Charity Sunday: Cure SMA #CharitySunday #SMA @CureSMA

Welcome to the Charity Sunday blog hop for June!

Today I’ve decided to support the cause that started me doing Charity Sundays. Looking back, I was amazed to discover that was in June of 2017 – three years ago! Anyway, that first Charity Sunday was a post on behalf of my cousin Danny, who was born with Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA), a genetic disorder that affects roughly 1 in 11,000 births. SMA is a disease that robs people of physical strength by affecting the motor nerve cells in the spinal cord, taking away the ability to walk, eat, or breathe. It is the number one genetic cause of death for infants.

The majority of babies born with SMA die before they reach their first birthday. Danny was lucky enough to be in trial of the experimental drug Spinraza. He’s now five years old. Although he is still severely disabled, physically, he’s alive and active, going to school, supported by a loving family and an informed medical establishment.

CureSMA is an organization dedicated to fostering research on SMA, providing authoritative information for individuals and families dealing with SMA, and advocating for government policies that assist rather than disadvantage SMA sufferers.

Anyway, for today’s Charity Sunday, I will donate $2 to CureSMA for every comment I receive. And to give you something to comment on, here’s a quick excerpt from my latest release, D&S Duos Book 6. This is a snippet from the first story, “Muse”.

“Will you sign my copy of your book?”

Her wrist ached from two hours of autographs and she was desperate for caffeine, but she managed a professional smile. “Of course.”

The last person in a line that had stretched out the door at the start of the event, he didn’t look like her typical reader. His shaggy black hair needed cutting and he could have used a shave. He wore beige zip-up coveralls, a Yankees jacket, and dusty boots. A bit scruffy. Forgettable. His eyes, though, were anything but. They burned in his aquiline face, fierce, passionate, almost crazed. A quiver of unease swept through her. It was a terrible cliché – who would know better than she? – but in the intensity of that stare, she really did feel totally naked.

Smiling more broadly to hide her discomfort, she accepted the paperback he offered. The cover featured a powerfully built man in a leather hood with a scantily-clad blonde kneeling at his feet.

 

She flipped to the title page: Slave to Love by Melissa Appleton.

“To...?”

“To my master.” He pitched his voice low. No one else could have heard, but that didn’t stop hot blood from climbing to her cheeks or sudden moisture from soaking her panties.

“Excuse me, sir, but I don’t think...” She peered frantically around the bookstore, at the browsing customers and busy clerk. Nobody had noticed. Some force dragged her back to meet the brazen challenge in his eyes.

“You should think, Lissa. Is this what you really want?” He made a dismissive gesture toward the volume on the table. “Knotted silk scarves and soft, sweet kisses? Velvet blindfolds and spanking games? ‘Slaves’ who surrender for a half-dozen pages, then go about their lives as though nothing has changed?”

“I – my fans – the market...”

“Screw the market.” His coarseness made her shudder and yet her nipples snapped into tight, hard peaks as if he’d ordered them to attention. “You want more. I know you do.”

He loomed over the table, an undeniable presence despite his no more than average height. She shrank back into her chair, her pulse loud and fast in her ears, her thighs slippery. “I know you, Lissa. I’ve read every book you’ve written. I’ve watched you, on the street, at readings, working at your computer. You don’t want timid games. You’re afraid to admit it – I understand – but you want marks. Bruises. Blood. You want to be tested, stretched to the breaking point and beyond.”

He captured her right wrist in his big, bony hand. The fountain pen fluttered in her fingers like a caged bird. “Write me your fantasies, and I’ll make them real. Show me your rawest, darkest dreams – all the filthy details. Then trust me to fulfill them.”

Clearly he was mad. Perhaps even dangerous. She should call Jeremy, the manager, or the security guard who was taking a break now that the crowd had dispersed. Somehow she couldn’t move. His grip wasn’t tight. She could have pulled her hand away. But his eyes bored into her and his voice stilled her, holding her transfixed like a pinned insect.

“I can’t...” she murmured.

“I say you can. If you choose.” He leaned closer, until she felt his warm breath on her face. He smelled of tobacco and wood varnish. “It’s up to you, Lissa, to take the first step.”

D&S Duos Book 6 is available at all your favorite online bookstores.

