Thursday, April 30, 2020

Happy Walpurgis, Happy Release Day! #NewRelease #Giveaway #BDSM #Walpurgis

Walpurgis - Faust

It’s probably not on your personal calendar, but tonight is Walpurgisnacht. In Germany and Scandinavia the night of April 30th is celebrated as the witches’ sabbath. On this night, it is said, witches and other unholy creatures gather on the mountaintops to kindle bonfires, cast spells and dance with the Devil until dawn. Various northern cultures mark the date with drunken revelry, promiscuous sex, lewd practical jokes, and huge fires to drive the witches away.

The Spring festival clearly predates Christianity, but has been grafted onto Saint Valpurga’s Day on May 1st. Walpurgisnacht (also called “Hexennacht” in Germany) has influenced many writers, artists and musicians. References appear in work by Goethe, Bram Stoker, Thomas Mann and Edward Albee. Mussorgsky’s “Night on Bald Mountain” is a symphonic impression of Hex Night (brought to life with still-stunning animation in the 1941 Disney classic Fantasia), while William Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan gave a slightly comic twist to the macabre legend in their operetta “Ruddigore”.

As it happens, today is also release day for my latest book, the next volume in my D&S Duos series. Book 6 includes two searing tales of erotic surrender.

In “Muse”, an author of soft-kink erotic romance discovers the reality of serving a true Master.

Détente” is a BDSM-flavored ménage tale, about a woman torn between her husband and her Master.

Both are explicit and emotionally intense.

You can find an exclusive excerpt here:

D&S Duos Book 6 is available now! Why not pick up a copy and experience the thrill of erotic surrender?

Meanwhile to celebrate the release, I’m giving away copies of the first and second D&S Duos books, to two randomly chosen people who comment. Don’t forget to leave your email.

D&S Duos Book 1 combines two of my hottest BDSM short stories into one sizzling package. In "Body Electric", a professor of engineering charms his female colleague into experiments on the erotic effects of electricity. In "Limits", an established Master/slave couple push their relationship to next level of trust. Also includes a searing excerpt from my BDSM erotic thriller Bangkok Noir.

D&S Duos Book 2 continues my incendiary series with two more intense BDSM short stories. In "Never Too Late", a middle-aged wife and mother encounters the Master of whom she's secretly dreamed all her life. In "Just a Spanking", a dominant provides an answer to the question he's asked his long-time submissive: could you come from just a spanking? Also includes a spicy F/F BDSM excerpt from my erotic thriller Exposure.

Wednesday, April 29, 2020

Not meant for children... #officeromance #freeonKU #dominant #naughtyfairytale


All she wanted was to eat lunch alone on her favourite bench in the park, but Evan Spider had other plans.

Miss Maryann Muffet is walking through life in a daze, numb from the burdens of her husband and father’s deaths, and the heavy workload she inherited with the family business.

Evan Spider is a new employee, determined to break her out of her daily funk, by waking her sexuality with his dashing good looks and persistent nature.

She might own the company, but he will own her.

Universal Ebook Link:

Available for pre-order now!

Naughty Excerpt

The wine is helping to rid my mind of the handsome stranger that was plaguing my thoughts. I pour another glass and then slip into a clean chemise.

The sheets feel cool and silky against my skin. It’s the best feeling in the world, aside from orgasms, of course. I could have both!

I reach into my nightstand and feel around for the dildo and vibrator I have stashed near the back of the drawer.

The second my eyes close, I see him.

He’s sitting in a chair in front of me; sleeves rolled up over his thick forearms, dress shirt half unbuttoned, tie hanging loosely around his neck, and his hands clasped behind his head.

I know he’s there to watch me because watching turns him on. He doesn’t want to touch me, not yet. He sits unmoving, lips parted slightly, tongue slowly tasting his lower lip.

My eyes sink down his body as I touch the vibrator to my swelling clit. His exposed chest rises and falls slowly, pressing his tiny nipples against the edges of the thin, pale green fabric. His abs, although I can’t see them through his shirt, I imagine them to be strong and perfectly formed.

I slip the dildo inside of me, realizing just how slick my opening is.

He is doing this to me, making me wet for him.

