Boogie Night (#celebrity #porn #writing)

I live in a foreign country where porn is seriously illegal. I'm here by the grace of a government that could kick me out at any time. So these days my husband and I no longer indulge in the porn we used to watch occasionally, back when we lived in the U.S. -- back in the days of video tape cassettes. That's okay. Back then, most of the movies we sampled were rather boring and stereotyped, with buff, bulging, heavily-waxed protagonists who looked like plastic and “plots” so flimsy they didn't deserve the label. I don't find purely physical sex very erotic, in literature or in film. So much of the time, our porn experiences were rather disappointing. (Fortunately I had my resident stud to console me in the face of this disappointment!)

It looks as though the adult film industry may have matured, especially since so many women have joined the directorial ranks. Every quarter, when I write the Erotic Lure newsletter for the Erotica Readers & Writers Association, I survey the Best in Adult Films pages and pick out a couple of titles that look appealing. I'd love to have the chance to check some of them out, to see if my intuitions are correct. Alas, that's not really practical.

I love my adopted country, but I do feel rather isolated. I have to keep Lisabet Sarai strictly under wraps here. I don't get the chance to hobnob in person with my fellow erotica authors. I've known several of the Grip posters for nearly a decade, but I haven't actually met any of them in meat space.

Before we moved here, though, for one short period, I was part of the New York City erotica “scene” and it was a heady experience indeed.

Picture this: the dim, brick-walled basement of a funky bar in the Bowery, well-known as a venue for erotica gatherings. I'd attended several events there hosted by Rachel Kramer Bussell, doyenne of the New York erotica community. Now I'm hosting a release party myself, for not one but two new books: my third novel, Ruby's Rules, and the BDSM and spirituality anthology Sacred Exchange, co-edited by me and S.F. Mayfair.

The room is not exactly full – I've always been terrible at promotion – but the modest crowd includes both strangers and dear friends. One of the authors represented in Sacred Exchange has come all the way from western Pennsylvania to participate and to meet me. My closest girlfriend has driven in from New Jersey. Rachel is there, with her current flame. A small but appreciative group sips red wine or martinis, chats, laughs, and waits for the reading.

I am wearing a tight burgundy velvet cocktail dress with a halter neck that accentuates my cleavage. Underneath I'm wearing very little – the costume won't allow it. Despite the horrible pronated arches that usually keep me in flats, I've donned the highest heels I own. My hair is a wild mass of curls. I've exchanged my glasses for contact lenses and I've done the best I can with the unfamiliar eyeshadow, mascara and blush.

I climb the two steps to the podium in the corner, nervousness fluttering in my gut like a trapped bird. There's a spotlight trained on the pedestal, which is fortunate because otherwise I never would have been able to see the pages of my book. A hush comes over the crowd as they notice I've moved into position. I purse my lips around the mike and try to sound husky and sexy. I begin to read from the first chapter of my novel featuring the brilliant, ruthless and irresistible Ruby Maxwell Chen:

My silence is making my unfortunate guest even more nervous.

I lean forward slightly. Under the desk, I smoothly part my legs and spread them wide. Mr. Dalton’s eyes grow round and his mouth falls open at the sight of the black lace garters against my pale skin, and the jet triangle of hair framed between them.

“Well, Mr. Dalton,” I say finally, “I need time to consider the details of your proposal. However, I am confident that we can come to some understanding.”

“Uh...I...” He is rendered incoherent with confusion, embarrassment, and, I can clearly see, lust. I delicately part my silky fur to expose the damp pink folds of my cunt. I have been planning this for the past ten minutes, and I am wet with anticipation.

“I believe that you have said enough, Mr. Dalton. I will give you my answer shortly. In the meantime, I would appreciate your removing your jacket, your trousers and whatever you have on underneath.”

He wants to run, but my eyes hold him, my eyes and that moist, inviting chasm between my thighs. “Now,” I say, allowing a hint of sternness into my voice.

He complies, as I expect. My eyes give him no respite as he awkwardly sheds his clothes. He wears tight blue briefs that highlight every detail of his straining cock. The showy underwear is a present from his girlfriend, perhaps; he is too caught up in his ambitions to have a wife.

A blush is spreading over his fair complexion, and he hesitates to remove the briefs, though they hide nothing. I tap my pen on the desktop, feigning impatience. In truth, I love the suspense, the gradual, reluctant submission, the slow exposure of vulnerable flesh.

I continue for ten or fifteen minutes, losing my anxiety as the story takes over. I can feel the gaze of the audience. I am Ruby's voice. Though I'm two decades older and far less gorgeous than my heroine, I identify with her as I read. I am transformed into an object of desire.

The bar is silent when I stop. Then comes the applause: not thunderous – there aren't enough people here to thunder – but enthusiastic. I realize that my pulse is racing. When I excuse myself to go to the ladies' room, I discover that my panties are distinctly damp.

I return and the crowd closes around me, offering me copies of my books to sign.

For one moment in time, that one precious night, I felt like a star. 

 

Workout - My Entry in the Smut Olympics

Today the indefatigable Victoria Blisse and Lucy Felthouse are hosting the Smut Olympics, to celebrate the opening of the real Olympic Games in London. They've  invited all her friends and co-conspirators to post salacious excerpts with a sports, exercise or other active theme. I just couldn't resist. 

Below you'll find a snippet from Ruby's Rules. I'm in the process of revising this lust-drenched novel for a new publisher, but meanwhile, I found a part that fits today's topic quite nicely!

