Jane Davitt's Blog, page 11
January 8, 2016
A Friday Fic
Because Fridays need Wincest birthday spankings.
They don't? Well, no one told ME.
Dirty Deeds
"It's traditional," Sam insists and waves his beer bottle with enough abandon that beer splashes onto Dean's ass.
His naked ass.
The beer's cold. His ass is warm. And if Sam goes through with what he's been yammering on about for the last few minutes, pretty soon Dean's ass is going to be toasty enough that any beer that spills on it will evaporate in a hiss.
Sam takes care of what Dean considers to be a shameful waste of alcohol by leaning over and licking every amber droplet off. Which tickles, but in an entirely good way. Dean makes a sound Sam told him once was like a dog trying to purr and wiggles against the bed, his dick riding the groove way too bodies have pressed into the mattress.
The bed's disgusting, just like the room, and it's no place to be celebrating the big 3-0, but as Dean's planning on adding to the list of depraved and nasty deeds done here (done dirt cheap his brain adds, starting off an earworm that burrows as deeply as Sam's tongue) he doesn't really care. That's what showers are for and as for come-soaked sheets, Dean's never washed one in his life, but he assumes spunk comes out easier than blood, so he's not going to lose any sleep over --
Sam's hand connects with damp, flushed skin and Dean jackknives reflexively, stung by both the loss of that warm wriggle of a tongue and the slap itself. Sam's got big hands and one can cover a lot of ass.
"Do that again and lose your favorite jerking off hand, asshole."
"I use them both," Sam says. "You've watched me do it a hundred times. A thousand. One hand for my dick and the other --"
"I know where the other goes." Dean licks his lips, gone bone-dry with a mounting excitement. That slap stung, yeah, but it's left him tingling. He can handle smarting skin if it brings his balls up tight like that. "And if you do that again, your fingers are gonna be all the action your hole gets for months, you --"
Sam spanks him again in the middle of one of Dean's best tirades and murmurs, "Two," in a thoughtfully anticipatory kind of way that tells Dean all he needs to know.
Twenty-eight more.
He can argue, he can yell, but Sam's going to see this through.
He hides his grin in the musty pillow and quietly, sneakily closes the cuff he'd opened while Sam was busy licking him into a puddle of want.
See? Helpless. No way to stop Sam, no way at all.
He settles down to enjoy the rest of his birthday spanking and knows Sam isn't fooled a bit, but that's okay.
They're both good at pretending.
By ten he's gasping, by twenty he's lying in a wet spot and begging Sam to stop, enough, job done, Sammy.
The one to grow on hurts more than all the rest put together, but then it's over, it's done, and Dean's body is glowing, radio-fucking-active and he thinks hazily that he's too old to be discovering a new kink, but if that's what the birthday fairy's left him, well, he'll take it and say thank you kindly, ma'am, because his dick's still mostly hard and he knows he'll be good to go again real soon.
"You liked that," Sam says and rolls the beer bottle, green, wet with cold, across the inferno of Dean's ass, half sadist, and half angel of mercy.
"I am one kinky dude," Dean admits, not without pride. He twists his head and looks up at Sam, who's a little flushed, a little frayed around the edges, lust shredding his calm, just the way Dean likes him. "But before you say a word, just remember it was your idea."
"Off your wish list," Sam tells him.
"Huh? My what? I don't have a --"
"You hit like a dozen spanking sites on the laptop this week," Sam tells him calmly. "Looked like a wish list to me." He nudges Dean's thigh. "It wasn't the only thing on it, though."
"No?" Dean manages to croak out. He feels violated, exposed. It's almost as good a feeling as the throb and sizzle Sam's left simmering deep in his skin.
"Not by a long way," Sam says and starts at the top of both Dean and the list and works his way down.
They don't? Well, no one told ME.
Dirty Deeds
"It's traditional," Sam insists and waves his beer bottle with enough abandon that beer splashes onto Dean's ass.
