Sizzling Sunday: The most erotic scene I’ve ever written – #BDSM #Trust #Limits

I was wondering what to share for this Sizzling Sunday, thinking about which one of my stories turns me on the most. With a twenty-two year long back list, it’s difficult to choose, but one of my most personal tales is Limits: A Love Story, published in D&S Duos Book 1. This story about a long-time, committed, kinky couple exploring the limits of trust and the extremes of desire arose from a thought experiment: if my Master and I had not split up, what would we be like now?

* * * *

"Ow! Oh...!" He slides a finger along the wet slit between my splayed thighs, then snatches it away. I jerk against the straps, trying to follow his retreat. "Oh, please..." When he licks off my juices, I nearly come at the sight of his tongue, nimble and delicate as a cat's.

"You're certainly wet enough to make me believe this is what you want. But you know the rules, Becca. You've got to ask for it."

He's almost a foot taller than I am. Normally he looms over me, his massive physicality reinforcing his psychological power, but now he sinks into a crouch, his gaze level with mine. "You can still call this off," he tells me, his voice deep and calm as a waveless lake. "I won't punish you. I won't think less of you. You'll still belong to me."

Something flickers in his chocolate-brown eyes, the merest hint of doubt. I notice a faint sheen of perspiration on his forehead, below the tangled black curls. He's wearing a rubberized apron – the implications making me shiver – so I can't see his crotch. Is he as turned on as I am? And as frightened?

"Do you want to do it?" I whisper, forgetting to add an honorific, breaking out of the scene in my concern for him. There's an ache in my chest, a low-frequency, bitter-edged pain quite unlike the bite of his clamps or the sting of his lash. If he's not sure, how can I be? Have I forced this on him? Long ago he seduced me with his tales of handcuffs and spankings. Now I realize he created a monster.

All our firsts parade through my imagination, an escalating frenzy of sadomasochist indulgence. The first time he fucked my ass (during our very first sexual encounter, but after a long and filthy epistolary courtship). The first time he whipped me. The first caning, first fisting, fire play, golden shower. In our years together, we've demolished one limit after another, only to move on to the next.

I know he cherishes me, that my willingness to explore and experiment delights him. When I surrender, the assurance that I've pleased him brings me far more fulfillment than any physical release he might graciously provide. Now I wonder though, whether I've been topping from below all along.

Perusing his serious face, noting the way his lips press together and his brows knit in tension, I'm suddenly convinced that this is all wrong. I'm pushing him way beyond his comfort zone with my implicit demands for ever more extreme submission.

"I'm sorry," I mutter. "Forgive me, Master."

"What? What are you talking about?" He grips my shoulder, leaning forward, cruel fingers digging into my naked flesh. The slight pain does not distract me from my misery. "I told you, Becca, it's your choice. You can stop this now. You don't have to apologize."

"No, no, you don't understand." My eyes itch as tears well up. Trussed up as I am, I can't stop one from spilling down the side of my nose. "I don't want to stop. But I think you do."

He stares at me for a long instant, confused, before bursting into laughter. "You think I want to stop this?"

I nod, swallowing a sob.

"You believe I don't want to carve my initials into your flesh? Mark you permanently, so that everyone will know you're mine? You think I don't have the guts?" He rises to his feet, towering above me. For a moment I expect a slap in the face. A wave of lust crests and drowns me. I squirm in my chair, struggling for control, feeling the straps tighten around my limbs.

"No, no, it's not like that, Master...I'm sorry...but I've been the one...I'm never satisfied, it seems, always wanting to go one step further, to try something more...."

"More intense." He finishes my sentence for me. "More dangerous. Something that requires even more trust."

"I shouldn't be so greedy, so selfish. You're my Master. You should decide how far we go, and how fast. What I want – it shouldn't matter."

"Ah, but it does matter to me, little one." He strokes my hair, working out the tangles. His gentle touch floods me with a sense of well-being. "I love your kinky mind, Becca, as much as your lush body. I love pushing you – seeing how far you'll go, for me. Discovering the depths to which you'll sink if I ask."

He seizes a handful of hair and drags my mouth to his. His tug on my scalp turns me molten. New flows of searing liquid leak from between my legs. I relax into his brutal embrace, letting the heat rise.