I can see him hovering above me, his cock pushing deeper and deeper into me until I am completely filled with his massive girth. My hand moves quickly, acting on his behalf, and fucking me with an intensity that would be suiting of his personality.

The vibrator is making good work of my stiff clit, sending pleasure radiating throughout me. I can’t wait to let myself go, to give in to the orgasm that wants to claim my sanity.

He fucks me fast, slamming the tip of his cock against my cervix with a hard thud.

I imagine him saying, “Let go, Maryann. Cum for me.”

Yes, Evan! Fuck me! Fuck me hard! I’m coming!”

I’m nearly yelling, hoping he’ll hear me and burst through my bedroom door to finish the job himself. I want to smell him, to feel the heat from his skin. I want his breath on my face as he cries out when his orgasm shreds through him.

I’m swept away when the distant, lightheaded sensation takes hold of my mind, carrying it away. My body jerks, once, twice. My lungs deflate, ridding my mind of every ounce of stress that was burdening it.

I lie there for a moment, panting heavily, before removing the dildo from my spasming pussy.

I hadn’t orgasmed in months. I’d forgotten how fantastic it feels, so I make a mental note to do this more often.

Tuesday, April 28, 2020

Review Tuesday: Unsheltered by Barbara Kingsolver - #ReviewTuesday #Politics #Family

Unsheltered cover

Unsheltered by Barbara Kingsolver
Harper Collins, 2018

This is not supposed to happen in America. After working hard for decades, paying your taxes, bringing up your kids to be good citizens, you’re not supposed to find yourself destitute and close to homeless. Yet that’s the situation in which journalist Willa Knox and her professor husband Iano find themselves, when her magazine folds, the university where he’d finally got tenure closes, and they’re forced to move to a century-old house that’s literally crumbling around them. With no income and little savings, they’re only a few weeks away from living on the street.

The house, a legacy from Willa’s aunt, is part of the former Utopian community of Vineland, founded by a wealthy businessman who was either a visionary philanthropist or an egotistical despot, depending on who you believe. Its leaking roof, moldy walls and rotting floors also provide the shelter of last resort for Iano’s bigoted curmudgeon of a father, slowly expiring from multiple chronic diseases, and their radical socialist daughter Tig (Antigone). As if that were not enough, Willa also finds herself forced to take in a newborn baby boy when her son Zeke’s upper class girlfriend kills herself. Living hand to mouth, camping out on the ground floor of the old house as one room after another becomes unsafe, Willa wonders how the family is going to find their next meal, let alone deal with grandfather Nico’s health issues.

Meanwhile, more than a century earlier, another family struggles to make a life in Vineland. Thatcher Greenwood views himself as fortunate. Though he grew up in poverty and hardship, somehow he managed to snag the hand of lovely, elegant Rose. A self-educated scientist, he has been hired to teach in the Vineland school. He hopes he can support not only his beautiful and somewhat demanding wife, but also her mother and her teenage sister Polly, and make enough to repair their deteriorating dwelling. However, his ardent belief in the controversial evolutionary theory of Charles Darwin sets him on a collision course with the conservative powers in Vineland – a course that could easily lead to his dismissal. His growing friendship with his next door neighbor, amateur naturalist Mary Treat, is the only bright spot in his increasingly difficult existence.

As you might imagine from this brief description, Unsheltered is an ambitious novel with a broad scope. It touches upon many important themes: family ties and conflicts, man’s role in nature, social inequity, preserving history, physical and mental illness, and of course love. I say “of course” because ultimately that’s the only path that leads out of the morass: love for your partner, for your children, for your neighbors, for humanity.

Like all the Barbara Kingsolver books I’ve read, this one is rich with emotion, often painful. Life isn’t easy. Tragedies are to be expected. Yet somehow we manage to pull through.

The structure of the book is strongly parallel, to the extent that it felt somewhat contrived. The chapters alternate between the present (well – 2016, during the last presidential election in the U.S.) and the past. The last words in one chapter become the title of the following chapter. Other Kingsolver novels I’ve read felt much more relaxed and free-wheeling. In this book, it’s clear, the author has specific points she wants to make. Willa and Thatcher share many characteristics, as they inhabit the same space a century apart. In some ways the world has not changed; the same voices that excoriated Darwin in the nineteenth century condemn the warnings of the climate scientists in the twentieth.

