Tag Archives: Tiffany Reisz

THE RED: Sexy Sunday Snippet by Tiffany Reisz

18 Jun

THE RED is a stand alone Erotic Fantasy Novel by Tiffany Reisz coming out on July 11th.  If you like this excerpt you may want to check out RADISH where the story is being serialized right now.

You want to know more, don’t you?  Read the excerpt below…

WARNING: This excerpt is *very* naughty.  Contains consent play & BDSM

It was near midnight when Mona returned to the gallery. She was eager to see Malcolm again, and even more eager to see what artwork she’d earn from his collection. At least she told herself all she cared about was earning the art, earning money to save The Red Gallery from foreclosure. That she enjoyed earning the money was beside the point. And yet, her step was quick and she’d spent half the day checking the clock.

It was time.

She went to the red door that led to the back room, took a steadying breath, and pushed it open. At once she was seized by rough male hands and dragged into the room. The door slammed behind her and she was pushed against it, her back to it. She tried to scream but a hand covered her mouth.

“Quiet, girl.”

The words came from Malcolm, though he did not look as he did when she’d last seen him. He’d grown a short beard and mustache, which made him look older, even slightly sinister. He held a rope in one hand. So it was to be role play? Very well. She’d given him carte blanche. Anything meant anything. She shouldn’t be shocked or afraid. But she was afraid. She was.

Because they weren’t alone.

With Malcolm’s hand over her mouth she glanced around the room wildly in her panic. Four men in suits stood waiting by a wooden box in the center of the room. All four men wore masquerade masks—one black, one gray, one red, one gold. They were cyphers in their masks, anonymous. Only Malcolm was unmasked.

“Is there a problem with the girl?” one of the men called out, the one in the red mask. His tone was imperious.

“Not at all,” Malcolm said. “I’ve got her.”

“Let’s see her then,” the man in the black mask said. He sounded bored, impatient. “We haven’t got all night.”

Who were these men? She couldn’t ask because Malcolm had ordered her into silence and his hand still covered her mouth.

“Coming,” Malcolm said. “You won’t be disappointed.”

He spun her without warning, turning her back to him. He put his mouth at her ear and whispered, “Do not fight me, girl. Put on a good show. I want a high price for you.”

A good show… He’d told her last time she existed to entertain him. So be it. She nodded and said nothing, though her heart still raced with terror. Would he let all these men fuck her? No. She knew he wouldn’t.

Or did she?

He took her by the arms and pulled her away from the door. He walked behind her, steering her to the center of the room where the four masked men waited. She tried to study their faces but only one lamp was lit, and they were all in shadows. Only the colors of their masks could be clearly seen. She looked at the floor instead.

“On the box,” Malcolm ordered and she stepped up onto the low wooden platform. Malcolm bent and pulled her shoes from her feet, tossing them into the shadows. He stood and mounted the platform behind her.

“Let’s have a look,” the man in the gold mask said and the other masked men nodded their heads in agreement.

Behind her, Malcolm dragged the straps of her purple summer dress down her arms. She wore no bra and she had to force herself not to fight him as he pushed her dress down and let it pool at her feet. In an instant he had a small sharp knife out and he used the blade to cut her panties off her hips and those he tossed into the shadows with her shoes.

She was naked, completely naked, and standing in front of four strange men. Malcolm produced a rope from his jacket pocket and used it to tie her hands in front of her. Then he reached high and she looked up. He’d hung a metal hook from a ceiling beam. With a swift and easy motion that showed he’d done this sort of thing a thousand times before, Malcolm hoisted her hands over her head and secured the ropes on her wrists to the hook.

There was no escape.

Mona wiggled her hands and the men chuckled at the sight of her struggles.

“Here we are, gentlemen,” Malcolm said. “Tonight’s best lot. Take your time. Bid high. She’s worth it.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the man in the red mask said as he stepped up onto the wooden platform. Malcolm stood behind her, holding her hair in his hand. Mona panted in fear and anticipation. The red-masked man placed his hand on her quivering stomach and stroked her side and hips.

“Very smooth skin,” he said.

“The smoothest you’ll find on the market,” Malcolm said.

The red-masked man took a hard handful of her thigh and gripped it, slapped it. The men watching laughed again.

“The breasts are particularly fine,” Malcolm said. “As you see.”

“I see,” the red-masked man said.

“I don’t,” said another man.

“Then come see for yourself,” Malcolm ordered.

The man in the red mask stepped off the platform and the man in the gold mask stepped on. Without hesitation he groped her right breast with a large strong hand. Mona cried out more in shock than pain. With her hands tied so high, her breasts were exposed and she couldn’t cover them in any way. It was stunning to be touched so intimately by a stranger. He lifted the breast as if to weigh it in his palm, then he pulled the nipple, twisting it a little, teasing and testing it.