His kiss sucks the breath from my lungs and the last shreds of doubt from my mind. I open, deliciously helpless to resist or even reciprocate. While he devours me, his fingers roam and hover, tracing phantom paths down my throat, circling my navel, brushing across my damp pussy fur to send reverberations through my cunt. I imagine my aching nipples, flashing bright red like landing beacons to beckon him closer. He ignores my breasts, though, as well as my desperate clit, teasing me with barely-there caresses while his fierce kiss continues.

Finally he releases me, leaving my lips bruised and my cheeks smeared with saliva. He stands back, surveying my bound and naked form with obvious satisfaction. My skin radiates energy; I feel as though I'm glowing. His face is flushed, too, and his eyes glitter like diamonds, brilliant and unrelenting. He crosses his arms over his massive chest and favors me with a mocking grin.

"Speak up, Becca. Tell me. What do you want?"

I must be brave. He expects that of me, and I can't bear to disappoint him. Still, it's difficult to actually say the words.

"I want – I want you to cut me, sir. To leave your mark on me. Please, sir."

"Good girl." His palm cradles my cheek for an instant. Then he's gone, over at the sink, washing his hands with anti-bacterial soap. As he worms his hands into the gloves, he murmurs, almost too soft for me to hear. "That's what I want, too."

Golden Shana - the Trailer - #EroticRomance #Video

A few days ago my friend and fellow author A.P. von Kory sent me a link to the new trailer for her erotic romance series Golden Shana. I thought it was fabulous, so I wanted to share it with you. 

Since I've read (and reviewed) all three books, I have a good idea of the mood as well as the plot. The trailer captures it perfectly.

 

 

If you're interested, you can read my reviews:

Golden Shana: The Chase

Golden Shana: The Capture

Golden Shana: The Untouchable 

Definitely not your standard, stereotyped erotic romance.

 

Every Breath You Take -- #Breathing #Erotica #Inspiration

Image by pollianapoltronieri from Pixabay

It's the first word of my very first novel. "Breathe..." In this case, I was using the term literally. My heroine arrives in Bangkok and is immediately assaulted with the foreign smell of the place. I still remember my own debarkation, back in the eighties, before jet ways. Clambering down the metal stairs onto the tarmac, after midnight, I nearly swooned at the combination of diesel fuel, moist earth, night-blooming jasmine, and fried garlic.

If you write erotica, breathing is more than an autonomic process responsible for oxygenating the blood. Arousal reveals itself in our breathing. We pant, gasp, gulp air, hold it as we wait in anticipation or delicious terror for the next touch, the next stroke of the crop. I did a search for "breath" in the random subset of my stories I happen to have on my disk in text format. Here's a small sampling of what I found.

The song changed to something more upbeat. She shook her hips, did the same bumps and grinds as the other dancers, but the effect was totally different. She was listening to some inner voice. Every now and again her eyes would meet mine, and that luscious smile would light her face. I found myself holding my breath, willing her to turn again in my direction. ~ Butterfly

His beard was softer than it looked, tickling her. For a moment he simply held her, breathing in, inhaling her as if she were another drug. Suddenly there was shocking wetness. His tongue circled her navel, dipped inside. Her sex clenched in a sudden, delicious spasm. ~ Chemistry

All at once I wanted him. I grabbed him and fastened my mouth on his, grinding my pelvis against his hardness. He opened to me, held me tight as if he was afraid I would evaporate. “Where can we go?” I panted when we broke for breath. ~ Citadel of Women

Alan relaxes in his chair, enjoying Beryl's confusion. He's been in the film business long enough to recognize an act. Her flushed cheeks and quickened breath speak more clearly than her deliberately chosen words. She still wants me, he thinks with a hint of smugness, after all this time. ~ Old Flame

I bask in his gaze, proud and humble simultaneously. "You know what happens when you tease me. I'm sure that you remember the other night." Of course I do, and the memory leaves me wet and breathless: the binding, the beating, the final delicious buggering. My sex overflows. My thighs are slippery with my juices. I imagine he can hear the liquid squelch as I walk. His arm is around my shoulder now, guiding me along. ~ Wednesday Night at Rocky's Ace Hardware

"Much better." She flicks a lock away from my breast, almost but not quite touching me. "But I certainly don't want to hide those adorable tits." Seating herself on the chaise, she beckons me to her. My nipples are just at the level of her lips. She warms one with her breath, and it tightens visibly. I want to scream, to beg her to touch me. She's running this show, though. We both know that. ~ Velvet

I could go on, but I'm sure that I've made my point. The way our characters breathe tells our readers what they're feeling, as much as their facial expressions or vocalizations, their wetness or hardness. And in an erotic encounter, lovers use their breath as an extension of their bodies.

