Inspiration, Take Me! I’m Yours!

July 21, 2015Bloginspiration, mythology, writingK D Grace

(Parts of this post come from a guest post I wrote for Tina Donahue in 2011)

It’s elusive, it’s mysterious, it’s exhilarating, and we erotic writers crave it more than the sex we write about. We chase it shamelessly, we long for it passionately, we would gladly make ourselves slaves to its every whim, and no matter how fickle it is, we always welcome it back with open arms. When it’s with us, it’s at least as good as the best sex. And when it’s not, we mourn its loss like a lover. I’m talking about inspiration, of course. It’s the breath of life for every story ever written and the coveted ethereal presence that every writer yearns for.

The mythological link to inspiration is especially interesting to me in the light of a life-long fascination with mythology. Half of my novels and at least that many of my short stories and novellas find their inspiration in mythology or fairy tales of some sort. I’m writing an online serial, In The Flesh and my present WIP, Buried Pleasures, both have their roots in mythology.

Greek mythology – mythology of any kind, really — is fabulous inspiration for writers. The gods are always dipping their wicks where they don’t belong and finding ever more creative ways to do so. Nine months later, viola! A magical child is born, a child with gifts that will be needed to save the world, or at least a little part of it. But there’s one story that always comes to my mind where the lovely virgin resists, and no wick-dipping occurs. That’s the story of Apollo and Daphne.

The Muses serve Apollo, so of course this myth interests me. Apollo is the god of light and the sun; truth and prophecy; medicine, healing, and plague. He is the god of music, poetry, and the arts; and all intellectual pursuit. If ever there was a wick we writers would like to be dipped by, it surely has to be Apollo. Daphne is a mountain nymph and not interested in giving up her virginity to some randy god. While Apollo is pursuing her, she prays to her father, who is a river god, and he turns her into a laurel tree. Ovid claims it’s not Daphne’s fault that she’s not hot for Apollo right back. He claims that Cupid, who is angry at Apollo shoots Daphne with a leaden arrow, which prevents her from returning Apollo’s feelings. But what matters is that she misses out on Apollo’s inspiration.

My theory is that the whole mythology of gods coming down from Olympus, or wherever else gods come down from, to seduce humans is really nothing more than a metaphor for inspiration.

Consider all the different forms in which Zeus visits his paramours. He takes the form of a swan with Leta, he visits Danae in a shower of gold coins, he approaches Europa as a white bull. Writers understand that inspiration can take absolutely any shape, and often the very shape we least expect.

The gods aren’t always gentle in their seductions. Hades drags Persephone off to the underworld screaming and kicking all the way. Zeus turns Io into a white cow, who is tortured and tormented by Hera. In the form of an eagle, he abducts Ganymede and drags him away to Mount Olympus. Writers know well that inspiration doesn’t always come in a gentle form. In fact one of my creative writing teachers used to advise her students to go to the place inside themselves that most frightened them, most disgusted them, most disturbed them, and that’s the place where they would find inspiration, that’s the place from which their writing would be the most powerful.

I’m quite disturbed by the journey In The Flesh is taking me on. It’s the story of a demonic spirit who is irresistable, and insatiable, and gives everything he promises his lovers and more. But the price of passion beyond imagining is high. Of course he’s just a scary stalker bastard with divine powers, but at the same time, I go right a long with the dangerous, even deadly, seduction of Susan. Would you??? I would. Or at least I think I would. Obsession is a harsh master, and not always the giver of rewards promised. Though at the end of the day, most of us would gladly pay the price for inspiration.

Whether inspiration comes in gentle, beautiful forms or whether it drags us kicking and screaming and tears us from limb to limb, the result will be something greater than what it sprang from. From the seductions of the gods, the children born were always larger than life. They were heroes and monsters and fantastical creatures, but they were all born of that joining of divinity and humanity, they were all the result of what happens when something greater penetrates the blood and the bone and the grey matter of our humanity. What comes from that inspiration may indeed be monstrous or fantastical, but it will always be, in the mythical sense, born of the gods.

