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Elle and The Long-Awaited Book (The Outcast Earl)

  By Serenity Everton | December 9, 2012 - 1:43 PM | Uncategorized
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A very good writing companion, Elle Q. Sabine, is about to join the e-publishing world with a bang  tomorrow. Her first full-length novel – The Outcast Earl – will hit the virtual shelves on Monday, December 10. The book is already available for pre-sale, is tentatively looking at a print release date in the spring, and is set to be followed by a second book in April 2013. Elle tells me the third book is under construction in her dropbox account now.

I begged for a sneak preview, especially once she gave me a too-brief synopsis of the third tale, but the girl told me I’d have to wait, like everyone else. Bah humbug! Isn’t this the time of year when we’re supposed to have Christmas spirit?

Anyway, I love The Outcast Earl. The earl, of course, is somewhat too arrogant. His bride, Abigail, has no experience with relationships or male authority figures.

Elle chose the excerpt below, and I think it is particularly suited to my wonderful readers. What could be better? The threat of a spanking.
About The Outcast Earl:
Abigail de Rothesay is to be married to a man known for his bad manners and foul humour. Resigned to her fate, she is fully capable of managing a gentleman’s home. Warwickshire will be lonely compared to London, but she can cope. After all, her mother and father are rarely seen together, even at meals. How much time does one have to spend with a spouse, anyway?Charles, Earl of Meriden, has every intention of clinging to the side of his pretty, young bride. Drawn to her flirtatious mannerisms and her attractive person, he insists on Abigail’s time and attention, much as his mother was devoted to his father. Even more, he actively looks after Abigail, a state of affairs that has Abigail at a loss.Even as they fight to come to an understanding about marriage both of them can accept, the couple will have to cope with the difficult consequences of their loved ones’ actions, and it may very well tear them apart.[Reader Advisory: This book contains scenes of male masturbation, erotic spanking, sexually charged disciplinary spanking, steamy oral sex, light bondage and offensive stubborn male possessiveness. There are also references to anal play and famous French paintings containing partially clothed women.]
Excerpt from The Outcast Earl by Elle Q. Sabine: (used with permission)

 “You can’t take me in there.” She shook her head frantically. “Those are your rooms!”

 “I know very well whose rooms they are,” he answered, kicking the door beside them open and shutting it firmly behind them with his heel. Without ceremony, he carried her over to the sofa in a small room that apparently served as a sitting room, and deposited her on the dark green velvet cushions before returning to the door and snibbing the lock, pointedly pocketing the key in his coat. “And in reply to your earlier comment,” he continued as fiercely as she had done, “you may not be subject to the whims of a governess, but you are damn well subject to my whims. And I will not accept blatant subversion of doctor’s orders and my directives because they do not suit you. Do you understand me?”

Abigail met his glare unflinchingly, but she stilled. Was he reacting to some perceived threat to her health, or was he one of those men who always had to be in control of their surroundings? Was his fury violent, or was he overtired from not sleeping?

“I think,” she said, gathering every ounce of composure and reasonableness she possessed to put into the words, “that we have much to discuss before I would agree that I am subject to you at all, though I will certainly acknowledge it is one possibility. For the moment, I am still my father’s daughter and Aunt Betsy is both my chaperone and now my responsibility. I am the reason she is here, and if I cannot change the past and somehow prevent the accident or her injury, I can for certain nurse her back to health.”

Meriden shook his head, responding in kind to her calm. “No. If anyone is at fault, it is I. I allowed you to travel in your father’s carriage all this way, without considering that it would be in as poor a condition as the rest of his property. I should have arranged for you to use my own travelling coach. I hope that you will accept my apology for not considering the means by which he might convey you north, even for not escorting you myself. Indeed, I would hope that you accept my apology for not caring for you as I ought. It might seem a poor start, but I would ask for your consideration under the circumstances. As it happens, you are not only my first wife, you are also the first lady for whose welfare I am wholly responsible.”

Abigail blinked, her world tilting a bit. She had, of course, known her father could be criticised, but Winchester had never once apologised to her or her sisters—not even for the current debacle. She was equally convinced Winchester had never once apologised to her mother for anything. And yet this man all the women of London called a brooding monster did so unflinchingly, over a matter that was not completely within his purview.

“It was my father’s responsibility,” she said after a long moment. “Not yours. No apology is necessary.”

“Nevertheless, I will take better care in the future,” he murmured, still staring at her. “Because you are mine and in my care now, regardless of the formalities yet to be observed.”

Abigail drew a deep breath, trying to calm her inner nerves and save herself from whirling headfirst into a re-examination of what she had previously known to be true. “Fiddlesticks!” she eventually objected, frowning him down as he approached at her words. Challenging him to an argument over this notion of ownership did seem the best way to reinforce her earlier impression of selfish arrogance. She allowed her eyes to briefly graze over the scar along his jawbone as she reminded herself that they were essentially adversaries. “You can’t seriously expect me to believe that I am somehow chattel to be ordered about callously according to your moods and tempers, simply because we are expected to marry? If you believe such nonsense, I’m afraid you’ve picked the wrong female and should perhaps reconsider this ridiculous plan before it’s too late.”

“I expect you are sensible enough to follow directions that are given for your own wellbeing, as we will marry,” he countered very carefully, sitting down as close to her as he could manage—so close that his breath raced across her cheek. “And I have not picked the wrong bride. To my mind, I couldn’t have found a more perfect one.”

