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"Not Tonight Honey. I Have A Headache."

We have all been there. Sometimes you are just not in the mood. Maybe you’ve had a particularly stressful day at work, with the children, real life problems, or are simply not feeling well. As a result, you want nothing more than to relax a bit, then go to bed and sleep ... undisturbed. The thought of making hot passionate love is so far at the back of your mind it would take a blow torch to warm you up.Fortunately there are some excellent books out there on which I would personally put a ‘Blow Torch’ heat rating.But, let’s get real. If you had a bad day at work and came home to care for the children who are often sick, cook, do dishes, tidy the house, do laundry, and clean the commode, and your significant other comes home and says, “Come here baby and give Big Daddy some lovin’,” Big Daddy better duck and run.

So, what about the authors who write those hot and steamy books that as readers you often escape into … books that help create the mood for romance?As an author, I find the love scenes the most difficult part of the book to write. Just like in real life where you have to be in a particular frame of mind and mood to do it … I need to be in the mood to write it. For me, those scenes are best written in the late evening or night hours. I do my best work if I set the mood … a hot bubble bath to relax me, candles burning, my special romantic mood music playing, and maybe even a glass of wine. It also doesn't hurt to read something with a bit of sizzle.

Writing a love scene – If we’re totally honest, no matter how creative your lovers might be, there are only so many ways to do it, only so many ways to describe foreplay and having sex. Insert tab A into slot B, isn’t going to cut it. Yet as an author, you have to bring something different to it every time, so the reader doesn’t feel like they are reading the same love scene over and over again.

First and foremost you have to have a hero and heroine who are unique onto themselves. Well developed characters who carry the story, attraction, sexual tension and emotion to the natural conclusion of them making love. You’ll note that I said ‘natural’ conclusion.

What other elements come into play that make each love scene different? The setting. I admit it. I have fun with this part. There is of course the comfortable bed which can be a novel experience if you consider some of the places that we, as authors, have our characters making love. Just to name a few, I’ve had my hero and heroine on the floor in front of a fireplace, the back of a sofa, a hot-tub, the shower, a claw foot bath tub, and in the bottom of a boat in the middle of a lake beneath 4th of July fireworks. I had one couple on a porch swing, but as I was writing I had a vision of the brackets pulling from the ceiling with my hero and heroine crashing to the redwood floor in a painful, unromantic tangle of arms, legs, and miscellaneous body parts. Easy solution, when things got hot and heavy, I simply moved them to a padded chase. And of course we can’t forget my gorgeous Demon Wind cover with hero and heroine making love on the beach at midnight.

Back to my ‘not tonight honey, I have a headache’ theme. What we put our characters through is shameful. You have no idea how many weeks I left my hero and heroine in that claw foot bath tub, having sex. Fortunately, my hero had magical abilities and was able to keep the water warm. I felt so guilty when I got back to them and finally allowed the to find satisfaction that I dried them off, put them to bed and let them sleep it off before I put them through anything else.

Ever wonder about the feasibility of some of the sexual situations in which the hero and heroine find themselves? How about a familiar favorite that we’ve all read -- the counter top? As a writer who is obsessive compulsive about the accuracy of my research, I measured my kitchen cabinet from the floor to counter top. From my own personal experience, I can tell you that it isn’t going to happen. Unless of course, the gentleman in question stands on a stool, which would ruin the effect, especially if he fell of at a crucial point. Hummmm, I can visualize that particular scenario for a romantic comedy though. ((Grabbing my notebook to write that one down for possible future use)). Check it out for yourself ladies. Have your significant other stand in front of your kitchen counter top and see if you could pull it off.

However, there is an exception to every rule. One day at work, I stepped from my and saw a male co-worker standing beside the counter holding the coffeemaker. Well I’ll be damned! It all depends on the height of the counter and the height of the gentleman who is … shall we say … drinking the coffee?

That’s what I love about writing fiction. Regardless of what I might be doing, my muse is never far away, always on the look out. Regardless of the situation or the setting, a writer can do anything, create anything, put their characters through anything feasible or otherwise and make it seem possible.

In the past weeks we’ve had other TEB authors at Hitting The Hot-Spot talk about the perceptions people who read our work have about us and/or our sex lives. Of course there are some lucky erotica writers who have significant others who reap the benefits of the author’s creative process or who are happy to offer their services for a bit of hands on research. Unfortunately, some of us, like myself, are single. I hate to burst the bubble of any reader who imagines that erotica authors lead exciting lives and have experienced all we write about. For me personally, the act of creating a hot, explicit sex scene is comprised of equal parts of sitting at my computer doing research, staring at a blinking cursor for long periods of time, an overactive imagination, and a damn good memory.

However, my somewhat quirky muse, Cybill, thinks there is another option. I could hire a male research assistant. Successful authors hire assistants all the time, and write the assistant’s salary off their income taxes as a business expense. According to Cybill’s often bizarre logic, a single, female erotica author should be able to hire a male assistant to help research those necessary, hot and steamy scenes and write him off her taxes right along with books on human sexuality, paper, ink cartridges, and postage. In some twisted way, it does make perfect sense. The application/screening process as I check for experience and … qualifications … for the job would be tough but I think I could force myself to endure the challenge. Unfortunately, my tax lady who is a voracious romance reader, seems to think the IRS would frown on that one. She did however, promise to let me know if she found a loophole.

On a positive note, once during a discussion with several romance authors, all of us single, we reached the consensus that sexual frustration makes for the hottest sex scenes.

For other authors out there, how about sharing what influences impact the love scenes you write? What, if anything, make them difficult or impossible to write? What do you do to set the mood? Was there a particular scene, setting, or sexual situation that you put your hero and heroine through that remains a personal favorite?

Kay Wilde - Give In To Temptation
Demon Wind - Novella Length - Now Available


Vampire Lovin'

4,502 – Number of results produced for a book search of “vampires.”
272 – Number of vampire movies released between 1909 and 2005.
17 - Number of copies of Bram Stoker’s Dracula owned by moi.

I love vampires. I love the mystery and legends surrounding them. And judging by the numbers above I am not alone. I love to read about them, watch movies about them, and more than anything I love to write about them. Taking the vampires mystique and making them my own is my passion, and it comes through in my stories. It always has and hopefully it always will.

When I was nine years old I wrote a vampire short story that won an award from my teacher. I knew then that this is what I was meant for. Sure I write other things, but give me pale skin, glowing eyes and pointy teeth any day and I will give you a story that will leave you breathless and wanting more.

Why vampires? For me I think it is the danger, the bad boy image they tend to convey. With one small nick they can bring you immense pleasure, or just kill you on the spot. It depends on their mood at any given time.

The vamps I write about tend to be between 100 and 300 years old. This means they have been around the block a time or three. They know what they want, they know what my heroine wants, and most importantly they know how much she can take before they break her. With centuries of practice behind them they are well versed in the ways of games, pain, and love. The tri-fecta of romance/erotica plots. They are ready made heroes and/or villains. What is not to love?

Of course not all vampires are handsome, loveable men who happen to have sharper than normal eyeteeth. They are not all seeking love and romance. Some of them are down right bastards who only want to murder and binge. I love them too. Dark, sinister bastards just waiting to be slain by a cute, peppy vampire slayer. Yup, let me at ‘em.

So no matter what kind of man you fancy, there is a vampire out there for everyone. Take it from your resident vamp smut provider: Everyone needs a happily forever after…with a bite.

Veronica Duff is a vampire hunter with the U.S. Army and has hated vampires since a rogue pack of them killed her mother fourteen years ago. Now she's having erotic dreams about a sexy vampire who claims to be in love with her. She tries to convince herself he's not real and the dreams are harmless.

When a second vampire joins the dreams and threatens her life, she's forced to admit that they are both very real and very dangerous.

Now she must figure out how to get rid of both vampires, the one who craves her love and the one who wants her dead, before she loses her heart...or her life.

