Saturday, November 17, 2018

Saturday Spanks: Reunion - #FreeStory #Corset #SaturdaySpanks

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My Saturday Spanks excerpt today is from my short story “Reunion”, originally published in Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories. It’s bittersweet, romantic BDSM, based quite closely on real life.

Actually, I get tears in my eyes whenever I re-read it.

Anyway, if you like the excerpt, you can read the entire story for free on my website.

Enjoy!



So, what do you have in your bag?” he asks finally, after watching me squirm for long moments.

I have the corset.” I’d purchased it for myself, thinking to please him, knowing that there was no way he would ever buy me one.

Good. And the other things that I told you to bring?”

I have the ruler, the rope, the alligator clips, and the timer.” I remove the items one by one, arraying them on the bed for his inspection. Without announcing it, I take out a package of condoms and place it on the bedside table. His eyebrows arch in a silent question, but he just nods.

I’m sorry, but I couldn’t find a rug beater, or the switches. It’s too late in the year; the trees are too brittle. Anyway, I wouldn’t have been able to carry them...”

No excuses!” He sounds stern but I can see a smile twitching at the corner of his full lips. “I’m sure that you know better than to disobey me. We’ll see about your punishment later.”

He settles back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Right now, I want to see you in your corset.”

I carefully extract the gorgeous black satin garment from its tissue paper wrapping. My master looks relaxed, but I know he’s not missing any detail as I pull my jersey over my head and attack the buttons at my waist. Of course I’m not wearing a bra. My nipples feel hot, as if illuminated by a spotlight. They seem to scream “look at me, see how stiff I am”.

My rayon skirt pools around my ankles and then I’m naked in front of him for the first time in nearly two decades. His eyes widen but he doesn’t say a word.

Why don’t you close your eyes while I put it on? It’s rather an awkward process. And I want you to get the full effect.”

You can’t hide anything from me, Sarah,” he says, but still, he turns to look out the window while I struggle with the clasps and laces.

My fingers don’t work at all, I’m so nervous. I know he’s getting impatient, yet I can’t seem to reach the last hooks. I suck in my stomach, worried that I’ve gained weight and I won’t be able to fasten the thing, but finally, I manage.

The boned curves press into my flesh. I move a bit stiffly, my breathing shallow so that I don’t burst open the hooks. The corset elevates and separates my breasts; they spill lushly over the top of the garment. Meanwhile, I can feel my bare buttocks bulbing out behind.

Okay – I’m ready.”

My master leans forward, eager, his smile baring sharp white teeth. “Very nice. Come over here.”

Stumbling a bit in my high heels, I circle the bed and stand in front of him.

Very nice indeed. Walk around for me, Sarah. Let’s see more of your tits and your ass.”

His mocking, lecherous tone thrills me. I’m terribly embarrassed, but I love showing off for him, and he knows it. My pussy swells and moistens. My nipples harden further, so painfully sensitive that one touch might send me into orgasm. He doesn’t touch me, though. He just watches, while I strut back and forth in front of him, swinging my hips.

I notice the seaweed scent, rising from between my dampened thighs. I’m close enough to him. I know he can smell it to. I don’t dare to look at his face. Instead I hold my head high as he taught me, imagining that I’m wearing the collar he once promised me.

I feel his hot eyes ranging over my body, and I rejoice, knowing that I please him, that he’s as aroused as I am. And all at once I’m awed by the power of our complementary fantasies. I want him to watch me; he has flown three thousand miles to do just that. He nourishes all my perverse notions, rewarding me for being the outrageous slut that I secretly am, the submissive, devoted wanton that he recognized in me, long years ago.

Bend over,” he says, his voice gruff with lust. I know exactly what he wants. I stand with my back to him, between the chair and the ottoman. I bend at the waist, presenting my ass to his gaze, holding the stool for support. He leans closer, but for a long time he still doesn’t touch me.
His gaze traces paths across my bare skin. I swear I can tell when his eyes linger on the pale globes, or probe more deeply into the shadows between them. This inspection excites me beyond belief. I know that he’ll touch me, sooner or later. I think that I’ll die if he doesn’t do it soon.