Kinky Literature – https://www.kinkyliterature.com/book/6899-ds-duos-book-6/

Amazon US – https://www.amazon.com/D-S-Duos-Book-6-ebook/dp/B087HHF835

Amazon UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/D-S-Duos-Book-6-ebook/dp/B087HHF835

Smashwords – https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1017280

Barnes and Noble – https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/d-s-duos-book-6-lisabet-sarai/1136902309?ean=2940164047849

Kobo – https://www.kobo.com/th/en/ebook/d-s-duos-book-6

Add on Goodreads:

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/53300074-d-s-duos-book-6

Don’t forget to leave a comment! Every one of them helps kids like my cousin Danny.

And while I’ve got your attention – I do hope you’ll visit the other bloggers participating in today’s Charity Sunday. Each one of them is showcasing a cause dear to her heart.

Charity Sunday for Sex Workers - #SWARM #CharitySunday #SexWorkers

Welcome to Charity Sunday for May. This month I’m supporting what some people may view as a controversial cause – an organization that supports the rights, safety and well-being of sex workers around the world. SWARM (Sex Workers Advocacy and Resistance Movement) is a sex worker led collective based in the UK. The project was founded in 2009 to advocate for the rights of everyone who sells sexual services. Their goal is to build a diverse and inclusive community of sex workers who cooperate, educate and legislate to improve working conditions and resist violence.

Why do I care about sex workers? That’s not a cute and cuddly sort of charity. There are some who believe that sex work is immoral, that prostitutes are inherently sinful and wicked, that selling sexual services should be completely outlawed. Yet many research studies have shown that criminalization of sex work does nothing to reduce the number of people involved. It just increases the risk for both workers and their clients. The WHO has called for all countries to make progress toward making sex work legal and recognizing it as a legitimate occupation.

Meanwhile, the COVID-19 crisis and resulting lockdown have had a truly dire effect on sex workers, around the world. They have no source of income and no safety net. Most countries won’t provide unemployment benefits or emergency assistance to sex workers. Even in places where sex work is legal (for instance, in Germany), many prostitutes have been evicted from their apartments, provided by their brothels in return for a monthly fee which, now, they cannot pay. In some cases they must choose between likely contagion and starvation.

https://www.leidenlawblog.nl/articles/the-precarisation-of-sex-workers-during-the-covid-19-pandemic

https://www.hrw.org/news/2020/05/04/sex-workers-struggle-survive-covid-19-pandemic

https://www.theguardian.com/society/2020/apr/13/uk-sex-workers-in-dire-and-desperate-state-amid-coronavirus-lockdown

Their situation is truly desperate. And I want to make at least a token effort to help – and to both acknowledge their humanity and their need.

Of course many people are facing terrible physical and economic hardship at the moment. But they’re respectable. Sex workers aren’t. A lot of people would like to believe sex workers don’t exist – or to blame them for their own plight – but that’s both unfair and unrealistic.

Anyway, I’ll get off my soapbox and just say that I’ll donate $2 to SWARM for every comment I receive on this post. I hope you have the courage to speak your mind.

Meanwhile, I have an excerpt from my erotic thriller Exposure. Stella Xanathakeos, the heroine of that novel, is a stripper, not a prostitute, but she faces a lot of same dangers and the same prejudice.

I strip for the fun of it. Don’t let anyone tell you different. It’s not the money. I could make nearly as much working at the mill and keep my clothes on, but then I’d have to suck up to the bosses. Here at the Peacock, I’m the one in charge, and I like it that way.

Sometimes I think it’s a sort of revenge, for all the times I heard those nasty calls trailing after me: Honey Jugs, Monster Boobs, Bouncer. Not to mention those sweaty, awkward clinches in back seats, trying to please. Trying to be popular. Now they can’t take their eyes off my breasts, swinging back and forth in time to the music. Their tongues are hanging out. I can see the tents in their laps. They all want me. I know how to make them want me. I’m an expert. But I’m off limits. They can look, they can drool, they can beg me. But my job’s to turn them on and bring them to the bursting point, then send them home unsatisfied.

That’s my view, anyway. Some of the other girls think different. All in all, though, the Peacock Lounge is a pretty classy joint, not like some of the sleaze pits down near the railroad.

I love the moment when the lights come down, and the DJ introduces me. There’s this strange pause, as if I was floating. I can feel them out there, the audience, holding their breath. Then, I hear the first notes of my routine. Energy surges through me. I’m one hundred percent alive. My nipples get hard and my sex tingles when I step out onto the stage and meet their eyes.