Which leads me back to Daphne and Apollo. The cost of inspiration is the loss of innocence. We are seduced, we are penetrated, we are impregnated with something new, something fresh, something possibly even frightening, something that we, as writers must carry to term and give birth to. But none of that can happen without yielding to the seduction. Daphne became a tree, unable to move, unable to think, unable to ever be penetrated or inspired. One can only imagine what may have resulted from the willing union with the god of light and truth and poetry and the arts and all the things we writers crave. I’ll be honest, I fantasize about Apollo. I fantasize about inviting him right on in and saying I’m yours. I’ll take all you can give me, and please, feel free to stay as long as you like. Though, in truth, in my fantasy, I skip the dangerous and scary bits. And encounters with inspiration can often be dangerous and scary. I think it’s probably Apollo who inspired my demon lover – a terrifying version of divine inspiration.

There’s a cost to inspiration. It’s the obsession we all know as writers, the one that won’t allow us to think about anything else in the waking world and sometimes even in the dream world until we get the very last word down, until we make it shine exactly the way we conceived it, exactly the way it penetrated us. My heart is racing just writing this because every writer knows what it feels like, and every writer lives for it to happen again and again and again. So yeah, forget the tree rubbish, laurel or otherwise. Inspiration, take me, I’m yours. Have your way with me. I couldn’t be more willing if I tried.

Object Lessons: Silver Crucifixes and Yew Trees

July 19, 2015Blog, Inspirationcreativity and imagination, inspiration, writingK D Grace

I think a lot about the value we place on things, and I don’t mean in a materialistic way. I mean in a writerly way. I’ve always found myself drawn to detritus and things left behind. Everything left behind has a story, and because of that, everything left behind carries its own little bit of magic, no matter what it’s actual monetary value.

I mentioned when I was in Oregon that near my sister’s house there was a trailer park where a pick-up truck had been left derelict, the back end full, as though someone had vacated a flat in a hurry and then left the truck containing all their possessions as well. It was loaded down with all kinds of household items from a wok to a rocking chair, from a mangled computer table to a battered rodeo practice dummy. My imagination went wild. For me it was a treasure trove of ideas to be filed away for future stories.

I’ve found countless gloves and hats and hair scrunchies on walks that I’ve taken. I’ve found money, wallets – which I returned, underwear – which I did NOT return, shoes. At home in my jewelry box I have a bird skull I found on a walk once, bones like ivory, and every delicate one of them in perfect condition – obviously that I kept. On a walk once in Oregon, I found an unbelievably beautiful geode, broken open to expose the beautiful crystals within. Trouble was, it was huge, way to heavy for me to carry back on a ten-mile, very steep trail. But I found it, I saw it, I filed it away for future use. If you follow my blog, you know about all the lovely pyritic ammonites I found on the beaches around Lyme Regis. I’ve found bones, bird eggs, feathers, books and large sparkly rhinestones, belts, buckles, ribbons and bracelets among lots and lots of other things, some valuable, most not so much.

But on this particular occasion, I found a silver crucifix about three inches long, half buried in the powdery dust of the path. There was just enough of it exposed for it to catch the sun as I looked down. I just happened to be walking through a stretch of woodland dotted with lots of very old yew trees. Yew trees are often associated with churchyards and holy places, and at the time I was plotting out the next chapter of my online serial, In The Flesh. That being the case, the crucifix and the yew tree seemed appropriate symbols for inspiration for a story that involves a demon lover in a deconsecrated church.

So far the crucifix itself hasn’t figured into the story, but it definitely inspired what happened next. As for the yew trees,
well, when a good bit of the story takes place in an neglected overgrown church yard, it seemed appropriate for me to spend some time, clenching the crucifix in my hand and wandering among the yew trees. I took dozens of pictures and worked out at least that many scenarios in my head for the week’s edition of In The Flesh.

Afterwards, I stuffed the cross in a small pocket in my backpack and forgot all about it until just yesterday when I was digging around for something else, and I was reminded again how often detritus is a touchstone for story. So often, even when that detritus is not something shiny and silver and something worth hanging on to, it can be the seed of story, or at the very least the seed of an idea that will become a part of a story. Things for a writer, as often nothing more than prompts, and sometimes those things would be totally insignificant to anyone else. On the other hand, the same piece of seeming rubbish that inspired one writer to a romance might inspire another to a horror story – especially something as evocative as a silver crucifix or an abandon pickup truck full of an anonymous person’s possessions. What makes something valuable is more often than not based on what its emotional attachments are. The value of a wedding ring, for instance, is much more valuable for what it represents than it is for itself. When a good
friend of mine got a divorce, I remember going with her to a jewelry store to sell her diamond engagement ring simply because it no longer represented what it had when she wore it for love. In fact, it now evoked almost the opposite feelings in her.

