Saturday, January 7, 2017

Just a Spanking (#bdsm #spanking #eroticromance)

Saturday Spankings meme
 
Happy Saturday!

Somehow I neglected to book a guest for today. That’s okay, though. This means I can participate in the Saturday Spankings meme.

I believe this is the first time I’ve done so. Somehow I suspect it won’t be the last.

This snippet is from my story “Just a Spanking”, one of the two BDSM tales in my book D&S Duos 2. Hope you like it!


He makes me wait. Heat shimmers through me. Blood pounds in my ears. I study my toes and listen to my breath. Fear and excitement co-mingle, until I can't tell one from the other. My bratty determination to make him touch me fades away, although my clit still throbs and my juices trickle down my thighs. All I want is to please him. I'll wait forever if that is what it takes. Indeed, a part of me would rather wait than know what comes next.

All right, Rebecca,” he says finally. “Kneel on the footstool and stretch your body across my legs.” I look up to find that he has placed one of the throw pillows on his lap. I understand that he wants a barrier between my body and his possible erection. Plus the cushion is too soft to provide much friction. Obviously he has planned this carefully. I would not have expected less from him.

I am awkward as I clamber onto the ottoman and spread my body across his lap. The padded stool is the perfect height. When I bend at the hip, my belly rests on the cushion and my ass is in air, just to the right of his body. I rest my chest on the chair to his left, cradling my head in my crossed arms. I'm not uncomfortable. I feel stable and well-supported.

Thighs together. That's right. Bring your knees closer to the chair. Good.” I comply as promptly as I can. The shift raises my butt higher. I'm totally accessible. Completely vulnerable.

It's delicious.

Usually he warms me up when he's about to spank me. He will stroke and knead my buttocks, then pinch me hard just as I am starting to relax. More often than not he'll slip a blunt finger between my cheeks and swirl it around in my pussy. He'll tell me what a pervert I am, to be so wet at the mere thought of being beaten. I'll be torn between embarrassment and pride. I know that this is one reason why he wants me.

Tonight, though, the only warm up is more waiting. He doesn't touch me, though I can feel his eyes like ghostly fingers on my exposed flesh. My cunt feels heavy and swollen, pressed against the cushion. I shift my position the tiniest bit and pleasure sparks from my clit to my nipples and back again in a maddening cycle.

Be still,” he orders. “No squirming around. No humping the pillow. This is a spanking, pure and simple. You may yell or cry as much as you want. But I don't want you to move. That will spoil it.”

There's menace in his voice, and promise. We are about to embark on a new adventure together.

Do you understand?”

I'm sure he feels me tremble as I nod, but he doesn't chide me. Instead he brings the flat of his hand down hard on my ass. 

 

Friday, January 6, 2017

Season of Doubt (#self-doubt #amwriting #wip)




I have reached that unpleasant stage in my current WIP the stage when I start to question whether it’s worthwhile to continue to the end. Every time I finish a sentence, I feel as though I’ve written essentially the same one a hundred times before. I’m pushing so hard to get my characters to follow my plans that they’re starting to feel like manikins rather than real people.

I look at the book and think, who’s going to want to buy this? What is this, anyway? It’s not really romancesure, my heroine’s going to finally get together with her true love, but right now she’s fooling around with the Devil. It’s not really erotica, either—many of the sex scenes are little more than hot snippets, intended to suggest a kinky relationship without my having to go into endless detail describing it. The book is part satire, part morality play, part guilty confession. Honestly, I don’t know what readers will make of it.

If I have any readers...

When I start to feel like this, I’m tempted to just stop. After all, why bother? However, I’ve written nearly 20K. No matter how bad it is, I’m reluctant to trash that much work (months, given the small amount of time I have to actually write). Plus, I know from experience that I frequently go through this sort of phase, what I call my “season of doubt”. Most of the time, I recover.

