Thursday, March 8, 2018

Learning to See My Failures as a Kind of Success

This is something that I struggle with A LOT. Fear of failure is so deeply embedded in my psyche that, when I think back on almost every one of my successes, I can trace them back to an almost self-destructive, "fuck-it" moment that made me risk failure because the fear of something else--fear of death or loneliness caused by the loss of a loved one or a break up or a breakdown--had so overwhelmed me that it, for a moment, overshadowed my fear of failure.

It shouldn't take that level of anxiety to take a risk. To chance fulfilling a dream.

The dream should be enough.

So much so that taking that risk of failure should be seen as a success in and of itself. So much so that every failure, every rejection or project that falls through or falls short, should be seen as an achievement and a chance for improvement and opportunity to learn. Each failure is proof that I tried, which is more than I can say of myself before I failed.

I still struggle with this. A lot. But I'm trying to be better about it and I'm trying to see that, in and of itself, as a kind of success.

Unspeakably Erotic Literary Award Finalist!

Exciting news! Unspeakably Erotic: Lesbian Kink, which includes my LGBTQ BDSM story “Support Service,” is a Lambda Literary Award Finalist as well as a National Leather Association - International Samois Anthology Award Finalist! I’m so thrilled to be a part of this great anthology!

Please check out this fantastic anthology from Cleis Press. 

Everyone has secrets, especially secret, kinky desires. Unspeakably Erotic: Lesbian Kink is guaranteed to trigger that hot flush that comes with the discovery of a new, sexy, sometimes unmentionable desire and that insatiable hunger that is left wanting more.

D.L. King, prolific writer and editor of fourteen anthologies, including the Lambda Literary Award-winning The Harder She Comes, presents twenty new unspeakable stories designed to make you cringe a bit before you come. This eclectic mix of kinky tales features established authors like Sacchi Green, Annabeth Leong, and Kiki DeLovely and new-“comers” like Pascal Scott and Sonni de Soto, among others. With stories exploring edge play, CBT (yes, even CBT), genital bondage, whips, foot fetishes, carnies, pony play and much more, these masterful storytellers will fuel your sexual dark side with new fantasies or your passion for well-loved kinks!

Get your copy here:

Barnes & Noble

Erotica is an expression of rebellion. Find more from Elin & Reena in this defiant, charity anthology that celebrates diversity and equality in the face of our uncertain future!

Please check out my story and get ready for some fit-on-the-streets-but-fun-in-the-sheets, pervertable play this PRIDE!

Please check out my story in this hand-held library of erotica & explore to your libido's content!

Check out my Unbound Exclusive story in their limited-time Fuego Box for some wet and wild hot tub fun in this Unbound Exclusive story included in this hot, sexy box!

Online dating has become an inevitable and undeniable part of the modern dating landscape. Follow a couple making their way from digital space to the real world in my Playbox Exclusive story “Ready to Play.” 
Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!

Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

Proudly Feminist as Fuck & Kinky as Hell!

Happy International Women’s Day! Come celebrate by reading this great piece by editor and author Zak Jane Keir on feminism and kink, featuring many self-identified kinky feminists, including me!

“...Thankfully, as I’ve grown, so has the relationship to BDSM and feminism, greatly because of the conversation between those in the kink community and those in the sex-positive feminist community and, most importantly, those who identify as being in both. Now, we’re having nuanced and informed discussions that focus less on demonising certain acts or desires and the people who participate in them, and more on obtaining and maintaining consent between partners. I think the conversation has become vastly more productive and effective by telling bottoms and submissives that there is nothing wrong with them. They have the right to advocate for themselves, to want what they want, to go after it, and to walk away from those who cannot or won’t provide it...”


Wednesday, March 7, 2018

Come Get Corrupted!

Please check out my story, "Safeword," in this new anthology from Sexy Little Pages, Corrupted!

Since the beginning of time, everything that has promised to liberate women has also been accused of corrupting them: suffrage, trousers, the pill, and learning to drive, and that's just to start with.

