Single White Submissive Read online

  SINGLE WHITE SUBMISSIVE

  An Ellora’s Cave Publication, August 2005

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

  1056 Home Ave.

  Akron, OH 44310

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-122-2

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON WITH MAC Copyright © 2005 MADELEINE OH

  MUST LOVE MUSIC Copyright © 2005 JENNIFER DUNNE

  GIA IN WONDERLAND Copyright © 2005 DOMINIQUE ADAIR

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Edited by Sue-Ellen Gower and Mary Moran.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Warning:

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Single White Submissive has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  Single White Submissive

  Sunday Afternoon With Mac

  by Madeleine Oh

  Must Love Music

  by Jennifer Dunne

  Gia In Wonderland

  by Dominique Adair

  Sunday Afternoon With mac

  Madeleine Oh

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Isadora Duncan: Isadora Duncan International Institute, Inc.

  Meissen: Staatliche Porzellan-Manufactur Meissen GmbH Corporation

  Norfolk Lavender: Norfolk Lavender Limited Company

  Terylene: Imperial Chemical Industries, Limited Corporation

  Velcro: Velcro Industries B.V. Ltd Liab. Co.

  Chapter One

  You’re stark, raving nutters! Ginny made a point of ignoring the naggy little voice in her skull. You’re crackers to be doing this! her sensible self insisted.

  She wasn’t crackers, not really, just fed up, disappointed and, most of all, frustrated. “I have nothing to lose,” she told the nag in her skull, “I’m just…er…doing market research. Seeing what’s out there.”

  Yeah! Right. Her cautious self would not be silenced. You’re advertising for sex.

  Not exactly.

  All right, yes! She was. And why not? She wanted a man. A nice man. An intelligent man. A man who washed between his toes. A clever man. A man who didn’t think she was utterly twisted, perverted and in need of extensive therapy.

  Not Simon—nice, presentable, a steady career in insurance, great taste in restaurants and shirts, and more than happy to indulge her with a weekend in a country hotel in Sussex. A man with a lovely bod and a stalwart erection that shriveled before her eyes when she blithely suggested he tie her to the bedposts.

  Or Pete—a rather adventurous sort who’d climbed Everest, took her to rather outer art-house cinemas and lived on a houseboat on the Regent’s Canal. He’d responded to her sharing of her fantasy by suggesting she go into psychotherapy to resolve her deep-seated personality problems.

  No, they had not understood.

  Then there was Rex. She really should have been leery of a man who shared a name with her grandmother’s corgi. When Ginny casually mentioned she had a fantasy of being tied to the bedposts, Rex’s eyes all but popped out of his skull, he grinned wide enough to display the fillings in his molars and suggested she spend the weekend as his naked sex slave in his truck tent.

  Her libido nosedived even faster than Simon’s had.

  She bombed out every time. She was obviously going about it the wrong way.

  A personal ad was a safe, low investment—both in money and emotions—and gave her a chance to pick and choose at a safe distance.

  Her one foray to a kinky club had been a less than total success. She’d researched carefully. From the outside, the building in Wimbledon looked nice enough. Inside was incredible—as if all her wildest fantasies were being acted out before her eyes. She’d have been content to watch all evening, but was hit on an average of every five minutes. After an hour of increasingly irritated, “No, thank you, I prefer to watch right now,” she did what she hadn’t done since she was sixteen—fled to the sanctuary of the ladies’ room and, in desperation, nipped out a back door, setting off a fire alarm. Horrified, she’d fled into the night, only to realize, standing on the platform waiting for a train back to Hammersmith, she’d left her cashmere jacket behind.

  Too bad! She had her handbag, front door key and her fare home—it had been cheap cashmere anyway.

  That disastrous evening had stifled her kinky dreams for a good few months, but now, after indulging in the glossy pages of a copy of Erotic Leather Quarterly, Ginny was back daydreaming.

  This time there’d be no hit and miss, no horrifying of nice actuaries and definitely no invitations to fuck on a truck bed.

  She would be in control.

  Sort of.

  It wasn’t the most brilliant prose of the twenty-first century but clear, concise and to the point counted for more than style—at least going by the sample ads she’d pored over for inspiration.

  So she’d acquired a free email address, wrote a check to Erotic Leather Quarterly and attached her carefully typed copy.

  Single white submissive ISO intelligent, inventive and creative Dominant. Perfection not necessary but common sense, wit and sense of humor are. I’m 27, employed and looking for someone to fulfill my fantasies of velvet manacles and silk scarves.

  Even with her phony email address, it came in under five lines.