Still, I’m not prepared when he slaps one cheek with his open palm. “Ow!”

You are such a nasty little girl! I had forgotten. But now I remember (slap) just how kinky and twisted you really are.” He gives me three more spanks in quick succession, and I’m wailing out loud. At the same time, I’m hoping that he doesn’t stop.

Of course he does, knowing how to stoke my fires with frustration, but only for a moment.

Across my knees, Sarah.” The armchair is perfect for a spanking, and once again my spirit soars, as he lays into me, landing one ferocious blow after another on my tender butt. I’m where I belong, and both of us know it.

My butt is burning like it’s been barbecued. It’s starting to hurt enough to interfere with the pleasure. I wonder if he still has that uncanny sense of my limits that he used to demonstrate. Just as the thought crosses my mind, he whispers in my ear.

I’ll bet anything that you’re soaking wet, Sarah.” Without waiting for a reply, he thrusts three fat fingers deep into me. The fires race from my ass to my cunt and back. I come hard, grinding down on his hand, wanting him deeper, always deeper.


Remember you can read the entire story here!

Friday, November 16, 2018

Facts are not enough - #Research #VictorianErotica #ElectricPlay

Circular Library

Research is an integral part of writing, even in fiction. When you're an author, you've got to get it right. Some readers take insane glee in pointing out gaffes and discrepancies. Have your ancient Roman characters drinking tea, your Elizabethans using the word “clitoris”, your Dom swinging a cane made of bamboo (I've been pointedly informed that bamboo is too brittle for a cane and that rattan is the preferred material), and you may find yourself ridiculed throughout the blogosphere. Even a more forgiving reader can be distracted from your story by some detail that just doesn't fit. Every author's goal is to build a fictional world in which readers can happily lose themselves. To the extent that this world is inconsistent or unbelievable, the author will fail.

If you write only about characters who share your class, ethnicity and culture, or if you set your stories in a non-specific contemporary locale, you may not need to do much research. However, this can get pretty boring. Thinking about my own work, I find that there are four situations that dictate the need for research.

Geographic or location-oriented research: When I'm setting a story in a specific location (as I usually do), I often research landmarks, place names, or spatial relationships. I don't need to give my readers a map, but I may need one myself in order to write convincingly.

Cultural research: If my characters are something other than white, western, and well-educated, I need to check on things like vocabulary, slang and tone. I also need to understand the characters' assumptions, the way they look at the world and how that is different from my own perspective.

Sexual research: There are many sexual practices that I haven't personally tried (though you might not think that from some of my previous posts!). In erotica, it is especially important to research the details of the fetish or sexual subculture you are describing. I've read many BDSM stories that struck me as ridiculous rather than arousing because the practices described were inaccurate and reflected a lack of research on the part of the author.

Historical research: Writing in a period other than the present probably requires the most intensive research activity. Every aspect of life depends on the historical period, from costumes, food, transportation and economics to language and world view.

Some authors adore doing research. I gather that for some authors, research actually distracts them from the writing process. They get pulled deeper and deeper into the worlds they are exploring, searching for the next level of detail, putting off writing as they gather knowledge that they might not ever use.

Personally I view research as something of a necessary evil. I'll spend the time I need to answer my questions, but I am always eager to get back to the story itself. I have observed that too much research carries risks—the author feels compelled to use all the nifty information she has uncovered, and ultimately, this distracts from the story. Normally, I'll let the story itself drive my research activity. Before I begin, I'll spend some time reading about the period, the people or the practices on which I'm focusing, but then I'll stop, only returning to my search when I have a question.

