Dungeon Crawl: More Smut for Chocoholics

Howdy, Dungeon Crawlers and welcome to my part of this week's offerings, brought to you by RTK Dungeon Crawl.. I'm bringing you an excerpt from the newly released More Smut for Chocoholics, published by House of Erotica. As co-editor with Kev 'Mitnik' Blisse, I claimed the privilege of writing two stories for the collection. This one is a delightful bit of femdom in which a naive young Spaniard stumbles upon a camp of Aztecs who have left their city in order to escape the strict regulations that ban women from consuming the revered cacao. 

September 8th, 1521

I have burnt the pages of this diary that recounted my earlier explorations in the Aztec territory. They are no longer of any consequence. Botany, geology, zoology... what attraction can these subjects hold to me, now that I have known Ixchel? I came here to test my mettle as an explorer, knowing that I would endure arduous treks, hunger, thirst, and great physical challenges. The prospect excited me; I knew that from my hardships would come great advancements in scientific knowledge. Little did I know the real danger, and ecstasy, I would face.

I stumbled right into the midst of their encampment before I realised. I was so thirsty, and the waterfall tumbled over the cliff face behind their clearing. It was all I focused on as I left the trees. But when Ixchel—for I know now the name of my captor, my enchantress—stepped in front of me, I turned and saw that I was surrounded by some dozen or so of the native people of this area.

I tried to utter some words of peace, thinking perhaps that a placatory tone would convince them I was no threat. But after the treachery and violence I had witnessed in their capital city, Tenochtitlan, I could understand their wariness of a Spaniard. How were they to know that I had joined the expedition out of a desire for knowledge and understanding rather than conquest?

Ixchel raised her arm towards me and placed one finger on my lips to silence me, then spoke a few words of command to her companions. Two men stepped to my sides; they removed my backpack and took my arms. The pressure they applied was gentle but firm and I allowed them to lead me, though it meant stumbling backwards over the stony ground, until I felt at my back the trunk of a tree. Another woman now came before me, carrying a length of twisted vine. She took it behind me and wound it about my wrists until I was bound inescapably in place.

You may wonder why I did not try to run, or to fight them off before I became helpless. And my rational explanation would be to call to mind my extreme exhaustion, the hunger and thirst I had endured in the three days since becoming separated from my companions and lost in this great valley. Perhaps I was indeed delirious. But the truth is that already Ixchel’s dark eyes had bewitched me. I felt as if I had no choice but to comply with her wishes. And it gave me the greatest of joy to surrender myself to her, a joy that I felt flare inside me like the heat of one of the Aztecs’ spiced dishes as it passes down one’s throat.

You can buy More Smut for Chocoholics at Amazon, Amazon UK and All Romance.

Keep crawling for more delicious excerpts and kinky musings...

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Dungeon Crawl: A Hint of Piracy

Hello, crawlers and welcome to the dungeon this week. Apologies for my erratic participation, but those spuds don't water themselves, you know. I talk of my allotment, clearly. Anyway, as promised in my Smut by the Sea write-up, here is the extract I read, which is from A Hint of Piracy, contained in the forthcoming Smut by the Sea Volume 3. More news on that very soon. Happy crawling. 

*****

It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting when I sat Danny down in a quiet corner of a cosy pub and decided it was time to tell him I liked a little more than missionary in my sex life. He was way ahead of me, it turned out. And that’s how I came to be sitting there in our room in a rather sumptuous guesthouse, wearing a pirate hat from a kids’ costume, perched on an antique oak chest and sipping tea from a fine bone china cup. And that’s how Danny came to be curled up inside said chest, while I scoffed all the complimentary biscuits.

It started in Britain’s Smallest House: that hunch that he had something to tell me as much as I had my own confession to make. “I quite like small spaces,” Danny said, peering into a storage space filled with folded blankets beneath the bench seating. I didn’t know if he was talking about the house we were visiting or actually referring to the cupboard.

I’d wondered aloud how anyone could live here for real. “It’s ridiculously tiny, even for me,” I said. I’m five two. In heels. “It’s cute and everything, but there’s no room to... swing a cat.”