Abigail turned her head to scoff, but he simply leaned closer and murmured in her ear, the warmth of his breath sliding over her neck and down her jaw, tempting her to shiver. “In any event, there is no going backward, even if I were not determined to have you permanently at my side. You’re here, alone with me, in my house. Your aunt is present, but she is insensible and cannot be thought of as a proper chaperone in the minds of the interfering biddies who dictate your public behaviour. Meanwhile, you are in my own private sitting room, gowned in nothing more than a nightdress, dressing gown and house slippers. In addition, you will likely be here for quite a while, alone with me, as you have already proven conclusively that you did not learn the skill of obedience during childhood.”

Suddenly short of breath, Abigail sat very still, but when Meriden leaned in to kiss her, she couldn’t help her instinctive response to flee.

She leapt to her feet and backed to the fire, rubbing her hands together uselessly in the warm room.

 “What did I just finish telling you?” Meriden barked, reaching for her and grabbing her wrist before she could flit farther away. “If you try to walk on that ankle again tonight, I swear I’m going to turn you over my knee and paddle you for behaving like a silly child.” He grabbed her by the waist and lifted her, setting her squarely on his knees, locking one arm around her to hold her there.

“You wouldn’t!” Abigail gasped, unable to think of anything more profound on such short notice, and trying desperately to squelch the traitorous part of her gut that seemed to respond more dramatically every time he touched her. She didn’t know what she was feeling, but now was not the time or place to work it out.

Instead, she lifted her hand to push him away but he simply growled, “It’s either that, or this—” Then he slid his free hand around to the back of her head, and set his lips to hers.

Abigail had been kissed before, of course. She was twenty-one and had spent more than three full years in London society. While not the Winchester sister to inspire lust from the masses, she was certainly eligible, and had attracted her fair share of more serious, reserved men who were not attracted to the glamorous Gloria or the voluptuous, young Genevieve. Kissing, she had advised her younger siblings, was an art. Some men had practised, did it well, considered little things like how they tasted and whether their partner could still breathe. Other men had no skill at all, and no interest in acquiring any. They pushed, suffocated, forced and followed it up with self-important pride. It had not taken Abigail more than a few brief experiences to decide that any man in the second group could be gently eased in the direction of some more desperate girl. Abigail had no interest in a man who used kissing as a means to press more invasive intimacies on the female. Men who were patently disinterested in pleasing a partner with something as simple as a kiss could not be expected to do so in any more important pursuit, and were therefore not worth considering.

 Abigail was fairly certain Gloria had deliberately ignored Abigail’s opinion on the subject.

With such a preconceived opinion, Abigail tensed as Meriden touched his mouth to hers. Should he turn out so early on to be an insensitive clod, Abigail knew she would have difficulty with following through on the engagement, no matter the consequences. She’d have preferred to ease into such intimacy after she had learnt whether to guard against him or not. Nevertheless, she stilled and tried to take in the sensation of his lips rubbing over hers.

He was not gentle, precisely, but neither did he plunder selfishly. No, his mouth worshiped her lower lip, then the upper one, learning the shape and size of her mouth before he eased his tongue just inside her lower lip to taste her.

Meriden was definitely not one of the untrained, inconsiderate brutes. She closed her eyes, softened against the arm that surrounded her waist and leaned closer, her lips tingling in a rush of sensation where his tongue stroked hers.

He caught her fingers with his free hand, where she had pushed futilely against his chest. Trapping her hand in place, he murmured, their lips still touching, “I would, you know.”

Abigail breathed a soft sigh. “Would what?” she asked, a bit wobbly from the unexpected rush of warmth that had ripped up her spine with the kiss. She’d forgotten what he had said.

“I would spank you. Paddle you, if I had to,” Meriden repeated in a husky whisper against her mouth. He ran his hand up from her waist to tangle it in the hair at the back of her head, and instead of the indignant reaction Abigail felt was required, she leaned in closer, shivering when Meriden used his lips to examine the corners of her mouth in an exquisite intimacy.

oOo

Elle has her own blog and her own Twitter account. She can be found at http://elleqsabine.wordpress.com or on Twitter at @elleqsabine. Visit her to find more about her writing, free serial fiction, and more (free!) background material from The Misbegotten Misses, the stories of Abigail and her sisters. I understand she’s going to be doing a free giveaway of The Outcast Earl on its release date (December 10, 2012). But don’t wait!

Readers can pre-order The Outcast Earl from Total-e-bound directly, or visit their favourite e-retailer on December 10. Elle will be posting direct links as they become available. Total-e-bound also provides the opening few paragraphs of the story, so if you want to see how the book begins, click the link to enjoy it.

Other Links (I’ll update on the 10th too!):

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Anthology: My First Spanking

  By Serenity Everton | March 14, 2012 - 1:15 PM | Uncategorized
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My First Spanking by Cassandra Park

[Update on March 20:  To purchase this book from Amazon, click here.]

I recently wrote a short story. Well, recently I’ve written a lot, but that’s beside the point. What I mean is, I’ve written a short story called Turning Tramp and it is included in this anthology, edited by Cassandra Park and published by Ravenous Romance.

You can read more about the anthology on Cassandra Park‘s blog “Spanking Anthology Now Available”.

Other authors (other than Ms. Park and I, of course) include Erica Scott, Clarice Clique, Jeanette Grey, Jacqueline Brocker and more.

A brief excerpt from Turning Tramp:

At the moment, however, Helen was trembling with indignant disgust. “You’ll never believe what that man – I suppose you saw him in the corridor – just suggested to me. Outrageous!”

