Love Spanks 2014 is finally here! You’ve tasted us, and now you get to sample free stories from top F/F authors. Please visit Governing Ana for the prize list, sign-up sheet, and free books. You can win from a prize pool valued at over $1,000, including a Kindle Fire or Nook HD!
Many authors will also offer a contest on their individual blogs, mine is below! Your comment on their blogs automatically enters you in both the main contest and the individual contests!
What’s the catch? Absolutely nothing! We love writing for you and want to thank you for your readership. Perhaps someone might get a spanking or two, but that’s a reward rather than a catch, right?
How do you play?
- Visit each blog between Friday, February 7 and Sunday, February 9 to read the posted stories and excerpts.
- Leave a comment answering the story question on each blog. You will receive one entry per blog for the grand prize drawing. You will also be automatically entered in that author’s individual contest, if she has one.
- If you have visited all of the blogs, visit Ana’s blog to sign up for FIVE bonus entries to the grand prize.
- Deadline is midnight EST (UTC -5) on February 9!!
- If you successfully completed a previous challenge (Spank or Treat 2013, Spankee Doodle 2013, Love Spanks 2013, or Spank or Treat 2012), you may add “VIP” to your comments. You will earn THREE bonus entries toward the grand prize. (Yes, we will be doing this again. Yes, if you successfully complete the Love Spanks 2014 challenge you can become a VIP for our next activity!)
- If you are a F/F author or thinking of becoming one, please add “FF” to your comments. That way, your name will be entered in the special F/F author prize drawings.
- If you are Love Spanks 2014 Ambassador, please add “Amb” to your comments to receive your extra prize drawing.
- Visit any of the participating blogs on Friday, February 14 to find out the lucky winners. Will it be you?
For more information, updates, and a list of participating authors, please visit Anastasia Vitsky’s blog.
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Tweet #spankortreat on Twitter!
For more spanking fun, visit Saturday Spankings for additional snippets.
She Loves Me, my lesbian erotic anthology!
I am pleased to announce this summer I will be kicking it up a notch - my first title with Ellora's Cave is a lesbian erotic romance under their Hot Pink line. The idea for Sugar Rush came to me during the last major elections when a few states proclaimed they would legalize same-sex marriage. I envisioned how people reacted to that, particularly men and women who have waited for years to legally their partners. Once the initial euphoria faded, next certain came planning. All the busy to-dos like finding formal wear, buying rings, getting a venue...getting a cake...come into play.
With this pronouncement, too, came news that not everybody was having an easy time of it. I recall in particular one couple devastated that a service turned them away because they "didn't do gay weddings."
So I thought: I have this baker character named Neve, and she owns Sugar Rush. One day two women come to her shop to order a wedding cake. What happens? How do people in the community react? How does Neve perceive same-sex unions and what happens in her social life when she's thrust into the spotlight?
Many words later, I submitted the novella to Ellora's Cave and was offered a contract! Now you'll have to wait until June to find out the results, which is fitting since June is a great month for weddings. Until then, please enjoy this special short written just for this event, a little ditty I like to call Hot on Her Heels.
Hot on Her Heels (c) 2014 Leigh Ellwood
She boards the Tube at Piccadilly Circus every day at five forty-seven in the early evening, and immediately looks for an empty seat. Once situated, she crosses her legs and straightens her posture, then unzips her handbag and reaches for a tattered paperback that will hold her undivided attention all the way to South Ealing, when she disembarks. The book changes more often than her wardrobe - she favors dark colors and knee-length hems, and the same shoes every day. Four-inch heels, shining red vinyl. Film goddess shoes. A bright target in an otherwise dreary setting.
I know these things because we travel the same route, only my commute ends one stop further, in Northfields. When I moved here from the States I aimed low, assuming correctly that I couldn't afford living space near the museum in Central London where I work. I don't mind the twenty-eight minute Tube ride, though, or the bus time to my apartment. Flat. Whatever. Twenty-six minutes pass quickly studying her as she studies George R. R. Martin. Then Lisa Scottoline. Then Stephen King. She's a straight shot west, but her literary tastes are all over the map.
Her soft brown eyes never flicker from the page. Occasionally her lower lips twitches, as though to protest a plot twist or let slip a reminder of something she has to do when she gets home, or maybe groceries to collect on the way. She wears her light brown hair short; it just touches the curve where her neck meets her back. Every hair in place, every eyelash long and uniform. She steps off the cover of a fashion magazine every night at five forty-seven and braves the stale air of the Tube, and it doesn't touch her at all.
