Muffy Wilson: A Variety of Chains.by Christine Blackthorn @CBlackthorn ~ It's LIVE! Enter the #Rafflecopter to Win! #ASMSG #Romance

Where do the stories come from

The stories are friends - almost literally. Each of my stories contains friends, is written for friends and sometimes leaves me with the aching for a friend. The stories started when I was a child. On rainy afternoons when we were condemned to play inside my friends challenged me to tell them a story which we then enacted with dolls and toys and kitchen implements. There is a reason why we all, now mothers and fathers ourselves, walk first into our children’s rooms when we are searching for a spatula or cooking spoon. They make great swords and axes.

I was an accident child, the product of a misdiagnosis of infertility on my father’s side, and born before either of my parent’s had finished their education. As a result my parents took turns working and going to university. Today I know how admirable that was - then I only knew it meant we moved regularly. So when we moved I would keep on writing the stories (or originally drawing them) for friends through letters, over the phone and, later, scribbled on coffeehouse receipts and beer mats snatched up in a myriad of railway stations across Europe. Sometimes it was just a line written in black felt-tip on the arm of a friend as they took me to the station.

In many ways my childhood was idyllic. Until I was ten we lived in little villages in commuting distance to my parent’s universities or work. Being left to my own devices most afternoons (German schools let you out at one and my mother would return at three thirty) I roamed across the land fighting ogres and meeting elves all in the companionship of a varying group of trusted companions.

Other stories became a lifeline. When I was thirteen my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer. For the next five years, one week out of four, I would spend every afternoon in the hospital feeling her stories throughout ever more gruelling chemotherapy treatments. In between, when we were waiting to see if the cancer had given up, we used the stories to hide the fear, and eventually the desperation. I was eighteen when she died and some of my stories went away with her.

Through seven years of acrimony and petty rivalries that became my parent’s divorce, through living and studying in four countries, through times in which I took any job just to scratch together the money for university, through long nights and end of month money worries my stories grew, being sent across Europe to friends, coming back to me with laughter and tears, my stories grew - and changed. They still contain elves and ogres, aliens and knights. My characters still fight the inequalities and injustices of the world to stand for the innocent and weak but often that fight is in their own minds. And just as I have grown up, so have my stories - the characters developing through love and hate, through friendship and war, through sex and eroticism. What they all have in common is that it is their emotions, their relationships to each other, that defines and challenges them.

A Variety of Chains

Christine Blackthorn

@CBlackthorn

Blurb

Kathryn McClusky is an ErGer – a rare and highly prized individual in the supernatural world.

She has spent her life running and hiding, but circumstances have changed and the only way to protect her family is to hand herself over to the Vampire Lord of London to face slavery or death.

Lucian Neben runs his London court with a stern but fair hand, but political pressures are building from both the human and fey worlds, and taking possession of an ErGer would cement his position of power.

Kathryn is vulnerable and broken almost beyond repair, but she holds in her hands the one treasure Lucian desperately wants – the possibility of home and family.

Can he teach her to open herself up; to choose to life, and him, before reality forces him to take her freedom?

A Variety of Chains Excerpt

Quickly he attached a second cuff on her other thigh and tightened the ankle restraints, leaving her laid out on the bed, restrained and open, her legs parted and bent, entirely helpless and accessible to his touch.

"You have no idea how beautiful you are like this – splayed for my desire, unable to resist the pleasure I can give you." It was his voice that kept the rising panic at bay. She felt the bed dip on her side and knew he had come to kneel beside her, but the first real touch was a soft kiss on her belly, a loving touch more than a seduction. Then his hands began to play over her in gentle caresses and soft massages, touching her everywhere without a pattern that would have forewarned her. One moment his hands were playing along her flank, over her hipbone, the next they circled her wrists above the restraints, reminding her of them, or massaged along her thigh. But he never touched her pussy or let even the gentlest movement play over her breasts. This absence made her skin there hungry and sensitive to him, more so than he could have done with hands or lips. She started to burn, inside out, every cell of her body reorienting itself to him, her mind consumed entirely by the expectation of his touch. Her ears followed his movements, her nose noticing his scent over that of the fire and her own arousal. When his lips engulfed her nipple in wet, hot sensation, a strange sound was torn from her, a sound somewhere between a moan and a cry. His encouragement became a caress of its own on her sensitized skin.

"Sing for me, Kathryn. Let me hear your pleasure.”

He took his time with her breasts, sucking, licking, never pushing her endurance but centring all her attention on his mouth over her nipples and his hands roving over her body. Only when she felt both her breasts swollen and heavy, her nipples taut and engorged, did he let up. Her breath was panting and as he sat up, removing his hands from her, she whimpered from abandonment, not pleasure. Every aspect of her demanded his touch, his scent, his voice – him.

His dark laughter rose to engulf her.

"Shh, now. We have only just started. I am here, always at your side. Remember that to get relief you only have to tell me something intimate, something I cannot guess or reason out for myself. A secret of your heart." As he spoke she heard the sound of a bottle opening, and the smell of peppermint permeated the room. She felt the touch of a cool cloth over nipples, leaving behind a slight wetness, nothing else. She was distracted from the new sensation by the hand gently stroking along her thigh to her vagina, a teasing touch cumulating in a finger stroking along her labia, collecting the moisture at her entrance and spreading it along the length to circle once over her clitoris. Then she felt a second cloth stroking along each side of her engorged clitoris, not touching directly but applying something to the skin around it. And suddenly there was a burn – a warming of her skin first but then heat in ever increasing intensity.

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Author Bio

In "real" life, I am an academic with degrees in Political Science, Economics, Philosophy and Law and an insatiable desire to confound, baffle and disconcert my students. Someone once suggested to me the reason for my stories lay in the desire to offset the tedium and rationality of academic life. He wasn't an academic or he would have known better. It is best to use research against tedium, students to offset the rationality and an unlimited supply of stress balls for the faculty meetings. The stories? Well, they are just for me - like a mental manicure.

I also write a blog on Feminism and Erotica - come talk to me:

Blog: http://christineblackthorn.eu/blog

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/cnblackthorn

Twitter: https://twitter.com/CBlackthorn

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Muffy, likened in style to one of the Bronte sisters and Anne Rice, is an award winning bestselling author of provocative romance about love, sex, hope and passion. An American author of the popular Shadow Seduction Series (a paranormal love story) and the Ribbons of Moonlight Series (a contemporary romance), she has penned a dozen other books and anthology collections.

Muffy was born in Texas to traditional parents. With two older brothers, she was the youngest, the family "princess," indulged and pampered. Her father was a career Colonel and pilot in the U.S. Air Force which required the family to travel extensively. Muffy spent her formative years in Europe and 'came of age' in France which forged her joie de vivre and love for books and writing. Married and living in the tropical paradise of SW Florida along the Gulf Coast, Muffy writes and enjoys life in the sun with her husband and wee Havanese pup, Burt.