Emily Undressed #SatSpanks

Lest you think that fantasy-Emily (as opposed to Victorian Emily) has faded entirely from the picture, this week I present what happens when she becomes rather too immersed in her great-great-grandmother's notebooks, as told in the just-released Emily Undressed:

That was the point at which Charles surprised me by coming home early. He found me on my stomach on my bed, with my jeans and panties around my knees, having pulled them down just a few pages into the story, even though I had promised myself I wouldn't. He found me with my left hand down underneath, its fingers moving rhythmically in my shaved cleft, and my right hand turning the pages. 

He stood in the doorway, and said, "Emily, you're in serious trouble." 

He was not angry, it seemed, but there was a hard note in his voice that made my stomach churn in fear of what was about to happen. To my dismay, he fetched the cane from the top of my dresser. He said, "Get your hand away from your pussy, sweetheart. Close the notebook and turn your face down to the mattress, then put your hands out and hold the slats of your headboard." I complied, and he cuffed my wrists and bound them there. He left my knees bound by my jeans and panties.

Here's the blurb (buy the book here):

Mrs. Smith continued, “The bride may don it by running it between her legs, then fastening one side at a time, but that puts undue stress on the fabric, and the more proper method requires that the bride hold the aide-mari in front of her charms while her maid stoops behind her to reach between the bride’s knees, grasps the garment’s rear, and brings it up behind, so that she can fasten the clasps.”

How terrible the involuntary character of a maiden’s blush! To my great irritation, I could see my cheeks color at her words. “My maid, then, is to know that I am required to wear such things?”

In the 23rd book of Explorations, Victorian Emily's instruction as a submissive bride continues, as modern-day fantasy-Emily can't stop reading, one-handed, the old notebooks she's been hiding from her husband Charles. Unfortunately for fantasy-Emily's backside, though, Charles is about to come home. . . 

This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Ff, spanking, watersports. 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! 

Dark games (one of the spanking stories)

(We're continuing on from this post.)

The next part of my training began a few nights later. Charles had found the vibrator deep in my closet when he was looking for my secret lingerie stash; his initial intention had been to surprise me with something from my own collection as my uniform. The magic wand's capacity to drive a girl practically to the edge of insanity was something he instantly wanted to explore, and so, at the end of our usual sort of take-out dinner, he said, "Miss Tilton, please don your training-uniform, and go to your training-room, and wait for me."

After looking at the state of the feet of my stockings following our first training-session, he had decided that stockings didn't have to have feet, and had ordered some footless stockings. It was an odd feeling, but I had no objection; the alternative was shoes of some kind, and although I like nice shoes, they don't have any role in my erotic life, and I'd much rather play BDSM scenes in bare feet than just about any other way. So I put on what amounted to sheer nylon leg-warmers, and the gorgeous garter-belt, and I went to the dungeon to await my trainer.

He entered in his own uniform--black dressing-gown over nothing. We were a pair: in the dark basement, in dark clothes, playing dark games.

"Raise your hands above your head," he said, softly, and I complied, feeling again the thrill of stretched exposure, of rendering myself completely helpless in my trainer's power. In the mirrors I saw the auburn-haired young woman, shamefully dressed, shamefully exposed: white and pink skin flushed with arousal, small pink nipples standing wantonly at attention on her little breasts, cunny-slit visible to anyone who should happen by, lovely young bottom, seen in the back mirror, inviting stern discipline, both framed in the black lace of garter-belt and stockings like prized possessions whose use my trainer reserved to himself.

He put my cuffs on my wrist, and clipped them to the chain, just high enough that my arms were nearly at full length, and I could hang easily, if I wanted. I realized suddenly that I wanted him to take me further; I wanted to be on tip-toe, straining, like in the books.

"Tonight," he said, "we will be exploring the bounds of your immodesty, much as Mrs. Smith explored the same bounds with your great-great-grandmother."

He drew the low stool up so that it was directly in front of me, only two feet or so away, and sat on it, so that his face was mere inches from my shaved pussy.

"I see you are blushing at what must seem to you the shameful liberty I am taking, to use my power over you to enjoy the sight of your pretty little cunt at my leisure."

Still, after all this time, when Charles uses the c-word, it makes me blush, and it enflames me. Never mind that I've tried to claim its power for myself--when the man who owns you calls your tender cleft that. . . the power is his (as you have willed it to be his).

"Your blush does you credit, and bodes well for the state of your modesty, and for your potential for training in the ways of the pleasing wife.

"I am afraid, though, that my duty to your husband to make you pleasing for him demands that I violate that modesty, for your own good, and, of course, for his."

I had my eyes closed, too terribly aroused by the sight of Charles, as my trainer, examining me so minutely down there, where the heat came unbidden, and the moisture began to flow. Now I opened them, as I felt his hands start to urge my knees apart. Oh, no: this was bad, from a modesty standpoint.

