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Yes, I know that I was supposed to post Part Deux of “Why Do You Write Erotica,” but have been a busy writergrrl, these days. For now, how about this awesome deal for THIS WEEKEND ONLY on Amazon?


Lord Frothingham awaited me in his chambers, as promised. He was stretched out on the bed, resting on his side, head propped up on a palm. While he still wore his jerkin, breeches, and riding boots, he had taken off his overcoat and frills. My master looked not unlike the pictures I had seen of scandalous poet Lord Byron, and I flushed.

My own Lord’s eyes flashed as I stood before him.

“Set down your bucket, Clarice.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now close the door. And lock it, if you would.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Of course, sir.”

As the lock loudly clicked beneath my fingers, I felt a strange heat in my nether-regions. I had experienced this before, of course, but never with a man close by. Only when left to my own fancies would I contend with the embarrassing tingling, occasionally followed with a trickle dampening my undergarments.

I never asked a soul about this trick of the flesh, as I was certain something was the matter with me, or, at least, it was the mark of a darkness which I wished none to know. Now I know it to have been my sinful hungers, begging for satiation. Still, each and every day, no matter how hard I pray for deliverance, I am tormented by this same pain of desire.

“Look at me, child.”

Our eyes met.

“Your eyes are so like your mother’s.” He paused, as though remembering. “Such a lovely blue.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

He had noticed my mother’s eyes. Knowing what I do, now, there are suddenly unanswered questions.

“You’re most welcome, Clarice. Now, please kneel down.”

I dropped to my knees.

“Remove your dress.”


“You may keep on your petticoat. But take off that ridiculous hat, if you would.”

Wordlessly, I took off my cap, shook out my locks, and unlaced my corset.

“Lord Frothingham?”

“Why have you stopped?”

“Sir, there are fifty buttons on my dress.” Which I had just finished putting on not ten minutes before.

“Oh, forgive me. Is there someplace you need to be, Clarice?”

His sarcasm stung.

“No, my lord.”

“Stay on your knees, and remove your clothing. Do I make myself quite clear?”

“Of course, sir.” My fingers trembled as I unbuttoned my dress, a task which felt as though it lasted an eternity.

One, two, three, four….Fifty.

At last, I pulled the offending garment over my head, now wearing nothing but my shift. My nipples hardened in the cold air, pressing insistently against the white muslin.

“Give the frocks to me. I will return them to you when you have completed your tasks.”

I began to rise.

Lord Frothingham clicked his tongue and wagged a finger at me. “Did I tell you to stand up, Miss Clarice?”

I shook my head vehemently.

“You are quite correct. Stay on your knees, and bring me your dress.”

Awkwardly, I walked forward on my kneecaps, and tried not to wince at the discomfort. What is this game? I wondered, while reaching up and handing him my clothing.

“That’s a good girl.” Lord Frothingham ran a hand through his curls, which, upon closer appearance, were shot with a bit of silver. He was truly a most attractive man. “Now, on your hands and knees.”

Perhaps I looked confused, because he added, “Like a dog.”

I got on all fours, and looked up at him, waiting for further instruction.

He tossed my dress to the foot of the bed, and leaned back to observe me. “Wash the stones, Miss Clarice.”

“My lord?”

“Do as I say.” His voice was stern, but his eyes were twinkling. “Did I not request you come to my bedchambers and wash my floor?”

“Yes, Lord Frothingham,” I said, and went about the task of scrubbing the cold stones.

He watched me, hawk-like. When I glanced up at him, he was staring at my breasts. When my back was to him, I could feel his eyes watching my hindquarters. After a few minutes, I looked up at my master again. There was a large bulge between his legs, pressing at his breeches. Something primal in me responded, and I gasped, while fumbling with the boar bristle brush.

Lord Frothingham looked down at his breeches, glanced at me, and raised his eyebrows.