Snippet Sunday: Comfort Object

I will always remember Comfort Object as the book that started everything for me. It wasn’t my first book but it was the first book that a publisher picked up.

BUT it almost didn’t happen. I am quite sure that if the editor I submitted to wasn’t knowledgeable about the lifestyle, Comfort Object wouldn’t have seen the light of day. She had to fight for it, explaining to the publisher’s brass that some women really did find it sexy to be treated as an object and called not-so-nice names in the heat of a passionate scene.

When I got the rights back I toyed with the idea of toning down the objectification/degradation talk before I re-released it. BUT I only thought about it for a second. I really couldn’t do that and maintain the integrity of the book, and the integrity of Jeremy and Nell, who get off on some pretty dirty, degrading, and masochistic stuff. The important thing is that they both loved it…and eventually, both found lasting love.

One of my favorite scenes is when he takes her lingerie shopping and then forces her into a very uncomfortable sexual encounter–for his pleasure. (Although somehow I think she really enjoyed it too!)

     “Have you made yourself come since you left my bedroom?”

     “No, Jeremy.” I was glad I hadn’t, because in my current condition I would have been unable to lie.

     “Good girl. I want you to come now.”

     Oh Jesus, how I ached to, but my mind flew to the flimsy curtain separating Jeremy and me from Madame and the other customers outside in the boutique.

     “You don’t worry about that.” He stroked me, separating and probing my labia. I looked up at him, wide-eyed. “You just worry about doing as I ask.”

     “Yes, Jeremy,” I whispered.

     “Hold on to me. Put your hands on my shoulders if you think you’re going to fall.”

     I reached for him, closed my fingers over his muscular shoulders. I could feel his arms move under my hands as he manipulated me. I was torn between running my fingers all over his shoulders and chest and giving myself up to the growing pleasure at my core. I pressed my forehead against the front of his sweater. “Jeremy.” My voice came out a whisper.

    “Come on.” I drew in a deep breath. I relaxed and pushed my hips against his fingers. “Yes, that’s right,” he said. “More. I want you to moan.”

     I threw a wild look at the curtain, then turned pleading eyes on him.

     “I want moans, girl.” I recognized the obdurate expression already, knew he wouldn’t bend. I buried my face in his chest and let the moans come.

     And with his fingers, he kept drawing me closer and closer to that terrifying edge of climax, the terrifying loss of control. I didn’t know if I’d be able to let go, here, in Madame’s dressing room on Rodeo Drive with a curtain the only thing between us and the people outside. My quiet sounds rose in intensity. I shuddered against his front.

     “Do it. Obey me.”

     He stroked and fondled me so my hips moved and swayed of their own accord. His fingers slid over my clit, lubricated by the juices that, by now, soaked the garment I wore. My urgent lust sounds were uttered against soft gray cashmere. I rode his broad hand spread between my legs. As my orgasm drew closer, my movements grew wilder, undisciplined.

     “Hurry,” his voice rasped in my ear, “or she’ll return just as you’re coming. Won’t you look like a horny slut then?”

     I whimpered as his fingers manipulated, scratched, probed. His other hand came around the back of my neck to draw my lips to his. He kissed me deeply, his fingers pressing inside me at the same time.

     “Oh.” I moaned into his mouth. “Oh God.”

     “Yes, be a good girl. Come for me. Now.”

     He pinched my nipple through the bra, once, twice, a third time. I wanted to come, I had to come. I knew I had to let go. The pressure in my center was unbearable. It was painful anticipation, an urge that couldn’t be realized.

     “Please!” I begged against his lips.

     “Now. Now, girl!” he whispered. He bit my tongue softly and pulled me close to him, drove his fingers deep inside.

     “Oh, oh! Ohhhhh–” He caught my cries of orgasm with his mouth pressed hard over mine. I bucked against him, and he worked my clit while the waves of pleasure took me. It went on and on, sharp, undulating sensation. By the end I clung to his neck, far too weak to stand of my own accord.

     “Oh, Jeremy!” He shushed me and slowly drew his sodden fingers out of my slit and up the front of the garter belt and cincher I wore. I watched the broad, blunt fingers slide against the delicate pink material and then snake around my hip. I peered up into avid blue eyes. He looked down at me with an expression I couldn’t untangle.

     “Thank you, Jeremy,” I whispered.

     “Don’t thank me. I did that for me.”

If you haven’t read Comfort Object, you’re missing out on one hell of a tension-filled, torrid affair. You can click the cover below to go to the Comfort Object page for a blurb and buy links, and don’t forget to check out the follow up books, Caressa’s Knees, Odalisque, and Command Performance.