“Swing a cat, huh?” he murmured, still staring into that narrow hole, holding up the hinged lid that doubled as fireside seating. And my mind ran through a series of half-formed images that started with actual small, furry animals being swung in the manner of a Monty Python sketch and ended in the brig of a sailing ship, a bit like the one moored off the quayside that had been done up for the pirate festival the following weekend. I was the captain, of course, in this pleasant little fantasy, and Danny was my captive, of course. Although in the couple of months I’d known him I hadn’t yet worked out how to convey the fact that my favourite view of him was when he was on his knees in front of me. And that I’d rather liked it that time he’d half-jokingly said, “Yes, mistress.”

When I was asked to go to Conwy to do a couple of travel pieces by a magazine I freelance for, I invited Danny along to make the most of the free digs. It was perhaps a little early for romantic weekends away, but this was semi-work. And, I thought, maybe a bit of “getting away from it all” would give me the opportunity to come clean. It’s not like I’m a raging dominatrix or anything, but I really needed to find the time to mention that I had certain preferences, before our internet dating relationship turned any more serious. Certain preferences I had never found myself in quite the right relationship to express before, and which I certainly wasn’t ready to add to my online profile (Interests: tying men to my bed and fucking their brains out). But I had this inkling Danny might not be so very shocked at the things I hadn’t listed.

“You look like you want to climb in there yourself,” I said. I mean, seriously, the man was staring intently into that dark space while there was a queue of folk outside waiting to pay their £1.50 each to explore this curious tourist attraction. It’s so tiny—officially the smallest house in Great Britain as verified by The Guinness Book of Records no less—that only two or three people are allowed in at a time.

“Hmm,” he said, glancing at me, with that look. I mean, That Look, with capitals and bells and knobs on. That Look that might have meant, “Please keep me in a cage in your bedroom because I’d very much enjoy being your sex slave.” Or was it, “What the hell are you getting at, woman”?

“Ok, Mr Terse. We’d better get moving; there’s about a hundred people waiting to get in here. And if we’re doing the castle before I have that interview, we need to hurry.”

In fact, we were probably inside for ten minutes at most. It’s only two rooms, after all. And the narrow bed in the loft space creaked loudly. Yes, we tested that, me pushing him down for a quick cuddle and kiss the way you do when you’re still only weeks into a relationship that holds great promise. Back on the quayside, the breeze was pinging halyards against the steel masts of little yachts to play that classic seaside tune that’s usually accompanied by the squawks of herring gulls about to swoop on your fish and chips.

“I wonder what it’ll be like here next weekend when the festival’s on,” I said. “I think I prefer it now while it’s a bit quieter.”

“I dunno, it could be interesting. I wouldn’t mind being taken prisoner by a beautiful pirate captain.”

Hmm, wavelength alert. Was he on the same one as me? “Are you saying I’m not beautiful and cruel enough for you?”

“Beautiful enough, certainly, but you haven’t been very cruel to me. Yet.” Oh, how corny. He leaned over me for a kiss. And yet, despite his superior height and his broad shoulders, there was a tiny dip of his head that suggested something. Gentleness. Deference. Submission?

“No. Not yet.” I decided it was his turn to wonder. “That’s because we haven’t been to the castle dungeon yet.” Yeah, yeah, I know, it was all getting silly. He was there joking about being locked in confined spaces, flogged and tied to the mast of a pirate ship (or did I make that bit up?), while I was offering to be mean to him in the dungeon of a medieval castle. I should really have just come out and said it: “Danny, I would actually like to do all those things to you. For real. In fact, I have this pair of handcuffs at home that I ordered over the internet but then shoved to the back of my sock drawer because I was too embarrassed to even open the box. I’d very much like to see you wearing them.” I should have said it—although I’d perhaps have to make it clear I meant the cuffs and not the socks. But I was still worried we could be having a serious wavelength malfunction and he might have run away to escape my evil clutches.

