A dungeon just for me (one of the spanking stories)

(This post continues from this previous one.)

When I returned to the living-room, I found Charles standing, wearing his dressing-gown--the same one he had worn on the night of nights that seemed so long ago now. I found myself thinking of one of what I always think of as the terrible books, The Captive, with the trainer who is so accomplished at degrading proper young women, and turning them into compliant sex-slaves.

"Come with me, Miss Tilton" he said, and turned and led me down the stairs to the basement, which isn't dank, but is unfinished, and was at that moment completely dark.

"Charles?" I said, "dark scary places make me think about tropical fruit that you make upside-down-cake with. . ."

He put his hand out, and took mine in it, and led me carefully down the stairs until I was standing at the bottom, on the basement floor. It was very warm, because the furnace was down here. He switched on the light, and I realized that he had at some point cleaned the basement up dramatically; really, it wasn't so bad; it was the kind of place now where we could have some. . .

Then I saw the most important modification: in a corner, cleared of anything on the floor or the walls to an extent of about ten square feet, I saw a chain, hanging from a large bolt set into the floor-beam above, with a ring at the end of it.

"Oh my God," I breathed, softly.

"Welcome to your training-room, Miss Tilton," said my trainer, equally softly, in my ear, putting his hand on my bottom, naked between my garter-belt and my stocking-tops, in that possessive way that only he knows--or perhaps it's simply that I could only ever feel truly possessed by him.

Dungeon. Charles had actually made a dungeon for me. Part of me wanted to break the scene so that I could hug him and thank him, but the stronger part cried out for what happens to girls hung from chains that dangle from above.

Charles' hand still possessed my ass. There was a pause. He whispered, as if not intending an audience to hear, "Do you want to keep going?"

"Glug," I said, nodding.

"You will learn, Miss Tilton," he said aloud, "that your basic position in this room is always the same. Please place yourself under the chain, and raise your hands."

I obeyed.

He had my cuffs, and he put them on me, holding my hands above my head and refusing to let me rub against him as I was so desperate to do, and desperate to be punished for. Every time I tried to bring my hips close to him, he gave me a bare-handed spank, which made me whimper all the more, until I was at last as I had imagined myself since the first time I had read such a scene (I don't think the first chained-from-above scene I read was Story of O--I mean, it's just such a staple--but I can't think of anything I would have read before that that had it; I read The Captive, whose anonymous author raises it [as it were] to a sub-genre, long after.)

Then things really got intense, though in an unexpected way: Charles took a picture. He came around in front of me, holding his digital camera, turned it to portrait aspect, and took the shot.

I couldn't contain myself. There was something so incredibly violent and transgressive, in its own special way, about that simple photographic act, that it pushed me into a strangely defiant attitude. "Oh my God you fucking asshole" I yelled at him, without really even thinking about it. I might have yelled "Pineapple," actually, if I had thought of it at that moment. 

Then he showed me the picture, on the back of his digital camera. "This is you, Miss Tilton," he said.

Gorgeous black lace garter-belt and stockings. Shaved, pink pussy. Long auburn hair in a submissive's french-braided pony-tail down my back. Tiny breasts with erect pink nipples. Green eyes looking at my trainer with defiance. Arms helplessly, helplessly held above my head.

Half-expecting that the bolt wouldn't hold, but unwilling to part with the possibilities if it did, I slumped down in submission at the sight, letting my knees buckle beneath me. The bolt held.

Out-of-scene, again, Charles began to whisper, "Are you--"

"Shut the fuck up, Charles," I groaned. "That's what the safeword is for."

This made him actually angry (I couldn't quite tell at the time, but he later confirmed it). He grabbed my paddle, and started to beat me, hard, on my garter-belt-framed bottom. To my surprise, and submissive delight, I began doing all the things the girls do in the books when their hands are bound above them: dancing around to get away from the paddle, turning to take it on the front of my thighs, above all saying, "No, please. . . Sir. . . I'll be good--I promise."

My dungeon was my new favorite place in the whole world.

