Blog Tour: ‘Sacred & Profane: Priest Erotic Romance’ edited by Torrance Sené


Sacred & Profane: Priest Erotic Romance

edited by Torrance Sené


Ten stories of temptation, romance, and blasphemy featuring Sonni de Soto, Piper Denna, Torrance Sené, Charlotte French, Bronwyn Green, Leandra Vane, Mira Stanley, Jordan Monroe, H K Carlton, and Jillian Boyd.

Not even men of the cloth are exempt from God’s greatest gift: Love. In Sacred and Profane: Priest Erotic Romance, you’ll find stories of clergymen stepping outside their vows, pastors weaving divinity into their seductions, nuns and parishioners confessing to their body’s every earthly desire, and more.

Are you aroused by the blasphemous dance of sex and religion? The dangerous edge of eroticism contained within submission to something beyond oneself? The taboo juxtaposition of holy and sensual? Then Sacred and Profane welcomes you.


Purchase: Amazon US | Amazon UK | Smashwords | B&N | Kobo | iBooks

Release Date: 17 January 2017

Length: 60,220 words / 186 pages

Available in Print and Digital

Publisher: Sexy Little Pages

ISBN: 9781541148666


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“Genuflect” by Sonni de Soto

Father Nicholas has a secret, one he must keep protected. The solace and beauty he finds in the heresy of Donovan’s, a BDSM club that perverts his faith, fills a space in his soul that nothing else can.

Pairing(s): MF

“His Undoing” by Piper Denna

Shasta has a face Pastor Luke cannot resist. Out of all the parishioners, he spends the most time thinking of her. One night, the virgin preacher finds himself unable to escape the temptation that is her, and it turns out she too needs to be alone with him.

Pairing(s): MF

“Temptation Follows” by Torrance Sené

Father Yorke never expected his faith would be tested in the form of Good Samaritan Abby Lewison. But when she comes to him in need of guidance, her desires become his own and blasphemy is embraced.

Pairing(s): MF

“Absolution” by Charlotte French

Burdened with the sins of his parishioners, Father Granger’s spirit and soul are heavy and listless. His salvation lies in an old skeleton key left to him by Father Brennan. Through an otherworldly and taboo encounter, Granger discovers even priests deserve absolution.

Pairing(s): MF

“Father What-a-Waste” by Bronwyn Green

Against her better judgement, Prudence bares her soul in the confessional. But when past and present collide in the form of Father Thomas, she finds herself completely exposed and longing for for more than a few Hail Marys as penance.

Pairing(s): MF

“Shelter” by Leandra Vane

Morgan only goes to church to occasionally placate her mother. On her latest visit, she meets Pastor Buchanan can’t resist pushing his boundaries—and those of his parishioners—with her sex-positive attitude. Through Morgan’s mischief, the pastor soon learns more about his own body’s wants and needs.

Pairing(s): MF

“Taking Mary Beth” by Mira Stanley

After learning about Mary Beth from an inmate he ministered to, former Russian criminal-turned-priest, Father Aleksei discovers his true calling in life: protecting her. Forsaking the priesthood, he comes to her rescue and shows the young woman how all-encompassing love can be.

Pairing(s): MF

“Succumb to Temptation” by Jordan Monroe

After stepping away from his former life as a Dominant, Father Michael joined the priesthood to find solace and meaning. Instead, he is drawn to Claire and her enchanting soprano voice. She stirs a yearning in him he thought he’d left behind.

Pairing(s): MF

“Sin Bin” by H K Carlton

Father Daunté Bennifetto never expected to find the one who got away, but there she was, dancing at a strip club. The Sin Bin. He was sent to bring her back to righteousness, but the Lord works in mysterious ways.

Pairing(s): MF

“Down on My Knees” by Jillian Boyd

Opened and awakened to the earthly lust that lie within her, Sister Josephine is unable to move on from her desires and the priest who stirred them in her one night. When they meet again, will either be strong enough to escape their attraction?

Pairing(s): MF


“Genuflect” by Sonni de Soto

Last night, Nicholas had seen yet another report about protest groups of the devoutly faithful who had posted themselves at Donovan’s front and rear entrances to vehemently preach against not only the club’s members, but the businesses that allowed this hedonistic haven to flourish.

