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About the author:
Siobhan Daiko was born in Hong Kong, educated in Perth, Western Australia, and moved to the UK in 1981. She has worked in the City of London, once ran a post office/B&B in Herefordshire, and, more recently, taught Modern Foreign Languages in a Welsh high school. Siobhan now lives with her husband in the Veneto region of Northern Italy, where she spends her time writing, researching historical characters, and enjoying the dolce vita. Lady of Asolo is her first book to be published.
What inspired you to write your book?
I’m privileged to live with my husband and two cats near Asolo. My home is in a converted artist’s studio next to an old farmhouse, where, at night, I can sometimes hear the sound of a lute playing centuries-old tunes. There is a church at the bottom of the hill, which dates from the 12th Century. The cats will not go down there: they find it too spooky.
Here is a short sample from the book:
I lie in my bed, too excited to sleep, moving my hands over my body, imagining they are the painter’s. I touch my breasts and my nipples harden against my palms. I trace a line down to my cleft, that secret part of me I’ve never explored before. Why did it throb so much when Zorzo kissed me? I suck in a breath, then cup myself, spreading my fingers so that the one in the middle can slip inside. The tip rubs against a small button of flesh, sending a raw shiver through me. I exhale sharply and touch the spot again.
Heat spreads through my body. What have I uncovered? Is there some deformity down there? I take my hand away, and feel bereft of the sensation. Tenderly I caress the downy hair that grows between my legs. I can’t help myself, I want to discover more.
Slipping two fingers inside, I search for what I know is called my maidenhead. Could it be that fleshy protuberance? It doesn’t take me long to find the button again, and I hook my fingers around it, applying gentle pressure to see what will happen. It swells under my touch like a tiny man’s prick. I didn’t know that women hid such wonder in their folds.
Feeling a rush of intense pleasure, I let out a breath. Again I stroke the button. Again the joy, rippling under my fingers again and again and again. I give a soft sigh, but it’s over too quickly and I feel bereft once more, my legs weak and my soul empty. Shame rolls through me; pleasuring myself is a sin, I’m sure.