Explorations: Books 25-28

By Emily Tilton

Emily's Morning: The 25th book of Explorations finds fantasy-Emily having the stern final portion of her punishment for self-abuse, while in the old notebook she has been so naughtily reading, Victorian Emily finds herself in disciplinary trouble for much the same crime. Mrs. Smith, trainer of young brides, is forced to administer a chastisement that she hopes will finally teach her newest pupil something important about her life as a submissive wife.

Emily's Fitting: In the 26th book of Explorations, fantasy-Emily, now with her husband's permission (provided she can keep herself from auto-erotic temptation) continues to read of her great-great-grandmother's initiation as a submissive bride into a Great Drama of BDSM in Victorian England.

Emily's Victorian Bridal Chamber: In the 27th book of Explorations, as the story of fantasy-Emily's connection with Prophettown gathers a frightening sort of momentum, the story of Victorian Emily's wedding-night also comes to its crisis point.

Emily, Bedded: The 28th book of Explorations tells, in parallel, the stories of the narrator's ancestress' bride-night with her dominant husband and of the beginning of the narrator's fantasy-avatar's night with three of her husband's junior-colleagues, as a prize awarded for exemplary performance.

These books of Explorations contain fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, Ff, MMMf (no sex among the Ms), FFFf, anal, 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.

The Explorations series is a unique take on BDSM above all because of the strong individual voice of Emily Tilton herself, manifestly shaping the fantasy-elaborations of the series. Because Emily is interested in helping herself and others understand how BDSM can be lived within a mostly vanilla existence, the way most of us have to live it, Explorations has a unique element that Emily hopes will set it apart and make it useful: Emily has created a fantasy-version of herself (keeping to the tropes of the genre she knows so well, fantasy-Emily is an eighteen-year-old virginal bride with a self-abuse "problem"), whose fantasies and "realities" are the central subject of the stories of Explorations--but the real Emily also keeps her authorial, real voice in the margins, explaining and analyzing, and revealing from time to time the much more mundane, real version of the things Emily has transformed in the story of her fantasy-self. This doubling of the "I" in the first-person narrative of Explorations makes the series worth exploring all on its own. Come for the hot D/s, spanking, anal action. Stay for the exploration.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emily Tilton
• Release date: Feb 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311830449

Emily Tilton

Emily Tilton wishes she were as free as her characters (one of whom shares Emily's name) to live out her fantasies of submission.Emily's erotica is a narrative version of her nearly lifelong quest to reconcile her submissive erotic orientation with her ethics. She writes erotica, not erotic romance: her books are about sex, because writing about sex helps her understand that fundamental part of her life better. She hopes maybe it does the same for her readers.Over the many years since Emily became aware of her sometimes unbearable craving for ravishment, spanking, and above all anal domination, she has tried to come to terms with that craving in more ways than she can count. The first of the ways was by reading, voraciously, every piece of good BDSM erotica (and of course also a ton of bad BDSM erotica) she could find.Eventually, she read Story of O. As is reflected throughout her work, it changed her life, though the change has been gradual, and continues to this day. The idea that other women might share the lusts she has by turns been ashamed of and defiantly proud of, that a woman like the real Pauline Réage might write so beautifully of those lusts, and work them out so thoroughly and even pitilessly on a character, put Réage's famous pencil in her right hand. Or, to put it in the terms of EXPLORATIONS, which she considers her magnum opus, it put her left hand on the keyboard of her laptop and her right hand in her lap, if you know what she means. Emily started to write spanking stories.

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EXPLORATIONS: Books 25-28

By Emily Tilton

Copyright 2013 Emily Tilton

Smashwords Edition

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These books of Explorations contain fiction elaborating the following sorts of fantasy that you may wish to avoid: Mf, Ff, MMMf (no sex among the Ms), FFFf, anal, 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.

Emily's Morning

3 June 2002, 32 Poplar St., Greenwich, CT

We left fantasy-Emily reviewing the schedule, taped to her mirror, entitled HOW EMILY WILL PREPARE HER LITTLE ASS FOR AN ASS-LESSON.

(Run-down on how EXPLORATIONS works. Here in italics, I'm 36-year-old lawyer Emily, married to 35-year-old Latin-teacher Charles, looking back on being a BDSM newlywed and writing erotica ten years or so ago. In the Roman type, I'm 18-year-old fantasy-Emily, society housewife [well, ass-wife, really], married to dominant older investment banker Charles Smith.)

As he had promised, in recompense for failing to tell him about my great-great-grandmother's notebook, and for masturbating while reading it, Charles followed the terrible caning he had administered to my backside with an example of what in our household goes by the name ass-lesson. As you may remember, I had wet the bed during my caning, and so I had to change the sheets as an extra-humiliating part of the preparation for the final part of my punishment (final for now, of course, because it seemed I still had a bathroom-punishment coming for the deception, as opposed to the self-abuse).

Finally, though, arrayed in my special white lace panties, with the special bolster used for these lessons under my hips, I awaited my husband. Sometimes Charles would spend a long time preparing my anus with various toys, but that night he was much more peremptory. He came silently into the room, while I, according to my training, kept my face to the sheet, awaiting his justice. I usually had to prepare the bed for my ass-lesson by removing all the covers--a wonderfully degrading duty in and of itself--but of course the same purpose was served on this occasion by making it up for now only with the pink fitted sheet which was now against my brow, and nose, and mouth. Then Charles simply hooked one finger into the back of my panties, and pulled them aside, and presented his lubed manhood at my rectum.

Let me in, you bad girl, he said, softly, and leaned forward, putting his hands possessively on the bolster, on either side of my hips.

