New Release: Cinderella: A BDSM Retelling

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I’ve been a busy little smutbeaver, indeed! I’ve been working on this story for quite some time, and it’s been demanding to grow bigger and bigger than I ever expected. Originally envisioned at about 15,000 words, it is over 21,000 words! My first novella and my longest work to date. I’m very happy with it. Fans of femdom, sissification, feminization, fantasy erotica, magical strap-ons, and amusing Fairy Kink Mothers will enjoy this one.

Cinderella: A BDSM Retelling is now available at Smashwords, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, Rainbow eBooks, and soon available on Sony, Diesel, and iTunes.

BLURB:

Dominas Arabelle and Druscilla Ravyn’s talented apprentice, Cinderella, wants to become a Mistress, but the cruel stepsisters thwart her at every turn. When famous rock star Kink-Bottom Prince is seeking a new Mistress from all those in the City, poor Cinderella doesn’t think she stands a chance. But a kind Fairy Kink Mother magically appears to help Cinderella win her Prince’s collar — and heart.

This 21,000+ word erotic novella contains menage, femdom, a submissive rock star getting fucked in front of his fans, spanking, whipping, magical strap-ons that come to life, pegging, face-sitting, forced feminization and sissification, a self-satisfied Fairy Kink Mother, squirting, fisting, exhibitionism, comedy relief, and much more!

EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT:

“Stand up, let me look at you,” the Fairy said in a no-nonsense yet kindly tone. She circled Cinderella with the critical hawk’s eye of an exclusive haute couture designer, tapping one front tooth with an immaculately manicured fingernail in thought. “Hmm… yes, I believe I have just the thing in mind. We’ll take care of everything all at once. Close your eyes, now.” The Fairy Kink Mother pulled a handful of something out of her bag and blew it gently over Cinderella’s head. A shower of what felt like the softest down feathers swirled around her, caressing every curve of her nude body. When at last the dancing zephyr of feathers stopped, Fairy Kink Mother bade her open her eyes. Cinderella gasped. The pain from her beating was gone, and her skin was now covered in living, gleaming gold that sparkled and shone with even the slightest movement.

“Some Fairy Kink Mothers might let you go just like that, because admittedly you are magnificent as you are. But I didn’t win the prestigious honor of Fairy Kink Mother of the Year six years running from doing only the bare minimum… if you’ll pardon the pun!” She laughed at her own witticism, but Cinderella was too overwhelmed to say a word.

“Oh, my stars, I nearly forgot the most important part!” Again she reached into the ridiculously tiny bag and started to pull out golden straps attached to something. As with the other things, it seemed to start out doll-sized, and then grew to full size bit by bit as she pulled it out. The strangeness of this magic almost made Cinderella dizzy to behold. Now she saw that it was a strap-on harness, with an amazingly life-like cock complete with smooth balls attached. It all gleamed as golden as Cinderella’s skin did now, who accepted the Fairy’s proffered arm as she helped the girl step into the harness. It seemed to tighten by itself to fit Cinderella perfectly, and Fairy Kink Mother beamed with excitement.

“This isn’t any ordinary strap-on, my dear. Oh, no, no! This is so very special, and if I do say so myself, it may just be my most brilliant creation to date!” She caressed the shaft of the cock with one hand, and Cinderella had to bite back a moan of pleasure. She was shocked to realize that it felt as natural and as much a true part of her as if it were her own cock from birth! Just that one simple stroke from Kink Mother’s hand had been deliciously intriguing. “Ah, thus, now you see… when it is worn by you — and only you, I might add, as the magic is limited to one client — it will feel and react as if it were your own natural cock. Because, you see, with the magic, it truly is!” Fairy Kink Mother chortled with delight, clapping her hands like a little girl. “It’s a brilliant creation, isn’t it? Go on, touch it, see for yourself!”

Cinderella reached down to delicately caress the golden cock. It was flaccid, and as warm as her own body to the touch; but when she wrapped her fingers lightly around it, it twitched, and she gasped in delight. Moving her hand, admiring the erotic scene it made to have a cock of her very own, it wasn’t long before it grew to throbbing and rock-hard in her fist. She could feel both her pussy, wet with desire, and the thick cock in her hand dripping with pre-cum. The sensation was dizzying. Fairy Kink Mother swiped at the wet cock-head with one slim fingertip, raised it to her lips, and licked it clean.

