In THE MEMORIAL GARDEN, Ms. Burka twists the old fable and makes it her own. She vividly evokes the semi-tribal world of Mazinara, where a man’s braids are his pride; the regimented society aboard the spaceship; the elegance, wealth and beauty of the Firdoos court; the incendiary glory of the Empress; and the twisted attraction Sofian feels for Numair.

This is a tale of adventure and self-discovery as much as lust. There are relatively few sex scenes. However, they will leave you breathless and aching. They have an emotional complexity that is fairly rare, especially in erotic romance, which I suppose is the appropriate genre. I’ve never encountered a more brutal or more moving BDSM scene in erotic romance than the final session when Sofian begs for Numair’s pardon.

ISBN: 978-1-885865-54-0
Word Count: 44,770
List Price: $6.99

Available from:

• Circlet.com (PDF)
• Amazon Kindle Store
• Fictionwise (all formats)
• All Romance eBooks (epub, prc, pdf, HTML)
• Smashwords (mobi, LRF, epub, pdf, HTML)
• Scribd (PDF, epaper, read online)

For the next two weeks the title is on sale at up to 20% off from most partner sites, and right here at Circlet.com, so don’t dawdle, download a copy today.

Circlet Press brings you seven erotic stories of dominance and submission that will return you to the moment when a master, mistress, or slave first stepped out of a story and made you theirs.

The submissives, slaves, and bottoms you will meet here are tough and competent. No passive orifices, they are beautifully-realized individuals with the spark that makes them recognizably human. In “KATT,” the slave is a beautiful android who fights to hold on to the precious scrap of her life after a disaster. The servant in “Lord of Misrule” knows that his relationship with his master requires something other than obedience. The slave in “Raiders from the Stars” learns that much more is at stake than his personal gratification. In “Personal Benefits,” the highly-trained contract slave offers the pleasure of perfect obedience to the powerful woman who owns her.

Nor are their tops the well-endowed ciphers who “train” Cindi. They have needs and aspirations. Pleasure may be an important part of their lives, even the most important part of their lives, but they are also seeking love, acceptance and a future for themselves and their slaves in a hard world. The master in “Raiders from the Stars” knows that the safety that humanity takes for granted is rooted in obedience. In “Romans,” the master forges a new sort of domestic tranquility for his new slaves. The bureaucrat of a repressive government in “Exceptional Acts” discovers that pleasure is the most powerful form of rebellion.

Table of Contents:

• The Lord of Misrule byKannan Feng
• KATT by Smotp
• Romans by Joe Nobel
• Raiders from the Stars by Jay Starre
• Exceptional Acts by Argus Marks
• Personal Benefits by Elizabeth Thorne
• Scenes in a Beijing Hotel by Jason Rubis

Excerpt:

From the Introduction

Let’s call her Cindi.

She is a habitué of the slush pile, arriving in a story titled “Cindi’s Journey” or similar. She has a body with unlikely measurements, no history worth mentioning, and no special talents except the ability to walk in 5 inch heels while burdened by disproportionately large breasts. She lives in a future society indistinguishable from ours except that it supports some form of contract slavery that exists without political or economic rationale. For no particular reason she signs up for slavery and undergoes a lengthy period of what is called ‘training’ even though she doesn’t learn anything. Indeed, her trainers show no interest in developing her abilities beyond stretching her orifices. She has nothing to say beyond crying out prettily in response to the endless beatings or perhaps exclaiming over the size of her trainers’ penises (indeed, how would we know that their penises were fearsomely large if she didn’t dread accommodating them?) She may struggle in her restraints, but never in her soul. There is no twist to Cindi’s fate; at the end of the story she will be sold to one of her faceless masters.

You won’t find Cindi or her masters in this book.

The submissives, slaves, and bottoms you meet here are tough and competent. No passive orifices, they are beautifully-realized individuals with the spark that makes them recognizably human. In “KATT,” the slave is a beautiful android who fights to hold on to the precious scrap of her life after a disaster. The servant in “Lord of Misrule” knows that his relationship with his master requires something other than obedience. The slave in “Raiders from the Stars” learns that much more is at stake than his personal gratification. In “Personal Benefits,” the highly-trained contract slave offers the pleasure of perfect obedience to the powerful woman who owns her.

