WHY WRITERS CAN BE TOUGH TO LIVE WITH
Thanks for letting me chat to you today! By the time you read this, the first instalment of my Unbreakable trilogy, The Silver Chain, will be available as an e-book, with the paperback coming out in August. It’s a dream come true. I’ve wanted to write since I wrote my first romantic novel in an exercise book, complete with illustrations, when I was 8. The chortling around the supper table as my elder sister read it out loud rings in my ears to this day, but my revenge is oh so sweet as I’m the first in the family to be published, so right back at you, guys!
The Silver Chain isn’t my first book. I’ve been writing erotica for nearly 20 years, but this is a departure. This is no longer a hobby. Now I’m backed by a heavyweight publisher with all the excitement, and pressure, that entails.
Because it’s a trilogy, I’ve just been working on the rewrites of the second book while promoting the first one, and as any writer knows revisions are easily as difficult, complicated and stressful as getting down the first draft. So it’s been a tricky month, to say the least. But I’m not the only one in my household breathing a sigh of relief that the rewrites have finally gone to my Avon editor. Because I fear I’ve been awful to live with.
I haven’t been ‘present’, as the therapists say, for my nearest and dearest. I’ve been enclosed in my imaginary world. You need that isolation to create, but it doesn’t mesh with real life. You have your morning planned out, and then your youngest son, the only person in Britain who has managed to get sun stroke this decade, is too lethargic to wake up so you spend an hour cajoling him into the car. Or you’re writing a scene where your lovers are making out in a mountain chalet, or cutting deals in a London art gallery, or having a blazing row, and the school bus delivers your teenagers home EARLY! Any kind of fantasy world is a far cry from homework, ironing, and peeling onions. You’re in the middle of writing a pivotal conversation, or working out a plot twist, and someone wants to know the French for ‘awesome’, or a wolf costume cobbled together, or a cheque written.
Do I love them? Of course. Am I pleased to see them? Gah! After the few hours of peace I’ve carved out to get something eloquent and readable down on paper/screen, this all feels like an intrusion, and I’m afraid I’m an open book, folks. I can’t hide my frustration.
Answer? Be better organised. Stop writing a good half hour before they are due home. Set aside the time to cook and listen and be ‘available’, watch Wimbledon, veg out in front of the TV. If necessary book yourself out of circulation for a couple of hours on the weekend to catch up. Try not to make up the time by grabbing another bottle of wine out of the fridge when they’ve all gone to bed, and stay up half the night growling at your laptop. It won’t be a good look the next morning, either in the mirror or on the page.
Have I achived domestic harmony? You’d have to ask them. Either way, the first book is done, and published, and I’m still a functioning wife and mother. Just.
Here is the blurb, and an extract, and I hope you all enjoy it!
‘Being needed by someone is different from having power over them, and far more alluring, and I’m a fool for not recognising that. I’m a fool for not recognising you.‘
Twin souls colliding? Or was Gustav waiting for her?
Young photographer Serena Folkes believes she’s struck gold when the tycoon Gustav Levi offers to showcase her debut exhibition. But there are strings attached. Serena must move into Gustav’s London town house and agree to pleasure him in any way he chooses. Patron and protegee, they are bound by the silver chain that symbolises this contract until the last photograph is sold.
As her work sells and Gustav’s demands increase, Serena surprises them both with her feisty character and eager participation. It’s not such a tough ask. Gustav is exotic and intriguing. She is hungry and willing to learn. Gradually she learns what demons have driven him to strike bargains rather than to trust. And when Gustav discovers that Serena’s abusive past has almost destroyed her ability to love, he realises they are not so different after all.
Can they plan a future together, or will a single act of betrayal return to haunt them?
I’ve heard of people who like to be whipped. Men, mostly. Judges, politicians. Rumour had it that my tutor liked it. Until I saw those nuns doing it, before I tried it on myself, I had no idea what pleasure could be in submitting to horrible pain? Why would you beg to be punished for some made-up crime, just to feed a fantasy? What pleasure could there possibly be in wanting to be hurt so much it would make you come? What was so sexy about smacking and being subjected to that kind of humiliation?
Well, trying it myself was nothing on this. The answer is blowing in the wind. Being handed to me by Gustav Levi. I am smarting with the lashes, my skin no doubt striped with thin red welts. I strain at the silver chain binding my wrists, trying to understand this degrading, nasty thrill releasing me from all that stress, the dark memories, trying to understand why the helplessness is turning me on so much, poking little fiery sparks of pleasure right up there between my legs.
Wishing it had always been this simple.
Another slap, stinging and hot on my rump, a bite sizzling through me. And the strange thing is that I was waiting for it, and I welcome it. I want him to do it again, I want the shock of the slap itself, and the lovely after-glow. The turn on isn’t just the heat and the pain, it’s the anticipation, how it’s going to feel, not quite knowing, here it is, the cold on my skin, the brand of five fingers, of the whip, then the hot smack, the blood and heat zoning in on one place to try to cure it.