“Very nice,” the gold-masked man said, nodding. He shifted to the side and did the same to her left breast. He groped it firmly, squeezed it, lifted and weighed it, before pinching the nipple again, tugging it, and letting it go. “How’s the ass?”

“See for yourself.” Malcolm turned her so that her back was to the gold-masked man. She felt a hand on her backside, rubbing her from her hip to her upper thigh.

“A full ass,” the man said, pleased, as he rubbed. “Soft but not too soft.” He slapped it once and Mona gasped, gasped again when he gripped it in both hands and squeezed it, then pinched it. “Young firm flesh. My favorite.”

“I told you she was worth the money,” Malcolm said.

It was unbearable, being treated like this, treated like chattel. She burned hot with shame and humiliation. Tears stung her eyes. Her breathing was labored and her arms ached. She wanted to cover herself so badly.

“We have to see the cunt first,” another man said. “You know that.”

“Of course,” Malcolm said, laughing. “Of course you have to see the cunt.”

“Let’s see it then.”

Mona groaned as Malcolm turned her to face the four men again. Two of them stepped onto the platform, the man in the black mask and the man in the red mask. Each of them took one of her legs in his hands and hoisted her off her feet. They held her thighs open, her feet dangling helplessly in mid-air, her sex open and exposed. The man in the gray mask stepped forward. He didn’t stand on the platform. He was at eye level with her vulva.

She shivered and moaned as the man in the gray mask extended his hand and lightly touched her pubic lips.

“Exquisite,” he said. “Well-formed.”

“Tight too,” Malcolm said. “But she can take anything you want to give her.”

She saw the hint of a smile on the gray mask’s lips. With his thumb and forefinger, he opened the inner folds of her vulva, revealing the hole, the entrance to her body. He slipped one finger into it.

“And wet. Very wet,” the man in the gray mask said. It was true. Humiliating but true. For all her shame and fear, she was undeniably aroused as well. The man inserted a second finger into her and spread the two fingers wide in a V. She felt herself opening. It was a violation of the sanctity of her body. Why did she relish it?

“What have we here…” the man said as he pushed his fingertip into a deep hollow inside her, near the pubic bone. He pushed hard into the hollow, poked the hollow, prodded at it, teased the delicate dancing nerves. “I can feel her pulse right here. Very rapid.”

“Let me feel it,” the man in the gold mask said. She was empty again but only for a moment, as the gold-masked man put his finger into her and found that same little hollow along the back wall. Her head fell back onto Malcolm’s shoulder as the man in the gold man fingered and fondled her while she hung in the air, spread out and on display. The man in the gold mask examined her clitoris as well, kneeling in front of her and pulling up the tiny hood of flesh to see the organ. It was swollen and she hated herself for that. She hated it all, hated being held, being opened, being examined and displayed…

Oh, but she loved it too.

As the man in the gold mask continued to spread out and probe her sex, the man in the black mask turned his attention to her mouth. She struggled against Malcolm’s shoulder as the man pried her lips apart.

“Don’t bite,” he chided as he stuck a finger into her mouth. She felt it against her teeth. He was counting them, she could tell. But when he was done, he left his finger pressed lightly against her tongue. Now they’d made her mute. A hand that belonged to someone, she didn’t know which man, grasped her breast again and cupped it roughly. A hot mouth latched onto her other nipple and sucked it hard. The fingers worked inside her sex, stroking and rubbing and opening her up wider and wider. She heard the sounds of her own intense wetness. Her labia were pulled and tugged like her nipples, lightly slapped before he, whoever it was this time, pushed his fingers into her again. Three fingers this time, or was it four? She couldn’t tell anymore. She was dripping with need. Five men and their mouths and their hands were all together touching her, fondling her, sucking her and penetrating her mouth and her sex as she writhed and moaned softly, unable to protest or cry out or beg for mercy or—even worse and far more likely—begged them to fuck her. She craved their cocks, all five of them. Before, she’d feared Malcolm would let them fuck her. Now she feared he wouldn’t. But these were mad thoughts. She couldn’t let that happen. She struggled in the iron grasp of the five men, but it did no good, only harm, as the writhing brought her even closer to climax.

Then they all let her go.

It happened so fast, she would have fallen to the floor if the rope hadn’t held her wrists. They released her and stepped off the platform as if someone had given a command she hadn’t heard. She shivered, suddenly cold. Only Malcolm still stood close. She wanted to press her body into his, but he had her by the waist, holding her in place.

“Well, gentlemen, any other requests?” Malcolm asked. “Are we ready to start the bidding yet?”

She braced herself for the haggling. What were they buying? The right to fuck her? Or was it still part of the game?

“Bend her over,” one of the men said. “Let’s see all her holes.”

“If you insist,” Malcolm said.

“I want to know exactly what I’m getting,” the man in the red mask said. “If it’s no trouble.”

“I admire a savvy buyer. And no,” Malcolm said. “No trouble at all. I’ll put her on the pedestal.”