His naked ass.
The beer's cold. His ass is warm. And if Sam goes through with what he's been yammering on about for the last few minutes, pretty soon Dean's ass is going to be toasty enough that any beer that spills on it will evaporate in a hiss.
Sam takes care of what Dean considers to be a shameful waste of alcohol by leaning over and licking every amber droplet off. Which tickles, but in an entirely good way. Dean makes a sound Sam told him once was like a dog trying to purr and wiggles against the bed, his dick riding the groove way too bodies have pressed into the mattress.
The bed's disgusting, just like the room, and it's no place to be celebrating the big 3-0, but as Dean's planning on adding to the list of depraved and nasty deeds done here (done dirt cheap his brain adds, starting off an earworm that burrows as deeply as Sam's tongue) he doesn't really care. That's what showers are for and as for come-soaked sheets, Dean's never washed one in his life, but he assumes spunk comes out easier than blood, so he's not going to lose any sleep over --
Sam's hand connects with damp, flushed skin and Dean jackknives reflexively, stung by both the loss of that warm wriggle of a tongue and the slap itself. Sam's got big hands and one can cover a lot of ass.
"Do that again and lose your favorite jerking off hand, asshole."
"I use them both," Sam says. "You've watched me do it a hundred times. A thousand. One hand for my dick and the other --"
"I know where the other goes." Dean licks his lips, gone bone-dry with a mounting excitement. That slap stung, yeah, but it's left him tingling. He can handle smarting skin if it brings his balls up tight like that. "And if you do that again, your fingers are gonna be all the action your hole gets for months, you --"
Sam spanks him again in the middle of one of Dean's best tirades and murmurs, "Two," in a thoughtfully anticipatory kind of way that tells Dean all he needs to know.
Twenty-eight more.
He can argue, he can yell, but Sam's going to see this through.
He hides his grin in the musty pillow and quietly, sneakily closes the cuff he'd opened while Sam was busy licking him into a puddle of want.
See? Helpless. No way to stop Sam, no way at all.
He settles down to enjoy the rest of his birthday spanking and knows Sam isn't fooled a bit, but that's okay.
They're both good at pretending.
By ten he's gasping, by twenty he's lying in a wet spot and begging Sam to stop, enough, job done, Sammy.
The one to grow on hurts more than all the rest put together, but then it's over, it's done, and Dean's body is glowing, radio-fucking-active and he thinks hazily that he's too old to be discovering a new kink, but if that's what the birthday fairy's left him, well, he'll take it and say thank you kindly, ma'am, because his dick's still mostly hard and he knows he'll be good to go again real soon.
"You liked that," Sam says and rolls the beer bottle, green, wet with cold, across the inferno of Dean's ass, half sadist, and half angel of mercy.
"I am one kinky dude," Dean admits, not without pride. He twists his head and looks up at Sam, who's a little flushed, a little frayed around the edges, lust shredding his calm, just the way Dean likes him. "But before you say a word, just remember it was your idea."
"Off your wish list," Sam tells him.
"Huh? My what? I don't have a --"
"You hit like a dozen spanking sites on the laptop this week," Sam tells him calmly. "Looked like a wish list to me." He nudges Dean's thigh. "It wasn't the only thing on it, though."
"No?" Dean manages to croak out. He feels violated, exposed. It's almost as good a feeling as the throb and sizzle Sam's left simmering deep in his skin.
"Not by a long way," Sam says and starts at the top of both Dean and the list and works his way down.
December 31, 2015
December 22, 2015
A Festive Fic
I just dashed this tiny fic off on impulse. BDSM, nothing too intense.
Naughty and Nice
The snowball in Sir’s face was a mistake. By which I mean I made one throwing it, not that my aim was off. From the second it left my hand, I knew it, and by the time he’s cleaned his glasses of ice fragments, I'm sure of it.
