Edmund's mercy #SatSpanks

(Please vote for the best spanking books of the year, over at the wonderful Spanking Romance Reviews! Note that I wouldn't object if you voted for The First Notebook in the historical category!)

Last week, I supplied a snippet that demonstrated Edmund's casual cruelty when pursuing his Dominant pleasures. This week, I want to continue that scene (in which Victorian Emily is being caned), to show how Emily is beginning to break through her new husband's reserve.

"Ahhhhh! Noooo! Sir, Please!" Five more thwacks succeeded, to make up the sacred number. By the sixth, I was pliant, the way a girl generally only gets at the very end of a long chastisement, but the consummation of the bottom-fucking had, I suppose, served in that capacity. 

The ache, however, in my virtue, was of course all the greater, so that when I suddenly felt Edmund kiss me, there, then run his tongue along the aching place, and keep doing it. . . then, I exploded, or so it felt to me, with a shriek of pain and pleasure, and slumped off the bride-saddle, and Edmund caught me, and carried me back to bed. 

He laid me down gently, and himself next to me. I was still shivering, and he pulled the bedclothes over us, and hugged me close until the warmth of his body soothed mine.

And the blurb--buy the book here!

Edmund’s bride-saddle, which had never been used before, had no built-in fascinus, and so I was spared at least the menacing sight of the upthrust deity, though I was to learn not many days later that the cover of the saddle could easily be changed to reveal the ring into which would be set any of a number of fittings, and I was to learn also that a recent revolution in the manufacture of bride-saddles had brought it about that these rings were now standardized in such way that girls could be required to bring their own fascini to any occasion, and then forced to fit them to the house’s saddle themselves, and mount.  

In the 29th book of Explorations, Victorian Emily's ultimate defloration occurs atop her husband's bride-saddle, while fantasy-Emily continues her shameful service to her husband's junior colleagues. 

This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, MMMf (no sex among the Ms), anal, spanking, watersports. 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!

Craving shame: the heart of the matter? Plus #CorbinsBend

There's a part of me that's mortified that I wrote the text from which this excerpt comes. There's a part of me that's dying with embarrassment that I'm even contemplating putting it here on my blog, let alone that I've apparently published it.

There's a part of me that craves shame more than perhaps anything else in the world. As a girl, I lay in bed at night replaying over and over little incidents from my life that still gave me chills of embarrassment. The reprimand from the teacher, the urine down the leg. I hated it, and I loved it.

And now I write it--or at least a fantasy-version of it--because for me there's nothing hotter in the whole world than consensual humliation.

I wanted to look at Sam's face and see his reaction, but I knew Perry would beat me savagely with the strap he was holding if I did, since he had instructed that I was to look only at their cocks, so, at last, I leaned in, and with lips as soft as I could make them, kissed the tender skin of the head of Sam's penis, and heard as reward a soft little sound at the back of his throat. 

Then he retreated a step, conscious, I supposed, of Perry's outline of events, and of his right to have my lips on his cock next. Perry came around from where he had been standing to beat me, the strap still in his right hand. On the fingers of his left, he brandished his penis, thrusting forth from a nest of wiry gold hair. 

"It's not as big as young Sam's, here," he said, arrogantly, "but I know how to use it on a slut like you. You're not going to enjoy this, sweetie, even if you're as hot for cock as Charles says you are. Kiss it now."

The blurb. Buy the book here!

Edmund’s bride-saddle, which had never been used before, had no built-in fascinus, and so I was spared at least the menacing sight of the upthrust deity, though I was to learn not many days later that the cover of the saddle could easily be changed to reveal the ring into which would be set any of a number of fittings, and I was to learn also that a recent revolution in the manufacture of bride-saddles had brought it about that these rings were now standardized in such way that girls could be required to bring their own fascini to any occasion, and then forced to fit them to the house’s saddle themselves, and mount.  

In the 29th book of Explorations, Victorian Emily's ultimate defloration occurs atop her husband's bride-saddle, while fantasy-Emily continues her shameful service to her husband's junior colleagues. 

This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, MMMf (no sex among the Ms), anal, spanking, watersports. 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.

