Novels? We got ’em: Probation

Probation

Gavan Dymun runs out of money while completing a UCLA law degree, and gets a job as a probation officer in Carson, LA.

His caseload includes Ana Matutumua, a girl who’s being harassed by Frank Curnow, a cop who’d worked with her father, a drug importer, who thinks that Ana’s father owes him a lot of money, and that Ana knows where he is. He provokes Ana into pushing him, and arrests her for assault on a police officer.

Her legal trouble infuriates her, and so does the fact that at her sentencing Gavan did something she didn’t understand to keep her out of jail, and that her father didn’t help her.

As a kind of protest she shoplifts a broach, and is again arrested.

Gavan becomes her probation officer, and realizes what’s happening with Curnow. While trying to keep Ana out of legal trouble he becomes more attracted to her. He falls in love.

Ana is aware of his desire, and is both flattered and amused by it, and by the fact that he’s not allowed to do anything about it. She loves him too, but since he refuses to act, winding him up is fun, too.

Sa’afia, Ana’s cousin, goes to a party with Ana and meets Gavan. She sees him throw another boy at Ana, and mistakenly assumes he’s heart-broken. They talk, but it’s only when Sa’afia realizes Gavan is the probation officer Ana has been teasing that she really likes him. They take a taxi to his place.

Over succeeding chapters they are drawn into sexual experimentation, based on desires Sa’afia knew she had but never expected to practice, and that Gavan had not suspected in himself. She starts addressing him as “Sir”. He adjusts to his new responsibilities with a troubled conscience but remarkably easily.

Ana is somewhat jealous of her cousin for having Gavan, but still flirts with him mercilessly, and relies on him for help with the police.

Curnow assaults her, to show he can, and steps up his campaign to get her to tell him where her father is. She does not know, and in any case wouldn’t tell him.

Gavan, with help from policewoman June Sevigny, discovers that Curnow intends to frame Ana for possession of a dealing quantity of cocaine. He ruins the attempt to plant drugs at her apartment, with help from former almost-girlfriend Jane Seidel, a lawyer with the Community Law Centre.

Curnow is suspended. Charges against Ana are dropped. An associate of Curnow’s, who’d attempted to rape Ana, is gruesomely killed by a brain-damaged man who worships Ana, who has been giving him food.

Sa’afia and Gavan, now a couple, arrive at Ana’s to take her out to dinner to celebrate her release from legal troubles.

 

(Is there a sequel? Why, yes! There are two. The first of them is mostly written. But you’ll just have to wait.)

Introducing another novel: The Tale of the Tawse

The Tale of the Tawse is in five parts, and contains 83,706 words.

Plot

Freddie Underwood is a New York-based public relations writer and event organizer. He’s at a conference in Glasgow, after which he plans to meet his lover Sharzad Malouf in Rome. He meets Daphne Rintoull, an artist who’s been dumped by her lover, and beds him on the rebound. So he has two women in his life.

The story follows his relationship with Shar from first meeting in New York, their time together in French Guyana, to Rome. He helps her confront a teacher who put her in hospital, when she was a four-year staying in an English boarding-school because her parents had unwisely involved themselves in mid-East politics.  

With Freddie’s support, she confronts the man, and is able to see him as small and fearful; a ghost is laid. She celebrates that, and Freddie saying he loves her, by walking into Trevi’s pool. She does the Anita Ekberg walk from La Dolce Vita, until she slips and falls in. Freddie performs an unnecessary rescue and realises they are similarly foolish.

They have to part when Shar has to go back to work. They are in love, though they can’t see how they can be together, in the US or her country.

Meanwhile Daphne has told a Roman gallery she has enough work for an exhibition, which is not true. She begs Freddie’s help and support. He keeps her brave while she creates the extra work needed. He writes her an exhibition category full of the most ferocious art-wank.

At the opening, he thinks she’s seducing a critic (who she’s actually trying to escape), and drags her off to have jealous sex with her in a broom closet. They disturb a tin of paint thinner stored above them, and fall out in front of the Minister for the Arts, an actual Fascist, and the media. So Daphne’s exhibition is a tremendous success, making the news and not just the arts pages. 

They also part, but not before they have admitted that they love each other.

Freddie returns to New York. Both women, for different reasons, invite him to be with them in a couple of months, at a climate change conference in Wellington, New Zealand.

