How Much Should I Share?

By Morticia Knight

Hey all, I’m a newbie here at Oh Get a Grip, but very excited that I was invited to participate by the lovely Lisabet Sarai. I’m going to introduce myself by way of this post, since this month’s topic ties in perfectly with sharing ourselves with our readers.

Almost every author goes through the struggle in the beginning of their public career where they need to decide how much of their lives they want to share. I’ve heard so many talks on this subject in various author groups where those who are about to dip their toes into publishing want to know whether they should use a pen name or real name, whether they should use a real photo or buy a logo, do they disclose what town they live in or remain vague. Even seemingly innocuous things like posting pics of pets or their fabulously decorated Christmas tree should be taken into consideration when interacting on the Internet. How much should we share and how much do readers expect us to share?

The answer is unique to every person and sometimes complex. We live in a world now where a Google search can uncover surprisingly personal details we may not want disclosed. I’m not even referring to scandalous or criminal events, but perhaps who our children are, where they go to school, where we work at our day jobs and so on. Maybe we don’t care if details about ourselves are exposed, but what about our friends and families? They didn’t sign up for this ride, so perhaps they’d rather not be included. This is particularly true if the subject matter of our fiction isn’t mainstream.

Since I write LGBTQ erotic romance, not everyone wants to be associated with me. Not everyone knows I’m bisexual, even though I don’t hide it and I’ve publicly appeared on panels discussing bi-erasure and bisexual representation in fiction. However, I use a pen name for many reasons, which I’ll get to in a moment. But first, I want to discuss what happened when I first began my public writing journey. I discovered not everyone wanted others to know they were friends with or interacted with me.

I began a Facebook page under my real name back in the day when it was first a thing. Of course, I invited my real-life friends to add me and several requested me as well. When I announced I’d be publishing, I didn’t disclose exactly what type of fiction it would be at first. Then my daughters announced on their pages what I was writing and tagged me. That’s when the backlash began. I had already invited people to friend request me on my pen name profile, because honestly, I rarely looked at my personal one anymore since I simply didn’t have the time. I then received a message from a long-time friend who holds very liberal views, isn’t religious and used to worked in the entertainment industry as an actress.

My friend told me she was sorry, but she was in the process of interviewing for a new job and couldn’t take the chance that potential employers would do a search and find out we were friends. Wow. That hurt. At the same time. I understood her fears. I was still working a day job at the time and wasn’t sure how what I did when not at the job would be taken, so I kept my pen name a closely guarded secret When an inter-office memo made light of an LGBTQ issue however, it was like a bag of rocks landed in my stomach. I sat on it for a day, thought it over, then had to contact corporate with a rather lengthy memo outlining why out of the over four thousand employees who had been sent the memo, there were bound to be at least a few who were on the spectrum and could be hurt by it.

Turned out the Vice President of Corporate was out and proud. He also had no idea about the memo, as it was handled at a lower level of the corporate tier. That was an eye-opener. I still didn’t over-share at my job regarding my pen name, because regardless of LGBTQ issues, the erotic content wasn’t something everyone would be comfortable with. In that environment, being one hundred percent open about this other life I led outside the workplace wouldn’t have been appropriate.

Then, I quit my job to write full time.

It was then that I decided to use my real photo and no longer hide what it is I do for a living. The only area where I remain vague has to do with my family. I don’t share my family member’s names, although they sometimes show up of their own accord because they tag me and are proud of what I do. All three of my daughters have come out publicly as bisexual, so for them, it’s a non-issue. My oldest daughter is also an author (although she writes diverse fantasy fic) and editor who has edited several of my books, so I’ve been more fortunate than many authors in terms of understanding and living a transparent life!

Thanks for reading and I’m thrilled to be a part of this great group of authers at Oh Get a Grip. As a reader, what are your expectations from your fave authors? Do you care what goes on behind the curtain, or do you prefer the mystery?

Although this is in the About Us section, here is my official introduction if you want to peek behind the curtain 😊

 Author Bio: Author Morticia Knight spends most of her nights writing about men loving men forever after. If there happens to be some friendly bondage or floggings involved, she doesn’t begrudge her characters whatever their filthy little hearts desire. Even though she’s been crafting her naughty tales for more years than she’d like to share—her adventures as a published author began in 2011. Since then, she’s been fortunate enough to have several books on bestseller lists along with titles receiving recognition in the Rainbow Book Awards, Divine Magazine and Love Romance Café.