And the Friday tease for my first Corbin's Bend book. The title is. . . Sarah's Tutorial. In honor of that revelation, let me introduce to you the eponymous Sarah Harshaw, another of the characters I envy more than I can express:

She had come there with the expectation of having a little fun with him; there was nothing malicious in the impulse, but her experiences with boys, especially with Fred, had left her dissatisfied in a way that made her--and she knew this even as she was doing it--go against her own nature, and try to take control. Really she did it just so someone would be in control, and it wouldn't just be fumbling around and tentatively touching places that one thought were probably erogenous. Her purpose was to enjoy that kind of control over this nice middle-aged man from the East, with his beautiful manners and his kind air and his handsome face. She wanted to give him a blow job, frankly, because she liked driving Fred crazy that way and she wanted to do the same thing to Dr. Dunn.

Visual spanking stories analysis: simple drama

(This analysis concerns yesterday's story; see here for an index to all the stories and analyses in the series.)

Most weeks I have to spend a few minutes looking through my favorite community on Google before I find an image that does to me what happens to Natalie in the story: the BDSM soul-gasp, as I think of it. Nana Artb's image though, was the very first one I saw when I opened my feed. My eyes widened, and I yearned, desperately, to be the girl in the picture.

Why? I think it's because her head is bowed. Well, and her knees are spread, I suppose. The purity of the shot conveys a simple drama that only needs the lightest of elaborating touches, just as, I imagine, she only needs the lightest of touches from her mistress to achieve the submissive bliss she's clearly being denied in this position. My own sex aches, imagining the state of hers.

The set-up of the shot, in its absolute purity, made me want to reflect the starkness somehow in the narrative set-up: thus, the most aesthetically-inflected modern space--the art gallery. That context, in turn, led to the narrative elaboration of the artist and the viewer, Natalie and the unnamed Domme inviting Natalie into the scene, to create the simple drama.

Visual inspirations for spanking stories: simple drama

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

The placard on the post by the entryway that led into the gallery said "Please take one." It referred, as far as Natalie could tell, to a basket of beautifully-crafted, long-handled wooden paddles that sat next to the post.

Natalie looked at the placard and the basket in confusion for a long moment before she noticed that the gallery beyond was not entirely empty, as it had appeared at first. She felt herself growing faint before she even realized that she had gasped so deeply that she had forgotten to breathe again. There was a girl in there, and she was. . . she didn't. . .

"Do you like my piece?" asked a warm, feminine voice, in a French accent, from just above and behind her. Natalie felt the woman's hand on her shoulder, and she shuddered, suddenly wanting so much that she simply had never let herself imagine before.

"Um," said Natalie, blushing to the roots of her brown hair.

"Aren't you going to take a paddle?" the woman asked, in Natalie's ear. Natalie smelled lovely perfume, and her faintness seemed to increase. "The piece is meant to be a sort of simple drama: you are the heroine."

Natalie reached down, and grasped the smooth maple handle of a slender one, almost as small as a wooden spoon, wishing. . .

"Of course," said the artist, "if you would rather not take a paddle, but would instead like to go join Jacqueline, there, you may also do that, and become part of the piece yourself."

Natalie let go the wooden handle and, telling herself not to think, but simply to act--no, rather, to submit--she walked into the gallery.

In the land of urolagnia

OK, so we're headed into an area here that I know is an, um, specialized interest. I'll understand if you stop reading. Feel free, though, to say to some friend you're sure shares your horror, "Did you see what that hussy Emily Tilton wrote? About the watersports?" Your friend will definitely say "Oh. My. God. She is SUCH a hussy." But, then, you never know: perhaps in the safety of her own home she may Google "emily tilton watersports." Just to see how much of a hussy I really am.

(We're continuing from here.)

The bathroom was Charles' next focus.

I've written myself into a bit of a corner with regard to my urolagnic interests, because I confess in the Prophettown books that real-Charles isn't into watersports. I do say there, though, that he'll do it on special occasions; there's also a scene in Emily and the Shameful Customs of Prophettown  where it seems like he really does come around, at least for the moment.

So, perhaps it's not entirely implausible that thinking later about that very satisfactory experience, real-Charles decided he wanted to experiment more with that sort of thing, and added it to my training regime as much to train himself to bend me to his will in this erotic area that's so important to me as to train me to be bent that way.

"Miss Tilton," he said one Saturday morning. "You will report to the bathroom at 3pm today for training. You will drink five glasses of water at 2:45pm. You will wear only white panties."

I could hardly believe that I had heard him correctly. I broke character to run over and hug him. "Oh, Sweetie," I said. "You're the best. Thank you!"

"Don't thank me yet, Miss Tilton," he said sternly, though not without the upward twitch of his lips that always indicates that he's suppressing laughter. "You may feel differently when you're covered in piss."

