The Dastardly Dom sails the High Seas

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is ‘Pirates’. The title character comes from a conversation I had recently, in which the term, ‘Dastardly Dom’ came up in a cheeky way. 🙂

“Dominic?” Vittoria called out. “Are you almost ready?” She fussed in the mirror, adjusting her mask and tugging at her short — very short — hem. The length of leg exposed was disconcerting, but the party was not only for adults, but between a small group of friends exploring the ‘lifestyle’. She reached round and tugged the wedgie out of her crack. “I hate thongs,” she muttered, then carefully applied lip liner. “Dominic! We’re going to be late!”

Heavy tread clumped down the stairs. “What are doing weari…” Vittoria sucked in her breath as all the air seemingly vanished from the foyer. “Dominic?” she said with a soft squeak.

“You there, wench, fetch my cloak from yonder chest. The Dastardly Dom wishes to hoist the anchor.” As she gaped at her husband, he scowled and slapped his thick leather gauntlets across his palms. “Are thoust deaf, wench. Move your arse lest you feel the wrath of my scurvy temper on your backside!”

Vittoria quashed an incipient giggle at his attempted archaic pirate dialog, for she was feeling very light-headed and awed at his costume. She scurried to do his bidding, opening the closet door and blinking at the black wool cape that hadn’t been there in the morning. She felt the overwhelming urge to curtsy as she presented the garment to her pirate lord and master. They may have barely dipped their toes into role playing, but Vittoria felt extremely submissive already. She tipped over the edge when he barked his next command.

“Remember your place, slattern, is to please me…” he leaned closer and hissed, “or else.”

She bit her lip, not in fear or mirth, but because she was on the verge of throwing herself at his feet and begging to be ravished. “Yes, Sir. I understand.” She dared to glance at his stern face, gasping at the unbridled lust she saw in his eyes. Gabbling for something coherent to say, she stammered, “Doe-does m-my attire please The Dastardly Dom?”

He stroked his goatee, brows furrowed and impatiently motioned her to twirl. “Faster, and keep your arms outstretched.”

She shivered, feeling the cool air flowing over her bare cheeks and wet knickers as she spun.

“I am satisfied, very satisfied,” he purred, clear evidence tenting his tight trousers. “Except…” From beneath his scarlet cummerbund, he retrieved a short leather strap. “Thou art too pale in the posterior for my tastes. I prefer a red-bottomed lass in me bunk. Assume the position, the crew deserves a good showing of pirate law.”

As the strap rose and fell on her smarting buttocks, Vittoria thought, “I could get used to rum, sodomy and the lash.”

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

The why of the reaction eludes us

“So? How did it go?”

Chemistry, don’t pick me
Can’t believe, chemistry
Go away please
This girl is out of your league.”