I personally agree with most of Ms. Kingsolver’s positions, but I think I would have enjoyed Unsheltered more if it had been less blatantly political.

The characters in Unsheltered are wonderful, especially Tig, the dread-locked rebel who finds herself holding the family together, and the quietly self-directed Mary Treat. All of them grow and change, individually and in their relationships with the others. Meanwhile, as always, Ms. Kingsolver writes beautifully, the sort of prose where you find yourself going back to re-read a page just to savor its beauty. The book has a pleasingly unexpected ending, as long-nurtured hopes crumble but new possibilities appear. There’s not exactly a happily ever after, but you have the sense that Willa and her tribe will make it through. And after some of the more harrowing aspects of the book, that feels like a triumph.

Sunday, April 26, 2020

Charity Sunday: For the after-thoughts - #AmnestyInternational #COVID-19 #CharitySunday


Welcome to Charity Sunday for April 2020.

I faced a dilemma, deciding what cause to support this month. The fact is, everyone is hurting – losing their jobs, their homes, their savings and their confidence in the future. Cut off from family members, friends and neighbors, and spiritual support, people are experiencing a level of uncertainty that few of us in developed countries have previously known.

Who needs help the most? Medical workers on the front lines, stretched to the limit, forced to make do with inadequate supplies? The elderly, the disabled and the chronically ill, for whom Covid-19 is likely a death sentence? Impoverished communities and people of color, living with environmental pollution that raises their risk a hundred-fold? Parents stuck at home, trying to make ends meet while keeping their children occupied and educated? The kids themselves, bored, depressed, possibly hungry, definitely scared?

Finally, I decided to focus on people nobody seems to care much about: immigrants, refugees and asylum seekers, especially those crammed into detention centers with little access to sanitation, health care, or hope. Amnesty International has an urgent action campaign to advocate for these individuals, whose situation makes them much more vulnerable than most groups. A single Covid-19 case in a crowded prison or refugee camp could wipe out thousands of people in a matter of days.

Nobody should be treated as an after-thought. And the fight for human rights never stops.

So this Charity Sunday, I will donate $2 to Amnesty International for each comment I receive. I usually keep my Charity Sunday offer open for a full month, but due to the urgency, this one will close on Thursday April 30th. So please comment – and tell your friend to come do the same!

Meanwhile – as usual, I have an excerpt for you. This is a bit from “Wired”, one of the light-hearted D/s stories in my collection Hearts &Handcuffs: Romantic Kink.

I’ll give away a copy of the book to one person who leaves a comment.

The building was mostly dark when I drove into the parking lot. A motion sensor switched on an overhead light as I approached the door. I punched in my security code. A buzz, a click, and I was in the lobby. The guard's desk was unoccupied. My footsteps echoed through the dim, empty corridors.

I slipped through the fire doors that led to my group's space. The glassed-in server room was lit, plus the ceiling fluorescents above Krishna's office. The floor was carpeted in this area. I moved without a sound.

Krishna sat with back to me, focused on his screen. From where I stood, outside his cubicle, I couldn't see what he was gazing at so intently. But I could guess.

Krishna,” I murmured.

He swiveled around, simultaneously flicking the off switch on his monitor. I could tell that the move was well-practiced.

Liz! What are you doing here?” As I entered the cubicle, he backed the chair towards the desk, apparently trying to put more distance between us.

I came to visit you. I thought you might be lonely.” I took another step forward. He had nowhere to go. An embarrassed grin stretched his lush lips.

His shirt was open to the middle button. A gold chain nestled in the black curls on his breast. He was breathing hard; the rise and fall of his chest made the necklace glitter. I dropped my gaze to his lap. As I expected, I found a significant bulge.

Um―no―I'm fine―just making sure the backups are all right. I was going to leave in a few minutes...”

I brushed a fingertip across the lump in his groin. He shivered. His nervous smile evaporated.

Don't go yet,” I crooned. “I just got here.”

