Tuesday, December 29, 2015

The hotness of New Year's

Should I worry that if I do "the hotness of" every occasion I'll find myself stuck when the year rolls around again and I have to find something else to write naughtily about that's tied to the same occasion? Nah. You can expect to read "The hotness of champagne" next year, with some lurid tale of a Gigi-lookalike.

For now, though, let the world be new, to fit the coming new year, and the celebration we usually call New Year's, though we may equally well call it the Feast of the Holy Name, or—even better and more liturgical-historically accurate, the Feast of the Circumcision. That's right: in the Middle Ages, what much of Europe celebrated on the first day of January was the removal of Jesus of Nazareth's foreskin.

I've wondered from time to time whether circumcision could ever be hot. The answer always seems to come back in the negative. So we'll go in a Victorian direction today…

The Victorians—at least the class we who write erotic novels think of as the Victorians; that is, the bourgeoisie and the aristocracy—used the first of January to visit one another, often bringing gifts, for the notion of gifts on Christmas, under the branches of that newfangled gewgaw the Christmas-tree, had not yet taken hold. In particular bachelors expected invitations to visit the houses of families with marriageable daughters.

Ah. Yes.

Imagine that a particularly debauched gentleman has three daughters, each of them lovely but—because of the gentleman's impecunious state—unable to find suitable matches. How will he get them off his hands and his pocketbook?

He will of course invite the five most notorious libertines in Londaon to his home on New Year's Day. He will of course lay his daughters naked—"No missish protestations, Cecilia! Off with your petticoats!"; "Esther, did I not tell you to shave your cunny this morning? Go to your room and do so this instant!"; "Theodosia, your sweet bottom needs a good smacking, and I have invited just the men to give it you!"—over the dining-table next to the sweetmeats, and the bachelors will of course take turns in fucking their bare cunts and their virginal bottoms, not neglecting to use the canes and birches provided by the gentleman to test the girls' responses to discipline.

By the second day of January, the gentleman's worries will have come to an end. The girls, ruined in mouth, quim, and arse but fainting with untold pleasure, will have gone home with their keepers, the three lucky men chosen by lot of the five, with the other two libertines assured they may visit at any time to have a fuck. All night, that first night of the new year, they will serve the lusts of the men who will henceforth possess them at the bargain price of room, board, and the occasional frock.

Compare the following passage from The Duke's School for Young Ladies.

Clarissa watched her newest pupil closely as Anne’s gaze took in the duke’s drawing room. She thought she could see a distinct lack of surprise in the new girl’s eyes at the grand room’s holding, along with beautiful chairs, sofas, divans, and tables of the usual kind, several unusual pieces of furniture: three whipping benches and two demonstration tables. So experienced already, she thought. She supposed that a single visit from the duke could do that—just as it had done the same for Clarissa herself, all those years ago.

“Freda Garrett, in the blue room, please,” she said. “Do not undress: Mr. Babcock will wish to assist you in that, I believe. Ursula Gregory, over bench number one, if you please. Joan Porter, undress to your shift, if you please. I shall assist you. Lavinia Ellsworth, assist Georgina Holmes in unlacing, and she will then assist you in doing the same. Get undressed to your shifts. Miss Holmes over bench number two and, Miss Ellsworth, please oil her bottom-hole with the oil in the little cabinet, in order that she be ready for Mr. Abbott. Miss Crawley and Miss Solmes, completely undressed, and over by table number one.”

Gowns were removed as appropriate, hung in the presses that waited to one side of the drawing room, and soon enough all had been prepared for the entry of the gentlemen. After she had secured Ursula to the whipping bench, Clarissa, still in her own beautiful gown and feeling like a queen, walked over to where Sarah had led Anne to demonstration table number one, just in front of the mantelpiece, where a lovely warm fire burned in the grate.

The girls looked so sweet without their clothes that Clarissa could not help embracing them and kissing them on both cheeks before she said, “Now get upon the table, my sweet girls. Anne, Sarah will tell you what to do. Do not be anxious, for the gentlemen who watch like to see some confusion on a girl’s face when she must do this for the first time.”

Anne nodded solemnly and began to climb onto the table, six feet long and four feet wide, covered in padded leather for the girls’ comfort. The height of the table, which rose two feet from the floor—and so came to the duke’s knee—was not, of course, for the girls’ comfort but rather for the pleasure of the duke and his friends. Had Anne noticed? Clarissa wondered, as she often wondered such things about girls coming for the first time to make a part of a debauch. Sarah of course had reason to know quite well how convenient the table’s height made it for a gentleman to get his cock into a girl in whatever mode of enjoyment he chose.

Lost in a reverie of memories of past parties—of the times she herself had lain upon this table—Clarissa was surprised to hear Sarah’s timid voice, and to turn to see the sweet girl still standing next to the table, rather than moving to join Anne. “Miss Halton?” she said. “Is it true? That… Mr. Westenra…”

Clarissa did not wish to stir false hope in Sarah’s bosom, though she was of the opinion that Mr. Westenra could well be sincere in his desire to marry her. Nevertheless, she knew her eyes shone when she said, “Hush, child. Let that be as it may, and get upon the table with Miss Solmes.”
Sarah nodded, and began to climb to join her friend, who lay with her back to the fire, the sweet curve of her hips making a bewitching silhouette, and the golden curls upon her cunny glistening faintly. Clarissa felt suddenly that she wished to share a confidence with these two, and that her response to Sarah’s natural desire to know more of the possibility of a proposal from Mr. Westenra had left much wanting. She said softly, “Do you know, girls, that I have a hope that things at the school may change for the better, tonight?”

“What, miss?” asked Anne.

“Miss Crawley,” Clarissa said, then, noting that Sarah had begun to assume a position face-to-face with Anne, “your face before Miss Solmes’ cunny, if you please. If you are to be allowed to kiss, the gentlemen will tell you so.”

“Yes, miss,” Sarah said, moving to obey. “Miss, what did you mean, please? About changing for the better?”

“I have a stratagem,” Clarissa said in as low a voice as she could. “Listen to Ursula, for I believe that with Mr. Dabney’s unwitting help…” Then the door opened, and the duke, clad in his dressing gown, came in. The marquess, Lord Lerner, Mr. Stalby, Mr. Westenra, and Mr. Abbott all also wore dressing gowns, clearly having availed themselves of the opportunity the duke always gave to make their amours more convenient thus. Mr. Dabney and Mr. Babcock both still wore their evening dress.
Clarissa looked into Anne’s frightened eyes, and could not resist another kiss upon her forehead. “All may be well,” she whispered, and glided over to the duke.

