The hotness of New Year's

Should I worry that if I do "the hotness of" every occasion I'll find myself stuck when the year rolls around again and I have to find something else to write naughtily about that's tied to the same occasion? Nah. You can expect to read "The hotness of champagne" next year, with some lurid tale of a Gigi-lookalike.

For now, though, let the world be new, to fit the coming new year, and the celebration we usually call New Year's, though we may equally well call it the Feast of the Holy Name, or—even better and more liturgical-historically accurate, the Feast of the Circumcision. That's right: in the Middle Ages, what much of Europe celebrated on the first day of January was the removal of Jesus of Nazareth's foreskin.

I've wondered from time to time whether circumcision could ever be hot. The answer always seems to come back in the negative. So we'll go in a Victorian direction today…

The Victorians—at least the class we who write erotic novels think of as the Victorians; that is, the bourgeoisie and the aristocracy—used the first of January to visit one another, often bringing gifts, for the notion of gifts on Christmas, under the branches of that newfangled gewgaw the Christmas-tree, had not yet taken hold. In particular bachelors expected invitations to visit the houses of families with marriageable daughters.

Ah. Yes.

Imagine that a particularly debauched gentleman has three daughters, each of them lovely but—because of the gentleman's impecunious state—unable to find suitable matches. How will he get them off his hands and his pocketbook?

He will of course invite the five most notorious libertines in Londaon to his home on New Year's Day. He will of course lay his daughters naked—"No missish protestations, Cecilia! Off with your petticoats!"; "Esther, did I not tell you to shave your cunny this morning? Go to your room and do so this instant!"; "Theodosia, your sweet bottom needs a good smacking, and I have invited just the men to give it you!"—over the dining-table next to the sweetmeats, and the bachelors will of course take turns in fucking their bare cunts and their virginal bottoms, not neglecting to use the canes and birches provided by the gentleman to test the girls' responses to discipline.

By the second day of January, the gentleman's worries will have come to an end. The girls, ruined in mouth, quim, and arse but fainting with untold pleasure, will have gone home with their keepers, the three lucky men chosen by lot of the five, with the other two libertines assured they may visit at any time to have a fuck. All night, that first night of the new year, they will serve the lusts of the men who will henceforth possess them at the bargain price of room, board, and the occasional frock.

Compare the following passage from The Duke's School for Young Ladies.

Clarissa watched her newest pupil closely as Anne’s gaze took in the duke’s drawing room. She thought she could see a distinct lack of surprise in the new girl’s eyes at the grand room’s holding, along with beautiful chairs, sofas, divans, and tables of the usual kind, several unusual pieces of furniture: three whipping benches and two demonstration tables. So experienced already, she thought. She supposed that a single visit from the duke could do that—just as it had done the same for Clarissa herself, all those years ago.

“Freda Garrett, in the blue room, please,” she said. “Do not undress: Mr. Babcock will wish to assist you in that, I believe. Ursula Gregory, over bench number one, if you please. Joan Porter, undress to your shift, if you please. I shall assist you. Lavinia Ellsworth, assist Georgina Holmes in unlacing, and she will then assist you in doing the same. Get undressed to your shifts. Miss Holmes over bench number two and, Miss Ellsworth, please oil her bottom-hole with the oil in the little cabinet, in order that she be ready for Mr. Abbott. Miss Crawley and Miss Solmes, completely undressed, and over by table number one.”

Gowns were removed as appropriate, hung in the presses that waited to one side of the drawing room, and soon enough all had been prepared for the entry of the gentlemen. After she had secured Ursula to the whipping bench, Clarissa, still in her own beautiful gown and feeling like a queen, walked over to where Sarah had led Anne to demonstration table number one, just in front of the mantelpiece, where a lovely warm fire burned in the grate.

The girls looked so sweet without their clothes that Clarissa could not help embracing them and kissing them on both cheeks before she said, “Now get upon the table, my sweet girls. Anne, Sarah will tell you what to do. Do not be anxious, for the gentlemen who watch like to see some confusion on a girl’s face when she must do this for the first time.”

