Saturday, 14 December 2013

The Novice Christmas Chapter Tour

Day 6

Welcome to The Novice Christmas Chapter Tour. This is a very special tour as over twelve days the first twelve chapters of The Novice, book #1 in the Sexy as Hell series by Harlem Dae (myself and Natalie Dae)  will be published, one per day, per blog, for you to get a taste of Victor and Zara’s wild and erotic journey. I've got chapter 6 here today but you can find the previous chapters here.

About Sexy as Hell – Sexy as Hell is an erotic trilogy that will submerge you into the black heart of a world of bondage and discipline, Dominance and submission, sadism and masochism.

Dare to take this twisting journey with Victor and you’ll learn the ropes with him, experience every carnal sensation and fall into a dark and dangerous love that grips like a fist and binds like a collar.

Get to know Zara, his sultry teacher, and you’ll gasp when she doles out her sinful instructions but then delight in the stunning results she not only demands but achieves. It seems Heaven and Hell are not so far apart when she holds the reins.

Victor has his layers peeled back, but when he does the same to try to get to his Vixen’s core, a revelation appears. Because Zara is a woman whose vast sexual experience is both her strength and her weakness; she can inflict pain and pleasure, make lusty demands and instruct, but she needs so much more, she needs…

Yes, the time has come to for her to admit to her needs and confess to the repairing her soul hungers for. A sea of memories, a lifetime of control requires an acknowledgement that will cut through her barriers, and there’s only one man up for the job—her virgin, her student, her newly trained monster, Victor Partridge.

Please note, in order to enjoy Victor and Zara’s adventures, the trilogy must be read in order. Due to a dispute with Amazon The Virgin had to have a title change - hence The Novice!

The Novice is the first book, the second The Player and finally The Vixen. Here is the back cover information for The Novice.

London – one meeting, one month of lessons and a landslide of depraved new desires.

My journey to hell started with a decaff coffee. Nothing more than a grey mug full of dull-brown liquid devoid of its most useful ingredient.

One sip, one smile, one touch of her hand and it was soon clear my life wasn’t destined to stay dull. Oh, no, suddenly I had a month of bedroom education planned by a sultry vixen who intended to broaden my horizons beyond my usual peach-pink palette. 

She wanted to take me to deep purples and navy blues and the pitch blackness that was pure sin. And on the other side of that blackness was a place that might look like Hell, with debauchery and wantonness, people playing devil’s advocate, luring innocents into the hotter, steamier corners of the world.

Her world.

Oh, yes, she promised each night to take me there and paint me an orange-and-red picture that would come alive, flickering like flames, enticing me, holding me spellbound and eager to learn more. To touch, explore, drown in coming.

And drown I would. I was no match for her tricks and taunts. My only chance of survival was to show her that I was no vanilla virgin. I had a rainbow of mastery up my sleeve, too, and if she just opened her eyes, she might be dazzled enough to stay—stay and take ‘my’ lessons. If she didn’t kill me first, that was, with pleasure.

So what are people saying about the Sexy as Hell Trilogy? I’m pleased to report that it’s all good, no, more than good. This trilogy has been described on Amazon as “far better than the 50 Shades of Grey”, one reader said, “I've read many erotic novels and BDSM books but these ones are by far my favourites.” another stated, “I was looking to be titillated yes, but instead was captured by the story of Zara and Victor.” You can read all the glowing reviews on the Harlem Dae website, plus read the FREE Harlem Dae magazine with all the inside gossip about the Sexy as Hell Trilogy and what it was like for two authors writing nearly 300k together and how their characters inspired them to keep on writing.

So finally, with just a last warning that this story is boundary pushing, hot, edgy and dark and not for those of a delicate disposition. It’s BDSM primarily but has a slow burn romance that tips everything on its head as feelings intensify and souls are bared.