I really didn’t want him to run away. He was too delicious for that, all dark eyes and floppy fringe and scruffy air about him even when he’s in a shirt and tie for work (Occupation: logistics manager and tea lackey). All squeezable and pliable and eager to please, especially with his tongue.

I strode off up the hill to the castle, leaving him to follow and hoping the sway of my hips was giving off just the right air of confident allure.

Anyway, the castle was busy on this sunny Saturday lunchtime and, of course, the dark, damp doorway to the lower levels looked highly inviting to a never-ending stream of kids and their weary parents. I snatched a quiet moment to back Danny into a gloomy corner. I stood so close I was penning him in—and he let me—and whispered, “So now I’ve got you in the dungeon, what should I do to you?”

He pressed his back into the damp stone and his fingers curled around the cold iron grid at his side that was blocking off some dangerous underground nook from accident-prone tourists. It was as if he’d very much like his wrist to be chained to that iron. Or maybe I was making things up again.
He only managed to whisper two words—two words that sent a rush of blood to my pussy—before we heard shrill voices getting closer and had to move on. “Dastardly things,” he said, in a delightfully breathy voice.

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Dungeon Crawl: New flash fiction!

Welcome to this week's Dungeon Crawl, brought to you by Romancing the Kink. This week, I thought I'd bring you something completely new. I haven't had much time for writing of late, but I wanted to flex those authorly muscles so I came up with a bit of flash fiction for your delectation. Don't forget to check out all the other authors taking part and find out what they've been up to as well. 

Waiting for Her

I can hear her filling the kettle. “I’ll just make a cuppa to bring up,” Martha said when I announced I was heading for bed. “Want one?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I’ll be waiting...” We were still sitting on the couch at this point and I nuzzled into her a little closer to reinforce my hint. I think she understood.

So I go upstairs and strip naked. I do the necessary bedtime ablutions quickly so I can go and be ready for her. I kneel on the bedroom floor, feeling the pattern of the woven rug start to imprint on my knees. I shift a little, opening my thighs wider so my cock and balls are fully exposed for her. I can hear the kettle working itself up to a boil downstairs and I can’t help but think of coming, my balls bubbling over. Or even better, being kept at a slow simmer while she teases me relentlessly, not allowing me any release.

I should confess these thoughts. I place my hands behind my back while I consider how I might seek to explain myself. I imagine her closing cold steel around my wrists, locking them in place there so that instead of grasping them at my back, I would feel the hard metal holding them still. “Mistress, I’ve had bad thoughts,” I’d say. “Naughty thoughts.” Such a silly word, naughty, like something from a Carry On film. I don’t like it. But that’s why she’d make me use it. Make me feel silly, make the blood rush to my face, make me keep my head firmly bowed, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Look at me,” she’d say. I’d only be allowed to look at her with permission, of course, and she’d only give it when she knows I don’t want to. “Tell me about these naughty thoughts.”

“I imagined myself coming. In you. Without permission. I’m sorry, mistress.”

“Thank you for telling me, little one. But you know that saying ‘sorry’ isn’t enough, don’t you? You know that I will have to punish you, don’t you?”

“Yes, mistress.” My voice would be all contrition, but of course I long for punishment. I wonder what the back of her wooden hairbrush would feel like across the back of my thighs, or how she might drag her fingernails up the underside of my stiff cock.

But she wouldn’t spank me, or scrape those nails up my sensitive flesh. No, she would come up with something I hadn’t expected, something to throw me off balance, upset this cosy little scene. Perhaps she’d lock my balls into a humbler and have me kneel beside the bed while she places her teacup on my back. Perhaps she’d slide one of those plastic cock cages over my dick, lock it tight around my balls and refuse to tell me how long I’d have to wear it. Oh, there are so many things she could surprise me with.

Downstairs, I can hear the fridge door open, close, open, close. The tinkle of a teaspoon as she stirs in the milk. I close my eyes for a moment, the better to hear her movements as she walks towards the stairs. I think about her drawing a blindfold across my eyes so that I don’t know whether her next touch will be a kiss, or a slap. My mouth falls open a little, seeking the kiss that may never come. Or is it a gag that it seeks?

