Lines, Rules, Limits - #transgressive #forbidden #erotic

Are there topics you feel should be unequivocally banned from erotica? Subjects about which you would absolutely never read—or write—in an erotic context? Do you believe there are some literary lines that should never be crossed?

Many people feel this way about rape or other forms of non-consensual sexual activity. Yet studies (here, for example) have shown repeatedly that many women (and some men) fantasize about being raped or forced into sexual activity. In general, these women understand that imagined coercion is very different from real rape. Finding the former arousing does not indicate a desire for the latter. Nevertheless many readers, and publishers, object to exploring this topic in erotica.

What about incest? Despite the difficulty authors experience in publishing fiction that features sexual activity between adult family members, the taboo topic is a turn-on for a significant subset of readers. The wildly popular step-brother romance sub-genre has provided a “safe” way for readers to experience the forbidden thrill of being attracted to a close relation. I personally consider this as a bit dishonest. I’ve had incestuous dreams about my own brother. I’d never act on them, but that doesn’t mean the dreams weren’t a turn-on.

Bestiality? If sexual activity involving animals is so horrifying, why are shifter stories so successful? Not to mention the cryptozoological “taken by bigfoot” sub-genre? Forcing oneself upon a dumb animal in the real world would be immoral, but the beasts in erotic fiction tend to be anthropomorphised. The human participants feel some sort of sexual connection with the horny dog or the sleek, predatory tiger. I’ve read some amazing erotica based on human attraction to animals. Does that mean I plan to have sex with my cat? Of course not.

Sex with children may be a hard line. Adults getting sexual with kids too young to object or to understand is definitely wrong. There are no extenuating circumstances. But how do you define “young”? Is fourteen too young? That’s how old I was when I gave away my virginity, to a guy who was twenty. I knew exactly what I was doing (well, in theory, at least). During the teen years, desire is confusing and inchoate, but overwhelming in its power. Memories of that period, when every emotion cuts to the quick, offer tremendous possibilities for meaningful and moving—as well as tremendously arousing—erotic fiction.

My clearest personal line involves erotic fiction that portrays inflicting serious violence, physical harm or death as arousing. I avoid such stories when I can. I’ve read enough erotica, though, to know that not everyone agrees with this boundary. Are the people who write such stuff fundamentally evil? Am I qualified to judge?

These are not easy questions to answer. If you think they are, I believe that you’re fooling yourself.

The core issue relates to another kind of line: the line between imagination and reality. Is someone who finds a taboo topic arousing in fiction likely to perform such actions in real life? I’d argue that most readers of erotica distinguish very clearly between the fantasies evoked by erotic fiction, no matter how extreme, and the life they live outside of books.

Of course there are individuals who do enact this sort of forbidden scenario in the real world. There are men who kidnap women and hold them prisoners in their basements for years, who secretly abuse grade school kids, who screw their prepubescent daughters. These people have always existed. Does our writing about the sort of crimes they perpetrate encourage these people to commit these crimes?

Does an author who writes about a serial killer encourage murderers in the real world?

How much of the horror that people express about various taboo topics is rational, and how much is based on their personal discomfort? I will leave that question open for you to ponder.

Publishers and online venues don’t want to make readers uncomfortable. They’re also worried about getting in trouble with the law. Hence, they establish various rules about what content is and is not acceptable. These rules tend to be idiosyncratic, depending on both the personal beliefs of the owners or operators and their perception of their market. For instance, I had a publisher reject one of my stories once because they had a policy prohibiting the portrayal of priests and nuns in erotica. In the romance world, very few publishers will accept any work that includes bodily fluids (“golden showers” or “scat”) even though there’s no legal reason for them to reject such stories (and it’s possible to write about these topics with both grace and heat). These publishers are convinced their readership will find such content “gross”.

Perhaps you will consider me an incorrigible reprobate, but I am in favor. I believe we should have as few rules as possible.

In my view, erotica should not only turn readers on, but should also expand their perspectives. Sex is inextricably intertwined with so many other emotions—love, guilt, ambition, shame, anger, and compassion, to name just a few. Erotica derives its singular power from this psychological complexity. It’s not a safe genre, or at least it shouldn’t be. Sometimes the most arousing stories are the most disturbing.

Does that mean nothing is sacred, nothing forbidden? That’s something each of us has to answer for ourselves. There are few, if any red lines that I can discern. Defining what is and is not acceptable in erotica is a dangerously slippery slope.

Red lines in erotica remind me a bit of limits in BDSM. Limits are personal—the activities I totally reject might be the ones that most turn you on. Furthermore, limits can change over time. Tomorrow I might consider doing something that terrifies or squicks me today. Finally, the most erotic BDSM encounters often result from pushing limits—moving beyond the edge of what’s comfortable and familiar into new experiences and new insights.

