Saturday, February 11, 2017

New release: His Blushing Rose, an extremely wicked Victorian

When she comes of age, it is made clear to beautiful, innocent orphan Rose Hale that she will soon be required to surrender her innocence to the esteemed gentleman Julius Summersby, a suitor personally selected by her guardian. Though she is initially delighted to be courted by such a powerful, handsome man, it isn’t long before Rose is shocked to find herself stripped bare and put on shameful display during an outing with her future husband.

Rose’s reluctance to submit to Julius’ demands earns her a painful, humiliating strapping on her bare bottom, but his mastery of her body arouses her intensely and she is left longing for more as he claims her in every way.

Despite his strict discipline, Rose looks forward to the day Julius will make her his bride, and she jumps at the opportunity to take up residence nearer to him. But when she arrives in London, Rose discovers that his plans for her have changed dramatically and she will be no more than a mistress. With her reputation already all but ruined, can she dare to hope that a better man will rescue her?

Publisher’s Note: His Blushing Rose includes spankings and sexual scenes. If such material offends you, please don’t buy this book.


Click here to buy it on Amazon!

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Sunday, February 5, 2017

The Emily Tilton newsletter

How sweet and old-fashioned, right? I would love to share all the news and all the exclusive stuff like free reads and sneak previews with you! Just send me an email at etilton7981@gmail.com and get ready to feel all the shameful heat I have to admit I find myself uniquely qualified to bring you.

Among other things, the next newsletter will have a sneak peek at the next book in the Institute series, which takes matters to new territory, both geographically and erotically! (Psst. The word "sheikh" may or may not be in the title.)

Saturday, October 29, 2016

Their Wayward Wives

This one started from one of those hot little fantasies that seem to ignite my brain several times a day. What if I overheard my new next-door neighbor getting a spanking? It turned out I could think of a lot of things. Like this, for example:
John looked at her a little strangely—Cathy wasn’t sure she had had a third beer since her sorority days, actually—but brought it and put it down in front of her, then bent over to kiss her. 
“Aww,” Mindy said in a genuine, kind voice, and then Cathy realized she had gotten much drunker, faster, than she had supposed she would, because otherwise the thing that happened next could never have occurred. 
As John straightened up, and Cathy felt the glow of his affection receding, she thought about their sex life—their marital relations—as her mother called the matter. She thought about the swoony feeling of seeing him in his uniform on their wedding night, and about the gentlemanly way he had taken her virginity, about the panties she hadn’t taken off under the lacy nightgown. 
Cathy thought wildly, There’s nothing wrong with our marital relations
Then she said to Mindy, “Why did you get spanked this afternoon?” 
If John hadn’t said the thing about the way Cathy never made much noise during their lovemaking, maybe she would have been able to tell him exactly why what they had overheard coming from the Landises’ breakfast room disturbed her so much. Or maybe she could have at least made the attempt, which might have caused him to turn down the dinner invitation. 
Who did she think she was kidding, though? Could Cathy even articulate to herself exactly why she found the thought of her next-door neighbor being punished so disturbing? She couldn’t have made an attempt to explain if her life depended on it. 
All Cathy knew was that it had something to do with the stories her grandmother would tell her, when Cathy was little—stories that came from Gran’s own grandmother, of a girlhood on a Southern plantation. Stories that very often featured girls getting a whuppin’ or getting switched
Once, Gran had even told Cathy a story about a young woman who had kissed a boy. “Let me tell you, sugar, her daddy blistered her tushy so good she couldn’t sit down for a week.” 
Once, not in a story but really just in passing, Gran had said that she missed Cathy’s granddaddy, who had died before Cathy was born. “Lord, he would whip me good when I sassed him, but I loved him more than anythin’.”
Here's the blurb! 
When Marine Corps veteran John Lind and his twenty-two-year-old bride Cathy overhear their next-door neighbor Doug spanking his wife, Mindy, it quickly leads to conflict in their own relationship. Realizing that he has let Cathy get away with her snippy attitude and frequent defiance for far too long, John decides that it is well past time to bare her bottom, spank her soundly, and remind her who is in charge in their marriage. 
Though it comes as a shock at first, Cathy soon discovers that being completely taken in hand by her husband arouses her intensely. With John now demanding her obedience both in and out of the bedroom, she frequently finds herself blushing crimson yet still burning with desire as she is thoroughly and shamefully mastered. But when John and Doug leave town for two weeks on business, can Cathy and Mindy behave themselves while their firm-handed husbands are away? 
Publisher's Note: Their Wayward Wives includes spankings and sexual scenes. If such material offends you, please don't buy this book.
Buy the book here. 

