You give me what I need... #MFRWsteam #EroticRomance #Giveaway

Welcome to the first MFRW Steam Blog Hop! If you like your romance on the spicy side, you’re in the right place.

Today I’m sharing a bit from my taboo erotic romance Miranda’s Masks. Hope you like it! (If you do, you’ll find buy links near the end of the post... )

You could also win a copy! Just leave me a comment. I’ll randomly choose one person to receive an ebook copy of this searing, full-length novel in their choice of formats.

Blurb

Shy and serious by day—insatiable by night.

Betrayed and abandoned by her first lover, shy and studious Miranda Cahill freezes in response to any sexual attention from someone she knows and likes.

During the day, she works diligently on her doctoral thesis. At night, she finds herself drawn into increasingly extreme sexual encounters with strangers. Public coupling, multiple partners, age play, spankings, bondage, lesbian lust—each experience reveals new dimensions of her depravity. Her anonymous secret life begins to take over when she discovers that the masked seducer she meets in a sex club and the charismatic young professor courting her are the same man.

Dickens scholar Mark Anderson seems like an affable, uncomplicated Midwesterner, but he has hidden depths, myriad talents, and an unlimited appetite for erotic variety. With Mark as her guide, Miranda gradually comes to understand and accept the intricacy of her own desires, as well as to trust her heart. 

 

Excerpt

Mark! Where was he, anyway? When last she had looked, he had been at the back of the room, but everyone was gone now. She was suddenly hollow and aching with longing for her lover.

As if in answer to her questing mind, she felt a touch on the inside of her thigh. Mark? She had the urge to look under the tablecloth, to confirm that it was he, but something held her back. A finger alternated, stroking her nylon-clad thigh, then brushing the bare skin above her stocking. The contrast was exquisite, the results electric. The finger-dance along her thighs continued. Now another hand drifted lightly over her mound, tickling her through the satin. She felt brief regret as her juices thoroughly soaked the expensive wisp of lingerie, before lust overwhelmed all other concerns.

Slumped in her chair, she spread her thighs, shamelessly offering access to her hidden partner. He responded by tracing the outline of her pubis with his fingers, along the edges of the thong where fabric met flesh. Miranda writhed. She wanted him to touch her inside the garment, to rip it off and plunge his digits into her. Still, he played with her, rubbing the slippery fabric against her clit, forcing the damp cloth up between her legs, wedging the thong into the crevice between her cheeks and rocking it back and forth over her anus.

Now she felt moist heat, delicious, melting her. His mouth hovered over her sex and he simply breathed. His hands were quiet, holding her thighs wide. There was only his mouth, his breath, and the images unrolling in her mind. She felt as though he were holding a burning candle to her clit.

 

She saw herself staked spread-eagle on a crag, her privates baked by a tropical sun. She felt herself bathed in molten gold that pouring over her folds, filling her, gilding her. The heat swelled until she erupted against his lips, juices like lava overflowing her cavities. She whimpered as her climax seared her. Hot tongues of pleasure lapped at her satin-sheathed pussy. Flames flickered on her closed eyelids.

Dimly, she felt her garters being unhooked and her soaking panties removed. Strong arms lifted her. She felt starched linen against her buttocks. She was seated on the table. Opening her eyes at last, she found Mark standing between her legs, unzipping his fly.

She wanted to speak, but again, she felt that weird sense of constraint. Mark’s face was serious, intent, with no trace of his normal grin. He loosed his erection and Miranda thought it looked oddly unfamiliar. It stood at a different angle, perhaps, or curved in a different direction, or perhaps it was a bit thicker than she remembered. She was puzzled, but enormously aroused. Mark grabbed her legs and pulled them up onto his shoulders, then without preliminaries, he plunged into her well-lubricated cunt.

Briefly, her mind was besieged by small worries. The table was strewn with water glasses. He was not wearing a condom. The meeting room door was wide-open—at any moment someone could happen by and discover them. Then her mind dissolved in a sea of sensation and she gave herself up completely to her partner’s cock.

