Friday, August 31, 2018

The Voyeur by Kay Jaybee (@kay_jaybee) #bdsm #erotica

The Voyeur cover

The world of Mark Parker is steeped in sexual fantasy and hidden away in a small notebook...


Wealthy businessman and committed voyeur, Mark Parker, has a list of thirteen fantasies he is intent on turning into reality. Travelling between his London flat, his plush Oxfordshire mansion, and Discreet, his favourite S&M club, Mark is helped to realise his imaginatively dark erotic desires by two loyal members of his staff: his personal assistant, Anya Grant, and his housekeeper, Clara Hooper.

Upon the backs of his willing slaves, Mark has written out his fantasy list in thick red pen. Only Fantasy 12 awaits the tick of completion against their flesh before Mark’s ultimate fantasy – Fantasy 13- can take place.

But have the girls performed well enough to succeed in the final challenge? And what hold does the Bridge's Gentleman's Club, Anya's previous employer, have over Mark? A place Anya was only too delighted to escape from.

In order to find out, Mark’s girls are going to have to face some of the fantasies they thought they’d left behind them all over again; and while they do, Mark will watch...

Buy Links

(Second edition, published by Sinful Press, 2018)

Reviewers loved The Voyeur

...This is, simply put, Kay Jaybee's best work to date. It's imaginative, kinky, sexy and keeps you guessing throughout. So if you're looking for a well-written, BDSM packed novel with lots of straight and lesbian sex, then you should definitely check out The Voyeur.' Blog Critics

"...The Voyeur is the pitch black to E.L. James' shades. A richly dark erotic thriller which keeps you gripped from its sexually charged start and through its twists and turns along the way.... as the girls’ sexual challenges get packed with more eroticism you start to question whether you want the girls to succeed or not ...without knowing the full details and implications....” Amazon

...if you kink kinky then this is for, you otherwise be warned ... this is not Fifty or even Gideon Cross - Mark Parker is in a world of his own...

"An excellent story that had me up most the night to get it finished - I HAD to know what was going to happen.” Goodreads.


Mark took a step closer to his PA. “Tonight,” he said, pulling off Anya’s shirt and bra, exposing her luscious chest to the cool of the room, “you will both face a combination of experiences that together make up Fantasy 12. Won’t it be lovely to be able to tick another task off our list, girls?”

They didn’t answer; experience had taught them that nine times out of ten their employer’s questions were rhetorical.

Mark twisted the women round; removing Clara’s top as he did so, so he could see both his employees’ bare backs. There, in neat script, a permanent pen had been used to write ‘Fantasy 1’, ‘Fantasy 2’ and so on, all the way down–the numbers following the length of their spines, finishing with the words ‘Fantasy 13’. The first eleven rows of black lettering had bright red ticks next to them.

Only two more tasks left to go.”

This time the girls risked a fleeting glance at each other; exchanging a look of mutual blood-hammering exhilaration twinned with an erotic anticipation it would have been hypocritical to deny.

Mark, during his brief periods of leisure, had painstakingly detailed many lust-driven scenarios he wished to both direct and bring to life. He often wrote notes, accompanied by intricate diagrams of erotic, slightly disturbing, but ultimately satisfying fantasies, in a leather-bound journal that only he was allowed to read.

Anya and Clara knew that the final fantasy, when it came, would be more difficult and different to anything they’d ever previous experienced. They feared it.

They also longed for it.

Mark was a clever man, for as each new task unfolded he pushed his faithful staff along with him, darkening their desires and needs. Changing them so they slowly became closer to his own. Making his girls as keen as he was to see how far they could go. To see how much they could physically take as they accompanied him on his journey of extreme sexual sightseeing.

A cold, clammy sheen of perspiration broke out on Anya’s face, arms, and breasts as Mark danced a finger across her skin. “You will both go to your room and change into the clothes I’ve placed upon your beds. You will remain there until I call you.” Mark pointed to the door, and his employees headed to their small, twin-bedded room without a sound.

As Anya considered some of the things she and Clara had been required to do over the last six months, she privately reassured herself that the trepidation shooting down her spine was understandable and acceptable. It was also irrational, for she knew that Fantasy 12 would not only be tolerable, but enjoyable; and that just because the end of the list was in sight, it didn’t mean the night ahead would involve anything worse than Mark had asked of them before. She could handle this. They both could–no problem.

Then Anya saw her outfit.

