A little over six months ago, I started writing again after a 5 and 1/2 year break. Since that time I have written around 200,000 words. That includes all the new posts here, plus the second half of a novel, the first quarter of another novel, and three novellas.
Almost two months ago, I was invited to join the Paranormal Erotic Romance writers co-op, by my good friend, Ina Morata, who writes wonderfully inventive erotica on her website and in published works. The editor and publisher of the anthologies, Devi Ansevi, who also writes erotica, has taught me much about editing. I am in a state of nervous anticipation for my first published spanking erotica this January, 11th 2017.
If you are a constant reader here, then you know that my style of writing is very eclectic. I write in all points-of-view and tenses, and even dialogue without quotation marks. My fiction for publication – hopeful publication – is more literary and intense than my flash fiction I post here. In anticipation of the Lust in Lace anthology, I would like to offer you something in the style of my long fiction. This story is new, not an excerpt, and serves as an illustration of my focus when writing a novella or novel.
I will be posting another post with all the links, information and an excerpt after the Lust in Lace anthology goes live for purchase. There will be more details and information then about the next novella to be published for Lust in Spring, on March 20th, 2017.
A cool downdraft catches the burgundy-wine curtains. The sudden snap of cotton makes me jump. Through the open window of our bedroom, I can see lightning arcing in the dark sky. Too far still for thunder, the sound I hear is my heart pounding in anticipation.
Crack-snap, the fabric billows as the humid air rushes westwards: sucked into the storm’s base and thrust upwards with ferocious velocity, only to succumb to gravity’s embrace and return as gentle rain or harsh hail. Crack-snap. The steady whipping reminds me of why I am here, in the corner, like a naughty girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
Soon, I will hear his heavy tread on the staircase, the scent of his cologne will send tingles to my pussy and his hot breath on the back of my neck will weaken my knees. Crack-snap. Crack-snap. The pace intensifies, my bottom clenches and relaxes in harmony with the noise. It soothes me. It awakes my passion.
Several generations ago, the scene would have been cornstalks to beyond the vanishing point, our 1850’s farmhouse surrounded by arable land instead of by cookie cutter subdivisions filled with unhappy wives and distant husbands. My husband, Bradley, had recognized in me, what the farmer knew instinctively to expect from his little woman. Obedience and respect in return for protection and support.
Crack-snap. Our bedroom is a masculine statement of dominance, creamy oak four-post king size bed, original pine floors, the walls, maple wainscoting with forest green and silver paper above. The covers are a cool cotton to match the drapes. Pillows and bolsters in rich jewel tones will be tossed aside to sleep. When I am bent over the bed with a sham under my hips, my toes barely graze the throw rug.
Each time, every time I am spanked, it only reinforces our bond, and reassures me I’ve made the correct decision. I shiver, the cooling breeze caresses me, strokes my heated pussy, teases my puckered nipples; I wiggle, trying to catch the proper angle.
Crack-snap. Crack-snap. Crack-snap.
How I wish the noise was the result of the flogger instead of the drapes. He is diabolical in the way he pushes my buttons through words and deeds. I have done nothing to deserve this, and yet, have done everything.
A typical evening, home from work, catching up with social media, when he speaks. A low, husky drawl, filled with meaning and purpose: his voice slips through my barriers as if they were gossamer. I have no defense against his wiles: my feminine wariness of the male predator purrs instead of snarls. He is mine, she says every time, and rolls over in submission.
When he says, go upstairs and prepare, my mouth foolishly asks why. A raised eyebrow speaks volumes. I stand on shaky legs. He reminds me once more of my choice, discipline is his alone to decide time and place.
In my corner, arms behind my back, nude but for my collar, I am the freest I have ever been. My submission is a gift, not to him, but to me. I crave the anticipation of knowing that the pain he will give me, helps to shatter the paralysis in my soul. Each paddle blow heals, each swipe of the cane removes another layer of deadened emotions, each leather strand that scourers my back, tears away the sticks and stones of childhood misery.
When he whips me: crack-snap, I find my happy place is that much closer to becoming permanent.
The thunder is nearly constant now. The searing strobes of atmospheric electrical discharges flashes in the darkened room. In between beats, his steps come closer, I hear the knob turn, the door thumps against the stopper. My breath seizes with love and longing.
He runs his forefinger down my spine. I shudder out an exhale.
He kisses my nape. Tears spring to my eyes.
And when he firmly grips my buttocks and asks who owns you, I sigh, and reply, you do, sir.