleague Ashe today!

Why do you write?

I suppose the short answer to that is, because I can. And I enjoy telling stories. For as long as I can remember I’ve woven erotic fantasies in my own head, often when I was stuck in traffic jams on my daily commute. I no longer do that, so the stories had to emerge somewhere I suppose. I actually wrote my first novel about two years ago, and I was over the Moon when a publisher offered me a contract for it. I had the bug, and I’ve never stopped since.

What's your desert-island fantasy? (If you were marooned on a desert-island with only a single fantasy to get off to for the rest of your life, what would you choose?)

My head is full of so many, it’s difficult to choose just one. I’m trying to be disciplined here though (!) so I think I’d narrow it down to something hot and sweaty and involving Jon Bon Jovi.

Do you think of BDSM and/or spankophilia as a practice or as an orientation, or as something else, and what does your answer mean to you?

I think of BDSM as a state of mind, a personality trait which is as much a part of the individual as, say optimism or generosity. It’s a way of viewing the world, and relationships, a way of making sense. I know very many people suppress their leaning towards dominance or submission because they find it an uncomfortable fit with twenty first century living, we’re supposed to be assertive, independent, self-sufficient. All of us, all the time. But for those who can and do find their way to expressing their kink, it’s a release like nothing I can imagine - and believe me, I can imagine a lot.

Who's a favorite character from your own work, and why?

I’ll always  have a soft spot for Nathan Darke, the alpha male hero from my first trilogy, The Dark Side. He’s my classical handsome hero, dark, driven, moody, a demanding, hard Dom but with an incredible capacity for caring. He’s full of surprises, and has a very tender side. I like to read, and write,  about complex, layered characters so my first attempt to craft one sort of rolled everything I had in my head into one sizzling Dom. He’s not my best Dom, not by a long way, but I love him anyway.

Who's a favorite character from someone else's work (erotic or non-erotic) and why?

I read Gone With The Wind when I was a teenager, and formed a love/hate relationship with Scarlett O’Hara. At the beginning of the story she is vain, self-obsessed, and trivial, fascinating but not especially likeable. As her life develops and takes various twists and turns, as she overcomes challenge after challenge, and as the world she knows is ripped apart by civil war she emerges as one of the finest heroines in literature. She is strong, loyal, determined, a natural leader, and above all a survivor. I wish Margaret Mitchell had written more as I would have loved to know what Scarlett did after Rhett announced he didn’t give a damn.

Can I give a shout out about my current release with Stormy Night? Spirit features another heroine who is a survivor, and the title of the book sort of alludes to that. Here’s the stuff from the back cover…

When Matthew Logan offers a homeless young woman a bed for a few nights, he expects the girl to eat, sleep, recover from the flu, and then move on. Instead, in no time at all eighteen-year-old Beth Harte has captured his affections completely. Though Matt wants only to protect her and has no intention of sleeping with her, Beth has other ideas, and she proves to be very persuasive.

But after Beth is attacked by a friend of Matt’s and subsequently learns for the first time that Matt is an experienced dominant, she is unable to separate the man she is growing to care about from her hateful memories of previous exploitation. Confused and frightened, she runs away.

Almost six years pass before Matt sees Beth again, and in that time his vulnerable little waif has reinvented herself as an artist. Now she has a stunning proposition for him and his environmental engineering company: to collaborate on a project fusing art and science to promote one of the most prestigious sporting events in the world. But when Matt demands to know what went wrong before, she tells him the truth, both about her childhood and about his friend’s actions.

Matt is determined to make Beth’s abusers pay for their crimes, but he’s also not about to let her run away from him again. Can Beth bring herself to trust Matt despite her fears and give him the chance to love her and show her the pleasures of being his submissive, or will the wounds of her past keep her from trusting anyone ever again?

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

Spirit Buy Links

Amazon US  Amazon UK  All Romance  Kobo  Barnes and Noble

Here’s a nice, hot excerpt, to whet your appetite…

I turn, peep up at him. "What are you going to do?"

Now that it's come to it my nervousness must be plain, written all over my face. Matt drops a quick kiss onto my lips.

"Trust me."

I do, and it's enough. I move over to the rail and lean over it as instructed. I gaze down into the hallway below, listening to Matt's movements behind me. Despite my trepidation my pussy moistens still more at the sound of the blanket chest opening, the scrape of objects on the lid as he selects whatever he intends to use, then the soft slam of the lid closing again. Footsteps behind me, then the gentle, scattered thud as several objects hit the carpet. A tube of lube rolls into my line of vision. I know what that suggests. I tremble, but not with fear. Not exactly.

"I'm going to tie your arms to the top rail, each of your hands to the opposite elbow. Is that alright?"

I turn my head to see that Matt has a length of rope in his hands. It's black, and sort of shiny.

"Not too tight."

"No definitely not. You won't be able to move, but you'll come to no harm."

"I know. It's just, I'm having a little wobble here. Don't mind me."

