Saturday, October 29, 2016

Their Wayward Wives

This one started from one of those hot little fantasies that seem to ignite my brain several times a day. What if I overheard my new next-door neighbor getting a spanking? It turned out I could think of a lot of things. Like this, for example:
John looked at her a little strangely—Cathy wasn’t sure she had had a third beer since her sorority days, actually—but brought it and put it down in front of her, then bent over to kiss her. 
“Aww,” Mindy said in a genuine, kind voice, and then Cathy realized she had gotten much drunker, faster, than she had supposed she would, because otherwise the thing that happened next could never have occurred. 
As John straightened up, and Cathy felt the glow of his affection receding, she thought about their sex life—their marital relations—as her mother called the matter. She thought about the swoony feeling of seeing him in his uniform on their wedding night, and about the gentlemanly way he had taken her virginity, about the panties she hadn’t taken off under the lacy nightgown. 
Cathy thought wildly, There’s nothing wrong with our marital relations
Then she said to Mindy, “Why did you get spanked this afternoon?” 
If John hadn’t said the thing about the way Cathy never made much noise during their lovemaking, maybe she would have been able to tell him exactly why what they had overheard coming from the Landises’ breakfast room disturbed her so much. Or maybe she could have at least made the attempt, which might have caused him to turn down the dinner invitation. 
Who did she think she was kidding, though? Could Cathy even articulate to herself exactly why she found the thought of her next-door neighbor being punished so disturbing? She couldn’t have made an attempt to explain if her life depended on it. 
All Cathy knew was that it had something to do with the stories her grandmother would tell her, when Cathy was little—stories that came from Gran’s own grandmother, of a girlhood on a Southern plantation. Stories that very often featured girls getting a whuppin’ or getting switched
Once, Gran had even told Cathy a story about a young woman who had kissed a boy. “Let me tell you, sugar, her daddy blistered her tushy so good she couldn’t sit down for a week.” 
Once, not in a story but really just in passing, Gran had said that she missed Cathy’s granddaddy, who had died before Cathy was born. “Lord, he would whip me good when I sassed him, but I loved him more than anythin’.”
Here's the blurb! 
When Marine Corps veteran John Lind and his twenty-two-year-old bride Cathy overhear their next-door neighbor Doug spanking his wife, Mindy, it quickly leads to conflict in their own relationship. Realizing that he has let Cathy get away with her snippy attitude and frequent defiance for far too long, John decides that it is well past time to bare her bottom, spank her soundly, and remind her who is in charge in their marriage. 
Though it comes as a shock at first, Cathy soon discovers that being completely taken in hand by her husband arouses her intensely. With John now demanding her obedience both in and out of the bedroom, she frequently finds herself blushing crimson yet still burning with desire as she is thoroughly and shamefully mastered. But when John and Doug leave town for two weeks on business, can Cathy and Mindy behave themselves while their firm-handed husbands are away? 
Publisher's Note: Their Wayward Wives includes spankings and sexual scenes. If such material offends you, please don't buy this book.
Buy the book here. 

Sunday, October 9, 2016

Drastic Measures (The Institute Series, Book 9)

I love writing the Institute Series. I know I can be guilty when doing so of diminishing the hotness somewhat as I advance the central theme of data-driven BDSM, but I feel like the series now has an audience that enjoys it the same way I do. I hope this half-preposterous half-profound side of my own sexual-fantasy-life might also be a part of yours.

When Robin Reed walks down the aisle with handsome billionaire Oliver Marlowe, she does so knowing that he is an old-fashioned man who will expect his bride's obedience and submission. But after the first time she ends up over her husband's knee for a sound spanking on her bare bottom, Robin can't help wondering whether she has made a mistake.