Renee Rose always makes me think about spanking stories. . .

. . . even when she's not thinking about them herself.

In a wonderful post this morning, Renee gives a brief, hot analysis, with an even hotter anecdote, about what makes quickies hot. Because Renee is so incredibly forthcoming about her relationship with her husband, I think it was extra hot for me (and for any of the rest of her audience who follows her writing), since I know how important spanking is in their relationship, and it instantly got me thinking about quickie spankings (quickings?).

I think quickings have something special about them that's analogous to the naughtiness Renee so correctly identifies in the more standard form of quickie. If for example fantasy-Charles (as he does sometimes) summoned fantasy-me to his office, it might go something like this:

The phone rang. "Emily," came Charles' voice at the other end of the phone. I could tell from the single word what was coming--it was the tone-of-voice equivalent of the look that makes me reflexively put my hand down, behind me, to shield my bottom.

It's naughtiness, right? But in the quicking, maybe the naughtiness can be ratcheted up higher, because it begins from the naughtiness that earns the spanking. 

I should add that in real-Charles' and my relationship, quickings tend to happen as a result of me intentionally doing something to make Charles take me over his knee. Very rarely (but also very wonderfully), I'll also earn one unintentionally by pouting or swearing or something of the sort. In those cases, there's a very swift negotiation (compare Renee's post, on the matter of negotiation) in which Charles says something like "Do I need to spank you?" and I'll either say "No" (what we call a "cold No") or "NO!!!" (what we call a "hot No"). In the former case, I'll generally modify whatever in my behavior I myself see as silly or negative (or, if the case is more serious, the fight will start in earnest). In the latter case, the good part happens (if I have the presence of mind, and I'm giving a hot No, I'll add "Sir, please" to my "NO!!!"--which Charles knows to read as "Yes.")

"Get your naughty bottom to my office right now."

"Sir, can't it wait?" It didn't really matter what I was going to be punished for, since trying to negotiate on the cause would only earn me worse. But saving myself a trip into the city was worth a few extra welts. I swallowed. "Wouldn't you rather take your time?"

"No, sweetheart. I just heard what you told Noreen Michaels about the CompuTime account."

My stomach flipped. "Yes, Sir. I'll take the next train."

So there's the basic naughtiness. Am I right that when it really gets going, the naughtiness of the quicking itself builds on that?

He closed his office door behind us. "Pull your skirt up and your panties down, Emily. We only have five minutes for this."

"But, Charles--Tracy will hear!"

"I don't care, sweetheart. What you did was inexcusable, and I need to make sure you understand that. Kneeling over that chair, please." He was already taking off his belt.

Trembling and close to tears, I obeyed my husband, grasping the legs of the old windsor chair as I raised my backside for punishment.

Not only, I was sure, would Tracy hear the slaps of the belt, but she would almost certainly hear me crying out as I was beaten. I bit the inside of my mouth, hoping at least to spare myself that indignity.

In the end, I didn't manage it, and as I left with my bottom in a state that wouldn't permit me to sit on the train home, Tracy's sympathetic look into my too-bright eyes was all the more humiliating.

I know some of my readers prefer the more realistic stuff, but there are things you can do with a housewife and an investment-banker that you just can't do with a lawyer and a Latin teacher. Every time I try to fantasize about being summoned to Charles' school for a spanking in his classroom, I think "Good lord, that job was hard to get! We'd have to be stupid to try that, wouldn't we?"

Squee for silly plot-twists in spanking stories

(Warning: pseudo-incest.)

I just have to share the thing I'm working on this morning, which is the long-awaited (by me; I guess--I'm not sure whether anyone else is actually following the "plot" of EXPLORATIONS) news from Sarah, now ensconced in Prophettown (she disappeared at the end of Emily in Service), and loving it.

(You can read much more about it in the 101, but Prophettown is a "religious" BDSM community of universal polygamous domestic discipline, where members of "families" are not actually blood-related.)

