January
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Joined: 4/17/2004
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I have a new BDSM novella out! Here's an excerpt. (You can buy the novella as an ebook on amazon and link: http://www.bookstrand.com/miss-you-sir)
Tern laid his big, work-roughened hand on Jill’s shoulder and squeezed. His touch always calmed her, especially before a demonstration. She wasn’t much of an exhibitionist. Even walking around Hell Mary’s BDSM club in a robe made her uncomfortable. But her man enjoyed putting on educational workshops, so she hid her anxiety.
About fifteen people had come the club to see Tern’s demo. Some were actually interested in fireplay, others just were just there to socialize. Most were personal friends.
Hell Mary’s was entirely different during the day. Quieter. No thumping background music, punctuated by sharp cries of pleasure and pain. The unoccupied dungeon furniture looked stark and raw. The smells were different, too. No perfumes, no aromas of fear and lust. Daylight stripped away the fantasy and glamour, leaving a shabby wooden ghost town.
Jill took a deep breath, glancing up at Tern. His skin smelled of wood resin. It was her favorite fragrance. He was all seriousness and focus. Giving her arm another squeeze, he withdrew to prepare for the demonstration.
Jill’s best friend Cecilia walked over. Her face was round and perpetually cheerful. Anson, her Master and husband, kept a close, glowering watch. He rarely spoke, but he always gave the impression that he didn’t approve of anybody or anything. They were yin and yang personified. She was outgoing, he never spoke. CeCe was happy and nurturing, Anson was standoffish and cruel. They’d been married for eight years, nearly as long as Jill and Tern.
“How long you and Tern in town?” Cecelia asked.
“Just another couple of weeks,” Jill said. “Then we’re taking off for Morocco.”
“But you just got back from Brazil!”
“Not just,” Jill said. “We’ve been back for a month already, CeCe!”
“You two are like gypsies,” CeCe said.
“It’s a great life,” Jill said. “So when’s Anson junior expected to arrive?”
CeCe patted her burdened body. “Three more months to go. I can’t wait to fit into that fabulous green corset you made me.” She smirked. “Master can’t wait either.”
Anson scowled. He wasn’t what Jill would call a nice guy. The only time he eased up on his strict rules and correspondingly severe punishments was when CeCe was pregnant. Which was often. They had three kids already. All boys.
How did Anson and CeCe find the privacy and energy to make another baby in that full house of theirs? How could kinky parents ever manage to sneak in a quickie, let alone BDSM playtime? Of course Anson and CeCe did have Vanessa. Their third helped out with the child rearing and chores--and who knew what else.
Jill couldn’t imagine life with kids, even with an extra woman around. She and Tern were just too selfish.
“We’re ready to start the demo,” Tern announced from up on the dais.
The crowd converged around the platform. Tern had built it, along with most of Hell Mary’s dungeon furniture. The dais was pretty dramatic, a sort of faux Mayan set-up with lit tiki torches all about. A padded vinyl table sat in the middle.
It reminded her of a sacrificial altar.
Fresh anxiety surged through her. She loved fireplay, just not in front of an audience.
“If you’re here for the knitting circle,” Tern said, “You might want to leave. This is a workshop on fireplay.”
The audience chuckled.
“You’re all staying, then? Wonderful. Welcome. My wife Jill has agreed to be my bottom.”
He helped her up onto the platform. Chills ran up her arm as he touched her. He was so competent and skilled at fireplay. Soon he’d make her forget about the people watching.
“Fireplay involves fire,” Tern said. “It’s important that your bottom, or the flamee, lies on a non-flammable, non-absorbent surface. Not a mattress. You could easily spill fuel without realizing it, and then accidentally set it aflame. Once an absorbent surface catches fire, it can be damn hard to put out.” He slapped the vinyl-covered table. “This is vinyl. Not absorbent. Spills are going to be obvious even in low light. And if drippage does catch fire, damage is unlikely.”
“How about using a leather covered table?” someone asked.
“If you’ve got one, go for it. Make sure you have a fire extinguisher handy. You don’t want to catch your surroundings on fire. You might offer your bottom access to a wet washcloth as a safety precaution. It’s also good idea to have a wool blanket close by for you to smother flames.”
A few people in the crowd murmured, unnerved by the talk of safety. Jill had no fears about getting injured.
Tern gave her braid a gentle tug. “If the flamee has long hair, make sure its braided before fireplay. It’s considered bad form to burn the hair off her head. I happen to adore my woman’s long red hair.”
He yanked her braid a little harder, signaling she was now in his strong, capable hands.
“Take off your robe,” he said.
She obeyed. She stood on the dais, naked and exposed. Several members of the audience whispered and sighed. They weren’t admiring her figure; they were impressed by the branding on her back.
Tern had been working on the tree for the last ten years. Every wedding anniversary, on the night of May 30, he gifted her with a session of strike branding. The boughs of the walnut tree now covered a good portion of her back. Beautiful and grand, the tree was a symbol of his promise to shelter and protect her.
Her husband’s artistry filled her with pride.
“Are you going to show us how you did that?” someone in the audience asked.
“No,” Tern said.
Tern stroked the scarification on her shoulder and upper back. His caress sent excitement thundering through her body. Her nipples pebbled. Mortified, she studied the floor of the dais. She was even more embarrassed by her public display of arousal than her nakedness.