Determined to ensure that his wife's needs are properly met, Oliver consults with experts from the Institute and then proposes a bold plan, which Robin hesitantly accepts. In order to help her discover her deeply hidden submissive tendencies, Robin will be brought to the Institute for training. Before she even steps through the door, Robin finds herself blushing crimson as her bottom is thoroughly punished--both inside and out--but it is only once she arrives at the Institute that she truly begins to realize what it means to surrender herself completely to a man.

The pleasure of yielding to her trainer's mastery of her body quickly prove more intense than she would have thought possible, and Robin is soon yearning for her husband's skilled, dominant lovemaking. But will the Institute's usual techniques be enough to teach her to fully embrace her need for submission, or will her situation call for more drastic measures?


Publisher's Note: Drastic Measures is the ninth book of The Institute Series. The books of The Institute Series are stand-alone novels which can be read in any order. Drastic Measures includes spankings and sexual scenes. If such material offends you, please don't buy this book.

Click here to buy it on Amazon!

Saturday, September 17, 2016

In Loco Parentis

In loco parentis means "in place of a parent." Here on my blog, I can tell you that all the implications for an erotic novel are indeed in effect. May I tempt you with an excerpt from the book?

“So you’re saying you’re not going to get hard while you’re spanking me?” As soon as she said it, she saw she had touched a sensitive spot: Mr. Malley’s brow darkened, and his evident struggle against anger seemed to get more difficult for him.

“That’s my affair, Heather, and I hope I can teach you some modesty where that kind of thing is concerned, so that you’re not looking through windows and sucking boys’ penises in full view of the neighborhood.”

Too late Heather saw that she had made things much, much worse for herself. All the casual hookups at school came crowding back upon her, and the battle between it’s fine and shouldn’t it feel better? reared its terrible head.

Modesty.

Bullshit, the it’s fine part tried to say. But Mr. Malley seemed to have come to the aid of shouldn’t it feel better? with a strange vengeance.

Worst of all, the subject of Mr. Malley’s cock had entered the conversation, and she couldn’t deny that she had raised it. Raised it. Heather saw Miss Green on her knees, red lace panties down and pink plug in her bottom, sucking Mr. Malley’s big, hard cock. She saw him hold Miss Green’s head, his fingers twined in her wavy red hair. She saw him fuck her face like it was a pussy.

Heather swallowed hard.

“I’m through talking now,” he said. “I’m going to go to the kitchen. When you’re ready to take your spanking like a good girl, you’ll come in there and lay yourself over my lap, and we’ll get this over with.”

He turned and left the den. Heather sat there looking at her hands in her lap. Her gaze shifted to the screen, and the sexy freeze-frame made the problem worse. Angrily, she picked up the remote and turned the thing off. The den fell into darkness, its only illumination spilling in from the kitchen where she now heard Mr. Malley moving one of the chairs.

So he can sit in it. For my spanking.

Rational thought had the smallest imaginable part in what Heather did next. She stood up, and she took off all her clothes and laid them on the red couch. If a thought had actually entered her mind, it had been If I’m going to have a spanking, I want it to be a sexual spanking. She hadn’t thought the idea through, of course, any more than she had thought through stealing the panties or any of the other stupid things she had done over the past forty-eight hours.

She surveyed her body in the half-darkness, wishing she had a mirror but knowing Mr. Malley didn’t stand a chance of resisting her. An older man would always want to fuck a gorgeous eighteen-year-old: practically an eternal truth. She walked into the kitchen, smiling, with her hands at her side.

Here's the blurb:

By the time eighteen-year-old Heather Bradshaw returns home for the summer after her first year of college, she feels very grown-up indeed. With her parents away for several months, she has the house to herself, and she isn’t going to let their old-fashioned notions of propriety get in the way of a good time if the opportunity presents itself and the guy is hot. It comes as quite a surprise, though, when the man who sets her heart racing turns out to be her best friend’s father.

