Friday, May 1, 2015

A "real" wedding-night — the water: EXPLORATIONS files

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


Because of our commitment to leading a spiritual life, of a traditional (though of course not at all in the usual sense!) Christian kind, Charles and I (mostly I) decided that our "real" wedding-night, despite having in an important sense actually occurred more than a year before, that fateful afternoon and evening at the Waldorf, would, on or around our real wedding-day, nevertheless have to be sacramental in some way. It's not that we believed that at our wedding God was going to come down and do something magic that made us one flesh--really, we'd been one flesh for quite a while by that time--but having all our family and friends come together to be happy about our one-fleshiness had its own, real magic, and we wanted to honor that in our beautiful suite at the Ritz on Maui.

So we planned it, the way we usually plan our scenes, but with the major difference that Charles (without any urging from me, though I probably would have urged him if he hadn't taken the initiative) told me in no uncertain terms that he wasn't going to tell me what would be happening after a certain point (the moment you'll find below when I wade into the water and take off my bikini bottom and face the ocean). From that point on, I would have only the safeword to fall back on. The thought got me very hot indeed; in fact I was hoping that I would be tempted to use the safeword since, when I'm being honest, I have to confess that Charles isn't really quite dominant enough for my purest taste. I really do sometimes (truthfully, often) want to be taken to the point of almost using the safeword, when it stops feeling the slightest bit tame and I start worrying that my mother will notice bruises when I meet her for lunch the next day. In the event, as you'll see, our real wedding-night was one of his finest moments.

Our wedding was at 9am--very English traditional; we had a brunch reception (that is, the traditional wedding breakfast) at the same club where I had brought up ancient Greek anal sex. We went straight to JFK, and 17 hours of bleary-eyed air-travel later we were snuggled up, looking out at Honokahua bay, forgetting all about BDSM, and even about sex, and about anything but being together in paradise. Our planned, "sacramental" wedding-night happened the next day.

Here's what we did. We had breakfast together, finalizing our plans for that night, which you're now about to read, put into action (really, to my delight, this was Charles issuing orders), but we spent the day apart. I shopped a little, sunbathed a little (we had agreed that he would stay by the pool and I would go to the beach). Among other things, I bought a new version of the pajamas described in Emily's First Caning.

(Because both versions of those pajamas [the one from the Waldorf and the one I bought on Maui] dwell in my memory, and because it's, in my opinion at least, rather illuminating about how the things you read in EXPLORATIONS relate to "reality," I hope you'll pardon me a brief digression about them: the style is in general just not my kind of thing; if I'm not in a lace bra-and-panty set, it's either nothing, or some kind of flowing Victorian night-dress [shorter for warm-weather]. But there's just something about this style [usually sold in a cami-and-boy-short pair, though personally I like a Tee better] that screams "Violate my pretended innocence" at me. So there was one set for the Waldorf, and then I did, as described in Emily's First Caning, buy another set in the hotel store on Maui. The one for the Waldorf was blue; the one on Maui was green.)

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.

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