I wonder if other authors have the same experience. Some of my colleaguesthe ones who put “USA Today Bestselling Author” on their covers—bang out one book after another. They’ve got a new romance title to flog every month or two. I can’t imagine they experience this sort of existential crisis with every novel. They’d never make their deadlines if they did.

As for me, I write mostly for the fun of following my ideas down the rabbit hole and the satisfaction of the occasional raves from my readers. So why can’t I just sit back and enjoy the ride? Why do I almost always get to this point where I’m so sure my stuff is crap that I’m almost ready to chuck it?

I really have no idea. I’ve felt this way even about the books that I later came to feel were my very best. I try to remember that, as I force myself to write on. I always seem to emerge from under this cloud of doubt eventually.

I just hope that happens soon with this story!


Thursday, January 5, 2017

O Pioneers! (#censorship #pornography #literature)

lady chatterly's lover cover


I've been publishing books about sex, including sexual activities that many people consider profoundly deviant, for more than fifteen years. So far, no one has given me any trouble. No jackbooted feet kicking in my door. No placard-waving fanatics protesting in front of my house. It's true that I carefully guard my anonymity, maintaining as strict a separation as I can between my writerly personna and my more prosaic day-to-day identity. Still, if someone wanted to unmask me, I don't doubt that it would be possible.

Maybe if I were more popular, I'd be more of a target. As it is, I feel moderately confident that I can continue to quietly pen my dirty stories (storing them on an encrypted drive, just to be on the safe side) and sell them to publishers without being ostracized by my neighbors, losing my job, or being hauled off to jail.

It wasn't always like this.

My contemporaries and I like to believe we are in some sense pioneers by writing openly about sex. The true pioneers, however, were the authors who fought to publish sexually-explicit work in the first half of the twentieth century, giants like D.H. Lawrence, Henry Miller, Pauline Réage, and James Joyce. All of them faced legal battles against forces who wanted to ban their work because of its sexual content. Avant-garde publishers like Barney Rosset and Maurice Girodias circled the wagons and defended their authors against charges of obscenity (though perhaps with as much of an eye toward notoriety-inspired sales as for moral principle). Gradually, these trials led to a grudging acceptance of sexually-oriented fiction as a legitimate form of literary expression, at least in most Western countries.

Perhaps, however, I am being overly complacent, believing that these battles are in the past. Certainly, individuals continue to be harassed and discriminated against if they engage in sexual practices that are considered "abnormal" [http://www.revisef65.org/discrimination.html]. The Sourcebook of Criminal Justice Statistics 2003 [http://www.albany.edu/sourcebook/ind/PORNOGRAPHY.Public_opinion.1.html] reports that more than 38% of the U.S.population favors the existence of laws forbidding the distribution of pornography to adults and that this percentage has fallen only slightly between 1987 and 2002. Calls for censorship of the Internet are raised with increasing frequency and ferocity. I spent several hours on-line searching for authoritative data about societal attitudes regarding pornography but found only emotional diatribes and pseudo-statistics from both sides of the issue.

I did find an interesting scientific report on a survey taken in a mid-American city. The majority of respondents in this study thought that pornography was acceptable and should be legally available to adults. However, the people who voiced this pro-porn opinion believed that they were in the minority. Likewise, the minority who thought that porn should be banned were convinced that they held the majority opinion.

In short, you may support sexually-explicit entertainment, but you feel like an outlaw.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this argument. I personally don't feel that I'm taking risks or pushing boundaries in my work. Lately I've been writing more M/M erotica and erotic romance. It takes a deliberate effort for me to remember that many individuals regard homosexual relationships as an abomination. For me, men fucking men is more or less natural—maybe even more natural than being bound or spanked. Sex is sex, and variety is the spice of life. Very little of what I write feels particularly daring or transgressive.

I don't write for political reasons. I write to entertain my readers and myself. I would love to believe that my work is striking a blow for freedom of expression, striking down barriers, opening doors, but I strongly suspect that it is not. Those who read my work already appreciate erotic literature. I'm preaching to the converted. Embedded in a community of authors whose work is as sexually charged as my own, I find it difficult to comprehend that I may be engaged in activities that some view as immoral or illegal.

