Showing posts with label Cari Silverwood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cari Silverwood. Show all posts

Monday, March 18, 2013

Deep Dark Erotic Romance

Take Me, Break Me

This is my first book that ventures into the capture fantasy realm, but I tried to do it in an original way. I hoped to make readers think during the read, and also at the end, a little more than they might with some stories. Although it begins as an arranged capture fantasy, what happens between them doesn't stay a fantasy for long.

Take Me, Break Me hit the top 100 Erotic list on Amazon in the first few days.

Early praise:

“An intriguing and wonderful insight into a beginning Dom.”
Cherise Sinclair – author of the Club Shadowlands series.

“…both HOT and thought provoking. I love those kinds of books.”
Candace Blevins – author of the Safewords series.

And from a review just posted on Goodreads:

"The mindf*ck of Klaus actually surpasses the one for Jodie. Wow. I can't express all the emotions I got from this read and I'm pretty jaded when it comes to deep dark erotic romance."
Michele Harvey


Jodie is scraping the barrel trying to stay afloat. An idea arrives that could rescue her finances and bring her together in a kinky way with a man she never gave up on. She's terrified and fascinated, and tempted as hell.

Capture fantasies rule her eBook. Re-enacting one in a documentary would surely be irresistible viewing to millions of women?

But Jodie and Klaus discover that inside an ordinary man dark desires may lurk. What will win in the end? The man and lover, or the monster?

Capture fantasy; anal play; M/f as well as one m/f/f/m scene; BDSM themes including caning, spanking, bondage, and needle play. Also contains one beginner Dom who is exploring sadism but is still working out how and when to stop.

Here's an adult excerpt.

“I agree. This isn’t working.”

Pure agreeable statement, but she rocked back slightly before she nodded.

“Nice is bad, Jodie? You want mind fuck. You want mean. You want things you dream about. You have no idea.”

Her eyes widened.

 “Starting now. The rules are gone. I make my own rules.”

“Uh. What? They were your rules.”

I took down the list from the door and held it, slowly tapping the laminated paper against my leg. “No. They were not.”

After unfolding the flaps of the cardboard box, I tucked the list down inside and pulled out the two gags.

“Rule one. You don’t talk unless I say you can.” As her mouth opened, with the buckles trapped in my fingers, I dropped both gags into view, and dangled them. “Talk and I use these.”

Like magic, her mouth clicked shut. Now I had her attention. That had worked. I was perhaps as stunned as she looked. She touched her tongue tip to her upper lip as I stood before her, and kept her gaze swinging from the gags to my face. I had a feeling I’d never had a woman so rapt in what I said. Addictive. The pulse of excitement had centered at my groin. Nothing I could do about it. I already knew that looking at women in bondage revved my engine. But I’d never done more than look at pictures.

Now I had an inkling that any situation where I got to hold the reins, really hold the reins, was like oxygen to a man in the throes of suffocation. Incredible.

I ran through my epiphany, convincing myself as much as her. Bluntness was called for.

“My conclusions. You asked me to do this because you still want me in your bed. You want me to fuck you.” Her gasp, I answered by swinging the ball gag. She uttered no words. “Somewhere in your plans, you hoped. The rules, I made up those in line with what I knew you’d be thinking. You knew I’d not step beyond, or not much.

“This,” I swept my arm across, “This room was your idea. Your rules. Lock me up. Make me yours for a while, but not too rough or dangerous because that isn’t in my rules.” I cocked an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Though she frowned and shook her head I went on. It didn’t matter if she deluded herself.

“You imagined some safe little love affair, with some kink on the side? Doesn’t work that way. Either you hand over control, or I walk. No documentary. Nod if you agree.”

I waited. I could almost hear the clocks ticking.

When she nodded slowly, my heart kicked back in. If it had beaten at all for those last few seconds, I’d been unaware.

“Good. This room is no longer your prison. The house is secure and private enough. You’re coming upstairs as long as you behave. I’ll install more cameras.”

No protests. Good. For a woman who liked having an opinion on everything this was exceptional. I could have walked on a cloud I was so hyper-aware of everything she did. Were her lips fuller, her cheeks flushed, her breathing faster? I thought so, but she didn’t know what I intended.

