Friday, December 21, 2012

For anyone who prefers B&N to Amazon, all my books published to date at B&N have been discounted to match the prize at Amazon.

Happy holidays everyone!

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Birthday Gift

To continue on the topic of birthdays....



The Birthday Gift

It was his fortieth birthday, and I had decided that it was to be a memorable one. Paul and I had been married for five years. He was ten years older than me. So, I was twenty when I married him. Already at thirty, he had this salt and pepper hair that makes women look unkempt but makes men look sophisticated and dangerous. So he was, I was later to find out. Sophisticated in his tastes, from food or drink, nothing was too foreign, strange or disgusting for him not to try. With him, I developed a taste for exotic foods, frog legs, escargots, and monk fish liver. You name it, the more potent the flavor, the more he craved it; and with him, so did I.
His taste for liquor was just as eclectic as his food choices. Not just the single malt Scotch or small batch Bourbon that the cognoscenti rave about. He had Absinthe brought over from Slovakia, Raki from Turkey, and a particularly favored Grappa-like drink from some place in Spain.
I grew up in Omaha, Nebraska, as Middle America as apple pie and biscuits. That may have been what attracted me, at twenty, to this man, so much my senior. He entered my life like a tornado, sweeping everything before him. Soon, I found myself skiing double diamond terrain, shooting white water rapids, and diving in the open ocean; all things I had never even thought of doing. We got engaged at 120 ft of depth, in the great wall of Little Cayman. I was so surprised I almost dropped the ring, and that would have been a disaster, since the bottom of the ocean is about three thousand feet deep at that point! I have followed Paul ever since, and never regretted it for a second.
Now, after five years of marriage, I decided I shall give him a gift to remember. I changed a lot from the wide eyed ingénue from Omaha in these years, but one thing, until now, did not change. I never accepted his, shall I say temptations? In the matter of sex I remained the proper conservative American girl. Of course we had oral sex, but aside of that; the kinkiest thing we ever did was to do it in the kitchen. And I knew, and know, that he wanted more. He kept a large collection of erotica, in his library. Although locked, these books, tapes and art, have always been available to me even though I did not avail myself of them until recently. That’s when I realized how much I was withholding from him and, for the first time became afraid, afraid that he would find someone who would give him what I would not.
Fast forward to the present. I found a willing accomplice in Sakura, a Japanese beauty that frequented our country club. She was twenty five; we often played golf or skied with her. I do not believe Paul knew the effect he had on her, or if he knew, he never acted on it. Me, on the other hand, I knew. It was obvious to me that the oriental beauty was besotted with Paul. She was always respectful, always polite and proper, but I could not fail to detect her blushing, her breathing becoming faster when he approached her. If he talked to her, and touched her arm, she always would seek support from the back of a chair, table or other piece of furniture, her knees would weaken so.
I approached Sakura one evening, about three weeks before his birthday. Paul was traveling that day and, it being the middle of the week, the lounge at the club was relatively empty; some women played cards at a table, and a couple of older, retired guys played chess. Sakura had been playing tennis, and was looking around the bar for someone to share a drink with, so as soon as she saw me, she approached me, smiling.
“Hi, Sakura” I greeted her “Care to drink something?”
“Hi, Lola” She answered, ‘Of course”
We sat at one of the couches, near the fireplace, far from the other people. We ordered Margaritas. We made small talk for a while, until the second Margarita. Then, as inhibitions began to loosen, thanks to Jose Cuervo, I made my move:
“Have you had sex with Paul?” I asked nonchalantly between sips.
“Of course not!” She answered angrily “What makes you think so?”
“Relax my dear” I said stroking her hand. “I know you like him. Don’t you?”
The tequila was having its desired effect. I had eaten a burger before coming to the club, but Sakura just had two Margaritas on an empty stomach. She answered truthfully.
“You can’t blame me for that. He is gorgeous” She paused for the briefest moment “But I’ve never…”
“I know, I know” I said soothingly “But you would, if things were…different” It was not a question.
She did not deny it.
“I have an idea I need your help with” I continued.