My good friend, Kay Jaybee often tells people that she can write about anything, that any object can be an inspiration. It’s true. But some things capture our imagination more than others and when that happens, it’s time to hang on to our writer’s caps and enjoy the ride.

In The Flesh Part 9: Free Story in Progress. Enjoy!

July 17, 2015Blogdark paranormal romance, In The Flesh serial, Story in progressK D Grace

Happy Friday Everyone! And secrets are uncovered with part 9 of my dark paranormal story. Angels and demons, gods and monsters, sex and terror; when the boundaries are not clear, the journey can be deadly. But can the price be worth the paying?

In the Flesh is very dark paranormal erotica. When Susan Innes comes to visit her friend, Annie Rivers, in Chapel House, the deconsecrated church that Annie is renovating into a home, she discovers her outgoing friend changed, reclusive, secretive, and completely enthralled by a mysterious lover, whose presence is always felt, but never seen, a lover whom she claims is god. As her holiday turns into a nightmare, Susan must come to grips with the fact that her friend’s lover is neither imaginary nor is he human, and even worse, he’s turned his wandering eye on Susan, and he won’t be denied his prize. If Susan is to fight an inhuman stalker intent on having her as his own, she’ll need a little inhuman help.

Episode 9 is full of secrets revealed and jealousy. Happy Reading!

To read the story in its entirety up to this point, follow these links to Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8.

In The Flesh: Part 9

For a long moment I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I felt cold to my core, and there was a strange ringing in my ears, but worst of all I felt jealous. “You were his lover? How’s that possible,” I managed, forcing the words up through my throat, which threatened to close. “How the hell is that even possible?”

“What do you mean how’s that possible? You and I just made love, same general principles.”

“Same general principles my arse.” I pushed up off the bed, grabbed the towel and wrapped it around me feeling suddenly very naked, indeed. I paced at the foot of the bed, jealousy just at the edge of my consciousness like the irritating buzz of a mosquito seeking a place to bite.

“What? Do you think an angel can’t be vulnerable, can’t want the same things you want?” The smile that curved his lips was almost a grimace. “I was a lot more beautiful then than I am now. But beauty’s a fleeting thing.” He waved his hand absently, still not looking at me. “I knew that was a part of the price, and I didn’t care. I would have done anything.”

“Well if it’s beauty he’s after, he sure as hell doesn’t want me. Annie’s the one with the looks. Not me.”

Suddenly he stood and pulled me to him, the look on his face shifting from confusion to complete understanding. “You’re jealous.”

I said nothing. It was no use denying what had to be written all over my face. That Michael had been with Him, that Annie was with Him, and that I still wanted to be, in spite of everything messed with my mind.

“I understand your jealousy,” Michael said. “Once he’s touched you in some way, in any way, you can’t help but want him. You can’t help but want him to want you and only you. That’s his power.”

I didn’t reply. What could I say? Instead I turned my back on him, trying to focus, trying to be logical. I didn’t want to be jealous, and I didn’t want to want Him. I knew what the result of wanting Him, of giving into that want, would be, and yet, I still wanted.

He grabbed my arm in a grip that was none too gentle and pulled me back to him. “Susan, it has nothing to do with beauty, what he wants. Beauty is far more fleeting than … other things.” He lifted my chin with a thick curled finger, forcing me to meet his gaze. “That he wants you, I can completely understand.” He pulled me close against his still naked body, making sure I was fully aware of his desire for me, then he took my mouth in a kiss distracting enough that I would have been perfectly happy to linger in a lip-lock with him for twenty years or so. But then he released me, guided me back to sit on the bed, and pulled his jeans up over his hips, commando, I noticed.

“Tell me,” I said, watching in fascination as he zipped his substantial self into the tight fit of denim. “Tell what happened.”

