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  1. Revelation

    October 26, 2015 by Nikki Blue

    A silhouette of a woman with a chain wrapped around her legs.

    It’s been over a year since I’ve had sex. That’s more than 365 days without orgasms from another’s touch; without intimacy–physical or emotional–and I miss it terribly.

    I thought I needed this break. Honestly, I considered it to be the timeout I should have taken after my marriage ended instead of jumping into another relationship; especially such an intense one. I don’t regret those three years with Mr. K, but in hindsight, it was time I should have used to learn how to be kinder to myself in every way, to dissect old patterns and redraw them; time to just be.   

    I didn’t make a conscious decision to take a sabbatical from sex for a full year. In the beginning, I couldn’t have guessed that my step back would last as long as it has. It started out as a much needed intermission of self-care after my breakup with Mr. K, but as time edged on, I settled into the separation as if it were an old pair of comfortable sweatpants. But I wasn’t healing behind the protective walls I’d resurrected–I was hiding.

    The truth is, Mr. K and I never really broke up; not emotionally, at least. And after I moved beyond the point where I wanted to punch him in the throat, I let him slip back into my life. Even though I disliked him A LOT, I missed him and his support. We didn’t want to let go of each other completely and thought we could remain friends, because we were grown-ups. But the boundaries I’d defined were never respected, and I soon found myself stuck in a funnel of raw feelings for a man who still had a stronghold in my life. Before I knew it, I’d given him another year of me that he didn’t deserve.

    When I met him, he accepted every piece of me, even what I felt were rough edges and flaws. And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t judged or labeled for my sexual proclivities–I was praised for them. If I wanted to fuck a woman, he encouraged my desire. If I wanted to watch him suck a man’s cock, he did so willingly. It was a glorious feeling, but when our love affair failed, the thought of never finding that freedom again scared the hell out of me and trapped me in a situation that was destined to end badly…again. Couple that with the little issue I have with being too guarded when it comes to opening up to people and you have a recipe for disaster. Hey, it’s a defense mechanism I haven’t quite figured out how to power down. Anyway, those fears took shape, morphing into a shackle of self-doubt around my ankle that tethered me to a new, dysfunctional version of an old relationship.

    I realize that now.    

    Mr. K knows that I haven’t liked him for a very long time, that there are even days when I hate him, but there is also a part of me that will always love him. He knows that too. He’s the man who unlocked pieces of my sexual self I never even knew existed, and our time together both in and out of the bedroom was incredibly fulfilling…until it wasn’t. And now I know that this thing we cultivated–this weird relationship–has kept me from moving forward with my life. It only took me a year to figure it out. Mostly because I didn’t want to see the truth, and then there was not wanting to admit that Heather was right. So please don’t tell her. I’ll never hear the end of it.

    I know I’ve said over and over again that I didn’t have the time to date; that I was content with being alone, and it was the truth for a while, but I’ve reached the point where it’s not anymore. It hasn’t been for some time. I see that now too. I was unable to move forward because I was stuck in the past, but I have the power to free myself from that which binds me. I’m the only one who does, and I’m doing that now.

  2. In the Hands of a Stranger

    October 7, 2015 by Heather Cole

    Aaron Apt 2015

    I lay on the couch, draped over the stranger’s lap with my face buried in a cushion. My dress bunched around my waist and my panties had been pushed down to my knees. Stinging slaps rained down on my bottom as I fought not to squirm. The man enjoyed hitting high along the top of my asscheeks or on the sides, not across the meat of my bum where I preferred. I didn’t complain, though. Instead I bit the inside of my cheek and fought to endure the burning fire that spread across my flesh. I silently vowed to do my best and submit, because I wanted to make Daddy proud of me.

    This particular situation was new for me. Daddy had loaned me out to a stranger for a precious two hours. I had seen the man before and had watched his scene with a different submissive. At the time, I hadn’t thought much about him—not good or bad. It was the idea of playing with a stranger that seemed like a distant possibility. He was an older, British gentleman with a ready smile and large hands. He hadn’t been practicing kink for a decade, but now he wanted to get back into the scene. The problem was that he didn’t have a regular submissive partner, and his life was constructed in such a way that being open about his preferences would have proved disastrous. He was discreet, and he wanted to play. Part of me loved the thrill of submitting to someone I didn’t know, while the other half of me felt anxious about it.