“Very good,” the red-masked man said. The other three men murmured their assent.

Pedestal? What sort of pedestal? Malcolm dragged her off the wooden platform and into the shadows. The light followed as one of the men lifted the floor candle and carried it over to the far corner of the room where Malcolm was taking her. She saw something there, something waist high and covered with a large velvet cloth. Malcolm pulled off the cloth and dropped it to the floor. It was a black leather stool of sorts, but wide enough for her to kneel upon easily. Jutting up from the center of the seat was a large thick phallus, smooth black leather and terrifyingly long—a foot long at least. She shrank from the sight of it, but Malcolm didn’t allow her to flee. He lifted her off her feet and placed her on the top of the pedestal. He took her hips and angled them so that the tip of the phallus kissed the entrance of her hole.

“Take it,” he said, an order she couldn’t refuse. Her body wouldn’t let her. She went down onto her hands and knees and sank onto the phallus, sliding her knees apart and taking as much of it into her as she could. As wet as she was, the massive object went into her easily and she rocked on it a little to take even more. She felt the muscles giving way to the phallus, accepting it, engulfing it. Malcolm had her pinned like a moth under glass. Pinned and put on display.

“Gentlemen, have a look,” Malcolm said. “I have oil here if you need it.”

The consummate salesman.

Mona hung her head, hiding her face behind her hair as the first man whose face she couldn’t see in this position came behind her and spread her buttocks apart. He made a pleased sound like he liked what he saw. He touched her with a finger and she gasped and shuddered. The fingertip was wet, covered in some sort of thick oil or lubricant. He slicked it all over the little hole, all around it. She tingled at the unusual sensation. It wasn’t unpleasant being caressed there on that sensitive opening, wasn’t unpleasant when the man slid a single finger into her as far as his finger could go. He held the finger in her, not moving it for a long time. She heard the men talking among themselves, saying things like “Very nice” and “Well done.” Inside her she felt the man moving his finger, not in and out, but around in a circle, opening her ever more and more.

“You have a plug?” the man asked Malcolm.

“Of course,” Malcolm said.

The finger left her but she soon felt something cold against her, cold and smooth like another phallus but far narrower than the one inside her sex. The man wielding it pushed the tip into her, paused, then pushed it in a few inches more as Mona let out a tense hiss between her teeth. Never before had a lover put anything into her ass—not a finger, not a phallus, not a cock. Yet here it was, going in as if it was made for her body. The man slid it in to the hilt and stopped. The base of the plug would let it go no deeper. Soft moans escaped her lips as Mona’s body adjusted itself to being doubly penetrated on the pedestal. She rocked back and forth, fucking herself with the phallus inside her vagina as the four prospective “buyers” walked around her. One stroked her hair, lifted it and sniffed it. Another stood by her face and took her nipples between his fingers and lightly pulled them. His fingers were cold and sent currents of electricity through her breasts and back. Another man played with her clitoris. His fingertip was wet with the oil as he stroked her. The last man rubbed her buttocks, caressing them lightly but over and over again. Sometimes he would pause to touch the plug or the phallus between caresses.

“Now, gentlemen,” Malcolm began, “let’s start the bidding, shall we?”

“I’ll take her for a hundred,” the man in the red mask said. A hundred dollars? A hundred thousand? A hundred days?

“Anyone wish to counter-offer?” Malcolm asked.

“Too rich for my blood,” the man in the gold mask said. He pinched her nipples again and she flinched as her sex contracted around the phallus.

“Mine too, I’m afraid,” said another man. He slapped her thigh lightly as if saying goodbye to prize horseflesh.

“I’d love to take her,” the last man said. “But I promised myself I wouldn’t spend more than eighty.”

“Then I think we have a deal, my good sir,” Malcolm said. The man in the red mask had been the one fondling her clitoris. Through the veil of her hair she saw him and Malcolm shaking hands. They moved out of her eye line, stood behind her. “Shall I take her off the pedestal for you?”

“No,” the man in the red mask said. “Leave her there. I’ll handle it.”

She heard footsteps, the door opening and closing, but she was certain the man in the red mask hadn’t left her because she felt his finger on her clitoris again. And then on her labia split wide by the huge phallus penetrating her.

“Magnificent,” he said. “Worth every penny.”

He took her hips in his hands and pushed her down, forcing her to take more of the phallus. Her head came up and she moaned with need. She could barely see. Everything was red. The blood behind her eyes, the blaze of her desire, the engorged flesh of her sex, all red, red everything everywhere, red as the man’s mask, the man who owned her. He lifted her up and off the pedestal and put her on her feet. He’d opened his black suit pants and his cock was out, erect and glistening with fluid at the engorged red tip. She had to have it inside her. She had to. She reached for it but he caught her hands, pushed her back into the wall and held her wrists over her head. Desperate, she thrust her hips forward to rub against him. Every move she made sent wild tremors through her body. The plug was deep in her ass still and she wanted it there. But she needed his cock inside her too. Needed it more than anything.