Review Tuesday: The Untouchable by A P von K'Ory - #eroticromance #dominance #ReviewTuesday

Golden Shana: The Untouchable by A P von K’Ory

Amazon KDP, 2018

Millionaire businessman Roman Castell is accustomed to getting what he wants, especially when it comes to women. Females war with one another for his attention. Roman sincerely enjoys the charms of the few lucky ones he chooses — until he gets bored and moves on. He’s a law unto himself, unattached, dominant, demanding, the ultimate male predator, a generous but fundamentally cold-hearted lover who covers all his bases by forcing his playmates to sign legal contracts before he’ll bed them.

When he encounters Svadishana Lindqvist, he is totally unprepared for the havoc she wreaks on his emotions, his life and his self-image. Exquisitely beautiful, intelligent and talented, even richer and more powerful than Roman himself, Shana initially appears immune to his legendary charisma. Meanwhile, his craving for her is visceral, soul-destroying, humbling to a man who scarcely knows the meaning of the word humility. Roman devotes all his considerable resources to pursuing the woman who has fascinated him. In the first book of the Golden Shana series, The Chase, he makes some slight progress in winning her. In the second book, The Capture, he succeeds in overcoming her resistance, which derives partly from a history of sexual abuse, and binding her to him with ties of lust and perhaps of love. However, he can’t resist exercising his power over the other women in his life: his former mistress Marie, who is pregnant with his child, and Shana’s childhood friend and one-time Sapphic lover Alyssa.

The Untouchable, the third volume, opens as Roman welcomes the love-sick, desperately willing Alyssa into his dungeon. Motivated by ego, jealousy and a desire for revenge, he secures Alyssa to his bondage cross then forces her to watch as he ravishes Shana. The perverse scene, though pleasurable for everyone involved, terrifies Svadishana. Roman seems to uniquely fulfill her on every level - physical, emotional and spiritual - but she fears that under his influence she’ll lose all independence and control. She also, quite logically, foresees practical problems in their relationship, given their demanding careers and potentially conflicting business interests. She asks for some time and distance to consider their future, and Roman grudgingly acquiesces. Shana jets off to the other side of the world, leaving him alone, bewildered by his feelings, needing her as he has never needed anyone. She misses him with equal fervor, but her loneliness and desire are not enough to overcome her concerns about their future.

Meanwhile, the man who raped Shana at university (Grieg, nicknamed “Phoenix”) proceeds with his plans to reclaim the woman he views as His Girl. Roman, as might be expected, fights back with every weapon in his substantial arsenal. The middle of The Untouchable reads more like a thriller than an erotic romance, as the rivals and their respective henchmen try to outsmart and destroy each other. Only near the end of the novel do Roman and Shana reconnect, in a violently passionate, multi-chapter love scene. This reconciliation makes it clear to both of them that despite the obstacles, separation is not a viable option.

Golden Shana: The Untouchable, like the two previous installments in the series, is vivid, passionate and engaging. I especially liked the middle third, in which Phoenix and Roman basically go to war against one other. Roman shows both his strengths and his weaknesses in this segment, while the reader comes to understand the fundamental evil represented by his opponent.

Ultimately, though, I ended up feeling frustrated by and annoyed at most of the characters, with the exception of Marie and the surprisingly moral thug Garlinski. Roman, it seems, has not learned or changed much during his ardent and arduous pursuit of his golden goddess. The final chapters show that he is still as selfish, immature, arrogant and egoistic as when we first met him. Shana has demanded some space and time away from her lover and nemesis, but he barges in on her nevertheless, then blames and punishes her for depriving him and making him unhappy. This behavior does not, in may opinion, reflect true love. Meanwhile, Shana succumbs to his aggressive machismo rather than holding him to account for breaking his word. The whole scene perpetuates the sexist mythos of the magic cock that can undermine any woman’s resolve and turn her into a gasping puppet desperate for penetration. I’d thought Shana was better than this; Roman too.

How can this be true love when Roman is so dishonest? He hides the fact that he is expecting a child by another woman. He shares nothing about his experiences fighting Grieg. Indeed, if he were thinking about Shana’s safety, he’d realize she needs to know that she’s being stalked, that she’s been marked as Grieg’s victim. Roman is still unaware of the true identity of Phoenix, but he has clear evidence of how dangerous he is.

It’s clear, though, that the author considers Shana’s and Roman’s intense connection to be so powerful and fundamental that it renders all these considerations moot. I believe that she personally loves Roman as much as Shana does. This conviction comes through in the love scenes, where she lingers on every gesture and reaction.

Personally, I am not convinced. Your mileage, as they say, may vary. In any case, if you enjoy passionate romance full of unexpected twists, you should check out this book.

A writer’s life, in five points - #UrbanFantasy #Demons #Giveaway @Cristelle

By Cristelle Comby (Guest Blogger)

1. 1) It’s a lonely job. This may be obvious to many but until you really start it is difficult to fully imagine how solitary the life of a writer can be. Almost every writer needs peace and quiet. This can be difficult to find and your tranquil writing area can be at the mercy of the phone, family and other occupations. Finding the perfect place to write is the first step. However, this will invariably lead you away from everyone you know. It will be just you, your room, a computer and in my case, copious amounts of coffee.