            *              *            *



On his birthday, I took Paul to his favorite seafood haunt. A swanky place, known for its seafood and steaks and one of the few places in town where you could still smoke a cigar after dinner, in their cigar room; this was the one place in town where you could go for dinner in a tuxedo and cocktail dress, and not call attention to yourself. He always looks so handsome in his tux. I wore a crimson silk number, with a tight bodice and a flaring skirt that showed off my legs and feet, enhanced by the Manolo Blahnik sandals.
He wanted to have steak for dinner, as he usually did here, but I told him I had made other arrangements for us, and he understood that sex was in the forecast, so he did not complain about the food choices.
If he had his way, and ate a porterhouse, he would fall in bed like a pole axed ox, so, no meat today.
We ate Mikimoto oysters on the half shell, steamed artichokes with a balsamic dip and grilled salmon and steamed Bok Choy with a soy ginger sauce. To drink, we had Perrier Jouet cuvee Belle Epoque. He also got me hooked on that one.
After dinner, he looked at the cigar room, an eyebrow slightly raised, interrogating. I smiled and said:
“At home”
When we arrived home, the house was dark; I led him to the bedroom, lit only by a night light, and sat him in his favorite leather chair, facing the bed. He was about to question me but I touched his lips with my finger.
“Hush” I said. I led his hand to the table at his right. In it a crystal bucket held ice cubes, and a large glass rang crisply as I touched it lightly with my crimson fingernails. I gave him his cigar, a Montecristo #2 that I had previously cut for him and lit a match for him to light it. In the light of the match, I saw amazement and wonder in his eyes.
I pushed him back into the chair, kissed him and said:
“Wait”
Then I disappeared into the bathroom. I rapidly changed into a black bustier, that matched the black hose and garter belt I was wearing, but that, hidden under the skirt, he could not have noticed. I entered the bedroom, and as I approached the king sized, four poster bed, flicked a remote control that turned on three spotlights on the bed leaving the rest of the bedroom in relative darkness.
In the bed, silently, Sakura, dressed in a white lace bra from La Perla, matching white thong, garter belt and hose, turned towards me and extended her arms to meet mine. I heard his sharp intake of breath.
Sakura and I hugged, and I kissed her deeply on her lips. My tongue entered her, exploring, as she did the same with me. I felt my moisture, my need arise, and straddled her thigh, rubbing myself against her stockinged skin. She did likewise, and I could smell her arousal, similar, yet so different from my own. We rolled on the bed, touching, probing each other. I never had a lesbian experience before, but it came naturally to me; it felt as if I was making love to myself. My bustier came off as Sakura sought out my breasts, larger than hers, and kissed them, and bit on them. In my excitement, I could only hug her closer to me, while trying, furiously to hump her thigh.
I heard not a word from my husband, who, in the relative darkness of the room, could be seen only as a dark shape, sunk in his chair.
Sakura now pinched my nipples, until they were standing up, erect, sensitive. She took the right one on her mouth and sucked on it, viciously, then bit hard on it, until I squealed in pain. She moved behind me, taking my arms behind my back, and holding them crossed at the wrist. I knelt now on the bed, my knees wide open, facing the dark shape that was my husband. I could see the plume of blue cigar smoke, exhaled, and smell the strong aroma, before it was sucked out of the room by the silent ventilation system. She threw me on my side, still holding my hands, and ripped off my garter belt and hose. She used one of the stockings to bind my hands. I heard the tinkle of ice, on my husband’s chair.
She ripped off my panties left me nude, with my  hands bound behind my back, knees wide open on the bed, ankles crossed, and my neatly trimmed pubic hair, another novelty for Paul, pointing to my wide open pussy. I felt the cool air in my moist lips. I could smell myself. Sakura was as excited as I. Her skin glistened in the spotlights with a patina of sweat. She threw me on my back and straddled my face. She pulled her white thong to a side and smothered me with her sopping wet pussy. I smelled her musk, and licked at her clit, my nose deeply inserted in her hot wet hole. She gushed more, under my attentions, and I noticed the flow of moisture dripping out of my own cunt. I felt embarrassed for a moment, to be doing this, wide open, in front of Paul, perfectly lit by the spotlights, my pussy gushing, and dripping on the dark red bed sheets. After only a short time, Sakura rode my nose to the first of many orgasms that evening.
She stopped to catch her breath, but only for a moment, for I was given no respite. She turned me, facing down on the bed, my panties inserted deep in my mouth, and tied in place with my garter belt. She tied my hands together to the headboard, and my ankles, separately to the posts at the foot of the bed. My ankles were tied with my stockings, my hands with a wide red silk ribbon.
I saw, on the mirror on the side wall Sakura approaching Paul, a riding crop in her hand. She offered it to him, silently; he waved her off. She moved to my right, and I could not see her anymore.
The swish of the crop, cutting through the air warned me, a fraction of a second before a line of fire planted itself on my ass. I tried to scream through my gag, but only a muted howl came out. And the crop fell, again and again, until my ass was on fire, and I had no strength to cry out anymore. The pillow under my face was wet with my tears, and the sheet under my pussy wet with my juices. Sakura untied me and I turned over.
Paul stood, in front of his chair, his erect penis sticking out of his pants; he approached the bed, only to be interrupted by Sakura, who gently pushed him back into his chair.
“Not yet” She said “Soon”
She knelt between his legs and took him in her mouth. She swallowed his length and, holding on to his butt, bobbed on his dick. I saw her cheeks, hollow with her suction as she blew him vigorously. It took but a minute for Paul to spill himself down Sakura’s throat. I saw her swallow, and then lick him clean. She replaced his dick in his pants, and came back to me.
I feared her, for I knew what was to come next. She tied my ankles to the posts at the foot of the bed, and my wrists to the ones on the headboard. She picked up the crop once more. I could see Paul’s dick, again tenting his pants.
This time it was my breasts that were the target of Sakura’s crop. As the leather cut into my tender boobies I thrashed as much as my bound hands and feet allowed. Yet my pussy continued to gush. When it was over, Paul was again standing, his dick again out of his pants which he proceeded to shed. Sakura motioned for him to wait, as she once again turned me over, and placed me on all fours. My hands tied beneath my face, and my feet again tied to the bedposts.
I felt cold air on my ass, as she separated my ass cheeks. I heard the floorboards creak as he came closer. I felt the cold gel dripping on my ass hole, and her gentle fingers spreading and entering, one finger, then a second one. I sank my head in the pillow. I heard his grunt of pleasure as she spread the jelly on his member. I tried to relax, to await the inevitable.
I felt the pressure at the opening I never gave him, until now, and tried to relax and push against him, to no avail. My sphincter closed tighter the more I tried to will it open. He pushed harder, encouraged by Sakura; I moan and, as he forces his way past my resistance, scream through my gag and into the pillow. Victorious, he entered my bowels; I felt like I was being ripped apart. He moves out, and I felt his penis leaving my rectum. I feel the cold air inside, and he enters me again. It hurts terribly, but is easier too. He does it over and over again, until he screamed his release. His sperm filled my rear entrance. I now felt a glow, all over me, of success, of achievement.
Now, Sakura kissed my ass tenderly and, with her tongue, cleaned it. With her lips tightly around my still stretched asshole, she said a single word.
“Push”
And I did, and she drank again all of his essence. Then she untied me, and I stood, nude, in front of Paul.
 Sakura and I both said:
“Happy Birthday!”

The End


Let me know if you liked it.

Saturday, November 24, 2012

Lynette is now live

Lynette's Story and Birthday is now live at amazon.com

Birthday and Lynette's story

A rewritten and rearranged "Birthday and Lynette's story" will be appearing at B&N and Amazon shortly.
For those who do not know the original work, it consisted of two different stories. The same event, told from the point of view of the dominant reduced, in this case to a spectator, and from the submissive's side. Both stories were published in the same volume.

The rewritten work, called "Lynette's Story and Birthday" merges both in a single novella, alternating points of view, his and hers.

If you already have the original, I do not recommend you get the new one, unless you must, of course.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

"Su Cuerpo" continuacion de "Sus Tetas" solo que contado por ella, narra lo que sucede despues de que Helen entregara sus Tetas a Paul.
Hasta donde llegara Helen en persecucion de los orgasmos monumentales?

Solo por dos dias, 8 y 9 de Noviembre, "Sus Tetas: esta disponible gratis en amazon.com, .es etc.
Si no la has leido, es un buen momento para hacerlo.

