The kinkiest scene in a HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN Book? It would have to be this one.

WomanInCage

You'll find spice, not spank, in a typical HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN book. After all, it is a romantic suspense, not erotica.

That said, it's certainly not unusual for my heroine, Donna Stone, finds herself in the most peculiar (ahem) positions. (Yes, that is a double entendre.)

For example, in Book 3 of the series — THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN'S KILLER CHRISTMAS TIPS — she has to infiltrate the private party of a Silicon Valley power ranger in order to find a heat-seeking missile.

That too may sound like a double-entendre, but it isn't. Don't take my word for it. Read it yourself, below. 

Hope this is part of your wonderful weekend,

— Josie

EXCERPT

I wouldn’t
exactly call Miles’ room a suite.

More like a
dungeon.

No, not the
kind with stone walls and floors. The floors are bleached white pine, and the
walls are laminate with a high black finish, allowing the strategically-placed
platinum restraint hoops to double as an art statement.

Besides a
steel framed bed with shackles hanging from chains, the room boasts a man-sized
bird cage, a sex swing, a three-by-four-foot puppy cage.

But the piece de resistance is a stockade, which
puts the sub on his or her knees via adjustable spreader bars connected to a
holding collar, wrist and ankle shackles, and a fourteen-inch dildo rod.

Ouch.

“Like it?”
Miles asks.

I nod
slightly.

He looks
relieved. “I got the idea for it when I toured the Tower of London. It’s custom
made, of course. You see, a Vac-U-Lok holds any size dildo, and the settings
take it from zero to a hundred-and-forty strokes. Cool, huh? Wham, bam, thank
you… whomever.” He smiles knowingly.

I shrug. His
smile quivers slightly.

I turn to a
wall with floor-to-ceiling backlit glass shelves holding rows and rows of sex
toys. The number of cock rings is staggering. Hoods, bit gags, and muzzles
cover mannequin heads. Leather cuffs and metal restraints adorn mannequin arms
and ankles.

Mannequin
torsos are covered with harnesses or restraints. However, I’m happy to report
that while Miles’ collection of cock rings is vast, they are not displayed on
mannequin cocks. Neither are the nipple rings. Hmmm…

There is also
a full row of dildos of all shapes, sizes and textures.

And for
spanking, there are the crops, canes, floggers, whips, and paddles. A rose by
any other name, am I right?

It’s quite a
Wall of Shame.

I pick up a
paddle made of solid oak on one side and hard rubber on the other with the same
indentation of a woodsman’s jackboot. The thought of even one slap would kick
some sense into me, that’s for sure.

“I can tell
you like that one.” I haven’t realized how close he’s gotten until I feel his
breath on my neck.

I turn to
face him. “I like them all.” We are eye to eye.

He blinks
first.

“Which is
your favorite?” My tone is cool, noncommittal. At first, he stares at me.
Finally, he walks over to the middle of the row and picks up a paddle: black
lacquer, around eighteen inches long, with tiny holes in the shape of hearts
drilled through its inch thickness.

Without a
word, he walks over with it.

I take it
without even a nod. “Do you prefer a mask, gag, or a muzzle?”

“My favorite?
Is that what you’re asking?”

I give the
slightest of nods.

He walks over
to the wall and pulls off a black leather full-head slave mask.

“I see.” Scary. “Now, how about a harness?”

Slowly he
walks back to the wall. He stops to pick something up, but then he hesitates,
as if concerned.

Is he worried
I’ll freak out?

Hell, I’m worried I’ll freak out.

Calm down… Calm down.

Finally, he
picks it up. I mean, he picks them up:
a leather thong, waist cincher, and a black patent leather collar, leg irons,
and full-length arm binders.

Oh, and let’s
not forget the dildo.

How can I describe
it, other than to say that it is made of shiny stainless steel, and eleven
inches long?

“You know
what to do now, don’t you?” I murmur. Does he hear the tremble in my voice.