Sweet Dreams - Available February 4, 2008 from Total E Bound

Dakota Rebel


Perfect Sex Every Time

I’m going to ask you an “in your face” question. Do you masturbate? I mean do you take your fingers and play with your clit or your penis and dream up fantasies that will make the experience hot? If you do (Come on! Admit that you do!), how detailed are your fantasies?

I got to thinking about what I’d like to blog about and came up with several ideas. The first title went something like this: “Does the Chastity Belt Theory Really Work?” So off I go to research chastity belts. So a bunch of Crusader Knights are either locking up their wives in these contraptions or heck, did you here about the woman whose husband forced her to wear one on a vacation to Greece to prevent an extramarital affair? I’m not talking Crusades or 19th century. I’m saying four years ago! How did the world at large find out? Of course, the newspapers but the chastity belt triggered a security alarm at an airport in Athens.

Or how about the woman who married a man who gave her an expensive wedding gift of a pearl-encrusted gold chastity belt and she wore it at their wedding? What was going through her head as she walked up to the altar and said, “I do,” to her husband? Was she thinking the sex was going to be just the way she liked it? Methinks, I’d like to be that woman for a night or two.

So where was I? Oh yeah! Masturbation as a safe, non-threatening alternative to intercourse where your fantasies are absolutely true. I mean how many men and women dream about the perfect partner or the perfect sex during masturbation? Masturbation allows us (both males and females) to explore not only our fantasies but also our bodies, to become comfortable with ourselves. If we’re not comfortable with who we are, how can we be comfortable with our partners?

Sexual fantasies are:

1. about the kind of sex you normally have but with imaginary or celebrity partners;

2. about submission or dominance;

3. unconventional sexual practices or settings.

Sexual fantasies are a creative reflection of who you are. Write your own story any way you want it! And the wonderful thing about your story is that no one need ever know about what it is! You can be a damsel sailing the high seas and being ravished by a gorgeous pirate, or a male butler acting the dominant role over his mistress - anything goes! And the scenario can change every time you masturbate. Have fun!

I’m off to be that damsel on a sailing ship ravished by my dark, handsome pirate - the one with the eye patch even though the vivid blue eye underneath is perfect . . .

Visit Aurora Rose at Romance Is Only A Fantasy Away


Take a Walk

Take it all off…

Your inhibitions, that is!

What’s holding you back? Embarrassment? Fear of being ridiculed? The uncertainty about what people might say…?

A few years ago, an elderly neighbour asked for a copy of one of my books. With a whole lot of hesitation and after a bit of stammering and a couple of mumbled excuses, I finally autographed a book.

What else could I to do? I’d already “forgotten” to bring her the requested book several times, so she came to get it. I could hardly send her away. With trembling hands, I told her, “It’s a bit on the steamy side.” She pried the book from my fingers. “It may not be your cup of tea,” I warned.
Less than a week later, this sweet old woman knocked on my front door. “I read your book,” she said.


Because I’m neurotic, I have a rule. I never ask people if they liked my book. I don’t want them having to lie if they hated it. And I certainly don’t want to hear if they hated it. Remember that neurosis I mentioned? When someone criticizes my book, I can’t sleep for a week.

So, like the coward I am, I settled for the standard, “Oh?”

“Humph,” she said. “It was a bit steamy.”

“I was afraid it wasn’t your cup of tea,” I reminded her.

She turned up her nose a bit. “Been there, done that.”

My jaw dropped!

“It could have been steamier.”

By this time, you could have picked me up off the front porch.

I learned a valuable lesson that day.

Take it off.

Readers who are looking for something hot and steamy, who want to take a Walk on the Wild Side, if you will (LOL), want hot and steamy. Readers who are looking for sweet and mild will search out books that meet their criteria.

Where, in your life, do you hold back?

Is it in your writing? Is it in chasing a dream? What could you do with more exuberance, more zest, more joy? If it’s your writing, I’ll tell you, it’s easier to tone something down that’s a bit over the top than it is to ratchet it up after the fact.

Why not make this the year where you chase your dreams, stop holding back, take it over the top… Make this the year you take off your inhibitions and live the life you were meant to!

Here’s to you!


Sierra Cartwright invites your comments on this blog. Check out her website, and send her an email from the web. Let’s stop holding back!


Younger Men? Why Not?

We’ve been talking about whether size matters lately and that brought to mind the question, what about age? Does it matter if there’s a big age difference between the hero and heroine? Traditionally, it seems, society has accepted the role of the male in a male/female relationship as older. But how about all the movie actresses that are in relationships with younger men?

In BREAKING THE RULES, book 2 in my Wives-R-Us series, when Margo Allen learned that Brit Hunter is twenty-two while she is thirty-six, she was devastated by the age difference. But is there any reason that should stand in their way? I interviewed the two of them on the subject…

Summer: “You’re dating a woman twelve years your senior, Brit. Does that bother you?”

Brit: “Not at all. Why should it? We enjoy the same things and have a wonderful time together. I don’t understand why she thinks it’s a big deal. With me twenty-two and her her thirty-six and women reaching their sexual peaks later, I’d say we’re perfectly suited.”

Summer: “So, why does the age difference concern you, Margo?”

Margo: “My ex-husband, who was twenty-years older than me, is now with an even younger woman. Since I often poked fun at him for taking a child bride, I’ll look like a hypocrite. Besides that, my former stepson is just a year younger than Brit. What’s he going to think when he learns I’m going to bed with a man so near his age?

Summer: “I know the answer to that. He was jealous, and Brit was jealous when he learned you once had sex with your former stepson.”

Margo. (Sigh.) “That was one of my biggest mistakes and I’ve regretted it ever since.”

Summer: “It did lead to some very hot angry sex between you and Brit though.”

Brit: “All our lovemaking is hot. Margo, why don’t tell our interviewer what’s great about our relationship? Why don’t you tell her that you never totally climaxed until we made love?”

Margo: “That’s true. My first orgasm with Brit was the most fantastic experience in my entire life. And he’s extended my boundaries beyond imagination. Pardon my wide smile, but I can’t believe how many places we’ve had sex or the number of new things I’ve tried with him.”

Summer: “So, do you think about the age difference then?”

Margo: “Never while we’re doing it, although afterwards, I sometimes marvel at how much I admire his vitality and his ability to perform so soon again. I was taken totally off-guard when I learned he was younger. It never occurred to me that he might be because we were drawn to one another right away.”

Brit: “See? We’re terrific together. If you’d like a peek at our love life, Summer, I think Margo would agree to let you. She and I were once observed in the act by a farmer on a tractor, and then there was the strip tease she did in front of the living room window…

Margo: “Stop tattling and roll the cameras, Brit.”

Brit: “I’ll show her the first time, Sweetheart. Here goes…”

“Eating too much is a bad habit,” Margo said, smiling as she settled onto the leather couch in the upstairs sitting room at Brit’s Victorian. She’d undoubtedly gained another pound but the tapas they’d shared and savored and the Sangria were too marvelous to scrimp on and she had a strong hunch if Brit made a pass, she’d again succumb to temptation. She couldn’t remember another time when she’d felt so content and everything seemed so right.

“Ah, but good food is hard to resist.” Brit sat down next to her and placed a tray with two liqueur glasses on the coffee table in front of them. “Tia Maria and Crème. Is that okay?”

“That’s like asking if the moon on a string is okay,” Margo said, taking a sip before laying her head back against the soft leather sofa. He was hard to resist.

Brit lay his head back too and his masculine scent mixed with that of his rich cologne drifted her way, compelling her to inhale greedily. He laid a hand on her thigh and the heat of his hand through the supple silk of her dress soaked into her skin. She felt totally replete.

“I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind,” he said huskily.

“Why would you want to?” she whispered. “I’m not so bad.”