Friday, October 19, 2012

Slow plodding

The new novel, likely title "Painsluts.com" moves along very slowly. On the other hand I am amazed at the success of the translations of my works into Spanish at the .es store. It seems there is a paucity of this kind of literature on the Spanish site, or else there is a high demand.

La nueva novela, Masocas.com avanza muy lentamente. Me ha sorprendido el exito de las traducciones de mis novelas en la pagina web amazon.es/ Parece que hay una escasez de este tipo de literatura en la pagina de Espana o, a lo mejor es que hay una gran demanda.

La siguiente obra que aparecera en amazon.es es "Su cuerpo" donde prosiguen las aventuras de nuestra heroina de "Sus Tetas" solo que esta vez contadas por ella misma. Calculo que en 2 o 3 semanas estara disponible.


Thursday, September 27, 2012

Painslut.com

Painslut.com is the working title of the next piece that I'm working on.
Here is a teaser, Ch1.
Be welcome to leave comments. That will stimulate the creative flow.
Only a draft though.


Ch 1
If life gives you lemons...

If life gives you lemons, you should make lemonade. Only two months ago, we were your garden variety, secure, solid middle class couple, with a few kinks thrown in for fun, like me, being an abject sex slave, for my husband’s use.
Now, we are unemployed, laid off, staring ruin in the face. We are sitting in our den, watching the pile of bills on the floor, and staring at each other. I try to focus on the positive:
All the bills are current.
John scratches his thick brown hair, "Until the end of the month."
After a few moments of silence he adds, "Then it’s kaput."
I turn to the computer. As things stand now, the internet is our cheapest form of entertainment and, boy, do we need it.
I log in to the bdsm forum we frequent, wondering who is there to chat with today. While I look at the personals, more for fun than anything, since we have never played with anyone else, Steven nibbles at my neck. I sense his tension, his stress; it has been eating at him ever since he got laid off from his accounting job. I rub his hair. His hand makes its way, under my blouse. It sneaks in, under my bra, and cups my breast. I inhale; he squeezes. I close my eyes, feeling his hand around my soft globe. He squeezes again, hard.
I yelp and open my eyes. On the screen, I see an ad:
Wanted: Female slave for a weekend. $5000.00. No permanent damage. Taskmaster234
His head is nuzzling at my cleavage," Stop it!" I say.
He looks at me. I never tell him to stop, ever. I am his slave after all.
"Look at this," I tell him, pointing at the ad." It will hold us for a month; two if we stretch it."
"You are joking," I can see he is not amused.
"Do you have any better ideas?"
He doesn’t need to answer. The expression in his eyes is answer enough. I’ve seen it only twice before and both times it broke my heart. It is the look of defeat plastered on the face of someone who never admits defeat; who always goes down fighting. The look that says he’s fired his last bullet, and it was a dud.
The last time I saw that look on his face was when his business collapsed, during the dot com debacle; I woke up alone, in our bed; a horrible premonition shook my guts and I rushed out of bed, barefoot, and went looking for him. I found him in the living room, sitting on an armchair, looking out the window into the dark night; there was no moon. In his hand, he had a gun. I remained, frozen at the door of the living room, unsure of what to do. After long minutes, he saw me.
"I thought I heard something," he said, getting up.
He left the gun on the kitchen counter and returned to bed with me. Had it been true, had he really heard something, he would never have left the gun downstairs, out of reach. I did not sleep that night.
I kiss his lips, my hands around his face.
"I can do this," I say.
He shakes his head.
"Let me do this for you, I beg, let me save the day."
He looks at the screen again. I see he is at least considering it.
"Could you,"
Good question. Could I?
A spark of an idea blooms in my mind.
"Order me to do it."
"What?"
"Yes, order me to do it. I couldn't do it on my own, I'm sure. I am your slave, am I not? Well, simply order me to go spend the weekend with this Taskmaster234. You make the arrangements with him and just order me to do it."
I feel the tiniest drop of moisture peeking out of my nether lips. He looks me directly in the eyes and, after a moment, I see him smile.
"This excites you?" he asks.
My hands open the buttons of my blouse, "E-mail the man."
I turn my chair around so I see him, typing on the keyboard but no longer see the screen. He hits enter. My hand cups my breast; my fingers find the nipple, already erect. I am breathing faster, deeper. My other hand opens the button of my jeans. He watches the screen and starts typing again. Taskmaster234 must be on the chat room since John types frantically on the keyboard. My finger finds my folds, already slick with my love oils. One finger slips inside.
He turns around, looking at me pleasuring myself. He does not interrupt me; instead he relaxes his back on the chair and, over the thick fabric of his jeans, caresses his cock. I wonder what arrangements he made with Taskmaster. My pussy gushes juice at the thought. I slide over to where he sits, straddling one of his thighs. My mouth is already open when his lips meet mine. He crushes my lips with his; his tongue penetrates my mouth, seeking mine. My nostrils fill with his smell. Leather, he smells like leather. His smell invades my brain throwing my body into overdrive. His arms come around me, crushing me into his chest.
"Go to the bedroom and strip," he orders.
Gasping for breath I walk to our bedroom. As soon as I reach it, I remove my blouse, shoes, jeans, socks and panties. I am not wearing a bra today. My C size breasts float free on my chest crowned by pink nipples that, already, stand alert. Once I am nude, I kneel on the carpeted floor and await his pleasure. My thighs are open, knees spread apart; I feel the cool air on the moisture that beads on my dewy lips. I rest my butt against my heels and lay my hands down on my thighs, palms upwards. I concentrate on my breathing, taking slow, deep breaths, trying to slow down my racing heart.
He enters the room, carrying a glass of scotch. The sight of the liquor, and the two ice cubes, tinkling in the glass fills me with joy. John likes to drink but, as opposed to many, he does not drink when he is troubled; when he has problems, he does not drink liquor; he will continue to drink wine with meals; he is of French ancestry after all, but he only takes strong drinks when he is happy. He has not had a glass of scotch or brandy in more than a month.
"Get the black crop," he orders, stepping into the bathroom.
Attached to the wall inside the walk-in closet is a locked cabinet; it wouldn’t do for the cleaning ladies, when we could afford that service, to find what it contains. It is a museum, a record if you will, of our exploration of the S&M world. Inside hangs our very first flogger, a ridiculous cat of nine tails, made of black velvet. I remember the breathless excitement I experienced when I went into the sleazy sex shop to buy it; I would have bought it over the internet but John told me to get it at the store. We haven’t used it in years, having graduated to more authentic devices still; it hangs, unused from its peg.
I pick up the black crop. This one is a worn, ordinary leather riding crop, with a wide flapper on its end. I like it a lot; it stings but doesn’t cut the skin. It hurts, a lot if used hard, but does not fill me with terror as does, for instance, the cane, or the bullwhip. This, plus asking his choice of venue, the bedroom instead of our insulated basement, tells I will not be cropped too hard; unless he gags me, of course.
"Bring the gag too, while you are there."
I pick up the ball gag, the only one we keep here. Most of the equipment we keep in the basement, where it is usually used; the whips, canes and crops we keep here, so we have access to them on the spur of the moment, as now. Also it pleases John to have me come up the stairs to pick up the tools of my torture, and take them down to the basement. I find the walk up, and even more, the return trip down the stairs, carrying a whip, crop, or God forbid, cane, so exciting that often, I can barely walk with need by the time I reach the basement.
John sits on the chair; he’s removed his shirt and wears only chinos. Naked, carrying the black crop in one hand and the ball gag in the other, I approach him. I kneel in front of the chair, placing the gag on the floor and extend my hands to him, the crop lying across them. He picks up the crop tapping the palm of his hand with it.
He delays, watching me kneel in front of him, my eyes cast down, my breasts trembling on my chest, the nipples erect, betraying my arousal. I keep my thighs open, feeling the cool air on my moist lips. My nostrils detect the faint musk of my own arousal. I wonder if he can smell it too. He taps my breasts with the crop, its flapper flicking my nipples, little stabs of pain, hidden in the intense arousal they elicit. I gasp for breath.
I risk a peek at him; not at his face, no, that would be easily detected; no, instead, I peek at his crotch. He is hard, that much is obvious even under the thick fabric of his chinos. He flicks my nipples again and I whimper; not in pain, but in need. Need that burns in my loins, need that bulges in my tunnel, need that grows, like a basketball between my thighs.
"Yes, I shall crop your breasts," he announces. Get ready.
I take the ball gag and put it on, fastening the strap behind my head. I take my own breasts in my hands, holding them up for him. Now that he has announced his decision, I look up at his face, resting my eyes on his strong features. His brown eyes look through rather than at me; as if he could see inside me, see my deepest desires, my deepest fears, and my strongest needs. He gestures at me and I turn, at right angles to him.
He does not tell me how many strokes he will give me. He starts, high on the targets that I hold up for him. The first cut of the cane falls where the breast meets the chest. I yowl in pain, although, through the gag it comes out as a muffled Mfffff.
The next one falls just below, and my muffled scream is louder. Even though this is a mild crop, all things considered, it is still very painful and brings tears to my eyes. More cuts on my breast follow, until the crop hits the edge of the areola. I’ve managed to remain, quietly in position until now. This last cut makes me jump back in startled pain. I let go of my breasts and rub them gingerly. I come back to my senses soon and resume position offering my breasts up for sacrifice.
He signals the bed with his hand. I get on the bed, supine and, holding my breasts by the nipples, pull them up towards my head. The soft and tender underside will be the crop’s target now. I cry even harder as he cuts a new series of red stripes on the underbelly of my globes. Sweat flies off my titties with every stroke. They feel twice their size and about to fall off, or be ripped off.
He stops. I look at him hopefully, but it is not to be. I sit on the side of the bed and squeeze one of the breasts with my hand. The yet untouched nipple beckons, standing proudly at the end of my boob. I scream through the gag as the crop hits it. He hit it hard, and he does so again, a total of five times. Tears flowing freely I release my breast and pick up the other one.
When it’s over, I kneel in front of him and undo the button and fly on his chinos. He is not wearing underwear and his cock, all ten inches of it, stands proud, rigid, awaiting my attention. My lips engulf the red head and I slobber my saliva over its smooth surface. I take him in my mouth, sensitive to every gasp, every whimper of his breath, and the least vibration of his shaft. My entire world centers on the triangle of dark curly hair in front of my eyes, and the throbbing rod that rises from it and penetrates my mouth. I suck it, as if my livelihood depended on it. My breasts, rubbing on his legs, hurt me, and I whimper in pain through the pole that impales my mouth. I feel his orgasm mount, I suck harder. He pulls his mighty battering ram out of my mouth and spurts gobs of his warm milk on my face and mouth. His spunk covers my face. I rest my body on my heels, smiling. He did not see fit to let me swallow his essence today, but it doesn’t matter, so long as he takes his pleasure on me. I smile at him, come drying on my face.
"I love you," I say.
"Go wash your face."
I go to the bathroom to wash my face; in the mirror I see the stripes on my breasts, angry purple and red lines crossing the white mounds, and my formerly pink nipples, now turned fiery red. I wash his spunk off my face carefully; I would have preferred to wipe his juice off my face with my fingers, and then to lick it off my fingers but such are not his wishes, not today.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Sus Tetas ya esta a la venta.

