Blood in the Rain IV

1183115454Cecilia DuValle and Mary Trepanier have done it again just in time for Halloween! I’m pleased to announce that my story, “Fifty-Fifty,” will be included in Blood in the Rain 4!

They wanted to cringe while getting hot, so I delivered. And so you’ll notice that this story is pure fantasy–the usual rules of BDSM are out the window for added titillation/horror. So keep that in mind: pure fantasy. I was feeling inspired by The Hunger so you might also recognize nods to that vampire lesbian cult classic. Though I like to pride myself on my lesbian vamp being a bit more edgy. ;)


“Close your eyes. Now put the glass directly under your nose. Inhale deeply.” I did as instructed, I mean, how could I not? Her inflection was both dominating and sensual—a balance I find irresistible. But I’ll admit to peeking when I heard a clinking noise. My glimpse revealed her placing a long, shallow box filled with tiny glass vials on the table. “I can hear you blinking.”

Bossy and brusque. I kind of liked it. So I acquiesced and squeezed my eyelids shut again.

I felt her turn back towards me, moving closer. “What is this scent?”


“Now take the glass to your nose again. Two short sniffs, one long. Then sip.”

“Oh, wow! I can taste the cocoa!”

She repeated the process several times.


“Yes, scorched earth.”


“Star anise.”

“Berries…no, cherries.”




Then a new clinking noise. One I knew well. The distinct sound of metal on metal. And I could smell it long before it neared my nose. “Ohhhh…leather.” Unable to stifle my obvious arousal.

“Very good. So you are familiar with BDSM.” Her assumptive habit becoming more apparent as she slid her palm down the inside of my elbow. “Safe, sane, or consensual?”

“Ummmm…are you asking me to choose just one? Isn’t it supposed to be all of the above?” She cuffed one wrist, quickly followed by the other. “And I thought we had moved onto risk-aware consensual kink or personal responsabil—”

“Time is up. I choose for you. I will do my best to keep you safe. But do not count on me maintaining a sound state of mind.” Ale jerked my arms together behind my back, locking them in place with the restraints. “And you can forget about giving a green light. All I see is red. And in my world red means I take what I want.”

I won’t lie. It got me wet. It shouldn’t have. But it did.



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Unspeakably Erotic: Lesbian Kink

1db1b08c-9d57-423e-8aac-7edbbe43f90a_1.3877840507ae0f06d25a7b23392e6334My story, “Use Me,” that appears in Unspeakably Erotic: Lesbian Kink, edited by D.L. King, takes on a different vantage point than you’re probably accustomed to hearing from me. What can I say? I like to stretch my legs from time to time. ;) This anthology is filled with so many titillating stories, a few of my long-time favorite erotica writers, and a couple I didn’t know who surprised me in the best ways possible. Unspeakably Erotic is also up for a National Leather Association International award, was a finalist for a Lammy, and won a gold medal IPPY (Independent Publisher Book Award for Erotica). I hope you’ll pick yourself up a copy and consider giving it a review on Amazon (those reviews really do help with sales). Here’s a little taste to get your curiosities piqued:

“You heard me.” I grab her hand away from her clit, pinning her wrist above her head, pressing my body firmly against her, extending the torture just a bit more by shoving my cunt hard against her ass. I hold her—one hand wrapped around hers above and one hand below, gripping her hip firmly. “Now I want you to take a deep breath and feel the tension disperse throughout your entire body.” She inhales perhaps as deeply as humanly possible in that moment, nevertheless, she’s not going to get off that easily.

I delight in pushing her and this will indeed be quite the demanding task. Nothing seems to excite her more than a challenge. And nothing gets me hotter than her living up to it. An endlessly licentious cycle.

“Deeper,” I whisper with an intentional hot breath in her ear, reveling in its effect on her body as all her little hairs stand on end and every inch of her skin prickles with goosebumps. “I want you to use the energy of that orgasm…” (so close to the surface, we can both still nearly taste it) “…and push it into the farthest reaches of your body. Feel it pulsating down your legs, all the way into each toe, sensing the tingle and intensity of all that fervor.”

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I’m particularly proud of my story, “The Fetters of First Love,” that appears in Corrupted: Erotica and Erotic Romance for the Modern Age, edited by Charlie Powell. It’s all about women reclaiming their power and resisting the myth that that which liberates them also corrupts them. And my story features a femme who thoroughly enjoys her butch lovers but ultimately finds true love in herself.