“You are oh-so-good,” Brit said, trailing his fingers up her leg and over her tummy, causing a tightening that was better than good. “But I wasn’t sure you were comfortable with my attraction to you. Until tonight, you seemed to consider me an enemy, or at least someone to fear.”

“You do scare me,” she said softly. “You scare me by stirring up emotions I haven’t felt in years. No, that’s not true. You drum up feelings I’ve never felt before.”

Brit sat up and bent closer. “Urges, you mean? Stronger than you’re used to? Didn’t your husband make you feel those things?”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “He’s part of the past.”
“Then we won’t, but do you want to feel those urges and satisfy them? Do you crave experiences better than you’ve ever had before?” Brit dipped his hands in the scoop neck of her dress and taking a breast in each hand, cupped and caressed them. Her nipples grew hard and the longing for Brit stronger than anything she’d ever felt before. She moaned and he paused. “Do you want me to stop?”

“It’s just so overwhelming.” She put her hands over his to still them.

“I would have thought you were a real sexpot. You talk a brave talk.” He freed a finger on each hand to flick her nipples, causing her to gasp. “Do you want me to stop?”

The heat between her legs was building and her heart beat erratically. She had never truly yearned for sex before. Lea and Erin thought she was a daring woman who took it wherever she could and she was the one who’d given them that idea. She hadn’t even liked sex much with Daniel but never let on to anyone, not even him. Instead, she’d put up a good front.

“You know I don’t.” Margo took a deep breath. Her ex always got what he wanted and never satisfied her, but that wasn’t something she’d wanted to tell her friends. After their divorce, she’d given into someone else whom she shouldn’t have and the sex was hot but guilt kept her from seeing him again.

Brit freed his hands and ran them down the length of her body, slowly, taking time to caress all of the right spots. “Does that mean you want me as much as I want you, Margo?” He whispered the words into her ear. His breath was hot and inviting.

If he didn’t make love to her, the desire was so strong and demanding, she was sure she’d die. But she was afraid the emotions sweeping over her would swallow her up if he did. Nodding into his chest, she tried to sound glib and sure of herself. “Now, that you’ve got me all wound up, I need you to wind me down.” She was aware that was asking for it but she needed him so much, it hurt.

“Oh, sweetheart. I need to wind you a lot higher first. Need to put you way over the top. And then…we’ll go off together. How does that sound?”

Unable to wait another second to feel his hands on her naked flesh, she sat up and pulled her dress over her head, dropping it on the floor. “It sounds like I may fly apart into a million pieces.”

“That’s exactly what I want. My God, you’re beautiful,” he said breathily.

Suddenly remembering the fifteen pounds she’d been going to lose for two years, she wanted to cover her rounded tummy and D cup breasts, but it was too late. He was caressing her through the creamy lace-trimmed panties with one hand and unfastening her front-clasped bra with the other.

She reached for the zipper on his pants and tugged it down, at the same time, tearing at the buttons of his shirt with shaking hands. She’d never experienced such a demanding desire.

Pulling her down to lie beside him on the couch, Brit buried his head between her full breasts as they sprang loose. He kissed them with his hot lips and licked them with his rough tongue and she shivered uncontrollably. Hearing the satin tear as he ripped off her panties, she felt like she did when she had an orgasm with Daniel. But she wasn’t sure she’d ever had a full-fledged climax before and Brit wasn’t through yet.

Daniel’s lovemaking was restrained. Brit was wild and all over her. She undid the top button of his pants and inched out his hard cock. God, it was magnificent. Unbelievable. She’d never known anyone had a penis that long. That big and thick.

Brit’s breath caught as she caressed the length of it and she lost herself in him as he rubbed her clit between his finger and thumb, rolling it back and forth. He took her breast into his mouth and sucked hard and she cried out. He moved away from it for just a second and she pulled him back. He sucked her nipple again and she lost control. Unable to hold back, she shuddered to a mind-blowing, unquestionable climax, spurting hot juices onto his leather couch.

“I’m sorry. I think.” She was embarrassed and ecstatic both and Brit was clearly pleased.
“Don’t be. Come here, you.” He lifted her off the couch onto the thick carpet and taking two throw pillows off the couch, placed one beneath her head and the other under her fanny. Margo was uncertain why he’d put the second one there, but as he dropped his pants, she got the idea that foreplay was over. Although if that was foreplay, she wasn’t sure she’d survive the real thing.

His shirt hung from his shoulders and he shrugged it off before rolling a condom onto his towering penis. And as he knelt over her and thrust deep inside, she knew it was strictly business from now on. He was unbelievably big and he filled her. It hurt but the pain was better than any pleasure she’d ever experienced.

He plunged hard again and again. Never had she felt such penetration and damn, it was good. Better than good. It was heavenly. She could become addicted to something as thrilling as this. She was certain he knew a lot of tricks she didn’t know existed, but she wanted to experience every one of them. Who could have known such ecstasy existed? Not her. She wiggled, delighting in the feeling created.

“Lie still,” Brit commanded, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. “One more squirm out of you and it will all be over.”

She wanted to protest that he’d squirm too if he was deliciously impaled, but she didn’t want the glory of this moment to ever end and she wasn’t sure she could speak.

He moved tentatively. “I may not last long the first time, but I guarantee I can make the second fuck longer.”

“Second? Do you mean now? Tonight?”

“If that’s okay with you.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“What’s the matter, Margo? Am I too much for you?” Grinning, he clutched her hips and drawing them still higher, began to move rhythmically, rocking harder, plunging deeper. “Tell me you don’t want to do this twice.”

“I…” She cried out as her body exploded. Every nerve ending. Everything inside and out. Every bit of her. All of it flew apart. She’d never ever felt such a glorious release. She didn’t know which was better. The first time he’d made her come or this one. They were both totally mind-blowing. Could she do it again? Twice in one night? Could he? Could she not if he wanted her to?

Her reasonable mind kicked in and told her if she did, she’d end up spending the night and that was against the rules on a first date. It was too much of a commitment—for him and for her. But she could never get enough of him fucking her.

As Brit started moving again and she realized he wasn’t finished yet, she wanted to be there for him. She wanted whatever else he had to give. He pulled almost all the way out, then pushed in with a rapid motion and she gasped. He pushed into her again and again and seeing the look on his face, she could tell it was time. Instinctively, she raised her hips hard against him and as he came…she came again. With him. She’d thought that only happened in books. She’d never even fully climaxed before tonight. She knew that now. She had never experienced anything like this.

A shared climax was part power, part loss of yourself…to someone else. That last orgasm turned her into a mound of whipped cream and Margo lay there with her eyes closed, feeling as if she’d discovered the secret of a lifetime. Brit was the first to take that special part of her and she hoped she’d taken a little piece of him.

Breaking the Rules by Summer Jordan
(Summer: Okay, so I guess I did make size important in this book. LOL)



Be True to You....

"If you want to be respected by others, the great thing is to respect yourself. Only by that, only by self-respect, will you compel others to respect you." -- Fyodor Dostoyevsky

An acquaintance of mine recently told me she did not get a certain job because she was too old and fat. “They told you that?” I was aghast. I was ready to go to that potential employer and tear strips off them for there stance on employing people.
“No, I just knew that.”
It turns out she went in there to fail – not intentionally but she had the mindset that she wasn’t good enough. She was worried about her age and her weight and pretty much talked herself out of any chance at the job. She believed someone would be better than her – be it in looks or age. Her self esteem was lower than a snake’s belly. Has she got a new job yet? No, and no amount of positive talk from any of her friends is sinking in because she can only see the negatives.

It took me a long time not to judge myself through someone else's eyes. ~Sally Field

Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent. ~Eleanor Roosevelt

To my mind, the need to be thin, pretty and wrinkle free is vastly overrated. Humans have defects. As women we need to accept that. Skinny super models are not realistic role models. What about the need to be a good, caring person? Why don’t we praise that as highly as we do a small butt? Why worry about age? Hell, I get better with age. I never want to be 20 again. I’m 44 and I love me. Yeah, I have flaws but I prefer to call them “interesting character traits.” Being true to myself is more important than worrying whether I fit in with the ‘in’ crowd. Confidence kicks the arse of media perceptions of beauty any day. And let’s face it, as women we love confidence in a man. It’s sexy. So why don’t we follow suit?