He smiles. "Wobbling's fine, but I'd prefer you to tell me when you’re struggling. I can always slow down, or try something else. So, we're okay to continue? Yes?"

"Yes."

He doesn't move, so I nod for greater emphasis. Still nothing, unless a raised eyebrow counts. Then I remember. "Yes Sir."

"Good girl." He leans around me to secure my arms as he described, wrapping the rope around my wrists and elbows several times then pulling the knot into place. I try an experimental wriggle to find I'm held firm, bent at the waist, my bottom available for - whatever.

I watch over my shoulder as Matt pulls his T shirt over his head. The sight of his bare chest is a rare treat, taut muscles rippling across the sculpted contours and sprinkled with fine hair which disappears into the waistband of his jeans. I hold my breath as I wait for him to drop those too, but he merely strolls around to the other side of me, taking the time to draw his palm across the globes of my upturned bum.

"Nice arse, Beth. I always thought so."

I wriggle my hips, loving his touch but still not quite sure of my allure to him. "I was too thin."

"Maybe then. Not now. Now your bottom's lovely and curvy, firm but soft enough to have some real fun. And we are going to have fun here, Beth. That's what this is all about."

He stands behind me and slides his fingers into the crevice between my buttocks, reaching down until he parts the folds of my pussy from behind. He hasn't asked me to spread my legs but I do anyway, revelling in the sensual caress. The flat of his fingers and palm are stroking my pussy, his fingertips rubbing my clit. I writhe, the curl and clench of orgasm starting already. He knows his stuff, knows just where to touch, just how to arouse me.

I whimper and lift my bottom in wordless pleading. Can it really be this easy? Does he really have to do no more than tie me up and stroke my cunt to bring me to a climax in seconds?

It would seem so. I close my eyes and allow my body to simply respond.

Without warning he withdraws his hands and I'm alone. Abandoned. I turn my head to see him crouching a couple of feet away, picking up an object from the floor. It's a bullet vibrator.

"What are you going to do with that?" On a stupid questions scale of one to ten, that must score about twenty seven. Matt certainly thinks so as he grins at me, his leer quite wicked.

"In the future, when you're a little more confident - in yourself and in me - I'll probably blindfold you and let you try to guess what I'm using. For now though, since you've seen it and you've asked, this is going inside your sweet cunt. It's small, you'll have to squeeze to hold on to it. I'll be stroking your clit, and we both know how much you love that, but if you drop our little toy I'll stop. So, how's that for incentive?"

"I think it should be very persuasive, Sir."

"I thought it might. And if you treat our toy with the respect it deserves, I'll let you come. Then I'll put it in your arse, and we do it all again."

A little bit more about me…

I’ve been writing seriously for about two years but I’ve been an avid reader for as long as I can remember, erotic and other genres.  I love reading historical and contemporary romances in all pairings – the hotter the better. But now I have a good excuse for my guilty pleasure – research.

My stories are often set in the north of England where I live but I draw inspiration from all over. An incident here, a chance remark there, a bizarre event or quirky character, any of these can spark a story idea. But ultimately my tales of love, challenge, resilience and compassion are the conjurings of my own lurid and smutty imagination.

On the rare occasions I’m not writing my time is divided between my role as resident taxi driver for my teenage daughter, and caring for a menagerie of dogs, rabbits, tortoises.  And most recently a very grumpy cockatiel.  I’m a rural parish councillor too.

My other titles are many and varied, and include the ‘Black Combe’ trilogies, The Dark Side, Sure Mastery, The Hardest Word and A Richness of Swallows, all set in the atmospheric moorland of West Yorkshire or Cumbria and with a strong BDSM theme.  My stand alone novels are The Three Rs, Chameleon, Red Skye at Night, and Faith but this list grows all the time. The Widow Is Mine is a full length medieval erotic romance which I wrote for The Conquered Brides collection. I’ve also written several short stories, including Re-Awakening, a raunchy pirate tale, Right of Salvage, and a MM story, Bodywork, which was included in the Amazon best-selling collection Brit Boys on Boys. You can find all my stories on my author page on Amazon.

I have a pile of story ideas still to work through, and keep thinking of new ones at the most unlikely moments, so you can expect to see a lot more from me.

I love to hear from readers. You can find me on my blog, and I’m on Facebook, and twitter too. And more recently on Tsu

The clean and the dirty, and the taboo: Ageplay Week!

Welcome to Ageplay Week!

(For my regular Taboo Tuesday readers: I'm taking a one-week break from the story of Lori-Anne to present an equally taboo—and hot, at least to me—subject.)

Caroline's Little World is, from one perspective, a manifesto for my own hyper-dirty, hyper-taboo brand of ageplay, which I recognize as very different from much of the wonderful stuff other authors write under that rubric (I don't call it a genre, because I don't think ageplay is a genre, since too many different kinds of ageplay stories can be told, in too many different narrative modes, for that—see below for more on this topic). 