    Daddy agreed to the arrangement because a close friend, and dominant, supervised since he was unable to be present.The logical part of my brain told me that I wasn’t in real physical danger, but butterflies still filled my stomach. Daddy had negotiated the terms of the scene, and the three of us had reviewed my hard and soft limits beforehand. Even with all the things I knew the stranger wouldn’t do to me, that still left a lot of things, painful things, that could happen.

    My friend gave me a playful slap on my reddened skin as I passed her, making me wince. “I think he’s taking it easy on you,” she whispered. The wide grin on her face didn’t reassure me at all.

    The stranger led me by the hand from the sitting area into a large play room. He bid me to stand under a square, wooden frame and ran his hands over my waist and hips.

    “I love the clothes that women wear,” he said in his proper accent, “but I prefer them naked.” He pulled my dress over my head and stripped me out of my lingerie. “Bend over and spread yourself open. I want to see what I’ve borrowed for the afternoon.”

    His words slid like a knife between my ribs. This wasn’t my Daddy who objectified and degraded me with love in his heart. This man didn’t know anything about me. He wanted me because I would submit. I was a living, breathing sex toy that he could use for his own pleasure. In that moment I felt powerful, that I could give the gift of myself to please another, but on the heels of that thought came a needling voice, what kind of girl lets a stranger use her? I felt myself blush as I spread my legs apart.

    The stranger complimented my body as he tightened wide leather cuffs around my wrists and ankles. He clipped the cuffs to metal rings at the top of the frame, stretching me almost to my tiptoes, and then placed a spreader bar between my ankles. I was rendered immobile. He then produced the final touch… a blindfold. My heartbeat ratcheted into high gear as he covered my eyes. I was blind and bound, and in the hands of someone I didn’t know. I had surveyed the table full of impact toys before we started, but I didn’t know which one he would use. I strained to hear the slightest noise, but everyone remained silent. Goosebumps marched over my skin, and all my muscles tensed.

    His wide palms skimmed my ribcage, making a path over my abdomen and up to my breasts. A breath I didn’t know I had been holding escaped from between my lips. His meaty fingers fastened on a nipple, and he squeezed as hard as he could. My knees buckled at the pain lancing through me.

    “Yellow!” I gasped.

    My caution word made him release me, and I explained that my super-sensitive nipples couldn’t take that level of abuse. If he wanted me to last for the entire two hours, he needed to respect my body and pain tolerances.

    I don’t know how long I stayed on the frame. Time became blurred when it was reduced to the moments between body shaking blows and reverent caresses. The stranger was kind and cruel in turns, offering his embrace after a particularly powerful slap to my inner thigh, and then stepping away and retreating into silence until he decided to hit me again. It was the worst kind of cat and mouse, because I couldn’t protect myself and had no way to retreat. Silently I yelled, “leave me alone you mean man! I want my Daddy!” On the outside, though, I whimpered and squealed. Finally my body had had enough, and my fingers got tingly from being above my head for so long. He took me down immediately.

    Again he led me by the hand, this time to a massage table. He positioned me so that I was bent over at the waist, my abraded nipples protesting as they pressed against the cotton sheet. The blindfold came off, and I asked if I could have a tissue to blow my nose. My eyes were wet and my nose was running, but I didn’t feel upset anymore. Some conscious thought entered my awareness, and I recognized the signs of subspace. I still felt everything, but I didn’t care as much. I experienced a feeling of floating, of being wrapped in a huge bubble of not giving a fuck.

    I had warned the stranger at the beginning that canings made me cry, but that the tears weren’t a sign to stop. I told him that I would use red or yellow to signal if I were truly in distress. My friend reminded him again of my safewords, and then he gave me my instructions. I had to count each stroke, thank him, and then ask for another. With tears trickling down my cheeks, we began.

    He didn’t cane me like my Daddy. Memories tugged at me, threatening to send me down the rabbit hole of missing my sir. I didn’t want to fall apart, and I didn’t want to ruin our fun with the spectre of a physically absent dominant. So I remembered instead that this had always been a fantasy of ours. Even though sir wasn’t there watching, we still shared this adventure. I was pretty damn lucky to be able to live out this fantasy, even if it wasn’t exactly how I had envisioned it. But the stranger wasn’t finished. A flogging followed the caning, and then there was figging and more breast torture with clothespins and ice cubes.

    By the end of our time together, I was blissed out on endorphins and uncaring about what he wanted to do next with me. It was the kind of high that really good bruises give you. I felt like a ragdoll, a real life sex toy that had been used hard and who loved it.