At five forty-seven in the evening, I stand behind her and admire the back of her dress. I contemplate the lines that taper to a slim waist, and the inviting swell of her buttocks, the shape of her calves, the arch of those heels. I spend the next twenty-six minutes pretending to demolish green pigs with angry birds while I sneak glances above my mobile at her quiet form and wonder what she's thinking. What does she do that she dresses so nicely? Where does she eat her lunch, because I never see her tote an extra bag for it.
Is she single?
After her stop, when she disappears into the throng of departing passenger, I spend the remaining two minutes on the Tube cursing myself for my silence. I've let another day pass without making eye contact, smiling, saying hello.
I'm shy and I suck, and every evening I rationalize my cowardly behavior with the idea that it's better to admire a lovely woman from a distance than approach her on a subway like a stalker pervert. A woman like that, gorgeous in heels and lipstick to match, goes home to a doctor or lawyer. Barrister. Whatever.
She's not a lesbian, and she sure as hell wouldn't look at the woman in the black jeans, Zeppelin t-shirt, and threadbare, checkerboard Vans.
At five forty-six this particular evening, I watch the Tube slide to a stop before us. The doors open to an already crowded car, and I worry at first that we will be separated on this trip home. I see bowed heads through the windows and bodies stacked like plywood along the aisle. Everybody takes a deep breath to let on Just. One. More. She is unable to sit and cross her legs and show off those cherry-red fuck-me heels. I am unable to sit and watch her.
Twisting her body left and right with each step into the throng, she forges a spot near a support pole and grasps a top rail. I follow the line of her arms down her side, over her slender hip to her perfect legs. She doesn't appear comfortable, and makes the task of hanging on for dear life effortless. I enjoy the view for a few seconds before other Tube passengers fill the space between us and block her. I wrap my arm around the standing pole close to me, inches from the sliding door, and wait. I'm the last to board at this station.
I wonder if she's able to read, if there's room to dip into her purse and balance a paperback between splayed fingers. With each stop from here to South Ealing, the numbers deplete little. We stop, the doors open, and people choose to remain stranded at their stations a while longer. It's like everybody chose this line at this exact moment to trek to Heathrow - a mass exodus from Central London.
I don't have her lovely visage to keep me company, yet I'm not dissuaded from fantasizing about close quarters. I curse my lack of inventive nature and bravado, for I could at least have slithered through the crowd to grab the rail next to her. Even if I kept my mouth shut, I at least could have enjoyed her at a closer proximity. A sudden stop might have her lurching in my direction, brushing against me. I might have had a moment's touch of her soft, bare shoulder. Her cheek might have pressed on my breast for a tense, wonderful second.
Maybe she would have turned face first into me, brushing her lips over my t-shirt, while curling a hand around my jeans-clad hip for support. I could have righted her by bringing my hand around her waist to the small of her back, using my body to leverage her. We'd made eye contact and she'd see the fascination and desire there for her. She'd know.
Yet I watch from a distance, and her body sways into each rough stop and start. She flows with the Tube, perfectly capable of riding the rail on her own. When the announcement for South Ealing's approach sounds, I resign myself to waiting another day to crush on her from afar, and I notice she's decided not to exit at the other end.
She shuffles my way, past men in business suits and old ladies carting heavy shopping bags. I lean with the movement as the Tube glides toward the next stop. She's a foot away. Ten inches. Five.
"Excuse me," she murmurs, and brushes past. In that one second we make contact. Her breast kisses mine, and even through two layers of fabric - t-shirt and bra - I spring to life. My nipple tightens and aches, longing for more. I want to reach up and pinch away the pain. It sounds odd, but compounding the ache tends to spike my desires, but I'd rather she cup me with that delicate tipped with bright red fingernails. She wouldn't have to do much to send me to the moon.
She rounds the pole and waits on the door. I look down at the bodice of her dress and spy a small dent. It's affected her as well. That one excited nipple taunts me, dares me to reach across and pull her back to me. I wonder about the shape of the breast and tint of her sensitive skin, and the taste I'd experience on my tongue.
She flashes me a look, impressive while she minds the gap and exits. Her eyes invite me to find out everything I want to know. Her rock goddess heels pause in their clicking.
I decide Northfields can wait.
To win the paperback of SHE LOVES ME: Please comment below with the title of the first ever lesbian-themed book you read. It doesn't have to be a romance or erotica, but a book where a lesbian relationship stood at the forefront.
For me, it was Rita Mae Brown's Rubyfruit Jungle. What was yours, and why did you read it? Good luck!
For a complete list of participating authors, please click here.