My ass is toast. Except we’re in the middle of the woods, the temperature’s below zero, and Sir’s never been one for public punishments.
He sits down on a tree stump and beckons me over.
Shit. I apologize, sinking to my knees in the white stuff, penitent, sincere, even working up a catch to my voice plaintive enough to make the angels cry, but he arches his eyebrows and shakes his head.
I’m over his knee in a twinkling, jeans down, my ass bared to the frigid breeze. Something tells me it won’t stay cold for long.
He starts with his hand, a smarting sting spreading across each cheek as he lectures me on respect and consideration. I wriggle, I squirm, I sob, but his hand, snug in a leather glove, is relentless.
Then he pauses. I suck in a breath and hope for a Christmas miracle, but I’m out of luck. He reaches out and snaps off a holly branch, each glossy leaf prickly as fuck, making sure I can see it.
“Sir…”
“Shush. I’m feeling festive,” he tells me and proceeds to whip me with the branch until my ass has to be the color of the berries and the sharp points on the leaves are blunt. It hurts. The leaves scrape skin, clawing patterns in flesh, and the branch is sturdy. I close my eyes and my sobs are genuine now, harsh sounds spurting from me, my cock hardening in a helpless surge.
He flips me over and stares down at me, his expression remote. Hate seeing him like that. Angry’s awful, but when he pulls away – I arch my hips, imploringly, then glance at the holly, making sure he knows what I’m begging for.
His face softens, a flash of amusement breaking through the ice, and I’m forgiven.
He still whips my cock with the holly for longer than I wish he would, plucking off a single leaf to torment my balls with. He's imaginative and intent on his task, frowning as if my frantic yelps are a distraction, not a turn on.
Then he pushes me off his lap, letting me cool my bare and burning ass in the snow, my tormented cock a stinging, throbbing reminder of my mistake. Zipping my jeans is going to be challenging.
"Time to go home. Let's finish this, boy." He takes a sprig of mistletoe he found at the entrance to the woods out of his jacket pocket and dangles it low, white berries like pearls.
I lick through a crust of icy snow, tasteless, empty, to the leather of his boot and kiss it fervently. I won’t get to come tonight, and he’ll tighten his grip on me until he’s sure I’ve learned my lesson.
It’s okay. Mercy and kindness were never on my wish list. Just him.
Naughty and Nice
The snowball in Sir’s face was a mistake. By which I mean I made one throwing it, not that my aim was off. From the second it left my hand, I knew it, and by the time he’s cleaned his glasses of ice fragments, I'm sure of it.
My ass is toast. Except we’re in the middle of the woods, the temperature’s below zero, and Sir’s never been one for public punishments.
He sits down on a tree stump and beckons me over.
Shit. I apologize, sinking to my knees in the white stuff, penitent, sincere, even working up a catch to my voice plaintive enough to make the angels cry, but he arches his eyebrows and shakes his head.
I’m over his knee in a twinkling, jeans down, my ass bared to the frigid breeze. Something tells me it won’t stay cold for long.
He starts with his hand, a smarting sting spreading across each cheek as he lectures me on respect and consideration. I wriggle, I squirm, I sob, but his hand, snug in a leather glove, is relentless.
Then he pauses. I suck in a breath and hope for a Christmas miracle, but I’m out of luck. He reaches out and snaps off a holly branch, each glossy leaf prickly as fuck, making sure I can see it.
“Sir…”
“Shush. I’m feeling festive,” he tells me and proceeds to whip me with the branch until my ass has to be the color of the berries and the sharp points on the leaves are blunt. It hurts. The leaves scrape skin, clawing patterns in flesh, and the branch is sturdy. I close my eyes and my sobs are genuine now, harsh sounds spurting from me, my cock hardening in a helpless surge.
He flips me over and stares down at me, his expression remote. Hate seeing him like that. Angry’s awful, but when he pulls away – I arch my hips, imploringly, then glance at the holly, making sure he knows what I’m begging for.
