Sunday Snog #117: Mastering Maya

Sunday again, so I'm here, as reliable as the trains in Japan...

Today I've got a snog from my BDSM erotic romance Mastering Maya. It's a quick one, but I promise you the lead in is worth it.

After you've read my excerpt, head back to Victoria's place for lots more sexy kisses.
 

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At the first utterance of her safe word, Stephen pulled his hand from her sex. Maya burst into sobs at the loss. He knelt beside the chaise. 

 

“Maya, pet, what’s wrong?” The tear-drenched blindfold tangled in her hair as he tore it off. She blinked at the sudden brightness. Even with her blurred vision, his concern was obvious.

“I’m so sorry… I couldn’t…” Maya buried her face in the cushions.

“It’s okay, Maya.” He ran his fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp. “That’s what safe words are for. When it’s too much. When you can’t bear it. What I don’t get is why you happily submit to the hardest caning I can manage, then safe word just when you’re about to come.”

“It—it isn’t you. You’re great. You were right. I enjoyed giving myself to you, much as I hated the notion at first. But this is something from a long time ago…”

“Tell me,” Stephen ordered, as he set about loosening her bonds. “I want to know.”

“You were right. I used to be a sub—when I was in law school. My professor initiated me, showed me what it meant to surrender. I loved every minute of it, even the pain and the fear…” Maya sniffed, trying to stop the flood of tears. Stephen helped her to a sitting position on the chaise, then settled beside her at a respectful distance. He’d removed the tuxedo jacket and pleated dress shirt. Celtic knots twined across his bare chest, from one shoulder to the other. She wondered what she could do to make him move closer.

“Roger and I were together for nearly two years. Our games became more and more extreme. But he—he thought he knew what I needed better than I did myself. I’d told him I had a fantasy of being gang-raped. He arranged a scene, in some derelict warehouse, inviting some of his friends to come and abuse me. I was fine when they roped me up and suspended me from the beams—it was a thrill—but when those other guys, those strangers, started to paw me—when I saw their swollen cocks and their leers and realised what I was in for—I chickened out.” Maya shuddered at the memory.

“You used your safe word. That’s not ‘chickening out’.”

“Anyway…” Another rush of tears prevented her from continuing.

“Roger didn’t stop it, right?” Maya was glad the fury in Stephen’s face wasn’t directed at her.

“Right. They went on with the scene, while I screamed and tried to fight them off. They fucked me, every hole, just the way I’d imagined. I hated every minute of it.”

“But you came anyway.”

“Once. Roger made me. One guy was in my ass, another in my mouth, and Roger started playing with my cunt. He knew me so well… He told me that, if I was really his slave, I’d come, and I did…”

“Bastard. Now I understand.” Stephen crossed the room to pick up her robe. “Here.” She took the caftan, but made no move to put it on. “I’m really sorry. I should have known better, that you had good reasons for being the way you are.”

“You mean, being the Ice Queen?” Maya’s giggle hiccupped into a sob. “Yeah, I swore that nobody would ever make me do anything, ever again. Including come.” She leaned against the back of the chaise, arching her back a bit to display her breasts. Her coffee-coloured nipples hardened under his scrutiny. “Stupid, huh? Punishing myself when I should have been punishing him.”

“I apologise, Maya. I’m an arrogant ass, just like you said.” Stephen gathered his discarded finery and began to don his shirt.

“No.” The authority in Maya’s voice was unmistakeable. “Don’t go. We have a bargain, after all…”

“Forget about that. I really don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have.”

“But I liked it when you hurt me.” She favoured him with a grin. “I’m sure you realised that.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it, Maya!” Stephen objected. However, he’d paused in his process of dressing.

She rose from the chaise to capture him in her arms, crushing her breasts against his naked chest. “I think you were right about me. I need the kind of surrender you were offering. I want that.”

“Are you sure, Maya?” His cock thickened inside his fancy trousers—she could feel the delicious bulk against her pubis. She cupped him through the satin and was rewarded by his shudder of pleasure.

“Absolutely. Come upstairs to my bedroom. I have a fabulous, antique four-poster bed. And, you know, nobody has ever been tied to it. Seems like a real shame, to me.”

She raised her face just as his mouth descended on hers. The kiss was both a challenge and a promise.

A Sculptor with a Dark Secret

By Lisa Carlisle (Guest Blogger)

I’m here to share my new release, Dark Velvet. This is the start of a new series of new adult erotic romances set on a remote New England island. Paranormal aspects, a medieval-styled castle, and a hot as hell hero.