On the other hand, if the unthinkable occurred—if my website were shut down because of its prurient content or my books were banned, if I started to receive hate letters or the police seized my computer—I'd fight back. I don't know if my writing provides any societal benefits beyond recreation, but I am certain that it does no harm. And it is my right—perhaps even my responsibility—to express myself, to share with the world (or whatever segment is interested) my vivid, visceral, polymorphously perverse visions.

Wednesday, January 4, 2017

Resurrecting the Gothic Mystery Romance (#mystery #gothic #haunting @Alicia_Dean_)

Banner haunting

By Alicia Dean (Guest Blogger)

Do you remember the old classic Gothic Mystery romances such as The Shivering Sands by Victoria Holt, Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier and Hunter’s Green by Phyllis A. Whitney? No? Maybe you’re too young. Believe me, I am not. These stories hold strong and special memories for me. I used to devour them. I would read them and become lost in the mysterious moors, captivated by the brooding hero, frightened by the ghostly occurrences, totally engrossed in the gothic realm.

I thought it would be fun to revive the genre, and even more fun to do so as a group project, involving authors from all over the world. About a year ago, I put some calls out and gathered interested authors for a series of gothic mystery novellas. Each would be an individual, stand-alone story, but they would share the same series name and all have a recurring thread. After a discussion with my fellow A World of Gothic Authors, we decided the recurring thread would be a Spinel stone. Each story must feature the stone in some way, and its role could be as insignificant or as important as the author wished it to be. If you haven’t heard of Spinels, they are unique and fascinating stones that come in a wide array of colors, some with their own special meaning, and varying in value from worthless to highly valuable. It was fun reading the stories and seeing how the different authors incorporated the stone.

Our gothic series includes authors from, and stories set in, Scotland, Greece, Ireland, Texas, Florida, France, Louisiana, and Oklahoma, which is where mine is set. My contribution to the series is titled Haunting at Spook Light Inn and is based on an actual spook light phenomenon that appears in Northeastern Oklahoma, only a few miles from where my sister and brother-in-law live. To help with researching the book, I took a road trip to the area with my friends, Kathy and Krysta. My sister Ruth drove us out to ‘spook light road.’ We didn’t see the light, (Well, Kathy and I thought we saw it, but we’re not sure. And the two naysayers with us claim we didn’t, so I guess I’ll say we didn’t…), but we had a good time, and it was helpful for getting a feel for my story.

Giveaway: In the comments, please tell me if you’ve had any supernatural encounters, or if you think it’s all hogwash. I’ll draw three names, and the winners will each receive a $5 Amazon gift card.

Thank you for visiting me today!


About Haunting at Spook Light Inn:

Amidst a blizzard, paranormal debunker Camille Burditt arrives at Devil’s Promenade in Oklahoma to research a supernatural 'spook light' phenomenon for her latest book. There she encounters a ghostly being, which she dismisses as a figment of her imagination. But as the apparition becomes too persistent to deny, Camille realizes the woman’s ghost is quite real—and that her demise was not accidental.

Declan Rush—the inhospitable, reclusive owner of the inn where Camille is staying—is linked to the deceased woman, but he is less than forthcoming. Despite his unfriendliness, Camille is oddly drawn to him, even though she suspects his connection to the spirit might be that of killer to victim.

When another suspicious death occurs, Camille intensifies her investigation. She has precious little time to ferret out the truth. Not only is her book deadline looming—she's desperate to discover if the man she’s falling for is a murderer.


Excerpt

I was about to turn back when I heard the murmur of a male voice carried on the wind. An irrational prickle of fear swept through me, but I dismissed it. There was nothing to fear out here. Why would there be? Well, maybe coyotes, but that had definitely been a human voice.

I stood still and cocked my ear, trying to figure out where the sound came from. It came again. I rounded the carriage house and ended up back where the trail had forked. I took the other path this time.

