Master Class: BDSM Sneak Peek

Happy Monday, all! I'm totally bouncy today because I've just finished edits on Master Class, a contemporary M/M BDSM novella(ette) I wrote a while back and subbed to Carina Press. Master Class is the story of how Devon ("Sir") and Nicky--the stars of Sublime: Collected Shorts--first meet and start to fall for each other. And it is smokin' hot.

The headless torsos of Sir (back) and Nicky (front).

Alas, Carina was looking for romance with erotic elements, and Master Class is very much erotica with romantic elements, so in the end, despite their brilliant editorial feedback, they just weren't the right fit for this story. When I realized that, I put Master Class away for a while to focus on Crescendo, figuring I'd decide what to do with it later, but the BDSM bug bit me earlier this week and demanded I decide what to do with it right now. And when the muse calls, you damn well better listen.


So . . . I just wrapped up edits tonight, and I think I've decided where I'll be submitting it. The story is definitely better than it was last week, and it's also about a thousand words longer, though still just a quick tasty bite at 16,400 words (about 50 pages). Hopefully I'll have good news for you all soon. In the meanwhile, here's a sneak peek of Master Class, beneath the jump. It is definitely on the NSFW side. And don't be too alarmed by Devon's, er, vigor--Nicky is the sluttiest of pain sluts I've ever met :-)

Devon leaned close as the taxi merged into traffic and brushed lips against Nicky’s ear. “I’m going to fuck you so raw your eyes will water every time you sit.” The words were harsh but the tone was a purr, a caress, a promise so hot Nicky’s breath caught. “Would you like that?”

No breath, no words. So Nicky nodded instead.

“I’m going to make you scream. Not my name—just scream. Would you like that too?”

Another breathless nod. Devon’s lips curled into a smile against Nicky’s earlobe, teeth peeking out and latching on there as Devon’s thumb, in perfect mirror, bit deep into Nicky’s wrist.

By the time they reached his apartment, Nicky was sweating and a little nauseous. The cab ride had been like every Manhattan cab ride, all sudden starts and stops and swerves and the vague stench of the thousands of asses that had warmed the backseat before him. Devon’s grip hadn’t let up for a second, and the pain of that pressing thumb was deep, unrelenting, expanding with every passing moment until Nicky could think of nothing else—nothing but Devon, the power of the man, the power Nicky had granted him and just how, exactly, he planned to use it.

Devon didn’t let go when they got out of the cab, instead unfastening Nicky’s seatbelt for him and dragging him out Devon’s door; Nicky had to crawl one-handed across the seat to keep up.

Devon put on a friendly smile for the passers-by, the children on the playground between the two towers, the couple in the lobby, easing up pressure on Nicky’s wrist just enough for Nicky to manage the same. They made it safely into the elevator without attracting any second glances, and when the door closed, Devon shoved him up against the wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs, pressed tight against him and ground his knee into Nicky’s crotch. Nicky’s legs unhinged and his cry was swallowed by Devon’s mouth, ravaging his own, all tongue and teeth and hunger. Still Devon’s thumb dug into Nicky’s wrist, which had gone so far past painful it was rounding now on numb interspersed with occasional bursts of eye-watering agony.    

It was the longest twenty-nine floors of Nicky’s life.

He only knew they’d reached his floor because Devon pulled away and dragged him off the elevator. He had no recollection of unlocking his door. Maybe Devon had done it for him. Somehow, they made it to the bedroom, and Devon was tearing Nicky’s clothes from him one-handed, yanking and slapping and scratching as he went, letting go of Nicky’s wrist only long enough to pull his hoodie and t-shirt over his head. When Nicky was completely naked and the pincer grip returned to that freshly reperfused pressure point, he cried out and tried to pull away, which made it even worse—so bad, in fact, that for a moment his vision went pure white, and when the room came back he found himself being marched toward the bed, arm wrenched up behind him, cock pointing straight ahead like a fucking arrow.