The stratagem had formed in her mind after dinner, the moment she saw Ursula’s reaction to the news that Mr. Dabney wished to watch her caned, rather than to go to a private room to whip and fuck Lavinia Ellsworth away from the eyes of the world. Ursula had made a conquest, and Clarissa knew that she might well go to any length to secure him. If Mr. Dabney were the sort of respectable man who did not mind a little public fellatio, he would certainly, as the duke’s executor, be interested in the kind of story Clarissa thought she might be able to bring Ursula to tell, under the stern application of Lord Lerner’s cane to her rump.

And if Ursula told the sort of tale of Mrs. Fayerweather that Clarissa suspected the girl might have stored up in her memory, things might well change for the better, with some assistance from Mr. Dabney.

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

The hotness of Santa Claus

I'm definitely not the first one to this party! But I wrote something as a visual inspiration a couple years ago of which I'm rather proud.

Too soon

Ella crept downstairs. It was only 1am, but she had been checking every fifteen minutes to see if her husband had put her present under the tree yet, before he left for his night-shift at the hospital. He had made her promise to wait until he was back in the morning to open it, but she wasn't going to take it out of its box--she just wanted to see what it was.

Yes. It was there! A big white box with a red bow. She hurried over to the bushy green spruce with the pretty red bow-and-bulb ornaments, and sank quickly to her knees. She started to untie the red ribbon.

"Young lady," came a deep voice behind her, startling her half to death. She didn't even think to drop the ribbons, as she turned around and saw. . . white beard, check. . . red suit, check. . . jolly old elf--well, old elf, check; jolly, not very.

"Young lady, I believe you made your husband a promise."

"Um. . . I. . ."

"Did you or didn't you?"

Ella felt her face crumple. "Yes, Santa, I did. I'm so sorry."

"He and I made a deal tonight: he's going to put out the presents at the hospital, and I brought your present here. Do you think he deserves to have you breaking your promise while he's out working?"

"No, Santa." A tear rolled down Ella's face.

"What do you think would happen if he saw you himself?"

"Oh, no," she said, picturing it.

"He would spank you, wouldn't he? Don't lie, or you'll be on the naughty list next year!"

"Yes, Santa."

"Then since he and I have our bargain tonight, I believe I need to teach you your lesson."

Santa brought the little stool over to the tree, and sat upon it, looking decidely jollier. He patted his lap, and Ella, still holding the ribbons of the forbidden present, went over it.

"You'll tell your husband in the morning that you need a spanking, but you don't have to tell him why. I think it will brighten his day, especially if you're as delighted by your gift as I think you will be, Ella."

Santa flipped up the little green skirt to reveal scandalously configured underwear. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," he said, as he began to administer the sort of sound spanking that only he can give. "Sometimes naughty and nice are the same, aren't they?"


It's not really all that dissimilar, is it, from the kind of daddy-spanking Darla gets in this passage from Assigned a Daddy?

Darla realized her breath had once again begun to come in short, ragged pants. Every time he said punished her whole body seemed to flash hot—everywhere, unfortunately. Somehow the Selecta people had known. Something about her seemed to say that what Mike was doing was not only acceptable but… necessary.

“Yes, daddy,” she whispered. She looked down at the carpet. Green pile. She hated that carpet. She hated this apartment, whose rent had encouraged her to shoplift three times, just to have clothes that made her feel like she could hold her head up at work.

“Now answer my question, sweetheart. Do you play with your little pussy, to make yourself feel good?”

“S-sometimes,” Darla stammered.

“Thank you for being honest, Darla,” Mike replied, nodding in approval and once again presenting Darla with the problem of her apparent need—ten minutes after meeting her ‘daddy’—for that approval. “Most nights I’ll give you permission to touch yourself, if you’ve obeyed me and respected me that day. You won’t have permission to do it anywhere but in bed, though, after dark. If I catch you with your hand there, when you don’t have permission, you’ll have a bare-bottom belt-whipping.”

Oh, God. Darla felt her face burning like the sun. Yes, she masturbated sometimes… but when times got a little rough, often probably made a better representation of it. At least she’d be able to touch herself in the bathroom.

“And don’t think you’ll be able to do it in the bathroom either, in my house, because you’re going to be doing your business with the door open, so I can see you, and I’m going to supervise your bathing. At work, you’re going to text me for permission to go to the bathroom, and then put your phone where you can record yourself peeing so I can watch it later.”

Darla started to shake her head. It couldn’t be real, could it? And yet… and yet it was, and her mind didn’t reel the way she thought it should. Her face kept right on blazing, but Mike’s paternal authority, even in this extraordinarily shameful area, seemed to embrace her. His tone, and the detail with which he had thought out the implementation of Darla’s correctional program, told her that the purpose of the program had to lie much more in her reform than in her humiliation.

That didn’t mean Darla had to like it, though. She had to push back, even if it got her a worse punishment now.

“That’s mean, daddy,” she said, realizing to her surprise that she had begun to take on the persona of a little girl without even thinking about it. “I won’t do that. It’s not fair, and it’s creepy and shameful.”

She looked up at Mike in apprehension, and saw to her shock that his face had utterly transformed itself into an expression of restrained anger, his eyebrows lowered and his mouth set. He didn’t speak, at first, but he reached out and took Darla by her hips and pulled her a step toward him, as her arms spun around in the air, seeking her balance.

She needn’t have worried about that, because Mike had such strength even just in his hands that there was no chance Darla might fall. He had his hands in the waistband of her jeans, now, and before she knew it he had them unbuttoned and he was pulling them down. Darla gave a little cry of surprise and humiliation to know that her daddy now saw her pussy, with its sparse brown thatch, for the first time.

Mike spoke again at last. “You just earned yourself quite the spanking, sweetheart, and in the nude. Your new little-girl panties are going to feel pretty sore on your little bottom in a few minutes.”

“Please, no… please, daddy…” Darla wailed. But she understood too late that although Mike certainly had told the truth when he said he was a patient man, she had pushed him much too far, since he also clearly felt keenly his responsibility to start setting boundaries for Darla. He didn’t speak again, but pulled her between his thighs and bent her over his left knee.

Wild now to escape the spanking somehow, anyhow, Darla threw her right hand back and put it across her tender bottom cheeks. But Mike grabbed her wrist in his right hand and transferred it to his left so that he could pin it with terrible ease against the small of her back. At the same time, he closed his thighs around hers, immobilizing her almost completely.