Susanna settled Helen into the chair and efficiently applied a base coat. “What’s that?” she murmured, vacillating between silver or emerald green for the primary color that evening. Helen pointed at the lavender and Susanna shrugged, acquiescing. As rundown and appalling as this place was in its brassy, shameless fashion, the women had been good to her.

“He wanted to spank me. Can you believe it? Said he’d pay me, too. The nerve. I mean, I get propositioned all the time. I’m a stripper. I expect this. But spanked? I won’t sell my body for feel-good sex, let alone something perverted. I told him to shove his hand up his ass and then find a goddamned BDSM club. There is one in this godforsaken city, or there used to be.”

Susanna had a sudden, unintended thought. She bit her lip and concentrated on applying shaded layers of lavender, purple and silver paint, swirling it to give Helen a mysterious mask that would last the entire evening. She’d seen him, with his relatively skinny frame and thick glasses, in the corridor. He’d been shorter than her and gray-headed, wearing an old-fashioned dress shirt with a plain red tie and dull gray pants. Even more interesting, she’d seen him the last several times she’d been at the club, always sitting alone at a table for two along the edge, drinking seltzer water and watching the girls.

A watcher, they all called him. He didn’t drink, he didn’t grope, he didn’t stuff money down Andrea’s bra when she paraded through the club floor to her cage. He didn’t proposition the waitresses.

He watched. They all said the word as if that were somehow more insidious and dangerous than actually accosting them, or groping them without an invitation. They all said it as if that was dangerous, as if all the other men and women who frequented the place didn’t do the same.

Susanna didn’t understand their instinctive distrust at all.

The book is available in e-reader format from Ravenous Romance for $4.99. Buy it.

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Broken Together Available for Kindle

  By Serenity Everton | March 1, 2012 - 6:00 AM | Uncategorized
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I did it.

Broken Together is now for sale in the Amazon Kindle store. The price is low $0.99 and Amazon Prime members can borrow it for free from the Kindle library (Chris: hint!).

There are free excerpts available on my fiction site Out of My Mind and here on this blog (scroll down).

My thanks to Bob Nethertrousers (that’s @nethertrews on Twitter) for the photo of the Victorian-era fireside chair that appears on the cover of the book. He did not want me to credit him in the book, so I didn’t, but I’m still saying thank you here. Those of you who followed Broken as I wrote it will recognize the importance of this chair.

Finally, just to emphasize it, the dedication at the beginning of the text:

~o~

DEDICATION

This novella was furiously and frantically written after a moment I wondered if I would ever write anything longer than a blog entry again.

The premise is painful and the characters fictional, but it is still possible to think that these souls might be my neighbors, my friends, or even members of my family.

Harry: may you live long and love fiercely.

Shannon: may you fly strong, inside the birdcage or beyond its wiry confines.

Sometimes, my husband lets me stay up late at night even though he’d prefer I did not.

Chris: Thank you, always. I love you.

So many wonderful people followed this story from its very beginning to a point well past its conclusion. I never would have imagined or told this story in full or without their enthusiastic, gracious encouragement and kind words.

Friends:  I am honored by your presence, your voices and your liveliness.

 

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Broken Update

  By Serenity Everton | February 25, 2012 - 6:05 AM | Uncategorized
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This text of this story, except for available excerpts, has been removed from this blog and my fiction site, because it is now available for the Kindle reader via Amazon.

Photos that have lent inspiration to the Broken series can be found on my Tumblr at  http://serenityeverton.tumblr.com/tagged/broken.

~o~

This story, which I started on a whim with no real plan and no real plot and no real title, has reached a satisfactory conclusion. It’s satisfactory because it’s a happy ending, and the romance genre – erotic or not – demands a happy ending.

Not all marriages have happy endings. Not all marriages in rocky peril have happy endings. Not all men or women who have heart attacks survive, change or reinvent themselves. Harry and Shannon were very lucky to have done all that.

Of course, there is much to their lives that wasn’t shared here. The gritty details of Harry’s cardiac rehab regimen are missing. Any stress of parenting college boys has been ignored. The author (that’s me!) chose to concentrate on the central theme only. Could Harry and Shannon survive this bump in their journey together and come out the other side, both better individually and as a couple?

All the Broken blog entries will stay up on my blog for at least a week while I decide if I want to try and turn this into a Kindle self-publishing project that would charge a small fee for download (i.e. $.99 – $1.99 US). Thoughts, opinions, commentary, advice, etc are all welcome.

Thank you so much for reading. Your words of encouragement and appreciation are the reason the story was finished at all.

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Broken Together (Kindle Sample Excerpt)

  By Serenity Everton | February 20, 2012 - 6:02 AM | Uncategorized
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Broken Together

~ Serenity Everton ~

“Sometimes, two people have to fall apart to realize how much they need to fall back together.”  Sylvia Plath

Copyright 2012 by Serenity Everton (asparkle2@yahoo.com).

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, transmitted by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, etc) without the prior permission of the author, above.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This text was previously self-published, with free excerpts still available online at Out of My Mind (http://fiction.kinkyfirehouse.com). The full text is available in e-format only through the Amazon Kindle program.

ABOUT BROKEN TOGETHER

Thank you so much for your interest in this story. The novella is approximately 30,000 words in length, and follows a couple (Harry & Shannon) whose relationship has mysteriously fallen apart in so many little moments in the months since their sons have gone away to college. It is primarily a love story, but there are moments of erotic intensity, lovemaking, and a bit of kink. The characters have an active sex life, and one of them might be a tad stubborn. Expect romance, anger, passion, pain, and life events that force them to reassess all they know and expect.