A glimpse through the trees made me halt. A man. I moved closer and recognized Declan, although his back was to me. Three headstones were spaced four feet apart. Declan stood in front of a white marble teardrop-shaped stone with roses carved into the side that looked newer than the others.

His sister’s grave?

He wore a charcoal gray wool trench coat with the collar pulled up around his neck. His breath came out like wisps of smoke in the cold air. Snow dampened his dark blonde hair, making it look almost black. He was unaware of my presence. His focus was on the grave.

Sympathy pierced my heart, and I blinked back tears. He looked so forlorn, so alone. I had to tighten my hands into fists inside my coat pockets to keep from reaching out to him. My efforts wouldn’t be welcome.

After several moments of silence, I began to wonder if I’d really heard his voice. Although I’d had to take the path to get here, a small grouping of trees were all that separated this area from the carriage house, so it was possible. But had he been speaking to his sister? He didn’t seem the type of man to give in to sentiments such as talking to a dead loved one.

I no sooner had the thought than he spoke again. “I’m sorry, Eleanor. I wish we’d gotten along better, but I did love you. I never wanted this to happen. I only wanted to protect you.”

Feeling like a spy and not wanting to continue intruding on his privacy, I stepped back. My foot landed on an icy tree branch lying on the ground, and the sound cracked like a firecracker in the still afternoon.

Declan whirled to look at me.

My heart leapt to my throat.

His expression tightened in anger. “Ms. Burditt? What in God’s name are you doing out here?”

I—I was just…taking a walk.” I cast a guilty glance over my shoulder, then looked back at him.

He peered in the direction from which I’d come. “You were at the carriage house?” The words were barked like an accusation.

Y-yes. I just…” I took a deep breath, suddenly feeling the cold even though the wind was still calm. “I just came upon it. I didn’t go in. The doors were locked.” I realized my error as soon as I said the words. Too late to take them back.

You tried to get in?” He stalked over until he stood directly in front of me, looming like a dark angry cloud. “The carriage house is off limits. Stay away from it, do you understand me?”

I swallowed. “I wasn’t going to hurt anything, I was just curio—”

I said stay away.” His voice was deadly, his eyes molten steel. “Do I make myself clear?”

For one brief moment, the fury in his eyes made me think he might be capable of murder after all. Namely, mine. I couldn’t speak, so I only nodded. He held my gaze for a few more gut wrenching moments, then stormed away.

Amazon buy link:

News Flash! I've just dropped the price of the book to only 99 cents, for a limited time!


About the Author

Author Alicia Dean began writing stories as a child. At age 10, she wrote her first ever romance (featuring a hero who looked just like Elvis Presley, and who shared the name of Elvis’ character in the movie, Tickle Me), and she still has the tattered, pencil-written copy. Alicia is from Moore, Oklahoma and now lives in Edmond. She has three grown children and a huge network of supportive friends and family. She writes mostly contemporary suspense and paranormal, but has also written in other genres, including a few vintage historicals. She is a freelance editor in addition to being an editor for The Wild Rose Press.

Other than reading and writing, her passions are Elvis Presley, MLB, NFL (she usually works in a mention of one or all three into her stories) and watching (and rewatching) her favorite televisions shows like The Walking Dead, Dexter, Justified, Sons of Anarchy, Haven, Vampire Diaries, and The Originals. Some of her favorite authors are Michael Connelly, Dennis Lehane, Lee Child, Lisa Gardner, Sharon Sala, Jordan Dane, Ridley Pearson, Joseph Finder, and Jonathan Kellerman…to name a few.

Find Alicia here:

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Tuesday, January 3, 2017

Review Tuesday: Oysters and Pearls by @MitziSzereto (#erotica #vampires #review)




Oysters and Pearls: Collected Stories by Mitzi Szereto
Midnight Rain Publishing, 2016

Novels are beads strung on a wire, a sequence of events linked by character and intention into a harmonious whole. A short story, in contrast, can likened to a single pearl tiny but whole, perfectly symmetrical, gleaming smooth, reflecting the light. You can roll the best short stories around in your palm, viewing them from different angles. Afterward, you remember the silky nacre, cool against your skin.