I had changed out of my work clothes. I now wore a tight purple jersey with a V neck that flattered my modest breasts and a short denim skirt. I trailed a finger down my throat to my cleavage. Krishna's eyes followed in fascination. I retraced my path to my throat, the feathery touch making my nipples pebble, and removed the scarf I'd draped around my neck.

He gripped the curved arms of his desk chair, as though he were afraid he was going to faint. I slipped the scarf under the chair arm and wrapped it twice around his wrist, then tied a firm knot. He didn't move. The lavender silk was lovely against his brown skin.

Is that too tight?” My voice was barely louder than a whisper. Krishna shook his head. His eyes were black pools of lust. I pulled a second scarf from my back pocket, this one turquoise, and secured his other arm. He trembled when I touched him.

I seated myself on his lap. His erection poked deliciously at my bottom, even through the heavy denim of my skirt. He must be huge, I thought. I'd know before long.

His beautiful face hovered inches from mine. He dropped his eyes, focusing on his bound wrist.
No,” I protested, lifting his chin so that he could not look away. “Look at me, for once. I've been trying to get your attention for months. You're not getting away from me this time.”

Krishna's lips parted, as though he was about to speak. I stopped him with a fierce kiss. At first he resisted, struggling against the scarves, his lips pressed tightly together to keep me out. I braced my palms against his chest and bore down on him, prying those lips apart with my tongue.

All at once he let go. His mouth was as lush and hot as it looked, tasting of coffee and anise. I fed on him, nibbling and sucking, pouring out my long-denied lust. He opened to me, not exactly passive, but giving me control.

My bare thighs grew damp with the heat of that kiss. My nipples peaked into aching knots. His smell surrounded me, soap and sweat and the coconut oil he used on his hair. His rod prodded the crack between my legs. I burrowed deeper into his mouth, kissing him harder.

Krishna arched up, grinding himself against my ass. I broke the kiss and hopped off his lap. “Oh no you don't! Your orgasm belongs to me.”

Please, Liz!” Krishna looked miserable and needy.

Oh, now you're begging!” I strutted back and forth in front of him on my high-heeled boots, giving him an eyeful of my slutty outfit. “Maybe I should just leave you here, tied up and frustrated. After all, you've frustrated me for an awfully long time.”

No, please...”

What will Steve and Rob think when they come in tomorrow and find you tied to your chair? And when they turn on your monitor?”

I reached over his shoulder to click the switch. As I'd expected, the screen was full of kinky images, men hogtied and suspended, secured in a hundred uncomfortable positions, all with huge, hungry erections.

Krishna looked terrified. “Don't tell anyone―please don't tell! They'll deport me if they find out...”

Your secret is safe with me.” I tangled my fingers in his opulent hair. “Provided that you cooperate, of course.”

Don’t forget to leave a comment! Every one means $2 to help immigrants and asylum seekers. And one person who comments will get a free book!

Plus - I hope you'll visit the other authors participating in today's Charity Sunday blog hop. Find out about the causes they're supporting - and leave your comment to help! 

Saturday, April 25, 2020

Coming next week! More delicious BDSM! #Dominance #PreOrder #NewRelease

D&S Duos Book 6 cover

The next volume of my D&S Duos series will be released next Thursday, April 30th. But you can pre-order it now, if you want...

It should be available on Barnes and Noble, Kobo and other fine booksellers by the time the 30th rolls around.

Meanwhile, here’s an exclusive excerpt from one of the two stories, “Detente”, a MMF polyamory tale.

* * * 

I look around, locate a stool, and seat myself on it with my legs spread rudely. I smooth my hands down over my thighs, then up along the inner surfaces, until my thumbs rest near my pubis. David’s swollen cock throbs and twitches as he follows my every move. Slowly, I burrow into my thatch and open my cunt lips to their gaze. A drop of liquid flows from the splayed folds and traces a lazy path down my thigh. The air fills with my funky perfume.

Eric squirms a bit on the table. David releases a shaky sigh.

So, did you miss me?” They both nod, apparently speechless. “It does seem that you’ve been keeping yourself busy.”

Casually, I slip the two fingers of my right hand into my cunt. My juices overflow onto the wooden seat. I slip a third finger into my cleft. Blood surges in my clit. With the forefinger of my other hand, I begin to draw little circles on the head of that aching button of flesh. Each touch makes me shiver with pleasure.