He guided the tip to graze her painfully swollen clitoris and she cried out. With one quick pump of his hips, he pushed the tip through the folds of her labia. With one more pump he penetrated her and with a final pump he entered her entirely. She came off her feet as he lifted her with his hips and pinned her again, this time against the wall. Her breasts bounced as his thrusts lifted her and lifted her. She was nearly screaming in her ecstasy, out of her mind with her pleasure. It felt like she had a rod of iron inside her, as thick, as hot, and as hard as anything could be. She didn’t know this man at all but he owned her. He’d bought her body and now he owned her. She was his slave, his possession, chattel, an object, his to do with as he willed. And what he willed was to fuck her against the wall, ram himself deep into her, pound her and pound her until she came with an unholy moan. Her head fell back against the wall and the man in the red mask kissed her neck, sucking the skin there until she felt it break against his teeth. She didn’t care. The pain spiked the pleasure. The plug in her ass and the cock in her pussy magnified the orgasm a hundred times. His thrusts were relentless. The man in the mask rammed her once more, twice more, a third time and then she felt the burning seed explode inside her so deep she could swear she could taste it on her tongue.

Mona went limp, but she was still impaled on the man’s penis, her feet twined around his thighs, her back pressed to the wall. She rested her head on his shoulder and breathed. Who was this man who’d bought her? What would he do with her? What had she given herself over to? It was wrong, all wrong. She shouldn’t be having sex with this stranger, this cypher, this ghost. She put her hands on his chest to push him away.

“Put me down,” she said.

“Not yet.”

“No, now,” she said though he remained inside her, still hard.

“Carte blanche,” the man in the red mask said.

“That’s for Malcolm, not—”

The man took off his mask. It was Malcolm.

“I told you I liked to play games sometimes,” he said with that smile he stole from the devil. “Didn’t I?”

“Malcolm…” She stared at him in shock and in horror, still pinned to the wall. “You had a beard.”

“Did I?” he asked, lifting his eyebrow.

“You did. Was it…It had to be a fake. You fooled me. I was so sure…” The four men were likely friends of his and when they’d haggled behind her back, Malcolm had taken off his false beard and put on the red mask to trick her. And she’d been tricked, thoroughly tricked.

“You saw what I wanted you to see,” he said. “The oldest magician’s trick.”

“Is this a trick too?” She struggled to free herself from the organ that penetrated her and his body that trapped her against the wall.

“Oh no, this is real,” he said. “This is the only thing that’s real to me.”

Jill Sorenson Talks Sex Worker Heroines

21 Sep

by Kiersten Hallie Krum

I’m still mid-dive in my plunge down the rabbit hole of MC erotic romance novels. Along the way, I’ve gobbled up way too many (can there be too many?) Kristen Ashley books (to be fair, not all MC romances, but in for a penny…in for my entire book budget) along with the first two (but hopefully not the last) of Jill Sorenson’s Dirty Eleven MC series including Riding Dirty and Shooting Dirty.

jill sorenson

Jill Sorenson

Jill newest, Shooting Dirty, drops today but before that, she threw back a few shots of tequila here at Lady Smut and decided to share a bit about sex worker heroines and how they fit in with the Dirty Eleven series.

Be sure to check back next week for the Lady Smut Dirty Eleven review.

Welcome, Jill, to Lady Smut!

Hello Lady Smut! I’m so glad to be here, talking about sex-related stuff! Let’s do this.

Sex work isn’t the most popular profession for heroines in contemporary romance novels. We see a fair amount of paid mistresses and bought brides in traditional lines (Harlequin Presents) but the heroines of these books tend to be sweet and virginal, not seasoned hookers. They aren’t standing on a corner in the red light district. They’re whisked away in a jet by the billionaire hero. Street prostitutes, strippers, and porn stars are a hard sell in romance (no pun intended). So are promiscuous heroines, for that matter.

Shooting Dirty

Click on image to buy!

I recently spotted a review from a reader who didn’t like the fact that one of my heroines had been with multiple partners before the hero. She’d had flings with tourists, which made her seem “slutty.” No mention was made of the hero’s sexual history.

There is a double standard in the genre that is impossible to ignore. Katy Evans’ Manwhore is a New York Times bestseller, but I can’t imagine a runaway hit called Ladywhore or just Whore. Indiscriminate heroes are super hot and always in demand, while sexually forward female characters are relegated to the role of evil ex or psycho villain. Sluts aren’t fit to be heroines. They don’t deserve the hero.

A few months ago I picked up a popular self-published romance with a stripper heroine, thinking it would be edgy and sex-positive. I was immediately turned off by the portrayal of sex workers. The heroine was a sweet, innocent virgin who hated her trashy coworkers. Thumbs down.