Upon realizing that Heather is flirting with him, Tom Malley sets out to play the role of the gentleman. He does his best to ignore her advances rather than take advantage of someone so inexperienced, but it quickly becomes clear that the beautiful, naïve young woman is in desperate need of a man’s firm hand, and if he doesn’t provide the stern dominance that is required she’s going to get herself in over her head while searching for someone who will.

Determined to put a stop to Heather’s out of control behavior and keep her from getting hurt, Tom takes the feisty girl over his knee for a long, hard, bare-bottom spanking that leaves her blushing and promising to behave herself. The humiliating chastisement merely intensifies her desire for him, however, and her response to his discipline deeply arouses Tom as well. Soon enough, he casts aside his hesitation and claims her thoroughly, but will the shame of surrendering her body to her best friend’s father turn out to be more than Heather can bear?

Click here to buy the book on Amazon!

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

The amazing Cara Bristol comes to visit!

I'm so happy to host Cara today, talking about her very-fun-looking new book Educating His Bride (whose topic is of course right up my ally—see Sarah's Tutorial!). I'll let her introduce it!

From college coed to professor’s naughty bride…

It’s the 1950s. Never much interested in her studies, Margaret Atwater attends college hoping to graduate with an Mrs. degree instead of a bachelor’s. When she catches the eye of English Professor Henry Thurston, she’s thrilled to marry him, drop out of school, and begin a new life as a married woman and faculty wife. However, Henry is a kinky man who has much to teach his eager young bride—in, and out, of the bedroom. As Mrs. Henry Thurston, Margaret’s sexual education has just begun.

Newlywed Margaret brings her husband his lunch at his college office. But Henry expects more than lunch…

“What did you bring me for lunch?” He peered into the corridor and slammed the door.

“A meatloaf sandwich.”

He twisted the key in the lock and scooted around her to the window. “On white bread?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I like white bread. It’s so nice and fluffy. Almost like eating cotton candy.” He turned the wand and plunged the room into dusk. Enough light remained to see the sexual gleam in his eyes.

An answering heat pooled in her core. Yes, some things had changed since her last visit to this room. She might have gotten a C in his class, but she’d aced marital relations. He’d taught her much over the summer, lessons she’d embraced with alacrity.

Henry plopped into his chair and beckoned.

“What if somebody comes?”

“They won’t. It’s only the second week. Students don’t have reason to meet with me yet.” He chuckled. “They’re still searching for their classes.”

“I don’t know.” Did respectable married women do things like this?

He leaned back and spread his legs. His erection tented his trousers. “Do I need to come and get you, Mrs. Thurston?”

She loved being called that. Liquid lust pooled, but she played coy. “Maybe—”

Henry sprang up, dragged her to his desk, and upended her over his lap. The chair arms prevented him from pulling her completely atop his knees, but he was strong enough to hold her half on, half off. She braced her hands on the floor. Skirts flew over her head. A playful swat landed on her bottom.

Thwack. Thwack. “Henreee…” she giggled. “Ow!” she cried as he brought his hand down harder. There’d been many spankings over the summer. Only one had been for punishment after she’d gone shopping and had run late and hadn’t called. The rest had been sexy ones. There was something thrilling about her husband enforcing his will—and her surrendering to it.

“I wish you didn’t put on so many undergarments,” he groused as he spanked.

“I only wear the usual.” Panties, girdle, slip. Petticoats for poufiness, if the dress needed it.

“Maybe I’ll institute an underwear ban.”

“I couldn’t!”

“I mean around the house.”

That wasn’t as bad, but still. What if she had to answer the door? A respectable woman was always coiffed, starched, and properly clad. To not wear undergarments would be like not wearing…stockings!

“Well, I’ll have to think about it,” he said.

She hoped he thought about it a long time. He flipped her off his lap into a heap between his legs, undid his trousers, and freed his cock from his shorts. Precum pearled on the smooth head.

