It is powerful obsessions like Spanking that are the core focus of my erotic writing. Each novel is a new a journey for me, a place where I open doors to possibilities that slip through my fantasies like rainwater seeping into the earth. I think of eroticism as elemental, a force of nature as natural to us as breathing and survival...and obsessions like Spanking, quirky as they seem to the more conventional, that drive passion and give life fun, meaning, mystery and all sorts of amazing experiences. Fire Under Glass was always one of my reader's favorite spanking novels... and here's an excerpt from the beginning... hope it's one you enjoy.
From Fire Under Glass
Setting the stage…Gail Henry spent several years married to Prof. Rossi, living in a world where spanking discipline took place daily, ritual sex was common, and being given to other men was expected. Though free of Rossi now, she remains haunted by her spanking desires. When she crash lands on a city sidewalk, she’s rescued by KC Gable, a “hip looking actor/biker/all around unusual person.” He has her sexual quandary figured from the start. He mentions quirky sex and spanking and she knows exactly what she wants again…
I really liked his gentle wit, the bold eyes, and beyond his obvious physique, his hands. I probably stared at them too long but I was fascinated by their strength. They were thoroughly masculine, and my imagination was inspired to take a few interesting flights of fancy wondering how they would feel on my flesh. “So, what do you see in my mind beyond the obvious,” I asked, while we were sitting together in the diner. It was an almost flippant question, which revealed much more than I expected.
“You know I haven’t a clue about you, or anyone,” he sniggered, “I make up stories. Some probably hit the mark while others are so far-fetched they’re laughable.”
“So what would you say is inside my mind?”
“Honestly? I imagine you a sexual maverick inside your perfect apartment—a seething lioness underneath that staid librarian exterior.” (Ooo, that bit!) “You like certain crudities but you don’t tell your lovers what they are because they would shock them.” (How could he get this close to the truth without knowing me?)
“What kinds of crudities?” I asked.
“Oh, spanking, maybe bondage, perhaps, a fascination for leather—but then that might just be me. I love leather.”
I was sure he did. The leather jacket at his side was expensive and well worn. But spanking? Why would he say that? This conversation was suddenly making my clothes itch and my skin hot.
“I think you’re scared of what’s inside, and that’s the kind of material we put in our plays. For a lot of people it’s their crazy emotions—but I don’t see you as an emotional person, not in the crazy sense.”
“But I’m crazy about sex…?” I tried to joke as I said it.
“Hummm… maybe not crazy, just pent-up because you don’t get everything you need. I’d see your mind being very quirky.”
“But why would you mention spanking? That seems kind of odd.” I hoped he didn’t know the wild panic that suddenly grabbed my stomach and twisted it like a screw.
“Just came to mind.”
“You ever spank a woman?” I made myself ask.
“For what reason?”
“Mostly for sex, and occasionally because they deserved it. Spanking was the simplest way of dealing with their neuroses. Some women need the discipline.”
That word—discipline—made me quake as much as the mention of spanking.
“You think women are neurotic?” I tried to squelch my rising feelings and sound sane.
“Not all, but the interesting ones are,” he replied simply.
“My, you are quite a find.”
“I think so. But then, I really don’t know what to think about you.”
“Maybe as a friend would be okay.”
That was enough for one day…
I found him in his experimental black-box theatre. I might as well say I was driven there…
“You mentioned something when we were having coffee at McGill’s.” I was struggling here but I would get it out. I had to or I’d look foolish.
“I mentioned quite a few things when we talked.”
“This was about sex, quirky sex I think you said. And you were right.” I paused waiting for him to do anything that would stop me from proceeding, but he remained so openly benign—even gentle, as though his acceptance had the power to nurture me through my difficult confession. I would say his attitude was persuasively fatherly, although I could not relate this feeling to any experience with my own father. “You even mentioned spanking and discipline,” I almost choked on the words.
KC saw me start to stammer and he didn’t waver in his constancy. But he did ask, “Do you want to sit down, and we’ll talk?”
