Monday, March 3, 2014

It's "my" birthday!

"I"'m 37 today. It's been quite a year for "me" (also, for me). I found in my spanking-fiction-writing colleagues a truly extraordinary community that I can't imagine existing in the days before the 'net, when I despaired that I would ever be able to discuss the things that really mattered with anyone, let alone be able to communicate my fantasies in fiction to readers who might enjoy them.

All I can say, truly, is "Thank you."

In honor of the occasion, I want to bring back a post from this blog that's now to be found in EXPLORATIONS: A Companion to the Series, along with a great deal of other stuff along the same lines. It describes "my" 25th birthday--the most perfect birthday "I" (or I) could possibly imagine.

The post is part of the long series describing "my" "real" courtship with Charles. The pretend wedding-night part was done; it was the eve of my birthday.

Betrothal Coda

It was about then (it couldn't have been later than 10pm, I think, since our "night of nights" had started around 5, before the sun had even gone down if I recall correctly) that we fell asleep. Before I drifted off, I enjoined on Charles something that I haven't yet found a way to get into EXPLORATIONS--that he fuck me awake, if he woke up first. Even if I woke up first myself, my plan was to lie there pretending to be asleep until he did wake up and ravish me out of sleep. That probably would have been much better, but Charles has always been an early riser.

I wanted, you see, to feel that magical, pure constellation of desire behind so many ravishment fantasies: "He loves me, wants me, so much that he doesn't care whether I'm awake or not, ready or not, aroused or not." It was my birthday, too, so it felt like it would be just the right way to wake up with my new master.

It turned out to be the only time in our entire relationship thus far that I've used our safeword, because it was just too confusing and painful, in real life, to come out of sleep into what amounted to a sharp pain in the vagina, despite Charles having used something like half a tube of lube, both on himself and on me, in a vain effort to wake me up a little before he did the thing I'd told him he must do and that he was, truth to tell, pretty turned on by. The analogue to "He wants me so much he refuses to wait" is "She's asking for it, and I'm going to give it to her" as far as I can tell, and I'd almost literally told Charles "I'm asking for it, and you're going to give it to me."

Wow, was that a complicated conversation, afterward--one that I had brought entirely on myself, and that I was at first much too sleepy to engage in properly. It ended happily, though, because I finally woke up sufficiently to show him what my promiscuity, and research, had taught me, with respect at least to fellatio, and by the time he exploded helplessly down my throat, seated in the most throne-like chair in our little room at the Waldorf, we had managed to spin it into a lovely little D/s scene in which I was the naughty bride who had refused to be fucked awake and needed to make amends with her mouth. That's what I mean about the improvisatory negotiation, by the way.

(Also, in the years since then we've developed a protocol for sex-waking, as we call it. The trick is really just taking it very slowly.)

After that was breakfast in bed, feeling like one of those Georgian/Victorian/Edwardian brides who's presumed not to be able to get out of bed because her repressed husband has taken out 25 years or so of sexual frustration on her virgin quim in the course of a night. The real situation was not entirely different, though the soreness was compounded by the bride and groom having taken those years out on each other, and the region affected including a hitherto mostly virginal bottom (I guess I lost my chance really to feel anal ravishment by using my butt-plug so extensively on my own in my early 20's; probably a good thing). 

We had talked about the Metropolitan, or the Cloisters, but we spent the entirety of my 25th birthday in bed. By the afternoon, it had become completely clich√© in the "Your body is a wonderland" style, but we were the last people to care, and I had brought a lot of lingerie. The final sexual acts of those amazing 36 hours from the moment I put his hand in my panties on the train to the moment he came in my ass at about midnight the second night in the Waldorf, were pure, animal stuff; at some point it went from finely wrought BDSM to sheer libertine-inflected debauchery ("Oh, Sir Charles, you make me feel so strange in my tender little private part; no, please don't raise my nightdress; oh, I am lost") √† la Les Liaisons Dangereuses or even Justine, I suppose. 

Charles' surprise for me was the leather paddle he pulled out of his suitcase in the early evening of Saturday, which provided the beginning of the events transformed in Emily's First Caning and Emily's Little Trainer--it was my first really explicit punishment for masturbation, and as such it felt like long-delayed justice. (And it was a birthday spanking, too!) Charles did find it so arousing that he couldn't hold himself back, and I did ask him to get my butt-plug; although he had had my ass with his cock the evening before there was something about him putting in the butt-plug that felt even more intimate, and led to the reflections I try to outline in Emily's Little Trainer on what D/s might really all be about. In case I forget to mention it elsewhere, that paddle became our stand-in for the sacred schoolhouse implement--the cane--, since, as I discuss in EXPLORATIONS, the real cane just never worked for us, though we experimented with it a few times. 

When we awoke, we wanted to do it again, but the consequences had begun, and we could literally not touch each other erotically without the touched person wincing. 

We went to Mass at St. Thomas Fifth Avenue. We held hands. The choir sang the Byrd Mass for Five Voices. We both wept at that moment in the Credo. Either you know the moment or you don't; there's no use me trying to tell you about it. We each held the other's hand very tightly. Charles turned to me when they started to sing "Et resurrexit," and I turned to meet his eyes, felt them searching me out, appraising me--now, at last appropriating me as his own. 

"Emily Tilton, will you marry me?" he whispered. 

"Yes," I whispered back. 

Good boy-choirs. Is there anything they can't do?

1 comment:

  1. A very Happy Birthday. 37! You are a baby. I love your books.