Nor are their tops the well-endowed ciphers who “train” Cindi. They have needs and aspirations. Pleasure may be an important part of their lives, even the most important part of their lives, but they are also seeking love, acceptance and a future for themselves and their slaves in a hard world. The master in “Raiders from the Stars” knows that the safety that humanity takes for granted is rooted in obedience. In “Romans,” the master forges a new sort of domestic tranquility for his new slaves. The bureaucrat of a repressive government in “Exceptional Acts” discovers that pleasure is the most powerful form of rebellion.

Dominance and submission and the passions inspired by the roles define the human soul. The discomfort we feel in admitting the sexual feelings inspired by authority in real life only adds to the power of these fantasies. Let them seduce you.

Lauren P. Burka, Editor

Excerpt from The Lord of Misrule

by Kannan Feng

I earned the right to walk the halls of Atia Selene when I was sixteen, and even at that age, the masters of the Veiled University knew that I would one day join their ranks. I was a prodigy, I was brilliant, and unfortunately for the younger students and the servants around me, I was a holy terror.

After all, before I set my mind to the aetheric arts, I was the youngest son of the House of Fen, a prince by birth and gifted in every way that a man could be. I knew it, and I made sure that everyone around me knew it as well.

In the seventh year of study at Atia Selene, the students who remain are provided with an assistant, but the word fails to do the position justice. I’ve heard the older students refer to their assistant as miracle workers or genii who manage their affairs, search the libraries for the elusive tome that they need, and organize their writings, all while being perfectly even-tempered with the famously eccentric ways of the Veiled University.

It is an extremely demanding job, and when Iskander was presented to me, I was far from confident with his ability to handle it. He was tall, with blue-black hair and the warm, dusky skin that marked him as Liuban-born. There was a spray of dark freckles across his nose that made him look even younger than he was, and I guessed that was actually a few years younger than I was myself.

“You don’t look like all that much,” I said candidly.

He only tilted his head at me, unsmiling, waiting for my command, and impulsively, I reached out to palm his cheek. For a moment, I considered seeing if he would tumble into the bed at my command and if I could convince him to put that soft mouth to a use that was certainly not outlined in the university charter. Then I remembered myself and stepped back, already embarrassed by my lapse.

No matter what I might have feared, Iskander performed admirably. He returned my books to the library before the librarians came after me with sword and fire, he double-checked my papers’ citations into the wee hours of the morning, he made sure that my desk was kept well-stocked with ink and paper, and he did it all with unfailing grace.

After a while, Iskander become invisible, or at least he mostly did, and with more pretty things hopping in and out of my bed than I knew what to do with, I was happy enough to let him take care of the day-to-day trivia of my life.

Why should I bother about small things like, that after all, when I was in love? The thing about being twenty four is that you can have a new love of your life every few weeks or so.

Unfortunately, on a cold night near to Christmas, my most recent paramour had decided to let me know that he was getting married. He was just two years older than me, and he was getting married. It was crushing, and I spent the next six hours drinking and ranting about the perfidy of men to anyone who would listen to me. I was more than a little annoyed that no one had chosen to accompany me home, and with my apartments filled with cold air and work that I didn’t want to do, I couldn’t see my mood improving at all.

All that said, when Iskander opened the door to my bedchamber to deliver the books that I needed for my next paper, I wasn’t happy with anything.

“Wait, don’t go,” I said, and from the wary look on his face, I could tell that he wasn’t sure of my mood. Well, that made two of us, and I rolled over in the bed, propping myself up on one bare elbow.

“Yes, Verity?”

“Have you ever kissed a man before, Iskander?”

A lovely blush that colored his face and I grinned inwardly, think about how much I love straight boys. I was startled when he nodded, just once.

“How very lucky,” I said sweetly. “I won’t have to teach you a thing.”

When I beckoned he came to my bedside and dropped to his knees. To my surprise though, he took my chin between two fingers and tilted my head up before dropping his mouth to mine. My shock quickly turned to something else, though, as he demonstrated clearly and beyond the shadow of a doubt that he knew how to kiss. His soft tongue explored my mouth leisurely and with every semblance of enjoying it, and it made me melt and want more. I had anticipated a kiss that was meek and hesitant, but what I got was a feeling of being overwhelmed and completely at Iskander’s mercy. Distantly, I thought that if Iskander had been putting up with me for so long, he would have little mercy to spare.