I think we are losing the plot when it comes to worrying about what people think of us. So you think your arse is too big, your hips too wide and your breasts could be perkier? So what if that’s all true? Are you any less of a person because of it? Why worry about what others think of you? I realized a very long time ago – at eighteen years old to be exact and it hit me like a bolt of lightning - that I did not need to care what people thought about me. There are always going to be people who don’t like your face, hair, looks or attitude but that’s their problem. Yeah, I know easy to say but hard to do. Try it bit by bit and day by day. Am I mad with such radical thinking? Probably - but I am happy with who I am cellulite, wrinkles and all. Sure there are more classic beauties with smoother skin and perky boobs but they are not me. Too bad for them. I am one of a kind and need no facsimiles.

"Whatever reason you have for not being somebody, there's somebody who had that same problem and overcame it." -- Barbara Reynolds

So, think about it…how good are you? Is there anyone else like you on the planet? No, of course not. You are unique. Remember that next time your confidence falters or you look at your backside in the mirror and think “Oh ick.” You are an original. Besides real women have cellulite. It’s what helps you rebound when you fall on your arse.

It's not who you are that holds you back, it's who you think you're not. ~Author Unknown

The Goddess Within - book one in The Goddess Grind series...

Mardi Keller-thirty-two, beautiful and delicious and I need you in my life.”
“Are you on drugs?” If he wasn’t insane that had to be it.
Stryker threw back his ahead and laughed.
“Don’t you believe in love at first sight?”
Maybe that happened, maybe not. She had no proof. Other than having the best sex of her life, Mardi knew they probably did not have a lot in common. Great sex did not mean a great love or even an okay marriage.
“I don’t run or exercise, I love eating junk food and I am hooked on

reality television.” No point beating around the bush. Mardi wasn’t about to change for anyone not even the man with the enormous erection headed straight towards her. Her legs dropped open of their own accord.

“Are you trying to turn me off?’“Look at you and me. You’re all lean and buff.” And mighty yummy. Mardi grabbed his hand and put in on her thigh. “This is cellulite or fat if you want to be specific.”

Stryker stroked her thigh sensuously, his eyes locked on the red curls of her pussy. “On you cellulite is sexy.” He leaned into her giving nowhere to go but flat on her back under him.

“Well yes, that is the correct response to give.” Was it hot in here or what? Mardi fell back onto the carpet and Stryker took advantage and lay down between her parted thighs. A good girl would have sat up and struggled but then a good girl would not have had sex the first time with—and be contemplating sex again with—a man she barely knew. Bad girls rocked. “But can’t you see but you’re so…and I’m so…”

I’m so what Miss Mardi?” Stryker hands slid up her ribcage to her breasts and teasingly moulded the mounds of flesh.

“You’re gorgeous.” And that cocky smile of his was a killer. “You could have any super model look-alike you wanted.”

“I don’t want a plastic woman. I want a real woman.” Stryker’s eyes locked on hers. “I want you.”

The Goddess Within - Ms. Jones’ characters are real, they act as real people would, the women aren’t toothpicks, they are normal sized with normal personalities. I love that the characters are relatable to the reader that is what makes or breaks a storyline in my opinion.
Go ahead: Live with abandon. Be outrageous at any age. What are you saving your best self for?


You really don't believe you?

My first erotic short story was well accepted in the online community where I posted it. I used a pen name, so it was a pretty safe way for me to test out my writing chops. When I felt brave enough, I showed the story to my best girlfriend. I still remember her reaction. "Wow, things at your house sure are a lot better than they are at mine!"

Excuse me? I sat there for a moment, in shock. Was she suggesting that the hot escapades I'd written for a fictional couple came straight from my bedroom? I tried not to chuckle as I denied her suggestion—but not too vehemently. Things are fine in that department, thank you, but my husband and I are private people, and we don’t discuss our finances or our sex life with friends.

I later discovered the exchange with my friend was a common one among erotic authors. It seems lots of folks think we're writing from our own personal experience. Of course, some of it is—has to be—but that doesn't mean everything I've written I've done.

I haven't had male/male sex (nor witnessed it- just clearing that up for the nice people, honey!) I have researched it and written about it. I haven't had sex with a vampire, but I've written that, too. Same goes for the werewolf (though that one guy in college was pretty hairy.)

How many times have I heard, "Heh heh heh, must be tough doing that research!" It's actually pretty mundane, done mostly sitting in front of a computer. Yes, some weird ads pop up when you visit the sex toy store, but hey, the things we do for the love of our craft.

In March I'll have two releases with TEB, a hot Lust Bite short called Convincing Cate, and the first novella in my Unexpected Love trilogy, Nothing to Lose. Next month I'll share some excerpts, and let you see how hot it is in those people's worlds! Until then, stay happy and stay warm!

~ Jamie Hill


To Regency or not to Regency by Emma Wildes

To Regency or not to Regency…from Emma Wildes

Sex: Is it polite, or improper? Hmm. That is a question, isn’t it?

My answer is, well, I think it can be deliciously both. Not everyone is a historical fan but the sentiment transcends time. Man meets woman and determines to have her. Or (more likely, because they haven’t a clue) woman meets man and determines to have him. Sparks fly, propriety goes out the window, and let’s face it, in bed there is no rank, no title, no social status.

There’s nothing like a little intrigue to get a romance going.

I write a lot of different genres but this remains my favorite. Maybe because the difference of what happens in the bedroom and what is the protocol out of it is so dynamtic.

So, well, read on:

Less Than Honourable by Emma Wildes. Unedited excerpt:

The ball flew across the lawn and landed in the pond amidst shrieks of laughter. From the terrace overlooking the rolling lawn, Jason Culver, the eighth Marquess of Romley, watched as his young son attempted to dive in fearlessly to retrieve it, captured at the last second by his attentive nanny. Miss Alton carried him a safe distance from the water, set him on the grass and ruffled his dark curls in a reassuring gesture. She proceeded to remove her shoes and stockings and lift her skirts to reveal dainty ankles and smooth calves and waded in to get the errant ball herself.
“Is it too early for a brandy?”
Sprawled in a chair by an ornate iron table topped with glass, Jason glanced up and saw his younger brother stroll across the flagstones. Vincent expertly balanced two glasses in one hand and held the decanter in the other, a talent that undoubtedly came from much practice.
Dryly, Jason acknowledged, “You must have read my mind. Actually, I was rather thinking I could use a stiff drink. Good afternoon, Vince. It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed, but it isn’t like you to notice the weather.” Vincent dropped into a chair and poured amber liquid into two glasses. “Usually you stay cooped up in your study all day.”
“I’m just taking a small break. You always harp at me that I work too hard, so here I am, enjoying a few minutes of leisure while I watch the children play in the sunshine.”
Only a year apart in age, they knew each other very well. Vincent’s eyes narrowed at his sharp tone and he took a small sip of his brandy. “Don’t get defensive. I know managing your different financial interests takes a lot of time and I do think you work at it at little too diligently. I’ve said so many times. My observation was not a criticism. Why would I object in any way to you sitting in the sun for a few minutes?”
Bloody hell, he had sounded defensive, and that would never do. Jason idly lifted his drink in an effort to seem nonchalant. “Sorry if I sounded edgy.”
His brother lifted a dark brow. “Can I venture a guess as to what might be the cause of both your current state of tension and your presence here on the terrace?” His gaze went pointedly to where Miss Alton stood in attendance as both boys, Trevor, who was four, and, Carlton, a year younger, wrestled in the grass. Nearby, Patricia sat on a blanket with her doll and miniature tea set, her long dark hair drawn neatly back in a bow and her pink ruffled dress primly around her.
His daughter, at seven, was at least sweet-tempered, where as the two boys were positive hellions. Jason had no idea how the remarkable Miss Alton managed to keep them from constantly damaging each other and everything else in their path.
He was very lucky she applied for the position, even if it had plunged him into a small personal hell.
“No,” he said, lifting his glass to his mouth, and murmuring over the rim, “you may not venture a guess.”
Predictably, Vincent ignored him. Sinking lower in his chair and crossing his booted feet carelessly at the ankle, he watched as the young woman in question separated the two boys and distracted them by tossing the wet ball across the lawn. “She’s very competent.”
“Yes.” Jason couldn’t argue that.
“And damned beautiful.”
Unfortunately he couldn’t argue with that either. “Yes.”
“I thought you might have noticed.” Vincent rubbed his lean jaw and said thoughtfully, “Rarely do you see women that slender with such full breasts. Her hair also, is such an unusual color, not blond and not red, but something in between. Throw in that creamy skin and those beautiful blue eyes—”
“I doubt somehow she would appreciate us sitting here analyzing her physical attributes.”
“I was being complimentary.”
Vincent’s smile was intended to be innocent, but since Jason knew full well when it came to women his sibling was less than angelic, he gave him a sour look. “I doubt somehow she would feel that way if she knew you pointed out the size of her breasts.”
“Like you haven’t already noticed. Let’s face it, Jason, you want to fuck her.”
“That’s enough, Vince.”
“Don’t you?” His brother’s grin was unrepentant over the crude word.
He did, that was the problem. Fantasies about being between those long lovely legs he glimpsed just a few minutes ago kept him awake at night. Jason pictured her glorious breasts his hands, her nipples in his mouth, his cock buried deep inside delicious wet heat as he moved in long, hard thrusts…
Jason growled, “For God’s sake we are talking about my children’s nanny. An innocent young woman living in my household, essentially under my protection. The subject is closed.”
“Although she’s properly deferential and demure, she looks at you the same damned way, if you haven’t noticed. You’ve lived like a monk since Sarah died three years ago. It’s no wonder you’re tense as a bowstring since the arrival of our beauteous nanny.”
“I’m not tense,” he snapped.
Vincent chuckled. “No, not at all.”
“Did I ask for this lecture?” Jason finished his brandy and immediately reached for the decanter. “And even if I am tense, there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.”
“There certainly is.”
“Are you advising me to seduce the undoubtedly pure Miss Alton?”
Vincent looked over to where she chased the two boys, laughing, her gold-red hair shining in the afternoon sun. “You be a damned fool if you didn’t, brother.”

I Confess...

I'm a sucker for a man with a classy British accent and always have been. I'm not sure why, but I imagine it goes back to my formative years. That would be back in the dinosaur days of black & white televisions with only three channels to choose from.

The stations in my area had what they called morning and afternoon matinees and late night horror themed shows. Many of them featured David Niven, Peter Cushing, Basil Rathbone and Richard Burton. There was something about those handsome talented men that reached down and struck a chord with me. (And while he wasn't actually British, I adored Errol Flynn ^_^)

As I got a bit older, my love of British actors (and those lovely accents) grew when I became a fan of the BBC series that were featured here as part of Masterpiece Theater. One of my favorite series shown there was The Duchess of Duke Street about a plucky little maid who rises to the top of her world to run a well known London hotel. The bittersweet love story between the lead character Louisa and and the aristocrat Charlie a/k/a Lord Hazlemere still touches my heart.

They were such a lovely couple but from two very different worlds that simply couldn't mesh and I think on some level that's partly what inspired my TEB release Sweet Medicine. What better way to show world colliding that by taking a stuffy British aristocrat and plunking him down in the middle of the 19th century American West and putting him at odds with a spunky American widow?

* * * *

Here she was, lying naked and trembling in the centre of his huge bed. Waiting for him, her glorious breasts rising and falling with each quick breath she took, her deep pink nipples pointing skyward. Her slender hips were turned slightly, her bent leg barely hiding the soft cluster of rich golden curls at the juncture of her thighs.

The look in Trevor's heavy-lidded eyes as he approached after setting the glasses down was like an aphrodisiac to Lucy and she felt a rush of heat deep within her. She squirmed and held out her hand. “Trevor.”

Trevor stayed where he was, his cotton trousers stretched to the limit by his rapidly expanding erection. He peeled off his shirt, tossing it to the floor then pulled a tapestry covered side chair to the foot of the bed. “I want you to do something for me, Lucy,” he said, his voice husky.

“Anything, if you'll come here,” she pleaded.

Trevor sat and pulled off his riding boots, tossing them in the corner, using all of his self control to keep from mounting Lucy and riding her like the wild beautiful creature that she was.

His cock was rigid and his balls beneath the shaft swelled and ached at the sight of her as she parted those creamy thighs ever so slightly. He moaned deep in his throat as the flickering lamp light reflected off the sheen of wetness on her thatch of golden feminine curls. He wanted to drink in her juice and slide into her soft wetness.

“Trevor, please,” she said her voice thick with need, her blue eyes slitted.

“In time, my love, but first you much touch yourself.” As he expected, she sat up, her blue eyes wide with disbelief.

“No. You touch me.”

Trevor licked his suddenly parched lips. Touch her? He wanted to possess her body and soul, devour her, lap at her until she ran dry. “I will, my love, but first, you must touch yourself.

Show me what you like so that I might please you.”

Lucy held out her hand. “Come here. I think you know exactly what to do.”

Trevor's eyes sparkled. “Are you afraid?” he teased. He chuckled when the deep blush crept over her cheeks. “Do it for me, Lucy. I want to watch you play with that sweet pussy.”

Lucy's pulse raced like mad. This was wicked. It was sinful. It was exciting beyond belief!

She closed her thighs and felt a faint twinge begin to take form. This was it, this was what she wanted. This was the same kind of grand, all-consuming passion that she’d dreamed of her entire life and she wanted to experience it with Trevor.

“If I do this,” she asked in a husky whisper. “Then what? What will you do?”

“If you do this,” he said carefully, shifting his weight in the chair. “I will ravish you the way no other man could. I'll fuck you until you beg me to stop.”

* * * *

Now imagine that dialogue being uttered by someone like Jeremy Irons, my inspiration for Trevor.


The Sexual Tao

In my White Tigers series, the men of the White Tiger are skilled in the erotic arts. Really, in my intention, it means they are trained to pay careful attention - to a man's unique scent and flavour, the sounds he make, the part of him that are particularly sensitive and bring him pleasure. The background research of the White Tigers' methods really come from The Sexual Teachings of the White Tigress by Hsi Lai, a Westerner who has spent years with the female sexual Taoists in China, learning their ways and understanding their history. I first heard about this book from Jade Lee, my favorite erotic romance author whose exotic historical Tigress series takes place in Shanghai and has been endlessly inspiring. She admires the Tigresses for their courage in finding sexual pleasure and enlightnement in a repressive culture. I agree and also found that this methodology adapted itself quite well to m/m. I don't necessarily think that's it's necessary to make the body immortal, but it seems that learning healthy sexual attitudes and practices of the body and spirit certainly can enhance our lives, something that I try to convey through my stories. Hope it's working! Hugs, Sedonia


Quantity versus Quality !!

I know this topic has been touched on before, but I just had to give my take on it. After all, I’m a mouthy broad who likes to have her say. This is by no means a scientific discussion. It’s nothing more than my opinion.

“Observe your willy getting longer day by day”

“Safe enlargement of trouser mouse”

“Change your instrument size”

“Quick way to enlarge your ding dong”

No, don’t laugh. This is a sample of the spam that is shunted to my inbox every day. It seems once you’re “out there” with an author website and an attached email, you open yourself up to all types of spam. These are just a few. We won’t mention the number I get for Viagra. I chuckle when I read the headings, but it got me thinking. Are there so many men out there worried about their penis size that these people make a living from all this? So does size really matter? To women, that is?