“Why do you always sing fake lyrics?”
“They’re not fake… they’re alternative.”
“Fine. I take it your date didn’t go well then.”
“Chem—”
“DON’T SING!”
*Sigh* “Okay. It sucked. There, you happy?”
“You’ll find someone… someday.”
“Over a rainbow, way up h—”
“ARRGH!”
“Come on, I’ll treat you to a latte.”

~~~

“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Do you mind if I sit?”
“Take a load off, Fanny. Take a load for free.”
“Thanks. I thought it was ‘Take a load off Annie?'”
“Nope. And my name’s not Annie.”
“You’re a funny girl. I like that.”
“Just don’t call me Barbara either.”
“I’m Jeb. What should I call you?”
“You can call her weird. You’re in my seat.”
“Sorry. It was nice to meet you — not Annie or Barbara. You’ve got a very nice voice. Take care.”
“Why did you do that? He seemed like a nice guy.”
“You’re so… weird!”
“You already said that. Hey! Mister Jeb!”
“Yes?”
“Wanna dance with somebody?”
“In a coffee shop?”
“Why not?”
“I guess it beats dancing with myself.”
“Or on the ceiling.”
*Laughter* “I’m in.”
“See you later, I’m outta of here.”
“Is your friend always so grouchy, not Annie or Barbara?”
“She hasn’t gotten laid in awhile. Makes her cranky.”
“And you?”
“Me what?”
“Are you looking to get laid?”
“That’s awful forward of you.”
“Well, you feel like a woman. Besides, don’t you feel the spark?”
“The spark?”
“Chemistry, it’s for real
Between us, chemistry
Come dance with me
Never gonna leave my bed.”
“That last line isn’t from Valerie.”
“But it should be.”
“That’s a bold declaration, Jeb.”
“It ain’t bragging, if you can do it… all night long, all night long.”
“Well, Jeb, lucky for you, I got a blank space, baby, and I’ll write your name.”
“Not Annie or Barbara, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Not all baggage is bad

I found it in the back corner of an antique shop on the Left Bank. I was in Paris for a week, backpacking around Europe while I staved off maturity and the perceived death of all my dreams.

It was leather, dusty, the color of faded deep chestnut; where it wasn’t covered with labels from exotic hotels and resorts. The lock was broken, but the brass hinges stubbornly held the old suitcase together.

I was not blind to the metaphor: baggage older than my parents when most days one meal was all I could afford. My wistful sigh must have carried through the shop, because the proprietor — all haughty élan as only a French woman can project — offered me a choice.

La valise en Ă©change pour une performance.” My stomach grumbled. “Et un repas.” Her smile was knowing on so many levels.

“What kind of performance?”

With a casual flick of her manicured finger, she flipped the sign from OUVRIR to FERMÉE, then beckoned me upstairs. The scent of food lured me as much as the twitching of her pert derrière in tight wool skirt. I expected sex of some kind; bodies were barter in the world of student travel.

I watched dusk fall behind the Eiffel Tower, the apartment balcony fit a small table and two chairs, in painted wrought iron of deep burgundy. I felt no compulsion to move as I digested, the sodium-yellow lamps created a playground out of hard stone and narrow streets.

Es-tu prĂŞt?

Oui.

She’d turned off all the lights, except for one spot, the straight-backed chair sinister in its singularity. In the dark reaches of the room I heard whispers and rustlings from an unseen audience. It was then I noticed what coiled innocently on the embroidered seat. A martinet.

I balked.

She held out her hand, palm up, shimmering in elbow length black silk glove, the pearl and gold bracelet an iridescent gleam matched by her sparkling eyes. I clutched as if drowning.

Tu ne vas pas être blessé.

The nuance of hurt versus harm challenged me, but I nodded my acceptance. A unnamed frisson ran through the gathering. She presented me to whomever lurked in the shadows. Falling into my role, I curtsied. Whispers of appreciation in many languages. Obediently, I bent forward over the ornate gilt top rail of the chair, damp palms interlaced with the thongs of the whip. A red scarf — Hermès — folded and drawn gently over my eyes, my head bowed to allow the knot tied at my neck.

The martinet drawn away, soft leather strands caressed my cheeks, rested on my lips. I kissed. Another sigh moved like amber larches in autumn. The handle traced my spine, at the small of my back, it pressed down in unmistakable command. I dipped, presented my bottom.

Faint footsteps, muffled by the thick carpet. Hands, many hands slowly lifted my peasant skirt, carefully folding until I felt the cool evening air tease my bare thighs. Ashamed now of my plain white underwear, worn thin through repeated hand-washes in hostel sinks, I stepped out as they were drawn down over trembling calves.

The handle tapped my inner thighs. I widened my stance. Wider, wider urged the whip: straddle the chair and show everything. Humiliated, yet seized by a determination not to be weak, I displayed my parted buttocks and hairy pussy to the voyeurs.

Scratchy music filled the apartment. Caruso sang of love and loss, of hatred and fury. The whip dangled through my crack and teased my holes. I tensed. She rubbed. I sighed and relaxed.

My whipping started slowly and softly. Light flicks barely grazing the skin. As the lamento grew in scope and power, the leather bit deeper and faster. There was no pattern: she struck everywhere and yet it seemed always in an untouched spot. Moans escaped as I writhed. My bottom rising and falling with the operatic vocalizations of legends long deceased.

But, I was alive. In pain yes, but oh so alive. It was not unbearable; if anything, my first ever spanking was shattering inhibitions I never knew I possessed. I strained on tiptoe, with eyes blind, I begged for more. Loud ‘splats’ as she swung hard. I imagined her in pressed Lacoste tennis whites, coolly smashing a forehand winner down the line with genteel grace.

Minutes passed. Five, ten, thirty; I knew not how long the set lasted, but as Caruso reached for the climatic solo, she shifted her target. Up between my widely stretched legs sang the whip. The impact drove a shriek from my mouth. Again she followed through, the sound a wet ‘smack’. My lips stung. The burning heat in my bottom was now secondary to the sharp pinching on my pussy.

Softer, then harder, she varied the rhythm, urging me to give in, to concede the point, give way to her dominant will.

I surrendered. She flogged my throbbing clit. “Un.” A pause as I panted. “Deux.” My thighs clenched. “Vous serez orgasme sur trois.”

Through my tears, I begged, “S’il vous plaĂ®t!

Trois.”

I came.

When I recovered my senses, and removed my blindfold, the room was brightly lit once more; and empty. My panties were neatly folded on top of the now polished suitcase. My fingers shook as I pulled the nylon over red flesh, I winced and cried out when I sat down. The suitcase was heavy. It required both hands to carry as I stumbled out into the night.