Iskander brought his hand up to gently touch my face and that was what made me bolt. The kiss wanted to turn into something more, and I knew that I couldn’t let it, not if I wanted things to stay as they were.

I sat up and pulled back from him, wiping my mouth hard, and staring at him with what I hoped was haughty disdain. It was one thing to bait a servant, and quite another to turn into my servant’s willing plaything, and I was furious with myself.

“You can go now, Iskander. Make sure that you confirm my appointment with the discourse counselor this evening.”

He nodded and took his leave, and if my strange and completely inappropriate gesture made him uncomfortable, I couldn’t tell in the way that he took care of his work.

‡

Christmas came in with drifting piles of snow and a howling wind, and by the eighth day of partying, I was in a black mood. If one more person came up to me talking of good tidings and good will, I was well prepared to club him over the head with a Yule log. Under the best of times, I’m not fond of the holiday, and this year I was facing it alone without someone to drag into the corner and kiss until I was drunk with it.

All in all, it was shaping up to be a rotten winter when the Feast of Fools rolled around. The Feast of Fools is the world turned upside down, the one night of the year where servants become kings and princes become chambermaids to be fucked and horses to be ridden.

When you put stodgy academics in with people who are meant to serve them loyally and without a peep of dismay, you’d think that something like the Feast of Fools would be banned at the gates and the night spent in prayer and guilt. That’s what you might think, but you’d be wrong because the Feast of Fools is one of the biggest saturnalias that Atia Selene enjoys all year. If I never saw the Chancellor dressed up as the Milkmaid Queen again, it would be too soon.

I had told Iskander to lay out some clothes for me, but I was unprepared for the flat black coat and trousers that were waiting for me on my bed. On one hand, it was nice to have a servant who is so devoted that he can read my moods. On the other hand, I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to dress in somber black for the brightest night in winter.

I glanced at my closet, where my significantly more colorful wardrobe spilled out in disarray, but I shrugged and put on the clothes that Iskander had chosen for me. They fit like a glove, and at least they were clean.

‡

The Regina Ursae hall was full of people, and the party had started hours before I slouched in. In priest’s black, I stood out like a sore thumb, but with the alcohol flowing free of charge from sundown until dawn, I couldn’t imagine that anyone cared.

I was looking around to rather dismally to see if I could catch someone circulating with a glass of something stronger than the cider and my eyes were drawn to the seat on top of the central dais.

No one’s quite sure who makes the choice, but at sunset every year on the Feast of Fools, a Lord of Misrule appears on the chair that is usually only occupied by the Chancellor. On this particular Feast, the Chancellor was got up in his best Ella Cinders costume and the seat was occupied by my Iskander, wearing nothing but a pair of gray trousers and a blindingly red military jacket trimmed in a general’s gold braid.

Wearing pure black when everyone else was tricked out in eye searingly bright colors made me downright prim, and my first thought was shock at his bare chest and the winking red gem that pierced his navel. How had he served me for so long without my knowing of such a thing? I suddenly wanted to take it between my teeth, but such pleasant thoughts were blown out of my mind when a young man in a mask and very little else swung up to the dais for a kiss.

Nothing could have been more matter of fact than the way that Iskander pressed the man to his knees. With his hand wrapped firmly in the man’s chestnut hair (who was it? I should have known), Iskander kissed him throughly as the crowd cheered. It was more blatantly sexual than the kiss that I had demanded that he give me, and as stupid as it was, I felt the first stirrings of jealousy strike me low in the gut.

I reached for a glass of that something stronger that I had been looking for, but just as I noticed that Iskander’s intent black eyes were searching for the crowd, they locked on me. If I had had my wits around me, I would have ran or at least glared, but as it was, I could only stand there and think rather stupidly of how beautiful he was when smiled in that elegantly predatory fashion.

“Bring Verity here to heel,” he called. “I should very much like to see the Veiled University’s most promising scholar on his knees.”

