My Secret Life -- #pseudonym #cyberspace #ERWA

By Lisabet Sarai

When I published my first novel, I didn’t realize how profoundly it would change my existence. After all, I’d submitted to Black Lace on a whim, intrigued by the fact that someone might be interested in reading stories inspired by my forbidden fantasies and my real-world sexual adventures. Since my book took place in the mysterious and exotic orient, I devised a pen name to match, with a hint of foreign glamor.

I even concocted a fake biography for “Lisabet Sarai”. The only child of a Lebanese belly dancer and a French army officer stationed in the Middle East, Lisabet split her childhood between the souks of Marrakesh and the cafés of Montmatre. As a precocious teenager, she danced for princes and sultans, one of whom financed her higher education. As much in demand for her exquisite erotic poetry as for her sensuous danse de ventre, Lisabet has traveled all over the world, capturing her impressions in her daring stories. Her dozens of lovers remember her with nostalgia and affection, years after their brief but incandescent liaisons.

Little did I realize that Lisabet would take on a life of her own.

There are some grains of truth in my tall tale. I did perform as a belly dancer in my youth.

 

I’ve visited every continent except Australia, and now live in Asia. And I did go through what I like to call my “sex goddess” period, in the golden age after the invention of the Pill and before AIDS, when I seemed to be overflowing with sexual exuberance which I shared pretty broadly. I like to believe that if my former lovers think of me, they do so fondly.

However, my public reality is far more prosaic than Lisabet’s. I’m in my sixties. I’ve been married for more than thirty years. I work in teaching and tech, occupations which do demand a certain sort of creativity, but which call on a different set of skills than my erotic writing. Most people who know me have never heard of Lisabet (though I occasionally fantasize that some of my friends or family might actually be Lisabet’s readers, without my knowing).

Although I’m genuinely proud of my body of work, stretching over nearly two decades, I can’t brag. I can’t even tell most people. Both my parents were avid readers—it’s no accident I’m a book worm—but they went to their graves not knowing about my alter-ego. They wouldn’t have disowned me or condemned me or anything like that, but I know my preferred subject matter would have made them uncomfortable. Once I went so far as to inscribe a print copy of Raw Silk (second edition) for my father, intending it as a birthday gift. At the last minute, I returned the book to my hidden stash of author’s copies, recognizing that my dad’s peace of mind was more important than my own desire for recognition.

Meanwhile, the need to keep my alternative existence a secret has become far more critical since I took up residence in a fairly conservative foreign country with strict anti-pornography laws. I love my adopted home and enjoy living here. If I were exposed as the notorious Lisabet Sarai, I could be kicked out, even put in jail. So I take precautions. I use a different computer for my Lisabet work and communications than for other tasks. I encrypt all my files. I don’t use the same social networks for my two identities. I never do anything related to Lisabet on my phone. I bite my tongue when someone starts talking about self-publishing.

I have friends here who are literary, creative types. I am so tempted to tell them about my carefully hidden career. I really have to watch myself. After twenty years of writing and publishing smut, I want to shout from the rooftops, give away copies to friends and family, do signings and readings like other authors. I don’t dare.

So my existence as Lisabet Sarai is pretty much limited to the cybersphere. I email. I blog. I participate in the Erotica Readers &Writers Association lists. Very rarely I get the chance to meet some of my erotica colleagues in person. When I do, it’s a tremendous high.

I love connecting with fellow erotic authors. To be honest, I feel closer to many of my on-line friends in the erotica community than I do to my meat space acquaintances. I suppose that’s because with them, I can be honest. I don’t have to hide behind a veil of respectability. I can be myself—experimental, iconoclastic, taboo, still chronicling the thrilling variations of desire even though I’m a senior citizen.

The thing is, Lisabet Sarai really is me, a hugely important part of me that I have to keep a secret from most of the world. It’s difficult, even a bit painful, to conceal my true nature. I’m grateful that with you readers, at least, I don’t have to hide.

Lewd and Proud - #pride #smut #erotica #reputation @Archer_Larry

By Lisabet Sarai

Hello! My name is Lisabet, and I write smut.

Oh, sometimes I call it erotic romance, or literary erotica, or even speculative fiction, but as far as the world is concerned, those fine distinctions don’t mean anything. As long as my work focuses on the experience of sexual desire and includes explicit depictions of sexual activities, I’m simply another pornographer. Certainly that’s Amazon’s position. Unless I’m especially careful, clever and/or duplicitous, my work is likely to be shuffled off to the adult dungeon where it will languish forever in obscurity. (Of course, that may happen even if my stuff doesn’t get quarantined, but the adult label is the final nail in the coffin.)

Meanwhile, in the enormous, financially powerful romance genre, so-called “steamy romance” is still viewed as the red-headed step child. This is the attitude of authors as well as (I assume) readers. Plenty of my romance colleagues won’t host me as a blog guest because my characters get down and dirty, even if I offer to create a purely PG post. Indeed, I’ve read (and fumed over) ignorant comments on romance writers' forums that dissed the entire erotica genre as nothing but gratuitous sex with no plot or characterization.

Then there’s my brother, also the creative type, who tells me I’m incredibly talented and wants to know why I don’t write a “serious” book. Oh, he also says he doesn’t want to read something that arouses him.

Well, guess what? Lots of people do. And I’ve decided that maybe I should be courting those readers.

After years of feeling embarrassed and apologetic about my chosen literary niche—although I often feel it chose me rather than the other way around—I finally decided it was time I really did write some porn. 
 

Last year I released my first book that I’d say was pure stroke fiction. Hot Brides in Vegas actually does have a plot, and lots of characters (mostly bodacious babes, with a few insatiable studs), but it’s a pretty big stretch from my more “literary” endeavors. Set in the outrageous world of strippers and swingers created by my ERWA colleague Larry Archer, Hot Brides tells the story of three young women who come to Las Vegas for Francesca’s lavish wedding.

While Fran’s fiancé Jake and his buddies set out for a stag night, exploring the fleshpots of Sin City, she and her bridesmaids Laura and Chantal are stuck at the resort under the watchful eye of her stern Aunt Giulia, who has promised Fran’s father that his daughter will come to the altar a virgin.

Frustrated and annoyed by these double standards, the girls hatch a plan to escape their chaperone and have some fun of their own. With the help of a susceptible concierge, a butch ex-cop limo driver and a scandalous French couturiere, they find their way to The Fox’s Den, the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in the city. Owner Larry Archer and his crew of strippers, bouncers, voyeurs and sluts are more than happy to welcome the delectable trio as contestants performing at the club’s famous Amateur Night.

