“Ms. Olsen, Mr. Mannings is here to see you,” came Charlotte's shrill voice via intercom.

The lunch Mariah just had did little to keep her stomach from flip-flopping. Clark wasn't the kind of man anyone denied, even if he had no follow-up appointment in her calendar. Gulping, she hoped she didn't regret what she was about to say. “Thank you, Charlotte. You can send him in.”

Within seconds, the door to her austere cream-colored office opened. As quietly as he opened the door, Clark also closed it with a definitive click. Did he just lock her in? He sounded like a predator on the prowl, and she was the prey. How did he turn the tables like that, when this was her office, her company, her building?

​Show no fear. Her mother's firm voice entered her head. No way would the daughter of Annika Alisha Olsen back down in the face of any man.

As Clark's imposing frame neared her blond wood desk, without looking up from her paperwork, Mariah asked in a dismissive manner, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” In the years she sat at this desk, this was the first time she wished she had a mahogany desk or any dark-toned desk that did not reflect the fluorescent overhead light. The light tones around her, including her white blouse, made her acutely aware of her cheeks and their potential for betrayal.

He set his briefcase down in the seat across from her, yet made no move to sit.

​Glancing up from her seat of power to meet his eyes, her heart skipped a beat at his darkening gaze. The rascal. He purposefully situated himself so that she had to look up at him. In her own building. The arrogant ass. She gulped back a groan. Why did she have to think of his ass, the feel of him thrusting into her and giving her all manner of pleasure? 

“You are a natural, Britta. A real natural.” After a pause, Reg continued quietly, “What do you think of domination?”

His lowered voice sent chills down Britta’s spine. She knew exactly what he was referring to, because she’d seen those ads in the free weekly papers. Big, busty women. Latex, PVC, catsuits, masks, thigh-high boots. She’d even taken the papers to her room, feigning that she wanted to know about the local independent news. Instead, she had flipped to the back of those papers to peruse the more scandalous ads. She’d close her eyes, invoke the fantasies to come alive, and masturbate to those mental pictures as a mere teenager—a horny one, at that. And no, she was not thinking of being told what to do by these women. She had imagined herself in their shoes, those thigh-high boots, driving her female victims crazy with lust. And she was getting off on their inconsolable craving for her dominance.

Britta grew heady just thinking about those teenage years. She’d never actualized those fantasies before. Had gone straight to college, stayed on the academic track, went on to get her masters in business administration. She’d only graduated about six months ago. She hadn’t ever made the time to look into the stuff, even if she did continue to revisit those fantasies during each session with her vibrator.

Besides, she was a dyke, who had crushed on many a straight girl in her sorority days. Had often fantasized about those girls in her dreams, how they’d take her strap-on and scream for more. Real dicks be damned. Who was this man to ask her about domination?

​“I don’t dig men,” Britta said flatly.

“Clark,” she said again, her voice thick with desire, her lips trembling. “Make love to me.”


“Fuck,” he cursed softly. “Mariah, that's more than I could have dreamed for this visit.” He licked first one trail of tears and then the other, planting kisses along the way. His tender touch awoke a smoldering burn that flooded her veins. Goosebumps roused her skin like wildfire, and her fingers wove into strands of his hair to cling on for dear life.

Cradling her face, he bent close to lock lips for a heart-searing breath-stealing tango of tongues. Laving, suckling, tasting. A rising tide built low in her belly, a delicious pressure that ached for erection and friction.

As if sensing her need, he lifted her pencil skirt and cradled her bottom easily. Thighs free, she wrapped her legs around him and ground against his length. Moaning into his mouth, her nipples hardened to the reverberation of his answering growl rumbling from his chest to hers.

Suddenly sandwiched between a hard surface and him, Mariah arched into him, relishing the lack of space between them. Cursing, he broke the kiss. Breathless, he leaned his forehead against hers. “Mariah, I'm trying. To be gentle. To savor you. If you keep rubbing up against me, I'm not going to last.”

The above excerpt is from Purr Scent IV: The Mastered, when one of the female protagonists reunites with the male protagonist.

Purr Scent IV: The Mastered is the fifth book in the Purr Billionaire BDSM Trio series, which covers the emerging relationship between a bisexual female submissive, a lesbian dominatrix and an alpha male dominant.

