Learning to welcome his firm hand: Under His Watch

My heroine in Under His Watch comes to see how much she yearns for her bodyguard's guidance.

“You went too far,” Ryan finally said when the door of Charity’s apartment had closed behind them, after refusing to talk to her at all on the cab ride to the station and the train ride home. He had simply put his arm around her and held her close. When she said, “I can still go, right?” Ryan just said, “Shh.” When she said, “They deserved it, right?” Ryan just said, “We’ll talk when we get home.”

He had taken her in his arms and hugged her fiercely, before he issued his judgment, but nevertheless she heard in his voice the note she had been dreading all the way home, even as she realized that a part of her longed for it and knew it was coming: Ryan was going to spank her.

“You’re going to spank me, aren’t you?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said simply. “You need to get a grip on your relationship with your parents. You love them, and they love you: that’s perfectly clear to me. You have the greater responsibility here—in exchange for everything they’ve given you, you have to accept them for who they are, not who you wish they were.”

“Dammit,” she said, “why do they have to be that way, though? And why do you have to be so fucking right about everything?”

“I can’t answer either of those questions, honey, but I do know that it’s time for you to take off all your clothes and wait in your bedroom with your nose against the wall.”

“Not the belt, please?”

“No,” Ryan said, “not the belt. I think this punishment should be much more intimate than that. I want you to try to think about what it means to depend on someone, the way you have always been able to depend on your parents, even if their help didn’t always come in the form you wanted it.”

“But now I can depend on you?” Charity felt tears well up in her eyes as she snuggled her cheek into his chest, feeling his strong heart beating under his dress shirt.

“Yes. But my help might not always come in the form you want either.”

“Like now. But…”

“What, honey?”

“Thank you, sir. That’s all.” She tried to pull herself out of his embrace, but he didn’t let her go.

“You’re welcome, honey,” he said, and squeezed her a final time.


Then he kissed her, turned her around like a little girl, and swatted her bottom in her nice green dress to get her going toward the bedroom, the wall, and the spanking chair.

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Premarital domestic discipline: EXPLORATIONS files

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

As summer turned to fall, and we both got ready to return to a more realistic academic existence, we agreed on a sort of baseline version of domestic discipline for a top and a bottom who can't get enough of BDSM but who need to finish post-graduate degrees at the same time they're living out their thrilling BDSM fantasies.

I was allowed to wear panties to class, and to the library. Despite the violation of strict Réageanism, within whose confines the sub's cunt and bottomhole must be available for use at all times without exception, I reluctantly realized that the distraction involved in constantly being reminded (which is of course what it's all about, for O) of that availability, and the potential for even more distracting embarrassment as a consequence of that being reminded (friends noticing that the seat I've just gotten up from is wet, for example, because, having been reminded of my availability, I've been unable to keep myself from thinking about what use Charles might want to make of me later), and the worry about that potential embarrassment, all just made the pure Réagean practice impracticable for someone who needed to concentrate on finishing law school.

If I thought those panties were going to stay dry, however, simply because I had them on, I was wrong: the mere sound of Charles' voice on my cell-phone, asking me when I would be home, was enough to make them damp, and keeping my hand out of them seemed to be an even greater challenge now at 25 than it had been at 13, to my occasional disgust at myself. Dark library stacks with isolated carrels are perfect for study; they're also perfect for self-abuse by frustrated subs whose shaved pussies aren't receiving what they deserve from their betrothed lords' cocks as often as would be optimal. I would sometimes have to force myself to remain absolutely motionless on the hard library chair in order to be spared the delicious burning torment inside those modest panties for some short while.
At least we had no problems with sores or infections during this period! (Charles does say that he was constantly worried about a recurrence of his sore, though, because walking around campus with a constant erection apparently creates serious chafing issues.)

As a price for the weekday panties, I was not allowed to wear anything but sexy lingerie (and sometimes that was replaced either with nothing or with my butt-plug) when at home from Friday night through Sunday morning; if we went out during that period, even if we were having dinner with one or more of our parents, I wore no panties, and Charles would usually give me an agreed signal (tapping three times on the table), halfway through dinner, that meant "Miss Emily Tilton, 3L, must now go to the ladies' room and insert her butt-plug." I was required to carry said butt-plug in my purse at all times, even during the week, when it was laid down that if Charles decided thus he might walk over to the law library and whisper in my ear "Put it in, now." (He never did, but it was a fun fantasy.) 

Charles recounts that on one such occasion, at dinner with his parents, his Dad noticed the signal, and my submissive response (for it was simply impossible not to lower my eyes to the table and blush crimson, and worry that the scent of my arousal might be so strong as to fill the air of the restaurant, as I rose to attend to my shameful, wanton duty). After I'd left, Charles' Dad asked "What was that about?" Charles replied, "Um, I was reminding her to take some medicine." "Don't you think," his father responded, "Emily is a big enough girl that she can remember to take her medicine after dinner?" Charles, trying to keep a straight face: "Yes, but she needs to take some of it now, and some of it later." I generally did take a great deal of it later, to my submissive delight.

Navy SEALs don't make conventional boyfriends

Ryan Bedford, spanking bodyguard, is also--surprise, surprise--a dominant.

He bent down and, at the same time, took her hair in his hand and pulled her head back, so he could kiss her like a barbarian warrior who has just won the civilized princess as his tent-girl. He brought his right hand down and took hold of her bottom, still left naked by the apron’s scanty cover. He thrust his fingers between her thighs from behind and commanded her wetness, as Charity moaned up into his mouth.

“I don’t care what you’re sure about, slut,” Ryan said. “Joe tells me I need to keep your hands off your PC for the next twenty-four hours. The only question is whether I’m going to tie those hands down or not.” The light came into her eyes again at the sound of the word ‘slut,’ the way it always seemed to do. “If I tie them down, that will make it harder for you to learn to touch my cock reverently. But of course I have many other paths to pleasure, where your lovely body is concerned.”

Charity gasped, and a look of incipient panic came into her eyes.

