A Review of Knife’s Edge: Kinky Lesbian Erotica by Emily Byrne

Byrne is capable of blending a dizzying number of kink fantasy elements into powerfully hot stories with a strong sense of character.

Emily Byrne’s kinky lesbian erotica collection opens hot and strong with “Reunion at St. Mary’s,” an absolutely scorching story that combines a dizzying number of fantasy elements in a group sex scene that keeps me gasping for pages on end. (Nuns, spanking, and the girls’ hockey team are somehow just the beginning of this fantasy.) I’ve read the story before, but that doesn’t diminish its power in the least. This particular fantasy could heat me up for many nights on end without abatement.

So while reading it, my main question was where Byrne could possibly go from there. I worried that this book couldn’t maintain this sort of pace, and wouldn’t be able to fulfill the promise of that first story. I was afraid the next eleven stories would seem pale in comparison to this particular filthy, kinky gem.

Byrne, however, is very wise with pacing and variety throughout the book. After “Reunion at St. Mary’s,” she showcases other strengths of her writing. “Arachne” in particular relies on gorgeous language, strong characterization, and a particularly creative mythological retelling to hold its own after the unrelenting heat of “Reunion.” Another story, “The Hands of a Princess,” appeals through humor and a strong plot—while still being quite kinky in its own right.

But, wonder of wonders, Byrne has more delicious group sex scenes up her sleeve. Knife’s Edge doles these out just when the reader has cooled off from the last one. As a result, they hit every time, and Byrne’s particular facility with this sort of scene makes each one feel fresh and sexy in its own way.

Knife’s Edge reads well from beginning to end, but for the reader who wants to know which group sex stories deserve special attention, check out “El Tigre” and “Cowgirls and Science” after you finish “Reunion.”

Part of what held my attention throughout Knife’s Edge was that, between the hot sex scenes, there’s a lot of intriguing character and worldbuilding. More stories than I expected have speculative elements. I particularly enjoyed the lesbian vampires of “El Tigre,” which were a fresh take on a heavily played trope, and the warrior women of “The Hands of a Princess.” (Note to Emily Byrne: I could read a whole book set in that world. In particular, I’d love to know what Eriel gets up to in her spare time… Just saying.)

The back half of Knife’s Edge consists of stories set in the contemporary world. Instead of building new worlds and settings, Byrne opts for deep explorations of the psychology behind her main characters. Particular standouts include “D is for Denial” and “Polar Vortex.” “D is for Denial” explores the sexiness of the buildup between two characters and the power rush of not giving a love interest what they clearly want—while also speaking in a moving way about the fears that can drive a game like that as well. “Polar Vortex” is a poignant scene between two lovers who seem on the verge of a split, and raises the question of whether a powerful moment of trust and intimacy can turn a relationship around.

I tensed up while reading a couple of stories—”Planet 10” and “Lovely Rita, Meter Maid.” In both cases, the story is very concerned with a fetish in a way that I felt had the potential to be dehumanizing. For example, in “Planet 10,” the main character really wants to have sex with a member of a particular alien race, which for me resonated uncomfortably with my lived experience of lovers fetishizing elements of my racial heritage. Byrne, however, seems aware of the situation. In both stories, the object of desire asks at one point why the main character is interested in her specifically, and the main character is forced to recognize the insult implicit in this sort of nonspecific desire. “Planet 10” ultimately gives a science fictional explanation for why sex would happen anyway (and extracts a high price from the main character). “Lovely Rita” handles this with a complementary fetish. By the end of both stories, I was mollified, though I couldn’t really relax enough to be turned on.

Knife’s Edge contains a few weaker entries. While I was very excited about the setting and circumstances of “On the Spanish Main” (boats!), the character development in that story felt thin. “An Incident in Whitechapel” is historically rich, very sexy, and full of fascinating psychology and obsession, but in the end felt a bit obscure to me (basically, I couldn’t understand the conclusion). However, I wouldn’t let a bit of unrealized potential deny me a book full of sexy, fascinating goodness.

Overall, this book is a powerhouse, packed with heat and plenty to keep you entertained—and also some moments of deep feeling and insight.

You can pick up Knife's Edge at the publisher's website here, on Amazon, and elsewhere.

Vital stats:

Title: Knife's Edge: Kinky Lesbian Erotica

Author: Emily L. Byrne

Publisher: Queen of Swords Press

Release Date: April 12, 2017

Number of Stories: 12

Page Count: 147

Price: $2.99

(I won a copy of Knife's Edge in a giveaway.)

Me, On Safewords and Edges

Right now at Oh Get a Grip, our topic is edges. I wrote about my experience of using safewords in BDSM, and the realization that finding the "right time" to use one isn't nearly as precise as it sounds.

An edge sounds like a line, a clear point. You’re on the cliff, or you’re falling off it. You’re in Florida, or you’ve crossed into Georgia.

But in my experience, borders are not nearly that clear. I think my edges in BDSM work more like beaches than guard rails. At what point are you on the sand or in the water? There’s a transition process. There’s water that seems shallow until the tide suddenly comes in. There are stretches of beach where you can walk a long way out “into the water” but somehow never get more than calf deep.

So, I don’t want to be in the water to the point that I drown or am otherwise harmed, obviously, but I do want to be in the water. It’s not necessarily easy to figure out how much water is too much water. Knee deep? Waist deep? Chest deep? Do I want to dip my head under for a few seconds?

And an ocean doesn’t just sit still and wait for me to figure that out. Neither does a BDSM situation.

If you'd like to read the rest, you can find it here.

From a Friend: Damned If You Do

I like where Lisabet Sarai's work has been going lately. She's always written intensely emotional BDSM, and her writing has always been filled with raw sexual honesty. Lately, though, I feel like there's a new spark in her stories, that she's going deeper into what interests her psychologically. In many cases, those things really hit home to me as a writer, and this newest book sounds like no exception. Lisabet provided me with a wealth of info about Damned If You Do, her new contemporary BDSM retelling of Faust. (By the way, this is genius! What with contracts being part of the mythology, this seems like a very natural fit with the BDSM romance genre.)

If you're like, yes, cool, but Lisabet's work is an auto-buy for me, so I already know I want it, you can find the book here. Otherwise, you'll get another chance when you read to the end. There are links there, too, and information about the contest Lisabet is running!

Here's what Lisabet has to say:

Of Frustration and Temptation

Being an author is not for sissies. You pour your heart and soul into your stories. You spend hours of your scarce time and more money than you can afford on marketing. With each new release, you hope you’ll finally grab the attention of the book-buying crowd, that you’ll get the readership and the remuneration you deserve.

If that doesn’t happen (and given the number of people publishing books these days, odds are that it won’t), you’re stuck with the bitter knowledge that all your passion and effort were for nothing. This can be deeply demoralizing, even if you’re not trying to make your living as an author. If you depend on your writing to pay your bills, you’ve got financial anxiety added to your frustration.

I know this frustration only too well. My books receive consistent five star reviews, but somehow I’ve never been a commercial success. Thus, Damned If You Do is a rather personal story.

What would I do if I could magically turn my books into best sellers? How much would that be worth to me? That’s the question my romance author heroine faces when a mysterious stranger shows up waving a contract and promising her fame and fortune, sensual pleasure and the fulfillment of her most secret desires.

All he asks in return is her soul.