“You’ll learn to hold still for your punishments,” Mike said, that same controlled anger in his voice. “It starts with knowing that you don’t have a choice, when your daddy decides your butt needs whipping.”

The words frightened Darla so much that she tried to writhe away even though her mind told her Mike spoke the truth when he said it wouldn’t help. With every ounce of her strength, and probably extra from the fear, she struggled against him, but she couldn’t manage to slip from his grasp more than an inch. Her naked bottom, ready for his discipline, still rose over his thigh.

He put his hand on it, and Darla used her millimeter of freedom to flinch, although the touch was gentle.

“This is a very special moment for you, Darla,” Mike said much more softly than she would have expected. “I know you’re scared, and you should be, because I’m going to teach you the first real lesson of your life, but I promise you’re going to look back on this spanking with gratitude. You earned a bare-bottom punishment, and you’re about to get it, just as you’ll probably get many more, before being a good girl becomes second nature to you. While I give you what you’ve got coming, I want you to think about what it means, to have your daddy take down your jeans and tan your hide because you couldn’t obey him, and then you disrespected him. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes, d-daddy,” Darla whimpered, as Mike kept rubbing her bottom. It felt like worse torture than the spanking ever could be, because it felt so good, and his words were so soothing.

Tuesday, December 15, 2015

The hotness of the Annunciation

This Sunday, the fourth Sunday of Advent, many churches, including mine, will remember Mary, the mother of Jesus of Nazareth. Specifically, we'll read and think about the event called the Annunciation: the sending of the angel Gabriel to Nazareth to tell Mary she would bear God's son, and call him Jesus. 

I'm going to do this as tastefully as I can, and it's not my intention to shock you, but I want to write about how incredibly hot the Annunciation is.

From the Gospel according to Luke:

And Mary said, "Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word."

From a medieval antiphon called Alma redemptoris, traditionally sung during Advent, Christmastide, and Epiphanytide:

Gracious mother of our redeemer
forever abiding heaven's gateway…

In my darkest, most difficult struggles with my submissive sexual orientation, when I thought I must go to Hell at last, there to be burned with unquenchable fire, because I could not stop wanting to submit and to be punished for my wickedness and at last fully enjoyed by a power greater than I, I looked to the Annunciation and thought, There is hope. Mary submitted, and received, as I wish to submit and to receive.

The whips and paddles and firm hands in discipline I got from the monastics.

Holy Advent to you, dear reader.

Here's a little excerpt from Assigned a Daddy that to me embodies some of the same ideas, though
your mileage may well vary. It's from early in the story, when Mike makes his "annunciation" to Darla of what she can expect in the Daddy's Naughty Little Girl program.

“You don’t wear a bra, sweetheart?” Her perfect little breasts were even more pert than her bottom, if that was possible, with sweet brown nipples just about the size of a quarter. 
She looked at him bashfully. “No, daddy. My breasts are so small I don’t need one.” She hesitated, as if trying to decide whether to say something. Then she said, in an even more little-girlish tone, “Do I?” 
“No, sweetheart, you don’t. And you certainly won’t wear one with your pinafore. Go ahead and take your jeans off, now. Leave your panties on for a moment so daddy can see what kind of panties you wear.” 
Darla chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment. “I’m not wearing panties, daddy,” she confessed. 
“Darla!” Mike said, genuinely—if slightly—shocked. “Don’t you know better than that? Little girls who don’t wear their panties need to learn some important lessons about taking care of their bodies.” 
“I packed all the clean ones in my bag before I got dressed, and I didn’t want to take any of them out.” Her mouth twisted adorably to the side. 
“Well, since you weren’t in my custody when you got dressed, I can’t spank you for it—plus you’ve got one coming anyway for the disobedience—but we’ll discuss this at tomorrow’s inspection. I can promise you that if you go without your underwear while you’re with me, whether you’re wearing grownup clothes or little-girl clothes, you’ll have trouble sitting down for a day or two.” 
“What about at night?” she asked, obviously curious all of a sudden. 
“No panties under your nighty, of course,” Mike said. “But I need to tell you right away that I believe naughty little girls shouldn’t touch their pussies unless their daddies give them permission, as a reward for good behavior.”

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Pound me in the butt, Paladin Danse!

(With apologies to the amazing Dr. Chuck Tingle.)

I'm going to start blogging again on a weekly basis. I'm taking the blog out of mothballs both because I feel like I should have a way to communicate with my readers regularly in a longer form than social media posts permit and because I think it will be fun to write some short things that start from something relatively serious (or at least non-erotic) and work their way to something hot.

I feel like I more or less completed the story of the "real" Emily – you know, if you happened to be a reader of this blog in the past, the one in italics – and so the perspective I adopt going forward will be that of the ultra dirty d/S authoress you know from my more recent books, like A Legacy of Dominance.

For this post I'm going to share something even more shameful than my fantasies of anal submission: I play video games.

I hope that if you've been able to forgive me for all the stuff about diapers and flogging you'll be able to forgive me for my obsession with Fallout 4. In any case, what I want to share with you today is my growing affection for and lust after a member of the Brotherhood of Steel named Paladin Danse. Paladin Danse has taken me under his wing and sponsored me for full membership in the Brotherhood of Steel, which came with a magnificently-beaten-up set of power armor.

Now, though, all I wish is that Danse would pull down the metal panties that must be part of the power armor (even though of course prudish Bethesda Software refuses to put them in my inventory) and give me an old-fashioned pre-apocalypse over-the-knee spanking the next time I inadvertently hit him with a Molotov cocktail. There are so many bombed-out offices in the wasteland of the Commonwealth (the post-nuclear setting based on metro-Boston of the game) and in every one of them there is a desk that Paladin Danse could lay me over after he's spanked my naughty bottom red and, gruffly informing me that it's necessary to my initiation as a sister of the Brotherhood of Steel, enter me switfly and fuck me as only a man in power armor can do.

Just a thought.

Another reason to write a weekly post is of course that I can tell you what I'm working on. Currently that's the seventh (or the sixth if you don't count A Punishment Exam for Jane) book of the Institute series, tentatively called Thoroughly Trained. It has a slightly more futuristic setting than past books of the series and it concerns what can happen to a girl whose data-profile shows that she is a repressed submissive, if she lives under a regime controlled almost entirely by corporations bent on making a profit from their data-analysis – especially if one of those corporations is a spinoff of the Institute.

Among other things, unlike in past days when the Institute had to wait for girls to discover that they needed the sort of consensual nonconsent that only the Institute could provide, in the new world of corporate big data girls like Anna Greenway may be taken directly to a trainer's apartment and deflowered, and all of it perfectly legal under the corporate acts of 2045 thanks to the Institute's stunning – if secret – track record of giving submissive girls exactly what they need, even if they can't admit it until after the fact.

Also, I might as well mention my new book, Assigned a Daddy.

After eighteen-year-old Darla Hawkins is caught shoplifting, she is sentenced to spend six months in the custody of former marine colonel Mike Beckwith, who will act as her daddy and disciplinarian during that time. Mike is more than ready to be as firm as necessary, and when Darla doesn’t obey him promptly during their first meeting he wastes no time in baring her bottom, pulling her over his knee, and spanking her until she’s a very sorry little girl.

Darla quickly discovers that a spanking is far from the most humiliating punishment Mike is prepared to employ when she fails to do as she is told, and before long she has lost the privilege of wearing big girl panties. Her daddy putting her in diapers is more embarrassing than anything she has ever imagined, yet to her shame it also leaves her intensely aroused. Her shame only increases when Mike decides that some very special training is required to deal with her repeated disobedience, and she soon learns that even her most intimate places belong to her daddy.

Though his disciplinary techniques frequently leave her with blushing cheeks and a sore bottom, Mike’s caring guidance and loving attention help Darla blossom in a way she never could have before, and she grows closer to him with each passing day. But will she be left on her own when her sentence is completed, or will her daddy find a way to keep his little girl at his side forever?

Friday, August 21, 2015

A simple spank, in a very complex context #SatSpanks

I apologize for my absence over the past few weeks! I'm thrilled to announce my new book, Bound and Initiated, from which this passage comes. Hopefully you'll be able to figure out basically what's going on here, and that will make you want to figure out why it's going on…

On and on, and now her jaw ached more, even without the ring gag. The thrusting, and his little noises of pleasure, and the whip on her bottom, telling her she must accept what her pater gave her.

Then he dropped the whip, to her astonishment, and withdrew from her mouth. He bent down over her and his right hand — the hand that had held the whip, gave her a simple spank, right in the middle of her bottom.

Sarah yelped, but then, immediately, that hand began to rub, and its fingers to push in roughly between her thighs from behind, and Sarah started to cry out with the forced pleasure.

"Oh, God," she whispered, and gave a moan that sounded just like a dove's to her ears.

"Come now," Robert said in her ear. "Come right now, Sarah."

Click here to buy it on Amazon! Read all the Saturday Spankings!

Friday, July 24, 2015

I think you know what I mean #SatSpanks

Hopefully this passage from the middle of an early spanking in the doctor's house will intrigue rather than confuse!

She struggled further, but Sam simply remained silent. At a particularly strenuous escape attempt, he gave her three more hard spanks. Eliana gave a wail unlike the defiant grunts of a moment before. “Oh, please! No more!”

Sam didn’t spank her again, and now she did quiet her body.

Finally, “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Speak respectfully, Eliana,” Sam replied softly. “I think you know what I mean.”

Read all the Saturday Spankings!

Why we submit—EXPLORATIONS files

I'm re-running the stories that serve as deep background for EXPLORATIONS. The story continues from this post.


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.

EXPLORATIONS is her answer, at least for now, and this is perhaps a good moment to talk about why, and in particular to talk about why inscribing an eighteen-year-old version of herself seems to hold out some hope of making progress towards a good life.

Fantasies do seem like wishes. If the scene in our head is so hot that we can't resist abusing ourselves, in the delicious old phrase, aren't we saying that we want to play that scene in reality? Certainly I would never deny that if there were a way to play out the things in my head in a safe, sane, and consensual fashion I would jump at the chance to do so.

But here's the thing: it would still be fantasy, because it would be a scene, played safely, sanely, and consensually. If, for example, I imagine that the cop who pulled me over for speeding yesterday, on hearing that my husband would be very angry at me, had given me the option of a "State Police Session," in a secret room at headquarters; if I imagine that I had followed him to headquarters, dutifully, and in that secret room received a caning; if I imagine that I had then sucked the cocks of the on-duty officers, and had afterward been secured over the special "State Police Horse" (why else would they wear those damn riding-breech-type pants?) to have my ass ravished by any officer who cared to use me, I might want to play it as a scene with Charles (okay, maybe even with Charles and say one or two of his friends whom I trust), but I'm most assuredly not interested in being fucked by the State Police in real life.

Fantasies are not wishes, and, much as I love Disney culture (talk about crypto-BDSM!), a dream is not a wish your heart makes when it's fast asleep.

My best guess at this point is that the way to get better at answering that "How?" question is to keep exploring my fantasies, learning more and more about how they might relate to reality, without being reality. Why do I get so nervous when I'm pulled over? Because I have a thing about state authority that comes from fantasy. If I realize that, maybe I can act more naturally--that's the plan, anyway.

So why the 18-year-old fantasy-Emily avatar? Really, it's just as much about actual me, with the dilemmas of a vanilla life to worry about, as it is about "real" italic me, because it was the creation of fantasy-Emily that allowed me to create real-Emily. Real-Emily came about as a result of trying to think through the stuff that was pouring through my keyboard onto my screen about fantasy-Emily. You can kind of tell that from the way EXPLORATIONS develops, where real-Emily's voice gets progressively stronger.

Fantasy-Emily was, you see, undergoing shocking things on her wedding-night. Even after I'd given her an extremely wanton nature, what was getting me off in writing the story of her submissive wedding-night was fantasy-Charles bending her to his will, dominating her, using her. How could that possibly be reconciled with my egalitarian ethics? What if it were a human rights lawyer who were writing it?

The creation of this voice--the italicized human-rights lawyer voice of real-Emily, and along with it the creation of real-Emily's marriage to real-Charles, is what made me feel I had, let's say, a ship to go exploring in. I'd hesitate to call this voice redemptive, but certainly my mission for real-Emily is a sort of redemption, to proceed, I hope, from my longed-for actual reconciliation of my erotic nature and my ethical one.

Thursday, July 23, 2015

Visually inspired: conductor

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

The secret to Neumeister's musical genius, many said, lay in his dominant erotic tendencies. He manifested these, they said, in front of his orchestras--but he could do so only because in his home he had constant practice in dominating the girls he called his Muses, whom he had bound to contracts of servitude.