Freddie has to admit he’s out of competence. He no longer knows what to do.

 

(Is there a sequel? Of course there is.)

 

Potentially important aspects of my manuscript

1  It’s a funny book, with a hell of a lot of sex in it. Much of the sex is bdsm-flavored, though light and romantic, and neither scary nor impersonal.

2  It’s a rom/com set in the real world. For a book with bdsm elements, it’s refreshingly free of billionaires, werewolves and mysterious islands.

3  It’s told from a male point of view, but beta-testing drafts indicate that the text is woman-friendly. 

Wicked Wednesday: Maddie learns a lesson about pain

The previous episode is here

Even while my pain was building, I could hear Sir’s breathing, with his mouth open, responding to Lucy’s hand on his cock.

“That’s lovely, Lucy,” Sir said. “Keep that up.” Lucy giggled, and there was a slap. Sir’s hand on her bottom.

“The next time we find ourselves doing this, Lucy, you’ll be using your mouth. Would you like to be taught how to please me best, when you’re sucking my cock?”

Lucy said, “Oh god yes, Sir. Sir–” She stopped, uncertain.

“Yes, Lucy?”

“I want you to teach me everything. All the things there are. Please Sir.”

“Ahhh, Lucy.” I didn’t dare look, but I knew he’d drawn her in close, holding her. They were kissing. Another time I might have wondered whether I felt jealous, but the burning pain iacross my bottom still held all of my attention. Lucy gasped: he must have touched her pussy, and then she made a little moan. He was stroking her. 

Then I heard Lucy stumble. He’d broken the cuddle and set her back in place. I imagined her hand, stroking the length of Sir’s cock. I’d sucked Sir off, but I hadn’t done that with my hands. Lucy got to do that first.

“Maddie.” That was all the warning I got. Then the cane landed, hard, across my thighs. Usually I minded that my thighs still held a little puppy-fat, though I did my best to work it off, But in that second I thanked the gods that tiny bit of extra padding was there. I screamed again. I couldn’t help myself.

Lucy said, “Two, Sir.” She must have done something with her hand, because I heard Sir gasp.

“Oh Sir,” I said. “It hurts soooo much.”

“Don’t speak again, Maddie. Now, I’ve marked out the top line and the bottom line of this caning. The rest of your strokes are going in between. It’s going to hurt.”

“Going to? Sir…”

“But I need you to be a good girl, Maddie. You’ve got an example to set for Lucy here. And I know you can do it. Bravely. Obediently. Like the best of good girls.”

I smiled and sniffed. He cared for me. I knew that, but that reached me through all the pain. A second later the third stroke landed, a little lower on my underbum, perhaps half an inch below the first stroke. God, it burned.

I screamed, and my hands left the floor. I wanted so strongly to clutch my arse, and rub it. But I managed to stay down, and I returned the palms of my hands to the floor.

Lucy said, “Three, Sir.”

Sir said, “I’ll pretend I didn’t see that, Maddie.”

I’d thought I was in trouble. I gasped, “Thank you, Sir.”

“But if you were to rub your bottom without permission, or even take your hands off the floor again, you know you’ll get extra. So,” and his voice was icy now, “be more careful, girl.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He wasn’t warning me any more. The next stroke was a little higher on my thighs. I screamed again, as the pain built, and then started to sob. I couldn’t stop. Sir was punishing me, mercilessly. I also felt that he was making me his, when he marked me and hurt me, and some of the sobs were from that. It was emotion more than pain.

“Four, Sir.”

Two more strokes whipped in, hard and fast on my thighs, each line a little higher than the one before. I was in agony, all through my body, and we weren’t even halfway yet!

“Five, Sir. Six, Sir.” Lucy was a little short-breathed. She was turned on, watching her Mistress getting punished. 

Then, with two hard strokes across my bottom, working their way lower, I was past the halfway point.

“Seven, Sir. Eight, Sir.”

Just six strokes to go. But something had changed in me. I didn’t scream for that last stroke.

I felt as if that girl getting the cane, Maddie, was very small and far away. In one way I was in the worst pain I’d ever been in in my life. At another level, I was only aware of how completely I’d given myself to him, and how entirely he’d taken me. I belonged to him, for him to do with as he wanted.