"Ah," I said. "Ah, I. . . hadn't thought of that." He spread my legs slowly, making my feet inch out until they were slightly more than shoulder-width apart. I felt. . . I felt the air moving against parts that the air shouldn't move against, parts that I had shaved, for him, which made them even more sensitive to the moving air.

"That's why your husband pays me the big bucks, Miss Tilton," Charles said, drily.

"Asshole," I said, unhappy at his breaking the scene with humor. For once he didn't let me get away with it: he rose, and strode to the shelf of training implements, and got my paddle.

"Oh, please. . . sir. . . no. . . ah!" He was behind me, and he was paddling me hard--very hard--, alternating quickly between my spread cheeks.

"That sort of language will not be tolerated in training," he said after three strokes to each bottom-cheek, strokes that turned them a fiery red and made them burn so fiercely that I strained at my cuffs with the need to rub the sting away, and whimpered with the pain and the heat that now spread itself forward. . .

Visual spanking stories analysis: episode 1

Yesterday I started into what I'm thinking of as a series that will continue, in which I share some of the narratives that seem to rise without will or warning in my mind when I look at certain images. Besides being fun and interesting in its own right, that series seems like an opportunity to explore in another direction from the main direction of this blog (the main direction of the blog is to tell the story behind the story of the books of EXPLORATIONS).

In yesterday's post, a picture of a girl in a lovely set of babydoll pajamas inspired in me a spanking story about a couple who have been dating for a few weeks; she (I named her Marcie) feels the desperate desire to be spanked that I know so well; he, perhaps initially not inclined to think of such things, suddenly sees the possibilities when she emerges from the bathroom of his apartment wearing the pajamas.

I think the essential hotness--the part that made the image one I wanted to elaborate on in the form of a story (and it seems to me that all the images that have this effect on me have one essential hotness)--is in the combination skirt and panties. At the top of the post I put another version of the same garment, that seems to me to reinforce (at least for me) the basic erotic appeal of the thing itself.


But what is that basic erotic appeal? In the picture that inspired yesterday's post, the model (whose character in the shot I named "Marcie"--though of course that's very unlikely to be the model's real name, and I would be greatly distressed if anyone thought I was talking about her rather than about the character she projects in the shot) seemed to me, probably on the instructions of the cameraperson (a Dominant? see how easily these fantasies spin themselves in my fevered soul?), to have elaborated something important about the panty-skirt in three ways: her position against the wall, her biting her fingernail, and her slightly crossed knees.

Each of these gestures, to me, projects a submissive character, and I built the tiny bit of Marcie that I build in yesterday's post upon that character. (As you can tell from the entire nature of this blog, I find that sort of character very appealing, since I identify with it so strongly!)

But what fascinates me is why the panty-skirt itself would be the essential hotness. Is there anything about putting a little skirt (really, it seems rather funny to dignify that minuscule amount of fabric with the word "skirt," but what else are we to call it?) around a pair of panties that has a submissive element?

Yes, I think. This piece of lingerie (or nightwear, but I think the distinction really ceases to matter when the thing becomes erotic rather than functional) exploits one particular aspect of the skirt: the way it can be lifted, or even simply flipped up, to make a girl's charms available. Skirts--and short skirts above all--always have the potential to convey this message: lifting me reveals the place where Dominant others would like to take their pleasure (and where I, wanton, can't help desiring that Dominant others will want to take their pleasure).

Never mind that in this case, somewhat confusingly, flipping up the little skirt reveals charms still covered by panties: the D/s imagination, as far as I can tell, never worries about such niceties.

There's another way to put it, too, I suppose: this strange, hot panty-skirt is like a perpetual view up a girl's skirt.

Shouldn't any girl who would wear such a thing be spanked for her immodesty (provided of course that that's a turn-on for her)?

Visual inspirations for spanking stories: a beginning

There's a thing that I love to do both for its own sake (or, I suppose, just for the sake of auto-eroticism) and for the sake of keeping my fantasies and their elaboration fresh. It also helps me grow in my understanding of my BDSM orientation, and has even been known to make others happy.

I take one of those pictures that takes my breath away (if you're reading this blog, I suspect you know the kind I mean--and I also hope that you're like me in that while these pictures are certainly sometimes explicit, even more frequently they're not explicit at all [though they're almost always obviously sexy in some way]) and I write a little story about it. Sometimes the story is only a sentence or two; sometimes it runs several paragraphs.

So I'm going to try putting a few of these up here. I'm fairly sure that if I simply embed the image from its original location, it's fair-use, but please let me know if you find an image with respect to which you think I'm violating a copyright, and I'll disembed it, and link it instead, immediately (I'm going to use this initial post as the introduction to the series, and link it at the top of future installments).

