Posts Tagged ‘mischief’
A new story from me is available now in the Mischief anthology Submitting. I enjoyed writing this one so much that I’ve started writing a book about the characters, covering the lead-up to the story and what happens afterwards.
Doing It For Emmett is about a submissive woman’s first experience of being shared, and is about how far you can go for love.
Here’s how it opens:
If you’re going to behave like a cheap whore, the best place to do it is an expensive hotel.
This was the thought running through my head as Emmett led me by the hand through the polish and glister of the lobby, towards the miniature fountain that signified the entrance to the bar.
I didn’t look like a cheap whore. Emmett had chosen what I was wearing: silvery silk shirt, knee-length pencil skirt, heels that were high enough to make me wiggle but not high enough to make me totter. I could pass as a delegate en route to pre-conference drinks, or somebody’s elegant mistress. Who would guess what I actually was?
We stopped at the fountain, and Emmett took my other hand, tilting his head and looking deep into me.
“Are you nervous?” he said.
“A bit,” I admitted. “I don’t want to let you down.”
He let out a breath, kissed my forehead, then my lips.
“You won’t,” he promised.
He walked me over to a corner table underneath a potted palm, where a pinstriped gentleman in his late forties sat working on the Times crossword.
Impressions of him were quickly absorbed and filed: elegant, distinguished, wealthy, watchful, intimidating, attractive. Everything Emmett had described.
The man looked up, and I turned quickly to Emmett, lacing my fingers more tightly into his.
“Your order, sir,” said Emmett.
The man – I knew his name, but the idea was to pretend I didn’t – stood up and shook Emmett’s hand.
“Thank you,” he said, then he looked me up and down with hard, grey eyes. “Yes, this one will do.”
Emmett nodded, unlocked his hand from mine, and went away to the bar. I put the hand he’d released on to my chest, clenching and unclenching it, and looked after him. Come back, I pleaded silently, but I knew I couldn’t say it aloud.
He would be in the hotel room later. He wasn’t abandoning me.
“You can sit down,” said the man. “I’ve ordered you a gin and tonic.”
“Thanks,” I said, following his instruction and taking a sip of the welcome drink.
“I’m Charles,” he said. “But you will call me Sir. What’s your name?”
“Suky,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Suky? Suky Tawdry?”
He’d got the allusion straight away. I suppressed a smile. Emmett had said it was too obvious.
“That’s right, sir.”
“And is your boyfriend over there Mack the Knife?”
“No, sir,” I said. “He isn’t a criminal.”
“I should hope not, although I believe procuring is still a shade on the illegal side.”
“I don’t think it counts if no money changes hands, sir,” I ventured.
He smiled, running a finger around the rim of his brandy glass.
“You’re probably right. You’re doing this for nothing, aren’t you? Why?”
I clenched my thighs in an effort to stop them quivering. The tension of this encounter was exquisitely tightly strung. A barrage of conflicting feelings coursed through me with each exchange.
“I’m doing it for Emmett,” I said. “Because he told me to.”
“Ah, he told you to. And you do everything Emmett tells you, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
“Why is that?”
“Because he owns me.”
I’m in this one with some of my favourite authors – stories by Rose de Fer, Lily Harlem, Sommer Marsden, CeCe Marsh, Alegra Verde, Ludivine Bonneur and Kathleen Tudor can all be found behind this man’s chest.
Mischief Books have just brought out this hot little anthology, which contains my story Open Minded, about a woman who flatshares with a dominatrix.
It contains a slew of other stories as well by the likes of Ashley Lister and Rose de Fer, so there’s plenty of bang for your buck.
Here’s an excerpt from mine:
The advert had asked for an ‘open-minded’ flatmate, and when I asked her what she meant by that, she replied with breathtaking frankness.
“I moonlight as a sex worker,” she said. “Specifically, kinky stuff, a dominatrix. But you don’t need to worry about weirdoes hanging around the place – I know all my clients very well and they’re 100% decent, respectful guys. Most of them pretty well-off, too. No shifty types in raincoats, I promise.”
It took me a while to reply to this. I needed to take stock of her answer. The fresh-faced thirtysomething woman sitting in front of me in sweats and a messy ponytail was a…?
“I know, it fazes most people when I tell them,” she sighed. “If it bothers you, that’s fine, I’ll readvertise…”
“Er, no, no, hang on,” I said. “So you’re saying you meet your clients here?”
“I’ll have made enough for a deposit on a serviced apartment in the West End soon,” she said. “The plan is to move operations out of here as soon as I can. It’ll just be for a few weeks, I hope, until I’ve made all the necessary start-up costs.”
“You know, marketing, a new web page, maybe some hush money for the concierge. That kind of thing. I’ve already got everything I need for the job itself.”
“The job itself,” I echoed. “You mean, like, whips and stuff?”
“Yeah. Thigh high boots, all that.” She grinned suddenly over the rim of her coffee mug. “I know I don’t look the type. You can’t picture it, can you?”