He felt glorious. He stretched her beyond belief, burying his rod in her slippery depths, battering her with his hardness. There was a new urgency to his fucking. This was not a game or a scene. There were no masks, no roles. He was not in control. There was no technique here, only pure need. Miranda responded to his naked lust in kind, totally forgetting who and where she was.

She arched her back to meet his thrusts, forcing him deeper. He pressed her thighs back toward her, so that she was bent double, and pounded her from above, his fingernails biting into her calves. Miranda knew nothing, no pain, no fear, only blind and inarticulate pleasure. Together, thrashing and moaning, scattering water glasses and tearing clothing, they climbed the steep ladder to ecstasy. Together, they reached the summit, and felt everything collapse beneath them. They flew.

Later, they lay together on the ruined table, still speechless with a kind of awe. Mark ran his fingers through Miranda’s tangled locks and touched her lips with his own. He was smiling again, but there was something unfamiliar in his expression, something deep, strange, tinged with sadness. She suddenly recalled her cloakroom fuck and understood that this was its counterpoint, equally anonymous and public, but sparked by love. Stranger and lover, thought Miranda. You give me what I need.

Buy Links

Amazon US - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077J37RW6

Amazon UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B077J37RW6

Barnes & Noble - https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/mirandas-masks-lisabet-sarai/1127499525?ean=2940158774584

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/760225

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/th/en/ebook/miranda-s-masks

Excessica: http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=25&products_id=1339

Add to your Goodreads TBR list! https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36622764-miranda-s-masks

Don’t forget to leave me a comment! You could win a free book.

And I hope you’ll visit some of the other authors sharing their steamy books today.

Saturday Spanks: Victorian Kinkiness - #SaturdaySpanks #MirandasMasks #BDSM

 

My Saturday Spanks excerpt today comes from Miranda’s Masks. This is one of the more ambitious novels I’ve written, from a structural perspective. It chronicles the sexual awakening of an initially inhibited young graduate student, Miranda Cahill. At the same time, a subplot reveals the desires of a woman who lived a century earlier, but whose erotic adventures eerily parallel Miranda’s own. Today’s post is part of an entry from Beatrice’s secret diary, which Miranda discovers in a dusty antiquities shop in Boston’s historic Beacon Hill.

Here’s a kinky scene in which Beatrice is forced to confront her craving for submission.

Enjoy!

I settled myself on the velvet upholstery, feeling more and more nervous. My companion leaned out the window, signaling the coachman to proceed. Then he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a white silk handkerchief.

“For reasons that I am sure you will understand, my dear, I must blindfold you. I cannot have my partners seeking me out after we have concluded our little diversions.” I did not resist as he bound the cool silk around my brow. I could sympathize with his concerns.

The coach galloped on for perhaps three-quarters of an hour. I tried to judge by sound where we were or at least what direction we had taken. Very soon, it seemed, we left the bustle of the city behind. We must have been in one of the fashionable suburbs, Brookline, or Newton. The warmth of the late afternoon sun, slanting in through the window, suggested we were travelling southwest.

My companion neither spoke nor touched me during the trip. However, I was acutely aware of his presence beside me, radiating a kind of magnetic attraction that made me perspire under my layers of clothing. I kept my hands tightly clasped in my lap, resisting the urge to touch him. Indeed, I had the sense that he was tempting me, testing me, with his physical closeness and psychic distance.

At last we slowed our pace and turned into a drive. I heard gravel crunching under the wheels. My companion removed the blindfold, and I saw that we had stopped before a gracious residence, surrounded by gardens. He handed me down from the carriage, and I naturally turned toward the main entrance, with its fanlight and leaded panes.

“No,” he said sharply, reaching out to grab my hand. I looked at him, puzzled. He gave a little laugh. “No, I think it is the stables for you. Go on now, follow Montrose.”

The coachman leered at me. I was about to object, full of righteous disdain, when I realized several things. First, I was alone and unprotected here, in some unknown house, far from the help of any friend. Second, despite both fear and indignation, I was mightily aroused. The trip in the carriage had taken its toll on my senses. I desperately wanted to be touched by the mysterious, dark gentleman with the suspicious accent.