I’m intrigued by paranormal heroes—characters who are often isolated and perhaps misunderstood. I’ve been drawn to dark, brooding characters for as long as I can remember. Darth Vader was always a favorite of mine. Heathcliff is Wuthering Heights is another favorite. And I have such a thing for Alan Rickman playing Severus Snape, it’s almost ridiculous. Not only is Snape such as complicated, misunderstood character, but the voice just adds to the sensuality. ;)

In Dark Velvet, my hero Antoine has isolated himself on a remote New England where he’s established an art colony. An aspiring artist for many years before tragedy struck, Antoine returned to his love of sculpting after being a lost soul for many years. The heroine Savannah is a grad student, somewhat naive, but when she meets Antoine, he encourages her to explore more about herself—her art, her desires. Like any harried student bogged down with schoolwork and exams, the laid-back climate of a retreat without a rigid routine is a respite from daily life.

The gothic-style setting of the castle on a remote island adds to the romantic atmosphere. It’s definitely a place I’d love to visit to work to spend an extended period of time with no obligations other than to write! But alas, the colony doesn’t exist except in my imagination.

Here’s a blurb and excerpt:

Dark Velvet

Lisa Carlisle

Chateau Seductions series

Grad student Savannah Evans is thrilled to be accepted as a resident to a prestigious art colony. Where else would she be able to focus on her craft of writing poetry in a setting like that of the medieval-styled castle? The remote New England island is a respite from her hectic city life. When she meets her benefactor, a mysterious French sculptor, her expectations for carefree days writing near the ocean are distracted by unprofessional fantasies about her sponsor.

Antoine Chevalier built Les Beaux Arts on DeRoche Island to bring purpose back to an existence that has lost meaning. He’s wandered the earth for decades and finds solace in returning to art. When Savannah applies for a residency, something about her words touches him. After her arrival, a physical attraction grows between them, which he struggles against. She deserves more than someone of his kind.

Antoine proposes they become lovers during her stay. But the situation turns complicated when Savannah discovers his secret. She had suspicions about his identity, but finds the truth overwhelming. Consumed by her desire for Antoine and faced with a tough decision, she is blind to the danger that has arrived at DeRoche Island.

New adult / paranormal / erotic romance

Excerpt

Savannah’s fingers traced the cool marble of the god’s muscular back and then the definition in his arm as he drew an arrow to shoot. She pictured Antoine bent over the sculpture, brows furrowed in concentration, losing sense of time as he polished each portion to perfection.

“Do you like this?” A deep voice whispering in her ear startled her.

She jumped at the sound of his voice, bumping back into his hard chest, and he caught her upper arms to steady her. Only one man in the castle spoke in that smooth French accent—the sculptor himself.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Antoine.” She fumbled taking a half step forward, away from him. “I shouldn’t have touched it.”

“No, don’t apologize.” He let go of her arms, but his warm breath tickled her ear.

He took her hand, caressing her palm, which sent tingles up her arm. Her bottom lip quivered as he brought her fingers to rest again on the marble piece. She thanked the gods he remained behind her so he couldn’t witness her nervous reaction, and she bit her lip to halt the tremors. This was not the way for a young protégée to behave in front of her benefactor. He owned the castle, created the art colony here where she was attending on a poetry scholarship—she shouldn’t go gaga simply from his touch. Which was exactly what she was doing.

“It pleases me that you appreciate my work.” Leading her fingers down the figure’s chiseled chest, he leaned in closer and added, “I liked watching you admire it.”

His voice alone sent flames rippling through her. Every nerve in her being lit with awareness in reaction to him. In the months since they’d met, they’d never been alone in such proximity. Weeks of heated looks from afar had inflamed her desire so the slightest touch became intimate, strengthening her need for more.

Sounds of approaching voices indicated this evening’s performance in the chateau would soon begin. Several of the musicians in the art colony had collaborated on orchestral pieces they wanted to play in front of an audience for the first time. As fellow artists in residence, they sought the support of fellow residents.

Antoine kissed her hand like a suitor in a bygone era. “I hope you enjoy the concert, Savannah.”

Her lips parted, opening and closing like a fish while she thought of what to say. When she mustered up the courage to turn and face him, he had already left the room, filling her with both relief and disappointment. Unaware she’d been holding her breath, she exhaled deeply.

Several times over the course of the evening, Savannah caught Antoine’s dark eyes watching her. Her emotions roiled in confusion while the performers played Barber’s Adagio for Strings. The way he held her gaze without blinking made her squirm in the burgundy armchair. The rising tension and resolution from the violin and cello underscored her tumultuous emotions.

She smiled at him briefly and focused on the musicians, aware of how her heartbeat had escalated. When she glanced again at Antoine, he still watched her unabashed, as if unconcerned about what the others would think. He took a sip of Porto, nodded her way, and then returned his attention to the musicians. She sat up straighter and crossed her legs at the ankles, then uncrossed them, and crossed them again.