“Let me point out what could have happened if this stupid plan had gone wrong. If you picked a less restrained, a less sensible man. You’ve given me a hundred filthy dirty ideas about what I could do to you. I never knew what depths my mind could plunge to. Now I do. If anyone was mind fucked so far, it was me. Another man would follow through. You think these gags are bad? This one with the red ball is simple, it just stops you talking.” I laid the other, metal-and-leather gag across my palm. “This one is a spider gag. With this in, you can’t close your mouth and your mouth can be fucked. Do you have any idea of the things on the internet? Wait.” I held up my hand. “I guess you do, from what’s in those books you read.”

I bent and rested my hands on my knees. Mind fuck. This I could accomplish.

“You want a list? How about the list of things a man could do to you in this situation? I could make you wash my dishes naked with a gag in. I could tie you up, cut your clothes off and just stare at you all day – just because I could. I could make you be a piece of furniture and ignore you. Humiliating? Yes. I could train you to be an anal slut. I could fuck your ass all day long. I could collar you and make you crawl around on the floor like a dog at a convenient height for blow jobs. I could share you with the man down the street, stick needles in your nipples and use them and some string to fasten you to eyebolts in the ceiling. Want to try that one? And at the end of it all, if I was the worst sort of man, I could kill you and bury you out there on the beach.” I swung my arm up to point. “Maybe no one would ever find you.”

Now she was truly speechless, maybe even scared. Served her right. I watched the little swallows she made for a count of five.

“But I’m not going to. I’m your friend. Remember that, no matter what I do.” I smiled one-sided but I’m sure it didn't reach my eyes. The eyes are the mirror to the soul and right then my soul was very dark.

 Then I squatted in front of her, a couple of feet away, reached out and ran the tip of my forefinger along her plump bottom lip. “My rules. Open.”

A second’s hesitation at most. She shivered and her mouth parted. Mind fuck, here we come.

“Good. Jodie.” Then I very deliberately held up the spider gag, slipped it between her teeth, pulled her head forward, and held her there while I buckled it. Hair made a great anchor point. I slid my splayed fingers into the roots and tilted her head back then I added a rule.

“Second rule. You do my dishes whenever I say. You wear the spider gag. You don’t speak unless I say. But first…” Eyes locked on hers, I advanced one finger into her mouth and stroked her tongue. And she let me.

Had I hypnotized her? She did nothing but stare back. What I wouldn't have given to fuck her mouth right then and there.

Monday, November 26, 2012

Brats, BDSM and Books

 Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.
What does a lion have to do with brats, you may well ask. A lot. Or at least it's the best analogy I could think of.

One of the infuriating things about writing BDSM in fiction is that you often can't quote sources or in some cases you can't come out and say precisely who you are and what you do. This can result in some farcical situations. Some reviewers love to declare to one and all that this here book here has got the BDSM all wrong and that, the author clearly knows nothing.

I've seen this said about books by Dommes and submissives, and I've seen the BDSM dissed in books like The Reluctant Dom by Tymber Dalton, who has since come out and declared herself a kinkster who is well and truly deep in the BDSM lifestyle. It's amusing in a way, but also annoying and ridiculous. But what makes it worse is when the criticism revolves around something that is truly just not the way the person criticizing the book likes their own BDSM scenes to roll.

My last book was written partly to throw some fun into the mix. There are so many edgy dark BDSM stories where the Dom is closer to robot or Sith ancestry than he is to a real man. Really, there should be a stamp somewhere that says,

Because they do. If you meet a Dom who has no sense of humor just check for a pulse. Sure while he's playing he might go into super strict Dom mode, if that's the dynamic of your relationship, but no one is like that all damn day. Even in a Master/ slave relationship there will be fun, or maybe you should be high-tailing it out of there...unless of course having no fun is your kink.

But, getting past the fun aspect, we also wanted to show brats in our story, because brats are much maligned and insulted. And yes, among my friends, there are two women who are brats who are very like the characters in my book. One is a bisexual collared switch with over ten years in the lifestyle. But that doesn't stop people declaring that there is too much bratting in the story. Okay, I get it, if a reader doesn't click with the dynamic of the BDSM in the story, okay. Move on. I don't 'get' humiliation play either, like face-slapping or being a coffee table. I don't 'get' dressing up as a pony either - it's way out of my comfort zone, but I accept that others like this.
Where this all goes pear-shaped is when people say this is wrong, and it's not BDSM.

Uh-uh. You may despise bratting in a D/s relationship and you may love obeying your Dom at a snap of his fingers and the growl of his voice but you are not everyone. Others prefer the challenge.

Here is where the lion comes in. Think of a Dom as a predator. If you're a hunter and you have a choice between having the prey walk up to you and  roll over at your feet, you'd accept that possibly. But not all do. Some prefer to have to chase after that prey, and drag it down while it is running away. With the human element of taunting by said prey added to the mix the whole scene can be even more potent.

