I'm thrilled to have Charlotte Stein here today. I've recently become acquainted with her amazing work and rank SHELTERED up there with my favorite erotic romances ever. Read on for a sample of her latest release, POWER PLAY (which I need to pick up
now!) Here's Charlotte!
Look at me, all being at Cari Quinn’s
place! I feel almost cool, because as everyone knows Cari is the coolest. And
she writes the coolest, sexiest contemporaries, of the kind I always pretend I
write in between lusting after Armie Hammer’s ass and falling asleep in a
half-eaten sandwich.
And not only is she cool and fabulous,
she let me come here and promo my book. Hooray!
So here’s a bit about it:
Power
Play
When Eleanor Harding is
abruptly promoted, she loses two very important things: the heated relationship
she had with her boss, and control over her own desires. Without a restraining
hand on her she finds herself suddenly craving something very different – and
the office lackey, Benjamin, seems like just the sort of man to fulfil her
needs. He’s eager, lustful and willing to show her all of the things she’s been
missing – namely, what it’s like to be the one in charge, for a change. Now all
Eleanor has to do is decide… is Ben calling the kinky shots, or is she?
And an excerpt:
When he tells me to lift my skirt and
bend over his desk, there’s a moment where I hesitate. There’s always a moment.
It’s like the feeling just before the lock springs under the pressure of the
correct key you’ve somehow chosen. My body goes completely still and the word no
makes a fist in my throat, and then I just do it.
I wriggle my tight skirt up over my
thighs and expose my backside to his waiting gaze.
In fact, I do much more than that.
Mainly because I’ve started anticipating these little trips up to the thirtieth
floor, and this morning I went without knickers. Plus, when I bend over my legs
somehow automatically spread, so he doesn’t just get a view of the dark seam
between the lush curves of my ass cheeks.
He gets to see the slippery pink flesh between,
as flushed and swollen as ever I’ve felt it. Of course I like to pretend I hate
these little excursions up to the thirtieth floor, and that what Mr Woods does
to me is degrading and disgusting and oh, isn’t it awful. But the fact remains
that the moment he tells me to bend over in that silvery voice of his, my clit
swells. My sex plumps. Wetness trickles from the clenching hole between my
legs, down over my quite possibly quivering thighs.
I quiver, for Mr Woods. I bend over, for
Mr Woods. I forget that I was ever Ms Harding, Executive Editor of Barrett and
Bates, and I become this other creature.
I don’t even know her name, to be
honest. She looks like me and talks like me and even acts like me in some
respects – I still lay my hands on the desk so that they’re apart but parallel
to each other – but she can never have that little buzz of respect before her
name the way I so often do: Ms.
And she could never let herself be used
the way I’m going to let Mr Woods use me right now. I turn over in my mind each
way he could possibly debase me as he stands behind me in his crisp grey suit
with his crisp grey face and his mouth in that mean line it so often falls
into.
He could push something into my cunt.
He’s never done it before, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t do it now if he
wanted to. I’m as slick as I’ve ever been, but more than that I feel greedy
down there, as though I could take anything he wanted to offer. That award he
got, for excellence in business or something like it? That big, thick, curved
one, with the little nubs all around its length like a thing just made for
stirring the nerves inside someone’s body?
Yeah, he could fill me with that, if he
so chose. In my normal life, the life outside the strange, still unspoken
relationship we’ve struck up, I would never let someone choose something like
that for me.
But here it’s different. Here he doesn’t
have to say a word, and my mind floods with a million options, each more
disgusting than the last. In fact, I suspect that my mind is actually far more
disgusting than his. After all, he’s never actually fucked me. Most of the time
he doesn’t touch me between my legs, and he hardly ever pushes me into touching
him.
It’s just this, it’s just him behind me
with the thought of what he could do buzzing through my body. He could
order me to oil my own ass and let him slip his cock inside. He could cane me
until my flesh sang red-hot songs, until I bled and wept and begged him not to.
And though I’m sure I’ve never wanted
any of those things, there’s something about him that makes me give in anyway.
Something about his eyes, as calm and colourless as a midwinter day. And his
tone, his perfect, metallic tone.
No order is ever barked; his voice is
never raised. His orders don’t seem like orders, to be honest. One day he just
said to me, quite matter-of-factly: I’d like to see your cunt now, Ms
Harding. In the same way one might ask to see the quarterly reports or the
latest projections or something of that nature.
And then a sort of haze had descended
over me, as though his words had thrown a veil over my head. The veil is with
me right now as he murmurs that I should spread my legs wider, wider. He wants
to see just how wet I am, just how bad I’ve been, before he progresses to
anything further.
And oh God, how I’m longing for anything
further. Use the award, I think at him frantically, while my cheeks turn
crimson and my body shudders over the idea. Force me to take your cock,
I think at him, though somehow I know he never will.
I’m not allowed.