Ryan took the dominant talk down a notch. “What were you going to say you weren’t sure you could do, honey?”

“Oh… I-I mean…” The panic had reached her voice.

“Shh,” Ryan said, pulling her into a more conventional hug and letting her rest her cheek on his chest. “Color?”

“Yellow?” Charity replied instantly.

“Why, honey?”

“Because I’m just getting used to it, maybe?” She pulled her head back and looked up at him. “Are you just never going to be a conventional boyfriend at all?”

Ryan laughed, suddenly feeling carefree as he realized just how easy it would be to allay her fears. “I made you dinner, didn’t I?” he asked teasingly.

“But you put me in an apron and nothing else, and you spanked me, too.”

“Fair enough,” Ryan said. “Do you want me to be a conventional boyfriend for a little while, so you can see that I know how?”

Charity nodded solemnly, her eyes wide. Then she giggled. “Maybe only for fifteen minutes.”

Ryan kissed her very conventionally. “And then?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Sex-toy,” she whispered.

“Fuck-toy,” he corrected.

“Oh, God,” Charity said, moving, apparently by instinct alone, against him like an animal seeking release.

“If you want me to be conventional, though,” Ryan said, “you’ll have to behave yourself. I guess a conventional boyfriend doesn’t spank his girl for humping his leg, but you’ll have to follow my bodyguard rules anyway and clean up after yourself. Deal?”

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The one with the Navy SEAL: Under His Watch

Just out!

Charity Phillips is not one to shy away from trouble, and the twenty-two-year-old activist makes powerful enemies when she shoots a film exposing the effects of a mining operation on priceless archaeological sites. After she receives a death threat, her anxious father informs Charity that if she wants his continued financial support she will have to get used to living under the protection of a full-time bodyguard, former Navy SEAL Ryan Bedford. 

She grudgingly agrees to Ryan’s presence in her home, but matters quickly come to a head when Charity goes out for drinks without notifying Ryan of her whereabouts. To her shock, upon returning home Charity soon finds herself bent her over her own couch for a long, hard, bare-bottom spanking. Enraged and also horrified that a part of her was excited by his punishment, Charity tells Ryan she never wants to see him again. 

The danger suddenly feels much more real when her computer is hacked and she receives another death threat, however. She begs Ryan to return, though she knows it will mean submitting to both his rules and his discipline, and when Ryan takes Charity into his arms after a sound spanking she cannot help craving not only his protection but his dominance as well. But can Ryan truly keep Charity safe from those who would do anything to silence her? 


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

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Loving discipline: the heart of the matter

This will probably be my last excerpt from Old-Fashioned Values for the foreseeable future, since with any luck Stolen by Her Master, a very different sort of book (space opera BDSM) will be out in a few days. To mark the occasion, I've chosen a rather talky bit that nevertheless seems to me the closest I came in the book to stating flat-out what I was trying to get at in telling this story.

“Well, I suppose technically,” Mark said calmly. “I should call your dad and have him come spank you.”

“What?” Sally felt her face turn crimson.

“But I can tell, if you have a mouth like that, that you haven’t been spanked before. So even though I agree that it’s irregular, and a sort of modern adaptation of the traditional way of doing things, I’m going to accept the responsibility, and if we do go on with our courtship I’ll be the one to keep you in line.”

“In line?” Something about those words, or maybe about them coming out casually at this late point in the strangest conversation ever, struck Sally as the most extreme thing Mark had said yet.

“I think that’s a fair way to put it.”

“Fair?” Why wouldn’t her brain work? Sally knew herself to be a very intelligent woman, but Mark Weaver’s determined expression of this antique doctrine of loving discipline, as adapted by him to the necessities of his modern life, left her feeling completely bewildered. Not that it didn’t make sense. It just made too much sense for her to comprehend it, since it seemed so distant from anything she had ever known.

He wasn’t saying that he thought he had the right to spank any woman, just because women need spanking. He was saying that the woman with whom he chose to spend his life, whom he asked, in turn, to choose him to spend her life with, needed to understand that bare-bottom spankings would be part of that life henceforth, at her boyfriend’s discretion.

Sally definitely didn’t want a bare-bottom spanking, or any kind of spanking—with Mark’s hand, with Mark’s belt, or with anything else. So why did the thought that this guy who had expressed an interest in being her boyfriend planned to spank her regularly make that guy seem so attractive? Was she the crazy one here? Were they both crazy?

“Yes. Fair. To keep you in line with the way I want our lives to go.”

“Because you’re a guy and I’m a girl?”

“No—because I’m the guy I am, and, if you accept this spanking like a good girl, you’ll be my good girl.”

Good girl. When he said that, Sally knew that she would go back to his room and have a spanking.

Silently, he paid the check in cash, fixing Sally with his eyes through the whole process. Sally looked back as steadily as she could, her lips compressed into a tight line. Mark didn’t ask if she was coming, and she didn’t say she would, but when he put his arm around her waist as they left the burger joint, she snuggled into his chest and said softly, “Will it hurt a lot?”

Mark stopped walking, on a sidewalk slick from a chilly autumn fog, and turned Sally to face him. “When I punish you, Sally, it will hurt. Sometimes it will hurt a lot. But I promise that I will never harm you, or let anyone else harm you. Your bottom’s going to be sore tonight, but you’ll think twice before you use foul language again, won’t you?”

Sally felt her eyes grow wide. “Yes,” she whispered. Then a thought she couldn’t stop came to her, and she blurted out, “How many girls have you spanked before?”

“Well,” he replied, putting his arms around her waist. “That’s rather a long story.”

“Really?” Sally said in amazement. “Like, more than two?”

Mark laughed, hugged her for a moment, and then turned her around and began their progress toward his dorm again.

“No, you’re the first.”

“Oh. Then… um, how is it a long story?”

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Sweet, yes, but also very hot: Old-Fashioned Values

Ounce for ounce, Old-Fashioned Values is probably the sweetest book I've ever written. That definitely doesn't stop me from bringing the heat, however, as I hope this excerpt shows.

