The one with the Navy SEAL: Under His Watch

Just out!

Charity Phillips is not one to shy away from trouble, and the twenty-two-year-old activist makes powerful enemies when she shoots a film exposing the effects of a mining operation on priceless archaeological sites. After she receives a death threat, her anxious father informs Charity that if she wants his continued financial support she will have to get used to living under the protection of a full-time bodyguard, former Navy SEAL Ryan Bedford. 

She grudgingly agrees to Ryan’s presence in her home, but matters quickly come to a head when Charity goes out for drinks without notifying Ryan of her whereabouts. To her shock, upon returning home Charity soon finds herself bent her over her own couch for a long, hard, bare-bottom spanking. Enraged and also horrified that a part of her was excited by his punishment, Charity tells Ryan she never wants to see him again. 

The danger suddenly feels much more real when her computer is hacked and she receives another death threat, however. She begs Ryan to return, though she knows it will mean submitting to both his rules and his discipline, and when Ryan takes Charity into his arms after a sound spanking she cannot help craving not only his protection but his dominance as well. But can Ryan truly keep Charity safe from those who would do anything to silence her? 


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

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A thrashing to prove himself #SatSpanks

There's nothing more Victorian than a good thrashing, is there?

“And Dr. Fairleigh will supervise your observation,” said Mr. Vance. “He will thrash you if you do not pay close attention, for that is his duty here. In fact, I think we had better make sure he thrashes girls thoroughly right away. Dr. Fairleigh will thrash Mary before we fuck her.”

“Charles!” Miss Charlotte cried. “Sir Gerald said that if Mary went willingly to the divan, she would not be thrashed! Anne and I promised her!”


“Very well,” said Mr. Vance. “It shall be you whom our new friend thrashes, Charlotte.”

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Porn for each other: EXPLORATIONS files

I'm re-running the stories that serve as deep background for EXPLORATIONS. The story continues from this post, last week.
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That summer of anal love was also our most intense time of porn-watching. In EXPLORATIONS I mention the Eastern European spanking videos, but they were just the tip of the iceberg. If it had "anal" in the title, we watched it. If it had "school" in the title, we watched it. Among other things, we decided we would identify a canon of porn (being good lit majors) and watch all of it. I don't know how much older porn you've watched, reader, but it's really pretty remarkable how much porn has changed over the years. Boogie Nights only covers the broadest aspect of this change. The Mitchell Brothers stuff retains some of its hotness, to be sure, but the attempts to make things like The Devil in Miss Jones and Behind the Green Door profound are really kind of embarrassing in the modern context.

Also, I know all the arguments about how porn used to be so feminist and now it's so misogynistic, but when you compare, say, Emmanuelle to any fairly-well-produced amateur video these days, there's a truly astounding hotness differential in favor of the amateurs that's rather hard to explain without saying either that tastes in porn change as fast as tastes in comedy, if not faster, or that people got better at putting sex on film with the intent to get other people off. And as a girl who's elected to shave for D/s reasons (that is, baldly put [as it were], for reasons of hotness), I understand what old-guard feminists and their devotees are saying about shaving, but, come on. Porn is about hotness; it doesn't claim to be doing anything else. If you can't see why a shaved pussy is hotter than a shaggy one, you're unconventional, blind, or lying. Plus, as I'm pretty sure I'll go into in a future book of EXPLORATIONS, female genital depilation is attested on ancient Greek vases, for goodness' sake, not to mention the work of Blessed Pauline Réage.

Anyway. Watching porn with someone you love, who shares your kinks, is fun. As I note in Emily, Ravished by Porn, we tried to synchronize sex to what we were watching a couple of times, but that never worked well. What worked was both of us masturbating, and watching each other masturbate. 
Sometimes I'd formally request permission to touch myself; that could be diverting, because Charles would generally deny permission, and make me wear my collar and cuffs and watch him jerking off, my pussy aching with the need to be touched as I desperately squeezed my thighs together; then he'd suddenly get on his knees at the beginning of some terrible caning scene and take my own knees on his shoulders so that I was fully served up for his lips and tongue, and say, "Don't take your eyes off the screen," and go down on me until my screams mingled with the screams of the poor victim in the video. 