Crazy. Dangerous, maybe. But so, so tempting!

Here's a description of the story:

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

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

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

Here's a taste of it:

The limo deposited her in front of her little house and floated away. A bit weary from the lengthy ordeal at the salon, Wendy almost tripped over the figure sitting on her front steps.

“Dan! What are you doing here?”

Her agent looked rumpled and haggard. He didn’t even bother to stand, though his eyes were hungry as he surveyed her.

“You don’t answer my calls. You ignore my emails. I figured the only way I could get through to you was to show up at your door.”

“Emails? I haven’t heard from you in months! I figured you were mad at me…”

“Every day, Wendy. I’ve sent you a message every single day. I’ve called again and again. That damned personal assistant of yours answers every time.” He rose to his feet finally, looking around with a scowl. “Where is the bastard, anyway?”

“I—um—I’m not sure. I think he’s doing some errands.” She rummaged in her bag for her key. “Come inside. We’ll talk.”

“No. You come with me.” He grabbed her sleeve, pulling her down the walkway toward a gray Taurus with a Steelers Rent-a-Car decal parked across the street. “You’ve got to get away from that guy. He’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous? What are you talking about? He’s been great for my career.”

Dan grabbed her shoulders and shook her, hard. “Wake up, Wendy! He’s got you under some kind of spell. You’ve become a totally different person.”

She tore herself free. “Yeah, I have. Instead of being a loser, I’m finally a successful author.”

“You’ve cut yourself off from everyone. I got an email from Jenna the other day. You do remember Jenna, right? Your old friend Jenna Martin? She was worried. Said she hadn’t been able to get in touch for weeks.”

Jenna. How odd. Wendy hadn’t even thought about her, not since that afternoon in the coffee shop when her crit partner sent the link about Sapphire Sands. The afternoon Mister B had come into her life. In the old days, they communicated nearly every day.

“I’ve been busy. Busy writing.”

“Is that all you’ve been doing? That slimy character Bent loves to suggest you two have been involved in other activities…”

She tried to take his arm. He shook her off. “Please, Dan, calm down. I’m fine. I’ve finally found my writing groove. Everything is going great.” She flashed him what she hoped was a charming smile. “I’m going to be on the Breakfast in America show later this week.”

“I wondered why you were all gussied up.” His bitter tone made her wince.

“You should be happy for me. After all, I’m making plenty of money for you, too!”

“Forget about money for once. What about feelings?” He grabbed her with both hands, pulled her close and held her tight against his body.

Here's where you can buy the book:

Buy Links (Ebook and Print)

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Barnes & Noble

Kobo

Excessica

Goodreads

(Other booksellers coming soon.)

And Lisabet is giving away some prizes!

I will be giving away three $10 bookstore gift certificates during my release blitz, and three free ebook copies of my BDSM erotic romance The Gazillionaire and the Virgin. I will also give a $5 GC to a randomly selected host. The blitz ends June 1st.

To enter, readers must:

Sign up for my VIP email list: https://signup.ymlp.com/xgjjhmhugmgh

AND/OR:

Leave a comment with their email address on my release day announcement page: http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2017/04/out-today-damned-if-you-do-bdsm-pnr.html

About Lisabet:

LISABET SARAI occasionally tackles other genres, but BDSM will always be her first love. Every one of her nine novels includes some element of power exchange, while her D/s short stories range from mildly kinky to intensely perverse.

You’ll find information and excerpts from all Lisabet’s books on her website, along with more than fifty free stories and lots more. At her blog Beyond Romance, she shares her philosophy and her news and hosts lots of other great authors. She’s also on Goodreads and finally, on Twitter.

Free Erotica: Right Message, Wrong Man, Final Chapter

Forbidden Fiction is currently serializing my story "Right Message, Wrong Man" on their website, and the last chapter goes up today. This is your last chance to read it free—after this week, the story goes back behind the paywall.

Be sure to keep an eye on their free erotica section, though. It's a great way to sample a writer's work, and FF tends to keep a rotation of a diverse set of stories. The work they publish leans dark, the publisher has high literary standards, and if that's your thing this is a great place to find it.

If you'd like to see more of my work with them, they published a collection of dark fantasy erotica from me called Liquid Longing.

Free Erotica: Right Message, Wrong Man, Chapter 2

Just a quick reminder that chapter two of "Right Message, Wrong Man" is going up on the Forbidden Fiction site today. It's available to read for free for a limited time.

Here's the blurb:

Lila texted a come-on to her sometimes hook-up Jason, but instead it wound up going to her boss, Jaron. Afraid to upset her sadistic superior, Lila follows through when he responds with excitement, only to discover that Jaron knows how to hurt her in exactly the way that she needs. (M/F)

You can find more information here.

Free Erotica: Right Message, Wrong Man

I always liked mistaken identity stories, and a few years back, for a story I wrote called "Right Message, Wrong Man," I got the idea to play with an intense one. Here's the setup:

I’m in the neighborhood, I texted Jason. Can I come over? I want to get that big cock down my throat.

He wasn’t my boyfriend, by his choice, not mine. He was willing to hook up when I was horny, so long as he didn’t have anyone else over, and about three times a year, I’d get lonely enough to take that raw deal.

Tonight I just needed someone’s body touching mine. Work had been hell. My boss, Jaron, had ridden me like a show pony all damn day. If it took more than five minutes for me to answer an e-mail, he accused me of reading Internet gossip sites instead of doing my work. At the daily meeting, he threw me under the bus for a project I hadn’t been able to finish because of documents I needed from him. Asshole.

By the time 7 p.m. rolled around and it felt safe to leave—as in, enough other people had left that I wouldn’t be branded a slacker for going home—my shoulders had attached themselves to my ears, my stomach churned, and I desperately needed relief. I couldn’t afford massages or acupuncture. So I went home, threw on a short black skirt and pulled the bra out from under my red camisole, and texted Jason.

My nerves had me so edgy, I couldn’t sit still, so I worked the phone with one hand while balancing on one foot in the foyer, strapping on my sandals with the other hand. I started walking toward Jason’s neighborhood, figuring I ought to support my “in the neighborhood” lie. My dignity hung on how casually I could play this.

I kept having to consciously slow down my pace, because I didn’t want to get to Jason’s place looking sweaty and desperate. The phone buzzed in my purse with a return text, and I sighed loudly enough that a couple walking past turned and rolled their eyes at me. Fishing the phone out, I leaned against the window of a Chinese restaurant and squinted at the tiny screen (yeah, I was rocking a flip phone). Would Jason condescend to fuck me, or did he have a better offer?

This is… unexpected, the reply text said. Too soon for my place. If you want to meet at Crema, we can see what we can negotiate for my cock and your mouth in the alley out back.

I had to read it a few times. Crema? That wasn’t Jason’s neighborhood. That was some fancy neighborhood overlooking the river. And I’d never known Jason to use complete sentences.

Can you be there in 45 minutes? Another message popped up. This time, I watched it come through, complete with a picture of the sender. A military-style buzz cut framing a chiseled face and hard black eyes. A scar notched on the side of his jaw, making him look rough despite the suit he wore. My boss, Jaron. Not my fuck buddy, Jason. I fought down the urge to hyperventilate. Until that moment, I thought the expression, “So embarrassed that she wanted to die,” was an exaggeration.