“Up,” he said, helping her to lie on her stomach.
She settled onto the table, feeling self-conscious.
“Some folks think of Fireplay as ‘edgeplay’, but with the proper precautions, it’s not dangerous at all. Fireplay is designed to thrill the people who are watching.” He drew his hand down her back. “And thrill your bottom.” He gave her ass a slap.
She jerked. The audience tittered.
“Fireplay isn’t about pain. It’s about drama. If you’re intent on hurting your bottom, do something else. If your bottom is new to fireplay, she might be apprehensive,” he said. “So you’ll need to be sensitive to her emotions, perhaps you’ll need to encourage her to relax. Gently touch her. Speak to her softly.”
As he massaged her back, his lecture on the actions of various fuels and how to apply them drifted over her. She savored his light touch.
He asked someone to turn off the lights. The darkened room became library quiet. The tiki flames flickered.
“I would never actually use a tiki torch to ignite my bottom,” Tern said. “Too little control. The torches are supposed to set the mood, not the fire. I suggest starting with a lighter. Another option is to light the alcohol with a wand.”
As he described fire batons and how to make them, he swiped her ass with a rubbing alcohol-soaked cotton ball. The sensation was cold, delicious, sending pleasure streaking though her. He made seductive S patterns on her skin. Taking his time, he described the most and least sensitive areas of the human body. He explained he would never ignite her tree, as scar tissue was the most vulnerable of all.
Tern’s lighter made a "shtick" sound.
The crowd pressed closer. He ignited her icy ass.
She was now on fire. The contrast between the cold and hot made her body sing with elation. Like a sensual rubdown. She loved fireplay foreplay. The slightly sweet smell of the burning alcohol added to her sensations.
Next, he dabbed the bottoms of her feet with alcohol and lit them. Safe, relaxing, warm and good. She sighed with contentment.
“I think she likes it,” he said.
After he fanned away the flames, he asked her to roll over. “I want to see your face when I ignite you, Heart.”
She lay on her back. Seeing Tern above her, his eyes glinting in the torchlight, blasted her with need. She wanted him to fuck her, not flame her. Had they been alone on the dais, she would have begged him to pound into her. She squirmed, uncomfortable, weighed down by the erotic strain.
He tucked her braids above and behind her head. “The front of the female body has lovely lumps and bumps and super delicate areas. The nipples, for example, should not be flamed.”
He gave her erect nipples a tug. Lust boiled between her thighs. She nearly came. But she didn’t want to have an orgasm in front of all those people. Biting her lower lip, she whimpered.
Every once in awhile it was hard to be Tern’s submissive.
“The body also has many cracks and crevasses. I suggest you don’t do fireplay in the front, until you are more experienced. I’ll show you one reason why.”
With one hand on her naked hip, he poured alcohol on her stomach. He pointed out how the accelerant had pooled in her belly button, creating a dangerous situation if lit. He soaked away the excess with a dry cotton ball. Next, he dabbed her front with the accelerant, from collarbone to waist, concentrating on her heavy breasts but avoiding her nipples.
She shivered from the sudden cold, and shut her eyes.
“This time I’ll be using a fire baton,” he said to the crowd.
He brought the lit wand above her face. She could see the glow through her eyelids, feel the heat on her cheeks.
“Open your eyes and look at me,” he commanded.
She complied, hypnotized by the fire.
He waved the baton high above his head and then lowered it to ignite her belly. Waves of blue flames jumped and danced, cavorting up from her waist to her breasts. Her core was bathed in fire.
Her world narrowed.
There were now only three living entities in the room. Her man. Herself. And the fire. Tern controlled them all.
The kiss of flames was sensual and thrilling. Her pelvis thrummed with tension. Seeing his quietly sober face through the fire mesmerized her. She’d do anything to please him. Anything.
As the flames subsided on her skin, he abruptly shoved her legs apart, spreading her pussy lips open. He shoved the lit baton inside her. The baton sizzled, her juices snuffing out the fire.
A searing climax took her. Spasming around the wand, she cried out. Slowly, oh so slowly, Tern pulled out the baton, sending her into another series of convulsions.
He rested his rough hand on her chest, bending over to give her a soft kiss.
“Tern,” she whispered, overwhelmed.
The real world crowded into Jill’s consciousness. She was at Hell Mary’s. There were people there. An audience had watched her being ignited. She flinched from the sudden awareness. They’d even heard her announce her orgasm. Her face burned with embarrassment. She half-swallowed a sob. She was a private player, not an attention whore.
Tern straightened. “Thank you for attending the demo. If you’ll show yourselves out, I’m going to attend to my wife.”
They were leaving now, shuffling away.
“Don’t cry, Heart,” Tern said. “I know you don’t like to play in public. I know it costs you. And I appreciate it.” He helped her up to sit. “I’m so proud of the way you’re relaxed around fire. How you show me such trust. It’s important to let people see fireplay done right. And you do it right.”
He opened a water bottle for her. As she sipped, he inspected every square inch of her body for injury. He continued to praise her.
The humiliation of public play slowly receded.
 Attachment (1)
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[link: http://www.bookstrand.com/miss-you-sir] Miss You, Sir by January Rowe is available from Siren now! It's my latest smokin' hot bdsm romance.[/link]
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Miss You, Sir - 
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