Just got back from a relaxing Alaskan cruise and into Montreal’s sticky summer weather. While I was gone Yumine delivered and provided four sketch ideas for book 2 of Catamite (AKA “The Pet Gentleman”). Before I make a selection I thought I’d share this for feedback from you guys. Drop me a comment, email or however you want to share what you think!
YuMine is an incrediably talented artist, and if I had my way I’d choose them all. Of course the demand of economy mean I have to pick just one. Maybe when I finally get a print edition it will have “illustrated plates”. 😀
The title of the next book with be “Understanding a Cruel Lady” as it looks more into how Annette fits into her society and what her life is like beyond breaking and taming her pet.
I’m currently looking at a tentative fall release, possibly in early October 2015, for the edited, polished and updated second book of the Catamite series. This not quite femdom romance (and definitely BDSM erotica!) has been many years in preparation and I’m extremely proud of how it is all coming together.
I’ve been asked if the art is mine- no, Yumine Guo is responsible for cover art. If you liked these, she has more stuff on her tumblr. If you are looking to hire an artist, she’s a joy to work with and provides knockout quality professional grade work with extremely reasonable pricing.
So, which one is your favourite? I’m leaning towards #1 or #4, although #2 is pretty spectacular, though possibly not in theme with the simplicity of the first cover.
(No idea what’s going on? Check out book 1 of The Pet Gentleman on Amazon to get caught up. Its been selling like hot cakes.)
And as always, a big thank you to the many readers and fans who have funded and encouraged me this far. I never could have done this without your enthusiasm, and your purchases help keep this site going and allow me to afford top quality cover art like this.
Dear me, it’s probably my most beloved and controversial project. From getting banned on literotica for the non-con, and to be frank, some of the most blatant gender discrimination I’ve ever experienced, to frantic requests that I please, please publish one more chapter, the 23 chapter and counting novel is probably the heftiest of my works of fiction (although cumulatively, the friday femdom stories are starting to add up). It’s also been dormant for a while, and I really should finish it.
Today, still convalescing and wrapped up in a great white comforter, I took the master file and applied judicious editing, finding the project at over 38K words and counting. Ideally I’d like to have it done for Christmas, although that is health and work dependent.
I’m still not precisely sure how I intend to go about releasing the project though- the end goal was always an ebook, but getting more experience with what’s on the market I’ve realized that 3000 word short stories are considerably more normal- so it’ll probably be broken into two or three pieces.
Anyway, goal #1 will be to bring the story to its planned conclusion by the end of the year- it’s being worked on again. But then I have to format it into a book and get it available for download, and honestly, I have no idea how to do that… Learning time!
The dormitory reminded him of something between his childhood and his days at university. There was the same jocular brotherhood of close quarters that he remembered from his early school years, but although he guessed most of the men he shared the space with to be a few years younger than himself, they were definitely adults.
They were housed comfortably at four men to a room, each with his own bed and trunk at the foot. The other men were friendly, although he felt like perhaps he got a bit more space than they gave each other, marking him an outsider but not unwanted. When he first arrived at the facility, Annette had been greeted by Chloe, and then left him in the custody of her servants with no indication of what his purpose for being there was.
Chloe was a Foreigner, whose presence only emphasized the educational atmosphere. Like most of his teachers and caretakers at his childhood school, she had skin the colour of molasses and wore her hair in an un-restructured halo, cloud like curls coiled about by a single braid that went around the crown of her head. She was dressed as a lady, trim and tight waisted in a suit of grey charcoal wool, a bit boxier in the shoulder than the current fashion, but giving an affect of gravitas that extended into her obvious leadership of the place that now housed him. He guessed, by her face, she might be in comfortable middle age, but then again it was hard to tell with Foreigners, who lived as they pleased. Unlike the rest of her kind, she affected not specialness from the social protocol, even going as far as wearing the gold band of a marriage on her hand and none of the other symbols they used to indicate the complicated interpersonal relationships of Foreigner culture, although Annette and the Foreign woman’s staff addressed her as Dr. and not Mrs. Dr.
When she had departed, Annette had taken a moment to put her hands up on his shoulders and remind him to mind himself and look to how he was taught. Then, one of Chloe’s servants led him to the dormitory, and there he’d been housed for the last 36 hours. His box of things was delivered, and he discovered, packed in it, someone had put the book of photographs from the colony in with the paper and pencil box that Annette let him have.
The large hall of the shooting range was empty except for six people, giving it an eerie ghost town calm. It was one of the places where Landfall taste was at war with the practicalities: no carved wood and patterned wallpaper, just dull, unreflective ricochet tile on every surface, swallowing every sound, before it could reverberate. The range was lit by bright beaming, ugly shatter proof lighting. By size alone, the room should have been echoing and instead it was stifling, and everyone looked grey skinned and more strained than they were.
They’d left the exclusive residential district of the Harrington townhouse and gone to one of the new but respectable suburbs of the city. Phillip had found he was half dozing, carrying the damage to his body quietly, sitting on the floor or the car. Annette stroked his head distractedly and her two closest guards stayed alert in their seats, expectant. He felt slightly feverish and very tired.
There was an all over body limpness and a curious sort of drifting euphoria that came from the prolonged exposure to pain. It was a cold winter afternoon, the windows sealed tight with the frost high up on the glass and himself feeling the hard edge of a wooden trunk under him pressing into his skin while waiting for the next strike. He couldn’t see her, belly down and with his shirt hiked and the waist of his pants at calf level, but she wasn’t making an effort to hide the timing of the cane, so he had ample warning before the impacts.
True to her word, Annette let him sleep in her wide, comfortable bed, and he stayed there until one of the chamber maids appeared to change the linens. The maid departed without completing her task, giving him time to dress and reorient himself to the mid-afternoon sun and confusion of his routines and regulations.
She had, in the time he slept, dressed in day clothing, reapplied makeup and changed her hair, though asides from a few loose tendrils, the blonde coils were covered by a simple house cap. Timmans had evidently recovered and was back at work dressing her mistress.
“I don’t like your face, it’s too prickly,” her fingers lightly brushed his cheek. “It’s uncomfortable when I slap you.”
He watched as Annette dressed, filament fine stockings drawn on with protective gloves as the roughness of bare fingers would ladder the knit instantly, clipped to the garters of the girdle, beige tinted elastic panels containing and lifting her, smoothing the child worn belly, hoisting her breasts and pushing her ribs down. Like a woman of his class letting herself be seen with a bare face, as an unmarried man it was another mystery Annette had initiated him into, the hooks and straps that held the daughters, mothers and wives of great men ridged backed and tight around the abdomen, each point of restraint giving just enough that the body could move, but collaborating together to hold the woman up so no muscle could let itself rest untightened or sigh and shrug could excuse a slouch. Read More