Submission can come easily or with obstacles in the way. The brat switch I know loves it when her Dom makes her submit by force and he loves doing it. He loves dares. If she tells him he hits like a mosquito,
guess what, he wants to hit so hard she writhes and begs him to stop, and that gets her motor going too, and so the circle goes. Some brats are worse than others. Human relationships are not set in stone and do NOT have to abide by any rules except the ones made up by those in the relationship.

Some Doms can't stand bratting but surprise, surprise, they don't end up in relationships with brats, they find a submissive who likes their style of D/s.

Bottom line is, YOU may not like bratting in real life, or in stories, to you it may not be submission, but to others it is the color that heightens their kink life. Without it everything fades into black and white.

Take care that you respect what others do, as well as what you and your partner choose to do. There is no One Twu Way. There is only you and them. Make up your own rules. Be happy. Be safe.

I'll leave you with a quote from a friend.

"One of the things that I embrace about the lifestyle I have chosen, is that there is the freedom to define our own relationships."

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

31 Flavors of Kink - Rerelease

by Cari Silverwood

This book is based on the true story of a woman who one day decided to overcome her fear of sex and explore her fantasies. She always knew she was attracted to BDSM but had never had the courage to tell her husband.

There are some things in life you have to try before you know how they will affect you.

After 5 years of awful sex, I was ready. Bondage and spanking had always featured in my fantasies, and one day, I convinced my husband to try them. That day was a turning point.
Ice cream comes in many flavors and that’s us too -- not vanilla, maybe not Rocky Road either. We can be a combination or make up our own and no one has the right to judge us.

But there will always be one question that tears at my soul: Will my husband, Nick, ever be happy with what I crave?

31 Flavors of Kink is a rerelease of 31 Flavors with some minor editing changes.

This is an early excerpt and also a sad one. There are many 'hot' kinky scenes in this book, but I feel it's the sadness and the struggles that make the story. This is a long excerpt. Feel free to read as much or as little as you like.  :)

It's on Amazon here 

On All Romance Ebooks (ARE) here

Loose Id also has it but their website is still being repaired so you can only get pdf right now. It is here.
I'm not sure but I think it is 25% off there right now as well as at ARE

It’s Thursday night, and Nick and I watch our comedy lineup together in bed. I lay my head on his chest. His little bit of curly black hair chafes the skin on my cheek. I glance up. Firm, manly lips, a jaw that’s pretty square but not perfect. A scar where he fell over as a kid and hit a shovel blade. He often has a simple hairstyle with mostly, like now, buzz-cut hair. If he were Fabio or Jimmy, he’d have long, flowing locks. I grin at that thought. I’ll never be able to run my fingers through his hair, but I don’t care.

I snuggle closer. His body is always a slightly higher temperature than mine. And he smells like love and comfort.

He strokes my hair as we laugh together through the shows. Humor is a big part of our relationship. In fact, I’m convinced he married me because I make him laugh. I remember my dream. Nick—serious and full of authority. I snort out loud. Never gonna happen. Even Mistress Helvetica can’t save us.

The TV goes off at ten p.m. sharp, and I roll over, tucking myself under the heavy white comforter. Before the light goes off, I trace the cherry blossom design. When we bought our little two-story, two-bedroom cottage a year ago, Nick gave me free rein in decorating. In turn, I don’t question his remodeling projects. That’s how our relationship works. We’re each in charge of separate little compartments of our lives. We’re like a business. The cherry blossom quilt, the bonsai tree on the dresser, the elegant bamboo window blinds are my ideas. The hand-built patio outside, right next to where the yard runs down to a little park—that was Nick’s.

I take a deep breath and process my day. Work too damn early, lunch, work, dinner, dishes, TV, bed. This is my life. I’m not complaining. We have our health. We have job security. We have the house with the dog and the white picket fence, minus the two-point-five children. Maybe someday we’ll even have that. We’re just like every other red-blooded American family. Except most couples probably have sex more than once every few months. And most women actually enjoy it.

But we have a strong relationship. Internally I pump my fist in the air to accentuate it. We don’t need sex. We have love, a foundation, commitment.

But no orgasms, my libido is quick to point out.

I sigh and briefly wonder if there’s a section in the phone book for “Dom Trainer.”

A hand snakes under my shirt and around my waist, warm against my bare skin. Nick’s breath sifts across my ear. Every muscle in my body tenses. I know what he wants. His cues are not so subtle.