Increible: En menos de un solo dia, la historia salio a la venta en Amazon.

Incredible. It took less than a day for the story to be available for sale at Amazon.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Her Breasts to appear in Spanish.

La historia corta "Her Breasts" aparecera en los proximos dias en la tienda de Amazon en castellano bajo el titulo: "Sus Tetas"

The short story "Her Breasts" will appear shortly in the Amazon store in Spanish under the title "Sus Tetas"

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Buscando un Dueño. Las Doce Labores de Andromeda. en Amazon.

La traduccion de Buscando un Dueño. Las Doce Labores de Andromeda. finalmente ha salido a la venta en amazon.com, .es, .uk, .de etc.

The Spanish language version of Looking for a Master, the Twelve Labors of Andromeda has finally come out in the amazon sites.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Arion Vulgaris Arises

For those of you with a Vore fetish.
Irene DeLa Corte has published a collection of short stories with a Vore theme. More specifically, what happens when a scientist develops a giant slug, and what the slimy beast needs to feed on.
I highly recommend it. Available from Amazon.

From the publisher's website:
A genetic engineer produces a giant version of a common garden pest. The trouble is, of course, that his creation needs food... warm, living food. Follow the journey of three young women as they discover some very visceral pleasures, and pay the ultimate price...

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Yasmin is now available at B&N

In addition to Amazon, Yasmin and other stories is now available at B&N.com.
I have submitted it to A1 and hope that it will show up there soon, though A1 has been slow at posting titles lately.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Dry spell

It's been a long and dry spring as far as new writing goes.
I am still working on the Spanish edition of "Looking for a Master"
Looking for inspiration for the next opus.

Sunday, April 29, 2012

The Colour of Ash

British writer Sienna Drake has published her first novel, The Colour of Ash, in the Amazon.uk Kindle store.
(Make sure you spell color colour or you won't find it)
I just finished reading it and posted a review at amazon.com.
Here is a copy of my review:

By Claude
This is a story that defies and transcends any attempt to categorize it. It is not a horror paranormal thriller, although the general plot appears so. It is not vanilla erotica, and it is not BDSM erotica although the elements of S&M are definitely there. It is not a goth erotic novel even though there is some of that too.
What it is is a thrilling, addictive read, that hooked me, so I read it in two sittings. (I had to get some sleep after all)

The storytelling is vivid, stylish, but done with an economy that reminds me of an old romanesque church rather than the more ornate gothic ones. Ms. Drake has trimmed her novel of every extraneous detail, every unneeded word, to leave just the pulsating, throbbing soul of her novel. I would have preferred just a teensy-weensy more detail about who or what she finds in the cave; I had to guess too much, but that's just me.

This is not a story about a Bristsh domme, although Ash is a British domme. There is some very strong S&M in this that will probably exceed most people's tolerance so be warned but, if you can deal with it, and your mind is open enough to face up to its unpleasantness, are you in for a treat!

I cannot wait for the next one book by this author. 
 
 

Friday, March 30, 2012

Next project

I am currently tranhslating The Twelve Labors of Andromeda into Spanish and will release it as soon as  it is done.
There are a couple of new works that are coming along very slowly. I shall be going on a two week vacation of sorts soon and hope to use the time to push the prokects ahead.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

The Appointment available in English and Spanish

The Appointment is now available in the amazon sites in English as well as it's translation into Spanish as "La Cita"

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Surrender a short story. Feel free to post comments.


The Surrender
1
“You can forget about safe, sane, and yes, consensual too,” I said.
How did I get here? It is not a long story. Soon after our marriage, Richard and I began to experiment with bondage and S&M. I always got a thrill from being bound, defenseless, but S&M, or rather the masochism part was another story. By the fourth stroke of the cane on my butt I would be screaming my safeword “Bananas” The fucking I would get afterwards was always hot, but all the time I would be cursing at myself in frustration for having stopped the punishment.
Richard loved the D&S sessions, but even he started to become tired of my stopping a session just when he was getting started. He did not say anything, of course, but his sessions became less imaginative, more routine and he stopped buying and trying new instruments. Why would he, if I would stop every session with my safeword. “Bananas” almost as soon as it started.
It wasn’t the same in my fantasies of course. No; when I dreamed, even waking dreams, I was always bound, chained, at the mercy of a ruthless master, or pirate, or what have you.  In jeopardy for my own life, I had to endure nameless tortures, unspeakable violations, and always, always would wake up, sheets soaked in sweat, and the musk of my own arousal redolent in my bedroom.
I tried to fantasize, to imagine me and Richard in the same setting, but it wasn’t just the same. “Bananas” the safe word always hung in the balance. The difference glared: I could stop it, anytime I wanted. And I always wanted.
This brings us to the night in question. After dinner, we watched TV. Richard had a scotch; I knew what I wanted to say, but lacked the courage; I made a pitcher of cosmos, and had four of them, my limit is two. I was so anxious that, even with the four drinks under my belt, I wasn’t sure I would go through with it. When he went to bed, I stumbled to the bathroom and then joined him. We did not make love that night; well, not at first.
“Richard,” I said before he fell asleep, “when you tie me up and, you know, spank or whip me…”
“Huh?”
“You can forget about safe, sane, and yes, also consensual.”
That got his attention. In the dim light, I saw his eyes opening wide; I also saw a different movement under the sheet that covered a certain part of his anatomy.
“But you cannot take, not even five strokes of the flogger!”
Before I lost my nerve, I told him what I needed so badly to say.
“That’s why I have to get rid of my safeword. It doesn’t work for me if I can stop you at any time,” he looked puzzled. “I don’t like pain, that is not my thing, that’s why I always stop you,” He nodded, confused.
I took a deep breath, trying to quiet the butterflies in my stomach.
“I need to lose control, to hand it over to you, but it doesn’t work if I know that you will respect my limits, that you will not hurt me, that you will restrict yourself to what you know I want,” he nodded. “That’s what I mean when I say that I don’t want it safe, sane, or even consensual.”
His cock, under the sheets had risen to the occasion; I slid my hand over his firm belly, down to where his, now erect, member joined the black curls that adorned him; I felt its pulsing between my fingers. He loved this as much as I feared it.
“You can do anything you want to me; I will do anything you want me to; if I don’t, make me.”
Before he could say anything I silenced him with my finger. I slid the sheets off his body and crawled towards his massively erect cock.
“I know you want it,” I said before I wrapped my lips around the bulbous head.
“We could try that for a month or so,” he said, “see how you like it.”
I took my mouth off his member for a moment, “No, that would still give me control and I would chicken out after the month was over. No. It must be forever; until you don’t want me anymore.”
I returned his cock to my mouth; it had grown even larger, it seemed. I took him as deep as I could; the head hit the back of my throat, making me gag for a moment. I could not take him deeper, not in this position. Not that I ever took him any deeper; although I felt that this would change soon, perhaps not tonight, but soon.
His hands moved to my head, playing gently with my long, light brown hair, as I bobbed up and down on his shaft.
“As you wish,” he said in a hoarse voice.
I licked up and down his shaft, cupping his balls in my hand, slobbering my love and devotion all over him. I felt the moisture welling in my pussy. I was still wearing my nightgown; I wondered if I should stop what I was doing to remove it but the vibrations coming from his cock, and the humping from his hips, suggested otherwise. His eruption in my mouth came as a surprise; I had never before let him come in my mouth. Gobs and gobs of sperm filled my mouth. I kept it all, fighting the urge to retch. When he was done, I released his cock and, not spilling a drop, knelt back on my heels, my mouth open, and swallowed the whole thing.
Another first.