So, the first image. I'm sure you won't be surprised (if you know me) at the role played in it by lingerie, and in its story:

Told to stand against the wall while her boyfriend got ready to punish her, Marcie began to regret her choice to wear the naughty pink and black babydoll pajamas. As soon as he had seen them, Joe had gotten a strange look in his eye. True, exciting precisely this desire--the desire to punish her--had been exactly why Marcie had bought the slinky camisole with the adorable pink trim (including the irresistible little bow that sat right between Marcie's small breasts now), and the matching pink bottoms with the tiny sheer skirt that didn't cover anything at all really. But if Joe did decide he was going to spank her, and flip up that little skirt, her bottom was in serious trouble.

When she had come out of the bathroom of his apartment wearing the pajamas, which she had so carefully smuggled in in her purse, feeling brazen and sexy, she had had a sudden moment of doubt as he, fully clothed of course, turned to look at her.

The long silence that ensued, as Joe looked her up and down, had nearly made her panic and run back into the bathroom in shame.

"Well," Joe had finally said, "you've been hinting about spanking ever since we started dating. And now I can see how badly you need one. Go stand by the wall while I get ready to punish you for putting on such naughty things without my permission."

As Marcie watched, Joe rearranged the furniture. Her knees crossed and uncrossed nervously. This was what she wanted, wasn't it?

Glorious degradation (one of the spanking stories)

(We're continuing on from here.)

"You, Miss Tilton, have a great deal to learn!" my trainer said, as he beat me. "You are a foul-mouthed slut, and you will be treated as such until you have learned to submit to your husband properly!"

He grabbed my hips from behind. "Oh God," I thought, "please let the angle work." And then he had me on his cock, stretched out as on a rack, feeling as I never had before like I was being broken, and trained. He had spread my knees, and bent his own, his feet inside mine and my ass against his lap. It was magnificent, for about ten seconds, but there was no chance it could last any longer. I was too stretched out, and his thighs weren't sumo grade.

But Charles Smith, my trainer, my husband, my master, my beloved, improvises well (see for example Emily's Naughty Classmate).

"Miss Tilton, I am sorry to say that you are not yet worthy of having me finish in your cunt, or even in your asshole. I will now teach you a lesson by using your luscious bottom cheeks to pleasure myself, and deny you your wanton pleasure."

"Gah!" was my articulate reply as he withdrew, and put me in a more sustainable position, firmly (more or less) on the floor (Jesus, I hoped he had bought a lot of these stockings, because the feet of this pair were already shredded as fuck).

Then I felt his cock in my ass, but not in my ass, the way it was supposed to be. He was jerking himself off in the furrow of my bottom. It was incredibly, deliciously humiliating, to be used like that, and I needed my pussy touched very badly indeed but I had no way at all to accomplish it. Charles held my punished cheeks one in each hand, and moved them around his hardness, and moved his hardness within them. "Yes. . . nice. . ." he said. "It's a nice bottom, Miss Tilton. I'm sure your husband likes to fuck you in this little ass, doesn't he?"

I played reluctance to speak, and as a reply only squirmed back against him. 

"Answer me, Miss Tilton!" he insisted, and gave me one of those demeaning little sex-spanks for emphasis. "Are you an ass-wife?"

"Yes!" I finally responded, after three more spanks.

"And you. . . huh. . . you like it, don't you?"

"No! It's. . . shameful!"

"Yes, you do, Miss Tilton--I know you do. Your husband tells everyone that you're a good piece of ass."

(He knew me so well now--he knew that that phrase was a direct line to my pussy.)

"Dammit, Charles, Sir. . . I. . ." His seed spurted up my back at that point, making me feel so perfectly, disgracefully, achingly dirty I could scarcely believe it. In its naughty frame of garter-belt, suspenders, and stockings my cunt was literally dripping, now: I could see a little pool of my arousal on the basement floor, and the thrill of shame increased.

Charles seemed to have disappeared for a moment, and then I heard a sound--a particular buzzing sound that I knew very well indeed, and that made me, yet again, blush to the roots of my hair. He had found my magic wand at last.

"I. . . I can explain."

"Hush, you bad girl," said my trainer softly. "There will be time for explanations, and for discipline, later. For now, your training regime will benefit most particularly from the use of this indecorous device you seem somehow to have secreted in my establishment. We are going to see, once and for all, just how wanton you are."