I don’t think writers need to sugarcoat sex work or portray it in a positive-only light, but I’m not a fan of putting female purity on a pedestal or slut-shaming other women. When authors pit female characters against each other and portray sex workers as dirty skanks, I get a bad taste in my mouth. Tastes like misogyny. Not my favorite flavor.

Before I started writing Shooting Dirty, which features a topless dancer looking to get out of the business, I did my research. I read several autobiographies by professional strippers. I didn’t want to write my story from a place of ignorance. I also didn’t want to eroticize or glamorize the job. My goal was to develop a strong, well-rounded character who happens to take off her clothes for a living. Stripping has affected her life in many ways, but it’s what she does, not who she is.

bare updated

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My favorite nonfiction book about stripping was Bare: On Women, Dancing, Sex and Power by Elisabeth Eaves. It’s a fascinating personal account written from a feminist, non-judgmental perspective.

I don’t have any recs for stripper heroines, but I’ve read some excellent romances featuring female sex workers. They are rare—especially those that deal with the more extreme end of the spectrum. Case in point, Solace Ames’s The Companion Contract, a beautiful, lyrical, erotic tale about a young porn star/escort who falls for a mature former rock star. Ames offers an unflinching look at an industry that can be a real meatgrinder, navigated by a business-minded heroine with warmth and depth who never loses sight of herself or her love for sex.

Soloplay by Miranda Baker has a lighter tone, and begins with a partner-free type of sex work: sex toy testing. The heroine transforms from a woman who’s never had an orgasm to a solo-pleasure expert. Then she agrees to help the hero try out his new line of couples’ toys. It’s fun stuff.

blue angel

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Also fun is Tiffany Reisz’s Misbehaving, a story about a sex blogger who needs to test out all of the positions in a new sex manual. She hooks up with a former flame and they jump into bed for some steamy techniques that you might want to try at home. No magic penises, magic vaginas, or fantastical contortions required.

Blue Angel by Logan Belle features a law student/burlesque dancer heroine. I’m not sure if this qualifies as sex work because it’s striptease rather than stripping. I really enjoyed the NYC social scene, the costume details, and the soapy drama of this erotic novel with romantic elements.

What do you think about sex worker heroines? Do you prefer innocent heroines or experienced ones? Can you name any sex-positive romances with stripper or burlesque dancer heroines?

 

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Lusting after “Vincent”

13 May

By Liz Everly

Yesterday was not just any Monday. I was in a Twitter conversation with Tiffany Reisz (yes THAT one) and Sarah Wendell (YEP) about the TV show “Beauty and the Beast”—which left us all swooning. Turns out we all loved the show. Do you remember it?

It was about “the adventures and romance of a sensitive and cultured lion-man and a crusading assistant district attorney in Manhattan, New York City,” according to IMDB. And it’s that lion-man that had us all breathless over our Twitter feeds. To this day, when I hear the name “Vincent,” my hearts speed up, just a wee little bit…Vincent-1

 

What is it about that sensitive, yet beasty man that had us all swooning? Was it his love of poetry? His devotion to Catherine? His soul and gut-wrenching agony of never being able to show his face in public? Or was it his mighty roar? The tenderness beneath the roar? All of that reaches into my guts and still makes me yearn, my friends.

And it says something about what we want in a romance, doesn’t it? I mean, as Tiffany said it was, indeed, the most romantic show on television. It wove in art, literature, and love into the plot beautiful ways. The only thing today remotely akin to it is “Once Upon A time,” which I watch with my daughters. It has romance, as well. But its focus is way different.

If you’ve never seen the show you can catch some episodes on TV.com.

Turns out that there is a soundtrack with Ron Perlman as “Vincent” reading poetry. And Sarah pointed me to a youtube reading, which if you have memories of this show might leave you blushing and breathless with the rest of us:

The TV show ran from 1987 to 1990. It starred Linda Hamilton and Ron Perlman, airing every Friday night and I rarely missed an episode. I loved the romance and the longing in the show. I was also intrigued by the underneath the city aspect to it. Vincent and his community live in the bowels of the city and I still think about the lovely space he called home underneath and in the midst of the grit and grime. I remember beautiful hardcover books, blankets and quilts, and overstuffed chairs, which all added to the allure of Vincent.

Then there was the writing. Consider the opening lines that ran at the beginning of each show:

Vincent: This is where the wealthy and the powerful rule. It is her world, a world apart from mine. Her name is Catherine. From the moment I saw her, she captured my heart with her beauty, her warmth, and her courage. I knew then, as I know now, she would change my life forever.

Catherine: He comes from secret place, far below the city streets, hiding his face from strangers, safe from hate and harm. He brought me there to save my life; and now wherever I go, he is with me in spirit. For we have a bond stronger than friendship or love…and although we cannot be together, we will never, ever be apart.

Beauty-and-the-beast-150911

Clutching my heart!

Thoughts?