If you want to see where this goes, my publisher, Forbidden Fiction, is serializing it on their website, so you can read it for free. The first chapter's up now, and the next two will go up on the next two Saturdays. If you've got questions or comments about the story, you can leave them there—I'll be keeping an eye on that, and will be sure to answer anything you bring up.

I hope you enjoy! Please check it out here.

On Asking for What You Want When You Don’t Know What That Is

This week, I signed a contract for Best Women’s Erotica of the Year, volume two, which is a huge honor. My story is called “On Some Maps, But Not on Others,” and it’s full of a bunch of stuff I find hot and interesting and difficult.

More than anything else, it’s an attempt to articulate what it feels like to be inarticulate about something to do with sex and gender, to want things you can’t put words to, to want things when you don’t understand why you want them, to play a game of hot and cold with yourself, trying to figure out who you even are.

I’m going to show you what I mean with a couple of tiny excerpts:

"Let's keep this nice and hard for me," my girlfriend whispered. She pulled out a thinner rope this time, but if anything this one looked crueler than the first. Working deftly, she wound it around the base of Alex's cock, the flesh reddening as she did. By the time she finished, the head of his cock was purple. Alex's eyes were closed, and his lips moved as if he was praying.

Something pulsed inside me, somewhere very deep. I wasn't sure what the feeling was, but I knew I was dripping wet. I tried asking myself what I wanted or what I wished I could do. Did I want to hurt like that? Did I want to do the hurting? Did I want exactly what I had—to be able to watch? I was somewhere in this scene, but I couldn't figure out exactly how.

And here:

Gender still scares me, but now I think about it all the time. I don't know what to call myself, don't know what I am. The boundaries of my body shift and change. My cock is an island charted by sailors before Google Earth came along, appearing on some maps but not on others. My cunt is sometimes a depth, but sometimes a height. My breasts rise and fall. They curve into hills, then flatten into plains. I don't understand what gender has to do with any of this anatomy. Sometimes my cunt feels tough and masculine, ready to take any sort of abuse. Sometimes I put on my softpack and watch it tremble, so delicate in shape and color, and it feels like nothing could be girlier. Other times it seems self-evident that if I put on my cock I am playing at being a boy. Mostly, it all feels queer, in a way I'd never have had the guts to explore when I was younger.

This narrator isn’t me, and the story isn’t autobiography. I go through stuff like both of the scenes above, though, and a part of me is still surprised I was brave enough about them to enter that territory in this story. I remember a time when I learned to gather my courage to ask for what I knew I wanted sexually, and I am still proud of learning to speak for myself that way. But I’ve been in a different place the last couple years, and it feels more uncomfortable to me. Lately, I’ve been an undiscovered country even to myself. I don’t understand how I work anymore. I don’t understand the things I want. A lot of the things I think about confuse me more the more I think about them.

What this story reminds me of, though, is that this is valuable, interesting territory. It’s dangerous, but it’s “live.” It’s hot. It’s full of revelations. Sex and gender aren’t at all what I used to think they were, but that’s as exciting as it is scary.

So I’m really happy that I’ll get a chance to share this story with you. I am here for all the readers and writers who want to live at the edge of the horizon. I am so here for all of us.

It’s early yet—I don’t think this book will be out for a while—but it’s not too early to preorder. You can do that here.

(The image above belongs to Normn B. Leventhal, and is used under a Creative Commons license.)

The Many Note Challenge, Part Three

On Friday, I made up an exercise for myself: writing the same basic scene with a variety of moods. These are the last two entries in that short series, and I’ve gotten a lot out of the experience—I hope you enjoyed reading them.

Remember, If you think it would be interesting to do this, too, I invite you to participate. I kept the dialogue and specific actions very similar in mine—you could imitate that, or go your own way. Feel free to tag me on Twitter @AnnabethLeong with what you come up with. I would be so excited to see how others might present the same simple action.

And you can find out about the back story and read the other vignettes here and here.

(Image by Beverly Yuen Thompson, licensed under Creative Commons)

Five:

She pulls my arms behind my back, and instantly my mind goes blank. From the moment I saw the rope out of the corner of my eye, my worries began to drain away. I don’t need to be anything special now. I don’t even really need a name. I’m just hers. Meditation’s got nothing on this.

“You ready?” She knows how fast I drop into that wordless place. I smile, because I know the question is a bit of a tease.

To tease her back, I don’t use words to answer. I just nod.

My body knows this position. Arms behind, chest pushed forward, wrists lined up with elbows. At first, I couldn’t get into the classic, traditional shape of this, but this is my peace, my personal version of yoga. I’ve practiced a lot, so now I slide into place easily as she guides me with her hands. She pulls my head back, emphasizing the arch of my neck and spine. I feel so beautiful this way.

She begins to loop rope around my wrists. I can feel the coarseness of the fibers, but I remind myself that I don’t have to react to it. I don’t have to squirm or move at all. My breathing is slow, and I focus on making it even slower.

“Hold still,” she teases, kissing the back of my head. “I won’t get this on right if you can’t hold still.” I can hear in her voice that her eyebrow is arched and one side of her mouth quirked up.

I don’t vary my breathing or position in the slightest. I’m already a statue. It’s amazing how powerfully I can tease back without doing anything at all.

Six:

I pull her arms behind her back with a jerk, fast and sharp to force her breath from her chest. Today I feel like playing rough.

“You ready?” I growl into her ear.

She nods.

The next few seconds are about me showing her she isn’t ready. Chest forward—farther than she wants it. Arms back—higher than she instinctively goes, and then an inch higher still. I know she can take this, and today I need to make it hurt. I pull until I hear her breath catch, then freeze there, watching her realize I’m going to tie her just like this, all the way at the limit of the position her body can hold. Her eyes widen. I pinch the inside of her wrist to see if I can make her gasp, and she flings her head back. She whimpers and looks helpless, and that’s what I need. Today I want to be the predator. I want to feel big and frightening and strong.

I begin looping the rope around her wrists. I want the coarse fibers to burn, and I zip them over her skin fast enough to leave marks. She squirms in discomfort, and that makes me smile. My head rushes with the force of the power she’s giving me.

“Hold still,” I tell her, my voice heavy with ironic sweetness. The rope and I are holding her tightly enough that there’s already not much room for her to move. I kiss the back of her head. I always like that sort of gesture while I’m being vicious—it emphasizes everything about the situation. “I won’t get this on right if you can’t hold still.”

Really, I hope she moves. If she gives me an excuse to punish her right now, god knows I’ll take it. I’m not sure how hard she wants to play. I’m hoping she wants to go all the way today, like me.

***

Obviously, one could keep going basically forever. It would be interesting to do this with different gendered partners, different numbers of partners, and on and on. I hope you've enjoyed this series!

The Many Note Challenge, Part Two

I got inspired yesterday to show the same BDSM situation in a variety of moods. These are my next two vignettes, both from the perspective of the top.

Remember, If you think it would be interesting to do this, too, I invite you to participate. I’m keeping the dialogue and specific actions very similar for fun—you could imitate that, or go your own way. Feel free to tag me on Twitter @AnnabethLeong with what you come up with. I would be so excited to see how others might present the same simple action.

And you can find out about the back story and read the first two vignettes here.