Breathing is more than just a tool for delineating emotion, though. Breath is also a powerful metaphor for life itself. Some versions of Genesis say that God animated the clay body of Adam by breathing upon it. "I'll never give in, while there's breath in my body," our dauntless heroes claim.

Breath is also used to refer to the spark of creative passion. The word "inspiration" derives from from the Latin inspiratus, past participle of inspirare "inspire, inflame, blow into," from in-"in" + spirare "to breathe". The connection to the term "spirit" is obvious. In fact the original meaning of inspiration was "under the immediate influence of a God or god".

"Inflame". How appropriate a term for a writer of erotica!

When inspiration strikes - when the words are flowing unhindered, the scenes in my imagination painting themselves effortlessly on the page - I do indeed have the sense that I've been touched by something divine. I feel it in my chest, a kind of buoyancy, as though I'd filled my lungs with helium. My poor body seems too limited a vessel to encompass the joy.

I wrote a poem many years ago about inspiration, called "metapoem":

it comes as the wind comes

and you can't change it. 

you can only be patient

and open

and humble.

in glimmers,

in floods,

it comes.

you have to be

reverent -

silent -

or else

go out and get drunk,

forget it

to find it.

Inspiration, the author's Holy Grail. It's mysterious and yet simple. As simple as breathing.

 

Stir in a pinch to stir up his passion – #CookingShow #MulticulturalRomance #FreeCookBook #MFRWHooks

 

For today’s Book Hooks post, I’m going way back in time, to 2013, for a tasty snippet from Her Secret Ingredient. The heroine of this erotic romance is a gourmet cook who has a few extra tricks up her sleeve.

I had a wonderful time writing this book and its longer sequel, The Ingredients of Bliss, because cooking is one of my personal passions. I’m more a punter than a gourmet, but at least some of my creations turn out well.

If you’d like a sample, you can download a copy of my free cookbook, Recipes from an International Kitchen. All original recipes, illustrated with photos from my travels. Let me know what you think!

https://www.lisabetsarai.com/LisabetSaraiCookbook.pdf

Anyway, here’s the blurb, and the hook!

Blurb

Stir in a pinch to stir up his passion.

When the Tastes of France food channel offers Mei Lee ‘Emily’ Wong a series of guest spots, she jumps at the opportunity to take her culinary career to a whole new level. Ultimately, she wants a show of her own, but first she has to prove herself to Michelin-starred network founder and effective dictator, Etienne Duvalier. A legend in the world of classic French cuisine as well as a domineering perfectionist, Etienne is sceptical about the culinary abilities of a woman from Hong Kong. To make things more difficult, the master chef is also so gorgeous that Emily can’t help being attracted to him.

Emily tries to solve both problems by spiking her luscious profiteroles with an ancient Oriental aphrodisiac. Unfortunately, Harry Sanborne, the low-key, bespectacled producer for Emily’s show, samples the delicacies she intends for Etienne’s consumption. His powerful reaction to her secret ingredient comes as a pleasant surprise to them both. Harry turns out to be far more impressive in bed than on the set. However, he can’t do nearly as much to advance her ambitions as Etienne. Emily tries once more to tempt the exacting M Duvalier with her special cooking as well as her feminine charms. The outrageous results threaten to end her TV career forever—until Harry steps in to save her reputation and claim her heart.

The Hook

“Ginger? Do I taste ginger?”

“Uh—yes, that’s right, sir…”

“Ginger in coq au vin? That’s practically sacrilege, Ms Wong.”

Etienne Duvalier fixed me with a look that would have withered spinach. I straightened my spine, smoothed my apron and attempted a placating smile.