Her brown feathered tilt hat had slipped from her head to her ear, despite being anchored with a pin. Henry threaded his fingers through her pageboy. The man was heck on a hairdo. Perhaps she should get one of those short, shaggy cuts like Italian actress Gina Lollobrigida had.

He exerted pressure to bring her face closer to his cock. “I used to think about you doing this when you were my student,” he said. “Suck me, Meggie.”

[Yum, says Emily!]

What are you waiting for?! Here are the buy links:

Amazon | Amazon UK | Amazon AU | Amazon CA

Barnes & Noble | All Romance

Cara's incredible bio goes:

USA Today bestselling author Cara Bristol has published more than twenty-five erotic romance titles, including contemporary and science fiction romance. No matter what the subgenre, one thing remains constant: her emphasis on character-driven seriously hot erotic stories with sizzling chemistry between the hero and heroine. Cara has lived many places in the United States, but currently lives in Missouri with her husband. She has two grown stepkids. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading and traveling.

Cara Bristol web site/blog

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Friday, January 15, 2016

The hotness of institutes

According to most definitions, an institution is a set of practices, a sort of subset of a culture. Church. School. Governmental bodies like courts and legislatures.

An institute, though, etymologically speaking, is just something that got set up at some point by a group of people, in a particular place and for a particular purpose. The Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The Institute for Advanced Studies.

My own Institute, established for the purpose of training submissive concubines and supplying them to wealthy buyers.

That's where it gets interesting, though, because at least for me, the echo of institution in institute means that as a source of erotic power relations, the idea of an institute can possess nearly unbearable hotness. A set of practices, whereby dominant men take the pleasure they deserve, without regard for the wishes or scruples of the submissive girls they have had trained specifically for that pleasure. A place where the rights of girls may be suspended, and that troubling idea of consent is taken care of at the door.

A place for men to send girls like me.

Coincidentally enough, I have a new Institute book! Here's a cover and a taste:

“Anna,” he said, using the direct approach that he knew—because every field assessor knew these statistics by heart—had only a 32% chance of success, “do you mind if I do a little Internet search about you?” The chance it would work was a lot lower than a slower technique would have, but Charlotte had only given him ten minutes. This kind of calculation made up a great part of a field assessor’s skillset, and Martin felt confident he had made the correct choice. Even if it turned out that he lost Anna, he knew he would keep that confidence. 
“What? I mean, why?” She had a truly adorable crinkle between her blond eyebrows now. 
“Can I tell you that after I do the search?” 
The crinkle deepened. “Well, I guess… I mean, why do you need my permission?” 
He didn’t, really. All the data the Super would access in the next few minutes lay within their agreement through the secret TARIFF (Trans-American Recognition In Financial Funding) Act that had authorized such searches by government-liaised corporate entities, for an exorbitant fee that currently constituted nearly the entirety of the funds keeping the federal government going. 
But the TARIFF Act provided for behind-the-scenes data gathering, not the semi-consensual sexual awakening of repressed submissive concubines. To get Anna started toward her ultimate well-being and Martin’s pleasure—and, of course, eventually the pleasure of whatever wealthy man chose her—he would need to approach the matter with her as if he must obtain her consent. 
Martin smiled. “It’s polite to ask, don’t you think? Before you start looking into things a person who would probably rather choose what sort of impression she wants to make might not want you to see?” 
Anna blushed—only very slightly, but again her fair complexion, utter peaches-and-cream, made it visible. “Oh, you won’t find anything like that.” 
“Like what?” Martin made his tone as innocent as he possibly could. The time for slyness and innuendo had not come yet, and if he had anything to say about it, wouldn’t arrive for a while. A great deal more fun—really almost too much fun—lay in seeing how deeply even the most innocent things would evoke Anna’s shame. 
Her blush did indeed grow, suffusing her whole face now. She tried desperately for a pretense of jadedness. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. She looked around, then, as if a part of her mind fought against the spell Martin had begun to cast on her. An anxious expression broke out, and the blush faded. “I really have to go,” she said, darting a glance at him and then looking around her chair as if for her coat. 
“Your coat’s on the rack at the door, Anna,” Martin said very gently, “and I don’t think you do have to go. The search will only take a minute. Just sit.” 
And he took his handheld from his pocket and concentrated on getting the preliminary assessment going, peremptorily breaking eye contact with Anna to do so. In his peripheral vision he saw her shift in her seat. She herself didn’t realize it, but she had moved to try to get his attention back on her, in an instinctive riposte to the first command Martin had given her: Just sit. 
It would not, he now found he hoped fervently, represent anywhere near the last command he would give Anna Greenway. Along with the hope, too, came growing confidence: her little fidget made him as sure of her as he had ever been of a girl’s suitability before the results of the preliminary arrived. Girls who shifted in their chairs when told to just sit knew, though the knowledge lay deeply buried, that they needed not only such masculine instructions but also the masculine enforcement of those instructions.