DEDICATION

This novella was furiously and frantically written after a moment I wondered if I would ever write anything longer than a blog entry again.

The premise is painful and the characters fictional, but it is still possible to think that these souls might be my neighbors, my friends, or even members of my family.

Harry: may you live long and love fiercely.

Shannon: may you fly strong, inside the birdcage or beyond its wiry confines.

Sometimes, my husband lets me stay up late at night even though he’d prefer I did not.

Chris: Thank you, always. I love you.

So many wonderful people followed this story from its very beginning to a point well past its conclusion. I never would have imagined or told this story in full or without their enthusiastic, gracious encouragement and kind words.

Friends:  I am honored by your presence, your voices and your liveliness.

~o~

 THE END AND THE BEGINNING

Shannon was still in the bed. She didn’t know what she had done wrong, again, and she was through asking. She’d thrown herself at his feet too many times, only to have him dismiss her.

It might have been simple exhaustion or some physical malady, but if he wouldn’t talk to her, how could she know? It’d happened too many times in recent months for her to think nothing of it; they’d laughed and loved and enjoyed each other’s comfort during the day, but when it came time for that closeness to pass through the bedroom door, he turned off the light, rolled over and developed a relationship with his pillow.

There had been a time, even nine months earlier, when the opportunity of a quiet hour at home together would have ended in hot, wild sex. Now that the boys were away, the intimacy that had sustained them for years had fallen away.

The truth, Shannon thought miserably, was that she wasn’t attractive to him anymore. She was too old, her figure not firm enough. His desire for her, so strong for twenty years, had finally waned. Perhaps the constant barrage of pretty young things he was exposed to at work and elsewhere had finally taken its toll. She knew he saw them, had even watched his eyes follow a pretty black-haired girl’s ass in the restaurant last night. She’d never look like that, never again, no matter if she did lose that twenty-five pounds or worked out seven days a week.

Sometime in the middle of the night, she’d awoken. On her side, facing away from him, she’d tried to identify what seemed out of place. He’d been facing away from her, too – that wasn’t unusual. But the noise? It had taken her two minutes to work out what it was. The man who’d spent two decades delighting in her was masturbating in the dark, in secret, clearly without wishing her to participate. How many nights now had he told her goodnight and then waited patiently until her breathing slowed and her body relaxed into limpness, only to humiliate her like that?

Shannon hadn’t slept after that. He’d gotten out of bed and cleaned himself up, then sighed as he climbed back into the blankets and settled down, not touching her. Definitely not touching her. She’d not slept, of course, but laid in the dark blackness as the foundation of her entire world crumbled like sand within her clenched fists.

She wouldn’t – she couldn’t – try anymore. Her final attempt to reach him through romance and intimacy were over. Killing her own expectations and hopes would break her heart, but if she didn’t? Well, her heart was being crushed under the weight of her disappointment and his rejection anyway.

Silent, so as not to disturb him, she slipped from the bed and shrugged on her robe. Maybe she hadn’t done everything she could have over the last few years to keep in shape. Maybe age was exacerbating ––

Shannon stopped herself, the misery welling and the tears forming behind her eyelids. He mustn’t see her cry. Not now. Not over this. Not ever again.

The door to the bedroom closed silently behind her, leaving him to himself, snoring.

Shannon locked herself in the downstairs bathroom and cried, large tears dripping down her cheeks until they ran down and wet the old t-shirt of his that she’d worn to bed. How could she go on sharing that bed with him, night after night? She raged inside, the anger palpable in the bright, cold light of the impersonal cell.

Of course, she wouldn’t leave him, not unless he asked her to. Such a thing was impossible, for her. But from now on, she’d be different. There would be no pathetic attempts at luring him into intimacy. She’d wear start wearing pajama shorts to bed again; clearly there was no reason for her body to welcome him without barrier. She’d stop suggesting they spend time together.

He’d never see her cry over him again.

If she was wrong, he’d eventually notice.

~o~

What was she to do, anyway?

Shannon stayed on the sofa in the sunroom, staring blindly out into the backyard. She’d gotten up early and made her way there. He’d once again come to bed hours later than her. She’d woken to him in the shower – unusual for that time of night – and it had taken him an exceptionally long time.

She suspected what he’d been doing, but instead of confronting him and creating a scene at midnight, she’d rolled over and pretended to be soundly asleep when he finally slid into the bed beside her.

He couldn’t have taken even a second to look at her, and he was sleeping as far from her as possible. The covers had dipped between them, as if sealing the separation.

Shannon burned with resentment, but it was a state of affairs that seemed to define her nights now, so she had closed her eyes and tried to ignore it.

Of course she hadn’t slept well after that. She rarely did these days. After curling up on the sofa with the thick afghan they’d brought back from a magical cruise in Scandinavia, Shannon had slept an hour. It was a weekend morning, so the house remained quiet and still. The coffee pot didn’t automatically click on, there was no alarm upstairs. He wasn’t showering. Outside, dark clouds lowered, threatening, and soon the rain would beat down on glass around her.

Shannon thought she might be happy for the noise. The silence screamed at her, encouraged her to cry again, reminded her of loss and emptiness. Had it always been this way – had they always been half-empty – and the presence of their two teenage boys just a mask?

She swallowed and pondered, but couldn’t believe it. He’d attended to her too solicitously, loved her too thoroughly, seen to her pleasure and her fulfillment regularly, even denying himself at times to bring her to a state of wanton desperation.

