Purple Passion is a wonderful fetish clothing and BDSM shop in Chelsea and I'm reading there on Friday night for the new Cleis Press D.L. King anthology Under Her Thumb: Erotic Stories of Female Domination, along with Laura Antoniou (whose new BDSM mystery The Killer Wore Leather you should also check out), Anne Grip and Lawrence Westerman. Some of my books will be for sale and I'll be giving out free bookmarks, plus it looks like this is my last reading in NYC as a New Yorker. The reading is at 18+, 7 p.m. It's free, and Purple Passion is at 211 West 20th Street. Official details on D.L. King's blog. My story is about a dinner party turned kinky foreplay and what happens afteard, and is called "Subdar" and there's a brief snippet below. See you there!
From "Subdar" by me
Some people like to think they have gaydar; Quinn knew she had subdar. She could tell within a minute of meeting a guy whether he was less interested in sitting across from her, staring passionately into her eyes, or perhaps taking her across his knee for a sadistic spanking, than in kneeling at her feet, head lowered, ready to bend over and grant her access to his beautiful bottom, or bend further and kiss, lick and all-around worship her feet. She had a hunch for which men wanted to be blindfolded, bound, stripped bare in every sense of the word, handing over their autonomy to her to do with as she pleased. She could tell which were the types who wanted her to stop them in mid-sentence with a well-timed pinch of their arm; a warning hand resting on their cheek, threatening to slap it, in private or public; or fingers digging in to the back of their neck, sending them halfway to ecstasy. It was a game she played when she was bored, whether sitting in traffic, at the real estate office amongst her coworkers, shopping in the mall—it wasn’t hard to tell the subs amongst the men waiting with their wives’ purses next to them in the department stores—or, like tonight, at a dinner party she was wishing she hadn’t agreed to attend.
Subdar wasn’t a skill she could teach other women, and even if she could keep, she wasn’t interested in sharing her secrets. It was more of an innate talent, something honed by over twenty years as a practicing dominant woman, from her first lover, Martin, in college, who’d begged to eat her pussy for hours, who she loved to tease by tying him up and using all manner of vibrators while he watched, helpless with desire, to the other men who’d longed to suck the cock she loved to wear – wanted her to spank them hard and put collars around their beefy necks, and generally got off on giving in to her in every way. Something inside her, something more than just her pussy, lit up in the mere presence of such a man, even if he was already under orders from another woman. Seeing a man catering to a woman fed something in her soul, made her feel at home, no matter whether it was an elegant woman in heels towering over her husband or simply one who knew how to twist her man to get her way.
Dominant women aren’t always the bitch goddesses they seemed in pop culture; true dommes know there are infinite ways to get what you want, and sometimes all it takes is a wicked smile or a hint of a whisper. Quinn considered herself a spy when out and about in mixed company, always searching for her peers, or a single man aching for nothing more than a woman to put him in his place. There were few things in life that gave Quinn the same kind of satisfaction as surveying a room and making eye contact with a man who fit her profile, who could feel the energy passing from her body to his. It made her wet every single time.