Thursday, January 7, 2016

The hotness of second-class citizenship

I've just started a new dys/u/eutopian sci-fi that I'm tentatively calling The Marriage Decree. The idea is that a group of colonists left earth in the 31st century to form a traditional male-led society, but five generations on their descendants have begun to abandon the founding principle of family discipline. The conservative administration, controlled by traditionalists, imposes the Decree for Ensuring Domestic Tranquility, which demotes women to second-class citizens, with their voting rights controlled by their heads-of-household and men explicitly required by law to use corporal punishment to keep their wives in line.

I'll leave the tease there for now, but I want to explore the reasons why I should think it's so hot to imagine myself as a second-class citizen, when everything in my personal and cultural makeup screams how wrong that is. It's a theme I've worked on and to which I've returned several times in my erotica, including an excerpt I'll share below, but which, when writing fiction intended to arouse my reader, I don't really have the opportunity to consider in an analytic way.

Here's my theory: the submissive sexual orientation eroticizes power, above all—I think those of us who self-identify as BDSM in one way or another can all agree on that. So to have my power legally taken away, so that I have no choice at all but to obey my husband or receive just correction in whatever way he sees fit—belt or paddle or cane or butt-plug, ratchets up the arousal. 

At the same time (and perhaps this is actually the most important reason the fantasy works for me) any individual man, whether my husband or the government auditor who is required by law to check in once a month and make certain I am receiving the discipline I need as a second-class citizen, is only doing his job as he orders me over the family spanking-bench to receive the lesson I've earned. As a second-class citizen, after all, it's essential that the first-class citizens in charge of me maintain order, even if that means that when I misbehave they must thrash me with terrible severity and (if it's my husband) fuck me in a style that makes clear who's in charge in this society—for my own good, of course, and with cuddles afterward, and "I'm so sorry I had to do that, Emily, but you must learn, and it's my responsibility to teach you. I want you to remember, when you feel how sore your anus is tomorrow from my cock, that you are a second-class citizen who is under my protection. I have to answer for your conduct, so I will make sure that conduct is perfect, even if it means you have to go over the spanking-bench every day."

It goes without saying, I hope, that the only reason this demotion of status can be hot for me is that it's not the way things actually are. If I actually couldn't vote for myself but had to allow my husband to cast a vote for me, it wouldn't turn me on in the slightest. 

The fantasy though, of him telling me that I'm silly to want our taxes raised and, when I protest that we can certainly pay more to help others who are in need, ordering me into the bedroom for a date with his belt and a good hard dominant fucking, until I see that of course poor people should have to pull themselves up by their bootstraps… worked up sufficiently, with the lecture in economics given in an angry voice as the thick leather comes down on my bare backside over and over, it makes my panties damp.

