April 30, 2015

The Spanking House...

...and other stories. This is my cover reveal for my next collection. In a way, this is a sequel to Blushers. More stories dedicated to spanking. But this collection also contains a spanking-new novella: The Spanking House. Cover is by the intensely talented Riendo.

I'm hoping to have the collection for sale this weekend. The line-up for the stories is:

The Super
Close Shave
Paddle Brush
A Loose Interpretation
The Spanking House

Here is the Introduction:

Oh, I’m bad. It’s only 6:46 here. Not that far into the evening, but I am well into my cocktail hour, and I am thinking of this thing. This spanking thing. I am not going to analyze right now. I’m going to confess: There is nothing sexier to me than being spanked. Hard. Over the knee. Skirt up and panties down.

Don’t get me wrong. I adore all of the twists and turns of a kinky relationship. The round and rounds with dialogue and toys. But I love the spanking best. And I can’t get away from that.

Not that I’m trying.

What I am is perched here, on the edge of a wooden chair, fingers flying over the keyboard as I try to wrap my mind around the perfect scenario. Maybe it’s not a place, but a sense. The mood—wherever, whenever. I have been spanked in so many different locations. In the backseat of a shiny black limo and over the end of a classic cherry-colored convertible. I’ve been punished while bent over a motorcycle. Smacked with a ruler while duct-taped to a desk.

But over-the-knee is my favorite position, my favorite place to be.

You know what I mean, don’t you?

Let’s have another sip while I contemplate those shivery moments before he pulls up my skirt, before he lowers my panties. Before the seductive sound of palm on bare flesh fills the room. I told you I wasn’t going to analyze, wasn’t going to search for why. Not tonight. Tonight I’m only thinking about the when and the how.

A kicky little schoolgirl skirt is still my ultimate fetish. Stack-heeled Mary Janes, sleek knee-highs, simple white t-shirt beneath a black cashmere cardigan.

He doesn’t say a word about the outfit. He simply sits on the nearest armless chair and draws me over his lap. He strokes me through the skirt once, twice, before flipping up the hem to reveal my panties—Oh, look! Monday panties worn on a Tuesday evening. He says all the right things: Bad girl. Naughty girl. Hold still, baby, this is going to hurt. He knows everything to say, all the words that take me to the faraway place where I want to go.

He slides the panties down. Not too quickly. Not too slowly. He slides them down my thighs, revealing me, unveiling me. Then he waits, just long enough for me to start to worry. For me to fear that I might laugh. That I might giggle out of nervousness.

This isn’t funny. It’s never funny.

If I’m lucky, he spanks me before I lose my cool. Spanks me hard from the start, so that the thought of laughter is driven from my mind. So that I am focused, intent on the feeling, on the sensation of his warm hand meeting my bare skin.

Fuck me. There’s nothing better. Nothing tops it.

Nothing compares.

I swear.

This collection is dedicated to the others out there, like me, who crave punishment. Welcome to the stories in this book. Welcome to The Spanking House.

Bottoms up,

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