He nods
slowly. “Assume the position.”

I nod. Then
close my eyes, if only for a moment…

If I could,
I’d cry.

I don’t have to do this, I tell myself. All I have to do is say “Big
girls don’t cry” and Jack will break down the door. He’ll be right by my side.

But no. He’s at her side. 

Valentina’s.

Doing what
she’s telling him to do.

To her.

I don’t need him to get out of this.

When I open
my eyes again, I find Miles kneeling in front of me. He already has the hood
over his head, the waist cincher around his gut and the buttless leather skirt
halfway over his thighs.

Not a pretty
sight.

Seeing my
stare, he bows his head in shame, eyes closed.

“Oh please,
my mistress of madness! Be gentle with me! Forgive me for not being worthy of
you!” He opens one eye. “Um, what’s our safety phrase, Mistress?”

“All my subs
use ‘big boys don’t cry.’”

He nods
vigorously. “Excellent choice, Mistress! Most excellent!”

Maybe I
should send Jack to him for lessons.

Nah. Jack’s
too stubborn. It would never take.

Besides, I
like it when Jack’s a very, very bad boy.

“Crawl over
to the stockade, slave. Now!” I smack
him hard with the paddle. He roars, but does as he’s told.

In a moment
I’ve shackled his wrists, ankles, and neck so that he on his knees,
doggy-style, facing the door.

Okay, let’s
get this over with. “You have been a very, very bad boy.”

“Yes,
Mistress. I have been very, very bad.” His voice cracks in anticipation of his
punishment.

“Do you know
what Mistress does to very, very bad boys?”

“No,” he
whispers.

“What did you
say?”

“No,
Mistress! I don’t know!”

“I do this—”
I smack him with the paddle again. He groans, in pain.

Oh my God!
Was I too hard? “Um… did you like that?”

“Do you want me to like it, Mistress?”

What the
hell? “Yeah, sure. I want you to love it.”

“I do,
Mistress, I love it! May I have more?”

“That’s not
how we ask, now is it? Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

“Yes, sorry,
Mistress! She told me to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’”

Works for me.
I slap him again. “So say it, slave.”

“Ow! Thank
you, Mistress! More, please!”

I oblige.

“OW! Yes! Please! Yes!”

I aim to
please. Sorry, bad pun.

But no,
seriously, I could do this all night. Who knew it would be such a great stress
reliever?

Suddenly I
hear Jack’s voice in my ear, “Are we having fun yet?”

“I presume
one of is having a blast: you.”

“Yes,
Mistress! Tons of fun!”

“Shut up!” I
say to Miles. Then, to Jack: “Just where the hell are you, anyway?” I take aim
at his backside.

“Don’t you
see me? I’m right here, at your feet,” Miles answers again.

“What?… Oh!
Not you, slave!”

“But—”

To make my
point, I whack him again.

“Thank you,
Mistress,” he groans.

“Seriously,
Donna, hell’s a’poppin’. The Quorum is here, too.”

“Yeah, I saw
the way ‘the Quorum’ was all over you.”

“The Quorum?”
Miles shrieks. “You know about the Quorum? How—?”

“Not you, dork.
I mean Miles. I mean slave!” I slap his ass extra hard this time.

As if that will make him forget what he just
heard.

“I think you
need to untie me!” he whines. “Big boys don’t cry! Big boys don’t—”

Before he can
say another word, I take a gag and stick it in his mouth, and zip up the eye
flips of his hood.

Now that he
can’t actually see what I’m doing, I search frantically for the MANPAD. It’s
not under the bed, or in any of the large, body-sized pull-out drawers, which,
by the way, also have shackles embedded in them. Well, well, well, it seems
that someone’s got an Eddie Munster
complex.

“Donna,
they’re going to be there any minute. Let’s get this show on the road, shall
we?”

“What do you
suggest I do, smart ass?”

“Your magic
decoder ring. Remember?”