His face softens, a flash of amusement breaking through the ice, and I’m forgiven.
He still whips my cock with the holly for longer than I wish he would, plucking off a single leaf to torment my balls with. He's imaginative and intent on his task, frowning as if my frantic yelps are a distraction, not a turn on.
Then he pushes me off his lap, letting me cool my bare and burning ass in the snow, my tormented cock a stinging, throbbing reminder of my mistake. Zipping my jeans is going to be challenging.
"Time to go home. Let's finish this, boy." He takes a sprig of mistletoe he found at the entrance to the woods out of his jacket pocket and dangles it low, white berries like pearls.
I lick through a crust of icy snow, tasteless, empty, to the leather of his boot and kiss it fervently. I won’t get to come tonight, and he’ll tighten his grip on me until he’s sure I’ve learned my lesson.
It’s okay. Mercy and kindness were never on my wish list. Just him.
December 15, 2015
Parade Rest
This is another short fic I did years back, this time Stargate SG-1. It has three shifting POVs, because I was experimenting with the effect of Sam's entry, seeing it as a bullet pinging off the walls.
It was inspired by the description of the 'parade rest' position because looked at one way, it's kinky as hell. And I love the idea of kink on display with no one realizing it's going but the people involved. Slow simmer time.
Parade Rest
Parade rest is commanded only from the position of attention. The command for this movement is Parade, REST. On the command of execution REST, move the left foot about 10 inches to the left of the right foot. Keep the legs straight without locking the knees, resting the weight of the body equally on the heels and balls of the feet. Simultaneously, place the hands at the small of the back and centered on the belt. Keep the fingers of both hands extended and joined, interlocking the thumbs so that the palm of the right hand is outward. Keep the head and eyes as in the position of attention. Remain silent and do not move unless otherwise directed. Stand at ease, at ease, and rest may be executed from this position.
When Sam walks in, her gaze goes from Daniel, at his desk, reading, to Cameron, who's standing by the wall, eyes front, hands behind his back. As she steps through the doorway, Cameron's gaze flickers toward her and then he leans back, the sole of one boot braced against the wall, his arms folded across his chest.
Somehow, that casual pose looks as careful as parade rest had been.
The silence in the room is as thick as dust and she disturbs it with her greeting. It flies apart, gold motes sparkling, glittering, choking her.
She smiles awkwardly, puzzled, and gives Daniel the report he wanted --
--- receiving a perfectly normal thank you in return because Daniel's control is never directed solely at Cameron.
Cameron. Out of reach, deliberately so, separated from Daniel by insubstantial air and a video camera silently watching.
And obeying Daniel in a way that makes Daniel hard, hungry, cruel and grateful, the emotions a roiling turbulence under his skin, an itch he won't let himself claw at.
He's not sure what Cameron has been feeling this past thirty minutes, commanded to silence, commanded to hold that innocuous position unless they're interrupted, and with a second dictated, mandated position to use if they are. Because he'll take risks with Cameron, that leave them both hurting and once, just once, Daniel screaming, (never again, no, they won't do that again -- they won't --) but he won't ask Cameron to risk exposure.
Not that kind anyway.
And it doesn't matter that Cameron had to move when he'd been looking so good like that, his eyes empty of everything but the need to be perfect for Daniel, perfect, because Daniel loves seeing Cameron move, rangy muscles flexing smoothly, and it's not like Cameron broke position, after all --
-- Cameron's not sure if he hates Sam for walking in or wants to buy her flowers to say thank you. Thirty minutes -- that’s nothing. He's stood on parade grounds, full kit, sweating or freezing for hours and the authority governing his obedience then -- and now -- was real enough.
But this is different. This is Daniel and it's personal.
Daniel's bored; hell, they all are; off-world missions suspended while Woolsey and his team perform some kind of evaluation. There's a whole lot of work to be done through the 'gate and he's itching to get on with it, his temper fraying with each interview. Woolsey examines the tip of his pen one more time before jotting down a note and Cameron thinks he might stab Woolsey with it, just to see if the man bleeds ink.