I am in a constant state of guilt for always denying him. Tonight I will give it the old college try. His hand reaches my breasts and kneads one gently. I feel a tingle between my legs. Yes, that’s good. I can do this.

His fingers tweak my nipple, stimulating me in an uncomfortable way. I stiffen, then squirm a bit, reflexively, before forcing myself to remain still. Nick takes this as excitement. He kisses my neck. I melt into the mattress, looking up at him as he turns me onto my back. My neck, my ears, my collarbone—those are my erogenous zones. I wish he’d bite me. Just the thought of it makes my thighs clench. For some reason, I think the pinch of pain will help somehow. That’s based on instinct, not logic. How could pain make me relax?

He pulls my nipples again, and all I can think of is a cow being milked. I groan, but not in bliss. It’s really more of an irritated growl. But I can’t find it in me to say no. Everything from that point on makes me more and more uncomfortable. I’m ticklish and sensitive. It doesn’t feel like my husband’s loving hands on me but grating sandpaper. I want to crawl out of my skin. I tense at every touch, every kiss. I can’t help it. My body is a ball of anxiety. I will it to calm down. This is my husband, I yell in my head. He won’t hurt me!

No, but you want him to, a voice inside me yells back, smirking.

Ugh! This is so frustrating, I want to cry. And the worst part…it isn’t just me who’s suffering. It’s Nick, the man I love.

He enters me, and I fight to keep my thighs open. My face scrunches in pain. He stops and looks down—so much love and concern in his eyes that I choke on my guilt. I wish I could beat myself with a paddle. I’d deserve it.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Uh-huh.” I give a shaky smile.

He ponders me for a moment. “I know what you need. Lube.”

I sigh as he reaches under the bed to get it. Yes, I am that woman—the one who’s as dry as a desert. Cold. Impassionate.

“Better?” he asks, rubbing his erection at my opening after lubing up.

I nod. I hate lying, but I’ve ruined this too many times before. I’m petrified he’ll cheat on me if I don’t put out. So I grit my teeth and take it. The lube doesn’t help the pain much, but it keeps me from tearing. I stare at the ceiling and wait for it to be over. He finishes inside me. I am blank. Numb.

He rolls off me, then goes to clean himself.

I turn on my side and curl up in a ball under the blanket, hiding this horrible wrongness clawing at my soul. He climbs in beside me. If he hugs me, I’ll cry.

“I love you, honey,” he whispers in my ear.

I hate myself.

I fall asleep with the salty taste of tears in my mouth.

* * * *

Bethany Morris is doing far better than I. Bethany is twenty-three and having the time of her life with Mike and Mistress Helvetica. I’m just past thirty, and I’ve never had an orgasm with my husband. Bethany is a size zero with long blonde shiny hair and bright blue eyes. Lucky bitch. I’m a too-curvy plain Jane with unmanageable brown hair I keep cut in a bob and dull brown eyes. Though I used to be cute and perky, now my boobs sag, and I found a few gray hairs in the mirror the other day.

It’s nine at night, and I’m in bed reading Training the Dom. I hate Bethany Morris. I hate her and I admire her. My lips are pursed as I read. Sure, the Kate Moss look-alike can get her man to go Dom. I sigh in frustration and click to a different book. Nick comes upstairs and sits on the bed.

“Whatcha reading?”

I open my mouth to spout a generic answer I know he won’t question—romance—but Bethany Morris screams in my head. Do it!she says. Tell him the truth!

I consider it a moment. What would he say if I told him I’m reading a naughty book? It’s only a book. If he looks at me in disgust, I’ll just say I didn’t know what the book was about when I bought it. Yeah. That’ll work. This will be a test. An experiment. Like when Bethany told Mike her friends were going to a BDSM club to see what he’d say.

I look up. “Um, an erotic novel.”

His brows pop up to his hairline. “Really?”

Figures he’d be interested. He is a guy after all. “Yeah. It’s about…” Does he know what BDSM is? “Bondage and stuff.”

I stop breathing as I study his face. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. My fingers shake as I clutch my Kindle. It all comes down to this.

Hmm.” He lies back against the pillows and grabs the TV remote. “That’s hot.”

I’m reeling. Hot? Did he say hot?

We’ve been married for five years—five years of bad sex. Half the time I end up in tears. Nick comforts me, always, but I can hear his frustration. I can see his disappointment. It isn’t easy for me to talk about. Sex is shameful. I know it’s supposed to be joyous and beautiful and magnificent, but I only ever feel pain, shame, and guilt.