(Image by Beverly Yuen Thompson, licensed under Creative Commons)

Three:

When I pull her arms behind her back, I have a moment of panic. I definitely don’t know what I’m doing. I mean, technically I do—I’ve gone through books carefully, taken classes, even practiced on her—but nothing could have prepared me for actually trying to top her. I started feeling shy the moment I picked up my rope, and when her eyes widened when she noticed it, I wanted to just drop it and run away.

“You ready?” I say into her ear, trying to imitate the toppy growl I’ve heard instructors use.

She nods.

She lets me guide her into position. It’s incredible how pliable her body is under my hands. She’s smooth as a dancer, and I get distracted worrying that I won’t lead as well as people who’ve tied her in the past. Still, she ends up mostly in the right attitude—arms behind her, chest pushed forward. She flings her head back and presses a random kiss to the side of my forehead—the spot she happens to be able to reach.

I try not to let that distract me, and begin looping rope around her wrists. She squirms, and I realize the coarse fibers are tickling her as they drag across her skin. I’m not putting rope on the back of a chair—I’m putting it on a person, my lover, someone I’m supposed to be connected to.

I pull her closer and take a deep breath. “Hold still.” I kiss the back of her head, slow this down for a moment so I can gather my thoughts. I remember that she knows me, and she knows about my experience—or lack thereof. I don’t have to pretend to be Miss Toppy Top. “I won’t get this on right if you can’t hold still,” I confess, and she doesn’t have to say anything back to make me feel her gentle, unwavering support as I go on with the tie.

Four:

I pull her arms behind her back, careful of her range of motion. I know what an act of trust it was for her to ask for this. Every takate-kote is individual, and I push down a flash of anger at the top who hurt her, the one who tried to force her unique body into position as if the rope was a cookie-cutter and she was a raw piece of rolled dough.

“You ready?” I murmur. I’m watching her carefully for signs of discomfort, my fingers light on her left shoulder joint, the one where she said she had the problem last time.

She gives me a nervous smile and nods.

I feel so protective of her. I guide her toward position, but not into position—I told her when we negotiated this that she would be the one to decide how far she wanted to stretch, but I show that, too, with the gentleness of my hands, the looseness of my grip. She pushes her chest forward, and puts her right arm all the way behind her, though I’m glad to see she doesn’t strain the elbow, letting her forearm fall into an obtuse angle. Her left arm nudges back, but not far.

She flings her head back, fixing me with a rueful stare. “It won’t be a real takate-kote,” she moans, looking ashamed.

I begin looping rope around her wrists. I let her feel the coarseness of the fibers, knowing that sometimes sensations like that can help people get out of their heads and into their bodies. “Who says it won’t be real?” I ask her. “It’s real to me. It can be to you, too, if you let it.”

She squirms.

“You feeling okay?” I ask. “You still want to do this?”

She nods again.

“Then hold still.” I kiss the back of her head to make the command as gentle as possible. “I want to be precise here, and that’ll work best if you hold still.”

***

Check back tomorrow for my last two vignettes!

The Many Note Challenge

Today, I got into a conversation on Twitter with @TGStoneButch (who writes incredible erotica under the name Xan West) about the way that representations of kink can sometimes feel one-note, as if there’s only one way to react to certain sensations and experiences.

I commented that this phenomenon feels isolating to me. As someone who always worried that my sexual reactions were “wrong,” sometimes the experience of reading kink erotica or hearing presentations at cons can make me feel alone in an environment where I had hoped to be included.

I think it’s really important to think about how the same actions might be given and received from very different perspectives.

Indeed, what kicked off that conversation was something from the Forbidden Fiction release party last night. There, I was talking about how I initially got a thrill from seeing trangressive words or actions in erotica, but that over time that faded. Now, what gets me—interested and/or aroused—is characterization and psychological intent. All of which depends on the opposite of that one-note approach.

It’s serious, important stuff, and I want to think a lot more about it. That led me to an idea for a fun exercise.

I want to show this variety of characterization and intent in action. So I’ve written a series of short snippets about the same simple activity, each one demonstrating a different mood. I’m calling it the Many Note Challenge.

The activity I’ve focused on is the tying of a takate kote—a box tie that fastens a rope bottom’s arms behind their back.

I wrote six of them. I’ll post the first two now (so I’m never showing one mood in isolation!), and then the rest over the course of the weekend. The first ones I wrote were from the bottom’s perspective, but I wound up writing an even number from the top’s as well.

If you think it would be interesting to do this, too, I invite you to participate. I’m keeping the dialogue and specific actions very similar for fun—you could imitate that, or go your own way. Feel free to tag me on Twitter @AnnabethLeong with what you come up with. I would be so excited to see how others might present the same simple action.

(Image by Beverly Yuen Thompson, licensed under Creative Commons)

One:

When she pulls my arms behind my back, I giggle. From the moment I caught sight of her rope out of the corner of my eye, I knew playtime was about to start. Just that word, playtime, makes me happy. I feel like a kid again, being just naughty enough to have a good time.

“You ready?” She purrs into my ear.

I nod.

I feel silly in the position she guides me into—arms behind me, chest pushed forward. I ham it up, flinging my head back as if I’m on the cover of an old-style romance novel and she’s ravishing me. We both giggle this time.

She begins to loop rope around my wrists. Its coarse fibers tickle me, and I squirm in her arms.

“Hold still,” she admonishes playfully, kissing the back of my head. “I won’t get this on right if you can’t hold still.”

Two:

When she pulls my arms behind my back, I drop straight into the feelings I normally pretend I don’t have. Rage. Helplessness. Rage. From the moment I caught sight of the rope out of the corner of my eye, I knew where she wanted to take me. I think I can do this today—I think I want to—but I can never quite be sure until it’s happening.

“You ready?” She whispers into my ear.

If this goes the way we both want it to, it’ll clean me out, leave me exhausted but purified, give her the feeling that she does have a way to reach the deep parts of me that I normally keep from her. If it doesn’t—well, we’ll have a long conversation ahead. Nothing we haven’t dealt with before.

“If either of us says no at any time, everything stops, right?”

We both know that, but I always have to say it.

“Of course,” she says. Her fingers tighten on my arms, and I can feel how badly she wants this.

I nod. “Go ahead.”

She guides me into position—arms back, chest forward. I already hate it. There’s a slight strain on my shoulders and an unpleasant stretch across my sternum. I fling my head back to get a big, clean breath of air as I endure it. I remind myself that I usually like what I find on the other side of a session like this.

She begins to loop rope around my wrists. The sensation of its coarse fibers gives me slight relief from the stormclouds already gathering in my head. I squirm in her arms, trying to feel more of them.

“Hold still,” she admonishes, giving the back of my head a kiss that I know is meant to show she’s not upset with me. “I won’t get this on right if you can’t hold still.”

***

That's it for today. Check back tomorrow for the next two vignettes!

Guest Post: Show Me, Sir

I know Sonni de Soto's work from the excellent Between the Shores: Erotica with Consent. That book focuses on negotiation scenes (with a special focus on scenes in which characters say no to something), and I would basically hit the buy button immediately for any author who appeared in it. I had the great honor of copy editing Between the Shores, and that meant I got to read every story with particularly careful attention, getting to know each on a really deep level.

So I was excited to see that Sonni de Soto's been doing work since then. I'm especially tickled that in the excerpt she provided from her new book, which I'll share below, a character tells another character no—in a hot, erotic context, where there's clearly a lot of desire building up as well.