In this erotica collection, women reclaim or recognise their power in myriad ways, and it's not always pretty. From femdom dynamics to BDSM, boardrooms, and benchwarmers, Corrupted comprises a startling cross-section of stories defining what it means to be a woman in the modern world.

Edited by, and featuring, Charlie Powell, Corrupted contains ten powerful stories by Vanessa de Sade, Rebecca Chase, Annabeth Leong, Sonni de Soto, Robin Juliet, Kiki DeLovely, Byron Cane, Erin Horáková and Zak Jane Keir.

Available Now On

Please check out my story in Riverdale Avenue Books' anthology that proves no one knows how to play better than nerds!

Please check out my story in Coming Together's charity anthology that lets your feel-good do some real good!

If it exists, someone’s kinky for it! Check out my story in Sexy Little Pages' anthology that takes a walk on the weird side: you won’t regret it.

Check out my story to dive deep into all the awkward excitement of sexual exploration.

Online dating has become an inevitable and undeniable part of the modern dating landscape. Follow a couple making their way from digital space to the real world in my Playbox Exclusive story “Ready to Play.” 
Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!

Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

Monday, March 5, 2018

Tell Me How You Taste - Part Two

Playing With Your Food – 
Part Two
Read Part One Here

Deliberately and without fear, you climb my web. I wait at its center and watch you come closer. I feel your movement echo along my strings, vibrating against my skin, calling me.

My eyes widen as I search your face. The heated flush of your cheeks. The determined set of your jaw. The way your tongue slicks across your lips. It all thrills me. I bite my lip, feeling my fangs threaten to pierce the skin.

You crawl to me, your limbs struggling with the webbing as you try to find your footing. But you reach and pull yourself near, before leaning in and kissing me. Your lips touch my chin, my cheeks, my nose, and over each eye. Your hands tangle in my hair, getting caught in its length. You sigh, breathing me in and out and in again, your cheek brushing against the curve of one fang.

My breath catches.

I still. My fangs are sharp, could pierce and tear your supple skin so easily, yet you don't even flinch at them. You touch them as if they couldn't kill you. As if they've never killed.

What is wrong with you?


I hadn't even noticed that I’m grabbing your wrist. Tight. I instantly let you go.

You rub your wrist and narrow your eyes at me. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head. I should be asking you that.

“You want to stop?”

I probably should. I'm not in the right headspace for this. Instead, I feel something uncontrollable bubble up inside me. “You're not scared of me.”

“What?” Your brow furrows.

“You aren't scared of me.” I close my eyes and shake my head, confused. Not of me. Not of this place. “Why aren't you scared?” I stare at you, scrutinize you. Don't you have any sense of self-preservation? Any sense at all.

“Why would I be?” You shrug as if it's a stupid question. But it's not. “Where is this coming from?”

A harsh laugh tears through my throat. Are you fucking kidding me? Where is this coming from? From the yeti likely still hyperventilating in the parking lot to the kid who'll need therapy all because he saw me walk down the street. From the fact that my life has been defined by the fear people feel when they see me. From the certain death they read in the curves and shape of my body. I understand that. Have lived with it for longer than you'll be alive. But I don't understand you.

And it makes me wonder if you really understand me.

I grab your wrist again, the swift motion stealing your breath. Grabbing more silk, I thrust your wrist against my web before lashing it in place. You aren't scared of me. But, Lord knows, you should be.

I lay a hand on your chest—another on your shoulder and another next to your head—feeling your heart race. But not with fear. Your skin feels hot and your face looks ready. And you lie there so trustingly. My jaw stiffens.

We’ve never had the talk. The one where I tell you about my past. The things I’ve done. The people I’ve killed. You told me that it doesn’t matter to you. That that was who I was, not who I am.

But it is. “You think you know me.”

“I do know you.”