That’s my secret weapon: eye contact. Up close and personal. I can bump and grind, shake my tits in their faces, bend over so they get a good look at the G-string settled in my ass-crack. It doesn’t do any good without my stare. I try to see their darkest fantasies. This one pictures me sitting on him, his mouth burrowing in my bush. That one wants me to hold his dick while he pees. That guy in the back, oh, he’s bad news. He aches to tie me up and beat me with his belt. Tough luck, feller. Dream on.

I don’t know whether what I see is real or just my imagination, but it has a real effect. They feel my eyes. They think I know them. They get all flustered and embarrassed, wave to me, stick their tens and twenties into my G-string. Watching me, anxious-like, all the time.

Meanwhile, it turns me on. I dance a lot better when I’m horny. Sometimes I play with myself a bit before my set, to get myself into the mood. Then I hold my fingers under their noses, and watch their reactions.

I feed off their desire. The more they want me, the hotter I get, the better I dance. The more outrageous I become. So, it’s particularly annoying tonight that this one guy in the front row doesn’t react at all.

It’s early, and it’s Monday, slow. He’s the only one sitting close enough for me to use my stare, and it isn’t working. He’s good-looking in a clean-cut, straight-laced sort of way. Blond crew cut, blue-eyed, muscles that show even under his expensive suit. At least it looks expensive to me.

He has not taken his eyes off me since I strutted onto the stage, but his face is without expression. It’s like he has walls behind his eyes. 
 

I can’t see into him at all. Now it’s me that’s getting frustrated and hot under the collar. I’ve already stripped down to my pasties, boots, and thong. I peel one of the tassels off my nipple and dangle it in front of him. He looks only at my eyes. He’s measuring me, sizing me up for something.

I prance around on my stiletto heel boots. I shake my hips, do a slow, sensuous shimmy, cup my tits in my palms and offer them to him. No reaction. I take off the other tassel and attach it behind, where my butt cheeks meet, a lewd little tail. There’s a whistle from a table in the back, but Mr. Clean just continues to study me.

Damn him. I’m sweaty from the effort. My cunt is throbbing in time with the music. I can feel that the shred of nylon running between my legs is sopping. Fixing him with my best stare, I sink onto my knees in front of him, thighs spread wide. Then I slide both my forefingers inside the G-string and start to touch myself. We’re not supposed to do really explicit stuff like that. If Joey, the owner of the club, saw me, he’d give me hell. But this is a desperate case. I will not allow this guy to get the better of me.

I’m actually quite close to coming, when finally I see him give a little smile. So maybe he is enjoying himself after all. My music is ending. Time for the grand finale. Standing up, I unsnap the sides of the thong and pull it back and forth through my crotch a couple of times. Just to make sure it’s totally saturated. Then I drop it in the guy’s lap and strut off the stage, naked except for my boots.

I can hear applause and yells from the table near the back. I’m shaking, pissed off, and horny at the same time. Who does that character think he is?

When I calm down a bit, I put on my kimono and go check out the crowd. A few more tables are occupied now, and there’s a rowdy group at the bar. Meanwhile, Mr. Clean hasn’t budged. When he sees me, he beckons me to come over.

“Good evening,” he says, very polite. “I enjoyed your performance.”

Oh, yeah? I think to myself. “Glad to hear it,” I say out loud.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Thanks, but I don’t drink.”

“What’s your name?”

“Stella.”

“Stella what?”

“Stella Xanathakeos,” I say, smiling despite myself at his reaction.

Not your typical stage name. But why should I pretend to be somebody else?

“Well, Miss Xana—Xanathakeos, I have a business proposition for you.”

“Look, I’m no hooker.”

“That’s obvious, Miss Xanathakeos. You have a presence on stage, a special flair that marks you as a true artist.”

Bullshit, I think, but his politeness is softening me up anyway.

“I have an associate who has a particular fondness for voluptuous women of Mediterranean complexion, like yourself. I’d like to engage you to give him a private performance.”

“I don’t know...” I begin.

“I’ll pay you five hundred dollars,” says Mr. Clean. “Two hundred fifty in advance and the rest after you dance for him.”

