Meeting Her Mate – And Her Match

“Hello.”

A deep voice emanated from the other side of the room. Lyra gasped and turned, noticing her companion for the first time.

It was a man. He was a good two feet taller than her and judging by his physique he was also a fighter. His shoulders were great bull-like rounds of muscle, his torso a ripple of muscles. She could not see below his waist due to his pants, but the breadth of them told her that the conditioning went all the way down. He was viscerally appealing in body. As he drew closer, she was able to see his face. He had a hard face, chin and jaw covered in just a little more than 5 o’clock shadow. His nose was flattened at the bridge, likely from being broken at some point, and his high cheek bones were marked with the faint stripes of scars. His hair was dark and tousled, his eyes a piercing pale blue even in that low light. Lyra felt her innards responding to him on a purely animal level. He was the first human, let alone first man she’d seen in many, many years.

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Rake,” he said, leaving the fireplace where he had been standing to come closer to her. He moved with an athletic prowl which completely transfixed her. “You’re Lyra,” he said as he came within arm’s length of her. “I’ve seen you fight.”

His tone indicated he wasn’t that impressed by her fighting. There was a slight curl to his lip as he said the word, as if he were putting invisible air quotes around the word. “Fight.”

Instantly on the defensive, Lyra moved back a little, not because she was afraid of him, but because she was going to need the range when she kicked him in the face. He closed the distance. She opened it again. He was much more intimidating up close. She could now see that much of his body was trammeled by scars, some quite thick and jagged. He had obviously seen a great deal of combat in his life, more than she had likely.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

“Remember you?” Lyra curled her lip up at him. “I’ve never met you before.”

“The night you were taken, you don’t remember someone else being there?”

She frowned. “I don’t… I don’t remember the night I was taken.”

He seemed disappointed to hear that, as if she’d failed some test she didn’t know she’d been taking.

“What are you doing?” She asked the question as he took yet another step toward her.

“You know why you’re here, don’t you?” He stopped for a moment. “They want us to breed.”

Shock made Lyra’s jaw drop. She stared at him blankly log enough for him to start smirking. A little tingling in her nether regions indicated that her body was not entirely against the idea, but her mind was overruling her baser impulses on this one. There was no way… there was just no way.

“Joke’s on them,” Lyra replied. “I was given the implant back on Earth. There’s about as much a chance of me falling pregnant by you as there is me sleeping with you in the first place.”

Rake’s eyes narrowed at her. “You’re rude.”

“What’s rude about that? Do the women usually just lie back and spread their legs for you when you tell them that you’re going to have sex with them? Or have you confused me for a blow up doll?”

Lyra had spent many hours alone thinking about what it would be like if she ever laid eyes on another human. This was not how she had ever pictured it, but Rake had a serious sexual charge about him which scared her more than any alien monster and it was making her defensive, and yeah, maybe a little rude.

He gave her a long, steady look, those icy eyes cutting to her core. She stared back at him, hoping she looked as scary to him as he looked to her, but knowing that was unlikely to be the case. It was hard to make big brown eyes and a round face look frightening. The only weapon she had was her tongue, and she was going to use it.

“How many women have you had in here?” She continued talking, using questions as a defence. The longer they talked, the better chance she had of dealing with him. She let her gaze run up and down the length of his person in a way she hoped would cut him down to size. “You don’t seem like someone who gets laid a lot.”

The smirk returned to his devilishly handsome face. “Why do you say that?”

“Because a man who gets laid a lot doesn’t just come out and say he’s going to breed with you.”

“What does a man who gets laid a lot do?”

“I don’t know,” she frowned. “Not walk around half-naked. Not… be you.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly, as if he was unable to believe what he was being confronted with.

“I’m important,” she said, trying to claw back a little respect. “And you’re not.”

His lips spread in a dark smile. “Arrogant little wretch, aren’t you.”

“It’s not arrogance if it’s true.”

“You’re as important as a pit dog,” he said in crushing tones. “To them you’re nothing more than a bitch to be mated. They threw you in here for me to do with you as I will. All they care about is that by the end of this my seed gets shot deep inside you.”

Excerpt from The Rebel’s Mate…

Abducted from Earth by tentacled humanoids, small town girl Lyra finds herself in the belly of an interstellar transporter and entirely at the mercy of a race of creatures beyond her wildest nightmares. Temporarily deprived of sight by the aliens, her only solace during the journey to a far-off planet is found in the soothing arms of an unseen man who, despite sharing her current circumstances, promises that one day he will rescue her.

Three years later, Lyra has accepted being put to use as a gladiator in an interspecies competition waged for the amusement of her alien masters. But when her owner decides to mate Lyra with another champion fighter, she unexpectedly finds herself face to face with Rake, the very man who once vowed to rescue her. Unfortunately, all memory of him and her abduction has long since been erased by her captors.