There are lots of prizes up for grabs - I'll join in by offering a copy of the M/M anthology Gaymes to one lucky person who comments. Don't forget to leave your email address. And note that some of the prizes are based on the length or quality of your comments - so be creative!

For more fun, head over to the Smut Olympics main page: http://smutinthecity.co.uk/smutlympics/

You'll find the list of prizes at: http://smutinthecity.co.uk/smutlympics/prizes.html

****

The gym is even darker than the corridor. Like Rick’s office, it has only small windows set high in the wall. I grope for the light switch, turning on the track lights overhead. Experimenting, I find that I can dim them down to a more pleasant, less blinding level.

I start with some stretches at the bar, watching myself in the mirror opposite me. I don’t normally spend much time gazing at myself. I know that I’m beautiful. But the woman I see reflected back at me tonight seems a stranger. Her petite frame, her small breasts, her delicate ankles, make her seem fragile. With my hair pulled back loosely, I look young. Innocent. Vulnerable.

I have to laugh at this fancy. I know that I am strong and full of power. I shift to one of the stationary weight machines, working my triceps and biceps until they burn. I’ve stopped watching myself. Next I turn my attention to my quads and adductors, pushing the weights apart as I open my thighs, working against their force to pull my legs back together again.

I work hard, trying to burn my arousal away into exhaustion. Somehow, it’s not happening. Every time I spread my thighs apart, I’m acutely aware of my throbbing, swollen clit, hidden in my soaked shorts. I increase the force and pace of my repetitions, determined to be the mistress of my body and my urges. It’s almost as though I’m climbing the slope to orgasm. The harder and faster I work, the more excited I become.

Finally, I have to stop. I lie back in the apparatus, panting. The room smells of musk and sweat. With a pang, I recognize the odor not only of my perspiration, but of his. Rick’s. Damn. I close my eyes wearily, willing my body to relax. Damn, damn, damn.

There’s a sound. My eyes fly open. I am no longer alone. For the briefest instant, I think that it’s Rick, and my heart accelerates as though I were still working the machine. Then, with an inner smile, I realize my error. Raoul.

“Ruby!” he says in that soft Latin voice. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. I had no idea that there was anyone here.”

He has obviously come for his own workout. He wears a loose pair of shorts, nothing else. My eyes trace the curlicues of hair on his muscled chest. I smile. He smiles, sniffs, strolls over to stand between my spread thighs.

“I was having trouble sleeping,” I tell him, knowing that he’s reading other messages in my body, in the air. “Exercise is usually a good way for me to get rid of tension.”

“Maybe I can help,” he says, almost whispering. His hands on the tops of my thighs, he leans over and kisses me full on the lips. It’s a simple, uncalculated kiss, no hidden agendas, no power trips, just texture, wetness, warmth. It’s an invitation.

I accept. As he bends over me, I raise my legs and clasp them around his waist. I can feel his delicious hardness, pressing against me through our clothing. He gives a soft laugh, pulls up my bra and takes my nipple in his mouth. Lovely, to feel that texture, warmth, wetness against that sensitive flesh.

He’s generous, gives me long minutes of bliss. When he stops, my nipples are round and rigid as ceramic beads. “Let me go for a moment,” he says, and I release the clutch of my legs.

He stands and with a grace I find in few men, removes his shorts. I can’t help but marvel at his beauty. Muscles that swell rather than bulge, curves that flow under his bronzed skin and lush fur. His cock juts proudly from a jet tangle at his groin. I have a sudden, uncharacteristic impulse to kneel at his feet and take him reverently into my mouth.

Before I can evaluate or act on this impulse, though, he seats himself on a recumbent stationary bicycle and leans back against the seat, one bare foot in each stirrup. His cock stands straight up, swaying a bit as he moves. It’s simultaneously silly and wonderfully lewd.

He grins up at me. “Care to come for a ride, Ruby?”

I don’t hesitate for more than a few seconds. It takes only a few more to remove my damp cotton garments and cross over to stand beside him.

“Climb on,” he says. His eyes are bright with lust, his lips parted. I swing my leg over the bike, straddling him, hovering above him. My pussy looms an inch or two above his waving erection, teasing. “Come on, Ruby. Don’t play games.” He grasps my shoulders and pulls me down onto his rod.

Oh, it’s so glorious to be filled this way! He’s hard as granite, thick, long, perfect. This, this is what I’ve needed all day. What I needed out there on Mulholland Drive, a cock stretching me and stroking me. Oh, yes.

For the most part, he lies still, giving me control. My feet reach to the floor, so I can piston myself up and down on his shaft, writhe and twist and grind myself against him anyway I wish. He does arch to meet my downward stabs, burying himself ever more deeply in my pulsing cunt. As I speed up, coming closer to my goal, he begins to play with my clit, delicate initially, then increasingly roughly. Oh, just the way I like, such a lovely generous man...

My climax slithers over me, smooth and polished as satin, rippling from my belly out to my limbs. Not the strongest come I’ve ever had. But such a relief after the evening’s tension! I lie on top of Raoul, catching my breath. His hardness is inside me still. He tightens his muscles and moves inside me, setting up lovely echoes of my spasms. I take my feet off the floor and hook my feet around his ankles, allowing all my weight to rest on his strength.

He doesn’t object. His cock twitches a bit as I move on him, readjusting. When I’m stable, he surprises me. He sits up a bit on the bike, and begins to pedal.

Ruby's Rules: Excerpt

Ruby Maxwell Chen, the beautiful and ruthless CEO of a huge British business empire, is used to getting her way. When she encounters American entrepreneur Rick Martell, though, she wonders if she hasn't finally met her match.

