Temptation Tuesday – Call Me…

So, I’ve been writing this story on and off for a while… It’s a rough draft, so, please excuse any typos or grammar errors.

The subject matter is off-putting to a lot of people and while I understand that, well, you don’t have to read it. I, however, am fascinated by the subject matter…

I haven’t decided on a title for the book yet, but Call Me … Is likely to be a series title.

I have a confession to make…

There’s a word that describes me at my core. It’s a word that evokes a lot of emotion when used in a sexual manner. It’s a word that sends pious people running. It’s a word that gets me hard every single time a submissive woman says it, even if she’s not mine.

Daddy.

It’s a provocative word. It encompasses many different roles played between a man and a woman.

It fits me in ways Sir and Master never did or will.

I am a Daddy.

And I’m in search of a little girl to call my own.

She’s difficult to find, this one special girl who needs to be owned and needs my personal brand of ownership. The special girl who wants guidance, limits, support and unconditional love, the same as she’d get from her father. See? You shuddered just a little in your seat. You squirmed a fraction of an inch to the side, trying to get away from the way it makes you feel. I understand it scares you. I understand you don’t get it. Not everyone does. It’s okay. You’ll keep reading, though, won’t you?

You’ll keep reading to see if I find the one special girl whose pretty little cunt is always wet when she utters or even thinks the word Daddy. The one special girl who will let me be her world because she will be mine.

You’ll keep reading because, understanding or not, you desperately love a happy ending, and even deviants like me, should have one.

I don’t frequent clubs. They bore me. More than that. They annoy me. They’re meat markets and juvenile drama. I don’t like either one. I’m a simple man with complex needs. I know I won’t find her here, my out of town business guest wanted to see the club first hand. I don’t get it, but then again, I don’t need to. I’m here to keep him interested in investing and get him a cab when he’s had too much to drink.

The crowd is insane, literally and figuratively. The blonde and her redhead friend keep eyeing me. Blonde’s had her hand between Red’s legs while keeping eye contact with me. They’re putting on a show. And while Red is beautiful and her crotch is bare, just the way I like them to be, neither woman does it for me.

“Excuse me,” I said once I’d caught the bartender’s attention. “Please send drinks to the two at the end of the bar with my regrets.” I lifted my glass in salute to them, drained it, then walked away in search of my charge.

I was ready to be done with the club and the night. I had too much riding on this merger to let him waste it on a cheap piece of ass and bad liquor.

“Andy, time to go.” I found him hanging out in the back hall. Nothing ever good came from hanging out in the back hall of a club.

“I’m waiting on someone. I can’t go now.”

“I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“He.”

I hadn’t seen that coming, but didn’t let on. “Fine,” I said agreeably. “I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“He’s my first.”

I didn’t want to know, so I didn’t ask. With a few more minimum protests, I got Andy out of the club, and into the back of a cab. I told the driver where to take him and not to leave until the concierge came to collect Andy. He was paid handsomely for his troubles.

Hopefully, Andy would sleep this off and be able to function in the morning. We had papers to sign.

The strip, Sunset, not Vegas, was alive and kicking, bursting at the seams with clubs, bars, and anyone looking to be seen.

I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be seen. I wanted things no one who knew me would ever be able to grasp. I wanted a reality that was beyond the norm. I wanted the elusive her.

As it didn’t appear she’d be dropped at my feet on the Strip, it was time for me to get the hell out of Dodge.

No, the woman, the little girl at heart woman I sought wouldn’t be caught dead on Sunset Strip. She wasn’t in a dance club every weekend, or crawling through the bars soaking up alcohol through her skin.

No, she was something unique, special, and she most certainly didn’t —

“Shit.”

Curse.

The voice caught in my ears and rattled through my brain. I turned slowly, casually tucking my hands in my pockets.

My lips twitched at the sight of the woman, balancing herself with a hand to the club’s outer wall, while stripping off the heels she tossed to the concrete with barely concealed hatred.

No woman, or man in their right mind, would walk down Sunset in bare feet, but she seemed intent on doing just that.

