By: Debra Hyde | Other books by Debra Hyde
Published By: Double Dragon Publishing
Published: Feb 28, 2008
ISBN # 9781554045471
Published By: Double Dragon Publishing
Published: Feb 28, 2008
ISBN # 9781554045471
Word Count: 70,000
Available in: Adobe Acrobat, Palm DOC/iSolo, Microsoft Reader, Hiebook, Mobipocket (.prc), Rocket, Epub
DescriptionLonely and too long a young widow, Cynthia Barnett decides to test the waters of life. But rather than toe the temperature, she stumbles into the shallow end when her debut at a party among her late husband’s colleagues turns sour. Then she flounders right into the deep end of the pool when her appearance at a fetish bar turns disastrous. She loses her cool with a foot fetishist and leaves him squirming on the floor, clutching himself in pain. Both incidents, coupled with an intensely erotic dream of her late husband, leave her shaken and confused.
Cynthia quickly decides that she has no qualms about turning away from her old life as a doctor’s wife, but she can’t so easily escape her sexuality. She prefers conducting sex from on high, as a dominant woman, yet her anguished encounter at the fetish bar stands in stark opposition to the perfect and hallowed memory of her blissful marriage to her late husband, Paul. How, she wonders, will she move forward?
Progress occurs. Surrounded by a circle of close, long-time friends, Cynthia finds the courage to step out into a leather group. She develops the sheer persistence that enables her to seek out opportunity at any given turn. Cynth is soon presented with two distinct possibilities, David and Miles, but the men are like night and day. Miles – self-assured, at ease, candid, and not at all hasty in his bid for Cynth’s attentions – is the confident counterpart to David, who seems wary of relationships. Driven by desire, David is nonetheless largely inexperienced and deeply conflicted about what he wants.
A complication arises when Cynth’s previous life clashes with her new existence. She runs into Spencer Harrison, a colleague of her deceased husband. Her discovery that Spencer is dominant leaves her unnerved, because he is the one doctor who has always raised her hackles and aroused her suspicions. Now, she knows why, as he pursues her and tries to flip her to the submissive side.
Three men to choose from, but only one will emerge as a champion of her happiness. Only one will prove himself to her. Meeting these challenges enables Cynth to reclaim her erotic identity and achieve a thriving balance in life: accomplishments that exceed her expectations.
A deliciously detailed journey of love and lust, Inequities deftly explores the psychology of the heart – and the libido – yet never shirks from rich, lusty erotic extremes. It might just leave you wanting more.
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Excerpt:Chapter One: Rebirth
Most widows, when they end their mourning, return the proverbial black dress to the closet. Me? I did just the opposite. I walked into mine and pulled one out.
It was a Richard Tyler leather-and-lace number - skin tight and serious. I hadn't worn it in ages, but the smell of leather still provoked a predictable response from me; it melted me into sporting a knowing, determined smile. And I smiled, not just because its luring scent beckoned me, but because it was the dress of an off-duty domina - daring and seductive, with a hint of the aloof and unattainable. What it really said was, "I'm hot. Take notice. But please, worship from afar."
To my way of thinking, the dress was the upper class cousin to the lowlifes of vinyl, latex, and PVC. It was an outfit that I could wear to an elite gathering and proclaim my presence without having to acknowledge a damn thing. Especially the fact that I loved to slum it. The trailer-trash cousins had, in actuality, taken up squatters' rights in the back of my closet.
So, Italian makeup in place and delicate under-thingies either protecting or promoting various womanly cleavages, my body awaited the dress. Peering into the dresser mirror, I knew how it would work. My long red hair would pour over its straight bodice with Godiva-like mystery, and a natural sadistic and sexual brilliance would flash in my blue eyes, set off against my pale, near-porcelain skin. It never failed to happen.