Sunday, October 9, 2016

Drastic Measures (The Institute Series, Book 9)

I love writing the Institute Series. I know I can be guilty when doing so of diminishing the hotness somewhat as I advance the central theme of data-driven BDSM, but I feel like the series now has an audience that enjoys it the same way I do. I hope this half-preposterous half-profound side of my own sexual-fantasy-life might also be a part of yours.

When Robin Reed walks down the aisle with handsome billionaire Oliver Marlowe, she does so knowing that he is an old-fashioned man who will expect his bride's obedience and submission. But after the first time she ends up over her husband's knee for a sound spanking on her bare bottom, Robin can't help wondering whether she has made a mistake.

Determined to ensure that his wife's needs are properly met, Oliver consults with experts from the Institute and then proposes a bold plan, which Robin hesitantly accepts. In order to help her discover her deeply hidden submissive tendencies, Robin will be brought to the Institute for training. Before she even steps through the door, Robin finds herself blushing crimson as her bottom is thoroughly punished--both inside and out--but it is only once she arrives at the Institute that she truly begins to realize what it means to surrender herself completely to a man.

The pleasure of yielding to her trainer's mastery of her body quickly prove more intense than she would have thought possible, and Robin is soon yearning for her husband's skilled, dominant lovemaking. But will the Institute's usual techniques be enough to teach her to fully embrace her need for submission, or will her situation call for more drastic measures?


Publisher's Note: Drastic Measures is the ninth book of The Institute Series. The books of The Institute Series are stand-alone novels which can be read in any order. Drastic Measures includes spankings and sexual scenes. If such material offends you, please don't buy this book.

Click here to buy it on Amazon!

Saturday, September 17, 2016

In Loco Parentis

In loco parentis means "in place of a parent." Here on my blog, I can tell you that all the implications for an erotic novel are indeed in effect. May I tempt you with an excerpt from the book?

“So you’re saying you’re not going to get hard while you’re spanking me?” As soon as she said it, she saw she had touched a sensitive spot: Mr. Malley’s brow darkened, and his evident struggle against anger seemed to get more difficult for him.

“That’s my affair, Heather, and I hope I can teach you some modesty where that kind of thing is concerned, so that you’re not looking through windows and sucking boys’ penises in full view of the neighborhood.”

Too late Heather saw that she had made things much, much worse for herself. All the casual hookups at school came crowding back upon her, and the battle between it’s fine and shouldn’t it feel better? reared its terrible head.

Modesty.

Bullshit, the it’s fine part tried to say. But Mr. Malley seemed to have come to the aid of shouldn’t it feel better? with a strange vengeance.

Worst of all, the subject of Mr. Malley’s cock had entered the conversation, and she couldn’t deny that she had raised it. Raised it. Heather saw Miss Green on her knees, red lace panties down and pink plug in her bottom, sucking Mr. Malley’s big, hard cock. She saw him hold Miss Green’s head, his fingers twined in her wavy red hair. She saw him fuck her face like it was a pussy.

Heather swallowed hard.

“I’m through talking now,” he said. “I’m going to go to the kitchen. When you’re ready to take your spanking like a good girl, you’ll come in there and lay yourself over my lap, and we’ll get this over with.”

He turned and left the den. Heather sat there looking at her hands in her lap. Her gaze shifted to the screen, and the sexy freeze-frame made the problem worse. Angrily, she picked up the remote and turned the thing off. The den fell into darkness, its only illumination spilling in from the kitchen where she now heard Mr. Malley moving one of the chairs.

So he can sit in it. For my spanking.

Rational thought had the smallest imaginable part in what Heather did next. She stood up, and she took off all her clothes and laid them on the red couch. If a thought had actually entered her mind, it had been If I’m going to have a spanking, I want it to be a sexual spanking. She hadn’t thought the idea through, of course, any more than she had thought through stealing the panties or any of the other stupid things she had done over the past forty-eight hours.

She surveyed her body in the half-darkness, wishing she had a mirror but knowing Mr. Malley didn’t stand a chance of resisting her. An older man would always want to fuck a gorgeous eighteen-year-old: practically an eternal truth. She walked into the kitchen, smiling, with her hands at her side.

Here's the blurb:

By the time eighteen-year-old Heather Bradshaw returns home for the summer after her first year of college, she feels very grown-up indeed. With her parents away for several months, she has the house to herself, and she isn’t going to let their old-fashioned notions of propriety get in the way of a good time if the opportunity presents itself and the guy is hot. It comes as quite a surprise, though, when the man who sets her heart racing turns out to be her best friend’s father.