She’s coming up. I open my eyes and suddenly I’m on my feet, grabbing my boxer shorts and a fresh T. I pull them on quickly, slide into bed and try to arrange myself in a relaxed manner.

“You okay Tom?” she asks as she sets her cup down on the bedside table. “You look tense.”

“Fine, Martha. I’m fine.” What a word. Fine. “Just waiting for you.”

But it’s a lie. One I should confess. It’s not my wife I’m waiting for. It’s myself. Waiting for the right moment to tell her what I want, what I crave, what runs through my mind after we’ve put the lights out.

An InLinkz Link-up

Dungeon Crawl: The Women Who Love to Love Gay Romance

Welcome to this week's Dungeon Crawl and to an excerpt from a story that was a whole lot of fun to write. I don't know what Ryan Field was imagining when he made this call: 

I decided to see what would happen if the women who love to love gay romance were allowed to forget about everything, with abandon, and just write what they want with absolute freedom. 

Cos, what with my romance gene being faulty and all, my first thought was what it would be like to walk onto the set of Bound Gods... (did I say that out loud?)

Anyway, open a window because you're going to need some fresh air in about five-hundred words' time. Vicky has just returned early from a lukewarm date to find that her flatmate and his boyfriend have been inspired by a site she accidentally left open on her computer...

I hear the TV straight away as I unlock the door. At least, I think it’s the TV when I first hear voices through speakers. “Hi guys, I’m home.” They’re still on the sofa, but all my fantasies have not adequately prepared me for what I see. Not when it’s right there, right in front of me on my antique burgundy leather couch. They’re both butt naked. But that’s a minor consideration. Will is lying across Jake’s lap face down, his ass raised on the top of Jake’s thighs.

They freeze as I come into the room, but they don’t jump up and start making excuses. Which is probably because Will is in no fit state to jump anywhere. Not with his wrists and ankles bound with two of my silk scarves. My laptop is open on the coffee table, the film I watched earlier playing quietly in the background. Not the TV. That’s blank, reflecting Jake and Will’s positions back to me even as I try to do the decent thing and look away. Will’s got a knotted tea towel tied in his mouth and a little voice at the back of my mind says, “He’d better not be drooling on my antique burgundy leather couch.”

“Fuck. Vicky. We weren’t expecting you home so early. What happened to Mike?”

“I was tired,” I stutter, telling them the same lie I told Mr Nice. “I’m sorry. I should have let you know I was coming back so soon.”

“Well, no. It’s your apartment.”

He’s not as embarrassed as he should be. I know we’re open about my vibrator and his wanking, but why is he not redder in the face, why is he not flustered and stammering like I am? Because he knows what I’ve been watching on my laptop. It’s right there playing back to me now, those two delightfully submissive guys.

“Oh sorry about that. I borrowed your laptop to look something up. But you hadn’t closed your browser. That’s kind of what set us off. We were planning a quiet night watching the football.”

I’m still standing in the doorway and I’m just thinking, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” over and over again. In fact, I realize I’m saying it out loud. “Oh my God. It’s. I don’t know. I just. Oh my God.”

“It’s okay Vickster. What’s not to like? Two hot men, tied up and at your disposal. I can totally see why you’d be looking at that when you should be working.” He winks.

I glance at Will’s face. And I laugh, albeit a little hysterically, at the thought that he has by far the easiest role in this little scenario. He’s looking quite calm, tied hands resting against the small of his back, ankles on the armrest so his feet dangle over the edge. His face looks barely flushed. Unlike his ass, which is bright red from where Jake has been hitting it with the wooden spoon he is still holding in his left hand.

“Do you want a go?” He holds the spoon towards me.

Buy the book at Amazon or Amazon UK.

