Bridal Suite Submission

Prologue – The Dream

The dream was always the same. In the darkness of our bedroom I came to my lover, joining him in the pale moonlight wearing nothing but a sheer white nightgown, my heart pounding and my love for him greater than ever. In my dream I was aware of everything. The impossible softness of the carpet between my toes, the gentle caress of the cool night air that drifted in through the open window, the soft rustling of leaves outside, the play of the moonlight over my lover's skin and how warm he felt as he took me in his arms there in the darkness. In my dream he smelled so sweet, a faint, indiscernible 31 fragrance a bit like jasmine, but not quite. His lips tasted faintly of sweet wine. And each time in my dream he murmured to me softly.

"I have a surprise for you, Catherine."

A surprise. How delicious.

In the darkness my lover turned me so I faced away from him, towards the bed. His touch was so gentle. In my dream he always kissed my neck, down low where it always made me shiver. With gentle motions he cupped my breasts and caressed them softly through the thin fabric of my nightgown. Even in my dream my nipples stiffened, from the cool night air and the feel of his lips and fingers on me and the unmistakable presence of his stiff erection against my bottom.

There were but two tiny straps holding my nightgown up. In the darkness of my dream my lover coaxed them from my shoulders, still kissing the base of my neck even as my nightgown pooled silently at my feet. The cool night air was intoxicating on my nakedness. And his fingers. And his lips.

In my dream my lover gave me hardly a moment to enjoy the gentle tickle of the cool 46 air, for he soon took my arm and led me gently to the bed. Even in my dream I shivered at the sight of the bed upon which he was to have me. The sheets were luxurious white satin, perfectly smooth and just kissed by the pale moonlight; the rich pillows more numerous than I could count and so incredibly soft, as if they were a sea of plush elegance just waiting to be parted by our bodies.

At the foot of the bed my lover again embraced me from behind, kissing the base of my neck and cupping my naked breasts. His touch was exquisite, and yet I was hardly aware. I was staring at the bed, hypnotized, unable to look away. For there in the darkness I could just make them out. Narrow black leather straps tied to each of the bedposts and lying loose across the white silk sheets, almost indiscernible in the pale moonlight. Bonds, waiting to encircle helpless ankles and wrists...

In my dream before I could voice my feelings my lover coaxed me forward, his hand on the small of my back, guiding me onto the bed. I couldn't speak, couldn't put words to what I felt. But my lover could. His words were soft in my ear, whispered gently, lovingly. "Relax, Catherine. Let my hands guide you."

I let them. In the darkness he guided me to lie face down on the bed. The satin sheets were so impossibly smooth against my nakedness. I was wet in an instant, even in my dream. And trembling. And so many other feelings, for without a word my lover coaxed me to spread my legs and arms and reach out to the bedposts. The touch of the leather straps was at the same time terrifying and the most erotic sensation I'd ever felt.

My lover secured me with them tightly in the darkness, first my wrists and then my ankles, binding me tightly to the bedposts with the cool leather, pulling the bonds snug until I could barely move. In my dream I never struggled, never questioned my lover's desire to have me like this.

My lover now turned his attention to the plush pillows. He gathered two or three and placed them beneath my hips, elevating my bottom. The cool night air tickled between my legs and caressed the gentle valley between my cheeks. It was now, as I lay secured and helpless, my bottom raised, that my lover explored me gently. It was as if he were teasing me, building my expectation to a feverish pitch. He caressed my back, my thighs, my bare bottom, even exploring between my bottom cheeks and tickling the untried pucker there, at which even in my dream I blushed. His explorations focused on my offered bottom. He squeezed each of my bottom cheeks, gently at first and then harder, and then painfully so, until in my dream I squirmed against the satin sheets. And in my dream my lover always, always finished by leaning forward and kissing me tenderly between my shoulder blades. It was a moment I always eagerly anticipated in my dreams, and at which I always shuddered with excitement.