2
It had to be on a weekend of course. The townhome in the city was totally inadequate for my plans. For one thing, there was a citizen’s crime watch, which really means a patrol of nosy neighbors that would not react kindly to a woman’s screams in the middle of the night. No, that just would not do.
I had to prepare everything. Later on, I would let Richard handle all the details; that would surely add to the excitement, the anticipation. Not this time; this time I had to do it myself. Not only that but my preparations had to clearly show him that I meant what I said, that all limits were off, that I was his to do as he wanted.
As soon as I got to work I requested the next week off; in case I needed the time to heal from, whatever. I e-mailed Richard a copy of the request, to let him know I was serious. At lunch I started to assemble the required tools.
A good thing about Texas, you can find a tackle store anywhere, and no one thinks twice if you ask for a bullwhip, or a crop. They assume you want to ride a horse, or practice with the whip. If you ask for a length of rope, they assume it’s for a lariat. If you ask for leather cords, they are for your saddle.
Thus, no one asked any questions of me, when I bought all the necessary implements. I wore a short, bouncy, pink skirt and a white cowgirl blouse while doing the shopping. To my surprise, when I visited the restroom, the crotch of my lacy pink panties was sopping wet. I discarded it in the stall and went commando the rest of the day.
The workweek dragged by, slowly. My mind raced to whatever would happen in the weekend. I did not know what to expect and Richard, on purpose, did not tell me anything. I wondered if he went on his own shopping spree, but dared not ask him.
Friday evening finally arrived and I left work early. My purchases loaded on my pickup truck, I drove to the ranch we had in the hill country, outside San Antonio. I seldom went there, it was more of a hunting refuge for Richard, however we kept it fully stocked with the necessities (mostly liquor and wine) of a civilized life.
Richard would not be in for at least another two hours so I had time to prepare everything.
I went to the semi-basement den, where we kept the billiards table, foosball, home theater and other toys. In the middle of the room there was a long coffee table made of rustic wood. It would do perfectly, I imagined, until we came up with something else.
I placed the leather thongs, around each leg of the table, ready to tie wrists, knees, or ankles, as needed; a folded blanket would provide some necessary padding.
I laid the crop, bullwhip and cane on the billiards table. Wafts of my own musk reached my nostrils as I was setting things out. My hands trembled in fear of what was to come but also in excitement of what would be a fantasy, fulfilled; I hoped. It was not just being bound and whipped, of course; there were other things, things I’ve always feared to do, or to have done. Things that I feared, and wished too, that were done to me. I thought about those things as I placed a small container of Vaseline beside the three instruments. I would not tell Richard what those things were, but I hoped, no, I was sure the open jar of thick lubricant would signal permission, if not request.
I drew a bath, dropping some aromatic salts in the tub; the scent of eucalyptus and orange filling the bathroom. I soaked in the tub for a long time; almost too long. I took a look at myself in the mirror and decided to shave off my neat little landing strip. If I was turning a new page, it would be with a whole new me.  The landing strip yielded to the razor easily; I did a quick inspection to make sure there were no stray hairs left. I did not wear any perfume; I relied on my own musk to provide any olfactory titillation needed.
I put on a black, see through, strapless, bustier garter, matching thigh high hose, and lacy thong. The thong left my creamy ass cheeks exposed, neatly framed, under the bustier, and between the garters; a fitting target for the instruments I laid out in the basement. I put on my strongest, waterproof mascara; at some other time, I would want to wear mascara that will run under my tears; tonight was not that time.
I heard his truck on the gravel. By the time he opened the front door, dashingly handsome in his Stetson, ranch jacket and jeans; I awaited him, in the living room, offering him a glass full of Maker’s Mark and ice.
He kissed me, his lips crushing mine with a passion we had almost forgotten. He took the proffered drink with one hand, mine with the other. I led him to the basement door but followed him down. I noted that he carried a paper sack with him, contents unknown.
His lips pursed in a silent whistle when he saw the instruments lined up on the billiards table, his mouth widening into a, slightly sick, smile. He placed his bag beside the instruments.
“We might not have time for all of these tonight,” he said.
“We have all weekend,” I said, draping my submissive body on the coffee table.
He tied my wrists, arms, knees and thighs to the legs of the table. I saw him walk up to the bag and get something from the inside; a ball gag. Suddenly this did not seem like a good idea anymore. I wanted to tell him to stop, that I did not want this to continue but, to my surprise, I restrained myself. Besides, he might have ignored my desires anyway; I told him to.
“I don’t want to hear you scream too much, not tonight,” he said.
Then he said, “Open up.”
Once immobilized and rendered mute, he picked up the bullwhip. He let the thin end of the tapering braided leather trail over my face. I kissed the leather strip at its end.
“Let’s start with a few cuts to that delectable ass of yours.”
His words sounded slurred, not by the whiskey, he could drink way more than that and not feel it, more likely by his own excitement.
He cracked the whip on the air a few times, experimentally. I screamed every time, although it probably sounded more like a moan through my ball gag.
I sensed rather than saw when he was ready to strike the first time.
“I think twenty is a reasonable number,” he said, to no one in particular.
Crack! The sonic boom of the bullwhip reached my ears a fraction of a second before a stripe of fire cut through the flesh of my ass. I screamed into the gag.
“Annannas! Annannas!”
My old safe word, rendered useless, by my own design.
Crack! A new line of fire crossed the old fading one. I tried to struggle, to get free of my bonds, to, at least, rub my ass. It was useless; he tied good knots.
He also took his time, allowing the pain of each cut to peak, and recede, before the next strike. Tears joined my screams of agony to no avail. Sweat covered my skin and beads of the salty liquid burned my eyes when I shook my head in panic. My fists clutched at the old shag carpet with every stroke of the whip. One of my fingernails snapped during my desperate clawing.
He paused, after the tenth stroke, to drink; I heard the ice tinkling in his glass. I felt the air-conditioned air cooling on my skin, while my ass burned. I took a deep breath, and smelled myself. Startled, I sniffed the air cautiously and, indeed, there was a faint odor, the same that permeated my panties, after one such fantasy. The air was also cold in my snatch, where moisture trickled, hesitantly, out of my tunnel. I heard him putting down the glass and braced myself for the next round.