“It’s good, though—isn’t it? One of my signature dishes at Le Belvedere.” It had come out perfectly, the succulent meat melting off the bone at the first touch of a fork. I held out another portion, my own mouth watering at the rich, complex aroma. I wasn’t about to mention the hint of cloves to a traditionalist like Etienne.

He shook his head and wagged his finger at me like some cartoon schoolmaster. “A French restaurant in Hong Kong! Not exactly the place I’d recommend for the experience of classic Gallic cuisine.”

“A restaurant with three Michelin stars.” I wanted to go on, to cite the awards we’d won since I’d taken over as head chef, the praise heaped upon us by the local media, the favourable review in last month’s Gourmet magazine. But what was the point? He’d seen my résumé. Indeed, he’d signed the letter inviting me to the U.S. for a series of guest appearances on his precious Taste of France channel. Now that I’d arrived, was he having second thoughts?

My silence must have recalled him to some sense of etiquette. He leaned toward the morsel I offered, sniffing it before taking it into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. His full attention appeared to be focused on the flavours unfolding on his tongue. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and swept a stray lock of hair back under my cap, awaiting his verdict.

I’d known what I was getting into. Etienne Duvalier was legendary as much for his perfectionist dedication as for his culinary prowess. He took a purist’s approach to French cooking. As far as Etienne was concerned, fusion was a dirty word. He eschewed the creative syncretism practised by the latest generation of chefs, preferring to stick with the time-honoured recipes that had made French cuisine arguably the most famous in the world.

Given his conservative attitude, I’d been surprised to learn he was so young—barely forty, I guessed. And I definitely hadn’t expected him to be so devastatingly good-looking. After the letter had arrived, I’d watched a few clips from his Toutes Saveurs Francaises show on YouTube. I’d been too distracted by his lean form and expressive face to concentrate on his ingredients or procedures. And yes, I admit that I’d agreed to travel halfway around the globe to take up his invitation at least in part because I wanted to find out if he was really that dreamy in the flesh.

Alas, he was. This was going to complicate my career ambitions considerably.

I hope you’ll visit some of the other authors 

joining today’s Book Hooks hop!

Review Tuesday: Four to Score by Janet Evanovich -- #StephaniePlum #ComicMystery #ReviewTuesday

Four to Score by Janet Evanovich

Pan Books, 1999

Okay, I’ll admit it. Stephanie Plum is my secret vice. When I’m feeling frustrated or depressed, when I have writer’s block or I’m dealing with the boss from hell, nothing will cheer me up like a one of Janet Evanovich’s goofy and brilliant comic mysteries.

In case you’ve never met Stephanie, she’s a cute, disaster-prone Italian-Hungarian young woman, born and raised in Trenton, New Jersey, who gave up her job in lingerie sales to work for her bail-bondsman cousin Vinnie as a bounty hunter. When suspects who are awaiting trial skip bail, it’s her job to track the them down and bring them in, thereby earning a share of the bail money. Stephanie has a gun (which she keeps in her cookie jar), a hamster (named Rex), an BBW in-your-face ex-hooker friend (named Lulu), a weakness for donuts (which she consumes by the box), a live-wire grandmother (who loves attending funerals), and two sexy guys who find her hot but who’ll never, ever commit: snarky cop Joe Morelli, to whom she lost her virginity behind the counter in an ice cream store, and suave and mysterious fellow bounty hunter Ranger.

The plots in the Stephanie Plum books tend to be delightfully convoluted. Four to Score is no exception. Stephanie’s hired to find an ex-waitress who’s accused of stealing her sleazy boyfriend’s car. Maxine has disappeared, though, and it’s clear that someone else is looking for her – someone who’s murdering her co-workers, scalping her mother, and cutting off the fingers of her friends. Meanwhile, coded clues keep showing up in unpleasant places, leading Stephanie on a gruesome scavenger hunt. Stephanie enlists the help of six-foot-five transvestite rock star Sally Sweet, who’s a whiz with ciphers, only to have her car and her apartment firebombed by Sweet’s wanna-be boyfriend.