His voice cracked like a whip and it brought the entire hall surging towards me. A dozen hands pushed me forward, and if I fell, I knew they would carry me. Suddenly and with the force of lightning, I was terrified and when they threw me face first onto the dais in front of Iskander, I knew deep in my marrow that the world was upside down. Iskander was the Lord of Misrule and even if I had him tied up and beaten with a dog whip in the morning, nothing would change the fact that he was going to have his every single whim obeyed like it was the Lady’s word tonight.

His eyes glittered when I was thrown so unceremoniously at his bare feet and slowly he knelt down. Iskander’s hand in my hair was oddly tender, stroking twice before grabbing a great handful and dragging me to my feet.

“I am going to stretch this night forever, Verity,” he whispered in my ear. “Go on and pretend that you don’t like it, if that’s what pleases you.”

Unfortunately for me, I couldn’t even pretend that I wasn’t aroused by having him so close, by having all those people who usually had to bow and scrape before me tearing at me with their bright eyes.

With a showman’s grace, he turned me towards the crowd, letting their jeers and catcalls swell before reaching for his next grand gesture. His hand still fisted in my hair and keeping me straight as an arrow in front of him, his other hand suddenly glittered in the edge of my vision.

A paring knife, I had time to think stupidly. He peels apples with that…

It came up sharp and fast, and for a moment, I thought that Iskander was going to kill me right there. Instead, he found the button underneath my throat and with a deft flick of his wrist sent it flying into the crowd.

To read the rest of the story, purchase your copy of the ebook KNEEL TO ME today!

I tugged his belt loose from Daniel’s jeans. It was an unusually thick piece of black leather, soft and flexible, as if it were used often.

Pulling Daniel’s hair, I brought him to heel on his hands and knees and led him, as he tripped over his loose jeans, to the futon.

“Kneel and bend forward over the edge of the bed,” I ordered. “Put your hands on the back of your neck and cover your face with your arms. Very good.” I ruffled his hair as if he were some favored pet, then folded it forward over his shoulder. But for the brand, his skin was not marked.

Daniel was no toy. He was a live person, with his own tangled motives and responses. Seeing him kneel there, I could have forgotten that. Daniel’s submission matched my dreams so perfectly that I could scarcely believe him other than a personal fantasy. And I dare not forget that I hurt someone real.

Doubling up the belt, I tucked the buckle safely into my hand.

“Count for me, Daniel,” I said, and struck backhanded.

The belt left a wide, white mark diagonally down his left shoulder.

“One,” he said, as the welt began to turn pink.

Daniel never lost count, though his voice rose somewhat in pitch and he took more and more time after each stroke to come up with an answer. I gave him no rest from the pain. Around sixty he developed a violent tremor in his muscles, almost as violent as the one I’d have in my right arm tomorrow when the muscles had stiffened. The places I had struck repeatedly were turning purple. At ninety, Daniel broke. He turned suddenly, covered his face with his hands, and lay his head back against the futon. This left his torso arched and his thighs splayed out in tempting targets. His penis was still erect against the black curls of his pubic hair.

It was a clever bottom’s gamble to disobey this way. Daniel would be hoping that I’d spare his welted back and vent my displeasure on his unmarked chest and thighs. If I were getting tired, it wouldn’t hurt him nearly as much.

I was getting tired. Time to try something else.

“Take your hands down,” I ordered.

Daniel’s eyes were wide and moisture spilled out the corners. He met my gaze squarely though, and wouldn’t look away.

“Lovely,” I said. I watched his face as I snapped the belt across his cock. “Most lovely. Take your pants off, and lie down on your back.

He obeyed slowly and with a clumsiness that obviously pained him, perhaps more than his back did. Very few people can look proud and graceful sprawled naked on a bed with every breath reminding them of a recent beating.

Gena had left nipple clips in the dresser, but I wanted something a little bit crueler. My briefcase had been set in a corner. I went to it and flipped through the manuscripts until I found two that were held together with black, triangular binder clips.

Daniel couldn’t see what I was doing. I kept the clips hidden in one hand while I leaned over him and took his left nipple in my mouth. I sucked it briefly, then pressed my tongue down into it, grinding it against the bones of his ribs.

No matter how hurt, Daniel still melted. This was one of his favorite ways to be touched, and he knew better than to hold a grudge. Daniel writhed beneath me, as if he could distract me from any other thought but of making love to him. He made one soft, startled noise as the clamp bit his nipple, then was silent again. I repeated the procedure with his right nipple.

