The Teflon Dom (#bdsm #eroticromance #excerpt)

Although I write in many genres, BDSM erotica and erotic romance may be my favorites. Indeed, I first began writing erotica, nearly twenty years ago, in order to explore my own craving for erotic surrender. In my kinky stories, I try to communicate the emotional intensity and sense of communion that have characterized my personal experience with dominance and submission.

Given the above confession, you won’t be surprised to hear that I also read a lot of BDSM fiction. Some stories push my buttons—others don’t. I like tales with submissives who are brave enough to admit what they want, and dominants who are nurturing and trustworthy as well as strict. I also enjoy stories about Doms who have weaknesses or blind spots, or who are occasionally afflicted by self-doubt.

All too often, BDSM fiction features “Teflon Doms”. These Masters are flawless and hard as diamonds. They’re experts in wielding every sort of instrument and toy, to maximum effect. They never miss a stroke. They can inflict a beating or a spanking without tiring, no matter how long it takes. They can read every nuance of the sub’s reactions. They know exactly what the sub is thinking, what she wants, what her limits are. When you’re submitting to a Teflon Dom, safe words are irrelevant.

Teflon Doms tend to be tall and muscular, confident to the point of being arrogant. They’re often taciturn and distant as well, though in BDSM romance, that’s usually a facade which the heroine will eventually penetrate.

I’ve come to seriously dislike Teflon Doms (though given their frequent appearance in fiction, I surmise that many readers must feel differently). I know from experience that real world kink involves awkwardness, mistakes and crossed signals. Most importantly, real world dominants are not perfectly functioning machines. The Dom is as human as the sub. He has his own needs, which may or may not be fulfilled depending on the submissive’s behavior and courage, and his own worries. Are the ropes too tight? Is he flogging her too hard? Can he trust her to use her safeword if the scene gets too intense?

Theo Moore, the hero of my most recent novel The Gazillionaire and the Virgin, epitomizes the sort of Dom who turns me on. He’s relatively inexperienced. Most of what he knows about kink, at least at the start of the book, derives from Internet research and pornography. And he’s ashamed of his lurid, sadistic fantasies, until Rachel, the submissive heroine, encourages him to act on his desires. When he does let his inner demons out to play, he discovers the joy and the magic of power exchange. Dominance comes naturally to Theo, but he never becomes so confident that he loses his emotional connection to Rachel.

I love Theo. I think readers will, too. He’s such a welcome relief from the robotic hunks that characterize so much BDSM erotic romance.

Here’s a snippet, to show you what I mean.

I loose my cock from my jeans and pump my erection a few times, just for effect. I think I’m bigger and harder than ever before. Her worried gaze flicks down to my cock. “Do you agree, Rachel? Can I do what I want to you?”

She swallows. She squirms. This is more difficult for her than I would have guessed. It was, after all, her idea.

“Well? Speak up, Dr. Zelinsky.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

She squares her shoulders and meets my eyes bravely. “Yes, I consent. You can do what you want, Theo.”

“Good girl.” I bend to reward her with a kiss. Her mouth is sweet and hungry. “If I’m hurting you too much and you want me to stop, say ‘Apple’. Understand?”

“Yes, yes, of course. ‘Apple’. Now would you please get on with it?”

I chuckle. “Patience, Rachel. I’m in charge here. It’s not your place to make demands.” She lets out a squawk as I rather brutally twist her nipple. “Is it?”

“Ow—no—no, sir.”

Hmm. Where did that come from?

“And from now on, you’ll be quiet, unless I ask you a direct question. Nod if you agree.”

She does. Who would have believed Rachel Zelinsky could be so obedient?

I’m as eager as she is, maybe more so, but something tells me that pacing is important. So I take my time, uncoiling the long hank of rope to lay it out on the couch, measuring with care and cutting four equal pieces.

“Two for your arms, two for your legs,” I tell her.

I gaze at the ropes stretched out and waiting. Pre-cum leaks from my rigid dick, soaking my pants. Suddenly impatient, I strip, tossing my clothes into a corner. “You ready, slut?” I growl.

Rachel bows her head in silent assent.

Unfortunately, I’m not ready. I’d imagined her bound and immobile on my bed, where I could stretch her out spread-eagled and fuck her at my leisure, but now I realize that’s impossible. The bed has no hooks or bars for affixing the ropes—just a polished wood headboard and no footboard at all.

I could try to hog tie her, like in the magazines, but that wouldn’t give me full access to her body. Or maybe I should drape her over the ottoman, then bind her wrists and ankles together. That position would be good for wailing on her ass. I want to see her face, though, when I make her come.

Damn. I’m such an amateur.