Yes, I did. It would easier on my jelly-filled thighs. Either that or I’d be running from the room, and then I’d look really stupid. “Why not?” I replied.
We were already at the side of the room. His arm at the back of my waist had gently guided me there, while the other pulled a chair from the cluttered stack. I sat on the chair; he sat on one end of a riser a foot above me, his legs dangling down, his mood as friendly and casual as it had been. I was still feeling like a confessing a child to this younger man’s fatherly calm.
I didn’t find this any easier sitting on my ass, but I no longer felt as though I might panic or, without warning, my legs would buckle under my weight.
“Whether it was an accident or your powers of intuition were particularly acute that day, you managed to hit squarely on two sort of sexually charged desires that have been with me for some time. If anything drove me here, KC, it was the desire to feel a man’s hand spanking my bottom. Am I a total fool to bring this up to you, or can you…” Suddenly feeling so foolish confessing this deep, dark secret to a near stranger, I couldn’t go on. Let him say something.
I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t blurt out something totally, inanely juvenile, which would destroy the fantasy mood that was operating in my body right now. KC didn’t fail me.
“Can I, and will I spank you?” he asked. And then, without making me reply, he went on, “I’m sure I can. We have an amazing erotic thing going on here, Gail. I haven’t had anything like this happen in a long time.”
Just his saying this made me shudder more, so profoundly, I wasn’t sure I could speak.
“It frightens you, doesn’t it?” His eyes seemed to clutch at mine as he spoke. “The desire has to be pretty powerful for a woman who never does anything inappropriate in her life to walk into a bizarre theatre and broach this subject with a stranger.”
“Then, you don’t think I’m some sort of wacko?” It was a relief that he understood, but maybe even scarier to suddenly stumble into this unrequited desire after so many years.
“Maybe, but I’m use to wackos. I already told you that.”
“When you gave me your card, did you think I’d come to see you?”
“Truthfully, no. I did bait you—like one of my ongoing people experiments.”
“Because I like the way you look, and I’m always curious about people who don’t run in my circle. Your world is about as strange to me as my world is to you. Whether the two find a way to fit together, I don’t know. But I do know when I’m aroused.”
“And I arouse you?”
He was certain enough that I could feel the impact of his desire clawing at my crotch. My eyes were drawn to his thighs, the muscles, and the pouch of maleness that seemed to tent his pants even more as the conversation went on. I looked up almost embarrassed to have noticed.
“And it was just a regular sort of attraction? You didn’t psychically see me getting spanked or something like that?”
“Not really, maybe it was an intuitive guess, maybe just an accident. Does it matter?”
“No, I guess not.”
“But if getting spanked is what drew you to me, I have no problem with that. It excites me controlling women. Makes me a dangerous man and I like that too.” There was something devious in his expression that made my body flutter even more. “I like living incorrectly—outside the bounds of politics and feminism and anything that puts people in pigeonholes. People die that way, and I’m not planning to do that. I figure if it’s in your guts you need to live it out. That’s why I do theater. It gives the human animal a way to express what’s not sanctioned. Though sometimes, as long as no one gets hurt, real life is even better.”
I was following his logic moving to my own conclusion, “That’s why murder’s good on stage, and sexual things are better in the bedroom.”
He was impressed by my understanding and so was I. I knew exactly where this was headed. The door was open and I was walking inside a dream that might look like my past, though I stayed clear of that other entrance, and stuck to the now, to KC and me. We were occupying one single space, by then, knowing our minds were fused to the same picture, eroticism leaping on ahead of us, fantasy racing towards an end.
He pushed himself from the riser, and took my hand, pulling me to my feet. Exchanging places, his ass went down on the hardwood chair, while mine went over his lap. Every nerve in me jarred loose and my skin tingled as though he were blowing his breath across the surface. KC reached for the hem of my skirt—this one was not as short as the one I’d embarrassed myself in two weeks before. It was tight, though, and took some gentle tugging for him to raise it over my hips. That didn’t faze him. Each inch raised, my body fired again as though little rockets were going off inside me. With KC’s body fused to mine, and the heat from his crotch flooding my sex, I thought I’d get off before my ass was bared. He wouldn’t need to touch me more. But he did.