The Novice

The Player

The Vixen

Chapter Six

Fuck it. Two gulps of a caffeinated espresso and my heart behaved like it was on a damn trapeze.
I stared dumbly out of the window at Edgeware Road and tried to steady my breathing. People raced around, unaware of the beating of their hearts, untroubled by vixens who stopped by their place of work to give them impromptu blowjobs, and unscarred by a whipping show they’d witnessed the night before.
Scarred, yes, that was how I felt. Not physically, but the spectacle had definitely left a mark on me. It was a fractured line no one but I could see. A new streak in my brain, my psyche, that was full of what if’s, how, why?
Curiosity was a funny thing. I’d always been an inquisitive bloke. I liked to know how things worked, the chemical composition of materials, the physics of a structure. But desire, desire for pain, that was a new one on me. I wasn’t sure the science I usually relied upon to quell my thirst for understanding would be any use to me. Who would want pain? It was the body’s alarm system. Most people spent their lives avoiding it.
Why did Julie thrive on it? How the hell could a thrashing make her come? And what did it say about me that it had got me so hard and horny that I’d allowed that witch, Zara Watson, to feed me into her mouth and then make me come with three sharp sucks?
It was a question with an answer I didn’t have. Not even the first straws of a clue to figuring out. But I suspected my teacher, my sexy, infuriating, sly teacher, would be only too willing to explain it in detail. She’d no doubt gloat all over again about the fact that I didn’t know everything.
Who the hell did?

Mary looked slightly panicked when I finally returned to the office. And that wasn’t surprising; she was used to me arriving at seven and staying through till eight p.m. most days. Nipping out for lunch or even a coffee just wasn’t part of my routine.
“Are you okay, Mr Partridge?” she asked, wringing her hands as she stood in my office doorway.
“Yes, I’m fine thank you.” I sat down, placed my palms, fingers spread, on the desk.
“Can I get you anything?” She tilted her head and studied me. Her glasses slipped down her hawkish nose, and she slid them back up the bridge.
For an awful moment I imagined her standing, like that, in the doorway to my office earlier. When Zara had been enjoying my cock as her breakfast. It could have so easily happened. Mary knocked as she walked in, there was no pause. And why would she hesitate? She’d never had reason to suspect that I might be receiving oral sex from a harlot and might need a moment to tuck myself away and drag said harlot up from the floor before she entered.
“Well, if you need anything, just let me know.” Mary reached for the door handle. “Mr Sherbourne has a one o’clock appointment. Until then you’re clear.”
“Oh, do I know him?”
“Only from a telephone conversation. This is his first visit to Partridge and Partners.” She paused.
I tried not to look confused. Sherbourne?
“He has an old primary school he’s hoping to convert into apartments,” Mary said with a frown.
“Ah, yes, I remember speaking to him.” I nodded seriously. “That’s great, thanks.”
Mary shut the door, and I tried to recall a conversation with Mr Sherbourne. Normally I was shit-hot at details like that, discussions about new, existing and old projects indelibly stamped on my mind. But it seemed that had changed. I couldn’t for the life of me bring to memory the primary school we’d discussed let alone the budget, spec or brief.
I sighed, tapped my password into the Mac and opened Safari.
What the hell was that club called last night? Did it even have a name? No, I didn’t think it did, but it did have a number six on the door. I remembered that. Wasn’t six the devil’s number?
I pressed my fingers to my temples, tried to visualise the drive there in Zara’s Mini. What was the name of the street? In my mind I could see bedroom windows with scruffy, drawn curtains. I’d slunk down the seat a little. Not the kind of area I liked to be heading into in the dark. The bowels of London’s Soho were not my normal territory.
Eden Street. It came to me. I’m not sure why, perhaps because it struck me as paradoxical. Wasn’t the Garden of Eden supposed to be beautiful yet full of temptation? Eden Street certainly hadn’t been beautiful. Tatty red-bricked buildings, a few boarded-up windows and Axel is a gay slag scrawled beneath the elevated road sign. But full of temptation. Well, that was up for debate. Depended if you thought getting whipped and flogged, made to feel powerless and small, was a temptation.
Clearly some people did.
Hastily I typed in Eden Street. Hit search. It came up with a college, a gym and a record store. No mention of any type of sex theatre. And certainly no listings of a nine o’clock showing featuring a tall, Barbie-like beauty flagellating herself to orgasm.
Frustrated, I stood, walked to the window and stared out at the grey London day. The sun barely showed itself this time of year, it was as if a sudden bout of shyness had struck it. Many times, like today, it was hard to even discern its position in the sky. Just a flickering glimpse of a pale orb when the wind blew a thinner patch of cloud over its light.
I gazed at the shiny, wet rooftops and wondered where Zara was now. What she was doing, who she was with.
Did she have a regular job? Perhaps in a call centre, or Starbucks, maybe even in a library. I smirked. Library, no way. She didn’t have one quality a librarian needed. She was loud and crass, she pushed boundaries, delighted in shocking, and I couldn’t imagine for a minute she would read anything that wasn’t about fucking.
Not to mention her clothes. What kind of librarian wore PVC that showed the gusset of her knickers?
My cock stirred. Damn it. I hadn’t wanted to find her so sexy in her slutty clothes and trashy damp panties. But it had appealed to me. I thought I liked nice girls, in pretty white bras and lacy underwear. Seemed I had another side to me that liked the dirty, come-fuck-me look. Girls who flaunted their wares, took what they wanted, and weren’t scared to ask for it.
Who’d have thought?
My mobile rang and, willing my cock to behave, I answered it.
It was my financial advisor wanting to discuss the tax forms.
This would be a long, heavy conversation. Brain ache a guaranteed outcome.