"Yes, sir," I said, submissively. "Diapers, too?"

"No, Miss Tilton. No diapers today." I pouted. "You must earn your diapers."

I melted. My hand seemed to find its way somehow into my jeans. Charles ripped it out again and held it in his vise-like grip, in front of me. "And you're not going to do it that way."

Uh-oh. I watched him get an idea. "In fact, you are going to earn your diapers by not playing with yourself." Cruel, cruel man. 

As the day wore on (would 3 never arrive?), I noticed that Charles himself was drinking a great deal of water throughout the day. I'll admit that I probably masturbate more than the average person, but I don't usually have a problem keeping myself from doing it from minute to minute, in situations, like daily life, where I have other things to do and there's no immediate stimulus. But every time I saw Charles take a sip of water that day, I had to grip the nearest surface hard to stop myself from putting my hands where they weren't allowed to go, and more often than not I couldn't keep from making one of those "little girl has to go to the bathroom" movements with my legs just to try to get the slightest bit of friction that might ease the ache down there.

Charles caught me at it more than once; the second time he told me to pull down my jeans and panties and get over the kitchen-table, and I got twelve with a wooden spoon for immodesty. After that I literally begged him (actually said "Sir, I'm begging you!") just to edge me, but he refused. It was only 1pm, at that point.

Finally it was 2:45, and I was standing at the sink, drinking my water. By 3, I was doing the "little girl has to go to the bathroom" dance for real, waiting for him in the bathroom in nothing but my white cotton panties. "Sir?" I called. "Are you coming?"

He entered the bathroom wearing his bathing suit. "Ow!" I said as I started to laugh. "Ow! Don't make me laugh! I need to pee!"

Charles grinned and stripped his bathing suit off, revealing his wonderful, pleasingly rigid cock. I had to resist an urge to drop to my knees and blow him right there despite the fullness of my bladder (oh, lord, the thought of peeing my panties while blowing my husband was nearly too hot for me. . .), so grateful was I that he was trying urolagnia with me with such sincerity and good humor.

But I wanted to follow his script, and it wasn't long in getting started.

"Face the mirror," he said softly, but with authority. I did, and saw the auburn-haired girl with green eyes in only her panties, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

"I'm starting to see what you mean about this stuff," Charles said. "I have this urge not to give you permission at all, and just watch you have to hold it in."

I looked into his gaze in the mirror, with a pleading expression. It wasn't ageplay yet, I thought, but it was definitely headed in that direction.

He came to stand behind me as we both faced the mirror, and put his right hand on my right hip and his left hand between my thighs, atop my panties. I yelped.

"You're going to pee in your pants, now, Miss Tilton."

"But your hand, Charles. . ."

"I thought you liked this kind of thing."

"I do; it's just. . . I never thought of that. I don't pee on you, because you're my Master."

He rubbed, firmly, with his fingers, and I had no choice: I let go, groaning with the unbearable pleasure of releasing my bladder. The warm liquid went everywhere, soaking my panties, running down my thighs, streaming into Charles' hand and rushing from there onto the floor.

I saw what he meant--it was like Victorian Emily having to pee on the Persian rug in Mrs. Smith's punishment room. Girls don't pee on their Masters, but mine was making me pee on him. The force of the pleasure from the release, and the arousal from his hand being there was so great I had to reach out and steady myself on the counter, but then the hand deserted me.

(If you like this mode of narrative, buy the Companion to EXPLORATIONS, which is chock-full of it!)

A fraught gangbang. . . Emily's Shameful Ride

The phrase "fraught gangbang" is not one I ever thought I would write, but it describes the modern-day action in Emily's Shameful Ride to a T.

As Joe slowly lowered the red lace to the middle of my thighs, I heard Sam gasp, presumably at the sight of my shaved pussy.  God, how naughty it made me feel to think that I was the one to initiate Sam into these Dominant delights and that my submission was turning him on this way! I knew it would go ill with me in certain ways because of it, and I thought of O, given to the young man who had never tasted Dominant pleasure before--and who is described as being of exceptional size and rigidity, just as Sam was--and of the way that young man brings O back to his room and takes her frantically both fore and aft, over and over. I knew that Perry and Joe would encourage Sam to use me hard, and that he probably would, but that thought itself made me wet.

