A sexy punishment scene from Rajasthani Moon - #SaturdaySpanks #steampunk #menage

Happy Saturday!

I’ve got a very steam Saturday Spanks excerpt for you today, from my steampunk-paranormal-ménage-BDSM-Bollywood romance novel Rajasthani Moon. This is very much an over-the-top fantasy story, but it packs a lot of heat (and love, too!)

Here’s the blurb:

Neither kink nor curse can stop a woman with a mission.

Cecily Harrowsmith, secret agent extraordinaire, is a woman on a mission. When the remote Indian kingdom of Rajasthan refused to remit its taxes to the Empire, Her Majesty imposed an embargo. Deprived of the energy-rich mineral viridium, essential for modern technology and development, Rajasthan was expected to quickly give in and resume its payments. Yet after three years, the rebellious principality still has not knuckled under. Cecily undertakes the difficult journey to that rugged, arid land in order to determine just how it has managed to survive, and if possible to convince the country to return to the Empire’s embrace. Instead, she’s taken captive by a brigand, who turns out to be the ruler’s half-brother Pratan, and delivered into the hands of the sexy but sadistic Rajah Amir, who expertly mingles torture and delight in his interrogation of the voluptuous interloper.

Cursed before birth by Amir’s jealous mother, Pratan changes to a ravening wolf whenever the moon is full. Cecily uncovers the counter-spell that can reverse the effects of the former queen’s hex and tries to trade that information for her freedom. Drawn to the fierce wolf-man and sympathising with his suffering, she volunteers to serve as the sacrifice required by the ritual—offering her body to the beast. In return, the Rajah reveal Rajasthan’s amazing secret source of energy. In the face of almost impossible odds, Cecily has accomplished the task entrusted to her by the Empire. But can she really bear to leave the virile half-brothers and their colourful land behind and return to the constraints of her life in England?

And the spanking excerpt:

Pratan seized her by her long hair and hauled her to her feet. Of course, with her ankles bound, she could not walk. Half pulling, half carrying, he bundled her over to the closest pillar, jerked her bound arms up, then pushed her face first against the rough wood. The bark abraded her naked breasts and belly. She tried to squirm away from him, but he leaned his weight against her back while keeping her wrists pinned against the pillar above her head.

“Rebind,” he growled. In a flash the robotic rope unravelled and reconfigured itself, looping tight around both her arms and the column supporting her. Once he was certain she was secure, he dropped to his knees and touched the rope at her ankles. “Unbind.”

Cecily stumbled as the force connecting her ankles disappeared. Her relief at being free was short-lived. Pratan dragged her legs apart and inserted some sort of rigid bar between her shins. “Bind.” Before she could take two breaths, her legs were restrained in a permanently spread position, wide enough to allow her captor easy access to her sex.

Indeed, realising the degree of her exposure made her terribly aware of her quim, which she could not deny was soaked and swollen. You must be strong, she told herself. Think of England.

The cool air of the cave teased her bared flesh. Then a light touch, delicate as a feather, traced its way along the inside of her thigh. Her pussy clenched and moisture dribbled out. The impudent finger smeared the juice across her sensitive skin. Pleasure sparked through her.

“You can’t fight me.” His voice was like warm honey now, all the anger gone. It flowed through her, unbearably sweet. “And I don’t think you want to. There’s no shame in surrendering when you’ve been rendered completely helpless.” Pratan trailed his fingers upward, brushing across her damp nether curls. Lightning struck, searing her aching clit. She convulsed in her bonds, unable to control her reactions.

“Who are you, my plump little dove? Tell me your name.” His roving fingers skimmed the slippery walls of her outer lips. She bit back her moan but couldn’t help arching back to seek more contact. He dipped into her wetness, deeper than before, but only for an instant. She writhed against the pillar, welcoming the scrape of the bark on her taut nipples.

He had three fingers inside her now, or maybe four, plunging in then pulling back before she could tighten her muscles to hold him inside. He still kept well away from her throbbing, needy clit. She ground her pubis against the tree trunk. The indirect pressure offered some relief, but not enough to satisfy her.

Swat! “None of that now!” His calloused palm landed on her bare arse with stunning force. Her soft flesh burnt in the wake of the slap. Meanwhile, the delicious stimulation in her cunny vanished. “I won’t let you spend until you’ve told me what I want to know.” Swat! His second swipe hurt more than the first. Her buttocks wobbled with the power of his third blow. The sting raced straight to her clit.

Cecily chewed at her lip to contain her groans. She’d make the Queen proud.

“Do I need to whip you? I’d be glad to.” Her skin chilled as he stepped away from her body, taking his heat with him. With her face turned in the opposite direction, she couldn’t see what he was doing, but she heard him moving around the cave. Her clit pulsed like a radio beacon, broadcasting her need and demanding attention. Her scent rose around her, overwhelming the musty dampness of the cave. She tried to relax, to let some of her arousal drain away. She would not—could not—allow him to break her. He seemed to know, though, that she could bear pain a good deal better than sexual frustration.

She recalled receiving her instructions, back in London. Z looked more like an elderly country vicar than the head of Her Majesty’s secret service. “We are all relying on you, Miss Harrowsmith,” he’d told her. “The Queen believes that, given the reported youth and virility of these rebel princes, you are the ideal operative for this mission. I will not deny, however, that we are sending you into grave danger. You must remain in control at all times.”

Remain in control. The recollection was bitter. Here she was, in her enemy’s hands, more or less helpless to resist.

But she would resist. She swore it.

She sensed Pratan moving behind her. Something whistled as it flew through the air. A trail of fire raced across her left buttock.

“Ow! Oh my God!” Whoosh! The whip, or switch, or whatever it was, cut a path of agony across her other cheek. “Ay! Ow!”

“Just tell me who you are, lady, and I’ll stop. Until then…” Whoosh! Another stroke sliced into her flesh. Every blow magnified the pain of the previous one. “Ow! Oh…oh…”

“Talk to me. Let it out.” Whoosh! More pain flared.

He lashed her again and again and yet again, until her arse felt like he’d doused it in kerosene and set it alight. When she thought she couldn’t bear another instant, he moved downward, applying the switch to the even more sensitive skin at the backs of her thighs.

Cecily tried to distance herself from the agony. It’s not pain, she told herself. It’s pleasure. Remarkably, she found herself getting aroused again. It’s not his whip, she imagined. It’s his cock. She felt the echoes of his fingers delving in her quim. Each vicious, searing stroke of the switch brought her closer to spending.

“Damn it, woman, you’re stubborn!” Her captor’s whip clattered to the floor. He moved closer, gripping her abused buttocks, digging his nails into her lacerated flesh. New sparks sizzled down to her clit.

Smooth hardness prodded her butt. “Oh…” She moaned despite her determination to remain silent as he parted her lower lips. With a single powerful thrust, he seated himself inside her, driving her to the very edge.

* * *

Rajasthani Moon is available in both ebook and print, at Kinky Literature, Amazon, BN, and Totally Bound.

An Assault on the Senses (#guestblog #india #giveaway @DianneNoble1)

By Dianne Noble (Guest Blogger)

India is an assault on the senses.

My shirt sticks to my back as I edge round a goat, swatting at flies, coughing as the smoke from pavement cooking fires catches in my throat. After four hours of threadbare sleep I’m fighting my way round Kolkata, India, trying to find the group of street children I’m here to teach English to.

The noise makes my ears hurt – shouting, blaring of horns, backfiring buses. A cow stands in the road, munching impassively on a discarded newspaper, and traffic edges round it. This creature is holy. If a driver were to run into it he would be dragged from his car by an angry crowd and beaten up. The heat beats on my head like a hammer as I search among blackened buildings whose stonework crumbles like stale cake. I smell spices and sewage and urine evaporating in hot sun.

That must be the place. It takes me an age to cross the road, weaving between rickshaws, yellow taxis, tuk tuks festooned with dusty tinsel. The children are so tiny – malnourished – with bare feet, cropped hair and laddered ribs, but they shriek with laughter when I try to speak to them in Hindi. They stroke the pale skin of my arms and clamber on to my knees as I sit, cross-legged and crampy, on the bare earth floor. They are a joy, desperate to learn English, desperate to improve their position at the bottom of the luck ladder.

When I get back to my small room that evening my feet are gritty and blistered, my chest is raw with exhaust fumes and I’m filthy. Sweat makes white rivulets down the dirt on my face and I feel, and doubtless smell, rank.

By the end of my first week I’m overwhelmed by the magnitude of the poverty, despairing at the smallness of my contribution.

How can I possibly do this for three whole months? Whatever had I been thinking of?

I start a journal and at the end of every day, no matter how tired I am, I write down every detail of my day – how the children are progressing, who made me laugh, how much their poor chests rattle, who has the worst sores. It’s a sort of de-briefing and I find it cathartic as I realise that I’m surrounded every day by happy, smiling children. I hear laughter everywhere I go in this dreadful place and the Bengali men and women get used to seeing me, wave and call out ‘Hello, Aunty’ (a term of respect for women of a certain age!) At the wayside shrine even jolly, elephant-headed Ganesh wears a broad grin.

My diary covers three months and forms the basis for A Hundred Hands, which tells the story of Polly who saw the plight of the children living on the streets and stayed to help.

Blurb

When Polly’s husband is jailed for paedophilia, she flees the village where her grandmother raised her and travels to India where she stays with her friend, Amanda.

Polly is appalled by the poverty, and what her husband had done, and her guilt drives her to help the street children of Kolkata. It’s while working she meets other volunteers, Liam and Finlay. Her days are divided between teaching the children and helping with their health needs. But when Liam’s successor refuses to let Polly continue working, she’s devastated to think the children will feel she’s abandoned them.

After a health scare of her own, she discovers her friend, Amanda, is pregnant. Amanda leaves India to have her child. At this time Polly and Finlay fall in love and work together helping the children. Tragedy strikes when one child is found beaten and another dead. Polly feels history repeating itself when Finlay becomes emotionally attached to a young girl.

Can Polly recover from her broken heart and continue to help the children, or will she give up and return home?

Excerpt

She sat cross legged with her elbows pressed into her sides, trying to be as small as possible. Inches above her head hung a sheet of blue plastic, to her left a wooden upright post dug into her arm and on her right were wedged two tiny girls who gave her shy looks from under dark lashes. Right in front of them pedestrians bustled and traffic roared by. She tried to take shallow breaths so the exhaust fumes wouldn’t set her off coughing again.

‘My sisters, Aunty,’ said Bapi.

‘Do they go to school?’ She made namaste to the girls who giggled, nudged each other, wriggled in the narrow space.

‘No, Aunty, they are finding food.’

Polly smiled at them and they lowered their eyes, whispering to each other.

‘When I am learning enough,’ Bapi continued, ‘I am getting job and taking care of my family.’ His skinny chest puffed out with importance.

The woman looked up at him from the pot bubbling on a small heap of coal and spoke.

‘My mother have no English.’ It was difficult to hear him above the baritonal honks of lorries. He squatted in front of Polly. ‘I am teaching her. My sisters also.’

Bless him, shouldering the responsibility for them all.

His mother moved to his side, nodding, smiling. She pushed a plastic dish of rice into Polly’s hands and waited, beaming, gesturing for her to eat.

Polly looked down at the steaming, fragrant Basmati rice, studded with cardamoms. She really didn’t want food. Her chest had begun to hurt again. She looked at the girls and Bapi. Not eating. There was only food for her.

‘Eat, eat, Aunty,’ Bapi pressed her.

With clumsy fingers, she moulded rice into small balls and pushed them into her mouth, making appreciative sounds, fixing the smile on her face.

The woman and the three children watched her every move, opening their mouths when she did, smiling and nodding at her apparent enjoyment. Not good at eating with her fingers, grains of rice kept falling to the ground. Oh God, not only am I taking all their food but I’m wasting it as well. Her throat began to close. So hard to keep swallowing and maintain the smile. They all clapped their hands when she had finished and his mother bowed her head.

‘Thank you, Aunty,’ said Bapi, standing tall and proud.

‘No, thank you, Bapi, and thank your mother for me. Tell her it’s the best rice I have ever eaten.’

A few words from the boy and a flush spread across her grey cheeks.

The rice sat like a brick in Polly’s stomach. What would they all eat tonight? Could she buy something for them? Could she give them some money? No, of course she couldn’t. She must allow them their dignity.

Oh bloody hell, there’s more. The smallest girl was bringing her a drink from the standpipe. The beaker brimmed with water. Now what do I do?

You drink it, that’s what you do. Not all of it but at least half, and put your faith in your typhoid jab.

Bapi insisted on escorting her to the bus stop. ‘My mother is happy,’ he confided. ‘She is saying honour that you come. Is correct word, Aunty?’ He looked up at her.

‘Yes, it’s the right word. But tell your mother that the honour is all mine.’

Buy Links

https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B01LZ03JQZ

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01LZ03JQZ

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/669126

https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/a-hundred-hands/id1161101503?mt=11

https://store.kobobooks.com/search?Query=9781370663460

Bio

I was born into a service family and at the tender age of seven found myself on the Dunera, a troopship, sailing for a three year posting to Singapore. So began a lifetime of wandering – and fifteen different schools. Teen years living in Cyprus, before partition, when the country was swarming with handsome UN soldiers, and then marriage to a Civil Engineer who whisked me away to the Arabian Gulf.

Most of the following years were spent as a single parent with an employment history which ranged from the British Embassy in Bahrain to a goods picker, complete with steel toe-capped boots, in an Argos warehouse. In between I earned my keep as a cashier in Barclays, a radio presenter and a café proprietor on the sea front in Penzance.

My travels have taken me to China, Egypt, Israel, Guatemala, Russia, Morocco, Belize and my favourite place, India. I keep copious notes and constantly dip into them to ensure my writing is atmospheric.

Don't forget to enter my giveaway, by the way. Just use the Rafflecopter widget below.

Author Links

www.dianneanoble.com

www.facebook.com/dianneanoble

www.twitter.com/dianneanoble1

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Back List Blast: Monsoon Fever

Monsoon Fever by Lisabet Sarai

M/M/F Historical Erotic Romance

Divine temptation lies in wait in an ancient and mysterious land.

In their first years together, Priscilla and Jonathan enjoyed a marriage based as much on physical passion as on love. However, the travails of business and the tribulations of the Great War have taken their toll. When Jon's father dies in faraway India, the couple travels to the father's isolated Assamese tea plantation to settle his affairs. Far from the bustle and distraction of London, left alone to endure the monsoon rains while Jon struggles to complete the final harvest, Priscilla realises how much she misses Jon's touch.

Anil Kumar arrives with business documents for Jon to examine. The charismatic native enchants both Priscilla and Jon with his god-like beauty and charm. In separate incidents, each of them succumbs to Anil's lustful attentions. Will the illicit desires excited by the handsome Indian be the final stroke that destroys their marriage? Or the route to saving it? 

Excerpt

The bathroom was simple, Asian-style, a tiled area with a drain rather than a tub. Lalida had left an ample supply of hot water, filling every bucket and ewer in the house. Cold water came directly from the rain-fed cistern on the roof.

Quickly, before she could think too much about what she was doing, Priscilla stripped off her clothes and kicked them into a corner. She grabbed one of the pitchers of hot water and poured it over her head. Dirt sluiced out of her hair in muddy rivulets and swirled down the drain. The warmth soothed her aching muscles but made her scratches and blisters sting. She picked up a bar of her precious English lavender soap and began smoothing the suds over her breasts and belly. She lingered over the task, savouring the silkiness of her own skin under her fingertips.

The two men watched her, transfixed. Jon’s mouth hung open as if he didn’t believe what he was seeing, but at the same time his trousers were distended by a huge erection.  Anil’s lips were parted, his tongue-tip playing unconsciously at the corners. She could see that he was hungry to taste her. For long moments, though, neither man moved.

Her soapy hands slipped easily into the cleft between her thighs. It seemed so natural, to slide her slippery fingers along her folds and stroke the juicy bud of flesh that set her trembling. She had done this so many times; she knew instinctively the path to her own pleasure. No one had ever watched her, of course. Instead of inhibiting her, though, her audience stirred her to new peaks of excitement.

No longer was her self-pleasuring lonely and sterile. Now she was sharing it with the man—the men—that she loved and desired. As she climbed higher, she could see her own arousal reflected in their faces. Neither moved to expose his cock, not yet, but she knew that would come soon.

She rubbed harder, plunging three fingers into her depths while vigorously thumbing her clit. With her other hand, she pinched her soapy nipples, sending sharp bolts of sensation straight to her sex. She moaned, closer every instant to her final release. With her eyes closed, she could still feel their lustful gaze, hear their harsh breathing. 

All at once, Jon groaned. Priscilla’s eyes flew open. He had unbuttoned his trousers. His cock jutted out, pale as ivory, the helmet purple with blood. He gripped his length with both hands, jerking away desperately. A grimace distorted his sweet mouth; he seemed almost to be in pain.

He worked his cock faster and harder, his eyes never leaving her soapy form. She picked up his rhythm, her fingers probing and twisting, her thumb mashing her clit against her pubic bone. She was close, and so was he. She squatted, opening her thighs wide and burying both hands in the sloppy, soapy cavern between them. Jon groaned again at the sight of the sight of her lewd posture.

They were locked in a race toward completion, each urging the other on. Priscilla tottered on the brink, humping her hands, watching her husband ravage his beautiful blood-engorged cock. Energy whipped back and forth between them, circling, strengthening. Nothing existed but their two bodies, straining toward ecstasy.

A half-strangled cry from Anil drew their attention. He had freed his cock as well. He stroked the thick rod of tawny flesh gently, far from the desperation of climax, or so it seemed. Yet as they watched, his cock contracted, pulsed and sprayed viscous ribbons of cum all over his delicate brown fingers.