I’d toyed with the idea of being late to pick up Zara. Just to piss her off. But when it came down to it, I was early. So early that I had to sit around the corner for ten minutes so I didn’t appear too eager.
Because I wasn’t eager. Not at all. In fact, I was only keeping my word because that’s the sort of man I liked to think I was. Though if I’d had any choice in the matter I would have stayed at work drawing up the first draft of Mr Sherbourne’s construction. I’d just got into the flow, managed to rid my head of ridiculous sexual scenarios with Zara and in their place see the walls, the lines, the angles of the roof and the practicalities of the rooms. It had been a relief, those hours of forgetting, of not wanting, of not wondering what the hell she was going to do next to shock me, which ultimately seemed to be her goal.
Nine on the dot, I pulled up outside her place and beeped the horn. I wasn’t about to leave the Porsche. This neighbourhood wasn’t as ropey as Eden Street, but I was no risk-taker when it came to the car.
She made me wait for a whole five minutes before she sashayed towards me. She wore a tiny purple skirt that looked like it had been sprayed on and the paint was still wet. She’d teamed it with thigh-high black boots, silver buckles, and a faux-fur leopard-print jacket. Her hair was scraped back, harshly, and a long ponytail hung from the highest point of her head.
She dropped into the passenger seat, long, sexy legs filling the footwell, chilled air gushing in with her.
“Hi, honey, did you have a good day at the office?” she said with a grin then leaned across and pressed a kiss to my cheek. The tip of her nose was cool.
I swiped at the sticky red lipstick I knew would be printed there. “It was different,” I muttered, revving the engine. The meaty tones rumbling through my body gave me a sense of power. I was in control here, I was driving. “Where are we going?”
“I have to work. I’m due on stage in half an hour.”
“What?” So why the hell had she insisted on seeing me if she was working?
She raised her eyebrows and pouted. “I thought you might enjoy my show, Victor.”
A knot wound tight in my stomach. It was bad enough that she’d made me watch Juliette, or Julie or whatever her name was, at that place last night. Did she really think that I wanted to watch her beat the living crap out of herself until she orgasmed?
She rested her hand on my forearm.
A tickle in my cheek told me that a nerve was flicking there.
“Hey,” she said. “I promise it’s nothing like last night’s show. That’s not my thing at all. You saw my back when you did the zipper of my dress. Not a single mark or scar.”
I clamped my jaw tight. It was good to know I wasn’t going to be watching Zara getting hurt, but still, I knew enough about her by now to know it would surprise the hell out of me.
“I promise you’ll like it.” She leaned closer, sliding her hand up my arm, over my shoulder, then resting it on the base of my neck, pressing the collar on my leather jacket. “Victor, I promise it will turn you on. Not only that, it will tell you something about yourself that you never suspected lay in the deepest, darkest part of your soul.”
How the hell did she know what lay in my soul? And I didn’t have a dark part to it.
Did I?
I turned to her, tried not to breathe in the spiced perfume she was wearing. It made me think of a trip I’d taken to Morocco with Helen—sultry nights, rich food, a beautiful woman in my bed each night.