And it's all available here, under the rubric of this blurbage: 

Edmund’s bride-saddle, which had never been used before, had no built-in fascinus, and so I was spared at least the menacing sight of the upthrust deity, though I was to learn not many days later that the cover of the saddle could easily be changed to reveal the ring into which would be set any of a number of fittings, and I was to learn also that a recent revolution in the manufacture of bride-saddles had brought it about that these rings were now standardized in such way that girls could be required to bring their own fascini to any occasion, and then forced to fit them to the house’s saddle themselves, and mount.  

In the 29th book of Explorations, Victorian Emily's ultimate defloration occurs atop her husband's bride-saddle, while fantasy-Emily continues her shameful service to her husband's junior colleagues. 

This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, MMMf (no sex among the Ms), anal, spanking, watersports. 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.

An index to the "Visual Inspirations for Spanking Stories" stories

This series has worked out really well, it seems to me. The stories are incredibly fun to write, and people call me naughty for writing them, and other nice compliments too. I'm currently re-running them, since I've got fifty-three—one for every week of the year, plus a bonus story!

If you happen to be a fan of this series, and you've got a picture to which you own the rights, or which you know is public domain or creative-commons license, which you think might inspire me, let me know and I'd be happy to give it a go!

The series so far:

• a beginning
• analysis
• the corset
• analysis
• blue lace and chocolate
• analysis
• black lace around the ankles
• analysis
• two before the fire
• analysis
• ritual rope
• analysis
• fishnet
• analysis
• hotel
• analysis
• bow
• analysis
• innocent floral
• analysis
• disciplined
• analysis
• a master's hand
• analysis
• mirror
• analysis
• bed-caning
• analysis
• a rope around the ankles
• analysis
• simple drama
• analysis
• over-lap attitude adjustment
• analysis
• the Sade-reader
• analysis
• one extra, a school story
• analysis
• too soon
• analysis
• the initiate
• analysis
• the little room
• analysis
• breakfast
• analysis
• the seatless ones
• analysis
• the Houses of Parliament
• analysis
• auction
• analysis
• hussy
• analysis
• leash
• analysis
• chair
• analysis
• curry
• analysis
• what will happen next
• analysis
• disrespect
• analysis
• smile
• analysis
• conductor
• analysis
• hands
• analysis
• basque
• analysis
• drawing
• analysis
• business suit
• analysis
• lipstick
• analysis
• the special rope
• analysis
• Tuscany
• analysis
• the maids
• analysis
• origami
• analysis
• waiting on fur
• analysis
• jeans down
• analysis
• critique
• analysis
• legend of the bound fairy
• analysis
• a D/s wedding-psalm
• analysis
• apparatus (aka The WIFE-CORRECTOR 3000)
• analysis
• under the little black dress
• body-stocking
• black bow in back
• "when I choose"

Caned upon the bride-saddle: Emily's Shameful Ride #SatSpanks

I know there are other readers and writers who, like me, are deeply interested in world-building. This book of EXPLORATIONS, in addition to the shameful ride (which is very, very shameful), has a whole bunch of world-building for the great drama into which Victorian Emily is to be initiated, all centered on the history of a sacred device called the "bride-saddle." I sincerely hope the phrase does to you what it does to me. . .

"Edmund?" I asked, for I was longing as never to that moment I had longed. "Edmund, Sir, I. . ." I looked down at the Persian rug below the bride-saddle, and gripped the handles very hard, and, unable to stop myself, tried to work the muscles in my thighs and bottom, under my husband's loins, in search of something to soothe myself. "I. . . I'm sorry, Sir--I can't. . . help. . ." 

He seemed to come to himself. "Don't you dare do that to yourself," he said softly and menacingly. He slowly climbed off me, making me groan, and with the utmost difficulty I stilled my legs. 

Then, an instant later, I heard a sound I had heard only once before, in the solarium at Elmhurst, and then the succeeding "thwack" and then the burning line, different to anything else in the world, across my bottom.

And the blurb!

Edmund’s bride-saddle, which had never been used before, had no built-in fascinus, and so I was spared at least the menacing sight of the upthrust deity, though I was to learn not many days later that the cover of the saddle could easily be changed to reveal the ring into which would be set any of a number of fittings, and I was to learn also that a recent revolution in the manufacture of bride-saddles had brought it about that these rings were now standardized in such way that girls could be required to bring their own fascini to any occasion, and then forced to fit them to the house’s saddle themselves, and mount.  

In the 29th book of Explorations, Victorian Emily's ultimate defloration occurs atop her husband's bride-saddle, while in fantasy-Emily continues her shameful service to her husband's junior colleagues. 

