It wasn’t long after finishing my novel Falon’s Captivity that I realized there was another story that needed to be told. But there was a problem — that story took place at the beginning of the series.
I set aside this problem for a long while, but it kept cropping more and more, until I could ignore it no longer.
Thus Maintenance Week was born.
I’m so glad I was able to revisit the D/s marriage of Troy and Lacey, and flesh out how it was they came to live in the wonderfully twisted community of White Valley, WA. I hope you enjoy reading the novel as much as I did writing it:)
The book is being offered at an introductory price of $2.99, but that’s only for the next day or two — so pick it up before it goes to full list price!
Read on for the purchase links and an excerpt…
Waiting and dreading her impending discipline was bad enough. The fact that she was made to don the vaguely penitential “uniform” of the staid, drab smock made things even worse. To her, it seemed little more than a starched brown sack.
It galled her still that the discomfort of wearing such a dress was very much intentional.
She sat in the usual spot, on the varnished bench in the hallway outside the study, waiting for her appointment with shame and pain — and reluctant, embarrassing arousal. The slate gray tile under her plain low heels radiated a coolness that should have had her shivering, but her strange, ritualized dress, made from a heavy cloth with its unfashionably high neck, ensured trickles of nervous sweat meandered between her breasts, tickling the crease between sex and inner thigh. The scratchy fabric was made more so by the fact she was not permitted a stitch of underwear underneath.
No women summoned for their periodic appointments with pain were allowed any underthings
— unless such an accommodation was to feature prominently in her adjudicated correction.
The men who attended — and passed judgment — at the Accountings were ever inventive, as clever and diabolical as they were strict, taking pleasure in the ritual that was borderline sadistic.
“Provisional member” was what she still was, despite the fact she was anything but a new face at the neighborhood accountings. The shaming title — a concrete reminder that though she’d been welcomed into White Valley, she still wasn’t yet a full-fledged resident — rung in her head repeatedly.
Just because she wasn’t technically yet an official resident didn’t save her from being disciplined like one. Her naked buttocks twitched, knowing what they were in for in but a few short minutes.
She listened to the faint sounds coming through the heavy polished wood of the study door, closing her eyes at the frightful — yet arousing — imagery the sounds evoked within her.
Was that a woman? It sounded like… sobbing.
A loud thump made her jump, then a deep male voice rang out. It sounded authoritative, maybe even angry, but at the same time it was frustratingly muted, preventing her from making out any discernable words.
The hallway she sat in was so silent, almost funereal, her only company the chill-inducing song of feminine anguish and mortification coming from the other side of that door.
Her husband would be inside with them now, his eagerness to take her in hand every bit as intense as the twisted war of anxiety, lust, and fear of the unknown raging inside her.
If she had an ounce of sanity, she’d march from this house. Flee this strange, yet impossibly alluring town. Her hands were still cuffed, yes, but they were bound before her, not behind. Nothing stopped her from walking out the front door and simply getting the fuck outta Dodge.
The rhythmic slapping sound came again. She knew exactly what that was. And she knew that very same fate was in her immediate future. It was the third time she’d heard it during her interminable wait in her own personal Purgatory.
Her bottom crawled as she heard the faint pleading, the female cries.
The clear note of a shriek sent a shiver down her spine, gooseflesh breaking out upon her naked forearms.
Her pulse was frantic, her mouth as arid as a desert. Yet her nipples were so hard, she feared they’d be on prominent display, twin, impudent, shaming points tenting the front of the heavy starched fabric of the humiliatingly plain dress. Her pussy was a seething, slippery mess, her thighs sticking together. There was a very real prospect she’d be adding a mortifying dark wet spot to the back of the brown sack they’d forced her to wear for her latest Accounting. Would they note it? Would they comment on what a dirty whore she was for being so excited at the prospect of her punishment?
The term was so… formal. Sterile. Yet, she knew what awaited her in that study was anything but.
Submission. Force. Humiliation. Pain. Surrender.
Why did those thoughts make her clit throb when they’d have sent any normal woman screaming for the hills?
The door in front of her opened, Von’s towering form filling her field of vision. His eyes glinted as he smiled down at her, extending a huge, veined hand.
“Come with me, Mrs. Warren. We’re ready to hear your case now. Your husband is waiting for you.”
Hope you enjoyed the excerpt. Happy reading!
Until next time.