Friday, April 3, 2015

Is make-up sex hotter for submissives? EXPLORATIONS files

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


So if I'd said "Fuck you" and refused to follow his ironically conventional, totally kinky script for make-up sex that night?

I don't know. The trouble is that despite my superficial doubts, I did know (in my soul, or something) that he loved me for the right reasons, and I knew that I loved him for the right reasons, and that the BDSM flowed from that, and that the love wasn't some illusory downstream effect of the BDSM. So the thought-experiment doesn't even make sense. Even if he'd gone along with my script and given me the spanking of my life--let's say, just for fun, that he'd brought out a riding crop, or a dogwhip, or something (see Emily and the Paradise-Step of Prophettown if you're looking for that kind of thing), and he'd got carried away and opened some horrendous bleeding laceration, and we'd spent the end of the night in the emergency room trying to explain why my ass was covered with bloody welts--we would have ended up at the altar, though perhaps with a few things less completely resolved.

The real crucible, as I said in my last post, the moment when I commanded my beloved to spank me within an inch of my life, more or less, wasn't a crucible because of the choice I presented of whether to obey me, and spank me, or to go against my expressed will in whatever way Charles chose. It was a crucible because I had shown, nakedly, my own will to power. At that moment, Charles had the opportunity to say "Enough, you controlling fake-submissive bitch. What I really want is a real submissive wife, who knows her place."

I would have despised him forever, of course, if he'd done that, but break-up omelettes generally require several broken eggs. Seeing him and his submissive bride at the Greenwich Country Club would have given my BDSM spinster heart the energizing poison it needed to live out the rest of its days, somewhere in DUMBO, begging men (and women, probably) to fuck me in the ass, and thinking about how existentially unhappy Charles Smith must be.

It was a foregone conclusion that he wouldn't do that. The night of nights and day of days at the Waldorf had demonstrated it, simply and completely. You can't (I think) do the things to, and share the things with, another person that we did that weekend, unless you trust him or her. And speaking just for myself, I would never have trusted Charles if there had been the slightest chance he didn't actually, to quote Forster, want me "to have [my] own thoughts, even when [he held me] in [his] arms."

Or maybe I'm fooling myself, and I got lucky. In any case, if he'd decided he wanted to beat me that night, I would have welcomed it, of course. But I don't think I would have screamed the way I screamed when I found my orgasm atop him, after riding his cock for something like a half-hour, with him, at the end, growling at me "Come, now, Emily; come, you bitch, come for me now."And when I had, and I was so weak in the aftermath of that huge jouissance that I could barely move, he rolled me over, lifted my knees to his shoulders, and pounded my cunt so hard as he sought his own release that I felt like I was being beaten just as I had asked. All his aggression, all his anger at me for my over-reaction (there, I said it), was there in his cock and his hips, fucking, fucking, fucking my little cunt, and finally, after a minute or two, resolving into the rigidity of his entire body atop me in that blessed moment of stillness when I felt him pulsing in my womb and heard him cry out as if thunder-struck at the thought that he must now yield up his life force to me.

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