This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, MMMf (no sex among the Ms), anal, spanking, watersports. 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!

Emily's Shameful Ride cover reveal, #CorbinsBend tease

I think John Collier's imagination of Lady Godiva is probably my favorite pre-Raphaelite painting of all: the latent BDSM tendencies are so delicately rendered in her bowed head that my heart goes "squee!" every time I see it. For a shameful ride, in a novel saddle, what better?

Here's a tease so that you can see what I mean:

I turned, away from the bride-saddle, to Edmund, apprehensive. “Sir, what am I to do?” 

He smiled, “Mount, my dear.” 

I blushed, and trembled a bit. “What will happen then?” 

He took my hands in his. “You will learn to ride.” 

I covered my real confusion with a feigned one. “But, Sir, I already know how to ride.” 

Now he put his left arm around my shoulders, and turned me towards the horse, and reached his right hand down to my loins and gently touched me so that I shivered and sighed a little. 

“But you do not know how it is a girl may ride and be ridden at once.” His fingers became more insistent.

And the blurb:

Edmund’s bride-saddle, which had never been used before, had no built-in fascinus, and so I was spared at least the menacing sight of the upthrust deity, though I was to learn not many days later that the cover of the saddle could easily be changed to reveal the ring into which would be set any of a number of fittings, and I was to learn also that a recent revolution in the manufacture of bride-saddles had brought it about that these rings were now standardized in such way that girls could be required to bring their own fascini to any occasion, and then forced to fit them to the house’s saddle themselves, and mount.  

In the 29th book of Explorations, Victorian Emily's ultimate defloration occurs atop her husband's bride-saddle, while in fantasy-Emily continues her shameful service to her husband's junior colleagues. 

This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, MMMf (no sex among the Ms), anal, spanking, watersports. 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.

And your Corbin's Bend bonus! Ten spanking authors, ten times the hotness. . . in the mountains of Colorado.

Dunn surveyed the sum total of the property that the moving company was about to load onto the truck. Then he looked down at a certain special duffel-bag that lay at his feet, which would not be going with the movers. He had already begun to think of that bag as his "Corbin's Bend Bag." In it were various things he felt sure he would soon find more consistent use for, at last. Looking at the bag, he could see one of those things--maybe the most important of them--, outlined by the black fabric of the duffel: long, and thin, and flexible: a rattan cane. The thought of employing it on a deserving, bare, female backside, in far off Colorado, made him smile.

Visual spanking stories analysis: a rope around the ankles

(This analysis concerns yesterday's story.)

The pictures that are less explicit are harder to write to, but also more rewarding. I find that they tend to crystallize around a conjunction of two or more elements, of which one is BDSM and the other much more mundane, but because of its mundanity the BDSM element transforms it into a breathtaking hotness in its own way.

Here, the rope so beautifully tied around ankles in pantyhose led instantly to the question: "How did it end up this way? Why did the dominant tie her ankles while she was still in her pantyhose?" Along with that, the awkward positioning of the feet seemed to indicate a kind of impromptu element: this is the beginning of something, and she's been tied up still in her pantyhose because her Master is preparing to teach her a lesson she earned while wearing them: a BDSM scene earned for lateness seemed one possibility. . .

I think the hottest thing about bondage of all kinds, for me at least, is the simple implication that my Master is going to have his way with me, and he doesn't want to have to worry about me interfering with his pleasures. That's hot because my libido is deeply tied (as it were) into the idea that in being objectified I become real, and valuable. In the case of beautiful, precise rope-work like the double-column tie in the photo, the girl is simultaneously objectified in two ways: she is bound so that her Master may use her at leisure, and she is adorned as an aesthetically valuable plaything. She is a lovely toy with which a grown-up may play.

Visual inspirations for spanking stories: a rope around the ankles

(See here for an explanation of this series.)

Robert met Maggie at the door with the rope in his hand. "You're late," he said, without anger.

"Only five minutes!" Maggie protested.

Robert looked at his watch. "Seven, to be precise, but if I'm not mistaken we agreed that you would suffer the consequences if you were home even a second after eight. Am I wrong?"

"No, Sir." Maggie hung her head. "There was traffic." Her voice was sullen, but it concealed a thrill of fear, and another of arousal, that went through her at the thought of the consequences they had agreed to.

"You should have anticipated the traffic, shouldn't you?" She looked down at his burgundy loafers. "Answer me." Casually, he reached his hand out and slapped her cheek.