While you’re thinking, I’m going to give a shout out to the ladies who inspired this post Tiffany Reisz, author of many books, including THE SIREN, which I read and loved.

The Siren

Lady Smut’s Madeline Iva interviewed Tiffany here.

The other sparkling conversationalist of the day was Sarah Wendell, of Smart Bitches, Trashy Books. If you don’t know that blog…where’ve you been? Check it out now. I’m sure our chat is still floating around on Twitter, if you’d like to read it. Before you go, I’m giving away a copy of LIKE HONEY to one lucky commenter today. So, if you’d like to read about a sexy-spy-turned beekeeper in Scotland who meets a young widow and so on and so forth, comment away! And don’t forget to subscribe to Lady Smut. You never know who will show up here!

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Pictures In The Eyes Of The Beholder

19 Jun

Woman Hiding Behind BookIn going through the process of getting my website completed, I’ve been thinking a lot about author photos. For writers of erotic romance, in particular, this can be a tricky decision. To have a photo, or not to have a photo. That is the question. Like many, I have a “day job” unrelated to my passion for writing, and the day job folks  . . . well, let’s just say there’s a certain image in the corporate world which may or may not look favorably upon an erotic romance writer.

So. The photo. In my quest to address this issue as it pertain to my own site, I decided – for inspiration – to go on a voyeuristic exploration of other writers’ sites and see what they’re up to, photo wise. My first stop was at the port of Ms. Misty Dietz.

Now, before I say anything about the photo Misty uses on her site, let me just say that I really love her site in general. First off, it tells me what she’s writing. I know within seconds after her homepage opens that Misty’s stories have a dark side, that she veers toward suspense/paranormal romance versus sweet or inspirational. Her tag line, “Love, Sex & Danger. Buckle Up.” gives me a pretty darn good clue about that. And she does have a picture, beautifully displayed in the bio section of the site. Good on ya, Misty.

Hmmm. OK, that was informative. But perhaps I also need to look at a writer who’s really known for her blistering hot erotic romances. I decided to check out Delilah Devlin’s site.

Like Misty, Delilah chooses not to put her photo on the homepage but instead reserves it for when readers click through to the bio page. There we can learn about her childhood, her writing awards, her loves and interests, even where she went to school. Very informative! And we also get her photo. Unlike Misty’s photo, which is so good it looks professionally done (or maybe Misty is just uber photogenic), Delilah’s picture is more like a good picture that a friend took with a smartphone. Oh, and she also has an adorable picture of her and her sister when they were kids. Love it.

Next stop, Tiffany Reisz. Author of the very sexy and extremely hot The Original Sinners series, Tiffany’s a writer we love here on Lady Smut. (see Madeline’s Q&A with Tiffany here). Tiffany also has a really cool website. It’s moody, all black, white, and grey, well organized, and let’s us learn a lot about her. Going with the theme of no photo on the home page, Tiffany’s pretty mug is revealed on her bio page. The picture, I must say, really goes along with the mood of her writing. It’s a black and white picture of her in profile but looking out at the viewer. Really cool.

In my (admittedly somewhat limited) research of romance and erotic romance writers’ websites, the majority (although not all) of writers are indeed using author pictures. Other sites I looked at include Shoshanna Evers, Erica Chilson, Joey W. Hill, Robin Schone, Ella  Quinn, and Lisa Valdez. Now, I wasn’t born yesterday and am aware that some of the pictures may not be of the authors themselves. For a variety of reasons, some of us just don’t feel comfortable having our faces out there. Hey, I get it. That was the point of this exercise, after all. To photo, or not to photo. How do you answer the question?

The Pain Game

31 Oct

Following up on Liz’s post from yesterday, let’s talk about pain in erotic romance. This is a topic from which some will run away in fear, so it’s particularly suitable for today since it’s Halloween.

Hollywood “erotic thrillers” have explored this topic thoroughly in several movies, good, bad, and forgettable. The first thing that comes to mind is the pretty wretched Body of Evidence, starring Willem Dafoe and Madonna. I don’t remember much about this movie (thankfully), although one thing that did stick in my mind was the candle wax scene. If you haven’t seen the movie and are interested in the topic of pain as erotic pleasure, rent the DVD and fast forward to this scene. For all the slams the movie has gotten, seeing Madonna pouring burning hot candle wax onto Willem Dafoe’s stomach may be worth your time.

Turning next to choking, I’ve got to confess that this one doesn’t do it for me. There’s a bizarre scene in the movie History of Violence in which Viggo Mortensen’s character has rough sex with his wife, played by Maria Bello, and part of it includes him choking her. Now to be fair, I personally have issues with anything too tight around my neck, including clothing or jewelry so the choking thing is a tough one for me to swallow (ha! I had to say it). But trying to keep an open mind and think about it in an erotic way . . . ummmm no. Nicht. Nein. Perhaps it’s the fact that going over the edge with this can lead to really, really bad things. Hot candle wax might give you a nasty burn, but it doesn’t kill you. Choking on the other hand . . .