“Delicious,” she said, giving Cinderella a saucy wink. “Kink-Bottom Prince will not have eyes — or mouth — for anyone else, I promise you.” Cinderella tugged down the miniskirt over her cock, admiring the bulge it made through the sheer gold fabric.

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Call for Reviewers from Rachel Kramer Bussel re: The Big Book of Orgasms

Following is an announcement from Rachel Kramer Bussel, looking for reviewers for this upcoming anthology. It is my first print anthology and I’m very excited about it. If you’re interested, please contact her ASAP!

I wanted to let you know that I’m currently signing up Amazon reviewers for The Big Book of Orgasms, for print copies (US only) or Kindle editions – people should email me here at orgasmantho at gmail.com with either their U.S. mailing address for a hard copy with “Amazon” in the subject line or their email address for the Kindle edition with “Kindle” in the subject line. By doing so, they acknowledge they have an Amazon.com account they’ve made a purchase from before, and that they are willing to post their review within 6 weeks of receipt. All the details are in this blog post: http://www.lustylady.blogspot.com/2013/05/will-you-be-one-of-my-100-amazon.html and/or you can retweet this: https://twitter.com/BigBookofOrgasm/status/338806032723742720

If you follow @BigBookofOrgasm I will follow you back and will be posting more about it closer to the pub date. I’ll be accepting requests until I hit 100 copies.

New Release: 3 Girls 1 Pole

It’s been way too long! Welp, that’s what happens when you work on 15 different things at the same time in order to avoid becoming bored with anything. So I’m very pleased to announce the release of my latest erotica short, 3 Girls 1 Pole. Yes, the title makes me laugh too — that’s why I named it that. 😉

It was inspired by several things: my own fantasies, my experiences both with pole dance fitness and my years as an exotic dancer, and even a bit from my own life. I won’t tell you which of the three women I identified most with, though. A girl’s gotta leave some mystery for her fans!

I was really happy to find this stock photo for my cover, too. 3 Girls 1 Pole is publishing live at Smashwords, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, and Rainbow eBooks. Links will be updated as they go live. Please enjoy, and don’t forget to leave a review! It really does help the indie authors out very much! ❤

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Blurb:

Jayna and her partner Ava, a stripper and pole instructor, recently bought a house. They’ve just installed a pole so Ava can give lessons, and they invite their hot friend Emily over to break it in. What kinds of kinky fun have the lesbian couple dreamed up for their sexually frustrated BFF, and how will Emily react when she’s cornered and seduced by the two women she’s been crushing on for ages?

Sexually explicit content. All characters are 18+.

Excerpt:

“Your splits are perfect, Jayna,” I said, envious. “I wish I could do splits like you. I try and try, but they don’t seem to ever get much better. Hell, I’d be happy just to have a woman do splits for me.” I paused, considering. “Preferably on my face, though.”

Instead of the giggles I expected, Jayna’s face grew calculating. “Oh yeah? What would you do then?”
I could feel my face growing hot, but the wine made me bold. “What do you think? Eat her pussy like there’s no tomorrow. What the hell would you do?”

“I know what I’d do,” Ava said. “Dare you to prove it, right here, right now.” I could only stare at her, astonished. “I’m serious. Jay and I have been fantasizing about a threesome for a long time.” She paused, eyes gleaming. I couldn’t look away. “Maybe even about you, once or twice… So are you in or what?” I couldn’t make my voice work, and swallowed hard before finally nodding. Ava grinned wickedly and grabbed me around the waist. “Well then,” she whispered huskily into my ear. “I hope you have a lot of stamina, because we’re going to test this ‘like no tomorrow’ theory of yours.” I realized I’d been holding my breath, and a little high-pitched moan escaped me as I exhaled. “But it wouldn’t be right to dive into the main course without some appetizers first, huh?” She let me go and led me back to the couch where Jayna was sitting. “You’ve never come to the club with me, so I guess I’ll have to bring the club to you.”

I had never had a lapdance, of course, so I had no idea what to expect beyond what I’d gleaned from movies — so when she peeled off her top and shorts, leaving her in just a little silver g-string, I’m pretty sure my heart skipped a beat or three. Ava pushed me down onto the cushy sofa, and I found myself sitting practically on Jayna’s lap, though her thighs were parted to let my ass brush the crotch of her tiny shorts. I could feel the soft mounds of her breasts pressed against my shoulder blades, and the heat of her breath on the back of my neck. Her hands snaked around me, one pulling my knee wider open, and the other caressing the underside of my left breast.