Lately, though only in the last months and not in response to her new policy of not offering anything she didn’t want rejected, it seemed as though he’d been more tired in the evenings. He’d brought work home three weeknights – not so unusual now that she’d thought about it – but lately he’d been shutting himself in the study with it instead of spreading it over the coffee table and taking his laptop to the recliner, where she could join him. The tears welled up and she pushed them back.

A defeated sigh left her lips. It was Saturday, and she’d not asked him what he wanted, but she planned to explore the farmer’s market by the wharf and then maybe dip her feet in the ocean if it was raining. She loved the beach in the rain and there was no reason to deny herself, just because he wasn’t at her side.

Shannon folded the afghan and left it on the end of the couch. No doubt she’d need it again. The sunroom wasn’t heated, though it warmed over the course of the day, even in the winter. But it was her retreat – her place. He and the twins had always treated it as her space, and she’d grown used to the idea.

She stepped into the kitchen, then, and her eyes flew open wide. He was there, leaning against the counter.

Impossibly pale.

“Harry?” she whispered, and watched his fingers grip the granite convulsively. “Harry!”

His lips were dry, but he opened them and smacked them shut again. “D-doctor,” he whispered. “L-l-love you.”

And then he closed his eyes and she screamed as he slid to the floor.

~o~

ONE

Harry blinked, then closed his eyes against the dim light. There was a strange man’s voice – a younger man’s voice – but Shannon’s hand clutched his almost compulsively.

He could hardly breathe, and tried to suck in air, struggled, only to suddenly realize his throat was open ––

Harry lunged up, intending to pull the uncomfortable, choking thing from his mouth, but he did no more than fight against fabric straps.

Panic welled, the man’s soothing cadence broke off, and Harry heard – actually heard – Shannon speak to him, beg him, the words thick with tears. “Please,” she said, “Please lie still, Harry. Please.”

It had been too long since he’d heard that warm, pleading voice. He acquiesced immediately, as much to comfort her overt anxiety as anything else, and then realized how disconnected he felt. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t control his breathing.

Harry focused on her low, intimate cadence, and felt the warmth of her breath against his ear. How he’d ached to hear that husky whisper again. Harry had gotten out of bed and gone in search of her, at a loss to explain her behavior in recent weeks. He’d been half-angry, frustrated and hurt over her sudden penchant to leave their bed at first light and the distant way she’d treated him and them, and he’d had enough.

He had to know.

Shannon hadn’t been in the living room. He’d walked through it and into the kitchen, and rather than find her there, it had been dark and cold. Shannon always made coffee first. He’d leaned against the counter, ready to howl with defeat and call out loud to her when the odd exhaustion he’d felt for weeks now washed over him again and he stumbled backward, struggling to stay on his feet.

She’d been there, then, the light glow of her skin shining through the dimness. Shannon said his name and he thought he’d said goodbye, or was that hello?

Either way, she’d screamed but he was fading before the pain in his shoulder and couldn’t respond.

It was a damned hospital bed.

He gripped her hand harder and concentrated on making his fingers squeeze hers.

She gasped and clasped her second hand around their intertwined fingers. “Lie still, please,” she repeated more clearly. “There are tubes and monitors everywhere and you’re drugged. It’s going to be hard for awhile, but you’ll be fine, Harry.”

Harry tried to nod but it was more like a shrug.

“Dad is driving in with the twins; they’ll be here tonight. You know they’ll be a ruckus if you’re not walking around and able to put them in their place by then.”

Her voice was trembling, and his brain hurt from trying to follow her but she rushed on, seemingly determined to reach him.

“Your parents have been in the waiting room all day, Harry. I think your mom’s going to end up in the next bed if they have to wait much longer for good news.”

In desperation, he squeezed her fingers, hard this time, and then let go. Her fingers slid from his and she made to take his hand again but he was lifting it, ever so slowly, watching to make sure it acted as he thought his brain was telling it. Shaking, he laid it on her cheek and squeezed gently, then concentrated on setting his palm against her heart. She was still wearing the ridiculous old law school t-shirt of his that she slept in. Her face was pale, and the dark smudges under her eyes meant she hadn’t slept.

But she was silent, until one of her hands came back and covered his.

“I love you too,” she whispered and Harry’s eyes closed in relief.

 

End of Sample

For the entire tale of Broken Together, please click here. It is available for Kindle for the low price of $0.99 (free for lending to members of Amazon Prime).

 


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Accountability

  By Serenity Everton | February 1, 2012 - 6:25 AM | Uncategorized
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I do hope readers are liking the fiction I started here and have been trying to keep updated every other day or so. I’m tentatively calling it Broken, although maybe “Repairable” is more accurate. Putting it on the blog here, not really editing it more than a quick re-read or two in advance, and the encouragement I’ve gotten on Twitter and elsewhere has been helpful in both motivating me to develop the story and to keep writing. I’m especially grateful to Loki Renard, who featured one of the pieces on Spanking Stories, her author site, last week.

It’s harder for me to stay on task, when writing, without that support.

A couple of days ago I said that I was ready to trash twenty-five thousand words of emotionless, boring crap that I’ve spent weeks dithering over. I haven’t actually hit the delete button, but it’s pretty much headed for the trash bin, or at least for an archived file in My Documents of Things That Will Never Be Finished. I wrote 6 pages last night re-starting the same basic plot line and have already hooked myself into the story.