Her bed supported nothing but a leather dog collar.

Staring at the total lack of clothing, Anya almost conveyed her horror to Clara, but her lover stopped her with an urgent shake of the head. There was no privacy here, and they never knew if the webcams positioned in every room were switched on or not...

About the Author

Kay Jaybee was named Best Erotica Writer of 2015 by the ETO

Kay received an honouree mention at the NLA Awards 2015 for excellence in BDSM writing.

Kay Jaybee has over 180 erotica publications including, The Voyeur, 2nd edition (Sinful Press, 2018), Knowing Her Place-Book 3 : The Perfect Submissive Trilogy (KJBooks, 2018), The Retreat- Book2: The Perfect Submissive Trilogy (KJBooks, 2018), Making Him Wait, 2nd edition (Sinful Press, 2018), The Fifth Floor- Book1;The Perfect Submissive Trilogy (KJBooks, 2017), Wednesday on Thursday, (KDP, 2017), The Collector (KDP, 2016), A Sticky Situation (Xcite, 2013), Digging Deep, (Xcite 2013), Take Control, (1001 NightsPress, 2014), and Not Her Type (1001 NightsPress), 2013.

Details of all her short stories and other publications can be found at

You can follow Kay on -

Kay also writes contemporary romance and children’s picture books as Jenny Kane and historical fiction as Jennifer Ash

Release blitz organised by Writer Marketing Services.

Thursday, August 30, 2018

Science Fiction Double Feature - #scifi #FirstLove #giveaway

Saturn landscape

Science fiction was one of my first loves. If you'd peeked into my room pretty much any afternoon when I was in school, you would have found me sprawled across the bed with my nose in a book, and it's quite likely it would have been sci fi. I couldn't have been more than seven or eight when I began exploring Eleanor Cameron's Mushroom Planet. Then I moved on to Heinlein's and Bradbury's visions of Mars (very different places!), and the world of Asimov's Foundation trilogy. I was in high school when I devoured Stranger in a Strange Land, fell head over heals for Valentine Michael Smith, and developed my enduring fascination with polyamory.

My husband introduced me to Philip K. Dick, Stanislaw Lem and Fritz Leiber. Then we became friends with a woman who taught English at a local university. She organized a scifi reading group. What a glorious year and a half that was! Every month we'd read a new book and discuss it, over delicious potluck dinners (with a strong emphasis on the desserts). I sampled a raft of new authors: Olivia Butler, Greg Bear, Sheri S. Tepper, Pat Cadigan, Harry Harrison, James Tiptree, David Brin... I was like a kid in a candy store!

I discovered that I much preferred “soft” science fiction – stories that start with some premise about society or history and then explore the consequences. For example, The Man in the High Castle, which is the first Dick book I read, turns on the notion that the United States and its allies lost World War II. The author then proceeds to build a world in which the Japanese and the Germans have divided up the American continent, and San Francisco is mostly Asian. (Gee, sounds like the present!) Another favorite is A Canticle for Lebowitz, by Walter M. Miller, Jr. In a post-apocalyptic future, devout communities of monks act as custodians for the mysterious knowledge and artifacts of vanished civilization. One of the most sacred of all texts is written in the hand of Saint Isaac Lebowitz and begins “gallon of milk/loaf of bread/...” Then there's Kate Wilhelm's The Year of the Cloud. I don't remember where I picked this novel up – it's obscure, far less well known than her masterpiece Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang – but I remember now, decades later, how it impressed me. The earth passes through a cloud of stellar dust. The dust has the effect of “thickening” water, turning it from liquid to a kind of sludge. Having posited this single fact, Wilhelm then proceeds to show how this turns society upside down, as humans (over ninety percent H2O) die and usable water becomes increasingly scarce. I found the book chilling but totally plausible, once you had accepted the triggering event.

So when I began publishing, why didn't I write science fiction instead of erotica? Partly because I didn't dare! I doubted my ability to create a compelling yet believable alternative world. And I'd read so much science fiction by then, I felt as though all my ideas would be derivative.

Still, I've been tempted – and once or twice, I've given in. Now, after more than a dozen years as an author, I've published just two science fiction erotic romances: a M/F/M ménage novella called Bodiesof Light and my M/M novel Quarantine. As you might guess, both fall into the “soft sci fi” category, even though Bodies of Light is set on a starship hurtling toward a far galaxy.