One of the books where I treat this theme, rather with my tongue in my cheek, is Assigned a Guardian. Here's a sample:

Whereas the colonists of the planet Draco face hardships that make certain freedoms to which modern people are accustomed unsafe to maintain, and whereas the colonists wish to secure to themselves first safety, and, later, prosperity, therefore be this basic law adopted and enacted as the foundation of good order on the planet Draco, this fifth day of January in the year 2187 of the Common Era, by Earth reckoning, and the year 12 of human life on Draco.

An article about the post of governor, which had far-reaching executive powers, followed. Then came an article about the governor’s council, which served as the colony’s legislative body. The specifications for the court system followed. Then the real innovations, if they could be called that, began.

By recommendation of the governor, and ratification by the governor’s council, all recognized forms of gainful employment shall be classified as appropriate either only to men or also to women. No woman shall be gainfully employed in a post designated as appropriate only to men. Forms of gainful employment designated as appropriate to women shall be further placed under the direction of a male agent of business, ordinarily the head of household in authority over the woman occupied in such employment. These forms of employment shall be further designated as ‘women’s work,’ and any remuneration for them shall be delivered to the agent of business.

The maintenance of discipline throughout the civil order being vital to the survival of the citizenry, the practice of corporal punishment shall be employed throughout the civil administration of Draco, and the planetary administration shall promote said practice for use in the homes of citizens. The foregoing notwithstanding, men are explicitly advised that the right to use any form of discipline acceptable to them, provided it do no permanent injury to the party disciplined, shall not be abridged by the governor or by legislation made in the governor’s council.

Patrick had already seen one of the posters that clearly traced their origin to this article of the Basic Law. It showed two photographs of a young woman, at a guess in her twenties. In the photo on the left, her cheeks were stained with tears, and she was shown in a medium-shot that suggested she was bending over something—a stool or the arm of a chair, perhaps. On the right side of the poster the same young woman was hugging a child close, with a touchingly maternal smile on her face. The caption was in block letters: SOMETIMES FAMILY HARMONY IS ONLY A SPANKING AWAY.

One of the questions Patrick had been told in his citizenship interview that he should expect to be asked on the test concerned the origin of this article, which was apparently called ‘the spanking article’ of the Basic Law. It had of course been highly controversial at the time of its adoption, but John and Marjorie Leary had given an interview together that won the hearts of the colonists, in which they revealed that John spanked Marjorie regularly, and that they both attributed the strength of their marriage to that practice.

The social disorder on Draco had been very severe at the time. The values coalition’s principal rival, the liberal progressives, had refused to concede that their demands for radical equality had anything unrealistic about them. The day before the Learys gave the interview, several hundred protesters, 70% of them young women, had been arrested when they tried to storm the administration building.

It turned out in the wake of the protest and the interview that most of the colonists were more than ready to embrace something new, especially since John Leary made it clear that part of the values coalition platform was that the government’s power stopped at each citizen’s front door. Patrick had to admit that the notion of keeping order so simply appealed to him as well. Jack Tatum, the official who had conducted Patrick’s citizenship interview, had told Patrick that guidance was readily available to him, should he wish it, on the matter of discipline in the home.

“But,” Jack had said, “that’s probably not something you’ll have to worry about all that soon—although we encourage men to get married as soon as they can find a suitable wife.”
Then came the article about guardianship.

At the age of eighteen, each unmarried woman shall be assigned a male guardian. A woman’s guardian shall be responsible for her conduct. He shall have authority to discipline her in any way he sees fit, so long as he does not cause her permanent injury.

Jack had pointed Patrick to a separate document, titled the disciplinary codicil, which defined the disciplinary rights of a guardian. It appeared that the only thing a guardian was forbidden to do was force himself sexually upon the woman for whom he had responsibility. There was a list of punishments that guardians were specifically and explicitly allowed and encouraged to use as well: spanking, strapping, paddling, and caning were the more familiar types of punishment there. There was also a section on forms of humiliation that the administration found potentially beneficial, and which Patrick imagined had originated in the Leary household. Astonishingly, they included the removal of pubic hair and the dressing of the fractious woman in diapers.