The attraction was becoming more difficult to ignore. In light of how he breached the physical distance by touching her so earlier, she feared she’d be unable to keep her desires hidden much longer. She’d developed an instant crush since she arrived at the castle three months before. How could she not be—he was a renowned sculptor with a devastating, dark appeal. What was she to him than just another young resident who would be gone in three months, replaced by another.

Was she reading more into the brief exchange than was warranted?

It’s just a look. Only a casual glance my way. Even as she attempted to fool herself, she knew she was full of shit.

Buy links:

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The Notebook

Like many authors, I have a notebook. I don't carry it around with me, though that's the usual recommendation. I have too much other stuff I have to haul from one place to another. (My husband jokes that purse could double as a boat anchor.) However, I do keep the notebook next to my bed, in case I'm struck by inspiration in the middle of the night. More than one of my tales has had its origins in one of my vivid dreams.

The most important purpose for my little book is to record my ideas while they're still fresh, before all the myriad pressures of my daily life push them out of my mind. Once I've scribbled down a title, or a plot premise, or a character sketch, I can let go of it and move on to the next challenge, knowing it's all there for me when I return. (Well, that's relative. Sometimes when I go back, I can't read my scrawls, especially if they were written in the dark!) That gives me a sense of freedom and relief.

I guard that notebook as carefully as if it were covered with gold leaf. It's the repository of my imagination.

When I'm feeling glum about my writing, I sometimes flip through the pages to revive my spirits. It's hard for me to find the time to write. I get frustrated because my output is so low. Then I look at all the story ideas in the earlier pages of the notebook that actually have made it onto the page and into the world, and I realize that, slow or not, I'm making progress.

The ideas waiting to be born - the stories I plan to write "one of these days" - also encourage me. Even if I never have another inspiration, I have quite a backlog to fuel my future efforts.

If you write, and you don't have a notebook, you might want to start one. It's more than just a practical tool; it can be a valuable source of moral support.

Can't Get Enough of Those Cowboys!

By Starla Kaye (Guest Blogger)

Cowboys, cowboys, cowboys. . . I can’t get enough of them. I love them from the tip of their scuffed boots, to their snug fitting jeans and chambray shirt rolled up past their elbows, clear up to their wide-brimmed hat.

I’ve been writing about all kinds of heroes for quite a few years now, mainly penned as Starla Kaye. I’ve also published several romantic suspense stories as S.K. Fero. Although I will continue writing as Starla Kaye, I will now focus even more on writing western romances, both historical and contemporary, as S.K. Fero. Please see my contact information below for S.K. Fero’s info as well as Starla Kaye’s.

Cowboy Hats: More than you’ll ever want to know

Handling a hat:

1. Some people swear that you should never grab the hat by the crown. Pick it up by its brim and then adjust it by the front and back of the brim.
2. Other people say to hold the brim near the crown in the front and back when putting on or removing the hat.
3. Set it upside down on its crown. Never set it right side up on its brim because that causes the brim to warp and misshape.
4. Store the hat upside down inside its original box, if not worn often.
5. Never set the hat near a heat source because that will cause the sweat band to contract and shrink the size. This is a real annoyance after you’ve got it to conform perfectly to your head.

Dealing with wet hats:

1. Felt hats were designed to be used in the rain.
2. Wool hats are designed for dry climates and should never get wet.
3. Straw hats are designed to handle a minimal amount of rain.
4. When the hat gets wet, carefully even out and round out the dents and creases. Carefully turn the sweatband to the outside and sit the hat right side up on the sweatband. Let it dry slowly. Do not put it in an oven or use a blow-dryer on it.

Cleaning hats:

1. Protect a hat from water damage with a non-silicone based protector, sprayed and lightly brushed into the felt.
2. Keep felt hats clean with brushing, but use different ones for dark and light-colored hats.
3. Get a heavily dirt and stained hat cleaned by a professional.
4. Straw hats should be brushed regularly with a brim brush or an ordinary whisk broom. Clean a straw hat with a damp sponge and non-detergent soap.

Hat color:

Black hats are warmer and keep a cowboy’s head warmer on long cold nights or day.

Crown creases:

1. Ranger Style: The two creases and dips are toward the front of the crown, with the crown higher in the back.
2. Montana Peak: A hat with four creases radiating out from the top of the crown. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police wear this style.
3. Straight Crown: A hat with no creases pressed into the crown.
4. Hispanic Felt Hat: A hat with a straight crown flattened on top.
5. Derby: A hat with no creases and the brim is narrow.

Hat etiquette:

• Tip your hat for strangers. Take if off for friends.
• Tip your hat any time a lady thanks you for some service.
• Take off your hat when the National Anthem is played.
• Take off your hat at a burial.
• Don’t take off your hat in public buildings, entrance halls, corridors of office buildings or hotels, or in elevators.
• Take off your hat when sitting down at a table for a meal, unless there is nowhere safe to lay the hat.
• Leave the hat on when sitting down to eat a meal at a counter.