~~~

I realize now I was naive and very fortunate in my rash choice. But — as I tell my husband whenever he asks why I keep the battered chestnut leather stored in my closet — sometimes life is a suitcase: until you open it, you can never begin your journey.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

You hear the one about the caned wife?

“Go on! Count them! See what the brute did to me. Twenty-one times!”

She’d burst into my office like a fuzzy gin; all rounded and bristling like a hedgehog, throwing her elbows on my desk; her puppies gamboling out of cornflower silk lace brassiere begging for a lick and a promise. I leaned back: she climbed on top. Not that I mind a good cowgirl ride, but usually there are adult beverages involved before a broad holds her nose long enough to forget my mug.

She crouched like a cougar, reaching back to ruck up her miniskirt; all the while wailing her distress. ‘Look, look,’ she said, pointing over her shoulder in the direction of her ass. I, being the consummate gentlemen — even when consummating a transaction consummated in a dark and smoky dive — heaved my walrus-like bulk out of my recliner and waddled around to peek at her goodies.

“See?”

I saw. I saw a dame who did Pilates; probably a spinner too and hot yoga. I saw matching panties, the lace snugged up tight over her mons and biting deep into her tangy valley. What I didn’t see was the alleged brutality to her posterior. I said as much, and added, “If this is a case of abuse, call the fuzz.”

The look she gave me would have lowered my I.Q. into the negative realm had she not rolled her eyes and her knickers down her thighs. My eyes rolled too. Luckily I’m a jaded hard-ass who’s seen it all. That didn’t mean my one-eyed salami wasn’t salivating for a side of sauerkraut and white cream dressing. “Now… I see.”

There were multiple lines tracing—

“Count them!”

There were at least—

“I thought you were a dick? Use your fingers, moron!”

I used my thumb. Starting at the crests of her pillowy hillocks, I firmly pressed each welt from end-to-end. As I got lower, she got higher: her plump buttocks reaching for the sky, the tight fabric stretched taut between her tense thighs threatening to tear in twain. Her musk filled my blood, my cock screamed for air. By the time both thumbs were prying her crease open like a can of mustard sardines, my tongue was only inches away from s—

“Aren’t you going to take pictures?”

Mesmerized by her pink lips, I mewled like a brokenhearted calf when she slid off my desk, her rump scent marking my groin as she wiggled her cornflower blue panties up and her red miniskirt down.

“I guess not. So, will you take the case?”

Too stiff to sit just yet, I suavely perched on the corner and offered her a menthol. I flicked my Bic, she blew smoke rings around my libido. “What case?”

“My husband is—”

“I don’t do divorce, sweet cheeks.”

“Listen you imbecile, I don’t want a divorce, I don’t want the flatfeet involved, all I want is you to find out where his chippy lives.”

“Okay.” I must have redeemed myself, because she started spewing like Niagara Falls right before they turn it off at night. It seems they were in a D/s relationship and things were peachy right up until he started a new job with long hours and overnight trips. The spankings were coming less and less frequent, like the number 24 bus on a Friday night when the college kids were on break. The final straw was the twenty-one stroke caning. Which is when she stormed out of their house like a banshee looking for an agave grove to quench her fire and fury.