Still, I hesitated. My abductor frowned. “You do not want to cross me, Madame. Do you?”

I felt suddenly meek and pliant. “No, sir. Of course not.”

“Then do my bidding. To the stables.” He lifted his stick and gave me a solid whack on the buttocks. My bustle absorbed most of the force, but the act was so surprising, I could only stare. He raised the stick again. “Now!”

I needed no more persuasion. I followed the surly driver across the gravel to the barn. He slid the door open, and my nostrils twitched at the rich blend of smells: leather, hay, manure. The interior was dim; the only window was a grimy square of glass high up on the wall. Several fine horses glanced at me as I stumbled across the threshold, but they soon lost interest.

I stood in the middle of the room, my boots buried to the ankles in the straw, at a complete loss. Montrose lit a kerosene lantern, adding to the pungent combination of smells. His master sauntered into the building and looked me over. My confusion must have been apparent, for he smiled, came over and cupped my chin in his hand.

“Now, little angel, it is time for you to prove yourself. Do you want to please me?”

I nodded, spellbound by his dark gaze.

“I can see your soul, little one. It is dark. You need discipline, punishment. You need a strong hand, like mine.”

I need a strong cock, my mind screamed, but outwardly I remained silent and demure.

“Remove your clothing,” he said. I was about to resist, on principle, but his eyes cowed me. “Do it yourself, or if you prefer, I will have Montrose do it for you.”

My skin crawled at the thought of that degenerate touching me. As quickly and gracefully as I could, I shed my overskirt, bustle, underskirt, petticoats, and waist. Now I wore only my drawers, stockings, corset and chemise. I went to undo the corset, but no matter how I tried, I could not reach the lacings.

“Please, Sir,” I said, turning my back to him, embarrassed and excited. “I cannot manage my stays by myself. Would you assist me?”

“With pleasure,” he said. Finally, his hands were on me, surprisingly competent as they released the cords and loosened the confining garment. Please, I thought, let him touch my breasts, and he did, reaching around to cup them in his palms. Only for a moment, though, then he turned me around to face him.

“You are very lovely, Madame. You would tempt the devil. Off with the chemise and the drawers. Montrose, bring the bonds.”

No, I thought, but my nipples ached, my sex throbbed from his brief touch. I would do anything he asked, I realized, and got a strange thrill from this thought. I removed the articles of clothing, as he ordered.

“Bind her,” said my master briefly. Montrose knew exactly what he wanted.

They used leather, reins and other items of tack that I cannot accurately name. My wrists were roped together and the thong was laced through an iron hoop affixed to the ceiling. They hauled me up until I was on tiptoe. I could feel my juices trickling down my thighs.

They wrapped strips of leather around my waist, and affixed them to the stalls along either wall. I am not sure why they did this; perhaps simply to see the leather biting into my flesh. They ran a leather strap between my legs, so that it rubbed against my center, in the front, and chafed my rear opening. Finally, Montrose took a complicated harness and fitted it over my head. There was something like a bit, which he placed in my mouth, but surely, this was designed on a human, not an equine scale.

I could no longer speak. I could not move to any significant extent. I admit, though, I was more excited than frightened, bizarre as the scenario was.

Finally, I was done, trussed up like some odd piece of game. The dark man circled me, obviously pleased. “Sweet, very sweet. I knew when I saw you that you wanted what I had to offer, and this…” He wiggled a finger under the strap, dipped a finger into my sopping cunny then held it to his lips, “This tells me that I was not wrong.

“Now, my filly, you must be brave. Montrose, bring me the crop.”

I panicked, twisted in my bonds, but to no avail. I was totally at the swarthy stranger’s mercy.

His first blows were directed to the fleshy parts of my bum. They burned like acid, and yet, every time I twisted, trying to evade his strokes, the leather between my legs inflamed me further. Soon he was whipping the backs of my thighs, my shoulders, even my breasts. But my senses were overwhelmed, the smell of my own excitement blending with the animal scents, the sharp pain merging with and transforming the exquisite stimulation in my lower parts, till I could not distinguish agony from ecstasy.

