Opposites, Complements - #BDSM #femdom #newrelease

By Lisabet Sarai

Two weeks ago, I wrote about how the maxim “Opposites attract” tends to apply much more often in stories than in real life. However, BDSM provides an exception. In a real-world D/s relationship, as well as in fiction, the erotic tension between the top and the bottom depends on their diametrically opposed interests and needs. The dominant wants power and control – the freedom to tease, torture, use and abuse the sub for his or her own satisfaction. The sub craves the experience of giving up control, surrendering agency to the Master or Mistress.

A power exchange relationship wouldn’t work if the two participants had the same needs. Of course, in actuality few people are pure tops or bottoms, and the dynamic can shift from one moment to the next. Fictional BDSM tales rarely acknowledge this truth, but actually the two roles are closer than you’d expect.

A skilled Dom understands at the gut level what the sub is experiencing. And a submissive can only give herself (or himself) fully if she can intuit what her Master wants. In fact, people who end up as “tops” in the BDSM lifestyle quite often spend some time in the submissive role first. Likewise, depending on the partner, a normally submissive person can switch and act as the dominant. Even my Master admitted that he had fantasies of bottoming to a powerful woman. Meanwhile, I have frequent dreams in which I’m the Mistress commanding the obedience of a younger female.

In my most recent release, The Heart of the Deal, I explore the paradoxical duality of power exchange. Ruby Maxwell Chen, lovely and ruthless CEO of a huge British business empire, has no qualms about playing dirty – very dirty. She’s happy to use sex to help her close a deal, especially when she’s the one on top. Ruby loves the game, and she expects to win. When she encounters the oddly charismatic American entrepreneur Rick Martell, though, she wonders if she hasn't met her match.

My two protagonists, Ruby and Rick, are both extremely dominant characters. Yet both secretly yearn to let go, to surrender to a powerful top who will open them to the parts of themselves they keep hidden. This isn’t really a common theme in BDSM erotica/romance. However, based on personal experience, I’d say that it adds a realistic complexity to what has become a rather stereotyped genre.

Here’s an excerpt from early in the novel that illustrates this. It takes place after Ruby’s first business meeting with the man who’s challenging her in a deal she’d thought was long settled.

* * * *

My palm tingles long after he has left. Alone, I allow all the feelings to wash over me. Frustration at being thwarted. Gratitude that, through self-control, I managed to neutralize his advantage from last night. Admiration for his devious business skill. Perplexity regarding his real motives and plans.

And lust, fierce and pure, pouring through my veins like potent liquor. Now that he has gone, I allow myself to feel the tightness in my nipples, the ache between my thighs. The tension reveals its true source. My chic fitted suit holds me in bondage. I cannot reach the places that cry out to be touched.

This at least I can control and remedy. My fingers shake with eagerness as I unbutton my jacket and unhook my bra. My skirt I simply crumple to my waist, heedless for now of the wrinkles I am creating. I reach into the secret drawer under my desk and retrieve the stainless steel vibrator that I keep there. For emergencies such as this.

An orgasm rips through me as soon as I feel the cool metal sliding into my depths. This does not satisfy me, though. I work the slick rod among my swollen folds, seeking relief that does not come.

 

Why does Martell have this overwhelming effect on me? Chemistry? Pheromones? It feels like something biological and irresistible.

Or perhaps telepathy, empathy, some psychic force that allows him to catch and shape my thoughts. This I understand, a bit. This is what I do when I play the dominant, intuit the form of my partner’s fantasies and reflect them back in my words and actions.

Oh, to have him in my power! Everyone, I believe, has some trace of the submissive, some secret desire to surrender, hidden perhaps even from themselves. If I could find and speak to that core in him…

I picture him naked, remembering even in my fantasy that I have never seen him so. Tanned, taut, nearly hairless except at his groin. He stands, as I command him, spread-eagle before the plate glass window of my thirtieth floor office. “Anyone could see you,” I remind him, tapping my ruler against one shoulder and then the other. “Anyone who happened to look up.”

He is nervous, now that he sees that I have the upper hand. His mocking grin is gone. “You seem to enjoy the exposure,” I comment, pinching his thickening erection. I survey him from one side and then the other, close enough that he can feel the heat of my body, catch the scent of my rising excitement.