Daniel's bored, but he's not blind, and this is his way of keeping Cameron out of trouble.
The side-effect of making Cameron so fucking aroused every breath he takes makes his uniform scratch a caress against sensitized skin (this morning Daniel fucked him, bit his nipples raw, sucked his balls until they were swollen tender, watched him dress and wince, and smiled) is a bonus for both of them.
Cameron doesn't feel like a man who came his brains out six hours ago. He feels like a man desperate enough to beg, and it's not often Daniel gets that from him, for all the games they play.
Daniel (civilian, still, always) can't understand why Cameron's mouth finds some words hard to shape (words, just words, speak them, babble them, buy yourself some time; that's what Daniel does and it's a surrender Cameron can't -- quite --) when Cameron will willingly let it shape the irregular circle that fits the shape of Daniel's cock or one finger, two, or a crooked, delving thumb playing with the lick and lap of his tongue.
Cameron forgives him that lacuna because it's Daniel --
-- Sam leaves, not noticing that Cameron hasn't spoken --
-- Daniel turns his attention (some of it) back to his book --
-- Cameron returns to parade rest.
And the silence settles back, thick as dust.
It was inspired by the description of the 'parade rest' position because looked at one way, it's kinky as hell. And I love the idea of kink on display with no one realizing it's going but the people involved. Slow simmer time.
Parade Rest
Parade rest is commanded only from the position of attention. The command for this movement is Parade, REST. On the command of execution REST, move the left foot about 10 inches to the left of the right foot. Keep the legs straight without locking the knees, resting the weight of the body equally on the heels and balls of the feet. Simultaneously, place the hands at the small of the back and centered on the belt. Keep the fingers of both hands extended and joined, interlocking the thumbs so that the palm of the right hand is outward. Keep the head and eyes as in the position of attention. Remain silent and do not move unless otherwise directed. Stand at ease, at ease, and rest may be executed from this position.
When Sam walks in, her gaze goes from Daniel, at his desk, reading, to Cameron, who's standing by the wall, eyes front, hands behind his back. As she steps through the doorway, Cameron's gaze flickers toward her and then he leans back, the sole of one boot braced against the wall, his arms folded across his chest.
Somehow, that casual pose looks as careful as parade rest had been.
The silence in the room is as thick as dust and she disturbs it with her greeting. It flies apart, gold motes sparkling, glittering, choking her.
She smiles awkwardly, puzzled, and gives Daniel the report he wanted --
--- receiving a perfectly normal thank you in return because Daniel's control is never directed solely at Cameron.
Cameron. Out of reach, deliberately so, separated from Daniel by insubstantial air and a video camera silently watching.
And obeying Daniel in a way that makes Daniel hard, hungry, cruel and grateful, the emotions a roiling turbulence under his skin, an itch he won't let himself claw at.
He's not sure what Cameron has been feeling this past thirty minutes, commanded to silence, commanded to hold that innocuous position unless they're interrupted, and with a second dictated, mandated position to use if they are. Because he'll take risks with Cameron, that leave them both hurting and once, just once, Daniel screaming, (never again, no, they won't do that again -- they won't --) but he won't ask Cameron to risk exposure.
Not that kind anyway.
And it doesn't matter that Cameron had to move when he'd been looking so good like that, his eyes empty of everything but the need to be perfect for Daniel, perfect, because Daniel loves seeing Cameron move, rangy muscles flexing smoothly, and it's not like Cameron broke position, after all --
-- Cameron's not sure if he hates Sam for walking in or wants to buy her flowers to say thank you. Thirty minutes -- that’s nothing. He's stood on parade grounds, full kit, sweating or freezing for hours and the authority governing his obedience then -- and now -- was real enough.
But this is different. This is Daniel and it's personal.
