(This analysis concerns yesterday's story.)
Is it the pillows, or the cane-welts? Or the lingerie? Or the bed?
No: it's the cane itself, of course, caught as it actually is inflicting punishment on her bottom.
Directly after the arresting sight of the bottom in mid-chastisement, though, comes for me the bed and the domestic setting: pillows, coverlet, her clothing (or lack of it!) and jewelry. Transferring the ultimate schoolroom implement to the bedroom and putting the chastised female body into nice party-level underwear (bra, garter-belt, stockings) says to me that the husband (as I can't help thinking of the unseen cane-wielder) holding the cane feels the need to teach a lesson.
I think for me the cane is always for teaching a lesson: that's where the lovely marks on her bottom come in, and make me think of my unquenchable arousal at so many pictures and prose depictions of young women contemplating their crimes as they lie in bed, feeling the cane's terrible work on their posteriors, gently rubbing the stripes made by the firm guiding hand of authority. Always, of course, these young women are ashamed of how aroused they become as they think about their canings; almost always, they find themselves unable to refrain from repeating their lewd activities even as they still feel the smart of the retribution those activities called down.
Last, the position of the arms speaks eloquently of a girl's need to rub, but of the the stern measures that she knows will be taken if she tries: the tension of her arms resonates with the tension that flows through the entire scene. Somehow the way her arms are shaped tells you that her feet are kicking, too. Such helpless efforts in the face of painful, shameful discipline only further charm the viewer--for of course she will take her punishment, no matter how she kicks.
(See here for an explanation of this series.)
"Think about why you're here, Clara, being caned over your bed, and ask for the next stroke across your disobedient rump!" He tapped, the way he always did, to let her know that another terrible stripe was coming, as soon as she requested it.
She sobbed, and said, "Please, John, cane my bare bottom."
He did, and she cried out in pain, and said, "Four! Thank you, John! Oh. . ." She tried desperately to keep from reaching back to rub: she knew from experience that that would just get her hands caned, too.
"You are here because, as far as I can tell, you need a lasting reminder that calling to say you'll be home late is NOT OPTIONAL." He tapped. "Ask for it, Clara."
"Oh, John, please. . ."
He caned her. "Ahhhhh! John!"
"That one didn't count, as you know. Ask for it!"
"How many are. . ." The cane struck her bottom again, and then again. She cried out in terror and pain.
"Ask for it."
"Please, John, cane my bare bottom!"
"Very well," he said, and did, with the most force yet. "Five! Thank you, John!" Clara's tears were dripping down onto the bedclothes as she wept in shame and discomfort.
"Is this really the way you wanted your night out with the girls to end, Clara?"
"No!"
"Did you want to have to take off your party dress and put the pillows on the bed?"
"No! John, please. . . I'm so sorry. . ."
"Did you want to have to lie over the pillows in your underwear and ask for the cane?"
Clara decided, on a whim, just to be truthful. She said, "Yes! Please, John, cane my bare bottom again!"
He laughed, and gave her what she wanted.
(We're continuing from here.)
"But it was only a little thing about verb aspect, Sir!" I said, giving him the green light for the cane.
"You mistake my meaning, Miss Tilton. Your punishment has nothing to do with the verb and everything to do with your attitude. You are now to receive six of the best for talking back to a master."
"Glug." Six of the best. Such a stupid little phrase, and yet so powerful, through constant, eternal repetition.
"And. . ." he paused, dramatically, and I thought again of the other possibilities. "You will of course have to be examined beforehand to ensure that your chastisement will have its intended effect."
Yes. Yes. He was thinking of Aphrodizzia, and the whole scene flooded back into my memory. Her name was Claudia; she was German; that silly headmaster character who worked despite his basic silliness arraigned her on charges of wearing a racy bathing suit (so stupid, but whatever), after he had taken pictures of her on the beach; he made her confess to masturbating (oh my gosh that's just like me); then he gagged her with that other girl's panties while he caned her; but that was after he had fucked her little pussy and then her little bottom, telling her that it was the speculum, and the thermometer, that he was using to test her readiness for punishment.
(Having actually experienced anal, now, I knew that the terrible schoolmaster just sticking the "thermometer" in there was unrealistic, to say the least, but my fourteen-year-old self was sure that if a master [of any kind] wanted to put his penis in your bottom, it would go into your bottom just as easily as the real thermometers that made me feel funny in a lovely way I knew I wasn't supposed to feel funny, and then you would, at last, feel the way you were supposed to feel: mastered, taken, possessed, submissive, etc., and your bottom would finally know what it was for.)
"Did I not specify that your underwear was to be down, Miss Tilton?"