Every day, one of his Muses, dressed appropriately, would be appointed to play through the score Neumeister was preparing to conduct. As he listened, shouting comments to another Muse, who sat naked at a nearby desk, he would savagely punish the girl who had played the day before, for the faults in her performance. Neumeister would alternately thrash the Muse he punished and make her stand with her face to the wall so that he had a beautiful work of his own to look upon.

Neumeister's admirers claim that in the spankings, whippings, and canings he gave to his Muses he learned to channel his dominant eroticism into his conducting. When he stood before his orchestra, they said, he dominated his musicians in the same way: his baton seemed to them to become a new sort of cane, with which he put his imprint upon musical history just as he daily put his imprint upon his girls' lovely bottoms.

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

A secret ancient erotic cult, bent on world domination!—what Emily is up to

This one is giving me serious headaches because it wants to be so long. I really don't think it pays to write old-fashioned series these days, but this one may become a trilogy anyway. Working title: Bound and Initiated.

When Sarah had fallen asleep, Robert folded the table quietly, and left the room, swinging the great stone door silently closed behind him. Claudia and her staff of Amazons (the third degree of the Order of Ostia) would monitor her on the surveillance cameras. One of them would wake Sarah in two hours to show her the bathroom that lay through a hidden door in her chamber. Robert would watch that himself, he decided, on his own monitor in his apartment in the penthouse. It was always charming to see the look on a girl's face when she realized that from now on others would accompany her to the bathroom and watch her upon the toilet. Nor did he want to miss the little pout on Sarah's lips and the furrow on her brow as she peed. He would have her pee in front of him before too long, he decided.

As he rode the elevator up to his apartment, he contemplated the business of the following day, wondering if he could concentrate on it at all, with the vision of what would happen at sunset, upon the bed of the pleasure chamber, before his eyes.

He fell asleep in his enormous bed, between sheets of Egyptian cotton, wondering how quickly Sarah would take to her duties as a nupta. Something about her seemed so very analytical that he thought he wouldn't be surprised if she turned out to be a natural at it. Nor was he sure he had spoken the truth when he told her that she wouldn't understand why she monitored the subjects they gave her to monitor.

Robert's own job, he felt, held a great deal less intellectual stimulation than Sarah's would. He spent his days, when not in marathon meetings here in New York, or in Rome, or in another city where the Guard maintained a center, writing reports about those meetings. Theoretically those reports distilled the essence of the resolutions arrived at through painstaking consultation among the most brilliant minds in the world, putting forth various abstract bases and justifications for the frequently purely ad hoc decisions they made because someone must and presenting the possible ramifications of the Guard's actions. In practice, Robert's job amounted to glorified secretary duty: The cardinal said X, and the director said Y, and then the president said, "No, Z," and the meeting was adjourned.

Sometimes Robert was of the cynical opinion that for all the grandiose metaphysical scaffolding put in place by Cardinal Otranto, the banqueting and the fucking were only there as the most massive carrot the cardinal could find. Otherwise, Robert put it to himself as he fell asleep, nothing could get intelligent men and women to do a duty as depressing and boring as saving some shred of civilization from its doom. Without the prospect of spanking, whipping, and fucking one another's brains out to await them at the end of the day, they would merely pray that the charts were wrong, and retreat into their enclaves and wait for the end.

O true man, the lost books of Mithras ended, I give you much, when I give you this duty, to master beautiful young women, to bind them, to whip them, and to fuck them as you please. But I demand much in return.

I'm guessing it will be out in early August!

Monday, July 20, 2015

I'd bend you over right here: Lori-Anne for #Taboo2sday

The whole story so far can be found here.

Joe waited just outside Reverend White's door as Lori-Anne came out, clutching her dress and her lingerie to her chest.

"Lori-Anne," he said, looking her up and down, "did you please the preacher like a good girl?"

"Yes, sir," Lori-Anne replied meekly.

"Well go on and get dressed, then, and I'm'a overlook your disgraceful display of your nakedness here. And don't you say that you were just doing what the preacher told you to do, because good girls don't have the unnatural desires you do. We both know that it's your unnatural desires that make real men like Reverend White and me get so hard we need to take our pleasure with you."

"Yes, sir," Lori-Anne said, starting to put on her dress.

Big Joe's sternness seemed to lighten a little then. "Lord, Lori-Anne, if I hadn't made my resolution to save that pretty Lori-cunt between those hindcheeks of yours for our wedding night, I think I'd bend you over right here."

Read more taboo!

The doctor's belt, in public

For this week's Monday excerpt I thought I'd finish the scene that Amazon so cruelly cuts off in the middle, in the Look Inside preview of the book.

The ‘doctor’ tapped her bottom again with his belt. His hand, with the hem of the green jersey in it, rested now atop the small of her back.

Just another little taste of society’s ‘justice.’ Deporting her brothers, sending her sister into custody service. Relman, above the law, sending Prender to some colony in the Alpha Andromeda system. And now a doctor with a belt.

“Why am I punishing you, Eliana?” His voice seemed to come from far above her. Of course: the man who gave the ‘justice’ always wanted to make you think he towered over you.

“Seriously?” she said. She couldn’t help it. Despite realizing she had to give in, if she were to start the plan of fooling this strange doctor into thinking he had reformed her, the idea of following obediently the way he wanted events to unfold—above all the notion that she would have to say things, and for example, right now, tell him why he should whip her—was going to be very difficult to accept, El could already tell.

“Seriously, Eliana.” There was that damned patient tone. The thought that he might be able to outwait her gave El pause. And then there was that fucking gentleness, and along with it a veneer of reason: just bend over, Eliana, and learn your lesson. Eyes respectfully down, Eliana. When you learn to follow the rules, everyone will be happy. Raise your bottom for the belt, and when your punishment is over you’ll be a better person. “We can’t get started here until you show me you understand why I have to discipline you.”

Dammit. “I tried to hurt you,” she said, trying desperately to make it sound like she was sorry.

“That’s right. I need you to understand, Eliana, that I will punish you for bad behavior. That’s the first step toward setting new boundaries for your future life. Now thank me for punishing you.”

“What?” Again it had just burst from her. Of course Doctor Fitzgerald would spring some shit like this. Of course she had to ‘thank’ him.

“You heard me, Eliana,” he said calmly. “I know you won’t mean it now, but you’re going to start using the forms of civilized interaction, and soon enough you will see how important they are.”

“You’ll brainwash me, you mean.” Why did this man make her talk when she wanted just to stay silent? Well, maybe it’s better if I show him a little resistance now, so that I’m more convincing later.

“If you want to call it that, you can go ahead. That’s an old, old term, and it didn’t have a real meaning even when it was young. I’ll definitely be changing your attitudes and modifying your behavior. If you want to call it brainwashing, go ahead.”