Bodies of Light is about the non-corporeal nature of desire. Since my primary genre is erotica/erotic romance, it's natural that the sci fi themes that interest me relate to sexuality.

Physicist Dr. Christine Monroe has devoted her lonely life to research on hyper-space travel. Guilt about her continued failure leads her to sign on to the Archimedes, a sub-light-speed mission aimed at establishing a colony in the Sirius B system. When she wakes from suspended animation, she discovers that the ship is wildly off course and the rest of the crew are dead due to equipment failure. At first she thinks the two handsome strangers who show up on the ship are figments of her imagination - erotic hallucinations created by isolation and stress. However, Alyn and Zed are solid, real, and ready to sacrifice their lives for the strong woman they've found stranded in deep space. As her ship begins to disintegrate, Christine must choose between the planet she was sent to save and the two alien beings she's come to cherish.

Quarantine focuses on politics and prejudice. It takes place in a dystopian near future, when all known homosexuals (identified by a genetic marker) have been imprisoned in remote quarantine camps, ostensibly to protect the general population from the plague the gays carry. After seven years of confinement, inmate Dylan Moore will do anything for freedom, including seducing Rafe Cowell, an ex-gang member sentenced to a bleak stint as a camp guard. 


Rafe is H-negative. He figures the lust he feels watching prisoner 3218 masturbate on the surveillance cameras must be due to his loneliness and isolation. When he finally meets the young queer, however, he finds he can't resist the other man's charm. By the time Dylan asks for his help in escaping, Rafe cares too much for Dylan to refuse.

The novel follows the two men as they become fugitives, fighting murderous androids, homophobic ideologues and their own mutual distrust. Hiding in the Plague-ravaged city of Sanfran, Dylan and Rafe learn there's far more than their own safety at stake – that the lives of millions more people depend on their success in resisting the shadowy Guardians who control and manipulate what's left of American society.

I'm afraid that neither book will win a Hugo (although Bodies of Light received a Best Book award from Whipped Cream reviews). Nevertheless, I'm incredibly proud that I've finally added my own visions to the science fiction canon.

I’ve accepted that no scifi I write is going to be Philip K. Dick (though he might well have felt at home in Rafe's and Dylan's world) – but it's my attempt to honor my life long love. 

I'm giving away a copy of Bodies of Light to one person who comments on this blog post. Tell me about your favorite sci-fi title - or just say hi! Don't forget to include your email address.

Wednesday, August 29, 2018

Talking to My Selves: What My Pen Name Taught Me - #bdsm #shibari Kink #giveaway

By Holly Ryan (Guest Blogger)

About a year or so ago, I decided I wanted to be someone else. Day to day life was smothering me, I’d fallen into a funk with the books I normally write, and I needed something fresh and different. So I started writing really steamy books under a pen name. I named her Holly Ryan after the street I grew up on (Holly) and the name my parents would’ve given me if I’d turned out to be a boy (Ryan). I even gave her a whole backstory because I can’t help creating stories for everyone, even people I see at the grocery store.

Holly lives in the middle of Kansas City, for now, where she bases a lot of her sexy stories. She lives near the top of an apartment high-rise with her goldfish, Muddy. She’s single and prefers it that way, and all she does is write on her laptop, drink red wine, and have sexual adventures with a long line of worshiping men.

We have some things in common, Holly and I, but she’s much better at suspending belief than I am. For example, if vampires are dead and therefore don’t have blood flow, how do they get erections?

Shh,” Holly tells me from her high-rise in Kansas City. “It just works. No one needs to know why.”

And dragon shifters… How is it that when they shift into men again, they’re fully clothed or conveniently buck naked as the situation warrants? Where do they keep their clothes as a dragon?

Magic,” Holly says. “You’re clearly over-thinking this.”

Okay, but is it realistic for a man in his thirties who just orgasmed to be ready to go again so soon? What about…recovery?

It’s realistic enough.” Holly studies me over the rim of her wineglass as she takes an extra-long drink. I often have that effect on people."

Oh, you just reminded me…” The city lights outside her window twinkle over her glass as she juggles it to her other hand. She opens her Story Ideas document on her laptop and adds tentacle robot sex book to her list. “That needs to happen.”

I suppose it does, but I have no idea how I reminded her of a tentacle robot sex book.

If Holly has taught me one thing, it’s to lighten up, have fun, and to explore details about myself I’d never realized before. I would absolutely read (and write) a tentacle robot sex book, no question. Since “meeting” Holly, I feel more liberated and can look at life through a different pair of eyes, see new details I may not have otherwise noticed, and write all the vampire/dragon shifter/tentacle robot sex books I want. It’s refreshing. 


