I'm re-running the stories that serve as deep background for EXPLORATIONS. The story continues from this post.
I'm just going to let fantasy-Emily pick this right back up.
After Charles had had my bottom in the disciplinary style he always used when he took it after a whipping, bestriding me and from time to time putting his hand on the back of my head to remind me I was being mastered, he took me in his arms at last and stroked my punished cheeks tenderly to let me know my session was over.
"Now, sweetheart, what did you want to tell me?"
I answered, timidly, "Sir, I think if I'm ever going to be a good girl, I need to understand my wantonness."
"That's right, darling. That's why I have you in training."
"Oh, yes--and I'm so grateful, even when it's hard, like tonight, and you have to punish me so severely. But I had an idea about a way to complement that training with another. . . training activity."
"Oh? What would that be? You know I'm always willing to listen to your ideas."
(Oh my God: the sheer delicious condescension in that. This is the kind of moment when I toy with the image of what my life would be like if real-Charles were like fantasy-Charles. And then I realize: unlivable. Fantasy-Charles would beat me for trying to top from the bottom, and not in a good way. I'd divorce him before the week was out.)
(It's also worth mentioning how fantasy-Charles has changed over the course of the writing of EXPLORATIONS. There was a phase when he was much more open to direction from fantasy-Emily than he is now. We'll just say that that's because he's gained confidence that fantasy-Emily really does need to submit, and that he's the man to conquer her, every day and every night.)
"Well, you know I like to write."
"Yes, dear, I do."
"What if part of my training were writing. . . things for you--about me and my. . . needs." I realized I was starting to get warm.
"What kinds of needs, Emily?"
"You know. . . what my. . . body needs, and the way I found the thong, and I watched those terrible videos and read those terrible books." Warm, and wet.
"So that you can play with yourself? I don't think so!"
"But, Sir. . ." I took his hand, and brought it down between my legs, where it was never, generally, loath to go.
"What if I did it to practice being modest, and you punished me if I played with myself while I was doing it?"
"That's very interesting, Emily, but perhaps I should make a little trial right now to see if you're even ready to try such a discipline. Take off your nightgown and your panties, and go sit in the chair, with your hands in your lap. If you can tell me what you would write in the first chapter of this. . . 'Discipline Book', shall we call it?. . . without touching your little cunt, you may begin the project tomorrow. If not, I should warn you, you will receive six with the cane, for immodesty." He nodded meaningfully at where the cane lay on my dresser.
Trembling, I stood.
"You should probably get a towel, too, and put it on the chair before you sit down. We both know your way of ruining upholstery."
Submissively, I melted. I didn't know if I'd be able to pass the trial, and six with the cane would be terrible on top of the tracery of belt-marks I already had from my punishment whipping, but it was going to be wonderful to try.
That was how it should have happened, of course.