If I had not been gagged I might have screamed the walls down, by the time he was done. He let me calm down; he let the fires on my ass cheeks subside, before releasing me from the table and helping me to my feet. He did not remove the gag, not yet. He took a lariat out of the bag and draped the lasso over my neck, tightening it slightly, but not enough to hinder my breathing. I worried at this, this could be dangerous, but I did trust him. He tied my hands behind my back with a length of leather. I tried to free them and couldn’t. The leather bonds felt good on my wrists.
He led me to a full length mirror on the wall and turned me around. The sight of my ass, covered in angry red welts shook me so much I almost fell to the floor, and would have, had he not held me up. At the same time, inside me, my organs squirmed, moisture welling; my pelvis rocked, once, of its own accord.
He released the garters from the hose and opened my bustier.
“We’ll do your breasts next.”
After the experience I’d just gone through, the thought of the whip on my breasts was unbearable; I shook my head, but he ignored me. He led me by the lariat on my neck to the table. I felt proud of him.
I sat down at the edge of the table and laid on my back on it; my C cup breasts exposed, falling slightly to my sides, crowned by the pink nipples that stood erect, whether from the cold air conditioning, or due to something else, I could not say. He fastened my arms and elbows to the table legs, and did likewise with my ankles. The heaviness on my pelvis, the heat inside me was like nothing I’d ever felt. I began to shiver; not from the cold.
He took a wide belt and put it around my waist, binding me, even more tightly to the coffee table.
I looked at him wondering what he saw in my green eyes. Fear? Submission? Arousal?
All those things were there, and more too. I could open my legs, and separate my knees, and I did so, not sure why; a new whiff of musk rewarded my effort. I wondered if he could smell it too. I could see him now, from this new position, and could tell he was erect, inside his jeans. He kept rolling his back and his hips, trying to adjust his jeans around his erect cock.
“Let’s use the cane this time.”
I was grateful he did not use the whip on my breasts. I shouldn’t have.
“It will be more painful this way.”
It was.
The cane cut like a knife. It swished through the air, to crack against my soft orbs. While the noise of the whip, the supersonic crack would hit my ears milliseconds before the whip cut my flesh, with the cane, the only sound was the cane cutting into my flesh, and being more rigid than the soft pliable whip, it cut deeper.
My head banged on the table, I screamed like a banshee with a gag on; I shook my head, eyes screwed shut as, one after another, in an irregular, interminable cadence, the cane cut into my boobs, once and again; first the right, then the left, then again the right, or left. I could not predict which breast would be the target of the cruel rod, nor how long between strokes.
That’s not entirely true; I could predict, to an extent. When the pain began to ebb, when the reverberations of the last cut began to subside on my chest, that’s when the next one would fall. That’s when my muted screams would join my whimpers.
Until it was over.
 I did not notice it had ended for a while. I just lay back there and cried, and moaned wordlessly; always expecting the next cut of the cane. Not until I felt his fingers undoing my bonds I realized this ordeal had ended. When he showed me, in the mirror, the latticework that replaced my formerly soft, rounded breasts, I covered my eyes, perhaps because it hurt to see them shredded like that, or perhaps I just wanted to hide my arousal. I felt the heat, the gushing inside me; I needed him, bad.
He kissed my ears, “Tomorrow, we will do your pussy.”
I shook like a leaf, terrified.
He led me to the billiard table, bent me over it, tender breasts crushed against the green fabric, my arms, unbound, draped over the felt. He caressed my back, as yet unsullied by whip or cane; he caressed my ass, still tender from its whipping. I felt his lips on my ass cheeks.
I felt his finger, coated in Vaseline, against my puckered rear. My fingers clawed with need at the green fabric. I felt the sphincter clench, automatically, against the intrusion. I forced it to relax while in my ears I heard his husky voice:
“Let it happen, relax.”
I knew it would happen today, this entry, that I always refused, and that he always wanted. He would take it tonight. His finger probed deeper, and I tried to relax, welcoming it. I wanted to whisper a word of acceptance, just to say: “Do it” but the gag still silenced me. Why did he keep it there? It was no longer necessary.
A second finger joined the first with my asshole stretching to accommodate its entrance; the discomfort was tolerable. I brought one hand down, to reach my slick pussy, to touch the little pearl. The new spasms of pleasure distracted me so that I only noticed the third finger when it was already in.
It hurt.
He moved his hand, his fingers going in circles inside me. It hurt. I whimpered into my gag. His heavy breathing on my ears, his movements, more rapid; all indicated that the climax of the event was rapidly approaching. His hand came out.
“Hold your ass open,” he rasped.
My cheeks burning with humiliation I held myself open to be violated, there. I felt the head of his cock, at my bud, demanding entrance. I clenched tight again, involuntarily. His cock pushed harder.
The gag was necessary after all.
My eyes screwed shut, I screamed as much as the gag allowed me to. He pushed harder, until the bulbous tip forced my muscle open. I squealed harder as he ripped my ass apart. His hands fell on my hip bones.
Here it comes.
He held on to my hips and gave a mighty push, shoving his whole length into my tortured rectum. I may have passed out, or not.
I felt his fullness inside me, the cramps in my sphincter matched by those in my gut. I felt his hairs against my anus and his pubic bone against my ass. He was all the way inside me; so tight. I inhaled. The worst was over.
It wasn’t.
He began to pull out. I felt my guts following him, I screamed into the gag; he was pulling my guts inside out; and then, he thrust himself inside me, and I screamed once more. Now he began to pound into my ass in earnest. Tears jumped out of my eyes, as he had his way with my bottom. I had no choice but to lie there, draped over the billiard table, clawing at the fabric, and take it. And that’s what I did; I took the pounding, the shredding of my anus, until the pace of his thrusts, and the energy of his movements announced that he was about to climax.
When I felt the first squirts of his hot semen spilling into my rectum something happened. Like a light being turned on or a curtain pulled, I felt different. I felt used, but not in a bad way. His last jerking motions squeezed the last drops of semen out of his cock; what I felt, at that moment, could only be called pride.
There was pride mixing with the pain from every cut of the crop on my buttocks, there was pride melding with the agony of my lacerated breasts scraping the fabric on the table, and there was pride with every spasm of my torn sphincter and every thrust of his cock in my dark tunnel.
Yes; there was pride too when, come spilling from my rear hole, I knelt on the floor, in front of him, removed the gag and, unbidden, took his shrinking cock between my lips and cleaned off his penis with my lips and tongue, tasting his sperm mixed with the contents of my rear entry. I felt so humiliated, sucking on his cock that had just come out of my poop hole and, at the same time, so elated that I had done so, and would do so, so many times in the future.
Tomorrow, it would be my pussy.

