Last night, a great thing happened: I received my contributor copies of She Who Must Be Obeyed: Femme Dominant Erotica, D.L. King's latest anthology. Basically, anything I planned to do last evening got put on hold. No gym. No extra writing.
I'm not always so hot and ready for an anthology. Was it that cover (reminiscent to me of a kind of lost hippie girl that I'm, sadly, never going to get to meet)? Or was it the memory of how hot I got writing my story, and the expectation of 20 more like it...? Yeah, probably the second one—let's be honest. This concept is a rare and special one, and it's really up my alley, and it's not every day that there's a whole book about something so wonderfully... specific.
I petted the book all evening and even managed to read it. Maybe I petted myself, too.
OK, now I'm going to stop reminiscing and give you an excerpt. I'm going to post the opening of my story, "Evelyn Gets Ready." Often, when I write, I've got a big philosophical idea—not so much here. This time, I was remembering how turned on I got the first time I went to a BDSM con and attended a workshop on "objectification," without quite knowing what that meant (Thank you for enlightening me, Percy). I remember sitting on the floor at my partner's feet, shifting uncomfortably, stunned in that way that happens when you discover you're really into something you didn't know you were into.
Writing this story extended that thrill and horror of discovery. Last year, I had quite a crisis as far as my sexual identity. It would take a long, long time to explain all the ins and outs of it, but it was both delicious and difficult, and there are a few things I wrote in the thick of it that still carry those feelings for me. This is one of them. Heated Leather Lover is another. Untouched is a third.
But let me not distract myself. Today, I'm here to celebrate She Who Must Be Obeyed. (And how much I love that the title actually includes the period. Statement made. Full stop.) Without further ado, here's the intro to "Evelyn Gets Ready":
When Evelyn gets ready, it takes an army. Saturday night, the first time I was included in her entourage, she left instructions for me with Beau, her "concierge" and date for the evening. Dressed in a pinstripe suit, Beau met me at the front door of Evelyn's modest but lavishly decorated two-story home. "The safeword tonight is 'red.' She wants you to be the makeup table."
"A table?" I echoed, blinking. I'd been ready for "foot servicer" or even "mirror holder," but being an inanimate object hadn't really been on my personal menu.
I glanced down at my own suit, thinking about how carefully I'd gotten ready, slicking down my hair, packing something special for Evelyn. The table idea made me feel a little affronted. Beau was handsome, sure, with sweet, baby-blue eyes that promised plenty of favors, but I couldn't help sizing her up. I clocked more hours at the gym, had a couple inches on her, and felt a lot of confidence in my ability to handle a cock. I managed not to ask why she got to be the date while I got stuck being the table, but just barely.
Beau clapped me on the arm. "You're a strapping young butch with a broad back, Al. She wants to see how strong you are." I didn't miss the way Beau said she—the word carried the full force of Evelyn's fearsome femininity, but was also laced with enough proprietary intimacy to rub in the fact that Beau, not I, would play the part of Boi Charming that evening.
I ducked my head and nodded. I may not have known how exactly I could be a makeup table, but I wasn't about to lose my shot at being part of Evelyn's preparation. The club night we were supposedly getting her ready for was only a victory lap for her—everyone knew the real party was right here, right now.
"Rita will take care of setting you up," Beau told me before leaving the foyer, straightening her cravat as she went.
Rita showed up seconds later, an elegant, curvaceous brunette who would have made my mouth water if not for the thought of Evelyn. She led me to a room with no furnishings aside from a floor lamp, a thick, soft carpet, velvet wall hangings, for God's sake, and gold and crystal chandeliers. I hadn't thought real people actually liked stuff like that.
Catching my glance toward the lamp, Rita grinned, giving me a glimpse of the white teeth and delicately pointed tongue behind her full, pinup-red lips. "Be glad she didn't cast you as the lamp tonight." Her appraising stare caressed up and down each of my arms. I succumbed to ego and flexed under her scrutiny. "You might have the muscle to hold your arms out straight for her for three or so hours, but as a table, you'll be closer to the action."
Rita stepped toward me, and her perfume flooded my senses with the burnt-sugar bite of my favorite liqueur-laced dessert. She landed one impossibly soft hand on my arm. The more she looked at me with her big, brown eyes, which were passionate and warm despite the metallic colors that glittered on her face around them, the more I started to think that maybe Evelyn wasn't the main event after all. Rita was getting me achingly hard, making me constantly aware of my favorite cock lying against my thigh.
As if sensing the turn my thoughts had taken, Rita rewarded me with another slow, sly smile. Her fingers tightened on my arm. "As the table, you'll have to be good for me, because I'm the makeup girl."
The book is on sale now in paperback, and I'm told a Kindle edition is on the way in August.
In the meantime, if you can't get enough of this book, D.L. King has started a tumblr for it. You can read plenty of excerpts there.