Resources:

Cowboy Hat Info: http://www.cowboyhatinfo.org/hat_care_tips.html

Canadian Cowboy: http://www.canadiancowboy.com/index.html

FAQ’s about Cowboy Hats: http://www.countrycalendar.com/Country_Store/hats/faq_cowboy_hats.htm

Story of the Cowboy Hat: http://voices.yahoo.com/story-cowboy-hat-shapes-styles-6229318.html

CONTEST:

Leave a comment about why you love cowboys for a chance to win a small sign “Cowboys Stirrup Fun” and another surprise. The contest ends March 17, but the prize will not be mailed until March 24 (as I will be traveling until then.)

Cowboy Dreamin' by Starla Kaye

 BLURB:

Kendra spends her days and nights running a business, sculpting, and leading a Tahitian dance group in Kauai. She can’t squeeze anything else into her life, but she dreams of cowboys. Sexy, hot cowboys in tight jeans, low-tipped Stetsons, and dusty boots. Men who know all about how to please a woman. She enjoys her fantasies, but can’t imagine ever settling down. But one night with one would be so nice. Surely that would get her dreams of a white knight cowboy sweeping her off her feet out of her system.

Because of an accident that Shane believes left him “less of a man,” he doesn’t see a wife and children in his future. Carson, his ranching partner—and sometimes lover—thinks Shane is wrong. Carson refuses to let Shane settle for a life of rodeo bunnies who only want a romp in bed with a bull rider. Shane deserves more than that. He manages to sign Shane up with a matchmaking service to, hopefully, meet another kind of woman, maybe someone who will appreciate Shane for the man he is. Except Madame Evangeline expects both of the cowboys to go on this special one night date. It doesn’t take long for either cowboy to realize that one night with the purple-haired, hip-shaking beauty in Kauai might not be enough….

EXCERPT:

Shane watched in fascination as two island women danced onto the beach stage barefoot, hips swaying, breasts bouncing. He’d seen this kind of dancing on TV once when he’d flicked channels around. It hadn’t held his interest at the time. But, damn, he liked the hell out of it in person. So did his lower body.

He shifted in his chair and hoped no one would notice the way his cock had tented the front of his too-tight jeans. He’d gone too long without loving a pretty female. Then he remembered why he was here and his mood soured. An arranged date.

He started to get up to leave when two more eye-catching dancers slipped from the cave entrance. One in particular snagged his attention. His dick grew harder; his pulse raced. Damn, talk about hot! And she knew how to shimmy her hips. He hoped he wasn’t drooling.

Then he forced his gaze higher and couldn’t move it beyond two plump breasts cupped by a pair of coconut shells. He ached to replace the shells with his palms, squeeze those….

The dancers did a sexy little hip-swishing spin. He swallowed and stifled a shudder. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. No doubt she affected every other man in the area. A glance at Carson told him his good buddy sure was under her spell.

He reached for his beer and chugged the rest of it, hoping it would cool him down. It didn’t. As he focused on the woman in the pink skirt again, he thought his poor old heart would beat itself to death. She had more wiggle to those amazing hips than any of the others. Those shells were working darn hard to contain her tempting breasts. And her smile…. God, he’d never seen one so….

She did another sassy, hip-teasing turn and captured his full attention once more. He hadn’t noticed her waist-length hair all that much before, but now the wavy mass fluttered around her, caressed her sweet body. It fascinated him, until he studied her closer. “Is her hair purple?”

“It appears to be,” Carson said in a husky tone. “I’m real glad we didn’t miss this.”

Shane didn’t want to admit he agreed, because that would mean he had accepted the arrangement then. But he wasn’t suffering. He kept watching the dancers, thinking about the photo in the e-mail. Which of these dancers was Kendra? They’d been told she had blue eyes. These women had brown eyes.

Interrupting his musings, the purple-haired beauty looked in his direction and her blue eyes widened. She fell out of sync with the others. He knew in that instant she was the woman he’d balked at meeting. His gut warned him his world would never be the same.

BUY LINKS:

Publisher Buy Link: Decadent Publishing

Buy Link: All Romance Ebooks:

Amazon Buy Link

BIO:

Starla Kaye has published 20 novels, 37 novellas, and 7 anthologies to date. She writes in many sub-genres of romance, but her heart really belongs to cowboys. Okay, she is pretty fond of Highland warriors, medieval knights, daring pirates, a Regency lord, and.... The list goes on. She definitely likes writing about a strong-willed, spirited, independent woman who takes her hero to his knees. Make the hero suffer, that's her motto.

When she isn't writing or hanging out with her writing friends or family, she travels. Give her a place to go and she'll figure out how to do it. She is a strong believer in there being so many places to see and so many things to do, and she wants to see it all, do it all.