Still, I need someone or something that is not a public place on the Internet to flesh out some ideas and stories. I thought about just publishing them here with a password protection, but that seems like taunting or like changing the fundamental purpose of this place in my head. I thought about asking Chris to make me accountable for writing in a discipline dynamic, but honestly I think that’s a bad idea. First of all, he’d have to read writing he’s not necessarily going to enjoy. Second of all, he has his own (non-kinky) writing to do and he’s going to be super busy with it. Thirdly, I’m just frankly not ready to go there. I’m not. If the writing is good, it’s good. If it’s not good, it’s better that I don’t torture myself with another twenty-five thousand words of drivel.

Basic requirements:  People who like all sorts of romantic fiction, including paranormal and historical. People who can keep a secret if anything I’ve written is ever  published under a pen name but who know me as Serenity Everton. (There’s just something about publishing romantic erotica under this name where I twitter about sex with my husband and kinky play parties that seems like a gross violation of my privacy. I know, it’s weird, but let’s be honest … I’m more likely to tell my family that I’ve writing romantic fiction than I am to want them to read about my sex life.) People who aren’t afraid to call me out in private or public or to Chris if and when I need them to. People who will read – if not every day, then at least weekly – and will give at least minimal hoenst feedback like “Yes”, “No”, “That guy is a dud” and “What the hell was that last paragraph for?”

But where do I find such people when those of you that I like are busy living your own lives?

Practical suggestions would be immensely helpful about right now!

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It’s the Romance, Lily Mine

  By Serenity Everton | January 28, 2012 - 6:14 AM | Uncategorized
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One of the reasons that my stories have such long lead times prior to any porn (i.e. the part I fondly refer to as porn is anything that would be rated R or higher if filmed) is that sex and kink are, for me, manifestations of the true intimacy of a relationship. That is, sex and kink don’t mean anything to me in a book, unless it means something to the characters who are having it. I realize it’s possible for such intimacy to mean something to one of the partners and to convey that well, but I struggle with it. Even scenes which might otherwise be described as ‘pure animal fucking’ are empty and meaningless to me without some emotion that underpins the characters’ motivations: lust, anger, despair, hate, possession…

I project this construct into the books I read as well. I have a difficult time with short novellas that have couples meeting and falling into eternal love and lust in 6 pages while the remaining 26 pages detail their extraordinary sexual escapades in glorious detail.

Don’t misunderstand. I like the sex scenes … but only when there is a real story to support them, or perhaps only when they support a real story and even further the story arc.

Anyway, that’s why I especially like scenes where the characters actually say what they mean, or at least try to, instead of running in fear for ninety percent of the book and then flip-flopping and embracing the idea of a relationship in the last three pages. It also drives me crazy to read a story where the heroine is described as having certain feelings and opinions, but whenever she opens her mouth she  says something completely out of character with her inner turmoil.

An especially good example of a story in which the story arc (and the development of the hero-heroine relationship) is supported by the porn and pillow talk is this historical romance aimed for spanking enthusiasts and other kinksters called Lily Mine* by Annabel Joseph:

He held her close, feeling her shaking against him. Perhaps he had taken the playacting too far. He thought she might be angry or impossibly panicked. “Just a Hallow’s Eve prank, sweet. Take a deep breath.” 

He pulled away, prepared for censure or a woman’s affronted glare. But as he looked down into her deep green eyes, he saw neither. She was laughing, silent laughter that was still caught up in gasps. She drew a deep breath and the gasps gave way to robust peals of merriment.

“You-you scared me,” she  managed to pant out. “You utter toad. You knew I believed.”

“That was the very best part. The thunder was ever so helpful.”

She batted him playfully. “Too helpful. I shall not forgive you for this. Well, not for awhile anyway. But it was quite a thrill for a moment there. I had no idea I was capable of running so fast.”

“Nor I.” He ran his hand through his hair, feeling alive and reckless, more thankful for her laughter than any of the other blessings he had. I love you, Lily. He wanted to say it. The words beat in his veins, to the rhythm of his heart. I love you. I adore you. I never want you to leave me. I am glad she jilted me, only because I got to replace her with you.

But he could say none of these things, would not give her false hopes where there were none, and so he did the only other thing he could ever think to do when she made him feel that way. He took her in his arms and clasped her close. He ran his lips down the smooth column of her neck and then up to her luscious, smiling mouth. He kissed her hard and she responded in the same urgent way she always did. She set him on fire with nothing more than her generous, unaffected acceptance. “Nor I.” He ran his hand through his hair, feeling alive and reckless, more thankful for her laughter than any of the other blessings he had. I love you, Lily. He wanted to say it. The words beat in his veins, to the rhythm of his heart. I love you. I adore you. I never want you to leave me. I am glad she jilted me, only because I got to replace her with you.

God, Lily. Lily. Lily… He backed her up to a towering oak, pressing against her with all the elemental joy and thankfulness he felt. She grasped him, all lively enthusiasm, and still her laughter bubbled up as he pulled her down to the dry forest floor….

If we as human beings are sexual creatures, then more than our bodies have to be involved, even on paper. Our minds, at least, must be engaged as well and it’s impossible to shut them off. Even in a moment of intimacy, we don’t put aside the problems of the world and live in the moment. All of our doubts, our hopes, our dreams and our joys remain during the pursuit of physical pleasure.

We take our problems to bed with us.

It’s only right, to my mind, to express such emotional contexts when writing the more salacious interludes.

I think that might put me firmly in the camp of a romance reader and writer, instead of an erotica one.  I think that might be a good thing for my peace of my mind and a good thing for me to keep in my mind.

Also, for readers out there looking for lovely spanking and domestic discipline set in country house England, this particular book has it in lovely, subtle details that I’ve re-read several times already. I realize the excerpt I used above does not express it, but that’s only because he didn’t spank her on the forest floor. He does that privately, with only the reader to see.