From the trendy clubs of London to the Hollywood Hills, Ruby and Rick compete for ownership of a strategic factory in Malaysia. Neither has any qualms about using sexual wiles to smooth the path to success.

Neither anticipates that their mutual attraction will turn into something more intense and difficult to control.

***

"Bravo." A soft, melodious male voice, and then the sound of applause. "I'm extremely impressed."

I pull myself abruptly upright. Did someone dare to watch me and my medieval servitor?

I have just been finger-fucked to exhaustion, yet my first reaction is a wave of total, incomprehensible lust. Incomprehensible because the man who stands between the parted curtains is not at all my type. He is short and wiry. His hair is scraggly and a bit too long around his ears, and he has a dreadful drooping black mustache. He wears nondescript jeans and a khaki shirt.

Somehow, though, he radiates sexuality. His aura is palpable, the air thick and sticky as syrup. He fixes me with his intense, dark eyes and grins. I feel like I am melting. I want to spread my legs wider, desperately offer my swelling sex for him to use as he will.

I struggle with my impulses, close my legs decisively and try to stare him down. "I gather you were spying on me and my admirer."

"Indeed. A most entertaining and instructive tableau." He enters the balcony-space, letting the curtains close behind him, and picks up the flogger. The knotted thongs dangle an inch above my cleavage. "You seem to be quite an expert in the arts of discipline."

"Hardly," I say, taking the whip from him, trying to take control of the interaction. "I am just beginning to explore the possibilities. But," I say, my eyes narrowing to watch his reaction, "I do find myself quite sensitive to my partners' desires to yield to my power."

"I could see that. You knew what he wanted, and you gave it to him." He pauses and searches my face. "But, do you know what I want?"

Truly, I have no idea. He seems fascinated by the flogger, but I sense only a hint of submission in him, a playful curiosity totally different from the aching need of my recent conquest.

His eyes play over my body in a leisurely fashion, appreciative, it seems, but not urgent. Surreptitiously, I glance at his fly: an appealing bulk there, but no indication of arousal.

I, on the other hand, am hornier than I have been in weeks. Maybe months. Or ever. My clit throbs like a sore tooth. I lean forward so that my breasts part invitingly, and lick my painted lips.

"Tell me what you want," I purr. "I'm feeling generous tonight, and just might grant your request."

He leans toward me in answer, and grasps my chin. Strange electricity flows from his touch. My breasts ache. My cunt is on fire.

"I want you to take me home with you," he says with a cryptic smile. And then he kisses me.

I am not sentimental. I am not romantic, susceptible, easily mastered. But I swear, I could drown in this kiss.

His lips are smooth and full, his tongue demanding. He tastes of peppermint, and behind that, an aromatic trace of pipe tobacco. I smell his cologne, something clean, woodsy, Scandinavian.

I do not want to give in, and yet I do. I return his kiss, open my mouth wide to his probing. He senses my partial surrender, and presses his advantage. He has slipped his hand inside my vest, now, and is pinching my nipple hard.

I love it. I am awash with lust. I am dying for him to take me. My sex is liquid, spilling over. My scent rises in the velvet-draped space. I know that I cannot hide my desire, but still I try.

"You seem most enthusiastic," I say, my voice surprisingly steady. "But why should I allow you into my personal space?"

"Because you want to," he says, deftly extricating my breast from its leather casing and planting a kiss on its tip. "And because you think that you will have more control on your home territory. As an interloper, I will necessarily be at a disadvantage."

He is right. Many women would feel vulnerable, bringing a stranger into their home, but I am more confident on my own turf than in some unfamiliar locale. I am astonished at his perspicacity. Who is this man? He appears so ordinary and yet there is both physical attraction, and psychological intrigue.

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Sunday Snog: A Kiss from Ruby's Rules

It's Sunday again, time for Sunday Snogging over at the blog of my friend Victoria Blisse. I had so much fun last week I decided to post another snog for your delectation today! This one is from my outrageous BDSM erotic romance Ruby's Rules, available from Eternal Press.

“Tell me what you want,” I purr. “I’m feeling generous tonight, and just might grant your request.”

He leans toward me in answer, and grasps my chin. Strange electricity flows from his touch. My breasts ache. My cunt is on fire.

“I want you to take me home with you,” he says with a cryptic smile. And then he kisses me.

I am not sentimental. I am not romantic, susceptible, easily mastered. But I swear, I could drown in this kiss.

His lips are smooth and full, his tongue demanding. He tastes of peppermint, and behind that, an aromatic trace of pipe tobacco. I smell his cologne, something clean, woodsy, Scandinavian.

I do not want to give in, and yet I do. I return his kiss, open my mouth wide to his probing. He senses my partial surrender, and presses his advantage. He has slipped his hand inside my vest, now, and is pinching my nipple hard.

I love it. I am awash with lust. I am dying for him to take me. My sex is liquid, spilling over. My scent rises in the velvet-draped space. I know that I cannot hide my desire, but still I try.

“You seem most enthusiastic,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady. “But why should I allow you into my personal space?”

“Because you want to,” he says, deftly extricating my breast from its leather casing and planting a kiss on its tip. “And because you think that you will have more control on your home territory. As an interloper, I will necessarily be at a disadvantage.”

He is right. Many women would feel vulnerable, bringing a stranger into their home, but I am more confident on my own turf than in some unfamiliar locale. I am astonished at his perspicacity. Who is this man? He appears so ordinary and yet there is both physical attraction, and psychological intrigue.