This is just the start. However, the mystery isn’t really the point in a Stephanie Plum novel (even though the plot in this one was very neatly executed). One reads these books for the characters, the dialogue, the absurd situations and the humor. Oh, and the sexual innuendo. There’s nothing explicit about these tales but there’s a lot of delicious lust simmering below the surface. In this particular installment, Stephanie and Joe actually do the deed (or so we’re told). When Joe’s witch of an Italian grandmother gives Stephanie the Evil Eye and tells her she’s pregnant, that’s close to the last straw. But this is a Stephanie Plum novel, so of course there’s more frantic hilarity to come.

Apparently there are now twenty-seven books in the Stephanie Plum series (which is a bit scary). I’ve read about a third of them. You’d think that the offbeat characters and bizarre situations would get old, but somehow Ms. Evanovich keeps it fresh. Still, this early installment was one of the best I’ve read.

It’s pretty difficult to capture the tone of a Stephanie Plum novel in an ordinary review, so I’ll leave you with a snippet from Four to Score to enjoy.

“Uh oh,” Morelli said.

“What uh oh?”

“You have that look … like you’re redesigning my kitchen.”

“You don’t have a cookie jar.”

Morelli looked at me like I was from Mars. “That’s what you were thinking?”

“Well, yeah.”

Morelli considered that for a moment. “I’ve never actually seen the purpose for a cookie jar,” he said finally. “I open the box. I eat the cookies. I throw the box away.”

“Yes, but a cookie jar makes a kitchen homey.”

I got another one of those Mars looks.

“I keep my gun in my cookie jar,” I said by way of further explanation.

“Honey, a man can’t keep his gun in a cookie jar. It just isn’t done.”

 

Looking for a hit of pure entertainment? Try Stephanie Plum.

Out today! Sizzling new BDSM erotic romance! #NewRelease #FemDom #KinkCommunity

 

Check out my latest erotic romance, Mastering Maya. It hits the virtual shelves today, at Amazon, BN, Kobo, Smashwords and most other online bookstores!

How much heat will it take to melt the Ice Queen?

Mistress Maya’s precise discipline and unshakable self-possession are legendary in the Boston kink community. Newcomer Dom Shark is fascinated by her beauty and power from the moment he sees her flogging a sub at Club Inferno. Behind the Ice Queen’s mask of perfect control, he senses a spirit aching to submit. He's determined to break through her defenses and bring her the same release she grants to the lucky slaves she tops.

When Maya dismisses Master Shark as young and inexperienced, he offers her a challenge: a night together, during which he'll show her what it means to be mastered. If he fails to bring her to new heights of bliss, he agrees to become her slave.

Can he make Maya trust him enough to surrender? Or will the flawless, untouchable dominatrix take possession of his body as well as his heart?

Note: This book was previously published by Totally Bound. It has been revised, expanded and re-edited for this release.

 

 

Excerpt

“Who the hell is she?”

The crack of the Domme’s single-tail whip punctuated Stephen’s question. Her gleaming black hair swung in time with the steady strokes she layered on her bound victim’s naked back. Dancing around the flogging bench like a ballerina, she brought the leather thong down on the still-unmarked areas of skin with astonishing grace and precision. The brawny blond man stretched lengthwise along the padded trestle jerked each time the whip found its mark. The sub’s gag effectively muffled any vocal reaction, but Stephen had a clear view of his engorged cock poking through the hole in the bench. Pre-cum slicked the shaft. Meanwhile, the blond man’s buttocks clenched around the plug embedded in his anus each time the Domme’s lash struck. Obviously, the sub was enjoying the woman’s expert beating.

It was the woman who held Stephen’s attention, though. Her simple, severe outfit—a white crêpe blouse, narrow navy skirt and broad belt—highlighted her lush curves. The half-buttoned top revealed the shadowed valley between her breasts. As she traveled from one side of the bench to the other, seeking the optimal angle for her next stroke, he noticed the slit in her skirt, facilitating her movements but also offering glimpses of creamy thigh.

His own cock swelled in his tight leather trousers, but not because of her extraordinary body. Stephen—Master Shark, as he was called by others in the lifestyle—had known many beautiful women, in the most intimate of senses. No, her face—her expression—was what transfixed him, making his balls ache and his palms itch to stroke and slap that ripe flesh. She wore a look of utter calm and total concentration, even as she brought the lash down with increasing ferocity. Only her eyes betrayed her excitement. As she applied the whip to the sub’s reddening backside, she did not smile. He saw none of the manic glee he felt when administering a flogging. Her self-control was absolute.