Here’s a little snippet of my story for you:

Marielos had taken a class on rope bondage at the local, feminist-owned sex toy shop and practiced doing plenty of different ties on herself at home as well. But this would be the first time she had attempted to restrain herself while getting off. Ensuring her safety scissors were nearby in case of an emergency, she began by hitching the lengths of rope through the steel bars of her headboard. Then, with meticulous precision, she wrapped the hemp cords around her lower calf and upper thigh, bending her knee so that they were touching. Careful that each pass lay flat and did not bind too tightly when she flexed, she continued to loop around her forearm. In her practice sessions, Marielos had become quite the expert at creating ties without the use of both hands. Making good use of her mouth, she clenched the rope with her teeth, cinching her knee closer to the bed post, leaving herself spread wide.



And then she forced herself wait.

The anticipation compelled her to squirm and drip, her teeth digging into the fibers. Only once she had passed the point of no longer being able to take it, did she slide in her first finger. Slowly. Searchingly. Making herself want it even more, teasing her pussy just so. And then pulling out completely, leaving her hole longing all the more. Releasing the rope from her mouth, she finished her self-bondage by curling the remaining tails around her long, black braid such that when she moved her head, she was pulling on her own hair. A most exquisite sensation indeed.

Folks often ask me how they can financially support my writing, if I get a cut of the profits off the final product and usually I don’t (normally I get paid a flat fee) but in the case of this book I get paid royalties so, YES!, you will be helping independent writers by buying this book. Please get yourself a copy of Corrupted today! And thanks, as always, for your support!


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Blood in the Rain III


Blood in the Rain 3, edited by Cecilia DuValle and Mary Trepanier, is on sale this week for only 99 cents! I’m proud to have my story, Give Me A Penny, included in this anthology as well as another story in Blood in the Rain 2 too! (Only sad that I didn’t know about the first in the series before it came out!) Here’s a snippet from my story to entice you:

Trejú seemed to thrive off of sex, blood-feasting, and vengeance. When she wasn’t engaging in at least one of those acts, she was plotting a new and creative way to do so. I assume that’s why she first began presenting me with knives.

She stood on my doorstep, displaying the bundle proudly as if it were a bouquet of roses. “Handmade by authentic gypsies!” Trejú only ever used that racial slur to refer to her people in jest, usually when she wanted to make fun of gadge’s stereotypes of the Roma. Consciously or not, we who do not possess Roma blood have many negative assumptions about Romani, and she would often choose humor as a way of dispelling them.

“Give me a penny.” Trejú kissed my cheek and walked right past me, letting herself in.

I closed the door and turned to face her. “Why?”

A storm surfaced in her gaze. “Prikaza. Bad luck to give a knife as a gift. You must pay me for it.” Slipping her arms around my waist and pulling me firmly against her body, my cunt already hot against her thigh. “The cost? One cent. Plus whatever else I can take from you before the night is through.” She grinned at her own cleverness.

Just as her gift was far too dangerous in my hands, so was her mercurial nature.

I’m particularly proud of this story because it’s the first I’ve written that includes a Romani character (at least explicitly stated). Writing characters of color into my erotica is important to me because all too often erotica features mostly white characters or fetishizes the skin color of and/or stereotypes about people of color. In this story I also consciously chose to have my Roma character be queer. Perhaps because of the stigma within our own culture, I’ve never seen a queer Romani character represented in books, movies, or TV shows and I wanted to prove that, yes, we do exist! Where have you seen positive media representations of Romani characters? I’d particularly love to hear about queer Romani characters! Please educate me in the comments!

Blood in the Rain 3 will cost you less than a dollar only until December 18th…so hurry! Maybe use that extra penny to buy a knife off someone? ;)

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Get it! Getting It!

gettingitHere’s an excerpt from my story, Taking the Toll, in the newly released Getting It: A Femdom Anthology edited by S.B. Roark and Sienna Saint-Cyr, published by SinCyr Publishing.

Normally I’m coming right now, thrashing about in the sheets, my body a creature of habit, after so many years it’s more than difficult to control. My lover staring down at me, grinning wickedly as she reads it all over my body—witnessing just how hard it is for me to stave off that orgasm. I’m her own personal open fuckin’ book and she’s enjoying the read just a little too much.

“Go put on your uniform.” Before I can even protest, drop to my knees, do anything to distract her (she’s getting to know me a little too well), she gives me that stern look that always makes me weak (obedient) and raises her eyebrows with the Am I really going to have to say it again? look and I’m up, heading towards the closet. Looking over her shoulder with a smirk she adds, “You remember your safeword, angelita?”

“Sí, claro. Red, yellow, green.”

