Emily is a full time government translator and part time erotic romance author, writing under a couple of aliases. Once, on a sad, depressing day, she penned her favorite fantasies. Her best friend and publisher discovered the manuscript and put into paperback, publishing it under Emily’s real name. Emily found it amusing – until she received an onslaught of suitors. She immediately pulled all the copies from the store shelves. Or so she thought. 

Connor hasn’t participated in his favorite pastime – women – since a nasty break up two years ago. Needing some semblance of release, he stops at the local bookstore for a magazine on his way home from work. Browsing the back shelves, he comes across a small paperback tucked between some literature. Fascinated, he reads the prologue and then reads it again. Something he hasn’t felt in two years creeps down his spine: desire, visions, excitement. Without further ado, he purchases the book and heads home to devour it. 

When he shows up at a writer’s conference and the two meet, will he be the man destined to fulfill Emily’s Fantasies? 

Publisher’s Note: This sensual romance contains elements of power exchange.  





The cover of a book caught Connor’s eye as he was browsing the adult bookstore aisles—Emily’s Fantasies. Taking it off the shelf, he looked at the book cover and then read the prologue. 


My name is Emily Masters; I’m twenty-six and still single. 

I’m not beautiful. Don’t get me wrong, I’m enough, just not that strike-you-dumb-stunning that you read about in all those great romance novels. My hair is plain dark brown and brushes the center of my back when I braid it—just long, full-bodied, brown hair. There are none of those shimmering highlights or cute ringlets that frame an angelic oval face; although it does have a clean wholesome shine when the sun hits it just right. 

My eyes are good. I have noticed I have exceptional long vision, but I can also see to read fine, no need for glasses. To me, they’re emerald green, but my driver’s license says hazel—professionals. I have regular lashes that have absolutely no effect on the opposite sex if I playfully bat them. Funny, though, my mom says that when my eyes tear up, my tough-as-nails dad melts like warm butter. Obviously, she’s the one who wields the paddle in our household. 

I’m not fat but not skinny, either. I’m five-six-and-a-half, and I wear a size six in almost everything. Jeans, as all women know, can go a size up or down, except those new skinny jeans they’re making and then I would probably wear a triple XL. I’ve got boobs. Normal boobs, pert, size thirty-four B—a handful, but they say more than that’s a waste, anyway. 

My greatest asset, I think, is my ass. Not that anyone has looked at it in quite a while, except Mom, months ago. Me and my sassy mouth, gets me in a bit of trouble from time to time. Dad laughs, but Mom—not so much. Back to my ass, it’s a round, tight little bubble—one spank of a big, strong man’s hand would catch both cheeks. It doesn’t stick out or anything, but right where your thighs meet your butt, there is a definite distinction and then the backs of my thighs are fleshy and tender. 

I like to pride myself on not being overly particular about men’s features. I’m not looking for one of those six-foot-four Scottish barbarians with six pack abs and thighs as big around as my waist. Nope! I’m not saying Quasimodo is my type, but I’m not looking for a Greek god, either. It’s just not all that important to me if my head barely reaches his muscled chest or if he has long, silky hair. His nose doesn’t have to have that noticeable little bump telling you he has had it broken at least once in a real man’s fight. It doesn’t matter if his eyes are sky blue, shimmering green, or coal black with long thick lashes that rest on his cheek when he closes his eyes. Glasses are okay, too. 

So why am I still single? I think it may be me or that I’m broken or something. I want a man who’s confident with himself. I want him to know what he wants and takes it. I want him to have integrity. I want him to have rules which he enforces. I want his eyes, no matter the color, to see into my soul. I want the tone of his voice, whether it is stern, encouraging, ordering, soothing, or angry, to make a chill race over my body in pleasure and anticipation. I want self-confidence, not arrogance. 

You see, I have these thoughts. Fantasies, actually, and settling for less than that fulfillment—well, it’s not going to happen. I want to submit, but also, I want to be accountable for my actions, to feel pain blazing across my ass and thighs, to feel the heat of humiliation. I want to see his pupils dilated, hear his breathing become erratic, and know his cock is rock hard from watching my ass clench, from watching me squirm and buck, from hearing my cries of pain. 