All that remained was finding a man to appreciate it. A man who would not just fall to his knees in admiration, but would do so, quaking and instinctively ready - a man who would shiver and moan if I so much as extended my fingertips and raked his skin with my light touch. And if he could melt at the touch of said fingertip, then I could only imagine how he'd react when I commanded him to open his mouth and await the insertion of a stylish, stiletto heel.
I smiled at the thought of it as the luxurious, decadent drive of a woman wanting to reclaim her power filled me.
Not that I hadn't tasted power before. After all, the leather number hung in my closet for a reason. My husband, the dear pet - wait, my dearly departed, deeply missed pet - had been a surgeon exhausted by the life-or-death decisions of his profession. When Paul came home from his professional torment, the last thing he wanted to taste was control. I know it's a clich�, and a bad one at that, but all he wanted was a sip of brandy and a gulp of absolution. And I had been more than happy to oblige him. After all, he had catered to my every need and desire, whether it was a luxury car of my own or working his tongue until it was numb to satiate my baser needs. He had even had enough submissive fortitude to endure an enforced chastity during those early, dark days of doctor's life when his practice consumed his soul more than I could. He had given all for my happiness.
Until he died.
But because he had devoted himself to my every happiness, I had tasted my own strength and embraced it. What had started as courtship games to lighten the responsibility of intimacy soon grew to touch something wild and innate within me. So I took to slipping my feet into mean stiletto heels, to enshrine my legs and torso in leather, to hide my beauty (at times, mind you) behind a mask.
I was more than delighted to seize Paul's sexual expression. When I took the burden of sex from him and allowed him to grovel at my feet, I was, in fact, exercising a great ability that I had discovered within myself. Every time I extended my heeled foot for his adoration, every time I made him beg his way up my leg to worship my womanly essence, every time I rebuffed him and made him start over, I was, in fact, saying, "I understand, I accept, and I want it too."
The marriage, if you must know, was ideal.
But now I stood before my dress, inspecting it. Its pitch-black leather and moody lace proclaimed the very image I wanted to project, but the erotic shudders of my submissive husband, now removed from both my happiness and my power, were all I could think of. Tears welled up and threatened my make-up.
It hadn't been easy, as you can guess. The chaos and agony of his sudden death, the numbing ritual of his funeral, and the barrage of people wanting to help had been whirlwind enough, but then my stoicism collapsed into an endless crying jag, just as the law descended to ante up the assets and liabilities via the rubber-stamp rodeo of probate court. No, none of it had been easy.
Still, it had been easier to cope with that than with the silence that had followed. The muted presence of Paul's prized Jag, our first luxury item, in the garage. The echoing loneliness of my footfalls in our massive, old, colonial home. The deep, still quiet of the nights - nights alone in our spindle bed. It was all too much.
Months upon months have passed. Now, at least, I can laugh a little when I think of the bed. Paul's bondage cuffs remain chained in place, the way another dead man's wardrobe might hang in a closet. I haven't yet considered packing away that part of our life together.
I smiled, haunted and haughty. That's what made our marriage so good; we understood each other. Paul had instinctively grasped a sense of my dominance even before I was aware of it, and I had sensed his acquiescence, even before I knew I could exploit it. In the chaos of courtship during residency, we had explored our deepest fantasies and discovered that we were made for each other.
Missing Paul, however, would not restore my life. This, I finally knew. It was time to live again, I told myself as I blinked back my tears and regained my composure.
I threw off my bathrobe and slipped into the dress. It gathered around me perfectly, clinging to my breasts, hugging my waist and my hips. Its spaghetti straps accented my slender neck and my long, slender arms. What length it had would attract anyone with a thing for legs.
Time to live again, I reiterated. I couldn't deny myself any longer. If Paul had given me one gift that rose above all others, it was the knowledge that once I had tasted and savored my own sexual powers, I could never again turn back. I could never imagine myself satisfied by sex without power.
And I had lived without Paul, without love and devotion, without sex, and without power for far, far too long a time.