Like pearls, the best stories coalesce around a fragment of grit: a loss, a need, an unsatisfied dream. Imagination builds layers of emotion and sensation around the irritating core. The triggering fragment does not disappear, but the author transforms it into a thing of beauty as much as pain.

Mitzi Szereto’s collection Oysters and Pearls includes some tales that come close to perfect. I’ve been an admirer of Ms. Szereto’s work since my very first introduction to erotica. Hence quite a few of the stories collected here were familiar, but like pearls, they do not lose their luster in one or two readings.

I remember the first time I read “Odalisque”, in one of Ms. Szereto’s early erotic travel anthologies where I also had a story. I was astounded and deeply aroused. It had not lost any of its impact upon re-reading. The tale is a gorgeous evocation of desire for the Other, a sensual feast with a bittersweet aftertaste. A western woman in Dubai experiences an erotic idyll with her Arab lover, only to discover that it’s far easier to mingle bodies than it is cultures.

Bakewell, Revisited” is another gem, a story of youthful desire reclaimed. The only lesbian tale in the collection, this vignette harnesses all five senses in service of eroticism. Once again there’s no happy ending, but the tale does not require one. The circling of past back to present is complete on its own.

The Dracula Club” is another of my favorites. Like many of Ms. Szereto’s heroines, the Goth girl in this tale blithely follows her erotic destiny, without much concern for the world’s judgments. In this case, it leads her from Ohio to Romania, into a stone coffin and arms of two lovers who might or might not be undead.

It’s All Right, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)” was new to me. This bleakly comic tale is a black pearl. It’s not really erotic, though it’s about sex, but it’s so perfectly structured I felt like applauding at its conclusion.

Hen Night” has some of the same cleverness, though it’s less dark. A woman decides to liven up her life with an anonymous sexual tryst in the loo. However, the encounter turns out to have unanticipated consequences.

Mitzi Szereto’s erotic visions tend to be tinged with blood and irony. “The Blood Moon Kiss” is an atmospheric vampire tale reminiscent of the Twilight series but infused with far more passion. “My Lover” presents a darkly poetic view of a relationship in which one lover completely consumes the other. “Hell is Where the Heart Is” offers Faustian tale of revenge in which the Devil is called “Alfie”. This rambling story lacks the structural precision of some of the stories in this collection, but shares their black humor.

Loving on Kyoto Time” brings an uncharacteristic note of gentleness to the collection. There’s no sex in this tale, only graceful, wordless longing that’s mirrored in the beauties of the ancient Japanese city of the title.

I didn’t like every story in Oysters and Pearls. A few of them felt tossed off, raw chips of imagination rather than carefully polished gems. Ms. Szereto’s writing is always competent, but her best stories are literary jewels. Those tales, where the narrator’s voice lingers to echo in your mind, are the ones I most appreciate.

As a whole, Oysters and Pearls is a strong collection of short erotic fiction. The best stories in the volume are ones you’ll want to read and re-read, as much for their gorgeous craft as for their heat.


Monday, January 2, 2017

Sneak Peek: Coltrane Corners by @TeriLRiggs (#westernromance #ColtraneCorners #OldWestRomance)

Coltrane Corners cover

Blurb

Elizabeth Coltrane has given up on finding a man who will love her in spite of the physical and emotional scars she carries thanks to a mountain lion attack. When her father is murdered, she inherits Coltrane Corners. The only man she can trust to save her cattle ranch is the foreman she just fired…and the man she’s loved since she was a child. But can Elizabeth keep her desire for Chase under control and her heart safe as they work side by side every day?

Chase Cameron is determined the bad blood of his abusive pa will end with him and vows to never marry. When Elizabeth needs his help getting her cattle to market, Chase has to decide if he can do the job while fighting the strong attraction he has to her.