“Lay yourself down,” he said softly, “for your spanking.”

Sally looked up at him uncertainly, and then she said, “Hold me first? Just for a moment?”

Instantly Mark put his arms around her, treasuring the feeling of her soft bare skin against his arms still covered in the fabric of his shirt, and the sight of the contrast between her bare legs and his grey-flannel-covered ones.

“Oh, Mark, I love you so much.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart.”

She looked up at him, trembling slightly though the room was very warm. “Okay,” she said, “I’m ready, sir.”

“Lie down on your tummy, over the side of the bed, with your feet on the floor. I’m going to spank you. That lingerie was very naughty. From now on, I will be the one to decide what kind of underwear you wear.”

“Seriously?” she whispered with a giggle.

“Seriously,” Mark said. “I’ll make a spreadsheet for you.” Then he couldn’t keep a straight face and laughed.

Sally thought for a moment, and then she said softly, “Actually, I really, really like that idea. I want you always to know that I’m wearing the panties you chose.”

“I should warn you,” Mark said, “that some days you won’t be wearing panties at all.”

“What?”

Mark nodded. “It’s important that you understand that you’re only allowed to wear underwear when I let you.”

“Oh, sir,” Sally said, seeming almost overcome with arousal at the thought.

Mark ended the hug and said, “Alright, young lady. That’s enough delay. Get your impudent bottom over the side of the bed for me.”


Sally took a deep breath, and then she moved so that she stood at the foot of the bed, facing the head, ready to put herself in position. “Lay yourself down now,” Mark said. “On your elbows, like when you got your whipping. But I want to see those knees spread, too. You need to learn that a girl who wears immodest underwear gets her pussy put on display.”

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Just out! Loving discipline in a young relationship: Old-Fashioned Values

This one's from the heart. I hope you love these characters as much as I do!

When Mark Weaver takes eighteen-year-old Sally Lanchester out on a second date and tells her afterwards that she’s earned a spanking for her disrespectful language, Sally is mortified… but another part of her can’t help but accept her punishment. After Mark spanks her bare bottom, Sally feels like her life has been changed forever. Is it possible that Mark could really offer her something she never thought possible in the twenty-first century: a man who will take her in hand, guide her, and even discipline her when he feels it necessary? 

Her friends are shocked that she’s fallen so quickly for Mark and horrified that instead of being the independent, headstrong woman her parents tried to raise, she actually wants to submit to a man. But despite her friends’ approbation, Sally is soon falling deeply in love with Mark as he begins to teach her, slowly and gently, what it means to offer her body to a dominant man both for punishment and for pleasure. 

When Sally’s best friend seeks to explore her own growing need for dominance and discipline, Mark introduces her to his friend and mentor and the two hit it off quickly. But when the girls’ rich parents find out that their daughters are dating men who are not afraid to spank them, they threaten to ruin the men’s careers. Will this threat bring an end to their relationships, or will the girls—and their firm-handed men—stand up and defend their old-fashioned values? 

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

Click here to buy it on Amazon!

When pony play meets domestic discipline…

you get this book. Here's a taste:

Lord Ranin’s face held sorrow, it seemed to her, but also determination. He did not want to punish her, she knew, and that was the problem—the true problem. The reason she did not perform the way she should, as an imperial filly, lay in the way her trainer refused to punish her properly. Now it appeared that would change, right here in her stall. 

Lord Ranin did not say another word, but turned to his right and set the stool down. Then he sat upon it and looked up at Edera. “Come here, filly Edera,” he said, “and get over my knee. I am going to spank you, as perhaps I should have spanked you a long time ago.” 

Master Morqan did sometimes use this kind of spanking on a filly, but only rarely. Edera had seen through a stall window once, as Lord Ranin walked her past to take her out for evening exercise, that the big stable master had one of his favorite fillies, a light-skinned Northern girl named Kari with ice-blue eyes and hair so light in color that it looked nearly white, over his knee. He had taken out her tail, and he was spanking her hard with his enormous open hand, and talking to her softly as he did it—so softly that Edera couldn’t make out any of the words. 

A stab of envy that she could not explain had gone through her at the sight. Beatings from the quirt—real beatings, as opposed to the occasional flick all the fillies got many times a day—like the one the emperor had given Melisan held a fascination for Edera; after three months as an imperial filly, she could not deny it. She had not received one, and Melisan would certainly be terribly resentful if she knew with what rapt attention Edera had listened to her cries and, later, looked surreptitiously at the tracery of red that covered her ample bottom cheeks. 

But the sight of Master Morqan spanking Kari had made her suddenly want to beg Lord Ranin to spank her, and Edera had not been able to decide why. Now, looking into his stern face—the same expression he had worn when he told her that she must not go to the parley with Emperor Comnar—and watching him spread his legs in the leather breeches and pat his left thigh, over which Edera knew she must now go for her spanking, she suddenly understood, and it made her start to cry. 

Lord Ranin, understandably mistaking the reason for her tears, said, “Come now, filly Edera, it is not so bad as that. Take your punishment like a good girl and learn your lesson.”

Click here to buy it at Amazon!

A ball-gag for peaceful Sunday football viewing: An Extreme Marriage

I promised last week that I would explicate my debt to the wonderful Claire Colinsgrove much more fully. She wrote this post last February. The Institute's Extreme Marriage program was born.

“Why did that player drop the ball?” Jenny asked about halfway through the first quarter of a crucial playoff game. 

Frank turned to her with a look that froze her stock still and made her eyes widen even as her heart beat like a drum, and said, “Jenny, go to the drawer in the living room, get the little wrapped package from it, and bring it to me.” 

“Wh-what? What’s the…” 

“Do it now, Jenny.” 

She did not say “Yes, sir”—she had gotten out of the habit, somehow—but she got up and obeyed. Alongside the paddle and the cane lay a small elongated package in black wrapping paper. Feeling suddenly like she was back at the Institute, and loving the feeling, she picked it up. Using her skills from Deportment class, she carried it back, walking slowly with head down, and proffered it to her Head of Household. 