Once upon a time she was the lead singer in an indie rock band that toured the West Coast and charted on U.S. college radio. She currently resides on the North Oregon coast and when she’s not fantasizing about hot men, she takes walks along the ocean and annoys the local Karaoke bar patrons.

Morticia’s Social links:

Website/blog: http://www.morticiaknight.com/

Amazon Author Page: http://amzn.to/2q2I2Do

Twitter: https://twitter.com/MorticiaKnight

Facebook Author page: https://www.facebook.com/authormorticiaknight/

Facebook Reader Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/MorticiasKnights/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormorticiaknight/

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/morticiaknight/

Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/MorticiaKnight

Sometimes romance can be hell - #paranormal #BDSM #romanceauthor #anonymity

By Lisabet Sarai

In the comments associated with my post about anonymity, I mentioned Damned If You Do, where the heroine is an author of erotic romance. She’s not exactly anonymous, though she writes under a pseudonym, but nobody knows the true depths of her depravity until her demon master posts a graphic video of them on the Internet.

Anyway, I thought it would be appropriate to share a bit from that book. Just for fun, I’m using the description of the video.

Blurb

Wendy Dennison is tired of being a starving author. The royalties from her critically acclaimed romance novels barely pay her bills. Her devoted agent Daniel Rochester may be smart and sexy, but he can't get her the sales she needs. Then a charismatic stranger appears at her coffee shop table, promising her fame and commercial success, as well as the chance to live out her dreams of erotic submission. But at what cost?

Nothing you can't afford to lose, my dear.

Seduced by the enigmatic Mister B, she signs his infernal contract. He becomes both her Master and her coach, managing her suddenly flourishing career as well as encouraging her lusts. Under her mentor’s nefarious influence, she surrenders to temptation and has sex with Daniel. The casual encounter turns serious when she discovers her mild mannered agent has a dominant side. As the clock ticks down to her blockbuster release and Mister B prepares to claim her soul, Wendy must choose either celebrity and wealth, or obscurity and true love.

Excerpt

Wendy emerged from the bathroom to find Dan on the phone.

“Yes. Very well…I understand… That’s pretty hypocritical of them, I must say…”

“Who is it?” she whispered. He waved her into silence.

“We have to consult our own lawyers about this.”

“Lawyers?” she mouthed. Dan scowled.

“We will be in touch. Yes, you can send the documents to me at my office. Good bye.”

She climbed back onto the bed and sat cross-legged facing him. “So?”

“It’s started. The unraveling of your success, I mean. That was one of Harbison Frost’s lawyers. They’re canceling your contract.”

“What? On what grounds.”

“The obscenity clause.”

“You’re kidding me!”

“Nope. They’re halting the second print run and they want their advance back.”

“No way!”

Every book contract Wendy had ever signed included boilerplate certifying that the work was not libelous or obscene. She’d always felt that was pretty ridiculous, given the sort of content that appeared in erotic romance these days, but she never objected. She understood this was just paranoia on the part of publishers. “Every book I’ve written would be labeled ‘obscene’ by some people. Nobody has every objected. Quite the opposite. Publishers keep pushing me to ramp up the heat.”

He shook his head with a sigh. “It’s not just the book, though. I gather there’s some sort of sex tape that’s appeared on the Internet, purporting to show Gwen Diamante engaged in activities with which Harbison Frost doesn’t want to be associated.”

“I never made any kind of sex tape…” she began, before realizing that Bub might have recorded every one of their interludes. She would never have known. Hell, she’d been so deep in subspace most of the time, she wouldn’t have noticed an actual camera crew, let alone a hidden webcam. She flung herself off the bed. “Let’s start your computer and take a look.”

The video wasn’t difficult to find. When she opened the search engine and typed “Gwen Diamante video”, the screen listed all her trailers, including the recent one for Cherished Chains, plus a clip entitled “Gwen Diamante Demon Sex”.

“The bastard,” she muttered as she clicked the link.

The screen went dark, then brightened to show what was unquestionably her bedroom. Everything was illuminated in red, as if the video had been shot in a photographer’s dark room.