“Place your hands on the glass,” I tell him, “to steady yourself for what comes next.” He swallows the lump in his throat and obeys. I sense his increasing arousal. I don’t need to check the state of his cock.

I am clad in a suit, of a more provocative cut than I would ever wear in a real business meeting. A suit signals power. I wear no knickers. I can feel dampness on my thighs as I strut before him on dangerous heels.

“Now, Rick,” I say, emphasizing the familiar nickname. “I am going to teach you a lesson about respect.” I snap the wooden ruler smartly against one muscled buttock. He gives a little yelp. Before he can recover, I apply the ruler to the other cheek, then repeat my blow to the first.

He is panting and his face is red. Meanwhile, his swollen penis points obscenely toward the ceiling.

“When you were a little boy, in Malaysia, Rick”—Swat!—“did your teachers beat you with a ruler to keep you in line?” (Smack!) “We British set up the educational system, after all, and we have always been great believers in corporal punishment.”

I slash the ruler across his butt three or four times in quick succession. His bottom looks like tartan plaid. I check his face, and sure enough, see arousal as well as discomfort. His lips are parted; his breath comes in little gasps. Since his first exclamation of surprise, he has made no sound.

“How do you feel, Rick?” I ask sweetly, murmuring in his ear.

“Sore,” he says, softly.

“And is that all?” I ask, raking my fingernails lightly across his inflamed rump.

He is silent, stubborn. “Well?” I ask, and slap him with my open palm.

“Horny.” He almost whispers.

“What do you want, Rick?”

“I want to come.”

“Ask me nicely, then.”

“Please, Ms. Chen. Please, let me come.”

“Perhaps later, if you behave. Right now, though, I have something else in mind for you.”

I hold up the silvery vibrator and watch his eyes widen in horror. “No…” He starts to speak, then breaks off.

“Don’t you want to please me, Rick?” I slather lubricant across my palm and run my hand suggestively over the length of the metal shaft. “I thought that you wanted to be my partner.”

He does not speak. His penis jerks as he tries to control himself.

“Push out your butt, now, and spread your legs a bit more.” I position the greased vibrator against his tightly curled sphincter. “Now, relax.”

I am fucking myself furiously, deep into this mental scene, when something shifts.

Suddenly, I am the one who is nude, splayed before the window with my arse stuck out. I feel rebellion, fear, anger, and incredible excitement as Richard Martell inches the vibrator into my rear hole. I hear him laugh. “Come on, Ruby, you can’t pretend with me.” And finally, I explode into orgasm, cursing Martell and my own traitor imagination.

* * * *

By the end of the book, both Rick and Ruby have learned how to give up erotic control to their opponent.

Buy Links

Kinky Literature

https://www.kinkyliterature.com/book/6188-the-heart-of-the-deal-business-bondage-discipline-and-desire/

Amazon US

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07SJY8PTC

Amazon UK

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07SJY8PTC

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https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/942426

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All the Major Dudes

It’s a muggy night in the deep south, with a wall of red on the Doppler radar creeping in our direction.  I’m wearing a white permanent press shirt and black pants with shiny black cop shoes and a name badge.  I look pretty much like an aging Mormon missionary except for the dorky orange Logo tie and the black apron with the words Miller Theater.  Brother Garce.  I have a little flashlight I keep in the apron pocket and right now I’m using it to show people to the seat on the ticket they’ve shelled out some respectable bread for.  I don’t get paid for this but I love it anyway.  

I took my kid a while back to the Bell Auditorium to see Bob Dylan in person, The Ultimate Major Dude, which for a baby boomer is a little like making the haj to Mecca.  After that on the same week we saw Brian Wilson, another Major Dude of my generation, play at the Bell.  That was some week.  While I was admiring Dylan’s soundboard deck setup I asked a security guard - watching over me - didn’t he get to see these Major Dudes for free?  He laughed, he sure did.  All that and a paycheck too as they say in the adult film business.

So I volunteered at the Miller on weekends.  I’ve seen some fantastic shows there by people I’ve never heard of.  All that, minus the paycheck.

Tonight they’re having a Christian program, kind of a comedy program, having to do with making your Christian marriage better.  Especially sex.  Yes.  Not a sold out house, but a pretty good crowd, mostly white and well off, about the size of a modest mega-church.  