He shoved another log onto the fire then plopped down into the wingback chair. For a long time he stared into the flames, so long that I thought maybe he’d chosen not to answer; maybe it wasn’t something he could talk about. But at last he took a deep breath and spoke. “I thought it would be easier being human.” He lifted a shoulder in a lop-sided shrug. “I suppose we all romanticize the things we wish for before we actually have them. We don’t know the pitfalls and the difficulties until we’re faced with them, and then they’re such a shock, sometimes it’s too late.” He forced a laugh. “You’d think someone who had spent eons as a being only slightly less than divinity would have been aware of the threat of demons and spirits and such things that do a whole lot more than go bump in the night. I’d even met demons and incubi and spirits of the land. They never seemed all that threatening to me, but then I wasn’t human, was I? I know it’s insane to think that I could forget, I mean after all, it was a part of my job to protect humans, to ease their suffering from such beings.” He grabbed the poker and gave the log he’d just put on the fire a hard shove that resulted in a shower of popping and crackling sparks. For another long moment of gazing into the flames as though he sought wisdom there, he continued. “They were never any threat to me as an angelic being. I just assumed that would be true when I became human. I knew how things were, after all. I understood, and I was still me, at the end of the day. Surely I was safe from such things. But I wasn’t, was I?”

“How did it happen?” I asked. A part of me didn’t really want to know. A part of me couldn’t bear the thought
of anyone else being with Him. But He was a monster, I reminded myself. He was bad news, very bad news. Even as I thought it I couldn’t keep from thinking about how it felt when he touched me, how it felt when he spoke to me, almost like his voice was inside my heart.

“A part of my job was to be the guardian of sacred spaces.” He smiled and shook his head, “Sorry to disappoint, but I wasn’t that Michael, not the archangel. I was just a Michael, and I was one of many whose job was to safeguard sacred spaces and the people who worship therein.” He chuckled softly “I suppose you could say I was the divine version of a security guard. Not very glamorous, is it?”

“And you were sent to protect people from … Him?”

“Sort of,” he replied. “There are lots of beings attracted to sacred spaces because they are sacred. They shine like beacons to supernatural eyes. And because mortals come to those spaces open and vulnerable than they are in more mundane spaces, they can be the perfect places for these divine parasites, for lack of a better term, to attach themselves to a human.”

“Are you saying He’s a parasite?” The idea made me squirm. I liked the idea of some divine monster, some misbehaving godling wanting to seduce me, but I wasn’t so keen on the idea of a parasite attaching itself to me.”

“More than likely he was the original guardian spirit set to protect the place and its worshipers. Stability isn’t any more a given with protective and guardian spirits,” he shrugged, “with any kind of divinity at all, actually, than it is with mortals. And the truth is no one really knows what will drive them over the edge and when.”

“And is the same true of angels?” I asked.

“If your asking me how stable I am, well, I’m probably not the one to ask, but I think it’s pretty safe to say I’m a lot more stable than I was back in the day.”

“Back in the day?”

This time it was his turn to pace, staring straight ahead as though he could see into the distant past, as though he could see what had been as easily as what was. Maybe he could. “In the beginning, I was sent to help him, sent because the powers that be observed a growing instability in him, and they thought he was just overly tired. Some guardian spirits attached to places are content to serve and protect their place, pretty much in total anonymity, and pretty much for all eternity, without so much as ever wavering. They’re so connected with the place, they seldom have need for contact with the mortals who hold that place sacred.

“But He,” I could see a shiver run up his spine and over his broad shoulders, “He became fascinated with the mortals who worshiped in his space, and since that space had been a Christian place of worship for several hundred years, it fell to those who served the Christian god to set things right. It should have been easy for an angel. It should have been a walk in the park.”

The silence stretched between us, broken only by distant thunder. It took a second for me to realize I’d been holding my breath. He moved to slip the throw from the back of the chair over my shoulders and I realized not only was I was still clad in just the towel but I was shivering. I inhaled with a shudder and found my voice. “But it wasn’t.”

“It wasn’t.” He returned to pacing in front of the fire. “You see, the thing was, that I didn’t realize that something was amiss. I didn’t realize anything at all. In fact, it seemed almost the opposite to me. It seemed like everything was exactly as it should be and that he was …”

“He was what?”

Michael stopped mid-stride and stared into the flames as though seeking answers there. “It seemed as though he was the only sane thing about the place, and even more than that, it seemed like he was a kindred spirit. He loved humanity. He was fascinated by their tenacity, their ability to be both strong and vulnerable. And he was particularly fascinated by their ability to live in the physical world. Oh, that was a weakness, of course it was. Mortality always is
and always has been a weakness, the ultimate weakness, and yet to live in the flesh to feel pain and suffering and joy and love and lust and tenderness, to experience the five senses – how could any non-corporeal being not crave that? How could any god think that to exist without flesh was superior to blood and bone and all the passion and trauma and chaos that went along with it?”