I had some reservations about the language used to describe the book—to me, it sounded a bit like the book might be about knocking down a feminist viewpoint, which does bother me. However, after reading excerpts and checking out the author's blog, I think the idea is more to highlight that empowerment is about choice, and that part of feminism is supporting women's right to make choices about themselves, their behavior, and their lives. That's something I can get behind, for sure. Sonni de Soto provided a few highlighted quotes to go along with her post, and I chose one that makes that message even clearer.

I also paused at "shamelessly deviant." It was helpful to me to read this post about de Soto's goals for Show Me, Sir. Based on that post, the book sounds like an interesting experiment in negotiation between people with two radically different starting viewpoints.

As much as this story is one about discovering kinks and fetishes, this is a story about uncovering truth. The truth that there is nothing wrong with being a kinkster, just as there is nothing wrong with being vanilla.

I'd highly recommend checking out her Tumblr in general. She posts interesting stuff about kink and relationships, and also short stories.

***

Show Me, Sir by Sonni de Soto


This novel contains explicit sexual scenes including bondage and voyeurism.

Max Wells is a ball-busting, ass-kicking testament to female empowerment, who’s yet to meet the person who can push her down.

Until she meets a man she only knows as Sir.

Shamelessly deviant, Hayato knows exactly what Max thinks of Dominants like him. So ready to dismiss his lifestyle, she’s the type to assume she knows everything about it and him after one cursory glance from the outside in. But, looking at Max—at her intelligence and passion—he can see more in her than the misconceptions she’s deliberately blinding herself with.

And, determined, he plans to show her more.

Max and Hayato engage in a dance of wit, will, and seduction as they negotiate roles, rewrite rules, and learn the true meaning of empowerment.

But, just as their game heats up, it gets used against them. Seeking to punish them with their play, someone threatens to drag their private lives out into the public spotlight.

With high stakes and bitter scandal looming over their heads, Max and her Sir will have to work together to show that what the world thinks they are does not define who they are.


Excerpt:

“I’m looking at you, Max.” She watched his firm mouth – his tongue and teeth – form the words. “I like looking at you.” His smooth voice flowed over her senses. “I want to touch you.”

Her breath caught and her eyes opened wide.

Okay, too much. That was way too much.

Having him there, having him watch her, felt wicked and dangerous and was toeing an erotic line that Max had never known.

She couldn’t imagine what having him touch her would be like.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“You said you wouldn’t,” she reminded him, wavering between want and worry.

“I said I wouldn’t pay to do so,” he clarified, his hand reaching out to stroke a fallen strand of her vibrant hair. “When I touch you, it won’t be for any other reason than I want to and you want me to as well.” Curling the strand around his fingers, he tested its texture and feel. “Tell me you want me to.”

She shivered. It didn’t feel safe – him behind her, fully dressed while she was half-naked. It didn’t feel safe to be in a room full of mirrors with Hallie somewhere in the store. It was frightening and intense. Frightening because it was so intense.

“Imagine it.” He let his hand slide through the thick mass of her hair. “Think about how good it’ll be when I place my hands all over your soft body. Think about how wet I can make you, not just slick but soaked.” He paused, his gaze stroking south. “You’re already more than halfway there, aren’t you?” He leaned in close, his hot breath caressing the delicate, sensitive curve of her ear. “Just say the words. Tell me what we both know you want.”

God, she did. God help her, she wanted this man to touch her, to stroke her, to fuck her. He made her body feel weak with need and consumed by mindless desire. She wanted him to touch. She wanted to touch. She wanted to strip and be stripped and to drown in the promise his hot gaze held.

“Say it.”

She wanted to. So badly.

She opened her mouth. “No.”

She wanted him, everything he was offering her, so much her body hummed with it.

And it scared her.

What kind of woman – what kind of modern, independent, strong, and smart woman – was she that she would let him have this much power over her? Was a word away from becoming a puddle of sexual putty in his hands? He was turning her into something she’d spent her entire life rejecting.

What was wrong with her?

Her attention snapped back, her worry turning into panic, then an unexpectedly feral snarl, low and perilous, rumbled deep in his throat. She flinched, afraid to look at him. Afraid to move or speak or breathe while the beast inside the man clenched.

She’d never felt so naked, so vulnerable and helpless, in her life.

Finally, she braved a look up, readying herself for his ire, sure he would storm ahead or storm away.

But he just nodded stiffly, his face and body held rigidly in control. She watched his nostrils flare and a muscle in his jaw tick. The fire in his eyes burned even as cold ice hardened them. They narrowed on her predatorily.

Slowly, each movement precise and exact, he reached inside his jacket, pulling another sheet from his pocket. Holding it up like a dare, he said in a low, calm, articulated voice, “Touch yourself.”

Author bio:

Sonni de Soto is an Asian kinkster of color, who loves and lives the lifestyle when she can. Her work involves The Taming School and Show Me, Sir, as well as stories in Between the Shores: Erotica With Consent and The First Annual Geeky Kink Anthology. Like any good nerd, she loves learning new and interesting things about science, art, culture, and, of course, sex and love. She’s always thrilled to hear from readers.

Links:
Blog
Tumblr
Facebook
Fetlife

Where to buy Show Me, Sir:

Amazon UK
Amazon US

Guest Post: Not for the Faint of Heart

My friend Lisabet Sarai has released a new, expanded edition of her book, Incognito. I am so here for books that don't portray love and lust as opposites, and I am so here for Lisabet's uninhibited, sensual writing style. Check out what she has to say (there's an excerpt, too)! Lisabet is one of the writers who inspired me when I was starting out, and she continues to inspire me. I'm really excited to see this latest release. Without further ado, here's Lisabet:

My publisher has slapped a paragraph-long reader’s advisory on my new release, Incognito. Personally, I don’t like the prissy tone of their notice. On the other hand, I don’t want to offend any readers who pick up the book without a clear understanding that it contains taboo content.

And I’m willing to admit, some people might be shocked. The book is not for the faint of heart. Both Miranda and Mark are polymorphously perverse characters, attracted to both their own and the opposite sex. They’re natural switches, drawn to roles on both sides of the BDSM power equation. The book includes pretty much every variety of sexual encounter, from age play to cross-dressing. I’m sure that some readers would dismiss the book as nothing but gratuitous sex.

That’s not how I see it, though. Incognito is, first and foremost, the story of one woman’s journey to realize and express her sexuality. Miranda’s heart-crushing initiation into sex leaves her emotionally scarred, unable to reconcile the experiences of love and lust. She’s ultimately healed by her relationship with Mark, a man who’s open and accepting of all her desires.

Incognito

Betrayed and abandoned by her first lover, shy and studious Miranda Cahill freezes in response to any sexual attention from someone she knows and likes.

During the day, she works diligently on her doctoral thesis. At night, though, she finds herself drawn into increasingly extreme sexual encounters with strangers. Her anonymous secret life begins to take over when she discovers that the masked seducer she meets in a sex club and the charismatic young professor courting her are the same man.

Reader Advisory: This book contains mention of incest involving an aunt and nephew and also scenes of incest involving a pair of M/F cousins. There is both M/M and F/F content within this book, as well as public sex, ménage et trois, swapping of partners, use of foreign objects during sex, anal sex and a scene of dubious consent.