I stare at you, defiant despite being tied to my web, and feel those old instincts rise inside. Quickly, so much more quickly than a human could, I secure your other wrist, your ankles, your knees and waist. With your legs parted and open to me, you cannot move. You don’t even try to.

I want to scream. Don’t you get it? If the magical community had never come out, if the government hadn’t enacted laws to stop me, I would still be doing what I’ve done for most of my life.

I climb over your vulnerable, exposed body, locking my feet around your ankles and knees. My hands press against your shoulders and grip your face. I lean over you, letting you stare into all six of my eyes and feel my breath puff hot on your cheeks between my fangs. “Do you have any idea what I could do to you right now?” What, at a time in my life, I would have, without question or hesitation. Without regret and with sincere pleasure.

“Why don’t you show me?” You say it like a dare. With heat in your eyes, you look at me, but you’re not seeing me. The real me. If I had met you back then, before the world changed, we wouldn’t be here.

You wouldn’t be here.

You’d be nothing more than a pile of broken bones left at the foot of some long-abandoned web. I probably wouldn’t even remember your name or face—I don’t remember any of them, any more than you remember what you had for dinner four weeks ago.

The feel and scent of your arousal is both intoxicating and infuriating. And I want more of it. I want it to overtake my senses. To fill my lungs, flood my mind, and make me think of nothing but having it. I want to be what I once was, living solely for the hunt, for the feed.

I reach down to play with your nipples, teasing the buds tight. I hear you moan as you writhe, disturbing the web. Your limbs twitch and your hips sway, tipping upward in a silent, subtle suggestion. I feel the web’s movement vibrate beneath us, the sensation reverberating through me. My own breath hitches. Sweat begins to bead on your temples, your neck, your belly. Leaning down, I lick the hollow of your throat, my fangs pressing into your collarbones. You groan and arch your back up, pressing your body against mine.

It’s been years since I’ve tasted human. Really tasted one. But I still remember. The salt of fear-soaked sweat. The metallic tang of hot, flowing blood. The feel of fresh flesh tearing from bone. It’s been so long, but I can’t forget it.

“I want to bite you.” Can feel the itch to open my jaws wide and plunge my fangs deep—in your neck, in your shoulder, in your belly, in your thighs—ache in my mouth. I want to feel you wet and warm against my tongue as your flesh gives to my touch and teeth. “Tell me not to.”

I see your eyes widen. You shake your head. “No.”

“I could.” I should. Reaching between your legs and stroking your sex, I feel the sensitive skin smooth and silken beneath my fingers. You’re so hot there, the blood-swelled skin almost scalding against my fingers and palm. “And there’s nothing you could do to stop me.” Your writhing turns into a strained struggle against your bonds. I watch you pull at the anchor points, your muscles flexing and your flesh flushing with effort. Sweat glistens all over your body now and sweet sounds drip from your lips. I want to lap at it all as the strings beneath us tug taut with your every tense toss and turn. I feel it pull and play within me, stirring me like a crescendoing song. “Tell me not to.”


I hear a whimper. Not yours.

I look down and see a small crowd gathered, called by your aroused heat. I see a gorgon, her eyes covered with cloth, shielded for all our safety, lift her chin, her nostrils flaring as she takes in your scent. Jericho, the vampire, licks his lips, his grip on his date tightening in eager hunger. They all want a taste. Of course they do. Look at you.

But you’re mine. Caught in my trap. Helpless beneath me. “Tell me.”

You just bite your lip and shake your head furiously, your hips thrusting wildly with my every touch.

Feeling the room’s longing fuel my own, I stroke you harder, making you cry out between clenched teeth. I know it—just as everyone else in the room does—the moment your teeth break flesh. Just a small bite, but the scent of your blood in the air is almost too much for me. My mouth waters at that scent and the accompanying sound that slips past your broken lips, a maddening mix of pleasure so consuming it’s almost pain. And, beneath it, I can hear the crowd’s breathing grow heavy. I hear it collectively squirm with the need to take, to possess, to consume. I want to cry out too, howl like the beast I am. “Tell me.” 