2. 2) Writing takes longer than you think. You have to write, re-write, re-write again, and probably do that several more times until you and anyone else reading it will be happy. The myth of Jack Kerouac writing his most famous novel On the Road in 3 weeks on one continuous piece of paper turned out to be a lie; it was in fact years; although by then he was a best seller. Even if you can fool people into thinking the writing didn’t take a long time, like Kerouac, it definitely will. Once you think it is ready, someone will probably be ready to tell you your work isn’t.

3. 3) It’s harder than it looks. You might think that once you have a good story in your head, coupled with the ability to write, you’ll be well away. You might. But you probably won’t. Writers are continuously tripped up by plot holes, unbelievable characters and various inconsistencies throughout the writing process. Gelling everything together into a cohesive whole can be tricky and will require revisions and edits to get the job done.

4. 4) Unless you have an original idea about wizards, vampires or greying men then writing will almost certainly not make you rich. With royalties extremely low for each book sold some writers choose to self publish to earn more. However, that comes with its own set of financial problems as investment costs when one chooses to self-publishing are alarmingly high. But if you thought it was all bad…

5. 5) It will make you happy. The feeling that you get after you have your printed book in your hands for the first time – something you painstakingly wrote and edited. Your labour of love. No one can ever take that happy, joyous, feeling away from you. It makes all the pains and aches worth it. Take the word of a writer who has been through it from start to finish.

Blurb

After narrowly preventing the destruction of Cold City, PI Bellamy Vale needs a rest. Or rather, he needs a plain and simple vanilla case—no monsters or otherworldly creatures involved!

When foreign businessman Eli Smith shows up at his doorstep with a thick wallet and a request to find his missing sister, Vale doesn’t think twice before agreeing.

If he’d known body-hopping demons and smoke monsters came attached to this job, however, he might have.

Excerpt

So what if it was mid-February? The way I was feeling that morning, I planned to sleep until New Year came around again. Hells, as far as I was concerned, I earned it ten times over. I put an end to a string of gruesome killings, prevented the apocalypse our former mayor intended for us, and I’d stuck around long enough to clean up the mess she and her minions left behind. All that thinking took out the last bit of energy I had. I closed my eyes, found a way to lie down that didn’t hurt too much, and let sleep throw its soothing blanket over me.

And then someone knocked at the door.

I groaned at the wrong timing but kept my eyes shut. There was no way in Tartarus that I was getting back up again so soon. Whoever it was could get lost.

The knocking came again.

It was more insistent this time. I could hear a sense of urgency to the motion. I forced one eye open and frowned. The sunlight streaming in from the window was too bright for it to be morning and the angle it bounced off the floorboards was all wrong. I opened my second eye and glanced at the clock on the bedside table…Three in the afternoon.

“The hells?” I muttered, wondering where the day went while I shook my head to clear out the cobwebs.

The knock came a third time and I got up, grumbling all the way to the door. I didn’t bother to put clothes on or to tidy myself up before opening it. I was clad only in an old pair of sweatpants with a variety of cuts, bruises, and bandages on full display throughout my upper body. I hadn’t shaved in a week, and I was sure my hair was a sweaty mess of brown locks and dried blood.

Who knows, I thought, maybe the sight of me will convince my uninvited guest to let me get back to my coma.

If the man in the hallway took notice of my state, he didn’t let it show. He was tall and sickly thin under his rumbled three-piece suit. His pale skin provided some severe contrast with the purple bags under his brown eyes. He was somewhere between forty and forty-five. His angular face wasn’t familiar, and my frown deepened.

He looked like a potential client, the I-want-to-know-who-my-wife-is-banging type, but they rarely showed up to my private address unannounced. I made a lot of enemies in my professional career, not all of them on this side of the border, so my business card only listed my cell number.

The suit he wore appeared brand new, but I frowned more as I realized something didn’t add up. I was no fashion expert, but the matching of colors between the vest and shirt was off, brownish orange shirt covered by a purple jacket. Oh, and he wore a tie that matched his jacket…ugh. The light brown shoes were also at odds with the indigo blue pants. And there was the smell on the guy. It wasn’t a garbage smell—I’d been around enough of that over the last month to know it at first whiff—but there was a smoky quality about it that stood out.

I filed the information away for later and looked the man squarely in the eye. “What?” I croaked, my tongue feeling too thick and my mouth too dry.

“Bellamy Vale?” he asked, with an accent that wasn’t from around here…Middle Eastern, maybe?

I jerked my thumb at the bell next to the door. It had my name on it.

The man peered down at it perplexed, then pressed the round button. A shrill ringing shot out of the tiny plastic box above the door, and the sound sent sharp needles dancing through my brain. I winced in pain.