"You did, Sir."
"Well, that's another stroke, then, as apparently I have to do it for you." He flipped up the back of my kilt, with his left hand, and grasped the waistband of my panties with his right. He gave them an angry tug downward, then with both hands pulled them down to mid-thigh.
"I see you are experienced enough with schoolroom discipline to have spread your legs properly, Miss Tilton. That's helpful, at least, because it will facilitate my examination of the area to be chastised." At those words, my Latin-master placed his hand on the area to which he had made reference, making me gasp.
"I find, Miss Tilton, even at the most cursory inspection, that all is not as it should be here."
"Sir?"
"There seems to be a good deal of moisture in this area, in particular."
"Ah! Um, I am. . . sorry, Sir. Oh, no, Sir, please!" My Latin-master had begun shamelessly to finger me.
"No, Miss Tilton. I'm afraid this is absolutely necessary. We simply cannot permit you to be caned in this state. What I am doing, now, unorthodox as it is, is our only recourse." What he was doing now was fucking me. My Latin-master was fucking me over his desk. Emily Tilton was getting a fucking in school, the way I had used to imagine it, with the other girls outside wondering what was going on, and Emily Tilton trying so hard to be silent, but forced by the sheer power of her teacher's cock to make little stifled sounds that the girls outside could almost certainly hear. Emily was a very, very bad girl, because her teacher's cock was fucking her, right there in the schoolroom, over the desk.
(If you like this ongoing narrative, I hope you'll start at the beginning, with the Companion, Volume 1! Buy it here!)
Here's one of my favorite moments from the "real" story that's now available neatly organized with a pretty cover in EXPLORATIONS: A Companion to the Series, Volume 1. I've always had very, very naughty thoughts in church; if I'm honest, it's one of the reasons I've stuck with it over all this time: I feel like any place where my BDSM-nature is called out so thoroughly has to be interesting.
It's probably fair to say, though, that this fantasy topped them all:
During our wedding--specifically while the choir was singing the Sanctus--I imagined that instead of the Eucharist, my ass would be the sacrifice for that nuptial liturgy. Charles would lead me to the altar (which is really, in most churches, including that one, the perfect height, though late medieval and renaissance traditional altars set into a reredos would be too narrow to lay even the most petite bride over), and I would gracefully drape myself over it, stretching my arms out so that the priest could bind my wrists together and tie them to the ring set in the stone paving hundreds of years before for just this purpose. (Reader, I suppose you never spent long parts of Sunday mornings wondering what all the little fixtures in an old church are for. More's the pity, but I can assure you that a ring for putting brides in bondage wouldn't look out of place.)
Here's the blurb!
It was a look of appraisal; I don't think there's another way to put it. Charles Smith appraised me as a possible anal-submissive, and I felt searched out and known as I never, ever had before.
This companion, drawn from Emily's blog, tells the story of her early relationship with her husband Charles, and of the way she came to write the first version of the Explorations series. Please note that most of the content of this book has appeared on the blog, though it is no longer available there.
This companion to EXPLORATIONS contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, spanking, anal. It's intended for over-18 audiences who, like me, are interested in exploring the lines between pleasure and pain, dominance and submission, and fantasy and reality. All characters depicted are consenting adults.
This week I'll be releasing A Companion to EXPLORATIONS, Part 1. It's a compilation of the story I've been telling here on the blog for the last eight months, of my early relationship with Charles and how I came to write the series of books I called EXPLORATIONS. This snippet comes from the story of our first fight, and its aftermath. You may find it a little contentious--I'd be grateful to hear any opinion, contentious or not!
When religion isn't involved, though, if I understand how it's supposed to work, and how the psychological benefits are supposed to accrue to me if I embrace my womanliness by letting my man make all my important decisions (sorry, but, for me, personally, frankly, no-go, in any non-erotic context), then in this situation with the oil stock, if I had protested against my man's accepting the stock, let alone told him that he and his parents could go fuck themselves, I would have received one of those "punishment spankings" that are so delicious to contemplate erotically and, to me, so repugnant ethically.
Charles would have grabbed me, and dragged me to my room, and taken off his belt, and ripped down my jeans--maybe thrown me over the edge of the bed. (See Emily's First Caning for one of my elaborations of this theme.) He would have held me down and beaten me as hard as he could--even if I'd used our safeword--while I kicked and screamed and tried to get away, until he saw the resistance go out of me, and I was (magically, I guess) saying "I'm sorry, Sir; I was wrong; I see now, because you've hit my ass over and over with your belt, demonstrating your strength and my weakness, your masculinity and my femininity, your headship of me, that oil companies are good." (Or, rather, I guess I'm supposed to be saying something like "Even though I think oil companies are bad, you are a man and I am a woman and you make decisions and I abide by them, and because I swore at you I deserve to be beaten, and I am ever so grateful to you that you have deigned to beat me with your sacred belt and that now, like the guys in the DD stories, you are going to use me roughly--but lovingly--to console me for being a weak woman who needs beating to stay in line." Actually, the using part I could enjoy.)