Anne nodded solemnly and began to climb onto the table, six feet long and four feet wide, covered in padded leather for the girls’ comfort. The height of the table, which rose two feet from the floor—and so came to the duke’s knee—was not, of course, for the girls’ comfort but rather for the pleasure of the duke and his friends. Had Anne noticed? Clarissa wondered, as she often wondered such things about girls coming for the first time to make a part of a debauch. Sarah of course had reason to know quite well how convenient the table’s height made it for a gentleman to get his cock into a girl in whatever mode of enjoyment he chose.

Lost in a reverie of memories of past parties—of the times she herself had lain upon this table—Clarissa was surprised to hear Sarah’s timid voice, and to turn to see the sweet girl still standing next to the table, rather than moving to join Anne. “Miss Halton?” she said. “Is it true? That… Mr. Westenra…”

Clarissa did not wish to stir false hope in Sarah’s bosom, though she was of the opinion that Mr. Westenra could well be sincere in his desire to marry her. Nevertheless, she knew her eyes shone when she said, “Hush, child. Let that be as it may, and get upon the table with Miss Solmes.”
Sarah nodded, and began to climb to join her friend, who lay with her back to the fire, the sweet curve of her hips making a bewitching silhouette, and the golden curls upon her cunny glistening faintly. Clarissa felt suddenly that she wished to share a confidence with these two, and that her response to Sarah’s natural desire to know more of the possibility of a proposal from Mr. Westenra had left much wanting. She said softly, “Do you know, girls, that I have a hope that things at the school may change for the better, tonight?”

“What, miss?” asked Anne.

“Miss Crawley,” Clarissa said, then, noting that Sarah had begun to assume a position face-to-face with Anne, “your face before Miss Solmes’ cunny, if you please. If you are to be allowed to kiss, the gentlemen will tell you so.”

“Yes, miss,” Sarah said, moving to obey. “Miss, what did you mean, please? About changing for the better?”

“I have a stratagem,” Clarissa said in as low a voice as she could. “Listen to Ursula, for I believe that with Mr. Dabney’s unwitting help…” Then the door opened, and the duke, clad in his dressing gown, came in. The marquess, Lord Lerner, Mr. Stalby, Mr. Westenra, and Mr. Abbott all also wore dressing gowns, clearly having availed themselves of the opportunity the duke always gave to make their amours more convenient thus. Mr. Dabney and Mr. Babcock both still wore their evening dress.
Clarissa looked into Anne’s frightened eyes, and could not resist another kiss upon her forehead. “All may be well,” she whispered, and glided over to the duke.

The stratagem had formed in her mind after dinner, the moment she saw Ursula’s reaction to the news that Mr. Dabney wished to watch her caned, rather than to go to a private room to whip and fuck Lavinia Ellsworth away from the eyes of the world. Ursula had made a conquest, and Clarissa knew that she might well go to any length to secure him. If Mr. Dabney were the sort of respectable man who did not mind a little public fellatio, he would certainly, as the duke’s executor, be interested in the kind of story Clarissa thought she might be able to bring Ursula to tell, under the stern application of Lord Lerner’s cane to her rump.


And if Ursula told the sort of tale of Mrs. Fayerweather that Clarissa suspected the girl might have stored up in her memory, things might well change for the better, with some assistance from Mr. Dabney.

The hotness of Santa Claus

I'm definitely not the first one to this party! But I wrote something as a visual inspiration a couple years ago of which I'm rather proud.

Too soon

Ella crept downstairs. It was only 1am, but she had been checking every fifteen minutes to see if her husband had put her present under the tree yet, before he left for his night-shift at the hospital. He had made her promise to wait until he was back in the morning to open it, but she wasn't going to take it out of its box--she just wanted to see what it was.

Yes. It was there! A big white box with a red bow. She hurried over to the bushy green spruce with the pretty red bow-and-bulb ornaments, and sank quickly to her knees. She started to untie the red ribbon.

"Young lady," came a deep voice behind her, startling her half to death. She didn't even think to drop the ribbons, as she turned around and saw. . . white beard, check. . . red suit, check. . . jolly old elf--well, old elf, check; jolly, not very.

"Young lady, I believe you made your husband a promise."

"Um. . . I. . ."

"Did you or didn't you?"

Ella felt her face crumple. "Yes, Santa, I did. I'm so sorry."