“Yeah—yeah, that’s me.” I rushed the words out, eager to make the noise stop. Damn, but my head was killing me. My odd gentleman caller took his finger off the button to look at me again.

“I need your help,” he said, “to find my sister.”

I needed help too, preferably in the form of another round of painkillers. But that was going to have to wait. I waved my potential new client inside.

About the Author

Cristelle Comby was born and raised in the French-speaking area of Switzerland, on the shores of Lake Geneva, where she still resides.

She attributes to her origins her ever-peaceful nature and her undying love for chocolate. She has a passion for art, which also includes an interest in drawing and acting.

She is the author of the Neve & Egan Cases series, which features an unlikely duo of private detectives in London: Ashford Egan, a blind History professor, and Alexandra Neve, one of his students.

Currently, she is hard at work on her Urban Fantasy series Vale Investigation which chronicles the exploits of Death’s only envoy on Earth, PI Bellamy Vale, in the fictitious town of Cold City, USA.

Twitter :

https://twitter.com/cristelle

Website :

www.cristelle-comby.com

Amazon author page: https://www.amazon.com/Cristelle-Comby/e/B00EAWEODS

Goodreads :

https://www.goodreads.com/CristelleComby

Amazon buy link: https://www.amazon.com/Evil-Embers-Vale-Investigation-Book-ebook/dp/B07MD2Z7ZV/ref=sr_1_1

Cristelle is giving away a $50 gift certificate to one lucky reader. Use the Rafflecopter below to enter.

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Sizzling St. Patrick's Day! #flashfiction #StPatricksDay #SizzlingSunday

Image by Christopher Ross

Wearing the Green
By Lisabet Sarai

A raw gust off the harbor sliced through my jacket. I needed a drink. I always needed a drink after dropping the boys at their mom’s.

Inside, The Harp was a sea of green. Behind the bar, Mike poured grass-colored beer.

“Sean! What’ll it be?”

“Bushmills, neat. A double.”

I pushed through the raucous crowd to my usual booth in the back.

“Can I join you?”

The black-clad girl nodded. A plump, copper-hued plait hung over her shoulder.

My whiskey burned, sweet and strong.

“Seems you’re dressed for Halloween, not St. Pat’s.”

“A funeral.” She flashed a sad smile. “My boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Left me for a guy, then died of AIDs. ”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

“Never mind.” She leaned closer. “Kiss me.”

“I don’t even know you!”

“I’m Irish. What else do you need to know?”

Her mouth captured mine. Meanwhile she palmed my thickening rod.

“Mmm.” She dragged my hand to her lap. “You touch me, too.”

Her skirt parted. My fingers found soft, damp fur.

Startled, I broke our kiss to inspect her pussy. I expected gingery curls. Instead, her pubes were bright green.

“What the hell?”

Giggling, she unzipped me. “I hoped I’d get lucky.”

Saturday Spanks: Challenge to Him - #historical #BDSM #SaturdaySpanks

I’ve got a luscious Saturday Spanks excerpt for you today, from my historical BDSM romance Challenge to Him. I was amazed to discover that this came out more than five years ago. I vividly remember writing it—how the luxurious world of the Gilded Age came alive in my mind. And how aroused I got writing this particular scene...

Blurb

All the wealth in the world can’t buy willing surrender.

Andrew MacIntyre, heir to a vast empire of railroads, mines and mills, is the second or third richest man in America, and by far the most eligible bachelor among the society folk summering in Newport, Rhode Island. His mother has filled their opulent mansion with marriageable daughters of bankers and industrialists, but Andrew knows none of these callow young women can satisfy his perverse sexual needs. No respectable girl would ever consent to being bound and beaten, to serving and obeying him the way he craves. His money gives him the freedom to purchase anything except his heart’s desire—a submissive partner to share his life.

Independent, progressive and well-educated, labour activist Olivia Alcott has dedicated herself to improving the lot of the workers who toil in the factories that have made Andrew and his class so wealthy. The strike she organises triggers a confrontation between her and the handsome billionaire. Although their disparate backgrounds and values make them natural foes, something stronger draws them to one another—an intuitive recognition of complementary fantasies. Andrew offers Olivia a bargain—better working conditions for the mill staff, in return for a weekend of her unquestioning obedience. Olivia will help him deflect the attentions of the potential mates assembled by his mother, as well as providing more intimate services. Given Olivia’s origins, a more enduring relationship appears impossible—but Andrew is not the sort to give up something he wants.

Excerpt

“Seven!” The strap whistled through the air. Olivia steeled herself as leather bit into the tender flesh of her ass, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Her lips pressed together to contain her cries. Her eyes were screwed shut to hold back tears. Each stroke hurt twice as much as the previous one, but she was determined to endure the punishment Andrew MacIntyre had decreed—twenty lashes with his hand-tooled belt of Moroccan cowhide—without complaint.