I gave the little sob I always seem to give when I have to let a penis go where penises shouldn't go, and pushed the way I knew bad girls who give ass push, and then my husband was where he wanted to be, to teach me a lesson about pleasure and my body, and about his lordship over me. In keeping with his displeasure about my deception and my self-abuse, he rode my bottom hard that evening. When I cried out, he said, Take it, you bad girl. You thought you could steal your pleasure from me. Will you do that again?

No! I cried. And he came, and I was left wanting.

As I mentioned at the end of Emily's Bath, real-Charles isn't into anal as a punishment. For some reason that makes me tend to pull out all the dominant stops when I write about fantasy-Charles. Apologies if it's a bit over the top, reader.

After my ass-lesson, it was time to cook dinner. As usual, if I was cooking when Charles was at home to answer the door if the bell rang, I wore only my apron. While I was finishing up the pesto, Charles came into the kitchen, to my surprise (he likes to bend me over the counter sometimes, to be sure, and take advantage of the apron's affordances, but my ass-lesson had been a powerful one, and I hadn't thought he would want to use me so soon again). But instead of ordering me to prepare myself, he said, excitedly, Emily you have to hear this. . . it's from the second notebook, the one that has your grandma Emily's notes for the next part of the story--I just read it for the first time. He read to me:

It was to Lord S, tired of dealing with the consequences of various husbands’ wrath at his usage of their wives, that I first proposed what came to be known as the Pineapple Protocol.

What? I asked, astonished.

Charles nodded. It gets better, he said, and kept reading:

For God’s sake, he had just shouted, would someone please spare me these ladies’ protestations of innocence. I’ll be damned if I took the Marchioness of C--- by force, as she had just told me that to be ravished by me was her fondest wish!

What, my lord, I said, if there were a way to provide throughout the drama an assurance that whatever is done, is done by the ladies'--even by the servants’--consent?

Lady Wessulk, [That's EOW, said Charles, using the short-hand we had begun to fall into when referring to my great-great-grandmother, Emily Orn Wilkes. You haven't got there yet, but Mr. Wilkes was created Earl of Wessulk. What?! Why am I only hearing now that my great-great-grandfather was a peer?! Because he was a very special kind of peer. Now let me keep reading!] he replied, I should have my butler flog you this instant for suggesting that you, a woman, know anything about the drama of which I have not already conceived, but I will admit that your reputation precedes you, and that I have heard that your ideas, innovative though they be, deserve a hearing.

Pineapple, my lord, said I.

I cannot conceive you, Lady Wessulk, he said.

Just this, my lord: if a woman says 'Pineapple', she is discharged from the drama. Imagine if Sophie (that was the Marchioness of C---) had been given the opportunity to say 'Pineapple', and hadn't said it--would not your position with respect to the Marquess be rather more secure?

Lady Wessulk, I am intrigued. Are you truly saying that the consent of women and servants should be enlisted? I believe I do need to have you flogged, simply on principle.

And he did. But after that, he went to the Duke of R----, and the idea spread through the houses of the drama like wildfire.

So your great-great-grandmother also invented the safeword, and the safeword she brought to your great drama was the same safeword they use in Prophettown? asked Charles. That's. . . intriguing. But it's also the kind of writing that's killed a bunch of TV shows, right?

I'm much better than JJ Abrams, I said. I know where this is going.

Where?

Not telling.

Shall I spank it out of you?

You could certainly try, I replied.

And he did. But after that, I stayed up until 2am writing out this new idea.

There must be a connection, I said. I mean, I suppose it could be a coincidence, but. . .

Not likely, said Charles. Both your Grandma's great drama and Prophettown come into being more than a hundred years ago, before most people even knew about BDSM--before there even was BDSM, or S and M, as a thing that people talked about the way they talk about it now. I really think there has to be a connection.

After dinner, he had me read to him:

The bed-room to which the strapping young women led me, up two flights of stairs, was worthy of the sitting-room into which I had first entered, a life-time ago, it seemed to me now. Velvet wall-paper, a beautifully-canopied bed, comfortable chairs, a fire-lit hearth, a Persian rug: all seemed to speak of the world I had left behind—all but my nakedness and the absence from the room of anything with which to clothe it, save those clothes which I must share with the bed.

Under them I tucked myself immediately my attendants had left me and I had made water in the chamber-pot, not without a little shudder at the thought that perhaps I should feel grateful for not yet needing a husband’s permission. As the drapes in this room, too, were tightly closed, and I could hear no noises from outside this little world, I had no idea what time it was, having been so over-whelmed with the trial I had just undergone as to lose track entirely of my own inner sense of the passing hours. Nor did I think of food: I simply drifted off into a restless sleep, unable to think, as I did so, of anything but the state of my charms—chastised, violated, and bared—and wondering what it was that, only two days hence, Edmund would demand of them.

For several moments when I awoke, I was certain that I was in my own bed, at home in Curzon Street. It will sound a tired note, but is nonetheless absolutely true, that I had an impression of having had a fantastic dream. As I recalled the dream (and this is why I relate the sensation to you in spite of the device’s terrible over-use by our writers of fictions) I must confess that I remembered it, for a single instant, as the most marvelous dream of my life. It is generally agreed that woman’s mind is a thing wondrous strange (I venture to say man’s is, as well), and so it may not surprise you to hear that in the instant after the pure joy of my first memory, I remembered the dream—the very same dream, which was, of course, the reality of the previous day—as the most horrible night-mare I had ever had. Such was the force of the sense of honor and duty that had been given me by my upbringing.

It is perhaps worth impeding the easy onward flow of my narrative, and diverting my strict rehearsal of chronology, by adding a reflection which I had, in fact, upon waking the following morning (which I