“It’s an abomination,” a blonde woman in a snow-white sweater with pretty, serious eyes, had said into the reporter’s microphone, “to allow such an affront to goodness and decency to stand.”

Nicholas knew he had to be careful, had to avoid the cameras and reporters and protesters flanking the main ways. Hand hovering over his naked throat, he missed the feel of his stiff, crisp white collar. He felt exposed without it, even as the light weight of it felt like a leaden lie in his pocket. But it was better this way. A necessary sin. Father Nicholas Bailey knew no one would—no one could—ever understand.


He’d come here.

God only knew why.

Nicholas knelt, dropping into a gentle genuflect and made the sign of the cross, before taking a seat in the second row. It should have felt wrong to perform the rituals in this space, to perform the sacred within the profane.

Except it didn’t feel profane.


His gut clenched when she stepped into the room, as it always did in that moment, titillation tingling, taboo and thrilling, along his whole body. Not just under the skin, but soul-deep.


Nicholas looked too. Watched as her lips slipped into a slow smile, flashing just the barest hint of teeth. “Do you think about kissing her?” Solomon’s own lips pouted as they formed the words, the slight bow of her mouth bending in deliberate dips of lips and teeth and tongue. “Do you imagine the feel of her mouth upon yours?”

Nicholas licked his lips—his tongue slicking across his mouth in time with the man’s—anticipating his answer as if it were a taste stuck on his own skin.

“His Undoing” by Piper Denna

Out of all the parishioners, he’d spent the most time thinking of Shasta, probably more than all the rest combined. And he couldn’t consider it thinking, per se. More like fantasizing. In ways that were completely inappropriate. Many nights he’d sprawled on his back, breathing deeply and imagining what her breasts would look like bare before him, what they’d feel like in his hands.


He snuck another peek at those legs as he went by, complete with hot pink polish on her toenails.

Hot pink. Lord help him.

But he held strong and didn’t allow himself another look at those nipples pressing against the ribbed fabric of her tank top. No, that image didn’t need refreshed; it’d be a keeper in his vault now.

She shut the door behind him, and the sound of the deadbolt sliding back into place reverberated through him like a judge’s gavel at sentencing. Someone up there knew what he held in his heart, knew he’d felt like an impostor for years. Others served because they wanted to; he’d chosen the path because his family expected him to.

Still, he’d taken the job; now he must do it.


She rose to stand beside him, her soft shoulder warm against his palm. He shouldn’t be touching her. It wasn’t proper. But then her hand covered his and she closed her eyes, nodding. “I’ll wait ’til tomorrow to decide, after we talk. It just…” She ducked her head to the side, nuzzled her velvety cheek against his arm. “To be touched, by a man. Feels so good.” Her voice lowered almost to a moan.

He was beyond hard. His heart pumped like he’d swam a mile; his body burned. This woman he’d wanted for weeks had all but begged for him to help her, to abandon his vow of chastity, his morals. “Shasta.” He had to send her away. If he had any chance of passing this test, she had to leave.

“Kiss me. Just once.” She opened her eyes, stared into his. “Just a kiss. I’ve dreamed of—“

He couldn’t take any more. He lowered his lips to hers, savoring their heat, tasting her sweetness, relishing the freedom in succumbing, however brief. Sweet Joshua, he hadn’t kissed a girl in years, and Shasta definitely knew more than he did. Her tongue had already slipped inside his mouth, drawing him out, pulling his tongue in for the dance he longed to replicate on a larger scale.

“Temptation Follows” by Torrance Sené

Her red hair shone bright across the church’s parking lot—a flame drawing him in among the tempting confections of cupcakes and other treats brought by the congregation to raise money for the youth group. With her hand in every event and function in the small parish, Abby Lewison was a constant at St. Mark’s and in Gavin’s nocturnal thoughts.

You always want what you can’t have, and nothing was more true for a priest. Her large emerald eyes. Her plump pink lips. The way her full hips swayed as she entered the vestibule every Sunday for mass. She was enough to send his own soul in for confession on a near weekly basis.


Heat coursed through his body, swelling between his thighs. Oh, Jesus. Her big green eyes met his, and tension grew. He stared as her pupils blew wide, her expression unmistakable. It was impossible to express how she made him feel. How many times had he gotten himself off imagining just this? The pretty woman on her knees, those large eyes, full of unspoken pleas, gazing up at him through long lashes. Abby needed something; that much was clear.