“Eight!” A starburst of pain exploded at the point of contact, then faded to a throbbing ache, echoed by the insistent pulse in her clit. Her buttocks, already sensitised from his earlier spanking, felt as though they’d been roasted over an open flame.

“Nine!” Despite her determination to be stoic, she could not help flinching away from the vicious strap, but she could not escape. Her bonds permitted only the most limited movements.

Andrew had her bent over the footboard of the bed with her buttocks in the air, her chest upon the mattress and her arms stretched over her head. Ropes looped around her wrists and pulled them towards the far bedposts on either side of the pillows. More rope fastened her ankles to the legs of the bedstead, keeping her thighs spread wide. She could do little more than wriggle, and when she did, her pebbled nipples rubbed against the silk coverlet and triggered another sort of agony.

The pain was terrible and yet somehow it excited her beyond belief. It was not the sensations per se that inspired her arousal. She feared the next application of the lash as much as she craved it. What thrilled her was the realisation that she embodied Andrew MacIntyre’s darkest fantasies. Everything he’d ever imagined, she could give to him. Unquestioning obedience. Willing surrender. A ripe, strong female body for him to use as his toy and his comfort. In the breathless moments between his strokes, they were deeply connected by complementary need. That connection was intoxicating.

“Ten!” The belt snapped as it met its target, landing precisely on the delicate underside of her rear cheeks, near the crease where they met. The awful sting forced a cry from her throat, before she caught herself. Hot embarrassment at her weakness mingled with the fire consuming her ass and the fever in her pussy.

Her inadvertent vocalisation made Andrew pause. “Olivia, are you all right?” His fingertips brushed across her welts, waking new pangs that sizzled straight to her sex. She arched backwards, seeking greater contact, and was rewarded by the warmth of his palms, massaging and soothing her battered flesh.

“I’m fine, sir.” The confidence and certainty she heard in her own voice amazed her. “You may continue with my punishment.”

“No, no—I don’t want to damage you.” His hands wandered along the curve of her hips to her waist, then up along her sides to the splayed swell of her breasts, flattened against the mattress. Everywhere he touched, he kindled shivers of delight. He had to lean over her to reach that sensitive spot and the wool of his trousers stung her abraded skin. Awkward, constrained by her bonds, she rubbed against the hard bulk prodding her buttocks. His sigh of pleasure only added to the heat building between her thighs. More of his weight settled upon her back. If only he were naked!

“Miss Alcott, I’d love to thrash your delectable ass until it’s twice as red as it is now. But it’s too much—much too much for the first time.”

“I deserve it, sir—ah!” He had wormed his hand beneath her body to capture her swollen nipple in the pincer of his fingers. “Oh!” He ran his tongue down her spine to leave a wet, tingling trail. “And—ah—oh, sir!” He’d pulled back far enough to slide a finger into her soaked depths. Although he kept well away from her clit, the stimulation still had her teetering on the edge of climax. “I—oh!—I can handle it, sir. It’s not my first time.”

The admission tumbled out before she could stop herself.

“What? What do you mean?” His growl suggested anger, but his fingers continued their slippery dance among her folds. She fought the waves of release threatening to engulf her, struggling for clarity and control. Men were so possessive. How could she explain that Dmitri was long gone, that now, tonight, she belonged solely to Andrew?

“In Paris—I had a lover, a master—oh, please, don’t stop…”

He’d pulled his hand abruptly out of her weeping pussy. The sense of loss was devastating.

“I’ll do what I want. Go on, slut, tell me more.”

She squirmed against the ropes that kept her from touching him. Their welcome bite helped her to focus.

“He was a poet. Russian. He knew—knew me in a way I’d never experienced. I didn’t understand at the beginning, but he showed me, taught me…”

“I knew it, damn it all! I felt it, the first time I saw you.” Tears welled in her eyes at his harsh tone. “Did he whip you, this master of yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cane you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Torture your nipples? Gag and blind you? Suspend you from the ceiling? Stuff his fist into your anus? Mark you with his blade?”

Shame flooded through her at this litany of sins. Even Andrew MacIntyre was appalled by her secret desires.

He grabbed her rear cheeks and pulled them apart, as if to inspect her most private parts. Her juices painted the insides of her thighs, clear evidence of her perverse excitement. His nails dug into the welts he’d inflicted. Sweet torment winged through her helpless body.

“Speak up, slave. I want an answer. Which of these obscene things did your so-called master do to you?”

Olivia fought a paralysing sense of humiliation, unable to reply. “All of them, sir,” she whispered finally, terrified of his reaction but compelled by the force of his will. “All of them, and more.”

Andrew abruptly released his hold on her, backing away so that she could no longer sense his heat. Was he leaving, abandoning her in this compromising and uncomfortable position? Had he gone for his knife, to cut her free and dismiss her? She craned her neck, but he was out of her line of sight. She heard quiet rustling as he moved about the enormous room. Was he retrieving an even more painful instrument with which to punish her?

