How Charity Sunday works: for every comment made on this blog post, I will donate money to the charity named. The same promise is made for every blog site listed in the group–click the Linky Links link at the bottom of this post to see the list of participants and read/comment on any of them to see a donation go to that blogger’s charity. We’re all different! Thanks for your help and your participation!
How fitting that my charity this moth is Folds of Honor and it’s Memorial Day weekend here in the States. The mission of Folds of Honor is: “To provide educational scholarships to spouses and children of America’s fallen and disabled service-members. … Honor their sacrifice. Educate their legacy.” So this charity helps two ways that are near and dear to my heart—it helps give people who need the boost an education they might not be able to afford, and it honors those who have given much. If you’re involved in golf, Folds of Honor benefits from golf, too. Check out Patriot Golf Days! Please comment!
I wrote Burning Bridges as Anne Krist. It’s not an erotic romance, but it’s a book full of emotion and is a love story in the truest sense. The hero, Paul Steinert, is in the Navy and is about to ship out for Vietnam when he first meets Sara Noland. Perhaps his child could have benefited from Folds of Honor!
A little about Burning Bridges:
Consider the role of strangers in our lives. An unknown postman in Virginia hides a bag of mail one day. His simple action set in motion untold consequences for many others—strangers—all over the country. How many bridges were burned in that forgotten mail pouch?
Sara Richards’s world is rocked when three love letters from 1970 are delivered decades late. The letters were written by Paul Steinert, a young sailor who took her innocence with whispered words of love and promises of forever before leaving for Vietnam. Sara is left behind, broken hearted and secretly pregnant, yearning for letters she never received.
Then Paul died.
Now, years later, she discovers the betrayal wasn’t Paul’s, when her mother confesses to a sin that changed their lives forever. How can Sara reveal to Paul’s parents that they have a granddaughter they’ve missed the chance to know? Even worse, how will she find the words to tell her daughter that she’s lived her life in the shadow of a lie?
Picking her way through the minefields of secrets, distrust, and betrayal, Sara finds that putting her life together again while crossing burning bridges will be the hardest thing she’s ever done.
A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex. She is the primary persona of three pen names—triplets, if you will: Dee, Anne Krist, and Jenna Stewart.
As noted above, Dee S. Knight writes erotic romance—emphasis on the romance! She was part of an anthology named a Top Pick in Romantic Times magazine (Resolutions) and the sole author of another Top Pick designation, for the paranormal erotic romance, Passionate Destiny.
“Sister” Anne Krist does not write erotic romance. Her book, Burning Bridges, has received high praise and multiple 5-star reviews because of the depth of the romance and emotion. Burning Bridges is Anne’s first book but she has a series planned that she hopes to have out soon.
Third of the triplets is Jenna Stewart. Jenna has tried her hand at ménage—in both historical and shifter books. She wrote the Sisters O’Ryan series set during the westward migration in the U.S., the Great Wolves of Men-Edge, and Unlikely Bedfellows.
Regardless of the name she uses to write during the day, their dream man, childhood sweetheart, and long-time hubby are all the same guy. What happens during their nights are their secret.
For romance ranging from sweet to historical, contemporary to paranormal and more join the girls on Nomad Authors. Once a month, look for Charity Sunday blog posts, where your comment can support a selected charity.
Whips & Kisses collects four lusciously erotic romance novellas in which willing surrender to a master leads to enduring love.
D and S is not a game, despite the way it’s portrayed in popular culture. It’s not a fashion statement. It is much, much more, a new way of being in the world. A doorway into a new kind of relationship, deeper and more intimate than what most people can imagine.
I’ve been reading, and writing, BDSM erotica and erotic romance for a long time. My first novel, deeply involved with dominance and submission, was published more than a decade before the appearance of FSOG. I know how difficult it is to create something fresh in these sub genres. Originality is possibly my most important personal criterion, both in selecting my reading and in creating my own stories, so I try very hard to avoid clichés. Sometimes, though, a BDSM cliché lies at the heart of what I want to say.
One somewhat overused and abused trope is the notion of the “natural submissive”. A woman who previously had no interest in power exchange meets a dominant man and immediately succumbs to his charisma. Despite her lack of experience with BDSM, she’s ready to obey his instructions, to let him bind her, punish her, and use her however he wishes. Instead of being awkward and terrified, she finds deep satisfaction in her submissive role. She’s thrilled when her Dom tells her that he’d intuited her secret desire for surrender, that he knew as soon as he met her that she craved a master.
Several of the novellas in this collectionplay with this familiar scenario. I feel a bit guilty exploiting this trope, but I have to admit that I personally find it intensely erotic. That’s because it mirrors my own real world experience with BDSM. I was a horny but very vanilla twenty-something when I met the man who initiated me into dominance and submission. And the very first time we came together physically, I was hooked. Looking back, I’m still full of wonder at the trust that bloomed between us, when we scarcely knew one another. Forty five years later, the intensity and beauty of that D/s relationship continues to show up in my erotic stories.
People in the kink community will tell you that trust takes time to grow, that both doms and subs need practice, that the instant connection glamorized in BDSM fiction is a myth. Maybe for some people, but for me, the myth turned out to be true. And I’m still sharing that revelation with my readers.
“Me? Oh, I’m a journalist. I’m doing a story on the find and its historical implications.”