"He and I made a deal tonight: he's going to put out the presents at the hospital, and I brought your present here. Do you think he deserves to have you breaking your promise while he's out working?"

"No, Santa." A tear rolled down Ella's face.

"What do you think would happen if he saw you himself?"

"Oh, no," she said, picturing it.

"He would spank you, wouldn't he? Don't lie, or you'll be on the naughty list next year!"

"Yes, Santa."

"Then since he and I have our bargain tonight, I believe I need to teach you your lesson."

Santa brought the little stool over to the tree, and sat upon it, looking decidely jollier. He patted his lap, and Ella, still holding the ribbons of the forbidden present, went over it.

"You'll tell your husband in the morning that you need a spanking, but you don't have to tell him why. I think it will brighten his day, especially if you're as delighted by your gift as I think you will be, Ella."

Santa flipped up the little green skirt to reveal scandalously configured underwear. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," he said, as he began to administer the sort of sound spanking that only he can give. "Sometimes naughty and nice are the same, aren't they?"

---------

It's not really all that dissimilar, is it, from the kind of daddy-spanking Darla gets in this passage from Assigned a Daddy?

Darla realized her breath had once again begun to come in short, ragged pants. Every time he said punished her whole body seemed to flash hot—everywhere, unfortunately. Somehow the Selecta people had known. Something about her seemed to say that what Mike was doing was not only acceptable but… necessary.

“Yes, daddy,” she whispered. She looked down at the carpet. Green pile. She hated that carpet. She hated this apartment, whose rent had encouraged her to shoplift three times, just to have clothes that made her feel like she could hold her head up at work.

“Now answer my question, sweetheart. Do you play with your little pussy, to make yourself feel good?”

“S-sometimes,” Darla stammered.

“Thank you for being honest, Darla,” Mike replied, nodding in approval and once again presenting Darla with the problem of her apparent need—ten minutes after meeting her ‘daddy’—for that approval. “Most nights I’ll give you permission to touch yourself, if you’ve obeyed me and respected me that day. You won’t have permission to do it anywhere but in bed, though, after dark. If I catch you with your hand there, when you don’t have permission, you’ll have a bare-bottom belt-whipping.”

Oh, God. Darla felt her face burning like the sun. Yes, she masturbated sometimes… but when times got a little rough, often probably made a better representation of it. At least she’d be able to touch herself in the bathroom.

“And don’t think you’ll be able to do it in the bathroom either, in my house, because you’re going to be doing your business with the door open, so I can see you, and I’m going to supervise your bathing. At work, you’re going to text me for permission to go to the bathroom, and then put your phone where you can record yourself peeing so I can watch it later.”

Darla started to shake her head. It couldn’t be real, could it? And yet… and yet it was, and her mind didn’t reel the way she thought it should. Her face kept right on blazing, but Mike’s paternal authority, even in this extraordinarily shameful area, seemed to embrace her. His tone, and the detail with which he had thought out the implementation of Darla’s correctional program, told her that the purpose of the program had to lie much more in her reform than in her humiliation.

That didn’t mean Darla had to like it, though. She had to push back, even if it got her a worse punishment now.

“That’s mean, daddy,” she said, realizing to her surprise that she had begun to take on the persona of a little girl without even thinking about it. “I won’t do that. It’s not fair, and it’s creepy and shameful.”

She looked up at Mike in apprehension, and saw to her shock that his face had utterly transformed itself into an expression of restrained anger, his eyebrows lowered and his mouth set. He didn’t speak, at first, but he reached out and took Darla by her hips and pulled her a step toward him, as her arms spun around in the air, seeking her balance.

She needn’t have worried about that, because Mike had such strength even just in his hands that there was no chance Darla might fall. He had his hands in the waistband of her jeans, now, and before she knew it he had them unbuttoned and he was pulling them down. Darla gave a little cry of surprise and humiliation to know that her daddy now saw her pussy, with its sparse brown thatch, for the first time.

Mike spoke again at last. “You just earned yourself quite the spanking, sweetheart, and in the nude. Your new little-girl panties are going to feel pretty sore on your little bottom in a few minutes.”

“Please, no… please, daddy…” Darla wailed. But she understood too late that although Mike certainly had told the truth when he said he was a patient man, she had pushed him much too far, since he also clearly felt keenly his responsibility to start setting boundaries for Darla. He didn’t speak again, but pulled her between his thighs and bent her over his left knee.