“Sir?” she ventured, well aware that slaves were not supposed to speak unless specifically instructed to do so. The quaver in her voice revealed her desperate need. She didn’t care. “Please, sir… I’m sorry…” There was no answer.

Her heart spiralled down into a pit of gloom. A vision of her future stretched before her, bleak, sterile and unsatisfying. She recalled her despair when Dmitri had left her, the blank hours, the months of aching, unrelieved need. For some reason this was far worse. Though she’d known Andrew less than a day, the sense of connection was far more powerful than she’d ever felt with her sly, seductive Russian master. Dmitri had been irresistible but cruel, a true sadist who had loved to see her suffer. Andrew, in contrast, appeared to be a basically decent man, despite his deviant sexual needs—although those needs were less deviant, apparently, than her own.

If only she’d kept her mouth shut.

Then all at once he was behind her again, his strong hands gripping her hips and his rigid cock poised at her entrance. In an instant, Olivia soared back to the heights of arousal where he’d taken her during the beating.

“What are you sorry about, wench?” A single jerk of his pelvis seated his cock in her wet depths. Gasping at the sudden, delicious intrusion, she couldn’t answer. He moved inside her, hard and sure, glorious and right—stretching, filling, fulfilling. His wiry pubic hair scratched the backs of her thighs as he buried himself to the root.

Olivia strained against the pull of her bonds, arching her spine, wanting more. Instead, he drew back, emptying her. He rubbed his slick cockhead back and forth across her outer lips, carefully avoiding her clit and driving her crazy.

“I beg you, sir, don’t tease me…”

He laughed and swatted one sore butt cheek. “Be still!” Pleasure and pain rippled through her in alternating waves. “I’m in control here. You’re just my slut—the repository of my lust. And a very filthy little slut at that…”

Harder Than It Looks - #FlashFiction #BDSM #SlaveTraining #NaturalSubmissive

Again. He doesn't even bother to verbalize the command, merely gestures, palm up, signaling me to repeat the move, for what must surely be the fiftieth time.

My fatigued quadriceps scream in protest as I roll from a kneel back onto the balls of my feet, then rise to stand before him. My calves quiver, threatening to cramp. I inhale and release the air in a long, slow stream, willing the tension away as I've been taught. The pain ebbs a bit.

There's a puddle of sweat at the small of my back, where I hold my hands clasped, pretending I'm bound. Skin adheres to sticky skin, under my arms, under my breasts. My hair is a limp mess, plastered to my forehead.

I keep my eyes down, focused on my bare feet, looking, I hope, respectful and demure. His eyes rake over my naked body, noting every defect in my posture and demeanor. I straighten my spine and elevate my rib cage, to present my eager breasts.

“Better,” he says, in that deep, rich voice that feels so much like a caress. “Except for that wobble near the end. Keep your abdominals tucked, to help you balance. Imagine that you're about to be suspended, that the rope is pulling you up, up, irresistible. You don't need to do anything at all. Let go and let the energy draw you upwards.”

I cast a sidelong glance at Sylvie and Gloria, comfortably shackled on the sofa to my left. How I envy their effortless grace! But the simple, lovely ease in their movements is all illusion – the product of long hours of training. Those of us who crave discipline love to fantasize about being natural submissives – just waiting for our fated master to recognize us and make our fantasies real. In truth, there's nothing natural about being a slave. Every gesture and pose must be learned.

Still, I suppose some of us may have more aptitude than others. At this point, exhausted and frustrated, I feel like the class dunce.

“Down,” he orders. I think of water – fluid, yielding – as I lower myself once more to my knees. Every muscle hurts. This time I manage to avoid stumbling. Back arched, taut nipples offered to tempt his fingers, I let out the breath I've been holding. The scent of my pussy wafts from out from between my spread thighs. I'm amazed to realize that I find even this agonizing repetition arousing, when he's the one controlling it.

He circles my kneeling form. I bow my head, awaiting his verdict. How I crave even the smallest nugget of his praise! He's close enough to touch, but of course I resist that temptation. Instead, I watch the way he taps his riding crop against his leg. Is he pleased? Annoyed? I know he won't strike me with the crop, no matter how much I might want that fiery kiss. No, he understands the perversity that motivates a sub like me; I might perform less well, simply to invite his punishment.

“Again,” he says. “You're trying too hard, Lisa. Let the movement flow from the inside out. Imagine the slave you'd like to be. See yourself yielding to me, and let your body follow that image.”

I drag myself back to my feet, then, at his nod, sink to the floor once more. I'm almost too tired to care. My limbs tremble. I can hardly command them to move. He's so perceptive; can't he see that I'm close to the breaking point?

“Again.”