Well, that stops me for a minute. Like I said, I don’t do this for the money. But five hundred dollars would bring me a lot closer to that trip to Greece I’ve been saving for. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve wanted to see the Parthenon, the island of Rhodes, the ancient ruins at Salonika. My dad used to talk about Greece all the time, how the sky was blue as crystal and the air smelled like wine. “All I have to do is dance?”

“That’s right. Your usual routine, or something more creative, if you like.”

“Where and when?”

“Tomorrow night, around eight o’clock, at the Hyatt downtown. I’ll give you the room number.”

“How long will it take?”

“An hour at most. You can be back here at the Peacock by nine thirty.”

I consider the question. Can I trust this guy, with his closed-up face? He’s already holding out two C-notes and a fifty, confident that I’ll accept. What the hell, I decide finally. I’ve got my Mace, and I can deliver a mean kick in the balls. I can take care of myself.

If Exposure sounds interesting, you can pick up a copy at Amazon, or Smashwords, or Excessica. You might also like the audio version.

Please don’t forget to leave a comment! And I hope you'll visit the other bloggers participating in today's event.

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

 

Welcome to Charity Sunday for April 2020.

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

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

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

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

https://www.amnesty.org/en/

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Krishna,” I murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His beautiful face hovered inches from mine. He dropped his eyes, focusing on his bound wrist.

 

“No,” I protested, lifting his chin so that he could not look away. “Look at me, for once. I've been trying to get your attention for months. You're not getting away from me this time.”

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

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

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

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

“Please, Liz!” Krishna looked miserable and needy.

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

“No, please...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charity Sunday: More free reading to keep you sane #freebooks #ProjectGutenberg #CharitySunday

As the COVID-19 epidemic continues to spread, people around the world are adjusting to new constraints on their movements. Many of us are more or less stuck in our homes, with little to do but worry about the future.

Worry is not healthy. Stress undermines your immune system. Instead of worrying, why not curl up with a good book?

Books can be expensive, though. And these days, many of us are facing serious financial concerns.

So, do you know about Project Gutenberg?

Project Gutenberg is a volunteer effort that digitizes and distributes free ebooks, in English and other languages. You can read about its history here. Founded by author Michael S. Hart in 1971, it is the world’s oldest digital library. The goal of the project is to make public domain works, especially literary classics, available to as wide an audience as possible. Currently the project offers more than 60,000 titles. You can search by author or title, go see the recently added books, or use the categorized listing.

Browsing the catalog can be great fun. You never know what gems you will discover. It’s also a great source for classic books you somehow never read. Recently, for instance, I saw a review on Goodreads for Anne Brontë’s classic The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights were among my favorite titles during my youth, but I’d never sampled anything by the third Brontë sister. I have now remedied that omission! (Review coming soon...)

If you’re not in the mood for a classic, you can also find contemporary titles, donated by the authors. I just finished Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom, a rather prescient science fiction novel by Cory Doctorow.

You can download books in many formats - not only PDF, EPUB and Kindle formats but in many cases, plain HTML and text versions as well. So you don’t need an ereader to take advantage of its riches.

In short, if you’ve got reading time on your hands these days, but you’re short on cash, you might want to explore their excellent website.

Project Gutenberg is staffed by volunteers, but needs funds for computing resources, professional services and so on. So today I’m running a Charity Sunday for the project. If you love reading, leave me a comment. I’ll donate $2 to the project for each comment I receive.

Meanwhile, I have an excerpt for you from another “bookish” title of mine. This is a bit from Damned If You Do. The main character is an author of erotic romance who’s struggling to make a living through her writing. (Sound familiar, anyone?)

Excerpt

Her four dollar cup of Americano, now cold, tasted like muddy pond water. With a bitter sigh, Wendy Dennison, aka romance stalwart Gwen Diamante, iconized her browser and popped up her work in progress. The word count in the bottom status bar accused her of sloth and incompetence. She should know better than to check her sales stats and reviews before she’d produced at least a couple thousand words. Nothing sapped her motivation for writing a new book as much as surveying the tepid response to her last one.

Maybe another coffee would help. Extravagant, yes, but she needed a kick in the butt to get her out of her slump. She signaled to the cute college guy behind the counter, pointing to her cup. “Can I get another hit, Eric?”

The gangly kid grinned at her. “Coming right up, Wendy.” A mass communications major at the University of Pittsburgh, he treated her like minor royalty. Clearly he thought it was the ultimate in cool to be serving a real live published author. If he only knew the truth.