Nick’s frustration has gotten the better of him in the past. We went on a romantic weekend getaway a couple years ago. It was dark in the bedroom of the hotel. He was on top of me. I started to moan, loudly. He covered my mouth and shushed me. I panicked. Tears welled in my eyes and sobs escaped my throat, even though I tried to contain them. Nothing like a crying lump beneath you to kill the mood.

“How long do I have to keep living with your trauma?” he asked.

It was a valid question. One I had no answer to. I was just as tired of it as he was. The rape happened when I was thirteen, yet it felt as though I were living with it every day. The endless therapy sessions had helped me get on with life, but this, my sex life, was still in ruins.

I give my head a shake, leaving those memories behind. He just told me my erotic bondage book was hot. I have to go with this while I can. I scoot closer to him.

“You think it’s hot?” I ask.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen when he answers casually, “Yeah.”

“Well, what else do you think is hot? Do you have fantasies?” Maybe if I do one for him, he’ll do one for me. It’s a good strategy, I praise myself.

He shrugs and looks down at me. “I don’t know.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. He’s never been the creative type. Why did I expect him to divulge some dark, sensual fantasy?

No, I’m the imaginative one, as evidenced by my habitual kinky dreams.

Still, I urge, “Nothing? There’s absolutely nothing you’ve dreamed of that you’d like me to do?”

He pauses the TV and turns to regard me quizzically. “I’d be happy if regular sex pleased you.”

My gaze drops to my hands that are fumbling with the elastic on my Kindle cover. Regular sex. What does that even mean? But yeah, I’d be happy with that too. I have no answer for him. Again. But I’m desperate to please him. I’d do anything. Maybe if I tried harder.

I sigh. I know these thoughts are useless. I can’t make myself enjoy something so carnal, so intimate, despite it being attached to what should be feelings of safety and love. But I’m not ready to give up. I recall my mother telling me men hit their sexual peak in their early twenties; women do in their early thirties. I turned thirty a few months ago. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

I put my Kindle down and snuggle in close to Nick. I bury my face in his chest, unable to look him in the eye. Inhaling a breath of courage, I mutter softly, “What if I want more?”

I close my eyes and wait.

He shifts underneath me. “More?”

I nod.

“Sit up so I can see you.”

I shake my head.

He sighs. “What do you want more of? Sex?”

No, I want you to order me around, tie me up, and beat me. That will not go over well. One step at a time, I tell myself. “Well, maybe we could try some bondage?” It comes out as a meek question—strange for me because usually I don’t do meek.

I wait with bated breath for his response. Worst-case scenario—he makes a noise of disgust and calls me a freak. But that’s not Nick. And I am kind of a freak.

“Okay,” he says.

My eyes fly open, and I look up at him. “Okay?”

He shrugs. “Sure, we can try it.”

Inside, I am grinning. Outside, I take his cue and shrug. “Okay.”

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Writing Doms

by Cari Silverwood

Well, there you have it – writing AND Doms. Which means fiction. So now you have to decide if you want to appeal to your readers or not…you do? Right. That makes it easier. Doms are just men, of course. Which means IRL they can have just as many daft ideas as any man, or woman. They aren’t perfect, they do lie, they get gas, had acne when they were teenagers, and I’ll bet half of them have left a trail of unhappy women behind them.

But, but buuut, I hear some of you wail, that’s not like my hero Dom. For sure, but fiction is fiction.  Does that mean there are no wonderful men out there in real life who make wonderful Doms? Heck, of course there are. But they still have flaws. They are at their core, simply men who like being in control, sometimes that’s mostly in the bedroom, sometimes not.

But what do you put in your book? You, the author, gets to decide that. When you make any character in a story, you get to throw into the mix what you think you need. When writing a Dom, you just have to make sure they can still be the ideal partner for your heroine if they are the ‘hero’. We need to learn to love our partners, flaws and all. In fact in a story, it can make for so much more tension if you have those flaws to work around and perhaps even cause that black moment.

So what is it that distinguishes a Dom from another alpha male then? Not a lot, in my opinion. Like a lot of human ‘things’ or labels there is a sliding scale. Given sufficient permission by their women, a lot of alpha men would slip into Dom mode.

Certain ingredients will give you a bonafide Dom for your story. A need for control, a positive reveling in the sight of a submissive kneeling and doing as they are told. They will listen to your desires, your needs, the things that turn you on, and then they’ll take those wants of yours and crank up the tension. Safewords are for when the Dom goes just that little too far. But most of the time the submissive revels in obeying because it’s all part of the power exchange.