  Double-checking the directions that asked for hard copy and disk, she copied the ad to a new disk, tucked the lot in an envelope and took it right down to the nearest postbox before she lost her courage. That done, she treated herself to a wildly extravagant designer iced coffee on her way home. The cool drink would surely steady her nerves and, she told herself as she sipped the iced double java amaretto latte, she needed to settle down. The ad wouldn’t even appear for at least four weeks. The darn magazine was a quarterly after all.

  Ginny took a slow, deep breath then another. She was not expecting a miracle, not really expecting anything. Maybe all she’d get would be a bunch of spam. Perhaps she’d get nothing but a resounding silence. Maybe she’d find a pot of gold or perhaps a cock of gold, attached to the man of her dreams.

  Maybe.

  Meanwhile, in between holding down her job as a reporter for the sports page of a national newspaper, Ginny was writing her own brand of kinky science-fiction romance in
her spare time.

  One paid her mortgage and the other kept her off the streets of an evening and diverted her dissatisfaction with her love life. Her characters enjoyed great sex lives even if she was left wanting.

  Mac Brodie scowled at the mound of envelopes on his desk. The downside of editing a magazine in his spare time was not having much spare time. But he was doing his bit for the kinky community and—he truly believed—raising its image by producing a glossy, quality magazine. Maybe, just maybe, one day it would pay for itself. Meanwhile he had the next issue to send to the printer by Friday.

  He sorted out the personal ad sales from the rest of the mail—at least they’d all have checks—and there were always a few good for a sly chuckle. One learned a lot about human and kinky nature reading personal ads. More than once, he’d been tempted to contact the senders and ask if they wrote fiction.

  Still fourteen ads meant fourteen checks. It all helped pay the printer. He put the checks aside, stacked up the hard copies and the disks. As usual, there were a couple who didn’t include disks. He should charge double if he had to key the wretched stuff in himself.

  The first six were pretty much predictable. Mac wished them luck. Hell, he wished everyone luck. All they were looking for was a kinky partner—other than number three, “Sir Peter” who signed his check “Peter Smith” and was looking for two twins for preference. The seventh caught his eye. Even if the application hadn’t requested it be listed under “women looking for men”, he’d have guessed it was a woman. It was clear and to the point, and no mention of body size, hair color or height. Women always seemed to skip those details and this one was no different, getting right to the point about what she wanted—a man worth the trouble, intelligent, witty, creative and…dominant.

  And bless her sweet, little submissive heart, the check was for the correct amount and the disk clearly labeled with her name—Ginny Wallace. Sounded almost too nice and wholesome to be looking for a man in leather—a man wielding velvet manacles and silk scarves. Mac hoped she’d found what she was looking for.

  He took the disk and popped it into his disk drive, absently noting the postcode in the return address. Couldn’t be that far from where he lived but he was far too professional to contact an advertiser himself, no matter how interesting she sounded. Pity he had to live up to that standard. Ginny sounded fun.

  Disk scanned for viruses, he clicked it open and stared. She’d sent him more than a personal ad. Yes, it was there, he found it neatly labeled ELQ personal ad between Each to his Own and Fishing for Compliments. He scanned the list on his screen—Blood in the Sky, Cyber Sex Kittens, In the Vastness of Space, Wishing on the Moon.

  Mentally uttering a halfhearted apology for deliberately reading what was not intended for his eyes, Mac clicked open Cyber Sex Kittens and was smiling before he read ten lines.

  Damn! This was good.

  After five years of editing Erotic Leather Quarterly, and half a lifetime of reading kinky fiction, he’d become a connoisseur of pervy writing. This was smashing! He was half-inclined to slash one of the okay-but-not-brilliant stories he’d planned to use in the next issue and substitute Cyber Sex Kittens or…he went on reading the other stories, and after the better part of an hour, decided he’d just had an editor’s dream come true—finding a gem in the slush pile. Not even the slush pile—among the personals!

  He could not let this chance go. Okay, these were obviously rough drafts, but her voice was playful and her inventiveness brilliant. Small wonder she was looking for a witty, intelligent man, but right now all Mac Brodie was interested in was a damn good writer.

  Glancing over the cover sheet with her contact info, he picked up his phone and punched in her number.

  Ginny was indulging in a Saturday morning soak in lavender bubble bath when the phone rang. She was tempted to let the answering machine pick up, but good old guilt that it might be her mother made her grab a towel and drip all the way into her bedroom.

  “Hello?” If it was a double-glazing salesman, she’d swear.

  “Ginny Wallace?”

  The warm, male voice had her wet toes curling, but she still didn’t need double-glazing. “Yes?”

  “This is Mac Brodie from Erotic Leather Quarterly.”

  “Oh?” Had she forgotten the check? Were they rejecting her ad? Did they really reject personal ads?

  “Do you have time to talk?”

  Not here! She was soaking the new Berber carpet she’d treated herself to for Christmas. “Hang on a minute!”