“And clearly you shared His opinion,” I observed, nodding to his body.

“I did.” He came to sit beside me on the bed and took my hand, chafing my cold fingers. “Though had I had any idea the cost back before I made the decision, back before I chose the path of no return, I might have been too terrified to do what had to be done.”

“You mean that once you became human, you succumbed to him and became his lover?”

Michael shook his head slowly, and the chafing of my hand became a death grip. “Oh no, it wasn’t that at all. I became his lover long before I became mortal. In fact, I became mortal because I loved him.”

The Truth About Dressing for Success

July 15, 2015Bloginspiration, writingK D Grace

I’ve just come off of two ‘dress-up’ events, or at least that’s what I call them because for me it’s always like playing dress-up the day of a reading or a book signing or a party, or any time I have to make a public appearance as KD or Grace. I ravage my drawers for my limited supply of sexy lingerie. Not that anyone would know the difference if I wore my granny panty reliables, I grumble as I truss myself up, but it’s the principle of the thing, isn’t it? By God, there should be lace and corsets and boots and frou frou it I’m gonna play the part, and there have to be items that lift and separate and mould and shape and constrict. Oh yes, they absolutely must constrict!

I try on every cleavage accentuating top in my closet with the sexy black jeans or the flowing skirts that are my standard uniform for those occasions that demand a little more, shall we say, sass. Should I show off the valley or showcase the peaks? That’s the question, and it’s never an easy decision. Occasionally I’m really brave and wear something brazen enough to show off both.

There might be a smattering of lace, a little costume jewelry, a curling iron to the hair for that glam look, or my jaundiced version thereof. Of course there’ll be eye-watering make-up (my own eyes doing said watering). I used to sell makeup. I know how to put on a little slap, but that was before I got obsessed with writing. Now, most of the time I just can’t be arsed. Makeup time is time that could be better spent as writing time. How unglamorous is that? But for a reading or a party or a public appearance as KD/Grace, there must be make-up, and usually at least some of it needs to sparkle.

And the final touch is what to do about my finicky feet? Shall I wear the boots with the girlie stamp of approval, or shall I risk several days in traction or a sprained ankle and wear my nosebleed heels. (Note, nosebleed to me means anything with an arch that I can slid two sheets of paper under. The higher the heel, the more girlie choice, right? And the naughtier, of course.

When I go to a reading, when I put my best girlie foot forward, I know how to look the part. And I love reading my sexy stories to equally sexy listeners. I’m in my element when I’m engaging with the audience, sharing the story, talking about the writing. But once the spotlight is off the story, what am I thinking?

‘This damn bra is gouging a trench in my ribs! If it pushes me up any higher, I’m going to suffocate in my own cleavage.’ That’s what I’m thinking! And though the panties I’m wearing underneath may be deliciously displaying my arse-cheeks (unbeknownst to everyone in the room, of course) in reality they make me feel like I need to either excavate or stand on my toes. And standing on my toes in certainly no problem, since I’m wobbling around on heels that feel like stilts, though that doesn’t seem to solve the panty problem. Oh, and the makeup. I never rub my eyes when I’m not wearing it, but the urge is damn near irresistible when I’m in full slap. Why is that? Is it the extra weight of mascara on my delicate, thin lashes? Is it a stray bit of powdery glitz from the eye shadow? Or maybe it’s just the body’s defenses taking over to rid itself of too much of a glam thing.

Before I started writing erotic romance, I had visions of scantily-clad women writing in their boudoirs in corsets and lace stockings and f**k-me shoes. If I had any illusion that I might eventually evolve into such a mythical creature, I WAS WRONG! It just ain’t happening! At least not with this slovenly writer. My dirty little secret: I write in a ratty track suit old enough and faded enough to easily be a charity shop reject. In the winter I write in fuzzy slippers that look like they might have acquired a case of the mange. In the summer, I let me feet breathe. God, how unsexy!

