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Here's something I wrote for Charles just a year or so ago (as opposed to most of EXPLORATIONS, which originates from material first drafted ten years ago, in the year after we got married). As with many of the texts of EXPLORATIONS, it was written as an extra "punishment" that arose out of one of our spanking scenes.The kids were in bed on a Saturday night, and I was on my laptop at the kitchen table looking at my Fetlife.com feed (link goes to my Fetlife profile--feel free to befriend me!). I saw a beautiful picture of a very large cock. Charles and I play a sort of game in which he monitors my Fetlife activity for spankable offenses. Loving (the Fetlife equivalent of "Liking" on Facebook) pictures of cocks is just about my easiest way to a spanking. If I want a severe one, I make a comment, like the one I made that night, on this picture: "Can I come over?" (Reader, I don't know if you've spent much time on Fetlife, but, if not, I should probably mention that writing "Can I come over?" as a comment on a picture of some random guy's cock is like saying "How are you?" on someone's Facebook status about the weather.)
I glanced over to where Charles was sitting watching the Yankees, with his own laptop open in front of him on the coffee-table. I watched him glance at the screen, then click. Loving him more each second, I saw him smile, and shake his head slightly, and then type.
I looked at my own screen, and read the message that had just arrived: "You are in serious trouble." Some of my favorite words in the universe. He looked over at me, and I did my best schoolgirl quail, hunching my shoulders a bit and lowering my eyes to the carpet. When I looked up, he was pointing to the door of his office (soundproofed vis-à-vis the kids' rooms).
Five minutes later I was in there over the arm of the couch with my pajama pants around my ankles, yelping as my leather paddle struck my bottom. "Five!" I said. "I'm so sorry, sir."
"Not sorry enough, apparently. I can see how wet that picture got you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"I am, sir! Ow! Six!"
"Can you come over?"
"Ah! Seven!"
"I have a mind to have you write, 'Sorry I can't come over because I just got spanked by my husband, and now I'm going to be cuffed to my bed and punished anally all night, so by the morning my perspective on your cock will be quite different, since I will have realized that my husband's cock is the only one I should be loving'!"
"Eight! Nine! Owww! Ten!"
Neither of us remarked on the fact that if the intent was to humiliate me, posting that on Fetlife was probably not the best way to do it, since I would undoubtedly receive dozens, perhaps hundreds, of congratulatory messages. But the thought of what it would be like if I had to put such a message up on any normal social media site got us both going.
"Oh, please, sir--ah! Eleven!" He was laying them on very hard, and my bottom was really stinging now.
"Actually, though. . ."
"Twelve. . ." He stopped at this sacred number. I made some of my little whimpers, hoping to interest him in taking advantage of my spread knees to enjoy me with his own lovely cock. Instead, I heard him open a drawer, and turned my head to try to see what he was getting.
"Face to the cushion, sweetheart," he said, and I obeyed, blushing at the shame of knowing what I was about to undergo.
The snap of the lube bottle. The cool of it on his fingers, ungentle with my bottom tonight, and then on the big plug--the one I think of as the punishment plug, and always feel my pulse increase when I so name it to myself.
And then his voice, "I think I want a story, Emily."
"Um, wh--what kind of. . . oh, no, not so--ow."
"I want a story about a wife who saw a picture of another man's cock, and loved it too much, and paid the penalty. If it's a good story, I may reward you." He gave me, as he usually does, a tiny, tantalizing indication of what sort of reward he meant.
Here's the story I told, refined into one of my EXPLORATIONS. Some exposition: Prophettown is a polygamous pseudo-religious BDSM community; it turns out that my avatar fantasy-Emily (that's who's talking in the first paragraph Roman type below) is descended from the people (Emily Orn Wilkes, who's talking for the rest of the story, after that first paragraph, and her husband Edmund) who founded Prophettown, for reasons and by processes as yet unknown.
When I was in Prophettown visiting Sarah, I spent a great deal of time in the public library archives, where they keep the earliest records of the community. I wanted of course to learn everything I could about my great-great-grandmother's relationship to the place, and though the nature of Prophettown meant that many of the origins of the community were purposely obscured so as to hide it from authorities who might meddle (and, in the early days, would almost certainly have shut it down and confiscated the enormous sums of money allocated to its foundation and maintenance), I did come across one precious document, written in my ancestress' own hand, that seemed to give the essence of the matter.
The American project, now called Prophettown, began in a punishment my husband Edmund Wilkes, now the Earl of Wessulk, meted out to me for a minor indiscretion I committed in the gallery of Lord F---- at Castle L----. That gallery had some very fine paintings, many of them commissioned secretly from the greatest painters of Europe, and I was particularly enchanted by a series of scenes from Greek myth, and above all by a large canvas by none other than Raphael depicting Jove coming to Semele in his panoply.