Peg felt a twinge of suspicion. “The press conference was yesterday.”
“My car broke down halfway from London. I spent last night in a town even tinier than this one.” His smile was charming, apologetic. Peg’s uneasiness melted away.
He leaned towards her across the bar, putting his hand over hers. “That’s why I appreciate your help, in giving me the information I need.”
His skin was warm and smooth, none of the calluses of a manual labourer. Not like the farmers Peg had occasionally dated here, before she gave up on finding a man in her home village. He ran one fingertip up and down in the sensitive crease between Peg’s thumb and forefinger. The light touch was enough to turn her nipples to aching knots and trigger a throbbing between her legs.
She caught a hint of his scent, a balsam-laced aftershave or cologne that simultaneously conveyed masculinity and refinement. His forefinger ventured higher, stroking the back of her wrist, a gesture both delicate and bold. Her pussy clenched as though he were massaging her down there, instead of merely brushing a casual finger across her hand.
She stared at the bar, blushing, angry with herself for being so susceptible. Finally, she managed to raise her head and meet his eyes, which were a stormy hazel colour.
“What paper are you from?”
“Oh, I write for an upmarket travel rag. I doubt that you would’ve heard of it. This story should enhance the romance and mystery of your already delightful village. I expect you’ll see a surge in tourists after publication.”
“You should interview Peter Lofthouse. He’s been mayor for the last dozen years.”
“I have the feeling that I’m talking to a real authority right now. Lived here a long time, haven’t you?”
She bristled. How did he know that? Maybe because she seemed such a country bumpkin. “I spent some time in London, but I had to come back. Family problems.”
“Sorry to hear that…” He scanned her chest, seeking a name tag. Peg felt as though he were fondling her breasts instead of just looking at them. Could he see the swollen tips, pushing up through her soft green jumper?
“I’m Peg,” she said, snatching her hand from his and reaching for the bar rag. “And you?”
He bowed slightly. “Lionel Hayes, at your service. But I’ll bet you’re really Margaret, right? It’s much more musical, more sophisticated. It suits you.”
He was clearly trying to flatter her. She didn’t really mind. “Lionel—sounds like an aristocratic playboy from the nineteen twenties. Nobody’s named Lionel anymore.”
The journalist laughed again, soft and intimate, sending the blood rushing again to Peg’s cheeks as well as to other body parts. He drained the last of his pint, then reclaimed her hand. “I’ve got to go. But it’s been pleasure to meet you, Margaret. Perhaps I’ll mention you in my article.”
Olivia perched on the satin coverlet of the carved canopy bed, surveying the impossibly opulent bedroom where she had been installed. The chamber had to be at least thirty feet square, with a gilt-encrusted ceiling that soared ten feet above her head. Tall windows framed in emerald velvet looked out upon a verdant lawn that stretched to the ocean. Distant sails danced upon slate-blue waves and the breeze wafting through the open casements carried a hint of salt. The late afternoon sun sparkled among the crystal tears of the chandelier, casting shards of rainbow upon the polished oak floor. Nearer the bed, a plush Chinese carpet soothed the residual blisters on her bare feet.
She wore one of the delicate silk camisoles Andrew had selected for her as they’d passed through the town. Nothing else. The other garments he’d chosen hung in the rosewood wardrobe, all but the ball gown, which would be delivered, the dressmaker had promised, by Saturday noon.
Cocktails would be served at seven, Andrew had told her, and dinner at eight. In the meantime, he’d instructed her to await him here, in her current state of undress.
She’d never even considered disobeying.
Fingers entwined upon her lap, she breathed deeply in a struggle to calm her racing heart. Her nipples knotted against the silk, aching for stimulation. Her sex was as moist as the humid summer afternoon, her juices perhaps staining the pale green satin beneath her bare bottom. No matter. Andrew MacIntyre could afford to replace it.
Her entire body hummed with anticipation. He would be here soon, or so he’d promised, and the waiting would be over. She’d wanted this for so very long—long before she’d encountered the masterful young billionaire. They had not spoken openly of what was to come. She hoped she had not misunderstood his intentions. If she had, she’d die of embarrassment—or disappointment.
With her back to the door, she watched the snowy clouds drift and reform into fantastic shapes. Breathe. Relax. Open. She remembered perfectly, despite the years.
The hinges were soundless, but she sensed his presence as soon as he entered, the new aura of power that shimmered in the room. The lock clicked, shielding them from interruption and preventing any possibility of escape. She swallowed hard. The moment of truth had arrived.
He stood before her, silent, and she bowed her head automatically, her eyes on her clasped hands. Still, she knew he was gazing upon her near-nakedness. She felt the weight of his attention like a physical caress.
“Olivia.” With one word, spoken low and sure, he claimed her. Heat rushed to her pussy and the bed cover grew damper.
“Yes, sir?” It felt easy, natural—as though she’d never stopped.
“On your knees, girl.” She slipped to the rug, boneless and loose already, his to command. Did he find her compliance strange? No matter. She had been right about his desires and that was all that mattered.
“We’ll start slowly, this first time. Don’t be afraid.”
Afraid? The only thing that scared her was the intensity of her own dark desires.
About Lisabet
Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – over one hundred titles, and counting, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, GLBT, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
A little about Burning Bridges:
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