In Someone Else's Skin

Kate O'Neill, the heroine of my first novel, had quite a lot in common with her creator. Like me, she was petite and curvy, loved to dance, and was sufficiently adventurous to go live in Thailand. She had graduate degrees and worked as a software engineer, just as I did. True, she had flaming red hair – I've always wanted coppery curls instead of my mousy brown – and she was quite a bit younger than I was when I dreamed her up, but I think it's fair to say that many of her emotions, reactions and fantasies mirrored my own. Most importantly, the journey of sexual self-discovery that she undertook in Raw Silk paralleled my personal sexual quest, in spirit though not in detail.

Writing Raw Silk was surprisingly easy. All I had to do was look inside my own heart.

I shared a lot with Miranda Cahill, the protagonist of Incognito, too. Not physically – Miranda was a tall, slim brunette. However, otherwise, she was much like me in during my (many) years in college and graduate school: shy, hard-working, so serious that she doesn't always understand other people's jokes, but seething with desire and sexual curiosity underneath her prim, good-girl exterior.

By the time I got to Ruby Maxwell Chen, I was beginning to create characters whose emotions and history weren't copies of my own. For one thing, Ruby was bossy, bitchy and competitive – nothing at all like me...! Ruby was also far richer than I could ever dream of being, and part Chinese. I tried to make her cultural heritage an integral aspect of her personality. With Exposure's Stella Xanathakeos, I moved even further from my roots and comfort zone. Stella is working class and not particularly well-educated. She's streetwise in a way that I, a product of the suburbs and the American middle class, will never be.

In recent years, I've challenged myself to write characters with whom I have very little in common. In my short story “Fire”, my nameless character is a young man from the American midwest with a fetish that compels him to arson. The story is told in the first person – there could hardly be a voice more different than mine. “Refuge”, the story I wrote for Alessia Brio's charitable anthology Coming Together: At Last, is narrated by a dark-skinned youth from the backwaters of northeast Thailand, forced to join the army and work as a guard in a refugee camp by his family's extreme poverty. Necessary Madness features the rocky relationship between a homeless clairvoyant teenager and a bitter city cop.

As the social, psychological and experiential differences between me and my characters increase, it becomes more difficult to create characters with depth, breadth and believability. To succeed in capturing my readers, I need characters whose emotions and actions are both genuine and compelling. How can I step into someone else's skin and imagine his or her thoughts and feelings, when that person and I come from different worlds?

Part of the answer, for me, is my conviction that individuals, despite their backgrounds, histories, cultures and gender, are more similar than might be expected based on surface characteristics. Certain emotions are fundamental: fear, anger, desire, sorrow, joy. Although different people express and react to emotions differently, we all experience them. In fact, I think my job as an author is to elicit these emotions in my readers. The very act of creating characters with whom my readers can identify presupposes a level of emotional commonality.

So, when I am trying to create a character very different from me, I assume that I can still use my own emotional reactions as a starting point. This seems to work quite well for sexual desire. If my story requires a character whose sexual interests don't mirror my own, I begin by imagining a scene that does turn me on. Then I transplant my arousal to my character, focusing it on different objects or activities. In Raw Silk, my personal kinks drove the story, quite transparently. My lusts and fantasies still stoke the fire in my work, but now they're subterranean, roiling like molten rock beneath the surface of my characters' existence.

Imagination and analogy can take you a long way toward an understanding of life in someone else's skin. But this strategy will fail if not accompanied by research. Writing requires creation not only of your characters but also the world they inhabit. If you are writing a tale set in a different time period or culture (including a sub-culture), you need to have a deep sense of the world you're trying to evoke and the ways that it shapes its denizens. Assumptions, vocabulary, sexual practices and taboos will vary from one world to another. Sadly, I've read far too many historical romances in which the characters wear period costumes but think and act like representatives of modern Western culture.

So if you are writing, for instance, a homoerotic tale, you can't simply rely on your imagination to tell you how gay men interact. You need to watch and read gay porn. You need to talk to gay men and read about their experiences. In the case of M/M erotic romance, it also helps to read other authors in the genre and figure out what works and what doesn't.

This brings up the fascinating issue of realism versus expectations. I will use M/M erotic romance as an example here, but the same question arises with BDSM or interracial or lesbian or historical erotica. Readers have certain notions about what to expect from a particular genre. In the M/M romance I have read, the rough aspects of gay sex rarely appear. Furthermore, the fear of homophobic attacks, the stigma of being gay in an ostensibly straight society, the effects of HIV on the gay community, are mostly absent. I suspect that if an author tried to be realistic about the experience of being a man who desires men, a significant segment of the readership for M/M romance would be turned off, possibly even upset.

The same could be said of BDSM erotica. Most BDSM tales present an idealized dominant who magically understands the needs of the submissive. (Raw Silk is no exception.) They ignore the far more common situation of insecure, incompetent, ego-tripping or genuinely cruel doms. They usually omit the lengthy negotiation process between dom and sub, in which the pair explores the submissive's squicks and limits. It's far more exciting to imagine a master so intuitive, so attuned to his slave, that he understands what she wants and needs without any prior discussion.

Thus, research by itself is not sufficient. Once you understand how your character's world is different from your own, you still need to decide which differences to highlight and which ones to discard. Reviewing the conventions of your chosen genre can help, but this can also be a trap, producing cookie-cutter stories where the characters and situations are far too predictable to be interesting.

Slipping inside someone else's skin and writing from their experience is tough. It requires considerable effort and judicious craft. Writing characters that are similar to me is far easier. Sometimes I feel like being lazy, just opening up my mind and letting my perversions flow unchecked onto the page. When I do, though, I run the risk that I'll just be writing Raw Silk, over and over again. To keep my work fresh, novel, exciting to other readers as well as to me, I need to get away from myself, to look through the eyes of characters who see the world differently.