    Hours later I sat in front of my computer and skyped with Daddy. I had to cry a little bit, because I missed him. I wished he had been there, that it had been his cane against my thighs and his arms around me. But by the end of our talk, I was coming back to myself. Daddy said he was proud of me and that he loved me. I was proud of myself, too. I had endured a stranger’s sadism and had pleased him. Not every girl will take that kind of attention and enjoy it too.

  3. Domestic Violence Awareness Month

    October 2, 2015 by Nikki Blue

    I’m ashamed of myself. I’ve been so crazy busy—not having sex—that I didn’t realize it was Domestic Violence Awareness Month until this morning. Hell, I started writing this blog post seven hours ago…

    October is a super-important month, because with awareness of domestic violence, comes change. Every survivor’s story is different and their scars are unique—some are visible; others are not. But they both are equally as traumatizing.

    I recently saw a Facebook meme that compared the beginnings of abuse to boiling a frog. The premise is that if you put a frog into a pot of boiling water, it will jump out, but if you put the frog in a pot of cold water and gradually heat it, it will be cooked to death. It’s one of the truest statements I’ve read. So before you ask a victim or survivor of abuse how they didn’t see it coming, think about the frog. And don’t ask why they stay—ask what you can do to help.

    It’s been nearly a year and a half since I published my memoir. I’ve had people thank me for having the guts to put myself out there in the way I did, as I was certainly no angel. A few have even said that my story encouraged them to open a dialogue with their daughters about relationship violence. There are also those who have criticized me for the way in which I told my story. I’m not mad at ’em, though. Everyone is entitled to their opinion.

    For the month of October, Broken: A Memoir of Sorts, will be on sale for 99 cents. If you’ve ever wondered about the complications our sexual desires can evoke for us, now is the time to find out.

    hands holding purple awareness ribbon



  4. Decriminalizing Sex Work

    September 11, 2015 by Nikki Blue

    Prostitute picking up businessman

    Recently Amnesty International made headlines by proposing a policy to decriminalize sex work.

    “Sex workers are one of the most marginalized groups in the world. In many countries, they are threatened with a whole host of abuses, including rape, beatings, trafficking, extortion forced eviction and discrimination, including exclusion from health services. More often than not, they get no, or very little, legal protection. In fact, in many cases these violations and abuses are carried out by the police, clients and abusive third parties.”

    It should be noted that Amnesty International wasn’t suggesting that sex work be legalized. With their policy of decriminalization, they hope to offer sex workers the protection of basic human rights and to take them out of the role of “accomplice” to a crime, which is their livelihood.

    “The decriminalization of sex work means that sex workers are no longer breaking the law by carrying out sex work. They are not forced to live outside the law and there is better scope for their human rights to be protected.”

    “If sex work is legalized, it means that the state makes very specific laws and policies that formally regulate sex work. This can lead to a two tier system where many sex workers operate outside these regulations and are still criminalised – often the most marginalised street based sex workers. Decriminalization places greater control into the hands of sex workers to operate independently, self-organise in informal cooperatives and control their own working environments in a way that legalization often does not.”

    To read more about Amnesty’s policy, click here.

    Some may be surprised to know that sex work doesn’t only include street-based sex workers or escorts, like Escorts and Babes. Adult film actors/actresses, exotic dancers, brothel workers, incall/outcall workers, phone sex operators, rent boys, nude models, webcam models, full-body masseuses, adult film producers, dominatrixes, and adult website owners are all part of what is considered sex work.

    Since Amnesty International published their proposal some sex workers, like this male escort, have been voicing their stories. Most of the sex workers I’ve met, and read about, didn’t choose sex work because they thought they’d earn the respect of their community and have fun. They were men and women who were trying to keep a roof over their family’s head and food on the table. And all human beings, regardless of their jobs, deserve basic human rights like access to healthcare, and legal protection.

    The sex trade is never going to disappear. That line about it being the ‘oldest profession’ is true. There will always be a demand for sex and people willing to pay for it. Rather than vilify the people performing this service, we have the power to give sex workers dignity and decriminalize their work. We could change things so that it’s not a risk to their personal safety to earn a living. Decriminalization also means giving workers a chance to do something different and make different choices if they want, instead of branding them with a scarlet letter on their official record that will limit any future jobs unrelated to sex. Decriminalization of sex work means breaking the cycle that marginalizes its workers, so that legal efforts can focus on human trafficking and those forced into sexual slavery.