She gave the club entrance one final glance, shook her head, kicked one of the offending shoes, and began walking away in a huff. Only, she didn’t get far before she returned for the shoes, and stomped off, this time making it further than before.

I wanted to laugh. She’d been comical, to say the least. But something else grabbed hold of me that wouldn’t let go, and over rode any humor in her actions. Desire. And fear.

She was alone in the middle of the night on a street that could so easily swallow her whole and never let her go.

I caught up to her, and did my best not to spook her. “Miss?”

“What?” She rounded on me, fury in her gaze. I wasn’t deterred in the slightest. The feeling was quite the opposite.

“Do you need help?” I asked, willing to be of whatever service she needed. She was adorable. Cheeks flushed in the neon glow of the businesses surrounding us. Her chest heaved with labored, angry breathing. Her hair was dark, matted to the sides of her face from the club. And she was more than a bit chubby.

That was something else those I worked with were unaware of. My proclivity, my hunger for bigger women. I wasn’t proud that

I never brought a woman of my own choosing to a dinner or party. I wasn’t proud that I’d n3ver given the impression to anyone who knew me professionally that I was anything but a playboy outside the boardroom.

Then again, I wasn’t at work to make friends. I was there to do a job. I was there to close deals and get pen to dotted line.

But looking at the woman in front of me, the one glaring daggers into me? She’d be the one I’d parade in front of everyone I knew and do so with a shit eating grin on my face and my cock hard as a fucking baseball bat.

“Why are you asking? Where did you come from anyway? I didn’t see you before.”

Her words pulled me back to the conversation at hand. “I was just leaving the club when I saw you head this way.”

“And you followed me? Thinking what? The fat girl would be an easy mark?”

I couldn’t stop the smile. “I don’t need or desire an easy mark. I thought you might need some help or a ride somewhere. This isn’t a safe street for any woman alone.”

“Getting into a car with a stranger would be so much safer, yeah?”

“In this instance, yes. Look, I’ll put you in a cab that’ll take you anywhere you need to go, or I’ll give you my car and my driver will do the same.” It wasn’t lost on me that I didn’t put Andy in my car with my driver. The idea had never crossed my mind.

“Only in L.A.,” she uttered quietly.

“In other places, too.” Her eyes widened. “I have excellent hearing.” I shrugged. “Ten years of music classes. So, which option? Cab or limo?”

“If I take you up on use of your car,” she began, hesitancy in her every word, “what will happen to you?”

“He’ll come back for me.”

“You’d wait?”

“I’m sure as hell not walking home. I may run ten miles a day, but I’m not walking home tonight.”

“Ten miles a day,” she scoffed. “Show off. I need to get back to my hotel and I don’t know how far it is or even in what direction. I just knew I wanted out of there.”

I understood her perfectly. I’d wanted out of there too. Had never actually wanted to be there in the first place. I don’t think she had either. “So? My car?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” I assured her. And it was. I may be dominant. I may be a Daddy. I may be a kick ass vice president of a corporation. But she made the most innocent of gestures on my part, a distinct pleasure. Her smile was worth it. Her gaze softening was worth it.

* * *

I haven’t decided on a cover yet, either, but this is will be out later this year…

~lissa

Sunday Speeds


It’s the last Sunday in January. I’ve been sick. I’ve finished a book that tore my heart out. I’ve walked the equivalent of a 5K and a 10K. I’ve made some decisions and loose plans for my writing this year. I’ve gone to a concert. Read a couple of books. Started a writing weekend thing called 10K Weekends For Writers. I blogged most days. Watched the Rolex24 with my son. Mourned for a few beloved one of a kind men who were totally out of this world entertainers.

All in all, it wasn’t a bad month. I woke up every day. I laughed a lot. I cried a lot. And I still haven’t gotten the hang of writing in my planner every day/week. I’ll get better at it.

The other day I wrote a post about the new book I wrote, Break Me. I love that book. I mean, I really love that book. And if no one else does, that’s okay. I wrote what I wanted to write. I put my heart and soul into it when I hadn’t put my heart and soul into writing in a really long time.

And it felt incredible. Scary as shit. But incredible.