Starla lives in the Midwestern part of the United States with the man she married at nineteen. He believes in her following her dreams about writing. She supports him with his chosen career as well. They have found and live their Happily Ever After.a writes many sub-genres of romance, but her heart really belongs to cowboys. Okay, she is pretty fond of Highland warriors, medieval knights, daring pirates, a Regency lord, and…. The list goes on. She definitely likes writing about a strong-willed, spirited, independent woman who AUTHOR CONTACT – Starla Kaye

Website: Starla Kaye

Amazon Author Page: Starla Kaye

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AUTHOR CONTACT – S.K. Fero

Website: S. K. Fero

Amazon Author Page: S.K. Fero

Twitter

Stilettos at High Noon blog

Love in the Wild, Wild West

By Harper St. George (Guest Blogger)

A big thank you to Lisabet for inviting me to post today. I am Harper St. George and His Abductor’s Desire is my debut book. With so many Regency romances out there, I wanted to share with you why I decided to write a romance set in the Wild West.

I’ve always loved the Wild West. The westerns that came on TV when I was a kid were fascinating. But I was really hooked when I read Autumn Dove by Sylvie F. Sommerfield. It was the first romance novel I ever read. Until then, I hadn’t realized that people actually wrote stories like that. I quickly began to read as many romantic westerns as I could find. They combined that exciting, tempestuous time when men could get rich overnight and lose it just as quickly, with the eternal love story.

It’s really a unique time period in American history. Lawlessness was a way of life as people struggled to carve out lives for themselves in an unforgiving land. Outlaws, bank robbers, and cattle rustlers could be hailed as heroes or criminals depending on who was telling the story. The men who were charged with bringing order to the land were sometimes the most corrupted. Black was never black and white was never white. That’s what makes it such a great era for storytelling. There are as many stories to tell as there were people who lived there. When I finally made time to sit down and write a romance, I naturally wanted to try my hand at writing a western.

My heroine, Charity, was inspired by this gray area in history. She’s a woman who uses the only means available to her – robbing banks – to attempt to right a wrong done against her family. While her methods may have been a little extreme, I think she’s someone we can all identify with. Bad things happen to all of us, often through no fault of our own. Who wouldn’t want to do whatever they could to make things right again. In the Wild West, or at least the fictionalized version, that was possible.

I also like to explore contrasts and contradictions in my stories. Charity was originally a Boston aristocrat, though her family fell from grace when she was younger. She goes from elegant ballrooms and evenings out at the theater to living a relatively isolated existence in the mountains. Her gowns are exchanged for pants and buckskins, and her life becomes obsessing about how to survive the long winters and planning revenge. It’s quite a drastic change for her that essentially transforms her into a completely different person.

While I have read many historical westerns, I’ve never read one that featured a bank robber as a heroine, so I wanted to explore the idea. What would provoke a woman to go to that extreme? What would be the consequences? What would happen if she met the hero during one of the robberies? It was very interesting to explore the answers to those questions. Besides, heroes get to have that sort of fun all the time, so I figured it would be nice to let a heroine have fun for a change!

If you like the Wild West like I do or just love history and want to read about it, these are some online resources I’ve used during my research.

Preservation Directory http://www.preservationdirectory.com and American Memory from the Library of Congress http://memory.loc.gov

They are great information depositories that sometimes offer that ever-so-precious primary resource.

Blurb

His Abductor’s Desire by Harper St. George

Montana Territory, 1887

Heiress-turned-outlaw Charity Blake is determined to get back the fortune the Davenport banking family took from her father—even if she has to hold Brent Davenport ransom to do it! After all, the seductive charmer stole something even more valuable from her five years ago: her heart. But once she has Brent in chains, Charity must face the fact that her desire for the man has grown from the sweet dreams of a young girl to the unquenchable passion of a woman. And soon it's not clear whether she's the captor, or the captive….

Excerpt

“Nobody move! Keep your hands where we can see `em!”

A hush swept over the room as the bank customers, one by one, began to realize what was happening. Charity Blake would have smiled at the effectiveness of her command if she hadn’t been so unsettled to find the place crowded. It was late Tuesday afternoon. No one was supposed to be there except the clerks. Even the bank manager should have been two blocks over at the saloon settling in for a long night of drinking and gambling, his weekly indulgence when his wife spent Tuesday evenings with her sewing circle. Yet, there he sat behind his desk, quivering hands held high in the air, staring wide-eyed back at her.

Apparently their reconnaissance had been wrong. She vowed to do better next time and pushed the disappointment from her mind. It was better to concentrate on not allowing her own hands to shake around the grip of her pistol than linger on the setback. Besides, she knew from the first two robberies that she had only seconds to command the attention and thus the respect of the room before someone tried to be brave. It was time to get to work.