I’m old enough and smart enough to know that men get really hung up on the size of their penis. Let’s face it. They play with it from the time they are born. They talk to it, give it names. Forget the dog being man’s best friend. I suspect it’s his penis. Lol

But I’m here to tell you, size isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. Seems to me there’s a more important issue here. It’s what you do with your penis that women remember most.

“Wham, bang, thank you, ma’am.” Okay, so sometimes a quickie is fantastic, but only if the sexual tension has been allowed to build before the main event. There are studies out there that say the average size of a man’s penis is somewhere between 5.5 inches and 6.5 inches long, but you know something? What matters more to a woman is the foreplay, not the actual wielding of the instrument. Kiss me, fondle me, bring me to a screaming red-hot orgasm before you even get to the ultimate surrender, and hey, guess what? I won’t give a damn how big your penis is. I’ll be more in awe of your prowess as a lover. That’s it in a nutshell. Foreplay!

It’s the pleasure not the measure that matters

to most women!

So what do the savvy ladies out there think? Are you turned on because a guy is hung like a horse? Or are you more interested in what he can do with that gigantic ding dong, and how he makes you feel?

Does size really matter?


Heavenly Bad Boys

Fallen...Sinful...Sexy! These aren't the Angels you learned about in Sunday School!

Have you ever had a run-in with your guardian angel? Ever felt as though you had someone looking out for you, guiding you through the pitfalls and hazards of life?
What if that guardian wasn’t the white winged, golden halo type? What if that guardian was over six feet of muscled hunkiness and bad boy sex appeal?

I’m often asked how I came up with the idea for my Fallen Angels, and the answer is easy, really, they just came to me, full born and very much alive. But I suppose, the inspiration came from an incident at work. I’m a nurse as well as a writer, and without getting into the nitty gritty details, I found myself in a very tight spot with a young patient who was not long for this realm, if you know what I’m saying. There was a moment, while I was waiting for the surgeon and the anesthetist to appear, and after I had exhausted every available treatment and assessment available to a nurse, that I had a momentary episode of sheer panic and utter terror in which I felt I couldn’t do another damn thing. I can’t remember if I did, but I might have put out a silent prayer to the Almighty to help me. At that moment, I felt so damn impotent as I watched my patient slip further and further away.

Seconds after this moment, help arrived, and the patient made a successful recovery. Two days later, I made a visit to my patient, who told me that she remembered my face and my voice and behind me, she recalled a white fuzzy light, and him.
“Him?” I asked, feeling the hair on my nape rise sharply.
“An angel,” she said very matter of fact. “He was behind your left shoulder. He had dark hair. He stood very close to you. That’s how I knew he was there for you, not me.”
I was rendered mute, and humbled. My patient went on to tell me that he didn’t wear white robes, and there was no halo in sight. He was nothing like she imagined angels from Heaven to be. I smiled and patted her hand, and stumbled out of her room, feeling awed yet dubious.
That night, I awoke to my fallen angels. All tall. All dark haired, and all not sporting halos and white wings! Lol! That day, I happened upon some artwork that made everything in my head click. And what inspiration it turned to be!

That’s a writer’s mind, I’m afraid. We take the sane and ordinary, and turn it into something fantastical. No heavenly, God fearing angels for me. No, I have to make them fallen and tortured, and devastatingly sexy! And let me you, they have taken me on one hell of a journey, and writing about them and their mortal lovers has been a wonderful experience.

The Watchers is my angel series with Total-E-Bound about a group of fallen angels who have all sinned and have been banned from Heaven. The first book is about Gadriel (The Watchers; Dark Awakening). Gadriel is a warrior. He’s the silent but deadly type. The second book; Dark Admirer (tentatively slated for release in March 08) is about The Watcher named Anael. He’s the Angel of Passion and Pleasure, and this guy is, let me tell you, hot as hell! He’s also right up there as one of my favorite heroes I’ve ever created. He’s tormented, scarred, and sexually intense. I love heroes like that! YUM! The third book is entitled Dark Seduction, and it is about Sammael, the Angel of Transformation. He’s a mysterious soul, and his calling makes the mortals fear and despise him.

My newly designed website has some interesting information on angels, and the Watchers in particular. I also have a Watcher quiz where you can discover just what angel is your kind of hero! Lots of pics of them, too!

Visit (enter paranormal site) and see for yourself. First two people to subscribe to my newsletter from this blog will win a free download of Gadriel’s book, The Watchers; Dark Awakening.

Good luck!

Got a story about an angel to tell? Delurk and tell share your angel story here at Hitting The Hot Spot blog, and you’ll win a copy of Gadriel’s book, plus a really cool Watcher’s mug filled with yummy treats~an early Valentine’s Day gift from Gadriel and the other Watchers!

Below you’ll find a teasing little glimpse of Anael, the Angel of Passion of Pleasure.

Sinful Reading…
Charlotte Featherstone

An un-edited excerpt of The Watchers;Dark Admirer, coming from Total-E-bound March 08

…Instead of reaching out and drawing his fingers along her cheek and throat, he rested his head back against the chair and stared up into the ceiling which was covered with copper tin and decorated with red bows and evergreen garland. In the centre of the display, stood a golden angel, its wings spread wide, his hands in prayer.
Once, long, long ago, he had been that sort of creature. Dutiful. Respectful. Faithful. He could hardly remember it now, what it was like to be showered with His grace; what it was like to live side by side with his brothers instead of being hidden away, caged in the furthest corner of Heaven, waiting to be used, waiting to bestow his great gifts amongst the mortals.
For so long he had been alone. Empty. Lifeless. Excommunicated from his brothers and his God.
Anael silently wondered if the seventy generations he had been imprisoned in the Abyss with the incubi and succubae who had tortured him was not more bearable than this isolation.
A ringing from the vicinity of the window jarred him from his thoughts. Twisting, he looked over the top of the chair to see a red cell phone resting on the window sill. A light flashed by the display screen as it continued ringing. His gaze moved to the right, to a table that was placed before the window. A table, which held a majestic black feather.
So, that is what had brought him to the woman. She had found a feather from his wings. She had touched it. Stroked it. And he had felt each glide of her fingers along his body as he tumbled through the air. He had felt each slide of her fingers as if it had been his naked flesh she had touched, and not just an errant feather.
Holding out his palm, he reached for it, watching as the feather obeyed his silent command and came to him. When he held it between his fingers, he felt the woman’s aura clinging to the feathers, smelt her perfume and the delicate scent of her skin as he brought it to his face, inhaling the scent of her.
He saw her then, a vision in his mind. She was standing before the window, staring in wonder at the feather she held in her palm. Then she lifted it to her face, trailed the tip of it along her cheek and jaw. Her eyelids slowly lowered, as if she could feel the same current run through her own flesh.
And then he began to feel what she felt. The touch of a hand along her satiny skin. The feel of a mouth slowly descending to her cheek. He sensed her response. Sensed his own. And for the first time in more than seventy generations, he allowed himself to be drawn in by forbidden pleasure…