Writing Hot Brides was a breath of fresh air for me. I turned the censors and critics off and simply wrote the wildest scenes I could think of. I produced the 30K novella in record time (for me), banging out (so to speak!) 3-5K words at a sitting. Furthermore, it’s remarkably good—in my own unbiased opinion!—for fiction with no redeeming social value whatsoever.

My reviewers agree. One called it “pure wicked escapism”, which really sums up the story well. Meanwhile it has sold better than anything I’ve written in quite a while (though I wouldn’t say I’ve really conquered the obscurity problem).

In fact, I enjoyed writing Hot Brides so much that I’m working on a sequel. More Brides in Vegas reunites Fran, Laura, Chantal and their swains with Annie, another contestant they met at Amateur Night, for Annie’s wedding to Jake’s friend Ted. Since Annie and Ted don’t have a lot cash, they’ve organized the wedding at a vintage eighties motel on the outskirts of town, one of those sprawling places where the rooms are arranged around a courtyard with a big swimming pool. The newlyweds don’t realize this is a favorite site for swingers’ parties.

I’m hoping to finish the first draft of More Brides this weekend, and to publish it by early June. And I’m proud to say that it has even more sex than the first book.

I think it’s about time I lived up to my bad reputation!

You can check out a couple of excerpts from Hot Brides in Vegas at the links below.

https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2018/01/sizzling-sunday-hot-brides-in-vegas-ff.html

https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2017/11/sizzling-sunday-hot-brides-in-vegas.html

And if you’re actually interested in buying a copy...

Amazon US – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077JRMGJF/

Amazon UK - https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B077JRMGJF/

Smashwords – https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/758698

Barnes and Noble - https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/hot-brides-in-vegas-lisabet-sarai/1127452565?ean=2940154622568

Kobo - https://www.kobo.com/th/en/ebook/hot-brides-in-vegas

Pride and Joy

by Annabeth Leong

I first encountered her at the tobacco shop and wine bar on the downtown strip. I was technically too young to be in there, but no one questioned me. I smoked Gauloises in an effort to seem sophisticated, but I've always contained too much innocence to hide things like the way she made me feel. She was olive-skinned and tall, strong-jawed and gorgeous. All that faded, though, when the song came.

I was a little girl when Stevie Ray Vaughan first sang that song, so I didn't learn it from him. I learned it from this woman, and the sound of its opening bars is inextricably associated with the thrilling shock of hearing her belt out these words about a female lover. I've heard plenty of women sing songs that way now, taking the words written by a man and not changing them to make them "right," but at the time the audacity seemed incredible. Hearing her declare herself "her little loverboy" opened my eyes to something I'd never been able to describe.

I was obsessed and foolish. The town was small, and I could hear and recognize her voice from a block away. I could walk up and down the downtown strip and listen for it. I could hang out after a show and hope she'd say that I could ride with her to the all-night diner. I could wish for a kiss that never came, wonder if the truth that seemed to live inside her singing voice also lived within her heart. Was this all a ploy, or was there something being confessed here?

***

"You could be friends with women, but you sleep with them, too." The therapist's voice was faintly accusing, and my mind could fill out the rest just fine on its own. I was a slut who slept with too many men, but I was worse than that because I slept with women, too. Not only that, the fact that I wanted to sleep with women was ruining my friendships, making me untrustworthy.

This wasn't only the therapist's idea. I'll never forget the school trip where the girls protested about having to share a room with me. I remember the girls who wouldn't come over to my house and the places I wasn't invited. And before that, I remember other untrustworthy women—the aunt who was only whispered about, her name never mentioned except in tones of disgust, because she'd left my uncle to be with women; the friend of my mother's who had destroyed their connection by declaring her love.

And later, my constant feeling of being a spy. "What's there to worry about?" someone would say as she whipped off her shirt. "It's just us girls."

All that is shame, not pride. All that is grief, not joy.

They were mixed up together for so long. I remember the first time I woke up with a girl, my heart pounding in fierce celebration of everything we'd discovered the night before. We drove around and did ordinary things, but the world was no longer ordinary. I was in her car! She was breathing next to me! But then she almost hit the car in front of us, and it felt like a divine warning that we'd better not get too cocky.

After she left, I wrote in my diary, "I had real sex last night," and then I ripped out the page, tore it to bits, and burned it because I was afraid of my mother discovering it in the trash. It makes me sad to think of that. I wish I had the record of that morning. I remember the painstaking care I took trying to describe my fear and excitement.

***

I feel unqualified to take this twist on this topic. Apart from the gay sex, I've lived most of my life as straight. That's the punchline to a joke somewhere, right?

I once made a girl fall in love with me by buying her a bottle of her favorite scent, which was hard to find before the internet. She was on vacation, and I went to store after store looking for it. When she got back, I wrote her a note to go with the bottle, in which I said, "I wanted to tell the cashier, 'I'm buying this for my GIRLFRIEND.'" She melted and told me that was exactly the right thing to say. But a week later, I had freaked out and locked myself away with a boy.

I could be bold, but I was too cowardly for pride. I was sure that all my desires were wrong—not just the ones for women, but all the things I thought about while I got myself off.

If there's anything that does qualify me to write this way, it's this: I understand why pride is necessary. I have torn myself and others up with shame. I have let people use the word "they" around me, both because I was afraid I didn't belong and because I was afraid I did.

***

"She's shaking." People love to point it out, I think because it's cute to them. But yeah, I'm shaking. I'm on my knees in front of a woman at a BDSM convention.

"I'm shaking because I want this so much," I tell her. I feel like her little loverboy.

What nobody knows is that when I sit back down after it's over, I keep shaking for the next hour. The person next to me tells me, "That was sweet," and all I can do is nod. I go home and lie in bed and shake. For days, I shake whenever I think about it. I'm shaking right now.

***

I'm still not sure what to call myself. The first time I wrote about this subject at The Grip, someone on Twitter described my writing as queer, and I jumped all over that as if, like Adam, they could name me. That felt like permission, and I desperately needed permission.

To me, having a name does matter. If something is a pride and joy, it's got a name. The things I'm afraid to name are things bound up with shame.

And there is something about wearing a thing in public, which I still struggle to do. It was truly dangerous where I used to live. The girls I slept with back then—when we went out together, we pretended to be friends. Then later, I just pretended to be friends.