More often we'd put the BDSM structure aside and just sit there on the couch next to each other, jerking off. It wasn't elaborate, but I have to say it was the best. Watching Charles give himself an orgasm--watching him trust me so much that he let me watch him giving himself an orgasm--will always be in my top five list of things I want to see in my mind's eye when they ring my curtain down.
As a thinking submissive who's been consuming erotica and porn and everything in between since the age of thirteen, it's occurred to me many times that there's an inherent D/s dialectic in the production and consumption of erotic material--visual erotic material above all. In particular, having had some training in film theory in my lit days, visual porn confirms for me beyond a shadow of a doubt that at least for a girl raised in Western culture, the gaze is gendered male. As a submissive, lucky me: one of my unfailing turn-ons is watching myself play with myself in a mirror, as if it were a video.
I know I get monotonous about Story of O, but if you want to see what I mean, there's no better passage to cite than the moment when O, being prepared for her first use at Roissy, catches sight of herself in the doubled mirrors that render her infinitely submissive to the eyes, and cocks, of her masters.

Watching porn with Charles, then, is like a perfect self-contained BDSM scene: sitting on the couch watching girls get fucked and spanked and watching Charles jerk off as he watches, too, is Charles saying to me "You need fucking and spanking, too, you bad girl, and you're going to get it, just like those bad girls on the screen."

Visually inspired: a new Justine

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

Gerard leaned back in the recliner and started the book from where he had left off, in the middle of his favorite part of Justine, where the heroine is introduced, with the utmost rigor, to life in the monastery. It was especially piquant because his own Justine, freshly spanked, waited holding his ashtray, dressed as he liked her best to be dressed--that is, only in her stockings--next to his chair.

He thought of the spanking he had just administered to her: how he had informed her that he did not find her submission adequate that evening and that she would have to pay a severe penalty to teach her to be more serviceable to him; how he had instructed her to fetch his paddle, and to kiss it and give it to him; how he had made her bend over the punishment bench and strapped her to it; how her lovely pink and white bottom had bounded under the paddle as it grew redder and redder.

He looked up from the page of Sade and over at her. He could see the desire in her eyes, as she held the ashtray perfectly still, at the same time involuntarily presenting her pretty little breasts with their pink nipples to his view and, should he wish, for his use.

"I need to spank you more often, I think," he said.

"Yes, sir," said his Justine.

The brightest star in Hollywood, in need of a spanking: what Emily is up to

The book I just started involves the implosion of an Oscar-winner's career when a photo is hacked from her phone, and the independent director who helps her find her feet again.

The picture, hacked from her phone, showed Hollywood's brightest young star masturbating in front of her bathroom mirror. It was the most arousing thing Michael had ever seen. Though of course he felt terribly guilty, he could not help jerking off to it himself, just as he knew millions of other men must be.

In the picture, Kirsten's crystalline blue eyes were closed, and her long, beautiful hair hung down loosely around her face. She had caught her lower lip between her teeth, and her brow was furrowed in her arousal. Down below, she had lowered a pair of lacy white panties to the middle of her thighs, and she had run the middle finger of her left hand just inside the pink secrets of her--it made Michael gulp every time he looked--fully waxed pussy.

Her right hand held the phone, next to her perfect little breasts with the pink strawberry nipples that had only been seen on film once, for a brief moment in a shower scene in Dead Right, before she had the negotiating power to dispense with such things. Her left arm, thrust straight down so that she could reach her naughty pussy (how could Michael think of it any other way?), pushed her left breast up a little, as if offering it to the mirror, the camera, and to Michael.

Nude photos were one thing, it appeared. Masturbation photos, however, seemed to be quite a different thing for Hollywood. A half-hearted attempt was made by Kirsten's agent to claim that the photo was a composite, but that merely spurred the anonymous hackers to publish an analysis that demonstrated to the satisfaction of the knowledgeable that the photo was absolutely real.


And a masturbation photo of the girl who was about to go into the recording studio to voice the next Disney princess seemed to be the worst sin in the history of the film industry. In a span of two weeks, Kirsten lost her agent, her next three films, and--Michael estimated--something in the neighborhood of twenty million dollars of income that she had undoubtedly been banking on, literally.

Tentatively titled Directing Kirsten. 

What Joe really wants in a bride #Taboo2sday

The whole story so far can be found here.

So Lori-Anne tried full-figure dress after full-figured dress. She thought she looked lovely in most of them, but when she shyly turned to Kay, she found that her mentor--her trainer, really, in the ways of being Joe's perfect bride--still wore a dissatisfied look. All Lori-Anne wanted was to find a gown so that they could move on to looking for the part of the bridal ensemble that made her heart stop every time she imagined herself wearing it: the veil.