I’m working from the theory that sexy lingerie constricts the blood flow to my brain, inhibiting any truly sexy thought from penetrating the oxygen starved gray matter. I don’t write well in bondage. I need to be free. I need to be the dominantrix when it comes to the written page. My feet aren’t shaped like Barbie’s, pre-formed to fit into stilettos, though there are times when that would be beneficial. But no! My feet love flat surfaces.

And if you take a look at my hands – especially in the summer – no French manicure for me, nosiree! Guess I never got over the love of playing in the dirt from the days of my childhood. I grow vegetables, and vegetables like dirt, they need dirt. I could tell you amazing things about dirt! And here’s the rest of my dirty little secret. Doing dirty, messy, sloppy things, not the kind of things you’d do in a corset and stilettos, inspires me to write dirty, messy, chaotic, romantic fun stories. Being girlie doesn’t come naturally, digging in the garden, walking on the Downs, being outside in the mud and the dust does.

My dirty little secret is actually not much of a secret, and it’s common ground for a lot of my writer friends. We all laugh and joke that we can clean up okay and do the girlie, sexy thang just fine, even enjoy it. But when we go home, when we revert to our natural states, it’s jeans and trainers and tracksuits. It’s walking and digging and getting our hands dirty that inspires. Okay, some get their inspiration getting their hands dirty in the kitchen, baking and cooking and creating yummy meals, but I’ve never heard of one of them making a pavlova in full slap and a corset. Of course everyone has a different dirty little secret, so I could be wrong.

I guess ultimately the secret isn’t really a secret, and it isn’t really all that dirty. We writers all do whatever it takes to inspires us. The way we dress, the hobbies in which we indulge, the mindset from which we write is all about inspiration, all about finding the way through the gray matter to that perfect story. Still, it’s a part of the writer’s mystique to have a dirty little secret or two, isn’t it? But this is as close as you’ll get to mine, because if I told you any more, I’d have to kill you.

Out Now! Slippers & Chains: Sugar Dust by Raven ShadowHawk (@ileandraXraven) #erotica #bdsm #domination #submission

July 13, 2015Guest BloggerBDSM, erotic romance, erotica, guest blogger, raven shadowhawk, slippers and chainsK D Grace

Blurb:

Dan loves submissive women and longs to build a harem of willing females to fill what he lovingly calls his ‘Slave Library.’ He shares his plans for sexual bliss with Karen, the first of his submissives in his mind and his heart. But when an unexpected visit from his mother leads to uncomfortable questions about his ex, Dan realizes that past mistakes are catching up to him, faster than he can run.

The first D/s relationship to blend comfortably with her vanilla life is the one Karen shares with Dan. She treasures the freedom in the act of submission and wants nothing more than to share it with her Master for as long as possible. Why then, does he insist on bringing other women into their bed? And why can’t he say he loves her?

As Dan battles his inner demons, Karen hopes a sexy mini break at the exclusive fetish club, Sugar Dust will allow them time to relax and reconnect. There she meets Beth, personification of Dan’s past storming in to demolish her present. Can she show Dan that their relationship is strong enough to break the chains of his past, before Beth drives an immoveable wedge between them with her tales of what once was?

Buy Links
Amazon US: http://amzn.to/1CcNZ0B
Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/1Kv5J8C
Amazon CA: http://www.amazon.ca/dp/B010EAQLTE/
. . . and so on!

Excerpt:

As Dan parked the car, a low moan quivered from the passenger side. Karen slumped against her seat belt, eyes closed, forehead sweaty. Though she might have argued, Dan had never seen her more beautiful or more desirable. While the car clicked, rumbled, and cooled he stared at her face and longed to touch her, bury himself inside her in every way possible. Instead, he slapped her thigh hard enough to make her yelp.

‘Well done, Kaz. Take it out now.’

She moaned, turning a bleary eye toward him. ‘I still don’t get to come?’

The pitiful tilt of her downturned lips softened his intended response. ‘Not yet.’

‘I hate you sometimes.’

‘You’ll thank me later. Promise.’

Her fingers slipped beneath the shiny hem of her latex dress. He enjoyed the contrast of her dark skin against the white material as she fumbled around. Seconds later, she held up the remote controlled bullet, wet and gleaming. The musky scent of her frustrations filled the car and Dan breathed deep, filling his nostrils with the wonderful smell.

‘Put it in there.’

Karen shoved the bullet into the glove compartment and composed herself with a series of slow breaths.

‘Better?’ he asked.