There was a woman I loved who was my pride and joy. Whenever people realized we'd showed up somewhere together, I wanted to grin and brag. Being in her car, her house, having plans with her—my heart grew larger from every little thing. But I didn't want to touch her. Not like that. I would tell you if you asked. I would cry and swear to it. It was only after I lost all claim to her that I had to admit what I wished the claim had been.

It is only recently that I have been wearing this out in public, making it clear about myself in various ways, spoken and gestured. I volunteered to run an LGBTQ meetup for an event a participate in. I may not be able to say which of those letters is mine, but I'm damn sure one of them is. I feel sheepish about all this, embarrassed to admit how the once-ordinary world is changing around me, afraid that if I confess to the perfect peace in my heart it might come out the wrong way.

It's not that I don't care about specific people, because I do, but it's also not as simple as being struck down by love. I wanted to walk down the street without hiding and being afraid. Pride and joy, even if I'm shaking again.

Pride and Passion

Sacchi Green

For a day and a half or so, I thought I’d be all set to hold forth here on the subject of pride, or at least to report something I could feel proud of, whether warranted or not. As it turns out, though, when I read the fine print—i.e. the contract—I realized that some changes needed to be made, and they won’t be made—or refused—until today (Monday) or later. Nothing really major, I think, but we’ll see. A contract suitable for a single-author book doesn’t always work for a multi-author anthology.

So, in spite of having been offered an editing gig that would once have represented the pinnacle of achievement to me (at least in my little corner of the erotica genre,) and still looks well worth doing, I need to seek out a different approach to the theme of pride. And, of course, the harder I seek, the more complexities I bump up against.

Is feeling proud fundamentally wrong, as we sometimes learn, or can you get away with it if you call it self-respect? Then there’s “Blessed are the meek,” and I really can’t argue with that. If “pride goes before a fall,” it’s better to be the observer of that particular dramatic scene rather than the lead character. Most of us can enjoy a bit of Schadenfreude, as long we’re not the butt of it. Still, if we can’t be proud of our achievements, where’s the incentive for achieving them?

Maybe the answer is that feeling proud of one’s achievements is okay, but the kind of pride that makes one person feel superior to most others is questionable.  I’m not proud of myself—there are too many things I haven’t done as well as I should have—but I’m proud, or at least not ashamed, of some difficult things I did step up and do about as well as anyone could.

But I’d rather talk about stories than keep on with pointless navel-gazing. From the earliest legends and traditions we’ve been fascinated by stories of pride, and by no means chiefly ones culminating in a fall. Gods, heroes, royalty, people with inherent pride, bred in the bone. Pride in their ancestors, their traditions, a noble sort of pride that includes responsibility for those under their rule. We may get a bit twitchy about the classism in books like The Lord of the Rings, but we still cheer for Aragorn to take up the proud role that is his by birth.

When it comes to erotica—you knew where I was going, right?—we can get hot for confident, strong, proud characters, mostly male, it’s true, but some of us can appreciate strong, proud women as well. Wait, don’t stop reading yet! The excerpt I’m about to include has both. I do write straight sex from time to time, and I know whereof I write. This particular story was published under my alter-ego’s name, Connie Wilkins, in Hot Highlanders and Wild Warriors, edited by Delilah Devlin for Cleis Press.

This excerpt comes from near the end, so a bit of context might be in order. (I think I posted a bit from the beginning a while back when we discussed some other theme, and maybe this part as well, so apologies if I’m repeating myself.) Ardzvik is the hereditary Lady of Aragatsotn in Armenia, and Yul Dharuga is the Mongol General appointed Governor of Georgia and Armenia by Batu Khan of the Golden Horde. Proud Ardzvik would prefer to fight to the death, but to save her people she offers the fealty of her Province, previously sworn to the deposed Georgian kings, to the Mongols, so that taxation can substitute for bloodshed. At this point in the story she has been hosting Yul, and felt drawn to him, but pride is still so much a part of her that a dramatic chance encounter shatters her self-control, and rage bursts through.
_________________________________________
 
A Falcon in Flight

The next morning Ardzvik rose early after tortured dreams. Never had she needed the solace of the mountain and her falcon more. Bakhshi carried her with Zepyur tethered to her leather hawking glove along trails and then trackless reaches until his mistress was sure they could not be followed, and then she dismounted, slipped the hood from Zephyur’s head, and loosed the bird to the breeze.

Today she had brought her bow in hope of flushing larger game than the falcon could hunt. Wild goats were often seen at this height, and even boar might come to root among the tubers of mountain flowers. She pulled off her leather glove and kept an arrow at the ready, but her mind was not focused as much on the outer world as on her inner one.

Why did she yearn so for a man who might well not want her, or, if he did, might value her title more than her body? And if he wanted golden-haired Leyli, how could Ardzik bear it? Their father had not wed Leyli’s mother, but he had acknowledged the child, and if Ardzvik bore no heir one of Leyli’s would be accepted as ruler of Aragatsotn. Illegitimacy was not such a barrier in the ancient traditions of this land.

It was the begetting of children that obsessed Ardzvik now, not the bearing of them. She wanted this one man and no other, foreigner, destroyer, conqueror though he might be. She had known a mare who would let no stallion mount her save the one of her own choice. The horse had broken out, gone to her chosen mate in spite of her owner’s different plan, and their offspring had turned out to be the finest the herd had ever known. Perhaps bodies knew things that minds did not. 
  
Ardzvik’s mind might be preoccupied by her treacherous body’s needs, but her eyes caught the hitch in her falcon’s flight and her ears caught the changed sound of the bells on the bird’s ankle. Suddenly Zepyur was not hunting, but fleeing. A great white hawk more than half again her size rose over the mountain’s shoulder. 

A falcon of the north! A female Gyrfalcon! Not native here, but the royal family of Georgia had possessed one when Ardzvik was a child, and she had seen it hunt. It was clearly hunting now.
Zepyur twisted and dived, eluding her pursuer again and again, but the other gained ground each time. Ardzvik shouted and raised her bow. Something moved below on the mountainside, but she had no time to look. Zepyur dived again, opening space between herself and her pursuer, and Ardzvik’s arrow sped sure and true—until another’s arrow met it in flight, and both spun together toward the earth.

Arsdvik whistled for her bird and quickly donned the hawking glove. Another whistle, yet more piercing, came from somewhere below. Zepyur soared to her mistress and perched, quivering, on the thick leather gauntlet. The white intruder glided down past the man whose dun horse raced up the steep slope, to land on the arm of a second rider following more slowly.