Another, rather propagandistic, document called ‘A Guide to Guardianship’ made it clear, though, that such measures were to be employed only in situations ‘in which ordinary disciplinary measures such as hand-spanking and belt-whipping prove ineffective.’ For the most part, the pamphlet said, the role of a guardian was to check in with his charge once a week, and help her in the process of courtship that would lead to her marriage.

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

The hotness of New Year's

Should I worry that if I do "the hotness of" every occasion I'll find myself stuck when the year rolls around again and I have to find something else to write naughtily about that's tied to the same occasion? Nah. You can expect to read "The hotness of champagne" next year, with some lurid tale of a Gigi-lookalike.

For now, though, let the world be new, to fit the coming new year, and the celebration we usually call New Year's, though we may equally well call it the Feast of the Holy Name, or—even better and more liturgical-historically accurate, the Feast of the Circumcision. That's right: in the Middle Ages, what much of Europe celebrated on the first day of January was the removal of Jesus of Nazareth's foreskin.

I've wondered from time to time whether circumcision could ever be hot. The answer always seems to come back in the negative. So we'll go in a Victorian direction today…

The Victorians—at least the class we who write erotic novels think of as the Victorians; that is, the bourgeoisie and the aristocracy—used the first of January to visit one another, often bringing gifts, for the notion of gifts on Christmas, under the branches of that newfangled gewgaw the Christmas-tree, had not yet taken hold. In particular bachelors expected invitations to visit the houses of families with marriageable daughters.

Ah. Yes.

Imagine that a particularly debauched gentleman has three daughters, each of them lovely but—because of the gentleman's impecunious state—unable to find suitable matches. How will he get them off his hands and his pocketbook?

He will of course invite the five most notorious libertines in Londaon to his home on New Year's Day. He will of course lay his daughters naked—"No missish protestations, Cecilia! Off with your petticoats!"; "Esther, did I not tell you to shave your cunny this morning? Go to your room and do so this instant!"; "Theodosia, your sweet bottom needs a good smacking, and I have invited just the men to give it you!"—over the dining-table next to the sweetmeats, and the bachelors will of course take turns in fucking their bare cunts and their virginal bottoms, not neglecting to use the canes and birches provided by the gentleman to test the girls' responses to discipline.

By the second day of January, the gentleman's worries will have come to an end. The girls, ruined in mouth, quim, and arse but fainting with untold pleasure, will have gone home with their keepers, the three lucky men chosen by lot of the five, with the other two libertines assured they may visit at any time to have a fuck. All night, that first night of the new year, they will serve the lusts of the men who will henceforth possess them at the bargain price of room, board, and the occasional frock.

Compare the following passage from The Duke's School for Young Ladies.

Clarissa watched her newest pupil closely as Anne’s gaze took in the duke’s drawing room. She thought she could see a distinct lack of surprise in the new girl’s eyes at the grand room’s holding, along with beautiful chairs, sofas, divans, and tables of the usual kind, several unusual pieces of furniture: three whipping benches and two demonstration tables. So experienced already, she thought. She supposed that a single visit from the duke could do that—just as it had done the same for Clarissa herself, all those years ago.

“Freda Garrett, in the blue room, please,” she said. “Do not undress: Mr. Babcock will wish to assist you in that, I believe. Ursula Gregory, over bench number one, if you please. Joan Porter, undress to your shift, if you please. I shall assist you. Lavinia Ellsworth, assist Georgina Holmes in unlacing, and she will then assist you in doing the same. Get undressed to your shifts. Miss Holmes over bench number two and, Miss Ellsworth, please oil her bottom-hole with the oil in the little cabinet, in order that she be ready for Mr. Abbott. Miss Crawley and Miss Solmes, completely undressed, and over by table number one.”