Although Purr Scent 0: The Moment kicks off the series, Purr Scent I: The Meeting is now available as a complimentary read at most retail sites.

Stacy sorted through a basket of bracelets to fish out a red one for her to wear. It was only then that Mariah realized that the bracelets Stacy wore were not part of her schoolgirl uniform. “These are color-coded,” she explained, “so you'll stay out of trouble, especially if you've come alone and uncollared.” At Mariah's look of confusion, she mentioned, “That is, single and not anyone's. Here, wear this red one—that'll keep people away. Red, by the way, is the club safeword. You know what a safeword is?”

Mariah nodded, looking at the new bracelet on her wrist.

“Good,” Stacy said and led her past another set of double doors, one which led to a great common room that was dimly lit. Soft sultry music played in the background. Walls were framed with erotic photography, manacles, whips and chains. Plush low curving sofas, cushions and bean bags provided seating areas for couples, threesomes and more. Although some people were dressed in business casual, most were dressed in provocative attire. Then there were also the few who were naked with collars and cuffs. The scene looked surreal, the play of light in the room as if from a painting out of the Baroque era.

Further away was a stage where a topless man in leather pants was using a feather to tease the bare legs of a zebra print, bikini-clad woman blindfolded and bound to a gigantic X. The woman's mouth was formed into an O as she whimpered and gasped at the tickling sensations, her hands fisted occasionally in futile attempts to thwart off the feather. The sound and the erotic sight sent a tight heat mounting in Mariah's core.

​“Beautiful, isn't it?” Stacy asked, gazing at her. “That's a St. Andrew's cross.”

The above excerpt is from Purr Scent III: The Mistress, when the female protagonist visits her first BDSM club -- solo.

Purr Scent III: The Mistress is the fourth book in the Purr Billionaire BDSM Trio series.

Although Purr Scent 0: The Moment kicks off the series, Purr Scent I: The Meeting is now available as a complimentary read at most retail sites.

​The above excerpt is from Bi Girls Do It Solo (Bi Girls Do It Book 1), when college freshman Sy cracks open an interesting book full of self-love exercises. ;-)

Bi Girls Do It Solo (Bi Girls Do It Book 1)  is a new adult romance in the Bi Girls Do It series.

If you like stories about bisexual females, you may also enjoy Purr Scent 1: The Meeting (Purr Billionaire BDSM Trio Book 1).

The above excerpt is from Bi Girls Do It Solo (Bi Girls Do It Book 1), when freshman dormmates talk about the big IT.

Bi Girls Do It Solo (Bi Girls Do It Book 1) tracks the sexual evolution of a shy bisexual female coming into her own and is the first book in the Bi Girls Do It series.

If you like stories about bisexual females, you may also enjoy Purr Scent 1: The Meeting (Purr Billionaire BDSM Trio Book 1).

“I’m asexual, not straight,” I joked with as straight a face as I could muster.

“Ha ha,” Gen retorted. “Come on, tell me more about it then. If you’re going to be her propagandist or her publicist or whatnot, you should at least run the whole spiel by me.”

“No way.” I shook my head, cheeks heating at the mere notion of a recap. I wasn’t ready to share anything that I got out of the talk. With Gen’s double major in psych and something else that kept changing every month (yeah, I lost track of the latest incarnation of that second major), I knew she’d be trying to psychoanalyze me based upon what I said about someone else.

Privacy and asexuality—those were the best ways to keep Gen off my back. For good.

“Well, fine, be that way. I guess I’ll just have to access the text on my phone,” Gen said.

“What?” Crap, had she sent the photo to her own phone in the short span of time she had my cell in her hands? Quickly, I checked my outgoing text messages and groaned. “Geneva!”

“What?” By now, she had bounded down the ladder and had gone to her desk to retrieve her phone from her bag. The cell must have been switched to silent for study hall and had stayed neglected until now. Crap. “Ah-ha! ‘There’s safe sex and there’s safest sex. Come—’”

Gen giggled at the double entendre.

“‘—and explore the anatomy of self-love in a safe and playful environment.’”

Gen shrieked in laughter. “Who the heck made this flyer?”

“Gen, I didn’t ask you for your opinion. Can we just—?”

​“Sy, what exactly did they cover for the anatomical aspect?” She waggled her brows.