Oh, and I’m addicted to orgasms. 

He chuckled at the author’s wit and could just imagine her sassy mouth. ‘Addicted to orgasms’. 

Flipping back to the cover, he noted the variety of equipment used to restrain individuals for punishment. Some of them were fairly mundane, but some were quite extreme. The Victorian settee with the rolled cushioned arms was common, as was the lightly padded spanking horse. Not so common was the sturdy, waist high, four-legged stool fixed in the floor. The seat looked to have some sort of cushion on the modified seat and there were leather restraints attached at varying locations indicating some very uncomfortable, very exposed positions for either female or male victim. Along with those few items, he recognized stocks, a kneeling bench, and a cage. 

He re-read the prologue, then turned the page. There was only one sentence. 


Intrigued for the first time in many months, Connor purchased the book, tossed it on the passenger seat of his car, and drove straight home. TV dinner and a glass of iced tea in hand, he settled on his chesterfield, propping his feet on the expensive marble coffee table. He again read the prologue, the author’s invitation, and turned to the first chapter. 


Late Again 



Emily saw him standing on the front porch when she pulled around the corner. She was late again, and he had warned her, last time, of the consequences. Her thoughts raced as she got out of the car, searching for the right words to explain her tardiness. 

She stopped where the sidewalk met the porch, his disapproving frown unnerving her. “I h-had a meeting. I know I should have c-called you,” she stammered. “But they kept talking, couldn’t come to an agreement. Then I got caught in the evening traffic. I know I should have texted before I left, but then I was in the car…” 

The expression on his face transformed from disappointment to irritation as he held up his hand to silence her. “And that would have been a whole lot worse.” She could tell he was finished listening to her stumble through her story, watching her shift nervously from foot to foot. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a pocket knife. 

“Cut me two switches. Each is to be at least three-feet long and a quarter-inch thick,” he instructed, handing her the knife. 

Setting her things on the porch step, she stretched out her hand, palm up, meekly accepting the opened blade. She silently chastised herself as she forced her feet not to stomp through the yard as she went to the dreaded peach tree for said switches. 

When she returned, he solemnly informed her of the next task. “You are to go inside. Remove your long, floaty skirt. Pull your panties down to your knees, and position yourself over the arm of my Victorian sofa,” he said, his eyes passionless under his drawn brows. “Your feet are to be on the floor and the tip of your nose pressed to the cushion. Then, you will wait for me, as I have for you.” 

When he walked into the living room ten minutes later, Emily was positioned over the cushioned arm of the sofa as he had instructed. She lifted her head, looking in his direction when she heard him enter; dark, forbidding eyes met hers. 

“Your nose is to be in the cushion,” he snapped, and she quickly dropped her head. She heard him set something on the coffee table and then he moved to stand behind her. 

A moment later, she felt his hand skim along the inside of her thighs, urging her legs further apart. His fingers gently squeezed the lips of her pussy, increasing the excited apprehension mounting within her. 

“Look up at the coffee table,” he ordered. When Emily lifted her eyes, the first thing she saw was a large analog clock with a slow moving second hand. “How late were you?” 

“Twenty minutes, Sir,” she replied softly. 

“Then you will receive twenty separate, burning lines,” he said with quiet emphasis. 

He was standing close against her bare bottom, caressing its roundness. “I will administer one stroke a minute. Whether the strike comes as the minute changes or during that minute, you will have to wait for each until it arrives, as I have been forced to wait for you to arrive home.” His repeating of the fact he had been kept waiting caused her heart to skip a beat. 

He then moved back and to the left. She could feel his eyes roam over her, taking in the beauty of her firm, full, bare buttocks. Slowly, he ran the switch up and down her exposed skin and then inside the dividing crevice of her ass, toying with her nerve endings and building her anticipation of what was about to happen. As he drew back, Emily clenched her ass cheeks, preparing for the first lash. Instead, he laid the switch back across her bottom and began moving it in a path from the top of her ass to the middle of her thighs, delegating without words the boundaries he had chosen. 