Geographic research is fairly straightforward, given the resources on the Internet. I also have two shelves full of travel guidebooks which I use extensively. I'm fortunate in that I've traveled quite a lot. Frequently I'll set a story in a city or country that I've visited. Even so, I will often need to check on details. “Prey”, for example, is set in Prague, but I wrote it nearly ten years after I visited that wondrous city. I spent quite a lot of time poring over maps and trying to reconcile them with my recollections. Necessary Madness takes place in Worcester, Massachusetts and its environs. I lived in central Massachusetts for more than twenty years, but I still find that I need to jog my memory. Of course, if a tale is set somewhere that I've never visited, like Guatemala (Serpent's Kiss) or Assam, India (Monsoon Fever), I have to rely entirely on external information, supplemented by analogy with places I have been.

Cultural research is particularly tough for me. Not foreign cultures—if I've visited a place, I usually have at least a rudimentary sense of the people and how they communicate. But in capturing the subtleties of other western subcultures, I have problems. The American south, for instance, has a particular flavor of discourse. Likewise the American west. I've tried to write criminals and mafia and stuttered badly. One difficulty is the fact that you can't search directly for the kind of cultural markers that make a character seem genuine. The best way to pick them up is to actually meet an individual from that culture. The second best method is to read other people's work featuring characters from the same subculture.

Sexual research is always fun, and not too much of problem. The 'Net overflows with didactic material on various fetishes as well as content that can serve as exemplars. My story “Body Electric”, in D&S Duos 1, features electric play, which I've never personally experienced. I had no trouble finding information on electric toys and the effects that they produce. Even my BDSM critic (the one who chided me over the bamboo cane) did not find fault with the result!

Historical research, of course, can go on forever. About a third of my novel Miranda’s Masks takes place in Victorian Boston. The physical environment was fairly easy; I had lived in Beacon Hill, which actually hasn't changed much since that period. However, I spent considerable time, effort and money researching costumes (Victorian clothing was extremely complex, with lots of special vocabulary), transportation, and the differences between social classes. I also read up on Victorian erotica, which was the subject of my heroine Miranda's dissertation, using Steven Marcus' encyclopedic though annoying tome The Other Victorians.

Even a historical short story requires an inordinate amount of work. Shortest Night, set in Shakespeare's London, took me nearly twice as long to write as a normal story, because I was working so hard to be true to the period. After all that effort, my editor still picked up a variety of words that were too modern for Elizabethan times. (I was extremely impressed.)

It's tough to get the facts right. Unfortunately, even if you do, that may not be enough. To accomplish the objective of creating a compelling, believable fictional world, an author needs more than a raft of detail. It's critical to have what I can only call a “feel” for that world—an intuitive sense of how it works and how its denizens think, feel and behave.

It's never possible to answer every research question. Sometimes I have to rely on imagination. But this only works if I can understand the people and places I am trying to portray, at a gut level. How do you acquire this sort of intuition? You won't find it on Google. For me, building a rich, nuanced picture of the world where I'm setting my story requires more personal experience. Reading original sources, including fiction, from a period can help. Visiting a museum or the actual site is a possibility. Ultimately, though, I find the process a bit mysterious.

Sometimes no amount of research will help. Several years ago I visited the ruins of Angkor Wat in Cambodia. During the twelfth century, the city of Angkor had more than a million inhabitants. It was the largest settlement in the world. I was fascinated by the civilization that had built such impressive monuments, only to disintegrate back into a village culture, and I had an idea for a time-slip erotic romance set partially during that period.

I set about reading everything I could find about Cambodia and Angkor. I spent lots of money on books. I went to museums. I scoured the Web. Somehow, the intuitive sense of those people eluded me. I just couldn't picture them, understand who they were and how they thought. I could look up all the historical details in the many books I bought, but my imagination remained bone dry. I've shelved the project for the moment, hoping that at some point I'll have some experience that triggers the sort of comprehension and empathy that I need to be able to proceed.

Research the facts. That's the starting point, sure. But developing a sense of your world, to the point where you can trust your guesses—that's far more difficult. Ultimately, it's a kind of magic. Like creating stories in the first place.

Wednesday, November 14, 2018

A curse on Cape Cod - House of Ashes by Loretta Marion - #Mystery #NewEngland #Giveaway

House of Ashes cover

Blurb

Thirty-seven-year-old painter Cassandra Mitchell is fourth-generation to live in the majestic Battersea Bluffs, a brooding Queen Anne home originally built by her great-grandparents, Percy and Celeste Mitchell, and still standing despite tragedies that have swept the generations. Local lore has it that there was a curse placed on the family and the house is haunted, though opinions are divided on whether it's by malicious or benevolent spirits. Cassie believes the latter―but now she stands to lose her beloved home to mounting debt and the machinations of her dream-weaving ex-husband.

Salvation seems to arrive when a nomadic young couple wanders onto the property with the promise of companionship and much-needed help―until they vanish without a trace, leaving behind no clue to their identities. Cassie is devastated, but determined to discover what's happened to the young couple...even as digging into their disappearance starts to uncover family secrets of her own. Despite warnings from her childhood friend, now the local Chief of Police―as well as an FBI agent who pushes the boundaries of professionalism―Cassie can't help following the trail of clues (and eerie signals from the old house itself) to unravel the mystery. But can she do so before her family's dark curse destroys everything in its path?


Excerpt

Eighty years ago ~ Whale Rock, Massachusetts ~ Cape Cod Bay

Friday, December 13th


The fire bell was ringing, and someone yelled in through the tavern door, “There’s a fire up on the north end! Battersea Bluffs. We need all the hands we can get!”

No, it can’t be,” Percy whispered. The Bluffs was his home. He leapt from the barstool and ran for the street, bumping into a stranger as he passed through the tavern door. The man’s eyes were ominously familiar to him, but with more pressing concerns, there was no time to bring to memory why. He had to get home to Celeste.

It sickened him to see the flames as his Ford pickup rounded the top of Lavender Hill. How hard he and Celeste had worked to build this house, a grand Victorian with a widow’s walk and a proud front porch facing out to sea. Fire trucks were already there, and men he’d known these many years were working hard to contain the blaze.

As he ran toward the house, it came to him who the stranger in the tavern had been, and later one of the firefighters would recount that Percy had screamed: “Damn that lighterman’s curse. Damn you to hell, Robert Toomey!” Nobody was quick enough to keep Percy Mitchell from entering the inferno. Moments later he emerged, his clothing and hair afire, carrying a charred human form. Any man would have been delirious from the pain, but as the firefighters looked on in shocked disbelief, Percy walked with a purposeful bearing and a swift gait toward the bluffs. A few men chased after their friend, but before anyone could stop him, Percy reached the ledge and cried out, “I am not finished!”

And then, with his already dead wife in his arms, he hurled them both into Cape Cod Bay.

About the Author

A true bibliophile, Loretta Marion's affection for the written word began in childhood and followed her like a shadow throughout her life as she crafted award winning marketing and advertising copy and educational brochures. She then applied her writing skills as a volunteer, establishing a Legacy Story program for hospice patients, which inspired her to create her own fictional stories. Her debut novel, The Fool's Truth, was a twisty mystery with whispers of romance. Her newest novel, HOUSE OF ASHES – A Haunted Bluffs Mystery, is the first in a series published by Crooked Lane Books.

When not whipping out words on her laptop, she is traveling, enjoying outdoor pursuits, or is curled up with a delicious new book. Loretta lives in Rhode Island with her husband, Geoffrey, and their beloved Mr. Peabody, a sweet, devoted and amusing “Corgador”.




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Loretta Marion will be awarding a $50 Amazon or B/N GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour.

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Tuesday, November 13, 2018

Review Tuesday: Coaching Rayna by Pebbles Lacasse - #BDSM #eroticromance #ReviewTuesday

Coaching Rayna cover

Coaching Rayna by Pebbles Lacasse
Excessica, 2018

Rayna doesn’t have the time or energy for sex. Between working full-time as a dental hygienist, caring for her teenage kids, and trying to keep up with the housework, she’s exhausted by the end of the day. Still, she can’t stop herself from fantasizing about her hunky next-door neighbor. Though Rayna hasn’t been intimate with anyone since she kicked out her sleazy ex-husband, she has no trouble imagining what it would be like to be fucked by the powerfully-built younger man.

Simon, or Coach as everyone calls him, runs a gym, and he looks it. He’s massive and muscular, with shoulders that could carry an ox and thighs like tree trunks. Of course, Coach couldn’t possibly be interested in a frumpy single mother ten years older than he is, but Rayna finds it fun to dream.

Coach was attracted to the pretty, competent woman in the next house from the moment he moved in to his place, three years before. If she were any other female, he would have had her in his bed, or hanging in bondage from his basement ceiling, long ago. With Rayna, he has held himself back, out of friendship, respect, and a sense that she’s out of his league. She might be frightened by his dominance. She might despise him for it. In any case, she doesn’t seem like a woman who’d engage in casual sex, and that’s the only kind Coach ever has. He makes it completely clear to his many girlfriends that their sexual interactions will never be more than recreation. That’s all that Coach wants—or feels that he deserves.

Then one warm summer Saturday, he catches her watching him as he mows his lawn. He offers an invitation that both understand will involve sex. To his surprise and delight, she accepts. During their first encounter, he drops his guard enough to let her know she’s dealing with a man who likes to be in charge and to play rough. Instead of running away, she’s open and yielding, eager to have him lead her along new paths of pleasure.

The more time they spend together, the more they both realize their connection goes beyond the physical. Still, each of them feels unsure about the possibility of a deeper relationship. Rayna is certain he’ll tire of her as he has of all his other women. Coach worries that she’ll be terrified or disgusted if he fully reveals the hungry cruelty of his “inner demon”. It takes a near-fatal intervention by someone from Coach’s past to convince them that they must be together, regardless of the obstacles.

I really enjoyed this book, the first work I’ve read by Pebbles Lacasse and one of the most realistic romance novels I’ve met. The book brims with genuine emotion as well as erotic heat. The characters are complex and multi-layered, with believable flaws and idiosyncracies. The barriers to Rayna’s and Coach’s relationship are real, not some flimsy excuse for keeping the couple apart until the HEA. Indeed, even the happy ending is nuanced, hinting at the challenges that lie ahead for Coach and Rayna as they commit to one another. Strong as their love may be, it doesn’t erase either Rayna’s or Coach’s psychological scars.

Relationships are difficult. People harbor misconceptions about what their partners want and believe. Ms. Lacasse has captured these truths, with great insight.

The erotic scenes in Coaching Rayna are fantastic. The mood swings from desperate intensity to deep tenderness to borderline silliness, just like in real-life sex. Despite Coach’s sexual prowess, he’s not a superman. Meanwhile, Rayna’s willingness to experiment clashes with her self-image as inexperienced and unattractive. Some readers might object to the nearly instant sexual connection between them, particularly the power exchange dynamic that takes over from their very first encounter. However, I can attest to the fact that this sort of sudden, overwhelming interlock of fantasies and desires really does occur. It happened to me.

Maybe that’s why I liked Coaching Rayna so much: it woke echoes of my own initiation into dominance and submission.

Unfortunately, this novel did not receive the level of editing that it deserves. I was distracted by errors in word usage and grammar. Some of the dialogue felt stilted, and some of the sentences were awkward and overly long. I’m probably over-sensitive to this sort of issue because of my own work as an editor, but these problems did reduce my enjoyment a bit. I hope that for her next book, Ms. Lacasse finds more competent editing help.

Given my experience with this novel, I’m looking forward to that next title.

Monday, November 12, 2018

No evidence. No witnesses. Snatching Dianna by @SeelieKay - #RomanticSuspemse #Giveaway

Snatching Dianna cover

Seelie will be giving away some great ebooks for this tour. Please use the Rafflecopter below to enter. Remember you may enter every day for your chance to win one of the prize packages. You may find the tour locations here.

About Snatching Dianna

The hours are counting down as investigators try to prove that Dianna Murphy has been snatched. Unfortunately, without witnesses and solid evidence, all the police really know is that she is missing.

When suburban Milwaukee law student Dianna Murphy fails to connect with her roommate, there is no real evidence that she has been snatched. Until Law Professor Janet MacLachlan, a former covert agent, discovers a single clue, one that points to a taking by a slave trafficking cartel. In a race against time, Janet recruits her husband, secret agent Cade Matthews, small-town Police Chief David Manders and his wife, criminal defense attorney Julianna Constant, and other law students to uncover the truth. Can they prove she has been taken, before Dianna disappears without a trace?

Romantic Suspense (Three Flames)

Buy Links


Barnes and Noble: Coming soon


Excerpt

After what seemed like hours in the sweltering van, it lurched to a stop.

Dianna heard a man bark orders. A door to the van opened and someone pulled the rope from her feet, then removed her hood. She took a deep breath. A man grabbed her by the arm, forced to her feet, and pulled from the van. Dianna stumbled when she hit the ground. The stones were hot and her feet were covered by athletic socks, no shoes. Show no weakness.

Dianna immediately surveyed her surroundings. It was still night, but she was in a well-lit courtyard. A large stone mansion stood in front of her. She looked to her right, then her left. The courtyard was enclosed by a large stone fence, at least eight feet high. A fortress. Fortunately, Dianna was a rock-climber. She could rappel over the fence with the right equipment. All she would need was something to serve as a pick, maybe a rope. A knife, a screwdriver, even a fork. Keep your eyes and ears open. Be ready.

A large black man, dressed in a white suit and a maroon turban, walked out of the front door and down the stairs. He stopped and flashed a malevolent smile. He flung his arms wide and in a cultured baritone boomed, “Welcome to paradise, ladies. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

Some of the guards laughed.

Crikey,” Tillie muttered. “Sounds like a blasted genie.”

Dianna glanced sideways and for the first time, got a look at her new friend. She was tall and thin, her body well defined. She looked strong and aware, almost fierce. Her eyes seemed to be studying the place, taking everything in. She showed no fear. Instead, she seemed interested. Something was off. Tillie did not act like a victim as the others did. She was not cowed. Was she a cop? Or like Dianna, someone who would not permit themselves to be broken?

There was only one thing of which Dianna was certain. She had found a friend. A useful one.


About Seelie Kay

Seelie Kay is a nom de plume for a writer, editor, and author with more than 30 years of experience in law, journalism, marketing, and public relations. When she writes about love and lust in the legal world, something kinky is bound to happen! In possession of a wicked pen and an overly inquisitive mind, Ms. Kay is the author of multiple works of fiction, including the Kinky Briefs series, The Garage Dweller, A Touchdown to Remember, and The President’s Wife.

When not spinning her kinky tales, Ms. Kay ghostwrites nonfiction for lawyers and other professionals. She resides in a bucolic exurb outside Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where she shares a home with her son and enjoys opera, gourmet cooking, organic gardening, and an occasional bottle of red wine.

Ms. Kay is an MS warrior and ruthlessly battles the disease on a daily basis. Her message to those diagnosed with MS: Never give up. You define MS, it does not define you!

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Sunday, November 11, 2018

Thankful - #Gratitude #AmWriting #ThanksGiving

Gratitude

Okay, I admit it. Sometimes I'm a kvetch. For those of you who are not familiar with Yiddish, a kvetch is an inveterate complainer. My poor husband bears the brunt of most of my complaints, which range from the physical to the metaphysical.

I never have any time to write,” I moan. “Lots of other authors I know put out a book per month. It takes me a month to finish a short story. I'll never be a success as a writer. I'm just not prolific enough.”

I can't stand doing all this promotion,” I sigh. “It doesn't seem to matter how many excerpts I post, how many blog entries I write, how many contests I run, how many fans I have on my mailing list. My royalties just aren't what I'd like them to be. And then I'm so busy with promotion, I never have any time to write.”

I don't know why I bother. I don't have the energy anymore. My head aches. My joints hurt. I'm a wobbling mass of cellulite. I look at myself in the mirror and see an old hag. My wrinkles are starting to rival the Grand Canyon. No wonder I have so much trouble writing erotic fiction. I feel about as sexy as a dead flounder.”

A dead flounder?” my husband asks, finally stepping in to interrupt my downward spiral. “I imagine that there might be flounder fetishists who'd find that exceptionally arousing.” I laugh in spite of my determination to hold on to my sour mood. “Anyway, I think you're sexy. At that point, my husband is usually behind me, rubbing his crotch against my butt and groping my breasts. I really can't in good conscience continue to complain!

The fact of the matter is, despite my laments, I'm incredibly fortunate. Okay, so I normally have at most one day a week to write. I find that I need a block of devoted time. I've never been one of those authors who can fit writing into the cracks in her daily schedule, so I try to keep one full day clear of other commitments. When I finally do sit down, I can produce 3-5K per day – maybe not up to some professionals' standards, but not too bad either. And my first drafts are normally pretty clean, based on feedback from my editors. At this point, I'm also confident that I can find a publisher for almost anything I write.

Now there's an area where I really can be grateful. Many of my colleagues struggled for years to get their first acceptance. The history of my first novel is rather like a fairy tale in comparison. I sent it off to my target publisher, almost on a lark, and two weeks later was offered a contract. In fact, I didn't even submit the whole novel, just the first three chapters and a synopsis. After Raw Silk was accepted, then I had to actually finish it, but somehow that wasn't a problem. I can hardly complain about long hard years pounding the pavement, hundreds of queries or dozens of rejections.

Okay, it's true that promotion is not much fun. (I'd be interested in knowing whether my more successful colleagues actually enjoy the grind of shameless self-aggrandizement.) But I've got advantages in this domain, too. I have enough technical knowledge to maintain my own website, which saves me huge amounts of aggravation and expense. I've been in the business long enough (more than a decade) to know a number of other authors with whom I can partner or exchange promotional opportunities. I have a good excuse (grin!) to opt out of most chats – I live in Southeast Asia and my time zones never match up. (I do spend lots of time interacting with my readers via email.) And I've always been an organized person. As time goes by, I discover or invent new ways to promote more efficiently.

As for the physical stuff, well, we all have heard that growing old is not for sissies. At least I can reminisce about the sexy adventures I had when I was younger, more flexible and more energetic – not to mention using them as grist for the creative mill. I still have my black satin corset and the form-fitting burgundy velvet halter dress I wore for my first reading. I haven't donned them for a while, but I'll bet they still fit, albeit with an extra bulge here and there.
I've been blessed with a top-quality education, work that is creative and satisfying, opportunities to travel around the world. Despite my complaints about aging, I am and always have been mostly healthy. I love and am loved by my parents and siblings. (Being far from them is the only downside of living overseas). I feel valued and cherished by my remarkable husband of more than thirty eight years. Loving him keeps me sane and whole.

Every now and then I stand back and look at my life, amazed. I never expected that it would be so interesting, or so much fun. I was a little mouse of a girl when I was growing up, living in books and dreaming about romance and faraway places. I am astonished, humble and grateful to realize that my life has surpassed my wildest dreams.

And that is just so far.


Saturday, November 10, 2018

Saturday Spanks: Like Riding a Bicycle -- #bdsm #dominance #SaturdaySpanks

Saturday Spanks banner

Hey, everyone!