‘I see you’re very wet, Ms Harding,’ he
says, then follows it with more disapproving words that I don’t want to hear.
‘Yes, very wet indeed. Would you care to explain to me how you got into such a
disgusting state?’
No, I would not care to explain. My
entire body sizzles with embarrassment and I have to force my hands to remain
flat. And yet I find my mouth opening and words that aren’t my own come out, as
though I have a talk-string on my back and he just pulled it.
‘I’ve been thinking about fucking,’ I
say, which at least has the virtue of being honest, if not the virtue of being
what I actually wanted to say.
‘Fucking who?’ he asks, just as I knew
he would. Only this time I find the wherewithal to lie. I have to find
the wherewithal to lie. He always asks me this and I always answer the same way
– with something that affirms him as the one who controls me – but this time,
it’s not true.
And I can’t possibly explain to him why
it isn’t. I can’t. It’s more embarrassing than the long, slow throb between my
legs.
‘You,’ I say, and then I think of the
new guy in the hallway, spilling his armful of papers everywhere. The way his
shirt had been untucked at the back. The look on his face, like someone lost
inside a maze created by a superior race that hates him.
‘You thought about my cock inside you?’
he asks, and oh that delicious deliberation in his voice still gets me. I have
to rub my stiff and aching nipples against the desk just to take the edge off –
though I know he will punish me for it soon.
Any transgression, he punishes me for
it. Once, I rubbed the toe of my shoe over the back of my opposite ankle to
scratch an itch there. And in return for this minor slip he had made me bend
double and grasp that said same place while he paddled my ass with a ping-pong
bat.
To this day I have no idea where the
ping-pong bat came from.
‘Yes.’
‘You think about it often?’
‘All the time.’
‘Describe how you imagine it would feel,
sliding in.’
God, why does he always have to make me
describe? I’m terrible at it. I’m the worst.
‘Mmmm, so good,’ I say, limply, and for
my crimes I get a hard slap to the ass. Of course I do. I should have said solid
or satisfying or what I’m really thinking: not as good as that new
guy’s cock.
The one I could practically see through
his pathetic trousers, as he bent and stretched and reached for all his fallen
papers, face red, everything about him so awkward and appalling. He should be
taken out of his misery, he really should. He should be planted over a desk and
made to see the error of his ways, just as I am now.
And then maybe he’d beg like me too.
‘Oh please, please just fill me with
something. Please,’ I blurt out, but it’s the strangest thing. I don’t know if
I’m saying it for Mr Woods, or for the other thoughts that are pushing their
way through my addled mind.
Thoughts such as: if it was the new guy
behind me, would he fill me now? I don’t think I’d have to beg with him, but
somehow that doesn’t seem like a negative. Instead, my body flushes with the
thought of how eager he’d probably be – cock so stiff and swollen it’s almost
touching his belly, pre-come welling at the tip like a promise of all the
copious slickness he’s about to spill.
And he’d spill it inside me. Of course
he would. Two thrusts and he’d be done, cock spurting thickly in my waiting
cunt, hands all sweaty on my hips and oh God maybe he’d moan too. He wouldn’t
be like Mr Woods – silent, implacable, unmoveable. He’d actually say something
as he touches me, and if he didn’t want to, if he couldn’t …
I’d make him.
The realisation shoves its way through
me, as hard as those first words from Mr Woods did. I’d like to see your
cunt now, Ms Harding, I think, and then hot on its heels:
I’d like to see your cock now, new
guy.
Benjamin, I think his name is. Benjamin,
I think, as Mr Woods rubs something too cold and unyielding against the
slippery lips of my cunt. And then when I moan to feel it, and squirm against
it, he eases it down, down until the smooth tip is rubbing against my swollen
clit.
I don’t mind admitting that I forget
about Benjamin then. Hell, I forget my own name. Pleasure whites out all of my
higher thought processes and leaves behind this: this shame-riddled, wriggling
mess. This thing, that can only plead:
‘Uhhhh, yes – more. More.’
I try to angle my hips to catch whatever
he’s using – the award, my mind screams, the award, even though I
know it’s not – and get it inside me, but naturally he’s too good for that. He
just pulls back further, until the thing is barely touching me at all. In fact,
I’m sure I can only feel it because my clit is so sensitive, so ready for any
little touch that stirring the air over its surface makes me liquid between my
legs.
Makes me moan, too loud and too long.
Outside his doors, hundreds of people are working away, oblivious – but they
won’t be oblivious if I carry on like this. If I buck and pant and tell him to
just fuck me with it, fuck my cunt with it.
‘Such a filthy mouth, Ms Harding,’ he
says, and then he does something worse than all the rest of this nonsense
combined.
He slides the tip of whatever this is
up, up, past my ready and waiting pussy to a place I’m completely not prepared
for. I’m so not prepared for it that I lurch forward against the desk, and
actually almost say something weak and pathetic, like:
Please don’t. I’ve never had anything
there before.
