Welcome Primula Bond to the blog today, she’s gonig to tell us all about her new release!
The knowledge that you have a heavyweight publisher behind you really ups the ante. I used to describe my writing as a ‘hobby which pays pocket money’, and in fact even that wasn’t entirely true, because over the years we eroticists seem to earn less and less, not more. My first short story, written in a lunch hour, was accepted in 1995 by the now defunct For Women magazine for £150. I think my last short stories have earned me £50, if I’m lucky. So it was always something I did for a tiny bit of cash, and because I had a lovely editor with whom I moved from Black Lace to Accent to Avon, and because it opened up other doors such as critiqueing as well. Even so, I was on the point of hanging up my furry handcuffs and I decided to write and self publish a volume of short stories under my own name.
But then along came 50 Shades and I was asked to write an Erotic Romance, possibly a trilogy. How many writers dream not only of having their own ‘pet’ editor, but of being asked to write a new novel? It still bugs me, after years of eroticising, to be described by some reviewers as ‘copy cat’, but the revitalised ER genre has certainly opened up the horizon. I always yearned to focus more on relationships and less on finding simply the string to link a series of increasingly varied and daring sex scenes. So with The Silver Chain I have not only delved into an intense, slow burning love affair, but I’ve allowed the language, surroundings and references far more to reflect my own ‘voice’. 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?
Gustav is hunched over me, pale and angular, his mouth slightly open, teeth glinting. He looks like he’s ready to sever my jugular. He reaches under my neck and tries to unbuckle the dog collar, but then he stops. His eyes hold that impenetrable blackness again, his Halloween look. The only sign of life is the beating pulse in his neck.
No wonder. He has a naked girl spread-eagled and helpless beneath him. If he’s all man, as Crystal assured me, this will be one temptation too far.
He leaves the collar on. I come to my senses and start to wriggle and kick. Quick as a flash he tugs me further down the bed so that I’m right underneath him. The silver chain goes taut and I can’t move my arms at all. My bare breasts curve into the air, rising with my frantic breathing. The rigid red points of my nipples are impossible to ignore.
‘You’re mine, Serena. You’re not going anywhere.’
‘Tell me, just tell me!’ I suck in more breath and kick my legs out in desperation. ‘Is it Margot you still want?’ ‘Don’t you ever say that name to me!’
His voice is a deadly hiss echoed by the wind whistling round the chalet. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. He runs his hands over my stomach, my hips and thighs, digging his fingers into my flesh, pressing right through the skin to the bone, runs them up the tendons at the top of my legs which scream with tension as I try to close them. ‘Answer my question!’
‘That name is like a dagger.’ He leans down to snarl his mouth against my ear. ‘What I saw just then was my worst nightmare.’
He doesn’t blink. It’s as if he’s never seen me before. His face is streaked red with lust. He wrenches my thighs open, one hand cradling my chin in a gesture that would be tender if it wasn’t also forcing my head back down on the pillow. What’s he afraid of? That I’ll lunge up and bite him?
The dog collar must still give me that evil vamp look, even though the rest of me is stripped bare. One band of studded leather can make me look like a slut. I’m turned on by that, and so is he.
I’m hypnotised by the distance in his burning eyes, as if he’s at the far end of a very long tunnel.
The passion flares in his face then seems to settle, as if he’s reached a long overdue decision. Is that a warning, or an awakening? Perhaps it’s lightning reflected from above. Then I hear it. The swift unzipping of his jeans.
I kick and struggle against the silver chain as his hand moves downwards. He’s so powerful. He’s pinning me down with one hand. Taking hold of himself with the other.
Sex as punishment. This should be the answer to my prayers.
I’m damned if I’m going to show him how much I want him despite everything, despite her, despite it all. It’s this ferocious desire that’s consuming me. I twist about with a new strength, tortured by the surge of dark energy still coiling inside me.
Thunder rumbles outside as I try to bend my knees for leverage to kick him off, and that’s when the lightning zig-zags across the skylight and I see his face in sizzling clarity. His hair is thrown back. His eyes are burning, his mouth a cruel line. He’s looking at me as if I am his deadliest enemy.
One more superhuman effort to rouse him from this stupor, remind him who he is with. I kick out with my leg and he suddenly catches my flailing leg, holds it akimbo in the air and then slaps me, hard, on my buttock. I squeal and writhe as the sting finds its mark and the renewed sharp heat follows, radiating and spreading through my body, melting my defences. And then I catch sight of myself in the mirrored ceiling above. The white flash of my flailing leg, the stretch of my bound arms.