“Don’t worry, folks. We ain’t here for yer valuables, just the money in the vault.” Her contrived accent came out deep and loud to make it past the muffling barrier of the scarf covering the lower half of her face and to hide her cultured Bostonian intonation.

As she spoke, her partners took their appointed positions. Elle had come in through the back door and quietly made her presence known, while Dew moved to disarm the men in the room, quickly establishing a stack of revolvers in the far corner.

“Get up and open the vault.” Charity barked the order to the manager.

He sputtered for a moment as if he might argue and looked at the customer sitting across the desk from him. Had she not been watching so closely, Charity would have missed the almost imperceptible nod from the man that gave the manager the courage to get on his feet. Hands still in the air, he walked his wiry frame to the vault, which sat in plain view behind the row of clerks, and stopped there, afraid to proceed.

“Th-the key is on my belt.” He explained, hands still in the air. His gaze went from her to the customer left sitting at his desk.

Charity followed his gaze and found herself looking at a broad pair of shoulders encased in a fine wool coat. The coat was impeccably tailored, not the roughspun typically found this far outside of the town of Helena. A banking official was her first thought, but that didn’t explain why her heart was suddenly threatening to pound out of her chest and the blood had gone cold in her veins. The girl who had long ago been banished to areas deep in her subconscious had already recognized the set of those shoulders. She knew that thick, sable hair brushed back in a style that had been entirely too long for Boston society but was a trademark of his contemptuous nature.

“My friend here can help you.” She managed to sound in control as she nodded to Dew who then quickly walked over and cut the key free.

After a moment of hassling with the lock, the bank manager pushed the door and it opened with an ominous screech that filled the deathly silence of the bank. Dew motioned him inside with her gun and followed him in to fill the three saddlebags slung across her shoulders with as much cash and gold as they could carry.

The moment they were out of sight Charity walked up behind the mysterious customer sitting at the desk. It was stupid. Everyone knew you didn’t go begging for trouble. But the devil who she had long suspected had taken up residence inside made her do it. The barrel of her pistol parted the hair at the back of his head.

“What’s yer name, mister?”

The man did not so much as flinch when the steel touched his scalp.

“My name is none of your damned business.” The voice was as hard and cold as the pistol.

“Turn around,” she commanded in a controlled, steady voice, but inside her stomach was in knots.

“The sheriff’s office is only blocks away. If you shoot, you won’t make it out of the bank alive.” He did not turn around nor raise his hands from the desk in surrender.

His refusal to give in to her command only made her devil beg to be appeased. This man and his family had taken everything there was to take from her. She needed to stare him down. Needed him to watch her take something from him, whether he knew her identity or not.

“Turn around, Mr. Davenport.”

That got him.

His Abductor’s Desire is available now!

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00GPDYNRW/

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/1117445651?ean=9781460328262

Author Bio

Harper St. George was raised in the rural backwoods of Alabama and along the tranquil coast of northwest Florida. It was a setting filled with stories of the old days that instilled in her a love of history, romance, and adventure. By high school, she had discovered the historical romance novel which combined all those elements into one perfect package. She has been hooked ever since.

She lives in Atlanta, GA with her husband and two young children. Look for her short story in the first Romance Writers of America anthology. She would love to hear from you. Please visit her website at www.harperstgeorge.com.

Follow Harper

Facebook: www.facebook.com/harperstgeorge

Twitter: @HarperStGeorge

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7771362.Harper_St_George

Sunday Snog #116: Monsoon Fever

Better late than never, right? Here's my snog for this week, from my M/M/F ménage story, Monsoon Fever. I was thinking about this book because I'm working on a blog post about romance and weather, and this tale uses extreme weather as a background for extreme desire.

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

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

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

Don't forget to visit Snog Central (http://blissekiss.co.uk) for more luscious lip locks!

Anil took her hand to lead her through the throng. Somehow, this seemed completely natural. “This temple is sacred to Sati, the wife of the Lord Shiva. When her father insulted her husband, the goddess committed suicide. Shiva, in anger and desperation, danced the Tandeva to destroy the world. The other gods sought to calm his fury, and in the ensuing struggle, Sati’s corpse was accidentally cut into dozens of pieces. Her yoni —her female organ—fell here on Neelachal Parbat.” 

 

He led her to one of the smaller buildings, through a low arch and into a cave-like interior. The only light came from a few smoky lamps. Coming from the bright outdoors, Priscilla could see little at first, but she heard the burble of flowing water.

“We believe that this spring is her yoni —the holy sex of the great Mother. At certain times of the year, the waters run red, and then we know that the goddess is fertile. Some say that those who dare to bathe in the spring gain the gift of bestowing ecstasy. If you are a man, your penis will become like the bull’s; if you are a woman, your sex will become so velvety and supple that mere entrance will bring your man to his crisis.”