“Good girl.” She eyes me one last time all I’m thinking is green, green, green.

Creative as hell when it comes to this stuff and quick as fuck, I can tell her mind has taken off into a full sprint as she leaves the room to collect whatever props she can find that will help bring the swiftly mounting fantasy in her head to life. She looked into my mind through my body’s divulgences, revealed my secret, and immediately ran with it. Didn’t even hesitate for a second. If she had, I would have feared judgment; instead I feel completely at ease, protected and cherished. Her presence and demeanor make this place safe for me. Of course she wants to go there with me. She gets it. She gets me.

Wondering just what she’ll come up with, I finish pulling off my red lacy thong (definitely not part of the uniform) and I’m about to switch it out with the white cotton panties when it hits me and I slide the more scandalous version back on. Sure, we’ve played around with the naughty school girl fantasy plenty but never before have we done any specifically catholic play, and I have a feeling this defiance might just bring it to another level.

This is my first time publishing with SinCyr and I’m especially excited about doing so because their values align beautifully with mine. Their tagline is “Shifting rape culture one sexy story at a time” and their mission statement is “To provide sex-positive, body-positive, and sexually empowered characters and content to readers of our erotic and romantic fiction. To educate on topics ranging from non-traditional relationships to BDSM, consent, healing trauma, and more, for readers of nonfiction.”

Wanna get Getting It? Buy it here! (Free for folks with Kindle Unlimited.)

In the past I’ve always been paid a flat fee for my stories and I’m happy to say (for those of you who have asked) that I’ll be receiving royalties for this anthology! I’m so very appreciative of you purchasing a copy because it will directly support me and my work!

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Blood in the Rain II


Wanna win a free copy of Blood in the Rain II, edited by Cecilia Duvalle and Mary Trepanier that contains one of my stories?

Enter here!

There’s even a quote from my story featured on the back cover!

Here is an excerpt of my story, First Bite:

She had folded me over and abandoned my needs centuries ago, time and space falling away, but I would not move until she willed it. Desperation had set in when I felt my panties fall to the floor in one swift motion. I hadn’t sensed her approach, I startled and jumped, the blood coursing wildly through my veins. The chilled, sharp tip of something keen-edged traced its way from my ankle up to my inner thighs, pausing achingly close to my cunt just before she grabbed the skirt that was gathered at my hips and used it to yank me up and around. By the time I was facing her, it was cut in two and I had just a glimpse of the black fabric in my peripheral vision as it fell away.

The knife clattered against the concrete, spinning across the floor. Her tongue invaded my mouth. Her hands all over my naked flesh, mine digging into her leather, clawing to grab a hold. She lifted me deftly onto the back of the chair; I wrapped my legs around her waist, our tongues battling to go deeper, and suddenly I was being carried across the room, slammed up against a wall. We wrestled our way around each other’s bodies, I tried to tear off as much of her clothing as she would allow, and no matter how much I pressed up against her, how entwined our bodies became, I still needed her closer.

And then she was inside me, and I was gasping for air. I took her fist because she offered nothing less.

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Sunday Mornings Like These

51ZM5ZBNMGL._SX341_BO1,204,203,200_I figured since Sinclair Sexsmith has honored me as one of the Best Queer Sex Blogs (color me fifty shades of flattered!) that I ought to give y’all a little more action. ;)

I’m not much of a romance writer–this might be a one time thing–but do not fear, my contribution is plenty smutty as well (breath play, anyone?). I wrote this story for the partner I always dreamed was possible but I was unsure whether I’d ever encounter this lifetime. Published in Kristina Wright‘s Best Erotica Romance of the Year, I submitted “Sunday Mornings Like These” just months before my partner magically appeared in my life. Well, magically reappeared, actually, as he had been my one-night-stand ten years earlier when I was touring in Europe with my drag troupe…but that’s a post for another day. I wrote this story knowing deep inside myself that such a thing existed–queer love based in truth and trust, magic and mysticism, spiritual/psychic connection, watery and vulnerable emotional depths, sweet and filthy and fully-embodied kink, a passion so fiery it takes us to the cosmos and delivers the Divine onto this plane as well.

I began falling in love with my partner in fewer than two weeks (record timing, even for a Libra like me)…well, two weeks + ten years (but who’s counting?). His presence in my life and our profound connection (lightyears beyond anything I could’ve dreamed up in my boldest fantasies) have taught me to embrace my intuition and it’s been through that fierce embrace that my powers have expanded in unimaginable directions. As we were lying in bed together this morning (9am for me, 9pm for him as he’s currently in Jakarta), we were reveling in how it’s still so impossible to put words to–this woo-filled, woo-ful connection we delve a little (or a lot) deeper into every day.