~o~

*The excerpt from Lily Mine is used with permission of the author, Annabel Joseph. Annabel Joseph’s books are available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle format. You can find out more about Annabel Joseph and her books at her blog or by following her twitter feed @annabeljoseph.

 

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Broken Together (Excerpt from Chapter Three)

  By Serenity Everton | January 25, 2012 - 6:01 AM | Uncategorized
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Broken Together (Excerpt from Chapter Three)

~ Serenity Everton ~

Copyright 2012 by Serenity Everton (asparkle2@yahoo.com).

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, transmitted by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, etc) without the prior permission of the author, above.

~o~

“Take your clothes off,” Harry had said stubbornly. He’d been exhausted by the time they’d gotten around to napping, but had refused to lie down in the bed unless she was with him. “All of them.”

So she’d stripped and curled up beside him and they’d slept. When bedtime had arrived, he’d said it again, just as insistently. He’d positioned her head on his upper arm, gripped the back of her hair in his hand and had proceeded to explore her body with his other hand until she’d been arched and tried desperately to push his hand against the throbbing pearl of flesh at the head of her vulva.

“No,” he’d said huskily, capturing her wrist. He tucked it beneath his thigh, then very deliberately and with his eyes on hers, had lifted her other wrist to rest on the back of her head, where his hand could hold it in place.

“Harry,” Shannon had pled, but he’d only whispered the hated word again, this time with his lips directly against hers.

And then he’d gone back to touching, holding her firmly in place while he explored her bare skin with his fingertips, never more firmly than a soft grazing of skin to skin.

She’d sobbed against his cheek forever later, not daring to struggle for fear she’d hurt him and unable to hold in the burgeoning desperation.  ”Please. Harry, please.”

And then he’d said the words that she couldn’t forget, that had made her burn and shudder at the simple memory of them. “You’re mine, Shannon. All of you, especially your sexuality, your orgasms. You’ll come when I want you to, and not before.”

At the time he’d said it, her gut had clenched and she’d felt the roaring in her ears as her spine tingled. Amazingly, even though the orgasm had threatened to overwhelm her, she’d fought it off in an absurd attempt to obey him.

“Good girl,” he’d praised her when she’d finally stilled. “My girl.”

“Harry –”

“You need to know you belong to me. It starts right here. You’ll come when I say, Shannon, and not before. Do you understand me?”

She’d groaned but he’d held her firmly in place, her naked form at his side. It felt deliciously decadent to be naked next to his t-shirt and boxers, to have her hand trapped beneath him, to have her wrist held against the back of her head as though she were a wanton, to have his fingers tugging at her hair as he tilted her face up so that he could see her eyes.

Shannon had whimpered but he hadn’t broken. He’d kept her trapped, even her eyes caught by his. He’d kept her there until she had been the one who’d submitted. She’d whimpered again and finally whispered, “Yes, Harry.”

At the time it had felt like defeat, but his pleased smile and repeated praises and kisses had made it seem more like a victory. “That’s my girl, my good girl,” he’d rasped, his free hand moving to cup her swollen breast and tight nipple in his palm.

He’d done the same thing the next night – last night – tormenting her with seemingly infinite patience, his jaw clenched as he’d listened to her increasingly desperate whispers pleading for relief. And then he’d cupped her breast firmly in his hand and asked quietly, “Why are you letting me do this, sweetheart? I know you haven’t snuck off with your vibrator, and I know you could have come already, without waiting for me to say that you could. So why are you, for want of a better description, suddenly so obedient?”

Shannon had caught her breath, her body still tingling and aching. She’d felt him release her breast and trail his fingers down her abdomen and brush the wet juices decorating the long muscle there. She’d swallowed hard, and felt the tears well up in her throat, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away from him.

“Try for me, sweetheart. Say it out loud.” He’d trailed his fingers through the moisture and waited.

And again, she’d whimpered in defeat and closed her eyes. “I don’t know,” she finally cried.

“Then I’m not ready for you to come, yet.”

She’d cried on his shoulder, but he hadn’t let her go and he hadn’t tried to hush her. He’d whispered lovely words against her hair and held her until she slept. She knew he’d said pretty and silly thing. There had been most beautiful creature and my dearest.

But now, in the cold, very early light of day, when she wasn’t on the verge of an explosion, Shannon thought she knew the answer. “Do you still want to know why?” she asked him, trailing her fingers over his mouth as she rolled on her side to face him.

Unlike her, he wore a plaid pajama set. He’d gotten out of bed earlier and made her coffee, bringing mugs for both of them to the bed. She still thought it odd to sleep in nothing but her skin, but was ready to admit there were compensations. Wherever their bodies brushed against one another – wherever his hand roamed – he inevitably found skin. Not an old t-shirt, soft as it was, or flannel shorts, or the silk of a negligee, but her skin.

“Mmm. Yes,” he said, capturing her finger and biting the tip gently. She tugged but his teeth persisted.

“Because you didn’t ask me not to come. You expected I wouldn’t, as if I was, in fact, yours.”

“You are,” Harry said simply.

“And because you said I was your good girl. I wanted to be.”

“You are,” Harry repeated, still calm. “You are my good girl.”

Shannon shivered, and so Harry bent forward and tasted her mouth, licking the coffee flavor from her teeth and teasing the top of her mouth with his tongue. “Good morning,” he murmured.

“Good morning,” she answered, and wound her fingers in his hair as she returned the kiss.