There was a kind of sweetness with the pain, all the way through my body and my mind, that I hadn’t experienced before.And I knew we were going to continue, as my caning would continue, until I found my way entirely into that sweetness.

The next episode is here

Masturbation Monday: The Cocky Host

 

Note: The previous episode is here.

Stephanie waited, naked, on my floor, her face, her outspread arms and her breasts touching the carpet, and her ass up and poised.

It’s just about the sexiest position a woman can assume. Nothing says, “I need to be fucked,” like lordosis. 

I bent down and touched her hair. I said, in my softest, gentlest voice, “Good girl.” Stephanie grunted. She was in the state of mind in which “Good girl,” was a comfort.

Then I pulled her hair, medium hard, to remind her who we were being to each other, in that room, and while she sighed, taking that in, the knowledge that she was a girl who got her hair pulled, I lowered myself to the floor behind her, my knees between hers, my cock pressing urgently against her sweet and very wet cunt.

I didn’t move, though. Stephanie’s hips made little micro-movements of need, wanting me inside her. But she knew I didn’t want her to rock her ass back and take me.

It wasn’t that she knew I’d punish her if she did, though I certainly would. It was that she liked this game and she wanted to be good. And maybe be called ‘good girl’ again.

So we stayed like that, Stephanie waiting, presented for fucking, being tormented.

I was tormented too, of course, but I knew when it was going to and. Or begin. 

I said, “Keep still. That’s a good girl.” It was so difficult not to take her immediately and hard. In one thrust. I let another minute pass, caressing the sides of her breasts, and moving my hands up to hold her, firmly, by her hips. Then at last I moved forward, letting the head of my cock touch slick, wet, needy cunt, and a little further forward so her lips parted for half of the head of my cock. It was like being kissed in welcome. Stephanie made a sound that was close to a sob, then sucked in her breath. She knew she still didn’t have permission to move. 

I mentioned at the start of this story that I’d known Stephanie for years. I knew her family, too. Stephanie was a spoiled girl. She’d never really needed permission for anything while she was growing up. Waiting for permission now, being obedient, was a new experience for her. Clearly, she was finding it hot, in this context.

I said, “Stephanie.” 

“Yes. Jaime?” 

“You can rock back now, and take more of me. Just the head of my cock. If you go further… Well, my belt’s on the floor here. Understand?” 

There were a lot of things she could have said about that. But she took the belt threat without questioning it. She said, “Urrrrrnh.”

I hoped I wouldn’t have to use the belt. Not tonight; it wouldn’t fit the mood. But her acquiescence to the idea in principle made my cock just a little harder. I think she felt that.

She moved back, very carefully, impaling her soft centre on me. My glans covered in her, held tightly, I squeezed my fingers, hard, on her hips. We’d wanted each other for years. It was something to savour.

Then I raised my right hand and smacked her, just for the joy of it. I pushed further in, then back, half an inch back and one inch forward, each time.

Stephanie’s face was turned, and her mouth was open. There was dribble on the carpet. Forward, then back.

Neither of us had any thoughts, any things to say.

I moved forward a little further, then back. Stephanie started to move now that most of my cock was in her, rocking on her knees, pleasuring herself. 

At last my pubic bone and stomach pressed against her ass. We were fully joined. I said, “Stephanie, you are good. And sweet. And beautiful. And…” 

She moved and I shut up. Suddenly, we were fucking as fast and hard as we could. My knees rubbed on the carpet, painfully, and I didn’t care. She was going to lose skin too. 

The next episode is here.

The Rise of the Cocky Billionaire

Well, I’m a billionaire in Thai baht. I’m rising because I had a bad cold and now I seem to be getting rid of it. I’m cocky because I’ve got a cock. I am be-cocked. My cock works well,  rising in the presence of submissive women who want my attention, and later it sets, like the sun.

So that’s how I got “cocky” and “billionaire” into my title. I know, though, that “billionaire” and “cocky” are two words that make me avoid a book, especially if they appear on the cover. 

With “billionaire” it’s partly because it suggests the book is going to be derivative of the “Fifty Shades” books, and god knows that’s a terrible model. There’s also the way sex gets mingled with a kind of right-wing economics. No questions are asked about how the billionaire got his money, and that’s the most real human-interest part of “billionaire” to me. As well as, are they paying their share of taxes?