Daniel’s eyes lost focus. A touch of a finger against the clamps brought a violent flicker of emotion to his face, which smoothed over as the numbness returned. His hands clenched the covers, then vanished behind the back of his neck as he conquered the urge to pull off the clips.

I cupped his balls in one hand and stroked his penis with the other.

“I’ll be sure to tell Gena how good you were, and how you stayed hard no matter what I did to you.”

Be safe, Gena had told me. I found a glove and lubricant in the drawer. Then, properly equipped for safe sex, I pressed my thumb against the tender flesh behind his balls and stroked the shaft with my fingers, much too lightly. My fingers spread lube over the circumcised head. Daniel was even now close to coming. Very hungry. Heat radiated from his genitals, and a thin line of sweat trickled down his forehead into his hair. It was a challenge to stroke him but not let him off just yet. He could take pain much more easily when on the very edge of orgasm, even when he moved and jolted the clips.

I concentrated my touches on the satin skin just below the head of his cock. Daniel’s expression didn’t change, though I watched his eyes for some sign of feeling as he came over my fingers. His jaw clenched, then relaxed. When the long, hot spasms has subsided and the tension left his belly,, I reached up and pulled off the clips.

And he still didn’t scream.

His eyes were open again, self-possessed and almost mocking.

“What do you get from being so cold?” I asked him.

He said, “What would you get from seeing me lose it?”

My fingers, still slick and gloved, went down between his legs and into his ass, so suddenly that his jaw clicked shut on empty air. Daniel’s eyes narrowed sharply.

“You looked outraged,” I told him. “You’re not tight enough to be a virgin.”

He took three fingers easily. My probing thumb met resistance. I settled for the three. I’d forgotten just how hot a human body was at its core, and how soft the lining of the ass, and how swiftly the right touch could bring a spent cock to attention.

With my clean hand, I reached into a pocket and pulled out the condom I’d stashed there earlier.

“Put this on,” I told Daniel. “And if you go soft, you’ll be bending over for my fist.”

This was sufficient threat to keep Daniel’s hand on his penis while I lost my clothes and discarded the glove. I was wet and slick inside when I straddled him and fit our two bodies together. This wouldn’t get me off. I required a more delicate touch to achieve orgasm. I wasn’t trying to make me come.

Daniel didn’t know this, though. He kissed me and ran his hands down my body, perhaps wishing I’d let him alone once I’d had my pleasure. The sweat on his skin had the taste o exhaustion. He took so long to come this time that I was starting to dry. Then, while I wound my tongue deep into his ear and rubbed one sore nipple between my fingers, Daniel cried out.

It was the sound of some animal in pain or suddenly bereft. Daniel’s body shuddered and twisted, and tears ran down his cheeks. He still moaned when he had finished thrusting into me.

I gathered up his hair in one hand and kissed his throat.

“That’s better,” I said, pinching him and hearing him whimper. “Much better.”

Later that night I turned over in the dark in a strange futon. There was supposed to be someone beside me.

There.

In the square of window light, Daniel sat on the floor. He was clothed in jeans and nothing else. His arms were folded across his chest, and his long hair covered his face. Daniel made no sound, yet I could not mistake the shuddering of his body. He was weeping.

Wrapped in the warmth of the blankets, I grew suddenly so cold that I hurt. But I had destroyed all power in me to comfort, and at last I fell asleep again, long before Daniel came back to bed.

I live in Cambridge, MA, one of the last places in the country with independent bookstores.  I decided to buy the book locally and bring it with me on the plane instead of, say, copping out and ordering it from Amazon to be shipped.

I went to Curious George Goes to Wordsworth.  They did not have the book, but said that they could order it.

I went to the Harvard Bookstore.  They did not have the book, but said that they could order it.

I went to Pandemonium Books and Games.  They’d certainly have it.  Nope.  They offered to order it.  I explained the nephews.  They tried to figure out if they could order it to be shipped to my nephews for me, but finally admitted that it would be cheaper for me to order from Amazon.

I just ordered the book from Amazon.

Daniel followed two steps behind me until the door clicked shut between us and the living room. He leaned against the wall with his hands at his sides.