“Open it,” Frank commanded. 

“Yes, sir,” Jenny said automatically, realizing instantly what she had been missing. 

Inside the package was a ball-gag. 

Jenny gasped. Frank said, “You’re going to wear that gag from now on, Jenny, whenever I watch sports. Kneel in front of me now.”

And the scene gets hotter, too. . . but wouldn't you rather read it on your nice Kindle screen?

Here's the blurb:

When Frank catches Jenny, his prim and proper wife, masturbating while reading about the Institute—a place where husbands learn to spank their naughty wives and thoroughly ravish them in the bedroom—he realizes that something needs to change. The Institute’s training costs a fortune, but he is willing to bet it will be more than worth the price.  

Jenny and Frank enter “Extreme Marriage” training at the Institute, but although Jenny craves Frank’s dominance on a very deep level, her bashful ways reveal a sexual guilt taught to her long ago which will require great patience and care to overcome. It takes all of Frank’s willpower to restrain his raging desires as he follows the Institute’s plan and takes control of their marriage.  

Frank’s newfound dominance brings Jenny pleasure beyond anything she has ever known, and as the terrible guilt that has been a part of her life for so long slips away, she and Frank find more joy in their marriage than they ever thought possible. But when they leave the Institute and return home, can they keep the passion they ignited there burning hot?  

Publisher’s Note: An Extreme Marriage is a stand-alone book set in the same world as Bought and Trained. It is an erotic novel that includes extensive BDSM content, spankings, sexual scenes, anal play, elements of exhibitionism and voyeurism, and more. If such material offends you, please don’t buy this book.

When DD and D/s collide #DungeonCrawl

In my forthcoming book, An Extreme Marriage, I imagine domestic discipline as practiced the way I could imagine myself practicing it--as BDSM play.

The tension in the book comes from a married couple who have never shared their BDSM fantasies trying to find a way to live them, from the ground up--thank goodness they have people like the Institute's Miss Abigail to help!

"For your disobedience just now, you earned an even greater humiliation than the subtle feeling of your bare bottom on the vinyl of the chair." Abigail took the hem of Jenny's nightgown and uncovered her completely, rolling the nightgown up until it was wreathed around her chest above her breasts. "Present your cunt, Jenny. I need to make sure you shaved it properly." 

"Oh, God. . ." she had never heard the word spoken aloud. Never. Not in the movies, not on the streets. The people--the men, only the men--in the books said it sometimes, but she skipped those parts, mostly. 

"I'm sure you can figure out how to do that Jenny. Let me also tell you that the video feed from this room has a lovely view of your bare backside, and in particular of your shaved cunt and your pretty pink anus." 

"Oh my God. Oh my God." 

"You, Jenny Fenton, are getting wet at that thought. I can see it, and your husband, watching the feed, can see it, too." 

"Oh, God. . . no. . . no, I'm not! I'm not!" 

"You have got to stop lying, Jenny Fenton," Abigail said. "You have done your husband, and more importantly yourself, a terrible disservice for much too long." 

"No!" Jenny wailed. "No!" 

"Your little cunt is clenching, Jenny," Abigail said softly. "We can see it. Now do as I've asked, and as your husband wishes. Present it to me, and to him."

Buy it here! Here's the blurb!

When Frank catches Jenny, his prim and proper wife, masturbating while reading about the Institute—a place where husbands learn to spank their naughty wives and thoroughly ravish them in the bedroom—he realizes that something needs to change. The Institute’s training costs a fortune, but he is willing to bet it will be more than worth the price. 

Jenny and Frank enter “Extreme Marriage” training at the Institute, but although Jenny craves Frank’s dominance on a very deep level, her bashful ways reveal a sexual guilt taught to her long ago which will require great patience and care to overcome. It takes all of Frank’s willpower to restrain his raging desires as he follows the Institute’s plan and takes control of their marriage. 

Frank’s newfound dominance brings Jenny pleasure beyond anything she has ever known, and as the terrible guilt that has been a part of her life for so long slips away, she and Frank find more joy in their marriage than they ever thought possible. But when they leave the Institute and return home, can they keep the passion they ignited there burning hot? 

Publisher’s Note: An Extreme Marriage is a stand-alone book set in the same world as Bought and Trained. It is an erotic novel that includes extensive BDSM content, spankings, sexual scenes, anal play, elements of exhibitionism and voyeurism, and more. If such material offends you, please don’t buy this book.

Keep crawling!

An InLinkz Link-up

Marketing materials for the Extreme Marriage program

Not gonna lie. Coming up with the "Husband's Pamphlet" and the "Wife's Pamphlet" for the Institute's "Extreme Marriage" program was some of the best fun I've had writing erotica.

Also, they were the second step in the development of this book--I think I'll reveal the first step once the book is released, which should be on Saturday. I'll tease you, though, and say that I owe huge tip of the hat to Claire Colinsgrove, who gave me the idea in a lightning-bolt of heat.

Anyway, here's a taste of the Husband's Pamphlet. For continuity, I give the last few sentences from last Monday's sneak-peek.

Many men enter into marriage without acknowledging their dominant desires to their brides, or even to themselves. You know who you are. 

Did Frank ever. 

Most of those men end up living frustrated lives with partners who are not well suited to them. 

But we at the Institute think there's a glimmer of hope at least for a lucky few. We have learned, through our long experience in training submissive women, that there are a few signs that may indicate that a wife, despite appearances and even despite her own words to the contrary, yearns to submit to her husband, and to please him, submissively, in every way a woman can please a man. 

Hopefully, you are reading this brochure because we sent it to you--and we only send it to husbands whose wives, at a first assessment of the dynamics of the marriage, are excellent candidates for what we call Extreme Marriage training. 

If accepted into the program, you and your wife will have an extended stay with us, here at the Institute, located in a secure and private place. 