Instead there’s a sort of Ayn Rand approach, that the very rich have no obligations to the society they live in. They’re just desirable because they can take a girl around in their private jet or yacht, and they can take her shopping. 

There’s something faintly insulting to both men and women is this sexual idolisation of the billionaire. It suggests that a man isn’t a dom because of his personal qualities, but because of his wallet. He dominates the heroine because he’s rich. Similarly, it suggests that women aren’t attracted by personality, humour, eyes, and so on, but by wallets. That’s a shallow and cynical take on human nature, and also, thank fuck, a false view. it doesn’t remotely resemble the world I live in or the dominant and submissive couples I know.

Then there’s the “cocky” thing. The attributes of the “cocky” man seem to be that he’s good-looking and really, deeply knows it. So when he does something obnoxious to the heroine at their first meeting, and she responds angrily, he knows she’s aroused by him to the point of soaking through her jeans. 

So he says, “I know you want me,” to this woman he’s just met, and then, “but you’ll be begging me for it later.” And he saunters off. 

A “cocky” man, encountered in real life, would be what is usually called “an asshole”.

I don’t think it’s any surprise that “Faleena Hopkins”, the woman who took out a copyright on the word “cocky”, (which she did not coin, and she was not the first to use it in an erotic romance title) and started threatening to sue other writers who use the word, reviewed Ayn Rand’s “Atlas Shrugs” on Amazon and said it was her favourite book. 

Most doms I know are trying to be decent human beings, and most submissives react to the person and not their wallet. And they struggle to work out how to be dominant and submissive together. That’s the most realistic bdsm story. It’s also, I think, the sexiest.

Wicked Wednesday: The Cocky Caning

The previous episode is here.

 

Lucy was stroking Sir’s penis,that I was still getting used to thinking of as my Sir’s  cock. He’d ordered Lucy to do that because he was determined not to take any of her virginities tonight. But her hand was fine.

He’d said that the more turned on he was, the harder he’d cane.

I don’t think Lucy wanted me to be hurt, or not too much, but I knew her: it was her nature to do her utmost to please him.

So I waited, bent over with my fingers touching my toes, and that cane having touched my lower bottom, which I’d already learned hurt the worst, I knew I was in for a very hard, painful caning indeed. 

Sir said, “I want you bent tighter than that, Maddie. Palms flat on the floor.” 

I said, “Yes, Sir,” and moved my hands lower, then let my palms rest on the floor. Fortunately I was a supple girl; I still am. Yoga students and girls who get the cane regularly need to be supple. 

I could feel the way my body tightened. I was presented perfectly, from his point of view. My pussy felt terribly exposed, not just to his gaze, though I knew it was that, but also, in that position, to the cane. A really hard stroke could easily reach my pussylips.

I wondered if I’d be able to take that without getting up.

Sir said, “All right, Maddie. You know you’re generally expected to take a caning in silence. If I tell you to, you can count the strokes aloud and thanks me for each one. I’m not expecting you to do that. Lucy’s going to do the counting for you. So what does that mean, Maddie?”

My heart sank. “I’m not to make any sound at all, Sir.”

“That’s right, girl. Those are the rules. Do you think you’ll be able to manage that?” 

“I… I don’t know, Sir.” 

“I have my doubts too. There’s a choice for you, Maddie. If you accept two extra strokes, making fourteen, then I’ll allow you to scream and squeal and carry on, so long as you keep still. If you don’t take the two extra strokes, and you scream, then you get the stroke over. So, what’s it to be?” 

I felt the cane touch me again, this time on my legs, about four inches below the crease of my bum. Oh god. I whimpered. I knew that I’d get more than two extra strokes if the rule of silence applied to this caning. “I’ll take the two strokes. The extra strokes, Sir.” 

“I think that’s a sensible choice. So that makes how many strokes of the cane you’re due for?”

I felt tears slip from my eyes, down into my eyebrows, to get lost in my hair. I sniffed. “Fourteen strokes, Sir.” 

“Good girl, Maddie. I still expect you to stay in place. Get up, and you’ll get another twelve. Understood.” 

I wanted to sob already. “Y-yes, Sir.” 

“All right Lucy, A little bit slower, now. I don’t want to come until I’ve got you two home with me. Now, Maddie.” 

“Yes Sir?”

But he was warning me. I must have heard the cane swishing through the air, but I don’t remember that. I only remember the pain and heat when it landed across my underbum.