Priscilla’s face grew hot with embarrassment. How could a near stranger speak to her of these things? Still, his words aroused her unbearably. He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, gentle and provocative, and she imagined him stroking the folds of flesh curled between her thighs. She stood beside him, gazing into the sacred spring, powerless to take back her hand or to protest this unseemly intimacy in this heathen sanctuary.

He lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes. “You are as lovely as a goddess, Priscilla.” His mouth claimed her, his tongue more insolent than his fingers had been. One arm slid around her waist and pulled her body against his. She melted into him, grateful that she no longer had to resist her own desires.

Through the fine wool of his tailored trousers, she felt the hardness that testified to his own need. Panic and lust fought within her. I am a married woman, she wanted to cry out, but his lips played upon hers and stopped her voice. His hands roamed freely over her body, massaging her buttocks, cupping her breasts, fingering the tight nubs of flesh that poked so obviously through the fabric of her blouse. He strayed to the damp crease between her thighs. She moaned into his spice-flavoured mouth, urging him on to more brazen explorations. He began to unfasten the first of the buttons that closed her skirt.

All at once, thunder cracked around them. Lightning flashed outside the arched door, momentarily blinding her. She smelled sulfur and charred wood.

Anil broke the kiss, looking around them, “Oh dear. It sounds as though the rain I predicted has arrived.” Another fierce peal of thunder echoed through the stone buildings. Priscilla cringed. “I think that perhaps we should head back. Come.”

Priscilla was simultaneously disappointed and relieved. She smoothed her skirt and ran her fingers through her curls, then followed Anil out into the courtyard. The rain had not yet begun, but the sky was a roiling mass of black clouds. Another lightning bolt lanced across the horizon, turning the clouds a livid purple.

Maybe the gods had intervened, to save her from herself. Or maybe they were angry at her faithlessness.

Why Bondage Turns Me and My Readers On

By Vonna Harper (Guest Blogger)

He took a slow step toward her. “First things first. Getting rid of your clothes.”

Suddenly angry, she stood her ground. “What? No. That can’t be the first thing.”

The beginning of a cool smile lifted his lips only to be replaced by something dark. “It’s what I say it is. Either you strip or I do it for you.”

Excitement lanced her. Damn it yes, this was what she’d signed up for—even if it killed her.

“I read the rules,” she countered. “You aren’t supposed to do anything I disapprove of.”

“Oh you’ll approve. And you’ll keep everything that happens here to yourself.”

On edge, she took in everything she could of the man standing between her and freedom. There was something primal about him. A cave-like depth. When he was on the island, this man did what he wanted to. He had no concern for the consequences because there weren’t going to be any, maybe no interest in her beyond getting her to submit to him.

“Why wouldn’t I tell anyone?” she finally thought to ask.

“You’ll understand, eventually.”

Nothing was going like she’d told herself it would. Emotionally off balance, she curled her toes in an attempt to keep from bolting.

“All right,” she said. “Show me.”

His attention flicked to the window to his right. For a moment she swore she was looking at a predator instead of a human. This creature would stalk and capture and control.

She was still trying to shake off the crazy thought when he charged. He grabbed her around the waist and pushed her back and off her feet. She landed on her ass on the couch.

“What the hell!” She reached for his neck but he flipped her so she was sprawled the length of the couch on her belly and planted his knee against the base of her spine.

More disbelieving than terrified, she wrenched her head to the side so she could breathe. He was so close she saw only a blur. His weight bore down on her making it impossible for her to do more than flex her knees. Her right arm was caught between her body and the couch back but maybe, if she tried hard enough, she could grab his cock with her left and inflict—

Too-big fingers clamped around her left wrist and wrenched her arm behind her. Despite her struggles, he captured her other wrist and brought it back as well.

“Pay attention.” Moist breath dampened the back of her neck. “It’ll make what comes after easier to accept.”

She wasn’t his play toy! Determined to regain use of her arms, she strained to free them.

“So you like to fight do you? Fine with me. The thing is, I always win.”

Bucking and kicking, she put all her strength into trying to get him off her. The couch was so soft she felt as if she was sinking into it. As her muscles started trembling, she’d come to the not too brilliant conclusion that he was taunting her.

He placed one wrist over the other so he could control them with a single hand. She debated trying to dig her nails into his thigh but he’d probably make her pay for it.

Pay for it. A captive’s punishment.

****

I wrote that. The scene appears in my ebook Taking Her Down available at such sites as Amazon. http://tinyurl.com/m2g8olf Although it’s hardly my first story dealing with bondage, I'm still amazed by the direction my writing has taken, still exploring my fascination with one of erotica's most popular subjects.

Back when I was writing conventional romance, it would have never occurred to me that there might be a market for the kinkier aspects of sex, let alone that readers would be hungry for fantasies I'd kept to myself.