Your wife will have lessons in household chores (among other things, you will take home a gourmet chef!), and, with your participation, we will also train her to please you in your bedroom, to your specifications. At the same time, you will be taking part in the planning of your wife's program, and learning your responsibilities as her "extreme husband." Our program depends on each of you understanding the other's needs and desires in a way you may never have contemplated. 

Do you long to have your wife on her knees in front of your easy chair, sucking your hard cock for hours? The woman you bring home will be one of the most accomplished cocksuckers on the planet, and she'll beg to have your hardness filling her mouth, because she knows how much pleasure she can give you that way. 

Is anal sex something you have always wanted from your wife, but she has refused you? Rest assured that if your wife is accepted into our training program, you will be giving it to her in the ass every night, should you so choose, because in our program she will come to terms with her yearning to please you that way. She will be taught how to get her ass ready for you, and how to present it attractively, so that you have the anal experience you deserve. 

Your wife will also be spanked regularly, both for any faults she commits in the course of her training and to put her into a properly submissive frame of mind. We will teach you, as well, how to spank her the same way we do, so that by the time you and your wife depart you will be able to satisfy her submissive desires, and to punish her when necessary.

And then come the pictures. . . lovingly described, of course. Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words, literally.

Buy it here! Here's the blurb!

When Frank catches Jenny, his prim and proper wife, masturbating while reading about the Institute—a place where husbands learn to spank their naughty wives and thoroughly ravish them in the bedroom—he realizes that something needs to change. The Institute’s training costs a fortune, but he is willing to bet it will be more than worth the price. 

Jenny and Frank enter “Extreme Marriage” training at the Institute, but although Jenny craves Frank’s dominance on a very deep level, her bashful ways reveal a sexual guilt taught to her long ago which will require great patience and care to overcome. It takes all of Frank’s willpower to restrain his raging desires as he follows the Institute’s plan and takes control of their marriage. 

Frank’s newfound dominance brings Jenny pleasure beyond anything she has ever known, and as the terrible guilt that has been a part of her life for so long slips away, she and Frank find more joy in their marriage than they ever thought possible. But when they leave the Institute and return home, can they keep the passion they ignited there burning hot? 

Publisher’s Note: An Extreme Marriage is a stand-alone book set in the same world as Bought and Trained. It is an erotic novel that includes extensive BDSM content, spankings, sexual scenes, anal play, elements of exhibitionism and voyeurism, and more. If such material offends you, please don’t buy this book.

Introducing An Extreme Marriage

My next book represents another foray into the relationship between what usually goes by the name "Domestic Discipline" and BDSM. As you know if you've read books of mine like EXPLORATIONS and Geoffrey's Rules, for me DD and BDSM are fundamentally related: in my opinion there's simply no doubt that DD is a form of BDSM. I know that there are a lot of DD practitioners who disagree very strongly. They probably shouldn't read An Extreme Marriage. This excerpt should give some idea why:

It began when Frank, frustrated beyond words that Jenny had once again incinerated dinner, lost in her private world as she practiced Chopin, had searched the 'net, on a whim, for the phrase "wife sabotages marriage." 

Buried deep in the search results was a note on an online bulletin board--actually on several bulletin boards, always the same note: 

Is your wife unconsciously sabotaging your marriage? Does she "forget" to do the simple things that would make everything run smoothly? She may have submissive desires she can't tell you about. Our "Extreme Marriage" wife-training program may be able to help. Open the door to a world of marital harmony--and marital sex--you never imagined. 

He had mailed the address given, and the Institute had mailed him back a preliminary questionnaire, and a release for an extensive financial check. The questions on the questionnaire all seemed very innocuous--they were all about his and Jenny's background and interests. It had been easy enough, and the Institute hadn't asked him for any really personal information, so he had played along. 

The Institute had sent him the husband's package at that point. Along with the full version of the application questionnaire, with long sections to be filled out by Jenny, as well as some to be filled out by both of them together, and a very clear schedule of exactly how much the program cost (a staggering amount), there were two pamphlets, one for husbands and one for wives, that Frank found he could not stop reading. As he read, to his slight embarrassment, he found that he always got hard, and would usually have to jerk off while he read the final paragraphs. 

The husband's pamphlet started innocently enough. 

Many men enter into marriage without acknowledging their dominant desires to their brides, or even to themselves. You know who you are. 

Did Frank ever.

Visual inspirations for spanking stories: disrespect

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Diapers and Oil-Changes

(We're continuing from here. Charles and I had just come up with a unique take on domestic discipline.)

Pregnancy: lucky me, with my love for anal! Really, though, it was reasonably fulfilling, but not adventurous, so we'll skip over the pregnancies. There was a LOT of corner-time, and a lot of online searching for interesting maternity lingerie (of which there's not a whole heck of a lot around, unfortunately).

I did promise to talk about diapering while diapered, but as I think about it I'm not sure how much it will interest you, really. A promise is a promise, though.

I think it probably happened four or five times from 2004 (when Chloe was born) to 2012 (when Ethan was finally out of diapers) that for one of two reasons I was diapered for a day or more: either I'd more or less requested it, just because, you know, me and diapers; or Charles had decided there was something I needed a more or less constant reminder about--like bringing my car in for an oil-change. I think that latter situation happened twice, and it was really pretty hot (especially the first time), so I'll narrate it for you.

"Em, did you get your oil changed?"

"Oh goddammit."

The last time this had happened it had turned out that a $200 brake problem had turned into a $1000 brake problem because I hadn't gotten the brakes checked, which they would of course have been if I'd remembered to get the oil changed; I'd been paddled for that--automotive affairs are one of our DD areas. As if to emphasize the source of the problem, Chloe (2) ran through the scene, bound for something dangerous, as far as could be told from the enormous grin on her face.

"Chloe's in daycare now," Charles said.

"I know, I know. There's just so much. . ."

"But."

I hung my head, and clasped my hands in front of me. "But this is important. Yes."

"That's the car that carries the most precious things in the world to me."

"Yes."

"In my office, after bedtime."

"Yes, Sir."

