What's a whimsical writer to do when her head strong muse decides to hijack the plot of her latest novel? For me, it was a question of whether or not it made sense in relation to the overal arch and theme of the story. In this case, my muse turned out to be right on the money.
Oliver Polinski (said muse, pictured above) works for the Bureau of Paranormal Affairs. His job is to plan covert missions and train his army of soldiers to hunt down and kill supernatural creatures, vampires most notably. About one-third into writing, Oliver wanted his story to take a much darker, more gritty feel. At first, I was very concerned, especially considering the rather tame nature of books 1 and 2 in the series. Oh, did I forget to mention that? Blood & Bondage is book 3 in my Tales From the Vampie Scribe collection.
Once Oliver started making his desires known, Blood & Bondage took on a life of its own. He demanded a love interest that was powerful, yet vulnerable. The heroine, Anaïs Moreau, is a classically-trained ballerina born during Henry VIII’s reign in
Just to keep things interesting, my muse also nudged me to transform the story's villain into a sick, sadistic serial killer. After a brief lover affair a hundred years earlier, Pierre Gaucher's twisted fixation with Anaïs grows into a festering wound of jealousy and obsession that is fed by blazing desire he witnesses between Oliver and Anaïs inside a New York City BDSM club.
Below is one of the more sensual scenes from my upcoming novella, Blood & Bondage, due out in August 2012 from Evernight Publishing.
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Other than the
barrage of crimson stares, Anaïs found it difficult to make out faces. She did,
however, recognize the guttural moans and groans of pleasure that came from
every corner of the room. In addition, the loud bass of hard rock pounded
against the walls, making the foundation of the building rattle and hum. The
place had been painted all black with only a few dim strobe lights that flashed
on and off at intermittent intervals.
Using the leash
he’d insisted she employ, Anaïs paraded her boy toy across the length of the room.
She only released him long enough to shackle his arms and legs to the hooks
that hung from the walls and low-lying ceiling.
“Oliver, are you sure you
want to do this?” Anaïs asked with trepidation. They had to make their act look
legitimate. If their resolve wavered for even a second, the bloodsuckers in the
club would see through it and surely pounce.
“I’m up to the
task. I promise to be a good little sub,” he whispered huskily into her ear,
making goose bumps form on already sensitive skin.
Anaïs drew back.
She stared into the depths of her lover’s eyes, gauging his mood. “You do
realize, I’ll have to bite you. If not, these fuckers won’t buy the charade.”
Oliver shrugged
his shoulders, then handed Anaïs the flogger he’d kept huddled at his side. “No
safe word, eh? Well, I suppose you’ve earned a bit of retribution.”
Anaïs yanked on
the chains that bound him to ensure they were secure. Then she strutted around
his tightly-coiled body, her perusal gluttonous and intense. As she encircled
him, the cat o’ nine tails she held in her hand lashed at the rippled muscle on
his chest. Damn, she found Oliver impossible to resist. Once again, the urge to
ravage him had snuck up on her. There was something about his refined
masculinity that kept her perpetually ensnared. God, she couldn’t wait to
sample the rare, well-preserved vintage of his blood.
Standing behind
him, Anaïs raked her razor-tipped fingernails down the curve of his spine. Then
she cracked the whip again and watched his steel honed body wince. Afterwards,
her hand drifted up, two bloody fingers teetered on the ridge of her lower lip.
A few seconds later, her tongue slithered out and sucked the rich, red
deliciousness off the tip.
That tiny tidbit of
her lover’s life essence drove Anaïs’s libido into an all-out frenzy. Moisture
soaked through the slick fabric of her clothing. The warm, slippery wetness
slid down her inside thigh. Her hardened nipples sprang to life, rubbing painfully
against the clingy latex cat suit. She wanted to tear open the sphere-shaped
zipper and thrust her bosom into his face. But with an audience in tow,
forcing her sub to do it with his teeth would make for a much more convincing
show.
At his master’s
decree, Oliver lowered his head and obliged, unzipping the fabric that covered
each breast in one fell swoop. His puckered mouth took one, plump areola into
his mouth, while he rolled the roughness of his weathered palm over the other.
“Suck harder, damn
it! For Christ’s sake, do as I command.” Anaïs screamed loud enough for the
masses to overhear.
Oliver’s low
rumble reverberated against her skin. No doubt he was turned on, almost as much
as she. With their bodies in such close proximity, she could hear the man’s
heart beating in his chest. His carotid artery pulsed wildly on the side of his
neck and Anaïs could no longer war with her instincts.
Anaïs felt her
sharp, serrated canines protract, ready to pierce her lover’s supple flesh.
With his mouth still suckling her breast, she reached down and clasped his enormous
cock through his jeans, stroking its length until he purred like a cat. Once in
the throes of pleasure, she sank her fangs deep, siphoning his blood greedily.
Oliver bucked
slightly, then groaned in a clear attempt to remain in control. She knew it
must have taken everything he had not to yank on the chains and pull out the
stake hidden in his groin. To hell with the fact that her bite had made both of
them feel good.
Anaïs pulled back,
releasing the suction from their pleasure racked bodies. From a brief moment,
she gazed at his face, watching his eyes re-emerge after they’d rolled back in
his head. With flushed cheeks and sweat on his brow, Oliver no doubt enjoyed
what they’d shared. Too bad he’d never admit it.
Anaïs growled as her tongue swept over the twin pinpricks she’d left in his
neck in order to cauterize the open wound. “Don’t move, lover boy. The show’s not
over yet.”