Duh.

“As if
reading my mind, Jack laughs. “Listen for my knock. I’ll be there as soon as I
can get away.”

“As soon as
you can ‘get away?’ From whom?”

He signs off
with a click. I guess it isn’t something he wants to answer.

I twist open
my ring holding the SP-117 truth serum, and put my fisted hand into Miles’
mouth. “Lick my ring, Slave. Suck it! Go ahead!”

Instinctively,
he tries to raise his head to look at me, but the rod holding his neck shackle
keeps him drawn to my knuckles.

I slap his
face so that he figures out fast that this isn’t any game.

He sucks it
hungrily.

Within a
moment he’s told me what I need to know: that the MANPAD is hidden in a second super-secret
dungeon, behind the Wall of Shame. To open it, I have to push a button under
the third dildo on the left.

Done. Yuck.

Now that I’ve
opened the case holding the MANPAD, which is, quite simply, a shoulder-fired
heat-seeking missile encased in a metal tube. It’s about four feet wide and six
and a half feet long, but no more than three inches in diameter.

The case also
holds a gripstop — the missile launcher — and a battery pack.

The whole kit
and caboodle weighs a little more than Trisha, maybe just over forty-five
pounds.

Just as I
reach the door with it, I hear the rap of knuckles on it to the sound of Shave and a Haircut.

Jack has
quite a sense of humor.

We’ll see
who’s laughing after I give him the third degree about Valentina.

I struggle to
unlock it without putting down the MANPAD case. Flinging it open, I mutter,
“’Bout damn time—”

To Carl.

In no time at
all he’s grabbed the case out of my hand and slapped me to the floor.

As I stagger
to my feet, he yanks my arms behind my back. Looking around, he gives a low
whistle. “Quite a little set-up old Miles has here! This would have made quite a
bonus room addition to the old homestead, don’t you think?”

My answer is
to spit on his cheek.

“Naughty,
naughty girl.” He jerks me over toward Miles’ Wall of Shame. “Wow. I feel like
a kid in a candy shop.” He picks up a studded dildo and tickles my nose with
it.

I jerk my
head away.

He shrugs.
“After Jack, I thought you’d welcome something super-sized.”

“Oh yeah?
Trust me, that’s never been his problem. In fact, you’re not half the man he
is, Carl Stone.”

Carl raises
his hand to slap me—

Then he
thinks better of the idea and lowers it.

Instead, he
jerks me into the man-sized birdcage and tethers my wrists so that I’m facing
the bars. No matter how much I struggle, he’s too strong for me. Still, I get in
one good kick to his side before he grabs hold of one leg and shackles my
ankle. He binds the other too, so that I’m spread-eagled.

He rips the back slit in
my gown all the way up, until my whole backside is exposed. He lets his fingers
do the walking down my spine. Despite my resolve, I tremble at his touch. When
he gets to my ass, he spreads my cheeks, and I gasp.

“Carl… Don’t.”

It seems like an eternity
before he murmurs, “You know you want it.”

I close my eyes. All of a
sudden, my head feels too heavy. I lean it against the steel bars. “No. Not
like this.” I raise my head, and turn it toward him, but he is purposely
standing out of my range of vision. Still I say, “You don’t want it like this,
either. You were never a—a rapist.”

His lips kiss the small
of my back, my shoulder blades, the back of my neck, an earlobe, and then he
whispers, “How do you know what I was, or wasn’t?”

He’s right. I never
really knew him.

I
brace for the worst…

(c) 2012 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This excerpt may not be resold or redistributed without prior written permission from Josie Brown or Signal Press Books (info@signaleditorial.com).

Killer-Tips-Cover-v3

On sale now!

Logo_kobo 

 Nook-button 

Buy it on Amazon!

Apple iTunes Bookstore  Ibooks

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HAH-2-Book-Set (3)

 

 Still haven't read the first to books in the series? 