And check out all these other delicious excerpts:

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Dungeon Crawl - Penelope's Suitors

Publishers like to categorise. Perhaps readers like it too. I mean, 'BDSM' has to be your first requirement. After that, you know where you are if you opt for a bit of femdom or male dom, if you're going for f/m, f/f or m/m. Or maybe you don't because you're like me and you're searching for some indefinable something, some essence of kink that defies categories. I'm awkward like that. Anyway, welcome to this week's Dungeon Crawl, brought to you by Romancing the Kink, and to an excerpt from the third and final story in my little collection, Miranda's Tempest. 

It imagines what life is like for Penelope in the long years of her husband Odysseus' absence, while 108 suitors lord it up in her household, each trying to persuade her that her husband is dead and she should marry him instead. Yes, we're talking Homer. Ancient Greece. And the statue of a goddess that comes to life, and some lesbian menage, and some voyeurism, and some feminisation, and some prostate milking, and some loom bondage. All those things. Don't forget to check out the other authors in this week's crawl, but without further ado, here's a little something to tease:

‘Though I love my maids, I have also missed my husband and welcome his safe return home. He is the only man I will ever share my bed with. For you, I can offer something you may think little better than slavery, but it will allow you to serve me in a far more personal manner than a kitchen boy.’ I am almost ashamed of the way I toyed with this earnest youth as he knelt at my feet. But I think he enjoyed it. His mouth was open and his breath audible. ‘Should you pass the test, I would have you become one of my personal servants. Join my maids in keeping me from loneliness when my husband is absent, which he no doubt will be again. You will have to hide your masculinity: shave your body, wear women’s garments and control your cock. In return, you will get to serve me as my maids do and bring me pleasure. Do you accept?’

‘Yes my lady. Willingly.’

‘Then it is time to administer the test. The other suitors were told that if they passed once they would undergo this treatment each night until my weaving was finished. As you can see, my cloth is barely begun, but I tire of it already. And there is no longer a need for this trickery. I will not make it a condition for you. But I will repeat the test when it amuses me to. Now remove your robe and stand facing my loom.’

Leontes rose and did as he was bidden, turning his lean back to me and my companions. The loom’s large, upright frame was fixed to the wall with batons to allow room for the bar of the heddle to move, separating the warp threads for me to weave between them. The thicker yarn I had spun to secure each suitor now hung permanently from the frame. I told Leontes to raise his arms and fastened his wrists wide apart above his head. I had him open his legs and stooped to tie his ankles to the lower corners. His torso tautened and his cock rose, parting the warp threads. The horizontal heddle pressed into his upper thighs, raising his rear. He was so much calmer than the others, though his breathing had quickened. His response seemed one of arousal rather than the consternation the others had shown.

‘Are you ready?’ I asked.

‘Yes, my lady,’ he whispered, turning glossy eyes towards me over his shoulder.

I dipped my hand into a bowl of oil and rubbed it between my fingers and over my knuckles. I pressed my fingertips to the top of Leontes’ crack and allowed him a moment to become accustomed to my touch.

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Dungeon Crawl: The Gingerbread House

Hi and welcome to this week's Dungeon Crawl, brought to you by Romancing the Kink.

The Gingerbread House is the second story in my little collection, Miranda’sTempest. As you might guess, it's a retelling of the Hansel and Gretel fairytale, although in my version they are not siblings but young lovers who meet in the forest. It's the least subtle tale in the book, full of kinky accoutrements from start to finish! Oh, and it's unambiguously femdom too. Here's a snippet (and don't worry; it all works out just fine in the end...):

Hansel shifts his wrists to ease the pressure of the shackles. The iron digs into his flesh and already the skin is reddening. His legs are cramped and he longs to stretch them out straight. But his cage is no more than three feet long and he can barely move. His hands hang beside his head, the cuffs chained to bars above him. His helplessness amplifies every twinge in his joints into a thousand tiny points of discomfort. He shifts his weight as far as the metal around him will allow.

‘Be still,’ the witch says.

Hansel’s body freezes. Her voice holds an absolute power over him. The only movement he can manage now is the rising of his chest as his breath deepens in fear. He gazes up at the creature. And at his darling Gretel, standing meekly behind her, caught in the same enchantment.