But how could that be a way to live ethically for me, given that I believe my mind is as good as Charles' mind, and my values are as important as his values, and have to be so?
And, of course, the blurb (buy the book here!):
It was a look of appraisal; I don't think there's another way to put it. Charles Smith appraised me as a possible anal-submissive, and I felt searched out and known as I never, ever had before.
This companion, drawn from Emily's blog, tells the story of her early relationship with her husband Charles, and of the way she came to write the first version of the Explorations series. Please note that most of the content of this book has appeared on the blog, though it is no longer available there.
This companion to EXPLORATIONS contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, spanking, anal. It's intended for over-18 audiences who, like me, are interested in exploring the lines between pleasure and pain, dominance and submission, and fantasy and reality. All characters depicted are consenting adults.
Read all the Saturday Spankings!
The cover is a detail of Leighton's Tristan and Isolde. The little excerpt here is from one of my favorite parts of the story of Charles and me: our first date.
Unable to resist the tide of sensation, I whispered (it was a very quiet restaurant, thank God) "I do. . . need more." There was a pause. Thank God for Dionysus, aka Kirin, or I don't think I ever in a million years would have continued, as I did, "I'm really. . . you know. . . kinky. . ."
He visibly gulped. This is for me the most important part of the moment transformed in Emily's First Submission as my exit from the bathroom in nothing but the lace thong over a shaved pussy. As you'll see, the moment does have a more literal analogue, too.
He says he gulped because he had never let himself imagine me responding that way, just as I refused to let myself imagine him doing something dominant. Sweet.
He said, "Oh. Wow. Me too."
EMILY: "Um. BDSM for me. You?" My heart was beating too fast for me to speak in complete sentences, I guess.
CHARLES: "BDSM. Yes. Me too."
The world seemed to slow down, somehow.
EMILY: "I'm a sub. You?"
CHARLES: "I'm. . . not completely sure about the terminology. . ."
EMILY: [waits, agonized]
CHARLES: "But I think I'm a top."
EMILY: [gushing] "Really. That's interesting, because I need one of those, I think."
CHARLES: "I'd, uh, like to try. . . to. . . do that, uh, for you."
EMILY: [melts]
Annnnnnd. . . the blurb (buy the book here!):
It was a look of appraisal; I don't think there's another way to put it. Charles Smith appraised me as a possible anal-submissive, and I felt searched out and known as I never, ever had before.
This companion, drawn from Emily's blog, tells the story of her early relationship with her husband Charles, and of the way she came to write the first version of the Explorations series. Please note that most of the content of this book has appeared on the blog, though it is no longer available there.
This companion to EXPLORATIONS contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, spanking, anal. It's intended for over-18 audiences who, like me, are interested in exploring the lines between pleasure and pain, dominance and submission, and fantasy and reality. All characters depicted are consenting adults.
(This analysis concerns yesterday's story.)
I've looked for an inspiration that centers on a mirror for a long time now. This one is nearly perfect both in its simplicity and in its deceptive depth.
The essential hotness is the mirror itself, to be sure, but the way the mirror is divided into individual panes, and above all the way it is placed in a frame, add to the effect greatly. The individual panes break the reflection up, the way only the owner of a thing can do to that thing (as well as assuring the viewer that it's possible to put a lot of vigorous weight on the table, which is an important part of the fantasy the image generates!). The frame speaks even more of ownership: the woman is owned, and her reflection is owned, for both are framed in gilt.
That's where three other elements come into play: her position, which it is very easy to imagine is something that has been commanded by her owner; the height of the table, which will make it easy for her owner to enjoy her; and the lingerie, which serves as a mirror (if you'll allow me) of the frame, framing the woman's charms and demonstrating her owner's possession of her.
Then there's the general elegance, which "rhymes," each element with the others, from the beautiful wainscoting, to the gilt frame, to the woman's lace stocking-tops and above all her lace panties. Her hair and her bracelets add a very light note of dissonance, making one think of the indignities that might be visited on her in such a scene.
And, then, there's the way the angle of the shot, which shows us without showing us what it is she sees in the mirror, lets our fancy play upon it, and then reach out to imagine what she might see there as the scene continues.