Oh, no. Her hand flew to her face, and tears formed in her eyes--but, of course, other moisture began to seep in other places.

"Yes, Sir."

He slapped her again, on the other cheek. "You are mine, now, until dawn, as we agreed." Another slap.

Her mind began to spin out of control. Why had she agreed? Why hadn't she anticipated the traffic? Why, of all things, had she, able to get home on time, stopped to buy a magazine?

She turned to flee down the stairs, but Robert grabbed her easily around the waist, and hauled her inside, and slammed the door behind her. He threw her over a big chair in his living-room, and went to work with his rope.

What had he said he was going to do, if she were late and had to suffer the consequences? What did being his for the night mean, again? Her thoughts raced to remember the list of things that had horrified her even as they had fascinated her.

He was going to spank her, first. That's what he had said. With the big leather paddle he had shown her. He would not harm her clothing as he was removing it, he had said, except that he had promised that he was going to cut her panties off her with his penknife. . . but he wouldn't really, would he?. . . cut them off so that he could gag her with them, and then spank her bare bottom the way she deserved. Then he was going to teach her about his pleasures, and, he had said, she should make no mistake: those pleasures would involve possessing her everywhere her body could afford him an avenue of enjoyment. If she were late, she should give up any idea of having her modesty respected, for to be his meant that he would use her every way a man can use a woman.

But first he was going to tie her up, so that she couldn't get any silly notions about escaping.

She felt the rope winding round and round her ankles, and she realized that all the consequences were going to take place: Robert was going to give her exactly what she had asked for.

Schoolgirl training, part 3

(We're continuing from here. You may remember that Charles, as my Latin-master, was using an unorthodox method to ensure that I didn't take too much pleasure in the caning he was about to give me: the method was of course to fuck me, over his desk.)

As he fucked me, he took me back into my high-school fantasies: being kept after class by Mr. White; being told my work was inadequate (ha! my work was never, ever inadequate): that I could either let Mr. White tell my parents, or submit to being disciplined right there in his classroom. . . disciplined how? By old-fashioned methods, of course, "With your panties down, Miss Tilton: that is the only way I have ever found to be entirely satisfactory."

The door to Mr. White's room locked; Miss Tilton over Mr. White's desk; Mr. White unable to help himself, at the sight of Miss Tilton's youthful quim; Miss Tilton unable to resist her wanton nature; the girls outside hearing the shameful cries of a Latin student being mastered by her Latin-master.

Charles abruptly pulled out.

"Alright, Miss Tilton. I think the only thing for it is to involve your pudendum posterius, as well as your pudendus anterior. Translate, please."

"Rearward thing to be ashamed of and forward thing to be ashamed of, Sir."

"Very good, Miss Tilton. The moisture being produced your pudendus anterior--that is to say, cunnus tuus--is so copious that simply applying stimulation there until you reach a climax will be insufficient. What's required is a specific sort of climax--one that involves also your pudendum posterius, called by some, your ring--that is, your anus."

(Writing this, I feel the need to make clear that the way Charles pronounced "your anus" didn't sound a bit like "Uranus," so there was no danger of a fit of the giggles at that point, really.)

"Oh, Sir. No, please. Not my anus, please! I promise I'll be good!"

"Yes, Miss Tilton. Your pudendum posterius, which I will tell you, since it appears you are going to be my puella natis--that is to say, my ass-girl--this year, and you will thus have to learn such things, I prefer to call your flos natis. Translate, please."

"Flower of my bottom, Sir." My mind wandered off in the direction, both hot and terrible, of wondering whether Charles really chose an ass-girl each year, and fucked her every afternoon after AP Latin, and then came home to me. How did he pick her? Did he have try-outs in the Fall? Or did he decide that one girl was simply the one whose ass he was going to deflower, and then continue to use over the course of the year, until it was time to bid her farewell, and wait for another ass-girl in the new school year?

"Indeed. Thus, I will now introduce into that little flower a device specifically intended to humiliate you, Miss Tilton, and to force you to a kind of climax that gives you a clear idea of what sort of girl you are, and prepares you to receive the cane and to learn from its painful visitation upon your bottom."

"Learn what, Sir?"

"That you are that very special kind of pupil I call an ass-girl, and that if an ass-girl should happen to have an opinion about a Latin verb, she expresses that opinion respectfully, or suffers the consequences."