‘Don’t pretend you’re hating this,’ the witch says in a deep, alluring tone. ‘My spell works only on the naturally submissive. It has always been your deepest desire to be controlled and dominated by a strong, beautiful woman.’

Hansel’s cheeks flush. He is deeply afraid of what this woman could do to him. She is no hag, but her beauty is dark and menacing. A shiver of arousal rushes through his pelvis as she speaks, and his cock twitches.

‘Let Gretel go,’ he whispers. ‘Do what you want with me, but let her go.’ It is a struggle even to get these few words out without being commanded to speak. But he has to try to help his beautiful Gretel to escape.

‘You are in no position to make a bargain,’ says the witch. ‘And don’t speak again unless I expressly tell you to.’

Hansel’s jaw clamps shut. Her power is terrifying. A bead of cool sweat runs down his temple.

An InLinkz Link-up

Dungeon Crawl - Karada!

Hello and welcome back to my corner of the Romancing the Kink Dungeon Crawl blog hop. This week, I'm turning my attention to Best Bondage Erotica 2014, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel and published by Cleis Press. Whatever your taste in bondage, there's something here for everyone. My story, Tight Rope Walker, involves a Sunday stroll in the English countryside. Spiffing. Oh, and a quantity of rope.

“Why don’t you tie me into a harness I can hide under my clothes while we go out for a walk?” I’d said to him earlier that week, fed up of waiting for grey January skies to clear and the warmth of the sun to return. “You could even put on my collar and cuffs. If I wear a scarf and gloves no-one will see a thing. But it will make me horny as hell all the time we’re walking. And then it will be there, ready, when we get home again.”

Me and my big ideas. “Hmm, sounds like a plan,” he’d said. “Forecast’s dry for the weekend. We should do it on Sunday. We’re going to my mother’s for dinner Saturday, remember?”

I remembered. It felt like a very long evening of nodding in the right places and laughing and saying, “oh yes, I know what you mean,” rather than “oh just shut up so I can fantasize about rope.”

We’d got up late and had a big cooked breakfast, as befits a lazy Sunday morning. Then, around noon, Jake said to me, “Pajamas off. Time for our walk.” God, I’d thought that moment would never come and was out of my PJs in seconds and standing, waiting, in the middle of the living room rug.

He put the collar around my neck first, as always. My collar. One-inch thick leather that buckled into place. No lock, because I would never dream of attempting to remove it myself. But it did have four D-rings placed around it to cater for all eventualities. He put similar leather cuffs on my wrists, then my ankles. These ones had simple karabiner-type clips to attach them to each other. If I was feeling brattish, I could escape them. Not easily but it wasn’t impossible. That’s why Jake always used rope if he wanted me properly helpless.

Anyway, he moved on to the karada next. It had its usual effect on me, making my pussy pulse and my knees weak from the moment I felt the rope draped down the front of my body. As Jake pulled each wrap through the vertical strands, the vibrations went straight to my clit. I rocked my hips, smiling at the utterly delicious pressure there. He was careful not to tie it too tight. Once he’d done I put on my walking outfit, all sensible shower-proof fabrics, sturdy shoes with big grips and my winter woolens – hat, scarf, gloves. No panties though. And I pulled on a sporty crop top instead of trying to do up a bra strap over the ropes around my ribcage. As I moved around the house, up and down stairs and from room to room, I felt the harness hug my pussy snugly and imagined it doing so on our walk.

An InLinkz Link-up

Dungeon Crawl - a little light spanking

Ready for a little light spanking? For the Dungeon Crawl this week I'm bringing you an excerpt from my story Twenty-four Surprises. It's a festive-themed story, which I guess is a little odd when Easter's coming up, but I hope you'll forgive that because it does have some lovely domestic discipline in it. It's from Winter Warmers, published by House of Erotica. Now, if you'd care to assume the postion:

He shows me the paddle. Black. Check. Leather. Check. Smaller than I’d imagined. He pushes it to my face, down by the sofa cushions. “Kiss it, Sam. You have to kiss the implement of correction, don’t you. You remember?”