It’s not selling all that great. Maybe if I’d put a different name on the cover it would have, but then, it wouldn’t be my story. Lissa Matthews is me and I’m Lissa Matthews. There’s a reason I chose this name as my pen name and there are reasons I stick with it. I can be stubborn and that’s not always a good thing in this business.

But, with a new year, we’re often open to change, but when it gets hard, we quickly do a 180 and go back to the way we were, to the things we were trying to change in the first place. And the sad thing is, we usually know we’re going to do it, too. I know I’ve wanted to do it. I’ve wanted to go back to the before instead of sticking it out to see the after. Not this year. This year I’m bound (don’t I wish) and determined to see it through, to make the changes I want and stick with them, to try and fail and try and fail and try again. To not give the hell up, but to press the fuck forward.

I’m looking deeper, challenging myself to stay the course when I think going back would be easier. It’s always easier when it’s routine, when we know the outcome already. What’s hard is the unknown. If this, then…? We don’t know the Then… I want to find out.

So, if you’re reading this and you see me start reverting back to the old me, not taking chances with my writing, not saying Fuck You to the things and people that don’t serve a purpose in the grand scheme, you have permission to call me out. In public, or in our cases, on social media and remind me of this.

I have a voice and I damn well intend to use it.

And now, it’s on to February… What does the month of Love have in store for us?

~lissa

Lissa, Lissa, Lissa. Where did this come from???

BreakMeUSATODAY300

The title of this post was the first line of an email I received and while Shirley likely didn’t and doesn’t expect an answer, I’m going to give one anyway.

It came from me. It came from deep down inside me. Claire is me and I am Claire. At least, parts of me are. At least parts of her are. And she needed to come out. She needed to breathe. She needed to talk. I needed to let her. I needed to shut off all the shit inside my head and let HER out, let HER talk to me, to you, to whoever wanted to read about her.

It’s not a long book. It could have had more added to it. Thousands of additional words, but you know what? No. It’s good right at the length it is. Too many more words and would have been the same extraneous crap that fills most books, the superficial shit that doesn’t need to be there.

But it’s good where it is. It ends as it should. It begins as it should. It follows a personal journey. It follows a timetable. It follows a thought process, though at a deeper level. Facts have been changed, but the pain remained the same. Healing happened and the catalyst was real.

Those initials in the dedication? They’re all real people. Three Dominants and a male submissive. All real. All I know. All who helped this journey at one stage or another. It’s personal and you don’t get to tell me that it’s not true to the lifestyle this time. You don’t get to tell me it’s not BDSM enough, or BDSM at all. You don’t get to tell me ‘Oh but you don’t write that.’ You don’t get to tell me to change the blurb, change the cover, change how I promote it. You don’t get to tell me the characters aren’t damaged enough. You don’t get to tell me that it’s really vanilla wrapped in kink. You don’t get to tell me it’s not important, that it happened to quick, that it needed more, that it isn’t real. You don’t get to tell me shit because there are parts of this that you haven’t lived, that you haven’t touched, that you haven’t known. Until now.

Some books take off. Some don’t. Some have a short shelf life. Some don’t. Some names, some stories have finite existence. Some don’t. I’ve been told enough that I couldn’t, shouldn’t write certain things. I’ve had, and let, myself be told how and when and what. And let’s be clear… i LET myself…

I wasn’t strong enough. I was a newbie. I listened to others tell me how to tell my stories, what visions I should have, what I needed to do to if I was going to make it… I listened. And I was MISERABLE! As a writer, as an artist, as a storyteller, I WAS MISERABLE! Add in some personal trials, some heartache, some emotional challenges, and I was THIS. CLOSE.

But, then… I met someone who let me talk. Who liked words the professional world of writing has never read from me. Raw, unpolished, from deep in my soul words. Words of desire, passion, forgiveness, and growth… And that was when I knew. It was time….

All the negative, undermining, should’s and shouldn’ts, need to’s and don’t need to’s… All the voices I kept hearing in my head, all the words I kept seeing from emails and reviews and memories too hurtful to keep inside anymore… All the caution and safety and hiding behind walls, both personal and professional, came down. And you know what it came down to? It came down to Fuck you. Fuck. You. It’s not your book to write, not your story to tell, not your business to make or break, not your life to live. Fuck. You.