What? El felt her brow furrow. Weren’t they supposed to say, “No, we would never do anything coercive like brainwashing”?

Once again, he tapped her bottom with the belt, and now the voice from above had a note of severity in it. “Thank me, Eliana.”

“Fine. Thank you, Doctor Fitzgerald.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Wildwood.” El had a momentary mental image of the two corrections officers nodding approvingly and, to her horror, she felt herself blush. Just a stupid bodily response. Exactly what he wants, and exactly what I won’t give into.

The belt left her bottom, she heard the whistling sound she had imagined, and the leather cracked against her right cheek. Then, before she felt she could even sense the pain, he had struck again, harder, on her left one. She hadn’t wanted to make a noise, but the suddenness and speed of the lashes raining down, quickly and mercilessly, took her by surprise, and she made a little yelping sound.

El didn’t know why she had stupidly assumed that Dr. Fitzgerald wouldn’t really punish her. Even if he used the belt, she had thought deep in her mind that this little farce would be some sort of symbolic thing. Maybe something about the softness of his manner made her think, unconsciously, perhaps, that he wouldn’t spank her hard.

But although at the start the pain was definitely manageable, as the lashes fell in spots that he had already thoroughly punished, the belt quickly made her grit her teeth, and then her eyes had begun to water and she was sobbing with pain. Dr. Fitzgerald, despite appearances, didn’t mess around. To her distress, she started to squirm, clenching her cheeks and even trying to get away. Again she pictured Jones and Eagleson, and her face grew hot while her sobs became real sobs of shame.

“Stop! Please! I’m sorry!” burst from her throat, to her disgust, but the doctor just kept whipping her, for what seemed like forever.

“Um, doctor?” came a voice from in front of her—Jones?

“I’m nearly through,” said Dr. Fitzgerald calmly. “This first corporal punishment has to be decisive, officer.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” El shrieked.

The whipping stopped. “I’m glad to hear it,” the doctor said. “You may stand up, and pull up your pants and underwear. Then please turn to face me.”

Why was it nearly as humiliating to be told to pull up your pants as to be told to take them down? The reason came to El in a flash as she obeyed, because at this point why shouldn’t she, so she could get the hell out of this office and to whatever ‘home’ the doctor had: because the shame lay in the control the doctor had just exercised and demonstrated over that part of her body—the part from which shame and humiliation seemed to spring. Even Relman had known that, and shown it in keeping his custody girls naked and waxed between their legs. Because of her criminal expertise, El had been spared that; now she suddenly wondered whether she would be spared it in the doctor’s house.

Her eyes downcast as much in shame as because she consciously tried now to obey his wishes in order to fool him into thinking his ‘protocol’ was working, she turned to him, and to her shock found that he had opened his arms.

“Look at me, Eliana,” he said. She didn’t want to, but the act demanded it, so she looked up into his blue eyes, sure that her own face must look frightful, with her eyes swollen and her nose running. “I’m going to hug you now. I know you probably don’t want it, but you have to have it. No society should discipline its miscreants without love, even if the miscreant refuses to accept that love, or even to believe it genuine.”

El felt her jaw drop. He couldn’t be serious. She glanced at Jones, across the desk. His white-mustached face wore a bemused look, as if he recognized that the doctor had spoken the truth, but a truth that existed in some parallel universe.

Then the doctor had stepped forward and gathered El into his arms, and though she made herself go stiff and stay stiff against his strong chest, he held her that way for a long moment, rubbing her back at the same time.

“You were a good girl for your punishment,” he said. “Thank you.”

Saturday, July 11, 2015

Just out! Bought by the Doctor: yummy, slightly dark, medical, sci-fi BDSM

When she grows tired of the hypocrisy of her society, twenty-year-old Eliana Wildwood decides to flaunt the law and do as she pleases. Unfortunately for her, the government of Earth in 3072 doesn’t take kindly to such rebelliousness, and soon enough Eliana finds herself sent off to a prison colony. 

Doctor Sam Fitzgerald has been looking for just the right subject for his study of rehabilitation techniques for female offenders, and Eliana fits the bill perfectly. Her suitability is confirmed when, only moments after buying custody of her, he is forced to bare her bottom for a harsh, public punishment to begin the long process of teaching her obedience. 

To her shock, upon being brought to his home Eliana quickly discovers that the handsome doctor’s plans for her include a regimen of intimate, humiliating medical examinations along with intense, prolonged sexual stimulation. Any attempt to resist her treatment will result in swift chastisement in the form of a hard, bare-bottom spanking. 

Yet despite her shame at his complete mastery of her body, before long Eliana finds herself craving both Sam’s gentle touch and his dominant lovemaking. As her hardened criminal façade gives way to reveal the vulnerable young woman beneath, he cannot help falling for her as well. But when a man from Eliana’s past puts their lives in danger, can Sam keep them both safe? 

Publisher’s Note: Bought by the Doctor is an erotic romance novel that includes spankings, sexual scenes, medical play, anal play, exhibitionism, elements of BDSM, and more. If such material offends you, please don’t buy this book.

Click here to buy it on Amazon!

Monday, June 22, 2015

"That's your problem, not mine"—Lori-Anne for Taboo2sday

The whole story so far can be found here.

When Reverend White finally came down Lori-Anne's throat he made her swallow every drop, holding her head so tightly that Lori-Anne felt sure that he must have mussed her hair. She couldn't deny, though, that her wanton nature responded to the preacher's dominance: the idea that Reverend White didn't care whether he got Lori-Anne in trouble with Joe for not looking her best made her clit swell and get so embarrassingly big that she felt terribly ashamed when he finally released her head from his grip with a last grunt of pleasure and told her she could go.

"Just pick up your clothes and get on out of here, girl," he said. "Look at that thing between your legs!"

Her throat burning with his semen, Lori-Anne pleaded, "Can't I get dressed here first, Reverend?"

"No you can't get dressed here, girl. What if one of the church ladies came in. You go on and just get yourself to the bathroom. If someone sees you like that, well now that's your problem, isn't it?"

Read more taboo! 

Gratis: Summer Fling and Subjugated: double the hot excerpts!

I had two projects of which I'm really proud come out over the weekend, so I'm going to double your arousal today!

Here's a part of Isabelle's Submissive July that I love. It's my story in the Gratis: Summer Fling anthology, which you can get for free at the links that follow!

Isabelle called him back an hour later. She would have called him back five minutes later, if she hadn't thought she would seem like a stalker.