Yul Darugha gave a roar in a language Ardzvik did not understand, though the words were clearly curses. She swiftly hooded Zepyur, stroked her feathers to calm her, and set her to perch on a rock in a sheltered hollow, tethered to a wiry shrub. Bakhshi grazed nearby, the sounds of his browsing familiar enough to reassure the hawk.

Ardzvik advanced toward the approaching man, another arrow at the ready. Her heart still pounded from her sudden terror for her hawk, but fear had transmuted into a glorious, intoxicating fury.

He leapt from his horse, bow in hand, and ran toward her, coming to a sudden stop as she raised her own weapon in warning.

“You…if you…when I saw that it was you…” His deep voice cracked. “If you had killed my gyrfalcon, with my falconer as witness…” He stopped for breath. “I would have had no choice! You know that!”

“I aimed between them to distract your bird,” she retorted in a cold rage. “If she did not veer off the next arrow would have found her heart. And if your arrow had killed my falcon…”

“I aimed between them as well,” he said, his voice steadier now.

Ardzvik clung to her anger, reveled in it, allowed it to spark from ice into fire. “For the sake of my people I surrendered my province, but this is my own land! Here I will stand and fight!”

Yul Darugha’s eyes lit with a flame that was not anger. He set down his bow and shouted a command to his falconer waiting below. The old man shook his head doubtfully but moved away with the gyrfalcon on his arm and was soon out of sight.

“So there is a she-wolf in you after all! When I first saw you I thought--I hoped--but I could not be sure.”

“A she-wolf?” Ardzvik’s laugh was scornful. “Look higher. My name means “eagle” in the old tongue. I am Lady of Aragatsotn, and more. My mother’s line is said to be of those warriors from the lands beyond the Black Sea called Amazons by the Greeks.” True, only the oldest grandmothers said this, but Ardzvik still felt it to be true. “I will defend my own!”

“I see in you that warrior girl who haunts my memory.” Yul spoke now not as the Mongol Darugha but as a man who needs no title between himself and the woman he desires. “It is she I dreamed of, before last night, and then it was you. The only prize worth winning.”

The heat of Ardzvik’s anger flowed effortlessly into arousal, but she did not forsake her proud stance. “How can you be so sure of me? Was she not naked, that warrior girl?”

He stepped forward; she stepped back. Her own hand drew the rough tunic over her head and loosed the drawstring of the men’s trousers she wore for hunting. Her strong, slim body stood bared to the summer sun, and to his burning gaze.

Just as he reached for her she stepped forward into his embrace, rejoicing in the rumble deep in his chest and the arms far stronger than her own that raised her up off her feet to crush her against him. His mouth pressed hard on hers, then moved into the hollows of her neck and over her shoulders in a frenzy of hunger for her flesh. When he lifted her yet higher to taste her firm breasts, she gasped and cried out and forced his head and mouth ever harder against them.

At last, needing more, and yet more, Ardzvik scrabbled at the jerkin of overlapping leather disks that left his muscular arms bare but kept her from rubbing against his chest. 
“Are you more shy of the sun than I?” she panted. In seconds his clothing was heaped along with hers. They rolled together atop this pile or onto nearby tufts of harsh grass, scarcely noting the difference.

At first Ardzvik rode Yul, her long dark hair flailing across his body as she savored the exquisite joy of easing inch by inch onto his great length and breadth. Men were more like stallions than she had ever dreamed! Then he growled low, lurched atop her, and thrust deep and hard. Her hips arched upward to take him in still deeper. Her passage gripped him, yet let him slide in its wetness just enough to drive her to a peak of intensity close to madness. Sounds burst from her that were not words, and from him as well, until all she could hear was her own voice rising in a cry of triumph, her body wrenched by joy.

But Yul, she saw, when she could focus on anything outside herself, was braced above her on stiffened arms, face twisted, jaw grimly set, the cords of his neck standing out like tree roots. “I must…” he forced out the words. “I would not get a bastard on you!” He struggled to lift his great weight from her, to withdraw.

“Then you had better wed me!” Ardzvik cried. “I will have now what is mine!” Need surged in her again. She dug her hands into his clenched buttocks, gripped him close, and tightened her inner walls about his hardness until he had no words at all, only rough groans accelerating into a mighty roar. That sound, and the hot fierce flow of his seed, sent her into a second spasm of joy.
___________________________________

So there you go. Pride and Passion. Excuse me while I go change the title of my post, which wasn't quite as alliterative as this one.
 

Pride

Spencer Dryden

Pride

This will be my last post with OGG.

Two thoughts come to mind about pride. First is Proud. I am proud of my accomplishments as a writer. It's really been a delightful surprise. I expected it to take years to become a published author. I have been at this for three years. I was published in two anthologies the first year I started writing.

I have approached writing the same way I approached acquiring handyman skills-to learn as I go. I'm still improving as a handyman, but you'd be hard pressed to find one better. I started with simple projects. I've definitely grown as a writer. I'm writing simple little stories now but working on longer, more involved pieces.

 I've also followed the advice of my mentor who told me to write the stories I want to hear, the way I want to hear them. I stay pretty close to what I know. Thankfully, I have connected with a couple of great critique partners and later, two sharp eyed editors at Breathless Press and Fireborn Publishing. 

My first release with Fireborn, Hand Job, is about an aspiring erotic writer/handyman who fantasies about a barista at his local coffee shop begin to materialize. Today, Breathless Press is releasing my most likely last story with them (they are going to all print over 50,000 words).  The Substitute is the story of a plumber who discovers his buddy's business is about delivering more than plumbing services to an exclusive female clientele.
 

My other thought about Pride is something you swallow occasionally. The shift from writer to published author comes with the requirement of 'building a platform', promotion, marketing or what ever you call it. The skills necessary to build visibility, and hence sales, are quite different from those required of a writer. I have invested the last year working on building visibility by all the usual routes, including posting here at OGG, doing over three dozen guest blog posts and endless waiving my arms on Facebook, Twitter and Google+. But it has come at the expense of writing. Most of the material I have published in the last year was written before my ascension to the status of published author. Several of the stories languished for months at that Cave we have discussed here.

My writing regimen requires much more quiet and focus. I can't hear the muse above all the noise of the marketplace. I m so amazed by writers who can segregate their lives, continuing to put out quality material while tirelessly promoting themselves and others. The swallowing part, I can't work that way and there is no shame in it. It's just who I am as a writer.