A woman sprawled on the bed, her face hidden in her arms and her raised ass toward the camera, in a vivid close-up. Even with the dim lighting, the bloody welts decorating her buttocks showed clearly, near-black against her pale skin. A whip whistled through the air then landed with a snap on the woman’s butt. She groaned, her voice strained and hoarse. A new streak of darkness appeared on her ass. The knotted leather bit deep. The camera showed clearly the paths it carved in her jiggling flesh.

A huge, gnarled hand appeared from outside the frame and raked a curved claw along the crevice between her bruised butt cheeks. The woman screamed and convulsed in a violent orgasm, fluids streaming out of her onto the bed.

“Damn, that’s raw.” Dan’s face was white and drawn, but he didn’t look away. “Is it you?”

Bile rose in Wendy’s throat. “I don’t know. It could be.”

The being wielding the whip continued to alternate between lashing the woman’s ass and teasing her into climaxes that looked more like torture than pleasure. At one point, a long forked tongue slithered into the picture and flicked its way over the woman’s bloody buttocks, before worming into her anus. It could well have been artificial, simulated via computer graphics, but it looked disgustingly real.

Whoever had made the film had a sense of timing. Before the whipping grew boring, the camera pulled back. The hidden torturer stepped into view. Wendy and Daniel both gasped.

The creature was so tall that its bald head almost grazed the ceiling. Leathery-looking scales covered its back, while its ropey limbs were sickly pale. A barbed tail emerged from between its prominent buttocks. The tail lashed back and forth like a cat’s as the thing drew closer to the motionless figure on the bed. Its face was still not visible, but there was no missing the enormous phallus that jutted from its skinny loins.

With a growl, the creature reached for the woman and flipped her over. Her face still lay in shadow. Once again, Wendy was reminded of a cat playing with a mouse. Sinking its claws into her already bloodied thighs, it yanked her open and drove that impossible cock into her dripping cunt.

The woman yelled. The demon roared. The camera zoomed in on the shaft—easily five to six inches in diameter—pounding into the impossibly stretched aperture of her sex.

The screen went blank for an instant. The next shot showed a woman’s head, her face turned to the side. That unearthly, taloned hand appeared again from the side. Almost gently, it turned her to face the camera.

The woman’s eyes were shut tight. She looked drained, totally depleted, yet somehow satisfied. Drool hung from one corner of her mouth. Thick gobs of what had to be cum spattered her cheeks and matted her hair.

Despite the mess, there was no mistaking her features.

The clip ended.

****

Wendy shuddered. She wanted to vomit. “I had no idea,” she murmured, her face in her hands. “I didn’t know…” Sobs wracked her. “I’m so sorry…”

Dan gathered her to his chest. “Never mind. You’re safe now. He’ll never touch you again.”

“But the video—how horrible! No wonder they want to dump me… How could I have been so stupid?” Rising panic swept through her. She clung to his body. “Oh, Dan! What do I do now?”

He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her forehead. “First thing we do is contact the video sharing site with a take-down order.” He was already clicking and typing. “Then we issue a public statement branding the video as a hoax.”

“Nobody’s going to believe us.”

“Oh, come on! You think people are going to believe you were fucked by a demon? In this world of fake news, everyone knows how easy it is to make something artificial look real.” He glanced up from the keyboard. “Heck, it might even be good for your sales.”

Buy Links (Ebook)

Kinky Literature: http://www.kinkyliterature.com/book/713-damned-if-you-do/

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0727RZ39B/

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0727RZ39B/

Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/damned-if-you-do-lisabet-sarai/1126292735?ean=2940157395711

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/733108

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/th/en/ebook/damned-if-you-do-10

Excessica: https://goo.gl/dZN3dr

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/35009284-damned-if-you-do

Buy Links (Audio)

Narrated by Audrey Lusk

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Damned-If-You-Do/dp/B078NC1MGN/

Audible: https://www.audible.com/pd/Erotica-Sexuality/Damned-If-You-Do-Audiobook/B078NC27YX/

Reincarnation

By Lisabet Sarai



June 12, 1886

I scarcely know how to begin this account of my adventures and my sins. Indeed, I do not fully understand why I feel compelled to commit these things to writing. Clearly, my purpose is not to review and relive these experiences in the future, for in twenty minutes’ time these sentences will be invisible even to me. Perhaps in the years ahead, I will trail my fingers across the empty parchment, coloured like flesh, and the memories will come alive without the words, coaxed from the pages by my touch like flames bursting from cold embers.