Excerpt

She rose, circled the table, and sat down beside him, taking his hand. “I’m more than ready,” she told him. “But since we are playing Truth or Dare here, I have to be honest about what I have been doing the past few weeks.”

Putting aside her embarrassment, she recounted her amorous adventures since their meeting. He knew, of course, of the ménage à trois, and tonight’s kinks. She told him about coupling in the alley with the Japanese businessman from the subway. She described her experiences with Big Daddy’s discipline, her frightening delight at being spanked and sodomized. Wincing internally, watching his reaction, she confessed her risky debauchery on the billiard table. Mark’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.

“Finally,” said Miranda, “this sexual frenzy is intruding into my work life. You remember that day you found me in the library? If you had arrived only a few moments sooner, you would have found me with my fingers in my pussy, grinding away in orgasm.”

“Yes,” said Mark, amusement in his voice. “I knew about that. But these other tales—Miranda, you amaze me!”

“You’re not angry? Or shocked?”

“Of course not.” He pulled her close to him and whispered in her ear. “I’m delighted that I’ve finally found a partner as adventurous and horny as I am.” He nipped at her earlobe. Sparks leapt up between her legs. Miranda’s whole body sprang to attention, nipples alert, straining to be touched, clitoris equally insistent. His mouth captured hers in one of his fierce, all-consuming kisses, while his hands wandered over her silk-clad torso.

“Let’s go into the bedroom,” gasped Miranda, when she could breathe again. She ached to lay down with this man, to open herself to him.

“I have a better idea,” said Mark. He stood and stripped off his shorts. His erection stood proudly, bobbing in the candlelight. Miranda pulled her dress over her head and tossed it in a corner. The remains of her hairdo disintegrated, ebony locks tumbling over her shoulders.

Moving to one of the windows, he threw it open. Before Miranda grasped what was happening, he stepped through, and held out his hand to her. “Fire escape,” he said with a hint of his usual grin. A thrill passed through her as she understood what he had in mind.

She followed him through the window. A cool breeze off the harbor caressed her bare skin. The wrought iron platform was rough under her feet. She smelled fried batter, rotting fish, incense, anise. A neon sign on a neighboring roof painted her body in lurid reds and greens.

The apartment looked out on an alley. It was nearly three in the morning. Still, if anyone were to pass by, she and Mark would be completely exposed.

She loved that thought.

Mark positioned her with her back to the iron railing. “Spread your legs, and hold on.” He crouched before her, gazing at her moist folds arrayed before him. He blew lightly on the delicate flesh. She twitched and trembled in response. “Oh, Miranda,” he sighed, and buried his hungry mouth between her thighs.

There was no tentativeness here, no teasing touches designed to arouse her. In one swift movement he sucked her throbbing clitoris into his mouth and swirled his tongue around it. Miranda’s knees buckled. She forced a fist into her mouth to stifle her moans. Mark ate her pussy the same way that he kissed, forcefully, ferociously, with a single-minded intensity that left her dizzy and weak.

Now he used his hands to open her labia wide. He fastened his mouth on her inner lips, applying a delicious suction as if he were devouring the sweet pulp of some juicy fruit. Meanwhile, his tongue probed her deeply, setting up echoes of his studded cock earlier in the evening. Mark’s saliva felt scalding hot on her sensitized tissues, still inflamed from their earlier battering.

The memory of his leather-clad erection superimposed itself upon the current scene. She felt his tongue grow longer and thicker, until it seemed to fill her completely. She pushed her sex at his mouth, her hips tensing as she tried to drive him deeper. She smelled his sweat, and hers. Faintly, as if in the distance, she heard again the snap of the lash and the ribald encouragement of the audience.

The iron railing bit into her back, awakening the sting of her welts, but Miranda hardly noticed. All thought, all attention, was focused on the glorious play of sensations between her legs. She sank her fingers into her partner’s hair and pulled his face into her crotch. He changed his technique in response, sweeping his tongue along the length of her crevice, from her clit to the tender edge of her rear hole and back. Faster and faster he stroked, while Miranda felt orgasm coiling within her, wound tight, waiting.

The aching need suffused her flesh. Her body was strung like a harp, every nerve stretched toward elusive release. She was so close. It seemed that the merest touch would topple her over the edge, and yet she hovered there, seemingly forever, while Mark plied her sex with fingers, lips, tongue and teeth. Her pleasure was tinged, however slightly, with frustration.

Suddenly, Mark rose from his haunches and stood before her. He brushed her lips with his. Miranda felt stickiness, knew the salty seaweed taste of her own arousal. “Relax,” Mark murmured, cupping a breast while he nuzzled just above her collarbone. “Just relax, and trust me.” Miranda felt something shift at the warm sound of his voice. A clenching in her chest, of which she had not been consciously aware, loosened and seemed to evaporate. “Give yourself to me, Miranda, all of yourself. Don’t hold back.”

As he uttered these words, he reached down and thrust four fingers into Miranda’s cunt. She convulsed around him, finally released. The orgasm went on and on, waves of delight radiating from her center. Fingertips, toes, earlobes, nipples, tingled and sparked as electric pleasure surged through her. Dimly, she heard herself scream, harsh and shrill as some exotic bird in the night. She would have fallen to her knees on the wrought-iron platform, if Mark had not caught and held her.

Where to Find Out More:

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Barnes & Noble

Totally Bound

All Romance
An All Romance Best Seller!

Goodreads

About Lisabet:

LISABET SARAI occasionally tackles other genres, but BDSM will always be her first love. Every one of her nine novels includes some element of power exchange, while her D/s short stories range from mildly kinky to intensely perverse.

You’ll find information and excerpts from all Lisabet’s books on her website, along with more than fifty free stories and lots more. At her blog Beyond Romance, she shares her philosophy and her news and hosts lots of other great authors. She’s also on Goodreads and finally, on Twitter.

Also, Lisabet and I blog together at Oh Get a Grip! The writers there explore a new topic every two weeks, from many different angles. I'm super proud of the writing I do there, and Lisabet is our fearless leader. :)

I Submit to the Big Book of Submission

I've got a story in Rachel Kramer Bussel's latest anthology, The Big Book of Submission, but I've already posted an excerpt and a description of my inspiration for it. Now that the blog tour's come around, I started thinking it might be best, this time, if I don't make this all about me.

My story, "Crunches," gets me off, and I hope you love it, too. But for the blog tour, I decided to submit to a few of the other authors and see what kinky visions they had to offer. When I'm submitting, I, of course, don't want to be in control. I didn't want to have to agonize over which of the 69 delicious visions available I ought to choose—68, I suppose, since I'm leaving myself out of it. I especially didn't know how to choose when I've already shivered delightfully to work penned by so many of the names in that table of contents—Kathleen Tudor, Giselle Renarde, Valerie Alexander, Jade A. Waters, and the list goes on... Besides, I know Rachel always makes an effort to include new voices in her books, and I didn't want to rule out the chance of an intense encounter with an exciting stranger.

The only way to properly submit, I decided, was to make it random. So I took a trip to my favorite random number generator and let the fates determine what submissive tastes I would explore. I swear this is true: I drew my own story first—I take this as a sign that I should again remind you that I melt to the thought of a stern personal trainer controlling me, that I love the idea of wanting her more than I want to be her, and that following a list of instructions makes me tremble. But, persevering, I drew three new numbers, and this is what they led me to:

Draw 1: "The Test" by Kristina Wright

Suddenly, the constriction around my neck is no longer a hindrance, it's a promise.