“After each lash,” his deep voice instructed, “you will repeat,’ thank you, Sir. I will not be late again’.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Emily whimpered, knowing how she dreaded this ordeal and yet craved its searing pain at the same time. 

“Eyes on the clock,” he ordered, and she fixed her eyes on the white clock face. 

The hands clicked to six-forty, and the first stroke landed in the middle of her buttocks. 

“Mmmfff!” Emily’s muffled gasp filled the cushion as her toes curled, tipping her ass into a more upward position. “Thank you, Sir. I will not be late again.” 

Each second ticked painfully by as he and Emily waited. 


“Aaahhh! Thank you, Sir. I will not be late again.” 

More than once, Emily flailed her legs as the switch welted a different area of her upturned ass and thighs, her required statement coming between choking sobs, at times muffled by the cushion she now hugged tightly. But she didn’t lose count of the number of times the switch landed, and as the clock hands reached seven o’clock, the last searing lash fell. 

“Oooowwwmmmmffff! Thank you, Sir. I will not be late again.” 

Emily could feel his nearness as his fingers lightly traced the welts he had left. She felt his fingers touch her dripping wet pussy, carefully spreading the sticky lips apart. She felt him move to position himself between her legs and then she heard the zipper of his trousers being lowered. She felt his warm hands gently grasp her hips, drawing her back. 

Her pussy muscles clenched as she felt him push himself deep into her. With each thrust, the pain diminished and pleasure took its place. They soon began to move together as one, each carrying the other closer and closer to the climax both of them now desired. 

Emily’s entire body began to spasm as her widespread legs quivered uncontrollably and her hips gyrated on the arm of the sofa. As the inner walls of her pussy constricted, she felt him tumble into the first wave of his own orgasm. His fingers dug into her hip; his groin began to thrust faster, the thrust more forceful. 

“Oh please, let me come,” Emily moaned loudly as her body began to overtake her senses. 

“No,” he growled, stilling as his own juices shot forth. “This is punishment; you will not come.” 

Panting and exhausted, her pussy twitching, Emily remained across the arm of the sofa as he slowly removed his cock, leaving her pussy with only a remembrance of his domination. 

“You may clean yourself and then begin my supper,” his warm voice allowed. Then, taking hold of her shoulders, he assisted her to her feet and turned her around to face him. Drawing her into his comforting embrace, he kissed her tenderly. “Next time, I think maybe you should take the time to make the phone call.” 

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, gazing up at him. 

Catching a stray tear with his thumb, he offered a lopsided smile, “If you’re very good this evening, I will let you come when we go to bed.” Smiling for the first time since she arrived home, Emily headed for the bathroom. 


Connor read the first story again, taking note of a couple of things. The author never mentioned his name, but she did refer to him as Sir several times. He liked that. She seemed to like the slight building up of anticipation—retrieving her own switches, having to prepare herself, then having to wait for punishment. Also, the author noted he made her participate, took his pleasure, and comforted her after. Interesting. 

He looked at the book cover again, seeing the Victorian sofa with high, round cushioned arms, and visualized Emily’s embarrassing position, clutching the cushion to muffle her cries, the peach switch striping her bare bottom and tender thighs as the minutes slowly ticked by. 

Marking his place, he tossed the book to the cushion beside him, rested his head back on the chesterfield and closed his eyes. Visions of creamy smooth buttocks rounded over the Victorian sofa, cries of pain, and muffled pleas invaded his thoughts. Twenty vivid, red welts traversing her ass and thighs had him shifting his burgeoning erection. 

Connor woke with a start, then grabbed the back of his neck. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but the crook in his neck was painful enough to indicate it had been more than a few minutes. After a trip to the bathroom, he grabbed a cup of coffee and picked up the book, turning to the next chapter.