‘I suppose.’ Glowering, she clambered from the car and kicked the door shut.

Dan chuckled and when Karen walked around to open his door, the grin grew wider. He stroked her burning cheek with the pad of his thumb. ‘Karen,’ he murmured, ‘my sweet, little Kitten. You’ll be okay. Before the night is out you’ll get to come.’

She whined. ‘But I need it now.’

He peered over his shoulder, casting a sweeping gaze left and right. The chance to further tease his slave presented itself in the form of a deserted car park. How could he resist?

‘Now?’ he whispered. ‘Here? In the street? I can do that.’ With deft hands, he gripped her slender shoulders and spun her round. Her back pressed flat against his chest, and he stroked the slippery latex clinging to her skin. First her breasts, squeezing the firm globes before skimming down to the small dent of her bellybutton. He tickled her thighs beneath the hem of her dress. She jumped.

‘I could,’ he breathed in her ear, ‘and no one would think anything of it. Not here. I could hold you against the car.’ He did, pushing her hands out to lie flat on the roof. Her cheek touched the metal and he watched the condensation of her breath mingle with the wisps of steam rising from the hot surface. She groaned.

‘I could pull off your knickers.’ Dan released her hands and teased his way back under the dress. He could feel her thighs trembling. ‘Wait, you’re not wearing any.’

‘You bloody took them!’

‘I know.’ Dan resisted the urge to check his pocket. He knew they were still there, damp and musky. ‘One less barrier.’ He flipped the bottom of the dress over Karen’s high, round ass and tucked it in around her waist. Both hands stroked her exposed skin, watching the pattern of goose bumps prickling in the cool night air. So fucking beautiful . . .

‘It would only take a few minutes.’ He thrust his hips against her. ‘Wouldn’t even have to pull my trousers down all the way. A quick fuck.’ When he nipped her ear, a low growl rumbled at the back of her throat.

Her instant responsiveness made him aware of a tightening across the front of his trousers. He resisted the urge to adjust himself; wouldn’t do to let the submissive know that she was actually the one in charge.

‘You’d love that, wouldn’t you? A speedy shag against the side of my car in the middle of a public car park. You’re such a dirty girl.’

The loud slap of his hand against her ass cheeks made them both jump. The giddy thrill of power made Dan’s head spin. His breathing hitched, and he caught the scent of Karen’s arousal on his fingers again. It fired his blood as surely as any over the counter aphrodisiac.

‘Do you still need to come? Now?’ As his breathed the words into her ear, Dan walked his fingers over the curve of her bottom. Passed the top of her thighs and round the front to cup her pussy. So hot. So wet. He groaned. ‘You shaved?’

Karen humped his fingers. ‘Of course I did. It’s Sugar Dust.’

‘I love it when you’re smooth down there. It’s so fucking sexy. You missed a bit though.’

‘You try catching everything with a shitty lady-razor.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s amazing.’ Dan glanced over his shoulder. ‘Don’t move.’

The lights in the huge exclusive club made pools of yellow light on the tarmac. Though he heard the faint notes of music from within, he heard no voices. Saw no people. Perfect. He dropped to his knees behind Karen and pressed his nose against her backside. He rubbed his cheek against her lower one then nipped the fleshy underside of her arse. She gasped. He did it again. A third time. The fourth bite drew forth a strangled wail as he brought his teeth together and turned his head from side to side.

‘You’re mine,’ he whispered, made bold by her intense responses. ‘This mark proves you’re mine.’

Karen sounded like she might be having trouble breathing. ‘You don’t need a mark to prove that.’

He traced his finger along her trembling inner thigh. Thick, slippery wetness coated his fingers, a tangible reminder of the day she’d had. He licked it away. ‘You’ve been so good today. It will be worth it, little Kitten.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Good. You ready?’

‘Always.’

Author Bio and Links

Raven ShadowHawk is one face of the author who writes fantasy and horror under a second pseudonym. She is, according to most . . . okay, according to herself, the fun one of the pair.

Living in Leicester, UK with her partner (the Funk Master) and twin sons (known as Sprog1 and Sprog2), Raven writes erotica ranging from sensual and romantic to graphic and totally PWP.

Her interests include badly produced porn, chocolate, dressing up (particularly in matching underwear) and shouting at women who wear stupid shoes and/or skinny jeans.

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