OK, moving on. The big association of pain and erotic pleasure comes most obviously via the BDSM culture. We’ve got to give it to Fifty Shades for bringing this topic out of the dungeon and into mainstream living rooms, but BDSM fans have of course been mixing their pain and pleasure for a good long time before Fifty Shades was even a germ of an idea. There are a lot of quite good erotic romances that explore this subject in interesting ways. I recommend checking out Shoshanna Evers’ Chastity Belt or Punishing the Art Thief, Tiffany Reisz’s The Siren, or Jennifer Probst’s Dare Me. The list goes on and on. There are many more really good BDSM romances than I can recommend in this post. I’d love to hear about the ones you love, and why the element of pain and erotic romance work for you.

Also remember, we’re giving away First Drop of Crimson by Jeaniene Frost for the best comment of the day.

Happy Halloween!

Elizabeth

I Hear The Siren’s Call: Q&A with Tiffany Reisz (That’s Mistress Tiffany to You)

18 Oct

Madeline here!

photo by RV Suvan, cc

Super-thrilled to be chatting with Tiffany Reisz today.  Here are some questions she answered for your delight. (Warning, we were dropping f-bombs left and right. Brace yourself, Nelly.)

Leave a comment at the bottom of this post and YOU, yes, lucky YOU could win a signed copy of The Siren from Mistress Tiffany.  Check back at this post on Friday when we will announce a winner!

MADELINE IVA: How’d you get your agent?

TIFFANY REISZ: I found my agent, Sara Megibow of Nelson Literary Agency, on querytracker.net. I’d sold SEVEN DAY LOAN, a Spice Brief novella, on my own the year before and it gave me the confidence to start querying. She was in my first batch of agent’s I queried. I picked her because she said she was looking for erotica. I didn’t (and still don’t) consider The Siren “erotica” per se but I knew I’d need an agent with, let’s just say, a high tolerance for pain. We’ve been a beautiful team. She believed in me from day one and has sold what should have been an unsaleable (hardcore S&M with underage sex, multiple partners, a kinky Catholic priest, a heroine who’s a Dominatrix…) book to a massive mainstream imprint.

MADELINE IVA: How’d you get your first sale?

TIFFANY REISZ: I started with seven agents and only one of the seven wanted anything to do with me. Same deal with the editors. Seven editors were sent The Siren, six said no. Quite frankly, the book scared the shit out most of them. It wasn’t erotica, wasn’t romance, was “too cerebral” according to one editor. Nora made another editor nervous (she’s a Dominatrix, that’s her job). But then…Susan Swinwood of Harlequin of all imprints was looking for something different. Susan has gone on record as saying she likes taboo subject matter in books and complicated endings. She fell in love with Nora and bought book one, The Siren, and book two, The Angel on September 1st of 2010.

MADELINE IVA: A friend once said: “A MIRA heroine owns a vibrator and may wave it around occasionally, but you’ll never see her actually use it.”  Were you shocked that MIRA ended up buying your trilogy? Is MIRA (a division of Harlequin) headed in a new direction? Does 50 Shades of Grey have anything to do with this? (But it couldn’t with your book could it?–because they accepted your book before that phenomenon broke out, right?)

TIFFANY REISZ: In 2011 Harlequin did away with its erotica imprint Spice. The market for erotica had seemingly dried up and most Spice writers were doing nothing but writing romance novels with a couple extra sex scenes. The majority of the Spice writers got moved to HQN, the romance imprint. Once again, The Siren scared too many people. No way could it be marketed as a romance novel. I got sent to Mira where the expectations would be different. Mira is for women’s fiction, general fiction, mysteries and suspense. All my books are erotic (and Gothic) thrillers.

Now that you ask, you don’t ever actually see Nora using a vibrator. If she wants something phallic in her vagina, she just uses somebody’s cock.

On the other hand, you do see her using…

-floggers

-canes

-cuffs

-rope

-spreader bars

-scalding candle wax

-a riding crop

Compared to all that, a vibrator seems pretty vanilla.

MADELINE IVA: What has been your response to all the “deeply conflicted” reviews you’ve been getting from authors and readers? They seem to be very moved by the emotion in your work, but oh-so-troubled that you’re breaking all these ‘rules’.  They warn each other constantly to remember that this is erotica–not erotic romance. This tells me that a) your readers are erotic romance readers, not erotica readers and b) you fucked with them pretty good.  Did you mean to break the erotic romance ‘rules’ on purpose? By having an under age virgin in the story, for instance? –Or did your story just come out that way? Let me be blunt here: do you like messing with erotic romance reader’s expectations?  Do you think they need to loosen up about some conventional standards?