I wrote this story for him, knowing he existed somewhere, not knowing he was right under my nose all along. I wrote this story as a premonition just before our love story began to unfurl in shockingly similar ways. And just now rereading it I realized in the story I gave a nod to a new offshoot of theory he was to invent before he even knew he would write his dissertation on affect theory. The powers of femmefestation never cease to astound me. Basically, this story is magic. I hope you enjoy the excerpt:

The timing was all off. These are not the kinds of words a woman wants to hear before going in for a kiss, but it was fitting with my awkward nature so I just went with it. He cradled my face in his palms like I was the most precious thing in the universe and kissed me like I was the dirtiest.

My lips were eager to keep moving even after I had torn myself away.

“I need to learn to trust myself.”

Shit. Did I just say that out loud? Staring off somewhere far, far away, a profound realization was swiftly coming into focus. I needed to place my confidence in me alone. Trust in what I felt–the steadfastness in my heart, the authenticity I sensed in his touch, the beauty unfurling within me. My intuition was pleading for attention. It already knew how this story would unfold. And once I learned how to believe in myself above all others, the rest would fall into place.

I leaned in again and our kiss deepened, my body pressing into his, his hand snaking around into my hair. He tugged ever so slightly, testing the waters, then reveling in my responsiveness. A moan originating in my mouth, reverberating in his. A kiss so satisfying it felt like making love. And just before we parted, he placed a crystal of light on my tongue. I didn’t know it at the time, but the more truth I spoke, the more it sparkled and shone its light into the world, spreading magic that glimmered to far reaches, illuming every corner. We spent the rest of the night in his bed, surprisingly clothed, sharing bits of our pasts in between passionate spells of making-out. The more I opened up to him, the more the crystal sparked and tingled in my mouth, joggling hidden depths of myself, unearthing long-forgotten secrets and bringing them to light. Secrets cemented so securely that I had mistaken them for truth all these years, blindly accepting them as fact and simply building upon them.

The crystal tasted like refracted light after a long rain. His kisses tasted like coming home.

* * *

And then he started in with his fingers. It was around that time that my legs finally gave out and I joined him on the linoleum. He worked two and then three fingers into my cunt, fucking me so slowly I thought I might cry. Forcing me to feel every millimeter from his fingertips up to his knuckles, sliding in and out of me so sweetly, causing me to emit new little sounds each time his thumb pressed firmly up against my clit. Then without the slightest bit of warning, it was as though he were hit by a bolt of lightening. His thrusts took off at a feverish pace, my voice crying out unearthly noises and my body spasming in sensory overload. Before I knew it, his fingers were curling up, stroking my G-spot, and I was shooting all over the place. I shrieked one final time, a long, hot stream raining down on both of us.

“Mmmmm…It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a woman who would squirt. I was hoping….” His sentence drifted off as he marveled at dreams become reality soaking into his jeans. Cum not his own dripping down his pant leg. Yes, it had been much too long. For both of us. I was beside myself–not wanting to move an inch–my naked body glistening with all kinds of juices juxtaposed with his clothed self. I lay there unabashedly blissed out, having not known it was possible to lose one’s self so entirely in desire like that. Going there with him was just another way in which I embraced more of myself, shimmering in my truth.

And so it was that cracks began to form in my deep-seated fear of vulnerability, innocent beams of light peeking through the foundation at first, gradually forming hairline fractures that would soon enough break open, leveling the entire structure. I won’t lie–not anymore, at least–this looming demolition scared me shitless. If it had not been for a swiftly mounting safe-haven that enveloped me in its place, I may have been tempted to run.

That was six months ago. And now I’m beyond grateful for having stayed. Especially on Sunday mornings like these. When the sunlight has already been creeping in for hours and the sex is still exploratory. Tracing his fingers over my hips–a haptic continuation of his visual admiration–I’m spellbound under his regard. His eyes take in all of me, his hands take all they can. I feel seen, unabashedly beautiful, with every sweep of his fingertips across my skin, his gaze going deeper still. Each slow moment more crushingly intimate and blush-worthy than the next.

But that’s just the tender build-up. I’m the type of girl who doesn’t need much, if any, foreplay. Which is exactly what makes his leisurely pace all the more excruciating. He’s slow. Likes to tease out every last drop of anticipation, driving me to the edge and back again. And then, just after the point where I think I’m going to lose it, he’s flipping me over, taking me from behind with a frenzied rhythm.

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