Lyra is not pleased to find herself confronted by six feet of arrogant male muscle and she’s even less pleased when the stranger informs her that he intends to mate her, but her displeasure turns to true fury when he takes her hostage and escapes with her. Her mind having been thoroughly addled by the aliens, Lyra resists her rescuer and sets about making Rake’s life as difficult as possible. To her shock and embarrassment, when her defiance continues Rake bares her bottom, puts her over his knee, and gives her the spanking of her life.

Despite her best efforts to hate him, over the course of several near death escapes from their alien pursuers Lyra begins to realize that Rake is everything she’s ever wanted and needed in a man. When he claims her at last, the intense pleasure of his dominant lovemaking nearly causes her to forget that they’re running for their lives. But can Rake truly keep his promise to bring Lyra safely home once and for all, or will their desperate bid for freedom end in disaster?

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Spank Me Now

Her spanker is reading the morning paper, attention fully given to the news stories of the day.

She does not like this. She has passed back and forth across the room, humming to herself. She has toyed with her spanker’s ornaments and she has made remarks about the weather that have earned her little more than a nod. Now she goes to her hands and knees, crawling across the couch until she is able to nuzzle the paper out of the way and present her panty clad bottom.

“Spank me,” she demands, lifting her hips with a wriggle she knows makes her bottom shake in a way her spanker cannot resist.

A brow rises as if in censure, but the paper is folded and put to the side. Progress.

“It’s a spanking you want, is it? Have you been good enough to deserve one?”

She pouts, her head craned around to give her spanker the full benefit of her puppy-dog eyes and protruding lower lip. “I want one.”

“We can’t always get what we want, now, can we?” Her spanker is teasing, lips curling up in a smile with the words.

“Spank me!” She demands again, her voice becoming strident. “Spank me now!”

A firm palm sweeps down with much more force than she bargained for. She squeaks and reaches back to rub, but the spanker catches her hand and pins it to her lower back. Fast and hard the palm falls, giving her precisely what she asked for, but not what she wanted. In hot seconds her behind is painted with the red tag of her spanker’s displeasure. Her legs begin to scissor as she tries to kick the sting away, but it is settling into her flesh and there is little she can do to stop it. Only her spanker decides when the spanking is over. Only her spanker decides when her cheeks are hot enough and when her contrition is sufficient. Her spanker is not dismayed by tears, nor by complaints. She tried threats once. It ended badly.

As fast as it began, it ends. She sniffs wetly. Her bottom is gently palmed and she is soothed with a slow rubbing motion that leaves her sighing and soft over her spanker’s thighs.

“There’s your spanking, little brat.”

An Introduction To Trouble

As all spanking brats, bottoms and submissives know – there are different types of trouble. I have dedicated my life to the study of these types and will now elucidate upon them in a scholarly and enlightening fashion.

We will begin this study with inspiration from great Republican Rumsfeld, whose name sounds like a tub of leather.

There are known troubles. These are things that you know will get you in trouble before you do them. There are unknown troubles, which are things you do without knowing that you’ll be in trouble for doing them. There are also known unknown troubles – these are things you don’t necessarily know will get you in trouble, but you suspect they might, and then, of course, there are the unknown unknown troubles, which are the troubles that never occurred to you as being problematic until long after the fact.

The fourth kind of trouble is perhaps the worst kind of trouble. It’s the trouble that arises when you realize you’ve plugged the wrong cord into your boyfriend’s digital camera and broken all the little pins inside even though it totally fit as if it was the right cord. In some cases this sort of trouble can become the dreaded compound trouble when it happens to be the second camera you’ve broken in a similar fashion. (It’s either a secret power or a curse that some items simply disintegrate in my hands. Medical science should probably be made aware of this phenomenon.)
Keep reading…

John Safran and Domestic Discipline

Spankings on international television? Sure!
Spankings on international television? Sure!

There’s no real need for words here. Suffice to say: John Safran (who I have adored ever since his breathtaking series John Safran vs God, check out this ‘Atheist Door Knocking’ experiment to learn more) spanks the gorgeous and hilariously high pain thresholded Kristen Condon in an effort to learn about Christian domestic discipline.

Spanked Because You Want It

You’re only ever spanked because you want it.
Even if you’re wriggling and squealing and begging for clemency
It’s all because you want it.
It’s because you need to feel that hard thigh beneath your hips, firm when you dip and buck against it.
The sting rising to a crescendo that makes you squeak at such a high pitch only dogs can hear it.
It sinks through your flesh, finding its way to the places that tingle for all the right reasons.
And you’re held firm, an arm wrapped around your waist trapping you in what has become
The battlefield of contrition.
But it’s not me you’re fighting. It’s not me you fight when your toes drum against the carpet and you bite
your lip to stop yourself from whimpering out loud.
It’s you.
Because you want this. You want this heat. You want this hard line
Cracking against your cheeks with a sharp report that echoes around the room.
The spanking doesn’t end when you submit to me.
It ends when you submit to you.