His role was as God’s representative on earth, yes? So, why not help His flock?

Without thinking, he reached down and stroked the backs of his fingers against her cheek, so pink and soft. It was like touching Heaven itself. For more than a decade, he’d been without the softness of a woman. Abby on her knees before him, like some subservient prostrator had his mind and body reeling. She leaned into his touch like a kitten in want of affection.

“I need confession, Father.” The words slipped past her lips in a whisper; a whisper that seemed to say more than she did. “I need to feel clean again.”


“Submission to something bigger than oneself gives us peace, yeah?” she replied. “But it’s been so long since I’ve felt that level of solace.”

She had a point. It was why he’d become a priest in the first place. Serving the Church gave him peace. He began to piece together what he knew of her. “Do you think that’s why you’re so helpful around the community?”

“When you think about it…” She chuckled darkly. “God is the ultimate Dom. All of us on our knees, serving him, praising him. Must be one hell of a power trip.” She covered her mouth. “Sorry. That was probably extremely blasphemous. I just, I mean, giving up control to a Dom isn’t unlike surrendering to God.”

His cock pressed against his fly. What a wonderfully dirty woman, and what a sick man he was for becoming aroused by such heresy. “I can see how that parallel can be made.” He rubbed his chin. “What exactly is it that you’re seeking, Abby?”


Their proximity was almost too much. It offered an immaculate angle of her breasts, full and begging to be touched. God, help him, that’s exactly what he did, trailing a finger over the cross resting just above curvature of her bosom. His cock gave a twitch despite the blasphemy. How would her creamy skin taste? What shade would her nipples be?


Gavin took the flogger, combing the thin rubber strands with his fingers and caressing the strap handle. This was what his sweet, dirty Abby liked to be beaten with. He couldn’t wait to see what sort of patterns would erupt over her skin when he struck her.


His gaze danced over her as she knelt there, eyes closed, head bowed. He watched the soft rise and fall of her breasts, admiring their fullness and shape. “As penance, you will allow your body to be stripped bare and beaten. Do you consent to this, Abby?” He needed to be absolutely certain she wanted it.

“Yes, Father.” She opened her eyes, meeting his. “My body was made to serve God. I do not fear what He asks of me.”

“Absolution” by Charlotte French

A flash of white satin tumbled over a corner of the altar and into the candlelight. Granger watched, entranced, as a woman emerged from the darkness, long black hair flowing over her shoulders, down to her knees. Her skin was cocoa brown, gleaming perfect and smooth.

“Miss?” he asked. “How did you get in here?”

The woman smiled faintly and raised her hands out to him. The white satin draped around her whispered and hushed like water as she came towards him, almost as if she was floating. Her hands came to rest on either side of his face, warm and gentle. Granger sighed at the contact, the comfort that seeped into him. A cloud of heady fragrance—rose and jasmine and honeysuckle—swirled around him, drawing his eyes closed…

“Your soul is heavy,” she said. “Why didn’t you come to see me sooner?”


Eve placed a finger against his lips. “Anyone, man or woman, who works with sin and guilt and the darkness of the soul will come to me in time.”

She removed her hands and Granger stifled a groan as the cold air left by her absence wrapped its icy fingers around him again. Without warning, Eve peeled the white satin from her body like a single rose petal. It fluttered to rest against the altar in a billow of fabric. For the span of one thunderous heartbeat, Granger couldn’t help but stare at the generous swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips.

Then he snapped his head to the side, his eyes averted, his face blazing hot.


Her breath coasted up the side of his throat, and her tongue flicked out along the shell of his ear. Granger shivered, and he gritted his teeth when his cock began to strain painfully against his pants.

“Seamus,” Eve said, “doesn’t your Bible say that God is love?”

“Not like… not like this. This is lust. This isn’t love.”

She trailed a hand down his chest. Granger sucked in a hiss of air.

“God give me strength,” he prayed.

As much as Granger’s brain screamed to run, he couldn’t will his body to move. Strange though this whole thing was, he didn’t want to leave Eve or the comfort of her presence. When he was with her, he no longer felt like he was drowning under the onslaught of confessions. When she touched him, so gently, so carefully, he could breathe a little easier for the first time since Father Brennan’s death.

At that realization, Seamus slowly opened his eyes and met Eve’s dark gaze.