When accidents begin to happen, threatening Elizabeth’s life, Chase discovers he is willing do whatever takes to keep her safe. They must both learn to trust again in order to save her ranch and her life.

Available from Amazon: http://mybook.to/coltranecorners

Excerpt

Chase stepped past her and stood next to the buggy. “Everett sent me to fetch you home. Now if you’d be so kind as to step aside, Miss Elizabeth, I’d be happy to load your trunk in the back of the buggy.”

Although she deserved his sarcasm, she cringed at the way he said ‘Miss Elizabeth.’ “I’d rather stick a cactus needle in my left eye than ride anywhere with you.”

I think that can be arranged, but I imagine a poke in the eyeball would hurt like the dickens.”

I’ve been gone six years, and you haven’t changed a bit, have you? Everything’s a big joke. You’re more infuriating than ever.” What was wrong with her? She couldn’t keep the hateful words from tumbling out. “I’d hoped you might have learned a few manners and social graces. But here you are, still a simple cowpoke.”

What can I say? Once a donkey’s behind, always a donkey’s behind.” He threw her words back at her. “You know how things go when you spend your days chasin’ after cattle and ridin’ fences. A man can’t be expected to learn much in the way of social graces when he’s out mucking through pastures full of cow patties and horse dung.”

She’d finally pushed him too far, gotten a reaction from him that wasn’t served up with a smile. Elizabeth saw the hurt in his eyes, heard the anger in his voice. Her face heated with guilt.

I may have been overly crude when I called you simple and a donkey’s behi… Well, you know what I said.” She let her eyes drift down. She shouldn’t have spoken in anger. The insults weren’t very ladylike, but considering the way he’d treated her in the past, she’d truly thought he deserved the words…until she saw the hurt in his gaze.

I accept your apology—such as it is.”

Her head jerked up. “I wasn’t offering you an apology.”

No kidding.” His voice was low. “I’ve tried to ignore your bad behavior since this is your first day back, but damnation, Elizabeth, when did you turn into such an uppity snob?”

Pardon me?” She tilted her head to one side. “I’m not a snob.” Well, maybe she did sound a little snooty, but he was the one to blame for that. He brought out the worst in her. “I don’t—”

He cut her off. “Never mind.”

Her eyes followed Chase as he sauntered back to the stagecoach in that don’t-rush-me cowboy way that always looked so darn good on him. Oh yes, years of hard work had definitely added plenty of muscle and strength to his broad shoulders. He picked up her heavy trunk as if it weighed less than a barn cat and carried the chest on one shoulder to the carriage without even breaking a sweat. He made quick work of securing the trunk, then he was back at her side, standing a bit too close for her liking.

You gonna let me escort you home or are you planning on walking?” He glanced down at her feet and shook his head. He looked up, tipped his hat back, and scratched his forehead. “I can tell you right now, the fancy city boots you’re wearin’ aren’t gonna carry you very far.”

Elizabeth weighed her options and wondered how she’d managed to back herself into a corner so quickly. Of course she wasn’t going to walk all the way to the ranch, but she sure as heck wasn’t about to admit that to Chase. She couldn’t very well rent a horse from the livery—she wasn’t dressed suitably for riding. Maybe she’d hire a carriage instead.

Damnation, Elizabeth. Either you’re comin’ or you’re not.”

I’m still thinking. There’s no need to raise your voice at me.”

If you’re gonna be noodling on your decision much longer, I’m gonna march my boots over to Burt’s Saloon and have a drink.”

What a good idea. You go have your drink, and I’ll noodle on the subject a while longer. I’ll give you my answer when you return.”

He was grumbling under his breath as he walked away. She heard him anyway. “Well, if this don’t beat all. Damn fickle woman.”

Fickle? She’d show him fickle. “Oh, Chase, before you go, would you be kind enough to give me a lift up? I’d just as soon sit while I noodle.”

He stomped back in her direction, kicking up small clouds of dust.
She liked—perhaps a little too much—the warm, confident feel of his large hands wrapped around her waist as he gave her a boost up.