I looked about the room first. The bed was actually a futon on a sturdy frame. There was a bathroom attached, and a plate of fruit and cheese on the dresser. I looked through the dresser drawers. Gena had left a nice supply of toys for me. I pulled out the riding crop and sat down on the bed.

Daniel hadn’t moved.

The map of my sexual psyche was simple. My taste compromises on androgynous men, with bodies taut enough to hum under my hands when I rub their backs or slap them, and effeminate enough that I can’t be sure of their gender when I look upon them the first time. I like long hair and very wide eyes. I prefer them too strong and proud to beg. I craved the young, the novice, the virginal, or the just plain helpless.

“So,” I said, “The lady or the tiger?”

Daniel looked up sharply. “What?” He had a sweet face, even now with tension written so plainly in every line and his mouth curled into a pout.

“Are you really that submissive?”

“No.”

His denial was a bit too fast and loud. I felt the first prickle of doubt.

“Are you really that cruel?” Daniel asked.

“Yes.” I wondered if he believed me.

Daniel’s hands clenched, then loosened. He fastened his eyes securely on a point to one side of my face.

“So tell me,” I said. “Why do you do this?”

“Which?”

“Why are you Gena’s slave? And please sit, or have something to eat, if you wish.”

Daniel took a seat in one of the chairs across the room from me. He met my eyes for the first time, arching one of his eyebrows just a bit. His was the smug look of someone who knew something that I did not.

“A real slave would laugh to hear you say that. My submission to Gena was, and is, by choice, renewed daily if necessary. If we need a word, we use ‘bond servant.’”

“All right. Why are you Gena’s bond servant?”

“Mostly for the sex.”

Of course Gena, the perfect top that she was, would be giving Daniel exactly what he wanted.

“And then, there is the money. Work-study is a joke when your tuition and fees top $19,000 a year. If it weren’t for Gena, I’d probably have joined the Navy, and I’d hate to cut my hair.”

“Would she dismiss you if you used a safeword?”

Daniel blinked. “I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

I twirled the riding crop between my fingers. “I needn’t push you that hard. What would you prefer? I could settle for vanilla, or something a little more… complicated. Or we could do nothing.”

That last was a blatant lie. I was not in the least prepared to walk out of here without taking some advantage of Gena’s gift.

Daniel’s eyes narrowed.

He said, “Let me show you something,” then stood, turning his back to me. Daniel pulled off his shirt, then gathered his hair together on one side of his neck.

The smooth, tan of Daniel’s back was interrupted high on his right shoulder by a ripple of white. The mark was shaped like Gena’s stylized signature “G.”

“Have you ever seen a freeze brand on human skin before? You can’t scare me. If Gena requires me to do something which I find distasteful, then I only owe it to her. I will not pretend that I like it, though. If you need feigned gratitude to get off, then I’m deeply sorry to disappoint you.”

I am not, and never have been, one to pass up a dare.

“Sit down,” I told him. “Cover your eyes with your left hand.”

Daniel blinked at me once and then obeyed.

I got up from the bed. He moved just a bit under the pressure of the urge to look.

“You are not permitted to move until I say so.”

I reached out and cradled his chin in my fingers. The riding crop was a thin wisp, almost too light to transmit the full snap of my arm.

To Daniel’s credit, he did not move when the crop whispered and bit his cheek. I made certain that the second and third blows caught not only his face, but his fingers.

“Your composure is admirable,” I said. “Take your hand down.”

When he had done so, I turned his head until he was facing the mirror over the dresser. His eyes narrowed as he watched the three welts on his cheek rise and darken.

“So is your aim,” he said.

We watched each other in the mirror.

“You will lose that self-control,” I said. “Either give it over of your own will, or I will take it from you. Believe that I can do it.”

Daniel’s upper lip twitched in a savage, theatrical snarl. I was being provoked again. But then, as any bottom, Daniel had the ultimate control over this scene, and he was determined to keep it.

I dropped the crop, leaned over, and ran my tongue down the marks. Daniel stiffened at my touch, then sighed and let me creep around to his lips. I wrapped his wealth of hair once around my hand, then kissed him.

His mouth opened for me, passive but hardly still. Daniel’s breath quickened at each light touch of my fingers on his skin. These caresses of mine, that sought out the places he loved to be touched, won from him a delicate shiver. He moaned when I tickled the roof of his mouth with my tongue, yet was too impeccably mannered to penetrate my mouth with his own.