Once all the tickets are scanned, and the front doors are closed the hired help like me get to sit and watch whoever or whatever is up there tonight, “muzzle not the ox that treads out the grain” it says in the good old book, but always staying alert for patrons who need something.  We’re on duty.  People laugh.   Nobody heckles.  Nobody gets the Holy Ghost.  And they’re all still sober by the second set.

I listen to the speakers for a while and smile along at their earnest jokes.  It all seems somehow familiar, a bit too safe.  Not the lefty righteousness of my little church, or the wild gospel fireworks of the black Holiness churches where nurses in white starched uniforms keep a watchful eye to catch those on the way to the floor when they Get The Ghost.

I’m a Christian mystic.  These people aren’t.  They’re totally the other thing, but I like them.  They'd be nice neighbors as long as you keep your grass short.  I can kind of get what they’re doing and what they’re looking for, even though it takes an effort for me to get it.  Evangelical Christians who helped inflict the golden calf of Trump on the rest of us have given Evangelicalism a bad name, maybe these people are them, I don’t know, but they’re earnest and good enough about what they believe. 

 Whatever it is they believe. And most of all they're together, rejoicing in being together.  You have to like that.  In some ways it’s harder, much harder to know these people, to read them, then to know those of us who have worn and do wear our carnality out in the open. My church celebrated Gay Pride last Sunday.  These people here certainly didn’t, the couple talking about marriage up on stage are pretty clear about what God thinks marriage must always be – no matter what.

In the Bible Jesus really didn’t like very religious people.  In fact, he was pretty rough on them, and they had him killed for it.  Especially the ones who were most proud of being very religious.  What would he think of these nice people here?  What would he say to them?

I’m wondering about this when a polite young couple drift in late with their tickets. Their clothes are wet from the rain and he has an umbrella.   I jump up grinning.  "Whatcha got?"  The young man shows me their squashed tickets.  He tells me it’s raining cats out there. I fish my little flashlight out of my apron and bring them down Orchestra Level Center Left to their seats.  P 104 and P 105.

“Is this P?” the girl asks.

“If it is I’ll get a mop,” I say.

The dude and his girl crack up.  Hey, I’ve got a million of ‘em.

Opposites Are More Fun

Sacchi Green

When your main characters are of the same sex, you have to differentiate them in other ways than by gender. In actual relationships similarities may be fine, even necessary, for permanent bonding, but in fiction characters with pronounced differences are much more fun to play with. Maybe not entirely opposites, but diverse enough to be bringing different things to the metaphorical table. Their differences could be complementary, as in one athletic and outgoing, one analytic and introspective, and together they solve…oh, wait, never mind, that's just in detective stories. Or they may be combative, from different sides of “the tracks,” or different cultures or political tribes, enemies at first sight, flint to steel, striking sparks. And then there are the power play ploys, dominant or submissive, master (or mistress) or slave, and then age differentials whether actual or another kind of play. And it goes without saying that in same sex arrangements one character may identify as masculine-of-center while the other is clearly of the femme persuasion.

*Edited--see note at the end.
Some of these differences matter the most during sex scenes, while others have as much effect on the development of the plot or story arc, but they're still equally essential to the story as a whole.  

Now I get to steer all this into my turn for promo! My latest book, Wild Rides and Other Erotic Adventures from Dirt Road Books, is a collection of some of my own work, both reprints and new (or new to most readers) stories. I’ve been posting ‘teaser” excerpts from some of them on Facebook and my blog, www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com, and I intend to do more, but right now I’ll see how far I can twist some of the stories into representing the attraction of opposites and what happens to them later.

Let’s see. I use this example too often, but in my story “Pulling” (which is included in the collection) the erotic charge is very much a matter of opposites. Ree is a big farm girl showing her draft horses at a county fair. Carla is a midway barker luring guys to her dart-and-balloon arcade concession with sultry banter, but with no intention of letting any guy get under her short skirt. When she and Ree get together at a cheap motel, Carla brings clamps and mardi gras beads from the balloon game, while Ree, who is also a veterinarian, brings a tube of horse lube. Vive la difference! What happens then? Carla disappears after their second night together. Not surprising. But there’s a two-years later sequel  in the collection, “Findng Carla,” that brings them together again, Ree more sexually experienced now, Carla with a desperate need for ordinary respectability. Here’s an excerpt:
_______________