Ten minutes, Miss Elizabeth. Then I’m comin’ back and you’d best have an answer for me.”

Elizabeth busily tucked her skirt’s mountain of material into the carriage.

I promise. You’ll have your answer when you return.”

For the first time since she’d stepped from the stagecoach, she graced him with a smile.

***

Chase swung open the saloon doors, still riding high on the smile Elizabeth had offered. A smile more brilliant than a Texas sunrise and more embracing than a Texas sunset, he marveled. Instead of the braids she’d worn as a child, her blonde hair was now pulled back in a tight chignon. Several whisper-thin tendrils had escaped, caressing the smooth looking skin of her face. His fingers itched to tuck the flyaway wisps of hair back behind her ears. Better yet, he wanted to toss the stupid hat, free the hair from its tight bun, and run his hands through the loose curls.

Elizabeth confused him. He was drawn to her, yet she’d been nothing but pure mean since she’d stepped off the stage. But damned if a certain one of his body parts wasn’t about to embarrass him in the middle of Burt’s.

What was he thinking? Elizabeth was off-limits. She was right. He was nothing but a simple cowpoke. She deserved better. Hell, for all he knew, he’d turn out like his pa a few years down the road. And what would her father think? Everett was not only Chase’s boss and mentor, he’d become his closest friend over the years. He’d definitely want more than a simple cowpoke with bad blood in him for his daughter. Maybe when Chase’s ranch became successful, he’d finally feel respectable. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Nope. Wasn’t gonna happen. Even when the ranch began producing, his past would haunt him. He’d stick to his plan, one which didn’t include Elizabeth, or any other woman. Now all he had to do was convince his unruly body part of the fact.

He ambled to the bar, ready for a drink, and hoping to put all thoughts of Elizabeth out of his mind. The piano wasn’t playing. Then again, it seldom was until evening when things livened up in town. This time of day, the only noise came from the loud voices and laughter at the table where a group of men were playing a rowdy hand of poker. The place smelled of stale tobacco and cheap perfume. Only two of Burt’s saloon hall girls were strutting their assets around. They were dressed in colorful, flesh-baring costumes and cheap boas. Chase thought of Elizabeth’s feathered hat and smiled. She’d probably paid a fortune for the damned thing. He saddled up to the bar, with a grin still plastered across his face.

Burt brought him his usual shot glass full of whiskey and set it down in front of him with a loud thwack, then did a double take.

Damn, Chase. What’re you all gussied up for and smiling like an idiot about?”

I don’t know what you’re talking about, you crazy old geezer. Been dippin’ in the barrels a little too much today?”

I don’t drink this piss-water. I just sell the stuff to fools like you.” Burt leaned in and sniffed. “So come on and tell me, what’s the pretty smell? You’re wearing cologne, ain’t you? Kinda reminds me of cloves.”

It’s called bay rum and it’s none of your business how I smell.”

You’re all shaved, bathed, and wearing clean duds.” Burt stared at him for a moment. “Hell in a handbasket, you done gone and dusted off your Stetson. Something’s up.”

Well, if you gotta know, I’m escorting the boss’s daughter home to Coltrane Corners. I thought maybe, since she’s been living back East for the last six years, she might not be appreciative of ridin’ alongside a dust-covered, unshaven, cattle-smelling ranch hand.”
Simple cowpoke my ass. “Now if you’re done mindin’ my business, I’d like to enjoy my whiskey in peace and quiet, and then be on my way.”

The nosey barkeeper leaned forward, elbows on the bar. “Can I ask you one more quick question?”

If it’ll buy me a moment of alone time? Sure, ask away.”

Burt stood straight, lifted a glass, and wiped at the rim with a cloth. “Are you picking up Miss Coltrane in the Coltrane carriage?”

Of course I am. You don’t think I’m gonna toss her over my horse’s back and ride away into the sunset with her, do you?” Chase scrutinized Burt’s face and narrowed his eyes. “Why’re you asking?”