Daniel's bored; hell, they all are; off-world missions suspended while Woolsey and his team perform some kind of evaluation. There's a whole lot of work to be done through the 'gate and he's itching to get on with it, his temper fraying with each interview. Woolsey examines the tip of his pen one more time before jotting down a note and Cameron thinks he might stab Woolsey with it, just to see if the man bleeds ink.
Daniel's bored, but he's not blind, and this is his way of keeping Cameron out of trouble.
The side-effect of making Cameron so fucking aroused every breath he takes makes his uniform scratch a caress against sensitized skin (this morning Daniel fucked him, bit his nipples raw, sucked his balls until they were swollen tender, watched him dress and wince, and smiled) is a bonus for both of them.
Cameron doesn't feel like a man who came his brains out six hours ago. He feels like a man desperate enough to beg, and it's not often Daniel gets that from him, for all the games they play.
Daniel (civilian, still, always) can't understand why Cameron's mouth finds some words hard to shape (words, just words, speak them, babble them, buy yourself some time; that's what Daniel does and it's a surrender Cameron can't -- quite --) when Cameron will willingly let it shape the irregular circle that fits the shape of Daniel's cock or one finger, two, or a crooked, delving thumb playing with the lick and lap of his tongue.
Cameron forgives him that lacuna because it's Daniel --
-- Sam leaves, not noticing that Cameron hasn't spoken --
-- Daniel turns his attention (some of it) back to his book --
-- Cameron returns to parade rest.
And the silence settles back, thick as dust.
December 7, 2015
The Square Peg series
Blown away by the great reviews for The Final Round; so happy people are enjoying it.
Just wanted to say that despite the title, this isn't necessarily the end of the series. We love these guys and the Peg and there is one more story we want to do at least. If you've read the book, you can probably guess what it will be about :-)
2015 has been a busy writing year; three books and a novella. I've slacked off a bit recently, but I'm working on a solo novel and I hope 2016 ends up being productive. Alexa and I have a novella in the Laying a Ghost series coming out in January so that's a start.
Just wanted to say that despite the title, this isn't necessarily the end of the series. We love these guys and the Peg and there is one more story we want to do at least. If you've read the book, you can probably guess what it will be about :-)
2015 has been a busy writing year; three books and a novella. I've slacked off a bit recently, but I'm working on a solo novel and I hope 2016 ends up being productive. Alexa and I have a novella in the Laying a Ghost series coming out in January so that's a start.
December 3, 2015
Come to Heel
This is a short based on a photo of guys wearing high heels and nothing else (mmm...) that I wrote for Boy Meets Boy Reviews a few weeks back.
Come to Heel
“I can’t walk in them.”
“I can’t walk in them, Sir.”
The correction’s accompanied by a stinging slash from the switch that lands across my calves. Ow fucking ouch. I have a fondness for that skinny little sucker when it’s used on my fellow sub. Watching Andy’s butt become a living tic-tac-toe board leaves my balls tight and my inner sadist drooling.
What, I can’t be a sub and a sadist? Sorry, didn’t get that memo. Or it’s filed in the drawer marked, ‘Oh really? Now fuck off’.
Used on me, though, and I’m tempted to snap the switch in half and take what I get by way of punishment with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.
Okay, maybe not the song. Sir would make damn sure I was too busy screaming for mercy, forgiveness, and shit like that to focus on a tune.
I wriggle my toes. They’re pushed into a triangular space. Toes aren’t made to do that. It hurts. And my calves are a tight, taut stretch of flesh because I’m in four-inch fuck me heels and the angle and tilt – you have no idea unless you’ve worn them.
They’re all I’m wearing. Not even a cock ring. Classic black pumps, the Italian leather as soft as a sigh, needle-sharp heels making my muscular legs look elegant as a racehorse’s.
