The Trouble With Doms by Cherise Sinclair

You’re just jealous because the voices in my head only talk to ME. — Bumper Sticker

Do your characters talk to you? Argue with you? Demand their own way?

Okay, maybe my heroes are a little pushier than some. I write about Doms, after all. Uber-dominant men who not only look at a woman with appreciation, but also tend to visualize what she’d look like with leather cuffs around those pretty wrists, or how her voice will sound as she whimpers and begs to come. No, they’re not your everyday, “she’s got a great rack” guys.

So that means when they start wanting their own way, their author (who unfortunately happens to be submissive) is in serious trouble. Do you realize how difficult it is to say no to a Dom who just happens to be tapping a cane against his palm? Uh, yeah. Sure, it’s just my imagination, but hello? They *live* in my head.

For example, I’m all comfy in my chair, writing Simon’s story for Doms of Dark Haven, and quite pleased with my progress. Not bad at all, really. He’s in the BDSM club and has the heroine restrained with her arms over her head. He’s checking to see how she reacts to him and what kind of play interests her. The scene is unfolding nicely…

“You are a sweet one,” he murmured and took her face between his hands, holding her as his mouth urged hers open. He kissed her slowly. Deeply. Thoroughly.

With her wrists restrained, she was at his mercy, and the knowledge sent anticipation humming through her system.

He lifted his head to look at her for a long moment, then smiled and kissed her again until every drop of blood pooled in her lower half. Her body throbbed for more.

He moved a fraction of an inch back and caressed her cheek. “Where did I leave off? Ah, there are a variety of toys for fun like…a dildo. A vibrator. An anal plug.”

Just the thought of someone using those on her made her squirm. “Maybe.”

One side of his mouth curved up in a slight smile. “That was more than a maybe, lass. Have you ever used an anal plug?”

Her backside tensed, but with her hands chained over her head, she couldn’t cover…anything. “No.”

“I look forward to seeing your reaction.”

* * *

Just then, I feel a hand curve around the nape of my neck, and there’s Master Simon leaning on my chair, reading over my shoulder. “Not bad, Cherise, but I happen to like more variety. Let’s see how Rona feels about something a little out of the ordinary.

Oh man, here we go again. I roll my eyes. “Simon, why don’t you just let me write this and –“

A warm hand cups my cheek, forcing me to look up into narrowed dark eyes, to see how the muscle in his cheek has tightened…

“Yes, Sir.” Hell, there goes the entire rest of the scene that I’d plotted out. “What did you have in mind?”

“I like cupping.”

“You mean like those glass suction cups? Do you know how tricky that would be to…”

His chin raises a half-inch.

Hell. I sigh. “Yes, Sir. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good girl.”

And I start typing again…Master Simon is still standing in front of Rona, but I sure hadn’t planned that he’d be quizzing her about this:

* * *

“Did you happen to see the cupping earlier?” Master Simon asks softly.

Oh, she’d definitely seen that one. “Yes.” Her voice came out husky.

He raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. And where else do you think a master might apply those cups?”

The dom had put them on his sub’s back, but she’d imagined them on her nipples or even…on her clit. A wave of heat rolled into her face, as inevitable as the sun in summer.

He chuckled. “I’ll enjoy that almost as much as you will.”

“I didn’t say yes.” She hadn’t, dammit.

“You didn’t have to.” He grasped the ribbon at the top of her chemise and pulled it open. Her nipples puckered.

* * *

Thank God, my heroines aren’t nearly as bad–aside from their tendency to wait until the story is half-way done before mentioning little problems. Like they can’t tolerate locked doors because of being shut in a closet in foster care. Or that their father made fun of their weight. But really that’s entirely different. They can’t change what happened in their past, and they don’t demand that I indulge their whims.

No, my damn heroes do that. For example, in Breaking Free, Nolan isn’t what anyone would call a sweetie-pie:

She looked at the Dom. Everything about him seemed hard. Mean. At least six feet tall, broad shouldered, thickly muscled. His darkly tanned face was the reddish-bronze of Native American ancestry. His eyes were black. Reaching his upper back, straight coal-colored hair, exactly as long as hers, had been tied with a leather band. A long white scar ran over his left cheekbone. She winced, knowing exactly how that must have felt.

His menacing gaze ran over her slowly, inch by inch. He didn’t miss anything; his eyes lingered on her scars, her breasts, her legs. At least she still had on some clothes, was all she could think. What would he do to her? If he whipped her, she’d leave. She’d have to leave. She bit her lip to hide its tremble.

* * *

He’s a focused, determined man, right? So how dare he inform me that he loves giving parties–BDSM parties–and setting up competitions between the submissives. I’ve got the suspense coiling up, the romance heating up…and he wants to give a party? Excuse me?

Guess who won that argument? Hint: it wasn’t me…

* * *

He turned to Dan and Cullen. “Here’s the rules for the second half of the game.” He pointed to the baskets beside each chair. “You each have a basket of toys. We’ll start with the vibrator.” He reached into his basket and pulled out the garish purple and green bullet, trying not to smile at Beth’s worried look. She definitely hadn’t been to a play party before. “Lay back, sugar.”

He could see her desire to say no, even though her nipples tightened. Slowly she lay back on the beach towel. In the sunlight, her blue-green eyes were clear as glass as she watched him warily.

“Relax. This won’t hurt a bit.” He grasped her ankles, spread her legs apart, and knelt between them. She was very wet. Still enlarged, her clit glistened, slightly reddened from the flogger, and just begging for attention. Not yet. He slid the purple bullet into her vagina. Enjoying her squirming, he made sure the curved form would hit her G-spot.

Rising, he pulled her to her feet and instructed the others. “Attach the remote to your sub on the side and out of the way.” Using bondage tape, he secured the small box to Beth’s waist.

Once everyone was ready, he continued. “Subs, you’ve been rehydrated, but your Doms are thirsty.” He pointed to the other side of the pool. “There’re drinks over there. Master Dan gets water, Master Cullen gets dark beer, and I get light beer. When you fetch the drinks, go in alphabetical order: Beth, Deb, Kari. Take the next cup in line and serve it to the correct master. Don’t serve the wrong drink to the wrong master or that master will spank you.”

* * *

It’s a hard, hard life, being a writer. There are too many voices rumbling around in an author’s brain, each character demanding his own way. Sometimes they argue with each other. Truly, it could drive a person just plain nuts.

With my luck, the psychiatrist will be a Dom.

Find out more about Cherise Sinclair’s dominant males and sizzling tales