If you give an average alpha man instructions on what you want to happen beforehand, they may do these things to turn you on. With a Dom, expect that to go a little beyond, or to take a right angle turn into foreign territory. A Dom will like to push you. If they’re sadistic, they like to hear you squeal as well as moan. If they are simply into dominance, they like to see you not just on your knees, but licking your way up their leg to their cock. They want you on the bed with your legs spread, waiting.

An alpha will pin you against a wall and kiss you until you’re breathless. A Dom will step away and tell you to face the wall, clasp your hands together, put your arms above your head and stay there while they undo their trousers. Or maybe you’ll get to undo the zip with your teeth.

If you go too far, if your ‘Dom’ does something really wrong, like ignoring a safeword, or ignoring the feelings of his submissive, you end up with an asshole bully instead. In real life, maybe they can redeem themselves, like the Dom who insisted his submissive kneel despite knee surgery that made it agonizing for her…maybe he redeemed himself. Unlikely though.

So take care how far they go in that story. Make them human beings above all. They can be sexy controlling bastards who give your heroine a million orgasms, but always make them human.
Here’s Leonhardt from my novel, Rough Surrender, showing his Dom side.

The gold cords weighed heavily on her fingers as she went back into the bathroom. Mr. Meisner sat on the chair like a judge waiting for his next case...her. What was he planning? She could tell he meant to unsettle her. Well, no one had ever called her a pushover. She set her jaw.

“Here, Faith.” He held out his hand.

She gave him the cords and saw how he unraveled them while judging her reaction. It was amazing how quickly her pussy heated. All those words for her anatomy, and she sure remembered them. Cunt, cunny, cleft, vagina...dark and dirty, and my, oh, my, she liked this whole thing. Except, maybe, when he went careering off course, like now.

“Your wrist, love.”

Blinking, sure she teetered on a precipice and this dad-blasted man intended to give her a right good shove, she gave him her wrist. He urged her around until she faced away from him then took her other wrist too. Again, with the tying of her hands at her back, and she closed her eyes to savor the odd, yet delicious, want in her for handing him control. Her clitoris swelled, as if it had a mind of its own. She couldn’t help taking a deep breath at the surge of pleasure, at the scattered tingle as places woke and longed for more of his touch.

“Good,” he said, and his hand curved over her bottom, appreciating every inch, or so it seemed. She swayed, and let her tongue tip venture out onto her lip when his hand went between her legs and stayed there, like it belonged in just that place, like he had a right to be there. Oh. Yes.

“Wet,” he murmured. “Now you can kneel.”

With a hand on her elbow to steady her, Mr. Meisner helped her kneel on the towel. Standing over her with his cock an inch away, he carefully twined her hair round and round and anchored his hand within. So firm she might have been in a vice, and with her hands behind her he could do what he wished.

“How does that feel, Faith?” he asked quietly.

She looked up at him and sank into those brown eyes, floating away with the sensation of being dominated. Her tongue and brain were miles from each other. Words and thoughts mired, and tangled. A reply would spoil the moment. She shook her head as much as his grip allowed her to.

“That’s better. Lovely.” He bent down and kissed her long enough to send everything spinning. When he raised himself again, her lips were bruised and her heartbeat erratic.

“I’m going to put my cock in your mouth. Use lips, not teeth. See if you can take it all in, after a while. When I come, you’ll get a mouthful. So don’t be surprised.”

His hand held her even firmer as the head of his cock found her mouth. She opened wide then watched as it glided between her lips. She felt the strange soft, hardness poke along her tongue and then withdraw. A taste like skin, but deeper, richer.

Shutting her eyes let her feel more. She was pleasuring him the same as he’d done to her. His flesh pushed in, invaded her mouth, withdrew.

“Use your tongue,” he murmured. At the huskiness in his voice she risked a glance at his face. Mr. Meisner had a look of utter concentration. She curled her tongue and swirled all along the length as his cock cruised past. In, suck, swirl, out... He drew a long, sibilant breath and sped up the thrusts into her mouth. She twisted her hands in the cord. When she relaxed her throat, he grunted and his hands tightened in her hair. 

Yes, she could do this.

He pulled out and tilted up her head.

What now? She looked back at him while licking the taste off her lips. He chuckled, then bent down, picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. With hands tied behind her and head downward at his back, she could only wriggle.

“Mr. Meisner! Put me down.” She hissed the words through her teeth.

