Friday, October 24, 2014

A first spanking

The epochs of my erotic life

In case it's helpful.
  1. Before The Pearl
  2. From The Pearl to Story of O
  3. From Story of O to Charles
  4. Charles
My last post of this series concerned events early in epoch 2--namely, the finding of Aphrodizzia. The post before that concerned the transition from epoch 1 to epoch 2.

I am fascinated by epoch 1, perhaps because it is the part of my journey I have the least access to, in my imagination. I remember for example that the fantasies of that time involved spanking, almost exclusively, despite the fact that I myself was never spanked, except once by a babysitter, in an incident I go into below.

Those fantasies, however, did not involve sex, even though from an early age my enlightened mother made sure I knew how human reproduction works. It was only with the hormonal shifts of puberty, I'm sure, that I became ready for "the moment of
The Pearl," if that phrase makes sense.

Epoch 1 was also for some of its course the time before I knew that masturbation was something to be ashamed of, though I had learned from my mother the word for what I did in bed every night. I'll leave this lead-in to epoch 1 with a humiliating true story: asking my parents, loudly, at a table in a fancy restaurant "Can I masturbate tonight?"

My real first spanking

This, as I said, is from epoch 1. My poor mother, divorced and trying to start a career as a lawyer, had very little choice when it came to childcare. There was a family living next door with several adolescent children, and they became, nearly by default, my babysitters.

Truthfully, I've completely forgotten their names, but they all (in my memory, this includes both parents) had flaming red hair, of (I'm not making this up) the Heat Miser shade. In general, since they were older, I looked up to them, though to the extent that I can now remember, they didn't deserve to be looked up to in any way. Among other things, they were apparently obsessed with rug-hooking, and I look back with disbelief on how dedicated I was, for months and months, to learning to rug-hook.

They must themselves have been disciplined with their father's belt. I can't think of another reason why, on some minor pretext (not coming when I was called, maybe?) the older girl (let's call her "Alice") told me to lie on my bed on my stomach, because I was going to get a whipping.

The extraordinary thing about this memory is that I can remember thinking "Isn't this what I think about when I'm touching myself?" in disbelief even as I was in abject terror at what Alice was going to do. In retrospect, the memory is incredibly arousing for me; at the time, I was just scared.

In the event, Alice only hit me very lightly, three or four times, with her belt, over my jeans. The most vivid part of the whole scene in my recollection is the look on her face, which I distinctly remember not understanding. In my reconstruction of it, of course, it's a look of arousal, but I don't think I can trust my memory that far: it could well have been a look of ethical distress and deep confusion at what she had done--a thing that I'm proud to say I would never do, and would prosecute, if I could, anyone who did do.

And there, reader, is the central paradox I want to elaborate in EXPLORATIONS: how is it possible for me, ethical Emily Tilton, to find something so heinous so arousing? Why, as long as I can assure myself that it's fiction, or even just that the victim is OK, as I was OK (and better than OK), is it possible for me to get off over and over to the cries of a young woman who is being spanked, when the first time I really did make those cries myself, I was anything but aroused?

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