Raphael, I thought, must have had the same thoughts I blush to confess to having had about the erotic meaning of the story, viz. that the lightning-bolt that slays the girl must be that of Jove's loins, the one which he uses upon Juno so infrequently, but upon other, minor, goddesses with, apparently, very great frequency, for in this painting, Jove, stiffly ready to give Semele what she has so foolishly requested, is endowed far beyond mortal men. He is so greatly endowed, and so stiffly ready, that I feared for my tender cleft just gazing at the deity uncovered in the painting. Well I could imagine that Jove would slay poor Semele with that mighty sceptre, and, to the immediate detriment of my posterior (for Edmund was fond of summary chastisement in public) but also to the lasting benefit, I hope, of the people of Prophettown, I whispered, with a giggle, to Lady F----, "I wouldn't mind dying so much, if that yard were fucking me."
Edmund was closer behind me than I thought, as we stood and gazed at the painting. He called to a footman, "You there--would you be so good as to summon Lady Wessulk's lady's maid? Please tell her to bring her ladyship's chastiser to me."
(Think leather paddle.)
"Oh, Edmund, no!" I said.
Lord F---- laughed. To another footman, he said, "Joseph, bring the block, please."
The block was set in the middle of the gallery, and I was made to kneel upon it, and over it, as Jenkins, at Edmund's command, lifted my skirts and pinned them up. I was never permitted drawers in those days, but I was in my aide-mari--that thin strip of silk and lace that tightly bound my charms front and back, but had clasps at my waist, the right one of which Edmund proceeded to unfasten. Bare-bottomed public chastisement was a staple of the great drama, but I never became inured to its humiliation: to know that the servants of Castle L----, as well as Lord F----, had seen the shameful aide-mari, and now were watching my husband pull it down my left thigh, to hang uselessly at my knee, made the blood rush to my face even as I felt the still more humiliating wetness begin in my loins. Now, I knew, they were admiring my charms bare of covering and framed by my stockings and my petticoats.
"I have half a mind, Emily," Edmund said in his firmest tone, "to ask Lord F---- to fetch his largest punishment dildo, so that your punishment will truly fit your crime, and you will feel how Semele was rewarded for her lack of faith in the father of the gods."
"Oh. . . please. . ."
Abruptly, he began to spank me with the chastiser. In a mirror at the end of the gallery I could see him standing at my side as I lay over the block, his left hand upon my waist and his right swinging the chastiser vigorously, over and over. I could not see my bottom, but I could imagine it squirming and quivering, and growing redder and redder.
"Whose yard is the lord of your person, Emily?" he asked, not stopping the spanking, which was becoming exquisitely painful, as he was with his practised hand repeatedly finding the same spots.
"Yours, sir," I sobbed.
"Whose yard is the only one Lady Wessulk should want to be fucked by?"
"Lord Wessulk's, sir. Oh, Edmund, please stop!"
"Who is your Jove, Emily?"
He answered that himself, ceasing to paddle me, lowering his britches, and possessing me right there, in front of my best friend and her cruel husband and their servants, while I cried out in shame and discomfort.
"John," he said conversationally as he continued to thrust into my immodestly lubricious private part, "don't you think that the life of Jove has a great deal to recommend it?"
"Indeed," said Lord F----. "What man of the drama wouldn't rather fuck a harem of nymphs than a single wife?"
Edmund spent then, holding my punished bottom tight against his hips as he shot his essence into my well-plowed furrow, and leaving me, of course, unrelieved of my own amorous arousal.
"You will remain there, wife, for an hour, on display, as a lesson in modesty both to yourself and to others," he said.
"No, Lord Wessulk, you mustn't!" said Lady F----. "That's simply too shameful!"
"Do you want to be next to her, Susan?" asked Lord F---- sharply. "I can have Halton cane you, if you like."
Poor Susan--she would have endured any beating if only her husband were giving it--but he refused to have anything to do with her of an amorous nature except to take her once a week in the matrimonial position, for the purpose of getting an heir. It was torture for her of a completely different kind to the cane's, for her nature was as submissive as mine, and she longed for the sorts of punishment and amorous ordeals I underwent on a daily basis at Edmund's hands (and other features).
I think she probably would have taken the caning out of fellow-feeling with me, but I said, "No, Susan, you mustn't."
Strangely enough, that was when the idea of Prophettown struck me. What, I thought, if Susan and I were both married to Edmund? Does not Plato recommend holding wives in common? Is the custom not honored throughout the world, and even accepted in the Old Testament? Had not Edmund just said that men wish to have the harem of Jove?
After I was allowed to rise, I said to my husband, "Edmund, dear, I've just had an idea for something we might do with the land you bought in that new American state. . ."
Question: How do you think Charles rewarded me for my story?
Check out The First Notebook of Emily Orn Wilkes, Secret Countess of Wessulk, if you like the Victorian stuff, and the rest of my books if you like the modern stuff too!
Read all the Spank or Treat stories, and answer the questions for a chance to win fabulous prizes!