“The Ice Queen,” his friend Tom—Master Thomas—replied to his almost-forgotten question. “Amazing, isn’t she?”

“The Ice Queen? That’s her scene name?”

The woman paused to murmur in the sub’s ear and gently knead his crimson butt. He shook his head, clearly indicating that he wanted more. For the first time, her lovely mouth curved into the ghost of a smile. Stationing herself where the sub could see her, she unfastened her blouse one slow button at a time and slipped it off her shoulders. Now Stephen could see the rise and fall of her breathing—so her exertion had taken some toll, at least—and the dark nipples peeking through her white lace bra. The Domme was aroused after all, despite her impassive demeanor.

Her mini-striptease had the desired effect. The naked yearning in the shackled man’s face made Stephen grin. His own imprisoned erection throbbed, mirroring the sub’s urgency.

“No, no, that’s just her nickname. No one would dare call Maya that to her face. But you can see where it comes from.”

Stephen inclined his head in silent assent, watching as the kinky scene continued to unfold.

Buy Links

Kinky Literature – https://www.kinkyliterature.com/book/8574-mastering-maya-a-bdsm-erotic-romance/

Amazon US – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08SKJQFZ8

Amazon UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08SKJQFZ8

Smashwords – https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1063272

Barnes and Noble – https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/mastering-maya-lisabet-sarai/1138601539?ean=2940164780654

Kobo – https://www.kobo.com/th/en/ebook/mastering-maya-a-bdsm-erotic-romance

Add on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/56610584-mastering-maya

Have you ever been beaten by a lover? #BDSM #FirstNovel #SaturdaySpanks

I haven’t done a Saturday Spanks post in a while. Today I’m sharing an excerpt from my very first novel, Raw Silk. In fact, this is the first flogging scene I ever wrote.

Not bad, I think, for an amateur...

Blurb

In a foreign land, a woman discovers exotic new realms of the senses…

When software engineer Kate O’Neill leaves her lover David to take a job in Thailand, she becomes sexually involved with two very different men—a handsome and debauched member of the Thai aristocracy, and the charismatic proprietor of a sex bar.

Each touches her in a different way, each teaches her different things about her body and her heart.

Then David comes to Bangkok, and Kate realizes that, finally, she must choose one of the three men who all desire her. 

 

 

Excerpt

The lights of Bangkok sparkled below. Could anyone see her, naked and restrained, framed by the rosy glow behind her? As the leather-attired giant tied her other wrist to the ring on the opposite wall, Kate wondered about the other women Gregory had lured to this hotel room. And men? So far she had seen no indication that his dominant stance extended only to females. His manipulation of Edward Harrison suggested the contrary. Who were they? How did they behave? How much pain, how much humiliation could they endure?

More than she could, no doubt. All at once she felt woefully inadequate. She watched Marshall, as he finished off a neat bowline and tested its strength. How could she ever satisfy him?

He caught her glance, read the distress in her eyes. “Yes, I admit I’ve brought others here, to my comfortable urban dungeon. But that should not concern you.”

She was fully bound now, arms stretched wide across the window alcove.

“Spread your legs a little more,” he interrupted himself to order. “You’ll find that you’re more stable.”

He stood before her, hands on his hips. “You are mine now, Kate, mine because I chose to make you mine. Mine because you chose to answer my call.” He brushed the hair back from her anxious eyes. “Your role is to obey me, to serve me and please me.” He paused then continued softly, “And you do, Kate. You please me greatly, even in your innocence and inexperience.If there are others who also serve, what is that to you? You should be grateful to them, for giving your Master pleasure.”

Kate felt her jealousy and despair melt away. He was right. As long as she could give him what he wanted, what else mattered?

She heard him moving behind her, near the bed, then he stood before her again, something dark in his hands.

“I left this on the bed, also, for you to examine and consider. But apparently you did not notice—or did not allow yourself to do so.”

He held out the article for her inspection. Kate swallowed the lump in her throat. The item in his hands was clearly some sort of leather whip.