"Yes, Sir. I'm very sorry, Sir." (You don't really want me to put "arrgh" and "augh" and "ahhhh" in there, do you? Just remember that he was taking me anally at the time. It's not a quiet thing.)

The device, of course, was his cock, and as I was forced to an anal orgasm, my Latin-master exclaimed, "Are you going to argue the preterite with me again, young lady? Do young ladies who take it in the ass argue verbs with their Latin-masters?"

And all I could say was, "No, Sir, please. Please, Sir, no."

"Young ladies who take it in the ass learn the hard way to respect their masters, don't they?"

To say I responded "Yes, Sir" does no justice at all to the sounds I was actually making, but I did manage to respond in the affirmative, I believe, even as my Latin-master accomplished his aim of compelling me to give evidence, in the form of an orgasm, that I was, now and forever, an ass-girl.

He finished, too, with one of his manly, inarticulate shouts, and it was time for me to be caned. 

If this were a third-person narrative, I'd be able to say something like "Mr. Smith positioned Emily Tilton just as he wished, then ordered her to count out the strokes of the cane. Her anguished cries were most pleasing to his ears as he meted out her condign chastisement, and the sensuous writhing of her bottom-cheeks, which the girl was helpless to control, excited him just as he liked to be excited when he was caning a naughty schoolgirl."

That's certainly the way I tried to imagine it as Charles whacked me six times with that fucking cane, but with only intermittent success. I will say that I went into it with the intention of playing the defiant "I, aristocratic Emily Tilton, know my Latin verbs better than this humbly-born schoolteacher [really, if such things matter to you, Charles has six Mayflower ancestors and I only have one] does, and I'll be damned if I let him conquer me," but the anal orgasm had already conquered me. All I could to was hang onto the opposite side of the desk and make sounds that I later verified Charles found highly satisfactory.

What a paradox. I don't think I've met anyone who actually enjoys being caned. But the thing is, the submissive thing is, I want to be caned by Charles, if Charles wants to cane me. And after the caning is over, and I've counted the six, I really feel like I've become something more than I was before--not just because Charles liked doing it, and because, as a true Dominant, he understands what my submission means and loves me for it, but because I have journeyed close, explored closer, to who I actually am.

(If you like this mode of narrative, buy the Companion to EXPLORATIONS, which is chock-full of it!)

Mr. Wilkes makes his will known: Emily's Shameful Ride is coming soon!

It's time at last for the next book of EXPLORATIONS proper. In the 29th book, Emily's Shameful Ride, the defloration of deflorations takes place for Victorian Emily, upon a device traditional in the "great drama" Emily has discovered: the bride-saddle. At the same time, in the modern story, fantasy-Emily is rendering shameful service to three of her husband's junior colleagues--I promise an excerpt from that plot for Friday!

I'll give you the tiniest of teases from the Victorian scene to whet your appetite:

He sniffed the air, and smiled. Then he insinuated the tip of his middle finger within the bottom he held, so far that I gave a startled cry, and leaped away from him a little. 

“Now, my dear,” he said, letting go of my hand, “you must make up your mind to it, or it will go very hard with you. I am renowned among my friends for my enjoyment of a trollop’s confusion at having her reluctance overcome and her bottom ravished, when she hesitates to give the full measure of the service I have paid for.”

And the blurb shall be revealed, of course!

Edmund’s bride-saddle, which had never been used before, had no built-in fascinus, and so I was spared at least the menacing sight of the upthrust deity, though I was to learn not many days later that the cover of the saddle could easily be changed to reveal the ring into which would be set any of a number of fittings, and I was to learn also that a recent revolution in the manufacture of bride-saddles had brought it about that these rings were now standardized in such way that girls could be required to bring their own fascini to any occasion, and then forced to fit them to the house’s saddle themselves, and mount.  

In the 29th book of Explorations, Victorian Emily's ultimate defloration occurs atop her husband's bride-saddle, while in fantasy-Emily continues her shameful service to her husband's junior colleagues. 

This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, MMMf (no sex among the Ms), anal, spanking, watersports. 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. 