Zara was beautiful, too, I couldn’t deny that. Her cheekbones held a hint of an apple shape but were high and defined. Her nose was small and perfectly straight, her nostrils tiny, the flare of them hardly visible. She had a cute mole beneath them. Her lips were plump, and I would forever be able to picture them with a blob of my warm cum at the centre of the bottom one. But it was her eyes. You could call them hazel, kind of brown, with flecks, but they were more than that. The flecks glinted gold, the irises rimmed with black, and her pupils, they dilated when she was excited, when she teased me, shocked me, made me step out of my comfort zone.
She thought I wasn’t perceptive, that I was just a ‘virgin’, but she’d thought wrong. I’d learned about her eyes.
“So drive,” she said, sitting back and delving into a plus-sized red handbag. “You do know the way to Soho, don’t you?” She tugged out her mobile phone.
“Yes, but—”
“Carlos, darling, it’s me. Listen, I need a favour.”
I glanced across at her as I pulled onto the road. Who the hell was Carlos?
“I’m wonderful, thank you.” She giggled and tipped her head back. “Yes, of course, oh, definitely I’d be up for that. Anytime. Just say the word.”
The deep rumble of a man’s voice echoed towards me, but not loud enough that I could discern any words. What the hell was Carlos offering her that she’d be up for anytime?
“Yes, he’s coming tonight.” Pause. “He’ll be absolutely fine.” She reached across and squeezed my knee. “I have every faith in his potential.”
Once again I let my attention leave the road, stared at her.
She caught my gaze and winked.
I pursed my lips, gripped the wheel and briefly watched my knuckles pale. I slowed then stopped at a red light and wished my cock wasn’t stirring just at her light touch on my leg.
She removed her hand, and I missed the heat of her flesh seeping through my jeans and onto my skin.
“But I really need him to relax,” Zara was saying, “so do you think you’d pop his car in Samson’s garage. I know he’ll be on edge if it’s on the street. Blokes his age are like that about their wheels.”
I opened my mouth but no words came out. Bloody cheek. Blokes my age? What was I? About eight, nine years older than her? Certainly no more than that.
But what could I say? I’d just been about to point out that leaving my car outside number six Eden Street was not an option. Zara had read me like a book, when for me she was like reading Japanese—backwards.
“That’s great, we’ll meet you out the front in twenty. And make sure you’re ready for tonight’s show, won’t you.” She snapped her mobile shut then dropped it into the gaping mouth of her bag.
“You really think I’m going to hand the keys of a hundred-and-twenty-thousand-pound car over to someone I don’t know?” I laughed, but not with humour.
“Then you thought wrong.” I shook my head.
“No I didn’t.” She flipped down the sun visor, slid the little cover back from the mirror and pursed her lips at her reflection.
“This time, Zara, you’re asking too much.” The lights changed and I pulled away, still heading for Soho. I split my concentration between her and the road.
She drew out a lipstick, slicking vivid red over her pout. Pressed her lips together and then checked her teeth.
“Seriously, too much,” I said again, when she appeared not to have heard me.
“Victor, baby.” She snapped the visor back up and tucked the lipstick away. “I haven’t even started asking things of you yet. And when I do, I promise you’ll say yes, every single fucking time.”

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