Anyway, the first few days. They brought me here in a helicopter with the windows completely blacked out (that's after another, really long journey that I'm not allowed to tell you about, though something Daddy said made me think that maybe there was a chance you're going to visit me here [YAY!], so maybe we'll get to talk about it sometime). When I landed, Daddy and the Mamas were there to meet me, and they gave me big hugs. Jon gave me this sweet, modest kiss, and patted my behind, and sent me off with my foster family. I don't know why, but that got me almost as wet as when he took me the first time at your house (I'm not allowed to use bad words anymore, just so you know; the Daddies and Husbands use them all the time, but if a girl says one of them she gets whipped in front of the whole family--that happened to one of my foster sisters my second day here, when she burned a cake and swore about it).

That's slated to appear in EXPLORATIONS volume 27, alongside the account of Victorian Emily's wedding-night!

A garter-belt for a trainee

(This post continues on from this earlier one.)

I don't think we managed to get back to training for a few days, but when we did, we were careful to put ourselves again into our original positions, because we were both really happy with the scene.

"Your training uniform," he said, "as chosen by your husband, will be black stockings and a black lace garter-belt." He held out a slender box from La Perla.

"Glug."

He was used to my glugs by now, but there was something special in this one. Garter-belts, for me, are a man thing; they're not like thongs, for me. (Really, thongs are mostly a man thing, I suppose; my love for them has to do with the way they make my ass feel, an arousal-trigger that undoubtedly has something to do with toilet-training, which probably [you may want to cover your ears, if incest is high-ick for you] has to do with my father [you know, a man]; maybe I'll unpack that some time, maybe not, but anyway I'm one of those women who find thongs to be a turn on for them.) 

In fact, although my lingerie collection at that point was truly extensive, I didn't own a single garter-belt. To be told by my "trainer" that I was now going to don--habitually don--a piece of lingerie that didn't really do it for me. . . well, you know me by now, reader, and the pathetic predictability of my arousal--that did it for me. 

What was really wonderful was that our incipient training regime had unexpectedly found us new, fun ground in our play life. To that point, lingerie had been my thing. I could tell of course that Charles liked to see me in whatever I decided to put on to drive him wild, but as a progressive sub I had eschewed completely the "this is what he likes to see my ass and pussy wearing" dynamic. Lingerie was for me, despite the fact that in being "for me" it was always of course for "Him"--not Charles, specifically, but "Him," the master who was to come. The divergence lay in the way that I, in choosing my own lingerie, was constructing a "Him" beyond Charles. In fact, I had started collecting lingerie before I had even lost my virginity to that forgettable law student; when I wore it, I was submitting to an unreal dominant Him. To this point, I had in a sense just been lucky that the real Charles liked many of the same characteristics of lingerie that I had imagined "Him" as liking.

In fact, this was the first time Charles had ever bought me lingerie of any kind. Seeing that La Perla box wasn't romantic, exactly, I guess, but, yes, it got me very wet.

"Please don your uniform this minute, Miss Tilton." When he was on, he was on. I literally trembled, forced to remove the jeans and red lace to stand naked before him, then take the box, and open it to reveal the sexiest lace garter belt and stocking combination you can imagine. It even had corset-style laces.

"Charles," I said, unable to maintain the scene. "You are. . . Did you. . . ? When. . . ?"

"Miss Tilton," he said. "You forget yourself. Please do as I have requested. You may withdraw to your chamber to do so."

I think it must have been in fact the first time I wore a garter-belt, with the exception of the one under my wedding-gown, which Charles didn't even get to see (allow me to repeat my aforementioned policy: real weddings are fucking stressful--we just wanted to get to Maui). That seems odd, I suppose, coming from me, lingerie fetishist extraordinaire, but like I said, I had never been into them. Now, however, that my "trainer" had said it was my "uniform, as chosen by my husband". . . well perhaps I was all of a sudden getting into garter-belts, this one in particular.

