_____
So probably the next thing worth mentioning is the shape of our early married lives, after I'd graduated and Charles had started teaching again, and we'd moved, yes, back to Greenwich. These were the days of the drawer, as depicted in Emily, Ravished by Porn. They soon also became the days of my own first erotic writings.
I had decided not to try for a corporate job; my goal was to work for a foundation that gave grants to human rights NGO's, and Greenwich was a practically ideal place to start looking, in addition to being a place where I now had a great many wealthy contacts through my new parents-in-law.
I was at home writing white-paperish sorts of things just to have something to say at any interview I might get. I refused to go shopping (really shopping, I mean: clothes, shoes, furniture) more than once a week, though Charles was always telling me that I was being ridiculous and depriving myself of enjoyment for no reason. Commanding me to go shopping, under penalty of the paddle, was outside his brief, though, as master.
What was within his brief was the drawer and, then, as a natural outgrowth of a scene very much like the one depicted at the start of Emily and the Lusts of Prophettown, the first experimental command to write something for him. Really it was odd that we hadn't thought of it before, given our mutual fascination with Histoire d'O and its genesis in Réage's "I know how to write the kind of story you like."
To reconstruct, realistically: the first thing I wrote was the first version of the first seven books of EXPLORATIONS; that's the palimpsest upon which I'm now finally inscribing this project, ten years later. Then I wrote The Prophet's Way: The Marriage Bed, to try to work out some religious themes and their relation to porn. That became books eight and nine. Then I became more fascinated with the culture and "history" of Prophettown and went off on that for a while, which became books ten through sixteen. That was followed by the "Sarah Material" as I think of it (starting with Emily's Best Friend, and continuing on with Emily's Naughty Classmate), about my best friend, and finally (at least in the two years of my erotic writing for Charles, before life got in the way, though perhaps now that, ten years later, life is less in the way, I may find some grounds for continuing on) by the Victorian narrative of my great-great-grandmother.
So, to put this genesis inside fantasy-me's narrative, where the domestic discipline never stops:
I was lying over the bolster, with my white cotton nightgown up and my blue-and-white striped cotton panties down around my knees, waiting to be spanked for having forgotten to deposit a check. Charles usually saves real domestic-discipline spankings for the intimate time right before bed, when he sends me to my room (really, it's the guest-room, but it's much hotter from an ageplay/traditional point of view if it's "my room") to dress in appropriate clothing for family discipline, and to wait for him to come upstairs and punish me. He almost always uses his belt for punishment beatings.
I thought of something. I knew better than to bring it up before my whipping, so I endured my ten blows of the belt with my usual yelps and tears as I listened to Charles' lecture on the evils of overdraft. The tough thing about DD punishments is that Charles considers it necessary to be sure he's really hurting me, so that I learn my lesson. That's also the nice thing, because it means that when he comforts me afterward, I really am in need of comfort.
Looking up through my tears, I said, "Thank you, Sir."
"You're welcome, Emily," he replied. "Now go stand in the corner, and hold your nightgown up nice and high so that I can see your pretty bottom."
"Sir?" I asked, from the corner. "I had an idea."
"Are bad girls who are standing in the corner with their panties around their knees and their nightgowns up to show their punished bottoms allowed to speak, sweetheart?"
"No, Sir."
"Are you asking for another whipping, then?"
"No, Sir."
"That's good. You may tell me your idea when your punishment session is over. Whipping you got me hard, so you've got a bottom-fucking coming."
"Oh, Sir. . . please. My bottom hurts."
"It's supposed to; you should have thought of that when you were lounging at the club instead of doing what I'd asked you to do. You'd better prepare yourself right now: you're being impertinent, which tells me you need a butt-fucking. And I'm in the mood for your pretty little ass, I have to say, looking at it now. Lube up and get over the bolster."
Red-faced, I went to get the lube.
Unconscionable, but oh so hot. Don't worry, the real story is coming, but it's more mundane, as usual.
No comments:
Post a Comment