Intelligence is Sexy

What kind of heroes do you like? That's a topic that comes up all the time in romance author interviews. Alphas―tall, tough and taciturn, the kind of guys who take over and practically force you to love them? Betas―sensitive, responsible, best-friend type of guys who turn out to have harbored secret passions for years? Anti-heroes―bad boys who break all the rules and maybe even the law, but who are too sexy to resist?

My answer? I like smart guys. How the hero looks doesn't matter nearly as much as whether he's got something special between his ears. In the real world and in fiction (mine and the work of others), I find intelligence to be a turn on.

I'm a sucker for the brilliant nerd type. One reason is that I've known so many. (In fact, I married one!) I spent the first twenty six years of my life in school, getting more degrees than anyone should ever want. In the process, I met and loved my share of near-genius men―guys who could discourse for hours on the subjective nature of reality and the illusion of time, or create a mathematical model of the solar system, or build a functioning computer from bottle caps, paper clips and picture wire.

Why are intelligent men attractive? Well, for one thing, most are less likely to be threatened by an intelligent woman. Instead, they appreciate a companion who doesn't bore them. Insight or intuition often, though not always, accompanies intelligence―my genius guys sometimes knew what I wanted before I did. In addition, my experiences suggest that, contrary to the nerd stereotype, bright men are more highly sexed. Or just possibly they're more desperate, but the end result is the same―more passion!

I've written some alpha heroes, but many of my favorite characters don't fit the mold. One example is Rick Martell in Ruby's Rules. The whole book is a contest of wits, wills and sexual wiles, pitting Rick, a clever, charismatic (but not particularly handsome) entrepreneur against Ruby, the brilliant, subtle young CEO of an international business empire. Despite their fierce competition for ownership of a strategic semiconductor factory, Rick and Ruby find each other irresistibly attractive. In fact, the intellectual games they play only fan the flames of their mutual passion.

Here's a brief excerpt (R-rated), the scene where Ruby first meets Rick.

====================================================

“Bravo.” A soft, melodious male voice, and then the sound of applause. “I’m extremely impressed.”

I pull myself abruptly upright. Did someone dare to watch me and my medieval servitor?

I have just been finger-fucked to exhaustion, yet my first reaction is a wave of total, incomprehensible lust. Incomprehensible because the man who stands between the parted curtains is not at all my type. He is short and wiry. His hair is scraggly and a bit too long around his ears, and he has a dreadful drooping black mustache. He wears nondescript jeans and a khaki shirt.

Somehow, though, he radiates sexuality. His aura is palpable, the air thick and sticky as syrup. He fixes me with his intense, dark eyes and grins. I feel like I am melting. I want to spread my legs wider, desperately offer my swelling sex for him to use as he will.

I struggle with my impulses, close my legs decisively and try to stare him down. “I gather you were spying on me and my admirer.”

“Indeed. A most entertaining and instructive tableau.” He enters the balcony-space, letting the curtains close behind him, and picks up the flogger. The knotted thongs dangle an inch above my cleavage. “You seem to be quite an expert in the arts of discipline.”

“Hardly,” I say, taking the whip from him, trying to take control of the interaction. “I am just beginning to explore the possibilities. But,” I say, my eyes narrowing to watch his reaction, “I do find myself quite sensitive to my partners’ desires to yield to my power.”

“I could see that. You knew what he wanted, and you gave it to him.” He pauses and searches my face. “But, do you know what I want?”

Truly, I have no idea. He seems fascinated by the flogger, but I sense only a hint of submission in him, a playful curiosity totally different from the aching need of my recent conquest.

His eyes play over my body in a leisurely fashion, appreciative, it seems, but not urgent. Surreptitiously, I glance at his fly: an appealing bulk there, but no indication of arousal.

I, on the other hand, am hornier than I have been in weeks. Maybe months. Or ever. My clit throbs like a sore tooth. I lean forward so that my breasts part invitingly, and lick my painted lips.

“Tell me what you want,” I purr. “I’m feeling generous tonight, and just might grant your request.”

He leans toward me in answer, and grasps my chin. Strange electricity flows from his touch. My breasts ache. My cunt is on fire.

“I want you to take me home with you,” he says with a cryptic smile. And then he kisses me.

I am not sentimental. I am not romantic, susceptible, easily mastered. But I swear, I could drown in this kiss.

His lips are smooth and full, his tongue demanding. He tastes of peppermint, and behind that, an aromatic trace of pipe tobacco. I smell his cologne, something clean, woodsy, Scandinavian.

I do not want to give in, and yet I do. I return his kiss, open my mouth wide to his probing. He senses my partial surrender, and presses his advantage. He has slipped his hand inside my vest, now, and is pinching my nipple hard.

I love it. I am awash with lust. I am dying for him to take me. My sex is liquid, spilling over. My scent rises in the velvet-draped space. I know that I cannot hide my desire, but still I try.

“You seem most enthusiastic,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady. “But why should I allow you into my personal space?”

“Because you want to,” he says, deftly extricating my breast from its leather casing and planting a kiss on its tip. “And because you think that you will have more control on your home territory. As an interloper, I will necessarily be at a disadvantage.”

He is right. Many women would feel vulnerable, bringing a stranger into their home, but I am more confident on my own turf than in some unfamiliar locale. I am astonished at his perspicacity. Who is this man? He appears so ordinary and yet there is both physical attraction, and psychological intrigue.