In the darkness of my dream my lover drew away from me and left the bed. My heart was pounding, my anticipation at a feverish pitch. For what I never seemed to know, as if in my dreams each time was my first. Before long my lover was back with me. I sensed him rather than saw. Felt the bed sag, felt the tickle of the cool night air shift on my body. And then something else. An unfamiliar tickle tracing down my spine, from my neck to the small of my back. With a surge of excitement I realized it was the flat leather tip of a riding crop. My lover teased the tip over my naked backside, over the gentle curve of my bottom and down the backs of my thighs. Sometimes even down to my feet, where he tickled me lightly until I strained at my bonds. He always moved back higher, tracing the tip along my spine once more. It was now as the tip reached my bottom that he drew it away and brought it to my lips.

In my dream I knew exactly what was expected of me. I kissed the tip of the crop. It was a gesture which even in the anonymity of my dreams made me blush. The smell of the leather tip of the crop was intoxicating, its touch against my lips exciting, the anticipation of it on my untried bottom unthinkable. In my dream I closed my eyes and willed myself to relax. It always seemed an impossible eternity that he made me wait.

Only at long last came the other-worldly whistle, a terrifying sound which ended with a sudden searing hot pain on my bottom. It was a pain unlike any I had ever felt before, unbearable in intensity.

And yet in my dream, with that first searing stroke, I came and came and came. One stroke or a thousand, I never knew. One blurred into the next. To keep count was impossible. The sting of the crop was unbearable, and yet so deliciously wicked. In my dreams my entire being became centered on my bottom, which throbbed and burned terribly. The cool night air was now strangely torturous as it tickled my raw bottom between strokes of the crop. And yet through it all I was sopping wet.

Just when my lover moved atop me I never knew. I was never aware until I felt him inside me, pushing in deep as he knelt between my splayed legs. It was a delightful taking ,and yet unbearably painful as my lover's hips brushed against my raw bottom. It was a gentle love making and a passionate, desperate taking all at the same time. An impossible combination, yet in my dreams it was so.

In my dream my lover often used me in my tighter hole as well, moving higher and pushing into my untried bottom despite my pleas. It was something which I could never, ever bring myself to allow in real life, but which in my dream seemed only natural for him to want of me. As he filled me so completely he kissed me again between my shoulder blades. He couldn't see, but I was smiling.

And in my dream I was coming again...

Prelude to a Marriage

I met Peter my sophomore year in college. It was a chance meeting purely by fate, if you believe in that sort of thing. I bumped into him – literally – outside my dorm. I was too engrossed in chatting (okay, gossiping) with my best friend Kim and wasn't watching where I was going, and suddenly Wham! I walked right into him from behind. I'm not normally so ditzy. But again, it was fate.

We both tumbled to the ground. Peter's papers went flying. I twisted my ankle badly. As we disentangled I braced myself for his indignation at being so rudely bowled over, but instead when he turned to face me he was smiling. And god, so handsome. Was I okay? he wanted to know. I was blushing furiously and could only nod, even though I was still on the ground and my ankle smarted something awful. I didn't look okay, he told with that same pleasant smile... was I sure? I nodded, not sure at all but too embarrassed to say otherwise. He helped me up and as I leaned on Kim for support he shook his head. And still that smile. No, he decided for me, I wasn't okay. And right there, ignoring my self-conscious and quite transparent assurance that I was fine, really, he picked me up in his arms and carried me inside.

He was older than me by a few years and was working on his master's degree. He was handsome... almost too handsome. The kind of handsome that made me wonder what was wrong with him. He was polite. He was fit. He was smart. He was single. He was perfect.

We had our first date two days later. I was still hobbling, my sprained ankle taped up. Two weeks after that I invited him into my bed for the first time. And two weeks after that, I knew I would spend the rest of my life with him.

He was perfect.

But then, it was fate.

* * *

It was such a simple thing, yet so powerful. Nothing more than a birthday spanking, given to me on my twenty-first by Peter, by then my beloved fiancé, a month after our engagement. He gave it to me in jest, for I'd been pouting all day about turning twenty one. If I was going to pout like a little girl, he told me with a twinkle in his eye, then I ought to be punished like one. And so he'd pulled me across his knee and spanked me, twenty one times. Not hard (at least not nearly as hard as I would have secretly liked), and through my jeans, but still it had surprised me so and awoken in me such an impossible thrill that I'd nearly come with the first swat of his open palm.

I'd struggled of course, in surprise and embarrassment, but not nearly enough that I should actually escape. I didn't want to escape. I wanted it to continue, and harder, but I couldn't bring myself to admit as much to Peter. I just couldn't.