The uncertainty is gone from my lovers’ faces. All that remains is lust. I beckon to David. “Come over here and eat me,” I command. He doesn’t need a second invitation.

He kneels between my legs and buries his face in my bush. I nearly come the first time he plunges his tongue into me, but I hold myself back. I want to make him work for a while.

David licks and sucks energetically at my flesh, making obscene slurping noises that arouse me even more. I stroke the dark tangle of his hair, murmuring encouragement. Over his head, I catch Eric’s eye. I don’t see any bitterness or jealousy there. His mouth is half open, as if he’s panting.

It’s too delicious to resist for long. I close my eyes and surrender to sensation. David tickles, gnaws, probes, swallows me whole. When he takes my clit between his teeth, my whole body begins to shudder. After four days without sex, I come in a thundering flood. The world crumbles around me and is swept away.

The aftershocks gradually subside. I open my eyes. David’s still between my thighs, his mustache limp and dripping, his cheeks smeared. He looks awfully pleased with himself.

Was that good, Margot?” he asks.

What do you think?” I reach down and pinch the taut flesh of his cockhead. He winces in response. “But you’re not done yet.”

What is your pleasure, Mistress?” He’s jesting, but in fact I know that he’ll do as I say. 


Friday, April 24, 2020

Celebrate Poetry! #NationalPoetryMonth #SaraTeasdale #Logos

National Poetry Month banner

April is more than half over, and I haven’t yet marked National Poetry Month here at Beyond Romance!

I thought I’d remedy that today by sharing two poems. The one by Sara Teasdale might well be my all-time favorite poem. It beautifully captures the elusive and overwhelming nature of joy.

The other is one of my own poems, from many years ago. I’ve been writing poetry since I was seven years old. Nobody taught me how (though my parents did read a lot of verse to me). I’ve just always known, it seems, about the special music that can found in language. And I’ve always written about love and desire.

What’s your favorite poem?

What do you think of these?

Sara Teasdale - 1884-1933

Life has loveliness to sell,
     All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
     Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder in a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
     Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
     Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
     Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
     Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstacy
Give all you have been, or could be.

Lisabet Sarai

(for GCS)

the word made flesh.
electric whispers
trace the wires
speed of light
the dream takes shape.

     (here I am now,
     on my knees,
     bound and breathless,
     open and still,
     awaiting your will.)

violet ink
on ivory parchment;
mystic runes
in flickering phosphor
glow and fade;
tangled tales
come alive:
candle light
and velvet shadow,
ruby wine,
leather and steel.

     (seductive, real
     as the lust in your eyes;
     you seem surprised.)

moon embraced
in naked branches,
nightwind breathing
in my hair,
westbound plane
burns through the dark.
I speak your name
and you are there.
fragile walls
between the worlds
melt to mist:
I step beyond
the looking glass.

     (eat me. drink me.
     all transformed,
     logic crumbles,
     powers awaken;
     offered for
     the ritual--
     offered, and taken.)

inscribe the signs,
recite the charms,
weave the web
of words. We practice
ancient art:
in nomine.

     you called me, claimed me,
     named me with
     my secret name,
     clasped me
     in this circling flame.)

now we reinvent each other,
mage, apprentice, captive, lover,
fashion masks
from the stuff of Story,
words as lens
to focus longing,
vision to flesh.

     (hand molds breast,
     lips taste thigh,
     kisses drenched
     in silver fire:
     forms of
     crystallized desire.)

Thursday, April 23, 2020

Consent and Complicity - #BDSM #consent #confessions

Cuffed submissive
Photo by Artem Labunsky from Unsplash

A while ago, a writing colleague posted a biting critique of political correctness in publishing, especially in erotica. He cited a personal experience where an editor had labeled his climactic scene involving two people who had a sexual history as a rape because the woman had not explicitly given her consent to the encounter.

My friend was dumb-founded – and I would have been, too. Lovers don’t need to ask permission. Even in an erotic interlude between strangers, mutual attraction can often be assumed, signaled by behavioral cues. We are, after all, writing for adults, not children who need every detail spelled out.