When she'd seen the notice on the club board, by the pool, she had actually felt the blood drain from her face, and then return in a rush. Her hand shook as she tore off one of the little slips Mr. Larchner must have cut between, so prospective babysitters could take his number with them. She even had to repress the urge to tear off all the other slips.

Then her fingers had trembled on the screen of her phone, as she dialed the number.

Then, when he had said the thing about going to Vermont, and hanging out and sightseeing, she had no idea what to say, so faint did it make her feel to picture herself in Vermont with Mr. Larchner. What was wrong with her?

She put the phone down with trembling fingers and wandered into the bathroom, really just trying to figure out something she might do to take her mind off wanting to call right back and tell Mr. Larchner that she would definitely babysit for the whole month, and could he please deflower her, too.

She looked at her reflection, and felt torn between liking what she saw and the certainty that Dan Larchner, unbelievably hot older guy, would never actually seduce a fairly skinny, brainy looking girl with breasts that hardly filled a B cup and mousy shoulder-length brown hair that she always pulled back into a ponytail. Plus, her nose: her long nose. Her sea-blue eyes were her best feature by far, but surely Mr. Larchner would prefer hazel or something exotic, like green.

What was wrong with her? Isabelle found herself pulling down her jeans. Just to see what I look like down here. Cotton panties with a floral pattern, and a tiny bit of lace around the legs and the waist. What kind of lingerie did Mr. Larchner like? Surely the really lacy kind. Isabelle sighed: she had always wanted to buy herself something like that, but her mother still did her laundry.

Self-consciously, she touched the fabric of her panties, watching in the mirror as the hand, like the hand of another person, performed the sexy gesture. Isabelle heard a little sound come from her throat at the pleasant, frustrating sensation. She didn't do this very often, but now she couldn't stop, as she thought of Mr. Larchner, touching her floral panties, telling her that she would have to wear something lacy next time, but that for now cotton with little blue flowers was fine with him.

Isabelle pressed harder, right where her clit lay hidden by the panties. God, she had never felt the need to play with herself this much, had she? She ran her hand down, between her thighs, spreading them as much as she could, bound by the jeans as they were. Something about that, about the way her jeans held her knees close together, felt so very right. What if Mr. Larchner had taken them down, and left them there, and said, "This is how I like you, Isabelle"?

To her thrilled shame, she found that she had already soaked through the cotton between her legs, over her pussy, where someday a cock… oh, God—had she just thought that terrible word, that naughty word? What did Mr. Larchner's cock look like? Was it big, like the one in the video Michelle had shown her on the 'net that one time?

What if he told her to kneel down and suck it? When the kids had gone to bed, in Vermont, would he tell her it was time to learn to suck a cock? And… and to… to bend… over… with her panties down, on top of her jeans…

Still watching like a hawk in the mirror, even as her knees trembled inside the denim that bound them together, she worked her fingers inside the right leg of the panties, and then she couldn't stifle the little cry of pleasure when her middle finger, twined in her sparse thatch of wiry fleece there, pushed against her aching clit.

"Isabelle?" her mother called from just outside the bathroom door. "Are you okay?"

"Fine, mom," she called back, and bit her lip hard. She took her hand away, clenched it into a little fist, feeling the shameful, slippery wetness on her fingers. What was wrong with her?

She left the bathroom, went back to her own room, and forced herself to do some of the last remaining homework of her high school career. Precisely one hour and two minutes after she had hung up, before the incident in the bathroom, she called Mr. Larchner and told him that she'd love to go to Vermont to babysit Daniel and Sarah.

Just get Gratis Summer Fling. I mean, it’s FREE, after all!

Now Subjugated is a very different kind of book, as this excerpt will demonstrate, I'm fairly sure!

As she read the letter, Jenna felt her whole body flush, and then go ice cold in horror, alternately, over and over. She had known that the subjugation would be shameful, and even painful. She had known that it would involve paddling, she supposed, because that was a punishment she had grown accustomed to seeing in school assemblies.

But she had never even guessed that the subjugation might involve the kind of humiliating display described in the letter. She remembered her mother telling her in those same brief, whispered conversations in January about the idea of Plan Beta and how if it should come to pass, she must not submit entirely, so that she might provoke the interest of those who watched the subjugation. Jenna thought her mother had wanted to tell her what subjugation entailed, but there had never been time, perhaps because whenever her mother began to talk about it, her face turned very red and she couldn’t continue.

And Mrs. Trest would be coming to inspect her, the same way she had that horrible day at the beginning of the Human Development unit. Inspect her, to make sure she had bared herself properly. Jenna looked at the red panties lying on her bed, and pictured what she would look like in them once she had carried out the instruction about shaving herself between her legs. Mrs. Trest had in fact given the class instructions about how a girl should shave there, and Jenna blushed as she remembered the severe-looking, brown-haired woman in her mid-forties, telling Jenna and her classmates to use scissors to trim the hair down, then to soak in a warm tub, and to shave there.

Should she just go get it over with now? She turned involuntarily and glanced again at where she knew the surveillance camera lay in the crown molding of her room. As she grew up in that house, her father had often warned her about the cameras, and how if she overheard anything about town affairs, she must never mention it, even at home. Some of Jenna’s friends had admitted to being a little embarrassed to know that anyone at headquarters would watch them in their bedrooms or even their bathrooms, but because Jenna wasn’t conscious of doing anything improper, she regarded the surveillance cameras as a security measure that liberated them from fear, as General Dumfries declared in his weekly message.

At least, that was how she had felt until her father had taken her on a long walk, and told her how the Western Republic really worked, and about the possibility of escaping to the Eastern Commonwealth.

Deciding that she must begin by following the instructions from the captain—what did he look like? how cruel would he be?—to the letter, Jenna started to unbutton her white school-uniform blouse. She had a sudden, defiant urge to turn to the surveillance camera and remove all her clothing brazenly, to say, So you want to see my naked breasts and my naked pussy? Well, here they are.

But instead shame won out, and she turned her back to the camera as she shrugged her blouse from her shoulders, and then unhooked her plain white bra. Absurd, she realized, because of course they would see everything very soon. But something in Jenna could not overcome the modesty her education had instilled. And hadn’t Mrs. Trest said that men much prefer to marry modest girls?

As she unbuttoned the waistband of the little kilt, she wondered, when army officers watched girls who were going to be subjugated, whether they liked modesty or brazenness. The thought seemed so strange to her that she tried to push it away, and she focused on the feeling of the wool against her fingers, and then against her legs, as she stepped out of the uniform skirt.