One of the funny things about lingerie is that the donning of it is much less sexy than the wearing of it, or the removal of it (provided your Master likes removing your panties, or watching you do so). I withdrew to my chamber, and donned my uniform. Those laces were a new sensation, but the basic characteristic of the thing--the cincture of the belt--Yes, indeed--I was now into garter-belts in a way I had never expected. It was like bondage crystallized into a single strip of lace and laces.

Emily in the School for Wives is live!

Here it is!

And I put some new material at the bottom of the 101, about the Victorian stuff, and how it relates to everything else.

And, of course, the blurb:

“Yes, Miss Orn, it is shameful. Your conduct when you were eighteen, and its punishment. Raising your shift in bed and fingering your untried charms and bending with your drawers down over your school desk; playing lewdly in the tub and being made to show your nakedness to your governess while she chastised it; tasting your friend’s loins on a mossy bank and riding the punishment horse in the solarium. What your bridegroom will command of you, the use he will make of your most private parts, what he will punish you for and the chastisement itself. It is shameful to remove your corset, your chemise, your drawers for me. That is why I have asked it of you.” 

The 22nd book of Explorations continues the story of fantasy-Emily reading her great-great-grandmother's introduction to a world of Victorian BDSM, at the hands of the able Mrs. Smith, trainer of young brides. Victorian Emily finds herself caught in a web of consent and compulsion, forced to undress in an elegant parlor and to hear hints of things to come that seem to her so shameful and degrading that she can hardly believe them. 

This book of EXPLORATIONS contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: ff, Ff, spanking. It's intended for over-18 audiences who, like me, are interested in exploring the lines between pleasure and pain, dominance and submission, and fantasy and reality. All characters depicted are consenting adults.

Emily in the School for Wives #SatSpanks

My snippet this week is from one of my favorites of all the spanking-scenes I've ever written. Mrs. Smith has completed the process of "persuading" Victorian Emily to undress in her parlor, and the consequences have begun, with a paddling from Mrs. Smith's "chastiser." Then:

Mrs. Smith put the chastiser back on the mantle-piece. "Miss Orn," she asked, " may I apply a salve to the chastised area?" It was said with so much of her usual assurance that I nodded assent before I had thought about what she meant, still lost in the terrible warmth between my waist and knees. Nor had I any notion of looking away as Mrs. Smith took a vial from the drawer from which she also had taken the letters and my bridal garment in its presentation-case. She poured a viscous liquid onto the fingers of her right hand. Her left returned to my waist, and I watched the right move, very slowly, it seemed to me, toward my posterior. 

"Oh," I said, when first I felt her fingertips find out my shame, and then begin to move along its length, back and forth, ever so tenderly. "Mrs. Smith, please to desist. I have made a mistake."

The book continues on from Emily, Victorian Bride, as the suspense of what Emily Orn will have to undergo first at the hands of Mrs. Smith and then at those of her bridegroom Edmund Wilkes starts to build to a fever pitch. Here's the blurb (buy the book here):

“Yes, Miss Orn, it is shameful. Your conduct when you were eighteen, and its punishment. Raising your shift in bed and fingering your untried charms and bending with your drawers down over your school desk; playing lewdly in the tub and being made to show your nakedness to your governess while she chastised it; tasting your friend’s loins on a mossy bank and riding the punishment horse in the solarium. What your bridegroom will command of you, the use he will make of your most private parts, what he will punish you for and the chastisement itself. It is shameful to remove your corset, your chemise, your drawers for me. That is why I have asked it of you.”

The 22nd book of Explorations continues the story of fantasy-Emily reading her great-great-grandmother's introduction to a world of Victorian BDSM, at the hands of the able Mrs. Smith, trainer of young brides. Victorian Emily finds herself caught in a web of consent and compulsion, forced to undress in an elegant parlor and to hear hints of things to come that seem to her so shameful and degrading that she can hardly believe them.

This book of EXPLORATIONS contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: ff, Ff, spanking. It's intended for over-18 audiences who, like me, are interested in exploring the lines between pleasure and pain, dominance and submission, and fantasy and reality. All characters depicted are consenting adults.

Read all the Saturday Spankings! 