If only he'd known what he'd awoken in me, what he'd stoked. If only he'd realized what his hand on my bottom had done, how I'd fantasized for so many years about heroines whose lovers did the same, only on the bare skin of their bottoms and with more than just their hands... with crops and paddles and whips. If only he'd known how I lay in bed wide awake that night beside him after we'd made love, as he slept peacefully next to me, and how I quietly masturbated to two glorious orgasms. The thoughts which drove me to climax were of Peter's hands... how they'd felt pulling me across his lap and holding me down, and how they'd felt on my bottom even through my pants. I'd lain awake for a long time beside him, smiling to myself in the darkness, enjoying his presence beside me... and the warm glow he'd left so deep inside me. A warmth that had been lingering for years, but which he'd now awoken.

If only he'd known...

* * *

The second simple thing was a book. It was a tattered, ragged eared old book, worn from years of enjoyment, revealed to me three months before our wedding as Peter and I moved into the little starter home we would share as husband and wife. On this unseasonably hot spring day I was alone up in the attic trying to organize into some semblance of order the far-too-many boxes we'd carried up there. As I pushed one box aside, it caught the corner of another and tipped it off its pile. It held, thank god – I was sweating uncomfortably already, and the thought of having to re-box a floor full of scattered contents wasn't appealing. But as I moved to set the box up where it had fallen from I hesitated. One of its cardboard flaps had caught and folded back, and peeking out from within was a tattered old book. I wouldn't have given it another thought except that it seemed such a lovingly read book, and one I didn't recognize. This was one of Peter's boxes. The book lay upside down, its title obscured. Unable to help my curiosity I pulled the box open a bit more and drew the book out.

It was titled "The Story of O".

I moved to put it back and stopped. What, or who, was O, I wondered? And what was her (or his?) story? And what was so captivating about the book that Peter had read it until its cover had almost fallen off? Feeling oddly a bit like I was trespassing somewhere I shouldn't, though there were no secrets between us anymore now that we were becoming husband and wife (right?), I opened the book.

Her lover one day takes O for a walk...

As I flipped page after page I began to flush with excitement. This wasn't just a book... this was erotica. And not just any erotica. This book, the one Peter had read until its cover had almost fallen off, was a tale of such darkly captivating submission as had filled my fantasies for years, only more so. That Peter had such a book surprised me, for I'd thought myself alone with my fantasies. That someone else out there had enjoyed such thoughts so much as to put them down in a book, and one so hypnotically captivating, made me shiver with excitement.

I couldn't stop at one page, couldn't stop at two. Sweating profusely for it was stifling hot in the attic, trembling with nervousness that Peter would catch me at any moment for I could hear him passing by repeatedly in the hallway below, I crouched there in the attic and read page after page after page. I was intoxicated as I read about O and about her lover, and the men and women he let have her. About the whippings and her nights in bondage. About the dark road she went down all for her love. These things were the illicit foundations of my darkest fantasies. And there was more there, too. Far more. I put one book down and sampled the next. And the next. It wasn't just "The Story of O". There was a whole collection of books here in the same vein tucked away in this nondescript box, each as thoroughly timeworn as the last. Each as lovingly read. Each so far surpassing even my darkest fantasies that I was helpless to put them down.

There in the sweaty heat of the attic, Peter's footsteps so agonizingly close below, I unbuttoned my jeans and slipped my hand inside. It was impossible not to. Besides, I'd only touch myself a little, I promised myself. Just enough to whet my appetite. Only a little wasn't enough, and as I read page after page, as I happened breathlessly upon scene after scene which so far exceeded the depths of my own darkest fantasies, I pressed my hand still tighter between my legs and squeezed my thighs together, shuddering in orgasm.

In the weeks leading up to our wedding, I returned again and again to the stuffy attic to sneak quick explorations of Peter's secret collection of books. Each time was the same. I'd find myself alone in the house for a few precious minutes and would hurry up to the attic to read a page or two, and would each time end up reading ten. Each time I couldn't help but unbutton my jeans, or slip the hem of my skirt up, and bury my hand between my legs, squeezing tightly as I fantasized I was O, or any one of the countless other heroines who found themselves so blissfully helpless at the mercy of their lovers. And each time as I shuddered quietly in orgasm one thought more than any kept repeating in my mind, louder and more insistently each time.