I felt no anxiety about tomorrow and what he was going to do to my pussy. None whatsoever. He would do with me as he wanted, and I would endure it; I would have no choice.
Later, in bed, my ass still throbbed in pain, and my breasts and ass were still sore, but I held his hand against my lacerated boobs and pressed my tender ass into his groin, just to feel his cock, growing again between my thighs. When the head pressed against my lips, demanding entry, I separated my thighs to admit him.
“Don’t you want to use the other way?” I boldly asked.
He kissed my earlobe, “We won’t be able to use this tomorrow; I want to take advantage of it tonight.”
Not even then did I worry. I had no fear of being unable to endure it; he would just tie and gag me, and then do what he willed.
His cock penetrated my sopping pussy; I brought his other hand against my breasts and, with my fingers, encouraged him to squeeze them. The pain from my mistreated boobs joined the slick pleasure of his cock, sliding into my sheath melding into a red wave of arousal; into a volcano spouting lava inside my pelvis.
I labored for breath, pushing back against his cock. He thrust harder. I squeezed his hands and he crushed my breasts his fingers digging into the meat of my boobs. Jealousy. I felt jealousy at myself, at my own body that found pleasure in its own ravishing. My body betrayed me, instead of me, giving pleasure, I found myself taking it, reveling in it, erupting like a volcano, screaming with a release that should not have been, a blinding orgasm that I’d never felt before.
I turned around in the bed, facing him; he, straddling my hips, his cock, now flaccid, dripping his come on my mons. I brought his hands again to hold my breasts. His smile told me how much he was enjoying this.
“Squeeze them.”
He did, and I squealed in a mixture of pain from my chest and a new wave of heat from my innards.
“Crush them,” I asked, more urgently.
The pain was exquisite, the heat in my loins, unbearable.
“More.”
He stepped up, off me and left the room. He returned, only moments later; in his hand, a yard size ruler from the office. He smiled at me, his teeth shining wickedly in the dim light.
I held my breasts up for him.