Hanging in my harness, I jerked through climax, once, twice, helpless in the face of my own debauched sensibilities.

Finally, the master stopped beating me. He released the gag that held me speechless. Then he gently stroked my scored nether cheeks. His touch was cool and soothing. “There, there, my sweet. You did well.”

The approval in his voice gave me more pleasure than all the sensual stimulation I had endured. I rubbed my cheek against his jacket, delighted that I had satisfied him.

“However, we are not quite finished yet.” He pulled himself to his full height, looking me in the eye. Once again I remarked the cruel twist of his mouth. “You have not yet been fucked, and I understand that this is what you really want.” He unfastened and removed the thong between my legs. The leather was dark and slick with my moisture.

“Only if it pleases you, master,” I whispered.

“Oh, it does,” he said softly. “Montrose, come here.”

I cannot bear to tell what happened next, my degradation and my filthy pleasure. He would not take me himself. No, he required that his servant take me instead. And I allowed it, though I kicked and screamed. Ultimately I rejoiced at having that thick, smelly rod embedded in my depths, churning, reaming me, using me more roughly than I would have ever imagined. I rejoiced because I knew my Master was watching, knew that the more debased and debauched I was, the more he loved me.

However, after it all, I will not see him again. He made that clear, as he kissed me, refitted the blindfold, and sent me home in his carriage. 

“Now you know who you really are,” he said, and he spoke truly. “My work is done.”

Intrigued? Pick up a copy of Miranda’s Masks from your favorite bookseller today!

Amazon US - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077J37RW6

Amazon UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B077J37RW6

Barnes & Noble - https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/mirandas-masks-lisabet-sarai/1127499525?ean=2940158774584

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/760225

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/th/en/ebook/miranda-s-masks

Excessica: http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=25&products_id=1339

Add to your Goodreads TBR list! https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36622764-miranda-s-masks

Charity Sunday: The Mountain Lion Foundation - #wildlife #ecology #CharitySunday

Welcome to another Charity Sunday blog hop. Last month I commented that I hadn’t highlighted an animal or environmental cause in a long time. Perhaps it seems trivial to focus on animals when so many human beings are in dire straits, affected by disasters, conflicts and health emergencies. However, the state of the non-human creatures on this planet is tightly linked to our own. All too many of the crises afflicting humanity today result from unchecked expansion of our species and thoughtless exploitation of the Earth’s resources. When wild animals struggle to survive, we should recognize that they’re mirrors of the risks we face. When bees, amphibians, insects, the core species that prop up the ecosystem, are dying out, we should recognize that we’re likely to be next.

In any case, this month I’ve decided to support an organization that was one of my favorite charities when I lived in the U.S. - The Mountain Lion Foundation. This non-profit, located in California, is dedicated to research, advocacy and education to help save North America’s critically endangered big cats. MLF works with communities to reduce conflicts between people and lions; with scientists to study the behavior and ecological dynamics of the species; with legislators to craft laws and regulations that protect mountain lions, their habitat, and their human neighbors.

Of course, anyone who has hung around my blog for any length of time knows I am a huge ailurophile. I love felines, large and small. Supporting the MLF is perhaps a bit self-indulgent, but I haven’t donated to them in many years. Hence, I will give them $2 for each comment I receive on this post, between now and the next Charity Sunday.

Meanwhile – I don’t have any stories that include big cats, but here’s a snippet from Miranda’s Masks. My heroine Miranda, who’s a PhD student in literature, has a cat named Heathcliff, who actually has a pivotal role in the plot.

Blurb

Shy and serious by day—insatiable by night.

Betrayed and abandoned by her first lover, shy and studious Miranda Cahill freezes in response to any sexual attention from someone she knows and likes.

During the day, she works diligently on her doctoral thesis. At night, she finds herself drawn into increasingly extreme sexual encounters with strangers. Public coupling, multiple partners, age play, spankings, bondage, lesbian lust—each experience reveals new dimensions of her depravity. Her anonymous secret life begins to take over when she discovers that the masked seducer she meets in a sex club and the charismatic young professor courting her are the same man.