======================================================

Of course, Ruby is as intelligent as Rick. That's a major part of the dynamic that propels this novel. I should have mentioned that smart heroines are my favorites, too.

Ruby's Rules - An Excerpt

Another excerpt, this time from Ruby's Rules. It's hard to know how to categorize this novel. It's definitely a romance in a sense. The hero and heroine are clearly in love, no matter how hard they fight against their feelings, and they get together in the end. On the other hand, the book might be labeled as erotica, since it includes scenes where the main characters are involved with other individuals. It also includes a lesbian sub-plot.

I guess you'll have to get a copy from Eternal Press and decide for yourself!

Blurb

Brilliant, beautiful and ruthless, Ruby Maxwell Chen heads the British business empire founded by her late father, tycoon Liu Shan Chen. She uses both her financial acumen and her sexual persuasiveness to turn every negotiation to her advantage. However, she may have met her match in Richard Martell, the charismatic CEO of an American high technology company, who challenges her claim to a chip fabrication plant in her native Malaysia.

Martell is as expert in the exercise of sexual power as she is, and just as willing to use his skills to advance his business objectives. He invites Ruby and her assistant Margaret to his enclave in Los Angeles, where the owner of the fabrication plant and his innocent daughter are enjoying a lengthy visit Ruby and Rick engage in an escalating contest of wits and of flesh that ultimately involves everyone around them, as each tries to make the other submit. Ultimately, there are some surprises in store for both of them, as they gradually recognize their mutual affinity, and the double-edged nature of power.

Excerpt – Adult

“Bravo.” A soft, melodious male voice, and then the sound of applause. “I’m extremely impressed.”

I pull myself abruptly upright. Did someone dare to watch me and my medieval servitor?

I have just been finger-fucked to exhaustion, yet my first reaction is a wave of total, incomprehensible lust. Incomprehensible because the man who stands between the parted curtains is not at all my type. He is short and wiry. His hair is scraggly and a bit too long around his ears, and he has a dreadful drooping black mustache. He wears nondescript jeans and a khaki shirt.

Somehow, though, he radiates sexuality. His aura is palpable, the air thick and sticky as syrup. He fixes me with his intense, dark eyes and grins. I feel like I am melting. I want to spread my legs wider, desperately offer my swelling sex for him to use as he will.

I struggle with my impulses, close my legs decisively and try to stare him down. “I gather you were spying on me and my admirer.”

“Indeed. A most entertaining and instructive tableau.” He enters the balcony-space, letting the curtains close behind him, and picks up the flogger. The knotted thongs dangle an inch above my cleavage. “You seem to be quite an expert in the arts of discipline.”

“Hardly,” I say, taking the whip from him, trying to take control of the interaction. “I am just beginning to explore the possibilities. But,” I say, my eyes narrowing to watch his reaction, “I do find myself quite sensitive to my partners’ desires to yield to my power.”

“I could see that. You knew what he wanted, and you gave it to him.” He paused, and searched my face. “But, do you know what I want?”

Truly, I have no idea. He seems fascinated by the flogger, but I sense only a hint of submission in him, a playful curiosity totally different from the aching need of my recent conquest.

His eyes play over my body in a leisurely fashion, appreciative, it seems, but not urgent. Surreptitiously, I glance at his fly: an appealing bulk there, but no indication of arousal.

I, on the other hand, am hornier than I have been in weeks. Maybe months. Or ever. My clit throbs like a sore tooth. I lean forward so that my breasts part invitingly, and lick my painted lips.

“Tell me what you want,” I purr. “I’m feeling generous tonight, and just might grant your request.”

He leans toward me in answer, and grasps my chin. Strange electricity flows from his touch. My breasts ache. My cunt is on fire.

“I want you to take me home with you,” he says with a cryptic smile. And then he kisses me.

I am not sentimental. I am not romantic, susceptible, easily mastered. But I swear, I could drown in this kiss.

His lips are smooth and full, his tongue demanding. He tastes of peppermint, and behind that, an aromatic trace of pipe tobacco. I smell his cologne, something clean, woodsy, Scandinavian.

I do not want to give in, and yet I do. I return his kiss, open my mouth wide to his probing. He senses my partial surrender, and presses his advantage. He has slipped his hand inside my vest, now, and is pinching my nipple hard.

I love it. I am awash with lust. I am dying for him to take me. My sex is liquid, spilling over. My scent rises in the velvet-draped space. I know that I cannot hide my desire, but still I try.

“You seem most enthusiastic,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady. “But why should I allow you into my personal space?”

“Because you want to,” he says, deftly extricating my breast from its leather casing and planting a kiss on its tip. “And because you think that you will have more control on your home territory. As an interloper, I will necessarily be at a disadvantage.”

He is right. Many women would feel vulnerable, bringing a stranger into their home, but I am more confident on my own turf than in some unfamiliar locale. I am astonished at his perspicacity. Who is this man? He appears so ordinary and yet there is both physical attraction, and psychological intrigue.

“Let’s go, then,” I say, trying to take the offensive.

“Just one moment,” he replies, and swallows me up in another one of those kisses. My resistance is even more feeble than before. After all, I tell myself, it is only a kiss.

The Essence of Romance

I began my career as a published writer submitting my work to imprints that labeled themselves as erotica: Black Lace and Blue Moon. I didn't realize that I was writing romance until publishers like Total-E-Bound and Phaze began accepting my submissions. I saw my novels as journeys of sexual self-discovery. In Raw Silk, Kate is an independent, self-sufficient woman who discovers a previously unsuspected but deeply rooted desire to be sexually submissive. In Incognito, Miranda, cruelly betrayed by her first lover, works to free herself from her sexual inhibitions, initially in encounters with strangers but finally in the arms of an extremely liberated partner.