I stare in the long mirror. Yeah. Gorgeous. I can see it and Sir likes the view too, judging by the bulge in his pants. I preen a little, but I can’t do what he wants. I tried. I tottered. Staggered. Shuffled. Wearing heels, I’m as graceful as a toddler and I hate it. Hate disappointing him.
Tears. Fuck. He draws blood before he gets them usually and now they’re spilling out.
“Ssh.” He rests his hand on the back of my neck, clamping down. “I didn’t say you could cry. You haven’t failed me yet, but if I hear you tell me you can’t one more time, I’ll make you Andrew’s sub for a week.”
I hiss out a breath. No. Kneel to that cocky little shit who thinks he’s got a better ass than mine? Never.
“Again.” Sir caresses my cock, waking it to hardness after failure’s left it limp, working it with cool efficiency. “Maybe this will help your balance.”
Oddly, it does. Cock jutting, I throw back my shoulders, do the whole deep breath, focus bit and set off across the room, heels tapping on the wooden floor. God, my ass must look incredible. I throw in a sassy hip wiggle and get the switch again, catching the top of my thighs and leaving behind a sear and sizzle of pain.
I yelp and he clicks his tongue reprovingly.
“Is that how you’d normally walk? I don’t think so. These are what you’ll be wearing from now on, Tony. I like them on you. Get used to them and walk naturally, please.”
“Sir?” He can’t mean it.
“Oh, don’t worry.” He chuckles. “I got them in more colors than black.”
Really wasn’t what I was worried about.
Come to Heel
“I can’t walk in them.”
“I can’t walk in them, Sir.”
The correction’s accompanied by a stinging slash from the switch that lands across my calves. Ow fucking ouch. I have a fondness for that skinny little sucker when it’s used on my fellow sub. Watching Andy’s butt become a living tic-tac-toe board leaves my balls tight and my inner sadist drooling.
What, I can’t be a sub and a sadist? Sorry, didn’t get that memo. Or it’s filed in the drawer marked, ‘Oh really? Now fuck off’.
Used on me, though, and I’m tempted to snap the switch in half and take what I get by way of punishment with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.
Okay, maybe not the song. Sir would make damn sure I was too busy screaming for mercy, forgiveness, and shit like that to focus on a tune.
I wriggle my toes. They’re pushed into a triangular space. Toes aren’t made to do that. It hurts. And my calves are a tight, taut stretch of flesh because I’m in four-inch fuck me heels and the angle and tilt – you have no idea unless you’ve worn them.
They’re all I’m wearing. Not even a cock ring. Classic black pumps, the Italian leather as soft as a sigh, needle-sharp heels making my muscular legs look elegant as a racehorse’s.
I stare in the long mirror. Yeah. Gorgeous. I can see it and Sir likes the view too, judging by the bulge in his pants. I preen a little, but I can’t do what he wants. I tried. I tottered. Staggered. Shuffled. Wearing heels, I’m as graceful as a toddler and I hate it. Hate disappointing him.
Tears. Fuck. He draws blood before he gets them usually and now they’re spilling out.
“Ssh.” He rests his hand on the back of my neck, clamping down. “I didn’t say you could cry. You haven’t failed me yet, but if I hear you tell me you can’t one more time, I’ll make you Andrew’s sub for a week.”
I hiss out a breath. No. Kneel to that cocky little shit who thinks he’s got a better ass than mine? Never.
“Again.” Sir caresses my cock, waking it to hardness after failure’s left it limp, working it with cool efficiency. “Maybe this will help your balance.”
Oddly, it does. Cock jutting, I throw back my shoulders, do the whole deep breath, focus bit and set off across the room, heels tapping on the wooden floor. God, my ass must look incredible. I throw in a sassy hip wiggle and get the switch again, catching the top of my thighs and leaving behind a sear and sizzle of pain.
I yelp and he clicks his tongue reprovingly.
“Is that how you’d normally walk? I don’t think so. These are what you’ll be wearing from now on, Tony. I like them on you. Get used to them and walk naturally, please.”