We repeat the exercise another half dozen times. I am desperate simply to get through this trial, more difficult to bear in its way than the tightest shibari, the hardest caning. Why doesn't he stop? I'm getting worse, not better.

“Again.” The same instruction, but I think, this time, that I detect a hint of sympathy in his tone. He sees what this costs, what he's asking from me – but he doesn't hold back. “Up now. Again.”

Suddenly the truth breaks through my fog of fatigue, like afternoon sun slicing through thunderheads. This isn't about the way I move, kneel, hold myself. He's not just training my body so that I won't disgrace him when he takes his slaves out to play in public.

No, this is itself as much a surrender as opening my mouth to his cock, my ass to his fist, my mind to the products of his obscene imagination. Stand, kneel, stand, kneel – I've honored him with my devotion, promised my obedience, and now he's showing me what that means. I must trust him in all things, comply with all orders, no matter how banal or unerotic they may seem.

He's testing me. He doesn't care how clumsy I am. As long as I honestly try to obey, I'm passing the test.

New energy ripples through my weary body. It crackles up my spine, raising me to my feet in one swift, fluid motion. I feel as though it would take very little for me to rise further, soaring and wheeling above my master and my fellow slaves, while they gazed up in wonder.

“Perfect.” He draws his fingers through my tangled locks then cradles my cheek with his palm. Unutterable joy swells my chest. “I knew you could do it, Lisa. I'll be proud to have you wearing my collar this weekend.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I think you deserve a reward for all your hard work. Maybe I'll have Gloria fuck you with her strap-on, while you eat Sylvie's cunt. And I'll whip all three of you.”

“Whatever you like, sir,” I reply, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice though I know he can smell my fresh-flowing juices. Sometimes he takes cruel delight in arousing, then denying us.

“But first - let's practice the move a few times more.”

I crumble to my knees, grateful, horny, ready to give him my last ounce of strength - if that's what he requires.

How I stumbled and fell into self-publishing - #indieauthor #paranormalromance #KindleUnlimited

By Victoria Jayne (Guest Blogger)

Hi everyone, my name is Victoria Jayne, and I am an author. It took me roughly two decades to be comfortable calling myself an author, but I’ve done it, and I’ve never been prouder of myself. I write erotic flash fiction, contemporary romance, and have published my debut novel in the genre of paranormal romance. I love sexy romance. I can’t get enough reading it or writing it.

My debut novel came out December 4^th 2018 via the traditional route. I know, you’re going: ‘Hey, Vic, you said this was about self-publishing, what’s this about traditional?’ Hold on; let me get there.

I have been writing since I was about 16 years old. Novels, flash pieces, erotica, all kinds of things. I really committed to writing in my 30’s. During NaNoWriMo 2017 I doubled down, I buckled down, and I told myself that this manuscript was going to be thee manuscript. I would work this one to the bone and not give up on it as I had others.

I used every resource at my disposal to make sure I stood the best chance of nabbing a coveted publishing deal. I used MSWL.com, querytracker.com, twitter.com, and google.com. I listened to podcasts, I scoured websites, I was determined. This was my turn, my shot. I had a good manuscript; I just had to get it in front of the right eyes.

So, I had my first draft done by the end of November. I did four rounds of edits myself. I submitted it to agents and publishers, and got my stack of rejections. I had one publishing house request a partial. The victory dance was epic. Ultimately, this turned into a revise and resubmit and yet another rejection.

Rather than tuck tail and accept defeat, I took the twitter. From a recommendation of a friend, I met Vicky Brewster, a phenomenal editor out of the UK. This was the first time in my life I trusted one of my book babies with a professional editor. She is amazing and super supportive. I cannot sing her praises loud enough.

With Vicky’s insights, I edited my manuscript again and this time, when I submitted my work, I took to small publishers. I also re-approached the publisher, which had given me the revise and re-submit. She agreed to look it over again.

I got two contract offers, and the original publisher declined though complimented me on my growth. I took all of this as wins; I was every happy cliché in the world. I ultimately chose one publisher because she offered more of a marketing platform than the other did. I have since learned a lot about marketing, though I’m still flailing, but that is a story for another day.

I did the edits my publisher requested. I got to see the most beautiful cover and cried at the reality of my being a published writer. On December 4, 2018, a year after I completed my first draft, my novel was available across several platforms for purchase. You could have knocked me over with a feather.

This is where the self-publishing comes in. As I said above, this publisher offered some marketing. Little did I know that her marketing efforts were not enough. Ultimately, six weeks after my book was released, my editor dropped me due to disappointing sales.

When I asked what they were, the published sent me screen shots of Amazon’s graphs. On my phone, I couldn’t really read them on the tiny screen. She only sent them via phone. I learned that when you publish the traditional route, you have no idea what your sales numbers are unless your publisher tells you. I still, to this day, have no idea how many books were sold. I am guessing around 20 in six weeks.