Cameras in the wainscoting (you know, to watch the spanking stories unfold)

(We're continuing on from this post.)

"This is the speech they delivered to her then," I couldn't stop thinking, as Charles started to do likewise. (It's a great moment in Story of O, after they've, er, ravished her. . . emphatically, and are about to whip her for the first time, at Roissy. I give fantasy-Charles a similar speech in Emily's Naughty Classmate.)

"You are here, Miss Tilton, to learn to submit to a man."

"Glug," I replied. (Remember, that's my "I'm too aroused to articulate words" sound.) He almost lost it and started to laugh; I saw the corners of his mouth twitch. I wanted to scream "Don’t you dare lose it on me, asshole!" but he kept it together.

"You may think you have submitted to a man in the past, but I can assure you that what you did then was not true submission. Your husband has for example informed me that you. . . er. . . broke a wine glass last week." (Weak, but I suppose playable.) "And then you failed to tell him about it because you feared his justice!" (Much better.) "Once you have learned to submit fully to a man, you will never think of disobeying your husband that way. Here, as you are used for my pleasure, as I fuck your cunt, and your mouth, and your ass, whenever I want, when I teach you to pleasure me with every part of your person, when I beat you simply because it is pleasant to beat a girl, you will come to realize that a man's pleasure is your proper function."

So hot, and so very, very wrong. "But. . . Sir," I ventured.

"Yes, Miss Tilton?"

"Will my husband not be angry. . . that you are. . . usurping his rights?"

Charles can be such a goofball, sometimes. "I have in my briefcase," he said, sternly, "a letter from your husband telling me that he is most happy that I should fuck you in any way I choose, provided it is recorded on video for his viewing pleasure."

I nearly fell down at that--did actually sway a little.

"I can tell," he said, "that that thought makes you wanton, Miss Tilton, but I can assure you it will be no pleasant thing when I have you on my training horse!"

Improvising myself, mostly because I couldn't stand up, I was so aroused, I fell to my knees.

"No, please. . . Sir. Not. . ."

"Ah, Miss Tilton. I know you far, far too well to be persuaded by this feigned dread. I don't even have to feel your naughty little pussy to know how wet it just got, when I said 'training horse'!"

I whimpered in response, of course, and my trainer chuckled.

"Yes. . . my training horse." I rewarded him, despite myself with another whimper. This was getting ridiculous. "Now, slut, for a little test of honesty. I know precisely what you want to ask me, and I know that you, in your feigned dread and feigned modesty, think you would rather die than ask it. The next thing out of your mouth will be that question, or your bottom will pay a terrible price."

He stood again, and picked up the paddle, and moved to put his left hand atop my head. "Bottom up, Emily," he said. "Cheek on the carpet. Knees spread." Making my usual little noises, I complied. "Higher, sweetheart," he said, tapping my right buttock for emphasis.

"Before you so rudely interrupted me" (here he gave me a tremendous spank, right in the center, at which I cried out, and bucked and squirmed) "I was telling you about how I will train you to submit by using whatever part of your charming body I wish, with the full. Knowledge. Of. Your. Husband." (You can imagine what happened at the periods: there was squirming and moaning and, above all, heat and wetness.)

"He will see everything, including your rides. On. My. Training. Horse."

"Ahhh! Sir, what does your training horse look like?! Please!"

"Why do you want to know, Miss Tilton?"

"Because I want to ride it, Sir!"

"Very good," my trainer said. "And your husband will see your wantonness, even as I train you. My establishment, you should know, is equipped with many cameras, concealed in the. . . er. . . wainscoting."

(OK, to be completely honest, we did lose it at that point, collapsing in giggles. "Asshole," I said, and kissed him as hard as I could, having come over to join him on the throne, which is, like all good thrones, big enough for two, and even big enough for two to fuck, in certain positions, which we then did, after I had ripped my jeans all the way off. He made me keep the red lace on, and pulled the gusset aside so that I could slide deliciously onto his cock, holding my burning, punished ass in his hands so that the warmth spread everywhere.)