Posts Tagged ‘spanking’
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.
Back to 2010 again, and the closure of Black Lace had forced me to gambol in some fresh woods and pastures new. One of the most fertile of these was Cleis Press, the veteran San Francisco-based indie publishing house behind one of my favourite contemporary erotic books, Carrie’s Story.
My story Sunday In The Study was the first of many to be accepted by one of the biggest names in the business, Rachel Kramer Bussel. It appeared in her male dom/female sub collection Please, Sir – and I can tell you, I was absolutely thrilled to bits when I got my acceptance. I felt like I’d broken America, hahaha. Well, it was a nice feeling while it lasted…
The book is an excellent hot read on one of my favourite themes and includes stories by Shanna Germain, Elizabeth Coldwell, Sommer Marsden, Mercy Loomis, Tess Danesi, Heidi Champa, Emerald, Yolanda West, Isabelle Grey, Remittance Girl, Evan Mora, Doug Harrison, Alison Tyler, Aimee Pearl, Kissa Starling, Charlotte Stein, Ariel Graham, Lisabet Sarai, Salome Wilde, Donna George Storey and Rachel Kramer Bussel.
And I love the coy look on the cover model’s face.
Here’s the opening of my story:
I never know how long he will make me wait.
Never less than five minutes, usually between ten and twenty, and on one unfondly recalled occasion I was standing hands-on-head listening to the steady tick of the grandfather clock behind me for over an hour.
This, he says, is Reflection Time. I am to spend it thinking through any of the week’s tribulations or missed opportunities, and considering how I will account for them. That is the theory, although in practice these tense minutes lend themselves to speculation. How many? How long? What will he use? Will I be able to sit at the family dinner afterwards?
Later I will find myself in reflective mode once more, but this time I will be facing a corner, holding my hands clasped in the small of my back, above my bare and throbbing bottom. This is Recovery Time, and usually lasts half an hour – long enough for tears to dry and sins to be absolved before we move into the final stage of the process – forgiveness and reconnection.
You will gather from all of this that Sinclair and I are lovers of ritual. What holds us together is something more than our mutual kink, our undeniable attraction and all the usual romantic folderol. It is our need for this Sunday to be like every other Sunday in essence, even if certain elements are allowed to vary. It is my need for correction and his for control. When we were younger, my Sundays were spent in church, while he captained the school cricket team. As adults, we have exchanged these rituals for their deviant counterpart. He dominates, as he did his ten bowlers and batsmen; I submit, as I did to the God I worshipped. But this time there is nothing unpredictable, nothing unknowable, nothing to fear. It is all so much more satisfying.
Tick…perhaps the strap…tock…I hope not the cane…tick…but then again…tock…I like the cane…tick…I must be insane…tock.
The door opens.
I know the drill. I remove my hands from my head and lower my eyes, letting them drift over the familiar pattern of the Persian runner, through the doorway and across the highly polished oak floorboards. My feet follow their gaze until they are stopped by the obstacle of his desk.
I love his desk. It is so antique it even has an inkwell. When I am bending over it, I can see my face in the mirror shine, though I tend to screw my eyes shut rather than watch my contorted expressions. Rarely, he requires me to keep them open – for instance, on the day that he invited his dominatrix friend to watch and take notes. I had to look her in the eye through twenty four strokes of the tawse, an almost impossible task, though I am proud to say I managed it to their satisfaction.
He walks, always in a slow, stately fashion, from the door to the desk. He stands on the other side of it, looking down at me with his more-in-sorrow-than-anger face for a moment.
‘Well, Beth, here we are again,’ he says. ‘I wonder if the day will come when I do not have to waste my Sunday morning taking you to task over imperfections of behaviour.’ We both know it will not. ‘No answer to that, hmm? Well, it does seem a very distant prospect to me as well. Now then.’
He seats himself and pulls over a large book, a leatherbound ledger. Large as it is, after two years it is already half-filled with page after page of copperplate script, remembrances of crimes past and their associated sentences. He opens it, flipping the leaves to where the ribbon bookmark lies across a blank expanse.
Not blank for long though, for soon a fountain pen is slanted between his elegant fingers, dipped in the inkwell and put to the page. As he writes, he talks, his murmur following the looping progress of the pen.
‘Sunday June 18th,’ he says, then he holds the pen in suspended animation and looks at me. ‘What should I write, do you think? Any ideas?’
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!