It's true that in both those novels, as well as my third book, Ruby's Rules, the heroines eventually end up in committed relationships with the heroes. In fact, both are wearing engagement rings. I wasn't really focusing on the happily ever after when I was writing, though. My primary interest was in the exploration that led my heroines to their destinations, travels that included an awful lot of detours -- a bewildering variety of sizzling sexual scenarios, with new self-knowledge resulting from each encounter.

My heroines have a lot of sex, but they're not just having fun. Okay, well, they're having fun, too. But I'm continue to be fascinated by transforming power of sexual experience. That's one reason why I'm excited by the rise of "erotic romance" or "sensual romance" or whatever you want to call it - tales that include both love and graphic sex. Fulfilling sex is not just the final result of falling in love. It's part of the process, learning and sharing, drawing closer, dropping the masks. In sex we're more than just physically naked. Geez, reading what I just wrote, you all probably think that my work is really heavy and philosophical. Really, it's not! Here's an (X-rated) excerpt from Raw Silk to prove it:

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Katherine stood up and leaned on the gunwale, taking in the myriad sights of the river. Stretches of verdant jungle alternated with rickety-looking wooden houses, perched on stilts at the river's edge. Women in sarongs squatted on the porches of these shacks, doing laundry or cooking on charcoal braziers. The delicious smell of frying garlic came to her across the water.

She saw the slick heads of children, heard their shrill cries as they splashed each other. A flat-bottomed boat piled high with bananas passed their barge, propelled by a long pole in the hands of an elderly woman in a conical straw hat.

Then she caught sight of tiled roofs and gilded spires through the palm trees. It was a wat, a Buddhist temple, inaccessible except by water. A winding stairway led from the complex of buildings down to the shore. At water level sat a small pavilion, with the typical peaked roof and upturned eaves. Katherine saw a young man draped in orange robes seated there, pensively watching the river flow by. The monk looked up as they passed. Katherine felt an ache in her chest. His beautiful, serious face, lit by the late-morning sun, was too perfect.

Immersed in the scenes on the riverside, Katherine started when she felt Somtow's hands on her hips. She twisted around to look at him.

"No," he said, "please, just stay the way you are." She obeyed, turning back the river and leaning her elbows on the railing. She felt her skirt being drawn up, until it was around her waist. Next, her knickers were pulled down until they were at her ankles.

"Perhaps I should just stop wearing any underwear," Katherine remarked with a little laugh. Gregory's face flashed briefly in her mind's eye; she pushed the thought of him away.

"Perhaps that would be a good idea," said Somtow, completely serious. He helped her step out of the garment. "Now, spread your legs a bit, Katherine."

"What about the young pilot, and the girl who brought us the fruit?"

"They know better than to bother us," said Somtow. He was kneeling behind her. She felt his tongue, tracing a line up the inside of her thigh. "In any case," he said after a moment, "you would not really mind if they were watching, would you?"

He lingered in the crease where her thigh swelled into the fullness of her buttocks. Katherine let out an involuntary sigh, and opened her legs a little wider. She did not answer his question. Her imagination, though, supplied an image of the pilot and the serving girl, peaking out of the cabin at her bare backside, liberally anointed with her lover's saliva. The thought brought a strange, forbidden thrill. She imagined the pilot, unbuttoning the girl's top, while guiding her hand to his swollen cock. Somtow could see right through her, she realised, writhing as he swept his tongue along the length of her sex. He licked her in broad strokes, front to back, starting at her clit and moving smoothly to the spot where her aching pussy-lips came together again. She arched her back to give him better access, and closed her eyes, savouring the fantastic sensations he was giving her. She felt incredibly wet, from his saliva and her own juices. Sunlight reflected from the water danced on her closed eyelids. The low rumble of the barge's motor set up a sympathetic vibration in her limbs. She felt the roar of the engine deep within her pussy.

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Looking back now, I see that I've always been a closet romantic. I've never read much genre romance. Still, my all-time favorite books include Wuthering Heights (tragic, intense connection between fated soul mates), Jane Eyre (mousy governess struggles to win the love of her mysterious, brooding husband), H.Rider Haggard's She (eternal queen of a lost jungle civilation is reunited with her reincarnated lover), and Daphne du Maurier's delicious Frenchman's Creek (gorgeous, bored lady of the manor runs off with a dashing and dangerous French pirate).

During my youth, I was always in love with someone. I wrote pages of poetry, dripping with desperate longing. Love was clearly the ultimate experience. I never cared much about marriage (though as it happens I've now been happily coupled for twenty seven years) but I nevertheless have always been thrilled by the notion of finding the One, that special person who would complement and complete me.

Now that I've joined the erotic romance community, I find myself thinking about just what is the essence of romance. If you ask many readers, I suspect that they'll say, "oh, a happy ending". Or "a handsome, strong, but sensitive hero who's great in bed". Or "intense, caring, satisfying sex". Or perhaps, "a committed relationship". All of the above are conventional and important elements of the erotic romance genre. By my definition, though, what distinguishes romance from other fiction, and particularly from general erotica, is emotional connection.

Romance, for me, implies a unique linking of thought and feeling, the sense that the lovers are communicating at a level beyond the physical. Destiny. Telepathy. Perfect synchrony of fantasy and imagination. More than "chemistry", more than sexual skill, this kind of connection flows from the spirit even though it's expressed through the body. In Raw Silk, Gregory tells Kate that she was born to his lover and his slave. In Incognito, Miranda and Mark recognize each other, even in disguise. In Rendezvous, Tony explains that in all his decades of haunting the Rendezvous Motel, no one but Rebecca has ever been able to see him. Special. Unique.