Eve stepped even closer to him, eliminating what little space remained between them. Granger stifled a groan as her hips came in contact with his cock, the fabric of his pants grating against his sensitive skin. She slid her hands up his chest, over his shoulders and came to rest against his cheeks.

“That’s what I do, Seamus,” she said. “The confessions you’ve been carrying are too much for one person to handle, you know that. You see that every day. Now, let me help you, as you have helped others.”

“But… I don’t help them like this,” Granger said.

His protests were so faint now, his resistance slipping away the longer he stayed with Eve. The feel of her large, firm breasts pressed to his chest. The smell of her skin, sweet as honey. The soothing way she touched him, kissed him, looked at him.

“There’s more than one way to help people,” she said, nuzzling his neck, dragging her teeth along his jawline. She loosened his priest’s collar and let it fall to the floor before she popped the first two buttons open on his shirt to gain access to his throat.

“Father What-a-Waste” by Bronwyn Green

He’d only said two words, but those two words, in that deep, gravelly voice, laced with poorly-concealed amusement settled low in her belly.

She stared through the latticed screen at the shadowy figure on the other side. “Look, Father… it’s been a while.”

“I see.”

There it was, again. That hint of amusement that left her a bit flustered and a bit aroused. And that was probably another transgression she’d need to list before this exercise in humiliation was over.

“Has it been so long that you’ve forgotten you’re meant to list your sins and ask forgiveness for them?” he asked, no trace of humor in his voice. In fact, there was a tinge of dominance there that didn’t help her arousal issue, at all.


She pushed to her feet, shoved her way out of the elaborately carved wooden box and stood staring at the other door, waiting for it to open. She told herself she was completely prepared to see him, again, but when the hinges creaked, she realized that she was the worst kind of liar—a stupid one. There was no way she was prepared to see him, again. But unless she could convince her feet to run far and fast, that was exactly what was going to happen.

Before another second of indecision passed, she no longer had a choice. She was staring at the boy she’d given her virginity to. The boy who’d insisted that, someday, they’d get married. The boy who’d broken her fucking heart.

He wasn’t a boy, anymore. That was for damn sure. His voice was so much deeper, now, she hadn’t recognized it, at all. He didn’t look as if he’d gotten any taller, but he’d definitely filled out in the last fifteen years. He was clad in the traditional black suit, black shirt, and white collar, along with a short purple stole, but it was clear that his shoulders had broadened—a lot. She caught a glimpse of his long, strong-looking hands before he shoved then into his pockets. Hands that she’d just recently imagined on her body.

Taking a deep breath, she forced her gaze upward. He wore his nearly black hair much shorter than she ever recalled seeing it, and a neatly-trimmed beard now covered his gorgeous face. Somehow, he was even hotter with the facial hair. He still had the longest, curliest black eyelashes she’d ever seen. Lashes that framed eyes so impossibly and achingly blue, she could lose herself in them if she wasn’t careful.


She could hear the smile in his voice as he slowly followed her. She couldn’t decide if his fondness for her grandmother warmed her or just pissed her off more. All this time, she’d told herself she was long over the boy who’d completely gutted her when she was nineteen. But as uncomfortable and suddenly angry as she was, she’d clearly been lying to herself. And worse than angry, she was angry and aroused. Which was never a good combination. It usually led to utterly amazing sex followed by regret and recriminations.

Doing her best to distract herself from her rapidly dampening panties, she put some distance between her and Thomas. She climbed up the marble steps leading to the sanctuary and trailed her fingertips across the cold stone altar. There was also the hope that if he were far enough away from her, he wouldn’t notice that her nipples had pebbled into needy little buds.


He shrugged. “Every once in a while, I like to go old school.”

“Does this mean I can expect you to bust out the wooden paddle?” She’d intended it to be a joke, but it fell flat.

He stared into her eyes for far too long a time, as the air slowly charged between them. Then, finally, so quietly she wasn’t sure she heard properly, he said, “Only if you ask me nicely.”

Her lips parted, and her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t tear her gaze from him if she wanted to. His eyes were locked on hers and full of need that appeared almost painful.

It seemed to match the ache that throbbed through her body and settled deep in her cunt.


He didn’t say anything, just continued to watch her with an air of desperation. Finally, he murmured, “Now would be a great time for you to slap me or tell me to go to hell or something.”

