The Smut Authors Among Us

When I first started writing and came up with a pen name, it felt weird to live part of my life in secret. I was always worried I would slip up, that people would judge me, that my friends wouldn't understand.

I just passed my third author-versary as Casey Mckay and it's a weird thing. On the one hand I am like, "Wow, it's been three years already?" and on the other I feel like, "No way, it's been forever, not just three years."

It's kind of the way I feel about being married. I can't remember what life was like before, but it's been so good that it feels like it all started yesterday. And I think I've come to a place where my author life and my real life have merged and I am more comfortable in my skin than ever. Not that I am "open" about my Casey McKay persona, but I've stopped hiding parts of myself from my close friends. I'm pretty sure they are all now aware that I am a kinky person and I don't mind talking about it.

Which brings me to a recent conversation I had with a friend and coworker. I was in the break room at my day job (the one that pays the bills) reading on my kindle and my friend came in and asked if I was reading "a dirty sex book". My answer? Duh, yeah. (I happened to be reading the first book in Lexi Blake's Masters and Mercenaries series and I was having a seriously hard time putting it down.)

My friend slips into the chair across from me and leans in conspiratorially. "You know what I wonder about these authors?"

Her using the term "these authors" had my face heating up. I could never be an undercover agent. I flipped my kindle closed and gave her my full attention.

"I mean, they write about all of this... stuff," she stopped and glanced around the very empty break room.

"Yeah?" I answered, urging her to finish her thought. 

"Do you think they do any of that in real life?"

Visions of my own sex life flash before my eyes. Things I have coerced my husband into doing in the name of "research" (not that he isn't a willing participant).

I shrugged my shoulders in a non-committal answer, trying to make it seem like I'd never given it much thought. "I don't know. Some of them probably have, I guess."

Her eyes go wide. "Have you ever read those menage books?"

Now I try really hard not to smile. I wonder if I could recommend Mastered by Casey McKay with a straight face? But then I try to search my brain if there is something hidden in the book that would give me away to a close friend. My inner debate lasts all of three seconds and I say, "Yeah, a few."

"I mean, where do you even find two men that would agree to get naked together?"

Before I can answer, she sits straight up in her chair and spreads her hands on the table. I'm completely focused on her reaction.

"And they're not just having sex with the chick in the book. They're like—worshipping her." Her face gets a faraway look on it. "And the way the authors describe how it feels. Being so full. Like, I don't even know how that works, but it sounds good, right?"

I realize at that moment why menage books are so popular, because who wouldn't want more than one man worshipping her and trying to satisfy her every sexual need?

"You know, you don't need two men for double penetration," I supply helpfully. (Of course, I whisper the word "penetration" and we both glance around like someone's listening.)

"What do you mean?" She eyes me warily.

"Dildo? Butt plug? There are other ways." I lean in closer. "Some of the best orgasms I've ever had."

Her cheeks tinge pink and she shakes her head. "What is your life?"

She's right. What is my life? I think that all the time.

It's times like these that make you wonder how well you know people. It also makes me wonder if people I know have ever read one of my books. 

From the way my stomach just somersaulted, I think some things are better left unknown.

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Guest Post: Cara Bristol's Educating His Bride

I have Cara Bristol visiting today with a scene from her new book Educating His Bride. It's a spanking romance set in the 1950's and it was a delight to read!

In this scene, college student Margaret has received a bad grade on her English paper. But a bad grade isn’t all she’s going to get.

Dejected, she slid into a vacant desk, still warm from another student’s derriere. She thumbed through her essay. Cliché. More analysis needed. What about…. Red-inked comments in a masculine scrawl spilled across every single one of the eight pages she’d typed so beautifully. Didn’t typing count for anything?

Her heart sank to the soles of her rounded-toe baby-doll pumps. She’d waited until the night before the due date to write the paper, but she deserved better than a D! And she intended to tell Professor Thurston so.

After the last student left, he gestured to the door. “Shall we go?”

She preceded him into the hall. 

“Do you have a class now?” he asked.

“No. My next period is free.”

“Good. We have time to talk.”

They exited Delmar Hall, named for an alumnus patron, and strolled down the walkway over rolling grassy hills dotted with stately oaks and flowering shrubs. A few stubborn blossoms clung to dogwood trees outside the library. Over a knoll, she spotted the Whitmore Building.

Some students glanced their way, a few who knew the professor greeted him, but mostly people ignored them. Margaret clutched her notebook to her chest. “You grade me harder than you do everyone else.”

“Please hold the discussion until we’re in my office.”

They entered Whitmore and climbed the stairs to the second floor. She waited while he checked with the secretary for messages then they proceeded to his office around the corridor. Two black nameplates lettered in white read, Asst. Professor Thurston and Asst. Professor Abernathy. He unlocked the door and motioned for her to enter.

The small office contained two battered wooden desks, the left one buried under a hazardous mountain of paper and academic debris, the one on the right neat as a pin. A tall shelving unit, shared by both professors, sagged under the weight of well-used literature and reference volumes. A wall clock ticked.

“Have a seat.” The professor shut the door and assumed his place behind the neat desk.

She perched on the edge of a straight-back chair, ankles together, and adjusted her skirt over her knees.

The man she loved steepled his fingers. “Now, tell me why you believe I grade you harder than anybody else.”

She wet her lips. “Because you do.” 

“My standards are no more exacting for you than they are for any other student. I expect excellence from each of you.” 

“I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.”

He flipped open a record book and ran his finger down a list. “As it stands now, your grade is a shaky C minus. If you don’t do well on the final next week, you run the risk of getting a D in the course.” He snapped the grade book closed. “We had a discussion after your last paper, did we not?”