“Don’t move!” he smacked her once on the bottom. The sting shot through her.

“Ow!” But she stilled--landing headfirst on the floor because he’d dropped her seemed unwise. Besides, that smack had hurt.

Four or five strides and he plonked her onto the bed. More pillows were sorted, only this time he set her up with her head down and nearly dangling off the bed.

“I figured we needed you a bit more distracted, my dear. Open your mouth.”

Damnation, what was it this time? She scowled up at him but he inserted his cock into her mouth again. Only this time she felt his hand slipping along her cleft. The way he skated his fingers up and down while he pushed in and out of her mouth made her forget precisely where her tongue was, and soon, altogether which bit was anywhere, except she needed to moan and suck at the same time.

She arched her mound at his mouth or whatever part of him played wet games down there. He was inside her mouth and her pussy at the same time. As his cock forced its way in, so did fingers and tongue. She gasped around him and hummed, tried to spread her legs, clenched and tried to free her hands from where they lay under her back, and couldn’t. The throbbing heat, the slip and juicy slide almost undid her. She tensed, bowing upward as much as she could. With one last thrust, Mr. Meisner stopped with his cock as deep as it would go.

And here’s a little excerpt from Steel Dominance that is on the last few days of rewrites before it goes to my publisher.

Her voice trailed off. “Not…not here…” She pushed at his shoulders only to have him whip his other hand from behind her back, catch both her wrists and hold them to the wall above her head.

“Yes. Here.” Then he watched her as carefully as a bug collector observing a strange new butterfly while he wormed his hand between them and pushed a finger inside her.

Though she’d never seen anyone in this secluded place the possibility was there, and that both horrified and excited her. How perverted am I? No one normal would want this. But her breaths came faster and wetness cascaded from her slit with each in and out slide of his digit. Slowly waves of need stirred—making her shudder. Knowledge thumped into her—he held her pinned, helpless, with her legs spread by his.

She tried again to move her hands, but they might have been cemented there.

It seemed right to protest. “Let me go!”

Dankyo stepped away until her legs slipped from his thighs and she stood straining on tiptoe with her arms above.

“Let you go? Those words again? You know where we are, now. How it is.” Dark amusement colored his voice.  He pulled his finger from her and played with her clit, circling it as if it were a new toy. “Those words don’t work, Sofia. I have your yes. Until you take that away, you are mine. So I can do this.” He added a finger and thrust two of them up into her. “Or this.” The third joined them, sliding, finding its way between her swollen labia, stretching her vagina in an exquisite way.

Her mouth fell open in a gasp.

Without conscious thought, her hips tilted, as if she begged for more.

But I am begging. I want…

Another thrust went straight in full depth until the knuckle of his unburied finger touched her lips and his thumb bumped her clit. Then his hand beneath her shoved her a whole inch up the wall.

“Uh!” She shut her eyes.

She moaned and let herself dangle there, supported by his hand between her legs, her toenails barely scraping the ground. Him fucking her while he observed, and while he knew she was a heartbeat from saying no, made her want this even more.

“That’s…beautiful.” The male baritone depth made her jerk her eyes open.

His eyes narrowed. A smile grew as he surveyed her from her face to her breasts and then downward to where his gaze lingered at the split of her legs where he’d speared inside. More liquid spilled from her over his hand.

“Move,” she croaked, then panted some more, and did a little wiggle as she tested the iron grip on her wrists. Her walls clamped down on the hardness of his fingers.

Dankyo chuckled. “Move?” Then he came closer, covering her struggling body with his. “Be quiet.” As if to punctuate his command, he clamped his teeth on her ear lobe. The sting shocked her into stillness. “You don’t get a say in what I do. Not at all.”
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Sunday, July 1, 2012

Real People Real BDSM - take your time, be patient, be safe, discover your kinks

By Mercy

My brain has been a twisted place for a very long time. As a child I had fantasies of being spanked by storybook giants. I loved games where friends were bad guys who kidnapped me, tied me with skipping ropes and menaced me with plastic daggers. My Barbies were sex trade workers and my ken dolls had sexual relations with each other.  As I got older my fantasies got darker.

When I was 14, I discovered John Norman books at the public library. I read every one that they had. Gor convinced me that I wanted to be a slave. The thought of being used – being owned – resonated with me.  For years the guys I dated were surprisingly unenthusiastic about the idea, and were untrainable as potential masters. I had a few close friends that knew how I felt, but the concept perplexed them.