I turned to a friend who told me it was okay. Who said You Got This.

One turned to me looking for advice and help, but who, in the end, helped me.

Four active in BDSM, who all taught me many things about myself and the lifestyle.

And then, I wrote. I said fuck you to everything and everyone who ever said You Shoudn’t Do That, and I wrote. I poured my heart out, my soul out. For 27, 000 words, I cried. I hurt. I gave it my all. And I sent it out into the world.

Then, I got scared. I texted my friends. I was scared. The voices came back. The doubt, the fear, the anxiety. It all came back. What had I done? What was I doing? I don’t write this. I don’t put myself out there like this anymore. I don’t get personal anymore. What had I done?

When Shirley’s email came in last night, it was like a balm to my bruised and battered being. I told a story that made someone else cry. I told a story that made someone else FEEL! Do you understand what that’s like? To make someone FEEL? To make someone else’s eyes tear up while they’re reading my words? MY WORDS?

Break Me is a new voice. I’ve been telling y’all it was coming. It’s different for me. It’s new for me. And I love it. Do you understand that, too? I love this voice, this vulnerability in my writing because it’s fucking real. It’s painful, it’s beautiful, and it’s MINE. It’s ME. It’s been locked up behind doubt, both self and from outside sources, you know, those successful, know all the things people. This one story, this voice… This is who I dreamed about becoming, who I dreamed about being when I began writing. This is who my college English professor saw through the words I wrote in class. This is who the catalyst saw through the words none of you have ever seen.

I have said Fuck You more times in the last 4 weeks, than I have said in my entire life. Every piece of self sabotage or self doubt has received a hearty helping of Fuck You. Every bit of anyone telling me what I MUST do, what I MUST write, has received a helping of Fuck You, too.

I want authentic. I want real. I want ugly crying. I want joy. I want the stories I want to tell to be what comes from me. Not what is safe and sound and that fits perfectly into this category or that slot in promotion. Will I be successful in the business of writing/publishing/selling my soul to the Facebook Gods? Probably not. More than likely not. It doesn’t work that way. You have to conform. You have to do what everyone else is doing even though we’re all sick to death of it all.

One of my favorite lines in one of my favorite movies, Wonder Boys, is “He respects us enough to forget us, and that takes courage.” He is the writer. Us are the readers.

And my happiness is worth more than fitting in to a writing cookie cutter. I want the books I want to write. It’s reckless and it’s daring. It’s scary and it’s brave. It’s my fucking story to tell and it came from deep down inside me.

Thank you to T for breaking me. For helping to shatter my ability to trust myself and others. Same goes for J and L and S (female)…

Thank you to JR, the blue collar atypical Dom, for helping to put me back together again and for making me laugh through it all.

Thank you to another S (male) for letting me open up, for letting me share, for letting me explore my own emotions, and for reading each and every word of Break Me without judgment.

Thank you to m for showing me another side of selflessness, of selfishness, of devotion to self.

Thank you to Shirley for the email Friday night… For asking where this book came from. It came from me.

And thank you to Scarlett Dawn and the bringing together of so many wonderful authors and the many different voices to tell stories from The Club.

Break Me is available now….

~lissa

10K Weekends For Writers – Week 4

10K WEEKENDS-2_500

It’s that time again and y’all I’ve got a crapton of words to get down this weekend. 10K minimum! Who’s with me?

If you’re new to this, all you need to do is sign up with the Linky at the bottom of the post, then start writing! That’s it! Oh, and we talk on social media, encouraging each other through the weekend with the hashtag #10KWeekendsForWriters

Blogger, or author… Come on down! Keep track of your word count and let us know at the end of the weekend!

One of our participants last weekend, author Amy Ruttan, logged 14K! How awesome, right!

Snag the button from the side bar. Tell your friends. Invite people to join in! The more the merrier. This is about building community, getting words down, and having fun challenging ourselves!

Let’s Get Writing!

~lissa