Kristina Wright is a beloved name—not long ago, I enjoyed her kinky anthology A Princess Bound, and I've also had the privilege of writing for her. Her entry to The Big Book of Submission concerns a collar—a particular favorite of mine. There are many nights when I fetch my collar, run to my dominant, kneel while it is fastened around my neck, and then curl up in a nest on the floor of the office and languish like a pet. This is one of my favorite things in the world, and I don't need much more of a scene than that to glow with the sense of safety and being cared for, to warm with the arousal of trust. I am always thrilled to read a story that focuses on a collar and what it means, rather than simply seeing it as an accessory to a caning or what have you.

The protagonist in "The Test" turns out to find collars challenging. She doesn't like feeling anything around her neck, and this fact ratchets up the level of trust required to play with a collar. I loved the psychological depth of this story. There are layers of trust—inside and outside of the bedroom—and the story portrays a very interesting interplay between the BDSM life of the couple at its center and the public life they have and share. Just as there are several types of trust at play, there are also several tests. The story packs a lot of meaning into a small space, offering a satisfying exploration of the experience of being collared.

Draw 2: "The Bulldog Breed" by Lisette Ashton

"The marks look delightfully painful," she whispered.

At first, the word "bulldog" in the title made me think I'd come across another collaring story. The bulldog in question, however, turns out to be the bulldog clip, a particularly terrifying office supply when you've got one of those dominants whose favorite stores are Home Depot and Staples.

bulldog clip (klapka) / CC BY-SA 3.0

Just take a look at that baby and imagine it clamped...anywhere. As a person who enjoys clamps, I prefer the type with adjustable tension. They're a whole lot easier to take because I can build up to high intensity. The type that are made for papers rather than people are much, much nastier. You'll be shocked, I'm sure, that this bulldog clamp is used in the story in a nasty (read: extremely—or should I say, delightfully—painful) way.

This story is of the hot fantasy variety. I could picture myself caressing its details piece by tiny piece as I slowly turn the vibrator levels up one button flick at a time. First, the protagonist finds an unlocked door. Then she hears a gasp of pain—"needy, obvious and sexual," Ashton informs the reader. Then she's drawn into this filthy scene with the bulldog clamps, uncertain whether she wants to be on the giving or receiving end of the pain. This reads like a sincere and heartfelt fantasy, the tones of longing struck through the prose like veins of gold. There is also attention to the nature of the need for pain, a recognition of that turn of the mind that transforms the terrible into the deeply desired. I haven't read Ashton before, I don't think—this is what I meant about being open to encounters with strangers.

Draw 3: "The Chrome-Plated Connection" by Ginger F.

Everyone needs his release and my Master finds his in controlled pain—his control over the person giving him the pain: me.

Oh, this one is an amazing draw. Last fall I was at a kinky event where I attended a workshop given by the fantastic Ms. Suzanne SxySadist. She pointed out that people often make the following associations: dominant=sadist, submissive=masochist—but they're not necessarily the rule. Indeed, I have met people who don't follow those stereotypes, and I don't think I do either. I'm a submissive (see collar story above), and I'm a masochist (see clamp musings above), but I've realized lately that I really don't enjoy combining the experiences. I want to be in control when I'm being hurt, and when I'm submitting, I want to be cared for and coddled. Anyway, Ms. Suzanne's workshop involved the drawing of a chart (and, if it's not clear from what I said about office supplies and following instructions, I love charts). The chart showed all sorts of possible combinations of the four letters of the BDSM acronym, and seeing them mix and mingle made me shiver both as a kinky person and as a writer.

All that to say, that's what Ginger F. is exploring here. "The Chrome-Plated Connection" is about a very dominant dom—he is stern, he is allowed to pull his submissive away from the computer, and he is allowed to dictate when and whether she will come. It's very clear that he's calling the shots of the relationship, and at first the story seemed to be building up to some sort of typical spanking story or service submissive story, and I was ready for the protagonist to get her ass cheeks reddened or to have to perform a tedious chore wearing only an apron or some similar thing (not that I can't love those stories, too). I was, however, delightfully surprised to discover that the nature of her service is to hurt her master, with nipple clamps specifically. He is in control of how, when, and how much she is hurt, and I was fascinated by the way this is described by Ginger F.

Even more interesting to me is that the protagonist doesn't seem like the precise, perfect-fit opposite to the Master (another subject I've thought about a great deal). That is to say, she doesn't seem to be a sadistic submissive to exactly complement her dominant masochist Master. Rather, she reads as a submissive through and through, turned on by obeying him and pleasing him. I loved this a lot, both for its unusual combinations of kinks and for its recognition that people fit together the way people do, not as the solution to an equation where you subtract x from both sides and come up with the one true answer.

***



Those are all the experiences I've got time to share with you, but trust and believe that I'm going to have 65 more on my own time and in the privacy of my own mind. You can submit to The Big Book of Submission, too (or dominate it, I suppose, if that's the angle from which you will read it)—one of the places you can pick the book up is here.

You can find every stop on the blog tour here.

(Cross-posted from annabetherotica.com)

More Flash Fiction!

I've posted another free flash piece at my new website! Here's the beginning:

It was a beautiful cake, piled high with strawberries and cream, dripping with hardened fudge. I contemplated it carefully, cautious with my breathing. I knew without being told that if I tipped it off its perch on my stomach, Sarah wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice another rubber spatula in order to punish me. At the rate we were going, we’d have to buy more well before the wedding—no matter how many we had coming from our registry, they wouldn’t arrive fast enough.

I lay naked and shivering on our kitchen table—the room wasn’t cold, but my tension and excitement made me tremble.

You can read the rest here.

Flash Fiction at the New Site!

I thought I would encourage people to check out my new site, annabetherotica.com, by posting a free piece of flash fiction there. Here's the opening:

“Whoa, do we really need that many spatulas on our wedding registry? We don’t cook that much. I don’t even know what half those things are called.” Sarah rested a hand on my shoulder and peered at the items I’d checked off on the department store’s list of suggestions.

“I wasn’t thinking of cooking,” I confessed. Her eyes lit up, and I knew what she’d remembered.

To read the whole thing, head to annabetherotica.com, here! :)

The Pain-Studded Absolution of Those Boys

"I will set you free, but I won't let you go."

Rarely have I read a more shiver-inducing statement of what BDSM is all about. That sentence I quoted has plenty of impact on its own, but it's got even more embedded in the yearning, emotional, dead-sexy "Those Boys," Alison Tyler's latest novelette from the fabulous Go Deeper Press.

Readers of the previous novelette, "Those Girls," will welcome the return of Sandy, the cocky but not too perfect bisexual dom who starred in that outing. We've also been treated to the return of Vanessa, the titular girl.

The new addition is Rem, a silver-haired, tattooed, Western-shirt wearing rocker who Sandy sums up this by telling us what kind of boy he is. Rem, Sandy says, is one of "those 'I need your approval of my outfit, and it will take me six hours to choose a shirt' boys."

What ensues when these three collide is a tale of desire. Sandy wants Rem, Rem wants what Sandy can give him, and Vanessa wants to enjoy them both. With everyone wanting so much, the reader might ask what holds them back from satisfaction—but where sex comes into play, the answer is all too clear. What holds many of us back from satisfaction is ourselves, and that's no less true for the conflicted Rem.

