I think I blogged about this before, but I was reminded of it because I'm getting postcards made in preparation for the publication of Bottoms Up: Spanking Good Stories (and plotting the book trailer), and was reminded again of my major failure with this book: I never heard back from anyone at Cleansheets about reprinting the excellent spanking erotica story "Bottoms Up" by Clive Dixon, and have no idea who "Clive Dixon" is. Authors: this is a good reason to have contact info when you publish, because you never know who wants to buy your work!
Despite that, the book is really hot and really strong. Here's a snippet from my story "The Spanking Machine:"
I opted for the Robospanker, because it offered the most intense, hard spanking. I loved the fact that it wouldn’t let up until I told it to, giving me the chance to top from below, which is what I tend to do anyway. Spanking is one of those activities that you just can’t provide for yourself, even with your own hand. So I was willing to set the scene, as long as the machine did the work of making me whimper, making my ass burn, making my pussy throb in the way that only a good spanking can do.
For a moment, as my finger hovered over the PURCHASE NOW button, I had my doubts. It might be 2009, but what would a new lover say if he came over and saw that this machine was his competition? Men are squeamish enough about vibrators, even the battery-operated kind, and this wasn’t the kind of toy I could shove into any drawer or closet, and since I live in Manhattan, I don’t exactly have much by way of storage space. I pictured the scene: a stud and I hot to trot, then he sees this contraption. I could say it was an exercise bench, I supposed. And then I slipped my fingers into my frilly white panties, and pictured my olive-colored ass turned a dusky rose, making the contrast against these very same panties even more intense. Tears sprang to my eyes as I tried to recall when I’d last gotten spanked. Oh yes, Raphael; he’d gotten tired of my constant lateness and hurled me across his lap, ripped my fishnets and panties, and pounded my bottom with his hand until I banged against the floor with my fists, until I almost couldn’t take it anymore, flirting on the edge of giving up. My cunt danced with excitement as I recalled his anger, and I pressed the button, setting the transaction in motion. Of course, a machine wasn’t going to get angry with me, but that part I could supply for myself.
Waiting for it was like having a long-distance lover and pining for his arrival. Every day without it felt shallow and empty to the point that even my clients noticed. “Claire, I think you need to get laid,” one of the most famous actresses in the world said to me and I knew she was right; she just didn’t know how right. The day the machine was set to arrive, I called in sick and waited anxiously. I couldn’t risk my new master being misdelivered or, heaven forbid, the doorman peering too closely at the box and wondering what exactly it contained. Even though I’m sure the neighbors in my upscale high-rise have heard plenty of moaning, yelling, and spanking coming from behind my door, I’ve never out and out admitted that I’m the girl in twelve-D who likes to get spanked, who likes to role-play, who lets her lovers use and abuse all her orifices after a good, hard smackdown; who loves to wince the next day as she sits down in her skirt suits, wondering if the men who sit across from her at meetings or lunches, the reporters who press her for details, know exactly what’s caused the expression on her face. What I do inside the confines of my well-upholstered apartment is my business.