    I wrote this article at my favorite cafe, and a stranger approached me and asked what I was writing about. I told him the title of the article, and his reaction was to ask me why I cared about “Pasquale the street walker” and Pasquale’s abuse at the hands of the police in some foreign country. I was taken aback at first. Shouldn’t we all be concerned about the people living at the fringes of our society? I was surprised that he considered the plight of a sex worker a problem for developing nations. Honey, sex work is right here in the good ‘ol USofA. It made me want to challenge his privileged viewpoint, but I was flustered that 1. he had asked specifically about my topic, and 2. I had answered honestly.

    When I replayed our interaction, I wish I had answered differently. I wish I had asked him his personal opinion. “If a white, older man paid me to tie him up, spank his bare bottom, and then impale him with a large phallus in his anus in a private home, should I be denied a safe place to live? Should I be refused medical insurance? Should I fear for my personal safety, because I was paid to perform a service? You, dear stranger, may have a strong reaction to the nature of the particular service. But should I, the service provider, be denied basic human rights for fulfilling it?”

    Sex work is a taboo subject in this country. Most people want to go about their lives like it doesn’t exist, or we only talk about it in reference to a bachelor party or the incredibly unrealistic, Pretty Woman. And I get it. It’s challenging to separate how we feel about the morality of paying for sex from the people who are fulfilling the sex work. In my opinion, we’re all human beings and we all deserve to be treated as such. ~Heather

    And something else…you never know who is a sex worker. It’s not like they wear a t-shirt or a super-cool badge. Most sex workers fly under the radar, not wanting their profession to be known for fear of being outed to public scrutiny, or worse, being arrested.

    A sex worker–in any industry–could be the single mother in the car in front of you, dropping off her child at school. It could be the man shopping for produce at the farmer’s market, or the young woman attending college classes. You don’t know the reasons why they chose the job that they did, and believe me, it is a job. So if you do happen to meet a person who is a sex worker, be nice and have empathy. You may not realize it, but we need them. They are a vital piece in becoming the sex-positive world we are working toward, so for fucks sake, show some respect. ~Nikki

  5. Nurse Heather

    September 5, 2015 by Heather Cole

    Depositphotos_Nurse Heather_2


    When you hear the words ‘medical scene,’ what images come to mind? For me, I see a scene in grainy, black and white, with Germans in uniforms and lab coats looming over some hapless patient strapped to a metal examination table. The words send a shiver over me that is equal parts fear and excitement. I’ve never experienced a medical scene myself, but I’ve always been fascinated/afraid of them. Luckily for me, I got the chance to participate in one without being the victim… er, patient. I was invited to assist Dr. Dominant as her nurse, and I eagerly accepted–excited to finally experience some medical play.

    The patient had a medical fetish and would become aroused by both auditory and physical sensations related to medical procedures. Meaning that he found the physical sensation of a medical exam (being poked and prodded) erotic, as well as the noises of the exam (the clink of metal instruments) and the medical terms we spoke. He particularly enjoyed proper, anatomically correct words, and to be observed and objectified.

    Dr. D was dressed professionally in a black pencil skirt and black, platform heels, with a white doctor’s coat and a pair of glasses perched on her nose. Her demeanor never strayed from that of a stern, slightly aloof professional, and she was specific with her instructions and expectations of the patient. I tried not to giggle with eagerness, because it would have blown my cover as an experienced nurse.

    The patient lay on the examination table after having stripped off all his clothes. He was a man in his sixties, with a thick shock of graying hair and piercing eyes. His large cock stood at attention in anticipation of the exam. I looked him over with a friendly smile and an appreciative eye, admiring his nude body.

    Dr. D ignored my titters and immediately began discussing the patient with me as if he were only a body on the table. We reviewed his chart and discussed how to conduct his exam.

    My job as nurse was to assist the doctor, but also to be a supportive presence and to offer comfort when needed. (When I played with Dr. D, I liked to think of myself as the “good” cop to her “bad” cop.) Even though the patient eagerly submitted to the exam and had, in fact, requested specific aspects of it, I was there to stroke his arm in support and reassure him.