I have found the biweekly requirement of OGG  too taxing to continue. The idea of designing, feeding and maintaining my own blog is out of the question. I'm not so sure the personal blog is a successful a promotional tool anymore. I think it worked well for established writers ten years ago, but it's not the present or the future of promotion. Lately my efforts have been at reaching potential readers directly though mainstream platforms like The Good Men Project. (A troublesome label but a noble effort. It implies a kind of superiority that makes me uncomfortable. It is, after all, a value judgment. There are editors and contributors there who think that an erotic writer is about the worst thing an 'enlightened' man could be.)

The other insidious thing about being a published author is the pull from internal to external validation. Handyman work is internally validating. Frequently, my clients don't fully appreciate the skill involved with my work. Writing for me is also internally validating. I write best when I am simply entertaining myself. As an author I have been too easily seduced by the idea that sales are the validation of my work— a recipe for self destruction.

It's been a great honor to be among such talented people, but I am anxious to make a bit of a retreat and reconnect with my roots. Thanks especially to Lisabet Sarai who has been a friend, promoter and gentle critic.

Best wishes to all of you.

 

How To Make Me Cry

by Giselle Renarde

If you've ever done Wai Lana yoga at 5 in the morning, you'll know she plays yoga sounds at the end of each episode. Every so often, she plays one that is, as far as I can tell, a variation of this verse from the Siksastaka (a Hindu prayer):

One should chant the holy name of the Lord in a humble state of mind,

thinking oneself lower than the straw in the street;

one should be more tolerant than a tree,

devoid of all sense of false prestige,

and ready to offer all respect to others.

The variation goes something like this (I'm working from memory, here):

One should approach yoga in a humble state,

thinking oneself lower than the straw in the street,

devoid of all false prestige,

and ready to offer all respect to others,

without ever expecting any in return.

Every time I hear those words, they just fucking BREAK me. Strangely enough, a later verse of the Siksastaka says,

Tears are flowing from my eyes like torrents of rain,

and I am feeling all vacant in the world in Your absence.

That's exactly what happens every time I hear that instruction in humility.

And why?

Well, maybe the fact that it's 5:30 in the morning and I haven't slept has something to do with it, but I think it's more about PRIDE.

I aspire to compassion and humility, but those aren't really qualities that are bred into us in North America. Even here in Canada, where we happen to be particularly self-effacing, we're still raised to be proud and strong and to command respect. And if commanding doesn't work, you DEMAND it.

Having grown up in a household plagued by violence and addiction, I always felt like I had to work SO HARD to advocate on my own behalf, and PROVE MYSELF in a world that might otherwise write me off. I had to show my teachers how SMART I was, how GOOD I was, how I could SUCCEED despite every impediment I'd faced. I had to prove I deserved respect.

I've come a long way since then. I'm educated now. I'm self-sufficient, I have a career that I love, and I spent ten years of my life volunteering with children who faced the same obstacles I did at that age. I don't know if I'm respected by all (in fact, I'm sure I'm not), but I do respect myself. Maybe that's the key.

Even so, all it takes to break me down into a sobbing heap is the suggestion that I might give up even an ounce of my stupid pride. It doesn't take much to get my hackles up. It doesn't take much to get me feeling superior to others. Gee, it's tiring being so much better than everyone else...

I'm a pendulum swinging from helpful good intentions to steely self-righteousness when I feel like people are taking advantage. 

I don't want to feel challenged or threatened. I don't want to be angered. When I encounter someone with a dominating or demeaning personality, I only want to feel compassion for them. I want to show respect for their journey, and understand that they didn't arrive where they are in a vacuum.

How do I get from here to there? How do I get to a place where I can just abandon every drop of my pride?

I want to be lower than straw in the street.

But, man, it's not easy...

My latest release is Sapphic Confessions

Before the Fall

By Lisabet Sarai

I know I please him. Before me, he never kept a sub for more than six months. I’ve served him nearly two years now, and he’s never suggested he’s tiring of me. Of course, why would he? I’ll do anything he asks―absolutely anything. When it comes to my Master, I have no limits.

His training has refined me, perfected my submission, to the point that I can usually anticipate his desires even before he articulates them. A mere arch of an eyebrow and I’m on my knees, awaiting his next command. A flick of his finger and I present my ass, cleansed, lubed and ready for whatever evil incursion he has planned―his cock or his fist, a dildo or a cucumber, a beer bottle or a baseball bat. He knows very well that all my holes are his.

Master’s a true sadist, delighting in the pain he so expertly inflicts. I take everything he dishes out, willingly―gratefully. He’s taciturn and sparing of words, but even so he can’t help but remark on my tolerance for abuse. Tonight he used his belt, the crop, the single tail and the vicious cane he adores, while the audience gasped and applauded. I’m bruised and striped in the aftermath of his assaults, every inch of skin raw and burning.

I think I amazed even him this evening. “You’ve earned a rest, slut,” he told me, rare tenderness in his voice as he draped the blanket over my blood-and-cum smeared body and handed me the water bottle. He’s not done, though. The erection jutting from his sleek leathers and the manic gleam in his eyes tells me he wants more. I’ll give it to him―give him everything, more than everything. I know it sounds like hyperbole or some sort of romantic crap, but it’s true. Every instant, every breath, my only goal is to surrender completely, to be the slave of whom he has always dreamed.

The mood in the dungeon has lightened considerably after the intensity of our scene. Master circulates among his dominant friends, cracking off-color jokes, offering words of advice or appreciation, landing a random swat on some sub’s bare butt or flicking the weights hanging from someone’s clamps. He’s not far away, but I miss him already, miss the focus of his attention and the breathless uncertainty about what he’ll do next.

He stops to talk to a petite, brown-haired girl huddling by a spanking bench. He’s so tall that he has to stoop in order to look into her face. Her silly schoolgirl costume identifies her as a sub, presumably unclaimed since she wears no collar or other insignia. I sniff. I can’t help it. She’s pretty enough, though she doesn’t seem to have much of a body - certainly her breasts are much less opulent than mine – but what really annoys me is her aura of uncertainty. She only half wants to be here, drowning in the scent of sweat and cum, surrounded by gleaming, punished flesh, hearing the slaps and the screams. Part of her wants to flee. The extreme activities unfolding here in the club both draw and repel her. She clutches her left wrist with her right hand, as if imagining bonds, and gazes up into my Master’s eyes.

An inexperienced newbie, obviously, probably someone who read Fifty Shades and wanted to sample the real thing. Why is Master wasting his time on her? Clearly he’s turning on the charm. He can be lusciously seductive when he wants, as I remember well. When he touches her shoulder, apparently casual, I see the shudder of lust coursing through her skinny frame.

I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I can imagine. He’s wooing her, seducing her, telling her of the exquisite pleasures to be found in submission. He won’t mention of the agony she’d have to endure to earn those pleasures.

The tilt of his head indicates he’s asking a question. She nods and drops to a kneeling position. God, but she’s awkward! I recall the hours I spent practicing that move, until my muscles screamed and the skin scraped off my knees, determined to demonstrate the perfect grace my Master expected. How can he even look at this clumsy creature?

Yet he’s feeding her his rampant cock now, and she’s opening wide, clearly eager to receive it. He begins with a slow, shallow rhythm. I know he won’t keep that up for long. When it comes to fellatio, Master likes it hard, fast and rough.

Sure enough, within thirty seconds he’s ramming his cock down her throat. She chokes and tries to pull back. He seizes her by her limp, mousy locks and holds her so tight she can’t move. Her face turns an unflattering scarlet as his bulk cuts off her air. Oh, I know what she’s feeling! The terrible fear, the gathering blackness, the weightless sense of release as you trust him with your very life. I can almost feel the swollen flesh blocking my throat as he pounds into her mouth. This girl, though, doesn’t seem to understand about trust. She’s twisting in his grip, trying to escape. Finally he gives in. He pulls out, just as he’s coming, to paint her face and her chest with his cum.

Her expression combines arousal and disgust. She fumbles helplessly with her jizz-stained blouse. Master laughs, leans down, and rips it off, baring her modest breasts. He gestures for her to rise. She scrambles to her feet with all the elegance of a baby goat.

He seems more amused than angry at her willfulness. When he whispers in her ear, she nods again. Isn’t he done with her yet?

He leads her to the spanking bench. She stretches her waifish body along its length and allows Master to bind her wrists and ankles. When he flips up her brief plaid skirt, I see that that she’s naked underneath. I guess she has at least some idea what goes on at a place like this. Master circles her bound form, talking to her in a low voice, telling her, I have no doubt, of all the things he wants to do to her. (But why her? Why?) He’s building suspense, stoking both her excitement and her fear. By the time he picks up the crop, her inner thighs are damp, gleaming under the harsh dungeon lights.

She wails at the first stroke, though it’s light enough that it doesn’t even leave a mark. Master’s trying to go easy on her, at least at first. But once again, he can’t deny his nature. Before long he’s slashing at her creamy ass and the backs of her legs, leaving clean crimson stripes in the wake of each blow.

The girl moans and yells―music, I know, to my Master’s ears. A crop is hardly a severe instrument, yet the wannabe sub acts as though he’s branding her. I can’t help feeling slightly smug. If I were subject to this beating, I’d be completely silent. He’d have to lash me a lot harder to wring any cries from my throat.

“Red! Red! Stop! I can’t bear it!” All at once the girl is screaming at the top of her lungs, thrashing against her bonds and crying real tears. My Master halts the whipping immediately, of course. He’s sadistic but always responsible. I can sense his disappointment in his stance, though, as he unclips the cuffs from the girl’s limbs and helps her to a sitting position. In nearly two years with me, he has never heard me safeword.

She collapses to the floor. He sinks down beside her, cradling her slight body in his powerful arms. After care―it’s just after care, I tell myself. She’s way out of her depth and now she knows it. He’ll send her home, then take out his frustration on me. I glow with anticipation at the thought.

He’s headed back to me now. I gaze up at him, beaming my love and gratitude. He strokes his fingers through my hair and gives me a strange smile.

“Bow your head, Simone.”

Of course I obey. He fiddles with the clasp at the back of my collar. Sudden panic seizes me.

“Master? What are you doing, Master?”

“I’m setting you free, my pet. You don’t need me any more.”

“No, no! I don’t want to be free.” I flail wildly, trying to grab the collar from him. He stuffs it into his pocket. “Please, no―I need you. I can’t live without you! What did I do wrong, Master?”

“Nothing, pet. You never do anything wrong. You’re the perfect submissive.”

“Then why―why...?”

“I’m wasted on you, love. It’s time I trained someone who really needs it.”

He’s already on his way back to the skinny little wannabe slave, who’s still sobbing in a ridiculous pile in the middle of floor. I watch, appalled and disbelieving, as he fastens the collar―my collar!―around her scrawny neck. Then he helps her to her feet and leads her out of the dungeon, in the direction of the private rooms.

I shiver under my blanket. Suddenly the dungeon is freezing. I want to run after him, to beg him not to leave me. I want to choke that filthy slut until her eyeballs pop out of her head and her tongue hangs out like a dog. I want to yell and scream, to throw a tantrum, to curse him for his cruelty and ingratitude.

I don’t do any of those things. I don’t allow myself to give in to those baser emotions. I’m the perfect submissive. I must obey my Master, even if he casts me away. I just sit on the bench, watching the kinky scenes unfold around me, empty, despairing, desolate, with nothing left but my pride.

Pride

By Lisabet Sarai

[I had a great guest lined up for today, but somehow the gods of the Internet had different ideas. I kept sending him emails. He didn't receive them. He figured that I'd found someone else. Etc. Anyway, I'm reposting, a bit revised, some content published on my own blog a few Junes ago. Seems appropriate.]

Almost anyone who hangs out on romance lists or visits romance blogs knows that June is “GLBT Pride Month”. But I wonder how many people know why the parades all happen in June. I'll admit that I didn't, not until yesterday when I started reading about the Stonewall riots. I'd heard of them, but I didn't know the details, and I didn't realize the connection with contemporary pride celebrations. 

Forty-one years ago today, in the early hours of the morning, the New York City police raided a illegal, Mafia-owned bar on Christopher Street called the Stonewall Inn. The organized crime connections and unlicensed liquor were not the primary reason for this raid. Rather, this was a sadly typical crackdown on the homosexual community in Greenwich Village, for whom the Stonewall was something of a haven. The police burst in and started arresting the Stonewall's patrons, which included many transvestites, both male and female. This also wasn't unusual. At that time, it was literally against the law for men to wear female clothing or vice versa. Homosexuals could be arrested on a range of charges from soliciting to public indecency. 

Although the extreme persecution of the McCarthy era had eased somewhat, homosexuality was classified as a psychiatric disorder and gays and lesbians were generally considered to be in the same class as rapists and child molesters. If you were gay, your only recourse was to lay low, keep your preferences a secret, and hope that you'd be ignored.

On the night of June 28, 1969, however, something unusual did happen. The ruckus caused by the raid drew a crowd of several hundred bystanders, many of whom were themselves gay or were sympathizers. When the police began to rough up the Stonewall's patrons, they fought back, supported by the onlookers. The scene degenerated into a pitched battle. The police called for reinforcements. The gay crowd refused to be intimidated. They led the police a merry chase through the crooked, narrow streets of the West Village.

You can find a detailed discussion of Stonewall and its aftermath in Wikipedia. Many people view the Stonewall uprising as the birth of the gay pride movement. Stonewall was to gay rights what Rosa Parks' refusal to sit at the back of the bus was for civil rights. After Stonewall, homosexuals stopped trying to blend in. They began to raise their voices against discrimination and for equal rights.

That struggle is, of course, far from over. It's sad to see how, more than forty years later, individuals who are attracted to their own gender are still attacked, both physically and psychologically, still denied the right to marry in many areas, still barred from some careers if they are open about their orientation. It's easy to get discouraged. On the other hand, society has come a long way since Stonewall. Every year, gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered people become braver and more vocal. More proud.

In June 1999 the U.S. Department of the Interior designated 51 and 53 Christopher Street (the location of the Stonewall Inn), the street itself, and the surrounding streets as a National Historic Landmark. In 2009, commemorating the fortieth anniversary of Stonewall, President Obama declared June to be National Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender Pride Month. I find these actions a bit ironic, given the fact that the majority of states in the U.S. still ban gays from marrying, and that this is considered one of the most contentious issues of the upcoming U.S. presidential election.

I write GLBT romance and erotica. I believe that the experience of love and desire is universal. It really doesn't matter what kind of genitalia your partner has. I think that the romance and erotica communities may be more tolerant than society as a whole in this regard. Still, think about what it would be like if you couldn't buy M/M or F/F or M/M/F fiction—if it were illegal, labeled as obscene or deviant. We've come a long way, but it could happen - witness the #amazonfail fiasco and Paypal's more recent strong arm tactics. The only way to prevent this sort of thing is to follow the lead of the people involved at Stonewall. Stand up and tell the world that you believe in a person's right to love whom they choose—and that you're proud to say it.

Pride and Productivity

by Kristina Wright



Pride is a sneaky thing. It doesn't seem dangerous-- not at all. That warm, confident feeling radiating from somewhere deep inside, it makes you feel good. It makes me feel good. Maybe because it doesn't happen that often, feeling proud. Don't get me wrong, I'm not down on myself. Not at all. I know my accomplishments and my abilities-- and I also know my flaws and my limitations. Balanced against each other, they tend to rule out pride. Most of the time.

Earlier this week, I was in New York City for BookExpo America. It's kind of a big deal in the publishing industry-- a convention to promote books and authors and the publishing industry. To celebrate the written word. And this year, I was there. Not as a reader (which I am) or a book blogger or a librarian (though I've worked in a library) or a member of the media-- I was there as an author/anthologist to sign copies of my books for all those other people who attended the convention.

As I said, I'm all too aware of my accomplishments and that I'm very, very lucky to sit where I sit right now-- published and contracted, writing and editing. If the money's not what I'd like-- and not yet enough to make a real living, who am I to complain? After all, I'm doing my dream job-- and the dream job of thousands of others who don't have those other things already-- who aren't published, who aren't contracted, who don't have time/energy/motivation to write and edit. I'm lucky, yes. And I'm proud of where I am.

So yes, I was proud to be attending BEA as a published author. I felt like I belonged there. I felt like someone-- not Someone with a capital S, like some of the authors who attend BEA and have lines queued up an hour before their signings-- but someone legitimate in the publishing industry. I had that warm, confident feeling in me, wearing that BEA badge and signing books and seeing my fall anthology cover hanging in my publisher's booth.

Of course, there's nothing like the biggest event in publishing to take me down a few notches. In between readings, I meandered through the Javits Center-- a cavernous convention center where it's easy to get lost-- and saw all the other authors who also belonged there. Many of them names I recognized. Most of them better published, some of them with books in hardcover from major New York publishers. I was at the same event as some of the biggest names in publishing-- and some of my longtime idols-- but that's all I was: at the same event. I wasn't one of them. In some cases, I couldn't get anywhere near the authors I adore for the crowds that surrounded them. I realized that for all my pride, I was still on the fringes of success. Success being defined in the traditional sense here: the hardcover book, the line of fans around the block, the six figure advance. I realize success can be measured in a variety of ways, but in the case of BEA, that's the kind of success I mean. Not only do I not have that kind of success, I may never have it. That took some of the wind out of my sails as I found my way back to the hotel hours later.

I can't say I lost all sense of pride-- after all, I was there as an author and that's still significant enough to be proud of the milestone. But being in that building and seeing all of those names made me realize I have a long way to go to justify the kind of pride I had been feeling in the days leading up to BEA. Sure, I belonged there. We all did. But I've only begun to achieve my publishing goals-- and I've only just begun to hit the level of productivity I want to be at-- and I have no idea if I can or will sustain it. And pride, that warm fuzzy feeling of accomplishment, gets in the way of productivity. It makes me lazy and complacent. It lets me rest on my laurels and float along on my accomplishments to this point without thinking too hard about what comes next. Bottom line: I spent time worrying about what to wear and whether I had enough business cards when I should've been writing.

BEA was a worthwhile event for me, despite the time (and money) suck. I met some of my favorite authors (and saw some from a distance and), learned some things about the publishing industry and chatted with book lovers of all stripes. I got my name out there with a few more people in the industry, which is always a good thing. So yes, it was absolutely worth attending (even if NYC is crazy expensive) and I plan to go again next year, now that I have a better idea what to expect and how to manage my time. But the book expo was just a blip on my publishing career radar-- a brief moment in time when I got to bask in the glow of my modest success and realize how far I still have to go.

I won't let pride get in my way.

My Newest Baby

By Lisabet Sarai

I'm sure I had something in mind six weeks ago, when I chose this week's Grip topic, “Pride”. Perhaps I planned to talk about the importance of patting yourself on the back for your own accomplishments – because you can't count on anyone else doing so. Maybe I intended to look at the sin of pride, and how being overly self-congratulatory can lead to the proverbial fall. Or, since June is gay pride month, I might have devoted my post to the current state of same-sex lovers in today's world, the recent gains and setbacks.

Whatever I meant to say – well, it's gone now, because I didn't have the foresight to jot down my thoughts in my notebook! So instead, I'm going to blow my own horn a bit, talking about my new book (due out within days), Bangkok Noir. Because honestly, I'm really proud of this novella, for a myriad of reasons.

For one thing, Bangkok Noir is hard-core erotica, not romance. There's nothing wrong with romance, mind you. It's my literary bread and butter. However, sometimes I find the requirements of the genre a bit constraining, compared to erotica. Readers of erotica have broader tastes, I think, and are more likely to accept and enjoy characters, situations, and resolutions that romance readers would reject outright.

One of the heroines of Bangkok Noir is a six-foot-tall dominant dyke in her late fifties, who has lost a breast due to a mastectomy, and her university job because of an affair with one of her students. Doesn't sound like your typical romance lady, does she? One of the heroes is a Thai police colonel, also in his fifties, tough and skinny, with a secret desire for submission. Not one of the handsome, muscular types who normally grace the pages of erotic romance. And yet I think (I hope) readers will find both these unconventional characters arousing in their interactions with one another.

I've been a bit concerned that I'd lost the knack for writing erotica. Writing Bangkok Noir has reassured me.

Another reason I feel proud is that in writing this book, I managed to overcome the inertia that normally plagues my stories. Usually, once I've written something, I find it's almost impossible for me to make significant changes. I believe this is a weakness. It suggests I don't have sufficient control over my work. This book started life as a 10K short in my collection Fire. For years, one of my close friends (one of the few who know about my erotic alter-ego) has been pestering me to expand it. I always felt that doing so would be far too difficult to attempt, but finally, for his sake, I decided to give it a try. The result is 32K long, and much richer and more complex than the source. Erasing the dividing line between the original ending (written nearly a decade ago) and the new material posed a significant challenge, but based on the response I got from my crit partner, I think I succeeded.

I'm proud that I actually managed to write something dark. My tales are normally pretty sunny; I wanted to stretch myself, to see if I could produce something just the opposite. Let me warn you, the title of Bangkok Noir is highly appropriate. The plot centers around a serial killer who targets girls from Bangkok's notorious red light districts and leaves his victims tightly bound, with clamped nipples and every orifice stuffed with sex toys. And no one lives happily ever after.

I'm also hugely proud of the cover, which does a fantastic job conveying the tone of the book. I didn't create the final cover, but I did find the art and suggest the layout. And I absolutely love it!

I don't want to overburden this blog with promotion, but I thought that maybe, just maybe, you might like to read a snippet. The POV here is that of the other heroine, a normally dominant Thai gogo dancer who is bewildered by her reactions to a stranger who takes her out of the bar, who just might be the killer.

There was the sound of the bathroom door opening. My heart beat ever quicker than before. I kept my eyes straight ahead, facing the ceiling. I felt his warmth beside me, but I didn't turn to look. Then there was a flash of light reflecting metal, and I couldn't help myself.

The farang stood very close to me. He was naked. There was blond hair around his nipples, and darker hair between his legs. His cock was hard. The pale skin on it was stretched so tight, it looked like it might burst. The knob at the end pulsed, bright red. I thought of the beacon light on top of a police car.

Saliva flowed into my mouth. I wanted to taste him, to suck him. I started to reach for him, to pull him closer. Then I saw. He had an open pocketknife in his hand.

I choked back a cry. The shiny blade gleamed as he waved it slowly in front of my face. I shrank away, out of instinct. He saw my terror. He loved it.

"Be still," he said quietly. "I told you not to move. I meant it." He leaned over me. I smelled his cologne and his sweat. The knife was close to my skin, close to my throat. I tried to scream. Somehow I couldn't. Because despite my terror, I didn't want to move. I didn't want to disappoint him.

I tried to close my eyes. He held them open with his stare. "Look at me, Nok," he whispered. His eyes were deep pools of cold blue. It seemed that something flickered there, like a frozen flame.

The flame seemed to spread from his eyes to my body. I was on fire with wanting him. At the same time, I was paralyzed by fear.

He hooked the tip of the blade into the fabric of my shirt and ripped it downwards. The shirt fell open, showing him my brown, swollen nipples. Swollen with desire for him. He laughed softly. Gently, he placed the cold steel flat against one aching nub. I shivered, and he laughed again.

"You are perfect, just what I need," he said. Leaving the knife in place, he sucked my other nipple into his mouth. Hot saliva and cold steel. Pleasure beat in my sex like another heart. "And I am what you need, the master you have been seeking."

No, I thought vaguely, no one is my master. I am the mistress, the one giving the orders. That thought melted away in the heat of his mouth.

He put the knife aside. He trailed kisses down my belly. I tried to help him unzip my shorts. He slapped my hand away. "Be still! Unless you want me to punish you..." He sat upright and his eyes flicked over to the knife. "If you won't obey me, I might as well leave."

This was far worse threat than the knife. "No, sir, please, don't. I won't move." I tried to remain motionless. It was very difficult.

He raised my hips with one hand and pulled my shorts down to my knees with the other. The smell of my sex was strong. He swiped one finger through my crack. I jerked in reaction, close to coming from that one touch.

A stinging slap on my left breast, then on my right. "Still, I said!" After the pain, the glow, the pleasure flowing through me like a river. "I'll have to tie you, I suppose. That will keep you in check." Roughly, he pulled off my shorts and tossed them aside. Then he reached under the bed. He came back up with a coil of black rope.

A faint flicker of fear, a dim memory. She probably asked for it. His face, hovering over mine, eyes burning into my soul. "Do you want that, Nok? Shall I bind you, so that you are helpless? So that I can do whatever I want to you?"

His fingers groped in my pussy and found my clit. He began to squeeze. Slowly at first, then faster. Then his fingernails, digging into my flesh. Each time slicing a little deeper. Each time creating sharper pain and more intense delight.

Still. I must remain still, I thought, even as I thrashed and struggled on the bed. Suddenly, he took his hand away. "No, please..." I pleaded, as the echoes of pleasure quickly faded.

"Please what?"

"Don't stop, please."

"But how can I continue when you won't be still?"

"Please, sir." I was lost, desperate, ready to do anything for his renewed touch. "Please, tie me up, if that's what you want. I'll do anything. Just don't stop. Don't go."

"Good girl," he murmured, bending to prod my clit with his tongue and send an earthquake through my body. "I think you are ready. Ready for the ultimate thrill."

The ropes tightened around my wrists. I felt a new surge of terror. Then all at once, new peace. I had made my choice. I was in his hands, for better or worse. All that mattered was that I please him.

He was fastening some sharp metal clamps onto my pussy lips when I heard my phone ring. In my pocket. On the floor. Across the room.

He plunged three fingers deep into my pussy. I forgot to be afraid.

Bangkok Noir will be released sometime this coming week, I hope, by Books We Love, Ltd. Check my personal blog Beyond Romance for details.