Finding Carla
Sacchi Green

“Keep your skanky hands off me!” The words sliced through drifting aromas of coffee and pancakes and bacon. “Touch me again, and those fingers won’t be able to fuck your own sorry dick!”
I’d know that voice, that attitude, anywhere. A truck stop where Vermont slopes into New Hampshire wasn’t high on my list of places to look, but how much, really, had I ever known about Carla? Apart from the way she sounded in hip-swishing, femme-top command of any situation—or with her hips so entirely out of control she couldn’t shape gasps into words—or steeling herself to mount my huge draft horse. We hadn’t had much time for the getting-to-know-you parts.
I couldn’t see into the dining area past the family with fidgety kids ahead of me. Getting by without trampling them didn’t seem likely, but I was giving it a try anyway when a skinny whirlwind shot from around the cashier’s counter and whacked me from behind.
“Ree Daniels, move your butt!” The manager forged her way through the milling kids like an icebreaker. I was twice Lyddie Brown’s bulk and a foot taller, but I followed in her wake anyway.
It was Carla, all right, her pot of scalding coffee poised right above the hastily withdrawn hand—and the crotch—of a middle-aged truck driver I’d seen around before. On the skuzzy side, usually on the make, but Carla could’ve handled his kind in seconds with a sly quip, back when she’d been working arcade games on the county fair circuit.
Now her face and body were tense, brittle, close to panic. She looked as near to being spooked as any horse I’ve ever handled. What the hell had got into her? And what was she doing here?
It was my turn to shove Lyddie aside, with a look meant to convince her I knew what I was doing. “Hey, Carla.” I moved in close. “Let me help you out with that.” My hand curled around her fingers on the coffeepot’s handle. My body edged hers away from the customer. “Let’s put it down over here, okay?”
The wildness in her dark eyes mellowed into recognition, and something I hoped was deeper. That last morning, while I was still asleep, she’d cleared out without any clue as to how to find her, and for nearly two years I’d figured all she’d seen in me was just a hot enough two-night stand to pass the time with. If she’d thought that was all I’d seen in her, she’d been dead wrong. Okay, I lied about the getting-to-know-you bit. Two days and nights was enough for me to discover the vulnerability behind the bravado, the steel determination that overcame fear—and to want to know more.
“Sure,” she said now, “anything you say, big girl.” Her voice shook, but the old low, intimate tone was still there.
Remembered lust surged back in a rush. Carla had always radiated sparks of bad-girl eroticism. Even with her waves of black hair confined in a knot and her waitress uniform just skimming her curves, she shot off pheromones that could pierce a Humvee. I’d have felt some sympathy for the driver if he hadn’t started to bluster.
Lyddie rolled her eyes, jerked her head toward the office, and went into damage control mode.
I got Carla to the coffee station and deposited the hot pot. In spite of interested observers at every table, my hand settled into the sweet spot where waist curves to hip as I steered her into the office and kicked the door shut.
She was shivering when I put my arms around her. I’d never imagined Carla so shaken. Physically wary, sure—my big horses had scared her before she’d discovered the delights of naked bare-back riding at midnight—but nothing like this melt-down. “Oh, honey, what’s the trouble?” I used my soothing-skittish-fillies tone. “It’ll be all right.” I stroked her black hair, glossy as my Percherons. It came loose from its prim knot, falling into the wild mane I remembered whipping back and forth over my sweaty torso as she rode me.
“No it won’t,” she muttered against my chest. When her head lifted I saw that the glitter of tears in her eyes came as much from rage as from despair. It was oddly reassuring. “There goes another job! That bastard! But I can handle his kind without lifting a finger. Usually.” Carla searched her breast pockets. I took pity and grabbed the box of Kleenex from Lyddie’s desk.
I dabbed at her damp eyes. No makeup beyond a subdued shade of lipstick. She still exuded that seductive air that had grabbed me the first time I’d seen her, but something else as well that grabbed me harder, even as I shied away from examining it too closely. “So, what went wrong?”
“Me. I went wrong. ‘Sorry, I’m not on the menu’ didn’t do the trick, but I could’ve just smiled and moved away. When he put his hand on my butt, though, I felt…I wanted…dammit, Ree, I needed to be touched so bad it hurt, but not by his kind!”
I could recognize a mare in heat long before I earned my veterinary degree, and my experience of women had tuned me to the similarities. Women aren’t as easily ruled by their hormones as mares, though. For Carla to go off the deep end, there must be as much turmoil in her head as in her body. Dangerous territory.
Just the same, my hand went to her thigh and would have traveled farther if Lyddie hadn’t charged into the office just then.
Carla tried to pull away. I kept an arm around her shoulder. “How’s it going, Lyddie?” I hoped my grin still had the tomboy charm that used to get me extra pie as a kid. The manager had known me all my life, and my family even longer. We’d always stopped here when I was helping my dad transport horses to New Hampshire farms and fairs. The grin could have got me a whole lot more than pie if I’d been so inclined, once I’d grown up, cropped my straw-yellow hair short, and shown that I knew who I was and where I was going.
Lyddie looked us up and down, hands braced on hips, head shaking in exasperation. “Might’ve known you’d be acquainted. There’s gotta be an explanation behind this, but I don’t have the time or patience now.”
“It’s the old story,” I said. “Farm girl meets carnival huckster at the county fair. The Lancaster Fair year before last, when my team was in the pulling trials.” I realized too late that Carla might not have included the midway balloon/dart concession on her résumé.
“Judging by such a touching reunion, maybe you wouldn’t mind taking Miss Volcano-mouth off my hands for a couple of days until all this drama blows over.”
Carla stirred under my arm. “I’m sorry, Lyddie. I should just move on. Thanks for taking a chance on me, but I’ve always been bad news.”
I wanted to shake the old arrogance back into her. On the other hand, if it had been just a shield, I wanted to know what was behind it.
Lyddie softened. “You’re not bad, honey. You’re just drawn that way.”
Carla was right on it. “Thanks, Lyddie. Jessica Rabbit is my role model.”
“You’re a fine cashier and waitress,” Lyddie added. “Never did figure out what you’re doing in a place like this. You could make a lot more tending bar in the city or the tourist area over by Mt. Washington. At least bars have bouncers.”
Carla’d begun to relax, but now she tensed and glanced away from Lyddie. “Can’t blame a girl for wanting to try out respectability for a change.”
I was tired of being left out of the conversation. “If riding in the cab of a horse van rates as respectable, I’d be glad of the company. I’ll be back this way tomorrow or the next day. We’ll see how things look by then.”
“Just let me get out of this uniform and grab a few things.” Carla wriggled out of my grasp. Lyddie and I watched her go, both our gazes fixed on her slender back and swaying ass, both of us exhaling when she’d gone. But Lyddie’s sigh was somber.
“Can’t get a job at a bar these days without a background check,” she said. “A police record will shoot you right down. She’s a whiz with numbers, too, took some accounting courses she says, but the same goes there.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” But I knew.
_______________