    We began with the basics: tested his reflexes, listened to his heartbeat and pulses, inspected his mouth and ears, then examined his rectum with well-lubed fingers, his prostate, and gave him an enema for cleansing. He moaned with arousal when I said, “Dr. D, the patient has taken the entire enema.” And when she replied, “The patient’s rectum is thirsty,” he squirmed with excitement. But that was also a sign that he needed to expel the enema. *wink wink*

    Dr. D adjusted the height of the medical stand to slow the flow of water from the rubber bag hanging from it. “Nurse Heather,” she said, “we need to test the patient’s eyesight. Please lift your scrubs, and we’ll see if he can see your vagina.”

    I obeyed, and the patient’s eyes grew wide as I slowly lifted the skirt of my uniform. I only permitted him to see the juncture of my thighs, thoroughly enjoying the tease.

    “May I touch?” he whispered.

    “First of all, you must ask my permission before you ask for Heather’s,” Dr. D said in a cold voice. “And no, you may not touch Nurse Heather there. Nurse Heather, however, may touch herself.”

    I grinned and let two of my fingers make gentle circles over my clit.

    “You’re masturbating!” the patient exclaimed.

    “Our medical practice believes in fostering a healthy sexual life,” Dr. D replied.

    I couldn’t help myself. The playful nature of the scene had caused my own arousal to build, and I slipped two fingers between my folds. Hearing the patient express his appreciation of my body, made me wet. I was having so much fun that an orgasm already shimmered just below my skin.

    “I can hear how wet she is,” the patient said with awe. “This is the most erotic experience I’ve ever had.”

    “Nurse Heather,” Dr. D said, a small smile on her lips, “you may orgasm when you wish.”

    It didn’t take much to push me into that golden release, and the orgasm rushed through me in moments. I laughed and gasped at the force of the pleasure.

    “I can’t believe you came that fast,” the patient said.

    I smiled as I cleaned my hands. “The fact that you were so pleased by our scene made me want to come with happiness.” And that was the truth.

    It turned out that this medical scene wasn’t at all like I’d imagined. Of course, that’s because it wasn’t my scene, with me on the examination table. I was only in a supporting role. But it’s reassuring to know that I don’t have to go plunging into the terrifying/exhilarating medical scene that I’ve seen in German porn in order to experience medical play. There are baby steps, fun steps, that I can experience as I familiarize myself with the new (to me) medical frontier of BDSM. Also, my next nurse’s uniform is going to be latex, or like Daryl Hannah’s in Kill Bill. 

  6. NEW eBook RELEASE and it’s FREE

    August 29, 2015 by Heather Cole

    Tease to Please Printable 330 6x9


    Find new reads in genres you love and discover new authors that you’ll adore! Explore the genres now! Love the excerpt — love the book! This book is dedicated to all our loyal fans and readers who give our work purpose… and it will be our dirty little secret.

    Between these naughty pages you’ll find a collection of awesome author excerpts, a box of saucy, delectable samples, a tasty bounty of tantalizing teasers. And there is no reward quite like self-indulgence; virtue be damned.

    This catalog of excerpts from 50 bestselling, wonderful writers with their acclaimed and award-winning novels is offered to our fans as a small token of our appreciation for your loyal support and unfaltering encouragement. While we are at it, permit us to introduce you to some of our long standing salacious author friends, who we feel are equally deserving of your support.

    AND IT’S ***FREE***


    To celebrate, we’re having a Facebook release party SAT., AUG. 29, where you can win swag and freebies from all the authors! I’ll be featured at 10:30, and I hope you’ll stop by and say hi. Comment and win cool stuff. I would love to meet you and chat! Party Link:

    Follow the author links to indulge in a great read and sign up for the author’s newsletter, magazine, or blog subscription so you never miss a new release, free download, author promotion or giveaway/contest.

    Grab your ***FREE*** copy of Tease to Please on

    For non-US residents, you can grab your Amazon copy here: universal TEASE TO PLEASE link

    The fabulous Christina Mandara created a book trailer for Tease to Please, and you can view it here:

    Do, please, share with all your friends and book clubs!

  7. Anal Sex Month

    August 21, 2015 by Nikki Blue

    I know that we are ass-deep in Anal August, but life, mostly business, has gotten in the way of writing about one of my favorite topics—butt love.

    Anyway, I thought it was time to give The Fundamentals of Fabulous Anal Sex a new cover. I love this one hard because she has stretchmarks. Sadly, I had to cover them with the title, but you can still see them peeking through. You may have to squint one eye and close the other to see them, but they’re there.

    And because the book has a sexy new cover, AND to celebrate Anal Sex Month, I’ve given it an irresistible new price of 99 cents.

