I'm loath to post about this, but I really, you know, want people to like me. This book, Emily's Best Friend, which is very, very naughty but also very dear to my heart, is free today in honor of its (hee hee) sister-volume, Emily's Sister-Wife.
If you do download it and read it, please review it, too!
Gratefully,
Em
EDIT: Due to popular demand (well, not really--just because I don't want people to come across this post tomorrow and not be able to get the book free), I've extended the free-ness through Friday 7/5!
I've always intended that this blog should be a place not just to talk about the "realities" behind the stories of EXPLORATIONS, but also about the--let's call them--"actualities" behind those "realities." There are questions that press themselves upon me every time I sit down to write, and every time I give in to temptation, in the face of a picture, or a story, and let my fingers find their way down past the waistband of my panties to the place that always seems to be waiting for them.
Why am I--the actual I--aroused by nothing as much as I'm aroused by the drama of Dominance and submission? Why do I want to be spanked, caned, whipped, anally-ravished?
Or, if the "Why?" has no answer other than "because I was born this way," then the "How?" of "How can I best live a good life given that I'm born this way?"
Given that I'm born this way.
Add to that given some other givens, and things begin to take their complicated shape:
Given that sex feels good.
Given that real life isn't like Story of O. Or a porn video.
Given that hurting other people, in real life, is bad.
Given that getting off while thinking about someone being hurt, including yourself, seems to contradict the principle that hurting people is bad, since (doesn't it seem?) what is a fantasy except a wish for something to happen in the real world?
It's likely that there's another, actual, "I" behind this italicized "real" I. It's likely that that I is much less free than "I" am to express herself erotically. If so, the question presses itself upon that "Emily" even more urgently than it does upon me; after all, I have Charles to play with--this other, hypothetically-actual "Emily" has only her fingers and whatever toys and erotic materials she can hide from her vanilla spouse to supplement her imagination and her keyboard. . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.
How it really happened was like this.
EMILY: Ugh. These whitepapers are just killing me. I may be losing my love of writing.
CHARLES: Hmm. Sounds like you need to do some fun writing, for variety.
EMILY: (gets a notion and arches her eyebrow) Like what?
CHARLES: (catching on, up for it) Like the salacious story you should have written for me a long time ago.
EMILY: I'm sorry, Sir, I don't know what story you mean.
CHARLES: My goodness, Emily. Surely it should go without saying that you are to devote your skills to my needs. You write very well, and I like to read salacious stories. So write one for me, right now, or prepare yourself for a spanking. . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.
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." . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.
So probably the next thing worth mentioning is the shape of our early married lives, after I'd graduated and Charles had started teaching again, and we'd moved, yes, back to Greenwich. These were the days of the drawer, as depicted in Emily, Ravished by Porn. They soon also became the days of my own first erotic writings.
I had decided not to try for a corporate job; my goal was to work for a foundation that gave grants to human rights NGO's, and Greenwich was a practically ideal place to start looking, in addition to being a place where I now had a great many wealthy contacts through my new parents-in-law.
I was at home writing white-paperish sorts of things just to have something to say at any interview I might get. I refused to go shopping (really shopping, I mean: clothes, shoes, furniture) more than once a week, though Charles was always telling me that I was being ridiculous and depriving myself of enjoyment for no reason. Commanding me to go shopping, under penalty of the paddle, was outside his brief, though, as master. . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.
(I don't usually do this, but this one works best if you begin at the beginning, here. Then read this, this, this, this, and this--and then come back for the finale! I realize it's vain, but this post is the end of a sequence, and I want you, dear reader, to have all the hotness.)
"Get that ass up, girl," my husband said, in his most dominant tone, the voice that seems to work a wire running straight from my ears to my pussy. Of course, tied as I was, I couldn't obey him the way I usually did in bed at home, but that was the point--my master was giving me a command he knew I couldn't obey. He yanked my hips up, roughly, and rearranged the pillows under me, to get my bottom to the angle at which he liked to fuck it. "Don't you dare rub that slutty cunt against these pillows, wife," he growled. "Don't think that there won't be time between your butt-fuckings for some good old-fashioned domestic discipline, if you need it." . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.
I'm sorely tempted to do a Princess Bride thing here: "In the history of the world, there have been many great butt-fuckings, but this butt-fucking surpassed them all."
It was indeed unique in our experience because of the leisurely way he went about it. Having me tied to the bed seemed to give Charles a certain freedom to take his time. To my surprise, this freedom resulted in a great deal of attention being paid to arousing me--not, it turned out, for my benefit, but for his own; even better, according to the paradox of submission.
He nuzzled my pussy where it lay, tied over the pillows, his to enjoy. He tormented me with pleasure. He knew my body's language so well now that I had no chance of sneaking an orgasm by him: when he felt my thighs start to clench the way they always do, he suddenly stopped, and drew back his head. . . .
For more about the "real" me, read the Companion! You'll find the rest of this post (and it's hot, I promise!) there.