I have a secret life, another self, and that secret has become a burden that I clutch to myself, and yet would be relieved of. So, like the Japanese who write their deepest desires on slips of rice paper and then burn them, I write of secret joys and yearnings, and send that writing into oblivion.

Let me begin again. My name is Beatrice. The world sees me as poised, prosperous, respectable, wife of one of Boston’s leading merchants and industrialists, mother of two sweet children, lady of a fine brick house on fashionable Mount Vernon Street, with Viennese crystal chandeliers, Chinese porcelain, French velvet draperies, and Italian marble fireplaces. I devote myself to the education of my dear Daniel and Louisa, the management of my household, works of charity, cultural afternoons. In sum, the many and sundry details of maintaining oneself in proper society.

Though I have borne two children, I am still considered beautiful. Indeed, with my golden locks, fair skin, turquoise eyes and rosy lips, I am often compared to an angel. How little they know, those who so describe me. For in truth, I am depraved, wanton, and lecherous, so lost that I do not even regret my fall.

My husband is a kind, intelligent, and honourable man, for whom I have the deepest regard and affection. He treats me with the utmost consideration and respect; he rarely comes to my bed and when he does, he is profuse with apologies for his unfortunate lust. Alas, he hardly knows or understands me. I understand him to a much greater extent, enough to know that I must lie still and silent under him, not move or cry out as his manhood dances inside me. Everyone knows that for proper women, the rites of the flesh are a trial that must be endured; men are subject to carnal weakness, and women’s lot is to be the passive receptacle of their spending. This is what my husband believes. Knowing he believes this takes the fire from the moment, and makes it easier for me to play my frigid, compliant role.

I know better, though.

Today, I walked in Louisburg Square with Daniel, Louisa, and their nurse. The weather was glorious, sky of limpid blue sown with fluffy clouds, new leaves dancing in the breeze. My parasol raised against the sun, I did not see him until he was almost upon us.

He was of medium height, sumptuously attired, as fair-haired and blue-eyed as I. His mouth had a fullness that I liked, the look of someone who savours the sweet things in life, and a readiness to smile. As he swept off his hat and bowed, I noticed his hands, with long delicate fingers clad in beige kid gloves.

“Good afternoon, Madame,” he said courteously. “I trust that you and your children are enjoying this fine weather.”

Meanwhile his eyes were sending me a different, more intimate message, which would have been lost on someone who was not sensitised to such things. There were no words in this message, only images, emotions, sensation, a quickening of breath, a heat, a tightening.

I am perpetually amazed at how we recognise each other, those of us who live beyond the pale of propriety. Is it some primal scent that we exude? Some subtle clue in posture or expression? Could it in fact be some spiritual connection, a mingling of thoughts in the ether? The mechanism is obscure to me, but I know the phenomenon only too well. I have sat in a concert hall with two hundred elegantly dressed, respectable members of proper society and found my eyes drawn to a single face in the balcony, a set of eyes that knew me, saw through my finery to the hungry flesh beneath.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” I said, my voice low and modest. “It is indeed fine, especially for so early in the season.”

“Of course, that may indicate that it will become hot sooner than usual.” The gentleman’s eyes sparkled with humour at his little private joke. Hot indeed, I thought to myself, adjusting my expression to signal some slight disapproval.

“I do not believe that I have the pleasure of your acquaintance, Sir,” I said.

“Forgive me for my lack of courtesy.” He reached into his waistcoat, withdrew a card, and wrote something upon it. “Here is my card.”

“Thank you.” I examined the card. It was not, in fact, a visiting card, but a blank upon which he had inscribed the following few words:

Ten O’clock this evening
No. __ Beacon Street
With respect and hope,
Charles Burnside

His name was unknown to me. Clearly he must be one of the many visitors to our prosperous city. I gave him my most luminous smile. “Perhaps we will meet again, Sir.”

“I do hope so, Madame. Adieu for now.”

I swept past him, my silks rustling, my heart pounding deliciously.

My husband was away this evening, as he so often is, visiting his mills in Lowell or consulting with his agents in New York. I would never risk one of my encounters if he were at home. He is a pillar of Boston society, universally admired and respected. He has even been urged to stand for the Legislature in the next election. Never would I allow the slightest hint of scandal to tarnish his good name. I am scrupulously careful in my dark liaisons. Even these private words will vanish shortly, so that there should be no evidence of my shameful behaviour.