So perfect…where had Gena found him? He was as responsive as a dark mirror, returning pain with provocation and pleasure with an appreciation so sweet and intense that it made me ache inside. Before him the memory of so many other submissives, lazy and demanding, who expected me to do all the work, faded like a bad odor in a breeze.

I trailed my fingers across his collar bone and down his chest, lazily circling his left nipple. Daniel froze. His breath caught on something sharp. He let his head fall back a little further, exposing the vulnerable arch of his throat, a plea without words. I learned something else then, that Gena kept him hungry. Taking the nipple in my fingers, I stroked his flesh to stone hardness.

Daniel’s hands had the arms of the chair in a death-grip. His eyes were closed. It seemed that his mind had fled into that small part of himself that I teased with the edge of a nail. And then, when Daniel had melted into my hands, I seized his nipple between my fingernails and twisted it.

He barely checked himself before he bit down. Breaking our kiss, he turned his head, coughed, and spat.

“Don’t tease me like that.”

I slapped him on his welted cheek. The force of the blow knocked Daniel sideways. I had to pull him back by his hair so I could look him in the eye.

“Do not command me. Do you understand?”

I relaxed my grip on his hair enough to let him nod. Reaching down, I tugged on his belt until it unbuckled, then pulled open the button fly of his jeans.

“Either you’re extremely well-trained,” I said, probing the length of his erect cock, “Or you’re enjoying this much more than you’re letting on.”

All of Daniel’s exposed skin acquired an endearing blush.

I freed the head of his cock from his jeans and squeezed it lightly.

“Would Gena beat you for speaking with such disrespect?”

“Yes.”

“Do you expect any less from me?”

Daniel shook his head. Had he been maneuvering me into this? If so, I was determined to make him sorry.

I work for a small press specializing in sex-positive erotica. We do not accept any unsolicited novel submissions. ALD [ALD Literary Agency (Leonid Dubizhansky)] sent [Circlet] a book called “How to Hate Sex With Primordial Innocence.” Losers.

An astute Googler dug up this post and wrote me:

“Hello Ms. Burka

I’ve been doing a little research on Leonid Dubishansky and happened upon your post – Absolute Write. I queried him about my manuscript, “Chasing the Boy”. He requested the first fifty, and now he has requested the full manuscript. Do publishing companies not take him seriously as an agent? Do you think I should pass?”

I know she wants me to say “I was just kidding. He’ll get your book published no problem.”

I’ll feel sad for her for about thirty seconds, then go back to re-reading Transmetropolitan.

Me: I’m a really tough stick.

Phlebotomist: You have a good vein right here.

Me: It will roll. Guaranteed.

Phlebotomist: No, I’ve got it.

Me: Ow.

Me: Ow.

Me: Ow!

Phlebotomist: Uh, it rolled. Let me see your other arm.

Me: *cries*

This is why I don’t enjoy reading vampire fiction and won’t write it either.

Which isn’t such a bad thing; I have to make up something new.

I’m taking an old story that is out of print and posting it in three parts now and on the following two Thursdays.

It’s time for part one of “The Tiger.”

“In the hearts of many, whether master, dominant, or sadist, there dwells a wish. It is almost never discussed, but its absence is a presence, like a shadow.”

Gena was a tall woman of spectacularly mixed heritage. Her eyes were almost green, and her hair had that color of red that only comes from African ancestors. I had thought her beautiful back in college, but we were roommates then, with our sexual identities changing almost daily. G knew her greatest joy in discovering exactly what someone wanted, whether lover or friend. If you stayed with Gena long enough, you might find your dreams coming true.

She continued. “The wish is this: to take one who is truly unwilling. To do so would be a grievous betrayal of our Art.” She said the last word so that I could hear the capital letter. “Or so it is declared by the newly politically correct Scene. But still, some people will dream about a helpless slave, trembling like a candle flame between their cupped hands, who will cry like a child when hurt, and who has no safeword.

Why, to admit these secret dreams is to endure censure, withdrawn invitations, a permanent label of mental illness. Just think–no one will ask you to appear on a talk shows!”