Meanwhile, there are plenty of readers who enjoy stories involving dubious consent, or even completely non-consensual sex. You can wring your hands all you want, but survey after survey has documented the fact that many women have rape fantasies. Do these women actually want to be raped? Of course not. That doesn’t diminish the erotic charge associated with being “forced” to submit to sex.

One reason this fantasy is such a powerful aphrodisiac is that it relieves the woman of responsibility for sexual activity. If you’re coerced into having sex, nobody can label you as a slut. You can remain a good girl even as you’re enjoying the enormous cock (or cocks) pounding your holes.

Intellectually, I can understand the appeal of non-con fantasies, but this particular kink doesn’t really push my personal buttons. I can recall only one book I’ve written that had elements of dubious consent (Rajasthani Moon). The novel begins with the heroine being kidnapped, whipped and fucked by a sexy bandit. The whole scenario is intentionally very exaggerated, treated in a light-hearted manner. No one could possibly doubt that Cecily Harrowsmith, secret agent extraordinaire on a mission from Queen Victoria, is having an excellent time. In general, serious non-con does not float my boat.

On the contrary, you might say I have a consent fetish. There are few things I find as arousing as explicitly agreeing to do something naughty. Even in a vanilla relationship, saying “yes” to passion is exciting and empowering. There’s always an element of risk in sex, emotional if not physical. When you overcome the fear and claim the pleasure, you reap incredible rewards.

Consent is even more potent in the context of dominance and submission. Nothing turns me on like a submissive agreeing to be tormented and used by a dominant. Admitting your deviant desires—taking responsibility for your own fantasies, twisted and taboo though they might be—scenes featuring this sort of dynamic never fail to get me wet.

My very first published work included this sort of interaction:

He leaned closer. “I want to tie you here, hand and foot, so that you will be more completely at my disposal. I believe that you want that, too. But you must tell me so. I will not do this without your permission.”

Kate was silent. She had never been so unsure in her life. Fear, suspicion, shame, and distrust warred with curiosity and desire. In his arms she had felt both sheltered and helpless, and she longed for those feelings again. Yet he was essentially a stranger, she reminded herself—a stranger with a shady profession and an unsavory reputation.

When she looked at him, though, she saw attentive concern in his eyes, belying the fierce reality of the cock which pulsed hugely from his fly. The sight of his manhood sent a delicious weakness through her limbs. I must be crazy, she thought, as she nodded her assent.

Do it,” she murmured, and did not trust herself to say anymore.

With expert skill, he bound her wrists with the silken braids. “Silk is a marvelous substance,” he commented. “So soft, but incredibly strong. Like you, my little Kate. I know that you can endure much. Much more than you would believe.”

~ from Raw Silk by Lisabet Sarai

In more recent work, I’ve continued to explore the same themes, in perhaps more subtle ways:

"Look at me." His tone was softer but no less firm. I raised my eyes to his, which were the startling blue of glacial ice. I shivered and burned. "You're new, aren't you?"


"Yes, Sir," he corrected me. My nipples tightened inside my bra.

"Yes, Sir." Just his voice was enough to make me ache.

"What's your name?"

"Cassie, Sir. Cassie Leonard."

"Don't look away, Cassie. Look at me. Do you know who I am?"

"No, Sir. I just started at Lindenwood this week. Before that I was in the rehab department at Miriam Hospital."

"My slaves call me Master Jonathan."

My earlobes, my nipples, my fingertips, all seemed to catch fire. I wanted to sink through the floor. I didn't want him to see how his words excited me.

But he did see. I stared at my hands, knuckles white from gripping the rail.

"You have a boyfriend, don't you?"

"Yes, Sir, I do." An image of Ryan rose in my mind, his brown curls and uneven grin, muscled chest and hard thighs. I did love him, truly I did, with his quirky humor, his gentle fingers and his boyish ardor. He was a fine young man. My mother approved of him.

"He doesn't satisfy you." It was a statement, not a question. Tears of remembered frustration pricked the corners of my eyes. "Why not, Cassie? Is his cock too small?"