Dickens scholar Mark Anderson seems like an affable, uncomplicated Midwesterner, but he has hidden depths, myriad talents, and an unlimited appetite for erotic variety. With Mark as her guide, Miranda gradually comes to understand and accept the intricacy of her own desires, as well as to trust her heart. 

 

Excerpt

She took her plate and a glass of white wine back to her desk, where the brass lamp made a warm pool of gold in the darkened room. A mild night breeze ruffled the drapes and whispered in the corners, fragrant with spring. Intoxicating. Voices soft in the alley, the creak of a door hinge, the distant wail of a saxophone—the city breathed outside her window, full of mystery.

Miranda felt alert, wired, electricity in her veins. She ate thoughtfully, pondering her actions and feelings over the past few days. I thought that I knew myself, knew what I wanted, knew what was important, she mused. Now everything is unclear, everything except this lust, which blazes up in me without warning.

She had an inspiration. Perhaps she should write about it, record her feelings and experiences, externalize it all. Through most of her childhood and adolescence, she had kept a journal, using it as a mirror to confront her fears and her desires. Only after Geoffrey left her had she stopped. It was just too painful to write and to remember.

Miranda recalled the leather-bound Victorian diary. Perfect. The irony somehow pleased her—a modern student of Victorian excess using the historic journal to chronicle her own lustful explorations. She retrieved the diary from her desk drawer, located her fountain pen, opened the volume to the first page.

The blank, velvety parchment invited her. Confide in me. Trust me with your secrets.

How should she begin, though? Miranda sat for a long time, pen poised over the paper, reviewing the events and emotions of the last few days. Heathcliff sat on the corner of her desk, fixing her with his typical unblinking stare.

Miranda ignored the feline, her eyes focused inward. Heathcliff’s gaze became a challenge. Still, she did not respond. Deliberately, the cat reached out a striped paw toward her wine glass. With the graceful economy of motion typical of his species, he nudged at the stem, just enough to send a torrent of Pinot Grigio spilling over the desk and diary.

“Heathcliff!” Miranda sprang from her seat to avoid being drenched with wine herself. “Bad cat!” She rushed to get a towel to sop up the moisture. “Oh, Heathcliff,” she said reproachfully, “how could you?”

The cat curled up on the corner of the desk, looking not the least chagrined. Meanwhile, the diary, though wet through, did not appear to be damaged. Miranda arranged it under the lamp, hoping that the heat from the incandescent bulb would help to dry the pages, and went out to the kitchen to wash her hands and refill her glass.

She returned to a marvel. The cream-colored pages baking in the lamplight were no longer blank. Even as she watched, writing darkened and became more distinct.

The hand was even, ornate, old-fashioned. And definitely feminine. Miranda could hardly breathe with the excitement. Someone else had confided in this diary, someone so chary of her secrets that she used disappearing ink for her confessions. As Miranda watched, the date at top of the page became clear.

June 12, 1886

I scarcely know how to commence this account of my adventures and my sins. Indeed, I do not fully understand why I feel compelled to commit these things to writing. Clearly, my purpose is not to review and relive these experiences in the future, for in twenty minutes’ time these sentences will be invisible even to me. Perhaps in the years ahead, I will trail my fingers across the empty parchment, colored like flesh, and the memories will come alive without the words, coaxed from the pages by my touch like flames bursting from cold embers.

I have a secret life, another self, and that secret has become a burden that I clutch to myself, and yet would be relieved of. So, like the Japanese who write their deepest desires on slips of rice paper and then burn them, I write of secret joys and yearnings, and send that writing into oblivion.

Want to know more about the diary’s secrets? Miranda’s Masks is available at Amazon, Smashwords, and other online bookshops.

Meanwhile, I hope you’ll leave a comment. Every message from you means two dollars devoted to saving North America’s great cats.

Be sure to visit the other bloggers participating in today’s Charity Sunday. You’ll find their links below.