I feel a hand touch my web. In an instant, I turn, ready to kill whoever dares to steal my prey.


My breath catches as I see her stand there, calm but commanding, her manicured hand sending a current of power along the thread. It hits me like a cold slap, reminding me where I am. Who I am.

I look down around her and see the crowd is gone. It’s just you, her, me, and what I could have done. I shut my eyes shamefully and swallow hard. What I almost did. 

“I won’t tell you to stop.” At your words, I look down. You stare back, your gaze sure, so much more certain than you should be. “I won’t because I shouldn’t have to.” You lay back, your body relaxed and waiting. “I wouldn’t be here, be with you, if I had to.”

Cocky human. 

I want to believe that you’re different from the rest of the faceless prey I’ve known. And you are. But I only know that because I’m different now. Before, I would never have let you get so close. Would never have let you know me or let me know you.

But I have and I do. And I would miss you, if you were gone. The sound of your voice and the rumble of your laughter. The smell of you in the morning and the way you make the monster in me feel safe. The only person—the only being, including myself—who looks at me like they have nothing to fear. I don’t know how you do that. But I pray you never stop.

“I want to touch you.” I look down at you and see you staring at me, your gaze playful and hot. A marveled laugh tumbles low from my throat.  You smile daringly. “Untie my hands.” Hitching your hips, you tug your bound wrists. “Let me touch you.”

Trusting you and your trust in me, I carefully lean down and hook one fang between my webbing and your wrists, slicing the strings, freeing your hands. You rub your wrists for a second before reaching for me. You stroke up and down my limbs, teasing the sensitive hairs there, making me shiver. You know what I like. Know my body in a way no one else has. You coax pleasure from my body—from me—that I’ve never known before.

“Come here.” Your voice is low but insistent with an eager timbre that rumbles through me. “I want to taste you.”

Desire rumbles hungry through me. Settling my abdomen over your face, I feel your hands pull my body close. Your fingers and tongue tease my opening, entering me. I cry out as you plunge deep, my head thrown back and my mouth wide as the sound echoes in my head.

In response, I reach between your legs, touching your opening, teasing the tight hole. I stroke the length of your sex, feeling it press into me. I feel your tongue touch me, taste me, and I want to do the same to you. But I can’t. Not without risking your delicate skin.

I tilt my head as I stare at the hand touching your sex. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. I lift my hand to my mouth and imagine your taste still clinging to me there. I can smell your scent as it surrounds me. Your sweat is salty, earthy, and infused with the unique musk of your arousal on my tongue. I suck my fingers deep, feeling my teeth scratch the tough skin. You taste so good. But I want more.

Coating my fingers with my saliva, I reach between your legs again. With two hands holding your shaking thighs still and another still stroking your sex, I press my slicked hand at your entrance and slide in slowly. You moan against my own sex, the sound a physical echo that vibrates within me, urging me deeper. I feel your body give to me, inch by inch, allowing me inside. You’re so hot against my fingers, your body’s embrace a welcome burn.

As I begin to stroke you from within, I feel your fingers inside me move to my rhythm, matching me in intensity and speed. Our cries meld together in sweet music around us as our bodies thrust against each other in a timeless beat.

It goes against nature. We are of two different worlds. But somehow, in this space, we fit.

For a moment, my mind wonders at the miracle of it before pleasure overtakes me and I can think of nothing but the overwhelming presence of you. As my body tenses and shakes above you, I feel yours do the same beneath me. My hands grip you, as my orgasm pulls me under. The strong grasp of your hands on my thighs anchor me in a way I hope to too.

Breathlessly, my weight gives and my body crashes onto yours. I worry that I’m—with all my extra parts and mass—too heavy for you. But your arms wrap around me and hold me close, letting your shudders flow through me.

