Tell me the color of your panties: #Satspanks, #SnippetSunday, #SeductiveSnS, and #Wewriwa

Welcome to Saturday Spankings, Seductive Studs and Sirens, Snippet Sunday, and Weekend Writing Warriors!

My newest release, Mira’s Miracle, follows the adventures of Mira from Desire in Any Language. This week, I’ll let the sentences speak for themselves. 🙂

Mira’s Miracle sneak peek #1

Mira’s Miracle sneak peek #2

“Mira-chan,” she purrs into the small electronic earpiece for my cell phone, “tell me the color of your panties.”

The luscious red apple splurts juice as my fingernails dig into the flesh. “I’m at the supermarket!” A bent-over curly-haired woman hobbles by with a baby bundled on her back, and a loudspeaker blares with some harried employee’s voice extolling the virtues of some limited time offer promotion. Buy one get one free, or fifty percent off, or a special sample, or a cooking demonstration. I shuffle in between stacks of food. When I came to South Korea last year to enroll in a translator certification course, I knew many things would be different from my native United States. I expected the language and cultural differences, but I didn’t expect the rest.

 

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Do it for me: #Satspanks, #SnippetSunday, #SeductiveSnS, and #Wewriwa (Advent Calendar, Day 21)

Welcome to Saturday Spankings, Seductive Studs and Sirens, Snippet Sunday, and Weekend Writing Warriors!

Today’s offering comes from Simple Gifts, the prequel to “Complicated Gifts” in Love’s Reprise (links and blurbs below). Carene Moraghan and Leila Feran, childhood bunkmates from yearly summer music camp, have remained best friends even as their paths diverged–Carene to teach junior high orchestra in a small town, Leila to head the prestigious, world-renowned Philharmonic Symphony as concertmaster and principal first violinist. They keep in touch with letters, phone calls, and visits…at least until workaholic Leila cripples her wrist with her long hours of practice and performance. Confined to a splint and unable to work or even perform basic daily tasks, she moves in with Carene during her recovery period.

Never one to shirk from duty, Carene cares for Leila and enforces her one house rule: No divas allowed. None of the posturing that comes along with being a famous musician. No spoiled tantrums when she can’t get her own way. It takes more than one spanking to convince Leila that Carene means business, but finally Leila submits. In a symbolic gesture of her submission, Leila brings her beloved Stradivarius violin to Carene and asks her to prepare the instrument for use.

“Do it for me.”

No one except luthiers had touched Leila’s instrument before. The flamed reddish-brown glaze, the delicate wood, and the craftsmanship that had cost more than Carene’s down payment for her house were all Leila’s sacred territory. Wordlessly, Carene picked up the violin, careful not to soil the priceless finish with the oil from her fingers, and hooked the soft rubber gripper feet of the shoulder rest to the body of the violin. She tilted the shoulder pad. Next she set the violin back in its open case and took out Leila’s favorite bow, twisted the screw at the end to tighten the hair, and held the cake of dark green-black rosin in her hand. She unfastened the protective cloth around the rosin and slid cake up and down the fine white horsehair. She laid the prepared bow next to the violin, her eyes never having left Leila’s face.

 

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Simple Gifts

Music.  Without the love of her life, how can Leila learn to live again?

 

Professional violinist Leila Feran is accustomed to fame as the youngest and first female concertmaster of the Philharmonic Symphony.  Driven to achieve ever-increasing heights, she injures her wrist so badly that she may no longer be able to play.  While she recovers, she moves in with her childhood best friend, a pianist and beloved orchestra teacher in a small town.

Carene welcomes Leila with open arms and only one condition: no divas allowed.  And if Leila can’t follow the house rules, she might find herself over Carene’s knee…or worse. In between arguments over physical therapy and house rules, Carene’s zero-tolerance policy regarding divas results in some old-fashioned discipline that changes into something more.

 

Will Leila and Carene’s new feelings for each other blossom into something wonderful? Or will Leila lose not just a friend, but her potential soul mate?

Love's-Reprise-cover

“Complicated Gifts” (short story sequel to Simple Gifts)

In this short story follow-up to Simple Gifts, Leila has recovered from surgery but faces a new dilemma: Go home to her symphony or stay with her love, Carene? She assumes Carene will jump at the chance to move to the big city, but Carene is surrounded by the small-town community that has nurtured her since her college graduation. Tempers fly and feelings get hurt on both sides until they each face their worst fears.

Does love mean getting your own way? Or does love mean making sacrifices for another? Carene and Leila must choose.

An Irish Christmas (Advent Calendar, Day 12)

This post is brought to you by Tara Finnegan, a wonderful writer of spanking fiction from Ireland. She’s given many hours behind the scenes as a helper elf this year (Ana’s Advent Calendar takes hundreds, if not thousands of hours to put together) and can always be counted on for irreverent humor. I asked her to share some of her special memories of Christmas with you.

I was one of six children and Christmas was always a big event in our house, not so much Christmas day, but the run up to it, and especially Christmas Eve. I want to share some of those memories with you now.

Christmas Eve was always a hive of activity, where all of us old enough to walk were put to work like little helper elves. My parents had a tradition, taken from my father’s family, where they always hosted a party after Midnight Mass, yes I said after. So it was always a pretty late night.

There were two separate events being catered for in one day, the preparations for the Christmas dinner, and the preparations for the party. We’d be bustling around like blue arsed flies getting things done, the giblet soup for Christmas dinner was first on the agenda, as that would also be our sustenance for the day. Dad was in charge of that, he made the best soups, kitchen sink soup he called them, and just about anything went into the pot. Being an excellent director of operations, he had the kids peeling and chopping all of the vegetables as he took on the role of master chef. In no time at all, our good sized kitchen was fragrant with stock herbs and vegetables, making us hungry as we worked.

Then it was on to boiling and glazing the ham for the next day. Soon the smell of the ham mingled with the aroma of soup. One of us would then be transferred to glazing duty, for this we had to painstakingly stick cloves, one by one, in tight little rows into the fat of the massive ham joint. Little fingers were best for this job so the rows could be nice and tight. Once covered in cloves, the ham was tightly packed brown sugar and drenched in sherry and left aside to marinade. Bread rolls were baked, (although usually the pre-prepared variety) and salads were made. Then we’d sit down to a bowl of steaming soup and hot rolls.

Then we moved onto the tidying of the living room and lighting the fire, and once it was roaring, and the kitchen was under control, the festivities commenced. Usually this started with the arrival of my grandmother and her friend, who came to stay for the Christmas period.

My parents were in business in the town I grew up in, so once the party preparations were in hand, the delivery of the Christmas boxes (to colleagues and people who had helped out in various ways throughout the year) commenced. Usually at least two of us kids would volunteer to go on these visits – they were always great for sweets and sodas, things that were still rare enough treats in the seventies, and sometimes, we even got a fifty pence piece, a small fortune to us back then. When we in the car driving along, Dad would put on the radio; and we heard all of the Santy letters being read out. Of course, we were on the edge of our seats hoping maybe ours might be read, but sadly it never was (we didn’t know then that these letters had been posted to RTE and not to the North Pole!)

Three or four stops later, we were on the road home again. Then the magic would really begin. Dad always managed to spot Santy in the sky and he’d point him out to us. We kids would stare and stare, and he’d say “Look, over there,” and as we looked where he was pointing, we complained we could see nothing, he’d say it had moved and point somewhere else. This continued until we were convinced we spotted a light in the sky; it might have been the lights of an aeroplane, or a particularly bright star, or indeed it may well have been the bright glow of Rudolf’s nose, who knows the magic of Christmas?

Between the letters and the excitement of seeing the sleigh, we would be as high as kites, really getting wound up. We started to get nervous. What if we hadn’t been good enough throughout the year? What if he came to the rest of them and not to me? Would we like our presents? Would we get what we asked for? In a way I didn’t want the night to come because that excited anticipation would be gone.

Once home, we’d eat and chat with Granny for a while, then it would be time to for the little ones to go to bed and for the older kids to change for midnight Mass. Granny brought us to Mass while Mam and Dad got ready for the onslaught of guests. The leg of pork was starting to smell truly scrumptious, and we’d be dying to get our thieving little mitts on the crispy crackling before all the adults got it all. Before heading out the door, we’d leave out Santy’s whisky and mince pies, because everyone knew Santy came at midnight.

The Mass service was always lovely, it wasn’t usually a church for singing but on Christmas Eve the sounds of Adeste Fideles, Hark the Herald Angels, Silent Night and other carols filled the cathedral, accompanied by the magnificent church organ. Granny and her friend mortified us every time by ‘singing’ at the tops of their voices, making us cringe lest any of our friends heard them. And without fail, every single year, some person filled with more than the Christmas cheer, would walk up the aisle, drunk as a skunk and shouting; earning very disapproving looks from the priest while making the rest of the congregation laugh.

Mass was over – it was officially Christmas. We’d totter down the frosty steps from the cathedral to the car, trying not to fall and freezing in the chilly night air after the warmth of the church. Excitement would permeate our beings; it was after midnight, perhaps Santy might have been to our house already? But wait a minute, no! How could he have come already? Mam and Dad would have been up, working in the kitchen. No way could Santy have snuck past them. We’d have to wait ‘til morning.

We’d rush in the door. Some of those who preferred Mass on Christmas morning were already there and the party was in swing. We’d be sent upstairs to call the younger kids after their nap. And as we went to the bedrooms, there just inside each doorway, were parcels and stockings (my father’s biggest and stretchiest socks). The noise and excitement of us kids was drowned out by the din from the party downstairs but needless to say, the younger kids didn’t stay sleeping for long. Mam, Dad or both would follow up the stairs quietly to watch our faces, and they would marvel at how Santy had managed to sneak in, but they had been so tired from the work all day that they had fallen asleep. This was the line every year, and we bought it every time. J

Dad’s socks were always over spilling with unusual chocolates, soaps, bubble-bath, pencils, stickers notebooks and one of my favourite things were the tangerine oranges, which were a total luxury here at that time. Now as a grown up, I don’t really remember any of the “big” presents I got from Santy because the stockings were and still are my favourite part. As I go shopping for my kids each year, this is how I remember the magic of Christmas and even though this is likely to be our last Santy year as my kids are growing up, they will continue get those stockings each year until they no longer spend Christmas with me, just as we did, even when some of us were married.

One last thought, before I outstay my welcome: for most of us it’s an incredibly joyous season but there are those who approach this time of the year with dread. To those people in particular, I send my love. My mother sadly passed away a few years ago in the run up to Christmas, my own family always used to travel to spend it with her. So nowadays Christmas is always slightly tinged with sadness and loneliness. I’m lucky, I have my own family to celebrate it with and distract me but please spare a thought for all those who are missing someone over the holidays.

May you all have a magical and joyous Christmas. Thank you for sharing in my memories.

Congratulations to Joanne Best!

Yesterday’s posts for Giving Tuesday were so amazing that I wanted to recognize the responses. I thought I’d pick one that affected me, but there were too many to count. So, instead, I put all of yesterday’s commenters onto a list (actually, helper elf Penelope Hasler did) and chose one at random.

The lucky winner is Joanne Best, who has made me smile each day. This is her first Christmas without her mom, and she says that coming to the Advent Calendar helps to make this season easier. Hearing this makes all the hours of work worth it. This is my paycheck, this is my payoff, and this is why I come back every day to these kinds of events.

This is Joanne’s intro comment from the first day:

Yay! It’s here!!!!
1.Yes, I went to Catholic School and always follow directions ;-)
2.No I didn’t play along last year but only because I wasn’t here yet (on WP I mean, I was on earth but not in the Land of Pressed Words.
3.I found out about this because I’ve been following your blog so yay me for following you!!!
4.I plan on going for the Perfect Attendance (it’s a leftover habit from Catholic School )
5.I would be thrilled to win anything (although I do have a heart-on for Alice Dark ;-) )
6.This is my first Advent Calendar (I know, bad bad me) and I know this is going to be tons of much needed fun- I lost my Mom a few months ago and I need to keep my mind on new traditions and meet new friends who share a common interest.
7.I’m just Joanne Best (and yes that is my birth name lol) and I’ve been following this blog for awhile now but have been a lurker because I’m a newbie to all this wonderful fun. I’m a writer of words, some of my words turn into songs that I sing with my band (when we play, we’re all getting older so it’s more for fun than anything else), I’m also hoping to publish/sell some of my songs to somebody famous because aim high ;-) oh! I love my kitties and I love all my new friends here :-D
8.Hello Pao! I’m so glad to meet you and I’m looking forward to playing with you, umm, I mean playing along with you ;-P
Also, hi everyone {waves hard} this is going to be fun!!!! :-D

Thank you, Joanne, for bringing your sincerity to this event and helping to create something special.

Your prize is Mastering Maeve by Tara Finnegan. Please contact Tara within four days to make arrangements to receive your prize. I know you’ll love Tara’s book. 🙂

(This is an announcement post, and comments do not count as prize entries.)

Natasha Knight visits Miss Hasler: #Satspanks, #SnippetSunday, #SeductiveSnS, and #Wewriwa

Welcome to Saturday Spankings, Seductive Studs and Sirens, Snippet Sunday, and Weekend Writing Warriors!

Penelope Hasler, the brave spanked heroine of last week’s snippet, returns this week in the form of Miss Hasler, a strict but fair teacher who expects order. Naughty Natasha Knight does not take Miss Hasler seriously, much to her chagrin. Miss Hasler does not appreciate sass.

“Hold still, girl!” Miss Hasler ordered, applying the plimsoll with–it must be admitted–enthusiasm to the delicate blue silk knickers squirming across her lap.

“How’m I supposed to hold still when–owwww!” Natasha’s arms and legs flailed each time the rubber sole made contact. “Of all the ridiculous reasons for–OW! Stop it!”

“I’ll give the orders, insolent minx!” Miss Hasler shook out her weary hand and adjusted her grip on the well-worn implement before laying several additional hearty swats. While nothing satisfied her as much as taking this cheeky miss down a peg or two, Natasha’s lack of discipline made the affair more tiring than usual. “Now, march yourself into the corner and be thankful I didn’t take out my cane.”

Natasha’s chin came up, but another crack of the gym shoe sent her scurrying to the wall, both hands cupped protectively around her swollen bottom cheeks that sported angry red lines from the imprint of Miss Hasler’s weapon.

“In future, you would do best not to call your teacher a dork.”

“Even if it’s true?”

Oh, dear! The very naughty Natasha! What do you think happens next?

Penelope Hasler’s Spanking: #Satspanks, #SnippetSunday, #SeductiveSnS, and #Wewriwa

Welcome to Saturday Spankings, Seductive Studs and Sirens, Snippet Sunday, and Weekend Writing Warriors!

This week’s snippet is in honor of Penelope Hasler, a dear friend who always brightens my day. She loves a good role play and age play, and our mutual friend Tara Finnegan has volunteered to give Little Miss Penny a good spanking. Out of respect for Headmistress Blake’s eight-sentence limit, this snippet begins immediately after the spanking. I know! I’m sorry, but I don’t want to run afoul of our headmistress.

Beribboned pigtails bouncing, Penny slipped around to lay her head on Tara’s shoulder. Tara turned, cradling the girl in her arms.

“Shh,” she soothed, running her fingers through the silky hair. “You were brave, and I’m proud of you.”

Penny lifted a hand to her flushed cheek, sniffling and gulping back sobs. Bright tears sparkled unshed on dark, curling eyelashes. “Ow,” she whimpered, her other hand brushing back to rub her knicker-clad bottom before Tara enclosed both of Penny’s hands in her own.

“Be a good girl,” she admonished, and she lifted the smaller girl’s chin to rest trustingly in her palm.