CharleyH
Curioser and curiouser
- Joined
- May 7, 2003
- Posts
- 16,771
I have just been reminded of a novel I am working on, but I have been hesitant to post chapters on lit because of a conundrum about rules.
The story is of a female dominatrix protag. The first chapter is her memory created her as a dominating woman, and influenced her as a professional dom (I use this spelling exceptionally purposefully
)
The chapter, in itself, is a recounting of one event, however, there is one part that I am not concerned about off of lit, but am curious about whether I can post it on lit?
Don't know if I will get bashed for this since it is 1976 and corporeal punishment was not thrashed with lawsuits, but . . . the norm.
Part lead up to the event:
“Geraldine. You can serve dinner now.” Then she turned to my Dad. “You can spank her until she cries or screams, which ever comes first.” She never raised her voice, not once. She said the words with such composure that I wondered if she was even real.
I stared at her and did not break a tear. I stared at her and held my head high.
Before she sat down, she again turned around to my Dad. “And use the belt.”
She formed the words from her lips like a work of art. I remember that. I remember her lips moving, and her face as expressionless as Mona Lisa’s. Somehow, I admired the way she was, the way she moved. Somehow, I wanted to please her and I wanted to be like her.
I could tell my sister was on the verge of tears. She looked at me. She had the same eyes as our Mother, but there was tenderness in hers. I shook my head and she knew, even at six, that she shouldn’t dare shed them, not at that moment, and not in front of our Mother.
My Mother poured herself a glass of Pinot Noir, and Geraldine brought out the Tournedos. I could smell the brandy glazed beef tenderloin and the porcini duc sel. Before eating, my Dad abided my Mother’s wishes and marched me to my room.
With each proud step I took, I told myself, ‘I’m not going to cry. There’s nothing to cry over.’ As I lay over his knee, and the thick, tan barber belt clapped my small cheeks, I convinced myself, ‘I will not cry,’ and as I flinched from the slap and the smack and the strike of the leather, I ‘did’ not cry.
End of portion, but is this too much for Lit?
The story is of a female dominatrix protag. The first chapter is her memory created her as a dominating woman, and influenced her as a professional dom (I use this spelling exceptionally purposefully
The chapter, in itself, is a recounting of one event, however, there is one part that I am not concerned about off of lit, but am curious about whether I can post it on lit?
Don't know if I will get bashed for this since it is 1976 and corporeal punishment was not thrashed with lawsuits, but . . . the norm.
Part lead up to the event:
“Geraldine. You can serve dinner now.” Then she turned to my Dad. “You can spank her until she cries or screams, which ever comes first.” She never raised her voice, not once. She said the words with such composure that I wondered if she was even real.
I stared at her and did not break a tear. I stared at her and held my head high.
Before she sat down, she again turned around to my Dad. “And use the belt.”
She formed the words from her lips like a work of art. I remember that. I remember her lips moving, and her face as expressionless as Mona Lisa’s. Somehow, I admired the way she was, the way she moved. Somehow, I wanted to please her and I wanted to be like her.
I could tell my sister was on the verge of tears. She looked at me. She had the same eyes as our Mother, but there was tenderness in hers. I shook my head and she knew, even at six, that she shouldn’t dare shed them, not at that moment, and not in front of our Mother.
My Mother poured herself a glass of Pinot Noir, and Geraldine brought out the Tournedos. I could smell the brandy glazed beef tenderloin and the porcini duc sel. Before eating, my Dad abided my Mother’s wishes and marched me to my room.
With each proud step I took, I told myself, ‘I’m not going to cry. There’s nothing to cry over.’ As I lay over his knee, and the thick, tan barber belt clapped my small cheeks, I convinced myself, ‘I will not cry,’ and as I flinched from the slap and the smack and the strike of the leather, I ‘did’ not cry.
End of portion, but is this too much for Lit?