    For realsies, y’all.

    Oh, and to the dude who said the old cover reminded you of a grandma taking it up the ass, I’m watching you.

    The Fundamentals of Fabulous New Pink FINAL

    Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble

  8. She’s just a girl on fire

    August 15, 2015 by Heather Cole

    woman with candle

    Fire brings up all sorts of emotions when you play with it. Even before the flames kiss your skin, there’s the rush of anticipation blowing through you, accompanied by a flicker of fear. It’s elemental. Primal. And when my friend texted me about joining her and her partner for some fire play, I was all for it.

    My introduction to fire play began with a text:

    “Can I light you on fire?”

    It was sent from my friend, Stormy, who is the queen of no-context texts. I replied, of course, with a similar cheeky attitude.

    “Literally on fire? No. I like these shorts too much.”

    S: “Oh, I’d need you naked first.”

    Me: “Then yes! You can absolutely set me on fire!”

    Before you think that I let any ‘ol person light me on fire, I already knew that Stormy’s partner, D, was experienced with fire play. She wanted to learn too, and she needed a demo bottom to experiment with. Add to that the fact that I adore them both and trust them implicitly, so I knew that I was in good hands for my first foray into fire.

    D created torches from fondue forks, cotton batting, and cotton finger bandages. He then dipped them in rubbing alcohol and set them on fire. I know there are a lot of details in the process that I’m missing, but my focus wasn’t on how it all worked. I was more interested in how it would feel. (Hey, if you want to play with fire, for heaven’s sake, do your research and go to a demonstration first.)

    Even with my full consent, I felt a spike of anxiety as I lay on the massage table in their bedroom and waited to feel the first burst of warmth across my body. We started out with me on my stomach on the massage table. D explained to Stormy the different techniques he enjoyed as the torches hovered over my body in various places. The gentle warmth was soothing as I closed my eyes, and some of the tension in my body drained away. Sometimes he drew a path of alcohol first, followed by a lighted torch that would burn the trail of rubbing alcohol. He often brushed behind the flames with his palm to ensure that all the fire was out. The point was to burn the alcohol and feel the fire without doing any damage to the skin. I appreciated that.

    The experimentation began, and Stormy lit lines of fire over my back. D watched from the bed with a blanket beside him in case we needed to smother an out-of-control flame. Even though we were consenting adults, we were playing with fire–literally. And it was better to have safety precautions in place beforehand instead of hoping for the best that there would be no accidents.

    Stormy’s light touch and the racing fire gave me all sorts of ideas. Her excitement about learning a new skill lent itself to my building arousal, and I couldn’t help but squirm beneath her ministrations. The way she manipulated the flames made me wish that she’d do even more with her hands. I felt a keen edge of danger that accompanied the heat, even though I knew logically that I was mostly safe. And all of it fed into a wanton throbbing between my legs.

    I didn’t act upon my desires, mainly because I hadn’t cleared any of that beforehand with my sir, and secondly, I can be a complete wimp when it comes to making the first move on a woman. At the end of the night I gave D and stormy friendly hugs and gratitude, and went straight home to work out my raging libido with my vibrator. I reported everything to sir, and enjoyed myself so much that when sir arrived stateside for his month-long vacation, he asked to learn fire play too.

    My second fire play scene began with me, once again, face-down on the massage table. Even though I couldn’t see the three people circling me, I could identify the individuals from their different fire styles. Stormy had an even rhythm:  fire, sweep of the hand, fire, sweep of the hand. She could have lulled me into a meditative, relaxed state, even when she traced the flame along the soles of my feet. D placed the alcohol and torch with more force. His movements incited a visceral reaction, something I felt in my gut. There was the staccato rush of intense heat, and then it was gone a split-second later that made me writhe. Sir’s effect on me was different.

    His flame was sneaky, and he enjoyed watching it burn along the dips and curves of my flesh. He didn’t have a particular rhythm or pattern, and he didn’t always sweep behind the trailing alcohol with his hand. As a result, the heat grew more intense depending on where he placed its path, and there were several times I squealed in protest, worried that it was burning too long.

    Daddy knows how to play with my mind like no other, and when he told me to turn over so that my front was exposed, I knew he was going to twist my feelings into the fire that played over my tenderest bits. Blue flame danced over my breasts and nipples, and he made me watch, chuckling when I begged to be allowed to close my eyes again. Seeing the fire made the sensations on my skin ratchet up in intensity, which fought against my will to remain as motionless as possible. Stormy came to sit between my legs, her hands stroking my calves and thighs.