Wendy typed a four line sentence and scowled at her laptop screen. She highlighted the second clause and swapped it with the first. After staring at the page for a few minutes, she hit “Undo”. She turned the first clause into a participle instead, then tried replacing a pronoun with the character’s name. That didn’t really help either.

Eric removed the stale cup to her left and set down a steaming, fragrant mug in its place. “Two sugars, right?”

Still wrestling with her recalcitrant prose, Wendy gave him a cursory nod. Then she realized how impolite that must seem. “You’re a darling. Thanks so much!” The barista pushed his shaggy brown hair off his forehead and beamed at her. Wendy’s black mood brightened a bit.

With pierced earlobes, Black Sabbath tee shirts, and artfully threadbare denims, Eric had a sort of punk sex appeal. Wendy let herself imagine how he’d look naked—all wiry limbs and pale skin, with a bushy nest around his cock, which would be long and slender, like his tall, lanky, not-quite-mature body. Hard, of course. Young guys always were.

He’d be willing to wait though, to give her pleasure before taking his own. She saw him kneeling between her spread thighs, wearing a worshipful expression. He leaned in to flick at her clit before running his tongue firmly along the cleft between her swollen lower lips. Oh my God! Did he have a stud embedded in his tongue?

“Can I get you anything else?”

Eric’s voice hauled her back to reality.

“Oh—um— ” Blood heated her cheeks, especially when she realized how damp her panties had become. What was she thinking? He was young enough to be her son!

“We’ve got a special on cream cheese brownies. Two for one.” He lowered his voice to a seductive purr, apparently aware he was tempting her.

Wendy recalled both her financial constraints and her depressingly accurate digital bathroom scale. “I really shouldn’t,” she replied, determined to do the right thing.

“C’mon. You need the energy to fuel your creativity! Eat one now, and take one home for later.”

“Well…” Saliva pooled in her mouth as her resolve wavered. She could always skip dinner. “I did have a salad for lunch…”

“Two sinfully rich double fudge cream cheese brownies, coming up.” Her youthful admirer gave her another grin. “Don’t worry. They’re small.”

She turned back to the computer, scrolling back to read the previous few paragraphs. The tension between her heroine and her hero sizzled, but somehow she couldn’t get them out of flirting mode and into bed together. They resisted her every attempt to move them in the directions prescribed by her outline.

Maybe she should switch genres. Try some sweet romance for a change. Or a cozy mystery. Those seem to be selling pretty well these days.

She knew from experience, though, that she’d never succeed in keeping the sex out of her books. Her imagination naturally flowed in carnal directions.

Please don’t forget to leave a comment! Every one is a contribution to the world’s biggest library of free digital books.

And if you want some of my books free, check out my post from yesterday. I’ll be announcing more free Lisabet Sarai titles later this week.

Charity Sunday: Room to Read - #CharitySunday #Literacy #BlogHop

Nearly two years ago, I dedicated a Charity Sunday post to Room to Read.

Room to Read is an organization promoting literacy, education and gender equality worldwide, but especially in lower income countries. Since it was founded in 2000, Room to Read has constructed over 1,900 schools and established more than 17,000 libraries. The charity has published more than 1,100 original local language children’s titles and distributing over 15.5 million books. More than 31,000 girls have received enhanced educational opportunities and life skills training. Overall, Room to Read has impacted the lives of more than 10 million children, in places like Laos, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Tanzania, Cambodia and South Africa.

I got an incredible response to that post. I’m guessing this is because people who follow my blog love to read as much as I do, and deeply appreciate the importance of literacy. Books are our joy; we want to share that joy.

So my post today is a reprise. For each comment I receive on this post, between now and next month, I will donate one dollar to Room to Read. If you’re here, reading this – please take a minute or two to comment. It doesn’t cost you a penny to do a bit of good for the world.

Today is also our first attempt at making Charity Sunday into a multi-author event. After my usual excerpt, you’ll find a list of links to the sites of other authors who are participating today. Note that each individual author chooses his or her own charity to support, and decides how much to donate. I’m just the organizer!

Speaking of excerpts, here’s a sexy bit from my recently released erotic romance The Heart of the Deal. Not much reading going on here – but it’s definitely about female empowerment!

My father always recommended physical activity as an antidote to stress. So, here I am at Proscenium, lately my favorite club. I need to move, to dance, perhaps to indulge in more specialized exercise.