“So you see, I have a contract! I demand he lives up to his responsibilities!”

“So… it was too much?”

“Are you a fucking idiot? NO! It was supposed to be fifty with the cane and an ass reaming!”

I waited until Vesuvius stopped erupting. “Well… I can give you the rest, if you want.”

The setting sun was obscured by the cloud of tire smoke like from an all-you-can-eat barbecue when she peeled her Ferrari out of the parking lot. I rubbed the mark on my face. For a sweet piece of tail, she sure could swing a racket. I leaned back in my chair, took a swig of Jack and a couple of Tums. It’s tough being a P.I.

I guess dinner wouldn’t be forthcoming tonight. I dialed for takeout and waited for her return.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

… and to all, a good night

“How do the decorations look?”
“They’re fine.”
“Really?”
“Well, darling, there’s only so much they can do to lift the spirits.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Getting sick again.”
“You know that’s not your fault.”
“But what if ‘It’s’ returned?”
“Then we deal with ‘It’, just like we did the time before.”
“And before that and before that and b—”
“Stop that. You know I love you.”
“I don’t know why, I’m such a burden. Your mother was right, I’m not good enough for you.”
“That’s enough whining out of you. Santa may have come and gone, but I can still take a switch to your backside.”
“I think the nurses would be scandalized.”
“Not if you’ve been acting the brat all this time.”
“I’m not being bratty.”
“Really?”
“I hate spending Christmas in the hospital. It’s so depressing. I hate being sick all the time.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“Sometimes it feels that way.”
“I love you more today than the day we got married. You’ve given me beautiful children and a secure home. You should never doubt you’re loved by your family.”
“Stay with me?”
“Always, my beloved husband. Let your wife take care of you and, when you are back home, I’ll give you a nice, hard spanking as your Christmas present.”

It’s the romance of the thing

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is Page 69. “Take one sentence from page 69 of the book you are currently reading and use it to write a story of your own.” The thing with me though, is that I’m never reading just one book. Currently I am in the process of reading five books and several magazines. It’s rare I find a book that I read in one sitting. Most don’t keep my attention. Anyway, the book I took a sentence from page 69 is, Six Degrees of Scandal by Caroline Linden. It’s a Historical Romance, set just after the Regency era in England, circa 1822. This genre runs the gamut from chaste love to all-out erotic descriptions. I enjoy reading romances in many different styles, because some of the best contemporary writers can be found plying their trade behind silly looking covers.

Page 69: “There was something about Olivia’s face that changed when she smiled; it was the spark of humor in her eyes, or perhaps the endearing little quirk to the left corner of her mouth, or even the way her chin went down a bit.”

“What are you smirking about, Olivia?” Annamarie glanced up from her phone at her wife’s snigger, her tone one of idle interest, not commanding. “You’ve got that smile again.”
“This romance I’m reading.” Olivia knew better than to dismiss her Mistress’ question with a casual ‘nothing’. Interested or not, Annamarie had a low tolerance for half-truths and mumbled conversations. “The heroine is in trouble — again — and insists on doing things her way instead on relying upon the tall, dark, handsome light-skinned hetero man she used to love long ago.” She smiled again, wider with a bright twinkle that caught the soft diffused LED lamps. “Sound familiar?”
Annamarie’s response was a throaty laugh; part growl and part purr as she raised up out of her chair with feline grace and intent. Sitting on the far end of the couch, she lifted Olivia’s legs and draped them over her lap. Delicately removing each wool sock in turn, Annamarie pressed her thumbs into Olivia’s bare arches. “Your feet are tense, KittyKat. Did my little puss-puss have a hard day at work?”
Groaning with pleasure, Olivia set the paperback, splayed open at the spine, across the jersey sweatshirt stretched over her slightly rounded tummy.
“Work was fine, Mistress. I was very productive and my boss even said I was glowing.” Olivia gasped as Annamarie’s finger slid under her loose pants and squeezed her calves. “Hmmmmmmmmm.”
“That calls for a celebration. Don’t you think, KittyKat?”
“Yes please.” Olivia’s answer was accompanied by a long moan as her Mistress’ hands reached her lower thighs.