She tried to give him what he wanted, but she couldn’t force herself to say the words. She couldn’t do anything but return his stare, knowing she must look just as hungry and full of want as he did.

“Please get the paddle, Father,” she whispered.

“Shelter” by Leandra Vane

Morgan knew he saw her. Even in the back row, even behind her dark glasses, she had trapped his interest. She had not set foot in a church for twelve years and had never seen Pastor Buchanan speak. Still Morgan knew when he stumbled over the passage of Galatians in his sermon, it was because of her.


Morgan watched the pastor for any signs of nerves or hesitation on the short walk to his office. If he was put off by Morgan’s slanted steps as she leaned on her cane, he gave no indication. He walked with his hands in his pockets. She thought if he unclasped the top button or two off his dark dress shirt he would look a lot happier. They arrived to his office before either of them could make small talk.


Pastor Buchanan was leaning into the conversation now, breathing in her words. The scent of Morgan’s vanilla body spray mingled with the peppered tone of his aftershave. Morgan knew the intimacy unnerved him, but she had presented him with such a strange situation, and it gave him permission to stay.


“Well… you’re not Catholic.” Morgan shrugged. “Aren’t you allowed to date, get married?”

“Yes, but I do not plan to.”

“Why not?”

“To borrow a term you used, perhaps I also feel like damaged goods.”

“Ah.” Morgan nodded. “Then perhaps the saint and the sinner have some common ground after all, Pastor Buchanan.”

“You can call me John.”

Morgan’s lips parted. They both glanced down at the same time to see their hands were treacherously close to touching. John Buchanan pulled his hand away and sat back in his chair. Morgan sighed. The moment was shattered.


The silence grew between them and, for a breath of a moment, Morgan thought her confession would not be forgiven.

But then John spoke in a whisper, “Perhaps we should do something about that.”


John closed his mouth, and Morgan saw his jaw line was tense. She ran her fingertips down to the hem of his shirt. “Let me.” Morgan pulled the fabric up over his torso, and he moved along to let her take his shirt off. She tossed it silently away and swiftly slipped his shorts from his hips. He kicked them off along with his shoes and stepped to stand inches from her.

His naked body was like a secret Morgan was beholden to be told. His strength was in his arms. His vulnerability was the curve of his abdomen, the muscles of his thighs, the pleasure bringing rise to his cock as Morgan looked him over. She smiled inwardly at the power between naked and clothed. In a way it emphasized his purity and her deviance, especially with her black lace and the tattooed roses blooming on her skin.

“Taking Mary Beth” by Mira Stanley

In my head I accept the massive coincidence that this is the same Mary Beth the inmate told me about. I also accept that for the first time in fourteen years, I’m tempted to break my vows.

The eighteen years between us crosses my mind as I imagine having her beneath me without all those clothes between us. Those years are insignificant. As is the man I suspect will smack her when he gets her home for stopping to look at a stranger in biking leathers and a priest’s collar.


I take her chin in my hand and have her look at me. “We’re starting over today, you and me. We’re going to do it together.” I take off my collar while she watches. “I’ve worn this in commitment to the church for fourteen years. Now I’m committing myself to you.” The collar goes in the pocket of my leather coat, where I trade it for a ring box. “Most men court a woman before marrying her, but I’m not like most men. And you’re not like most women. I knew it from the second I saw you. Be my bride, Mary Beth, and I’ll give you every one of your dreams or die trying.”


She’s never been kissed before. I feel it in the way her body stiffens at first. I feel it in the way she melts against me after a few seconds. I feel it in the tentative strokes of her tongue over mine as I get a little carried away.

Hotel guests are staring at us. A man in a suit clears his throat. He can go to hell, for all I care. It’s not my job to care anymore. All I want to do for the rest of my life is care for Mary Beth.


Her lower lip is caught between her teeth. Her eyelashes make a fan over her cheeks as she watched my hands.

“I’m going to take what’s mine,” I tell her as I spread the fabric. “And I want you to take what’s yours.”

She exhales past parted lips. She’s nervous, but her pupils are dilated with arousal as I caress her breasts through a tattered, full-coverage bra. Tomorrow, I’m taking her shopping for new lingerie and clothing. She’s getting every single thing she wants. But the rest of today belongs to me. I’m going to get what I’ve been salivating for since I first laid eyes on her—what I’ve been waiting for, it seems, my whole life.