“Yes.”

“I believe I warned you what the consequences would be if you failed to get at least a B.” He opened his middle desk drawer.

Yes, they’d talked about—but he couldn’t be serious.

He withdrew a thick, heavy eighteen-inch measuring stick. “Lock the office door, please.” 

Educating His Bride Blurb:

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.

Buy linksAmazon | Amazon UK | Amazon AU | Amazon CA

Barnes & Noble | All Romance

Author bio

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

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Begging to Be Taken~ WIP It Up Wednesday

I have to apologize for missing the last few Wednesdays. I feel like my weeks fly by so fast that I never realize I've missed Wip It Up until late in the evening! It's usually like, oh yeah, today IS Wednesday. 

I've been working tirelessly on finishing this fourth book from The Masters of Fetishes series and I am proud to announce it is finally finished! Check out books 1-3 if you haven't read them yet because Claimed will be coming out soon. As soon as I finish that editing thing.

Today I am continuing on from the same scene. Dani is in a hotel room for a secret rendezvous with the Dom she found on the internet. If you missed the first two installments you can find them here and here. This picks up where the last one left off. 

"You're stubborn, but you're a fast learner. Do you know I'm not joking now when I tell you to do something?"

"I'm sorry," she breathed out. She couldn't do it just a few days before. Couldn't make herself beg. But now it seemed she couldn't stop.

"I'm not. I got to see you twice in one week." He winked at her.

She never liked a man who winked. It was as if he was telling you he said something funny and he knew it. But this man? He could wink at her whenever he wanted. In fact, the thought of him winking at another woman made her want to gouge his eyes out.

He had her hands bound behind her back, she was sitting on the only chair in the hotel room with her legs splayed wide. He'd attached her ankles to the front legs. The cool air on her pussy had only served to remind her how wanting she'd been for two days. She was going to lose her mind if he didn't give her some attention soon.

As if reading her mind, he released her ankles and pulled her upright. "Let's go, gorgeous. You'll get a reward for your pretty little begging. But first, to finish your punishment."

Check out all the other WIPsters! See you next time!

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I'm Not Sorry

Recently, I was out with my cousin. She's the same age as me, she's married to a great guy and has two adorable and sweet little kids. She's involved in the PTA and was regaling me with a story about a crazy mom who brought vegan cupcakes to school and refused to offer any of the kids regular cupcakes.

Then she brought up how all the mom's at the bus stop bitch about their husbands. I don't have kids, so I don't frequent school bus stops, but I have been involved in conversations with other women where all they do is bitch about their significant others.

"I don't have anything to complain about," my cousin admitted, almost apologetically. "Sometimes I try to think of something just so I can contribute to the conversation."

I've been in similar situations with the women at work. One of my co-workers said one time, "Oh, don't bitch to Casey, she actually likes her husband. She's weird."

It makes me sad that that makes me weird. Why is it weird to like your spouse? And why do women who have happy marriages feel like they have to apologize for it?

This particular conversation my cousin was telling me about stemmed from bath time. Apparently this is a hot topic with the bus stop moms. They have husbands who refuse to help with bath time. There was a PTA meeting that week and one mom was lamenting that if it ran late again she'd have to rush home to get her kid into the bath and into bed on time.

"I don't have to ask for Mike's help, he just gets the kids into the bath if I'm not home," my cousin went on. "Actually, as long as we're both home, we do bath time together. It's kind of our thing. We've never talked about it, we just always have. It's our routine."

This brought on some heart-tugging imagery I conjured up of my cousin and her little family all piled into their bathroom together. And really, her son is six and growing up fast. How much longer is he going to want to bathe with his little sister? I told her to hang on to these moments and I decided right there on the spot that I wanted that too. 

"I'm afraid to admit how good I have it," she said.

"Why? I think you should just tell them."  

"And be the source of marital discord in the neighborhood?"

But why should we be hiding our good relationships like skeletons in the closet? I stopped apologizing for the fact that my husband makes me dinner every night. Or that I'd rather hang out with him than have a "girl's night". 

There is some debate about what the divorce rate actually is nowadays. You hear 50% tossed around a lot. That half of all marriages are doomed to end in divorce (or maybe not doomed, maybe it's for the best for those people). This article I found argues that it might actually be declining. 

Whatever the case may be—if someone unhappy in their marriage feels completely at ease to air their grievances in a semi public social setting, why should someone on the opposite end of the spectrum feel like they can't speak up?

A lot of times you'll get criticized for not saying anything at all. My husband told me that he's been involved in more than one conversation with other men bitching about their wives and the lack of sex in their marriages. Mr. McKay just doesn't say anything one way or the other and it always gets noticed, comments like, "Oh, nothing to add? Guess you're a lucky man," get tossed his way. And much like my cousin with the bus stop moms, he felt the need to apologize.

I know that not long ago in our society, people weren't encouraged to talk about their problems and their bad relationships. I am happy that this stigma has fallen away, I think people should be able to talk about whatever they need to talk about. I don't think a failed marriage is something that should be hidden in shame or kept a secret. But I also don't think that those of us in happy marriages should feel apologetic about it.

I'm not saying my marriage is perfect, or that my husband is perfect. We fight. We argue about dumb things and we don't see eye to eye on every single thing in life. Just this week I flew into a hangry hissy fit that he ate all of the leftover corned beef hash on me while I was at work. Sure, he made it to begin with. Sure, there was nothing else to eat in the house. But a text is all I ask for, otherwise I come home wanting to eat something that isn't there! 

See? We have problems too.

All joking aside, we love each other and we genuinely like each other. He's my favorite person and he makes me happy. 

If you ask me, I'm going to tell you. And I'm not sorry about that.

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