Spinning like a rotisserie until her blushing cheek rested against the buttery leather surface on the cushion, Olivia lifted her rump while Annamarie tugged her pants and underwear down just enough to reveal a bare bottom to the warm air of the popping fire. The hand that caressed her plump globes was gentle, although Olivia knew it could also be stern and harsh when she disobeyed.
“I’m going to spank you, KittyKat, until your bottom turns that lovely shade of pink you love so much.”
Olivia couldn’t help wiggling her tail with excitement. “Thank you, Mistress! Your KittyKat adores your spankings.”
Annamaire couldn’t quite see Olivia’s expression, but as she raised her hand, and then spanked her palm firmly upon her submissive wife’s buttocks, she knew the ripples of the impact went straight to Olivia’s mouth and pussy. “Will you properly thank your benevolent Mistress after she finishes spanking your bottom?”
SMACK
“Oh yes, Mistress!”
SMACK
“On your knees?”
SMACK
“With my wrists cuffed behind my back and blindfolded.”
SMACK
“Feeling kinky tonight, are we?”
SMACK
“Yes, Mistress. I need to service you. Please?”
SMACK
“Very well, KittyKat. I will grant your request.”
SMACK
“Thank you, Mis—”
SMACK SMACK SMACK
“I wasn’t finished.”
SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK
“You may service me with your tongue and lips. However, should you fail to give me the number of orgasms I’m thinking of, you will be bound over the whipping table and caned until I deem your apology is sincere.”
SMACK
“Yes, Mistress. I will service you until you are satisfied. If I fail, please cane your unworthy submissive until she is contrite.”
SMACK
Olivia couldn’t see Annamarie’s expression, but she knew her Mistress’ mind after ten years together. While she didn’t want to fail, Olivia understood she had a chance to succeed and not receive the caning. A slim chance, but a real one nevertheless. Her Mistress wasn’t cruel, but both got what they wanted out of their marriage. Love, spanking and pain.

They smiled together, the smiles of lovers synced in D/s.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

The 400 Club

This week I received the 400th follower to this blog. I don’t have anything special to offer though. No sweepstakes, no cruise for two, no lifetime supply of dark chocolate. Sorry. 🙂

However, I do get this warm fuzzy feeling whenever I get a notification of a new reader. You’d think that after all these years, I’d be more jaded, but I’m not. I am so thrilled that even one person likes what I write, never mind hundreds.

Speaking of writing, I know I’ll never be the most popular, or the most eloquent and, since I rarely write anything personal about myself, certainly won’t have millions of people waiting for my next tweet. Which I don’t: Tweet. I don’t have any social media accounts; I don’t consider blogging to be social media, although when it started, it was. Since been eclipsed by other platforms.

I’m not a tormented author; I don’t huddle in bed bemoaning lack of progress or rend my clothes shrieking when the perfect prose eludes my grasp. Writing for me is fun. Primarily because the fiction I write; I write because it interests me. I know from reading other blogs, that my stories are often pale imitations of the ‘real’ deal when it comes to sex and discipline. But that’s okay, I prefer delving into the mental and emotional aspects of characters rather than intimate details of pieces and parts.

Will I ever post pictures here? No. Will I ever reveal my sexual history? No. Will I ever meet any of you in person? Maybe.

What I will do is keep writing fiction and poetry about spanking and sex from the submissive female perspective — with a little dominance thrown in for good measure. I mean, Byron Cane is a large pen name to live up to. He creates an image of sage wisdom, pithy advice and a keen eye for the feminine posterior. Of course, I could just be blowing smoke up your asses. Only time will tell. 🙂

 





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For a limited time only, you may click this link to Instafreebie and claim your very own FREE copy of the first 5 Chapters of The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie. The entire novella will be available for download to your ereader November 27th, 2017. If you are a book reviewer or would like to receive an advance copy in order to publicize Stephanie on your social platforms, please contact Ina Morata [Owner, Editor, Publisher of Clarian Press] at this contact link to send an email of query.

I guess I did have something for joining the 400 Club after all. Have a happy day and good reading.

  • Corrupted

    Coming soon, on March 8th, 2018; "Corrupted", an anthology from Sexy Little Pages. Click the picture for ebookstore links.