Exceptional, out-of-the-ordinary connection, even when real world considerations seem to deny the possibility - this seems to me to be the core emotional aspect of romance. This is one reason why paranormal themes work so well in the genre. Paranormal tales free us to believe that that perfect mind-melding, that extraordinary conduit of thought and feeling, can literally exist.

How does this happen? It may be pre-destined, but it depends on trust. In order to connect, the lovers must be willing to open themselves, to drop barriers, release inhibitions, admit desires that might embarrass or frighten them. One reason why I write a lot of BDSM is that I'm fascinated, even awed, by the trust that both dominance and submission imply. The outer trappings of BDSM, the bonds, the whips, the nipple clamps, these aren't what is important. What's important, compelling, thrilling, is the way that the submissive surrenders herself (or himself), body and mind, to the dominant, trusting that he (or she) will know how to satisfy them both. Meanwhile, the dominant must trust that the submissive will communicate her true feelings, that she'll use her safe word if she

Trust lies at the heart of romance, vanilla or otherwise. The progress of a romantic plot often involves one or both of the protagonists learning to trust. Here's another (X-rated) excerpt for you, from my upcoming M/M release Necessary Madness, coming on December 28.

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“Oh, Rob… Oh yes!” Kyle crouched on all fours, his knees gathered under him, his butt in the air. He braced himself, forearms and forehead pressed against the handmade quilt, as Rob’s cock slid gradually into his well-greased ass. There was no pain—Rob had taken care to loosen him thoroughly, with blunt, slippery fingers—only pleasure so intense that it was scarcely bearable. The sensation of fullness grew as Rob pushed deeper. Kyle clenched his muscles around the thick rod invading him. Rob moaned and jerked his hips, filling Kyle completely. Kyle relaxed. Rob’s huge dick seemed to swell, stretching him further.

“Kyle baby, you feel so good. I don’t think I can last long.

“That’s okay,” Kyle gasped. “Don’t worry about that. Just fuck me. That’s all I want, to feel you move inside me.”

Rob answered by withdrawing his cock halfway. Before Kyle could protest, he slammed it back in with a force that rattled Kyle’s teeth. “Oh…” Kyle sighed as Rob thrust again, grinding his scratchy pubic hair against Kyle’s butt cheeks. “Oh yeah!” Again and again, Rob pulled back then buried his meat in Kyle’s ass, with a smooth, powerful rhythm that matched Kyle’s ragged breathing. Every stroke seemed to go deeper. Rob’s balls slapped against Kyle’s butt. The smell of their sweat mingled with the lavender Elspeth used to scent her pillows. Kyle spread his thighs wider and arched his back, wanting everything that Rob could give him.

The cop gripped Kyle’s thighs, holding him steady. Kyle couldn’t move, even if he’d wanted to. All he could do was take the pounding the older man gave him. Rob’s strength thrilled him. Pleasure shot through him each time that implacable cock drilled into his ass—bright sparks tingling along his spine, dark pulses coiling in his bowels. Kyle’s aching cock bobbed against his belly with each stroke, smearing him with his own juices. One fingertip on my dick would be all it would take, he thought. It would shatter like a Prince Rupert’s drop.

Kyle wanted more. Despite the force of his thrusts, Rob was holding back. Kyle could tell. “Please, Rob,” he urged. “Let go. Fuck me the way you want to. I can take it.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. You’re not used to this…”

“I want it—everything you’ve got. I want you to ream my ass until I can’t walk.”

Rob paused, his dick sheathed in Kyle’s rear. Kyle could feel Rob’s pulse against his inner walls. The cop leant his chest against Kyle’s back and licked his neck. Kyle shivered as pleasured raced down his spine to his cock.

“Are you sure?”

Kyle arched up, forcing Rob deeper. “Please. Take me.”

Something shifted. Kyle could feel it in Rob’s body. The older man ran his fingers through Kyle’s hair, smoothing it back from his brow. He dragged Kyle closer, his fingernails raking Kyle’s thighs. Kyle took a deep breath.

“I love you, Kyle,” Rob whispered, as he rammed his cock in so deep that Kyle felt it hit his pubic bone.

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At this point in the book, Kyle and Rob have known each other for about a week. They've had sex several times, but each one has been wary despite the attraction. Kyle, accustomed to being used and discarded, has been worried that Rob will desert him. Rob has been concerned by their age difference and the dangers of Kyle's psychic ability. Only in this scene do the two men release the final shreds of their resistance and open themselves completely to each other..

Yikes, I'm sounding like a professor again! Well, I guess I can't completely escape my background and education. I hope you'll all forgive me for my occasional lapse into a more serious vein. My recent experiences among romance readers and writers have made it clear that you're a fun-loving crowd, and that you like to be entertained.

As for me, I can't escape from my conviction that sex is more than entertainment. I think that a successful romantic fiction has to pull you in emotionally, make you believe that the heroine and hero are made to be together, make you feel the intangible spiritual connection when they physically touch.

That's the kind of romance that I want to write.

Anyway, I'd love to know what you think is the essence of romance. Does the hero have to be gorgeous? Does the heroine have to be monogamous? Does it have to have an exotic setting? Can a romance have a tragic ending? What's the most romantic book you've ever read, and why?

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ANNOUNCEMENT: Estella - you left a comment on the 14th and you are my winner, but I do not have your email. Please email me at the address in my December 14 post!