“Succumb to Temptation” by Jordan Monroe

Father Michael was at a loss for words. This was quite an admission. He felt blood rush to a place that was too human for his task. Still, he was tempted to know which priest had caught the woman’s eyes. “Tell me about this priest.”


Claire was kneeling in one of the pews in the middle of the sanctuary. Her back was rigid, evidence of a lifetime of penance before the altar. Her long red hair was in a braid that trailed down her back, terminating at the sloping curve of her bottom. Father Michael watched her chest, large and fully developed, rise and fall with her breathing. Her pink, full lips moved in recitation of her prayers; he suddenly found himself wondering what those lips would feel like on parts of his body. Beneath his hands, his felt his erect cock twitch; that was his signal to leave the church and ensconce himself in the small parish home.


Claire’s voice was heaven-sent. He knew she was rehearsing for the church’s performance of the fourteen-movement composition on Good Friday. Her vibrato stirred him to the very depths of his soul; he felt something else stirring within him as well. He closed his eyes, recognizing the stab of temptation piercing his heart. Before he could stop it, he imagined what she would look like naked kneeling before him, her innocent blue eyes begging for absolution, among other things. He bit his lower lip and resolved to face his thoughts head-on.


Touching the tip of the phallus, he shuddered, wondering what it would look like between Claire’s creamy thighs. He bit his lower lip, jammed the dildo back inside its bag, and shoved it into the drawer that held his socks. Sleep did not come easy for him that night.

“Sin Bin” by H K Carlton

Father Daunté Bennifetto collapsed against his pillows, gasping for breath. Sweat covered his thrumming body. Warm sticky ejaculate streaked his palms.

It wasn’t exactly how it had happened. His mind had fine-tuned the memory over time, and his lascivious imagination had done the rest. That one sexual encounter was supposed to expunge his wicked urges, but it had done the opposite and only whet his appetite for more.


Even with prayer, he couldn’t curb his urges.

Dressed all in black and with several days’ growth of beard, to help obscure his identity, he pulled his baseball cap low and entered the Sin Bin.

This visit had nothing to do with making contact with Camillah or attempting to reform her. He needed to see her, in the flesh. He was obsessed with the naked female form. Especially Cam’s.


Strutting down the catwalk, she walked between the rapt patrons and moved within feet of the man in black. It was the closest she’d ever been to him.


His words caused a sudden blood rush to her outer labia, making it ache deliciously. She relinquished the flogger into his care. He started trailing the strands over her back and buttocks, lulling her with rhythmic massage.

Even though she knew it was coming, the first strike made her flinch.


Frustrated, she wiggled. One of the strands laced around and caught her labia. She gasped at the sensation and arched like a cat. It was as good as she’d suspected.

“You like that,” he said. It wasn’t a question.


Half-naked and vulnerable, at his mercy within the church, was the most wickedly arousing scene he ever could have imagined.

“Down on My Knees” by Jillian Boyd

It was still strange to see him without his black shirt and dog-collar combo. Not that the white shirt and jeans didn’t suit him. It was just… strange. The man who had been my other, more earthly, guiding light on this path. The one who had listened to so many of my deepest confessions, patiently, without a trace of judgement. The one who found in me a kindred spirit, perhaps. Someone who would listen to his own confessions, the ones he daren’t speak of to anyone else.

Campbell Morgan, the priest. Campbell Morgan, the Dominant. The two most important sides of his life. Two that couldn’t ever meet; sides he had to choose between.


Just under my right knee, visible only when you really looked for it, was the raised remnant of a scar. It didn’t hurt me… physically. But in my mind, every time I took to my knees to pray, regardless of whether I was alone or with the other sisters, its presence always took me back to that night. The night Campbell found himself at the crossroads between the two sides.

The one night we had together.

I was there in my mind now. In flesh, I was kneeling on a hassock for a moment of silence away from the din of the picnic. But in spirit…

My eyes were fixed on the large, ornate cross above the altar, on the stillness of Christ the Lord. But my thoughts drifted back to that one night.


Telling Campbell I wanted to be spanked and tied, that I wanted to submit and kneel at someone’s feet and play, was the easy bit, in hindsight. The harder bit came when he admitted to me, tears in his eyes and cracks in his voice, that he wanted to be the person whose feet I kneeled at.

That was two months ago.



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