Underneath, she had the regulation black thigh-high stockings that eighteen-year-olds wore, and the regulation white cotton panties. Blushing furiously, she rolled down the stockings and laid them together with her kilt on top of the blouse and the bra on her bed. The time had come, and Jenna felt her blush deepen as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and began to pull them down, sure that the exposure of her little bottom would be closely observed by the officer who would arrive in a week to give her his further instructions.

She put the school panties on the bed and picked up the lacy ones that had come from the envelope. Trembling, she sat on the bed and began to pull on the red panties. As soon as she felt the lace up against her pussy and her bottom and felt the way it both covered and exposed her, she understood the terrible logic of the instruction to remove all her hair there and bare herself for her subjugating officer: Jenna must have no covering between her waist and knees that had not been specified by the man who would possess her there.

Friday, June 19, 2015

Dystopian traditional values #SatSpanks

In my new book Subjugated, the post-apocalyptic nation where the hero and heroine live is ruled by a general whose ideas of traditional values are rather warped.

When a husband wished to be with his wife — and Mrs. Trest, the army-appointed counselor who traveled through the towns with her husband Major Trest, teaching this lesson, placed a very strong emphasis on be, as if it meant something more, though what more it could possibly mean neither Jenna nor her friends had any idea — the wife must prepare herself properly. She must dress nicely, and shave her legs and her armpits — and, Mrs. Trest said, her own face coloring a little, in sympathy with the girls', if told to do so by her husband, she must shave between her legs as well.

"Then, probably after dinner," said Mrs. Trest, brightly, "your husband will be with you, in the bedroom — though remember, girls, that if he wishes to be with you anywhere else — even outside, girls — you must obey him, and be grateful for his firm, guiding hand, and for the gift of your charms that make him want to put babies in your womb. Though, remember, if he wishes to be with you in another way, that won't make a baby — you'll understand when you're married, girls — you must obey him in that."

Or, of course, the paddle, or the strap. Girls over eighteen received the paddle in school, for misbehavior or bad marks. Jenna had never had it.

Click here to buy it on Amazon! Read all the Saturday Spankings!

New release! Subjugated: dystopian BDSM

As a result of her town displeasing the sadistic general who rules what remains of America five centuries in the future, eighteen-year-old Jenna Caprio has been chosen to be “subjugated” by Captain Bradley Clark, one of the general’s best officers. Upon being chosen, Jenna receives a pair of red lace panties and a letter outlining in explicit detail all of the intimate and embarrassing ways she is to prepare herself for the captain’s arrival.

When he is assigned the task of subjugating an innocent, beautiful young woman as a lesson to her neighbors, Bradley is horrified. Yet if he fails to punish and shame the girl in a believable fashion, he risks arousing suspicion and exposing his membership in an underground resistance organization dedicated to the tyrannical general’s downfall. So Bradley will do what he must. He will dominate Jenna utterly, spanking her long and hard for any defiance, and then he will publicly claim her in every way possible.

The situation quickly becomes more complicated after Jenna inadvertently discovers Bradley’s secret, however. Knowing his true convictions, she can’t help trusting him, nor can she fully hide the shameful pleasure his mastery of her body brings her. Soon enough she is falling in love with the very man whose duty is to subjugate and humiliate her, but when the need arises, will she risk everything that she has—and even her very life—to aid his cause?

Publisher’s Note: Subjugated is an erotic novel that includes spankings, sexual scenes, anal play, exhibitionism, elements of medical play, elements of BDSM, and more. If such material offends you, please don’t buy this book.

"Real" erotica—EXPLORATIONS files

I'm re-running the stories that serve as deep background for EXPLORATIONS. The story continues from this post.


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.

EMILY: What sort of salacious story did you have in mind, Sir?

CHARLES: Didn't Réage claim she knew what kind that dude liked?

EMILY: Hmm. That's right. He was into Sade, though, and you. . .

CHARLES: . . . are into Réage. Do you really think you could go wrong, as long as somebody's getting fucked in the ass? You've met me, right? I suggest you just get started, and make sure there's a feminine bottom involved.

And so I did: the very first version of Emily's Submissive Wedding Night.

"That's ah, very interesting," said Charles, reading it for the first time. "How you've, um, made yourself an 18-year-old virgin, I mean."

"I need to be of legal age, don't I?"

"That's not what I meant. . . I mean, I wouldn't think you'd be younger. . ."

"Well, when we ageplay, you know how you sometimes like me to be very young. . ."

"Let's keep this legal, shall we?"

"But if the reader knows I'm really 25, and I imagine myself as, you know, very young. . . is someone very young being depicted, or not?"

"These days, even the words 'very young' could get us into trouble. Let's make it clear that we mean 'early in the morning on her 18th birthday'."

"OK," I agreed. "So I'm a virgin, and I just turned 18 that morning. . ."

"Yes," he replied. "That's good. And this fantasy version of me. . ."

"He's very dominant," I murmured. "Very. And he's going to deflower me, because it's my wedding-night, and brides get deflowered on their wedding-nights, whether they like it or not."

He was standing next to my desk-chair, with his right hand on my right shoulder, playing gently with my hair, which was loose, down my shoulders (auburn, remember?). I put my left arm around his waist (well, his backside, actually), and turned my face to the left, into his crotch, and nuzzled a bit, making him say "Hey!" (in a good way).

"You wish you'd deflowered me up front," I murmured, nuzzling more.

"Um, hmm," he replied, growing in his boxers under my nuzzling mouth. I turned my chair and turned him, and stripped his boxers down.

"I wish it too," I said, and nuzzled even more, breathing in the oh-so-naughty scent of his crotch, kissing his scrotum very, very gently.

"So. . . so this is. . ."


"A way to. . . oh, God, Emily, you're so good at that. . ."

"Does Master like the story?"

"I think. . . the, uh, punctuations may. . . uh. . ."

"Really. The 'punctuations'."

"They. . . uh. . . please do that again. . ."

"No. Tell me about the punctuations."

"I'm not kidding, Emily--do that again or get a spanking."

"Not until you tell me about punctuations."

"That's it, you impertinent girl--go get your paddle."

"Yes, Sir."

It was pretty standard fare from there, if I recall correctly: me over my sweetie's lap, paddle-spanks ("How's THIS for punctuation, Miss Pert? You! Are! Very! Naughty!") and teasing caresses. Then, the sex, in the only position in which I really feel submissive, my face to the mattress, my red, paddled ass to my master, used for his pleasure.