Upon realizing that Heather is flirting with him, Tom Malley sets out to play the role of the gentleman. He does his best to ignore her advances rather than take advantage of someone so inexperienced, but it quickly becomes clear that the beautiful, naïve young woman is in desperate need of a man’s firm hand, and if he doesn’t provide the stern dominance that is required she’s going to get herself in over her head while searching for someone who will.

Determined to put a stop to Heather’s out of control behavior and keep her from getting hurt, Tom takes the feisty girl over his knee for a long, hard, bare-bottom spanking that leaves her blushing and promising to behave herself. The humiliating chastisement merely intensifies her desire for him, however, and her response to his discipline deeply arouses Tom as well. Soon enough, he casts aside his hesitation and claims her thoroughly, but will the shame of surrendering her body to her best friend’s father turn out to be more than Heather can bear?

Click here to buy the book on Amazon!

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

The amazing Cara Bristol comes to visit!

I'm so happy to host Cara today, talking about her very-fun-looking new book Educating His Bride (whose topic is of course right up my ally—see Sarah's Tutorial!). I'll let her introduce it!

From college coed to professor’s naughty bride…

It’s the 1950s. Never much interested in her studies, Margaret Atwater attends college hoping to graduate with an Mrs. degree instead of a bachelor’s. When she catches the eye of English Professor Henry Thurston, she’s thrilled to marry him, drop out of school, and begin a new life as a married woman and faculty wife. However, Henry is a kinky man who has much to teach his eager young bride—in, and out, of the bedroom. As Mrs. Henry Thurston, Margaret’s sexual education has just begun.

Newlywed Margaret brings her husband his lunch at his college office. But Henry expects more than lunch…

“What did you bring me for lunch?” He peered into the corridor and slammed the door.

“A meatloaf sandwich.”

He twisted the key in the lock and scooted around her to the window. “On white bread?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I like white bread. It’s so nice and fluffy. Almost like eating cotton candy.” He turned the wand and plunged the room into dusk. Enough light remained to see the sexual gleam in his eyes.

An answering heat pooled in her core. Yes, some things had changed since her last visit to this room. She might have gotten a C in his class, but she’d aced marital relations. He’d taught her much over the summer, lessons she’d embraced with alacrity.

Henry plopped into his chair and beckoned.

“What if somebody comes?”

“They won’t. It’s only the second week. Students don’t have reason to meet with me yet.” He chuckled. “They’re still searching for their classes.”

“I don’t know.” Did respectable married women do things like this?

He leaned back and spread his legs. His erection tented his trousers. “Do I need to come and get you, Mrs. Thurston?”

She loved being called that. Liquid lust pooled, but she played coy. “Maybe—”

Henry sprang up, dragged her to his desk, and upended her over his lap. The chair arms prevented him from pulling her completely atop his knees, but he was strong enough to hold her half on, half off. She braced her hands on the floor. Skirts flew over her head. A playful swat landed on her bottom.

Thwack. Thwack. “Henreee…” she giggled. “Ow!” she cried as he brought his hand down harder. There’d been many spankings over the summer. Only one had been for punishment after she’d gone shopping and had run late and hadn’t called. The rest had been sexy ones. There was something thrilling about her husband enforcing his will—and her surrendering to it.

“I wish you didn’t put on so many undergarments,” he groused as he spanked.

“I only wear the usual.” Panties, girdle, slip. Petticoats for poufiness, if the dress needed it.

“Maybe I’ll institute an underwear ban.”

“I couldn’t!”

“I mean around the house.”

That wasn’t as bad, but still. What if she had to answer the door? A respectable woman was always coiffed, starched, and properly clad. To not wear undergarments would be like not wearing…stockings!

“Well, I’ll have to think about it,” he said.

She hoped he thought about it a long time. He flipped her off his lap into a heap between his legs, undid his trousers, and freed his cock from his shorts. Precum pearled on the smooth head.

Her brown feathered tilt hat had slipped from her head to her ear, despite being anchored with a pin. Henry threaded his fingers through her pageboy. The man was heck on a hairdo. Perhaps she should get one of those short, shaggy cuts like Italian actress Gina Lollobrigida had.

He exerted pressure to bring her face closer to his cock. “I used to think about you doing this when you were my student,” he said. “Suck me, Meggie.”

[Yum, says Emily!]