The emotion between Sandy and Rem is intense, and the sex scorching, but I especially love that Tyler doesn't neglect Vanessa. Her relationship with Sandy remains nuanced, and is advanced by the story, and there is palpable chemistry between her and Rem.

I've read dozens of Alison Tyler's BDSM stories, and Those Boys delivers what fans of those stories are looking for—heat, attention to the psychology of BDSM, the search for an understanding of this drive but an ultimate refusal to apologize for it.

As she's discussed on her blog, Those Boys is different in a very important way—she's writing from the perspective of a male dom rather than the semi-autobiographical female "I" that's common to much of her other work (such as Dark Secret Love). That girl is still present in Those Boys (Vanessa, like many Alison Tyler narrators, has a preference for diaphanous dresses and a love of anal play), but it's fun to see her from a different perspective. And it's exciting to read the flip side of Tyler's kinky world. Sandy delivers the sure sexiness of a dom without becoming so certain of himself that he turns into a caricature (I feel as if I said something very similar when reviewing Those Girls, but it's true in both novelettes). His desires are front and center, and they're interestingly distinct from those of his subs.

Tyler's general exuberance about BDSM is on full display here, as fresh and strong as if this were the very first story she'd written. And Sandy's voice has a breathtaking intimacy to it. He speaks of his own desires, but he knows his subs so well:

"I know that a real, true sub requires more than pain. There's the understanding that accompanies the desires, absolution above all else."

I might appropriate that sentence to describe what I need as a reader. I want the pain and the sex, but I also need the panoramic view of kink that I've gotten from this series. I need to travel into Sandy's mind because I need that absolution, too. Tyler has said that she's at work on a prequel called Those Days, where we'll be introduced to Sandy's origins.

I am one of those boys. I am one of those girls. I can't wait to travel back with Alison Tyler to those days.

(Disclaimer: I received an ARC of Those Boys in exchange for an honest review. I have also written for Go Deeper Press and Alison Tyler. I've also spent untold sums of my own money buying books from both sources...)

Crunches

This Monday, Rachel Kramer Bussel's newest anthology of hot short-shorts released! The Big Book of Submission is a spiritual successor to The Big Book of Orgasms, except this time Bussel has focused on BDSM from the submissive's perspective.

My story, "Crunches," is about a personal trainer who takes control of more than her client's workout routine. Here's a clip:

One day, after she’d put me on the adductor machine and had me squeeze my thighs together against heavy resistance, I gave in to the urge that had been building. I rushed home, ripped off my sweats, and jumped into the bathtub with my vibrator in hand. I held myself in a half crunch (careful to pretend I had an orange under my chin for proper neck position), and stayed that way until my pulse pounded like a jackhammer and it felt like every drop of blood in my body had gathered just below my tightened abs. I shoved the vibrator deep inside my cunt, switched it to maximum intensity, then clenched every muscle in my body until I came. As I gasped and shuddered, hot water splashing around my shaking thighs, I could have sworn I heard Shira’s voice, counting off the spasms.

You can pick up The Big Book of Submission at lots of great bookstores—there's a good collection of links here.

The Big Book of Submission

More catching up on news.


It's only a couple months now (July 15!) until Cleis Press drops The Big Book of Submission, a collection of 69 kinky tales edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. My story, "Crunches," will be in it, but may I also draw your attention to Kay Jaybee, Teresa Noelle Roberts, Tilly Hunter, D.L. King, Jade A. Waters, Lucy Felthouse, Kathleen Tudor, Giselle Renarde, Donna George Storey... Um, just go read the table of contents below.).

When I was writing "Crunches," I was interested in subtlety. I wanted to step out of dungeons and spanking scenes and think about other scenarios that can activate the desire to submit. So I wound up envisioning a personal trainer and the sets of detailed instructions she provides. BDSM is a complicated term, and it's not as simple as it can seem. There are rituals that often call that word to mind, but then there are interactions that are much more subtle that can activate similar feelings. I was thinking about situations that turn me on in that submissive way, and sometimes I find myself getting off on following instructions. That's especially true if the person giving the instructions is pushing me in a certain way—careful, loving, but also a little farther than I would push myself. When I'm exercising, I often get turned on—certain positions and machines will create muscular tension that arouses me. And classes can activate my excitement about instructions. So I find myself skimming this subtle, kinky pleasure off my gym experiences sometimes. Of course, in "Crunches," things escalate much more than they ever have for me, though this happens in the middle of a crowded gym...

I'm pushing a bunch of my own buttons, anyway, all in a very short story.

The Big Book of Submission: 69 Kinky Tales
Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Introduction: The Many Meanings of Submission

I Want to Feel You Joy Joy Faolán
Naughty Prof Louisa Bacio
Strip Medea Mor
Training My Dom Tilly Hunter
Dear Sir Kay Jaybee
Put Your Hands Up Sommer Marsden
Crunches Annabeth Leong
Butch Unbound Salome Wilde
The Prodigy Valerie Alexander
Beautiful Teresa Noelle Roberts
Lariat Michelle Augello-Page
Toasted Marshmallows Tilly Hunter
The Shoot D.L. King
Sunday in the Art Gallery with George Elizabeth Coldwell
The Third Plug Nick Mamatas
Others Jade A. Waters
Without Question Lucy Felthouse
In the Darkness Regina Lafayette
The Test Kristina Wright
Patiently Waiting Alyssa Morris
Brunch L.C. Spoering
Love and Salt Erzabet Bishop
Brazen Kathleen Delaney-Adams
Story Time Inara Serene
Princess Amelia June
Contact Shenoa Carroll-Bradd
For Her Art Elise Hepner
Working It Out Roger Markson
Control Cate Ellink
Unanchored Corrine Arundo
Fucktoy Lady Lucretia
Caramel Kathleen Tudor
The Bulldog Breed Lisette Ashton
Mistress Raven Olivia Archer
Following Orders Jade Melisande
Writer’s Block Kitten Boheme
Help! My Wife’s a Former Dominatrix! Angela R. Sargenti
That Moment When Martha Davis
The Dinner Erzabet Bishop
Room with a View Rose de Fer
Fitting Assignment Marie Rebelle
Spider Valerie Alexander
The Chrome Plated Connection Ginger F.
How to Fail Laurel Isaac
Crush Giselle Renarde
Housebroken Laila Blake
Stronger Than Steel Alva Rose
Student Becomes Master Rob Rosen
Where the Sun Don’t Shine Corvidae
Object Regina Kammer
The Control Tower Olivia Summersweet
Long Skirt Gigi Frost
Breathless Obedience Cèsar Sanchez Zapata
Mine Roxanna Cross
Second Date Alice Gauntley
Table Manners M. Marie
Teddy, Bare Jere Haken
The Problem is, I’m a Bitch Corrine Arundo
The Lost Suitcase Tamsin Flowers
The Rhino C. Margery Kempe
Marni’s Working Area Dominic Santi
Lost in the Feeling Nicole Gestalt
Choker Sean Finn
Reverse Psychology Rachel Kramer Bussel
Aftermath Michael in Texas
Take Down Marievie
Hard Things Joy Joy Faolán
Breathless Dorla Moorehouse
Perfect Gentleman Donna George Storey

Review: Alison Tyler's Delicious Torment

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