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Rhiannon stilled, as if to let the admonition land. When she started on the roll again, Britt flanked the full dorsal curve of her foot against Rhiannon's crotch. An involuntary tightening around her foot told Britt that the little sub was turned on. The warm dampness she felt through her pantyhose also told her what she needed to know.

“Silky, isn't it?” Britt asked rhetorically.

Rhiannon lifted her head and glared at her. Mouth full of cinnamon roll, she was unable to answer the question anyway.

Britt smirked at the thornless glare, which she would have to address later. “Don't talk with your mouth full, pet. I'm just getting started.” Sure, Rhiannon mentioned she didn't like humiliation, whatever that meant. Who knew exactly what the boundaries were unless Britt pushed? The gray areas were way too vast and delicious to go untested. Besides, it wasn't like Britt was using the word pet in a derogatory manner. If anything, it dripped endearment when she said it.

Britt gave Rhiannon a nudging glide in the nether region, delivering a liberal teasing friction by foot. “I can tell these lips like what I'm doing. Coupled with the gush coming out of them and my silk pantyhose, doesn't this feel like a long slick tongue lapping up your juices?”

She watched the irritation in Rhiannon's eyes fade to a glaze of blazing lust, the cinnamon roll quite forgotten. So the pet liked dirty talk, eh? That she could deliver in the next however many minutes left, and set aside the polite reminders she had given of the time limit. No more niceties from the Mistress, even for a newbie. After all, including the last bit of cinnamon roll Rhiannon had eaten, she should have enough energy by now for the rest of the session forming in Britt's mind.

“I don't think you came here for pain, pet,” Britt continued. “I think you came here for pleasure.” 

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“Well?” Gen asked. “I thought you said you were asexual and that you could care less about—what does this say again?”

Gen flicked her wrist so that the screen faced her so that she could read the flyer aloud verbatim: “ ‘What’s Sex Got To Do With It? The Art of Self-Love. Come join sex educator and author—’”

I dove for the phone and grabbed it out of her hand just as Gen squealed. Indifference was no longer an option here. The lady was invading my privacy—or whatever little was left of it as her roommate. The girl had no filter.

“Really, Gen, can you quit it?” Irritated, I flashed her a serious look—the don’t-push-it look. “I’m not interested in hearing what you have to say about all this.”

The cocky grin and waggling eyebrows immediately left her face. “What, Sy? It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You already hear plenty about my sex life as it is. This is the first I’ve heard about yours, something that is even remotely interesting.”

I sighed, knowing that this was the closest to an apology that I’d ever get from Gen. The girl could twist tales like a cat with a ball of yarn. You still got what you wanted alright—the ball of yarn (or the apology) you were looking for. However, you wouldn’t know what you were missing if you looked no further than that. In other words, Gen often used the right words that led to the illusion and overall implication of an apology.

​However, if you looked closer between the lines, you’d find that she had the cunning to build in a back door—an escape route that basically meant that she hadn’t really apologized at all. Because if lies included omission, wouldn’t apologies with omissions constitute as lies as well?

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I couldn’t say it.

I couldn’t even think of a word to use to describe it.

Strange how much I wanted this experience to be mine, to feel like I really accomplished everything I set out to do when I got this book. I wanted what the speaker had—her confidence, her warmth, her understanding.

Dejected, my shoulders sank. Now I was talking to myself—on top of actually trying to get something unthinkable done in my shared room.

Shaking my head, I relaxed my death-grip on the accessory to the crime. It was now or never—before my roommate came back from study hall. This was something I had to do on my own.  

Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?

I wrinkled my nose and peered down at the open book in my other hand.

Gulping, I scrutinized the various illustrations that looked like many a Georgia O’Keefe painting. One of them had outer folds that echoed the inner folds, so much so that I thought of the ripples on a pond. To the right of that was one that had an opening shaped like an eye—which was way too psychedelic for me, considering the topic.

My eyes scrolled toward the one on the next page, which actually looked like a candle flame in a church. Its buddy on the right with its pointy crown looked like the headdress of one of those Buddhas you’d see at a Thai temple. Not to mention the one on the bottom left that had a prominent bulge (a head?) with a hood (the veil hanging off of the coif?) that made me think of the Virgin Mary cloaked in her habit. And then there was--

Crap. I couldn’t believe that I was mixing the holy with the …

I still couldn’t say it. Not even to myself.

​So maybe I could use a negative? … the not so holy?

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