I was spanked with his belt over my spanking-stool. Belt-spankings, delivered on my bare bottom, have a special role as a domestic-discipline trope, and I'd like to think I would have remembered the oil-change when I felt the warm sting that tends to linger in the morning, but Charles was a bit frustrated with me, and he said, when the spanking was over, "Sweetheart, please get a diaper and meet me in the bedroom" (my lovely little room was now of course Chloe's lovely little room; in the old days, that was where I was diapered--now it was where I diapered my daughter).

I spread the diaper on the bed, thinking that it had been so long since the last time, and that I had changed so many of Chloe's diapers now, that I might not even be into it any more. Charles came into the room behind me.

"Clothes off," he growled in my ear. "Your butt on the diaper."

I was definitely still into it, I realized. I stripped off my jeans and panties, then my t-shirt and my bra, feeling like a little girl who needs a particularly nasty diaper-change (one thing Chloe did for my diaper-fantasies, both welcome and un-, was to add a lot of texture), with all the shame that accompanies it for a big girl who has done something so shameful that she must be treated like a little one.

I was just moving towards the bed when I felt Charles put his left arm around my waist from behind, and take my bottom in his right hand. He said, "I would spank you again if it wouldn't wake up Chloe, but you definitely need another reminder before we put on your diaper."

I felt his fingers working up inside the valley between my cheeks, then the middle on touching me, pushing into me.

"Oh, please," I said, "Charles, please don't."

"You're a very naughty girl," he said. "Open up now."

I whimpered and opened to his finger.

"Look at your diaper," he murmured.

I looked. Diapers were for little girls, and for big girls who had been bad. Charles' finger moved in and out. The indignity was terrible.

"Sweetheart, why am I going to diaper you?"

"Because I didn't get the oil changed," I whispered.

"Do you think that the diaper will remind you to do that tomorrow?"

"Yes sir," I said.

"How long do I need to diaper you for, do you think?" he asked.

"Just a day, sir?"

"We can start there. Now bend all the way over and put your hands on the bed. Look at your diaper while I enjoy you. You're not going to come tonight. But if you get the oil changed tomorrow, I'll reward you tomorrow night."

Thus it was that the next morning, I diapered my daughter while wearing a diaper myself. It was lovely, and the oil got changed that day too.

(If you like these stories, try the Companion to EXPLORATIONS!)


(Caroline's Rocking Horse [Mf, ageplay, anal] and The Count's Discipline [medieval, spanking, anal] are available at Amazon!)

Delayed laundry and its consequences for one's bottom

I'm on Adaline Rain's comfortable couch today, talking about The Count's Discipline!

(We're continuing from here. Charles and I had just come up with a unique take on domestic discipline.)

And the controversial "maintenance" spankings? Yes, please. While Chloe (fictional birthdate, um, 12/13/04) was very small, we could get away with spankings, and the inevitable "comfort" sex (really, brutal, dominant, do-you-feel-womanly-yet? sex) that followed, Saturday afternoons, our old training time, but as she grew, and as she was followed by John (3/10/07) and then by Ethan (1/12/09), maintenance happened in the wee hours of Sunday morning, and we both tried to bank sleep ahead of time, no easy feat during those years, as every parent (every modern parent, at least--I often found myself envying my Victorian forebears with their nannies and governesses!) can attest.

But I should return to the time before Chloe was born, because such matters as the unique pleasure of changing diapers while being punished by wearing a diaper of one's own will find their place in due course.

From the beginning of our unusual DD regime the most difficult--but also the most diverting--part was negotiating the boundary between when I was asking for a spanking and when Charles decided that I "needed" one. I put "needed" in inverted commas because the whole strange thing rested upon the underlying idea that of course I was an autonomous individual woman--indeed more of an autonomous individual than a great many other people, but that to make me feel completely fulfilled--or at least, shall we say?, asymptotically fulfilled, I needed (or, rather, wanted) to be guided towards the light of my best self.

You can call it voluntary infantilization, if you like; I'm not sure that's particularly far off. The real point is that it had a dimension that went just far enough outside the erotic that it made the erotic feel like it had more traction--like it had the traction it really deserved given how Charles and I felt about our particular way of sex. Always waiting in the corner of our days, whether while I was making dinner, wondering whether I could earn a spanking for putting in too much salt, or not enough, or while we were jogging, knowing that Charles liked me to finish hard, and liked to spank me if I didn't.

It was play, and it was serious, and it made things more fun, and more erotic. Eventually, we found a sort of equilibrium, according to which there were certain well-defined areas where DD applied. Exercise was one area where I was very grateful for the help of Charles' firm hand, and the physicality of the exercise activities themselves went very well with the erotic parts of the discipline. Then there was the range of traditionally feminine activities, like cooking. Cleaning was the big exception. To be spanked because Charles had found dust on the bookshelf would have felt to me too much like a vacuum-cleaner commercial from the 1950's. Laundry, on the other hand which I had elected to do, but which I often forgot to get going, was fertile ground, and I actually welcomed the reminder. Also, there was our social life--for example messing up our schedule, which I'm unfortunately prone to do, earned me a trip over the spanking stool.

Through it all, the womanliness dynamic was our guide. Did it make me feel womanly to have Charles in control of that part of my life, or did it make me feel icky and subjugated? I realize of course that many feminist thinkers wouldn't distinguish the two: that lovely, problematic feeling of erotic femininity clearly has something submissive in it; is it wrong to distinguish submission from subjugation this way? I don't think so, because submission is voluntary, and subjective, while subjugation need not be voluntary, and is objective.

The question then becomes whether erotic femininity is something that can be experienced involuntarily--which is ridiculous. It makes you feel silly when you look too closely at it, I suppose, but non-consensuality is only hot when it's consensual. We authors elide this bit most of the time, of course, even when we're writing DD scenes, which is why DD fiction will garner reviews that call DD abuse.