Gena had a dream of her own when we were in school. She told it to me one night after we had given a visiting prospective student the time of his life, and he had fallen asleep, exhausted. “If my hormones aren’t supposed to peak until I’m thirty-five,” she had said, “I’ll need to keep a matched pair of twenty-year-old men on retainer when I grow up.” She said she would pick them out of the brightest and most attractive college students, and train them exactly to her taste. “Look me up then and I’ll share them with you.”

Her two pets were sitting on the floor between us now. One was blond and the other black-haired, both with wide eyes almost the same shade of blue. The fair one had a pierced ear. They both were wearing jeans, just snug enough to set off the hard ripples and interlocking muscles of their legs. The dark one wore a white T-shirt, and the blond one wore black. Their hair was very long, and as I watched them the dark one was brushing the blond. Gena always did prefer men, and these two were like great predator cats grooming each other, seemingly oblivious to my stares.

“Do you like them?” Gena asked.

“Oh yes.”

Her pets glanced at me under their lashes. The dark one handed the brush to the blond, and they switched positions.

Under my skirt things my cunt was starting to twitch.

“I know what you mean, about wanting to go beyond top,” I said. “The converse of your idea, though, is the submissive who wants to be taken. There are always some who beg to be true submissives, owned, bereft of choices, hurt for the pleasure of another. In my experience, though, anyone who says the want this is naïve. It’s all for them. Disappointing.”

I paused, distracted by the scene before me.

“There is a crucial paradox,” Gena prompted, her smile growing wider. “A master can’t just walk up to someone and ask them if they want to be enslaved. If you do ask, could he answer? If he does, aren’t there always conditions, limits, strings attached? You must gaze in those wide, beautiful eyes and say, ‘No, you are not the one.’” She went silent and watched her pets with a look like hunger.

“If you don’t ask,” I mused, “would you be able to live with yourself and the thought that you might have raped someone?”

The blond set down the brush. Both of them looked up to Gena.

“Amuse each other,” Gena said.

They turned upon the carpeted floor and with measured eagerness began to touch. Light hair and dark tumbled together. I watched their hands meet and clasp, then slide into an embrace. They kissed with open lips, without haste.

My own mouth watered.

Gena said, “One of them is truly that submissive.”

I swallowed.

The two men shivered ever so slightly and then resumed their lovemaking with, if anything, even greater fervor.

“Which one?” I asked.

Gena smiled. “Which of them would you like?”

“I’d have to think about that.”

They were both lovely, so the choice of the dark or the fair one, was no choice at all. Gena had offered me the chance to hurt someone. Once awakened, that appetite had a soul of its own. I could no more deny it than one bound and tied could evade a blow.

“Shall I choose for you?” Gena asked.

“Yes.”

The two men broke their kiss and turned towards her again, still kneeling, holding hands, pack animals who feared separation more than anything else. I wondered which one wanted this more, and if she would, indeed, give that one to me.

Gena said, “Daniel.”

The dark one stood hastily and faced her with head bowed. She pointed to me. Daniel turned on one bare foot and went to kneel beside my feet. He leaned his head against my leg and let his hair cascade down so that I could not see his face.

“You may do exactly as you will with him, as long as it is safe. I trust that you know what is safe.”

I nodded.

“Know that Daniel’s safeword is my name. He is permitted to use it. Therefore we request that you not gag him.”

I reached down and stroked Daniel’s back. He arched against my hand, sighing. My fingers touched the skin of his neck. A wave of heat and then of chill traveled up my arm. I brought my fingers to my lips and tasted the bitterness of masculine sweat.

“No, I won’t gag him. I want to hear him sing.”

Gena pointed once more, to a door off the living room. “That room is made up for you. I’m sure you’ll find everything you need there. You are a guest, but Daniel may not leave that room until tomorrow morning.”

The possibilities are endless when you combine science fiction and sexual ambiguity, the ability to choose your own gender or not have to pick just one. The five stories in this anthology each take a very different approach, but each invariably plays with the restrictive limits that society places on gender. Here nothing is as simple as female or male, or being stuck with the gender you’re born with when you know with every cell in your body that it’s the wrong gender. These stories provide a more fluid approach to gender identity and sexual awareness that is sometimes serious and touching and at other times playful and over the top.