My publisher signed the rights of my work back to me. Additionally, she gave me my work in all the file formats I would need to self-publish. She also gave me rights to use my cover art. I was poised to self-publish and that’s what I did.

I went to Amazon, and I used KDP. I put my book up for Kindle Unlimited. I am an “unknown to you” author. My readers, the ones I haven’t even met yet, don’t know me; therefore they are less likely to trust that I have something to offer them. I figured, if I enrolled in Kindle Unlimited, readers would have less of a risk in investing their time and energy in discovering me.

Publishing is a marathon, not a sprint. Spikes happen depending on the marketing and the promotions I run. However, consistency is through Kindle Unlimited. I never wanted to be an author to become a famous author. Sure, I dream of one day having the words “best seller” after my name, but the reality is, what I really want out of all of this is to know someone sat down, read my story, and enjoyed it. I want my book, and subsequent books, to get in front of the eyeballs that will appreciate it.

As my first novel is the first book in a trilogy, I decided to publish the second book myself. I will skip the headache of trying to find representation and just get it out to the people who have asked for the follow up. I am using the same editors and the same cover artist to maintain continuity. I’m optimistic about this. I’ve learned a lot from my first book and I’m excited to embark on the journey of self-publishing this entire trilogy.

Here is a peek of what you will find in my debut novel, which will take you on the adventure that is the Prophecy Trilogy:

“The vampire whose heart beats for a witch that belongs to a wolf shall save us all. He shall take his throne and rule over all kinds.”

“I’m not some prophetic, self-sacrificing hero.” Rori’s arms fell to his sides, and he used them to push himself up. He wasn’t going to sit for this. “I will plead guilty to all my crimes but being a hero isn’t one of them,” he said to the court with contempt.

Esmine cracked a smile. “Roricus, you are many things but a hero.” She shook her head.

Why did that assertion bother Rori? He had just made the same point himself. She didn’t need to agree with him.

Emptiness spawned in Rori’s gut. Was that disappointment at their lack of belief in him? What had these witches done to him? He lowered his gaze in an attempt to process Esmine’s words.

Florence spoke up. “Sometimes, the world doesn’t need another hero, Roricus.” She folded her hands over the intricately carved table. “There are times when the monster has more morals than the supposed heroes.”

“Keep your spells and your morals away from me,” Rori said and raised his gaze to the center witch. Locking his ire directly onto Esmine when he spoke. “I’m not doing anything else for you.”

Rori had had enough of these witches and their games. They spoke in half-truths, giving him hope before, but he knew better this time around. He wasn’t some toy with whom they could play.

“You have no power over me,” he declared.

Esmine was the first to chuckle. Followed by the blond, then Florence. It didn’t take long for the entire panel to join the laughter.

Rori’s lip curled into a snarl. His canines extended. Heat rose through his chest, up into his face. His fists clenched tightly and he shook. He couldn’t take on all thirteen witches. They’d get him in the end but not before he took out Esmine.

“My apologies.” Esmine held a hand to her chest as her laughter subsided. She waved her hands in both directions so the witches would do the same. “It was just that you seemed so adamant about it.”

His restraint was only as strong as his self-preservation instinct. “I don’t answer to your coven, or any witch for that matter,” Rori said with his fangs still visible.

“You think you have a choice,” Esmine said with a tilted head. The exaggerated pleasantness of her tone signaled her sarcasm. “How very sweet of you.” She folded her arms on the table and leaned toward him. “But Roricus, the time has come for you to take your place. It is time for you to step up and be what you were created to be.”

“And if I don’t?” Rori countered. The temptation to walk away from the table, from the witches, from the prophecy, grew the longer he stood there. The witches had proven before that they promised great things but with them came suffering. He’d done their bidding before and while he was given a beating heart, leaving his emotions more intense and raw, he had to give up the person who had given it to him. From where he stood, their price wasn’t worth the reward and the witches were not beings he could trust.

“The vampire who belongs to the witch will end your kind, our kind, and all other kinds,” the blond offered without emotion. A knot of discomfort grew in his chest, not just from how the witch spoke but from what she had said.

About the Author

Growing up on the Jersey Shore, Victoria was an insatiable reader. She adored getting lost in the worlds others created for her. During her early teen years, she enjoyed the works of R.L. Stein and S.E. Hinton. As she got older, she drifted into the worlds provided for her by Anne Rice, Suzanne Wright, J.D. Tyler, Joanna Wylde, Cherise Sinclair, Dianne Duvall, and Elisabeth Naughton, to name a few. These writers spawned her love affair with both the romance genre and the world of the supernatural.

Victoria started writing as a hobby while still in high school. Now her days are spent writing, enjoying time with her husband, and her two children. She still lives in New Jersey. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America and New Jersey Romance Writers. Victoria is a New Jersey Devils Hockey fan, an avid SecondLife Roleplayer, and a Netflix binge watcher.

Links

Website: https://www.authorvictoriajayne.com/

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07MMFMJJD