3

They stared back at me, black and blue, from the mirror, in the morning; so big that I could not fit them into a bra. I decided to go bra-less for the day, although that was not such a good idea; my nipples, made even more sensitive by the abuse they’d endured, rubbed against my shirt adding to my arousal the whole day.
I knew, that day, what it was to feel horny, nonstop.  My pussy remained wet the whole day, a new squirt of juice sliding between my nether lips with every rub of my nipples, with every pain filled jiggle of my boobs.
All through the day, at my request, Richard kept the crop or the ruler handy. At random times he would use it on my buttocks or breasts. Since I wore a short bouncy cotton skirt and blouse, the strokes would not be as cruel as they would have, had I been nude, still they stung quite a bit. Sometimes I could not help but to try to protect my sore ass or boobies with my hands. Then, not only would I get a hard whack on my hands, but I would have to uncover the intended recipient of the stroke, breasts or ass, and receive two cuts of the crop or ruler on its proper target.
My pussy was dripping so much I had to put a towel under my bottom when sitting down, if I did not want to ruin the furniture’s fabric.
By the evening, I could come, with just a breath of air hitting my clitoris. I could not take it anymore.
I knelt in front of him, undoing his pants and taking his semi-erect cock out of his shorts. Breathless, I sucked it into my mouth. He watched me, amazed at the slut his prim wife had become.
I felt him growing inside my mouth, his glans filling me, as I tried to devour his length. I gagged only once when the tip of his cock passed beyond my tonsils. I embraced his pelvis with my arms and impaled my throat with his throbbing member. I could not breathe, embedded on his tool, so I timed my breaths, with my bobs, feeling him thicker and longer with each successive entry. His heavy balls bounced against my chin and his pubic bone ground against my nose. I sucked and slurped all over his length, feeling the ridges of his veins with my tongue.
He pulled me off.
I, kneeling back on my heels, looked up at him.
“Let’s do it now,” he said.
Fear hit me, like a leaden ball in my guts. I stood up, pussy dripping slime, and preceded him to the basement.
On the coffee table, I draped my body, on my back.  I began to shiver.
He fastened my arms to the legs of the table, and placed a tight belt around my waist.
I waited to see what he would do to hold my legs open. He had me bend my knees until he could tie each ankle to its thigh, and then he bent my thighs back, trussing me, like a turkey, with a long, thin leather strap that went from one knee, under the table, and up to the other. Once he was done, my pussy was completely exposed, and I was unable to protect it in any way. The cool air of the air conditioned room felt frigid against my wet labia. I licked my dry lips.
He approached me with a bottle of cold water and let me drink from it with a straw. It was not easy to drink, trussed up as I was, but I managed to, only choking once.
“Please gag me,” I asked when I was done drinking.
“Not today,” he brought the crop to my lips.
The leather slid over my soft lips sensuously. I kissed it, as if it were my husband’s fingers. Indeed, that is what it was, an extension of his hands, or of his penis.
He kissed my lips with his own.
“Today, you will scream for me.”
He stood, at the bottom of the table, his crop sliding, teasing, between my pussy lips. I felt the love oils seeping between the velvet curtains. I closed my eyes.
My pussy exploded. I screamed; the pain exploded out from the center of my being, radiating like the light of a thousand suns; it reached my brain in throbbing waves. I tried to breathe, to take in air, but my lungs would not obey, my mouth was open, but no air, or sound, moved in or out. I desperately fought for breath, until it reluctantly came, and I could scream again.
He waited for me to calm down, for the pain to turn into scorching heat, for my tears to reach the surface of the table, before striking again.
My body jumped up, straining against the bonds that held it fast; my mouth, open, shrieked, in vain, and my head tossed and banged against the table.
Yes, I screamed for him, I shrieked for him, I cried for him; until I was hoarse, until no sound came anymore out of my tortured throat, until I no longer pleaded for mercy.
He turned me around and, once more, sated his need in my ass and, once again, between my tears, I felt pride. We would do this again; I was sure. Many times.



The End.