Just goes to show how little I knew.

Why was I so naïve? So repressed?

A lot of finger pointing can be aimed at none other than Sigmund Freud who in 1908 maintained, "A happy person never fantasizes, only a dissatisfied one." (Say what?) The man studied S & M for over twenty years, maintaining that the practice was pathological and tied into unresolved issues of dominance and subservience traceable back to childhood. (Of course he would) Therapists who worshiped at Freud's feet incorporated his conclusions into their practices.

Fortunately the tide has changed. In her groundbreaking book My Secret Garden, Nancy Friday shared women's private sexual fantasies with readers. Once considered outspoken, graphic, and taboo-shattering, the book has become a classic study of female sexuality. 
 

Back to the question of why BDSM and bondage stories have become lucrative. For the answers, I turned to those diggers into the human psychic, psychologists. 
 

Roy F. Baumeister pointed out that today's culture places more demands on people than any time in history. "That stress makes forgetting who you are an appealing escape." Fantasy sex slaves want to imagine shedding their own identity with its autonomy and responsibility and submit to the will of another.

Harold Leitenberg and Kris Henning reported that conservatives have as many fantasies as liberals. Another study concluded that nearly half of conservative Christians believe sexual fantasies are unacceptable or morally flawed. (Talk about conflict!) Leitenberg reports that one person in four feels guilt about their fantasies. 
 

According to Ethel Person, author of By Force of Fantasy, 44 percent of men imagine dominating a partner. Other studies concluded that 51 percent of women placed themselves on the receiving end of forced sex. Leitenberg and Henning concur, adding that, "Women who find submission fantasies sexually arousing are very clear that they have no wish to be raped in reality," Women zero in on "the personal or emotional characteristics of the partner," even if the sex partner is a mysterious stranger, abductor, or dominatrix.

Strassberg and Lockerd reported that women who fantasize about being submissive have more positive attitudes about sex. Pelletier and Herold agreed, adding that such women feel less sexually guilty and more open to a variety of sexual experiences.

****

A form materialized, startling her. She sensed more than saw a human shape. Years of watching her back kicked in. She turned toward the shape, folded her fingers into a fist.

Then something slammed into her and knocked her backward onto the ground. Her head slammed against hard earth. A hand clamped over her mouth. A weight settled over her, knees grinding against her forearms and preventing her from lifting them. The man—that much she was certain—grabbed her hair and turned her head to the side while still gagging her. The way his body rested on her chest, she couldn’t draw a decent breath. Terror lanced her, making it nearly impossible for her to think.

Maybe her attacker knew what she was experiencing because he let go of her hair and mouth. Before she could get her act together, something wide and sticky pressed against her lips. She tried to shake it off, but he stayed with her, hauling her head off the ground and wrapping the gag around her head. He wasn’t content with one wrap. By the time he was done, he’d looped her head a total of three times.

“Step one,” he muttered.

Her heart hammered so she thought it might burst, and when he climbed off her and flipped her onto her belly, she did little more than try to squirm away. He grunted and pulled her arms behind her until her wrists were crisscrossed.

The splinted pieces of her mind came back together, and she bucked, screaming impotently into the gag. Again he sat on her and held her down, holding her wrists in place with one large hand.

“A little risky,” he continued in the same low tone, “but I need to feel alive.”

Every fiber of her being screamed at her to struggle, but he weighed a lot more than she did and all that weight was holding her down. With her arms wrenched behind her, she stood no chance of pulling them loose. .

He moved to the side a little and shifted his weight slightly. She bent her knees in an attempt to slam her heels into his back. No matter how much she strained, however, she couldn’t put enough force behind the effort to make any difference.

His chuckle chilled her.

“Not the smartest thing you’ve ever done as you’ll find out. Now to prepare you for transport.”

From my Her Submission: http://tinyurl.com/kdjfxpg

The above leads to the question of how far erotica writers can push the boundaries. A study conducted by Eileen Zurbriggen and reported on in Journal of Sex Research (2004) indicates that as long as certain components remain, the sky may be the limit. Women are more likely than men to fantasize about submission and while men's fantasies focused on their and their partners' desires and pleasure, women tended to focus on their own. Such fantasizes provide women with a safe place to let go. In the secret places of our minds, everything becomes about us.

I don't really want to be tied down, but I'm having a ball dreaming up scenarios and putting the results on paper.

As Ph.D. Cheryl Renaud said, "while bondage may be painful, thinking about it never hurt anyone."

Leitenberg agrees. "Sexual fantasy is a natural part of being human. It's pleasurable. So why not fantasize?"

Why not indeed?

Share your thoughts about bondage and forced submission in fiction by leaving a comment, and I'll enter you in a drawing for a PDF copy of Taking Her Down. Don't forget to include an email address so I can contact you if you win!  

www.VonnaHarper.com