What are you waiting for?! Here are the buy links:

Amazon | Amazon UK | Amazon AU | Amazon CA

Barnes & Noble | All Romance

Cara's incredible bio goes:

USA Today bestselling author Cara Bristol has published more than twenty-five erotic romance titles, including contemporary and science fiction romance. No matter what the subgenre, one thing remains constant: her emphasis on character-driven seriously hot erotic stories with sizzling chemistry between the hero and heroine. Cara has lived many places in the United States, but currently lives in Missouri with her husband. She has two grown stepkids. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading and traveling.

Cara Bristol web site/blog

New Release Newsletter

Facebook Author Page

Amazon Author page

Facebook

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Cara’s 1950s Pinterest Board

Friday, January 15, 2016

The hotness of institutes

According to most definitions, an institution is a set of practices, a sort of subset of a culture. Church. School. Governmental bodies like courts and legislatures.

An institute, though, etymologically speaking, is just something that got set up at some point by a group of people, in a particular place and for a particular purpose. The Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The Institute for Advanced Studies.

My own Institute, established for the purpose of training submissive concubines and supplying them to wealthy buyers.

That's where it gets interesting, though, because at least for me, the echo of institution in institute means that as a source of erotic power relations, the idea of an institute can possess nearly unbearable hotness. A set of practices, whereby dominant men take the pleasure they deserve, without regard for the wishes or scruples of the submissive girls they have had trained specifically for that pleasure. A place where the rights of girls may be suspended, and that troubling idea of consent is taken care of at the door.

A place for men to send girls like me.

Coincidentally enough, I have a new Institute book! Here's a cover and a taste:

“Anna,” he said, using the direct approach that he knew—because every field assessor knew these statistics by heart—had only a 32% chance of success, “do you mind if I do a little Internet search about you?” The chance it would work was a lot lower than a slower technique would have, but Charlotte had only given him ten minutes. This kind of calculation made up a great part of a field assessor’s skillset, and Martin felt confident he had made the correct choice. Even if it turned out that he lost Anna, he knew he would keep that confidence. 
“What? I mean, why?” She had a truly adorable crinkle between her blond eyebrows now. 
“Can I tell you that after I do the search?” 
The crinkle deepened. “Well, I guess… I mean, why do you need my permission?” 
He didn’t, really. All the data the Super would access in the next few minutes lay within their agreement through the secret TARIFF (Trans-American Recognition In Financial Funding) Act that had authorized such searches by government-liaised corporate entities, for an exorbitant fee that currently constituted nearly the entirety of the funds keeping the federal government going. 
But the TARIFF Act provided for behind-the-scenes data gathering, not the semi-consensual sexual awakening of repressed submissive concubines. To get Anna started toward her ultimate well-being and Martin’s pleasure—and, of course, eventually the pleasure of whatever wealthy man chose her—he would need to approach the matter with her as if he must obtain her consent. 
Martin smiled. “It’s polite to ask, don’t you think? Before you start looking into things a person who would probably rather choose what sort of impression she wants to make might not want you to see?” 
Anna blushed—only very slightly, but again her fair complexion, utter peaches-and-cream, made it visible. “Oh, you won’t find anything like that.” 
“Like what?” Martin made his tone as innocent as he possibly could. The time for slyness and innuendo had not come yet, and if he had anything to say about it, wouldn’t arrive for a while. A great deal more fun—really almost too much fun—lay in seeing how deeply even the most innocent things would evoke Anna’s shame. 
Her blush did indeed grow, suffusing her whole face now. She tried desperately for a pretense of jadedness. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. She looked around, then, as if a part of her mind fought against the spell Martin had begun to cast on her. An anxious expression broke out, and the blush faded. “I really have to go,” she said, darting a glance at him and then looking around her chair as if for her coat. 
“Your coat’s on the rack at the door, Anna,” Martin said very gently, “and I don’t think you do have to go. The search will only take a minute. Just sit.” 
And he took his handheld from his pocket and concentrated on getting the preliminary assessment going, peremptorily breaking eye contact with Anna to do so. In his peripheral vision he saw her shift in her seat. She herself didn’t realize it, but she had moved to try to get his attention back on her, in an instinctive riposte to the first command Martin had given her: Just sit. 
It would not, he now found he hoped fervently, represent anywhere near the last command he would give Anna Greenway. Along with the hope, too, came growing confidence: her little fidget made him as sure of her as he had ever been of a girl’s suitability before the results of the preliminary arrived. Girls who shifted in their chairs when told to just sit knew, though the knowledge lay deeply buried, that they needed not only such masculine instructions but also the masculine enforcement of those instructions.