Exhausted and sated, I blink against your thigh—all six eyes—the soft but strong limb pillowing my head. Feeling your chest rise and fall in slow, tired breaths beneath me, I look out into the Preyer Service, listen to its monstrous sounds of pleasure, and smile.

Please check out my story, "Safeword," in this new anthology from Sexy Little Pages, where women reclaim and recognise their power in myriad ways, and it's not always pretty. 
Available Now On

Please check out my story in Riverdale Avenue Books' anthology that proves no one knows how to play better than nerds!
If it exists, someone’s kinky for it! Check out my story in Sexy Little Pages' anthology that takes a walk on the weird side: you won’t regret it.

See what happens after Kat & Peter's happy ending in my story from Deep Desire Press!

Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!

Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

And For Even More (Non- or at lease Less-Smutty) Stories, 
Please Check Out My Own Little Story Limbo.

Tell Me How You Taste - Part One

Playing With Your Food  -  
Part One

My mother told me once to be careful, that people will rise and fall to your expectations, so set them wisely.

I'm not the scariest thing walking around the world, but it's better for everyone if that's what the world believes. It's not openly talked about—not in polite company, anyway; certainly never in mixed—but the real reason the government restricts the sale of glamours to magical creatures with a history of...shall we say, appetites that run counter to human interests is that it makes the rest of humanity feel more in control of their world, if they think they can see the danger coming.

And, you know? That's fine. I'll be the boogeyman paraded out into the light that makes the children feel safer, in order to keep the truth—and the inevitable chaos it would cause, if the world discovered it—in the shadows where it belongs. It doesn't bother me.

But it bothers you. I can see that it does. I can see you flinch at the gasps and the stares as people around us scuttle away. Aw, baby, I love that you're not bothered by a girl with six eyes and eight limbs, but you are not the world. I looked hard for you and you were not easy to find.

We both turn when we hear a child cry. A mother clutches a toddler to her chest and glares at us. As if it’s my fault her kid scares too easily. I smile, flashing my fangs fully, the long curved lengths sharp against my bottom lip, and blink innocently. All six, pitch black eyes. 

I can practically see the breath leave her lungs as her skin pales and her arms grip vice-like around her child even as her legs wobble. Scenting their fear combine and swell, my joints shake, the sensitive hairs along my limbs at attention, as my articulated legs twitch as if to pounce. I lick my lips and feel my heart race.


I look to you, the corners of my lips uncurling. My face flushes hot at your censure. I hate that I can see smug looks on the faces of people in our earshot. They think that you’re putting me in my place. Keeping the monster on its leash.

I know you’re not.

Don’t. Such a small word that can mean so many things. Right now, it means “Don’t be the monster they want you to be.”

Don’t prove them right. Don’t reinforce the stereotypes these people already hold against arachnes and vampires and gargoyles and gorgons and anyone whose existence, for centuries, has been relegated and reduced to the public’s nightmares. That tone in your voice, that look on your face, it all screams, begs and pleads with me, to not feed their worst fears. Don’t make my life, the lives of others like me—not to mention your life—worse for a fleeting feeling of pettiness.

No matter how good it might feel.

Fine. For you.

I sigh. You’re right. And we have better things to deal with tonight than crying children, stink-eyed mothers, and pettiness.

You reach your hand out to me. I wring mine before clutching your hand and tucking another arm in the crook of your elbow. Curling into you, I place my other two hands on your arm, feeling their strength, being comforted by it, even as I put more sway into my four-legged gait. Screw them. All of them. The whole world. I have you and that's all I need.

We walk to a nondescript building and enter the Preyer Service. When the magical community first came out, those who've preyed upon humanity in the shadows and in their nightmares for eons, were the first to be targeted. With hate crimes and lynch mobs, with protests and, finally, laws. Initially, Preyer Services were a way for the government to track the mating and living habits of those on predatory lists. We were studied and kept in captivity, in the name of public safety, until the magical community, joined by non-magical legal support, were able to strike a compromise.