Having my skirt over my thighs, I waited at the ends of anticipation. I couldn’t have been baited more by any sexual scene. When his fingers caught the edge of my panties, and he jerked the fabric down my ass, I groaned caressing my pubis against his thigh. How obscene could I get? KC didn’t care. He didn’t stop either. When I would have been just as happy to have him screw me as spank my ass, he proceeded to the main event of our staged drama. Drawing back his hand, he whacked my behind with a firmness that brought back the past, and carved out new sexual territory for me. His slaps were steady. His unrelenting toughness unmatched. The sting was focused on the center of my cheeks, and though I couldn’t see, I felt the surface turning red, and wondered if he could blister me with just his hand.
Agony mounting, I struggled; but KC’s arm around my waist kept me still enough so that he’d strike again in the same burning places—one more time, then one more time… then again, and one more time—until even he couldn’t stand another whack at my ass.
“You want more?” he asked when he stopped. His palm massaged the warmth while I writhed against him. When his fingers slipped between my slightly-parted thighs, I opened them as far as they would go with my ankles half-bound by my panties. “More, Gail?”
“Your hand, yes,” I managed to say.
He understood. Without really knowing how he maneuvered me into position, I soon found myself on my feet, my panties tossed aside, and my torso draped over the back of the chair. He was fucking me. The long stalk of an erection I’d managed to picture with some surprising accuracy was thrusting happily inside my cunt while I groaned and he responded with a throaty hum—all until his voice and body seemed to roar as he spewed thick cream into my clenched insides.
He was coming down from the wildest spasms of his climax, taking the time to reach around to my clit. He fingered the hard little bud, and when his cock finally slipped out of my hole, he fingered that, too, while his other hand slapped my ass. I orgasmed on the sensations of pain and being controlled. I orgasmed because my ass was hot and my pussy molten and grabbing for release. I have no idea how much I might have embarrassed myself with the nonsense screaming from my throat. But it didn’t bother KC, and he was the only one around to hear.
“You okay?” he finally asked.
I heard his voice. My mind had been somewhere other than in this room and it took some moments to find reality again.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“My, you are pent-up, Gail. How long has it been since you’ve had sex?”
“Two years since I’ve been with a man.”
He looked shocked and shook his head. “Good gawd, you need an orgy.”
I couldn’t have agreed more, though I was embarrassed to admit my current sexual deficiency.
I give KC credit, he was as kind coming out of the scene as he was going in. “You’re awfully wet, maybe you want to clean up?” he suggested as he stroked my face with the back of his hand.
“Yeah, sure,” I said rather dreamily.
“There’s going to be people coming soon, how about you slip into my apartment?”
He led me to the hall behind the far black wall, and into the tiny room and his private bathroom. “There are clean cloths and towels in the cabinet.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or happy. I desperately wanted to know what
he was feeling, but he was right, I was a mess.
With the theatre filling up, I thought I should slip out, but KC intercepted me at the front door.
“Why are you leaving without saying goodbye?” he leveled his objection tersely.
“You looked busy.”
“So, this is just fuck and run?”
“No, no, no, I thought that’s all you…”
“You thought wrong, Gail. I don’t screw every woman who walks in the theatre. I don’t do groupies, and I’m not the kind of man to fuck and run. Is that all you wanted?”
“I don’t know what I want, but this was just so…” my words ran dry, “astounding.”
“And being astounded is probably good for you. I want you to come back.” He looked sincerely worried.
“I don’t know if I can,” I said as if I were drifting. A sea of sensation swelled around me.
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, and I have to go—so do you.” I smiled and retreated to my Mercedes, feeling a tiny trickle of KC’s cum wet on the insides of my panties as my sore behind wiggled against the seat.
I knew I would return.
Fire Under Glass by Lizbeth Dusseau, (c) copyright 1999, all rights reserved.