The Explorations series is a unique take on BDSM above all because of the strong individual voice of Emily Tilton herself, manifestly shaping the fantasy-elaborations of the series. Because Emily is interested in helping herself and others understand how BDSM can be lived within a mostly vanilla existence, the way most of us have to live it, Explorations has a unique element that Emily hopes will set it apart and make it useful: Emily has created a fantasy-version of herself (keeping to the tropes of the genre she knows so well, fantasy-Emily is an eighteen-year-old virginal bride with a self-abuse "problem"), whose fantasies and "realities" are the central subject of the stories of Explorations--but the real Emily also keeps her authorial, real voice in the margins, explaining and analyzing, and revealing from time to time the much more mundane, real version of the things Emily has transformed in the story of her fantasy-self. This doubling of the "I" in the first-person narrative of Explorations makes the series worth exploring all on its own. Come for the hot D/s, spanking, anal action. Stay for the exploration.

A paddle-interlude in a long night of submission--A Companion to EXPLORATIONS #SatSpanks

I think I probably don't actually need to apologize for how very, very naughty this snippet is, except perhaps to my friend Ana, who I hope will spank me for shamelessly posting it. It's from my "real" wedding-night, on Maui in 2002.

What I really want to memorialize here, though, isn't the three butt-fuckings themselves but the intervals between them: the two periods when I, still unsatisfied in the orgasm department, still tied to the hotel bed, lay waiting to have my ass used again, and he, for once really owning the dominant's role, actually turned on the TV and watched (interval one) Sports Center and (interval two) an old Western. Looking back, it seems completely absurd that I could have found the thought that my new husband was watching TV while waiting for his cock to be ready to fuck my ass again arousing, but I did--so much that during the first interval (I actually fell asleep during the second, which left me refreshed for the high drama of the third butt-fucking) I decided to stage a little scene of my own, by trying to steal an orgasm, rubbing against the pillows and squeezing my thighs. The intention was of course to get caught, so I didn't make much effort to stifle the little "hmm" sounds that always come from my throat when I get close to coming, even when I'm trying to be quiet. I had my eyes closed and my face buried between my upper arms. 

"CRACK," I heard and felt at the same time, and gave a full-throated scream (thank God our suite was a bungalow sort of a thing) at the burning pain in my bottom-cheeks.

"Mrs. Smith," said Charles, "I doubt you have forgotten that self-abuse is absolutely forbidden in my house; tonight above all." CRACK! "To be sure, you are a wanton slut," CRACK! (I was wailing, now), "but even so I believe I have the right to expect more modesty from you." CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! 

The paddle was laid aside, and my cavalier was astride me again. "Oh, God, Emily," he said, as he began to ride my punished bottom to his second triumph over it, "I love you so much."

Here's 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!

My "real" BDSM wedding-night: A Companion to EXPLORATIONS Plus, #CorbinsBend

This part of the story of my early days with Charles is pretty much my favorite. Buy the Companion here!

I watched the sun set from the extreme end of the beach that lies just down a path from the hotel. The lights of the hotel glowed behind me, and I could see the lights of boats out to sea. At exactly 8pm, as I had been commanded by my husband, I waded out into the dark, delicious water, until it came up to my chest, and glancing nervously around (no sign of Charles) and blushing deeply, I quickly and surreptitiously removed my bikini bottom, and held it in my right hand. Again, as commanded, I turned to face the ocean, waiting to be taken by whatever island man should happen along the beach. 

I wanted to touch myself, of course, but I had been expressly forbidden to do so. For what felt an eternity, but was really perhaps two minutes (I will always be sure he was hiding behind a palm tree for at least an hour, though he denies it), I waited, starting to shiver a little, in the bay, as available as a good Réagean girl should be. Then I heard someone in the water behind me. 

I was forbidden to turn around, forbidden to call out to the approaching stranger. I was Brünnhilde, on her rock, and the fearless hero had penetrated my wall of fire--soon to penetrate much more than that. I was Eve, having tasted the forbidden fruit, knowing my sin and awaiting my partner in it; I was Mary, afraid of Gabriel, wondering what manner of salutation his might be. In those moments, hearing the water move around the stranger's powerful legs, I was a virgin again.

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.

And a little something more. . . from an amazing place called Corbin's Bend that's coming in 2014 (Ten spanking authors, ten times the hotness) . . . 

Professor John Dunn could hardly believe it when he got the job offer from Sandy Ridge College. True, he had been confident that his credentials would prove satisfactory to the search committee and the administration of the college (how could they not, seeing as he was coming from an Ivy League university?), but when he thought of the reason why he had applied to such a small--though well-respected--institution as Sandy Ridge in the first place, he very nearly couldn't credit that he had succeeded in securing a position. Indeed, his job application had seemed almost a joke in comparison to the approval process for Corbin's Bend.

Visual spanking stories analysis: bed-caning

(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.