Today is my day on the virtual book tour for The Harder She Comes: Butch Femme Erotica edited by D.L. King. I was inspired, in part, by a chocolate massage I bought for a chocolate-loving ex many years back. I had so much fun imagining her surrounded by chocolate, and I've always found massage to be a very sensual experience and wanted to write from the point of view of a masseuse. It's a topic I will probably revisit because it seems ripe for all sorts of encounters. Here's the book's official blurb (fyi, if I ran Amazon, every book would have their full table of contents listed there, but I don't - authors, though, I strongly urge you to get that info on all bookselling sites):
What is it about a pretty girl in a tight skirt bent over to adjust her stockings? Or that hotter-than-hot butch, swaggering into the bar like she owns it, eyes undressing every pretty girl in the place?
Some butches worship at the altar of their femmes fatale and many little girls have a need to serve their big, strong daddies. In The Harder She Comes, we meet girls salivating at the sight of well-filled and packed jeans and bois dreaming of having a beautiful girl’s red lipstick smeared across their mouths. D. L. King has curated a singular set of stories filled with sexy sirens luring unsuspecting butches to their demise on the rocky shores of love and hot, confident women in silk and lace during the day who will do anything to serve their daddies' needs at night. The Harder She Comes is great writing with characters that will stay with the reader for a long, long time — sometimes sweet, always sexy, often romantic, and more than a little dangerous.
From my story "Happy Ending" in The Harder She ComesCatch up with the tour! (you may have to scroll back a few days since I'm the last blogger)
Marisa decided to skip Em’s glutes and work her way from the bottom up, so she pushed the woman’s legs apart and began with her feet. They were a little rough, but not utterly uncared for, though they were a far cry from her own, which received weekly pedicures and nightly applications of lotion. Marisa heard a noise as she pressed into Em’s foot, and then it pressed back against her in protest. “That tickles,” Em said, the first hint of mirth Marisa had noticed.
She put the foot down and started with the woman’s calf, which was knotted, and clearly strong. “What do you do?” she asked, the question still within the bounds of the client/customer relationship, though Marisa had more intimate reasons for asking.
“I’m a tour guide, mostly upstate, Westchester, sometimes Jersey,” Em said, flexing into Marisa’s touch this time, rather than flinching away from it. “That feels good,” she went on. “Lots of hills, plus I lift weights.”
“Put your head back down,” Marisa said gently and applied herself diligently to Em’s calves, then knees, one by one, until she was at her thighs. She’d had no trouble working on all manner of models, actresses, and generally beautiful women, the kind who spent hours of upkeep on their appearances, who might have turned the heads of each other had they found one another outside the very chic and proper world in which they lived, but who Marisa saw as belonging far from her world. She’d made out with a femme or five, bedded one or two, even, but the women who made her heart pound, who made her catch her breath and go all coy and blushing, were butches. Always butches. Beyond that she didn’t have a single type; some were tall and thin, debonair, almost, while others were stocky and rough. “How would you feel about me taking off your tank top?” Marisa whispered, the tone of her voice possibly betraying her interest. She wanted to touch this woman all over, to see her come alive, to watch her melt, to give her back to herself.
Em opened her eyes and stared directly into Marisa’s; they were a fierce hazel, snapping and sizzling. “Are you asking as a masseuse or as a woman?” she said.
“A woman,” Marisa said. There was no point in lying when she was getting so aroused. “Look, I know this might not be your usual thing, and I’ve never done this before with a client. But I want to make you feel good. I want to give you a happy ending.” She cursed herself for her babbling the minute the words were out; “Happy ending?” Really? What a stupid phrase. It belonged in fairy tales, but as a sexual act it was ludicrous. “I want to make you come on my fingers,” she could’ve said. “I want to make you wet.” Anything else.