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About the author:
In addition to writing and reading contemporary romance novels, Emma loves animals, Internet cat videos (go Maru! go Henri!), and all things social media.
What inspired you to write your book?
My love of reading, writing, and good sex. 🙂
Here is a short sample from the book:
Professor Sparling and I are sending emails back and forth so quickly it feels like a live chat, which I’m tempted to suggest. I’m afraid, though, that Professor Sparling might be one of those old guys who doesn’t get fast technology. (At least he’s not faxing his messages to me!) And the truth is that I don’t want the pressure of having to reply instantly. This flirtation has spun so far so fast. I don’t need it to be ultra rapid. Two days ago I was Professor Sparling’s student pining away for his attention, and look where I am now. I feel out of control… and I love it. It’s like being awake after a three-and-a-half year hibernation. There are sensations coursing through my body that I haven’t felt since I was eighteen. For the first time since that awful day at Lake Pleasant, I truly want to be part of the world again. I want to be the cute and sexy young woman I have the potential to be. Even if nothing more happens with Professor Sparling, I will always love him for making me feel this way. If he hadn’t sparked my interest, I could have spent the rest of my life in a gray hoodie surrounded by cats. Who knows, maybe as I aged I’d replace the hoodie with a thick terry cloth robe and become the classic spinster cat lady.
The ding alerting me to a new message breaks my chain of thought.
If I told you to take off your pants, Sydney, I assume you’ve done so. You wouldn’t dare send me messages with your pants on, would you? Now take off your shirt, too. Do as I say, or I’ll get angry with you. I have a little paddle that I use on my students who don’t do as they’re told.
OMG! Is he serious? Has Professor Sparling done this before? Is he really a spanker, or worse, a paddler? The thought of bending over his knees in a schoolgirl skirt and having him yank down my panties and run his hand across my ass is very appealing. That is exactly what I write in my reply.
My pants are off because I’m wearing a skirt today. A tiny plaid pleated skirt that barely covers my ass. Since I’ve been disobedient you bend me over you knees, and slap my ass with your left hand. “Does it sting?” you ask.
It does. A lot. But, I’m gasping and I can’t catch my breath quickly enough to answer you. Before I know it my little white panties are down, and you’re roughly rubbing my ass. I can feel the dampness forming between my legs. Your hand is so close to that part me. I want you to move your hand there. I want to be touched, and I’m silently begging for it. You slap me again with your left hand and when I yelp you shove your right thumb into my mouth. I close my lips around it and moan.
Hello there, sassy slut inside of me. Writing like this is turning me on. A lot. It’s not as though I’ve ever been spanked before. I’m really not writing from experience. Jake and I did our fair share of lovemaking back in the day, but it was all very sweet and conventional. I was only a teenager, after all. I guess my long, dry spell has changed me into someone whose imagination runs wild. And now here I am acting like I’m the kind of woman who casually bends over a man’s knees for a spanking. I close my eyes for a second, inhale, exhale, and send. I’m too aroused to worry about embarrassment now, and it amazes me that my excitement has the power to turn off any sense of shame in me. I want to get off more than I’ve ever wanted to before. Period. How can this be happening to me? I’m glum girl, not sassy slut. I don’t recognize myself. And I don’t think I care. The change is so welcome. My body is buzzing with good sensations and vibes. Given my past, and the way I came to be in this world, it seems strange that I’m wildly interested in a relationship with a man who has a kinky edge. Shouldn’t someone like me need love, tenderness, and security? Shouldn’t someone like me be terrified of this?
The ding of Professor Sparling’s answer arrives so quickly it’s difficult to believe he had time to read my message.
Sydney Morrison, you really are a bad girl, much worse than I thought. I like it. As your professor, I reserve the right to give you some homework. So, if your shirt is off as it should be, turn on your camera, take a self-portrait of your breasts and send it to me. I want to see those perky nipples. Show me those hot tits of yours. I suspect you’ll get a very good grade on this assignment.