Tag Archive | the wild hunt

Captivity & The Wild Hunt at No Boundaries Press!

I don’t think I’ve gushed nearly enough about these ladies. Thank you. You’ve gone a long way to easing my distress over all of this.

I now have an Indie Author page over at the No Boundaries Press store. Captivity is available and The Wild Hunt should be up there soon as well (its inclusion has been delayed due to my having a synaptic misfire and sending Kharisma the files for a different story).

Links have been updated in the library (provided my brain didn’t malfunction there as well…no promises) and I think that brings me back to where I was before PayPal flexed its muscles.

Now I really can focus on what to write next. I’m torn between something simple and straightforward, like a m/m encounter, or getting a little fancy and setting myself up for a three parter involving a race of shape-changing mythological creatures in hiding in a modern day city…

Decisions, decisions.

The library begins!

I stayed up late last night to get the library section set up and linked in (see tab above, next to About!). Who needs sleep, when there is naughtiness to be had?

My inaugural offering, The Wild Hunt, has received a warm reception. I’m hoping that my next (which I’ve just published to Smashwords) will be as happily received. You can find it on Smashwords  ( click here! ) and I’ll be adding it to the library as soon as I’ve published this post. For your enjoyment, I’ll copy in the first page below to give you a taste of what’s to come:

From The Perfect Belt, an exploration into the mind of a dominant man:

I want her most when she isn’t thinking of me at all.

Strange to say, I know. I don’t pretend that this predatory impulse is welcome to her. At home, when she’s on her knees in front of me, her wrists cuffed at the back of her waist, my hand curled into the dark and silken mass of her hair until my grip makes her wince—it’s easy then to think of myself as her master. It quickens her breath to do whatever I might desire of her. In those moments, my young lover is undoubtedly mine.

But she is so very lovely to me—so captivating in form, movement, voice, mind—that I’ve never been able to content myself within the boundaries of our spartan bedroom, our homely dungeon. I find myself hunting her through the streets of the city, at bars and restaurants, in clubs and movie theaters. Necessity demands that I share my lover with the world, and I’m proud of the social grace and charm that she displays. I trust her with my whole heart, and I understand that her laughing confidence must blossom from an awareness of the safety, of the enveloping love, that I have learned to show her.

I don’t know what leads me to take her in the darkness, to hitch up her dress and pound into her beneath the flickering glow of some forgotten film, while she opens her legs against the confines of her seat and tries to muffle her whimpers in the cloth at my shoulder. I can’t rightly say that I’m jealous. It isn’t punishment.

I know only this, but I know it as I know the movement of my blood: I want all of her, love and fear, shame and need. Every gasp, every trickle of sweat, every startled glance of those brown-gold eyes. I want to tear her apart and put her back together better than she was before; I want her to beg me to stop, and never to stop.

She doesn’t like to be preyed upon this way, but she’s never asked me not to do it. Strange to say, I know.