Proscenium is housed in a remodeled movie house from the forties. The stage has been extended out to become a dance floor. A carved and gilded ceiling arches high overhead, crisscrossed by multicolored lasers. With the seats removed, the sloping orchestra pit gives one a slightly dangerous feeling of vertigo. Like the stage, it is packed with writhing bodies clothed in vinyl, spandex, fake fur, and leather. I see a good deal of bare skin as well.

The main balcony is equipped with a bar and crowded with wobbly tables and chairs. The curtained side balconies are also open, available for more private encounters.

I am in my Asian bitch goddess mode. I have pulled my hair back into a long, tight ponytail that hangs down to my waist. I am wearing butter-soft, black leather: laced vest, miniskirt, stiletto-heeled boots, broad studded belt. From that belt hangs an elegant little flogger, a statement and an invitation. My eyelids are silver and my lips are scarlet. I am gorgeous, I know, an exotic vision of female power.

I stride into the churning mass of dancers on the stage and begin to dance. The music pulses, alien and compelling. Techno is not usually to my taste, but tonight it suits my mood.

Swirling, grinding my hips, flicking my hair from side to side, bathing in the heat of the flesh around me, I am beginning to feel better. Richard Martell had best beware if he plans on crossing Ruby Chen.

Part of me is lost in the beat and the movement. But I am also scanning the crowd, seeking an appropriate partner. I notice him just as he sees me. He is a bear of a man, with lush black hair and a beard. He’s dressed in medieval mode, a flowing shirt of royal blue whose open-laced neck shows more hair on his chest. Riding boots, leather wrist-cuffs, a chain-mail bag at his waist. Despite his size, he moves well. His tight suede leggings show off his muscled thighs. As I hold his gaze, I also can see the telltale swelling at his groin.

With the slightest motion of my head, I summon him to me. He towers above me, despite my four inch heels, but when I fix my eyes on his, he cannot sustain the contact. Instead, he looks down at the instrument of punishment on my belt, half-fearful, half-eager. He licks his lips.

“Let’s dance,” I say, more a command than a suggestion. He nods, and we begin to move together.

I shake my shoulders, my hips. Thrust my breasts forward, so that the thong lacings part and he can see the shadowy valley of my cleavage. My body is close to his, close enough for me to smell his nervous sweat, but I do not allow us to touch. My crotch dampens. That familiar, demanding ache rises in my sex. I trail my fingers through the air, across his body, a hair’s breadth from his bulking erection. So little space between us—does he catch the musky scent of my desire?

I lean a little closer, so that he can hear me over the whine of the synthesizer. “You were staring at my whip. Do you like it?”

Underneath his beard, he blushes. He nods, reluctant but obviously excited.

“Do you want it?” I ask, pushing him further. “You will have to earn it, you know.”

The music is too loud for me to catch his response. But I see his answer in his face.

“Come with me, then.” I turn and slink toward the side corridor, heading for one of the private balconies. I do not look back, but I can feel him following me, sense his eyes on the tight leather that sheathes my hips.

When he parts the velvet curtains, I am already ready for him, sitting on one chair, legs apart with a booted foot on each of two others.

“Remove your shirt. And kneel.”

He does not require more explicit instructions. He pulls his lovely blue tunic over his head. His torso is powerful and darkly furred. His bulk making him a bit clumsy, he lowers himself to the appropriate position between my thighs, then looks up at me for further orders.

Buy Links for The Heart of the Deal

Kinky Literature

https://www.kinkyliterature.com/book/6188-the-heart-of-the-deal-business-bondage-discipline-and-desire/

Amazon US

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07SJY8PTC

Amazon UK

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07SJY8PTC

Smashwords

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/942426

Barnes and Noble

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-heart-of-the-deal-lisabet-sarai/1131920310?ean=2940163239221

Kobo

https://www.kobo.com/th/en/ebook/the-heart-of-the-deal-business-bondage-discipline-and-desire

Add on Goodreads

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/46258845-the-heart-of-the-deal

Please leave a comment letting me know your thoughts, and share the gift of reading. Then I hope you’ll visit the other authors who are participating this Sunday.

Here's the direct link to the Calendar Girls post:
https://rusticatinginthetropics.com/2019/08/25/charity-sunday-calendar-girls-florida/