“I can’t really,” I confessed. Shona seemed such a very typical kind of London woman – gym, office, wine bar, home. Not gym, office, wine bar, walk all over a man’s back in stilettoes. But then, perhaps there was no ‘typical London woman’. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have my own secret dark side, after all. In fact, Shona and I could almost be birds of a feather. Perhaps it was right that we should flock together. “I thought you had to be about six foot tall and built like Wonder Woman.”
“Hey, are you saying I’m not built like Wonder Woman?” she said with a fake pout and a laugh. “No, you’re right. But you can dress up to look like anything, really. And it’s all about confidence. If you can say the right things in the right way at the right time, you can look like a Cabbage Patch doll and still get clients. OK, I might be exaggerating that last bit – you do have to make an effort with your appearance. But it’s not as prescriptive as you might think.”
There was a pause.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can see this has knocked you sideways. I’ll let you get on.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head for emphasis. “No, it’s OK. Honestly. I said I was open-minded, and I am. I’m more fascinated than repelled, definitely.”
“So you might take the room?”
“Well, it’s a really nice one. And the location’s perfect, two minutes from the Tube. Price is right. I haven’t seen anything else half as good.” I muted my thoughts, to put the minus side to myself. “But it could be noisy, what with all the walloping and howling that might go on. And what if we get raided by the police?”
“It’s really a great area to live in,” Shona enthused. “The high street’s full of pubs and bars, there’s the cinema, loads of shops, leisure centre around the corner, park at the bottom of the hill…”
I made my decision. This was London. When it came to renting property here, there was always a compromise to be made. The question was only what it would be. I could cope with a few submissive blokes passing through now and then better than half an hour on top of my commute, or rising damp. Perhaps they’d even make me the odd cup of tea, or do the dishes for us.
“How often do you see clients?” I said.
“Not that often at all,” she said. “Two Saturdays a month, and one evening a week – usually a Wednesday, six till ten. I’ll always give you tons of warning. If you like, just go out for a drink on those evenings. Spend the Saturdays in town, or with mates, or whatever. It’s flexible, anyway. I’ll always take your needs on board.”
“OK, then,” I said. “I really like the room, and you seem really nice, and…and…OK then. Let’s do it.”
She clapped her hands. “Thank fuck!” she said. “Finally, somebody who knows what open-minded actually means.”
Fresh and ready for plucking is the new Mischief anthology, The Pact, which features my story Motivation, along with others by: Rose de Fer, Ashley Hind, Heather Towne, Lily Harlem, Kathleen Tudor, Giselle Renarde and Willow Sears.
Here’s the opening:
It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
The time was three months earlier, when I’d sat at the kitchen table moaning to Joe about all the extra work the evening at college would entail, and how I didn’t really have time for it.
“But if you want to get to the next level at work, you don’t really have any choice,” he’d said, quite reasonably. Annoyingly reasonably. “And they’re even paying for you to do it. You’d be mad to turn them down.”
“I know,” I whinged, “but I hate writing essays. And I’ll have to write one every fortnight. Three thousand words! It’ll kill me.”
“Of course it won’t. You can do it.” He turned around from his duties at the frying pan and pointed the spatula sternly at me. “There’s no excuse for not trying. I don’t want to be standing here in a year’s time listening to you going on and on about being passed over for promotion again.”
“OK,” I said meekly. “I’ll give it my best shot. But I really do struggle with writing essays. I’m all right once I get started – it just takes so long to get the first paragraph down. And I haven’t written one since I left college.”
“What’s the problem? Procrastination?”
“In a word. Leaving everything to the last minute, then not having enough time to think properly.”
Joe took this in quietly for a moment or two, nibbling at his lower lip in deep thought. I always found this sexy and I watched the muscles in his cheeks twitch and his eyes drift away from me before they snapped back and he spoke.
“Well, we can fix that,” he said, and my heart skipped a little, because he had That Look on his face. That Look was normally a prelude to the ribbon ties and the flogger coming out of the bottom drawer in the bedroom. I wasn’t sure how this would translate to the kitchen, but I was interested in finding out.
“Yes, I think so. We’ll set aside an afternoon every weekend before your assignments are due in, for you to work. That time is non-negotiable working time, and by the end of it, you need to have your assignment finished and ready for me to look at. With me so far?”
“Yes,” I said. “Boring way to spend a Sunday afternoon, but I have to find the time somewhere, I suppose. What if it isn’t finished, though?”
“Ah,” he said, and That Look intensified to cuffs-and-riding-crop level. “If it isn’t finished – or even if it is, but I don’t think you’ve made your best effort – there will be consequences.”
He raised his eyebrows. I squirmed. I’d heard that word often enough to know what it led to. We’d only role-played this kind of dynamic before, but making it real was certainly an interesting idea.
“What kind of consequences?” I asked, but he knew I knew, and he shook his head at me.