***

P.S. In other news, the main Hollaback site gave my article a shoutout on their weekly update! Score!

Ear Porn: Dr. Susana Mayer and the Erotic Literary Salon

I keep meaning to attend this. I’ll get around to it; I’d love to do a live reading!

Sex with Timaree

In most cities, there are open mics where people can workshop their latest creations in front of a live audience, whether they be singer-songwriters or stand up comics.

But what if your art is penning sultry tales of people getting it on? Or what if you just want to chill in the unpretentious swank of an absinthe bar while  hearing lusty stories read by interesting strangers?

You’ll be delighted to learn that you’ve got options. For five years Dr. Susana Mayer haserotic literary salon  hosted the Erotic Literary Salon, an event she founded not knowing if anyone would have the chutzpah to stand up and let an audience into their private fantasies.

Well, spoiler alert, but they do. They love it. And so do the audiences. A mixture of talented regulars and curious newcomers come to the monthly gathering…. with zero judgment.

Dr. Mayer, who is also a sexologist and professional…

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I Might Have a Nice Ass, But You’re Still an Asshole.

This is an article I wrote for Hollaback Philly, a non-profit dedicated to ending street harassment. They’ve posted it on their blog, which I really hope you go and check out. Hollaback is in many other cities as well.

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I distinctly remember walking down the sidewalk with my friends at the age of thirteen, getting honks and lewd comments hurled at us. I repeat: WE WERE THIRTEEN. Imagining ourselves cool and grownup, we would give offending drivers the finger and gleefully yell “Perv!” as loud as we could. After the shock of the first time or two, I considered it old hat in the nonchalant way that kids who don’t know better have. Maybe it had happened to me earlier even than thirteen, because I developed very early — but if it did, it was too traumatizing for me to not block out of my memory.

I’m in my early thirties now, and not much in the way of street harassment has changed. I’ve heard everything from “Nice ass,” and “Show me your tits,” to the relatively milder “You’re looking good today,” and “Hey baby.” I’ve heard it all, and I don’t care what the words are, I hate them all. I no longer have the blase attitude of laughing and yelling back, because no matter what I do, I’ll be called a bitch, or maybe worse. I hate that I have to fear speaking up, fear threats of violent confrontation, fear for my safety for the grave crime of being a woman in public. “What, I give you a compliment and you don’t even look at me? Bitch.” “You act like I’m not here? Bitch.” “I was being nice. Bitch.” Bitch. Bitch. Bitch.

Street harassment is not about compliments. It’s certainly not about being nice. It’s about intimidation and dehumanization, about objectification and making the recipient feel powerless and scared while the perpetrator feels powerful and aggressive. It’s about keeping its targets firmly in a place of submission and fear, and perpetrators (in my personal experience, they have invariably been men, of all races) in a place of power.

I’m a survivor of abuse. It happened early and often up through my early to mid 20’s, and I’ve spent years coming to terms with it and learning that healing is a journey, not a destination. For me, part of being a survivor and not a victim, part of continually healing, is speaking up — of ensuring that through my words and actions that neither I nor others are silent victims ever again. But even this is a journey, not a destination. It’s exhausting at times, terrifying, daunting; but also exhilarating, empowering, and deeply fulfilling.

Street harassment almost always catches you unaware. I am usually biking, concentrating on navigating Philly traffic and deep in my own thoughts. “Nice ass,” along with a jeering face staring back at me from a car as they drive ahead of me, violently tears me out of the present and can take me all the way back to my abuse — despite the years of therapeutic work I’ve done for myself. It doesn’t matter whether a flashback lasts for seconds, minutes, hours — or even if I’d never been abused at all, and there was nothing to which to flash back. Street harassment makes my heart pound, makes my stomach churn, and it makes me absolutely seeing-red livid. It doesn’t matter whether I’m wearing a potato sack or a ball gown, or even, as in the case of Philly Naked Bike Ride, nothing at all. You have no right to talk to me like that. Harassment is illegal in the workplace, at school, at home — pretty much anywhere that’s indoors. So why is it that when we’re outside, it’s like the Wild West? It’s violent, it’s wrong, and it needs to stop.