Blurb for Bound to the Boss:

When Addison Blevins lands a job at, she never expected to be working for the man she used to be in love with.

But even this company has a hands-off policy. What will it take to bring these two together?

Bound to the Boss is a kinky 11,000 word short story. All are standalones and can be read in any order.


He dragged the tip of the rope across my right nipple, tightening it into an aching bud, then coiled the rope behind my back. When he’d wrapped it around me once, he drew my hard nipple into his mouth and sucked and licked until I threw my head back and moaned. While he lavished attention on it, his hands worked the rope around me a second time, this band underneath my breasts. He pulled away, his lips swollen and wet, his eyes hungry, and continued to bind me. Slow and methodical, he paused several times to kiss me and to stroke my body with both his hands and the rope. Soon, intricate designs decorated my body, held in place with knots as well as my curves. He handled the rope like a real artist.

It’s like cross-stitching,” I said.

He stopped and looked at me, his lips twitching. “It’s not like cross-stitching. Arms behind your back.”

I complied, my breasts sticking out even farther between the ropes in this position. The ropes fit snugly, not enough to stop my circulation or breathing but tight enough so I couldn’t move easily.

Once he’d bound my wrists, he said, “Raise up higher on your knees.”

The ropes creaked as I tried, and I didn’t get very far. He snaked the end of the last length of rope up my thighs, slowly, his other arm wrapped around my waist to help support my weight. He stroked the rope along my pussy lips, and I cried out. The bumpy but smooth feel of the rope rubbed me just right. My hips bucked and I moaned for more. His hand parted my thighs a little more, enough to maneuver the end of the rope up inside me. I tried to push down my hips, but he held my waist tight so he could control the movement. I whimpered. I’d never been so desperate to fuck the end of a rope in my life.

Buy links:

About the Author

Holly Ryan is a pen name for a USA Today bestselling author who one day said, “Screw it. I’m gonna write books with some serious sizzle.” She’s fueled by wine, which is where the idea probably came from.

You can sign up for her newsletter for epic sneak peaks and contests here:

Or you can check out her website here:

Thanks for reading! Leave me a comment with your email to let me know your opinion of Holly and her stories. I’ll give away a $5 bookstore gift certificate to one of you!

Tuesday, August 28, 2018

Review Tuesday: Alien Contact for Runaway Moms by Edward Hoornaert - #scifi #romance #ReviewTuesday

Runaway Moms cover

Alien Contact for Runaway Moms by Edward Hoornaert
Amazon Digital Services, 2018

Audra has known some tough times, growing up in foster homes and dealing with the insecurity of never having a real family. Now she’s facing the biggest challenge of her life, trying save herself and her infant daughter Roxie from Roxie’s controlling and psychologically abusive father, Tom Verhailey. But where can she go to escape the long reach of her wealthy, well-connected lawyer boyfriend? With the assistance of her adoptive mom, Audra flees to Kwadra, the alien island that had appeared off the west coast of the US a few years previously. According to rumor, the island is riddled with tunnels and underground cities the Kwadrans built to protect themselves from the devastated environment on their alternative Earth. It seems the perfect place to hide.

A rough-looking, taciturn Kwadran man, Talopas Pelletier, finds Audra puzzling over her map and offers to lead her to a ventilation shaft she can use to enter. She is understandably suspicious of Tal’s intentions, but he proves to be a trustworthy, resourceful ally in her escape efforts. He also suffers from his own sorrows. As she and the alien get to know one another, her gratitude transforms itself to attraction and love.

Meanwhile, Matt Verhailey, Tom’s father and Audra’s adoptive uncle, sets out on a quest to find his missing niece. Out of necessity, he enlists the assistance of the formidable Duchess Opsie Beaverclaw, former chief of the Kwadran gendarmerie. Opsie agrees to help Matt at least partially because she likes his looks. It’s been a while since she’s had a lover. Her power, her bossiness and her horribly scarred face combine to ensure that not many men, human or Kwadran, would consider bedding her.

Accompanied by several Kwadran youths whom Opsie is considering for promotion, they enter the buried city of Nuxalt to search for Audra. The runaway mom isn’t the only one hiding out underground, though. Kwadran rebels haunt the meltrock passages and dwellings, desperate men who hate Opsie and her clan and will do anything to destroy them.

