Today's stop on the Morning, Noon, and Night tour is Aisling Weaver who believes: "There's really never a bad time to have sex..." Of her fab little flasher in Morning, Noon, and Night she says:
I can’t quite remember where I wrote that tight little piece; chances are I was sitting on my couch, though I could have easily been at my desk, in bed, in my building residents’ lounge, at my girlfriend’s, on my sailboat …
You see, I write just about anywhere...
Read more about the awesome Aisling's process here.
I'm almost scared to say what day it is for the Trollop Bingo game, because yesterday I was all ballsy and said it was the 9th—yeah, the other 9th—when it was really the 10th. So if the stars are aligned and my watch is correct, today is the 11th day. And the featured book today is Blushers. The little collection contains seven sizzling spanking stories—all by me. Here is a tease from each:
The Hardest Part:
I’m over his lap. I’ve needed a spanking for too long, but he’s been making me wait. In spite of everything I’ve done, he’s ignored the signals. I’ve been bratty. I’ve been bad. I might as well have worn a t-shirt with the words SPANK ME in bold scarlet letters across the front.
That is the level of my desperation.
Bend over and touch your toes.”
Everyone falls into a rut sometimes…
“Don’t forget to count.”
…even the kinkiest of couples.
“Prepare yourself. If you flinch, we start at one again.”
I always get wet when Garret prepares me for punishment. My pussy clenches the second he tells me I’m due for discipline, and I can almost come when the crop smacks against my naked ass. But if this is all you’re doing 24/7, even hard-core, incendiary sex can become mundane.
Oh, my ass is red.
Oooh, he’s going to fuck my mouth again.
Ahh, where did we put the ball gag?
That’s why I was shocked, elated, and thrilled to my core, when I heard, “Is that how you do it? You start over? I tend to insert anal beads at the first fuck-up.”
Those words would have stirred something in me no matter what. The fact that the man talking was Garret’s best friend, Jules, turned a switch inside me.
It’s a Secret, Santa:
Anyone who knows me—I mean, really knows me—understands what I want for Christmas.
But nobody really knows me.
“I want you to practice with me,” I begged Justine.
“What do you mean?” my friend asked, yelling to be heard over the music. We were at her annual pagan Halloween party, and the music was loud. I had on a toga made from a sheet, and my black hair was loose down my back. This was my homespun version of Aphrodite—a silly costume for me. Goddess of Love? I don’t think so. Justine was dressed like a nurse, and from the glances she was receiving, I could tell several partiers were desperate for her to give them their yearly examinations.
“I need to know what it’s like first,” I said. “You just don’t understand.”
“You’re right,” she said, “I don’t understand at all.”
I Wish I Was Beautiful:
“This way,” the photographer said. “Give me that look again.”
I knew in college that boys my age couldn’t see me. I don’t mean that in any paranormal sense of the world. I mean I was invisible to them. They looked through me in the classrooms, never spotted me at the cafeteria. Of course, the boys didn’t do much for me, either. Can’t really have an older man fixation on a nineteen-year-old kid.
“You know what I want. That up from under look you did with your lashes.”
“Twelve minutes of what?” I couldn’t get my eyes open, let alone my brain.
“That’s how long the average couple spends conversing a day. Twelve minutes.”
I yawned. “What are you talking about, Harry?”
“I’m talking about eleven minutes and twenty-three seconds. Get a move on, Lora.
That’s all we have left.”
“You’re frittering away our time, Baby.”
I pushed up in bed and stared at him, bleary eyed. He’d woken me up to discuss a countdown, but a countdown to what?
Harry shook a magazine at me.“According to this article, American couples spend fewer than twelve minutes a day talking to each other.”
Stickler for Details:
Monica made the initial connection. “You’ll like Master Patrick,” she assured me. She looked off into space for a moment before editing herself. “Well, like might not be the right word. I think you’ll appreciate him.”
“Appreciate in what way?”
Again, there was that momentary pause, a space between words that I should have tried harder to understand. I’m a journalist, after all. I consider deciphering people’s silences almost as important as paying attention to their actual words. But I was doing my best simply to stay focused on the glint of her gray-green eyes after downing two martinis. Monica can drink me under the table.
“He’s as much of a stickler for details as you are.”
And that’s all she would say.
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