“The technical term,” Gregory said, smiling, “is cat-o’-nine-tails. You’ll notice the many strands of leather radiating from the handle.” He grasped the handle, which was neatly encased in braided leather, in his left hand, running his right over the strands as if caressing a lover’s hair. “Each thong ends with a knot. When used correctly, the thongs apply a sharp heat, while the knots digging into the skin provide an extra sting.”

He dangled the whip above her shoulder, the knots just touching then brushed it across her breasts. The leather was amazingly soft, but as he dragged it across her still-swollen nipples, she felt the echo of the clamps on her flesh.

Now he was delicately tracing an upward path, from her pubic fur across her belly, sending delicious tremors up her spine and down her bound arms. Thus far, he was using the cat-o’-nine-tails as an instrument of pure pleasure.

He spoke again, without stopping his leather caresses. “Have you ever been beaten by a lover?”

She shook her head, and felt herself blush, though she didn’t understand why.

“Have you ever dreamed or fantasized about such a thing?”

“No,” she said, indignant. “Of course not.”

Gregory laughed. “Of course not? Indeed! Perhaps you don’t remember your dreams, Kate.”

He leaned close to her ear, whispering, “The first time I laid eyes on you, I sensed that you craved the whip. I saw it in your eyes, in the way you moved, in your fierce, almost defiant independence. I felt your yearning to be mastered, to be set free.”

She hung her head, silent. Was what he said true? Did she really know so little of herself?

“I want to whip you, Kate, whip you well, to open your mind and your senses to the possibilities within you.”

He lifted her chin with the end of the whip, so that her eyes met his.

“Will you do this for me? Do you dare to take this next step?”

His gaze was a spotlight, searching to the depths of her soul. Kate felt fear and desire, rebellion—I’ll show him what I dare!—and devotion—How could I not do whatever pleases him? She found herself fascinated by the leather implement of punishment that he wielded with such familiarity. She was curious, disgusted, and, as usual in Marshall’s presence, unbelievably aroused.

Finally she answered. “Yes,” she said softly. “I dare. For you.” Her cheeks burned at admitting her weakness.

“Good,” he said. “Once again, you do not disappoint me.” He circled around behind her. “Now, relax. And breathe.”

The first stroke caught her by surprise. Confused by her mixed emotions and muddled by her lust, she had not been thinking about the pain. Each leather strand was a red-hot wire, searing the flesh of her buttocks. She bit her lip, trying not to cry out.

A precise snap and a second stroke landed, a little lower, on the fullest part of her rump. “Ouch!” She could feel the individual traces left by the knots, a dozen separate bites all over those swelling cheeks.

“Does that hurt?” asked Gregory, with a little laugh. “But I have just begun.” He swung the whip three times in rapid succession, crisscrossing her behind with sharp leather kisses. Then there was another snapping sound, and the thongs raked across the sensitive skin on the backs of her thighs.

Kate whimpered. Each stroke built on the pain of the previous one. Her whole rear burned and stung, as the man behind her methodically applied the whip to her ass, her thighs, and her shoulders. She twisted and writhed, trying in vain to avoid the lashes. The bonds held her taut.

Gregory used an uneven rhythm, so that she could not anticipate the blows. There would be a pause of several breaths, then he would rain four or five quick strokes on her quivering flesh.

She could no longer feel the individual strands of the whip. All had blended into a hot haze of pain, streaking up and down her body. Tears pricked her eyes. She wished that she could see her tormentor. Perhaps that would give her courage.

Even as this thought came to her, he stopped. She felt his palms cupping her buttocks. Even against her inflamed skin, his touch was hot. Now she felt him sliding his fingers into her cunt, probing and massaging.

She knew that she was drenched with arousal, that the beating had left her sex more swollen and hungry than before. “Just testing,” said Gregory with his characteristic mocking tone. “I want to make sure that you are enjoying yourself.”

Buy Links (Ebook and Print)

Kinky Literature

http://www.kinkyliterature.com/book/361-raw-silk-/

Amazon US

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01AUSE5NE/

Amazon UK

http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01AUSE5NE/

Barnes & Noble

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/raw-silk-lisabet-sarai/1102328201?ean=9781786510051

Totally Bound

https://www.totallybound.com/raw-silk

Goodreads

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/28603390-raw-silk