The Most Romantic Book I’ve Ever Written - #ValentinesDay #Romance #Giveaway

Image by Jess Watters from Pixabay

 

When I began publishing, I considered my books to be erotica. Nevertheless, even my earliest work included a generous portion of romance. In Raw Silk, my first novel, the heroine embarks on a wild and uninhibited journey of sexual discovery, but ultimately she commits to the Master who initiates her into the joys of surrender. My second novel, Miranda’s Masks, likewise involves a lot of kinkiness and hanky panky, but concludes with a marriage (though not necessarily with monogamy).

I began writing for Totally Bound in 2006. Most of my titles during the next ten years would be labeled as romance, though as I’ve shared before, I struggled with some of the constraints imposed by the romance genre – especially the expectation that romance heroines usually don’t have sex with anyone other than the hero(es)! (And certainly not with the female secondary characters...!) My imagination runs to the pan-sexual, so I chafed under these rules.

You’ll find lots of love in my Totally Bound books. However, the most romantic thing I’ve ever produced (in my personal opinion) didn’t get written until after I’d thrown off the shackles of market expectations and started self-publishing. At that point, I could write what I want, including scenes and activities that would get me banned from standard romance. And yet I produced an intensely emotional romance in which the protagonists are completely focused on one another, where there’s no hint of any other sexual attraction, where the entire book involves the roller coaster of feelings as the heroine and hero struggle to bridge their differences and create a relationship.

That book is The Gazillionaire and the Virgin. It’s really different from anything else I’ve written – pure romance (though it has a lot of kinky sex). So I thought, for Valentine’s Day, the day of romance, I’d offer you an excerpt – and give away a free copy of the novel to someone who comments!

Romantic Excerpt

It won’t go away. All through the day—every day—need gnaws at my spirit. Whether I’m reading my email, meeting with my board of directors, preparing a presentation, closing a deal to acquire a promising start-up, discussing deployment of the next release with my engineering managers, I can’t shake the sense that something critical is missing. In yoga class, the aching knot just above my solar plexus doesn’t unwind, no matter how deeply I breathe. Driving to work, I have to force myself to pay attention. Otherwise, I drift off into recollections of my time with Theo—what he did, what he said, how I responded.

I miss him, miss him dreadfully, though it’s been only four days since we were last together. We’ve Skyped every night since the weekend, but somehow that only makes the hunger worse. When I see him there on my screen, grainy and over-exposed, all I want is to touch him—to brush the unruly hair off his forehead, to stroke his cheek, to trace the line of his plump, sensitive lips with my thumb. To offer up my own mouth for him to claim it, tear off my blouse and press my tits against his solid chest, sink to my knees and beg him to take me.

I’d be more than willing to strip and perform for him, to act out whatever lewd actions he ordered, but he refuses to become involved in any sort of phone or cyber-sex. “Everyone’s listening in,” he asserts. “The government. The neighbors. What you and I do should be private.” So we chat about safe topics—our work, what we’ve been reading, where we should go for dinner next weekend. All the while, lust burns in those bright eyes of his. I know what he’s thinking. I’m thinking the same thing.

I’m not expecting him to call Thursday afternoon. The trill of my phone interrupts me as I’m giving Diane instructions for tomorrow. Still, the sound of his voice kindles a warm joy in the pit of my stomach as well as a wetness between my legs.

“Hello. Rachel?”

“Hi, Theo. What’s up?”

“I want you to come early tomorrow. Around noon.”

“I—um—I really can’t. I’ve got an all-day meeting up in San Francisco, some investors from India.”

“Cancel it.”

“What? I can’t do that. These guys have come half-way around the world to talk to me about a franchise deal. Think of the potential profit! More than a billion people, a soaring GDP, and Internet growth that’s doubling every year…”

It’s the wrong thing to say. I realize this the moment the statement’s out of my mouth.

“So you care more about money than about me.” Not a whining complaint, but a dry statement of the facts, at least as Theo sees them.

“No, of course not, but I can’t put my personal life above my business…”

“You should.” I can picture his face, the stubborn set of his jaw as he retreats, distancing himself from me. “But never mind. Of course you’re too busy. I should have expected that.”