Buy them here, as a Two-Pack! Only $3.99!

Book 1 – The Housewife Assassin's Handbook

Book 2 – The Housewife Assassin's
Guide to Gracious Killing

Buy it on Amazon!Nook-buttonLogo_kobo


 

Tome of the Mommy: Romance (writing) in the Bedroom

Writingmom Writing is in the blood, as well as the heart and the mind. J.K. Rowling may be the most famous (and most successful of us, but many of the writers I know are are women who, like me, have families and all the complexities that implies, but still find the time to slip out a book or two (or more!) of erotic romance a year. This Washington Post article explains how Irene Williams, a mother-of-two, manages to do so, and run her own publishing company as well.

Talk about a busy lady. Then again, as this picture shows, for centuries moms have been writing whenever and wherever they can.

I hope you find this inspiring,

—Josie

The Wizardess of Id: Romance and Sex and Werewolves, Oh My!

By Ian Shapira / Washington Post Staff Writer /Sunday, June 28, 2009

Behind the Rite Aid, next to the house with the American flag, and inside the five-bedroom home with the fish-shaped windsock swaying over the front door — this is where a former government lawyer with a thing for sex and werewolves lives.

Her name is Irene Daisy Williams, a.k.a. Treva Harte. A veteran of the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, she has been doubling as novelist, co-owner and editor in chief of Loose Id, a publishing house specializing in erotic romance literature. (Williams favors paranormal erotic romance, a sub-genre heavy with werewolves. More on the werewolves later.)

Married for more than 20 years to a lawyer at the Federal Deposit Insurance Corp., Williams oversees from her Falls Church home an unusually profitable publishing house. In the increasingly battered book industry, Loose Id has sold more than 1 million mostly online books since being founded in 2004, netting profits — Williams won't say how much exactly — that enabled her to quit her trademark lawyer job last year after 20 years. Erotic romance, it seems, is a hot genre. Even heiress Gloria Vanderbilt, the mother of CNN anchor Anderson Cooper, just got into the game, with her newly released novel, "Obsession: An Erotic Tale," which just so happens to be blurbed by writer Joyce Carol Oates.

For Williams, 50, whose cat-eye glasses and auburn hair emit a calculated puckishness, writing and editing sexually charged and happy-ending fiction provides a reprieve from the challenges of real life in her household: Beyond the door of her writing studio, her 90-year-old mother lives with dementia, and children Jan, 15, and Frank, 18, contend with dyslexia and autism, respectively. Within her personal history, Williams deals with the fact that she never knew her father, who took off after she was born.

"In some ways, writing is one of the few places I have absolute control — well, I can pretend I have absolute control over my world," she says with determined cheer. "My characters . . . I understand them and I understand where they're going to, and ultimately they're going to have a happily-ever-after."

Growing up in New Jersey in the 1960s and in Arizona in the 1970s, Williams embraced romance writing and, later, erotic romance writing because the narratives conferred freedoms beyond her micromanaged adolescence. And she liked how the story lines, unlike those in mysteries or science fiction, focused on women and were edgier than more esteemed Victorian books about manners and society. "As far back as I remember, I would sneak bodice-ripper books and tuck them under the bed. I would buy them from the grocery," Williams recalls. "I had no siblings, and I also lived with my grandmother. But I did have an allowance. My mom just knew that I was reading big, thick books."

On a recent weekday, Williams sits in her home office, decorated with a framed certificate for excellent government service, her husband's old fencing swords on the wall, and, coincidentally, she insists, a bed. Next to bookcases filled with Nora Roberts paperbacks and erotic romance guidebooks, she continues to crank out her latest e-novel, "Return of the King." In the tale, set in the future, federal agents search for anti-government rebels . . . and a rebel woman meets the foreman of her ranch for the first time . . . igniting a molten-white-hot-volcanic affair . . . and she thinks:

Blue eyes in a tanned face. Blue eyes that looked right into you and almost made you miss that the rest of the man was equally beautiful. Almost. Perfection like that was hard to miss for long. . . . My body was leaning toward him.