Alien Contact for Runaway Moms is the third book I’ve read in Ed Hoornaert’s series; I thought it was the best so far. Although Audra’s and Tal’s developing relationship is enjoyable to watch, I personally fell in love with Opsie. She’s a brilliant character, snarky and smart on the surface, but deeply wounded underneath. Mr. Hoornaert does an excellent job balancing the two subplots and couples, bringing them together in a rousing climax. I don’t want to reveal too many details, but the final battle between the good guys and the bad is both heart-stopping and hilarious.

Alien Contact for Runaway Moms includes a lot more fun Kwadran technology than the previous books. Tiny drones with holographic lenses, food synthesizing cafeterias, robots large and small, exotic weapons—this book will delight lovers of classic science fiction. What I liked most, though, were the insights into Kwadran culture and language. Tal and Audra have very different assumptions and expectations—not all that surprising considering they come from two different universes.

I have only two minor criticisms of the book. First, it seemed that baby Roxie grew up incredibly quickly. The book is a bit vague about how long Audra was supposed to have been in Kwadra, but it couldn’t have been more than a few weeks at most. During that time Roxie progressed from rolling over, to crawling, to saying her first words. Quite a prodigy! (Or perhaps this was due to alien influences?)

Second, Audra’s boyfriend Tom was simply too icky to be believable. I couldn’t imagine how Audra had ended up with such a wimpy bozo in the first place. I would have expected Tom to be less comical and pathetic and more threatening.

Fortunately, he makes only a brief appearance in the tale.

Mr. Hoornaert has a lively, free-flowing style that carries the reader along. I breezed through the novel in a few hours, enjoying every minute. Alien Contact for Runaway Moms offers action, pathos, romance, sex (though not explicitly described) and quite a bit of humor. In short, I loved it.

[I received an Advanced Reader Copy of this book from the author.]

Monday, August 27, 2018

Against the Nazi war machine -- The Fortress #WWII #historical #resistance

The Fortress cover

By Madeleine Romeyer Dherbey (Guest Blogger)
Thanks for hosting my tour, Lisabet, and for your question: Why did I choose WWII as the period for the book?

I was born in a small village nestled under the Vercors cliffs, an area that saw a lot of action during WWII. It was where a couple of dreamers envisioned a plan to build an army of resistants that would support Anvil, the Allied landing on the French Mediterranean coast.

I grew up there long after the liberation, on the wrong side of glory. Three of my uncles were condemned to death for collaborating with the Vichy government and betraying C2, a Resistance camp located at Malleval, to the Nazis. Their sentences were later commuted to forced labor, but the national disgrace verdict stood, and they had to leave the area to avoid being murdered. Despite the death threats, my father— who had fought with honor during the war—decided to stay. The legacy, hard to overcome in a community mauled by four years of occupation and violence, is my first personal connection to this story.

Then, there is the Vercors itself. Breathtakingly beautiful, dangerous, a natural playground for all extreme sport lovers. Rock climbing, canyoning, spelunking, skiing, it’s all there. But for me, it’s home. It’s where my ancestors have lived and are buried, under those same cliffs.

It is a battle well-known to Historians and military strategists that got surprisingly little artistic treatment. The Fortress is a dream of freedom, a heroic battle, a military disaster, but also redemptive last stand. Many books have been written on the subject, but no fiction, and in fact, I was frustrated by the dryness of the accounts which I felt did not reflect the human dimension of that battle.

There are also small things, like a Sten machine gun I found in the mud of a summer creek, with this inscription, Pour ma Suzon Cherie, June 12, 1944; or the story of a fifteen-year old boy, a resistant fighter whose name is forgotten, who was tortured and murdered by the Nazis in the summer of 1944.

I wanted to do justice to the conflicting truths of men, women, families, rivals, religions, collaborators, communists, nationalists and simple French patriots during the Nazi occupation of my beloved Alp mountains. The plot is simply a way to let them speak for themselves.

But there in the middle of my noble historical mission, a love story was born, and once it took roots, it drove the narrative. Marc has pledged his life to defend the Vercors, and he is a man of his word. It is with genuine distress that he discovers his growing attraction to Alix, and he fights it. The tension that builds between them, driven by irrepressible feelings and conflict, is shaped by the violence that unfolds around them, rather than superficial sexual drama. That love story made the writing almost hypnotic for me. 