  • Purchase: The Case of the Disciplined Valentine

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  • The Case of the Disciplined Valentine

    A comedy of Victorian manners mixed with delicious spankings and sexual encounters guaranteed to raise even a vampire’s blood pressure. Byron Cane sets a torrid pace in his historical paranormal erotic novella.

    It is 1854 in steampunk London, and Sir Nachton MacRath is warily returning to his home isle after decades abroad. He has good reasons to steer clear of the Royal Family, but is immediately snared by the Queen herself, who anoints him, Her Chastiser of Loose Morals, complete with elevation to the upper reaches of the aristocracy. Rather than a quiet existence as a vampire, he is now a Peer uneasily rubbing shoulders with the most powerful men in the Empire.

    Phoebe Hayward is a lady of good breeding, but like all her contemporaries, longs for some excitement and romance. Valentine’s Day is only weeks away, when their paths cross with a bump. Despite later discovering the man ordered to discipline her is actually a vampire, she can’t help falling in love. The more encounters with Sir MacRath she has, the more her body yearns to know what it is to submit to his vampiric touch. When he reluctantly agrees to be her Valentine, thus begins a Domination and discipline the likes of which she’s never dreamed.

    MacRath doesn’t feel he deserves Phoebe’s love, and attempts to push her away by taking her deeper into sexual submission. She surprises him — and herself — by eagerly submitting to his every desire. Together, they explore the sensual heights that a woman and a man — a vampire — can reach. But politics and conflict are never far away, and the Valentine’s Day deadline comes all too soon.

    Note: The original version of this book was included in the Lust in Lace paranormal romance anthology.

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    The Case of the Disciplined Valentine

  • Purchase: The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie

    Purchase The Spanking Misadventures of Stephanie by clicking the picture.

    Pity poor Stephanie: twenty-five years old and still spanked daily. She was intelligent, a college graduate with honors, articulate, a fashionista with a good job and an all-round delightful person with never a cross word and always a genuine smile for everyone. It was to her misfortune that she also exuded an innocent sensual charm, leading both men and women to have one uppermost thought in their minds: spanking Stephanie’s spectacular and epic rounded bottom. It was not her fault; genetics had blessed her with both the ideal rear end and a delightful bewildered submissiveness. It simply never occurred to her to challenge her discipline. If someone needed to spank her, well, obviously she was guilty of some offense and thus deserved to be spanked.
    When Stephanie crashes (quite literally) into the life of Ross, high flying exec in the fashion world and eligible bachelor, she is stupefied he wants her as his. Under Ross’ tutelage, as Brat to his Sir, she learns that she can be spanked for more than just being naughty! And Ross — he discovers there’s much more to Stephanie than just her submissive need to be disciplined, as he falls more and more in love.
    A brilliantly funny, light-hearted, spanking erotic romance novella by Byron Cane, with memorable characters and a beautiful love story interwoven into the sexiness, lending a contemporary twist to the princess fairy tale.

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  • Lust in Spring

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  • Lust in Spring anthology

    In Byron Cane's, The Witch of Olympus Hollow, it’s 1952, and Gale Johnson is outraged when her parents send her packing to a tiny town in Appalachia to visit the mysterious great aunt she has never met. In the foothills of North Carolina, Gale will discover a wondrous birthright. A lifetime of discipline and sexual satisfaction awaits, but her destiny comes at a cost.
  • Lust in Lace

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  • Lust in Lace anthology

    In Byron Cane's Sir MacRath Thrashes his Valentine, MacRath is a centuries-old vampire returning home after decades of absence. It is 1854 in steampunk London, and Her Majesty has appointed MacRath Her Chastiser of Loose Morals. Phoebe Hayward is a lady of good breeding, but quite a handful. Despite discovering the man ordered to discipline her is actually a vampire, she can’t help falling in love. MacRath will ensure she is well punished and dominated in all ways as befits his naughty Valentine.
  • PNRLUST

  • Paranormal Erotic Romance

    Come visit the Paranormal Erotic Romance website for information about the Lust anthology series. Read Lust by the Sea, Lust on the Wing, Lust in Tooth and Claw, Lust in Winter and Lust in Lace.

  • ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’ Oops. Does that date me? These are the top posts.

  • Back writing 6/30/16 short stories and a spanking novel