Gowns were removed as appropriate, hung in the presses that waited to one side of the drawing room, and soon enough all had been prepared for the entry of the gentlemen. After she had secured Ursula to the whipping bench, Clarissa, still in her own beautiful gown and feeling like a queen, walked over to where Sarah had led Anne to demonstration table number one, just in front of the mantelpiece, where a lovely warm fire burned in the grate.

The girls looked so sweet without their clothes that Clarissa could not help embracing them and kissing them on both cheeks before she said, “Now get upon the table, my sweet girls. Anne, Sarah will tell you what to do. Do not be anxious, for the gentlemen who watch like to see some confusion on a girl’s face when she must do this for the first time.”

Anne nodded solemnly and began to climb onto the table, six feet long and four feet wide, covered in padded leather for the girls’ comfort. The height of the table, which rose two feet from the floor—and so came to the duke’s knee—was not, of course, for the girls’ comfort but rather for the pleasure of the duke and his friends. Had Anne noticed? Clarissa wondered, as she often wondered such things about girls coming for the first time to make a part of a debauch. Sarah of course had reason to know quite well how convenient the table’s height made it for a gentleman to get his cock into a girl in whatever mode of enjoyment he chose.

Lost in a reverie of memories of past parties—of the times she herself had lain upon this table—Clarissa was surprised to hear Sarah’s timid voice, and to turn to see the sweet girl still standing next to the table, rather than moving to join Anne. “Miss Halton?” she said. “Is it true? That… Mr. Westenra…”

Clarissa did not wish to stir false hope in Sarah’s bosom, though she was of the opinion that Mr. Westenra could well be sincere in his desire to marry her. Nevertheless, she knew her eyes shone when she said, “Hush, child. Let that be as it may, and get upon the table with Miss Solmes.”
Sarah nodded, and began to climb to join her friend, who lay with her back to the fire, the sweet curve of her hips making a bewitching silhouette, and the golden curls upon her cunny glistening faintly. Clarissa felt suddenly that she wished to share a confidence with these two, and that her response to Sarah’s natural desire to know more of the possibility of a proposal from Mr. Westenra had left much wanting. She said softly, “Do you know, girls, that I have a hope that things at the school may change for the better, tonight?”

“What, miss?” asked Anne.

“Miss Crawley,” Clarissa said, then, noting that Sarah had begun to assume a position face-to-face with Anne, “your face before Miss Solmes’ cunny, if you please. If you are to be allowed to kiss, the gentlemen will tell you so.”

“Yes, miss,” Sarah said, moving to obey. “Miss, what did you mean, please? About changing for the better?”

“I have a stratagem,” Clarissa said in as low a voice as she could. “Listen to Ursula, for I believe that with Mr. Dabney’s unwitting help…” Then the door opened, and the duke, clad in his dressing gown, came in. The marquess, Lord Lerner, Mr. Stalby, Mr. Westenra, and Mr. Abbott all also wore dressing gowns, clearly having availed themselves of the opportunity the duke always gave to make their amours more convenient thus. Mr. Dabney and Mr. Babcock both still wore their evening dress.
Clarissa looked into Anne’s frightened eyes, and could not resist another kiss upon her forehead. “All may be well,” she whispered, and glided over to the duke.

The stratagem had formed in her mind after dinner, the moment she saw Ursula’s reaction to the news that Mr. Dabney wished to watch her caned, rather than to go to a private room to whip and fuck Lavinia Ellsworth away from the eyes of the world. Ursula had made a conquest, and Clarissa knew that she might well go to any length to secure him. If Mr. Dabney were the sort of respectable man who did not mind a little public fellatio, he would certainly, as the duke’s executor, be interested in the kind of story Clarissa thought she might be able to bring Ursula to tell, under the stern application of Lord Lerner’s cane to her rump.


And if Ursula told the sort of tale of Mrs. Fayerweather that Clarissa suspected the girl might have stored up in her memory, things might well change for the better, with some assistance from Mr. Dabney.