Beyond that point lies the thorny question of whether when I ask to be beaten I'm really not exercising free will at all, but am instead so overdetermined by patriarchal culture that I need to be taken care of by a feminist and perhaps reconditioned to be a better custodian of my soul. This is all old ground in the feminism wars, to be sure, but it was ground that I needed to cover in new detail, now that I had requested that I be disciplined for, say, double-booking dinner on a Saturday night.

But once I put those ethical dilemmas behind me, it was a pure pleasure to re-engage with my erotic life this way. There had always to that point been a sort of layer of irony between me and my submission. For as many times as I had said "This is who I am: a girl who wants to get fucked in the ass by a man she can call 'Master'," there had nevertheless been a feeling that it was not natural that I should be so. But now I gave into the idea of complementarity, without letting it change me ethically: as a woman, as a member of the sex whose most important genital organ receives, rather than gives, whose body curves, softly, and yields enticingly, I should (I let the thought creep in, so as to make me warm and wet in my receptive chora, my feminine charms) be spanked, thrust into, made submissive.

Let me give an example. It was 5pm on Wednesday, one of my usual laundry days, and a day on which I work from home. Charles arrived home from school to find to his understandable annoyance that I hadn't started the laundry. He came to my office (which is really just an alcove off the kitchen--that's how I like it) where I was finishing up a call. He was carrying our laundry hamper. He put it on the floor and waited for me to turn around, which I did at the sound of the soft thud. Needless to say, I recognized the look in his eyes. He made his "wind it up" gesture.

I did wind it up--but here's where it gets interesting: I didn't wind it up because he told me to. I wound it up because I knew the laundry needed to be done, and because if I didn't get it going then, it would have made a million things more difficult than they had to be. I wound up my call at his command, but not because of it. Rather, I wound it up because of the need for good order in our house.

I frankly don't know whether this way of thinking applies to anyone else's DD relationship, but if that call had been of truly great importance, I would have held up my hand at the wind-up gesture, not in anger or, still less, in defiance, but with the understanding that Charles would gather that the call was very important, and we would talk about the laundry later ("talking" would also of course, we both knew, include me being spanked for having waited to start it).

In the event, though, the call was not important, and I would it up quickly with an "I have to go; I'll call you tomorrow," and stood up to meet my fate.

"I'm sorry, Sir," I said.

"Over the hamper," Charles said. "Jeans down."

I grimaced, and complied (it's one of those tall wicker hampers). Charles put his left hand on my waist, and with his right gave me twelve hard spanks, over my cotton panties, four on each cheek and four in the middle.

"I think it will have to be my belt next time. This is getting out of hand," he said. (I had forgotten the previous week, too.) "Now get going."

I had not intentionally delayed doing the laundry in order to earn a spanking; I have much more reliable (and hot) ways to do that. My fate, such as it was, was purely a matter of domestic discipline, but the way DD works, for us, is to take something (like laundry) that would be at best a minor annoyance in a couple's life, and at worst a serious point of friction between them, and make it an occasion for play--more, for our very favorite kind of play.

If we both didn't have spanking things, it would be a complete non-starter, of course. But because we both do, and we're both generally kinky, it works both to take tension out of things like delayed laundry and to make our daily lives a lot more erotic than they might be otherwise.

Need I add that Charles telling me "Now get going" got me even wetter than the spanking had?

That's where the infantilization part comes in, and I'm not going to apologize for it, because to apologize for it would be to apologize for my entire sex-drive, which has produced, among other things (such as wonderful times with my husband and hilariously embarrassing moments with my butt-plug), three awesome kids. I like to feel like a little girl. There, I said it. I like to be told to get going, to do the laundry, or to cook dinner.

Would I like it if Charles were a different sort of a person? If he were someone who really thought that women should do his laundry and cook for him because he has a penis and they don't? I hope I never have the chance truly to find out, because that version of Charles might well wake up missing that penis, and then I'd probably go to jail.

(If you like these stories, try the Companion to EXPLORATIONS!)

(Caroline's Rocking Horse [Mf, ageplay, anal] and The Count's Discipline [medieval, spanking, anal] are available at Amazon!)

Domestic discipline, and an unusual inversion

(We're continuing from here. I had just told Charles that I thought needed his firm hand to guide me, and he had looked me as if I were crazy.)

I took his hand. We were sitting side by side, that French way. "Well, let's say that I'm not talking about household finances." I brought his hand down between my thighs, under my skirt, where it was now very warm.

Charles positively giggled--or at least as close to it as guys can get. "I take it," he said, wiggling his fingers a bit so that I sighed contentedly, "this is something that lies outside the realm of the dungeon and the rocking-horse?"

"Exactly," I said. "I feel like I need to be taken in hand." I couldn't help it; I cracked a smile at that point, then tried to wipe it off my face and look serious and needy and feminine.

But Charles had noticed, and he was laughing.

"Stop it!" I said. "This is serious. I need to feel your firm hand, guiding me and correcting me."

That made him laugh harder. "I can't help it. . ." he gasped. I waited patiently for his mirth to subside a bit. Finally he said, "OK, so I'm guessing you're not taking back EVERYTHING YOU'VE EVER SAID about domestic discipline, right? About how you can't imagine ever living that way?"

Now I pouted. "No, not everything."

At my pout, he stopped laughing. "Alright. I understand that pregnancy does weird things."

"Fuck you."

"Alright, there's my wife, anyway. Explain, please."

So I told him about my fears about our sex life, and about my body, and how I didn't want to mourn, but rather to celebrate a new phase of our lives.

"And you think DD is a way to do that, somehow?"

"Well, not real DD, I guess. But it gives a structure, you know--the way training gave us a structure. Or maybe it does. I guess I think it's worth a try."

"Absolutely," he said. "I'm in. How do we got about it?"

"I think we should start slowly," I said. "I want you to enforce a bedtime. Pregnant women need their sleep."

"Hmm. Yes, they do."

And that was how it started. That night, of course, I refused, theatrically, to be put to bed at 8pm, and got the spanking I was craving above everything else. Charles was a little bit tentative about his formulations of uxorial authority, but he showed tremendous promise, I thought.