“’Cause if my eyesight ain’t failed me, I believe the Coltrane Corners’ rig took off about the same time you was a-walkin’ through the saloon’s doors smiling like a ninny. And you, my friend, weren’t riding in it.”

About Teri

As a child, Teri made up her own bedtime stories. When her children came along, Teri always tweaked the fairy tales she told her daughters, giving them a bit more punch and better endings when needed.

Now she spends her days turning her ideas into books. She lives in Marietta, GA with her husband.


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Sunday, January 1, 2017

Sunday Snog 260: A Contract for Christmas (#holiday #bdsm #giveaway)

Contract for Christmas cover

Happy New Year to all my readers!

After last week’s vanilla release, I’m back to my usual tricks with a BDSM-flavored snog from my holiday ménage tale A Contract for Christmas. Want your own copy? Just leave me a comment with your email and I’ll enter you in the drawing.

And when you’re done here, do head back to Victoria’s place. She’s got an extra kinky Sunday Snog, too!



Good morning, sleepyhead. Merry Christmas!”

Greg’s voice dragged me awake. The brightness made me blink. For a few minutes, I couldn’t focus on the figure towering over the bed.

Um—Greg? You’re back!”

Joy sang through me. Then I realized where I was—lying in a bed that reeked of sex, with my arms around another man. Guilt descended, threatening to smother me.

James still slept, oblivious. I extricated myself from his embrace, tumbled out of the bed and sank to the floor at Greg’s feet.

Sir…I’m so sorry, sir...”

Sorry for what, minx? Didn’t I order you to put yourself at James’s disposal? It looks to me like you followed my instructions very well.”

He raised me to my feet and drew me into a kiss. His bold mouth was familiar and yet shocking, after so many kisses from James. I let him take me over, relieved to find he wasn’t angry. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d betrayed him.

I missed you, Greg. I let James use me, as you ordered, but it wasn’t the same…”

My husband ran his fingers through my hopelessly tangled hair. “I should hope not! Wouldn’t make much sense to have two masters if they were exactly the same. I’ve always believed that variety is the spice of life.”

He set me at arms length and looked me over. “Impressive marks on your thighs, I must say.”

My cheeks flamed as I remembered the ecstatic pain James had bestowed upon me.

Turn around. Oh my! A paddling too, if I’m not mistaken.”

You’ve always had a sharp eye, Greg.”

I turned to see James propped up on elbow, sporting a self-satisfied grin.

Ah, Merry Christmas! So, was our Bella a good girl for you last night?”

James sat up straight and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Despite the night’s exertions, he sported an impressive erection. “The very best.”

He reached out, pulled me against him and planted his lips on mine. The kiss was brief but wet, with plenty of tongue. How different he tasted from my husband! Meanwhile, his fingers slithered between my sticky thighs to tease my clit.

James, don’t!” I squirmed away, unwilling for Greg to see how easily his friend controlled my body.

My husband arched an eyebrow. “You’re refusing him? I ordered you to submit.”

That was last night.” Backing away from James, I bumped into Greg. He strapped an arm across my chest, taking the opportunity to tweak a nipple. “Greg—no, please…”

Now you’re objecting to my attentions as well? What’s got into you, Bella?”

James stepped forward, pressing his body against mine, until I was sandwiched between them. His rigid cock prodded my belly. “I’d expect you to be deliriously happy,” he said. “You’re such a lucky woman, with two strong masters just dying to get their hands on you.”

Greg’s evergreen cologne mingled with stale sweat from his long plane trip. James smelled of cum and pussy. Their scents combined to trigger new moisture in my pussy. I sighed and surrendered, sinking into their heat. “You’re ganging up on me!” I protested, as Greg circled my anus and James palmed my breast. “It’s not fair.”

Who ever said BDSM was fair? I think she needs to be punished, James. Taught her place.”

I agree,” my husband’s friend replied. “But can we do that later? I’m desperate for a shower.”