My first sex partner was physically, mentally, emotionally and sexually abusive. For the year we were together I couldn’t figure out why being abused in real life didn’t turn me on. The rape scenarios I had in my head were hot; the real thing was painful and downright boring after the first few times. I started keeping the remote close at hand so that I could at least watch something interesting on TV until he was done with me.  The way he hurt me didn’t do a thing for me. At first I wondered if my fantasies were only good in my head but fizzled in real life. Eventually I figured out that abuse and BDSM were entirely different. This was back before the internet, so I had no way of knowing that until I worked it out in my head.

After that I found ways to make my vanilla relationships work. Sex was painful for me, so I would imagine my partner was hurting me on purpose. I would read things that turned me on all the time and then leave myself that way. Burning and cutting myself became commonplace, and various friends were concerned about me until they discovered I just did it because it felt good. I was a walking bundle of repressed sexuality – something that intrigued men and got me attention I didn’t necessarily want.

Except for this one guy.

I met him through a group I belonged to. The first time I saw him, he turned to look at me and my mouth went dry. Such a beautiful, self-confident man. All that, and he was funny, too. But we were both dating other people. Despite that inconvenient fact, for seven years this man acted like he owned me. He would brush his fingers across my ass as he walked past. He would find ways to fondle me in a roomful of people without anyone noticing. One night at a party we ended up alone and he slammed me up against the door and kissed me hard, shoving his thigh between my legs, and torturing my nipples through my shirt while he ground up against me. Now this was a guy who knew how to treat a girl. A girl like me, anyway. I was submissive to him, I couldn’t help it. I fantasized about him all the time, while I muddled through a messy relationship with a man who never had sex with me, no matter what I did.

Eventually we both ended up single, and I knew I had to have him – even if it was just once. I e-mailed him to tell him I was sorry to hear that he and his girlfriend had broken up. I didn’t fool either of us.  Apparently, he wasn’t sorry I was single, either.

He lived out of town. We talked incessantly by e-mail and phone, and I eventually took a chance and told him about my interest in BDSM. He had never gotten into it because his ex was very vanilla, but he was interested. The man had an evil brain. Even though I was shy about discussing it, he eventually made me confess all sorts of my twisted fantasies. He had a collar custom made for me and started using it.  He had been well-trained in the “no means no” mantra of polite sex, so even though he knew what I wanted we had to work on that. I started taunting him to make me do things, and he dropped the civilized facade pretty quickly.

In the middle of a hilarious conversation that neither of us can recall, we picked a safeword.

One day when I was being sassy, he laughed and picked up his belt and threatened to hit me with it if I didn’t behave. I dared him to do it. The man can’t resist my dares, I was pleased to discover. He hit me with the belt a few times and we had hot nasty sex. There’s nothing like positive reinforcement to teach a guy what you like.

We married.

The collar, the belt, his use of force and my unspoken submission were our sex life for several years. But after years of delicious sex and violence I wanted... more. There were things I hadn’t told him and I was worried that the next level of intensity would be the one that scared him off or disgusted him. Eventually I decided to bring it up. Over the years he had proven himself to be an open minded guy, so why was I being so chicken? After that conversation he put the o-ring up in the doorframe in our room. He and I both bought things for him to hit me with. At first he was leery of beating me as hard as I wanted, but I goaded him into it, and he realized he loved it as much as I did. When I ask him now what his favourite part of BDSM is, he says it’s two things: knowing I’m his and making me scream... in one way or another.

Considering the level we do things at now, sometimes I worry about where we’re going. I wear a public collar 24/7. His dominance has leeched out of the bedroom and into our vanilla life. I fantasize about him leaving permanent marks or branding me. I have my submissive barcode tattooed on my shoulder and the collared submissive symbol on my shoulder blade. Luckily, even when I start getting greedy for more he keeps things safe, sane and consensual.

As I kneel at his feet with his hand in my hair, I feel the ache of fresh bruises and know that he loves me.

Cari Silverwood:

Remember everyone is different. No one is you. What turns someone else on may mean zero to you. BDSM is a very broad envelope term which covers many different kinks. Which is why you should never assume your partner will like the same things as you.

Rushing into things with your partner can be a disastrous thing to do. But if you're patient, you may give them enough time to understand you.

For those who are puzzled by BDSM – yes, Mercy and her husband love each other deeply and yes, the pain to her is pleasureable and the screaming is just as likely to be from orgasms as from being flogged, hit with a belt, or whatever. I cannot stress enough that her partner is a caring man and that this is, as Mercy says, safe, sane and consensual.

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