From bedtime we proceeded to diet. The part about the regime that I found the most surprising is how much I actually liked being told what to eat and how to take care of myself. Really, it was rather dangerous how womanly--in an erotic sense--it did in fact make me feel.

"Sweetie?" I asked one night, about halfway through my second trimester, when I had resolutely started to show, but wasn't yet uncomfortable. We were long home from France by then, and in that holding pattern you do, where you're circling the hospital like a 747 slowly running out of fuel, waiting for the inevitable emergency-landing. "Do you think if our positions were reversed. . . "

"It's hard to see how that kind of reversal would. . . configure itself--but I think I know what you're talking about. Would I want to have someone telling me what to do? I think about that at lot, actually, and I think that the answer is Yes."

"Really?" I said eagerly.

"Think about guys getting out of the army--or even out of prison. People like to be told what to do, no matter how much they pretend otherwise."

"Now I feel bad that you don't get to feel that way, because you have to figure out what to tell me to do!"

"Not so fast! Two things: one, I also like to tell you what to do, and have you do it; two, I like to spank you. Plus, you told me to tell you what to do, and I liked that."

I giggled, and kissed him. I don't think I'd ever felt so womanly, and I loved it, and hated myself for loving it.

"Do you ever like to feel womanly?" I asked, half-joking. To my surprise, he got the look in his eyes that's a sort of facial equivalent to when he says "Um."

That was the first night we ever switched. Since that time, we've done it perhaps twice a year. As on that first night, we always set it up as Charles giving me the kinkiest possible command, in order to demean me as much as possible--the command to dominate him. It works for me. We didn't have a strap-on harness that first night (we've since gotten one) so I pegged him with one of his own dildos while kneeling next to him on the bed. I'd like to think that our DD arrangement was the only one in history to produce that kind of scene, but who knows?

(If you like these stories, try the Companion to EXPLORATIONS!)

(Caroline's Rocking Horse [Mf, ageplay, anal] and The Count's Discipline [medieval, spanking, anal] are available at Amazon!)

A dungeon door starts to close, while a DD window opens

(We're continuing from here. As I approached this post, I worried that it might be diapers for Christmas Eve, but, just in time, our story entered a sweeter phase. Happy holidays to all my readers!)

There were a few other little things Charles incorporated into my corporal training over the first period of our marriage, but the most important thing that happened next was the sudden development of a new phase in the regime.

I got pregnant.

I don't think I've laid out exactly the chronology of the writing of the first versions of the books I'm now publishing as EXPLORATIONS. It's probably as good a time as any to do so, because what might be called the first stage was about to come to an end. I was 27, and everything in the series through book 30 now had an initial version. I started writing them in June of 2002, when I was 25. There was the wedding-night and honeymoon stuff, that summer and Fall. Winter and Spring (when I turned 26) were for Prophettown. That summer I wrote about "Sarah," but by Fall I had finally moved on to the Victorian stuff, which obsessed me until the following spring--say, April of 2004, our second anniversary. None of the stories were integrated yet; it would be years before I came up with the crazy linking narrative.

It's a little hard to verify, because we were trying hard and frequently, but I think that Chloe (as I'll call her) was conceived the night we played Victorian bridal chamber: I like to think that as our zygotes met, I was saying, "Yes, Sir, that was very nice; you may do that to me whenever you like," after my proper bridegroom had, to my initial (feigned Victorian) shame and horror, arranged me upon my knees, then bent me down until my face was against the counterpane, and entered me forcefully from behind

At any rate, when we realized I was pregnant, we decided to take the trip to Europe we'd been putting off, and had a lovely time especially in Normandy, where I wrote sketches of what would become the Rouen parts of fantasy-Emily's story. More importantly, it was on that trip that we cooked up a sort of substitute for the training regime that we both had enjoyed so much, but which we knew we weren't going to get to enjoy with the same frequency when our post-baby lives began. Not that we didn't have some wonderful times in the dungeon during my first trimester pregnant with Chloe, but I knew the end was coming and I didn't really want to feel like that part of our lives was gone forever. Above all, I didn't want us to feel that BDSM was something we had done when we were young. 

I was reasonably sure that Charles wasn't lying when he said that he felt the same way I did about BDSM--namely, that it was an essential part of our identities--but, of course, never having been through such an enormous transition in my life, and having heard about what had happened to the sex lives of friends under the strain of child-bearing and -rearing (I mean, for one, I'm an intelligent enough girl that I knew that certain parts of my anatomy [certain parts in which Charles took a great deal of delight, and with which I took pride in being able to make him feel such delight] were never going to be the same again), I have to admit to having felt some alarm.

I had been  reading about domestic discipline, and I decided I wanted to try to hammer out a unique BDSM version of it, for us, that would allow us at least to keep in touch with the amazing erotic life we'd known from 2002-2004. At dinner in Paris, one night towards the end of our trip, I said, "Sir, I think I should tell you that I've been feeling very. . . womanly, lately."

Charles gave me an odd look, but he didn't catch on--nor was it at all likely that he would, I knew, for a while, since DD was not something he ever mentioned, or, as far as I could tell, thought about. "That's natural, I suppose, with all the hormones, right?"

"Well, yes. But. . ."

The odd look again--he knew me well enough to gather that there was something BDSM going on in my brain.

"But what, sweetie? You know you can tell me anything."

He had the patronizing tone absolutely down, and it was just what I needed (and, sue me, I was getting moist, which meant of course that I knew I was on the right track, at least as far as my own erotic satisfaction was concerned).

"But this feeling is. . . well, it's more about wanting. . . um, guidance."

I saw my husband's eyes practically bug out of his head.

"You're joking, right?"

TO BE CONTINUED

(If you like these stories, try the Companion to EXPLORATIONS!)

(Caroline's Rocking Horse [Mf, ageplay, anal] and The Count's Discipline [medieval, spanking, anal] are available at Amazon!)

(Please vote for the best spanking books of the year, over at the wonderful Spanking Romance Reviews! Note that I wouldn't object if you voted for The First Notebook in the historical category!)