“Sir?” He can’t mean it.
“Oh, don’t worry.” He chuckles. “I got them in more colors than black.”
Really wasn’t what I was worried about.
November 29, 2015
Empty Box
The Empty Box is Deal of the Day at All Romance. Get it 50% off with any purchase!
http://bit.ly/1PR7AJ0
http://bit.ly/1PR7AJ0
November 26, 2015
Ben and Shane limerick
Did I post this once before? Well, with a new Ben and Shane book,The Final Round just out, why not post it again?
There once was a Scouser named Shane
Who got off on whips, cuffs, and chains
He fell hard for Ben
A Dom among men
Whose motto is no pain no gain
There once was a Scouser named Shane
Who got off on whips, cuffs, and chains
He fell hard for Ben
A Dom among men
Whose motto is no pain no gain
November 19, 2015
The Final Round Giveaway
To celebrate the release of The Final Round I'm giving away a copy to the person who guesses what chapter this quotation comes from.
To help out, I'll tell you there are twenty chapters in the book.
“God.” Benedict was breathing heavily, and he’d got a hand up under Shane’s shirt at the small of his back. “Sometimes I can’t believe you’re mine.”
“Well, I am. All yours.” When had the sharp edge of lust been tempered by love? He knew there’d been a time when they first met that he hadn’t loved Benedict, only wanted him, but it seemed difficult to believe now.
Competition will run until midnight Saturday and I'll draw the name from a hat if there's more than one correct answer.
One guess per person!
To help out, I'll tell you there are twenty chapters in the book.
“God.” Benedict was breathing heavily, and he’d got a hand up under Shane’s shirt at the small of his back. “Sometimes I can’t believe you’re mine.”
“Well, I am. All yours.” When had the sharp edge of lust been tempered by love? He knew there’d been a time when they first met that he hadn’t loved Benedict, only wanted him, but it seemed difficult to believe now.
Competition will run until midnight Saturday and I'll draw the name from a hat if there's more than one correct answer.
One guess per person!
November 17, 2015
The Final Round is out now!
New Book Day; always so exciting!
The Final Round, book four in the Square Peg series, is now available from Loose Id. and Amazon
Alexa and I loved getting back to Shane and Benedict and we might have a novella about them in the works too. If you read The Final Round you should be able to guess what it covers.
We hope you enjoy the latest visit to The Square peg.
Cheers!
Reeling from the news of his mother's death, Shane heads back to England to face a hostile father. Benedict's with him every step of the way, providing a shoulder to cry on and an escape from sorrow by way of their increasingly powerful and intense scenes.
Grieving and guilty, seeking a reconciliation with his father, Shane makes a hasty decision that brings him peace of mind, but at a heavy cost to his relationship with the man he loves. Is it time to call it quits or time to grow closer still? In the wake of his loss, Shane finds that question doesn’t have a simple answer -- but questions of the heart never do.
The Final Round, book four in the Square Peg series, is now available from Loose Id. and Amazon
Alexa and I loved getting back to Shane and Benedict and we might have a novella about them in the works too. If you read The Final Round you should be able to guess what it covers.
We hope you enjoy the latest visit to The Square peg.
Cheers!
Reeling from the news of his mother's death, Shane heads back to England to face a hostile father. Benedict's with him every step of the way, providing a shoulder to cry on and an escape from sorrow by way of their increasingly powerful and intense scenes.
Grieving and guilty, seeking a reconciliation with his father, Shane makes a hasty decision that brings him peace of mind, but at a heavy cost to his relationship with the man he loves. Is it time to call it quits or time to grow closer still? In the wake of his loss, Shane finds that question doesn’t have a simple answer -- but questions of the heart never do.
Jane Davitt's Blog
- Jane Davitt's profile
- 480 followers
Jane Davitt isn't a Goodreads Author
(yet),
but they
do have a blog,
so here are some recent posts imported from
their feed.