“I’m surprised you have to ask, Claudia.” He only called me by my full name when he had me over his lap, as a rule. The use of it sped me straight into my most submissive headspace. “What’s the one thing guaranteed to improve your behaviour?”
I looked down at my lap. “Oh, that,” I said quietly.
“Yes, Claudia. That.” He tapped the spatula end lightly into his palm. “I can demonstrate if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said hurriedly. It wasn’t that I disliked being spanked, but that thing had been pushing eggs around the pan.
“So, do we have an agreement?”
“Well…” I twisted my fingers, exquisitely embarrassed by the thought that I was going to have to admit that only the threat of a spanking would suffice to get me out of my lazy habits. But, looking at Joe and that attractively determined cast of brow he got when the subject came up, I couldn’t fight it. “Yes. I guess so.”
“Good. Can you get the chips out of the oven, love? These eggs are just about done.”
If you’d like to read on, the book is available from Amazon and all good e-book outlets now!
A couple of years ago, I had a story in a Mischief anthology called Sex and the Stranger. But don’t ask me what the story was, because I can’t for the life of me remember. Eventually I expect I’ll get round to it in one of my ‘oldie but goldie’ posts.
But never mind, because now there’s a second volume, due out on Thursday, and I definitely can remember the title of my story in that one. It’s called In With The New, and it’s set at the same time it was written – on New Year’s Eve.
Here’s a taster:
“You’re doing that wrong.”
I put down my bags and waited for the guy in the lumberjack shirt to set aside the axe and acknowledge me.
Before I go too much further, you must understand that this wasn’t a typical scene from my day to day life. Conversations with random red-haired Adonises bearing axes are not routine for me.
I’d come here to get away from routine, though, so this was good. And so was arriving at my rented cottage on New Year’s Eve to find a rather attractive man chopping logs for my festive open fire. No complaints there.
He put down the axe and wiped a hand across his brow, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Doing it wrong, am I?” he said. “Would you care to demonstrate, then?”
He took the axe’s wooden handle and held it out to me. Oh dear. I hadn’t meant to offend him.
“No, I don’t mean that. Your chopping technique looks good to me, not that I’m an expert. I just meant…you’re meant to take your shirt off.”
“I’m meant to what now?”
Gawd, I should probably just stop digging. And start chopping, before he chopped me in half for sexual harassment.
“No, I mean, when men do it on TV, you know. They’re always topless. Never mind, forget it. I was joking. I’m not great at jokes.”
“Perhaps you’re doing them wrong,” said my chopper friend, poker-faced.
He made me endure a few seconds of tension, then let out a broad grin.
“Yeah, normally I’d strip right down and rub baby oil all over my chest before lifting the axe,” he said. “But this weather.” He shook his head, gesturing at the still-frosty ground. “I guess I’m just not up to your high macho standards. I apologise.” He held out a hand. “Declan Ross, your personal axeman, at your service.”
“Oh, don’t apologise,” I said, putting my gloved hand into his. “I’m Abi. I’m renting this place for a few days over the New Year. You work for the rental company, I take it?”
“I am the rental company,” he said, and now we were closer together, I could take him in properly. He was tall, rangy and red-topped as I’d already seen, but he also had the palest skin I’d ever seen, the flush brought on by his wood-cutting activities glowing bright red about his high cheekbones. He was almost like a doll, if dolls could ever be sexy, which he definitely was.
“You run the business?”
“Well, no, not really,” he conceded, his hand still holding on to mine. “My uncle does. I help him out a bit here and there. Maintenance and stuff. Just during the university holidays.”
“You’re a student?” I said, a little confused. He was about my age, and I was here to take stock of my life before my thirtieth birthday hit me in spring.
“Lecturer,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Sometimes I prefer woodwork to paper work. Clears out the old head, you know.”
“Oh wow. What’s your subject?”
“Theoretical physics. Are you a fan?”
“Um, I might be if I knew anything at all about it. But I’m thinking of retraining for a new career. If you can recommend it, I might give it a whirl.”
I laughed, a little giddy in the wicked beam of his eyes and his smile.
“I could give you a few pointers,” he said, and I positively crackled. Despite both our hands being wrapped in leather, there were sparks running from my fingers up my wrist and beyond.
“Why don’t you come in and I’ll put the kettle on,” I offered. “You’re more or less done with the wood now, aren’t you?”
“I’ve got plenty of wood, yeah,” he said. His full lips curved deliciously. “Do you want me to light your fire?”
“Best offer I’ve had all day,” I said, trying not to squeal like a little girl being given a pony.
God, I’d missed flirting. Why had I stopped doing it?
And where will it lead???? All will be revealed on April 28th, when the book releases.
You will also find stories by Rose de Fer, Senta Holland, Kathleen Tudor, Ludivine Bonneur, Tabitha Rayne, Heather Towne, Giselle Renarde and Olivia London.