Could it possibly be that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't alone in my fantasies?

* * *

Peter's books mesmerized me. They awoke in me an unquenchable desire for more. More stories, more fantasy, more everything. Especially more O. I wanted to be O. I wanted my lover to mark my bottom with the crop like hers did, to enjoy me however he wanted, to use me for his pleasure without regard for my own. That book more than any stoked the fantasies that that I'd harbored for years. I read it over and over, and as I did one thing more than any fascinated me, a symbol which had haunted my fantasies for as long as I could remember and which O and I seemed to share in common: the riding crop.

O hated the crop. I was sure I would too if I actually felt it. But the fantasy of it was intoxicating. Each time I closed my eyes and imagined O being bound helplessly to the stake and whipped all over with the crop, on her backside, her breasts, her belly, her thighs, I became desperately, hopelessly wet. Each time I had to conclude my stolen read with an exquisite, trembling orgasm, visions of the crop filling my consciousness. The crop was the embodiment of everything I'd ever dreamt, everything I'd ever desired. It was the epitome of absolute submission. To submit herself to the crop would surely be the ultimate relinquishment that a woman could offer her lover. To be O, to be bound and helpless under the bite of the crop... that was what I wanted more than anything.

It would surely have remained but an exquisite fantasy for me were it not for one unexpected day in the weeks before our wedding. I'd read and re-read my favorite pages of O that morning, much as I did on many mornings now that Peter was leaving so early to catch the train (he'd recently taken a position at a private equity firm downtown). I was wet. I was aroused. I was running late, for I'd read far too long and forgotten that I had errands to run before my own mid-morning classes. I hadn't enough time to finish what I'd started in the attic, and so I reluctantly tucked O back into her place in Peter's box and smoothed my skirt down and hurried along.

My errands were downtown. I couldn't tell you what they were for the life of me, for I never got to them that day. I turned a corner and there it was so suddenly that I froze in my tracks. Hanging in the display window of a little hole-in-the-wall adult stop, boring into my consciousness as if beckoning me, was a lone, wicked leather riding crop. I shuddered at first glance, and second, and third. I couldn't take my eyes off it. I stood entranced, tingling and so embarrassed for what I felt that for a long moment I couldn't even bring myself to approach any closer. It was straight out of my fantasies, the sort of wicked instrument one of my heroines would present to her lover on her wedding night for him to grace her virgin bottom with.

It was, I wanted to believe, fate.

I couldn't move, couldn't bring myself to go in or to move along. I stood frozen in the middle of the sidewalk. Passerby streamed around me, parting for this woman lost in her own world. For me, there was only the crop. I wanted it – yearned for it desperately – and yet what would Peter think? It wouldn't be easy to call a novelty and laugh off. And yet it was a foregone conclusion. Fait accompli. My heart was set, though it took several long moments for my modesty and resolve to catch up before I could bring myself to actually enter the shop.

My knees were weak, my pulse racing as I took the crop down from the wall. It was stiff, heavy leather, its tip wickedly sharp and its handle an exquisite artistry of hand-laced leather. Just holding it made me tremble. It was absolutely beautiful. I could never, ever bear to actually feel it upon my naked flesh, and yet I had to have it. I just had to.

Blushing madly, tingling all over, I took the crop to the older woman at the checkout counter. She for some reason seemed amused at my choice of purchases.

"Your first time?"

Was it so easy to tell? I nodded.

Her smile widened, as if she knew something I didn't. "This one isn't for beginners, honey. You'd be better off with something a little more gentle for your first time."

"No," I declared, my resolve unwavering even if my hands weren't. "This one."

I felt as if I were in a dream. My errands forgotten, my classes forsaken, I rushed home and masturbated furiously with my new crop lying between my naked breasts. The stiff, wicked leather felt electric against my bare skin. I stroked the crop. I smelled it. I even kissed it, tasting. I closed my eyes and smiled, imagining Peter putting me over our bed and warming my bottom with the crop. He never would, I knew, and anyway I'd never be able to bring myself to show him what I'd bought. It was too embarrassing. Too personal. Too telling of what I really felt. It was, I feared, to honest an admission of who I was.