 

End of Sample

For the entire tale of Broken Together, please click here. It is available for Kindle for the low price of $0.99 (free for lending to members of Amazon Prime).

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Random Thought

  By Serenity Everton | January 14, 2012 - 10:24 PM | Uncategorized
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Ayla stood outside and looked up. They said in the days of old that the sun had been brilliant, and that the sky had been a soft blue, and that the world was white. Those days had been gone for millennia, and still it was said, as if Ayla might wake one day and the world would be as it was in those ancient days.

She shivered as the chill breached her capes and her tunic and her warm undergarments. Ayla could not be outdoors much longer, but inside she would be expected to face that which she dreaded with bravery and submission and a face of youthful innocence.

In the dark days, few women could bear children. It was time, Ayla knew, for the world to learn if she might be a breeder. If she could conceive and carry a child to term, and deliver it, her future would be bright – as bright as it could be while constantly subjected to injections of the most productive semen to induce pregnancy, or married to some ruling family to birth the next generation.

If she could not? Ayla shuddered, the chill suddenly inconsequential. If she could not, then she would have to make her own way …

and now I leave you. Chris has come to amuse me, so use your imagination. What might happen to the poor girl?

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Interlude

  By Serenity Everton | October 20, 2011 - 7:54 PM | Uncategorized
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I promised Mija a fantasy and I’m writing it … slowly. I can’t focus on it until work is done for the week, and I get a little weak-kneed and shaky when I think of it too much. So, in the meantime, here’s a real attempt at micro-fiction… inspired by the photo.

they called it a rescue...

They found her by the side of the road. While they called it a rescue and put her in a fine apartment with windows that looked out on the city forty floors up, with luxurious bedding and a fabulous bath, she couldn’t find a phone. The door locked from the outside. And they always forgot to bring her new clothes.

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The Spanking Collection

  By Serenity Everton | August 30, 2011 - 10:22 PM | Uncategorized
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I suppose by now that many people who read this blog have heard about the anthology The Spanking Collection, edited by Abel & Haron. It’s been tweeted, blogged and bandied about in all sorts of locations. That is, of course, because it features nineteen amazing authors (plus me!) writing about a common topic that is near and dear to our hearts:  corporal punishment.

If there’s one thing better than a kinky story, I believe it’s a kinky story written by a kinky author. Times twenty.

One of my original stories is included in the book. It’s only in the book, actually. It will not be published elsewhere, nor will any of the other nineteen stories in the anthology.

My contribution – Wifehouse - is a perversion of one of the laudable but misguided reform houses of late 18th century America. Sometimes called Magdalen Homes (as several of the best and honorably operated ones were operated by the Magdalen Society), the publicly stated intent of such institutions was to reform fallen women and turn them into respectable, upstanding wives. Making a woman fit for marriage must have truly been a challenge as the women were generally locked in and forced to remain until the overseers were satisfied, often until they were married (willingly or otherwise).

If you enjoy spanking fiction in short story form, this collection is for you. It features widely diverse aspects of our common kink, from lost innocence to wildly depraved. I have my favorites already – of course I do! - and this collection is well worth the Kindle price of $6.55 or $6.95 in other ebook formats for US buyers. Printed copies are coming via Amazon and can already be purchased through Lulu.

All proceeds from sales will be used to benefit Cancer Research UK, and all authors have donated their work without remuneration.

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Dear Sir, I’m Yours

  By Serenity Everton | June 23, 2011 - 4:49 PM | Uncategorized
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Dear Sir, I'm Yours by Joely BurkhartYes, I’ve been gone awhile. I’ve been working my backside off, to be honest. Chris, in fact, has missed it.

I got home a few days ago. He’s spent so  much time spanking me, making me come, practicing a few new rules with me and making me suck his cock that I just finished unpacking today. Well, almost. I have one more box to empty.

Anyway, during my period of extended work hours, I needed something to fall asleep with at night, as I was not getting spanking or sex. (Chris, you see, was in bed hours before me, or I was traveling or he was traveling or all of the above.) As a result, the Kindle app on my iPhone has been very active (it’s free on a variety of platforms if you don’t want to buy another device).

During my exploration of various erotica genres, I found a 2-book author named Joely Burkhart. One of the books – Dear Sir, I’m Yours – may just about be the perfect spanking story for me. It’s filled from beginning to end with the struggle and confusion of dominance and submission, the meaning of control, orgasmic foreplay and more. There’s a sexy professor who quotes poetry, a young woman who isn’t perfect, and comic relief. Plus, there’s a plot, and it turns out that I find that a plot is really necessary to make me happy with a story.

A very short excerpt…

Damned if she didn’t blush, too. The old lady leered across the table at Rae. “Healy men are rather arrogant, Rae Lynn, but they’re worth the trouble. Just remember my pink parasol is at your disposal if you ever need to beat some sense into my grandson.”

Conn leaned back to whisper into her ear. “If you whack me with something, then I get to turn you over my knee.”

Miss Belle winked and slid out of the booth. “Don’t keep her out too late, Conn, or I’ll come looking for you again. I’m going to stop at Pearsons for a drink first.”

“Pearsons?” Conn frowned. “That’s a pretty rough bar, Miss Belle. Are you sure–”

“Colonel Healy assures me some very interesting goings-on have occurred there. I’m going to see for myself.” Bending down, she patted him on the shoulder and whispered loudly. “Just a few more days and I’ll win the bet. So be a gentleman and take your hand out from under the dear girl’s dress.”

The book also comes in paperback, although it’s more expensive.

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