Finally, when Lori-Anne had begun to cry after Kay rejected the third dress about which Lori-Anne had said, "Don't I look beautiful?" Kay gave her a stern look.

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing, Lori-Anne," she said.

"What am I doing?" Lori-Anne replied, thunder-struck.

"You're pretending you don't understand what Joe's really interested in, when it comes to how you look on your wedding-day. You think you're going to be a princess all in white, when what you'll really be is my brother's little whore."

Visit another Taboo Tuesday post, from my friend and colleague Joelle Casteel.

On the necessity of men’s exercising their masculine rights in erotic matters: Innocence Examined

I know I always say this, but I mean it a little more this time around: I loved writing this book.

Vance took a puff of his cigar and said to Sir Gerald, “And yet you still think of marrying her to some dolt? You are far too soft-hearted, Carruthers. We must bring Caroline with us to the Hebrides and share her between us. I promise you that Brown will tell you the same. She is ready for fucking, and if you do not pluck that maiden flower, I cannot answer for my own conduct. You cannot tell me that you do not long to have your cock deep in that pretty bottom you birched the other day.”

They were sitting in the smoking room of their club, after an excellent dinner.

“Vance,” remonstrated Sir Gerald mildly. “You mustn’t say such things here at the club. Really you mustn’t say them at all.”

Vance laughed uproariously. “You know you love to hear them, whether here or elsewhere. I find it a positive moral failing in you that you refuse to say them yourself before you are thoroughly drunk, though I know you think them, for I cannot think of a sport I have proposed with the girls that you have not eagerly entered into. A natural man, as Brown calls us, must be able to say sober that which he says drunk, above all if the matter touches the pleasures to be had from his mistress.”

Sir Gerald colored noticeably at that, his blue eyes flashing, and Vance thanked the heavens, as he often did, that his own darker coloring did not betray his emotions as obviously as Sir Gerald’s fair complexion, despite the bit of envy Vance still held for Sir Gerald’s golden locks. He decided the opportunity lay too fairly in his way to prevent him pursuing it. He said, “When we fucked our pieces side by side over the back of the sofa last week, and made them kiss as we did so, did you balk at the proposal? Or at the deed?”

“Vance, that is beside the point.”

“The point,” Vance chuckled. “No, I think the points were beside one another, actually.”

“I will not listen to any more of this, no matter what that essay of Brown’s says, or you say,” Sir Gerald said, without making the slightest gesture that indicated he might in fact move his compact, wiry frame from the depths of the well-stuffed leather chair.

“You love to act the prude, Carruthers, but you must remember that you and I are part of the same fraternity: Dr. Brown’s fraternity of natural men. You may require a few more glasses of claret than I do to speak this way, but—to lay another example before your eyes—when I told Charlotte and Anne to suck your prick together, this past Saturday, if I am not mistaken, you said, ‘Yes, you bad girls, come hither and do as Charles says,’ or something very much of that nature.”

Vance watched Carruthers shift a little uncomfortably, and felt the left side of his mouth curling up in a wry smile. He knew his friend well enough to be sure that Sir Gerald’s cock currently stood as stiff as a guardsman in his trousers. Vance had produced the effect he wanted—the frame of mind in Sir Gerald that would allow him to further his designs.

Charles Vance was not really a bad man. He merely lived according to his firm conviction that when a gentleman finds himself placed in a situation where he may acquire for himself the means to get those pleasures for which his flesh cries out, he is entitled, as a gentleman, to acquire them. Dr. Reginald Brown’s essay, On the necessity of men’s exercising their masculine rights in erotic matters, and the man himself, had proven quite helpful in persuading Sir Gerald to set up their household in such a way as to maintain Vance’s enjoyment of those pleasures, and as to promise very much more when they removed northward—but really Brown had only confirmed Vance in philosophical ideas about his amorous pursuits that he had developed quite independently.


Charlotte Dalrymple—lovely, brown-haired, green-eyed Charlotte Dalrymple, seduced at eighteen from the bosom of her family by the sort of stratagem that Vance found ridiculously simple to put into motion—served very well indeed as one of those means. As, truly, her breasts, her mouth, her cunt, and her bottom served, when Vance felt, as he very often felt, the need to relieve himself of some of the voluptuous tension that had characterized his life from as early an age as he could remember.

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