    Again the desire built inside me. The stimulus was intense, and my instincts warred against one another. I wanted to kiss Stormy and arch against sir’s hand on my breast. I could have brushed against the front of D’s body when he bent over me or stroked the growing wetness at the juncture of my thighs. But I had to remain still as the fire bound me in place more effectively than any rope. Their attentions and the rioting sensations made the entire scene an intense roller coaster ride. To be honest, I can’t even remember if Daddy gave me an orgasm or not—everything began to run together in a long series of intense stimulus. I had no sense of time, but when they finally wound down, I was spent.

    D cleaned up while I clumsily got back into my clothes. After many thank yous to Stormy and D for the amazing experience, I asked Daddy to drive because I was spacey. He surprised me, and instead of going directly home, he took a detour to our favorite burger joint to feed me cheeseburgers at midnight. Later we snuggled in bed as my endorphin high gradually faded, and I reflected on the different sensations of fire play vs the impact play that I typically enjoy. Both are dangerous, and I’m lucky to have relationships where I skirt that danger safely yet still experience a thrill. I got to be that girl on fire.


  9. Coming soon: TEASE TO PLEASE

    August 9, 2015 by Heather Cole



    Tease to Please Printable 330 6x9

    Tease to Please


    EXTRAORDINARY AUTHOR EXCERPTS from  50 NYT, USA Today & Amazon Bestselling & Upcoming Authors


    Releasing August 2015

    ***FREE*** to All Our Fans


    TEASE TO PLEASE is a free book chock full of excerpts from 50 incredible authors. You can get a taste of a variety of stories before buying, and it’s a fantastic way to find new authors in the genres that you love. Think of it like as a free reading smorgasbord.

    • Discover new books in genres you love and find new titles that will delight you! Check out the genres below.
    • Love the excerpt — love the book! Indulge in this decadent collection of TEASE TO PLEASE excerpts from some of today’s most acclaimed, best-selling, and award-winning romance authors in a variety of romantic genres. This catalog includes excerpts from more than 30 best-selling romance authors.
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    Pick Your Favorite Romance SubGenre Author and Find New Ones:


    Erotic Romance: Christina Mandara, Gale Stanley, Paige Matthews, Leanore Elliott, Siobhan Daiko, Jade West, Normandie Alleman, A.R. Von, Ju Ephraime, Chloe Thurlow, Lucy Felthouse, Lily Harlem, Scarlett Flame, Jacqueline George, Shyla Colt, Teresa Noelle Roberts, Billionaires: Jaye Peaches, Chantel Rhondeau, Jacintha Topaz, Airicka Phoenix, Kim Carmichael, Cowboys: Mary J. McCoy-Dressel Paranormal/SciFi/Fantasy: Erzabet Bishop, LaVerne Thompson, Dariel Raye, P.T. Macias, Kayla Stonor, Ashen White, Lola StVil, Kiki Howell, Tabitha Rayne, Travis Luedke, A. K Michaels, Heather Cole, Romantic Suspense/Mystery: K D Grace, Debra Andrews, Natasha Knight, Marissa Farrar, Time Travel: Sky Purington, Multicultural/Interracial Romance: Cora Blu, Muffy Wilson, Vampires: Jordan K. Rose, Pablo Michaels, Carole Gill, Other: Bernard Foong, Athena Marie, Charity Parkerson, Jake Malden, Blak Rayne, Arla Dahl

  10. The Dating Dilemma

    August 3, 2015 by Nikki Blue



    As she cruised OKCupid with her own dating agenda, a friend of mine came to a screeching halt on a profile that brought me to mind. Excited, she said the suited-up piece of younger man-candy wore a mask over his eyes, touted that he was into “50 Shades type stuff,” and listed a guide to anal sex as one of his favorite books.

    Everyone but me, it seems, is ready for me to date.

    “You could have fun with him,” she said. “And he’s wicked-cute.”

    Of course I rolled my eyes dramatically, but still, I had to chuckle at her enthusiasm. I told her that it wasn’t enough to even make me quirk an eyebrow. And it wasn’t. If anything, it made me resist the idea of dating again that much more.

    That Christian-Grey-wanna-be-type is part of the reason behind the tightly wound ball of anxiety in my stomach when it comes to dating. I know they’re out there, so many of them, waiting to exact their so-called dominance. Thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather stay home on a Saturday night alone, drinking vodka out of my Queen of Everything coffee cup while binging on Netflix.