Here's an example from Caroline's Little World that I think probably turned a few readers off—or, to borrow Renee's terminology from her post yesterday, squicked them out:

Silently, now, he went back to teaching me in a much more direct way. He gently urged the thing in my rosebud inward, and outward, and inward. He turned the thing that vibrated on, and moved it gently about my bare little vulva until I was moaning, "Please. . . please. . ."

He turned the thing that vibrated off, but he continued to rouse me with his lovely fingers, as he said, "Now, young lady, you are being trained in your rosebud, to be a nice bottom-girl for your Daddy. When your Daddy puts his Daddy-thing in your rosebud, your rosebud will be ready to give his cock the pleasure it deserves, won't it?"

"Ahhhh. . . yes, Daddy--yes, Daddy."

"Are you going to take Daddy's cock in your little rosebud, Caroline?"

"Yes, Daddy!"

"Are you going to be my little bottom-girl?"

"Yes, Daddy!"

"Your time has come, young lady. You may let go of your bottom-cheeks. You may use your hands to touch yourself, to make your first time more fun for you."


Oh, it almost sounded like he had. . . it was so wonderfully degrading to think that like Mr. Hastings he had fucked the asses of dozens of girls. . . I did, I put my right hand down to my vulva, as I thought about my husband fucking other girls' bottoms. "To make your first time more fun for you"--because of course it wasn't really fun for a girl to take a cock in her ass: she did it because her Daddy made her do it.

I think Renee hit the nail on the head in her post yesterday: ageplay is a very complex thing that involves a lot more than simply pretending to be younger than you are. We all get older, and I think we all wish we didn't. Whether we had a wonderful childhood to which we wish we could return, or we had a troubled childhood we'd like the chance to get back and force to run along better lines, or (this is most of us, I think) something in between, there's an attraction to pretending to be young, if there's someone caring present, to take charge of us.

Because I'm fascinated by taboo sex, my own ageplay fantasies revolve around the erotic element, and the violation of innocence as well as its protection. Your mileage will vary, but for me, to be able to read and to write these taboo fantasies, which if they ever came true would be atrocities, helps me feel that I am not alone.

At the same time, when I write ageplay, the most satisfying part for me is writing the scenes where the daddy vows to protect his little girl even as he is violating her innocence. Even if, as often happens in my stuff, the daddy decides he wants to display his little girl to other men, or (still more taboo) to loan her to them, the central idea never ceases to be that she belongs to him, and he would never let anything happen to her that she didn't, deep down, want to happen.

I think that that's where dirty ageplay and clean ageplay meet in the central fantasy of simply being young, and under the protection of a kind older person. What do you think?

Welcome to Ageplay Week!!  

We are celebrating Daddy Doms, Littles and everything we love about ageplay this week, starting tomorrow (April 6th) through Friday.  Enjoy the chance to win FREE books and a gift certificate to Amazon for $15 by reading and commenting on the following posts: 

Monday:  "Does Ageplay Squick You Out?"  by Renee Rose

Tuesday:  "Clean vs. Dirty Ageplay" by Emily Tilton

Wednesday:  "The Emotional Appeal of Ageplay" by Elsa Black

Thursday: "The Joy of Escapism" by Ava Sinclair

Winners Announced Friday!

Check out these Ageplay books by our contributors:

Her Hollywood Daddy
Hollywood starlet Marissa Sparks’ career teeters on the brink of implosion when movie producer and actor Joel Sutherland takes her in hand. He requires her to move in with him and live as his Little so he can provide strict discipline and guidance but he isn’t sure if it’s all a ploy to stay in the movie. She is, after all, a talented actress and could be faking everything.  Buy Links: AMAZON, AMAZON UK, ARe, Barnes & Noble

Caroline's Little World
 Three great books by a best-selling author of age-play erotica! Caroline Dawkins is a professor of English who has never confessed her age-play and spanking fantasies to her husband, George Lane, a corporate attorney. After George comes home one night and finds Caroline pleasuring herself, over the course of an extraordinary year Caroline and George, with the help of new friends and former students, utterly transform their erotic life together in the pattern of those taboo fantasies.

Buy Link: Amazon

Training Lil' Elise

The story of the Eden Institute continues, this time with the fractious maid Elise, whose disdain for the Littles has her crossing the line once to often. She's about to be banned, until Nanny Prim suggests a different idea: Why not train Elise as a Little? Nanny Prim maintains that it's what the fiery maid really wants. Will handsome Englishman Max Brookshire be able to make Elise the Little she secretly wants to be?

Buy Links: Amazon

The Marshal's Little Girl

When US Marshal Gage Chandler catches up with the beautiful thief who pulled off a robbery right under his nose, the long arm of justice is ready to restrain her for a long, hard spanking. But in Wilhelmina James, the lawman discovers a woman with a desire to submit that meshes with his desire to completely dominate. When they travel in disguise as guardian and ward to clear her name, the roles become real when "Billy" agrees to be his little one.

Buy Link: Amazon

   





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