Leaving the vibrator on, he came around in front of me. He was carrying a low stool, and he put the vibrator, attached to a very long extension cord, on it. Then he moved to a dark corner, and pulled something out. It was a full-length mirror, which he placed in front of me. The first thing I noticed was that there was also now another mirror, behind me, so that I could see my bright red bottom inside my suspenders, redder even than my braid, and the sperm dripping down the fair skin of my back, in addition to my breasts and bare, glistening pussy, the whole framed in my training uniform of garter-belt and stockings. My arms, stretched above my head and chained to the ceiling, made me look so much like a captive slave that I gasped at the sight.

Charles picked up the magic wand and sat on the low stool.

"Miss Tilton, you are to try as hard as you can to keep your modesty. A good wife, subjected to this treatment by her trainer, is able nonetheless to retain her dignity. I fear, however, that an ass-wife like you may be incurable."

Slowly, so slowly, he brought the vibrator's buzzing massager towards the aching center of my lustful being.

"Oh, no. . . oh, Sir, I don't think I can, oh. . . aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!"

Yes, it's stupid to try to render the sound I made typographically; it's just the least ineffective way to capture a moment that typography just can't render. That is to say, from the moment when I watched, in the mirror, the vibrator touch the tip of my cunt, peeping out lewdly from between my thighs, to the moment when I came, maybe twenty seconds later, I emitted a single continuous (albeit rising and falling at semi-regular intervals) scream of pleasure, pausing only to take air into my lungs so that I could keep screaming.

It's silly cover reveal time for Emily Undressed! (It's a spanking story!)

And it's live, here!

I know what you've been saying to yourself, with greater and greater urgency as each day passes without a new photo of attractive home furnishings that's somehow also strangely erotic.

You've been saying, "Sure, Emily Tilton's style is strange, and she does use a lot of subordinate clauses, like some anal-obsessed submissive David Foster Wallace/Jane Austen hybrid who has never met a parenthesis she didn't like," but those covers with the tiles and the chairs that are somehow also abstractions of fervid eroticism make me feel all tingly, and there hasn't been a new one in at least a week."

Well. Emily Undressed, book 23 of EXPLORATIONS, comes out this week. That's right: you only have a few days to wait for a scorching hot vignette about how a Victorian butler discovered his mistress smoking and, in the absence of her noble husband, was forced to cane her alongside her lady's maid, in the great hall of H---- (as recounted in a letter that Mrs. Smith reads to Victorian Emily to demonstrate to her the role of servants in the Great Drama, when Emily refuses to credit the notion that her housekeeper might, under certain circumstances, turn Emily over her knee).

Even better: only a few days to wait, until fantasy-Charles catches fantasy-Emily reading her great-great-grandmother's notebooks, one-handed.

Did you say "Blurb us, Emily!"? No? Well, I shall blurb you all the same:

Mrs. Smith continued, “The bride may don it by running it between her legs, then fastening one side at a time, but that puts undue stress on the fabric, and the more proper method requires that the bride hold the aide-mari in front of her charms while her maid stoops behind her to reach between the bride’s knees, grasps the garment’s rear, and brings it up behind, so that she can fasten the clasps.” 

How terrible the involuntary character of a maiden’s blush! To my great irritation, I could see my cheeks color at her words. “My maid, then, is to know that I am required to wear such things?” 

In the 23rd book of Explorations, Victorian Emily's instruction as a submissive bride continues, as modern-day fantasy-Emily can't stop reading, one-handed, the old notebooks she's been hiding from her husband Charles. Unfortunately for fantasy-Emily's backside, though, Charles is about to come home. . . 

This book of Explorations contains fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Ff, Mf, MMff, spanking, watersports. 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.

Victorian Emily's schooling continues #SatSpanks

Everyone was so nice about last week's snippet that I feel like I have to tell you "what happened then." You may remember that Miss Orn (aka Victorian Emily) had just said to Mrs. Smith, who was "innocently" applying a salve to the "chastised area," "Please to stop, Mrs. Smith. I have made a mistake."

Or that is what I meant to say. What actually emerged from my lips was, "Mrs. Smith! Mrs. Smith! Please. . . oh, please." 

How to describe the motions of her fingers? I could not see them in the mirror, so perhaps they may be termed discreet—the view was only of the elegant lady standing beside an unclothed feminine back-side, her left hand resting lightly above the buttocks, her right, for reasons (undoubtedly in complete accord with propriety) of her own, placed at the most shameful spot, where the hemispheres and the thighs all intersect, as if to a civilized personage such a posterior was a natural subject of attention. But those invisible motions! She had said she would place her salve upon "the chastised area," but it began to seem that her interpretation of the phrase was rather liberal. She was rubbing a certain place, opening me so wantonly that I was no longer able to utter articulate noises at all; indeed I had begun to cry out much as I had at the strokes of the paddle. How could shame and pleasure be so inter-twined? How could I have any claim to honour, I who was allowing Mrs. Smith to feel how wanton I was despite all my boasted modesty?

And 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!