    I’ve actually given a lot of thought to the idea of dating lately. Not actually doing it, perse. It’s more like I’ve taken every common reason not to date I’ve ever heard and adopted them as my own. And there are a laundry list of them. Reasons like I don’t have the time to write an irresistibly witty profile, my focus is on work, I want to lose a few pounds of fluff first, I have a mountain of junk mail to shred, and people are stupid. Okay, so they’re more like excuses than legitimate reasons, except for the last two, but what it all boils down to is the idea of dating makes me nervous.

    When my marriage imploded four years ago, I didn’t date–I fucked. I had no idea who I was or what I wanted, but I was finally free to sift through the complex pieces of my past–my confusing sexual history–to make sense of who I was, who I had always been. And I did make sense of it, mostly. I didn’t want a relationship, and I damn sure didn’t want love. Then I met Mr. K, a play partner turned boyfriend who unlocked a door deep inside of me that I never knew existed, and for that, I will be forever grateful. Over the next three years, we indulged each other’s fantasies. We fucked with abandon and we loved hard, but did we actually date? It’s hard to say.

    What is ‘dating’ today? But more importantly, what is dating when you’re 45? Do you connect online and make plans to meet at a coffee bar? A wine bar? A pressed juice bar? And how does a sex blogger date? When is the appropriate time to say “Hey, man-I-possibly-like, I write about sex ON THE INTERNET, and you too can read every kinky detail of the group sex, anal sex, and sexy sex I’ve had!”

    See what I mean? Total anxiety.

    Most of my friends clearly don’t understand my worries when it comes to dating, or me for that matter. They say things like “You should just go to the places where your people go.”

    I’m sorry, what? Where my people go? What the fuck does that even mean? Or I’m told how hard dating is because someone always seems to have this one friend who is drop-dead-gorgeous and can’t get a date, but it’s probably because she’s so beautiful.

    True story.

    I’m pretty sure that translated into “You’re ugly and will die alone.”

    There’s always the old-fashioned way of dating, or happenstance, I guess. But I refuse to go out with anyone I meet in a bar. Been there, done that more times than I can count. It rarely develops into anything beyond a one night stand, maybe two. Those days are long gone for me. And I can’t meet people through business outlets since I work from home and most (all) of the men at the events and luncheons I attend are gay. And in the grocery store, I’m too focused on condiments to really notice anyone who might try more than once (3 times) to strike up a conversation with me, apparently.

    I love this bottle of BBQ sauce so much that I can’t possibly notice you or even say hello to you, handsome man passing by me three times in the aisle. -Heather

    Oh, stop judging me, Heather.

    But seriously, when it comes to new things, I’m all for giving it the old college try. Sashimi? Sure! Peeing in my mouth? Of course! Dating? Wait, what? I watch my single friends go through the motions of online dating, the string of disappointments, and I’m like nah, I’m good.

    Truthfully, I know why I’m hesitant to date again. They’re called feelings and I’m super protective of them. It’s incredibly difficult for me to open up to people; to trust. I don’t do it lightly. Have I been jaded by my past experiences? Probably, but I know that’s something I need to work on. I know who I am this time around, though, and I know what I want. I want first date jitters, butterflies, and hand-holding. Am I a bit of a romantic? Abso-fucking-lutley. But most importantly, I want to not only feel like a priority, I want to be a priority.

    I could go on forever about the things I don’t want in a relationship and partner attributes that make me throw up a crucifix shouting “Be gone, demon!”, but I think that’s the problem. I spend so much time focusing on what I don’t want, it’s holding me back from making myself available to the things I do want, if that makes any sense.

    I took time off to take care of myself in a healthy way after my relationship with Mr. K ended, which is something I’d never done before. I took a lot of time, actually, and by doing so, I let wounds breathe and heal instead of recklessly covering them up with booze and unfulfilling sex as I’d done in the past. It was one of the most responsible decisions I’ve ever made and one I’m damn proud of. But I’m afraid I’ve reached the point where my time off has become another excuse to hide behind. For the most part, my heart is open to dating again, I think, but my head is still working to catch up. It’s getting there, slowly, and one day soon, I’ll finally take that step forward into the dating pool, and when I do, I’ll refuse to settle for anything less than extraordinary, because I fucking deserve it.