Wild now to escape the spanking somehow, anyhow, Darla threw her right hand back and put it across her tender bottom cheeks. But Mike grabbed her wrist in his right hand and transferred it to his left so that he could pin it with terrible ease against the small of her back. At the same time, he closed his thighs around hers, immobilizing her almost completely.

“You’ll learn to hold still for your punishments,” Mike said, that same controlled anger in his voice. “It starts with knowing that you don’t have a choice, when your daddy decides your butt needs whipping.”

The words frightened Darla so much that she tried to writhe away even though her mind told her Mike spoke the truth when he said it wouldn’t help. With every ounce of her strength, and probably extra from the fear, she struggled against him, but she couldn’t manage to slip from his grasp more than an inch. Her naked bottom, ready for his discipline, still rose over his thigh.

He put his hand on it, and Darla used her millimeter of freedom to flinch, although the touch was gentle.

“This is a very special moment for you, Darla,” Mike said much more softly than she would have expected. “I know you’re scared, and you should be, because I’m going to teach you the first real lesson of your life, but I promise you’re going to look back on this spanking with gratitude. You earned a bare-bottom punishment, and you’re about to get it, just as you’ll probably get many more, before being a good girl becomes second nature to you. While I give you what you’ve got coming, I want you to think about what it means, to have your daddy take down your jeans and tan your hide because you couldn’t obey him, and then you disrespected him. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes, d-daddy,” Darla whimpered, as Mike kept rubbing her bottom. It felt like worse torture than the spanking ever could be, because it felt so good, and his words were so soothing.

The hotness of the Annunciation

This Sunday, the fourth Sunday of Advent, many churches, including mine, will remember Mary, the mother of Jesus of Nazareth. Specifically, we'll read and think about the event called the Annunciation: the sending of the angel Gabriel to Nazareth to tell Mary she would bear God's son, and call him Jesus. 

I'm going to do this as tastefully as I can, and it's not my intention to shock you, but I want to write about how incredibly hot the Annunciation is.

From the Gospel according to Luke:

And Mary said, "Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word."

From a medieval antiphon called Alma redemptoris, traditionally sung during Advent, Christmastide, and Epiphanytide:

Gracious mother of our redeemer
forever abiding heaven's gateway…

In my darkest, most difficult struggles with my submissive sexual orientation, when I thought I must go to Hell at last, there to be burned with unquenchable fire, because I could not stop wanting to submit and to be punished for my wickedness and at last fully enjoyed by a power greater than I, I looked to the Annunciation and thought, There is hope. Mary submitted, and received, as I wish to submit and to receive.

The whips and paddles and firm hands in discipline I got from the monastics.

Holy Advent to you, dear reader.

Here's a little excerpt from Assigned a Daddy that to me embodies some of the same ideas, though
your mileage may well vary. It's from early in the story, when Mike makes his "annunciation" to Darla of what she can expect in the Daddy's Naughty Little Girl program.

“You don’t wear a bra, sweetheart?” Her perfect little breasts were even more pert than her bottom, if that was possible, with sweet brown nipples just about the size of a quarter. 

She looked at him bashfully. “No, daddy. My breasts are so small I don’t need one.” She hesitated, as if trying to decide whether to say something. Then she said, in an even more little-girlish tone, “Do I?” 

“No, sweetheart, you don’t. And you certainly won’t wear one with your pinafore. Go ahead and take your jeans off, now. Leave your panties on for a moment so daddy can see what kind of panties you wear.” 

Darla chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment. “I’m not wearing panties, daddy,” she confessed. 

“Darla!” Mike said, genuinely—if slightly—shocked. “Don’t you know better than that? Little girls who don’t wear their panties need to learn some important lessons about taking care of their bodies.” 

“I packed all the clean ones in my bag before I got dressed, and I didn’t want to take any of them out.” Her mouth twisted adorably to the side. 

“Well, since you weren’t in my custody when you got dressed, I can’t spank you for it—plus you’ve got one coming anyway for the disobedience—but we’ll discuss this at tomorrow’s inspection. I can promise you that if you go without your underwear while you’re with me, whether you’re wearing grownup clothes or little-girl clothes, you’ll have trouble sitting down for a day or two.” 