I couldn't believe I was having this conversation with a stranger, a patient, a half-paralyzed man forty years older than I was. I stole a glance at Dr. Carver. His mouth was firm but his eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth.

"No, Sir. His cock is fine." Ryan was justifiably proud of his meaty hard-ons.

"What is it then? Is he a selfish lover? Does he come too quickly for you?"

Guilt washed over me. Ryan would happily spend hours licking my pussy and fingering me, trying to get me off. The only way I could manage it was to think about scenes from the kinky porn I hid from him. Whippings and spankings, gags and handcuffs, all the clichés that I couldn't stop myself from wanting.

"Well? Tell me, Cassie. What do you need that he doesn't provide? What do you want?"

My mouth filled with cotton. I couldn't speak. I was acutely aware of my rigid nipples pressing against the starched fabric of my uniform. My clit pulsed like a sore tooth inside my sodden panties.

"Cassie, I'm waiting." His sternness sent electricity shimmering through my limbs. "Don't disappoint me."

I dared a glance at his face. His left eyelid drooped slightly. His eyes snared mine. I couldn't look away. One eyebrow arched in an unspoken question.

"I—um—I want him to, uh, to do things to me. That he doesn't want to do.” I tried to break away from his gaze, but the force of his will held me.

Things?” He sounded amused. A fresh wave of hot, wet shame swamped my body. “What sort of things?”

Uh—tie me up. Spank me. Use me. Treat me like his slave.” It all came out in a rush, the desires I'd never shared with anyone except Ryan. Even then, I'd only shown him the tip of the iceberg, the least perverted of my needs. “He wouldn't, though. He was shocked when I told him. Disgusted. Said that I had a filthy mind.” The tears that had gathered earlier spilled out over my cheeks.

I imagine that you do, little one, delightfully filthy.” His voice was a caress, soothing and seductive. “I knew that right away, just from your reactions to my voice. Your deepest desire is to submit to a strong master, isn't it?”

Yes—Sir.” I felt relief, now that I'd admitted my secret. He at least didn't seem to condemn me.

You want to be beaten and buggered, shackled to the bed and split open by a huge cock. You want to bath in your master's come, maybe even his piss. To be forced to service his friends.”

It was thrilling and horrible, listening to him enumerating my darkest fantasies out loud. My clit felt the size of a ripe plum, swollen and juicy, ready to burst. I nodded, still finding it difficult to expose myself so completely.

I will do those things for you, if you'd like.”

~ from “Stroke” by Lisabet Sarai, originally published in Please Sir: Erotic Tales of Female Submission, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel.

Why do I find this scenario so exciting? Well, I’ve been there. I’ve stood in front of my master and been invited to admit that what he wanted to do to me, I wanted, too. I’ve consented to things I’d never dared to imagine. I’ve writhed under his blows, turned on despite the very real pain, recognizing in wonder that I’d asked for this. That realization raised the erotic temperature to an even more fevered level.

Certainly I wanted to please him. Knowing he truly appreciated my surrender made it all the sweeter. But the intensity of my arousal derived more from other aspects of our interaction. His vision, seeing through my good-girl persona to the twisted creature underneath, a woman I hardly knew existed. His whole-hearted acceptance of my deviance. My secret, shameful, delicious knowledge that I was complicit in my own debasement.

We shared the communion of outlaws, two souls with perfectly complementary fantasies. I’d stepped over that line deliberately, trusting him and myself.

He and I are still in touch, though separated by many thousands of miles. He recently sent me a video of “Wolf Like Me”, by the group TV on the Radio. I’d never encountered this song before, but now I can’t get it out of my mind.

Charge me your day rate
I'll turn you out in kind
When the moon is round and full
Gonna teach you tricks that'll blow your mongrel mind
Baby doll, I recognize
You're a hideous thing inside
If ever there were a lucky kind, it's
You, you, you, you

I know it's strange another way to get to know you
You'll never know unless we go so let me show you
I know it's strange another way to get to know you
We've got till noon; here comes the moon
So let it show you
Show you now

I concur with his suggestion that the lyrics hold many D/s echoes. We both understood it in the same way—as an invitation to venture beyond the bounds of convention and normalcy, into the fierce, hot, wild unknown of power exchange.

An invitation to consent.