If
you survey my back list, you’ll get the definite – and correct –
impression that I’m interested in power exchange. I prefer that
term to the more succinct “BDSM” or “D/s”, because it better
expresses the nature of my fascination. For me, the attraction of
BDSM lies in the intimate and complementary connection between the
dominant and the submissive. The submissive voluntarily surrenders
power to the dominant, who explicitly accepts both that power and the
concomitant responsibility for the sub’s welfare. This is the core
transaction. Whatever happens afterward – spanking, bondage, fire
play, needle play, sensory deprivation, as well as explicitly sexual
activities – depends on this mutual trust.
You
can have power exchange without traditional BDSM activities. If you
can ask, “who’s on top?” and get a clear answer, you may have a
power exchange situation going on, even if none of the familiar BDSM
trappings are present.
I’ve
labeled my most recent novel, The Heart of the Game, as
“BDSM”. It is all about power, and the way it shifts among the
characters. However, in many of the erotic scenes, there’s not a
whip or handcuff to be found. Nevertheless, much of the excitement
derives from the underlying power exchange.
Here’s
an example, an exclusive excerpt not previously available online.
~~~~
It
hits me like a ten ton lorry when I get to my room. Desire: intensely
physical, wet, hungry, messy, uncontrolled desire. I somehow managed
to stifle it during my conversation with Rick, but now it pounces,
threatening to tear me apart. Without ceremony, I thrust my hand into
my soaked panties, frantically kneading my swollen clit. In fifteen
seconds I’m panting on the bed, shivering in the aftermath of my
climax.
Now
that that is over with, I can think more clearly. My lust simmers
rather than boils. I turn off all the lights in the room, and open
the blinds.
Rick’s
room is across from mine. I noticed this during his tour. His blinds
are shut, but I can see his form silhouetted against them.
In
the dark, I find my red satin nightgown and slip it over my head. The
fabric slithers coolly over my still-heated flesh. It’s a simple
garment; spaghetti straps, plunging neckline, and sides slit to the
top of my thighs.
Next,
I remove the light bulb from the lamp by the bed and throw it into
the wastebasket.
Finally,
taking a deep breath, I press the button labeled “4” on the
intercom panel.
“Raoul
speaking. Can I help you?”
“This
is Ruby. Sorry to bother you, but my reading light seems to be
missing a bulb.”
“I’ll
be there in a flash.”
For
the next ninety seconds, I sit on the bed in the darkened room,
watching my breath flow in and out, trying to calm my heart.
There’s
a knock, and then a soft, Spanish-tinged voice. “Ruby?”
I
stretch out on the bed, adjusting my position so that my hips swell
provocatively under the crimson satin and the fabric parts to reveal
my bare thigh. “Come in.”
Turquoise
reflections from the swimming pool outside are the only illumination.
Still, I know that Raoul can see well enough. There’s a sharp
intake of breath as he takes in my attire and my posture. I pretend
not to notice. “It’s that lamp, there on the night table.”
He
leans over to fumble with the fixture. His naked forearm, furred with
fine black hair, is inches from me. I catch a whiff of his sweat as I
prop myself up on one arm, as if to supervise. I am beginning to
enjoy myself.
My
strap slips off my left shoulder. My left breast tumbles halfway into
view. The handyman pretends to occupy himself with his task, screwing
in the new bulb with exaggerated care. I can hear his accelerated
breathing. I fancy I can hear his heart beating faster because of my
proximity.
Finally
he switches on the lamp. Warm light spills over the bed. “There you
go,” he says, beginning to straighten. My hand on his arm stops
him. He looks at me, hardly daring to believe what he reads in my
face. Desire, and willingness. I run my fingers lightly down his
forearm, just brushing the fur, sensing the muscles shifting under
his skin. When my fingers find his, I grasp his hand, and slowly
bring it to cover my exposed breast.
He
gasps, but takes advantage of the situation, cupping my warm flesh in
his palm, lightly squeezing the nipple. “Thank you, Raoul,” I
whisper. “I appreciate your prompt service.”
His
confused lust arouses me. Nothing turns me on like a helpless, horny
man. Sitting up, I slip off both straps and let the shimmering fabric
slide down to my waist. He picks up his cue and begins to
symmetrically massage my other breast. He is skilled, his touch at
once firm and gentle. When he addresses himself to my swollen
nipples, he twists them just the way I enjoy. I purr softly as his
caresses awaken echoes in my sex.
“Lovely,”
I sigh. Reaching out a finger, I run it along the length of his fly,
testing the hardness beneath. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable
if you took those off?”
“Whatever
you say,” he replies with a smile. Standing back, he strips his
shirt over his head in one smooth motion, then pulls down the
stressed zipper. Under his slacks, he wears black silk boxers. He
pauses, giving me a moment to appreciate his magnificent physique.
Then he pulls down the shorts, letting them drift to the floor and
revealing an impressive erection.
“Come
closer,” I encourage. When he does, I take his cock in both hands
and begin to play. I stroke him, knead him, trace his veins with the
barest touch of my fingertip. He moans. I cup his balls in my palm
and give them an exploratory squeeze. He shudders in delight.
“Feel
good?” I squeeze harder, at the same time pinching the fleshy bulb
between forefinger and thumb. His groaning is answer enough.
He’s
letting me do whatever I want, and that makes me hotter than ever. I
release him, stand and walk over to the chair near the window. He’s
about to follow, but I stop him with a glance. “No, you stay there.
For now.”
Settling
in the chair, I begin to fondle myself through the nightgown. He
strokes himself as he watches. My familiar fingers feel strange and
wonderful shrouded in satin. The fabric slithers over my folds,
smoother than the smoothest skin. At first, I am delicate, letting
the lovely stuff whisper between my legs. Soon, though, I need more.
I’m rougher and raunchier, digging both hands into my aching cleft.
A dark stain of wetness spreads from my center, until my whole lap is
soaked.
Raoul’s
eyes are riveted on the damp fabric, enticed by what he knows lies
underneath. His nostrils flare as my musk fills the room. His cock,
encircled by his busy fingers, strains rigidly toward the ceiling.
His sensuous lips are curved in a half-smile.
He’s
lovely and masculine, and right now, I know he’s mine to command.
He’ll do whatever I ask. I rise, reach for the hem of my garment
and pull it over my head. He licks those full lips at the sight of
me—dark thatch, ivory thighs, glistening cunt-lips as crimson as my
gown.
~~~~
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