TIFFANY REISZ: The reviews crack me up. First of all, I’m utterly floored by how overwhelmingly positive the response to The Siren has been. Go to Amazon and see how many five-star reviews I have. It’s ridiculous. Harlequin says The Siren is the best reviewed book they’ve published in years.

That being said, some readers are conflicted. That’s okay. They’re supposed to be. The whole series is a mindfuck. And I’m saying that in the same tone of voice Morpheous used when explaining to Neo about the rabbit hole he choose to fall down. You won’t even know the mindfuckery I’m pulling until the very end of book four. So in a way, the response to the books was what I intended. I wanted to fuck with minds. Shockingly people are reeling. Readers who hated Søren in book one are madly in love with him by the end of book two. Readers who come into the book thinking monogamy is the only right way to conduct a relationship, cheer Nora on when she follows her heart and her libido into one bed after the other. Readers who think that underage sex is horrifying and male-male sex is gross are falling madly in love with my male-male subplot in The Angel.

I don’t have readers. I have submissives. You can call me Mistress Tiffany Reisz if you want to play.

MADELINE IVA: What is next? I heard you’re quitting your day job in the near future.  Shall we imagine you (a la back cover photos of Barbara Cartland) in a giant pink satin bed,  massive jeweled rings on your fingers, surrounded by frou-frou dogs and a fat box of chocolates?  Or is it back to researching in Gotham City dungeons? (How much do you tip a dungeon dominatrix btw?)

MISTRESS TIFFANY REISZ: All writers dream of quitting the day job. Hopefully this is something I’ll be able to pull off in the next year or two. All signs point to maybe! I think the future holds a move to the West Coast, a lot of writing, some walks on the beach with my ridiculously handsome boyfriend (author Andrew Shaffer), and finally putting Honeytoast, my sad kitteh, into therapy.

Oh, and you tip a Dominatrix  15-20%, just like your hairdresser. Remember, she has to pay dungeon fees.

What’s New Pussycat?

15 Oct

Hi, Madeline here!

Just back from the NJ Put Your Heart In A Book Conference.

It was excellent to hear all about the great new things going on in the ever-exciting world of romance.

You can imagine my great pleasure at the prominence of erotic romance at this year’s conference.  We’re definitely having a moment, ladies.  In fact, super-star agent Lori Perkins said our entire nation is having a moment.

According to Ms. Perkins, the popularity of erotic romance is a reflection of fifth wave feminism.  To paraphrase her words, women from the 60’s who once burned their bras are now entering an age where they feel the power of their sexuality more than ever.  As a result, they–and the daughters they raised–are demanding fiction that understands the sexual passion raging in a woman’s heart.

I was inspired by this kind of infectious enthusiasm, as well as by many of the writers that I met.  In addition, the response to Lady Smut was overwhelmingly favorable.  So we’re going to have some guest bloggers appearing at the end of this month, and I’ll be starting a Thursday Author Interview series this week.

In fact, this week, don’t forget to check out our first interview with Tiffany Reisz.  At the conference, a top editor from MIRA said Tiffany Reisz was one of their most exciting debut authors.  We’ll be giving away a signed copy of  her first book THE SIREN to one lucky commenter that day.

Meanwhile, it was a blast swanning around the hotel with Elizabeth Shore and enjoying my swank hotel room.  I got a kick out of the enormous mirror next to the king size bed–very appropriate at a romance conference. ;>

I blow you all a kiss!

Madeline

Funny Girls

30 Sep

Happy Sunday!

Madeline here — just wanted to give you a head’s up that funny ladies Daisy Harris and Tiffany Reisz will be answering questions on Lady Smut in the month of October.

 

 

 

Are you excited? (I’m excited).

Are there any questions you’d like me to ask them?

 

 

 

 

I find both of these authors just hootingly funny when I’ve read their websites and tweets.

Here’s a link to a page of free reads by Tiffany.

 

 

Am I really weird for liking a big dose of humor with my erotic romance?  Am I the only one?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here are two free reads from Daisy.  (Not the books listed below–they’re just eye candy.)

I Think I’m In Love: Tiffany Reisz is my Hero

13 Sep

1) She breaks the rules.

2) She breaks them again.

3) She’s funny as shit.

4) She’s s-u-c-h a good writer, it hurts.

5) She wants it to hurt.

6) And the woman does her research.

What’s not to love, I ask you?????????

She’s generous, too.  You can find plentiful free reads on her website here.  I suggest starting off with “The Ingenue”.  This is what we call good erotica.  Not that cheap-ass “I wrote it, I spell checked it, so buy it already, bitch” stuff.

Yes, like THE SIREN, there are moments that have credible online romance reviewers clutching their panties.  They can bite me.

I’ll be blogging next Monday about why Reisz’s stuff works for me, why it might work for you, and how we can deeply grok the endless possibilities for the big, wide world of erotica, erotic romance, and woman-friendly writing by contemplating her work.

Stay tuned my little cupcakes–

XO

Madeline

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