I’ve got another Saturday Spanks excerpt for you today. This one comes from one of my favorite short stories, “Like Riding a Bicycle”,  in D&S Duos 4. It’s about a married couple who had a kinky relationship early on, before careers and kids and age got in the way. Can they recapture the magic?

Enjoy! 





 
I'm brusque as I slip the blindfold over her tangled curls. I fasten a pair of cuffs around her ankles. "Hands down by your sides." When she obeys, I cuff her wrists and clip her corresponding hands and feet together. "Too tight?"

"No, it's fine, sir."

I pinch her butt, leaving a pair of livid marks on her pale skin. "Fine? I think maybe you're enjoying this too much." When I dabble my fingers in her soaked cunt, her muscles clench around me. I smack her butt with my other hand and she actually giggles.

"Oh, you're in trouble now, missy," I tell her, trying hard not to laugh myself. She winces when she hears the drawer open and the burp of the lube spurting into my hand. "Yes, that's right. I'm going to skewer your ass with a plug the size of Texas and then I'm going to whip you till you bleed. You won't be able to sit down for a week."

I proceed to make good on the first part of my threat, slathering the bulging purple device with slippery gel. It's about two inches in diameter at its widest point. I know that Mariah can take more—I buggered her with a bedpost once—but that was a long time ago. I rub the tapered end back and forth across her anus, working to relax her muscles. Then I push and twist at the same time.

"Aye!" she screams, as the fat bulb breaches her sphincter and settles into her rectum. "Ow!"

I don't wait for her to get used to the sensation. Grabbing the singletail, I swing it once or twice, trying to get used to the heft. All at once I'm consumed with doubt. What if I really hurt her? An incompetent whipping could do serious damage.

I slash the thong through the air once more and slam it down on the bed next to her bare feet. Her toes curl as the force is transmitted through the mattress. I'm not sure I can really control where the stroke lands. The whip whistles and cracks above her head—threatening but ultimately harmless.

The pause becomes uncomfortable. I've lost the rhythm of the scene.

"Sir?" Mariah sounds tentative, questing. "Is something wrong?"

Anger and disappointment rise together. "What? Why do you ask, girl?" I growl. Tears actually prick my eyes, me, the big bad Dom. I should have known you can't bring back the past. But it seemed, for a while, like it actually might be possible to recapture the magic. It felt so very right...

"Well, you said you were going to flog me, sir." Mariah's alto voice is strong and confident. She's not afraid to tell me, in her sub code, what she wants. She at least has no doubts.

"Are you trying to tell me what to do?" I roar. "Are you topping from below?"

"Of course not, sir. It's up to you. You should do whatever pleases you." She sighs. The plug in her ass twitches. "I'm yours, sir—yours completely."

It's scene-speak, I know. Mariah would never talk like this in ordinary life. Still, it touches me, because I realize she means it. She trusts me—still—to do what's right for us, to take her where she needs to go.

I raise my arm, suddenly strong. The whip swishes through the air, snaps and makes a perfect landing on her right cheek. A bright red line stitches across her creamy flesh. My cock throbs in response to her pitiful wail. Taking a deep breath, I land a powerful stroke on her other globe and survey its reddening wake.

Mariah chokes back her cry of pain.

"Are you all right, Mariah? Is it too much?"

"No, sir," she whispers. "Not at all."

She wants this. She wants me to whip her, to push her to the limit and beyond. I bring the singletail down hard on her quivering flesh. She moans and jerks in her bonds as I paint her ass with a brilliant lattice of scarlet stripes.

I slash at her with the whip, again and again, focused and untiring. I'm in control now. I can see exactly where each stroke will land. Every so often I snap the tip against the base of the plug, making it vibrate inside her. Mariah yells and thrashes about on the bed. I don't need to ask how she is. I can sense it. She's here with me, deep in the moment, giving her all.