Luckily, my perfectly perpendicular
hands save me. The thought of that Ms at the start of my name saves me.
The idea of Benjamin stumbling and fumbling and just being such a mess saves
me.
And I don’t break. I don’t say anything
at all as he offers me one tiny, amused sort of sound. He never laughs, Mr
Woods – of course he doesn’t – but sometimes I’m sure my struggles and my
boundaries entertain him.
And this is such a petty boundary to
have. Who hasn’t had something in their ass? Yet the fact remains that I
haven’t, and the more he pushes and twists and makes that amused sound, the
harder I clench and flame red with mortification.
I don’t know what’s worse, either – the
fact that he’s doing this with something impossibly thick and still achingly
cold, or that I can feel how slick its surface is. As though he didn’t just
coat it in my liquid before he decided to rub it over my arse.
He oiled it in advance, for this
specific purpose. He knew he was going to penetrate me there before I even
walked into this office, and no amount of my squirming and whimpering is going
to change that.
I just have to squeeze my eyes tight
shut and let him ease it slowly in.
And oh God he does, he does. He braces
one hand on my tense ass cheek, and then twists this thick and slippery thing
until my body starts to yield to it. The tight ring of muscle there clenches
and tries to deny the intrusion, but then everything just seems to give and I
feel it slide all the way in to the hilt.
Worse than the hilt, in fact, because
once the thing is lodged firmly inside me I can make out the press of his
fingers where he’s gripping it at the base. Somehow it’s the most intimate
touch he’s offered me since this whole thing began.
‘I think I would like you to rub your
clit as I fuck you. What do you think, Ms Harding?’
I think nothing. I’m made of nothing.
All I can feel or respond to is the slow slide of this fake cock as he pushes
it in and out of my ass. As it stirs all of these little nerve-endings that I
didn’t know existed, everything so glossy and slick that the feeling is almost
unbearable.
‘I think you’d like that. Now reach
between your legs and find your clit.’
I flop around for a moment, trying my
best to do as I’m told. My arms feel rubbery and unresponsive, and with this
fake cock working back and forth inside me it’s hard to lift my body to get at
what he’s asking for.
And it doesn’t get any easier when I
finally reach my stiff little bud. Just skimming the pad of one finger over its
tense surface is like a punch to the gut. It feels immense, and every touch of
it burns too hotly, and then he actually makes a sound as he forces the thing
into me and oh God I can’t take it, I can’t.
I can accept something fucking my ass. I
can take being bent over his desk. I can’t endure him grunting like that, as
though maybe this whole thing affects him a little more than he usually lets
on. Him grunting makes me imagine torrid, glorious things, like his cock all
stiff and solid against the material of his impeccable trousers.
And though I daren’t look to check, I
can almost picture him stroking himself as he does this to me. One hand on his
hard cock, one hand on the fake one he’s pumping in and out of my willing body,
until finally he gives in and lets himself spurt all over –
‘Oh fuck, Mr Woods,’ I moan, because
everything is just too much. The heated pulse between my finger and my clit,
the feel of the fake cock fucking into me, raggedly, the idea of him coming on
my upturned ass … I can’t take it.
Instead, I press down hard on my clit
and let the first trembling waves ebb through me, pushing back against the
pounding he’s now doling out until said waves become a great wash of pleasure.
‘Yes, keep doing that, keep doing it,
I’m coming – ohhhhh,’ I tell him, because by this point I’m beyond all good
sense. I don’t know who I am or where I might be, and all I care about is the
orgasm that’s shoving rudely through my body.
And God, it goes on and on and on. By
the time it’s finished I’m a wet, trembling mess on the desk. Perpendicular
hands forgotten. Perfect clothes sweated through. Ass so sore I’ll barely be
able to walk for the rest of the day.
Though that’s not unusual, for our cold
little relationship. At the very least I’m usually sitting on some red
handprints in any afternoon meetings I then have – meetings that are actually
going to start very soon.
In fact, they’re going to start so soon
that my real self comes back to me far quicker than usual, and I go to
straighten before he’s given me permission. I try to stand, but before I can
get anywhere near said position that tented hand is back on my ass. His
metallic voice is back in my ear.
‘Stay still, Ms Harding,’ he says, only
he sounds different for just a second. That metallic tone peels away and
reveals something rusted and old beneath, and then I actually feel it on my
skin, just as I had imagined.
A searing stripe of something slick. And
then another. And another.
Though that’s not the shocking thing. I
mean, I’ve often imagined him losing some of his control. Sometimes I’ve
hungered for it, with my hand between my legs and orgasm just one wretched inch
away.
But in all of these fantasies of him
breaking, I’ll confess: I never imagined him moaning something heated. The
Benjamins of this world moan heated things. They let themselves go and can’t
control themselves – not people like Mr Woods.
And finally, if you’re still here, the
buy links!
Thanks for having me, Cari!