* * *

In the genre of erotic romance or "romantica," Loose Id is considered among the top publishers, industry experts say. Doreen DeSalvo, the company's chief financial officer, said the enterprise, which charges $2 to $8 for its online books, grossed $1.3 million in 2008 and is on track to make slightly more this year. Williams said that after profit distribution, she makes about the same money she made as an attorney.

With the same competitiveness that distinguishes the gates of Manhattan's big commercial publishers, Loose Id is not for the rookie or wannabe romantica writer. "Our acceptance rate for new submissions is 4 percent," says DeSalvo, herself an author. (Her work in progress: "Bedding the Beast," about an Italian girl whose father sells her as a mail-order bride to a man moving to America; it's based on her grandmother's life.)

"Loose Id is one of the more respected digital publishers operating now. It's a combination of their quality storytelling, good editing, good business sense," says Sarah Wendell, who co-writes the Trashy Books blog and is co-author of "Beyond Heaving Bosoms," a new romance novel guidebook published by Fireside, a Simon & Schuster imprint.

"What's frustrating to me is that unless it's in print, it's considered not valid, but New York publishers have caught on," Wendell says. "Erotic romance is a way of dealing with the oversexualized image of women in the media — women are airbrushed and ridiculously perfect. This genre is about a woman's sexual experience and the unlimited amount of variety you can have."

Williams published her first digital novel — "The Seduction of Sean Nolan," a Civil War story — eight years ago, but she soon grew frustrated with the slowness and risk-adverse nature of established romance houses.

So, in July 2004, she co-founded Loose Id. The company's freelance editors are sprinkled across the country and include teachers, lawyers, even a World Bank officer from Alexandria. Loose Id's most recent titles include "Georgina's Dragon," "Seducing His Lordship" and "Exploring Savage Places," which capitalizes on today's vampire vogue.

* * *

Back in her home office, Williams returns to typing the tale of sweaty-chested anti-government insurgents. The plot was getting complex: The ranch owner and foreman were savoring the morning, but soon dread surfaced about whether they would be captured.

Rey looked at me and wiped his face off with a damp towel. "Can you hold them off?" He looked ill. Hell, why not? He probably hadn't slept in days. The few hours
drowsing in a cage shouldn't count.

She glances out the window to see her son's school bus arrive. She scampers downstairs to the kitchen. "School was good?" she asks Frank in a soft voice. "Did you try to call me?"

"What's for supper?" he asks.

"I think we're having steak tonight, kiddo," Williams says, then asks again, "Did you try to call today, sweetie?"

Her daughter, Jan, a rising sophomore at George Mason High School, is forbidden to read her mother's books but says she is not even tempted. "I am not really into these sort of books. I might be someday," says Jan, who prefers Harry Potter.

And her husband, Mark Mellon — the guy who works at the FDIC — is not into the erotic romance, either. "I think it's icky," says Mellon, who also fancies himself a fiction writer. He once published, in the magazine Anthrolations, a short story, set in the future after a nuclear war between India and Pakistan, about a 50-pound cockroach sent to disassemble the Taj Mahal and rebuild it in a nonradioactive location.

"It's this weird little subculture that I write about," he explains helpfully. "But I admire Irene so much — she writes somewhere close to 300,000 words a year. That's incredible."

Earlier this month, Williams released "Heal," a novel about "werewolves in human form." A blurb on Loose Id's Web site offers this tease: "Ruth's an Ice Queen and she's really cramping Arlin's freewheeling take-what'll-have-you style. Especially since Ruth smells like sex. How can a woman so cold smell so incredibly hot?"

Williams explicates a bit more: "Werewolves like to make love with lots of people, but they're not that picky." She pauses and glances at her husband's fencing swords.

"I'm going to use these in a story, but I don't know how yet."