The story ends with them together, but some rocky times ahead. I intend to take them through those in another story, still very different characters. You never know, maybe a novel will come of it.

Some of the other pieces in my collection concern opposites of one degree or another. A cowgirl from Montana with an equestrienne from Amsterdam; so far there’s only been a hint of future connection. A self-centered top-drawer model trying to break into movies, and a much older rock-climbing photographer who knows just how to give her what she needs to feel real; I’ve written three stories so far about those two, and there will probably be more.
Let me think. I guess the young future pirate and the dragon goddess in Ha Long Bay don’t count, or a perky boi with a fetish for gargoyles on a honeymoon trip to Paris with a gruff older butch.  Or the young army mechanic rescued from an explosion by an older Staff Sergeant who then becomes paralyzed going back to save someone else. Or the jeep jockey in Vietnam and the female journalist determined to cover the ”real war.” None of these really rate as opposites. And the pair of prison inmates who clash in more ways than one, a stone cutter unintentionally mixed up in a drug smuggling operation versus a former Russian Olympic wrestler hired as an enforcer by a Chechen drug lord in the US, are very much the same at heart, and not that far apart in body. There are other stories in the book, too, with pairings that aren’t exactly representative of opposites, but distinctive in their ways.

Opposites or not, though, I like to think that all of my characters are distinctive enough that a reader can tell by their dialogue which one is speaking. Opposites may not always be more fun, but at least you always know who is who.

* EDIT
Here's the stupid way I said this at first:
"Some of these differences matter more in erotica, while others play more of a role in stories with plots or story arcs. I like to think that my work qualifies as both. That’s probably a delusion, but usually I get away with it."
[I totally blew this part, in spite of being on a mission for years to promote erotica as being the equal of any genre in terms of complex characters, story development, creativity, and brilliant writing in general.]

Opposites May Attract, but then What?

By K D Grace

While I’m generally an avid lover of Happy Ever Afters, I don’t really believe that when opposites attract there’s much chance of a good ole HEA. But, oh, how we love the possibility that there might be! It’s the otherness that attracts us, I think. Who doesn’t want to know what it’s like to be different, other than we are? We all want to know how the other half lives, even if that other half is vampires, shifters and demons. There are a million stories written about our attraction to that otherness, to that which we know we can’t have and to what we, ourselves, most definitely are not. I think that’s why billionaire stories and prince charming stories are always so popular. I could add to that list paranormal stories, spy stories, star-crossed lovers and cross-cultural romances. While we’re in the heat of the moment, they’re captivating … but then what?

Tell me honestly, can you even imagine an HEA with James Bond? At the end of a Bond movie, when Bond is fucking the costar on a slow boat to China, we know it won’t last, nor do we want it to, because there’s always another movie and another love interest to be seduced. But we most definitely expect the HEA with billionaires and princes and movie star stories.

I quite often struggle to believe the Happy Ever Afters offered up in otherness attraction stories, though I might buy a Happy for Now ending. Go for it while you can, 007 chicks, cuz it’s all you’re gonna get! I’m a practical sort of girl. I’ve never believed that love can overcome all obstacles. For me there comes a point when the otherness that was so attractive in the early days of chemistry and mad passionate sex and obsession becomes more of a hardship, more of a minefield for misunderstandings, than a sexy adventure. Then the logistics, the reality of what that HEA, all tied up in bows and ribbons, will actually cost becomes more work than it’s worth. I’ve ended several otherness relationships because I couldn’t get past the “what happens next” phase to really believe that love could conquer all. Bottom line: I just didn’t want to work that hard. A relationship is demanding enough without the incredible challenge of that opposites attract sort of otherness.

When I started writing erotica, part of the appeal was that I could explore the heat of the moment when opposites attract and the inevitable happens. I could put people who could have never made a relationship work in the real world together for nothing more than the fucking, for nothing more than the chance to see what that otherness would feel like skin to skin. In erotica, there’s always the expectation of sex, but the expectation that the sex will lead anywhere beyond a fabulous orgasm or three is optional. Erotic romance is another animal entirely, but the erotic aspect still allows for a little more suspension of belief resulting in at least an HFN.

Having said that, writing the consequences of what could actually happen when opposites attract, and then upping the stakes makes for great fiction of a sexy but different type. I’m thinking Fatal Attraction or The Hunger. There are often serious, even terrifying, consequences when opposites attract and that attraction is allowed to play out in a much darker way. The plot can be terrifying, heart stopping, sleep depriving reading or watching. The truth is that otherness interests us all, whether it’s Romeo and Juliet or Buffy and Angel. We want to know the whole story, and we can’t get enough. But the one thing we’re always certain we won’t get when a good dose of consequences is added to the mix is a happy ending. Ah, fiction! How we love you! You allow us to toy with that otherness any way we choose, and our only real consequences for doing so is the time it takes to read, write or watch. I’m good with that.  

Flashback Fever

By Tim Smith

One of the members of my writer’s group made an interesting observation. We were discussing marketing and she commented that I wasn’t focusing enough attention on my extensive backlist. I have 22 books out, and realized she was right. I tend to focus my efforts on the newest one, but I shouldn’t ignore the other kids in the family. In that spirit, I’m going to use this opportunity to feature an oldie but goodie.

I’ll start with the first in my Nick Seven spy thriller series, “Memories Die Last.” This was actually the first book I ever had published. Several years after its release, followed by two sequels, I changed publishers and got the rights returned to me. I had written a few other books for my new publisher, but when I re-read this one, I knew I could do it better as a reboot. I rewrote the entire thing, keeping only the title and basic plot. It did even better than the first time around when it was introduced to a new audience, and kicked off what has been my most popular series. I’m releasing book number six in that series later this year.

“What happens when your life is turned inside out by something from your past that won’t leave you alone? Former CIA operative Nick Seven finds out when his peaceful life in the Florida Keys is disrupted by the appearance of an old nemesis he thought was buried alongside the painful memory of a personal tragedy. Nick reluctantly gets back into the spy game to settle an old score and is pleasantly surprised to find himself paired with beautiful Felicia Hagens, a former co-worker from Barbados. Together they uncover a complex maze of intrigue, espionage and high-level government corruption. The assignment gets more complicated when they realize they have unrequited feelings for each other. Can Nick finally hit the elusive target and reclaim his personal corner of paradise? Will Felicia return to Barbados or stay with the rugged former spy she’s always had a secret thing for?”

When I devised the character of Nick, I needed a place for him to call home. I had visited the Florida Keys and thought if I were a former spy who wanted to hide in plain sight, that’s where I’d go. An interesting side note is how I came up with the title. The story revolves around Nick having to face an unpleasant memory, and coming to grips with it so he can move on with his life. I had chosen a different title but at the last minute, I did a search and discovered that it had already been used more than once. Then I remembered a book by Harold Robbins that I enjoyed, “Dreams Die First.” I thought “If dreams die first, maybe memories die last.” Problem solved. Here’s an excerpt:

Felicia took a drink then set her glass on the table. “You know what your trouble is? You think too much. You’re not jinxed, there’s no black cloud hangin’ over your head and your luck’s not runnin’ out. You’re just stuck on somethin’ and your brain’s runnin’ loco because of it. You’ll figure this one out like you always do.” She stood then held out her hand. “Come on, you need some sleep.”

Nick smiled slyly. “What if I’m not sleepy?”

She returned his look. “Maybe you need some exercise to make you tired.”

“Too late to go to the gym.”

She stood over Nick, straddling his legs, then took hold of the top button on her shirt. “How about we play a game? I’ll ask you a question and for every right answer, I’ll unfasten a button.”

Nick looked her up and down. “Three buttons, three questions. I accept your challenge.”

“You haven’t heard the questions yet.” She grasped the top button. “First question—are you crazy ‘bout me?”

“Hmm. Yes?”

She unfastened the button. “Very good. I think you’ve played this game before. Next question—would you do anything for me?”

“I’ll have to say yes again.”

She unfastened the button. “Last question—are you glad I came to stay with you?”

Nick smiled. “Definitely yes.”

She undid the last button and let the shirt flow open, exposing her naked torso. She settled in Nick’s lap, facing him, then pulled his lips to hers. Nick slid his hands under her shirt and massaged her smooth skin. Felicia ground her pelvis against his groin, causing his cock to come to life inside his shorts. Nick got a whiff of her arousal and became more turned on.

To read more of this fast-paced romantic thriller, click on the link below. Happy reading! 

 "Memories Die Last" Amazon

Music Lovers are Going to Love my New Project!

A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day with Giselle Renarde

In case I haven't mentioned it lately, I'm a pretty isolated person. I'm working on being less isolated, but it's not easy--especially when you live alone and work from home. I've never been great at making friends, and it's only getting harder as the years go by.

Lots of social agencies organize friendly visits for isolated seniors, but I'm hearing that younger people are living increasingly isolated lives. There isn't really anything out there for us--at least, not that I'm aware of.  

That's why I wanted to start... something.  I didn't know what, at first.

I wanted to start a new project that involved reaching out to other humans. I wanted to do something for my own benefit as well as the benefit of others. And I knew it had to be a daily something. When I'm experiencing a bad depressive episode, I need something to look forward to every single day. 

But I also knew I shouldn't overcommit. Creating original content every day of the year for goodness knows how long could cause big-time burnout, and who would that help? 

A couple weeks ago, I was tweeting about the song that was stuck in my head when I realized how often I find myself doing just that. I love music and I have lots of associations with the songs I like, and I could pretty much talk about them endlessly.

That's when it hit me: A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day. It combines the concept of a friendly visitor with MUSIC, and it's accessible to anyone with an internet connection. 

I just launched my new site this week, and part of me worried I'd get like 3 hits and be super-bummed  (that's what usually happens when I try something new), but the response has been great and I'm only 4 days in. 

If you love music or you're socially isolated (or both) or you just like reading what I have to say about anything that pops into my head, you are definitely going to enjoy A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day.

Check out the site.  At the top of the page, you'll see a little SUBSCRIBE button. Hit that and Google will email you every day after my new post goes up. The one annoying thing is that I embed YouTube videos in all my posts and those don't seem to get emailed, so you'll still have to click through to the website in order to actually listen to the song of the day, but at least if you're subscribed you'll get that reminder every day to check it out.

I'm really excited about this new project. It has lifted my mood tremendously. If you know anyone who's feeling low these days, or who needs a little internet visit on the daily, please tell them about A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day.

I hope you'll join me as I share music and memories!
Giselle

https://friendlymusicvisitor.blogspot.com

Contrary Fantasies - #opposites #tropes #chemistry

By Lisabet Sarai

Opposites attract.

We’ve all heard the saying, dozens of times. But is it true?

In real life, I have my doubts. However, the trope has abiding popularity, especially in the romance genre. The impoverished but virtuous serving wench wins the heart of the wealthy, titled rake. The mousy office temp catches the eye of the billionaire CEO. The virgin librarian finds herself swept up in the hedonistic world of the rock idol. The sophisticated city gal moves out west, only to end up with the gruff, unpolished (but rugged and handsome) cowboy.

Hey, I plead guilty to using the device myself. In Challenge to Him, set in the first decade of the twenty century, my heroine Olivia is a liberated, intellectual labor activist. Somehow she finds love with a robber baron whose riches depend on the oppressed masses. Theo, in The Gazillionaire and the Virgin, is a surly, sexually-inexperienced recluse who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. Yet he manages to snag the affection of extroverted, media-savvy Silicon Valley hotshot Rachel, who’s had dozens of lovers.

The attraction of opposites shows up in a lot of erotica, too. In these stories, “opposite” often means unfamiliar, forbidden, even dangerous. A buttoned up career woman ends up with her back against the brick wall of an alley, being fucked without mercy by a luridly tatooed biker. A hen-pecked husband takes a risk and hires a glamorous, seductive high class hooker for a night. A petite, Caucasian woman gives in to her craving for a huge, well-hung Black man. In my erotic story “Muse”, a popular author of erotic romance discovers she’s being stalked by the scruffy janitor of her apartment building – and that he’s exactly the sort of stern and demanding Master she has secretly craved all her life.

Why does the “opposites attract” trope work so well in erotic fiction? To be honest, I think we’re trading on everyone’s contrary fantasies. The sexual grass is always greener over on the neighbor’s lawn. We imagine how exciting love and lust could be, if it were somehow different from what we actually experience. Nothing seems hotter than sex with a stranger — a real stranger, someone from a totally different world, with a different background, different expectations, different tastes. (Perhaps this explains the popularity of alien abduction!)

For the romantically-inclined, there’s another angle to consider. In the most satisfying romance, love conquers all. It bridges gaps, heals divisions, harmonizes even the most extreme differences. The greater the disparity between the protagonists, the more impressive and affecting we find love’s ultimate triumph.

Fiction is designed to entertain, to enlighten, to provide cathartic identification with the characters. It’s exciting, fascinating and novel to fantasize about loving (or fucking) the Other.

In the real world, though — well, at least in my personal experience — I’m not likely to be attracted to someone who is truly opposite to me. I’m never going to be drawn to a rap musician who sings about beating up his bitches. I can’t imagine connecting with a rabid sports fan, or someone who spends six hours a day in the gym, or, to be honest, with a millionaire. I just couldn’t communicate with people whose priorities were so different from mine — and great sex, even for one night, depends on communication as much as on chemistry.

All of my serious relationships and most of my casual encounters have involved people with whom I had quite a lot in common: educational level, intellect, values, and interests. Most of my lovers have cared more about books than money, more about world peace than basketball, more about new experiences than new things.

I do believe in biologically-based attraction. There have been a few times in my life when I’ve been inexplicably drawn to someone who seemed all wrong, a panoply of opposites. Usually it turned out that he or she was wrong for me, the chemistry spoiled by a persistent lack of comfort.

Hence, I tend to be skeptical when people claim that opposites attract. Except, of course, in books.