I am deeply passionate about fighting injustice with my words, which, paired with my intelligence, are the mightiest weapons I possess. I use words to reclaim myself, to reclaim my body and my soul. I write romance, and I write erotica, and I love that I am able to make a living at it. I write other genres too, and plan to eventually publish those as well. I love my queer sexuality, and I love that I am free inside myself to be able to claim it without shame or self-reprisal. I love that I can use words and verbal images in any way I like to reclaim my soul from my broken past, and to create my own future.

Despite what the children’s chant says, words can hurt you — but it fails to mention that they can also heal you. That’s why the growing Hollaback movement is so damn brilliant. It fights words with words, voices with voices, and shows the silent ones that it’s okay to speak up, that they are not alone. It empowers the victimized and gives them a constructive outlet for their fear and rage. Hollaback is a brilliant concept, one that I hope will soon create positive change in policies, laws, and cultures.

Not all words are created equal, and we all know it. You have a voice. Use it for positive change.

A Death in the Family

I don’t have much in the way of family. My mom passed away unexpectedly four years ago this month. I’ve been estranged from my father since I was 14, and my younger sister for a number of years now.

I had helped Snicky’s mother give birth to him on June 30, 1999, and kept him warm inside my shirt when he was a tiny newborn kitten as his littermates were born. There were eight in all, with one stillborn.

When my mom died suddenly and unexpectedly in 2009, I took Snicky in. He was a beautiful Maine Coon-Persian mix. He was so scared, and he clung to me; I cooed to him, telling him it was all right and don’t worry. I don’t think he ever forgot that… he was devoted to me for the rest of his life.

Snicky was originally her cat, and one of the most loving, affectionate cats I’ve ever met. Snicky loved people, and loved to talk — very opinionated, in fact. He was quite dog-like in a way; he would always greet me at the door, and would hang out with me and my guests if anyone came over. He would jump up into strangers’ laps, and charmed everyone he met, even self-proclaimed cat haters. He invariably followed me around the house and always wanted to be where I was. He was a charismatic people person, for sure.

If I was doing a sewing project, or any kind of interesting unusual thing, he would sit right next to me, watching and supervising. I used to say he was my project manager. He spent a lot of time shoving himself between my lap and my keyboard, insisting on blocking my view and making it hard to type.

He liked to knock over the kitchen trash if there was anything interesting in there (he loved raw chicken and beef, and would go crazy any time he heard the pop of the vacuum-sealed containers. I’d give him the empty ones and he’d lick up the juices.

I had trained him to jump up on laps, and he loved to sit in my lap — especially when I was busy doing something like knitting or computering.

He used to be an outdoor cat when he was my mom’s, but when I took him in after her death he was exclusively indoors. He would sit in the window and stare at the birds. Pigeons were particularly daring, sitting right on the window sill while he made those anxious little hunting cat clicks and whirrs, flicking his tail. He was a great mouser, as well. When he was outdoors, my mom had said he would bring home 4-5 mice a week. In my apartment, he caught at least two that I know of, though it was probably more.

He loved to sleep in bed with me, and often he would curl up in my arm, just like a teddy bear. Many times I’d wake up to find him there. Sometimes he’d sleep on my chest, or if I were on my side, drape himself over my waist. He liked being picked up and cuddled, and had a bit of a ragdoll temperament. He was a huge purrball, and he loved to purr, often and loudly. When he was really happy, he’d give me little kisses (gentle licks with the soft tip of his tongue). He liked to “monorail” my arm; he’d lie along the length of my arm, his warm belly pressed against my forearm.

Snicky had kidney disease and some upper respiratory problems due to the slight flattening of his face, putting pressure on his sinuses. It’s a common thing with Persians, although he didn’t have one of those super-squished faces. He was very sick towards the end, and antibiotics weren’t helping. I was going to take him to the vet today, but when I went to get him, I found him dead.

He was the only family I had, and now he’s gone. I’m glad he’s not suffering anymore, and he knew he was loved, and loved unconditionally in return.

I love you, Snicky. I hope you’re with Mama now.

Snicky, 30 June 1999 – 30 April 2013

My not-so-helpful helper
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A Fragment From My Journal

March 12, 2013

Unfortunately, there will be people, many people, who say they love you and then will utterly shatter your love and trust. They will probably be vindictive and hateful about it too, for no reason other than deep inside, they feel guilty about what they did to you.

Fortunately, you are not dead, and you don’t need these people in your life. If they once served you, they are now as dead as last summer’s flowers. They lit your life for a while, and are now dead.

Find new flowers.