Conditional amnesty was granted for those who agreed to reform and conform to society's laws and norms. And, for those who could not or would not agree...well, mercy is never meant for monsters.

So, even after the official Preyer Service was disbanded, those of us who remember kept it alive. Reclaimed it for our own. Built a community in its ashes, where we feel safe. Where we are protected by each other. And where we protect each other—even from one another and, especially, from ourselves.

There's a strange accountability in community. We all know each other's business. We know each other's partners and practices. We share our joys. We lighten each other's burdens.

And we call ourselves out, when we see each other slip. We deal with our own. The world can be cruel; no one knows this better than us. We are predators, by nature. But, after being the world's prey, we won't be held at anyone's mercy again.

So we come here. Our safe space.

I nod to several people as we make our way through the room. Couples and groups huddle together, talking to each other and avoiding everyone else. Predators, by nature, tend to be solitary or pack creatures. We don't group well. But an awareness hangs heavy in the room. My feelers tingle with it, sending shivers up and down my limbs. I can feel others watching me, even as I indirectly watch them.

“Looks like Jericho brought a new partner.”

I turn to you and eye the pretty, young thing hanging on the arm of the vampire in question. I shake my head. “No, we've seen her before. But she lives out of town and only comes to events while on business.”

“Oh yeah.” You nod. “She had blond hair last time; that's why I didn't recognize her.”

I shrug, paying less attention to what she looks like—most humans look more or less the same to me—and more to how she appears. Her scent. The sound of her voice. The rhythm of her movements. I turn away, dismissing her as beyond uninteresting.

But there is something interesting here. Someone new. I scan the room, trying to pinpoint the presence.


I see it in the corner. A young yeti is crouched on the floor, his furred back up against the wall. Willem, a werewolf who recently joined the group, is kneeling at the yeti's side, trying to settle him. “You need to calm down.”

He really does. Poor, sweet yeti; he may be a beast, but he's no monster.

My gaze flicks around the room and sees other eyes zero in on the couple, drawn by the scent, sound, and promise of fear. My own body reacts to it, making my mouth water and my blood heat.

In an age old dance between hunters and the hunted, the yeti instinctively looks up, his ice blue eyes wide as they take in the room’s collective, dangerous gaze. Our eyes meet across the room and his widen. I can’t help but smile, somewhat proudly. Even in a room full of nightmares, I stand out in the crowd. 

My joints feel weak as the scent of his fear blooms stronger, filling the room. As a low rumble echoes hungrily through the space, I can sense countless claws clench and pointed teeth grind. Everywhere, muscles tense in as much restraint as excitement, and any wrong move could tip the balance.

But then in a moment—for just a moment—the tension eases as San, one of the Preyer Service moderators and a fearsomely powerful witch, leans down and whispers into Willem's ear, undoubtedly advising he take the yeti and leave, for their own safety as well as everyone else's. Willem looks sadly at his friend, but nods resignedly. Uncontrolled fear in a gathering like this is like blood in the water.

Speaking of scary, that woman is truly terrifying. San straightens, her beautiful form the picture of serenity in the face of the thwarted bloodbath. It’s hard to believe that she’s one of the deadliest creatures in this room—in existence. But we’ve all heard the legends surrounding her. For all her elegance and grace, the blood on her hands could make a vampire weep. That kind of power, that level of legend, is the only way to make a den of hungry predators bend like this.

Taking advantage of San's enforced clarity, I subtly stretch out my limbs, trying to rid my body of any residual strain. Others shake their heads, trying to clear the haze of the hunt's call. Others still curl their lips in disappointment, in silent longing for the good old days.

I understand that longing. I do. But, with technology and overpopulation, the world became too small. There's no safety in the shadows anymore. We may be their nightmares but, without the alliance with the humans, they would have been our extinction.

We ought to hate them. Some of us do. But I look at you. And I can't. I want to. I want to hate them for everything they've done to us. For everything they've taken from us. For everything we used to be—creatures of myth and legend to be feared and respected—and now, because of them, can't.