“Wait! Wait, don’t hang up, Theo.” I struggle to keep him engaged.

“What’s so important about tomorrow noon?”

“I want you to meet my sister. Ellen. She’s free for lunch tomorrow.”

“Can’t we do it Saturday?”

“She’s flying to Jamaica for a two week vacation with her partner Saturday morning.”

“What about when she gets back?”

“She doesn’t want to leave without talking to you. She says she’s worried about me, worried about our relationship. She’s afraid you’ll hurt me, break my heart.”

I’d never hurt you, I almost say, then understand I’m doing so at that very moment. And it feels horrible, like a knife twisting in my gut.

The wheels turn in my mind. Seeming a bit cool to the Indians might actually work to my advantage. And I really don’t want to disappoint Theo. “Hmm. Maybe I can reschedule the conference for Monday. I suspect they’d enjoy having a free weekend in the city… This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

“Ellen’s my only family. If you’re going to be my girl, the two of you should get to know each other.”

Am I your girl? I want to ask, but Diane’s still in the room, eyeing me curiously as she listens to my side of the conversation. “Okay, okay. I’ll see what I can do. Can I call you back in an hour?”

“Sure. Talk to you in an hour. Thank you, Rachel.”

“Well, I’m not sure yet. I mean, whether I can reschedule to Monday.”

“Thanks for trying at least. And Rachel?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t make your conference too early Monday. I plan to keep you up late Sunday night.”

My breath catches, my nipples bead and my pussy clenches. I hope Diane doesn’t notice. 

 

If you want to read more... just leave me a comment with your email address!

And Happy Valentine’s Day!

Basingstoke - #GilbertAndSullivan #FanFiction #Squee

Jessie Bond and Rutland Barrington in Ruddigore
Wikipedia: PD-US, Link

MARGARET. Oh, Master! Master! -- how shall I express the all-absorbing gratitude that-- (about to throw herself at his feet).

DESPARD. Now! (warningly).

MAR. Yes, I know dear—it shan't happen again. (He is seated. She sits on the ground by him.) Shall I tell you one of poor Mad Margaret's odd thoughts? Well, then, when I am lying awake at night, and the pale moonlight streams through the latticed casement, strange fancies crowd upon my poor mad brain, and I sometimes think that if we could hit upon some word for you to use whenever I am about to relapse—some word that teems with hidden meaning—like “Basingstoke”--it might recall me to my saner self. For, after all, I am only Mad Margaret! Daft Meg! Poor Meg! He! he! he!

DES. Poor child, she wanders! But soft—some one comes—Margaret—pray recollect yourself—Basingstoke, I beg! Margaret, if you don't Basingstoke at once, I shall be seriously angry.

MAR. (recovering herself). Basingstoke it is!

DES. Then make it so.

-- From Ruddigore, by William S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan

I'm not a “squee” sort of person. I have my passions, but they're not likely to sending me spinning off into mad expostulations of delight, like poor Margaret. (The one exception is an absolutely stellar review—but there's nothing unusual about that. All authors react similarly in that situation.) I'll experience a delightful sense of anticipation when I learn about a new movie by Pedro Almodovar or a new book by Haruki Murakami or Sarah Waters. I'll savor that internal hum of excitement as I prepare for a trip to some foreign destination I haven't yet visited. Overall, though, unrestrained squeals of irrepressible glee are not my style.

Except, of course, when I hear there's a Gilbert and Sullivan troupe in town.

My love affair with G&S goes way back. I was only six when my parents took me to a concert of G&S songs that featured the legendary Martyn Green. Objectively I recognize that I couldn't have possibly understood most of the patter, but the jaunty tunes immediately had me hooked.

After that, I attended G&S performances whenever I could. I think we must have had some records of the better-known operettas (yes, this was long before CDs) because the melodies and lyrics were familiar even when I was a teen. I remember seeing a stripped down version of Ruddigore with my dad when I was in college, in a theater in the round with just a piano. I recall several exquisitely professional stagings by the D'Oyl Carte Opera Company who was in residence for two weeks in the small city nearest my home town. And the university town where I lived for more than twenty years had a local light opera group who put on a different G&S operetta every November.

I still recall the excitement leading up to that annual treat. We'd reserve our tickets as soon as they went on sale, in order to make sure we had excellent seats. As the day grew closer, I'd sometimes listen to the opera (by that time I owned recordings of all my favorites), savoring my anticipation of the moment when the orchestra would commence the familiar medley of the overture and then the curtain would rise on the town of Titipu or the Tower of London, the rocky coast of Penzance or the “fishing village of Rederring (in Cornwall)”...I could hear the melodies ringing already in my mind, the brilliant lyrics, the tripping rhymes...I'd want to jump up from my seat and applaud wildly...!

Basingstoke.

Basingstoke it is.

My parents were both G&S fans; my volume of the complete plays has a inscription to my mother from her older sister, dated 1940, so perhaps my grandparents were too. The man who became my husband revealed to me early on a penchant for the quarrelsome duo (Gilbert and Sullivan were renowned for their sometimes acrimonious relationship). I will admit that this was one of the characteristics that encouraged me to submit to his attentions. Since we've been married, we've enjoyed many G&S performances together. He's more subdued in his appreciation than I am. In the run-up to the play, he doesn't dress up like Yum Yum or do the hornpipe like Dick Dauntless or carry on about his sisters and his cousins and aunts...!

Basingstoke.

Let it be so.

Some of you will remember the Rocky Horror Picture Show phenomenon. For me, Gilbert and Sullivan are a bit like that. I don't know how many times I've seen “The Mikado” or “Iolanthe” or “Ruddigore”. I know the songs and the dialogue so well that the anticipation is half the fun. I wait with baited breath for the fantastically twisted logic that will resolve the ridiculous problems of the characters.

FAIRY QUEEN. You have all incurred death; but I can't slaughter the whole company! And yet (unfolding a scroll) the law is clear—every fairy must die who marries a mortal!

LORD CHANCELLOR. Allow me, as an old Equity draftsman, to make a suggestion. The subtleties of the legal mind are equal to the emergency. The thing is really quite simple—the insertion of a single word will do it. Let it stand that every fairy shall die who doesn't marry a mortal, and there you are, out of your difficulty at once!

(From Iolanthe)

ROBIN. I can't stop to apologize—an idea has just occurred to me. A Baronet of Ruddigore can only die through refusing to commit his daily crime.

RODERICK. No doubt.

ROB. Therefore, to refuse to commit a daily crime is tantamount to suicide.

ROD. It would seem so.

ROB. But suicide is, itself, a crime—and so, by your own showing, you ought never to have died at all!

ROD. I see—I understand! Then I'm practically alive!

(From Ruddigore)

What subtlety indeed! What mad brilliance! And the language, so eloquent and articulate! Not to mention the music, often not appreciated (as Sir Arthur frequently complained) but far more complex than it first appears, with multi-part harmony, canons, madrigals, soaring arias, dark instrumental passages that evoke the powers of hell...!

Basingstoke.

Indeed.

My love affair with Gilbert and Sullivan has even seeped into my writing. My story “Opening Night” in the alternative history anthology Time Well Bent has the initial 1887 performance of Ruddigore as its background, as it postulates a homosexual seduction of Gilbert by a member of the cast. My novel Miranda's Masks (which has a Victorian subplot) includes a scene set in the opera house at the 1886 Boston premier of The Mikado. I've even toyed with the notion of an erotic ménage story featuring Dick Dauntless, Robin Oakapple and Rose Maybud (since in the play she clearly can't make up her mind between the two gentlemen). 

 

Would that count as fan fiction?

Would anyone other than a few old farts like me even recognize the allusion?

Who cares? Gilbert and Sullivan were geniuses whose oeuvre remains outrageously entertaining even in this era of instant communication and gratification. I don't have children, but if I did, I'd be playing light opera for them on a daily basis. Of course that would make it difficult for me to stay calm and fulfill my responsibilities. I'd be moved to sing, to dance, to laugh, to weep...!

Basingstoke.

(Deep breath.)

Basingstoke it is.