The sight was simultaneously beautiful and obscene. Priscilla ground herself against her hands, hurling her body into an orgasm that tore through her like a hurricane. Even as she quivered in the retreating gusts of pleasure, she heard Jon yell and knew that he was spewing his seed across the floor.

The next thing she knew, Jon was beside her, helping her to stand. He clutched her soapy form to his now-naked body and sealed her lips with his. Joy ballooned in her chest. It had been so long since she’d felt his decisive mouth or tasted his familiar flavour. She rubbed her breasts against him, smearing herself with his dirt. His rigid nipples poked at her chest. Below, she could feel his cock stiffening again, nudging into the gap between her thighs.

She opened her legs and tilted her pelvis toward him, inviting his entry. Then, all at once, a torrent of warm water poured down on their heads. They broke their kiss, sputtering in the surprise flood. Before they could respond, another bucketful drenched them.

“Anil!” Priscilla turned to find that the native was behind them. He too had shed his clothes. As she watched, he raised a pitcher and poured its contents over his own head. 

The shower slicked his dark locks against his skull, emphasising the fine planes of his countenance. Rivulets coursed over his muscled shoulders and down his hairless chest. His skin looked oiled, cinnamon-hued and buttery smooth. Only in his groin did hair grow, in wild black tangles completely different from the golden fur at the base of Jonathan’s cock.

Priscilla’s palms itched with the need to caress that silky, dark skin, to mould Anil’s flat breasts and flick her thumbs across his chocolate-hued nipples. She saw herself kneeling in the puddle at his feet, swallowing his majestic penis. The urge to turn image into reality was overwhelming. Did she dare to act on her desire?

She glanced back at Jon. He too seemed transfixed by the sight of Anil’s glorious nakedness. His cock was fully erect once again. It twitched slightly, in rhythm perhaps with his racing pulse. His hands were clenched at his sides, but as Priscilla watched, he relaxed and began stroking himself. His cock swelled further. She willed him to look away from Anil and meet her gaze, with its unspoken question. He must have felt her thoughts. Their eyes locked, and for a moment Priscilla felt the old connection that they’d had at first, the sense that everything was understood. He nodded slightly, a half-smile playing on his lips.

Get your own copy of Monsoon Fever - also available as an audio book!

Adventures in Asia

I've done more traveling in Asia than anywhere else in the world. Hong Kong was the first Asian locale that I visited. Back then (in the 1980s), Hong Kong was still controlled by the British. It was a fascinating mixture of proper English and ancient Chinese culture.

Not long after that trip, my husband and I spent two wonderful years working in Bangkok, Thailand. In those days, you couldn't really get further away from the U.S., which was our home base. Telephone calls were prohibitively expensive and postal mail took three to four weeks if it arrived at all. Email, of course, did not exist. Everyone thought that we were crazy to move there, even temporarily. We loved every minute.

Thailand had a huge influence on me. My first novel, RAW SILK, is set in Bangkok. I tried to capture the exoticism, grace and sensuality of the culture and the people. The book includes many scenes drawn from my own experience. (However, the infamous sex scene involving chili peppers is entirely imaginary!) I've also used Thailand as a setting for a number of short stories, including “Butterfly” and “Bangkok Noir” (in my short story collection FIRE) and most recently in “Refuge”, my contribution to the charity anthology COMING TOGETHER: AT LAST.

Thailand is located smack in the center of Asia, so we had opportunities to visit other countries in the region, including China, Indonesia, Malaysia, and Singapore. (We also did a two week trip to New Zealand, which is not exactly Asia but closer to Thailand than to North America-- “only” a ten hour flight!) After our contract in Bangkok expired and we returned to America, we continued to aim for Asia whenever we could. Since then we've added India, the Philippines, Mongolia, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, Japan, Taiwan and Korea to the set of Asian destinations we have explored. You can read stories set in Laos (“Vows”) and ancient Cambodia (“Ruler”) on the Free Reading page of my website (http://www.lisabetsarai.com/freereads.html)

There are still many Asian countries on my wish list, though. Bhutan and Nepal are at the top (no pun intended). I'd love to see Burma, though I may wait until the political situation there improves. Then there's Papua New Guinea and of course the 9,997 remaining islands of Indonesia. (I've visited Java, Sumatra and Bali, but that's all.)

Nowadays wherever I travel, I'm alert for story ideas. I'm thinking that at some point I might put together a short story collection consisting solely of travel tales.