But here you are. Walking among us like there's no difference. Like you're one of us. As if we're just like you. How do you do that?

I follow you as you walk to our favorite spot at the back of the space, your hips swaggering slightly with an easy confidence. My lips curve up, revealing more of my fangs. Cocky, little human, aren't you? I let you get ahead of me, content to just watch the muscles in your ass flex with each step, feeling my body react.

Climbing the walls, I watch from afar as you stand off to the corner and strip. You told me once that, even as non-binary, coming here helped you get over any shame or insecurities you had about your body. I'd assumed that it was because, in a room full of monstrous freaks, any body must feel normal.

But you'd said it was because everyone here lives with such confidence, not giving a shit what anyone thinks of us or what they think they see in us. We defiantly walk this world that fears and hates us; in the face of that, how could you do less?

I don't know either. How could you ever think your body's anything less than miraculous? As you take off your shirt, I study your skin, the color of sapwood, like a great oak whose bark has been peeled from its trunk. From high in the corner of the room, I think about the touch of it, soft and smooth, tender flesh over strong muscles.

Eager, I reach for the slip of silk streaming from my spinneret. On an excited breath, I send it across to the other side of the wall, creating a bridge line. I let instinct take over, spinning my web from anchor point to anchor point, and revel as your body is revealed to me.

You pay me no attention as silk strings shift between almost simian hands and feet made for climbing and swinging from my threads, forming a spiral pattern outward. Instead, as if no one's watching, you slide your belt from your pants, loop by loop. You peel your jeans down your legs like you're shedding skin. You stand there, vulnerable and raw, and all I want is for you to wander into my trap.

And then you do...

Read Part Two Here

Sunday, February 11, 2018

February Newsletter

So, like I said last month, I'm looking to start a newsletter. If that's something that sounds interesting to you, send me an email with NEWSLETTER in the subject line saying you'd like to sign up to and, when I have enough names to make a good go of it, I'll start sending one out every month.

Until then, to give you an idea of what that would be like, here's this month's.

When I started this journey in publishing six years ago, my dad had died, I'd ended my first serious BDSM relationship, and I honestly didn't know what to do with myself. I needed a distraction, a goal, a purpose, badly. 

I've always loved writing, since I was in the second grade and my teacher saw something in me and encouraged my need to spin stories. Being a published writer has always been a dream I held within me. Something I always wanted to be. Someday. 

It took me losing so much to realize that nothing is guaranteed to you. Everything ends. Everything carries risk. If I wanted something, I was never going to get it by sitting around and waiting for someday to come. 

So I took The Taming School, that was my way of understanding my early steps into kink, and took a chance that someday could by any day and have never regretted it since.

My dream my not be exactly how I always imagined it in my head--filled with money and acclaim--but it's amazing and I am so grateful.

In this video, I talk a bit about what it was like to write the novel, what I learned and what I am still learning.

In this next video, I read an excerpt from The Taming School. One of the things I love most about kink is its ability to change how we see and interact with our world. How it can, through sheer will of its partners, change the rules. I'm a firm believer that, with enough imagination, communication, negotiation, and consent, anything is possible in kink.

This next video tackles a topic that I've been thinking about a lot, especially during this time of year that puts so much emphasis on fairytale kinds of love rather than the kinds of love I and those I know actually experience. So often, the romantic tropes we find in fiction sound good in theory and work well within carefully created and controlled worlds, but when tested in the uncontrolled, often chaotic real world... 

And, while I don't think there's anything particularly wrong with those kinds of tropes, I think it's always worth thinking about them, questioning them, and testing them, within fiction and without. 

So here's basically what a newsletter from me would look like: some behind-the-scenes information, a featured excerpt, and an update on what's going on. And, remember, if you'd like to be a part of a monthly newsletter like this, email me at with NEWSLETTER in the subject header. 

And remember that you can get my very first novel, The Taming School: