Happy New Year and New Release!
Here’s to hoping everyone out there had a fabulous New Year’s Eve and are waking up to a wonderful new day. 🙂 For me, it’s incredibly cold here in Kansas with a little bit of white on the ground, but not so much on the roads. So long as I’m not stranded at home (a little known trivia fact: My husband doesn’t let me drive in snow), I don’t care how much snow is on the grass. Anyway, Happy New Year, everybody!
To celebrate mine, the hubby and I went to a party at our local BDSM club and we beat the New Year in in proper style. I am not sitting down today, but that’s another blog post completely. Being one of the administrators there, I was so busy doing prep for the party that I completely forgot I HAD A NEW BOOK RELEASE YESTERDAY!!! I’ve been waiting for this book to come out (it feels like) forever!
When a freak snow storm threatens to cut off the already remote community of Corbin’s Bend from the rest of the world, the residents scramble to get enough emergency supplies from neighboring towns before the mountain roads are closed. It’s sheer luck of the draw that force Ettie and Vance into the same car together. The only problem is, they can’t stand one another. She’s a submissive who hasn’t been spanked in four very long years (four years, seven months, thirteen days…not that she was counting). He’s the resident paddle and strap maker, a man known to answer the call of needy submissives everywhere. In his workshop at home, Vance has every implement he’d ever need to win a war like this. In a car in the middle of nowhere with the storm of the century bearing down upon them…who will win this particular battle was anybody’s guess.
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How about a sample of the story? 🙂 Here’s Chapter One:
It’s another beautiful day in Corbin’s Bend, Ettie wrote, if, by ‘beautiful’, one considers 20-degrees balmy, shorts-wearing weather. I do not. It’s flipping cold.
Leaning back from her computer, Ettie stretched her arms and then her back, all the while re-reading what she’d done so far. How long had she been at it today? Five hours, maybe six? It wasn’t even noon yet, and already she was hard at work on her third cup of coffee and her fifth article of the morning. Two beagle-mix pups squabbled ferociously over who was going to kill the purple pom-pom on the hat at her feet. Another was pulling at her shoelaces. In less than two days, her paper (All the News – That is News in Corbin’s Bend!) was scheduled to hit the printer and distribution. Well, okay…the printer was actually her printer, and she had a grand total of fifty-seven subscribers, but every paper started somewhere. If Corbin’s Bend was ever to hold its collective head high among the other small towns that dotted the highways between Boulder and Denver, then by golly, it had to have some form of media coverage. Ettie was determined to be it.
Culture. Practically from the moment she had moved in, that was what Ettie had brought to this small community. For some of them, it was on a ‘whether they liked it or not’ basis, but she brought them culture anyway.
Or gossip, as Brent Carmichael, the community leader, liked to call it. Well, he could be forgiven for that. He wasn’t a steady subscriber after all, so he probably hadn’t read all those articles that showed the true range of Ettie’s journalistic talents.
Rag mag, Marcus Devon liked to call her paper. He could probably be forgiven too. Busy as he was—what with a new wife, three boys and a new baby on the way, not to mention a thriving practice as the only doctor in town—she’d be seriously surprised if he had enough time in any one day to read his own prescriptions, much less her humble paper. Still, ‘rag mag’ hurt, so who could blame her really if, upon the very rare occasion, she retaliated with an article or two about him?
Menace to polite society, Vance Foster, her neighbor across the street was often reported as having said, referring not just to her paper, but to her as well!
As if he could talk.
Against her will, Ettie’s gaze drifted toward the window. From her desk, she could see him working. Vance Foster, all six-feet-four chiseled inches of him. His garage door was wide open (as usual) and his music blaring so loud that she could practically hear what was being sung word for flippin’ word. He had his shirt off (20 degrees!), showing off his powerful physique as if anyone in their right mind cared to watch; she glared. He was welding today. She hoped he fried his nipples off.
Stealing another sip of coffee, Ettie opened up a new file and typed in her next headliner:
Tragic Accident Disfigures Local Resident.
While creating new chains with which to decorate his draconian home dungeon, local craftsman and owner/operator of W&C Leather and Chainmail—better known to some of the more desperate of Corbin’s Bend’s female residents as Have Paddle, Will Travel—Vance Foster fumbled his blowtorch and suffered a hideous disfigurement.
“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” one neighbor is reported to have said.
His nipples are scheduled to be buried in Blodgett Cemetery at noon this coming Saturday. In lieu of flowers, please make donations to the Corbin’s Bend Nipple Rehabilitation Center.
That might be a little over the top, but Ettie could hardly be blamed. Vance Foster was a total man-slut. A horn dog. The absolute scourge on what was otherwise a very nice little spanking community.
Pushing her glasses up higher on her nose, her gaze drifted across the street again, pulled as if against her will toward the ripple of all those military trim muscles. Dark hair, gorgeous brown eyes. The man barely bothered to shave, as if he knew just how disgustingly well he rocked that scruffy facial-hair look. And if he did know, then that was just one more strike against him, because that right there was arrogance!
“Oh, here we go,” she muttered, completely unimpressed. Trying to get a closer look, she got up from her computer, tripping over puppies and dragging all three by their teeth and her shoelaces as far as the window. He couldn’t possibly see her from this far away even if he should happen to glance her way, but Ettie still hid herself behind the floor-length curtains.
No longer working, Vance held his cellphone pressed to his ear while making notes in that little black book he carried in his front shirt pocket.
“Booty call,” she said, disgusted. Who was it this time? Not that it mattered to her which misguided woman in this community felt she had no other choice but to illicit that gigolo’s services. Have Paddle, Will Travel—ha! For all that everyone called him that behind his back, he ought to have a plaque advertising that service in his front yard.
She folded her arms across her chest, heartily offended on behalf of all his ‘clients’. Brent should have tossed the man out on his ear the very first time Vance handed out one of his ‘special’ visits. The leatherworking…okay, she could see a need for that. He made very nice— and by all accounts lethal—paddles and straps. The chainmail, she could even see that usefulness. More than one community member delved further into the kinkier realms of BDSM than she did, some preferring master and submissive relationships over that of domestic discipline. But that was okay, too. Different strokes (no pun intended) and all that. But still, a person would have to be blind not to see how offensive that was.
Spank-happy Cassanova. Blight of the neighborhood. One rung up from amoeba on the man-slut scale.
Not that she knew him well enough to make any moral judgments. He’d lived across the street from her for years now, and from the moment she’d found out what his hobbies entailed, she’d not said more than a handful of words to him in all that time. Most days, he worked in his garage. Most nights, he took his phone calls, right out in the open where anybody could spy on…er, watch him. And then he’d shoot his tight little ass out the door, hop in his spank mobile and head out to whatever booty craved his undivided attention. What kind of person did that?
Ettie folded her arms across her chest, frowning and trying hard to pretend as if her own bottom wasn’t tingling with the deeply ingrained need to suffer a little of that kind of attention. As if she’d ever let a man like Vance and one of his grungy garage-made paddles anywhere near her butt. What self-respecting woman would?
A desperate one, that’s what. If forced to be honest, Ettie did understand that kind of desperation. How long had it been (four years, seven months, thirteen days…not that she was counting) since her last spanking? Oh yes, Ettie understood desperation. But she wasn’t that desperate. She’d never be that desperate.
There he went, hanging up his phone and shutting up his garage before heading inside, all long legs, lean hips and lazy sauntering steps. Six-pack abs leading the way, and that gorgeous butt of his rocking those worn denim jeans…oops!
When Vance glanced her way, Ettie flattened herself to the wall. She held her breath, trying not to move (apart from a few involuntary jerks) while the puppies at her feet did their rambunctious best to eat her right out of her shoes. It was a long minute or two before she dared look back out the window. By then, Vance had vanished into his house.
No, she’d never be as so desperate as to call a man like that. Somebody had to stand up in defense of those who were.
A corner of her mouth curled into a smug little smile and she went back to her computer. Flipping over to the For Sale or Trade section, she whipped up a new ad: Fully furnished Spank Mobile! New whips! New Chains! Blood completely scrubbed out of the back! Take your fun on the road. Multiple compartments hold all necessary tools of the trade, including one extra-long drawer in the back. Perfect for housing all the shovels you’ll ever need to bury the bodies when fun-time is done! Only 70k highway miles and priced to sell!
She snickered. It had been a while since she last sold the Spank Mobile, as she liked to term his work vehicle. Truck, really—a massive extended cab pickup with a shell topper on the back. She’d never seen the inside, but the exterior was lined with doors and drawers and had cubbyholes all over it. Except for the deep blue paint job, it reminded her a lot of the Schwann’s truck that came through the neighborhood twice a month, every month. Only instead of ‘Schwann’s’ in big bold letters, Vance’s vehicle read: ‘W&C. Custom Fit! Special Orders! For All Your Leather and Chainmail Needs.’
Ettie would willingly bet three months’ pay there were chains hanging from the walls inside the back of that truck. It might look like a work truck on the outside, but she was not at all fooled by his mild-mannered Clark Kent like every day display. Oh no. The entire interior of that truck just had to be decked out in full-blown serial killer décor. She just knew it. And still that man scored phone call after phone call from women all over Corbin’s Bend.
Maybe she should call him, whispered a traitorous voice inside her head.
As if! She had principles, damn it! And pride! And no matter how hard up she was or how long it had been since her last spanking, she would never—ever—stoop to calling someone like Vance for help.
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Thank you so much for visiting and have a happy, wonderful, safe, sane and consensual New Year!