Dear book business

I lead her to a chair and have her sit and observe. Then I take the crop and slide its tip down his body, from his head down his cheek, over his chest, tapping it lightly against the clothespin for a moment before continuing. It reaches his cock and I see his arms jerk, trying to move forward to protect his precious jewels, but there's nothing he can do. I bat at him lightly, watch as his cock turns even pinker.

"You liked fucking him, too. You liked it because I told you to do it. You'll do anything for me, won't you?"

Dear AMS, PGW, Perseus, judge, whoever the hell is in charge of this mess,

I am a writer. And an editor. I deal with words. Sometimes I sign contracts for books but, having wisely dropped out of law school, am much more comfortable with the creative vs. the business side of things. I do read blogs but honestly, have not had the time or energy to follow the umpteen ins and outs of this case. I just want my books to be available for sale, because this time around, I actually think they will fly off the shelves.

I pulled the fork back but left the sharp edges hovering right next to his lips, leaving just the briefest of spaces between his soft, wet, pink lips and the hard stainless steel. He chewed, a rapturous look on his face that I inhaled in my own way, my pussy clenching as I watched those lips move, watched him savor every bite.

Most of the time, I'm pretty down on my work and feel like someone, anyone, could've done a better job, that editing an anthology hardly takes more than throwing some stories together, spell-checking, and turning them in. But once in a while, I'm really proud of myself. I feel like the collection that bears my name, that I own the copyright for (teensy tiny fact I picked up in a Copyright Law class once - an anthology editor's product is the organization of the material into said book), actually is amazingly sexy and offers up some stories about sex that not only will make people want to read them to their lovers and masturbate furiously, but also expounds upon some aspect of kinkiness that's important and perhaps underexposed in our culture. She's on Top and He's on Top are books like that. I could barely proofread them in public because they were so delicious and naughty and hot, and believe me, I feel like a self-promotional ass saying that, but it's true. I think lots of people, kinky and not, will want to read them.

Your chest swells with the possibility of it, because you can do anything together. You can push her over the edge and catch her at the bottom, soft and safe in your arms. You can watch her dance and be inside her all at the same time, because you are the music she's dancing to now, faster and faster.


I want to blow up their pretty book covers and plaster them all around. I'm so excited about them that I've booked a trip to Portland, Oregon to read at Powell's with Stan Kent and Shanna Germain. I'm planning this big virtual book tour, or at least, I was. Now it's in limbo, and hopefully will proceed in April. I was really proud of myself for organizing it and now it feels like that's all for naught. It'll happen, someday, but losing a month feels like losing momentum. By then, who knows where my mind will be? I was envisioning them as kinky Valentine's Day gifts, until this whole process delayed their release until the end of March, if that. I'm about to book my flight to Oregon and I'm worried that my books won't be out until then. I was told to wait until today, and now...Thursday, and maybe Friday.

I let him feel the dull edge of the blade, a taste of what would come. He made a noise deep in his throat that barely sounded human. He was gone, on his way to the cosmic place where subs go when things get really good.

I'm just waiting to hear, waiting and waiting and waiting even as I work on new books and try to get excited about them, though it's tough. Lately I've been stretched so thin I have very little creativity left, and it's hard to get excited about products that feel like they may never happen. I know that so much of publishing is about waiting, and delays, and slowness, and sometimes I'm the one holding things up. I could understand if it were my publisher holding things up. But this just seems so unfair and yes, I'm cranky and whiny about it, but really, please, hurry the fuck up with all this. I want my advance. I want my books on the shelves. I want them in the hot little hands of reviewers. I don't want to feel like they may never happen.

Did it turn him on to have a woman tied up and at his mercy, awaiting the strikes of his whip? Absolutely. But even though his cock was hard, this wasn't about sex. It was about control and limits. He had his own limits. He was careful with this woman, giving her what she wanted, and taking what he wanted in return. She had been quite the screamer when she came with the flogger handle inside her, her ass covered in red marks. He needed those marks on her ass. He needed her screams.