Eve was having the strangest dream. She was back at the window of her bookstore, the strange and beautiful black feather lying in the flat of her palm as she watched the snow gently falling outside. It was dark now, the sun long since having slipped beneath the grey clouds. The moon was out, illuminating the snow and ice crystals that covered the street and sidewalk. It was cold and blustery outside, yet she felt nothing of the cold, despite the drafty window.
Behind her was a comforting warmth. It was not the fireplace, although the log continued to burn in the hearth. It was another source of heat. A body—large and broad—it felt so warm and safe. And the scent… the scent was like nothing she had ever smelt before. Exotic, mysterious. A hint of Eastern spice. It drew her in, relaxing her as if she were enveloped in a cloud of opium.
She was in a haze. Her limbs felt languid, heavy. Yet, despite her body’s immobility, she felt restless. A deep yearning inside her was quickly taking over.
“Let me in,” a dark velvety voice whispered, the words caressing her skin like a lover’s touch. She felt his hands go around her shoulders. His fingers felt long and sure against her—manly—yet so gentle. So skilled as they drew small circles down her arms.
“I could make you feel so good,” he said again, his voice hauntingly beautiful. “I would worship you, if you would let me.”
“Your voice…” Eve murmured, feeling her eyelids grow heavy, as if his voice had the ability to send her into a trance.
“My voice is only for you,” he said, and this time she felt his breath whispering against the shell of her ear. “My touch…it is just for you. My body…it is yours.”
Eve felt her body go liquid. His voice made her respond like she never had before. No man had made her feel like this. This languid, this free to indulge her secret most fantasy.
“I can smell your desire. I can feel it, your body heating beneath my hands. I can taste it,” he purred, then flicked his tongue beneath her ear. “Let me touch. Let me taste.”
His hands, warm and soft sneaked beneath the hem of her top. As if by magic, the cotton seemed to evaporate, leaving her exposed. Her nipples tightened, lengthened as her breasts grew impossibly heavy as his palm slid up the expanse of her belly, up to towards her ribs. Eve felt his breath, quicker—uneven—ruffling the tendrils of her hair. She smelt him, the exotic spice of him growing stronger as though someone had lit an incense stick. The heat from him—his chest at her back, his hand beneath her breast—engulfed her body.
“I could show you Heaven,” he said against her neck. “I could take you to places that no man ever could.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice nothing more than a quiet pant. Her body arched of its own accord as his palm left her and hovered overtop her breast. “Please,” she begged. Her nipples ached to be touched. They were so sensitive. Even the cool air sensitized them to an extreme that was a mixture of pleasure and pain.
“You are so perfect. So lush and lovely,” he said, his voice sounding as though he were awed. “Let me see you. Let me look upon the beauty He has bestowed upon you.”
Eve turned then, seeking the owner of the dark, mysterious voice. He allowed her that, slowly turning her with his hands. His head was lowered, his face pressed against her neck and shoulder as he nuzzled and inhaled her scent.
“Look upon me but do not fear what you see. Never fear me,” he murmured as he pulled back from her and looked down into her upturned face.
Eve felt her eyes go wide. A scream was trapped in her throat. Those eyes…those gorgeous teal eyes. And that face. That frightening tattooed face was peering down at her.
The man from the alley.
She screamed then, and threw herself out of his hold. Struggling, she wrestled with her consciousness, trying to awaken from the dream.
She did awake, and found herself draped in the wingback chair before the hearth. With shaking hands, she brushed her hair back and looked around the room with wild eyes.
She found him, sitting in the corner of the room, watching her with those beautiful eyes and that strange marked face. He was trembling. His hands shaking. Against the black wool of his coat rested strands of long blonde hair.
She studied the hair and the way his fingers trembled; noticed the way his Adam’s apple in his throat kept moving up and down. In those strained seconds of watching him, Eve swore she could hear the mad thumping of his heart beating against his ribs.
Let me in…the words—his words—came rushing back to her, making her feel the same rush of sexual desire as she had earlier.
Their eyes met, and Eve knew then that what she had experienced was not a dream.


BDSM and Romance

"BDSM? Yuck!" I have the impression that this represents the reaction of many romance readers when someone offers them a title that includes Bondage, Discipline, Sadism, or Masochism. What is romantic about pain, suffering and humiliation? Why would anyone enjoy reading about whippings, spankings, restraints that contort the body into embarrassing and awkward positions, severe punishments that are administered in response to the tiniest lapse in obedience?

My personal position is that BDSM literature (sometimes labeled D/s - Dominance and submission) can be as emotionally satisfying and erotically charged as any romance - perhaps more so (for people like me, at least!) What are my qualifications for making this statement? I'm not a part of the BDSM "scene". I don't practice "lifestyle" BDSM. I've experienced one extremely intense, long-term D/s relationship that profoundly changed my world view and that influenced me to begin writing erotica about ten years ago. Since then I've written two BDSM novels and dozens of short stories and chapters with BDSM elements, as well as co-editing Sacred Exchange, a collection of stories by other authors exploring the spiritual and mystical aspects of dominance and submisssion.

For me, the essence of a D/s relationship lies in the emotional bond between the dominant and the submissive. The physical trappings and conventional activities - the riding crop and the gag, the handcuffs and the nipple clamps, the whippings and the binding - are side issues, merely the methods chosen to express, explore, and strengthen the bond. Others may associate BDSM with humiliation, cruelty, abuse, and agony. In my view, BDSM is about devotion, commitment, trust, and ecstasy.

A caveat: not everyone agrees with me. (My husband would be amazed to hear me admit that!) Some readers prefer their BDSM rough, with an edge of real cruelty that would definitely limit my enjoyment. For some people, the objects of discipline themselves hold a fetishistic attraction. There's also a tendency in some romance writing to play with BDSM paraphernalia in vanilla relationships, where blindfolds and bonds function as sex toys to enhance the excitement of the participants. The BDSM that I write, however, and that I enjoy reading, focuses primarily on the connection between the characters in the "power exchange".

What do I mean by "power exchange"? This D/s jargon refers to the fact that submissive voluntarily gives up control to the dominant. In return, the dominant accepts responsibility for the submissive's well-being and ultimately, for his or her pleasure. The sub surrenders herself to the dom, in devotion and trust. (For now I'll assume a female submissive. I've written both male- and female-dominant tales, as well as some lesbian D/s, but it gets awkward to keep using multiple pronouns!) The dom can do whatever he wants with the sub; she has, after all, given her consent. He has the intoxicating knowledge that by taking what he desires, he will also give his sub what she most craves: the satisfaction of pleasing her master and the freedom to experience her most intimate fantasies of ravishment and abuse.

As usual, I'm getting pedantic here, so let me give you an example, from Raw Silk.

He carried her over to the bed and laid her down on her back. “Lift your arms above your head,” he commanded. As she complied, her hand brushed against something, dangling from the headboard. She turned to look at the braided ropes of red silk, fastened to the rattan spokes, and suddenly understood why Gregory had disappeared when she first arrived. A few things to attend to, he had said. So he had left her with his lady co-conspirator, trusting his comrade and the performance to inflame Kate”s senses and imagination, while he came and installed these bonds.

Gregory watched the comprehension dawning in her eyes. “Yes, Kate. I prepared these for you. Only for you.”

He leaned closer. “I want to tie you here, hand and foot, so that you will be more completely at my disposal. I believe that you want that, too. But you must tell me so. I will not do this without your permission.”

Kate was silent. She had never been so unsure in her life. Fear, suspicion, shame, and distrust warred with curiosity and desire. In his arms she had felt both sheltered and helpless, and she longed for those feelings again. Yet he was essentially a stranger, she reminded herself, a stranger with a shady profession and an unsavoury reputation.

When she looked him, though, she saw concern and attentiveness in his eyes, even though his cock still pulsed hugely from his fly. The sight of his manhood sent a delicious weakness through her limbs. I must be crazy, she thought to herself, as she nodded her assent.

“Do it,”, she murmured, and did not trust herself to say anymore.

With expert skill, he bound her wrists with the silken braids. “Silk is a marvellous substance,” he commented. “So soft, but incredibly strong. Like you, my little Kate. I know that you can endure much, Kate. Much more than you would believe.”

Kate shivered, wondering exactly what he meant. He was working on her ankles now, in a business-like fashion, leaving her knees bent and open so that her sex was spread wide. Every time he touched her, heat traveled through her to that burning centre, still sensitive and hungry from her earlier ministrations. She squirmed a bit, involuntarily pushing her pelvis toward him.

