About the Author
K. McVey has been a rubber fetishist and BDSM enthusiast since the 1980s. His debut novel blends life-long passions for science fiction and adventure with pulse-pounding erotic dominance & submission.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Alexi lay at my feet. His body was curled, head resting on the blanket that covered my bare feet and his collared, naked body. Drifting into and out of sleep, my frey appeared relaxed and content. My feelings were opposite of his. There was something not right in the order of things. "Netra!" I cussed as the lead tip broke again. I pressed my lips close to it and puffed until the tip fell off the edge of my desk. "Mistress Tural?" Alexi asked, lifting his head. He blinked his eyes and then rubbed them with his left hand. "I cannot write the eta," I growled. I resisted the urge to grab the sheet of paper and crush it into an insignificant ball. Paper was too expensive to waste; instead I placed the lead-filled writing stick onto my desk. Alexi slowly got to his knees and then looked at my attempt to use the new writing instrument. "It looks good," he said, after a pause that led me to question his sincerity. "The paper is good. But I cannot write this letter." I jabbed the lead-filled writing stick at the deformed eta. "Look. It is not graceful, there are no curves in the letters, and ..." I lifted the writing stick. My knuckles were white. I made a loud breath. Then I added, "And the tip keeps breaking on the lead-filled writing stick." "'Pencil,'" he corrected. "Mistress," he added after a moment in a not-so-subtle attempt to appease me. He failed. I glared at him for a moment until he shrunk away an inch or two. On the right side of my desk, abandoned, was the cloton hair brush and skrow ink bottle that Hirlana, my mother, gave to me when I was a child. The glass bottle had been passed down among the women of our family for almost one thousand years. I reached across the table and ran my fingertips on the smooth, cool glass. My goal this year was to gain competence in writing Erskan with the pencil so that I could better translate my writings to English. "May I?" Alexi inquired. He took the pencil from my hand and then carved a tip into the cylindrical wood with a sharpening knife. Then he wrote the first six of the thirty-five letter Erskan alphabet. "Like that." It was effortless for him. The letters, though cleanly written, were lifeless and of single thickness. Alexi offered the pencil to me. Instead, my right hand lay flat on the paper a few long seconds - before my fingers crunched it into a small ball. "Netra," I cussed again, half under my breath. Alexi untied a ribbon from around a cloth bag.