Six weeks before D-Day, a thousand kilometers from the beaches of Normandy.

There are no generals in the French Vercors, just a handful of men and women against the Nazi war machine. They come from Bretagne, Paris, and Slovenia, and the villages up on the cliff. They are the Fortress.


The war has not made much of difference in Alix’s life. Her father has seen to it that she grows up unaware, unworried, but safe in her tiny village under the cliffs of the Vercors. All around her he has built a fortress whose walls are impregnable—until the 27th of April, 1944. That day he makes a stupid mistake up on the cliff, and the walls of the Fortress start crashing down. Reality breaks into Alix’s life with unrelenting violence, unforeseen possibilities. From now on, every decision she makes will mean life or death.


Honey, if anybody’s looking for it up here, it means you’re already dead. So it won’t matter to you. Listen now. People will call you on the other phone, the one downstairs, and give you coded messages. As a rule it will be about movements in our direction, Germans, Militia, or even new recruits for our camps. Remember, the security of Mortval depends on you. Here is a list of codes. You must memorize all of them and get rid of the list.”

She started to read. “The strawberries are in their juice. Your walnuts were wormy. You can’t put rabbit in the cassoulet.” She looked up. “Are they all about food?”

No. Read the next one.”

Yvette préfère les grosses carrottes. Well?”

Well, it’s not about food.”

Yvette préfère… Oh. I understand now. Did you come up with that one?”

I thought it would be memorable.”

It’s lovely. I bet the British are impressed.”

About the Author

Madeleine Romeyer Dherbey was born in the French Alps, moved to the United States twenty-five years later, and currently lives in the mountains of Virginia with her husband, two daughters, and Mikko.



Madeleine Romeyer Dherbey will be awarding a $25 Amazon or Barnes & Noble GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter

Enter at each stop to increase your chances of winning!


a Rafflecopter giveaway

Sunday, August 26, 2018

Sizzling Sunday: Rough Weather - #paranormal #BDSM #giveaway #SizzlngSunday

Sizzlng Sunday banner

It’s Sunday again – time for another red-hot excerpt, and another giveaway!

My excerpt today comes from my paranormal erotic romance Rough Weather. Leave me a comment, and I’ll enter you into a drawing to win a copy of your choice of this title, or my shape shifter paranormal erotic romance The Eyes of Bast. Please don’t forget to include your email address.

Here’s the blurb:

Destiny hides in the tempest’s heart

Ondine has always felt at home in the sea. Orphaned at birth and raised by her grandmother on the island of Martha’s Vineyard, she has never really questioned her extraordinary affinity for the watery world. She concentrates on her work as a marine biologist, spends her weekends relaxing among the waves and worries about human threats to her beloved ocean environment. Fears of a deadly pregnancy like her mother’s make her cautious about sex.

When she encounters an attractive but arrogant engineer on her private beach, surveying the site for a prospective off-shore wind farm, anger is her first reaction. A casual touch, however, transforms that emotion to incomprehensible, irresistible, terrifying lust.

Ebony-skinned Marut has his own talents—aside from his uncanny ability to swamp Ondine with desire. He can control the winds and summon storms. He informs Ondine that they share a supernatural heritage and claims she is his destined mate. She responds with scepticism and tries to resist the charismatic Haitian, but ultimately her scientist’s training won’t permit her to deny the evidence of her senses—and her heart. As a brutal northeaster batters the island and Marut’s life hangs in the balance, Ondine learns that true power lies in surrender to her elemental nature.

And the excerpt:

I want to bind you.” Marut brandished a pale coil of rope Ondine had never seen before. He had stripped her of her clothes, settled her on her back on top of the quilt and told her to remain still. Simultaneously pliant and eager, she awaited his next move.

Standing naked at the foot of the bed, he reminded her of some Nubian Hercules. Candlelight painted flickering patterns on the sculpted ebony of his chest and danced along the length of his massively erect cock. The luscious sight temporarily distracted Ondine from his words. Saliva flooded her mouth as she remembered his hot seed spilling through her fingers. How she wanted to taste him!

Do I have your permission, pitit?” He trailed one end of the cord between her breasts and down her belly, making her shiver with delight. She struggled to remain still as he had instructed. “It will strengthen the connection between us, if you trust me enough to render you helpless.”

How could the bond be any stronger? Already her awareness was attuned to his, registering both his excitement and hisdoubts. One part of her was more than willing to accede to his request. Another cringed, near-panicked at the notion of so completely relinquishing control of her body.