Tonight, however, I was free to pursue my desires. After the children had been put to bed and their nurse was on guard at their side, my maid Pauline assisted me in my preparations. Pauline is the only soul who knows my secrets; I trust that she will take them with her to her grave. She is French, and experienced in the ways of the world. She does not condemn me for listening to the siren call of the flesh, though she sometimes regards me with a strange light in her eyes.

I chose my costume with care, a rich but somber dress of midnight blue poult de soie, with a cashmere mantle to match. I wished to appear respectable, remote, and infinitely desirable. My hair shone like spun gold in contrast with the dark fabric, and my eyes had depths like the ocean. I donned my hat and veiled my face, then followed Pauline out the back door and into the alley where the hansom carriage she had summoned awaited me.

The address he provided proved to be a small townhouse facing the Common, with fine leaded glass windows. A sour-faced domestic answered the bell, took my wrap, and led me to the drawing room, which was furnished with indifferent taste.

My fair-haired Charles leapt up as I entered, his face glowing.

“You’ve come, Madame! I hardly dared hope.”

“I could scarcely refuse such an enigmatic invitation,” I said, holding out my gloved hand. He bent to touch it to his lips, then stopped himself. “If you will permit me,” he said with a shy smile. Then without waiting for my reply, he stripped the glove off my fingers and planted a delicate kiss on my bare palm.


(From Incognito by Lisabet Sarai.)

I sometimes believe that I had an earlier life in the Victorian period. Even before I had read My Secret Life and The Pearl, I was drawn to the time--the fashions, the fanciful buildings, the characters, real and imagined. Sherlock Holmes, Jack the Ripper, Oscar Wilde, Gilbert and Sullivan, Sarah Bernhardt, and the Queen herself. There are photos of me from high school, wearing a frilly, high-necked white blouse ornamented with a cameo, and dark flowing skirts. I was dressing the part before I was even aware of what I was doing. I had a Victorian body, too, full-bosomed and hipped, completely unfashionable in the Twiggy era but perfect for the 1880's.

I've always longed to live in a house with turrets and gingerbread. My favorite BDSM fantasies take place in a tower room in a San Francisco Victorian, one of those marvelous places with curved wrap-around glass and a conical roof. When I visited Tampa and saw the incredible Tampa Bay Hotel with its verandas and minarets, I had the weirdest sense that I had been there before. Of course, by that time, my Victorian sexual associations were well-developed. Every mahogany-and-brocade chaise offered itself as the ideal spot for a spanking. I won't even mention about the four-poster canopy beds.




Why the fascination? I'm really not sure. I believe that it has something to do with the radical split between public and private lives during the period, the overt propriety contrasted with the by now well-documented secret lasciviousness. Most erotic authors appreciate the extra excitement associated with violating taboos. The broader the societal constraints, the more opportunity there would have been for breaking the rules.

When I began writing Incognito and realized that it was going to have a historical sub-plot, I immersed myself in Victoriana, both erotic and ordinary. Normally I'm not that assiduous about research. I do enough to get by. In this case, though, I was hooked, almost hypnotized. I felt as though I understood the life of the period, the excitement of new worlds and new technologies, the conflicts between public social norms and private behavior. And when I started writing the entries in Beatrice's diary, it was as though I was channeling the character. I knew her as well as I knew myself. She was a secret outlaw, a devotee of the flesh hiding behind a mask of respectability.


Her journal chronicles a range of sexual adventures. I felt that I had experienced every one of her trysts, from her forbidden seduction of the virile black handyman to her beating and buggering in the stables of a suburban mansion. I could feel my cheeks flush as I stole through the shadowy, cobbled streets of Beacon Hill, veiled against the gas lights. My breathing was fast and shallow against the whale-boned constraint of my corset. Excitement drenched my lace-trimmed silken pantalets, hidden beneath my voluminous skirts.

It was very strange. In many ways, Miranda, the contemporary heroine of the novel was far more similar to me than Beatrice. We were both bookish and serious, hot-blooded but shy. Some of Miranda's history was borrowed from my own life. My own experiences in academia served as general background for the tale.