It was so hard. I couldn’t help it. I screamed on the very first stroke, though I’d sworn to myself I wouldn’t, and my hips and bottom jerked convulsively. I only just managed to stop myself from getting up.

Lucy said, “One, Sir.” There was awe in her voice.

 

The next episode is here.

Sinful Sunday: “It’s a toy if I say it is,” I said. In my cocky way.

The wheels of chance have spun, and I wanted champagne and runny cheese, or possibly money. But what I got was “natural light” and “toys”.

“Well, all right,” she said, “at least about the natural light. But that damn paddle is never a toy.”

I picked up the paddle, and slapped it on the wooden table, which really was there, just out of shot in this image. The impact of leather on wood made a noise like a Presidential assassination. With an old-fashioned 303: they were loud. It made a noise that discouraged further argument with the man who held that paddle.

“I say it’s a toy,” I said. Cockily. “Discuss?”

No. There was no more discussion.

It was time for percussion.  

 

Note

The title of this post includes a word I think I’ve never actually typed before. It’s there because a romance writer of modest gifts, Faleena Hopkins, took out a copyright on the word “cocky”, and is using that as the basis for sending threatening letters to other writers who’ve used the word “cocky” in book-titles. 

The letters threaten to take all the proceeds from any book written with the word “cocky” in the title. 

As a former magazine editor, if I got a letter on those lines I’d laugh, show it round the office so others could have a snort, and glue it to a sheet in the crank file. (We used to keep the threats we received, to look through and cheer ourselves up if we ever thought we were being boring.)

But writers who don’t have access to legal advice, and are living hand to mouth, can easily find such letters alarming. 

The Romance Writers of America is now preparing a case to have the copyright over the word “cocky” overturned. But for this week, in support of writers threatened by Faleena Hopkins, my every post will have the word “cocky” in the title.

You can follow this story by checking #byefaleena on Twitter. 

Footsore and bleary: can’t write, couldn’t dom

The birth of Venus. Fresco at Pompeii.

In the last few days I’ve clambered and walked all round Pompeii and Herculaneum, and climbed from the road on Vesuvius to look down into the crater, a distance of, I’d say, about one and a half kilometres. 

All the time limping like a three-legged dog. That’s because I climbed my way into the grounds of the Villa Diodati, Byron’s old palace in Geneva.

It’s in private hands now, and closed to the public, which is a disgrace. There’s a sign nearby about how “Frankenstein” happened there. The Shelley’s house, where Bysshe and Mary were living, and actually wrote the novel, has been demolished.

By the way, the novel was conceived and mostly written by May Shelley. Percy Bysshe wrote about 7,000 words of it and had a couple of the less important plot ideas, which gets him to the status of minor collaborator. He never claimed any share of the credit.

Anyway, my leg had largely recovered, but before I went into Vesuvius’s terrain (terrain of terror, I guess I shouldn’t say) I undid all the repair work while walking through the Carraculla baths in Rome. A road made of cobble Has the power to make me hobble. It seems. 

After the ruined cities, plus the volcano that did the ruining, my feet weren’t just sore; they’d swollen up until they looked to me like someone else’s. And that someone else was possibly an elephant.

Since then I’ve kept my feet elevated, and me relaxed, as much as possible, and as a result they’re nearly back to normal size. Phew!

Anyway, I’ve been having a wonderful time, but I’m physically exhausted. That, it seems to mean, prevents me from writing. Writing takes energy, and the body has to supply it. It hasn’t been. What energy I have, I’ve devoted to making myself walk, and go and look round different places. 

I have a terrific episode of Maddie’s story (the Wicked Wednesday saga) formed in my head, but it’ll have to wait till next week, when I’ll be resting on the beach in Phuket.

It’s interesting that domming and writing both require unusual amounts of mental energy. You need desire, focus, attention to detail while shaping the direction you want to go. 

Right now, if some girl were to drape herself over my knee (or chair), I honestly don’t know if I’d be able to oblige her. Similarly, I have the plot of next week’s Maddie saga worked out, but I couldn’t write it right now to save my life. (That, I guess, is not actually true. At gunpoint, I’d write it.)

Anyway, I’ll be able to write more next week, by bribing some kid to watch my laptop when I go for swims. My journey ends on 16 May.