“What about at night?” she asked, obviously curious all of a sudden. 

“No panties under your nighty, of course,” Mike said. “But I need to tell you right away that I believe naughty little girls shouldn’t touch their pussies unless their daddies give them permission, as a reward for good behavior.”

Pound me in the butt, Paladin Danse!

(With apologies to the amazing Dr. Chuck Tingle.)

I'm going to start blogging again on a weekly basis. I'm taking the blog out of mothballs both because I feel like I should have a way to communicate with my readers regularly in a longer form than social media posts permit and because I think it will be fun to write some short things that start from something relatively serious (or at least non-erotic) and work their way to something hot.

I feel like I more or less completed the story of the "real" Emily – you know, if you happened to be a reader of this blog in the past, the one in italics – and so the perspective I adopt going forward will be that of the ultra dirty d/S authoress you know from my more recent books, like A Legacy of Dominance.

For this post I'm going to share something even more shameful than my fantasies of anal submission: I play video games.

I hope that if you've been able to forgive me for all the stuff about diapers and flogging you'll be able to forgive me for my obsession with Fallout 4. In any case, what I want to share with you today is my growing affection for and lust after a member of the Brotherhood of Steel named Paladin Danse. Paladin Danse has taken me under his wing and sponsored me for full membership in the Brotherhood of Steel, which came with a magnificently-beaten-up set of power armor.

Now, though, all I wish is that Danse would pull down the metal panties that must be part of the power armor (even though of course prudish Bethesda Software refuses to put them in my inventory) and give me an old-fashioned pre-apocalypse over-the-knee spanking the next time I inadvertently hit him with a Molotov cocktail. There are so many bombed-out offices in the wasteland of the Commonwealth (the post-nuclear setting based on metro-Boston of the game) and in every one of them there is a desk that Paladin Danse could lay me over after he's spanked my naughty bottom red and, gruffly informing me that it's necessary to my initiation as a sister of the Brotherhood of Steel, enter me switfly and fuck me as only a man in power armor can do.

Just a thought.

Another reason to write a weekly post is of course that I can tell you what I'm working on. Currently that's the seventh (or the sixth if you don't count A Punishment Exam for Jane) book of the Institute series, tentatively called Thoroughly Trained. It has a slightly more futuristic setting than past books of the series and it concerns what can happen to a girl whose data-profile shows that she is a repressed submissive, if she lives under a regime controlled almost entirely by corporations bent on making a profit from their data-analysis – especially if one of those corporations is a spinoff of the Institute.

Among other things, unlike in past days when the Institute had to wait for girls to discover that they needed the sort of consensual nonconsent that only the Institute could provide, in the new world of corporate big data girls like Anna Greenway may be taken directly to a trainer's apartment and deflowered, and all of it perfectly legal under the corporate acts of 2045 thanks to the Institute's stunning – if secret – track record of giving submissive girls exactly what they need, even if they can't admit it until after the fact.

Also, I might as well mention my new book, Assigned a Daddy.

After eighteen-year-old Darla Hawkins is caught shoplifting, she is sentenced to spend six months in the custody of former marine colonel Mike Beckwith, who will act as her daddy and disciplinarian during that time. Mike is more than ready to be as firm as necessary, and when Darla doesn’t obey him promptly during their first meeting he wastes no time in baring her bottom, pulling her over his knee, and spanking her until she’s a very sorry little girl.

Darla quickly discovers that a spanking is far from the most humiliating punishment Mike is prepared to employ when she fails to do as she is told, and before long she has lost the privilege of wearing big girl panties. Her daddy putting her in diapers is more embarrassing than anything she has ever imagined, yet to her shame it also leaves her intensely aroused. Her shame only increases when Mike decides that some very special training is required to deal with her repeated disobedience, and she soon learns that even her most intimate places belong to her daddy.

Though his disciplinary techniques frequently leave her with blushing cheeks and a sore bottom, Mike’s caring guidance and loving attention help Darla blossom in a way she never could have before, and she grows closer to him with each passing day. But will she be left on her own when her sentence is completed, or will her daddy find a way to keep his little girl at his side forever?