The dark shape of Gustav leaning over me, his shoulder blades sharp through his black shirt. He spreads his strong thighs to keep mine open.
‘I won’t let you go! I won’t let her take you away from me!’
He keeps hold of my leg, slaps me again. I wriggle and struggle, taking furtive glances at the reflection above me, and perversely the more futile the resistance proves against his iron grip, the more I’m fired with strength and energy.
He watches me intently, his fingers gripping my leg. As soon as I gather more strength to kick out at him, he slaps me hard and each time his arm goes up and that smack lands on me, my resistance translates into wild, wanton desire.
A final slap and my bottom bounces off the bed. He’s too quick for me, too strong. He grabs my ankles and hooks them round his hips. My arms are tied tight. Nothing else I can do. I’m raised like an offering. And then he opens his fingers to display what he’s got for me.
In his free hand, extending from the shy V of his zipper, the big beautiful length of him. Made hard by the sight of me dressed as a dominatrix whore, the whore stripped bare. It worked like a charm, and now I’m the subdued sex slave. I’ve no more fight, pretend or otherwise. There is a phrase trying to assemble itself in my head to explain the calmness overtaking me as I surrender to him. To treacly langour. And now he’s here, pushing inside me. He finds me wet and ready. Lust is forged in the furnace of his eyes. I tighten my legs around his bottom and give in.
This is where he should be.
I venture one last look up at the ceiling, see how our bodies are poised. I’m shy of my own reflection. Briefly I wonder how that reflected pose would look in a photograph, the black jeans, black shirt, black hair of my lover contrasting with my white legs wrapped round him.
I focus on him again. Our eyes are locked together. He’s watching. Always watching me. No words. I grip tightly, wait, wait, and then he propels me into that lovely movement. Slow, slow, fast, faster, our bodies meshed together.
A faint chill ripples through me. Is this as it should be, though? Is he seeing me, or her? Someone else? Am I an object to him, the dotted line on an agreement? Something to be used, now that it’s all coming to an end, now he’s got me where he wants me?
He falls forwards onto his hand. He lifts me higher with the force of his passion, the silver chain biting and gnawing my wrists as our bodies battle. His fine features are more beautiful than ever, even as they start to blur. His black eyes, narrowed and steady, the mouth working silently. My eyes half close, my head falls back on the pillow. Waves wash over me as I try to understand what I’ve just read in his face.
Gustav Levi is calm for the first time. A ship that’s been hurled by the storm into harbour. He’s where he wants to be. He is finally inside me, taking full physical possession. Fucking me. He increases his pace, thrusting once, twice more, his pleasure, my pleasure, this wonderful new calmness and belonging, then as the storm crashes over us, over the chalet, battering at the mountain, we come together.
He collapses across me, his face in the pillow next to my shoulder, his body heavy, crushing the air out of me, but I don’t care. I am just relishing the heavy thump of his heart against mine, the rushing of hot breath against my shoulder, the slow relax of his limbs as our breathing, and the storm, subside.
I run my lips over his cheek, but he shakes his head and rolls away from me. Now the crisp closure of his zipper sounds so bitter and final. Shutting me out again. Not only that, but now that his warmth is removed I start to shiver, outside as well as within. The storm has given way to hail now, white stones crashing onto the skylights like someone chucking gravel to attract attention.
There are all sorts of things I should say now. Things he’s never heard before. This is my chance to find the right words to make him mine.
But what I actually say is, ‘My wrists are hurting.’
He kneels up quickly and unties the silver chain, his face troubled again. He rubs my arms as he releases them, running his finger round the inside of the bracelet where it has been branding my skin. I can barely move my arms. They are stiff and sore with all the tension, the straining to escape, welcoming yet fighting the sexy struggle. He remains hunched above me, shaking his head. I let my hand fall onto his back where his black shirt is sticking with sweat. Trace the shoulder blades, the bumps of his spine. The inflation of his ribs as he tries to calm his breath.
A residual, satisfied moan escapes me.
‘I’m a monster. You see?’ He moves away from me, running his fingers over the silver bracelet before standing up. ‘All I ever do is hurt people.’
And then the lights go out. The room is plunged into frightening darkness, only a few squares of sickly moonlight coming through the ceiling and gleaming on the wall of mirrors.
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 follow her on Twitter @primulabond.