And every time the blow falls, another piece of the ugly jigsaw smashes.
He is silent behind me, above me. He smacks the other cheek hard and this time the heat is prodding and probing everywhere, fingers of fire and pleasure feeling me all over, inside and out.
Once this is over I want him. Around me. Inside me. It’s not the spanking I’m addicted to. It’s him.
The rain is battering at the windows again. I want thunder and lightning. The elemental terror to adds to the thrill of what he’s doing to me, marking my white skin with his red marks of pain. His creature, branded.
There’s something else above me now, not a hand, something flat and round comes slapping down on my bottom. I let out a kind of gabble of laughter. My confused mind tries to identify the instrument. A wooden spoon. Surely he’s not hitting me with something he was using to stir the peppercorn sauce earlier?
Something flicks in the air with a whispering crack, like he’s a circus master. A tie, or a rope. I cower, trembling with cold and anticipation. Every inch of my bottom is sore and tender. He brushes whatever it is, a ribbon, over the backs of my knees and down to the soles of my feet while I wait for the first hit. It flicks across my buttocks, comes down once, twice. It doesn’t hurt any more. It sets me alight. There are spasms inside me now, deep between my legs, hungry spasms of pleasure and wanting.
He knows it. Because now he’s pushing my legs open again, and bringing something up between them, right into me. It’s a ribbon, and he starts to rub it on me. The friction is unbearable, rough and sweet at the same time, like rubbing flint on flint to make a fire. I bury my head in the cushion, taking in short gasps of breath, loving the light headedness. It’s like hyperventilating a free, natural high. My already acute senses make everything bright and exaggerated, like a cartoon.
‘My little dish of delight just lying there,’ Gustav growls to himself. At last. A really bestial timbre in his voice. ‘So why am I always denying myself?’
I wriggle eagerly. I want him so badly it hurts. The movement sucks the ribbon right up into me, and it rubs against the little bud that’s jutting out, burning and begging for attention. He sees me writhe and makes the ribbon taut, rubbing it cruelly, harder and faster against my clitoris, and that’s it. A couple of swipes and I explode, instantly, bucking crazily against the ribbon as all that pent up frustration and anger pumps out. I rub against the ribbon, the cushions, the sofa, my bottom jerking frantically. I’m aware of how it will look on film, but I don’t care.
I lie there limply until my senses reassemble and I start to feel acutely self conscious. The dying spasms mock me, because they won’t go away. I’m restless, wracked with brazen sexual desire. Oh, God, I want him in me, now.
Where is he?
Suddenly the storm is back, doing its best to shake the house down, break the windows, tear off all the tiles. Breaking the spell. Gustav is pulling off my blindfold now. He unties the silver chain, sits me up. He even rearranges the long velvet skirt over my knees.
He thumps down beside me. The flames reflected in his lustful eyes leap up in their candelabra and candle sticks, sending shadows careering around the room. His handsome face is shaded into canine planes and angles. This could be it.
The Adam’s apple juts in his throat as he swallows. He leans closer, his eyes half closed, his face right up to my cheek. His nostrils flare as he breathes in the scent and sweat on my skin. His fingers come up and frame my jaw, and then he turns my head sideways, stretching my throat. His breath rasps hot, burning hot, on my neck. My pulse beats frantically as if hammering to get out. His mouth slides down under my ear, his lips dry at first, then getting wet as they linger over the spot. The tip of his tongue touches my pulse, like a little arrow.
He’s gripping my arms unnecessarily hard. Can’t he see that I’m not going anywhere? I’m his. I stretch out my hand and slide it up his thigh. Something tells me to move slowly and quietly. We are both panting hard, our breath mingling. I turn to him, push my hands onto the burgeoning hardness.
‘I’m here for the taking, Gustav. All clean and new. Don’t you want me?’
‘Right now?’ His teeth graze on my neck, his mouth moving against my skin. ‘More than I’ve ever wanted anyone.’
Primula Bond is an Oxford educated mother of three boys and has lived in Oxford, London and Cairo. She currently lives in Hampshire and works part time as a legal clerk for criminal defence lawyers as well as writing freelance features under her real name. Her erotic novels include Country Pleasures, Club Crème and Behind The Curtain and dozens of short stories published by Virgin Books. Her novella Sisters in Sin and various short stories are published by Mischief Books, and Xcite Books at Accent Press have published a solo collection of short stories Random Acts of Lust , and her novella Out of Focus. Primula also offers a critique service for aspiring erotic and romantic writers through Writers Workshop.
You can find her blog at www.primulabond.blogspot.com or Facebook, or follow her on Twitter @primulabond.
‘It was different – but good different.. I can’t wait for book 2 – I want to know what happens with Serena and Gustav!’ B J’s Book Blog
‘I really loved it. Primula Bond knows how to write interesting, engaging and fascinating relationships.’ Northern Lass
‘I felt the story was quite well written and it took me a day to read as I romped through it and didn’t want to put it down.’ Goodreads.