I may have said that, yes. I purse my lips and give it a smacker, my face flushing red. My ass feels like it’s glowing already, sticking up there like a beacon. Tom brushes a hand over it and dips a finger under. “My, how wet you are darling. It just shows what a depraved creature you are.”

One track of my mind is thinking that his Victorian gentleman act is just ridiculous, while another is imagining grand drawing rooms and crowds of sombrely clad men clustered around tethered, bent-over females with their acres of skirts and petticoats pushed up over their heads. Tom rubs the paddle over each cheek, drawing out the anticipation so much I wiggle my hips and invite him to get on with it.

“All in good time, Sam. You need to reflect on your misdemeanours first, have them pictured in your mind when the paddle lands. Otherwise, how will you learn? You must learn that your perverse, unladylike fantasies will be met only with punishment, not rewarded with fulfilment.”

What misdemeanours? Who cares? Maybe I didn’t do the breakfast dishes this morning when it was my turn. Maybe I don’t iron his socks. Maybe I haven’t adequately scrubbed the step or blacked the grate. Whatever that means.

“Are you ready to accept your punishment?”

“Yes.”

“Are you truly penitent?”

“Yes.”

“You will count the blows.”

“Yes.”

Thwack.

It’s definitely harsher than the satin paddle. Heavier, stingier, louder. “One.”

“You may now rearrange your attire and carry on with your duties.”

Huh?

“Huh?”

“You heard me. Put your knickers back on and help me make the dinner.”

“What? Is that it? That can’t be it."

If that single little spank has left you unsatisfied, be assured there's much more to come in the story. But if you're desperate for more right away, crawl on over to the other blogs taking part this week...

An InLinkz Link-up

Dungeon Crawl!

Hello and welcome to my little corner of the Dungeon Crawl blog hop!

I'm bringing you an excerpt from my story 'The Guerilla's Plaything' in the anthology Snatched, out now from Storm Moon Press, Amazon and Amazon UK.

Our main character Thomas has been kidnapped while on holiday in the Amazon rainforest, but finds that his harsh treatment at the hands of the slightly bonkers Alvaro reminds him a little too vividly of his BDSM relationship with his partner John:

Alvaro told me to lie down on the groundsheet while he brandished a bundle of the jute rope. “Turn over,” he said. I didn’t question or argue. I rolled onto my front and let him pull my wrists to the small of my back where he bound them, securely but carefully so that nothing pressed on the vulnerable insides of my wrists to cut off my circulation. My throat tightened. I could feel every particle of the gritty sand that lay on the groundsheet against my cheek.

Alvaro bound my ankles in the same way, wrapping the rope carefully so it wasn’t overlapping. I realized I had semi-consciously pressed my toes into the ground to raise my lower legs and make it easier for him. Then he tied my wrists and ankles together, pulling my feet up. Not as tight as John would have done it when he wanted me in the strictest of hogties. Just enough to stop me straightening my legs or being able to struggle to my feet.

“You are so predictable,” Alvaro said, kneeling at my side and leaning toward my face. “A bit of rope, and you are panting. I wouldn’t be surprised if your cock starts to dribble a little bit.” He grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head off the ground, stretching my throat out and making my mouth fall open wider. With the other hand, he took hold of my jaw firmly and turned my face toward him. I struggled to swallow. My rigid cock was trapped beneath me, throbbing against the open zipper. Alvaro leaned down, opened his mouth and pressed his lips to mine, flicking his tongue inside. His stubble rasped against the one-day growth on my chin. As he pulled away, I strained to reach his mouth again, but he kept his grasp tight around my jaw.

He whispered close to my face, “I let you into a secret. I am planning on escaping this camp myself tonight. Once a person has joined the Movement, they are never allowed to leave. But I have to get out. I will take you with me.”

This threw me. Was it another cruel trick? “Why would you do that?” I asked.

“Because I like you,” he said. “Your reaction to being kidnapped and bound has amused me greatly. It brings me great joy to see an attractive man who loves to be tied and teased. Your partner is a very lucky man. I want to make sure you get back to him in one piece.”

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