  It didn’t take much longer to get back into her blissfully warm bath. “Something wrong with the ad I sent?” Who’d have thought they picked over them?

  “Not at all. That’s not why I’m calling. It’s about your disk.”

  “I sent one.” She’d double-checked.

  “You certainly did, but there’s more on the disk than just your personal ad.” Hell! What was on it? “You sent me some short stories.”

  Her face burned. How had she grabbed that disk? Too late to worry now. “That was my mistake, sorry.”

  “I’m not!” She could almost hear the smile in his voice. He and every sub-editor must have had a good giggle over them. “What I want to know is have you sold them?”

  He was serious. Sounded like it anyway. “Er…no.” Never tried to, come to that.

  “I’d like to buy them.”

  “All of them?”

  “Definitely Cyber Sex Kittens and Wishing on the Moon but wouldn’t mind first refusal on the others. We only pay on publication, and since I only use two pieces of fiction in each issue, it might be a while before you see any money. I don’t want to impede you from selling elsewhere.”

  “I see…” She should be professional and sharp, instead she was naked, stammering and soaking in Norfolk Lavender. “Er…what do you pay?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid.” He mentioned a sum and she agreed it wasn’t much, but fair enough for a small distribution quarterly. “We give you a byline and space for a bio, and if you want to include a website URL, that’s fine.”

  Great if she had one but… “Good.” What next?

  “Do you want to use a pen name?”

  Yes! She could just see Sam, her executive editor having apoplexy at seeing her byline on a kinky mag. “I need to come up with one, don’t I?”

  “Might be a good idea. Lots of our authors do.” She imagined a wide smile that matched the rich, deep voice with just a hit of Scots accent suggesting heather and windswept hillsides and… “Look, how about you think of a pen name and we meet for coffee?”

  “Oh!” Heck why not? “All right. Make it lateish. I’ve got some things to do this morning.” Get out of the bath for a start.

  “Let’s make it lunch then. How about one-thirty at Tarantella on the Brompton Road?”

  Nice and handy, he must have worked that out from her address on the cover letter but funny that he’d picked her brother-in-law’s establishment out of all the restaurants in South London. “All right.” She almost hung up but stopped just in time to ask. “How will I recognize you?”

  His laugh was sexy. Lovely in fact. Must come from reading all the naughty stuff in his job. “I’m tall and will be wearing a long, black leather coat.” She should have worked out that last detail for herself. “What about you, Ginny? What are you wearing?”

  Nothing right now, but she’d keep that to herself. “Blue jeans.” A no-brainer on a Saturday. “And a sweater. I’ve got bright red hair, cut short. Not easy to miss.”

  Wasn’t easy to miss his gut-tickling laugh either. “Very good, Ginny. See you then.”

  He hung up and she eased deeper into the now-cooling water.

  What had she agreed to? Writing her wild imaginings was one thing. Selling them and seeing them in print another. Why not? It would get her a little bit extra dosh. She could treat herself to that super-duper vibrator she’d been lusting after.

  Dressed, she set off, still unsure of the vital but elusive pe
n name. That had her worried. Meeting an editor she brushed off. On that point they’d be equals—well, sort of. Pseudonyms were another matter entirely.

  She arrived early at Tarantella. Not out of nervousness or anxiety, but to give time for caffeine to get her synapses firing and to think of a suitable nom de plume.

  She was going to be ready and set when Mac Brodie arrived.

  Chapter Two

  He picked her out the minute he opened the door. Couldn’t miss. The only redheaded woman in the crowded coffee shop. She’d also snagged one of the best tables—a large round one, with the perfect vantage spot. Although right now she was not surveying the room, but frowning over a notepad on the table in front of her. But that hair! “Red” was wholly inadequate. His godmother had red hair—or had until she went white—Ginny’s was the color of burnished copper or the brilliant orange glow of an autumn sunset. Pity she wore it cropped so short. He rather fancied it as a gleaming mane over her shoulders and covering her breasts. Most unprofessional of him to nurture such thoughts but, dammit, he wouldn’t mind being unprofessional with Ginny Wallace. He wanted to see her breasts, to run his fingers over the sweet, pale fullness and tease her rosy nipples to hardness with his tongue, to feast his eyes on her lovely body, preferably with her arms held immobile with the velvet manacles she favored, and to find out once and for all if she had that glorious hair all the way down.

  Right! He was here on business, wasn’t he? So he closed the door—much to the relief of a couple at a nearby table who’d been frowning at the breeze—and walked to the back of the cafe, telling himself he was there to discuss word counts and lead-in times, but totally failing to work up any sort of conviction. He wanted a whole lot more from Ginny Wallace than a few thousand words.