He dangled the rope end between her spread thighs and drew it upward to lightly brush her pubic curls. Electric pleasure arced down to her core. Her pussy clamped down on empty space. “Do it,” she gasped, as he flipped the rope back and forth across her mound, grazing her clit. The panic fled, drowned in sensation. “Oh, please, Marut!”

He chuckled, but in delight, not mockery, then seized her wrists with strong fingers and drew them over her head. Lust surged whenever, wherever he touched her. Faint echoes of fear returned with the first loop of rope around her crossed hands, but the purse of his firm lips upon her nipple banished her last reservations.

A gentle tug on her shoulders told her he’d fastened the rope to the brass curlicues of the headboard.

Too tight?” he asked, sweeping the tangles off her brow and smoothing them across the pillow.

Incoherent with lust, she could do no more than shake her head.

Try to get free.”

She discovered that, aside from a bit of side-to-side wriggling, her upper body was quite thoroughly immobilised.

Lovely. Now your legs.”

When he lashed her ankles to the corners of the footboard, spreading her thighs wide to display her drenched and swollen sex, she thought she’d pass out from the arousal. Once more, she felt the tangible pressure of his gaze as he drank in the sight of her, bound and helpless. The ripe smell of the ocean drifted up from her brazenly exposed folds. She’d die if he didn’t touch her again, soon.

You’re so incredibly beautiful,” he murmured. “Beyond my wildest dreams.”

Lashed to the bed, she couldn’t see him any longer, though she felt the shift as he mounted the far end of mattress. A rush of warm breath invaded her sensitised pussy. She jerked against her bonds.

Oh, God. Please, Marut!” A breeze tickled the inside of her right thigh, then fluttered down to her bare flesh to her toes. “Oh!” She squirmed as the stream of air traced the same path down her left leg. “What are you doing? Ah…!”

He was visible now, a dark form kneeling between her pale thighs as he bent to blow into her navel, then swept the air stream across her rigid nipples. She arched, straining for actual skin-to-skin contact. Marut just grinned and blew into her armpit.

Don’t tease me. I can’t stand it!” The tantalizing gusts trailed down across her belly, back towards her sex. Her clit pulsed hard and hungry at the apex of her soaked folds, the centre of her need. He loosed a stream of hot air aimed directly at the aching bud and she screamed at the unbearable intensity of the sensation.

Ondine…?” Alarmed by her outburst, he backed away. As soon as he did, she wanted him back.
Marut, I can’t bear any more…”

Do you think you’re ready?” There was that hint of laughter again in his rich, deep voice.

She wanted to kill him for making her wait. No, that wasn’t right. All she wanted was to fuck him. That was her single all-consuming desire.

Yes! Oh, yes! I’m ready! Please, I’m begging you…”

Hovering over her, supporting his weight on his powerful arms, he smiled into her eyes. “You don’t have to beg, cherie. I’m yours.”

He captured her mouth in a fierce kiss flavoured with smoke and spice. As his tongue slid between her lips, his cock split her below, stretching her further, filling her completely. She clenched around him as a cyclone of delight raged through her. She wanted to wrap her legs around his waist, to pull him deeper, but the ropes prevented all but the most limited movement. As he withdrew, she whimpered at the loss, then rejoiced as he plunged back inside.

He fell into a steady rhythm, powerful strokes that seemed to pierce her more deeply with each thrust. She quickly relinquished any striving for release, but bound as she was, it was futile. She was in his hands, both literally and figuratively. As she relaxed and opened to him, the sensations grew stronger and more complex—heavy as thunderheads, bright as lightning, sharp as ice, refreshing as rain.

You’re so very wet, lady,” Marut murmured, burrowing into her with his cock. “Flooding me. Washing me away…” His thrusts grew harder, faster, less regular. Lowering his fuzzy head to her breast, he suckled her, then worried her nipple with his teeth. His pelvis slammed against hers, the rough hair at his groin abrading her delicate skin.

Everything became pleasure, his sharp teeth, his fingernails digging into her shoulders, his relentless cock spearing her again and again. Nothing existed but their conjoined bodies. The ropes sawed at her wrists and ankles as she writhed upon the antique quilt, soaked now with her fluids, and struggled to take him deeper. Even the bite of his bonds felt exquisite and right. Her immobility inflamed his desire. She understood this, as clearly as if she’d read his mind.

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