“Be still,” he said sharply. “Be patient. You must learn to wait.”

Finally, she was bound, restrained from all but the most subtle movements. She found she was panting. Gregory stood at the foot of the bed, admiring her, or his handiwork.

“Excellent. Just as I imagined.”

He began to remove his clothes. Her eyes followed his every gesture. When he dropped his shirt to the floor, Kate sucked in her breath. Marshall's left arm, from shoulder to wrist, was elaborately and beautifully tattooed. A pattern of multicolorcoloured flames writhed over his flesh, scarlet, green and turquoise. A trick of the flashing neon, or perhaps simply the motion of his muscles, made the flames dance across his flesh as if they were consuming him. A similar flame flickered in his blue eyes as he pulled off his trousers.

He mounted the bed and straddled her with his thighs. His engorged penis hovered above her body. Despite herself, she writhed a bit below him. In response, he leaned over and pinched both her nipples, hard enough that she cried out.

“Still, I said! You are mine now, mine to do as I wish. I will fuck you, or not fuck you, as I please.”

“But,” he added, smiling, “I do please.”

The excerpt above illustrates another aspect of D/s that I personally find incredibly arousing. The submissive's act of consent does more than initiate the power exchange. It is also an admission of desires that are viewed as abnormal and forbidden. To voluntarily request domination can be difficult, embarrassing and humiliating. The dom, though, is a fellow deviant, a co-conspirator in pleasure. The confession of taboo fantasies strengthens the bond. Only in the approving presence of her Master is the submissive free to expose her shameful secrets.

Another example, from Rendezvous:

I swallowed hard. I was so turned on that I forgot to be frightened. “Murdered! And now you're condemned to haunt this room forever?”

“So it seems. I really don’t know. I never remember, when I appear, what happened the last time I was here.”

“You won't remember me.” The thought was like a knife in my chest.

“Most likely not, Rebecca.” I could imagine him smiling, sadly.

“How — can you read my mind? Is that how you know my name?” I blushed furiously. If he could hear my thoughts, he'd know all the wild, wicked things I was picturing at the moment.

“I read your credit card when you checked in.” He laughed. “I don't seem to possess any powers now that I didn't have when I was alive.” I felt his cool palm briefly caress my cheek. “But I'll bet that I can tell you what you're thinking now.”

His hand traveled downward, between my breasts, across my belly. I held my breath, waiting for him to reach my sex. He brushed his palm, ever so lightly, over the tangle of blonde curls there, then his hand was gone. Pleasure fluttered through me, expanding like ripples on a pond.

“So, what am I thinking?” My voice caught in my throat.

“You have to tell me, my sweet. You have to ask for what you want.”

“I can't.” I reached out blindly and managed to grab hold of his arm. “Please...”

“Tell me.” He shook off my hand, then gripped my wrist tightly. His voice held a new sternness. “Tell me, or I'll leave.”

“No, don't go! Please!”

He seized my other wrist. “Say it, Rebecca. You can trust me. Tell me what you want from me.”

“I ... I want... You should ... do those things to me, the things you used to do.”

“Things?” I could hear him mocking me. I squirmed in his inexorable grip.

“You know what I mean.” His silence made it clear that he wouldn't not be satisfied by my vagueness.

“I — you — ” I struggled, trying to get the words out. “Tie me up, Tony. Tie me to the bed, beat me, use me any way you want. Fuck me so hard that I'll never be free of your memory. Even if you forget about me.”

“Can I hang you from that hook in the ceiling?” Something drew my eyes to the far corner, where there was indeed a steel hook embedded in the discoloured plaster. Installed, perhaps, for his past assignations? I wondered what it would feel like, to dangle there, while he did whatever he pleased with my helpless body.

Lust raced through me, followed by shame. I swallowed nervously. “Yes.”

“Or what if I bend you over the chair back and spank you till your butt is raw? How about screwing you with an ice cold beer bottle? Can I do that?” I nodded, unable to frame the words.

“And if I feel like taking you in the ass, forcing my cock into your rear hole and making you scream from the pain and the dirty pleasure –— do you want me to do that?"

The image almost made me faint. I could almost feel the implacable hardness of his cock, pressing against my back door. My cunt twitched, anticipating the roar of sensation when he drove himself into my bowels.

“Whatever you want.”

“But what do you want, Rebecca?”

I was silent. I still couldn’t admit how much I craved this defilement.

“Rebecca! It’s not enough to merely consent. You’ve got to ask. To beg me!”

The fact that I craved such things was somehow even more humiliating and arousing than the acts themselves. I had absolutely zero past experience with anything kinky. Where did these dark desires come from?

Wherever their source, from hell or from my unconscious, I couldn’t deny them. Halloween, as usual, had transformed me.

“Please,” I whispered, grateful that I didn’t have to look into his eyes. “Take me. Use me. Make me your slut.”

But what about the pain? Intense emotional connection, trust, devotion, that all sounds wonderful, but is it worth suffering beneath the lash, enduring the ropes biting into your flesh?

I don't particularly seek out pain (though I understand that some BDSM practitioners do). In any case, pain is a strange thing. It depends on expectations as much as on reality. I have read that native American women did not experience any pain at childbirth because their culture viewed labor and delivery as joyous and easy. (Those of you who are mothers might be skeptical.) In any case, during a D/s scene, when you are unbelievably turned-on, pain does not necessarily feel bad. For one thing, elevated levels of endorphins (yikes, there's the pedant again!) decrease pain sensitivity levels. Whip strokes and spankings stimulate the senses - it is the mind that translates them as pleasure or pain, or sometimes both at once.

Here's a final excerpt, from "Body Electric", due to appear soon in Yes, Sir: Erotic Tales of Male Dominance and Female Submission, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel:

I shook my head. My legs were spread wide, my cunt-lips stretched open, baring my throbbing clit to tremble in random air currents. The sheet beneath me was soaked with my secretions. Do something, I thought. Anything.

He returned to his attaché case. There was a strange noise, a kind of hissing or snapping. "I thought we might begin with this little gadget."

The thing in his hands looked like something from a 1940's horror film. It had a handle, topped with a mushroom-shaped globe of glass that glowed with a malevolent purple light. Inside the glass, bright sparks danced. Their images flickered on the wall next to the bed.

Slowly, he brought the bulb closer to my bare flesh. The crackling noise grew more intense. He hovered above my nipple. "Don't move," he whispered.

All at once a rain of sparks shot from the tube to the taut node of flesh. I was being pierced with a thousand needles. I screamed, as much from surprise as from the pain. Ryan pulled the device away, as I tried to catch my breath.


"Sorry, Doctor. I wasn't expecting..." Before I could finish, his mouth was on my recently assaulting nipple, lapping and sucking, soaking my skin with his hot saliva. I felt every movement of his tongue deep in my cunt. When he brought the glowing globe close again, I thought I was ready. This time, though, the sparks were stronger, hotter, more painful. Electricity crawled over my breast, wherever he had left traces of wetness.

Before I could recover, he was sparking my other nipple. I jumped and squirmed. My cunt contracted with each contact. He stroked by stomach. "You're all sweaty," he said. The thing sputtered and popped. Miniature bolts of lightning showered down on my navel. "And your thighs are smeared with cunt-juice..." He swept the wand slowly over my body and a long trail of sparks stitched up the sensitive skin toward my gaping sex.

"I've always been fascinated by electricity," he said in a conversational tone as the bulb approached my cunt. I tensed, waiting for the jolt I knew would come. Nothing could have prepared me for the raw sensations. Sparks danced on my clit and sputtered among my wet folds. I screamed again, overwhelmed, confused as to whether I was in terrible pain or close to climax.

Have I convinced you that dominance and submission can be romantic? If not, perhaps you'd be interested to know that, although I live half a world away from him, and am married to another man, my Master and I still send each other Valentines. And every time I write a BDSM scene, I think of him, with gratitude and love.