I liked Miranda quite a bit. However, it was with Beatrice that I identified, despite the differences in class and culture. I don't have children. My marriage is an unconventional partnership vastly different from Beatrice's traditional union. Yet I felt that I knew Beatrice intimately, that I understood her wantonness at a visceral level.

Maybe Beatrice really existed, or someone like her. Perhaps that is the key to my fascination with the period. Could it be that Beatrice's diary took shaped itself out of the flickering memories of my own carnal explorations, in another time, another place?

Perhaps that's the germ of another novel.

I've always loved reading historical fiction, from practically any period. I admire and envy authors who can bring the past to life, not only awaken the sights, sounds, and smells of a period but also convey the world view of its denizens. In general, that is not particularly a talent of mine. The Victorian world is an exception.

The master summoned me to the library just after tea. “Come in, Mary” he called in response to my shy knock. I could not help but wonder what he wanted with me, merely a downstairs maid, the least of his great household.

“You asked to see me, sir?” I curtseyed as gracefully as I could.

“Yes, Mary.” He did not rise from his armchair by the hearth. “Come here, Mary, and stand before me.”

I did as he bid me, trembling a little, for his voice was cold and severe. He looked me up and down, as I stood there with my eyes on the figured carpet.

“Mary,” he said at last, “are you happy here?”

“Oh, yes, sir”, I exclaimed. “Very happy.”

“Then why do you steal from me?” he asked sternly.

“Steal from you, Sir? Nay, I would never do such a thing!” I dared to look at him, and saw a strange light burning in his eyes.

“Cook tells me that you have been rifling the pantry while the house is asleep, stealing the choicest delicacies and hiding them in your room.”

“What, Sir? Why would I steal food? The provisions here are far better than I’ve had in any other house, wholesome and plentiful.” Indignant in my innocence, I held his gaze. “To be honest Sir, I believe that Cook is envious of me, though why she should be so I cannot tell. Always she gives me the most unpleasant tasks, and never does she have a kind word for me.”

“Hmm,” he said, stroking his beard. “I almost believe you. You are quite sure, Mary, that you are not telling me falsehoods to save your skin?”

“Of course not, Sir! You and the Mistress have been very good to me since I entered your service two months hence. I would never lie to you.”

“Still, Mary, I must punish you. If I do not, Cook will be so grouchy that she will poison us all with lumpy soups and undercooked roasts. I believe you, Mary, but nevertheless you must be punished.”

He reached behind the chair and retrieved a wicked-looking bundle of birch switches. “Turn around, lift your skirts, and take down your drawers,” he said in an odd, strained voice.

“Please, Sir, no! T’is not fair!” Tears streamed down my face, but even at my young age, I knew there was no fairness for one such as I. There were the highborn and the low, that was the nature of things, and if one of the high had a fancy to beat one of my standing, it did not matter whether the supposed culprit was guilty or not. Silent and reluctant, I obeyed his instructions. I blushed as I let my linens drop to the floor, baring my hind parts to his scrutiny. Surely this was improper, I thought, hoping wildly that my Mistress would knock on the library door and interrupt this scene. Then I remembered that she was taking tea with her mother in Knightsbridge, and my heart sank.

“Kneel on the edge of the chair,” he commanded. I knew he meant the matching armchair on the other side of the hearth. “Bend over and hold tightly to the back of the chair.”

I disposed myself as he dictated. Looking over my shoulder, I attempted one last appeal. “Please, Sir, I beg you, do not birch me. I will do whatever you wish, but do not punish me unjustly.”

“I have no choice, Mary,” he said, almost sadly. “However, if you take your whipping well, I will do something nice for you afterwards.”

I crossed my arms on the back of the chair, and buried my face in them. I waited for the first sharp cut. Something seemed to delay him, though. For several minutes, there was no sound but the crackling from the hearth. A draft swept between my naked thighs, and I shivered a little, from suspense as much as cold.

Finally he spoke, almost in a whisper. “You have a lovely bum, Mary,” he said, and then the switches slashed across my bare bottom.

I swear, I can feel the birch scorching my skin. I can smell the smoke from the hearth, hear the tick of the mantel clock and my master's labored breathing. I'm there in that chilly room, bent over the stiff mahogany chair, tears welling in my eyes and a different moisture gathering between my thighs, fear and shame battling with excitement.

I feel as though I am where I belong.